Kings, Countries, Peoples: Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire 3515116281, 9783515116282

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Pierre Briant

Kings, Countries, Peoples Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire Translated by Amélie Kuhrt

Alte Geschichte Franz Steiner Verlag

Oriens et Occidens 26

Pierre Briant Kings, Countries, Peoples

Oriens et Occidens Studien zu antiken Kulturkontakten und ihrem Nachleben Herausgegeben von Josef Wiesehöfer in Zusammenarbeit mit Pierre Briant, Geoffrey Greatrex, Amélie Kuhrt und Robert Rollinger Band 26

Pierre Briant

Kings, Countries, Peoples Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire Translated by Amélie Kuhrt

Franz Steiner Verlag

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2017 Satz: DTP + TEXT Eva Burri, Stuttgart Druck: Hubert & Co., Göttingen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-11628-2 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-11635-0 (E-Book)

CONTENTS List of Figures ................................................................................................. VII Works by Pierre Briant .................................................................................... IX Foreword ......................................................................................................... 1 INTRODUCTION 1

Central Power and Cultural Polycentrism in the Achaemenid Empire .....

43

PART I – ACHAEMENID ASIA MINOR 2 3 4

Droaphernes and the Sardis Statue ........................................................... 77 Cities and Satraps in the Achaemenid Empire: Xanthos and Pixodaros ... 99 The History and Archaeology of a Text: the Letter of Darius to Gadatas between Persians, Greeks and Romans ..................................................... 128

PART II – CHAEMENID EGYPT 5 6 7 8 9

The Ruling Class and Subject Populations in the Achaemenid Empire: the Egyptian example ............................................................................... A strange affair at Elephantine in 410 B. C. Widranga, the sanctuary of Khnûm and the temple of Yahweh........................................................ When Kings write History: the Persian period in Ptolemaic inscriptions . Multilingual Inscriptions of the Achaemenid Period: text and image....... Herodotus, Udjahorresnet and Darius’ Palace at Susa ..............................

169 207 221 232 249

PART III – THE GREAT KING, LAND AND WATER 10 Sheep Breeding in the Achaemenid Empire (Sixth to Fourth Centuries B. C.) ......................................................................................... 11 On the King as Gardener: observations on the history of a set of documents, ............................................................................................ 12 The Drinking Water of the Great King ..................................................... 13 Polybius X 28 and the qanāts: the evidence and its limitations ................ 14 Montesquieu and his Sources: Alexander, the Persian Empire, the Guebres and Irrigation ........................................................................ 15 The State, the Earth and Water between the Nile and Syr Darya ..............

253 271 286 305 331 345

VI

Contents

PART IV – COMMUNICATIONS AND EXCHANGE 16 From Sardis to Susa .................................................................................. 17 Themistocles on the Royal Road .............................................................. 18 [with Raymond Descat] A customs register from the satrapy of Egypt in the Achaemenid period (TAD C3,7) ...................................................... 19 Tribute payments and exchange in Achaemenid and Hellenistic Asia Minor ................................................................................................

359 375 377 415

PART V – THE TRANSITION FROM THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE TO ALEXANDER AND THE HELLENISTIC KINGDOMS 20 From the Achaemenids to the Hellenistic Rulers: continuities and changes............................................................................................... 21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic World, ........................................................................... 22 Greco-Hellenistic Sources, Persian and Macedonian Institutions: continuities, changes and ‘bricolages’ ...................................................... 23 Alexander in Sardis .................................................................................. 24 The Institutions of Achaemenid Sardis: an additional remark .................. 25 The Iranians of Asia Minor after the fall of the Achaemenid empire: the Amyzon inscription ............................................................................. 26 From Sardis to Persepolis: the royal economy between private and public ................................................................................................. 27 Asia Minor in Transition........................................................................... 28 The katarraktai of the Tigris: irrigation-works, commerce and shipping in Elam and Babylonia from Darius to Alexander ....................................

429 459 472 499 518 519 542 556 590

Index of names ................................................................................................ 611 Index of places and people .............................................................................. 618 Index of ancient sources .................................................................................. 624

LIST OF FIGURES Fig. 1: Fig. 2: Fig. 3: Fig. 4:

Map of the Achaemenid Empire ............................................... XXV Inscription of Droaphernes at Sardis .......................................... 78 The three texts of the Xanthos-Trilingual ................................... 100 The three inscribed sides and an axionomatric sketch of the Xanthos Trilingual (drawings by A. Bourgarel) ............... 102 Fig. 5: Letter of Darius to Gadatas ......................................................... 129 Fig. 6: The return to Egypt of divine statues pillaged by the Persians/Medes according to official Ptolemaic texts ................ 225 Fig. 7: Detail of Darius’ relief at Behistoun ........................................... 235 Fig. 8: (8a) Saqqara stela (I. Mathieson et al. 1995).– (8b) The King on an audience relief of Persepolis. – (8c) Sealing on Babylonian tablet............................................... 240 Fig. 9: Statue of Darius at Susa (courtesy Mission de Suse) .................. 242 Fig. 10: The Chalouf stela (cuneiform face): Menant (note 34) .............. 245 Fig. 11: The Tell el-Maskhouta stela (Posener [n. 8], pl. IV) .................. 246 Fig. 12: Inventory of flocks in nine Babylonian private leases (Augapfel, n. 22) ......................................................................... 256 Fig. 13: Hierarchical chart of the animal-Department at Persepolis .......... 261 Fig. 14a-b: Louvre seal (AO 2282).................................................................. 274 Fig. 15 a-b: Tarsus coin observe and reverse (SNG von Aulock xiii, n°5914) . 276 Fig. 15c: Tarsus coin: drawing of image on obverse .................................... 276 Fig. 16 a-b: Tarsus coin, obverse and reverse (Leu Sale 45, 1988, 250) .......... 276 Fig. 17a-b-c: Coin BMC 08, 19: reverse (a), obverse (b) and drawing (c) of the Geneva-Museum ................................................................. 278 Fig. 18a-b-c-: coin from Lanz ex-sale, Munich 52/1990, 256, reverse (a), obverse (b), and drawing of the obverse (c) .................................. 278 Fig. 19a-b: Seal of the Bagdad Museum (IM 12648), impression (a) and drawing (b) ............................................................................. 279 Fig. 20a-b-c: Cylinder-seal of the Geneva-Museum: photo (a), impression (b), drawing (c) .................................................................................... 279 Fig. 21: Drawing of a Babylonian seal-impression from the Achaemenid period (Scheil 1901, no. 8) ............................................................ 281 Fig. 22: Kassite seal impression on tablet CBS 3657 ................................. 281 Fig. 23: Drawing of seal assumed to come from Iran (Moorey & Gurney 1978, pl. V, no. 23) ........................................ 282 Fig. 24: Longitudinal section of a qanāt (courtesy Julien Charbonnier) .... 309 Fig. 25: Polybius X.28 and his translators (1655–1990) ............................ 315

WORKS BY PIERRE BRIANT 1964 1. L’organisation des relations extérieures de la République d’Athènes, MA Université de Poitiers, 1964 (unpublished) 1968 2. “La Boulè et l’élection des ambassadeurs à Athènes au IVe siècle”, in: RÉA 70 (1968): 6–31 1969 3. Review of H. Berve, Die Tyrannis bei den Griechen, München (1967), in: RÉA 71 (1969): 166–169 4. Review of G. Dobesch, Der panhellenische Gedanke im 4. Jh. v. Chr. und der Philippos des Isokrates, Untersuchungen zum korinthischen Bund, I. Wien (1968), in: RÉA 71 (1969): 485–487 1972 5. “D’Alexandre le Grand aux diadoques: le cas d’Eumène de Kardia. I ”, in: RÉA 74 (1972): 32–73 1973 6. “D’Alexandre le Grand aux diadoques. Le cas d’Eumène de Kardia. II”, in: RÉA 75 (1973): 43–81 7. “Remarques sur laoi et esclaves ruraux en Asie Mineure hellénistique”, in: Actes du Colloque 1971 sur l’esclavage, Paris-Besançon (1973): 93– 133 8. Antigone le Borgne. Les débuts de sa carrière et les problèmes de l’Assem­ blée macédonienne (Annales Littéraires de l’Université de Besançon, 152; Centre d’Histoire Ancienne, 10), Paris, 1973 1974 9. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), Paris, 1974 10. “De la guerre nationale à l’aventure épique. La conquête de l’empire achéménide”, in: Dossiers de l’Archéologie, n° 5 (1974): 10–30 11. “Dans le monde hellénistique. Les royaumes à l’ouest de l’Euphrate”, in: Dossiers de l’Archéologie, n° 5 (1974): 31–50 1975 12. “Villages et communautés villageoises d’Asie achéménide et hellénistique”, in: JESHO (1975): 165–188

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Works by Pierre Briant

“Dörfer und Dorfgemeinschaften im achämenidischen und hellenistischen Asien”, in: Jahrbuch für Wirtschaftsgeschichte (1975/IV): 115–133 Review of N. T. Nikolitsis, The Battle of the Granicus, Athens (1974), in: RÉA 77 (1975): 366

1976 15. “Brigandage, dissidence et conquête en Asie achéménide et hellénistique”, in: DHA 2 (1976): 163–259 and 273–279 16. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 2nd rev. edition, Paris, 1976 1977 17. “Sociétés pastorales du Zagros achéménide”, in: Études sur les sociétés de pasteurs nomades (Les Cahiers du Centre d’Études et de Recherches Marxistes, n° 133), Paris (1977): 2–9 1978 18. “Colonisation hellénistique et populations indigènes. I: La phase d’installation”, in: Klio 60/1 (1978): 57–92 19. “Contrainte militaire, dépendance rurale et exploitation des territoires en Asie achéménide”, in: Index 8 (1978/79): 48–98 1979 20. “L’élevage ovin dans l’Empire achéménide”, in: JESHO 2/2 (1979): 136–161 21. “Impérialisme antique et idéologie coloniale dans la France contemporaine: Alexandre modèle colonial”, in: DHA 5 (1979): 283–292 22. “Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures”, in: ASNP (1979): 1375–1414 1980 23. Fifteen bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 3 (1980): n° 166–169, 176–179, 189, 191–192, 195, 197, 205, 220, 230–231 24. “Conquête territoriale et stratégie idéologique: Alexandre le Grand et l’idéologie monarchique achéménide”, in: L’idéologie monarchique dans l’Anti­ quité. Actes du colloque international de Cracovie­Mogilany 1977, Cracovie (1980): 38–83 25. “Forces productives, dépendance rurale et idéologies religieuses dans l’Empire achéménide”, in: Religions, pouvoir, rapports sociaux (Centre de Recherches d’Histoire Ancienne, 32 = Annales Littéraires de l’Université de Besançon, 237), Besançon-Paris (1980): 15–67 26. “Communautés rurales, forces productives et mode de production tributaire en Asie achéménide”, in: Zamân (1980): 75–100 27. “Los imperios del Mediterraneo”, in: Historia Universal Salvat, Barcelone (1980): 259–277 28. “Remarques sur Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im Seleukidenreich d’H. Kreissig”, in: Klio 62/2 (1980): 577–582

Works by Pierre Briant

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1981 29. “Appareils d’État et développement des forces productives au MoyenOrient ancien: le cas de l’Empire achéménide”, in: La Pensée (1981): 9–23 30. Fifteen bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 4 (1981): n° 129–131, 138, 142–143, 146, 152–153, 168, 180, 182, 186, 202, 205 1982 31. “Colonisation hellénistique et populations indigènes. II: Renforts grecs dans les cités hellénistiques d’Orient”, in: Klio 64/1 (1982): 83–98 32. “Produktivkräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, in: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (eds.), Produktivkräfte und Gesellschafts­ formationen in vorkapitalistischer Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372 33. Rois, tributs et paysans. Études sur les formations tributaires du Moyen­ Orient ancien, Paris, 1982 34. “Sources grecques et histoire achéménide”, in: P. Briant, Rois, tributs et pa­ ysans (1982): 491–506 35. État et Pasteurs au Moyen-Orient ancien (Collection ‘Production pastorale et Sociétés’), Paris-Cambridge, 1982 36. Twenty-one bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 5 (1982): n° 190– 192, 196, 199–200, 206–207, 216–217, 219, 221, 224, 228–229, 231, 235, 242, 244, 246 1983 37. “Communautés de base et économie royale en Asie achéménide et hellénistique”, in: Recueils de la Société Jean­Bodin 41 (1983): 315–343 38. Twenty-four bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 6 (1983): n° 155, 177–179, 182–184, 192, 194–195, 198, 201, 204–206, 211–212, 214–215, 223–224, 229, 232–233, 238–239 1984 39. Sixteen bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 7 (1984): n° 134, 171– 174, 178, 182–183, 185–189, 206–207, 213, 220 40. L’Asie Centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux du premier millénaire (c.VIIIe–IVe siècles av.n.è.), Paris, 1984 41. “La Perse avant l’Empire. Un état de la question”, in: IA 19 (1984): 71–118 1985 42. “Les Iraniens d’Asie Mineure après la chute de l’Empire achéménide. (À propos de l’inscription d’Amyzon)”, in: DHA 11 (1985): 167–185 43. “La Bactriane dans l’Empire achéménide. L’État central achéménide en Bactriane”, in: L’archéologie de la Bactriane ancienne (Actes du Colloque franco­soviétique de Dushanbé, 27 octobre­3 novembre 1982), Paris (1985): 243–251 44. “Dons de terres et de villes: l’Asie Mineure dans le contexte achéménide”, in: RÉA 87/1–2 (1985): 53–71

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Works by Pierre Briant

“Alexander the Great”, in: Encyclopaedia Iranica I/8 (1985): 827–830 Seventeen bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 8 (1985): n° 144–145, 149, 155, 157, 160, 165, 172–173, 176, 183–184, 188–189, 192–193, 195

1986 47. Fourteen bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 9 (1986): n° 215–216, 263–264, 267–268, 274, 276–277, 282, 286, 289–290, 292 48. “Polythéismes et Empire unitaire. Remarques sur la politique religieuse des Achéménides”, in: Les grandes figures religieuses, Paris (1986): 425–443 49. “Alexandre et les katarraktes du Tigre”, in: Mélanges Michel Labrousse (Pallas, h. s.), Toulouse (1986): 11–22 50. “Guerre, tribut et forces productives dans l’Empire achéménide”, in: DHA 12 (1986): 33–48 51. “Chattel-owning Chattels. (Review of M. Dandamev, Slavery in Babylonia, 1984”), in: Times Literary Supplement, October 17, 1986: 1173 52. “L’Asie Mineure de l’époque achéménide à l’époque romaine (À propos de la rencontre de Bordeaux les 13 et 14 mars 1986)”, in: DHA 12 (1986): 495–498 1987 53. De la Grèce à l’Orient: Alexandre le Grand (Collection Découvertes Gallimard), Paris, 1987 54. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 3rd rev. edition, Paris, 1987 55. “Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’Empire achéménide (Quelques réflexions et suggestions)”, in: H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg (ed.), Ach­ aemenid History I: Sources, Structures and Synthesis, Leiden (1987): 1–31 56. “Institutions perses et histoire comparatiste dans l’historiographie grecque”, in: H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg / A. Kuhrt (eds.), Achaemenid History II: The Greek Sources, Leiden (1987): 1–10 57. Twenty-eight bibliographical notes in: Abstracta Iranica 10 (1987): n° 169, 177, 258, 260, 262, 267–268, 272, 274, 276–279, 281, 283–284, 286, 290– 291, 294–296, 298, 300, 302–303, 307–308, 310 1988 58. Fifty-two bibliographical notes in: Abstracta Iranica 11 (1988): n° 169, 177, 258, 260, 262, 267–268, 272, 274, 276–279, 281, 283–284, 286, 290–291, 294–296, 298, 300, 302–303, 307–308, 310 59. “Ethno-classe dominante et populations soumises dans l’Empire achéménide: le cas de l’Égypte”, in: A. Kuhrt / H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg (eds.), Achae­ menid History III: Method and Theory, Leiden (1988): 137–173 60. “Contingents est-iraniens et centrasiatiques dans les armées achéménides”, in: L’Asie Centrale et ses rapports avec les civilisations orientales des orig­ ines à l’âge du fer, Paris (1988): 173–175 61. “Le nomadisme du Grand Roi”, in: Mélanges Pierre Amiet (Iranica Antiqua, 23), Ghent (1988): 253–273

Works by Pierre Briant

62.

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“Guerre, tribut et forces productives dans l’empire achéménide”, in: Stato, economia e lavoro nel Vicino Oriente antico (Istituto Gramsci Toscano. Seminario di Orientalistica orientale), Milan (1988): 167–182

1989 63. Le tribut dans l’Empire achéménide (Actes de la Table Ronde de Paris, décembre 1986), éd. P. Briant & Cl. Herrenschmidt, Paris-Louvain, 1989 64. “Table du roi, tribut et redistribution chez les Achéménides”, in: P. Briant & Cl. Herrenschmidt (eds.), Le tribut dans l’Empire achéménide (1989): 35–44 65. “Les Grecs et la ‘décadence perse’”, in: Mélanges Pierre Lévêque, II, Paris (1989): 33–47 66. Seventy-five bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 12 (1989): n° 163, 178, 190, 199, 202–204, 206–208, 213, 215–217, 219, 221–230, 232, 235, 237–238, 241–243, 245–246, 249–250, 254–259, 261–263, 266–270, 272– 275, 277–278, 280–281, 283–301, 305–311, 340, 342, 354 67. “Remarques finales”, in: P. Debord & R. Descat (eds.), L’or perse et l’his­ toire grecque (RÉA 91/1–2), Bordeaux (1989): 321–335 1990 68. One hundred and eight bibliographical notes, in: Abstracta Iranica 13 (1990): n° 53, 55–56, 60–64, 66–67, 69–72, 74–76, 79–85, 87–89, 91, 93– 94, 96–99, 101–106, 108–111, 113–117,119–121, 124–126, 128, 132, 135– 137, 139–146, 151, 153–159, 161–162, 165–172, 174–175, 177–199 69. “Groningen 1987: libres réflexions”, in: H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg & J.-W. Drijvers (eds.), Achaemenid History V: the Roots of the European Tradition, Leiden (1990): 167–170 70. “Hérodote et la société perse”, in: Hérodote et les peuples non­grecs (Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique 35), Genève (1990): 69–104 71. “The Seleucid Kingdom, the Achaemenid Empire and the History of the Near-East in the First Millennium B. C.”, in: P. Bilde et al. (eds.), Religion and Religious Practices in the Seleucid Kingdom, Aarhus (1990): 40–65 72. Review of A. Kuhrt & S. Sherwin-White (eds.), Hellenism in the East, London (1987), in: RÉA 92 (1990): 176–179 1991 73. “‘Le roi est mort, vive le roi!’ (Remarques sur les rites et rituels de succession chez les Achéménides)”, in: J. Kellens (ed.), La religion iranienne à l’époque achéménide (Actes du Colloque de Liège, décembre 1987), Gent (1991): 1–11 74. “De Sardes à Suse”, in: H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg / A. Kuhrt (eds.), Achae­ menid History VI: Asia Minor and Egypt: Old Cultures in a New Empire, Leiden (1991): 67–82 75. “Chasses royales macédoniennes et chasses royales perses: le thème de la chasse au lion sur la Chasse de Vergina”, in: DHA 17/1 (1991): 211–255

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Works by Pierre Briant

1992 76. “La date des révoltes babyloniennes contre Xerxès”, in: StIr 21/1 (1992): 7–20 77. “Thémistocle sur la Route royale”, in: DATA (1992), Note 4 78. “Ctesias”, in: The Anchor Bible Dictionary I (1992): 1211–1212 79. “Persian Empire”, in: The Anchor Bible Dictionary I (1992): 237–244 80. Darius, les Perses et l’Empire (Collection Découvertes, Gallimard), Paris, 1992 81. “Class-system in the Median and Achaemenian periods”, in: Encyclopaedia Iranica V/6 (1992): 651–652 1993 82. “Hérodote, Udjahorresnet et les palais de Darius à Suse”, in: DATA (1993), Note 7 83. “Les chasses d’Alexandre”, in: Ancient Macedonia V, Thessaloniki (1993): 267–277 84. “Alexandre à Sardes”, in: J. Carlsen et al. (eds.), Alexander the Great. Myth and Reality (Analecta Romana Instituti Danici, Suppl. XXI), Rome (1993): 1–15 85. “L’histoire politique de l’Empire achéménide: problèmes et méthodes. (À propos d’un ouvrage de M. A. Dandamaev)”, in: RÉA 95/3–4 (1993): 1–25 1994 86. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 4th rev. edition, Paris, 1994 87. “L’eau du Grand Roi”, in: L. Milano (ed.), Drinking in Ancient Societies. History and culture of drinks in the Ancient Near East, Padova (1994): 45–65 88. “L’histoire achéménide: sources, méthodes, raisonnements et modèles”, in: Topoi 4/1 (1994): 109–130 89. “De Samarkand à Sardes et de la ville de Suse au pays des Hanéens”, in: Topoi 4/2 (1994): 455–467 90. Premières Journées de Saint­Bertrand­de­Comminges sur l’économie antique: le rôle de l’État, eds. J. Andreau / P. Briant / R. Descat, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges, 1994 91. “Prélèvements tributaires et échanges en Asie Mineure achéménide et hellénistique”, in: J. Andreau / P. Briant / R. Descat (eds.), Premières Journées de Saint­Bertrand­de­Comminges sur l’économie antique, Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges (1994): 69–81 92. “Institutions perses et institutions macédoniennes: continuités, changements et bricolages”, in: H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg / A. Kuhrt / M. C. Root (eds.), Achaemenid History VIII: Continuity and Change, Leiden (1994): 283–310 93. “Travaux hydrauliques et contrôle de l’eau dans l’Empire achéménide”, in: B. Menu (ed.), Les problèmes institutionnels de l’eau en Egypte ancienne et dans l’Antiquité méditerranéenne (IFAO, Bibliothèque d’Etudes, t. 110), Le Caire (1994): 91–101 94. “A propos du boulet de Phocée”, in: RÉA 96/1–2 (1994): 111–114

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1995 95. Le monde grec aux temps classiques. I: Le Ve siècle (Coll. Nouvelle Clio), eds. P. Briant / P. Lévêque, Paris (1995) 96. “La guerre et la paix”, in: P. Briant / P. Lévêque (eds.), Le monde grec aux temps classiques. I: Le Ve siècle (Coll. Nouvelle Clio), Paris (1995): 17–132 97. “La Macédoine au Ve siècle”, in: P. Briant / P. Lévêque (eds.), Le monde grec aux temps classiques. I: Le Ve siècle (Coll. Nouvelle Clio), Paris (1995): 205–226 98. Dans les pas des Dix­Mille. Peuples et pays du Proche­Orient vus par un Grec. Actes de la Table Ronde internationale, Toulouse 3–4 février 1995, ed. P. Briant (Pallas 43), Toulouse (1995) 99. “Introduction”, in: P. Briant (ed.), Dans les pas des Dix­Mille. Peuples et pays du Proche­Orient vus par un Grec, Toulouse (1995): VII–XV 100. “Legal and Social Institutions of Ancient Persia”, in: J. Sasson (ed.), Civili­ zations of the Ancient Near East, I, New York (1995): 517–528 101. “Alexandre le roi du monde [entretien avec la rédaction]”, in: L’Histoire n° 188 (mai 1995): 24–37 102. “On n’a pas retrouvé le tombeau d’Alexandre!”, in: L’Histoire n° 188 (mai 1995): 36–37 103. “Les rois de Macédoine et le trésor de Vergina”, in: L’Histoire n° 188 (mai 1995): 37 104. “Alexander and the Macedonian Empire”, in: History of Humanity, vol. III, Paris (1995): 166–170 1996 105. “Les institutions de Sardes achéménide. Une note additionnelle”, in: La Lettre de Pallas 2 (1996), Note n° 2 106. “Une curieuse affaire à Eléphantine en 410 av. n.è. Widranga, le temple de Yahweh et le sanctuaire de Khnûm”, in: B. Menu (ed.), Égypte pharaonique: pouvoir, société = Méditerranées 6, Paris (1996): 115–135 107. “Images perses de Babylonie et d’Iran: un rapprochement”, in: La Lettre de Pallas 2 (1996), Note n° 14 108. Twenty-seven entries, in: The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 2nd edition, Oxford (1996) 109. Histoire de l’empire perse: de Cyrus à Alexandre, Paris (1996) 1997 110. “Dans Alexandrie: retrouvera-t-on la dépouille d’Alexandre?”, in: Historia [Paris] (1997): 112–117 111. “Fastes et splendeurs de la cour du Grand Roi”, in: L’Histoire n° 208 (1997): 60–67 112. “Du Danube à l’Indus: l’histoire d’un Empire”, in: Le Monde de la Bible 106 (1997): 23–26, 36 113. “De l’Indus aux Balkans: les Grands Rois et leur Empire”, in: Les Dossiers d’Archéologie 227 (1997): 26–45

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Works by Pierre Briant

Bulletin d’Histoire Achéménide, I (Topoi, Suppl. 1), Paris (1997): 5–127 “Note d’histoire militaire achéménide. À propos des éléphants de Darius III”, in: P. Brulé / J. Oulhen (eds.), Guerre, esclavage, société en Grèce anci­ enne. Mélanges en l’honneur d’Yvon Garlan, Rennes (1997): 177–190

1998 116. “Droaphernès et la statue de Sardes”, in: M. Brosius / A. Kuhrt (eds.), Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of D. M. Lewis (Achaemenid History 11), Leiden (1998): 205–226 117. “Les Perses, Alexandre et les Macédoniens”, in: La gloire d’Alexandrie, Paris­Musée, Paris (1998): 46–63 118. [avec R. Descat], “Un bordereau des douanes d’Égypte (TADAE C3.7)”, in: N. Grimal / B. Menu (eds.), Le commerce dans l’Égypte ancienne (Actes du colloque de l’AIDEA, Le Caire, 29 septembre-4 octobre 1996) (IFAO, Bibliothèque d’Études 121), Le Caire (1998): 59–104 119. “Cités et satrapes dans l’empire achéménide: Xanthos et Pixôdaros”, in: CRAI (janvier–mars 1998): 305–347 1999 120. “Colonizzazione ellenistica e popolazione locale”, in: I Greci, II/2, Firenze (1999): 309–333 121. “Katarraktai du Tigre et muballitum du Habur”, in: NABU (1999/1), Note n° 12 122. “Alexandre à Babylone: images grecques, images babyloniennes”, in: L. Harf-Lancner / C. Kappler / F. Suard (eds.), Alexandre le Grand dans les traditions médiévales occidentales et proche­orientales, Paris (1999): 23–32 123. “L’histoire de l’empire achéménide aujourd’hui: l’historien et ses documents”, in: Annales HSS (1999/5): 1127–1136 124. “War, Persian Society and Achaemenid Empire”, in: K. Raaflaub / N. Rosenstein (eds.), Soldiers, Society and War in the Ancient and Medieval Worlds, Cambridge MA (1999): 105–128 125. Târikh e­Imperatori hakh maneshi n (Az Kurosh t Eskhandar), Trad. Dr Mehdi Samsâr, 2 vols., Teheran, 1378/1999 126. “Inscriptions multilingues d’époque achéménide: le texte et l’image”, in: D. Valbelle / J. Leclant (eds.), Le décret de Memphis (Actes du Colloque de la Fondation Singer-Polignac, Paris 1er juin 1999), Paris (1999): 91–115 127. “Les débuts de la domination macédonienne en Iran”, in: Dossiers de l’Archéologie n° 243 (1999): 3–5. 128. Review of AMI 26 (1993), in Syria 76 (1999): 304–305. 2000 129. “Alexandre et l’héritage achéménide. Quelques réflexions et perspectives”, in: Alexander the Great. From Macedonia to the Oikoumene (Veria 27– 31/5/1998), Veria (2000): 209–217

Works by Pierre Briant

130. 131.

132. 133. 134. 135. 136.

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“Gaumata”, in: Encyclopaedia Iranica X/3 (2000): 333–335 “Numismatique, frappes monétaires et histoire en Asie Mineure achéménide. (Quelques remarques de conclusion)”, in: O. Casabonne (ed.), Mécanismes et innovations monétaires dans l’Anatolie achéménide. Numismatique et histoire (Actes de la Table Ronde Internationale d’Istanbul, 22–23 mai 1997), Istanbul (2000): 266–274 “Histoire impériale et histoire régionale. À propos de l’histoire de Juda dans l’empire achéménide”, in: A. Lemaire / N. Sæbø (eds.), Congress Volume Oslo 1998 (Vetus Testamentum, Suppl. 80), Leiden (2000): 235–245 Review of A. G. Keen, Dynastic Lycia: a Political History of the Lycians and their relations with Foreign Powers, Leiden (1998), in: Mnemosyne (2000): 505–510 Leçon inaugurale au Collège de France. Chaire d’Histoire et civilisation du monde achéménide et de l’empire d’Alexandre, Paris (2000) “Darius III face à Alexandre: mythe, histoire, légende”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 100 (1999–2000): 781–792 “Histoire achéménide et bases de données sur Internet”, in: La Lettre du Collège de France (2001/1): 21

2001 137. “En guise de conclusion: mers, îles et continents”, in: P. Brun (ed.), Les îles de l’Égée dans l’Antiquité (Actes du Colloque de Bordeaux, 12–13 novembre 1999) (RÉA 103/1–2), Bordeaux (2001): 299–307 138. [avec P. Brun], “Une inscription inédite de Carie et la guerre d’Aristonicos”, in: A. Bresson / R. Descat (eds.), Les cités d’Asie Mineure méridionale au IIe siècle a. C., Bordeaux (2001): 241–259 139. Bulletin d’Histoire achéménide II (Persika 1), Paris, 2001 140. Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines au Proche­Orient, en Égypte et en Grèce (Séminaire du Collège de France, mars 2000), ed. P. Briant (Persika 2), Paris, 2001 141. “Introduction”, in: P. Briant (ed.), Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines au Proche-Orient, en Égypte et en Grèce (2001): 9–14 142. ”Polybe X.28 et les qanāts: le témoignage et ses limites”, in: P. Briant (ed.), Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines au Proche­Orient, en Égypte et en Grèce (2001): 15–40 143. “Darius III face à Alexandre: mythe, histoire, légende (suite)”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 101 (1999–2001), Paris (2001): 707–723 144. “Germanioi”, in: Encyclopaedia Iranica X/5 (2001): 506 145. “Remarques sur sources épigraphiques et domination achéménide en Asie mineure”, in: T. Bakır et al. (eds.), Achaemenid Anatolia (Proceedings of the First International Symposium on Anatolia in the Achaemenid period, Bandırma 15–18 August 1997), Leiden (2001): 13–19

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Works by Pierre Briant

2002 146. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 5th rev. edition, Paris, 2002 147. Darius, les Perses et l’empire (Collection Découvertes Gallimard), 2nd edition, Paris, 2002 148. “History and Ideology: the Greeks and Persian decadence”, in: Th. Harrison (ed.), Greeks and Barbarians (Edinburgh Readings of the Ancient World), Edinburgh (2002): 193–210 149. “L’État, la terre et l’eau entre Nil et Syr-Darya. Remarques introductives”, in: Annales HSS (2002/3), 517–529 150. “Guerre et succession dynastique chez les Achéménides: entre coutume perse et violence armée”, in: A. Chaniotis / P. Ducrey (eds.), Army and Power in the Ancient World, Stuttgart (2002): 39–49 151. “Perses et Iraniens après la chute de l’empire achéménide: histoire et historiographie”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 102 (2002): 763–776 152. From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake, IN (2002) 2003 153. “Histoire et archéologie d’un texte. La Lettre de Darius à Gadatas entre Perses, Grecs et Romains”, in: M. Giorgieri / M. Salvini / M.-C. Trémouille / P. Vanicelli (eds.), Licia e Lidia prima dell’ellenizzazione (Roma, 11–12 otto­ bre 1999), Roma (2003): 107–144 154. “New Trends in Achaemenid History”, in: Ancient History Bulletin 17/1–2 (2003): 33–47 155. “La tradition gréco-romaine sur Alexandre le Grand dans l’Europe moderne et contemporaine: quelques réflexions sur la permanence et l’adaptabilité des modèles interprétatifs”, in: M. Haagsma et al. (eds.), The Impact of Clas­ sical Greece on European and National Identities, Amsterdam (2003): 161– 180 156. “Alexandre le Grand aujourd’hui (I) ”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 103 (2003): 771–791 157. “À propos du roi-jardinier: remarques sur l’histoire d’un dossier documentaire”, in: W. Henkelman / A. Kuhrt (eds.), A Persian Perspective. Essays in Memory of Heleen Sancisi­Weerdenburg (Achaemenid History XIII), Leiden (2003): 33–49 158. “Quand les rois écrivent l’histoire: la domination achéménide vue à travers les inscriptions officielles lagides”, in: N. Grimal / M. Baud (eds.), Événement, récit, histoire officielle. L’écriture de l’histoire dans les monarchies an­ tiques, Paris (2003): 173–186 159. Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre, Paris, 2003 160. “Il était une fois le Moyen-Orient. I: ‘L’héritage de l’Antiquité’, Entretien avec Dominique Simonnet”, in: L’Express [Paris] n° 2693 (2003): 96–99 161. “Unité politique et diversité culturelle et religieuse dans l’empire achéménide”, in: Foi et Vie, vol. 103/4 = Cahier Biblique n° 43 (2003): 7– 15

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2004 162. “Préface”, in: S. Shaked, Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur (Persika 4), Paris (2004): 5–8 163. “Alexandre le Grand aujourd’hui (ii)”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France (2004): 861–867 2005 164. “Milestones in the development of Achaemenid Historiography in the Era of Ernst Herzfeld”, in: A. Gunter / S. Hauser (eds.), Ernst Herzfeld and the Devel­ opment of Near Eastern Studies 1900–1950, Leiden-Boston (2005): 263–280 165. “Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie: l’histoire au passé et au présent”, in: Studi Ellenistici XVI (2005): 9–69 166. De la Grèce à l’Inde. Alexandre le Grand (Collection Découvertes Gallimard), Paris (2005) 167. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 6th rev. and corr. edition, Paris (2005) 168. L’archéologie de l’empire achéménide: nouvelles recherches, eds. P. Briant & R. Boucharlat (Persika 6), Paris (2005) 169. “Alexander the Great and the Enlightenment: William Robertson (1721– 1793), the Empire and the road to India”, in: Cromohs 10 (2005): 1–9 http:// www.cromohs.unifi.it/10_2005/briant_robertson.html 170. “Alexandre le Grand aujourd’hui (iii): Alexandre le Grand ‘grand économiste’”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 105 (2005): 585–599 171. “History of the Persian Empire: 550–330 B. C.”, in: J. Curtis / N. Tallis (eds.), Forgotten Empire. The World of Ancient Persia, London (2005): 12–17 172. “Collaborations et révoltes dans l’empire achéménide”, in: Dossiers d’Archéologie n° 300 (Guerres antiques et impérialismes en Orient) (2005): 66–71 173. “Alexandre ‘libérateur du Moyen-Orient’. Mythe et Histoire”, in: Dossiers d’Archéologie n° 300 (Guerres antiques et impérialismes en Orient) (2005): 72–79 174. “À la poursuite de Darius”, in: Historia [Paris] 697 (2005): 60–65 175. “Point de vue: Alexandre le Grand, ‘héros civilisateur’”, in: Le Monde, 6 janvier 2005: 15 2006 176. “Montesquieu, Mably et Alexandre le Grand: aux sources de l’histoire hellénistique”, in: Revue Montesquieu 8 (2005–2006): 151–185 177. “L’économie royale entre privé et public”, in: R. Descat (ed.), Approches de l’économie hellénistique, Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges (2006): 343–358 178. “Retour sur Alexandre et les katarraktes du Tigre: l’histoire d’un dossier (Première partie)”, in: Studi Ellenistici XIX (2006): 9–75 179. La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques, eds. P. Briant / F. Joannès (Persika 9), Paris (2006) 180. “L’Asie mineure en transition”, in P. Briant / F. Joannès (eds.), La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (2006): 309–351

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Works by Pierre Briant

2007 181. “Montesquieu et ses sources: Alexandre, l’empire perse, les Guèbres et l’irrigation”, in: Studies on Voltaire 6 (2007): 243–262 182. “Alexandre ‘héros des Lumières’”, in: Cahiers parisiens 3 (2007): 321–345 183. “De Thémistocle à Lamartine. Remarques sur les concessions de terres et de villages en Asie mineure occidentale, de l’époque achéménide à l’époque ottomane”, in: P. Brun (ed.), Scripta Anatolica. Hommages à Pierre Debord (Études 18), Bordeaux-Paris (2007): 165–191 184. “Alexandre le Grand aujourd’hui (iv): Histoire du Siècle d’Alexandre de Linguet”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France 197 (2007): 613–634 185. Wahdath Siasi va taalmol Farhangi Dar schanschahi Hakhamaneschi (Pou­ voir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’empire achéménide), Fifteen articles translated into Persian by Nahid Forughan, Tehran (2007) 186. “Le Grand roi, protégé du dieu Ahura-Mazda. État central, pouvoirs locaux et religions chez les Perses achéménides”, in: Religions et Histoire 13 (2007): 70–73 187. “Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Wittfogel et le mode de production asiatique” (2007): https://www.academia.edu/9769615/_Pierre_VidalNaquet_Wittfogel_et_ le_mode_de_production_asiatique_ 2008 188. Lettre ouverte à Alexandre le Grand, Arles, 2008 189. “Michael Rostovtzeff et le passage du monde achéménide au monde hellénistique”, in: Studi Ellenistici XX (2008): 137–154 190. “Retour sur Alexandre et les katarrraktes du Tigre. II (Suite et fin)”, in: Studi Ellenistici XX (2008): 155–218 191. “Alexandre le Grand aujourd’hui (v): Alexandre dans l’œuvre de Voltaire”, in: Annuaire du Collège de France (2008): 582–589 192. L’archive des Fortifications de Persépolis. État des questions et perspectives de recherches, eds. P. Briant / W. Henkelman / M. W. Stolper (Persika 12), Paris (2008) 193. “Préface”, in: F. Palizban-Roy / F. Baqué, Alexandre et Darius. Une aventure au Louvre, Paris (2008) 2009 194. Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels dans les pays de l’empire achéménide, eds. P. Briant / M. Chauveau (Persika 14), Paris (2009) 195. The Past in the Past. Concepts of past reality in Ancient Near Eastern and Early Greek thought, eds. H. M. Barstad / P. Briant, Oslo (2009) 196. “Le passé réutilisé dans les cours hellénistiques”, in: H. M. Barstad / P. Briant (eds.), The Past in the Past, Oslo (2009): 21–36 197. “Le thème de la ‘décadence perse’ dans l’historiographie européenne du XVIIIe siècle: remarques préliminaires sur la genèse d’un mythe”, in: L. Bodiou et al. (eds.), Chemin faisant. Mythes, cultes et société en Grèce anci­ enne, Rennes (2009): 19–38

Works by Pierre Briant

198.

199. 200. 201. 202. 203.

XXI

“Entrées royales et mises en scène du pouvoir dans l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques”, in: A. Bérenger / E. Perrin-Saminadayar (eds.), Les entrées royales et impériales. Histoire, représentation et diffusion d’une cérémonie publique de l’Orient ancien à Byzance, Paris (2009): 47–64 “The Empire of Darius III in Perspective”, in: W. Heckel / L. A. Tritle (eds.), Alexander the Great. A New History, Oxford (2009): 141–170 “Alexander and the Persian Empire, between “Decline” and “Renovation”. History and Historiography”, in: W. Heckel / L. A. Tritle (eds.), Alexander the Great. A New History, Oxford (2009): 171–188 “Alexander the Great”, in: G. Boy-Stones / B. Graziozi / P. Vasunia (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Hellenic Studies, Oxford (2009): 77–85 “L’empire de Cyrus le Grand”, in: De la Perse à l’Iran, de Cyrus à Ah­ madinejad. Les Collections de l’Histoire (janvier-mars 2009): 28–29 “À la cour des Grands Rois”, in: De la Perse à l’Iran, de Cyrus à Ahmadine­ jad, Les Collections de l’Histoire (janvier-mars 2009): 30–35

2010 204. “The Theme of ‘Persian Decadence’ in Eighteenth-Century European Historiography: Remarks on the Genesis of a Myth”, in: J. Curtis / St John Simpson (eds.), The World of Achaemenid Persia, London (2010): 3–15 205. “Suse et l’Élam dans l’empire achéménide”, in: J. Perrot (ed.), Le palais de Darius à Suse. Une résidence royale sur la route de Persépolis à Babylone, Paris (2010): 22–48 206. Alexander the Great and his Empire. A Short Introduction (translated by Amélie Kuhrt), Princeton (2010) 2011 207. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 7th rev. edition, Paris (2011) 208. “L’héritage d’Alexandre le Grand dans le monde moyen-oriental antique”, in S. Descamps-Lequime / K. Charatzopoulou (eds.), Au royaume d’Alexan­ dre le Grand. La Macédoine antique, Paris (2011): 44–45 209. “Orientaliser l’Orient ou: d’un orientalisme à l’autre. (Quelques remarques de conclusion)”, in: J. Wiesehöfer / R. Rollinger / G. Lanfranchi (eds.), Ktesias’ Welt. Ctesias’ World (Classica et Orientalia 1), Wiesbaden (2011): 507–514 2012 210. Alexandre des Lumières. Fragments d’histoire européenne (Collection Essais-Nrf), Paris (2012) 211. “Les débats sur la royauté macédonienne dans l’Europe du XVIIIe siècle: quelques jalons anglais”, in: K. Konuk (ed.), Stephanephoros. De l’écono­ mie antique à l’Asie Mineure. Mélanges en l’honneur de Raymond Descat, Bordeaux (2012): 221–227 212. “Philipp II. von Makedonien und Friedrich der Große in den Überlegungen des 18. Jahrhunderts in Europa”, in: R. Rollinger et al. (eds.), Altertum und Gegenwart. – 125 Jahre Alte Geschichte in Innsbruck, Innsbruck (2012): 1–20

XXII

213.

214.

Works by Pierre Briant

“Des Scythes aux Tartares, et d’Alexandre de Macédoine à Pierre de Russie: l’histoire de l’Europe au passé et au présent”, in: S. Karp / C. Volpilhac-Auger (eds.), Le Siècle des Lumières. IV: L’héritage de l’Antiquité dans la cul­ ture européenne du XVIIIe siècle, Moscou (2012): 33–46 Presentation of Alexandre des Lumières (2012) to the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, in: CRAI (juillet-octobre 2012): 1336–1338

2013 215. “From the Indus to the Mediterranean: The Administrative Organization and Logistics of the Great roads of the Achaemenid Empire”, in: S. Alcock, J. Bodel & R.T. Talbert (ed.), Highways, byways and Road systems in the pre­modern World, Wiley-Blackwell (2012): 185–201. 216. “La figure de Néarque dans l’historiographie européenne (XVIIe-XVIIIe siècles)”, in: D. Marcotte (ed.), D’Arrien à William Vincent. Le Périple de Néarque et sa postérité (Geographia Antiqua XXII), Florence (2013): 15–20 217. “Susa and Elam in the Achaemenid Empire”, in: J. Perrot (ed.), The Palace of Darius at Susa. The Great Royal residence of Achaemenid Persia, London (2013): 3–25 218. “Cyrus the Great”, in: T. Daryaee (ed.), Cyrus the Great. An Ancient Iranian King, Santa Monica (2013): 1–13 219. Review of Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones, King and Court in Ancient Persia 559 to 331 BCE, Edinburgh (2013), in: BMCR (2013.09.44) 2014 220. “Les tablettes de bois du Grand roi. (Note sur les communications officielles dans un royaume itinérant)”, in: M. Kozuh et al. (eds.), Extraction and Control. Studies in Honor of Matthew W. Stolper (SAOC 68), Chicago (2014): 37–40 221. “Grote on Alexander the Great”, in: K. N. Demetriou (ed.), Brill’s Companion to George Grote and the Classical Tradition, Leiden-Boston (2014): 329–365 2015 222. Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, Cambridge, MA (2015) 223. “Michael Rostovtzeff, Elias Bickerman and the ‘Hellenization of Asia’: from Alexander the Great to World War II”, in: J. G. Manning (ed.), Writing History in Time of War. Michael Rostovtzeff, Elias Bickerman and the ‘Hel­ lenization of Asia’ (Oriens et Occidens 24), Stuttgart (2015): 13–32 224. “À propos de l’empreinte achéménide” (Achaemenid impact) en Anatolie. (Notes de lecture)”, in: E. Winter / K. Zimmermann (eds.), Zwischen Sa­ trapen und Dynasten. Kleinasien im 4. Jahrhundert v.Chr. (Asia Minor Studien 76), Bonn (2015): 175–193 225. Review of G. A. Lehmann, Alexander der Große und die ‘Freiheit der Hel­ lenen’, Berlin (2015), in: BMCR (2015.11.04) 226. Review of P. Wheatley / E. Baynham (eds.), East and West in the World Em­ pire of Alexander. Essays in Honour of Brian Bosworth, Oxford (2015), in: Topoi 20 (2015): 535–542

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XXIII

2016 227. Review of T. Howe / E. E. Garvin / G. Wrightson (eds.), Greece, Macedon and Persia: Studies in Social, Political and Military History in Honour of Waldemar Heckel, Oxford-Philadelphia (2015), in: BMCR (2016.02.09) 228. Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), 8th rev. edition, Paris, 2016 229. “Arthur de Gobineau (1816–1882) entre Darius et Alexandre”, in: C. Binder / H. Börm / A. Luther (eds.), Diwan. Studies in the History and Cul­ ture of the Ancient Near East and the Eastern Mediterranean – Untersuch­ ungen zu Geschichte und Kultur des Nahen Ostens und des östlichen Mit­ telmeerraumes im Altertum. Festschrift für Josef Wiesehöfer zum 65. Ge­ burtstag, Duisburg (2016): 735–756 230. “The Achaemenid Empire”, in: B. T. Arnold / B. Strawn (eds.), The World around the Old Testament. The People and Places of the Ancient Near East, Grand Rapids (2016): 379–415 231. Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs, Paris (2016) 232. “Alexandre le Grand au rythme des présents successifs”, http://cvuh.blogspot.fr/2016/11/alexandre-le-grand-au-rythme-des.html 2017 233. The First European. Alexander in the Age of Empire (translated by N. Eliott), Cambridge, MA (2017) 234. “Alexander and the History of European expansion: The Views of the Enlightenment”, http://www.ucl.ac.uk/european-institute/analysis/2016-17/alexander-enlightenment Forthcoming 235. “Brisson” & “Huet”, in: R. Minuti (ed.), Montesquieu. Extraits et notes de lecture II = Œuvres complètes de Montesquieu 17, Lyon-Paris 236. “The Discovery of Persepolis in the 18th Century: Accounts of Travelers and the ‘érudits de cabinet’. (A contribution to the History of Achaemenid History)”, in: Festschrift in Honor of Margaret Cool Root 237. “Who are the Persians?”, in: Anatolia under Achaemenid Rule, Istanbul 238. “L’approvisionnement de l’armée macédonienne: Alexandre le Grand et l’organisation logistique de l’empire achéménide”, in: L'Orient est son jar­ din. Mélanges en l'honneur de Rémy Boucharlat, Acta Iranica, Leiden 239. “De Samarkand à Sardes via Persépolis dans les traces des Grands Rois et d’Alexandre. (Concluding Remarks)”, in: B. Jacobs / W. Henkelman / M. W. Stolper (eds.), Die Verwaltung im Achämenidenreich. Imperiale Muster und Strukturen/Administration in the Achaemenid Empire: Tracing the Imperial Signature (Classica et Orientalia), Wiesbaden 240. Kings, Countries and Peoples. Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire (Papers translated by Amélie Kuhrt) (Oriens et Occidens), Stuttgart 241. “Alexandre à Troie : images, mythes et realia”, in: K. Nawotka & A. Wojciechowska (ed.), Historiography of Alexander the Great (Proceedings of the Wroclaw Conference 8–11 October 2014)

XXIV

242. 243.

244.

245. 246.

Works by Pierre Briant

“Alexander the Great in the long XVIIIth Century”, in: R. Stoneman (ed.), Alexander the Great in World Culture, Cambridge University Press “Colonisation et migrations. Les Grecs et les autres au Proche-Orient hellénistique: la question du métissage, d’hier à aujourd’hui”, in: P. Boucheron (ed.), Migrations, réfugiés, exil (Actes du colloque du Collège de France des 12–14 octobre 2016), Éditions Odile Jacob, Paris “Quinte-Curce vs. Arrien : polémiques et controverses autour des sources de l'histoire d'Alexandre (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles)”, in: C. Gaullier-Bougassas (ed.), Postérités européennes de Quinte­Curce: Transmissions et réceptions, de l’humanisme aux Lumières (xive–xviiie siècles) Brepols (Alexander redivivus), Turnhout “From the Mediterranean to the Indus: controlling the Achaemenid imperial space and its limits”, in M. Biran, Y. Pines, et al. (ed.), Universality and its limits: Spatial dimensions of Eurasian empires, Cambridge U.P. “Peut-on parler d’‘art perse’? Les interprétations de Georges Perrot et Charles Chipiez (1890) dans le contexte de leur élaboration”, in: R. Rollinger & K. Ruffing (ed.), Das Weltreich der Perser. Rezeption, Aneignung, Verargumentierung. The Persian Empire. Reception, Appropriation, Argu­ mentation

Translations Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622), Paris (1974–2016) has been translated into Italian (1983), Chinese (1995), Macedonian (1997), Danish (1998), Swedish (1999), Romanian (2001), Japanese (2002), Greek (2005), Portuguese-Brazilian (2010), Spanish (2012), and into English (2010) in an expanded version [n°206] De la Grèce à l’Orient (Paris, 1987) has been translated into German (1990), Dutch (1991), Italian (1992), Spanish (1989), Japanese (1991), Korean (1995), English (1996), Slovene (1999) and Chinese (2014) Darius, les Perses et l’Empire (Paris, 1992) has been translated into Italian (1995) and Japanese (1996) Histoire de l’empire perse (Paris, 1996) has been translated into Persian (1998) and English (2002) Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre (Paris, 2003) has been translated into Russian (2007), English (2015) and Persian (2016) Lettre ouverte à Alexandre le Grand (Arles, 2010) has been translated into Greek (2012) and Persian (2016) Alexandre des Lumières has been translated into English at Harvard UP (The First European. Alexander in the age of empires, 2017)

Fig. 1: Map of the Achaemenid Empire

FOREWORD 1 GENERAL INTRODUCTION It is now more than thirty five years since Pierre Lévêque – my doctoral supervisor and, later, close friend – suggested that I put together a collection of several of my articles to appear in the same series that had published Antigone le Borgne in 1973. So it came about that Rois, tributs et paysans (RTP), containing fifteen articles published between 1972 and 1982, saw the light of day in 1982.1 This made it possible to make articles published in obscure journals and works more widely accessible. A quarter of a century later (2008) 23 articles, that had appeared in French between 1979 and 1999, were translated into Persian with the title Central Power and cul­ tural polycentrism in the Achaemenid empire.2 And now I am in a position to publish a third collection, this time in English, thanks, in the first instance, to my friendship with Amélie Kuhrt, with whom I have worked since the early 1980s, and who has already translated several of my articles published in English, as well as a work on Alexander the Great (Alexander the Great and his empire, Princeton UP, 2010). I am extremely grateful to her for having given generously of her time to make this translation. It is due to her that the articles published here will become more widely accessible to the English speaking public. My thanks go also to the Fondation Hugot of the Collège de France, which has generously provided financial assistance for compiling the indices. Further, to Omar Coloru, who has checked the references, drawn up the index of sources, and contributed to the completion of the Index nominum. Last, but not least, my thanks go to Josef Wiesehöfer and the Steiner Publishing House for accepting this volume for inclusion in the Series Oriens et Occidens. While several questions recur throughout the collection,3 the articles are organised in five separate parts: two bring together regional studies (I: Asia Minor; II: 1

2 3

The latest article (“Sources grecque et histoire achéménide”) was, in fact, published there for the first time since, for a variety of reasons, it had not appeared, as originally planned, in an issue of Annales ESC 1982/5–6. Among the reviews of RTP, note those by J. Wiesehöfer in Gnomon LX (1988): 33–35, R. van der Spek in BiOr 47 (1990): 300–303, and I. Svenciskaya & B. I. Vainberg, “The question of ancient and hellenistic Middle Eastern society in the work of P. Briant,” VDI 167 (1994): 178–185 (in Russian). The translation was organised by Nahid Forughan, and published by Akhtaran (Teheran) in conjunction with the Institut Français de Recherches en Iran (IFRI); it includes several of the articles published in English here (chapters 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 12, 16, 21, 23). The subject of relations between central/satrapal power and local sanctuaries is treated in both Part I (chapters 2–4) as well as Part II (chapter 6); Asia Minor (Part I) reappears in Parts IV (chapters 16–17, 19) and V (chapter 23–27); and the same is true of Egypt, which figures not only in Part II, but also Part IV, chapter 18.

2

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Egypt); the next two relate to overarching subjects that I have been interested in since the 1970s (III: The Great King, land and water; IV: Communications and exchange); in the title of the fifth section (V: The transition from the Achaemenid empire, Alexander and the hellenistic kingdoms), the reader will immediately recognise one of my most enduring concerns. The chronological range spans the period from 1979 to 2008. The majority of the articles selected date from the 1990s (14) and 2000s (9); two from the 1980s (chapters 1 & 5), just two from the late 1970s (chapters 10 & 20). The last two were, in fact, already included in RTP 1982. Nevertheless, I decided to include the first (chapter 10), as it demonstrates the interest I began to develop in the Persepolis tablets in the course of the 1970s; as for the second (chapter 20), it represents, to my mind, a kind of interim assessment of the theme ‘continuity and change’ (cf. RTP: 11–12). Two of the articles selected (chapters 9 & 17) are notes, little more than a page in length, published in two short-lived journals (DATA, La Lettre de Pallas); another (chapter 28) presents only the conclusions of a lengthy study running to 150 pages. As for the historical commentary on the customs account from Achaemenid Egypt (chapter 18), this was written in collaboration with Raymond Descat, and I thank him profoundly for allowing me to publish an English translation in a book appearing under my name. Readers should be aware that the analysis and conclusions are attributable to both of us (cf. note 5 of the chapter). In my introduction to Rois, tributs et paysans, I explained that “republishing these studies does not imply that they are free of errors” (p. 7). The same applies here. Like all researchers, I obviously like to think that my publications have stimulated, and will continue to stimulate historical reflections, but as time passes the author is also faced with another fact – namely, that the studies are, and (ideally) will increasingly become, part of the field of historiography. At the point when a study is published, it no longer belongs stricto sensu to its author; its life is exposed to the eyes of the readers who are, generally, equipped with solid and sensible critical faculties. For this reason, I decided that it would not be very useful to modify the text nor to add an up-dated bibliography at the end of each article4. It would, of course, be somewhat strange were I to pretend to be ignorant of the reactions that my interpretations have stimulated. I consider these in the following pages, where I discuss each of the five groupings. As part of that, I refer to studies and comments some of which have adopted (totally or partly) my conclusions, and others which have questioned one or other of them and put forward alternative answers, of which it is only right that the reader should be made aware. Further, given that twenty to thirty years or so have passed since their publication, I have changed 4

For the convenience of readers, I have generally cited my Histoire de l’empire perse (HEP 1996) in its English translation (HPE 2002). It is nevertheless crucial that the latter be checked, as it is not always exact and sometimes wanders rather far from the French original. Similarly, where certain books have been translated into English, they are cited in accordance with the English translation (e. g. Le Rider 2007; Perrot 2013; the same applies to P. Briant, Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, 2015). [Some of the Aramaic texts are cited according to J. M. Lindenberger’s 2003 English translation. -AK].

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my own ideas, so that some interpretations I proposed originally now strike me as dubious, while I feel in other cases that my original idea has been strengthened. As for the bibliography appended here, this is by no means intended to be exhaustive, as those contained in the Bulletin d’Histoire Achéménide I (1997) and II (2001) were;5 it relates exclusively to publications dating between 2001 and 2015–16 which discuss and/or add to the articles presented. That explains why, now and again, I have taken the liberty of giving some information on the genesis and background of some of the articles and interpretations, and how I view them now, which explains the autobiographical tone of some passages. Thus equipped, the reader will be in a better position to understand the articles presented here, and/or reconsider them anew. 2 PRELUDE (CHAPTER 1) As a kind of prelude I have placed a paper which I submitted for the publication of the 1983 Achaemenid History Workshop, the proceedings of which were published in 1987.6 The paper was quite different from the one presented on the occasion of the colloquium, which was already earmarked to form part of a forthcoming book.7 In response to Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg’s urging, I agreed to submit a new text which, written in 1983–4, presented my overall image at that time of the structures and functioning of the Achaemenid empire, albeit in a preliminary fashion. It may have been that it was with an eye to the book I had (somewhat unwisely) committed 5 6 7

I have tried to make a new (partial) assessment in my article “The Achaemenid empire” in: The World Around the Old Testament, edited by Bill T. Arnold and Brent A. Strawn (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic), 2016. The title of the published volume (Achaemenid History I: sources structures, synthesis) differs from that of the Workshop programme: ‘The last century of the Achaemenid empire: deca­ dence?’. In 1978–79 J. C. Gardin invited me to participate in the work of his CNRS team (URA no. 10: Le peuplement antique de la Bactriane orientale). I was given the task of gathering all the classical texts relating to Achaemenid Bactria in order to compare the textual (classical) sources with the material being produced by the archaeological surveys (cf. below Chapter 20 § 2.4). H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg was very much influenced by the thesis of “Bactrian autonomy” developed by Kuz’mina and Cattenat & Gardin (cf. Yaunā en Persai, 1980, ch.4), so that she shared a long-established view, which appeared to be given solid support by the archaeological finds. This explains why, in 1983, she had invited J. C. Gardin to present the survey results. The latter suggested that I stand in for him, and thus it came about that, quite by chance, I took part in the Workshop! I presented on that occasion a paper devoted to my ongoing research, namely Pou­ voir central et autonomies locales dans l’empire achéménide: le cas de la Bactriane, where I must certainly (I have not kept it in my files) have summarised my work in progress, as I did in November 1983 at the Dushanbe Franco-Soviet Conference. (Heleen’s report on my 1983 paper (Persica XI [1984]: 189–190) shows, in brief, that she had serious reservations regarding the core of my interpretation on the situation of Bactria within the Achaemenid empire.) In order not to duplicate my book (L’Asie Centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux, 1984), I sent another paper for the Workshop publication (here Chapter 1), where I alluded to the Bactrian question (§ 2 Text and image).

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myself in 1979 to write for the publisher Albin Michel,8 and/or in order to respond to a question raised by the organisers (AchHist I: xiv),9 that I provided an assessment of my own research into Achaemenid matters since the beginning of the 1970s. Some of the results had remained unpublished; others had been published to suit specific journals and colloquia, and reappeared in Rois, tributs et paysans (1982),10 which is where I developed what Clarisse Herrenschmidt has called ‘the hard image’ of the Achaemenid empire.11 The reason I have used this paper as an introduction is that it touches on a number of the subjects referred to or discussed below, while not trespassing on any of the regional or thematic categories. The central issue which I tried to address here is the working of the empire, characterised as it was by its simultaneous unity and diversity. To do this, I suggested excluding two simplifications (the thesis of autonomy and that of centralism), and to draw a distinction between ‘power’ and ‘control’. And it was within this framework that I sketched out my ideas on the basis of a selected set of material that I have returned to subsequently: the relations between Pixodaros and Xanthos (note 5; cf. Chapter 3), Widranga’s action in Elephantine (§ 1.3; cf. Chapter 5 § 3, and Chapter 6), as well as the revolts in Egypt (§ 3.3; cf. Chapter 5) and Babylonia (Chapter 1 § 3.3)12. I also introduced (§ 2) the methodological problem connected to the inescapable, but often difficult, intersection of written sources and archaeological material (cf. Chapters 13, 15; also 11). It was while working on this article that I presented the concept of the ruling ethno­classe, which I had already introduced in my Hellenistic studies (RTP 261–2), but whose full definition and implications I worked out on the occasion of the Achaemenid History Workshop in London (1985; cf. chapter 5 § 1.1). I was, at that time, heavily influenced by the work of Louis Robert, which had led me to formulate somewhat debatable ideas on the hermeti-

8 9 10

11 12

Early drafts of some chapters date from 1983–86. “How should all these divergent and disparate data be assembled into an overall synthesis of the Achaemenid empire?” See also “‘Brigandage’, conquête et dissidence en Asie achéménide et hellénistique,” DHA 2 (1976): 163–259, the idea for which emerged from an Achaemenid seminar I had given at the University of Tours in 1972–4. Much of the substance was included in État et pasteurs au Moyen­Orient ancien, 1982. Some of the ideas I developed there have been fleshed out by W. Henkelman (2005, 2011) using the Persepolitan documentation; D. Potts (2014, chapter 3) adds little that is new to this question (see the review of Potts’ book by J.-P. Digard 2015). Abstracta Iranica 2 (1979), no. 23 (referring to an article of 1976 = RTP 175–225). Matt Stolper 1999 adopted the phrase in the title of the review-article he devoted to HEP (“Une ‘vision dure’ de l’histoire achéménide. (Note critique),” Annales HSS (1999): 1109–1126). I subsequently returned to the issue of the Babylonian revolts in Xerxes’ reign (StIr 1992), using the classical sources, albeit convinced that the answer would eventually come from the Babylonian material: “Use of the classical sources is simply the historian’s last resort” (p. 15). And the question has since been thoroughly re-examined: see Waerzaeggers 2003/4; Kuhrt 2010; Henkelman-Kuhrt-Rollinger-Wiesehöfer 2011; Kuhrt 2014b; note also the intriguing text (BM 72747) discussed by C. Waeerzeggers 2014, which shows that, at the beginning of Xerxes’ reign (485), there was, in the Sippar temple, a statue of Darius in receipt of regular daily cult offerings.

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cism of the ruling ethno­classe and “cultural scission”.13 Yet I made clear, at the same time, that the contacts and acculturation between Persians and local élites grew and deepened continuously (§ 3.5), a point which I have emphasized throughout (cf. Chapter 5 § 8; Chapter 6 § 2; Chapter 7 § 2.2.; Chapter 27 § 2). Although royal pronouncements attribute a dominant role to Persia and Persians (see my comments in Topoi 4/2 (1994): 459–463), and the top positions are held by Perso-Iranians (or individuals with names of an Iranian type), I have to admit (although I do not reject) that the concept of ‘ethno­classe dominante’, which has entered the vocabulary of Achaemenid history specialists, requires some clarification, in view of the numerous studies published in the last thirty years on the concept of ethnicity and the realities of intercultural contacts.14 This was also one of my aims when I co-organised in Paris in November 2007 a colloquium (= Briant & Chauveau, éds. 2009) intended to develop, using regional examples and imperial themes, the programme indicated by the title of section 6 in BHAch I (1997) and II (2001): Peu­ ples, langues et cultures: acculturations personnelles et politique impériale.15 As for the question of Persian cultural survival in the Hellenistic period as envisaged by L. Robert, I expressed my strong reservations on this quite early on (Chapters 25 § 4, and 27 § 2.2). My drastically revised thoughts on the Droaphernes inscription (Chapter 2) is the culmination of that process of revision as, on the contrary, it illustrates the cultural contacts between Persians and other Lydian communities.16 However, despite often bloody dynastic struggles,17 the unity of the Persians of Persia around the dynasty and its values (Chapter 1 § 4) has always seemed to me to constitute a feature of fundamental importance for understanding the

13

14 15 16 17

Cf. for instance § 3.1: “Inasmuch as a ruling group is both numerically small and zealously attached to the advantages to be gained from the exploitation of conquered lands, it is well aware of the necessity to keep intact its cultural characteristics and not let them be diluted in some kind of melting pot which would entail a division of power and privileges.” Weinberg’s criticism of this issue is apt, at least in part (cf. BHAch II, nn. 401–402). My interpretation had been challenged for the Hellenistic period: e. g. K. Goudriaan, Ethnicity in Ptolemaic Egypt, 1988, p. 116, n. 1, together with R. Van der Spek’s comments (BiOr 47/3–4 (1990), p. 302–303); I subsequently modified my position in the article “Colonizzazione ellenisticà”, 1998; I should add that the Tyriaion inscription from Phrygia published in 1997 is a clear instance of a royal [Attalid] policy aimed at integrating the ‘natives’ (egkôrioi) into the framework of a city (see, for example, Ph. Gauthier’s presentation of the text in BÉp 1999, n°509). See e. g. I. Delemen et al. (eds.), 2007; Gruen (ed.) 2011: 67–182 (Perceptions and construc­ tions of Persia); and my own contribution to the Münster-Colloquium on Asia Minor in 2013 (“À propos de l’empreinte achéménide”, 2015). I presented on that occasion an outline of the argument, with the title “De Sardes à Samarkand. Ethnicité, culture et pouvoir dans l’empire achéménide”. Unfortunately, other obligations have prevented me from publishing the text. I should mention that, on receipt of the offprint, Henri Metzger gave me his reaction in the following humorous way: “I think it rather nice that you find fault with Louis Robert’s pan-Iranism of which he accused F. Cumont in the 50s” (personal letter, 15 February 1999). See my article, “Guerre et succession dynastique chez les Achéménides: entre ‘coutume perse’ et violence armée,” (2002). H. Klinkott’s 2008 article conveniently presents the material on the Persian nobility.

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strength of Achaemenid power at the centre and in the provinces, at the very time of Darius and Alexander.18 3 ACHAEMENID ASIA MINOR (PART I) The first section is devoted to Asia Minor. For reasons connected to my original involvement with Hellenistic history (which has never ceased),19 I have worked extensively on this area, which figures repeatedly elsewhere in this volume – whether it be on the question of royal ideology (Chapter 11), exchange and communications (Chapters 16–19), or that of the process of transition (Chapters 20–28). For a very long time Asia Minor, and Anatolia as whole, were the best documented regions of the empire of the Great Kings. The reason for that does not simply reside in the survival of Greek narratives, but also – indeed more so – in the stream of new publications relating to archaeological, iconographic, epigraphic and archival (Daskyleion, more recently Seyitömer: Kaptan 2010) material. This has increased steadily over the last thirty years,20 which explains the prominent place analysis of its structure and diachronic development occupies in Histoire de l’empire perse.21

18

See, too, “Hérodote et la société perse” (1990), “De la ville de Suse au pays des Hanéens” (1994), and HPE 302–354 and 842–852. 19 As the two first sections of my dissertation focussed on the early phases of Antigonus Monophtalmus’ career, I had inevitably to deal with the satrapy of Greater Phrygia under Alexander and his predecessors (Antigone le Borgne 1973: 16–295). The same applies to the articles written at that time, one of them concerned with the laoi (1973 = RTP 95–135), the other, published in 1972–3 (RTP 13–93), with the transition from Alexander to the Successors, as many of the examples and documents come from Asia Minor. It was again in 1974 that the first edition of my Alexandre le Grand (Que-sais-je? 622, Paris) appeared; I tried already then to reintroduce Darius and the Achaemenid empire into the story of the Macedonian conquest (as Claire Préaux noted in a personal letter (20.4.1974): “The Achaemenids seem to me to be more present in your text than in most histories of Alexander”): see now the expanded English translation (Princeton 2010), and the 8th revised French edition (Paris 2016). Among my studies of Hellenistic history, see, e. g., [with P. Brun and E. Varinoğlu], “Une inscription inédite de Carie et la révolte d’Aristonicos,” 2001. 20 See Chapter 27 § 1.1. It would serve no useful purpose to draw up a list of documents relating to Asia Minor and Anatolia published since 2007. The main trends in Anatolian archaeology of the first millennium B. C. are laid out very clearly by L. Khatchadourian 2011 (and in a more a global perspective in 2012); on Lydia, see Roosevelt 2009. See also the recent synthesis by E. Dusinberre, 2013 (with Dusinberre 2016), and the Proceedings of the Colloquium held in Münster in February 2013, Zwischen Satrapen und Dynasten: Kleinasien im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr., now published in the series Asia Minor Studien (Bd. 76, 2015), with my own paper, p. 175–193 (“À propos de l’empreinte achéménide (Achaemenid Impact) en Asie Anatolie. Notes de lecture”); on Armenia, see Khatchadourian 2016: 118–193. 21 HEP 507–521; 572–582; 596–600; 608–618; 626–630; 634–699; 706–709; 718–733; 837– 848; 862; 872–876 = HPE 491–505; 554–563; 579–583; 591–600; 608–611; 615–675; 688– 690; 697–713; 817–828; 842–844; 852–857; since then, see BHAch I, 15–27, BHAch II, 32–52 et 148–156.

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In the wake of Louis Robert’s pioneering work,22 I have focussed on a particular sub-set of material to study, namely Greek and/or multilingual inscriptions.23 This explains why, in the first part of this collection, the emphasis is on how the historian of the Achaemenid empire can use them, by looking at three examples, one of which (Letter of Darius to Gadatas) has been known since 1886, the other two (the Droaphernes inscription and Xanthos trilingual) since 1973–74 (shortly after the discovery of the famous Darius statue at Susa on 23rd December 1972). These three inscriptions relate to a larger dossier of material, which form the subject of a detailed future treatment by myself:24 i. e. the Greek and multilingual epigraphic documentation for Achaemenid Asia Minor. It is one of the projects in which I am particularly interested, but which I have not been able to complete due to pressing obligations, as well as my decision to concentrate on other topics. I should also make clear that while the three inscriptions are discussed in HEP 1996, the texts here reflect a later stage of my thoughts concerning them (cf HPE, p. xvii, n. 15). It should be noted in particular that, as I myself have observed, the conclusion of my re-examination of the Letter of Darius to Gadatas directly contradicts the extensive use I made of it in my book.25 Although the dossier in this section is a partial one only,26 it raises two important questions relating to the empire as a whole. One is the particular place occupied by Aramaic within the multilingual spectrum of the empire (BHAch II: 169–176; see also Chapter 27 § 2). This is most obvious in the case of the Xanthos trilingual, discussions of which continue fast and furious (BHAch II: 179–182), especially as the Aramaic version echoes the bilingual (Lycian-Greek) civic one, while simultaneously sounding a markedly different note. A connected problem is raised by the two monolingual Greek inscriptions (Darius-Gadatas; Droaphernes), as it is often claimed, as though self-evident, that the Greek text can be nothing more than a translation/adaptation of an Aramaic original – a thesis I reject for a complex of reasons which I explain at some length.27 The second question, frequently raised, is 22 23 24

25

26 27

Cf. my Leçon Inaugurale (2000): 39–40. See already RTP 95–135 (using Greek inscriptions to reconstruct the status of persons, communities and territory in Hellenistic Asia Minor), and below Chapter 27 § 1.6. “Remarques sur sources épigraphiques et domination achéménide en Asie mineure” (2001): 15. It was while I was preparing that communication for the Bandɩrma Colloquium (15–18 August 1997), that I began to entertain serious doubts about the authenticity of the Gadatas Letter and announced a forthcoming study (p. 15, n. 17). Cf. HEP Index, p. 1235, sub ML 12 = HPE, p. 1146; see particularly HEP 507–509 = HPE 493; cf. below Chapter 4, § 5.1: “It is never an easy matter to conclude an analysis of this type. In fact, it is somewhat daunting as any historian is reluctant to advocate the elimination of a document which, until now, has occupied such an important place in historical reconstructions (including his own!) from the corpus of material” (ital. P. B.). See also below Chapter 19 (the use of Greek inscriptions to reconstruct exchanges between cities and satraps); Chapter 25 (the Amyzon inscription concerning Bagadates); Chapter 27 § I.6 (The contribution of the epigraphic sources) and § 2.1. (From Xanthos to Kaunos). See particularly chapter 2, n. 44; Chapter 4 § 4, particularly note 87 (with now the publication of a tablet in Old Persian by Stolper & Tavernier 2006, who (p. 8) refer to my note); BHAch I: 93–4 and II: 171. On one crucial point in the debate (the ‘Aramaising’ dating formula of the

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that of the diverse and evolving relations established between local sanctuaries and the Achaemenid administration, at the centre and in the satrapies (see also Chapter 6).28 Differences of opinion on this question persist. In the case of the Droaphernes inscription, particular epigraphic and philological difficulties have led to interpretations that continue to be debated and may be, partly or entirely, irreconcilable.29 They concern both the structure of the document itself (several texts [PB]30 or one), what it actually is (a private dedication [PB] or a regulation promulgated by the Droaphernes inscription: below Chapter 2, n. 44), see now P. Thonemann’s clarification (Ap­ pendix: “Aramaic” numerals in Greek inscriptions, 2009: 391–4), which has confirmed my doubts about Louis Robert’s interpretation. Thonemann argues that Robert’s hypothesis of an Aramaic date translated into poor Greek “is not strictly necessary. On the parallel of the Tralles inscription, the cardinal number […] can easily be explained as an expansion of an “Aramaic” style cardinal number […] in an original Greek text.” In other words, the idea of actual Aramaic influence does not necessarily mean that one must postulate an Aramaic original. 28 See especially BHAch II: 177–187, and “Histoire impériale et histoire régionale. À propos de l’histoire de Juda dans l’empire achéménide,” 2000, as well as the clarifications by A. Kuhrt 2001 and 2007. On the theory of Reichsautorisation developed by P. Frei, see the collective volume edited by J. Watts (2001), which contains Frei’s own explication, followed by six critical responses. In a recent article (2013), B. Lincoln claims, as though it were an established fact, that “the members of that group [Achaemenid History Workshops] devoted surprisingly little attention to the role of religion.” He is undoubtedly thinking of studies based on a combined analysis of royal inscriptions and Avestan texts, but the way it is formulated is ambiguous – quite apart from the fact that, in my view, no “group” with a uniform approach ever existed, despite T. Harrison’s somewhat artificial polemic (2011). I should also point out that, contrary to B. Eckhardt (2015: 270 n. 2), I did not “question the Persian origin of both documents” (the first section of the Sardis inscription was certainly originally inscribed by a high Persian or Iranian official in Sardis acting in a private capacity); what I questioned was the likelihood of an official action taken by the Achaemenid political authorities, which is rather different. S. Mitchell (2008:157–9), while accepting my understanding of the text, makes an interesting suggestion on the problematical name ‘Baradates’. He thinks that, at the time the texts were reinscribed, the stone-cutter slipped up, so that the name is actually the well-known one ‘Bagadates’ (on which, without reference to Baradates, see Schmitt 2008). 29 This has been confirmed by personal letters I have received from the late Paul Bernard (10th January 1999), Philippe Gauthier (18th February 1999) and Peter Hermann (27th March 1999), discussing my suggestions on the Droaphernes inscription, and expressing both selective rejections and partial agreements; see too Ph. Gauthier’s comments in Bull.Épig. of the REG 112 (1999), n°469. In the article cited above (2001: 25–27, n. 15), P. Frei, unaware of my analysis, restates his view that the Greek text is constructed on the basis of an Aramaic original, and that the religious prohibitions date to the Achaemenid period (but accompanies it with the following disclaimer: “or perhaps by later sponsors”); I continue to disagree with both points. I find myself not at all convinced by the explanation-translation recently presented by P. Goukowsky 2009. He thinks that the statue to be honoured “close to the adyton or even within it” was one of Artaxerxes II (pp. 321–3), that we are dealing with a “perpetual edict”, and that the legislator was the Great King himself (p. 330). On the statue, see also B. Jacobs 2007 (it is that of Droaphernes himself). Concerning the statue of Ariobarzanes at Ilion (Diodorus XVII.17.6), cf. also the remarks of B. Rose 2014: 154. 30 See now E. Dusinberre (2003: 118–120), R. Lane Fox (2006: 153) and C. Tuplin (2011: 166 and n. 104), who explicitly accept my analysis and conclusions.

