Herodotean Soundings: The Cambyses Logos 3823383299, 9783823383291

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Herodotean Soundings The Cambyses Logos

edited by Andreas Schwab and Alexander Schütze

Herodotean Soundings

CLASSICA CLASSICAMONACENSIA MONACENSIA

Münchener Studien Klassischen Philologie Münchener Studien zurzur Klassischen Philologie Herausgegebenvon vonMartin MartinHose Hose und Herausgegegeben und Claudia Wiener Claudia Wiener Band 55 ·53 2023 Band · 2018

Andreas Schwab / Alexander Schütze (eds.)

Herodotean Soundings The Cambyses Logos

Umschlagabbildung: Marmorsphinx als Basis. Neapel, Museo Nazionale, Inv. 6882. Guida Ruesch 1789. H: 91 cm INR 67. 23. 57. Su concessione del Ministero dei Beni e delle Attività Culturali e del Turismo – Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli. Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.dnb.de abrufbar. Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Geschwister Boehringer Ingelheim Stiftung für Geisteswissenschaften in Ingelheim am Rhein.

DOI: https://www.doi.org/10.24053/9783823393290 © 2023 · Narr Francke Attempto Verlag GmbH + Co. KG Dischingerweg 5 · D-72070 Tübingen Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Das gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. Alle Informationen in diesem Buch wurden mit großer Sorgfalt erstellt. Fehler können dennoch nicht völlig ausgeschlossen werden. Weder Verlag noch Autor:innen oder Herausgeber:innen übernehmen deshalb eine Gewährleistung für die Korrektheit des Inhaltes und haften nicht für fehlerhafte Angaben und deren Folgen. Diese Publikation enthält gegebenenfalls Links zu externen Inhalten Dritter, auf die weder Verlag noch Autor:innen oder Herausgeber:innen Einfluss haben. Für die Inhalte der verlinkten Seiten sind stets die jeweiligen Anbieter oder Betreibenden der Seiten verantwortlich. Internet: www.narr.de eMail: [email protected] CPI books GmbH, Leck ISSN 0941-4274 ISBN 978-3-8233-8329-1 (Print) ISBN 978-3-8233-9329-0 (ePDF) ISBN 978-3-8233-0391-6 (ePub)

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Contents Alexander Schütze and Andreas Schwab Herodotean Soundings. The Cambyses Logos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Close readings: Linguistic, narratological and philosophical perspectives Elizabeth Irwin Just Who is Cambyses? Imperial Identities and Egyptian Campaigns . . . . .

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Anna Bonifazi Herodotus’ verbal strategies to depict Cambyses’ abnormality . . . . . . . . . .

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Anthony Ellis Relativism in Herodotus. Foreign Crimes and Divinities in the Inquiry . . . . 109 The Cambyses logos and other sources on the conquest of Egypt Melanie Wasmuth Perception and Reception of Cambyses as Conqueror and King of Egypt. Some Fundamentals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 Alexander Schütze Cambyses the Egyptian? Remembering Cambyses and Amasis in Persian Period Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 Reinhold Bichler A comparative look at the post-Herodotean Cambyses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 Geopolitical dimensions of the Cambyses logos Gunnar Sperveslage On the historical and archaeological background of Cambyses’ alliance with Arab tribes (Hdt. 3.4–9) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 Damien Agut-Labordère An “Ammonian Tale”. Cambyses in the Egyptian Western Desert . . . . . . . . 283

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Olaf E. Kaper The revolt of Petubastis IV during the reigns of Cambyses and Darius . . . . 297 Andreas Schwab Pindaric ‘arrows’ in Herodotus: Ψάμμος (Hdt. 3.26). Just a sandstorm or also a rebel(lion)? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305 Cambyses and the Egyptian Temples Dan’el Kahn Cambyses’ Attitude towards Egyptian Temples in Contemporary Texts and Later Sources. A Reevaluation of the Persian Conquest of Egypt . . . . . . . . . 327 Fabian Wespi Cambyses’ Decree and the destruction of Egyptian temples . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351 Joachim Friedrich Quack Cambyses and the sanctuary of Ptah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 371 List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 391 Index nominum, rerum et locorum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 393 Index fontium . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 411

Herodotean Soundings The Cambyses Logos

Alexander Schütze and Andreas Schwab

In the present volume, researchers from different disciplines of Ancient Studies examine Herodotus’ famous narrative about the Persian king Cambyses and his conquest of Egypt. The papers here represent new and original research by an international group of both renowned scholars and young academics presented and discussed in an interdisciplinary circle in Heidelberg in June 2017.1 An important incentive for choosing the theme of the conference was the effort of one of the editors to understand the Cambyses logos in the context of his habilitation thesis focusing on encounters with foreign religions in the Histories of Herodotus.2 However, the Cambyses logos is not only of special interest for Herodotus’ account of foreign religion. Herodotus’ work offers the only comprehensive narrative of the conquest of Egypt under the Great King. At the same time, Cambyses and his misdeeds represent the first pinnacle of Herodotus’ characterization of a whole series of despots, beginning with the Lydian and Persian kings Croesus and Cyrus. In the logos on Cambyses, Herodotus demonstrates his understanding of the relativistic, and culturally relativistic, nature of history in a particularly condensed form as he contrasts Persian, Egyptian, and Greek views of the events he narrates. Last but not least, beginning with the opening of Book 2, the Cambyses logos in fact also frames the extensive Egyptian logos of Book two which in turn can be understood as a prelude to the narrative on Cambyses at the beginning of Book three. This central narrative from Herodotus’ Histories has been studied from the perspectives of Ancient Greek language and literature, Egyptology, and ancient history. However, these perspectives and also the experts in each of the fields 1 2

With the exception of Olaf Kaper’s response to Damien Agut and the contribution of Andreas Schwab developed after the conference and based on both contributions. Schwab (2020) with its last chapter on ‘Religion in Interaktion’, esp. 226–7 and 233–269.

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are rarely brought together. The idea of the conference goes back to the desire to create an opportunity for scholars from these disciplines to meet and focus intensely on a discrete and seminal section of Herodotus’ work. The present volume attests to the benefit of such a multi-disciplinary approach to Herodotus that arises from intense focus on a small, but important section of his work. Its contributors not only arrive at new conclusions to challenging aspects of Herodotus’ account, but at the same time have opened up further perspectives for future research. In the last twenty years, a number of collected volumes dealing with different aspects of Herodotus’ Histories have been published which illustrate the com‐ plexity of this multifaceted text. One may roughly discern two tendencies: on the one hand, studies that deal with the text of the Histories itself through various modes of literary analysis, and on the other hand, works that juxtapose the narratives handed down in the Histories with indigenous sources belonging to the cultures his work describes. A number of volumes deal with Herodotus’ worldview and his portrayal of the other.3 Other works focus on the narrative strategies of the ancient author, illuminate the Histories in the context of contemporary historiography, or relate them to myth.4 In addition, there are volumes that juxtapose the Histories with contemporary sources of the cultures described by Herodotus or deal with how Herodotus portrays the Persians and incorporates ancient Near Eastern motifs into his narrative.5 Of some relevance for this volume is the conference volume Hérodote et l’Égypte. Regards croisés sur le livre II de l’Enquête d’Hérodote edited by Laurent Coulon in 2013, in which the second book of Herodotus’ Histories was subjected to a revision building on the current state of Egyptological research on Egypt in the 1st millennium BC.6 Thanks to the numerous religious texts and archaeolog‐ ical findings from Late Period Egypt that have been published in recent decades, the facts that Herodotus knows to report about the Egypt of his time can be evaluated much better than Alan B. Lloyd was able to do in his commentary on Book two.7 In fact, it is possible to identify a real historical background for many of Herodotus’ descriptions, some of which seem strange to the modern reader.

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Derow (2003); Karageorghis and Taifacos (2004); Munson (2013a); Figueria and Soares (2020). Derow (2003); Baragwanath (2012); Geus et al. (2013); Munson (2013b); Bowie (2018). Bleckmann (2007); Rollinger and Allinger-Csollich (2011); Dunsch and Ruffing (2013); Klinkott and Kramer (2017); see also Fehling (1971). Coulon (2013). Lloyd (1975–1988).

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A whole series of contributions in the present volume continue these in-depth soundings against the background of the current state of research. With regard to method and approach, two volumes in particular influenced our perspective. While in the above-mentioned volumes a variety of text passages is discussed, the following collected volume takes a different approach: In Reading Herodotus. A Study of the Logoi in Book 5 of Herodotus, the contributing authors discuss the logoi of an entire book in terms of structure, language, and place in the overall structure of the Histories as well as the significance for the overall interpretation of Herodotus’ monumental work.8 This approach of a discussion of a coherent, continuous section from the Histories is followed here on a small scale using the example of the Cambyses logos, because only in this way do repeating motifs, figures or rhetorical strategies become visible for a discussion from different angles. A multidisciplinary approach with a focus on the text of a particular episode from Herodotus seems suitable and promising for examining the ‘multivocality of his text’ in a multidisciplinary environment.9 In the volume Interpreting Her‐ odotus, the editors examine anew Charles W. Fornara’s thesis that Herodotus’ Histories are to be read against the background of the Atheno-Peloponnesian War and that Herodotus’ criticism of Athenian expansionist policies, which ultimately led to Athens’ downfall, is inherent in the work.10 This question can also be applied to Herodotus’ Cambyses logos (and the preceding Saite History), as the contributions by Elizabeth Irwin and Alexander Schütze in this volume show.11 Seen in this light, the volume also represents a continuation of this important contribution to the understanding of the Histories. A narrative such as the Cambyses logos provides numerous challenges and welcomes, if not also demands, a discussion from multiple disciplinary angles. It deals with a concrete historical event, the conquest of Egypt by the Persian Great King, but is composed of a whole series of peculiar shorter narratives inviting critical examination of Herodotus’ account, whether the presumed reasons for Egypt’s conquest, descriptions of his failed campaigns, or the characterization of Cambyses as a mad king. At the same time, the logos alludes to and exploits in its telling a variety of Egyptian realia, such as the famous Apis bull, the oracle of Buto or the tomb of Amasis, that can be correlated with sources in the Egyptian tradition. We therefore see this logos as a perfect opportunity to conduct an

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Irwin and Greenwood (2007). Harrison and Irwin (2018) 6. Harrison and Irwin (2018); see also Fornara (1971). See also Irwin (2017).

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interdisciplinary experiment that examined how all these aspects of the text might be dealt with together on one occasion and in one volume. With its multidisciplinary structure, this volume addresses two research desiderata. On the one hand, for Egyptology and Ancient History, Herodotus’ narrative about the Persian king in Egypt is, along with the Egyptian inscription of Udjahorresnet, the only narrative source on a seminal event in Egyptian history: the conquest of Egypt by the Persians brought the Saite period to an abrupt end, a period that had brought Egypt a late-flourishing cultural ‘renais‐ sance’.12 And yet despite this extraordinarily central importance of Herodotus’ Histories for the Egyptological study of this historical and political caesura, it must be noted that Egyptologists have often engaged with the Histories with a particular interest in Book two mostly concentrating on what discrete facts might yield without a view of the overall work and composition of the Histories.13 But such focus on the historicity of Herodotus’ account in Egyptology and ancient history—which is often difficult to verify due to the lack of relevant sources—can sometimes cause one to lose sight of the fact that Herodotus’ multilayered text is more than a mere ‘factual account’. Rather it is a highly complex and well-composed narrative of an author who pursued an agenda with regard to his Greek readership in a highly sophisticated age.14 On the other hand, Classicists find themselves all too often in want of the expertise of Egyptologists if they are to understand what might be distinctive about Herodotus’ handling of this material.15 Recent research in Demotic studies and discoveries in Egyptian archaeology (especially in the oases of the Western Desert, e.g. in the oases of Dakhla or Kharga), illuminates Herodotus’ text and often vindicates him. In doing so, such research can open up hitherto unimagined perspectives on the Greek text as well as on its meaning and interpretation16, whether, for instance, by placing Herodotus’ disparate narratives about the failed campaigns of Cambyses in relation to the geopolitical conditions in the areas bordering Egypt in the late 6th century BC or by making rather peculiar descriptions of Egyptian cult images plausible on the basis of archaeological findings.

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For research on the inscription of Udjahorresnet and related questions, cf. Wasmuth and Creasman (2020) and the contribution of Wasmuth in this volume. E.g. Cruz-Uribe (2003), Jansen-Winkeln (2002). Cf. Irwin (2017) and the contribution of Irwin in this volume. Cf. Schwab (2020) 154 n. 8. Cf. Coulon (2013), in particular Quack’s study rich in new demotic source-texts (pp. 63–88) and Postel’s contribution on Herodotus’ history of Egyptian Kings and the Egyptian royal annals (pp. 89–118).

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The contributions in this volume are not intended to offer a “commentary” on the Cambyses logos. Instead, they both suggest to readers the kind of direction a commentary needs to take if it is to embrace the many facets of this complex and monumental work and constitute an important contribution to such a project in the future. Achaemenid and Ancient Near Eastern perspectives such as the source situation for the reign of Cambyses in the Persian heartland or Babylonia are not treated exhaustively, nor are text passages such as the excursus on Ethiopia.17 One aim of the individual contributions is rather to offer selected and targeted ‘soundings’ that deal with specific passages of the Herodotus text. On the one hand, these are ‘soundings’ taken directly from Herodotus’ text; on the other hand, they are ‘soundings’ of Herodotus’s legacy, impact on multiple fields of research, such as Egyptology, philology, ancient history, archaeology, ethnography, philosophy, and history of religion, which examine the logos of Cambyses and in doing so also pose the difficult question of what we can know about the ‘historical’ Cambyses. Following previous studies on the Cambyses logos, the contributions of this volume are organized in four parts reflecting the complexity of this particular passage in Herodotus’ Histories.18 Part 1: Linguistic, narratological and philosophical perspectives The first part of the volume contains three contributions that deal with the text of the Cambyses logos in particular, while all the other contributions relate it more or less to other sources. They offer a first close reading of the Cambyses logos from linguistic, narratological, historical and philosophical perspectives, looking at and analysing the logos as a whole. In the first contribution Elizabeth Irwin (“Just Who is Cambyses? Imperial Identities and Egyptian Campaigns”) explores the method of reading required to get at what the complex and idiosyncratic account of Herodotus’ Cambyses in Egypt attempts to communicate about historiography, culture relativity, and morality. Building on her seminal article (“Just Why did Cambyses Conquer Egypt?”) from 2017, Irwin investigates the content and mode of narration of Herodotus’ extended Cambyses logos in order to demonstrate the degree to which the text challenges readers not to become implicated in the madness of its character. She reveals that challenge which involves their having to account not only for the cause of Cambyses’ madness, but also for the cause of Herodotus’ characterization of him as such. Through a close reading of the episodes of Cambyses’ story Irwin illustrates how Herodotus’ text holds up a mirror to those

17 18

For the Ethiopian logos, see e.g. Török (2014) and Irwin (2014). E.g. Lloyd (1988), Munson (1991), Dillery (2005), Irwin (2017).

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readers who fail to recognize the aims and complexity of his account, and the reflection found there is a startling, and not attractive, one. In “Herodotus’ verbal strategies to depict Cambyses’ abnormality” Anna Bo‐ nifazi delves into the linguistic choices Herodotus makes in his characterization of Cambyses. Bonifazi draws close attention to the language Herodotus uses in depicting the king’s abnormal behaviour, behaviour that is largely nonverbal. Her argument draws on the general assumption that the historical, religious, and cultural significance of any Herodotean logos cannot be considered inde‐ pendently of the actual words it uses. At first, she illustrates how Herodotus shapes this logos by interweaving the accounts he attributes to others with his own narrative perspective to form his own inquiries into a literary work of art. Her second point is to reinforce Munson’s idea of an implicit comparison between Cambyses and Herodotus—words and non-words being the pivotal elements. Thirdly, she relates his linguistic choices to the cognitive and semiotic phenomenon of iconicity. In doing so, she illuminates individual recurring patterns that represent strategies with iconic meanings to convey Cambyses’ abnormality. Anthony Ellis examines the phenomenon of cultural relativism at play in the Cambyses logos in order to understand the text’s relationship to the kind of relativity practiced and advocated both by his contemporaries and by later moral philosophers. Ellis argues that Herodotus’ relativist perspective on the validity of diverse cultural practices is closely linked with the differences in how various peoples conceive of what is divine and holy. He draws attention to and examines the tension displayed in the work between the relativist-sounding comments in the Egyptian logos and other apparently non-relativist statements contains both in the logos and the rest of his work. Part 2: The Cambyses logos and other sources on the conquest of Egypt The second part deals with the relation of the Cambyses logos to contemporary Egyptian sources and its reception by later classical authors. While the first contribution provides a typology of sources on the conquest of Egypt under Cambyses, classifying them according to temporal and spatial proximity to the event, the second contribution deals with the image of Cambyses in Egyptian sources. The third contribution in turn traces the reception of the Cambyses logos by later authors who adapted the narrative material to suit their needs. Taken together, these contributions offer a comprehensive overview of the sources available to us. In her contribution on “Perception and Reception of Cambyses as Conqueror and King of Egypt: Some Fundamentals”, Melanie Wasmuth draws attention

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to several studies evaluating the primary sources from the later 6th century BCE in Egypt and Persia that draw a very different picture of Achaemenid royal display and reception. She notes that scholarly discussion of the extent to which these primary sources are representative for the reception of Achaemenid rule is largely missing. Thus, her contribution seeks to address this gap in the scholarship by focussing on four questions: which sources are available to reveal ancient contemporary perceptions on Cambyses as king of Egypt? Could a different image of Cambyses be displayed in the contemporary sources from Egypt? To which extent can the primary and secondary sources on Cambyses’ reign help to re-evaluate Herodotus’ history construction? And finally, how might the Cambyses logos be turned into a case study for discussing history constructions from an inside/outside angle? Her answers are illuminating and help to define the direction future research might take. In the chapter “Cambyses the Egyptian?”, Alexander Schütze deals with the question of how Cambyses and the penultimate ruler of the Egyptian 26th dynasty, Amasis, were remembered in Egypt in the 5th century BC. In the absence of relevant sources that would provide information on this, the focus of the investigation is on how the names of said kings are handled: during the short reign of Cambyses over Egypt, the name of Amasis was apparently written without a royal title in documentary texts, and his name, as well as those of members of the royal family, were physically removed from both royal monuments and those of high officials. By contrast, the evidence suggests that Darius treated his predecessor with the same disrespect, depriving his name of a royal title. Schütze interprets these observations against the backdrop of the two Persian Great Kings’ efforts to legitimize their rule and discusses the role of Amasis in the Histories with regard to Herodotus’ portrayal of Cambyses. Finally, Reinhold Bichler deals with a special aspect of reception: the image of Cambyses in Greco-Roman texts written after Herodotus. He begins by concentrating on literary “echoes” of Herodotus’ “mad king”. Most of the author’s well-known stories, such as Cambyses’ worst acts of violence directed against the corpse of Amasis and the killing of the Apis, were extracted from the wider complex narrative of the Histories and transformed through reworking to fit new narrative contexts. In the second part he asks whether there is “a post-Herodotean Cambyses apart from Herodotus?”, and shows that within the widespread stories of Cambyses’ alleged destruction and plundering of the Egyptian sanctuaries and his misguided campaigns against the Ammonians and the Ethiopians, we find numerous elements that derive from other sources or are greatly extended variants of Herodotus’ narrative or even free inventions. Bichler makes available an appendix that outlines in detail the variety of facts

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and names that occur in the stories of Cambyses pertaining to his family, his conquest of Egypt and his fate. Part 3: Geopolitical dimensions of the Cambyses logos The third part deals with the geopolitical dimensions of Herodotus’ account of Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt. While one contribution deals with the Arabian island and its possible role in the conquest of Egypt, three contributions study Cambyses’ campaign against the Ammonians in the Egyptian Western Desert. This narrative of Herodotus is examined from a historiographical, archaeological and philological perspective, which together provide a dense description of this peculiar passage. Gunnar Sperveslage investigates the striking parallels between the annals of Esarhaddon and Herodotus’ account of Cambyses’ rule. As there are no other sources that prove an alliance between Cambyses and Arab tribes, Sperveslage argues that Herodotus might have placed a historical event from the time of Esarhaddon in the context of the Persian conquest of Egypt. Seen this way the tribe of Qedar, which had a renewed and powerful position after the end of the Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires, would be the likely candidate for an alliance in connection with the conquest of Egypt. Herodotus’s report fits with the historical and archaeological situation in Northwest Arabia. The following three contributions deal with one topic from different perspec‐ tives: the march of the Persian army against the Ammonians into the desert. Damien Agut engages in fundamental source criticism devoted particularly to Herodotus’ narrative at 3.26. Agut argues that Herodotus combined two strands of memory in narrating the fate of Cambyses’ army in the Western Desert. While he attributes the first part of the narrative (3.26.1–2) to common memories of the Greeks living in Egypt, he attributes the second part (3.26.2–3) of the narrative, that which is explicitly not shared by the Egyptians and others, to the Ammonians (i.e. the inhabitants of the oases) who have good reason to narrate the destruction and almost numinous downfall of the Persian army in a sandstorm. The “fairy tale” of the Ammonians would then have reached Herodotus through the mediation of the Cyreneans. In addition to this sourcecritical distinction, Agut argues that the Persian king was interested in the oases of the western desert for strategic geopolitical and economic reasons: the Persian king sought to control a ‘rebellion zone’ and was interested in gaining control of valuable trade routes. In contrast, Olaf Kaper argues that new archaeological excavations and finds in the Dakhla Oasis point to an Egyptian king Petubastis IV, who is said to have successfully rebelled against Persian rule and controlled large parts of Upper

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Egypt. The new material establishes that Petubastis IV successfully revolted against Persian rule and after which, crowned in Memphis, he went on to control Upper Egypt. Moreover, his reign lasted long enough to undertake building activities in the Dakhla Oasis as an important power base for him. Against this background, Kaper is particularly interested in two questions: when the revolt under Petubastis IV began—in view of Uzume Wijnsma’s argumentation, which refers to the investigation of the rebellions in the Behistun inscription—and why Cambyses moved with his "expedition" into the western desert. He explains the Persian king's expedition as a punitive measure aimed at suppressing a dangerous rebellion. The revolt in the desert was the real reason for the march and especially the large army. According to Kaper the story of the sandstorm was always more fantastic than it could be credible, but a military confrontation is more likely to have dispersed the Persian army and severely reduced its number. The following contribution by Andreas Schwab examines Herodotus’ ac‐ count of the disappearance of Cambyses’ army in the desert from a philological perspective. He shows that Herodotus’ narrative of the campaign against the Ammonians contains some linguistic clues that are ambiguous to his Greek readers. These clues reveal hints of earlier Greek literature and elicit literary motifs and mythical references. Based on Herodotus’ multi-layered text, he argues that due to the frequently and significantly used word ψάμμος (sand) and the “Ammonians” (= “those who belong to the sand”), another way of reading and interpreting is possible. In support of and alongside the examinations of Agut and Kaper, Schwab argues, in particular with regard to Thebes, the Ammonians and ‘psammos’, for Herodotus’ literary engagement with Pindar. His investigation illustrates how the text’s literary and poetic design—with special attention to wordplay and references to Pindar—may support Kaper’s and Agut’s theses regarding a possible rebellion and even a rebel enigmatically present in the text of Herodotus. Part 4: Cambyses and the Egyptian Temples The last three contributions in this volume deal with a topic that has occupied generations of Egyptologists: Cambyses’ treatment of the temples of Egypt during and after the conquest of the land on the Nile. Herodotus’ account of Cambyses’ atrocities such as the murder of the sacred Apis bull, but especially those of later authors such as Diodorus and Strabo on the destruction of Egyptian temples, have strongly shaped the perception of researchers. While the first contribution offers an overview of the events described by Herodotus, another presents an Egyptian source on the cult politics of Cambyses in Egypt. The last

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‘sounding’ places Herodotus’ account of the important sanctuary of Memphis in its historical context. Dan’el Kahn deals specifically with Cambyses’ attitude towards the temples of Egypt in contemporary and later sources. He first discusses the conquest of Egypt under the Great King and its impact on Egyptian temples, drawing primarily on late sources. He then briefly discusses Cambyses’ campaigns against the Ethiopians and Ammonians and focuses on the atrocities that Cambyses is said to have committed in Egypt according to Herodotus. Finally, he presents Jeremiah 43 as another source not yet discussed in this context. Fabian Wespi’s contribution takes up the topic of contemporary realia behind the negative image of Cambyses—especially the curtailment of temple revenues. In addition to the often-cited Pap. Bibliothèque Nationale Paris 215, he adduces recent evidence that demonstrates deviations from the known version in the designation of the name of Cambyses. These new findings have consequences for the historical image that Cambyses has among Egyptologists and have a connection to Schütze’s contribution. In “Cambyses and the sanctuary of Ptah” Joachim Friedrich Quack inves‐ tigates a short episode, namely Hdt. 3.37. Quack demonstrates that Herodotus’ story about a dwarf-shaped cultic image of Ptah in Memphis as well as about children of Ptah in the same shape, located in an area of restricted access, and the link to Phoenicia and the Pataikoi, agree very well with the available Egyptian and Phoenician evidence. For the way the episode could have been shaped in memory, he draws attention to evidence for existing patterns of Egyptian thought. The aim of this volume is to prepare and offer a deeper understanding of the Cambyses logos and its role for the historiography of this important epochal change in the history of late modern Egypt through marrying close reading of Herodotus’ logos in its own historical and cultural context with current research on the geopolitical relations of Egypt and its neighbouring countries during the Persian conquest (among other soundings). Moreover, it aims also to show what a reading of this extensive and complex text that considers both the literary character of the Histories and the realia behind the narratives could look like. It illustrates what such a marriage of disciplines might contribute to a more comprehensive understanding of the genesis and meaning of the Histories. This volume may be read in exactly this sense: the contributions are organized in four thematic clusters examining one aspect of Herodotus’ logos of Cambyses from different perspectives. In part, the contributions complement each other, e.g., when Part 1 discusses Herodotus’ narrative style, his choice of words and his handling of the cultural relativism of his time. Part 3 even offers three different

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readings of the same passage, the Ammonian logos, which vividly illustrate the complexity of possible interpretations. In part, the contributions provide very different assessments of ancient sources, with regard to the image of Cambyses in later sources, or Cambyses’ dealings with Egyptian temples. We hope that these contradictions will lead to a productive discussion of the above-mentioned questions. The volume’s central premise, and that of the conference upon which it was based, is that such interdisciplinary discussions are absolutely required if we are to understand adequately the contribution a work of such complexity as the Histories can make to understanding not only the various histories of the ancient world, but also the histories of the disciplines that study them. One may say that hardly any ancient research discipline does not refer to Herodotus’ Histories in one way or another, and therefore the editors are convinced that the contributions are particularly well chosen to demonstrate the benefit from joint research by different disciplines of ancient studies on a concrete subject within them such as Cambyses’ logos. In this sense, they hope that further, equally fruitful in-depth studies may follow. A Mobility Grant from Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg supported the conference at the International Academic Forum Heidelberg. For their grants for the printing costs and their support we like to express our thanks to the Geschwister Boehringer Ingelheim Stiftung für Geisteswissenschaften and the Cluster of Excellence ROOTS at Christian-Albrechts-Universität zu Kiel (CAU). For their support in the preparation, we express our sincere thanks to our student helpers Patrick König and Caroline Stadlmann (LMU Munich) as well as Judith Adam, Samantha Philips, Christine Zaun and Jannik Sommer (CAU Kiel). Cordial thanks are due to Dr. Elizabeth Irwin (Columbia University) for stimulating and rich discussions of Herodotus’s narrative art and for linguistic improvements in the preparation of the volume. Special thanks are due to the two editors of Classica Monacensia, Prof. Dr. Claudia Wiener and Prof. Dr. Martin Hose (LMU Munich), who both welcomed with pleasure the inclusion of our volume in this series. For their generosity and support, we thank them both most sincerely.   Munich and Kiel, January 2023

A. Schütze and A. Schwab

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Bibliography Baragwanath (2012): Emily Baragwanath, Myth, Truth and Narrative in Herodotus, Oxford. Bowie (2018): Ewen Bowie (ed.), Herodotus—Narrator, Scientist, Historian, Berlin and Boston. Coulon (2013): Laurent Coulon: Hérodote et l’Égypte. Hérodote et l’Égypte: regards croisés sur le livre II de l’Enquête d’Hérodote; actes de la journée d’étude organisée à la Maison de l'Orient et de la Méditerranée, Lyon, le 10 mai 2010, Lyon. Bleckmann (2007): Bruno Bleckmann, Herodot und die Epoche der Perserkriege, Cologne. Cruz-Uribe (2003): Eugene Cruz-Uribe, ‘The Invasion of Egypt by Cambyses’, in: Trans‐ euphratène 25, 9–60. Derow (2003): Peter Derow, Herodotus and his world: essays from a conference in memory of George Forrest, Oxford et al. Dillery (2005): John Dillery, ‘Cambyses and the Egyptian Chaosbeschreibung Tradition’, CQ 55, 387–406. Dunsch and Ruffing (2013): Boris Dunsch and Kai Ruffing, Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots. Herodot-Forschung 40 Jahre nach dem Erscheinen von Detlev Fehlings „Die Quellenangaben bei Herodot“, Classica et Orientalia 6, Wiesbaden. Fehling (1971): Detlev Fehling, Die Quellenangaben bei Herodot. Studien zur Erzählkunst Herodots, Berlin. Fornara (1971): Charles W. Fornara, Herodotus. An Interpretative Essay, Oxford. Figueria and Soares (2020): Thomas Figueria and Carmen Soares (eds.), Ethnicity and Identity in Herodotus, London and New York. Geus et al. (2013): Klaus Geus, Elisabeth Irwin, and Thomas Poiss (eds.), Herodots Wege des Erzählens, Frankfurt a. M. Harrison and Irwin (2018): Thomas Harrison and Elizabeth Irwin (eds.), Interpreting Herodotus, Oxford. Irwin (2014): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘Ethnography and Empire: Homer and the Hippocratics in Herodotus’ Ethiopian Logos 3.17–26’, Histos 8, 25–75. Irwin (2017): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘Just why did Cambyses conquer Egypt (Hdt. 3.1–3)? A study of narrative, explanation and ‘history’ in Herodotus’ Cambyses logos’, in: Robert Rollinger (ed.), Weltbild und Welterfassung zwischen Ost und West / Worldview and World Conception between East and West: Proceedings of an international conference in honor of Reinhold Bichler, held in Obergurgl, Tyrol, 19–22 June 2013, Classica et Orientalia 12, Wiesbaden, 95–141. Irwin and Greenwood (2007): Elizabeth Irwin and Emily Greenwood (eds.), Reading Herodotus: a study of the “logoi” in Book 5 of Herodotus’ “Histories”, Cambridge.

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Jansen-Winkeln (2002): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, ‘Die Quellen zur Eroberung Ägyptens durch Kambyses’, in: Tamás A. Bács (ed.), A tribute to excellence: Studies offered in honor of Ernő Gaál, Ulrich Luft, Lászlo Török, Studia Aegyptiaca 17, Budapest, 309–319. Karageorghis and Taifacos (2004): Vassos Karageorghis and Ioannes Taifacos (eds.), The World of Herodotus. Proceedings of an International Conference, Nicosia, September 18–21, 2003, Nicosia. Klinkott and Kramer (2017): Hilmar Klinkott and Norbert Kramer (eds.): Zwischen Assur und Athen: Altorientalisches in Herodots Historien, SpielRäume der Antike 4, Stuttgart. Lloyd (1975–1988): Alan B. Lloyd, Herodotus, Book II, 3 vols., Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’empire romain 43, Leiden. Lloyd (1988): Alan B. Lloyd, ‘Herodotus on Cambyses. Some thoughts on recent work’, in: Amélie Kuhrt and Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg (eds.), Method and Theory. Proceedings of the London 1985 Achaemenid History Workshop, Achaemenid History III, Leiden, 55–66. Munson (1991): Rosario Vignolo Munson, ‘The madness of Cambyses (Herodotus 3.16– 38)’, Arethusa 24, 43–65. Munson (2013a): Rosaria Vignolo Munson (ed.), Herodotus, Volume 2: Herodotus and the World, Oxford. Munson (2013b): Rosaria Vignolo Munson (ed.), Herodotus, Volume 1: Herodotus and the Narrative of the Past, Oxford. Rollinger and Allinger-Csollich (2011): Robert Rollinger and Wilfrid Allinger-Csollich (eds.): Herodot und das Persische Weltreich: Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema „Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalistischer Überlie‐ ferungen“; Innsbruck, 24.–28. November 2008, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden. Schwab (2020): Andreas Schwab, Fremde Religion in Herodots Historien: Mehrdimensionale Religion bei Persern und Ägyptern, Hermes-Einzelschrift 118, Stuttgart. Török (2014): László Török, Herodotus in Nubia, Mnemosyne Suppl. Vol. 368, Leiden and Boston. Wasmuth and Creasman (2020): Melanie Wasmuth and Pearce Paul Creasman (eds.), Udjahorresnet and His World, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, Tucson.

Map of the Eastern Mediterranean with selected place names mentioned in the Cambyses Logos or discussed in this volume (© A. Schütze)

Close readings: Linguistic, narratological and philosophical perspectives

Just Who is Cambyses? Imperial Identities and Egyptian Campaigns

Elizabeth Irwin1

It was with enthusiasm that I accepted the invitation to participate in ‘Religion, Violence, and Interaction? An Interdisciplinary Approach to Herodotus’ Nar‐ rative on Cambyses’, the workshop that gave rise to this volume. The event offered a unique opportunity to meet with scholars from other disciplines and methodological perspectives in order both to share and to have challenged the understandings I had come to have about Herodotus’ treatment of Cambyses, and to explore further the method of reading required to get at what his complex and idiosyncratic account attempts to communicate about historiography, culture relativity, and morality. Those understandings were largely published in 2017 in an article on the first chapters of Herodotus’ account of Cambyses’ rule, his conquest of Egypt.2 In ‘Just why did Cambyses conquer Egypt? Herodotus’ logos of Cambyses’ Egyptian Campaign: his story as history’, the logoi pertaining to Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt were closely analyzed as an introduction to themes crucial to both Persian history of this period and to Herodotus’ account of it to follow in Book 3, and also as an oblique, yet sustained allusion to Athens’own military operations in Egypt and its citizenship law passed at the end of that period in 451/0 BC. Here in the present article I want to apply the approach of that article and its conclusions to the content and mode of

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I would like to thank above all Andreas Schwab and Alexander Schütze for providing the opportunity to present these arguments both orally and in written form, for their critical acumen, expertise, and enthusiasm in engaging with them (again and again), and for their willingness to wait. I am also most grateful to Pat Easterling, Jan Haywood, and Simon Ubsdell for their unstinting generosity and critical insights on this paper as it developed, and to Reinhold Bichler, Emily Greenwood, John Henderson, Robin Osborne, and Dorothy Thompson for taking the time to read and engage with it. This article is dedicated to Pat. Irwin (2017b).

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narration of Herodotus’ extended Cambyses logos in order to demonstrate the degree to which the text challenges readers not to become implicated in the madness of its character, a challenge which involves their having to account not only for the cause of Cambyses’ madness, but also for the cause of Herodotus’ characterization of him as such. Herodotus’ text will be shown to hold up a mirror to those readers who fail to recognize the aims and complexity of his account, and the reflection found there will prove not a flattering one. As background to the present discussion, I will provide a brief recap of the conclusions of that earlier article. The logos of Cambyses’ presence in Egypt sets out, as is fitting at its beginning, with an account of the aitie of his campaign, an account ostensibly explaining why Cambyses went to Egypt, but one whose real importance lies in its introduction of two themes central to this chapter in Persian history and to Herodotus’ handling of it. The ‘account’ is actually three different accounts dealing with the Egyptian concubine Nitetis and the role that her relationship to Cambyses had in inciting the campaign. This composite account serves two functions: first, it provides an implicit exploration of the difficulties of accounting for the cause of an event lying at some distance in the past, and, second, it foregrounds the question of Cambyses’ identity, who this Egyptian pallake Nitetis was, and—more importantly—who she was to him, and therefore what his motives would have been in bringing an army to Egypt.3 This second point is not unrelated to the first: the narrator comments in the second logos that in making Cambyses son of Nitetis, the Egyptians pervert the logos in order to be related to the house of Cyrus, and in doing so he conveys a crucial point about the role of human agency in altering accounts of the past, not least when constructing (often self-serving) narratives of causation. This seemingly offhand dismissal of the Egyptian version disguises its overall importance, introducing as it does three central themes in Herodotus’ depiction of both Cambyses and Persian monarchy at this juncture in Persian history. First, in its portrayal of the flagrantly mad Cambyses, the narrative implicitly explores madness as a deviation from and disrespect of norms, nomoi, and further raises questions about the criteria or standard against which one is able to declare someone mad, particularly on a figure occupying the exceptional position of king, which as the royal judges point out is a kind of law unto itself.4 Readers are 3 4

On the motives implicit in the second story see Atkinson (1956), Balcer (1987) 73–4, and Irwin (2017b). Hdt. 3.31.4: ἄλλον μέντοι ἐξευρηκέναι νόμον, τῷ βασιλεύοντι Περσέων ἐξεῖναι ποιέειν τὸ ἂν βούληται (‘They had, however, discovered another law, [that said] it is possible for the king of the Persians to do whatever he wants’). The focus on nomos in Cambyses’

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invited to view Cambyses’ various acts from differing perspectives involving the question of who he is as agent, Persian or half-Egyptian. The text at once raises the question, against whose nomos, Persian, Egyptian, (implicitly) Greek, Cambyses should be judged, while also rendering it otiose: for out of this display of multiple cultural perspectives, Herodotus’ logoi ultimately make an implicit argument for certain acts and attitudes being worthy of censure from all points of view. An argument for universal nomoi is paradoxically made through a display of cultural relativity.5 This is Herodotus the sophist at his finest, making the weaker argument the stronger, but doing so for the uncustomary purpose of upholding traditional morality.6 At the same time, his account subtly raises the question of how anyone can be in any position to judge Cambyses when it is impossible to be sure about even the cause of something on the scale of his expedition to Egypt or something as basic as the background of his mother, Egyptian or Achaemenid. The question of Cambyses’ identity will, in fact, prove central to understanding the history recounted in Book 3. Second, with regard to Darius, the text sows seeds of uncertainty about the version of history it seems to go on to endorse. For in dismissing the Egyptians’ claim that Nitetis was Cambyses’ mother as a fabrication designed to connect them to the house of Cyrus (Hdt. 3.2: ἀλλὰ παρατρέπουσι τὸν λόγον προσποιεύμενοι τῇ Κύρου οἰκίῃ συγγενέες εἶναι—‘But they pervert the story in an attempt to pretend they are related to the house of Cyrus’), it draws attention to a distortion that many scholars of Persia impute to Darius in his efforts to legitimize what was actually a usurpation of the Persian throne.7 Although seeming to maintain the main thesis of the official Persian version of Darius’ succession—albeit with significant variation—8 as his having deposed a pretender to the throne, the version he gives is only ‘something like’ that promulgated by Darius: Herodotus’ introduction of a second Magus into the revolt (Hdt. 3.61.2), the brother of the first, one who looked like the brother Cambyses killed, and indeed, didn’t only look like him, but also (remarkably)—

5 6 7

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logos is obvious and well recognized in the scholarship: see e.g. Immerwahr (1966) 168–9, and most recently Kingsley (2018) 45–6. See Munson (1991) 60–1. Cf. Barrionuevo (2017) who makes an analogous point about nomos. In the form of the Bisitun inscription (DB §1–4) for which the written script of Old Persian seems to have been invented and which has inscribed within it the provision to circulate this version of his genealogy and the history of his succession (§56–70), on which see now Huyse (1999), Rollinger (2014) and (2016). For a basic background to the inscription and its claims see Köhnken (1980) 40–1, Rollinger (2006) 41–53, Kuhrt (2007) 136–8. See also Irwin (2017b) 106, 110, 114 with n. 60. As will be discussed below.

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the force of καὶ δὴ καὶ had the same name—seems designed to test the credulity of readers,9 whose confidence should be further shaken by encountering a Darius prepared to transgress a fundamental Persian nomos (so Hdt. 1.136.2) in finding lying no different than telling the truth, both having profit as their goal.10 This final point opens the third path to understanding Herodotus’ handling of Cambyses. For this chapter of Persian history itself provided Herodotus with the invitation to take great licence in its recounting: it would have been clear to well-informed people of Herodotus’ day, if clear to us now at this distance, that owing to the efforts of Cambyses’ successor very little, let alone the truth, about Cambyses could be known, or at least known to the majority of his readers.11 This period of Persian history gave Herodotus both the inspiration and the licence to manipulate it—as Darius had, but to a different end—through fabricating stories about Cambyses in such a way as to invoke the ruler of another arche closer to Herodotus’ contemporaries, an arche that waged its own Egyptian campaign: namely, that of Athens. Of this Egyptian ambition, Herodotus reminds readers at salient moments of the campaign (Hdt. 3.12, 3.15) and once again at the very conclusion of Book 3 (Hdt. 3.160.2); moreover, Athens’ own ‘imperial phase’ was characterized by its own nomos restricting legitimacy and inheritance (Plut. Per. 37) in the form of Pericles’ Citizenship Law, passed at the time of their own Egyptian campaign and evocative of that attributed to the Persians in chapter

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The whole introduction to this figure is worth quoting: ἦν οἱ ἀδελφεός, τὸν εἶπά οἱ συνεπαναστῆναι, οἰκὼς μάλιστα τὸ εἶδος Σμέρδι τῷ Κύρου, τὸν ὁ Καμβύσης ἐόντα ἑωυτοῦ ἀδελφεὸν ἀπέκτεινε· ἦν τε δὴ ὅμοιος εἶδος τῷ Σμέρδι καὶ δὴ καὶ οὔνομα τὠυτὸ εἶχε Σμέρδιν (‘He had a brother, whom he told to revolt with him, very much in appearance like Smerdis son of Cyrus whom, although his own brother, Cambyses killed. He was indeed similar in appearance to Smerdis and indeed also had the same name, ‘Smerdis’). Other elements further challenge readers’ credulity: the missing ears (Hdt. 3.69.4, 69.5, 69.6, 72.1), the ‘Constitutional Debate’ (Hdt. 3.80–2: logoi said to be found apistoi), and a sexually aroused horse (Hdt. 3.85–6). Moreover, one should note that the reasons given for Cambyses murdering Smerdis are predicated on two elements derived from passages overwhelmingly deemed to be Herodotean fictions: the Ethiopian logos with its bow (see Irwin (2014)), and the dream (Köhnken (1980)). Hdt. 3.72.4–5: ἔνθα γάρ τι δεῖ ψεῦδος λέγεσθαι, λεγέσθω…εἰ δὲ μηδὲν κερδήσεσθαι μέλλοιεν, ὁμοίως ἂν ὅ τε ἀληθιζόμενος ψευδὴς εἴη καὶ ὁ ψευδόμενος ἀληθής (‘For when it is necessary to say some lie, let it be said…If they would not end up benefitting in any way the truth-teller would just as soon be dishonest, and the liar truthful’). See Asheri (2007) 391–3 on the focus on falsehood and truth throughout the Persian logoi of the first half of Book 3. Cf. Pl. Rep. II, 362e4–363a5. Konstantakos (2016) 51–4 (with extensive bibliographical footnotes) has an economical discussion of hostile Persian influences on the reception of Cambyses.

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2.12 Moreover, in the eyes of some contemporaries these Greek possessors of this arche were deemed ‘mad’ by their attitudes towards the nomoi of themselves and others, as well as for denying the universality of certain (moral) nomoi. This essay develops that earlier argument by demonstrating how Herodotus’ narrative collapses the distinctions between Persia and Athens, and in particular between the figure of Cambyses as he pursues his imperial ambitions in scornful and indiscriminate disregard for nomoi—both his own and others’—and his readers who may have been (or be) afflicted with the same kinds of madness (see below). The larger, more fundamental questions of that article were these: how are we are meant to be reading Herodotus’ text and what exactly is it trying to communicate to its readers through an account such as the one he provides in the case of Cambyses? An essential tenet in my reading of Herodotus is that he is a highly self-conscious, highly rhetorical author, who has composed an account full of pitfalls designed to entrap readers who fail adequately to recognize these qualities at work within his text: quite simply, such readers risk finding that the naivité or gullibility that they have assumed in the narrator to be in reality nothing more than a demonstration of their own. In particular, those who underestimate the sophistication of this text, treating Herodotus as naively misled into accepting the truth or at least the sincerity of his sources, are in most cases the ones naively misled by their source, his text. The implications of this point for the text’s handling of Cambyses would be that for his account to be so at odds with the primary evidence available to us,13 that is, for there to have survived such diverse near contemporary sources allowing even us to realize this, despite the far greater chasm separating us from this period than Herodotus himself, would require either that he created such an account consciously, or— despite his claims—that he has greatly misrepresented, if not entirely fabricated, the firsthand experience of Egypt that he purports to possess.14 This point takes on even greater weight when we realize that Herodotus himself reveals, in the very second chapter of book 3, the possibility of seeing Cambyses otherwise, from an Egyptian perspective that embraced him as their own, and labels, in the third chapter, ‘unpersuasive to me’ an account that imputes to Cambyses the

12 13 14

See already Bichler (2007 [2000]) 106 for this point; see also Rauflaub (2009) and Irwin (2017b) 131–3 and on Darius and Persia as models for Pericles and Athenian arche. The evidence outside Herodotus is unusual in its quantity, provenance, and amount. This is conveniently collected and discussed by Kuhrt (2007) 104–70. See also the discussions in this volume. See Spiegelberg (1927), Armayor (1985).

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express intention of doing what Herodotus’ account goes on to portray him as doing, namely, turning Egypt upside down. 1 Overview: the Cambyses logos—doubles, identity, recognition The narrative of Book 3 is one of doubles: two Nitetises (Hdt. 3.1), two corpses said to belong to Amasis (Hdt. 3.16.5–7), two stories of Cambyses’ brother’s death (Hdt. 3.30.3), two sister-wives of Cambyses (Hdt. 3.31.6), two stories of one of their deaths (Hdt. 3.32, with two puppies!), two Magi (Hdt. 3.61), two Smerdises (Hdt. 3.61.2), two Agbatanas (Hdt. 3.64.3–4), two stories about how Darius’ horse won the throne for him (Hdt. 3.87) 15 Duplicity in its two-fold meaning as both ‘doubleness’ and ‘deception’ perfectly sums up the dominant thematic of Herodotus’ logos of Persian monarchy in this period.16 Held up next to Egyptian or Persian contemporary sources, Herodotus’ account constitutes what he might himself have called a διξὸς λόγος (‘a second, opposing account’) about Cambyses’ rule or Darius’ accession, and in the context of Book 3 this can hardly be accidental.17 In addition to duplicity, from its very outset identity and recognition are major themes of the Cambyses logos. Again and again, characters are depicted as failing to recognize that names both denote and mask, and that a single name may belong to more than one entity. On the flip side, the text also explores how one entity may occupy two (if not more) identities at once or be one of two mutually exclusive identities: king of Persia and either consort or son of Nitetis, entirely Persian or half-Egyptian, a brother and husband of each of two sisters. Oedipus’ riddle and life come to mind—one creature can at different times walk on four, two, and three legs, one man can at the same time be stranger and native 15

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Events for which Herodotus says there is a διξὸς λόγος (Hdt. 3.32.1: ἀμφὶ δὲ τῷ θανάτῳ αὐτῆς διξὸς ὥσπερ περὶ Σμέρδιος λέγεται λόγος – ‘And about her death a second story is said, just as about Smerdis’): two stories for how Prexaspes had Smerdis killed (3.30.3), why Cambyses killed his sister (3.32.1 and 3), (and later) how Darius’ horse won the throne for him (3.87). Köhnken (1980) 47 and 49 notes the emphasis on doubles in the text. Cf. McPhee (2018) 92 who notes that ‘the perception of doubles is in fact one of the standard symptoms of madness in the Greco-Roman cultural imagination’, citing Seaford (1987) 76 n.2. Cf. Torrance (2013) 212–13 on Euripides. Truth and duplicity are a major theme of Book 3 (e.g. Asheri (2007) 292–3), more so than in any other book (compare the frequencies of the stems ἀληθ- and ψευδ- in Powell svv.), but, though related to the present study, the subject would require an article in its own right. See Köhnken (1980) 39 on how rare it is to have independent sources against which to check Herodotus’ version of events; in this case we have both Egyptian and Persian sources.

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to Thebes, son and husband, father and brother. In the episodes of this logos that follow this comparison with tragedy will be seen to be central to Cambyses’ story owing to the defining features of that genre. Cambyses’ logos begins and ends with questions about identity, whether of Cambyses—who was it who bore him?—or of the usurper of his throne, his brother or an imposter—seemingly the latter, but the figure who unmasks him openly declares that for profit’s sake he would become an unabashed liar. It begins with two people called Nitetis and ends with two called Smerdis. But might there also be two ‘Cambyses’? On one level, there certainly are in the form of two versions of the same person, the one Herodotus depicted and what seems the alternative figure for whom other sources exist, although there are two of these, Persian and Egyptian. But my concern here is not with the same individual, named Cambyses, for whom there are multiple versions, but rather that the one name, ‘Cambyses’, might be denoting more than one entity, the Cambyses of the narrative and a ‘Cambyses’ to whom his depiction alludes: to paraphrase Nitetis when she points out that she is not the Nitetis Cambyses thinks she is (Hdt. 3.1.4: διαβεβλημένος ὑπὸ Ἀμάσιος οὐ μανθάνεις, ‘You don’t understand that Amasis has put one over on you’), readers do not understand how Herodotus may have put one over on them in outfitting some other figure in the trappings of the Persian king. Perhaps they need to ask, using Cambyses’ phrase with a substitution, who is ‘stepping on the name’ of Cambyses (ἐπιβατεύων [τοῦ Καμβύσεω] οὐνόματος, Hdt. 3.63.3, 3.67.2) and who is ultimately responsible for the version of Cambyses, son of Cyrus, that Herodotus chose to present despite actual Egyptian sources suggesting Herodotus’ Cambyses to be an imposter. I will argue that the text challenges readers to recognize the ways in which a narrative about Cambyses may also double for a narrative about certain of Herodotus’ readers. This possibility can also be framed using another prominent theme of Book 3: tragedy. One will see tragic allusion writ large in the stories of Psammenitus and in Cambyses’ end. The reason for this, I will argue, has to do with a central ingredient of tragedy, that of anagnorisis, recognition. In ways analogous to Sophocles’ Oedipus, Herodotus depicts his Cambyses as recognizing the error (hamartia) that he has made in misconstruing the future conveyed to him both in a dream and an oracle,18 turning on his family in 18

On the tragic associations of hamartia here see Said (2002) 130, de Jong (2006) 14 (‘the technical term for ‘tragic error’ par excellence’). See also Kim (2010) 233–4 on Aristotle’s hamartia and the misidentification of one’s close blood-relatives. The imposter Magus was not required to look the same since Cambyses does not see him in his dream, but only receives a message about a Smerdis taking the throne, and as we learn later no

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fear of a conspiracy against his throne and becoming to his blood kin what he should not have been, a ‘brother-killer’ (Hdt. 3.65.4): ‘And missing the mark about everything that going to happen, a brother-killer I have become, when there was no need, and of my kingdom no less have I been deprived’ (παντὸς δὲ τοῦ μέλλοντος ἔσεσθαι ἁμαρτὼν ἀδελφεοκτόνος τε οὐδὲν δέον γέγονα καὶ τῆς βασιληίης οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἐστέρημαι). It is the recognition of who he is and who he has become. Realizing his error in the face of his mortality, he is made sophron (Hdt. 3.64.5), a state equivalent to ‘knowing oneself’, its opposite, according to one contemporary view, being the ‘nearest thing to madness’, the state in which Cambyses had been.19 Recognition is not, however, meant to be confined to the revelation had by the characters within the plot: Herodotus’ mode of narration puts at risk complacent readers who, feeling they occupy a greater position of knowledge and selfknowledge than Herodotus’ protagonists, are comfortable in their assessment of their own ability to recognize and understand who they are, not only in relation to the characters about whom they are reading, but more fundamentally. They are those who feel they have transcended the universal limitations of the human condition, that they are eudaimones (‘happy, blessed’) and that their eudaimonia (‘good fortune’) is permanent.20 For as Herodotus constructs his account, readers are also implicated in the act of recognition, the challenge is there for them to recognize what is being conveyed by the text, and who they are as revealed by how they respond to what they find narrated. Below will be traced those ways in which the narrative engages readers, and its attempts to manipulate, reveal, and ultimately influence their responses. Herodotus’ mode of narration stratifies his audience according to their readerly reactions: those of them most enamoured by an imperial mindset will find themselves manoeuvred into responses identical to those of its mad Persian king, while others may respond to the encouragement, also present in the text, to recognize the nature

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one else sees him (Hdt. 3.63.2, 68.4–5): see Köhnken (1980) 44–7 and McPhee (2018) 83; de Jong (2006) 6. Xen. Mem. 3.9.6: ‘Madness (μανίαν), he said, was the opposite of wisdom (σοϕίᾳ). However he did not consider ignorance (τὴν ἀνεπιστημοσύνην) to be madness (μανίαν). But not to know oneself and to assume and think one knows what one does not know, this is what he considered to be verging on madness (μανίας).’ Cf. Fraenkel (1950) on Agam. 176–81, esp. 105, quoting Headlam on Eum. 520: ‘σωφρονεῖν is synonymous with γνῶναι σεαυτόν, to know your place in relation to the Gods and your fellow-men’. See also below for further discussion of tragedy (Parts IV and IX), and also of contemporary discourse on madness (Part X). On this as a description of Periclean Athens and the Athenians conception of themselves see Irwin (2013) and (2017a), with bibliography.

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of the madness from which Cambyses suffers and that, belonging as it does to ‘the many evils that are accustomed to afflict humans’ (οἷα πολλὰ ἔωθε ἀνθρώπους κακὰ καταλαμβάνειν), it is one to which anyone can be, and some of his contemporaries were, vulnerable/susceptible. Who are these contemporary readers whose powers of recognition and selfrecognition will be challenged? And what about future readers? What is to be the nature of their (self-)recognition? In what follows, this essay most often means by ‘contemporaries’ Athenians, and a fortiori those of an imperialist disposition, because Athenians were not homogeneously disposed towards their city’s internal politics and arche as made obvious by the eventual political coups of the late fifth century. And there are other contemporaries, of course, those outside Athens—subjects and critics—who could justifiably have felt some Schadenfreude at Herodotus’ veiled portrayal of the Athenians.21 And there are also his future readers for whom Herodotus most certainly also wrote.22 I will have more to say about how Herodotus translates this notion of differentiation and stratification based on interpretive capacities and political orientation within his contemporary readership into the reception he orchestrates in future readers. But perhaps here it suffices to say that future readers will occupy a spectrum between the poles of those enamoured by Athens and/or empire, and those more critically disposed towards one or both. Readers of the former group are more likely to fall foul of his ‘Persian’ narrative: their investment (conscious or not) in the cultural superiority of the Greeks with Athens as pinnacle, as well as in their own intellectual and moral superiority over antiquity owing to an erroneous investment in the notion of progress, may cause them not to recognize whose is the madness that Herodotus depicts, and likewise to deny Herodotus (and perhaps any ancient author) the capacity to write a narrative of such sophistication and seeming modernity. For the danger is real: not only have the majority of Herodotus’ readers encountered both the Greeks and their language with an overwhelmingly Athenian focalization, but access to that education is most usually predicated upon belonging to cultures which are or have been imperialist, and by and large to a certain class within those cultures. Both reasons create obstacles for Herodotus’ readers (the polloi among those privileged oligoi) to see—or really see—Athens from a critical perspective (as, for instance, most Ionians or Peloponnesians would), and render it possible to enhance and exploit a stratification within his readership based on an ability and 21 22

Although they, if good readers of Herodotus, should know it is dangerous to be a figure who laughs (Lateiner (1977)), even at a Cambyses or ‘Cambyses’, and certainly to do so without recognizing the risible in oneself. Rösler (1991).

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willingness to break free from a cultural focalization belonging to the Athenians which they have come to share. 2 Whose Version? Adopting a Persian viewpoint (chs. 1–3)23 The opening of Book 3 attempts to manoeuvre readers into adopting a Persian perspective on the cause of the Egyptian campaign and induces the unwary of them to read in a way that mirrors the viewpoint and attitudes of the conquerors. It does this by the way in which the three accounts of the cause of the Egyptian campaign are given. Audiences are induced to prefer the first account owing to its mode of presentation: it is both the longest of the three and, unlike the others, not explicitly dismissed by the narrator; in fact, as they first embark on their reading of the campaign, they will have been entirely unaware that other versions would follow.24 Moreover, the deployment of the source attribution is significant: readers will have heard the first logos in full before having it qualified by a source attribution (‘so now say the Persians’, οὕτω μέν νυν λέγουσι Πέρσαι) that might alert them to its provisionality, and they are likely to have forgotten by then that what the narrator declares will be presented is merely ‘a cause something like what follows (δι᾽ αἰτίην τοιήνδε)’, and as such something implicitly other than what they really say: like it, but therefore not actually it. Those readers who find themselves induced to accept (however noncommitally) the first logos, the Persian version, or—once removed—to think that Herodotus does (and in doing so collapsing the author’s actual identity into that of the narrator he creates), have failed to recognize the absence of the narrator’s explicit endorsement. Ultimately non-commital as to the cause, the account he provides is therefore such as to make his readers particularly responsible for what they go away believing about the cause of the Egyptian campaign and/or for what they believe Herodotus’ view on the subject to have been.25 The text has in a sense

23 24

25

For an extended discussion of these versions, see Irwin (2017b) Part I. References to each version: Hdt. 3.1.1, ἐπὶ τοῦτον δὴ τὸν Ἄμασιν Καμβύσης ὁ Κύρου ἐστρατεύετο…δι᾽ αἰτίην τοιήνδε (another cause, only like – therefore not – this one presented, is implicit) … Hdt. 3.1.6, οὕτω μέν νυν λέγουσι Πέρσαι; Hdt. 3.2.1–2, Αἰγύπτιοι δὲ οἰκηιεῦνται Καμβύσεα, φάμενοί μιν ἐκ ταύτης δὴ τῆς Ἀπρίεω θυγατρὸς γενέσθαι…λέγοντες δὲ ταῦτα οὐκ ὀρθῶς λέγουσι…ἀλλὰ παρατρέπουσι τὸν λόγον προσποιεύμενοι τῇ Κύρου οἰκίῃ συγγενέες εἶναι; Hdt. 3.3.1, λέγεται δὲ καὶ ὅδε λόγος, ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιθανός. Cf. Balcer (1987) 70 for emphasis on source attribution in this logos (‘[a] complex mosaic of oral traditions’). See e.g. Balcer (1987) 72–3: ‘Herodotus offered three stories, two [sic.] Persian and one Egyptian, of which only one of the Persians stories did he accept as true’.

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manufactured in those readers a kind of complicity with the Persians in casually accepting ‘such a cause’ which is only ‘something like’ the real cause,26 and in both cases—the Persians’ and the readers’—doing so owing to a similar eagerness to get on with the conquest, whether as historical ergon or as logos. In a way, those readers themselves are aitioi for the way that Cambyses behaves (or rather the way that Herodotus depicts ‘Cambyses’ as behaving) towards and in Egypt. They have chosen to understand Cambyses’ actions in a particular way, despite no compulsion by the narrator, and that choice then becomes an early indicator of how they might respond to the rest of the narrative. Furthermore, closer scrutiny reveals both that all three accounts are in fact ‘something like’ each other,27 and that the reasons given to prejudice readers against the second and third accounts are hardly devastating. In the case of the third logos, it should be obvious that just because something is not persuasive to some one individual (whose subjectivity is stressed through the use of the first person: ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιθανός, Hdt. 3.3.1) does not necessitate its being untrue. Ironically, without providing any reasons for this lack of persuasion, this bare statement manages to persuade, and even transfers responsibility for this judgment to those readers who may, induced by the absence of explanation, then supply their own. The second logos requires readers to recognize how dependent they are upon others—i.e. Herodotus’ account—to have the ‘knowledge’ needed to assess its content, in this case knowledge of Persian royal history and customs. Herodotus’ comment about the Egyptians’ knowledge is formulated in such a way as to raise the question of who, if indeed anyone (Hdt. 3.2.2: ‘For if anyone else knows the customs of the Persians, the Egyptians also do’),28 is truly in a

26

27

28

It is interesting that the cause the Persians are said to say here is ‘something like’ the cause that Ctesias says (FGrHist 688 F 13a = Ath. 13.560DE). Ctesias tells a number of stories ‘something like’ those relevant to Herodotus’ Cambyses: see e.g. the fountain of the Ethiopians (FGrHist 688 F 1) and Hdt. 3.23.2–4 with Irwin (2014) 35–6 n.30 where the waters, said to be like wine, cause madness. See also the imposter narrative FGrHist 688 F13 §11–13. See Irwin (2017b) 107–8 (cf. Balcer (1987) 73) which identifies the similarity, particularly linguistic, of these three versions. Which of the two one finds more similar to each other than to the third will depend on the criteria of similarity that one uses: e.g. nos. 1 and 3 make Cambyses the son of a Persian woman, and involve ‘tall, good-looking children’: μεγάλη τε καὶ εὐειδής/εὐειδέα τε καὶ μεγάλα); nos. 2 and 3 belong to the same time frame with Nitetis as concubine of Cyrus, and are based on vengeance on behalf of one’s mother (murder of her father, or a slight to her as a wife). εἰ γὰρ τινὲς καὶ ἄλλοι, τὰ Περσέων νόμιμα ἐπιστέαται καὶ Αἰγύπτιοι. This conditional is equivalent to, ‘If the Egyptians do not know, then no others do’, and therefore is no positive assertion that the Egyptians do know the inheritance laws that obtained at the time of Cambyses’ birth, nor even that they know them in the present (ἐπιστέαται).

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position to know whether inheritance laws at the time of Cyrus’ death excluded a half-Egyptian ascending to the throne,29 or even to know who Cambyses’ mother was. The corollary of having accepted the Persian version of the first logos is the necessary denegration of the Egyptian point of view found in chapter 2, and readers are ‘assisted’ in doing this by the narrator’s adoption of the authoritative register of the apodeixis.30 This anti-Egyptian bias will be found again in the coming chapters, and is one that facilitates readers’ taking by default a dismissive view towards the version of history held by an arche’s ‘subjects’.31 This ‘imperial’ focalization is important: while some readers may not actually be committed to the truth of the Persian version (whether agnostic, indifferent, or oblivious of any choice they have had to make), if they are satisfied enough to press ever onwards, reading dismissively past the others, they reveal themselves as eager for the narrative of the conquest of Egypt as Cambyses apparently was for the conquest itself.32 Were they to understand that the text is being constructed as a mirror, they might already recognize their own reflection in its image of Persian imperialism.33 The text then not only collapses the Persian and reader’s perspective on the cause of the event, but also subtly and implicitly manoeuvres the reader into the role of the expansionist Persian king pressing onwards to Egypt. Book 3’s introductory logos heralds in a textual strategy that places readers in positions in which they are not only led to adopt a Persian viewpoint, but also lured into mirroring the responses of the ostensibly mad Persian king. Throughout the Cambyses account we find a subtle and sustained attempt to erode the distinction between the reader and the character: whether readers succumb to the text’s efforts to cause them to behave as its protagonist will

29 30 31

32 33

Indeed, there seem to have been no other sons except Smerdis whose being of the same mother (Hdt. 3.30.1) means the legal reason for exclusion (Hdt. 3.2.2: γνησίου παρεόντος – ‘if a legitimate son is present’) would not obtain; see Irwin (2017b) Part II. The word orthos makes this particularly clear: see Thomas (2000) 228–35. The third-person narrator invites readers to dismiss the possibility that the corpse defiled on Cambyses’ orders was not Amasis’ as just Egyptian bravado (Hdt. 3.16.5–7), and later seems to encourage them with an air of clinical authority to dismiss the idea that Cambyses’ madness was owing to his mistreatment of Apis (Hdt. 3.30 and 3.33): see McPhee (2018) 76–7. I say ‘seems to encourage’ because readers will be faced with Cambyses’ own mortal thigh wound identified by the narrator as being in the very place where Cambyses struck Apis (Hdt. 3.64.3), and confronted with the question of what meaning they impute and/or believe the narrator (‘Herodotus’ not Herodotus) imputes to that ‘coincidence’. Detailed discussion of these scenes appears below. Irwin (2017b) 108. See also Baragwanath (2008) 111 for a version of this point. See Henderson (2007) 295: ‘Could any superpower see the aggressor as their own aggression, the rest of the story would give a grandstand view.’

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depend on the kind of critical reading in which they engage and their own moral commitments. Herodotus’ textual strategy of reader entrapment will become ever more difficult to avoid as the narrative continues, though the means are also present to enable readers to navigate its pitfalls, finding (if they are able) assistance and safety should they adopt its proffered moral footholds. 3 Halicarnassian guides (chs. 4–10) With the figure of Phanes the strategy of manipulating readers into positions and reactions similar to those of Cambyses becomes manifest. A Halicarnassian (Hdt. 3.4.1: ἀνὴρ γένος μὲν Ἁλικαρνησσεύς, οὔνομα δέ οἱ Φάνης…) who both ‘knows the most accurate things about Egypt’ (Hdt. 3.4.2: ἐπιστάμενόν τε τὰ περὶ Αἴγυπτον ἀτρεκέστατα…) and from whom both the route and the diplomacy needed to cross the waterless desert can be learned, he provides an obvious double for Herodotus who has just narrated the monumental Book 2 and particularly as he, like the narrator, is about to provide readers with the information that Cambyses is alleged to have needed to reach Egypt. Whatever the historicity of a Phanes, if not ‘this’ Phanes (οὗτος ὁ Φάνης),34 the appearance of this Halicarnassian cannot help but introduce a meta-dimension to the text. His name itself ‘speaks’, announcing his role as one who will ‘reveal’ (the verb would be ϕαίνειν), and is made to resound more closely with his function in the historical plot through Herodotus’ calling phanerai those eisbolai into Egypt that readers understand him to have revealed to the Persian king (Hdt. 3.5.1: μούνῃ δὲ ταύτῃ εἰσὶ φανεραὶ ἐσβολαὶ ἐς Αἴγυπτον…)—‘understand’ because that moment is not narrated and readers therefore can only infer them to be the same from the fact that these eisbolai are said to be the only route (μούνῃ). The point is not pedantic, but crucial: at the moment within the narrative that Phanes is expected to remove the literal aporia of the Persian king so that he may begin and complete his campaign of conquest, Herodotus instead uses his narrator’s voice to supply readers with the route whereby they might find their way through this waterless desert so as to be able to begin and complete (their reading of) Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt.35 The analogy forged between Halicarnassian guides purveying information about the route through a waterless desert is at once also an analogy between the intradiegetic and extradiegetic consumers of this ethnographic knowledge.36 34 35 36

See Asheri (2007) 401. Herodotus similarly takes over from Aristagoras at Hdt. 5.52–3 where Herodotus narrates the journey to Susa (thanks to Jan Haywood for the comparison). Irwin (2017b) 135.

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This analogy continues in the way Herodotus uses his narratorial voice to convey the content of Phanes’ advice concerning how to obtain safe transit from the Arabian king (Hdt. 3.4.3).37 As in the case of the route, Phanes’ role in the narrative is taken over by the narrator’s exegesis, and it is a shift marked first by the emphatic repetition of the verb φράζω (‘I indicate’), used first of Phanes as he conveys information to Cambyses pertaining to the campaign (Hdt. 3.4.3: φράζει) and again twice in the narrator’s own communication with his readers (Hdt. 3.6.1–2: τοῦτο ἔρχομαι φράσων… ἐγὼ καὶ τοῦτο φράσω…).38 The later passage is especially marked given that what Herodotus points out to his readers are, paradoxically, things to which even those physically present in Egypt would not be able to point, namely wine jars (allegedly) neither there to be seen nor even their absence—now conspicuous, thanks to Herodotus—scarcely ever noticed: τὸ δὲ ὀλίγοι τῶν ἐς Αἴγυπτον ναυτιλλομένων ἐννενώκασι, τοῦτο ἔρχομαι φράσων. ἐς Αἴγυπτον ἐκ τῆς Ἑλλάδος πάσης καὶ πρὸς ἐκ Φοινίκης κέραμος ἐσάγεται πλήρης οἴνου δι᾽ ἔτεος ἑκάστου, καὶ ἓν κεράμιον οἰνηρὸν ἀριθμῷ κεινὸν οὐκ ἔστι ὡς λόγῳ εἰπεῖν ἰδέσθαι. κοῦ δῆτα, εἴποι τις ἄν, ταῦτα ἀναισιμοῦται; And what few of those sailing into Egypt notice, this I am going to point out. Into Egypt from the entire Greece and in addition from Phoenicia earthenware is imported full of wine throughout each year, but not one empty wine jar in number is, so to speak, to be seen. Where then, someone might ask, are they disposed of?

Note the effect of the passage, and in particular the narrator’s impersonation of the reader (κοῦ δῆτα, εἴποι τις ἄν, ταῦτα ἀναισιμοῦται;). It manufactures in readers’ minds momentary aporia about something that pertains to Egypt which the Herodotean narrator, the good Halicarnassian informant that he is, 37

38

Hdt. 3.4.3: ὁρμημένῳ δὲ στρατεύεσθαι Καμβύσῃ ἐπ᾽ Αἴγυπτον καὶ ἀπορέοντι τὴν ἔλασιν, ὅκως τὴν ἄνυδρον διεκπερᾷ, ἐπελθὼν φράζει μὲν καὶ τὰ ἄλλα τὰ Ἀμάσιος πρήγματα, ἐξηγέεται δὲ καὶ τὴν ἔλασιν, ὧδε παραινέων, πέμψαντα παρὰ τὸν Ἀραβίων βασιλέα δέεσθαι τὴν διέξοδόν οἱ ἀσφαλέα παρασχεῖν (‘When Cambyses was intent on bringing an army against Egypt, but was at a loss regarding the logistics of the expedition, i.e. how he would cross the waterless tract of land, [Phanes] arrived and provided [lit. ‘provides’, hist. pres.] other information pertaining to Amasis’ affairs, and went through [lit. ‘goes through’] the march, advising in the following way, [advising] Cambyses to send a request to the king of the Arabians to provide safe passage.’) The emphatic use of the present tense used of Phanes (Hdt. 3.4.3: φράζει) is understood as historic, but what Phanes ‘indicates’ (historic present tense) in the past to Cambyses, how this waterless desert can be crossed, is on an extradiegetic level what ‘Herodotus’ ‘will indicate’ (self-fulfilling future tense) to his readers. For the importance of authorial choice in the use of the historic present see Fowler (2001) 113–14 (‘Every alternation’ being ‘entirely in the historian’s discretion’).

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one who knows the ‘most accurate things about Egypt’, can then proceed to remove: ἐγὼ καὶ τοῦτο φράσω…39 And indeed, the solution to the readers’ aporia belongs to that very topic of Cambyses’ own aporia, namely water provision in the desert.40 What readers will learn, however, is that what their informed Halicarnassian informant has revealed is in fact more relevant to them than to Cambyses, belonging as it does not to the time of his narrative, but to their own present-day, the Persians’ current solution to the problem, instituted as soon as Egypt was theirs, not existing before.41 One finds the same abrupt shift from narrative to narrator’s exegesis when it comes to handling diplomatic relations with the Arabian king.42 After a brief return to the narrative to tell readers about Cambyses taking this advice from his ‘Halicarnassian xenos’ (Hdt. 3.7.2: τότε δὲ οὐκ ἐόντος κω ὕδατος ἑτοίμου, Καμβύσης πυθόμενος τοῦ Ἁλικαρνησσέος ξείνου, πέμψας παρὰ τὸν Ἀράβιον ἀγγέλους καὶ δεηθεὶς τῆς ἀσφαλείης ἔτυχε, πίστις δούς τε καὶ δεξάμενος παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ),43 readers’ own Halicarnassian xenos interrupts to convey directly to them a full ethnographic account of the great significance that pacts have to the Arabians and the formal ceremony they use to conclude them (Hdt. 3.8.1: σέβονται δὲ Ἀράβιοι πίστις ἀνθρώπων ὅμοια τοῖσι μάλιστα…),44 all information that, as readers infer, Phanes would have given to Cambyses. That Herodotus 39 40

41

42

43 44

For the rarity of this colloquial expression in Herodotus, see Asheri (2007) 405. Hdt. 3.6.2: δεῖ τὸν μὲν δήμαρχον ἕκαστον ἐκ τῆς ἑωυτοῦ πόλιος συλλέξαντα πάντα τὸν κέραμον ἄγειν ἐς Μέμφιν, τοὺς δὲ ἐκ Μέμφιος ἐς ταῦτα δὴ τὰ ἄνυδρα τῆς Συρίης κομίζειν πλήσαντας ὕδατος. οὕτως ὁ ἐπιφοιτέων κέραμος καὶ ἐξαιρεόμενος ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ ἐπὶ τὸν παλαιὸν κομίζεται ἐς Συρίην (‘Each demarch is required to collect from his city all the ceramic ware and convey it to Memphis, and those from Memphis then transport it into the waterless regions of Syria, having filled it with water. Thus the ceramic ware imported and emptied in Egypt is transported into Syria to be added to the old.’). Hdt. 3.7.1: οὕτω μέν νυν Πέρσαι εἰσὶ οἱ τὴν ἐσβολὴν ταύτην παρασκευάσαντες ἐς Αἴγυπτον, κατὰ δὴ τὰ εἰρημένα σάξαντες ὕδατι, ἐπείτε τάχιστα παρέλαβον Αἴγυπτον (‘Now Persians the ones who prepared thus this access to Egypt, in the very manner that has been said provisioning it with water, right after they acquired Egypt.’) Moreover, the procedure of collection which focuses on the role of the demarchs might resonate more strongly with certain readers as one with which they identify: cf. (e.g.) IG I3 78a.8, 13, 21, 26 (‘the Eleusinian first fruits decree’). As an important aside, it is worth noting that here Cambyses behaves respectfully towards foreign religious nomoi (Schwab (2020) 242, 245) as he will also do a little later in the case of the Phoenicians (Schwab (2020) 253–4): this is presumably because he is in the position of needing their cooperation, his madness vis-à-vis religious nomoi tellingly selective. ‘But then since water was in no way available, Cambyses, having got this information from his Halicarnassian guest, sent messengers to the Arab(ian King) and in his request for safe passage was successful, having given and received pledges from him.’ ‘The Arabians belong to that group who honour pledges most. ’

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chooses neither to present this information as part of the narrative nor to use Phanes’ proper name, but the more embracing demonymic (Ἁλικαρνησσέος ξείνου), helps to blur the line between the intra- and extradiegetic acts of conveying Arabian ethnography. The result is once again a reflection of the reader in the Persian king. 45 If one should be prepared to understand Herodotus as such an author, the meta-literary dimension belonging to his introduction of Phanes—Herodotus’ play with levels of narration—would appear even more pronounced. When readers are told, οὗτος ὁ Φάνης μεμφόμενός κού τι Ἀμάσι (‘This Phanes angry with Amasis, I suppose, for some reason’), the vagueness of the κού τι is striking. On the one hand it manufactures a connection with the first logos characterized also by someone μεμφόμενός Ἀμάσι, but subtly draws attention to the contrivance of the link (κού τι). On the other, one might see here allusion to the unexpected stance of another Halicarnassian towards Amasis which is likewise inexplicable (κού τι), namely that of the Herodotean narrator: for he had seemed rather well disposed toward Amasis in Book 2, and will seem so again in Book 3 (chs. 40 and 43) when he is made to espouse sentiments akin to those of Solon, sentiments which themselves chime with the narrator’s own expressed programmatically in the proem of the Histories.46 The opening sentence may be seen as announcing the text’s change in tack towards Amasis. ‘This’ Phanes, as the narrator calls him, is neither the Phanes he used to be when he was still an ally of Egypt, and nor is ‘this Phanes’, the figure going under the name ‘Phanes’ (i.e. the Herodotean narrator) the same as he was in Book 2. Moreover, the description of Phanes within the plot as ‘wishing to come into logoi with Cambyses’ (βουλόμενος Καμβύσῃ ἐλθεῖν ἐς λόγους) has the capacity to allude, on one level, to the Halicarnassian narrator’s own ensuing logoi of Book 3: here he announces his intention to change the focus of his logoi from the ethnography and history of Egypt to logoi involving a focalization of them through Cambyses’ presence there. And on another level, one might see a mirroring of the extradiegetic frame in which Cambyses is ‘Cambyses’, a certain sort of reader, and Book 3 is the opportunity for ‘Phanes’, Herodotus, to gain an

45 46

For the audience who might be most avid to know how that crossing was done, most unpleasantly surprised it was possible, see Irwin (2017b) Part III. It is worth noting that episode is analeptic, occurring prior to the Egyptian conquest, although narrated afterwards, and therefore occurs temporally before the ‘Halicarnas‐ sian’ had a grievance with Amasis sufficient that he should want to remove the aporia of ‘Cambyses’ faced with a waterless desert to cross. On Herodotus and Amasis see the astute comment of Lattimore (1939) 32.

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audience (that is, come into logoi, by means of his logoi) with ‘Cambyses’, his readers. 4 Pitying Psammenitus (ch. 3.14) The parade of the conquered that Cambyses holds to test the spirit of the de‐ feated Egyptian king Psammenitus displays an analogous strategy of mirroring the reader’s response in that of the Persian king, but intensifies it by introducing the genre of recognition par excellence, tragedy. Through enargeia readers are invited to ‘watch’ the performance choreographed by Cambyses as Egyptian maidens and youths are paraded past their helpless fathers who, in turn, are beside themselves with grief at the fates that await their children. The daughters, entering first, belong to the common demographic of tragic choruses. Composed of females called parthenoi (2x: Hdt. 3.14.2–3), they enter with the costume and accoutrements of slaves (ἐσθῆτι δουληίῃ ἐξέπεμπε ἐπ᾽ ὕδωρ ἔχουσαν ὑδρήιον), carrying as if props water jugs which allow them upon exiting to be collectively dubbed hydrophoroi (Hdt. 3.14.4: παρελθουσέων δὲ τῶν ὑδροφόρων), a good tragic title,47 and their cries of lamentation, called a klauthmos,48 are responded to antiphonally by that of another ‘chorus’ composed of their grief-stricken fathers (Hdt. 3.14.3: ὡς δὲ βοῇ τε καὶ κλαυθμῷ παρήισαν αἱ παρθένοι παρὰ τοὺς πατέρας, οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι πάντες ἀντεβόων τε καὶ ἀντέκλαιον ὁρῶντες τὰ τέκνα κεκακωμένα).49 These, in turn, are said to repeat their performance upon seeing the degradation of their sons led to their deaths en masse as animals, equipped with bits in their mouths and ropes around their necks.50 Later, the departure of 47 48

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Aes. frr. 221–4; Soph. frr. 672–4. Klauthmos is not just a poetic word (a single time in the Iliad for Hector’s funeral, 24.717; and in Odyssey 4.212, 4.801, 17.8, 21.228, 22.501, 24.323), that is used elsewhere by Herodotus only when he is in tragic mode (2x: Hdt. 1.111; cf. Aes. Ag. 1554), but as with other -mos words it draws attention to the behaviour as it is experienced by the agent (‘wird als Erlebnis ausgedrückt und die Handlung während ihres Verlaufes betrachtet’, Holt (1938–9) 185–6) and therefore helps to render the prose more of a performance through enargeia. The infrequent uses in prose deal with excessive crying: e.g. of children’s tantrums, Arist. Pol. 1336a35, Hipp. Epid. 7.11.20 (κλαυθμοὶ οἷον παιδαρίου); of the cries of delirious female patients (Epid. 5.85, 7.11.20, 7.90). ‘Thus with cries and lamentation did the maidens pass by their fathers, and all the others cried out and wept in response seeing their children in such a degraded state.’ Asheri (2007) 412 notes here ‘the rich terminology related to weeping, cries of pain, etc.’ When the Royal ‘jurors’ pass sentence of 2000 deaths for the 200 Mytilenaeans killed, I find it hard not to think of Mytileneans as victims of such draconian sentencing by dikastai, a situation in which the Athenians so quick to sentence are also, like Cambyses in relation to Psammenitus’ son, quick to reverse (in part) their sentence ‘because some

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each group will be referred to as their exodos (ἐπ᾽ ἑκάστῃ ἐξόδῳ, Hdt. 3.14.8),51 and the verb of their motion described with the certainly (but not exclusively) tragic στίχοντα (Hdt. 3.14.9).52 The incomprehensibility of Psammenitus’ behaviour under such circum‐ stances is the device that draws readers into responses that anticipate those in the text had by Cambyses. Although his children are among those marching to their fates, Psammenitus makes none of the displays of grief shown by the other fathers, and instead only lowers his head (προϊδὼν καὶ μαθὼν ἔκυψε ἐς τὴν γῆν). By contrast, it is rather the accidental sight of an older drinking companion, reduced now to begging from the army, that elicits from Psammenitus a dramatic display of grief, described by Herodotus in full tragic register.53 With no explanation yet given, ‘wonder’ is not only the predictable response readers would feel at Psammenitus’ paradoxical display of emotions, but also a response, as they learn just moments later, that the Persian king will himself share (Hdt. 3.14.8: θωμάσας δὲ ὁ Καμβύσης τὰ ποιεύμενα), and, moreover—fortunate for them—his curiosity allows them to have their own satisfied as they eavesdrop on the result of his inquiry into such perplexing behaviour (πέμψας ἄγγελον εἰρώτα αὐτὸν … cf. Hdt. 3.14.9: ὡς ἄλλων πυνθάνεται). That moment of mirroring is itself significant, but all the more so since it is immediately preceded by the revelation that Cambyses’ experience of this ‘tragic performance’ has been all the more similar to readers’ own insofar as he was not actually a theates of this drama, ‘seeing’ for himself its enactment, but rather had it narrated to him by Psammenitus’ guards (Hdt. 3.14.8–9): ἦσαν δ᾽ ἄρα αὐτοῦ φύλακοι, οἳ τὸ ποιεύμενον πᾶν ἐξ ἐκείνου ἐπ᾽ ἑκάστῃ ἐξόδῳ Καμβύσῃ ἐσήμαινον.54 Moreover, this act of narration undertaken by the guards is rendered all the more similar to that of the Herodotean narrator through the word used to denote it: ἐσήμαινον.

51 52 53 54

pity’ came over them: on the affair see Thucydides 3.36–49 with Irwin (2015); for this changeable temperament of the Athenian collective, see Pl. Crito 48c (ἀποκτεινύντων καὶ ἀναβιωσκομένων γ' ἄν, εἰ οἷοί τ' ἦσαν, οὐδενὶ ξὺν νῷ, τούτων τῶν πολλῶν – ‘those who put men to death with ease and bring them back to life, if they could, without any sense, namely, the many’), Ar. Ach. 630–2 (Athenians as tachybouloi and metabouloi). The point abides even in the case of the proposed emendations of Herwerden (parex‐ odos) or Wilson (parados), on which see Wilson (2015) 49. In classical Greek it is overwhelmingly a poetic word belonging to tragedy and lyric. On the original sense of steicho as movement in a group see Létoublon (1985) 168–9; cf. Deroy (1948) 341–2 on the break between Homeric and classical usage of the word. On the tragic register of ἀνακλαίω (ἀνακλαύσας μέγα, Hdt. 3.14.7, ἀνακλαίειν, 3.14.10) and ἀποκλαίω (ἀπέκλαυσας, 3.14.9), which connects this passage closely with Cambyses’ end, see below. ‘There were those watching him who indicated to Cambyses everything being done upon each exit.’

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For σημαίνω is very same verb used to announce the narrator’s intention to recount his logos of Croesus and beyond (Hdt. 1.5.3): ‘Having indicated this man (σημήνας) I will proceed with my logos …’ Simply put, the guards’ act of telling Cambyses how Psammenitus has responded mirrors the experience of readers who just moments earlier had their narrator convey the very same information to them: they are thereby rendered the extradiegetical analogue of Cambyses. To summarize how the passage manipulates readers: we are curious even before we know Cambyses has been made curious, and our curiosity, as his, comes not from seeing for ourselves, but from having learned through that which has been ‘signed’ to him, and already narrated to us. In our minds we want to ask Psammenitus, ‘Why?’, and no sooner have we formulated the question than Cambyses sends his guards to enquire. The passage orchestrates a juxtaposition that invites comparison between the readers’ responses to Psammenitus and that of their intradiegetic analogues, the Egyptian king’s Persian audience, and in particular the Persian king, and it is a comparison in which similarity is likely to obtain. That the questioning of Psammenitus is ‘performed’ in Herodotus’ narrative as dialogue in direct speech not only further contributes to the episode’s allusion to drama, but also provides another mode in which readers might find their own curiosity identical to that of ‘Master Cambyses’, and hear, as if unmediated, Psammenitus speak to them as the implicit ‘you’ in the address he directs to the ‘Child of Cyrus’ (Hdt. 3.14.9–10): Δεσπότης σε Καμβύσης, Ψαμμήνιτε, εἰρωτᾷ δι᾽ ὅ τι δὴ τὴν μὲν θυγατέρα ὁρῶν κεκακωμένην καὶ τὸν παῖδα ἐπὶ θάνατον στίχοντα οὔτε ἀνέβωσας οὔτε ἀπέκλαυσας, τὸν δὲ πτωχὸν οὐδὲν σοι προσήκοντα, ὡς ἄλλων πυνθάνεται, ἐτίμησας; ὃ μὲν δὴ ταῦτα ἐπειρώτα, ὃ δ᾽ ἀμείβετο τοισίδε. Ὦ παῖ Κύρου, τὰ μὲν οἰκήια ἦν μέζω κακὰ ἢ ὥστε ἀνακλαίειν, τὸ δὲ τοῦ ἑταίρου πένθος ἄξιον ἦν δακρύων, ὃς ἐκ πολλῶν τε καὶ εὐδαιμόνων ἐκπεσὼν ἐς πτωχηίην ἀπῖκται ἐπὶ γήραος οὐδῷ.  ‘Master Cambyses asks you, Psammenitus, why seeing your daughter in such an abject state and your son marching to his death neither did you raise a cry or weep, but you did this honour for a beggar who, as he learned from others, isn’t at all related to you.’ When the one asked these things, the other answered with the following, ‘Child of Cyrus, my own misfortunes are greater than any misfortune one might bewail, but the grief of a companion was worthy of tears, one who having fallen from much good fortune into poverty has arrived on the threshold of old age.’

And again, another opportunity is created for readers to find their reactions instantaneously mirrored in Psammenitus’ Persian audience. Before readers are allowed to know how the intradiegetic audience responded to the guards’

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recounting of Psammenitus’ answer, they are given the opportunity to form their own response, and there is every likelihood that they have received it, just as the Persians will, with approval (καὶ ταῦτα ὡς ἀπενειχθέντα †ὑπὸ τούτου† εὖ δοκέειν σφι εἰρῆσθαι), particularly if they are those readers who have been weaned (as Athenians were, and Classicists are) on such depictions as to be found in tragedy and in Homer of characters of high station and noble character falling from their state of prosperity. Readers may not go as far as Croesus in actually weeping, but they are quite likely to find themselves feeling like Cambyses a ‘certain pity come over’ them (αὐτῷ τε Καμβύσῃ ἐσελθεῖν οἶκτον τινά)—the emotion tragedy is generically expected to evoke. Herodotus may have well been Pavlov for how predictably readers will salivate when he rings his bell—in this case, the Homeric flourish of ἐπὶ γήραος οὐδῷ ‘threshhold of old age’,55 the Homeric allusion itself evoking tragedy’s homage to Homer. While the spectacle is above all choreographed for the conquerors, it is Croesus’ reaction that is registered first: ὡς [δὲ] λέγεται ὑπ᾽ Αἰγυπτίων, δακρύειν μὲν Κροῖσον (ἐτετεύχεε γὰρ καὶ οὗτος ἐπισπόμενος Καμβύσῃ ἐπ᾽ Αἴγυπτον), δακρύειν δὲ Περσέων τοὺς παρεόντας· αὐτῷ τε Καμβύσῃ ἐσελθεῖν οἶκτον τινά. And as is said by the Egyptians, Croesus wept (for also this man had followed Cambyses to Egypt), and those of the Persians present wept, and a certain pity came over Cambyses.

The parenthetical explanation that Herodotus gives for Croesus’ presence clearly marks it as a surprise,56 and draws maximum attention to a figure who, unbeknownst to readers, will be of great importance in the later narrative (Hdt. 3.34–6). In their ignorance of what is to come, any significance that they might construe will be inflected by its immediate context, the tragedy of the Egyptian king’s reversal of fortune. And in this there will be significance on a number of levels. On the one hand, in terms of plot, Croesus had good

55

56

See e.g. Pelling (2006) 87–9. The direct speech allows a close parallel with Priam, who utters these words at the death of Hector (Il. 22.60) and when begging Achilles for his son’s corpse (24.487). The allusion seems pointed: Priam, judging from Aristotle (Nic. Eth. 1.9.11), seems to have been considered the epitome of the prosperous figure whose miserable end deprives his life of the verdict eudaimon. It is interesting that Aristotle’s attack on Solon for depriving the living of the possibility of being called eudaimon is immediately preceded by Priam. After the enormously diverting Book 2, readers might have all but forgot a figure that might not have been expected to survive the consequences of his disastrous advice of Book 1, as indeed he almost won’t in Book 3. For the obvious fiction here see Asheri (2007) 412.

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reason to weep, understanding intimately what has befallen the Egyptian king, having experienced a version of it himself. On the other, in terms of genre, the tragic stage was not only likely a venue that had staged a Croesus,57 but also recognizably informed Herodotus’ own earlier treatment of the Lydian king:58 the Histories’ first tragic set piece is the reversal of Croesus’ eudaimonia (Hdt. 1.32.1), first with the nemesis that takes his son (Hdt. 1.34–45), and later with his disastrous misconstrual of oracles (Hdt. 1.53.3–56.1; 1.90.3, 91.4–6), and finally in his recognition of his own ignorance in dismissing Solon’s wisdom (Hdt. 1.86). The relationship of this logos to Croesus, however, goes deeper. Croesus’ ‘performance’ on the pyre provides the template against which Psammenitus’ drama plays out: the conquered king’s perplexing reaction to extreme misfortune, the conquering king’s curiosity that led to inquiry, the former’s poignant and human response that moved the latter to attempt to undo the fate planned for his captive.59 Here Herodotus’ astonishing control over his readers is again manifest. At the very moment that Psammenitus’ response and its reception prompt engaged readers to think, ‘This reminds me of the Croesus logos’, et voilà: Croesus appears. It is however repetition with telling variation:60 while divine intervention assists Cyrus who has recognized himself in Croesus and in vain tries to reverse the death he had orchestrated for him, too late will come the ‘pity’ said to have moved Cambyses to spare Psammenitus’ son, and with this failed attempt comes also a difference in each of the conquered kings’ responses—becoming advisor or rebel—to his new master that is emblematic of how Herodotus’ version of this second-generation of Persian monarchy will play out. For our purposes here, however, another difference is of more relevance. In Book 1 readers were made privy to the meeting of Solon and Croesus, and therefore did not have to wait as Cyrus did for the Lydian’s elucidation of his unusual behaviour, and to that extent their response need not have so closely mirrored the Persian king’s. By contrast, in the case of Psammenitus, with no previous logos to fall back on, they experience what the Persian king experiences, a narrative of inexplicable behavior, and of thoma being induced that is only satisfied through the satisfaction of Cambyses’ own. And should they have been moved to pity, as is likely, by the tragic pathos of his utterance (all the more moved by their recognition of Homeric allusion) depicting the peripeteia of a eudaimon man, 57 58 59 60

Chiasson (2003). Griffin (2006) 51–2. See e.g. Balcer (1987) 75; Munson (1991) 44; Griffin (2006) 49. See Pelling (2006) 88–9 who makes salient points but seems oblivious to the tragedy on display.

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they will have been so moved just as Cambyses and his entourage also were, through its narration. This drama of Psammenitus, its intense tragic shaping, also looks forward to later events of Book 3, alluding proleptically to the importance that the genre of tragedy will have in Herodotus’ handling of Cambyses’ end, a discussion to which we will turn in due course. 5 Whose curiosity? The Ethiopian logos (chs. 17–25) The next set piece of Book 3, the famous Ethiopian logos, likewise tempts readers into responding to what they encounter in ways that mirror the Persian king. As in the case of the Phanes logos, the characters of its plot afford Herodotus with the opportunity to reflect his role as narrator of ethnography purveying information to his own ambitious and inquisitive consumers of it. As part of a plan to launch three further campaigns deeper into the African continent, Cambyses decides that with one, against the Macrobioi Ethiopians, he will first send spies who have the express task of determining whether the so-called Table of the Sun really exists (ὀψομένους τε τὴν ἐν τούτοισι τοῖσι Αἰθίοψι λεγομένην εἶναι ἡλίου τράπεζαν εἰ ἔστι ἀληθέως—‘with the purpose of seeing what is called among the Ethiopians the ‘Table of the Sun’, if it is really so’), as well as (of course) the general remit of military espionage (καὶ πρὸς ταύτῃ τὰ ἄλλα κατοψομένους—‘and in addition to this with the purpose of spying’), referred to, however, almost as an afterthought. These spies act as the texual double of the Herodotean narrator: the account arising from their alleged mission provides the means by which readers will find themselves implicated in the imperialist king’s curiosity as they consume via Herodotus’ account the intelligence gathered by Cambyses’ spies. Since the seminal article of Christ,61 it is common to see the Herodotean narrator reflected in his depictions of inquiring kings, but this logos is rather more complexly framed than the others he examines. Here the actual act of inquiry is performed by a third party who in turn becomes a third-person narrator to the king, thus enabling the extradiegetic relationship of narrator to his readership to be mirrored in the plot.62 The opportunities for enabling that mirroring occur, as in the Phanes logos, in those moments when there is no mediation of information about these Ethiopians, when Herodotus conveys to his audience directly in his narrator’s voice such information as the Fish-Eaters would have given to the Persian King. 61 62

Christ (1994). See Irwin (2014) Part I for a full discussion of this aspect of the logos and critique of Christ (1994).

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This is the case with the Table of the Sun. No sooner do readers learn of the king’s curiosity to learn the truth about the Table of the Sun than ‘Herodotus’ (that is, the narrator) steps in to edify his audience as to what it is, or at least a version of it (Hdt. 3.18)—τοιήδε τις (‘something such as this’): ἡ δὲ τράπεζα τοῦ ἡλίου τοιήδε τις λέγεται εἶναι, λειμὼν ἐστὶ ἐν τῷ προαστίῳ ἐπίπλεος κρεῶν ἑφθῶν πάντων τῶν τετραπόδων, ἐς τὸν τὰς μὲν νύκτας ἐπιτηδεύοντας τιθέναι τὰ κρέα τοὺς ἐν τέλεϊ ἑκάστους ἐόντας τῶν ἀστῶν, τὰς δὲ ἡμέρας δαίνυσθαι προσιόντα τὸν βουλόμενον. φάναι δὲ τοὺς ἐπιχωρίους ταῦτα τὴν γῆν αὐτὴν ἀναδιδόναι ἑκάστοτε. ἡ μὲν δὴ τράπεζα τοῦ ἡλίου καλεομένη λέγεται εἶναι τοιήδε.63 The Table of the Sun is said to be something such as the following: it is a meadow in the suburbs full of boiled meat from all sorts of four-legged animals, on which for nights on end those whose business it is, the people who each time have this office, place the meat, and by day whoever wishes comes and feasts. And the natives say each time that the earth itself produces these things. The so-called Table of the Sun is said then to be something such as this.

The story begins with Cambyses attempting to satisfy his curiosity about a particular issue, but the curiosity first satisfied is the one generated in readers by Herodotus himself. They are not told the ‘truth’ about the Table of the Sun as part of the account of spies whose assignment was to inquire into this (and to whom in fact readers have not yet even been introduced). Such is the conflation of the action of the plot with Herodotus’ act of narration that the audience is not allowed, as with the other noteworthy features of Ethiopia, voyeuristically to have their curiosity satisfied simply by ‘overhearing’ (as it were) any logos about the Table given to the Fish-eaters or later recounted by them to Cambyses. Rather, the narrator’s direct communication with readers blurs the distinction between the intradiegetic and extradiegetic audiences. As in Psammenitus’ logos, timing is crucial to the identification: if any in Herodotus’ audience had their curiosity piqued for a split second by mention of the Table of the Sun—‘Table of the Sun? What is that?’—the narrative will have caused them to feel a curiosity identical to that of the Persian king, and then satisfies that curiosity, telling them instantly what mention of it just now has made them, and earlier Cambyses, eager to know. This identification may be seen to continue with the ‘gifts’ sent by Cambyses to the Ethiopian king, announced by the Fish-Eaters as ‘those that the Persian king most enjoys using’ (Hdt. 3.21.1: καὶ δῶρα ταῦτά τοι διδοῖ τοῖσι καὶ αὐτὸς 63

One should note here, as in Hdt. 3.1, τοιήδε implicitly distinguishes the narrator’s account from what might actually be circulating about it. On contemporary allusion in the version he gives see Irwin (2014) 59 with n. 98, 63 with n. 104.

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μάλιστα ἥδεται χρεώμενος). These objects, jewelry, incense, and wine, are those about which readers are likely to share Cambyses’ feelings. Moreover, ‘what the king customarily eats’ (Hdt. 3.22.3: ἐπείρετο ὅ τι τε σιτέεται ὁ βασιλεὺς), ‘bread’, as well as the upper age limit of a Persian (χρόνον ὁκόσον μακρότατον ἀνὴρ Πέρσης ζώει) at 80, likewise embrace the reader whose diet and lifespan these answers also describe, and all the more so in the way that the ‘scientific’ language used by the Fish-Eaters (Hdt. 3.22.4) evokes the medical discourse about bread which was most certainly a staple in the intellectual diet of some of Herodotus’ contemporary readers.64 The Ethiopian king’s disdain for what was considered a major human achievement would set those readers at odds with him, and in doing so further align them with the Persian king.65 The many years Ethiopians are wont to live is the one explicit source of ‘wonder’ for the inquiring spies (Hdt. 3.23.2: θῶμα δὲ ποιευμένων τῶν κατασκόπων περὶ τῶν ἐτέων …—‘When the spies were amazed at the years …’) and in this they anticipate the Histories’ inquiring narrator whose own act of wonder is implicit in his attempt to explain its cause that interrupts the flow of his narrative.66 Upon the Fish-Eaters’ next encounter, a fountain whose waters have remarkable properties, the narrator interrupts the account of their sight-seeing to opine, ‘if they really have such water in any way as is said’ (Hdt. 3.23.3: εἴ σφι ἐστὶ ἀληθέως οἷόν τι λέγεται), then the fact of its general use by Ethiopians would explain their longevity. The effect of the narrator’s intervention is striking: in formulating his own hypothesis as contingent upon what he only knows from akoe (‘hearsay’), he creates an account able to generate in his readers a curiosity to know about this alleged marvel of Ethiopia, εἰ ἔστι ἀληθέως … (‘whether it truly is…’), thus replicating the ethnographic curiosity of the Persian king that prompted his campaign. Did what they heard about it encourage them to want to know whether it was true? If determining the truth about the Table of the Sun fueled Cambyses’ imperial ambitions, were those readers going to be of such a disposition as to be similarly propelled by a desire to know about the ‘Fountain of Youth’, ‘if it is truly in any way as’ presented by the akoe of Herodotus’ second-hand (at best) account? Were they, like Cambyses, the sort to feel orge (‘anger’) when reported to them was a firm

64 65 66

See Anc. Med. 3.33–54 with Irwin (2014) 32, Demont (2009) 199, Ellinger (1993) 11. On the intellectual appeal some found in the Hippocratics see below on ch. 33, and Irwin (2018). On the achievement of bread see Irwin (2014) 32 n. 23. On wonder in Herodotus see Hartog (1988) 231–7, and especially Munson (2001) ch. 4 (with bibliography 232 n. 1), Irwin (2013c) 232–9. On the relationship of ‘wonder’ and explanation, see Plat. Theaet. 155d; Arist. Metaph. 982b.

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repudiation of their capacity to fulfill their imperial ambitions?67 Are they the sort to display the same kind of madness that Herodotus here first imputes to his Cambyses (Hdt. 3.25.2: οἷα δὲ ἐμμανής τε ἐὼν καὶ οὐ φρενήρης), prepared to set out to the ends of the earth? Do they recognize the ambition to undertake such ventures—both in terms of scale and morality—as madness?68 6 Recognizing divinity: Apis (chs. 27–9) The Persian king’s infamous encounter with the Egyptian deity Apis provides readers with another implicit challenge. Yet again, and more intensively, will they find themselves taxed to avoid responding to what they encounter in ways that would render the Persian king their textual double. How will they respond when they find themselves confronted, as Cambyses was, with the divinity of the Apis calf? Will they avoid, however unawares, finding their responses mirrored in those of the disdainful Persian king?69 Are they able to afford proper respect to the divinities of others, even when their essence is at odds with their own notion of divinity? Readers encounter Apis in the instance that Cambyses does, upon their arrival in Memphis, when both they and Cambyses learn of his epiphany (Hdt. 3.27.1): ἀπιγμένου δὲ Καμβύσεω ἐς Μέμφιν ἐφάνη Αἰγυπτίοισι ὁ Ἆπις, τὸν Ἕλληνες Ἔπαφον καλέουσι (‘When Cambyses arrived in Memphis Apis appeared to the Egyptians, [Apis] whom the Greeks call Epaphus’). Primed as they are with the immediate equation of the Egyptian god with the son of Zeus and Io, readers are given an advantage over Cambyses. Identification with Epaphus provides strong encouragement to afford respect to this event: they are invited to ‘recognize’ Apis. At the same time, Herodotus manufactures another kind of recognition in readers by having this information recall that already given at the end of

67 68

69

See Irwin (2014): Part III for the answer ‘yes’, and discussion of the Athenian imperial ambitions underlying this logos. See also below. See Munson (1991) 49: ‘The first [reference to Cambyses’ madness] is found where the reader might not otherwise read “madness” in the text.’ The other references to Cambyses’ madness are: Hdt. 3.29.1 (οἷα ἐὼν ὑπομαργότερος), 3.30 (Καμβύσης δέ, ὡς λέγουσι Αἰγύπτιοι, αὐτίκα διὰ τοῦτο τὸ ἀδίκημα ἐμάνη, ἐὼν οὐδὲ πρότερον φρενήρης), 33 (ἐξεμάνη… μηδὲ τὰς φρένας ὑγιαίνειν), 34.3 (παραφρονέειν καὶ οὐκ εἶναι νοήμονα), 3.35.4 (ὡς μὲν ἐγὼ τε οὐ μαίνομαι Πέρσαι τε παραφρονέουσι), 3.37.1 (ἐς Πέρσας τε καὶ τοὺς συμμάχους ἐξεμαίνετο), 3.38.1–2 (ἐμάνη μεγάλως ὁ Καμβύση… οὔκ ων οἰκός ἐστι ἄλλον γε ἢ μαινόμενον ἄνδρα). Cf. θυμωθέντα: 1.5, 32.4, 34.3, 25.1; and orge: 3.35.1. The wildly fictitious aspect of this story (‘defamatory invention’) is well recognized: see Konstantakos (2016): Hdt. 3.42–5 with extensive bibliographical survey at n. 13.

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Book 2. 70 In a sense, on a textual level, Herodotus creates the very epiphany for readers that Cambyses would deny. The provision of this information allows readers to understand the Egyptians’ celebration as both pious and entirely appropriate to the occasion (Hdt. 3.27.1: ἐπιφανέος δὲ τούτου γενομένου αὐτίκα οἱ Αἰγύπτιοι εἵματά τε ἐφόρεον τὰ κάλλιστα καὶ ἦσαν ἐν θαλίῃσι—‘When he manifests himself straightaway the Egyptians put on their finest clothing and hold celebrations’), and puts them at odds with Cambyses who, arriving in Memphis after humiliating military losses and in ignorance of Egyptian nomos,71 can only understand the Egyptians’ behaviour—in his experience uncustomary, but for them entirely the opposite—through that (his own) frame of reference: victims of his aggression, they ‘naturally’ must be celebrating his misfortune (Hdt. 3.27.2: ἰδὼν δὲ ταῦτα τοὺς Αἰγυπτίους ποιεῦντας ὁ Καμβύσης, πάγχυ σφέας καταδόξας ἑωυτοῦ κακῶς πρήξαντος χαρμόσυνα ταῦτα ποιέειν—‘Seeing the Egyptians doing these things, he assumed that they were making his failures a cause for celebration’). His subsequent summoning of the governors of Memphis, called there only to confirm the validity of a deduction of which he is already certain, emerges as an abuse of logic. No more than the result of a post hoc, propter hoc fallacy (εἴρετο ὅ τι πρότερον μὲν ἐόντος αὐτοῦ ἐν Μέμφι ἐποίευν τοιοῦτον οὐδὲν Αἰγύπτιοι, τότε δὲ ἐπεὶ αὐτὸς παρείη τῆς στρατιῆς πλῆθός τι ἀποβαλών—‘He asked why before when he was in Memphis the Egyptians did nothing of the sort, but only then when he himself was present having lost some large section of his army’), his conclusion assumes a missing premise easily accepted as a given by despots and imperial powers:72 it is ‘natural’ for rulers to be hated by those they rule, and therefore their misfortune would elicit celebration. Here some readers might already reveal a reflection of themselves in the Persian king should this missing premise be one to which they would readily assent, sometimes even conferring upon it the authority of a ‘natural law’.73 70 71 72 73

Hdt. 2.153: ὁ δὲ Ἆπις κατὰ τὴν Ἑλλήνων γλῶσσαν ἐστὶ Ἔπαφος (‘Apis in the language of the Greeks is Epaphus’). Cambyses’ misconstrual of the meaning of the Egyptians’ heimata follows hard upon, and therefore invites comparison with, that of the Ethiopian king to those of the Persians. This is a kind of enthymeme, on which see below n. 109. See the response of Sophocles’ Oedipus to Creon and Teiresias (OT 370–404), and Thuc. 2.64.5, 3.39.5 (cf. 5.95); [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.14. Cambyses prefers what some of Herodotus’ readers consider a ‘universal nomos’ in ignorance of the particular religious nomoi of the Egyptians and in disregard of the morality that Herodotus’ account will ultimately champion as universal, the importance of nomoi (particularly those religious and moral) and the insanity of those who mock them. Analogous is Cambyses’ fear of being usurped by his brother, Hdt. 3.30.3. On this state of mind see Baragwanath (2008) 117–18.

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Even should some readers subscribe to Cambyses’ understanding of Realpo‐ litik, they are given ample opportunity to avoid identifying with him. Cambyses’ certainty in his own interpretation, to the point of sentencing the governors of Memphis to death as liars, is presented as brutally ignorant (ταῦτα ἀκούσας ὁ Καμβύσης ἔφη ψεύδεσθαι σφέας καὶ ὡς ψευδομένους θανάτῳ ἐζημίου—‘Having heard this, Cambyses said they were lying and as liars he would punish them with death’) in light of the governors having supplied the same explanation that the narrator has already given to readers (Hdt. 3.27.1, quoted above):74 οἳ δὲ ἔφραζον ὥς σφι θεὸς εἴη φανεὶς διὰ χρόνου πολλοῦ ἐωθὼς ἐπιφαίνεσθαι, καὶ ὡς ἐπεὰν φανῇ τότε πάντες Αἰγύπτιοι κεχαρηκότες ὁρτάζοιεν (Hdt. 3.27.3, ‘They explained that a god appeared,one accustomed to make his appearance only at great intervals, and thus whenever he appears then do all Egyptians rejoice and hold celebrations’).75 Therefore, Cambyses’ murderous violence towards these truth-tellers would strongly encourage readers to maintain the Egyptian focalization of the scene already fostered by the identification of Apis with Epaphus, earlier prepared for by the comprehensive immersion into Egyptian religion such as was constituted by their reading of Book 2.76 In light of their enhanced perspective, Cambyses’ further demand to learn from the priests themselves does not seem as rational as it otherwise could have done—they are the authorities, after all—but rather as excessive, and even impious. Of course, some readers may not need to adopt an Egyptian focalization in order recognize such behaviour as universally worthy of censure. But Herodotus is less interested in them. For although only the most parochial and insensitive reader would not understand as sacrilege Cambyses’ subsequent treatment of priests and a god (even one not their own), present in the text is simultaneously a strong undercurrent pulling in the opposite direction. Readers not inclined to afford proper respect both to the religious beliefs of others (or even religion tout court), nor to the sophistication of their narrator, are lured into occupying a role analogous to that of the Persian king, rendering them hypocritical in any moral condemnation they might profess of him or any belief they harbor of their own moral superiority.

74

75 76

McPhee (2018) 91: ‘despite its accuracy’. Actually, there is a significant difference, in this episode the narrator never uses θεός of Apis in his own voice: it is used only by the Egyptians (piously) and Cambyses (disdainfully). He reserves his use of it until the wounding at Hdt. 3.64.3. The word used, ἔφραζον, renders these governors, like Phanes, Psammenitus’ guards, and the Fish-Eaters, yet further Herodotean narrators. Schwab (2020) 260.

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This undercurrent is above all evident in Herodotus’ handling of the equation of Apis with Epaphus. While the syncretism, as noted, induces recognition in a Greek audience, the actual—that is, textual—epiphany of the god pulls in the opposite direction: readers are challenged to recognize divinity in a form at odds with their conception of it.77 Most obviously, those with no other knowledge of the Egyptian god but his name are in for a surprise when they find an Epaphus who is not anthropomorphic, but bovine.78 And however reprehensibly ignorant Cambyses may appear, Herodotus attributes to him an insult, χειροήθης (‘handtamed’), able to refer presciently, if disdainfully, to their god’s form of which both Cambyses and readers (as far as the text is concerned) 79 are still unaware. It is when the priests depart from the scene in order to present this god to the Persian king that the narrator steps in to do the same for his readers, shifting as we have seen in earlier logoi from historical narration to provision of the ethnography required by readers in order to understand the import of the situation depicted in the narrative (Hdt. 3.28.2–3). After stressing once again the equivalence between Apis and Epaphus (ὁ δὲ Ἆπις οὗτος ὁ Ἔπαφος), the narrator describes the god’s form and birth (μόσχος ἐκ βοός, ἥτις οὐκέτι οἵη τε γίνεται ἐς γαστέρα ἄλλον βάλλεσθαι γόνον—‘a calf from a cow, who becomes no longer able to become pregnant again’),80 what the Egyptian priests say about his conception (Αἰγύπτιοι δὲ λέγουσι σέλας ἐπὶ τὴν βοῦν ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ κατίσχειν, καί μιν ἐκ τούτου τίκτειν τὸν Ἆπιν—‘The Egyptians say a gleam from the heavens alights upon the cow, and from it she gives birth to Apis’), as well as those signs which distinguish him as a god rather than just any other ordinary 77 78

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This challenge is similar to that of seeing fire as a god or an animal in Hdt. 3.16.3, which then causes them to see their own piety – burning the dead – as impiety, a point which then in turn becomes more explicit in ch. 38.3–4. In Hdt. 2.38 Herodotus will tell readers about bulls that are considered the property of ‘Epaphus’ and the signs of their purity, even alluding to this future logos (τὰ ἐγὼ ἐν ἄλλῳ λόγῳ ἐρέω), but says there nothing about Apis, nor does he refer to Epaphus having a bull’s form. For the subject of ancient responses to Egyptian animal worship see Smelik and Hemerlrijk (1984). This is not to claim that no readers would have any knowledge of Apis’ bovine form, only that possession of such knowledge, external as it is to the text, has the (intentional) potential to stratify readers’ responses to the events of the logos. On votives of the Apis bull in Ionian sanctuaries, see Hölbl (2005) and Bumke (2012). Thanks to Alexander Schütze for this point. Unless human intervention is the reason this cow cannot conceive again, and therefore the fact of it hardly divine, the inability to reproduce again is something that is not immediately apparent or verifiable on the information the text provides, and not therefore in any sense immediately or noticeably remarkable – there is, like the Egyptian ‘disappearing’ wine jars, nothing to see; the ‘sign’ is the absence of a future birth.

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calf: ἔχει δὲ ὁ μόσχος οὗτος ὁ Ἆπις καλεόμενος σημήια τοιάδε ἐὼν μέλας, ἐπὶ μὲν τῷ μετώπῳ λευκόν τετράγωνον, ἐπὶ δὲ τοῦ νώτου αἰετὸν εἰκασμένον, ἐν δὲ τῇ οὐρῇ τὰς τρίχας διπλᾶς, ὑπὸ δὲ τῇ γλώσσῃ κάνθαρον (‘It has, this calf, the one called Apis, the following such markings: it is black, with a white square upon its forehead, and on its back the likeness of an eagle, and the hairs of its tail twice as many [as one would expect], and under its tongue is a scarab.’) In theory, readers should now be well equipped to recognize the god. One might, however, feel that there has been intentionally TMI (‘too much information’). The requirement of such elaborate ‘assistance’ in order to recog‐ nize in a calf’s birth a god’s epiphany is just as likely to have the opposite effect: the detailed catalogue of strange signs establishing the divinity of ‘this Epaphus’ seems to belie the familiarity that the provision of a Greek—anthropomorphic— equivalent promised. Can the accumulation of any amount of idiosyncratic signs render the bovine divine, or does each additional detail induce further alienation?81 That is left up to readers to determine for themselves. Here is where the text throws down its gauntlet. How will readers respond to the god’s epiphany? Particularly given they are likely to share Cambyses’ apparent view that gods are not flesh and blood, and certainly not mortal? Indeed, strictly speaking Epaphus is not even a god, but a hero and as such mortal. But any whiff of dismissal, if not outright disdain, they feel sets them on a path leading ever closer to the mirror in which they will find looking back at them a reflection of the Persian king (Hdt. 3.29.2): ὦ κακαὶ κεφαλαί, τοιοῦτοι θεοὶ γίνονται, ἔναιμοί τε καὶ σαρκώδεες καὶ ἐπαΐοντες σιδηρίων; ἄξιος μέν γε Αἰγυπτίων οὗτός γε ὁ θεός; (‘Idiots! Are your gods so begotten, of blood and flesh and able to feel weapons of iron?’) Hopefully, those readers at risk found a needed wake-up call at the text’s description of Cambyses as hypomargoteros (‘verging on insane’) and at his violence, irrespective of whether the victim is a god or a helpless calf. And yet for some their ringer may have been muffled by a further technique of the logos that invidiously undermines the Egyptian god’s divinity even as it seems to affirm it: this is found in the narrator’s mode of identifying Apis and the very use of the god’s name. As noted, Herodotus’ initial and robust identification of Apis with Epaphus generates instantaneous recognition of a claim to divinity: ‘Apis, whom the Greeks call Epaphus’ (Hdt. 3.27.1: ὁ Ἆπις, τὸν Ἕλληνες Ἔπαφον καλέουσι). For readers this is the Apis that the priests are told to fetch (Hdt. 3.28.1: τοσαῦτα 81

Schwab (2020) 257 rightly stresses the degree to which the description focuses attention on Apis’ corporality, something at odds with a Greek notion of divinity. For further discussion of the god’s attributes see Schwab (2020) 259 n. 97. See also more generally Smelik and Hemerlrijk (1984).