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satrapal authorities), and connections (or not: PB) between it and a historical situation – the so-called ‘Satraps’ Revolt.31 Among recent studies, the most interesting is the paper by K. Rigsby (2014): the author thinks (as I do) that Parts II and III of the inscription are to be dated to the Roman period, and that the dedication alone is dated to Achaemenid times; but, according to him, andrias must be understood as a divine statue, that of Zeus, and that the three parts of the inscription “are in fact related and all concern a statue of Zeus”. Vigorous discussions of the Trilingual continue unabated,32 as, of course, they do about the question of the authenticity (or ‘inauthenticity’) of the Letter of Darius to Gadatas. As I foresaw only too plainly when I published it,33 my position has not persuaded everyone. Since its publication (2003), no less than three studies devoted to the inscription have taken issue with my conclusions or cast doubt on their validity.34 The most recent one is by P. Lom31

32

33

34

Note here that M. Weiskopf, who had argued in favour of a link between the inscription and the ‘Satraps’ Revolt’ (HEP 1027 = HPE 1001), has since revised his position and states that he now agrees with my position: Topoi 12 (2002): 451–458. Since (according to L. Robert) the issue also implies a link (debatable in my view) with a famous passage of Berossus quoted by Clemens of Alexandria (HPE 676–680; below Chapter 2), let me mention that G. de Breucker has recently questioned my interpretation (2012: 565–566), proposing instead that it was a way of opening the Anahita-cult to non-Persians; see also Jacobs 2013, concluding that “the assumption that the consecration of statues to Anahita by Artaxerxes II was an innovation, is not justified”, but without discussing my specific discussion of this topic, nor treating the issue, also discussed by de Breucker, i. e.: Who were the intended subjects of the king’s decision? See the responses from three colleagues at the end of my presentation at the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres: cf. CRAI 1998: 340–1 (H. Metzger, restating his disagreement), 341 (G. Le Rider), 342–347 (P. Bernard, who, on p. 346, made significant observations on the physical distribution of the three inscriptions [below chapter 3. § 3 Point 1]: “The place of honour was certainly the one reserved for the two texts, Greek and Lycian, which displayed to the eyes of the faithful the contents of the sacred law on the broad sides of the monument. The Aramaic version had been squeezed onto one of the narrow sides as an annexe. Had its function been to give the force of law to its two neighbours, one would have thought that it would have benefited from a more prominent position and so the stone would have been carved to suit that purpose, perhaps as a square pillar rather than a stele”). Among recent studies, see, e. g., G. Maddoli 2006 (a daring but risky attempt to solve the chronological problems); for disagreements with my view, see especially I. Kottsieper 2001, followed by P. Funke 2008 (although not dealing with every point). On the Lycian version, see the new edition put out in 2000 by C. Melchert (http://www.achemenet.com/pdf/lyciens/letoon.pdf), and his translation of lines 29– 30 (“They shall defer to Pigesere. It (is) for the supreme authority to do what he decrees”), which differs slightly from the way he suggested rendering them previously: “They shall defer (authority) to Pixodaros. The supreme authority is to carry out what he commands/wishes” (Historische Sprachforschung 112 (1999): 75–77). Cf. below Chapter 4 § 5.2: “I think it very likely that I will meet with opposition, as it is so difficult to bring proofs that will command unanimous agreement.” See on this, Ph. Gauthier’s opinion who, while expressing some reservations writes: “B.’s arguments strike me as only partly persuasive, but those adhering to the document’s authenticity will henceforth need to take them into account.”(Bulletin Épigraphique in REG 117/2 [2004], n°293). One is by Lane Fox (2006), the other by Tuplin (2009), (announced in I. Delemen et al. (eds.), 2007: 15). They were recently dubbed “compelling responses” by T. Harrison (2011: 146, n. 147), although he does not bother to explain (however briefly) on what he bases his judgment. Lane Fox prepared his article independently of mine, but, in his Postscript, p. 169, says

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bardi (2010), who analyses the terminology and semantics of the word diathēsis (ll.18–19) in the minutest detail. She cites in their various contexts many Greek literary and epigraphic texts of the classical, Hellenistic and Roman periods. The conclusions she draws is that the term should not be taken in the sense it had in the Hellenistic period (“state of mind”), but in the sense it had in the classical period, namely that of a “(royal) order.” On this basis, she concludes that, at the very least at this point (ll. 17–21), the letter derives from a classical period document, which must be authentic: “It is possible that there was a textual development or perhaps the creation of a dossier, which the sanctuary held in its archives, in which I am sure there existed, in Greek translation, at least the mention of a ‘disposition’ originating with Darius. […] Perhaps only some of the main points were translated into Greek in the classical period” (p. 168). Her extensive and detailed linguistic and epigraphic knowledge, which is mobilised here, demands respect, but, contrary to her idea, I am not at all sure that such an understanding of the term diathesis is enough to solve the question conclusively. It seems to me that arguments I put forward in favour of a learned (late) Greek construction of the document remain relevant (below Chapter 4, especially notes 56–57). One aspect must, however, be stressed: I am convinced that the fact that there continue to be serious doubts means that historians should not treat this text as a prime piece of evidence in discussions, neither in the context of Persian epistolography,35 nor that of “Achaemenid agricultural

35

that he has taken my study into account, which is as much as to say that my arguments have not convinced him to modify his text. He is firmly convinced that there was an Aramaic original but, in my opinion, the full Aramaic ‘reconstruction’ which Alison Salvesen produced at his request (p. 168–9) is illusory. (R. Schmitt, too, did so rather unwisely in 1996: cf. below Chapter 4, n. 101). Rather surprisingly he asserts that, if the (modern) translator “had found [the Letter] impossible to translate, [he] might have revisited [his] acceptance of it” (p. 170). That is a strange and even paradoxical argument, in my view: is there any Greek inscription which might be impossible to “translate” into Aramaic or into any other language? I very much doubt it! C. Tuplin insists that he had to respond as, he writes (p. 172), my argument was received with “a widespread instant approbation”. While not concealing the remaining uncertainties (p. 172: “Briant was right to give the question a thorough airing. The present paper seeks to continue the debate. Where the truth lies we may never know”), he confesses himself “disinclined to think that any [of the arguments] individually condemns the Letter or that there are a sufficiently large number of them for it to be fatally flawed” (ibid.). This seems to me a rather dubious approach as it avoids considering the arguments in terms of their relative importance. As for the relevant pages in L. Fried (2004: 108–119), they come to a dead end on the section I consider central to my argument, i. e. the question of an Aramaic original and the history of the text. As her prime interest is in the fortunes of Judah, she looks at other inscriptions from Asia Minor (her chapter 4, pp. 108–155) and the example of Egypt (her chapter 3, pp. 49–107) and aims to prove that “the models of local control are not supported by these data” (p. 155): on this, see my critical observations in BHAch II: 178, n. 385; 179–180 and n. 391; 183–4 and nn. 395–396. In a recent book, Letter Writing (2013): 36 & n. 58, P. Ceccarelli writes: “Not enough is known from its transmission to justify making use of it for a study of the formal evolution of Greek letter writing.” But it is not “Greek letter writing” that is at issue, but “Persian letter writing” – something noted by J. Muir (2009: 84; 215, n. 3), who writes (ignoring the specialist bibliography):“The earliest genuine piece of state correspondence we have from the Greek world is

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policy”.36 We must hope that one day a young scholar, who is a good epigraphist and specialises in Asia Minor and the Achaemenids, will reconsider the entire dossier, now accessible on the www.achemenet.com site, in order to put an end to the question and reinterpret the issues. 4 ACHAEMENID EGYPT (PART II) Egypt, alongside Asia Minor, has for long been of particular importance to me in my researches. The place it (or rather the Delta)37 occupies in the Greek narrative sources, and especially the growing quantity of material emerging from the Nile Valley and its surroundings, its typological and linguistic diversity (beautifully illustrated by the discovery and publication of the Darius statue at Susa) have been potent in stimulating my interest. There is also an older concern I have with the debate on “Egyptian nationalism” begun by specialists working on the Ptolemaic period (Chapter 5 § 1.2.3); although, recently, they have begun to pay more attention to setting the Hellenistic period revolts into a larger perspective (e. g., Vaïsse 2004: XIV, n. 14). Study of the Egyptian revolts, which made it possible for the country to detach itself for two generations from Achaemenid control, forms part of the longue durée (Chapter 5), as do my thoughts about the manner in which the Persian period was instrumentalised in Ptolemaic royal inscriptions (Chapter 7). A methodological question articulates this research, which applies not only to the five ‘Egyptian’ articles: namely, how can one use the Greek narratives in order to gain an understanding of what was going on inside an important province of the Achaemenid empire, while giving priority to the local sources? In order to conduct such an enquiry, it is essential to scrutinise them in detail, despite the fact that I have never claimed to be a specialist of each of the languages and scripts used in the Nile Valley (as I have explained several times: cf. below, Chapter 5, n. 2, and Chapter 20, n. 80).

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not strictly a Greek letter, for originally it was probably written in Aramaic or Old Persian.” The terminological ambiguity is a striking symptom of the internal contradictions to be found in so many of the arguments: if one thinks that it is an example (even if fake) of Greek epistolography, one admits de facto that in no way can it have been produced by an Achaemenid royal scribe; but if one removes it from the Greek epistolographic corpus, one is compelled to demonstrate that there are sufficient indisputable and converging signs pointing to an “Achaemenid hand” (a condition which I do not think has been met). In a recent study (2012: 65), B. Lincoln (who notes my article without entirely accepting my conclusions) thinks that, “even were [the text] a forgery, it would still reflect widespread understanding that the Achaemenid kings and their servants were interested in acquiring exotic trees from far-flung parts of the empire for placement in their pleasure gardens.” Formulated thus, within a discussion “on Achaemenid horticulture and imperialism” (pp. 59–85), it recalls S. Pomeroy’s (ill-considered) opinion (1994) that “regardless to its authenticity, the ‘Letter’ is true to the tradition [of the gardener-king]” (cf. below Chapter 4, n. 61; also § 1 and nn. 8–9 and 133; Chapter 11 on the topic of the ‘gardener-king’). Chapter 5 § 4 (The Delta revolts), which now requires modification in the light of Chauveau’s study of 2004 (with note 54 below).

12

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Achaemenid Egypt is marvellous in the way it illustrates multilingualism (Chapter 8), making it possible to analyse this feature empire-wide (HPE 507–511; Tavernier, forthcoming), including Persepolis (Tavernier 2008), and first and foremost in the royal inscriptions (Stolper 2005; Jacobs 2012)38. The Aramaic material is crucial in furthering discussions on such matters as the strained relations between Egyptians and Judaeans in Achaemenid Elephantine (Chapter 6),39 and the imperial administrative machinery revealed by the now justly famous Aramaic papyrus containing a customs register (see Part IV, Chapter 18). The recent publication of Aramaic documents from Bactria has brilliantly confirmed E. Benveniste’s intuition that from one end of the empire to the other, from Memphis to Bactra, the satrapal chancelleries used the same language, formulas, and scribes trained in the same manner.40 The study now in process of the Persepolis Aramaic texts seems to confirm that the situation was the same in the empire’s centre (cf. Azzoni 2008; Dusinberre 2008; Azzoni & Dusinberre 2014; Azzoni & Stolper 2015). The articles in Part II were published between 1988 and 2003. This period and the subsequent years have seen a mass of new publications, which reflect a renewal of interest among Egyptologists in the period of Persian rule.41 Evidence of this can be found in the ‘Egyptian’ articles published in the proceedings of three Achaemenid Colloquia held in Paris between 2003 and 2007, particularly the one in 2007 which was, in large part, specifically devoted to Achaemenid Egypt.42 Apart from studies of known documents, also used in the articles in this volume,43 there has been an unprecedented growth of the demotic corpus, particularly in the form of 38 J. Finn’s 2011 study I find baffling; it demands a long critical review in a more appropriate place. 39 For recent re-examinations of the Aramaic archives at Elephantine and elsewhere: see Joisten-Pruschke 2008, Schütze 2011, Kottsieper 2013, Rohrmoser 2014; on newly published Aramaic documents from Elephantine, see also H. Lozachmeur 2006. Note also S. Bledsoe’s (2015) thoughts on the political messages contained in the Book of Ahiqar, which he analyses in terms of its production at Elephantine. 40 See Naveh & Shaked 2012: 39–54, who strangely do not cite Benveniste’s analysis published in JA 248 (1954): 43–44 (to which I referred in the Preface to S. Shaked 2004: 7–8); cf. already L’Asie centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux, Paris 1984: 59–60. On this, see most recently the careful study by M. Folmer, forthcoming, as well as (on the Arshama correspondence) L. Allen’s observations (2013); on the “tallies”, see Henkelman-Folmer 2016. 41 For the period 1995–2000, se the inventory and analyses in BHAch I (pp. 32–37, 50, 55–56, 58–59, 62, 84–85, 88–90, 91, 98–99), and II (pp. 57–63, 81, 90, 99, 126–127, 132–133, 162, 167, 184–187, 189–194); recently the synthesis by Vittmann 2003, 2011, Klotz 2015a, and Agut & Moreno-Garcia (2016): 528–677. 42 See the volumes of the Series Persika (de Boccard, Paris) no. 6 (2005): 97–128; no. 9 (2006): 375–405, and particularly, no. 14 (2009): 23–213. 43 D. Agut-Labordère and M. Chauveau have recently translated the Petition of Peteise into French (2011: 145–195); on the ‘Cambyses decree’, see D. Agut-Labordère’s studies in Tran­ seuphratène 19 (2005): 9–16 and RdE 56 (2005): 45–53. Many demotic documents are re-examined by G. Vittmann and M. Chauveau in P. Briant & M. Chauveau (éds.), 2009: 89–121, 123–131. Pharaoh Khabbabash’s rise to power (HPE 1017–1018) has been studied anew through a re-reading of the famous Satrap Stele: see D. Schäfer 2009, and her 2011 book, with the bibliography; see also Colburn 2015 on the Satrap Stele and the recurring Ptolemaic proc-

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papyri from the Sacred Animal Necropolis in Saqqara (H. S. Smith & C. J. Martin 2009) and the 460 ostraka from Ayn Manawir.44 Further, the Aramaic evidence can sometimes be connected to results from archaeological excavations: thus, discoveries at Syene-Elephantine (von Pilgrim 2003) have helped clarify understanding of the relations between Widranga, the temple of Khnûm and that of Yahweh (Chapter 6)45, as several recent studies show.46 There is now A. Rohrmoser’s detailed 2014 analysis, particularly her pages 240–290 (Die Zerstörung des Jahu­Tempels und sein Wiederaufbau). She explains in detail how the debate on the circumstances and consequences of the destruction of the Yaho temple on Widranga’s order has been conducted; she demonstrates how the recent archaeological discoveries make it possible to understand the nub of the quarrel between Judaeans and Egyptians (pp. 260–265; also 85–103; 161–185); she approaches the subject from the juridical standpoint I suggested (pp. 256–9), and

44

45

46

lamations to the effect that they had returned cult statues looted by the Persians to Egypt (his conclusions accord with my own: cf. here ch.7). They have been reported in many articles (cf. BHAch II: 62; M. Wuttmann in P. Briant (éd.), Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité (Persika 2), 2001: 109–236; M. Chauveau, ibid.: 137– 142; Id., 2011; D. Agut-Labordère & Cl. Newton 2013; Agut-Labordère 2014). The editio princeps of the ostraka has been produced by Michel Chauveau and Damien Agut-Labordère within the framework of the achemenet programme and an agreement between the Collège de France and IFAO (Cairo): the texts (with index) in transliteration and (French) translation are now accessible (with photographs) on the achemenet site. – I should add that, quite recently, a new building of the Achaemenid era has been discovered at Syene by the Joint Swiss-Egyptian Mission, together with a substantial number of papyri, ostraka and sealings, now awaiting publication; the annual reports of the Mission can be found at http://www.swissinst.ch/html/ forschung_neu.html. Some of the conclusions reached in that article were already suggested in a preliminary fashion in another one published in 1987 (here Chapter 1 § 1.3), and developed in detail in Chapter 5 § 3. The main new insights in my 1996 article (Chapter 6) are on the legal and juridical plane (§ 3). C. von Pilgrim 2003 (pp. 314–317) broadly follows my interpretation, while adding some corrections (rightly so, as A. Kuhrt 2007: 130, n. 52, who also accepts my view, notes, cf. her Persian Empire II: 829–831; 855–859). Von Pilgrim’s work was used by R. G. Kratz 2006, who seems, however, to be unaware of the existence of my article (cf. his pp. 248–250); the same applies to I. Kottsieper 2002, H. Nutkowicz 2011 (who thinks the destructions were carried out without Widranga’s knowledge), or A. Joisten-Pruschke (2008: 67–75), who is unaware of the recent studies of Greek inscriptions (p. 75–81, discussing P. Frei’s theory of the Reichsautori­ sation); as for her somewhat daring attempt at a comparison with the lan-sacrifice of the Persepolis tablets (p. 70 and 2010: 44–45), it must now be reevaluated in the light of W. Henkelman’s analyses and interpretations (2008a: 181–304); see also the well informed pages of Schütze 2011, pp. 228–241. L. Fried (2004: 102–106), unaware of von Pilgrim’s recent publications, takes my article into account, without however grasping its implications. C. Tuplin (2013: 136–151) presents the most recent re-examination of the whole dossier, discussing both my interpretation (see the article translated here = ch.6) and von Pilgrim’s archaeological one. Despite his doubts, I cannot find any arguments in his commentary (especially, pp. 142–143) that would demolish my interpretation, which (I stress) analyses the situation from the juridical perspective – while, of course, not excluding cultic and religious elements: see n. 36 of my article. See now Kottsieper, forthcoming.

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her conclusions agree and confirm mine, both with respect to Widranga’s actions, as well as the legal and political circumstances that led to his decision (pp. 278–290). As for the topics discussed in my articles (Part II), that of Persian-Egyptian relations has now been much expanded by J. Yoyotte’s detailed re-study of the Darius statue (2013). He there disagrees (n. 36) with my minimalist interpretation of the careers of several Egyptian nobles at the time of Cambyses and Darius (below Chapter 5 § 7.2–4, and HEP 497 = HPE 481–2). He counters with the example of the senti (HEP 425 = HPE 413), which proves that Egyptians held high administrative positions. Nevertheless, it is perfectly possible that the senti in Achaemenid times did not enjoy the powers he had in Ptolemaic times (Agut-Labordère, forthcoming). Morever, it is the case that the surviving documentation indicates that Persians and Iranians were in the majority among those occupying high-level positions (Chapter 5 § 7.2).47 There is also the fact that, since my first articles on Egypt, the Saqqara Stele, published in 1995 (BHAch I: 34–35, 98–99),48 shows that the close links between Persians/Iranians and Egyptians (Chapter 5 § 8) could lead to mixed marriages: cf. below Chapter 8 § 2.2 (“This is the first definite evidence of such a union” – to be contrasted with Chapter 5 § 8.2). This stele also played an indirect role in an article by O. Muscarella (2003). He firmly expunged from the dossier of Egypto-Persian cultural relations an intriguing archaeological and iconographic monument (the Von Bissing Stele)49 “[which] was probably made in Egypt by a craftsman who lived in the early 20th century.” His logical conclusion runs: “For discussions on Persian-Egyptian relations and shared customs in the fifth century B. C., the remarkable funerary stela excavated at Saqqara, not the von Bissing relief, is a source” (p. 120). The question of Egyptian revolts has received frequent attention in recent years, as one aspect in particular of the broader problem of relations (real and imagined) established between Egyptians and foreigners – one not limited to the Persian period, but one that became more urgent when Egypt and Egyptians were dominated by a foreign power, albeit ‘pharaonised’.50 There are several studies of the subject, but none contributing, as far as I can see, much that is new. Basically, they are limited to considering the subject exclusively from the angle of Athens’ interests and those of the Attic Delian League, using Greek narrative sources, whether they be

47 On the ethnic origin of high satrapal officials, see also the very full information provided by G. Vittmann 2009: 101–102 (he translates the senti’s title as ‘the planner’), and M. Chauveau 2009 (pp. 127–8 on the senti), together with C. Tuplin’s comments, ibid.: 420–421, who suggests “a sort of titular apartheid”. 48 On this monument, see most recently E. Rehm’s analysis (2005: 500–503) and that of M. Wassmuth (2010), as well as G. Vittmann’s remarks (2009: 104–5, together with his drawing). 49 See the photograph in my Darius, les Perses et l’empire (Gallimard-Découvertes, n°159), Paris (2d ed. 2001): 90–91. 50 See particularly G. Vittmann 2003. Relations of Egyptians with Persians are treated in the very interesting chapter V, to which should be added the next two chapters dealing, one with “Carians in Egypt” (chapter VI), the other with “Greeks in Egypt in the pre-Hellenistic period” (chapter VII), as well as the preceding one (III) on “Aramaic documents”.

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studies concerning a single revolt,51 or attempts at a synthesis.52 With the exception of an interesting study by O. E. Kaper (2015) on the revolt of Pedubastis IV (one of the ‘liar kings’?), no one has looked at the material in terms of Achaemenid imperial interests, by gathering the evidence which includes the Persian, Elamite, Babylonian and local sources in all their diversity.53 Note, for instance, that the only new piece of evidence on the Inaros revolt is a demotic contract from Ayn Manawir studied by M. Chauveau (2004). The text proves that the rebel was recognized in southern Egypt including the western desert (contrary to what I wrote in chapter 5 § 4).54 5 THE GREAT KING, LAND AND WATER IN THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE (PART III) The series of three thematic groupings (Parts III–IV–V) opens with six studies concerning aspects of the material foundations on which Achaemenid imperial domination rested, in particular land and water. By this, I am not referring to ‘earth and water’ in the (still unclear) meaning of Herodotus’ famous phrase,55 but rather the sphere of agriculture and animal husbandry and the conditions which enabled or obstructed their performance determined by the access countries and peoples enjoyed to water and irrigation. All will be aware that this was a fundamental aspect of social life in the Middle East, in Egypt and Central Asia, hardly peculiar to the Achaemenid period. The subject has interested me for a very long time, the reason certainly being my involvement in the lively discussions that took place in the 1970s about what has commonly been called the Asiatic Mode of Production (AMP). And it is a reference to Karl Marx that opens the introduction I provided in 2002 to a collection put together on the theme ‘Politics and the control of water in 51 52 53

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On the Inaros revolt, see the discussion of D. Kahn 2008, whose main purpose is determining the chronology. See M. Rottpeter 2009, whose analysis of the various apostaseis contains nothing new. The relevant pages of Schütze 2011: 60–68 are rather more interesting. See in particular the book by S. Ruzicka 2012 who aims to produce a purely narrative history, organised in accordance with the classical sources and thus seriously underestimates the value of the Achaemenid-Egyptian sources for treating the question: how is possible (for example) to reduce the Aramaic documentation to “some scrappy Aramaic letters” (p. xxi)? However, Chauveau’s proposed reading “Prince of Rebels” has to be abandoned in view of J. K. Winnicki’s criticisms in Ancient Society 36 (2006): 135–142: it should be read as “Chief of the Balaku tribe”. According to Kaper (2015: 125–6; 144–5), the development of the oases in Darius’ time is due to the Great King’s plan “to make sure that a revolt could never come from the oases again;” but it is worth remembering here that it is a very delicate matter to deduce political events from the demotic documents of Ayn Manawir: proof of direct action by the imperial administration in the creation of a (modest) system of underwater irrigation canals in the oasis is absent: cf. Agut & Moreno-Garcia (2016):638: “It is possible that [this system] is in fact the result of an experiment by the local Egyptian people”. See the discussion by A. Kuhrt in AchHist III (1988): 87–99, and most recently the ideas of Waters 2014; note also Klinkott 2016.

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the ancient Middle East’ (Chapter 15). The theme is also very much present in the chapter I devoted in 1979 to continuities/changes from the Achaemenids to the Hellenistic kings, as Marxist historians had put their stamp on those debates (cf. Chapter 20 §§ 1.5; 3.2.1–2). If, as Maurice Godelier said over twenty years ago, the concept of the AMP can now be regarded as both ‘stimulating and analytically limited’,56 the discussions it provoked nevertheless retain some of their relevance, at least on the heuristic plane (cf. Chapter 26, with notes 8–10). Several types of documents in particular attracted my attention in relation to this. On the one hand, ever since the end of the seventies, my participation in JeanClaude Gardin’s research team (above note 7) had made me think about the networks of irrigation canals discovered by archaeologists in Bactria/Afghanistan. The discussion this set in motion on the involvement (or not) of the Achaemenid satrapal authorities (Chapter 20 § 2.4) has never ceased (Asie centrale 1984; HPE: 752– 754, 1027; BHAch II: 162–164); the discovery and publication of the Aramaic parchments from Bactria has given it fresh impetus.57 It is, nevertheless, virtually absent from the articles published here (with the exception of the last section of Chapter 15). The question of the relationship between state, economy and society is, however, definitely present, even central, in three of the chapters of Part III (Chapters 13–15), as well as in Chapter 28, where an examination of the role of the imperial administration in the irrigation process and control of river water can be found. A Greek text figures in three chapters (13–15). This is a Polybius passage (X.28), which has long held my attention in the context of discussions about Wittfogel’s thesis (RTP: 420–430). The similarity I noted long ago (in the wake of Dareste, Haussoulier & Reinach) between Polybius’ vocabulary and that of an Eretrian inscription, and the recent discovery of the ostraka and subterranean canal-works of Ayn Manawir, resulted in my organisation in 2000 of a colloquium on the qanāts and canal-systems of the Middle East, Egypt and Greece, whose historical and historiographical context I laid out in the introduction to the book (Briant, ed. 2001: 9–14). Chapter 13 of this collection is my contribution to the discussion. At the methodological level, I address there two questions that have never ceased to interest me greatly, and which recur in many of my books and articles (here, for instance, Chapters 11 and 15, part of Chapter 14, and again in Chapter 28): how to make use of a Greek literary document in order to reconstruct Achaemenid technical and political realia, and how to organise a proper working collaboration between historians and archaeologists, whose material and approaches are more often than not so specific to their own disciplines that they seem to bear no relation whatever to each other (HPE: 752–754)?58 56 57 58

‘Le mode de production asiatique: un concept stimulant, mais qui reste d’une portée analytique limitée’, Actuel Marx 10 (1991): 181–199. See Briant, “Empire of Darius III” (2009): 150–151. On this, see particularly the review article by Salesse 2003; also the reviews by E. Cruz-Uribe, BiOr 60/5–6 (2003): 538–544 (especially on the drainage galleries at Ayn Manawir), Ph. Leveau, Annales HSS 57/3 (2002): 687–689, U. Fantasia, Athenaeum 92/1 (2004): 265–271, J.-M.

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The issue of the administration’s involvement in the organisation of production is also central to a now rather dated study on sheep-breeding (Chapter 10). As I said earlier, this article marked my first direct engagement with a domain which, at the beginning of the seventies, was little explored by historians: I refer to the immense reservoir of information contained in the Persepolis tablets59 – a set of evidence that has never ceased to interest me since,60 and to which the Achemenet programme dedicated an entire colloquium in November 2006.61 The study certainly deserves to be taken up and extended, as knowledge of the tablets has progressed in the last ten years, including our knowledge of animal husbandry in Fārs62, as has too the Babylonian evidence on the management of cattle which has been the subject of some innovative studies.63 The question of earth and water is not limited to the technological realia with their political and administrative implications. It is also reflected in the realm of monarchic ideologies. I have written extensively on matters related to the paradises and the motif of the “gardener -king” (RTP 444–456), based in essence on material derived from classical sources. I developed this image further under the title “The king, the earth and water” in my synthesis of 1996 (= HPE 232–240).64 Recent Bertrand, REG 115/2 (2002): 807–8, and N. Boroffka, AMIT 35–36 (2003–2004): 451–455; see also H. Gasche in Akkadica 123 (2002): 191–194 (review of the qanāt volume and the Annales 2002 dossier [here Chapter 15]); see, too, Planhol 2010 and 2011, who reasserts the reality of what he calls a “Great Agricultural Revolution” which originated in the early first millennium in the Iranian lands and developed in particular under the Achaemenids. However, the dating he uses is less certain than he assumes. On the considerable and continuing uncertainties, see R. Boucharlat’s 2001 study, and Salesse’s 2003 article, as well as now Schiettecatte et al. 2012 [2014]: 1388–1393 (who suggests, with reference to the Al-Kharj system, a “Persian influence”), and, now, the fundamental study by P. Leveau 2015. Cf. also below note 96. 59 See, too, RTP 202–210, 310–1, 329, 528–9. At almost exactly the same time, and quite independently, David Lewis began to follow this direction of research with impressive results, thanks to his unique epigraphic expertise and his direct access to the tablets in the Oriental Institute of Chicago: cf. his Sparta and Persia (1977), his contributions to the Achaemenid His­ tory Workshops and other specialist articles (partly reprinted in Selected Papers [1997]: 325– 361); see, too, the introduction (by Amélie Kuhrt) to Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis [AchHist XII, 1998: 1–6], where C. Tuplin (especially 63–4 and 77–114) based himself on the data which David Lewis had computerised using the Q-series tablets. (I remember that the latter demonstrated this material to me when I visited him in Oxford in Spring 1992.) 60 See especially HPE, Chapter 11, and more recently Briant 2013 (“Susa in the Achaemenid empire”). 61 See Persika 12 (2008), éds. P. Briant, W. Henkelman & M. W. Stolper. 62 See, e. g., Henkelman 2005, 2008a (pp. 65–179) and 2011; also Gabrielli 2006, Azzoni &Dusinberre 2014. I must add that the hypothesis put forward in § 4 (Median inheritance) now requires serious revision. 63 See, e. g., Jankovič 2004, Jursa et al. 2010: 256–261, and now the monograph of M. Kozuh (2014). 64 See now also chapters 1 and 4 in B. Lincoln 2012: 3–19 (“À la recherche du paradis perdu”) and 59–85 (“Il faut cultiver notre jardin. On Achaemenid horticulture and imperialism”), together with my comments above n. 36. With respect to the coinage showing a farmer (chapter 11, fig. 14a-b), I note that, while unaware of my article, H. H. Niwswand (2012: 91) included it in his catalogue without suggesting any royal imagery; the farmer’s head-dress is one

18

Foreword

re-examination of the dossier has caused me to revise my views fundamentally (see also below Chapter 4), in particular those related to the image of the “gardener-king”, which were constructed on the (as I now think, wrong) assumption that the classical sources and Achaemenid period iconographic documents complement each other (Chapter 11).65 Another set of documents, also based on classical sources – that of the water reserved for consumption by the Great King – appears to be rather more reliable. It suggests interpretations that go well beyond the technical and medical aspects, raising questions on ideology and the practice of gift and counter-gift (Chapter 12).66 Chapter 14 is an instance of the research I have been doing, particularly since 2004, on the historiography of Alexander and the Persian empire in the period of the European Enlightenment – a time when the only way to approach the history of the Persian empire was by means of the classical sources and the accounts of travellers. Yet it is closely connected to the theme that has determined the organisation of Part III. In a somewhat forgotten passage of the Esprit des Lois (1748), Montesquieu emerges as the first writer to make use of Polybius’ passage on what we call the qanāts. It is extremely interesting to see how Montesquieu interprets Polybius to support his broader ideas on the policy of the Great Kings of Antiquity to stimulate agriculture, and how he connects that to the logistics of Alexander’s expedition.67 Very instructive, too, is to see how the use of just one translation of a Greek text created problems which Montesquieu was neither the first nor the last unable to avoid (cf. Chapter 13 § 3). 6 COMMUNICATIONS AND EXCHANGE (PART IV) The fourth section contains four articles, two of which are devoted to the system of royal roads, the others to particular aspects of ways in which fiscal levies on exchanges were raised and the management of surpluses. “From Sardis to Susa”

65 66

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of numerous instances labelled ‘tiara with no diadem’ (Tiara ohne Diadem)’. On Scheil’s drawing (below, Chapter 11, Fig 21 and Addendum), see the paper of Henkelman, Jones & Stolper 2004, who reproduce it (p. 36), without being aware of my Addendum. The ploughing-scene is not present on other (still unpublished) bullae of the same kind (possibly of the same origin) which are currently housed at the École Biblique (Jerusalem) and at the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire (Geneva). Totally misunderstood by Llewellyn-Jones 2013: 94, who cites my article without having understood it. See also Darius in the Shadow of Alexander (2015), chapter VIII (“Iron helmet, Silver vessels”). On the crossing of the Gyndes by Cyrus, I should mention that J.-L. Desnier (cited chapter 12 § 3) has developed his interpretation in two books inspired by a structuralist approach (Le passage du Fleuve. Essai sur la légitimité du souverain, Paris 1995; La légitimité du prince IIe­XIIe siècles. La justice du fleuve, Paris 1997: 103–109), which are well worth consulting. B. Lincoln (2014: 200–202 & n. 22) is unaware of my critique (here Chapter 12 § The Choaspes, the Gyndes and the Euphrates). On the quote from Dinon (§ 2.2.), see the recently published Greek text, with French translation and comments in D. Lenfant (2009): 152–9. On Montesquieu’s discursive logic, see Alexandre des Lumières (2012): 245–252.

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(Chapter 16) – the brief Chapter 17 is no more than an appendix to it – was inspired by the topic chosen by the organisers of the 1988 Achaemenid History Workshop (Asia Minor and Egypt: old cultures in a new empire, 1991). My chief aim was to show how information familiar from the classical sources could be pinned down more precisely using the evidence provided by the Persepolis tablets and some of the Aramaic documents.68 I also touched there on the much less well documented question of river and sea transport,69 while noting the fact that we still lack the evidence for the commercial use of the imperial roads. Commerce occupies pride of place in the now famous papyrus from an Egyptian customs post dated to an Achaemenid ruler, brilliantly edited by B. Porten and A. Yardeni, to which Raymond Descat and myself devoted a detailed study in 1998 (Chapter 18).70 The text provides information both on the process of levying customs dues by the imperial administration at specified points (§ 6), as well as on maritime (and river) commerce between Asia Minor, Phoenicia and Egypt in the first half of the fifth century – including the commercial links with Babylonia (§ 10: From the Nile to the Euphrates). Apart from inclusion of a translation and commen-

68

69

70

Further to my remarks in BHAch I: 78–81, and II: 125–127, see now Briant “Roads” 2012 (with recent bibliography, to which add Jankovič 2008, Colburn 2013, and on the Nehtihor ‘passport’, L. Allen 2013: 29–30 and mainly Dalley 2014); see also Briant “Susa” (2013): 13– 18, and Alexander and his empire (2010): 180–182 (the information provided by the Bactrian Aramaic parchments). By contextualising an Aelian passage it has become possible for me to fill out my ideas on the exchange of information between the itinerant court and the central administration: see my short contribution “Les tablettes de bois du Grand Roi,” 2014. In an article devoted to praising the radical changes introduced by Alexander, Lane Fox (2007) frequently forgets to gather the crucial information provided by the Achaemenid context; see, for example, p. 293: “Surveyors in [Alexander’s] army measured distances in precise lengths of a stade, not the Persians’ approximate measures by time” (cf. already his Alexander the Great, 1973: 490, and The Search for Alexander, 1980: 423). The confidence expressed in such a pronouncement is breath-taking: 1 – the discovery of a Greek inscribed road marker near Persepolis (BHAch I, 80–81) can hardly be said to prove such certainty (see also Callieri 2007: 34– 36); 2- several Persepolis tablets appear to suggest a different interpretation (R. Hallock, Cahiers DAFI 8 [1978]: 114–115); 3- Achaemenid period Babylonian documents refer to the surveying of the royal road (harrān šarri): cf. BHAch II, 126 (commenting on an article by M. Jursa); on these points, see Briant, Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 255–268, and Henkelman, “Imperial signature” (forthcoming); see, too, below note 91. Cf. also HPE 378–384, BHAch II: 147 and below Chapter 28, as well as Rollinger 2013. See now Klotz 2015b, who, against the views expressed by J. F. Salles (I adopted them in my paper, here chapter 16 § 3), forcefully demonstrates the reality of the circumnavigation of Arabia, via Saba, in the reign of Darius; see also Klotz 2015a:5, who proposes an equivalence between the toponym Tumerek (with the determinative for foreign countries) known from a Demotic papyrus (Vittmann 2012: 1082–5) and Tamukkan in Persia, attested in Elamite and Babylonian documents (cf. Henkelman 2008b: 304–306: “Tah(u)makka was situated near the Persian gulf coast, could be reached by ship, and had a royal residence”). It was mentioned and discussed in part in HEP 398 (cf. BHAch 1: 84–5); the discussion was considerably extended and more detailed in the American edition (HPE 385–7: Customs collec­ tion on the Nile; 930); this is the only addition to the 1996 French publication (cf. HPE, p. xv, n. 3).

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tary in A. Kuhrt’s Persian Empire (II, 2007: 681–703), the text and our study have provoked, as far as I am aware, just three important discussions since 1998.71 While M. Cottier (2012) on the whole agrees with us, he challenges some of our interpretations. The most novel of his suggestions is that the ‘Ionian’ boats were taxed differently from the Phoenician ones, because they were regarded as foreign, i. e. as coming from beyond the Achaemenid empire (cf. p. 59, his ingenious discussion of the “vintages”); at that time (475 or 454), he continues (p. 60), “Persian control over Asia Minor is rather loose, to the extent that the Aegean islands and large parts of Asia Minor are in fact, de iure or de facto, free from Persian tutelage.” Perhaps so, but I am not aware of a different system of taxation being applied in accordance with whether or not a particular region “was part of the empire”: and how this would be established on arrival at a customs post? Was there a kind of ‘navigational authorisation’, comparable to the ‘passport’ known from the Persepolis tablets and the Arshama letter? In a situation where commerce is regulated by the imperial administration such a hypothesis should not be excluded. If it was so, then the authorisation would be one of the documents required by the Achaemenid administration on arrival at Thonis, together with an inventory of the cargo and details of the crew. R. Müller-Wollermann, in her 2007 article,72 has set the document into the context of Late Egyptian tribute and customs levies (pp. 95–100). With reference to the Naucratis Stele (Chapter 18 §§ 7–9), she points out that another copy was found in the course of underwater explorations conducted by Frank Goddio’s team (2000– 2001),73 and that the Egyptian toponym (as J. Yoyotte had already said) must be Thonis and not Naucratis. It was, indeed, J. Yoyotte’s earlier studies that led us to designate Thonis as the place where the customs duty was levied by the Achaemenid administration (see § 7, and BHAch II, n. 276). J. Yoyotte published a preliminary edition of the stele in 2001, which has now – 2012, a decade later – been commented on in great detail by A. S. von Bomhard, who includes (pp. 93 ff.) the conclusions of our study in her analysis (see also Pfeiffer 2010: 18–19, but I do not understand why anyone would think that “the ‘House of the King’ could be the king’s palace in Persepolis” (p. 18): cf. here Chapter 18 § 6.2.4).74 Chapter 19 (1994), too, is concerned with exchange, but of one particular type, namely that between satraps in western Asia Minor and the Anatolian coastal cities, 71 See also BHAch II : 132-133, and Tal 2009 (on the identification of the harbour KZD (Tell Ghazza). Simply for the sake of completeness I should mention the commentary by L. Graslin and Ch. Vivel (2005: 196), but the ships certainly did not “enter the harbour of Alexandria” (!), and the paper by D.L. Selden (2012: 22–25), who (without being aware of our article) includes the document in his cultural and geopolitical reflections (with some inaccuracies). 72 I owe this reference to the kindness of M. Cottier. 73 For some information on the discovery, see this URL: http://www.franckgoddio.org/projects/ sunken-civilizations/heracleion.html; see, too, Fabre 2006: 316–321 (for the Naucratis stele), and Goddio 2011 (not mentioning our article). See also Schütze 2011: 148–153. 74 The “customs register of the Egyptian satraps of the Persian era” is also known to Fabre 2006: 312–313, who quotes several phrases from our article (§ 8) in quotation marks, but he never refers to it directly (it is not mentioned in the notes).

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as well as between a satrap and an Athenian fleet operating in the region. In this instance, I developed an idea I had sketched out briefly 15 years previously (see below, chapter 20, n. 154): once the requirements of the court, travellers on official business, workers (kurtaš) and the army had been met, in the form of rations and assignments, what did the imperial administration do with the enormous surpluses held in naturalia (DHA 12 (1986): 33–48; HPE 451–6; 943–4)? Examination of some Greek inscriptions from the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods suggests that the satraps sold the surplus grain on the Aegean market.75 This means that the Anatolian coastal ports were places of contact and exchange between pseudo-Aristotle’s “royal” and “civic economy”.76 (I decided to resist the temptation to refer here to the concept of the port of trade, so dear to Karl Polanyi, as I do not see that it can contribute anything new or helpful towards understanding the evidence.) 7 THE TRANSITION FROM THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE TO ALEXANDER AND THE HELLENISTIC KINGDOMS (PART V) Chapter 19 could well have been included in this last section, the title of which recalls the agenda of the Colloquium I co-organised on this very theme at the Collège de France in November 2004 (Briant & Joannès, eds. 2006). As we said in the introduction (p. 11), “the concept informing this Colloquium has been with us so long that explaining its origins and aims does not demand a lengthy discussion. The issue of continuity and change from the Achaemenid empire to the Hellenistic kingdoms has a long history” – at which point we referred to three articles of mine, two of which are included here (Chapters 20–21).77 Two currents of thought stimulated my early fascination with this theme, although they ran counter to each other in several respects. There was, on the one hand, in the 70s my involvement in Marxist research (to which I referred above § 5), which presumed considerable continuity of socio-economic structures independent of dynastic changes (Chapter 20 § 1.4, together with my reservations indicated in § 3.2; also RTP 475–489). On the other, there was the deep impression made on me by reading M. Rostovtzeff’s SEHHW 75

76 77

The problem of how the surpluses were handled is also discussed by M. Aperghis in his book on the Seleucid economy (2004: 181–8), in which he follows my analyses very closely. F. de Callataÿ 2004: 39 touches on it briefly, apparently unaware of my study; the same is true of Z. H. Archibald 2005, who could have made use of my article in her discussion of market and ‘non­market’ exchange (pp. 10–17). With respect to the latter, it is possible that the (to my mind, unfortunate) choice of the date of 323 as the starting point of the book meant that the participants ignored the last phase of Achaemenid history – an approach radically different from Briant & Joannès (éds) 2006: 12–15. On this issue, see now R. Descat 2006, especially pp. 365–371. The third one was published in English in W. Heckel & L. Tritle (eds.), Alexander the Great. A New History (2009: 141–170: “The empire of Darius III in perspective”); the article following it (“Alexander and the Persian empire, between ‘decline’ and ‘renovation’,” pp. 171–188) also belongs here; see too “The Seleucid Kingdom, the Achaemenid Empire and the history of the Near-East in the first millenium B. C.” (1990).

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when, in 1964–65, I was in the process of preparing my Agrégation d’Histoire at the University of Poitiers. Its influence is obvious in my earliest studies of the Diadochoi (1972–3), even though I parted company at several points with the great Russian scholar who was exiled to the United States (Antigone le Borgne, 1973: 80–89; RTP 56–62, 95–135). It is, of course, the case that, as I have since demonstrated (Chapter 21), Rostovtzeff’s information on Achaemenid matters was very partial even in terms of contemporary knowledge of the Persian empire in 20s and 30s.78 Yet I have never ceased to draw inspiration from Rostovtzeff’s teaching on a methodological question, which I expressed as follows in my Inaugural Lecture: “What, in essence, Rostovtzeff was saying to his contemporaries, and which we can still hear 80 years later, is that the time is past, or should be past, when one thought it possible to explain the Macedonian conquest without bothering to understand the workings of Darius’ empire – in contrast (I would add) to Alexander himself” (Leçon inaugurale, 2000: 33–34).79 Thus, “studying his work continues to be a guide for scholars who take a particular interest in the dynamics and modalities of the transition between the Achaemenid empire and the Hellenistic kingdoms” (Chapter 21, last sentence). It must be obvious to all why, in 1999, I chose to entitle my chair at the Collège de France “History and Civilisation of the Achaemenid World and Alexander’s Empire,” and why, further, I have never stopped calling for a history of Alexander set in the longue durée (e. g. Alexander the Great [2010]: 153–185; Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 556–569). That consideration of the Achaemenid empire must be part of the history of Alexander and the Successors is also due to the fact that, in its last phase, the Achaemenid empire is known to us via Greco-Hellenistic sources describing the conquest, and in doing so provide a selective description of the landscapes, sites, populations and institutions of the countries traversed and subjected (cf. already RTP 137–160; Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, p. 6–7). In saying this we must remember the fortunate discovery recently of important Achaemenid documents in a region stretching from Asia Minor to Bactria which are now published. They are particularly informative inasmuch as they are often dated to the very period of transition from Artaxerxes II/III to Alexander (Bactria), sometimes even including the diadochic phase (Idumaea).80 That is not to say that the literary accounts lose their 78 79 80

See my article “Milestones in the development of Achaemenid historiography in the era of Ernst Herzfeld,” 2005. On this see, for instance, Chapter 23 § 1. On Rostovtzeff and his relations with Bickerman, see also Briant, “Michael Rostovtzeff, Elias Bickerman and the ‘Hellenization of Asia’”, 2015, and Baumgarten 2015. See Alexander the Great and his empire (2010): 171–185. In a brief but strongly critical review, Mary Beard (The New York Review of Books, October 27.2011) disagrees that these documents present anything of interest, as she does not see how “[they] throw light on the transition from Achaemenid to Macedonian rule,” or “what impact exactly their content has on the history of the period.” True, the constraints of size I was working under did not allow me to go into great detail on this point, but I hope that the reviewer has since read more extensively, which may allow her to understand the impact of these documents in providing a much fuller picture of the transition period, dated as they are, from one day to the next and from Sardis to Bactria, succes-

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value for analysing the situation in the Achaemenid empire at the time of Darius III – subject only to the reservation that the “Achaemenid core” be extracted with all due care.81 How to handle these sources presents a major problem, which I addressed in some detail in the 1990 Achaemenid History Workshop held in Ann Arbor on a topic very close to me: “The Persian empire: continuity and change” (Ach­ Hist VIII: Continuity and Change, 1994). I introduced my paper by setting out a methodological problem: “How can we reconstruct Achaemenid institutions when they are only attested in Hellenistic sources, without assuming a global continuity – a risky procedure as is well known. There is a further problem connected to the sources: to what degree is this or that institution, which we regard as typically Macedonian, in fact an Achaemenid borrowing predating 334?” (Chapter 22 § 1). What I discussed in Ann Arbor – the question of relations and influences between the Macedonian and Achaemenid court – mirrored research I had conducted on the composition of the hunting frieze from Vergina and its possible links to the Near Eastern lion hunt.82 It was in relation to this that I wondered about how we should interpret Hellenistic texts presenting Persian institutions. As illustrations I picked the chiliarch (§ 3), the pages, and the latters’ relationship to Alexander when hunting (§§ 4–5). Both questions have since been re-examined by other historians within the framework of two debated topics, separate but inevitably interconnected as they demand expertise in both Greco-Macedonian and Achaemenid history: “Alexander’s orientalisation,” (complementing the ‘hellenisation of Asia’),83 and the (possibly comparable) Macedonian and Achaemenid court practices. It is frequently by analysing Alexander’s Achaemenid loans that the practices of Darius’ court, on which genuine Achaemenid evidence is either silent or allusive, are reconstructed (or their existence presumed).84 We must add to this a further difficulty, namely that

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sively by regnal years of Artaxerxes and Darius and those of Alexander. Such day-to-day texts make it possible for the historian to set the history of Alexander into a much longer chronological framework (350–300) which makes it comprehensible (cf., e. g., Briant & Joannès, éds., 2006). HPE 693–5: “Another ‘Achaemenid’ source: the Alexander historians;” see, too, Darius in the Shadow of Alexander (2015). Contrary to Harrison’s assertion (2011: 135, n. 56), I certainly did not “eschew the hunt for the ‘noyau informatif’” in this book; the author obviously has not read my chapter XII (cf. also his note 59 on p. 139), and seems to know the French edition of the book (2003), including chapter IX (“The private and public life of a Great King”), only through M. Brosius’ review (cf. his page 120): on this issue, see my critical observations in the Preface to the American edition (p. x–xv), together with J. Finn’s remarks in BMCR 2015.10.14. DHA 17/1 (1991): 211–255. Discussion continues and shows no sign of abating: see, for instance, the very detailed presentation by Borza & Palagia 2007 (with exhaustive bibliography), particularly pp. 90–103 on the lion of The Hunting Frieze and the authors’ chronological deductions (the tomb would thus be that of Philip III and Adea-Eurydice); also Carney 2015: 107, 125–6. See my articles “‘Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie’,” 2005, and “Michael Rostovteff, Elias J. Bickerman and the ‘Hellenization of Asia’: from Alexander to World War II,” 2015. On the chiliarch, see Collins 2001, who has taken up several of my comments; Keaveney 2010 rejects the doubts one might have with respect to the classical sources (I am associated in this with Momigliano). On the hunt, see Carney’s reasonable comments (2002, with her updates 2015: 280–1), and Spawforth’s interesting heuristic idea (2013; cf. also Id. 2007 on court prac-

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the writers are marked by the Roman imperial milieu in which they are operating, yet they are dealing with information (not all of it consistent) transmitted using terms and concepts taken out of their original context: thus they view Alexander’s empire with the eyes of contemporaries of (occasionally, in the case of Arrian, actors in) the Roman imperial establishment.85 Alexander’s actions at Sardis in 334, known from literary sources, allow us to evaluate the question of changes and continuities more fully. Extremely interesting inferences on the status of Sardis under Achaemenid rule emerge and remind us that the “Greek city” was not the sole pattern for “civic communities” in the ancient world (Chapter 23 § 5).86 Together with the Xanthos Trilingual, the text confirms that the question of relations between kings and cities was not a total novelty in the Hellenistic period: the Achaemenids, on the one hand, the Macedonian kings, on the other, had already had to confront them and find solutions, meaning that Alexander, too, was in a good position to handle the situation. The episode further suggests strongly that, from the very start of his campaign, Alexander had ideas as to how to implement an Iranian policy (§ 3; HPE 842–4). In all the instances mentioned here and in Chapter 27, on the transition in Asia Minor, it becomes clear once more that in order to discuss Alexander’s policy during his conquest means placing it within the long and medium durée of empire and locality, while not forgetting the Macedonian heritage – whether dealing with his policy at Priene in relation to civic and royal land (Chapter 27 § 3.1),87 or the history of a dōrea at Sardis under the

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tices); also H. M. Franks, Hunters, Heroes, Kings (2012), particularly pp. 28–57. With respect to the boar hunt and its attestations in Macedon (Chapter 22 § 5), note that the motif often appears in Asia Minor (see recently Nollé 2001, Kaptan 2002, I: 74–83, and lastly the Çan sarcophagus: Rose 2007 and 2013: 129–142); in Persia proper, by contrast, it is rare (see Garrison 2011); on the stylistic similarities between the Çan sarcophagus and the Vergina hunting frieze, see M. Miller 2003: 30–31 (but the presumed borrowing of the pages system is, in my opinion, wrong; cf. below Chapter 22 § 4–5, to which add now the extremely interesting study by Koulakiotis 2005); on hunting ‘à la perse’ as analysed by M. Miller (shown on the famous Xenophantes lekythos), see also Franks 2009; on the ‘King’s dinner’ at Alexanders’s court, see Capdetrey 2013; on Macedonian and Persian elements in Alexander’s proskynesis, see Vössing, 2013. E. g., Alexander and his empire, 2010: xvii, 72–73; the similar remarks by M. Beard in The New York Review of Books, October 27.2011, and the remarks by J. Carlsen 2014, and, on one particular aspect (the proskynesis affair), the analysis and conclusion of H. Bowden 2013: “[The story] tells us rather about the way the figure of Alexander was being used in the Roman debate about the divinity and the autocratic power of the emperor” (p. 77). For the Roman Alexander, see the book by D. Spencer 2002, and (on the Roman Darius) my own discussion in Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, chapter VI, and in Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 34–45, and E. Carney’s remarks in her 2015 collected studies, p. xviii–xix. For the parallel example of Babylon, which I mentioned in passing (cf. note 12), see now the persuasive discussion by A. Kuhrt 2014a; in a more global perspective, note also the important observations by J. Wiesehöfer 2009. On the Priene inscription and the various categories of land and people, see now P. Thonemann’s important rereading 2012, who (p. 36) restores and translates thus: “Of those living at Naulochon, as many as are [Greeks] shall be autonomous and free, holding their [land] and all their houses in the city, and also the territory, just like the Prieneans, [between the sea] and the

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Great Kings, Alexander and Antigonus Monophtalmus (§ 3.2),88 or indeed the survival of Perso-Iranian communities installed in Asia Minor at the time of Achaemenid rule (Chapter 25).89 As I said already (above § 1) the final chapter in this collection is the last section of a very lengthy historiographical and historical study published in Studi Ellenistici 19 (2006: 9–75) and 20 (2008: 155–218), on a question which has exercised my mind for near on thirty years, from 1986 when I published an essay on the subject to a book on historiography published in 2012, including a note in 1999 and the detailed analyses of 2006 and 2008. Such relentless pursuit of a subject may seem excessive when one considers that my efforts were focussed on one episode in the history of Alexander which might be regarded as relatively minor. The story concerns the destruction attributed to him by Arrian and Strabo of the katarraktai of the Tigris, which were understood by the ancient authors as defences erected by the Persians to protect them from attack from the Persian Gulf. As it happens, ever since the beginnings of modern Alexander historiography (in the seventeenth cen-

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[hill] of the Sandeis, etc.”. These new readings are ignored by Lehmann 2015: 109–113, 226 (cf. my critical remarks in BMCR 2015.11.04). The question of the relationship between Achaemenid and Macedonian gifts of land (also alluded to in chapter 22 § 1) was subjected to a complete re-analysis by P. Thonemann (2009) in an important article, on the basis of a detailed examination of a typical Macedonian example (an inscription from Kassandreia), the domain of Krateuas (in Chalcidice), and Alexander’s fiscal activity in Asia Minor (using the example of the domain of Mnesimachos, where he adopts R. Descat’s analysis and conclusion of his fundamental article published in RÉA 1985: 97–112). His conclusion (“Macedonia and Asia”, pp. 369–370) cannot be gainsaid, and fits with mine, using conclusive epigraphic and historical arguments: “So far as we can judge, Alexander’s policies in relation to tax, tribute and the granting of land in western Asia Minor owed nothing to earlier Macedonian royal practice, and everything to the practices of his Achaemenid predecessors.” On the status of land granted to high satrapal officials, see also my comments in Chapter 26 and, on land concessions in western Asia Minor from the Achaemenid to the Ottoman period, I refer the reader to my article “De Thémistocle à Lamartine,” 2007. See also above notes 13, 15, and chapter 1 § 3.5, where I closely followed L. Robert; I began to move away from that position in a 1985 article, here Chapter 25 (§ 4.1.: Survival and survivals), as I made clear in my article on transition (Chapter 27 § 2.3). On this question, note the care rightly advocated by M.-F. Baslez in RÉA 87/1–2 (1985): 137–155; she shows that the Iranian personal names cannot all be traced back to Iranian families settled in Asia Minor in the Achaemenid period; they may also reflect later migration from Pontus and Cappadocia (see also below Chapter 27 § 2.2). On epigraphical documentation, see also the interesting studies of F. BouzidAdler (2013, 1014). On one specific point (where I argue for the hellenisation of Anahita), see Tuplin 2011: 167 and n. 3 (accepting M. Brosius’ interpretation, on which I expressed doubts in BHAch II, 179); on Hypaipa, all the literary, epigraphic and numismatic material is now accessible in S. Altınoluk 2013. The issue of acculturation(s) in Asia Minor has been fundamentally reconsidered in the last twenty years: cf. for example HPE 697–715; 1008–1016, and my observations in BHAch I (1997) et II (2001), § 6; also Delemen et al. (eds.) 2007, Gruen (ed.) 2011: 97–182, Dusinberre 2013, Sare 2013, Jacobs 2014, and my article “À propos de l’empreinte achéménide (Achaemenid impact) en Anatolie. (Notes de lecture),” 2015, with an up-to-date bibliography (add Held & Kaplan 2015, on the buildings of Meydancıkkale, with the opposing views developed by D. Laroche 2015 independently).

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tury)90 this incident has played a crucial role in arguments about the state of the Achaemenid empire at the time of Alexander, as well as the caesura created by the Macedonian conqueror (whether it be considered ‘positive’ or ‘negative’, to use descriptions that I consider obsolete: § 5). The situation confronting the historian is comparable to the one encountered in the case of the Polybius text describing what we call a qanāt (Chapter 13): how to reconstruct on the basis of a Greek narrative text the realities of the Middle East? And the situation is yet more complex: for one, neither Arrian nor Strabo provide anything approaching a physical description of a katarraktes; for another – this applies particularly to Arrian – the account itself is subordinated to the way in which he wishes Alexander’s actions to be understood, i. e. to underpin the thesis of Achaemenid weakness and the intrinsic superiority of the Macedonian conqueror. As I discuss in detail in Chapter 28, I find the discussion of the katarraktai a remarkably revealing component of the debate on the broader theme of ‘change and continuity’ (§§ 4–5; see also Alexander and his empire (2010): 89–96).91 To end an already overlong Foreword, I would like briefly to refer to a polemic which has developed (recently) about an expression I used at the end of my 1979 article on continuities and changes (below Chapter 20, last sentence): “Was Alexander the first of a long line of Hellenistic rulers? Of course! But with respect to the history of the Near and Middle East in the first millennium, Alexander could be regarded also as ‘the last of the Achaemenids’.”

Two articles, independent of each other, appeared in 2007, one by H. Wiemer, the other by R. Lane Fox, aimed at rejecting this view. This is not the place to reply to each point – I have already responded to some aspects in Chapter 28, especially in note 37. But I should like to take the opportunity to make four observations: 1 On the one hand, for specialists in Achaemenid history, including the beginnings of Hellenistic history into their perspective is a matter of methodological 90 91

Alexandre des Lumières (2012): 58–63, 330–357, 366–371; Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 250–255. My understanding of the incident was rejected by H. Wiemer (2007) prior to the publication of the second part of my study (2008): see my criticisms, Chapter 28, nn. 37, 45, 49; Heller (2010: 436–438) largely echoes my opinion on the situation in Babylonia at the time of Alexander’s conquest. Lane Fox (2007: 293 and n. 183) seems (with some reluctance) to follow the view expressed in HPE, and thinks that by placing it in a context marked by “colonialism and cultural imperialism,” Arrian and Strabo’s understanding was shared by Alexander himself: “Improving an under-exploited, and cumbersome East was already part of the Alexander histories, because it was part of Alexander’s own outlook and self-image;” but nowhere does he demonstrate this. (A similar opinion can be found in F. L. Holt 2005: 62–65, according to whom Alexander was convinced that “his duty [was] to safeguard the civilized world;” but the book is unfortunately marred by its forced comparison between a Bactria of the past and the post 9/11 Afghanistan of today: cf. my Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 506–525.). Further, I do not believe for one moment that the work carried out on the Euphrates marked “a clever change” (p. 293), as it is clear that there, too, Alexander set himself into a continuity with his predecessors (cf. below Chapter 28, notes 53–56). I should add that recent research has tended to reevaluate the interest shown by the Achaemenid kings in navigation in the Persian Gulf: cf. e. g. Henkelman 2008b: 303–310; see also Potts 2014.

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93 94 95

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evidence (even if full appreciation of this varies from one writer to another): this is particularly true of Babylonia, where the chronological clusters of the documentation demand such an approach, and where the first millennium provides the basic heuristic gauge, but the question arises in a comparable manner from Samarkand to Sardis and Memphis,92 particularly as the most recently published material (Bactria, Idumaea) documents both the reigns of the last Great Kings as well as those of Alexander and his son, Alexander IV – it is thus of equal interest to the Hellenistic historian.93 (Incidentally, the question of change and continuity also applies to the transition of the Neo-Babylonian empire, the ‘Median kingdom’, the Neo-Elamite kingdoms (and the Assyrian foe) and the kingship of Anšan)94. On the other hand, I note that, on the whole, these specialists (while differing slightly from each other) now have little difficulty in accepting the idea that studying Alexander without studying the Achaemenid empire is likely to result in an impasse (e. g. Flower 2007: 420), or that Alexander and the Successors adopted certain aspects of the Achaemenid imperial model.95 The need for “a For Babylonia see AchHist VIII (1994): 229–234 (Dandamaev), 311–327 (Kuhrt & Sherwin-White), 320–351 (Stolper), 353–364 (Invernizzi); La Transition (2006): 37–307 (Beaulieu, Joannès, Jursa, Stolper, van der Spek); see also Boiy 2004 and Heller 2010, where the Alexander phase is incorporated into Babylonia in the ‘Late’ period (pp. 355–443), and most recently the thesis of J. Monerie, Aspects de l’économie de la Babylonie aux époques hellénis­ tique et parthe (IVe s. av. J. C – Ier s. av. J. C.), Paris, 2013; see also my comments in BHAch II: 138–141 on M. Jursa’s work on the tithe from the 7th to the 3rd century BC (1998). – On change and continuity in Egypt in Alexander’s reign, see in particular Chauveau-Thiers 2006, Vittman 2009, 2011, and the recent work by F. Bosch-Puche (2008, 2012, 2013, 2014), Ladynin 2014 (and forthcoming), and a number of papers in V. Grieb, K. Nawotka & A. Wojciechowska (eds.), Alexander the Great in Egypt, 2014. See Briant, “The empire of Darius” (2009); see also several papers gathered in Burgerdijk, Henkelman & Waal (ed.) 2013. Cf., e. g., AchHist VIII, 1994: 39–148, 217–256; Henkelman 2008a; Álvarez-Mon & Garrison 2011, with the interesting introduction, pp. 1–32 (note, in passing, that from this point of view too, Rostovtzeff, cited ibid., p. 8, n. 24, was truly a visionary). See, for instance, Ed. Will (1992) quoted in my Alexander the Great (2010: 184), and earlier on Ch. G. Starr (in a personal communication of 10 July 1979): “I quite agree with your own comments that one cannot study Hellenistic Asia without a thorough knowledge of the Achaemenid background, whether in economics or in religion”; more recently: e. g. Davies 2002: 2–3; Chankowski & Duyrat (éds.) 2004; Ma 2009, 2013; Thonemann 2009 (above note 87); Nawotka, 2010; Kosmin 2014, Index, s. v. ‘Achaemenid empire and Iran, question of Seleucid indebtedness to –’ (p. 409); Mairs, 2014; Olbrycht 2014; see also Aperghis 2008, passim and particularly his conclusion (mentioning in note 7 his debt to my own work and the book by S. Sherwin-White & A. Kuhrt, From Samarkhand to Sardis, 1993): “I have tried to show, with a series of examples, that the Seleucid kings derived many administrative practices from the Achaemenids, which they sometimes modified to suit new conditions. […] They show[ed] themselves apt pupils of able teachers”. However, contrary to Aperghis, I do not think that the reason for this was “that Alexander had little inclination for administrative activities” (cf. my remarks below Chapter 27 § 1.4). The expression is aptly formulated by J. Wiesehöfer 2007: 28, and by T. Howe & S. Müller 2012 (p. 26) in a well balanced phrase: “Alexander may not have been ‘the last of the Achaemenids’, as Briant calls him, but he came from an empire whose

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portrait of Alexander against the background of the Eastern world” was already expressed by E. Badian in JHS 1976: 229 (one of his reviews of Lane Fox’ Al­ exander); at the same time, he remarked that “it has never been properly attempted”, and he gave the following ‘explanation’: “It requires competence in many languages, massive study of scattered archaeological reports and acquaintance with vast and often inaccessible areas” (compare Badian 2012: 401); the same need has recently been expressed by H. Bowden (2014: 146): “It would be better to locate Alexander within the broader social (including religious) and political structures of the Aegean and the Near East” (referring to Briant & Joannès, ed. 2006). The main resistance emanates from several historians of Alexander, some of whom seem to be disturbed at the thought that presenting evidence on continuities between Darius and Alexander may cast doubt on what they consider to be Alexander’s absolute uniqueness in History, in contrast to an Achaemenid empire whose fate it was to be immediately erased from historical memory96. I should add for the sake of completeness that I noticed only recently that a similar, but not identical, formula was used already by R. Ghirshman long ago: “As he took up residence in Persepolis and Darius’ resistance had evaporated, when Iran and the Empire were his, there was no need to build the world of his dreams on its ashes. As master of Iran, he was ‘the last of the Achaemenids’.”97 The use of quote marks suggests to me that Ghirshman borrowed the phrase from an earlier writer whom I have not been able to identify. But, when all is said and done, deciding whether Alexander is the end of one world (which?) or/ and the beginning of another (which?) is a question as old as the first studies by historians and philosophers (Ghirshman also cites Voltaire).98

To put an end (I hope!) to unfounded notions let me reiterate yet again that, for me, the idea is not to turn the Macedonian ruler into a mere copy of Darius or a conqueror

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structures and courtly traditions were heavily influenced by the examples set by the Persians”; the term is again misunderstood by R. Strootman 2013a: 45; see also Strootman 2013b: 76, which requires some serious discussion, as his refutation of what he calls “‘the postcolonial’ continuity paradigm” is, to say the least, ill-considered and superficial. See especially the last pages and (rather caricaturing) sentences of Lane Fox 2007; in a sweeping way, he tries to enumerate what he considers to be purely changes, i. e., for him, the “pros”, omitting to do the necessary research into the Achaemenid realities: see, for example, above nn. 68 & 91 – but see already his Alexander the Great (1973): 490–491 (labelling the Achaemenid Empire as “an underdeveloped ‘Third World’”), and The search for Alexander the Great (1980): 423 (“The Persians had invented nothing”). Tuplin (2008: 109) is careful to set the expression in its original context – while nevertheless expressing some serious reservations too, e. g. p. 111–112, where he expresses doubts about my interpretation of the Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities reflected by Polybius’ text on the qanāts for reasons I find unconvincing: it seems to be basically an example of a hyper-critical approach. (The issue of qanāts was also recently introduced by S. Plischke, Seleukiden (2014): 82–86, following my own comments quite closely); cf. also Tuplin (ed.) 2007: xxiv–xxv. L’Iran des origines à l’Islam [1951], repr. Paris (1976: 207), in the course of a passage entirely devoted to celebrating the glory of the Macedonian conqueror (pp. 200–212). Cf. Alexandre des Lumières (2012), chapter XV, and my essay “Grote on Alexander,”2014.

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desirous of sitting on the throne of his vanquished foe.99 What it is essential to understand is how the transition from one king to the other worked, which (as I have never tired of saying) makes it an essential duty for Alexander historians to be deeply conversant with Darius’ empire and set the period 334–323 into a larger perspective for it to make sense.100 By approaching the subject in that way, one will inevitably (in my view) conclude that Alexander was not simply “the first Hellenistic man” (pace Lane Fox 2010), and that the Hellenistic world was neither an Imperium Macedonicum (Edson’s image unconvincingly revived by Billows, see Chapter 27 § 3.2), nor a reincarnation of something identical to the Achaemenid empire. It is open to scholars to reject the formula I used in 1979, about which one can continue to argue fruitlessly forever, if no effort is made to understand the contextual reasons for its use. Leaving aside the term, the fact remains: it is crucial to realize that Alexander had no other imperial model, save the one constructed by the Achaemenids (themselves drawing on the legacy of the earlier Middle Eastern kingdoms and empires) available to him – which explains why he knew both how to enter on Darius’ still living heritage and how to set his power on a new foundation. This is, precisely, what I was referring to in the last sentence of Chapter 27 (2006), when I said: “Any study of this kind [about the transition] must combine the Achaemenid heritage, Macedonian traditions and Hellenistic innovations and try both to give each its proper weight and to understand the mechanisms of mutual encounters and interactions.” With this methodological point in mind, much work remains to be done … Kersaint October 2016 99 On this issue, I admit that some of the expressions I used in a 1980 article (RTP 357–403) are somewhat misleading. This may explain why R. van der Spek (2015) expresses some reservations, while forgetting (like so many others) the first part of the phrase (“Alexander the first of a long line of Hellenistic rulers…”). In any case, I have never claimed in more recent work that Alexander wanted the Achaemenid throne – and that is certainly not what I meant, or have ever meant, when using the phrase “the last of the Achaemenids.” I see that in a recently published article (2012), the late Brian Bosworth implied that Alexander may have had access to a translation of the Achaemenid inscriptions and that he could thus “have absorbed some of the royal ideology” (p. 43). This would explain the emphasis placed on the idea of “the king as the friend of truth and enemy of falsehood,” which is particularly found in Arrian. I am somewhat sceptical for reasons expressed in ch.22§ 1: “An identical or comparable custom may be found among both the Argeads and the Achaemenids without necessarily implying Achaemenid influence.” 100 Alexander the Great (2010): 182–5. In general, a glance at the collective volumes published on Alexander in the last forty years (list, ibid.: 158–9) will suffice to demonstrate the quasi-absence of Darius’ empire. The picture of the Achaemenid empire on the eve of the Macedonian conquest by P. Cartledge 2004: 38sq. is also very disappointing (to say the least): not only did Champollion not “decipher the Old Persian language” (sic!), but the Achaemenid documentation dated to the IVth century B. C. is much more abundant and informative than the author postulates as he has failed to do any serious research (p. 39–40). Consequently, I take it as a mark of progress that, in the second edition of his Alexander the Great: a reader (2012: 165–95), I. Worthington included an article on the empire under Darius III. On this topics, see now my proposals in the last chapter of my book: Alexandre. Exégèse des lieux communs (2016): 556–569.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY (2001–2016)101 Adiego, I.-X. 2014, “Las inscriptiones plurilingües en Asia Menor: hacia una clasificación tipológica y un análisis functional”, in W. Eck & P. Funcke (edd.), Öffentlichkeit­Monument­Text. XIV Congressus Internationalis Epigraphiae Graecae et Latinae, 27–31. Augusti MMXII, Berlin: 231–269 Agut. D & Moreno-Garcia, J. C. 2016, De Narmer à Dioclétien 3150–284 av. J. C. L’Égypte des Pharaons, Paris, Berlin Agut-Labordère, D., 2014, “L’orge et l’argent. Des usages monétaires à Ayn Manawir à l’époque perse,” Annales HSS 69/1: 75–90 Agut-Labordère, D. forthcoming, “Administrating Egypt under the first Persian period: the empire as visible in the Demotic sources”, Paper presented at the Workshop, Administration of the Achaemenid Empire – Tracing the imperial signature (Landgut Castelen bei Basel, 14–17 mai 2013) Agut-Labordère, D. & M. Chauveau, 2011, Héros, magiciens et sages oubliés dans l’Égypte an­ cienne. Une anthologie de la littérature en égyptien démotique, Paris Agut-Labordère, D. & Cl. Newton, 2013, “L’économie végétale à Ayn Manawir à l’époque perse: archéobotanique et sources démotiques,” ARTA 2013.005: http://www.achemenet.com/pdf/ arta/ARTA_2013.005-Agut-Labord%C3 %A8re_Newton.pdf Allen, L., 2013, “The letter as object: on the experience of Achaemenid letters,” BICS 56/1: 21–36 Altɩnoluk, S., 2013, Hypaipa. A Lydian city during the Roman Imperial period, Istanbul Álvarez-Mon, J. & M. B. Garrison, (eds.), 2011, Elam and Persia, Winona Lake IN Aperghis, G. G., 2004, The Seleukid Royal Economy. The finances and financial administration of the Seleukid empire, Cambridge Aperghis, G. G., 2008, “Managing an empire – Teacher and pupil,” in S. M. Reza Darbandi & A. Zournatzi (eds.), Ancient Greece and Ancient Iran: cross­cultural encounters, Athens: 137–147 Archibald, Z. H., 2005, “Markets and exchange: the structure and scale of economic behaviour in the Hellenistic Age,” in Z. H. Archibald, J. K. Davies & V. Gabrielsen (eds.), Making, moving and managing: the new world of ancient economies, 323–31, Oxford: 1–26 Azzoni, A., 2008, “The Bowman MS and the Aramaic tablets,” in Briant, Henkelman & Stolper (éds.): 253–374 Azzoni, A. & E. M. Dusinberre, 2014, “Persepolis Fortification Aramaic Tablet Seal 002 and the keeping of horses,” in M Kozuh et al. (eds.), Extraction and Control: Studies in honor of M. W. Stolper (SAOC 68), Chicago IL: 1–16 Azzoni, A. & Stolper, M. W. 2015, “From the Persepolis Fortification Archive Project 5. The Aramaic epigraph ns(y)h on Elamite Persepolis Fortification documents”, ARTA 2015.004: http:// www.achemenet.com/document/ARTA_2015.004-Azzoni-Stolper.pdf Badian, E. 2011, Collected Papers on Alexander the Great, London-New York Baumgarten, A. 2015, “Rostovtzeff and Bickerman on Hellenisation. A comparison and contrast”, in J. G. Manning (ed.), Writing history in time of war. Michael Rostovtzeff, EIias Bickerman and the ‘Hellenisation of Asia’ (Oriens et Occidens 24), Stuttgart: 89–119 Bledsoe, S. A., 2015, “Conflicting loyalties: King and context in the Aramaic Book of Ahiqar,” in Silverman & Waerzeggers (eds.): 239–268 Boiy, T., 2004, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylonia (OLA 136), Leuven Borza, E. N. & O. Palagia, “The chronology of the Macedonian royal tombs,” JDAI 122: 81–125

101 As explained above (p. 3), only items published between 2001 and (partially) 2016 concerning the topics discussed in the articles collected here are included. My own books and articles, published in the same period, are excluded, with the exception of proceedings of colloquia, which I either edited myself or where I was one of the editors. See the complete list of my publications here, pp. VI–XXI.

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Bosch-Puche, F., 2008, “L’ ‘autel’ du temple d’Alexandre le Grand à Bahariya retrouvé,” BIFAO 108: 29–44 Bosch-Puche, F., 2012, “Alejandro Magno y los cultos a animales sagrados en Egipto,” Aula Orien­ talis 30: 243–277 Bosche-Puche, F., 2013, “The Egyptian royal titulary of Alexander the Great. I: Horus, Two Ladies, Golden Horus and throne names,” JEA 99: 131–154 Bosch-Puche, F. 2014a, “Alexander the Great’s Egyptian Names in the Barque Shrine at Luxor temple,” in Grieb, Nawotka & Wojciechowska (eds.), Alexander the Great in Egypt : 55–87 Bosch-Puche, F. 2014b, “The Egyptian royal titulary of Alexander the Great. II: Personal name, empty cartouches, final remarks, and appendix”, JEA 100: 89–109 Bosworth, A. B., 2012, “Truth and Falsehood in early Hellenistic propaganda”, in A. Turner et al. (eds.), Private and Public Lies. The discourse of despotism and deceit in the Graeco­Roman World, Leiden: 39–49 Boucharlat, R., 2001, “Les galeries de captage dans la péninsule d’Oman au premier millénaire av. n. è.,” in Briant (éd.): 157–184 Bouzid-Adler, F., 2013, “Anthroponomie iranienne dans la plaine hyracanienne. Un outil pour étudier la colonisation achéménide?,” Babelao 2: 69–86 Bouzid-Adler, F., 2014, “Noms iraniens dans l’onomastique de la ville de Sardes”, Babelao 3: 7–32 Bowden, H., 2013, “On kissing and making up: court protocol and historiography in Alexander the Great’s experiment with proskynesis’,” BICS 56/2: 55–77 Bowden, H. 2014, “Review article: recent travels in Alexanderland”, JHS 124: 136–148 Briant, P., (éd.), 2001, Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines en Iran, en Égypte et en Grèce (Persika 2), Paris Briant, P. & R. Boucharlat (éds.), 2005, L’archéologie de l’empire achéménide. Nouvelles recherches (Persika 6), Paris Briant, P. & M. Chauveau (éds.), 2009, Organisation des pouvoirs et contacts culturels dans les pays de l’empire achéménide (Persika 14), Paris Briant, P., W. Henkelman & M. W. Stolper (éds.), 2008, L’archive des Fortifications de Persépolis. État de questions et perspectives de recherches (Persika 12), Paris Briant, P. & F. Joannès (éds.), 2006, La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (vers 350–300 av. J. C.) (Persika 9), Paris Burgersdik, D., Henkelman, W. & Waal, W. (eds.), 2013, Alexander en Darius. De Macedoniër in de Spiegel van het Nabije Oosten, Hilversum Callataÿ, F. de, 2004, “La richesse des rois séleucides et le problème de la taxation en nature,” in Chankowsky & Duyrat (eds.): 23–37 Callieri, P., 2007, L’archéologie du Fārs à l’époque hellénistique (Persika 11), Paris Capdetrey, L., 2013, “La ‘Table du roi’: une institution hellénistique?”, in C. Grandjean, C. Hugoniot & B. Lion (éds.), Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique, Rennes-Tours: 173–198 Carlsen, J., 2013, “Greek History in a Roman context: Arrian’s Anabasis of Alexander,” in J. J. Madsen & R. Rees (eds.), Roman Rule in Greek and Latin Writing, Leiden-Boston: 210–223 Carney, E., 2002, “Hunting and the Macedonian elite: sharing the rivalry of the chase,” in Ogden (ed.): 59–80 Carney, E., 2015, King and Court in Ancient Macedonia. Rivalry, treason and conspiracy, Swansea Cartledge, P., 2004, Alexander the Great. The hunt for a new past, London Ceccarelli, P., 2013, Ancient Greek Letter Writing: a cultural history (600 BC­150 BC), Oxford Chankowski, V. & Duyrat, F., (éds.), 2004, Le roi et l’économie. Autonomies locales et structures royales dans l’économie de l’empire séleucide (=Topoi, Supp. 6), Lyon Chauveau, M., 2004, “Inarôs prince des rebelles,” in F. Hoffman & H. J. Thyssen (Hg.), Res Severa Gaudium. Feschrift für K. Th. Zauzich (Studia Demotica 6), Leuven: 39–46 Chauveau, M., 2009, “Titres et fonctions en Égypte perse d’après les sources”, in Briant & Chauveau (éds.): 123–131

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Schütze, A. 2011, Ägypten unter der Herrschaft der Achämeniden. Untersuchungen zur Verwaltung und Gesellschaft einer Provinz des Perserreiches, PhD. Universität Leipzig Selden, D. L. 2012, “Mapping the Alexander Romance”, in R. Stoneman, K. Erikson & I. Netton (eds.), The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East, Groningen: 19–59 Shaked, S., 2004, Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur (Persika 4), Paris Silverman, J. M. & C. Waerzeggers (eds.), Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire (Ancient Near East Monographs 13), Atlanta GA Smith, H. S. & C. J. Martin, 2009, “Demotic papyri from the Sacred Animal Necropolis of North Saqqara: certainly or possibly of Achaemenid date,” in Briant & Chauveau (éds.): 23–78 Spawforth, A. J. S., 2007, “The court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia,” in Id. (ed.), The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, Cambridge: 82–120 Spawforth, A. J. S., 2013, “The pamphleteer Ephippus, King Alexander and the Persian royal hunt,” Histos 6: 169–21 (accessible online at http://research.ncl.ac.uk/histos/docments/2012A09 SpawforthThePamphleteerEphippus.pdf) Spencer, D., 2002, The Roman Alexander. Reading a cultural myth, Exeter Stolper, M. W., 2005, “Achaemenid languages and inscriptions,” in J. Curtis & N. Tallis (eds.), For­ gotten Empire: the world of Achaemenid Persia, London: 18–24 Stolper, M. & Tavernier, J. 2007, “From the Persepolis Fortification Archive Project. 1: An Old Persian administrative tablet from the Persepolis Fortification”, ARTA 2007.001: http://www. achemenet.com/document/2007.001-Stolper-Tavernier.pdf Strootman, R. 2013a, “Hellenistic imperialism and the ideal of Word Unity”, in C. Rapp & H. Drake (eds.), City­Empire­Christendom: changing contexts of power and identity, Cambridge-New York: 38–61 Strootman, R. 2013b, “Babylonian, Macedonian, King of the World: The Antiochos Cylinder from Borsippa and Seleukid imperial integration”, in E. Stavrianopoulou (ed.), Shifting social imag­ inaries in the Hellenistic period, Leiden-Boston, Brill: 67–97 Tal, O., 2009, “On the identification of the ships KZD/RY in the erased Customs Account from Elephantine”, JNES 68/1: 1–8. Tavernier, J., 2008, “Multilingualism in the Fortification and Treasury archives,” in Briant, Henkelman & Stolper (éds.): 59–86 Tavernier, J., forthcoming, “Trying to avoid chaos. The use of languages on the various levels of administration,” Paper presented at the Workshop, Administration of the Achaemenid Empire – Tracing the imperial signature (Landgut Castelen bei Basel, 14–17 Mai 2013) Thonemann, P., 2009, “Estates and the land in early Hellenistic Asia Minor: the estate of Crateuas,” Chiron 39: 391–394 Thonemann, P., 2012, “Alexander, Priene and Naulochon,” in P. Martzavou & N. Papazarkadas (eds.), Epigraphical approaches to the post­classical polis: fourth century to second century A. D., Oxford: 23–36 Tuplin, C. (ed.), 2007, Persian Responses: political and cultural interaction with(in) the Achae­ menid empire, Swansea Tuplin, C., 2008, “The Seleucids and their Achaemenid predecessors: a Persian inheritance?,” in S. M. Reza Darbandi & A. Zournatzi (eds.), Ancient Greece and Ancient Iran: cross­cultural encounters, Athens: 109–136 Tuplin, C., 2009a, “The Gadatas Letter,” in L. Mitchell & L. Rubinstein (eds.), Greek History and Epigraphy. Essays in Honour of P. J. Rhodes, Swansea: 155–184 Tuplin, C. 2009b, “Culture and power: some concluding remarks”, in Briant & Chauveau (edd.): 415–427 Tuplin, C., 2011, “The limits of persianization. Some reflections on cultural links in the Persian empire,” in Gruen (ed.): 150–182 Tuplin, C. 2013, The Arshama Letters from the Bodleian Library. III: Commentary, downloadable at https://www.academia.edu/5783493/The_Arshama_letters_in_the_Bodleian_library

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Tuplin, C. 2014, “From Arshama to Alexander. Reflections on Persian responses to attack”, in: S. Gaspa et al. (ed.), From source to history. Studies on Ancient Near Eastern worlds and beyond, Münster: 669–696 Vaïsse, A. M., 2004, Les ‘révoltes égyptiennes’. Recherches sur les troubles internes en Égypte du règne de Ptolémée III à la conquête romaine (Studia Hellenistica 41), Leuven Van der Spek, R., 2015, ‘Coming to terms with the Persian Empire: some concluding remarks and responses,’ in Silverman & Waerzeggers (eds.): 447–477 Vittmann, G., 2003, Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtaused, Mainz Vittmann, G., 2009, “Rupture and continuity: on priests and officials in Egypt during the Persian period,” in Briant & Chauveau (éds.): 89–121 Vittmann, G., 2011, “Ägypten zur Zeit der Perserherrschaft,” in Rollinger, Truschnegg & Bichler (Hg.): 373–429 Vittmann, G., 2012, “Two early Demotic letters” in C. Zivie-Coche & I. Guermeur (eds.), ‘Parcourir l’éternité’. Hommages à Jean Yoyotte, Turnhout, II: 1075–1095 Von Bomhard, A. S., 2012, The Decree of Sais: the stelae of Thonis­Herakleion and Naukratis, Oxford Vössing, K. 2013, “Alexandre au banquet entre amis et sujets: la proskynèse”, in C. Grandjean, C. Hugoniot & B. Lion (éds.), Le banquet du monarque dans le monde antique, Rennes, Tours: 231–260 Waerzeggers, C., 2003/4, “The Babylonian revolts against Xerxes and the ‘end of archives’,” AfO 50: 150–173 Waerzeggers, C., 2014, “A statue of Darius in the temple of Sippar,” in Kozuh et al. (eds.): 323–329 Wasmuth, M., 2010, “Integration of foreigners – New insights from the stela found in Saqqara in 1994,” in Curtis & Simpson (eds.): 535–543 Wasmuth, M., 2015, ‘Political memory in the Achaemenid Empire: the integration of Egyptian kingship into Persian royal display,” in Silverman & Waerzeggers (eds.): 203–237 Waters, M., 2014, “Earth, water and friendship with the King: Argos and Persia in the mid-fifth century B. C.,” in Kozuh et al. (eds.): 331–336 Watts, J. W. (ed.), 2001, Persia and Torah. The theory of imperial authorization of the Pentateuch (SBL Symposium Studies 7), Atlanta GA Wiemer, H. U., 2007, “Alexander – der letzte Achaimenide? Eroberungspolitik, lokale Eliten und altorientalische Traditionen im Jahr 323,” Historische Zeitschrift 284: 281–309 Wiesehöfer, J., 2007, “The Achaemenid empire in the fourth century B. C.: a period of decline?,” in O. Lipschitz et al. (ed.), Judah and the Judeans in the fourth century B. C., Winona Lake IN: 11–30 Wiesehöfer, J., 2009, “Die altorientalische Stadt – Vorbild für die griechische Bürgergemeinde (Polis)?,” in G. Fouquet & G. Zeilinger (Hg.), Die Urbanisierung Europas von der Antike bis in die Moderne, Bern: 43–61 Yoyotte, J., 2001, “Le second affichage du décret de l’an 2 de Nekhtnebef et la découverte de Thônis-Héracleion,” Égypte, Afrique et Orient 24: 25–34 Yoyotte, J. 2013, “The Egyptian statue of Darius,” in Perrot (ed.): 262–279 [French original 2010]

INTRODUCTION

1 CENTRAL POWER AND CULTURAL POLYCENTRISM IN THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE Some observations and suggestions* Among the empires of Antiquity, the Achaemenid empire presents historians with a number of fundamental questions which, so far, remain unanswered and debated. Prominent among them, there is one relating to the empire’s structure, which has given rise to some partial studies that have not generally been incorporated into a global historical vision. The problem we face is that of the nature and effectiveness of the power exercised by the Great King and the ruling group over the territories and populations of a state whose ethno-cultural diversity is its most striking characteristic. The few studies that exist1 suggest that, on the whole, historians and archaeologists have a tendency to reduce (in various ways) the central power’s impact on what is usually called local autonomy, which continued unchanged after Cyrus’ and Cambyses’ conquests and Darius’ reforms. And that is the problem I should like to address in what follows. Given the limited space available, I obviously have no pretentions to provide a complete answer to these questions. Nor do I intend to put forward an assessment, nor draw up a bibliographical inventory. I shall limit myself to some thoughts and suggestions which I hope will stimulate a broader debate. 1 POWER AND CONTROL 1.1 Centralisation and autonomy One thing that must be avoided is setting up alternatives – central power or local autonomies, or: centralisation or decentralisation. While they appear to contradict each other, the two aspects – central and local – appear side by side, regularly in all the empire’s regions and in accordance with patterns appropriate to each. In one respect, centralisation of powers is an undeniable fact when we limit the question to relations between the king, central administrators and satrapal authorities. Greek texts stress the political control exercised by the king over the imperial * 1

First published as ‘Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’empire achéménide: quelques réflexions et suggestions,’ in H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg (ed.), Achaemenid History I: Sources, structures, synthesis, Leiden 1987: 1–31. For a comparative study, note the important article by G. Fussman, ‘Pouvoir central et régions de l’Inde ancienne” (1982).

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space. Certainly that is Xenophon’s idea (Cyrop.VIII 6) as expressed by Cyrus: the dispatch of satraps with orders to administer and control tributary peoples and places is accompanied by measures intended to prevent these high dignitaries evading royal supervision. Thus the king exercises direct control over the chief citadels (§ 9), royal representatives are sent to each satrap in order to monitor him (§ 16), a postal service is created “to overcome the immensity of his empire” (§§ 17–19). Of course, citing such (and similar) texts is not enough to establish the general and permanent efficacy of the measures mentioned and there is a traceable change over time. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that the system of Persian power survived down to Alexander, despite evidence for centrifugal tendencies even within the dominant class itself. But Persian representations (inscriptions and monuments) of the imperial space can create an illusion that misleads one into accepting it as a reality. Inside the imperial frontiers, the peoples and regions were never set into a unified political and administrative framework despite the overarching satrapal pattern – the opposite, in fact, is the case. The Achaemenids allowed the continued existence (where they had not recreated it themselves, e. g. Jerusalem) of long established political structures – whether they were ethnē, kingdoms (Paphlagonia, Cadusians, India), dynasties (Caria), hyparchies (Sogdiana-Bactria), cities (Greek, Phoenician, Babylonian) or temple-communities (Jerusalem, Egypt, Babylonia). The diversity of their status and situations is so impressive that the reality of Achaemenid territorial power has been doubted. Although I have presented this in a schematic fashion, the patterns of Achaemenid power show that there can be no question of choosing between two theses, each as simplistic as the other: – a centralist image, arising from texts dealing with the relations king/satraps and based on the implicit postulate that a state formation in antiquity can be analysed with the help of concepts and ideas that came into being (late and exclusive to Europe) of the Nation State – the Achaemenid lands were not nation states, and the Achaemenid satrapies were not administrative districts of an overly centralised republic like France; – an “autonomist” thesis, which – taking the unique character of the various subject lands as its starting point – tends to deny the reality and practical effectiveness of the Achaemenid impact, whose authority is largely limited to the network of the great royal roads. 1.2 Local powers and imperial control The real problem is to understand how the mutual interplay and reaction of these two realities worked in such a way that it made the relative longevity of the Achaemenid empire possible. To do this, I think the first important point is to distinguish (in the first instance, at least) local power and Achaemenid control. The two are not mutually exclusive nor can they be superimposed on each other: they can complete and reinforce each other as long as the central power commands the necessary

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means. The action taken by Artaphernes after the Ionian Revolt (Hdt. VI 42–43) is revealing in this respect. Following on the brutal reprisals (destructions, massacres, confiscations, deportations), came the measures which Herodotus describes as ‘pacific’ and ‘advantageous for the Ionians’ (§ 42). One of them was intended to prohibit inter-city wars, one of the scourges of international life in Asia Minor as in Greece; the other, to establish the amount of tribute payable by each city on a new basis. Herodotus is right to link two measures that look so disparate: they are two aspects of one and the same policy vis-à-vis the cities, which the satrap aimed to ‘pacify’. Artaphernes did not intend to raise the tribute, which stayed roughly “what it had been earlier”, to a crushing level. Besides, how could he have realistically expected to order an increase in tribute for cities emerging in ruins after the revolt? His aim was less financial than political. The basic objective was to secure the internal stability of the cities, for whom the issue of territorial boundaries had always been a bone of contention. Henceforth, each city’s territory, properly defined and measured, was registered in the royal archives at Sardis which tracked any changes (donations, confiscations); thus the Achaemenid administration became the guarantor of the extent of civic territory. This had two advantages: in the first place, it guaranteed the regularity of tribute collection, which was probably calculated as a pro rata of the cultivated surface. But, more important, the authorities were now well aware that frontier disputes were at the root of most inter-city wars. So the Persian administration took action to regulate relations between neighbouring cities: in case of disputes, the cities were obliged to seek arbitration, which was inevitably decided with reference to the official record held in the satrapal archives in Sardis. This procedure had two important consequences for the relationship between satrap and cities: should two cities go to war, they were infringing an imperial regulation and thus acting rebelliously, hence that is how they would be treated. Also, if a city refused to submit to arbitration, the satrap could intervene and force it to adhere to his judgement. A fourth century inscription (Tod II, no. 113) illustrates the procedure envisaged by Artaphernes: Strouthas, the ‘satrap of Ionia’ intervened in a boundary dispute between Myus and Miletus. It shows that the Achaemenid administration did not wish to intervene directly: on receiving the appeal from the cities, the king entrusted to Strouthas the task of assembling the ‘judges of the Ionians’; when Myus refused to accept the verdict, the satrap’s role was to uphold it; in doing that he was acting in conformity with the decision of the Ionians themselves. Artaphernes’ measures were thus in perfect accord with Achaemenid practice which was less concerned with governing the cities than controlling them by stopping and prohibiting wars. The maintenance of order and stability were the foundations of Artaphernes’ policy. The administration therefore registered any recent changes – such as the confiscation of Milesian land (Hdt. VI 20) – but any subsequent changes were either forbidden or rigorously regulated. So Herodotus is not wrong in speaking of ‘pacific’ measures, although we must remember that what is at issue is the Pax Achaemenida which made internal autonomy and royal control neatly compatible. And we should add that, when faced with the socio-political organisation of local powers, the Achaemenid administration had no ideological pref-

46

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erences: after initially supporting tyrants, it installed democracies in the Ionian cities (Hdt. VI 43), and Diodorus (X 25) was probably right in calling Artaphernes (not Mardonios) the author of the change. The Persians simply drew the political conclusion about internal civic dynamics and understood that one of the conditions for re-establishing internal, and thus imperial, order was the occasional expulsion of tyrants – and, just like the tyrannies, the democratic regimes too had to submit to the control of satrapal authority. 1.3 Widranga and the sanctuaries of Syene-Elephantine The Persian authorities also refrained from intervening directly in other kinds of internal affairs in formally recognised communities – unless the need to maintain order forced them to do so. This emerges very clearly on the occasion of the quarrel that broke out on Elephantine between devotees of Yahweh and the adherents of Khnûm.2 The royal response to the Jewish complaints was mediated through Jerusalem as the only Judaean community officially validated by the central power.3 The royal decision did not concern in any way the religious affairs of the Jewish community on Elephantine which were regulated by the Jerusalem authorities: religious matters as such were not the point of Darius [II]’s firman. Religion lay beyond the purview of the Persian chancelleries. In the empire of the Great King the administration recognised neither the orthodox nor schismatics, but only various peoples whose beliefs, for the sake of peace in the realm, it was best to tolerate, provided public order was not endangered. Thus the purpose of the letter addressed to the tiny Elephantine community was to deal with religious matter that had repercussions in the political domain.4 When, a few years later, the satrap Arshama again intervened in Elephantine, his sole concern was the re-establishment of public order which had been disturbed by petty quarrels and violence.5 2 3 4 5

The documents making up the dossier can be found in P. Grelot, DAE (1972): 378–419; [Lindenberger 2003, nos. 30–36]. [See below Chapter 5 & 3]. A. Vincent, La religion (1937): 249. Ibid.: 307. I am not inclined to believe in the existence “at the royal court as well as in the chancelleries of the various satrapies [of a] kind of ministry of cults charged with the close supervision and regulation of the religious activities of the their subjects…” (A. Dupont-Sommer, ‘Texte trilingue’ (1974): 141). On the contrary, it was in very pragmatic fashion, as needed, and often in response to appeals from those involved, that satraps intervened (mostly indirectly) in such matters. At Xanthos, where the Aramaic text implies satrapal confirmation of a decree passed by the Xanthians (Dupont-Sommer, “L’inscription araméenne” (1979): 143), I think it very unlikely that Pixodaros’ involvement was with religious affairs as such (the setting up of a new cult and sanctuary). It was more likely the political and fiscal implications (grant of a sacred domain) which demanded his attention, and to which he was alerted by his representative on the spot (Artemelis) and his two Lycian subordinates (Hieron and Apollodotos). As a result, the Achaemenid authority became the guarantor of the material clauses of the new cult and was required to intervene should, for instance, the land grant to the god be contested. It is even conceivable that the Xanthians themselves demanded such action by the satrapal authorities in

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1.4. Tattenaï at Jerusalem Yet the administration was not so lax as to allow local power to develop a policy which might run counter to the interests of the empire. These local powers were overseen by the satrapal authorities on whom they depended and who had at their disposal an effective information network. Witness the situation in Jerusalem at the beginning of Darius I’s reign. The obvious unrest did not escape the eyes of Tattenai, satrap of Beyond the River, and his subordinates. An enquiry was instituted and the matter reached the ears of Darius who, citing a Cyrus memorandum, ordered Tattenaï and his colleagues to permit the Judaeans to rebuild their temple (Ezra 5–6). New accusations were levelled against the Jerusalem community early in Xerxes’, and again in Artaxerxes’, reign by “Mithridates, Tabeel and his other colleagues,” who wrote to the king to alert him to the potential danger presented by the rebuilding of the city walls: “If this city is rebuilt […] they will not pay tribute, custom or toll and the royal revenue will be reduced […] We make known to the king that, if this city is rebuilt and its walls finished, you will then have no possessions in the province Beyond the River” (Ezra 4. 12–16). 1.5. Imperial history and regional studies The brief analysis of these cases – limited as they are in time and space – does not allow us to provide a definitive answer to the question posed at the start. Only an exhaustive study of all such events within the empire and for the whole of its existence can provide general and securely founded conclusions – hence the pressing need for more chronologically wide-ranging regional studies. We also need to distinguish ‘types’ in this diverse cluster of organisations labelled for the sake of convenience ‘local powers’: Miletus is not Jerusalem, and Paphlagonia is not Babylonia. Nevertheless, as a first step, we can broadly assume that relations between the central and local powers was regulated by written or oral agreements or treaties. This is true of the Jewish community in Jerusalem which received a veritable charorder to have a ‘secular arm’ involved with the maintenance of social order, while the inscription casts the avenging gods in the role of guarantors of religious order. The linked threats – intervention by the Achaemenid authority and avenging gods – would, one imagines, suffice to keep at bay any attempt to damage the new sanctuary and the privileges granted to its priests. Should there be problems in the years to come, the civil and religious authorities of Xanthos could appeal to the satrap’s local representatives or the satrap himself, or yet the king in the case of unrest caused by the illegal encroachment of satrapal power. Compare the letter of Darius to Gadatas (l.5: punthanomai) where the king’s intervention is in response to a complaint lodged by the management of the Apollo sanctuary against Gadatas: see the apposite comments by G. Cousin & G. Deschamps, ‘Lettre’ (1898): 534–535, and L. Boffo, ‘Lettera’ (1978): 292–294 [but see now below Chapter 4]. The reference to the satrap and his local subordinates in Lycia thus constituted a guarantee for the Xanthians, not merely a sign of the city’s dependence on him. The whole affair is a nice illustration of the fact that, in the Achaemenid empire, the relationship between satrapal and local power must be analysed using a complex dialectic. [On the relations between Pixodaros and Xanthos, see now below Chapter 3].

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ter from the king, as well as the Zagros peoples (Uxians, Cossaeans), whose relations with the Great King were based on the practice of gift and counter-gift. It also applies to some of the Arab and Saka groups, who had drawn up what were essentially treaties with the crown, and to Miletus, whose relations with Cyrus were defined within the framework of a formal agreement. With the proviso that they fulfil the military and tributary obligations imposed, these rulers, dynasts, cities, communities conducted their internal affairs as they wished: there was only a ‘clash’ if such local powers failed in their dues and/or tried to encroach on the sovereignty of the Great King. In the final analysis then, relations were based on force – it is not mere chance that several revolts by the conquered were mounted during the, often troubled, times of dynastic succession. 2 TEXT AND IMAGE 2.1 An elusive empire? With reference to this, there is a definite contrast between the broad image created by an examination of the archaeological evidence and the one gained from reading the written sources. This contrast has frequently been stressed, for example, in the case of Bactria, where every archaeologist is struck by the cultural continuities right through and beyond the Achaemenid period which has, as a result, become a kind of epiphenomenon leaving no visible and verifiable trace in the manner of life and culture of Bactria between c.550 and 330. Whether one is looking at irrigation techniques, pottery or military architecture, the Achaemenid imprint seems to be absent from the Bactrian archaeological landscape, while the classical texts (and some of the Persepolis tablets) frequently refer to its royal roads, satraps, the levying of tribute and military contingents and Achaemenid garrisons.6 Ephraim Stern reached the same conclusion in his analysis of Achaemenid period archaeology in the Palestinian area:7 “We are thus confronted with the astonishing fact that the material culture of Palestine exhibits no influences of the ruling Persians, for whom the period is named, and only some slight influence can be seen in the several pottery types, a few pieces of jewellery and metalware […] The major influence exerted during the lengthy period of Persian rule of Palestine is attested only indirectly in all the fields connected with the foreign administration, such as government, military organisation, economic life and taxation […] It is therefore clear that Persian influence in Palestine was more marked in matters of administration than in the material culture.” (pp. 236–237)

Nor does the Babylonian picture diverge substantially: while Achaemenid influence is clear in palatial architecture and glyptic, many sectors of Babylonian material life persisted without any notable change.8 And we find the same again in Egypt. John 6 7 8

The results of the archaeological teams working in Bactria (in particular that directed by Jean Claude Gardin) are presented and discussed in detail in my book L’Asie Centrale (1984). E. Stern, Material Culture (1982). E. Haerinck, ‘Caractérisation de la culture matérielle en Mésopotamie sous les Achéménides’, Paper presented at the Achaemenid Workshop, Groningen 1983 [published as ‘La neuvième satrapie: archéologie confronte histoire?’ [sic], AchHist 1(1987): 139–145].

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Cooney9 writes, for example: “Even with the most painstaking effort, only a negligible trace of Persian influence can be traced in Egyptian products of this time […] On Egyptian architecture, Persian art had no influence whatever.” To which we may add George Michaélidis’ insistence that the Persians “left relatively few traces in the Nile Valley,” followed by: “The Achaemenids occupied the land militarily and never conquered it, they camped there […] but never settled.”10 That, too, was most recently Roger Moorey’s11 conclusion in his survey of the archaeological evidence for Achaemenid rule in the lands of the Middle East. In drawing the political implications, he fits the archaeological analysis into his view of Achaemenid territorial domination as weak, corroborated, as he sees it, by the material he has presented: “Material traces of the two hundred years of Persian rule in the Near East are still generally elusive. In many regions of their far-flung empire, this period is amongst the least known archaeologically […] Persian influence was geographically restricted and socially superficial in all but a very few areas over which they at one time or another had authority. In government and administration they adopted and modified rather than radically changed what they had gained by conquest or annexation. Existing administrative hierarchies were crowned and reinforced with imperial civil servants and military officers, not transformed to a standard pattern. In religious matters, the Persian administration was unusually tolerant and accommodating, sympathetic to traditional custom and practice, nowhere seeking to force their own cults by edicts […] The Persian contribution was generally confined to the reconstruction of existing administrative buildings or to the creation of parks and palaces in the Iranian manner, particularly in satrapal capitals […] In some regions, notably Egypt, Persian cultural influence was very slight, confined to decorative features which need sharp investigation to detect them […]” (p. 128).

So the sparse quantity of archaeological material is striking and no-one would ever deny that Achaemenid domination allowed the survival of local cultures. What is rather more surprising is the weakness of Persian cultural influence. But the real challenge is how to interpret this archaeological evidence, and here divergences may ultimately emerge. For Roger Moorey, it is easy to pinpoint the reason: “As rulers, they [the Achaemenids] seem primarily to have lived in enclaves or in military strongholds, widely scattered, but linked by a highly efficient communication system and by the strongly centralized administration it served and fostered” (p. 128). From which it follows, if I have understood the argument, that the rest, i. e. most of the territories remained outside their permanent control. Such a view means implicitly denying the structural and functional connection that existed (as I see it)12 between military occupation and the control of space and tributary populations – in other words, reducing to their simplest expression the spatial realities of the Great King’s rule. And this is exactly the point of view of several ‘Bactrian’ archaeologists who think that the major works of water management undertaken in the Achaemenid period have nothing to do with Achaemenid initiative, as neither the techniques of construction (well attested prior to the Achaemenid period) nor the 9 10 11 12

J. D. Cooney, ‘The portrait of an Egyptian collaborator’ (1953): 1. G. Michaélidis, “Quelques objets inédits d’époque perse,’ (1943): p. 91. P. R. S. Moorey, ‘Deve Hüyük II in context: the archaeological evidence for Persian occupation of the Near East c.550–330 B. C.’, in Cemeteries (1980) p. 128–142. See in particular RTP (1982): 175–225.

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pottery shows any sign of Achaemenid intervention. In such presentations, the various countries concerned continued to live their own lives which were only very transiently troubled by the Persian conquest. If we take this further, we might even ask whether it is proper to speak of an empire at all when, in all the main sections of socio-cultural life, the dominant ethnic group never held the initiative. 2.2 Local cultures and Achaemenid impact Anyone trying to analyse the imperial structures obviously has to take this archaeological evidence into account. But what I should like to focus on here is the validity of the historical inferences made by archaeologists. Three observations, not equally important, will serve as a guide to the discussion. First, ‘Achaemenid antiquities’ are not absent in the countries considered, and may even be fairly abundant in others. In Bactria, for instance, Achaemenid influence is very much present, especially visible in seals and goldsmith production. For Elena Kuz’mina, “Bactrian art, in the 5th–4th centuries, was a branch of Achaemenid art, albeit independent, which played a major role in the later development of artistic creation in Central Asia and the art of the Eurasian steppes.”13 However, such a quantitative argument is only effective relatively. Such Achaemenid antiquities do not provide conclusive proof for those interested in the density of Persian power in whichever region is being considered: there is no automatic connection between the number of Achaemenid items and Achaemenid power. The presence of such objects (jewellery, seals, small items) merely confirms what we find elsewhere, namely that the Persian presence in the conquered lands is marked by the installation of Persian ‘colonies’ (civil and military): the Persians of the di­ aspora may very well have used these objects, so that the argument becomes tautological – just as the great number of Anahita sanctuaries in western Asia Minor are attributable to the desire of the Persians there to practise their own cults. Of course, here and there signs of acculturation emerged in accordance with a variety of patterns and at different levels of intensity (§ 3.5). In particular, we should note local élites keen to identify with the conquerors and frequently expressing that by borrowing some of the external attributes of the ruling class. But such borrowings were often partial and integrated into local traditions to the extent that interpreting them at the political level becomes ambiguous: see, for example, the statue of the ‘collaborator’ Ptah-hotep, sculpted in accordance with the Egyptian traditional canon, yet wearing garments and jewellery that are typically Persian.14

13 14

E. Kuz’mina, ‘Les relations entre la Bactriane et l’Iran’ (1977). Cooney, 1953; see also A. R. Shulman, ‘A Persian gesture from Memphis,’ (1981).

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2.3 Between culture and politics Rather more important, in my view, is that, when faced with the available documentation the historian or archaeologist must ask himself on the basis of what analytical criteria (s)he will tend towards one view rather than another. A document can only answer the questions put to it. Depending on the form and substance of questions, replies will vary and can be contradictory. Apart from observing cultural continuities, the question is a political one and the two aspects cannot be assimilated to each other. What criteria are used to determine that a particular monument or object is clear evidence of local continuity? What are the elements which, when considering an archaeological item from the Achaemenid period, allow the commentator to use it in one sense rather than another? In this respect, the analysis of archaeological material poses methodological problems analogous to those raised by reading texts. The outer form of a monument or institution represents one of the analytical elements, just one among many, and not necessarily the most crucial one. What is more important and needs to be considered is the monument’s or institution’s function within the historical context from which they have emerged. What I mean is that it is not enough to emphasise the typical local forms of this or that monument/institution in order to conclude ipso facto that it shows by itself the weakness of Achaemenid control in the region under consideration. It could be so, but requires, to carry conviction, to be based on more evidence, which may corroborate the archaeological picture (which would thus gain scientific validity), but could also offer an alternative one: what is important is to be aware of the inconsistency. Another possibility should not be ignored, namely that the Achaemenid authority could adopt, either willingly or of necessity, a local manner of presenting itself in order to impose its law and control. It is better not to argue by plumping for one or the other – central or local power – and preferable to examine the local ways and means used by the Achaemenid regime, case by case. A canal that has been dug using typically Bactrian techniques could have been done on the initiative of the Achaemenid authority; a citadel built using Central Asian methods may well be fulfilling a protective function in Achaemenid governmental interests; similarly, a typical Bactrian institution such as the syllogos of hyparchs may have been used by the Persian régime and serve the function of incorporating the Bactrian nobility into the Achaemenid military organisation;15 although the Darius statue from Susa was carved using Egyptian techniques, it nevertheless promulgates a fully Achaemenid ideological message: there are many examples of such apparent contradictions between form and content. Here the linguistic situation in the Achaemenid empire provides an instructive parallel. The language of the conquerors never became the language of the empire: its use remained limited to the circle of the ethnic ruling group. In order to govern, i. e. in order to impose their decisions on an extraordinarily heterogeneous population, the conquerors used the extant languages. So we have the Achaemenid linguistic paradox: the medium of regional languages and scripts (Greek, Lycian, demotic, hieroglyphic, Hebrew, Akkadian) as well as inter-regional (Aramaic) provided ac15

Briant, Asie centrale (1984): 82–86.

52

Introduction

cess to the regulations issued by the central power, and it is essentially through the images provided by their enemies and subjects that we must reconstitute, for better or worse, Achaemenid history. All these examples show very clearly that the circumstances in which a document (archaeological or written) was produced determines largely the way in which the historian/archaeologist looks at it. From the moment when, for reasons well-known, Achaemenid history is reconstructed on the basis of regional forms, it is plain that the documentary corpus, as it is historically constituted, reflects the strength of local traditions – but that is not a reason for mechanically inferring the weakness of Achaemenid rule in relation to local regimes. 2.4 Archaeological sources and written documentation These reservations are not intended to dictate a preference for one mode of reading over another. I just want to observe that giving political interpretations based exclusively on archaeological evidence is a risky procedure; yet it would, of course, be absurd to try to erase the archaeological picture of the empire. The problem is that, in this kind of research, the conjunction between archaeological and literary documentation is rarely perfect. There are instances where literary evidence is completely lacking, which is the problem we face when looking at the history of the Iranian Plateau and Central Asia.16 Elsewhere, the written material makes it possible to tackle with more confidence the problem of contacts between Persian conquerors and local inhabitants. 3 THE ETHNIC RULING CLASS, IMPERIAL POWER AND ACCULTURATION The reservations expressed above do not cover all possibilities – they simply open up other possible approaches. The archaeology of the empire continues to force historians to grapple with the question of how to explain the relatively slight Persian cultural impact in the conquered countries. How far is there not a contradiction between the wish expressed by the Persians to control lands and peoples and their incapacity to impose or create norms and values that could have cemented real loyalty to the empire? 3.1 Persian cultural homogeneity In the first place, I think that the sparseness of archaeological evidence for Persian cultural influence is the reflection of a deliberate policy employed by the Achaemenids and Persians themselves, who jealously guarded their ethnic-cultural, and thus political, identity – which is why I use the expression ethno­classe17. Persian his16 17

Ibid.: 49–68. [See also below Chapter 5]

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tory, i. e. the history of the Persian community, did not suddenly end with the beginning of Achaemenid history, by which I mean the history of an empire created by the Persian ethnic group. The Great King continued to proclaim himself an Aryan, Persian, son of a Persian, Achaemenid, King in Persia. Persis (Fārs) remained the heart of the empire as the royal inscriptions make plain. At the same time, the privileges of power were reserved to members of the Persian aristocracy who – depending on the whims of royal favour – shared out among themselves the top posts in all the conquered lands where they received land and benefactions. Inasmuch as a ruling group is both numerically small and zealously attached to the advantages to be gained from the exploitation of conquered lands, it is well aware of the necessity to keep intact its cultural characteristics and not let them be diluted in some kind of melting pot which would entail a division of its powers and privileges. When a Persian moved in the empire, he took with him his wife, children and servants as well as his beliefs, habits and language; and, once arrived in the province to which he had been appointed by the king, he joined the Persian community which existed in each of the great imperial cities. The way in which Xenophon (Cyrop.VIII 6,10–12) describes Cyrus’ measures for installing satraps and Persians in each of the provinces is revealing: the satrap was to recreate a royal court in miniature (hierarchy, etiquette, banquets, paradise); the Persians of the provinces, in receipt of benefactions and lands, were obliged to send their sons to the satrapal court in order to receive an education of the kind dispensed at the court of the king. In each satrapy, in short, a ‘Small Persia’ was created and everything arranged so that it would reproduce itself there, both biologically and culturally, and thus politically. The safeguarding of these traditions and the ‘purity’ of the community was a sine qua non for the maintenance of the ruling group’s prestige and power. There is no hint that the Persians had any desire to be missionaries of their religion; while we find many Anahita sanctuaries in Asia Minor, their appearance is linked directly to the installation of numerous Persian civil and military colonies – not to a ‘diffusion’ of Persian cults in the strict sense of the word.18 3.2 Persian power and local cultural traditions Such a theoretically fixed system developed a number of inconsistencies over time, both within the ruling group itself (cf. §§ 4–5) and in the sphere of its relations with the élites of the conquered lands. 18

See Robert’s apposite thoughts (L. Robert, ‘Monnaies’ (1976): 37 & n. 60 (p. 38): “When the Persian colonists were officially established by the kings in Hypaipa, as in so many other places in Lydia and western Asia Minor – […] – they brought their gods, their language, which was so enduring in cult and the onomasticon, their fire and magi, so they had no reason to dress some obscure local divinity à la perse […] The Persian cult was implanted, and there was no administrative turning […] of an indigenous cult into an official Iranian one […]”. On the Anahita sanctuaries in Asia Minor, see also RTP: 457 ff. and Irina Diakonoff, ‘Artemidi Anaeiti anestèsen,’ (1979). [But see below Chapter 2, and Chapter 25 § 4].

54

Introduction

To some degree, the policy of exclusion and exclusivity fitted with the acknowledgement of local cultural specificity, as the available evidence reveals particularly in the religious domain: the internal development of the ruling class effectively implies that each cultural community in the empire had the possibility to perpetuate itself. Moreover, the creators of the empire endeavoured to make systematic use of the pre-existing structures as transmitters of their power which had been imposed recently by armed force, in such a way that they appeared more as continuators than destroyers. It is not sheer chance that the lives of Astyages, Croesus and Nabonidus were spared – one need only think of Cyrus’ policy in Babylon, or that of Cambyses and Darius in Egypt. The Achaemenid kings co-opted the local élites in order to try and impose a smooth transition from the preceding rulers to their own control. And it is precisely this ideological strategy which Alexander developed later in the Achaemenid regions he had just conquered. But such a policy was not immune to inconsistencies. It was not exclusively dependent on the political intelligence of the Great Kings, nor were they its sole beneficiaries. The strategy was a necessary response: to absorb with minimum outlay (human and material) extant structures that might still be prepared to offer military resistance to Achaemenid armies. So the Great Kings had to make concessions, at least initially: Cyrus in Babylon, for instance, had to grant tax exemptions to citizens and various privileges to temples,19 while the contemporary Akkadian texts show that the image of Persian monarchy was literally ‘babylonised’. Similarly, Udjahorresnet’s autobiography egyptianised Cambyses and Darius.20 In other words, such collaboration was founded on a contract or, perhaps better, on an exchange from which both parties expected to profit/benefit. The Babylonian and Egyptian élites agreed to recognise the Achaemenid kings as their rulers, but in the guise/name of Babylonian and Egyptian values and traditions which they, in turn, agreed to honour. The Great Kings, in other words, committed themselves to restoring to the élites their privileges and not violating their country’s traditions. 3.3 Persian power and local élites This policy certainly paid off in the short term. But in the longer term, cross purposes made themselves felt. The conquerors, of course, were set on extracting the maximum profit from their victories, by strengthening royal control over Babylonian temples, confiscating land for the Persian sovereign’s use, installing military colonies, drastically restricting the revenues of Egyptian temples. The first revolts which broke out in Babylonia and Egypt under Darius I and Xerxes marked a brutal turning point in both places: Xerxes’ plan was to turn Egypt into a province like all others;21 and in Babylonia, as de Liagre Böhl rightly stressed, from the Persian 19 20 21

Cf. A. Kuhrt, ‘Cyrus Cylinder’ (1983). See most recently the detailed commentary by A. B. Lloyd, ‘The inscription of Udjahorresnet’ (1982). F. Kienitiz, Politische Geschichte Ägyptens (1953): 67.

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perspective, the events of 484–482 were as important as the expedition to Europe and the Battle of Salamis.22 The strategy of ideological consensus was succeeded by that of military repression23 which could only lead in the long term to an accentuation of the privileges held by the Persian régime in the face of local opposition. If the strategy were to bear more enduring fruit, it required Persian acceptance of the need to share power. With the exception of the Medes, some of whom occupied high military posts under Cyrus and Darius,24 it seems that the Persians only granted secondary roles to local collaborators. Of course, many foreigners were recruited into the service of the king, who rewarded their loyalty with honours and gifts,25 but they remained in very much a subordinate position. The evidence provides a solitary example of a Greek who was ‘admitted to the rank of the Persians’.26 One can well imagine that such exclusivity will have created rancour and frustration among the élites of the conquered lands, and we have several instances that show how they sought to identify themselves with the ruling ethno-class. With the system based on the impermeability of power it allowed communities to perpetuate their traditions and culture – which means that in several countries the awareness of belonging to an ethno-cultural group whose principles and goals were opposed to those of the Persians remained very much alive. We see this very clearly in Egypt where popular literature, theatre and even naming practices27 bear witness to resistance to the ‘Medes’, those conquerors and oppressors. A Ptolemaic demotic text illustrates nicely the strength and endurance of such anti-Persian sentiments.28 For Egyptians, the word ‘Mede’ became synonymous with ‘soldier’ and ‘conqueror’.29 The Persians also appeared in the role of ruthless tribute collectors.30 The adoption of pharaonic titulature by Cambyses and Darius could not conceal for long such inconsistencies, especially as, at the point when Cambyses took over Egypt, pharaonic power had lost much of its ancient prestige and lustre.31

22 23 24

25 26 27 28 29 30 31

F. M. Th. de Liagre Böhl, ‘Die babylonischen Prätendenten,’ (1962): 113. [Cf. above Foreword, note 12] On this issue, cf. RTP: 175–176, 432–434, 467–473. Harpagus and Mazares commanded armies in Asia Minor after 546 (Hdt. I 156, 162); the Mede Takmaspada was in command of one of Darius’ armies in 522 (DB II 33); for Darius’ European expedition, we know of Datis. In contrast, few Medes are discernible in the 5th and 4th centuries: supreme power remains overwhelmingly in the hands of Persians. Note that two Median revolts are alluded to (the second is an interpolation) by Xenophon: Hell. I 2,19. See, for example, J. Wiesehöfer, “Wohltäter”,’ (1980). Hdt. VI 41: more exactly, Metiochus, son of Miltiades, obtained from Darius the right to wed a Persian wife; the children of the marriage would be admitted to the rank of the Persians. Cf. RTP: 495 & n. 14; on the names, see N. Guentch-Ogloeff, ‘Noms’ (1941) [but see below Chapter 5 § 5.4.2]. E. Bresciani, ‘La spedizione di Tolomeo II’ (1978). E. Bresciani, ‘Persai tēs epigonēs,’ (1972): 123–125. D. S. XI 71. See especially A. Spalinger, ‘The concept of the monarch,’ (1978).

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Introduction

3.4 From Egypt to Bactria These suggestions need to be verified using examples from other regions, which may present a different picture. The Egyptian instance cannot simply be extended to the whole of the empire, given that it is the only country which succeeded in reconnecting with its millennial old history for sixty years before being brutally reconquered in 343. Moreover, the success of Egyptian dynasts cannot be explained simply by general hostility to the conquerors: Egypt’s involvement in the Aegean rivalry between Athens and the Achaemenids was an external factor that must be taken into account. One should probably also treat the Iranian lands (Iranian Plateau and Central Asia), with whom the Persians shared many cultural features, quite separately. Their attitude when confronting Alexander may serve as a touch-stone: while Egypt and Babylonia welcomed him as a liberator from Persian rule32, the Iranian peoples offered resistance, of varying kinds and intensity. In this context, Curtius’ (V 10,2) characterising of the Iranians may be revealing: “Among these people, the king’s prestige is remarkable: his name alone suffices to rally the barbarians and the veneration in which he is held follows him into adversity.” Significant also is that, in order to rouse opposition to the Macedonians, Bessos decided to have himself proclaimed in Bactra as Great King by taking the throne name Artaxerxes.33 3.5 Contacts and acculturation But, the strict cultural separation between the ruling class and the subject peoples was not, over time, proof against the effects of the intimate contacts that developed between local élites and Persian families who had been settled on the spot for generations. It is only logical to assume that the attitude of locally born Persians, through contact with local modes of life, was significantly different to that of a Persian newly settled in Cyrus’ time (cf.§ 3.1). Asia Minor provides several instances of co-operation and acculturation. Note the well-know Plutarch passage (Lysander 3,3) on the ‘barbarisation’ of Ephesus: “It was in danger of becoming completely barbarian and allowing itself to be contaminated by Persian customs, as it was engulfed by Lydia and the Persian generals often stayed there.” Plutarch’s view relates to a process of gradual Greek deculturation and Persian acculturation; it is a striking piece of evidence (among others) of the fascination felt by the Greeks for the luxurious life-style of the Persians. We could cite more evidence from the same region. One example is the generic name of the priest of Ephesian Artemis (Megabyzos), which is Iranian in origin (Bagabuxša). On this, Benveniste34 rightly remarked: “The Iranian influence on the worshippers of Ephesian Artemis must have been profound if a personal name acquired a status in a cult of which there is 32 33 34

[But see below note 153, and Chapter 5 § 5.2.] See Briant, Asie centrale (1984): 77–80. E. Benveniste, Titres et noms propres (1966): 113.

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no trace in Iran itself. It is perhaps a fact to remember when considering the complex history of religious syncretism produced by Persian rule in Asia Minor.” In the temple of Artemis (Temple E), the congregation of sacrificers were depicted wearing Persian garments.35 It is thus not surprising that Tissaphernes on two occasions displayed his great devotion for Ephesian Artemis.36 Conversely, Greek influence is detectable in certain Anahita sanctuaries (who was assimilated to Artemis by the Greeks): at Hierocaesarea,37 there is a symbiosis of Iranian and Greek cults. But such an evolution (hard to date) is not found everywhere: at Hypaipa (located close to Sardis), the goddess’ statue was very much that of an Iranian deity: the idol was quite different from the representations of other gods of the region, and it retained its Iranian character from the time of the establishment of the Persian colony to the last days of paganism.38 At Amyzon, in Caria, an Iranian family received the office of neokoros of an Artemis sanctuary early in the Hellenistic period: “Here one obtains an insight into contact between Persians and an indigenous cult, and that makes it possible to gain a better understanding of the Artemis cults in Lydia where local goddesses and the Persian Anahita-Artemis mingled, and of the Persian and Hellenic influences which shaped the cults of the locality.”39 A recently published inscription from Sardis40 throws new light on the fascination (or attraction) exercised by Anatolian cults on the Persians. In this Achaemenid document, translated into Greek, Droaphernes, the hyparch of Sardis, effectively prohibits the Persian personnel (neokoroi and therapeutoi) of the temple of Zeus/Ahura-Mazda from participating in the mysteries of Sabazios, Angdistis and Ma – a clear sign of the popularity they enjoyed among the Persian community of Sardis. Another cult that deserves attention is that of the hero Perseus,41 attested in several places42. At Hierocaesarea (with its Anahita sanctuary), he is represented on coins with sword and Gorgon head; on a Roman bronze Artemis, above an altar with flames rising from it, clasps the hand of a nude hero who must be Perseus43. In the coinage of the kingdom of Pontus, one is “struck by the importance which the cult of Perseus enjoyed in this country in the time of Mithridates: images of the hero appear in most of the cities, sometimes holding his sword and the head of Medusa, sometimes simply as a winged bust, helmeted or wearing a mitre. There is more: other Greek cities on the Black Sea coast, governed by princes of Iranian origin, had 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Ch. Picard, Ephèse et Claros (1992): 612. Thuc. VIII 109; Xen. Hell. I 2,6. On the site, see L Robert, ‘Hiérocésarée,’ (1948). Robert, ‘Monnaies’ (1976), especially pp. 36–43. L. Robert, OMS II (1969): 1532–1533; see also L. Robert, ‘Malédiction’ (1978): 284. L. Robert, ‘Une nouvelle inscription de Sardes’ (1975). [But see now below Chapter 2]. L. Robert, ‘Documents’ (1977): 98–118; Id., ‘Malédiction’ (1978): 284, n. 63 (= p. 285). See most recently, M. Mellink, ‘Fouilles d’Elmalı’ (1979): 483. Perseus and the Gorgon appear on paintings (dated c.525) found on the sides of the tomb excavated near Kızılbel in northern Lycia. L. Robert, ‘Hiérocésarée,’ (1948): 23.

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Introduction

coins struck with a bust wearing a mitre which should probably be identified as Perseus.”44 Perseus was, of course, a Greek hero originally. The legend moved from Europe to Asia in the wake of the Argive migrations. Before the middle of the 8th century, Perseus was worshipped in Miletus and Caria, then in Cilicia, where he was regarded as the founder of Tarsus. Then, came his attachment to the Persians, the result of a “mythological play on words” (Franz Cumont). According to an early version of the legend, Perseus was either the grandfather or father of Achaemenes and thus the ancestor of the Great Kings. This was quite widely known as shown by the embassy sent to Argos by Xerxes.45 In another version, Perseus is said to have gathered the heavenly fire, carried it to his palace and was the first to set up a cult in its honour, which the Persian subsequently continued. “It was obviously the Greeks of Asia Minor, forming part of the Persian empire, who had created this myth so favourable for them, and the Persians gave it a politically favourable reception. As a result, those rulers who sought, after Alexander’s conquest, to connect their dynasty to that of the Achaemenids, picked Perseus as their patron and ancestor.”46 In Hierocaesarea, “the Greek hero was the link between Hellenes and Persians, as well as in many places of the Asia Minor interior.”47 These various pieces of evidence bear witness to the diversity in the forms of contact that took place: straightforward juxtaposition of cults, symbiosis and syncretism; nor will anyone be surprised that the greater part of the available material relates to the religious aspects of acculturation. But there were undoubtedly similar exchanges and contacts in the realm of personal and familial interaction between Persians and Greeks (and the other subject communities of Asia Minor). One or two pieces of evidence indicate this. It was clearly due to the good relations he had established with highly placed Persians (hoi ano dunatoi) in Lydia that Themistocles’ host in Aeolid Aigai was able to manage to organise his journey to the court in Susa.48 And such interactions must surely have occurred through intermarriage. As far as I am aware, we have no explicit reference to a Greco-Persian marriage in Asia Minor,49 although we can assume them to have been widespread, especially in a city such as Ephesus where Greeks and Persians constantly mingled. But we can cite two marriages between Persian dignitaries in Asia Minor and the Paphlagonian dynasty: first, the marriage agreed, on Agesilaos’ initiative, between Spithridates and the daughter of Kotys of Paphlagonia.50 Then there is Datames, offspring of a mixed marriage – in fact, he was related to Prince Thuys of Paphlagonia, “as the father of the one [Thuys] and the mother of the other [Datames] were brother and 44 45 46 47 48 49

50

F. Cumont 1905: 180–1. Hdt. VII 150–152. G. Glotz 1907: 401. Robert, ‘Monnaies’ 1976): 36, 41, n. 76; Id., ‘Hiérocésarée’ (1948): 28. Plutarch, Them.26. As I am only speaking of the cities of the Asia Minor coast (Ionia), I omit the instance of Memnon of Rhodes doubly connected through marriage with the family of Pharnabazus of Hellespontine Phrygia. [See below Chapter 25 § 4.2]. In any case, I am not sure that this example would allow one to assume similar ones elsewhere. Xen. Hell. IV 1,4–5.

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sister”; Datames’ mother was “Thuys’ aunt.”51 Datames himself married into an Iranian family, as his father-in-law bore the name Mithrobarzanes. Such marriages can also be found in other regions of the empire. Matrimonial interchanges between the Sacae on the one hand and the Bactrians and Persians on the other must have been fairly frequent;52 Amorges, son of Pissouthnes, son of Hystaspes satrap of Bactria, was probably the offspring of such a marriage.53 In Babylonia, too, such marriages were similarly widespread to judge by the names,54 as well as the habit of the Achaemenids themselves of taking wives from among the great Babylonian families.55 What were the political consequences of these manifold and intertwined relationships? In the first place they created solidarity between Persian and local leaders, which in turn gave the Persians access to bases where they could be sure of support.56 But nevertheless they did not necessarily work to the central power’s advantage – on the contrary (as Jack Balcer has recently argued),57 they promoted the emergence and consolidation of centrifugal forces founded on a community of interest between Persian commanders and local aristocracies: in other words, this evolution tended to create regional Persian power bases ever more autonomous in their relationship to the central authorties. Or at least this was a tendency, which threatened ultimately to endanger the links between the king and his satrapal delegates, just as we see it developing increasingly following Alexander the Great’s death.58 Nepos Datames 2,3–4. According to Nepos (1,1), Datames’ father, Camisares, was of Carian origin (natione Care), and Datames was thus the product of a Caro-Paphlagonian marriage, which would be surprising. But we need to be careful as Nepos’ expression is ambiguous: it could refer to his ethnic origin (Carian), alternatively to his place of residence (Caria), [cf. Briant, Asie centrale (1984): 89 f. & 94 f.], so that Datames’ father may well been an Iranian living in Caria. If he really was a Carian (S. Hornblower, Mausolus, 1982: 172, n. 13), Datames would be an exceptional case: born of a Caro-Paphlagonian marriage, he has an Iranian name (showing a desire to assimilate?); he married into a Persian family (his father-in-law’s name is Mithrobarzanes) which gave him the opportunity to rise in the hierarchy: after succeeding his father in a relatively minor government post (Nepos 1,1–2: partem Ciliciae iuxta Cappado­ ciam), he received, in recognition of his achievements (id. 1,4–5,2) – an astonishing image! [Cf. HPE 198–9]) – a top command in the Achaemenid army. 52 P. Briant, État et pasteurs (1982): 211. 53 Briant, Asie centrale (1984): 96. 54 Cf. R. Zadok, ‘Iranians’ (1977). 55 See Ctesias F 15 § 47. 56 On this question, see J. M. Balcer, ‘Imperialism and stasis in fifth century B. C. Ionia’ (1979), and Id. Sparda by the Bitter Sea (1984). 57 J. M. Balcer, ‘The Greeks and the Persians (1983). The term ‘acculturation’, which I too use for convenience demands more conceptual precision. 58 See RTP: 41–54: after Alexander’s death, the Successors organised autonomous territorial bases for themselves by relying on local aristocracies. This was the time when Dionysius, the tyrant of Heraclea-Pontus married the Iranian princess Amestris, daughter of Oxathres, Darius III’s brother. Two of the three children born from this union had Iranian names: a son, Oxathres, and a daughter, Amestris (Memnon, ap. Photius Bibl. IV, ed. R. Henry, 1965, 224a-b; S. M. Burstein, Outpost of Hellenism (1976): 79–80). But following the Achaemenid defeat and the 51

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Were the central authorities aware of the developments and did they try to prevent or check them? There are possibly two measures, taken in the reign of Artaxerxes II in the religious realm, which seem to reflect a coherent policy in this respect. One, discussed briefly above, was the Lydian hyparch’s proclamation addressed to the staff of the Ahura-Mazda cult in Sardis forbidding their participation in Anatolian religious practices. Here we see the satrapal authority reacting against the symbiosis of Persian and Anatolian cults.59 This inscription should be compared, in terms of its content and function, with Berossos’ text, according to which Artaxerxes II was the first to introduce a cult statue (agalma) of Aphrodite (Anahita) in Babylon, Susa, and Ecbatana and invite Persians, Bactrians, Damascus and Sardis to worship the goddess. Thus instructions were sent to all the Persian communities in the great imperial centres: Artaxerxes’ political and ideological plan is plain – which was to reaffirm, by adopting the medium of religious ideology, the links between the king and the Persians in the empire: after all, was not Anahita the active agent in the royal investiture?60 And it was not only in Sardis that Persians were receptive to the attractions of local cults: given the symbiosis between religion and Persian power, such developments threatened the internal ideological cohesion of the ethnic ruling class. Of course, we cannot prove that Artaxerxes acted in this way in response to a tendency whose outlines we have tried to trace. But what needs to be stressed is the concomitant action of two mutually antagonistic tendencies: one – observable in some of the provinces – was the interaction between the Persians in a province and subject populations; the other – expressed (with some inconsistency) by the central regime – intended to guarantee the perpetuation of a homogeneous ruling class solidly united around its king. The tendency of the ethnic dominant group towards provincialisation is an indicator of the system’s development – which is not to say, I hasten to add, that it is an indicator of its weakness (see below). 4 PERSIAN SOCIO-CULTURAL SPECIFICITY AND ROYAL POWER The preceding discussion raises questions about the internal contradictions which certainly developed within the ethnic ruling class itself. That evolution cannot be explained simply as the result of contacts established between the Persian provincial nobility and local aristocracies – any analysis must be linked closely to an enquiry into the internal development of the ethno-class. The reproduction of this

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check to Alexander’s ‘Achaemenid restoration ‘(RTP : 318–330), the question of relations between Greeks and Persians took a different political turn, with the Persians settled in Asia Minor being integrated into the cities (Robert, Opera Minora Selecta III (1969): 1532–1533, and now J. & L. Robert, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie I, 1983: 117–118. [On this issues, see below Chapter 25]). But we should note that the Greek-Persian relations at the beginning of the Hellenistic period were part of a longer evolution that had started in the period of Achaemenid rule. Robert, ‘Nouvelle inscription’ (1975): 325. [But see now below Chapter 2]. On this interpretation of the Berossos passage (transmitted by Clemens of Alexandria, see Briant, Asie centrale: 97 f., with Foreword, note 31.

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class was itself based on unpredictable circumstances and was vulnerable to factors which had the potential, over time, to undermine the Great King’s power over the Persians – an absolute condition for the survival of Achaemenid control of the empire. 4.1 Persian demography There is one, albeit not the most critical, question that must be treated first. It was crucial that the biological (demographic) renewal of the Persian nation was safeguarded. Several texts show quite clearly that this was a major royal preoccupation.61 The kings always paid great attention to the birth-rate: Herodotus (I 136) and Strabo (XV 3,17) mention rewards presented annually to the fathers of large families, because the Persians “think that there is strength in numbers.” Alexander adopted the practice, slightly changed, when, in Pasargadae on his return from India, he “gave two gold coins to pregnant women.”62 Some of the Persepolis tablets also show that the state encouraged the production of children among the workers in Fārs.63 The evidence is too slight to draw general conclusions about Persian demography. But it seems that the royal inducements were successful: the number of times we hear of large family is impressive. We know that the Achaemenid family itself was very ‘philoprogenitive’, to use David Lewis’ phrase.64 Among the various instances in classical sources, note Pharnabazus’ “nine sons all borne of the same mother,”65 Artabazus’ ten sons and eleven daughters,66, Artabanus’ “seven sturdy sons,”67 and even the seven sons of Rhakokes, a Persian peasant.68The number of sons and brothers of Intaphernes,69 Masistes,70 Spithridates,71 and Datames72 was obviously large. True, the Persians suffered many losses in the course of war, given the central role they played in the great battles: the number of high-ranking Persians killed in Europe in 480/479 is substantial. However, there is nothing to suggest that such blood-letting undermined demographic renewal in any lasting way. The examples in the previous paragraph show that, on the contrary, the birth-rate of the grand families remained high through the 4th century. Throughout its history, all the top 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

RTP: 440, 480. Plutarch, Alex. 69, 1–2; Mul.Virt. 246A.B. R. T. Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets (1969): 37. D. M. Lewis, Sparta and Persia (1977): 23. Q. C. VI 5,4. D. S. XVI 52. Justin III 1,2. Aelian VH I 34. Hdt. III 118–120. Hdt. IX 113. Xen. Hell. III 4,10. Nepos, Datames, 6.

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civil and military posts remained in the hands of Persians, notwithstanding the occasional employment made of Greeks – it is certainly not possible to explain the use of Greek mercenaries by recourse to a presumed demographic decline in Persia.73 There is further the testimony of Hieronymus of Kardia preserved by Diodorus (XIX 21,3) that the Persian population was flourishing at the end of the 4th century: “This region [between Fahliyun and Persepolis]74 is inhabited by the most warrior-like Persians, archers and slingers all, and its population is much larger than that of other satrapies.” 4.2 The process of social reproduction The social and ideological reproduction of the dominant class was ensured by a coherent set of measures and norms all intended to ensure the stability of dynastic power by the strict maintenance and regulation of Persian socio-cultural traditions. But, we may ask: were they fully preserved and functioning throughout the period of Persian rule over the lands and peoples of the empire? 4.2.1 Persian education The young sons of the aristocracy were compelled to follow the educational curriculum known to Herodotus, Strabo and Xenophon.75 The same applied to the young Persians born in the conquered countries: they, too, were obliged to be brought up at the satrapal court.76 The Persian agoge’s principal aim was to turn Persians into elite soldiers, particularly horsemen. All young Persians, once they had joined the class of adult warriors, had to participate in campaigns ordered by the king – extremely severe punishments were meted out to fathers who tried to hold back and protect their sons.77 But the education was also intended to reproduce the ethnic ruling class politically, culturally and ideologically. In the course of their training, the young Persians learnt orally the most ancient aspects of their heroic history, whose standard-bearers and guardians they would become.78 In each age-set they were taught their absolute duty of obedience (aletheia/arta)79 towards the king and royal family – while the king presented himself as the paragon of all the physical and moral virtues which were inculcated into the young. By removing the children at an early age from the influence of their clan, the king wished to make them into loyal individuals tied indissolubly and exclusively to himself – his ‘slaves’ in Greek terminology 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

On this, see the relevant pages in G. F. Seibt, Griechische Söldner (1977): 121–138. Cf. RTP: 165. RTP: 449–451. Xen. Cyrop. VIII 6,10–12; above § 3.1. Hdt. IV 84; VII 38–39. Strabo XV 3, 18. On the equivalence of the two, cf. RTP: 449.

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which was incapable of rendering the socio-political realities of the term banda­ ka.80 By these means, loyalty to the king was superimposed on clan loyalty in an effort to transform a recalcitrant aristocracy into a court nobility totally devoted to the king’s cause which was identified with the maintenance of its own privileges. 4.2.2 The giving king For the whole of their lives, the Persians were effectively tied to the king by the exchange of gifts and services which formed, throughout Achaemenid history, the chief mechanism for ensuring their loyalty81 – hence the Achaemenid rulers’ poly­ doria, which made the recipients into the king’s debtors.82 Did not Artaxerxes say “that it is better for a king to give than to take?”83 Alexander’s reaction to Phocion’s rejection of his gifts is part of this pattern of behaviour: “He did not consider as friends those people who asked [or/and accepted] nothing of him.”84 The Achaemenid system of gift and counter-gift is more or less theorised by Thucydides (II 97,3–4). There was even a veritable hierarchy of royal gifts depending on the economic and symbolic value of the items and honours.85 Aside from ritual and recurring distributions made on special occasions,86 the king used every opportunity to promote the devotion and loyalty of his subjects with the promise of reward: in that way, Xerxes (one of many instances) redoubled the zeal of his satraps and generals to supply “the best equipped troops,”87 and a king rewarded every type of service or display of devotion to his person88 and the Achaemenid cause89 – which explains how it was that foreigners, too, could be inscribed in the register of benefactors. By 80 81 82 83 84

85

86 87 88 89

Cf., for example, the letter of Darius to Gadatas where doulos is obviously the translation of bandaka; on the term, see G. Widengren, ‘Symbolisme’ (1968): 68 ff. [But see now the reservations expressed below in Chapter 4, particularly in n. 47]. According to Xenophon (Anab.I 9,3–4) instances of royal favour/loss of favour were to be observed by the young brought up in the King’s Gate. On this theme, see the important discussion of H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, Yaunā en Persai (1980): 145 ff.; also L. Bottin, Reciprocità e redistribuzione (1979): 122 ff.; see, too, P. Briant, ‘Brigandage’ (1976): 191–194 and Id., États et pasteurs (1982): 88–94. Plutarch Apophth.Reg. 173D. Plutarch, Phocion 18. 6–7. Phocion’s reply shows well the obligations imposed by gifts: cf. also Hdt. III 130 (Democedes’ reluctance) and VII 38–39 (Pythios and Xerxes). The obligatory aspect also affected kings who had themselves received a gift or benefaction: cf. the example of Darius and Syloson (Briant, États et pasteurs (1982): 90–91). Aelian VH I 22 (gifts to ambassadors); Xen. Anab. I 2,27 (traditional royal presents); Hdt. III 84 (the most highly prized gifts among the Persians); Ctesias § 22 [F13b § 26] (the most outstanding present the king makes); Hdt. IX 109 (“the gift of an army is a typical Persian gift”); also Anab. I 9,29. It was important not to demand gifts greater than the value of the service rendered: Plutarch, Art. 14–16. At the accession of a new king: Hdt. III 67; VI 59; Justin I 9,12–13; Plutarch Art.26; the king’s birthday: Hdt. IX 110–111. Hdt. VIII 19 & 26. See the case of Democedes: Hdt. III 129–132. Note the substantial number of gifts and rewards awarded for military achievements or the loyalty of a local commander (e. g. Hdt. III 154; VII 85, 105–107 etc.).

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these means, a noble covered in honours – or just attracted by the possibility of a royal gift – felt himself obliged to his king. In the final analysis, such a system implied and placed all Persian leaders into a precarious situation, as they had to demonstrate continuously by their actions that they were loyal and devoted. If they failed to do so – as revealed by reports of royal envoys or denunciations by rivals – they could be relieved of their position. From one day to the next, they might be plunged into obscurity from which a renewal of royal favour might again rescue him.90 Everything emanated from, and returned to, the king. 4.3 Limits and contradictions 4.3.1 Competition and intrigue The entire system relating to power stimulated the desire of Persians to serve the king while reining in any desire for independence, two goals which could, in some circumstances, be in tension with each other. The fear of punishment or simply disapproval could, at times, be stronger than the hope of reward. But such fears could paralyse the actions of high-level imperial personnel, who would not dare to do anything which could be presented (by a rival) or interpreted (by the king) as exceeding one’s initial orders. Generally speaking, the focus of diplomatic and military missions was clearly defined, and royal emissaries always paid close attention to it.91 If they wanted to go further, they had to send a messenger or message to the court,92 or go there in person.93 Occasionally, the satraps referred to the need for royal authorisation in order to keep Greek negotiators waiting.94 But, in general, as Diodorus observes in a much quoted passage (XV 41,5), such strict dependence considerably slowed operations down, because the Persians generals “referred everything to the king and awaited his response on every detail.” Royal counsellors had to be just as careful: where a wise advice could earn one promotion or honour,95 one found to be less reliable or unworthy might rouse the king’s ire and end in punishment.96 Prudence suggested that it was better to be cautious.97 If, from the perspective of maintaining the royal monopoly of power, the system was efficient, it was so because it created competition, intrigue and unrestrained flattery, about which the classical texts are particularly eloquent. Every commander hoped to be the only one to stand out and, above all, to ensure that he could claim

90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97

The history of Megabyzos illustrates these shift in fortune very well: Ctesias F14 § 34–43 [cf. below Chapter 22, Appendix]; see also Nepos, Datames 5,4. For example, Hdt. VI 94, 101; Xen. Hell. I 4,3; I 5,2–5. Hdt. V 31–32; Xen. Anab. I 1,8. D. S. XIV 39 & 81; Xen. Hell. III 2,20; IV 8,16–17. Cf. ibid. I 4,5–7. Hdt. IV 97; V 11. Cf. D. S. XVII 30 and Q. C. III 2,10–19. (Charidemos). Note Coes’ caution: Hdt. IV 97.

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sole glory for an achievement.98 Inevitably this resulted in a perpetual struggle for influence among satraps and those close to the king,99 as well as the formation of unofficial pressure groups at court trying to remove a successful rival.100 It also created quarrels about precedence among commanders, which were aggravated when the king added Greeks to his staff.101 Once a Persian was aware that he had lost the king’s esteem, there were only two paths open to him: either to go and defend himself at court thus risking condemnation,102 or to rebel (apostasis).103 4.3.2 The Persian King and the aristocracy But the system was put under strain right from the start by more fundamental tensions. The very circumstances that had made possible Darius I’s success in taking power showed a tendency for royal power to become ever more absolute while confirming privileges to which some of the great aristocratic families laid claim. In some respects it looks as though Darius’ aim, and that of his successors, was to superimpose a vertical (royal) hierarchy on the surviving horizontal (clan) one.104 But both continued to play a significant role: the position of aristocratic Persians was defined both in terms of their relationship to the king and their family, clan and tribe.105 There were circumstances when these two allegiances could run counter to each other. In particular, family cohesion could undermine the principle of appointment to office for a specified period only. Over and over again we find cases of family’s handing down satrapal and military positions. One of the best known instances is the satrapy of Hellespontine Phrygia where a veritable dynasty emerged;106 and the same applies to the Orontids of Armenia.107 Others can be cited: Datames, for example, succeeded his father in government,108 as did Spithridates in Ionia.109 The practice seems to have been common enough for Ctesias, on two occasions (§§ 53 & 57 [F15 (55); F16 (58)]), to use the expression: “N was appointed satrap in his father’s place.” It seems that this pattern was replicated with positions at court: we know, for instance, that Otanes, after the execution of his father Sisamnes, took over his position as royal judge.110

98 See the curious performance put on by Datames: Nepos 3. On the wish to shine before the king, cf. Hdt. VIII 10, 89; on the fear of disappointing, VIII 86; cf. also Hdt. I 84. 99 A counter-example is D. S. XVI 50 (agreement between Mentor and Bagoas). 100 Nepos, Datames 5,2–3; on denunciations, see for example D. S. XIV 80; XV, 8,2–4. 101 Cf. D. S. XV 43. 102 Cf. D. S. XV 8,5, 10–11. 103 Nepos, Datames 5,5. 104 Cf. P. Briant, ‘Perse avant l’empire’ (1984): 111. 105 Cf. Hdt. IV 167. 106 D. Lewis, Sparta and Persia: 52. 107 M. Osborne, ‘Orontes’ (1973): 518–520. 108 Nepos, Datames 1, 1–2. 109 Cf. A. Bosworth, Commentary (1980): 111–112. 110 Hdt. V 25.