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δὲ εἴπας ἀπάγειν ἐκέλευε τὸν Ἆπιν τοὺς ἱρέας. οἳ μὲν δὴ μετήισαν ἄξοντες), despite Cambyses calling him θεός τις χειροήθης (‘some hand-tamed god’). While they are gone, ‘Herodotus’ will reiterate the identification with Epaphus (Hdt. 3.28.2 ὁ δὲ Ἆπις οὗτος ὁ Ἔπαφος), but with a difference: this time the name Apis is used in apposition with that of Epaphus and with a deictic adjective that renders the former a version of the latter, ‘this’ Epaphus rather than ‘the’ Epaphus, whose predicate consists of being ‘born “a” calf from a cow’ (γίνεται μόσχος ἐκ βοός). Having ‘become’ a calf (in the text) by being ‘born’ a calf, this god is then demoted both grammatically from subject to direct object (of an infinitive in indirect discourse) and conceptually, since readers are told that his divinity resides in what is ‘said’ about him: the Egyptians say ‘a gleam from the heavens’ impregnates the cow who in turn gives birth to Apis (Αἰγύπτιοι δὲ λέγουσι σέλας ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἐπὶ τὴν βοῦν κατίσχειν, καί μιν ἐκ τούτου τίκτειν τὸν Ἆπιν). At this point, the text will no longer use the name Epaphus, but rather speaks of Apis as ‘this calf, the one called Apis’ (ἔχει δὲ ὁ μόσχος οὗτος ὁ Ἆπις καλεόμενος…) who displays certain features (semeia). The effect of the exposition is that what Greek readers (and readers of Greek) had initially been told they call Epaphus emerges as really only a version of Epaphus (‘this’ Epaphus), a calf that becomes Apis (‘this calf called Apis’) through signs believed to distinguish him from an ordinary animal and a logos attributing divinity to his conception, evidence that by its nature is unverifiable, a matter of belief for the Egyptians. When the priests return leading Apis (ὡς δὲ ἤγαγον τὸν Ἆπιν οἱ ἱρέες), it is ‘this Epaphus’, that is, ‘a calf called Apis’, and (being led) evidently a ‘handtamed’ creature, as Cambyses now seems not quite so wrong to have called him,82 and indeed passive grammatically as object of the verb. Brought before readers in that same moment he is led before the Persian king, readers then witness Cambyses’ demonstration of the god’s corporeal nature, the ‘proof’ that he is not divine which, although violent, corresponds to criteria of divinity to which they (Greeks or focalizing as Greeks) also subscribe.83 Readers may react with horror at the impiety, but they will also find nothing to belie the factual basis of Cambyses’ derisive characterization of the god as not only flesh and blood, but also as mortal. On the contrary, the last two appearances of the god’s name seem deployed to emphasize these very facts (Hdt. 3.29.1: θέλων τύψαι 82 83

What seemed absolutely wrong is now not factually wrong, and readers will have to decide for themselves (however consciously) at the end of this episode whether or the degree to which they find it morally wrong. On the stabbing intended as a test, see Munson (1991) 57 (‘ethnological experiment’); Provencal (2015) 233; McPhee (2018) 74 and 91.

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τὴν γαστέρα τοῦ Ἄπιος παίει τὸν μηρόν—‘wanting to strike the belly of Apis he struck the thigh’; Hdt. 3.29.3: ὁ δὲ Ἆπις πεπληγμένος τὸν μηρὸν ἔφθινε ἐν τῷ ἱρῷ κατακείμενος—‘Apis because of the wound to his thigh wasted away while lying in the temple’), and underscore the theological challenge to any readers whose own beliefs require their gods to be ‘immortal’ to the extent that they would dismiss respect for the divine as conceived by others. Recognizing this god’s divinity is therefore not as straightforward or as intuitive as the text might make it seem, unless one is already predisposed to respect things divine regardless of whose and irrespective of their form. The challenge posed here to Greek religious beliefs is thematically related to that of chapter 16, Cambyses’ desecration of Amasis’ body, which enjoins Greek readers to censure and see as impious an act of Cambyses that for them is in fact nomos, the burning of a corpse.84 Moreover, if there in ch. 16 fire could be considered either a god or an animal, depending on whether viewed from a Persian or Egyptian point of view, here Apis is at once both god and animal, but whether this is only an Egyptian point of view or one the text has induced its readers to adopt will depend on them and whether their prejudices have been more subtly engaged by the text’s counter-current undermining this calf’s divinity. This countercurrent becomes more explicit once the narrator makes himself present at the episode’s end. It is at once true that even those inclined to find absurd the deification of a cow should find themselves dissuaded from mirroring the murderous rage directed at a harmless creature displayed by a figure both Persian and called ‘all but insane’ (Hdt. 3.29.1: οἷα ἐὼν ὑπομαργότερος) in doing so. And yet, they may nevertheless embrace the apparent diminution of Apis’ divinity that closes the logos, when narrator asserts that, contrary to the explanation of the Egyptians, Cambyses’ insanity was not caused by his offense to the god, but preceded it (Hdt. 3.30):85 Καμβύσης δέ, ὡς λέγουσι Αἰγύπτιοι, αὐτίκα διὰ τοῦτο τὸ ἀδίκημα ἐμάνη, ἐὼν οὐδὲ πρότερον φρενήρης

84

85

There it is done by explaining the nature of fire, a god for the Persians, an animal for the Egyptians, and the impiety of giving a corpse to either, religious taboos the Greeks happen to share; cf. Schwab (2020) 247–50. Herodotus here implicitly demonstrates for readers that underneath the ostensible differences in nomoi, different beliefs about what fire is, what constitutes respect for a corpse, are deeper similarities – the reasons behind these differences are actually ones shared by the Greeks. Later at ch. 38 with the subject of the treatment of the dead we see again similarity amid ostensible differences – different practices, nomoi, pertaining to a corpse, but beneath this a universal nomos pertaining to the respectful treatment it is owed. Cf. ch. 82.5 where the resounding conclusion argues for monarchy on the same basis that Athenians would for their democracy: freedom and patrioi nomoi. Friedrich (1973) 117, ‘Aber nun vertauscht Herodot Ursache und Wirkung…’

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(‘And Cambyses, as the Egyptians say, straightaway on account of this act of wrong-doing became mad, but not even before was he in his right mind’). This comment might lead one to infer that the narrator is simply attempting to be accurate in his account, but it is also possible that one might read more into it, finding the narrator’s point to be that Apis, unlike Greek gods and perhaps because he is mortal, was incapable of protecting his honour in such a way as to cause madness in his enemy.86 The comment is designed in such a way so as for readers to bear the responsibility for, and the consequences of, what they understand it to be saying. Of course, that is not to say the narrator hasn’t nudged readers of a certain disposition in the latter direction, as he seems again to do when he shortly thereafter adopts the voice of medical authority to offer the possibility of a ‘natural’ cause responsible for Cambyses’ insanity (Hdt. 3.33): ταῦτα μὲν ἐς τοὺς οἰκηιοτάτους ὁ Καμβύσης ἐξεμάνη, εἴτε δὴ διὰ τὸν Ἆπιν εἴτε καὶ ἄλλως, οἷα πολλὰ ἔωθε ἀνθρώπους κακὰ καταλαμβάνειν· καὶ γὰρ τινὰ ἐκ γενεῆς νοῦσον μεγάλην λέγεται ἔχειν ὁ Καμβύσης, τὴν ἱρὴν ὀνομάζουσι τινές. οὔ νύν τοι ἀεικὲς οὐδὲν ἦν τοῦ σώματος νοῦσον μεγάλην νοσέοντος μηδὲ τὰς φρένας ὑγιαίνειν.87 Cambyses acted insanely in these ways against his most intimate relations, whether indeed on account of Apis, or also otherwise, because many ills are accustomed to seize hold of men. For Cambyses is also said to have (had) a great illness from birth, which some call ‘sacred’. Now, you know, it is not at all unlikely that when a body suffers from a great affliction the mind is also not sound.

Even here, though, readers must themselves implicitly assent not to what is ‘likely’, but to what is more ambiguously ‘not unlikely’: they choose whether to understand this formulation as litotes expressing strong likelihood, or simply non-committal (for it is possible for something to be neither unlikely nor likely). What is unlikely, however, is that some in his readership won’t find 86

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McPhee (2018) 76–9 is excellent on this: ‘Faced with such a flurry of causative factors and indeterminacies, readers are certainly entitled to infer that Herodotus mentions the Egyptian explanation of Cambyses’ madness only to imply its inadequacy’, going on to point out, however, how the narrative’s structure seems in fact to pull in the opposite direction of the apparent dismissal of Apis as cause. There is room for understanding madness both as a prior condition and something that intensified after behaviour towards a god such as would precipitate punishment, as Friedrich (1973) 118 notes. It is worth noting that the same linguistic register is used here to undermine the Egyptian logos as in ch. 2. It is actually the case that Herodotus recapitulates the introductory logos’ account of three causes of the Egyptian campaign by likewise supplying three explanations for Cambyses’ madness – Persian (Hdt. 3.34.3 ~ 1.4), Egyptian (Hdt. 3.30 ~ 2.1), and one that is legetai (Hdt. 3.33 ~ 3.1) – likewise committing himself explicitly to none of them.

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an intellectual appeal in opting for a medical explanation of the sort one finds in the Hippocratic corpus, in particular as appears in On the Sacred Disease, a text whose intertextuality with Herodotus’ passage is well recognized.88 That relationship generates a further understanding of why some readers might embrace the dismissiveness that they detect in the narrator’s comment. Their choice might have less to do with the belief that the Egyptian Apis is somehow an inadequate deity, than with their own eagerness to diminish the role of the divine in human affairs,89 in this case human illness. This intellectual position was certainly a popular one in Herodotus’ day, not least in Athens, and one not without moral implications.90 Whether readers are enticed to adopt this view, or simply led to assume the narrator or even Herodotus is positively accepting the validity of this contempo‐ rary intellectual position, they may be in for some uncomfortable surprises, one immediate yet only implicit, and the other later and given tragic proportions. In the case of the former, those so readily engaged by the Hippocratic bauble dangled before them might not realize the challenge posed by this explanation to derogatory cultural stereotypes that they might cherish about Persian monarchy, or Persian nomoi, more generally. For assigning responsibility to a physiological condition, and a fortiori one congenital, in place of a religious—that is, also a moral—cause diminishes significantly Cambyses’ moral responsibility for his acts,91 and brings in its train the corollary that there is nothing distinctly Persian about Cambyses’ outlandish behavior. The so-called sacred disease could afflict

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See e.g. Munson (1991) 52–4, Thomas (2000) 34–5 with bibliography. Socrates seems also to have subscribed to the view that poor physical health can cause diseases of the mind, including mania: Xen. Mem. 3.9.6. Cf. Pl. Tim. 86b–87b for a discussion of the physiology of ‘diseases of the soul’ in a passage whose heavy reliance on medical discourse seems designed to diminish moral responsibility. For the nature of ‘madness’ as something Socrates contemplated, and therefore can be seen as a contemporary intellectual preoccupation, see Xen. Mem. 1.1.16, 1.2.50, 3.9.6, and below. The effect of the deployment here of material from the medical writers is comparable to that found in the narrator’s handling of the fountain of the Ethiopians (Hdt. ch. 23.3). Protagorean agnosticism is relevant here (περὶ θεῶν, DK 80 B 4): if humans cannot know for certain whether the gods exist or not, then no attribution of causation to them can be certain; on its moral implications see de Romilly (1992) 104–5. Irwin (2022). This enables Friedrich (1973) 118 to write, ‘Für Herodot ist Kambyses eher ein armer kranker Mann als ein genau nach Verdienst bestrafter Sünder’, and in this to see the introduction of tragedy (113, cf. 126): if his fate was to be born with this condition he may be as much to blame for his actions as Oedipus. Friedrich does describe accurately the consequences of ch. 33 provided one replaces ‘Herodot’ with ‘the narrator’ and sees the importance of ‘eher’. For the tragic resonances of Cambyses see below.

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any human, irrespective of culture or position,92 as could any one of the ‘many evils accustomed to overtake men’ (πολλὰ ἔωθε ἀνθρώπους κακὰ καταλαμβάνειν). The possibility that Herodotus’ Cambyses can in some sense be anyone will have implications for recognizing the possibility that members of Herodotus’ audiences lie behind his portrayal of Cambyses.93 By suggesting that Cambyses might have born with a condition inducing his madness—that it was genetically fated, so to speak—or that some other ill inherent to the human condition is responsible, Herodotus lays the groundwork for the tragedy that he later stages with Cambyses’ end.94 When the narrative returns to Cambyses’ demise, a detail of it forces Cambyses to become, as the text says, sophron, and perhaps in becoming so, he will again provide a mirror for those readers who may be influenced to reconsider what they understood about the argument of ch. 33 and the narrator of it: Cambyses’ mortal wound, self-inflicted and accidental, was, as the narrator informs us, in that very place where he struck Apis, whom the narrator will finally call a ‘god’ in his own voice (as he hasn’t before), albeit still qualified as ‘of the Egyptians’ (τὸν τῶν Αἰγυπτίων θεὸν Ἆπιν). We shall return to this passage in due course. 7 Who’s laughing now? Mocking agalmata (ch. 37)95 A final series of Cambyses’ impious acts violating the sanctity of both burials and of the precincts and cult statues in Memphis is adduced that, taken with the material that has preceded, form the evidence upon which the narrator will base 92

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One should note that the text also challenges the idea that barbarians marry siblings and other relatives willy-nilly ‘because no law constrains them’, as tragedy would portray them (e.g. Eur. And. 173–6: ‘Such is the barbarian race; | father sleeps with daughter, son with mother | sister with brother, and through murder are those most intimate (οἱ ϕίλτατοι) | separated, and nothing of these things does their νόμος prevent’) when it depicts Cambyses’ marriages as expressly not Persian nomos (Hdt. 3.31.2–5). Schwab (2020) 235. Cf. 1.86.5 where Croesus points out that Solon’s words were relevant not just to him, but all humanity (apan to anthropinon). For Solon talking to certain of Herodotus’ contemporaries see Moles (1996), and, more recently, Irwin (2013c). See Friedrich (1973) 113 for this potential: ‘Schicksale stimmen nicht mehr, Heimsuchungen, etwa durch Krankheit, sind keine logischen Antworten mehr auf das Verhalten der Betroffenen, der moralische Zirkel schließt sich nicht, sondern öffnet sich zum Irrationalen und Tragischen, das bisher draußen blieb.’ I discuss below the dream of chs. 30–2 and the death of Prexaspes son of chs. 34–6, for the purposes of better organizing my discussion. As for other possible reflections of readers’ reactions in Cambyses, I note briefly that if any in the audience felt surprise at Croesus’ survival and presence in Egypt (Hdt. 3.14.11), questioning his utility and/or good intentions as an advisor after his disastrous advice to Cyrus, they will find their views expressed in Cambyses’ criticism of the Lydian king: Hdt. 3.36.3.

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his diagnosis of madness: proof of Cambyses’ mental state lies in his treatment of his own nomoi and those of others.96 Herodotus will here provide a final test of his readers to determine whether it is an affliction to which they are also susceptible. Again the text implicitly asks whether they will display appropriate respect for what Cambyses’ encounters, or instead be led to implicate themselves in the king’s madness by reflecting his responses. Throughout Cambyses’ logos, Herodotus has punctuated his narrative with authorial references to the Persian king’s mad state,97 and at chapter 37 the last such reference effects a transition from Persians and allies as Cambyses’ victims back to Egyptians. Their dead, their gods, and their religious precincts are the objects of his desecration and mockery: ὃ μὲν δὴ τοιαῦτα πολλὰ ἐς Πέρσας τε καὶ τοὺς συμμάχους ἐξεμαίνετο, μένων ἐν Μέμφι καὶ θήκας τε παλαιὰς ἀνοίγων καὶ σκεπτόμενος τοὺς νεκρούς. ὣς δὲ δὴ καὶ ἐς τοῦ Ἡφαίστου τὸ ἱρὸν ἦλθε καὶ πολλὰ τῷ ἀγάλματι κατεγέλασε…ἐσῆλθε δὲ καὶ ἐς τῶν Καβείρων τὸ ἱρόν, ἐς τὸ οὐ θεμιτόν ἐστι ἐσιέναι ἄλλον γε ἢ τὸν ἱρέα· ταῦτα δὲ τὰ ἀγάλματα καὶ ἐνέπρησε πολλὰ κατασκώψας. He was doing many such insane things against the Persians and his allies, remaining in Memphis and opening ancient tombs and inspecting corpses. And indeed such was the way also in which he came to the sacred precinct of Hephaestus and heaped ridicule on his cult statue…And he entered also the temple of the Kabeiroi, in which it is not permitted for anyone else to enter than the priest. These cult statues he also burnt after mocking them greatly.

Although the movement in the text of Cambyses’ mad violence is from Persians as victims back to Egyptians, the μὲν / δὲ construction of this transition shows that the emphasis for Herodotus is not only the contrast between self and other, but also between things human and divine. Cambyses’ behaviour toward Persians and allies is tied closely with his treatment of Egyptian graves and human remains (μὲν) as together representing gross acts of outrage against

96 97

See the emphasis of Schwab (2020) 250–2. Hdt. 3.30, 3.33, 3.34.1, 3.37.1, 3.38.1. The narrator notes his state of mind within the narrative, the first such being at 3.25.2 explaining that because he was mad, he set out on a foreseeably disastrous campaign; others are Hdt. 3.29.1, 3.35.4, 3.61.1. Related to his mad disposition may be seen the frequency and excessiveness of his rage (orge; thumothenta) (as early as Hdt. 3.1.5; 3.25.1 (orge), 3.32.4, 3.34.3, 3.35.1 (orge), paranoia (Hdt. 3.27.2, 3.30.3, 3.34.3, 3.65.3), inappropriate laughter (Hdt. 3.29.1, 3.35.3, 3.37.2–3). See Munson (1991) 45–8 for these ‘metanarrative statements’ and McPhee (2018) 78–9 for interesting comments on their role in structuring an implicit argument supporting the Egyptian explanation of the king’s madness even as the text gives the impression (at Hdt. chs. 30 and 33) of dismissing it.

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things human,98 which are then contrasted and conjoined (δὲ) with sacrilege committed against cult statues and religious precincts (Hdt. 3.37.2–3) that happen to be Egyptian. The chapter reiterates in abridged form the impiety themes inherent in the desecration of Amasis’ corpse and the Apis logos,99 and is in one sense necessary: given the lengthy narratives about Cambyses’ treatment of those nearest—family, friends, and allies—Herodotus ensures with this episode that Cambyses’ sacrilegious treatment of Egyptian gods and burials is fresh in the reader’s mind before he embarks on his famous exegesis on madness that is chapter 38. And as a recap, it effects again a strategy of narration that ensnares certain of its readers in the madness of the Persian king, tempting them to respond to the images that the text conjures up for them in ways that mirror Cambyses’ own reactions to what he sees. Once again this is done through the ethnographic interruptions to the narrative which provide the information ‘necessary’ for readers to visualize the objects that induced Cambyses’ ridicule. The agalma of Hephaestus, the narrator explains (γὰρ, ‘for’), looks like the Pataikoi whom one sees as the figureheads of Phoenician ships (Hdt. 3.37.2): ἔστι γὰρ τοῦ Ἡφαίστου τὤγαλμα τοῖσι Φοινικηίοισι Παταΐκοισι ἐμφερέστατον, τοὺς οἱ Φοίνικες ἐν τῇσι πρῴρῃσι τῶν τριηρέων περιάγουσι (‘For the Phoenicians’ cult statue of Hephaestus bears most similarity with the Pataikoi whom the Phoenicians convey on the prows of their ships’). The comparison enables readers to ‘see’ what Cambyses saw, that first object of his laughter. Moreover, the elaboration provides them with not only the means, but also ample time to form a response (inadvertently or otherwise) through the moments added in which additional information is supplied. And his ‘assistance’ does not end there. Positing the existence of readers who might need help with their visualization, he explicitly addresses his next comparison to them, emphatically shifting his voice to the first person which draws readers into the text with the ‘you’ it implies: ὃς δὲ τούτους μὴ ὄπωπε, ὧδε σημανέω (‘Whoever has not seen these, I will indicate [sc. what

98

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That Athenians, too, dug up graves and scrutinized corpses when they exhumed those buried in Delos in 425 (Thuc. 1.8.1) cannot be irrelevant in a book containing Polycrates (chs. 39–60, 120–5 with Irwin (2007), (2009)), given that tyrant’s special relationship to Delos (Thuc. 1.13.6, 3.104). That relatively few grave goods were found in the pit whence the burials were relocated suggests they were looted in the process (as is the view of the Archaeological Museum of Delos). It is worth considering whether Herodotus’ narrative of Polycrates’ spectacle with the ring bears any relationship to a ceremony the Athenians might performed during their Delian revival of 425, perhaps in the form of a reenactment of Bacchylides 17, throwing away the ring that represented Persian hegemony: on the latter, see Irwin (2011a). Munson (1991) 56.

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they look like] in this way’). While helpful to those still not in on the humour, and flattering to the cosmopolitanism of those for whom no further elucidation is needed, the further elaboration causes readers to linger longer over the laughter-inducing image, expanding the time in which those already familiar with Phoenician figureheads might recall any earlier encounters they may have had with them before another comparandum for visualizing Hephaestus’ agalma is supplied. After these delays, the last image is snappily delivered, as if a punchline, in such a way as likely to elicit a smile if not a chuckle from readers: it is, quite simply, ‘of a pygmy man a mimesis’ (πυγμαίου ἀνδρὸς μίμησίς ἐστί).100 The appearance of the word mimesis here seems marked,101 and relevant in its capacity to evoke such theoretical discussions of comedy as found in Aristotle, likely already formulated to some extent in the late fifth century (Poetics 1449a32): in contrast to tragedy, ‘comedy is a μίμησις of inferior people (ϕαυλοτέρων)’, focused on τὸ γελοῖον (‘the laughable’), as found, according to Aristotle, in the αἶσχος ἀνώδυνον (‘ugliness that causes no pain’) of the comic mask, to which one might perhaps add, or as found in a πυγμαίου ἀνδρὸς μίμησις. Inherently comic according to the definition of some, did the image of Hephaestus conjured up by the narrator strike them, like Cambyses, as γελοῖον? Did they laugh? One might go further. When the narrator identifies a group who may not be familiar with the Pataikoi, subtle attention is at once drawn to readers who would not have had to wait to be implicated in a response akin to (if not perhaps as strong as) that of Cambyses, those already all too familiar with the sight of Phoenician ships. Given the hostile nature of their most likely encounters, there is a good chance that group had already laughed, and derisively, at Phoenician figureheads, having faced them as enemies in battle.102 Among this group would 100

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Dasen (1993) 175–88 (pygmies), 194–200 (Kabeiroi), 84–98 (Pataikoi). See the blackfigure skyphos which depicts Hephaestus’ return to Olympos, conveyed by Dionysus, who is accompanied by dwarfs (Paris, Louvre F410, with Dasen (1993) 240); see also Quack in this volume. In my experience undergraduates’ amusement at the image is intensified by the delay it takes in looking up pymaios only to realize it is cognate with ‘pygmy’. See Hes. fr. 150 and fr. 153 on Pygmies. Fr. 153 groups pygmies with other grotesque creatures (‘half-dogs and ‘big-headers’), figures so fanciful as to provoke Strabo’s censure of Hesiod (1.2.35, 7.3.6). ‘The most ancient testimony of this famous term’ (Asheri (2007) 435), Herodotus uses it only a single time. For comment on the pre-Platonic use of the word see Halliwell (1986) 109–16. Vaunting allusion to Phoenician mastheads can be read into potsherds retrieved from the Athenian Acropolis depicting Athena holding prows decorated with grotesque figures, usually associated with dedications surrounding the victory at Eurymedon: Hausmann (1957) (cf. Meiggs (1972) 86).

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have been, like Cambyses, possessors of arche, who would have encountered such mimeseis of pygmies (among other places) where he also did, at Memphis, during campaigns to which Herodotus has already drawn readers’ attention (Hdt. 3.12, 3.15) and will again in the last words of Book 3. It would have taken a real act of will to refrain from engaging in mockery of the figureheads of the ships of one’s enemies, and not to recall, if not repeat, that response when hearing them likened to pygmies, however marked as inappropriate to the context laughter may have just been depicted to have been. By inducing this reaction, and (in the case of some) inviting a renewal of past ridicule, Herodotus’ stepwise comparison eases his readers into responding to Hephaestus’ image in a way similar to the mad Persian king.103 As in the case of Epaphus, the use of the god’s Greek name has a function in generating recognition in his Greek audience. The effect ought to be rather stronger than that created in the case of Apis to the extent that only the Greek name is used, the god is certainly a god (and not a hero), and his form is definitely anthropomorphic (πυγμαίου ἀνδρὸς μίμησις ἐστί). But here it is familiarity—not strangeness—that has the potential to breed contempt. For Hephaestus has been well chosen to ensnare readers in the text’s Cambyses-mirroring trap. If allusion to any Olympian god’s appearance could cause a reader to laugh, it would have to be Hephaestus’. 104 Anyone weaned on the Homeric poems has no doubt laughed many times at their depiction of the god, though it is questionable whether on that basis such readers would have cut the Persian king any slack for his finding Hephaestus funny: the question this raises is whether Cambyses’ response, similar to theirs, should be seen as entirely mad, or is it that theirs has also been.105 It is important to note that three of the major impious acts

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I leave aside discussion of possible evocations in Herodotus’ account of how Athenians did behave towards nomoi, sacred and secular, and sacred precincts while campaigning extensively in Egypt during the 450s. The evidence for how they treated those of themselves and fellow Greeks (e.g. the temple of Apollo at Delium, Thuc. 4.97–8, esp. 4.97.2–3; cf. Irwin (2018a) 296–316) would suggest that Cambyses’ madness might not have been so far from their own, as would their treatment of the dead, ‘exhuming and examining corpses’ (θήκας τε παλαιὰς ἀνοίγων καὶ σκεπτόμενος τοὺς νεκρούς) as implied in Thuc. 1.8.1. The locus classicus for Hephaestus’ humorous appearance is Il. 1.599–600, and while gods are the ones laughing, as is their right, the audience of the poem is invited to share in the amusement, if not also find themselves figured in the divine audience. Cf. Od. 8.266–366. Lurking here might be a criticism of the depiction of the gods in the Homeric poems akin to what one finds in Xenophanes (DK 21 B11–12, with Diog. Laert. 9.18 and Lesher (1992) 83–5), a thinker to whom Herodotus’ affinities are well recognized: see e.g. Thomas (2001) 7.

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of Cambyses, burning Amasis’ corpse, rejecting something flesh and blood as divine, and finding Hephaestus amusing are all things that would otherwise be unproblematic for most (if not nearly all) Greek readers. Before taking leave of narrating Cambyses’ mad acts, Herodotus will make one final attempt to provoke laughter in the mind’s eye of the reader. Describing Cambyses’ outrage of the precinct of the Kabeiroi, and his mockery and destruction of their cult statues (quoted above), he concludes with a visual also likely to be found amusing: ‘There are even these cult statues similar to those of Hephaestus; they are said to be his children’ (ἔστι δὲ καὶ ταῦτα ὅμοια τοῖσι τοῦ Ἡφαίστου· τούτου δὲ σφέας παῖδας λέγουσι εἶναι). While it is possible readers will not actually laugh (derogatorily or not) imagining how these ‘minipygmies’ would look, one can feel fairly certain these kids would not have had an easy time of it in the schoolyard. 8 Proofs of Madness (chs. 38 and 34–5) Herodotus punctuates the end of the first segment of his Cambyses logos with a diagnosis of the Persian’s king’s mental state as one of madness evident from his disdainful treatment of nomoi (Hdt. 3.38.1): πανταχῇ ὦν μοι δῆλα ἐστὶ ὅτι ἐμάνη μεγάλως ὁ Καμβύσης· οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἱροῖσί τε καὶ νομαίοισι ἐπεχείρησε καταγελᾶν… Therefore, in every way to me it is clear that Cambyses was really very mad. For he would not have otherwise mocked sacred and customary things.

In support of that conclusion, a syllogism follows demonstrating the importance of nomoi to all humans from which the narrator concludes (Hdt. 3.38.2), ‘it is therefore not likely that anyone other than a madman would ridicule such things (οὔκ ων οἰκός ἐστι ἄλλον γε ἢ μαινόμενον ἄνδρα γέλωτα τὰ τοιαῦτα τίθεσθαι)’. Anyone, so the diagnosis implies, can demonstrate the madness of the Persian king: all it requires is mockery of customs, not only of one’s own (which some would find more obviously crazy),106 but even also those of others. Insofar as it argues for a non-cultural specificity to Cambyses’ affliction, this conclusion resonates with chapter 33’s suggestion of a physical origin for his mental state.107

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From the point after the muted references to madness associated with the Ethiopian campaign and the mad treatment of Apis, the catalogue of Cambyses’ offenses moves from the familiar – human relations, Persians and allies – to the more remote – the representations of foreign gods. Compare also the shared rhetoric: there the conclusion is ‘not unlikely’, here it is ‘not likely that anyone other’.

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With this ‘proof’, Herodotus creates a final opportunity for the readers to demonstrate just who they are based on their response to the ‘likelihood’ that the narrator imputes to his diagnosis of madness. But the Herodotean narrator’s argument for madness needs to be seen in context: his demonstration of Cam‐ byses’ probable madness responds to Cambyses’ earlier demonstration of his sanity (chs. 34–5), and therefore a discussion of that earlier passage is required before turning to ch. 38. It will become clear that the logic, rationality, and morality demonstrated by these two proofs form a contrasting pair. Together they play with the tension between argument and assertion, the ‘reality’ that logic seems to prove versus what might actually (or more profoundly) be true. Cambyses, prompted by his subjects’ equivocal response to his query as to what the Persians think of him, infers that they think that he is mad on the grounds that what they say now is at odds with what they had said before when they declared him better than his father.108 His inference seems at once both not to follow and yet to be entirely accurate: behind their polite allusion to his fondness for wine seems surely an awareness of his insanity,109 even if his conclusion does not follow logically from the reason upon which he bases it. Or rather it presumes a generally accepted, but missing premise,110 along the lines that subjects speak guardedly around an autocrat.111 In response to his (not logical but likely correct) conclusion, he creates an experiment intended to confirm or refute the allegation he imputes to them: σύ νυν μάθε εἰ λέγουσι Πέρσαι ἀληθέα εἴτε αὐτοὶ λέγοντες ταῦτα παραφρονέουσι (‘Now then learn whether the Persians speak the truth or in saying these things they themselves are the mad ones’). Proof will lie in whether he can shoot his young wine

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τὸν δὲ θυμωθέντα τοιάδε ἀμείβεσθαι· Νῦν ἄρα με φασὶ Πέρσαι οἴνῳ προσκείμενον παραφρονέειν καὶ οὐκ εἶναι νοήμονα· οὐδ᾽ ἄρα σφέων οἱ πρότεροι λόγοι ἦσαν ἀληθέες (‘[They say] in a rage he answered with something like what follows, “Now then the Persians say that devoted to wine I am deranged and not sensible. But then the things they said before were not true.”’) Likely, if they have witnessed what readers have, foreshadowing his actions of the next two chapters, it would seem impossible that they could think otherwise (unless one has an exceptionally derogatory view of Persians as slavish subjects), and would more than explain their muted response. This is an enthymeme, a type of syllogism with ‘the mediating generalization’, the missing premise, ‘assumed by rhetor when inventing and audience when understanding the argument’ (Benoit (1987) 264; see also Burnyeat (1994)). This is manifest in the stories of Book 3, seen in the decision of the Royal Judges, the krisis of Croesus (Hdt. 3.34.5), his admonition of Cambyses (3.36.1–2), or in Otanes’ abstract description of the hazards of speaking with a tyrant (3.80.5).

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steward, son of Prexaspes, through the heart, right there and then:112 if he hits his target (τύχω), the Persians are talking rubbish (Πέρσαι φανέονται λέγοντες οὐδέν), but if he misses (ἁμάρτω), they ‘speak the truth and he is not sound in mind’ (Πέρσας τε λέγειν ἀληθέα καί με μὴ σωφρονέειν). Having struck the boy, he conducts what is essentially an autopsy113 in order to determine the accuracy of his aim (πεσόντος δὲ τοῦ παιδὸς ἀνασχίζειν αὐτὸν κελεύειν καὶ σκέψασθαι τὸ βλῆμα· ὡς δὲ ἐν τῇ καρδίῃ εὑρεθῆναι ἐνεόντα τὸν ὀιστόν…), and, finding it to be perfect, he is perfectly delighted with this ‘confirmation’—worthless to any other observer: obviously, his skill as an archer contributes nothing to a diagnosis of his mental state.114 In fact, one might say the very premise that it might constitutes sufficient proof of his insanity. The point is driven home by the inappropriateness of his laughter as he boasts of his aim to the father of the boy he just murdered: εἰπεῖν πρὸς τὸν πατέρα τοῦ παιδὸς γελάσαντα καὶ περιχαρέα γενόμενον Πρήξασπες, ὡς μὲν ἐγὼ τε οὐ μαίνομαι Πέρσαι τε παραφρονέουσι, δῆλά τοι γέγονε. νῦν δέ μοι εἰπέ, τίνα εἶδες ἤδη πάντων ἀνθρώπων οὕτω ἐπίσκοπα τοξεύοντα; [It is said] he said to the father of the child laughing and being jubulent, ‘Prexaspes, that I am not the mad one, but the Persians are out of the minds, has become you see clear. And now tell me, whom have you ever seen of all mankind who is so accurate an archer?’

Cambyses’ ‘demonstration’ of his sanity is at once also on a more fundamental level Herodotus’ demonstration of something about the limits of logic. Cam‐ byses first draws a conclusion that readers are likely to find correct—the Persians think he is mad—and yet that conclusion requires the supplying of an unspoken premise. Its correctness is hostage to that premise’s absolute or contextual truth, and therefore a matter of judgment, and judgment is where human error may derail logic. He responds by attempting to demonstrate the opposite, constructing his own experiment, its syllogism being, ‘If I can aim accurately, I am sane, and the Persians are mad’. His experiment, though perfectly executed with a conclusion that follows within the framework constructed, is, however, patently false. That is, although logical in its formulation, the very fact of the experiment is what demonstrates his insanity; or, otherwise said, his initial premise that sanity can be equated to bowmanship is flawed: that is, even if 112 113 114

Note the immediacy of the situation, emphasized by the detail: τοῦ παιδὸς τοῦ σοῦ τοῦδε ἑστεῶτος ἐν τοῖσι προθύροισι. Medical practice and practitioners are clearly problematic in Book 3: see Irwin (2018) 59–63. On Cambyses’ laughter see Lateiner (1977).

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he ‘hits the mark’ (τύχοιμι), he may nevertheless ‘err’ (ἁμάρτω) and ‘not be sophron’ (μὴ σωφρονέειν).115 Against the backdrop of Cambyses’ proof of his mental state, the narrator provides his own proof: an experiment hypothetical in the extreme, requiring as it does the whole human race as participants, and therefore its outcome can only ever be a matter of assertion. Moreover, the ‘likely’ conclusion he draws, as stated, does not follow logically, despite appearing in the ‘convincing’ format of the syllogism.116 He posits a situation in which all mankind, tasked (by ‘someone’, τις) to choose the finest laws (εἰ γάρ τις προθείη πᾶσι ἀνθρώποισι ἐκλέξασθαι κελεύων νόμους τοὺς καλλίστους ἐκ τῶν πάντων νόμων), give due consideration to them all (διασκεψάμενοι ἂν ἑλοίατο ἕκαστοι τοὺς ἑωυτῶν), and nevertheless end up each preferring their own (οὕτω νομίζουσι πολλόν τι καλλίστους τοὺς ἑωυτῶν νόμους ἕκαστοι εἶναι).117 Herodotus uses this ‘fact’ that everyone would choose their own customs as finest as proof of the conclusion that it is therefore unlikely that anyone except a madman would 115

116 117

The premise that archery can be used to determine the answer to such profound questions of human existence, here sanity, using archery could be read as a literalization (and as such a critique) of the foundational premise of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (1.2.1–3), where accuracy in archery is used to argue for the methodology he proposes determine the ‘Supreme Good’ (which will be, not irrelevant for Herodotus, eudaimonia): ‘If therefore among the ends at which our actions aim there be one which we will for its own sake, while we will the others only for the sake of this, and if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else (which would obviously result in a process ad infinitum, so that all desire would be futile and vain), it is clear that this one ultimate End must be the Good, and indeed the Supreme Good. Will not then a knowledge of this Supreme Good be also of great practical importance for the conduct of life? Will it not better enable us to attain our proper object, like archers having a target to aim at (καὶ καθάπερ τοξόται σκοπὸν ἔχοντες μᾶλλον ἂν τυγχάνοιμεν τοῦ δέοντος)? If this be so, we ought to make an attempt to determine at all events in outline what exactly this Supreme Good is, and of which of the sciences or faculties it is the object.’ The archery simile used in the context of rational argumentation seems to have late fifth-century roots: Sophocles uses the same image in conjunction with Oedipus’ attainment of an eudaimon olbos (OT. 1196–8: ὅστις καθ' ὑπερβολὰν | τοξεύσας ἐκράτησε τοῦ πάντ' εὐδαίμονος ὄλβου), arising (so the passage continues, 1199ff.) through his superior rational faculties demonstrated in his ability to solve the riddle of the Sphinx. I suspect Aristotle’s attempt to engage his readers’ complicity (‘If…If…If’…Will not…? Will it not…?) would not work on Herodotus: if any of these premises are not true, what then would be the result of this approach? Each protasis is a rickety bridge to arrive at a conclusion; each question designed to engage the complicity of the reader. Selden (1999) 51 n. 78. ‘For if someone made a proposal to all mankind bidding them to select from all customs the finest, having duly scrutinized the matter each would choose his own customs, thus do they each consider their own customs somehow by far the best.’

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laugh at such things, in general: οὔκ ων οἰκός ἐστι ἄλλον γε ἢ μαινόμενον ἄνδρα γέλωτα τὰ τοιαῦτα τίθεσθαι. He appears to support this conclusion by referring to many proofs of the thesis that all men feel this way about their own nomoi (ὡς δὲ οὕτω νενομίκασι τὰ περὶ τοὺς νόμους πάντες ἄνθρωποι, πολλοῖσί τε καὶ ἄλλοισι τεκμηρίοισι πάρεστι σταθμώσασθαι), adducing one in particular (ἐν δὲ δὴ καὶ τῷδε), an experiment alleged to have been conducted by Cambyses’ successor, Darius. As compelling as Herodotus might make his ‘proof’ seem, there is no logical necessity to accept its conclusion: he has not demonstrated that preference for one’s own customs and laws—for which, as he says, many tekmeria exist —necessarily entails respect for those of others. The logic of the syllogism falters should readers fail to supply or refuse to accept (however consciously) this missing premise. It is a requirement of the text that either engages their complicity or provokes their disagreement, but according to the syllogism’s argument, their response is what demonstrates whether they are sane or mad. Despite Herodotus’ rhetoric, there will be some likely to reject the premise, finding evidence in day-to-day life that would seem to prove just the opposite. In the absence of any explicit defense, his conclusion that a universal respect for nomoi is a likely consequence of humans’ universal preference for their own nomoi (irrespective of whose) is only an assertion, however moral a reader may find it.118 The text juxtaposes two flawed proofs. Cambyses’ syllogism, although executed perfectly, is flawed in its initial premise. Herodotus with the help of his narrative renders his proof compelling despite the gap in logic that he requires readers to bridge themselves (however consciously) if they are to avoid Cambyses’ madness. In order to facilitate that crossing, the narrative adduces a further piece of ‘evidence’ of an intentionally engaging quality: Darius’ experiment. But that experiment does no more than provide an instantiation of the narrator’s general conclusion that everyone prefers their own customs: it requires readers (and if successful persuades them) to accept without proof that the unwavering adherence to one’s own nomoi he depicts somehow necessitates a universal respect for all nomoi. Herodotus’ argument is sophistic to the extent that it persuades without providing logical compulsion to do so.119 The complicity he attempts to secure from readers is their commitment to some notion of a universal morality,120 which is the opposite of the end to which sophistic 118 119 120

See Munson (1991) 56 and 62 for the ‘logical jump’ required here. Note also the rhetorical efficacy of quotation of poetic authority with Pindar fr. 169a with Kingsley (2018) and Grintser (2018). See Selden (1999) 49 and Barrionuevo (2017).

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arguments are customarily used: a mode of rhetoric customarily used to undermine customary beliefs and values is here used to an uncustomary end, the upholding of what is customary, nomoi. This is Herodotus sophistes.121 An argument that taken at face value seems to demonstrate cultural relativity is in fact employed in the service of upholding certain absolute moral principles. His rhetorical strategy is, however, also intentionally not fail safe: readers can choose how they will respond to the ‘logic’ of Herodotus’ conclusion; the nature of their response will reveal whether they are complicit in the mad rationality of the Persian king. In short, if one objects to Herodotus’ logic as compromising his conclusion, one might well be a person who invests too much in logic and a certain form of rationality at the expense of, or indeed to reject, any commitment to the existence of certain universal nomoi of a moral nature, and, as the logos of Cambyses goes on implicitly to argue, such is a person who may one day painfully recognize oneself as having been suffering from a similar sort of madness as the mad Persian king.122 9 Cambyses, c’est moi (ch. 64–5) When Herodotus returns to Cambyses after a lengthy Samian interlude,123 it is to render his demise a tragic tour de force. No longer playwright and choregos of Psammenitus’ drama, and then auditor of its tragic diegesis,124 Cambyses will take to the stage as protagonist in a performance replete with all the classic ingredients of the genre: a double recognition (anagorisis) of error (hamartia) resulting in a complete reversal of fortune (peripeteia).125 Through Herodotus’ deployment of tragic allusion, the ‘rationality’ of Cambyses depicted earlier as madness becomes elevated to the grandeur of an Oedipus whose superlative intelligence deludes him into overlooking a more fundamental fact, namely that logic alone can only generate conclusions as valid as the knowledge—necessarily limited—to which it is applied, ever hostage to the premises upon which they are based. To that extent, those who have been truly schooled in tragedy—if they are not blinded by a sense of their own cultural superiority—ought to recognize 121 122 123 124 125

As he calls his Solon (1.29.1); see Irwin (2017a). For wider and complementary discussion of paradoxes of rationality explored in this chapter and the wider logos, see Munson (1991), Selden (1999): 46–63, and McPhee (2018) 88–93. On this interlude in relation to the Cambyses logos: see Friedrich (1973) 120. The term Plato has his Socrates use for Homer (‘not mimesis but simple diegesis’: Rep. 393d7), who is presented as the first tragic poet (Rep. 595c). Provencal (2015) 233.

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something universal in what befalls Cambyses: his downfall is neither distinctly Persian nor barbarian, but transformed through Herodotus’ dramaturgy into a paradeigma of human eudaimonia,126 and above all of its fragility. To this extent at least, readers ought to be able to identify with Cambyses, to recognize in him and in what he suffers something of themselves. The present study has been concerned with the textual mirror that Herodotus constructs for readers, one in which they will either find themselves reflected in his depiction of Cambyses, whether or not they recognize this, or have been persuaded to adopt (however consciously) certain fundamental moral commitments. But its interest goes beyond simply having readers ‘recognize’ in as unlikely a figure as Cambyses a shared humanity and on that basis having them ‘identify’ with him: rather, more specifically, the aim has been also to unveil the identity of those who lie behind the figure that Herodotus has called ‘Cambyses’—to modify the phrase used in the case of Smerdis (Hdt. 3.63.3, 3.67.2), just who it is ἐπιβατεύων τοῦ Καμβύσεω οὐνόματος (‘stepping onto (i.e. adopting) the name of Cambyses’)?127—and to demonstrate the text’s endeavor to cause readers to experience their own recognition, analogous to, if also differing from, that induced by tragedy: understanding what lies behind Herodotus’ Cambyses may have consequences for readers’ understanding of themselves. Before moving on to the extensive tragic allusion of the episode, it is paramount to demonstrate the ways in which Herodotus constructs Cambyses’ moments of recognition so as for them to become moments of recognition also for his readers. The first comes when readers are made to learn only shortly before Cambyses (Hdt. 3.63.2) that there is a second Smerdis, a magus who both looks like Cambyses’ brother and has the same name (Hdt. 3.61.2, ἦν τε δὴ ὅμοιος εἶδος τῷ Σμέρδι καὶ δὴ καὶ οὔνομα τὠυτὸ εἶχε Σμέρδιν): that is, up until this point readers have not been provided with the knowledge by which they would realize that Cambyses’ construal of his dream in ch. 30.2–3 was erroneous, and therefore were no better equipped there than Cambyses to understand the dream’s Smerdis to be denoting anyone other than Cambyses’ brother, and as such potentially a competitor to the throne.128 A unique element of the dream (and likely a sign of Herodotean invention)129 aligns readers even more closely with Cambyses: for Cambyses himself does not see ‘Smerdis’ sitting on the

126 127 128 129

As the Theban elders respond to what might otherwise have been felt to be circum‐ stances exceptional to (an) Oedipus (Soph. OT 1086–1196). This metaphorical use of the verb, derived from ship warfare, is unique to Herodotus. See de Jong (2006) 15 on this delay as allowing Cambyses’ blindness to be shared by the reader. Köhnken (1980) 49–50, Bichler (1985) 136–7, Erbse (1992) 53–5, de Jong (2006) 11.

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throne, but rather receives the information when it is narrated to him by a messenger.130 Cambyses is, therefore, made the audience of narration, as he was earlier by the guards of the Psammenitus scene, and therefore again depicted in a way that will mirror the experience of Herodotus’ readers consuming this story. This happens in no other dream in Herodotus,131 and is moreover entirely unnecessary from the point of view of the plot: given that the magus Smerdis is said to look like Cambyses’ brother, Herodotus could have made it seem to Cambyses that he saw his brother sitting on the throne, rather than enlist a messenger to arrive reporting this.132 When Cambyses finally ‘understands’ what he has done, he responds in a way that leads to a second recognition and one that is again designed to trigger a sudden recognition in Herodotus’ readers. As he leaps upon his horse intent to arrive in Susa, his exposed dagger pierces his thigh ‘in precisely the place where he himself struck the god of the Egyptians Apis’ (Hdt. 3.64.3). Readers here are once again thrown back to an earlier episode in the narrative, and, as with the dream, it is again to chapter 30 where through the dissuasion of the narrator they may have dismissed out of hand the possibility that Cambyses’ behavior was responsible for his madness despite the murder of his full brother following hard upon it.133 The uncanniness of this wound causes readers to scramble to make sense of what they thought they understood either about Cambyses’ madness or the narrator of it, or rather both:134 after all, the narrator’s comment in ch. 30 that Cambyses was mad before the Apis affair, followed by the medical authority mobilized in ch. 33, downplayed, if not entirely dismissed, the idea of divine causality, while the interruption provided by the Samian logos further

130 131 132 133 134

Hdt. 3.30.2: ἐδόκεέ οἱ ἄγγελον ἐλθόντα ἐκ Περσέων ἀγγέλλειν… 3.64.1: ὃς ἐδόκεε ἐν τῷ ὕπνῳ ἀπαγγεῖλαί… 65.2: ἐδόκεον δέ μοι ἄγγελον ἐλθόντα ἐξ οἴκου ἀγγέλλειν… See Köhnken 1980 44, de Jong (2006) 6. That the dream is repeated on three occasions is also unprecedented, and renders this plot device even more conspicuous: see e.g. de Jong (2006) 4 and 11. Köhnken (1980) 45. See above. On the murder as the worst act of madness see Köhnken (1980) 48–9. Although thighs are ubiquitous as a locus of serious injury (see e.g. Miltiades 6.136, which might thematically allude to Cambyses), there may be literary allusion behind the thigh as the locus of a wound engendering recognition: see the recognition scene between Eurykleia and Odysseus (Od. 19.392–3, 467–8). There may also lurk historical allusion: a thigh wound figures in the later Egyptian campaign to which Herodotus refers (3.12.4, 15.3, 160.2) when Inarus, the instigator of the Egyptian revolt and ally of Athens, was injured in the thigh by Megabyxus (FGrHist 688 F 14.37); on the relevance of these later events to Herodotus’ account see Irwin (2017b): ‘Part III’, 116–30. Ctesias’ Cambyses dies of a thigh wound while carving wood in Babylon: FGrH 688F 13.12.

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‘verdunkelt den Schuld-Sühne-Gedanken’.135 In light of this new development, readers are likely to be persuaded that there is something numinous at work, or at least to be persuaded that the narrator, or even Herodotus, positively believes this.136 If they do, the text has manipulated them into a moment of recognition analogous to that which Cambyses seems also to be having: 137 the use of theos in the narrator’s own voice, withheld until now, serves to augment the epiphany of ‘the god of the Egyptians’ at the moment when he seems to be revealing his power.138 The attempt to reconcile the narrator’s comments in chs. 30 and 33 with Herodotus’ later noting the coincidence of the wound results in scholarly turmoil, and as such is indicative of the state readers find themselves in at the moment when they are suddenly confronted with yet another surprising recognition,139 both Cambyses’ and their own. Prompted by an immediate sense that the wound is mortal, Cambyses’ inquiry into the name of the city in which these events have transpired (which—implausibly—he does not already seem to know) causes him to recognize his second error, the misconstrual of the Ecbatana denoted by an analepsis to an oracle foretelling his place of death: not, as he thought, in his capital as an old man, but in ‘this’ Ecbatana was he destined to die. Cambyses’ second recognition, a shock to him, has likely also blindsided readers. While they still reel from the coincidence of the wound, they suddenly learn of an oracle, of whose existence they had no inkling, no previous warning

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As Friedrich (1973) 114–15 astutely observes. See e.g. De Jong (2006) 12: ‘Though Herodotus does not spell it out, the hint is clear: Cambyses’ death is a punishment for his killing of the sacred Apis bull. ’ I say ‘seems’ because there is no positive textual indication that Cambyses himself thinks of Apis here, and therefore no necessity for readers to believe he does (i.e. recognition of the severity of the wound – καιρίῃ – could be understood as having prompted his question); responsibility for that inference lies with the readers, despite any ‘assistance’ to do so provided by the narrator. I use ‘seems’ again because as McPhee (2018) 74 rightly notes (but then seems to ignore), ‘[N]owhere in this account does the narrator explicitly signal anything supernatural about Cambyses’ death’. Köhnken (1980) 42 with n. 27 gives a taste of the challenge to interpretation that Herodotus creates; cf. more recently Wesselmann (2011) 79. See also the cageyness of the rhetoric of de Jong (2006) 12 in trying to champion a religious interpretation: ‘This suggests the hand of the gods. Can we detect it?’, ‘Herodotus is more cautious [sc. than the Egyptians], also mentioning a rational explanation’, ‘…he may in the end have believed in a divine or at least a double motivation of the madness’. Cf. also her handling of the dream: e.g. ‘So on the whole I am inclined, together with the majority of scholars, to think that Herodotus presents his dreams as coming from the gods.’ The point is that the text is constructed so as to make positive assertion on theological matters very difficult, and ultimately the responsibility of the reader.

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of any prophecy pertaining to Cambyses’ death, let alone its precise location.140 Here another moment is constructed in which they might find their reactions mirrored in the Persian king’s. If, in the split second after they learn of the oracle and its Ecbatana, they think, ‘But wait, isn’t Ecbatana in Persia’—that is, if they have been made to think of the ‘wrong’ Ecbatana at the very moment when they learn that at some time in the past Cambyses had also made that same mistake— then their realization of their misconstrual becomes nearly simultaneous with Cambyses’ own. Herodotus’ mode of narration has been designed to recapitulate for his readers in the moment of reading the experience of recognition that he narrates his character as having. And this state of sudden recognition is the state in which he puts his readers just moments before pulling out all the stops in his tragic handling of Cambyses’ end, to which now I turn. This episode’s allusions to tragedy are extensive, and worth outlining in some detail. For not only is it the case that those otherwise happy to embrace the idea that Herodotus exploited tragedy spend comparatively little time on this episode,141 perhaps presuming Cambyses was a character too flawed to be worthy of the genre, 142 but also that the use of tragic themes, plot elements, and diction, so pervasive here, challenge those critics who feel inclined to underplay Herodotus’ use of this genre in favour of epic antecedents.143 Nevertheless, as important as the recognition of the tragic shaping of Herodotus’ Cambyses may be, it is not enough simply to demonstrate it: one must also explain why his demise has in this way been handled. The question that needs addressing is, therefore, why Herodotus has here drawn so heavily and obviously on tragedy and why has he done so for a figure who has been depicted as Cambyses has.

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The existence of this Ecbatana is generally denied: Asheri (2007) 462. Friedrich (1973), Balcer (1987) (whose chapter 3 is entitled, ‘Herodotus’ tragic Cam‐ byses’), Saïd (2002) 130–1, de Jong (2006) 13–15, Konstantakos (2016) 38–9 with an extensive bibliographical survey are more notable exceptions. For passing remarks on Cambyses’ tragedy see e.g. Reinhardt (1940) 347, Gould (1989) 75, Pearson (1954) 138, Huber (1965) 12–13, Chiasson (1979) 134, 138–9, 214, Erbse (1992) 55, Provencal (2015) 233, McPhee (2018) 87–8. The bogeyman of eastern tyrants, Cambyses induces little pity in the scholarship: see e.g. Lateiner (1989) 171 (‘grotesque’, ‘sadistic, sacrilegious’), or McPhee (2018) 88 on the lack of moral ambiguity in the case of Cambyses; see also Lateiner (1977) 176–178 and Munson (1991) 45, Konstantakos (2016) 37 on Cambyses’ ‘bad press’. I am thinking especially of the reductive discussion of Rutherford (2007), and Saïd (2002) (who is however more detailed). I suspect what drives the debate of whether Herodotus is ‘epic’ as opposed to ‘tragic’ is a desire to make Herodotus seem ‘archaic’. In any event, simply determining whether Herodotus is evoking epic or tragedy, or (often) both at once cannot be an end in itself, but is only the first step to interpreting the function, meaning, and valence of such generic allusion.

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There may well be a point about the morality of tragedy as a genre if it can elevate a figure like Cambyses to a paradeigma of the human condition, and thereby render him somehow less individually responsible for his acts.144 To begin from the obvious—plot elements—Cambyses’ tragedy is first set in motion by his misinterpreting a dream, and earlier (though unnarrated) an oracle,145 in both cases failing to recognize that names—in this case, Smerdis and Ecbatana—can denote multiple entities. He suffers from a kind of blindness that arises in the case of the former from the despot’s predisposition, shared with Sophocles’ Oedipus, to fear plots that might rob him of his rule (Hdt. 3.65.3), and in the latter from the belief not only common to those in possession of good fortune, namely that it will never change, but also of special relevance to imperialists: Cambyses must have presumed he’d only return home to Ecbatana as an old man (γηραιός), after his days of waging acquisitive wars against foreign lands were over.146 Presumably the erroneous confidence engendered by this misconstrual of the oracle is what helped to inform such mad acts as campaigning to the ends of the earth against people who had done him no wrong.147 In any event, both hamartiai are the stuff of tragedy. The dream and the oracle—two features of the logos deemed most likely to be Herodotean inventions—are the plot devices that allow Herodotus to frame as tragedy a life better suited for depiction as a morality tale; the choice between these genres—a literary choice—has moral implications. The understanding that he is said to have experienced (Hdt. 3.64.2: μαθὼν δὲ ὡς μάτην ἀπολωλεκὼς εἴη τὸν ἀδελφεόν—‘Understanding that in vain he had killed his brother’) evokes the tragic maxim of ‘learning through suffering’ (πάθει μάθος),148 most clearly expressed (for us) in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon. And as Aeschylus’ chorus there goes on to say, such suffering causes even ‘the

144 145 146 147 148

See de Jong (2006) 14–15 for how the tragic overlay may impact on readers’ moral evaluation of Cambyses (i.e. his acts become ‘if not excusable at least…understandable (tragic)’; ‘[readers] are likely to see him in a tragic rather than a moralistic light’). Evocations of tragedy can also be found in Cambyses’ madness in relation to his behaviour towards Apis: see Wesselmann (2011) 92–104, 143. Cf. 3.134.3 and Thuc. 6.17.1 for campaigning abroad when at the height of one’s physical powers. Cf. Cyrus’ question (Hdt. 1.87.3) to a Croesus who had been ‘hyperdelighted’ at what he thought his oracle foretold (Hdt. 1.54.1). Aes. Ag. 178, quoted below. It is worth noting the frequency of forms of manthano in Book 3 compared to the rest of the work: it contains over one-quarter of the uses (29/141) although Book 3 represents only roughly 1/10 of the work. See above in the tragic Psammenitus story (Hdt. 3.14.4 and 14.6), and cf. Cambyses’ inability to understand in Hdt. 3.25.5 (εἰ μέν νυν μαθὼν ταῦτα ὁ Καμβύσης …). Cf. Cropp (1997) 141.

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unwilling to become prudent’ (καὶ παρ' ἄκοντας ἦλθε σωϕρονεῖν, 181–2),149 which is precisely the consequences that Herodotus describes for Cambyses, said to have been made sophron by his situation and his fatal wound: ὑπὸ τῆς συμφορῆς τῆς τε ἐκ τοῦ Μάγου ἐκπεπληγμένος καὶ τοῦ τρώματος ἐσωφρόνησε, συλλαβὼν δὲ τὸ θεοπρόπιον εἶπε· Ἐνθαῦτα Καμβύσεα τὸν Κύρου ἐστὶ πεπρωμένον τελευτᾶν.  Having been struck by the and the wound he saw sense, and understanding the prophesy he said, ‘Here is it fated for Cambyses son of Cyrus to die.’

As if composed from a handbook on tragedy, Cambyses’ final rhesis (Hdt. 3.65.3–4) presents his downfall as overdetermined, a combination of fate (to mellon), human nature (physis),150 and individual error (hamarton):151 δείσας δὲ μὴ ἀπαιρεθέω τὴν ἀρχὴν πρὸς τοῦ ἀδελφεοῦ, ἐποίησα ταχύτερα ἢ σοφώτερα· ἐν τῇ γὰρ ἀνθρωπηίῃ φύσι οὐκ ἐνῆν ἄρα τὸ μέλλον γίνεσθαι ἀποτρέπειν. ἐγὼ δὲ ὁ μάταιος Πρηξάσπεα ἀποπέμπω ἐς Σοῦσα ἀποκτενέοντα Σμέρδιν. ἐξεργασθέντος δὲ κακοῦ τοσούτου ἀδεῶς διαιτώμην, οὐδαμὰ ἐπιλεξάμενος μή κοτέ τίς μοι Σμέρδιος ὑπαραιρημένου ἄλλος ἐπανασταίη ἀνθρώπων. παντὸς δὲ τοῦ μέλλοντος ἔσεσθαι ἁμαρτὼν ἀδελφεοκτόνος τε οὐδὲν δέον γέγονα καὶ τῆς βασιληίης οὐδὲν ἧσσον ἐστέρημαι. In fear lest I be stripped of my rule by my brother, I did something more hasty than more wise; for within human nature it does not exist to avert what is going to be. I to no avail sent Prexaspes to Susa with the purpose of killing Smerdis, and once a bad act of such magnitude had been accomplished, I was living without fear, never having reckoned that once Smerdis had been made away with no other human would rise up in revolt against me. But, in error as to all that was going to happen, I have 149 150

151

See Lebeck (1971) 25–9. Cf. Aes. Eum. 520–1, συμφέρει σωφρονεῖν ὑπὸ στένει; Eur. Hipp. 731, σωϕρονεῖν μαθήσεται (with Köhnken (1972) 186–7). On sophrosune in tragedy, see North (1966) ch. 2. Whether one’s physis is inexorably prescriptive was also topical. Heraclitus seems to have expressed something like the idea that ‘character is destiny’ (ἦθος ἀνθρώπῳ δαιμών: 22B119 DK = Stobaeus Anth. IV.40.23), but whether that denotes one’s choice in determining one’s fate or suggests an inner predetermination beyond one’s control is rather open. See the exegesis of Alex. Aphr. De Anima II (Mantissa) 24: ἦθος γὰρ ἀνθρώπων κατὰ τὸν ‘Ηράκλειτον, δαιμών, τουτέστι ϕύσις. ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πλεῖστον γὰρ ταῖς ϕυσικαῖς κατασκευαῖς τε καὶ διαθέσεσιν καὶ τὰς πράξεις καὶ τοὺς βίους καὶ τὰς τῶν βίων καταστροϕὰς ἀκολουθεῖν συμβέβηκεν. That the debate is once again topical does not bode well: https://www.theguardian.com/news/2021/apr/27/the-clockwork-u niverse-is-free-will-an-illusion (last assessed: 28 Oct 2022). See n. 17 above. The scholarship on tragic hamartia is immense, among which these are helpful, and cite further bibliography: Bremer (1969), Stinton (1975), Schültrumpf (1992), and Kim (2010).

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become a murderer of my brother when there was no need, and not any less have I been deprived of my kingdom.

Moreover, further linguistic elements in the depiction of Cambyses’ downfall strongly evoke not only a tragic register, but also those episodes of Herodotus in which critics most frequently find allusions to the genre. πεπρωμένον, for instance, is significant not only as at once a poetic word common to tragedy and not appearing in Homer, but also because in Herodotus the only other appearances of this participle occur in the tragic demise of Croesus (Hdt. 1.91.1 and 1.91.3). Likewise, Cambyses’ impossible wish that he ‘had never seen the dream’ (τὴν μηδαμὰ ὄφελον ἰδεῖν) is likewise the stuff of tragedy (if also of Homer), and only otherwise used by Herodotus in the tragic vignette around the exposure of Cyrus (Hdt. 1.111.2: μήτε ἰδεῖν ὤϕελον μήτε κοτὲ γενέσθαι ἐς δεσπότας τοὺς ἡμετέρους).152 Moreover, his expressions of grief are characterized by the word, apoklaio (Hdt. 3.64.2 (2x) and 3.65.7) a word rarely deployed by Herodotus, and a compound belonging to tragedy—that is, one not found in Homer.153 And when upon concluding his injunction to the Persians, he is described as ‘wailing over his entire praxis’ (ἀπέκλαιε πᾶσαν τὴν ἑωυτοῦ πρῆξιν), the Herodotean narrator nods to the genre with the word praxis, used by him exclusively here, which as a technical term denotes the action of which tragedy is an imitation.154 Meanwhile, no longer consumers of another’s tragedy (Hdt. 3.14.11), the foremost Persian citizens will replace the earlier chorus of Egyptian fathers (cf. 3.14.3 and 3.14.6 and above): they rend their clothes and cry out with boundless lamentation at the fortunes of their ruined king (Hdt. 3.66.1: Πέρσαι δὲ ὡς τὸν βασιλέα εἶδον ἀνακλαύσαντα πάντες τά τε ἐσθῆτος ἐχόμενα εἶχον, ταῦτα κατηρείκοντο καὶ οἰμωγῇ ἀφθόνῳ διεχρέωντο) in true tragic style. Herodotean

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These scenes are further joined through the word describing the emotional state of both Cambyses and Astyages (ekplassomai: Hdt. 1.111.2, 3.64.5). It appears significantly only in the tragedy of Psammenitus (Hdt. 3.14.9) and in Hdt. 2.121.γ.2 where it is paired with another tragic emotion, pity (ἀποκλαύσαντα ἢ κατοικτισάμενον), as the responses someone might feel moved by seeing the hanging corpse of someone they knew. For tragedy as ‘the mimesis of praxis’, see Ar. Poetics 1449b24, 1450a16–7, with Ross (1923) v on ‘the whole of Aristotle’s thought’ being ‘a mosaic of borrowings from his predecessors’; cf. Düring (1966) 112. On tragic praxis, see further Belfiore (1983–4), Halliwell (1986) 138–42. Soph. OC 560 uses praxis in a highly metatheatrical passage in which Theseus alludes to the fame of the tragic Oedipus with pity and a recognition of the common humanity, and fragility, that he and Oedipus share (551–68).

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dramaturgy renders Cambyses’ downfall its own little Persae.155 Moreover, here the words used both of Cambyses’ crying (ἀνακλαύσαντα) and of the Persians’ response to it (οἰμωγῇ) are marked as poetic. The latter, found rarely in prose, appears in Herodotean contexts evoking tragedy,156 while the former, ἀνακλαύσαντα, is most definitively tragic (i.e absent from Homer), and is used by Herodotus elsewhere only in the tragedy of Psammenitus, and there a full four times (Hdt. 3.14.3, 3.14.7, 3.14.9, 3.14.10). The repetition of the word in that episode and its appearance here mark the word as important and tie these two passages closely together—and for good reason: it underscores the error of the figure who had earlier thought he was secure in watching a tragic reversal of the vanquished that he himself staged and to which he had obviously felt himself immune. There is in this a warning to those of Herodotus’ contemporary readers who might erroneously believe that they were deriving lasting mathemata (‘lessons’) from their enthusiastic staging and viewing of the pathemata (‘sufferings’) of others.157 On another level, there resides also a provocation to future readers who may be so invested in the superiority of the culture that gave them tragedy and their focalization of history as not to recognize that Herodotus’ Cambyses may not (or not only) be Cambyses, but the entity (also) that they so admire, not least for their tragedies.158 At the same time, they may possibly be also so

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Noted also by Saïd (2002) 131, and in more detail by Konstantakos (2016) 38–9. See Aes. Persae 1062 for the Persian elders tearing their clothing with Hall (1996) 125 on the prevalence of the topos of rending clothing in grief as part of the feminization of Persian males in Persae. Note also Cambyses’ invoking of the daimon as responsible (Hdt. 3.65.4: Σμέρδις γὰρ δὴ ἦν ὁ Μάγος τόν μοι ὁ δαίμων προέφαινε ἐν τῇ ὄψι ἐπαναστήσεσθαι – ‘For in fact ‘Smerdis’ was the Magus whom the daimon foretold to me in a dream would rise up in revolt against me’), and the ‘remarkable’ pervasiveness of this figure in Persae (on which see Hall (1996) 121): eight times in the nominative (158, 345, 354, 601, 725, 911, 921, 942), three times in the vocative (472, 515, 845), and three times in other cases (620, 641, 825). Griffin (2006) 55–6 looks for the Persae in too obvious a place and fails to find it. Hdt. 6.58.3, 8.99.2, 9.24; cf. the single use of the verb in 7.159. Compare Thucydides who reserves its use exclusively for his handling of the spectacle of the defeated Athenians at Sicily (7.71.6, 7.75.4). So Croesus’ encouragement at Hdt. 1.207.1. Cyrus certainly learned nothing, nor apparently Croesus, even though the sufferings were his own; that is, of course, if his advice to Cyrus was well intentioned. (For the voicing of the possibility that it may not have been see Hdt. 3.36.3, preceded by the narrator’s own use of the word, eunoia, at Hdt. 3.36.2.) On this episode in relation to the tragic dictum ‘learning through suffering’, see Stahl (1975). This is understandable, if not also (for a time at least) inevitable, as it is overwhelming through their texts that we encounter even the language itself.

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invested in their own superiority and the notion of progress (a belief of which the present is—we are—by definition the beneficiaries) that they underestimate the sophistication of authors they comfortably label ancient. In not appreciating that Cambyses is also ‘Cambyses’ they find themselves reflected in the tragic Cambyses when he recognizes ‘[e]xpressis verbis …daß er das Opfer einer Namensidentität geworden sei’.159 10 What caused the madness of Herodotus’ Cambyses? Over the course of Cambyses’ logos, the narrative offers three different explan‐ ations for Cambyses’ madness, each from a different source, none of which explicitly endorsed by the narrator. The Egyptians attribute his mental state to his treatment of Apis, a cause that the text can be used to argue both for (ch. 64) and against (chs. 30 and 33)—a true dissos logos, as witnessed in the diverse responses it engenders in the scholarship. Another version, so the narrator reports, ‘is said’ (λέγεται, ch. 33), that Cambyses suffers from a physical affliction, the so-called ‘sacred disease’, to which the narrator seems to give some qualified support for the ‘not unlikelihood’ that a condition of the mind might be the result of a physical condition. Finally, an over-fondness for wine seems to be the cause that the Persians give (ch. 34.3), should Cambyses’ interpretation of the view attributed to them by Prexaspes be trusted (nowhere does the logos narrate anything that would otherwise associate his behaviour with drunkenness).160 In providing three causes of Cambyses’ madness, the greater Cambyses narrative may be seen as recapitulating its introductory chapters, which gave three causes of the Egyptian campaign, from the same three sources, Persian (Hdt. 3.1.4~3.34.3), Egyptian (Hdt. 3.2.1~3.30), and one that is said (legetai, Hdt. 3.3.1~3.33). As also demonstrated there, the narrator’s rhetoric guides the responses that readers have to each of the possible causes, and as seen there he offers no unequivocal commitment to any of them: it is a strategy that leaves (and is designed to leave) readers responsible both for what they understand the cause to have been, and for their understanding of the causality to which they believe the narrator subscribes.

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Köhnken (1980) 46. Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2009a) 320. Cf. Cleomenes, whose madness his people also attribute to excessive drinking: Hdt. 6.84.1, where it is used to parry the explanation of divine punishment, and as such implying a lesser moral failing. A weakness for alcohol may be said to reside somewhere between the moral and the physical, a character flaw that effects the mind through the body.

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Avoided (‘least said’), however, in those introductory chapters was any mention of what might be called the ‘truest cause’ of the campaign, trumping all those that are given: the imperative of empire. Analogous to that introduction, the same underlying cause of Cambyses’ madness is likewise only implicit in the text, hinted at in the Ethiopian logos with its first mention of Cambyses’ mental state and the orge that caused him to set out on a campaign to the edges of the earth,161 disdaining both the moral and physical deterrents communicated to him by the Ethiopian king:162 this is the madness inherent in arche.163 I argued in 2017 that shaping Herodotus’ depiction of Cambyses’ Egyptian campaign was the Egyptian campaign of Athens’ arche. Here, in this last section, I want to suggest that the behaviour of the Athenians, as well as a concern with future reception of their arche should their (imperial) version of history prevail, lies behind Herodotus’ depiction of Cambyses’ madness. In any event, an explanation is certainly needed for his logos, for he had little or no evidence for depicting the mad Cambyses that he did.164 Here in closing I want briefly to cite some contemporary texts that demon‐ strate how chief among the ‘truest causes’ of Cambyses’ madness is contem‐ porary Athens. For while it is certainly true that, as an affliction identified by a person’s behaviour in relation to what his or her society considers ‘normal’, madness provided a useful vehicle to explore cultural relativity and the challenge that it poses to identifying and upholding certain universal nomoi, 165 ‘madness’ has further resonance to Herodotus’ contemporaries as a widespread critique of the Athenians, not least for their enthusiastic embracing of cultural relativity in order to assail any notion of certain morals being absolute and

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Hdt. 3.25.1–2: αὐτίκα ὁ Καμβύσης ὀργὴν ποιησάμενος ἐστρατεύετο ἐπὶ τοὺς Αἰθίοπας, οὔτε παρασκευὴν σίτου οὐδεμίαν παραγγείλας, οὔτε λόγον ἑωυτῷ δοὺς ὅτι ἐς τὰ ἔσχατα γῆς ἔμελλε στρατεύεσθαι· οἷα δὲ ἐμμανής τε ἐὼν καὶ οὐ φρενήρης, ὡς ἤκουε τῶν Ἰχθυοφάγων, ἐστρατεύετο. Moral (Hdt. 3.21.2): οὔτε ἐκεῖνος ἀνήρ δίκαιος. εἰ γὰρ ἦν δίκαιος, οὔτ᾽ ἂν ἐπεθύμησε χώρης ἄλλης ἢ τῆς ἑωυτοῦ, οὔτ᾽ ἂν ἐς δουλοσύνην ἀνθρώπους ἦγε ὑπ᾽ ὧν μηδὲν ἠδίκηται. Physical (3.21.3): ἐπεὰν οὕτω εὐπετέως ἕλκωσι [τὰ] τόξα Πέρσαι ἐόντα μεγάθεϊ τοσαῦτα, τότε ἐπ᾽ Αἰθίοπας τοὺς μακροβίους πλήθεϊ ὑπερβαλλόμενον στρατεύεσθαι·  As recognized by e.g. Marg (1962) 298, Provencal (2015) 234, Bichler (2018) 96–7. See Irwin (2017b) 137. This point is tremendously important, but deserves its own study: those discussions of Cambyses’ madness with far-reaching implications include Munson (1991), Selden (1999), and McPhee (2018). On cultural relativity, the sophists, and its social impact, see Guthrie (1971) ch. 7, Kerferd (1981) ch. 9, de Romilly (1992). For Herodotus’ relationship to them, and discussion of key methodological points about that relationship, see Barrionuevo (2017).

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universal. From the point of view of pantes anthropoi and certainly other Greeks, the Athenian demos suffered from a kind of collective madness. One reason that Athens may be said to have ‘caused’ Herodotus to portray ‘Cambyses’ as mad has to do with the intellectual climate there. Contemporary characterizations present Athenians as ‘mad’ for the teachings of the sophists, particularly those, such as the dissoi logoi, that were employed to make the weaker argument the stronger often for such ‘mad’ purposes as undermining traditional nomoi, both moral and religious.166 Numerous passages of Plato allude to negative portrayals of such intellectual trends as madness, their purveyors and/or consumers as ‘mad’,167 while a range of passages focus more specifically on that madness as it pertains to or impacts on attitudes towards traditional religious beliefs: Strepsiades, for instance, laments as a result of his new learning (Clouds 1476–78: οἴμοι παρανοίας. ὡς ἐμαινόμην ἄρα | ὅτ' ἐξέβαλον καὶ τοὺς θεοὺς διὰ Σωκράτη…—‘Alas, insanity! How mad I was when I threw out even the gods on account of Socrates…’);168 a character in Euripides censures the ‘madnesses of mortals’ that would replace the gods with tuche (Phrixos, fr. 154: ὦ θνητὰ παραϕρονήματ' ἀνθρώπων, | μάτην οἵ ϕασιν εἶναι τὴν τύχην ἀλλ' οὐ θεούς…—‘O the mortal insanities of mankind, in vain they say ‘fortune/ tuche’ exists, but not gods…’);169 Socrates attributed madness to the theories of Anaxagoras pertaining to astronomy, and to the hybris that its ability to explain the ‘mechanisms of the gods’ engendered (Xen. Mem. 4.7.6).170 Indeed as if a coda to the consequences of this madness at Athens, Sophocles’ Oedipus ends his life identifying the folly of those who commit hybris, ‘having thrown away the things divine and turning to madness’.171 This association of ‘madness’ with

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Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2009a) 320. For this culture at Athens see de Romilly (1992), esp. chs. 4 and 5. See also Barrionuevo (2017). See e.g. Rep. 539c, Meno 91b7–c4, 92a1–b3. See also 1480: ἐμοῦ παρανοήσαντος ἀδολεσχίᾳ. See e.g. Thucydides with Edmunds (1975). ‘He said that the one contemplating the heavens runs the risk of going mad (παραϕρονῆσαι) no less than Anaxagoras who having the most arrogant opinion of himself went mad because of his arrogance owing to his explicating the mechanisms of the gods (παρεϕρόνησεν ὁ μέγιστον ϕρονήσας ἐπὶ τῷ τὰς τῶν θεῶν μηχανὰς ἐξηγεῖσθαι)’ Cf. the complaint of Euthyphro (Pl. Euthyphro 3c2) that speaking in the assembly about the gods leads to him being ‘mocked as if a madman’ (καταγελῶσιν ὡς μαινομένου) and that this response is not reserved for him alone (ϕθονοῦσιν ἡμῖν πᾶσι τοῖς τοιούτοις). αἱ δὲ μυρίαι πόλεις, | κἂν εὖ τις οἰκῇ, ῥᾳδίως καθύβρισαν· | θεοὶ γὰρ εὖ μέν, ὀψὲ δ' εἰσορῶσ', ὅταν | τὰ θεῖ' ἀϕείς τις εἰς τὸ μαίνεσθαι τραπῇ· (‘Countless cities, even if someone lives well, easily commit hybris; ‘For the gods see well, but sometimes late, when someone scorns things pertaining to the gods and turns to insanity.’)

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the contemporary intellectual milieu at Athens helps to explain Herodotus’ pervasive engagement with their theories in Book 3.172 Quite simply, on one level Herodotus’ handling of Cambyses’ madness offers dissoi logoi on its cause, medical or divine, 173 but does so in the service of a deeper argument for a single universal and moral understanding of his behaviour.174 A tragic framing such as Herodotus gives Cambyses’ end might persuade readers to pity the Persian king his human failings—and in him also themselves, his failing potentially or actually also theirs—but, as the text is constructed, the cost of their penchant for the genre will be a commitment to the very traditional religious beliefs undermined by those other genres about which they’re so mad. Readers aren’t allowed to have it both ways—one would have to be an Amasis (as in Hdt. 3.1) to find a way out of these alternatives. That Athenians ‘cause’, as in lie behind, Cambyses’ madness is apparent in another important sense. ‘Madness’ was also a prominent critique of Athenian politics—domestic and foreign—and of Athens’ broader political culture.175 From the outside, Athenians could be considered mad for embracing a constitution (lit. a nomos) that preferred to let anyone, even ‘madmen’, advise in political matters and vote in the assembly ([Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.9) despite such an arrangement being considered obviously antithetical, as the Old Oligarch admits, to good governance (eunomia): What you consider bad political order (οὐκ εὐνομεῖσθαι) from this the demos itself derives its strength and is free (τούτου ἰσχύει ὁ δῆμος καὶ ἐλεύθερός ἐστιν). If you’re looking for good political order (εὐνομίαν), first you will find the most intelligent men to make laws for them; then the people with something to offer (οἱ χρηστοὶ) will punish the worthless (τοὺς πονηροὺς ) and those worthy (οἱ χρηστοὶ) will take counsel concerning the city and they will not allow madmen (μαινομένους

172

173

174 175

Protagorean relativism and Hippocratic rationalism are among the theories drawn on and implicitly critiqued in Book 3. For Herodotus and and contemporary intellectuals see Ubsdell (1983) ch. 3; Lateiner (1986); Thomas (2000); Raaflaub (2002); Provencal (2015) ch. 2. This vast and important subject obviously cannot be pursued in depth here. This is how one can explain the conflict in the scholarship between Reinhardt (1940) 156 and Friedrich (1973) 116–18; on which see Köhnken (1980) 42 n. 27. Cf. de Jong (2006) 12 whose rhetoric shows just how difficult it is to positively assert the text is arguing for divine punishment; more nuanced is McPhee (2018) 75–7. Again, in allowing reader to construct an argument both for and against divine involvement, we find further evocation of Protagoras known for his antilogies (DK 80 fr. 5). This recapitulates the implicit argument of ch. 16: regardless of whether fire is a god or an animal, or indeed if Cambyses is testing the resiliency of an embalmed body, the moral valence of his act remains the same. Cf. Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2009a) 320.

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ἀνθρώπους) to serve on the council, nor to speak, nor to take part in the assembly (βουλεύειν οὐδὲ λέγειν οὐδὲ ἐκκλησιάζειν).176 From these good arrangements, how‐ ever, the demos would very quickly be reduced to slavery (εἰς δουλείαν).

As the Old Oligarch himself shows, this characterization of the Athenian boule and ekklesia as populated by madmen is, however, not only the criticism of outsiders. One finds other Athenian critics, as for instance in the Platonic Axiochus where Socrates uses the phrase mainomenos demos, when referring to the behaviour of Athenians in the assembly, a characterization with which his interlocutor Axiochus would agree. There it is voiced in the context of the Arginusae generals (368d), when the sovereign demos transgressed its own nomoi and committed violence against its own citizens in sentencing the generals of that battle en masse to death:177 For you know, don’t you, Axiochus, politically minded as you are, how Miltiades met his death? And how Themistocles? And how Ephialtes? And how yesterday the ten generals fared, when I would not raise the matter for deliberation? For it did not seem to me to be honourable to rule in concert with a demos behaving insanely (οὐ γὰρ ἐϕαίνετό μοι σεμνὸν μαινομένῳ δήμῳ συνεξάρχειν).178

Madness could also be applied to the behaviour of Athenians in the brutal exercise of their arche, and their nostalgia to regain it, as shown in Isocrates’ On the Peace (41.5): 176 177

178

This is in response to the founding principle of the democratic assembly, that ὁ βουλόμενος is entitled to speak: see e.g. see e.g. [Xen.] Ath. Pol. 1.2, 1.6 and [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 9.1, with Marr and Rhodes (2008) 64, 69–70 and Irwin (2014) 63 n. 104. That the Persians against whom Cambyses madly rages (highlighted in Hdt. 3.34.1, 3.37.1) are called ‘your own citizens’ (σεωυτοῦ πολιήτας) by Croesus might suggest the behaviour of a tyrannical demos against its own citizen members sooner than an Eastern monarch. Given Croesus also points out that Cambyses is ‘killing children’ it might be worth mentioning that the general Dietrephes, of Mycallessus infamy (Thuc. 7.29.3–5), was called mainomenos in Plat. Com. fr. 30 (= Σ vetera ad Ar. Birds 798b), on whom see Dunbar (1995) 484–5. On dating [Pl.] Axiochus see Irwin (2015c) 63 n. 2. Cf. Pl. Rep. 496c7 which speaks of those who have seen enough of the ‘madness of the many’ (τῶν πολλῶν αὖ ἱκανῶς ἰδόντες τὴν μανίαν), among whom οὐδεὶς οὐδὲν ὑγιὲς ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν περὶ τὰ τῶν πόλεων πράττει (‘virtually no one does anything sound concerning the affairs of the city’) and therefore stay out of politics rather than perish at their hands in their attempts to defend justice; Pl. Demodocus 381d2 for indirect criticism of the entire premise underlying the democratic assembly; cf. Pl. Alc. II 139c-d. This constitutional critique resonates with Book 3 exploration of political organization and political rule as a nomos, culminating in the Constitutional Debate (Hdt. 3.80–2), but prepared for by examples of kingship nomoi in Hdt. 3.2 (Persians), 3.20.2 (Ethiopians); on the sophistic origins of this antilogie see Lasserre (1971), Demont (1994), Raaflaub (2002) 161, Pelling (2002), Provencal (2015) 59–71.

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For who, coming from outside and not yet having become corrupted along with us (μήπω συνδιεϕθαρμένος ἡμῖν),179 but suddenly witnessing what’s going on, would not consider us to be mad and deranged (οὐκ ἂν μαίνεσθαι καὶ παραϕρονεῖν ἡμᾶς νομίσειεν)?180

In this context, one might note that Cambyses’ passion of choice, orge, is one commonly displayed both by the Athenian demos in their assemblies and juries and by their most powerful leader.181 A wider historical contextualization of the discourse of madness in Classical Athens is certainly warranted.182 Other sources point to broader issues related to the political, moral, ethical implications of how madness is defined and treated, and even of its mimesis, not least in tragedy (e.g. Pl. Rep. 396b8). This concern with what tragedy depicts, and its effects on its viewers,183 seems likely to have contributed to Herodotus’ decision to draw so heavily and challengingly on this genre in his Cambyses logos. Exploration of this topic must, however, be reserved for another context. Such a study would require comprehensive reconsideration of Herodotus’ relationship to tragedy that extends beyond the mere recognition of allusion or tragic colouring.184 It would also entail addressing the possibility of the Histories containing a sustained critique of the ways in which Athenians put

179 180

181 182 183 184

The word συνδιεϕθαρμένος may well allude to the deleterious effect of the sophists on Athenian morals and political philosophy, as in the charge against Socrates as ‘corrupting the youth’. This section begins Isocrates’ account both of how badly governed Athens is, and his recounting of their abuses – the asebeia – of their forefathers during the arche, particularly in comparison to those praiseworthy deeds and behaviour that had brought them hegemony in the first place. One should note that once again an element of Herodotus’ account jars in relation to Cambyses, and may point outside the text to Athens as Isocrates suggests: ‘allies’ (summachoi) as recipients of Cambyses’ many such acts of madness (Hdt. 3.37.1) alludes to nothing that has been depicted, unless one stretches the term ally to include Croesus, or one presumes allies (though explicitly not Greek) in the land forces led on the disastrously mad Ethiopian campaign (Hdt. 3.25.2) to the edges of the earth, or thinks by allies the Egyptians are meant. For further madness associated with an expansionist venture, cf. Ar. Birds 427. Of the assembly/demos: see e.g. Thuc. 2.60.1, 3.36.2, etc. with Connor (1984) 88, 100–1, 258; Ar. Kn. 41. Of Athenian juries: Ar. Wasps. 243, 404, 424, 560, 574, 646, 727, 883, etc. Of Pericles: Ar. Ach. 530. See Irwin (2014) 39–42, 66 n. 119. The studies of Padel (1981), (1992) are important, but are still largely literary and lack political contextualization. See, for instance, Dionysus as ‘mad’ for Euripides in Ar. Frogs 103. This is recognized by Chiasson (2003) 7.

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tragic mimesis to use in order to evade responsibility for, as inexorably human, their own hamartiai in the exercise of their arche.185 11 Conclusion and Further Directions Summary While there are other ways in which Herodotus’ Cambyses episode has been made to reflect the behaviour and events involving those ‘despots’ possessing an arche closer to home,186 the focus of this article has been the analysis of two complementary aspects of Cambyses’ logos. First, it has examined those textual strategies that manoeuvre readers into responses mirroring those of a character that they might have supposed to be very different from themselves and whose behaviour they might have considered something both alien to them and perhaps even distinctly Persian. Herodotus’ depiction of Cambyses seems to corroborate caricatures of lawless Eastern monarchs only to undercut them: on the one hand, Cambyses’ behaviour is presented as in no way typical of Persian monarchy187, and is depicted as worthy of censure by the Persians themselves; and, on the other, Herodotus’ ‘Cambyses’ is not Cambyses. Herodotus’ account and other sources suggest that the readers most susceptible to the text’s inducements in this direction will also have been those equivocal about the respect due to nomoi, others and even their own, and above all, those of an imperialist disposition—or, among future readers, those who admire them. The potential the text has for becoming a mirror to readers, in turn, raised the question of just who Herodotus’ ‘Cambyses’ may really be, a question made all the more pressing since neither is the Cambyses of Book 3 attested in Egyptian sources, nor do we find it an unproblematical corroboration of the official Persian version. Just as causation was seen to be a major theme of the logoi of Book 3 (why did Cambyses conquer Egypt? what caused his madness?), the question exists also at the level of metanarrative: what explains Herodotus’ distinctive Cambyses, the ‘mad’ and ‘tragic’ possessor of an arche?

185 186 187

For an excellent discussion of the subversive effects of tragedy and Aristotle’s response to them (and to Plato), see Murnaghan (1995), esp. 758–60. This is also true of Darius and the entire content of Book 3, but the subject lies outside of the present study. For discussion of various logoi of Book 3 from this perspective, see Irwin (2007), (2009), (2011b) 438–44, (2017b) 137, (2018b) 47–51. See West (1999) 124 for Greek failure at times to ‘distinguish institutional from individual characteristics’ in relation to the Persian king, noting that Herodotus’ depiction of Cambyses’ hybris is ‘of a more personal quality’.

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The second aspect has to do with the idea of recognition and self-recognition as thematized in the genre of tragedy. Deployed in two salient episodes of the Cambyses logos, tragedy is Herodotus’ genre of choice owing not only to its focus on anagnorisis and its assertion that such peripeteiai as it depicts are ones to which humans are mutatis mutandis universally susceptible, but also to both its actual popularity with those at whom his depiction of Cambyses was aimed, and its anticipated popularity with future readers. He exploits features of the tragic genre in order to challenge readers who believe themselves its connoisseurs (and in the case of Athenians, those boasting to be its inventors) as to whether they will experience their own recognition, and understand in this particular story both the contemporary Greek referent, the Athenians, but perhaps also something of themselves to whom the thought of seeing Athens in this way might never have occurred. The text invites the recognition that the madness of Cambyses is one that is both among those polla kaka to which all humans are subject (so ch. 33) and could also specifically be theirs—‘this Cambyses’, Herodotus’ Cambyses, c’est moi: this is a textual strategy fitting for a narrative that has reveled in portraying doubles and imposters. Like Amasis with Nitetis, Herodotus is ho diaballon pretending his Cambyses is the son of Cyrus when he is really the child of someone far closer to home. Challenge With this analysis of Cambyses’ logos the gauntlet is thrown down for those who want to use the Histories as a historical source for the period it ostensibly depicts, seeing Herodotus as a historian attempting only to give the most accurate and straightforward account of the past that he can, coping (in vain) with the limitations of the sources available to him and influenced by ‘folktale motifs’ to fill in the inevitable gaps. But it is no less a challenge for the literary critics who fail to recognize that, in treating the text either narrowly as a purely literary object or with historical contextualizations either vague or limited by preconceptions of the purpose of the text and the sophistication of its (ancient) author, they fail in the very object of criticism itself. The approach put forward here is likely to be liberating for Egyptologists. Forward The analysis here offers an author of the highest rhetorical and intellectual sophistication both engaged in a commentary on the intellectual, political and moral climate of his day, and attempting to influence future reception of its ideas, events, and agents. His logos itself is a historical event (ergon) in its own right, and as such not only an intervention in the history of the period, but also

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an attempt to influence the future history of this period that will be written, and this is never more apparent than with Herodotus’ depiction of Persian history in Book 3. There is a reason for this. In the case of Book 3, Herodotus’ depiction of this episode in Persian history both stands in relation to, as well as contrasts with, what it is likely that he and others like him learned from Darius’ example about the power of power—especially imperial power—to influence narratives of the past and what can even be known about it. In this sense it is not just Athenians that are the ‘truest cause’ of Herodotus’ depiction of a mad Cambyses, but they also stand alongside a host of related causes: Darius, Athenian arche and Persian arche, the reception of the latter by the former, and how the future will receive the history of both. The next stage of this argument is to use this understanding to reconsider in a comprehensive way the relationship that Herodotus’ logos strikes with the Bisitun inscription,188 the way in which Herodotus’ depiction of Cambyses engages with his depiction of Darius, and the reasons behind his handling of Cambyses’ successor, and what he may be trying to communicate both about the relationship between historiography and empire and its application to his own times. Bibliography Editions of classical authors L’Oedipe Roi de Sophocles, III., Jean Bollack, Lille 1990. Aristophanes Birds, Nan Dunbar, Oxford 1995. Aeschylus, Agamemnon. Vol. II, Eduart Fraenkel, Oxford 1950. Aeschylus, Persae, Edith Hall, Warminster 1991.

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The intertexts with Behistun are so great as to suggest both that he knows the text and that, while replicating the essentials of the ‘official version’, he is consciously deviating from it: Köhnken (1980).

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Lateiner (1986): Donald Lateiner, ‘The empirical element in the methods of early Greek medical writers and Herodotus: a shared epistemological response’, Antichthon 20, 1–20. Lateiner (1989): Donald Lateiner, The Historical Method of Herodotus, Toronto. Lattimore (1939): Richmond Lattimore, ‘The wise advisor in Herodotus’, CP 34, 24–35. Lebeck (1971): Anne Lebeck, The Oresteia. A Study in Language and Structure, Wash‐ ington DC. Lesher (1992): James Lesher, Xenophanes of Colophon, Toronto. Létoublon (1985): Françoise Létoublon, Il allait, pareil a la nuit: les verbes de mouvement en Grec: suppletisme et aspect verbal, Paris. Marg (1962): Walter Marg, ‘”Selbstsicherheit” bei Herodot’, in: Walter Marg (ed.), Herodot. Eine Auswahl aus der neueren Forschung, Munich, 290–301. McPhee (2018): Brian McPhee, ‘A mad king in a mad world: the death of Cambyses in Herodotus’, Histos 12, 71–96. Marr and Rhodes (2008): John L. Marr and Peter J. Rhodes, The ‘Old Oligarch’: The Constitution of the Athenians attributed to Xenophon, Oxford. Meiggs (1972): Russel Meiggs, The Athenian Empire, Oxford. Moles (1979): John Moles, ‘Notes on Aristotle, Poetics 13 and 14’, CQ 29, 77–94. Munson (1991): Rosario Vignolo Munson, ‘The madness of Cambyses (Herodotus 3.16– 38)’, Arethusa 24, 43–65. Munson (2001): Rosario Vignolo Munson, Telling Wonders. Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Murnaghan (1995): Sheila Murnaghan, ‘Sucking the juice without biting the rind: Aristotle and tragic mimēsis’, New Literary History 264, 755–73. North (1966): Helen North, Sophrosune. Self-Knowledge and Self-Restraint in Greek Literature, Ithaca. Padel (1981): Ruth Padel, ‘Madness in fifth-century Athenian tragedy’, in: Paul Heelas and Andrew Lock (eds.), Indigenous Psychologies, London, 105–31. Padel (1992): Ruth Padel, In and Out of the Mind. Greek Images of the Tragic Self, Princeton. Pearson (1954): Lionel Pearson, ‘Real and conventional personalities in Greek history’, JHI 15, 136–45. Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2009a): Helene Perdicoyianni-Paléologou, ‘The vocabulary of madness from Homer to Hippocrates. Part 1: the verbal group of μαίνομαι*’, History of Psychiatry 20, 311–39. Perdicoyianni-Paléologou (2009b): Helene Perdicoyianni-Paléologou, ‘The vocabulary of madness from Homer to Hippocrates. Part 2: the verbal group of βαχκεύω and the noun λύσσα*’, History of Psychiatry 20, 457–67. Pelling (2002): Christopher Pelling, ‘Speech and action: Herodotus’ debate on the constitutions’, PCPhS 48, 123–58.

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Pelling (2006): Christopher Pelling, ‘Herodotus and Homer’, in: Michael J. Clarke et al. (eds.), Epic interactions: perspectives on Homer, Virgil, and the Epic Tradition Presented to Jasper Griffen by Former Pupils, Oxford, 75–104. Posener (1936): Georges Posener, La première domination perse en Égypt, Paris. Provencal (2015): Vernon Provencal, Sophist Kings: Persians as Other in Herodotus, London and New York. Raaflaub (2002): Kurt Raaflaub, ‘Philosophy, science, politics: Herodotus and the intel‐ lectual trends of his time’, in: Egbert J. Bakker, Irene J. F. de Jong, and Hans van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus, Boston and Leiden, 149–86. Raaflaub (2009): Kurt Raaflaub, ‘Learning from the enemy. Athenian and Persian ‘instruments of empire’, in: John Ma, Nikolaos Papazarkadas and Robert Parker (eds.), Interpreting the Athenian Empire, London, 89–124. Reinhardt (1940): Karl Reinhardt, ‘Herodots Persegeschichten: Östliches und Westliches im Übergang von Sage zu Geschichte’, Geistige Überlieferung: ein Jahrbuch, Berlin, 138–84. Rollinger (2006): Robert Rollinger, ‘Ein besonderes historisches Problem: die Thronbes‐ teigung des Dareios und die Frage seiner Legitimität’, in: Historisches Museum der Pfalz Speyer (ed.), Das Persische Weltreich. Pracht und Prunk der Großkönige, Stuttgart, 41–53. Rollinger (2014): Robert Rollinger, ‘Das teispidisch-achaimenidische Großreich. Ein ‘Imperium’ avant la lettre?, in: Michael Gehler and Robert Rollinger (eds.), Imperien in der Weltgeschichte. Epochenübergreifende und globalhistorische Vergleiche, 2 Vols., Wiesbaden, 149–92. Rollinger (2016): Robert Rollinger, ‘Royal strategies of representation and the language(s) of power: some considerations on the audience and the dissemination of the Achae‐ menid Royal inscriptions’, in: Stefan Procházka et al. (eds.), Official Epistolography and the Language(s) of Power, Vienna, 117–30. Rösler (1991): Wolfgang Rösler, ‘Die ‘Selbsthistorisierung’ des Autors. Zur Stellung Her odots zwischen Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit’, Philologus 135, 215–20. Ross (1923): William David Ross, Aristotle, Oxford. Rutherford (2007): Richard Rutherford, ‘Tragedy and history’, in: John Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Oxford, 504–14. Said (2002): Suzanne Said, ‘Herodotus and tragedy’, in: Egbert J. Bakker, Irene J. F. de Jong, and Hans van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus, Boston and Leiden, 117–148. Schütrumpf (1989): Eckart Schütrumpf, ‘Traditional elements in the concept of hamartia in Aristotle’s Poetics’, HSPh 92, 137–56. Schwab (2020): Andreas Schwab, Fremde Religion in Herodots ‘Historien’: Religiöse Mehr‐ dimensionalität bei Persern und Ägyptern, Stuttgart.

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Schwinghammer (2011): Gundula Schwinghammer, ‘Die Smerdis Story – der Usurpator, Dareios, und die Bestrafung der ‘Lügenkönige’, in: Robert Rollinger et al. (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich/Herodotus and the Persian Empire, Wiesbaden, 665–88. Seaford (1987): Richard Seaford, ‘Pentheus’ vision: Bacchae 918–22’, CQ 37, 76–8. Selden (1999): Daniel L. Selden, ‘Cambyses’ madness, or the reason of history’, MD 42, 33–63. Smelik and Hemerlrijk (1984): Klaas A. D. Smelik and Emily A. Hemerlrijk, ‘Who knows not what monsters demented Egypt worships?’ Opinions on Egyptian Animal Worship as part of the ancient conception of Egypt’, ANRW II xvii 4, Berlin, 1852–2000. Spiegelberg (1927): Wilhelm Spiegelberg, The Credibility of Herodotus’ Account of Egypt in the Light of the Egyptian Monuments, Oxford. Stinton (1975): Thomas C. W. Stinton, ‘Hamartia in Aristotle and Greek tragedy’, CQ 25, 221–54. Torrance (2013): Isabell Torrance, Metapoetry in Euripides, Oxford. Thomas (2000): Rosalind Thomas, Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Oxford. Thumiger (2017): Chiara Thumiger, A History of the Mind and Mental Health in Classical Greek Thought, Cambridge. Ubsdell (1983): Simon Ubsdell, Herodotus on Human Nature: Studies in Herodotean Thought, Method, and Exposition, PhD diss., Oxford. Walser (1983): Gerold Walser, ‘Der Tod des Kambyses’, in: Heinz Heinen, Karl Stroheker, and Gerold Walser (eds.), Althistorische Studien: Hermann Bengtson zum 70. Geburtstag dargebracht von Kollegen und Schülern, Wiesbaden, 8–23. Wesselmann (2011): Katharina Wesselmann, Mythische Erzählstrukturen in Herodots ‘Historien’, Berlin. West (1999): Stephanie West, ‘Sophocles’ Antigone and Herodotus Book Three’, in: Jasper Griffin (ed.), Sophocles Revisited, Oxford, 109–36. Wilson (2015): Nigel Wilson, Herodotea. Studies on the Text of Herodotus, Oxford.

Herodotus’ verbal strategies to depict Cambyses’ abnormality

Anna Bonifazi

This paper delves into the linguistic choices by means of which Herodotus characterizes Cambyses’ persona in Hdt. 3.1–38 and 3.61–66.1 More precisely, it spotlights the historian’s verbal representation of the abnormality of the king’s behavior, which is mostly manifested nonverbally. My argument aims at three points drawing on the general assumption that the historical, religious, and cul‐ tural significance of any Herodotean logos cannot be considered independently of the actual words used in that logos. The first point is to show, at least partially, how Herodotus shapes this logos as he wants by weaving information from other sources as well as his own inquiries into a literary masterpiece.2 The second point is to reinforce Munson’s idea of an implicit comparison between Cambyses and Herodotus:3 what Cambyses represents is proven to be the opposite of what Herodotus’ Histories are supposed to represent, words and non-words being the pivotal elements. The third point is to relate the linguistic choices in question to the cognitive and semiotic phenomenon of iconicity. The following sections illustrate individual recurring patterns that in my view represent strategies to convey Cambyses’ abnormality. The concluding section attributes iconic meanings to these strategies.

1

2 3

Several contributions in this volume discuss historical evidence of the exceptional character of Cambyses in Herodotus, especially his negative/doomed profile on the political, religious, and personal level. Earlier secondary literature weighing Herodotus’ portrait of Cambyses’ madness include e.g. Hofmann and Vorbichler (1980), Brown (1982), and Munson (1991). To use Beltrametti’s terms (1986), Herodotean history is governed by discourse, rather than discourse being governed by history. See below, section 2.

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1 Forward-oriented discourse deixis, and zooming in on horrifying details The first two linguistic patterns concern the way in which different moments of the interwoven stories are introduced. The underlying strategy is to keep high the attention and the involvement of the recipients. Let us focus first on the high frequency of deictic markers in phrases and clauses pointing to the immediately following discourse. While deictic forms of ὅδε pointing to objects or individuals are sporadic, and mostly occur in direct speech, deictic markers such as τάδε, τοιάδε pointing to immediately following content are quite common in Herodotus.4 They represent forward-oriented discourse deixis: their meaning corresponds to “this, which is going to follow right now”.5 In the Cambyses logos they do not necessarily highlight facts or explanations dealing just with Cambyses; however, in chapters 1 to 38 their frequency is exceptional (32 tokens). Τοιάδε (11 instances overall) at Hdt. 3.9.1 points to the description of the plan devised by the Arabian king to provide water to Cambyses’ army; at Hdt. 3.14.1 it introduces Cambyses’ test of Psammenitus’ spirit; at Hdt. 3.21.2 it introduces the sharp verbal reaction of the Ethiopian king to Cambyses’ gifts; at Hdt. 3.28.3 it points to the list of signs showing when a regular calf is the embodiment of Apis. Next, we find instances of τοιόνδε, τοιῷδε, and τοιήνδε playing the same role: τοιόνδε πρῆγμα at Hdt. 3.4.1 points to the upcoming (further) episode in favor of the campaign against the Egyptians; πρῆγμα … τοιόνδε at Hdt. 3.11.1 points to the mercenaries’ plan against Phanes; τρόπῳ τοιῷδε at Hdt. 3.8.1 and 3.24.1 introduces the description of pledges by the Arabians and the process of mummification by the Egyptians respectively; τοιῷδε at Hdt. 3.20.2 signposts the description of a custom of the Fish-eaters; αἰτίην τοιήνδε at Hdt. 3.1.1 introduces the reason why Cambyses decided to attack the Egyptians; ὄψιν … τοιήνδε at Hdt. 3.30.2 anticipates the description of Cambyses’ dream about Smerdis. Further deictic markers of discourse are forms of ὅδε used as adjectives or pronouns (10 instances): ὅδε λόγος at Hdt. 3.3.1 introduces a further tale justifying Cambyses’ anger against the Egyptians; αἴτιον … τόδε (Hdt. 3.12.2) and αἴτιον τόδε (Hdt. 3.12.4) point to the explanations about the hard skulls of the Egyptians and the soft skulls of the Persians respectively; ἐπὶ τῷδε τῷ λόγῳ at Hdt. 3.36.5 points to the reasoning of Cambyses’ servants after hiding Croesus; τῷδε at Hdt. 3.38.2 introduces the proof that people care most about 4 5

According to the TLG online (ed. Legrand), the Histories overall include 332 τάδε, 124 ὧδε, 14 τῷδε, 60 τοιάδε, and 58 τοιόνδε. On discourse deixis see e.g. Lyons (1977), Levinson (2004), Cornish (2007).

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their own customs; ἐποίησε τάδε at Hdt. 3.1.3 points to the details of Amasis’ plan not to give his daughter to Cambyses; τάδε at Hdt. 3.34.1 signposts the list of signs of madness involving other Persians beside Cambyses’ family; τάδε at Hdt. 3.26.3 introduces further information by the Ammonians about Cambyses’ expedition against them (λέγεται δὲ καὶ τάδε ὑπ’ αὐτῶν Ἀμμωνίων); ὧδε at Hdt. 3.4.3 introduces Phanes’ suggestions for Cambyses at the outset of the expedition against the Egyptians; ὧδε at Hdt. 3.31.2 signposts the description of how Cambyses managed to marry his sister.6 Finally, τάδε (six times), and τοῖσδε (four times), serve to introduce direct speech. The speakers in question are Cambyses (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.34.1; τοισίδε at Hdt. 3.34.3 and 3.36.2); Croesus (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.34.5; τοισίδε at Hdt. 3.36.1); Cambyses’ messenger (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.14.8; Cassandane (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.3.1); the Fish-eaters (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.21.1); the Ethiopian king (see τάδε at Hdt. 3.21.3); Psammenitus (see τοισίδε at Hdt. 3.14.9). Introductions to direct speech and introductions to upcoming detailed de‐ scriptions ultimately share the same pragmatic and cognitive function: they mark an upcoming discontinuity in the discourse consisting in zooming in either on a sequence of specific information or on specific words being uttered at a specific point in time. The second linguistic pattern also deals with discourse discontinuity and with a zooming-in technique. This time, though, the zooming-in is understood quite literally: it refers to the visualization of details, and, in particular, horrifying details.7 For instance, after someone is singled out (of a multitude of people), cruel details dealing with the slaughtering/torturing/disfiguring of body parts are added. Besides the revenge by the Egyptian mercenaries on Phanes (Hdt. 3.11.2) and the cannibalistic acts of the Persian army in the desert (Hdt. 3.25.6)8, 6

7 8

At Hdt. 3.3.1 ὧδε exceptionally reinforces ταῦτα with backward reference to the account just concluded (καὶ ταῦτα μὲν ὧδε ἔχει). At Hdt. 3.35.2 τοῦδε deictically refers to Prexaspes’ son in direct speech. Against the employment of ὅδε in direct speech as a marker pointing to someone/something, at Hdt. 3.21.3 τόδε reflects a rare deictic usage in third-person narration: τόξον τόδε points to the bow that the Ethiopian king gives to Cambyses. By saying “horrifying” I assume some emotional convergence between the reaction of modern readers and that of ancient audiences. Ἦσαν τῷ Φάνῃ παῖδες ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ καταλελειμμένοι· τοὺς ἀγαγόντες ἐς τὸ στρατόπεδον καὶ ἐς ὄψιν τοῦ πατρὸς κρητῆρα ἐν μέσῳ ἔστησαν ἀμφοτέρων τῶν στρατοπέδων, μετὰ δὲ ἀγινέοντες κατὰ ἕνα ἕκαστον τῶν παίδων ἔσφαζον ἐς τὸν κρητῆρα· (Hdt. 3.11.2) “Phanes had left sons in Egypt; these they brought to the camp, into their father´s sight, and set a great bowl between the two armies; then they brought the sons one by one and cut their throats over the bowl;” Οἱ δὲ στρατιῶται ἕως μέν τι εἶχον ἐκ τῆς γῆς λαμβάνειν, ποιηφαγέοντες διέζωον· ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐς τὴν ψάμμον

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Cambyses ipse is the one who implements a series of horrific decisions. He lets Psammenitus watch his son bound with ropes and bits on the way to death: δεύτερά οἱ τὸν παῖδα ἔπεμπε μετ’ ἄλλων Αἰγυπτίων δισχιλίων τὴν αὐτὴν ἡλικίην ἐχόντων, τούς τε αὐχένας κάλῳ δεδεμένους καὶ τὰ στόματα ἐγκεχαλινωμένους (Hdt. 3.14.4) Cambyses next made Psammenitus’ son pass him with two thousand Egyptians of like age besides, all with ropes bound round their necks and bits in their mouths.

Later in the story he famously orders abuses on the corpse of Amasis: αὐτίκα ἐκέλευε ἐκ τῆς ταφῆς τὸν Ἀμάσιος νέκυν ἐκφέρειν ἔξω· ὡς δὲ ταῦτά οἱ ἐπιτελέα ἐγένετο, μαστιγοῦν τὸν νέκυν ἐκέλευε καὶ τὰς τρίχας ἀποτίλλειν καὶ κεντροῦν τε καὶ τἆλλα πάντα λυμαίνεσθαι (Hdt. 3.16.1) (…) straightway he bade carry Amasis’ body out from its place of burial; and when this was accomplished, he gave the command to scourge it and pull out the hair and do it despite in all other ways.

The most horrific (qua sacrilegious) detail is his killing of Apis: Ὡς δὲ ἤγαγον τὸν Ἆπιν οἱ ἱρέες, ὁ Καμβύσης, οἷα ἐὼν ὑπομαργότερος, σπασάμενος τὸ ἐγχειρίδιον, θέλων τύψαι τὴν γαστέρα τοῦ Ἄπιος παίει τὸν μηρόν· (Hdt. 3.29.1) When the priests led Apis in, Cambyses—for he was well-nigh mad—drew his dagger and made to stab the calf in the belly, but smote the thigh.

Finally, after shooting an arrow to Prexaspes’ son, he orders that the body is dismembered, to let the wounds be examined: Εἰ μὲν γὰρ τοῦ παιδὸς τοῦ σοῦ τοῦδε ἑστεῶτος ἐν τοῖσι προθύροισι βαλὼν τύχω μέσης τῆς καρδίης, Πέρσαι φανέονται λέγοντες οὐδέν· ἢν δὲ ἁμάρτω, φάναι Πέρσας τε λέγειν ἀληθέα καὶ ἐμὲ μὴ σωφρονέειν.» Ταῦτα δὲ εἰπόντα καὶ διατείναντα τὸ τόξον βαλεῖν τὸν παῖδα, πεσόντος δὲ τοῦ παιδὸς ἀνασχίζειν αὐτὸν κελεύειν καὶ σκέψασθαι τὸ βλῆμα· (Hdt. 3.35.2–3) “[Y]onder stands your son in the porch; now if I shoot and pierce his heart, that will prove the Persians to be wrong; if I miss, then say that they are right and I out of my senses.” So saying he strung his bow and hit the boy, and bade open the fallen body and examine the wound. ἀπίκοντο, δεινὸν ἔργον αὐτῶν τινες ἐργάσαντο· ἐκ δεκάδος γὰρ ἕνα σφέων αὐτῶν ἀποκληρώσαντες κατέφαγον (Hdt. 3.25.6) “While his soldiers could get anything from the earth, they kept themselves alive by eating grass; but when they came to the sandy desert, certain of them did a terrible deed, taking by lot one man out of ten and eating him.” Please note the explicit mention of a δεινὸν ἔργον. All translations are by Godley (1920).

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I postulate three possible goals of this zooming-in cinematic technique. The first is to use visual details to convey horror, bodily horror. In the article “Point of View and Design for Terror in Beowulf”, Renoir (1962) shows that terrifying effects in the Old English masterpiece are the result of a careful selection of visual details.9 The second goal is to invite listeners and readers to join the internal spectators—almost invariably, someone besides the agent(s) is watching the scene. Mentioning the details suggests closeness and participation “on the spot”. The third goal is meta-historiographical: the historian wants to show the “spectacle of enquiry”. As Ahern suggests, the depiction of the macabre and the violent reflects the histor’s duty to inspect the mechanics of cruel deaths.10 2 Stress on Cambyses’ nonverbal and verbal illogicality In Herodotus’ logos, Cambyses fails as a king, as he reverses “both the loyalty to the dynasty (…) and the respect for customs” (Immerwahr [1966] 168). He fails also as military strategist, judging from Herodotus’ account of the expedition against Carthage (Hdt. 3.19), the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.2611), and the Ethiopians (Hdt. 3.25).12 Finally, he fails as an inquirer. The idea of sending spies to Ethiopia turns out to be unsuccessful. Most of all, he can only perform “twisted” experiments/tests (see Christ [2013] 234 for the term); in a word, he turns out to be a “perverted histor” (Munson [1991] 62). Besides his professional (if not personal) failures, we may consider his way of reversing meanings. For instance, he not only misunderstands but also reverses, in his mind, the reason for the Egyptians’ festive behavior (Hdt. 3.27.2–3)—he thinks they are lying, while they are actually telling the truth.13 Analogously, he devises the delivery of special gifts for the Ethiopian king as tokens of friendship 9 10 11

12 13

Bonifazi and Elmer (2016) advance that the same technique is used in a Serbocroatian epic song recorded by Milman Parry (Milman Parry Collection, PN [Parry Number] 662). Ahern (2011) 40–41; 1 for the quoted phrase. Hdt. 3.26.2 abounds in negative markers (ἐς μὲν δὴ τοῦτον τὸν χῶρον λέγεται ἀπικέσθαι τὸν στρατόν· τὸ ἐνθεῦτεν δέ, ὅτι μὴ αὐτοὶ Ἀμμώνιοι καὶ οἱ τούτων ἀκούσαντες, ἄλλοι οὐδένες οὐδὲν ἔχουσι εἰπεῖν περὶ αὐτῶν· οὔτε γὰρ ἐς τοὺς Ἀμμωνίους ἀπίκοντο οὔτε ὀπίσω ἐνόστησαν). See section 4 about their cognitive significance. A further failure—more on a symbolic than a factual level—is what we can infer from Hdt. 3.30.1: unlike Smerdis (and, for a Greek audience, unlike Odysseus), he fails to draw the Ethiopian bow. Later Herodotus puts in Cambyses’ mouth, as he kills the Apis-bull, “Do not think you will get away with making me a laughingstock” (ἀτάρ τοι ὑμεῖς γε οὐ χαίροντες γέλωτα ἐμὲ θήσεσθε, Hdt. 3.29.2); actually it is him who laughs as he talks (γελάσας, 3.29.1). More below on his laughter.

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(Hdt. 3.20), but the Ethiopian king interprets them (correctly) as signs of a quite opposite attitude (Hdt. 3.22.1–3).14 Further reversals instantiate Cambyses’ nonverbal paranoiac behavior through his crimes and sacrilegious acts. For example, he does the opposite of what human beings cross-culturally are likely to do (in Herodotus’ as well as in our mindset), that is, abusing the dead.15 Another reversal (however indirect) is the causation of cannibalism (Hdt. 3.25.6).16 Furthermore, Herodotus does not miss the opportunity to show further reversals by opposing himself to people weeping/crying. When Cambyses and his wife watch the lion and the puppy, the wife cries, but he is delighted and admires the spectacle (Hdt. 3.32.2 ἥδεσθαι θεώμενον). During the Psammenitus experiment, Cambyses is the only one who does not weep (see, conversely, Hdt. 3.14.7 ἀνακλαύσας said of Psammenitus; Hdt. 3.14.11 δακρύειν said of Croesus; δακρύειν said of other Persians). Besides, the twofold description of the Egyptians shouting out and lamenting over their daughters degraded and manhandled, and of the daughters themselves shouting out and crying, stresses—I submit—people’s disappointment towards unjust/wrong actions: ὡς δὲ βοῇ τε καὶ κλαυθμῷ παρήισαν αἱ παρθένοι παρὰ τοὺς πατέρας, οἱ μὲν ἄλλοι πάντες ἀνεβόων τε καὶ ἀνέκλαιον ὁρῶντες τὰ τέκνα κεκακωμένα (Hdt. 3.14.3 “So when the damsels came before their fathers crying and lamenting, all the rest answered with like cries and weeping, seeing their children’s evil case”). Such a nonverbal reaction is somehow echoed at Hdt. 3.38.4, where Darius’ question about the burning of dead fathers makes the Indians shouting out: οἱ δὲ ἀμβώσαντες μέγα εὐφημέειν μιν ἐκέλευον (Hdt. 3.38.4 “The Indians cried aloud, that he should not speak of so horrid an act”). Christ (2013) 236 suggests that the cry at Hdt. 3.38.4 conveys intimidation, and cites Gyges’ analogous reaction as Candaules bids him to view Candaules’ wife naked (Hdt. 1.8.3 μέγα ἀμβώσας). Overall, these seem to be reactions to culturally unacceptable/disturbing reversals. The laughing/scorning/mocking that characterizes Cambyses’ co-speech behavior more than once, represents additional reversal sides. The king kills Apis and talks while laughing (Hdt. 3.29.1 γελάσας). He shoots an arrow through the heart of Prexaspes’ son and talks while laughing and being exceedingly

14 15 16

See Hollmann (2011) 179: “The Ethiopian king decodes from the objects a message which Kambyses did not intend to encode”. See Hdt. 3.3.16 about Amasis; Hdt. 3.37.1 about the Egyptian tombs of Memphis. I wonder whether Herodotus dwells on a detail about physical reversal on purpose, as he tells that Cambyses at some point, out of no reason, orders that twelve Persians are buried alive head downward (ἐπὶ κεφαλήν, Hdt. 3.36.5).