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The practice of associating a son in power seems to have begun early. When a Persian was appointed satrap, the entire clan moved and settled in the province.111 In 522/20, the satrap of Daskyleion had his son Cranaspes with him,– he was executed alongside his father by Oroites.112 It is possible that Pharnaces’ succession in Hellespontine Phrygia went jointly to Pharnabazus and his brothers, as the treaty drawn up with Sparta refers to the “sons of Pharnaces.”113 When Widranga was made governor (frataraka), his son Nafaïna became commander of the garrison at Syene-Elephantine in his place,114 indicating that he had already been associated with his father in this post. Gubaru, too, in Babylonia, was assisted by his son Nabugu.115 And it was not just the sons, but also others of the family, who were associated in this way: Datames had with him his father-in-law Mithrobarzanes, commanding the cavalry, as well as his two sons;116 when Strouthas was appointed in Sardis in place of Tiribazus, his brother-in-law Tigranes, accompanied him.117 Such practices suggest that appointment to office was de facto not in the king’s hands. The commanders of the fleet in Asia Minor in 479 were Mardontes and Artayntes, and Herodotus adds: “Ithamitres, Artayntes’ nephew, who had joined them through the latter (autou proselomenou), shared the command with them” (VIII 130). The habit of choosing subordinates from among family members seems to have been widespread: when Lysander asked Pharnabazus to pursue Alcibiades, the latter ordered his brother Bagaios and uncle Sousimithres to carry out his command;118 Bagaios was the illegitimate brother of Pharnabazus and in command of an army detachment near Daskyleion.119 All family and clan heads sought to promote the career of their offspring and their associates: when Memnon and Artabazus came back from exile, each with a large number of children, their friend Mentor “immediately saw to promoting the male children, giving them the highest positions in the army.”120 Memnon, on his deathbed, passed the command to his nephew Pharnabazus, Artabazus’ son, until Darius should have decided on his course of action.121 This shows that, in principle, an appointment required royal confirmation, but that it was no more than a formality.122 The king’s absolute right was, to some 111 See the expression used by the author of the Hellenistic novel, Chaireas and Callirhoe 5,4: metoikizo. 112 Hdt. III 126–127. 113 Thuc. VIII 58,1; cf. Lewis, Sparta and Persia (1977): 52 & n. 17. 114 P. Grelot, DAE: 391. 115 R. Zadok, ‘Iranians’ (1977) : 91. 116 Nepos, Datames 6,3; D. S. XV 91,3. 117 Xen. Hell. IV 8,21. 118 Plutarch, Alc. 39,1. 119 Xen. Hell. III 4,13. 120 D. S. XVI 52. 121 Arrian II 1,3. 122 Cf. ibid. 2,1. Although Nepos (Datames 1,2) writes that Datames’ promotion was due to his military prowess, it is obvious that his advancement was in fact due to his relationship to, and the death of, his father. The way it can be understood is that the king’s gift (reward for the military service rendered) represents royal initiative, while Datames’ filiation represents family tradition.

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extent, balanced by close family structures. In this, the heads of the great families were simply acting like the Achaemenids themselves, who frequently appointed members of their own family to high civil and military posts. In some respects, management of the empire remained a family business carried out inside the ethnic ruling class. There were advantages for the king in the system, as it guaranteed him the loyalty of the great families in the long term, given that certain honours and privileges were granted to particular families in perpetuity.123 Moreover, the king never lost his right to remove satraps or even to dismiss at one go all title-holders.124 But the emergence of veritable dynasties of office-holders had the potential to be very dangerous when there was a revolt (apostasis) against the central power. The reason being, that it did not involve just one individual, but a whole clan. When Darius decided to eliminate Intaphernes, “he had him arrested, his sons and all his relatives, as he strongly suspected all of them of plotting against him.”125 Masistes, too, had his children and all his friends with him.126 Megabyzos fought the royal troops with all his sons alongside him.127 When Spithridates rebelled against Pharnabazus, he joined Lysander “together with his children, possessions and horsemen, numbering about two hundred.”128 The entire clan was responsible for the revolt – hence the king’s punishment was a collective one. This explains the reaction of Glous, Tiribazus’ son-in-law: fearing to be embroiled in the accusations brought against his father-in-law, “he decided to see to his safety by making a new attempt.”129 The only way to escape being implicated in the actions of a family member in a time of revolt was to abandon the field as quickly as possible.130 The tendency of families to put down roots in the provinces aggravated the threat.131 For one thing, they were able to find support and allies on the spot. For another, every family settled in a province had the usufruct of land in return for the obligation to join all military call-ups.132 The possession of large estates provided these families with considerable economic and military resources; it was clearly from such holdings that Spithridates was able to levy the two hundred horsemen who accompanied him.133 Along with this, land which was held in right of one’s

123 See Hdt. III 84 (Otanes); on the heritability of certain honours, cf. Hdt. VII 105–107; on the transmission of social position, see the example of the Seven: D. S. XVI 47,1 and XXXI; Polyb. V 43; Tissaphernes was probably descended from the family of one of the Seven: Lewis, Sparta and Persia (1977): 84. 124 D. S. XI 71,1 (Artaxerxes I). 125 Hdt. III 118–120. 126 Hdt. IX 113. 127 Ctesias § 37 [F14.40]. 128 Xen. Hell. III 4,10; cf. also Datames: Nepos 5,5–6. 129 D. S. XV 9. 130 See the example of Datames’ son and father-in-law: Nepos 7,1 & D. S. XV 91,3. 131 Above § 3.5. 132 Xen. Cyrop. VIII 8,20. On Persian levies in Asia Minor, see, e. g., Hdt. V 102. 133 Xen. Hell. III 4,10.

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office came, over time, to be regarded increasingly as personal property, particularly where a son succeeded his father as satrap – witness the conversation between Agesilaos and Pharnabazus134 and Tissaphernes’ concern to protect his Carian property.135 5 A PARTIAL SUMMING UP 5.1 Greek images of ‘Persian decadence’ At the end of this rather too rapid investigation – which is anything but complete – I am not ready to draw up a picture of the empire’s condition in 334. That would far exceed my initial question which was (let me remind you) to try to understand how an ethnic group, politically and culturally homogeneous, was able to retain control for more than two centuries over a hugely disparate and heterogeneous collection of lands and peoples. Greek authors, as we know, were only too keen to present the Achaemenid empire as in a state of total decadence, and the Persians as utterly incapable of making their subject obey them, weakened as they were by self-indulgence and luxury. This is not the occasion for undertaking a critical analysis of that literature. One observation on this type of evidence must suffice: it is inadmissible to use such assertions in order to conclude that the system of Achaemenid government was moribund. It is quite clear that all the Greek writers (Isocrates, Xenophon) operated with ideological presumptions and the need to convince their compatriots, so that the evidential value of the facts alleged carried no intellectual weight. Factual mistakes, internal contradictions, polemical arguments and forced analogies (Persia/Sparta) are the essence of a presentation which the modern historian can use only in order to understand the state of Greek public opinion, but not the state of the Achaemenid empire. 5.2 From Cyrus to Alexander In the course of this study, I have considered (but not treated exhaustively) two complementary aspects of the issue: 1) the ways and means used by the central authority to control politically and militarily the subject populations without trying to assimilate them culturally; 2) the nature and strength of the links which, within the ruling ethnic class, made it possible for the king to elicit continued loyalty for the dynasty from the Persians. Given that the top positions in central and provincial government were reserved for Persians, the empire’s fate was, in the final analysis, tied to the survival and continued reproduction of the ruling class. In the light of such considerations, it seems difficult to speak of ‘decadence’ – it is rather the suc-

134 Ibid. Hell. IV 1,32–38. 135 Ibid. Hell. III 2,12; 4,12.

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cessful maintenance of the system from the time of Cyrus down to Alexander that I find striking. 5.2.1 The Persians of the Imperial diaspora and the local élites One of the dangers faced by the central power was curbing the development of any real solidarity between Persian families settled for generations in the provinces and local aristocracies (cf. above § 3.5). There are some indications suggesting that in certain places (Lydia) such a process was taking place. But it is as well not to generalise and to avoid looking at this from just one angle. The central government also benefited from it, as such provincial interconnections made it simultaneously possible to embed its control more effectively. The real threat was that, with local support, Persians might be tempted to forge for themselves personal principalities. Such a development may indeed have taken place in Armenia and Cappadocia.136 But, overall, the Persians in the provinces continued to feel themselves to be profoundly Persian, culturally and politically.137 It looks as though their occasional attraction to local cults and customs never really undermined their deep loyalty to a system of which they were the privileged beneficiaries. Nor should we forget that Persians living in the provinces had relatives at court and that such kinship ties could play an active role in maintaining or strengthening their loyalty. An example of this is Ariaeus, commander of the cavalry levied in Asia Minor in Cyrus the Younger’s army:138 after Cunaxa, “his brothers and other relatives came to Ariaeus, and several Persians came to those who were with him. They encouraged them and brought some of them pledges from the king to the effect that the king would bear them no ill-will for campaigning against him with Cyrus, and would forget the past.”139 These family members who remained in physical proximity to the king acted in a way as hostages for their loyalty; and it is very likely that they were all the more persuasive as they feared (on the principle of family solidarity (cf. above § 4.3.2) that they would be included in any punishment meted out to Ariaeus should he persist in his sedition. 5.2.2 The King and his nobles This single instance shows (as already suggested above) that family politics by no means always ran counter to the king’s interests. Add to this the fact that the number of matrimonial alliances between the Achaemenid royal family and those of the high nobility (which began with Darius)140 was high and much sought after by Per136 For Armenia, see Osborne, ‘Orontes’ (1973): 520 & n. 29; for Cappadocia (or rather part of it), see the position of the dynast Ariarathes during and after Alexander’s campaign: P. Briant, Antigone le Borgne (1973): 55–57, 79; A. B. Bosworth, ‘Eumenes’ (1978): 231. 137 Counter-example: Isocrates, Paneg. 152. 138 D. S. XIV 22; Xen., Anab. I 8,5–6. 139 Ibid. II 4,1. 140 Hdt. III 84.

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sian dignitaries.141 Clearly, the Achaemenids profited from such family connections, even though they could complicate matters in relation to the succession. 5.2.3 Revolts and loyalty In conclusion, I want to emphasise the fact that everything indicates that the political-ideological construction of the ethnic ruling group remained solid throughout the empire’s history: the behaviour of the satraps and Persian forces in 334/330 and Alexander’s serious setback in Persia provide, inter alia, two excellent illustrations of this.142 As a kind of counter-example we might also recall the way in which the unity of the satrapal front dissolved during the revolt of 352/1. Orontes, who had been appointed leader, left the camp of the conspirators to betray them: “He suspected that he would obtain from the king great rewards (dorea megala) and succeed to the satrapy of the entire coastal region if he surrendered the rebels to the Persians.”143 Datames was, in his turn, abandoned by his father-in-law and son: “who went over to the Great King and denounced his father’s revolt (defectio = apostasis);”144 as for the former, he “wanted both to gain the king’s regard and secure his safety.”145 There is also the instance of Cyrus the Younger: far from wanting to fight them, it was by using their (sc. the Persians in Asia Minor) loyalty to the Achaemenids – of course, for his own purposes – that he planned to conduct the war against his brother. He wove links with the Persians of Asia Minor based on their devotion and the practice of gift-giving,146 creating a veritable court around himself, smaller than that of his brother but rivalling it, with its hierarchies and grand court officials,147 administrative organs,148 and a Persian army distinct from the Greek troops:149 Cyrus the Younger comported himself like a king.150 While this revolt illustrates the deleterious effects of dynastic struggles, it simultaneously shows the effectiveness of Achaemenid monarchic ideology, to which there was no alternative. When Alexander in the spring of 334 planted his spear in the soil of the Troad, the Achaemenid empire was not in a hopeless state of anarchy and decadence – in fact, Artaxerxes III’s reign was marked by a renewal of control.151 The defeats in141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151

See, e. g., Xen., Anab. III 4,13; Ages. III 3; Plutarch, Art. 27,4. RTP: 363–364; 384–401. D. S. XV 91,1. Nepos, Datames 7,1. D. S. XV 91,3. Xen., Anab. I 1,5; I 8,25. Dining companions I 9.8,25); sceptre-bearers (I 8,28); scribe (I, 2,20; D. Lewis, Sparta and Persia: 25 & n. 143). The tribunal summoned to judge Orontas: I 6. D. S. XIV 19,22; Xen. Anab. I 2,16; I 3,14. On the Iranian background of the story reported by Xenophon (Anab. I 4,17–18), see D. Briquel & J. Besnier, ‘Hérodote’ (1983): 22–23. Apart from territorial reconquests, note also the importance of measures on the political-ideological plane, above pp.000.

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flicted by the Macedonians on the Achaemenid armies do not reveal some kind of structural weakness, unless we rely on such biased texts as Isocrates and Xenophon.152 One of the most striking proofs of the cohesiveness of the ruling class is the fact that Alexander sought to adopt for his own use the dynamics of Achaemenid royal ideology. Obviously, this does not allow us to making sweeping statements about the whole of the Achaemenid system to suggest that it remained unchanged and suffered no dissensions from the time of its formation down to its adaptation by Alexander. But what it does allow us to do is to set such developments into a rather more balanced perspective,153 where Greek assumptions about Achaemenid decadence no longer reign supreme and unchallenged. BIBLIOGRAPHY Balcer, J. M. 1979, ‘Imperialism and stasis in fifth century B. C. Ionia: a frontier redefined,’ in Ark­ touros. Hellenic Studies presented to M. W. Knox, Berlin, New York 1979: 261–278 Balcer, J. M. 1983, ‘The Greeks and the Persians: the process of acculturation,’ Historia 32: 257–267 Balcer, J. M. 1984, Sparda by the Bitter Sea: imperial interaction in Western Anatolia, Chico CA Benveniste, E. 1966, Titres et noms propres en iranien ancien, Paris Boffo, L., 1978, “La lettera di Dario a Gadata. I privilegi del tempio di Apollo Magnesia sul Meandro,’ BIDR, ser. III, 20: 267–303 Bosworth, A. B. 1978, ‘Eumenes, Neoptolemus and PSI XII 1284’, GRBS 19/3: 227–237 Bosworth, A. B. 1980, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s Anabasis I, Oxford Bottin, L. 1979, Reciprocità e redistribuzione nell’antica Grecia, Padova 1979 Bresciani, E. 1972, ‘Annotazioni demotiche ai Persai tes epigones,’ PdP 144: 123–128 Bresciani, E. 1978, ‘La spedizione di Tolomeo II in un ostrakon demotico inedito di Karnak,’ in H. Maehler & V. Strocka (eds.), Das Ptolemäische Ägypten, Mainz: 31–37 Briant, P. 1973, Antigone le Borgne, Paris Briant, P. 1976, ‘“Brigandage”, conquête et dissidence en Asie achéménide et hellénistique’, DHA 2: 163–259 Briant, P. 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans [RTP], Paris Briant, P. 1982, État et pasteurs au Moyen­Orient ancien, Paris-Cambridge Briant, P. 1984a, ‘La Perse avant l’empire. Un état de la question’, IA 19: 71–118 Briant, P. 1984b, L’Asie Centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux au premier millénaire av. n. è., Paris Burstein, S. 1976, Outpost of Hellenism. The emergence of Heraclea on the Black Sea, Berkeley CA

152 It is similarly crucial to tread very carefully when using Hellenistic texts (Quintus Curtius, Diodorus, Arrian) that describe the delirious joy with which Egyptians and Babylonians received Alexander as a ‘liberator’. That there had been anti-Persian sentiments in these countries cannot be denied; but these accounts are no less suspect than Babylonian ones describing the enthusiastic reception of Cyrus, ‘the anointed of Marduk’. 153 On the crisis in the system of military holdings in Babylonia on Darius II’s accession, see M. Stolper, Management and Politics in Later Achaemenid Babylonia I, diss. Univ. of Michigan 1974: 158–188. But at the same time (pp. 199–221), Stolper shows the simplistic nature of the thesis (as put forward by Olmstead, for instance) of impoverishment and economic decadence in the Achaemenid lands because of the royal policy of money hoarding. (The thesis is already found in Droysen who contrasted Achaemenid ‘underdevelopment’ with Alexander’s policy of economic expansion, RTP: 282–283; 292 [=below Chapter 20 § 1.1]).

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Briquel, D. & Desnier, J. L. 1981, ‘Sur un passage d’Hérodote: prise de Babylone et prise de Veies’, BAGB Année 1981, volume 1/3: 293–296 Cooney, J. D. 1953, ‘The portrait of an Egyptian collaborator,’ Bulletin of the Brooklyn Museum 15: 1–16 Cousin, G. & Deschamps, G., 1889, ‘Une lettre de Darius, fils d’Hystaspes,’ BCH 13: 529–542 Cumont, F.1905, ‘Le Persée d’Amisos,’ RArch 1: 180–189 Diakonoff, I. 1979, ‘Artemidi Anaeiti anestèsen,’ BABesch 54: 139–175 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1974, “Le texte trilingue récemment découvert au Létôon de Xanthos: le texte araméen,” CRAI : 132–149 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1979, “L’inscription araméenne,” in Fouilles de Xanthos VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris: 129–178 Fouilles de Xanthos, VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris 1979 Fussman, G. 1982, ‘Pouvoir central et régions de l’Inde ancienne: le problème de l’empire maurya,’ Annales (ESC) 38: 621–647 Glotz, G. 1907, s. v. ‘Perseus’, DAGR 4.1: 398–406 Grelot, P. 1972, Documents araméens d’Égypte [DAE], Paris Guentch-Ogloueff, M., 1941, ‘Noms propres imprécatoires,’ BIFAO 40: 117–133 Haerinck, E. 1987, ‘La neuvième satrapie: archéologie confronte histoire?,’ AchHist I (1987): 139–145 Hornblower, S. 1982, Mausolus, Oxford Hallock, R. T. 1969, Persepolis Fortification Tablets (OIP 92), Chicago Kienitz, F. 1953, Politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jht. v. d. Zeitwende, Berlin Kuhrt, A. 1983, ‘The Cyrus Cylinder and Achaemenid imperial policy,’ JSOT 25: 83–97 Kuz’mina, E. 1977, ‘Les relations entre la Bactriane et l’Iran du VIIIe au IVe siècle av. J. C.,’ in J. Deshayes (éd.), Le Plateau Iranien et l’Asie Centrale des origines à la conquête islamique, Paris: 201–214 Lewis, D. 1977, Sparta and Persia (Cincinnati Classical Studies, N. S. 1), Leiden Liagre Böhl, F. M. Th. de, 1962, ‘Die babylonischen Prätendenten zur Zeit des Xerxes,’ BiOr 19: 110–114 Lloyd, A. B. 1982, ‘The inscription of Udjahorresnet: a collaborator’s testament,’ JEA 68: 166–180 Mellink, M. 1979, ‘Fouilles d’Elmalı en Lycie du Nord (Turquie): découvertes préhistoriques et tombes à fresques’, CRAI: 476–95 Michaélidis, G. 1943, “Quelques objets inédits d’époque perse,’ ASAE 43: 91–103 Moorey, P. R. S. 1980, Cemeteries of the first millennium B. C. at Deve Hüyük (BAR Series 87), Oxford: 128–142 Osborne, M. 1973, ‘Orontes’, Historia 22: 515–551 Picard, Ch. 1922, Ephèse et Claros, Paris Robert, J. & L. 1983, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie I, Paris Robert, L. 1948, ‘Hiérocésarée,’ Hellenica 6: 27–55 Robert, L., 1969, Opera Minora Selecta II, Amsterdam Robert, L.,1975, ‘Une nouvelle inscription de Sardes. Règlement de l’autorité perse relative à un culte de Zeus,’ CRAI : 306–330 Robert, L. 1976, ‘Monnaies grecques de l’époque impériale. I. Types monétaires d’Hypaipa,’ RN 18: 25–56 Robert, L. 1977, ‘Documents d’Asie mineure’, BCH 101/1: 43–132 Robert, L. 1978, “Une malédiction funéraire dans la plaine de Karayük”, CRAI: 277–286 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. 1980, Yaunā en Persai, diss. Leiden Seibt, G. 1977, Griechische Söldner im Achaimenidenreich, Bonn Shulman, A. R. 1981, ‘A Persian gesture from Memphis,’ BES 3: 103–111 Spalinger, A. 1978, ‘The concept of the monarch during the Saite period – an essay of synthesis,’ Orientalia 47: 12–36 Stern, E. 1982, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period (Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem), Warminster

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Stolper, M. W. 1974, Management and Politics in Later Achaemenid Babylonia I, PhD. Univ. of Michigan Vincent, A. 1937, La religion des Judéo­araméens d’Égypte, Paris Widengren, G. 1968, ‘Le symbolisme de la ceinture’ IrAnt 8: 133–55 Wiesehöfer, J., 1980, ‘Die “Freunde” und “Wohltäter” des Grosskönigs,’ StIr 9: 7–21 Zadok, R. 1977, ‘Iranians and individuals bearing Iranian names in Achaemenian Babylonia’, IOS 8: 266–232

PART I ACHAEMENID ASIA MINOR

2 DROAPHERNES AND THE SARDIS STATUE* In the winter of 1973–1974, erosion caused by the current of the Pactolus river revealed an inscribed block of stone; at the beginning of the 1974 campaign, the excavators lifted and transported it to the gardens of the American Mission to Sardis where it can still be viewed and studied.1 (Fig. 2). On discovery, a photograph was sent to L. Robert, who quickly let the American excavators have his opinion on the inscription (Greenewalt 1978: 62–63), which he went on to elaborate in a study presented to the Academy (Robert 1975). The exceptional speed with which such an important new document was published is worth noting. The readings are not difficult (the Βαρλκεω in line 2 should obviously be emended to Βαρακεω, cf. Robert 1975: 306), but understanding the text and its context is less straightforward. Robert was well aware of the problems, but decided to present this “provisional publication”, in the hope “that colleagues – above all, I expect, the Iranists – will add to, and correct, what is presented here…” (308). However, the number of commentaries offered so far has not been large: many problems still remain, and several have not been confronted or even raised in the scanty number of studies that have appeared since 1975.2 The importance of the text for the historian of the Achaemenid empire makes it essential to consider it, and the relevant discussions, again in their entirety. It is with deep feelings of appreciation and gratitude that I dedicate this study to David Lewis, which sits at the interface of his two areas of interest: Greek epigraphy and Achaemenid history. * 1 2

Original publication: “Droaphernes et la statue de Sardes,” in: M. Brosius & A. Kuhrt (eds.), Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis (AchHist XI), Leiden 1998: 205–226. On the history of the find, see Greenewalt 1978: 63–65, with photographs. I am profoundly grateful to C. H. Greenewalt for his hospitality, which allowed me to study the stone at the end of July 1995. Due to his generosity, I obtained the photographs reproduced here. Cf. SEG XXIX, 1205; XXXV, 1253; XXXVI, 1089; XL, 1071. Robert’s interpretations have been broadly accepted, at least in the first instance, by, for example, Boyce (1982: 255–257; Boyce & Grenet 1991: 205, unaware of the literature that had appeared in the meantime), Hanfman & Mierse 1983: 104, Hanfman 1987: 5. I, too, accepted them unquestioningly in an article published in 1986, albeit submitted in 1983 (the same applies to Briant 1987: 17, 20 [here chapter 1]), and in another one in 1985 where, however, I parted company with Robert on the issue of the survival of Persian cults (Briant 1985: 180–181 [here chapter 25]). See also Sokolowski 1979, Weiskopf 1982, 1989, Chaumont 1990: 580–584, and Corsten 1991: 175– 178, which will be discussed in the relevant place. The only real challenges as to how the text should be understood were put forward by Gschnitzer 1986 and Frei 1984, analysed below § 2. (Frei 1995: 18–19, 26, which I received too late, essentially repeats Frei 1984); see also Fore­ word, notes 27, 29, 31.

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Fig. 2: Inscription of Droaphernes at Sardis

1 THE TEXT AND ITS PROBLEMS First, the text and its translation as presented by Louis Robert:



Ἐτέων τριήκοντα ἐννέα Ἀρταξέρξεω βασιλεύοντος τὸν ἀνδριάντα Δροαφέρνης vac. 4 Βαρ(ά)κεω Λυδίης ὕπαρχος Βαραδάτεω Διί. leaf. Προστάσσει τοῖς εἰσπορευομένοις εἰς τὸ ἄδυτον νεωκόροις θεραπευ- vac. 8 ταῖς αὐτοῦ καὶ στεφανοῦσι τὸν θεὸν μὴ μετέχειν μυστηρίων Σαβαζίου τῶν τὰ ἔνπυρα βασταζόντων καὶ Ἀνγδίστεως καὶ Μᾶς. Προσ12 τάσσουσι δὲ Δοράτῃ τῷ νεωκόρῳ τούτων τῶν μυστηρίων ἀπέχεσθαι. ‘In the thirty-ninth year of the reign of Artaxerxes, Droaphernes, son of Barakes, governor of Lydia, dedicated the statue of Zeus the Lawgiver. (Droaphernes) orders his (Zeus’) neokoroi therapeutes who have the right to enter the adyton and who crown the god not to participate in the mysteries of Sabazios, of those who bring the victims to be burnt and of Angdistis and of Ma. They order the neokoros Dorates to abstain from the mysteries’

In order to introduce the problems and discussion, the simplest approach will be to recall, in summary, the arguments on which Louis Robert’s translation and interpretation is based: (i)What we have on the stone must be a late reinscription of the Roman imperial period, probably no earlier than the middle of the second century AD, as indicated by the letter forms (306–308). There are three indicators for dating the original

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document. First, of course, there is the date formula – in year 39 of Artaxerxes; then, the names: Droaphernes is a good Persian/Iranian name (not otherwise attested at present) – Druvafarnah (311, based on information received from G. Dumézil and M. Mayrhofer); the same applies to his father’s name, Barakes (311– 312);3 then Droaphernes’ title (hyparch of Lydia) confirms that he must be a highlevel official in the Achaemenid administration at Sardis (whether he is the satrap, as Robert (312–313) thinks, or not; see below); further there are the many Ionian forms in the first part of the inscription. However, these features do not help with narrowing down the date within the Achaemenid period, as the date could refer to either Artaxerxes I or II, Nevertheless, Robert decided (310): “I opt for Artaxerxes II Mnemon.” (ii) One problem encountered in the translation by Robert is the word ΒΑΡΑΔΑΤΕΩ, placed immediately before ΔΙΙ (ll.4–5). He takes this to be an epithet of Zeus. But there is a serious difficulty with that, as Zeus is in the dative while, it looks very much as though BΑΡΑΔΑΤΕΩ is an Ionian genitive. Robert, nevertheless, thought that it could very well be a dative, as “the absence of the iota in the dative presents no obstacle” (313). It must, in his view, be an Iranian term, which he took to be ‘lawgiver’ (*baradata)4 following suggestions made by Dumézil and Mayrhofer (314). This, then, indicated to him that Zeus must be an interpretatio graeca of an Iranian god, who could be no other than Ahura-Mazda: so Droaphernes dedicated a statue (310–311) of the god Ahura-Mazda the Lawgiver (313–314); italics P. B.). It is this cult statue, which (still in Robert’s view, 319–320) certain neoko­ roi came to crown, as envisaged further on at ll.8–9: kai stephanousi ton theon. (iii) The inscription would then provide completely new information on Persian cultic practices, which (according to classical authors) was characterised by the absence of cult statues, temples and altars. As Robert believes that this text deals with a statue of Ahura-Mazda, he stresses (314–317) the link which, in his view, can be made with a Berossus fragment quoted by Clemens Alexandrinus, according to which, “Artaxerxes introduced the use of cult statues (agalmata). He was the first 3

4

It should be pointed out that it appears in no Achaemenid period document. Robert (312, n. 4) refers to Mayrhofer 1974: 14, who found a Barakes in one of the Greek Avroman parchments, although he clearly had some difficulties in reconstructing its original form (a frequent problem, cf., without referring to this example, Baslez’ helpful remarks (1985: 146–147)). A Barakos figures in a Greek inscription from the Hauran (BE 1953, no. 218), another in an Athenian inscription (IG II2 10032); Urdahl (1968: 48) speaks, with respect to this dedication (Ματεις Βαρακου Οροανδηνή), of the “typical Semitic Bar-element”, adding that Mateis may be related to Matthew. But, as Robert showed very clearly elsewhere (1960: 54–56, and 1963: 342–343), Mateis does not fit this. While it is true that Barakes, by itself, suggests a Semitic link (as Matt Stolper reminds me), the fact is that the ‘same’ root is found “in several onomastic contexts that have no contact with each other” (Robert 1963: 342, with respect to the root Mat-). It is thus possible (even probable) that, in a Hauran inscription, Barakos (not the same as Barakes) should be considered a Semitic name. However, in the case of the Sardis inscription I adhere to the Iranian interpretation suggested to Robert by Mayrhofer. Iranists have a convention which is that an asterisk signals that a Persian word designated in this way does not exist in the corpus of Old Persian texts, but has been reconstructed on the basis of a loan-word (Aramaic, Elamite, Babylonian, Greek, etc.).

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to erect (anastèsas) a statue of Aphrodite Anaïtis [Anahita] in Babylon, Susa, Ecbatana and had the Persians, Bactrians, Damascus and Sardis worship (sebein) it” (FGrH 680 F11). Further, Robert added the document to an already full dossier (largely gathered by himself) on the diffusion of Persian and Iranian cults in western Asia Minor (322–323). (iv) On the basis of lines 5–11 of the inscription which begins with the verb prostassein (no subject), Robert declares that Droaphernes “preserves the purity of Ahura-Mazda’s cult” and even several centuries later, in the time of the Roman empire, “the originally Persian cult of Zeus is protected from any type of contamination, as it had been when founded in the fourth century; which is remarkable. The document demonstrates the profundity and persistence of Iranian religious sentiments in western Asia Minor” (326–327, cf. 330). According to him, this is the reason why, several centuries after the fall of the Achaemenid empire, “this Persian regulation was extracted from the archives” and reinscribed on the stone (326–327). Even in this condensed form, Robert’s interpretations, suggestions and conclusions provide a mass of information of prime importance for the Achaemenid historian: religion (divine statues and temples of Ahura-Mazda in the provinces), politics (Achaemenid governmental intervention in the cultic domain), administration (a ‘new’ satrap of Sardis), culture (the Persian community of Sardis protecting itself from the influence of local cults, even long after the fall of the Achaemenid empire) and cult (the previously unknown mysteries of Ma in Lydia in the Persian period: 322). My own wide-ranging and ongoing study of Achaemenid history includes thoughts on the religious policy of Artaxerxes II, and this has led me to reconsider this question and develop serious reservations about Robert’s understanding of the Droaphernes text which I shall lay out here (Briant 1996a: 696–697; 1025–1026 [HPE 677–678; 999–1000]). Before going into detail, I should remind the reader that, in a 1985 article, where I largely accepted Robert’s reasoning, I nevertheless already expressed some doubts about his ideas on the survival of Iranian cults into the time of the Roman empire (Briant 1985: 180–181 [Below chapter 25]). In reviewing this article, the commentator of the Bulletin Épigraphique expressed the view that the debate concerned primarily “historians of ethnic and religious minorities in the Hellenistic period” (BE 1987, no. 336). But what I should like to argue here is that the answer to these questions lies not simply in a discussion between specialists as defined there, but that it emerges, first and foremost, from a grammatical, syntactic and epigraphic analysis. Has Robert (and others in his wake) understood the text properly? That is the question. To answer this, it is necessary in the first instance to dissect Louis Robert’s argument in order to test its validity and bring out its weaknesses: (i) At the root of Robert’s conviction, it seems to me, is how he interprets the word BAPAΔATEΩ immediately preceding the dative ΔΙΙ (ll.4–5). In his view, the word must “designate an epithet of Zeus”, and, in view of the fact that in his eyes “it does not seem possible to construct the phrase with an Ionian genitive Bαραδάτεω from the name Βαραδατης,” it was only right to consider the possibility that it is being used in the dative (without iota), like the succeeding Zeus. As for the proposed identification between Zeus and Ahura-Mazda, it “is supported by the Iranian

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epithet” (314). At this point it is enough to observe that the grammatical choice, which affects the whole commentary, is not based (as one would have expected) on a detailed analysis of the alternatives (dative or genitive), but rather on a rejection of the most obvious grammatical form (genitive), without informing the reader of the reason for the writer’s choice.5 (ii) Robert thinks that his interpretation is confirmed by the role he attributes to Droaphernes. “It would barely make sense for the Persian authorities to intervene in the cult of a Lydian or Greek Zeus and, as we shall see, to forbid its clergy to be initiated into the mysteries of Sabazios, Angdistis and Ma” (314). This statement, too, deserves comment on matters of method: (a) although the term hyparkhos is anything but clear (cf. the discussion 312–313), Robert is convinced that Droaphernes is the satrap (313), and it is in this role that he acted in this cultic matter (317). This makes his action an “official initiative” (314, 317). (b) in order to strengthen his conclusion, Robert invokes the well-known Berossos passage relating to Artaxerxes II’s measures concerning the Anahita cult and statues in the empire’s various provinces (including Sardis), and he states that this text and the inscription are perfectly complementary, so that the inscription serves to confirm the authenticity of the royal act mentioned by Berossos (317). This obviously explains the question left hanging by his lapidary statement, at the start of the commentary, about the dating (Artaxerxes I or II?): “I opt for Artaxerxes II Memnon” (310). In other words, his conclusion anticipates the postulated bringing together of the inscription with the Berossos passage seven pages further on. But we should note that there is no a priori criterion for deciding between Artaxerxes I or II, as the use made of Berossos is itself a questionable interpretation, given that Berossos makes no reference whatever to Ahura-Mazda. We are in fact in the unfortunately common situation where we have a document (Akkadian, Aramaic, demotic, Greek) dated by the regnal years of a Darius or Artaxerxes, but providing no indication that would allow us to decide the identity of which king it might be (cf. Briant 1996a: 586–587; 997 [HPE 569–570; 972]). (iii) The entire interpretation is based on yet another conviction, perhaps the most decisive one – namely that the inscription refers (with the possible exception of the final formula introduced by prostassousi: 317) to one and the same time, namely that of Droaphernes’ lifetime, which would be (according to Robert) the 39th year of Artaxerxes II. In other words, the cultic prohibitions in ll.5–13 were promulgated by Droaphernes in his role as hyparkhos. This is what emerges from Robert’s discussion of the (absent) subject of the verb prostassei, which introduces the section on the prohibitions: “The subject of the verb in the third person should obviously be 5

I do not understand what he means when, in order to justify the absence of the dative iota, he refers to the “late date of the inscription”. I assume that he is not thinking of the document’s original date, as he explains certain details with reference to terminological usage of “older times” (313). If he is thinking of the re-inscribing of the text, I cannot see the relevance of the remark, as he himself thinks that this section was engraved without making any changes (310–311).

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derived from the first section” (317). This interpretation is conclusive as it not only sets the whole commentary into the political sphere, but also determines the meaning of the “divine statue”, which is how Robert understands the term andrias of ll.2–3: “This is the very statue of the god which Droaphernes dedicated to Zeus” (313). Thus the first prohibition applies to those of the neokoroi who “crown the god” (ll.8–9) – the god being definitely, according to Robert (319) “Zeus Baradates”, mentioned at the start of the inscription, i. e., Ahura-Mazda the Lawgiver. This leads to his opinion, expressed thus: “… This 500-year old Persian regulation emanating from a long-vanished power was extracted from the archives […] The document bears witness to the extraordinary persistence of Iranian religious sentiment in western Asia Minor” (326–327). But the idea that a text re-engraved later is a unity raises a series of problems that should be assessed: (a) at the level of historical analysis, it seems unlikely that (at least) five centuries after Artaxerxes (I?II?), the Persian community at Sardis had maintained its integrity, with its cultural and cultic homogeneity unaffected. While reserving judgement on this for the moment, I will not at this point press an argument I put forward elsewhere (Briant 1985: 180–181 [below chapter 25]) inasmuch as it is based on a contentious interpretation. I note simply that, if one accepts it, the problem of the text’s inscribing/re-inscribing will have to be discussed in very different terms. (b) Robert himself (308) admits that the text could be divided into three sections, I (ll.1–5), II (ll.5–11) and III (ll.11–13). He particularly insists on the homogeneity of section I, “clearly marked by a leaf which separates it from the next section.” Nevertheless, although section II, differently from section I, “does not translate the genuine document”, being no more than a “resumé of its substance” (317), it is organically connected to part I, since – as I have already noted – Robert postulates that the andrias of section I is the divine statue which certain neokoroi were charged with crowning, and that the subject of prostassei (which introduces part II) is to be sought in the first section (317). The one exception is part III, which could be “an addition from the period when our stele was engraved” (326). It must be noted that Robert’s reasoning is not exempt from inconsistencies and mistakes. Robert forgets to mark the fact that there is another leaf right at the end of the inscription (end of l.13; probably because he did not see it on the photo on p. 309), not only visible on the stone,6 but also on the American Mission’s photograph reproduced here (Fig. 2.7 If one agrees with Robert that the first leaf is a sign of separation,8 the same must be true of 6 7 8

The second leaf is smaller (H: 1 cm; L: 2 cm) than the first (3.2 × 4). It is not mentioned in any of the later studies of the text as it seems that no other writer, Including Robert himself, has examined the stone. See the photo published in Hanfman 1987: 3 (fig.2, bottom right). Obviously, this is not an absolute rule, even in the imperial period, when it is used ever more for this purpose (cf. Guarducci 1967: 395–397): in Sardis itself, it could even be placed in the centre of a word (Sardis VII.1.93a). But it still seems very clear to me that the existence of this second leaf provides a solid basis for the hypothesis that, in this case, it is a sign of separation.

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the second leaf, and thus conclude that the inscription consists of two large sections: I (before the first leaf) and what I shall call henceforth part II (between the two leaves). (c) Moreover, the homogeneity of each part is well marked. At the practical level: as Robert notes, part I is nothing more than the dedication of a statue to Zeus (310–311). Part II contains cultic prohibitions aimed at certain officiants, each statement introduced by the same verb (prostassô), in the third person singular (l.5), then in the third person plural (l.11). Whoever is/are the unnamed subject(s), it is hard not to accept that there is a logical and chronological unity between the two identically introduced statements. Robert, nevertheless, makes the assumption that the phrase introduced by prostassousi is a Roman imperial regulation, and he suggests that it should be understood as “one forbids” (326); when he contrasts it with the first statement introduced by prostassei, that is because he assumes that its subject is to be found in part I (Droaphernes), which requires demonstrating.9 Compared to part I, the characteristics of ll.5–13 (from prostassei to apekhesthai: part II here) are very striking and cannot be glossed over at the grammatical and linguistic level: Robert himself stresses that part I, and it alone, contains a large number of Ionicisms (310).10 (d) These observations (borrowed in part from Robert himself)11 lead one to give a priori preference to the hypothesis to be argued below: which is that it is only the first part (the dedication, clearly defined by its typical characteristics) that transcribes a document dated to, and dating from, the Achaemenid period,12 and that the rest (part II as defined by the leaves) represents later regulations (as Robert himself thinks with respect to ll.11–13 introduced by prostassousi¸

9

10

11

12

The two verbal forms of prostassein (singular and plural) are obviously problematic. I think that it simply refers to the authorities of the sanctuary, who “order, impose”, or to traditional regulations which are being recalled to those concerned. I do not know any parallels to this, but B. Le Guen has pointed out Sokolowski, LSCG no. 8, l.6 … kai ta patria prostatt[ei nomima meta tôn Eumo]lpidon, its reconstruction justified by Wilhelm referring to Plato, Laws VII 793b. All in all, the translation “one forbids” suggested by Robert (326) for the plural prostas­ sousi could also be applied to the singular prostassei. Aware of the contradiction between this observation and the analysis which he is about to present at a later point, Robert tries to water down the significance of what he has just said on the linguistic homogeneity of part I, when he writes (310, n. 10): “On the other hand, parts II and III are not suitable for typical Ionian forms, that differ from the koinē” – which effectively denies that the linguistic specificity of part I can lead to the conclusion that it is chronologically of the same date as the subsequent section. Obviously, the author had to confront the difficulty of harmonising his divergent and ultimately incompatible analyses; note 10, nevertheless, remains unconvincing. I would also remark that the comparison made by the author (320–321) between this text and another inscription from the late Hellenistic period relating to the therapeutes of Zeus and the god’s crowning does not help to support his interpretation, rather the contrary (see below nn. 36 and 52). See elsewhere the formula used by J. and L. Robert, BE 1976, no. 624: “Lines 1–5, separated from what follows by a leaf, is a fourth century dedication in Ionian dialect.”

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which he dubs part III).13 In other words, it is necessary in the first place to understand and comment on Section I (the dedication) by itself, without assuming that Droaphernes is responsible for the religious prohibition which introduces part II, nor that the god of ll.8–9 is necessarily identical with the Zeus of l.5, nor that the crowning of the god of l.8 was a rite carried out on the statue dedicated by Droaphernes. It is also necessary to argue, in the first instance, without using the Berossos passage to “illuminate” the inscription, as Robert and other commentators in his wake have done. The real questions to be put are of a terminological and grammatical nature: what does BAPAΔATEΩ mean? What is the andrias of lines 2–3? 2 EXIT AHURA-MAZDA With respect to terminology and language, F. Gschnitzer (1986) and P. Frei (1984: 19–21) have, independently of each other, offered criticisms. While accepting substantially Robert’s interpretation, the former thinks that Baradateô must definitely be the genitive form of Baradates, and that the genitive relates to Zeus, hence he concluded that the dedication was made to the “Zeus of Baradates”. To explain this expression, the author put forward epigraphic parallels (the divine name followed by an [ethnic, topographic] determinative in the genitive). He referred particularly to the sanctuary of “Men of Pharnakes” (Men Pharnakou) cited by Strabo (XII 3, 31) in the Pontus, which he takes, along with others,14 as a sanctuary of Men founded by Pharnakes.15 In the same way, the Zeus of Baradates would then designate a family god whose cult had been founded by a certain Baradates, who would have been Droaphernes’ ancestor. While denying that the term hyparkhos makes Droaphernes satrap (47), Gschnitzer thinks that the figure of Zeus certainly hides Ahura-Mazda. This seems somewhat paradoxical: when one thinks of the place occupied by Ahura-Mazda in the official Achaemenid pantheon, it is hard to accept the idea of a Persian in Sardis dedicating a statue to the Ahura-Mazda of Baradates.16 Frei, too, is convinced that Baradateô is a genitive, but he declines to give 13

I cannot understand why at the time of re-inscribing the text in the Roman period, according to Robert, part I was transcribed with no changes (310–311), while merely the substance of the first cultic prohibition was taken without copying the original document (317), with the second perhaps dating only to the Roman period (326). 14 See already Drexler 1897 (while presenting a history of the discussion) followed by Lane 1976: 67. Van Haeperen-Pourbaix 1984: 237–239, with no reference to the text under discussion here, proposed a different interpretation (relating to the Iranian origin of Men), which, I must say, fails to convince me. 15 This could be the legendary founder of the dynasty of Pontic Cappadocia known from a story in Diodorus (31.19.1–5; cf. Briant 1996a: 145–147 [HPE 132–135]): cf. Gschnitzer’s remarks (1986: 50–51) on the occurrence of this name in the satrapal family at Daskyleion. 16 See the even more flagrant contradictions in Corsten 1991: 176–178 who adopts Gschnitzer’s correction, but nevertheless accepts the essence of Robert’s conclusions. He thinks that he can remove the difficulty simply by writing (177, n. 66) that “soon after his arrival in Lydia he was identified with an indigenous, i. e. Lydian, divinity who was linked to the Greek Zeus”. His

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an interpretation of what seems to him, linguistically, exceptionally opaque.17 Instead, he maintains, contrary to Robert, that the inscription has nothing to do either with Ahura-Mazda or the Berossos passage. The god must be the Greek Zeus or a local divinity,18 and Droaphernes, the satrap or deputy satrap acted in relation to the cult of a local divinity. At this point, he compares his action with Pixodaros’ intervention known from the famous Xanthos trilingual, to which he had just devoted a study (12–14). One point on which all three (Gschnitzer, Frei and Schmitt) agree is that Bara­ dateô is certainly a genitive – something which Robert did not totally deny, thinking rather that, as he could not work out how to handle it, he must opt for the dative (313). The conclusion must then be that, regardless what interpretation (family cult or not) is finally adopted, the term cannot be an epiclesis of Zeus. This, in turn, means that there is no longer any reason to think that Zeus “transcribes” the Persian Ahura-Mazda, as it is clear that the link made by Robert with Artaxerxes II’s policy has no value as proof since it is based on a circular argument, “justified” by the initial postulate. And it is this kind of reasoning which has led the author to see in Droaphernes a satrap, as giving him such a position allowed Robert to then see the lex sacra of part II as evidence for an official policy practised by the Achaemenid regime “analogous” to that unambiguously expressed in the Berossos passage. In fact, for one, the term hyparkhos is extremely flexible, and to refer to Herodotus’

position gives rise to further contradictions in his discussion of the establishment of a state cult of Ahura-Mazda and Anahita at the time of Artaxerxes II (178). (On Corsten’s arguments, see also Frei’s critical remarks (1995: 19, n. 76)). 17 See his discussion, 34, n. 54. Schmitt, for his part (oral communication cited by Chaumont 1990: 580–581), too, thinks that it can only be a genitive, and considers that, though unattested, the form Baradates is “correct and conforms to the rules of the Indo-European verbal form.” I should point out, however, in the wake of Schmitt himself (1994), that the name of Databara (in the Aramaic form DTBR) seems to be attested in Persepolis – constructed on the well-known model of *databara (“judge”) itself often attested as a loanword in Elamite, Akkadian and Aramaic; this is not so in the case of Baradata (and other names of this type which are moreover hard to define according to Frei, loc.cit). In any case, if it were a religious epiclesis, one would certainly have the form *databara (and not *baradata) just as, in a late Greek inscription from Cilicia, it has been possible to reconstruct an Iranian religious title not previously attested, *satabara (Dagron & Feissel 1987: 36). 18 At first, I thought that Frei’s interpretation should be rejected: cf. Briant 1985: 189, n. 13 (also Wiesehöfer 1985: 565–566); I am disturbed to see that the opinion I expressed there has led Boyce for her part to reject Frei’s view (Boyce & Grenet 1991: 205, n. 32, without apparently being aware of Gschnitzer’s article). Gschnitzer had access to Frei’s study at a late stage, and devoted a brief “Korrekturnachtrag” to it (54); while unable to discuss it at length, he nevertheless thinks that the occurrence of Zeus Persôn in a Phrygian inscription (cf. BE 1979, no. 529) supports his identification with Ahura-Mazda in Sardis. I must say that this comparison is not very convincing; it is well known that in certain one-to-one contexts, Zeus can be the interpre­ tatio graeca of Ahura-Mazda (e. g. Herodotus I 131); the situation in Sardis is quite different, particularly as Gschnitzer himself has contributed decisively to the elimination of the supposed epithet *baradata/Lawgiver.

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usage, as Robert does, is insufficient to arrive at a clear definition;19 for another, placing Droaphernes among the holders of the satrap title in Lydia raises insoluble problems. Leaving aside hypothetical historical notions, a dating to Artaxerxes I is as viable as to Artaxerxes II: if one places it in the history of the diffusion of the koinē, the presence of a large number of Ionicisms in part I, could just as well (and perhaps with even more likelihood) be used to support a high date.20 For all these reasons, I think it is possible to adopt Frei’s position: Zeus is the Greek Zeus or an indigenous divinity. I have expressed my preference for the latter possibility (Briant 1993: 27, n. 19 [below chapter 23]): the figure could simply be the Lydian Zeus well attested at Sardis including in the coinage of the Roman period (cf. Johnston 1981: 10–11). But it must be acknowledged that it could equally well be the Greek Zeus.21 3 EXIT THE STATUE OF ZEUS The second question is: what kind of statue did Droaphernes dedicate to Zeus? While translating the dative Dii in the normal way as “to Zeus” (317), Robert swiftly introduces a major ambiguity into his commentary when, after making Droaphernes into a satrap (312), he writes that this individual “dedicated a statue of Zeus …” (313). This is, of course, an interpretation because, in accordance with widespread usage, the dedication refers simply to this statue (using the definite article), namely a statue that all could see and recognise. The explanation for Robert’s conclusion is that he takes parts II and I as contemporary and thus the crowning ritual of the god (part II: ll.8–9) must refer to a Zeus statue, which would be the same one that, in the dedicatory text, is designated as an andrias (313, 319) – hence the comparison with the cult statues of Anahita known to Berossos at the time of 19

On this, see the brief but illuminating discussion of Gschnitzer 1986: 46; also (without reference to the text), Petit’s observations on the terminology (1990: 15–20, 152–153) and the long (somewhat heavy-going) article by Chaumont 1990, which have at the very least the merit of demonstrating that it is virtually impossible to fit Droaphernes into the list of holders of the Sardis satrapy, and that it is by no means impossible to date the document to Artaxerxes I’s reign. Weiskopf (1982: 98-1-7; cf. 1989: 91–93), too, presented a long analysis of the functions and date of Droaphernes; he concludes that he cannot be a satrap and should be dated to 366/5, by basing himself above all on historical likelihood (very debatable: linked to troubles in Asia Minor) and Robert’s ideas about religious affairs; he also does not exclude the possibility that he was satrap under Artaxerxes I! 20 On “the first true koinē”, the Ionian of Asia, “which is essentially Herodotus’ [language]”, see Brixhe-Hodot in Brixhe 1993: 7, and 15 (on Ionisms); as for “the Attic koinē” (18), its diffusion came later, albeit predating Alexander (Lopez-Eire 1993; Brixhe 1993: 80). 21 Several Zeus sanctuaries may well have existed in Sardis (Greek Zeus, Lydian Zeus; cf. Hanfmann 1983: 223 and Hanfmann & Mierse 1983: 93, but not Zeus/Ahura-Mazda in the wake of Robert), just as, in the Achaemenid period, it housed an Artemis Persike, an Ephesian Artemis and an Artemis Koloe (ibid. 221–222 and Briant 1996a: 724, 1036 [HPE 704; 1009]; cf. Brosius 1998). The hypothesis of a Greek Zeus may be strengthened if one assumes (for reasons I explain below) that the dedication was inscribed directly in Greek.

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Artaxerxes II. But, quite apart from the fact that the logical and chronological link between part I and II seems to me ever more dubious (see below), the interpretation runs up against a serious obstacle (I mean statistically in the usual sense of the term andrias). This did not, of course, escape Robert, but he tried to circumvent it in a way which strikes me as terminologically imprecise. The importance of this issue makes it necessary to present the reader with the terms of Robert’s discussion themselves: The philologist is aware of the fundamental distinction drawn in the Hellenistic period, and often remarked on, between the άγαλμα, a cult statue whether it be of a deified king or a great benefactor, and the ανδρίας, a statue set up in honour of a man. He knows, too, that the latter regularly designates a divine statue in Greek inscriptions from Egypt. It is not known whether in this period at Sardis this could be an honorific statue, rare in the Greek world proper, but the absence of a name suggests that such an idea should be rejected; the same would apply if the subject were the Great King. In fact, in earlier periods, andrias is used of both divine and human statues. Herodotus uses it in this way and we might add the Archaic inscription of the colossal Naxian Apollo at Delos, with the well known expression ανδρίας και το σφέλας. It follows that it is indeed a divine statue which Droaphernes dedicated to Zeus […] (313)

To recapitulate the steps of the argument: (i) the (usual) most frequently attested meaning of andrias is “human statue”, which is regularly contrasted with “cult statue”, agalma. Robert himself has often stressed the difference in his own work.22 A list of occurrences of agalma and an­ drias (or eikon) in Pausanias would demonstrates conclusively that there is no exception to the rule in this author.23 (ii) at this point, Robert mentions a regional exception, which affects the meaning of the word andrias in inscriptions from Egypt. A. Bernand has often stressed this in his studies: “Contrary to its etymology, in Egypt andrias often designates a cult statue” (Bernand 1988: 26). But that cannot remove the uncertainties raised by the Sardis text, for three reasons. First, in those instances where the god’s name is in the dative (as at Sardis), I am not at all sure that the term andrias always designates a cult statue: It can perfectly well designate a human statue dedicated to the divinity. Besides, in the wake of Robert himself (OMS II: 833, n. 1),24 A. Bernand makes this important statement: “The use of andrias instead of agalma for a divine statue is peculiar to Egypt. It is the only place where the word loses its etymological sense” (Bernand 1969: 406); the use of the term in this way “is proper to Egypt” 22

23 24

E. G. OMS II: 833–835, EA: 17, or BE 1955, no. 210: “The meaning of agalma is clearly defined; the word designates cult statues, quite separate from the honorific statues set up in the agora which are eikones and andriantes”. Cf. also, Koonce 1988 (I owe this reference to L. Migeotte.) I carried out the research with the help of TLG, but this is not the place to pursue the point further. “I omit the Egyptian texts, as their use of andrias for divine statues is different.” In his self-analysis of CRAI 1975, Robert certainly writes “in the inscriptions from Egypt and elsewhere,” (BE 1976, no. 624); this formulation is definitely more restrained than in CRAI 1975: 313, n. 19: “This usage may be found sporadically elsewhere, even in the imperial period (citation of MAMA IV, no. 275A).”

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(1992: 81). Finally, the example of Egyptian inscriptions of the Greco-Roman epoch cannot provide a credible parallel for a fourth, possibly even fifth, century BC inscription from Sardis:25 accordingly, the end of Robert’s argument makes use of his distinction between Hellenistic usage (the clear-cut opposition andrias/agalma) and what he himself calls “earlier periods”. (iii) At this time, according to Robert, andrias was used to describe both human and divine statues: “such is Herodotus’ usage.”26 To support his assertion, Robert refers simply (313, n. 20–21) to Chantraine, DELG and Powell’s Lexicon. The first citation is thought to justify the meaning of andrias “in earlier times”. However, there one reads simply (88): “andrias, ­tos, ‘image of a man,’ more precisely ‘statue’, sometimes of a woman or a god”, with no text reference. As for Powell (25), s. v. andrias: 1. (4) statue of a human being… (opp. agalma); 2. (5) statue in general… esp. before pylons of Egyptian temples; 3. (4) = agalma cult statue in a temple: 1.1832; 3bis; 6.1183. Before returning to Herodotus’ use of the word, let me also cite LSJ, where we find (128): “Image of a man, statue … opp. agalmata of gods … rarely of gods.”27 Simply reading these dictionary entries, one comes away with the impression (to put it mildly) that the statistically dominant meaning of andrias is that of a human statue, as against a secondary much rarer meaning (“sometimes”, “rarely”) of cult statue. In these circumstances, to make Robert’s choice of the terminological exception acceptable, it is essential that it stands up to challenges. Is that the case? To test whether Herodotus’ usage really is andrias = cult statue, let us look at the examples cited by Powell (which Robert did not do): *Herodotus 6.118 recounts the story of an Apollo statue stolen by one of Datis’ soldiers, which Darius’ general returns to the Delians with the request that it be taken back to its place of origin, namely the Delion sanctuary in Greece. In the course of the Datis story, Herodotus three times uses the word agalma. Only when speaking of the reluctance of the Delians does he use the the term andrias. While the passage can be used to say that Herodotus may occasionally use the terms interchangeably, it is not very convincing given that the triple use of agalma makes his preferred use over andrias unambiguous. 25 26

27

It is very odd to note that, after Robert’s 1975 publication, Bernand refers to it in order to support his discussion of the meaning of andrias in Egypt (Bernand 1988: 26, n. 1; 1992: 833, n. 1)! Cf. BE 1976, no. 624: “… andrianta (meaning a divine statue, in accordance with earlier usage, which notably is Herodotus’ usage, and which survives in inscriptions in Egypt and elsewhere).” In passing, I note that it is somewhat strange to put forward “earlier usage”, when at the same time he is anxious to date the inscription to the mid-fourth century, about a century later than Herodotus. The last is supported by a reference to a Delian inscription (GDI 5421), which is clearly the same as the one cited in the same context by Robert (313, n. 22: I.Delos, n. 4) – the inscription whose text (ανδριάς και το σφέλας) continues to raise problems for commentators (BE 1974, no. 389); see also Rolley 1994: 22 who, referring to the same text, thinks that “the distinction [agalma/andrias] is quite late” (clearly, the author is implicitly following Robert’s opinion). Hermary’s recent re-examination (1993a) suggests that the document should be treated with great care.

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*Herodotus 1.183 describes the sanctuary of Zeus (Marduk) in Babylon; he says that inside one temple (hieron) there is a large gold statue (agalma) of the god; in Cyrus’ time, there had been, inside the temenos, another statue (andrias), also gold, which Darius did not dare to take; but Xerxes did not shrink from doing so. The passage is frequently used by those historians who adhere to the thesis that Xerxes put a brutal end to his predecessors’ policy and imposed heavy demands on, as well as destroying, the Babylonian temples. A. Kuhrt and S. Sherwin-White (1987) successfully countered this schematic and thinly based presentation. The latter commented on Herodotus’ text (1987: 71–72): she stressed that the passage shifts from agalma in the present indicative to andrias in the aorist, and shows that Herodotus is describing two different statues, with Xerxes seizing the andrias and not the agalma.28 The likelihood is that here andrias designates a human statue.29

Whatever one’s understanding of these two passages might be, it seems difficult to assert on their basis that Herodotus’ regular usage is andrias = agalma. A brief look at the entry agalma in Powell’s lexicon should suffice to see the matter correctly. When Herodotus (1.131) says that the Persians do not erect statues of their gods, agalma is the word he uses; and, in the same context of Persian cultic practice, Strabo, too, uses it (15.3.13), as does Berossos (FGrH 680 F11). In conclusion, it must be stated unequivocally that nowhere does Herodotus’ usage confirm or support the translation which Robert wants to apply to the andrias dedicated to Zeus by Droaphernes. (iv) Robert adds an argument which again is not very convincing, namely that the dedication of a statue in honour of an individual in Sardis is scarcely imaginable. Why? The absence of the represented individual’s name does not strike me as a particularly impressive counter-argument.30 A votive statue can be anonymous, and, as for the contrast drawn between the Greek world31 and the Lydian capital, 28 29 30

31

Dandamayev’s counter-arguments (1993: 43) are not very convincing (see Briant 1996a: 988– 989 [HPE 962–963]). Sherwin-White discusses the difference between the two terms; while she does not exclude the possibility of a(nother) divine statue, she thinks it could well be the statue of an Assyrian or Babylonian king. Including a statue of the Great King, a possibility which is envisaged (in rather confused fashion) by Robert (313). It is worth remembering that, in the case of the Darius statue found at Susa (CDAFI 1974), we would only be able to guess at the identity of the individual represented if we had no more than the base, as the cuneiform and hieroglyphic inscriptions are (with the exception of the names of peoples) engraved on the statue itself. I am also not so convinced that statues of humans were so rare in Greek cities. Robert’s view implicitly reiterates a very old idea (based in essence on Attic polemical rhetoric of the fourth century). It was developed by Aymard (1967: 62–63, 67), who dated the evolution of the practice to the end of the fifth century and beginning of the fourth century (in the first part of the fourth century, the most striking example is Conon, statues of whom were dedicated in Erythrae (Tod II 106: eikōn), in the Artemision at Ephesus and the Heraion of Samos (Pausanias 6.3.16), but also on the Athenian acropolis (Tod II 128; Pausanias 1.24.3). There is also the statue of Lysander at Olympia (6.3.14) and many others known from epigraphic and literary texts (above all Pausanias). But this is no longer the case, as Lonis has demonstrated: “In the first half of the fifth century, it became the regular practice in Athens to set up statues of the victors in Games” (1979: 26); and the same is true of victorious generals from the beginning of the fifth century (284–297).

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this is no more than supposition.32 Not only do we know that there were statues of the Great Kings, but that Persian nobles, too, liked to have themselves represented in statue form.33 And there are at least two notable examples of this in the western satrapies of the Achaemenid empire. There is, in the first instance, the passage where Diodorus describes Alexander’s arrival in the Troad in 334, at the sanctuary of Athena Ilias: “The sacrificer Aristandros observed, lying on the ground in front of the temple (pro tou neo), a statue (eikon) of Ariobarzanes, a former satrap of Phrygia” (17.17.6). At Sardis itself, some time later (around 322/320), we have the instance of Adrastos the Lydian reported by Pausanias (7.6.6); he was honoured with a bronze statue (eikon), which was erected (anethesan) by the Lydians in front of the temple (pro hierou) of Artemis Persike;34 it bore an inscription recording that Adrastos had died while fighting with the Greeks against Leonnatos in the course of the Lamian War. All this leads me to conclude that there can be no reason to deny the possibility that Droaphernes dedicated the statue of an individual in front of the temple of Zeus at Sardis – even more so, in view of the fact that this conclusion is founded on the most commonly accepted meaning of the term andrias. 4 A FINAL ASSESSMENT AND SOME REMAINING UNCERTAINTIES To recapitulate: if, for one, it is accepted that Baradateô is a personal name in the genitive, and if, further, we consider that the first part is a self-contained Greek dedication,35 then we must reject the historical conclusions suggested by Robert and propose an alternative interpretation. Droaphernes was probably the descendant of a Persian family settled in Sardis for several generations and a high level officer in the satrapal administration of Lydia. He dedicated to Zeus the statue of an individual, possibly anonymous or perhaps of his ancestor Baradates, who had evinced a particular reverence for this local deity, or even a statue of Droaphernes himself. There is no reason to assume that the text relates to an official policy concerned with installing a state cult analogous to the policy attributed by Berossos to Artaxerxes II (particularly as the dedication may date to Artaxerxes I). The cultic regulations are purely Greek (cf. Frei 1984: 21, n. 55), and do not emanate from the Persian authorities but, in my view, those of the Zeus sanctuary in the Hellenistic and Roman period.36 Droaphernes’ dedication of a statue belongs to the familial 32 33 34 35 36

Particularly as at the same time Robert argues that Sardis represents “a milieu suffused by Greek art” (310, 316). See, above all, the Aršama letter DAE 70 and my remarks in Briant 1988: 168 [Below chapter 5, p. 197]. I do not understand on the basis of what evidence, Buckler and Robinson (1912: 30) assume that this must be the sanctuary located at Hierocaesarea. As Robert himself admits (310). Comparing Part II of our text (the religious prohibitions) with another inscription from Sardis (Sardis VII 1, no. 22), also relating to the neokoroi of Zeus, Robert (322) observes what he calls “a remarkable continuity over the centuries in the cult of Zeus at Sardis … Clearly we are dealing with the same sanctuary”. This introduces a contradiction into his argument, which he

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sphere; it has nothing to do with his official position (hyparkhos).37 Finally, far from being evidence for the insulated nature of the Persian community in Sardis, the dedicatory text shows that a high level functionary of the Lydian satrapy wished to show his attachment to a local divinity – behaviour replicated in other imperial regions, especially Egypt. Particularly well known are the hieroglyphic dedications to Egyptian gods (Min) by prominent members of the Achaemenid government in Koptos.38 There is also an Aramaic stele from Aswan (DAE 75), which has long been thought to relate to the foundation of a Persian sanctuary dedicated to Ahura-Mazda. Recently, a new reading suggests that it is in fact a cultic foundation in honour of Osiris the Powerful by the well known Persian commander Widranga.39 Seen in this light, the Droaphernes inscription should be added to the dossier illustrating the process of intercultural relations, which I recently dubbed “the provincialisation of the ‘ethno-classe dominante’ (1987: 21),40 who, in Sardis was subject both to Lydian and Greek influence.41 While historical reasoning42 had already tries to remove by assuming that “the Iranian Zeus … is the same as the one called Megistos Polieus Zeus or Zeus Polieus.” But how can this be when, simultaneously, Robert thinks (326) that the Droaphernes inscription proves that still in the Roman period “the Zeus cult of Persian origin protected itself from any kind of contamination”? 37 Dating by the regnal years of a Persian king is common in private acts: at Sardis, cf. the funerary Aramaic-Lydian inscription published by Littmann then Cowley and most recently Lipiński 1975: 153–161. That is the situation here. I, therefore, do not consider (pace Frei) that the situation of Droaphernes is in any way comparable to that of Pixodaros in the Xanthos trilingual, for it is clearly in his role as satrap (cf. the Aramaic version) that Pixodaros acts at Xanthos. Frei’s interpretation clearly operates on the assumption (following Robert) that the cultic regulations (whose totally Greek character he stresses: 21, n. 55) were decreed by Droaphernes (21: “Droaphernes … issued instructions for the cult of a local deity”). It also derives from a comparison with the trilingual, while in my view (see Briant 1986: 434–437; 1987: 5, n. 4; Briant 1996a: 729 [HPE 707–9]) Pixodaros himself did not intervene in the Xanthian cultic regulations. I also think that Gschnitzer’s comparison between the Zeus of Baradates and the Men of Pharnakes, while perfectly justified, should not be pushed too far, as in the case of Men in Pontus, Strabo (12.3.31) explains that it was Pharnakes who founded the sanctuary (hieron). This is not the case for the Zeus of the Sardis inscription, unless, of course, one follows Robert in reading the two sections of the inscription together. But in that case, one would be far removed from the “family cult” of which Gschnitzer is thinking, as Robert refers specifically to an official initiative by Droaphernes in his role as “satrap”. It is, in fact, best to drop the phrase “Droaphernes’ intervention”, and even the term “cult”; whatever his rank in the Lydian administrative hierarchy may have been, he did no more that dedicate to Zeus a statue recalling the familial reverence manifested to the god ever since his ancestor Baradates – nothing more. 38 See Posener 1936: 117–130 and my observations in Briant 1988: 166–167 [below chapter 5]. 39 See Lemaire 1991: 199–201, 1995: 54 and my comments in Briant 1996b: 120–122 [below chapter 8]. 40 Even though, in that article, where I faithfully followed Robert’s interpretation, the historical understanding was based on mistaken premises. 41 On the Greek nature of the dedication, cf. Robert 1975: 310; on Greek influence at Sardis, cf. Hanfman & Mierse 1983: 89, 98–99, 106–108, Greenewalt 1995: 132–133, and my remarks in Briant 1996a: 721–725 [HPE 700–705]. 42 Robert himself was clearly surprised by what he thought to be an example of cultural and religious rigidity, as he contrasted the (presumed) instance of his Ahura-Mazda to that of Anahita

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demonstrated the impossibility of the idea of an unchanged survival of Persian cultic regulations from the Achaemenid into the Roman empire period, this has now been deprived of any textual support.43 Apart from the problems with understanding the cultic regulations (which do not concern me for reasons already stated),44 there are obviously still some uncer-

43

44

who, in the imperial period, is “associated with the local gods, such as Zeus Sabazios and the lunar deity Men” (326, n. 69). Robert’s position on this issue has been taken up again quite recently by Sartre 1995: 319, expressing doubts about my 1985 conclusions, and arriving at the idea of “the constant presence of those faithful to these cults and the survival of religious traditions” (in passing, one should note some unfortunate slips: Bagadates instead of Baradates; and whence comes the author’s notion that this is the re-inscription “of an edict of Darius I”? I think he must have confused it with the letter of Darius to Gadatas, ML 12). Which is to say that, contrary to what Hanfman & Mierse 1983: 104 (and used by me, too, as an example in Briant 1993: 19) say, the document teaches us nothing about the mystery cults of Achaemenid Sardis, and the “novelty” of the mysteries of Ma in Sardis in the fourth century BC (Robert 324) is merely an illusion. I will just say that, in my view, these problems will never be satisfactorily resolved if we continue to think that the regulations apply to a Persian god or cult, and (like Robert 311, 319, or Sokolowski 1979) that there had been an Aramaic original, so that, conveniently, the ancient translators can be held responsible for the problems encountered by modern scholars (cf. Robert 310: “The change from Aramaic to Greek could well explain such a problematic point”)! It seems plain to me that the cultic regulations are typically Greek, and have no known parallel in Irano-Persian cults (hence the somewhat embarrassed questions asked by Robert, 319–320, and Frei’s sensible remarks [1984: 35, n. 55]). The hypothesis of an Aramaic original goes back to Robert, apparently in order to explain the date using a cardinal number (while he does not exclude the possibility of parallels that he may have missed: 310). But, in fact, his position on this is not completely secure, as, on the next page (311), he entertains the possibility “that this section (the dedication) was never published in any other language [than Greek]”. The idea of an Aramaic original was taken up by Gschnitzer 1986: 45 and n. 4 and Frei 1984: 35, n. 56 (but only for part one: cf. n. 55 [the proviso seems to have vanished in Frei 1995: 18–19]). I must admit to serious doubts, even if it is the case that in Achaemenid period Aramaic documents, “the use of a cardinal instead of an ordinal number is usual to indicate the year” (Dupont-Sommer 1979: 138; cf. also Lemaire & Lozachmeur in Davesne, Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1987: 369, and more recently the remarks of Folmer 1995: 322; and, despite Lipiński’s translation [1975: 154–155], the date in the Sardis Aramaic bilingual is also a cardinal number: cf. Kahle-Sommer’s translation cited in Gusmani 1964: 250, n. 1). The assumption of an Aramaic original is very surprising in view of the fact that, simultaneously, the author says that “the first part has the form that is normal in Greek of a dedication with all its various elements (310, my italics, P. B.). I have the strong impression that the thesis of an Aramaic original is used to consolidate the image that this is an official act by the satrapal authorities (note also that Gschnitzer, loc.cit. sees this as a further indicator of the document’s Achaemenid authenticity). The entire idea becomes still less convincing once one admits that Zeus is, indeed, Zeus (Greek or Lydian) and that the text illustrates the intense intercultural contacts at Sardis. There is also the fact that Robert (310) stresses “the use of Ionian at Sardis in this period” (for the translators), and observes (316) that Sardis is “a milieu infused with Greek art”. So I think (and this is not excluded by Robert, 311) that the dedication was published without intermediaries in the Ionian koine, while not excluding the possibility that the local form may have been influenced by both Lydian and Aramaic: cf. on this point, Gusmani 1986: 136. It would not be in the least surprising that Droaphernes, as a descendant of a family installed at Sardis for several generations, spoke Greek (and Lydian, of course, too: on Greek-Lydian bilingualism at Sardis, cf. the dedication

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tainties,45 and also one major question. Given the hypothesis I have argued for here, why was it thought useful, in the second century of our era, to re-inscribe on the same block two texts (the dedication, the cultic regulations) which I have just tried to show were chronologically unconnected? As Robert (325–326) is anxious to argue for his idea of Iranian cultural survival at Sardis, he rejects the comparison (mentioned by himself) with the many examples of known re-inscriptions from the Roman period, the best instance of which is probably the letter of Darius to Gadatas (ML 12),46 but the alternative scenario is not very convincing.47 True, this is not a case of the temple authorities reminding the current government of an earlier tax privilege. Nevertheless, I think that the reason for the re-inscribing of the text proceeds from the same concern to preserve all documents relating to the Zeus sanctuary in Sardis,48 particularly if the statue dedicated by Droaphernes had been placed in front of the temple, like that of Ariobarzanes at Ilion before the Athena temple (Diodorus XVII 17.6) and that of Adrastos at Sardis itself before the sanctuary of

45

46 47

48

Sardis VII.1, no. 85 [statue base: fourth century = Gusmani 1964, no. 20]), which should be compared with the dedications in (hieroglyphic) Egyptian and Aramaic to Egyptian gods by high level Persian administrators in Egypt (above, nn. 38–39). [See also below chapter 5 § 8.2]. Apart from the subjects of prostassei and prostassousi (above n. 9), there is autou (l.8) which, according to Robert (317–318 = the neokoroi of Zeus) refers to the Zeus of the dedication, which is not a view that can be maintained, if one agrees that the first text is totally separate from the cult regulations proper. I also do not see why, three words further on, the editors of the text would then have written ton theon (still Zeus, according to Robert). I do not have a final answer, particularly as the lines are full of pitfalls (hence probably Robert’s idea [317], according to which we have here not “the authentic document itself”, but just the substance in resumé form). My question here is whether autou cannot have been used in its adverbial sense of “this same instant” and helped to specify more precisely those who, among the neokoroi, were also thereapeutes; B. Le Guen, to whom I owe the suggestion, points out an epigraphic example of autou in this sense: BE 1971, no. 648. I am convinced that, once those who study section II by itself without reference to the Achaemenid era or to the statue (cf. preceding note), epigraphists will be able to suggest answers solidly based on grammar and syntax. Cf. Cousin & Deschamps 1889 and Cousin 1890, Boffo 1978, and Briant 1996a: 507–508 [HPE 491–492]. [On this document, cf. below chapter 4] His idea is that, in the Roman period, part I (the dedication) would have been re-inscribed as it was (310–311), while “the substance” of the first cultic prohibition was simply summarised without making an exact copy of the original document, and the possibility that the second prohibition dates to the Roman period (326). But why would the authorities have “extracted from the archives this five hundred year old Persian regulation” and treated differently each of its constituent sections, particularly as, in Robert’s view, the republication of this “old cultic prohibition… [proves that] the Persian Zeus cult sought protection from any kind of contamination just as when the cult was founded in the fourth century” (326)? As for the assumed Roman period addition, why would one have been careful to “mask its origin” (326)? Robert does not explain and, I think cannot do so, given his assumptions. I do not think, however, that the letter of Darius to Gadatas was copied in the Roman period merely to justify the fiscal privileges enjoyed by the temple since the Achaemenid period (see Briant 1993: 23–24 [here chapter 23]); it seems clear to me that, since the beginning of the fifth century, the text had been archived and was regularly recopied [but see now Briant 2003, below chapter 4].

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Artemis Persike (Pausanias VII 6.6).49 The Droaphernes statue had probably disappeared by this time, but the dedicatory text was still visible either on the surviving base or continuously recopied since the fifth or fourth century BC, along with other ex votos50 and regulations piously preserved in the “museum” of the sanctuary. At a certain point, the temple authorities wanted to recopy and display all these texts,51 while taking good care to separate the second section from the first by engraving two leaves at the beginning and end of the former. Thus the block we have before us is most likely to have formed simply one of the elements of a wall covered in such inscriptions.52 It is, on the one hand, to the connection with Zeus, on the other, to the “archival” concerns of those in charge of the sanctuary in the Roman period, that we owe – in my view – the exceptional opportunity to see a Greek dedication of a statue erected by a representative of the top layer of Persian society in Sardis at the time of Artaxerxes I or II, using the following words: “In year 39 of the reign of Artaxerxes, Droaphernes, son of Barakes, hyparch of Lydia, [consecrated] this statue to Zeus of Baradates.” ADDENDA 1. With respect to the vocabulary used by Herodotus to describe statues (above § 3. iii), I note that in a recent article which I missed, A. Hermary reached the same conclusion as myself with respect to Herodotus 6.118: “Let us note that on only one occasion is the image of a god called andrias (6.118), but this is obviously simply to avoid excessive repetition, as the very same Apollo statue, stolen by Phoenicians from the Delos sanctuary and restored by Datis, is three times called agalma in the

49 50 51 52

Cf. also, e. g., Pausanias I 27.4, or OGIS 415 (ανδριάς placed ante templum a dextra parte portae). Cf. Plutarch, Them. 31: kai tôn anathèmatôn to plèthos (Sardis temple). On this practice, see Welles 1934: XL–XLI. Greenewalt (1978: 63) envisaged this when, in his examination of the anathyroses, he concluded that the block was part of a “masonry structure of some substance”. In referring to analogies such as an Athenian example (Dow 1961), the Métrôon of Sardis (see most recently Gauthier 1989: 53–58) and other walls of this type known from Asia Minor (64), he presented the picture of a “building on whose wall official information was inscribed”; but he later rejected this hypothesis in order to follow Robert’s interpretation, as “the reference to the statue of Zeus in lines 4–5 suggests that the structure was a monumental pedestal.” While at Sardis at the end of July 1995, C. H. Greenewalt Jr. indicated to me that the idea of an “information wall” is in fact perfectly feasible from the strictly architectural perspective. The inscription Sardis VII.1, no. 22, reproduced by Robert 320, whose content is directly comparable to the cultic regulations of part II of our inscription (see above, n. 36), might well have been included in such a setting. To reach a decision on this, it will be necessary to study the block itself and see whether it could have been set into the wall, perhaps even making a join with the block containing the Droaphernes inscription.

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preceding lines … Everywhere else, it seems inescapable that it means the statue of an individual, in particular of a man” (23).53 2. Too late, I received the second, revised edition (1996) of P. Frei and K. Koch’s book, the first edition of which (1984) I have used here. Peter Frei has enormously expanded and revised his text (cf. Ergänzungen zur Neuauflage, 37–131). Naturally, he revisits the Sardis inscription. On the main points, I am now in agreement with his position, but I have some reservations: 1/For reasons already explained, I am not at all persuaded by the idea of an Aramaic original (in spite of Frei, 92);54 2/I do not think that the inscription can be described as “das (der) Droaphernes-Dekret (Erlass)”; if my argument is accepted that only the dedication dates to the Achaemenid period, the text cannot be added to the category of what the author calls “Reichsautorisation”(Frei: 94–96; cf. 102–113).55 3. In an article which has just appeared (end of November 1996), P. Herrmann re-examines the Droaphernes inscription in a study gathering all the Sardis inscription relating to mystic associations.56 The writer presents a detailed history of the debates, but does not contribute any really new elements, as his focus is the subject of established mystic associations.57 I am surprised that he uses the text as published by Robert without any modifications and ignoring the presence of the second leaf (330). Nevertheless, his thematic compendium suggests that the inscription’s second part finds parallels in texts relating to mysteries (neokoroi, therapeutes…) of the Hellenistic-Roman period, and that they are utterly different from the first section, i. e. the dedication proper.

53 54

55 56 57

Hermary 1993b: 21–29. I owe the reference to Brigitte Le Guen. Note that Hermary does not refer to Robert’s article. I observe in passing the same reservation recently expressed by Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 91–123, especially 98–99: “However, it should be stressed that the reconstruction of an Aramaic original of these two documents (Droaphernes inscription and the letter of Darius to Gadatas) must remain hypothetical. It is perfectly possible to envisage that the two decrees were drawn up in Ionian Greek or even Lydian or even bilingually.” With respect to the Droaphernes inscription, this suggestion (which agrees closely with mine, with the exception that I do not think there was a Lydian original) seems to me even more likely given that, as I have tried to show, we are not dealing with an “official document” properly speaking. As for the letter of Darius to Gadatas, I think again that the thesis (while perfectly feasible) of an Aramaic original (reaffirmed, for example, by Schmitt 1996: 95–101) raises certain problems to which I shall return elsewhere [see now Briant 2003 = below chapter 4]. On this concept put forward by Frei, see the dialogue between P. Frei, J. Wiesehöfer and U. Rüterswörden in ZABR 1 (1995): 1–61; the last two express very serious reservations on the view developed by the first. Herrmann 1996: 315–341; the inscription is quoted in full on pages 329–335; photograph of the stone on p. 347. Cf. 334, where he is very pessimistic about the possibility of arriving at a solid conclusion with respect to the problem posed by the Droaphernes text (“… Probleme der angemessenen Einordnung der Droaphernes-Urkunde, wo nach meiner Meinung schlüssige Ergebnisse nicht zu erzielen sind”).

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Aymard, A., 1967, Études d’histoire ancienne, Paris Baslez, M. F., 1985, ‘Présence et traditions iraniennes dans les cités de l’Égée,’ RÉA 87/1–2: 137– 155 Bernand, A., 1969, Inscriptions métriques de l’Égypte gréco­romaine. Recherches sur la poésie épigrammatique des Grecs en Égypte, Paris Bernand, A., 1988, Inscriptions grecques et latines d’Hakôris, (IFAO, Bib. Ét.103), Cairo Bernand, A., 1992, Inscriptions grecques d’Égypte et de Nubie au Musée du Louvre, Paris Boffo, L., 1978, ‘La lettera di Dario a Gadata. I privilegi del tempio di Apollo a Magnesia sul Meandro,’ Bolletino dell’Istituto di Diritto Romano (Terza ser.) 20: 267–303 Boyce, M., 1982, A History of Zoroastrianism. II: Under the Achaemenians, Leiden Boyce, M. & F. Grenet, 1991, A History of Zoroastrianism. III: Zoroastrianism under Macedonian and Roman rule, Leiden Briant, P., 1985, ‘Les Iraniens d’Asie Mineure après la chute de l’empire achéménide. À propos de l’inscription d’Amyzon,’ DHA 11: 167–195 [Here Chapter 25] Briant, P., 1986, ‘Polythéisme et empire unitaire (Remarques sur la politique religieuse des Achéménide),’ in Les grandes figures religieuses. Fonctionnement pratique et symbolique dans l’antiquité, Paris: 425–443 Briant, P., 1987, ‘Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’empire achéménide. (Quelques reflexions et suggestions),’ AchHist I: 1–31 [Here Chapter 1] Briant, P., 1988, ‘Ethno-classe dominante et populations soumises dans l’empire achéménide: le cas de l’Égypte,’ AchHist III: 137–173 [Here Chapter 5] Briant, P., 1993, ‘Alexandre à Sardes,’ in J. Carlsen (ed.), Alexander the Great: myth and reality (ARID Suppl. XX), Rome: 1–15 [Here Chapter 23] Briant, P., 1996a, Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre, Paris (AchHist X = Leiden) Briant, P., 1996b, ‘Une curieuse affaire à Éléphantine en 410 av. n. è. Widranga, le temple de Yahweh et le sanctuaire de Khnûm,’ in B. Menu (éd.), Égypte pharaonique: pouvoir, société (= Médi­ terranées 6–7): 115–135 [Here Chapter 8] Brixhe, C. (éd.), 1993, La koinè grecque antique. I: Une langue introuvable?, Nancy Brosius, M., 1998, ‘Artemis Persikē and Artemis Anaitis,’ in M. Brosius & A. Kuhrt (eds.), Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis (AchHist XI), Leiden: 227–238 Buckler, W. H. & D. M. Robinson, 1912, ‘Greek inscriptions from Sardis. I,’ AJA 16: 11–82 Chaumont, M. L., 1990, ‘Un nouveau gouverneur de Sardes à l’époque achéménide d’après une inscription récemment découverte,’ Syria 67: 579–608 Corsten, T., 1991, ‘Herodot I.131 und die Einführung des Anahita-Kultes in Lydien,’ IrAnt 26: 163– 180 Cousin, G., 1890, ‘Correction à l’article intitulé “Lettre de Darius fils d’Hystaspes”,’ BCH 14: 646– 648 Cousin, G. & G. Deschamps, 1889, ‘Une lettre de “Darius fils d’Hystaspes”,’ BCH 13: 529–542 Cowley, A. E., 1921, ‘L’inscription bilingue araméenne de Sardes,’ CRAI: 7–14 Dagron, G. & D. Feissel, 1987, Inscriptions de Cilicie, Paris Dandamayev, M. A., 1993, ‘Xerxes and the Esagila temple in Babylon,’ Bulletin of the Asia Institute 7: 41–45 Davesnes, A., A. Lemaire & H. Lozachmeur, 1987, ‘Le site archéologique de Meydancıkkale (Turquie): du royaume de Pirindu à la garnison ptolémaïque,’ CRAI: 359–382 Dow, S., 1961, ‘The walls inscribed with Nikomakhos’ Law Code,’ Hesperia 30: 58–73 Drexler, H., 1897, s. v. Mên (Beinamen), in Roschers Lexicon der griechischen und römischen My­ thologie, II/2, col. 2752 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1979, ‘L’inscription araméenne,’ in H. Metzger et al., Fouilles de Xanthos.VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris: 129–177 Folmer, M. L., 1995, The Aramaic Language in the Achaemenid Period (OLA 68), Leuven

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Frei, P., 1984, ‘Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,’ in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 7–43 Frei, P., 1995, ‘Die persische Reichsautorisation. Ein Überblick,’ ZABR 1: 1–35 Frei, P., 1996, ‘Ergänzungen zur Neuauflage,’ in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisa­ tion im Perserreich (Zweite, bearbeitete und stark erweiterte Auflage; OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 37–113 Gauthier, Ph., 1989, Nouvelles Inscriptions de Sardes, Geneva Greenewalt, C. H., Jr., 1978, ‘The seventeenth campaign at Sardis (1974),’ AASOR 43: 61–71 Greenewalt, C. H., Jr., 1995, ‘Sardis in the age of Xenophon,’ in P. Briant (éd.), Dans les pas des Dix­Mille. Peuples et pays du Proche­Orient vus par un Grec, Toulouse (= Pallas 43): 125–145 Gschnitzer, F., 1986, ‘Eine persische Kultstiftung in Sardeis und die “Sippengötter” Vorderasiens,’ in W. Meid & H. Trenkwalder (Hsg.), Im Bannkreis des Alten Orients: Studien zur Sprach­ und Kulturgeschichte des Alten Orients und seines Ausstrahlungsraumes – Festschrift Karl Ober­ huber, Innsbruck: 45–54 Guarducci, M., 1967, Epigrafia graeca, I, Rome Gusmani, R., 1964, Lydisches Wörterbuch, Heidelberg Gusmani, R., 1986, Lydisches Wörterbuch. Ergänzungsband I, Heidelberg Hanfman, G. M. A., 1983, ‘On the gods of Lydian Sardis,’ in Festschrift K. Bittel, Mainz: 219–231 Hanfman, G. M. A., 1987, ‘The sacrilege inscription: the ethnic, linguistic, social and religious situation at Sardis at the end of the Persian era,’ Bulletin of the Asia Institute 1: 1–8 Hanfman, G. M. A. & W. E. Mierse, 1983, Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times, Cambridge, Mass. Hermary, A., 1993a, ‘Le colosse des Naxiens à Délos,’ RÉA 951–2: 11–27 Hermary, A., 1993b, ‘Les noms de la statue chez Hérodote,’ in M. C. Amouretti & P. Villard (éds.), EUKRATA. Mélanges offerts à Claude Vatin, Aix-en-Provence: 21–29 Herrmann, P., 1996, ‘Mystenvereine in Sardeis,’ Chiron 26: 315–341 Johnston, A., 1981, The Greek Coins (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Coins from Sardis), Cambridge, Mass. Koonce, K., 1991, ‘AΓΑΛΜΑ and ΕΙΚΩΝ,’ AJPh 109: 108–110 Kuhrt, A. & S. M. Sherwin-White, 1987, ‘Xerxes’ destruction of Babylonian temples,’ AchHist II: 69–78 Lane, E., 1976, Corpus Monumentorum Religionis Dei Menis, III (EPRO 19), Leiden Lemaire, A., 1991, ‘Recherches d’épigraphie araméennes en Asie Mineure et en Égypte et le problème de l’acculturation,’ AchHist VI: 199–206 Lemaire, A., 1995, ‘La fin de la première période perse en Égypte et la chronologie judéenne vers 400 av. J. C.,’ Trans. 9: 51–61 Lemaire, A. & H. Lozachmeur, 1996, ‘Remarques sur le plurilinguisme en Asie Mineure à l’époque perse,’ in F. Briquel-Chatonnet (éd.), Mosaïque de langues, mosaïque culturelle. Le bilinguisme dans le Proche­Orient ancien (Antiquités Sémitiques I), Paris: 91–123 Lipiński, E, 1975, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics, I (OLA 50), Leuven Lonis, R., 1979, Guerre et religion en Grèce à l’époque classique, Paris Lopez-Eire, A., 1993, ‘De l’Attique à la koinè,’ in Brixhe (éd.), 1993: 41–57 Mayrhofer, M., 1974, ‘Zu den Parther-Namen der griechischen Awroman-Dokumente,’ in P. Gignoux & A. Tafazzoli (éds.), Mémorial Jean de Menasce, Louvain: 205–213 Petit, Th., 1990, Satrapes et satrapies dans l’empire achéménide de Cyrus le Grand à Xerxès Ier, Paris Posener, G., 1936, La première domination perse en Égypte (IFAO Bib. Ét. 11), Cairo Powell, J. E., 1938, A Lexicon to Herodotus, Cambridge Robert, L., 1960, ‘The inscription of the sepulchral stele from Sardis,’ AJA 64: 53–56 Robert, L., 1963, ‘Noms indigènes dans l’Asie Mineure gréco­romaine, Paris Robert, L.,1975, ‘Une nouvelle inscription de Sardes. Règlement de l’autorité perse relative à un culte de Zeus,’ CRAI : 306–330

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Rolley, C., 1994, La sculpture grecque. I: des origines au milieu du Vè siècle, Paris Rüterswörden, U., 1995, ‘Die persische Reichsautorisation der Thora: Fact or Fiction?’ ZABR 1: 47–61 Sartre, M., 1995, L’Asie Mineure et l’Anatolie d’Alexandre à Dioclétien, Paris Schmitt, R., 1994, ‘Dātabara,’EncIr VII/2: 115 Sokolowski, F., 1979, ‘TA EMΠYPA: on the mysteries in the Lydian and Phrygian cults,’ ZPE 34: 65–69 Urdahl, L. B., 1968, ‘Jews in Attica,’ StOr 43: 39–56 Van Haeperen-Pourbaix, A., 1984, ‘Recherches sur les origines, la nature et les attributs du dieu Mên,’ in R. Doncel & R. Lebrun (eds.), Archéologie et religions de l’Anatolie ancienne. Mélanges en l’honneur du Professeur P. Naster, Louvain: 199–257 Weiskopf, M., 1982, The Achaemenid system of governing in Anatolia, PhD Dissertation, Berkeley, CA Weiskopf, M. 1989, The so­called “Great Satraps’ Revolt”, 366–360 B. C. (Historia Einzelschrift 63), Wiesbaden Welles, C. B., 1934, Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period, New Haven, Conn. Wiesehöfer, J., 1985, Rezension, P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee, Gnomon 57: 565–567 Wiesehöfer, J., 1995, “Reichsgesetz” oder “Einzelfallgrechtigkeit”? Bemerkungen zu Peter Freis These von der achaimenidischen “Reichsautorisation”,’ ZABR 1: 36–46

3 CITIES AND SATRAPS IN THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE: XANTHOS AND PIXODAROS* I DISCOVERY It is now almost a quarter of a century – 31 August 1973 – since the French Mission under the direction of Henri Metzger discovered in the Letôon of Xanthos a limestone stele bearing inscriptions on three of its faces: in Aramaic on one side, Lycian and Greek on front and back. With praiseworthy speed and expertise, publication, translation and commentary of each version was presented and then published in the Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles­Lettres of 1974 by no less than Henri Metzger for the Greek (pp. 82–93), Emmanuel Laroche for the Lycian (pp. 115–125) and André Dupont-Sommer for the Aramaic (pp. 132–149): Fig. 3 & 4. The text and commentary was republished, with few modifications,1 in volume VI of the series Fouilles de Xanthos in 1979. The discussion of each of the versions was preceded by an introduction where Henri Metzger presented the archaeological finds made in the Letôon sanctuary. The volume also contained a study by Manfred Mayrhofer on the Iranian elements that could be identified in the Aramaic text (pp. 181– 185). Also included was a section entitled ‘Historical Remarks’ (pp. 165–169), in which Dupont-Sommer reaffirmed the ideas he had presented in CRAI 1974. Here he reacted in particular (but with only limited success) to both criticisms and an alternative hypothesis put forward by Ernst Badian on the possible dating of the document to the first year of Arses/Artaxerxes IV, i. e. the summer of 337,2 as opposed to the first year of Artaxerxes III (358), which he had argued for and reasserted here.3 * 1 2

Original Publication: “Cités et satrapes dans l’empire achéménide: Pixôdaros et Xanthos,” CRAI 1998: 305–340. Laroche’s contribution was considerably expanded from the first edition to the second (11 as opposed to 75 pages), so that it now reads more like a treatise of the Lycian language. Badian 1977, whose view was quickly accepted by J. and L. Robert in BE 1977, no. 472, who described it rightly as “an elegant solution which avoids the necessity of having arbitrarily to rearrange the satrapal chronology (…) of Mausolus, Idrieus and Pixodaros” (see the confirmation of their position, following the publication of FdX VI in BE 1980, no. 486). This dating is now accepted by a majority of scholars (see the discussion in HEP: 1021 and 1039 ff. [HPE 1011–2]; add Keen 1998: 10, and see below § III. Point 2 on the first lines in Greek and Lycian). Dupont-Sommer’s counter-argument (FdX VI: 166, n. 1, as well as that of others, e. g. Asheri 1983: 108 ff.) that there is no proof of the existence of an Arses/Artaxerxes is no longer tenable: Babylonian tablets now provide precisely that documentary proof (see the references in BHAch I, p. 58). Note also that in trying to support his very weak hypothesis of an initial (ephemeral) governorship of Pixodaros in 358, Dupont-Sommer is forced to paint in lurid colours an atmos-

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Fig. 3: The three texts of the Xanthos­Trilingual

The find was made a few months after the discovery of the Darius statue at Susa3 and a few before that of the Droaphernes inscription at Sardis,4 both crucial documents for Achaemenid history. And it is hardly surprising that the Xanthos stele immediately aroused great interest among linguists and historians.5 In an article devoted to the

3 4 5

phere of intrigue threatening, in his view, the central government and satrapal courts (note also Mayrhofer’s very suggestive title (1976) which, translated, reads: “Asia Minor between the agony of the Persian empire and Hellenistic renewal”), none of which is remotely convincing (see my remarks in HEP, section V passim and pp. 1033 ff. [HPE 1007 ff.]). See the preliminary publication in Journal Asiatique 260/3–4 (1972); final publication: CDAFI 4 (1974). Published by Robert CRAI 1975: 306–330 (I offer a new interpretation in Briant 1998 [Above chapter 2]). Interest has not dwindled since it was first made public in 1974; see the commentaries of J. and L. Robert in BE 1974, no. 290–292; the Greek version was republished in SEG XXVII (1977), no. 942; the Lycian was presented with an English translation in 1978 by Bryce (and now id., 1986: 91 ff. see also his remarks in Bryce 1983); it is included, with bibliography, under N 320 in Neumann’s 1979 conspectus (see the review by Bryce 1981b). The Aramaic and Lycian texts were immediately scrutinised by Garbini 1977 and Carruba 1977. See further on the Aramaic, Teixidor 1978, Mayrhofer 1976 and most recently Frei 1996: 39–47 (revised and corrected edition of Frei 1984; resumé in Frei 1995), also Lemaire 1995. For the Lycian, see also Gusmani 1979, Frei 1976 (stressing (p. 7, n. 8) how the new document provokes further thought on

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memory of his mentor, Simon Hornblower recalls how at the time (1974) he received word from David Lewis suggesting that he should forget everything and focus on CRAI.6 Aramaists now have “the longest known inscription in the ‘Aramaic of the empire’,7 and Dupont-Sommer’s observation remains valid after the lapse of twenty-five years. This is not to mention the scholarly rejoicings, despite some reservations,8 which Emmanuel Laroche, followed by the community of students of Lycian, displayed. The inscription also provided food for thought on the linguistic and cultural contacts at work in a small community of southern Anatolia on the eve of the Macedonian conquest.9 I do not expect (nor am I qualified) to treat all the questions which remain twenty-five years after the text’s discovery and its publication. I hope to organize my suggestions around the issues which are of most interest to a historian of the Achaemenid empire and which also occupy students of the Hellenistic kingdoms, particularly focussed on epigraphic documents: my analysis will concentrate on the political relations between a local community (Xanthos) and a satrap of the Great King, Pixodaros. This aspect has already given rise to several studies, including by myself, but I think that it is now possible to make some new (or at least more nuanced) suggestions, by rereading the different versions,10 in particular the Greek one which is the only one, as far as I am aware, never to have been re-examined in detail since its first publication and translation by Henri Metzger in 1974. The Greek version has, necessarily, occupied a central, or rather strategic, place in the work of the initial editors. It is exceptionally well preserved: not a single restoration is required in the whole of its 35 lines, and there is only one slip by the engraver (a xi instead of an epsilon in l.33). It became apparent very rapidly that the Greek and Lycian versions were very close to each other – even that the Greek was an adaptation/translation of the Lycian;11 suffice it to say that Emmanuel Laroche,

6 7 8

9 10 11

relations between satraps and local communities within the Achaemenid empire), and the discussions published in Incontri Linguistici 1978 (4/1: 44–48 and 89–98; 4/2: 235–239), as well as the note by Del Monte 1989. Among the detailed reviews of FdX VI, note especially those by Contini 1981 (concentrating on the Aramaic text) and Frei 1981; see also the shorter remarks by J. and L. Robert in BE 1980, no. 486 and Heubeck 1980. Hornblower 1997: 584. Dupont-Sommer 1974: 134 = FdX VI: 135. Laroche, with his usual modesty, was aware that the Lycian text was not going to solve all the problems, that had accumulated over a century, in one fell swoop (see CRAI 1974: 115 ff. and 124 ff.); see the similar observations by Carruba 1977: 274 ff., Bryce 1981b: 231 and Heubeck 1980: 561. On this, see the study by Asheri 1983, especially pp. 107–123. In what follows, I shall refer to the different versions using the letters A (Aramaic), G (Greek) and L (Lycian), adding numbers to indicate the line or lines, e. g. L2 = Lycian text, line 2. See FdX VI: 42 (Metzger), 70 (Laroche), and mainly Blomqvist’s 1982 analysis, who maintains, contrary to Metzger (loc.cit.) that the Greek stone cutter was certainly “a Greek or at least a person with a profound understanding of the Greek language” (p. 19), and explains that certain oddities in the Greek text can be understood as influenced by Lycian constructions. – I must admit that I do not understand on what Keen 1998: 10 bases his claim that the Lycian is a translation of the Greek and not vice versa; he does not cite or discuss Blomqvist and his presentation (n. 76) of Laroche’s interpretation (1979: 79) is brief and distorted, as Laroche states very clearly that the Lycian is the original version serving as a model for the Greek.

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Fig. 4: The three inscribed sides and an axionomatric sketch of the Xanthos Trilingual (drawings by André Bourgarel)

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in his outstanding work on the text, was able to find clinching parallels and indicators. The Aramaic text, too, presents a number of palaeographic difficulties due to mistakes made by the stone-cutter and to “slips in engraving,” so that some letters have been missed out.12 A rather more serious problem for the Aramaists is that “in our inscription one sign could indicate four different consonants: D, R, K or even N. The triple, even quadruple, value of one and the same sign poses here and there puzzles, and the decipherer, even when dealing with proper names, could not have reached a definitive reading had it not been for the solution offered by the Greek as well as the Lycian text.”13 In fact, the problems faced by the Aramaists are not limited to the decipherment of proper names, as one crucial passage in l.19 in particular has been interpreted and translated very differently. We shall see how heavily the Greek version has been pressed into service to provide an answer to problems in the Aramaic inscription, and in particular how the last words of the Greek (Πιξωταρος δε κυριος εστω) has fed into an interpretation, which, unfortunately in my view, set it off in the wrong direction. However one looks at it, the synoptic method (albeit necessary) is not risk free, given that the document is not a true trilingual:14 where the Greek and Lycian can be considered a genuine bilingual text, the Aramaic one, while related to them, is constructed quite differently and transmits a different vision of events; it is also much briefer and omits certain details found in the Lycian and Greek.15 In other words, it is important to distinguish matters carefully in the analysis, while nevertheless comparing the two versions, i. e. the Lycian-Greek16 with the Aramaic.17 12 13 14 15

16

17

According to Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 122 “the engraver probably did not know Aramaic and was unused to working on Aramaic inscriptions;” see also Asheri 1983: 122 ff. Dupont-Sommer in FdX VI: 164. In spite of Frei 1976: 6. See Blomqvist 1982: 14, n. 22, Mayrhofer 1976: 276 and the observations of Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 108–119. It is also useful to consult the volume Bilinguismo e biculturalismo nel mondo antico, ed. E. Campanile, G. R. Cardona and R. Lazzaroni, Pisa 1988; note especially Cardona’s introduction (pp. 10–15: “Considerazioni sui documenti plurilingui”), Campanile’s remarks (pp. 17–21: “Per una definizione del testo epigraphico bilingue”) and Garbini’s on the Aramaic examples (“Documenti bilingui: i casi dell’aramaico”, pp. 67–74, with a brief reference to the Xanthos text, pp. 68 ff.). My use of this formulation is not intended to deny the differences in detail between the Lycian and the Greek; I am simply saying that, at the level of political analysis, the Lycian-Greek version (in essence, the Lycian were it comprehensible without the Greek) represents a unity vis-à-vis the Aramaic one. In the course of his observations on multilingual inscriptions (see n. 15), Cardona remarks with regret (p. 10) that, following their initial publication, the different versions are generally incorporated into collections devoted to one or other language. This has happened in the case of the trilingual, with the Greek version now included in SEG and the Lycian one in a collection of Lycian inscriptions (Neumann 1979: 44–47, side by side with the Greek and Aramaic), with different sigla (SEG XXVII, 942, N 320). Fortunately we have the editio princeps of FdX VI, to which one has to refer regularly, something not always done by specialists in Greek, Lycian or Aramaic, as they tend to concentrate exclusively on the language with which each is familiar (in this respect, Laroche’s multilingual presentation in FdX VI: 58 ff. is exemplary). But it should be noted that, unfortunately, the publication in FdX VI is not faultless; I am not speaking

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II TEXTS AND PROBLEMS Let us turn now to the document’s contents, taking as our starting point what I shall call the “civic version”, i. e. the Lycian and Greek texts, concentrating on the Greek as it is the only one that can be read straightforwardly, so to speak (see the synoptic presentation in fig. 3). It begins with an introduction which names the imperial authorities (G1–5; L1–5): Pixodaros, here given his title of “satrap of Lycia”, and his representatives in the region – two archontes in Lycia and an official in charge of affairs (epimeletes) in Xanthos. Then comes the civic decision introduced by the well-known Greek formula, ἔδοξε, “it has seemed good to the Xanthians and the perioikoi to …”18 The decision concerns the setting up of an altar to Basileus Kaunios and Arkesimas, thus basically the organisation of a new cult. To this end, a series of essential resolutions are passed: – in the first place (G8–12; L9–12), a priest, Simias, is nominated who is granted a fiscal exemption (ateleia) on his own property (ἀτέλειαν τῶν ὄντων); there is also the specification that the priesthood should stay within the family of Simias and his descendants;19 – this is followed (G 12–16; L 13–17) by the grant of land to the divinity, i. e. a field, adjoining properties and the buildings there; the field (or estate) is defined by the names of those who have been cultivating it, Pigres and Kesindelis;20 – then come additional financial concessions: first, an annual subvention (three half minas) is given by the city (polis: G 16–18); the Lycian (L 18–19) specifies

18

19

20

of each of the three contributions, but of the synopsis included in the volume between p. 162 and p. 163. This is obviously the work of Dupont-Sommer who, as he says himself, has not hesitated to modify Laroche’s and Metzger’s translations, “in order to indicate more clearly the concordance of vocabulary [and] in order to bring out better the resemblances between the Aramaic and Lycian texts.” In terms of methodological practice, this is an indefensible way to proceed, as it rests on a total misrepresentation of what a multilingual text is; note, too, that in some instances, Dupont-Sommer’s “modifications” change profoundly his co-authors’ translations (see below nn. 35, 62, 84, 87). It is absolutely essential for future readers and users to avoid the synopsis; instead they will have to study each edition and translation in the volume individually. I will not deal directly with the status of the perioikoi nor their relations with what the Greek document dubs Xanthians, as it does not affect directly the argument I am setting out here (for a few remarks, see below n. 32). A useful historiographical discussion can be found in Gygax 1991. J. & L. Robert refer to the parallel case of Sinuri (BE 1974, no. 553, p. 290) and think “that this is not the case … of an exclusive father-son succession, brothers, too, could have played a part” (Metzger shares this view in FdX VI: 39, n. 48). This specification is not in the corresponding Aramaic passage (A9). In the curse formula (A 21–22), there is a reference to “the current priests”; but the uncertainties of the reading make Dupont-Sommer’s (FdX VI: 154) suggested comparison of A 21–22 on the one hand with G 10 and L 11 on the other fragile (only the Lycian repeats the formula “Simias and those close to Simias”). On these two individuals, see below n. 32. According to Laroche (FdX VI: 154), the Lycian uses a verb that means ‘irrigate’ rather than ‘cultivate’; the suggestion is discussed by Carruba 1977: 298 ff.

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that the sum is given to the priest as his salary;21 secondly, those manumitted will have to pay a tax of two drachmas (G 18–20; shekels in L 20–22); – all this, runs the reminder (G 20–23; L 22–24), is dedicated to the gods Basileus Kaunios and Arkesimas and will be their property (G 22–23); – finally, the revenues created by all these resources ( ἐχφόριον ἐκ τούτων) are to supply the materials for sacrifices, whose type and periodicity are specified: a sheep each new month and a bull each year (G 23–26; L 25–30); the Lycian specifies that it is the priest Simias’ and his successors’ duty to ensure that these sacrifices are made (L 29–30); – an oath is sworn by the Xanthians and the perioikoi to honour the decision written on the stele (G 26–32; L 32–36); a curse threatens anyone who seeks to change the regulations (G 32–35; L 36–40). At the end of the text the name of Pixodaros appears in the form I have already alluded to and to which I shall return (G 35; L 40–41). At this point it might be useful to define with what type of document we are dealing. It is usual to label it a ‘sacred law’ (lex sacra), a term that seems to me misleading rather than illuminating.22 In this instance, the term appears to derive from a reductive understanding of Old Persian dāta. But this need not be always translated by “law” or “Gesetz” (themselves strikingly diverse in their meanings). In an administrative context, as for example in the case of an Elamite tablet from Persepolis (PF1980), the word dāta refers first and foremost to a regulation.23 This is precisely the meaning of Lycian mara of L 33 (there is no exact Greek equivalence).24 In another bilingual, possibly originally a trilingual, found at Xanthos and also dated to Pixodaros (TL 45), Lycian mara renders very closely what, in Greek, is clearly a fiscal regulation decreed by the satrap in favour of the cities in the Xanthos valley.25 What our document communicates is not a regular religious law, which would (for 21 22

23 24 25

See Laroche in FdX VI: 69 and 100 ff.; on the sum expressed in Lycian units (adas), see also Frei’s 1976 study. See, for example, Frei 1976: 6; Dupont-Sommer (FdX VI: 133) calls it a “sacred covenant”, in which he is followed by Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 111: “It is the lex sacra, the datah, the Law…” Metzger, for his part, (FdX VI: 33) speaks of a “religious regulation”, but seems to restrict this to one section of the text. When Laroche uses the expression the “sacred law of Pixodaros” (p. 79), that is a two-fold slip of the pen as, on the one hand, Pixodaros is certainly not its author (see below), and, on the other, all the Anatolian precedents he cites on pp. 79 ff. clearly belong to the category of “cultic foundations”. It is quite true, too, that in Rougemont’s (1977: 1) phrase, “sacred laws are a poorly defined category”, but he nevertheless does not exclude cultic foundations. See mainly HEP: 527 ff., 981 ff. [HPE, 510 ff., 956 ff.] and my comments in BHAch I: 96, n. 250. On mara, see Laroche 1974: 123; on the related term maraza (FdX VI: 98) identified by Melchert on the Inscribed Pillar, see HEP: 1004 [HPE 978] (also now Keen’s discussion, 1998: 137 ff.). See the publication by Bousquet 1986 and the comments by Laroche in FdX VI: 111 ff. He also publishes on pp. 115–118 another Lycian inscription from Xanthos where the same formula (l.4, mara ebeiya) appears as in the trilingual (L 33).

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example) forbid the contamination of the sanctuary, of the kind found in a Hellenistic inscription from Xanthos (SEG XXXVI, 1221: ἃ μὴ νομίζεται κτλ.).26 It is a regulation defining the economic, material and administrative conditions related to the functioning of a new cult.27 Because this is at the centre of the decision: the agreement is to provide, for the priest’s livelihood and the sacrifices to be offered, the material needed, foremost being what the Greek text calls hiera khora “sacred land” or better “consecrated land”.28 The document thus relates to a well known category of Greek inscriptions, as well as of Lycian ones and those of many other civilisations, namely a cultic foundation.29 These are the texts which, years ago, were collected and studied by Bernhard Laum.30 The difference here is that we are 26 See Le Roy 1986. 27 This also applies to the sacrifices: the text has nothing to say about rituals proper to the envisaged sacrifices, it simply defines their timing as well as the type of sacrificial animals, determined in terms of the revenues granted by the city to the cult foundation and its priest. The Lycian says very clearly that “Simias and whoever is related to Simias” will be in charge of organising the sacrifices in accordance with the quantitative and chronological norms set out (L 29–30; see also A 14–17; the priest is not mentioned in G 23–26). In most respects, the text, in particular the Lycian version, does not set out the duties of the priest as a performer of sacrifices, but as a manager (the cultic regulations as such would have been in another document). The decree establishes Simias’ and his successors’ duties in relation to those originating the cult foundation, i. e. the inhabitants of Arññna/Xanthos and the perioikoi. We should also remember that the priest himself receives an indemnity from the city (very clearly established by L 18–19, less precisely by G 16–18 and A 12–14, cf. FdX VI: 39). For this reason, the formulation used by Bryce 1983: 12 is the most exact: “… the regulations set up on the stele for the administration of the cult.” 28 Metzger (CRAI 1974: 89 ff. and esp. FdX VI: 33 and 38) thinks that the altar was erected on the land given to the gods, not an obvious interpretation in my view; the location of the altar and the land may well have differed. He rejects the idea that the altar might have been set up in the Leto sanctuary (CRAI 1974: 90; FdX VI: 38; but see the different positions of Laroche 1974: 122, Robert in BE 1974, no. 553 and Bernard in Studia Iranica 10 (1981): 340; Metzger has since strongly reasserted his opinion in FdX IX/1, 1992: 25). Metzger’s observations (FdX VI: 38 ff.) on the “inferior position” of the new cult compared to the gods honoured on the acropolis and in the Letôon do not strike me as very convincing; the quality of the workmanship, importance of the text (augmented by being given in three languages) as well as the stele’s position right at the heart of the Letôon (cf. FdX VI: 31) suggests something rather more important than a simple, less significant rustic, sanctuary. Given that the Xanthian community itself organised and financed the cult foundation, it is more likely that the sacrifices would have been performed in the centre of the city (even perhaps on the acropolis). 29 I am following here the illuminating remarks of Rüterswörden 1995: 57 ff., who explicitly argues against the term lex sacra used by Frei; the latter’s counter-arguments (Frei 1995: 15, n. 57) are not very convincing. Rüterswörden (p. 58) says that the term Stiftung had been used by Wörrle for the Xanthos case (see Chiron 8 (1978): 238: “Die durch die Xanthos-Trilingue proklamierte Stiftung eines Priestertums für den neuen Kult…”); I note that in order to define the sense of the term μετακινειν, J. & L. Robert already compared the Trilingual with “all the regulations related to foundations” in BE 1974, no. 553, p. 291. 30 Laum 1914. Cf. also the Lycian inscriptions TL 84 and 149 cited by Laroche as parallels in FdX VI: 67 (“Two epitaphs … also stipulating the establishment of local (funerary?) cults attached to a rural property”). In nearby Caria, see the text from Koranza (BE 1979, no. 466), discussed by Hahn 1985 (with the critical remarks in SEG XXXV, 1092).

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not dealing with a private foundation, but one decided upon by a political community. We can, thus, assume that the land assigned to the sanctuary was taken from the public land belonging to the community of the Xanthians and the perioikoi.31 Such documents usually conclude with formulas ensuring that the decision enshrined on the stone would endure.32 And that is precisely the case here: oaths are sworn by the Xanthians and the perioikoi not to make any changes (μετακινειν)33 to the inscribed text. To discourage anyone who might attempt to do so in whatever way, this was followed by the traditional curse formulae declaring future offenders guilty before the local gods (G 32–35; L 36–40). Metzger translates the final words in Greek (G 35: Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω) as follows: “May Pixodaros have the ultimate authority with respect to these decisions.”34 He does not really explain his translation, except for a brief reference to a historical interpretation which he uses without arguing it further: “This appeal to the satrap with respect to the decree, which, in legal terms, had been taken by the Xanthians and their perioikoi gives us the measure of the autonomy enjoyed by a Lycian city controlled by a satrap, archontes and a governor,”35 or again: “[The perioikoi] are associated in the decision, if one can speak of a decision, as everything is done under Pixodaros’ authority and at the end of the decree an appeal is made to the satrap.”36 Obviously such an understanding would seem to justify a problemat31

32 33 34

35 36

Which leads to the supposition that Kendeselis and Pigres were farmers who had rented these fields from the city (and not the “successive previous proprietors” as Metzger 1974: 89 cautiously suggested; the expression does not, in FdX VI: 38, define “the names of those who had previously worked the land”, as in BE 1974, no. 553). This hypothesis was already put forward by Hahn 1981: 55 and Asheri 1983: 116 ff. (they also consider the possibility of Pigres and Kendeselis being perioikoi) and helps us to understand why simply their names sufficed to indicate the land’s location within the khora of Xanthos. The granting of a plot of land implies that the next stage would be to register its borders; it would then be enough simply to enter in the cadaster the borders of the fields already registered which had been rented out to Pigres and Kendeselis. It is indeed likely that the relevant fields were again rented out with the income going to the foundation and it is possible that Pigres and Kendeselis continued to farm the land. The rent thus obtained and the other resources listed in the text would allow the sacrifices prescribed by the community decree to be made (cf. G 23–24; L 25), a practice well known from the analysis of rental leases of land (see also Didymes’ text ap. Harpocration, cited in Dareste, Haussoulier & Reinach 1892: 250: “On farm rents [ἀπὸ μıσθωμάτων]. The grammarian Didymes says that this expression is used instead of: on the revenues of the sacred domains [εκ των τεμενικων προσοδων]. In fact, each god was assigned a certain number of plethra of land and the sacrifices were financed by the farm rents …”). See Laum 1914, I: 169–211. J. & L. Robert’s translation in BE 1974, no. 553, p. 291 (“as in all regulations for foundations”) followed by Blomquist 1982: 16 (pace Metzger 1974: 90, and FdX VI: 39, 42 where he reaffirms his view against L. Robert’s alternative translation). CRAI 1974: 86 and FdX VI: 33. Dupont-Sommer (p. 153 and the synopsis between pp. 162 and 163), in keeping with his presuppositions (see above n. 17) has changed Metzger’s translation to: “And may Pixodaros be the lord (of the decision)”; this is obviously done to provide a more solid base (!) for his translation of A 19 (see below n. 92)! FdX VI: 41. CRAI 1974: 88. Note the term “appeal to the satrap” (so, too, Dupont-Sommer, FdX VI; 133), which is to say that it is Xanthos itself which took (will take) this step. Yet, in the same CRAI

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ical translation. It would be good if the Lycian version offered some support, but unfortunately the corresponding Lycian phrase (L 40–41) does not provide the answer, as Laroche observes:37 “The laconic Greek phrase Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω is not enough to analyse this final phrase of a mere five words, three of which are unknown.” We shall see that the Greek phrase is perhaps not quite as “laconic” as Laroche thinks, and that the Lycian phrase points in the direction of a reasonably well-founded answer to the question. Let us now turn to the Aramaic text. The differences are striking. Without pausing at greater length on it for now, the heading plainly gives Pixodaros’ full title, “satrap in Caria and Lycia,” and contains a dating formula referring to a regnal year of the Great King Artaxerxes. Using the form of a declaration by the satrap (the word is restored in A 5), the text recalls the decision taken by the free inhabitants (b’ly) of Xanthos (there is no mention of the perioikoi):38 foundation of a sanctuary (?) or perhaps the institution of a cult39 in honour of two gods, nomination of a priest, grant of a plot of land to the god, an annual subsidy, monthly and annual sacrifices, fiscal exemption. At the end is a curse formula, but of a rather more threatening nature than the one in Greek and Lycian (A 26–27). It is preceded in l.19 by a phrase whose meaning is extremely uncertain and which Dupont-Sommer eventually40 translated as: “This law, he inscribed (it), (he) who is lord (of the decision).” In his commentary, Dupont-Sommer set this behaviour and decision into a very broad context. I quote here the entire passage: passage (p. 91). Metzger also describes Pixodaros as “called upon to keep watch that the decree is properly applied”. This interpretation is not far removed from my own view, but it contradicts somewhat the decisive satrapal intervention in the passing of the decision; this may explain why the phrase in CRAI: 90, has vanished from the final text in FdX VI: 41. It should be noted further that in the plan given by Laroche of the Lycian text (p. 60), he gives the final formula (L 40–41) as “Pixodaros is to be the guarantor”, which is the best solution as I hope to demonstrate here (see especially below III. Point 5). As it is close to one of Metzger’s original formulations, that of Laroche suggests to me that the interpretation finally used by Dupont-Sommer and Metzger was not immediately arrived at. 37 FdX VI: 76. 38 See Asheri’s remarks (1983: 114–117). On the word b’ly, see in particular Frei 1996: 43 ff. 39 The term (KRP’) is difficult to understand; it is Iranian in origin and has given rise to a number of different interpretations: see Dupont-Sommer in FdX VI: 144 ff.; Mayrhofer ibid.: 183 ff.; most recently, Lemaire 1995: 425 and 430 (“instituting a cult/making a chapel (?); cf. Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 113: “making a chapel”?); in fact the Iranian etymology is extremely uncertain. Laroche translates the Lycian (L 7) as “founding this (?) sanctuary”, but his discussion shows that the relevant Lycian term is clearly linked to a root corresponding to Greek ίερον or ιερειον; his reference (FdX VI: 63) shows that his rendering “cult building, sanctuary, chapel or simple votive stone (Gr. βωμός)” is not obvious in itself but depends on a comparison with the presumed meaning of KRP’, which is itself obscure (cf. n. 11, referring to Mayrhofer 1976: 278 and FdX VI: 183 ff., who stresses the uncertainty of the translation!). The only easily comprehensible text is the Greek, which shows very plainly that what is at stake is a cult foundation symbolised concretely by the erection of an altar and regular sacrifices, nothing else (cf. also n. 28 & 31): for all these reasons, the translation “to institute a cult” seems to me preferable. 40 In the first instance (CRAI 1974: 137), he suggested: “This law, he (Pixodaros) inscribed (it) in order that it be kept (?).”

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“From the historical perspective, it is important to note, with respect to the trilingual stele, the interest shown by Pixodaros and the satrapal officers in a religious matter. The Persian authorities are well known for their close attention to religious issues in their huge empire; there must have been a sort of cultic ministry or bureau in the chancelleries of the various satrapies, whose duty it was to supervise closely and regulate the activities of their subjects, not in order to impose on them Iranian cults or gods, but to ensure order and security in a political sphere that was so important and frequently troubled in the life of ancient societies. The satrap Pixodaros’ official intervention in the institution of a new cult at the Letôon of Xanthos, so clearly attested by the Aramaic of the trilingual stele, should be placed in the general context of Persian religious policy of which it constitutes another example.”

In the paragraph following his “historical observations”, he goes even further, by indicating very plainly that it was Pixodaros himself who gave the impulse for the new cult of a Carian god at Xanthos in order to confirm the union of the two provinces which came under his authority: “The initiative for the project, in the Greek and Lycian texts of our trilingual, appears to emanate from the citizens of Xanthos and their neighbours themselves; but this initiative so suited the satrap’s ambitions that it is unlikely he would not have encouraged or even inspired it: religion came to the aid of politics.”41 As my thoughts on the functioning of the Achaemenid empire have progressed, I have felt an ever greater reluctance to accept such an analysis. In a number of articles published in the last fifteen or so years, I have explained why Dupont-Sommer’s thesis seems to me utterly incompatible with an analysis of Achaemenid imperial policy, inasmuch as it can be studied with the help of various examples.42 But I expressed my approach in those instances somewhat ambiguously as I did not question the translation of the last section of the Greek, and this may explain why my view has not been understood properly43. It is worth repeating that nowhere is there an instance of an imperial authority of whatever kind intervening directly in the cultic affairs of, even less the founding of a sanctuary by, a local community. It seems to me likely that when Dupont-Sommer refers to “an aspect of ancient societies that is politically so important and frequently disruptive,” he is thinking in 41 42 43

FdX VI: 168 ff. See Briant 1986: 434–437; id. 1987: 5, n. 4a (text submitted in 1983); I also expressed my reservations in HEP: 729 [HPE, 707–709] but without questioning the translation of G 35. In particular, I suggested that it was solely the economic aspects of the Xanthian regulation (land grant, taxes and annual subsidies) that motivated the appeal for “a satrapal guarantee and protection” (1986: 436 ff.; repeated in more detail in 1987: 5, n. 4a [above chapter 1, note 5]: “The Achaemenid authority became the guarantor of the material provisions of the new cult and was obliged to intervene if, for example, the domain granted to the god became the subject of litigation”). Frei, in his most recent publications relating to Reichsautorisation, has discussed my analysis but has misunderstood it: contrary to what he argues (1995: 14, and especially 1996: 39–42), I never said or implied that the satrap’s concern was to ensure that the Xanthian arrangements did not endanger the imperial fiscal structure. The way I understand it is not of a potential conflict arising between the city and royal administration (pace Frei 1995: 14; id. 1996: 42), but between the city and, for example, the priest about the sacred land. What I envisaged was an appeal to the Great King “should unrest be caused by an unauthorised satrapal encroachment” (I was thinking of the letter of Darius to Gadatas as a possible parallel: HEP: 507 ff. [HPE, 491 f. [but see below Chapter 3]]).

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particular of some events that occurred at Elephantine,44 but even here it is clear that the Persian governor Widranga did not intervene in a religious quarrel in order to benefit the Khnûm party against the supporters of Yahweh. The issue is quite other, namely judicial and juridical:45 who owns the plot of land on which the Judaeans have erected the Altar House? But I don’t want to press this point further because the historian’s task is not, even though he may often indulge it, to weigh, however carefully, the likelihood of one interpretation versus one deemed less persuasive; his task, first and foremost, is to dissect hypotheses and arguments in order to show, understand, explain and perhaps cast doubt on the divergent interpretations of one and the same document. In this instance, the question we are entitled to pose is this: on what elements in the document does Dupont-Sommer base the position, which he has so consistently defended and which, in whole or part, has been subsequently adopted by many scholars, i. e. that the entire idea and decision was controlled by the satrap? Although the interpretation is constructed using a scaffold of interlocking arguments which follow from each other, I think it is possible to distinguish five constituent elements, namely: 1) the positioning of the Aramaic version on the stele in relation to the Lycian and Greek text; 2) the Lycian and Greek introductory formula; 3) the translation in l.6 of the Greek edoxe with the word “plan”, as opposed to “decree”, which makes Pixodaros politically supreme; 4) the phrase in A 19 which has been made to correspond directly to 5) the final words of the Greek version (G 35). Each item does not carry the same weight in the construction of the argument. Points 1–3 play an auxiliary role to points 4–5, which are central and linked closely to each other. III A RE-EXAMINATION AND AN ALTERNATIVE INTERPRETATION Point 1. As everyone knows,46 the Aramaic inscription is engraved on the narrow side of the monument, while the Lycian and the Greek occupy the front and back. Dupont-Sommer’s commentary suggests the following: “The very content of this Aramaic inscription, as we see, justifies this ingenious placement: it is Pixodaros’ decision itself […] It is an official act, emanating from the satrapal chancellery, [which] lends the force of law to an agreement to which the inhabitants have sworn,” or: “[The Aramaic version] effectively dominates the two inscriptions situated to its right and left.”47 This view has been accepted by a majority of commentators, most recently by Lemaire and Lozachmeur, who put it thus: “The physical distribution of the three inscriptions of the stele is revealing […] The Aramaic version presents itself as central and echoes this appeal [of the Lycian and Greek versions] to the

44 45 46 47

See his article of 1978. See the discussion in Briant 1996b [below ch. 6]. See the diagram in FdX VI: 36, here fig. 4. FdX VI: 133 and CRAI: 1976: 651.

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satrap […] This is the lex sacra, the datah, the Law, the satrap’s writ sanctioned by the Great King…”48; A first point to be stressed is that these comments on the inscription’s spatial disposition are intended to reinforce an interpretation which assigns a leading role to Pixodaros, while at the same time the latter is assumed to establish it, which smacks of circular reasoning. In fact, while the presence of an Aramaic version in which the satrap speaks obviously deserves some political comment, this is not, in my view, the result of the physical disposition nor does it determine it. While we do not know exactly where the stele was set up, we may simply note that the Aramaic version contains 27 lines and 387 signs, the Greek version 35 lines with 26 letters giving a total of 810 signs, and the Lycian 44 lines of 26 letters which makes 1144 signs in total. With three texts and three available surfaces, no other choice is physically feasible, given that neither the Greek nor Lycian text could have been accommodated on the narrow side. Point 2. Ever since its first publication, commentators have interpreted the introductory Lycian and Greek formula in such a way as to suggest that the introduction of the Basileus Kaunios to Xanthos was done on the initiative of Pixodaros himself at the time that he took over power in Lycia. Note the translation of G 1–5 by H. Metzger (FdX VI: 33): “Pixodaros, son of Hecatomnos, having become satrap of Lycia, has set up as archontes of Lycia, Hieron and Apollodotos, and as governor of Xanthos, Artemelis” (followed by the decision of the Xanthians and the perioikoi beginning with ἔδοξε). The construction of these first lines is strange. J. and L. Robert, speaking of the (Greek) text as a whole, think that it is “a kind of ‘oriental chronicle’,” that Pixodaros had just been appointed satrap of Lycia and that “the Xanthians marked this take-over of power by the satrap and his appointed officers by instituting a cult in the Leto sanctuary.49 On this point commentators agree with the first editors: for Metzger: “the text dates from the time when Pixodaros ‘had become satrap of Lycia’, a new power had just been installed” and “everything came under Pixodaros’ authority.”50 Dupont-Sommer tried to harmonise this with his proposed dating of the monument to Artaxerxes III and not Arses and wanted to show that Pixodaros, appointed (temporarily in 358) in Lycia, “moved quickly to adopt the necessary measures that would consolidate his power […] He established new archontes in Lycia […] and the new government of Xanthos, which demonstrated, by the replacement of the top officials in the provincial administration with new ones, his commitment… [Besides], Pixodaros, satrap of Caria and Lycia, seemingly confirmed and reinforced the introduction of the Carian deity into Lycia […] In arrogating or obtaining from Artaxerxes III control of a united Caria and Lycia, Pixodaros pursued successfully, by a religious act of great diplomatic significance, the policy of several of his predecessors […] Religion came to the aid of

48 49 50

Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 110 ff. [On this point, see above Foreword, p. 9, n. 32]. BE 1974, no. 553, p. 290. CRAI 1974: 88; cf. FdX VI: 34–37.

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politics.”51 This political interpretation of the founding of a new cult has been very largely followed.52 But, quite apart from the fact that a date of 358 raises problems easily resolved by dating the text to Arses’/Artaxerxes IV’s first regnal year in 337,53 analysis of the parallel Greek and Lycian formulae does not, in my view, justify the above interpretation. It is crucial, first and foremost, to realise that the Greek introductory formula must not be understood in light of the Aramaic one.54 The latter has a precise dating formula using the regnal year of an Achaemenid ruler including a month of the Babylonian calendar (Siwan). It would have been perfectly possible to have a similar formulation in Greek of the type: “In year N of Artaxerxes, Pixodaros being the satrap, it seemed good (edoxe) etc.”55 But, in this instance, the Greek is utterly different. The first lines do not give the equivalent of the above with the usual chronological markers. Lines 5 ff. do not even constitute a decree in the proper sense, but rather refer to a decision enclosed within a kind of narrative text – what Louis Robert called “an oriental chronicle”,56 while adding, quite rightly, that the beginning of the Greek text is not composed “in the manner of well structured Greek decrees.” This accounts for the very unusual appearance, following εδοξε of the postposition δη, which refers back to, and reinforces, the temporal conjunction επει which opens the text.57 Hence the perspectives of the civic and Aramaic version are FdX VI: 167 ff. Cf. L. Robert in CRAI 1974: 149 (BE 1974, no. 553, p. 292) and recently Keen 1998: 10 and 174 (“… as part of a process of ‘Carianization’”). In an article published in 1978, Bockisch (315) even assumes that the priest Simias was charged by the Carian satrap to represent the interests of the Carian dynasty in Lycia. I mention here that, thanks to the Trilingual, it has become possible to demonstrate that Basileus Kaunios already appears on the Inscribed Pillar, towards the end of the fifth century (cf. Laroche 1974: 121 ff.). This is why commentators have spoken more of a “revival” of the cult on Pixodaros’ initiative (Bryce 1978: 121–127, following Dupont-Sommer 1974; id. FdX VI: 168 ff. cited in my text; see also Bousquet in FdX IX/1 (1992): 175 and n. 48, who thinks, on the contrary, that it is the dynast of Xanthos himself “who is to be found in the ‘King’ of Caunos …”). It should, however, be stressed that recently Melchert 1993 has questioned the interpretation of the passage in the Inscribed Pillar (see my discussion in HEP 1003 ff. [HPE, 978]): according to him the sanctuary dedicated to Maliya, Artemis and Basileus Kaunios was not located at Xanthos but at Kaunos itself; Keen 1998: 203 seems to have adopted Melchert’s opinion. 53 In my opinion the question has now been definitively settled in favour of 337: cf. above, n. 2 and below, n. 69. 54 As against Dupont-Sommer’s argument in FdX VI: 165 ff. 55 See, for example, Blümel 1988, nos.1–5, 21; SEG XXVI 1228; J. & L. Robert 1983, no. 1 plus the commentary on p. 98, and most particularly Crampa, Labraunda III/2, no. 42, ll.8–9: Πιξωδάρο[υ] ξ̣αιτραπεύοντος. 56 Robert unfortunately never explained what he meant by this, nor to what texts of the same “genre” he was implicitly referring. B. Le Guen suggests to me the possible parallel of what is generally called the “Sarapieion Chronicle” – a long Delian inscription (IG XL 1299) in which the priest Apollonios, as part of a supposed family chronicle, retraces the history of the establishment of the god Sarapis in Delos (see the partial translation and commentary in Le Guen 1991, no. 82). 57 Cf. Bizos 1971: 227. 51 52

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totally different: for reasons to which I shall return (Point 5), the former contains matters (the names of the satrap’s subordinates) missing from the latter and omits others (Pixodaros’ position in Caria) which, by contrast, are contained in the Aramaic text. Metzger (33–37) makes a direct causal link between Pixodaros’ assumption of power and the cult’s institution and hence translates G 1–6 as follows, completely ignoring the impact of δή: “Pixodaros … having become satrap of Lycia, has set up as archontes […] and as governor […] The Xanthians and their perioikoi have decreed etc.” What we have in Greek is: Ἐπεὶ Λυκίας ξαδράπης ἐγένετο Πιξώδαρος … κατέστησε. However, I think that the words ἐπεί … ἐγένετο should simply be understood according to whether one understands ἐγένετο in the usual sense of “to become” or as a possible substitute of the verb “to be” in the aorist, so that one would either have: “After Pixodaros became satrap,” or: “After that he was satrap.” Either translation leads to the same conclusion, namely that this is not a proper formula dating Pixodaros’ take-over of power in Lycia,58 but simply a fairly vague reference to the institutional setting within which the Xanthians and the perioikoi took their decision.59 In fact the conjunction ἐπεί does not indicate a precise date, but refers to a period during which the Xanthians and their perioikoi consulted on the matter of the foundation of a cult. Certainly, this period is one that sees the beginnings of Pixodaros’ administration in Lycia, but nothing is said about the date of these beginnings, because – to put it simply – such a matter was well beyond the concerns of the authors. The Greek phrasing is intended merely to express the fact, which then follows, in a narrative form:60 the Xanthians reached their decision at a time when Lycia had been placed under the control of the satrap Pixodaros and the subordinates appointed by him in Lycia (archontes) and at Xanthos (epimeletes); and this is quite clearly confirmed by the direct conjunction between επει and the postposition δή (G 5). It is true that the Greek phrase is unusual. When faced with such a problem, the question should be: what version renders most precisely the text’s sense, what is the original form? Or even what text provided the construction of the phrase? I have already signalled (above n. 11) that for most commentators it is the Lycian one, and that particularly Blomqvist has argued that the irregular character of such a passage in Greek could well be the result of a faulty or clumsy adaptation of the Lycian, including the first lines. According to this hypothesis, it is the Lycian which should offer the solution. We should, therefore, turn to Laroche’s commentary. The construction of the phase in Lycian (L 1–2: e̅ ke: Trm͂ misn͂ : χssaθrapazate: Pigesere) should be translated not as: “When Pigesere became satrap of Lycia”,61 but as: 58 59 60 61

Contra Metzger in FdX VI: 33: “The text is dated to the time when Pixodaros became satrap of Lycia.” This is also how it is understood by Blomqvist 1982: 14: “circumstantial facts that provide the background.” Cf. Robert’s “oriental chronicle”. In spite of what the reader sees in the synopsis inserted by Dupont-Sommer between pages 162–163 (see also p. 141), where one reads: “When Pigesere … became satrap of Lycia.” Con-

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“When Pigesere was satrap of Termis”, a formula in which the conjunction eke (postquam) corresponds to Greek ἐπεί (“when, after that”),62 and where the Greek ξαδράπης ἐγένετο renders the Lycian verb χssaθrapaza-, itself constructed on the basis of a Persian loanword, satrap (χssadrapa), to which has been added the suffix -aza, which designates the professional name, χssaθrapaza- which is the root of the verb “to be satrap”, used in the preterite.63 This means that in Greek it would have been possible to have a genitive absolute with the Greek verb nearest to χssaθra­ paza­, which would be σατραπεύω,64 but the translator-adaptor obviously preferred to render the Lycian word-for-word – hence the construction (Ἐπεὶ ... ξαδράπης ἐγένετο), which is odd in Greek. And yet there is an apparent divergence between the two texts. While preserving the structure of the first subordinate clause introduced by eke/ἐπεί, the Greek editor modified what followed: where in Lycian the subordinate clause is further explicated by a second subordinate also introduced by eke and connected to the first by se­ (L 2–5): “and that he [Pigeseres] had appointed administrators for the Termilai and as governor …”); followed by the main clause: “the citizen and perioikoi of Arn͂ na have decreed (?).”65 By contrast, in the Greek following the subordinate clause introduced by επει, comes the main one mentioning Pixodaros’ appointment of officials in Lycia and Xanthos, then the words of the decree introduced by Ἔδοξε. It might be thought that this change is the result of using the Greek phrase Ἔδοξε … which indicates a resolution. But, as we have noted already, we are not dealing with the “archival” citing of a decree: rather, the intention was to communicate to posterity an account of the cultic foundation and to do that it was necessary to indicate briefly the historical and institutional setting in which the decision had been passed. This explains why the Greek editor used the unusual δή (G 5) which, in turn, corresponded to the Lycian me­ (L 5).66 This means that it is not impossible that in G 5, as in L 5, there is no break between Ἀρτεμηλιν and ἔδοξε (a hypothesis which strengthens the presence of δή in G 5 parallel to me­ in L 5) and that the Greek editor was not able to render the conjunction of the linking se (which should have been καί placed before κατέστησε in G 2).67 So we could punctuate and translate the Greek (literally) as follows: “After that (ἐπεί) Pixodaros had (become) satrap of Lycia [: and that] he had appointed as archontes of Lycia, Hieron and Apollodotos, and as commissioner of Xanthos, Artemelis, then it seemed good (ἔδοξε δή) to the Xanthians and the perioikoi etc.” Whether correct or not, if we accept that the Lycian formulation (faithfully copied by the Greek editor) must be the base of the interpretation, then we must also accept that these lines do not change anything of what we know from elsewhere about

62 63 64 65 66 67

trary to Dupont-Sommer’s assertion (p. 162), it is not a matter of “simply modifying some terms by replacing them with synonyms”! FdX VI: 60, 93. Ibid.: 98 ff., and Schmitt 1976: 378 ff. See above, n. 55 and the possible forms in Blümel 1988: 70 (similarly Schmitt 1976: 379 ff.). Cf. Laroche in FdX VI: 60 ff. Ibid. : 62 (“In Greek, δή ‘so it is that’, has the same syntactic nuance”) and 92 ff.; similarly, Blomqvist 1982, esp. p. 14 ff. on the δή in G 5. See already Blomqvist’s suggestion on this (1982: 15).

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Pixodaros’ career, namely that he became satrap of Caria and Lycia in succession to Ada (around 341/0).68 And so, a few years later at the date indicated by the Aramaic version (337), the Xanthians and the perioikoi took a decision, and mentioned that at that time Pixodaros exercised the satrapal authority in Lycia and his subordinates also exercised theirs in the region and Xanthos.69 In short, the correspondence ἐπεί… δή is strictly temporal (like the correspondence in Lycian between eke and me­), it does not express a causal relationship between Pixodaros’ power in Lycia and the decision taken by the Xanthians and their perioikoi. When the civic version merely refers to the satrap’s authority in Lycia, it is for quite other reasons linked to the role which the final formula of the Greek text gives him, a point to which I shall return below (Point 5). Point 3. The inhabitants of Xanthos “planned”, the satrap “decided”, or “gave it the force of law”: of this Dupont-Sommer has been convinced since 1974, and he argued it to the point of it becoming his entrenched stance in 1979 as follows: “It is Pixodaros, the satrap, he alone, who is responsible for the final decision”; and he sees this confirmed by a comparison he sets up with the last words of the Greek text.70 Let me comment on this briefly. I cannot pretend to be qualified to discuss the palaeographical and philological issues, but I have noted that, while a number of Aramaists have followed Dupont-Sommer,71 others have cast doubt on his interpretation, insisting on the contrary that the Xanthians appear to have enjoyed a considerable autonomy with respect to decision-making.72 Teixidor translates: “The landowners of Arn͂ na have instituted a cult,” in parallel to edoxe.73 We should also note that Laroche did not translate the Lycian word, stressing rightly that, all in all, Greek ἔδοξε + inf. “is too general, ‘it has pleased, it was agreed, it was decided to’.”74 Given this, if the Aramaic scribe (as is probable) wished to render ἔδοξε (or 68 69

70 71 72 73 74

Cf. Diodorus XVI 74, 2. See already my remarks in HEP: 1038 [HPE, 1012]; similarly Ruzicka 1992: 123 ff. In passing, note that my suggestion overcomes an objection made by Asheri 1983: 110 to Badian’s 1977 hypothesis; Asheri was surprised that Pixodaros only came to power in Lycia in 337, and not 341, given that Lycia had already been under the control of the Carian dynast-satraps since Mausolus. Asheri included his remark in an argument intended to demolish Badian’s suggestion of 337 as the date of the stele and in order to adopt Metzger and Dupont-Sommer’s date of 358. As I have tried to show the argument does not really undermine the validity of Badian’s proposition on the date. He, too, saw very clearly (p. 44 ff., while not arguing the case) that “the picture of Pixodarus, having just seized power (or been granted it by the King), at once putting his own men into high office is pure modern interpretation – a further, detailed, consequence of Dupont-Sommer’s hypothesis. On the stone, the names seem to be mentioned only for formal purposes and nothing is said on the length of their tenure (any more than about that of Pixodarus himself) […]”. FdX VI: 143. See, in particular, Frei 1995: 14 and 25 ff. See, especially, Rüterswörden 1995: 56. Also Teixidor in Syria 52 (1975): 288 (along with the critical comments by Dupont-Sommer on p. 143). Teixidor 1978: 182. FdX VI: 62

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the Lycian term), he could have used a term relating to “to think of” rather than “to decree”, as ἔδοξε itself cannot be simply and straightforwardly translated by “to decree”. If we then follow that logic in the translation/adaptation, it is impossible to argue in such a way as to draw conclusions about the overarching power which Pixodaros wanted to impose using the Aramaic version. Bertrand already was of this opinion when he explained, rightly, that the assumed “divergence” between “to propose” and “to decree” allows of no comment on the relations between satrap and city, “as the Greek expression makes it impossible to associate the group designation as a whole with the verb signifying to propose”, and he makes the following neat comment: “If the Achaemenid power holder was prepared to speak Greek, he could not do it unless he were living the life of a Greek.”75 A final remark: note that the comparison made to provide additional support by Dupont-Sommer with Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω (p. 143) lacks all justification, as everything indicates that the Aramaic phrase in A 6 is not a parallel to the Greek of G 35. Point 4. I shall now consider the main issues –first point 4– where Dupont-Sommer uses again the comparison with the Greek phrase. This concerns the translation of l.19 of the Aramaic text which, according to him, reads: “This law, he (Pixodaros) has inscribed (he) who is lord (of the decision).” This translation was proposed by Dupont-Sommer after explaining palaeographical, syntactic, grammatical and terminological problems – rather a lot for a phrase five words long! The certainties are the reading DTH, law or regulation, and the root KTB, inscribe – write, used, according to Dupont-Sommer, in the verbal form but without a subject, but perhaps, as he suggests, Pixodaros, hence “this law he has inscribed it.” Despite the difficulties of decipherment, it is probable that the fifth word (mhsn) renders something along the lines of “to possess, be a proprietor”. Dupont-Sommer arrives at the translation “he who is lord (of the decisions),” because, as he explains (p. 153), he relates it to the phrase at the end of the Greek version, which Metzger translates: “May Pixodaros hold the supreme authority over these decisions”, and by himself as: “And may Pixodaros be the lord (of the decision)!” – which is problematic. In the first place, we should note that Dupont-Sommer’s suggested translation is not unanimously accepted by Aramaists.76 Teixidor has formulated an alternative: “This edict (hereby) inscribed is the one that conveys the title of the property.”77 Lemaire recently suggested a third possibility: the subject of the verb ‘put in 75 76

77

Bertrand in Bertrand & Gruenais 1981: 71. For Contini 1981: 233, this translation seems preferable to the one he proposed in CRAI 1974: 137, but in his review (where he stresses the use made by Dupont-Sommer of G 35) he nevertheless thinks that it can only be provisionally accepted, given the syntactic and grammatical difficulties which remain unresolved; see also Frei’s comment 1981: 367: “The syntactic connection of the word [mhsn] remains open.” Teixidor 1978: 184; a translation which Contini (1981: 233) considers less convincing than Dupont-Sommer’s, but does not explain in detail the reasons for his preference. See also Dupont-Sommer’s own critical remarks in FdX VI: 153 and those of Lemaire 1995: 428. A striking aspect of the debate is that the specialists disagree even on the form of the Aramaic term: verbal (Dupont-Sommer, Lemaire) or nominal (Teixidor)?

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writing’ should not be Pixodaros, but the meḥasen (read in A 19), which would mean that, according to him, Simias the priest, in order to protect himself for the future, would himself have engraved “Pixodaros’ edict, which gave him a domain exempt from taxes.” He thus translates the passage as: “The property-holder has written this law.”78 While I lack competence in Aramaic epigraphy, I would nevertheless permit myself to intervene on this point, as certain institutional and historical justification that have been put forward to support the translation seem to me highly debatable.79 In the very first place, there is the presumption that the priest would be the actual owner of the cultic domain. To substantiate his proposal, André Lemaire refers to the term meḥasen in the Aramaic texts from Egypt, with the meaning that Porten and Szubin in particular have demonstrated for it (Szubin & Porten 1988). But it is precisely in the Elephantine documents, to which he refers, that the term meḥasen does not mean an owner but a tenant, a colonist who holds a plot of land or a boat in tenure from the administration:80 and it is thus, in fact, that Lemaire rightly translates it with the word “property-holder”. It would, indeed, be surprising that in a text so often described as an official chancellery edict, the editor had chosen to dub someone an “owner” using a term that relates to a quite different reality. Moreover, contrary to Lemaire’s statement, neither the Aramaic nor the Greek or Lycian text say anything of the kind. The Greek text, on the contrary, states very clearly that the field and whatever goes with it given by the city “belongs to Basileus Kaunios and Arkesimas (G 15–16, 22–23: εἶναι Βασιλέως Καυνίου καὶ Ἀρκεσιμα; see also L 17–18). Even stranger is the idea that Lemaire can take the Greek text as “confirming” his interpretation of the Aramaic one (A 18),81 which he translates thus: “and this domain which is freed is his” (italics, Lemaire), i. e. Simias’, while adding immediately that “the latter is the true owner, as indicated by the last sentence of Pixodaros’ statement (A 18).” The confusion is due to Dupont-Sommer who, in commenting on lines 17–18 relating to the “domain’s” exemption, refers back to the Lycian (L 12) and Greek (G 11–12) texts in order to conclude: “Thus both the Lycian and Greek texts state that the exemption of the domain is granted to the priest, who 78

Lemaire 1995: 427 ff. and 431 (who rejects on p. 482 Teixidor’s suggestion using the same argumentation as Dupont-Sommer, FdX VI: 153). It should be noted that if Simias himself had really wished to protect his future interests, it is hard to understand why the fact of the rights of his descendants is missing from the Aramaic text (compare A 9 with L 11, 29–30 and G 9–11; above n. 19). Further, I do not understand quite how Lemaire envisages the institutional procedure which would have permitted Simias to engrave the text, especially when he says elsewhere that “Pixodaros had been able […] to publish a decree in three languages: Aramaic, Lycian and Greek” (Lemaire 1996: 54). 79 I do, however, share the author’s anxiety not to impose the Aramaic translation on G 35 (cf. below n. 107). I am also prepared to admit that a conflict could arise between the priest and the city (as I already suggested in my articles of 1986 and 1987, cited above n. 43; see also below, n. 109), but that does not justify Lemaire’s translation nor explain the institutional procedure it implies. 80 See HEP: 429 ff., 463 ff. and 961 [HPE, 417–8, 449–450, 936] (with references). 81 Lemaire 1995: 428: “This interpretation is confirmed by the Greek text, which shows that Simias and his heirs were to be the true owners of the domain” (no reference or discussion is given).