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happy (Hdt. 3.35.3).17 As he sees the statue of Hephaestus in Memphis, he mocks it and scorns it (Hdt. 3.37.2 κατεγέλασε). Finally, chapter 38 retrieves Cambyses’ main outrages towards customs by echoing καταγελᾶν (Hdt. 3.38.1) and μαινόμενον ἄνδρα γέλωτα (…) τίθεσθαι (Hdt. 3.38.2). The reverse side of this laughing clearly emerges in secondary literature: “joy is almost always ominous and foreshadows the unhappy end of the character who feels it”; joy is “foolish or misplaced” (Flory [1978] 150); laughing signals “arrogance and self-delusion” (Lateiner [1987] 95). Even beyond the idea of reversals, Herodotus seems determined to mark Cambyses’ illogical nonverbal communication as much, and as best, as possible. As many scholars recall, the logos encompasses lexical resonance about mad‐ ness: Hdt. 3.25.2 ἐμμανής τε ἐὼν καὶ οὐ φρενήρης (lit.) “being mad and not in his right mind”; Hdt. 3.30.1 ἐμάνη, ἐὼν οὐδὲ πρότερον φρενήρης “[he] went mad, although even before he had not been sensible”; Hdt. 3.33.1 ἐξεμάνη (lit.) “[he] went mad”; Hdt. 3.34.1 ἐξεμάνη (lit.) “[he] went mad”; Hdt. 3.35.4 οὐ μάινομαι (lit.) “I am not mad” (Cambyses speaking); Hdt. 3.35.4 ἄνδρα οὐ φρενήρεα (lit.) “a man not in his right mind” (Prexaspes’ perception); Hdt. 3.37.1 ἐξεμαίνετο (lit.) “he was becaming furious”; Hdt. 3.38.1 ἐμάνη μεγάλως “[he] was quite insane”. See also Hdt. 3.29.1 ὑπομαργότερος (lit.) “somehow crazy”. Anger and phthonos complete the range of potentially violent impulses characterizing Cambyses’ persona: see Hdt. 3.25.1 ὀργὴν ποιησάμενος; 3.35.1 ὀργῇ; 3.34.3 θυμωθέντα, and 3.30.1 φθόνῳ towards Smerdis. Lateiner (1987) states that “nonverbal communication symbolizes, for Herodotus, the inhumanity of despots” (92). We could add that inhumanity in the case of Cambyses largely coincides with the art of reversing truths and roles, customs and sense. Even the king’s own words seem designed to convey mental confusion, anxiety, delirium, in a word illogical behavior. For example, at Hdt. 3.34.3 he attributes falsity to the declaration of the Persians that he is out of mind: τὸν δὲ θυμωθέντα τοισίδε ἀμείβεσθαι· ‘Νῦν ἄρα μέ φασι Πέρσαι οἴνῳ προσκείμενον παραφρονέειν καὶ οὐκ εἶναι νοήμονα. Οὐδ’ ἆρά σφεων οἱ πρότεροι λόγοι ἦσαν ἀληθέες’ (Hdt. 3.34.3) [T]he king angrily replied: “If the Persians now say that it is my fondness for wine that drives me to frenzy and madness, then it would seem that their former saying also was a lie.”

Similarly, in Hdt. 3.35.1–2 and 3.35.4, while talking to Prexaspes, Cambyses reverses the terms of what being wise might entail: “I am mad if I fail to be

17

About the adjective περιχαρής, see Flory (1978) 150 and Chiasson (1983).

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cruel, but if I am cruel I am wise”. He wants to demonstrate that he is not mad by actually doing foolish things—the paradoxical statement οὐ μαίνομαι (Hdt. 3.35.4) being paradigmatic. Moreover, while he misinterprets the festive atmosphere of the worship of Apis, his way of speaking suggests a lively tone of voice and possibly some agitation, judging at least from the multiple occurrences of γε: Ἄξιος μέν γε18 Αἰγυπτίων οὗτός γε ὁ θεός· ἀτάρ τοι ὑμεῖς γε οὐ χαίροντες γέλωτα ἐμὲ θήσεσθε (Hdt. 3.29.2 “that is a god worthy of the Egyptians. But for you, you shall suffer for making me your laughing-stock”).19 A subtler index of misinterpretation of situations can be seen in Hdt. 3.36.3: Cambyses’ angry speech to Croesus include offensive accusations such as “you ruined yourself by being a poor leader of your country”; however, Herodotus structures the grammar of the speech by inserting numerous “you” and “I” markers, as to implicitly point to a parallelism between the two (see σὺ καὶ ἐμοί […] σεωυτὸν […] τῷ ἐμῷ […] τὴν ἡμετέρην […] σεωυτόν […] σεωυτοῦ […] σοι […] ἐς σὲ […] τευ ἐδεόμην at Hdt. 3.36.3). Finally and most importantly, the historian underscores Cambyses’ lack of reasoning, his failing in logical thinking, especially during the expedition against the Ethiopians: see οὔτε λόγον ἑωυτῷ δοὺς ὅτι ἐς τὰ ἔσχατα γῆς ἔμελλε στρατεύεσθαι, Hdt. 3.25.1 “nor considering that he was about to lead his army to the ends of the earth”; νῦν δὲ οὐδένα λόγον ποιεύμενος, Hdt. 3.25.5 “but as it was, (he went ever forward), nothing recking”.20 3 The contrast with judicious logos (epilogue of the story) The epilogue of the logos (chapters 61–68) culminates in a long, lucid, and calm speech—no γε occurs—that the king delivers on the verge of death (Hdt. 3.65).21 Meta-historically and meta-textually, this speech suggests that logos as sensible discourse is considered an index, a measure of normality, whereas nonverbal communication tends to be associated with abnormality.

18 19

20 21

Legrand puts this γε in square brackets; ms. d omits it. See Bonifazi et al. (2016) III.3 §100; III.5 §§45–47, §50 on γε reflecting agitation in Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles and Aristophanes; III.5 §§51–58 on γε reflecting anger in Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles and Aristophanes; IV.5 §20, §62, §67–68, §73 on γε marking the character’s voice in Herodotus and Thucydides; IV.4 §§40–44 on γε marking the author’s voice/voice and stance in Herodotus and Thucydides. The relevance of the two negations in these formulations is addressed in section 4. On the epilogue of Cambyses’ life see in particular Brown (1982) 399–401 and Balcer (1987) 93–99. The latter points out that Herodotus’ version of the death of the king reminds us of a parallel in the account of Miltiades’ death (Hdt. 6.133–135)—also Miltiades dies after a religious crime, hit in the thigh (Balcer [1987] 95).

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Two nonverbal signs in these last chapters reverse the direction of what had characterized the life of Cambyses in chapters 1 to 38. One is the opposite direction of the injury at the thigh: the same act earlier performed towards Apis is now performed towards Cambyses himself. The second sign deals with weeping. Earlier in the account everybody else but him was crying, whereas now it is him who weeps: ἀπέκλαιε Σμέρδιν· ἀποκλαύσας δὲ (…) (Hdt. 3.64.2, “he wept bitterly for Smerdis. Having wept his fill”, […]). Symmetrically, he weeps also at the end of the speech: Ἅμα τε εἴπας ταῦτα ὁ Καμβύσης ἀπέκλαιε πᾶσαν τὴν ἑωυτοῦ πρῆξιν (Hdt. 3.65.7, “[w]ith that Cambyses wept bitterly for all that had befallen him”). Flory (1978) states that “regret and tears are (…) the result of reflection and understanding” (146). The general Herodotean pattern/motif “laughter, tears, and wisdom” that Flory analyzes, applies to Cambyses as well: after laughing immoderately, he has an intense moment of regret, from which new wisdom—in his case wisdom at all?—emerges (see ἐσωφρόνησε, Hdt. 3.64.5). The hybris of the absurd abuse of the dead and the crazy satisfaction of making someone die receives here healing: Cambyses gives up his relentlessness; the acknowledgment that his life has to end comes before he dies (Hdt. 3.64.5). Wesselmann22 analyes madness narratives in Herodotus and recognizes two fundamental functions that μανία has in many other myths and cults as well: punishment and healing. The end of the Cambyses logos shows healing, I submit, and the healing consists in replacing abnormality with what Herodotus conceives a normal behavior. Several scholars note that the term nomos (and cognates) is forcefully repeated at several points in this logos.23 This is no surprise, as Herodotus insists on describing Cambyses’ disregard of norms, violation of customs, and disrespect of laws. My last remarks are going to focus exactly on two linguistic choices that enhance these reversals/contrasts—essentially nomos and non-nomos. 4 Negative markers and counterfactual conditionals: allusions to ‘normal’ counterparts It is known that processing negated statements requires more cognitive efforts than processing positive statements.24 Cognitive linguists claim that processing negations includes processing the positive counterpart. In Dancygier’s terms, the negative particle not sets up “two alternative spaces, rather than just one: 22 23 24

Sections 3.1.3 and 3.1.5 in Wesselmann 2012. See e.g. Munson (1991) 55–63; Baragwanath (2008) 116n82. See e.g. Clark (1974) and Horn (1989).

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the negative space described in the sentence and its positive alternative”.25 “Indeed”—the scholar goes on—“the main reason for using linguistic negation seems to be to counter a contextually available claim or belief, or to present that claim or belief as potentially assertable”.26 In a cognitive stylistic perspective, negations require the readers to “concep‐ tualize the positive proposition that is denied”, and therefore create “unrealized worlds” (Nahajec [2009] 109).27 A most recent hypothesis in narrative studies is that negative statements “contribute to orientation” and to “complicating action” (in Labov’s terms) in a number of ways: they may allow narrators to deny responsibilities, they may “introduce background information”, foreshadow developments, and prompt evaluations about events.28 Usually, we hardly pay attention to the frequency of negations in literary texts, let alone in non-literary texts. However, they generally do not overcome positive formulations in number, and they may not be placed randomly. By checking how many negations occur in the chapters in questions, and in which contexts they appear, I found only 113 negative markers, mostly in clusters, that is to say, they tend to concentrate their appearance in contiguous sentences. Of all the possible entities the negations could refer to—let us think of the many individuals, peoples, actions, and inanimate objects that populate this logos— Cambyses takes the lion’s share: 25 tokens refer to his own states, thoughts, actions, the effects of his actions, and are expressed in the third person by the historiographer; 8 tokens refer to Cambyses in speeches of other people; 7 tokens appear in his own direct speeches. Further 30 tokens refer to various failures, reversals, and counter-expectations somehow related to his reign. Overall, 70 out of 113 tokens converge onto the main themes of the logos. Let me report the most significant examples: ἐντελλόμενος οὐκ ὅσια (…) οὐδαμῶς ἐν νόμῳ οὐδετέροισί ἐστι (…) οὐ δίκαιον εἶναι (…) οὐκ (…) νόμος οὐδαμῶς σφί ἐστι (…) οὕτω δὴ οὐδετέροισί νομιζόμενα ἐνετέλλετο (…) “a sacrilegious command”; (…) “therefore neither nation deems it right” (…) “it is wrong” (…) “it is by no means their custom” (…) “thus Cambyses commanded the doing of a thing contrary to the custom of both peoples” (Hdt. 3.16.2–4, about Cambyses’ decision to burn Amasis’ mummy); οὔτε παρασκευὴν σίτου οὐδεμίαν παραγγείλας, οὔτε λόγον ἑωυτῷ δούς, (…) οὐ φρενήρης (…) “neither giving command for any provision

25 26 27 28

Miestamo (2009) calls negation a “mental process added by language users” (211, emphasis mine). Dancygier (2012) 69. For previous treatments of negations in pragmatic terms, that is, prompting significant implicit meaning, see Hidalgo-Downing (2000) and Nørgaard (2007). Norrick (2018) 373 and 382 for the quotations.

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of food nor considering” (…) “being not in his right mind” (Hdt. 3.25.1–2, about Cambyses’ decision to march against the Ethiopians); οὐ δοκέεις ὅμοιος εἶναι τῷ πατρί· οὐ γάρ κώ τοί ἐστι υἱός and μὴ πάντα ἡλικίῃ καὶ θυμῷ ἐπίτρεπε (…) ἐπ’οὐδεμιῇ αἰτίῃ (…) ὅκως μή σευ ἀποστήσονται Πέρσαι “you are not like your father; for you have as yet no son such son”; “do not ever let youth and passion have their way” (…) “guilty of bud a petty offence” (…) “lest the Persians revolt from you” (respectively Hdt. 3.34.5 and 3.36.1–2, Croesus talking to Cambyses); νῦν ἄρα μέ φασι Πέρσαι (…) οὐκ εἶναι νοήμονα· οὐδ’ ἆρα (…) οἱ πρότεροι λόγοι ἦσαν ἀληθέες (lit.) “The Persians now say to me that (…) are not thoughtful [attitudes]; then, their former words were alsonot true”; Πέρσαι φανέονται λέγοντες οὐδέν· ἢν δὲ ἁμάρτω, φάναι Πέρσας τε λέγειν ἀληθέα καὶ ἐμὲ μὴ σωφρονέειν “That will prove the Persians to be wrong; if I miss, then say that they are right and I out of my senses”; ἐγώ (…) οὐ μάινομαι “I am in my right mind” (respectively Hdt. 3.34.3 + 3.35.2 + 3.35.4, Cambyses consistently willing to negate what has been claimed by others); οὔτε ὁ Περσέων βασιλεὺς δῶρα (…) ἔπεμψε (…) οὔτε ὑμεῖς λέγετε ἀληθέα (…) οὔτε ἐκεῖνος ἀνήρ ἐστι δίκαιος (…) οὔτ’ ἄν ἐπεθύμησε χώρης (…) οὔτ’ ἂν ἐς δουλοσύνην (…) ὑπ’ ὧν μηδὲν ἠδίκηται “It is not because (…) that the Persian King sends you with gifts, nor do you speak the truth (…) nor is your king a righteous man (…) he would not have coveted any country (…) nor would he try to enslave men who have done him no wrong” (Hdt. 3.21.2, reaction of the Ethiopian king to Cambyses’ gifts). Negations associated with nomos include νόθον οὔ σφι νόμος ἐστὶ βασιλεῦσαι γνησίου παρεόντος “it is not their custom for illegitimate offspring to rule when there are legitimate offspring (Hdt. 3.2.2); οὐδαμῶς ἐν νόμῳ οὐδετέροισί ἐστι “neither nation deems it right” and οὐκ ὦν (…) νόμος οὐδαμῶς σφί ἐστι “now it is by no means their custom” (Hdt. 3.16.3 and 3.16.4); οὐδετέροισι νομιζόμενα suggesting things contrary to the customs of two peoples (Hdt. 3.16.4); νόμον οὐδένα “no law” (Hdt. 3.31.4); finally, οὔτε τὸν νόμον ἔλυσαν δείσαντές ⟨τε⟩ Καμβύσεα and ἵνα {τε} μὴ αὐτοὶ ἀπόλωνται τὸν νόμον “Thus they broke not the law for fear of Cambyses, and to save themselves from death for maintaining it” (Hdt. 3.31.5). All these negative markers set up alternatives. They let us process what the positive counterpart could or could have represented. Moreover, they do provide background information (habits, values, protocols that pre-exist), orient the audience’s evaluations, and spotlight the unrealized world that that king (or another king) could have been ruling. I submit that Herodotus uses them in relation to Cambyses’ counterclaims, beliefs, and decisions that are possibly available, assertable, and ultimately preferable. The historian does so by pairing negative markers with concepts such as nomos, dike, truth, motivation, and

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planning. Independently of the specific element of content that they negate, and even independently of the source of the utterance (the historian is not the only one negating things; there are also the Ammonians, the Ethiopian king, Croesus, Prexaspes), they work as a grammatical feature hinting at what the non-wrong thing could be/could have been. A similar function is played by counterfactual conditionals. Dancygier and Sweetser (2005) read a conditional period as a linguistic cue prompting an alternative mental space where we project something else than reality.29 In a counterfactual conditional, the indicative past form of the verb suggests epistemic distance, and therefore the speaker’s negative stance. The cognitive relevance of a counterfactual conditional resides in the expression of “forced incompatibility between spaces”. Let us consider some instances in the logos in question. As the Ethiopian king senses the real motivation of the Persian king’s gifts, he claims that the Persian king’s behavior is unjust, for “were he such, he would not have coveted any country other than his own, nor would he now try to enslave men who have done him no wrong” (εἰ γὰρ ἦν δίκαιος, οὔτ’ ἂν ἐπεθύμησε χώρης ἄλλης ἢ τῆς ἑωυτοῦ, οὔτ’ ἂν ἐς δουλοσύνην ἀνθρώπους ἦγε ὑπ’ ὧν μηδὲν ἠδίκηται, Hdt. 3.21.1). Later, Cambyses fails to acknowledge the lack of resources during the expedition against the Ethiopians, and the historian comments: “Now had Cambyses, when he perceived this, changed his mind and led his army back again, he had been a wise man at last after his first fault” (εἰ μέν νυν μαθὼν ταῦτα ὁ Καμβύσης ἐγνωσιμάχεε καὶ ἀπῆγε ὀπίσω τὸν στρατόν, ἐπὶ τῇ ἀρχῆθεν γενομένῃ ἁμαρτάδι ἦν ἂν ἀνὴρ σοφός, Hdt. 3.25.5). Chapter 38 starts with an apodosis of a counterfactual conditional period: “else he would never have set himself to deride religion and custom” (οὐ γὰρ ἂν ἱροῖσί τε καὶ νομαίοισι ἐπεχείρησε καταγελᾶν, Hdt. 3.38.1). The first two passages prompt an alternative mental space where the speakers (the Ethiopian king and the historian, respectively) illustrate the effects of moderation, wisdom, and common sense in Cambyses as a hypothetically good ruler. However, the epistemic distance conveyed through the indicative past verbs implies incompatibility between the space “Cambyses as a good ruler” and the actual Cambyses. In the third passage, the alternative mental space concerns an attitude of restraint from sacrileges—the negative marker reinforcing an idea of disapproval. In this case, Herodotus expresses his epistemic distance by judging Cambyses’ lack of control and his no-restraint. 29

Mental spaces (term coined by Fauconnier in the 1980’s) are “very partial assemblies constructed as we think and talk, for purposes of local understanding and action” (Fauconnier [2007] 351).

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By means of these grammatical tools, Herodotus wants us to consider the positive counterparts of negations as assertable alternatives; he also wants us to consider his distance expressed through counterfactual conditionals as judgments of incompatibility. 5 Conclusions In this paper I discuss a few linguistic features enhancing the meanings conveyed by the logos in question: deictic markers pointing to immediately upcoming discourse, zooming in on horrifying details, the prominence of nonverbal behaviors and nonverbal reactions, and, finally, negative markers and counterfactual conditionals. I read these features as strategies whose meaning pertain to content as well as to how content is presented. The recurrence and the quality of these strategies harmonizes with the general thought that Herodotus shapes this logos as he wants. The historian masters language tools and historiography to produce his own accounts, that is to say, where emphasis is given to selected information, and where cultural resonance is carefully contrived. As Balcer puts it, “what appears as historical reality has deeper and more complex expression in ancient mythopoetic thought than we normally have conceptualized”.30 As for the implicit comparison between Cambyses and Herodotus himself, the textual analysis has spotlighted a general opposition between the nonverbal and even verbal illogicality of the king vs. a judicious use of logos and sound inquiries into causes and intentions. The third point I anticipated at the onset of this piece expands on the second. I posit that all of these linguistic strategies have an iconic meaning prompting to us what Herodotus’ history is and is supposed to be. It is as if Cambyses’ behavior and decisions become a foil for Herodotus’ historiographical methods and stance. Cognitive linguists take the concept of iconicity from Peirce’s semiotic theories and define it as a phenomenon occurring whenever “the forms systematically resemble the meanings in structure”.31 The similarity is derived from visual, auditory or other formal traits of the linguistic forms in question32 and can range from immediate to more conceptually elaborated similarity (from

30 31 32

Balcer (1987) 78. Dancygier and Sweetser (2014) 179. Hiraga (2005) 35.

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sensory icons to similar arrangements of signs, and to similarity across different conceptual domains).33 In each of the Herodotean strategies I commented on, I see formal traits that “mimic” or resemble some inferable Herodotean macro-messages. Forwardoriented discourse deixis and visual zooming in encode attention to details. This iconically shows good-quality inspection/inquiry. The verbal predomi‐ nance of nonverbal abnormality, verbal illogicality, and communicative failures iconically represents the superiority of logos over irrational behavior. Finally, negative markers and counterfactual conditionals iconically indicate rejection of some conducts as well as the suggestion of conducts that would be (conversely) appropriate and preferable. By resembling contents, these forms of language re‐ inforce those contents in a non-arbitrary way.34 They are not symbols arbitrarily connected to meaning, but, on the contrary, they are icons: concrete, perceptual grammatical forms instantiating our experience of the world—through the lenses of Herodotus. Bibliography Editions of classical authors Herodoti historiai: Libri I–IV, Nigel Wilson, Oxford 2015. Herodotus 2: Books 3–4, Alfred Denis Godley, Cambridge, MA 1920.

References Ahern (2011): Liam Ahern, Spectacle of Enquiry: The Violent and Macabre in Herodotus’ Histories, Sidney. Balcer (1987): Jack Martin Balcer, Herodotus & Bisitun. Problems in Ancient Persian Historiography, Stuttgart. Baragwanath (2008): Emily Baragwanath, Motivation and narrative in Herodotus, Oxford und New York. Beltrametti (1986): Anna Beltrametti, Erodoto, una storia governata dal discorso: il racconto morale come forma della memoria, Florence.

33

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This tripartite distinction reflects Peirce’s original subdivision of icons in images, diagrams, and metaphors (1931–1936). One of the many examples of diagrammatic iconicity regarding literary texts is the order of words resembling their chronological sequence (Nänny and Fischer [2006] 468); let us think of veni, vidi, vici. Several works of Margaret Freeman delve into iconic meanings of literary pieces (see, most recently, Freeman [2017]). On iconicity being the opposite of arbitrariness, see Van Langendonck (2007) 394.

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Bonifazi, Drummen and De Kreij (2016): Anna Bonifazi, Annemieke Drummen and Mark De Kreij, Particles in Ancient Greek Discourse. Exploring Particle Use Across Genres, ht tps://chs.harvard.edu/book/bonifazi-drummen-de-kreij-eds-particles-in-ancient-gree k-discourse/ (accessed 28.01.2023) Bonifazi and Elmer (2016): Anna Bonifazi and David F. Elmer, Visuality in Bosniac and Homeric Epic, https://archive.chs.harvard.edu/CHS/article/display/6700 (accessed 28.01.2023) Brown (1982): Truesdell S. Brown, ‘Herodotus’ Portrait of Cambyses’, Historia 31, 387-403. Chiasson (1983): Charles Chiasson, ‘An Ominous Word in Herodotus’, Hermes 111,115-118. Christ (2013): Matthew R. Christ, ‘Herodotean Kings and Historical Inquiry’, in: Rosaria Vignolo Munson (ed.), Herodotus: Volume 1: Herodotus and the Narrative of the Past, Oxford and New York, 212–250. Clark (1974): Herbert H. Clark, ‘Semantics and comprehension’, in: Thomas A. Sebeok (ed.), Current trends in linguistics, vol. 12, The Hague, 1291–1428. Cornish (2007): Francis Cornish, ‘English demonstratives: discourse deixis and anaphora. A discourse-pragmatic account’, in: Randi Alice Nilson et al. (eds.), Interpreting utterances: Pragmatics and its interfaces. Essays in honour of Thorstein Fretheim, Oslo, 147–166. Dancygier (2012): Barbara Dancygier, ‘Negation, stance verbs, and intersubjectivity’, in: Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser (eds.), Viewpoint in Language: A Multimodal Perspective, Cambridge, 69-93. Dancygier and Sweetser (2005): Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Mental Spaces in Grammar: Conditional Constructions, Cambridge. Dancygier and Sweetser (2014): Barbara Dancygier and Eve Sweetser, Figurative Lan‐ guage, Cambridge. Fauconnier (2007): Gilles Fauconnier, ‘Mental Spaces’, in: Dirk Geeraerts and Hubert Cuyckens (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics, Oxford and New York, 371–376. Flory (1978): Stewart Flory, ‘Laughter, Tears and Wisdom in Herodotus’, AJPh 99, 145-153. Freeman (2017): Margaret H. Freeman, ‘Toward a theory of poetic iconicity: The ontology of semblance’, in: Angelika Zirker, Matthias Bauer, Olga Fischer and Christina Ljungberg (eds.), Dimensions of Iconicity, Amsterdam and London, 99–117. Hidalgo-Downing (2000): Laura Hidalgo-Downing, Negation, Text Worlds and Discourse: The Pragmatics of Fiction, Stamford, CT. Hiraga (2005): Masako Hiraga, Metaphor and Iconicity: A Cognitive Approach to Analyzing Texts, Basingstoke.

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Hofmann and Vorbichler (1980): Inge Hofmann and Anton Vorbichler, ‚Das Kambysesbild bei Herodot‘, AfO 27, 86–105. Hollmann (2011): Alexander Hollmann, The master of signs: Signs and the interpretation of signs in Herodotus’ Histories, Washington, D.C. Horn (1989): Lawrence Horn, A Natural History of Negation. Chicago. Immerwahr (1966): Henry Immerwahr, Form and thought in Herodotus, Cleveland. Van Langendonck (2007): Willy Van Langendonck, ‘Iconicity’, in: Dirk Geeraerts and Hubert Cuyckens (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Cognitive Linguistics, Oxford and New York, 394–418. Lateiner (1987): Donald Lateiner, ‘Nonverbal communication in the Histories of Herodo‐ tus’, Arethusa 20, 83–119. Levinson (2004): Stephen C. Levinson, ‘Deixis’, in: Lawrence Horn (ed.), The Handbook of Pragmatics, Oxford, 97–121. Lyons (1977): John Lyons, Semantics, Cambridge. Miestamo (2009): Matti Miestamo, ‘Negation’, in: Frank Brisard, Jan-Ola Östman and Jef Verschueren (eds.), Grammar, meaning and pragmatics, Amsterdam und Philadelphia, 208-229. Munson (1991): Rosaria Vignolo Munson, ‘The madness of Cambyses (Herodotus 3.16– 38)’, Arethusa 24, 43-66. Nahajec (2009): Lisa Margaret Nahajec, ‘Negation and the creation of implicit meaning in poetry’, Language and Literature 18, 109–127. Nänny and Fischer (2006): Max Nänny and Olga Fischer, ‘Iconicity: Literary Texts’, in: Keith Brown (ed.), Encyclopedia of Language and Linguistics, Amsterdam, 462-472. Nørgaard (2007): Nina Nørgaard, ‘Disordered Collarettes and Uncovered Tables: Negative Polarity as a Stylistic Device in Joyce’s ‘Two Gallants’’, Journal of Literary Semantics 36, 35–52. Norrick (2018): Neal Norrick, ‘Negation in narrative: Why say what did not happen?’, Narrative Inquiry 28, 373–395. Peirce (1931–1936): Charles Sanders Peirce, Collected Papers by Charles Sanders Peirce, Charles Hartshorne and Paul Weiss (eds.), Cambridge MA. Renoir (1962): Alain Renoir, ‘Point of View and Design for Terror in ‘Beowulf’’, Neuphi‐ lologische Mitteilungen 63, 154-167. Wesselmann (2012): Katharina Wesselmann, Mythical Structures in Herodotus’ Histories, Washington, D. C. (Abbreviated translation of Mythische Erzählstrukturen in Herodots „Historien“, Berlin and Boston 2011).

Relativism in Herodotus Foreign Crimes and Divinities in the Inquiry

Anthony Ellis1

1 Introduction Herodotus stands near the start of a long tradition of anthropological reflection on the diversity of human morality, customs, and beliefs about the gods. Like many observers of cultural difference, Herodotus subscribes to some form of relativism, formulated explicitly in his Egyptian logos, most forcefully in the description of the Persian invasion of Egypt under Cambyses. In what follows, I examine Herodotus’ relativistic statements to discover what type(s) of relativism he advocates, particularly whether and how these resemble relativistic views developed by his contemporaries and more recent moral philosophers. Herodo‐ tus’ relativist perspective on the validity of diverse cultural practices is, as we will see, closely linked with the differences in how various peoples conceive of what is divine and holy. A specific problem is posed by the tension between the relativist-sounding comments in the Egyptian logos and apparently nonrelativist statements made elsewhere in his Inquiry. Exploring these topics should help us understand Herodotus’ own theological and anthropological thought, his relationship to the Greek theological tradition, and to appreciate his place within the history of relativism alongside thinkers like Xenophanes, Protagoras, the author of the Dissoi Logoi, Antiphon, and the Pyrrhonian Sceptics. It may also give us some insight into how Herodotus negotiated his own ethnic and cultural situation: born into a family of mixed

1

I thank the Leverhulme Trust for support during the research and writing of this article. I am grateful to the editors of this volume and to Jan Bremmer for various comments and improvements on earlier drafts. For ease of reference, I generally refer to modern literature on relativism in the anthologies edited by Ladd (1985b), Krausz (2010b), and Hales (2011b). All translations are my own.

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heritage Herodotus was raised in fifth-century Halicarnassus, a city inhabited by Greeks and Carians and ruled by the Persian empire.2 When thinking about relativism, the modern anthropological tradition often looks back to Herodotus’ Inquiry and Montaigne’s Essay On Cannibals,3 while philosophers typically trace its roots to Protagoras, whose work entitled Truth (ἀλήθεια) seems to have proclaimed a radical epistemological relativism.4 Already in antiquity, Plato’s discussion of relativism made no mention of Herodotus while offering an extensive critique of Protagoras’ claim that ‘man is the measure of all things: of things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not’ (πάντων χρημάτων μέτρον ἐστὶν ἄνθρωπος, τῶν μὲν οντῶν ὡς ἔστιν, τῶν δὲ οὐκ ὄντων ὠς οὐκ ἔστιν DK 80 B 1, cf. A 14). The debate on Protagoras’ ideas was continued by later philosophers, most notably Aristotle and Sextus Empiricus.5 But the writings of Protagoras survive only in the form of fragmentary citations or Plato's dramatic reconstruction. It is thus difficult to be clear on the precise nature of his relativist views and the metaphysical theories, if any, on which they were based.6 Herodotus’ Inquiry, by contrast, is one of the few pre-Socratic texts to be preserved in full and deals on several occasions with epistemological and moral clashes between cultures, offering both theoretical reflections on the difficulties they pose and practical suggestions for how to navigate them. The Inquiry is anything but a systematic treatise on relativism, but it offers one of the best opportunities to understand early relativistic thought in Greece, both in theory and in application. Despite the much-repeated view that Herodotus is a

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The Carian names of Herodotus’ father (Lyxes) and cousin (Panyassis) are given by the Suda (s.v. Herodotus). Herodotus occasionally refers to Carian customs (Hdt. 1.172.1, 173.4), clothing (Hdt. 5.88.1), language (Hdt. 1.172.1), divinities (Hdt. 5.119.2: the only people Herodotus knows who sacrifice to Zeus Stratios) and sacred traditions (Hdt. 2.61: practices of Carian communities in Egypt; Hdt. 8.104: the bearded priest of Athena). Although this suggests familiarity, they do not play a large role in the Inquiry. So Geertz (2010 [= 1984]) 373; Ladd (1985a) 1. See below for further examples. Thus a recent overview of the history of Greek relativism briefly mentions Xenophanes, Herodotus, and Euripides, as ‘foreshadowing relativism’ before discussing Protagoras, ‘considered the first official voice of relativism’ (Baghramian [2010] 33). Hales (2011a) 1 begins his introduction to relativist philosophy with Protagoras, passing over Herodotus entirely. Some important passages are Tht. 152a, 169–172b, Crat. 386a, Laws. 716c; Arist. Met. 1.1011b; Sextus PH 1.140, 163, 216–17. For the ancient tradition, see Lee (2005). For the view of Protagoras as not a relativist but rather ‘an extreme realist’ (in Dodds’s words) see Bett (1989) 166–8 (with references) – based on the explanation of his measure doctrine found in Sextus Empiricus. For Protagoras’ writings as comparatively lacking in theoretical elaboration, see Lee (2005) 29.

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‘relativist’,7 the nature of his relativism has never been closely examined,8 nor has the attempt been made to ask how the relativist ideas of the Egyptian logos sit within the wider context of the work, especially with non-relativist statements elsewhere. No doubt this results, at least in part, from the long tradition of viewing the more philosophical aspects of the Inquiry as borrowings from more serious intellectuals—Sophists or Presocratics—since they are unlikely to have origi‐ nated in the mind of an avuncular, pious, and naïve figure like Herodotus.9 But if Mi-Kyoung Lee is correct to suggest that Protagoras’ presentation of the ‘Measure’ doctrine in his Truth may have been both very brief and theoretically undeveloped—with Protagoras more an ‘agent provocateur’ than a ‘systematic epistemologist’—then the importance of Herodotean relativism rises, at least in relative terms. Herodotus’ relativistic ideas may not be fragments chipped from the masterful edifice constructed by Protagoras, but rather of comparable size and sophistication, albeit most likely somewhat different in nature. Protagoras himself was not merely a theoretical critic, but was closely involved in political life. Tradition has it that he participated in the ultimate act of ethical prescriptivism: deciding, at the invitation of Pericles in 444 BC, on the laws (nomoi) of the newly founded colony of Thourii in Southern Italy, a city in which Herodotus also seems to have lived. We can only guess at whether and how his 'measure doctrine' informed his political activities. Herodotus’ Inquiry offers us the chance to do what we cannot in the case of Protagoras. If we push Herodotus, by asking whether and how the relativism he proclaims in some passages informs his narrative, ethnography, and ethical judgements in other contexts we can see how one Greek used (and abandoned) relativism in the attempt to make sense of the world. A full perspective on Herodotean relativism requires us to consider a com‐ bination of explicitly formulated theories and implicit assumption about the universality of moral codes, the variety of meanings which different cultures can

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See below n.26. One of the most sustained attempts to explore relativism among the Sophists – Bett (1989) – concludes that ‘relativism, in the deep sense, is largely foreign to Greek philosophy as a whole’ without, however, mentioning Herodotean relativism (presumably because Herodotus is not traditionally categorized as a Sophist). On the question of relativism, Herodotus’ comments at 3.38 have long been viewed as a borrowing from a ‘sophistic’ source, usually identified as Protagoras: cf. Vlastos (1976) 280, Heinimann (1945) 80–2, and Dihle (1981) 61. Dawson (1992) 20–1 sees the relativism of Hdt. 3.38 and 4.104 as derivative from Protagoras and the sophists. Thomas (2000) 126–7 is the first to seriously challenge the notion that the relativist ideas at Hdt. 3.38 were not simply borrowed from another author.

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ascribe to a given act, and the status of human knowledge about the gods and the sacred.10 Rather than resting content with his theoretical statements, I sift through other parts of the Inquiry to display the diversity of Herodotus’ thoughts in their richness and disarray, approaching the same issues from different sides, exploring contradictions Herodotus never names, and asking what kinds of answers might have lain open to him. The result is not tidy, but these are issues on which few people, at any period, hold coherent positions.11 The discussion will, I hope, develop Richard Rorty’s suggestion that it was the ethnography of Herodotus, alongside the skepticism and irony of Socrates and Euripides and the theories of Protagoras, that urged Plato to search for truths which transcend the localism of Greek thought and which demonstrate the objectivity and universality of human knowledge and values.12 2 Distinguishing Relativisms Before charging into the ancient material, it’s important to be clear about what is meant by ‘relativism’. The English term was coined in the 19th century and the Greek spoken by Protagoras, Herodotus, and Plato had no direct equivalent.13 Aristotle’s Metaphysics is the first surviving text to use vocabulary which resembles the later philosophical term for ‘relativism’: τὸ πρός τι, literally 'the [property of being applied] to something' (used by Sextus Empiricus in reference to Protagorean relativism, e.g. PH 1.216).14 Modern definitions are not in short supply and, within philosophical literature at least, have most often been formulated by those who wish to declare it incoherent, self-refuting, or pernicious.15 For our purposes, it seems sensible to use the large and diverse modern literature on the subject to outline some useful distinctions which can add precision to the discussion of ancient relativisms. While the terminology and many of the conceptual distinctions may be foreign to fifth-century thought,

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For a conceptual genealogy of 'sacred' and its use in scholarship, see Bremmer (1998) 24–31. It is worth emphasizing that, in the following article, I use the term in much the same sense as 'holy', without implying an opposition to 'profane'. For a salient reminder of the danger of systematizing incoherent beliefs by 'improving' them see Harrison (2000) 15–16. Rorty makes the comment in passing in (2010 [= 1985]) 394. Baghramian (2010) 39 traces the term to John Grote’s Exploratio Philosophica, published in 1865. Arist. Met. 1011b: πρός τι ποιεῖν ἅπαντα (‘to make everything [refer] to something’). For the difficulties in interpreting the mode of relativity in Sextus’ writing, and its place alongside the other modes of scepticism, see Sienkiewicz (2019) 126–153. As noted by, e.g., Ladd (1985a) 2.

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they stake out the territory within which the discussion will move and offer conceptual clarity. It might seem unfortunate to begin with modern rather than ancient theories, but an overview of the diversity of relativistic thought at the outset protects us against the very real danger of approaching the ancient evidence with an unexamined set of assumptions about what relativism is and, on recognizing some relativist ideas, unconsciously importing a host of others. Modern discussions carve relativism into several realms, corresponding to different branches of contemporary philosophy: moral relativism (dealing with ethics), epistemic relativism (dealing with knowledge), aesthetic relativism (dealing with beauty), and so on.16 Herodotus’ most relativist-sounding state‐ ments touch on what moderns would divide into the moral and epistemological realms, and these will be the focus of my discussion.17 In the moral realm, we can distinguish two relativist views which grapple in different ways with ethical disagreements between cultures. The first view, which I will call ‘cultural relativism’, observes that different cultural semantics and different perceptions of the facts may lead to disagree‐ ments about whether a given practice is right or wrong: the significance of an act can thus only be understood relative to the culture within which it is performed. The second, full-blown ‘moral relativism’, is the view that different cultures have different moral systems and that there exist no independent standards which can adjudicate between them; something can, therefore, be said to be moral or immoral only relative to a particular moral system, but it is only in this relative sense that moral judgements can be valid.18 So while ‘moral relativism’ explains moral diversity as the result of conflicting and incommensurable moral systems, ‘cultural relativism’ (also known as ‘moral contextualism’) explains moral diversity as the result of differences in cultural semantics and beliefs, which allow people who share a moral system to come to different views about what it is right and wrong.19 Some examples help clarify cultural relativism. Two cultures may agree that it is right to honour one’s guests but have opposing views of what is respectful and what is disrespectful. Each culture may thus view the other’s treatment of guests as morally flawed despite their shared moral framework. Alternatively, 16 17 18 19

For a general theoretical overview, see Krausz (2010a). For various evaluations of different relativist and realist positions see, for example, the essays collected in Ladd (1985b), Krausz (2010b); for an introductory overview to moral relativism, see Lukes (2009). See Rorty (2010 [= 1985]) for a defence of one form of moral relativism, which Rorty prefers to call ‘pragmatism’ (considering ‘relativism’ a polemical misnomer for the fundamentally ‘ethnocentric’ perspective he endorses (2010 [= 1985]) 395–6). For an outline of this view, see Wiggins (2010 [= 1991]) 281–2.

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different perceptions of the facts may lead to different moral judgements despite shared moral frameworks: members of culture X may believe that, in times of famine, it is right to select and ritually sacrifice an individual to appease a deity and save the rest of the group, while members of culture Y may believe that it is right for passengers on an overcrowded, sinking ship for several to be thrown into the sea so that the rest can make it to land. Both agree that it can be appropriate to sacrifice individuals for the sake of the group, but members of culture Y may consider ritual human sacrifice morally wrong if they deny the existence of culture X’s deity—or believe culture X’s deity to be a malign deity who should not be heeded. In each case, two cultures which share ethical views may view the actions of the other as unethical. One can of course, subscribe to both moral relativism and cultural relativism: someone may believe that human societies display multiple, incommensurable moral systems and that even those cultures which share the same moral system can disagree on what is right, due to different beliefs about the facts and the symbolism of actions. Those who consider moral relativism false may do so on several grounds: they may subscribe to ‘moral realism’ (or ‘moral absolutism’), that is, the view that objective moral standards exist independently of humanity—whether inherent in the natural order or given by the gods—and that these can be used to adjudicate between the diverse human moral systems. They may believe that rational thought can lead one to an objective view on moral matters. Others, like David Hume, may consider moral relativism irrelevant because they subscribe to ‘moral universalism’, the view that all humans do in fact share a basic moral framework. Moral universalists do not necessarily think that human morality is objectively true independent of human opinions. Rather they think that, since it is common to humanity as a whole, it can simply be taken for granted.20 Three other views are worth mentioning. ‘Pluralistic relativism’ holds that the various human goods which moral systems may seek to provide cannot be maximized at the same time: we must, for example, choose between more individual liberty and more familial solidarity, both of which are good, but we cannot simultaneously maximize both. Pluralistic relativists argue that different moral systems may place more emphasis on one good and correspondingly less on another, but that it is not possible objectively to adjudicate between these different forms of compromise—indeed, reflective people brought up in one moral system have the capacity to comprehend and respect foreign moral systems which cut their compromises differently.21

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For Hume’s advocacy of this view, see Ladd (1985a) 5–6. This view is outlined by Wong (2010).

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Another view, ‘moral expressivism’, argues that moral judgements should be understood not as statements that something is objectively or relatively ‘moral’ or ‘immoral’ but rather simply as disguised expressions of emotion (pleasure, disgust, etc.). As such, disagreements between different cultures on moral matters present us with no logical problem: they are merely expressions of preferences which vary from individual to individual or group to group.22 Finally, it is important to mention a view which would not, today, typically be considered relativism but which was, in antiquity, often associated with it, namely the observation that different things are good for different people under different circumstances, hence things cannot be said to be absolutely good or bad: death is bad for the person who dies but good for the grave-digger, illness bad for the sick but good for the doctor, medicines help those who are ill but harm the healthy, and so on. Ideas of this sort are cited alongside other forms of relativism by Plato (attributed to Protagoras himself, Prot. 334a3–c6) and are common in the Dissoi Logoi. The thought certainly leads to the conclusion that judgements like ‘x is good’ can only be made relative to a person (‘x is good for y’) but they need not imply either cultural or moral relativism as defined above. Indeed, to observe that, say, cauterizing is beneficial for those with gangrenous wounds but harmful for the healthy seems not to relativize the goodness of the action itself in any particular circumstance, but quite the opposite: it is objectively good for the first group and objectively bad for the latter.23 3 Crimes in a Foreign Land: Cultural Relativism and the Judgement of Cambyses Herodotus’ most relativist-sounding statements occur in the description of Cambyses’ invasion of Egypt. At Hdt. 3.37 Herodotus focuses on several acts of sacrilege committed by the Persian king. He reports first that Cambyses opened up the ancient tombs in Memphis and examined the bodies (Hdt. 3.37.1); that he laughed at the cult statue in the temple of Hephaistos in Memphis (κατεγέλασε, Hdt. 3.37.2); and that he entered the temple of the Kabeiroi, which can only lawfully (θεμιτός) be entered by the priest, and there mocked and burnt

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Wright (2010 [= 2006]) argues that the expressivist interpretation of moral statements does not solve to the problem presented by different evaluations and tastes: it cannot simply be stated, he argues, that on matters of taste neither party need be wrong. For further discussion (with references) of this type of relativism – called ‘weak relativism’ (Bett) or ‘the relationality of goodness’ (Lee) – and its distinction from (respectively) ‘deep relativism’ or ‘value-property relativism, see Bett (1989) 145–9 and Lee (2005) 17–18.

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the statues of Hephaistos, which are said to be the god’s children (ἐνέπρησε πολλὰ κατασκώψας, Hdt. 3.37.3).24 Herodotus concludes that Cambyses must have been mad, otherwise he would not have laughed at (καταγελᾶν) holy and customary matters (ἱροῖσί τε καὶ νομαίοισι, Hdt. 3.38.1–2). Here Herodotus departs from the story of Cambyses to make a more general point: εἰ γάρ τις προθείη πᾶσι ἀνθρώποισι ἐκλέξασθαι κελεύων νόμους τοὺς καλλίστους ἐκ τῶν πάντων νόμων, διασκεψάμενοι ἂν ἑλοίατο ἕκαστοι τοὺς ἑωυτῶν· οὕτω νομίζουσι πολλόν τι καλλίστους τοὺς ἑωυτῶν νόμους ἕκαστοι εἶναι. οὔκων οἰκός ἐστι ἄλλον γε ἢ μαινόμενον ἄνδρα γέλωτα τὰ τοιαῦτα τίθεσθαι· ὡς δὲ οὕτω νενομίκασι τὰ περὶ τοὺς νόμους πάντες ἄνθρωποι, πολλοῖσί τε καὶ ἄλλοισι τεκμηρίοισι πάρεστι σταθμώσασθαι, ἐν δὲ δὴ καὶ τῷδε. Δαρεῖος ἐπὶ τῆς ἑωυτοῦ ἀρχῆς καλέσας Ἑλλήνων τοὺς παρεόντας εἴρετο ἐπὶ κόσῳ ἂν χρήματι βουλοίατο τοὺς πατέρας ἀποθνήσκοντας κατασιτέεσθαι· οἳ δὲ ἐπ᾽ οὐδενὶ ἔφασαν ἔρδειν ἂν τοῦτο. Δαρεῖος δὲ μετὰ ταῦτα καλέσας Ἰνδῶν τοὺς καλεομένους Καλλατίας, οἳ τοὺς γονέας κατεσθίουσι, εἴρετο, παρεόντων τῶν Ἑλλήνων καὶ δι᾽ ἑρμηνέος μανθανόντων τὰ λεγόμενα, ἐπὶ τίνι χρήματι δεξαίατ᾽ ἂν τελευτῶντας τοὺς πατέρας κατακαίειν πυρί· οἳ δὲ ἀμβώσαντες μέγα εὐφημέειν μιν ἐκέλευον. οὕτω μέν νυν ταῦτα νενόμισται, καὶ ὀρθῶς μοι δοκέει Πίνδαρος ποιῆσαι νόμον πάντων βασιλέα φήσας εἶναι. (Hdt. 3.38.1–4) If someone were to offer every person the opportunity to select the best customs of all that are there, each people would, after consideration, choose its own. Thus, each people thinks its own customs far superior.25 So it is not reasonable for anyone other than a madman to ridicule such things. That this is how all people think when it comes to customs can be demonstrated by many proofs, among them the following. During his reign, Dareios, summoning the Greeks who were present, asked them how much money they would want to eat their dead parents. They said that they would not do it at any price. After this Dareios summoned the Indians called the Callatians, who eat their parents, and he asked—while the Greeks were present, learning what was said through interpreters—how much money they would take to burn their dead ancestors by fire. They let out a great cry and bade him not to speak impiously. This, then, is how such things are considered, and Pindar seems to me to rightly say in his poetry that nomos is king of all things. 24 25

See the contributions of Quack and Wespi in this volume. Cf. 7.152.2, where a similar metaphor is used in service of a different but related point: if all people were to bring their own sufferings or woes (κακά) into a single spot in order to exchange them with their neighbours, Herodotus says, after a proper examination each would choose to return home with their own. The point seems to be that, just as most people incorrectly assume that their customs are uniquely wonderful, they are also wrong to assume that their own sufferings are uniquely terrible.

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Critics have long identified this passage with some form of relativism.26 The observation that every culture has total confidence in the superiority of its own practices seems to undermine the notion that any one culture has exclusive access to the perfect behavioural code. Rather, it suggests that the unreflective self-confidence of each people is ill-founded. But what kind of relativism are we dealing with? The initial theoretical comment—that each people considers their own customs to be the best—is compatible with both cultural and moral relativism as defined above. The example which follows is a classic illustration of cultural relativism rather than full-blown moral relativism. Darius’ experi‐ ment reveals that both cultures share the same moral framework—Honour your parents!—but differ in the significance which they give to certain rituals. For the Greeks, filial piety takes the form of ritualized cremation; for the Callatian Indians, it takes the form of cannibalism. At the end of the day, Darius’ experiment reveals, the same moral views lie beneath apparent differences. As we will see, Herodotus presents his cultural relativism as the product of different cultural understandings of the gods. Darius’ experiment is not explicitly associated with the divine27 but notions of piety and divinity are in the background. Burial customs, like most important aspects of ancient 26

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E.g. Heinimann (1945) 83, Dihle (1981) 60–1; Burkert (1990) 24 describes this as ‘NomosRelativierung’, linked to ‘eine grundsätzliche Skepsis in Fragen der Theologie’ and in the following discussion observes that ‘ethnographischer Relativismus’ does not imply ‘moralischer Relativismus’ noting that the precise nature of the relativism needs further investigation (p. 34). Thomas (2000) 126, 128, 130 sees ‘relativism’ at 3.38 but does not think that Herodotus endorses the ‘extreme moral relativism’ of the Dissoi Logoi. Munson (2001) 167–72 sees 'cultural relativism' which she opposes to the Scylla and Charybdis of 'ethnocentric absolutism and ethical relativism', of which the latter seems to correspond to 'the ethical monarchism and extreme relativism' of Herodotus' Cambyses and Plato's Callias. Lee (2005) 8–9 sees in this the view that ‘different practices appear sacred to different people’, but thinks that Herodotus did not conclude from this that ‘nothing is intrinsically or naturally sacred but only sacred if it seems so to a people’ (she reserves ‘moral relativism’ for Euripides and Aristophanes). Nestle (1908) 36 seems to view Herodotus as preparing the way for – rather than himself developing – relativism: his work provides a ‘Fundgrube von Beispielen für die Lehre von der nur relativen Gültigkeit des νόμος’ developed by the later sophists. Harrison (2000) 217 likewise sees a principle of respecting foreign traditions but resists the view that it is ‘an all-out cultural realtivism’, since it contradicts Herodotus' comments at 1.199.1. For Bremmer (forthcoming) Herodotus is ‘what today we would call a relativist, who does not consider one culture better than another and, implicitly, therefore one religion better than another’. The relativist reader edited by Ladd prints this passage as its first text: Ladd (1985b) 12. The only words with any close connection to the gods or piety is εὐφημέειν, literally “to speak well or good” but commonly used to signify speech which is holy or not blasphemous, see here Gödde (2011).

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Greek life, were closely linked with rituals which involved the gods as well as notions of sacredness and purity. The story of Darius’ experiment is prompted by Cambyses’ ridicule of divine statues and temples in Memphis (Hdt. 3.37), a fact underlined by the use of the word τὰ ἱρά (‘sacred things’, Hdt. 3.38.1). Slightly earlier in the Cambyses logos, however, Herodotus discusses another of Cambyses’ sacrilegious acts in explicitly theological terms: the burning of Amasis’ corpse (Hdt. 3.16). Cambyses orders Amasis’ corpse to be whipped, plucked, and goaded before finally commanding it to be burned since it had withstood these earlier forms of abuse. Herodotus states that this command was ‘not holy’ (oὐκ ὅσια), and goes on to justify his judgement at length by reference to the customs of both the Persians and the Egyptians: ἐπείτε δὲ καὶ ταῦτα ἔκαμον ποιεῦντες (ὁ γὰρ δὴ νεκρὸς ἅτε τεταριχευμένος ἀντεῖχέ τε καὶ οὐδὲν διεχέετο), ἐκέλευσέ μιν ὁ Καμβύσης κατακαῦσαι, ἐντελλόμενος οὐκ ὅσια· Πέρσαι γὰρ θεὸν νομίζουσι εἶναι πῦρ. τὸ ὦν κατακαίειν γε τοὺς νεκροὺς οὐδαμῶς ἐν νόμῳ οὐδετέροισι ἐστί, Πέρσῃσι μὲν δι᾽ ὅ περ εἴρηται, θεῷ οὐ δίκαιον εἶναι λέγοντες νέμειν νεκρὸν ἀνθρώπου· Αἰγυπτίοισι δὲ νενόμισται πῦρ θηρίον εἶναι ἔμψυχον, πάντα δὲ αὐτὸ κατεσθίειν τά περ ἂν λάβῃ, πλησθὲν δὲ αὐτὸ τῆς βορῆς συναποθνήσκειν τῷ κατεσθιομένῳ. οὔκων θηρίοισι νόμος οὐδαμῶς σφι ἐστὶ τὸν νέκυν διδόναι, καὶ διὰ ταῦτα ταριχεύουσι, ἵνα μὴ κείμενος ὑπὸ εὐλέων καταβρωθῇ. οὕτω οὐδετέροισι νομιζόμενα ἐνετέλλετο ποιέειν ὁ Καμβύσης. (Hdt. 3.16.2–4) And when they wearied of doing this (for the corpse, having been embalmed, resisted and did not fall apart), Cambyses ordered them to burn him [i.e. Amasis’ corpse], ordering things which were not holy, for the Persians think that fire is a god. Thus, the burning of corpses is not among the customs of either peoples: among the Persians because of what has already been said, since they say that it is not right to give the corpse of a man to the god. But among the Egyptians, fire is thought to be a living beast, and it eats everything it takes, and when it has been filled with food it dies along with what it has eaten. And it is by no means the custom for them to give a corpse to wild beasts. And for this reason, they practice embalming, so that while lying [in the earth] the body is not eaten by worms. Thus, Cambyses ordered things to be done which are not customary for either people.

It is significant that Herodotus passes judgement on Cambyses by the standards of what is ‘holy’ (ὅσια) or ‘customary’ (νομιζόμενος)28—terms apparently used as equivalents here, as at Hdt. 3.38.1—for the peoples among whom the story unfolds: the Persians of Cambyses and the Egyptians of Amasis. The relevant

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For the nom- root and its development in early Greek thought see Heinimann (1945) 61–89. For hosia see Peels 2016.

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nomoi for deciding on the propriety of Cambyses action are not, it seems, those of Herodotus’ culture and audience—the Greeks, the unmentioned third party to this conversation, cremate their dead as Darius later learns in his experiment (Hdt. 3.38.4)—nor some set of independent or objective criteria, but rather those of the cultures of the protagonists.29 This passage fleshes out the Egyptian and Persian ‘thought-worlds’ to a degree uncommon in the rest of the Inquiry, indeed more so than scholars typically acknowledge.30 We learn that the Persians consider fire divine and hence do not feed corpses to it; rather, as already stated in the description of Persian customs in Book I, the Persians require that a dead body is first torn by a dog or a bird before it is buried (Hdt. 1.140.1) in diametric opposition to Greek burial customs.31 The Egyptians, by contrast, think that fire is a wild beast but (unlike the Persians) it is against their nomoi to allow a wild beast to eat a corpse, hence mummification. Persian and Egyptian theologies are in this respect the mirror image of one another,32 but so are their beliefs about how it is proper to treat the dead. These two sets of opposing views allow them to agree on the impiety of burning corpses.33 The passage suggests that the appropriateness of

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31 32 33

For the practice of cremation as current in classical Athens of the late 5th century, see e.g. Thuc. 2.52.4 and, for an overview of Greek burial practices (with and without internment), Håland (2014) 225 and Burkert (1972) 64–9. It was until recently something of a trope in scholarship that Herodotus (and the Greeks more generally) were preoccupied with ritual largely to the exclusion of theology; see, for example, Gould (1994) 102: ‘What we are missing (…) is any convincing indication, firstly that [Herodotus] understood or took adequate account of the significance of iconography in understanding religion or, secondly and yet more seriously, that he had any grasp of what we might call the differing “ideologies” or world-views of different religious traditions.’ Gould made similar points about Herodotus’ ethnography of the Persians in (1989) 98–9. While many discussions of foreign ritual may give this impression, the passages discussed here are significant in showing that Herodotus was alive to these aspects and occasionally emphasizes them. For aversion to precisely this custom in Greek and more broadly in Ancient Near Eastern culture see Rollinger (1996) 178 and n.180. The inverse nature of Egypt is discussed by Gould (1989), 97–8, and West 1999, who discusses parallels from Sophocles and the Dissoi logoi to the accounts of early-modern travellers. Redfield (1985) 24 judges Myers’s praise of Herodotus’ ‘science of anthropology’ – ‘little, if at all, behind the best thought of our own day’ – to be ‘extravagant’, because ‘Herodotus lacks a principle which Tylor, in the generation before Myres, had already put at the head of cultural anthropology, namely, that every culture is a ‘complex whole’ – or, as we would say, a system. Herodotus merely notes particular traits; he is not concerned with the functional, structural or stylistic coherence of the cultures he describes.’ The views are echoed by Gould (cf. n.30), and are fair as an evaluation of Herodotus’ general practice. But, as the above discussion demonstrates, Herodotus

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an act should be judged on the basis of what we might call the cultural ideology of the society in which it is performed, something which includes their beliefs about the gods (is fire divine, or inanimate, or bestial?) as well as how their society conceives of respectful behaviour (should the dead be the prey of wild animals? Should one feed corpses to a god?). Cambyses’ actions should be seen as ‘unholy’, Herodotus tells his Greek audience, despite the fact that they do not fall foul of our Greek customs—at least, not in respect of cremation. Once again, this is a case of cultural as opposed to moral relativism. It is different evaluations of the facts—the nature of fire—which leads Herodotus to the (implicit) disagreement between Greeks and Persians/Egyptians about whether the burning of a body is improper. Nowhere does Herodotus problematize the moral framework which all parties share, which might be formulated: Show appropriate honour to the dead and the gods! It is worth pausing to note how contrived the point is. Opening up the tomb of an enemy to abuse and burn the corpse would also be considered inappropriate behaviour in a Greek context, and Herodotus’ discourse on Egyptian and Persian theology is not in fact necessary to convince his audience that Cambyses’ actions were wrong.34 It seems that Herodotus focuses so insistently on the act of burning—as if that were the only objectionable aspect of Cambyses’ behaviour—specifically so as to provide himself with the opportunity to perform his carefully framed cross-cultural judgement. How then should individuals act in foreign cultures whose nomoi conflict with their own? Herodotus’ formulation seems to imply that it might be legitimate to judge Cambyses by either Persian or the Egyptian nomoi (or even

34

takes pains to display his awareness that to understand another culture one must look at how a number of different beliefs and ideologies combined (sometimes in paradoxical ways) to create a broader cultural matrix. Myres' assessment looks even better when we remember that, during his own academic career, the anthropologists of the late 19th and early 20th century were being criticized for lumping together various decontextualized rituals and practices from all over the world to elucidate the nature of ‘primitive culture’. In 1934 Ruth Benedict, in critiquing the failure to look at cultures holistically, described the result of earlier scholars as ‘a kind of mechanical Frankenstein’s monster with a right eye from Fiji, a left from Europe, one leg from Tierra del Fuego, and one from Tahiti, and all the fingers and toes from still different regions’, (1959) 49. Without delving into Herodotus' conceptions of primitive theologies, it is clear that he avoided this pitfall. Although Achilles’ outraging of Hector’s corpse in the Iliad might seem to provide acceptable precedents for such acts, as Asheri et al. (2007) 414–15 suggest, the situation is both different (being immediately after the battle) and even in that context it is not unproblematic. The evidence of the Inquiry suggests quite the opposite view of such acts. As noted by Schwab (2020) 248 n.63, Pausanias deplores Lampon’s suggestion that the Greeks dishonour the corpse of Mardonius (9.78–9, cf. Hdt.'s less marked report of Xerxes’ similar treatment of Leonidas at Hdt. 7.238).

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by both Persian and Egyptian nomoi). But since Cambyses’ actions in Egypt contravene the nomoi of both of the relevant peoples, this passage offers no advice on what to do if we find ourselves in a situation where our morality conflicts with those of a foreign land we are visiting. How should a Greek bury a Persian? How should the son of a Greek mother and an Egyptian father bury his sister? Herodotus gives no hints of an answer in these passages, but I will discuss some relevant examples at the end. 4 Judging other Cultures: Herodotus on Babylon Above we have seen two episodes in which Herodotus showcases his appreci‐ ation of cultural relativism. The narrator presents Cambyses’ outrages in Egypt to allow himself to engage in a complex process of cross-cultural evaluation, explaining foreign theologies and thought worlds and their implications for judging foreign behaviour. Armed with this knowledge, he is able to transcend what he presents as the more limited, local reactions of the Greeks and Callatians horrified by one another’s practices in Darius’ court. But elsewhere in the Inquiry, Herodotus seems to approach foreign cultures and standards of piety in a radically different way, which stands in tension with the ideas seen above. The most striking example comes in Herodotus’ description of the customs of the Babylonians. Here Herodotus explicitly ranks Babylonian customs on a scale which runs from approbation—beginning with 'fairest custom' (κάλλιστος νόμος, Hdt. 1.196.5) and moving on to the ‘second in wisdom’ (δεύτερος δὲ σοφίῃ, Hdt. 1.197)—to condemnation, ending with ‘the most shameful’ (ὁ δὲ δὴ αἴσχιστος τῶν νόμων, Hdt. 1.199.1). The best is their traditional (but subsequently abandoned) custom of having rich prospective husbands bid for the most beautiful brides and using this money as a dowry for the less attractive girls, who are then married to poor men. The second wisest is the custom that the sick are carried to the agora, where those who have suffered from an illness are obliged to share their medical experience with them. The most shameful custom, also practised by the Cypriots, is the mandatory prostitution of every Babylonian woman in the temple of Aphrodite, whom the Babylonians call Mylitta.35 This last is particularly interesting from the perspective of piety because Herodotus makes it clear that it is explicitly linked to the worship of (Babylonian) Aphrodite: the ritual takes place in her temple (ἱζομένην ἐς ἱρὸν Ἀφροδίτης) and is described using the vocabulary of the sacred. The silver coin 35

For the theme of sacred temple prostitution – ‘a multiculturalist's scandal’– and the afterlife of the Herodotean passage on the Babylon sex and marriage customs, see Beard and Henderson (1997).

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which the man throws into the lap of woman he wishes to have sex with becomes holy (ἱρός) and thus it is not lawful/holy (θέμις) for her to reject it. Clearly, this nomos—which Herodotus explicitly criticizes as ‘most shameful’—is locally considered sacred to the gods. On what does Herodotus base his evaluations? He gives no justification. Did he consider the reasons self-evident? Some details and themes make his judgements intuitively comprehensible, though we must be careful not to flesh out his text with modern ideas: the custom that the high dowries of beautiful girls should subsidize the marriage of ugly girls seems to be based on a notion of fairness, a way to compensate natural inequalities of wealth and beauty. Likewise, in the second custom, the principle of pooling medical knowledge (along with the reference to ‘wisdom’) suggests that it is the maximization of knowledge that appeals to Herodotus: sharing experience freely and widely rather than channelling it through the offices of a professional doctor who only tends the wealthy who can pay his fee. The label attached to the custom of sacred prostitution—‘most shameful’—may seem to appeal to unproblematized ‘local’ (Greek) notions of what is shameful, but if we consider the previous examples we can note that the principle of fairness is conspicuously lacking: rather than equalizing nature’s gifts, this custom forces unattractive girls to wait in the temple for a long time, sometimes up to several years, until someone picks them and they are finally able to perform their sacred sexual duty and go home. The inequality and the negative consequences for unattractive women make it the inverse of the custom Herodotus judges the best. But several other passages reveal that Herodotus had other reasons to object to sacred prostitution. Later, in the Egyptian logos, Herodotus makes it clear that he was aware of a debate around the question of sexual abstinence and purity in temples: καὶ τὸ μὴ μίσγεσθαι γυναιξὶ ἐν ἱροῖσι μηδὲ ἀλούτους ἀπὸ γυναικῶν ἐς ἱρὰ ἐσιέναι οὗτοι εἰσὶ οἱ πρῶτοι θρησκεύσαντες. οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἄλλοι σχεδὸν πάντες ἄνθρωποι, πλὴν Αἰγυπτίων καὶ Ἑλλήνων, μίσγονται ἐν ἱροῖσι καὶ ἀπὸ γυναικῶν ἀνιστάμενοι ἄλουτοι ἐσέρχονται ἐς ἱρόν, νομίζοντες ἀνθρώπους εἶναι κατά περ τὰ ἄλλα κτήνεα· καὶ γὰρ τὰ ἄλλα κτήνεα ὁρᾶν καὶ ὀρνίθων γένεα ὀχευόμενα ἔν τε τοῖσι νηοῖσι τῶν θεῶν καὶ ἐν τοῖσι τεμένεσι· εἰ ὦν εἶναι τῷ θεῷ τοῦτο μὴ φίλον, οὐκ ἂν οὐδὲ τὰ κτήνεα ποιέειν. οὗτοι μέν νυν τοιαῦτα ἐπιλέγοντες ποιεῦσι ἔμοιγε οὐκ ἀρεστά· (Hdt. 2.64.1–65.1) And it seems that these people [the Egyptians] were the first to have the custom of not having sex with women in temples nor of coming into temples unwashed after being with women. For almost all other people, except the Egyptians and the Greeks, have sex in temples and enter the temple unwashed after being with women, in the opinion that humans are like other animals. For [they say that] they see the other animals and

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species of birds mating in the temples and precincts of the gods. And if this were not pleasing to the divinity, they say, animals would not do it either. And so these people, making such arguments, do things which for me, at least, are unacceptable.

Herodotus is quite explicit that he views the practice of most peoples as ‘unacceptable’ or ‘not pleasing’ (οὐκ ἀρεστά). Interestingly, he reports the defence of sex in temples without giving any response to it—although he does identify its central premise, namely that ‘humans are like other animals’, and it is possible that this seemed so self-evidently false that he felt his objection did not need to be made explicit. Herodotus’ evaluation of Babylonian customs seems, at first blush, to be in tension with the relativist views he expresses in the Cambyses logos.36 It is not difficult to view the narrator’s reaction in the Babylonian logos as comparable to that of the Greeks in Darius’ experiment at Hdt. 3.38. In the latter passage the narrator, like the Persian monarch, takes the role of a detached cultural observer capable of reaching a tolerant understanding which transcends the localism of any particular set of ethnic nomoi. In Babylon Herodotus, a Greek observer convinced of the superiority of his own nomoi, seems to turn away with a shudder from the ‘shameful’ acts of the Babylonians, which contravene Greek standards of ritual purity, without any attempt to understand the thought-world of the Babylonians (who presumably—following the logic of Hdt. 3.38—consider their rite of sacred prostitution, along with the rest of their customs, to be ‘most beautiful’/‘best', κάλλιστος, and superior to that of the Greeks). Rather than viewing the gulf as one which can be overcome by cultural understanding, which might reveal the disagreement to be superficial rather than fundamental, Herodotus seems to treat his own notions of purity and piety as universally valid. 36

The ‘apparente contraddizione’ between Hdt. 3.38 and the Babylonian logos was pointed out by Asheri in Burkert (1990) 33–4. Burkert acknowledges the ‘interessanter Widerspruch’ and suggests that it could be solved in two ways: either 1) Herodotus’ ‘ethnographic relativism’ does not imply ‘moral relativism’, or 2) Herodotus retains the right to speak ‘im Sinn der nomoi Hellenikoi’, i.e. to make use of a Greek perspective on foreign customs, an idea which I discuss below. There has, otherwise, been little consideration of how the ‘relativism’ of Hdt. 3.38 might fit with the rest of the Inquiry. Munson (2001) 171, too, seems to view occasional 'absolutist' views as standing in tension with the 'relativism' discussed above. Others offer a less specific but more questionable contrast between the enlightened (or Sophistic) relativism on display at Hdt. 3.38 and Herodotus’ (alleged) chauvinism towards inferior barbarians: thus Dawson (1992) 18–21 opposes Herodotus’ ‘critical and skeptical attitude towards conventional thinking’ (i.e. Hdt. 3.38, owed the Sophists) and his treatment of the ‘irredeemable otherness’ of foreigners and their customs, which serves ‘to shock, titillate, and confirm his Greek readers in their conviction of cultural superiority’. See, in a similar vein, Redfield (2002) esp. 27–32.

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Notably, Herodotus elsewhere uses the label 'most shameful' (αἴσχιστος) in a similar fashion as a term which evaluates behaviour according to the customs of a specific people: he reports that 'it is established custom among [the Persians] that lying is most shameful' (Hdt. 1.138.1: αἴσχιστον δὲ αὐτοῖσι τὸ ψεύδεσθαι νενόμισται). But there are some differences between the Greek reaction to the Callatians and Herodotus’ reaction to the Babylonians. In judging the Babylonian customs Herodotus is not simply applying his own cultural values to a foreign people, calling what most resembles Greek nomoi ‘good/beautiful/wise’ and what most contrasts with Greek nomoi ‘bad/shameful’.37 The first two Babylonian nomoi which Herodotus positively evaluates are foreign to the Greeks and, of the three, the only one which he condemns is 'very similar' to one practised in some parts of Cyprus (Hdt. 1.199.5), an island whose city states were emphatically part of the Hellenic cultural world, despite being on its geographical outskirts.38 We may suspect—and we may be right—that Herodotus did not come to his views about what is ‘shameful’, ‘wise’, or ‘good’ independently of his culture, language, and so on, and thus that his reaction is characteristically Greek. But Herodotus may have considered himself to be engaging in cross-cultural criticism of the Babylonians on the basis of objective criteria—considered notions of fairness, the duty of social groups to look after all members, and the obligations of ritual purity. Were it not for Herodotus’ later comments on sex in temples, it would be tempting to conclude that there is no contradiction between Herodotus’ critique of the Babylonian nomoi and his relativist judgements in the Egyptian logos. The point made in the Egyptian logos is that one would be a fool to assert blindly the superiority of one’s own customs, because one’s judgement of foreign behaviour may be influenced by a cultural mistranslation and by different notions of what is sacred or divine. When you condemn another people, they are likely to be looking back at you with similar distaste.39 But this does not require one to abstain from all judgement of another culture (or one’s own) and one can still 37 38 39

This recalls the outlook which Herodotus ascribes to the Persians at Hdt. 1.134.2: they consider those nearest them ἀρίστους and those most distant κακίστους. See, for instance, the role of the Cyrpiots and especially Onesilaus in the narrative of the Ionian Revolt esp. Hdt. 5.108–115. Herodotus’ appreciation of the mutual foreignness felt by people from different cultures on encountering one another also emerges from his statement that the Egyptians consider non-Egyptian speakers to be barbaroi (Hdt. 2.158.5, cf. 2.36). Cf. Geertz’s claim that ‘we [i.e. anthropologists] were the first to insist that we see the lives of others through lenses of our own grinding and they look back on ours through ones of their own’, (2010 [= 1984]) 389–90.

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make criticisms on the basis of principles which are universally valid—Be fair! Respect your parents! Honour the gods!—if convinced that there are no relevant theological or cultural views which have a bearing on the significance of a given practice (e.g. that to be in the temple for many years conferred great honour; or that Babylonian women considered sacred sex with strangers an edifying experience). Herodotus might, then, coherently pass judgement on Babylonian practices in full knowledge of the complexities of cross-cultural judgement aired in the Cambyses logos. Greek evaluative terms like καλός combine aesthetic, moral, and intellectual meanings, but the fact that καλός is correlated with σοφίη (the list runs: ‘best’, ‘second in wisdom’) alongside the implicit principle of fairness, suggest that Herodotus would not have considered his evaluation to be the product of Greek chauvinism but rather the product of critical reflection on the basis of culture-independent criteria. But this raises several questions. If the defence of temple-sex which Hero‐ dotus reports at Hdt. 2.64–5 fairly represents the view of the Babylonians, why does this not lead Herodotus to declare this Babylonian custom valid in its cultural context, just as he seems to view the ritual cannibalism of the Callatians or the Persian exposure of corpses to wild animals to be acceptable despite its stark opposition to Greek values? There are several possible answers: the first is that Herodotus had carefully considered the question of sex in temples and has—for reasons he does not report—come to the conclusion that, unlike other customs which he is happy to admit as part of the reasonable diversity of customs, this is one on which there is only one correct answer. A second explanation is that the discussion of Cambyses in Egypt is focused on condemning violence, ridicule, and mockery in the face of foreign customs rather than on intellectual criticism per se (I discuss this further below). A third is that, in discussing Babylon, Herodotus judges the Babylonians from his own cultural perspectives and norms, abandoning the cultural relativism which he shows in the Cambyses logos. This would scarcely be unusual in the broader context of relativism: the path between the ‘acultural’ standpoint— reached by reflection on the diversity of human practice and belief—and one’s own ‘encultured’ standpoint—with which one lives and operates in everyday life—has been trodden by prominent thinkers from Montaigne to the Boasian anthropologists of the 20th century. Montaigne, for example, makes the following two statements at different points in his essay On Cannibals:40 Or je trouve, pour revenir à mon propos, qu'il n'y a rien de barbare et de sauvage en cette nation, à ce qu'on m'en a rapporté, sinon que chacun appelle barbarie ce qui n'est 40

Translations from Edelman (2011) 1.

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pas de son usage; come de vray, il me semble que nous n'avons autre mire de la verité et de la raison que l'exemple et idée des opinions et usances du païs où nous sommes. I find, to return to my theme, that there is nothing barbarous and savage in this nation, unless each man calls barbarism whatever is not his own practice; for indeed it seems we have no other test of truth and reason than the example and pattern of the opinions and customs of the country we live in. (Hdt. 1.31.152, VS 205). Nous les pouvons donq bien appeller barbares, eu esgard aux regles de la raison, mais non pas eu esgard à nous, qui les surpassons en toute sorte de barbarie. We may call these people barbarians with respect to the rules of reason, but not in respect to ourselves, who surpass them in every kind of barbarity. (Hdt. 1.31.156, VS 210).

In the former case, Montaigne seems to explicitly deny that there is an objective standard for morality: barbarism is merely the pejorative term we use for foreignness; in the latter, he clearly states that one can use an objective standard— reason—to judge both one’s own and foreign customs, hence some people (‘we’) can be more barbaric than others.41 Some four centuries later, Ruth Benedict clearly saw an understanding of ‘the relativity of cultural habits’ as desirable: a wise person should ‘grant to other cultures the same significance to their participants which he recognizes in his own’. This is a necessary antidote to parochial cultural chauvinism and intolerance, since ‘all peoples always justify the traits of which they find themselves possessed’ irrespective of their merits. Yet Benedict considered this process important precisely because it can help us achieve ‘a rational social order’. Here too, a cultural relativism which resists the sorting of cultures into hierarchies alternates with the view that societies can be judged according to some kind of objective scale.42 Herodotus would not be alone in moving silently between the perspective of the detached observer of cultural diversity, sceptical of the total validity of any single system of nomoi, and that of the involved moral agent who must decide how to act in the world and accordingly passes judgement both on his own and on foreign societies. One assumes that Protagoras was capable of similar shifts of perspective, given his role as the first 'relativist' and as the architect of the constitution of Thourii.

41 42

An attempt to reconcile the position can be found in Edelmann (2011); Cf. Handler (1986). See Benedict (1959) 10, 11, 32, 37. Her inconsistency here is noted by Selznick (1992) 113.

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5 Relativising the Gods and the Holy: Epistemological and Theological Relativism in Herodotus We have seen that Herodotus’ cultural relativism, as presented in the discussion of Cambyses, draws on his appreciation of the diversity of theological belief: it is not holy for Persians to burn corpses because they consider fire to be a god. The Greeks, by contrast, do not think fire divine and consider cremation respectful. Hence, despite the outrage of the Callatians, it is appropriate for Greeks to cremate their dead. Herodotus’ Inquiry records a number of other theologies: The Greeks consider the gods to have human natures (anthrôpophuês), while the Persians think this foolishness (Hdt. 1.131.1). The Persians originally sacrificed to sun, moon, earth, fire, water, and winds, and they call the circle of the sky Zeus (Hdt. 1.131.2–3). The Massagetae worship only the sun and sacrifice horses to him because the fastest of beasts is appropriate for the fastest of the gods (Hdt. 1.216). The ancient Pelasgians sacrificed to the gods collectively and gave them neither names nor epithets until they came into contact with the Egyptian pantheon (Hdt. 2.52). The Egyptians think that Demeter and Dionysus rule the underworld and that the human soul is immortal, being continually reborn in other animals after death, completing a cycle of all animals and returning to a human form in a period of 3,000 years (Hdt. 2.123: a view which some Greeks also adopted and passed off as their own). The Getae think that only their single god exists (Hdt. 4.94.4), while the Arabians only acknowledge the existence of two gods: Orotalt (Dionysius) and Alilat (Urania, 3.8.3). What is the status of such beliefs? The passages considered in the previous section give the impression that most peoples agree on certain uncontroversial moral principles—Honour your parents! Honour the gods! Be fair!—but that different notions of what is respectful or proper, like different understandings of the divine, may lead two cultures to different evaluations of a given custom. If these cultural symbolisms and theologies are, in Herodotus’ view, equally valid, then the conflicting customs based on them presumably also have equal validity. But if Herodotus considered some theologies correct and others incorrect in an absolute sense, then it follows that the customs based on these theologies can be evaluated and compared. If, for example, the Persians are right that fire is always and everywhere divine (and if we assume that it is disrespectful to feed a corpse to a god) then Greek cremation practices presumably would be sacrilegious, even when practiced by Greeks in Greece. The nature of the gods and whether it is, in principle, possible to attain certain and universally valid knowledge about them seems, therefore, to be essential to a proper evaluation of these nomoi. To understand Herodotus’ relativism, then, we have to understand his thoughts

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about the gods and the divine and how different peoples know and worship them.43 It is one of the constant assumptions of Herodotus’ Inquiry that many diverse peoples worship the same gods, although the phonetic forms of the gods’ names, their iconographies, and their theogonies differ substantially from culture to culture.44 Thus Herodotus frequently makes statements like ‘The Assyrians call Aphrodite Mylitta, the Arabians call her Alilat, the Persians call her Mitra’ (Hdt. 1.131.3, cf. 199.3) or the Egyptians ‘say that Osiris is Dionysus’ (Hdt. 2.41). Herodotus does not seem to think that these different peoples independently discovered these divinities by a process of theological reasoning (akin to the Christian notion of ‘natural theology’): he says nothing which suggests that thought alone could lead one to postulate the existence of Zeus, Aphrodite, Dionysus, and so on.45 Rather, Herodotus understood the widespread worship of many gods as the result of gradual cultural diffusion from one people to another. This theory is never systematically explained but it is assumed at various points in the Inquiry, particularly the ethnographic sections, and at some points explicitly formulated. The Persians, for example, originally sacrificed only to astrological bodies and natural elements—the sun, moon, earth, fire, water, and the winds—but they learned to sacrifice to Aphrodite Urania from the Assyrians (Hdt. 1.131.2–3). The example of theological diffusion described in greatest detail is that most relevant to Herodotus and his audience: how the Greeks came to adopt many of the gods and cultic practices of the Egyptians. While the view that most peoples knew the same gods was widespread, not only in earlier Greek culture but throughout the Mediterranean and Ancient Near East,46 the theory that knowledge of most of the gods came to Greece

43 44

45

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The most valuable recent scholarship here is Burkert (1990) (who also discusses similarities with Homer and non-Greek literature), Gould (1994), and Scullion (2006). For a list of these equations see Harrison (2000) 210–11 and Linforth (1926) 26–7. The only three non-Greek deities who are not equated with Greek gods are all termed ‘epichoric’ by Herodotus (Salmoxis, 4.94; Kybebe, 5.102; Pleistorus, 9.119), see Linforth (1926) 23 and Mikalson (2003) 129–31. Likewise, Greek heroes and demi-gods do not feature in Herodotus’ equations with foreign gods. Herodotus may have thought that the existence of ‘the divine’ or ‘the gods’ was rationally demonstrable, but he says nothing about it (for arguments of this sort which Xenophon would later would marshal against ‘atheism’ see Xen. Mem. 1.4, 4.3, and book 10 of Plato's Laws). For lists of translations of divinities in the Ancient Near East see, e.g., Assmann (1996) 25–8. On the rationale underlying the identification of Greek and Egyptian divinities, see von Lieven (2013). On Herodotus' equations between Greek and non-Greek gods see, in addition to n.44 (above) Burkert (1990) 4–8, Harrison (2000) 208–22. Although, as Harrison observes at (2000) 214–16, the principle of identification occasionally seems

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from foreign countries—particularly Egypt—is not attested before Herodotus, and proved shocking to chauvinist Greek sensibilities several centuries later.47 The theory is, in fact, an early and unique attempt to look systematically at the relationship between the ‘theologies’ of different peoples and to account for similarities and differences, and moved Jacob Burckhardt to describe Herodotus ‘founder of the comparative history of religion and dogma’.48 Herodotus, however, does not claim the theory as his own, but claims that he has it from Greek and Egyptian priests. He says that he heard it from the Egyptian priests of Heliopolis (Hdt. 2.4.2, cf. 2.50.2) and he collects extensive evidence and arguments for it in the Egyptian logos (Hdt. 2.43–4, 49–50). He also paraphrases the priestesses of the Greek oracle of Dodona (αἱ Δωδωνίδες ἱρεῖαι, 2.53.3) who describe the early development of Greek theology and also present Greek knowledge of the gods as an importation from Egypt. Greek and Egyptian priestly reports thus dovetail with each other and the results of Herodotus’ own research in a suspiciously neat fashion. In brief, the theory is as follows: the (proto-Greek) Pelasgians conceived of the gods as an undifferentiated group called theoi because they ‘put all things in order (thentes) and controlled [lit. 'had'] all distribution(s)’ (ὅτι κόσμῳ θέντες τὰ πάντα πρήγματα καὶ πάσας νομὰς εἶχον, Hdt. 2.52.1).49 They later heard the names of the gods which arrived from Egypt and asked the oracle at Dodona whether they should adopt them; receiving an affirmative answer, they did so. Later, some four centuries before Herodotus’ day, Hesiod and Homer were the ones who gave the Greeks their ideas about ‘where the gods came from, whether they had always been, and what forms they had’ by making a theogony and giving the gods their epithets, honours, skills, and forms (Hdt. 2.53.1). Herodotus gives more details of the process of diffusion later in the Egyptian logos: although almost all the names of the gods came to Greece from Egypt, a number of them cannot have, since they are unknown to the Egyptians—Poseidon, the Dioscuri, Hera, Hestia, Themis, the Charites, and the Nereids—and the Egyptians also worship no heroes. Of the divinities not imported from the Egyptians at least one came from elsewhere—the Greeks learned of Poseidon from the Libyans—but

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to be forgotten or abandoned both by the narrator and the characters, this may be little more than a change of emphasis (see here Ellis (2021)). See esp. Plutarch, De Herodoti malignitate 857c–d. For the apparent originality of the theory and its contextualization in pre-Socratic speculation on the gods, see Lloyd (1975.1) 169–70. Burckhardt (1957.3) 410. It is perhaps no coincidence that the Gods are referred to as οἱ ξυντιθέντες ἡμῶν τὸ γένος (‘those who constructed [lit. put together] our race’) in Plato's Timaeus (72e), a text rich in allusion to Herodotus’ Inquiry.

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the rest were, Herodotus thinks, named by the Pelasgians (Hdt. 2.50.1–3, cf. 2.43.2–3). The gods of the Greeks do not, then, align perfectly with those of the Egyptians or any other peoples, but most peoples seem to be familiar with a selection of divinities which would have overlapped to a large extent with those of any other people, with the exception of minor divinities, like heroes, who were only known more locally.50 As for cultic practices, the Greeks adopted some from the Pelasgians (e.g. Hdt. 2.51: the statues of Hermes with the erect genitalia) and others from the Egyptians (e.g. Hdt. 2.49: the worship of Dionysus, his sacrifices, and phallic processions were introduced by Melampous from Egypt, who probably learnt of them through Cadmus of Tyre; cf. Hdt. 2.58). That many of the same gods are present among most peoples and in most places reflects the presentation of divine action in the Inquiry more broadly. There is an assumption of the universality of divine action throughout Hero‐ dotus’ narrative: standard theological principles—e.g. that the gods punish the impious and can be propitiated by sacrifices—can be seen in stories unfolding in numerous different places, unaffected by ethnicity or location. Thus the Lydian king Alyattes who burns a temple of Athena Assêsiê outside Miletus (Hdt. 1.19.1) immediately falls ill and only after rebuilding two temples by way of recompense does he recover (Hdt. 1.19.2–22.4); the Persian king Cambyses who stabs the thigh of Egyptian god Apis, incarnated as a calf (Hdt. 3.26–9), later dies by a wound at the same spot on his own leg (Hdt. 3.64.3); after Spartans kill Persian heralds in Sparta (Hdt. 7.133) the ire of the Spartan hero Talthybius is awakened, which falls with ‘divine’ precision during the Peloponnesian War on the descendants of the Spartans who originally volunteered to atone for the crime (Hdt. 7.134–7); the invading Persians who dishonoured the statue of Poseidon in a Greek temple are killed by a tidal wave (Hdt. 8.129). These types of story suggest that there is a universality to the way in which the gods respond to sacrilege, which transcends ethnic boundaries. Herodotus’ world, far from being divided up into diverse ‘religions’,51 featured a host of international gods, and it was to be expected that Zeus would respond in a comparable (if not identical)

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This seems, however, to be not so much a conclusion which Herodotus reached by theorizing as rather the standard view for which he seeks an explanation. On the genesis of the notion of the various ‘world religions’ (in the early-modern period), see Barton and Boyarin (2016) and Nongbri (2013). The idea is foreign to ancient Greek thought, and importantly different from the ‘heresiological’ models of theology and cultic practice developed within ancient Judaism and Christianity. For recent reflection on the use of the concept 'religion' with application to Herodotus see Schwab (2020) 13–33 and esp. 27–33 for Herodotus' concept of nomos (with further references).

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way to the burning of any two of his temples, whether in Babylon, Egyptian Thebes, or Dodona, irrespective of the ethnicity of the responsible party. Other principles of divine action also seem to be built into the logic of the narrative and are treated as universal: that the divine is phthoneros (grudging) is claimed by the wise men of Greece (Solon, Hdt. 1.32), Egypt (Amasis, Hdt. 3.40), and Persia (Artabanus, Hdt. 7.10ε, 7.46); that those who violate the norms of guest-friendship will be punished, which Herodotus considers demonstrated by Paris’ theft of Helen and the ensuing destruction of his home and entire family (Hdt. 2.120.5). Both principles are stated in general anthropological and theological terms: phthonos is not a characteristic of a merely local deity, nor does it apply only to one people, rather it characterizes ‘the divine’ or ‘god’ and it is felt towards humans generally. Likewise, Herodotus thinks that the destruction of Troy was prepared ‘by the daimonic [power]’ to ‘make it clear to mankind, that for great injustices the punishments from the gods are also great’ (Hdt. 2.120.5). These principles may look Greek to us, but Herodotus clearly perceived these to be universal features of how gods interact with mortals. In the face of this universalism, let us turn back to clashing theological views held by different peoples. In the late sixth or early fifth century, Xenophanes of Colophon had pointed out that different peoples (and even animals) imagine the gods to resemble themselves in their physiognomy, clothing, and language—an observation which undermines our confidence in the veracity of any ‘local’ visualization of the gods (DK 21 B 14, 15, 16) and which is recalled by Herodotus’ comments at 3.38. Herodotus was clearly familiar with this type of thought since he attributes something like it to the Persians: they do not build statues, temples, or altars to the gods and think that doing so is foolishness (môriê) because, Herodotus supposes, they do not believe, as the Greeks do, that the gods have human natures (Hdt. 1.131.1).52 Protagoras, Herodotus’ contemporary, affirmed his own ignorance about the gods, not only about their forms but even about their existence,53 and many see echoes of these Protagorean ideas in Herodotus’

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By contrast, Herodotus reports that the Egyptian priests consider some gods to have had 'human form' in the very distant past, but claim that 'there has been no human-formed god' in the last 11,340 years (Hdt. 2.142.3: Οὕτως ἐν μυρίοισί τε ἔτεσι καὶ χιλίοισι καὶ πρὸς τριηκοσίοισί τε καὶ τεσσεράκοντα ἔλεγον θεὸν ἀνθρωποειδέα οὐδένα γενέσθαι). Notably, Herodotus also reports that the Egyptians do not think that Pan has the form which they use to represent him in sculptures and pictures – with a goat's face and legs – but think that he is 'like the other gods' (Hdt. 2.46.2). He does not say why they represent him this way, nor how the Egyptians imagine the gods to be. ‘Concerning the gods I am unable to know either that they are, or that they are not, or of what sort they are in their form. For many are the things which hinder knowledge, both obscurity and that human life is brief’, (DK 80 B 4: περὶ μὲν θεῶν οὐκ ἔχω εἰδέναι,

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Inquiry.54 Although Herodotus displays no agnosticism about the existence of the gods (and the Inquiry as a whole implies quite the opposite), some passages do suggest that the insight of any particular culture into the nature of the gods is limited. The clearest comes at the start of his description of Egypt (Hdt. 2.3.2): τὰ μέν νυν θεῖα τῶν ἀπηγημάτων οἷα ἤκουον, οὐκ εἰμὶ πρόθυμος ἐξηγέεσθαι, ἔξω ἢ τὰ οὐνόματα αὐτῶν μοῦνον, νομίζων πάντας ἀνθρώπους ἴσον περὶ αὐτῶν ἐπίστασθαι· τὰ δ᾽ ἂν ἐπιμνησθέω αὐτῶν, ὑπὸ τοῦ λόγου ἐξαναγκαζόμενος ἐπιμνησθήσομαι. Now, I am not eager to relate the divine matters from the stories which I heard [in Egypt], apart from their names alone, since I think that all men know the same amount about them. And whichever of these things I do mention, I will mention only under the compulsion of the story.

This important passage poses serious interpretative difficulties. The first is the most fundamental: does περὶ αὐτῶν (‘about them’) refer back to τὰ θεῖα (‘divine things’) or back to τὰ οὐνόματα (‘the names’ of the gods)? On the former—interpretation (a)—the gist is that all peoples know the same amount about divine things and that it is pointless to discuss such contested issues. On the latter—interpretation (b)—Herodotus asserts that all peoples know the same amount about the ‘names’ of the gods and that it is, therefore, sensible to discuss them, whereas when it comes to ‘divine things’ the level of knowledge varies and the topic is best avoided. Both interpretations are grammatically possible. On either interpretation, Herodotus expresses a thoroughgoing relativism or skepticism relating to the knowledge of either ‘divine things’ or ‘divine names’. Also ambiguous is what Herodotus means by ‘know the same amount’ since this can be interpreted as (i) sceptical or (ii) relativist. If (i), the point would be that, since all peoples know so vanishingly little about divine things/names, it is not worth discussing them. Humans have little insight into the topic, so debate about it is an exercise in futility. But the relativistic interpretation (ii) is also plausible: all peoples have some valid insight into the divine things/names but, since it is not possible to adjudicate between them where they conflict, these incompatible views have ‘equal’ worth. As we will see, (ii) fits much better with the views which Herodotus seems to hold elsewhere. Either way, Hdt. 2.3.2

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οὔθ' ὡς εἰσὶν οὔθ' ὡς οὐκ εἰσὶν οὔθ' ὁποῖοί τινες ἰδέαν· πολλὰ γὰρ τὰ κωλύοντα εἰδέναι ἥ τ' ἀδηλότης καὶ βραχὺς ὢν ὁ βίος τοῦ ἀνθρώπου). Burkert (1990) 26 sees an echo of this passage in Herodotus’ phraseology at Hdt. 2.52.

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affirms that the different cultural beliefs about ‘divine things/names’ have an equal claim to validity (whether ‘equally valid’ or ‘equally specious’).55 6 Knowledge about the Divine: Positive Knowledge It is tempting to take Hdt. 2.3.2 at face value and conclude that Herodotus is a relativist when it comes to knowledge of the divine: different peoples have different views about ‘divine things’ or ‘divine names’, and these views are incommensurable. But when Herodotus actually talks about the nature of the divine and the ‘names’ of the gods, it becomes clear that he thinks that some cultural knowledge about the divine can be more or less accurate and that people—or, as Herodotus typically has it, peoples—can be wrong about the nature, age, and origin of a divinity, as well as incorrect in the theological stories they tell. As such the Egyptian logos, with its extended analysis of how the Greeks adopted the Egyptian gods, seems to abandon the principle which Herodotus articulates at its beginning: that ‘all men know the same about [divine things/names]’. Herodotus’ departure from Hdt. 2.3.2 on its more general interpretation—(a) where it refers to ‘divine things’—is particularly obvious when it comes to one specific theological idea: sex and procreation between gods and humans. Despite traditional claims to the contrary in many different cultures, Herodotus repeatedly avoids or rejects stories in which this happens. In the Babylonian logos, Herodotus says that he does not believe the priests of Zeus Belus that the god sleeps with local women who lie in the temple overnight (Hdt. 1.182), and in the Egyptian logos, he rebuts Hecataeus’ claims to be descended from a god sixteen generations previously on the authority of the Egyptian priests in Thebes, whose records stretch back 345 generations, in which time no mortal had a god or a hero as an ancestor (Hdt. 2.143.4).56 Relating the ancestry of Targitaus, Herodotus reports the Scythian claim that his parents were Zeus and

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It is interesting to note the parallel between the views expressed at Hdt. 2.3.2 and the scepticism advocated by some modern epistemologists (which might underlie the arguments of some academic sceptics in later antiquity), namely that the very fact of disagreement between 'epistemic peers' should lead to the suspension of judgement. Herodotus evently appeals to a similar idea here, though it is not explicitly formulated. For discussion of the principle and whether it might underlie Sextus’ thought at PH 1.165 see Sienkiewicz (2019) 22–9, who concludes that the argument is ‘a dogmatic version of the mode of disagreement’ foreign to a sceptic like Sextus, since it itself represents ‘a theoretical epistemological principle’ (31–4). For a discussion of the encounter and Herodotus' presentation of Hecataeus generally see West 1991.

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Borysthenes but states that he does not believe it (Hdt. 4.5.1) and later gives his preferred version (Hdt. 4.11.1). Herodotus explicitly states his unwillingness to accept a mortal’s divine ancestry when discussing the genealogy of the Spartan kings, which can be ‘correctly’ traced back to Perseus but no earlier, since there is no record of Perseus’ mortal father and tradition makes his father Zeus (Hdt. 6.53.1).57 It seems, then, that Herodotus considered himself possessed of knowledge about the divine of which many local ethnic traditions—with the possible exception of the Egyptians—were ignorant: that the gods do not procreate with mortals now, nor have they done so within the last few dozen generations of humanity. In this respect, at least, it is clear that he did not think that all peoples know the same amount about ‘divine things’. Herodotus’ departure from Hdt. 2.3.2 on the more limited interpretation—(b), where it refers to ‘the names [of the gods]’—is most obvious in his discussion of the two divinities called Heracles. ‘The names of the gods’ is an infamously opaque phrase. Herodotus cannot be referring to the phonetic sound of the names, since he himself provides dozens of translations of the names of gods from one language into another (Osiris = Dionysus etc.) and could perceive as well as we can that the two names sound and look different. Rather ‘names’ must refer to the differentiation of specific gods from one another. When Herodotus says that the Pelasgians, who originally knew ‘the gods’ only as a general group, learned ‘the names of the other gods’ from the Egyptians (Hdt. 2.52.2) he seems to mean that they learned to worship them by name and individually.58 In his discussion of Heracles, Herodotus concludes that there are two different deities with the name Heracles: a younger hero, son of Amphitryon and Alcmene, and

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Herodotus sometimes also rejects other theological stories: in the Egyptian logos, for instance, he dismisses a ‘silly story (mythos) about Heracles’ (εὐήθης …. μῦθος … περὶ τοῦ Ἡρακλέος, Hdt. 2.45.1) told by the Greeks, in which a large group of Egyptians try to sacrifice him to Zeus, in response to which Heracles kills them all. This, Herodotus says, reveals the Greek ignorance of Egyptian customs: how could a people so punctilious about the purity of their sacrifices sacrifice a man? And how could Heracles, who was (according to the story itself) still a man, have possibly killed many tens of thousands of men? Here I follow the persuasive discussion of the meaning of ounoma in Linforth (1926) 10– 11: that Herodotus considers the (different) Greek and Egyptian sounds to be equivalent, like the common nouns hudôr and aqua, and feels free to use either. Cf. Burkert (1985), Hartog (1988) 241–8, Scullion (2006) 198; for an alternative view see Lattimore (1939), whose theory is that Herodotus thought that the Greek names themselves (Ζεύς etc.) came from Egypt and that Herodotus was unaware that the Egyptians did not use phonetically identical names for them (except in a few cases where he thought that they used two names, for example ‘Zeus’ and ‘Ammon’ and so on). For a critical discussion of Linforth's theory, see Harrison (2000) 251–64.

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a god known by the Egyptians and Phoenicians who is significantly older (Hdt. 2.43–5). Although he performs his discomfort at engaging in this theological reasoning (2.45.3), Herodotus concludes that his research, based on genealogy and chronological reckoning, makes the much greater age of Heracles the god ‘clear’ (τὰ μέν νυν ἱστορημένα δηλοῖ σαφέως… Hdt. 2.44.5). Later in the Egyptian logos, Herodotus returns to discrepancies between the Greek and Egyptian views on the age of Dionysus, Pan, and Heracles, and here he is quite explicit that Greek beliefs are based on a mistake: the Greeks, Herodotus concludes, learnt the names of these gods later than the rest of the pantheon and mistook the date at which they learnt of the gods with the date of their birth—hence they constructed shorter genealogies for them (Hdt. 2.144–6). Given that it was Hesiod and Homer who created Greek theogony (Hdt. 2.53.2), it seems clear that what the Greeks ‘know’ about the gods (note ἠπιστέατο at Hdt. 2.53.1) from the ancient poets can be factually mistaken, just as poets could be misleading on geographical and historical matters like ‘Ocean’ and the events of the Trojan War.59 The case of Heracles shows, then, that Herodotus does not always think that all people ‘know the same amount’ about the names of the gods: some, at least, mistakenly merge the names of two divinities into one. However we take Herodotus’ relativist- or sceptical-sounding statement at the start of the Egyptian logos (Hdt. 2.3.2), it is disregarded in the detailed discussion of the gods which follows. The passages above show no trace of relativism—that different beliefs about the age and distinctions between the gods are incommensurable and equally valid—or of scepticism—that little of import can be known about the nature or age of gods and heroes. Rather he takes a positivist approach, establishing certain facts and errors through the process of enquiry, reasoning, and chronological reckoning. What are the implications for the cultural relativism with which we began? As noted above, if Herodotus thinks it possible to adjudicate between the different cultural beliefs about the gods, this would undermine much of the cultural relativism on display in the Cambyses logos. If, as the Persians say, fire is a god not just for Persians but in some deeper and universal sense, then Greek cremation practices may be impious. If the gods do abhor interfamilial cannibalism, then the Greek reaction to the Callatian funerary customs

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Herodotus indulges in one of the few examples of open ridicule when discussing ‘Ocean’ at Hdt. 4.36.2, which he earlier stated to have been ‘invented’ by Homer or one of the poets (Hdt. 2.23). More respectful, but equally willing to identify factual error, is Herodotus’ historical criticism on the whereabouts of Helen in the Trojan War (Homer knew that she was in Egypt but placed her in Troy because it was more ‘fitting’, euprepês for epic, Hdt. 2.116.1).

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is quite appropriate. In approaching the same topic from two different sides, we seem to have arrived at two different conclusions: Herodotus’ cultural relativism suggests that different peoples’ (conflicting) beliefs about the gods all have validity, at least for them in their own context. By contrast, his investigations into the names of the gods and their diffusion throughout the inhabited world suggest that some peoples have more accurate knowledge of individual divinities than others, despite his general statement at Hdt. 2.3.2 that all people know the same amount about ‘divine things’ or ‘divine names’. It is scarcely a shock to find self-contradiction on topics as obscure as the fundamental nature of the divine, all the more so given that this is a subject Herodotus claims to be keen to avoid (cf. Hdt. 2.3.2, 2.65.2).60 But perhaps, by focusing on Herodotus’ detailed investigations into the diffusion of the gods from Egypt to Greece, we have lost sight of a broader sense in which he is a relativist about knowledge of the divine. Herodotus says nothing about the ultimate validity or superiority of the divine pantheon worshipped by the Greeks, the Egyptians, and many other peoples. He clearly considers these gods to be real divine powers, knowledge of whom spread in a process of cultural diffusion. Their diffusion throughout the oikoumenê can be the subject of historical research and people can have more or less accurate opinions on the subject. But it is not clear that the knowledge of the gods which the Greeks and others received from the Egyptians and Assyrians constitutes the only way in which one can interact with the divine. When he states that the Persians learned of Aphrodite from the Assyrians, there is no suggestion that the existing Persian practices of worshipping the sun, moon, wind, fire, and earth were thereby revealed to be inferior. Indeed, the Persian criticisms of divine anthropomorphism, which seem linked to their worship of natural elements and astral bodies, have been thought by many to represent Herodotus’ own view, since the rationalization of the Persians’ cultic 'absence' seems to be marked as his own addition by the words 'so it seems to me, because…' (ὡς μὲν ἐμοὶ δοκέειν, ὅτι).61 Likewise, when the Pelasgians started to worship the gods by individual names rather than as a group—and later when Hesiod and Homer created the divine attributes and genealogies—it

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For 2.3.2 and Herodotus' twelve professions of silence on 'divine' matters, see Schwab (2020) 35–6, Harrison (2000) 184–6. On Xenophanes and Herodotus see Burkert (1990) 20–1, Nestle (1908) 8. Significantly, however, Herodotus insists at least at one point on the difference between the way a god is represented in statuary and painting and the form he is actually believed to have (Hdt. 2.46.2 in the discussion of Pan, noted above at n.52). This distinction lends itself to apologetics against precisely the sort of criticisms levelled by Xenophanes.

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is not clear that either step constituted a move towards greater accuracy. The elaboration of Greek theology in the poetry of Hesiod and Homer was certainly constitutive of Greek identity—as is clear from, among other things, Themistocles’ words on ‘Greekness’ (Hdt. 8.144)62—but Herodotus knew that the stories of the gods composed by ancient Greek poets contained flat-out errors: on the age of several of the gods, on the possibility of divine-mortal sex, on fantastical geographical entities like Ocean, on historical events in the Trojan War, and even (if he followed Xenophanes and ‘the Persians’ in his scepticism of divine anthropomorphism) on the human forms of the gods.63 One might expect this to have implications for religious praxis. The Inquiry several times traces the link between ‘holy stories’ about the gods and local cultic practice. The story of Heracles wishing to see Zeus is, for instance, given as the origin of the ram-headed iconography of Theban Zeus and the reason why the Egyptians of Thebes do not eat sheep (Hdt. 2.42.1–6; cf. 2.63.4). Herodotus is sceptical of the existence of the Hyperboreans—nearby peoples have never heard of them and the only sources are ancient Greek poets and the Delians—yet these are the alleged source of the holy offerings bound in wheat, passed from one people to another until they reach Greece, and homeland of Hyperoche and Laodike, two girls whom the Delians commemorate in a number of rites (Hdt. 4.32–5). Despite the connection between stories about the gods and religious practice, there is no sign that Herodotus thought that the information presented in his inquiries could cast doubt on the appropriateness of Greeks worshipping Apollo in the Delian fashion or Pan, Dionysus, Hercules, or Aphrodite in the ‘Greek’ fashion. The way Herodotus talks about the traditional Greek conception of Poseidon (the ‘earth-shaker’ of epic)64 as the divinity responsible for earthquakes leaves space for the notion that one might take

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Themistocles notes, alongside shared ‘blood’ and ‘language’, the common ‘altars’, ‘sacrifices’, and ‘customs’, although these need not necessarily refer to stories about the gods (Hdt. 8.144.2: αὖτις δὲ τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν ἐὸν ὅμαιμόν τε καὶ ὁμόγλωσσον καὶ θεῶν ἱδρύματά τε κοινὰ καὶ θυσίαι ἤθεά τε ὁμότροπα). Cf. Burkert (1990) 26: ‘Es ist klar, dass für ihn auch Hesiod und Homer über kein legitimes „Mehr“ an Wissen verfügen. Was Homer und Hesiod über die griechischen Götter den Griechen beigebracht haben, ist ein überaus problematischer Zuwachs’. ‘Earth-holder’ or ‘earth-shaker’ (γαιήοχος, ἐνοσίχθων) are Poseidon’s epithets in epic (e.g. Il. 7.445, 13.43), lyric (e.g. Pi. O. 13.81), and tragedy (e.g. S. OC. 1072).

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another view of the matter, but Herodotus seems to think the identification of Poseidon as the creator of the Peneus gorge ‘reasonable’.65 Elsewhere it is clear that the cult statue (agalma) of Poseidon—a very Greek way of conceiving this god, as the Persian criticisms of divine anthropomor‐ phism and statues attests (Hdt. 1.131.1)—is endowed with divine power, so that the Persians who attack it are later punished by death in a flood (Hdt. 8.129). Clearly, divine power resides in the very Greek form which Poseidon took, even if much of what characterizes this divinity was a relatively recent creation of fallible poets. It is hard to push this point much further without moving into speculation, but it seems that Herodotus thought that ‘Greek’ ideas about the gods were not perfectly accurate and did not have exclusive or privileged access to the truth—but nevertheless that they were in contact with the divine and that, in Greece at least, the divine exerted real power in the world through Greek sacred institutions, spaces, and rituals. This may help us to make sense of the tension between Herodotus’ rationalist investigations into the history of human knowledge about the gods and his respect for foreign customs, divinities, and notions of holiness. Although Greeks and Persians have very different ideas of what is divine—Persians reject Greek anthropomorphism and statues, Greeks do not accept the divinity of fire—Herodotus does not seem to view either as universally right or wrong. He does not attempt to come to an absolute view on these questions and seems rather to view the divinity of fire as something relevant for Persians but not for Greeks (at least for Greeks operating in a Greek cultural context). This respect for different and conflicting notions of what is sacred among different peoples can fairly be considered a form of pragmatic relativism. What is sacred for Persians is not sacred for Greeks, and what is sacred for Greeks is not for Persians: yet both are in fact sacred within the right context. If a Greek or a Persian arrogantly assumes his own notion of what is holy to be universal he displays a culpable lack of understanding, indeed madness, and can expect to suffer the consequences of impiety: Cambyses’ stabbing of the Egyptian god Apis reincarnated as a calf results in his death, the Persian desecration of the 65

Hdt. 7.129.4: αὐτοὶ μέν νυν Θεσσαλοί φασι Ποσειδέωνα ποιῆσαι τὸν αὐλῶνα δι᾽ οὗ ῥέει ὁ Πηνειός, οἰκότα λέγοντες· ὅστις γὰρ νομίζει Ποσειδέωνα τὴν γῆν σείειν καὶ τὰ διεστεῶτα ὑπὸ σεισμοῦ τοῦ θεοῦ τούτου ἔργα εἶναι, καὶ ἂν ἐκεῖνο ἰδὼν φαίη Ποσειδέωνα ποιῆσαι· ἔστι γὰρ σεισμοῦ ἔργον, ὡς ἐμοὶ φαίνεται εἶναι, ἡ διάστασις τῶν ὀρέων. (‘The Thessalians themselves say that Poseidon made the cleft through which the Peneios flows, and they speak reasonably. For anyone who thinks that Poseidon shakes the earth and that the rifts of an earthquake are the work of this god would also say that Poseidon made this one, if they saw it. For it seems clear to me that the rift in the mountains is the work of an earthquake.’).

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statues of Poseidon lead to their drowning at Potidaea. There is no suggestion that one can or should attempt to discover which conception of the sacred is superior with the aim of rejecting the rest. It is probably no coincidence that Herodotus tends to use abstract terminology for the divine in much of his Inquiry, particularly in his own generalizations as narrator and in the direct speech of his characters. We find terms like ‘the divine’ (τὸ θεῖον), ‘the daimonic’ (τὸ δαιμόνιον), ‘the gods’ (οἱ θεοί), or ‘god’ (θεός or ὁ θεός) used interchangeably. This can be paralleled in authors from Homer to the tragedians, but Herodotus’ use particularly of the neuter singular ‘the divine’ may suggest an appreciation of the abstract nature of divinity, and the limits of any specific ethnic idea of it.66 7 Tradition and the Ethnos It is worth considering the role played by the notion of political or ethnic communities in these aspects of Herodotus’ thought. The basis on which Herodotus accords respect to a particular notion of divinity or custom often seems to be ethnic or cultural. Beliefs and nomoi are ascribed to groups of people which are presented, in such moments, as uniform entities: Greeks consider the gods to have human natures, Persians believe fire to be a god, Callatians think it good to eat dead relatives, and so on. Nowhere does Herodotus suggest that if an individual Persian were to come to the view that leaves or figs were divine, or that to burn an object was to show respect for it, this would suddenly be ‘holy’ practice for that person. Herodotus’ insight into the diversity of behavioural semantics and cultural beliefs about the divine functions at the ethnographic and social level, not at the level of the individual, and it is presented as a way of mediating inter-ethnic, not inter-personal differences—indeed this seems to be one of the greatest differences between his relativism and that of Protagoras.67 Clearly, Herodotus is aware of internal Greek differences and presents himself as critical of ‘his own’ Greek theologies and beliefs: Greek stories about Ocean make him laugh; 66 67

See here esp. Scullion (2006). For the use of singular terms for divinity in Archaic and classical literature, see François (1957). As Lee (2005) 12–13 has shown, a careful reading of Plato’s Protagoras suggests that Protagoras formulated his measure doctrine in such a way as to indicate that it applied to the opinions of individual people, not groups or mankind as a whole (Prot. 170a3–4: τὸ δοκοῦν ἑκάστῳ τοῦτο καὶ εἶναί φησί που ᾧ δοκεῖ, ‘He says, does he not, that things are for every man what they seem to him to be’). Notably, however, in Plato’s Theaetetus Socrates’ so-called apology for Protagoras talks in terms of political groups – cities – rather than individuals (Tht. 167c4–6, 172a1–5).

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he follows the Egyptians in rejecting the silly Greek muthos about Heracles and short genealogies recited by Hecataeus. By contrast to this forthright ‘self-criticism’ of Greeks by Greeks, the principle of cultural relativism is most carefully observed when it comes to ‘foreign’ cultures and, specifically, to behaviour within those cultures. In the story of Cambyses, Herodotus’ interest is in how we should approach cross-cultural conflicts rather than in how we should solve disagreements about customs which might arise within any given society. Passages which complicate the notion of a single people may thus shed light on the potentially problematic role of ethnicity in Herodotus’ relativism. The first comes when a single people disagrees on what is ‘holy’. Herodotus knew that in recent times Greeks like himself had come to question much of what their tradition related. But there is nothing to suggest that he would have considered himself to belong to a sub-community of Greeks who had established a different ritual tradition: rather it seems likely that he maintained respect for typically 'Greek' cultic practices even as he considered himself possessed of greater insight than others who did likewise. But other passages do challenge the uniformity of ethnic nomoi and ritual practice: he states that there are many holy customs which all Egyptians follow (e.g. Hdt. 2.39.4) but that there are also differences. Egyptians from the district of Thebes sacrifice goats and abstain from eating sheep, while those from the district of Mendes sacrifice sheep and abstain from eating goats, ‘for the Egyptians do not all worship the same gods alike, except Isis and Osiris’ (Hdt. 2.42.2). Likewise, while the Thebans and those around Lake Moirios consider crocodiles sacred (hiros), those around the city of Elephantine consider them enemies and hunt them (Hdt. 2.69–70). Similar disagreements exist about the hippoi potamioi (‘water horses’, Hdt. 2.71).68 Such cases seem to cause Herodotus no problems, since his default concept of identity was as multi-layered as our own. Each person has multiple potential identities depending on the implicit point of contrast, so that the same individual might be considered in one circumstance an Eleusinian, in another an Athenian, in another a Hellene, and in another a human, depending on the whether the contrast is with an Acharnaean, a Spartan, a Persian, or a god. His notion of a ‘people’—Greek or Egyptian—thus presents no great difficulties to acknowl‐ edging 'internal' differences: apparently for some Egyptians, crocodiles can be holy while for others they are not. This mirrors the structure and diversity of Greek ethnicities, whereby the individual cities within a broader ethnic group may have significantly different theologies and customs and can, when relevant,

68

On the diversity of Egyptian cultic practice see Schwab (2020) 138–48, who notes the parallel between the Greek model of cultic diversity between Hellenic poleis.

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be treated as distinct ethnic groups of their own. As such his notion of ‘holiness' is not based on a fragile notion of total ethnic uniformity but rather on the idea of consensus within a coherent group alongside some form of antiquity. But this brings us no closer to a perception of how the differences arose, and what it is about community consensus that imbues a nomos with its special connection to divinity and make it an improper object of ridicule. 8 Clash: Scythians and Greeks Another potential fault-line comes in the case of people who inherit two cultures, a situation which, interestingly, may have applied in Herodotus' family. In his Scythian logos, Herodotus embarks on a lengthy excursus describing the resistance of the Scythians to foreign customs, relating the story of Anacharsis (killed on his return to Scythia for worshipping the Mother of the Gods according to a foreign rite picked up while travelling abroad, Hdt. 4.76) and the story of Scyles (Hdt. 4.78–80). Scyles, the Scythian king, had been brought up biculturally by his Istrian mother who taught him the Greek language and letters. Scyles, consequently, inclined towards the Greek way of life in preference to the Scythian. He regularly visited the city of the Borysthenites, who traced their origin to the Milesian Greeks, and would stay for a month or two at a time, using Greek clothes, ways of life, and sacred rites in secret from him army (καὶ τά τε ἄλλα ἐχρᾶτο διαίτη Ἑλληνικῇ καὶ θεοῖσι ἱρὰ ἐποίεε κατὰ νόμους τοὺς Ἑλλήνων, Hdt. 4.78.4). But Scyles ‘had to come to a bad end’ (ἔδεέ οἱ κακῶς γενέσθαι, Hdt. 4.79.1), and this happened as follows. He wished to be initiated into the rites of Dionysus Bacchus in Borysthenes and at this point ‘the god’ cast a thunderbolt onto his house, which burnt down. Despite the omen, Scyles continued with his plan. The Scythians, Herodotus notes, reproach the Greeks for their Bacchic revelries, for ‘they do not think it right to invent/discover (ἐξευρίσκειν) this [God] who leads people into madness’ (Hdt. 4.79.3). When a Scythian in Scyles' army happens to insult a Borysthenite for his Bacchic revelries, the latter replies that the soldier's own king partakes in them, and secretly brings him to watch. The rest of the Scythians are horrified at this revelation and Scyles flees into exile with the Thracians, before being traded for another prisoner and decapitated by his brother Octamasades. ‘Thus the Scythians protect their own customs’, Herodotus concludes (οὕτω μὲν περιστέλλουσι τὰ σφέτερα νόμαια Σκύθαι, Hdt. 4.80.5, cf. 76.1). Here we have a case of a person who inherits two cultures and attempts to maintain a bi-cultural personality, split between the two peoples, with a house

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and a wife and rituals for the gods in each. It is also an example of wider cultural intolerance, rather than the intolerant act of an insane individual like Cambyses. What does Herodotus make of it? Surprisingly, perhaps, he offers no explicit judgement, although the whole story is narrated as a demonstration of the Scythian enmity to the adoption of foreign customs. The perspective adopted by the narrator at Hdt. 3.38 would clearly view the Scythians as ‘mad’, since they ridicule the holy rites of another people, at least if the Borysthenite’s words to the Scythians are a fair description: Ἡμῖν γὰρ καταγελᾶτε, ὦ Σκύθαι, ὅτι βακχεύομεν καὶ ἡμέας ὁ θεὸς λαμβάνει (Hdt. 4.78.4). It seems likely that both Herodotus—a Greco-Carian from Halicarnassus— and his audience would have taken a rather negative view of the Scythian rejection and scorn of this Greco-Egyptian divinity.69 The Scythians, in fact, approach foreign gods in a fundamentally different way to that of the ancient Pelasgians and Greeks, whose openness to the arrival of foreign divinities was, in Herodotus view, what gave rise to the contemporary Greek understanding of the gods. Nevertheless, it has been suggested that Herodotus viewed Scyles as an example of someone who attempted to straddle natural cultural boundaries which should not be crossed and that the thunderbolt was an indication of divine displeasure at his plan.70 As ever, divine signs are open to multiple interpretations. It is equally possible that Herodotus viewed it as a warning of the maniacal intolerance of the Scythians. The notion that ethnicities should insulate themselves from ‘foreign religions’ seems fundamentally alien to Herodotus’ vision of how humans learn about the gods, both in the past and more recently. The Inquiry also tells of more recent Greeks who worship foreign gods without attracting any opprobrium: the kinsmen of the Athenian Tisander, for instance, worship Carian Zeus (Hdt. 5.66.1). Yet resistence or openness to external customs and cultural change is, in itself, a characteristic feature of different peoples, a kind of meta-custom which Herodotus seems to hold in no particular disdain. The Egyptians, like the Scythians, are culturally conservative and do not add any foreign customs to their ancestral ones (πατρίοισι δὲ χρεώμενοι νόμοισι ἄλλον οὐδένα ἐπικτῶνται, Hdt. 2.79.1) while the Persians are particularly prone to adopting foreign customs (ξεινικὰ δὲ νόμαια Πέρσαι προσίενται ἀνδρῶν μάλιστα, Hdt. 1.135.1). Despite these contrasting attitudes, both peoples display the sort of cultural chauvanism which is grist to the relativist’s mill. Τhe Egyptians, Herodotus tells 69 70

The adoption of the rites of Dionysus is, of course, famously thematized in Euripides Bacchae, although here it is the man who opposes the new God – Pentheus – who pays with his life. Harrison (2000) 218.