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becomes the owner of the divine goods; the Aramaic text stresses the word zî lèh: the divine domain is the priest’s domain, ‘his’, just as in the Lycian.”82 The Greek text, on the contrary, draws a very clear distinction between the priest’s properties which are exempted (G 11–12) and the land granted to the sanctuary (the field etc., G 12– 16); and the same is true of the Lycian text (L 12 for the priest’s goods, and L 13–17 for the sanctuary). As I just said, it is clearly the gods who are the owners of the land. And, contrary to what Dupont-Sommer implies, the Aramaic text does not say anything different, as here the editor, too, has drawn a sharp distinction between the two realities which cannot be combined: A 10–11 recalls the gift of land to the god, while A 17–18 mentions the exemption of the priest’s goods (hence the clear emphasis on zî lèh, which corresponds perfectly to the Greek τῶν ὄντων in G 11–12 and the Lycian esi­ti in L 12).83 Commenting on these lines and the word DM’ (A 17), Dupont-Sommer writes rather oddly: “We translate ‘domain’ … by referring to the Aramaic noun beyth in lines 10–12.” But, whatever reading is preferred (Aramaic beyth, or Iranian *baga according to another suggestion84), I think that, although it is obscured by the translation “domain” using, debatably, the same word, the terminological difference between l.10 (BY[T] or BG) and l.17 (DM’)85 confirms that the text is referring to two different properties: the priest’s (A 10) and the landed property granted to the sanctuary (A 17). The sole difference between the Lycian-Greek version and the Aramaic one is the place where the fiscal exemption of the priest’s property is mentioned: in logical connection with the appointment of Simias in the first instance (L 8–12; G 8–12), in a connection rather less immediately logical with the priest’s duties in the second (A 14–18).86 82 83

84 85

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FdX VI: 151. This has obviously inspired Lemaire’s phrase, where he inadmissibly elides the god with Simias. The convergence is even more evident as in A 17 the Aramaic ŠBQ (“to free, to exempt”; cf. FdX VI: 150 ff.) corresponds exactly to the Lycian arawa̅ in L 12 (“free”; Laroche in FdX VI: 66 and 103), which is rendered in Greek (G 11) by ateleia tôn ontôn (“exemption of imposts on all his goods” to quote the excellent translation by Metzger in FdX VI: 33; pointlessly changed by Dupont-Sommer [cf. FdX VI: 162] in his synopsis between pp. 162 and 163). Made by Teixidor 1978: 182 (but translating it with the English/French word fief is somewhat unfortunate: “land grant” (dôrea) seems more apt, cf. HEP: 425 ff. and 429 [HPE, 413–4, 417]). On this word unknown in Aramaic (although one could also read this as KM’ or RM’: FdX VI: 150), see Mayrhofer FdX VI: 184, who thinks one might take this as Avestan da̅ ma, “Stätte, Wohnsitz”, i. e. house/dwelling (perhaps in the sense of oikos). Translating this term with “domain” may be right, as also for beyth/bi̅tu (but see HEP: 476 ff. [HPE, 461 f.]); but translating (without explanation) two different Aramaic terms with the same word (a rather imprecise one, at that) “domain” introduces considerable confusion for the argument and the reader: the composer of the Aramaic text displayed an incomparably greater precision! Rather oddly, Dupont-Sommer seems to admit a mistake in a later addition to the preceding commentary (FdX VI: 162), when he presents the text of the synopsis as he has compiled it: “In the Aramaic edition, we stress that the phrase of lines 17b-18 … has been displaced (italics: Dupont-Sommer) by the Aramaic scribe instead of line 12 in the Lycian edition … and lines 11–12a of the Greek…” It seems that while changing substantially his translation in CRAI 1974: 137 (“And the said domain is left (to the god) as his property” – which stimulated Teixidor’s commentary [1978: 184]), Dupont-Sommer retained the spirit of his original translation while simultaneously arbitrarily assimilating the god and the priest, the latter then wrongly

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In sum, it must be acknowledged that the disagreements among specialists seem for the moment irreconcilable, arising as they do from apparently insoluble epigraphic problems. If we look again at the central point, namely that the regulations (DTH) for the new cult foundation were committed to writing (KTB), then the question is: is this an act of the satrapal administration or simply a rendering of the Greek (graphein; G 21; 28–29) and Lycian (L 23, 34)? The epigraphic uncertainties do not allow us to answer this for the moment. However one understands it, as emerges from Dupont-Sommer’s reasoning, the generally accepted interpretative construction rests on the final words of the Greek text (G 35). Point 5. Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω It is curious to note that, at least in the final publication, the translator has been careful to have recourse to a typographical arrangement that completely separates his translation of the last 21 signs of G 35 (Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω): “And may Pixodaros have the supreme authority over these decisions.”87 But nothing of this kind appears in the Greek text inscribed on the stele which is continuous; yet if a stone cutter had received an order to do so, there were several possibilities for him to separate out (or highlight) a particular phrase, such as leaving a space,88 repeating the line or engraving a leaf. Further, by translating kyrios with “[to have] the supreme authority,” the translator wishes us to understand plainly that Pixodaros’ intervention bears on the whole of the process, which is to say that the satrap disposed, and is here disposing, of a right to supervise the initiative taken by the Xanthians:89 this is precisely what the chosen typographical arrangement (very misleading) aims to express. Hence, Dupont-Sommer’s commentary on the “law” (l.19), which he understands thus: “that is to say, all the dispositions were promulgated by the satrap.”90 But it is precisely the remarkable correspondence between assumed to be the real owner of the divine domain (FdX VI: 151). In other words, while clarifying the translation, Dupont-Sommer introduces an ambiguity which in turn explains the confusion on which Lemaire has built his argument. (On these issues, see also below n. 109.) 87 This is most flagrant in the synopsis (compiled by Dupont-Sommer; cf. his statement to this effect on p. 162), but the separation is also clearly signalled in Metzger’s own translation in FdX VI: 33. This was not done in CRAI 1974: 86. 88 The spaces left blank in A 18 are quite clearly visible on the stele (see the photograph Plate XVI, and Hélène Lozachmeur’s design on Plate XVII); Dupont-Sommer, in FdX VI: 151 has derived his notion about the construction of the text from this. 89 See his remarks in FdX VI: 33 on Xanthos’ lack of autonomy in relation to the satrap (although the comment has been somewhat toned down when compared to CRAI 1974: 88: “Everything happens under Pixodaros’ authority” – an interpretation fully adopted by L. and J. Robert in BE 1974, no. 553: “The last line [of the Greek text] places all power into Pixodaros’ hands … this must be compared with the Aramaic text, which is presented as a satrapal ‘edict’.”) 90 FdX VI: 152. Frei 1981: 362 uses the same kind of argument; for him the Aramaic text proves that the issue is the ratification of a law (yet on p. 358 he has understood the Greek phrase correctly when he comments: “Pixodaros the satrap shall be the ‘competent’ authority (κύριος)”, while observing (also on p. 362) that the text says nothing of the nature or extent of his “competence”); cf. also Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1996: 111 or Lemaire 1995: 430: “Their proposition has still to be promulgated by the satrap: Pixôtaros de kurios estô.”; Lemaire 1996: 54 goes

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the translation of l.19 in the Aramaic and l.35 in the Greek which is, as far as I can see, a complete illusion.91 I should like to explain why, in my view, Metzger’s translation may be problematic. The last lines of the Greek constitute a definite syntactic unity: they describe the punishments which the guilty will suffer, and they are introduced by the phrases usual in such texts, “if someone some day … (ἂν δὲ τις …)”, followed by naming the powers which are charged with the task of inflicting the punishment, which in this case are the gods and Pixodaros. The unity is very plainly indicated by the Greek editor, who used the same phrase for each of the two terms, i. e., the imperative ἔστω and the conjunctive δέ, which has an absolute clarity in Greek. It is thus necessary to translate the phrase without any breaks thus: “And if someone should change anything in whatever way, may he be guilty (ἁμαρτωλὸς στω) in the eyes of those gods and Leto and her descendants and the Nymphs and that Pixodaros be the kyrios (Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω).” Which means that Pixodaros’ intervention is simply potential, it will only come into action in the future and eventually (ἂν δὲ τις…) in circumstances described precisely; it does not apply to the process of the decision which has led to founding of the cult itself. Before considering this point further, we should ask what the significance of the Greek phrase is. It is both well-known and banal: this makes it all the more extraordinary that Metzger’s translation has never been discussed. More precisely, in the footnote of an article published in 1981 in an obscure journal – one which I have already cited with respect to the translation “to propose, to decree” (above n. 75) – Bertrand made, without having the opportunity to come back to the point, the following comment. In his discussion of “the so-called technical terms”, he wrote: “The kyrios estô, which Metzger translates with ‘may he have the supreme authority over these decisions’ should be interpreted in the light of the frequent formula found at the end of decrees, where magistrates are designated as those responsible (within certain limits usually defined) for putting assembly decisions into action, certain types of judgements, etc.”92 This is how in Athens a magistrate or an assembly was declared kyrios/kyria in the judicial sphere (kyrios estô):93 such a magistrate was kyrios within set limits (kata to télos).94 Simply leafing through collections of inscriptions is enough to multiply such examples. I will only cite some instances constructed in the same way, i. e. should someone violate this regulation, etc.:

even further by asserting that Pixodaros had “published a decree in three languages: Aramaic, Lycian and Greek”: such a phrasing introduces a serious misunderstanding of the relations between the satrap and the Xanthian community (see my comments in BHAch I, nn. 238 & 250). 91 It has been created by Dupont-Sommer who, in his synopsis (also on p. 153) changed on his own authority Metzger’s translation (G 35) into “And that Pixodaros be the lord (of the decision),” in such a way that it creates a completely artificial parallel with his own translation of A 19 (“[he] who is lord [of the decision]”). 92 Bertrand & Gruenais 1981: 80, n. 20. 93 See, for example, [Aristotle], Ath.Pol. XLV 2 and LII 3; Demosthenes XLIII 75, etc. 94 Cf. Bonner & Smith 1930: 277 ff.; eid. 1938: 241 ff. (defining the term kyrios in relation to fines the boulé is empowered to impose); Harrison 1971: 436 (on the judicial powers of magistrates). See also Gauthier’s remarks (1972: 188).

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–

in a decree from Keos, provision is made for the case of a young man’s unauthorised absence from the gymnasium, “the gymnasiarch will have the power to impose a fine of no more than one drachma (κύριος ἔστω αὐτὸν ζημιῶν μέχρι δραχμῆς)” (Syll.3 95825–27); – in a decree from Oropos defining the rights and duties of a priest, provision is made for the case that: “If somebody – foreigner or citizen – breaks a rule in the hiéron, the priest should have full powers to impose a fine up to five drachmas (ζημούτω ὁ ἱερεὺς μέχρι πέντε δραχμέων κυρίως …)” (SEG XXXI (1981), no. 416, ll. 9–11; adverbial form);95 – in a regulation relating to a theoria sent by Andros to consult the oracle at Delphi, provision is made for the case that the five elected leaders of the embassy “might have a fine imposed on anyone who causes disorder up to five drachmas (οἱ δὲ κύριοι ἔστων ζεμιῶσαι τὸν ἀκοσμέοντα μέχρι πέντε δραχ[μέ]ον).”96 The list could be longer and one could also cite numerous inscriptions recording funerary foundations where the formula is ean de tis…, and where sometimes a local institution is declared kyrios or kyria,97 should one of the inscribed clauses be changed (metakineô).98 We should note further that the Trilingual uses a construction found in Lycian funerary inscriptions, which was noted and studied by Trevor Bryce:99 possible violators are declared not only guilty before the gods (armatôlos estô in Greek in the case of bilinguals),100 but also subject to trial by a specified tribunal; this is precisely the pattern I suggest we are dealing with in the Trilingual. In using this formula, the Greek editor of Xanthos obviously meant kyrios in the normal sense, which relates to the sphere of private and public law:101 declaring a magistrate or an institution kyrios is nothing other than delegating some limited power that is within a community’s competence. In this instance, I understand it as follows: should a problem arise and the matter cannot be resolved at the local level, one or other party can lodge an appeal with the satrap and ask him to judge it.102 Let us be 95 96 97 98 99

See Petropoulou 1981 and the French translation in Le Guen 1991, no. 56. Rougemont 1977, no. 7B, pp. 19–23. E. g., Laum 1914, no. 43, ll.53–55. Ibid. no. 50, ll.97–99. See Bryce 1981: 81–93; id. 1983: 10 ff. and 1986: 121–125. – Although I was unaware of this article, I already noted the significance of this phrase in my already cited article in AchHist I (Briant 1987: 5, n. 4a): “The two threats envisaged – Achaemenid government intervention and divine vengeance – sufficed (one would think) to remove any attack on the integrity of the new sanctuary and the privileges granted the priests” [= above chapter 1, note 5]. 100 On this phrase in Lycian inscriptions, see also the text SEG XXVIII 1224 and Wörrle’s remarks in Chiron 8 (1978): 234 ff., where there is a comparison with the Trilingual. 101 See the instances from papyri collected by Preisigke, Wörterbuch der griechischen Papy­ rusurkunden I (1925), col.848–855. 102 See also Laroche’s translation of L 41 in FdX VI: 76 of which, while incomplete and tentative, he writes: “One seems to make out something like ‘To Pigeseres if one disobeys it, then the acropolis (of Arn͂ na/Xanthos) will make him respect his decision’, or rather ‘will intervene’;” see also the discussion by Carruba 1977: 315, who, too, sees it as an allusion to judgement by a tribunal.

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clear: Pixodaros or his representatives in the place are named, and this is obviously the reason why the civic version names the epimeletes and the two archontes and that, in contrast, the Aramaic version merely mentions the overall Lycian responsibilities of the satrap Pixodaros. In other words, Pixodaros is named by the civic authorities as the guarantor of the cultic foundation103 and court of last instance in any conflict which cannot be settled internally. We saw in the other known examples that the kyrios’ room for action is limited in terms of how and what he can and cannot do. Contrary to appearances, the situation here is not fundamentally different: any verdict that the satrap might at some point give would be moved not in accordance with juridical and judicial norms foreign to the city, but in accordance with the dispositions engraved on the stone in Greek and Lycian, which express the will of the bilingual community of citizens and perioikoi. In brief, the relationship between Pixodaros and the Xanthian community is that of guarantor of decisions taken locally and arbiter of conflicts that might threaten them. While the subject status of Xanthos is undeniable (the presence of a satrapal epimeletes shows that clearly), I do not think that the role of guarantor or arbiter was imposed on it by the satrap: the satrap of Caria and Lycia was not directly concerned in the setting up of a new cultic foundation at Xanthos; it is the community which, on its own account, asked the imperial authority to play a part, just as we see it doing elsewhere in Asia Minor104 or Elephantine.105 This also shows that, contrary to a widespread view, the Aramaic text does not represent, properly speaking, “the official chancellery version” which would have 103 The first commentators admitted that Pixodaros could only act in response to an appeal from the city (e. g. Metzger 1974: 88); where Laroche gives the plan of the Lycian text and assigns a title to each section (FdX VI: 60) he designates the content of L 40–41: “Pixodaros is the guarantor”, but his careful appreciations of the text remained the prisoners (at least in the case of Dupont-Sommer and Metzger) of an overall interpretation which assigns the satrap the preeminent political role (on these contradictions, see above n. 36. See also my remarks in Briant 1987: 5, n. 4a [= above chapter 1, note 5]: “One might even assume that the intervention of the satrapal authorities was required by the Xanthians themselves, anxious to have at their disposal a ‘secular arm’ devoted to maintaining the social order …”). 104 See especially the text (in a partially destroyed inscription from Miletus) of the final arbitration of the satrap Strouthas (Tod II, n. 113 = Picirilli 1973, no. 36 and pp. 155–159, and my commentaries in HEP: 510 ff. and 688 [HPE, 494–5, 669]: comparison with Herodotus VI 42; also Gauthier’s remarks (1972: 379 ff.). But the limitations of the comparison should be noted, too. Picard 1980: 242, contrasting it with Greek arbitration, comments on the text as follows: “Here the tribunal restricts itself to having the case drawn up and presenting its conclusions to the satrap who alone is master of the decision, in the name of the King; it shows clearly where power resides;” I am not sure that the text (translated as a continuum by Picard even though a restoration in fragment a is not clear) should be understood like this. Strouthas is merely mentioned as, after the departure of the Milesian representatives following the judge’s decision in favour of Miletus, the outcome of the conclusion was presented to him, upon which he pronounced a decision already taken by the judges of the Ionians (télos epoiesen). In all respects Struses’ role was, in practice, different from that played by Pixodaros. Frei 1996: 96 ff. compared the two texts explicitly, the Xanthian phrase kyrios esto with the Milesian one télos epoiesen, but in the context of the unconvincing argument of his Reichsautorisation (see Wiesehöfer’s apt criticisms (1995: 38). 105 See my discussion in Briant 1996b [below chapter 6].

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“given the force of law” to the cultic regulations.106 It does not occupy a “central place”, neither on the spatial or political plane. The satrap’s presence on the stele merely expresses his acceptance of the position of kyrios with which the community has endowed him.107 The inscribing of an Aramaic text next to the Lycian and Greek versions is intended to prevent any violation of the regulations by openly and publicly placing it under the protection of a secular arm specifically designated as its guarantor. This, ultimately, explains why, while the Xanthian regulation was put in writing by the Xanthian authorities in Lycian and Greek (translated/adapted from the Lycian), it was not transcribed word for word in the Aramaic version: should some conflict arise, it was not the Aramaic text, but the original Lycio-Greek text, perhaps solely the original Lycian one, whose unchangeable validity would be pronounced anew by the satrapal authority in response to representations made, as it had been charged with guaranteeing it against any infringements.108 Basically, one could say that the Lycian (Lycio-Greek) version and the Aramaic are both in some respect “official”: the first because it transmits the decision reached by the community itself, the second as it transmits the satrapal acceptance to guarantee the validity of the first, and no more: the Aramaic version certainly does not lend the civic version the “force of law”. What is the reason for this procedure? The answer is really rather easy, namely, that contrary to the situation in the case of a private foundation, with a public foundation it would not be possible for a civic tribunal to settle certain quarrels, as the city ran the risk of being both judge and plaintiff. In such a situation cities could appeal to foreign judges. In some respects, I would say that the appeal to the imperial authority is merely in the nature of a variant of the procedure one sees in the arbitration by the satrap Struses in the territorial conflict between Miletus and Myous. What circumstances might give rise to such a situation in Xanthos? A number of scenarios can be envisaged. One hypothetical example would be disagreements about the land granted to the cultic foundation.109 To illustrate this, let me given an example which I think may offer a potential parallel. It is part of a dossier of the sanctuary of Labraunda, a dependent of the city of Mylasa. In a letter to Olympichus, his representative in Caria, Seleucus II (around 240?) reminds him that he has received a letter from Korris, the Labraunda priest, who administered the sacred land as a hereditary privilege (τἡς ἱερᾶς χώρας τῆς πρότερον διοικουμένης ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ διὰ προγόνων); Korris had complained that the city of Mylasa had en106 This view had already been challenged by Petit 1988: 315, but in the course of a paradoxical argument which has raised disagreements on all sides (cf. HEP: 1016 f. [HPE, 991] and Frei 1996: 44–47). 107 It follows that there cannot be an Aramaic equivalent to the Greek phrase Pixodaros de kyrios esto (G 35) nor the corresponding Lycian one (L 40–41). 108 In other words, on the day when it becomes possible to translate the Lycian without reference to the Greek, many of the difficulties will vanish. 109 See my remarks in Briant 1986 and 1987 (cited above n. 43). It is, in fact, what the wording of the oath sworn by the Xanthians and perioikoi implies, i. e., they guarantee the material and financial grants made to the gods and priest. Note that many inscriptions reflect conflicts and trials about divine domains, e. g. Robert 1945: 35–41.

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croached on parts of the sacred land. The king orders Olympichos to ensure, following an inquiry, that Korris’ and the sanctuary’s rights are restored and maintained; as it turned out subsequently Korris’ arguments were inadmissible.110 Although the two situations are not the same in all details, I am tempted to say that from Achaemenid Xanthos to Seleucid Labraunda is only a step which the imperial machinery allows one to take with some certainty. In all cases, royal power and satrapal authority oversee the maintenance of peace and tranquillity in their states, by acknowledging the customs, languages and institutions of local communities whose continued existence and functioning they favour: to act as guarantor and arbiter, this is one of the means used to reach that goal. That, I think, is the chief historical conclusion we are entitled to draw from this marvellously eloquent document which is the Xanthos Trilingual.111

110 Crampa 1969, no. 1 and next dossier (1 B-2; 3–4). 111 Addendum. – Just after this manuscript had been sent by the editor to the printer, I became aware of Grzybek’s article, with a title that clearly showed that he had treated the same issue I have examined in detail here: “Die Vielsprachigkeit der Kleinasiatischen Welt: Pixodaros und der Volksbeschluss von Xanthos,” in Colloquium Caricum. Akten der Internationalen Tagung über die karisch­griechische Bilingue von Kaunos, 31.10.–1.11.1997 in Feusiberg bei Zürich, W. Blümel, P. Frei & Ch. Marek (eds.) (= Kadmos 37), 1998: 229–237. As the author observes (p. 231), the Xanthian document “informs us about the autonomy and rights of several peoples within the Achaemenid empire, and also reveals the satrapal sphere of power.” In the author’s eyes, Pixodaros’ intervention is plain and went as far as ratifying the decree of the Xanthians and perioikoi (p. 230: … im grossen und ganzen ratifiziert; p. 236: die Ratifizierungsurkunde in Aramäisch). He goes yet further, as he thinks that the Lycian and Greek texts do not record the original decision: we owe its transcription, in the form now to be seen on the stone, to the satrapal chancellery; moreover, it was the satrap’s decision that the trilingual stele was inscribed and placed in the Letôon (pp. 235 ff.): this is the reason why Pixodaros used the multilingual practices of the imperial chancelleries (cf. also his emphasis on that aspect in the article’s title); in conclusion, according to Grzybek (p. 237), it is not the Xanthians (nor the priest, p. 235) who placed their decree under the protection of gods and satrap; on the contrary, it was the satrap who had the (Lycian and Greek) text and the accompanying document (Begleiturkunde: in Aramaic) placed in the most important sanctuary of the Lycians, in order to force the people and perioikoi of Xanthos to observe fully their decree (an die Einhaltsamkeit ihres Beschlusses). – Reading this article has not led me to change my conclusions, as the author does not discuss in detail Dupont-Sommer’s translation of the highly contentious Aramaic phrase in A 19 (cf. p. 236, with some quite interesting adaptations), nor above all Metzger’s translation and use by Dupont-Sommer of the phrase Πιξώταρος δὲ κύριος ἔστω in G 35 (cf. the citation of the inscription, p. 233 ff.), which shows that for the author (like Metzger) there should be a caesura following Νυμφῶν in G 34–35, and his n. 11 on p. 234, which implies that, according to him, the relevant phrase is an addition from the satrapal chancellery; in fact, for him the formula is part of “those passages of the Greek and Lycian versions which were later reworked and thus do not represent the original text” (p. 234) – an interpretation which, in my view, is contradicted by a full syntactical analysis of G 32–35.

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BIBLIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES Asheri, D., 1983, Fra Ellenismo e Iranismo. Studi sulla società e cultura di Xanthos nell’ età ache­ menide, Bologna Badian, E., 1977, “A document of Artaxerxes IV?,” in K. H. Kinzl (ed.), Greece and the Eastern Mediterranean in Ancient History and Prehistory, Berlin, New York: 40–50 Bertrand, J.-M. & M.-P. Gruenais, 1981, “Sur les termes réputés techniques dans les sources anciennes. L’exemple de ‘topos’,” Langage et Société. Papiers de travail 16: 70–80 BHAch I = Briant 1997 Bizos, M., 1971, Syntaxe grecque6, Paris Blomqvist, J., 1982, “Translation Greek in the trilingual inscription of Xanthos,” OpAth 142: 11–20 Blümel, W., 1988, Inschriften von Mylasa (IK 34/I) Bockisch, G., 1978, “Anmerkungen zu: Die Karer und ihre Dynasten,” Klio 69: 125–129 Bonner, R. J. & G. Smith 1930, 1938, The Administration of Justice from Homer to Aristotle I–II, Chicago IL Bousquet, J., 1986, “Une nouvelle inscription trilingue à Xanthos?,” RevArch: 101–106 Briant, P., 1986, “Polythéisme et empire unitaire. (Remarques sur la politique religieuse des Achéménides),” in Les grandes figures religieuses. Fonctionnement pratique et symbolique dans l’Antiquité (Besançon, 25–26 avril 1984), Paris: 425–443 Briant, P., 1987, ‘Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’empire achéménide. (Quelques reflexions et suggestions),’ AchHist I: 1–31.[Here chapter 1] Briant, P., 1996a, Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre, Paris Briant, P., 1996b, “Une curieuse affaire à Éléphantine en 410 av. n. è. Widranga, le sanctuaire de Khnûm et le temple de Yahweh,” in B. Menu (ed.), Égypte pharaonique: pouvoir, société = Méditerranées 6/7, Paris: 115–135. [Here chapter 6] Briant, P., 1997, “Bulletin d’Histoire Achéménide I,” Topoi, Suppl. 1 (Recherches récentes sur l’empire achéménide): 5–127 Briant, P., 1998, “Droaphernès et la statue de Sardes,” in M. Brosius & A. Kuhrt (eds.), Studies in Persian History: Essays in Memory of David M. Lewis, (AchHist XI), Leiden: 205–226. [Here chapter 1] Briant, P., 2003, ‘Histoire et archéologie d’un texte. La Lettre de Darius à Gadatas entre Perses, Grecs et Romains,’ in M. Giogieri, M. Salvini, M.-C. Trémouille & P. Vanicelli (éds.), Licia e Lidia prima dell’ellenizzazione (Roma, 11–12 ottobre 1999), Rome: 107–144 [Here chapter 4] Bryce, T. R., 1978, “A recently discovered cult in Lycia,” JRH 10/2: 115–127 Bryce, T. R., 1981a, “Disciplinary agents in the Lycian sepulchral inscriptions,” AnSt 31: 81–93 Bryce, T. R., 1981b, Review of Neumann 1979, BiOr 38/1–2: 225–243 Bryce, T. R., 1983, “The arrival of the goddess Leto in Lycia,” Historia 32/1: 1–13 Bryce, T. R., 1986, The Lycians in Literary and Epigraphic Sources, Copenhagen Carruba, O., 1977, “Commentario alle trilingue licio-greco-aramaica di Xanthos,” SMEA 18: 273– 318 Contini, R., 1981, Review of FdX VI, 1979, OA 20: 231–235 Crampa, J., 1969/1972, Labraunda III/1, 2, Lund, Stockholm Dareste, D., R. Haussoulier & Th. Reinach, 1892, Recueil des inscriptions juridiques grecques, III, Paris Del Monte, G., 1989, “Licio KUMALI­ ‘Vittima sacrificiale’,” OA 28/3–4: 197–200 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1974, “Le texte trilingue récemment découvert au Létôon de Xanthos: le texte araméen,” CRAI : 132–149 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1976, “L’énigme du dieu ‘satrape’ et le dieu Mithra,” CRAI : 648–660 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1978, “Les dieux et les hommes en l’île d’Éléphantine,” CRAI: 756–772 Dupont-Sommer, A., 1979, “L’inscription araméenne,” in Fouilles de Xanthos VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris: 129–178 FdX VI = Fouilles de Xanthos, VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris 1979

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FdX IX = Fouilles de Xanthos, IX, Paris 1992 Frei, P., 1976, “Die Trilingue vom Letoon, die lykischen Zahlzeichen und das lykische Geldsystem,” SNR 55: 5–15 Frei, P., 1981, Review of FdX VI, 1979, BiOr 38/3–4: 354–371 Frei, P., 1984, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,” in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 5–43 Frei, P., 1995, “Die persische Reichsautorisation. Ein Überblick,” ZABR 1: 1–35 Frei, P., 1996, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,” in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (Zweite bearbeitete und stark erweiterte Auflage) (OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 5–131 Garbini, G., 1977,”‘Osservazioni sul testo aramaico della trilingue di Xanthos,” SMEA 18: 260–272 Garbini, G. 1988, “Documenti bilingui: i casi dell’aramaico,” in E. Campanile, G. R. Cardona & R. Lazzeroni (eds.), Bilinguismo e biculturalismo nel mondo antico, Pisa: 67–74 Gauthier, Ph., 1972, Symbola. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy Gusmani, R., 1979, “Su due termini della Trilingue di Xanthos,” in Studia Mediterranea Piero Mer­ iggi dicata, Pavia: 225–234 Gygax, M. D., 1991, “Los periecos licios (siglos IV–III a. C.),” Gérion 9: 111–130 Hahn, I., 1981, “Periöken und Periökenbesitz in Lykien,” Klio 63/1: 51–61 Hahn, I., 1985, “Zur Frage der Sklavensteuer im frühen Hellenismus,” in H. Kreissig & F. Kühnert (eds.), Antike Abhängigkeitsformen in den griechischen Gebieten ohne Polisstruktur und den römischen Provinzen, Berlin: 56–63 Harrison, A. R. W., 1971, The Law of Athens, II, Oxford Heubeck, A., 1980, Review of FdX VI, 1979, Gnomon 52: 560 ff. Hornblower, S., 1997, “David Malcolm Lewis 1928–1994,” PBA 94: 557–596 Keen, A., 1998, A Political History of the Lycians and their relations with Foreign Powers, c.545– 362 BC (Mnemosyne Suppl. 178), Leiden Laroche, E., 1974, “Le texte trilingue récemment découvert au Létôon de Xanthos: le texte lycien,” CRAI : 115–125 Laroche, E., 1979, “L’inscription lycienne,” in Fouilles de Xanthos VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris: 49–127 Laum, B., 1914, Stiftungen in der griechischen und römischen Antike, Berlin Le Guen, B., 1991, La vie religieuse dans le monde grec, Toulouse Lemaire, A., 1995, “The Xanthos Trilingual revisited,” Z. Zevit, S. Gitin & M. Sokoloff (eds.), Solving Riddles and Untying Knots. Biblical, Epigraphical and Semitic Studies in Honor of J. G. Greenfield, Winona Lake IN: 424–432 Lemaire, A., 1996, “Zorobabel et la Judée à la lumière de l’épigraphie (fin du VIe s. av. J.-C.),” RevBib 103/1: 48–57 Lemaire, A. & H. Lozachmeur, 1996, “Remarques sur le plurilinguisme en Asie Mineure à l’époque perse,” in Mosaïque de langues, mosaïque culturelle. Le bilinguisme dans le Proche­Orient ancien, Paris: 91–123 Le Roy, Ch., 1986, “Un règlement religieux au Létôon de Xanthos,” RArch: 279–300 Mayrhofer, M., 1976, “Kleinasien zwischen Agonie des Perserreiches und hellenistischem Frühling. Ein Inschriftenfund des Jahres 1973,” ÖAW, Anz. phil.hist. Kl. 112: 274–282 Mayrhofer, M., 1979, “Die iranischen Elemente im aramäischen Text,” in FdX VI: 181–185 Melchert, H. C., 1993, “A new interpretation of lines C 3–9 of the Xanthos stele,” in J. Borchardt & G. Dobesch (eds.), Akten des II. Internationalen Lykien­Symposions, (ÖAW Denkschr., 231. Bd.), Vienna: 31–34 Metzger, H., 1974, “Le texte trilingue récemment découvert au Létôon de Xanthos: le texte grec,” CRAI: 82–93 Metzger, H., 1979a, “Le sanctuaire de Léto,” in FdX VI: 5–28 Metzger, H., 1979b, “L’inscription grecque,” FdX VI: 29–48 Neumann, G., 1979, Neufunde lykischer Inschriften seit 1901 (ÖAW), Vienna

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Petit, Th., 1988, “À propos des ‘satrapies’ ioniennes et cariennes,” BCH 112: 307–322 Petropoulou, A., 1981, “The eparche and the early oracle at Oropus,” GRBS 22: 39–63 Picard, O., 1980, Les Grecs face à la menace perse, Paris Picirilli, L., 1973, Gli arbitrati interstatali greci, Pisa Robert, J. & L., 1983, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie. I, Exploration, histoire, monnaies et inscrip­ tions, Paris Robert, L., 1945, Le sanctuaire de Sinuri près de Mylasa. I, Les inscriptions grecques, Paris Rougemont, G., 1977, Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes. I, Lois sacrées et règlements religieux, Paris Rüterswörden, U., 1995, “Die persische Reichsautorisation der Thora: fact or fiction?,” ZABR 1: 47–61 Ruzicka, S., 1992, Politics of a Persian Dynasty: the Hecatomnids in the fourth century B. C., Norman, London Schmitt, R., 1976, “Der Titel ‘Satrap’,” in Studies in Greek, Italic and Indo­European Linguistics offered to L. R. Palmer, Innsbruck: 373–390 Szubin, H. Z. & B. Porten, 1988, ‘A life estate of usufruct: a new interpretation of Kraeling 6,’ BA­ SOR 269: 29–45 Teixidor, J., 1978, “The Aramaic text in the in Trilingual Stele from Xanthos,” JNES 37: 181–185 Wiesehöfer, J., 1995, “‘Reichsgesetz’ oder ‘Einzelfallgrechtigkeit’? Bemerkungen zu P. Frei’s These von der achaimenidischen ‘Reichsautorisation’,” ZABR 1: 36–46

4 THE HISTORY AND ARCHAEOLOGY OF A TEXT: THE LETTER OF DARIUS TO GADATAS BETWEEN PERSIANS, GREEKS AND ROMANS* 1 THE DOCUMENT AND ITS PROBLEMS The inscription commonly known as the Letter of Darius to Gadatas was discovered in 1886 by G. Cousin and H. Deschamps in the village of Demerijk, close to the road linking Magnesia and Tralles, and published by them in 1889.1 Since then it has been frequently reproduced in collections of inscriptions2 and specialised studies.3 The stone is inscribed on two sides: the Letter is inscribed on Side A (Pl. XX: here Fig. 5), with inscriptions of Roman imperial date on Side B; the reference to the sanctuary of Apollo creates a link between the two (Cousin-Deschamps 1889: 532).4 The editors were well aware that the date of inscribing of the text of the Let­ ter must be ‘the beginning of the imperial period’ (p. 532). The inscriptions on Side B are barely legible (p. 541), ‘only Darius’ letter can inform us as to what happened’ (p. 532). This is the text of the document, as well as the translation made by the editors:

*

1 2

3

4

Original Publication: “Histoire et archéologie d’un texte. La Lettre de Darius à Gadatas entre Perses, Grecs et Romains,” in: M. Giorgieri, M. Salvini, M.-C. Trémouille & P. Vanicelli ((eds.), Licia e Lidia prima dell’ellenizzazione (Roma, 11–12 ottobre 1999), Rome 2003: 107– 144. I note in passing that the stone, which has long lain in the Museum reserves, is currently on display in the new Persian gallery of the Louvre (Dépot Dép. des AGER, MA 2934). I am grateful to the Musée du Louvre for a photograph of the stele. See Syll. I3, no. 22; Kern 1900, no. 115; Guarducci 1969: 106; Meiggs-Lewis 1980: 20–22 (= ML 12); more recently Van Effenterre-Ruzé 1994, no. 50 (with a grossly misleading commentary on p. 206: “… coming from the Persian chancellery (who used, as is well known (sic!), Akkadian) … It is interesting for Greek history to realise that the Persian ‘barbarians’ did not always behave in barbarian fashion on Ionian soil (sic!)”); P. Lecoq 1997: 277 (French translation without Greek text). The document (without reconsideration of the text) is no. 50 (D50) in Chaniotis’ 1988 selection. Meyer 1896: 19–20; Rostovtzeff 1941, II: 1143 (with English translation), III: 1609 (n. 98); Olmstead 1948: 156 (uncommented translation); Van den Hout 1949: 145 (Greek text); Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964: 91 (Greek text with German translation); Boffo 1978: 267 (Greek text and Italian translation); Metzler 1997: 323 (Greek text and German translation); Schmitt 1996: 95 (Greek text and German translation). For Side B, see also Cousin 1890, and Boffo 1978: 269–273.

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Fig. 5: Letter of Darius to Gadatas

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Part I Achaemenid Asia Minor 1 5 10 15 20 25

Βασιλεὺς [βα]σιλέων Δαρεῖος ὁ Ὑστάσπεω Γαδάται δούλωι τάδε λέγε[ι·]. Πυνθάνομαί σε τῶν ἐμῶν ἐπιταγμάτων οὐ κατὰ πάντα πειθαρχεῖν· ὅτι γὰ[ρ τ]ὴν ἐμὴν ἐκπονεῖς [γ]ῆν, τοὺς πέραν Εὐ[φ]ράτου καρποὺς ἐπ[ὶ] τὰ κάτω τῆς Ἀσίας μέ[ρ]η καταφυτεύων, ἐπαι[ν]ῶ σὴν πρόθεσιν καὶ [δ]ιὰ ταῦτά σοι κείσεται μεγάλη χάρις ἐμ βασιλέως οἴκωι· ὅτι δὲ τὴν ὑπὲρ θεῶν μου διάθεσιν ἀφανίζεις, δώσω σοι μὴ μεταβαλομένωι πεῖραν ἠδικη[μέ]νου θυμοῦ· φυτουργοὺς γὰρ [ἱ]εροὺς Ἀπόλλ[ω]νος φόρον ἔπρασσες καὶ χώραν [σ]καπανεύων βέβηλον ἐπ[έ-] τασσες ἀγνοῶν ἐμῶν προγόνων εἰς τὸν θεὸν [ν]οῦν, ὃς Πέρσας εἶπε [πᾶσαν ατρέκε[ι]α̣ν̣ καὶ τ̣η̣

‘Darius, son of Hystaspes, king of kings, to Gadatas, [his] servant, speaks thus: ‘I hear that you are not obeying all my instructions. Certainly you are careful to cultivate my land by transplanting to the regions of Lower Asia the trees which [grow] on the other side of the Euphrates: for this, I praise your intention and, for this reason, there will be great recognition for you in the king’s house. But, on the other hand, as you are ignoring my feelings with respect to the gods, I shall give you proof, if you do not change, of my anger roused by the offence. The sacred gardeners of Apollo have been subjected by you to an impost (tribute) and forced to work profane land: that is to misunderstand the sentiments of my ancestors for the god, who told the Persians all the truth …’

As is clear, the letter consists of two parts: in the first (ll.8–18), the king congratulates his subordinate for his horticultural activities in ‘Asia Minor’, and promises him rewards. In the second (ll.18–30), signalled already in the general introduction (ll.5–8), Darius reproves Gadatas severely, for not having followed to the letter royal instructions and violating the fiscal privileges of the ‘sacred gardeners’, dedicated to caring for the sanctuary’s land. One cannot overemphasise the uniqueness and importance of the document within the Achaemenid documentary corpus, in whatever language, but especially in Greek (even more so when compared to the dossier of royal letters preserved on

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stone),5 – one need only think of the central place it has occupied, ever since its publication, in the reconstruction of certain crucial aspects of Achaemenid history and imperial institutions.6 I will mention just two aspects briefly, as my aim here is not to re-examine specialised discussions, fully treated elsewhere, in detail. First, the document was immediately added to the dossier on the policy of stimulating agricultural development with which the Great Kings have generally been credited (cf. ll.8–17). The close link between working the soil, religion and Iranian culture has long been stressed by travellers and observers. For example, Cannizarro (1913: 17–18) quoted Chardin: “The old inhabitants of Persia were tough, hard working, dedicated … and made a religion of agriculture … Their priests taught them that the greatest virtue was to beget children and, then, to work the fallow land, plant trees either fruit trees or others” (III 129). Chardin was also cited by Montesquieu in his Esprit des Lois : “The religion of the Fire-Worshippers [‘Guèbres ignicoles’] made the Persian kingdom of that time productive.”7 Xenophon’s Oeconomicus is cited at length by Dureau de la Malle, along with the Avesta, to demonstrate that religion and the example of the ruler promoted agriculture and populousness among the Persians (1840: 323–330). It is easy to see how the ‘official’ Gadatas inscription would have strengthened such a broad historical interpretation, which enjoyed general acceptance.8 Cousin and Deschamps, too, referring to Xenophon and the Avesta, wrote: “Here we find yet another proof of the care the Persian kings paid to stimulating agriculture.” (p. 534) And Darmesteter, in his translation of the Avesta published in 1892, made immediate use of the document in his introduction to Fargard III: “To the classical evidence on this subject,9 an additional (piquant) piece has come to light, discovered recently by MM Cousin and Deschamp … which comes from Darius himself: it is a letter from the Great King to Gadates [sic], his satrap in Asia Minor, congratulating him on having worked the royal land and transplanted to Lower Asia the fruits from Beyond the Euphrates … Fargard III is a commentary on this text” (II 32). This comment was taken up word for word by F. Cannizaro in his work, published in Messina in 1913 5 6 7 8

9

Note the particular insistence of Guarducci 1969: 108: ‘Ma l’epistola di Dario a Gadatas è un documento isolato e singolarissimo,’ and 109: ‘… epistola … occupa un posto a se.’ Note simply the frequency with which it is cited in Briant 1996a (henceforth HEP), Index, p. 1175 (sub: Gadatas) and 1235 (sub: ML 12) [HPE: 1154 (sub Gadatas (ML 12); 1146 (sub ML 12). [See above Foreword, p. 9–11]. See Chaybany 1971: 218 [and below Chapter 14]. I have often alluded to this question; see, esp., Briant 1980, and in particular 1982: 439–443 (Idéologie avestique et idéologie monarchique achéménide). Note also, among the many commentaries, Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964: 95; Boffo 1978: 289–291; Briant HEP 245–252 [HPE 232–240]; Schuller 1998: 145–147 (“Xenophon erhält glänzende Bestätigung durch den … Brief Dareios’ I.”), etc. By contrast a number of commentators of the Oeconomicus have turned to the Letter in order to clarify Xenophon’s argument; most recently, Pomeroy 1994: 237–254, esp. 239 [cf. also below Chapter 11]. At this point, unsurprisingly, he cites the Oeconomicus and Polybius X 28 (quote and comment p. 34, n. 10): the Achaemenid policy of encouraging peasant communities to excavate underground irrigation tunnels, the qanats; on this, see also Bucci 1973: 187, and Briant 1977 (= 1982: 440–441; 499–500); discussion in Briant 2001 [below Chapter 13].

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and entitled picturesquely: Il capitolo georgico dell’Avesta Vendidad III. In the eyes of its author (p. 16) the inscription ‘confirmed the system’ described by Xenophon. Coming only a few years after the publication of the Cyrus Cylinder (Rawlinson 1880), the Greek inscription helped to enlarge a documentary dossier that also included several Egyptian texts (in particular the Udjahorresnet inscription).10 The general view was that here was a ‘confirmation’ of what had rapidly come to be known as the ‘religious policy of the Achaemenids’,11 or even (still less happily) of ‘Achaemenid religious tolerance’.12 Ever since its publication, the commentators of Ezra and historians of post-exilic Judah have literally fallen upon this document, in particular, of course, its second section (ll.18–26 and ff.). In the introduction to his book published in 1896 (p. V), Eduard Meyer heartily thanked his friend W. Dittenberger. Dittenberger is well known for his epigraphic studies (he published an article devoted to the Letter in 1896, and re-edited it for his Sylloge), and he had alerted Meyer to the existence of the Greek inscription. Eduard Meyer immediately put it to use in his book when he dealt with the already much debated question of the (in)authenticity of the royal decrees reproduced (or introduced?) by the author of Ezra. He felt that here was support for his arguments directed against those who considered them to be clumsy forgeries. He was convinced of the Greek inscription’s authenticity by Dittenberger and thought it, especially the second part (relations with the Apollo sanctuary), “a striking parallel to the attitude of the Persian kings vis-à-vis Jewish religion” (p. 21). Although many have adopted this view

10 11

12

See the collection of non-Iranian epigraphic documents in Gray 1900 (cf. the discussion on p. 181–182 of the Letter, and its possible ‘Zoroastrian’ echoes). See, e. g., De Vaux 1937: 41 (“This evidence is corroborated by an inscription found near Magnesia on the Maeander … The text … reveals the Great King’s concern to preserve the privileges granted by him or his predecessors to the cults of his subjects”); Duchesne-Guillemin 1962: 23 (“An attitude analogous [to that of Cyrus in Babylon] is revealed, with respect to Greek religion, by Darius’ letter to Gadatas”), 28; Widengren 1968: 160–161 (translation of text); Boyce 1982: 47–48 (with respect to Cyrus’ propaganda in Asia Minor); Debord 1982: 264; Briant 1986; Ahn 1992: 132, 281; Debord 1999: 65–69; Dandamaev 1999: 275. In the most recently published study on Achaemenid policy relating to this (BHAch I, 94–95), P. Bedford 1996 mentions the document without further comment (p. 18–19); by contrast, L. Fried 2000 devotes considerable space to it (p. 61 ff.). Note that the issue was a focus of the discussion by a partisan of the inauthenticity of the document (Hansen 1986), as well as by his opponent (Wiesehöfer 1987), whose conclusion was this: “Der Gadatas-Brief bleibt uns als echtes beredtes Zeugnis für die Religionspolitik des Achaimeniden erhalten” (p. 398). This seems to be an anticipatory response to the (well-founded) uncertainties of Grabbe 1992: 59: “This inscription is often cited in commentaries and monographs for comparison with the documents in the book of Ezra … [But] the authenticity of the inscription is the object of debate […] This [uncertainty] makes the use of this inscription for comparative purposes problematic”. (For reasons that escape me, Grabbe seems to think that the inscription dates to the 4th century and that the king is Darius II. This is not a slip; cf. his citation of Boffo’s article.) I mention as an example the (misleading) sub-title Lochner-Hüttenbach gave to his commentary: Toleranzedikt fremde Götter betreffend. The text is, in fact, not an edict, and it is not intended to pronounce on imperial policy relating to matters of cult and local pantheons. Cf. below, note 120.

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in the wake of Meyer,13 it is nevertheless the case that with respect to the Cyrus edicts in Ezra controversy continues to rage among biblical scholars. In this debate, those who hold that the decrees are inauthentic refer understandably to the arguments (without necessarily understanding them fully) put forward by several scholars such as Van den Hout who, in 1949, threw doubt on the authenticity of Darius’ letter to Gadatas.14 Simply for that reason it will be useful to re-examine here a document which has played such a major role in a variety of studies. Moreover, it will also be an essential study of royal Persian epistolography,15 as this is the sole royal letter preserved on stone in one of the provincial languages of the empire. Let me recall the most recent stages in the discussion. Since the full and very interesting historical commentary of Laura Boffo in 1978 (containing an excellent overview of the issues), the text has given rise to several notable studies in recent years and months. Apart from the numerous references and discussions to be found in my 1996 book,16 there is the 1996 study by Rüdiger Schmitt on (what he takes to be) the original Aramaic (I will return to this at greater length), an article by Dieter Metzler in 1997 on the identity of the relevant sanctuary and the name Gadatas, and Leone Porciani’s chapter on Persian epistolography in 1997. Certain points of detail still require discussion, such as the origin of the name Gadatas,17 his exact function,18 the identity of the sanctuary19 and how one may use the document in the context of the tributary system.20 13 14 15 16 17

18

See the bibliography in HEP 913 [HPE 884–885] and BHAch I, 47. See especially Grabbe 1992: 59 (cited above, n. 11); also id. 1998: 125–132 (discussion of Ezra without explicit reference to the Letter). On this, see in particular Van den Hout 1949 and the recent analysis of Porciani 1997: 25–41; already Olmstead 1933. [See Foreword, p. 10, n. 35]. HEP, esp. p. 430, 507–509 and 977 [HPE 418, 491–493, 952–953] (commented bibliography); see the index p. 1235 [HPE 1146]. R. Schmitt (1996: 96; similarly Mayrhofer 1973: 8.697) thinks that Gadatas is of Iranian origin Baga-data (i. e. in Greek Θεο-δοτος); cf. also Lecoq 1997: 277: “His name must be Iranian, although whether it could be *Ga(v)-data, ‘to whom cattle have been given (??)’, or *Baga-data, ‘Godgiven’ is unclear”. Nevertheless, it should be noted that the first suggestion (with all due reservations) has no known parallel and does not fit with the normal Greek transcription of gav­ (cf. the similar remarks of Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964: 93), which seriously limits its possible (however tentative) link to Gadatas. Further, there is the proposal by Metzler (1997: 325–326) suggesting a Semitic theophoric name (composed with Gad-), a possibility already entertained by Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964: 93–94, who ultimately rejected it in favour of *Baga-data. It does not seem very convincing to me either, even less so the historical reasons/implications on which it is founded (a Gadatas coming from Syria who naturalised a variety of trees he was familiar with in Asia Minor). As for Chaumont’s hypothesis (1990: 580, n. 72) that he was a “local dynast promoted to the position of satrap”, this is pure and unfounded speculation. On the name, see my discussion below, p. 141–142. Satrap of Ionia (Cousin-Deschamps 1889: 534, n. 1; Syll.3 I, no. 22, n. 3; Meiggs-Lewis, ML 12; Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964: 93; Corsaro 1980: 1170, n. 28; Hornblower 1982: 19, n. 109; Chaumont 1990: 588–590; Debord 1999: 118)? Superintendant of royal domains or a royal paradeisos (Meyer 1896: 20; Dandamaev 1984: 114; id. 1999: 275; HEP 430, 507–508, 977 [HPE 418, 491–492, 952–953])? R. Schmitt (1996: 96) thinks it is impossible to define. It is beyond the scope of this study to re-examine the question (which is not, in any case, of central

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Naturally, ever since the editio princeps and the studies of Meyer and Van den Hout, researchers have continued to ask how a letter sent by the king to a provincial officer was transmitted across the centuries and the successive stages of inscribing and re-inscribing that have given us access to a copy from the Roman imperial epoch. My detailed critical rereading has made me very dubious about the methodologies that have guided the use made of it by modern historians (I myself have used the text frequently in my studies), and I can now no longer avoid the debate on its authenticity. This is the purpose of the following remarks, suggested to me by a recent re-examination of two other inscriptions from Achaemenid Asia Minor, both of which have been regularly included in the dossier on the ‘religious policy of the Achaemenids.21 The issue seems to me worth revisiting in view of the fact that Van den Hout’s article of 1949, despite the relevant questions it raised, never really dealt with all points. Further, reading recent studies has convinced me that the current general acceptance of the text’s authenticity rests on a number of debatable premises.22 relevance) – but we might just observe that an unusual aspect of the letter is that the addressee of a royal letter is given no title, while the context indicates that he has an administrative function in western Asia Minor. 19 For reasons I cannot fully comprehend, D. Metzler (1997: 326–327) thinks that the (oracular) sanctuary of Apollo honoured by Darius’ ancestors is Nape on Lesbos. I find it difficult to follow his argument: I adhere to the identification first suggested by Schel, AJA 54 (1950): 265 (summary of unpublished talk) that it is the temple of Apollo at Aulai, something forcefully argued in detail by Robert 1977 (also more or less followed by Schmitt 1996: 100–101). It is nevertheless noteworthy that prior to the publication of Robert’s article, Schel’s position was not accepted by all: M. Guarducci (1969: 108, n. 5) considered it ‘highly debatable’ and thought rather that it might be the oracular sanctuary of Claros; L. Boffo has reservations (1978: 271, n. 14) and finds Schel’s suggestion ‘rather risky’, as she thinks the hieroi phytourgoi of the Letter should not be identified with the dendrophoroi known to Strabo in the sanctuary at Aulai. That is, indeed, a difficulty brushed aside rather too quickly by Robert (1977: 85 = 1977: 43). Nevertheless, I do not think that it undermines Schel’s proposition. 20 See, e. g., Corsaro 1980: 1170–1183; HEP 430–431 [HPE 418–419]; Descat 1997: 260; Schuller 1998: 145–147. 21 I first expressed my doubts in Briant 1998a: 225, n. 54 [above chapter 2, note 54]; this article was announced in Briant 2000a: 239, n. 17. 22 The first editors never doubted the text’s authenticity (Cousin-Deschamps 1889: 532: “The authenticity of this letter cannot be doubted.”); see, similarly, Dittenberger 1896 (while pointing out some problems with the editors’ interpretation). Van den Hout 1949: 144–152 discussed the question of its authenticity extremely competently. Since then, it is worth noting that the studies published recently display little interest in the question as though the source’s authorititativeness was settled. The only dissenting voice one might mention is Hansen’s 1986 unconvincing attempt, whose very partial and weak arguments have been demolished by Wiesehöfer 1987. It is worth pointing out that Wiesehöfer’s arguments, valuable as they are, only addressed Hansen’s arguments without taking into account the full and detailed ones put forward by Van den Hout forty years earlier (his study is not cited). The almost unanimous agreement as to the text’s authenticity is indicated by: Lochner-Hüttenbach 1964; Boffo 1978: 299–302 (replying to some of Van de Hout’s arguments; J. and L. Robert congratulate the author in Bull. Épig. 1980, 457: “B[offo] has luckily not allowed herself to be convinced by suspicions voiced about its authenticity”); for the most recent see, HEP 507, 977 [HPE 491, 952–953]; Schmitt 1996:

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One final introductory remark: the results of the re-examination I am presenting here are part of a larger project, which is to republish and comment on the Greek inscriptions23 relating directly to Achaemenid history and institutions, and those dating to the beginning of the Hellenistic era (this will include two further inscriptions from Sardis, the ‘Sacrilege Inscription’24 and the famous Mnesimachos inscription).25 My study of the Gadatas Letter is the third section of a project already under way, the first one being a reconsideration of the Droaphernes inscription (Briant 1998a [here chapter 2]),26 and a historical reinterpretation of the Xanthos Trilingual published the same year (Briant 1998b [here chapter 3]).27 2 AN ‘ORIENTAL CORE’ IN ‘GREEK DRESS’? As already said, for G. Cousin and G. Deschamps “the authenticity of the letter cannot be doubted” (1889: 532): they made not a single observation that might have modified their thesis. In their view, the text’s (re)inscription in the Roman period presents no problems with respect to the transmission of the document over several centuries: “The text was carefully preserved and recopied, with no changes beyond the letter forms and updating of the dialect […] Here we have a letter from Darius himself, recopied much later; its authenticity emerges both from the use of formulae specific to the Persian kings, and the un-Greek constructions as well as the general

23 24 25 26

27

97 (citing Dittenberger’s arguments); Metzler 1997; Porciani 1997: 25–27, who addresses (p. 26, n. 76) an old and strange hypothesis put forward by Beloch (GG II 22, 1916: 154 ff.), who saw the document as a forgery due to ‘Christian propaganda’; see also Van den Hout’s doubts on this (1949: 145–146) while rejecting other arguments put forward by Beloch. Despite this opinio communis, here and there authors have expressed their reservations: e. g. Marinoni 1976: 228: “… doubts (by no means negligible) have been advanced against the letter’s authenticity (most recently and with very solid arguments by Van den Hout …);” Chaniotis 1988: 253 (“The authenticity of the letter is disputed”); Tuplin 1994: 238, who doubts that it is possible to carry out a terminological study of the text, particularly with respect to the term Persai of line 28: “This is a dubitable instance because the inscription is at best a late copy which could have changed the terminology of the pre-486 Greek original […] and at worst a total (late) forgery” (this caution has evaporated in Tuplin 1996: 92–93); similarly biblical scholars have expressed doubts, such as Grabbe 1992: 59 (see above n. 11), although there is no analysis of the document; and commentators on Xenophon, Pomeroy 1994: 239 (who refers to the discussion about authenticity, but without drawing out the implications; see below n. 61). Linked to other versions in the case of multilingual texts; cf. my remarks in Briant 1998a: 214, n. 18 [above, chapter 2, n. 18]. On which see HEP 722–723; 1035–1036 [HPE 702–703; 1009–1010] and some methodological remarks in Briant 2000a: 242, n. 42. The texts (with selective bibliography) can also be found on the Internet at http://www. achemenet.com (= Briant 2000b). On this (already discussed in HEP 696–697 [HPE 677–678]), see the contrary interpretation presented by Debord 1999: 367–374, which does not convince me (for the reasons, see BHAch II). Note the general agreement with my demonstration expressed by Ph. Gauthier (Bull. Épig., REG 112 [1999], no. 469). See BHAch II for an analysis of studies that appeared independently of, or since, that study.

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tone of the document.” Among the formulae that they assume derive directly from the original, they pick out the following: basileus basiléôn, doulos, tade legei, basiléôs oikos, emôn progonôn.28 Their conclusions have been adopted by commentators with few changes. Dittenberger regards it as “an authentic decree by King Darius” (1896: 643). Olmstead (1933), fully convinced of its authenticity and lacking any Persian example of a letter, compared the Greek expressions with those found in the Achaemenid royal inscriptions. On the basis of this comparison, he even concluded that Xerxes’ letter to Pausanias ‘quoted’ by Thucydides (I 129.3) is genuine. Such formal similarities are stressed by Lochner-Hüttenbach (1964), who went as far as assuming that Apollo is in fact Ahura-Mazda (p. 98).29 Even though his Iranocentric excesses were pointed out subsequently,30 Cousin-Deschamps’ initial arguments have continued to be regularly used; in sum, the ‘Achaemenid’ tone of the official and administrative formulation hardly admits of doubt. R. Schmitt takes the same position, saying that the text “is priceless evidence that Orient and Occident are in contact in diverse and multiple ways and one where we are not reduced to seeing everything through Persian, i. e. oriental, spectacles” (1996: 101). R. Schmitt here defined in a more sophisticated way what W. Dittenberger had said (1896: 643). The latter thought that the compiler of the document displayed a truly original oriental tinge (eine echt orientalische Originalfarbe) in Greek dress (durch das griechische Gewand), adding that no forger could have imagined such a combination (1896: 643).31 The difficulty resides obviously in determining precisely the role of, respectively, “the original oriental colour” and “the Greek dress”.32 What we need is to find an answer to the question whether the dress is not simply a disguise, bereft of any genuine ‘Achaemenid’ content, aside from a memory of the Great Kings being made to serve the interests of the sanctuary. Following Cousin-Deschamps’ and Dittenberger’s initial expert discussions, Van den Hout (1949) presented highly pertinent critical remarks.33 Within the frame28 29

30 31 32

33

See p. 532, n. 3, 533–534 (royal titulary and the term doulos), 537–538 (royal benefactors). As his study was that of an Iranist it has had a decisive long term impact. I stress that Lochner-Hüttenbach never considered the possibility of a forgery, he simply refers to it very briefly, p. 93, with no mention of Van den Hout’s aricle. It is plain that he is simply postulating the document’s genuineness, and thus he succeeds in finding Perso-Iranian parallels for every expression in the inscription, even in the most unlikely places. Cf. Schmitt 1996 (even though he himself gave in to the temptation to reconstruct an entire ‘Aramaic original’: see below p. 149–153). Schmitt uses the same expression (1996: 97); but that is to underestimate the talent of the forger at all times. Another example (albeit, in this case, the authenticity question does not arise) is the poem by Symmachos of Pellana in honour of the Xanthian dynast Arbinas, where the partisans of an Iranising reading and those of a Greek one are in disagreement (cf. discussion of these positions in HEP 626–627, 1009 [HPE 609–610, 984]). Schmitt, ibid.97, n. 8 refers just once to Van den Hout, but does not cite or discuss his arguments, simply countering with the statement that the fact (p. 97: das Faktum) of it being a translation militates in favour of the text’s genuineness. But, at no point, does he demonstrate how he established das Faktum! For him the only question concerns the linguistic identity of the original.

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work of a broader study of Greek epistolography, the author devoted several pages to the Persian royal letters transmitted in the Greek tradition, including the Darius letter (pp. 144–152). He explained that, although commentators considered its genuineness to need no justification, several serious problems remained. He concluded that it was a ‘subtle forgery’, whose ‘archaising’ character was specifically intended to demonstrate the antiquity of the sanctuary and its privileges (p. 152). Among other points, he underlined the fact that certain expressions were not as ‘Persian’ as one might think, for example, the presence of the royal patronym (Δαρεῖος ὁ Ὑστάσπεω), the placing of the words τάδε λέγε[ι], or yet the phrase πέραν Ἐυ[φ]ράτου: “A Persian document would have certainly had: πέραν τοῦ ποταμοῦ (p. 150) as, in the Greek translation of Ezra, this is the expression used to render, word for word, the Akkadian Ebir Nari, or the Aramaic A ̔ bar Nahara, ‘the other side of the river’, which was the administrative terminology in official use in the Achaemenid period. Obviously, it is possible to reply, as many have hastened to do,34 that the change was introduced after the time of the original translation in Gadatas’ time, in order to adapt the text for a Greek audience, ignorant of Achaemenid administrative usage. But this procedure raises doubts and questions about the precise methodology employed. Using what criteria and what indisputable markers will allow one to assign this or that expression to one or other category: i. e., traces of the original or Greek additions/adaptations? Moreover, the argument raises a major ambiguity: how can one, simultaneously, argue that the precision of the administrative calques proves the text’s authenticity, and maintain that the translation has modified the original terminology? If the commentator is essentially of the opinion that the postulated Greek translation of an absent original is not necessarily exact, then he is cutting the branch on which he is sitting, as he thus denies the sole methodological justification for what he has undertaken to do, i. e. that of comparing term with term. Let us look more closely, for example, at Schmitt’s opinion (1996: 97) on the presence of Darius’ patronym (which does not conform to Achaemenid usage). He sees this as “an addition when it was translated into Greek or – perhaps more likely – on the occasion of its later re-inscription”. He specifies further, note 25, that such an addition would be explicable if this was done after 424, in order to distinguish him from Darius II. But this is not very convincing, as not a single Achaemenid document known in Greek bothered to identify any king in this manner, even on the occasion of re-inscribing it in the Roman period (Artaxerxes in the Droaphernes and Tralles inscriptions). One could say the same of Babylonian or Egyptian documents,35 Aramaic (the Artaxerxes in the Aramaic version of the Xanthos trilingual; 34

35

E. g. Schmitt 1996: 97 (“clarifying additions and similar changes …”), 99 (“a later copy”); Boffo 1978: 300, n. 106 (p. 301); Porciani 1997: 27 and 32, n. 97. These writers are, however, right to reject Beloch’s argument that the geographical expression revealed a Greek vision of imperial space. “The other side of the Euphrates” clearly designates the regions beyond the Euphrates as seen from Babylon: cf. my observations in the same vein in HEP 857 [HPE 837], as well as Schmitt’s remarks (1996: 97). The discussion concerns simply replacing ‘river’ with ‘Euphrates’. On the problems of distinguishing the various rulers called Darius and Artaxerxes, cf., e. g., HEP 997 [HPE 972].

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the Alexander of the Idumaean ostraca etc.), or the bilingual documents (the Artaxerxes of the Lydo-Aramaic inscription from Sardis)36 – hence the discussions of their chronology, unless the regnal years allow a close definition (usually difficult in the case of an Artaxerxes), or in the case of the Babylonian Astronomical Diaries where the text gives both the regnal and personal name of the king. In the absence of this definition from the royal inscriptions, it seems clear to me that the description ‘Darius, son of Hystaspes’ is derived from Greek literary texts, whose usage in this setting can be most easily explained in the context of a late forgery.37 When we look again at the geo-political formula used in the Letter, it is both lacking in rigour and hardly convincing to reduce the discussion to the syntagma “the other side of the Euphrates”. In fact, the relevance of this expanded formulation should be fully examined, but has never (as far as I am aware) received close attention. The whole phrase is actually: τοὺς πέραν Ἐυφράτου καρπὸυς ἐπὶ τὰ κάτω τῆς Ἀσίας μέ[ρ]η. A first observation is that the second half sounds no less ‘Greek’ than the first. Further, among those who support the idea of an Achaemenid original, not a single one has attempted to posit an Achaemenid equivalent for τὰ κάτω τῆς Ἀσίας μέ[ρ]η, translated by Cousin and Deschamps with the phrase “to the region of Lower Asia”. Whether one thinks of κάτω or even Ἀσίας, the expression betrays clearly the intervention of a Greek hand, while it is difficult to postulate an original Achaemenid formulation even approximately,38 even if one assumes an Aramaic intermediary.39 And what can one say about the last preserved lines which 36 Lipiński 1975: 153–161. 37 Cf. Van den Hout’s apt observation to this effect (1949: 149). On this point, Boffo’s defensive position is very weak (1978: 300, n. 106): “This could well be an illustrative addition and can certainly not be taken as an indicator of the wholesale forgery of the document.” She makes out that she thinks that modification of a detail does not prove forgery, but it is precisely the very large number of such ‘additions’ which makes one doubt that it really is a matter of additions to a text which should nevertheless be considered authentic. However, when she returns to the issue of countering Van den Hout’s arguments, she (p. 299) thinks that it is “possibly a more substantial intervention by the priestly college in the structure of the document itself;” the argument used to support this is bizarre: “Otherwise the document might have lost its credibility.” A perfect example of a circular argument! 38 To assert, as Debord does (1999: 121, n. 50; 122, n. 57; 155), that ἄνω and κάτω are translations into Greek of Persian administrative terminology (assumed to be uška for κάτω) strikes me as totally untenable (including, of course, in the Letter, cf. p. 121, n. 50: “[The expression here] probably designates the region of Magnesia on the Maeander”). Both terms in fact relate to the vision the Greeks had of spatial divisions between the coast and the interior, as shown by innumerable examples (see, e. g., HEP 419, 657–660 etc. [HPE 407–408; 638–641]), or between the centre and Central Asia (HEP 1027–1028 [HPE 1001–1002]). And to make méros equivalent to the Herodotean nomos (Debord 1999: 118) lacks any justification whatsoever: on méros, cf. Vollgraf 1949: 608–615, who includes a reference to the Letter (p. 611), which he assumes to be authentic. 39 The certainty expressed by Schmitt (1996: 98) on this point strikes me as totally misplaced. If, as he argues, the phrase employed in the Letter is a particularly clear (beweisend) example of an Aramaism, he should explain why it is not the literal translation of the usual Aramaic or Akkadian one, i. e. πέραν τοῦ ποταμοῦ, which would be perfectly comprehensible to a Greek audience. I would add that the formula with ‘Euphrates’ does not by itself imply the existence

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presumably referred to a Greek oracular text, which the Great King is assumed to have quoted in order to condemn more tellingly Gadatas’ reprehensible conduct with respect to the sacred gardeners of Apollo?40 Let us take another example of the difficulties involved in the search for an original, by examining the term doulos applied to Gadatas in the letter. The explanation given by the first editors has never been questioned, although it has been refined. Let me quote Cousin-Deschamps, p. 53–54: “The word doulos […] corresponds to the words mani badaka of the Behistun inscription […] where it is applied to eminent individuals […] Doulos seems to have been the normal41 translation of the Persian expression.” In order to justify such a generalisation (i. e. ‘normal’), the authors refer to the famous passage of the De Mundo, which speaks of the presence at court of the generals and satraps as the douloi of the Great King.42 And it can, indeed, be argued that the term doulos in Greek has, indeed, a very broad meaning including that of personal dependence,43 a notion which itself is generally of an official text: the idea of the Euphrates as the frontier between the Mediterranean world and further Asia is a literary theme very familiar in the Hellenistic and Roman period (cf. Briant 1984: 65 and n. 21). 40 That it must deal with an oracular text was already assumed by the first editors (Cousin-Deschamps 1889: 540–541); see also Dittenberger (1896: 645–646; Syll. I3: 21, n. 9); Guarducci 1969: 108; Boffo 1978: 283–284, following Dittenberger, maintains that it is an oracle, and that atrekeia evokes arta; Lochner Hüttenbach (1964: 97–98) went even further in his Irano-centric reading in thinking that Apollo was the interpretatio graeca of Ahura-Mazda, and atrekeia a calque of arta. Cousin-Deschamps, for their part (loc.cit.), had insisted that if the matter indeed concerned a Greek oracle, then atrekeia could not be assimilated to arta (contrary to what they had originally been tempted to think). Their line of argument was taken further more recently by R. Schmitt 1996: rightly opposing Lochner-Hüttenbach’s statements (1964), he proposes a general assessment, which is interesting but itself raises objections. What he says, on the one hand, is “we have before us the translation of an authentic letter of Darius” (p. 97), but, on the other, he considers certain passages to be Greek, such as the partial quote of an Apollo oracle (p. 100); the word atrekeia, he maintains, should not be compared to Old Persian arta, and Apollo is not an interpretatio graeca of Ahura-Mazda – rather it is a citation (unfortunately broken) of an oracle delivered to Darius’ progonoi. Although the author does not push this further, the implications of his analysis are obvious: as no-one would dream of suggesting that the Greek of the original oracle would have been translated into Persian or Aramaic and then retranslated back into Greek for the inscription, one must accept that the compilers added the Greek text later to Darius’ letter to Gadatas. This, in my view, introduces a major obstacle to accepting the authenticity of the text which the author is defending, as it inevitably throws doubt upon the reality (itself hard to accept) of the quotation of the oracle attributed to Darius himself (ll.26–29). There are other aspects, in the same passage, which suggest that the text should not be dated to the Achaemenid period: I will return to them below § 5.2. 41 Ital. P. B. 42 Cf. HEP 270–271, 338 [HPE 259; 324–325]. 43 But see, Mactoux 1979 (and her note 113) who, on the basis of a rather limited corpus, it is true (cf. p. 59, n. 139), stresses instead the profoundly disparaging connotations of the term. Nevertheless, it should be emphasised that if the word bandaka had indeed been used in an original, the Greek translator had very little choice but to use doulos (apart perhaps from pistos? Cf. HEP 336 [HPE 324]). In the trilingual text of Behistun, the semantic field of the Babylonian terms (qallu and ardu) and Elamite (libap), often translated as ‘slaves’, is much wider than

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thought to be the social and political base of the term bandaka.44 That said, what inference may we draw from this, given that the number of times the term bandaka is attested in Achaemenid texts is small?45 If, in the unlikely case of a Greco-Persian bilingual, one were to find doulos and bandaka side by side, one would be in a position to comment with some certainty on the phenomenon of translation, as scholars have been able to do on the basis of the Babylonian and Elamite equivalences for bandaka in the Behistun trilingual. But this is, of course, not the case here. The problem is rather not merely that we lack such a bilingual, but that the word doulos is assumed to be the translation of a Persian term which figured originally in a text we do not have, and which is not only not there because it is lost but because it never existed. Plainly the whole line of reasoning is balanced on a razor’s edge.46 The obvious conclusion must be that, aside from a certain semantic similarity, the comparison between doulos and bandaka furnishes no argument in favour of the genuineness of the inscribed text; nor does it prove that behind the Greek text there lies, erased by time, a matching, if not identical, Persian text.47 those regarded as personal slaves in Greece (cf., e. g., HEP 445, 929, 950 [HPE 432; 902; 925]). On the comparisons between bandaka, qallu and the doulos of the Letter, see also Eilers 1940: 13. 44 HEP 335–339 etc [HPE 324–327]. 45 Cf., e. g., the entry bandaka (W. Eilers and Cl. Herrenschmidt) in EncIr III (1989): 682–685. It is worth noting that the understanding ‘slave’ for bandaka is nowhere indisputably attested in Iranian texts, the sole exception being the assumption that it is rendered by doulos in the Letter! 46 Cf. HEP 524 [HPE 508], where I indicated my reservations about the ‘postulated’ correspondence between the doulos of the Letter and the Persian word bandaka (without going as far as doubting the document’s genuineness). See below § 4 on Schmitt’s 1996 suggested equivalences. 47 A. Missiou (1993) devoted an article specifically to this issue, knowledge of which I owe to Amélie Kuhrt, and which I was only able to consult after my own arguments (below) had already been written. I decided that it would not be useful to modify or amend them for reasons I will explain. The writer thinks that the expression doulos tou basiléôs, found in literary texts and the Letter, derives from Persian sources. Having devoted most of her argument to the Letter (p. 380–391), she ends as follows: “… the phrase doulos tou basiléôs had not been constructed out of Greek misunderstanding of the Persian monarchy: it was rather a loan-translation of the terms ba[n]daka/libar, that represented only an isolated aspect of the numerous complexities in which the issue of absolute power was embedded in the Achaemenid empire” (p. 390). The article is obviously well informed on Achaemenid vocabulary, and there is a good discussion of the term bandaka and its ‘equivalents’ in the other versions of DB, in particular the Elamite libar (384–385). But the problem remains unaffected, as the writer (p. 380) never raises, not even in passing, the question of the document’s authenticity. Once we introduce this telling variable, I would say that what she demonstrates (very convincingly) is, that if a translator had needed to translate bandaka into Greek, he would certainly have chosen the term doulos, and, in doing this, he would not have given it a negative sense – a conclusion with which I am wholly in agreement, … in as far as, as I have explained in my contribution, the semantic relationship bandaka/doulos does not depend on the inscription being authentic, given that in order to express the reality of the relationships between the king and his followers, a forger would naturally have depended on the classical texts where the link between man and man among the Persians is regularly expressed in Greek by doulos. As a result, to speak of a “loan-translation” and insist (p. 377, 387) that the Greek translation of the Letter, placed by the author into a new

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A further problem is raised by the name Gadatas.48 If, as is the general opinion, it renders the Iranian Bagadata,49 then why has the original name not been preserved in the transcription of an official document which should, by its very nature, demand usage of the authentic nomenclature of the principal protagonist (good or bad) of the story. If the Greek redactors had scrupulously stuck to transcribing it into Greek, one would expect to find Megadates rather than Gadatas,50 or more simply yet, Bagadates,51 names well attested in a variety of transliterations: in Greek in Asia Minor, Elamite in Persepolis, Babylonian in Babylonia and Aramaic in Egypt.52 If we note further that in Babylonia and Egypt it often appears in bi-cul-

48 49 50

51 52

policy of communication initiated by Darius in order to spread the royal ideology throughout his lands, was an “official translation of a document emanating from the royal court” [the author refers to DB 60–61, 70], is very daring, as – on the one hand – there is not a single ‘loan word’ in the strict sense in the document, and – on the other – the author pays no attention whatever to the discussions about the possible origins of the Greek version of the inscription (see below § 4). Further, aside from a brief reference to ML 12 (p. 380, n. 18, where she makes no mention of the fact that Lewis refers to the question of authenticity nor of Van den Hout’s article), the author is unaware of a single study dedicated to the Letter, all of which devote considerable space to the doulos/bandaka issue (neither Cousin-Deschamps 1889, Van den Hout 1949, nor Boffo 1978 etc. appear; her sole bibliographical base seems to be Cook’s chapter in CHI 2, 1985). At the methodological level, such casualness is stunning: how can one conduct a learned discourse on the “policy of translation” (from text A to text B), and neglect the central and fundamental fact: i. e., if there is no original text (text A) and if there exists the possibility that there never was one, and when the discussion on the date of the edition of text B which we have on the stone is undecided, how can one speak of such a ‘policy’? As far as I am aware, this point has never been raised. The general approach is to observe that the name is known from the Cyropaedia, as though that precedent validates it. See above, n. 17. For comparison, cf. the well known instance of Megabyz(x)os ̓amarkal,’ in M. Boyce & I. Gershevitch (eds.), W. B. Henning Memorial Volume, London: 180–186 Grelot, P., 1964, ‘L’huile de ricin à Éléphantine,’ Semitica 14: 63–70 Grelot, P., 1971, ‘Études sur les textes araméens d’Éléphantine,’ RB 78: 515–544 Grelot, P., 1972, Documents araméens d’Égypte (Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient 5), Paris Guizzi, F., 1992, ‘Antimenes Rhodios e Philoxenos Makedon nel libro II dell’ Economico pseudo-aristotelico,’ RFIC 120: 411–421 Gunn, B., 1943, ‘Notes on the Naukratis Stela,’ JEA 29: 55–59 Harden, D. B., 1981, Catalogue of Greek and Roman Glass in the British Museum, vol. 1, London Heltzer, M., 1990, ‘Some questions of the Ugaritic metrology and its parallels in Judah, Phoenicia, Mesopotamia and Greece,’ UF 21: 195–208 Heltzer, M., 1993, ‘Olive oil and wine production in Phoenicia,’ in La production du vin et de l’huile en Méditerranée (BCH Suppl. XXVI): 49–54 Herrmann, P., 1965, ‘Neue Urkunden zur Geschichte von Milet im 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr.,’ Ist. Mitt. 15: 71–117 Hinz, W., 1973, Neue Wege im Altpersischen, Wiesbaden Holladay, J., 1992, ‘Maskhuta, Tell el-,’ The Anchor Bible Dictionary IV: 588–592 Honroth, W., O. Rubensohn & F. Zucker, 1909–1910, ‘Bericht über die Ausgrabungen auf Elephantine,’ ZÄS 46: 14–61 Isaac, B., 1991, ‘A Seleucid inscription from Jamnia-on-the-Sea: Antiochus V Eupator and the Sidonians,’ IEJ 41/1–3: 132–144 Joannès, F., 1982, Textes économiques de la Babylonie récente, Paris Joannès, F., 1990, ‘Pouvoirs locaux et organisation du territoire en Babylonie achéménide,’ Trans. 3: 173–189 Johnson, B. L. & L. E. Stager, 1995, ‘Ashkelon: wine emporium of the Holy Land,’ in S. Gitin (ed.), Recent Excavations in Israel: a view to the West (Archaeological Institute of America, Colloquia and Conference Papers, no. 1) Dubuque IA: 95–110 Kalinka, E., 1944, Tituli Asiae Minoris, vol. II, fasc. III, Vienna Karwiese, S., 1995, Die Münzprägung von Ephesos, Vienna, Cologne, Weimar Knudtzon, J. A., 1911, Die El­Amarna Tafeln, vols. I–II, Leipzig (repr. 1964)

18 A customs register from the satrapy of Egypt in the Achaemenid period

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Koehler, C. G., 1986, ‘Handling of Greek transport amphoras,’ in Recherches sur les amphores grecques (BCH suppl. XIII), Athens: 49–67 Koehler, C. G., 1995, ‘Wine amphoras in ancient Greek trade,’ in P. E. McGovern, S. J. Fleming & S. H. Katz (eds.), The Origins and Ancient History of Wine, Amsterdam, Luxemburg: 323–337 Kraay, C. M. & P. R. S. Moorey, 1968, ‘Two fifth-century hoards from the Near East,’ RN 10: 181–235 Kraeling, E., 1953, The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic Papyri: new documents of the fifth century B. C. from the Jewish colony at Elephantine, New Haven CT Lemaire, A., 1994, ‘Histoire et administration de la Palestine à l’époque perse,’ in E. M. Laperrousaz & A. Lemaire (éds.), La Palestine à l’époque perse, Paris: 11–53 Lemaire, A., 1996, Nouvelles inscriptions araméennes d’Idumée au Musée d’Israël (Transeuphratène Suppl. 3), Paris Le Rider, G., 1996, [Résumé du cours], Annuaire du Collège de France 1994–1995, Paris: 767–779 Lichtheim, M., 1976, ‘The Naukratis Stele once again,’ in Studies in Honor of G. R. Hughes (SAOC 39), Chicago IL: 139–146 Lichtheim, M., 1980, Ancient Egyptian Literature III: the Late Period, Berkeley CA Lidzbarski, M., 1912, Phönizische und aramäische Kruginschriften aus Elephantine, Berlin Linders, E., 1993, ‘Ma’agan Mikha’el,’ New Encyclopaedia of Archaelogical Excavations in the Holy Land III, Jerusalem: 918–919 Lipiński, E., 1994, ‘Aramaic documents from ancient Egypt,’ OLA 29: 61–68 Lozachmeur, H., 1998, ‘Épigraphe sur jarre d’Éléphantine (collection Charles Clermont-Ganneau, no. 248),’ in J. Elayi & J. Sapin (éds.), Mélanges Jacques Briend, II = Trans. 15: 183–186 Lucas, A., 1962, Ancient Egyptian Materials and Industries4, London Margain, J., 1994, ‘L’araméen d’empire,’ in E. M. Laperrousaz & A. Lemaire (éds.), La Palestine à l’époque perse¸ Paris: 225–243 Masson, E., 1967, Recherches sur les plus anciens emprunts sémitiques en grec (Études et commentaires LXVII), Paris Meeks, D., 1993, ‘Oléiculture et viticulture dans l’Égypte pharaonique,’ in La production du vin et de l’huile en Méditerranée (BCH Suppl. XXVI): 3–38 Meiggs, R., 1982, Trees and Timber in the Ancient Mediterranean World, Oxford Moran, W. L., 1987, Les Lettres d’El Amarna (Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient 13), Paris (= El Amarna Letters, Baltimore MD, 1992) Odelain, O. & R. Seguineau, 1978, Dictionnaires des noms propres de la Bible, Paris Oppenheim, A. L., 1967, ‘An essay on overland trade in the first millennium B. C.,’ JCS 21: 236–254 Oren, E., 1985, ‘Migdol: a new fortress on the edge of the eastern Nile Delta,’ BASOR 256: 7–44 Orrieux, C., 1983, Les papyrus de Zénon: l’horizon d’un Grec d’Égypte au IIIe siècle av. n. è., Paris Paice, P., 1986–1987, ‘A preliminary analysis of the Saïte and Persian pottery,’ BES 8: 95–107 Paice, P., 1993, ‘The Punt Relief, the Pithom Stele and the Periplus of the Erythraean Sea,’ in A. Harrack (ed.), Contact between Cultures: West Asia and North Africa I, Leviston, Queenstone, Lampeter: 227–235 Pomey, P. & A. Tchernia, 1978, ‘Le tonnage maximum des navires de commerce romains,’ Ar­ cheonautica 2: 233: 251 Porten, B., 1968, Archives from Elephantine: the life of an ancient Jewish military colony, Berkeley CA Porten, B., 1990, ‘The calendar of Aramaic texts from Achaemenid and Ptolemaic Egypt,’ in S. Shaked & A. Netzer (eds.), Irano­Judaica, Jerusalem: 13–32 Porten, B., 1996, The Elephantine Papyri in English: three millennia of cross­cultural continuity and change (Documenta et Monumenta Orientalis Antiqui 22), Leiden (2nd rev. ed. 2011) Porten, B. & A. Yardeni, 1986, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt I: Letters, Jerusalem Porten, B. & A. Yardeni, 1993, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt III: Literature, Accounts, Lists, Jerusalem Posener, G., 1934, “Notes sur la stèle de Naucratis,” ASAE 34: 141–148

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Posener, G., 1936, La première domination perse en Égypte (Bib.Études XI), Cairo Posener, G., 1947, ‘Les douanes de la Méditerranée dans l’Égypte saïte,’ RPh 21: 117–131 Postgate, J. N., 1974, Taxation and Conscription in the Assyrian Empire (Studia Pohl: Series Maior 3), Rome Postgate, J. N., 1976, Fifty Neo­Assyrian Legal Documents, Warminster Préaux, Cl., 1939, L’économie royale des Lagides, Brussels Sachau, E., 1911, Aramäische Papyrus und Ostraka aus einer jüdischen Militär­Kolonie zu El­ ephantine, Leipzig Salles, J. F., 1991, ‘Du blé, de l’huile et du vin… Notes sur les échanges commerciaux en Méditerranée orientale vers le milieu du Ier millénaire av. J.-C. I,’ AchHist VI: 207–236 Salles, J. F., 1994, ‘Du blé, de l’huile et du vin… Notes sur les échanges commerciaux en Méditerranée orientale vers le milieu du Ier millénaire av. J.-C., II,’ AchHist VIII: 191–215 Schäfer, J., 1981, Phaselis: Beiträge zur Topographie und Geschichte der Stadt und ihrer Häfen, Tübingen Segal, J. B., 1983, Aramaic Texts from North Saqqâra with some Fragments in Phoenician (EES Excavations at North Saqqara, Documentary Series 4), London Sethe, K., 1901, ‘Zur Erklärung der Naukratisstele,’ ZÄS 39: 121–123 Shipley, G., 1987, A History of Samos, Oxford Stern, E., 1982, Material Culture of the Land of the Bible in the Persian Period (538–332 B. C.), Warminster Stern, E., 1994, Dor, Ruler of the Seas: Nineteen years of excavation at the Israelite­Phoenician harbour town on the Carmel coast, Jerusalem (repr. 2000) Stern, E., 1995a, Excavations at Dor, Final Report. IA: Areas A and C: Introduction and Stratigra­ phy, Jerusalem Stern, E., 1995b, Excavations at Dor, Final Report. IB: Areas A and C: The Finds, Jerusalem Stolper, M. W., 1977, ‘Three Iranian loan-words in Late Babylonian texts,’ BibMes 7: 250–266 Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire: the Murašû archive, the Murašû firm and Persian rule in Babylonia, Leiden Stolper, M. W., 1989, ‘Registration and taxation of slave sales in Achaemenid Babylonia,’ ZA 79: 80–101 Stolper, M. W., 1992, ‘The Murašû texts from Susa,’ RAss 86: 69–77 Stronk, J. P., 1992–1993, ‘Sailing merchant-ships, c.500–330 B. C. – a preliminary analysis,’ Talanta 24–25: 117–140 Teixidor, J., 1985, Review of Segal 1983, JAOS 105: 731–734 Thompson, D. J., 1988, Memphis under the Ptolemies, Princeton NJ (2nd ed., 2012) Thompson, M., 1979, ‘Hoards and overstrikes: the numismatic evidence,’ Expedition: 40–46 Tuplin, C., 1987, ‘Xenophon and the garrisons of the Achaemenid empire,’ AMI 20: 167–242 Valbelle, D. & C. Defernez, 1995, ‘Les sites de la frontière égypto-palestinienne à l’époque perse,’ Trans. 9: 93–100 Van Groningen, B. A., 1933, Aristote. Le second livre de l’Économique, Leiden Vélissaropoulos, J., 1980, Les nauclères grecs, Geneva, Paris Webb, V., 1978, Archaic Greek Faience, Warminster Whitehead, D., 1974, Aramaic Epistolography: the Arsames Correspondence, PhD Chicago (unpub.) Will, E., 1960, ‘Chabrias et les finances de Tachos,’ RÉA 62: 254–275 Yardeni, A., 1994, ‘Maritime trade and royal accountancy in an erased customs account from 475 B. C. on the Ah̩ iqar scroll from Elephantine,’ BASOR 293: 67–87 Yoyotte, J., 1958, ‘Notes de toponymie égyptienne,’ MDAIK 16: 414–430 Yoyotte, J., 1992, ‘Naucratis égyptienne,’ Annuaire du Collège de France: 634–644 Yoyotte, J., 1994, ‘Les contacts entre Égyptiens et Grecs (VIIe-IIe siècle av. J.-C.): Naucratis, ville égyptienne (1992–3, 1993–4),’ Annuaire du Collège de France: 679–692 Zaccagnini, C., 1996, ‘Tyre and the cedars of Lebanon,’ in E. Acquaro (ed.), Alla soglie della classic­ ità. Il Mediterraneo tra tradizione e innovazione (Studi in onore di S. Moscati), Rome I: 451–466

19 TRIBUTE PAYMENTS AND EXCHANGE IN ACHAEMENID AND HELLENISTIC ASIA MINOR* THE QUESTIONS ARISING FROM WELLES, RC 3 In 1954 Claire Préaux published an article in the Chronique d’Égypte entitled “Sur l’origine des monopoles lagides”. In it she highlighted the historical implications of a famous inscription concerning the synoecism between Teos and Lebedos initiated by Antigonus Monophtalmus, in particular one passage in the letter sent by Antigonus responding to one of the demands made by the Lebedos embassy. In answer to their expressed wishes (RC 3, ll.72–75), the king reminded them of his invariable policy concerning the wheat supply for the cities under his authority (ll.80–85, trans. Préaux): Until now, we did not wish to grant any city the right to import wheat (ta sitègèsia) or set up reserves of wheat (sitou parathèsis): in this way we wanted to prevent the cities from spending substantial sums on this when it was unnecessary. In this situation now, our first idea was not to authorise this, given that the tributary land is nearby (plèsion ousès tès phorologoumé[nès chôras …]) and thus, should the need for wheat arise, we consider it simple to go and obtain from there (metapempesthai ek [tautès …]) as much as is wanted.