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us in passing, call all who do not speak their language ‘barbarians’ (βαρβάρους, Hdt. 2.158). The Persians, in their turn, are portrayed as having what has been called the ‘ideology of the centre’, whereby they consider themselves to be the best, those closest to them to be the second best, and those most distant to be the least worthy of respect (Hdt. 1.134.2).71 This is likely to be related to the dismissive attitude they take towards the Greek cultic practice, not merely called into question but dismissed as ‘foolishness’ (μωρίην ἐπιφέρουσι, Hdt.1.131.1). Both these reports force the Greek reader into a dramatic shift in perspective. The former turns against the Greeks themselves a concept (barbaros) which fosters a pejorative attitude to all non-Greeks, while the latter makes the Greeks themselves an insignificant people at the edge of the world, worthy of comparatively little respect. Such anti-relativist dismissal of ‘foreigners’ seems to be a feature common to several peoples, and the very frequency of such conflicting beliefs functions to expose all such claims as mere parochialism—the conclusion to which Darius’ experiment also leads. This, like the example of the Scythians, leads us to another theme, namely the relationship between empire and cultural or theological intolerance. Many of the examples of cultural and theological intolerance discussed in the course of this essay were committed by conquerors or would-be-conquerors of a foreign land, whether by accident or on purpose: Persians, Lydians, and Athenians. But, just as Darius’ experiment with the Callatians and Greeks shows that the intolerance of Cambyses is not the rule of empire but rather its exception, so the intolerance of the Scythians shows that indigenous, non-imperialist peoples may be just as intolerant as their would-be conquerors or, in the case of Darius’ invasion of the Scythians, decidedly less so. The global perspective which fosters Herodotus’ relativist insight is closely linked to the imperial gaze: travel and intimate familarity with multiple cultures of an interconnected world are what allow cosmopolitan intellectuals like Herodotus and rulers like Darius, as Herodotus imagines him, to transcend the chauvinism of any local tradition. 9 Conclusions The question of how to deal with foreign values and world-views is one of the central issues in the ethnography and anthropology of most periods. Precisely how the scholar should engage with these lies at the heart of many theoretical debates, including disputes over the ‘ontological turn’ over recent decades.72 71 72

For what Lincoln dubbs the ‘ideology of the centre’ see Schwab (2020) 76–7 with further references. For an overview see, e.g., Heywood (2017).

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Much effort has been put into the reconstruction of the relativist theories of ancient sophists and philosophers such as Protagoras and Democritus, despite the fact that these theories have been substantially lost. By contrast, one searches in vain for more than a passing remark on the relativism of Herodotus, whose work survives more or less in full and contains a number of relativist statements of different kinds, embedded within extensive ethnographic studies which present detailed research, and at times focus on conflicting cultural claims about the nature of piety, good and just customs, and the nature of the gods. The difficulties and uncertainties which dog the above discussion may go some way towards explaining the lack of systematic study. The attempt to pin down Herodotus’ views on a range of complicated topics related to moral and epistemological relativism has not revealed a precise theoretical position consistently adopted throughout the work. Although some clear positions emerge, any attempt to dig into the detail results in the accumulation of rather messy piles of evidence which pull in different directions. Nevertheless, it is possible to draw some definite conclusions. Herodotus explicitly endorses cultural relativism in the Cambyses logos but never shows any sign of moral relativism: even his most relativistic statements never call into question a series of basic moral principles, most prominently the obligation to honour one’s parents and the gods. Yet his cultural relativism is not always on show, since several passages—most conspicuously in the Babylonian logos—engage in criticism of foreign cultures on the basis of apparently absolute ideas of what is ‘good’, ‘wise’, or ‘shameful’, without any explanation of why his judgements are more valid than those of the Babylonians. In switching between a subjective or encultured perspective and an objective or acultural perspective, Herodotus is typical of most relativists, a fact that reflects the very real tension between the powerful insight provided by cultural and moral relativism and the moral engagement which accompanies an active intellectual and political life and the belief that some things are better and others worse. This dilemma remains acute. For a modern example, we can think of the common tension between the (absolutist) critique of patriarchal oppression wherever it exists and the (relativist) conviction that it is a wrong-headed form of cultural imperialism to level such critiques at foreign cultures by ranking them as inferior or superior according to their distance from the notions of gender equality developed by Western feminists. When it comes to knowledge of the gods, Herodotus also announces some form of relativism or skepticism in the Egyptian logos (Hdt. 2.3.2). Yet this stands in tension with a number of positive beliefs which he holds, even when they contradict various local theological stories, for instance, that the gods are much

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older than some ‘traditional’ peoples believe (on the basis of superior Egyptian records which prove the accuracy of their theological tradition), that they do not have sex with mortals (and never did in the past). However, in relation to the manifestation of the divine and the notion of what is holy, Herodotus is consistently relativist. He knows that people conceive of the divine in different ways and consequently consider a diverse range of objects, entities, and beings to be sacred (among them fire, statues, and certain carefully identified bullcalves), yet he is clear that these must all be respected: they cannot be ridiculed or dismissed as foolish. Here we see an important difference from many modern responses to the relativist insight. Already in antiquity, Lucian’s Damis would use the diversity of contradictory beliefs about the divine to undermine the belief in the gods per se, in a satyrical critique of traditional thought (Zeus Tragoidos 42); for Herodotus, by contrast, the diversity of beliefs about what is holy does not devalue the sacred but rather leads to an accumulation of sacred things. All of these conflicting notions of what is holy are valid for the relevant people at the same time. When one visits a foreign land, the realm of the sacred swells so that it includes foreign divinities in addition to one’s own. On the subject of Heracles we see similar inclusiveness: Herodotus states that those Greeks who recognize two Heracleses—one immortal Olympian and one hero—behave ‘most correctly’ (Hdt. 2.44.5). His differentiation of the two gods has the effect not of revealing the worship of a divinity to be mistaken or misguided, but rather of confirming the value of both. There is a practical side to all this. Herodotus is prepared to dissent from local theogonies and stories about the divine—that Zeus Belus lies with a woman overnight in his temple in Babylon, or that Hercules killed thousands of Egyptians when they tried to sacrifice him to Zeus—but it is rare that he calls into question the sacredness or divinity of a being, entity, or place—the Apis calf, fire, or a statue. The only instance where Herodotus criticizes a specific cultic practice is the case of sacred prostitution practiced in ancient Babylon, and here Herodotus seems to think that the greater striving for purity which unites the Egyptians and the Greeks is universally superior. Confronted with a foreign manifestation of the divine, Herodotus generally insists that we show respect. Indeed, it is not only violence but also mockery or laughter that is repeatedly highlighted as the sign of Cambyses’ madness (Hdt. 3.37.2: πολλὰ τῷ ἀγάλματι κατεγέλασε, 3.37.3: τὰ ἀγάλματα καὶ ἐνέπρησε πολλὰ κατασκώψας, 3.38.1: καταγελᾶν, 3.38.2: γέλωτα … τίθεναι). Yet, in the Inquiry at least, respect for what another people considers sacred is not presented as a universal practice. The number of temples and statues desecrated,

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looted, and burnt in the course of various invasions and wars are considerable, perpetrated by diverse peoples (in addition to those of the Lydians and Persians already cited, note the Ionian revolt supported by Athens which burnt down the temples and groves at Sardis, Hdt. 5.102.1, cf. 5.97.3). Persian, Assyrian, and Hebrew sources of antiquity confirm this impression.73 Herodotus’ tolerant and expansive view of the sacred and the divine, then, was scarcely the only option at hand: rather it was an explicitly chosen and self-consciously performed—even if it was not implemented with thoroughgoing consistency. Bibliography Asheri et al. (2007): David Asheri, Alan Lloyd, and Aldo Corcella, A Commentary on Herodotus Books I–IV. Oxford. Assmann (1996): Jan Assmann, ‘Translating gods: Religion as a Factor of Cultural (Un)Translatability’, in: Sanford Budick and Wolfgang Iser (eds) The Translatability of Cultures. Figurations of the Space Between. Stanford CA, 25–36. Baghramian (2010): Maria Baghramian, ‘A Brief History of Relativism’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 31–50. Barton and Boyarin (2016): Carlin A. Barton and Daniel Boyarin, Imagine No Religion: How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities, New York. Beard and Henderson (1997): Mary Beard and John Henderson, ‘With This Body I Thee Worship: Sacred Prostitution in Antiquity’, Gender & History 9, 480–503. Benedict (1959): Ruth Benedict, Patterns of Culture, Boston. (Orig. pub. in 1934). Bett (1989): Richard Bett, ‘The Sophists and Relativism’, Phronesis 34, 139–69. Bremmer (1998): Jan N. Bremmer, ‘“Religion”, “Ritual” and the Opposition “Sacred vs. Profane”. Notes towards a Terminological “Genealogy”’ in: Fritz Graf (eds) Ansichten griechischer Rituale: Geburtstags-Symposium für Walter Burkert, Castelen bei Basel, 15. bis 18. März 1996, Stuttgart and Leipzig, 9–32. Bremmer (2020): Jan N. Bremmer, ‘Priestesses, Pogroms and Persecutions: Religious Violence in Antiquity in a Diachronic Perspective’, in Jitse H. F. Dijkstra and Christian R. Raschle (eds), Religious Violence in the Ancient World: From Classical Athens to Late Antiquity, Cambridge, 46–68.

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For Persian destruction of Greek and Babylonian sanctuaries, see Tozzi (1977), Tolini (2014) 167–9, van der Spek (2014), and Rung (2016). Many examples from the Biblical books of Joshua or Kings indicate that the destruction of foreign holy sites (e.g. Dt 7:1–5) or the murder of those who worship other gods – whether Israelites or foreigners (e.g. Dt 13:13–19) – was viewed by some ancient Israelites as a positive goal of military campaigns. For religious violence in later antiquity see Bremmer (2020) and the other contributions to the same volume.

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Bremmer (forthcoming): Jan N. Bremmer, ‘Religious Pluralism in the Ancient World: Herodotus, The Roman Republic, and Late Antiquity’, in: id. (ed.), Jews, Pagans and Christians in the Roman Empire = Collected Essays III, Tübingen. Burckhardt (1957): Jakob Burckhardt, Griechische Kulturgeschichte, Basel. Burkert (1972): Walter Burkert, Homo Necans, Interpretationen altgriechischer Opferriten und Mythen, Berlin and New York. Burkert (1985): Walter Burkert, ‘Herodot über die Namen der Götter: Polytheismus als historisches Problem’, MH 42, 121–32 (repr. in his Kleine Schriften VII: Tragica et Historica (ed. W. Rösler), Göttingen, 161–172). Burkert (1990): Walter Burkert, ‘Herodot als Historiker fremder Religionen’, in: Guseppe Nenci (ed.) Hérodote et les peuples non-grecs (Entretiens Hardt 35), Geneva, 1–32 (repr. in his Kleine Schriften VII: Tragica et Historica (ed. W. Rösler), Göttingen, 140–16). Dawson (1992): Doyne Dawson, Cities of the Gods: Communist Utopias in Greek Thought, New York and Oxford. Dihle (1981): Albrecht Dihle, ‘Die Verschiedenheit der Sitten als Argument ethischer Theorie’, in George B. Kerferd (ed.) The Sophists and their Legacy (Hermes Einzels‐ chriften 44), Wiesbaden, 54–63. Edelman (2011): Christopher Edelman, ‘Montaigne’s Moral Objectivism’, Philosophy and Literature 35, 32–50. Ellis (2021): Anthony Ellis, ‘Religion, Herodotus’ Views on’ in: C. Baron (ed.), The Herodotus Encyclopedia, New Jersey, 1228–1233. François (1957): Gilbert François, Le Polythéisme et l’emploi au singulier des mots ΘΕΟΣ, ΔΑΙΜΩΝ, Paris. Geertz (2010): Clifford Geertz, ‘Anti Anti-Relativism’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 371–92 (Orig. pub.: American Anthropologist 86, 1984, 263–78). Gould (1989): John Gould, Herodotus, London. Gould (1994): John Gould, ‘Herodotus and Religion’, in: Simon Hornblower (ed.), Greek Historiography, Oxford, 91–106 (repr. in John Gould, Myth, Ritual, Memory, and Exchange. Essays in Greek Literature and Culture, Oxford 2001, ch. 16). Gödde (2011): Susanne Gödde, Euphêmia. Die gute Rede in Kult und Literatur der griechischen Antike, Heidelberg. Håland (2014): Evy Johhanne Håland, Rituals of Death and Dying in Modern and Ancient Greece: Writing History from a Female Perspective, Newcastle upoon Tyne. Hales (2011a): Stephen D. Hales, ‘Introduction’, in: id. (ed.), A Companion to Relativism, Oxford, 1–8. Hales (2011b): Stephen D. Hales (ed.), A Companion to Relativism, Oxford. Handler (1986): Richard Handler, ‘Of Cannibals and Custom: Montaigne’s Cultural Relativism’, Anthropology Today 2.5, 12–14.

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Harrison (2000): Thomas Harrison, Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus, Oxford. Heinimann (1945): Felix Heinimann, Nomos und Physis. Herkunft und Bedeutung einer Antithese im griechischen Denken des 5. Jarhunderts, Basel. Heywood (2017): Paolo Heywood, ‘Ontological Turn, The’, in: F. Stein et al. (eds), The Cambridge Encyclopedia of Anthropology, http://doi.org/10.29164/17ontology (ac‐ cessed 10.7.2019). Krausz (2010a): Michael Krausz, ‘Mapping Relativisms’, in: id. (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 13–30. Krausz (2010b): Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York. Ladd (1985a): John Ladd, ‘Introduction’, in: John Ladd (ed.), Ethical Relativism, Lanham, New York and London, 1–11. Ladd (1985b): John Ladd (ed.), Ethical Relativism, Lanham, New York and London. Lattimore (1939): Richmond Lattimore, ‘Herodotus and the Names of Egyptian Gods’, CPh 34, 357–65. Lee (2005): Mi-Kyoung Lee, Epistemology after Protagoras: Responses to Relativism in Plato, Aristotle, and Democritus, Oxford. von Lieven (2013): Alexandra von Lieven, ‘Translating Gods, Interpreting Gods. On the Mechanisms behind the Interpretatio Graeca of Egyptian Gods’, in: Ian Rutherford (ed.) Greco-Egyptian Interactions. Literature, Translation and Culture, 500 BCE–300 CE, Oxford, 61–82. Linforth (1926): Ivan M. Linforth, ‘Greek Gods and Foreign Gods in Herodotus’, University of California Publications in Classical Philology 9.1, 1–25. Lukes (2009): Steven Lukes, Moral Relativism, New York. Mikalson (2003): Jon Mikalson, Herodotus and Religion in the Persian Wars, Chapel Hill. Munson (2001): Rosaria Vignolo Munson, Telling Wonders. Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Nestle (1908): Wilhelm Nestle, Herodots Verhältnis zur Philosophie und Sophistik, Pro‐ gramm des königlich-württembergischen evangelisch-theologischen Seminars in Schöntal, Stuttgart. Nongbri (2013): Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept, New Haven and London. Peels (2016): Saskia Peels, Hosios: A Semantic Study of Greek Piety, Leiden. Redfield (2002): James Redfield, ‘Herodotus the Tourist’, in: Tom Harrison (ed.), Greeks and Barbarians, Edinburgh, 24–49. (Orig. pub. in: CP 80, 1985, 97–118). Rollinger (1996): Robert Rollinger, ‘Altorientalische Motivik in der frühgriechischen Literatur am Beispiel der homerischen Epen. Elemente des Kampfes in der Ilias und in der altorientalischen Literatur (nebst Überlegungen zur Präsenz altorientalischer

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Wanderpriester im früharchaischen Griechenland)’, in: Christoph Ulf (ed.): Wege zur Genese griechischer Identität: Die Bedeutung der früharchaischen Zeit, Berlin, 156–210. Rorty (2010): Richard Rorty, ‘Solidarity or Objectivity?’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Rela‐ tivism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 393–308 (Orig. pub.: John Rajchman and Cornel West (eds), Post Analytic Philosophy, New York 1985). Rung (2016): Eduard Rung, ‘The Burning of Greek Temples by the Persians and Greek War Propaganda’, in: Krzysztof Ulanowski (ed.), The Religious Aspects of War in the Ancient Near East, Greece and Rome, Leiden, 166–179. Schwab (2020): Andreas Schwab, Fremde Religionen in Herodots „Historien“. Religiöse Mehrdimensionalität bei Persern und Ägyptern, Stuttgart. Scullion (2006): Scott Scullion, ‘Herodotus and Greek Religion’, in: Carolyn Dewald and John Marincola (eds), The Cambridge Companion to Herodotus, Cambridge, 192–208. Selznick (1992): Philip Selznick, The Moral Commonwealth: Social Theory and the Promise of Community, Berkeley. Sienkiewicz (2019): Stefan Sienkiewicz, Five Modes of Scepticism. Sextus Empiricus and the Agrippan Modes, Oxford. Thomas (2000): Rosalind Thomas, Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Tolini (2014): Gauthier Tolini, ‘Les sanctuaires de Babylonie à l’époque achéménide. Entre legitimation, soumission et révoltes’, Topoi 19, 123–80. Tozzi (1977): Pierluigi L. Tozzi, ‘Per la storia della politica religiosa degli Achemenidi: Distruzioni persiane de templi greci agli inizi del V secolo’, Rivista Storica Italiana 89, 18–32. van der Spek (2014): Robartus J. van der Spek, ‘Cyrus the Great, Exiles, and Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations’, in: Michael Kozuh et al. (eds), Extraction and Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, Chicago, 233–64. West (1991): Stephanie West, ‘Herodotus’ Portrait of Hecataeus’, JHS 111, 144–160. West (1999): Stephanie West, ‘Cultural Antitheses: Reflections of Herodotus 2.35–6’, IJCT 5: 3–19. Wiggins (2010): David Wiggins, ‘Senses of Moral Relativity’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 281–5. (Orig. pub.: ‘Moral Cogniti‐ vism, Moral Relativism, and Motivating Moral Beliefs’, PAS 91, 1991, sec. IX–X, 71–77). Wong (2010): David B. Wong, ‘Pluralism and Ambivalence’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 254–67. Wright (2010): Crispin Wright, ‘Intuitionism, Realism, Relativism, and Rhubarb’, in: Michael Krausz (ed.), Relativism. A Contemporary Anthology, New York, 330–55.

The Cambyses logos and other sources on the conquest of Egypt

Perception and Reception of Cambyses as Conqueror and King of Egypt Some Fundamentals

Melanie Wasmuth1

Herodotus’ presentation of the Achaemenid conquest of Egypt and the reception of the 1st Persian dominion keeps permeating our view of that period. However, several studies evaluating the primary sources from the later 6th c. BCE in Egypt and Persia draw a very different picture of Achaemenid royal display and reception. A discussion to which extent these primary sources are representative for the reception of Achaemenid rule is largely missing. This contribution will therefore focus on four aspects. Which sources are available to reveal ancient contemporary perceptions on Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt? Could a different image of Cambyses be displayed in the contemporary sources from Egypt? To which extent can the ancient primary and secondary sources on Cambyses’ reign help to re-evaluate Herodotus’ history construction? And lastly, how can the study of Herodotus’ Cambyses logos help to refuel the study of the 1st Persian dominion over Egypt from an inside/outside angle? 1 Basal source criticism Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt is a historical figure polarizing histori‐ ography until today. The relative scarcity of ancient sources in combination with their diverging presentations has led to unfortunate methodological practices 1

I would like to thank Andreas Schwab and Scarlett Kingsley for inviting me to the inspiring workshop underlying this volume. Addressing Herodotus’ narrative on Cambyses from interdisciplinary perspectives based on pre-circulated pre-papers and the choice of participants produced highly fruitful discussions, both in plenum and in individual sessions. Special thanks are due to Andreas Schwab and Alexander Schütze for their efforts to bring the volume to publication, and to Judith Adam for her diligent language corrections.

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that complicate or even impede glimpses into ancient historical realities. The major aim of the contribution at hand is to show a third way between a) ignoring the conflicting evidence in various academic areas of study which focus solely on the primary sources from Egypt and the Persian Empire respectively, and b) reconstructing historical realities and interpreting primary sources based on the preconceived assumptions disseminated via Biblical and Greek evidence.2 The key to a successful integrative approach on Cambyses based on all available ancient sources is a careful assessment of the extent of specific agendas influencing the source(s). In order to facilitate this, I suggest a separation of the ancient sources—in this case on the conquest of and rule over Egypt—at least into three different levels of closeness to the topic and events in question: 1.

2.

3.

Primary sources: ancient contemporary sources from the time and spatial context in question explicitly or indirectly dealing with the topic under consideration. Secondary sources: ancient sources dealing with the topic under consid‐ eration, but once removed from the events or topic in question—either chronologically or spatially. Tertiary sources: ancient sources dealing with the topic under consider‐ ation, but twice removed—chronologically as well as spatially.

Though the categorisation is arbitrary for some sources, it immediately high‐ lights the increasing need to sound out additional levels of transmission and interpretation: the degree to which further time- and context-specific agendas have to be considered beyond the interpretational scope already inherent in the primary sources. E.g., a late Persian period reception of an eyewitness account passed on within the family (i.e. a typical secondary source context) may be content-wise much closer to what happened and how Cambyses was perceived during his reign than a late 6th c. source from someone not directly involved. Similarly, tertiary sources like Herodotus’ Cambyses logos do not necessarily lack historicity regarding the topics under discussion, nor do primary sources like the Apis epitaph from year 6 of Cambyses necessarily reflect a majority perception of the time. However, in both examples, the scope of potential additional time-specific agendas is much higher in the former case than in the latter. Hence, despite potential content-wise closeness of secondary and tertiary sources, they comprise an increasing uncertainty, whether this closeness is read

2

Focus only on primary sources: e.g., Posener (1936), Wasmuth (2017a); contextualisation of primary sources based on the preconceived assumptions disseminated via Biblical and Greek tertiary sources: e.g., Jansen-Winkeln (2002), Vittmann (2011).

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into them by the modern (or ancient) historiographer or whether it is inherent in the source. Though conceptually straightforward and methodologically necessary, the actual categorisation of the available sources poses difficulties because of the lack of sufficient information on the context. This concerns the often-lost archaeological and archival contexts of the sources, but also the definition of the cultural-historical context perceived as close. For the primary sources, this is a minor issue, at least on a practical level: we only have primary sources from Egypt. However, conceptually, the primary context of the perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt is not restricted to geographical Egypt. Equally primary evidence could derive, e.g., from his Persian courtiers. This opens up the general question of whether only Egypt and Persia, or also the whole realm of the Persian Empire, constitute the primary context. This spatial and/or cultural issue additionally becomes a chronological one beyond the primary sources, i.e. contemporary to Cambyses’ reign in Egypt. Is the scope for secondary sources the (potential) continued lifespan of eyewitnesses, i.e. mainly the late 6th c., or the 27th dynasty, i.e. including the 5th c., or the duration of the Persian Empire until 335/332? Similar concerns apply to spatial/cultural closeness, e.g., regarding the judgement, whether Babylonia is to be seen as part of the heartland of the Persian Empire by the time of the conquest of Egypt and therefore closer than the southern Levant or whether the spatial and culturalhistorical proximity to Egypt makes the Levant closer. In order to create a classification system that allows transferability, I kept the number of main categories small, but differentiated sub-categories specifying fluctuating degrees of closeness. Within the framework of this paper, I discuss in detail only the primary and secondary sources, while the ancient tertiary sources will be addressed only summarily.   1.1 The contemporary perception of Cambyses: major challenges A key difficulty in reconstructing ancient events and their perception and one that is often overlooked, or at least not explicitly addressed, in scientific research concerns the fundamental lack of sources. The studies on Cambyses are no exception in that respect. Though we do have some sources on the conquest of Egypt and Cambyses’ reign as Egyptian pharaoh, concerning the perception of him, they are inherently secondary sources. Perception, including royal selfperception or the perception by others, is a matter of thought. It is either kept hidden or may be revealed in dreams and personal comments or, more indirectly, in gestures, attitudes, and decisions.

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The most likely sources for making self-perception explicit are oral com‐ ments, letters, diaries, or similar texts. None of these are preserved or even likely to have been put down in writing, at least not permanently. They may be reflected in designs and authorisations for royal display (textual, iconographical, etc.) and also in the actual display, but it is exceedingly difficult—if at all possible—to extract them with certainty. Further problems appear when asking how self-perception and perception by others may be separated. On a conceptual level, both aspects are closely interdependent when living in a community, as the need and potential to make a verbal or nonverbal statement depends on the assumed and factual ability of the encountered other(s) for (mis)understanding it. Additionally, some limits of research are encountered on a source level. To extract the perception of the represented person, the designer, the sculptor, or the further audience of a royal statue design, requires much more information on the actual author(s) of the (textual or material) monuments than usually available. This is a general problem, which is enhanced by the conceptual obliteration of the ‘artist’ or ‘designer’ in the Egyptian and Achaemenid cultural traditions. Similarly, it is nigh impossible to separate individual from traditional or topos elements in the ‘historiographical’ account provided by Herodotus, as the same lack of biographical and personal information applies to him. The case for Cambyses is exceptionally difficult. Currently, there is no single primary source available on the perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt, nor on the actual conquest of Egypt, though one can argue for three secondary sources on the matter in addition to the various tertiary sources discussed throughout the volume at hand. The situation gets slightly better concerning Cambyses’ rule over Egypt in his role as Egyptian pharaoh. However, all known primary sources are highly unrevealing regarding ancient perceptions of his rule, whether by himself or others.3 This changes only due to secondary (especially the statues of Udjahorresnet) and tertiary sources (e.g. Herodotus’ Cambyses logos), but their information value regarding Cambyses’ reign and the specific agendas of their time and context needs re-evaluation.   1.2 Primary sources (I) for Cambyses’ (conquest of and) rule over Egypt Even for the best documented aspect, Cambyses’ rule over Egypt, only seven sources can be categorised as primary sources, i.e. deriving from the reign of Cambyses, either from the Persian heartland or Egypt, and directly or indirectly

3

See Jansen-Winkeln (2002), Vittmann (2011) 373–382.

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referring to this aspect of his kingship. All of them come from Egypt. They include: 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

A royal stela (‘Apis epitaph’) made of limestone commemorating the death of an Apis bull in year 6 of Cambyses. It was found in the so-called Serapeum of Saqqara and is now in the Louvre (IM 4133).4 A royal sarcophagus made of granite for the same Apis bull, still in situ in the Serapeum of Saqqara. No image of the monument is available, only a typographic rendering of the lid inscription.5 A stamp seal in shape of a prism made of calcareous clay with a royal inscription of Cambyses (name written over an erasure). The seal is of unknown origin (probably bought by Golénischeff in Egypt) and is now in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow as part of the Golénischeff collection (no. 992 [I.1a 4431]).6 A clay bulla for sealing a document. The seal impression is similar, but not identical, to GMII 4431. The bulla is of unknown origin (probably bought by Golénischeff in Egypt) and is now in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow as part of the Golénischeff collection (no. 993 [I.1a 4006]).7 A papyrus on transactions concerning offices and property in the Asyut area; allegedly from the Asyut necropolis, now in the Egyptian Museum Cairo (pCG 50059).8 A papyrus on transactions concerning offices and property in the Asyut area; allegedly from the Asyut necropolis, now in the British Museum in London (pBM 10792).9 A papyrus on wine and beer deliveries in the Asyut area; allegedly from the Asyut necropolis, now in the Egyptian Museum Cairo (pCG 50060).10

See below for an assessment of their information value regarding the contem‐ porary perception of Cambyses as ruler over Egypt.11 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

For images cf. Posener (1936) pl. II (photo) and Kuhrt (2007/I) 123 fig. 4.3 (drawing). See Posener (1936) 35–36. See the photo and drawing in Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 38 fig. 2; see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 127. There is a photo provided in Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 38 fig. 2; see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 127 n. 8. Images and a text edition are provided in Spiegelberg (1932) 42–46, pls. 18–20. Images and a text edition are provided in Shore (1988) 203–206, pls. 41b–42. Images and a text edition are provided in Spiegelberg (1932) 46–48, pls. 21–22; a further edition and commentary including a transcription into hieroglyphs has been published by Jelínková-Reymond (1955) 33–55. See also Jansen-Winkeln (2002) and Vittmann (2011). Further circumstantial evidence from the time in question is available, but none that mention Cambyses. For a re-

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1.3 Secondary sources (II) for Cambyses’ conquest of and rule over Egypt These few primary sources on Cambyses’ rule over Egypt have to be separated from another group of sources, which need to be classified as secondary, i.e. sources, which are either chronologically or spatially removed from the context in question, but not both. As discussed above, the question of what is classified as removed in context is arbitrary. In order to keep the number of main categories down, but to allow a gradual differentiation, it seems profitable to sub-divide whether the sources, which derive from contexts that are once removed, are slightly or substantially removed from the context or topic in question. For the case of Cambyses’ conquest and rule over Egypt, I categorised as follows: a.

b. c. d.

same chronological, close spatial/cultural context: i.e. contemporary eye‐ witness accounts deriving from the realm of the Persian Empire or the vicinity of Egypt, but not from Persia or Egypt. close chronological, same spatial/cultural context: i.e. later eyewitness accounts from Persia and Egypt. same chronological, different spatial/cultural context: i.e. geographically from beyond the Persian Empire, contemporary to Cambyses’ reign. different chronological, same spatial/cultural context: i.e. deriving from Persia or Egypt and from later times of continuous Achaemenid rule over Egypt (1st Persian dominion / 27th dynasty).

A difficult question is where to place contemporary and slightly later sources from outside Egypt or Persia, but from within (formerly) the Persian Empire. For the perception of Cambyses as conqueror and ruler of Egypt, this is academic for lack of available, certainly contemporary sources dealing explicitly with the issue. A similar challenge concerns the question of chronological vs. cultural distance within the heavily changing world of 1st millennium Egypt. This concerns especially the Egypto-Aramaic evidence from late 5th c. Elephantine. Is this really culturally close to the Egypt that Cambyses conquered? Formally, we have a dynastic change from the Teispids to the Achaemenians, temporally there are at least 3–4 generations in between, and spatially-culturally the context is arguably an expat enclave of Persian-Levantine rather than Egyptian

consideration of the primary sources on rebellious tendencies and hence circumstantial evidence for a negative perception of Cambyses, respectively a positive evaluation of potential other solutions for the inherent need for a legitimate Egyptian pharaoh see the ongoing PhD thesis by Uzume Wijnsma (Leiden University); see also Wijnsma (2018) on the contesting claims to Egyptian kingship by Pedubastis IV and the lack of primary sources from Egypt on the time of succession from Cambyses to Darius I.

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Spatial distance ––––––––––––––>

nature. The arbitrary choice to include the letters nonetheless in IId follows the argument of their being from Egypt during the 1st Persian dominion.   III or IV  

 

Chronological distance ––––––––––––>

  IIc  

  IIIa  

  IIIc  

  IIa  

  II or III?  

  IIIb  

  I  

  IIb  

  IId  

 

Fig 1: Ancient primary to tertiary sources in relation to their chronological and spatial closeness to the historical context, in our case Cambyses’ conquest and rule over Egypt.

1.3.1 Secondary sources IIa: same chronological, close spatial/cultural context This category includes any sources from the realm of the Persian Empire dating from Cambyses’ reign, which deal with Cambyses’ conquest of and rule over Egypt. So far, no source is known, which definitively belongs here, but one that might: 1.

A contract from Babylon from year 6 (month 9 day 22/23) of Cambyses records the private sale of a female slave—“an Egyptian from his booty”— and her 3 months old daughter. The sale is preserved in two copies: the clay tablets BM 30879 and MMA 79.7.25.12

Secondary sources IIb: close chronological, same spatial/cultural context This sub-category essentially subsumes any sources from eyewitnesses of Cambyses’ reign from Persia and Egypt, which date from the reigns of Darius I and Xerxes I. They have to be separated, because their accounts may not 12

For the tablet in the British Museum London see still Strassmaier (1890) 190–191 (Camb. 334), Peiser (1896) 292–293 (no. XII), for a new transliteration see Joannès (2001); for the New York Metropolitan Museum of Arts copy see Spar and von Dassow (2000) 125–127 (no. 62).

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only be affected by personal agendas as well as zeitgeist- and genre-specific contemporary issues of Cambyses’ reign, but also by those of later times. In contrast to the primary sources, which—according to the current state of research—only derive from Egypt, the royal context of the Persian heartland yields a secondary eyewitness source on Cambyses’ conquest of and rule over Egypt from the reign of Darius I: 1.

The rock relief at Bisutun mentions Cambyses’ trip to Egypt, presumably referring in passing to his Egyptian campaign and rule over Egypt (DB I.28–43 / §10–11).13

The later eyewitness sources from Egypt include: 2.

3.

4.

The statue (inscription) of Udjahorresnet MV 22690, probably originally erected at Sais (certainly not found at the Villa Hadriana near Tivoli) and part of the Musei Vaticani collections since the late 18th c. AD.14 The statue (inscription) of Udjahorresnet seen by Rosellini in 1828/29 in Cairo (Cairo spolia). This potential duplicate statue to MV 22690 (according to Rosellini) is by now lost; it received only very fragmentary documentation.15 A rock inscription by/for Atiyawahi in the Wadi Hammamat from year 12 of Xerxes (I): Graffito Wadi Hammamat 164, 1.16

Arguably, also pRylands IX is to be classified here (see below: IId). Secondary sources IIc: same chronological, different spatial/cultural context As far as I am aware, there are no sources falling into this category, i.e. explicitly dealing with Cambyses’ conquest and reign over Egypt and dating from his 13

14

15 16

For editions of the Bisutun inscriptions see Old Persian: Schmitt (2009) 36–96, Elamite; Grillot-Susini u.a. (1993), Babylonian: Malbran-Labat (1994); see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 143, Shayegan (2012) 1–3. Cambyses’ campaign to Egypt is not mentioned in the Aramaic version on pBerlin 13447 Ro, though this may be an issue of preservation; see Porten and Yardeni (1993) 60–71 (TADAE C.2.1). For detailed presentations of the statue and its inscription see especially Posener (1936) 1–26; Tulli (1941) 211–280; see also Wasmuth and Creasman (2020). For a discussion, whether the statue design and inscription may have been devised already under Cambyses see Wasmuth (2020: 196–202, 2021: 435–441). On the need to refute the oftencited secondary place of erection at the Villa Hadriana see Ruggero (2020). For a facsimile of Rosellinis notes including a copy of the various royal cartouches on the monument see Posener (1936) 26–29, pl. I; see also Bresciani (2002 [1985]) 136–137; Wasmuth (2020: 204–209). See Posener (1936) 122–123 (no. 28). On Atiyawahi see also Schmitt and Vittmann (2013) 50–51.

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reign, but deriving from outside the Persian Empire, and neither from inside the empire but outside Egypt and Persia. 1.3.2 Secondary sources IId: different chronological, same spatial/ cultural context Into this category arguably belong four letters from Elephantine from the end of the 27th dynasty and the so-called petition of Peteese from the late 6th c. In all five documents, the reign of Cambyses is not the main concern. It is referred to in the historical background sketch for contemporary affairs under Darius I or Darius II respectively. Each of these sources is of questionable classification: the former due to their date, the latter due to the uncertainty of its text genre and function. Depending on its understanding as a historical or a literary text, the petition (draft) arguably qualifies as a IIb source. Given the substantially enhanced leeway for additional agendas in the case of a literary text, I opt here for its more cautious classification as a IId source. The Aramaic letters are from the late 5th c. and therefore also from the so-called 1st Persian dominion or 27th dynasty of Egypt. As they are substantially further removed in time than comments by eyewitnesses and their immediate descendants, their classification as tertiary can equally be supported. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

17

18 19 20 21

A petition draft allegedly from el-Hibeh, from 513 BCE or later: pRylands IX (John Rylands Library, Manchester).17 A fragmentary Aramaic letter from Elephantine (Jedaniah archive) from c. 410 BCE: pBerlin 13445 (TADAE A4.6).18 An Aramaic letter draft (version 1) from Elephantine (Jedaniah archive) from 407 BCE: pBerlin 13495 (TADAE A4.7).19 An Aramaic letter draft (version 2) from Elephantine (Jedaniah archive) from 407 BCE: pCairo Pap. No. 3428 / J. 43465 (TADAE A4.8).20 A brief memorandum from Elephantine (Jedaniah archive) from after 407 BCE: pBerlin 13497 (TADAE A4.9).21

See Griffith (1909) 37. For text editions see Griffith (1909) 60–112, pls. 23–47; Vittmann (1998); see also Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 22–54. On the issue of the evaluation of the text as historical fiction and the methodological problem of using it as primary evidence for earlier times it describes see especially Pope (2014) 237–255, also Pope (2015). See Porten and Yardeni (1986) 66–67 (TADAE A4.6). See Porten and Yardeni (1986) 68–71 (TADAE A4.7). See Porten and Yardeni (1986) 72–75 (TADAE A4.8). See Porten and Yardeni (1986) 76–77 (TADAE A4.9).

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1.4 Tertiary sources (III) for Cambyses’ conquest of and rule over Egypt Cambyses is mentioned in various tertiary sources, i.e. sources, which are at least twice removed from the context they are concerned with. They include various Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Demotic, and Coptic sources from the 5th c. BCE onwards. Concerning the amount of potential additional agendas to be considered, these can (and should) be sub-divided into: a. b. c.

Sources from the wider chronological and a different spatial/cultural context. Sources from the wider spatial/cultural and a different chronological context. Sources from a completely different cultural context.

Tertiary sources IIIa: wider chronological and different spatial/cultural context Category IIIa includes any sources from outside the Persian Empire and Egypt from the period of the 1st Persian dominion or possibly the Achaemenid empire, but beyond potential access to eyewitnesses: e.g., the Greek and any potential Levantine sources on Cambyses as king of Egypt, which date from the 5th and early 4th c. BCE. This certainly includes the Histories by Herodotus from Halicarnassus (Greek world/Caria; c. 90–100 years later; in Greek),22 and possibly the Persica by Ctesias from Knidos (Greek world/Caria; books 12–13; c. 130 years later).23 Tertiary sources IIIb: wider spatial/cultural and a different chronological context Into category IIIb belong any sources on Cambyses as king of Egypt, which derive from Egypt or the Persian Empire beyond the (1st) Persian dominion. The wider cultural context is again debatable. One suitable option is to define the wider cultural context outside Egypt until the end of the Persian Empire, within Egypt until the end of pharaonic Egypt. Alternatively, the Egyptian cultural sphere is defined by the use of Egyptian language and cultural canon. Depending on how one defines the chronological context for the secondary sources IId (Achaemenid period or 1st Persian dominion) and interprets the date of production, another source from 4th c. Egypt can be classified as a secondary or a tertiary source: the statue (inscription) of Udjahorresnet commissioned by a

22 23

See this volume: passim, Rollinger u.a. (2011); for an edition of the Greek text see most recently Wilson (2015), see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 106–116. For the state of the art on Ctesias’ Persica see Waters (2017), Wiesehöfer u.a. (2011); for an edition of the Greek see most recently Lenfant (2004), see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 116–117.

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4th c. priest of Neith, probably for the Ptah temple of Memphis, re-used as spolia in Memphis and excavated in 1956.24 Definitively tertiary sources from Egypt are the Demotic sources from the Ptolemaic period onwards: the recto of pBN 215 (c. 250 years later)25 and pBerlin P 23761 (c. 250 years later).26 Whether they should be classified in the same sub-category as the Demotic papyri from the Roman period temple archives from Tebtunis (c. 600–700 years later; 2nd c. AD)27 is once more disputable. Similarly difficult is the classification of the Babyloniaca by Berossos (Cos/Babylonia; c. 200–240 years later; in Greek), which possibly derives from the spatial/cultural context of the former extended heartland of the Achaemenid Persian Empire.28 However, his account is only preserved in fragmentary excerpts by later historiographers (FGrH 680). Tertiary sources IIIc: completely different cultural context Definitively to be separated from these are sources from a completely different chronological and cultural context, i.e. sources from outside Egypt and the Persian Empire from after the Achaemenid period and within Egypt any nonEgyptian sources since the Ptolemaic period as well as the the Coptic sources: inter alia the Βιβλιοθήκη ἱστορική by Diodorus Siculus (Greek World/Sicily; c. 450 years later; 1.34.7; in Greek),29 the Γεωγραφικά by Strabo from Amasia (Greek world/northern Asia minor; c. 500 years later; 17.1.5; in Greek),30 the De Ira by Seneca the Younger (Italy/Roman Empire; c. 550 years later; 3.14 & 3.20; in Latin),31 the Epitoma historiarum Philippicarum by Justinus (unknown/uncertain context; c. 700–900 years later; 1.9.4–9; in Latin),32 and the Historiae adversus paganos by Paulus Orosius (Gallaecia/Iberian Peninsula or Britannia; c. 1000 years later; 2.8.2–4),33 but also the Coptic parchment codex with the so-called

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Photos and an attempt of a hand copy of the inscription on the dorsal pillar can be found in Anthes and Bakry (1965) 98–101, pls. 36–37; see also Bresciani (2002 [1985]), Wasmuth (2020: 209–213, see also 202–204). See Kahn in this volume; see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 124–127. Still unpublished; see Schmitt and Vittmann (2013) 37–38. See Wespi in this volume. For the current state of the art on Berossos see especially Haubold et al. (2013), de Breuker (2012). For a text edition see Bertrac and Vernière (1993); see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 116–117. For a text edition see Laudenbach (2015); see also Kuhrt (2007/I) 116–117. For a text edition see Wildberger (2007), for a recent English translation and commen‐ tary Kaster (2010) 1–129. See Shayegan (2012) 6–8. See Shayegan (2012) 20.

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Cambyses Romance (Berlin, Papyrussammlung P. 9009; from Egypt; c. 700–1100 years later).34 2 The primary and secondary sources reconsidered A detailed re-evaluation of all known sources exceeds this article (as well as the expertise of its author). Instead, the contribution at hand will focus on an assessment of the extent to which the primary and secondary sources can contribute to our understanding of the contemporary perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt. This will be complemented by some thoughts on a sample case study from the tertiary sources, i.e. Herodotus’ Cambyses logos (see section 3).   2.1 The primary sources As highlighted above, not a single primary source on Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt is currently known and only seven primary ones on his rule over Egypt. These derive from an Egyptian context and are of highly limited information value due to their object genres. Sources from the local administration (I.5–7) There are several documents from the Egyptian local (non-royal) administration in Asyut, which explicitly mention Cambyses in his role as Egyptian pharaoh. Papyrus CG 50059 is concerned with local affairs regarding priestly offices and property in Asyut, which follow up earlier issues between the same adversaries.35 Cambyses as a person and ruler is solely relevant for dating the source: possibly for the papyrus production, though the actual date and pharaoh are not preserved in the formula, certainly for some events accounted in year 2 and year 8 of pharaoh Cambyses.36 The same is true for a similar document from the same context (pBM 10792): also here the date of production is lost and restored from the contents of the papyrus, which mentions transactions in year 8 of Cambyses.37 Probably to be categorised in this section is also the document on wine and beer deliveries (pCG 50060), though the date of production is uncertain because the beginning of the document is lost. Nevertheless, an in-between

34 35 36 37

See most recently Habaj (2018). See Spiegelberg (1932) 42–46, pls. 18–20. See Spiegelberg (1932) 42–44. See Shore (1988) 203–205.

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(or possibly the production) date of year 5 of Cambyses can be fairly securely reconstructed.38 Though the information value regarding the contemporary perception of Cambyses is limited, the papyri provide evidence a) that Cambyses was accepted as pharaoh in the local priestly circles of Asyut, and b) that the dating practice of counting his regnal years from the coronation as Persian king, not only from his instatement as Egyptian pharaoh, was common to private and royal primary sources (see also below). In addition, the two papyri on transactions concerning offices and property (pCG 50059, BM 10792) testify that local affairs in Asyut were dealt with as before the conquest, i.e. without court interference.39 More difficult to assess is the reference to year 2 of Cambyses regarding local affairs. According to the state of the art, Cambyses did not conquer Egypt before the winter of 527/526 (former standard dating: 525 BCE).40 This allows (at least) three different readings: a.

b.

c.

The practice of referring to year 2 of Cambyses, when he was not yet king of Egypt, instead of to the equivalent year of Amasis, may document explicit objection against the latter.41 Alternatively, the dating practice was changed under Persian rule. Given the mix-up due to partial reigning years at the end of Amasis’ reign, for Psamtik III and the time until Cambyses’ coronation, this may be simply a practical matter for the sake of clarification in administrative matters. According to this reading, the reference does not indicate a devaluation of Amasis, but far-reaching control by the Persians and an a priori of practicality over ideology in administrative matters. Another possibility is that the prevalent chronological reconstruction is at fault. As it is mainly based on secondary sources, this is an issue to be reconsidered, though not within this contribution (see also below concerning pRylands IX).

Sources from the royal administration (I.3–4) Two artefacts of unknown stratigraphic origin, possibly from the area of Mem‐ phis, most likely belong into the context of royal administration: a stamp seal and a clay bulla with an imprint of a similar seal in the Collection Golénischeff (who was a resident in Egypt and inter alia concerned with the Canal Stelae

38 39 40 41

See Jelínková-Reymond (1955) 34, 36; see also Spiegelberg (1932) 46. See also the similar assessment by Vittmann (2011) 381–382. See especially Quack (2011), Depuydt (1996). See Quack (2011) 242.

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and other monuments of Darius I42), now in Moscow. Both objects testify (to the degree of their capability as objects of uncertain origin) the use of administrative seals in the name of pharaoh Cambyses. The seal is of special interest, as Cambyses’ royal name is cut in more deeply, hence probably over an erasure.43 As Kuhrt has pointed out, this indicates that an administrative seal of the late 26th dynasty was kept in use after modification.44 This re-usage is potentially relevant for the core question of the perception or acceptance of Cambyses as king of Egypt. However, in order to assess the implication of the adaption of the seal, more information is needed. Without additional evidence, the evidence can be read in different ways, depending on the preconceived assumptions by the modern scholars. A first uncertainty concerns the owner of the reworked seal. Potentially different motivations come into play depending on whether it is the ‘personal’ seal of an official who continued his office under Cambyses or an office seal used by whoever holds that office. Second, in case of the latter, the re-cutting can be interpreted in favour or in disdain of Cambyses. The decision was possibly caused by the wish to update the administrative seals as fast as possible to present the ruler and his administration in a good light. Or the aim was to go as cheap as possible, because the king was not deemed worthy of the effort and expense to create a new set of administrative seals. The sacral sources relating to the Apis cult (I.1–2) The two final primary sources are the royal donation stela and the sarcophagus of the Apis bull, which—according to the stela’s inscription—was interred in year 6 of Cambyses. They present Cambyses traditionally as Egyptian pharaoh, who diligently fulfils (also) the religious aspects of his job.45 Hence, they testify that there has been a powerful priestly faction in Memphis who accepted Cambyses as a legitimate Egyptian pharaoh. Whether this acceptance was more widespread and whether it was whole-heartedly or grudgingly given is beyond the sources. However, it was obviously deemed better to accept and display Cambyses as legitimate pharaoh fulfilling the Apis funerary ceremonies than to opt for another candidate or to postpone the rituals. To which extent Cambyses 42 43 44 45

See Golénischeff (1890), Wasmuth (2017a) 125–200. See already Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 38, Kuhrt (2007/1) 127 no. 15. See Kuhrt (2007/I) 127 n.3. For contextualising the royal Apis cult within the ‘private’ votive stelae from the Serapeum see still Devauchelle (1995); for situating the tertiary source of Herodotus’ narrative on Apis and Cambyses in the Egyptian sources see Lloyd (1988), Lloyd (2014); on the amalgamation of Babylonian literary elements within the narrative see Konstantakos (2016).

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participated in the rites cannot be judged from the iconic display, though some participation seems likely. Despite the highly canonised format of the epitaph display and sarcophagus inscription, two elements can be argued to display Cambyses’ double role as Persian Great King and Egyptian Pharaoh: the year dating according to Cambyses’ Persian coronation (year 6; he was only king of Egypt for c. 4 years) and the Horus name smꜢ-tꜢwj (“unifier of the two lands”). In the case of Cambyses, the specific choice may have gone beyond a certain degree of legitimation pressure.46 While in an Egyptian context they immediately evoke Upper and Lower Egypt, in the specific case of the Teispids and Achaemenians, they may also refer to Egypt and Persia. For Cambyses, there is no evidence to argue whether the latter interpretation was intended as a potential alternative reading. However, this seems the most convincing way to read the specific writing with double city determinative of the royal titulary of Darius (I) on the outer face of the temple of Hibis in el-Khargeh oasis.47   2.2 The secondary sources In contrast to the primary sources, there is at least one contemporary secondary source preserved from outside Egypt, which may refer to the conquest. In addition, five (or perhaps six) slightly later eyewitness accounts mention Cambyses’ conquest or rule: one of them from Persia, the others from Egypt. Further removed in time, but still dating to the 1st Persian dominion, are a group of (at least) four Aramaic letters from late 5th c. Elephantine, which refer to Cambyses’ conquest (and reign). The sale contract of an “Egyptian from his booty” from Babylon (IIa.1) The contemporary source in question regarding the conquest of Egypt is a sale contract from Babylon, which is preserved in two copies, one from day 22 (BM 30879), one from day 23 (MMA 79.7.25) of year 6 month 9 of the reign of Cambyses.48 According to the contract, a Babylonian named Iddinnabû voluntarily sold a female slave and her three-month-old daughter to a descendant of the house of Egibi, Itti-Marduk-Balāṭu, for 2 minas silver. The female slave by name of Nanaya-ittiya is explicitly denoted as Egyptian and as booty of his bow. In the same document, a debt is settled, which the buyer 46 47 48

For a compilation of kings under legitimation pressure using this name or name element see Blöbaum (2006), Beckerath (1999). See Wasmuth (2017a) 232–233. See Strassmaier (1890) 190–191 (Camb. 334), Joannès (2001), Spar and von Dassow (2000) 125–127 (no. 62).

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owes the seller: 240 respectively 250 kur of dates. Though the contract has various remarkable features,49 the key issue of interest for the topic at hand is the designation of the slave as “Egyptian, the booty of his bow” (MMA: obv. 3–4; BM: l. 4). So far—if taken into consideration at all—the contract (respectively the BM copy of it) has been contextualised in the conquest of Egypt under Cambyses as evidence for Babylonians in the Persian army and for dating the conquest of Egypt.50 This is certainly a possible construction of how the Egyptian female slave entered the household of the seller, but it is not the only one. The actual contract does not specify any of these aspects, they are solely based on preconceived assumptions. The only information we get is that the “Egyptian, booty of his bow” and her daughter are sold in year 6 of Cambyses. This provides a terminus ante quem for her entering the household, but no indication of a terminus ad quem when this happened. She may have been part of the household for much longer or never have lived in Egypt at all. There is abundant evidence of ‘Egyptians’ in Mesopotamia and the Levant from the centuries before the conquest of Egypt by Cambyses.51 Hence, Nanaya-ittiya may equally have become the “booty of his bow” in earlier military campaigns to the Levant or in other raids. Hence, only if the preconceived assumption that the slave was actually acquired in Egypt during the military campaign to Egypt (and Nubia or Libya) the source comes into view at all concerning Cambyses’ role as conqueror and ruler of Egypt. However, if this is the case, then it is the only currently known contemporary source from outside Egypt. As the source is not explicitly concerned with the perception of Cambyses, and it is neither from Egypt nor from a (royal) Persian context, it is not a primary source on this topic despite its contemporary date. The Bisutun inscription DB I.28–43 / §10–11 (IIb.1) The only (other) known secondary source on Cambyses as conqueror and ruler of Egypt, which derives from a Persian heartland context, is an eyewitness source from the time of Darius I. The key monument celebrating his ascendance 49

50 51

Note the discrepancy in date and content regarding the amount of debt (as far as I am aware not discussed so far) as well as the rather high price of the slave, her increased value in a later re-sale, and the social connection of the actors in the sale (see Spar and von Dassow (2000) 126–127). Meißner (1891) 123–124; and consequently, e.g., Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 315, Quack (2011) 230, Hackl and Jursa (2015) 160, Spar and von Dassow (2000) 126–127. See especially Wasmuth (2016b, also 2011), Hackl and Jursa (2015) with further references.

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and legitimacy to the Persian throne, i.e. the rock relief and inscriptions at Bisutun, mentions the role of Cambyses as conqueror of Egypt in passing (DB I.28–43 / §10–11): “… the son of Cyrus, by name Cambyses, of our family, he was king here… Cambyses killed that Bardiya… then, Cambyses went to Egypt. When Cambyses had gone to Egypt, then the people became disloyal… Then there was a man, a magus, Gaumata by name… He seized the kingship… After that, Cambyses died his own death.”52 Also here, the actual issue of the conquest and subsequent rule of Cambyses over Egypt is only inferred, though with slightly more certainty because of the context provided. Strictly speaking, the text does not address when and why Cambyses went to Egypt. The episode may refer to the military campaign resulting in the conquest or to a visit to Egypt, when the conquest had already taken place. Though the former seems more likely in the programmatic context of the monument, there is no primary evidence of whether Cambyses was constantly with the army and in Egypt from the time of the conquest until his death. Whatever the actual realities behind the mentioned going to Egypt, the text only testifies Cambyses’ going to Egypt. His own or anyone else’s specific perception of him as conqueror and king of Egypt is not explicitly addressed in the text. Another question that remains open is who the “people (who) became disloyal” were. The comment can point to disloyalty and rebellion within the court, in the Persian heartland, or in the regions thought securely incorporated into the empire, or it may refer to friction in the newly conquered realm, i.e. the southern-most Levant and Egypt. In addition, “the people” may have “become disloyal” because of Cambyses’ (partially contested?) rule over Egypt or —perhaps more likely—because his claim to kingship over Persia was contested, which Cambyses could not actively counter due to his absence in Egypt.53 The later redacted version of the Bisutun inscription preserved on a papyrus from Elephantine mentions Cambyses only in passing (and in fragmentary state) in the context of Darius’ filiation.54 As the Bisutun inscription mainly aims at eternally glorifying the victory and power of Darius I, the emendation

52 53 54

Kuhrt (2007/I) 143. See in this context the discussion of the Bisutun evidence in the context of the Egyptian revolt by Wijnsma (2018), who reads the Egypto-Persian evidence as indicating a much more negative image of Cambyses. For the Elephantine version of the Bisutun inscription see especially the editions in Porten and Yardeni (1993) 58–70 and Greenfield and Porten (1982). On the issues of dating the document(s) and contextualising it in the Judean community of Elephantine see Mitchell (2017).

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in the redacted papyrus version gives no hint on the contemporary (or later) perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt. The statues of Udjahorresnet (IIb.2–3) The most elaborate source on Cambyses’ conquest of and reign over Egypt is the statue of Udjahorresnet in the Musei Vaticani (MV 22690).55 A scenario may be devised, by which the design and possibly also the execution of the statue except for the (later added) back pillar inscription date to the time of Cambyses.56 However, given the epigraphic coherence of the monument, the much easier solution is to assume a production date some time in the reign of Darius I. The contents of the inscription and their value for reconstructing the early phase of Persian rule over Egypt are well discussed.57 A very basic, but important feature concerning the topic at hand needs to be stressed: there was no need at all to display a pro-Persian or a ‘historical’ account on the statue at all. Most private statues of the Late Period to be displayed in a semi-public space, e.g. the outer courtyards of the temples, are only inscribed on the back-pillar and/or around the base and/or on the frontal naos edge with standard offering formula including major titles and the name of the depicted.58 Similarly, the display of Persian ‘gold of honour’ is exceedingly rare. Only three statues of Egyptian members of the elite are currently known (the statue of Udjahorresnet in the Vatican, a fragment of an uninscribed naophorous statue in Karlsruhe and the statue of Ptahhotep in Brooklyn, which displays also further Persian and Egyptian jewellery), which display Persian bracelets similar to those worn by Darius I himself in his statue from Egypt/Susa.59 Hence, both instances argue

55 56 57 58

59

See also the Udjahorresnet statues found in Cairo and Memphis (see above: section 1 [IIb.4 and IIIb]). See Wasmuth (2020: 196–202, 2021: 435–441). See Posener (1936) 1–26; Tulli (1941) 211–280; see also Lloyd (1982), Rößler-Köhler (1985), Baines (1996); see especially the various contributions in Wasmuth and Creasman (2020). See, e.g., Bothmer u.a. (1960), Brandl (2008), Perdu (2012). This general statement is not invalidated by the occasional evidence of other statues featuring elements of an ‘event biography’; see Otto (1954), Heise (2007); Jansen-Winkeln (2014), Schütze (2020). None of them are as elaborate as in the case of the Udjahorresnet statue (see also Jansen-Winkeln [2008] 173–174), and in any case the mere existence of an alternative – and especially a prevalent alternative – clearly demonstrates the design of the naoforo vaticano to be a deliberate choice. On Persica in the Egyptian elite presentation see Wasmuth (2017b); see also Albersmeier (2007) 164–165, Vittmann (2003) pls. 14–15; on the bracelets worn by the Darius I statue see also Wasmuth (2017a) 104, 108, 310.

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a performative act: a deliberate statement to contemporary and future (plus eternally divine) audiences specifically created for this purpose. Its exact purpose is difficult to assess, because we lack sufficient additional and independent sources as well as substantial parts of the statue’s object history: where and for how long was it displayed in its original site of erection? Was it transferred to Italy directly from this location or did it have a wider history of object mobility?60 When was it transferred and why? When was the statue beheaded? And what was its (programmatic) context?61 A further relevant issue, on which I expand elsewhere, is whether the statue (inscription) of Udjahorresnet is to be classified as ‘official’/‘state’ source or as ‘private’ monument. Depending on the preconceived idea of how Cambyses was perceived by his contemporaries in Egypt, this renders the following different interpretations possible or even likely: the statue can be read as a) predominantly a memorial monument for the person Udjahorresnet, b) a potential indirect source for Cambyses’ (adapted) selfperception, or c) a political statement by a local (group of) political key figure(s) to facilitate the reign of Cambyses (II) and/or Darius I.62 Further relevant sources can be found within the corpus of representation monuments of the Egyptian elite, which testify that their owners were active under the late Saitic rulers as well as under Darius I. Thus, they were contem‐ poraries of Cambyses and eyewitnesses of his reign. However, Cambyses is not mentioned in any of their inscriptions. To which extent this is a deliberate state‐ ment is to be questioned, as this also applies to Udjahorresnet’s tomb in Abusir. Though the inscriptions on the (inner) sarcophagus and the burial chamber walls of Udjahorresnet’s tomb specify Udjahorresnet as ‘chief physician’, they do not mention any of the pharaohs he served.63 The Wadi Hammamat inscription of Atiyawahi from year 12 of Xerxes I (IIb.4) As with the primary sources, the information value to be gleaned from the Wadi Hammamat inscription mentioning Cambyses is highly limited. The rock inscription simply lists three expeditions, which are said to have been undertaken by one of the highest officials of the Persian administration of Egypt,

60 61 62 63

On the former state of the art see Colburn (2020) 150–151, see also 179–187. On the archival evidence negating an ancient secondary place of erection in the Villa Hadriana or somewhere else in Italy see Ruggero (2020). On a reconsideration of the various statues of Udjahorresnet as archaeological artefacts see Wasmuth (2020). See Wasmuth (2021). On the tomb and sarcophagus inscriptions see Bareš (1999) 21–61.

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the saris of Persia Atiyawahi: in year 6 of Cambyses, year 36 of Darius (I) and year 12 of Xerxes (I). This raises the question why the earlier expeditions were not recorded at the time, and hence also, whether they indeed happened as recorded. If the expedition under Cambyses took place as indicated, which seems likely given the preserved primary evidence on his reign, the lack of recording can be easily explained by the organisation of the expedition. The Persian officials may not have been aware of the practice and its meaning for lack of knowledge of the ancient Egyptian language and cultural practices in the early days of Achaemenid lordship over Egypt. IIc sources As already indicated, there are currently no contemporary sources on the perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt known from in‑ or outside the Persian Empire beyond Egypt and Persia (= primary sources). The “petition of Peteese” on pRylands IX (IId.1) In contrast to standard scholarly practice, which uses the so-called petition of Peteese (pRylands IX) as a primary source on the reign of Cambyses, its secondary nature has to be stressed. The papyrus contains the so-called “petition of Peteese” allegedly from el-Hibeh.64 The text itself is not formally dated, but text-internal dates are provided for the accounted events. The papyrus deals with the strive between the family of Peteese and other local powers in ElHibeh/Teuzoi in year 9 of Darius I (i.e. 513 BCE) and its embedding into the family history from the reign of Psamtik I to year 3/4 of Cambyses. In contrast to the other rulers, the latter is only briefly touched upon (see XXI.7–9).65 Key problem for the categorisation of the papyrus is its production date, which is uncertain due to the assumed text genre and the lack of an explicit production date formula. The petition draft can and has been interpreted both as a historical and a literary document. The text starts with narrating events of year 9 of Darius I (especially I.1–3). Whether this indicates the date of production (shortly thereafter) or only the date, in which the climax of the narrative is set, is dependent on the interpretation of the petition draft as a historical or a literary document.66 Hence, it may either belong to the later sources by eyewitnesses

64 65 66

The provenance from el-Hibeh is not contested, but the text is formally unprovenanced and the specific find context is unknown; see Griffith (1909) 37. See Griffith (1909) 105–106, pl. 43; Vittmann (1998) 101 (hieroglyphic transcription), 188 (transliteration), 189 (translation), 211–212, 563–566. On the issue of the evaluation of the text as historical fiction and the methodological problem of using it as primary evidence for earlier times it describes see especially Pope

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of Cambyses’ reign (IIb) or to the group of later sources from the 1st Persian dominion (IId). In any case, similar to the administrative papyri from Asyut (see above: primary sources), the papyrus is only marginally concerned with Cambyses, though much has been made of the references in the scholarly debate.67 There are various options concerning the historicity of the events mentioned in the text: a.

b. c. d.

They may be pure fiction without (need for) any accuracy. This, however, is unlikely given the scope of mentioned persons also known from other sources.68 They may be fiction but drawing on historical events (of unknown accu‐ racy). They may be a documentation of historical events, presented in a way most beneficial for the situation at hand (whether of year 9 of Darius I or later). They may be an accurate presentation of (all documentation on) the events in question.

Whether the account of events and also the dates given are accurate or not cannot be assessed due to lack of primary sources on the matter. They certainly present a very one-sided view—that of (the family of) Peteese.69 If they indeed draw on historical events, which seems likely, these are heavily shaped by the personal agenda of the writer and/or the main character at the time of writing (in year 9 of Darius I or later) as well as by orally or textually passed down perceptions from the time of Cambyses and before. For the topic at hand, the main question of interest is this potentially passed down or later perception of Cambyses, for which the source provides, however, only minimal amounts of information. We have the brief comments that Psamtik-men-en-Pe, son of Hor, sent someone else (instead of coming himself) to his property at el-Hibeh in year 44 of Amasis; that then, in year 3 of Cambyses, his son Hor came to El-Hibeh and was ignored by the priests; and that in year 4 of Cambyses (the income from) the office of priest of Amun was definitively accorded to a different family.70 As with the Asyut papyri from the reign of

67 68 69 70

(2014) 237–255, also Pope (2015). For an evaluation as actual petition draft see, e.g., Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 23. Especially concerning a contemporary devaluation of Cambyses (essentially based on Vittmann (1998) 563–564) and concerning the predating of the conquest of Egypt (especially Quack (2011) 236–243). See especially Vittmann (1998), also Schütze (2020). See already Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 23. See Griffith (1909) 63, 105–106, pl. 43; Vittmann (1998) 101, 188–189; Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 49.

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Cambyses (see above), there is no evidence for court intervention etc. and the question of Cambyses’ rulership is not explicitly addressed. Nevertheless, the provided dates and the writing of his name gave rise to comments. The elements under consideration are the relative dating of year 3/4 of Cambyses in relation to Amasis’ reign, the etymology of the spelling of Cambyses’ name, the choice of determinative for that name in the first occurrence (XXI.7) as well as its lack and the lack of the closing cartouche in the second occurrence (XXI.9). Regarding the dating practice, it has to be stressed once more that a) pRylands IX is a secondary source concerning the reign of Cambyses, as it is earliest from year 9 of Darius I, and that the contents of the papyrus due to its text genre is of questionable historicity. And b) that pRylands IX indicates a terminus ad- or postquem to year 44 of Amasis (if the historicity of the account or at least of its chronological framework is to be accepted at all), but does not specify the chronological relation any further. Hence, the question remains whether the reference to Cambyses’ reign concerns the time before or after the conquest. The text itself does not allow any definitive assessment, as the back-dating of events at the end of the reign of Amasis according to Cambyses’ Persian regnal years has been local administrative and royal practice already during Cambyses’ reign as Egyptian pharaoh (see above: primary sources). The lack of the (name determinative and) closing cartouche at the end of XXI.9 and the rendering as GmꜢḏ have been argued to show a derogatory attitude towards Cambyses.71 Again, this cannot be excluded due to lack of evidence, neither is it conclusive: a.

b.

71 72 73

There is no lack of cartouche. In the first occurrence, the name and cartouche are fully spelt out, in the second one, at the very end of the narrative, the closing part at the very end of the line is missing as is the case for Amasis in mid-line. Hence, carelessness due to a draft version is a more convincing interpretation. The derogative nature of the spelling is not convincing. A first important caveat is that the Egyptian writing of Cambyses’ name was not canonised.72 Thus, the pRylands IX spelling may be an attempt of an etymologized spelling or, alternatively, GmꜢḏ may simply be a further variant, possibly a dialectal one, of rendering the foreign name. Even if the former is the case, i.e. gm-Ꜥḏ—“he who finds injustice”,73 its claimed pejorative nature is doubtful. The name “he who finds injustice” does not read negatively Vittmann (1998) 563–564, Tavernier (2007) 60, Schmitt and Vittmann (2013) 63. See the collection of evidence in Schmitt and Vittmann (2013) 61–63. Suggested by Tavernier (2007) 60 n. 45; see also Schmitt and Vittmann (2013) 63.

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regarding the person of this name, but—if at all—to his predecessors. Hence, Cambyses in that reading is denoted as finding, not creating or maintaining, injustice, which is not a derogative statement toward him. The “foreign name” determinative is of uncertain information value. Already its identification is disputed.74 Given the factual or literary draft nature of the document (minor) inconsistencies, especially regarding dif‐ ferent persons, are to be expected, thus obviating the need of searching for a deliberate distinction in writing the foreign royal names of Cambyses and Darius. If, however, the different handling of Darius and Cambyses in this (literary or historical) petition draft is to be taken seriously and if the relevant sign is correctly identified as “foreign name” determinative in the case of Cambyses, there are still two interpretive options. The spelling may either be ‘othering’, i.e. highlighting the foreignness as a means for indicating potential lack of acceptance, or deliberately nonderogative, but stressing that the spelling of Cambyses is explicitly not to be read pejoratively, but as a cartouche-shorthand for an accepted Egyptian pharaoh of foreign extraction. In this argumentation line, the same was not needed for Darius, as his acceptance in the context of the document was not in question.

Thus, the pejorative nature is solely based on preconceived assumptions. There is nothing in the text itself, which denotes Cambyses negatively apart from the fact that the text does not continue for whatever reasons, when the family his‐ tory reaches year 3/4 of Cambyses. Peteese (III) may have abhorred Cambyses, as the decision to move the priestly office to another family was ratified under him. But this is not written out in any way. In consequence, there is nothing in pRylands 9, which supports a contemporary or later negative perception of Cambyses as conqueror and king of Egypt, though such perceptions are of course to be expected in times of turmoil and foreign conquest. The only issue potentially indicating an ancient appraisal of Cambyses is the writing of the name. This, if reflecting a deliberate valuation at all, favours a neutral to positive, certainly not a negative attitude. However, the question remains, whether the spelling reflects the perception of the name and/or the king belonging to that name in the time of Cambyses, under Darius I or later (in case of an ascribed date in a ‘literary’ text).

74

On the lack of consensus on the issue, see Vittmann (1998) 563–564.

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The Aramaic letters from Elephantine TADAE A4.6–9 (IId.2–5) The last group of secondary sources, which are open to discussion regarding their classification as secondary or tertiary sources, are some Aramaic docu‐ ments from Elephantine from the end of the 5th c. BCE. In their case, the issue is not genre-related or due to lack of explicit evidence regarding their production date, but regarding the question, whether the end of the 1st Persian dominion is still sufficiently similar in cultural context to the reign of Cambyses to justify its classification as “same” or “close”, even without considering the special context of Elephantine (see section 1). The sources at hand are a letter, two versions of a letter draft and a memo‐ randum from the so-called Jedaniah archive, all of which mention Cambyses. The oldest, highly fragmentary letter from c. 410 BCE concerns prisoners with Egyptian names (TADAE A4.6; pBerlin 13445). The context in which Cambyses is mentioned (line 17) is not preserved. Two further documents are slightly different letter drafts requesting a recommendation letter for rebuilding the YHW temple at Elephantine (TADAE 4.7–8; pBerlin 13495 and pCairo Pap. No. 3428 / J. 43465). They date from 407 BCE and are addressed to the governor of Judah, Bagohi. In the same context belongs a brief memorandum on the matter (TADAE 4.9; pBerlin 13497). While the latter mentions Cambyses only in passing when referring to the temple destruction in year 14 of Darius (II), the context can be inferred from the two more elaborate drafts. Notably, Cambyses is referred to only by name, while Darius is designated as king. Perhaps the most likely motivation is a specific denotation of the currently ruling pharaoh, i.e. Darius II, who is explicitly denoted as “king XY”. Another possibility is that Cambyses’ change of role (Persian Great King vs. also Egyptian Pharaoh) is reflected in the text, indicating that he was not yet crowned as pharaoh in the specific context of conquest.75 Whether this is likely to have been of concern for the late 5th c. community of Elephantine is, however, doubtful. The last interpretation that Cambyses was refused the royal title for lack of acceptance seems even less likely: the context makes it very clear in both cases that Cambyses is valued as a conqueror who left the YHW temple intact, though overthrowing Egyptian temples.76

75 76

See the evidence as presented in the edition by Porten and Yardeni (1986) 66–75, especially TADAE A4.6: 17, A4.7: 13, A4.8: 12, A4.9: 5. For a different interpretation see Schütze (this volume). See Porten and Yardeni (1986) 68–75.

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3 Crossover to the tertiary sources: Herodotus’ account reconsidered It needs to be stressed that the preserved primary sources on Cambyses from Egypt conceptually do not allow displaying a different royal image than that of a legitimate ruler. However, they testify that he was accepted as Egyptian pharaoh—at least by a sufficiently powerful group in the capital of Memphis— and displayed as such for a major religious ceremony and for Egyptian royal administration to be executed. How widespread this acceptance has been and whether a significant group of (silent) supporters may have preferred a local candidate is (currently) beyond revelation. In any case, due to socio-political pressure or personal conviction, Cambyses was accepted as the power to be instated as Egyptian pharaoh. The amount of preserved primary sources is no helpful indicator. If one breaks down the amount of monuments for Darius I in relation to years of reign or compares the evidence for Cambyses with other short-reigning Egyptian rulers, the breadth of sources is not exceptional. Notably, also the secondary sources explicitly mentioning Cambyses substan‐ tiate a neutral to positive image. All negative interpretations require scholarly presuppositions that are read into (some of) the texts, but are not text-inherent, or reflect only one, in each case less likely, option (see above). Considering that the time of Cambyses is one of upheaval in Egypt, which allowed the Persians to seize power, this is in all likelihood a matter of chance preservation. It would be highly surprising if there had not been different reactions to the conquest and changes of power, which typically profit some and injure others. For such a more differentiated perception, we are, however, reduced to indirect evidence and tertiary sources. The challenge in case of the latter is to assess, with which personal and political agendas across time these are enhanced. In the case of Herodotus’ Cambyses logos, this concerns on the one hand his primary audience, which is largely situated in the 5th c. Aegean and Asia minor and is beyond this paper to discuss77, and on the other hand his informants.   3.1 Herodotus’ informants Despite Lloyd’s assertion that Herodotus explicitly defined his sources on the presentation of Cambyses as king of Egypt, the information on his informants is vague: “Persians (3.1), Greeks (3.32), Egyptians (3.2, 16, 30, 32), and an authority which is unspecified but clearly defined in his mind (3.3).”78 This is as explicitly

77 78

For a start see Bichler (2020), Irwin (this volume). Lloyd (1988) 60.

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defined as ‘scholars say…’ or ‘communis opinio is…’ and is both, unverifiable and unfalsifiable.79 The reference is not only vague because the specific source of information (e.g. the person’s name and further aspects of his or her identity) is not named, but also because the question of what Herodotus perceived and/or described as ‘Egyptian’ may have differed from the informant’s perception, from that of other potential contemporary informants and also from, e.g., 19th c. AD perceptions or nowadays. Even without entering the severely understudied question of inside/outside perceptions within the culturally diverse societies of the 7th–5th c. BCE Eastern Mediterranean Area of Connectivity,80 the information will have looked substantially different, if the informants belonged to the pro-Persian, ‘neutral’ or contra-Persian factions within the urban centers—whether for political, personal or administrative/economic reasons. Similarly, settlements with rebellious traditions will have maintained a different perspective and subsequent cultural memory than those less disturbed by inner political strive. Also, (descendants of) individuals more closely involved presumably had a different view than those less involved, as did those primarily profiting from strive or ‘peace’, or those suffering from either. In addition, communities of changing demographic composition and rather sealed-off local ones will have perceived and passed on historical events differently.81 This is an issue not only regarding the timespan between Cambyses and Herodotus’ Histories, but also concerning a more general amalgamation of prior history. For conceptual and practical reasons, drawing on older Egyptian written and/or visual evidence can be shown to be much more widespread.82 This practice in the written evidence is even more to be considered for oral

79

80 81

82

This does not mean that the information provided is false or to be ignored, but that the required basal source criticism has constantly to be taken into account and not only in cases of explicitly controversial evidence (see even, e.g., Kuhrt (2007/I) 108 n.1 and accompanying comment [c)] with regard to this common practice). See Wasmuth (2016a). At least for the later 5th c., i.e. more or less contemporary to the Histories, it should be possible to develop and compare various micro-historical studies from the combination of available Demotic, Aramaic, and Greek documentary, material, and ‘representational’ sources. For earlier times, this is much more difficult, as much less is known and/or preserved from the 7th–late 6th c. BCE. Nevertheless, a collection and evaluation of the available sources is strongly to be encouraged. See, e.g., the potential drawing on Old Kingdom references in the Udjahorresnet inscription, Kuhrt (2007/I) 122 n.17.

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transfer, which is characterized by actualisation of historical events to cater to the present.83   3.2 Conclusions If there are no explicit and especially no independently verifiable sources pre‐ served and/or known as is the case for many aspects in Herodotus’ narrative on Cambyses, the reconstruction of historical events and their ancient perception remains at best hypothetical. In case of Cambyses’ kingship over Egypt, this is enhanced by a combination of preservation-related conceptual and cultureinherent reasons. On the one hand, any direct sources on the perceptions of Cambyses as king of Egypt by himself and others are unlikely or even impossible to survive. On the other hand, the events-related official sources (Apis burial and reinstatement) conceptually require ‘positive’ history constructions, while the majority of local administrative and ‘private’ sources are not or only marginally concerned with Cambyses beyond dating issues. A third factor is his rather short reign. There was neither a suitable model to draw on, nor enough time within his short rule over Egypt to create an official monument, which presented a more diversified outlook on his royal roles; this took several years and attempts for his successor Darius I to achieve.84 This multi-factorial dilemma is enhanced by the state of archaeological research and preservation and by the prevalent area outlook of antiquity studies. It is methodologically highly problematic to fill this lack of primary sources on later 6th c. history of Egypt with information provided in ancient (secondary and) tertiary sources. Nevertheless, the question of what is echoed in Herodotus’ narrative may prove to be an exceedingly useful approach: not so much for the question, what was, but what else might have been. A much closer look at Herodotus’ narrative and other outside sources can provide new ideas and hence research angles on how else the contemporary events and politics may have been perceived and where one may look for potential additional sources. This especially concerns local Egyptian diversity at the time of the Histories, i.e. the later 27th dynasty, the question of the specifically Greek / Asia minor agenda of why and how the Persians and the Egyptians were presented to the Greek elite, and a new outlook on the issues of topoi, cultural memory, and oral (hi)story tradition in the 1st millennium BCE.

83 84

On orality in the context of Achaemenid history and especially with regard to its reception in Greek historiography see Evans (2014 [1991]) 89–146, Silverman (2012) 98–129; see also Lloyd 1988: 57–59. See Wasmuth (2017a) 98–249, 253–257, 260–261.

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Bibliography Editions of classical authors De Babyloniaca van Berossos van Babylon: inleiding, editie en commentaar, Geert E. E. de Breuker, PhD diss. Groningen 2012, https://www.rug.nl/research/portal/en/pu blications/de-babyloniaca-van-berossos-van-babylon(36d611e9-3578-46c9-ade6-9651 8818580f).html (last accessed: 19 Feb. 2019). Ctésias de Cnide, La Perse, l’Inde, autres fragments, Dominique Lenfant, Collection des Universités de France, Série grecque 435, Paris 2004. Diodore de Sicile. Livre I, Pierre Bertrac and Yvonne Vernière, Bibliothèque historique = Collection des Universités de France, Série grecque 344, Paris 1993. Seneca. Anger, Mercy, Revenge, Robert A. Kaster and Martha C. Nussbaum, The Complete Works of Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Chicago 2010. Strabon. Géographie Livre XVII 1ère partie. L’Égypte et l’Éthopie nilotique, Benoît Laudenbach, Strabon. Géographie 14 = Collection des universités de France, Série grecque 514, Paris 2015. Seneca: De ira / Über die Wut. Lateinisch / Deutsch, Jula Wildberger, Reclams UniversalBibliothek 18456, Stuttgart 2007. Herodoti historiae, N.G. Wilson, Oxford 2015.

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Cambyses the Egyptian? Remembering Cambyses and Amasis in Persian Period Egypt

Alexander Schütze1

Αἰγύπτιοι δὲ οἰκηιοῦνται Καμβύσεα, φάμενοί μιν ἐκ ταύτης δὴ τῆς Ἀπρίεω θυγατρὸς γενέσθαι: Κῦρον γὰρ εἶναι τὸν πέμψαντα παρὰ Ἄμασιν ἐπὶ τὴν θυγατέρα, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ Καμβύσεα. But the Egyptians, who say that Cambyses was the son of this daughter of Apries, claim him as one of theirs; they say that it was Cyrus who asked Amasis for his daughter, and not Cambyses. (Hdt. 3.2.1)

The third book of Herodotus’ Histories famously begins with the alleged reason for the Persian king’s desire to conquer Egypt: a trick by Amasis, the penultimate king of the Egyptian 26th Dynasty, who had once usurped the Egyptian throne himself (Hdt. 3.1–3). After Cambyses had sent a messenger to Egypt and asked the pharaoh several times for a daughter of the Egyptian king, Amasis had sent a daughter of his predecessor Apries named Nitetis (who could not have been very young at that time, since Amasis reigned for over 44 years). After Nitetis had revealed the fraud to Cambyses—not without mentioning that Amasis had rebelled against his former master and killed him—the great king went to Egypt full of anger. However, this is only one version of the reason for the war that Herodotus presents to his Greek audience (and attributes to the Persians). The Egyptians would claim that Cambyses was a son of Nitetis, whom Apries had once sent to his predecessor Cyrus. Although it was generally known that Cambyses had been the son of Cassandane, the Egyptians would skew the facts to postulate a relationship with the Persian royal house. According to a third version—quite improbable according to the narrator—Cambyses had wanted to avenge his mother since Cyrus had preferred an Egyptian woman to her. 1

I would especially like to thank Elizabeth Irwin and Andreas Schwab for their critical review of the manuscript and the participants of the Heidelberg workshop for stimulating discussions.

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Herodotus’ account of the reason for the war is surprising in several respects. While one would rather expect political intentions for the conquest of Egypt, Herodotus cites very personal reasons for Cambyses’ campaign. At the same time, he presents three contradictory versions of Cambyses’ motivation. As Elizabeth Irwin shows in her contribution to this volume, the different ver‐ sions of the same historical event are a recurring theme, especially in Herodotus’ Cambyses logos.2 In a whole series of cases, Herodotus lists contradictory versions, and not without reason. The possibility of the coexistence of different versions (which were only verifiable to a very limited extent for the ancient reader) allows Herodotus to create his own image of a mad despot, which is not reflected in Persian or Egyptian sources in this way but may well have provoked associations with contemporary political history in Herodotus’ audience. It is no coincidence that the three versions at the beginning of Book 3, which discuss the reason why Cambyses went against Egypt, form the prelude to Herodotus’ comprehensive characterisation of the Persian Great King. Reading the Cambyses logos (with its many episodes, which have been and will be discussed extensively, not least in numerous contributions to this conference volume) against the backdrop of Herodotus’ own agenda allows for an approach to Herodotus’ account of Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt that avoids seeking to verify or falsify the historicity of the events described in each case and takes the literary character and political agenda of Herodotus’ Histories more into account.3 However, this is precisely what characterises the Egyptological discussion of the Cambyses logos to a particular degree, as the extensive literature, for instance, on the presumed murder of the sacred Apis bull by the Great King exemplifies.4 A basic problem is the lack of relevant Egyptian sources that could be contrasted with the Herodotean narrative. There is, for example, a monument from the time of Cambyses that refers to the burial of an Apis bull under the Great King. However, it cannot be fully reconciled with the chronology of events described by Herodotus. Therefore, it is not surprising that some scholars assumed that Sethian motifs were used to describe the Great King as we find them in Herodotus.5 In other words, Herodotus had adopted the characterisation of the Great King by Egyptian priests, which in turn would have

2 3 4 5

See also Irwin (2017); Schwab (2020) 233–241; on the afterlife of the Nitetis story, see also Bichler in this volume. Cf. Fornara (1971); Harrison/Irwin (2018). For a discussion, see e.g., Jansen-Winkeln (2002); Cruz-Uribe (2003); Vittmann (2011); Klotz (2015); on the Apis cult under Cambyses and Darius I see now Marković/Ilić (2018). E.g., Dillery (2005); see also Quack in this volume.

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its origins in mythological tales about the god Seth, thus being pure fiction.6 Other scholars saw Ancient Near Eastern motifs at work.7 The question arises to what extent this portrayal can be reconciled with Herodotus’ claim, mentioned at the beginning, that the Egyptians regard Cambyses as one of them. On the other hand, Herodotus used Egyptian realia, which certainly find their counterpart in Egyptian sources.8 It is those passages in which Herodotus explicitly mentions his sources (which is frequently the case, especially in Book 2) that deserve special attention. In the case of the story that makes Cambyses a son of a daughter of Apries, Herodotus explicitly refers to the Egyptians themselves (in contrast to the other two versions), who wanted to connect the Egyptian 26th Dynasty with the Persian royal house in terms of kinship. That Cambyses is made a grandson of Apries in said version is not without political relevance, for his successor Amasis had usurped the throne and, like his son Psammetichus III (Herodotus’ Psammenitos), did not belong to the line of kings of the 26th Dynasty.9 Some authors, therefore, suspected a legitimation strategy of the Persian king behind the Egyptian Nitetis story, which was still being told in Egypt in the middle of the 5th century BC, when Herodotus visited the land on the Nile.10 Karl Jansen-Winkeln even discussed the episode as evidence for the marriage policy of the Saite kings.11 This paper discusses the disparate Egyptian sources that provide indications of how Cambyses but also of Amasis was imagined by the posterity, especially in the period when Herodotus visited Egypt. Not only does Herodotus’ characterisation of Amasis shortly before the logos of Cambyses stand in striking contrast to that of Cambyses, but Egyptian sources also suggest that both were not perceived as legitimate pharaohs after their deaths—at least temporarily in the case of Amasis. Is it possible that the Egyptians still perceived Cambyses as a legitimate Egyptian pharaoh in the middle of the 5th century BC, and related him to the Egyptian royal family? How can this be reconciled with the later negative image of the Great King in Egyptian, Aramaic, and Greek sources? Is it possible that Cambyses placed himself in line with Amasis’ predecessor Apries and therefore denied the Egyptian pharaoh Amasis any legitimacy? How does Herodotus’ positive yet ambivalent picture of Amasis connect to his well-known portrayal of Cambyses?

6 7 8 9 10 11

Cf. Altmann (2010); Altmann (2015). E.g. Hofmann (1981); Konstantakos (2016). For an Ancient Near Eastern background of Darius’ enthronement scene in Hdt. 3.84–89 see Rollinger (2018). See e.g., Quack (2011). On the family of Amasis, see DeMeulenaere (1968); see also Vittmann (1975). Hofmann (1981) 184; Lloyd (1988) 62; Tuplin (1991) 256, 259. Jansen-Winkeln (2000) esp. 26; see also Schipper (2002).

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1 Cambyses and Amasis in Egyptian sources Only a few sources are known from the short reign of Cambyses over Egypt that could be linked to the account of the events in Herodotus. In the following, pe‐ culiarities in the writing of the names of the kings Cambyses and Amasis, which have already been observed by other authors, will be discussed systematically. These peculiarities seem to provide hints as to whether a king was considered legitimate at a certain point in time, whereas corresponding narrative sources are largely lacking. Most examples are known from documentary sources, which will be discussed in detail below. However, the starting point will be the bestknown Egyptian source on the early years of Persian rule in Egypt. The biographical inscription on the Naoforo Vaticano of Udjahorresnet is the only contemporary narrative by an Egyptian official about the period immediately after the conquest of Egypt under Cambyses II.12 It fits into the tradition of biographical inscriptions of high officials of that period and should be seen in the context of this text genre rather than as a unique historical source.13 Cambyses is portrayed in the inscription of Udjahorresnet as a ruler who took over the role of an Egyptian pharaoh by adopting the Egyptian royal titulature, and showed respect for Egyptian sanctuaries in Sais by having them liberated from foreigners and equipped with goods and personnel. In both cases, Udjahorresnet played an active role as a mediator between the Persian conqueror and the conquered Egyptian culture. In a very similar role, Cambyses’ successor Darius I is depicted, who sent Udjahorresnet to Egypt to re-establish the Egyptian “houses of life”, i.e., the temple libraries.14 That Cambyses in particular appears in a positive light in the biographical inscription of Udjahorresnet is not surprising, since he owed the Persian Great King his appointment to high offices, namely that of the so-called chief physician. In this capacity, Udjahorresnet composed the Egyptian royal titulature for Cambyses and restored the Egyptian houses of life under Darius I. Interestingly, the Egyptian offi‐ cial was already in office as a fleet commander under Amasis and Psammetichus III, both of whom are briefly mentioned in this context in the inscription. In the period before the Persian conquest of Egypt, Udjahorresnet pursued a completely different career as a commander of the royal fleet. There is nothing in Udjahorresnet's inscription to suggest that the legitimacy of the kings Amasis, Psammetichus III, 12 13 14

Posener (1936) 1–29; see also Lloyd (1982); Jansen-Winkeln (2002); Vittmann (2011); Wasmuth/Creasman (2020). See e.g. Spencer (2010); Jansen-Winkeln (2016); Schütze (2020). On the representation of Cambyses and Darius as Egyptian pharaohs, see also Wasmuth (2017).

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Cambyses, and Darius I was questioned: all four kings’ names are written in cartouches and provided with royal titles; none of the names was later chiselled out.   1.1 P. Cairo CG 50059 While the Naoforo Vaticano of Udjahorresnet must have been erected under Darius I, very few contemporary monuments are known from the short period in which his predecessor Cambyses ruled Egypt.15 Among these is a seal in which the king’s name has been changed to Cambyses, as well as a seal impression of unknown origin, a stela documenting the burial of an Apis bull in year 6 of Cambyses (524 BC), as well as a corresponding sarcophagus in the Serapeum at Saqqara, but also some documents from a priestly archive from Asyut in which Cambyses is mentioned several times in dating formulae (P. Cairo CG 50058– 50062).16 Interesting in several respects is P. Cairo CG 50059, a legal document concerning the sale of priesthoods from Asyut, dating to year 8 of Cambyses (522 BC). 17 The name of the Great King was written here with cartouches, the god determinative and the formula wishing life, prosperity, and health (l.p.h.): pr-ꜤꜢ (Kbḏ)| Ꜥ.w.s. “Pharaoh Cambyses, l.p.h.”.18 The document refers to another document from the year 7 of Amasis (546 BC), with the king’s name written like a simple personal name without title, cartouche, or l.p.h. formula: ʾIꜤḥ-ms “Amasis” (P. Cairo CG 50059:7). In addition, the document mentions the year 2 of Cambyses, which, according to Joachim F. Quack, is a backdating to a time when Amasis was still king of Egypt but Cambyses already ruled as king of Persia.19 While such a backdating does not necessarily suggest a damnatio memoriae of Amasis but could be explained as a peculiar administrative practice, at least the spelling of Amasis’ name as a simple personal name requires explanation, as it seems to deny him legitimacy as Egyptian king.   1.2 P. Rylands 9 No less revealing is P. Rylands 9, which was probably written a few years later. It is a copy of a draft of a comprehensive petition, presumably addressed to the Persian satrap of Egypt, which a scribe at the temple of Amun of el-Hibeh in Middle Egypt named Peteese had written after the year 9 of Darius I (i.e. after 513 BC).20 The 15 16 17 18 19 20

Posener (1936); see also Jansen-Winkeln (2002); Vittmann (2011); Klotz (2015); Wasmuth in this volume. Spiegelberg (1932) 93–53; Shore (1988); see also Seidl (1968) 8; Kahl (2007) 92–93. Spiegelberg (1932) 42–46, pl. 18–20. P. Cairo CG 50059:8, 10; see also Vittmann (1998) 564. P. Cairo CG 50059:10; Quack (2011) 242. Griffith (1909); Vittmann (1998); see also Chauveau (2004) and Agut-Labordère/Chauveau (2011) 145–200, 332–341; Vittmann (2015a); Hoffmann/Quack (2018) 24–56, 369–371.

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extensive petition, comprising over 25 columns, recounts the family history of the Peteese, dating back to the beginning of the 26th Dynasty in the middle of the 7th century BC. Under Psammetichus I, an eponymous ancestor of said temple scribe, Peteese (I), had acquired a large part of the priestly shares in the temple of Amun at el-Hibeh, while the other priests of the temple had to share a fraction of it. This provoked the resentment of the priests, who did not even shy away from murder. Later they succeeded in taking the prebend from the family after they had sent Peteese (II) on a campaign of Psammetichus II towards Syria. The priestly family did not succeed in regaining the priesthood; whether the temple scribe Peteese (III) was ultimately successful with his petition remains more than questionable, especially since he was unable to produce any further documents that would confirm his claims. Although P. Rylands 9 was part of an archive of legal documents that also date back to the time of Psammetichus I, none of the documents makes direct reference to the priestly prebends at issue in the petition. The latter, however, is not to be expected since all documents (legal documents) and monuments (a stela and a statue) that could have confirmed the claims of the family of Peteese had been destroyed by the priests of the temple of Amun.21 Due to the extraordinary length of the petition—it is the hitherto longest known early demotic text—and its literary qualities, the documentary character of the petition has been disputed, especially in recent times, relativizing its informative value for the political history of the Saite and early Persian periods.22 Its genuinely non-literary character is supported not only by the extent of explanations it provides but also by the fact that P. Rylands 9 itself had been part of an archive of legal documents in which the members of the priestly family also appear as contracting parties to the other legal documents in the archive.23 Furthermore, the harbour masters under Psammetichus I, Peteese and Somtutefnakht, are suf‐ ficiently attested as historical persons by other monuments.24 Unlike historically attested officials in literary works, however, they do not play a particular role as protagonists here.25 In addition, the petition names a variety of officials such as the overseer of Heracleopolis, the overseer of the antechamber, the overseer of arable lands, or the “planner” (sntj), some of whom had judicial authority and are also attested to by real dignitaries in the Saite or early Persian periods.26 The

21 22 23 24 25 26

The author of the petition even felt compelled to reproduce the text of the original two stelae in the temple of el-Hibe; Vittmann (1994). E.g., Leahy (2011) 219; Jay (2015); Wasmuth in this volume. Vittmann (2015a) 351; Quack (2016) 203–207, esp. 206. Leahy (2011); Pope (2015). See e.g., Tait (1977) 28–33; Quack (2018). Cf. Pressl (1998); Agut-Labordère (2013).

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persons and partly historical events—the petition is, for example, the only evidence for a campaign of Psammetichus II towards Syria—are precisely dated, but only discussed as far as it is relevant for the concern of the petition, that is the regaining of the priestly prebend. In fact, the petition, with the legal terminology used in it as well as its meticulous presentation of individual legal details, is quite comparable to court documents such as trial records.27 Whether literary or not, the spellings of the kings’ names deserve closer examination in any case, as they convey a certain evaluation of these kings: In the context of dating formulae, Amasis, Cambyses, and Darius I are mentioned alongside other kings of the 26th Dynasty. Darius I is mentioned in the dating formula in the first line of the petition with a royal title, cartouche, and l.p.h. formula: pr-ꜤꜢ (ṰrꜢwš)| Ꜥ.w.s. “Pharaoh Darius l.p.h.” (P. Rylands 9, I, 1);28 the pharaohs of the 26th Dynasty, Psammetichus I, Psammetichus II, and Apries are always written with the royal title pr-ꜤꜢ “Pharaoh” and complete cartouches en‐ closing the king’s name. Amasis is mentioned in the context of dating formulae a total of five times and is introduced with mostly incomplete cartouches (i.e. the closing part of the cartuche is missing) and mostly with the royal title: pr-ꜤꜢ (ʾIꜤḥ-ms)| “Pharaoh Amasis”.29 The name of Cambyses, on the other hand, is written in the two cases exclusively with a (in one case incomplete) cartouche; the royal title or even the l.h.p. formula is missing in both cases.30 Furthermore, the name of Cambyses was provided with a determinative, which was still frequently used, at least in Early Demotic, for non-Egyptian personal names that cannot be provided with the determinative for gods. The name of Cambyses is thus marked as an ordinary personal name, as Günter Vittmann has pointed out.31 The foreign land sign is not yet used in Demotic to determine personal names, but it is used in P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215, which will be discussed below. Whether GmꜢḏ represents a pejorative spelling of the king’s name, as suggested by Tavernier, remains to be seen.32

27 28 29

30 31 32

See e.g., P. BM 10591; Asyut; 171–170 BC; Thompson (1934). This corresponds to the protocol for a reigning king in legal documents; cf. Rylands 5–8 for Amasis. P. Rylands 9, XVI, 1 (2x); XVI, 7 (2x); XXI, 7. In two cases the king’s title, which was mentioned immediately before, is missing; in one case his predecessor Apries is written in the same way—but with closed cartouche—in the same line; P. Rylands 9, XVI, 1; see also XVIII, 11. P. Rylands 9, XXI, 7: year 3 of Cambyses and XXI, 9: year 4 of Cambyses; on the implications especially of the 3rd year for the chronology of the Persian conquest see Quack (2011). Vittmann (1998) 563–564; see also Vittmann (2011) 381 n. 45 as well as Schmitt/Vittmann (2013) 61–63. Cf. Tavernier (2007) 60 n. 55.

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While Darius I as reigning king was provided with all elements of a king’s name including the l.p.h. formula, the king’s title as well as the cartouches, title and cartouches were sufficient in the case of former rulers, since the l.p.h. formula was unnecessary for deceased kings. In the case of Amasis, the king’s title could be partially missing, and the cartouches were mostly incomplete, which suggests ambivalent handling of this king’s name (if these cases are not to be explained by the scribe’s negligence). In the case of Cambyses, on the other hand, the royal title is consistently missing; the name itself is qualified as a non-Egyptian personal name by the determinative in two cases. The name is still written with cartouches (in one case incomplete though). P. Ryland’s 9 thus shows a fine gradation in the writing of the different king’s names, whereby it is noticeable that his predecessor Cambyses is apparently already qualified as an illegitimate king in Darius I’s early reign.   1.3 P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 is another extraordinary text, albeit much younger, the present copy dates to the 3rd century BC, which should not be omitted from a discussion of the writing of Persian royal names in Demotic sources.33 The papyrus is best known for the text on the recto, the “Demotic Chronicle”, an ex-eventu oracle at the court of Nektanebos (I), which related the fate of the kings of the Egyptian 28th–30th Dynasties (i.e. those kings who ruled Egypt independently between the two Persian periods) to their loyalty to the law and their beneficence towards the gods and thus shows striking similarities with the Deuteronomium.34 Apocalyptic passages describing the two Persian periods form the framework of the core narrative of the so-called Demotic Chronicle. On the verso of the papyrus, there are a handful of different texts which at first glance do not seem to be related to each other: an extract from regulations for priests (Vso. col. b–c, 1–5), the “Decree of Darius” (col. c, 6–16), the “Decree of Cambyses” (col. d), as well as another text placed upside down and initially interpreted by Spiegelberg as animal stories, perhaps representing a description of the fate of the priests as a result of Cambyses’ restrictions on temple revenues or a so-called Berufstypologie (col. e).35 The latter possibly provides a direct reference to the text on the Recto, the Demotic Chronicle, which is also framed by apocalyptic descriptions referring to the first and second Persian periods respectively. Finally, the story of “Amasis and the skipper” (Vso. col. a) follows, in which the Saite king, after excessive 33 34 35

Spiegelberg (1914); Felber (2002); Hoffmann/Quack (2018) 244–251; see also Quack (2016) 196–200. On the interpretation of the text see especially Quack (2009), Quack (2015). Spiegelberg (1914) 34; see also Quack (2016) 185–186; Wespi in this volume.

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consumption of wine and subsequent hangover, asks to be entertained, whereupon he is told the story of a boatman who is sent to Daphnae by Pharaoh (perhaps Psammetichus I) for an unknown reason; the story is not preserved in its entirety and breaks off at a crucial point.36 The text has attracted attention in particular because it confirms Herodotus’ characterisation of Amasis as a people’s king who was fond of drinking (cf. Hdt. 2.172–174).37 Of particular interest for our topic are the two decrees: The Decree of Cambyses documents the restriction of donations to Egyptian temples under the Persian Great King, whereby the temples of Memphis, Wen-Khem and Perapis-… were exempted (P. Bibl. Nat. Paris 215, Vso, d).38 This text is available in another quite different version, presented in transcription and translation by Fabian Wespi in this volume (Pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102; Tebtunis, probably 2nd century BC).39 The version of the text known through the P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 played a major role in the discussion of a negative image of Cambyses propagated primarily by Egyptian priests (which will be discussed in more detail below). The Decree of Darius, in turn, documents the collection of Egyptian laws under the Great King as well as their translation into Aramaic (P. Bibl. Nat. Paris 215, Vso, c 6–16).40 In fact, this text is an addition to the said collection of laws, which only extends to the last year of Amasis’ reign (year 44).41 The text is a key witness for such a collection of laws under Darius, which may have found their expression in the few law compendia known to us, such as the Codex Hermopolis.42 In any case, the writings of the king’s name on the verso give a coherent picture. The name of Amasis is written in each case with title, cartouches, and l.p.h. formula, both in the story of Amasis and the skipper (Vso, a 1) and in the Decree of Darius, in which the year 44 of Amasis is referred to twice (Vso, c 6 and 11), as well as in the Decree of Cambyses, in which the time of Amasis is referred to several times (Vso, d 10 and 13). In two other cases in the Decree of Cambyses, only the l.p.h. formula is missing after the cartouche. The name of Darius is only written in royal cartouches at the beginning of the decree attributed to him; both the royal title pr-ꜤꜢ and the l.p.h. formula are missing 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Spiegelberg (1914) 26–28, see also Agut-Labordère/Chauveau (2011) 13–15, 325; Vittmann (2015b); Hoffmann/Quack (2018) 173–175, 392. Cf. Quaegebeur (1990); Lloyd (1988b) 211–215. Spiegelberg (1914) 32–33; see also Devauchelle (1995) 75; Bresciani (1996) 104–105; AgutLabordère (2005) and (2005b); see also Agut-Labordère/Gorre (2014) 28–31; for discussion of the temples see Betrò (2018) and Wespi in this volume. Wespi (2015) Wespi (2017). Spiegelberg (1914) 30–32; Devauchelle (1995) 74–75. Agut-Labordère (2009/10). Lippert (2010); Lippert (2017); see already Johnson (1994); Redford (2001).

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(Vso, c 8): (TrjꜢwš)|. The name of the Great King is treated similarly to that of Cambyses in P. Rylands 9, but this part is only partially preserved and difficult to read, l.p.h. perhaps to be added. The name Kbḏ(e) “Cambyses” is not only written without cartouche and l.p.h. formula, but also with a foreign-country determinative and thus clearly qualified as a foreign ruler.43 In this context, it is also interesting to note the wording in the Decree of Darius, which deliberately avoids a designation of Cambyses as Pharaoh: r-hn pꜢ hrw r.ı͗r Kbḏe ḥrj (n) Kmj n.ı͗m⸗f “until the day when Cambyses was lord of Egypt” (Vso, c 7). As already mentioned, to the Decree of Cambyses discussed here a parallel text is known which, according to Fabian Wespi, is part of an excerpt from the “Law of the Temples” mentioned in the Decree of Darius and presented by the author in this volume in transcription and translation (pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102). In this text, the name of Cambyses (in the form GbḏꜤ or KbḏꜤ) is written at least in royal cartouches and without the determinative of the foreign land, in one case even with the title pr-ꜤꜢ “Pharaoh”: at the beginning, it says pꜢ hꜢ n pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. (KbḏꜤ)| “in the time of Pharaoh, l.p.h., Cambyses”. Cambyses was thus deliberately qualified as a foreign ruler in the P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215, Darius was at least provided with royal cartouches, and Amasis was fully rehabilitated as an Egyptian pharaoh. This explicit qualification of the kings is certainly to be seen in connection with the text on the recto, the Demotic Chronicle; the texts on the verso can be understood as a continuation of the evaluation of Egyptian kings, as one finds in the Demotic Chronicle. Accordingly, a foreign ruler like Darius I, who had Egyptian laws written down, gets off relatively lightly, while Cambyses is assessed as consistently negative. P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215, however, is a comparatively young text composition that illustrates the continuity of this negative picture of the Persian king until Hellenistic times.   1.4 TAD A4.7–8 While the two textual witnesses just discussed date to the 3rd and 2nd centuries BC respectively, centuries after the events described, there is another text to be discussed from the late 5th century BC, which comes from Egypt but not from Egyptian scribes. The two drafts of a petition from the leaders of the Judean community of Elephantine to the governor of Judah, Bagavahya, asking for the rebuilding of the temple of Yahu on Elephantine, contain a well-known passage in which Cambyses was also discussed concerning the age of the temple (TAD A4.7:13–14 (as well as TAD A.8:12–13); Elephantine, 407 BC):44

43 44

Vso, c 7 (decree of Darius); vso, d 4, 6, 8, 11, 13 (decree of Cambyses). Porten/Yardeni (1986) 68–71; Porten (2011) 141–146 (B19).

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(13) (…) wmn ywmy mlk mṣryn ʾbhyn bnw ʾgwrʾ zk byb byrtʾ wkzy knbwzy ʿl lmṣr (14) ʾgwrʾ zk bnh hškḥh wʾgwry ʾlhy mṣryn kl mgrw wʾyš mndʿm bʾgwrʾ zk lʾ ḥbl (13) (…) and from the days of the king(s) of Egypt our fathers had built that Temple in Elephantine the fortress and when Cambyses entered Egy (14) that Temple, he found it. And the temples of the gods of Egypt, all they overthrew, but anything in that Temple one did not damage.

In a memorandum of the governor of Judah (TAD 4.9) concerning the rebuilding of the temple of Yahu on Elephantine—referring to the passage just discussed— Cambyses is again mentioned without the title of king; likewise in the fragment TAD A4.6, in which Babylonians are also mentioned; the context, however, remains unclear.45 An Aramaic papyrus fragment from Saqqara may read “in the days of Cambyses”;46 the reading “Cambyses the king”, on the other hand, is completely uncertain.47 According to the petition, the temple of Yahu on Elephantine was already built in pre-Persian times, because it was already found when Cambyses conquered Egypt. The Judaean community on Elephantine is only attested through papyri as well as archaeological evidence from the late 6th or 5th centuries BC onwards but could well be older.48 Already after the conquest of Jerusalem and destruction of the Temple of Yahweh by the Neo-Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar (586 BC), many Judeans had fled to Egypt, which was ruled by Pharaoh Apries at the time, and were taken into Pharaoh’s service as mercenaries. The biographical inscription of Neshor reports an uprising under Apries of various groups of foreign mercenaries, including “Asiatics”, i.e. peoples from the Levant, Syrians, Aramaeans, Judeans, etc.49 In the context of this paper, it is interesting how Cambyses is qualified, for here too he does not bear a royal title—in the case of the petition, the Aramaic title mlkꜢ “the king” would certainly have been expected—contrasted with the Egyptian pharaoh by the preceding phrase “and from the days of the king(s) of Egypt onwards”. This means that Cambyses may have been considered illegitimate not only in Egyptian sources but also in contemporary Aramaic sources from Elephantine. Why did even the Judeans of Elephantine consider the Persian Great King illegitimate, even though Cambyses had spared the temple of Yahu while the Egyptian temples were “overthrown”? This question will be discussed in the following. 45 46 47 48 49

I thank James Moore for the insight into his new edition of TAD A4.6 as well as his assessment concerning the Saqqara fragments. P. Segal 34; Segal (1983) 52–53. P. Segal 99; Segal (1983) 107–108. On the Judaean community, see e.g., Porten (1968); Rohrmoser (2014); Granerød (2016). Paris, Louvre A 90; Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 408–410 (56.147).

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2 Cambyses vs. Amasis It is worthwhile to put the individual observations on the writing of the name of Amasis in P. Cairo CG 50059 and P. Rylands 9 on a broader basis. Indeed, the writings without title, cartouche, and l.h.p. formula, as found in Cairo CG 50059, are not the only indication of a bad reputation of the penultimate king of the 26th dynasty in Egyptian sources of the early Persian period. On numerous monuments of Amasis such as naoi, sphinxes, doorjambs, etc. from different parts of the country (from Buto to Elephantine) the king’s name was carefully chiselled out: Origin

Location

Type

Literature

Buto  

Cairo, Egyptian Mu‐ seum TN 6/6/25/6

Fragment of a sphinx

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 415 (57.03)

–

Falcon statue

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 415 (57.04)

Rome, Musei Capito‐ lini MC 0035

Sphinx

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 416 (57.07); see also Perdu 2012, 182–183; Zecchi 2019, 80 fig. III.12.

Sais

Alexandria, GraecoSphinx Roman Museum 11235 + 11290

unpublished; cf. JansenWinkeln (2014) 417 (57.09)

London, British Mu‐ seum EA 94

Offering table

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 418 (57.16)

Naos

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 423–425 (57.21); Zecchi 2019

Paris, Louvre D.29

Naos

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 420–423 (57.20)

Cairo, Egyptian Mu‐ seum CG 70011

Naos

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 429–431 (57.27)

–

Pedestal

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 431 (57.28)

–

Fragments of a Naos

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 432 (57.31)

–

Doorjamb fragments

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 432 (57.32)

Kom el-Ahmar Leiden, Rijksmuseum (Menufiya van Oudheden AM Province) 107

Athribis  

Nebesheh  

Cambyses the Egyptian?

Memphis

199

Cairo, Mosque of Emir Naos Cheikho

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 436 (57.46)

Cairo, Egyptian Mu‐ seum CG 70010 (Mitrahina)

Naos

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 435 (57.45)

Mitrahina

Doorjamb and Jansen-Winkeln (2014) temple blocks 436–437 (57.49–57.50)

Cairo, Egyptian Mu‐ Royal stela seum JE 37494 (Mitra‐ hina)

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 438– 439 (57.57); see also Der Man‐ uelian (1994) pl. 10, 20.

Abydos

Sohag

Temple blocks Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 444–445 (57.80); see also Klotz 2010, 131–135, 135.

Thebes

Karnak

Doorjamb

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 447 (57.88)

Elephantine  

–

Column

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 448–449 (57.95)

Villa Albani at Rome

Striding statue

(Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 452 (57.98)

Philae

–

Temple blocks Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 452–457 (57.100)

unknown

Cairo, Egyptian Mu‐ seum CG 23110

Offering table

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 467 (57.113)

Amasis’ family was not spared either: the names on the sarcophagi of Amasis’ wife and son, Queen Nakhtbastetru and Prince Iahmes, were chiselled out;50 the same applies to a statue of Amasis’ mother, Tasheretenese.51 Finally, on some temple statues of high Egyptian officials who served under Amasis, the king’s name was also carefully chiselled off—all known examples come from the former residence city of Sais:

50 51

St. Petersburg, Ermitage 766, 767; Bolshakov (2010); Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 479–482, 482–483 (57.171–172). London, British Museum EA 775; Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 485 (57.177), see also DeMeu‐ lenaere (1968).

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Location

Official

Literature

Cairo, Egyptian Museum CG 672

The governor of Sais Wahibre

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 486–488 (57.185)

London, British Museum EA 134

The lector priest and chief Henat/Khenemibremen

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 496–497 (57.204)

Cairo, Egyptian Museum TN 27/11/58/8

The overseer of the cav‐ alry Somtutefnakht/ Wah‐ ibremen

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 500–501 (57.211)

Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Museum 42-9-1

The overseer of the seal Psamtiksaneith

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 501–504, esp. 504 (57.212)

The erasure of king’s names is not limited to Amasis, especially in the 26th Dynasty. Already the monuments of the pharaoh Necho II were frequently the target of erasure or reworkings, which went back to his successor Psam‐ metichus II, who had the similarly constructed throne name of Necho II, Nehemibre, replaced by his own, Neferibre.52 Above all, it was the names of Kushite pharaohs, especially on monuments at Thebes, that were systematically chiselled out under Psammetichus II.53 In his reign of only six years, the king had undertaken, among other things, a campaign to Nubia, which, in addition to royal inscriptions, is well documented in particular by graffiti of foreign mercenaries, e.g. in Abu Simbel. In the course of this campaign, Egyptian troops probably smashed statues of Nubian kings, which were later found buried in cachettes.54 Such cachettes were found at Kerma, Napata, among others, but also at Dangeil, i.e., beyond the 5th cataract. In addition, some monuments of the then-reigning king Aspelta show erasures, although it is disputed to whom these were due, as Aspelta’s rule did not seem to be uncontroversial even within Kush.55 While erasure of the names of Kushite kings are to be understood as an actual damnatio memoriae, the reworked monuments of Necho II are probably only usurpations of his predecessor. A damnatio memoriae of Necho II had previously been explained by the fact that under this king the Levant was completely lost to the New Babylonians. However, such a picture of this pharaoh cannot be supported by relevant sources. On the contrary: Necho II experienced an

52 53 54 55

Gozzoli (2000); Gozzoli (2017) 80–91. Gozzoli (2017) 61–66; see also Koch (2014); Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 297–323. Gozzoli (2017) 51–52; Valbelle/Bonnet (2019). Valbelle (2012); Gozzoli (2017) 52–55; Gozzoli (2018).

Cambyses the Egyptian?

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afterlife in Egyptian literature as Nechepso “Necho the Wise”.56 The fact that not least high officials who had already served under Necho II updated their monuments with regard to the new pharaoh fits into a more moderate picture.57 The similarity of the throne names of both kings made this exceptionally easy. The best-known example is Horiraa, overseer of the antechamber, who was already in office under Necho II and was buried under Apries in a shaft tomb at Giza.58 Like many of his counterparts he bore a “beautiful” second name, which he changed after the accession of Psammetichus II from Wehemibrenefer (= “Necho II is perfect”) to Neferibrenefer (= “Psammetichus II is perfect”), which is extraordinarily well documented by the monuments of Horiraa that have come down to us.

Fig. 1: Detail of a naos of Amasis from Kom el-Akhmar, Paris, Louvre D.29 (© Le musée du Louvre)

56 57 58

Ryholt (2011). See especially Gozzoli (2000); Gozzoli (2017) 80–91. See e.g., Jansen-Winkeln (1996); Perdu (2016); Grallert (2020); see also Gozzoli (2017) 196–199.

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As in the case of Necho II, the intentional removal of Amasis’ royal names leave room for interpretation. Most authors attributed them to the fact that Cambyses deliberately wanted to erase the memory of the penultimate pharaoh of the 26th Dynasty, since Amasis himself had been a usurper and/or Cambyses had sought a connection to his predecessor.59 In favour of a damnatio memoriae of Amasis presumably under the Persian king Cambyses is the fact that in all cases these are not reworkings for another king (as in the case of Necho II and Psammetichus II), but just erasures. Moreover, this is a countrywide phenomenon, for erased royal cartouches of Amasis are found on monuments from Buto, Sais, Menufiya (Kom el-Ahmar), Athribis, Memphis, Abydos, Thebes, and Elephantine, among others (see above). In addition to monuments such as sphinxes, shrines, and temple blocks, some of which were found built into later monuments, royal inscriptions such as a stela of Amasis from Mitrahina (Cairo, Egyptian Museum JE 37494) and the funerary monuments of members of the royal family were also affected. The latter find their counterpart in Herodotus’ account of the desecration of the corpse of Amasis by Cambyses (Hdt. 3.16). It is difficult to imagine, though not impossible, that royal inscriptions or funerary monuments of the royal family were simply intended to be usurped.60 On the other hand, the erasures of the king’s name did not take place as systematically as occasionally claimed in the literature.61 Marco Zecchi has already noted that most of the Amasis monuments show intact cartouches.62 In fact, only four of the more than sixteen known naoi of the Amasis show traces of erasure.63 The only remaining one of a total of four mounumetal naoi from the Banebdjet sanctuary in Mendes, Lower Egypt, shows no erasure at all.64 A naos with entirely intact cartouches was found in the residence city of Sais,

59 60 61 62 63 64

DeMeulenaere (1968) 183–184; DeMeulenaere (1966) 20; Lloyd (1988b) 212–213; Gozzoli (2000) 79 n. 73; Bolshakov (2010) 53; Klotz (2010) 131–132; see also Klotz (2015) 2; cf. Cruz-Uribe (2003) 39–40. The content of the royal inscription is not known, since only the lunette of the stela has been preserved. For a royal donation, appropriation by a later king would be quite possible. Klotz (2015) 2; see also Klotz (2010) 131–132; Bolshakov (2010). Zecchi (2019) 67–69. Cf. Zecchi (2019) 57–67. Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 420–428 (57.25). The inscription was originally executed in raised relief but was apparently later erased and the cartouches of the string king were placed in recessed relief. Among other things, this had led the editors to the hypothesis that the cartouches of Amasis had first been erased and then added again. However, this seems quite unlikely and was rejected by the editors themselves. Soghor (1967) 20–23; for a description of the sanctuary see also Leclère (2008) 324–327.