By comparing Antigonus’ policy with that imputed to the Ptolemies, Préaux stressed the connection to the Achaemenids, namely that all of them – Achaemenids, Antigonus, Ptolemies – were faced with the same problem, that of “turning the revenues of royal land into silver. Antigonus’ idea (…) may well derive from the satraps, whose former Greek personnel he almost certainly used” (Préaux 1954: 324). In it she detected the prelude to the Ptolemaic policy of monopolies.1 The text is regularly cited by all who write on the wheat supply of Hellenistic cities. The motivations and origins of Antigonus’ policy are occasionally briefly analysed (Fantasia 1984: 285–290), but mostly the references are almost exclusively to the Greek mode of setting up funds for purchasing wheat (Migeotte 1984: 278–282; 1991: 21–23, referring the reader to Préaux and Welles 1934).2 Even in Philippe Gauthier’s more specialised 1979 article, the text and Préaux’s article are *

1 2

Original Publication: “Prélèvements tributaires et échanges en Asie Mineure achéménide et hellénistique,” in J. Andreau, P. Briant & R. Descat (éds.), Économie Antique: les échanges dans l’Anitiquité: le rôle de l’État (Entretiens d’Archéologie et d’Histoire 1), Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges 1994: 69–81. Followed recently by Billows 1990: 286–287, who includes it in his presentation of Antigonus’ “economic policy” (pp. 286–292). Note already Francotte’s many references to the text (1905).

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only briefly mentioned (Gauthier 1979: 78, n. 9) in the context of an argument aimed at countering a thesis by Rostovtzeff (followed by Préaux 1954: 323, n. 3). Rostovtzeff (1910: 264, n. 1), citing Antigonus’ letter, thought that the Ptolemies had imposed on their external possessions the obligation to import only Egyptian wheat. He also used an inscription from Samothrace in honour of Hippomedon for having “granted for the benefit of our city the right to export wheat and a tax exemption from the Chersonese and anywhere else they consider advantageous”. For Gauthier, however, “in the light of new documents, the Hippomedon decree has nothing to do with Ptolemaic economic imperialism, it simply reflects a banal occurrence in the history of the Hellenistic cities” (Gauthier 1979: 88). We may or may not accept Gauthier’s conclusion (we shall return to it at a later stage in the discussion), but as far as Antigonus’ letter itself is concerned, we must remember, along with Préaux, that it raises a much bigger issue, i. e., the use made by the king of the surpluses generated by the imposition of tribute (I use the term tribute here generically; see below). It was with this in mind that in the articles published in 1979 (RTP: 329, n. 151) and 1986 (Briant 1986: 12, 47, n. 23) I, too, referred to Préaux’s document and commentary adding them (rather too briefly) to the larger canvas of Achaemenid policy. I noted there that they provided an answer to the question posed by Edouard Will on the basis of a passage in Pseudo-Aristotle of how tribute paid in goods was turned into cash in fourth century Egypt (Will 1960; not referring to Préaux’s article). I also mentioned other parallel texts, but did not draw up a complete dossier.3 That is the historian’s first task; but along with the more recently published Hellenistic documents, we will see that there is also an Achaemenid document, which has been long known and is of major importance yet somewhat neglected and which should be added to the file of material on Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities. GREEK CITIES AND THE ROYAL/SATRAPAL WHEAT SUPPLY Let me start with the most recently published document (Wörrle 1988), as it provides some striking parallels to Antigonus’ letter. As in many documents of this kind, we are dealing with benefactions bestowed by the king (Antiochus III) on a Greek city (Heraclea-Latmos), which had just experienced serious war damage (Philip V’s invasion). In particular it was suffering from sténochôria (II, ll.12–13) and hence it was requesting that its possession of “the land (chôra), of villages and its inhabitants (hoi dèmoi kai hoi oiketai)”, which had previously met its needs, be confirmed (III ll.9–10). In the circumstances, the king ordered Zeuxis (his representative in Sardis) to release funds from the royal treasury (ek tou basilikou) in order to maintain the water supply (I ll.12–13), as well as providing oil for the néoi (III ll.1–3); he further granted the city fiscal exemptions on a series of taxes and dues (II ll.15–16; III ll.3–6). There also figure, among the benefactions requested by 3

Cf. now HEP ch. 11, 8.

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the city, two clauses (III ll.6–9) concerning wheat and exchanges with royal land (Wörrle 1988: 467–469):4 1) first, to receive a gift (dôrea) of wheat, possibly in order to sell it and thus replenish the city’s finances; linked to this is a tax exemption on wheat imported (eisagomenos [sitos]) into the city (eis ten polin) and its sale (kai tou poloume­ nou [sitou]); 2) secondly, a tax exemption to be granted to “those who export from the king’s land into the city (hoi exagontes ek tes [choras] tou basileos eis ten polin)”, be it to meet their own needs or for sale. As the editor comments, each of these clauses is paralleled in other inscriptions. Thus the exemption clause for traders appears in an inscription from Miletus in honour of Eirenias, in which his city thanks him for having obtained substantial concessions from king Eumenes II: wheat and timber for the building of a gymnasium. Further, in an embassy to Antiochus IV, he obtained the following advantages for the city: “a tax exemption on all things produced in the territory of Miletus imported into his kingdom (ateleia … ton panton ek tes Milesias eisagomenon gene­ maton eis ten basileian)” (Herrmann 1965; trans. Bresson 1987: 235–236). The grant of a gift of wheat also appears here, but that is very frequently found in any number of inscriptions and literary texts particularly of the Hellenistic period. As for the exemption on imported and traded wheat in the city, it is reminiscent, as Wörrle (1988: 468, n. 221) observes, both of the Samothrace inscription and Antigonus’ response to the ambassadors from Lebedos. Although both texts deal with more than the trade in wheat, they enlarge significantly the file which Gauthier had begun (rather selectively) to put together on the “prohibition or authorisation [of wheat exports] issued by kings, satraps or governors” (Gauthier 1979: 85). As soon as one moves on from this, it becomes clear that this documentary evidence can be strengthened by adding several other inscriptions whose meaning is clear. In the first place, we can add an inscription from Priene in honour of Diocles who, having gone, or been sent, as an ambassador to Zeuxis, asked and obtained for his city the right to import wheat (Inschr. Priene 82; cf. Wilhelm 1907: 11–13 on lines 15–25; Robert 1964: 12, n. 7 & 13, n. 2). Further, negotiations between cities and kings with respect to the import of wheat find their parallels in honorific decrees of the early Hellenistic period. Here what comes to mind is an Athenian decree which, albeit mutilated, shows that around 320 a certain [Met]rodoros from Cy[zicus?] gained the gratitude of the Athenians (epa[in]esa[i…]) because, it would seem, he had succeeded in sending wheat from Asia Minor to Athens (tou sitou [e]k tes [Asias]), apparently due to the help he had been given by [Arrhidai?]os, “appointe[d satra]p by the king and [Antip]ater and [the ot]her M[acedo]nians” (IG II2, 401).5 4 5

I am grateful to Brigitte Le Guen’s help in reaching a better understanding of the text. I owe the reference to Raymond Descat. Since then, the text has been used by Bosworth 1993 who, in an argument relating to the chronology of the early Successors (which is not my

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The restorations suggested by the editors find support, and the decree becomes comprehensible, in the light of a contemporary one voted by Nesos in honour of Thersippos6 who, due to his good relations “with the kings [Philip III and Alexander IV] and the generals and the other Macedonians,” obtained financial advantages for his city (such as a lowering of the war taxes levied by Antipater [cf. Briant 1973: 208, n. 6]). At a time of famine (sitodeia) he also arranged for “the import of wheat by the satraps (kai para ton sadrapan eisagoga[n sito ka]taskeuasse);” further, he gave money for the sitônia (OGIS 4, ll.18–24), as a result of which he obtained, among other privileges, a tax exemption from the city for himself and his descendants (I, 29–30). All the documents cited so far are clearly of Hellenistic date. Given the fact that there has been a stress on administrative continuities in the fourth century between the Achaemenid period and that of Alexander and the Successors (RTP: 17–30; Wörrle 1978: 223–224; 1979: 91–94; 1988: 465), it is tempting to postulate that relations between the coastal cities and the satraps and kings of the “Upper Land” in the period 320–300 conformed to Achaemenid traditions. There are a number of texts which support such an interpretation and explain the continuity remarked on by Préaux (1954: 328) between Persian satraps and Antigonus (although her reference to the “Greek personnel” of these satraps does not strike me as obvious). A resounding textual confirmation comes in the form of yet another decree, definitely dating from the Achaemenid period (even though its precise date in the fourth century remains disputed). Its importance in relation to my argument here is crucial, yet it has been totally neglected for reasons to which I shall return. I included it briefly in my short article of 1986 (Briant 1986: 47, n. 23), and the time has come to present it in more detail. The decree comes from Athens (IG II2, 207), and consists of four fragments (a, b, c, d), the first of which (a) is long lost and its lay-out remains problematical for epigraphists. The document has been the subject of several important studies by Osborne, who supplies an edition and restorations (Osborne 1971; 1982: 52–54 [IG II2, 207(a)]; 1983: 61–63 [b, c, d]). Osborne has also devoted several studies to the career of Orontes, who is honoured by Athens in fragment a (Osborne 1983: 65–80; cf. also 1973 & 1975). Moysey has dealt with the same issues in several publications (Moysey 1975: 254–265 [Kirchner’s text, translation, commentary] & 1987) and it is mentioned in all studies in which the Satraps’ Revolt under Artaxerxes II figures or is the main subject (Weiskopf 1982: 108–120; 1989: 69–80). Despite the many epigraphic problems posed by the text, it clearly shows that following contacts made between Athenian embassies to Orontes and Orontes’ embassies to Athens, the city decided to bestow honours on Orontes and grant him and his descendants Athenian citizenship and crown him with a golden crown. This is followed by a reference to symbola and to Orontes’ territorial control (ek tes Orontou arkhēs)

6

concern here), suggests that the satrap is not Arrhidaios of Hellespontine Phrygia, but Asander of Caria (Bosworth 1993: 421–423). I shall not discuss this hypothesis as it does not affect the argument here. On Thersippos, who is also known from literary sources, see Berve 1926, II, no. 368.

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(207a). In the other, heavily damaged, fragments one can make out that Athens designated ambassadors with the task of taking money intended to pay for wheat supplied by Orontes, which would then be used to provision troops under the command of Chares, Charidemos and Phocion, who would thus be able to pay the soldiers their misthos (b, c, d). Everything suggests that it was Orontes’ provision of wheat in the difficult circumstances encountered by Athenian troops in the northern Aegean (i. e. Lesbos) that led to him receiving the exceptional honours which form the subject of fragment a. I have already indicated that the document has been discussed in the context of the Satraps’ Revolt and Athens’ eventual intervention in that (those) conflict(s). This is the reason for the continuing debates on the date of the decree (the archons are not preserved), depending on what position historians take on Orontes’ participation in the (highly dubious) second “Satraps Revolt” in the 340s, which is linked to hypotheses about Orontes’ career after his surrender to Artaxerxes II at the end of the latter’s reign, to which Diodorus refers (XV 91, 1–2). Very debated, too, is how to understand Orontes’ administrative position in the 360s. Diodorus presents him as the “satrap of Mysia” (XV 90, 3). Despite continuing differences of opinion, there is no reason to reject this statement – the coinage and the Chronicle of Perga­ mon confirm his presence there; in fact, it is precisely because of the fertile wheat fields in his arkhē that it was possible to make the grain deal with the Athenians. Placing this document into the dossier considered above allows us to see that, far from proving that he revolted with Athenian support, it simply illustrates one of the regular, normal practices of satraps. THE MANAGEMENT OF ROYAL SURPLUSSES AND EXCHANGES That we really have in these documents indicators of a general, well-established policy can be confirmed by examining a well known work, i. e. the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica. General opinion now attributes this work to one of Aristotle’s pupils writing in Asia Minor during the last quarter of the fourth century BC, in other words precisely in this time of transition from Achaemenid power to the establishment of the Hellenistic monarchies. While the author stresses that all economies must obey one common rule, namely that “spending must not exceed income” (II 1, 6), he distinguishes four types: royal, satrapal, civic and private. The difference between the first two is primarily political, in that the first one has “a power with a universal impact” (II 1,2; trans. Thillet 1969); however, functionally, the royal and satrapal economy are closely linked – broadly, the former’s spending is dependent on revenues and taxes generated by the second (II 1, 3–4). According to the author, the royal economy “expresses itself in four ways in terms of its concern with coinage (ta nomismata), goods going out (ta exagogima), goods coming in (ta eisagôgima) and expenditure (ta analomata)” (II 1, 3). He then moves on to detail the functioning of the royal economy as follows:

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The text presents a number of problems with respect to its exact meaning and hence as to how it should be translated. Below I set out the ones that are most important for anyone attempting a historical commentary: 1) The term tagē is undeniably the hardest to understand. Wartelle (1968) translates “in the contributions”, which tells us nothing (despite note 1 on p. 10); while Thillet (1969: 578) refers to a possible Iranian etymology deriving from the Middle Persian word tâg/diadem and suggests that it “could therefore designate, by synecdoche, the empire under the authority of the basileus (the same evolution is found in our own concept of “the crown”). This is merely a hypothesis …” Descat, for his part, sees the tagē as “equivalent to the ge basilike, the royal land, the king’s “share” in the empire as a whole, his dorea [share] whence he receives not a fixed sum … but a percentage of what it produces … The tagē is in kind while the phoros flows into the royal treasuries in precious metal” (Descat 1989: 82, 84). In that view, what is produced is essentially (but not only) agricultural produce – it is these royal lands (in the restricted sense of the term introduced by Hesychius: dorea basilike)7 that produce the goods which are gathered by the satraps in the name of the king. 2) Rather than translating ta exagogima and ta eisagogema as “exports” and “imports” (as Wartelle does), I prefer goods “going out” and “coming in”. Using the export/import terminology seems to me to introduce concepts linked to the modern state, implying the existence of a kind of “trade balance” with which the king tried systematically to manage matters in order to arrive at a surplus using a mercantilist policy. While practical concerns certainly play a part in royal policy (see below), comparison with the way the system of storage in Persepolis8 functions makes the use of the terms “coming in” and “going out” seem more appropriate to me. In fact it refers to an imperative with which the royal administration had to deal, namely the planned management of surpluses. This did not necessarily mean “ex-

7

8

This interpretation goes back to one of the trickiest problems, namely the distinction eventually made between royal land (chōra basilikē) and tributary land (chōra phorologoumenē) – the latter is used in Antigonus’ letter. The scanty number of epigraphic attestations (i. e. of royal chancellery texts) precludes a semantic study of the two expressions and so prevents us reaching agreement; note that the Akkadian evidence, too, is opaque (see my discussion of the problems in HEP, chs. 10, 7 & 11, 10). Whatever the answer and quite apart from the issue of the terminology, the existence of territory reserved for the king, which he recognises explicitly as “the land which is mine” (ML 12 [Darius I; but see above Chapter 4 on this text]; Tod 184 [Alexander]) is beyond question [see also below Chapter 27 § 3.1]. While already noted by Altheim in 1951 and then by Cameron himself (1965: 168–172) with respect to a specific point (“wages” of kurtaš in silver or kind), the comparison deserves a more systematic analysis, cf. HEP 466–471 [HPE 451–6], and Briant 1986: 47, n. 14).

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ports” to regions outside the kingdom,9 but might involve other mechanisms, such as, for example, exchanges between depots of the kind attested at Persepolis. 3) I also reject the translation “to dispose of” for diatithestai used by Wartelle; this is technically correct, but not in the context of pseudo-Aristotle. As Descat (1993: 152–153) pointed out, “it has a derived, yet precise, sense, namely that of sale (disposal in order to sell) which Plutarch uses [Solon 24, 1–2].” This is the meaning appropriate to the Oeconomica passage: as the king receives the produce in kind of the tagē, i. e. the account of what has come in and what has gone out of the depots,10 he – or rather the royal administration charged with this – is concerned about the best management of the stores once the expected outgoings (meeting the needs of various branches of the state) have been deducted – namely, what should be done with the excess? That is the question to which the author of Oeco­ nomica has a very clear answer: sell them (diatithestai), but not in any circumstances whatever, rather: “to consider when and how it will be best to sell them.” If we compare this with another more general precept (“spending must not exceed income”), the obvious conclusion is that the royal administration put the surpluses up for sale for the purpose of making money.11 This last can also be understood in two ways: a)The first is to take a gamble on the exchange rates, or perhaps impose them on potential buyers (“the royal economy’s power has a universal impact”), at any rate to participate in the current exchange circuits. That is precisely what is suggested by Antigonus’ description of his policy on this, i. e. to compel the cities on the coast to buy the king’s wheat rather than supply themselves from the Aegean markets, as happens so often in the Hellenistic decrees. When Gauthier disagrees with Rostovtzeff and Préaux on the subject of the Samothrace evidence (see above) he, in contrast, denies that the kings entertained any economic considerations (without commenting on the text of Antigonus’ letter). His approach could be described as “Finleyesque”: “While it is the case that in Greek antiquity tyrants and kings barely concerned themselves with commerce as an autonomous economic activity, 9

10 11

In his publication of a letter from Antiochus III dealing with concessions made to Sardis, Gauthier (1989: 13–14) also uses “export” to translate exagogesthai: “that one at once fells timber for the reconstruction of the city and exports it from the royal forests in accordance with what Zeuxis has decided.” As he indicates very clearly (Gauthier 1989: 22–33), the timber must certainly have come from the royal forests near Sardis, so that the royal order includes an authorisation given to the forestry commission – hence, as I understand it, the further role to be played by Zeuxis. Undoubtedly, in any message for internal use, the forestry commission will have received, through Zeuxis, more precise instructions as to which trees and how many should be cut and then sent to Sardis. Such a document would subsequently have been used by the administrators to justify their annual account of incomings and outgoings (compare this with Plutarch, Eumenes 8,5, on which see RTP: 58, n. 4 & 209). It is to this administrative procedure – not to something which we could realistically label “export” – that the term exa­ gogesthai refers, and the same applies to exagogima/eisagogima in the pseudo-Aristotle text. The text does not imply that all products were sent to the king. For reasons briefly outlined in Briant 1986: 47, n. 14 and argued in detail HEP 468–471 = HPE 454–5, this is how we can interpret Herodotus VII 23 (provisioning of the workers in Athos compared to the supplying of goods and workers in the Elamite tablets from Persepolis).

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they all were anxious to ensure the safety and survival of their communities” (Gauthier 1979: 84, referring to Hasebroek and Finley). This is the interpretation adopted by Fantasia 1984, who refers directly to Gauthier’s work and thinks that Antigonus’ interest is neither financial nor economic, but basically political, i. e. to ensure the financial stability of the new community (Fantasia 1984: 290, n. 14). This approach strikes me as taking considerable liberties with the texts. Of course, the kings were aware of the political aspects inherent in putting pressure by such means on the policy of the cities’ grain supplies. We should also note that the advantages occasionally granted by kings and satraps are always conditional obliging the city in receipt of such to pay dearly in terms of a political countergift – and financially, as political loyalty carried with it the duty to pay royal taxes. We also need to consider the process from the angle of the internal logic of what pseudo-Aristotle calls the royal economy’s pressing need to trade its surpluses;12 so it seems to me a purely rhetorical flourish to deny the existence of a true financial policy of the kings and satraps.13 While we may take issue with the term “monopoly” used by Rostovtzeff and Préaux, it remains true that, as a result of their dominant position, kings and satraps must have been tempted (as Antigonus states clearly) simply to impose their goods on the coastal cities. The latter were, in effect, powerless to compete on the market, especially as, in consequence of particular circumstances, they were forced to ask satraps and kings to open their depots to them (cf. the examples above) – after all, the reason Orontes was accorded such privileges by Athens was not because he had given them wheat, but because he had agreed to sell it! b) The second understanding of the expression “to make money” is to transform produce in kind into silver (coined or uncoined). As has long been realised (Préaux 1954), this was a fundamental problem for the ancient tributary states. Putting aside the strategic stores used to meet the requirements of the court (Briant 1989), army (Briant 1986) and the storehouses set along the main roads (Persepolis tablets, Q series, and [Arist.], Oeconomica II 2,38; HEP, ch.9, [above Chapters 16–17]), the administration had just one aim, i. e. to transform the surplus into silver as we just saw. This preoccupation concerned not only taxes in kind or the harvest shares on royal lands (tagē). As Descat 1989 has pointed out rightly, the phoros was paid to the central court by the satraps in weighed silver.14 In some instances, the satraps received the product of phoros directly in silver from the communities – this must have been the case, for example, with the Greek cities of Asia Minor. Elsewhere, paying the tribute in silver inevitably necessitated the transformation of

12 13

14

Obviously this is an aspect which, by definition, does not appear in texts explicitly presenting the ideology of the “good king”; cf. my diagrams in RTP: 184 and Briant 1989: 42. Happily, pseudo-Aristotle reminds us of the realia! Cf. similarly Wörrle 1988: 469, n. 221: “Apart from the just mentioned grain purchases made by Samothrace [n. 220], we should perhaps also remember Antigonus’ interest in the sale of sitos from royal land …;” and his n. 225, where he takes issue directly with Gauthier 1981 on the fiscal policy of Greek cities. Cf. also Billows 1990: 287 & n. 2 who, unaware of Descat’s studies, uses the Mnesimachos inscription to state that tribute was definitely paid in cash.

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goods in kind into money,15 i. e. putting them on the market either by the satrap himself or, with some difficulty, by the subject communities. This is very strongly suggested by some anecdotes which pseudo-Aristotle sets in the independent Egypt of the fourth century, which Will (despite some weaknesses)16 commented on in a very stimulating way in 1960. In this respect, the example of Babylonia is interesting. For the Achaemenid fiscal system there,17 we are more or less limited to the information to be gained from the Murašû archives, a business house active under Artaxerxes I and Darius II. As Cardascia stressed (especially in 1951), the house of Murašû was not a bank; it managed land which it sublet to farmers in return for rents payable in the appropriate form. The land consisted of plots granted by the king to communities, sometimes but not always military, the hatrûs, or to princes, princesses and high-level court personnel. As the plots held by hatrûs were subject to imposts and taxes, it fell to the Murašû house who had undertaken their management to convert their produce which they received in naturalia (grain, dates etc.) into money.18 They achieved this by putting some products on the market and turning others into manufactured goods (well attested is the brewing of dates into beer, cf. Van Driel 1989). In some respects the mechanisms we find in western Asia Minor and in Babylonia reflect, despite differences, the same reality: a tributary system (pseudo-Aristotle’s royal economy) exists neither as a “closed” nor a “natural” economy. It needs access to markets, i. e. to exchange systems which make it possible to shift its surpluses and thus exchange goods in kind for weighed silver. Such transactions can be undertaken by private merchants (as in the Murašû example) or by the royal administration itself (the sale of satrapal wheat to cities in the Aegean). Such transaction are not simply reducible to a state managed system; private merchants act as inter-

15

16

17 18

I repeat again: in this context the term “money” does not mean coinage; it can be vessels or weighed silver as in Achaemenid Babylonia and Egypt. It is the weight that has value; and the same is ultimately true of coinage paid as tribute: it is measured by weight (established by means of imperial weight standards) and not according to the value put on it by the issuing city. I will mention two without going into further detail: 1. The author (p. 269) thinks that in the Persian empire imposts/tribute was generally levied in kind, and Herodotus’ famous tribute list reflects simply “a Greek style monetary evaluation of payments made mostly in kind”. But, as Descat (1985, 1989) has shown repeatedly: a) the central government certainly required the tribute to be paid in silver; b) Herodotus’ figures are thus perfectly credible; c) they do not reflect an estimate in terms of coined money, but of weight (the silver is weighed, cf. preceding note). 2. While I would not go so far as to say that fourth century Egypt had “a monetary, Greek style economy” (p. 262, n. 4 = p. 264, in fine; but that is a somewhat misleading expression), I do not think that Egypt simply operated on a barter system. Both the Aramaic texts and the coin finds (Lipiński 1982) must, at the very least, modify such an image, which resurrects the phantom of the “natural economy” (cf. p. 267), to which Marcel Mauss had already administered the coup de grace. On this question, cf. also HEP 417–9 [HPE 406–8]. In order to demonstrate this briefly, I am simplifying a far more complex administrative reality. Of course, the holder of the grant (or his substitute) continued to be liable to present himself for military call ups, fully equipped (on this debated point, cf. HPE, ch.14, 7, ‘Darius II and his armies’).

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mediaries (cf. Diodorus XV 3,1) and their presence is made explicit in the royally granted immunity clauses (Wörrle 1988; Herrmann 1965, etc.). BIBLIOGRAPHY Altheim, F., 1951, Review of G. G. Cameron, Persepolis Treasury Tablets, Chicago 1948, Gnomon 23: 187–193 Berve, H., 1926, Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, I–II, Munich Billows, R. A., 1990, Antigonos the One­Eyed and the creation of the hellenistic state (Hellenistic Culture and Society 4), Berkeley CA Bosworth, A. B., 1993, ‘Perdiccas and the kings,’ CQ 43/2: 420–427 Bresson, A., 1987, ‘Aristote et le commerce extérieur,’ RÉA 89/3–4: 217–238 Briant, P., 1973, Antigone le Borgne, Paris Briant, P., 1979, ‘Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures (bilan et propositions),’ ASNP 9: 1375–1414 (= RTP: 291–330 [here Chapter 20]) Briant, P., 1986, ‘Guerre, tribut et forces productives dans l’empire achéménide,’ DHA 12: 33–48 Briant, P., 1989, ‘Table du roi, tribut et redistribution chez les Achéménides,’ in P. Briant & Cl. Herrenschmidt (éds.), Le tribut dans l’empire perse, Paris: 35–44 Cameron, G. G., 1965, ‘New tablets from the Persepolis treasury,’ JNES 24: 167–192 Cardascia, G., 1951, Les archives des Murašû: une famille d’hommes d’affaires babyloniens à l’épo­ que perse (455–403 av. J.­C.), Paris Cardascia, G., 1958, ‘Le fief dans la Babylonie achéménide,’ Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin I/2: 55–88 Cardascia, G., 1977, ‘Armée et fiscalité dans la Babylonie achéménide,’ in Armées et fiscalités dans le monde antique, Paris: 1–10 Descat, R., 1985, ‘Mnésimachos, Hérodote et le système tributaire achéménide,’ RÉA 87/1–2: 97– 112 Descat, R., 1989, ‘Notes sur la politique tributaire de Darius Ier,’ in P. Briant & C. Herrenschmidt (éds.), Le tribut dans l’empire perse, Paris: 77–92 Descat, R., 1993, ‘La loi de Solon sur l’interdiction d’exporter les produits attiques,’ in A. Bresson & P. Rouillard (éds.), L’emporion (Publications du Centre Pierre-Paris), Bordeaux, Paris: 145–161 Fantasia, U., 1984, ‘Mercanti e sitônai nelle città greche. In margine a tre documenti epigrafici della prima età ellenistica,’ CCC 5: 283–311 Francotte, H., 1905, ‘Le pain à bon marché et le pain gratuit dans les cités grecques,’ Mélanges Nicole, Geneva: 135–157 Fraser, P. M., 1960, Samothrace. The inscriptions on stone (Samothrace II,1), New York Gauthier, Ph., 1972, Symbola. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy Gauthier, Ph., 1979, ‘Exagôgè sitou: Samothrace, Hippomédon et les Lagides,’ Historia 28: 76–89 Gauthier Ph., 1981, ‘De Lysias à Aristote (Ath. pol., 51,4). Le commerce du grain à Athènes et les fonctions des sitophylaques’, Revue historique de droit français et étranger, LIX : 5–28 Gauthier, Ph., 1989, Nouvelles inscriptions de Sardes II (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis), Geneva Herrmann, P., 1965, ‘Neue Urkunden zur Geschichte von Milet im 2. Jahrhundert v. Chr.,’ IstMitt 15: 71–117 Lipiński, E., 1982, ‘Egyptian Aramaic coins from the fifth and fourth centuries B. C.,’ in Studies P. Naster oblata I: Numismatica antiqua (OLA 12), Louvain: 22–33 Meijer, F. & O. Van Nijf, 1992, Trade, transport and society in the ancient world. A source book, London, New York Migeotte, L., 1984, L’emprunt public dans les cités grecques. Recueils des documents et analyse critique, Quebec, Paris

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Migeotte, L., 1991, ‘Le pain quotidien dans les cités hellénistiques. À propos des fonds permanents pour l’approvisionnement en grain,’ Cahiers du Centre G. Glotz 2: 19–41 Moretti, L., 1977, ‘Il problema del grano e il denaro,’ in R. B. Bianchi Bandinelli (ed.), Storia e ci­ vilità dei Greci IV/8: La società ellenisticha, Milan: 354–374 Moysey, R. A., 1975, Greek Relations with the Persian Satraps: 371–343 B. C., Princeton PhD Moysey, R. A., 1987, ‘IG II2 207and the Great Satraps’ Revolt,’ ZPE 67: 93–100 Moysey, R. A., 1989, ‘Observations on the numismatic evidence relating to the Great Satraps’ Revolt of 362–1,’ RÉA 91/1: 107–139 Osborne, M. J., 1971, ‘Athens and Orontes,’ BSA 66: 297–321 Osborne, M. J., 1973, ‘Orontes,’ Historia 22: 515–551 Osborne, M. J., 1975, ‘The satrapy of Mysia,’ Grazer Beiträge 3: 291–309 Osborne, M. J., 1982, Naturalization in Athens, II: commentaries on the decrees granting citizen­ ship, Brussels Osborne, M. J., 1983, Naturalization in Athens, III–IV: the testimonia for grants of citizenship, Brussels Préaux, C., 1954, ‘Sur l’origine des monopoles lagides,’ CdÉ 29: 312–327 Robert, L., 1963, Compte rendu de P. M. Fraser 1960, Gnomon 35: 50–79 Robert, L., 1964, Nouvelles inscriptions de Sardes I (Archaeological Exploration of Sardis), Paris Rostovtzeff, M., 1910, Studien zur Geschichte des römischen Kolonats, Leipzig, Berlin Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire: the Murašû archive, the Murašû firm and Persian rule in Babylonia, Leiden Thillet, 1969, ‘Les Économiques d’Aristote,’ REG 82: 563–589 Tréheux, J., 1986, ‘Le règlement de Samothrace sur les fonds d’achat du blé,’ BCH 110: 420–423 Van Driel, G., 1989, ‘The Murašûs in context,’ JESHO 32: 203–229 Van Groningen, B. A., 1933, Aristote, le second livre de l’Économique, Leiden Wartelle, A., 1968, Artistote économique, Paris Weiskopf, M., 1982, Achaemenid Systems of Governing in Antaolia, Berkeley PhD (unpub.) Weiskopf, M., 1989, The So­Called “Great Satraps’ Revolt”, 366–360 B. C. (Historia Einzelschr. 63), Wiesbaden Welles, C. B., 1934, Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period: a study in Greek epigraphy, New Haven, Conn. Wilhelm, A., 1907, ‘Zu den Inschriften von Priene,’ Wiener Studien 29: 1–24 Will, E., 1960, ‘Chabrias et les finances de Tachôs,’ RÉA 62: 254–275 [repr. in Id., Historica Grae­ co­hellenistica. Choix d’écrits 1953–1993, Paris (1998): 189–208] Wörrle, M., 1978, ‘Epigraphische Forschungen zur Geschichte Lykiens, II: Ptolemaios und Telmessos,’ Chiron 7: 43–66 Wörrle, M., 1979, ‘Epigraphische Forschungen zur Geschichte Lykiens, III: hellenistische Königsbriefe aus Telmessos,’ Chiron 9: 83–111 Wörrle, M., 1988, ‘Inschriften von Herakleia am Latmos, I: Antiochos III, Zeuxis und Herakleia,’ Chiron 21: 203–225

PART V THE TRANSITION FROM THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE TO ALEXANDER AND THE HELLENISTIC KINGDOMS THE TRANSITION FROM THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE TO THE HELLENISTIC RULERS

20 FROM THE ACHAEMENIDS TO THE HELLENISTIC RULERS: CONTINUITIES AND CHANGES* (An assessment and some suggestions) I SOME HISTORIOGRAPHICAL OBSERVATIONS Let us begin with briefly recalling the historiography of the theme, ‘continuity and change,’ in order to have the historical and theoretical stakes clearly before us. I.1 From Plutarch to Droysen We tend to think that the thesis of the historical break created by Alexander’s conquest of Asia goes back to J. G. Droysen, the true ‘founder and father’ of Hellenism as a historical phase. In his words, “the name of Alexander marks the end of one world epoch, the start of a new one.”1 Throughout his monumental study he draws a systematic contrast between Asia in the time of ‘Achaemenid despotism’ and the new situation created by the Macedonian conquest. At the political and cultural level, 334 marks for him the birth of a strong, powerful state and a unique civilisation emerging from the fusion of peoples: While the Achaemenid empire was no more than a collection of peoples who had nothing in common save for their common servitude, in the countries affected by Hellenism, even though they were divided into several kingdoms, there was a superior unity of civilisation, taste, fashion.2

Elsewhere, Droysen stresses particularly the immensity of “Alexander’s economic success”,3 due – in Droysen’s view – to the fact that he put the contents of the Persian treasuries into circulation. “In this respect, perhaps, never before has one witnessed the influence of one man effect such a sudden and profound transformation in such an immense space.”4 He defines this further: One of the strongest agents of change working in this world on the brink of coming into being must have been the * 1 2 3 4

First published as ‘Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures (Bilan et propositions),’in ASNP 1979: 1375–1414 (repr. in RTP:291–330). Geschichte des Hellenismus, I: Geschichte Alexanders des Grossen (2nd ed., Berlin 1877; repr. Munich, dtv 1980): 3. Ibid.: 442; see the whole discussion on pp. 439–445 Ibid.: 436–438 Ibid.: 438

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immense mass of precious metals which the conquest of Asia placed in Alexander’s hands … “Once the new royal power, now ruling over Asia, liberated the wealth which had until then been frozen, once it flowed like blood from the heart, then one can see how, as a result, work and exchange spread it by means of circulating ever more speedily through the empire’s limbs, which had so long been held as with a ligature and become atrophied, so that the economic life of the people, whose strength Persian rule had vampire-like sucked dry, perforce rose and increased.”5 Such and similar phrases can be multiplied … I think it is helpful here to point out that all these motifs are taken almost literally from Plutarch’s pamphlet De Fortuna Alexandri, which Droysen cites frequently in the pages to which I refer.6 The outline of Plutarch’s discourse is very simple: – Alexander’s military victories should not be underestimated, as he was in a desperately difficult situation with respect to men and money; – but his huge achievements should not be analysed in military terms. The fact that he triumphed was due to the fact that he was a philosopher-king. He did not come to plunder, but to fight against an unjust people. His objective was to civilise barbarians and savages, “to mix barbarian things with Greek ones, sow and broadcast in each nation Greek justice and peace.” He desired the unification of the world, the means to achieve which was urbanisation. In short, Plutarch sees Alexander’s conquest as an immense work of taming and acclimatising the barbarians, thanks to the blessings brought by Hellenic Aufklärung. This “physical and spiritual” conquest (I.8) could only be brought about by a brutal break with the Achaemenid past. The late Claire Préaux did Droysen’s thesis justice, when she wrote: “This is Plutarch cast in a Hegelian mould.”7 I.2 Alexander and the European “civilising mission” But the fact that Droysen’s theses have had this enormous impact is also due to the fact that – contrary to the author’s intentions – they were picked up by the imperialist historiography of conquering Europe, as I have tried to demonstrate elsewhere.8 If we 5 6

7

8

Ibid.: 436–437. See especially p. 439, where Droysen writes at the end of a discussion on royal trade and expenditure: “This is sufficient to indicate the economic importance of Alexander’s successes,” and refers (n. 111) simply to Plutarch, De Alex. Fort. I.8, which reads: “In fact, it was not a brigand who traversed Asia. He did not see a nice catch, an unexpectedly lucky piece of booty, whose remnants he might seize and take away […] No, he wanted to subject the entire universe to one order, one form of government […]” The passage represents a remarkable accumulation of Greco-Roman imperialist stereotypes, cf. my study in DHA II (1976): 163–258, esp. 201– 203, and the first chapter of my État et pasteurs au Moyen­Orient ancien (Cambridge 1982). ‘Réflexions sur l’entité hellénistique,’ CdÉ XL (1965): 129–139 (citation on p. 136). For Hegel’s influence on Droysen, see already Bouché-Leclercq I: iii–xxxvi, esp. x–xiii, and more fully argued, B. Bravo, Philologie, Histoire, Philosophie de l’Histoire. Étude sur J. G. Droysen historien de l’Antiquité, Wročlaw-Warsaw-Cracow 1968, particularly ch. V. ‘Impérialisme antiques et idéologie coloniale dans la France contemporaine: Alexandre le Grand, “modèle colonial”,’ DHA V (1979): 283–292 [= RTP 281–290].

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take a close look at the handbooks in France during the Third Republic, the popular works and manuals of colonial geography of the time, it becomes clear that for decades an Alexander theme based on colonial stereotypes was being diffused. Alexander became a model in the service of European colonial ideology. This historiography accentuated the break which the Macedonian conquest imposed on Asia, assimilated by Plutarch to the Roman conquest and by European historiography to the colonial conquests and the overwhelming expansion of liberal capitalism. These ruptures are especially striking on the economic plane: the Macedonian ruler appeared ever more like the prototype of the colonial hero, opening roads, digging irrigation canals, pouring enormous quantities of cash into the Orient, extending the frontiers of the known world, founding new cities, settling war-like nomad populations … in short: the first conqueror from the West rousing somnolent and lethargic Asia to economic progress. His policy of collaboration with local élites is also cited as a model – a French publicist in 1914 even thought that this justified a French protectorate over Morocco!9 It would be pedantic and useless to cite all the Hellenistic specialists who have contributed to the diffusion of the idea according to which the conquest of 334 made it possible for Greek civilisation – so modern and ‘up-to-date’ – to supplant the ‘reactionary’ and ‘archaic’ oriental ones.10 It is enough to read the popular books to realise that such an image continues to reach a substantial audience.11 I will just refer – as a uniquely eminent instance – to the role played in this by W. W. Tarn, whose Alexander (in Ernest Badian’s apt words) “is the conqueror infused with a civilising mission […], a mix of Cecil Rhodes and General Gordon.”12 Among several of Plutarch’s themes (some of which have since been rejected – particularly that of the ‘Unity of Mankind’), Tarn stressed the change wrought in the status of the Asiatic peasant by means of urbanisation, regarded as the motor element of “acculturation.” As he put it: “The Greek cities were a favour extended to the Asiatic peasant and tended to elevate his status.”13 I.3 From Droysen to Bengtson These historiographic reminders do not belong to the long-gone past. I found an instance of these Plutarchean themes current in recent research in the pages Hermann Bengtson devoted to Alexander.14 He is not only presented as renewing the

9 10 11 12 13 14

Cf. G. Reynaud, ‘Alexandre le Grand colonisateur,’ Revue Hebdomadaire, 11 April 1914: 195– 212. The words are taken from A. H. M. Jones’ The Greek cities from Alexander to Justinian, Oxford 1940: 32. See President V. Giscard d’Estaing’s intervention evoking Alexander’s image in a gathering of intellectuals in Mexico. [Quoted in my Alexandre le Grand. De la Grèce à l’Inde (2004): 147]. Classical World 65 (1971): 45. Cf. Briant, DHA 2 (1976): 205–208 and Klio 60 (1978): 58–59. H. Bengtson (ed.) The Greeks and the Persians New York 1968 (German edition, 1965).

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stagnant Asiatic economy,15 but also as the hero of Christian Europe. Let us look first at a passage in his introduction (p. 2): “Without Alexander, there would probably not have been a Greek world culture; without Hellenism, there would have been no Imperium Romanum, as the Hellenistic contributions to Roman imperial civilisation were immense. In effect it prepared the way for the final victory of Christianity in communities stretching from Ireland to India”.

Bengtson returns to this central idea at the end of the chapter devoted to “Alexander and the conquest of the Persian empire” (p. 329). “The rise of Christianity and the diffusion of Islamic civilisation presuppose the existence of Alexander. His life and achievements are at the base of many elements still with us today”.

Such a presentation turns Alexander into both the deus ex machina and the subject of a quasi-eschatological history. In this perspective, Alexander becomes the point of departure for a new phase of human history centred on Europe. The connection with the Hegel-Droysen teleology is, in my opinion, plain:16 Hellenism is finally a mixture of the Greco-Macedonian element with the local life of other lands. Now, we need to define as far as possible which of the two elements dominates, which will have the definitive preponderance; but it is in this struggle between the two that the new element emerges, one that affirms itself even in regions where the forms of civilisation elaborated by the Greek race can be realised.

Droysen goes on to stress the encounter between Hellenism and Judaism: “Now the final work begins, the decisive one of antiquity is on course to achieve its destiny. The time will be accomplished for the appearance of god made man”.

I.4 From Droysen to Rostovtzeff This is, of course, a trend in the analysis of the historical output. It must then be completed and refined. In order to be sure (or almost) of being properly understood I make two complementary observations: 1) First, in order to emphasise how well this vision of the Macedonian conquest of a despotic and somnolent Asia fits into the history of western collective mentalities at least since the Renaissance: these mentalities have been traumatised by fear of the eastern barbarian, and dominated by two phantasmagoric representations of the Orient: the fiction of Asiatic despotism17 (which goes back at the very least to Aristotle)18 and the myth of Oriental stagnation;19 15 16 17

See p. 329: “Economic stagnation now was at an end, and an extraordinary degree of prosperity followed.” The Droysen passages used here are taken from Préaux, ‘Réflexions sur l’entité hellénistique,’ CdÉ 40 (1965): 129–139, repeated in Les catégories en Histoire, Brussels 1965: 17–27. On this, see the incisive, stimulating study by A. Grosrichard, Structure du serail. La fiction du despotisme asiatique dans l’Orient classique, Paris 1979. On the myth of ‘Asiatic despotism’, see R. Koebner, ‘Despot and despotism: vicissitudes of a political term,’ Journal of the War­

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2) Second, it would be naive and simplistic to assert or suggest that the problem of continuities was only raised in recent years. Droysen himself was not insensible to certain aspects of continuity especially in the administrative arena, but in his view they were not really the decisive factor.20 Most important here is the attention paid by Michael Rostovtzeff to the Achaemenid situation. Here I pick a phrase from his famous 1938 article: “It was not Alexander who discovered the Orient… In no way was he the Christopher Columbus of antiquity. Commercial links between the Orient and Greece had existed for centuries. The creation of the Persian empire made the exchange of goods between these two worlds a regular matter.”21 Here Rostovtzeff presented with great lucidity the question called Vorhellenismus by J. P. Weinberg.22 It was this that led Rostovtzeff to interpret the Ptolemaic royal economy as a planned state economy. He was also convinced that the Hellenistic period was characterised by the expansion of commercial capitalism in the Orient and the economic motor created by the Greek bourgeoisie. As is well known, this thesis was the result of Rostovtzeff’s notions about the evolution of the contemporary world23 – hence its fragility, despite the impressive mass of documentation (still fundamental) used.24 Moreover this thesis has now been fundamentally chal-

18

19

20 21 22 23 24

burg and Courtauld Institutes 14 (1951): 275–302, and S. Stelling-Michaud, ‘Le mythe du despotisme oriental,’ Schweiz.Beitr.z.Allg.Gesch. 18 (1960–1961): 328–346; also F. Venturi, ‘Oriental Despotism,’JHI 24 (1963): 133–142; P. Cristofini, ‘Il despotism occidentale,’ Critica Marxista 1978: 71–89; C. Delacampagne, ‘Orient et Perversion,’ in: En Marge. L’Occident et ses ‘autres,’ Paris 1979: 137–150 (little solid information on recent research). This point is well made by Grosrichard and Koebner in the studies cited in the previous footnote. See also R. Bodeüs, ‘Le premier cours occidental sur la royauté achéménide,’ AC 42 (1973): 458–472. On Aristotle, Stelling-Michaud (art.cit.) writes: “… Aristotle opened the door to the unfortunate confusion between despotic government and oriental monarchy which passed into the European mental habitus from the Crusades against the Infidel onwards.” To Aristotle, we should add Plato (cf. esp. Laws 3,693 ff. on the two “mothers” of political institutions) and Isocrates (whose responsibility on this score is overwhelming). Ever since antiquity, the Persian empire has been used as the archetype of despotism, cf., for example, J. G. Carrière DHA 3 (1977): 239 & n. 16. I tried to make this point in ‘Forces productives, état et mode de production tributaire dans l’empire achéménide,’ in Die Entwicklung der Produktivkräfte und die gesetzmässige Abfolge der Gesellschaftsformationen (Berlin 14–16 Nov. 1978) [“Produktivkräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, dans: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (Hsg.), Produktiv­ kräfte und Gesellschaftsformationen in vorkapitalistischer Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372]. See, e. g., Geschichte des Hellenismus I: 435–436 (=Histoire de l’Hellénisme I: 197, 686–687) M. Rostovtzeff, ‘The Hellenistic world and its economic development,’ AHR 41 (1938): 231– 252 (251). Klio 58 (1976): 5–20. See H. Kreissig in Terre et paysans dépendants dans les sociétés antiques (Colloque de Besan­ çon 1974), Paris 1979: 202. Preoccupations of this kind are at the base of Karl Wittfogel’s Oriental Despotism (1957). Cf. the interesting Introduction by Pierre Vidal-Naquet to the French translation (Paris 1964); sadly, his essay was replaced by an ‘Introduction’ by Wittfogel himself in the reprint (1977) [It is available again in P. Vidal-Naquet, La démocratie grecque vue d’ailleurs, Paris (1990): 267– 317].

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lenged by scholars engaged with it.25 It is also the case that, in several works, Rostovtzeff supported the thesis of feudal continuity in Asia Minor,26 but using such weak arguments that it really cannot be sustained.27 1.5 The Marxist historians and the history of Alexander The first to mount a global challenge to the dominant interpretation were Marxist historians. More precisely, their work in the field of Hellenistic history belongs to a much larger theoretical framework centred on the discussion that developed in the 50s and 60s on the concept of the Asiatic Mode of Production (AMP),28 which Kreissig renamed the “Mode of Production of the Ancient Orient” (Altorientalische Produktionsweise),29 and which I prefer to characterise as the Tributary Mode of Production (TMP), as I have explained elsewhere.30

25 26

27 28

29 30

See in particular Préaux, Le Monde hellénistique, Paris 1978: 376 & n. 1. Rostowzew, Studien zur Geschichte des römischen Kolonates, Leipzig, Berlin 1910; Rostovtzeff, SEHHW 3: 1515; CAH VII: 176–177. In all of these, he assigns considerable (and erroneous) importance to Plutarch, Eum. 8; see my observations in Actes 1971, Paris 1973: 97–100; Antigone le Borgne, Paris 1973: 80–89; RÉA 75 (1973): 44–50. In another study (‘Notes on the economic policy of the Pergamene kings,’ Anat. Stud. Buckler, Manchester 1923: 359–390), Rostovtzeff took Xenophon, Anab. 7.8.7 ff. as his point of reference for reconstructing a society of Persian nobles living in fortresses and directing the exploitation of the countryside, in order to infer that there was continuity from the Achaemenid to the Attalid period: cf. 373–375. Cf. Briant, Actes 1971: 97–100. See the remarkable exposition by G. Sofri, Il modo di produzione asiatico,2 Turin 1974; Sur le mode de production asiatique,2 (Recueil du CERM), Paris 1974. It seems that since the publication of the CERM recueil (1st ed. 1970), the problem seems to have lost prominence, especially in France (but see L. Krader, The Asiatic Mode of Production, Assen 1975). In contrast, it has been the subject of important work in the USSR: see J. Kačanovskij, Rabovladenie, feo­ dalizm ili aziatskij sposob proizvodstva?, Moscow 1971 and Problemy dokapitalističeskich obšč estv v stranach Vostoka (V. N. Nikiforov, ed.), Moscow 1971. (Both works were the subject of important reviews in EAZ 16 (1975): 89–298, and JfW 1975: 185–205.) See also B. Funck, ‘Einige Bemerkungen zum altorientalischen Despotismus,’ EAZ 16 (1975): 289–298. There are also Iranian sociologists and historians interested in the issue: E. Abrahamian, ‘Oriental despotism: the case of Qajar Iran,’ Int. Journ. Middle East. Studies 5 (1974): 3–31; Id. ‘European feudalism and Middle Eastern despotism,’ Science and Society 39 (1975): 125–156; also M. Massarat, ‘Gesellschaftliche Stagnation und die Asiatische Produktionsweise dargestellt am Beispiel der iranischen Geschichte. Eine Kritik der Grundformationen,’ in H. Asche & M. Massarat (Hsg.), Studien über die Dritte Welt (Geog. Hochschulmanuskript, Heft 4), Göttingen 1977: 5–125. See also the contributions by B. Montazami, R. Ramtin, K. Vafadari and F. Hâmèd in the first issue of the journal Zamán (Paris). Finally, contrary to what its title suggests, there is very little discussion of the AMP in Marxismo, mondo antico e terzo mondo (Inchiesta a cura di E. Flores), Naples 1979. See esp. ‘Zwei Produktionsweisen die der kapitalistischen vorgehen,’ (These) EAZ 10 (1969): 361–368. See the work cited above, n. 19.

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The first to analyse the Hellenistic kingdoms using concepts of the social relations of production and mode of production was the Soviet historian Ranovič who, in 1950, published in Moscow a book, translated in Berlin in 1958, with the title Der Hellenismus und seine geschichtliche Rolle. In it, he positioned himself firmly against the thesis of pan-feudalism (Achaemenid and Hellenistic) developed by Rostovtzeff in the wake of Max Weber31 and popularised by his intellectual heirs. Ranovič concluded – in part, but paradoxically so, in agreement with Tarn32 – that the Macedonian conquest marked a deep rupture with the preceding situation, as a result of the development of private property in Asia (linked to urbanisation) and of the slave relations of production. In spite of the fact that Ranovič’s book constituted a clear step forward, his argument remained deeply marked by the weak theoretical dialectic of the “Five Stages”, substituting panslavery for panfeudalism. Heinz Kreissig has now discussed the issue most helpfully in a book which provides the best synthesis of all these problems.33 I will not go further into Kressig’s work here, as it is familiar to all interested in Hellenistic Asia. But I should like to refer briefly to his conclusion (with which I am in broad agreement): the Macedonian conquest did not bring about a ‘Grecisation’ of the infrastructures – on the contrary, Hellenistic Asia continued to be dominated by the Mode of Production of the Ancient Orient (AMP or TMP). I myself have tried to show in several studies since 1971 the permanence of the system of village communities in Achaemenid and Hellenistic Asia Minor.34 So for Kreissig, the Seleucid state is an ‘Ancient Oriental’, not a Greek, one, and the Hellenistic period is a particular phase of Oriental, not Greek, history. 1.6 An interim conclusion This is the direction matters have taken since Droysen – one might say, that it is a complete reversal of the historical perspective he proposed. But we should be careful not to substitute, crudely, for a monolithic thesis of abrupt change one of monolithic continuities. There is no point trying to deny the consequences for the history of the Orient that Alexander’s conquest brought in its wake, nor to reject any notion of ruptures. Certainly, at the broad level of social functioning, continuities were the determining factor, both quantitatively and qualitatively. But, once we draw these initial conclusions – themselves subject to a constant process of revision – much work remains: in particular, measuring the rhythm and extent of changes in time 31 32 33 34

See Kolonat: 258, n. 1. On this, cf. Briant, Actes 71: 107. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im Seleukidenreich. (Die Eigentums­ und die Abhängigkeitsver­ hältnisse.), Berlin 1978 (See my review in Klio 62 (1980)). Actes 1971: 105–107, 114–119; ‘Villages et communautés villageoises d’Asie achéménide et hellénistique,’ JESHO 18(1975): 165–188 (repr. RTP: 137–160); ‘Communautés rurales, forces productives et mode de production tributaire en Asie achéménide,’ Zamân 2 (1979): 75–100 (repr. RTP: 405–430); ‘Communautés de base et ‘Economie royale’ en Asie achéménide et hellénistique, Rec.Soc.J.Bodin 41 (1983): 315–343.

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and place; further, to investigate whether the Macedonian conquest introduced any long-term destabilising factors. In other words, it is not a matter of simplistically and mechanically setting continuities against changes, inasmuch as the historical reality is manifold, complex and multivocal. We should therefore, in the first place, distinguish between borrowings and convergences.35 Further, an element borrowed by society A from society B may function entirely differently in A and B (the notorious ‘bricolages’36). So it is not enough to describe the ‘elementary structures’ shared by A and B – they must be located in their coherent historical entirety. If that is not done, we run the risk of ending up with, for instance, a history of the ‘Idea of Monarchy’ in antiquity from Sumer to Rome, in which each stage is tautologically defined as borrowing from the preceding one and passing a legacy on to the next.37 In considering the problems of continuity in Ptolemaic Egypt, Bernadette Menu says very clearly:38 I think we must distinguish between, on the one hand, certain forms of ownership and exploitation which appear sometimes at long intervals because certain conditions conducive to them come together or because they correspond to the particular situation of Egypt and, on the other hand, institutions which followed on from earlier ones or even continued to exist following the Macedonian conquest, and were respected by the Ptolemaic sovereigns.

This obviously makes it essential to be familiar with the Asian lands which experienced the Macedonian conquest. II SOURCES AND THEIR INTERPRETATION But when one analyses – as I have just done rather too swiftly – the new contributions of recent (and earlier) discussions, it is necessary to highlight some inevitable gaps; or perhaps it is more appropriate to move from a positive appraisal to outlining the direction of future research. 35

36 37

38

See, for instance, the ideological convergences between Persian and Macedonian monarchy: the ritual of hurling a spear (or lance) as a sign of taking possession of a territory; royal gifts, especially of clothing. On the question of royal land, see Funck, Klio 60 (1978): 45–56. This alerts us to the caution needed when speaking of “borrowings”: to take the hurling of a spear as just one example, note the similarity with the fetial ritual in Rome – which is not say that all these rites should be assimilated; in fact, as I have said elsewhere, “one cannot isolate historically one structure from a global system of ideological representations, and a system is not simply a sum of structures:” cf. Colloque de Cracovie 1977: L’idéologie monarchique dans l’Antiquité [= “Conquête territoriale et stratégie idéologique: Alexandre le Grand et l’idéologie monarchique achéménide”, Colloque de Mogilany 1977 =L’idéologie monarchique dans l’An­ tiquité, Cracovie 1980: 38–83]. See chapter 22, note 1. I am thinking in particular of the recent study by J. R. Fears, Princeps a diis electus: The divine election of the emperor as a political concept at Rome (Papers and Monographs of the American Academy in Rome XXVI), Rome 1977, and of F. Dvornik, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: origins and background, Washington 1966, I. In Terre et paysans dépendants … (1979): 189. See also the sensible remarks of Lévêque and Dunand, ibid.: 194–196.

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II.1 Achaemenid history and hellenocentrism In my view the most glaring and paradoxical gap in current historiography – which applies to all schools of thought – is the continuing division at the research level between Achaemenid and Hellenistic studies. This division creates obstacles to progress, especially if we agree with Heinz Kreissig that the Hellenistic period in Asia is a particular phase of Near Eastern history. The paradox is especially striking as it has long been recognised39 that a thorough knowledge of Achaemenid structures is indispensible in trying to gain an understanding of Hellenistic realities (as well as vice versa). At the very beginning of his SEHHW (I: 77–90), for instance, Rostovtzeff sketched the situation of the Persian empire in 334. A similar more or less brief outline appears at the start of all monographs on Alexander. But, we should note, broadly speaking these act as a kind of methodological alibi rather than a true analysis based on solid information.40 We might add that – apart from the interesting introduction to Burn’s book41 – the presentations of the Persian empire on the eve of the Persian wars are similarly sketchy.42 Rostovtzeff, who was indubitably the best informed about, and most aware of, the Achaemenid heritage43, explained it thus (SEHHW III: 1321, n. 77): “I have not found in modern works any attempt to analyse the economic life of Persia and its various satrapies in detail,” and added that this was despite the fact that the documentation to do so existed. It is even more paradoxical to realise that – apart from Weinberg’s important article (Klio 1976), to which we will return – Marxist studies concerned with Oriental continuities in Hellenism pay generally very little attention to Achaemenid factors. Yet it is obvious that the thesis of socio-economic continuities can only be properly appreciated and gain full credibility if the argument is articulated via an analysis of the situation under the Achaemenids. While I do not want to press this point which, at the epistemological level offers much food for thought, we should note that this situation is the result of the curiously marginal status of Achaemenid studies, which has remained ‘fallow’ (or, if one prefers, ‘a furrow waiting to be ploughed’) until very recently by both Orientalists and Classicists. The former have focussed their studies on the relationship between Mesopotamia and the bible,44 to such an extent that for long a dominant 39 40 41 42 43 44

See, for instance, Junge Klio 33 (1940): 1. Among recently published books, M. A. Levi (Alessandro Magno, Milan 1977) seems to me to have presented the ‘Achaemenid features’ of the Macedonian conquest rather better than usual. A. R. Burn, Persia and the Greeks, London 1962: 20–139 [2nd ed. 1984]. See for instance the recent work by Edouard Will, Le Monde Grec et l’Orient. Le Ve siècle (510–403), Paris 1972 and Chester Starr’s observations, IrAnt 11 (1976): 40 & n. 2. [On this point, see below Chapter 21.] As clearly indicated by the title of the collections edited by J. B. Pritchard, Ancient Near East­ ern Texts relating to the Old Testament,3 Princeton 1969, and The Ancient Near East in Pictures relating to the Old Testament, Princeton 1954. I see that Geo Widengren’s recent synthesis ‘The Persians’ appeared in the book edited by D. J. Wiseman, Peoples of Old Testament Times, Oxford 1973: 312–357.

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concern has been the relationship between the Persian kings (Cyrus in particular) and the Jewish community,45 while the Achaemenid empire itself was relegated to the ‘periphery’46 – a strikingly paradoxical position for the first empire to unite the whole of Asia to occupy! Such qualifications are the result of a distinction made by Henri Frankfort on the basis of, somewhat debatable, ‘artistic’ criteria.47 The sole exception is the old, but still very useful, Geschichte des Altertums by Eduard Meyer, who devoted a substantial and well-documented section to “the Orient under Persian rule”.48 The recently published, rather disappointing, book edited by Hermann Bengtson is no replacement.49 Meyer’s study makes a striking contrast to Beloch’s Geschichte, which is almost exclusively centred on the classical world.50 Classicists, in fact, are generally only interested in Persian history to the extent that it ‘fits’ with Greek history. In other words in Greek historical works, the Achaemenid empire only figures in the sections concerning the Persian Wars, Persian gold, the King’s Peace or Alexander’s conquest (which allows classicists to ‘kidnap’ Near Eastern history!). That, one might say, is perfectly appropriate for Greek historians; what is less so, is the manner in which relations between the Greek states and the Achaemenid empire are (or are not) treated,51 namely to analyse them solely 45

46 47

48 49 50 51

For a typical example of eschatological historiography (with the Persian empire serving as one stage of the praeparatio evangelica [sic] of the world), see R. Mayer, ‘Das achämenidische Weltreich und seine Bedeutung in der politischen und religiösen Geschichte des antiken Orients,’ Bibl.Zeitschr. (nf) 12 (1968): 1–16. Such deformations are the direct legacy of ancient and medieval Jewish tradition; cf., for example, C. C. Torrey, JAOS 66 (1945): 1–15 and A. Netzer, ActIr 2 (1974): 35–52. P. Garelli & V. Nikiprowetzky, Le Proche­Orient asiatique, Paris 1974: 10 & 31 (along with Elam, Urartu and the Near East with the exception of Israel). H. Frankfort, The Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient,2 London 1977 [1954]: 11–12 & 207, followed by Sabatino Moscati, Il volto di potere. Arte imperialistica nell’antichità, Rome 1978: 85. Frankfort subordinated the other (‘peripheral’) civilisations to the ‘centres’, i. e. Egypt and Mesopotamia. He proceeds from the obvious assumption that the first full states appeared in the Nile Valley and Mesopotamia, and so it is there that sculpture and monumental architecture made their first appearance; these two poles thus remained, in his view, the centres of all inspiration down to 500, at which date “Greece took the helm” (11). In this way, the Achaemenid period of Asia’s history (384 ff.) is largely short-circuited as one of the most debated problems (and one generally given too much weight) thus becomes simply the question of Greek influence on Achaemenid art (see the prudent remarks by Starr, IrAnt 12 (1977): 56–59). This typical instance shows clearly how and why the history of the Achaemenid empire has rarely been treated autonomously. The stress is always placed on the external influences that have left their mark on it to such an extent that it has for long been dominated, not to say crushed, by the successive and/ or combined hegemonies of the “millennium-old Orient” and “Eternal Greece”! Dritter Band, 1. Buch: Der Orient unter der Herrschaft der Perser [7. Aufl. 1975]. The work remains irreplaceable given the author’s intimate knowledge of the classical and oriental sources. The Greeks and the Persians, 1968, which suffers from serious gaps with respect to Achaemenid aspects, with the exception of chapters 16–18 and 20. See Starr’s remarks, IrAnt 11 (1976): 40, n. 2. See also above, § 1.3. As Junge (Klio 33 (1940): 1, n. 2) rightly observed. A typical example of this is the recent synthesis by Edouard Will, Le Monde Grec et l’Orient (1972) which, following an introduction on the Persian empire, turns into a manual on Greek

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from the perspective of preoccupations with Greek matters. It is obvious that this Eurocentric orientation52 – heir to colonial historiography53 – has a distorting effect on research. How can we treat seriously Greek/Persian relations unless we understand the Achaemenid world from the inside,54 not some fantastical Achaemenid entity emerging from the camera obscura of the European traveller?55 Of course, these are banal, common sense remarks! But it is worth saying, in order to deplore it, that they are barely put into practice by historians. Attempts to do so have remained isolated instances. I think in particular of Nenci’s pioneering work,56 who suggested a new way of approaching the old question of the Persian Wars, including particularly an analysis of the situation from the Achaemenid perspective. But sadly this work was for long an exception.57 I should also mention the vigorous plaidoyer by the Iranian Amir Mehdi Badi’:58 of course, such works are typically those of ‘amateurs’, but that does not deny the continuing reality of the problem of the distortion of Achaemenid history by European historiography and it is a pity that this essay is barely known to classicists.59

52

53

54 55 56 57

58 59

history exclusively (cf. 53, n. 1). While the title raises hopes, there is nothing on the Persian empire with the exception of diplomatic and military relations with the Greek states. The author’s justifications (9–10) cannot be described as adequate: he asserts that “the Persian empire tends to become a rather hazy entity” barely knowable. This is to underestimate seriously (even ignore) the importance of documentation that has recently come to light and been published, as well as the current renewal of Achaemenid history. (I myself was guilty of such ignorance in Actes 71: 99.) In the same way a ‘Persian history’ exists that has been constructed in accordance with the politico-ideological preoccupations of the ancient and medieval Jewish community, cf. above n. 45. This tradition shares some features with the Greek ‘Persian history’ (the exaltation of the figure of Cyrus, for instance). This inflation of the Jewish traditions is rightly stressed by Will o. c.: 26–32, but deserves to be posed (in different terms, of course) in relation to the Greek/ Achaemenid relations. See Bucci, Apollinaris 1973: 563–588 and 1974: 196–220 (esp. 206–220 & n. 144), who analyses the ideological implications of the Europe-Asia opposition: “… per giustificare da parte della storiografia colonialista dell’Europea del secolo scorso e del primo quarto di questo secolo, l’interesse delle potenze occidentale per i territori dell’Oriente Mediterraneo e dell’Asia Centrale, se non dell’Asia intera” (220). Cf. too Briant, DHA 2 (1976): 206–207 and DHA 5 (1979), as well as Starr, IrAnt 11 (1976): 39–41. Cf. Bucci’s just observations RIDA 1978: 14, n. 4 and 27, n. 22; Starr, IrAnt 12 (1977): 38–42. Cf. F. Hâméd, ‘De la ‘camera obscura’ du voyageur ‘européen,’ Zamân 1 (1979): 95–109. G. Nenci, Introduzione alle guerre persiane, Pisa 1958. As Bucci rightly observed, Apollinaris 1973: 579, n. 56: “… unico (…) si è opposto alla teoria universalmente accolta nella storiogafia moderna e contemporanea, la quale à visto nelle ‘guerre mediche’ la sola aggressione persiana alla Grecia.” (I note in passing that Burn’s book has the subtitle “The defence of the West” [italics PB]). Note the interesting article by V. Martin, ‘La politique des Achéménides: l’exploration prélude de la conquête, MH 22 (1965): 38–48. Les Grecs et les Barbares. L’autre face de l’Histoire, Lausane I (1963), II (1966), III (1968). Cf. my Alexandre le Grand (1974 & 1977): 50 & n. 1; its relevance is also stressed by Starr, IrAnt 12 (1977): 108, n. 14 and it is cited by W. Knauth, Das altiranische Fürstenideal von Xenophon bis Firdousi, Wiesbaden 1975: 2, n. 4. As far as I am aware there has been no review in ‘scholarly’ journals.