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from which a number of monuments with removed royal names are known.65 A notable case is an offering table with intact cartouches (Baltimore, Walters Art Gallery 22.122), which comes from the “House of the Bee”, a sanctuary in Sais, as well as two monuments with erased royal names, a sphinx of Amasis now in Rome (Rome, Musei Capitolini 0035) and an identical offering table in the British Museum (London, British Museum EA 94).66 This means that even in the residence of Sais, where Cambyses is said to have desecrated Amasis’ mummy (Herodotus), which the Great King will have visited in any case (Udjahorresnet), the erasures of Amasis’ royal name have not been particularly careful. In principle, in all cases, there is the possibility that the erasures were only carried out after Cambyses, for instance under Darius I. Concerning the erasures of royal names on temple statues of high officials under Amasis, it is also worthwhile to compare them with other examples of this genre of monuments: basically, it is noticeable that in addition to the four officials mentioned above, Wahibre, Henat, Somtutefnakht and Psametik‐ saneith—who all come from Sais—a whole series of other officials are attested by monuments that show no erasures. The total number of temple statues bearing the name of Amasis is, however, limited. While Somtutefnakht and Psametiksaneith are known only through the statues mentioned above, the numerous other monuments of the mayor of Sais, Wahibre, have no royal cartouches that could have been erased. Nevertheless, it is noticeable that the statue of Nakhthorheb, head of the gates of the foreigners of the Mediterranean, does not show any damage to the royal cartouche, although it was also originally erected in Sais (Berlin, Ägyptisches Museum und Papyrussammlung 1048 + 3/95).67 At this point, it is also worth recalling the above-mentioned chief physician Udjahorresnet, whose Naoforo Vaticano, once erected in Sais, features the kings Amasis, Psammetichus III, Cambyses, and Darius equally with title and cartouche. Another example is offered by the statue of Peftuauneith, chief physician and chief steward, whose well-known statue from Abydos in Upper Egypt shows an intact royal cartouche, while temple blocks from the same site show erased royal cartouches (Paris, Louvre A 93).68

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Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 417 (57.10); see also Zecchi (2019) 108, fig. IV.10. On the Baltimore offering table, see Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 418 (57.15); see also Zecchi (2019) 80. On the cult topography of Sais, see Wilson (2006) 31–33, 259–262 and Wilson (2019). Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 499–500 (57.210). Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 557–558 (57.287); Peftuauneith was already in office under Apries, so Louvre A93 is assumed to date to the early reign of Amasis.

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Fig. 2: Detail of a statue of the lector priest and chief Henat, London, British Mueum EA 134 (© The Trustees of the British Museum)

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The lector priest and chief Henat represents an interesting case, for, in addition to the above-mentioned monument (London, British Museum EA 134), another statue of him is known from Sais, which, however, unlike this one, does not have an erasure of the royal cartouche on the back pillar (Florence, Museo Archeo‐ logico 1784).69 While in the case of the British Museum statue the king’s name was chiselled out in Henat’s second name, Khenemibremen, the king’s name on the Florence statue is part of a priestly title, for Henat was a priest (ḥm-nṯr) of the statue of the Saite king Amasis. The epithet “justified” (mꜤꜢ-ḫrw) indicates that Henat became a priest of his statue cult only after the death of Amasis. This means that there must have been a statue cult for Amasis presumably still in the early Persian period, possibly under Darius I; unfortunately, a more precise dating of the statue is not possible.70 The phenomenon of temple statues of high officials of Amasis with erasures of the king's name thus seems to have been generally restricted to Sais, even if the evidence for the whole of Egypt is scanty. It is not known whether the four officials were still in office in the Persian period. In principle, it is difficult to place them in the 44-year reign of Amasis; only the statue of Somtutefnakht dates to the year 39 of Amasis, i.e., to the last years of his reign. It is therefore conceivable that Somtutefnakht, like Udjahorresnet, witnessed the Persian conquest of Egypt and was still in office under the Persian kings as commander of the cavalry, and therefore had the memory of the penultimate king of the 26th Dynasty erased. In this context, it is also worth recalling the administrative seal in which the king’s name had been erased and replaced by that of Cambyses (Moscow, Pushkin Museum I.1a 4431).71 Who were then the initiators of and motivations behind the—albeit partial— erasures of Amasis’ name on royal monuments and temple statues of high officials? The monuments discussed above come (almost) exclusively from Egyptian temples, be they naoi, doorjambs, offering tables, sphinxes, or temple statues. In addition to the reigning king, priests and officials who had access to the temple due to their official function are also possible. Indeed, donations to temples by high administrative officials are a frequent topic of biographical inscriptions, especially in the Saite period.72 In addition to the well-known in‐ scription of Udjahorresnet, reference should also be made here to Peftuauneith, Nakhthorheb, or Horiraa. Furthermore, P. Rylands 9, the petition of Peteese discussed above, illustrates the mechanisms behind it: Officials restored ruined 69 70 71 72

Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 497 (57.205). Cruz-Uribe (2003) 39; Vittmann (2009) 92–94; DeMeulenaere (2011) 128–129. Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 37–39. Spencer (2010); Jansen-Winkeln (2016).

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temples as part of inspection tours and commemorated their benefactions through stelae and statues placed in the temples (P. Rylands 9, VII 13–19; XIII 17–20). However, the same petition also shows that local priests did not hesitate to remove these monuments again and to chisel out inscriptions that became disagreeable to them because—as in the case of the ancestors of the Peteese—they supported legal claims to priestly prebends (P. Rylands 9, XVIII 14–22).73 Why Egyptian priests and officials should have had a reason to persecute the memory of Amasis is difficult to say with certainty, especially since our knowledge of Amasis’ reign (and its perception among the Egyptian population) is largely based on Herodotus’ accounts. Herodotus indeed suggests that Amasis had to secure himself from the Egyptians in his first years of rule by moving the Ionian and Carian mercenaries from the Stratopeda in the eastern Nile Delta to Memphis (Hdt. 2.154.3) since he first had to convince the Egyptians of the legitimacy of his rule. Moreover, Herodotus attributes to the Saite king a thoroughly ambivalent character that turned one or the other of his subjects against him. The story of the golden foot-washing basin, which Amasis had made into an image of a god, or his dealings with Egyptian oracles (Hdt. 2.172, 174) are worth mentioning here. Finally, an anonymous Egyptian physician as well as the—probably fictitious—Carian Phanes, both subjects who had a resentment against the Saite king, played a decisive role in Herodotus’ version of the conquest of Egypt under Cambyses (Hdt. 3.1, 4). To what extent these stories are historical is difficult to verify. Royal inscriptions as well as biographical inscriptions of high officials are largely silent on this.74 Herodotus himself, however, describes the reign of Amasis as a distinct era of prosperity for the Egyptians. This king’s extensive temple-building programme, though now little visible, (as well as the not a few biographical inscriptions of high officials under Amasis who took charge of Egyptian sanctuaries, perhaps on behalf of the king like Peftuauneith mentioned above) do not necessarily suggest that the Egyptian priests would have had any reason to be negative towards this pharaoh.75 Moreover, Amasis’ stipulations concerning the law of the temples had also persisted under Darius (P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215, col. C, 6–16). Amasis’ lack of legitimacy as a usurper of the Egyptian throne may have been the main reason for chiseling out his royal cartouches and not adding

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An example for a damnatio memoriae of a non-royal person is Hor, an official from the time of Apries whose statue was perhaps intentionally smashed; Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 388–390 (56.110–111) as well as 393 (56.117); the latter statue remained undamaged. There is a laconic account of unrest in Sais only in the inscription of Psametiksaneith (Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Museum 42-9-1; see above). See e.g., Graefe (2011).

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royal attributes to his name in documents. This lack of legitimacy would have benefited one king in particular: the Persian Great King and conqueror of Egypt, Cambyses. A damnatio memoriae of Amasis under the Persian king—the scratching out of the cartouches on royal monuments but also those of the royal family—would fit in with Herodotus’ accounts of Cambyses’ treatment of Amasis’ mummy, even if a cultural relativist agenda of Herodotus is to be suspected behind these accounts.76 Some authors, therefore, assumed that the Nitetis version, which Herodotus attributed to the Egyptians and which made Cambyses a grandson of Apries and thus part of the royal family, might have been a real legitimation strategy of the Great King (see above). A comparably constructed genealogy is found in the Alexander Novel, in which Alexander the Great was made a son of Nektanebos II, i.e. a direct descendant of the last king of the Egyptian 30th Dynasty.77 That Cambyses attempted to fill in the role of a legitimate Egyptian pharaoh is witnessed by the inscription of the Udjahorresnet: Cambyses took over the royal titulary of a Pharaoh and took care especially for Sais, the ancient residence of the preceding Saite dynasty. While the erasure of royal cartouches of Amasis can be explained in various ways, P. Cairo 50059 discussed at the beginning of this article provides perhaps the most accurate indication that Amasis was not officially regarded as a legitimate pharaoh under Cambyses. The papyrus also comes from the priestly milieu and was part of an archive of a priestly family that accidentally found its way into a tomb in the necropolis of Asyut (see above). That the priests in question had the king’s name written as a simple personal name (i.e., without a title, cartouche, or l.p.h. formula) in dating formulae referring to the reign of Amasis for personal reasons seems quite unlikely. The document was primarily intended to be valid against claims by third parties. A deviation from the official protocol would certainly have jeopardised its validity since Amasis was written here as a simple personal name, which is indeed frequently attested in the Late Period. Interestingly, such a spelling of the king’s name is not without antecedents: in the Victory Stela of Amasis, his predecessor Apries is written with a royal cartouche, but without a royal title and l.p.h. formula (formerly Cairo, Egyptian Museum TN 13/6/24/1, now in the Nubian Museum, Aswan).78 Furthermore, he is discredited as a “furious one”, “sacrilegious one”, and “arrogant one”.79 The spelling of Amasis’ name thus fits into a practice that 76 77 78 79

See the contributions of Irwin and Ellis in this volume. Hofmann (1981) 185; Vittmann (2003) 122; see also Hoffmann/Quack (2018), 183–184, 396. Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 449–452 (57.96); Jansen-Winkeln (2014b). Jansen-Winkeln (2014b) 150–151.

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goes back to Amasis himself and was continued by Cambyses. Both had usurped the Egyptian throne through rebellion or conquest, so they had a reason to cast their predecessors in a bad light. 3 Darius vs. Cambyses In the early reign of Darius I, again, Cambyses seems to have fallen out of favour, for in P. Rylands 9, dating probably shortly after 513 BC, it is the name of this Great King that was written without a royal title. (Whether the spelling of the name as GmꜢḏ is to be understood as a malapropism remains to be seen). The handling of the name of Amasis must also be described as ambivalent. Again, the question arises whether Peteese would have made the spellings of royal names in an official document—and here it does matter whether P. Rylands 9 is to be regarded as a documentary text—contrary to official convention, especially since the petition was in all probability addressed to a Persian institution, namely the satrap of Egypt. That the name of the penultimate king of the previous dynasty was written without royal attributes can still be understood but writing Darius’ predecessor without a royal title would certainly have caused problems if it had not been officially authorized. The validity of such a document would certainly have been doubtful and might not have been recognised by a court in case of dispute. In this context, the Aramaic petition from 407 BC in which the Judeans of Elephantine ask the governor of Judah, Bagavahya, to endorse the rebuilding of the Temple of Yahu on Elephantine should also be taken into consideration. In the passage discussed above, the community leaders argue that the temple was already standing when Cambyses conquered Egypt. While the temples of the Egyptian gods had been overturned (mgr), nothing about this temple had been damaged (ḥbl). The passage is remarkable in several respects and again deserves closer examination, especially since it has been evaluated very differently in the literature. The fact that the Persian Great King is mentioned without a royal title (and thus placed in clear contrast to the previously mentioned time of the “king(s) of Egypt”) suggests a negative image of this ruler, if not throughout Egypt, then at least among the Judeans of Elephantine. However, different answers were given to the question of what the causes of this negative image had been. Although the petition was written more than one hundred years after the actual events, some Egyptologists consider said passage as a crown

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witness for the actual destruction of Egyptian temples under Cambyses.80 They argue that the leaders of the Judean community of Elephantine would not have referred to the destruction of Egyptian temples in a petition addressed to Persian authorities if it had not happened. However, this argument falls short for at least two reasons, as will be shown below. Herodotus who had already visited Egypt long before the petition was even written, makes no reference to the destruction of Egyptian temples under Cambyses, although it was he who described Cambyses’ atrocities in detail, also with regard to Egyptian cults; we are reminded of the murder of the Apis bull or the mockery of Egyptian cult images (cf. Hdt. 3.29, 37). These scholars must therefore consult ancient authors who wrote about Egypt centuries after Herodotus, let alone after the actual events. Diodorus Siculus (1st century BC) reports that the buildings of the temple of Thebes were still standing in his time; the treasures, however, had been stolen by the Persians when Cambyses burned the temples of Egypt (Diod. 1.46). In addition, he had carried away a golden cornice that had once encompassed the entire Ramesseum (Diod. 1.49). Strabo (1st century BC—1st century AD) in turn refers to Herodotus when he claims that there had been a sanctuary of Kabeiros and Hephaistos at Memphis, but that they had been destroyed by Cambyses (Strab. 10.3.21). Furthermore, he claims that the temple of Heliopolis bears many traces of the madness and sacrilege of Cambyses, who damaged the temples of Egypt by fire and violence (Strab. 17.1.27). He had dealt similarly with the obelisks at Heliopolis but also at Thebes, where Cambyses allegedly mutilated most of the temples (Strab. 17.1.46). These statements were hardly subjected to source criticism by said authors, while genuine Egyptian sources were viewed particularly critically in the light of these ancient authors. Such source criticism would, however, be urgently required, as is clearly shown by the alleged destruction of a Kabeiros sanctuary under Cambyses, which Strabo claims to have taken over from Herodotus. The latter does not report the destruction of the sanctuary at all, rather it is a alteration on the part of Strabo (Hdt. 3.37).81 Furthermore, fire layers in Egyptian temple precincts were frequently attrib‐ uted to the destructive work of Cambyses, although such precise dating is hardly possible and other scenarios would be equally conceivable. The burnt layer in the north of the temple district of Karnak (Thebes), which Christophe had associated with the Persian conquest of Egypt under Cambyses—an interpretation that is still adopted unreflectively today—has recently been established on the basis 80 81

Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 316; Vittmann (2003) 127; see also Vittmann (2011) 375; Klotz (2015) 2; Kahn in this volume. See the contribution of Quack in this volume.

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of pottery finds as predating Cambyses.82 The fact that blocks of a temple of Amasis from Abydos, with the royal cartouches carved out, were found reused in the White Monastery of Sohag, had recently led David Klotz to assume that the temple was destroyed under Cambyses (and perhaps later rebuilt under Darius I).83 The background to this assumption is the donation of a general from the 30th Dynasty to restore temples that had been damaged by foreigners. Klotz’ assumption that only Cambyses could be meant by this can be doubted. The badly damaged state of the temple of Buto has also been linked by an excavator to the Persian conquest—after all, monuments of Amasis with carved cartouches are known here too—but is more likely to be explained by the temple’s abandonment in the late Ptolemaic period.84 In fact, the temple of Buto is described by Herodotus, i.e. in the middle of the 5th century BC, as one of the most magnificent temples in Egypt (Hdt. 2.155). In this context, the seal naming Cambyses as beloved of Wadjet, the mistress of Buto, should be mentioned as well (see above). The Third Intermediate and Saite Period temple at Tell el-Balamun was at least partially dismantled in the 5th century BC, but not necessarily during the conquest by Cambyses.85 Egypt’s numerous revolts against Persian suzerainty—one thinks of the great Inaros revolt—would certainly have provided further occasions for the destruction of the temple. Most recently, possible intentional destruction (e.g., by fire) under the Persians, more precisely under Cambyses, has been discussed for the heavily destroyed colossal statue of Psammetichus I from Heliopolis in area 200.86 The background to this interpretation is certainly Strabo’s statements, who claims to have seen signs of Cambyses’ fury in Heliopolis. Nevertheless, such an interpretation is not without alternatives. As in the case of the Kabeiros sanctuary, it is also worth looking at Herodotus’ Histories for the archaeological findings. Heliopolis is a good example of this: although Herodotus does not provide a detailed description of the sanctuary as in the case of Bubastis, Buto, Sais, or Memphis, he mentions Heliopolis a total of seven times and claims to have visited it alongside Memphis and Thebes, 82

83 84 85 86

Christophe (1951) 51–91, esp. 52; cf. Masson (2015) esp. 201–203; see also the discussion in Masson-Berghoff (2021), 648–653; still following Christophe’s interpretation: Betrò (2018) 176; already critically Burkard (1994) 94 n. 11; see also Coulon/Defernez (2004) 142. Klotz (2010); Klotz (2010b) 202–203; see also Capart (1938) 191; critically, however, Burkard (1994) 196. Seton-Williams (1969) 7; cf. Leclère (2008) 209; see also Burkard (1994) 95. Spencer (1999); cf. Leclère (2008) 294 n. 66; still following Spencer’s interpretation: Betrò (2018) 176. Ashmawy et al. (2019); Ashmawy et al. (2021); see also Betrò (2018) 176.

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since the people of Heliopolis were the most learned among the Egyptians (Hdt. 2.3). He later refers to the Sun Festival of Heliopolis as the fourth largest festival in all of Egypt, ahead of the festival at Buto (Hdt. 2.59), and to the people of Heliopolis as the source of his knowledge of the Phoenix (Hdt. 2.73). In contrast, he does not mention the destruction of the sanctuary, although this would have fitted perfectly into his description of Cambyses’ misdeeds.87 An even more apt example is undoubtedly Buto, which is said to have been destroyed during the Persian conquest of Egypt, mentioned by Herodotus at least ten times (Hdt. 2.75 mentions another Buto in Arabia). Herodotus not only provides a detailed description of the apparently intact and downright impressive sanctuary in his time (Hdt. 2.155–156), but also refers to significant celebrations in this temple, after all the fifth largest festival in the entire country, as well as animal burials (Hdt. 2.59, 63, 67).88 The role of Buto as an oracle is emphasised several times by Herodotus (Hdt. 2.83). In Herodotus, the oracle had already prophesied the election of Psammetichus I as king over all Egypt, and already played an important role under the kings Sesostris and Mycerinos (Hdt. 2.152; see also 2.111 for Sesostris and 2.133 for Mycerinos). The oracle of Buto was characterised by Herodotus as the Egyptian oracle par excellence, which will certainly have been only partially known to the Greek audience. Finally, Cambyses received the famous oracle saying from Buto regarding his death in Ecbatana (Hdt. 3.64). Back to the Aramaic petition: The passage neither explicitly mentions temple destruction—instead of ḥbl “to damage, destroy” used in the same sentence, the rarely used word mgr “to overthrow” is used—nor is this explicitly attributed to Cambyses, but the third person plural is used (mgrw “they overthrew”). The passage referring to the age of the Temple of Yahu at Elephantine—which may have been of particular relevance with regard to the Temple of Jerusalem—is, like the entire petition, worded with great care and was also edited, as the second version of the petition shows (TAD A4.8). It is noteworthy that there is no mention of destruction, nor are the deeds directly attributed to Cambyses. However, the situation described in the petition during the conquest of Egypt under Cambyses would fit well with the account of Udjahorresnet who was, after all, a contemporary witness of the Persian conquest: foreign troops had

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Herodotus, by the way, mentions that he had seen colossal statues of Amasis in Sais as well as in Memphis already lying on the ground (Hdt. 2.176). Therefore, the statue of Psammetichus I from Heliopolis was not an isolated case, even if it remains to be clarified when the statues were brought down, for Herodotus makes no connection with Cambyses. On Buto in Herodotus Histories see Schwab (2020) 204–206.

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made the Egyptian temples their dwellings during the conquest, presumably after the Egyptian priests had abandoned them, and were driven from them, at least in the case of Sais, at the behest of the Great King after Udjahorresnet had made an appeal to him. It could be argued, then, that soldiers in the wake of Cambyses’ taking possession of Egypt were the ones who “overthrew” the Egyptian temples rather than an intentional act of Cambyses.89 Other authors seem to deny the historicity of the events described and rather want to attribute them to priestly propaganda, to which Herodotus’ portrayal of the Persian Great King would ultimately also be attributed.90 The background to this negative propaganda would have been the reduction of temple revenues caused by the decree of Cambyses on the verso of P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 (and now also by a papyrus from Tebtunis).91 In fact, in this text, the name of the Great King—as already in the case of P. Rylands 9—is written without the royal title. This is particularly interesting with regard to the text on the Recto, the Demotic Chronicle, because in this text kings of the 4th century BC are evaluated based on their actions, so the inclusion of the Decree of Cambyses on the reverse can be understood as a kind of continuation of this text, extending its chronological framework to the 5th and 6th centuries BC. Said authors overlook, however, that the Judean community of Elephantine certainly did not belong to the sympathisers of Egyptian priestly circles, as the conflict with the local Khnum priests at the end of the 5th century BC, which ultimately led to the destruction of the temple of Yahu, vividly shows.92 The Judeans of Elephantine rather present themselves as loyal vassals of the Persian Empire, even in times when Egyptian troops openly rebelled against Persian rule (see TAD A4.5, another petition concerning the destruction of a well). Finally, the account of the Judeans of Elephantine must have been in line with the official account in the Persian Empire if they tried to convince Bagavahya, i.e., a Persian governor outside Egypt, in this way.93 He too mentions Cambyses without a royal title in his memorandum concerning the rebuilding of the temple of Yahu at Elephantine (TAD A4.9). Thus, Cambyses was not considered a legitimate king even by high administrators outside Egypt in the late 5th century BC.

89 90 91 92 93

Many of the great temples had been provided with high enclosing walls under the Saites, which of course also provided protection for soldiers; see esp. Thiers (1995). See e.g., Lloyd (1988) 62; Burkard (1994); Burkard (1995); Lloyd (2014) 189. See above; for discussion see Agut-Labordère (2005b), Agut-Labordère/Gorre (2014) 28–31, and Wespi in this volume. So already Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 316; on the conflict see Briant (1996); Pilgrim (2003). Hofmann (1981) 197–9; Tuplin (1991) 260.

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P. Rylands 9, which must have been written a couple of months after 513 BC, indicates a very early damnatio of Cambyses in Egyptian sources, which already began under Darius I. The successor of Cambyses certainly had a great interest in presenting his predecessor in a negative light. The famous trilingual inscription of Bisutun (DB) is not only eloquent testimony to Darius I’s seizure of power but also of his efforts to legitimise himself, for example, by inscribing himself in the family of Cyrus and attributing his assumption of power to the will of Ahuramazdah in frequently recurring repetitions.94 About Cambyses, the original text merely states that the people had become disloyal and lies had taken hold throughout the Persian Empire after Cambyses had killed his brother Bardiya and gone to Egypt (DB § 10–11). According to this ‘state’ version, while Cambyses was in Egypt, a certain Gaumata pretended to be his brother Bardiya and ascended the Babylonian throne; Cambyses had died on his way back from Egypt after learning of this. What follows is an enumeration of the revolts that broke out and were put down by Darius and his generals in the first year of his reign, after Darius had declared himself Great King. The Bardiya story also forms the core of Herodotus’ narration of the events, so it is not without reason that it is assumed that Herodotus knew the basic content of the Bisutun inscription and expanded it with further (more or less) fictional elements such as the three campaigns against Carthage, the Ammonians, and Ethiopia, atrocities such as the Apis murder, or misunderstood oracular sayings.95 In fact, the diffusion of Darius’ version of the events surrounding his accession throughout the Persian Empire is already addressed in the Bisutun inscription itself. At the end of the inscription, Darius I records that the contents of the inscription were written down on cuneiform tablets as well as on parchment and were disseminated in all the countries of the Persian Empire (DB § 70). That such a distribution of this propaganda text took place is proven, on the one hand, by the discovery of a stela at the entrance of the processional way of the so-called main castle of Babylon, which shows the victory of the Great King over the usurper Gaumata, and, on the other hand, by fragments of an Aramaic version of the Bisutun inscription.96 The latter was discovered among the numerous Aramaic papyri at Elephantine at the beginning of the 20th century (DB Aram = TAD C2.1).97 The Aramaic text, which is close to the Babylonian version of the Bisutun inscription in terms of language and content, is only incompletely preserved and the beginning that would have been 94 95 96 97

Schmitt (1991); see also Schmitt (2009) 36–96. Irwin (2017) as well as Irwin in this volume. Seidl (1999). Greenfield/Porten (1982); Porten/Yardeni (1993) 59–71.

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of particular interest to us since it should have mentioned Cambyses is missing. Despite this, it is however, remarkable in two respects. On the one hand, the Aramaic version contains a modified final section in which paragraphs sanctioning the destruction of the Bisutun inscription (DB § 65–67) and its dissemination on cuneiform tablets and parchment were omitted (DB § 70). Instead, the Great King’s direct address to subsequent kings is supplemented by an extract from his funerary inscription in Naqš-i Rustam (DNb § 50–60).98 Darius I implores his successors not to listen to liars, not to listen to what is said in secret, not to listen only to nobles but also to the people, and not to hide the truth. This appeal presumably forms a parenthesis to the beginning of the inscription, which has only come down to us through the trilingual Bisutun inscription itself in its original version. The events described there, especially Cambyses’ secret fratricide made it possible for a usurper to impersonate the slain brother and to spread lies throughout the country. Against this backdrop Dareios I presents his virtues using Cambyses as a negative example, from whom the usurper wishes to positively distinguish himself. Through its distribution via the Persian chancelleries, the Great King’s appeal is directed not only to his successors but to all his subjects, up to and including the Judeans on Elephantine, who made these texts their own. Therefore, it is conceivable that they had the Bisutun inscription in mind when they referred to Cambyses in their petition to the governor of Judah. Secondly, the papyrus on which the Aramaic version of the Bisutun inscrip‐ tion was written contains several partially dated accounts (TAD C3.13). The earliest date that can be reconstructed is year 7 Darius II (417 BC).99 However, a poorly preserved date could date even earlier, at the earliest to the 1st year of Darius II’s reign (423 BC). The latest date is year 13+ Darius II (411 BC or later). The accounts mention a Ramnadaina who was succeeded as local governor (frataraka) by Widranga in 410 BC, so the accounts cannot be younger than 410 BC. Some authors concluded that the copy of the Bisutun inscription must date contemporaneously with the accounts: it seems likely the Aramaic version had circulated again in the Persian Empire one hundred years after the events described in the Bisutun inscription, to commemorate the deeds of Darius II’s

98 99

Tavernier (2001); see also Mitchell (2017); for DNb see Schmitt (2000); Schmitt (2009) 105–111. DB §56–59 and DB § 62–63 are missing in the Aramaic version; the order of the § has been slightly altered. See discussion in Mitchell (2017) 145–147. For the text see: Porten/Yardeni (1993) 216–221.

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famous namesake.100 The events described in the inscription would not have lost any of their relevance in the reign of Darius II: Darius II Ochos had ascended the Persian throne after Xerxes II had been murdered after an extremely short reign of only 45 days by his half-brother Sogdianus, who then elevated himself to the position of Great King. Ochos, who later became Darius II, gathered a large army, captured Sogdianus, and finally had himself crowned Great King. According to Granerød, the fact that Ochos took the name Darius was no coincidence. The disputes over the Persian throne brought with it a period of political and economic instability and presumably made themselves felt throughout the Persian Empire.101 It is in this context that the Bisutun inscription circulated again under Darius II. According to Mitchell, however, a simultaneous draft of DB Aram and the accounts is not necessarily given.102 In her opinion, the transcription could have been made years, if not decades, earlier. She points to Darius I’s suppression of the Egyptian revolt (518 BC) or the restoration of order by Xerxes I (486 BC) as times that would have justified the recirculation of the Bisutun inscription. For her, the later use of the papyrus for accounts is evidence that the text was read over a longer period. She even goes so far as to understand both DB Aram and the accounts as school exercises. Granerød sees the fact that the text was not erased (this is the case with the papyrus on which the sayings of Ahiqar are recorded) as evidence that the Aramaic version of the Bisutun inscription was still copied after 417 BC (when the accounts were written on the papyrus).103 He even goes so far as to claim that the circulation of Persian propaganda such as the Bisutun inscription in Judah influenced the positive image of the Persians in the Bible. What does this mean with regard to the image of Cambyses in 5th century BC Egypt? The negative picture of Cambyses, which has its roots in the early reign of Darius I, can be traced back to Darius I’s political agenda, which aimed to legitimise his own rule by deliberately setting him apart from his predecessor. In addition to a fictitious genealogy, the text highlights behavioural norms in order to depict Cambyses as their transgressor. The news about the events following the death of Cambyses, which are documented by the Bisutun inscription, were still circulating in the Persian Empire at the end of the 5th century BC, or at least in Egypt itself. Egypt itself witnessed a whole series of revolts against 100 101 102 103

Greenfield/Porten (1982) 3; Porten/Yardeni (1993) 59; Tavernier (2001) 161–162; Granerød (2013) 471–473. Briant (1996b) 605–608; see also Granerød (2013) 471–478. Mitchell (2017) 146–147. Granerød (2013) 478–480.

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Persian rule in the 5th century BC, from the revolt of Petubastis after the death of Cambyses to the great Inaros revolt in the middle of the 5th century BC.104 The moral appeal to the subjects, as expressed by the conclusion of the Aramaic version, was of particular relevance against this background. The Judeans of Elephantine perhaps had the Cambyses of the Bisutun inscription in mind when they referred to him in their petition. Finally, a negative portrayal of Cambyses can still be seen in the so-called Decree of Cambyses in P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 and is presumably connected with the Demotic Chronicle, which, however, cannot have been written before Nectanebos II (359–341 BC; the copy itself probably dates to the 2nd century BC). 4 Herodotus vs. Cambyses In her contribution to this volume, Elisabeth Irwin shows how Herodotus con‐ structed his Cambyses in order to criticise Athenian expansionist policies and marriage legislation. This is the only compelling way to understand allusions to Herodotus’ own time, especially the revolt of Inaros, the Athenian involvement in Egypt, and its disastrous outcome, within the logos of Cambyses.105 The stories about the presumed reason that moved Cambyses to conquer Egypt, focussing on the Egyptian princess Nitetis, had served as a prelude to illustrate the relativity of historical facts and thus pave the way for Herodotus’ Cambyses whose hubris led to inevitable disaster. In addition to an unfinished campaign against Carthage, an unsuccessful campaign in the oases of the Libyan desert, and a no less humiliating expedition to Ethiopia, Cambyses committed a series of atrocities in Egypt, such as the murder of the Apis bull, the mockery of Egyptian cult images, the burning of the mummy of Amasis, etc., which, according to Irwin, can be read at least in part as digressions on the relativism of customs and traditions of other cultures, that was topical for his contemporary audiences, particularly at Athens.106 In addition to the criticism of an excessive expansionist policy—illustrated by the unsuccessful campaigns of Cambyses—as well as the restrictive Athenian civil law—alluded to by means of stories about the marriage of foreign concubines such as Nitetis but also Ladike (Hdt. 3.1–3 and

104 105 106

See e.g., Rottpeter (2007); Ruzicka (2012) 26–34; Kahn (2008); Kaper (2015); Wijnsma (2018); Wijnsma (2019); as well as Kaper in this volume. See also Irwin 2017. Darius’ famous Verfassungsdebatte but also his supposed adminis‐ trative reform might be further examples for Herodotus reflections on contemporary Athenian discurses. Ruffing 2018. See Ellis and Irwin in this volume; on the campaign against the Ammonians see Agut-Labordère, Kahn, Kaper, and Schwab in this volume.

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2.181)—Cambyses is finally portrayed as a tragic figure, who finds his death not least because of misunderstood oracles (Hdt. 3.64). Cambyses joins a whole line of despots in Herodotus’ Histories whose hubris ultimately led to their downfall. Already in the first book of the Histories, Her‐ odotus vividly describes how Croesus, the king of the Lydians, misunderstands the Oracle of Delphi predicting that Croesus will destroy a great empire if he campaigns against the Persians; he gets carried away in a campaign against the Persian king Cyrus, which ultimately led to the capture of Croesus and the conquest of Sardis by the Persians (Hdt. 1.53 ff.).107 Previously, Croesus had extensively tested the oracles concerning their predictions, but went wrong in his interpretation of that very oracle. It is not by coincidence that this Croesus makes a cameo appearance in the episode on Cambyses’ humiliation of Psammenitos, the last king of the Egyptian 26th Dynasty, for both Croesus and Psammenitos can be understood as anticipations of the tragedy of Cambyses.108 Solon’s criticism of Croesus, saying that one should wait for the end before assessing how happy a reign is, is of particular significance here, for it also applies to subsequent tyrants such as Cambyses’ father, the Great King Cyrus (Hdt. 1.32).109 Cyrus meets his end in the battle against the Massagetes after having been extraordinarily successful. Following the advice of Croesus, he tricks the Massagetes and kills many of their soldiers; this so enraged the queen of the Massagetes that she went into a final battle against Cyrus during which he finally fell. Before this, he had a dream in which he saw Darius, who had wings covering Europe and Asia. While Cyrus concluded from this that Darius was pursuing him, the god had wanted to prophesy to him that he would die in the land of the Massagetes. Herodotus finally remarks that he was only referring to one of the numerous legends surrounding the death of Cyrus. The Samos excursus, which interrupts the logos of Cambyses shortly before the death of the Great King (Hdt. 3.39–60), also makes sense in this context.110 The tyrant of Samos, Polycrates, is equally characterised by excess in conquering and plundering neighbouring territories. After all, he had stolen a vessel sent by the Spartans to Croesus, king of Lydia, and a magnificent suit of armour, intended as a gift from Amasis to the Spartans, and thus set those same Spartans on the road to conquer Samos. He also did not shy away from sending support to Cambyses against his former confederate, Amasis, just to get rid of unwelcome opposition 107 108 109 110

On the Croesus logos, see e.g., Kindt (2006). See Irwin’s contribution in this volume. On the relevance of the episode for Herodotus’ Histories see e.g., Shapiro (1996); Dewald (2011) Irwin (2013). On the Samos excursus see Irwin (2009); on Polycrates of Samos see also Carty (2015).

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in Samos. In the context of the Samos excursus, Amasis, who was portrayed in detail at the end of the 2nd book of the Histories, has a guest appearance in which he tries in vain to warn his ally, indeed guest, Polycrates, of the latter’s hubris and finally finds himself forced to terminate their relationship of guestfriendship (Hdt. 3.40–43). Among the mostly Eastern despots described above (apart from Polycrates), Amasis certainly occupies a special role. Herodotus’ comprehensive account of the penultimate king of the Saites (Hdt. 2.162–182) concludes the Egyptian excursus of the 2nd book of the Histories and provides an excellent transition to the logos of Cambyses, which begins with the alleged reason for Cambyses’ campaign against Egypt: the fraud by Amasis. Herodotus’ portrayal of Amasis as a rogue and thoroughly ambivalent figure paves the way for this trick to appear plausible. The account of the story of the Saite kings in turn forms the conclusion of the stories about Egyptian kings that make up the historical part of Herodotus’ 2nd book.111 While the first part offers stories about partly mythical kings from different epochs of Egyptian history in non-chronological order, the second part is characterised by a chronologically more accurate account of the Saite kings. It is striking that Herodotus has twice as much to say about Amasis as about all his predecessors together (Hdt. 2.152–161). About the founder of the dynasty, Psammetichus I, as well as his successors, Herodotus has in part only very disparate information to share. The reason for this imbalance is certainly that Amasis himself must have been the best known Saite king among the Greeks themselves, thanks to his intensive diplomatic relations with the Greek citystates in the Aegean and therefore he is the right figure to serve as Herodotus’ vehicle for the version of Cambyses he wishes to tell—if he is already a kind of ‘folk hero’ in narrative, then it is easier to manipulate the tales or fabricate others about him that are similar enough not to seem inventions but designed to forward Herodotus’ narrative aims.112 Carl Werner Müller has attempted to show that there must have been Amasis novellas even in the Greek world, while reports of Amasis’ drinking or the throne disputes between Amasis and his predecessor Apries can also be verified by Egyptian sources.113 There is, however, another reason why Herodotus’ portrayal of Amasis is so extensive: with his Amasis, Herodotus created a counter-figure to the mad Cambyses (but also to hapless despots such as Croesus), which in some points shows parallels to Cambyses’ successor Darius I as well as to the mythical king 111 112 113

On the chronology of Herodotus’ history of Egyptian kings see e.g., Kimmel-Clauzet (2013); Obsomer (2020); see also Bichler (2018) 89–93. Cf. Lloyd (2007) 40–48; Agut-Labordère (2012) 223–226. Müller (2006) 189–224, esp. 211–218; on the Egyptian sources see discussion above.

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Sesostris, but which was primarily based on stories that circulated in Egypt but also in Greece about this Saite king.114 The parallel portrayal of Amasis as a heavy drinker in Herodotus and the Egyptian tale of Amasis and the skipper has already been pointed out. That Herodotus had a basic knowledge of historical events or their transmission in the Ancient Near East but embellished them according to his agenda—an example is the Bisutun inscription, the content of which Herodotus must also have known in essence—is already shown by his account of the succession to the throne of Amasis and Apries, for which an Egyptian source is available, the Victory Stela of Amasis. The stela tells how Apries first with Greek mercenaries in seagoing ships (year 1), later with Asiatics, i.e., with Babylonian support, moved to Egypt to regain the throne (year 4); however, he is repulsed both times and finally falls in battle and is buried by Amasis with royal honours. It is framed as an Egyptian Königsnovelle, i.e., in both cases the focus is on the king’s consultation with his courtiers, while detailed descriptions of the battlefield are omitted. While Greek mercenaries naturally play a prominent role in Herodotus’ work, he knows nothing of Babylonian support; Apries is captured alive and only later strangled by the Egyptians themselves and buried in the royal necropolis. Herodotus tells the prehistory of the conflict between Apries and Amasis in detail, beginning with the Libyan prince Adrikan’s request for help from the Egyptians against the expansion of the Greek colony of Cyrene (Hdt. 2.161–162, 169). Apries sends an Egyptian army against the Greeks, who revolts against him after a defeat. Amasis appears here for the first time as a mediator, but he rises against his master and does not even shy away from having a fart delivered to King Apries in response. Apries’ cruelty, on the other hand, leads to the revolt of the rest of the Egyptians and his imminent end. As in the case of Darius I’s Bisutun inscription, the intersection between the royal inscription and Herodotus’ narrative is small and concerns, of all things, the fact that Apries marched against Amasis with the help of Greek mercenaries. The events described were certainly conveyed to Herodotus through Egyptian (and Greek) narrative literature rather than through the royal inscriptions themselves. At the same time, details such as Amasis’ mischievous reply to his adversary and the manner of his appointment as king through a bronze helmet, which is already told for Psammetichus I, appear to be additions by Herodotus (Hdt. 2.151). Against the background of this reading of Herodotus’ characterisation of Amasis, his history of the kings of the 26th dynasty makes sense, which seems

114

On Herodotus’ characterisation of Darius I as a “trickster”, see: Wesselmann (2011) 174–180, 198–196.

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quite disparate, although Herodotus claims that it is precisely known due to the intensive contact between Egyptians and Greeks in that time (Hdt. 2.151–182).115 Indeed, it is more of a history of the contact between Greeks and Egypt in the Saite period, for it mainly introduces episodes that are of interest with regard to these cultural contacts. Already with the founder of the dynasty, Psammetichus I who reigned for 55 years, it is noticeable that Herodotus, after the ominous story about his appointment as king thanks to his brazen helmet and the seizure of power with the help of Gyges’ support as well as Ionian and Carian mercenaries, does not report anything further about this king (Hdt. 2.151–154). Instead, there follows a detailed description of the oracle of Buto as well as the nearby island of Chemmis (Hdt. 2.155–156); certainly not without reason, for the oracle of Buto, just like the royal necropolis of Sais (described in the context of the burial of Apries), was still to play a role in the logos on Cambyses. An oracle also provides the anchor point for Herodotus’ account of the construction of a canal from the Nile to the Red Sea under Necho II, which was stopped by one and later completed by Darius I.116 Necho II finally conquered Kadytis (Gaza) and donated to Apollo of Miletus in gratitude. The campaign of Psammetichus II towards Nubia, on the other hand, is mentioned only briefly by Herodotus, although it is extraordinarily well attested, not least because of the textual evidence of Greek and Phoenician mercenaries.117 Instead, he inserts a curious episode in which the Eleians send an envoy to King Psammis (= Psammetichus II) to ask him for advice on the organisation of the Olympic Games (Hdt. 2.160). Surprisingly, he replies that they should only host the games for strangers since the inhabitants of the city would naturally support themselves. The scene has already been described in the literature as nonhistorical since the Eleians were probably not yet in charge of the Olympic Games during the reign of Psammetichus II.118 The excursus could perhaps be read as a critique of a Greek institution in Herodotus’ time, such as the Athenian citizenship law, which categorically excluded foreigners.119 Finally, Herodotus characterises the reign of Apries as the happiest before the Saite king, who considered himself infallible, was overthrown due to a 115 116 117 118 119

DeMeulenaere (1951); Lloyd (1988b) 130–241; see also Bichler (2018) 93–97. On the history of the 26th dynasty, see now: Forshaw (2019); Payraudeau (2020) 227–274. Lloyd (1977); see also Redmount (1995). Bernand/Masson (1957); Hauben (2001); see also Jansen-Winkeln (2016b); Gozzoli (2017) 45–71. Decker (1974); Lloyd (1988b) 165–167; Lloyd (2007) 41; Gozzoli (2017) 95–96. Müller suspects a gap-filler since Diodorus Siculus puts the episode in the reign of Amasis (Diod. 1.95). Müller (2006) 216. Cf. Irwin (2017) and Irwin in this volume.

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failed campaign against Cyrene. Herodotus thus establishes a link with the episode in which Solon came to Croesus’ court, and places Apries in a line with Croesus, Cyrus, and finally Cambyses. Herodotus’ account of Apries’ fall contains numerous motifs that are familiar from accounts of other despots. For example, the Egyptians revolted against Apries because they suspected that he had sent them on this hopeless mission to get rid of them. This same motivation is attributed to the tyrant Polycrates a little later in the Samos Excursus. The Egyptians were finally moved to revolt by the atrocities of Apries, who had his messenger Patarbemis full of wrath mutilated even before he could deliver his message. Similar atrocities against subordinates are later known to have been attributed to Cambyses, who also carried them out in anger (Hdt. 3.32ff.). Herodotus presumably knew the main features of the events surrounding the seizure of power by Amasis, which have been handed down to us from the Egyptian side through the Victory Stela of Amasis; in addition, he portrays Apries as an Eastern despot of the calibre of Croesus, Cyrus or (later) Cambyses, whereby he made use of corresponding motifs that recurred several times. The story of the fall of Apries fits perfectly into Herodotus’ agenda, for again it is Greeks who fight and fall for an Eastern king abroad who had previously been at war with Greeks. This background explains the obvious disparateness of Herodotus’ Saite history because Herodotus only recounts the events in which Greeks were involved. Herodotus then describes Amasis’ time as king and how he won over the Egyptians with his cleverness, although he did not come from a royal family. The first three episodes are remarkable: he had a golden foot-washing basin poured into a cult image, which was soon worshipped by the Egyptians, and in this way convinced them of the legitimacy of his rule (Hdt. 2.172).120 When asked about his way of ruling and his drunken lifestyle, he replied with the parable of the bow, which cannot be stretched all the time, but also needs to be relaxed in order not to break or even go mad (Hdt. 2.173). Finally, he had particularly revered the sanctuaries that convicted him of theft before he became king while neglecting others that absolved him. After this portrayal of Amasis, Herodotus describes in detail his extensive building activities, his just legislation, and his pronounced friendliness towards Greeks (Hdt. 2.177 ff.). It is certainly no coincidence that the extensive description of Amasis’ activities shows similarities to the mythical

120

The plausibility of this episode was often doubted since neither in Egypt nor in Greece were cult images publicly erected. Perhaps Herodotus provides here another example for cultural relativism; see Irwin and Ellis in this volume.

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king Sesostris in Herodotus’ history of early Egyptian kings (Hdt. 2.102–110).121 In his characterisation of the Saite king, he used motifs from other kings’ stories, as the identical coronation story about Psammetichus I and Amasis shows. While Amasis’ dealings with Egyptian oracles contrast with the misunder‐ standings of Croesus, Cyrus, and Cambyses that eventually led to their downfall (indeed, Amasis seems to pay no attention to oracles in terms of his decisionmaking), Amasis’ handling of criticism from his courtiers is also quite different from that of Cambyses, who reacts with extreme brutality: he hits the son of a subordinate—Prexaspes, who had once eliminated Smerdis for him—right in the heart with an arrow to prove that he is not insane, and Croesus also narrowly escapes Cambyses’ arrow after criticising him (Hdt. 3.36). Some readers may have still remembered Amasis’ parable of the bow (Hdt. 2.173) or the Aithiopian king’s gift, a bow that Cambyses fails to draw while his brother Smerdis was able to draw it a little (Hdt. 3.21, 3.30).122 In any case, Cambyses provides a good example of where excessive ambition ultimately leads. In the two court scenes, the contrast between Amasis and Cambyses is quite clear. Another contrast arises between Amasis and Croesus in their relationship with Solon, who visits them both on his travels. While Croesus is critised by Solon for his vanity, Solon even adopts a law from Amasis that was still valid in Herodotus’ time. Nevertheless, Amasis—at least in Herodotus’ version—also remains an ambivalent character, for it is his trick and the resentment of two men against him that lead to the successful conquest of Egypt by Cambyses shortly after his death. 5 Conclusion Starting from the contradictory versions of the reasons for Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt presented to us by Herodotus at the beginning of the 3rd book of his Histories, this paper examined the reputation of Cambyses but also of the Saite king Amasis in contemporary sources of Persian Egypt. Due to the lack of narrative texts, this analysis concentrated on erasures of royal names on monuments as well as writings of these names in documentary texts. Sources from the short reign of Cambyses suggest that the penultimate king of the 26th Dynasty, Amasis, had apparently fallen out of favour under the Great King. Numerous royal monuments from the time of Amasis reveal the erasure of royal names that can presumably be attributed to Cambyses. It has already been 121 122

The great king Darius I was unable to outdo the mythical king Sesostris, for the latter had even subjugated the Scythians (Hdt. 2.110). On the Aithiopian logos, see Hofmann and Vorbichler (1979); Török (2014); Irwin (2014).

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suggested elsewhere that Cambyses wanted to distinguish himself from Amasis and tie in with Amasis’ predecessor, Apries, in order to establish his claim to rule. Amasis himself was a usurper and thus offered the Great King a welcome basis of legitimacy. After the death of Cambyses, however, it was apparently the Great King himself who no longer qualified as a legitimate pharaoh. While there are hardly any monuments with royal names of the Persian king, in contrast to the long-reigning Amasis, writings of the royal name in Demotic and Aramaic documents provide important evidence with regard to the negative perception of the Persian king. This tradition continued into Hellenistic times, as P. Bib. Nat. Paris 215 illustrates. While such a treatment of the conqueror of Egypt is to be expected in Egyptian sources, it is surprising that Cambyses himself is not qualified with a royal title in Aramaic sources from the end of the fifth century BC. Instead, it is already stated in these sources that Egyptian temples were destroyed under the Great King. The destruction of Egyptian temples under Cambyses is also told by ancient authors of the 1st centuries BC and AD. However, neither contemporary written sources, such as the biographical inscription of Udjahorresnet, nor archaeolog‐ ical findings provide reliable evidence. Even Herodotus knows nothing of this, although he visited Egypt while it was still under Persian rule and such reports would certainly have fitted well into his characterisation of the Persian king. Some authors therefore attributed this tradition to Egyptian priestly circles who wanted to discredit the Persian king. However, this does not explain why this tradition circulated among the Judeans of Elephantine after the end of the 5th century BC and was even shared by the governor of the Persian province of Judah. At the same time, contemporary sources from Egypt, more precisely writings of the royal name in dating formulae, suggest that a negative image of Cambyses already set in during the early years of the reign of his successor, Darius I. In fact, Darius I is the most likely candidate for a persecution of the memory of Cambyses, since he himself was a usurper who justified his claim to rule in the famous inscription of Bisutun not least with the transgressions of his predecessor, just as Cyrus the Great had done with the Babylonian king Nabonid after the conquest of Babylon. Herodotus’ portrayal of Cambyses, on the other hand, presents itself as a literary description of a prototypical despot, whereby the Greek historian placed the Persian king in a row with Croesus, Cyrus, Apries, Polycrates, and later Xerxes. This is indicated not least by the recurring literary topoi in the depiction of Cambyses, but also of other despots. In contrast, the Saite king Amasis is characterised by Herodotus as a positive counter-figure to Cambyses, whose ingenuity and cunning at the same time make a trick seem

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plausible, which is one of the reasons presented by Herodotus for the conquest of Egypt by Cambyses. Herodotus’ Saite history again presents itself as a kind of prelude to the Cambyses logos, introducing, for example, places such as the Oracle of Buto or personalities such as Amasis, who will still play a special role in the Cambyses logos, but who will not have been known to the Greek reader in every case. At the same time, Herodotus’ history of the 26th dynasty focuses the close intertwining of Greeks and Egyptians in that epoch, which continued to have an effect into Herodotus’ time. Criticism of Greek involvement in the eastern Mediterranean is a central theme of Herodotus’ Histories. The detailed descriptions of the involvement of Greek mercenaries in military conflicts within Egypt, whether in the founding of the Saite dynasty or in the change of throne from Apries to Amasis, are to be seen against this background. Herodotus’ Cambyses logos, but also his Saite history, should be read critically with regard to his political agenda, which decisively shaped the literary depiction of historical events described in the Histories. Bibliography Agut-Labordère (2005): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Le Titre du ‘Décret de Cambyse’ (P. Bn 215 verso colonne d)’, RdE 56, 45–53. Agut-Labordère (2005b): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Le sens du Décret de Cambyse’, Transeuphratène 29, 9–16. Agut-Labordère (2009/10): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Darius législateur et les sages de l’Égypte: un addendum au Livre des Ordonnances’, in: Juan Carlos Moreno García (ed.), Élites et pouvoir en Égypte ancienne : actes du colloque Université Charles-de-Gaulle – Lille 3, 7 et 8 juillet 2006 (CahPEg 28) Lille, 353–358. Agut-Labordère (2012): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Approche cartographique des relations des pharaons saïtes (664–526) et indépendants (404–342) avec les cités grecques’, in: Laurent Capdetrey and Julien Zurbach (eds.), Mobilités grecques: mouvements, réseaux, contacts en Méditerranée, de l’époque archaïque à l’époque hellénistique, Paris, 219–234. Agut-Labordère (2013): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘The Saite period: the emergence of a Mediterranean power’, in: Juan Carlos Moreno Garcίa (ed.), Ancient Egyptian administration, Handbook of Oriental Studies 1.104, Leiden, 964–1027. Agut-Labordère and Chauveau (2011): Damien Agut-Labordère and Michel Chauveau, Héros, magiciens et sages oubliés de l’Égypte ancienne: une anthologie de la littérature en égyptien démotique, Paris. Agut-Labordère and Gorre (2014): Damien Agut-Labordère and Gilles Gorre, ‘De l’auto‐ nomie à l’intégration: les temples d’Égypte face à la couronne des Saïtes aux Ptolémées (VIe-IIIe siècle av. J.-C.)’, Topoi 19, 17–55.

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Vittmann (1994): Günther Vittmann, ‘Eine mißlungene Dokumentenfälschung: die ‘Ste‐ len’ des Peteese I (P. Ryl. 9, XXI–XXIII)’, EgVicOr 17, 301–315. Vittmann (1998): Günther Vittmann, Der demotische Papyrus Rylands 9, Ägypten und Altes Testament 38, Wiesbaden. Vittmann (2003): Günther Vittmann, Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend, Mainz. Vittmann (2009): Günther Vittmann, ‘Rupture and continuity: on priests and officials in Egypt during the Persian period’, in: Pierre Briant and Michel Chauveau (eds.), Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels dans les pays de l’empire achéménide : Actes du colloque organisé au Collège de France par la « Chaire d'histoire et civilisation du monde achéménide et de l'empire d’Alexandre » et le « Réseau international d'études et de recherches achéménides » (GDR 2538 CNRS), 9–10 novembre 2007, Persika 14, Paris, 89–121. Vittmann (2011): Günter Vittmann, ‘Ägypten zur Zeit der Perserherrschaft’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich – Herodotus and the Persian Empire: Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema „Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überliefer‐ ungen“, Innsbruck, 24.-28. November 2008, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden, 373–429. Vittmann (2015a): Günther Vittmann, ‘Die Petition des Peteese – Papyrus Rylands 9’, in: Bernd Janowski and Daniel Schwemer (eds.), Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen, Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Neue Folge 8, Gütersloh, 351–386. Vittmann (2015b): Günther Vittmann, ‘Amasis und der Schiffer‘, in: Bernd Janowski and Daniel Schwemer (eds.), Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen, Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments, Neue Folge 8, Gütersloh, 438–439. Wasmuth (2017): Melanie Wasmuth, Ägypto-persische Herrscher- und Herrschaftspräsen‐ tation in der Achämenidenzeit, Oriens et Occidens 27, Stuttgart. Wasmuth and Creasman (2020): Melanie Wasmuth and Pearce P. Creasman (eds.), Udjahorresnet and his world, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, Tucson, AZ. Wespi (2016): Fabian Wespi, ‘Das Gesetz der Tempel: Ein Vorbericht zu den Priester‐ normen des demotischen Papyrus Florenz PSI inv. D 102’, in: Martina Ullmann (ed.), 10. Ägyptologische Tempeltagung: Ägyptische Tempel zwischen Normierung und Individualität. München, 29.–31. August 2014, Königtum, Staat und Gesellschaft früher Hochkulturen 3,5, Wiesbaden, 179–194. Wespi (2017): Fabian Wespi, ‘Das Bücherhaus (Pr-mḏꜣ.t) des späten ägyptischen Tempels’, in: Stefan Baumann, Holger Kockelmann and E. Jambon (eds.), Der ägyptische Tempel als ritueller Raum: Theologie und Kult in ihrer architektonischen und ideellen Dimension: Akten der internationalen Tagung, Haus der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, 9.-12. Juni 2015 (Studien zur spätägyptischen Religion 17), Wiesbaden, 271–287.

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Wesselmann (2011): Mythische Erzählstrukturen in Herodots Historien, Berlin and Boston. Wilson (2006): Penelope Wilson, The survey of Saïs (Sa el-Hagar), 1997–2002, Excavation Memoirs 77, London. Wilson (2019): Penelope Wilson, ‘Gateway to the underworld: the cult areas at Sais’, British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and Sudan 24, 341–364. Wijnsma (2018): Uzume Z. Wijnsma, ‘The worst revolt of the Bisitun crisis: A chrono‐ logical reconstruction of the Egyptian revolt under Petubastis IV’, JNES 77, 157–173. Wijnsma (2019): Uzume Z. Wijnsma, ‘And in the fourth year Egypt rebelled … The chronology of and sources for Egypt’s second revolt (ca. 487–484 BC)’, Journal of Ancient History 7, 32–61. Zecchi (2019): Marco Zecchi, The naos of Amasis: a monument for the reawakening of Osiris, Leiden.

A comparative look at the post-Herodotean Cambyses

Reinhold Bichler1

The paper deals with a special aspect of reception: the image of Cambyses in Greco-Roman texts written after Herodotus. It is divided into two sections and an appendix. The first part concentrates on the literary ‘echoes’ Herodotus’ portrayal of a ‘mad king’ provoked. Most of the author’s well-known stories, such as Cambyses’ worst acts of violence directed against the human body and the killing of the Apis, were taken out from the complex context of the Histories and transformed, re-worked and put into a new context.—The second part is headed ‘A post-Herodotean Cambyses apart from Herodotus?’. Within the widespread stories of Cambyses’ alleged destruction and plundering of the Egyptian sanctuaries and his misled campaigns against the Ammonians and the Ethiopians, we find many topics and items which either derive from other primary sources or are greatly extended variants of Herodotus’ narrative or even free inventions. The appendix provides a look at the variety of facts and names in the stories on Cambyses’ family, his conquest of Egypt and his final destiny. 1 Herodotus’ Heritage? The paradigm of a mad king   1.1 Cambyses’ position between two more highly regarded kings When Aeschylus has Darius’ εἴδωλον remember the deeds of his forerunners, there is not much to be found about Cambyses, who is not even mentioned by name. Between Cyrus, who is called εὐδαίμων ἀνήρ, and Mardos, a shame for the fatherland—αἰσχύνη πάτρᾳ –, Cyrus’ son figures without any further comment: Κύρου δὲ παῖς τέταρτος ηὔθυνε στρατόν (Pers. 773),2 but we may

1 2

Translation by Franz Pramhaas. Cf. Föllinger (2009) 71: „Von Kyros’ Sohn erwähnt Dareios nur die militärische Tüch‐ tigkeit. Diese Reduktion ist bezeichnend für die Auswahl, die Aischylos vornimmt, um einen Gegensatz zwischen den guten Herrschern der Ahnenreihe und Xerxes zu konstruieren, denn in Wirklichkeit galt Kyros’ Sohn Kambyses, wenn man Herodot sowie der altpersischen Behistun-Inschrift folgt, als Ausbund an Grausamkeit und Hybris.“

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assume that his image was overshadowed.3 Yet, hardly more than a hundred years later, the verdict on Cambyses as the paradigm of a mad king seems to have been definitely fixed by our classics. At the end of Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, a short reference to Cambyses’ wellknown deeds is sufficient to mark the sharp break by which his effigies iusti imperii (Cicero) is separated from the author’s own world: After Cyrus’ death there began stasis between his sons (Cambyses and Tanaoxares); cities and peoples revolted and everything turned to the worst (πάντα δ’ ἐπὶ τὸ χεῖρον ἐτρέπετο, 8.8.2).—Therefore Plato’s verdict that Cyrus, a great strategist, had left the education of his sons to women and eunuchs, with worst consequences, is widely considered a blow against Xenophon’s Cyropaedia (cf. Gellius, Noctes Atticae 14.3–4). Plato points to well-known ‘facts’, when he alludes to Cambyses’ deeds as a mad king in order to demonstrate the consequences of an education without ethical rigour: First one brother kills the other out of envy; finally, further weakened by drunkenness, he loses his empire to the Medes and a ‘eunuch’ who despised the mad king (καταφρονήσαντος τῆς Καμβύσου μωρίας, leg. 695b). Since Darius, not being a king’s son,4 did not share the same education, he was able to regain and reorganize the Empire but, eventually, made the same mistake as Cyrus (leg. 695d–e).5 By giving the name of Cambyses’ brother as Tanaoxares, Xenophon probably referred to Ctesias.6 Plato’s verdict on Cambyses’ failed education, on the other hand, brings Herodotus’ famous report on how the Persians used to educate their boys back to our minds (Hdt. 1.136).7 But, for the sake of his argumentation, Plato confined it to the royal family. At the same time, he recalls the ‘unbelievable’ episode told by Herodotus in which the boy Cambyses promised to avenge the honour of his mother (Hdt. 3.3). To what extent the image of Cyrus’ rotten son could be developed in a fictive scenario, overshadowing the image of his famous father, is shown by a fragment

3 4

5 6 7

Cf. Garvie (2009) 304: “Cambyses thus does not fit well into a list which is designed to contrast Xerxes with all his predecessors…He cannot, however, be omitted altogether”. On the name Μάρδος, a variant οn Σμέρδις, see Schmitt (2011) 239 (no. 195). On the debate as to what extent the rule of the Achaemenid Darius marked an interruption in the dynastic continuity and a cultural break with the rule of the Teïspids, i.e. the family of Cyrus (II) and his father Cambyses (I), whose governance was still shaped considerably by Elamite tradition, cf., for example, Henkelman (2011a) and Jacobs (2011). « Ὦ Δαρεῖε, » εἰπεῖν ἐστιν δικαιότατον ἴσως, « ὅσ τὸ Κύρου κακὸν οὐκ ἔμαθες, ἐθρέψω δὲ Χέρξην ἐν τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἤθεσιν ἐν οἷσπερ Κῦρος Καμβύσην » Cf. Schmitt (2006) 197–199 (no. 3.1.40); Schmitt (2011) 357–358 (no. 327). But cf. also Plato’s verdict on the education of a tyrant in rep. IX 572 d ff.

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of Onesicritus (BNJ 134 F 36). The author, a companion of Alexander III., who himself had seen Cyrus’ tomb in Pasargadae (F 34–35), is said to have told a strange story: When Cyrus reached the age of 100 years, he discovered that most of his former friends had been killed by his son who had pretended to follow his father’s injunction. “Being blamed for his son’s savagery and censured because the latter was transgressing, he ended his life in despair (ἀθυμήσας ἐτελεύτα τὸν βίον)”.8 Whether primarily based on Herodotus’ Histories or rather on authors of Persika, such as Ctesias of Cnidus, the madness of King Cambyses had become a leitmotif. As a result of this, his real success, the conquest of Egypt, was overshadowed by the various stories of his terrible deeds. Within the tiny fragments of Diodorus’ Bibliotheke concerning Cambyses’ deeds, the author underlines the physical background of Cambyses’ mad char‐ acter in connection with the bad influence of power: “Cambyses was by nature half-mad and his powers of reasoning perverted (φύσει μανικὸς καὶ παρακεκινηκὼς τοῖς λογισμοῖς), and the greatness of his kingdom rendered him much the more cruel and arrogant” (Diod. 10 F 14.1 = Const. Exc.).9 And in his survey of the ‘lawgivers’ in Egypt (περὶ τῶν γενομένων νομοθετῶν, 1.94.1), Diodorus—following his sources—places the mad king in an intermediate position between the last ‘lawgiver’ of Egyptian origin, Amasis, and the first representative of the new Persian government with a positive image, Darius, commenting briefly: “A sixth man to concern himself with the laws of the Egyptians, it is said, was Darius, the father of Xerxes; for he was incensed at the lawlessness [μισήσαντα γὰρ τὴν παρανoμίαν] which his predecessor, Cambyses, had shown in his treatment of the sanctuaries of Egypt” (1.95.4).10 In regard to Egyptian history, Diodorus’ source had good reasons for adopting the standard mad-dog-cliché by replacing Cyrus with Amasis. Josephus, too, in his Antiquities made good use of Cambyses’ bad image in the classical sources, when it came to recounting the story of how the rebuilding of the walls and the temple in Jerusalem was interrupted after Cyrus’ death. While in Esra 4 the libellous accusations by the enemies of the Jews—in a notorious case of chronological disorder11—are linked with King Artaxerxes, Josephus replaced

8 9 10 11

Translation and commentary by Whitby (2012). On the context of Onesicritus’ fragment see Bichler (2021), ch. 2.1, with further references. Transl. by C. H. Oldfather. On the problems of Diodorus’ concept of ‘lawgivers’ and the possible historical background of this juxtaposition of Cambyses and Darius, see Cruz-Uribe (2003) 46–50, with further references. Cf., for example, Steins (1998) esp. 242–243.

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him with Cambyses. Since Cyrus, as well as Darius, were highly esteemed in the Jewish tradition for permitting to rebuild the temple, Josephus’ introduction of the well-known mad dog ruler Cambyses was even more plausible. His description of the king’s reaction to the defamatory opposition from the enemies of the Jews is quite characteristic: “When Cambyses read this letter, being naturally bad (φύσει πονηρὸς ὤν), he was aroused by its contents (κινεῖτε πρὸς τὰ δεδηλωμένα) and wrote as follows” (11.2.2).12 The king’s letter stopped the rebuilding of the temple until the second year of Darius’ reign.   1.2 Cambyses’ worst acts of violence directed against the human body and the killing of the Apis A series of Cambyses’ deeds as told by Herodotus became notorious to a literary public for showing acts of shocking violence directed against the human body.13 Thus, classical writers could easily bring them to mind without having to mention Herodotus, who had been the first to shape our picture of the famous mad king. A special example of the king’s cruelty is given by Herodotus outside the coherent narrative of Cambyses’ deeds in Book V. It is the sad story of the fate of Otanes’ father, the corrupt judge Sisamnes (5.25). Valerius Maximus relied on this account—without mentioning Herodotus or Sisamnes by name—when he included Cambyses in a series of graviter dicta aut facta: “Cambyses’ severity was unusual. He flayed the skin from a certain corrupt judge and had it stretched over a chair on which he ordered the man’s son to sit when passing judgement. He was a king and a barbarian and by the horrible and novel punishment of a judge he sought to make sure that no judge could be bribed in the future” (6.3 ext. 3).14 The phrase ceterum et rex et barbarus atroci an nova poena iudicis ne quis postea corrumpi iudex possit providit seems to combine disgust of the barbarian atrocity with at least some respect for one principle: to fight corruption. But, readers of Herodotus may also have in mind the story of how Cambyses forced the royal judges to find a way to legitimate his marriage to his sisters (Hdt. 3.31). According to Herodotus, Cambyses also became notorious for the murder of his second wife, a younger sister of his (Hdt. 3.31–32),15 and for the murder of

12 13 14 15

Transl. by Ralph Marcus. On Herodotus’ literary strategies to depict such acts of cruelty, cf. Bonifazi in this volume. Transl. by D. R. Shackleton Bailey. There are two variant versions of the murder of the king’s younger sister, one by order of the king, another by the king himself. The latter episode became the matrix for a series of similar episodes; cf. the critical survey by Ameling (1986).

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his brother. These fatal deeds are told by Herodotus as the first consequence of the madness which the king’s slaughter of the Apis had provoked (Hdt. 3.30.1; 31.1).16 Plutarch made good use of both elements in Herodotus’ story, the slaughter of the Apis (as we will see later on) and the fatal fratricide, without feeling any need to mention Herodotus or to maintain the narrative link between the two. In his treaty On Brotherly Love, he contrasted the ‘family policies’ of Cambyses and Darius, and it is interesting to see that the king’s madness is not mentioned explicitly, but suggested by his frightful belief in a dream: “But Cambyses, frightened by a dream (ἐξ ἐνυπνίου φοβηθείς) into the belief that his brother would be king of Asia, killed him without waiting for any evidence or proof. For this reason, when Cambyses died, the throne passed from the line of Cyrus and the kingship was gained by the family of Darius, a man who knew how to give, not only to brothers but also to friends, participation in affairs of state and in power” (mor. 490 A).17 It was Prexaspes who had killed the king’s brother Smerdis on Cambyses’ order. And Herodotus has him endure terrible punishment: His own son is killed by the drunken king. It is a complex net of stories, carefully combining various motifs: the king’s questionable qualities as an archer, Croesus’ dubious qualities as a wise adviser and Prexaspes’ ambiguous career from a vassal who helps to extinguish Cyrus’ family to the one who (in his last speech before he kills himself ) helps to establish further Achaemenid rule.—When Seneca in his moral considerations dealt with the fatal consequences of anger, he had every reason to rely on Herodotus’ story of the killing of Prexaspes’ son (De ira 3.14). He dramatized the sad episode and underlined the dire situation of Prexaspes, who tried his utmost to suppress his feelings and praised the king’s masterly shot. His comment is sharp: tamen sceleratius telum illud laudatum est quam missum (3.14.4). Seneca reflected here upon the extreme situation which those who are willing to join a king’s table could be confronted with. Doing so, he compared the case of Prexaspes with the horrible story of Harpagus’ meal (3.15). In both cases the author could be sure that his readers were familiar with Herodotus’ respective stories; so he could do without mentioning how these stories ended: with the death of the despot and a change on the throne.

16

17

There are still voices which could imagine that Cambyses indeed committed the alleged sacrilege. Esp. cf. Depuydt (1995); cf. also Cruz-Uribe (2003) 43–45. See, on the other hand, for example Gozzoli (2009) 185–186, who strictly defends Cambyses’ “innocence of the Apis killing”. Konstantakos (2016) tries to differentiate various mythological layers within Herodotus’ narrative; besides the evident elements of Egyptian traditions, he detects analogous motifs and elements of Mesopotamian and Iranian stories. Transl. by W. C. Helmbold.

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That brings us to Cambyses’ death by his own sword. The widespread knowledge of Herodotus’ version of the king’s death may be illustrated by a short remark within an excursus on Athenian law courts in Pausanias’ description of Attica. Coming to inanimate objects (αὐτόματα) which “have on the occasion of their own accord afflicted righteous retribution upon men”, he quotes the example of Cambyses’ scimitar (ἀκινάκης) as the most famous instance (1.28.11).18 —And when Aelian reports the sacrilegious deeds of Artaxerxes III (who just as Cambyses was portrayed with the typical motifs of an invader-king), a very brief remark on the latter was sufficient to evoke the image of his death by his own sword: “And so he (Ochus = Artaxerxes III.) too paid a penalty, which all applauded, to the Sacred Bull, no less than Cambyses, who was the first that dared commit this sacrilege” (Nat. an. 10.28).19 The connection between the slaughter of the Apis and the king’s own death is even underlined by Lucius Ampelius in his liber memorialis: “is quia Apin sacrum bovem interfici iusserat, ira deorum ex equo praeceps super gladium suum ruit extinctusque est.” (13.2). Justin’s epitome of Pompeius Trogus, on the other hand, gives us an alternative: Deadly wounded by his own sword Cambyses finished his life “and paid the penalty whether of the fratricide which he had intended, or of the sacrilege which he had perpetrated (poenasque luit seu imperati parricidii seu perpetrati sacrilegii; 1.9.8). 20 The sacrilegii mentioned by Justin especially refer to the slaughter of the Apis and the desecration of other Egyptian sanctuaries (1.9.2). That the stories of the various atrocities and sacrileges that Cambyses perpetrated in Egypt were well-known by classical writers can also be seen in Plutarch. He had no need to mention Herodotus or to make further comments on the story of Cambyses when in his treaty On Isis he deals with “a certain mystery (ἀπόρρητόν) observed by those who revere Anubis; in ancient times the dog obtained the highest honours in Egypt; but when Cambyses had slain the Apis and cast him forth, nothing came near the body or ate of it save only

18 19

20

Transl. by W. H. S. Jones. – Cf. the commentary by Chamoux, Pausanias (1992): “L’anecdote vient sans doute d‘Hérodote (III, 64)”. Transl. by A. F. Scholfield; cf. also Aelian, Varia historia 6.8 on the legend of the cruel punishment of Artaxerxes: “They say he was killed, cut to pieces and fed to the cats”; transl. by N. G. Wilson. – On the ideological background of the story, see Henkelman (2011b) 130: “That a real and intentional demonization is at stake here is very clear from the claim that Artaxerxes worshipped an Ass god and even sacrificed the Apis to this god”. Transl. by John Selby Watson.

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the dog; and thereby the dog lost his primacy and his place of honour above that of all other animals” (De Iside 44 = mor. 368 F).21 Cambyses’ first sacrilegious act within the long series of horrible deeds Herodotus reports is a special act of violence against the human body: the des‐ ecration of the mummified corpse of King Amasis.22 Even the scarce fragments of Diodorus’ lost history of Cambyses’ deeds still preserve a vivid description of the sad episode, starting with a brief comment on the king’s character: Cambyses “could not bear his good fortune as a man should (τὴν εὐτυχίαν οὐ φέρων ἀνθρωπίνως), dug up the tomb of Amasis, the former king of Egypt. And finding his mummified corpse in the coffin, he outraged the body of the dead man, and after showing every despite to the senseless corpse, he finally ordered it to be burned. For since it was not the practice (οὐκ εἰωθότων) of the natives to confine the bodies of their dead to fire, he supposed that in this fashion he would be offending him who had long been dead” (Diod. 10 F 14.2). Herodotus was the most prominent narrator of the atrocities Cambyses allegedly committed in Egypt. Classical writers could expect their audience to know his famous stories about the mad king. So Lucan, for example, could allude to Cambyses’ notorious deeds without any necessity to mention his name. When Pompey’s son is shocked by the news of his father’s dreadful death and the desecration of his body, he, in his fury, imagines all sorts of revenge (IX 148–164) and recalls the famous sacrilege of the king: “Shall I not hale out Amasis and the other kings from their tombs in the Pyramids, and send them swimming down the current of the Nile? (Non mihi pyramidum tumulis evolsus Amasis / Atque alii reges Nilo torrente natabunt?, IX 155f.)”.23 Of course, in these fantasies of revenge, Amasis’ mummified corpse would not be burned, but thrown into the waters, whereas Pompey’s corpse would have to be burned, following the rites.

21

22

23

Transl. by Frank Cole Babbitt. – I would like to thank Joachim F. Quack for the information that, for the Late Period of ancient Egypt, the “mythological motif” can repeatedly be evidenced that “ein Canide sich bei der Behandlung der Osirismumie vergißt und sie als Nahrung statt als schützenswertes Gut behandelt”; cf. on this Quack (2008) esp. 12–15; quotation 15. This alleged sacrilege, too, is to be considered a typical deed of an invader-king; cf. on the connection with the accusation of Seth-worship, Henkelman (2011b) esp. 129–132. – Herodotus himself relativizes his report by offering a variant: The abused corpse was not that of Amasis but of a man who, on Amasis’ order, had been buried there in his place (Hdt. 3.16.5–6). This is what the Egyptians say to save appearances (Αἰγύπτιοι σεμνοῦν, Hdt. 3.16.7). On this and other relativizing observations in Herodotus’ account, cf. the contributions by Irwin and Ellis in this volume. Transl. by J. D. Duff.

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2 A post-Herodotean Cambyses apart from Herodotus?   2.1 The destruction and plundering of the Egyptian sanctuaries Herodotus’ account of the mad king’s acts of desecration of buried corpses and statues of gods (ἀγάλματα) in Saïs and Memphis (Hdt. 3.16; 37) was wellknown.24 But his report contains nothing about a total destruction of sanctuaries ordered by Cambyses.25 Strabo, for example, does not quote Herodotus exactly when stating, “Herodotus says that there were temples (ἱερά) of the Cabeiri in Memphis, as also of Hephaestus, but that Cambyses destroyed them” (10.3.21).26 Some records speak of heavy damages from which most of the Egyptian sanctuaries suffered in the days of Cambyses’ reign. The extent to which this actually happened is notoriously debated in modern scholarship.27 However, the Judeans in Elephantine had good reason to emphasize the exceptional situation of their temple in their famous letter to Bagohi, governor of Judaea: “Already in the days of the kings of Egypt our fathers had built that temple in the fortress of Yeb, and when Cambyses came into Egypt he found that temple built, and the temples of the gods of Egypt all of them they overthrew, but no one did harm to that temple”.28 In the post-Herodotean tradition, the image of a widespread destruction of the sanctuaries in Egypt was well established. The figure of Cambyses was soon at hand when it came to explaining any damage to temples and statues. So Pausanias saw the king responsible for the fragmentary state of the famous colossus of Memnon at Thebes: “This statue was broken in two by Cambyses, and at the present day from head to the middle it is thrown down, but the rest 24

25

26 27 28

Coulon (2013) 173, underlines that Herodotus presents Cambyses as a foil to himself in regard of his own attitude to foreign religious beliefs: “Cette approche tolérante et respectueuse vis-à-vis de la religion [d’Hérodote] est clairement explicitée dans le livre III de ses Enquêtes, quand il dénonce les nombreux sacrilèges que Cambyse, qui fait figure repoussoir, commit à Memphis”. But Herodotus also seems to be troubled by some shameful consequences that the anthropomorphic and theriomorphic presentation of gods entails; cf. Bichler (2013). But cf. Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 317: “…archäologische Spuren der dem Kambyses unterstellten Aktionen sind gar nicht zu erwarten […] Aus der Erhaltung der Steinkerne der Tempel ist kein Argument gegen die Überlieferung der ägyptischen Tempel unter Kambyses zu gewinnen”. On the question of the destruction of sanctuaries by Cambyses, cf. also the contributions by Kahn and Schütze in this volume. Transl. by G. P. Goold. On the evidence of Egyptian sources, see, for example, Cruz-Uribe (2003) 46–50; Vittmann (2011) 377–382. Tuplin (2018) esp. 110, deals with Herodotus’ silence about the economic damages the temples suffered. Cowley (1923) no. 30. – On the juridical and political background of the disputes over this temple, see Briant (2017).

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is seated….” (1.42.3).29 On the other hand, the motif of the one object spared by the fury of the mad king could also be used as a welcome narrative tool. There is an anecdote told by Pliny about an obelisk in Heliopolis, allegedly erected by 120,000 men under Ramses (Rhamsesis), which fascinated Cambyses. Therefore the king saved it as he conquered and destroyed the city (NH 36.66). The scenario of a total destruction ordered by the barbarian despot also appears in Strabo’s report on Heliopolis and the fate of the obelisks: “The city is now entirely deserted; it contains the ancient temple constructed in the Aegyptian manner, which affords many evidences of the madness and sacrilege of Cambyses (τῆς Καμβύσου μανίας καὶ ἱεροσυλίας), who partly by fire and partly by iron sought to outrage the temples, mutilating them and burning them down on every side, just as he did with the obelisks. Two of these, which were not completely spoiled, were brought to Rome, but others are either still there or at Thebes, the present Diospolis—some still standing, thoroughly eaten by the fire, and others lying on the ground” (17.1.27). While the Romans are by no means tainted with the shame of plunder by Strabo’s report on this ‘transfer’ of obelisks to their capital, Diodorus draws a different picture when it comes to plunder organized by Cambyses in the city of Thebes. But we should keep in mind that his report is based on what he was told by the priests. The following quotation refers to the oldest temple in the city: “Now the buildings of the temple survived down to rather recent times, but the silver and gold and costly works of ivory and rare stone were carried off by the Persians when Cambyses burnt the temples of Egypt; and it was at this time, they say, that the Persians, by transferring all this wealth to Asia and taking artisans along from Egypt, constructed their famous palaces in Persepolis and Susa and throughout Media” (1.46.4). It is quite interesting to compare this scenario of a ‘transfer’ of cultural monuments with the report on the two obelisks ‘transferred’ by the Romans. The connotations of such acts are quite different. And we may add that the use of materials and artisans from Egypt for the construction of Darius’ palace in Susa is corroborated by the royal inscriptions (esp. cf. DSf § 11 and 13).30 Diodorus also mentions the robbery of a special object of utmost value from an adjacent building by Cambyses: “a circular border of gold” with astronomical

29

30

Transl. by W. H. S. Jones. – Cf. Chamoux, Pausanias (1992) 261: “L’attribution à Cambyse des dommages subis par la statue n’était pas fondée : c’est un séisme qui en était responsable (Strabon, xvii, 816) [17.1.46].” On the anti-Persian tendency testified by some graffiti cf. Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 310 with fn. 10; Cruz-Uribe (2003) 46. DSf § 11 and 13; DSz § 10 and 12; DSaa § 4; English translation in Kuhrt (2007) 492–497. For further details see Wasmuth (2017) 45–49.

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engravings crowned the so-called tomb of Osymandias. “This border, they said, had been plundered by Cambyses and the Persians when he conquered Egypt” (τοῦτον δὲ τὸν κύκλον ὑπὸ Καμβύσου καὶ Περσῶν ἔφασαν σεσυλῆσθαι…,cf. Diod. 1.47–49, esp. 49.5).31 The robbery of the special object of gold as a characteristic deed of the Persian king could be considered an equivalent to Herodotus’ story of the alleged theft of a golden statue from Babylon by Xerxes (1.183.2–3).32—Such traditions of robbery of statues by the Persians must have influenced also the favourable reports on Ptolemaeus Euergetes’ campaign against his Seleucid rival. Hieronymus, for example, in his commentary on Daniel told the story that Ptolemy “ravaged the kingdom of Seleucus Callinicus and carried off as booty forty thousand talents of silver, and also precious vessels and images of the gods to the amount of two and a half thousand. Among them were the same images which Cambyses had brought to Persia at the time when he conquered Egypt. The Egyptian people were indeed devoted to idolatry, for when he had brought back their gods to them after so many years, they called him Euergetes (Benefactor)”.33 Let us end the presentation of various reports on the destruction and plunder of Egyptian sanctuaries by looking at the assessment of King Cambyses provided in the most important Christian universal history of Late Antiquity: “Between the reigns of these two [Cyrus and Darius] came that of Cambyses, the son of Cyrus. He conquered Egypt and, having a loathing for every aspect of Egyptian religion, put an end to their rites and temples […deuicta Aegypto cunctam Aegypti religionem abominatus caeremonias eius et templa deposuit]” (Orosius 2.8.2).34 Whereas Orosius had quite a lot to tell about Cyrus and Darius, Cambyses’ deeds were reduced to a single aspect noteworthy in his eyes: his loathing for the Egyptian religion.   2.2 The campaign against the Ammonians In the post-Herodotean tradition, Cambyses was widely seen as responsible for massive destructions and the plunder of sanctuaries in Egypt. This is not corroborated by the Histories. Herodotus just refers to a number of acts of 31 32 33 34

Transl. by C. H. Oldfather. On this monument cf. Burton (1972) 148–154. The interpretation of the buildings described in chapter 49 should be separated from the description of the temple proper, which is usually identified with the Ramesseum. Cf. Burton (1972) 154: “The astronomical ceiling described by Diodorus must be fictitious as it stands”. – On the dubious traditions about Xerxes’ alleged sacrileges in Babylon, see Henkelman et al. (2011). Hieronymus in Danielem 11, vers. 7–9; transl. by Gleason L. Archer. – Cf. on the historical context Huß (2001) 338–352; esp. see 346–347 with fn. 68. Cf. also Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 317–318. Transl. by A. T. Fear.

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mockery and fury directed against mummified corpses and statues of gods. But there is also his famous story of Cambyses’ failed attempt to conquer the sanctuary of Ammon in Libya. Surprisingly, it is not easy to find further testimonies relating to this episode. Diodorus’ report is only preserved in a short excerpt: “When Cambyses was on the point of setting out his campaign against Ethiopia, he dispatched a part of his army against the inhabitants of Ammonium (ἐπ’ Ἀμμωνίους), giving orders to its commanders to plunder and burn the oracle and to make slaves of all who dwelt near the shrine” (X F 14.3).35 In this excerpt, the debacle of the army is not mentioned. In his short epitome of Trogus, Justin recorded at least the basic facts of the spectacular disaster: “He also sent an army to destroy the celebrated temple of Ammon; which army was overwhelmed with tempests and heaps of sand, and utterly annihilated (1.9.3)”.36 Since Alexander the Great was eager to cross the desert and pay the oracle a visit, one might expect that the historians used the opportunity to allude to his unlucky predecessor’s debacle. But neither Diodorus (in book 17) nor Curtius, nor Arrian, mentioned Cambyses’ fiasco. Plutarch is the only one who referred to this disastrous event in his description of the dangers Alexander and his army had to master when crossing the desert: “One is the dearth of water….the other arises when a fierce south wind smites men travelling in sand and boundless depth, as is said to have been the case with the army of Cambyses, long ago; the wind raised great billows of sand all over the plain and buried up fifty thousand men, to their utter destruction. Almost all of Alexander’s followers took all these things into consideration” (ταῦτα πάντα σχεδὸν πάντες ἐλογίζοντο, Plut. Al. 26.6–7).37 In recent times, the tale that 50,000 men had been buried in a vast sandstorm motivated “some well meaning explorer” to try and find the traces of Cambyses’ lost army.38 Opinion in modern scholarship is divided: could there be a ‘kernel of truth’ in Herodotus’ report? Herodotus probably had the sanctuary in Siwa Oasis in mind when he dealt with the famous oracle of Ammon (τὸ Ἄμμωνος χρηστήριον) in Libya. But since he locates the Ammonians in a southern region, a ten days’ journey west of Thebes (4.181.2), some scholars try to identify them with the inhabitants of Dakhla or Kharga Oasis. So Cambyses might have led a military operation to get control over of those oases, where also the worship of

35 36 37 38

Cf. on this fragment Stronk (2017) 150 fn. 42: “‛Inhabitants of Ammonium’ might well suggest the people around the oracle of Ammon in the Siwa oasis (see Hdt. 3.25)”. On Olaf Kaper’s hypothesis, which Stronk refers to, see below fn. 39. Transl. by John Selby Watson. Transl. by Bernadotte Perrin. Cf. Cruz-Uribe (2003) 35.

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Amun is testified.39 Nevertheless, Siwa, too, is still supposed to have been the goal of Cambyses’ desire to gain control of important trade-routes connecting Egypt and the Cyrenaica.40 Such a hypothesis must be discussed by specialists. In the context of this paper, it will suffice to mention Strabo’s report on the campaign Augustus’ praefectus Aegypti, P. Petronius, led against Queen Candacë, the ruler of the Ethiopians.41 Here the localization of the episode with the disastrous desertstorm is shifted even further south. On his way to the city of Napata, Strabo reports, Petronius “also attacked Pselchis and captured it (…) From there he went to Premnis, a fortified city, after passing through the sand-dunes, where the army of Cambyses was overwhelmed when a wind-storm struck them; and having made an attack, he took the fortress at the first onset” (17.1.54).42 So we can see a merging of historical traditions about Cambyses’ campaigns that Herodotus had clearly separated: the one against the Ammonians, the other, led by Cambyses himself, against the long-living Ethiopians.   2.3 The ambiguous assessment of Cambyses’ campaign against the Ethiopians Herodotus’ report on this disastrous campaign—a paradigm of a failed imperia‐ list policy—was impressive. So it is not surprising that Lucan in his poem de bello civili could refer to Cambyses’ debacle when he recalls—addressed to the Emperor and the Romans—the failed attempts to explore the sources of the River Nile by such powerful kings as Alexander, Sesostris and, especially, the Persian king: “The madman Cambyses penetrated the East as far as the land of the long-lived people; food ran short, and he had to feed on his own men; but he returned with no knowledge of the Nile” (Vaesanus in ortus / Cambyses longi

39

40 41 42

See, for example, Cruz-Uribe (2003) 35–37, with special reference to Kharga oasis. He concludes that “the expedition to the oasis made perfect economic sense and probably was successful”. Kaper (2015) on the other hand, supports his hypothesis that Herodotus’ Ammonians in 4.181.2 are the inhabitants of Dakhla and a campaign ordered by Cambyses against the ‘powerbase’ of Petubastis IV in Dakhla failed. He assumes that Persian propaganda spread the story of the army’s end in a sandstorm. Cf. also Stronk (2017) 150 with fn. 42. Cf. now Kaper in this volume, who underlines his former hypothesis. Concerning Herodotus’ narration he states that the latter “confound the Egyptian oases into one, and because the oasis of Ammon, Siwa, was the most famous among them, it played a major role in the story about the lost army of Cambyses”. Müller (2016). Cf., for example, Török (1997) 451–455; Kienast (2009) 336–337, fn. 63. Transl. by Horace Leonard Jones. Cf. Strabo 17.1.43: The oracle of Ammon, once famous, is now almost abandoned.

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populos pervenit ad aevi, / Defectusque epulis et pastus caede suorum / Ignoto te, Nile, reddit; de bello civili 10.263; 279–282).43 Now, Seneca in his considerations on the origin of the Nile mentions an expedition of two centurions sent to Ethiopia by Nero to solve the riddle, but was not satisfied with their report. He himself believed that the river must have its origin in a great lake beneath the surface of the earth (Quaest. nat. 6.8.3–5). However, he too, on other occasions, referred to Cambyses’ famous campaign, for instance, in his treaty De ira (3.20.2–4). His sharp criticism aimed to show up the shameful behaviour of the king, who even at the moment when his soldiers were forced to eat the flesh of their own comrades enjoyed his luxurious meals. Finally he decided to withdraw out of fear for his own life: “Rage still drove the king madly forwards, until after he had lost one part of his army and eaten another he began to fear that he also might be called upon to draw the lot for his life; then at last he gave the order for retreat (3.20.4)”.44 In a different context, the same author may well have depicted Cambyses’ image as a conqueror in brighter colours, as can be seen from Seneca’s praise of Scipio Africanus and his blessed animus: “That his soul has indeed returned to the skies, whence it came, I am convinced, not because he commanded mighty armies—for Cambyses also had mighty armies, and Cambyses was a madman who made successful use of his madness (hos enim et Cambyses furiosus ac feliciter usus habuit) —but because he showed moderation and a sense of duty to a marvellous extent” (Ad Lucilium 86.1).45 We are confronted with the fact that Cambyses was at least considered a successful conqueror, too. Seneca also adds a short remark on Cambyses as well as on Cyrus and the later kings of Persia when he criticises Alexander’s insatiable desire of conquest: “Consider Cyrus and Cambyses and all the royal line of Persia. Will you find any among them who was satisfied with the bounds of his empire, who did not end his life in some plan of advancing farther? (De beneficiis 7.3.1)”.46 Was this assessment limited to Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt? Now, in his brief catalogue of the deeds of Persian kings which an educated young Roman should keep in mind, Lucius Ampelius also referred to Cambyses’ campaigns. Cambyses is considered a mighty king, equal to his father (filius aeque Cyri). He subjugated Egypt and king Amasis. In course of the following campaign against Ethiopia fame caused the loss of a great part of his army, and Cambyses withdrew. Nevertheless, Ampelius explicitly states, he founded 43 44 45 46

Transl. by J. D. Duff. Transl. by Aubrey Stewart. Transl. by Richard M. Gummere. Transl. by John W. Basore.

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there the city of Meroë (urbem tamen ibi conduit Meroen: Liber memorialis 13.2). This remark raises a decisive question: To what extent did the post-Herodotean tradition consider Cambyses’ Ethiopian campaign partly successful, rather than a total failure? In Herodotus’ scenario, the Great King did not nearly get as far as Meroë. Nevertheless, we have to consider his remark that the Ethiopian neighbours of Egypt, “who had been conquered by Cambyses during his march to the longlived Ethiopians,” used to present gifts to Darius (Hdt. 3.97.2).47 The author probably had in mind that the Great King was proud of his reign “from the Saca who are beyond Sogdiana, from there as far as Kush, from the Indus as far as Sardis” (cf. DPh § 2).48 This element of Persian royal ideology, the claim to reign over peoples and countries “from India to Ethiopia”, is still present in the opening chapter of Esther (1.1). In a commentary on the campaign of P. Petronius against Queen Candacë mentioned above, Pliny lists a Forum Cambusis within the catalogue of cities [oppida] the Roman general conquered on his way south (NH VI 181). That cor‐ responds to the entry “Cambyses’ storerooms” [Καμβύσου ταμιεῖα] in Claudius Ptolemaeus’ geography of Africa (Geogr. 4.7.16). But the foundation of the city of Meroë by Cambyses must be part of a purely legendary tradition. Strabo took up this tradition, which connected the name of the city with the family of the conqueror: “Further, when Cambyses took possession of Aegypt, he advanced even as far as Meroe; and indeed this name was given to both the island and the city, it is said, because his sister Meroe—some say his wife—died there. The name, at any rate, he bestowed upon the place in honour of the woman” (17.1.5 C 790).49 Diodorus, too, refers to this tradition, but he identifies the king’s mother as the namesake of the city (1.33.1). In his description of the Delta-region, he also reports on a special kind of trees, called περσαῖαι, famous for their fruits, “introduced from Ethiopia when Cambyses conquered those regions” (1.34.7).50 But, in another context, the same author —following an anonymous ἰστοροῦσι (3.2.1)— underlines the total disaster of Cambyses’ campaign: “Cambyses, for 47 48

49 50

Transl. by Andrea L. Purvis. – On the marked differentiation between gifts and taxes in Herodotus’ characterisation of the Persian kings, cf. Ruffing (2018). Transl. by Kuhrt (2007) 476. – How far Cambyses was able to establish control over the northern parts of Nubia is hard to decide. Cf., for example, Cruz-Uribe (2003) 34–35 with further references. On Cambyses’ assumed measures to get control over the whole net of oases in the west and south-west of Egypt, cf. the contributions of Agut-Labordère and Kaper in this volume. Transl. by Horace Leonard Jones. Cf. on these trees, Burton (1972) 132.

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instance, they say, who made war upon them with a great force, both lost all his army and was himself exposed to the greatest peril (Καμβύσην μὲν γὰρ μεγάλῃ δυνάμει στρατεύσαντα τήν τε στρατιὰν ἀποβαλεῖν ἅπασαν καὶ αὐτὸν τοῖς ὅλοις κινδυνεύσαι); Semiramis51 also…after advancing a short distance into Ethiopia gave up her campaign against the whole nation; and Heracles and Dionysus, although they visited all the inhabited earth, failed to subdue the Ethiopians alone who dwell above Egypt, both because of the piety of these men and because of the insurmountable difficulties involved in the attempt” (3.3.1).52 —The legend of the foundation of the capital of Meroë by Cambyses seems to have been popular. Josephus, for instance, included it in his novelistic account of the campaign young Moses led against the Ethiopians and of Princess Tharbis, who fell in love with him: “In the end, they [the Ethiopians] were all driven into Saba, the capital of the Ethiopian realm (πόλιν βασίλειον οὖσαν τῆς Αἰθιοπἶας), which Cambyses later called Meroe after the name of his sister, and were there besieged” (Jos. Ant. 2.10.2 (249)).53 3 Appendix   3.1 A glimpse at the variety of facts and names in the stories on Cambyses’ family, his conquest of Egypt and his final destiny Josephus’ remark on the name of Meroë preserved the character of the city as a metropolis with a long history. But, more importantly, this remark fits more or less in with those by Diodorus and Strabo. The link between the name of a close member of Cambyses’ family—mother, sister or wife—and the famous Ethiopian capital was probably part of a widespread set of traditions contradicting Herodotus. Such traditions, especially concerning names of leading members of the king’s family and other persons of influence at the king’s court, including officers and usurpers, are testified by various fragments of lost Persika.54 Starting from the conquest of Egypt, the brief overview presented here will focus first on the divergent information about Cambyses’ female relations. Touching on the variants relating to the names of Cambyses’ brother, or brothers respectively, and will finally broach the old contentious issue of the ‘false’ Smerdis’ identity.

51 52 53 54

Stronk (2017) 112 fn. 121, points to Diodorus’ different account in 2.14.4: Semiramis “vis‐ ited most of Ethiopia, subdued it as she went [ἐπῆλθε τὰ πλεῖστα καταστρεφομένη]”. Transl. by C. H. Oldfather. Transl. by Ralph Marcus. On the genre, cf. generally Stevenson (1997); Lenfant (2009); Madreiter (2012), esp. 118–133.

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Right at the beginning of the Egyptian logos, Herodotus leaves no doubt as to who Cambyses was, namely the son of Cyrus and Cassandane, daughter of Pharnaspes, who had already died during Cyrus’ lifetime (Hdt. 2.1.1).55 This statement throws a revealing light on the play with the three versions of Cambyses’ motives for his campaign against Egypt, with which Book III starts. Since that scenario is sufficiently known, it will do to outline the essentials in schematized form.56 a) Herodotus’ first version (3.1): An Egyptian physician was sent to Cyrus, who had asked Amasis for a specialist eye doctor. Therefore that man hated Amasis (ὅς μεμφόμενος Ἀμάσι ἔπρηξε ταῦτα) and advised Cambyses to ask for the daughter of the Egyptian King. Amasis “knew well that Cambyses intended to take her not as a wife, but as a concubine (ὡς παλλακήν)”.57 Therefore he sent him Nitetis, the daughter of Apries, his former king and master (δεσπότης), whom he had murdered. Later on, as Cambyses met her, she revealed the truth to him. According to the Persians, it was “this little speech” that motivated Cambyses’ campaign. This is the ‘Persian’ version (λέγουσι Πέρσαι). b) Herodotus’ second version (3.2) is the ‘Egyptian’ version (Αἰγύπτιοι δὲ οἰκηιεύνται, Hdt. 3.2): Cambyses was the son of Apries’ daughter sent to Cyrus instead of Amasis’ own daughter.—This version is not correct (λεγόντες δὲ ταῦτα οὐκ ὀρθῶς λέγουσι). There is the rule—“and if anyone at all knows Persian customs (νόμιμα), it is the Egyptians”—that an illegitimate son cannot become king while a legitimate son is still living. Herodotus, therefore, uses his authorial voice: Cambyses is the son of Cassandane, daughter of Pharnaspes, an Achaemenid. “The Egyptians are simply distorting the facts in an attempt to link themselves to the house of Cyrus”. c) Herodotus’ third version (3.3), eventually, is declared “unbelievable” (οὐ πιθανός) by him: Cassandane hated Cyrus’ new Egyptian wife, and the boy Cambyses decided to revenge his mother.

55

56

57

According to Herodotus’ indirect reference, Cambyses’ brother Smerdis was born of the same parents. He refers to Cambyses’ brother as “born of the same father and mother as himself (ἐόντα πατρὸς καὶ μητρὸς τῆς αὐτῆς)” (Hdt. 3.30.1). Here he is in accord with Darius’ statement in DB I 29–30. An interpretation of this scenario as a “meta-discourse on the genre of historiography, on the history of the early Achaemenid empire, and indeed on the history of his [Herodotus’] own day” is given by Irwin (2017) esp. 97–108; cit. 98. – Translations of Herodotus are taken from Andrea L. Purvis. Irwin (2017) establishes a connection between this passage as well as the passages in the Histories dealing with the issue of legitimacy and inheritance with respect to the Persian royal offspring and the debate on Pericles’ Citizenship law; cf. Irwin (2017) 108–116, esp. 115.

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Herodotus’ note that the Egyptians were interested in establishing a link between the house of Apries and the house of Cyrus can, of course, equally well be understood the other way round: as the reflection of an interest to forge a tie between the foreign ruler and this Egyptian dynasty that Amasis had overthrown.58 The story of Cambyses’ abuse of Amasis’ corpse also points in this direction. At any rate, Herodotus’ variant versions resulted in a diversity of opinions not only in research. The ‘Persian version’, which Herodotus basically left undecided, also appears in Ctesias, while Dinon and Lyceas of Naucratis opted for the ‘Egyptian version’, which was firmly dismissed by Herodotus. This is attested by Athenaeus (XIII 560 d = Ctesias F 13a; Dinon F 11 Lenfant). In this way, Neitetis rises to the position of ‘second mother’ of the king.59—As regards most of the details, Ctesias’ history of the Persian kings diverges from Herodotus’ presentation.60 One of his dubious female characters is Cyrus’ wife Amytis, daughter of the Median king Astyigas.61 According to Ctesias’ account, Cambyses is her son (F 13[11]). Thus, the literary tradition of the 5th and 4th centuries BCE already comes up with three different mothers for Cambyses. Additionally, there is Meroë as a fourth, at least if we consider the variant in Diodorus already set out above. As we have seen, this name given for the metropolis of the Ethiopians could just as well be identified with a wife and/or sister of Cambyses. This variability can be understood better when looking at the variety of names the older historical tradition already uses with reference to Cambyses’ mothers, sisters and wives. In the context of the king’s evil deeds, Herodotus reports that Cambyses married two sisters and that the younger of the two was killed (Hdt. 3.31–32). The elder one can most probably be assumed to be Atossa, for we subsequently learn that the ‘false’ Smerdis married one Atossa, Cambyses’ sister and wife (Hdt. 3.68.4–5). Later on, she is known to have become Darius’ wife and Xerxes’ mother.62 Among Cambyses’ sisters, there is also Cyrus’ daughter Artystone, 58

59 60 61 62

Cf. Briant (2002) 59, on the alleged desecration of Amasis’ corpse: “… other acts and accounts also tell of his desire to be linked directly with Pharao Hophra (Apries)…. This is also the sense of one of the accounts of Cambyses that describes him as a son of Cyrus and a daughter of Apries. Amasis fell victim to a veritable damnatio memoriae”. – Marked criticism of the idea of a damnatio memoriae comes, for example, from CruzUribe (2003) esp. 37–40. Cf. also Schütze in this volume. Cf. Lenfant (2009) 149–151. For details see Bichler (2004/2007); Bichler (2011). On Ctesias’ Amytis, cf. Schmitt (2006) 218–221 (no. 3.2.5). On this Atossa, cf. Schmitt (2011) 144–145 (no. 105 Pb); she does not seem to be clearly attested in Iranian or Elamic sources; cf. Brosius (1996) 48–51; Schmitt (2011) 145–147. – According to Herodotus, Otanes’ daughter Phaidymie, too, who as his ‘spy’ in bed found out the identity of the ‘false’ Smerdis, had been married to Cambyses, and then

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who, as a young woman, was married by Darius (Hdt. 3.88.2).63—Ctesias, by contrast, operated with different names. In an episode that survives only as a fragment, one Rhoxana figures as the wife of Cambyses, who—an ill omen—gave birth to a son without a head (F 13[14]).64 The above-mentioned Neitetis—according to Dinon and Lyceas of Naucratis the king’s mother—became his concubine in Ctesias’ account (F 13a). In Herodotus’ scenario, the nameless younger sister and wife of Cambyses, who had accompanied him to Egypt (Hdt. 3.31.1), lost her life because she had reproached him with the murder of their brother and, in consequence, the extinction of his house. The way she died is told in two variants (Hdt. 3.32),65 just as is the manner in which Prexaspes killed Smerdis (Hdt. 3.30.3). Ingeniously interlinking Cambyses’ murderous acts against the Apis bull as well as against his own family, the seizure of the throne by the ‘false’ Smerdis and Cambyses’ own death, Herodotus set the scene for the next grand narrative: Darius’ rise to power. The old controversy whether Darius actually eliminated a usurper or he got rid of Cambyses’ brother need not be addressed at this point.66 In the given context it is worth mentioning, however, that in the Greek historical tradition both the names as well as the number of Cambyses’ brothers vary. In Ctesias, Cambyses’ brother is given the name of Tanyoxarces, which in its variant Tanaoxares was also used by Xenophon in the Cyropaedia (Xen. Cyr. 8.7.11).67 Ctesias also mentions two half-brothers of Cambyses, Spitaces and Megabernes. They are sons from a former marriage of Cyrus’ wife Amytis and were bestowed with high offices by him.68 This may just be mentioned in passing to illustrate the variety of names available in the entire complex of source materials. It is interesting to note that Hellanicus referred to two brothers of Cambyses, Maraphis and Merphis (FGrHist 687a F 8 = FGrHist 4 F 180 = F 111

63 64 65 66 67 68

became the wife of pseudo-Smerdis and Darius (Hdt. 3.68.3; 88.3). On the problematic nature of this presentation of Darius’ marriage politics, cf. Brosius (1996) esp. 53–63. Artystone is also well attested in Iranian and Elamic texts; cf. Schmitt (2011) 129–130 (no. 90); Brosius 1996, esp. 125–127. On Ctesias’ ‘Ρωξάνη, cf. Schmitt (2006) 185, fn. 158; Schmitt (2011) 313–314 (no. 282 Pa). See above. On the reasons for appropriate scepticism in Darius’ presentation, cf., for instance, Kuhrt (2007) 136–138. On the various positions about Darius’ genealogy, cf., for example, the critical overview in Rollinger (1998/1999). On Xenophon see above. Cf. Schmitt (2006) 166–168 (no. 3.1.22) on Μεγαβέρνης; Schmitt (2006) 191–192 (no. 3.1.37) on Σπιτάκης.

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Ambaglio).69 Whereas Merphis can be equated with Smerdis, it is not clear who was meant by Maraphis, i.e. a man from the tribe of the Maraphians. Might he actually have been another brother to Cambyses? The issue is becoming complicated because this reference to Hellanicus is contained in a scholion to Aeschylus’ Persae. There, one Maraphis is mentioned as the sixth ruler after Mardos (ἕκτος δὲ Μάραφις…, V 778). Whether or not Hellanicus referred to Aeschylus remains unclear.70 Moreover, the relevant line is frequently regarded as an interpolation.71 The question arises, however, whether the two brothers Merphis (≈ Mardos ≈ Smerdis) and Maraphis attested in Hellanicus are not part of the tradition complex around the usurper –alleg‐ edly—eliminated by Darius.72 As we know, Darius, in the Behistun inscription, speaks of only one usurper, the magus Gaumata, who pretended to be Bardiya, Cambyses’ brother. The Graeco-Roman tradition, on the other hand, uniformly tells of two brothers in the roles of kingmaker and puppet-king, with names and details varying.73 Probably before Herodotus, Dionysius of Miletus mentions one Panxuthes as kingmaker (FGrHist 687 F 2). His role obviously corresponded to that of Herodotus’ Patizeithes; nothing else is known about the matter.74 In Herodotus’ version of the story, this Patizeithes is able to put his own brother Smerdis on the throne, who not only highly resembles Cambyses’ brother but also bears the same name as the assassinated prince. His legendary narrative requires no further discussion. As is frequently the case, Ctesias came up with an alternative version. In his wild conspiracy story, Cambyses’ brother Tanyoxarces falls victim to

69 70 71 72

73

74

Cf. Lenfant (2009) 19; on Μάραφις see Schmitt (2011) 235–236 (no. 192) Μέρφις 259–260 (no. 218). Cf. Kuhrt (2007) 159: “Whether Hellanicus knew this independently of Aeschylus cannot be established…” Cf., for example, Garvie (2009) 304; Sommerstein (2008) 110–103 with fn. 116. – Shayegan (2012) 14–15, relating to the edition of M. West, advocates the preservation of line 778. Cf. Shayegan (2012) 14: “It is very likely that Hellanicus himself had retained only the story of two brothers, Merphis and Maraphis, with the former being fashioned in analogy with the name of the usurper as it appears in Aeschylus, as Μάρδος, or in Herodotus, as Σμέρδις.” Cf. Shayegan (2012) esp. 1–33. – The author presents the hypothesis “that the murder of King Bardiya and his helper Gaumāta – both of whom we consider to be historical personalities – gave rise to two distinct narratives, each targeting a specific audience” (157). Schol. Herodot. 3, 61: Διονύσιος ὁ Μιλήσιος Πανξούθην ὀνομάζεσθαι τοῦτον λέγει; cf. Lenfant 2009, 12; Schmitt (2011) 290 (no. 255).

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the magus Sphendadatas, who resembled him in appearance. Out of revenge, Sphendadatas denounced Tanyoxarces to the king, murdered him and, with Cambyses’ knowledge, took his place. After Cambyses’ death, two former confidants of the king, Bagapates and Artasyras,75 succeeded in raising him to the throne (F 13 [11–15]). Justin’s account, in turn, is closer to the Herodotian version. Presenting Cometes as kingmaker alongside Oropastes, who, as ‘false’ Mergis, fulfils the role of puppet-king, he offers a noteworthy variant, as the name Cometes clearly refers to Gaumata76 and the name Oropastes can be derived from a “religious title belonging to the magus”.77 But Ctesias’ variant is not all that far from Herodotus and Justin, either, if the duo Bagapates and Artasyras is conflated to the part of kingmaker.78 Hellanicus could also have been inspired by a narrative in which two brothers acted as kingmaker and puppet-king. Whether or not he had ‘real’ brothers in mind must remain open. The objective of this appendix has been to point out the variety of names and personae that are related to Cambyses’ family but do not coincide with Hero‐ dotus’ Histories. In conclusion, two tables may demonstrate in a paradigmatical way the degree of consistency with which Ctesias, by using ‘alternative’ names, characters and ‘facts’, created an alternate version to Herodotus’ narrative on Cambyses’ Egyptian campaign and the end of his dynasty.79   3.2 Cambyses’ Egyptian campaign Herodotus

Ctesias /Photius

Campaign against Egypt ruled by Amasis resp. Psammenitus Commander: Cambyses himself Traitor: Phanes, a mercenary Psammenitus is sentenced to death

Campaign against Egypt ruled by Amyr‐ taeus Commander: Bagapates, a eunuch Traitor: Combaphis, a eunuch Amyrtaeus will be pardoned

75 76

77 78 79

On the figure of Artasyras, cf. Schmitt (2006) 138–140 (no. 3.1.7); on Bagapates 154–155 (no. 3.1.17). Cf. Shayegan (2012) 23: “Since the name Cometes reflects that of Gaumāta, it is probable that Pompeius Trogus had sources other than Herodotus or Ctesias at his disposal, for these two historians were unaware of the name of Gaumāta (…) which presupposes the partial use of a Greek translation of the Bisotun inscription”. Cf. Shayegan (2012) 27–33, esp. 31. Cf. Shayegan (2012) 11: “Thus, although there is only a single magus in Ctesias’ account, the role played by the duo Bagapatēs and Artasyras recalls the one assumed in the Herodotean plot by Patizeithēs and in Trogus by Cometes.” For details, see Bichler (2011).

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3.3 Cambyses’ final destiny and the reign of the Magi Herodotus

Ctesias / Photius

Cambyses gave the order to kill his brother Smerdis    

Cambyses’ brother Tanyoxarces became the victim of the Magus Sphendadates, an accomplice of Cambyses  

Cambyses’ death: He injured himself with Cambyses’ death: He injured himself in his sword in a tragic accident; he gave last the thigh with a knife while wood-carving orders on the deathbed Cyrus’ death: A javelin wounded him in the thigh; he gave last orders on the deathbed A usurper, the brother of the Magus Pati‐ zeithes, pretends to be Smerdis Accomplice of the usurper: his brother Patizeithes

As a usurper, the Magus Sphendadates pretends to be Tanyoxarces Accomplices of the usurper: Bagapates and Artasyras

Former punishment of the usurper: His ears had been cut off Phaidymie, daughter of a conspirator, un‐ covers the impostor in bed

Former punishment of the usurper: He had been whipped The impostor will be surprised by the conspirators in bed with a concubine

Prexaspes confessed the deceit of the usurper, he killed himself

Izabates confessed the deceit of the usurper, he was lynched

The conspirators beside Darius : Otanes – Gobryas – Aspathines Intaphrenes – Megabyzos – Hydarnes

The conspirators beside Darius : Onophas – Idernes – Norondabates Mardonios – Barisses – Ataphernes

The magi are defeated in a dangerous fight The magus is surprised in bed with a   concubine The eunuchs supported the magi The eunuchs supported the conspirators

Bibliography Editions of classical authors Aeschylus. Persians, Seven against Thebes, Suppliants, Prometheus Bound, Alan H. Sommerstein, Cambridge Mass. and London 2008. Aeschylus. Persae. With Introduction and Commentary, Alexander F. Garvie, Oxford 2009. Les histoires perses de Dinon et d'Héraclide, Fragments édités, traduits et commentés, Dominique Lenfant, Persika 13, Paris 2009. Pausanias. Description de la Grèce I, Michel Casevitz, Jean Pouilloux, François Chamoux, Paris 1992. Onesikritos, Michael Whitby, Brill’s New Jacoby 134, Leiden 2012.

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References Ameling (1986): Walter Ameling, ‘Tyrannen und schwangere Frauen’, Historia 35, 507– 508. Bichler (2004/2007): Reinhold Bichler, ‚Ktesias „korrigiert“ Herodot. Zur literarischen Einschätzung der Persika (2004)‘, in: Robert Rollinger (ed.), Historiographie – Ethno‐ graphie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften Bd. 1, Wiesbaden (2007), 229–245. Bichler (2011): Reinhold Bichler, ‘Ktesias spielt mit Herodot’, in: Josef Wiesehöfer, Robert Rollinger and Giovanni B. Lanfranchi (eds.), Ktesias’ Welt, Classica et Orientalia 1, Wiesbaden, 21–52. Bichler (2013): Reinhold Bichler, ‘Zur Funktion der Autopsiebehauptungen bei Herodot’, in: Boris Dunsch and Kai Ruffing (eds.), Herodots Quellen – Die Quellen Herodots, Classica et Orientalia 6, Wiesbaden 135–151. Bichler (2021): Reinhold Bichler, ‘Kyros’ letzte Schlacht und sein Tod’, in: Hilmar Klinkott, Andreas Luther and Josef Wiesehöfer (eds.), Beiträge zur Geschichte und Kultur des alten Iran und benachbarter Gebiete. Festschrift für Rüdiger Schmitt, Oriens et Occidens 36, Stuttgart, 49–92. Briant (2002): Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake. Briant (2017): Pierre Briant, ‘A strange affair at Elephantine in 410 BC’, in: Pierre Briant (ed.), Kings, Countries, Peoples. Selected Studies in the Achaemenid Empire, Oriens et Occidens 26, transl. by Amélie Kuhrt, Stuttgart, 207–220. Brosius (1996): Maria Brosius, Women in Ancient Persia 559–331 BC, Oxford. Burton (1972): Anne Burton, Diodorus Siculus Book I. A Commentary, Leiden. Coulon (2013): Laurent Coulon, ‘Osiris chez Hérodote’, in: Laurent Coulon, Pascale Giovanelli-Jouanna and Flore Kimmel-Clauzet (eds.), Hérodote et l’Égypte. Regards croisés sur livre II de l’Enquête d’Hérodote, Lyon, 167–190. Cowley (1923): Arthur E. Cowley, Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century BC, Oxford. Cruz-Uribe (2003): Eugene Cruz-Uribe, ‘The Invasion of Egypt by Cambyses’, in: Trans‐ euphratène 25, 9–60. Depuydt (1995): Leo Depuydt, ‘Murder in Memphis: The Story of Cambyses’s Mortal Wounding of the Apis Bull (Ca. 523 B.C.E.)’, JNES 54, 119–126. Föllinger (2009): Sabine Föllinger, Aischylos. Meister der griechischen Tragödie, Munich. Gozzoli (2009): Roberto B. Gozzoli, The Writing of History in Ancient Egypt during the First Millenium BC (ca. 1070–180 BC). Trends and Perspectives, London. Henkelman (2011a): Wouter F. M. Henkelman, ‘Cyrus the Persian and Darius the Elamite: A Case of Mistaken Identity’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich – Herodotus and the Persian Empire, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden, 577–634.

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Henkelman (2011b): Wouter F. M. Henkelman, ‘Der Grabhügel’, in: Josef Wiesehöfer, Robert Rollinger and Giovanni Lanfranchi (eds.), Ktesias’ Welt, Classica et Orientalia 1, Wiesbaden, 111–139. Henkelman et al. (2011): Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Amélie Kuhrt, Robert Rollinger and Josef Wiesehöfer, ‘Herodotus and Babylon Reconsidered’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden, 449–470. Huß (2001): Werner Huß, Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit 332–30 v. Chr., Munich. Irwin (2017): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘Just why did Cambyses conquer Egypt? Herodotus’ logos of Cambyses’ Egyptian campaign. His story as history’, in: Robert Rollinger (ed.), Die Sicht auf die Welt zwischen Ost und West (750 v. Chr. – 550 n. Chr.), Classica et Orientalia 12, Wiesbaden, 95–141. Jacobs (2011): Bruno Jacobs, ‘Kyros, der große König, der Achämenide. Zum verwandt‐ schaftlichen Verhältnis und zur politischen und kulturellen Kontinuität zwischen Kyros dem Großen und Dareios I.’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich – Herodotus and the Persian Empire, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden, 635–663. Jansen-Winkeln (2002): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, ‘Die Quellen zur Eroberung Ägyptens durch Kambyses’, in: Tamás A. Bács (ed.), A tribute to excellence: Studies offered in honor of Ernő Gaál, Ulrich Luft, Lászlo Török, Studia Aegyptiaca 17, Budapest, 309–319. Kaper (2015): Olaf E. Kaper, ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis. New evidence about an early rebellion against Persian rule and its suppression in political memory’, in: Jason M. Solverman and Caroline Waerzeggers (eds.), Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, Ancient Near Eastern Monographs 13, Atlanta, 125–149. Kienast (2009): Dietmar Kienast, Augustus. Prinzeps und Monarch, 4th ed., Darmstadt. Konstantakos (2016): Ioannis M. Konstantakos, ‘Cambyses and the Sacred Bull (Hdt. 3.27–29 and 3.64). History and Legend’, in: Vasileios Liotsakis and Scott Farrington (eds.), The Art of History. Literary Perspectives on Greek and Roman Historiography, Berlin and Boston, 37–72. Kuhrt (2007): Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire. A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period, London and New York (repr. 2010). Madreiter (2012): Irene Madreiter, Stereotypisierung – Idealisierung – Indifferenz. Formen der Auseinandersetzung mit dem Achaimeniden-Reich in der griechischen PersikaLiteratur, Classica et Orientalia 4, Wiesbaden. Müller (2016): Sabine Müller, ‘Kambyses II., Alexander und Siwa. Die ökonomischgeopolitische Dimension’, in: Carsten Binder, Hennig Börn and Andreas Luther (eds.), Diwan. Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Kultur des Nahen Ostens und des östlichen Mittelmeerraumes im Altertum. Festschrift für Josef Wiesehöfer zum 65. Geburtstag, Duisburg, 223–245.

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Quack (2008): Joachim Friedrich Quack, ‘Lokalressourcen oder Zentraltheologie? Zur Relevanz und Situierung geographisch strukturierter Mythologie im Alten Ägypten’, ArchRel 10, 5–29. Rollinger (1998/1999): Robert Rollinger, ‘Der Stammbaum des achaimenidischen König‐ shauses oder die Frage der Legitimität der Herrschaft des Dareios’, AMIT 30, 339–373. Ruffing (2018): Kai Ruffing, ‘Gifts for Cyrus, Tribute for Darius’, in: Thomas Harrison and Elizabeth Irwin (eds.), Interpreting Herodotus, Oxford, 149–162. Schmitt (2006): Rüdiger Schmitt, Iranische Anthroponyme in den erhaltenen Resten von Ktesias’ Werk, Iranica Graeca Vetustiora III, Vienna. Schmitt (2011): Rüdiger Schmitt, Iranische Personennamen in der griechischen Literatur vor Alexander d. Gr., Iranisches Personennamenbuch VA, Vienna. Shayegan (2012): M. Rahim Shayegan, Aspects of History and Epic in Ancient Iran. From Gaumāta to Wahnām, Cambridge Mass. and London. Steins (1998): Georg Steins, ‘Die Bücher Esra und Nehemia’, in: Erich Zenger et al. (eds.), Einleitung in das Alte Testament, 3rd ed., Stuttgart 234–245. Stevenson (1997): Rosemary B. Stevenson, Persica. Greek Writing about Persia in the Fourth Century BC, Edinburgh. Stronk (2017): Jan P. Stronk, Semiramis’ Legacy. The History of Persian According to Diodorus of Sicily, Edinburgh. Török (1997): László Török, The Kingdom of Kush. Handbook of the Napatan-Meroitic Civilization, Handbuch der Orientalistik 1.31, Leiden, New York and Cologne. Tuplin (2018): Christopher Tuplin, ‘Dogs That Do Not (Always) Bark. Herodotus on Persian Egypt’, in: Thomas Harrison and Elizabeth Irwin (eds.), Interpreting Herodotus, Oxford, 99–123. Vittmann (2011): Günter Vittmann, ‘Ägypten zur Zeit der Perserherrschaft’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich – Herodotus and the Persian Empire, Classica et Orientalia 3, Wiesbaden, 373–429. Wasmuth (2017): Melanie Wasmuth, Ägypto-persische Herrscher- und Herrschaftsreprä‐ sentation in der Achämenidenzeit, Oriens et Occidens 27, Stuttgart.

Geopolitical dimensions of the Cambyses logos

On the historical and archaeological background of Cambyses’ alliance with Arab tribes (Hdt. 3.4–9)

Gunnar Sperveslage1

1 Introduction In 3.4–9, Herodotus reports on Cambyses’ prearrangement concerning his campaign against Egypt. In particular, this report mentions an alliance between Cambyses and an unnamed king of the Arabs, including safe passage and water supply. Taking Herodotus literally, the alliance with the Arabs was a crucial prerequisite, a conditio sine qua non for the Persian conquest of Egypt, as it was the only option to cross the Negev and the Sinai Peninsula.2 This contribution will discuss this alliance addressing the historical and archaeological context, focusing on the rise of Arabian kingdoms and their interaction with Egypt and Mesopotamia on the one hand and the presence of Arabian inhabitants in the eastern Nile delta during the 1st millennium BCE on the other hand. The Assyrian conquest of Egypt in 671 is discussed in particular, as Arab tribes were involved as well, creating a comparable situation. Two questions will be addressed in particular: 1. Is Herodotus’ report reliable and may we accept the alliance between Cambyses and the Arabian king as a historical event? 2. Which Arabian king or tribe, respectively, may be considered as Cambyses’ ally? 2 Herodotus’ report on the alliance The report on the alliance between Cambyses and Arab tribes comprises Hdt. 3.4–9 and is taken up again in 3.88.3 In 3.4 he states that Cambyses was planning his campaign, but did not know how to cross the desert region until he received instructions from Phanes: 1 2 3

I am very grateful to Paul Whelan for correcting my English. See also Eph‘al (1982) 140–142; Retsö (2003) 236–237. For a general commentary on Hdt. 3.4–9 see Asheri et al. (2007) 405–408.

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There he (i.e. Phanes) found Cambyses prepared to set forth against Egypt, but in doubt as to his march, how he should cross the waterless desert; so Phanes showed him what was Amasis’ condition and how he should march; as to this, he counselled Cambyses to send and ask the king of the Arabians for a safe passage.4

According to Hdt. 3.7, Cambyses followed Phanes’ suggestion and sent messen‐ gers to the Arabian king: But at this time there was as yet no ready supply of water; wherefore Cambyses, hearing what was said by the stranger from Halicarnassus (i.e. Phanes), sent messen‐ gers to the Arabian and asked and obtained safe conduct, giving and receiving from his pledges.

In Hdt. 3.8, Herodotus gives a detailed description of the general customs of the Arabs related to the forming of an alliance, which is confirmed by blood brotherhood. In the following paragraph Hdt. 3.9, he notes how the Arabian king provided a water supply for the Persian army: Having then pledged himself to the messengers who had come from Cambyses, the Arabian planned and did as I shall show: he filled camel-skins with water and loaded all his live camels with these; which done, he drove them into the waterless land and there awaited Cambyses’ army.

3 The Annals of Esarhaddon and the credibility of Herodotus This part will not be about the general credibility of Herodotus, which has been dealt with in detail by various scholars,5 but aims to contribute to the discussion by comparing the report in Hdt. 3.4–9 with a text from the annals of Esarhaddon, which reveals an almost identical situation. North Arabian tribes were involved when Esarhaddon conquered Egypt in 671 BCE. Esarhaddon’s first campaign to Egypt in 674 BCE ended in defeat, but the second campaign in 671 BCE was successful. The sources remain silent about the background of the defeat in 674 BCE. It is believed that the Assyrian troops were repulsed at one of the border fortresses in the eastern Nile delta. Another factor for the failure could have been due to the insufficient support or even complete lack of support by the Arabian tribes that controlled the caravan routes in the Negev and on the Sinai Peninsula. In the context of the second campaign, such support is highlighted in the sources. Fragment F from the annals of Esarhaddon states that, on their

4 5

All translations by Godley (1963). For an overview see e.g. Dunsch and Ruffing (2013); Bichler and Rollinger (2014).

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march through the Negev and the Sinai, the Assyrian troops were provided with water loaded on camels and thus the supply was secured: I gathered camels from all the kings of the KUR a-ri-bi and made them carry watersacks; I marched X 15 days through great dunes of sand.6

Another source for this event is a hitherto unpublished stela fragment from Qaqun in Israel. The text has similarities to Esarhaddon’s annals, but mentions in particular the Arab tribe of Mibsam as his allies, who were of fundamental support with respect to the crossing of the Sinai Peninsula.7 The striking parallels between the annals of Esarhaddon and Herodotus’ report raise the question of whether these are two different historical events or if Herodotus had information on Assyrian sources and reassigned the event to Cambyses. I shall come back to this question later on, but first I shall place the event in its historical context. Several Arabian tribes in North and Northwest Arabia interacted with Egypt and Mesopotamia, some of whom are also mentioned variously in Assyrian sources. Therefore, we might ask, which Arabian tribe Herodotus had in mind. His description of Arabia is full of details in many parts, although he oscillates between two extremes.8 On the one hand, he provides exact descriptions of manners and customs, but on the other hand he also makes very surreal statements, for instance regarding the winged serpents whose invasion of Egypt was prevented by ibises and whose skeletons he claims to have seen with his own eyes (Hdt. 2.75).9 The description of Arabia is placed in the context of the expansion of the Persian Empire. To Herodotus, Arabia is, like India, a peripheral area, located at the southernmost edge of the earth.10 Herodotus provides information on the main Arab deities, especially the goddess Alilat, which will be of importance in the discussion below. He describes the richness and the wonders of Arabia, he mentions frankincense, myrrh, and other aromatics delivered to the Persian court by the Arabs and he describes various customs in some detail, such as the already mentioned forming of an alliance by blood brotherhood. Concurrently, he remains very vague about the term ‘Arabia’ itself. He does not talk about the different tribes, different peoples, or cultures existent on

6 7 8 9 10

Frg. F Rev. 2–3, translation by Retsö (2003) 159; see also Borger (1956) 112; Eph‘al (1982) 46, 137–138. Eph‘al (2005) 109 note 38; Frahm (2017) 305. I am grateful to Dan'el Kahn for pointing me to this stela. Dihle (1990). Roberts (2011) 101–102 supposes that the winged serpents are indeed locusts. Bichler (2001); Dihle (1990).

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the Arabian Peninsula. Neither does he name cities and/or caravan routes. It is particularly striking that he does not mention the frankincense road at all. In general, Herodotus obviously did not have a clear idea of the Arabian Peninsula. 4 Arabia—an overview To place Herodotus’ report in a historical context, I will first give an overview of the history of the Arabian Peninsula according to archaeological and epigraphic sources as well as to ongoing research.11 The Arabian Peninsula was already populated during the Palaeolithic and Neolithic periods. The archaeological material of the Neolithic sites shares similarities with the Levantine Neolithic, but also shows local characteristics and innovations. It is therefore believed that the Neolithic culture spread from the Levant to the Arabian Peninsula.12 The arriving peoples assimilated with the already existing groups of specialised hunters and gatherers and hence created Neo‐ lithic cultures adapted to the natural environment of the Arabian Peninsula. The deserts and steppes provided habitats for nomadic populations, while seminomadic and sedentary lifestyles emerged early on in the oasis. The abundance of water enabled agriculture and livestock farming. In the south of the Arabian Peninsula, the mountain ranges brought about monsoon rains twice a year. This enabled an irrigated cultivation with two harvests per year and the cultivation of frankincense trees, providing the basis for the prosperity of the South Arabian cultures. The topographical and climatic conditions forced the population to adapt to the respective situation and in combination with the respective external influences led to the development of different cultural areas. Although there are existing similarities, one can distinguish three main areas: Firstly, the Northwest Arabian region with a strong influence from Egypt and the Levant, secondly, Eastern Arabia with Mesopotamian and later Hellenistic influences, and thirdly, the South Arabian kingdoms.

11 12

On the history of the Arabian Peninsula in general see for instance Grohmann (1963); Breton (2000); Hoyland (2001); al-Ghabban et al. (2010). On recent research and prospects in North Arabia see in particular Luciani (2016). Drechsler (2009).

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Fig. 1: Map of Egypt and the Arabian Peninsula (DAI, Orient Department)

The Arabian Peninsula was connected by caravan routes known as the frank‐ incense road.13 In fact, this was not a single road leading from South Arabia to the Levant, but several roads and branches that interlinked the large oasis settlements. The frankincense road started in South Arabia and split up into two roads at Najran with the eastern branch heading to the Arabian Gulf via Qaryat al-Faw and leading further on to Mesopotamia. The western branch ran towards the North to al-Ula and Tayma. There the road was split up again, one way leading northeast from Tayma to Dumat al-Jandal and onwards to Babylon, the

13

Groom (1981) 165–213; de Maigret (2003); Singer (2007).

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other northwards via Aqaba to Petra and Gaza and further on to the west and into Egypt. Another road took a course south of the Nafud desert and connected Tayma via Hail with the Arabian Gulf. On account of these routes, the large oases developed into economic centres and cultural melting pots. They gained prosperity and wealth, but also attracted the interest of the Assyrian and NeoBabylonian empires. At the end of the 2nd and the beginning of the 1st millennium BCE, South Arabia saw the rising of several kingdoms, of which Saba is the most prominent. Populations and cultures were already existent during the Bronze Age.14 The Sabir culture on the Yemeni coast already had contacts with Middle Kingdom Egypt.15 But our knowledge about the South Arabian region improves with the rise of the kingdom of Saba and the emergence of South Arabian script around 1000 BCE.16 The kingdom of Saba is first mentioned in Assyrian sources from the 8th century BCE when the governor of Suhu and Mari praises himself for having raided a caravan of merchants from Tayma and Saba.17 During the first half of the 1st millennium BCE the kingdoms of Saba, Qataban, Ausan, and Hadramaut existed in South Arabia. Saba had a hegemonic position and claimed control over the trade of frankincense and aromatics. There were also some minor independent city-states in the Jawf region, among which the kingdom of Main arose during the 6th century BCE, but was soon subordinated as a vassal to Saba. At the end of the 1st millennium BCE, the kingdom of Himyar emerged in the southwest of present-day Yemen as a counterpart of Saba. The dimensions of Sabaean trading activities are documented by a Sabaean inscription on a bronze palette. It contains the biography of a Sabaean named Sabahhumu and dates back to 600 BCE. Sabahhumu led a trading caravan from South Arabia via Dedan to Gaza and other places in the Levant and transported goods from Gaza to Cyprus.18 Other South Arabian inscriptions from the 4th century BCE make mention of trading expeditions to Mesopotamia and Egypt.19 After a safe return from Egypt, the merchants dedicated parts of the city walls of Baraqish to their main god Almaqah and carved their report on the respective walls.

14 15 16 17 18 19

Cleuziou et al. (2002); Buffa (2007). Buffa (2007); see also Manzo (2012) 50–54; Manzo (2018). Stein (2010) 46. Cavigneaux and Khalil Ismael (1990) 351. Bron and Lemaire (2009). Robin (1994).

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The eastern part of the Arabian Peninsula saw the emergence of the Dilmun civilisation already in the 4th millennium BCE.20 Its centre was first situated on the Arabian mainland around Dammam and on the island of Tarut. During the 3rd millennium, its centre moved to Bahrain. To the north, Dilmun’s sphere of control reached as far as Kuwait and the island of Failaka. Dilmun was an important trade entrepôt in the Arabian Gulf, connecting Mesopotamia and the Indus Valley civilisation, transferring in particular timber, copper, and luxury goods. Dilmun was also integrated into the network of caravan routes. On the mainland, the city of Gerrha developed as an important economic centre during the 1st millennium BCE. The trading activities with Mesopotamia led to a respective impact on the material culture of Dilmun. In the Hellenistic era, after the expeditions of Alexander the Great, Seleucid and Parthian influences become prominent in this region. North and Northwest Arabia are closely tied to Mesopotamia, the Levant, and Egypt. Remains of settlements and an extensive wall system surrounding the oasis of Tayma show that the oasis was already a substantial centre during the Bronze Age.21 Bronze weapons of Syro-Levantine type from the tombs of Sana’iye, a cemetery at Tayma, indicate that there was also a strong connection to the Levant at this time. During the Iron Age, Tayma shows a strong Egyptian influence in the archaeological material. In addition, both the archaeological finds in the North Arabian oases and the Assyrian sources reveal that in the first half of the 1st millennium BCE the economic centres and trading routes of northwestern Arabia were of interest to the Assyrian and Babylonian rulers. On several occasions, there were military conflicts with the Arab populations, especially with the kingdom of Qedar at Dumat al-Jandal.22 The Assyrian sources report that, in the 8th century BCE, Zabibe, queen of Qedar, revolted against Assur, but was made tributary to the Assyrian king. Some years later, Samsi, queen of Qedar, also had to submit to the Assyrians.23 According to the Assyrian texts, family members of the Qedarite kings and queens were deported to Assur and educated at the Assyrian court. The report in the annals of Esarhaddon concerning the support of the Assyrians by the Arabs during the campaign against Egypt has to be viewed against this backdrop of previous interrelations.

20 21 22 23

Potts (1990); Crawford (1998). Hausleiter and Zur (2016); Hausleiter (2018). On Tayma in general see for instance Eichmann (2017); Hausleiter et al. (2018a); Hausleiter et al. (2018b) and further reports in the ATLAL journal. Charloux and Loreto (2014); Charloux and Loreto (2015). Eph‘al (1982) 21–36, 82–92; Retsö (2003) 119–211; Frahm (2017).

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But despite all campaigns against the inhabitants of the oasis settlements, the Assyrian kings could not gain complete control of the area. Only Nabonidus (556–539 BCE), the last Neo-Babylonian king, started a successful campaign in the 6th century BCE and conquered the Northwest Arabian region. He took the oases of Tayma, al-Ula, and Yathrib (modern Medina) and resided at Tayma for 10 years.24 After the reign of Nabonidus, however, when the Babylonian influence was declining, the Qedarites renewed their position and the Lihyanites, another Arab kingdom, arose at al-Ula to fill the power vacuum. Probably as early as the early 1st millennium BCE, the two kingdoms of Dedan and Lihyan ruled the oasis of al-Ula.25 In the middle of the 1st millennium, probably at the end of the 6th century, the kingdom of Lihyan replaced the kingdom of Dedan. The Lihyanites expanded their sphere of influence and around 400 BCE took control of Tayma, which is located c. 120 km to the north. The kingdom of Lihyan had now become an important trading centre and was in charge of the caravan routes. The kingdom of Lihyan kept its position until in the 1st century BCE when the Nabateans spread to the south.26 While the contacts between the Arabs, or the Qedar in particular, and the Assyrian Empire included military conflicts, contacts between Egypt and Arabia were confined to trading activities.27 Military campaigns are not recorded, but archaeological fieldwork has exposed Egyptian artefacts at almost all sites on the Arabian Peninsula; they were found in the large oases in particular. These finds or their contexts can be dated respectively from the Early Iron Age to Hellenistic and Roman times. As a land bridge, the Sinai Peninsula was of major importance for the contacts between Egypt and Arabia. Arabian populations are visible in the archaeological material of the Sinai as early as the Late Bronze Age, as is documented by a specific group of painted pottery. The so-called Qurayyah Painted Ware or Hejaz Ware had a wide distribution in the Hejaz, the Negev, and the Arabian Peninsula.28 This type of pottery is also known in the literature as Midianite Pottery, although there is no proof that connects this pottery to the Midianites. Thus today this pottery is rather referred to as Qurayyah Painted Ware, as Qurayyah in the northwest of present-day Saudi-Arabia is the main

24 25 26 27 28

Beaulieu (1989); Schaudig (2001); Retsö (2003) 181–184. Farès-Drappeau (2005). Rohmer and Charloux (2015). Sperveslage and Eichmann (2012); Sperveslage (2013); Sperveslage (2016); Sperveslage (2018); Sperveslage (2019). Rothenberg and Glass (1983); Parr (1988); Rothenberg (1998) 92–94; Hausleiter (2014); Tebes (2014).

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findspot of this ware.29 It is characterised by a specific inventory of polychrome decorative patterns. This pottery was widespread in Northwest Arabia, the Levant, and on the Sinai Peninsula during the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age. The Qurayyah Painted Ware was found in large numbers at Timna; in particular at the Hathor temple at Timna, where it was found in contexts from the 19th and 20th Dynasties.30 The producers of this pottery were hence in close contact with the Egyptians in the mining areas of Timna. Presumably, they worked as miners in the copper mines in Egyptian service.31 The producers of this ware, although their cultural identity is not known so far, played an active role in the development of networks of trade and communication between Egypt and Arabia as well as in the exchange of objects, ideas, and motives. In the Early Iron Age, several Egyptian artefacts, mainly small amulets, but also faience vessels, are present in the material from a building complex O-b1 at Tayma, which seems to be a temple or sanctuary.32 These objects of Egyptian origin most likely served as votive offerings to the local gods. Additionally, in this context imitations of Qurayyah Painted Ware in a local Taymanite style were found.33 5 The silver hoard from Tell el-Maskhuta and its implications for Cambyses’ campaign This short overview provides a historical background in which Herodotus’ report can be placed. During the 1st millennium BCE, there existed a close network between Egypt, Mesopotamia, and the Arabian Peninsula with the Sinai Peninsula as a point of intersection. At the time of Cambyses, the Qedar at Dumat al-Jandal ruled in the north of the Arabian Peninsula. A little further to the south the Lihyanites at al-Ula controlled the northwestern part of the Peninsula. Arabs were also present on the Sinai Peninsula. A find from the eastern Nile delta is of particular interest in this respect and brings us back to Cambyses and a possible identification of the Arabs from Herodotus’ report. In the middle of the 20th century, the Brooklyn Museum acquired a set of silver bowls.34 Their exact origin is uncertain, but they most probably derive

29 30 31 32 33 34

Luciani and Alsaud (2018). Rothenberg and Glass (1983); Parr (1988) 76; Rothenberg (1998) 92–94. Rothenberg (1998); Sperveslage (2016) 310–312. Sperveslage (2013) 240–243; Sperveslage (2016) 312–317; Sperveslage (2019) 61–81. Hausleiter (2014); Hausleiter (in press). Rabinowitz (1956); Rabinowitz (1959); Honeyman (1960); Dumbrell (1971); Vittmann (2003) 181–182; Sperveslage (2019) 180–185.

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from the same context as a hoard of Athenian Tetradrachms, which was found in 1947 in the eastern Nile delta at Tell el-Maskhuta. The hoard comes from a small sanctuary and mainly contains coins from the 5th century BCE, the oldest one is dated around 480 BCE. It was probably laid down in the first quarter of the 4th century BCE.35 Four of the silver bowls each bear an Aramaic inscription according to which they were dedicated to the Arabian goddess Han’ilat.36 One bowl names the king of the Qedarites as the donator. Therefore, we may presume that there was a Qedarite sanctuary for the goddess Han’ilat in the Egyptian eastern Nile delta. Both paleographically and typologically, the bowls can be dated to around 400 BCE.37 No. 1 is a hemispherical bowl with a rosette at the base. The rosette is surrounded by a ring, and between the ring and the rosette is engraved a short Aramaic inscription:38 lhnʾlt (brought in offering) to Han’ilat.

The inscription names the goddess Han’ilat to whom the object is donated. The donator himself is not mentioned. The position of the inscription might indicate a secondary engraving. No. 2 is a phiale mesomphalos, a flat bowl with an omphalos in the middle of the base, usually used for libation. The rim is slightly shouldered and bears an engraved Aramaic inscription on its underside:39 zy qynw br gšm mlk qdr qrb lhnʾlt That which Qaynu, son of Gashmu, King of Qedar, brought in offering to Han’ilat.

The inscription names Qaynu, a king of the Qedar. According to common opinion, the father of the founder, Gashmu, is associated with the Old Testa‐ ment Geshem.40 However, Gashmu is a name that is well documented in the northwestern Arabian onomasticon, as it is known from Thamudic, Lihyan, Safaite, Qatabanese, and Nabatean records. In the 3rd century BCE, a Lihyan king named Gashmu, son of Laudhan is known to have ruled for about 9 years. Another Lihyanite person named Gashmu, son of Shahru lived at the

35 36 37 38 39 40

Dumbrell (1971) 33. Rabinowitz (1956); Rabinowitz (1959). Dumbrell (1971) 37–38. Rabinowitz (1956) 2–4, Pl. III; Dumbrell (1971) 35. Rabinowitz (1956) 2, 5–8, Pl. VI–VII; Dumbrell (1971) 36. Rabinowitz (1956) 6–7; Dumbrell (1971) 42; Vittmann (2003) 182; Winnicki (2009) 149.

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end of the 5th century BCE. He bears no title, but is mentioned together with a governor and therefore was probably an elite functionary.41 Due to chronological considerations, some scholars identify this Gashmu, son of Shahru with the Gashmu from the inscription on the bowl.42 But as Qaynu, son of Gashmu, is designated as a Qedarite and Gashmu, son of Shahru, is a Lihyanite, this equation seems to be very unlikely, particularly as the name Gashmu is attested quite often. Thus, we have to presume that Qaynu, son of Gashmu, is a Qedarite king who, so far, is not attested in other records. No. 3 again is a hemispherical bowl, but with a high rim. The base shows a rosette as bowl no. 1, the body is decorated with lotus blossoms. An Aramaic inscription is engraved below the rim:43 zy qrb ṣḥʾ br Ꜥbd-Ꜥmrw lhnʾlt That which Ṣeḥa’, son of ‘Abd‘amru, brought in offering to Han’ilat.

While the name of the father, ‘Abd‘amru, is a Semitic name, the name of the donator, Ṣeḥa’, goes back to Egyptian Ḏd-Ḥr.

Fig. 2: Silver bowl (no. 3) from Tell el-Maskhuta (after Vittmann (2003) 181, Fig. 91b)

41 42 43

Farès-Drappeau (2005) 122–123, 174–175, no. D65, 114–115, 221, no. D153. Rabinowitz (1956) 7; Dumbrell (1971) 42. Rabinowitz (1956) 2, 4–5, Pl. IV–V; Dumbrell (1971) 36.

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No. 4 is a hemispherical bowl with a high rim similar to No. 3, but without any decoration except an Aramaic inscription below the rim:44 ḥrbk br psry qrb lhnʾlt ʾlhtʾ Ḥarbek, son of Pausire, brought (it) in offering to Han’ilat, the goddess.

Both names are Egyptian. The name of the donator, Harbek, goes back to Egyptian Ḥr.w-bjk, the name of the father, Pausire, can be identified with Egyptian PꜢ-(n-)Wsr.(w) or rather Demotic Pa-Wsr.(w). All four bowls are offerings to the goddess Han’ilat whose name simply means ‘the goddess’. The element hn- is a definite article, well attested in the early North Arabian dialects.45 Han’ilat is identical with the goddess Allāt, which is well known in pre-Islamic Arabia and which is also the main goddess of the Qedarites.46 Allāt in turn seems to be identical with the goddess Alilat known to Herodotus, whom he equates with Aphrodite-Urania.47 In Hdt. 3.8, Herodotus mentions Alilat in the context of the Persian campaign in Egypt as one of the goddesses that were invoked within the blood brotherhood ceremony to affirm the alliance. In the same paragraph, Herodotus names the god Orotalt and identifies him with Dionysus. He misleadingly reports that Alilat and Orotalt are the only deities worshipped by the Arabs. It is a matter of debate which god has to be identified with Orotalt. It is suggested that Herodotus refers to Dushara, the head of the Nabataean pantheon, or possibly to Ruda, who is well known from North Arabia.48 The donation to Han’ilat indicates that the bowls formed part of the inventory of a temple or sanctuary dedicated to this respective goddess. This sanctuary was located at Tell el-Maskhuta in the eastern Nile delta, a place where the main caravan routes from across the Sinai Peninsula entered Egypt. As Han’ilat is the main goddess of the Qedarites and as one of the bowls (no. 2) is a donation by the king of Qedar, it is suggested that this sanctuary was not established by isolated Arabs or a peripheral group. The donation of an object by the king of Qedar rather leads to the assumption that there was a Qedarite community at 44 45 46 47

48

Rabinowitz (1959) 154–155, Pl. I–III; Dumbrell (1971) 35. Farès-Drappeau (2005) 65. Wenning (2013) 337–339. Hdt. 1.131; 3.8. On the identification see Parr (2003) 28, Vittmann (2003) 181, 276–277 note 5; Farès-Drappeau (2005) 65–66; Asheri et al. (2007) 407–408; Wenning (2013) 338; compare also Hämeen-Antilla and Rollinger (2001) for a different opinion. Both are arguing against this identification on etymological reasons, as the article al- is otherwise not attested in the times of Herodotus. See for instance Knauf (1989) 59; Hämeen-Antilla and Rollinger (2001) 95–97; Parr (2003) 28; Asheri et al. (2007) 407.

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Tell el-Maskhuta and that this community had close ties to the Qedarite centre at Dumat al-Jandal. The offering by the Qedarite king also stresses the high status of the sanctuary. The Qedarites might have controlled the trade and caravan routes across the Sinai Peninsula. The Arab presence at Tell el-Maskhuta must have been very influential for the region as a whole and must have existed for a long time. This region, the 20th nome of Lower Egypt, was known as ‘Arabia’ since Ptolemaic times and Herodotus already described Tell el-Maskhuta as an ‘Arab city’.49 Apparently, Arabs seem to have lived in this region for several generations, even though the silver bowls are the only evidence they have left. Noteworthy in this context are the names of the founders. On bowl no. 2, both names are of Semitic or early North Arab origin, on bowl no. 3 the name of the donator is Egyptian (Ṣeḥa’ < Ḏd-Ḥr), while that of his father is Semitic. Finally, bowl no. 4 shows the Aramaic versions of Egyptian names both for the donator (Ḥarbek < Ḥr.w-bjk) and his father (Pausire < PꜢ-(n-)Wsr.(w) / Pa-Wsr.(w)). The bowls can thus be interpreted as a marker of gradual acculturation of the Qedarite Arabs.50 An Arab settlement or community at Tell el-Maskhuta could have been established as part of trading activities between Egypt, the Levant, and the Arabian Peninsula. The site is located at the opening of the Wadi Tumilat, which formed an entrance to Egypt from Sinai and was a highly frequented route. Tell el-Maskhuta was therefore an ideal place for a trading colony. There are settlement remains from the Second Intermediate Period, but according to the archaeological material, from the New Kingdom until the 26th Dynasty Tell elMaskhuta was not populated. Settlement remains are again attested in the 26th Dynasty, during the reign of Necho II.51 This means that an Arab settlement could not have existed before 600 BCE. Its founding may therefore be related to the Persian conquest of Egypt by Cambyses in 525 BCE and the alliance between Cambyses and the Arabs.52 If this is the case, the Arabs who allied with the Persians were most likely Qedarites.53 After they had been made tributary to the Assyrians in the 8th and 7th centuries BCE, the Qedarites became subjected to Nabonidus after his conquest of Northwest Arabia. When Babylonian hegemony in northern Arabia had ended after Nabonidus, the Lihyanites filled the power vacuum in the region of al-Ula and Tayma, but in the north, the Qedarites seem

49 50 51 52 53

Hdt. 2.158. Vittmann (2003) 182; see also Winnicki (2009) 150. MacDonald (1980) 57; Paice et al. (1996). See also Honigman (2002) 52–54. Previously scholars assumed that they might be identified as Nabataeans or ProtoNabataeans; see Knauf (1989); Parr (2003) 28.

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to have gained a renewed and powerful position that resulted in a profitable alliance with the Persians.54 According to Hdt. 3.88 and 3.91 they maintained their independence and were free from paying tributes or taxes to the Persians: So Darius son of Hytaspes was made king, and the whole of Asia, which Cyrus first and Cambyses after him had subdued, was made subject to him, except the Arabians; these did not yield the obedience of slaves to the Persians, but were united to them by friendship, as having given Cambyses passage into Egypt, which the Persians could not enter without the consent of the Arabians.

In Hdt. 3.91, he mentions again that the Arabians were not charged any tribute: except the part belonging to the Arabians, which paid no tribute.

6 Conclusions The parallels between the annals of Esarhaddon and the report of Herodotus on Cambyses is striking. As there are no other sources that prove an alliance between Cambyses and Arab tribes, Herodotus might have placed a historical event from the time of Esarhaddon in the context of the Persian conquest of Egypt. However, the archaeological material indicates that the role of the Arabs in the Negev, on the Sinai Peninsula, and in northwestern Arabia should by no means be underestimated.55 They were in charge of the great oases and water stations. Therefore, they had control over the desert roads and were able to grant or deny access. Any expedition, regardless of whether it was a trading or a military expedition, was dependent on their courtesy. The tribe of Qedar was bound to the Assyrian Empire in particular. They were tributaries to the Assyrian king and family members of the Qedarite rulers were brought to the Assyrian court to be educated. The particular tribe that supported Esarhaddon during his campaign to Egypt remains unnamed in the annals but is identified as the tribe of Mibsam on the stela from Qaqun. The Tell el-Maskhuta bowls indicate that at least around 400 BCE the sphere of influence of the Qedar reached as far as the eastern Nile delta. The Qedarite community at Tell el-Maskhuta might have emerged with or after the Persian conquest of Egypt and can be interpreted as a result of the alliance between Cambyses and the Arab tribes. Thus the tribe of Qedar, who had a renewed and powerful position after the end of the Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires, is a very likely candidate for an alliance in connection with the conquest of 54 55

See also Dumbrell (1971) 41–42. See also Eph‘al (1982) 137–142.

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Egypt. Herodotus’ report fits with the historical and archaeological situation in Northwest Arabia. With this background, his description of the alliance between Cambyses and the Arabs is very plausible. Bibliography Editions of classical authors Herodotus, Vol. 2: Books III and IV, Alfred Denis Godley, London and Cambridge, Ms. 1963.

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An “Ammonian Tale” Cambyses in the Egyptian Western Desert

Damien Agut-Labordère

To the memory of Eugen Cruz-Uribe (1952–2018)

Ἀμμώνιοι μὲν οὕτω λέγουσι γενέσθαι περὶ τῆς στρατιῆς ταύτης (Hdt. 3.26.3), Herodotus thus concludes the famous tale about the destruction of the detach‐ ment that Cambyses had sent to subdue the Ammonians after he had seized Egypt. While Philippe-Ernest Legrand, the author of the reference translation in French, stayed close to the Greek text: Voilà, à en croire les Ammoniens, ce qui est advenu à cette armée. 1, his British colleague, Alfred-Denis Godley, chose an exceedingly swift and colourful way: “Such is the Ammonian tale about this army.”2 In doing so, Godley made it even more obvious that the story of the ‘lost army of Cambyses’ originated exclusively from the Western Desert. Godley’s choice of translation invites us to a study of the sources on this part of the Herodotean text. This analysis shows that Herodotus’ narrative juxtaposes two testimonies of different origins; while only the Ammonians attest to the destruction of the Persian detachment, other testimonies only attest to the arrival of Cambyses’ troops in Kharga. That the Great Oasis may have been the real purpose of the Persian expedition to the Western Desert is perfectly in line with what recent archaeological discoveries have taught us about the history of this region. At the end of the 6th century BC, Kharga and Dakhla constituted the major strategic nodes in the eastern Sahara.

1 2

Legrand (1939) 57. Godley (1928) 37.

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1 Herodotus’ testimonies on the Persian Expedition against the Ammonians   1.1 The passages concerning the expedition in Herodotus, Book 3 The Persian expedition to Siwa is mentioned in three passages. All belong to the same part of the third book of Herodotus’ Histories, which is entirely devoted to the description of what Pierre Briant designated as Cambyses’ “great ‘African project’”3. The first one announces the outline of the description of the operations conducted (or planned) by the Persians in Africa after the conquest of Egypt4, while the third serves as a (dramatic) conclusion (relevant passages are bold)5: 3.17

Cambyses’ plan to attack Carthage, “Ethiopia”, and the Ammonians

3.18

The Table of the Sun

3.19–24

In Elephantine, Cambyses sends spies to the King of Ethiopians

3.25

Sending a detachment to the Oasis and failure of Cambyses’ expedi‐ tion against the Ethiopians

3.26

In the Libyan Desert, the Persian troops are destroyed by a storm

Hdt. 3.17.1–2, Cambyses plans the raid against the Ammonians, among other military operations in Africa, after he had conquered Memphis and Lower Egypt. The raid appears as part of a plan to conquer North Africa, from modern Sudan to Tunisia6. After this Cambyses planned three expeditions, against the Carchedonians [= Cartha‐ ginians], against the Ammonians, and against the ‘long-lived’ Ethiopians, who inhabit that part of Libya that is on the southern sea. He decided after consideration to send his fleet (τὸν ναυτικὸν στρατόν) against the Carthaginians and a part of his land army (τοῦ πεζοῦ ἀποκρίναντα) against the Ammonians; to Ethiopia he would first send spies (κατόπτας), to see what truth there was in the story of a Table of the Sun in

3 4 5 6

Briant (2002) 54. On the chronology of the conquest see Quack (2011) and Joannès (2020) analyzing Babylonian documents. See also the table proposed by Asheri et al. (2007) 394–395. On Herodotus’ mental map of the Western Desert, see Bichler (2013) 84, Karte 22.

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that country, and to spy out all else besides, under the pretext of bringing gifts for the Ethiopian king.7

Hdt. 3.25.3, This passage is of crucial importance: First, it helps to situate the Saharan expedition within the chronology of the Persian military operations in Egypt; the Persian detachment took the road to the Libyan Desert after the conquest of Memphis, while Cambyses continued his way to Thebes. Second, this passage provides insights regarding the significance of the expedition within Cambyses’ overall military strategy; unlike Alexander, the Persian King did not lead the troops who penetrated the Western Desert in person, because reaching Thebes and “Ethiopia” was his priority. When he came in his march to Thebes (ἐπείτε δὲ στρατευόμενος ἐγένετο ἐν Θήβῃσι), he detached about fifty thousand men from his army, and directed them to enslave the Ammonians and burn the oracle of Zeus; and he himself went on towards Ethiopia with the rest of his host.

Hdt. 3.26.1–3, the third passage is incomparably more detailed; the abundant historiography of “Cambyses’ lost army” is based on its interpretation8. (1) So fared the expedition against Ethiopia. As for those who were sent to march against the Ammonians, they set out and journeyed from Thebes (ἐκ τῶν Θηβέων) with guides; and it is known that they came to the city of Oasis, inhabited by Samians said to be of the Aeschrionian tribe (τὴν ἔχουσι μὲν Σάμιοι τῆς Αἰσχριωνίης φυλῆς λεγόμενοι εἶναι), seven days’ march from Thebes across sandy desert; this place is called, in the Greek language, Islands of the Blest. (2) Thus far, it is said, the army came; after that, except for the Ammonians themselves and those who heard from them, no man can say anything of them; for they neither reached the Ammonians nor returned back. (3) But this is what the Ammonians themselves say: when the Persians were crossing the sand from Oasis to attack them, and were about midway between their country and Oasis, while they were breakfasting a great and violent south wind arose, which buried them in the masses of sand that it bore; and so they disappeared from sight. Such is the Ammonian tale about this army (Ἀμμώνιοι μὲν οὕτω λέγουσι γενέσθαι περὶ τῆς στρατιῆς ταύτης).

3.26.1 confirms what 3.25.3 suggested: the starting point of the detachment to the Libyan Desert was at the level of the city of Thebes. This is consistent with what archaeology teaches us about the geography of the trails that connected the Nile 7 8

English translation here and in the following quotes after Godley (1928) (slightly modified). For examples see Kaper (2015) 141 note 39.

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Valley to the Western Desert. John and Deborah Darnell proved the existence of a track, designated as ‘Girga Road’, that linked Thebes to the northern end of Kharga oasis as early as the 3rd millennium BC and was still in use during the 2nd millennium BC9. Although our knowledge of the routes of the Western Desert in the 1st millennium BC is incomplete, it is very likely that the detachment sent by Cambyses followed this well-established route. Then, and this is a crucial point, Herodotus takes great care to distinguish two origins of these testimonies. For the members of the first group, which could be described as ‘everyone except the Ammonians’, nothing is known after the departure of the Persian detachment from the Great Oasis10, except that it did not return to Thebes. A second group, which only includes the Siwites, reported the well-known story of the destruction of Cambyses’ army by a sandstorm11. Although Godley’s translation as ‘Ammonian tale’contorts the meaning of the Greek text slightly, it is of great help because it highlights this essential aspect of the source criticism made by Herodotus himself.   1.2 The two sources of Herodotus and the objective of the Persian expedition In 3.26.1–3, Herodotus gave little credit to the story of the typhonic sandstorm: “But this is what the Ammonians themselves say” (λέγεται δὲ κατὰ τάδε ὑπ᾽ αὐτῶν Ἀμμωνίων; Hdt. 3.26.3). As it is unlikely that Herodotus visited Siwa in person, the story of the destruction of the Persian army must have come to him through an intermediary. This go-between may be identified as the Cyreneans, as they are clearly mentioned in the expedition of the Nasamons (Hdt. 2.32–33), another ‘Ammonian tale’ reported by Herodotus12. Moreover, the story of the lost army of Cambyses recalls another Herodotean report also concerning an Achaemenid military debacle that occurred for enigmatic reasons. Further, this 9

10 11 12

Darnell and Darnell (2013). The connection between this trail and those identified within the Great Oasis is not perfectly clear, see Rossi and Ikram (2013) 274–78. Moreover, the demotic graffiti discovered in Armant are not related to the “Girga Road”, Di Cerbo and Jasnow (1996). Armant is indeed one of the starting points for the track that led to the southern part of Kharga oasis, Darnell and Darnell (2002) 44. On tracks connecting the Nile valley with the Great Oasis during Roman Period see Wagner (1987) 141. ἡ ὄασις πόλις 3.26.1 refers to the Great Oasis which includes the areas of Dakhla and Kharga, Wagner (1987) 124. On the sandstorm episode, see Schwab in this volume. “But I heard this from some men of Cyrene (ἀνδρῶν Κυρηναίων), who told me that they had gone to the oracle of Ammon, and conversed there with Etearchus king of the Ammonians, and that from other subjects the conversation turned to the Nile, how no one knows the source of it.” (Hdt. 2.32).

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report is also of Cyrenean provenance. The army sent by the satrap Aryandes panicked when they tried to seize Cyrene: “Then, although no one attacked them, panic seized the Persians, and they fled to a place seven miles distant and camped there; and while they were there, a messenger from Aryandes came to the camp asking them to return” (Hdt. 4.203). This passage led B. M. Mitchell to point out Herodotus’ “Cyrenean bias” aiming “to clean the Cyreneans (who were presumably his informants) from any suspicion of medism.” And a few lines below: By the time Herodotus visited Cyrene, the city has broken away from Persia, and his informants seem to have lent respectability to their story by adding the inconsistent and unlikely details of the Persians’ intended return, Cyrenean thoughts of resistance, and, although there was no fighting, a sudden and inexplicable panic on the Persian side.13

In such a context, one can imagine that the account of the destruction of Cambyses’ army by the Ammonians was received with complacency in Cyrene and promptly memorialized into the Cyrenean history of the Western Desert. On the contrary, the Greek historian does not doubt that a Persian detachment left Thebes and reached Hibis, the main city of Kharga oasis. Unfortunately, he remains unclear about the origin of his sources on this part of the expedition. However, it can be assumed that the Grecs égyptiotes 14 (the Greeks settled in Egypt for a long time) and the Egyptian priests and interpreters interviewed by Herodotus reported the same thing. The mention of Σάμιοι living in Hibis could also be considered in this perspective, if it actually designates Greek immigrants settled in the Western Desert. However, Osing proposes to see in the Herodotean Σάμιοι an interpretatio graeca of the name of a Libyan tribe known by the Egyptian Šmn or Šn attested in the so-called “smaller Dakhla Stele” (Ashm. Mus. N°1984, 107b)15. It is therefore difficult to be certain about the ethnic origin of these people. Herodotus specifies that they belong to the tribe of the Aischriones (Αἰσχριωνίης φυλῆς), an ethnonym that is difficult to contextualize either in Greece or in Egypt.16 It remains highly probable that this part of his account arises from the common memory of the Greeks living in Egypt. It means

13 14 15 16

Mitchell (1966) 104. I use the expression forged by Jean Yoyotte (who puts the word égyptiote in quotation marks), Yoyotte (2013) 558. Osing (1998) 1447–1448. “The word φυλή can mean a tribe, a military unit based on the tribe (cf. VI. 1), or a clan or genos (cf. IV. 149, 111).” Asheri et al. (2007) 426. Other references in Yamauchi (1996) 378, note 32.

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that Herodotus 3.26.1–3 results from the merging of two testimonies coming from two different sources. The first one confirms the sending of a Persian detachment from the Theban region to Hibis, which appears to Herodotus and his contemporaries as undeniable certainty, while the desert trip from Hibis does not seem to be unanimously accepted, except by the Ammonians themselves. As the last one constitutes an exemplum illustrating the power of Amun, one can have doubts about its truth. Succinctly, if Cyreneans were at the origin of the information concerning Siwa and the dramatic end of the Persian expeditionary force, Egyptians, and more particularly Greeks of Egypt, gave Herodotus the elements which enabled him to describe the itinerary followed by the Persians from Thebes to Hibis. Such a hypothesis that the Herodotean narrative combines two different sources had already been proposed in 1863 by French geographer Louis Vivien de SaintMartin, but differently than it is suggested here: Nous pensons donc, en résumé, qu’Hérodote ayant reçu des renseignements situés sur le plateau qui domine la Cyrénaïque (c’est l’oasis de Siwah), et, d’un autre côté, ayant recueilli les récits qui avaient cours en Égypte sur l’expédition de Cambyse contre l’oracle d’Ammon (qui est celui de Dakhèl), il aura d’autant plus aisément confondu cette double indication, que ces oasis de l’ouest ont été, de tout temps, peu fréquentées et peu connues. Ayant ainsi, d’une part, noté exactement la distance des Ammoniens du nord par rapport à Augila, et, de l’autre celle des Ammoniens du sud par rapport à Thèbes, il a effacé, en les confrontant, la distance de vingt jours qui les sépare. Ainsi s’explique naturellement l’erreur de l’historien.17

Vivien de Saint-Martin refers here to the list of oasian peoples living on the ‘sandy ridge’ that separates Thebes from the Column of Heracles (Hdt. 4.181). Herodotus places the oasis of the Ammonians ten days further east to Thebes and ten days further again lies the oasis of Augila (Hdt. 4.182) (now Awjila in Libya). This passage demonstrates that Herodotus ignored the geography of the Western Desert. Either, as Vivien de Saint-Martin suggested, he conflated Dakhla, actually situated at ten days from Thebes, and Siwa, or he passes the latter over in silence. The first of these seems the best because, whether it is Dakhla or Siwa, it is impossible to reach the second from Thebes in ten days or to reach Awjila from the first in the same amount of time. The only possibility is that Herodotus merged Dakhla and Siwa into a single entity that we could call the territory of the Ammonians. This hypothesis finds an element of confirmation in Herodotus 3.25.3, presented above. While the Persian

17

Vivien de Saint-Martin (1863) 41–42.

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detachment was sent from Thebes, which is an unsuitable place to launch an army at the conquest of Siwa, Cambyses assigns this troop the objective “to enslave the Ammonians and burn the oracle of Zeus”. Even if a cult of the Theban Amun is attested in Dakhla18, it is much more likely that, in the mind of a mid-5th century BC Greek, the reference to the oracle of Zeus refers to Amun of Siwa. Consequently, the Persian detachment had to seize all the oases of the Western Desert from Dakhla to Siwa, which constitutes the territory of the Ammonians, meaning all the oases except for Kharga, precisely where, his Egyptian source assures, the Persian soldiers have passed. Therefore, all evidence indicates that control of the Ammonian lands, from Dakhla to Siwa, was the objective of the Persian expedition. 2 The territory of the Ammonians at the end of the 6th century BC: the strategical motivations of Cambyses This last assumption corresponds partly to that proposed by Vivien de SaintMartin and, at about the same time, by Brugsch19. Partially, because, for these two authors, Dakhla was the one and only objective of the army sent by Cambyses.   2.1 The Southern Oasis as a zone of rebellion The importance of Dakhla as a military objective was recently confirmed by the extraordinary discovery, made at Amheida by Olaf Kaper, of a monument stone dedicated by the rebel king Petubastis IV20. This king was long known to Egyptologists only through a few documents gathered by Jean Yoyotte21. The new finds in Dakhla led Olaf Kaper to re-evaluate the meaning of the Persian expedition in depth: Cambyses sent part of his army into the Western Desert from Thebes, not in order to attack Siwa, but to confront Petubastis, who was preparing a rebellion in the Southern Oasis. (…) Since none of the soldiers are said to have returned, we must conclude that army was defeated by Petubastis.22

Uzume Wijnsma has recently contradicted this view. After a thorough study of all the documentation related to Petubastis, she concludes that the latter acceded

18 19 20 21 22

Kaper (2015) 140, note 35. Cited by Rohlfs (1875) 332–333; see Kaper (2015) 140. Beadnell (1909) 89–92 contains a complete account of the discussions on this subject at the end of the 19th century. Kaper (2015). Yoyotte (1972). Kaper (2015) 141, see Kaper in this volume.

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to the throne between January and April 521 BC and was included–without being explicitly named–by Darius among the “liar kings” in his inscription at Bisutun. This chronology weakens the hypothesis that the Persian detachment had come as far as Dakhlah to fight Petubastis at the time of the conquest of Egypt four years earlier.23 Unfortunately, the only documents mentioning a possible year 1 of Petubastis–three fragments of papyrus discovered in a dump in the pyramid of Meidum–cannot be dated with certainty. The alleged Year 1 of Petubastis could be situated just after the death of Cambyses, in competition with the reign of Darius, as Uzume Wijnsma proposes24, but nothing prohibits placing it under Cambyses. At the present time, no decisive argument can be brought forward. Let us leave, for the moment, this insoluble question, to go a six or seven decades later, in the 460s BC, a few years before Herodotus travelled Egypt. It is noteworthy that the neighbouring Kharga oasis also stands out as a point of challenge to Persian power. The excavations in Ayn Manâwir, at the southern end of the oasis, delivered a contract (O. Man. 5446) dated from the reign of Pharaoh Inaros who took up arms against Artaxerxes I in the late 460s BC25. The course of this revolt is well documented, as Thucydides (Thuc. 1.104) recounts how Athens sent 200 ships to the rescue of Inaros and its men who were unable to drive out the Persian garrison from Memphis26. By proposing to read the title of this prince pꜢ wr n nꜢ bkꜢl.w “The Great of the Bakales” (and not pꜢ wr n nꜢ bks.w “The Great of the rebels” as first suggested by Chauveau), Winnicki made this oasis king the leader of a Libyan tribe settled at Tokra, on the shore of Cyrenaica27. It is perhaps no coincidence that Tokra, the main town for the rebellious Bakales, is situated a few kilometers from Barka, the city that was at the origin of the overthrow and murder of the pro-Persian king of Cyrene Arkesilas III under Darius I28. The discovery of this ostracon in the far south of Kharga indicates that all oases of the Western Desert corresponding to the territory of the Ammonians had probably slipped under the authority of the rebel king in the 460s BC as was the case (except for Kharga) a few decades earlier in the 520s BC under the rule of Petubastis. Thus, from south of the Kharga oasis to Cyrenaica, through all oases of the Western Desert, lies an area that is prone 23

24 25 26 27 28

Wijnsma (2018) 172, note 69: “I am hesitant to connect the story of a sandstorm in Herodotus to a suppressed memory of a battle between Petubastis and Persian forces (as suggested by Kaper 2015, 141), which would entail the assumption that Petubastis was already active during Cambyses’ reign.” Wijnsma (2018) 165. Kahn (2008). Chauveau (2004). Winnicki (2006). Marini (2018) 27–28; 46–47.

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to rebel against the Persians. This unstable zone, from the Achaemenid point of view, certainly includes the marshlands of the Western Delta, where Inaros and Amyrtaios, another rebel king, took refuge during the 450s BC29. In the end, the sending of the detachment by Cambyses was the first attempt by the Persians to control the vast territory of the Ammonians lying between Egypt and Libya.   2.2 The territory of the Ammonians as a prosperous march between Egypt and Libya This political space was structured around the trans-Saharan caravan trade. A route between Thebes and Western Sahara passing through Siwa was first identified by Mario Liverani’s accurate comment about Herodotus 4.181–18530. In an article published in 2008, Eugene Cruz-Uribe hypothesized for the first time that Cambyses’ goal in the Western Desert was also of an economic nature: “It seems much more logical that Cambyses, just as he did in Nubia as noted above, wanted to expand and control trade routes going through the Western Desert of Egypt.”31 Since then, several studies have confirmed this analysis. In 2013, David Klotz proposed considering the political control of the oases by the Saites as part of a Mediterranean strategy32, while John C. Darnell, David Klotz, and Colleen Manassa pointed out that the consolidation of the Egyptian presence in the Western Desert is concomitant with the reinforcement of the ties between the Saite dynasty and the Libyan world33. This policy culminated in the alliance between Amasis and Cyrene accompanied by a marriage between Amasis and Ladike (Hdt. 2.181). This political rapprochement has its roots in geography. As the Saites came from the western extremity of the Delta, it is not surprising they are at the origin of a closer relationship between the Egyptian and Libyan worlds. The latter is marked by the rise of the city of Cyrene as well as that of Carthage. This analysis of the history of the Western Desert proposed by Egyptologists is in line with the conclusions by Classicists. In 2016, Sabine Müller compared Cambyses’ and Alexander’s expeditions to Siwa in the light of Macedonian trade interests on the route to Cyrenaica34. It is therefore within the framework of a political history that goes beyond the Persian conquest of Egypt that the sending of a detachment to the Western Desert oasis by Cambyses must be interpreted. The conqueror of

29 30 31 32 33 34

Kahn (2008) 435–437. Liverani (2000). Cruz Uribe (2008) 37. Klotz (2013). Darnell et al. (2013) 16–17. Müller (2016) 233–235.

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Egypt could not let such a vast and strategical region turn toward another king (if the reign of Petubastis IV is located during that time) or let someone else take advantage of the disappearance of the Saite power to acquire autonomy. 3 Political memories of the Western Desert and the Herodotean account The two memories juxtaposed by Herodotus fit perfectly with the political geography of the Western Desert during the Persian period. The Egyptian-Greek narrative allows following the path of the detachment to Hibis, the ultimate point of Persian domination. Further west, from Dakhla, it is the memory of the Ammonians that takes over, providing the account of the typhonic destruction that marked generations and generations of Herodotus’ readers. Such a dichotomy is still expressed by the etymology of the Arabic names of the two Southern oases; while Kharga derives from the verb kharaj “to leave” (the valley), Dakhla comes from dakhl “to enter” (in the desert)35. The story reported by the Ammonians would prove that the son of Cyrus failed in his attempt to control the Ammonians. Reading Herodotus 3.26.2, it is clear that, for the Greeks of Egypt and for the Egyptians, the Persian detachment did not retrace its steps. It was precisely thanks to this gap, thanks to the disappearance of Cambyses’ soldiers after they left Hibis, that Herodotus was able to integrate the ‘Ammonian tale’ into his narrative of Cambyses’ Egyptian campaign. If, as we are inclined to think, Cambyses merely wanted to ensure the control of Dakhla and the closest oases to the Nile valley, the Persian detachment, coming from Hibis, could then have passed through Bahariya before reaching Lower Egypt (without passing through Siwa)36. As there was no reason for this return to Lower Egypt not taking a prominent place in people’s minds, the narratives proposed by the various collective memories to which Herodotus had access could, therefore, be intertwined. The ‘Ammonian tale’ made it possible to fill in the narrative gap of the Egyptian and Greek memories. The ensemble had the additional advantage of offering a dramatic story that was in line with Herodotus’ very negative view of Cambyses. In doing so, Herodotus did not manipulate his reader. Even if his bricolage conforms to his wishes, he warns

35 36

Ikram and Rossi (2018) 3. A very beautiful map drawn up by Corinna Rossi shows the route probably taken by the Persian detachment north of Kharga; arriving from the northeast scarp, via ed-Deir, before reaching Hibis and then leaving for Ayn Amur and Dakhla, Ikram and Rossi (2018), 552, fig. 432.

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us against the ‘Ammonian tale’, following Godley’s luminous translation37. It is his or her own taste for disasters that the reader must condemn, not Herodotus’ ability to construct his narrative. Bibliography Editions of classical authors Herodotus with an English Translation in Four Volumes II. Books III and IV, Alfred Denis Godley, London and New York 1928. Hérodote. Histoires Livre III. Thalie, Philippe-Ernest Legrand, Paris 1939.

References Asheri et al. (2007): David Asheri, Alan B. Lloyd, and Aldo Corcella, A Commentary on Herodotus Books I–IV, Oxford. Beadnell (1909): H. J. Llewellyn Beadnell, An Egyptian Oasis. An Account of the Oasis of Kharga in the Libyan Desert, with Special Reference to its History, Physical Geography, and Water-Supply, London. Bichler (2013): Reinhold Bichler, ‘Zur Veranschaulichung geographischen Wissens in Herodots Historien’, in: Dietrich Boschung, Thierry Greub, and Jürgen Hammerstaedt (eds), Geographische Kenntnisse und ihre konkreten Ausformungen, Munich, 74–89. Briant (2002): Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake (IN). Chauveau (2004): Michel Chauveau, ‘Inarôs, prince des rebelles’, in: Friedhelm Hoffmann and Heinz-Josef Thissen (eds.), Res Severa Verum Gaudium. Festschrift für Karl-Theodor Zauzich zum 65. Geburtstag am 8. Juni 2004, Studia Demotica 6, Leuven, 39–46. Chauveau (2014): Michel Chauveau, (dir.), Les ostraca démotiques d’Ayn-Manâwir. Editio princeps en ligne. Available on http://www.achemenet.com/fr/tree/?/sources-textuelle s/textes-par-langues-et-ecritures/egyptien-hieroglyphique-et-demotique/ostraca-d-a yn-manawir#set. Cruz Uribe (2008): Eugen Cruz Uribe, ‘The Invasion of Egypt by Cambyses’, Transeu‐ phratène 25, 9–60. Darnell and Darnell (2002): John C. Darnell and Deborah Darnell, Theban Desert Road Survey in the Egyptian Western Desert, Volume 1: Gebel Tjauti Rock Inscriptions 1–45 and Wadi el-Hôl Rock Inscriptions 1–45, OIP 119, Chicago. Darnell and Darnell (2013): John C. Darnell and Deborah Darnell, ‘The Girga Road: Abu Ziyar, Tundaba, and the integration of the southern oases into the Pharaonic state’,

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in: Franck Förster and Heiko Riemer (eds), Desert Road Archaeology in Ancient Egypt and Beyond, Africa Praehistorica 27, Cologne, 221–263. Darnell et al. (2013): John C. Darnell, David Klotz, and Colleen Manassa, ‘Gods on the Road: The Pantheon of Thebes at Qasr el-Guheita’, in: Christophe Thiers (ed.), Documents de théologie thébaine tardive, Les Cahiers Égypte Nilotique et Méditérranéenne 8, Montpellier, 1–31. Di Cerbo and Jasnow (1996): Christina di Cerbo and Richard Jasnow, ‘Five Persian Period Demotic and Hieroglyphic Graffiti from the Site of Apa Tyrannos at Armant’, Enchoria 23, 32–38. Ikram and Rossi (2018): Salima Ikram and Corinna Rossi, North Kharga Oasis Survey Explorations in Egypt’s Western Desert, Leuven. Joannès (2020): Francis Joannès, ‘Conquérir l’Égypte grâce à la Babylonie. Réflexions sur la chronologie du règne de Cambyse en Babylonie’, in: Damien Agut-Labordère, Rémy Boucharlat, Amelie Kuhrt and Matthew W. Stolper (eds.), Achemenet. Vingt ans après. Études offertes à Pierre Briant à l’occasion des vingt ans du Programme Achemenet, Persika 21, Leuven, 201–216. Kahn (2008): Dan’el Kahn, ‘Inaros’ rebellion against Artaxerxes I and the Athenian disaster in Egypt’, CQ 58/2, 424–440. Kaper (2015): Olaf Kaper, ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis: New Evidence about an Early Rebellion against Persian Rule and Its Suppression in Political Memory’, in: Jason M. Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers (eds), Political memory in and after the Persian Empire, Ancient Near East Monographs 13, Atlanta, 125–149. Klotz (2013): David Klotz, ‘Administration of the Deserts and Oases: First Millennium BCE’ in: Juan Carlos Moreno García (dir.), Ancient Egyptian Administration, Handbuch der Orientalistik I.104, Leiden, 964–1027. Liverani (2000): Mario Liverani, ‘The Libyan Caravan Road in Herodotus IV. 181–185’, Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 43, 45–57. Lloyd (1975): Alan B. Lloyd, Herodotus Book II. Introduction, Études préliminaires aux religions orientales dans l’Empire romain 43/1, Leiden. Marini (2018): Sophie Marini, Grecs et Libyens en Cyrénaïque dans l’Antiquité. Aspects et vicissitudes d’un rapport millénaire, Paris. Mitchell (1966): B. M. Mitchell, ‘Cyrene and Persia’, JHS 86 (1966), 99–113. Müller (2016): Sabine Müller, ‘Kambyses II., Alexander und Siwa: Die ökonomischgeopolitische Dimension’, in: Carsten Binder, Henning Börm, Andreas Luther (eds.), Diwan. Untersuchungen zu Geschichte und Kultur des Nahen Ostens und des östlichen Mittelmeerraums im Altertum. Festschrift für Josef Wiesehöfer, Duisburg, 223–245. Osing (1998): Jürgen Osing, ‘Beiträge zu den Oasen’, in: Willy Clarysse, Antoon Schoors and Harco Willems (eds.), Egyptian Religion: The Last Thousand Years, II, Orientalia Lovanensia Analecta 84, Leuven, 1443–1448.

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Quack (2011): Joachim Quack, ‘Zum Datum der persischen Eroberung Ägyptens unter Kambyses’, Journal of Egyptian History 4, 228–246. Rohlfs (1875): Gerhard Rohlfs, Drei Monate in der libyschen Wüste, Kassel 1875. Rossi and Ikram (2013), Corinna Rossi and Salima Ikram, ‘Evidence of Desert Routes across Northern Kharga: Egypt’s Western Desert’, in: Frank Förster and Heiko Riemer (eds), Desert Road Archaeology in Ancient Egypt and Beyond, Africa Praehistorica 27, Cologne, 265–82. Vivien de Saint-Martin (1863): Louis Vivien de Saint-Martin, Le Nord de l'Afrique dans l'antiquité grecque et romaine: étude historique et géographique, Paris. Yamauchi (1996): Edwin Yamauchi, ‘Cambyses in Egypt’, in: Joseph E. Coleson and Victor H. Matthews (eds), ‘Go to the Land I Will Show You’. Studies in Honor of Dwight W. Young, Winona Lake (IN), 371–391. Wagner (1987): Guy Wagner, Les Oasis d'Égypte à l'époque grecque, romaine et byzantine, Cairo. Winnicki (2006): Jan K. Winnicki, ‘Der libysche Stamm der Bakaler im pharaonischen, persischen und ptolemäischen Ägypten’, AncSoc 36, 135–142. Yoyotte (1972): Jean Yoyotte, ‘Pétoubastis III’, RdE 24, 216–223. Yoyotte (2013): Jean Yoyotte, Histoire, géographie et religion de l’Égypte ancienne. Opera selecta. Textes édités et indexés par Ivan Guemeur, Orientalia Lovanensia Analecta 224, Leuven, Paris and Walpole (MA).

The revolt of Petubastis IV during the reigns of Cambyses and Darius

Olaf E. Kaper

In 2015, I published a study on the king Petubastis IV, triggered by the find of a temple decorated in his name that had been erected in Dakhla Oasis (Kaper 2015).1 The study demonstrated that this king, who ruled during the early years of the Persian domination, had been far more important than was previously realised. The new material established that Petubastis IV had successfully revolted against Persian rule after which he had been crowned in Memphis and that he controlled Upper Egypt. Moreover, his reign lasted long enough to undertake building activities in the Dakhla Oasis, which must have been an important power base for him. This paper gave the impetus to a new study of the rebellion by Uzume Wijnsma,2 who confirmed my findings while interpreting the new data in relation to the Bisitun inscription and the other known rebellions against Persian domination under Cambyses, Bardiya I and Darius I. Frédéric Payraudeau has published a new history of Late Period Egypt, in which the Petubastis revolt is also included in detail.3 In the present volume, Damien Agut-Labordère presents a new study of Cambyses’ interest in the oases of the Western Desert. These studies stimulate further discussion of the period and the historical issues involved, and in the present contribution, I will focus on two crucial points in the debate: The start of the revolt of Petubastis IV, and the aims of Cambyses’ purported expedition into the Western Desert. 1 When did the revolt of Petubastis IV commence? Both Wijnsma and Agut-Labordère identify Petubastis with one of the liar-kings mentioned in the Bisitun inscription. This identification has become inescapable 1 2 3

Since that publication, the topic was also referred to in Kaper (2015b) 51–54; Kaper (2017) and in Kaper (2018) 271–272. Wijnsma (2018). Payraudeau (2020) 284–286. Dodson (2018) provides a summary on Petubastis IV.

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following the recent findings in Dakhla. Wijnsma also attempts to determine the minimal length of the revolt, and concludes that this lasted “at least two years, perhaps more than three years”.4 Her careful argumentation is hindered by a “documentary gap” between 522 and 518 BC when there are particularly few sources to work with.5 The Bisitun text describes how, during the time Darius stayed in Babylon in December 522 BC, a series of revolts broke out against him, including in Egypt. Subsequently, Darius fought a series of battles and he claims to have crushed the rebellions and killed the responsible “liar-kings”.6 The remarkable omission of Egypt among the list of defeated enemies indicates that the Egyptian rebellion was not crushed immediately, and it is also noticeable that the name of the Egyptian “liar-king” is not given. Again in the later additions to the Bisitun inscription, in which Darius boasts about the defeat of Elam and Scythia in his second and third regnal years, Egypt is not mentioned.7 This silence is one of the strongest arguments for the success and longevity of the Egyptian rebellion, which was probably crushed only in 518 BC. However, we need to determine how accurate the Bisitun inscription is as a historical source for the start of the rebellions. Wijnsma accepts the information in the Bisitun inscription for the start of the rebellion in Egypt in December 522. At the same time, she admits that one of the rebellions in the Bisitun list, that of Nebuchadnezzar III in Babylon, is known to have started already in August 522, before Darius had made his claim to the throne.8 Apparently, the rebellions did not all coincide, and some may have started already before Darius’ reign. The Bisitun text simplified this situation with the aim of presenting Darius as a strong king who overcame many initial difficulties. The Babylon example shows that we should not exclude the possibility that the Egyptian revolt also started earlier. Wijnsma considers three alternative scenarios for the revolt, but all with the same starting moment in December 522 or the months immediately thereafter.9 Payraudeau has likewise opted for a start of the rebellion during the confusion following the departure of Cambyses from Egypt.10 Agut-Labordère says, more carefully, that the rebellious king assumed authority as king after Cambyses left Egypt, leaving open the possibility that the rebellion had already started earlier. There is indeed an

4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Wijnsma (2018) 173. Wijnsma (2018) 159–161. Kurth (2007) 140–157, §21. Wijnsma (2018) 167. Wijnsma (2018) 163. Wijnsma (2018) 165. Payraudeau (2020) 285.

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argument in support of an earlier start of the rebellion itself, namely the fateful military expedition sent by Cambyses into the Western Desert. 2 What was the purpose of Cambyses’ desert expedition? The desert campaign of Cambyses is only recorded by Herodotus (3.25–26), but with a large amount of detail and with mention of different sources, so that this story deserves to be taken as more than an anti-Persian fantasy. Admittedly, there are some serious problems with the contents of the story,11 but the description of the army departing from Thebes and arriving in the town of Oasis seven days later is entirely credible.12 The major elements of uncertainty concern the purpose of this expedition, and its subsequent route. Agut-Labordère has concluded that the expedition was a preventive measure directed against the prosperous oases that, also because of their connections to Cyrenaica, were considered likely to revolt.13 There is no evidence to support this theory. There is, however, an alternative scenario that provides a more urgent motivation for Cambyses’ desert campaign once we accept that the revolt of Petubastis may well have commenced earlier than 522 BC, as was argued above, and that the oases played an important role in the revolt. The presence of a temple built in the name of Petubastis IV in Amheida, Dakhla Oasis, is an argument in favour of the importance of this particular oasis for the rebel king.14 Additional support for an oasis link of the rebellion is the remarkably intensive investment in the infrastructure of the Southern Oasis (Kharga and Dakhla) that becomes apparent after the defeat of Petubastis.15 If the revolt used the Southern Oasis as its power base, then the measures taken by Darius I were aimed at reestablishing control over the oases. Moreover, the desert expedition of Cambyses may then be explained as a punitive measure aimed at suppressing a dangerous rebellion, or in Herodotus’ words: “to reduce the Ammonians to total slavery.” (3.25.3) The revolt explains why the arduous journey through the desert needed to be made, and why it should be a large force. It also helps to explain why the expedition did not return, because they were facing major military opposition from a rebellious group in the oasis. The story of the sandstorm was always

11 12 13 14 15

Kaper (2015a) 139–140. Wagner (1987) 124; Kaper (2015a) 140. Agut-Labordère, this volume. Kaper (2015a) 135, 137. Kaper (2015a) 144–145.

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more fantastic than it could be credible,16 but a military confrontation is more likely to have dispersed the Persian army and severely reduced its number. After the defeat of the Persian army, the rebel forces managed to expand their territory to the north, and they even wrested the capital Memphis away from Persian control.17 It remains an open question whether the Persian forces remained in control of part of the delta, as the inscription of Udjahorresne seems to suggest,18 or whether the entire country was united under Petubastis IV. In any case, after a few years, Darius I managed to regain control over the country and the rebellion was soon forgotten. Herodotus did not hear about Petubastis’ revolt, and he only managed to record a confusing story about the army of Cambyses that got lost in a sandstorm. As for the chronology of the revolt, it is important to take into account two dated papyri that are probably from year 8 of Cambyses, and which were found at Asyut.19 These documents show that Cambyses was still recognised as ruler in Middle Egypt in 522 BC, shortly before his death. If the Petubastis revolt had indeed already started in the Southern Oasis under Cambyses, the spreading of the revolt over the rest of Egypt must have taken place only after Cambyses had left the country. In this light, the reference to the Egyptian revolt in the Bisitun inscription can be understood as referring to the Upper Egyptian rebellion of Petubastis spreading to the capital Memphis at the start of Darius’ reign, as is also concluded by Agut-Labordère (this volume). 3 Who were the Ammonians? One more point in Herodotus’ narrative still requires some further comments. According to Herodotus, Cambyses aimed to “reduce the Ammonians to total slavery and to set fire to the oracle of Zeus”.20 The term Ammonians in combination with the oracle of Zeus (Ammon) has always led commentators to link this story to the oasis of Siwa. This is partly because Herodotus describes the Spring of the Sun of the Ammonians (4.181.2–4), which is known from various other, mostly Latin, authors as a specific spring in Siwa.21 However, the reconstruction presented above gives more weight to the Dakhla Oasis than to Siwa. It can be concluded, as does Agut-Labordère (this volume), that

16 17 18 19 20 21

Lloyd (1988) 63; Kaper (2015a) 141; Schwab, this volume. Kaper (2015a) 138. Kaper (2015a) 138. Wijnsma (2018) 162. Translation Purvis (2007) 218. Corcella (2007) 705.

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Herodotus employs the term Ammonians with a wider geographical reference than later sources. This is most explicit in his description of the Ammonians in 4.181.2: “The first of these peoples, on a ten-days’ journey from Thebes, are the Ammonians. They have a sanctuary of Zeus derived from that of Theban Zeus which, as I mentioned earlier, has an image of Zeus with a ram’s head”.22 Only Dakhla Oasis lies at ten days’ distance from Thebes, and it had a cult centre for Amun-Re of Karnak in its capital, Mut el-Kharab.23 There is at present little evidence for the iconography of Amun-Re in Dakhla from before the Roman period, but in later images, e.g. at the temple of Deir el-Hagar, Amun often has a ram’s head and rams were kept as a sacred animal and buried at El-Muzawwaqa cemetery.24 Therefore, Herodotus’ mention of the Ammonians could as well refer to the inhabitants of Dakhla as to Siwa and probably the other oases too. All oases of the Western desert were dominated by cults of the god Amun with a ram’s iconography.25 The temple of Hibis in Kharga was dedicated to Amun-Re, as was the main temple of Dakhla, at Mut el-Kharab, where Amun shared this position with the god Seth. Amun was also important in Bahariya,26 and of course in Siwa,27 but the Southern Oasis seems to be particularly important here, because it was the first region on the road of Cambyses’ army. There is no later source that refers to the inhabitants of the Southern Oasis as Ammonians, but Herodotus’ perception of the geography of the Western Desert is schematic and combines data he heard about different oases merged into one.28 One of the problems that may have led to this confusion was that there were no separate names in Greek for the five large oases that we distinguish nowadays, not until much later.29 When Herodotus mentions the oracle of Siwa it is simply designated as “the oracle of Ammon in Libya” (1.46.2). The other Egyptian oases he merges with Siwa into one and calls all of its inhabitants Ammonians. Because Siwa was the most famous among the oases, especially with the Greeks, the oracle of Ammon (Zeus) is mentioned in the tale about the lost army of Cambyses, in which it did, in fact, not belong. Alan Lloyd has commented that “Greek observers subsequently embellished the tale under the

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

Translation Purvis (2007) 356. Hope (2005) 4. Winlock (1936) 36, pls 20–22, 24–25. Guermeur (2005) 564. Guermeur (2005) 428–434; Labrique (2008). Guermeur (2005) 423–427; Vaelske (2017). Leclant (1950) 242–243. Wagner (1987) 125–126; 138–140.

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influence of the anti-Cambyses tradition into an abortive attempt to destroy one of the most famous and respected oracular shrines in the world”.30 4 Conclusion The revolt of Petubastis IV may have started in the Southern Oasis already during the reign of Cambyses. The story of the army that was sent into the Western Desert, as related by Herodotus, is to be taken seriously exactly because it refers to an enemy presence in the oases at this point in time. The recent find in Dakhla of a temple decorated in the name of king Petubastis IV demonstrates that his rebellion was successful and provided stability for a while, at least in Upper Egypt. It is likely that Darius resumed control of the country only in 518 BC, which means that the Petubastis’ rebellion may have lasted for four years. Bibliography Corcella (2007): Aldo Corcella, Book IV, in: David Asheri, Alan Lloyd and Aldo Corcella, A Commentary on Herodotus Books I–IV, Oxford et al., 545–721. Dodson (2018): Aidan Dodson, ‘Petubast I–IV’, in: Roger S. Bagnall, Kai Brodersen, Craige B. Champion, Andrew Erskine, and David Hollander (eds), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, DOI: 10.1002/9781444338386.wbeah15324. Guermeur (2005): Ivan Guermeur, Les cultes d'Amon hors de Thèbes: recherches de géographie religieuse, Bibliothèque de l’École des hautes études, sciences religieuses 123, Turnhout. Hope (2005): Colin A. Hope, ‘Mut el-Kharab: Seth’s city in Dakhleh Oasis’, EgA 27, 3–6. Kaper (2015): Olaf E. Kaper, ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis: New Evidence about an Early Rebellion Against Persian Rule and Its Suppression in Political Memory’, in: Jason Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers (eds), Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, Atlanta, 125–149. Kaper (2015b): Olaf E. Kaper, The Temples of the Late Period, in: Roger S. Bagnall, Nicola Aravecchia, Raffaella Cribiore, Paola Davoli, Olaf E. Kaper, and Susanna McFadden, An Oasis City, New York, 46–56. Kaper (2017): Olaf E. Kaper, ‘Het leger van Cambyses dat verdween in de Egyptische woestijn’, Phoenix: Tijdschrift voor de archeologie en geschiedenis van het Nabije Oosten 63(2), 34–47. Kaper (2018): Olaf E. Kaper, ‘Construction de temples et politiques de contrôle du désert occidental d’Égypte: L’exemple de l’oasis de Dakhla aux époques saïte et perse’,

30

Lloyd (1988) 64.

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in: Gaëlle Tallet and Thierry Sauzeau (eds), Mer et désert de l'Antiquité à nos jours: Approches croisées, Rennes, 265–280. Kurth (2007): Amélie Kurth, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period, London. Labrique (2008): Françoise Labrique, ‘Les divinités thébaines dans les chapelles saïtes d’Ayn el-Mouftella’, in: Alain Delattre and Paul Heilporn (eds), « Et maintenant ce ne sont plus que des villages… » : Thèbes et sa région aux époques hellénistique, romaine et byzantine. Actes du colloque tenu à Bruxelles les 2 et 3 décembre 2005, Brussels, 3–16. Leclant (1950): Jean Leclant, ‘« Per Africae Sitientia ». Témoignages des sources classi‐ ques sur les pistes menant à l’oasis d’Ammon’, BIFAO 49 (1950), 193–253. Lloyd (1988): Alan B. Lloyd, ‘Herodotus on Cambyses: some thoughts on recent work’, in: Amélie Kuhrt and Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg (eds), Achaemenid history, III: Method and Theory. Proceedings of the London 1985 Achaemenid History Workshop, Leiden, 55–66. Payraudeau (2020): Frédéric Payraudeau, L’Égypte et la vallée du Nil, 3: les époques tardives (1069–332 av. J.-C.), Nouvelle Clio: l’histoire et ses problems, Paris. Purvis (2007): Andrea L. Purvis in: Robert B. Strassler, ed., The Landmark Herodotus, The Histories, New York NY. Vaelske (2017): Veit Vaelske, ‘Ein Widder für Ammon: Ein früher Beleg für griechische Votivpraxis in der libyschen Oase Siwa’, AA 101, 31–47. Wagner (1987): Guy Wagner, Les oasis d’Égypte à l'époque grecque, romaine et byzantine d’après les documents grecs, BdE 100, Cairo. Wijnsma (2018): Uzume Z. Wijnsma, ‘The Worst Revolt of the Bisitun Crisis: A Chrono‐ logical Reconstruction of the Egyptian Revolt under Petubastis IV’, JNES 77, 157–173. Winlock (1936): Herbert E. Winlock, Ed Dakhleh Oasis: Journal of a Camel Trip Made in 1908, Publications of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Department of Egyptian Art 5, New York NY.

Pindaric ‘arrows’ in Herodotus: Ψάμμος (Hdt. 3.26) Just a sandstorm or also a rebel(lion)?

Andreas Schwab1

πολλά μοῐ ὑπ’ ἀγκῶνος ὠκέα βέλη ἔνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας φωνάεντα συνετοῖσιν· ἐς δὲ τὸ πὰν ἑρμανέων χατίζει. σοφὸς ὁ πολλὰ εἰδὼς φυᾷ·

I have many swift arrows under my arm in my quiver that speak to those with under‐ standing, and they thoroughly crave oracular interpreters. Wise is that announcer who knows many things by nature; ἐπεὶ ψάμμος ἀριθμὸν περιπέφευγεν (…) For grains of sand escape counting (…)2

1 Introduction This paper follows on from the contributions by Damien Agut and Olaf Kaper, who approach Herodotus' narrative of Cambyses’ campaign against the Ammonians from different perspectives: both scholars understand and interpret the logos within the context of archaeological, historical and geopolitical considerations. Such approaches offer much to interpretation, and yet as one would expect with a highly concentrated text like Herodotus’ Histories, not only do some questions remain unanswered, but other new questions arise 1

2

Beside the stimulating and rich contributions of Damien Agut and Olaf Kaper, I would like to express my special thanks to Liz Irwin, Anne Dumke, Claas Lattmann, Elisabeth Schwab and Alexander Schütze for their encouragement, careful readings and discussions of earlier versions of this contribution. The time and research for this article profited from the support of the DFG Heisenberg Programm (434158561). Pindar, 2. Olympian Ode, 82–86; 98; translation vv. 82–86 by Most (1986) 316, slightly adapted.

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from their analyses. This contribution marries some of their conclusions with observations that arise from close attention to the linguistic features of the text in their wider literary context, arguing that Herodotus’ narrative is even more multilayered than previously assumed, and also more ambiguous. In my analysis, I draw special attention to those Pindaric “arrows” (βέλη) and resonances in Herodotus’ text, which perhaps—in Pindar’s words from his second Olympian Ode (Ol. 2.85)—speak (φωνάεντα) to those who understand, yet also long for “oracular interpreters”.3 My aim is not to provide a new interpretation of the whole, but merely to draw attention to those details in Herodotus’ text that highlight the rich literary content of his composition. This will be illustrated by a short passage (Hdt. 3.26) from the narrative on Cambyses to which I address the following questions. Is it conceivable that Herodotus draws “arrows” (βέλη) from Pindar’s quiver in this narrative? That he is perhaps shaping and imprinting with these arrows and poetic themes not only the episode about the anthropophagy on the Ethiopian campaign (Hdt. 3.25.5–7) but also the enigmatic narrative from the Ammonians? Do we have any linguistic hints of this? Is there possibly a literary game yet to be recognized in this and the preceding text passage, one that operates in particular with the Greek word ψάμμος (psammos) for sand and sandy desert? Sand that—again, in Pindar’s words—“escapes counting” (ψάμμος ἀριθμὸν περιπέφευγεν)? If so, what would be the implications of such an understanding about the narrative of the campaign against the Ammonians? Would such findings raise or even negate the plausibility of a sandstorm or a rebellion? To begin with, I will summarize the interpretations of Agut and Kaper in brief. Then I turn to the analysis of the ‘Herodotean soundings’ that highlight the multi-layeredness and complexity of the text. Through my investigation, I would like to show how the text’s literary and poetic design—with special attention to wordplay as well as references to Pindar—may support Kaper’s and Agut’s theses regarding a possible rebellion. 2 The Campaign against the Ammonians: Two Interpretations In Herodotus’ account of the conquest of Egypt by the Persian king Cambyses and his army, after the fall of Memphis (Hdt. 3.13–15) and the entry into Sais (Hdt. 3.16),4 three further planned military campaigns are mentioned: against 3

4

For the ἑρμανεῖς see Most (1986) 308–16, who comments on the voice and the addressees of the ‘thought-arrows’, 313: „(…) not only do these thought-arrows require people to express them, they also crave such people: here, as elsewhere, Pindar speaks of themes of poetry thirsting for or otherwise desiring expression.” On Cambyses in Sais, see Schwab (2020) 245–52.

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the Carthaginians, Ammonians and Ethiopians (Hdt. 3.17).5 While the naval fleet to conquer the Carthaginians never even occurs because the Phoenicians refuse to join the Persians piously respecting their kinship ties with the Carthaginians (Hdt. 3.19.2–3)6 and while the campaign versus the Ethiopians ends in a ‘cannibalistic’ disaster on its way in the desert of sand (ψάμμον, Hdt. 3.25.6), the third campaign against the Ammonians is likewise ill-fated, ending in the Persian army’s uncanny disappearance without a trace in the desert sand (Hdt. 3.26.1–3).7 The contributions by Olaf Kaper and Damien Agut consider this campaign and both attempt to explain the purpose of such an expedition leading from Upper Egyptian Thebes into an oasis (Hdt. 3.26.1). While both address the questions of which oasis this could have been and the reasons for which Cambyses would have sent such a large army into the desert, they present differing explanations. Agut argues that the Persian king was interested in the oases of the western desert primarily for geopolitical and economic control over a rebellious region: the Persian king sought to control a rebellion zone, both to protect his power and to benefit economically from maintaining control over valuable trade routes.8 Kaper bases his contribution on recent archaeological excavations in the Dakhla Oasis9 that point to an Egyptian king Petubastis IV who allegedly rebelled against Persian rule successfully and controlled large parts of Upper Egypt: this new material proves that Petubastis IV successfully rebelled against Persian rule, as a result of which he was crowned in Memphis, and that he ruled Upper Egypt. Kaper argues that the underlying reason for the expedition of Cambyses’ army into the desert ought to be seen as designed to secure a rebellious region. According to Kaper, the story of the sandstorm is more fictitious than credible: a military confrontation is more likely to have dispersed the Persian army and heavily reduced its number. As the main lines of these arguments by Agut and Kaper point out, (a) the narrative about the Persian army’s defeat in a desert storm is a source of contention: while Kaper speaks of a “fantastic story”, Agut emphasizes the Ammonians as the “tendentious” source of a narrative from which Herodotus distances himself. Apart from the problem of accounting for the creation of this story, the question arises, (b) whether there could be circumstantial evidence in Herodotus for a rebellion in the desert. Kaper believes that Herodotus did not 5 6 7 8 9

On the campaign against the Ethiopians, see Irwin (2014). On Cambyses’s respect for the Phoenicians, see Schwab (2020) 253–4. On the campaign against the Ammonians, see Schwab (2020) 254–6. See Agut’s contribution to this volume. See Kaper (2015) and his contribution to this volume.

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hear about Petubastis’ revolt, but could only manage to record a “confused story” about the army of Cambyses that got lost in a sandstorm. A third challenge is to determine (c) who might be meant by the “Ammonians”.10 3 Analyzing Linguistic Aspects and Circumstantial Evidence One objective of my contribution is to examine this “confused” story or the “tale” of the sandstorm from the point of view of its linguistic structure and hence, in the light of the best-case scenario, to open up further perspectives on the historical and archaeological findings. It is noteworthy that not only sand and sandy desert (psammos) play a central role in the Ammonian episode (Hdt. 3.26.1–3), but also in the preceding context with the description of the campaign to defeat the Ethiopians and the desert (Hdt. 3.25.6 ἐς τὴν ψάμμον) as a place of ruin.11 I will first show that Herodotus’ narrative of the campaign against the Ammonians contains some linguistic clues that are ambiguous to his Greek readers. These clues reveal hints of earlier Greek literature and elicit literary motifs and mythical references. Considering this background, could the narrative itself possibly contain a hint of a rebellion in the desert? Based on Herodotus’ multi-layered text, I argue that due to the linguistic clues and especially the onomatopoeic construction, Herodotus’ text appears to be ambivalent, and especially because of the frequently and significantly used word ψάμμος and the “Ammonians” (= “those who belong to the sand”), another way of reading and interpreting is possible. In support of and alongside the examinations of Agut and Kaper, I will argue, in particular with regard to Thebes, the Ammonians and ‘psammos’, for Herodotus’ literary engagement with elements of Greek mythology and Pindar, as well as specifically one of his epinicians or victory odes.   3.1 The explicit Reference to Pindar in Hdt. 3.38.4 and Thebes Before analyzing the story of the campaign against the Ammonians linguisti‐ cally, I would like to mention two important elements that invite readers to find Pindaric references throughout the narrative of Cambyses: first, citation of Pindar occurs at a key juncture in the logos of Cambyses (Hdt. 3.38.4). The main part of the narrative of Cambyses (Hdt. 3.1–38.4) with the climactic “experiment”

10 11

See Kahn in this volume, who identifies the Ammonians with the Amun-priests. Hdt. 3.25.6 ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐς τὴν ψάμμον ἀπίκοντο, δεινὸν ἔργον αὐτῶν τινες ἐργάσαντο.

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and “seminar” of Darius12 culminates in a commentary by Herodotus that adduces with strong approbation the famous words of the Theban poet (Hdt. 3.38.4): οὕτω μέν νυν ταῦτα νενόμισται, καὶ ὀρθῶς μοι δοκέει Πίνδαρος ποιῆσαι νόμον πάντων βασιλέα φήσας εἶναι. One can see by this what custom can do, and Pindar, in my opinion, was right, when he called it “king of all”.

The significance of the placement of Pindar’s quotation (from fragment 169a) as summary and conclusion cannot be overstressed.13 Scarlett Kingsley, who has recently explored the fragment of Pindar as a hypotext for Herodotus’ narrative of Cambyses, suggests, in line with Rosaria Munson, that the fragment should be understood as a “mise en abyme”, “one that is activated by the audience’s awareness of the contents of the song”.14 Both in terms of composition and interpretation, the themes of nomos and kingship are central foci in the Pindar fragment, and similarly important in Herodotus’ narrative of the Persian king Cambyses.15 The theme and problem of nomos is already present in a prolepsis (Hdt. 3.2.2 οὔ σφι νόμος ἐστὶ βασιλεῦσαι) at the beginning of the third book and it already refers in this phrasing to the Pindaric sentiment of the finale (in Hdt. 3.38.4 νόμον πάντων βασιλέα φήσας εἶναι.). That said, it becomes clear that Pindar is not only emphatically present at the end of the first part of the narrative, but also already at the beginning of the Cambyses logos, and we may therefore speak of a marked ring-compositional structuring of the narrative by the Pindar references. A second aspect is also noteworthy: the onomastic association of Pindar with a Thebes, which was evident not only to Pindar’s readers and audience but also to those of Herodotus’ Histories. Pindar’s Theban background occupies a strong presence in his poems, including one on the champions from Thebes.16 So, to 12 13 14 15 16

On the previous thought-experiment of Herodotus and the “Nomoi-experiment” of Dareios, see Schwab (2020) 263–66 with further literature, ibid. 288–9, and Tuplin in: Irwin/Harrison (2018) who speaks of a “seminar on the power of nomos” (ibid. 110). Not least because of the rarity with which Herodotus quotes poets verbatim. Kingsley (2018) 52. Kingsley describes the use of Pindar by Herodotus so that he (ibid. 50) “creatively refigures the hypotext in pursuit of a sophisticated compositional technique that interlaces the content of Pindar’s melos and historical action”. See Kingsley (2018) 45–46 and on the Cambyses logos as encounter of foreign religion and culture, Schwab (2020) 233–269. Compare also the Sphragis alluding to Thebes towards the end of Isthmian 6.73–76: „I shall offer them a drink of Dirce’s sacred water,/ which the deep-bosomed daughters / of golden-robed Mnemosyne made to surge / by the well-walled gates of Cadmus.“ (Trans‐ lation by Race (1997a) 195).

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cite just one example, in his first Isthmian Ode, written for Herodotus (from Thebes), the poet addresses Thebes as his “mother” (Pindar, I. 1.1–3): Μᾶτερ ἐμά, τὸ τεόν, χρύσασπι Θήβα, πρᾶγμα καὶ ἀσχολίας ὑπέρτερον θήσομαι. Mother of mine, Thebe of the golden shield, I shall put your concern above even my pressing obligations.17

We can well assume that Herodotus’ audience not only thought of the Egyptian Thebes but also of the Boeotian Thebes with its legends and of the extremely important poet from there, who, among other works, composed choral and victory songs for noble game winners, not least from Athens and Thebes.18 This aspect concerning Thebes and Pindar we should keep in mind when we read about the Egyptian Thebes. It is worthwhile to point to the widespread appearance in the narrative on Cambyses of significant names having more than one referent, such as Nitetis19, Ecbatana or Smerdis.   3.2 The preceding context: Hdt. 3.25 As a second step, I would like to begin with some observations on the narrower context in order to illustrate the richness of allusions and the ambiguity of the text at this stage. Let us first look at some expressions and words that would be audible for a Greek audience prior to the narrative of the campaign against the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.26) and—especially when seen together—clearly reveal references to the literary tradition, in particular to the importance of Thebes. The campaign of the army against the Ethiopians undertaken by Cambyses in the heat of the moment (αὐτίκα ὁ Καμβύσης ὀργὴν ποιησάμενος ἐστρατεύετο ἐπὶ τοὺς Αἰθίοπας, Hdt. 3.25.1)20 is finally referred to as an “expedition” against

17 18

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Translation by Race (1997b) 137. See Bremer (1992) 361. Particularly interesting is the fact that Pindar composed this first Isthmian Ode on Herodotus – victorious in the chariot race – from Thebes, and “equips” and makes (τεύχων) its “gift of honour” (γέρας) in such a way that he wants to insert it into a Castor or Iolaos hymn (ἐναρμόξαι νιν ὕμνῳ). See Pindar, I. 1.13–16: ἀλλ’ ἐγὼ Ἡροδότῳ τεύ- / χων τὸ μὲν ἅρματι τεθˈρίππῳ γέρας, (14) / ἁνία τ’ ἀλλοτρίαις οὐ χερσὶ νωμάσαντ’ ἐθέλω / ἢ Καστορείῳ̆ ἢ Ἰολάοι’ ἐναρμόξαι νιν ὕμνῳ. The potential for one name to designate two different entities is there in the program‐ matic first logos of Book 3. Hdt. 3.25.1 ἀπαγγειλάντων δὲ ταῦτα τούτων αὐτίκα ὁ Καμβύσης ὀργὴν ποιησάμενος ἐστρατεύετο ἐπὶ τοὺς Αἰθίοπας, οὔτε παρασκευὴν σίτου οὐδεμίαν παραγγείλας, οὔτε λόγον ἑωυτῷ δοὺς ὅτι ἐς τὰ ἔσχατα γῆς ἔμελλε στρατεύεσθαι·

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the Ethiopians (ὁ μὲν ἐπ’ Αἰθίοπας στόλος, Hdt. 3.26.1). This choice of words is not surprising at first, but in conjunction with Thebes, which is strikingly and several times mentioned in this context,21 the idea of the Theban ‘cycle’ of legends and the “seven-lanced expedition against Thebes” (τὸν ἑπτάλογχον ἐς Θήβας στόλον, Soph. OC 1305). Further to this, another signaling term is used, again drawing a link to the Theban legends and to the Labdakid myth—especially to the battle of the Seven against Thebes. The “terrible work” (δεινὸν ἔργον) is expressed in words which the soldiers perform due to the lack of provisions in the sandy desert (ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐς τὴν ψάμμον ἀπίκοντο, Hdt. 3.25.6): ten persons each choose one among themselves by lot and they consume him (ἐκ δεκάδος γὰρ ἕνα σφέων αὐτῶν ἀποκληρώσαντες κατέφαγον, Hdt. 3.25.6). So, the campaign on the Ethiopians escalates into this pointedly described “mutual consumption” (τὴν ἀλληλοφαγίην), which Cambyses learns, fears (Hdt. 3.25.7 πυθόμενος δὲ ταῦτα ὁ Καμβύσης, δείσας τὴν ἀλληλοφαγίην) and which in the end leads to the breaking off and abandonment of the campaign. Linguistically relevant is that the described facts of anthropophagy in Herodotus’ narrative are condensed in the following compound noun, the ἀλληλο-φαγίη, of “eating” or “consuming each other”. This expression evokes onomatopoeically and by its meaning the phrase ἀλλαλο-φονία ("mutual slaughter") chosen by Pindar to describe the mutual brother-slaughter in the Labdakid myth between the sons of Oedipus, Eteocles and Polyneices, in the fatal struggle of the Seven versus Thebes in his second Olympian Ode (Ol. 2.42).22 The phonetically similar ἀλλαλοφονία of Pindar with the ἀλληλοφαγίη of Herodotus even shows a heightening in semantics. An additional aspect also seems important: that the terrible act of anthro‐ pophagy is believed to have occurred when the soldiers reached the “sandy desert” (ἐς τὴν ψάμμον, Hdt. 3.25.6). Sand, which plays a central role in the following narrative about the campaign against the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.26), is also present as “sand that eludes counting” (Ol. 2.98 ἐπεὶ ψάμμος ἀριθμὸν περιπέφευγεν), in Pindar’s second Olympian Ode. Besides the explicit reference to Pindar’s aphorism (in Hdt. 3.38.4) and its ring-compositional function, the aforementioned linguistic markers in the preceding context (Hdt. 3.25)—to the

21

22

See Hdt. 3.25.3 (ἐπείτε δὲ στρατευόμενος ἐγένετο ἐν Θήβῃσι), Hdt. 3.25.7 (καὶ ἀπικνέεται ἐς Θήβας πολλοὺς ἀπολέσας τοῦ στρατοῦ. ἐκ Θηβέων δὲ καταβὰς ἐς Μέμφιν τοὺς Ἕλληνας ἀπῆκε ἀποπλέειν.) and Hdt. 3.26.1 (… ἐπείτε ὁρμηθέντες ἐκ τῶν Θηβέων ἐπορεύοντο ἔχοντες ἀγωγούς). In the context of the myth of the Labdakids of Ol. 2 (41–2): “When the sharp-eyed Eryns saw this/ she killed in mutual slaughter his warlike progeny.” (ἔπεφνέ οἱ σὺν ἀλλαλοφονίᾳ γένος ἀρήϊον.

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expedition and fatal battle against Thebes, the allusions to the Theban saga and to the sand (ψάμμος) in Pindar’s second Olympian Ode—set the stage for Herodotus’ narrative of the expedition against the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.26.1).   3.3 The campaign against the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.26.1–3)—and Pindar again The references made so far to Pindar and his ‘traces’ in the logos of Cambyses will now be reinforced by observations on further words in Herodotus’ text.23 (1) οἱ δ᾿ αὐτῶν ἐπ᾿ Ἀμμωνίους ἀποσταλέντες στρατεύεσθαι, ἐπείτε ὁρμηθέντες ἐκ τῶν Θηβέων ἐπορεύοντο ἔχοντες ἀγωγούς, ἀπικόμενοι μὲν φανεροί εἰσι ἐς Ὄασιν πόλιν, τὴν ἔχουσι μὲν Σάμιοι τῆς Αἰσχριωνίης φυλῆς λεγόμενοι εἶναι, ἀπέχουσι δὲ ἑπτὰ ἡμε‐ ρέων ὁδὸν ἀπὸ Θηβέων διὰ ψάμμου· ὀνομάζεται δὲ ὁ χῶρος οὗτος κατὰ Ἑλλήνων γλῶσσαν Μακάρων νῆσος. (2) ἐς μὲν δὴ τοῦτον τὸν χῶρον λέγεται ἀπικέσθαι τὸν στρατόν, τὸ ἐνθεῦτεν δέ, ὅτι μὴ αὐτοὶ Ἀμμώνιοι καὶ οἱ τούτων ἀκούσαντες, ἄλλοι οὐδένες οὐδὲν ἔχουσι εἰπεῖν περὶ αὐτῶν· οὔτε γὰρ ἐς τοὺς Ἀμμω‐ νίους ἀπίκοντο οὔτε ὀπίσω ἐνόστησαν. (3) λέγεται δὲ κατὰ τάδε ὑπ᾿ αὐτῶν Ἀμ‐ μωνίων· ἐπειδὴ ἐκ τῆς Ὀάσιος ταύτης ἰέναι διὰ τῆς ψάμμου ἐπὶ σφέας, γενέσθαι τε αὐτοὺς μεταξύ κου μάλιστα αὐτῶν τε καὶ τῆς Ὀάσιος, ἄριστον αἱρεομένοισι αὐτοῖσι ἐπιπνεῦσαι νότον μέγαν τε καὶ ἐξαίσιον, φορέοντα δὲ θῖνας τῆς ψάμμου καταχῶσαι σφέας, καὶ τρόπῳ τοιούτῳ ἀφανισθῆναι. Ἀμμώ‐ νιοι μὲν οὕτω λέγουσι γενέσθαι περὶ τῆς στρατιῆς ταύτης.

23 24

(1) As for those of the host who were sent to march against the Ammonians, they set forth and journeyed from Thebes with guides; and it is known that they came to the city Oasis, where dwell Sa‐ mians said to be of the Aeschrionian tribe, seven days’ march from Thebes across sandy desert; this place is called, in the Greek language, the Island of the Blest. (2) Thus far, it is said, the army came; after that, save the Ammonians them‐ selves and those who heard from them, no man can say aught of them; for they neither reached the Ammonians nor returned back. (3) But this is what the Ammonians themselves say: when the Persians were crossing the sand from the Oasis to attack them, and were about midway be‐ tween their country and the Oasis, while they were breakfasting a great and vio‐ lent south wind arose, which buried them in the masses of sand which it bore; and so they disappeared from sight. Such is the Ammonian tale about this army.24

On the relationship of Pindar to Herodotus compare their different approaches to the foundation of Cyrene, see e.g. Thomas (2018). Translation by Godley (1920) 35–37.

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It should first be noted that this quest also begins with the army of Cambyses in the surroundings of Thebes. It mentions first the setting out of the army of Thebes (ὁρμηθέντες ἐκ τῶν Θηβέων ἐπορεύοντο), thereon the “seven-day way” (ἑπτὰ ἡμερέων ὁδὸν), which is said to have led “from Thebes” (ἀπὸ Θηβέων) “to the oasis city” (ἐς Ὄασιν πόλιν). Therefore, we have again a strong connection to Thebes, which can be linked to Pindar on the one hand, and to a battle on the other hand, namely the Seven against Thebes. The motive of the campaign against the Ammonians (οἱ δ᾿ αὐτῶν ἐπ᾿ Ἀμμωνίους ἀποσταλέντες στρατεύεσθαι) is not stated at this point, but we may recall the order of Cambyses, mentioned at least in the preceding context, for the enslavement of the Ammonians and the torching of the sanctuary there, the Oracle of Zeus (Hdt. 3.25.3, 26.1–3).25 There are two aspects in particular I would like to highlight in this context: firstly, the ‘speaking’ name of the Ammonians, and secondly, Pindar’s special connection to Zeus Ammon and specifically to his sanctuary. Apart from the function as a proper name, the designation “Ammonians” has the following onomatopoeic meaning for the Greeks: from the adjective ἄμμος, -ου, ἡ, ‘sand or sandy ground’,26 which is etymologically contracted from ἄμαθος and ψάμμος (Frisk, Vol. 1,93),27 the “Ammonioi” can be understood as “people belonging to the sand”, “the sandy ones”. In several passages Herodotus speaks of the Ammonians.28 Having already mentioned the Oracle of Zeus Ammon in the first and second books,29 he explains—with regard to the inhabitants of Egyptian Thebes, their customs and their distinctive icon of Zeus30—on the Ammonians (Hdt. 2.42.4–5), these were “colonists” of the Egyptians and Ethiopians and their language stood between the two (ἄποικοι καὶ φωνὴν μεταξὺ ἀμφοτέρων νομίζοντες). In his view, the Ammonians would also have taken their name from the god, since the Egyptians referred to “Zeus” as Amun (Ἀμοῦν γὰρ Αἰγύπτιοι καλέουσι τὸν Δία).31 We can assume that Herodotus’ explanations of the sanctuary of 25 26 27

28 29 30 31

See also the article “Ammon” in Baron (2021), 62–3. See LSJ s.v. ἄμμινος, η, ον = ψάμμινος, ‘sandy’. Frisk notes on ἄμαθος (ebd. Vol. 1, 84): “gewöhnlicher als ἄμαθος ist ψάμαθος, das wie ψάμμος zu ψη̃ν usw. gehört; daneben das jüngere ἄμμος.” See also Vol. 2, 1129–30: “Aus ἄμαθος und ψάμμος ergaben sich durch wechselseitige Kreuzungen ψάμαθος und ἄμμος.” See Kaper und Agut in this volume. See Hdt. 1.46.3 (on the test of the oracles by the Lydian king Croesus); Hdt. 2.18.1–3, on this episode see Schwab (2020) 130–6; Hdt. 2.32.1 (on the Ammonians and their king Etearchos). On the Ammonians see further Hdt. 4.181.1, 182.1. See also Lloyd (1976) 424–5. Hdt. 2.42.4–5 ἀπὸ τούτου κριοπρόσωπον τοῦ Διὸς τὤγαλμα ποιεῦσι Αἰγύπτιοι, ἀπὸ δὲ Αἰγυπτίων Ἀμμώνιοι, ἐόντες Αἰγυπτίων τε καὶ Αἰθιόπων ἄποικοι καὶ φωνὴν μεταξὺ

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the “Libyan Zeus”, Zeus Ammon (Ἄμμων, ωνος, ὁ, ‘the Libyan Zeus’), and of the Ammonians were widely known. However, they do not exclude the inherent potential for wordplay in a name that can be understood as “Zeus of the sand, the dust” and “the sandy”. Such wordplay and spoken names are found several times in Herodotus’ Histories.32 Regarding the Cambyses logos, Elizabeth Irwin has observed “the prevalence of punning and wordplay in Herodotus’ Campaign narrative”, e.g. with regard to the central words and word fields aitie and aiteein, the speaking name Phanes (from phainein), the wordplay on the polysemous macrobioi (the long-lived or long-bowed Ethiopians)33 as well as Memphis with the logos of the Egyptian campaign’s repetitive use of the participle of memphomai.34 Remarkably, this sanctuary and the god worshipped there are not only repeatedly mentioned in Herodotus35, but also notably hold a prominent place in Pindar’s fourth Pythia, dedicated to Arcesilaos of Cyrene. On the prophecy of the priestess—and assessor of the “golden eagles of Zeus” (χρυσέων Διὸς αἰητῶν)—about Battos as the coloniser of fruit-bearing Libya,36 Pindar echoes Medea’s words to the Colchians, the boatmen of Iason. In Medea’s speech the sanctuary of Zeus Ammon is mentioned (P. 4.13–16): ‘Κέκˈλυτε, παῖδες ὑπερθύμων τε φωτῶν καὶ θεῶν· φαμὶ γὰρ τᾶσδ’ ἐξ ἁλιπˈλάκτου ποτὲ γᾶς Ἐπάφοιο κόραν ἀστέων ῥίζαν φυτεύσεσθαι μελησιμβρότων Διὸς ἐν Ἄμμωνος θεμέθλοις. “Hear me, sons of great-hearted men and gods. I declare that one day from this sea-beaten land

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ἀμφοτέρων νομίζοντες. δοκέειν δέ μοι, καὶ {τὸ οὔνομα} Ἀμμώνιοι ἀπὸ τοῦδε σφίσι τὴν ἐπωνυμίην ἐποιήσαντο· Ἀμοῦν γὰρ Αἰγύπτιοι καλέουσι τὸν Δία. See e.g. Konstantakos (2018) on Mycerinos, Irwin (2014) 38–9, (2016) 41–3 and on book five Irwin (2007) 41–87 with further scholarship. On the macrobioi see Irwin (2014) 38–9. Irwin (2016) 41–43, 41. Following her observations Irwin notes and raises the question, ibid. 43: “It is hard to deny the pervasiveness of wordplay in this account, which in turn raises serious concerns: are we to understand the sustained use of wordplay as merely a device to make more pleasing a narrative that is by-and-large historical, or does it instead point to the campaign as described being overwhelmingly or even entirely a fiction?” See Hdt. 1.46.3; Hdt. 2.18.1–3, Hdt. 2.32.1, Hdt. 2.42.3–6, Hdt. 2.55.3 (on the foundation of the Zeus-Ammon Oracle in Egyptian Thebes) and in the catalogue of the Libyan Nomads, Hdt. 4.181.2, with reference to Hdt. 2.42.3–6. Pindar, 4. P. 4–5 ἔνθα ποτὲ χρυσέων Διὸς αἰητῶν πάρεδρος (…) ἱέρεα (…). “(…) where once the priestess sitting in honor beside the golden eagles of Zeus (…).”

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the daughter of Epaphus will have planted within her a root of famous cities at the foundations of Zeus Ammon (…).”37

This expression of Medea in Pindar about the sanctuary of Zeus Ammon (4. P. 15–16) is an initial major reference and relation of the sanctuary to our Theban poet.38 Alongside this address by Medea, which ends with a new reference to “the fat sacred precinct of the Kronid on the Nile” (P. 4.57), there is also a fragment of a hymn by Pindar to Zeus Ammon (ΕΙΣ ΑΜΜΩΝΑ, Ἄμμων Ὀλύμπου δέσποτα, fr. Hymn. 36t-36.1, Snell/Maehler)39, further illustrating Pindar’s special connection with Zeus Ammon and his sanctuary at Thebes.40 This bond between the Theban poet and Zeus Ammon is reported in the second century by the travel writer and geographer Pausanias in both his exploration and description of Boeotian Thebes. Pausanias says that the Theban poet even consecrated an image of Ammon in the temple of Zeus in Thebes: οὐ πόρρω δέ ἐστι ναὸς Ἄμμωνος, καὶ τὸ ἄγαλμα ἀνέθηκε μὲν Πίνδαρος, Καλάμιδος δέ ἐστιν ἔργον. ἀπέπεμψε δὲ ὁ Πίνδαρος καὶ Λιβύης ἐς Ἀμμωνίους τῷ Ἄμμωνι ὕμνον· οὗτος καὶ ἐς ἐμὲ ἦν ὁ ὕμνος ἐν τριγώνῳ στήλῃ παρὰ τὸν βωμόν, ὃν Πτολεμαῖος ὁ Λάγου τῷ Ἄμμωνι ἀνέθηκε. Θηβαίοις δὲ μετὰ τοῦ Ἄμμωνος τὸ ἱερὸν (…) Not far away is a temple of Ammon; the image, a work of Calamis, was dedicated by Pindar, who also sent to the Ammonians of Libya a hymn to Ammon. This hymn I found still carved on a triangular slab by the side of the altar dedicated to Ammon by Ptolemy the son of Lagus. After the sanctuary of Ammon at Thebes (…).41

It is not only the dedicated image that Pindar endowed that interests us, but also the hymn to the worshipped god Ammon, whom the poet is believed to have sent to the Ammonians in Libya. These references show Pindar’s special bond with the Libyan Zeus Ammon and the Ammonians. Moreover, the Pindaric resonances continue. The alternative designation of the “oasis” as Μακάρων νῆσος, as “island of the blessed”, is also significant: the phrase causes Herodotus’ readers to think of Greek mythic and poetic 37 38 39 40 41

Translation by Race (1997b) 269. See also in P 4.56 the “sacred valley of the Nile” (Νείλοιο πρὸς πῖον τέμενος Κρονίδα). Pindar, Fragments (Loeb-edition): 36 IN HONOR OF AMMON Scholion on Pyth. 9.53. “He calls Libya the garden of Zeus …. because Ammon is considered to be Zeus”: Ammon, master of Olympus. ΕΙΣ ΑΜΜΩΝΑ Schol. Pind. P. 9.90bc τὴν Λιβύην Διὸς κῆπον λέγει (P. 9.53) . . . διὰ τὸ τὸν Ἄμμωνα Δία νομίζεσθαι· Ἄμμων Ὀλύμπου δέσποτα. Paus. 9.16.1–2 (Translation by Jones (1918) 239–40).

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traditions of the ‘islands of the blessed’—again one name dual referents—such as those of Homer42 and Hesiod43, but with the singular there is a distinctly Pindaric association with this expression—a central theme in Pindar’s second Olympian Ode (O. 2.68–72, esp. 71). Pindar invokes various eschatological concepts throughout the context of this ode (O. 2.57–83a), including for those “who have been able to keep themselves far from wrongdoing the soul the island of the blessed”, like Herodotus in the singular:44 ὅσοι δ’ ἐτόλμασαν ἐστρίς ἑκατέρωθι μείναντες ἀπὸ πάμπαν ἀδίκων ἔχειν ψυχάν, ἔτειλαν Διὸς ὁδὸν παρὰ Κρό     νου τύρσιν· ἔνθα μακάρων νᾶσον ὠκεανίδες αὖραι περιπνέοισιν· But those with the courage to have lived three times in either realm, while keeping their souls free from all unjust deeds, travel the road of Zeus to the tower of Cronus, where ocean breezes blow round the Isle of the Blessed (…).45

I consider the term to be important here, together with its eschatological character, which is present in Homer, Hesiod and also Pindar, and which can also provide a wider interpretation in Herodotus.46 Apart from the fact that Herodotus’ use of this expression to accurately capture the geographical conditions and circumstances of the oasis in the desert, this “island of the blessed” in the Histories already seems to have sealed the fate of the army, which ultimately only the Ammonians’ subsequent testimony provides us with information in this respect. Herodotus’ use of the expression suggests an eschatological dimension for the Persian army before it disappears into the desert sand (ψάμμος) and perishes, as the reader will soon learn. But before that, Herodotus (Hdt. 3.26.2) explicitly points out the epistemically problematic circumstance that no one knew how to tell of the army’s fate except the 42 43 44 45 46

Od. 4.563–4 Homer (and his Elysian fields of the Odyssey. See Glückhardt (2020) 155 and further literature, note 188. Hesiod speaks of both the “blessed dead” (Op. 141) and – in the plural – “the islands of the blessed” (Op. 171). See LSJ esp. μάκαρες, οἱ, the blessed dead, μ. θνητοῖς καλέονται Hes. Op. 141; μακάρων νῆσοι the Islands of the Blest, ib.171. On the eschatology see Grethlein (2010) 29–33, and in detail Theunissen (2000) 740–777. Translation by Race (1997b) 71. Lloyd indicates that the singular illustrates „poetic traditionalism”; Lloyd (2007) 426–7.

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Ammonians themselves and those who had heard about it from them (αὐτοὶ Ἀμμώνιοι καὶ οἱ τούτων ἀκούσαντες): since the army had neither come as far as the Ammonians nor returned (οὔτε γὰρ ἐς τοὺς Ἀμμωνίους ἀπίκοντο οὔτε ὀπίσω ἐνόστησαν). The multiple references to the Ammonians are so striking that it is hardly surprising that the following narrative will be alleged to be the Ammonians’ own (Hdt. 3.26.3, λέγεται δὲ κατὰ τάδε ὑπ᾿ αὐτῶν Ἀμμωνίων (…) Ἀμμώνιοι μὲν οὕτω λέγουσι). I turn now to the enigmatic account of the Persian army’s demise. The key term is the “sand” or the “sandy desert” (ψάμμος): already mentioned immediately before (Hdt. 3.26.1 διὰ ψάμμου) and now two more times in the narrative (Hdt. 3.26.3 διὰ τῆς ψάμμου / θῖνας τῆς ψάμμου).47 In the account of the Ammonians, the “people belonging to the sand”, a great and pernicious south wind (νότον μέγαν τε καὶ ἐξαίσιον) takes a central role during the breakfast of the army, because it “moves and carries away waves of sand” (φορέοντα δὲ θῖνας τῆς ψάμμου), covers them up (καταχῶσαι σφέας) and thus is said to have been responsible for the disappearance of the Persian army. At this point, I do not want to go further into the explanation of the natural event described in the form of a desert storm or an interpretation in terms of religious history.48 Rather, I would like to conclude with a few observations on the “sand” and the “sandy desert” (ψάμμος): Pindar and his second Olympian, and findings of Egyptian Late Period onomastics and the term ψάμμος, reveal yet another level of interpretation of the text, which with a ‘wink’ of Herodotus— “so, the Ammonians tell us, it was with this army”—may point to a rebellion and a possible rebel in Herodotus’ text. A first literary point lies in the fact that ultimately the Ammonians, “those who belong to the sand” or “the sandy ones”, declare that their opponents allegedly never arrived at their place but disappeared in the sand (ψάμμος). The core of this statement, especially through the threefold repetition of the word ψάμμος (in Hdt. 3.26.1–3), points to the “sandy ones” themselves as not only the cause of the narrative and explanation, but also as a possible reason for the disappearance of the army. This idea and the attention to ψάμμος will lastly be

47 48

Compare also the decisive role of the „sand desert“ in the narrative on the anthro‐ pophagy during the campaign against the Ethiopians (Hdt. 3.25.6 ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐς τὴν ψάμμον ἀπίκοντο, δεινὸν ἔργον αὐτῶν τινες ἐργάσαντο·). See Kaper (2015) and Glückhardt (2020), 152–158 esp. 154–157, who illuminates well how Herodotus conceptualizes the natural phenomenon of the dessert analogue to the experience of the sea. The meaning of the oasis/es as island/s is also to be understood against this background (ibid. 154). See also his religious interpretation and the reflections of Agut and Kaper in this volume.

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combined with Pindar and with the research on personal names in the Egyptian Late Period. Let us turn our attention towards Pindar and again to his second Olym‐ pian Ode. Two elements in that ode are significant. Towards its end appears remarkably the decisive term of the Herodotean passage, sand (ψάμμος), and in an elusive statement: “for grains of sand escape counting” (O. 2.98: ἐπεὶ ψάμμος ἀριθμὸν περιπέφευγεν).49 Shortly before, Pindar (O. 2.82–6) presents a metapoetic reflection that could also be understood as a key to reading Herodotus’ artistically crafted passage on the Ammonians: πολλά μοῐ ὑπ’ ἀγκῶνος ὠκέα βέλη ἔνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας φωνάεντα συνετοῖσιν· ἐς δὲ τὸ πὰν ἑρμανέων χατίζει. σοφὸς ὁ πολλὰ εἰδὼς φυᾷ·

I have many swift arrows under my arm in my quiver that speak to those with under‐ standing, 50 and they thoroughly crave oracular interpreters. Wise is that announcer who knows many things by nature;51 ἐπεὶ ψάμμος ἀριθμὸν περιπέφευγεν (…) For grains of sand escape counting (…)

I take this metapoetic statement of Pindar52 as a proposal for the further analysis and interpretation of Herodotus’ text: not only are there many “arrows” and poetic themes in the quiver of the Theban poet, but also of the historian who knows how to condense a story; these speak to or are perceptible to those with understanding, and they long for such “oracular interpreters”. With linguistic markers and signaling terms, Herodotus draws attention in his text —through his ‘poetics’—to the poet of the victory odes, Pindar, so that in the context of Thebes and the Ammonians, we may speak of ‘Pindaric arrows’. With these Pindar references, Herodotus is able to condense and frame the statement or—even more accurately—the speech of the Ammonians into a multilayered and enigmatically coded text capable of referring, on the one hand—selfreferentially—to the sandy ones, i.e. to the Ammonians themselves as a possible cause for the disappearance of the Persian army, and, on the other hand, to the poet through the well-known and evoked Pindaric sand (ψάμμος) that eludes 49 50 51 52

For this expression and the complex temporal structure of the second Olympian, see Grethlein (2010) 37–40. Alternatively: “making sound /sounding to those with understanding.” Translation vv. 82–86 by Most (1986) 316, slightly adapted. For an interpretation with further literature, see Grethlein (2010) 34–7 and Most (1986) 304–16.

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counting. With this intertextual reference through the Ammonians to the poet who is well known with his poetry about this part of the world—thanks and by means of ψάμμος-, they are offering an implicit encomium for the victorious Ammonians. At this point it may be remembered that Pindar—as mentioned earlier—sang the praises of a Herodotus from Thebes, victorious in the chariot race, in his first Isthmian Ode by inserting him into a hymn (I. 1.15–16 ἐναρμόξαι νιν ὕμνῳ). The Pindaric triumphal ode therefore has exceptional significance as a hypotext, when Herodotus in this context lets the Ammonians explain the disappearance of their opponents with subtle echoes of Pindar. They tell of their victory against the Persians pointwise and repeatedly codified with a reference to the sand (ψάμμος). Pindar, the poet of Ammon, inserts into a victory ode Herodotus of Thebes, while Herodotus, telling of Thebes inserts Pindar into the Ammonians’ logos of victory in that region. Leaving aside this speculative literary proposal for interpretation, I would like to outline another interpretation, which starts from the term ψάμμος and the findings of Egyptian Late Period onomastics that make a rebellion and the hint of a rebel in Herodotus’ text seem plausible. Günter Vittmann, in his article on Egyptian onomastics of the Late period, addresses the “religious-ideological foundation” of Egyptian personal names.53 In other words: Almost all personal names refer in some way to one or more gods or to a living or deceased king.54

The name material in question for our context are the “basilophore personal names”,55 among which the various forms of the Saite kings (664–525 BCE) are found. The most common in Egyptian and Aramaic sources is psmṯk, Aramaic PSMŠK, “Psametich”, which etymologically is probably of non-Egyptian—very probably Libyan—origin, but was assimilated as a dynastic name.56 Psamme‐ tich(us) is the name of a total of six kings and counter-kings in Egypt, the first of whom ruled from 664 to 610 and the sixth until 400 BC.57 Only the first three were real kings, the rest counter-kings and rebels. These counter-kings deliberately tied in with the Saite dynasty by choosing an appropriate name. With nine

53 54 55 56 57

Vittmann (2002) 86. See ibid. 98: “Nahezu alle Personenamen sind in irgendeiner Weise auf einen oder mehrere Götter oder aber auch auf einen lebenden oder verstorbenen König hin ausgerichtet.” Vittmann (2002) 86, and 97–9, 97. Vittmann (2002) 86, and 97–9, 97. Spalinger (1982), see also Schütze (2010).

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references, this name is the most frequent name in the Carian inscriptions.58 Vittmann adds the following: While the Aramaeans otherwise adopted the Egyptian names unchanged—and at most adapted them phonetically—they liked to shorten “Psametich” (PSMŠK) to PSMY “Psami”. (…) The likewise frequent full form, on the other hand, is found both among Egyptians and Aramaeans (…).59

If the Greek word ψάμμος, which is central to the text passage, is not only to be understood in the meaning of “(desert) sand”, but—following Pindar’s reading key—also onomatopoeically, then in this context not only before but also in the Ammonian account, there are three explicit mentions of a “Ps(a)mm(o)s”. Thus, in addition to the sand, a very important proper name could be discovered, which appears with variations several times in Herodotus in the second as well as in the third book, partly in different spellings, e.g. as Psammetichos (= Psammetichos I), Psammis (= Psammetichos II), or as Psammenitos (= Psammetichos III).60 But what about the rebellion?61 If we look at the genitive compounds of ψάμμος in the respective context, we can observe how the following ambiguities arise: 1.

2.

3.

58 59

60 61

διὰ ψάμμου (in Hdt. 3.26.1 before the narrative of the Ammonians): “It (sc. the oasis city) is distant from Thebes seven days’ journey through the desert [= because of / due to (διὰ) Psammos], and this place is called in the language of the Greeks the island of the blessed.” διὰ τῆς ψάμμου ἐπὶ σφέας (in Hdt. 3.26.3) = “Having gone from Oasis through the sandy desert [= because of / due to (διὰ) Psammos] against them resp. in their direction (…).” φορέοντα δὲ θῖνας τῆς ψάμμου καταχῶσαι σφέας (in Hdt. 3.26.4) = “which (sc. a great and unusual southern storm) moved them with waves of sand [ = of Psammos] and filled them up.”

See Vittmann (2002) 98 and note 92 with reference to the different variants listed in the appendix (among psmṯk), ibid. 102. Vittmann (2002) 98: „Während die Aramäer sonst die ägyptischen Namen unverändert – und allenfalls lautlich adaptiert – übernommen haben, kürzten sie „Psametich“ (PSMŠK) gern zu PSMY „Psami“ ab. (…) Die ebenfalls häufige Vollform findet sich hingegen gleichermaßen bei Ägyptern und Aramäern (…).“ On Psammetichos, Hdt. 2.151.1–158.1; on Psammis, son of Necho, Hdt. 2.159.3–161.1; on Psammenitos, Hdt. 3.10.1–15.4. On the rebellions during the Persian reign in Egypt, see Ruzicka (2012), Rottpeter (2007) 9–49 and Wijnsma (2019) 32–61.

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The three passages could therefore also be interpreted in such a way that not only the desert but also a counter-king Psammos could be meant. 4 Conclusion For whatever reason Cambyses sent an entire army from Thebes against the Ammonians into the oasis: in Herodotus there is no mention of a Petubastis, however—artfully composed and (de)coded—a rebel named Psammos.62 In this context, it should be noted not least that Herodotus previously mentions the rebellion of a “Psammenitos” (Hdt. 3.10.1–3 and Hdt. 3.14.1–15.4 = Psammeti‐ chos III) against Cambyses, who was consequently executed. Based on this reading, the campaign to the oasis due to a rebellion and a rebel in the desert would plausibly find a subtle, textually immanent explanation. Moreover, just as the logos of Cambyses in the first main section culminates explicitly in an allusion to Pindar’s sentence (in Hdt. 3.38.4), so does the allusive episode about the lost army and the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.26) culminate in the Pindaric sand, which eludes counting, but yearns for interpreters. Bibliography Editions of classical authors Pindar. Siegeslieder, Dieter Bremer, Munich 1992. Herodotus. Books I–II, A.D. Godley, Cambridge (Massachusetts) and London 1920. Pausanias. Description of Greece. Books I–II, W.H.S. Jones, Cambridge (Massachusetts) and London 1918. Pindar. Nemean Odes. Isthmian Odes. Fragments, William Race, Cambridge (Massachu‐ setts) and London 1997a. Pindar. Olympian Odes. Pythian Odes, William Race, Cambridge (Massachusetts) and London 1997b.

References Baron (2021): Christopher Baron (ed.), The Herodotus Encyclopedia, Hoboken. Frisk (1960): Hjalmar Frisk, Griechisches Etymologiewörterbuch, Heidelberg. Glückhardt (2020): Thorsten Glückhardt, Die Wüsten der Griechen. Natur- und Raumkon‐ struktion im archaischen und klassischen Griechenland, Baden-Baden. Grethlein (2010): Jonas Grethlein, The Greeks and their past, Cambridge.

62

On the counter-kings named Psammetich see Wijnsma (2019) 32–61; see also Spalinger (1982) esp. 1173–1176.

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Irwin (2014): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘Ethnography and Empire: Homer and the Hippocratics in Herodotus’ Ethiopian Logos’, Histos 8, 25–75. Irwin (2016): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘Just why did Cambyses conquer Egypt (Hdt. 3.1–3)? A study of narrative, explanation and ‘history’ in Herodotus’ Cambyses logos’, in: Robert Rollinger (ed.), Weltbild und Welterfassung zwischen Ost und West / Worldview and World Conception between East and West. Proceedings of an international conference in honor of Reinhold Bichler, held in Obergurgl, Tirol, 19–22 June, 2013. Classica et Orientalia 12, Wiesbaden, 95–141. Irwin (2007): Elizabeth Irwin, ‘‘What’s in a name?’ and exploring the comparable: onomastics, ethnography and kratos in Thrace (5.1–2 and 3–10)’, in: Elizabeth Irwin and Emily Greenwood (eds), Reading Herodotus. A Study of the logoi in Book 5 of Herodotus’ Histories, Cambridge, 41–87. Kaper (2015): Olaf E. Kaper, ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis: New Evidence about an Early Rebellion Against Persian Rule and Its Suppression in Political Memory’, in: Jason Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers (eds), Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, Atlanta, 125–149. Kingsley (2018): Scarlett Kingsley, ‘Justifying violence in Herodotus’ Histories 3.38: nomos, king of All, and Pindaric poetics’, in: Ewen Bowie (ed.), Herodotus – Narrator, Scientist, Historian, Trends in Classics 59, Berlin/Boston, 37–58. Konstantakos (2018): Ioannis Konstantakos, ‘Time, Thy Pyramids: The Novella of My‐ cerinus (Herodotus 2.129–134)’, in: Ewen Bowie (ed.), Herodotus – Narrator, Scientist, Historian, Trends in Classics 59, Berlin/Boston, 77–107. Lloyd (1976): Alan B. Lloyd, Herodotus Book II: Commentary 1–98, Leiden and New York. Asheri and Lloyd (2007): David Asheri and Alan B. Lloyd, A Commentary on Herodotus Books I–IV, Oxford. Most (1986): Glenn W. Most, ‘Pindar, O. 2.83–90’, CQ 36, 304–316. Rottpeter (2007): Marc Rottpeter, ‘Initiatoren und Träger der ‘Aufstände’ im persischen Ägypten’, in: Stefan Pfeiffer (ed.), Ägypten unter fremden Herrschern zwischen per‐ sischer Satrapie und römischer Provinz, Frankfurt am Main, 9–49. Ruzicka (2012): Stephen Ruzicka, Trouble in the west: Egypt and the Persian empire, 525–332 BCE, Oxford studies in early empires, Oxford. Schütze (2010): Alexander Schütze, art. Psammetich I. and Psammetich II., in: Michaela Bauks, Klaus Koenen and Michael Peitch (eds), Das Wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet, www.wibilex.de (assessed 24.11.2022). Schwab (2020): Andreas Schwab, Fremde Religion in Herodots Historien: Mehrdimensio‐ nale Religion bei Persern und Ägyptern, Hermes-Einzelschrift 118, Stuttgart. Spalinger (1982): Anthony Spalinger, art. Psammetichus I–VI, in: Wolfgang Helch, Eberhard Otto and Wolfhart Westendorf (eds), Lexikon der Ägyptologie 4, Wiesbaden, 1164–1176.

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Theunissen (2000): Michael Theunissen: Pindar. Menschenlos und Wende der Zeit, Munich. Thomas (2018): Rosalind Thomas, ‘Truth and authority in Herodotus’ narrative’, in: Ewen Bowie (ed.), Herodotus – Narrator, Scientist, Historian, Trends in Classics 59, Berlin and Boston, 265–284. Tuplin (2018): Christopher Tuplin, ‘Dogs That do not (always) bark: Herodotus on Persian Egypt’, in: Elizabeth Irwin and Thomas Harrison (eds.), Interpreting Herodotus, Oxford, 99–123. Vittmann (2002): Günther Vittmann, ‘Ägyptische Onomastik der Spätzeit im Spiegel der nordwestsemitischen und karischen Nebenüberlieferung’, in: Michael Streck and Stefan Weninger (eds), Altorientalische und semitische Onomastik, AOAT 296, Münster. Wijnsma (2019): Uzume Wijnsma, ‘And in the fourth year Egypt rebelled … The chronology of and sources for Egypt’s second revolt (ca. 487–484 BC)’, Journal of Ancient History 7, 32–61.

Cambyses and the Egyptian Temples

Cambyses’ Attitude towards Egyptian Temples in Contemporary Texts and Later Sources A Reevaluation of the Persian Conquest of Egypt

Dan’el Kahn

1 Reconsidering the time factor as told in Herodotus The events described by Herodotus are colored with anecdotes and folktales, in which the mad character of Cambyses is highlighted. These actions are regarded by many scholars as pure fiction and Greek or Egyptian propaganda against the Persian monarch. In an article, written more than a decade ago, I tried to examine if Cambyses could have accomplished all the attributed atrocities against Egypt, its king, temples, gods, graves, and conducted campaigns against Nubia and the Oasis in the period allotted to his actions. Whereas I approximated a minimum of eight months to accomplish all these actions, only ca. half a year passed between the possible conquest of Egypt, and the installation of the new Apis bull, which was buried in Darius’ fourth regnal year. I thus concluded that probably not all the events could have taken place as told in Herodotus.1 However, Depuydt2 and more recently Quack,3 have forwarded a strong case for dating Cambyses’ campaign against Egypt a year earlier—in 526 BCE. The immediate consequences of this shift in the date of the Persian conquest of Egypt are that there is no chronological or historical hindrance to accepting the veracity of the events as told in Herodotus.4

1 2 3 4

Kahn (2007). Depuydt (1996). Quack (2011). Cf. Kahn (2007).

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2 The reason for Egypt’s conquest The reasons given in Herodotus for the conquest of Egypt, such as personal vendetta (Hdt. 3.1) or pride (Hdt. 3.3) are major factors in international politics. However, it would seem that a huge endeavor like conquering Egypt would be motivated by one of the following reasons: defense against Egyptian hostility and the threat of Persian interests in the Levant, or the wish to enlarge the territories of the Persian Empire and to obtain the luxuries and treasures of Egypt. Since, there is, as yet, no concrete evidence that Egypt conducted military campaigns against the newly acquired Persian territories in the Levant, I suspect that the reasons for the conquest of Egypt were mainly imperialistic and economic—to widen the horizons of the Empire and enrich the Persian treasury. The fact that Cambyses’ descendants pursued the same goal, conquered Libya, and held control in Lower Nubia, receiving taxes from these countries (Hdt. 3.91), corroborates this point. Therefore, plundering the treasuries of Egyptian temples should not be considered surprising, and is not unprecedented in the Ancient Near East. 3 The Conquest of Egypt Herodotus’ narrative begins by describing Cambyses as a responsible and skilled warrior. He planned the invasion of Egypt carefully and presented military abilities and understanding. When possible, he negotiated the surrender of the Egyptians in order to prevent unnecessary bloodshed on both sides. Herodotus’ description of the killing of Miletan negotiators is not followed by a description of an expected and understandable outburst of rage and vengeance. After entering Egypt, the Persian forces marched to Memphis along the Pelusiac branch of the Nile. On the way, they encountered Heliopolis and probably conquered it.5 Several classical writers mention Cambyses’ destruction of Egyptian temples. When describing Heliopolis, Strabo says that The city is now entirely deserted; it contains the ancient temple constructed in the Egyptian manner, which affords a lot of evidence of the madness and sacrilege of Cambyses, who partly by fire and partly by iron sought to outrage the temples, mutilating them and burning them on every side, just as he did with the obelisks.6

5 6

Cf. the conquest of Heliopolis by the Assyrians in the days of Ashurbanipal, which probably followed a similar route. See: Novotny and Jeffers (2018) 193, text 9 (Frg. F.), i 43. Strabo, Geography, 17.1.27.

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Pliny the elder, contrarily, states that “when King Cambyses took the city by storm, and the conflagration had already reached the very foot of the obelisk, he ordered the fire to be extinguished”7. Both historians agree that the temple of Heliopolis was damaged by Cambyses’ forces, however, Strabo, who had access to Herodotus’ Cambyses Logos, ascribed these actions to Cambyses’ madness, whereas Pliny ascribes the event to the inevitable consequences of war. Pliny’s description fits the stage of the conquest of Egypt. If we consider the advance of the Persian forces from Pelusium towards Memphis, it is certainly possible to accept Pliny’s description of the events.8 It is interesting that while both Strabo and Pliny base their information on Herodotus, the latter consciously omits descriptions of destruction, which may have been caused due to fighting during the initial stages of conquest and narrates only actions, which were motivated by Cambyses’ frantic outrage of madness. When Memphis was conquered, and Cambyses captured Psammetichus III, the former is described as having mercy on Psammetichus III, would he not eventually have plotted a rebellion (Hdt. 3.14). Later, Cambyses was attentive to the atmosphere amongst his military (Hdt. 3.19) and aborted a planned campaign against Carthage because of the discontent of his Phoenician warriors. When Cambyses moved from Memphis to Sais, the home of the 26th Dynasty, Cambyses commanded to open Amasis’ tomb. The vandalizing of the body is described in detail. While only the burning of the body was regarded as a sacrilegious command by Hdt. 3.16.2 it was not regarded as an act of madness.9 Whereas the opening of royal tombs was regarded as a sacrilegious deed, it was certainly not unique. Darius I (Hdt. 1.187) and Xerxes (Aelian, Varia Historia, 13.3 = Lenfant, Ctésias de Cnide, F13b*) are reported to have entered tombs of Babylonian kings, as well.10 Curses inscribed at the entrance of tombs and the tomb robberies protocols from the end of the Egyptian New Kingdom demonstrate that plunder of the riches in the grave was a clear motivation. The destruction of the tomb of Neferites at Mendes by Artaxerxes III

7 8

9 10

Pliny, Natural History, 36:14. Dr. Dietrich Raue was so kind to give the following information about the Heliopolis excavations in a letter from 16.07.2017: A Ptolemaic quarter was uncovered at Heliopolis with evidence of destroyed temple inventory. Dating to before ca. 150 BC, and one of the possibilities is that the temenos was ravaged by Cambyses. Unfortunately nothing is known about the events of the 2nd Persian Domination. There is no evidence of GrecoRoman activity in the temple at the moment. Cf. the defiling of tombs at Beth-El by King Josiah of Judah and burning the bones on the altar. See: 2 Kgs 23:16. Kuhrt (2014) 167–168.

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Ochus11 was conducted in order to deter the subjugated population from future recurring rebellions or was triggered by enormous rage or revenge. This is the reason proposed by Herodotus with regard to Amasis as well, but it may be corroborated by additional evidence. The disrespectful attitude towards Amasis is reflected not only in Hdt. 2.172–174 but in Demotic tales as well.12 Furthermore, Amasis’ name was erased from several monuments.13 Bolshakov has shown that Egyptian literati elites, who may have originally been supporters of Apries, intently conducted a damnatio memoriae of the burial equipment of Amasis’ family, probably on Persian behest.14 War atrocities occurred during the Persian conquest of Egypt, as in many other wars. Fighting and conquest resulted in damage, and sometimes destruc‐ tion by fire. Temples may have been damaged during the conquest, especially since they were used by the defenders as protective forts, with their high strong walls. After the conquest, temples15 and treasuries were surely pillaged,16 as well as libraries and archives of the house of Life.17 The inscription on the naophorous statue (Musei Vaticani 22690) of Udja-Hor-resnet, the high military commander at the end of the 26th Dynasty, high official, and physician during the reigns of Cambyses and Darius, is the most elaborate first-hand testimony describing the Persian conquest of and occupation in Egypt from the perspective of an Egyptian high official from Sais, serving the Persian monarchs.18 In his inscription, which describes his close relations with the Persian monarch, Udja-

11 12 13 14 15

16 17

18

Redford (2004) 33–34. Ashurbanipal’s campaign against Elam and the destruction of the tombs of the kings of Elam, see: Novotny and Jeffers (2018) text 9 (Frg. F.), v 49. Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 160–162, 347. See Schütze in this volume. Bolshakov (2010) 45–54. Hieronymus, told the story that Ptolemaeus “ravaged the kingdom of Seleucus Calli‐ nicus and carried off as booty forty thousand talents of silver, and also precious vessels and images of the gods to the amount of two and a half thousand. Among them were the same images which Cambyses had brought to Persia at the time when he conquered Egypt.” See: Bichler in this volume. The pillaging of statues from temples is attested in the Ancient Near East. Cf. the stela of Hammurabi found in Susa or the statues of Taharqa found at Nineveh. See: Höflmayer (2020) 212. Borger (1996) 215: B II 30–35. Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 310–312; Lopez (2020) sees the restoration of the House of Life as an action following the conquest of Cambyses, but motivated by Darius I's need for medical practitioners due to his injury and his wife's illness; Cf. Schütze (2020) 172, who mentions similar restorations in the house of life during the reign of Amasis, where damage caused by military conquest is less likely. Thus, it is not sure that the temple archives were damaged by the Persian conquest per se. Posener (1936) 1–26; Lloyd (1982) 166–180; Baines (1996) 83–92; Wasmuth and Creasman (2020).

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Hor-resnet mediated between the Egyptians and their new Persian overlords, causing Cambyses to honor the temple of Neith at Sais. He petitioned Cambyses to remove the foreign troops camping in the Temple temenos, whose presence defiled the temples.19 The temple was the most strategic point in town, so it is logical for the Persian armies to hold ground there. 4 Continuity and Reorganization of Religion and Bureaucracy Leaving for a moment the narrative of Herodotus, when the winds of war calmed down, Cambyses, like other conquerors in a polytheistic society (the Kushite Piankhy in Egypt,20 the Assyrian Tiglath-Pileser III in Babylonia,21 Cyrus in Babylonia22), wanted to show his reverence towards the local gods and religious practices in order to receive his legitimacy from the Egyptian gods (and clergy). He, therefore, performed the local rituals and sacrificed to the gods, avoiding their wrath, and in return received their approval and legitimacy. According to contemporary inscriptions, Cambyses was depicted as acting according to Egyptian orthodox conduct. Udja-Hor-resnet designed for him the Egyptian royal titulary,23 probably being crowned as a legitimate Egyptian Pharaoh. Cambyses then is said to have participated in the cult of Neith and offered sacrifices. He donated a sarcophagus for the burial of Apis and dedicated a stela to commemorate the event, as is expected of the legitimate Pharaoh. A seal mentioning Cambyses venerating Uadjet of Imet shows the same tendency of depicting Cambyses as a legitimate Pharaoh actively participating in the cult of the land venerating the gods.24 Hdt. 3.64 mentions, in passing, that he consulted the oracle of Buto, who prophesied that he would die in Ecbatana, thinking that he would die in peace in Persia. Thus, contemporary sources, admittedly of elite collaborators with the Persian sovereign, depicted the reign of Cambyses as business as usual. At first sight it would seem that the Persian overlords kept the Egyptian admin‐ istration and priesthood intact,25 as in the case of Udja-Hor-resnet in Sais and Ptahhotep, royal seal-bearer and treasurer, serving at the temple of Ptah-Tatenen

19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 310–312; Thiers (1995) 498–450. Grimal (1981) 69, l. 59. Temple of Thoth; p. 89, ll. 82–83 Temple of Mer-Atum; l. 84 Temple of Amun at Ititawy; p. 105, ll. 97–98 temples of Memphis; ll. 100–105 Temples of Atum and of Re at Heliopolis; p. 143, ll. 108–109 Temple of Horus Henty Hety in Leontopolis. Tadmor (1994) 131, Summary Inscription 2, l. 16. Briant (2002) 43–44. Ladynin (2020). Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 38–39. Vittmann (2009) 89–121.

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at Memphis,26 and Ahmose-men-(em-)-ineb-hedj, High Priest of Memphis. Papyrus Rylands IX27 also seems to record the continuity of holders of priestly offices at Teudjoy/el-Hibeh from the twenty-sixth dynasty until at least the reign of Darius I. Khnum-ib-Re,28 responsible for constructions, who left a graffito in Wadi Hamamat, was active from year 44 of Amasis until regnal year 30 of Darius. The “lector priest (ritualist) and chief” (ẖry ḥb, ḥry tp) Henat,29 Psammetichus-sa-Neith, and Iahmes, the commander of troops, remained in office as well. When things settled down, Cambyses ordered Udja-Hor-resnet to see to the purification of the temple, the return of temple personnel and the renewal of cultic activity. Ptahhotep30 describes similar actions: He renewed sacrifices in the temple, reinstated priests and temple personnel, inaugurated new statues and refurbished the libraries. It would thus seem that the Persian overlords intended not to interfere in the practice of local cult and ritual. However, the incomes of the temples were tightly scrutinized by the Persian administration, and land parcels and other income were redistributed. The free supply of timber was ended. Donations of textiles, poultry, seeds, and silver were also abolished. Donations of cattle were halved, as can be learned from the verso of Papyrus Bibliothèque nationale Paris 215. Some temples and their clergy received privileges. The temples of Memphis, Wen-Khem, Perapis-in-Khem,31 as well as the temple of Sobek in the Fayum were exempted according to existing documentation.32 The income of other temples was drastically cut. It is possible to imagine the discontent of the priesthood and elite echelons of society due to these actions. 5 Cambyses’ Atrocities against Egyptian religious institutes and temples—Fiction or truth? Once the Delta was secured and the Egyptian leader lost the battle, was caught or surrendered, and did not retreat southward, almost no opposition remained in Egypt. The invader could easily march south and take hold of the Nile Valley.33 It is therefore interesting to note that the historians and archaeologists do not 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

Naophor torso Brooklyn 37.353. Jansen-Winkeln (1998) 163–168. Griffith (1909); Vittmann (1998). Vittmann (2003) 134; Obsomer (2020): 235. Schütze (2020) 167. Naophor torso Brooklyn 37.353. See: Jansen-Winkeln (1998) 163–168 with earlier literature. See Wespi in this volume and Betrò (2018). Spiegelberg, (1914); Agut-Labordère (2016) 320; Wespi in this volume. Kahn and Tammuz (2009) 52–53, § 9.2. 37–66.

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have any information about temples burnt and destroyed in the area between Memphis and Thebes.34   5.1 The Persian Arrival at Thebes Herodotus claims that after the events in Sais, Cambyses planned three cam‐ paigns against Carthage, against the Ammonians, and finally against the longlived Ethiopians (Hdt. 3.17). According to Hdt. 3.25, upon arrival at Thebes, Cambyses detached 50,000 infantry warriors and ordered them to subdue the Ammonians and burn the oracle of Zeus. The text then deviates from the events at Thebes and describes the failed campaign against Ethiopia. The narrative then returns to the army contingents. These were sent to fight against the Ammonians. Surprisingly, Herodotus says nothing about any Egyptian resistance or opposition in Thebes, or any atrocities conducted by the Persians against the Thebans.35 Did Thebes surrender without a fight? Here, we may rely only on later sources. Diodorus Siculus 1.46 tells that the “temple (of Thebes) survived down to rather recent times, but silver, gold, and costly works of ivory and rare stone were carried off by the Persians when Cambyses burned the temples of Egypt”. Strabo (Geography, 17.1.46) tells that “Even now traces of its (Thebes) magnitude are pointed out, extending as they do for a distance of eighty stadia in length; and there are several temples, but most of these, too, were mutilated (ἀκρωτηριάζω cut off) by Cambyses.” The western bank of Thebes was not spared and was pillaged as well. According to Diodorus Siculus I.49, “the mortuary Temple of Osymandyas (=Ramesseum of Ramesses II) was pillaged, and a circular border of gold crowning the monument plundered by Cambyses and the Persians when he conquered Egypt”. A graffito on the colossus of Memnon from the time of Hadrianus (76–138 CE) mentions the mutilation of the colossi in front of the

34

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See: Burkard (1994) 93–106; Burkard (1995) 31–37, specifically, dealing with alleged destructions at Buto (where Nepherites donated a statue, so the temple was already restored in his reign), Karnak, el Kab (which was already restored during the reign of Darius I) and Elephantine during the reign of Cambyses. It is admittedly difficult to date the destructions precisely, since several revolts took place during the Persian dominion of Egypt. This is not the only information that Herodotus omits from his narrative about the Persian conquest of Egypt. See Bichler (2020) who notes that Herodotus does not elaborate whether Sais suffered any damages during the conquest by Cambyses, nor does he illuminate the period between Cambyses consolidation of power in Egypt and the crushing of the Egyptian rebellion by Darius I several years later.

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mortuary temple of Amenhotep III, and claims “A barbarian man, the godless Cambyses has cut off your tongue and ears”.36 Pausanias forwards similar information37 in ca. 130 CE, under the same emperor in whose reign the graffiti was inscribed. Diodorus and Strabo clearly describe the pillage of Thebes, the mutilation of colossi, and the burning of temples by Cambyses, but do not give specific details about when and under what circumstances which temples were burnt. A quick glance at the map of Western Thebes will show that between the two temples many more mortuary temples are located. Most probably, the forces of Cambyses pillaged them as well. Archaeologically, the devastation of Thebes is difficult to account for. Burning remains were identified at the Northern Karnak enclosure wall and ascribed to the campaign of Cambyses.38 This date has lately been questioned though.39 Furthermore, it seems that all the positions of priests of Amun, the first to fourth prophets of Amun, including God’s wife of Amun40, were abruptly abolished and were not occupied until the return of Egyptian rule.41 Thus, no high priesthood of Amun remained functioning in Thebes, according to the available records.42   5.2 The Campaign of Cambyses against the Ethiopians Cambyses sent out scouts to the long-lived Ethiopians to gather intelligence on the most remote kingdom the Persians encountered (this must have only occurred after Cambyses had total control over Egypt. Therefore, the story about the Persian spies is chronologically out of place). In Hdt. 3.20–24, Herodotus presents the Ethiopian (=Kushite) king as suspecting that Cambyses intended 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

Cruz-Uribe (2003) 46, with earlier literature. Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 310, n. 10. Pausanias, 1.42.3. Christophe (1951) 53; Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 317. Masson-Berghoff (2015) 201–202 has analyzed the pottery and came to the conclusion that the fire occurred at an earlier period, possibly during the transition between the 25th and 26th dynasties. Ayad (2001) 1–14; Meltzer (2003) 55–56. These scholars assume that the office of God's wife was abolished because the Persians did not need to use the office to assume political influence. Agut-Labordère (2016) 323–325. Ohshiro (2008) suggested that the focus of Amun worship moved from Thebes to the Oases during the Persian Period. The administrative institutions of the temple of Amun at Karnak continued functioning, as can be seen from the mentioning of the domain of Amun in the dossier of the gooseherds of Amun dating to the time of Darius I and Xerxes. See: Vleeming (1991). In the Cambyses decree, the supply of gooseherds to the temples is completely cancelled. See Wespi in this volume; Pestman (1994). The lack of priests of Amun may admittedly be due to lack of evidence. I thank Alexander Schütze for raising this possibility.

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to invade his land and that the Persian messengers were actually spies. The narrative explicitly states that only upon hearing the warlike answer of the Ethiopian king, Cambyses became enraged. The description of the ruler of the Empire receiving news about hostile activity, becoming enraged, and leaving for battle immediately upon hearing the news, in order to rectify the situation, without even recruiting his army, is a known literary topos from the Ancient Near East43 and is here reversed to depict Cambyses as an impulsive madman, causing calamity to his entire army. Thoughtlessly reacting to the Ethiopian message, he was dragged into the war and went on a campaign against the Ethiopians. One should only compare the meticulous preparation to conquer Egypt, to the hasty impulsive actions taken by Cambyses on receiving the message from the south. The campaign against the Ethiopians would have occurred at roughly the same time as the campaign against the Ammonians (Hdt. 3.25–26). During the campaign against the Ethiopians, the Persians miscalculated their food rations, and the campaign was aborted. The story tells that the soldiers planned to eat their fellows to survive. The motif of cannibalism seems purely literary.44 A hasty campaign, as described in Herodotus, without proper logistic support, in the Sudanese hostile desert terrain, could lead to a military disaster. In Strabo’s report on the campaign of the Roman general Petronius against Napata, he mentions that the Roman armies arrived at Primnis (Qasr Ibrim, between the first and second cataract of the Nile), after crossing the sandbanks, at which Cambyses’ army had been overtaken by a storm wind and buried in the sand (Strab. 17.1.54).45 Thus, both Herodotus and Strabo recount the loss of the army of Cambyses during his campaign against the Ethiopians. However, the description of the disaster is different. Whereas Herodotus’ description of the disaster is purely literary, Strabo’s description of the events is strikingly similar to the second military disaster encountered simultaneously by Cambyses—according to Herodotus, the army of Cambyses was lost in a sandstorm. The turning point in describing Cambyses’ mad nature and behavior only really occurs in Hdt. 3.25, where Cambyses, as Herodotus diagnosed him, was

43

44 45

Cf. the description of the actions taken by Sargon II in order to quell the rebellion in Ashdod: See: Cogan (2015) 83, text 18: Khorsabad Summary Inscription: ‟In my fury, I did not gather my numerous troops and did not mobilize my soldiers; with (only) my warriors, who even in [frie]ndly ar[eas] do not leave my side, I marched to Ashdod.” Cf. Eph‘al (2009) 61–62. FHN III, 831.

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“being not in his right mind but mad”.46 He received the report of his messengers to the King of Ethiopia (=Kush) and immediately undertook a failed campaign against the Ethiopians, without adequate military and logistic preparations for supply of food and water, nor himself realizing that he was about to make a campaign to the farthest part of the world.   5.3 The Campaign against the Ammonians According to Herodotus (Hdt. 3.26), the Persian contingent, which was ordered to enslave the Ammonians,47 left Thebes and arrived at the Oasis, seven days marching distance from Thebes (most probably Kharga Oasis, ca. 335 km west of Thebes). Nothing is known about what happened afterward. According to the Ammonians, a sandstorm occurred en route and buried the army of Cambyses. Occasionally, the lost army of Cambyses emerges from the sands of time and is rediscovered. The Castiglioni brothers, known adventurers, have claimed to find the remnants of the thousands of bodies scattered in the Western desert somewhere on the route to Siwa Oasis, with typical Persian paraphernalia. Their finds have been presented in Nubian conferences and published on the internet,48 but no scientific report of the finds has been published. The claim was vehemently refuted by Zahi Hawass. Cambyses’ lost army is still out there. Did all the 50,000 men, who were ordered to subdue the Ammonians, march against the Oasis and perish? The numbers admittedly seem exaggerated. As mentioned above, Strabo attributes the sandstorm to the campaign against the Ethiopians. It is not explicitly mentioned where the temple of Amun was situated. Could it be that, as in the entire Cambyses logos of Herodotus, we have two versions of the same story, one describing the loss of the Persian army due to thirst and hunger, and the other due to a sandstorm? It seems that Herodotus gave little credibility to the Ammonian story of the sandstorm.49 46

47 48 49

However, Hdt. 3.30 wrote that Cambyses’ first mad behavior occurred when he murdered his full brother, Smerdis. Cambyses paranoia and fear of a coup d’état caused him to treat his family members mercilessly. However, the fact that someone is feeling paranoid does not mean that nobody is threatening him. The Smerdis/Gaumata/Bardiya affair in several sources makes this clear. The assassination of family members because of disloyalty, or because they became a threat to the king is typical of despotic regimes until these very days and does not necessarily indicate madness, but good instincts of self-preservation. For the Ammonians, their affiliation with Thebes, their connections with the Ethio‐ pians, and their worship of the ram-headed god Amun (especially venerated in Napata), see: Hdt. 2.42. See the numerous web pages about the “lost army of Cambyses”, which appeared in November 2009. See Meadows (2009). Agut-Labordère in this volume.

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Justin, Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus, as well shortly describes the disaster that befell the army of Cambyses: “He (Cambyses) also sent an army to destroy the celebrated temple of Ammon; which army was overwhelmed with tempests and heaps of sand, and utterly annihilated (1.9.3)”.50 He probably relied on Herodotus’ tradition and therefore cannot be considered a separate source. Kaper51 has identified a temple built by Pedubast IV shr-ı͗b-RꜤ (Seheribra) at Amheida, Dakhla Oasis. Pedubast IV’s few monuments were known from the region of Memphis and Heracleopolis dating to the early Persian occupation of Egypt.52 His full titulary was recorded on several blocks from the temple at Amheida. Kaper has recently claimed that the army of Cambyses was not destroyed by a sandstorm but by the army of the rebel king Pedubast IV. Kaper suggests that the military defeat was covered up, and attributed to a natural disaster. In any case, it could be regarded as a Persian military setback. However, nothing in the titular of Pedubast IV suggests a great victory over the Persian army, and no late folktales remained to corroborate this idea. Diodorus as well reports about a punitive campaign “when Cambyses was on the point of setting out his campaign against Ethiopia, he dispatched a part of his army against the Ammonians (ἐπ’ Ἀμμωνίους), giving orders to its commanders to plunder and burn the oracle and to make slaves of all who dwelt near the shrine” (X F 14.3).53 Neither the location of the Ammonians, nor the destruction of the army, is mentioned in this excerpt. The Ammonians did not accept subjugation to Persia upon the defeat of Psammetichus III. As Kaper54 has shown, Pedubast IV affiliated himself, through his royal names, to his predecessors of the 26th Dynasty. The inclusion of the element ı͗b in the throne name shr-ı͗b-RꜤ was modeled upon the royal names in the 26th Dynasty. The nb.ty “Two Ladies name” starts with the epithet sꜢ Nt, son of the Goddess Neith, as does the name of Amasis. As Kaper has noted, the temple is assumed to have been constructed after Pedubast took control over the area of Memphis based on the epithet “Beloved of Ptah, South of his Wall”. This is corroborated by the fact that a papyrus document from “year 1” was found at Memphis or Meydum. His Horus name reflects his claim for control over the

50 51 52 53 54

See Bichler in this volume. Kaper (2015) 125–149. Yoyotte (1972) 216–23. See Bichler (2021). Kaper (2015) 125–149 and in this volume.

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entire country: smn tꜢ.wy “the one who establishes/controls the two lands”.55 Furthermore, Cambyses’ eighth regnal year (522 BCE) is attested in two papyri from Asyut in Middle Egypt. Thus, his rule was acknowledged at least up to this southern area until he departed from Egypt.56 Therefore, the papyrus dating to the reign of Pedubast IV from Memphis could not precede 522 BCE. Additionally, it would seem strange, but not impossible, that Cambyses left Egypt after ca. four years without subduing a rebellion that broke out in his days. And lastly, in the Behistun inscription, Darius claims that Egypt rebelled only in his days.57 This means that Pedubast IV started his rebellion only with Cambyses leaving Egypt, and he could have gained control over the entire land only later. Thus, Kaper’s suggestion to connect Cambyses’ campaign against the Ammonians in Herodotus’ account with Pedubast should be rejected. Whereas Pedubast IV’s names do not verify Kaper’s assumption that he was the protagonist of Cambyses in his campaign against the Ammonians, his “Two Ladies Name”, is relevant to this paper. “Illuminator of temples” (sḥḏ r-prw) is a rather uniquely designed name referring to temples. Only a handful of Pharaohs chose to describe in their royal titulary the construction, restoration, and endowment of temples.58 These Pharaohs are known to have extensively built temples. Pedubast IV claims to have illuminated the temples. Based on the occurrence of this term in P. Vandier 4.3 it would seem that the term relates to the refurbishing of temples with golden and silver paraphernalia, possibly after the temples were sacked.59 This could have occurred following the sacking of the temples by Cambyses. Whether “illuminating” the temples means presenting 55 56 57 58

59

Cf. Ptolemy V Epiphanes. See von Beckerath (1999), 237. Quack (2011) 241; Wijnsma (2019) 162; Kaper in this volume. Wijnsma (2018) 157–173. Amenhotep III: sꜤꜢ ḥwt.f nt ḏt “the one who enlarges his temple of eternity”, von Beckerath (1999) 140, G7; Ramesses II: smnḫ mnw m ı͗pt rsı͗.t n ı͗t.f ʾImn dı͗ sw ḥr nst.f ‟the one who has made monuments splendid in Ipet-Resyt (i.e., Luxor Temple) for his father Amun, who put him on his throne”, von Beckerath (1999) 155, N5; Herihor: swꜤb bnbn(t) mḥ sw m mnw sṯḥnt mı͗ Ꜣḫt ı͗m.s/sḥꜢb WꜢst m mnw wr(w) “the one who has purified the Benenet and filled it with monuments that gleam like the horizon which is within it/the one who made Thebes festive with great monuments”, von Beckerath (1999) 177, N2, N3; Ptolemy IV philopator: sḥd gs.w-pr.w ‟illuminator of temples”, von Beckerath (1999) 237, G. See also Neshor’s statement on his statue Louvre A90. Jansen-Winkeln (2014) 408, l. 3; sḥḏ.n(=ı͗) rꜢw-prw⸗tn m dbḥw nw ḥḏ kꜢw srwt Ꜣpdw ꜤšꜢw (…) ‟It is with vessels of silver, numerous cattle, geese, and fowl that (I) illuminated your temples.” Posener (1985) p. 65, l. 4.3 Hoffmann and Quack (2007) 157, l. 4.3. and p. 346, note v. Note, however, that the context is broken, and the text is emended. Hoffmann and Quack understand the tꜢ following sḥḏ as a phonetic writing of the pseudo participle sḥḏ.tı͗. It is possible, on the other hand, that sḥḏ tꜢ denotes the normal description of the bright‐ ening of the earth just before sunrise (cf. Wb IV 224–225). The following context does

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them with endowments, or rebuilding them and restoring their ritual activity, illuminating the dark inner parts of the temples, remains undecided. Could it be that the rebelling Ammonians of Herodotus were actually the inhabitants of Thebes, worshipers of Amun? THE temples of Amun, par excellence, and the worship of this god are in Thebes. Indeed, there are temples to the god Amun, in Kharga (Hibis and Qasr Ghuieta)60 and Dakhla Oasis (Amheida, Ain el Birbirah),61 and Siwa Oasis. However, these are lesser known and smaller temples than the ones in Thebes. Furthermore, according to the text of Herodotus, at least Kharga Oasis should be excluded from the country of the Ammonians, since after marching for seven days Cambyses’ forces reached Oasis, and from there marched to the country of the Ammonians.62 Ctesias, Persica, § 9, mentions the deportation of King Amyrtaeus (Amenir‐ disu)63 and 6,000 artisans by Cambyses. If Ctesias’ note is not pure fiction as Briant claims,64 and Ctesias did not mix between events and did not describe Amyrtaeus from the reign of Artaxerxes I, or the king of Dynasty 28, who expelled the Persians in 404 BCE, we have here a note on the subduing of another rebellion and the deportation of an additional Egyptian rebel king by Cambyses. May we cautiously speculate that he was the leader of the Theban revolt?   5.4 The Murder of the Apis Bull The narrative of Cambyses murdering the newly installed Apis bull (Hdt. 3.27– 29) follows the description of his two military defeats against the king of Ethiopia and the Ammonians. The festivity of the Egyptians was, according to Herodotus, understood by Cambyses as a response to this defeat. Based on Persian and Ancient Near Eastern precedence, a harsh reaction to the Egyptian celebration is more than expected. The historicity of the murder of Apis has been dealt with extensively in classical sources and modern research. As Jansen-Winkeln

60 61 62 63

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mention possibly “[silv]er, gold, and textiles”. Therefore, the emendation of Hoffmann and Quack cannot be ruled out. Cruz-Uribe (2003) 36–37. Kaper (2015) 125–149. In Hdt. 4.181, the Ammonians are located 10 days travel from Thebes, which would correspond to Dakhla, not Siwa Oasis, as suggested by many. Cf. FHN I, 315–317. See now also Kaper in this volume. Lit. ‟Amen is the one who made him”, therefore pointing to this local ruler's affiliation with the cult of Amen, which was practiced in Thebes. It is true that amen was venerated in other cities in Egypt as well (see: Guermeur (2005)), but Thebes, which is known to have rebelled, was his main cult center, and there is no information of rebellion in the other towns, where a temple of Amen was located. Briant (2002) 268, 886.

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recently affirmed,65 Depuydt’s suggestion that the murder cannot be disproven still stands. Marcus Junianus Justinus (2nd c. CE), Epitome of the Philippic History of Pompeius Trogus, Book I (1st c. BCE–1st c. CE) connects the killing of Apis and demolition of temples with contempt toward the gods of Egypt. Clement of Alexandria (c. 195 CE), Protrepticus, IV, 57 states that it has happened that miscreants or enemies have assailed and set fire to temples, and plundered them of their votive gifts,66 and melted even the images themselves, from base greed of gain. And if a Cambyses or a Darius, or any other madman, has made such attempts, and if one has killed the Egyptian Apis, I laugh at him killing their god, while pained at the outrage being perpetrated for the sake of gain. I will therefore willingly forget such villiany, looking on acts like these more as deeds of covetousness, than as a proof of the impotence of idols. Whereas the plundering and melting of the statues is regarded as acts of greed. Peoples who conduct such atrocities are seen by him as madmen.67

The classical sources about the killing of the Mnevis bull by Artaxerxes III68 and the destruction of the tomb of the Mendes ram give credence to the possibility that such an event could have occurred under Persian rule, following rebellious tendencies.   5.5 Cambyses and the Temple of Ptah In Hdt. 3.37, Herodotus claims that Cambyses mocked the statue of He‐ phaistos/Ptah, entered the temple of the Cabeiri (possibly derived from Semitic Kabir), which is only allowed to the high priest, and burnt their statues. The question arises whether Herodotus’ description is not biased. How would a conqueror behave when conquering a major town of his opponents? Would he be satisfied with mocking the statue of the god? What would happen to a temple, in which the statues of the gods were set ablaze? Would it remain unharmed? It would seem that Herodotus emphasizes the irrational aspect of Cambyses, avoiding the full description of the consequences of his actions. Herodotus then

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Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 314. Wespi in this volume, has noted that the Cambyses decree specifically does not harm the income of the temple of Ptah and a temple of Apis. Is this a sort of compensation of earlier treatment? After Depuydt (1995) 119–126. Aelian, Varia Historia, 4.8; 6.8; 17:28; Plutarch, Moralia. Isis and Osiris, 11.1; 44.1. For the archaeological evidence from Mendes, see: Redford (2004) 33–34; Redford (2010) 188 with more skepticism.

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sums up Cambyses’ deeds against Egyptian customs and religion in Hdt. 3.38.1 and claims that they were conducted out of sheer madness.69 Strabo, according to his own statement, had access to the work of Herodotus and relied on him. He paraphrased Herodotus and claimed, “that there were temples of the Cabeiri in Memphis, as also of Hephaestus, but that Cambyses destroyed them” (10.3.21).70 Strabo summarized Herodotus, and it is possible that he logically inferred that Cambyses destroyed the temples, since Herodotus does not mention the destruction of the temple, only the mocking and burning of the statues. Strabo does not attribute Cambyses’ deeds in Thebes to his mental state.   5.6 Persian rulers purported to have destroyed temples Persian rulers, as their Ancient Near Eastern predecessors, are known to have destroyed temples. According to Herodotus (Hdt. 1.164), the town of Phocaea was destroyed during the reign of Cyrus I. Archaeological evidence confirms that the temple was destroyed.71 Darius destroyed Naxos, Sardis, Eretria, Didime, and their temples (Hdt. 5.102; 6.19–20, 22, 96–101);72 Xerxes destroyed the Athe‐ nian Acropolis (8.140), removed the statue of Marduk (possibly accompanied by a destruction of the Esagila temple (Arrian Anab. 3.16.2–5; 7.17.1–4; Diod. 2.9.4– 5, 9; 3.16; 17.112; Strab. 15.3.9–10; 16.1.5).73 Artaxerxes III Ochus, treated the Egyptian and Babylonian temples harshly (Diod. 16.51.2),74 and archaeological traces suggest that at least the temples of Mendes75 and Tell Tebilah76 were destroyed during his invasion of Egypt. The burning and destruction of temples came in all these instances as retaliation and response to rebellions. Is this also the case in Cambyses’ actions?

69 70 71 72 73

74 75 76

Quack in this volume has demonstrated the reality behind the description of the ritual and cult in the temple of Ptah, as Herodotus received from his sources. See Bichler in this volume. Van der Spek (2014) 233–264. Esp. 236, note 18. Briant (2002) 158, 494. Kuhrt and Sherwin-White (1987) 68–78; Van der Spek (2014) 236, n. 21; for the destructions of temples on the Athenian acropolis during the reign of Xerxes as punitive measures against Athens for involvement in the Ionian revolt; George (2010) 472–480; cf. Kuhrt (2014) 163, 167–168; Briant (2002) 543, 545. Briant (2002) 852, 862. Redford (2004) 34. See however, Redford (2010) 188 expressing more skepticism. Mumford (2004) 267–286, esp. 282.

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5.7 The Aramaic Papyri Cowley 30, 31 (TADAE A 4.7 recto 14, TADAE A 4.8 recto 12–13) The last evidence that I present regarding the atrocities against Egyptian temples in the time of Cambyses are the drafts of Pap. Cowley 30 and its parallel, dating to 407 BCE.77 The text is in Aramaic and originates from Elephantine. It contains a petition by the Jewish community to King Darius II to rebuild their temple after it has been destroyed in 410 BCE. In it, the petitioners claim that the temple was not harmed when Cambyses came to Egypt, even though all other temples were destroyed. Describing destruction, one would expect the use of the verbs ՚bd, ՚kl, bz՚, ḥrv, ndš, ՙdy, šḥt.78 The use of the verb mgr is unusual.79 It occurs in Ezra 6:12 and describes the fate of every king or person who does not keep the decree of Darius to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem: annihilation. May the God who has established his name there overthrow ‫ יְ ַמגַּ ר‬any king or people that shall put forth a hand to alter this, or to destroy this house of God in Jerusalem (NRSV Ezra 6:12). Clearly the adjective “all” is an exaggeration, but it is clear that the destructions of Egyptian temples that occurred more than a century earlier were remembered by the Jewish garrison at Elephantine.   5.8 Biblical Texts: Jeremiah 43 Jeremiah 43:8–13, prophesies the future ravaging of Egypt by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon and the burning of its temples. Nebuchadnezzar did not succeed in conquering Egypt in his various attempts.80 (8) Then the word of the LORD came to Jeremiah in Tahpanhes: (9) Take some large stones in your hands, and bury them in the clay pavement that is at the entrance to Pharaoh’s palace in Tahpanhes. Let the Judeans see you do it, (10) and say to them. Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel: I am going to send and take my servant King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon, and he will set his throne above these stones that I have buried, and he will spread his net81 over them. (11) He shall come and ravage the land of Egypt, giving those who are destined for pestilence, to pestilence, and those who are destined for captivity, to captivity, and those who are destined for the sword, to the sword. (12) He shall kindle a fire in the temples of the gods of Egypt; and he shall burn them and carry them away captive; and enfold the land of Egypt as a shepherd wraps

77 78 79 80 81

Porten and Yardeni (1986) 68–71; Porten (1996) 141–142. See DNWSI 5, 52, 149, 402, 709, 829, 1143. DNWSI 594. Kahn (2018). Goldstein (2020) 63–69; translated as ‟Royal canopy” in NRSV.

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himself in his garment82; and he shall depart from there safely. (13) He shall break the obelisks of Heliopolis, which is in the land of Egypt; and the temples of the gods of Egypt he shall burn with fire. 83

Goldstein84 has recently shown that the original kernel of Jer 43:10–12 consisted of two sentences in literary language with the parallel similes of spreading the net and capturing the enemy in it and covering with the garment, i.e., metaphorically depicting Nebuchadnezzar’s total dominion over Egypt, his reach extending over the whole territory like somebody who covers himself with a garment. These similes of covering and netting appear together in close proximity and sometimes even in parallelism in Mesopotamian texts. It can therefore be surmised that these biblical passages depended on Akkadian language and motifs and influences that appear to reflect the days of the Neo- Babylonian Empire. These verses anticipate the conquest of Egypt in literary style in a general description without giving specific details. The oracle originally ended in v. 12b, prophesying the peaceful return of Nebuchadnezzar from Egypt. This original core was disturbed by the insertion of vv. 11–12a and 13. The difference in style between vv. 10b, 12b, and 11–12a is striking. Unlike vv. 10 and 12b, which are quasi- poetic, the intermediary verses (vv. 11–12a) are rendered in prose style and describe Nebuchadnezzar’s action without any parallelism, or imagery, or figurative language. Goldstein shows that: The extant order of (the depicted events) is also awkward. Although Nebuchadnezzar’s actions are ostensibly recorded in chronological detail (“he will spread out… and come and attack… and burn them down and carry them off, and wrap… depart from there in safety”), after the spreading of his net (i. e., conquering of Egypt [10b]), he is then said to go down and destroy it (vv. 11–12a). The conquest of Egypt is then presented once more via the image of the garment (12b1), followed immediately by his departure thence (12b2) It is thus proposed that verses 11–12a interrupt the original, correct sequence of Jer 43:10–12.85

V. 11 uses stock phraseology (cf. similar phrasing in Jer 15:2 and 46:13). This terminology belongs to the deuteronomistic layer of the book of Jeremiah and is interwoven, together with v. 12a and 13, in the original prophecy. The successful invasion and conquest of Egypt, described in factual terms in vv. 11–12b, 13

82 83 84 85

Goldstein (2020) 69–73; NRSV translates: ‟and enfold the land of Egypt as a shepherd wraps himself in his garment”. Following NRSV with emendations based on Goldstein's study. Goldstein (2020). Goldstein (2020) 75.

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is regarded as a Fortschreibung, an update of the prophecy that eventually materialized in the days of Cambyses in 526 BCE.86 V. 13 anticipated the breaking of the pillars of Heliopolis following Nebuchadnezzar’s leaving Egypt in peace in v. 12b at the end of the campaign. As Goldstein notes: [w]hen v. 12a is identified as belonging to the stratum that interrupts the original sequence between vv. 10 and 12b, it becomes clear that the two references to the temples of the Egyptian gods did not form part of the prophecy’s core, which made no reference to Egypt’s temples or gods… The distinctive element in the additions is the allusion to the burning of Egypt’s temples and gods.87

The mention of burning the temples of the gods and the destruction of the obelisks of Heliopolis is very specific and unique and reflects the destruction of Heliopolis by Cambyses in 526 in perfect correspondence with the information of Strabo and Pliny. 6 Conclusion Temples, archives, and their personnel were probably damaged during the initial phase of Egypt’s conquest. However, with the aid of the Egyptian elite, who collaborated with the Persian authorities, the cult was renewed and restored to normal. Parts of Egypt, especially in the south and the oases, did not accept Persian dominion and rebelled. Such a rebellion was not tolerated. The Persians immediately tried to quell the revolt harshly and without mercy. The Theban cult of Amun, or at least its leadership, seems to have been abolished, and its prophets ousted for decades. Pedubast IV, the rebel king (possibly rebelling only after Cambyses left Egypt), regained control over most of Egypt including the western oases and started to restore the damaged temples until Egypt fell again under Persian firm grip in the third or fourth regnal year of Darius I at the latest (518 BCE). At least five additional revolts occurred under Persian rule in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE.

86

87

Theoretically, it could also refer to events under Darius I, Xerxes or Artaxerxes I who subdued rebellions in Egypt. However, there is no tradition of these kings demolishing, burning and pillaging the temples of Egypt, and therefore the ascription to Cambyses is stronger. I thank Alexander Schütze for pointing this out. Goldstein (2020) 77.

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Bibliography Agut-Labordère (2016): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Beyond the Persian Tolerance Policy: Great Kings and Egyptian Gods during the Achaemenid Period’, in: Diana Edelman, Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, and Philippe Guillaume (eds), Religion in the Achaemenid Persian Empire: Emerging Judaisms and Trends, Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 17, Tübingen, 319–328. Ayad (2001): Mariam Ayad, ‘Some Thoughts on the Disappearance of the Office of the God’s Wife of Amun’, Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 28, 1–14. von Beckerath (1999): Jürgen von Beckerath, Handbuch der Ägyptischen Königsnamen, Münchener Ägyptologische Studien 49, Mainz am Rhein. Baines (1996): John Baines, ‘On the Composition and Inscription of the Vatican of Udjahorresne’, in: Peter der Manuelian (ed.), Studies in Honor of William Kelly Simpson I, Boston, 83–92. Betrò (2018): Marilina Betrò, ‘Cambyses and the Serapeum: the name of the third temple in p. Bibl. Nat. 215, vso, col. d, 3.’, EgVicOr 41, 167–181. Bichler (2020): Reinhold Bichler, ‘Herodotus’ Perspective on the Situation of Egypt in the Period from the Last Saite Kings to Xerxes’ First Years’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, 35–58. Bolshakov (2010): Andrey Bolshakov, ‘Persians and Egyptians: Cooperation in Van‐ dalism?’, in: Sue D’Auria, (ed.), Offerings to the Discerning Eye: An Egyptological Medley in Honor of Jack A. Josephson, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 38, Leiden, 45–54. Borger (1996): Rykle Borger, Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Assurbanipals: Die Prismen‐ klassen A, B, C = K, D, E, F, G, H, J und T sowie andere Inschriften (mit einem Beitrag von A. Fuchs), Wiesbaden. Briant (2002): Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake. Burkard (1994): Günter Burkard, ‘Literarische Tradition und historische Realität. Die persische Eroberung Ägyptens am Beispiel Elephantine’, ZÄS 121, 93–106. Burkard (1995): Günter Burkard, ‘Literarische Tradition und historische Realität: Die persische Eroberung Ägyptens am Beispiel Elephantine’, ZÄS 122, 31–37. Christophe (1951): Louis-A. Christophe, Karnak-Nord III, FIFAO 23, Cairo. Cogan (2015): Mordechai Cogan, The raging torrent: Historical inscriptions from Assyria and Babylonia relating to ancient Israel, Jerusalem. Cruz-Uribe (2003): Eugene Cruz-Uribe, ‘The invasion of Egypt by Cambyses’, Transeu‐ phratène 25, 9–60.

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Depuydt (1995): Leo Depuydt, ‘Murder in Memphis: the story of Cambyses’s mortal wounding of the Apis Bull (ca. 523 BCE)’, JNES 54, 119–126. Depuydt (1996): Leo Depuydt, ‘Egyptian Regnal Dating under Cambyses and the Date the Date of the Persian Conquest’, in: Peter der Manuelian (ed.), Studies in Honor William Kelly Simpson, Volume I, Boston, 179–190. Eph’al (2009): Israel Eph’al, ‘The City Besieged’: Siege and its Manifestations in the Ancient Near East, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 36, Leiden. George (2010): Andrew George, ‘Xerxes and the Tower of Babel’, in: John Curtis and St John Simpson, The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near East, London, 472–480. Goldstein (2020): Ronnie Goldstein, ‘Casting Nets and Burning Temples: The Babylonian and Persian Background of Jer 43: 8–13’, Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel 9, 62–90. Griffith (1909): Francis Llewellyn Griffith, Catalogue of the Demotic Papyri in the John Rylands Library, Manchester: With Facsimiles and Complete Translations, Vol. 3, Manchester. Grimal (1981): Nicolas Grimal, La stèle triomphale de Pi(‘ankh)y au musée du Caire, Mémoires publiés par les membres de l’Institut francais d’archéologie orientale du Caire 105, Cairo. Guermeur (2005): Ivan Guermeur, Les cultes d’Amon hors de Thèbes: Recherches de Géo‐ graphie Religieuse, Bibliothèque de l’École des Hautes-‐Études: Sciences Religieuses 123, Turnhout. Hodjache and Berlev (1977): Svetlana Hodjache and Oleg Berlev, ‘Objets royaux du Musée des Beaux-Arts Pouchkine à Moscou’, ChronEg 52.103, 22–39. Hoffmann and Quack (2007): Friedhelm Hoffmann and Joachim Friedrich Quack, Anthol‐ ogie der demotischen Literatur, Einführungen und Quellentexte zur Ägyptologie 4, Berlin. Höflmayer (2020): Felix Höflmayer, ‘Assyria in Egypt: How to Trace Defeat in Ancient Egyptian Sources’, in: Katharina Streit and Marianne Grohmann (eds.), Culture of Defeat: Submission in Written Sources and the Archaeological Record. Proceedings of a Joint Seminar of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the University of Vienna, October 2017, Gorgias Studies in Ancient Near East 16, Piscataway, NJ., 189–227. Jansen-Winkeln (1998): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, ‘Drei Denkmäler mit archaisierender Orthographie’, Or 67, 155–172. Jansen-Winkeln (2002): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, ‘Die Quellen zur Eroberung Ägyptens durch Kambyses’, in: Tamaś A. Bács (ed.), A tribute to Excellence: Studies Offered in Honor of Ernö Gaál, Ulrich Luft, László Török, Studia Aegyptiaca 17, Budapest, 309–319. Jansen-Winkeln (2014): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, Inschriften der Spätzeit, Teil IV: Die 26. Dynastie, Band 1: Psametik I.–Psametik III., Wiesbaden.

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Kahn (2007): Dan’el Kahn, ‘Notes on the Time-Factor in Cambyses’ deeds in Egypt as Told by Herodotus’, Transeuphratène 34, 103–112. Kahn (2018): Dan’el Kahn, ‘Nebuchadnezzar and Egypt: An Update on Egyptian Monu‐ ments’, Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel 7.1, 65–78. Kahn and Tammuz (2009): Dan’el Kahn and Oded Tammuz, ‘Egypt is difficult to enter (Strabo, Geography, 17.1.21): Invading Egypt—A Game Plan (7th – 4th centuries BCE)’, Journal of the Society for the Study of Egyptian Antiquities 36, 37–66. Kaper (2015): Olaf Kaper, ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis: New Evidence about an Early Rebellion against Persian Rule and Its Suppression in Political Memory’, In: Jason M. Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers (eds.), Political Memory in and After the Persian Empire, Atlanta, 125–149. Kuhrt (2014): Amélie Kuhrt, ‘Reassessing the Reign of Xerxes in the Light of New Evidence’, in: Wouter Henkelman et al. (eds.), Extraction & Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, Chicago, 163-169. Kuhrt and Sherwin-White (1987): Amélie Kuhrt and Susan Sherwin-White, ‘Xerxes’ destruction of Babylonian temples’, in Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg and Amélie Kuhrt (eds.), The Greek Sources: Proceedings of the Groningen 1984 Achaemenid History Workshop, Achaemenid History 2, Leiden, 69–78. Ladynin (2020): Ivan Ladynin, ‘Udjahorresnet and the royal Name of Cambyses: The ‘Deriative Sacrality’ of Achaemenids in Egypt’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Intercon‐ nections 26, 88–99. Lloyd (1982): Alan B. Lloyd, ‘The Inscription of Udjaḥorresnet: A Collaborator’s Testa‐ ment’, JEA 68, 166–180. Lopez (2020): Francesco Lopez, ‘Udjahorresnet, Democedes, and Darius I: The Reform of the House of Life as Consequence of the Egyptian Physicians’ Failure to Heal the Achaemenid ruler’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, 100–113. Masson-Berghoff (2015): Aurelia Masson-Berghoff, ‘Toward a New Interpretation of the Fire at North-Karnak? A Study of the Ceramic from the Building NKF35’, CahKarnak 15, 189–213. Meadows (2009): David Meadows, ‘Cambyses’ Lost Army Found? Don’t Eat That Elmer’, https://rogueclassicism.com/2009/11/13/cambyses-lost-army-found-dont-eat -that-elmer/ (assessed 13.09.2021). Meltzer (2003): Edmund Meltzer, ‘The End of the God’s Wife of Amun–A Postscript’, Discussions in Egyptology 56, 55–56. Mumford (2004): Gregory Mumford, ‘Reconstruction of the temple and settlement at Tell Tebilla (East Delta)’, in: Garry Knoppers and Antoine Hirsch (eds.), Egypt, Israel and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honour of Donald B. Redford, Probleme der Ägyptologie 20, Leiden, 267–286.

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Novotny and Jeffers (2018): Jamie Novotny and Joshua Jeffers, The Royal Inscriptions of Ashurbanipal (668–631 BC), Aššur-etel-ilāni (630–627 BC) and Sîn-šarra-iškun (626–612 BC), Kings of Assyria, Vol. 5/1, Winona Lake, Ind. Obsomer (2020): Claude Obsomer, ‘Les inscriptions hiéroglyphiques de l’époque perse au Ouadi Hammamat (Égypte)’, Les Études Classiques 88, 1–4. Ohshiro (2008): Michinori Ohshiro, ‘Kharga Oasis and Thebes: The Missing Piece of the Puzzle in the Relocation of Amen Worship in the 27th Dynasty?’, Orient 43, 75–92. Pestman (1994): Pieter Willem Pestman, Les papyrus démotiques de Tsenhor: les archives privées d’une femme égyptienne du temps de Darius Ier, Studia Demotica 4, Leuven. Porten (1986): Bezalel Porten (ed.), The Elephantine papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross-cultural Continuity and Change, Documenta et monumenta Orientis antiqui 22, Leiden. Porten and Yardeni (1986): Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Docu‐ ments from Ancient Egypt 1: Letters, Winona Lake, Ind. Posener (1936): George Posener, La première domination perse en Egypte: recueil d’in‐ scriptions hiéroglyphiques, BdE 11, Cairo. Posener (1985): George Posener, Le papyrus Vandier, Bibliothèque générale 7, Cairo. Quack (2011): Joachim Friedrich Quack, ‘Zum Datum der persischen Eroberung Ägyptens unter Kambyses’, Journal of Egyptian History 4, 228–246. Redford (2004): Donald Redford, Excavations at Mendes: the Royal Necropolis, Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 20, Leiden. Redford (2010): Donald Redford, City of the Ram-man: the story of ancient Mendes, Princeton, NJ. Schütze (2020): Alexander Schütze, ‘On the originality of Udjahorresnet’s biographical inscriptions’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, 166–175. Spiegelberg, (1914): Wilhelm Spiegelberg, Die sogenannte Demotische Chronik des Papyrus 215 der Bibliothèque Nationale zu Paris, Demotische Studien 7, Leipzig. Tadmor (1994): Hayim Tadmor, The Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III King of Assyria, Jerusalem. Thiers (1995): Christophe Thiers, ‘Civils et militaires dans les temples: occupation illicite et expulsion’, BIFAO 95, 493–516. Török (2014): László Török, Herodotus in Nubia, Leiden. Van der Spek (2014): Robartus van der Spek ‘Cyrus the Great, Exiles, and Foreign Gods: A Comparison of Assyrian and Persian Policies on Subject Nations’, in: Michael Kozuh, Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Charles E. Jones, and Christopher Woods (eds.), Extraction & Control: Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper, Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 68, Chicago, 233–264. Vittmann (2003): Günther Vittmann, Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend, Kulturgeschichte der Antiken Welt 97, Mainz am Rhein.

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Vittmann (2009): Günther Vittmann, ‘Rupture and Continuity: On Priests and Officials in Egypt during the Persian Period’, in: Pierre Briant and Michel Chauveau (eds.), Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels duns les pays de l’empire achéménide: Actes de colloque organisé au Collége de France par la Chaire d’histoire et civilisation du monde achéménide et de l’empire d’Alexandre et le Réseau international d’études et de recherches achéménides (GDR 2538 CNRS), 9–10 novembre 2007, Persika 14, Paris, 89–121. Vleeming (1991): Sven Peter Vleeming, The gooseherds of Hou (Pap. Hou); a dossier relating to various agricultural affairs from provincial Egypt of the early fifth century BC, Studia Demotica 3, Leuven. von Beckerath (1999): Jürgen von Beckerath, Handbuch der ägyptischen Konigsnamen, Münchener Ägyptologische Studien 49, Mainz am Rhein. Wasmuth and Creasman (2020): Melanie Wasmuth and Pearce Paul Creasman (eds.), Udjahorresnet and his world, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, Tucson. Wijnsma (2018): Uzume Wijnsma, ‘The Worst Revolt of the Bisitun Crisis: A Chronolog‐ ical Reconstruction of the Egyptian Revolt under Petubastis IV’, JNES 77, 157–173. Yoyotte (1972): Jean Yoyotte, ‘Pétoubastis III’, RdE 24, 216–23.

Abbreviations DNWSI: J. Hoftijzer and K. Jongeling, Dictionary of the North West Semitic Inscriptions, Leiden 1995. FHN I: Tormod Eide et al., Fontes Historiae Nubiorum: Textual sources for the History of the Middle Nile Region between the Eighth Century BC. and the Sixth Century AD. Vol. I, From the Eighth to the Mid-Fifth Century B. C., Bergen 1994. FHN III: Tormod Eide et al., Fontes Historiae Nubiorum. Textual Sources for the History of the Middle Nile Region Between the Eighth Century BC and the Sixth Century AD III: From the First to the Sixth Century AD, Bergen 1998. NRSV: American Bible Society (ed.), Holy Bible. New Revised Standard Version, New York 1990.

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1 The Herodotean Cambyses Herodotus’ Cambyses did not hold the Egyptian gods in very high regard. After passing through the desert thanks to a skillful alliance policy and stra‐ tegic planning, after conquering Memphis and killing the Egyptian successorking Psammenitos, after desecrating Amasis’ corpse in Sais and losing three campaigns against Carchedon, the Ethiopians, and the Ammonians, and when Memphis was about to consecrate a new Apis-bull, Cambyses injured the very same bull fatally while contemplating on the possibility of divine incarnation.1 Thereupon and according to Herodotus’ Egyptian informants, he straightway became the victim of a divinely induced madness from which he only recovered on the verge of his death after having accidentally wounded his own thigh with his sword on the very spot where he had stabbed the Apis-bull some years before. But before that, Herodotus provides some detailed information on the symptoms of Cambyses’ imbecility: He is not only supposed to have killed his brother and sister (whom he had married), but is also said to have shot his cupbearer, buried a dozen of his Persian fellows alive, attempted to eliminate his ally Croesus, opened some sarcophagi and gazed at the mummies inside in Memphis, defamed the pygmaiomorphic image of Hephaistos at the same place, and burned the statues of the Cabeiri inside their inaccessible sanctuary. Herodotus, quite the historian, offers two possible explanations of Cambyses’ lunacy: either divine wrath due to the Apis fiasco or an acute attack of the socalled ‘sacred disease’ (νόσος ἱρή, which Cambyses is supposed to have suffered from since his birth) is to be considered its reason.2 Today’s reader may find a medical condition a priori more likely than demonic possession as a cause, in Herodotus’ world, however, the possibility of divine intervention was not to 1 2

Hdt. 3.29–64. Hdt. 3.33. See also Rendina (2014).

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be disregarded entirely, as the fate of another tyrant, namely of Cleomenes of Sparta, very well illustrates. According to Herodotus, Cleomenes killed himself likewise by courageously stabbing his own thigh, and subsequently, everybody consented to the conclusion that only divine vengeance can justify this suicide, whether it was a consequence of an attempted bribe of Pythia (according to Herodotus’ own and the general opinion), the destruction of the sanctuary of Eleusis (the Athenian notion), or the desecration of the temple of Argos (the Argivian position)—only the Spartans had the suspicion that Cleomenes simply may have been intoxicated due to his dipsomania.3 In any case, disregarding the divine was not appreciated, especially not by the Athenians who just had removed the ‘Perserschutt’ from the Acropolis and built the Parthenon on the ruins of the Persian destruction. By keeping things in perspective, we immediately notice the obvious literary or at least narrative design of Herodotus’ portrayal, and it seems advisable not to focus on the charging Apis but on Herodotus and/or his informants when interpreting Cambyses’ fury. Other readings of the historical Cambyses draw quite a different picture and let one think about the discrepancy between Herodotus’ Cambyses and e.g. Udjahorresnet’s Cambyses, a benefactor of Neith in Sais (where Herodotus’ Cambyses defiled the mummy of Amasis), or Wadjet’s darling in Buto (where Cambyses is supposed to have received the oracle of his death).4 Apart from the Herodotean Apis episode, Cambyses acts quite rationally and deliberately in general—think of the well-organized transit through the Sinai or the involvement of local elites like Udjahorresnet for example—, whereas the murder of Apis doubtlessly was predestined to become political suicide. On the other hand, the Herodotean portrayal does not entirely seem to have been made up out of thin air. There is the irregularity in the Apis-dynasty, the Apis-bull that died during Dareios’ reign having been born in Cambyses’ fifth year before (and not after) the death of the Apis-bull born under Amasis.5 And Joachim Quack points out in the present volume that there was not only a dwarfish image of Ptah-Tatenen at Memphis but also the possibility of a relation between Herodotus’ Cabeiri and the ‘children of Ptah-Tatenen’ buried

3 4

5

Hdt. 6.75–85. See also Felton (2014). Compare the naophoros of Udjahorresnet (Posener [1936] 1–26) with Hdt. 3.16 and the inscription „the King of Upper and Lower Egypt Cambyses, who is loved by Wadjet (= Uto), the lady of Buto (Jmt), the great one, the eye of Ra, the lady of heaven and mistress of the gods, (and whom) life (is) given like Ra“ on the hieroglyphic seal published in Hodjache and Berlev (1977) 37–39 with Hdt. 3.64. Stelae Louvre IM 4133 and Louvre IM 4187 (Posener [1936] pl. II and III).

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in a restricted area of the temple.6 The enactment known as Cambyses’ decree, in turn, is discussed as a cause of an Egyptian resentment and Cambyses’ bad reputation that may have influenced Herodotus’ portrayal with regard to the destruction of the Egyptian temples (which—as is well-known—Herodotus does not touch on at all apart from the sanctuary of the Cabeiri, although some sort of destruction doubtlessly is to be expected during a conquest).7 The decree mentions provisions affecting the revenues of the Egyptian temples which may have destroyed the Egyptian temples to such an extent that they resulted in a literal de-vastation of the temples that burned itself deeply into the collective mind especially of the Egyptian priests. Nefarious marauding Persians appearing as temple-inhabiting foreigners on Udjahorresnet’s naophoros and to which also the seller of an Egyptian slave from his spoils of war mentioned on a Babylonian cuneiform tablet from Cambyses’ sixth year may have belonged reinforced the impression.8 The Egyptian priests’ hatred then may have infected Herodotus to such an extent that it inspired him to describe Cambyses as a complete maniac. Although the actual extent of the impact of Cambyses’ decree is difficult to determine on the basis of the sources available, one may ask with regard to the examination of the Herodotean Cambyses, how much irrational mania and hubris the decree contained to potentially become such a controversial text, and to what extent the decree indeed may have been a basis for Herodotus’ narrative. New findings concerning Cambyses’ decree may indeed shed some new light on the narratively rather dull background of the Egyptian condemnation of Cambyses. 2 The verso of the ‘Demotic Chronicle’ In the course of Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, a Demotic papyrus arrived in Europe at the beginning of the 19th century featuring a quite complex history of inscription. Today, the papyrus is kept at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France in Paris and identified by the inventory number E.G. 215.9 The front (or recto) of the papyrus contains the text known as the ‘Demotic Chronicle’, a text commenting 6 7 8

9

See Quack in this volume. E.g. Posener (1936) 170 n. 6, Vittmann (2011) 375 and Lloyd (2014) 189. See Posener (1936) 14–15 regarding the ‘foreigners’ in the temple; Strassmaier (1890) 190–191 (no. 334) and Peiser (1896) 292–293 with regard to the sale of the Egyptian slave. As to the Persian devastation of the Egyptian temples in general, see JansenWinkeln (2002) esp. 312–319. The papyrus was published by Spiegelberg (1914). High-resolution images of the papyrus are freely available at http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b8304631p and http:// gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b525090905.

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an oracle that explains the failure of the pharaohs of the 28th–30th dynasties by their impiousness and their disregard of the “law” (hp).10 Seven pages of the text are preserved (corresponding to columns I–VII of Wilhelm Spiegelberg’s publication), which provide an insight into chapters 6–13 of the text according to the content, and they let us conclude that at least 3–4 pages are lost at the beginning of the preserved text excerpt. Text is also missing to the left of the papyrus fragment, but its extent cannot be determined with certainty.

Fig. 1: pap. demot. Bibl. Nat. 215 – recto: the ‘Demotic Chronicle’ (I-VII)

On the reverse (or verso) of the papyrus, several different texts were written down after the papyrus was flipped horizontally. First of all, fragments of priestly rules are to be found in columns b–c.5 which at least in column c affect priests that have fallen ill.11 There is definitely some text missing at the beginning of the preserved passage, but it is not possible to ascertain how much. Two other texts written by the same scribe follow: a short description of how Dareios I collocated the Egyptian law (ending with some kind of a colophon) in c.6–16 on the one hand and the text known as Cambyses’ decree on the revenues of the Egyptian temples in column d on the other hand.12 Afterwards, another and almost nonreadable text was written upside-down in column e to the left of these three texts, while some space towards column d was left open. It contains two paragraphs and refers to two of the mnemonic birds of the Egyptian ‘alphabet’, the ones assigned to the letters ẖ and ꜥ.13 The final text of the verso of the papyrus consists of the beginning of a tale playing at the court of Pharaoh Amasis and broaches the issue of his alcoholism.14 As the scribal hand of this text is quite similar to the one of the text on the recto in terms of their palaeography

10 11 12 13 14

See Quack (2009). Spiegelberg (1914) 29–32 with pl. VII–VIIa and Hoffmann and Quack (2010) 312. Spiegelberg (1914) 30–33 with pl. VIII–VIIIa, Quack (2011) 233–236, and Lippert (2017) 81–86. Spiegelberg (1914) 34 with pl. IX–IXa. See Zauzich (2000) 30. The so-called tale of Amasis and the skipper; Spiegelberg (1914) 26–28 with pl. VI–VIa and Hoffmann and Quack (2018) 173–175.

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(in fact, it may have been the same scribe), Spiegelberg labelled the first and only preserved column of this text with the letter a. Originally, other columns followed column a on the left of the papyrus without any doubt, and the story may even have covered all of the missing first 3–4 pages that can be assumed by the text of the recto.

Fig. 2: pap. demot. Bibl. Nat. 215 – verso: priestly rules (b-c.5), description of Dareios’ I collocating the Egyptian law (c.6–16), extract of Cambyses’ decree on the financial administration of the Egyptian temples (d), animal stories (?) (e), the tale of Pharaoh Amasis and the skipper (a)

Column e of the verso most notably indicates that the papyrus was written on several occasions as it is written upside-down compared to the other columns on the verso. Remains of writing below the third column on the recto reveal that the ‘Demotic Chronicle’ was written on top of a Greek text that was washed off.15 On the verso of the papyrus, two columns of an earlier text slightly left to the later columns c and d seem to have been erased. Spiegelberg described these two earlier columns as a Demotic text with the same orientation as column e.16 This may be true with regard to the column that is supposed to have been washed off between d and e, and it would not be surprising of course. There are, however, also remains of three Greek lines clearly visible between the lines 10 and 12 of column b, which may have belonged to another, scraped and not washed off text that likewise was written upside-down.17 Due to the papyrus’ complex history, it is crucial to clearly distinguish between the age of the papyrus, the date of the texts that are written on it, and the moment of writing these texts on the papyrus. And in the present case, the time at which the text of Cambyses’ decree was written down on pap. BN 215 interests the most. Provided that column c and d were written at the same time, the text of 15 16 17

Spiegelberg (1914) 4. Spiegelberg (1914) 25. The Greek kappa above ỉni̯ in line 12 can even be read in the facsimile of Spiegelberg (1914) pl. VII.

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Cambyses’ decree on pap. BN 215 can be dated with certainty to the time after the Macedonian conquest of Egypt (332 BC) based on the Greek letters in column c. Palaeography points to the earlier Ptolemaic period, which means that the text was probably written more than two hundred years after its composition, most probably in northern Egypt somewhere close to Memphis. The latter can be presumed by the fact that the papyrus was bought in Cairo already in 1801, i.e. before the beginning of the excessive papyrus trade, as Spiegelberg already noticed. 3 The ‘law of the temple’ Column d of the verso of pap. BN 215 makes it clear that only an extract of the original decree of Cambyses had been copied onto the papyrus. When Giuseppe Botti identified a Roman manuscript among the Demotic papyrus fragments of the spectacular discovery made in Tebtunis in 1931 that seemed to refer to Cambyses’ decree as well (amongst other things), an extension of the known text was to be expected therefore.18 In fact, the passage referring to the decree contains a direct textual variant to pap. BN 215 verso d but also features additional text, while everything is embedded into an extensive work on how to organize and administer daily life at an ideal late Egyptian temple. The full text deals with the administrative procedure of admitting a new priest to the temple as well as with the fee that had to be paid at the same time (the tn n pꜣ wꜥb), it describes how the so-called councillor priests (nꜣ wꜥb.w ntỉ mnḳ md.t) were to be selected, and tells the reader who is not to be consecrated as a priest, how the papyri of the temple library (the pr-mḏꜣ.t) were to be copied, and so on. Palaeography suggests that the papyrus nowadays known as pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 was written in the second century A.D., even though the text on the papyrus is certainly older. It seems to be a compilation and may originate from different sources (at least in one instance there are two slightly different versions of the same text passage juxtaposed), yet the text constantly assumes the institution of four rotating priestly phylai at the temple, which means that at least the text’s core seems to have been in existence before the establishment of a fifth phyle mentioned in the Decree of Canopus in 238 BC Other clues (which cannot be presented in this context) support this assumption and it even can be 18

See Bresciani (1958) 164 n. 1 and Bresciani (1996). See also Agut-Labordère (2005), 51–52. The manuscript is now labelled pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 and kept at the papyrus collection of the Istituto G. Vitelli in Florence. I am going to publish it in the context of my dissertation written at the Egyptological Institute in Heidelberg under the supervision of Prof. Dr. Joachim F. Quack. Cf. Wespi (2016) and Wespi (2017).

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argued that the Tebtunis papyrus contains a late copy of the “law of the temples” (pꜣ hp n nꜣ ỉrp.w), i.e. a passage of the Egyptian law compilated by Dareios I according to pap. BN 215 verso c. In any case, the text of Cambyses’ decree seems to have been copied for more than six hundred years by at least some of the Egyptian priests.

Fig. 3: pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 – fragment A: incomes of the Egyptian temples (x+I – x+II.9), selection and appointment of a councillor priest (x+II.10–31)

Nowadays only fragments of the papyrus are preserved, and its present condi‐ tion prevents an accurate reconstruction not only of the overall structure of the text but also of the original sequence of all its fragments. There is a lot of text missing and gaps of unknown extent exist between the different clusters of fragments. The fragment containing the text of Cambyses’ decree actually consists of two fragments that cannot be joined directly, a large fragment covering the page’s full height and a smaller piece that can be placed rather precisely on the right side of the large fragment due to the parallel text of pap.

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BN 215 verso d.19 This parallel also allows estimating the original width of the column approximately. The text preserved on the two fragments covers two columns and comprises two main sections, although its beginning and end are lost. While the entire first and the beginning of the second column generally refer to the income of the Egyptian temples, the lower part of the second column concerns the selection of a ‘priest who concludes the affairs’ (wꜥb ỉw⸗f mnḳ md.t), a procedure that probably took place each year and resulted in the appointment of the members of a special priestly committee with authority on certain internal affairs of the temples.20 The section on the income of the temples can again be divided into several subsections, even though the content of the first nine lines is hard to determine owing to the loss of text. Some goods (myrrh, incense, silver, and ỉny-tributes) are mentioned as well as the gods, temples, pharaoh and the palace, and in line 6, a partially preserved rubrum seems to have introduced a new paragraph. It is however still unclear if the following passage on the decree of Cambyses is nested into this paragraph or if they are just juxtaposed. The section on Cambyses (which will be transliterated and translated in the following chapter) is in any case introduced after a spatium in line 9 by the phrase “the time of Pharaoh Cambyses” (pꜣ hꜣ n pr-ꜥꜣ Kbḏꜥ). It can be split into two parts, the first referring to Cambyses’ instructions on silver and grain deliveries, while the second part (which is separated by a rubrum) quotes the already known regulations on wood, cattle and geese in parallel to pap. BN 215 verso d. The remaining lines of the first column and the first nine lines of the second column finally refer to the cultivation of the divine endowment (ḥtp-nṯr). Amasis is still mentioned in this part, Cambyses however does not seem to act a part in the text anymore. 4 The text of Cambyses’ decree The decree by means of which Cambyses enraged the Egyptian priests to such an extent that they damned him forever as the destroyer of the Egyptian temples,

19

20

The smaller as well as the larger fragment were put into frame no. 37 of the papyrus collection, probably by Erminia Caudana and/or Giuseppe Botti. At the same time, another, third fragment was erroneously attached to the upper border of the smaller fragment. Edda Bresciani counted these two smaller fragments as column a in Bresciani (1996) 106–107 and the two columns of the large fragment as column b and c. There are only two columns however (a = b and c). According to the Decree of Canopus, each phyle of a temple provided five ‘councillor priests’ each year (Pfeiffer [2004] 109–112 and 117–119).

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reads in a synopsis of the Roman pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 and the early Ptolemaic pap. BN 215 verso d as follows:21   papPSI: (…) -spatium- pꜢ hꜢ n (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s.)| (KbḏꜤ)| nꜢ ⸢ḥḏ⸣.w (10) [… r:wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w r ḏi̯ .t st r nꜢ ı͗rpꜤ]y.w n nꜢ nṯr.w ⸢n⸣ tꜢ ḥꜢ.t n pꜢ ⸢h⸣Ꜣ (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s.)| ʾIꜤḥ-ms)| ⸢ı͗w⸗f?⸣ (11) […] . ḥn s KbḏꜤ)| ḏd m-ı͗r i̯ tw.y st n.n⸗w my ı͗ni̯ ⸗w s[t] (12) […] n [t]Ꜣ ⸢ḥꜢ.t⸣ ntı͗ sẖꜢ r pꜢ ḏmꜤ r:ı͗ni̯ ⸗w n ḥbs.t 25.t nꜢ ı͗t?-pr.t-.w (13) [… pꜢ šg]⸢l ntı͗⸣ ꜤḥꜤ r.r⸗w mtw⸗w šsp⸗w n.n⸗w n ı͗p ẖr rnp.t (14) […] nꜢ.w (r):wn-⸢nꜢ⸣.w ı͗w⸗w ↑r↑ tw.y st r pꜢ ı͗rpꜤy 2 ntı͗ sẖꜢ n ḥsb.t 21.t (15) […].w nꜢ sḥn.w (r) tw.y st r nꜢ ı͗rpꜤy.w ẖn (16) [. . . .] . . ⸢(pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. )|⸣ ntı͗ ḥn n.n⸗w ı͗w⸗w (r) šꜤd⸗w n.n⸗w […] ḥꜢ.t ḥn ⸢s⸣ GbḏꜤ)| {n} ḏd nꜢ bd.t?-pr.t-.w mı͗r i̯ ḏi̯ ⸢s⸣ (17) [n.n⸗w my] tw⸗w n.n⸗w Ꜣḥ Ꜥwı͗ ẖn nꜢ Ꜣḥ.⸢w⸣ […].wperson (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s.)|  

papBN: (1) nꜢ mdw.w(t) ntı͗ ı͗w⸗w (r) sḏny⸗ w r-wbꜢ pꜢ hp (n) nꜢ ı͗rp.w ntı͗ (n) pꜢ Ꜥwı͗ (n) wpy -spatium-

nꜢ tks.w nꜢ ḫt.w [nꜢ] ⸢m⸣ḥ.w (18) [nꜢ ı͗n].nwḥ.w r:wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w r ⸢ḏi s⸣[t r nꜢ ı͗rpꜤy.w n n]⸢Ꜣ⸣ [nṯr].w (n)-ṯꜢi̯ -n tꜢ ḥꜢ.t ⸢n⸣ [pꜢ] ⸢h⸣Ꜣ (n) (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s.)| ⸢ʾIꜤḥ-ms)|⸣

(2) nꜢ tgs.w nꜢ ḫt (n) ⸢pꜢ⸣ Ꜥḫ nꜢ mḥ.w nꜢ ı͗n.nw⸢ḥ⸣ r:wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w (r) ḏi̯ .t s r nꜢ ı͗rp(.w) (n) nꜢ nṯr.w (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t (3) (n) pꜢ hꜢ (n) (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. (ʾIꜤḥ-ms

 

m-sꜢ ḥw.t-nṯr (n) Mn-nfr ḥw.t-nṯr (n) Wn-⸢h̭m⸣ ḥw.t-nṯr (n) Pr-Ḥp-. . .

[ḥn s KbḏꜤ])| (19) [ḏd m-ı͗r i̯] ⸢tw⸣.y st n.n⸗w m-sꜢ ı͗rpꜤy 2 ⸢ntı͗ ḥrı͗⸣ […] s? nꜢ štꜢ.w n pꜢ ⸢TꜢ⸣-rsı͗ mtw⸗w tw.y ⸢s n.n⸗w n t⸣k⸢s⸣ [(n) pꜢ?] ⸢Ꜥḫy⸣? (20) [mtw⸗w ı͗ni̯ ]⸗⸢w⸣ n nꜢ nṯr.w

(4) nꜢ ı͗rp.w ḥn s Kbḏe ḏd m-ı͗r i̯ ḏi̯ .t ḏi̯ ⸗w s n.n⸗w (r)-šw . . . my ḏi̯ ⸗w s n.n⸗w (5) (n) Ꜥwı͗ ẖn nꜢ ⸢št⸣wy.w (n) pꜢ TꜢ-rsı͗ mtw⸗w ḏi̯ .t ḫpr n.n⸗w tg⸢s⸣ ḫt (n) pꜢ Ꜥḫ mtw⸗w (6) ı͗ni̯ ⸗w (n) nꜢy⸗w nṯr.w -spatium-

21

There are no detailed notes on the readings provided here. Bold text marks red text in the original, numbers in brackets describe line breaks in the two papyri. The line breaks and blank lines present in the transliteration and translation were added by me to structure the content and the synopsis visually. Earlier editions of the text can be found in Revillout (1880) 60–61, Revillout (1892) 251–252, Griffith (1909) 26–27, Spiegelberg (1914) 32–33 (the standard publication), Devauchelle (1995) 75, Bresciani (1996) esp. 104–105, Agut-Labordère (2005a) 45–54, Agut-Labordère (2005b) 9–16, as well as Vittmann (2014).

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(nꜢ.w) r:wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w ⸢r ḏi̯ ⸣[.y st r pꜢ ı͗rꜤpy ⸢pꜢ?⸣ štı͗ (n) pꜢ ı͗rp 3 ntı͗ ḥrı͗ ḥn s Kbḏe ḏd 2?] ⸢n pꜢ ḏmꜤ⸣ ḥꜢṱ ⸢r⸣:ı͗ni̯ ⸗w n ⸢ḥsb.t⸣ 20 wꜤ.t me ḏi̯ ⸗w s n.n⸗w (7) (n) pꜢy⸗w gy (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t ḥn s (KbḏꜤ)| ḏd [m]y {tw.y} s (21) -spatium[n.n⸗w n pꜢy⸗w] gꜢy (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t nꜢ ⸢ı͗ḥ⸣[.w r:wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w r ḏi̯ ].⸢y st⸣ r nꜢ ı͗rp⸢Ꜥ⸣y.w n tꜢ ḥꜢ.t ḥn s (KbḏꜤ)| ⸢ḏd⸣ tꜢ⸢y⸗w pšy(.t)⸣ (22) [tꜢ mtw⸗w r] ḏi̯ .y s n.n⸗w

nꜢ ı͗ḥ.w r:wn-nꜢ.⸢w⸣ ı͗w⸗w (r) ḏi̯ .t s r nꜢ ı͗rp.w (n) nꜢ nṯr.w (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t (8) (n) ⸢pꜢ⸣ hꜢ (n) (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. (ʾIꜤḥ-ms -spatium- m-sꜢ pꜢ ı͗rp 3 ntı͗ ḥrı͗ ḥn s Kbḏ ḏd (9) ⸢tꜢy⸗w⸣pš.t tꜢ ntı͗ ı͗w⸗w (r) ⸢ḏi̯ .t s⸣ n.n⸗w -spatium-

nꜢ.w (r):wn-⸢nꜢ⸣.w ⸢ı͗w⸣[⸗w r ḏi̯ .y st . . . .] . . nꜢ.w (r):wn-⸢nꜢ.w⸣ ı͗w⸗⸢w (r) di̯ .t s⸣ n.n⸗w pꜢ pꜢ ı͗rpꜤ⸢y⸣ 3 ntı͗ sẖꜢ n pꜢ ḏmꜤ n ḥsb.t 20 wꜤ(.t) ⸢ı͗rp⸣ 3 ntı͗ ḥrı͗ ḥn⸗w s ḏi̯ ⸗w s n.n⸗w Ꜥn ḥn ⸢s⸣ GbḏꜤ)| ⸢ḏd⸣ my (23) [tw⸗w st] ⸢n.n⸗w⸣ r-ẖ.t pꜢy⸗w gꜢy n-⸢ṯꜢi̯ -n tꜢ⸣[ḥꜢ.t nꜢ ı͗pd.w r:wn]-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w r ḏi̯ .t st r nꜢ ı͗rpꜤy.w n-ṯꜢi̯ -(n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t n pꜢ hꜢ n (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s.)| ʾIꜤḥ-ms)| (24) [ḥn s (]⸢K⸣bḏꜤ)| ḏd m-ı͗r i̯ ḏi̯ .t s n.n⸗w msꜢ ⸢ı͗rp⸣[Ꜥy].w 2 ⸢nꜢ⸣ wꜤb.w nꜢ ntı͗ ı͗w⸗w (r) ḏi̯ .t-šsp ı͗pd ẖn pꜢ ḥtp-nṯr ⸢r⸣ ḏi̯ .t [s (n)] nꜢ nṯr.w -spatium-

(10) ⸢nꜢ⸣ ı͗pd.w (r):wn-⸢nꜢ⸣.w ı͗w⸗w (r) ḏi̯ .t s (r) nꜢ ı͗rp.w (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t (n) pꜢ hꜢ (n) ⸢(⸣pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. ⸢(ʾIꜤḥ-ms⸣ -spatium- (11) m-sꜢ pꜢ ı͗rp 3 ḥn s Kbḏ ḏd m-ı͗r i̯ ḏi̯ ⸗w ⸢s n.n⸗w⸣ nꜢ wꜤb.w nꜢ ntı͗ ı͗w⸗w (r) ḏi̯ .t ḫpr n.n⸗w ⸢ı͗pd⸣ (12) mtw⸗w ḏi̯ .t s (n) nꜢy⸗w nṯr.w -spatium-

 

ḫr ı͗r i̯ nꜢ ḥḏ.w nꜢ ı͗ḥ.w nꜢ ı͗pd(.w) nꜢ pr.w(t) k.ṱ-ẖ.t nkt (13) (r):wn-nꜢ.w ı͗w⸗w ḏi̯ .t s (r) nꜢ ı͗rp.w (n) nꜢ nṯr.w (n) tꜢ ḥꜢ.t pꜢ hꜢ (n) (pr-ꜤꜢ Ꜥ.w.s. (ʾIꜤḥ-ms (r):ḥn s Kbḏ (14) ḏd m-ı͗r i̯ ḏi̯ .t s (n) nꜢ nṯr.w ı͗w swn (n) pꜢ nkt ntı͗ ı͗p ḥḏ 160.532 ḳd.t 8? pr.t (15) 170‘210 bd.t? 6‘000 r š{376‘800} glw (n) ı͗p -spatium-

(25) [. . . .] . ⸢ẖ.t? Gbḏ⸣Ꜥ⸢)|⸣ [… nꜢ ı͗n.nwḥ]. ⸢w⸣ nꜢ ⸢ḏ⸣wf.w nꜢ tks.w nꜢ -ẖ.t-nkt.w r:wn-nꜢ.w ⸢ı͗w⸗w⸣ [r] ḏi̯ .t.y st (26) [r nꜢ ı͗] ⸢rp⸣Ꜥy.w (n) nꜢ ⸢nṯr.w⸣ […] (…)

(16) h̭wy ḫt Ꜥḫ ı͗n.nwḥ ḏwf tgs -ẖ.t nkt kı͗ı͗ ḏm⸢Ꜥ⸣ (17) tgs -ẖ.t nkt [. .]? . . . [.] .

  papPSI: The time of Pharaoh Cambyses: (As to) the silver [… that used to be given to the] temples of the gods previously in the time of Pharaoh Amasis, […] Cambyses ordered: Do not give it to them! It shall be brought […] previously which are men‐ tioned in the papyrus that was brought in regnal year 25. (As to) the barley seeds (?) [… the] tax that stands upon them. And it shall be received in favour of them in credit annually. […] What used to be given to the 2 temples that are mentioned in regnal year 21, […] The

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tax-collectors shall give it to the temple as part of [. . . .] . . of pharaoh that is entrusted to them. It shall be diminished to them […] [(As to)?…] previously, Cambyses ordered: The emmer seeds (?), do not give it [to them]! A field [shall] be given to them and a place in the fields […]people of pharaoh.  

papBN: The things that are to be discussed concerning the law of the temples which is in the place of judgement:

(As to) the planks, the wood, [the] flax and [the] ropes that used to be given [to the temples] of the gods since the beginning of [the] time of Pharaoh Amasis,

(As to) the planks, the firewood, the flax and the ropes that used to given to the temples of the gods previously in the time of Pharaoh Amasis

 

– except for the temple of Memphis, the temple of Wen-Khem, and the temple of Perapis-. . . –, the temples,

Cambyses [ordered]: Do [not] give it to them, except for the 2 above-mentioned temples […] the woods of the Southern land. And they (themselves) shall give it to them as planks of [the] brazier (?). [And they (themselves) shall bring] it to the gods.

Cambyses ordered: Do not let them give it to them ever … It shall be given to them (as) a place in the woods of the Southern land. And they (themselves) shall see that they are given planks and firewood. And they (themselves) shall bring it to their gods.

(As to) what used to be given [to the 2? tem‐ (As to) [the] income of the 3 temples men‐ ples] of the first papyrus which was brought tioned above, Cambyses ordered: Give it to them as before! in regnal year 21, Cambyses ordered: It shall be given [to them] as before! (As to) the cattle [that used] to be given to the temples previously, Cambyses ordered: Half of it is [what] they shall be given.

(As to) the cattle that used to be given to the temples of the gods previously in the time of Pharaoh Amasis, except for the 3 temples mentioned above, Cambyses ordered: Half of it is what they shall be given.

(As to) what […] . . the 3 temples which are (As to) what used to be given to them, the mentioned in the papyrus of regnal year 3 mentioned temples above, it was ordered 21, Cambyses ordered: [It] shall be given that it shall be given to them as usual. to them as it used to be given since the [beginning. (As to) the geese that] used to be given to the temples since the beginning of the time of Pharaoh Amasis, Cambyses [ordered]: Do not give it to them except for the 2 temples. It is the priests that shall see that receive geese as part of the ‘divine endowment’ in order to give [them] to the gods.

(As to) the geese that used to be given to the temples previously in the time of Pharaoh Amasis, except for the 3 temples, Cambyses ordered: Do not allow that they give it to them! It is the priests that shall let them receive geese. And they shall give it to their gods.

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The silver, the cattle, the geese, the grain, and the other things that used to be given to the temples of the Gods previously in the time of Pharaoh Amasis, (as to which) Cambyses ordered: ‘Do not give them to the gods!’ amount to, the value of the counted things being: silver: 160’532 (deben), 8? qites grain: 170’210 (deben) emmer?: 6’ 000? (deben) results in: 376’800 (deben) (read: 336‘800) deposited in credit (?) incense, firewood, ropes, papyrus, planks, [. . . .] . . . Cambyses [… the rope]s, the papyrus material, the planks and the other other things—other papyrus: planks, other things that used to be given [to the] temples things [. .] . . . [.] . of the gods […] (…)

The text of Cambyses’ decree is clearly divided into separate paragraphs with a uniform structure. In each paragraph, a certain good is mentioned first and a comment given that it used to be delivered to the temples during Amasis’ reign. Afterwards, Cambyses’ changes are quoted. Compared to the known text of pap. BN 215, the version of pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 contains two or three additional paragraphs at the beginning of the decree, and refers thus in total to silver (ḥḏ), grain (ỉt-pr.t? and bd.t-pr.t?), wood, and fibres (tgs, ḫt, mḥ, nwḥ), cattle (ỉḥ), and geese (ỉpd). The instructions on the first two assets are difficult to understand thoroughly due to the fragmentary condition of the text. In the first case, I understand the text as being an instruction to completely cancel certain ḥḏ-deliveries to the temples. In the second case, a difference between barley (ỉt, primarily used to produce beer) and emmer (bd.t, used for bread) seems to have been made. While barley may have been taxed henceforth by the government and thus was withdrawn from the temples at least partially, the delivery of emmer seeds to the temples seems to have been cancelled entirely, yet also compensated by additional lots of arable land. This interpretation of the text is subject to several uncertainties, however. The remaining instructions on the other hand can be grasped more precisely. The delivery of wood and fibre materials is replaced by the allotment of woodland, the amount of cattle is reduced by half, and the supply of gooseherds is cancelled completely. Each time (maybe apart from the case of emmer), two or three temples get special treatment and are either completely exempt from the instructions or less affected (in the case of barley). While these temples were mentioned in a papyrus of a regnal year 21 according to the Tebtunis papyrus, they are according to pap. BN 215 to be identified as the temple of Memphis (belonging to Ptah

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who was taunted by Herodotus’ Cambyses), the nearby temple of Wen-Khem (belonging to Haroëris), and the temple of Perapis-… (“Serapeum …”, i.e. by name a sanctuary of Apis whose animal incorporation was stabbed by Herodotus’ Cambyses so heartlessly).22 Furthermore, a few other remarkable differences between the two sources can be identified. The version of pap. BN 215 has an introductory title in the first line, for instance, marking the following excerpt as belonging to the “law of the temples” kept at the “place of judgement”. The same source also includes an accounting towards the end of exactly those assets (ḥḏ, pr.t, bd.t?) that are mentioned in the additional paragraphs at the beginning of the passage of the Tebtunis papyrus. And while the name of Cambyses ends with the ‘determinative of foreign countries’ in pap. BN 215 (branding him as a foreigner who is denied all royal honours in contrast to “Pharaoh Amasis”), Cambyses’ name is enclosed by royal cartouches in the Tebtunis papyrus, plus he even got the title “pharaoh” in the heading in line 9.23 5 The implication of Cambyses’ decree How are Cambyses’ orders relating to the restriction of the Egyptian temples’ revenues and their effect on the Egyptian people and priesthood to assess? According to the synodal decree of Memphis released in 196 BC under Ptolemy V Epiphanes (and recorded on the well-known Rosetta-stone), the Egyptian temples in principle had three main sources of regular income next to occasional donations: the so-called “divine endowment” (demot. ḥtp-nṯr, gr. πρόσοδοι), the so-called “syntaxis” (demot. ḥḏ and pr.t or sntgs, gr. σύνταξις ἀργυρική and

22

23

The “papyrus of year 21” was another legal text probably, cf. the phrase “It is written in the law of year 21 that (…)” occurring several times in pap. BM 10591 (Thompson [1934]), as well as similar phrases (with other dates) in pap. Carlsberg 301 (Chauveau [1991]) and pap. Berlin P 23757 (Lippert [2004]). The papyrus of “year 25” mentioned in pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102 may result from a misspelling of the word 20+wꜥ.t (which is a curious writing of the number 21, corresponding approximately to “20one”), as a Roman Demotic 5 is (although really just) slightly similar to a Roman Demotic wꜥ “one” from a palaeographical point of view. Alternatively, it could refer to another papyrus/legal text of course. The toponym Pr-Ḥp-… in pap. BN 215 has been translated as “house of Hapi/the god of the Nile . . .” sometimes. Its spelling however suggests rather the reading Ḥp Apis” than the reading Ḥꜥpỉ “Hapi”. The final part is read as ḥnk (n) ꜣḥ(.w?) “and (their) donated lands” by Betrò (2018), the reading is not, however, beyond doubt in terms of palaeography and grammar. See Yoyotte (1972) in matters of the location of Wen-Khem. See the remarks of Vittmann (1998) 563–564 in this regard and Schütze in this volume.

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σιτική), and shares (demot. dnỉ.t, gr. ἀπόμοιρα) in vineyards and orchards.24 The mentioning of the harvest tax on vineyards and orchards is insofar exceptional as it is technically part of the revenues of the ḥtp-nṯr. It is only mentioned specifically here because Ptolemy II Philadelphos had ordered in 263 BC that, next to the temples own vineyards, also public vineyards and orchards are to be taxed in favour of the temples for reasons of the newly established cult of Arsinoë II.25 Thus, in 196 BC, the traditional main source of income of the Egyptian temples still was the real estate called ḥtp-nṯr “divine endowment”, the leasing of which generated the revenues needed for the compensation of the priests, and annual donations by the government called ‘syntaxis’.26 According to Katelijn Vandorpe, these syntaxis-donations are to be understood as a compensation for temple estates confiscated by the government and they are supposed to have existed since around 223 BC27 However, the text of Cambyses’ decree seems to indicate that already before Ptolemaic times the Egyptian temples were supported by the Egyptian government on a regularly base.28 In any case, these regular donations must have derived from the output of templeexternal estates, as the temples’ own estates were administered and leased by the temples themselves. This means that Cambyses in all likelihood reduced and cancelled only the regular, annual governmental donations to the Egyptian temples by his decree, but not the temples’ income of their own estates (maybe with the exception of the barley).29 The temple estates even are expanded as the reduction not only of the emmer seeds but also of the wood and fibre materials were compensated with the allocation of new estates according to 24 25 26

27 28 29

Spiegelberg (1922) 44–45 and 79. The same disposition is also mentioned in pap. Tebt. I 5.50–56 (118 BC, Grenfell et al. [1902] 17–58). See pap. Rev. Laws 24 and 37 (Bingen [1952]) and Clarysse and Vandorpe (1998) esp. 12–13 and 29–30. Pap. Rylands IX (Vittmann [1998]) describes in column XI.2–7 and XIII.4–9 the distribution of the harvest of the ḥtp-nṯr at the temple of el-Hibe in year 31 of Psametik I (634 BC) in some detail. According to this passage, the temple’s ‘prophet’ received twenty and the individual priests one percent of the annual harvest. Cf. Vandorpe (2005) 168. Pap. Rylands IX, VIII 4 (Vittmann [1998]) may be of interest in matters of the official donations during Saitic times as there is a Theban priest mentioned pasturing cattle and geese “which came from the district (of Oxyrhynchos)” (ntỉ pri̯ n pꜣ tš). Probably in contrast to the measures mentioned in pap. Rylands IX VI.13–VII.6 which were taken during a “time of need” some years before year 4 of Psametik I. and consisted in the taxation of the Egyptian temples (meaning that taxes had to be paid on the harvest of the temple estates). The “bad time” (hꜣ-bn) mentioned in pap. Rylands IX VI.16 usually is considered to have been the time of the Assyrian invasion. Griffith (1909) 227 n. 10 however also points to the later copt. expression ϩⲉ-ⲃⲱⲱⲛ “famine” which originates in the same phrase and could explain why the temples had to share their income.

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the decree’s text. Hence Cambyses’ interference does not really reveal rude barbarism, but rather seems to have been a deliberative course of action. The decree clearly did not aim for the depletion of the Egyptian temples by despotic exploitation but may have arisen out of the need to cover the costs of the Persian army and the garrisons newly stationed in Egypt, the latter of which having certainly no interest in tremendous confrontations with the Egyptian priests.30 Accordingly, Cambyses may not have been mad, but the losses were likely painful to the Egyptian temples nonetheless. The additional effort needed to administer the expanded temples estates may have been so inconvenient that Cambyses’ interference indeed led to a bad reputation among the Egyptian people. Interference in the financial affairs of the Egyptian temples was tricky as the Ptolemies knew very well too. During the time of Ptolemy VI. Philometor, for example, a dioiketes intended to reduce the oil supply of the Serapeum and was forced to withdraw his intentions after an intervention with the king.31 Given that Cambyses’ invasion of Egypt did not take place without any violence and friction—maybe even those statues of the Egyptian gods were carried off to Persia back then before the first Ptolemaic rulers brought them back to Egypt in a truly selfless manner –, the decree doubtlessly provides enough reason for an Egyptian ‘Sethification’ of Cambyses (which also may be found in the ‘ritual to overthrow Seth and his companions’ as Joachim Quack suggested).32 But to what extent did such an Egyptian condemnation of Cambyses provide the basis of Cambyses’ mania in Herodotus, and to what extent does the Herodotean caricature of the historical Cambyses root in the Egyptian Cambyses arisen from Cambyses’ decree? This question is better left unanswered for the time being, especially as the Graeco-Persian relationship during Herodotus’ time likewise was not entirely trouble-free and might have influenced Herodotus as well. 30 31 32

See also Agut-Labordère (2005b), 12–16, Agut-Labordère (2014), and Agut-Labordère and Gorre (2014), 28–31. UPZ I 23 (Wilcken [1927]) and the translation in Thompson (1988) 242. See Jansen-Winkeln (2002) 315–316 in matters of the already ancient accusation of the Persian predation of divine statues, and Schäfer (2011) 74–83 regarding the Ptolemaic repatriation of those statues. With regard to the alleged ‚Sethification‘ of Cambyses see Quack in this volume, Dillery (2005), and Schott (1929) esp. 16–25: “Sieh doch, Seth, der Erbärmliche, kommt auf seinem Wege, er ist [aus dem Land der Asiaten] zurückgekehrt, um mit seiner Hand zu rauben, er denkt daran, gewalttätig an sich zu reissen, als wäre er wie einst beim Zerstören der Stätten, beim Niederreissen ihrer Tempel, beim Geschreiausstossen in den Heiligtümern (…) Er hat in Memphis Rebellion erdacht. Siehe, er dringt ein in das Serapeum, (…) er hat Holz geholt aus Sais (der Stadt) der Neith (…) Siehe, er hat den Apisstier gefesselt vor dem Angesicht dessen, der was ist gemacht hat. (…)”.

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Bibliography Editions of classical authors Herodoti historiai: Libri I-IV, Nigel Wilson, Oxford 2015.

References Agut-Labordère (2005a): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Le Titre du ‘Décret de Cambyse’ (P. Bn 215 verso colonne d)’, RdE 56, 45–53. Agut-Labordère (2005b): Damien Agut-Labordère, ‘Le sens du Décret de Cambyse’, Transeuphratène 29, 9–16. Agut-Labordère und Gorre (2014): Damien Agut-Labordère and Gilles Gorre, ‘De l’au‐ tonomie à l’intégration: Les temples d’Égypte face à la couronne des Saïtes aux Ptolémées (VIe-IIIe siècle av. J.-C.)’, Topoi Orient-Occident 19 (1), 17–55. Betrò (2018): Marilina Betrò, ‘Cambyses and the Serapeum: the name of the third temple in P. Bibl. Nat. 215, vso, col. d, 3’, EgVicOr 41, 167–181. Bingen (1952): Jean Bingen, Papyrus Revenue Laws: Nouvelle édition du texte, Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Ägypten Beiheft 1, Göttingen, 1952. Bresciani (1958): Edda Bresciani, ‘La Satrapia d’Egitto’, StClOr 7, 132–188. Bresciani (1996): Edda Bresciani, ‘Cambyse, Darius I et le droit des temples égyptiens’, in: Bernadette Menu (ed.), Égypte pharaonique: pouvoir, société, Méditerranées. Revue de l’association Méditerranées 6/7, 103–111. Chauveau (1991): Michel Chauveau, ‘P. Carlsberg 301: Le manuel juridique de Tebtynis’, in: Paul J. Frandsen (ed.), Demotic Texts from the Collection, The Carlsberg Papyri 1, Copenhagen, 103–127. Clarysse and Vandorpe (1998): Willy Clarysse and Katelijn Vandorpe, ‘The Ptolemaic Apomoira’, in: Henri Melaerts (ed.), Le Culte du Souverain dans l’Égypte Ptolémaique au IIIe siècle avant notre ère – actes du colloque international, Bruxelles 10 mai 1995, Studia Hellenistica 34, Leuven, 5–42. Devauchelle (1995): Didier Devauchelle, ‘Le sentiment anti-perse chez les anciens Égyptiens’, Transeuphratène 9, 67–80. Dillery (2005): John Dillery, ‘Cambyses and the Egyptian Chaosbeschreibung Tradition’, CQ 55, 387–406. Felton (2014): Debbie Felton, ‘The Motif of the ‘Mutilated Hero’ in Herodotus’, Phoenix 68, 47–61. Grenfell et al. (1902): Bernard P. Grenfell, Arthur S. Hunt and J. Gilbart Smyly, The Tebtunis Papyri—Part I, London. Griffith (1909): Francis Ll. Griffith, Catalogue of the Demotic Papyri in the John Rylands Library Manchester—Volume III: Key-list, Translations, Commentaries and Indices, Manchester and London.

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Hodjache and Berlev (1977): Svetlana Hodjache and Oleg Berlev, ‘Objets royaux du Musée des Beaux-Arts Pouchkine à Moscou’, ChronEg 52, 22–39. Hoffmann and Quack (2010): Friedhelm Hoffmann and Joachim F. Quack, ‘Demotische Texte zur Heilkunde’, in: Bernd Janowski and Daniel Schwemer (eds.), Texte zur Heilkunde, Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testamentes Neue Folge 5, Gütersloh, 298–316. Hoffmann and Quack (2018): Friedhelm Hoffmann and Joachim F. Quack, Anthologie der Demotischen Literatur, 2nd ed., Einführungen und Quellentexte zur Ägyptologie 4, Berlin. Jansen-Winkeln (2002): Karl Jansen-Winkeln, ‘Die Quellen zur Eroberung Ägyptens durch Kambyses’, in: Tamás A. Bács (ed.), A tribute to excellence: Studies offered in honor of Ernő Gaál, Ulrich Luft, Lászlo Török, Studia Aegyptiaca 17, Budapest, 309–319. Lippert (2004): Sandra L. Lippert, Ein demotisches juristisches Lehrbuch: Untersuchungen zu Papyrus Berlin P 23757 rto., Ägyptologische Abhandlungen 66, Wiesbaden. Lippert (2017): Sandra L. Lippert, ‘La codification des lois en Égypte à l’époque perse’, in: Dominique Jaillard and Christophe Nihan (eds.), Writing Laws in Antiquity – L’écriture du droit dans l’Antiquité, Wiesbaden, 78–98. Lloyd (2014): Alan B. Lloyd, ‘The Egyptian Attitude to the Persians’, in A. M. Dodson, J. J. Johnston, W. Monkhouse (eds.), A Good Scribe and an Exceedingly Wise Man: Studies in Honour of W.K. Tait, London, 185–198. Peiser (1896): Felix E. Peiser, Texte juristischen und geschäftlichen Inhalts, Keilinschrift‐ liche Bibliothek IV, Berlin. Pfeiffer (2004): Stefan Pfeiffer, Das Dekret von Kanopos (238 v. Chr.). Kommentar und historische Auswertung eines dreisprachigen Synodaldekretes der ägyptischen Priester zu Ehren Ptolemaios‘ III. und seiner Familie, Leipzig. Posener (1936): Georges Posener, La première domination perse en Égypte: Recueil d’in‐ scriptions hiéroglyphiques, BdE 11, Cairo. Quack (2009): Joachim F. Quack, ‚Menetekel an der Wand? Zur Deutung der ‚Demoti‐ schen Chronik‘‘, in: M. Witte and J. F. Diel (eds.), Orakel und Gebete. Interdisziplinäre Studien zur Sprache der Religion in Ägypten, Vorderasien und Griechenland in hellenis‐ tischer Zeit, Tübingen, 23–51. Quack (2011): Joachim F. Quack, ‘Zum Datum der persischen Eroberung Ägyptens unter Kambyses’, Journal of Egyptian History 4, 228–246. Rendina (2014): Simone Rendina, ‘La ‚Malattia Sacra’ di Cambise: una diagnosi Ero‐ dotea?’, StClOr 60, 21–51. Revillout (1880): Eugène Revillout, ‘Premier Extrait de la Chronique Démotique de Paris’, RdE 1, 49–82. Revillout (1892): Eugène Revillout, ‘Un Papyrus Bilingue du temps de Philopator’, Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 14, 229–255.

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Schäfer (2011): Donata Schäfer, Makedonische Pharaonen und hieroglyphische Stelen: Historische Untersuchungen zur Satrapenstele und verwandten Denkmälern, Studia Hellenistica 50, Leuven, Paris, and Walpole. Schott (1929): Siegfried Schott, Urkunden Mythologischen Inhalts – Erstes Heft: Bücher und Sprüche gegen den Gott Seth, Urkunden des Aegyptischen Altertums VI, Leipzig. Spiegelberg (1914): Wilhelm Spiegelberg, Die sogenannte Demotische Chronik des Pap. 215 der Bibliothèque Nationale zu Paris nebst den auf der Rückseite des Papyrus stehenden Texten, Leipzig. Spiegelberg (1922): Wilhelm Spiegelberg, Der demotische Text der Priesterdekrete von Kanopus und Memphis (Rosettana) mit den hieroglyphischen und griechischen Fassungen und deutscher Uebersetzung nebst demotischem Glossar, Heidelberg. Strassmaier (1890): J. N. Strassmaier, Inschriften von Cambyses, König von Babylon (529– 521 v. Chr.), Babylonische Texte IX, Leipzig. Thompson (1934): Herbert Thompson, A Family Archive from Siut from Papyri in the British Museum including an Account of a Trial before the Laocritae in the Year BC 170, Oxford. Thompson (1988): Dorothy J. Thompson, Memphis under the Ptolemies, Princeton. Vandorpe (2005): Katelijn Vandorpe, ‘Agriculture, Temples and Tax Law in Ptolemaic Egypt’, CahPEg 25,165–171. Vittmann (1998): Günter Vittmann, Der demotische Papyrus Rylands 9, Ägypten und Altes Testament 38, Wiesbaden. Vittmann (2011): Günter Vittmann, ‘Ägypten zur Zeit der Perserherrschaft’, in: Robert Rollinger, Brigitte Truschnegg and Reinhold Bichler (eds.), Herodot und das Persische Weltreich – Herodotus and the Persian Empire. Akten des 3. Internationalen Kolloquiums zum Thema „Vorderasien im Spannungsfeld klassischer und altorientalischer Überliefer‐ ungen“, Innsbruck, 24.-28. November 2008, Wiesbaden, 373–429. Vittmann (2014): Günter Vittmann, ‘Auszüge aus Dekret des Kambyses (Bibl. Nat. 215, Vso d)’, in: Demotische Textdatenbank (http://aaew.bbaw.de/tla, Nr. 3300). Wespi (2016): Fabian Wespi, ‘Das Gesetz der Tempel: Ein Vorbericht zu den Priester‐ normen des demotischen Papyrus Florenz PSI inv. D 102’, in: Martina Ullmann (ed.), 10. Ägyptologische Tempeltagung: Ägyptische Tempel zwischen Normierung und Individualität. München, 29. –31. August 2014, Königtum, Staat und Gesellschaft früher Hochkulturen 3,5: Akten der ägyptologischen Tempeltagungen, Wiesbaden, 179–194. Wespi (2017): Fabian Wespi, ‘Das Bücherhaus (Pr-mḏꜣ.t) des späten ägyptischen Tempels’, in: Stefan Baumann and Holger Kockelmann (eds.), Der ägyptische Tempel als ritueller Raum: Theologie und Kult in ihrer architektonischen und ideellen Dimension. Akten der internationalen Tagung, Haus der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, 9.-12. Juni 2015, Studien zur spätägyptischen Religion 17, Wiesbaden, 271–287.

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Wilcken (1927): Ulrich Wilcken, Urkunden der Ptolemäerzeit I: Papyri aus Unterägypten, Berlin. Yoyotte (1972): Jean Yoyotte, ‘La Localisation de Ouenkhem’, BIFAO 71, 1–10. Zauzich (2000): Karl-Theodor Zauzich, ‘Ein antikes demotisches Namenbuch’, in: Paul J. Frandsen and Kim Ryholt, A Miscellany of Demotic Texts and Studies, The Carlsberg Papyri 3, Copenhagen, 27–52.

Cambyses and the sanctuary of Ptah

Joachim Friedrich Quack

As the topic for my contribution, I have chosen a short episode, namely Hdt. 3.37. It might just be my ignorance, but to me, it seems that there is hardly any special study really devoted to it.1 The reason for that strange deficit might be sought in our modern approaches to Herodotus: Egyptologists typically focus on Book II with its famous Egyptian logos, which has received a substantial monograph in the form of Lloyd’s commentary.2 That one still serves us well today, even though with the great advances Egyptology has made in recent years (especially in research on the late and Graeco-Roman period), time might have come for a new overall synthesis. There are also many studies on individual points done from an Egyptologist’s point of view.3 But the Egyptologists rarely go beyond Book II, and if they do so, they usually focus on the event history, especially the Persian conquest of Egypt. However, the episode of Cambyses at the sanctuary at Ptah is not really something relevant for event history. It might play more on a level of literary allusions, and thus be a fertile ground for classical philologists—but for them probably the realia are too obscure to make the episode attractive. So, first the episode itself: Many such mad deeds did Cambyses to the Persians and his allies; he abode at Memphis, and there opened ancient coffins and examined the dead bodies. Thus too he entered the temple of Hephaestus and made mockery of the image there. This image of Hephaestus is most like to the Phoenician Pataïci, which the Phoenicians carry on the prows of their triremes. I will describe it for him who has not seen these figures: 1

2 3

A rare exception is Morenz (1954); reprinted in Morenz (1975) 496–509. Some points also in Sandman Holmberg (1946) 182–185; Dasen (1993) 84f. Asheriet al. (2007) 433–435 have only some general remarks on the negative image of Cambyses and his possible roots in the hatred of the priests, plus some very short indications on the most basic points of the realities. Kolta (1968) 122–124 has nothing of his own to contribute. Lloyd (1975); Lloyd (1976); Lloyd (1988). A recent example is Coulon et al. (2013).

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it is in the likeness of a dwarf [pygmy]. Also he entered the temple of the cabeiri, into which none may enter save the priest; the images here he even burned, with bitter mockery. These also are like the images of Hephaistus, and are said to be his sons.4

For Herodotus, these episodes are more proof “that Cambyses was very mad, else he would never have set himself to deride religion and custom.”5 Indeed, they serve as a finishing move in his treatment of Cambyses; he illustrates his opinion about the high values placed by all people upon their own traditions by an episode set under Dareios and then moves on to quite different topics (the Samian logos). As a first step, we should consider what Cambyses is supposed to have seen here. The deity of the temple in question is designated with the Greek name Hephaistos by Herodotus, but there can be no doubt that we have to deal with the interpretatio graeca of an Egyptian deity which is generally considered to be the Memphite creator god Ptah.6 Ptah is certainly one of the major deities in Ancient Egypt.7 Memphis is his principal place of veneration. He has a special profile as a craftsman. However, his most normal iconography is that of a standing man in full size, with a tightfitting cap.8 What Cambyses saw must have been different; and indeed already the report by Herodotus that he entered the temple makes it likely that he forced access9 to a hidden, probably esoteric cultic image.10 Some examples of depictions of Ptah in the form of a dwarf have already been pointed out. There is a depiction of a dwarf with the epithet Ptḥ-sč̣m pꜢ-nm “Ptah the hearing one, the dwarf” on a miniature sarcophagus dating probably to the late Pharaonic or Early Ptolemaic period.11 Also on the healing statues Florence 8708+Turin Supplement 9, right side, fourth register and Naples

4 5 6 7 8 9 10

11

Translation after Godley (1920) 49–51. Hdt. 3.38; Godley (1920) 52. Von Lieven (2016) 62f. Compare Jamblich, De Mysteriis VIII, 3, who says that the Greek Hephaistos covers only part of the aspects of the Egyptian Ptah. See for him e.g. Sandman Holmberg (1946). It should be stressed that, while he wears a tight-fitting cloak, it would be wrong to describe him as mummy-form, as it is done by some modern scholars. While an Egyptian king would be entitled to enter any temple, he would have to undergo ritual purifications for that. See also Hölbl (1979), vol. 1, 115f. who thinks that what Cambyses saw cannot have been the main cultic statue because Ptah was mainly depicted in a normal human shape. For esoteric powerful images in dwarf-form, compare the “supplementary” chapters of the Book of the Dead, see Wüthrich (2015). Spiegelberg (1925) 8–11; Dasen (1993) 88 and 97.

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1065, back-pillar, left side, fourth register (both probably 30th dynasty), a snakeholding dwarf is depicted with the label Ptḥ-Skr-Wsi͗r.12 On a Horus stela perhaps dating to the Ptolemaic Period (BM 36250), there is a depiction of a dwarf with arms falling down, standing on a raised platform accessible by steps. Of the hieroglyphic label, at least the first part “Ptah, the Great one” is clearly legible.13 The setting with the figure on a dais is a good indication that this was really a cultic image. A frequent type of amulets depicting a dwarf in Late Period Egypt is actually called Pataikos by Egyptologists, obviously because they believe that these objects correspond to the image Herodotus describes.14 A few of them are indeed labeled as Ptah.15 The type started in the New Kingdom and became most elaborate during the Third Intermediate Period.16 A genuine link between this image type and Ptah of Memphis can also be documented outside of Egypt by an amulet showing a winged Pataikos excavated in Lakhish (Palestine).17 This carries on the back-pillar an inscription “(I) give all life and joy of heart for eternity”, and on the underside of the basis “Ptah (and) Sakhmet, the mistress of heaven”.18 Also, some items from Carthago have the name of Ptah on them, so it can be established for the Phoenician-Punic region as well.19 We should also keep in mind that this type of amulet is not simply an Egyptian one, but enjoyed considerable success in foreign regions. It is frequently

12 13

Kákosy (1999) 58 fig. 13 and pl. II; 149 and pl. XLIV. Budge (1925) 472, pl. XXXIII; Dasen (1993) 92, pl. 3.2. The following signs are damaged or lost in the break, but the old drawing in Wilkinson (1878) 153 pl. XXXIII allows to recognize at least the first of them as ꜤꜢ ‘great’. 14 Hückel (1934) 103–107; Dasen (1993) 84–98, Raven (1987); Matzker (1990); Koenig (1992); Győri (2001); Győri (2003a); Győri (2003b); Győri (2004); Minas (2013); Wüthrich (2018), Quack (2022) 227–233. 15 Dasen (1993) 92 with note 41; additionally Vercoutter (1945) 292 and 294, pl. XXII no. 817 and 823; Herrmann (2016) 153 no. 299. 16 The claim by Morenz (1975) 503 and (following him) Kolta (1968) 123 that these figures date from the Greek period onwards is patently wrong. 17 For the identification of the object as a Pataikos and its date see Herrmann (1994) 466f. 18 The reading of the inscription by Giveon (1988) 90–93, followed by Herrmann, is partially wrong, especially for the back-pillar where he has misunderstood the sign e he has misunderstood the sign to (it tobetobebe (itis indeed is indeed not very well-shaped, but the context should make the ped, but the context should make the identificationthe certain); the seeming isis likely to be an erroneous development out of certain); seeming identification e an erroneous development out of .. 19 Vercoutter (1945) 292 nr. 817 and 294 nr. 823.

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attested (more than 200 known objects)20 in Iron Age Palestine,21 and also well documented among the Phoenicians.22 Some of these objects have also come to light in Greece, especially Rhodes.23 While I did not find any objects of this type discovered in Persia itself,24 it is a fairly frequent image, so Cambyses is likely to have seen it already before his visit to the temple at Memphis. It should especially be stressed that the Phoenicians, according to Herodotus, put it on the prow of their trieres. Given the importance of the Phoenician war fleet for the Persian campaigns (Hdt. 3.19) it is quite unthinkable that Cambyses had not seen these images before. What, then, are we to make of his reaction when he finds a similar image in the sanctuary of an Egyptian temple? Is he supposed to have taken the depictions on the Phoenician ships for naïve, but harmless, superstition or for drollery, until he encountered the very same type of images in a setting which did not permit any other interpretation than that of a serious religious veneration?25 What does that mean about Cambyses, and would Herodotus himself be aware that Cambyses could have known the image already beforehand? And to which degree would Herodotus suppose his readers to know about this amulet and what does that imply for his intentions and possible ways to read his little episode? Since Herodotus refers to the Phoenicians, it seems that he would not expect his readers to know the object from inner-Greek evidence. The real attestations in Greece cluster in the 8th and 7th century BCE, so they are about 200 years older than Herodotus’ narrative, and most likely they were no longer known to him and his compatriots. Another relevant depiction concerning Hephaistos and the dwarf has up to now not been brought up into the discussion. In the sanctuary of the temple of Hibis

20 21 22

23 24 25

Herrmann (2012) 95 indicates 238 objects, and some more have come to light by now. Herrmann (1994) 404–492; Herrmann (2002) 27–38, 74–82 and 114; Herrmann (2006) 124–147; Herrmann (2016) 142–159. For objects of his type from the necropoleis of Carthago, see Vercoutter (1945) 288–295, pl. XXIIf.; for other regions Clerc, Karageorghis, Lagarce and Leclant (1976) 117f. and 124–126 note 6; Hölbl (1979) vol. 1, 112–118; Hölbl (1986) vol. 1, 37f.; 109–114; Hölbl (1989) 50–53; pl. 3f.; Clerc (1991) 108–113. The proposal by Clerc, Karageorghis, Lagarce and Leclant (1976) 125 that the success of the Pataikoi in the Phoenician world was due to their assimilation with local juvenile gods remains pure speculation. Hölbl (2016) 239–242. None of this type are mentioned in Wasmuth (2017) 85–97 in her list of Egyptian objects in Persia, although she lists some Bes amulets. Of course, Cambyses’ reaction has to be read together with the claim of Hdt. 1.131, that the Persians themselves did not have anthropomorphic cult images.

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in the oasis of Kharga, decorated probably under Dareios I,26 the successor of Cambyses, among a long series of the main cultic images in all important places of Egypt,27 there is a depiction of a dwarf labeled as “Tatenen, lord of the blocked cavern”.28 Tatenen is, of course, a deity who is very often associated with the Memphite Ptah.29 The link between Tatenen and the Greek Hephaistos can be demonstrated by the conception of the kingship of the gods on earth. There is an Egyptian tradition about Ptah-Tatenen as the first ruler after creation.30 In the Egyptian history of Manetho written in Greek, the first ruling god is indicated as Hephaistos.31 Image and text in Hibis are of particular importance. Given the surrounding figures, it is certain that they are situated in a Memphite context, and the mention of the ‘blocked cavern’ fits well because that place is specific for Memphite topography.32 There is also some rather complicated textual evidence concerning a tradition of a dwarf and a giant in Memphis, connected with the building of a shrine. There are four more or less divergent versions of it attested in two different manuscripts of the Ramesside period33 (pHarris 8,9–9,5 and 9,7–11;34 pBudapest 51.1960, B 8–9 and C 3–8).35 The first passage starts with a direct invocation to the deity. ‘Oh that dwarf of the sky, oh that dwarf of the sky, oh dwarf with a big face, with a long back, with short legs, oh big column which starts from the sky the netherworld! Oh lord of the big corpse which rests in Heliopolis, oh great living lord who resides in Busiris!’ (pMag. Harris 8, 9–10). The crucial part is ‘There is testimony36 when you send to me, while one was relaxing in Memphis, saying: “Let there be made for me a shrine of half a cubit”, while you are a giant of seven cubits, and I said

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36

For the question of the date, see Lippert (2016). For efforts at interpretation, see Cruz-Uribe (1988) 192–198; Sternberg-el Hotabi (1994). A new study by S. Lippert is in preparation. Davies (1953) pl. 3, register III. See Cruz-Uribe (1988) 12. Schlögl (1980) 54–69. Quack (2007) 255 with note 25 and 279. Preserved in the Armenian translation of Eusebios as well as in Synkellos, see Jacoby (1958) 12 and 105. Borghouts (1971) 194–198. The magical papyrus Harris is likely to date to the late 20th dynasty, see Quack (1998) 311; Winand and Gohy (2011) 226 and 243. For the Budapest papyrus, a detailed palaeographical analysis is still lacking, but it is probably from the late 19th or early 20th dynasty. Leitz (1999) 44–46. My translation deviates in some points, especially concerning the exact identification of some verbal forms as circumstantial or continuative. Kákosy (1990). A new discussion of all versions will be given in Quack (in preparation). For the translation of the expression mtr.t (n⸗i͗) see Vernus (1991).

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to you: “You won’t be able to enter into the chapel of half a cubit, since you are a giant of seven cubits”, and you entered and rested within it. Now behold, so say they, namely37 namely the waters, which do not know the primeval ocean: “The shrine is open, the shrine is open! The one who is within has the face of a guenon.” Woe, woe! Fire, fire! The noblewoman has given birth to a baboon.’ (pMag. Harris 9, 1–5).38 The second version, further down on the same page of the papyrus, has: ‘There is testimony when you send, while one was relaxing in Memphis, saying: “Let a shrine of half a cubit be made for me!”, and one said to you: “Oh man of seven and a half cubits, how will you enter into it?”, and one did it for you, and you rested in it. Maga, the son of Seth, came and opened it. He saw the one who was in it, having the face of a guenon and the fur of a baboon. Woe, woe! Fire, fire! It is not me who has said it, it is not me who has repeated it. It is Maga, the son of Seth, who has said it; it is he who has repeated it.’ (pMag. Harris 9, 7–10). The third and fourth version, transmitted in a different papyrus, add some remarkable details. One of them is quite short: ‘I am Kothar, the servant of your noble shrine. There is [testimony] with me when you came to me39 the stable, and you said to me: “Make for me a noble shrine [of a third of a cubit]”. (pBudapest 51.1960, B 8–9). This version lacks most of the finer points. Much more detailed is the last version: ‘[Send (?)] to me Kothar, the servant of the noble shrine. There is a testimony with me when you came [to the] stable, and you said to him “Make for me a noble shrine of a third of a cubit”, and I said to you: “Oh giant of40 seven cubits! Will41 you be able to rest in the noble shrine of a third42 of a cubit?” And you rested in it, and your name is not known further until today. But behold, so says he,43 namely the enemy (?): “The noble shrine is [open],44 the noble shrine [is open]”, so says he.’ (pBudapest 51.1960, C3–8). 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

44

Part of this sentence is quite obscure. In comparison with the Budapest papyrus, which gives ḫr⸗f, I risk the reading ḫr⸗w as the corresponding plural form. See also Meeks (2006) 172f. In comparing the other lines, it is obvious that hardly anything is lost at the end, so the restoration ‘[make] for me’ proposed by Kákosy is not possible. the end of the are read to be read contrary to Kákosy’s proposal .. The traces at the end The of traces the atline are tolinebe asas ,, contrary Misread as by 40 by Kákosy; thereisissimply simply as first interrogative particle Misread as 40 Kákosy; there as firstpart partofofthethe interrogative particle (i͗)n-i͗w. Misread as 100 by Kákosy, which would completely destroy the meaning of the text. I understand the text as an orthography for ḫr⸗f mi͗ nꜢ m ḫfti͗. For ḫft as writing for to l. 1, traces x+8). The traces might rather be ḫr⸗f, see Gardiner (1932) 65a (note b–c to l. 1, x+8). cThe readreadasas bybyKákosy Kákosy . The orthography ) for . The orthography might rather be . The orthography (to be read thus against Kákosy’s ) for ḫfti͗ is somewhat problematic. The restoration is proposed based on the parallel in pMag. Harris rt. 9, 4.

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The most important additional detail provided by the Budapest papyrus is the explicit naming of Kothar. He is known as a deity specifically related to craftsmanship and metallurgy, attested in 2nd millennium Ugarit in the north of the Levant as well as in first millennium BCE Phoenicia.45 At least in Philo of Byblos (808, 22f.), he is explicitly identified with Hephaestus. To give an additional twist to the story, the Ugaritic sources, especially the Ba’al epic, present him as a paired deity Kothar and Kasis who is at home in a place called Hikupta.46 This name clearly goes back to the Egyptian word ḥw.t-kꜢ-Ptḥ which is a designation of the city of Memphis. At the same time, it is obviously the root of the Greek form Aigyptos which ultimately becomes a name for the whole of Egypt. In order not to lose the core issues completely out of sight in an open tradition of rather bewildering complexity, I would like to resume the most important points: There is a mythological episode about a divine being who is a dwarf but at least partially also a giant, who has some clear solar associations; and at least in some of the variants it is explicitly located at Memphis. It concerns the manufacture of a noble shrine, so there is some justification to link it with an important cultic image. At the same time, it appears to be a sacrilege to open the shrine. One of the manuscripts attributes the manufacture to Kothar, a Levantine craftsman god who in turn has a link with Memphis. It should be possible to draw at least some connecting lines towards the episode reported about Cambyses where we have a cultic image in the form of a dwarf, and there are links to Phoenicia. We could even speculate if the sacrilegious act of Maga who came and looked at the image would, by an Egyptian, be seen as quite a pre-configuration of what Cambyses did (provided that some version of this episode was still circulating in the Persian period).47 A much later passage, attested in a demotic magical papyrus dating to about 200 CE, also has some relevance. Within a spell for gaining favor, the magician presents a number of self-identifications, and one of them is i͗nk p(Ꜣ) nem šps nti͗ m tpḥ.t ⸢č̣Ꜣ⸣[.t] “I am the noble dwarf who is in the blocked cavern” (pMag. LL 11,

45 46

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Pardee (1999); del Olmo Lete (2014) 16f. For other Egyptian attestations of Kothar see LGG VII, 295c and Quack (2013) 271 (to x+XVI, 19). First recognized by Albright (1938) 22. The vocalization is, of course, somewhat uncertain because the Ugaritic alphabet does not write vowels, but it is supported by syllabic cuneiform writings as ḫi-ku-up-ta-aḫ. For the question of the derivation of the word, see Aufrère (2007) 32f; Jurman (2016) 34–36. The case of pBrooklyn 47.218.138, x+16, 19 demonstrates that at least one magical spell in Late Egyptian language mentioning Kothar was still transmitted until at least the 26th dynasty, see Quack (2013) 271.

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7).48 The mention of the blocked cavern gives a clear link to Memphis.49 While not being quite explicit, the passage can probably be linked with the depiction of Tatenen as lord of the blocked cavern in the temple of Hibis. Another passage which has also played a role in the previous scholarly discussion is found in a wisdom text of which the preserved manuscripts date to the late Ptolemaic and Roman period but which is likely to go back to an earlier model of perhaps the Saïte period.50 The sentence in question is part of an admonition not to belittle and underestimate small entities. In this connection, it is also said: “The little dwarf is great because of his name.” (pInsinger 24,11).51 While this hints at the fact that a dwarf can be an important person, probably a deity, the passage does not indicate that it has to be Ptah,52 and there are other indications that also the sun-god was conceived of as a dwarf.53 Furthermore, the passage does not provide any explicit link with Memphis. For these reasons, I would not give it much weight concerning the form of Ptah as a dwarf. Still, for the Herodotus passage, it would provide a perfect point against Cambyses, and I would not exclude that Egyptians would have read it that way under the experience of Cambyses. The Egyptologist Siegfried Morenz thought that the interpretatio graeca of Ptah as Hephaistos was instrumental in bringing into reality the dwarf-form of Ptah (which previously would have been only a potentiality). Also, the Kabeiroi should be explained by their relation to Hephaistos. The Greeks would have imprinted their concept of an entourage of Hephaestus onto Ptah who originally did not have one. I beg to disagree, and also the remaining cases where Morenz thought that he could demonstrate that an interpretatio graeca was instrumental in bringing

48 49

50 51 52

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Griffith and Thompson (1904–1909) vol. 1, 82f. While this self-identification stands next to one with the child in the house of Re, that fact cannot be used as an argument for the solar nature of this dwarf, given that selfidentifications in Egypt often run quickly from one entity to a quite unrelated next one. See also pLeiden I 359b, a purely pictorial amulet, which depicts a scarab, and then the sun-god next to a dwarf. For the question of dating, see Quack (2002). Text edition in Lexa (1926); see the last translation in Hoffmann and Quack (2018) 272–308 and 417–421. Spiegelberg (1925) 10 supposes that this relates to Ptah but it cannot be formally proven (contra Kolta (1968) 123). See also Ritner (2017) 324 who wants to link the passage specifically to a trigram of problematic reading whíthout considering possible alternatives. See Černý (1978) 9f.; Dasen (1993) 93f.

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about new features of Egyptian deities hardly resist to a critique.54 The most important point is the chronology. Pataikos figures explicitly labeled as Ptah date to the Third Intermediate Period, clearly before the 26th dynasty. That makes them older than the first substantial settlement of Greeks in Egypt, in Naucratis, during the Saïte period. I fail to see how an impact of Greek mythology would have been strong enough to bring about substantial changes in Egyptian concepts at such an early age. If we take into account the divergent traditions about a divine dwarf at Memphis already in the Ramesside period which I have presented above, we are chronologically even earlier. Resuming these points, there is sufficient documentation that Ptah or Tatenen could have the form of a dwarf in the Memphite area, that this form was actually used as an amulet, and that it was also at home in the Levantine area, including Phoenicia. Thus far, the realia turning up in Herodotus’ report seem accurate. More serious challenges are posed by the mention of the Kabeiroi55 who are indicated by Herodotus to be children of Hephaistos, and also to have a dwarfform. What could be meant by such an indication in an Egyptian context? Hdt. 2.51 gives also some hints about the Kabeiroi of Samothrace, but obviously says less than he knows.56 Previous treatments by Egyptologists are not completely satisfying: Von Bissing remarked that the Kabeiroi are, at Lemnos, descendants of Hephaistos and related to navigation. The Pataikoi of the Phoenicians are equally related to navigation, and there is the Semitic word Kabirim “the great ones” which corresponds with the fact that the Kabeiroi are described as “the great gods”.57 So he saw an identification of the Kabeiroi of Asia Minor with the Semitic Kabirim and their veneration as protection deities at sea. But where does that leave Ptah and the Egyptian background? Ptah is well known to have one specific son, namely Nefertem, the youthful god associated with the lotus flower. However, there is no obvious connection between him and a dwarf-form. Also, as being a single entity, he does not fit well

54 55 56

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For example, the role of Imhotep in incubation can now be documented Egyptian sources of the 26th dynasty, see Quack (2014) 58–60. For these see Kern (1919); Hemberg (1950); Cole (1984); Daumas (1998); Cruccas (2013); Cruccas (2014); Chiai (2017) 191–214. Wiedemann (1890) 235f. His claim that the Egyptian figures depict the ‘chnumu’ (according to modern terminology, the Ogdoad of Hermopolis) is not correct – the inscription LD V 6b to which he refers, designates, as a matter of fact, pharaoh Taharka as being engendered by the Ogdoad, and, at the same time, is located next to Bes-figures (not Pataikoi!). Von Bissing (1939).

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with the pluralic group which Herodotus indicates.58 Ptah has also another son, namely the divinized human Imhotep, who received veneration at least from the New Kingdom onwards, but he is also rather a figure of his own than a member of a pluralic group. There might, however, be another option worth exploring. Already above, I have shown that Tatenen should also be taken into consideration. In the temple of Edfu, there are several attestations of the epithet “the children of Tatenen” for a group of creator deities (Edfou I, 158, 8; 289, 1; Edfou IV, 140, 13; 353, 2; 358, 11; 390, 4; see also Edfou VI, 174, 11–15).59 In the same temple, we find also indications of Ptah as father/begetter of different categories of creator deities (Edfou VI, 175, 7f.). Indeed we can trace a clear Egyptian tradition which makes Ptah-Tatenen into the father of the Ogdoad.60 So, a pluralic group of children of Ptah-Tatenen who play a role in the process of creation definitely makes sense, and I will try to apply it to the episode of the Kabeiroi. The indication by Herodotus that the temple of the Kabeiroi was accessible only to priests actually gives us an important piece of evidence. This locality was clearly not a normal temple, where the population would have access at least to the outer courts. Rather, it was an area of special restricted access. The most logical nature for such a place would be a necropolis for older generations of gods who have passed away. Such areas are actually attested in connection with several Egyptian temples. In the temple of Esna, we have attestations for a festival on the 19th of Epiphi in honor of different deceased creator deities who are buried in a special place of restricted access (Esna 197, 24f.).61 Equally, at Edfu, we have the place of the deceased deities who are given service during the feast of Behedet.62 Also, the small temple of Medinet Habu in the Theban area was considered to be a place of burial for the primeval group of the Ogdoad.63 If we hear about a sacred precinct only accessible to priests, and probably in relation to deceased deities, we should also note what is indicated about such 58 59 60

61 62 63

Dillery (2005) 396 identifies the sanctuary of Kabeiroi with a temple of Sakhmet and Nefertem and claims that Cambyses destroyed their images, without giving any reasons for his interpretation. Reymond (1966); Reymond (1969). Klotz (2012) 175f. The oldest attested forerunner of this constellation is found in pLeiden I 350, 3, 24 (manuscript of the 19th dynasty) where Amun is said to have transformed himself into Tatenen in order to produce the primeval ones; see Zandee (1948) 64. Somewhat later as a manuscript is pBerlin 3048, 2, 2 “Ptah, father of the gods, oldest of the primeval ones” (dating to the 22nd dynasty, but likely to be based on an older model, see Wolf (1929)). Sauneron (1958); Sauneron (1962) 351f. See lastly Nagel (2014). Zivie-Coche (2015).

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a precinct in the Book of the Temple which is an extensive manual about the ideal Egyptian temple. It mentions a sacred mound located outside the other premises. There, we find strict measurements of restriction of access. Whoever is caught moving there without authorization is punished most severely: he is treated like somebody who has blasphemized the name of the king, and he is burned upon the altar.64 Now, if we hear about Cambyses entering such a precinct without proper authorization, and burning cultic images there, this sounds like a complete inversion of such norms. I suppose that this would have strongly influenced Egyptian priests in how to remember such an episode. Given the links to Phoenicia which Herodotus indicates, it is now time to look at the actual documentation for that region. I will start with the Greek fragments of the Phoenician History by Philo of Byblos, claiming to be based on a much older work by Sanchuniaton in Phoenician language, and preserved mainly in fragmentary quotations by Eusebius. Philo mentions the Kabeiroi in two different places (809, 11–13 and 812, 29). He indicates that there were seven sons of Sydyk who were the Kabeiroi, and the eighth brother was Asklepios.65 They were the first ones to invent ships and the first of all to write down records. Also, the Kabeiroi are supposed to have given birth to others who discovered (medicinal) herbs, a cure for venomous animal bites, and charms. Close to this is a report by Damaskios, Vita Isidori (Frag. 348 Zintzen = 142B Athanassiadi).66 He names the father as Sadyk and says that his children are interpreted as the Dioskouroi and the Kabeiroi. After these, the eighth and youngest was Esmounos who is interpreted as Asklepios. Esmounos is obviously the Greek rendering of the Phoenician god Eshmoun. His character as a healing god67 would bring him also in line with Imhotep. The discoveries ascribed to the children of the Kabeiroi are also of some relevance, given that they relate closely to the possible use of the Egyptian amuletic figures which is well attested for the Pataikoi. The number eight which Philo gives for the Kabeiroi (children of Sydyk) would tally with the Egyptian Ogdoad (the children of Ptah), even if they have of course an iconography quite different from the Pataikos-type.68 On the iconographic side, I would like to point out that there are a number of Phoenician-Punic metal amulets with a long sequence of higher beings in forms of obvious Egyptian background which are transmitted in a fairly fixed

64 65 66 67 68

Quack (2010). Baumgarten (1981) 143, 176, 216, 224, 229; Ebach (1979) 234–265. Zintzen (1967) 283; Athanassiadi (1999) 314f. Ribichini (1999). Zivie-Coche (2016).

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sequence.69 For the first part of it, it has long been clarified that they correspond to the Egyptian astral decans of the so-called Seti IB-family. The rest of them have not yet been amenable to a coherent interpretation as one or several groups of Egyptian deities known elsewhere. Among them, there are some in the Pataikos-type,70 especially a group of three dwarfs upon crocodiles.71 The plurality of this group speaks against a simple identification with Ptah himself. But it would be a serious option to recognize them as the children of Ptah whom Herodotus identifies with the Kabeiroi. Furthermore, it should be mentioned that the god Eshmun is invoked on several of them as the one capable of providing protection. So, also for a group of deities in dwarf-shape whom Herodotus calls the Kabeiroi, there are good perspectives for actually linking them with realia. So far, I would say that the description of the objects themselves is well grounded in reality. The main point, of course, remains if also Cambyses’ alleged treatment of them has a factual basis. If we suppose that Herodotus did not invent himself all the stories about sacrilegious behavior of Cambyses—and it stands to reason that he did not—, then we have to ask ourselves about his possible sources and their implications. Herodotus visited Egypt at the earliest in about 455, and probably rather a bit later.72 That would be at least about 70 years after the events surrounding Cambyses, and it is quite unlikely that he would find any reliable first-hand eyewitness. There must have been some intermediate stage, either in written form or as an oral tradition. I consider an oral tradition to be more likely because there certainly was no official written record of such deeds, and in Egypt, there is no tradition of an independent purely historical writing. If there were written traditions, they would look like the stories about people and events of the past circulating widely in demotic script—certainly with some kernel of reality, and sometimes even with a surprisingly exact knowledge of a large number of contemporary characters, but on the whole hardly the most reliable tradition.73 69 70 71

72 73

The most important studies are Vercoutter (1945) 311–334; Quillard (1970–71) 27–32; Quillard (1987) 102f.; Hölbl (1986), volume 1, 348–351, fig. 57; Hölbl (1989) 105–113; Lozachmeur and Pezin (1994); Maass-Lindemann and Maass (1994). E.g. amulet Carthago I, group 21 nr. 162; group 30 nr. 239 (Vercoutter (1945) 328 and 332). Figures 88–90 (Vercoutter (1945) 318 and 328; Hölbl (1986) 350; see also Quillard (1987) 101–103; pl. II–V). The group is likely to have been present also on an amulet from Andalusia where the preserved part ends quite immediately before arriving at it; see Maass-Lindemann and Maass (1994) 152; fig. 1b, pl. 9. Lloyd (1975) 61–68. See for such texts Quack (2016) 18–105; and additionally Quack (2018).

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In general, those set in the time-span from about 700 BCE onwards have a rather tangible relation to historic realities. Regardless of whether it were such written narratives or an oral tradition from which Herodotus received his information, what he got told has thus to be considered as not unfiltered truth, but shaped by Egyptian ways of telling stories and evaluating events. Concerning the question of how the Egyptians would adapt events to their mind-set, I would like to point out some religious compositions which seem to me relevant for such a question. They are rituals against the evil god Seth—or more globally ‘the aggressive one’.74 In these texts, we have also depictions of his misdeeds as an invasion followed by sacrilegious acts against the Egyptian gods and temples (Urk. VI, 17, 21–25, 2 and 69, 1–145,15).75 Among these, there are also acts of killing and even eating sacred animals—including lassoing the Apis-bull (Urk. VI, 23, 15). Other acts concern forcing access to restricted areas and objects (e.g. Urk. VI, 71, 9–12; 85, 15–20). The rituals are positively attested in manuscripts from the 4th century BCE, but their language indicates an older age.76 So we can be relatively certain that they were known to the Egyptian priests in the Persian period. It is quite likely that they would relate their actual experiences to this depiction of an invasion by an enemy of the gods who committed sacrilegious acts—and in turn, such a global attitude would also shape the way they remembered and told about Cambyses. Summing this up, I have presented sufficient evidence to demonstrate that Herodotus’ story about a dwarf-shaped cultic image of Ptah in Memphis as well as about children of Ptah in the same shape, located in an area of restricted access, and the link to Phoenicia and the Pataikoi, agree very well with the available Egyptian and Phoenician evidence. For the way the episode could have been shaped in memory, I could point out existing patterns of Egyptian thought. Still, I can hardly imagine that Cambyses would have been cast into this mold without any real starting point. Here, I would like to utter a voice of caution: it seems to me that modern historians risk to believe too much in their own disbelief. We have become accustomed to doubting ancient historians’ reports about mad rulers and their perpetrations. But if we apply the same approach to modern history, would 74 75 76

The texts are published in Schott (1929–1939) – a full new translation is given by Gill (2019). Altmann (2010). See von Lieven (2012) 245f. who has proposed that this passage reflects the historical events of the Hyksos period in a mythological recasting. See especially Vernus (1990). See also Redford (1986) 279 who already considers these texts within the topos of an invasion from the north, but considers them a bit too narrowly within the Egypto-Persian conflicts of the 30th dynasty because he only takes the date of the preserved manuscripts into account.

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historians in 2000 years not be wide off the mark when discussing the dictators of the 20th century CE (or some presidents of the 21st century)? Bibliography Editions of classical authors Damascius, The Philosophical History. Text with Translation and Notes, Polymnia Athanassiadi, Athens 1999. Herodotus with an English Translation in Four Volumes, II. Books III and IV, A.D. Godley, London and New York 1920.

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Cole (1984): Susan G. Cole, Theoi Megaloi. The Cult of the Great Gods at Samothrace, Leiden. Coulon et al. (2013): Laurent Coulon, Pascale Giovannelli-Jouanna, and Flore KimmelClauzet (eds.), Hérodote et l’Égypte. Regards croisés sur le livre II de l’Enquête d’Hérodote, Lyon. Cruccas (2013): Emiliano Cruccas, ‘Tra mito e culto. antropologia del vaso nei miti di fondazione dei culti dei Cabiri e dei Grandi Dei’, Gaia 16, 279–303. Cruccas (2014): Emiliano Cruccas, Gli dei senza nome: Sincretismi, ritualità e iconografia dei Cabiri e dei Grandi Dei tra Grecia e Asia minore, Rahden. Cruz-Uribe (1988): Eugene Cruz-Uribe, Hibis Temple Project, Volume I. Translation, Commentary, Discussions and Sign-List, San Antonio. Dasen (1993): Véronique Dasen, Dwarfs in Ancient Egypt and Greece, Oxford. Daumas (1998): Michèle Daumas, Recherches sur l’iconographie du culte des Cabires, Paris. Davies (1953): Norman de Garis Davies, The Temple of Hibis in el Khargeh Oasis. Part III. The Decoration, Publications of the Metropolitan Museum of Art Egyptian Expedition 17, New York. Dillery (2005): John Dillery, ‘Cambyses and the Egyptian Chaosbeschreibung Tradition’, CQ 55, 387–406. Ebach (1979): Jürgen Ebach, Weltentstehung und Kulturentwicklung bei Philo von Byblos. Ein Beitrag zur Überlieferung der biblischen Urgeschichte im Rahmen des altorientali‐ schen und antiken Schöpfungsglaubens, Stuttgart et al. Gardiner (1932): Alan H. Gardiner, Late-Egyptian Stories, Bibliotheca Aegyptiaca 1, Brussels. Gill (2019): Ann-Katrin Gill, The Hieratic Ritual Books of Pawerem (P. BM EA 10252 and P. BM EA 10081) from the late 4th century BC, Studien zur Spätägyptischen Religion 25, Wiesbaden. Giveon (1988): Raphael Giveon, Scarabs from Recent Excavations in Israel, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 83, Friburg and Göttingen. Griffith and Thompson (1904–1909): Francis Llewellyn Griffith and Herbert Thompson, The Demotic Magical Papyrus of London and Leiden, London. Győri (2001): Hedvig Győri, ‘To the Interpretation of Pataikos standing on Crocodiles’, Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts 94, 27–40. Győri (2003a): Hedvig Győri, ‘A Pataikos with Hawks on the Shoulders’, Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts 98, 11–29. Győri (2003b): Hedvig Győri, ‘Über die Patäken-Amulette im Neuen Reich’, in: Monika R. M. Hasitzka, Johannes Diethart, and Günther Dembski (eds.), Das Alte Ägypten und seine Nachbarn. Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Helmut Satzinger mit Beiträgen zur Ägyptologie, Koptologie, Nubiologie und Afrikanistik, Krems, 58–68.

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List of Contributors Damien Agut-Labordère, permanent researcher at the French CNRS team ArScAn in Nanterre, director of the Programme Achemenet, PhD in Paris 2005, ‘La composition et la transmission des sagesses démotiques’. He has published extensively on the social and economic history of Egypt during the 1st Millennium BC. As specialist of the Demotic script, he is involved in several archaeological missions in the Western Desert of Egypt (Kharga Oasis). Reinhold Bichler is Professor emeritus of Ancient History at the University of Innsbruck, Austria. The main subjects of his research activities are the history of political ideas, esp. ancient utopias, Greek historiography and ethnography, and the reception of ancient history. His publications include ‘Herodots Welt. Der Aufbau der Historie am Bild der fremden Länder und Völker, ihrer Zivilisation und ihrer Geschichte’ (2000), (with Robert Rollinger) ‘Herodot’ (2000), and ‘His‐ toriographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften’ (4 vols, 2007–16). Anna Bonifazi, Professor of comparative discourse analysis at the Linguistics department of the University of Cologne, has published on several pragmatic and cognitive linguistic features in Pindar, Homer, Herodotus and Thucydides (e.g. the coauthored volume ‘Particles in ancient Discourse: Exploring particle use across genres’, Washington DC 2016 online/2021 in print), and is in the advisory board of ‘Diegesis in Mind’. Anthony Ellis is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Bern with a particular interest in inter-religious encounters in the ancient and medieval world. He is currently writing a book on why gods and demons get jealous in ancient Greek and Hebrew literature, and the havoc that ensues. Elizabeth Irwin, Associate Professor of Classics at Columbia University, has authored a number of articles on Herodotus and has co-edited ‘Reading Hero‐ dotus: The Logoi of Book 5’, Cambridge 2007, ‘Herodots Wege des Erzählens’, Frankfurt a. M. 2013, and ‘Interpreting Herodotus’, Oxford 2018. She is writing a monograph on Herodotus, Book 3 and his engagement with the outbreak and first years of the Atheno-Peloponnesian War. Dan’el Kahn, Professor at the Department of Biblical Studies, University of Haifa, Israel, researching in the fields of Egyptology, Nubiology, Biblical Studies,

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History of Ancient Israel and the Ancient Near East, published ‘Sennacherib’s Campaign against Judah: A Source Analysis of Isaiah 36–37’.  Olaf E. Kaper, Professor of Egyptology at the Leiden University Institute for Area Studies, published inter alia the paper ‘Petubastis IV in the Dakhla Oasis: New Evidence about an Early Rebellion against Persian Rule and Its Suppression in Political Memory’, in 2015. Joachim Friedrich Quack, Professor for Egyptology at Heidelberg University, Member of the Heidelberg Academy of Science and the Royal Danish Academy of Science, awardee of the Leibniz award in 2011, has published several books, lastly ‘Altägyptische Amulette und ihre Handhabung,’ Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 31, Tübingen 2022, as well as numerous articles, and is co-editor of several scholarly journals. Gunnar Sperveslage is a postdoctoral researcher at the Institute of African Studies and Egyptology at the University of Cologne and Author of ‘Ägypten und Arabien. Ein Beitrag zu den interkulturellen Beziehungen Altägyptens’, Alter Orient und Altes Testament 420, Münster 2019. Alexander Schütze, Akademischer Rat auf Zeit at the Institute of Egyptology at LMU Munich, received his doctorate with a thesis on the administration of Egypt in the Persian period. His research primarily focuses on the administrative, legal, and economic history of Late Period Egypt. In his ongoing Habilitation project, he is investigating the titles of officials in the Twenty-sixth Dynasty. Andreas Schwab, Professor for Classics, esp. Ancient Greek Philology, and Heisenberg-Professor at the Institute for Klassische Altertumskunde at CAU Kiel, published ‘Fremde Religion in Herodots Historien: Religiöse Mehrdimen‐ sionalität bei Persern und Ägyptern’, Hermes-Einzelschriften 118, 2020, and is co-editor of the international journal ‘Syllogos: A Collaborative Online Journal dedicated to the Study of Herodotus and his World’. Melanie Wasmuth, Docent / Adjunct Professor for Egyptology and Ancient Near Eastern Studies at the University of Helsinki and currently Gerda Henkel Fellow, wrote inter alia ‘Ägypto-persische Herrscher- und Herrschaftspräsenta‐ tion in der Achämenidenzeit’, Oriens et Occidens 27, Stuttgart 2017, and edited (with Pearce Paul Creasman as co-editor) the volume ‘Udjahorresnet and His World’, Journal of Ancient Egyptian Interconnections 26, 2020. Fabian Wespi studied Classics and Egyptology and is a member of the Demotic Palaeographical Database Project at the Egyptological Institute Heidelberg where he deals with the decipherment of Demotic papyri.

Index nominum, rerum et locorum A ‘Abd‘amru 273 Abnormality 12, 93, 100–101, 106 Abu Simbel 200 Abusir 171 Abydos 199, 202–203, 210 Achaemenid(s) 11, 13, 27, 153, 156, 158, 162–163, 172, 179, 238, 241, 252, 286, 291 Acharnaean 140 Achilles 44, 120 Acropolis 61, 341, 352 Administration 164–166, 171, 177, 332, 355 Adrikan 219 Aegean 177, 218 Aelian 242, 329, 340 Aeschrionian tribe 285, 312 Aeschylus 73, 100, 237, 255 Africa/African 46, 250, 284 Agalmata/agalma of Hephaestus 58, 60– 61, 138 Agamemnon 73 Ahiqar 215 Ahmose-men-(em-)-ineb-hedj 332 Ahuramazdah 213 Ain el Birbirah 339 Aischriones/Aeschrionian 285, 287, 312 Aitie/aitioi 26, 35, 314 Akkadian (language) 343 Al-Ula 267, 270–271, 275 Alcmene 134 Alexander III 239 Alexander the Great 207, 247, 269 Alexandria 198, 340

Alilat (goddess) 127–128, 265, 274 Allāt 274 Almaqah 268 Alyattes 130 Amasis 9, 13, 30–31, 36, 38, 40, 55, 60, 63, 80, 84, 95, 96, 98, 102, 118, 131, 165, 173–174, 187, 189–191, 193–196, 198–203, 205– 208, 210–211, 216–224, 239, 243, 249, 252–253, 256, 264, 291, 329–330, 332, 337, 351–352, 354–355, 358, 360–363 Amenhotep III 334, 338 Amheida 289, 299, 337, 339 Ammonians/Ammoniens 13–17, 95, 97, 104, 213, 216, 237, 246–248, 283–293, 299–301, 305–321, 333, 335–339, 351 Ampelius 242, 249 Amphitryon 134 Amulet 271, 373–374, 378–379, 381–382 Amun 173, 248, 288–289, 308, 313, 331, 334, 336, 338–339, 344, 380     El-Hibeh 191–192 Amun-Re of Karnak 301 Amyrtaios/Amyrtaeus/Amenirdisu 256, 291, 339 Amytis 253–254 Anacharsis 141 Anagnorisis 31, 84 Anaxagoras 79 Anthropomorphism 136–138 Antiphon 109 Anubis 242 Aphrodite 121, 128, 136–137 Aphrodite-Urania 128, 274

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Apis 36, 49–58, 60, 62–63, 70–71, 73, 77, 94, 96, 98, 100–101, 130, 138, 145, 166, 179, 240–242, 331, 339–340, 351–352, 363     Bull 9, 15, 52, 71, 97, 157, 166, 188, 191, 209, 216, 254, 327, 339, 351–352, 383     Cult 166, 188     Epitaph 154, 157     Murder 13, 213, 237, 339–340 Apollo 62, 137, 220 Aporia 37–40 Apries 187, 189, 193, 197, 201, 203, 206–207, 218–224, 252–253, 330 Aqaba 268 Arabia/Arabian/Arab 14, 38–40, 94, 127– 128, 211, 263–277     Gulf 267–269     Island 14     King 38–39, 94, 263–264, 266     Kingdom(s) 263, 266     North 264, 266, 269, 274–275     Northwest 14, 265–266, 269–271, 275, 277     Peninsula 266, 271, 275     South 266–268     Tribe 14, 263–265, 276 Aramaic/Aramaean(s) 158, 160–162, 167, 176, 178, 189, 195, 197, 208, 211, 213– 216, 223, 272–275, 319–320, 342 Arcesilaos of Cyrene 314 Arche 28–29, 33, 36, 62, 78, 81–83, 85 Arginusae 81 Argos 352 Aristotle 31, 44, 61, 66, 75, 83, 110, 112 Arkesilas III 290 Arrian 247, 341 Arrow(s) 96, 98, 222, 305–306, 318 Arsinoë II 364 Artabanus 131 Artasyras 256–257

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Artaxerxes 239, 242 Artaxerxes I 290, 339, 344 Artaxerxes III (Ochus) 242, 329, 340–341 Artystone 253–254 Aryandes 287 Asia 163, 177, 179, 217, 241, 245, 276, 379 Asia minor 163, 177, 179, 379 Asklepios 381 Aspathines 257 Aspelta 200 Assur 269 Assyrian 14, 128, 136, 146, 263–265, 268– 270, 275–276, 328, 331, 364 Astyages/Astyigas 75, 253 Asyut 157, 164–165, 173, 191, 207, 300, 338 Ataphernes 257 Athena Assêsiê 130 Athenian Tetradrachms 272 Atheno-Peloponnesian War 9 Athens/Athenian 9, 25, 28–29, 32–34, 41– 42, 44, 49, 55, 57, 60–62, 70, 76, 78–85, 119, 140, 142–143, 146, 216, 220, 242, 272, 290, 310, 341, 352 Athribis 198, 202 Atiyawahi 160, 171–172 Atossa 253 Atrocity(ies) 15–16, 209, 213, 216, 221, 240, 242–243, 327, 330, 332–333, 340, 342 Attica 242 Augila/Awjila 288 Ausan 268 Axiochus 81 Ayn Manâwir 290 B Ba’al 377 Babylonia/Babylon 11, 14, 70, 121, 123– 125, 131, 133, 144–146, 155, 159, 160, 163, 166–168, 197, 200, 213, 219, 223,

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

246, 267–270, 275–276, 284, 298, 329, 331, 341–343, 353 Bagapates 256–257 Bagavahya 196, 208, 212 Bagohi 176, 244 Bahariya 292, 301 Bahrain 269 Bakales 290 Banebdjet 202 Baraqish 268 Bardiya 169, 213, 255, 297, 336 Bardiya I 297 Barisses 257 Battos 314 Behedet 380 Berossos 163 Bisitun/Behistun/Bisutun 15, 27, 85, 160, 168–169, 213–216, 219, 223, 237, 255, 290, 297–298, 300, 338 Boasian anthropologists 125 Boeotian Thebes 310, 315 Borysthenes 134, 141 Borysthenites 141 Britannia 163 Bronze Age 268–270 Bubastis 210 Burial(s) 58, 60, 96, 117, 119, 171, 179, 188, 191, 211, 220, 330, 331, 380 Busiris 375 Buto 9, 198, 202, 210–211, 220, 224, 331, 333, 352 C Cachette(s) 200 Cadmus of Tyre 130 Cairo 157, 160, 170, 198–202, 207, 356 Calamis 315 Callatian(s) 116–117, 121, 124–125, 127, 135, 139, 143

395

Cambyses’     Abnormality 12, 93–106     Decree 194–196, 212, 216, 334, 340, 351– 365     Downfall 69, 74–76     Expedition 15, 27, 38, 95, 97, 100, 104, 171–172, 216, 248, 276, 283–293, 297– 302, 305–321     Insanity 50, 55–56, 64–65     Madness 11, 25–85, 93, 145, 209, 239, 241, 245, 249, 328–329, 336, 341, 351     Messenger 39, 70, 95, 187, 264     Misdeeds 7, 211, 383     Persona 93, 99 Campaign 9–16, 26, 34, 37–38, 46, 48, 59, 62, 73, 78, 94, 146, 160, 168–169, 188, 192–193, 200, 213, 216–221, 237, 246– 252, 256, 263–264, 269–271, 274, 276, 299, 305–314, 317, 321, 327–330, 334– 338, 344, 351, 374     Egyptian 11, 25, 28, 34, 56, 70, 77–78, 160, 256, 292, 314     Ethiopian 63, 82, 250, 306 Candacë 248, 250 Candaules 98 Cannibalism 98, 117, 125, 135, 335 Caravan 264, 266–270, 274–275, 291 Carchedon/Carchedonians 284, 351 Caria/Carian(s) 110, 142, 162, 206, 220, 320 Carthage/Carthago/Carthaginians 97, 213, 216, 284, 291, 307, 329, 333, 373–374, 382 Cartouche(s) 160, 174–175, 191–198, 202– 203, 205–207, 210, 363 Cassandane 95, 187, 252 Charites 129 Chemmis 220 Children of Ptah 16, 352, 380–383 Christian 128, 246 Cicero 238

396

City of the Borysthenites 141 Classical/Classicists 10, 12, 42, 44, 82, 119, 139, 239–243, 291, 328, 339–340, 371 Claudius Ptolemaeus 250 Clement of Alexandria 340 Cleomenes of Sparta 352 Cnidus/Knidos 162, 239 Cognitive 12, 93, 95, 97, 101–105 Colchian(s) 314 Colossus of Memnon 244, 333 Column of Heracles 288 Combaphis 256 Conqueror 12, 34, 44, 143, 153, 155–156, 158, 164, 168–172, 175–176, 190, 207, 223, 249–250, 291, 331, 340 Conquest 7, 9, 10–16, 25, 35–37, 40, 151– 170, 173–177, 188, 190, 193, 197, 205– 211, 217, 222–223, 237, 239, 249, 251, 263, 275–276, 284–285, 289–291, 306, 327–330, 333, 343–344, 353, 356, 371 Cometes 256 Coptic 162–163 Counterfactual conditionals 101, 104–106 Cremation 117, 119–120, 127, 135 Crimes 98, 109, 115 Croesus 7, 43–45, 58, 64, 73, 75–76, 81–82, 94–95, 98, 100, 103–104, 217–218, 221– 223, 241, 313, 351 Cronus 316 Ctesias 35, 70, 238, 253–257, 329, 339 Ctesias of Cnidus/from Knidos 162, 239 Cult(s)/cultic 10, 15–16, 58–60, 63, 101, 115, 128, 130, 136–138, 140, 143, 145, 166, 188, 203, 205, 209, 216, 221, 289, 301, 331–332, 339, 341, 344, 364, 372–375, 377, 381, 383 Cultural chauvinism 126 Cultural practice 12, 109, 172 Curtius 247

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Cyprus 124, 268 Cyrene/Cyrenean(s)/Cyrenaica 14, 219, 248, 286–288, 290–291, 299, 312, 314 Cyrus 7, 26–28, 31, 35–36, 43, 45, 58, 73–76, 84, 169, 187, 213, 217, 221–223, 237–241, 246, 249, 252–254, 257, 276, 292, 331, 341 D Dakhla 10, 247–248, 283, 286, 288–289, 292, 301–302     Oasis 14–15, 297, 299, 300–301, 307, 337, 339,     Stele 287 Damaskios 381 Dammam 269 Dangeil 200 Daphnae 195 Darius/Dareios 13, 27–29, 83, 116, 119, 158–161, 166–179, 188, 190–191, 193– 196, 203, 205–206, 208, 210, 213–215, 217–220, 222–223, 237–238, 250, 254, 257, 276, 290, 297–302, 329–330, 333– 334, 338, 341–342, 344, 354, 357, 372, 375 Decree of Canopus 356, 358 Dedan 268, 270 Deir el-Hagar 301 Deity 49, 57, 114, 131, 372, 375, 377–378 Deixis/deictic 54, 94–95, 105–106 Delos/Delians 60, 137 Delphi 217 Delta 206, 250, 263–264, 271–272, 274, 276, 291, 300, 332 Demeter 127 Democritus 144 Depiction 26, 31, 44, 46, 62, 69, 73, 75, 78, 83–85, 97, 223–224, 372–375, 378, 383 Desecration 55, 59–60, 138, 145, 202–203, 242–244, 253, 351–352 Desert

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

    Egyptian Western 283–293     Libyan 216, 284–285     Nafud 268     Western 14, 283–293, 301 Deuteronomium 194, 343 Didime 341 Dilmun 269 Dinon 253–254 Diodorus 15, 163, 209, 220, 239, 243, 245– 247, 250–251, 253, 333–334, 337 Dionysius of Miletus 255 Dionysus 61, 82, 127–128, 130, 134–135, 137, 141–142, 251, 274 Dioscuri/Dioskouroi 129, 381 Diospolis 245 Discourse discontinuity 95 Divinity(ies)/Divine 12, 45, 49, 52–55, 57, 59, 62–63, 70–71, 77, 79–80, 109–110, 117–120, 123–124, 127–139, 141–142, 145–146, 171, 351–352, 358, 361, 363– 365, 377, 379 Dodona 129 Downfall 14, 69, 74–76, 87, 222 Dream 28, 31, 58, 69–71, 73, 75–76, 94, 155, 217, 241 Dumat al-Jandal 267, 269, 271, 275 Duplicity 30 Dushara 274 Dwarf 16, 61, 372–375, 377–379, 382–383 Dynasty 13, 97, 155, 158, 161, 166, 179, 187, 189, 192–193, 198, 200, 202, 205, 207–208, 210, 217–220, 222, 224, 253, 256, 275, 291, 319, 329–330, 332, 337, 339, 352, 373, 375, 377, 379–380, 383 E Earlier Greek literature 15, 308 Early Iron Age 270–271 Eastern Sahara 283

397

Ecbatana/Agbatana 30, 71–73, 211, 310, 331 Economic 14, 28, 178, 215, 244, 248, 268– 269, 291, 307, 328 Edfu 380 Egypt/Egyptian/Aegypt(ian)     Ancient 172, 243, 372     Concubine 26, 40, 164, 167, 353, 365, 379     Cult images 10, 209     Deity 49, 372, 379, 382     Government 264     King 10, 14, 41, 43–44, 158, 187, 191, 218, 222, 252, 307, 372     Late modern 16     Late Period 8, 279, 373     Law 195–196, 353–354, 357     Logos 7, 12, 56, 109, 111, 122, 124, 129, 133– 135, 144, 252, 371     Lower 167, 202, 275, 284, 292, 352     Middle 191, 300, 338     Middle Kingdom 268     New Kingdom 275, 373, 380     Nomos 50, 120–121     Persian Period 187–224     Priest(s) 52, 129, 131, 133, 188, 195, 206, 212, 223, 287, 353, 357–358, 381     Sanctuaries 13, 190, 206, 237, 242–246     Temple(s) 15, 17, 176, 195, 197, 205, 209, 212, 223, 327–334, 351–365, 375, 380– 381     Thebes 307, 310, 313–314     Upper 15, 297, 300, 302, 307     Western desert 283–293 Egyptology 7, 10, 11, 371 Eisbolai 37 El-Hibeh (Teudjoy/Teuzoi) 161, 172, 173, 191–192, 332 El-Muzawwaqa cemetery 301 Elam 298, 330

398

Eleia/Eleian(s) 220 Elephantine 140, 158, 161, 167, 169, 176, 196–199, 202, 208–216, 223, 244, 284, 333, 342 Eleusis/Eleusinian 39, 140, 352 Epaphus 49–54, 62, 315 Ephialtes 81 Epigraphic 170, 266 Epiphi 380 Epitaph 154, 157, 167 Eretria 341 Esagila 341 Esarhaddon 14, 264–265, 269, 276 Eshmun/Eshmoun 381–382 Esmounos 381 Esna 380 Eteocles 311 Ethics 66, 113 Ethiopia/Ethiopian(s)/Aithiopian 11, 13, 16, 28, 35, 46–50, 57, 63, 78, 81–82, 94– 104, 213, 216, 237, 247–253, 284–285, 306–317, 333–339, 351 Ethnography/Ethnographic 11, 37, 39–40, 46, 48, 52, 60, 111–112, 119, 123, 128, 139, 143–144 Ethnos/Ethnic/Ethnicity 109, 123, 130– 131, 134, 139–142, 287 Eudaimonia 32, 45, 66, 69 Euergetes 246 Euripides 30, 79, 82, 100, 110, 112, 117, 142 Europe 120, 217, 353 Eusebius 375, 381 Expedition 15, 27, 38, 95, 97, 100, 104, 171– 172, 216, 248–249, 268–269, 276, 283– 291, 297, 299, 307, 310–312, 353 Ezra 342      

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

F Failaka 269 Fayum 332 Figures 9, 61, 70, 237, 254, 371, 373, 375, 379, 381–382 Fish-Eaters 46–51, 94–95 Florence 195–196, 205, 356–357, 359, 362– 363, 372 Foreign     Crimes 109–146     Divinities 142, 145     Religion 7, 39, 142, 244, 309 Fountain of Youth 48 Frankincense road 266, 267 G Gallaecia 163 Gashmu 272–273 Gaumata 169, 213, 255–256, 336 Gaza 220, 268 Getae 127 Geography 250, 285, 288, 291–292, 301 Geopolitical 10, 14, 16, 261, 305, 307 Gerrha 269 Geshem 272 Girga Road 286 Giza 201 Gobryas 257 God(s)/Goddess 32, 49, 51–63, 70–71, 79– 80, 100, 109, 112, 114, 116–118, 120, 122, 123, 125, 127–142, 144–146, 189, 191, 193–194, 197, 206, 208, 217, 242, 244, 246–247, 265 268, 271–272, 274, 301, 313–315, 319, 327, 330–331, 334, 336– 337, 339, 340, 342–344, 351–352, 358, 360–363, 365, 372, 374–383 Graeco-Persian 365

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Great King 13, 16, 167, 176, 187–191, 195– 197, 203, 207–208, 212–217, 222–223, 250 Greco-Egyptian 142 Greco-Roman/Graeco-Roman 13, 30, 237, 255, 371 Greek/Greeks/Greece 7, 10, 14–15, 27, 29, 33, 38, 42, 49–56, 62, 63, 79, 82–84, 97, 109–146, 154, 162–163, 177–179, 187, 189, 211, 218–224, 254, 256, 283–289, 292, 301, 306, 308, 310, 312–313, 315, 320, 327, 355–356, 372–381 Gyges 98, 220 H Hadramaut 268 Hadrianus 333 Hail 268 Halicarnassus/Halicarnassian 37–40, 110, 142, 162, 264 Hamartia(i) 31, 68, 73–74, 83 Han’Ilat 272–274 Ḥarbek/Harbek 174–175 Haroëris 263 Harpagus 241 Hathor 271 Healing 101, 372, 381 Hebrew 146, 162 Hecataeus 133, 140 Hejaz 270 Helen 131, 135 Heliopolis 129, 209–211, 245, 328–331, 343–344, 375 Hellanicus 254–256 Hellenic/Hellenistic/Hellene 124, 140, 196, 223, 266, 269–270 Henat/Khenemibremen 200, 203–205, 332

399

Hephaistos/Hephaistus/Hephaestus 59– 63, 99, 115–116, 209, 244, 341, 351, 371– 372, 374–375, 377–379 Hera 129 Heracleopolis 192, 337 Heracles 134–135, 137, 140, 145, 251, 288 Hermes 130 Hermopolis 195, 379 Hesiod 61, 129, 135–137, 316 Hestia 129 Hibis (el-Khargeh oasis) 167 Hieronymus 246, 330 Hikupta 377 Himyar 268 Hippocratic 48, 57, 80 Historiography/Historiographical 8, 11, 14, 16, 25, 85, 97, 105, 156, 179, 252, 285 History 7–16, 25–28, 35–36, 40, 76, 78, 84– 85, 93, 105, 109–110, 129, 138, 153, 171– 172, 178–179, 188, 192, 218–224, 239, 243, 246, 251– 253, 266, 283, 287, 291, 297, 317, 353, 355, 371, 375, 381, 283 Holy 12, 109, 112, 116–118, 122, 127, 137– 140, 142, 145, 146 Homer/Homeric 42, 44–45, 62, 68, 75–76, 128–129, 135–139, 316 Hor 173 Horiraa 201, 205 Horus 167, 331, 337, 373 House of Life 330 Hydarnes 257 Hyperboreans 137 Hyperoche 147 Hytaspes 276 I l.p.h. formula 191, 194–196, 207 Iahmes 199, 332

400

Iason 314 Iberian Peninsula 163 Iconicity 12, 93, 105, 106 Iconography 119, 137, 301, 372, 381 Iddin-nabû 66, 167 Identity 26–27, 30–31, 34, 69, 137, 140 ,178, 251, 253, 271 Idernes 257 Image of Cambyses 12–13, 16–17, 153, 169, 195, 215, 237–238, 371 Imhotep 379–381 Imperialism/Imperial 25–85, 143–144 Impiety 52, 54–55, 60, 119, 138 Imposter 31, 35, 84 Inaros/Inarus 70, 210, 216, 290–291 India/Indians 98, 116, 250, 265 Indus 250, 269 Inheritance 28, 35–36, 252 Insanity 50, 55–56, 64–65, 79 Intaphrenes 257 Interpretatio Graeca 287, 372, 378 Invasion of Egypt 109, 115, 265, 328, 341, 365 Io 49 Ionian(s) 33, 52, 124, 146, 206, 220, 341 Iron Age 269–271, 374 Isis 140, 242, 340 Island of the blessed 312, 315–316, 320 Isocrates 81–82 Israel 146, 265, 342 Itti-Marduk-Balāṭu 167 Izabates 257 J Jawf region 268 Jedaniah archive 161, 176 Jeremiah 16, 342–343 Jerusalem 197, 211, 239, 342 Jew(s)/Jewish 239–240, 342

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Josephus 239–240, 251 Judah/Judaea/Judean(s) 176, 196–197, 208, 214–215, 223, 244, 329 Justin/Justinus 163, 242, 247, 256, 337, 340 K Kabeiros/Kabeiroi/Cabeiri 59, 61, 63, 115, 209–210, 244, 340–341, 351–353, 372, 378–382 Kabirim 379 Kadytis 220 Karnak 199, 209, 301, 333–334 Kasis 377 Kerma 200 Kharga 10, 247–248, 283, 286–287, 289, 290, 292, 299, 301, 336, 339, 375 Khenemibremen 200, 205 Khnum 212 Khnum-ib-Re 332 Knidos 162 Kom el-Ahmar 198, 201 Kothar 376–377 Kush/Kushite 200, 250, 331, 334, 336 Kuwait 269 L Labdakid 311 Ladike 216, 291 Lake Moirios 140 Lakhish 373 Language 7, 9, 12, 33, 48, 50, 76, 102, 105– 106, 110, 124, 131, 134, 137, 141, 143, 153, 162, 172, 213, 285, 312–313, 320, 343, 377, 381, 383 Laodike 137 Late Bronze Age 270 Laudhan 272 Laughter 59–65, 95, 97, 101, 145, 241–242, 311 Leiden 158, 198, 378, 380

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Lemnos 379 Levant/Levantine 155, 158, 162, 168–169, 197, 200, 266–269, 271, 275, 328, 377, 379 Liar-king 297 Libya/Libyan 129, 168, 216, 219, 247, 284– 285, 287–288, 290–291, 301, 314–315, 319, 328     Desert 216, 284–285 Lihyan/Lihyanites 270–273, 275 Linguistic 11–12, 15, 17, 23, 56, 75, 93–95, 101, 104–105, 306, 308, 311 Literary motifs 308 Logos/Logoi 7–17, 21, 25–36, 40–41, 43– 49, 52–56, 59–60, 63, 68, 70, 73, 77–80, 82–85, 93–94, 97, 99–106, 109, 111, 115, 117–119, 122–125, 129, 133–135, 141, 144, 151, 153–156, 164, 177, 188–189, 216–218, 220, 222, 224, 252, 261, 305, 308–314, 319, 321, 329, 336, 371–372 London 157, 159, 198–199, 203–205 Lost Army 247–248, 283, 285–286, 301, 321, 336 Lucan 243, 248 Lucian 145 Lucius Ampelius 242, 249 Lyceas of Naucratis 253–254 Lydia/Lydian 7, 45, 58, 130, 143, 146, 217, 313 M Macedonian 291, 356 Mad king 9, 13, 237–245 Madness 11, 26, 29–36, 39, 49, 56–64, 67– 73, 77–84, 93, 95, 99, 101, 138, 141, 145, 209, 239, 241, 245, 249, 328–329, 336, 341, 351 Maga, the son of Seth 376 Magus 27, 31, 69–70, 76, 169, 255–257 Main 268

401

Manetho 375 Mania 57, 353, 365 Maraphis 254–255 Marcus Junianus Justinus 340 Mardonios/Mardonius 120, 257 Mardos 237, 255 Marduk 167, 341 Mari 268 Massagetae/Massagetes 127, 217 Medea 314–315 Medes 238 Medina 270 Medinet Habu 380 Mediterranean 21, 128, 178, 203, 224, 291 Megabernes 254 Megabyzos/Megabyxus 70, 257 Meidum/Meydum 290, 337 Melampous from Egypt 130 Memnon 244, 333 Memphis/Memphite 15–16, 39, 49–51, 58– 59, 62, 98–99, 115, 118, 163, 166, 170, 177, 195, 199, 202, 206, 209–211, 244, 284–285, 290, 297, 300, 306–307, 314, 328–333, 337–338, 341, 351–352, 356, 361–365, 371–379, 383 Mendes 140, 202, 329, 340, 341 Menufiya Province (Kom el-Ahmar) 198 Mergis 256 Meroë/Meroe 250–253 Merphis 254–255 Mesopotamia/Mesopotamian 168, 241, 263, 265–269, 271, 343 Messenger 39, 70, 95, 187, 221, 264, 287, 335, 336 Mibsam 265, 276 Midianite(s) 270 Miletus/Miletan 130, 220, 255, 328 Miltiades 70, 81, 100 Mimesis 61, 68, 75, 82–83

402

Misdeeds 7, 211, 383 Mise en abyme 309 Mitra 128 Mitrahina 199, 202 Mnevis bull 340 Mode of narration 11, 32, 72 Montaigne 110, 125–126 Morality 11, 25, 27, 49, 50, 64, 67, 73, 109, 114, 121, 126 Moses 251 Motif(s) 8–9, 15, 84, 101, 188–189, 221–222, 239, 241–245, 308, 335, 343 Mut el-Kharab 301 Mycerinos 211, 314 Mylitta 121, 128 Myth/Mythical 8, 15, 101, 218, 221–222, 308, 311 N Nabatean/Nabateans/Nabataean 270, 272, 274–275 Nabonidus/Nabonid 223, 270, 274–275 Nafud desert 268 Najran 267 Nakhtbastetru 199 Nakhthorheb 203, 205 Nanaya-ittiya 167–168 Naophorous statue 170, 330 Naos/Naoi 170, 198–202, 205 Napata 200, 248, 335–336 Napoleon 353 Naqš-i Rustam 214 Narrative/Narratological/Narrator 7–17, 23, 25–85, 101–102, 111, 121–124, 129– 131, 139, 142, 153, 166, 172, 174, 179, 187–188, 190, 194, 218–219, 222, 237, 240–241, 243, 245, 254–256, 283, 288, 292–293, 300, 305–321, 328, 331, 333, 335, 339, 352–353, 374, 383

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Nasamons 286 Nature of the gods 127, 132 Naucratis 253–254, 379 Naxos 341 Near East/Near Eastern 8, 11, 119, 128, 189, 219, 328, 330, 335, 339, 341 Nebesheh 198 Nebuchadnezzar 197, 342–343 Nebuchadnezzar III 298 Nechepso 201 Necho II 200–202, 220, 275 Nectanebos II 216 Neferibre 200 Neferibrenefer 201 Neferites 329 Nefertem 379, 380 Negation(s)/Negative markers 97, 100–106 Negev 263–265, 270, 276 Nehemibre 200 Neith 163, 331, 337, 352, 365 Nektanebos (I) 194 Nektanebos II 207 Neo-Babylonian Empires 14, 276 Nereids 129 Nero 249 Neshor 197, 338 New Kingdom 275, 315, 328, 335, 373, 380 Nile 15, 189, 220, 243, 248–249, 363     Delta 206, 263–264, 271–276     Valley 286, 292, 315, 332 Nitetis/Neitetis 26–27, 30–31, 35, 84, 187– 189, 207, 216, 252–254, 310 Nomos/Nomoi 26–29, 39, 50, 55, 57–59, 62–63, 67–68, 78–81, 83, 101, 103, 111, 116–117, 119–127, 130, 139–141, 309 Nonverbal 12, 93, 97–101, 105–106, 156 Norondabates 257 Northern Karnak 334

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Nubia/Nubian 168, 200, 207, 220, 250, 291, 327–328, 336 O Oasis/Oases/Oasian 14, 216, 248, 250, 266– 270, 276, 284–285, 288, 291–292, 299, 301–302, 307, 312–313, 315–317, 320– 321, 327, 334, 336, 339, 344     Al-Ula 270     Dakhla 10, 14–15, 247, 289, 297, 299– 301, 307, 337, 339     Great 283, 286     Kharga/Khargeh 10, 167, 247–248, 286– 287, 289–290, 299, 336, 339, 375     Siwa/Siwah 247–248, 288–289, 300, 336, 339     Southern 289, 292, 299–302     Western desert 10, 14, 289–291, 297, 301, 307 Ochos/Ochus 215, 242, 330, 341 Ode 305–306, 308, 310–312, 316, 318–319 Oedipus 30–31, 50, 57, 66, 68–69, 73, 75, 79, 311 Offering tables 205 Offices 122, 157, 164–165, 190, 254, 332 Ogdoad 379–381 Old Oligarch 80–81 Onesicritus 239 Onophas 257 Oracle 31, 45, 71–73, 194, 206, 211, 217, 220, 222, 247, 313, 337, 343, 352, 354     Ammon 247–248, 286, 288–289, 300– 301, 313–314     Buto 9, 211, 220, 224, 331     Delphi 217     Greek 129     Siwa 301     Zeus 285, 289, 300–301, 313–314, 333 Oropastes 256

403

Orosius 164, 246 Orotalt 127, 274 Osiris 128, 134, 140, 243 Osymandias/Osymandyas 246, 333 Otanes 64, 240, 253, 257 P Palace 245, 342, 358 Palaeography 354, 356, 363 Palestine 373–374 Pan 131, 135–137 Panxuthes 255 Papyrus 157, 164, 169–170, 172–174, 194, 197, 203, 207, 212, 214–215, 290, 332, 337–338, 353–358, 360–363, 375–377 Paris (person) 131 Parthian 269 Pasargadae 239 Pataikos/Pataikoi 16, 60–61, 373–374, 379, 381–383 Patarbemis 221 Patizeithes 255–257 Pausanias 120, 242, 244, 315, 334 Pausire 274–275 Pedubast/Petubastis (IV) 14–15, 158, 216, 248, 289–290, 292, 297, 299–300, 302, 307–308, 321, 337–338, 344 Peftuauneith 203, 205–206 Pelasgians 127, 129–130, 134, 136, 142 Peloponnesian(s) 9, 33, 130 Pelusium/Pelusiac 328–329 Peneus gorge 138 Perapis 195, 361, 363 Perapis-in-Khem 332 Perception 12–13, 15, 30, 99, 113–114, 141, 153–158, 164–166, 168–173, 175, 177– 179, 206, 223, 301 Pericles 28–29, 111, 252 Peripeteia 45, 68, 84

404

Persepolis 245 Perserschutt 352 Perseus 134 Persia/Persian(s) 7–8, 10, 13–16, 26–31, 33–36, 39, 43–44, 48, 50, 55–56, 59–60, 63–65, 69, 72, 75–77, 81, 83, 85, 94–96, 98–99, 103, 109, 118–121, 124–125, 127– 128, 130–131, 135–140, 142–143, 146, 153–155, 158–161, 165, 167–174, 176– 177, 179, 187–194, 198, 205, 208–212, 214–217, 222–223, 238–239, 245–246, 248–250, 252–253, 263, 265, 274–276, 283–292, 297, 299–300, 307, 312, 319– 320, 327–337, 339–341, 344, 351–353, 365, 371, 374, 377, 383     Army/Armies 14–15, 95, 168, 264, 286, 300, 307, 316–318, 331, 336–337, 365     Detachment 283, 285–290, 292 Empire 110, 154–155, 158–159, 161–163, 172, 212–215, 265, 328     Garrison 290     Heartland 11, 156, 160, 168–169 King(s) 7, 9–10, 13–15, 30–32, 36–37, 40– 43, 45–54, 59–60, 62–63, 68, 72, 80, 83, 103–104, 115, 123, 130, 165, 167, 176, 187–190, 195–197, 202, 205, 207–208, 212, 217, 223, 246, 248–250, 253, 285, 306–307, 309, 327, 330     Nomos/Nomoi 27–28, 57–58, 120–121     Period Egypt 187 Persona 93, 99, 256 Peteese 161, 172–173, 175, 191–192, 205– 206, 208 Petra 268 Petronius 248, 250, 335 Phaidymie 253, 257 Phanes 37–40, 46, 51, 94–95, 206, 256, 263– 264, 314

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Pharaoh 155–156, 158, 164–167, 171, 174– 177, 187, 189–191, 193, 195–197, 200– 202, 206–207, 223, 253, 290, 331, 338, 342, 354–355, 358, 360–363, 379 Pharnaspes 252 Philadelphia 200, 206, Philae 199 Philo of Byblos 377, 381 Philology/Philological 11, 14–15, 371 Philosophy/Philosophical 11, 23, 82, 110– 113 Phocaea 341 Phoenicia/Phoenician(s) 16, 38–39, 60–61, 135, 220, 307, 329, 371, 374, 377, 379, 381, 383 Pataïci/Pataikoi 16, 60–61, 371, 374, 379, 381, 383 Phoenician-Punic 373, 381 Piankhy 331 Piety 52, 117, 121, 123, 144, 251 Pindar/Pindaric 15, 116, 305–306, 308–321 Plato 68, 79, 83, 110, 112, 115, 117, 238 Pliny the elder 329 Plutarch 241–242, 247 Poetic 15, 41–42, 67, 75–76, 306, 315–316, 318, 343 Polycrates 59–60, 217–218, 221, 223 Polyneices 311 Pompeius Trogus 242, 256, 337, 340 Pompey 243 Poseidon 129–130, 137–139 Potidaea 139 Precinct(s) 58–60, 62–63, 123, 209, 315, 380–381 Presocratic(s)/Pre-Socratic(s) 110–111, 129 Prexaspes 30, 58, 65, 74, 77, 95–96, 98–99, 104, 222, 241, 254, 257

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Priest(s)/Priesthood(s) 51–54, 59, 96, 110, 115, 129, 131, 133, 163, 173, 188, 191– 192, 194–195, 200, 204–207, 212, 245, 287, 308, 314, 331–332, 334, 340, 353– 354, 356–358, 361, 363–365, 371–372, 380–381, 383 Primnis/Premnis 248, 335 Prophecy 72, 314, 343–344 Protagoras 80, 109–112, 115, 126, 131, 139, 144 Provenance 29, 172, 287 Psametiksaneith/Psammetichus-sa-Neith 200, 203, 332 Psami 320 Psammenitus/Psammenitos (s. Psammeti‐ chus III) 31, 41–43, 45–47, 51, 68, 70, 73, 75–76, 94–96, 98, 189, 217, 256, 320–321, 351 Psam(m)etich 319–321 Psammetichus/Psammetichos I/Psamtik I 172, 192–193, 195, 210–211, 218–220, 222, 320 Psammetichus/Psammetichos II 192–193, 200–202, 220, 320 Psammetichus/Psammetichos/Psamtik III 165, 189–190, 203, 320, 329, 337 Psammis (s. Psammetichus II) 220, 320 Psammos 15, 305–308, 312–313, 316–321 Psamtik-men-en-Pe, son of Hor 173 Pselchis 248 Ptah 16, 163, 337, 340–341, 362, 371–373, 375, 378–383 Ptah-Tatenen 331, 352, 375, 380 Ptahhotep 170, 331–332 Ptolemaeus Euergetes 246 Ptolemaic/Ptolemies 275, 329, 359, 364– 365     Period 163, 210, 356, 372–373, 378 Ptolemy II Philadelphos 364

405

Ptolemy IV Philopator 338 Ptolemy V Epiphanes 338, 363 Ptolemy VI Philometor 365 Ptolemy the son of Lagus 315 Pyramid of Meidum 290 Pyrrhonian Sceptics 109 Pythia 352 Q Qaqun 265, 276 Qaryat al-Faw 267 Qasr Ghuieta 339 Qasr Ibrim 335 Qataban/Qatabanese 268, 272 Qaynu 272–273 Qedar/Qedarites 14, 269–276 Qurayyah 270     Painted Ware 270–271 R Ramesses II 333, 338 Ramesseum 209, 246, 333 Ramesside period 375, 379 Ramnadaina 214 Rebellion 14–15, 169, 208, 289, 297–300, 302, 306–308, 317, 319–321, 329–330, 333, 335, 338–339, 341, 344, 365 Reception 12–13, 28, 33, 45, 78, 84–85, 153– 154, 179, 237, 391     of the Cambyses logos 12 Recognition 30–33, 41, 45, 49, 52–53, 62, 68–72, 75, 82, 84 Relativity/Relativist/Relativism 7, 12, 80, 109–115, 117, 123–124, 125–127, 132– 133, 135, 138–140, 142–145, 216     Cultural(ly) 7, 11–12, 16, 25, 27, 68, 78, 113–115, 117, 121, 125–127, 135–136, 140, 144, 207, 221     Epistemic 113     Moral 113–117, 120, 123, 144

406

Religion/Religious 7–8, 11–12, 25, 39, 50– 51, 55, 57, 59–60, 71, 79–80, 93, 100, 104, 117, 119, 129–130, 137, 142, 146, 166, 177, 244, 246, 256, 309, 317, 319, 331–332, 341, 372, 374, 383 Revolt(s) 15, 27, 70, 74, 76, 124, 146, 169, 210, 213, 215–216, 219, 221, 290, 297– 300, 302, 308, 333, 339, 341, 344 Rhetorical strategy(ies) 9, 68 Rhodes 374 Rhoxana 254 Ritual 114, 117–121, 123–125, 138, 140, 142, 166, 331–332, 339, 341, 365, 372, 383 Rome/Roman(s) 13, 30, 163, 198–199, 203, 237, 245, 248–250, 255, 270, 286, 301, 329, 335, 356, 359, 363, 371, 378 Rosetta-stone 363 Royal 36, 41, 155–157, 160, 164–166, 168, 174, 177, 179, 187, 189–190, 195–196, 199–200, 202–203, 205–208, 210, 219– 220, 245, 249–250, 252, 329, 331, 342, 363     Display 13, 153, 156     Family 13, 189, 202, 207, 221, 238     Judges 26, 64, 240     Monument(s) 13, 205, 207, 222     Name(s) 166, 175, 194, 202–203, 208, 222–223, 337     Title(s) 13, 176, 191, 193–195, 197, 207– 208, 212, 223     Titulature 167, 190, 207, 331, 337–338 Ruda 274 S Saba/Sabir/Sabaean 251, 268 Sabahhumu 268 Saca 250 Sacred disease 57, 77, 351 Sacred bull 242

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Sacrilegious 60, 72, 96, 98, 102, 118, 127, 207, 242–243, 329, 377, 382–383 Sadyk 381 Safaite 272 Sahara/Saharan 283, 285, 291 Sais/Saïs 160, 190, 198–200, 202–203, 205– 207, 210–212, 220, 244, 306, 329–331, 333, 351–352, 365 Saite(s)/Saïte 192, 207, 212, 218, 224, 291– 292, 319     History 9, 221, 224     King(s) 189, 194–195, 205–206, 218–220, 222–223, 319     Period 10, 205, 210, 220, 378–379 Sakhmet 373, 380 Samian(s) 68, 70, 285, 287, 312, 372 Samos 217–218, 221 Samothrace 379 Samsi 269 Sana’iye 269 Sanchuniaton 381 Sanctuary(ies) 52, 146, 211, 221, 247, 271– 272, 274–275, 301, 313–315, 351, 363, 374     Ammon 247     Banebdjet 202     Bubastis 210     Egypt/Egyptian 13, 190, 206, 237, 239, 242, 244, 246     Eleusis 352     Kabeiros/Kabeiroi/Cabeiri 209–210, 253, 380     Memphis 16, 209     Ptah 16, 371     Sais 190, 203 Sand 15, 247, 265, 285, 305–308, 311–314, 316–321, 335–337 Sandstorm 14–15, 247–248, 286, 290, 299– 300, 305–308, 335–337

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Saqqara 157, 191, 197 Sarcophagus/Sarcophagi 157, 166–167, 171, 191, 199, 331, 351, 372 Sardis 146, 217, 250, 341 Satrap 191, 208, 287 Scipio Africanus 249 Scyles 141–142 Scythia/Scythian(s) 133, 141–143, 222, 298 Seal 157, 165–166, 191, 200, 205, 210, 316, 331, 352 Seheribra 337 Seleucid 246, 269 Seleucus Callinicus 246, 330 Semiotic 12, 93, 105 Semiramis 251 Semitic 273, 275, 340, 379 Seneca 163, 241, 249 Serapeum 157, 166, 191, 363, 365 Sesostris 211, 219, 222, 248 Seth 189, 243, 301, 365, 376, 383 Sethian motifs 188 Sethification 365 Seti IB-family 382 Sextus Empiricus 110, 112 Shahru 272–273 Sicily 76, 163 Silver bowls 271–272, 275 Sinai 263–265, 270–271, 274–276, 352 Sisamnes 240 Siwa/Siwites/Siwah 247–248, 284, 286, 288–289, 291–292, 300–301, 336, 339 Smerdis 28, 30–31, 36, 69–70, 73–74, 76, 94, 97, 99, 101, 222, 241, 251–255, 257, 310, 336 Sobek 332 Socrates/Socratic 57, 69, 79, 81, 112, 140 Sogdiana 250 Sogdianus 215 Sohag 199, 210

407

Solon 40, 44–45, 58, 68, 131, 217, 221–222 Somtutefnakht 192, 200, 203, 205 Sophist(s)/Sophistic/Sophistes 27, 67–68, 79, 82, 111, 117, 123, 144 Sophocles 31, 50, 66, 73, 79, 100, 119 Southern Italy 111 Southern Oasis 289, 299–302 Sparta/Spartan 130, 134, 140, 217, 352 Sphendadata 256, 257 Sphinx(es) 66, 198, 202–203, 205 Spitaces 254 Statue(s) 58–60, 63, 99, 115–116, 118, 130– 131, 138–139, 145, 156, 170, 192, 198– 200, 203–206, 210–211, 244, 246–247, 330, 332–333, 338, 340–341, 351, 365, 372     Hermes 130     Ptahhotep 170     Udjahorresnet 156, 160, 162, 170, 171 Stela from Qaqun 276 Strabo 15, 61, 163, 209–210, 244–245, 248, 250–251, 328–329, 333–336, 341, 344 Stratopeda 206 Strepsiades 79 Structure 9–10, 56, 100, 105, 140, 291, 308, 318, 357, 360, 362 Sudanese 335 Suhu 268 Susa 37, 70, 74, 170, 245, 330 Sydyk/Sadyk 381 Syria 39, 192–193, 197 Syro-Levantine 269 T Table of the Sun 46–48, 284 Tahpanhes 342 Talthybius 130 Tanaoxares/Tanyoxarces 238, 254–257 Targitaus 133

408

Tarut 269 Tasheretenese 199 Tatenen 375, 378–380 Tayma/Taymanite 267–271, 275 Tebtunis 163, 195, 212, 356–357, 363 Teispids 158, 167, 238 Tell el-Balamun 210 Tell el-Maskhuta 271–276 Tell Tebilah 341 Temple(s) 55, 121, 123–125, 130–131, 145, 163, 170, 190, 192, 194, 196, 199, 202– 203, 206, 210–211, 244, 246, 271, 274, 297, 299, 302, 332, 334, 337–341, 344, 380     Amun/Ammon 191–192, 247, 301, 315, 331, 334, 336–337, 339     Aphrodite 121–122     Apis 340, 363     Apollo at Delium 62     Argos 352     Athena Assêsiê 130     Babylonian 121–122, 145, 341     Buto 210–211, 333     Deir el-Hagar 301     Edfu 380     Egypt/Egyptian 15–17, 122, 176, 195, 197, 205, 208–210, 212, 223, 244–246, 325, 327–328, 330, 332–333, 340–344, 351, 353–358, 360–365, 372, 374, 380– 381, 383     Esagila 341     Esna 380     Hathor 271     Heliopolis 209, 245, 328–329, 331     Hephaistos/Hephaestus 115, 244, 341, 371     Hibis 167, 301, 339, 374, 378     Jerusalem 211, 239–240, 342     Kabeiroi/Cabeiri 59, 115, 244, 340–341, 372, 380

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

    Leontopolis 331     Medinet Habu 380     Memphis 118, 195, 331–332, 353, 361– 362, 374     Mendes 341     Mer-Atum 331     Neith 331     Osymandyas 333     Perapis 195, 332, 361, 363     Ptah 163, 331, 340–341, 362, 372     Sardis 146     Sobek 332     Statue(s) 199, 203, 205–206, 330, 332     Tell el-Balamun 210     Tell Tebilah 341     Thebes 209, 245, 333–334     Thoth 331     Wen-Khem 195, 332, 361, 363     Yahu 196–197, 208, 211–212     Yahweh/YHW 176, 197     Zeus 131, 133, 145, 315 Testimony(ies) 61, 213, 247, 283–284, 286, 288, 316, 330, 375–376 Thamudic 272 Tharbis 251 Thebes/Theban(s) 15, 31, 200, 318     Boeotian 69, 131, 309–313, 315, 319     Egyptian 133, 137, 140, 199, 202, 209– 210, 244–245, 247, 285–289, 291, 299, 301, 307–310, 312–315, 319–321, 333– 334, 336, 338–339, 341, 344, 364, 380 Themis 129 Themistocles 81, 137 Thourii 111, 126 Thracians 141 Throne 27, 30–32, 36, 69–70, 169, 187, 189, 200–201, 206, 208, 213, 215, 218–219, 224, 241, 254–256, 290, 298, 337–338, 342

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Thucydides 42, 76, 79, 100, 290 Tiglath-Pileser III 331 Timna 271 Tisander 142 Title 13, 41, 170, 176, 191, 193–198, 203, 205, 207–208, 212, 223, 256, 273, 290, 363 Tokra 290 Tomb(s) 59, 98, 120, 171, 201, 207, 239, 243, 329–300     Amasis 9, 243, 329     Mendes ram 340     Neferites 329     Osymandias 246     Sana’iye 269 Trade 14, 248, 268–269, 271, 275, 291, 307, 356 Tragedy/tragic 31–32, 41–42, 44–46, 57– 58, 61, 68–69, 72–77, 80, 82–84, 137, 217, 257 Tribe(s) 287     Aischriones/Aeschrionian 285, 287, 312     Arab 14, 263–277     Libyan 287, 290     Maraphians 255     Mibsam 265, 276     Qedar 14, 276 Trojan War 135, 137 Troy 131, 135 Truth 28–30, 36, 47–48, 51, 64–65, 97, 99, 103, 110–112, 126, 138, 214, 247, 252, 284, 288, 332, 383 Tunisia 284 Tyre 130 U Uadjet of Imet 331 Udjahorresnet/Udja-Hor-resnet 10, 156, 160, 162, 170–171, 178, 190–191, 203,

409

205, 207, 211–212, 223, 300, 330–332, 352–353 Ugarit/Ugaritic 377 Urania 127 Usurpation/Usurper 27, 31, 200, 202, 206, 213–214, 223, 251, 254–255, 257 V Valerius Maximus 240 Verbal strategies 12, 93 Villa Albani at Rome 199 Villa Hadriana near Tivoli 160, 171 W Wadi Ham(m)amat 160, 171, 332 Wadi Tumilat 231, 275 Wadjet 210, 352 Wahibre 200, 203 Wehemibrenefer 201 Wen-Khem 195, 332, 361, 363 Western     Delta 291     Desert 10, 14–15, 283, 285–292, 297, 299, 301–302, 307, 336 Widranga 214 X Xenophanes 62, 109–110, 131, 136–137 Xenophon 128, 238, 254 Xerxes I 120, 159–160, 171–172, 215, 223, 237–239, 246, 253, 329, 334, 341, 344 Xerxes II 215 Y Yahu 196–197, 208, 211–212 Yahweh/YHW 176, 197 Yathrib 270 Yeb 244 Yemen 268 Yemeni coast 268

410

  Z Zabibe 269 Zeus 49, 110, 127–128, 130, 133–134, 137, 142, 145, 285, 289, 300–301, 313–316, 333 zooming-in technique 95, 97

Index nominum, rerum et locorum

Index fontium Herodot und griechische Quellen Aelian   Nat. an.     10.28       242   Varia Historia     4.8       340     6.8       340, 342     13.3       329     17:28       340 Aeschylus   Agamemnon     178       73     181–2       74     1554       41   Eumenides     520–1       32   Fragments     211–4       41   Persae     773       237     778

      255     1062       76 Alexander of Aphrodisias   De Anima II (Mantissa)     24       74 Aristophanes   Acharner     530       82     630–632       42   Birds     427       82   Clouds     1476–78       79     1480       79   Frogs     103       82   Knights     41       82   Wasps     243       82

412

    404       82     424       82     560       82     574       82     646       82     727       82     883       82 Aristotle   Metaphysics     982b       48     1011b       112   Nicomachean Ethics     1.2.1–3       66     1.9.11       44   Poetics     1449a32       61     1449b24       75     1450a16–17       75   Politeia     1336a35       41 Arrian   Anabasis     3.16.2–5

Index fontium

      341     7.17.1–4       341 Athenaeus   XIII 560 d     253 Berossos   Babyloniaca     FGrH 680       163 Bible (OT)   Deuteronomium     7:1–5       196     13:13–19           146   Esther     1.1       250   Ezra/Esra     4       239     6:12       342   Jeremiah     15:2       343     43       16     43:8–13       342     43:10–12       342     46:13       343 Claudius Ptolemaeus   Geogr.

Index fontium

    4.7.16       250 Clement of Alexandria   Protrepticus     IV, 57       340 Ctesias   Persica     162, 170   F 13a     35   F13b     329   F 13[11]     253   F 13[11–15]     256   F 13[14]     254   §9     339 Damaskios   Vita Isidori     Frag. 384 Zintzen       381     142B Athanassiadi       381 Diodorus Siculus   1.33.1     250   1.34.7     163, 250   1.46     209, 333   1.46.4     245   1.47–49

413

    246   1.49     209   1.94.1     239   1.95.4     239   2.9.4–5.9     341   3.2.1     250   3.3.1     251   3.16     341   10 F 14.1 (Const. Exc.)     239   10 F 14.2     243   16.51.2     341   17.112     341   X F 14.3     247 Diogenes Laertios   9.18     62 Dionysius of Miletus   FGrHist 687 F 2     255 Dissoi Logoi   79–80, 109, 115, 119 Euripides   Andromache     173–6       58

414

  Hippolytos     731       74   Phrixos     Fr. 154       79 Gellius   Noctes Atticae 14,3.1–4     238 Hellanicus   FGrHist 680     163   FGrHist 687 F 2     255   FGrHist 687a F 8     254   FGrHist 688 F 1     35   FGrHist 688 F 13 §11–13     35   FGrHist 688 F 13.12     70   FGrHist 688 F 14.37     70   FGrHist 4 F 180     254   F 111 Ambaglio     254 Heraclitus   DK 22 B 119     74 Herodotus   1.5     49   1.8     45, 73, 98   1.19

Index fontium

    130   1.19–22 (1.19.2–22.4)     130   1.29     68   1.31     126   1.32     45, 131, 217   1.34     163, 250   1.34–45     45   1.46     301, 313–314   1.53–56 (1.53.3–56.1)     45   1.54     73   1.86     45, 58   1.87     73   1.90     45   1.91     75   1.111     41, 75   1.131     127–128, 131, 138, 143, 274, 374   1.134     124, 143   1.135     143   1.136     28, 238   1.138     124

Index fontium

  1.140     119   1.164     341   1.172     110   1.173     110   1.182     133   1.183     246   1.187     329   1.196     121   1.197     121   1.199     117, 121, 124   1.207     76   1.216     127   2.1     50, 124, 127, 131, 133, 135, 143, 195, 206, 210–211, 218–222, 252, 275, 291, 313– 314, 320, 330   2.3     52, 132–136, 140, 144, 211, 286, 313–314   2.4     128–131, 134–136, 140, 145, 313–314, 336   2.23     135   2.32–33     286, 313–314   2.36     124

415

  2.38     52   2.39     140   2.41     128   2.42     137, 140, 311, 313–314, 336   2.43     130   2.43–44     129   2.43–45     135   2.45     134–135   2.46     131, 136   2.49     130   2.49–50     129   2.50     41, 57, 129, 130   2.51     130, 379   2.52     127, 129, 132, 134   2.53     129, 135   2.58     130   2.59     211   2.61     110   2.63     137   2.64–65

416

    122, 125   2.65     136   2.69–70     140   2.71     140   2.73     211   2.75     211, 265   2.79     142   2.83     211   2.102–110     222   2.111     211   2.116     135   2.120     141   2.121.γ.2     75   2.123     127   2.133     211   2.142     131   2.143     133   2.144–146     135   2.151     219, 320   2.151–154     220

Index fontium

  2.151–182     220   2.152     211   2.152–161     218   2.153     50   2.154     206   2.155     210   2.155–156     211, 220   2.158     124, 143, 275   2.160     220   2.161–162     219   2.162–182     218   2.169     219   2.172     206, 221   2.172–174     195, 330   2.173     221–222   2.174     206   2.177ff     221   2.181     217, 291   3.1     28, 30–31, 34, 36, 41–43, 47, 52, 58–59, 62, 73, 75–77, 80, 93–98, 102–103, 118,

Index fontium

187, 202, 206, 216, 243–244, 284, 306– 308, 320–321, 328–329, 333, 352   3.1–3     187, 216   3.1–38     93   3.2     27, 34–36, 47–55, 59, 73, 77–78, 81, 94– 100, 103–104, 130, 187, 209, 222, 247, 252, 283, 285–286, 305– 321, 333–336, 339, 351   3.3     16, 26, 30, 34–36, 44, 50, 55–60, 63–64, 70, 76–77, 81–82, 94–104, 111, 115, 116, 118, 123, 142, 145, 209, 217, 221–222, 238, 240, 252–254, 308–311, 321, 328, 336, 340–341, 351, 372   3.4     37–38, 49, 94–95, 218   3.4–9     263–264   3.5     37   3.6     27–32, 36, 38–39, 51, 69–70, 73, 75–76, 100–101, 130, 211, 217, 253–254, 331, 352   3.7     28, 39, 264   3.8     28, 30, 39, 81, 94, 189, 254, 264, 274, 276   3.9     94, 250, 264, 276, 328   3.10     320–321   3.11     94–95   3.12     28, 62, 94

417

  3.13–15     306   3.14     41–43, 58, 73, 75–76, 94–95, 98, 321, 329   3.14–15 (3.14.1–15.4)     321   3.15     28, 62, 241   3.16     28, 30, 36, 52, 96, 98, 102–103, 118, 202, 243–244, 306, 329, 341, 352   3.17     80, 284, 307, 333   3.18     47, 284   3.19     97, 284, 307, 329, 374   3.20     81, 94, 98, 163   3.20–24     334   3.21     47, 78, 94–95, 103–104, 222   3.22     48, 98   3.23     35, 48   3.24     94   3.25     49, 59, 73, 78, 82, 95–100, 103–104, 247, 284–285, 288, 299, 306–308, 310–311, 313, 317, 333   3.25–26     299, 335   3.26     14, 95, 97, 130, 283–288, 292, 305–321, 336   3.26–29

418

    130   3.27     49–53, 59, 97   3.27–29     339   3.28     52–54, 94   3.29     49, 53–55, 59, 96–100, 209, 351   3.30     30, 36, 49–50, 55–56, 59, 70, 77, 94, 97, 99, 222, 241, 252, 254, 336   3.31     26, 30, 58, 95, 103, 240, 254   3.31–32     240, 253   3.32     30, 59, 98, 117, 254   3.32ff.     221   3.33     36, 48, 56, 59, 77, 99, 351   3.34     56, 59, 64, 77, 81, 95, 99, 103   3.34–6     44   3.35     49, 59, 95–96, 99–100, 103   3.36     42, 58, 64, 76, 82, 94–95, 98, 100, 103, 222   3.37     16, 49, 59, 60, 81–82, 98–99, 115–118, 145, 209, 340, 371   3.38     49, 59, 63, 94, 98–99, 104, 111, 116–119, 123, 131, 142, 145, 308–311, 321, 341, 372   3.39–60     217   3.40

Index fontium

    131, 218   3.40–43     218   3.42     49   3.42–5     49   3.43     137   3.61     27, 30, 59, 69   3.61–66     93   3.63     31–32, 69   3.64     30, 32, 36, 51, 70, 73, 75, 101, 130, 211, 217, 331, 352   3.65     32, 59, 73–76, 100–101   3.66     75   3.67     31, 69   3.68     253–254   3.69     28   3.72     28   3.80     28, 64   3.80–82     80   3.85–86     28   3.87     30   3.88

Index fontium

    254, 263, 276   3.91     176, 328   3.97     250   3.134     73   3.160     28   4.5     134   4.11     134   4.32–5     137   4.36     135   4.76     141   4.78     141–142   4.78–80     141   4.79     141   4.80     41, 141   4.94     127–128   4.104     111   4.181     147, 248, 288, 291, 300–301, 313–314, 339   4.181–185     291   4.182     288   4.203     287

419

  5.25     240   5.52–53     37   5.66     142   5.88     110   5.97     146   5.102     128, 146, 341   5.108–115     124   5.119     110   6.19–20     341   6.53     134   6.58     76   6.84     77   6.96–101     341   6.133–135     100   7. 10ε     131   7.46     131   7.129     138   7.133     130   7.134–7     130   7.152

420

    116   7.159     76   7.238     120   8.99     76   8.104     110   8.129     130, 138   8.144     137   9.24     76   9.78–9     120 Hesiod   Fragments     150       61     153       61   Op.     141       316     171       316 Hieronymus   Commentary on Daniel     246 Hippocratic corpus   On the Sacred Disease     5.85       41     7.11.20       41

Index fontium

    7.90       41 Homer   Iliad     1.599–600       62     7.445       137     13.43       137     22.60       44     24.487       44     24.717       41   Odyssee     4.212       41     4.563–4       316     4.801       41     8.266–366       62     17.8       41     19.392–3       70     19.467–8       70     21.228       41     22.501       41     24.323       41

Index fontium

IG I3   78a.8, 13, 21, 26     39 Isocrates   On the Peace     41.5       81 Josephus   Antiquities     2.10.2       251     11.2.2       240 Lucian   Zeus Tragoidos     42       145 Miltiades   6.136     70 Onesicritus   BNJ 134     239   F 34–35     239   F 36     239 Pausanias   1.28.11     242   1.42.3     245, 334   9.16.1–2     315   9.78–9     120

421

Philo of Byblos   Phoenician History     808, 22f.       337     809, 11–13       381     812, 29       381 Pindar   Isthmia     1.1–3       310     1.13–16       310     1.15–16       319   Pythia     4.4–5       314     4.13–16       314     4.56       315     4.57       315     9.53       315   Fragment 169a     67, 309   Fr. Hymn 36t–36.1     315   Olympia     2.42       311     2.57–83a       316     2.68–72       316, 318

422

    2.68.71       316     2.82–86       305     2.85       306     2.98       305, 311, 318     13.81       137 Plato   Axiochus     368d       81   Alcibiades II     139c–d       81   Cratylus     386a       110   Crito     48c       42   Demodocus     381d2       81   Euthyphro     3c3       79   Laws     695b       238     695d–e       238     716c       110   Meno     91b7–c4

Index fontium

      79     92a1–b3       79   Protagoras     170a3–4       139     334a3–c6       115   Republic     362e4–363a5       28     393d7       68     396b8       82     496c7       81     539c       79     595c       68     572       238   Theaetetus     152a       110     155d       48     167c4–6       139     169–172b       110     172a1–5       139   Timaeus     72e       129     86b–87b       57

Index fontium

  Plato, Com. Fr.     30       81 Plutarch   Al.     26.6       247   De Herodoti malignitate     857c–d       129   On Brotherly Love     Mor. 490 A       241   On Isis     11.1       340     44.1       340     44/mor. 368 F       243     Per. 37       28 Protagoras   DK 80 B 1     57, 110   DK 80 B 4     57, 131   DK 80 B 5     80 Pseudo-Xenophon/Old Oligarch   Ath. Pol.     1.2       81     1.6       81     1.9       80

423

    1.14       50 Sextus Empiricus   PH 1.140     110   PH 1.163     110   PH 1.165     113   PH 1.216     112   PH 1.216–17     110 Sophocles   Oedipus (OT)     370–404       50     1086–1196       69     1196–8       66     1199ff.       66   Oedipus at Colonus (OC)     551–68       75     560       75     1305       311     1072       137   Fragments     672–4       41 Strabo   Geography

424

    1.2.35       61     1.46.4       245     7.3.6       61     10.3.21       209, 244, 341     15.3.9–10       341     16.1.5       341     17.1.5       163     17.1.5 C 790       250     17.1.27       209, 245, 328     17.1.43       248     17.1.46       209, 245, 333     17.1.54       248, 335 Thucydides   1.8.1     60, 62   1.13.6     60   1.104     290   2.52.4     119   2.60.1     82   2.64.5     50   3.36.2

Index fontium

    82   3.36–49     42   3.39.5     50   3.104     60   4.97.2–3     62   4.97–8     62   5.95     50   6.17.1     73   7.29.3–5     81   7.71.6     76   7.75.4     76 Xenophanes   DK 21 B 11–12     62   DK 21 B 14, 15, 16     131 Xenophon   Cyropaedia     8.7.11       254     8.8.2       238   Memorabila     1.1.16       57     1.2.50       57     1.4

Index fontium

      128     3.9.6       32, 57     4.3

425

      128     4.7.6       79

Nichtgriechische Quellen Alexandria, Graeco-Roman Museum 11235       198   Alexandria, Graeco-Roman Museum 11290       198 Annals of Esarhaddon       264–265, 269, 276 Achaemenid Inscriptions   DNb § 50–60       214   DPh § 2       250   DSf § 11, 13       245   DSaa § 4       245   DSz § 10, 12       245 Behistun/Bisutun inscription   DB § 1–4       27   DB § 10–11       213   DB § 56–59       214   DB § 62–63       214   DB § 65–67

      214   DB § 70       213–214   DB I.28–43/§ 10–11       160, 168–169   DB I 29–30       252 Cairo, Mosque of Emir Cheikho   199 Cairo, Egyptian Museum CG 23110   199 Cairo, Egyptian Museum CG 672   200 Cairo, Egyptian Museum CG 70010   199 Cairo, Egyptian Museum CG 70011   198 Cairo, Egyptian Museum JE 37494   199, 202 Cairo, Egyptian Museum TN 6/6/25/6   198 Cairo, Egyptian Museum TN 13/6/24/1   207, 219, 221 Cairo, Egyptian Museum TN 27/11/58/8   200 Codex Hermopolis   195 Edfou   I

426

      380   IV       380   VI       380 Esna       380 Florence, Museo Archeologico 1784   205 Florence, Museo Archeologico 8708+Turin Supplement 9   372 Graffito Wadi Hammamat 164, 1   160, 171–172 Justin/Marcus Junianis Justinius   Epitome of the Phillipic History of Pom‐ peius Trogus       1       340       1.9.2       242       1.9.3       247, 337       1.9.4–9       163       1.9.8       242

Index fontium

London, British Museum EA 134   200, 204–205 London, British Museum EA 775   199 Lucan   De bello civili       IX 148–164       243       IX 155f.       243       10.263       249       10.279–282       249 Lucius Ampelius   Liber memorialis       13.2       242, 250 Moscow, Pushkin Museum no. 992 [I.1a 4431]   157 Moscow, Pushkin Museum no. 993 [I.1a 4006]   157 Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 1065   372–373

Leiden, Rijksmuseum van Oudheden AM 107   198

New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 79.7.25   159, 167–168

London, British Museum 30879   159, 167 London, British Museum 36250   373 London, British Museum EA 94   198, 203

O. Man. 5446   290 Oxford, Ashmolean Museum 1984       287

Index fontium

Pap. Bibliothèque Nationale Paris 215/pBN 215   163, 195–196, 353–356   Vso. col. a       194–195, 355   Vso. col. b       194, 354–355   Vso. col. c       194–196, 206, 354–355, 357   Vso. col. d       194–196, 354–356, 358–363   Vso. col. e       194, 354–355 Pap. Cowley 30       244, 342 Pap. Cowley 31       342 Pap. Florence PSI inv. D 102   195–196, 356–357, 359–362 Pap. Rev. Laws   364 Pap. Rylands IX/P. Rylands 9   160–161, 165, 172, 174–175, 191–192, 196, 198, 205, 208, 212–213, 364       172, 193   VI       364   VII       206, 364   VIII       364   XI       364   XIII       206, 364   XVI       193

427

  XVIII       193, 206   XXI       172, 174, 193 Pap. Tebt. I       364 Pap. Vandier   338 Paris, Louvre   A 90       197, 338   A 93       203   D.29       198, 201   F410       61   IM 4133       157, 352   IM 4187       352 Paulus Orosius   Historiae adversus paganos       2.8.2       246       2.8.2–4       163 pBerlin 3048       380 pBerlin P. 9009   164 pBerlin 13445   161, 176 pBerlin 13447   160 pBerlin 13495

428

  161, 176 pBerlin 13497   161, 176 pBerlin P 23757   363 pBerlin P 23761   163 pBM 10591   193, 363 pBM 10792   157, 164–165 pBrooklyn 47.218.138   377 pBudapest 51.1960       375–376 pCairo   CG 50058–50062       191   CG 50059       157, 164–165, 191, 198   CG 50060       157, 164   Pap. No. 3428 / J. 43465       161, 176 pCarlsberg 301       363 Philadelphia, University of Pennsylvania Museum 42-9-1   200, 206 pInsinger       378 Pliny, Natural History   36.14       329   36.66

Index fontium

      245   VI 181       250 pMag. Harris   375–376 pMag. LL   377–378 P. Segal 34   197 P. Segal 99   197 Qaqun stela fragment   265, 276 Rome, Musei Capitolini 0035   198, 203 Rome, Musei Vaticani 22690   10, 156, 160, 162, 170–171, 178, 190, 203, 207, 211, 223, 330, 352–353 Rosetta-stone   363 Seneca   Ad Lucilium       86.1       249   De beneficiis       7.3.1       249   De ira       3.14       163, 241       3.14.4       241       3.15       241       3.20       163

Index fontium

      2–4         249       4         249   Quaest. Nat.       6.8.3–5       249 TAD(AE)   A4.5       212   A4.6       161, 176, 197   A4.6–9       176   A4.7       161, 176, 196, 342   A4.7–8

429

      176, 196   A4.8       161, 176, 196, 211, 342   A4.9       161, 176, 197, 212   C2.1 (= DB Aram)       160, 213, 215   C3.13       214 Urk. VI   383 Valerius Maximus   Graviter dicta aut facta          6.3 ext. 3       240

Classica Monacensia Münchener Studien zur Klassischen Philologie herausgegeben von Martin Hose und Claudia Wiener Die Classica Monacensia verstehen sich als Präsentationsforum für aktuelle Ergebnisse von Forschungsprojekten zur antiken Literatur, die an der LMU München entstanden sind. Seit mehr als 25 Jahren erscheinen in der Reihe Monographien, kommentierte Textausgaben und Sammelbände aus Themenbereichen der Griechischen und Römischen Antike. Der Schwerpunkt liegt dabei auf literaturwissenschaftlicher Forschung in Verbindung mit historischen und philosophischen Fragestellungen. Bisher sind erschienen: Frühere Bände finden Sie unter: https://www.narr.de/literaturwissenschaft/ reihen/classica-monacensia/ Band 29 Hellmut Flashar Spectra Kleine Schriften zu Drama, Philosophie und Antikerezeption 2004, 348 Seiten €[D] 78,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6118-3 Band 30 Niklas Holzberg (Hrsg.) Die Appendix Vergiliana Pseudepigraphen im literarischen Kontext 2005, XX, 294 Seiten €[D] 58,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6202-9 Band 31 Regina Höschele Verückt nach Frauen Der Epigrammatiker Rufin 2005, XII, 156 Seiten €[D] 48,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6205-0

Band 32 Gunther Martin Dexipp von Athen Edition, Übersetzung und begleitende Studien 2006, XII, 287 Seiten €[D] 58,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6242-5 Band 33 Patrizia Marzillo Der Kommentar des Proklos zu Hesiods „Werken und Tagen“ Edition, Übersetzung und Erläuterung der Fragmente 2010, LXXXVIII, 458 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6353-8 Band 34 Helmut Löffler Fehlentscheidungen bei Herodot 2008, X, 242 Seiten €[D] 58,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6381-1 Band 35 Gregor von Nazianz Über Vorsehung Περὶ Προνοίας Herausgegeben, übersetzt und kommentiert von Andreas Schwab 2009, 142 Seiten €[D] 39,9,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6418-4

Band 36 Peter Grossardt Achilleus, Coriolan und ihre Weggefährten Ein Plädoyer für eine Behandlung des Achilleus-Zorns aus Sicht der vergleichenden Epenforschung 2009, XII, 159 Seiten €[D] 39,9,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6483-2 Band 37 Regina Höschele Die blütenlesende Muse Poetik und Textualität antiker Epigrammsammlungen 2010, X, 375 Seiten €[D] 68,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6552-5 Band 38 Alexander Müller Die Carmina Anacreontea und Anakreon Ein literarisches Generationenverhältnis 2010, VIII, 300 Seiten €[D] 68,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6575-4 Band 39 Andreas Patzer STUDIA SOCRATICA Zwölf Abhandlungen über den historischen Sokrates 2012, X, 370 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6579-2 Band 40 Maria Gerolemou Bad Women, Mad Women Gender und Wahnsinn in der griechischen Tragödie 2011, X, 442 Seiten €[D] 98,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6580-8 Band 41 Karin Mayet Chrysipps Logik in Ciceros philosophischen Schriften 2010, 340 Seiten €[D] 78,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6581-5

Band 42 Nikolaos Vakonakis Das griechische Drama auf dem Weg nach Byzanz Der euripideische Cento Christos Paschon 2011, 184 Seiten €[D] 48,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6582-2 Band 43 Evanthia Tsigkana Studien zu Euripides’ Elektra Das Motiv der Erwartung im griechischen Drama 2012, 320 Seiten €[D] 78,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6724-6 Band 44 Margot Neger Martials Dichtergedichte Das Epigramm als Medium der poetischen Selbstreflexion 2012, 392 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6759-8 Band 45 Isabella Wiegand Neque libere neque vere Die Literatur unter Tiberius und der Diskurs der res publica continua 2013, XIV, 362 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6811-3 Band 46 Sophia Bönisch-Meyer/Lisa Cordes/ Verena Schulz/Anne Wolsfeld/Martin Ziegert (Hrsg.) Nero und Domitian Mediale Diskurse der Herrscherrepräsentation im Vergleich 2014, VIII, 485 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6813-7 Band 47 Fabian Horn Held und Heldentum bei Homer Das homerische Heldenkonzept und seine poetische Verwendung 2014, IV, 388 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6837-3

Band 48 Jan-Markus Pinjuh Platons Hippias Minor Übersetzung und Kommentar 2014, 264 Seiten €[D] 68,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6849-6 Band 49 Olga Chernyakhovskaya Sokrates bei Xenophon Moral – Politik – Religion 2014, XII, 279 Seiten €[D] 58,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6863-2 Band 50 Lukians Apologie Eingeleitet, übersetzt und erläutert von Markus Hafner 2017, 159 Seiten €[D] 38,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8071-9 Band 51 Manuel Caballero González Der Mythos des Athamas in der griechischen und lateinischen Literatur 2017, 628 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-6991-2 Band 52 Philipp Weiß Homer und Vergil im Vergleich Ein Paradigma antiker Literaturkritik und seine Ästhetik 2017, 392 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8110-5 Band 53 Andreas Patzer Von Hesiod bis Thomas Mann Dreizehn Abhandlungen zur Literaturund Philosophiegeschichte 2018, 245 Seiten €[D] 78,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8190-7

Band 54 Vicente Flores Militello tali dignus amico Die Darstellung des patronus-cliensVerhältnisses bei Horaz, Martial und Juvenal 2019, 366 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8296-6 Band 55 Alexander Schütze, Andreas Schwab (eds.) Herodotean Soundings The Cambyses Logos 2023, 429 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8329-1 Band 56 Margot Neger Epistolare Narrationen Studien zur Erzähltechnik des jüngeren Plinius 2021, 448 Seiten €[D] 88,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8345-1 Band 57 Alexander Sigl Die Modellierung epikureischer personae in der römischen Literatur 2023, 511 Seiten €[D] 98,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8503-5 Band 58 Maria Anna Oberlinner Intertextualität und Parodie in Ovids Remedia amoris 2023, 285 Seiten €[D] 78,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8526-4 Band 59 Cagla Umsu-Seifert Olympiodors Kommentar zu Platons Alkibiades Untersuchung, Text, Übersetzung und Erläuterungen 2023, 690 Seiten €[D] 118,00 ISBN 978-3-8233-8590-5

This volume is dedicated to the logos of Cambyses at the beginning of Book 3 in Herodotus’ Histories, one of the few sources on the Persian conquest of Egypt that has not yet been exhaustively explored in its complexity. The contributions of this volume deal with the motivations and narrative strategies behind Herodotus’ characterization of the Persian king but also with the geopolitical background of Cambyses’ conquest of Egypt as well as the reception of the Cambyses logos by later ancient authors. “Herodotean Soundings: The Cambyses Logos” exemplifies how a multidisciplinary approach can contribute significantly to a better understanding of a complex work such as Herodotus’ Histories.

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ISBN 978-3-8233-8329-1