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As for the Iranists, they have been almost exclusively interested, until very recently, in the philology and archaeology of the palaces. Such research is extremely important, not to say fundamental, and its full significance will only emerge when the historical complex is fully taken into account. Rostovtzeff was right when he deplored forty years ago the absence of socio-economic studies of the Achaemenid empire and we must admit that, while not denying their merit, neither A. T. Olmstead’s60 nor R. Ghirshman’s61 works have really filled that gap. II.2 Old and new Achaemenid evidence Fortunately, things are beginning to change. First, the issue of relations between Greeks and the Achaemenid empire has been tackled and re-examined several times in the last fifteen years.62 From the classical side, recent studies (particularly by J. M. Balcer,63 P. Briant,64 O. Bucci,65 D. Lewis66 and C. G. Starr67) show that there 60 61 62

63

64

65

History of the Persian Empire, Chicago 1948. L’Iran des origines à l’Islam2, Paris 1976. See Atti del Convegno sul tema: la Persia e il mondo greco­romano, Rome 1966; La Persia e il mondo classico, special issue of PdP 1972; O. Bucci, Apollinaris 46 & 47 (1974); A. Momigliano, Alien Wisdom. The limits of hellenization, Cambridge 1975 (ch. 5, Iranians and Greeks); G. Walser, ‘Zum griechisch-persischen Verhältnis vor dem Hellenismus,’ HZ 220 (1975): 529– 542 (too restricted, in my opinion); C. G. Starr, IrAnt 11 (1976) & 12 (1977); also J. M. Balcer, ‘The Greeks and the Ancient Near East,’ Indiana Social Studies Quarterly 32 (1979): 11–27. Note also the interesting study of F. Hofstetter, Die Griechen in Persien. Prosopographie der Griechen im Persischen Reich vor Alexander (AMI Erg. Bd. 5), Berlin 1978, which make more specific studies, such as that of F. Seibt, Griechische Söldner im Achaimenidenreich, Bonn 1977, possible. See, for instance, his studies of Darius’ Scythian expedition in HSPh 76 (1972): 99–132 and Actes du IIè Congrès International des Études du Sud­Est Européen (Athens 1970 [1972]: ‘The Persian occupation of Thrace (519–491 B. C.)’: 241–258). His conclusions, enthusiastically adopted by George Cameron (ActIr 5 (1975): 77–88), have just been vigorously rejected by J. Harmatta in AAH 24 (1976): 15–24. See also Balcer’s ‘The Athenian episcopos and the Achaemenid King’s Eye,’ AJPh 391 (1977): 252–263. ‘L’élevage ovin dans l’Empire achéménide, JESHO 22(1979): 136–161 (repr. RTP: 331–356 = ch. 10, here); ‘Forces productives, dépendance rurale et idéologies religieuses dans l’empire achéménide,’ in Religions, Pouvoir, Rapports sociaux 1980 (repr. RTP: 431–474); ‘Contrainte militaire, dépendance rurale et exploitation des territoires en Asie achéménide,’ Index 8 (1978– 79): 48–98 (repr. RTP: 175–226); ‘Communautés rurales, forces productives et mode de production tributaire en Asie achéménide,’ Zamân 2 (1980): 75–100 (repr. RTP: 405–430); ‘Forces productives, état et mode de production tributaire en Asie achéménide,’ Congrès de Berlin 1978 [=Produktivekräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, in: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (Hsg.), Produktivkräfte und Gesellschaftsformationen in vorkapitalistischer Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372]. O. Bucci, whose education goes well beyond that of a classicist, has produced several studies generally published in little known collections and journals; as a result they are often ignored by classicists and Iranists. Here I refer only to articles directly connected to the issues discussed here. ‘I rapporti fra la Grecia e l’antica Persia: appunti storico-giuridici per un dibattito sulla pretesa contrapposizione fra Oriente ed Occidente,’ Apollinaris 46 (1973): 563–588 & 47

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has been a considerable shift in attitude. These studies, which take both classical and Achaemenid information into account, were published quite independently of each other. This, in turn, suggests that a major movement to re-examine the history of the eastern Aegean and Near East in the first millennium is taking place. It shows that ‘classical’ historians have become aware that ignorance of the Achaemenid world is the ideological legacy of the ancient literature on Barbarians and Persia. Further, these scholars are ever more conscious of the fact that as thorough a knowledge as possible of the Achaemenid empire is an absolute scientific imperative. And finally, contrary to some views, the idea is gaining ground that the Greek sources on Persian history deserve to be subjected to a careful and systematic examination.68 This renewal of interest on the part of classicists goes hand in hand with a revitalisation of Achaemenid studies, illustrated by a collective work put out by Iranists.69 It is clearly connected with paying attention to issues of global history. It is explained in large part – as far as I can see – by the publication of new material and comparing it with what is already known (such as the classical sources). The publication in 1948 and 1969 of a substantial part of the Elamite archives from Persepolis70 has opened up a vast field of research into economic and social history, as the studies by Danda-

66 67 68

69 70

(1974): 196–220; ‘Note di politica agraria achemenide: a proposito del passo 10, 28, 3 di Polibio,’ Studi in memoria id G. Donatuti, Milan 1973, I: 181–190; ‘L’attività legislative del sovrano achemenide e gli archive reali persiani,’ RIDA 25 (1978): 11–93. Sparta and Persia, Leiden, 1977. ‘Greeks and Persians in the Fourth Century B. C. A study in cultural contacts before Alexander,’ IrAnt 11 (1976): 38–99 & 12 (1977): 49–115 (with Pls. I–XVI). This disdain for the classical sources is professed by both Iranists and classicists. Quite regularly Xenophon (especially the Cyropaedia) is presented as a novel lacking any documentary value, save for providing information on Xenophon’s political ideas. Such a reading of Xenophon is, of course, possible (cf. P. Carlier, ‘L’idée de monarchie imperiale dans la Cyropédie de Xénophon,’ Ktema 3 (1978): 133–163). But its information is not limited to such a Greek reading of the text, as shown recently by W. Knauth (in conjunction with S. Nadjmabadi), Das altiranische Fürstenideal von Xenophon bis Firdousi, nach den antiken und einheimischen Quellen dargestellt, Wiesbaden 1975. On the value of the Greek sources, cf. R. Bodéüs, AC 42 (1973): 451–456 and particularly Bucci, RIDA 25 (1978): 11–93, especially n. 58 (45); see also Briant DHA 2 (1976): 274. I think this disdain is part of a more general approach that has come to be called the ‘exhaustion’ of sources, which have been ‘made to tell’ everything they can. Which raises the question: who/what is responsible for this ‘exhaustion’? Is it their content or is it due to the capacities of users to interrogate them? It is not difficult to show, using specific examples, that a rereading of sources supposedly ‘exhausted’ by successive dissection can make it possible to renew a question completely. It seems to me that Iranists are quite wrong to believe that the classical sources have ‘nothing left to say’; cf. Clarisse Herrenschmidt on this in Abstracta Iranica (Suppl. à StIr 1978): 8, n. 21. G. Walser (Hsg.), Beiträge zur Achämenidengeschichte, Wiesbaden 1972. Note also the collected volumes published from 1974 on under the title of Acta Iranica (I–XVIII, 1974–78), Tehran -Liège, distributed by Brill. G. G. Cameron, Persepolis Treasury Tablets [PTT], Chicago 1948; R. T. Hallock, Persepolis Fortification Tablets [PFT], Chicago 1969. On the sealings, see most recently Hallock, ‘The use of seals on the Persepolis Fortification Tablets,’ in McG. Gibson & R. Biggs (eds.), Seals and Sealings in the Ancient Near East, Malibu CA 1977: 127–133.

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mayev71 and Hallock’s synthesis72 in particular show. Among the newly discovered sources we should note Greek inscription found in Asia Minor, such as the Xanthos trilingual (Greek-Lycian-Aramaic)73 and the Sardis inscription published by Louis Robert.74 To this we should add the interesting results of the archaeological surveys conducted by J. C. Gardin’s team in the territory of Ai Khanum and more broadly Eastern Bactria.75 In fact contrary to a view still widespread the sources for the Achaemenid empire are very much more numerous and varied than Hellenistic ones. To the classical sources we must add the royal inscriptions (a new commentary by Clarisse Herrenschmidt is in preparation),76 the Persepolis tablets, Aramaic inscriptions and papyri, Babylonian archives, biblical, demotic and hieroglyphic sources, as well as the Avesta (to be used with care); and not to be forgotten is the diverse archaeological and numismatic material. In this situation, it falls to classicists to join their efforts to those of Iranists and Orientalists,77 in order to disengage finally a coherent historical arena. The ideal would, of course, be the formation of research groups working on common projects.78 But classicists should also be prepared to use the eastern sources, if necessary in translation. As I know from my own experience79 one runs the risk of making mistakes, however much care one takes, but the far greater risk a scholar runs is, surely, to ignore such a wealth of documentation because of intellectual specialisation.80 However one assesses this problem, I am convinced that taking the Achaemenid evidence into account is a precondition if we want to make any progress on the question of Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities. This is an instance where ultraspecialisation puts a brake on historical understanding rather than stimulating innovation. ‘Nouveaux documents d’économie royale en Iran (509–494),’ VDI 1972; 3–26; ‘Les ouvriers de l’exploitation royale en Iran (fin 6è–2è moitié du 5è s.),’ VDI 1973: 3–24 [in Russian]. See id., Persien unter den ersten Achämeniden (German trans.), Wiesbaden 1976. 72 The Evidence of the Persepolis Tablets (pre-publication of CHI II), Cambridge 1972. 73 Its final publication has just appeared: Fouilles de Xanthos. VI: La stèle trilingue du Létôon, Paris 1979. (Studies by H. Metzger, E. Laroche, A. Dupont-Sommer, M. Mayrhofer, with an introduction by P. Demargne.) [See above, chapter 3]. 74 CRAI 1975: 306–330. [See chapter 2]. 75 See below II.4. 76 Cf. her important articles in StIr 5 (1976): 33–65 & 6 (1977): 17–58. 77 Cf. already JESHO 18 (1975): 187–188. See also Menu in Terre et paysans dépendants … (1979) on Egypt: “More interaction between papyrologists and Egyptologists is to be desired.” 78 See, for instance, E. Bickerman & H. Tadmor, ‘Darius I, Pseudo-Smerdis and the Magi,’ Athe­ naeum 56 (1978): 239–261. 79 Cf. JESHO 22 (1979): 138–139 & n. 15. But we should also admit that after having been ‘impregnated’ by several years of research, a trained historian is in a position to recognise at the very least the major philological problems debated by specialists, and appreciate their limitations. Thus, while not in a position to resolve the philological issues him/herself, s/he can take them into account; I would even say that in some cases, the historian’s interpretation could help the philologist. I would suggest that regular or occasional collaboration with specialists in ancient oriental languages could reduce the risk of committing gross errors. 80 On this pressing issue, see the sensible thoughts of O. Longo in Marxismo, mondo antico e terzo mondo, Naples 1979: 137–141. 71

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II.3 Near Eastern continuities Weinberg’s recent article81 is a nice example of the great gains for the thesis of Oriental continuities in the Hellenistic East that result from such studies, with the author supporting the thesis in the wake of Kreissig. In using the term Vorhellenis­ mus, the author is referring to the two centuries in the Near East preceding Alexander’s conquest – a period during which a whole complex of preconditions developed, both preceding and preparing the situation that came into being in the Hellenistic period. The author shows that certain aspects generally assigned to the Hellenistic epoch were already there in embryo, in existence or developing in the pre-Hellenistic period, in other words they go back to Achaemenid times. Among various observations, Weinberg stresses the remarkable rise of productive forces, the increase in monetary exchange, the interweaving of syncretism and universalism and the active urbanisation movement. This shows that the field of Achaemenid-Hellenistic research is wide open. All the subjects and all the regions can provide evidence for such work. The common requirement for all is to compare rigorously82 Greek-Achaemenid sources and problems. Let me take just one example from among those most debated currently, that of the status of lands and persons, specifically the problem of dôreai. Two studies, one by Dandamayev, the other by Harmatta, have shown the great gains to be reaped from a comparison of different sources; it proves that the institution existed in the Achaemenid period as well as providing details of its mechanism and working. 1) Classical authors refer to the many gifts of towns and villages by the Great King to members of his retinue or friends.83 This classical evidence raises questions of interpretation about the status of such donations – which is a problem that arises in analogous terms for Hellenistic donations. Dandamayev84 has been able to show that the PFT make it possible to define some elements that help with a solution. Several tablets refer to the assignment of ‘rations’85 to officials and high-level personnel (including an Achaemenid princess).86 Such ‘rations’ are expressed in material items. For example, Parnakka, as top administrator,87 received, among other items, 2 sheep per day. These products come 81 ‘Bemerkungen zum Problem “Der Vorhellenismus im Vorderen Asien”,’ Klio 58 (1976): 5–20. 82 I insist on this qualification: whatever topic is chosen, it is all of the available evidence (‘classical’ and ‘eastern’) that must be considered. Unless that is done, referring to just one ‘exotic’ piece of documentation suggests an alibi, or flirtation, which robs the argument of any scientific value. 83 Several texts are given in Meyer’s Geschichte des Altertums III: 61–63. I shall return to this evidence elsewhere. [“Dons de terres et de villes: l’Asie Mineure dans le contexte achéménide”, RÉA LXXXVII/1–2 (1985): 53–71; see also below Chapter 27 § 3.2]. 84 VDI 1972: 21–22. [in Russian] 85 Cf. Hallock, o. c., 1972, as well as Briant JESHO 22 (1979) (= repr. RTP: 331–356; ch. 10 here). 86 See JNES 1 (1942): 216. 87 Cf. Lewis, Sparta and Persia: 7–11.

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from different localities in Fārs. Dandamayev compares this information with the gifts known from classical sources, and goes on: “The Fortification texts […] illuminate the status of populations and towns presented as gifts. They differ from personal properties in that the people are free – they were obliged (over and above the king’s tribute?) to supply on a certain number of days each year the expenses or clothing of one or other dignitary in accordance with an established tariff.” Given this situation, the continuity with (certain?) Hellenistic donations (i. e. gifts of revenues, not land or peasants)88 strike me as both obvious and very informative. 2) Harmatta89 uses the Aramaic correspondence of Arshama as the basis for a study of dōreai and the status of base producers in Achaemenid Egypt. From this detailed study, the first conclusion to emerge is that the practice of dōreai,90 i. e. gifts (OP dāšna), was well known in Achaemenid Egypt. ‘Lands given as gift’ are called -bāga, the currently accepted translation of which is ‘domain’:91 in fact, we should emphasise that the term contains the notion of division (like, for instance, baziš or the Greek dasmos).92 The bāga is not a personal domain – it is ‘part’ of the royal domain detached as a temporary gift; on the death of the holder, it reverts to the king’s or satrap’s domain. This shows clearly, as Harmatta stresses, that these documents prove that royal land was a firmly es88 89 90 91

92

See Briant, Actes 71: 102–104 and RÉA 75 (1973): 46 & 81. ‘Das Problem der Kontinuität im frühhellenistischen Ägypten,’ AAH 1963: 199–213. Harmatta uses document no. 8 of G. R. Driver, Aramaic Documents of the Fifth Century B. C., Oxford 1956; see the French translation and commentary in P. Grelot, Documents araméens d’Égypte, Paris 1972, no. 69 (pp. 316–317). See, for example, Grelot DAE: 316, who is unaware of Harmatta’s article. In his no. 68 (p. 314 = Driver no. 7) he continues to translate (with respect to the labourers): “… and tattooed with my mark”, and so sees them as rural slaves, when in fact they are grd’ (the kurtaš of PFT and PTT, cf. Dandamayev art.cit. VDI (1973)) and Harmatta demonstrates (p. 207) that this translation is the result of Driver’s misreading. The personnel of the ‘domain’ is thus not composed of slaves but dependants comparable to the Hellenistic laoi and laoi basilikoi (ibid.: 207–208). Harmatta’s interpretation suggests to me that the places located between Elam and Egypt (Arbela, Damascus etc.), where Arshama’s subordinates were able to use their ‘passports’ (Grelot no. 67) were not “domains owned by the satrap in the provinces traversed” (Grelot: 310). The analogy with the system of road stations and the ‘passports’ used there in PFT is such that these, too, are stops along the royal road where official travellers could draw on rations on presentation of a sealed voucher issued by the satrap who had sent them out on a mission (cf. PFT 1404 & 1455, and my observations in Index 8 (1978–1979): 81–82). Grelot, too, contradicting himself seems to assume this: “So there was in the Achaemenid empire an administrative wing which managed the state depots located along the main roads and which were reimbursed by official functionaries.” Interpreting these ‘domains’ as Arshama’s ‘personal property’ is also followed by Dandamayev, ‘Esclaves étrangers sur les domaines des rois achéménides et de leurs nobles,’ Actes du XXVè Congrès Int. des Orient. (Moscow 1960) [in English], Moscow 1963, II: 147–148, but note that several classical texts cited in support (n. 3) refer to paradises. This could, I think, be another example of the widespread confusion between land held as an emolument and personal property. On this, see already O. Murray, Historia 15 (1966): 154; on the conclusions to be drawn, see Briant in Index 8 (1978–79): 56–57 & n. 75.

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tablished feature of Achaemenid Egypt. And we can widen this picture if we accept Menu’s proposition93 that numerous aspects of the land regime in Ptolemaic Egypt differ greatly from that operating in the Pharaonic period.94 Both these studies, only very briefly presented here, show well the benefits of ‘integrated research’. In the context of the topic ‘Land and the dependent peasantry,’ we should also note the interesting solution put forward by Michael Wörrle95 with respect to the perioikoi in the Greek version of the Xanthos trilingual on the basis of Greek inscriptions from southern Asia Minor.96 Such work need not be confined to particular topics; it is also important to have regional studies as, within both the Achaemenid and Alexander’s empire, and the Hellenistic kingdoms, the various regions did not evolve at the same rate97 nor were they subject to the same mode of production, despite the fact that all regions and production modes were subject to a central state apparatus and the tributary mode of production. It is also important to note that such thematic and regional studies must be conducted diachronically as the differences between the Achaemenid empire at its fullest extent and the beginnings of the Attalid kingdom, to take just two extremes, cannot be analysed purely quantitatively. Finally, we should note that (while not prejudging what ‘continuity’ means) it is desirable, at least on the methodological plane, to go quite far back in time.98 To take just one example, Archi has recently compared some of the dependent popula-

93

94

95 96 97

98

In Terre et paysans dépendants … (o. c.): 189–192. Her intervention was prompted by J. Modrzejewski’s communication, ‘Régime foncier et statut social dans l’Égypte lagide’ (163– 188), who stressed the ‘Greek’ nature of the land exploitation: “The conquest did not simply reinforce the Asiatic mode of production” (177). Note also the significant interventions of P. Levêque and F. Dunand (193–196). On Modrzejewski’s interpretation, see Kreissig, ‘Probleme des Grundeigentums im hellenistischen Orient’ presented on the occasion of the F. I. E. C. Congress in Budapest (September 1979). Particularly suggestive, too, is the important study by J. Bingen, ‘Le papyrus Revenue Laws. Tradition grecque et adaptation hellénistique,’ Rhein.­ Westf. Akad. d. Wiss. (Vorträge G. 231, 1978): 5–32, which privileges the Greek aspects. On the Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities in connection with military kleroi (in Egypt and elsewhere), see G. Cardascia, ‘Armée et fiscalité dans la Babylonie achéménide,’ in Armée et fiscalité dans le monde antique, Paris 1978: 1–10, especially 10, and Briant, Index 8 (1978– 1979): 67–70. Chiron 8 (1978): 236–246 along with Metzger’s reservations (Fouilles de Xanthos VI, 1979: 37–38). See Chiron 7 (1977): 45–56. For Egypt, see for example, F. A. Kienitz, Die politische Geschichte Aegyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jhdt. v. u. Z., Berlin 1953, especially pp. 140–149; also W. Schur, ‘Zur Vorgeschichte des Ptolemäerreiches,’ Klio 20 (1928): 270–302. On the question of continuities/discontinuities in Egypt (Saite, Achaemenid, Ptolemaic) see the interesting remarks and suggestions by Barrocas, ‘Les statues ‘réalistes’ et l’arrivée des Perses dans l’Égypte saïte,’ in Gururājaman̄jarika. Studi in onore di G. Tucci, Naples 1974: 113–161, particularly 155–161. Further back, but also further forward into the Roman period: cf. P. Debord, ‘Populations rurales de l’Anatolie gréco-romaine,’ Atti Ce. R.D.A.C. 8 (1976–1977): 43–58. [The studies cited in the next six notes are simply exempli gratia.]

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tions of Hittite Anatolia and the Hellenistic laoi.99 Particularly illuminating with respect to our problem are the current discussions between specialists of the ancient Near East on questions such as: Assyrian and Hittite ‘feudalism’,100 the notion of royal land and the concept of property,101 the position of village communities,102 the role of the state and temples in the economy,103 the respective role of slavery and helotry,104 etc. Over the longue durée, certain regions play a prominent role, especially with respect to religious ideologies.105 II.4 History and Archaeology In this respect, the last years have seen the appearance of exceptionally revealing archaeological material. I am thinking in particular of the surveys being conducted by Gardin’s team106 at the site of the Hellenistic city of Ai Khanum, and more broadly in Eastern Bactria.107 The main results deserve to be briefly discussed as they provoke a number of thoughts and hypotheses related to present concerns. During the first survey in 1974, the archaeologists discovered in the plain of Ai Khanum an irrigation network of Hellenistic date, clearly built with the help of Iranian technicians (in the widest sense) employing techniques well-known in Central Asia, as Soviet archaeologists have long demonstrated. The authors of the re-

99 ‘Città sacre d’Asia Minore. Il problema dei Laoi e l’antefatto ittita,’ PdP 164 (1975): 329–344. 100 P. Garelli, ‘Le problème de la “féodalité” assyrienne du XVè au XIIè siècle av. J. C.,’ Semitica 17 (1967): 5–21; A. Archi, ‘Il ‘feudalismo’ ittita,’ SMEA 18 (1977): 7–18. 101 Cf. Menu, ‘Le régime juridique des terres en Égypte pharaonique. Nouvel et Moyen Empire,’ RHDFE 1974–1975: 555–585, and her thesis Le régime juridique des terres et du personnel attaché à la terre dans le papyrus Wilbour, Lille 1970. 102 See the presentation of the issue by M. Liverani in OA 17 (1978): 63–72. 103 Cf. I. J. Gelb, ‘On the alleged temple and state economy in the Ancient Near East,’ Studi E. Volterra VI (1971): 139–153. 104 I. M. Diakonoff, ‘Slaves, helots and serfs in early Antiquity,’ AAH 22 (1974): 45–78; Gelb, ‘From freedom to slavery,’ XIIIè RAI = Münchener Akademie der Wissenschaften, Abh. phil. Kl. 1972: 81–92. See also Menu’s important article, ‘Les rapports de dépendance en Égypte à l’époque saïte et perse,’ RHDFE 55 (1977): 391–401. 105 See my study in Religions, Pouvoir. Rapports sociaux (1979) where bibliographical references can be found. See also, Archi, ‘Fêtes de printemps et d’automne et réintégration rituelle d’images de culte dans l’Anatolie Hittite,’ UF 5 (1973): 8–27 (who remarks, on pp. 8–9, on the continuities with the cults known from classical sources in Anatolia). On the extremely important theoretical problem of the relationship between ideologies and social relationships, see also the stimulating book by C. Barrocas, L’antico Egitto. Ideologia e lavoro nella terra dei faraoni, Rome 1978. 106 URA no. 10 of CNRS: ‘Le peuplement antique de la Bactriane orientale.’ It is due to Gardin’s generosity that I am able to utilise these, as yet unpublished, results, for which I thank him profoundly. 107 My thanks also go to Henri Francfort who has communicated the results of his excavations at Shortugai; on the site, see H. P. Francfort & M.-H. Pottier, Arts Asiatiques 34 (1978): 29–79.

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port,108 for their part, insist that there is no Achaemenid period irrigation system. On this basis, they draw a contrast between the two periods: the Achaemenid, characterised by the absence of irrigation and an economy based on dry-zone agriculture and animal husbandry practised by a nomadic or semi-nomadic population, is contrasted with the Greek one where “the plain was irrigated and covered with numerous sites.” They also stress: “To the Asiatic tradition, the Greeks added in the case in point an applied geometry of which they were past masters.” In other words (as I see it) at this stage in the survey and at least on this site, the discoveries appear to confirm the thesis of the ‘Greek miracle in the Orient,’ i. e. that of profound changes wrought in economy and society by the conquest of Alexander and his successors. The 1975 survey, supplemented by those of 1976–78, undermined this initial interpretation, as an Achaemenid period irrigation network was discovered at that time, preceded moreover by one reaching back into the Bronze Age. As a result, as Gardin and Gentelle stress in an article in press,109 it appears “that the region was already approaching, under the aegis of the Great Kings, the prosperity celebrated later by visitors to Hellenised Bactria.” The report’s authors draw from this the following historical conclusion: “This discovery casts a bright light on the nature of Greek colonisation, at least in this region. No way is it a matter of clearing virgin territory but more modestly one of extending the cultivated terrain using irrigation techniques long known to the local population. And (they go on) when we mentioned above the science of the engineers who knew, in the Hellenistic period, how to resolve the various problems of topography and terracing to conduct water to the plain of Ai Khanum, we need not necessarily think of the Greek genius,110 but also of a distinctly Bactrian know-how, based on a long tradition of artificial irrigation in Central Asia.” These findings and the interpretations suggested by Gardin and Gentelle give rise to thoughts on the continuity/rupture issue.111 1) First, on the subject of the methods of Hellenistic colonisation: the authors suggest, in essence, rightly, that “the Macedonian commanders were perhaps attracted by the fertility of this great oasis on the eastern frontiers of Bactria.” Such an interpretation can, I think, be extended to all Hellenistic sites112 – i. e. the founders chose deliberately and systematically sites already inhabited and cultivated, even urbanised. The reason was simple: the immediate necessity of access to food resources and the abiding need for urban and rural manpower. Even where this led, as at Ai Khanum, to an extension of the cultivated surface, the prime objective of the Hellenistic colonisation movement was not to culti108 J. C. Gardin & P. Gentelle, ‘Irrigation et peuplement dans la plaine d’Aï-Khanoum de l’époque achéménide à l’époque musulmane,’ BEFEO 63 (1976): 59–99 & Pls. XVIII–XXXIII. 109 ‘L’exploitation du sol en Bactriane antique,’ Colloque EFEO 1976. 110 Emphasis P. B. 111 The interpretations suggested here are not attributable to the archaeologists whose work I am using. 112 See my study, ‘Colonisation héllenistique et populations indigènes. La phase d’installation,’ Klio 60 (1978): 57–92 (repr. RTP: 227–262).

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vate fallow land; it was primarily concerned with taking over, for their own advantage, the system of rural dependence, which was the precondition for its survival and success. 2) Further, this example confirms the need already emphasised of setting the Hellenistic period into the long history of the East. If we look at the graph, drawn up by Gardin and Gentelle, of the habitation cycles in the Ai Khanum plain, we see that the densest phase stretched over a long period including (more or less) the Achaemenid, Hellenistic and Kushan period. Such continuity can obviously include numerous variations over time: the Hellenistic period is particularly marked by a south-to-north movement (towards the Ai Khanum plain) of the centre of socio-economic gravity, which entailed the relative regression of certain sites and the intensification of irrigation on the sites closest to Ai Khanum;113 3) Finally, other finds in the city114 bear witness to these continuities: – While there are undeniable Greek models (for instance, in the gymnasium and theatre), it is clear, as the Soviet archaeologists working at other sites have shown and as Paul Bernard has just clarified, “that the Greek colonists arriving in Central Asia found a fully developed local architecture in place, the result of a tradition distinct from that of Achaemenid Iran, but which to some degree was also marked by it in the course of the two centuries of Persian domination.”115 One of the just excavated buildings – called ‘Treasury’ by Bernard – is evidence of this continuity as it is constructed on a plan found, not just at Persepolis, in Central Asia in the Nisa Treasury and – as Bernard adds – in an edifice discovered in the oasis of Bactra by Soviet archaeologists (who think rather of a palace);116 – In one of the rooms of this building (‘Treasury’) several Greek inscriptions relating to economic matters have been found. Bernard117 comments on this thus: “Despite the laconic nature of these documents they reveal a complex financial administration, heir to the Seleucid financial system, unfortunately poorly known.” I incline to think that this Seleucid financial administrative system was itself heir to the Achaemenid one. In the first place, the similarity between these inscriptions and the Nisa documents is striking;118 and the continuities between them and the Achaemenid ar113 For this I have made use of the results of the 1978 surveys in Upper Tokharistan. 114 On the date and name of the foundation, see most recently P. Bernard in Bernard & Francfort, Études de géographie historique sur la plaine d’Aï Khanum (Afghanistan), (Pub. de l’URA no. 10, Mémoire no. 1) CNRS, Paris 1978: 3–15. 115 P. Bernard, ‘Les traditions orientales dans l’architecture gréco-bactrienne,’ JA 1976: 246–274 (247). 116 P. Bernard, CRAI 1978: 447–450. 117 Ibid.: 454. 118 Ibid. See also CRAI 1972: 631–632 on the ostracon with Aramaic script found in 1970 at Ai Khanum in the ‘temple à redans’. The script, according to Diakonoff and Livshitz (cited by Bernard), renders a ‘Bactrian’ language. (On this problem, see B. J. Staviskij, Kushanskaja Baktrija, Moscow 1977, ch.8.)

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chives are undeniable.119 Another fact deserves emphasising, namely that several officials have Iranian names.120 So we can assume that the Macedonians not only had the mass of the dependent population working for them, but also the hydraulic and financial specialists,121 who were probably integrated, albeit at a subordinate level, into the ruling class. Taking all this together seems to prove that the Macedonian conquest and colonisation led to a perpetuation, even a consolidation,122 of the organic ensemble of the socio-economic structures as well as the apparatus of a tributary-style state established by the Achaemenid conquest123 which itself adapted for its own advantage the hydraulic traditions originating in Central Asia. III ALEXANDER THE GREAT BETWEEN WEST AND EAST Coming to the close of this assessment – in the widest sense of the term – it seems clear that it is impossible to avoid a problem that is as intriguing as it is difficult, namely the place and role of Alexander in the history of the Near and Middle East, as everything indicates that it deserves re-examination. I should like to devote the next few pages to this question, in order to propose an interpretation, despite the many difficulties and the risks involved in doing so, of which I am only too aware. III.1 An Achaemenid cultural koinè? The repeated assertion that Asiatic Hellenism is anchored in the east does not close the discussion nor does it, in itself, provide an answer to the question – it rather facilitates and illuminates the discussion. It also runs the risk of giving rise to am119 O. Bucci, RIDA 25 (1978): 93, n. 163 bis (the destruction of the Persepolis archives did not mark the end of the transmission of the archival traditions). See also J. A. Delaunay, ‘L’araméen d’empire et les débuts de l’écriture en Asie Centrale,’ ActIr II (1974): 224: “While the Parthians issued coinage in Greek and gave themselves honorific titles in that language, they retained in their own domain [cf. Nisa] the customs inherited from the Achaemenid empire, which neither Alexander nor the superficial Seleucid domination broke up.” [By contrast, we see at Ai Khanum – where Greek rule was certainly not ‘superficial’ – the Greek language was used to transcribe fiscal administrative formulae which certainly go back to a time well before Alexander.] 120 See Bernard, CRAI 1978: 454. 121 Cf. on this already RÉA 74 (1972): 67, n. 1. 122 Cf. Klio 60 (1978): 70–82. 123 But see Gardin & Gentelle, ‘L’exploitation du sol en Bactriane antique,’ and my discussion in Index 8–9 (1978), n. 287, Zamân 2 (1979) and in the communication to the Berlin Congress 1978 [“Produktivkräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, in: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (Hsg.), Produktivkräfte und Geselschaftsformationen in vorkapitalisti­ scher Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372]. The problem involves a question too large (and still unresolved) to be considered here, namely that of the impact of the Achaemenid conquest in Eastern Iran and the position of the satrapies of Sogdiana-Bactria in the empire, cf. Index 8–9 (1978): 70 ff.

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biguities and confusion, particularly if one means, without providing a definition, the Asiatic longue durée. Reading some of the proposals put forward in recent years by Iranists (or, more generally, Near Eastern specialists), one is struck by their remarkable unanimity: the impression is created, as though it were self-evident, that there was a global continuity from the Achaemenids to Alexander (and his successors). Any historian anxious to take the Asiatic angle on history into account should not, however, come to the hasty conclusion that this convergence of Orientalists and Classicists gives it an automatic authority. Some examples can, on the contrary, show that the ‘Iranist’ interpretation of Alexander as the successor to Cyrus is part of a Eurocentric confusion and carries teleological connotations with it. In a long and fascinating study devoted to Achaemenid religious policy,124 Gherardo Gnoli approaches the problems in these terms: We see a push towards an ever more marked interiority of the cult, which lies at the origins of mysticism and Gnosticism, and, in what gave it rise – namely the cosmopolitan empire – we can observe a hint of what was to come with the βασιλεία τῆς Ἀσίας founded by the Macedonian [King] (184–185);

and he defined this further on (139): … It seems likely that, if we want to discover the true stimulus which would push the Kings to accept and adopt foreign ideologies and practices, we need to focus on reasons of state. This was, essentially, the case with Achaemenid religious policy with which, quite independently of what it may have promised, the Near and Middle East were able to engage in the formation of a vast spiritual koinè, which prepared the ground on which Hellenism would arise.

B. G. Gafurov,125 in his fundamentally correct and essential assessment of the frequency and intensity of exchanges and processes of ‘acculturation’ in Achaemenid Asia, was led to draw the following conclusion: “We know that Alexander the Great planned to unite Greeks and Orientals in a kind of cultural and political union. Here we should stress that such a cultural synthesis of different peoples had already been begun two hundred years prior to the great Macedonian’s conquest. So we are entitled to believe that his projects were merely the continuation of the policy of his illustrious predecessors, the Achaemenids”.

We find a related idea in Josette Elayi’s126 treatment of Phoenicia and the contacts between Phoenicians and Greeks in the Achaemenid period: Moreover, [the Phoenicians] gradually absorbed a potent culture [Greek], which provoked in Phoenicia, especially Sidon, a cultural renewal constituting the prelude to Greco-Oriental civilisation, which became Hellenistic civilisation.

124 ‘Politique religieuse et conception de la royauté chez les Achéménides,’ ActIr 2(1974): 116– 190. 125 ‘Les relations entre l’Asie centrale et l’Iran sous les Achéménides,’ Atti del Convegno sul tema … (1966): 207. 126 ‘L’essor de la Phénicie et le passage de la domination assyro-babylonienne à la domination perse,’ BaM 9 (1978): 25–38 (citation from p. 36).

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Over and over again, this idea of cultural unification within the Near East recurs. It has led Hayim Tadmor127 to go even further back in time, to the Neo-Assyrian period. He thinks that the policy of conquest, colonisation and deportation employed by the Neo-Assyrian rulers led to the creation of a “hybrid imperial culture” (41). Moreover, the diffusion of the Aramaic script and influences created, in his view, an “Aramaic-Assyrian koinè;” and he goes on: “It was this koinè […]. which continued to exist in the Near East through the Persian period, becoming an underlying, constitutive element of the koinè of the Hellenistic world”.

It seems then that a kind of consensus is forming (at least empirically) according to which Alexander was both the heir and catalyst of Near Eastern civilisations and more particularly of ‘Achaemenid civilisation’. The idea provides both food for thought as well as raising some questions. For anyone who has some familiarity with the Achaemenid empire, the observation is easy: exchange of goods, persons and ideas were remarkably active and developed128 and, from that perspective, Assyriologists and Iranists are right to underline the Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities. Weinberg’s article is the most complete expression of this thesis. Such an interpretation of the history of the Near East is attractive and supported, I think, in part by the links it sets up (or presumes to exist) between the Achaemenids and Alexander. But I also have some reservations, even some concerns. The term Vorhellenismus strikes me as unfortunate. For Weinberg129 it “characterises all the necessary conditions which precede Hellenism, prepare for and condition it,” and “they are the several phenomena which, in the Near East of the first millennium B. C., in their totality, precede Hellenism in this area and pre­ pare for it.” We already saw that terms such as ‘premonition’, ‘prepare’, ‘prelude’ recur frequently in the writings of the authors cited above. By a curious reversal, where Droysen presented Alexander as the alpha of Judaeo-Christian history, he becomes the omega for Iranists. There is a great temptation to make him both alpha and omega as the (very ‘Droysenian’!) Iranist A. Pagliaro does when he writes:130 “The solid structure founded by Cyrus and completed by Darius continued to exist even when its animating principle failed. And its huge shadow continued to threaten the Greek way of life down to the time when Alexander the Great’s miraculous adventure destroyed it politically, but at the same time created conditions so that the surviving cultural values fused with those of Greekness, to form the ambience of a new great civilisation”. 127 ‘Assyria and the West: the ninth century and its aftermath,’ in H. Goedicke & J. M. Roberts (eds.), Unity and Diversity. Essays in the History, Literature and Religion of the Ancient Near East, Baltimore MD 1975: 36–48. 128 See the articles by Starr in IrAnt 11–12 (1976–1977); also L. Robert, CRAI 1975: 306–330 and my own study in Religions, Pouvoir, Rapports sociaux (1979). On inter-ethnic relations, see, for instance, R. Zadok, ‘On the connections between Iran and Babylonia in the sixth century B. C,’ Iran 15 (1976): 61–78; on the ‘Babylonian melting-pot’, see H. von Hilprecht & A. T. Clay, Business Documents of Murashû Sons of Nippur dated in the reign of Artaxerxes I (464– 424 B. C.) (Publications of the University of Pennsylvania, Babylonian Expedition IX), Philadelphia Penn. 1898: 26–29. 129 Klio 58 (1976): 7 [italics: P. B.]. 130 ‘Cyrus et l’empire perse,’ ActIr 2 (1974: 3–23 (23).

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Extending (but also restricting) the dimensions and categories of an (ideal) History of ‘Civilisations’, this interpretation of an Alexander realising Achaemenid virtualities loses much of its persuasive force, as it is clearly determined by the Plutarch-Droysen notion of the fusion of peoples. Effectively, if one reads some of the authors cited closely, one becomes convinced that the processes (real but con­ tradictory)131 of syncretisms/acculturations in Achaemenid Asia have been analysed and interpreted with the help of a Plutarchean grid whose outdated character requires no further proof: it turns Alexander into a conqueror working to unify the world. In these circumstances, we should be very suspicious of an approach that tends to think that an Achamenid koinè “prefigured” or even “prepared for” a Hellenistic koinè, as the existence of the former is largely deduced from the latter (itself over-estimated, even mythologised).132 Moreover, such a unilinear historical vision runs the risk of bringing one quickly to the implicit admission that Asia “was waiting” for Alexander, making him little more than an unconscious instrument of historical forces which had of necessity to bring forth the Macedonian ruler. Weinberg’s article does not totally avoid the risks of ‘historical inevitability’ but on the whole it escapes them. He rejects the traditional interpretations of Hellenism, as well as the image of history made by a ‘Titan’ (cf. Fritz Schachermeyr) and wants to show that none of Alexander’s great achievements or those of his successors is comprehensible or explicable without reference to Near Eastern history.

131 As shown, for example, by I. Eph’al’s article, ‘The Western minorities in Babylonia in the sixth and fifth centuries B. C. Maintenance and cohesion,’ Or 47 (1978): 74–90, contacts do not necessarily lead to ‘fusion’; what he observes instead is the remarkable cohesion of ethnic groups. They are generally grouped in quarters equipped with their own political structures (politeumata) and labelled in accordance with the ethnic origin of the majority of their inhabitants; see also Dandamayev in The Memorial Volume of the Vth International Congress of Ira­ nian Art and Archaeology (1968), Tehran 1972: 258–264 (cf.261), similarly, but more broadly, E. Bikerman, JBL 64–65 (1945–46): 261–262. As for the spread of Aramaic, this relates to the script rather than the language (see the remarks by P. Gignoux, StIr 4 (1975): 271 on this) so that it went hand in hand with the striking diversity of regional languages (Bucci, RIDA 25 (1978): 71–73: administrative Aramaic did not survive the Achaemenid empire “in those regions where an old, original culture had flourished previously” (J. Delaunay art.cit., ActIr 2 (1974): 221–222)). Further, the religious life of the Persian empire cannot be analysed purely in terms of syncretisms or unity: the continuance of local cults (“tolerance”) is much more striking, especially in Persis, the Persian heartland (see Dandamayev, ‘La politique religieuse des Achéménides,’ Monumenta H. S. Nyberg 1975: 193–200). 132 Note that for Chester Starr (IrAnt 11 (1976): 43, cf. 12 (1977): 107) “Alexander’s conquest interrupted rather than consolidated,” the process of Greek-Iranian contacts in Asia Minor. Note further that seeing and analysing the multiple contacts between ‘cultural spheres’ is one thing, to deduce from that the existence of a koinè quite another. The term is currently so widely used as though its meaning is self-evident and requires no explanation, even though its lack of precision is obvious (from the perspective of historical analysis). Contacts within the Achaemenid empire – whose extent and significance varied widely depending on the region – need to be situated and analysed within a huge range of possibilities, defined and delimited by the koinè and the ‘Tower of Babel’!

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Such a position, supported by impressive evidence, is uncontroversial.133 Further, and importantly, Weinberg does not present the question as one related exclusively to “the spiritual unity of the Near East” (something which is mostly a myth). What he considers instead are all the constituent elements of society (social relations, productive forces, exchanges, ideologies, state etc.) in their dialectic totality (mode of production). III.2 State and Tribute Further, it is also not enough to assert the permanence (in my view not subject to debate) of the main mode of production (‘tributary’), if the chronological patterns are not marked: in other words, if we do not try to define the phases which go back to the specific economic and social formations, all of which fit into the world of tributary production. If not, we risk returning by unexpected byways to the image of an immobile and stagnant Asia.134 III.2.1 Marx and Asiatic stagnation Taken out of context, some of Marx’s formulations seem to derive from the idea of ‘Asiatic stagnation’. For example, when he writes with respect to ancient India and village communities: The lack of complexity of the productive organism of such self-sufficient communities, means that they reproduced themselves continuously and, when accidentally destroyed, reconstituted themselves in the same place with the same name, which provides the key to the immutability of these Asiatic societies, an immutability which is in such strange contrast with the never-ending dissolution and reconstitution of the Asiatic states, and their violent dynastic changes. The structure of the fundamental economic elements of society remain untouched by the political sphere135.

To use Maurice Godelier’s apt expression, this ‘Oriental stagnation must be placed among the “dead sections” of Marx’s work’.136 It is now accepted by all historians that tributary states and societies experienced a great flowering of productive forces;137 they are not ‘immobile’ societies even though the stability of social relations can produce such an impression. Weinberg, too, notes the development of productive forces in “prehellenistic” Asia. I myself have tried to show this with re133 Cf. Klio 60 (1978) passim. 134 See on this my article, already cited above [“Produktivkräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, in: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (Hsg.), Produktivkräfte und Gesell­ schaftsformationen in vorkapitalistischer Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372]. 135 On this text and other related texts, see my study in La Pensée 1981, “Appareils d’état et développement des forces productives au Moyen-Orient ancien: le cas de l’empire achéménide”= RTP: 475–490. 136 Horizon, trajets marxistes en anthropologie,2 Paris 1973, II: 7 ff. 137 See, for example, S. Amin, ‘Sociétés précapitalistes et capitalisme,’ in A. G. Franck, L’accumu­ lation dépendante¸ Paris 1978: 311–312.

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spect to the Achaemenid empire. This flourishing of productive forces both implies and creates an internal dynamic for tributary societies – i. e. stages in their development.138 Yet the contrast drawn by Marx between ‘societies’ and ‘states’ does not have to be entirely rejected. Marx wants to underline that the history of Indian society was not punctuated by conquests or dynastic change, as neither one nor the other profoundly affected the internal cohesion of village communities, the foundation of the tributary system. I think that is right, even though it should be modified in the light of the diversity of the various evolutionary paths. Here we see, in any case, this permanence of village communities in Achaemenid Asia: in this perspective, one could say, that in the day-to-day life of the majority of Asiatic laoi, Alexander did not exist. III.2.2 Infrastructure and superstructure But a tributary society is not reducible to the level of village communities nor the ideology or representations of their members. It is rather in the relations of domination between these communities and the central state (the “unifier unity”) that it defines itself and manifests the internal dynamics of the system.139 A society does not only define itself by its economic base – the “superstructures” play in this a fundamental role.140 This applies particularly to a tributary society in which the exploitation of the basic communities by the state is carried out by extra-economic compulsion and where the levying of the surplus is clear (not mediated by sales).141 In these societies, the distinction often made between infrastructure and superstructure seems largely artificial, even misleading, subordinating as it does the latter to the former. One element – regularly located in the category ‘superstructure’ – occupies a strategic place in the working and dynamics of the TMP [Tributary Mode of Production], namely the State in all its forms: king, central and provincial administration, army, justice, ideological machinery142 etc. It seems then that in order to locate stages within the development of the TMP in the Near East, it is necessary to pay special attention to this ‘variable’: the machinery of the state.

138 139 140 141 142

See, with respect to Egypt, P. Lévêque’s remarks in Terre et paysans dependants, 193–194. Cf. my study in Zamân 2 (1980) = RTP: 405–430. Cf. my study in Religions, Pouvoir, Rapports sociaux (1979) [= RTP: 431–473]. S. Amin, loc.cit. On this, cf. ibid.: 306.

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III.3 Conclusions and perspectives III.3.1 The Achaemenid empire in its Near Eastern setting The continuities, retrievals and ‘bricolages’ between the Neo-Assyrian (analysed by Garelli in relation to the AMP)143 and Achaemenid state have often been stressed: – Achaemenid ideology owes much to the Assyrian, more broadly Assyro-Babylonian;144 – the Persepolis archives, particularly the PFT, seem to share a number of features with some of the Nimrud archives;145 – the often emphasised contrast between Assyrian ‘brutality and Achaemenid ‘tolerance’ seems to derive largely from an over-interpretation of both: in reality, Assyrian and Achaemenid policies with respect to the gods of conquered (or to be conquered) areas are driven by the same principles and share beliefs;146 – the creation of provinces (pā/pīhātu) administered by Assyrian officials appointed by the central power clearly reflects the imperial administrative umbrella;147 – the developed system of roads and posting stations was already known at this time;148 – the policy of the Neo-Assyrian monarchs is dominated by a concern to gain access to the Mediterranean;149 hence the freedom of operation granted to Greek and Cypriot merchants in the Syro-Phoenician region150 (and so forth). All such continuities or similarities are undeniable – the tributary mode of production in Asia was not born with the Achaemenid conquest. Nevertheless, I think, that 143 Le Proche­Orient asiatique, op.cit.: 279–280 (to be used with care). 144 See, in particular, G. Gnoli in ActIr II (1974). 145 Cf. J. V. Kinnier-Wilson, The Nimrud Wine Lists. A study of men and administration at the As­ syrian capital in the eighth century B. C., London 1972: 4. 146 See especially M. Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the eighth and seventh centuries B. C. (SBL Monograph Series 19), Montana 1974. On the question of Achaemenid ‘religious tolerance’, see recently Dandamayev art.cit., Mon. H.S. Nyberg I (1975): 193–200, and P. Tozzi, ‘Per la storia della politica religiosa degli Achemenidi: distruzioni persiane di temple greci agli inizi del V secolo,’ RSI 89 (1977): 18–32. 147 Cf. Garelli, Le Proche­Orient asiatique, Paris 1974: 135 ff.; 230–234. 148 B. Oded, JNES 29 (1970): 182, n. 41: “The empires that followed merely developed and perfected this system.” (Which, to my mind, rather simplifies the problem: Oded uses as his only example the road linking Mesopotamia to the Levant, and, more specifically, the ‘King’s Highway’ running from the Gulf of Aqaba to Damascus through Transjordan. With the formation of the Achaemenid empire, the problem of extending this to the whole of Asia is posed and resolved (the evidence of PFT on this are crucial) – so it is more than simply a quantitative change.) 149 See Elayi, ‘L’essor de la Phénicie et le passage de la domination assyro-babylonienne à la domination perse,’ BaM 9 (1978): 25–38. 150 See Elayi & Cavigneaux, ‘Sargon II et les Ioniens,’ OA 18 (1979): 59–75. On commerce between Cyprus and Babylonia in the Neo-Babylonian period, see the excellent article by A. L. Oppenheim, ‘An essay on overland trade in the first millennium B. C.,’ JCS 21 (1967): 236– 254. [Cf. also here chapter 18].

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the latter marks the start of a new stage, a new historical phase for the Near and Middle East. This phase is marked by: – the affirmation of a state strongly structured and with intercontinental ambitions.151 Their strategies henceforth were defined on a scale embracing the whole of Asia and the eastern Aegean.152 Adding the Mediterranean zone to the empire was a crucial element;153 – the extension of the tributary system and satrapal model;154 – consolidation and extension of royal power over land155 and temples;156 – unprecedented development of productive forces;157 151 I do no mean ‘territorial ambitions’. 152 One glance at a historical map shows that between the territory controlled by the Assyrians as against that of the Achaemenids the difference of scale is enormous (note particularly the inclusion of the Iranian plateau and Anatolia). While Assyrian direct interests did not reach beyond Dilmun (Bahrein), the whole of the Persian Gulf as far as India became a ‘Persian Sea;’ at the same time (under Darius I), Arabia was circumnavigated, cf. H. Schiwek, ‘Der Persische Golf als Schiffahrts- und Seehandelsroute in achämenidischer Zeit und in der Zeit Alexanders des Grossen,’ Bonner Jahrbücher 162 (1962): 4–97, esp. 5–20. This must obviously be related to the revitalisation, under Darius I, of Necho II’s canal, cf. G. Posener, ‘Sur le canal du Nil à la Mer Rouge avant les Ptolémées,’ CdÉ 25 (1938): 259–273; also S. Mazzarino, AAH 7 (1959): 89 ff., and F. Milner, Saeculum 3 (1952): 522–555. 153 See Bucci, Apollinaris 46 (1973): 567, on the absolute need for the Achaemenid kings to control the termini of the major routes from Central Asia. It is obviously not pure chance that the Persian period is a period of remarkable prosperity for the Ionian cities (Starr, IrAnt 11 (1976): 80–87) and Phoenician centres (Elayi, BaM 9 (1978): 25–38; cf. also H. J. Katzenstein, BibArch 42 (1979): 23–34; M. Dunand, BMB 1973: 7–25). On the connection between the creation of the empire and commercial expansion, see already M. Rostovtzeff, AHR (1938): 251: “The creation of the Persian empire made the exchange of goods between different worlds regular and active.” It is very clear that the Ionian cities (where the ‘ancient’ mode of production was dominant) contributed much to the development of the TMP. I think it would be interesting to re-examine the relations between Greek cities/Achaemenid administration in the light of Claire Préaux’s interpretations put forward in her important article, “Sur l’origine des monopole lagides,” CdÉ (1954): 312–326. The Teos inscription on which Préaux comments makes it possible to answer in part the question (raised by Will, REA 62 (1960): 268–274 with respect to Egypt) of the ‘transformation’ of tribute in kind (which, of course, as PFT and PTT demonstrate, form a considerable part of the naturalia serving the internal reproduction of the system) into precious metal.[Cf. now above, Chapter 19]. 154 See, of course, Hdt. III 89–96, who distinguishes (§ 97) some people (Ethiopians, Colchidians, Arabs) who do not pay phoros but present ‘gifts’. In the Assyrian period, too, there is a distinction between regular tribute (madattu) and a special gift (tāmartu) (c.f J. N. Postgate, Taxation and conscription in the Assyrian empire, Rome 1974), with the second being (at the very least) as important as the former, cf. Tadmor, art. cit., in Goedicke & Roberts, Unity and Diversity, Baltimore 1975: 37, which was clearly not the case in Darius’ time. For the shift from a system based on gifts and looting to a fully tributary system, see also Weinberg, Klio 58 (1976): 8–9. 155 See (for Babylonia) Dandamayev, ‘Die Lehensbeziehungen in Babylonien unter den ersten Achämeniden,’ in Festschr. W. Eilers, Wiesbaden 1967: 37–42. 156 Id., ‘Temple et état en Babylonie,’ VDI 1966: 17–39, esp. 37–39. 157 Cf. Briant, JESHO 22 (1979): 136–161; Zamân 2 (1979); “Produktivkräfte, Staat und tributäre Produktionsweise im Achämenidenreich”, in: J. Hermann / I. Sellnow (Hsg.), Produktivkräfte und Gesellschaftsformationen in vorkapitalistischer Zeit, Berlin (1982): 351–372 [On irriga-

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– the spread and intensification of the system of rural dependence in the maintenance of the system of village communities.158 Monitoring the role of the state machinery in the development of the productive forces,159 and the direct link between the ideological mechanisms of the state, levying of the tributary surplus and rural dependence160 […]. III.3.2 Back to Alexander As a result, it seems to me that with respect to the Hellenistic period (whose internal changes need to be defined), the period 334–323 – which ends with the increased evolution of imperial structures – occupies a special place whose fundamental features arise essentially from the imperial-tributary phase. Alexander, in fact, appears as the restorer of the system in several aspects of his activity: – gathering all the Achaemenid lands into a single imperial structure;161 – re-establishment of the state machinery (central and satrapal administration …), including Achaemenid personnel; – the recovery, even expansion, for his advantage of royal land, of the tribute system and the organisation of rural dependence;162

158 159 160 161

162

tion, add Goblot, Les qanats. Une technique d’acquisition de l’eau, Paris 1979, and above chapter 13]. See Briant, Index 8 (1978–1979): 48–98 (60–61: on the need for ‘freedom’ inside the village communities within the development of the system of dependence). See particularly Briant, “Produktivkräfte” (cited above note 158): § V. Briant in Religions. Pouvoir. Rapports sociaux, Besançon, Paris 1979. Remember, for instance, that this continuity (from Cyrus to Alexander) is one of the motifs of Iranian propaganda in the face of Roman ambition, see Tacitus, Annals 6, 31: “At the same time, Artabanus spoke of the ancient frontiers of the Persians and Macedonians, and threatened, jokingly, to invade first Cyrus’ former possessions and then those of Alexander (seque invasu­ rum possessa primum Cyro et post Alexandro).” See already Briant, Alexandre le Grand2, Paris 1977, and the study cited in the next footnote. In this perspective the main problem – never, as far as I know mentioned, cf. Index 8 (1978– 79): 81 & n. 353 – is how to evaluate the socio-economic consequences of the sack of Persepolis and the burning of its palaces by Alexander’s army in 330. [At the point when I was finishing this manuscript, I did not have access to Jack Balcer’s article which was about to appear in IrAnt 13 (1978).] Later Iranian traditions present Alexander as the destroyer of the royal archives, and the sacred books they contained (cf. Bucci, RIDA 25 (1978): 91–92, n. 162). But such ‘information’ does not answer the question; as Bucci, too, notes (ibid., n. 163 bis) the destruction of archives did not obstruct the transmission of Achaemenid archival traditions to Parthians and Sassanians. I find it difficult to believe that the events of 330 marked a complete break with the Achaemenid past, for several reasons: 1. The destruction of the palaces did not spell the end of Alexander’s ideological offensive on Achaemenid motifs: on the contrary he continued it against Bessos, and on his return from India he again showed his desire to link himself to the memory of Cyrus at Pasargadae, while expressing his (political) regret at having destroyed the Persepolis palaces (see particularly Arrian, Anab. VI 29.4–11; 30.1, and my detailed discussion cited in the next note); 2. I see that there is no actual proof that the archives ceased in 330; the PFT and PTT tablets we have stretch from 509–458, but no-one would maintain that the royal economy ceased in 458! Several classical texts (references in JESHO 22 (1979): 148–149, nn. 70 & 73) show that it was still functioning when Alexander arrived; 3.

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I think I should add, in order to be quite clear, that I do not mean by this the historical (‘objective’) role played unconsciously be an individual: the situation, on the contrary, is one of a policy deliberately and systematically developed by Alexander in order to facilitate the (possibly improved)163 functioning of the organic ensemble of the Achaemenid system for his own benefit.164 That is why it seems to me that the years 334–323 are integral to that part of Asia’s history initiated by Cyrus’ and Cambyses’ conquests and their organisation by Darius, despite the fact that these years have their own distinctive characteristics within this long period of over two hundred years. Was Alexander the first of a long line of Hellenistic rulers? Of course! But with respect to the history of the Near and Middle East in the first millennium, Alexander could be regarded also as “the last of the Achaemenids.” [Additional note: The study of J.-C. Gardin and P. Grentelle cited above, n. 108, has just been published in BEFEO LXVI (1979): 1–29.]

The destruction of archives is one thing, the disappearance of a vast economic complex operating in Achaemenid Fārs is another! Can one imagine that the thousands of kurtaš working in the fields, as herders or in workshops could suddenly disappear? (It is clear that some were freed by Alexander only because they were Greek: cf. the texts in JESHO 22 (1979): 149, n. 73.) Alexander stood in as much need of the profits to be drawn from the exploitation of the land and manufacturing industries as the Achaemenids; 4. Nothing that we know of the administrative measures taken by Alexander suggests that there was a major disruption – quite the opposite: Phrasaortes, a Persian, was appointed satrap in Persis (cf. Berve, Das Alexanderreich, no. 813); further, the Persian Tiridates was confirmed in his position as treasurer (thesau­ rophylakes; OP ganzabara), which he had held under Darius III (Q. C. V 6,11). And it is worth noting that in the Achaemenid period, the Persepolis treasurer (who came directly under the satrap) was not limited in his competence to managing the treasury, which was not a simple depot for precious metals (cf. Index 8 (1978–1979): 75–79): he and his staff played a role at the highest level in the organisation of kurtaš labour in the workshops (cf. W. Hinz, ZA 61 (1972): 261–272; J. A. Delaunay, ActIr 2 (1974): 212; 5). The Persian nobility of Fārs seems to have retained its economic power and privileged status (cf. particularly Q. C. X 1.22 f.) even to the point where they were able to make attempts at ‘Achaemenid’ revolts (Id. IX 10.19 & X 1.9; Arrian VI 27.3). All this suggests the, at least partial, retention of the Achaemenid social and economic organisation in Fārs during Alexander’s lifetime. 163 Cf. Klio LX (1978): 74; Index VIII (1978–79): 85–86. 164 See my article, ‘Conquête territoriale et stratégie idéologique: Alexandre le Grand et l’idéologie monarchique achéménide,’ Colloque de Cracovie 1977: L’idéologie monarchique dans l’Antiquité [Cracovie 1980: 38–83].

21 MICHAEL ROSTOVTZEFF AND THE TRANSITION FROM THE ACHAEMENID TO THE HELLENISTIC WORLD*,** In the attempt to situate an author and a work in the historiographical longue durée the assumption is that this will be done in a dispassionate, even cool, manner with respect to both. Yet, at the same time, it is inevitable that a personal element will creep into the discussion because one has come across and encountered both author and work so frequently in the course of one’s own research. Rostovtzeff’s wide-ranging scholarly interests explain the different perspectives (i. e., the diverse experiences) of each reader. In my own case, I have been studying, and benefiting from, his work on Hellenistic history for the last thirty years. I have drawn information and inspiration from it ever since I began to involve myself in research on Alexander and his successors, later on the Achaemenid empire, and ever since I have been engaged, with others, in thinking about the continuities, evolutions and transformations from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic period traceable in the countries of the Middle East and Central Asia.1 In an article published in 1979 devoted to a critical assessment of research on this topic [above, chapter 20], I already had the opportunity to refer to Rostovtzeff’s contribution, as he was one of the first to stress that any study of Hellenistic structures required understanding of the structures developed and established in the Achaemenid period.2 There I alluded directly to his presentation of the Persian empire, in chapter II of his The Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World (henceforth: SEHHW). I discussed the subject again more recently in my inaugural lecture, where the circumstances did not allow me to expand on it (Briant 2000). * **

1 2

Originally published as ‘Michael Rostovtzeff et le passage du monde achéménide au monde hellénistique,’ Studi Ellenistici 20 (2008): 137–154. This is the text of a lecture presented on the occasion of a colloquium on Michael Rostovtzeff held in Paris (EHESS) from 17–19 May 2000, whose proceedings remain unpublished. [Now published as J. Andreau & W. Berelowitch, dir., Michael Ivanovitch Rostovtzeff, Bari 2008 (pp. 211–225).] See already Briant, Laoi 1972, where I included a discussion of Rostovtzeff’s studies on the status of land and peoples in Achaemenid and Hellenistic Asia Minor (= Briant 1982; see also ibid., pp. 56–59 on Plutarch, Eumenes 8.5 and Rostovtzeff’s comments). See Briant 1982: 296–297, 301–302, and the comments by Fantasia 1999: 284. As far as I know, the only earlier attempt to study the economic and fiscal life of the Achaemenid empire is the book by Heeren, Historical Researches (English translation, I (1833) of the German edition (1828)). As I have said elsewhere, the first volume of Heeren’s book is a kind of first attempt at a “history of the Achaemenid empire” [cf. “The theme of ‘Persian decadence’,” 2010: 13, nn. 5–6.]

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There are several reasons for me to return to the subject: on the one hand, the opportunity offered by a meeting focussed on the work of this great scholar, then a re-reading of SEHHW, as well as the relatively recent publication of an important text by Rostovtzeff (1913/1994), and finally there are the Assyriological publications which have contributed so much to current discussions of the contribution of Rostovtzeff’s work. Before embarking on an, inevitably partial, re-examination of SEHHW, I should like to go back to the beginnings of Rostovtzeff’s career, as he began quite early on to think about this topic.3 Let me begin with his review in a Russian journal in 1913 of Bouché-Leclerq’s Histoire des Séleucides, published the same year in Paris. I must confess – but perhaps I am not alone in this – that as it is in Russian, the article had escaped my notice until 1994, when Arnaldo Marcone had a translation published in “Quaderni di Storia” (Rostovtzeff 1913). I will omit the criticisms Rostovtzeff levels against Bouché-Leclerq and his complete ignoring of the archaeological evidence in order to concentrate exclusively on a purely narrative history. By repositioning the history of hellenisation in the longue durée, Rostovtzeff emphasised that the history of the Hellenistic world could not be detached from the long term history of the Near East. In his view, there was one inescapable precondition, namely this: To comprehend the basic organisation of the great Persian empire and, even more important, to gain a detailed understanding of the regimes peculiar to each Persian satrapy, particularly the Asia Minor and Syrian satrapies, including Judah, the Arab tribes, the Phoenician cities and the temple-states of northern Syria and the Asia Minor borders, as well as the ancient centres of power, Assyria and Babylonia (1913/1994: 15–16).

It is worth noting that this programme was so novel and ambitious that, after one century, it has still not been achieved! We are still waiting for the monographs on each of the imperial regions. His analysis was not limited to political and economic developments, but included the question of intercultural relations. Alexander and his successors did not initiate the process of fusion, but continued what had been begun in the fifth and fourth centuries, with the unification achieved by the great Persian monarchy between Ionians and Orientals, Semites, Thracians and many more […] It is wrong to speak of Alexander’s great creative idea, […] of fusing the Orient and Hellenism, while forgetting that Alexander, in many regions of his empire, found such a process of fusion already at work […] As a result, the first task falling to those who want to do research on the history of Hellenism must be to study the various regions of the Orient at the time of Persian rule […] I do not think it is right to say that this is a hopeless and undoable task, that we do not have the material to do so. True, we only have a small number of Greek texts, and not many texts in Oriental languages, but we do have the huge field of archaeological discoveries at our disposal […] (1913/14: 16–17).

We can go back even further, in particular to Rostovtzeff’s study of the Roman colonate published in German in 1910. Here he took up the question of the status of 3

In order not to overload the article, note in passing that the question of continuities and ruptures coming in the wake of Alexander’s conquests was considered (systematically) from the eighteenth century on (see my remarks in Montesquieu, Mably et Alexandre le Grand, 2005–2006).

21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic world 461

lands and persons in the Hellenistic period and considered their evolution, as he thought he could trace it, since the Achaemenid epoch. It was on the basis of this work (much influenced by Max Weber) that, for the first time albeit in the wake of others, I had the opportunity to discuss Rostovtzeff’s theses, both with respect to what he called the ‘Iranian feudalism’ of Asia Minor and the status of the laoi and basilikoi laoi, described as ‘serfs’ (‘Hörige’, ‘Leibeigene’). I will not return here to this aspect: I find myself in perfect accord with Fanoula Papazoglou, who wrote recently: “Rostovtzeff wrongly introduced to Hellenistic history the notions of ‘feudal structure’, and ‘serfdom” (1997: 10).4 We can go even further back, as this was not the first time Rostovtzeff had concerned himself with research of this kind. I should like to cite especially his article published in Klio in 1906, on ‘Angariae’, i. e. the organisation of the postal service and roads. As part of his introduction he observed that the system, well-known in the Persian epoch, must reach back to the Assyro-Babylonian period, going on to say that sadly “a connection between the time of the Persian empire and the Roman one has never been presented by modern scholars […] The aim of this short work is to establish, as far as possible, this bridge and show that neither the word nor the institution ever disappeared” (p. 249). And he ended: “Thus one sees, on the basis of this example, with what strength the oriental institutions survived into the Hellenistic-Roman period, and how they celebrated their revival in the post-Diocletian period” (p. 258). Clearly, from this date on, the vision of the ensemble around which he would construct his Hellenistic hypotheses was already firmly in place and plainly expressed. If we now move on to consider SEHHW, the place occupied by the Persian empire in this historical project should not surprise us. Jean Andreau rightly remarked (1989: VIII) that among the big questions which Rostovtzeff set himself in the course of the twenties, one “became by far the most important”, namely that of the relationship between the eastern and western Mediterranean, which means the issue of the “socio-economic and cultural links between two great spheres, the Iranian and Greek, which became Hellenistic and then Graeco-Roman.” Following a chapter on political developments (from which, moreover – I stress –, Alexander is strikingly absent), he chose to present “the ancient world from the fourth century BC on,” focussing on the two entities which, in his eyes, were the protagonists of this history: Persia and Greece. This deserves some comment, however briefly. First, the reader of today would note a gap, namely the absence of Macedon – the institutions and society of the time of Philip II and Alexander – which do not figure in the book until the period following 280. Further, the few short pages devoted to it open with an oft repeated remark: “Of the three main Hellenistic monarchies, Macedon is the one of which we know least” (1941, I, 250). But this lacuna should not surprise the modern reader too

4

See also Schuler, Ländliche Siedlungen, 1998, and my comments in Économie royale, 2006a [below Chapter 26].

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much,5 given that the breakthrough in our knowledge of Macedon’s political and social institutions, as a result of epigraphic and archaeological discoveries, was made only recently (primarily in the last quarter of the twentieth century).6 His decision to present a panorama of the Persian empire (I, 77–90) expresses his deep conviction that the Hellenistic rulers did not build on the ruins of the Achaemenid realm, but rather that it was the living heritage of Darius’ empire conquered by Alexander which provided the foundations for their states. This explains his interest in the period of transition, symbolised for example by the Egyptian Petosiris, whose tomb (published by Lefebvre in 1923) illustrates nicely the encounter between Egyptian traditions and Persian and Greek influences (I, 1941: 86 and Pl. XII (facing page), where Rostovtzeff gives a commentary with bibliography). At the same time, the ongoing debates about this monument7 fit perfectly with Rostovtzeff’s already long established ideas about cultural fusion which, in his view, had made the political unity and cultural diversity of the Achaemenid world possible (cf. 1913/1994: 16–17, cited above).8 We should note that one document in particular provides the main thread, i. e. the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica (using Van Groningen’s 1933 edition), which opens chapter II (I, 74–5). He regards this as a work in which the author reflected on the simultaneous existence and interpenetration of “two types of economic and political organisation of the Seleucids”. He dates the text to the end of the fourth century and locates its genesis in western Asia Minor (I, 440–441). Plainly, the importance imparted to this work illustrates for him, as for the reader of today, one of Rostovtzeff’s central theses, which is the overwhelming continuities that exist between the Achaemenid and Seleucid, and more generally Hellenistic, structures: “The world that the author had in mind and tried implicitly to characterize, alongside of Persia and of Alexander’s empire, may have been the kingdom of Antigonus the One-eyed” (p. 441). While he was obviously not the first to use it in this way,9 the importance he accorded it certainly pointed the way to one of the most productive areas of research.10 5

6

7 8 9 10

Note how, at roughly the same time, Olmstead contrasted the progress made in Achaemenid history and archaeology with what he saw as the veritable documentary desert of Macedon: “The Macedonia of Alexander has disappeared, almost without trace… The tombs of the Macedonian rulers … have never been found. [Alexander’s] own capital, Pella, is a mass of shapeless ruins” (History of the Persian Empire, 1948: 522–523). See particularly Hatzopoulos, Macedonian Institutions, 1996 and his yearly contributions to the Bulletin Épigraphique published in REG. The discoveries in ancient Macedon also make it possible to consider anew the problem of the transition from the Achaemenid period to that of the Successors: see my comments on the question of dôreai in Macedon and Asia Minor in Asie Mineure en transition, 2006b (§ 3.2) [below Chapter 27]. Cf. Picard, Tombeau de Pétosiris, 1930. See further Rostovtzeff, Doura Europos, 1944/45 on hellenisation and its limits (cf. my observations in Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie, 2005a: 42–43). See, for example, Wilcken in Erman & Wilcken, Naukratisstele, 1900; to the best of my knowledge, one of the first discussions of this work was that of Niebuhr in 1812 (Niebuhr 1828). See the many remarks and references in my Histoire de l’empire perse, 1996; on the text, see most recently Descat, Économie royale, 2003 (on the date), and Aperghis, Seleucid Economy,

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Placed thus strategically in this chapter, the Achaemenid empire (Persia, as Rostovtzeff calls it generally) is present throughout the book. It is sufficient merely to look at the index, under four entry categories: what I call the straightforward ones (‘Persia’, ‘Iran’, ‘Achaemenid’); then, specific names (of kings, of various satraps or governors); regional entries (Asia Minor, Babylonia, Egypt, Phoenicia etc.), where a sub-entry labelled ‘under Persian rule’ appears regularly; finally, the thematic entries (feudal aristocracy, laoi, roads, taxes, temples, royal land, tribute etc.), which are also equipped with the sub-entry ‘Persian’. Obviously, I am not going to present a full inventory here. Rather the question I am setting myself is the following: given the very large number of Achaemenid references and their strategic placing in the book’s structure, how can one evaluate the information used by Rostovtzeff on Achaemenid rule, in light of the state of knowledge about it at the time at which he conceived and produced it – broadly the twenties and thirties of the last century?11 How did he carry out his work of data collecting; in short, did he do this systematically as he certainly did for the Hellenistic period? The last part of this question I can answer immediately with a resounding ‘no’! But such a succinct, even brutal, reply is not the last word on the issue. It raises further questions, such as how far is Rostovtzeff’s information unsatisfactory when considered in terms of the knowledge available at his time? Why did he not carry out exhaustive researches? Finally, does the quantitative and qualitative imbalance between Achaemenid and Hellenistic information undermine the historical vision put forward by the book? These are the questions and responses about which I should now like to make some, necessarily brief, suggestions. First, let me consider the information used. Let me recall that, in his review of Bouché-Leclercq’s work in 1913, he thought that if the textual sources are unsatisfactory, then the archaeological material should make it possible to carry out the programme of Achaemenid research he envisaged successfully (less by himself than his readers). In 1941, his tone was rather less optimistic or, better, more realistic. Rostovtzeff frequently stresses with regret the gaps in information he has come up against. For instance: “A book […] on the cultural, economic and social structure of Eastern Iran, including the Iranian nomads, remains for the time being a pium desiderium” (III, 1322, n. 5). Again, referring to Andréades’ study of the financial administration of the Persian kings, he adds: “I have not found […] in modern books, any attempt to analyse in detail the economic life of Persia and its various satrapies” (III, 1321, n. 4).12 Unfortunately, it is not always easy to know how Rostovtzeff obtained his information. In a footnote in chapter 2, he writes: “There 2004: 117 ff. (who does not set it into its historiographical longue durée; on some of his errors, see Le Rider & de Callataÿ, Les Séleucides et les Ptolémées, 2006: 217–221). 11 See my study Milestones, 2005b (on historiography at the time of Ernst Herzfeld between 1879 and 1948). 12 In the addenda (p. 1243), he clarifies that he had forgotten to cite Cavaignac’s 1923 work; but, in fact, he had referred to it (p. 121086), when he mentioned the Egyptian tribute under Darius. In referring to it again in the context of the tribute paid to the Great Kings by the western satrapies (Egypt, Babylonia, Syria and Asia Minor), it is merely to state that “his study adds nothing of importance to the table which [he] had drawn up in Chap. II.”

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are many discussions on the financial administration of the Persian kings, their economic policy and sources of revenue” (III, p. 968, n. 4), but when he tries to be precise, he writes: “We know very little of the administration of the Persian empire, and little more of the Seleucid one,” and identical expressions recur in the following paragraphs: “The defective character of our information […] Very little is known”, or “[the evidence] is very slight […] Nothing is known […]” (II, 464–8). What is embarrassing, or surprising, in this is obviously not the fact of the gaps in, and unsatisfactory nature of, the documentation, rather it is the contrast between these acknowledged lacunae and the confidence of his conclusions. Let me just cite his presentation of taxation and revenues: “Meagre as it is, the available evidence at our disposal allows us to gain a general idea of the fiscal policy of the Seleucids. Their fiscal system they certainly inherited from the Persian kings, Alexander and the Successors” (II, 472), which is followed somewhat oddly by the comment: “How far they changed it, how many innovations they introduced, we are unable to say […].” The attentive reader cannot avoid asking himself how valid the reasoning and conclusion are here. Let me briefly consider two regional examples, Persia and Egypt. About Persia proper, Fārs, Rostovtzeff says little aside from rather debatable generalisations in chapter 2, although he notes at the same time that the documentation is frustratingly thin (III, 1322, n. 5).13 Yet in 1929–1930 Ernst Herzfeld’s copious report on the work he had carried out at Persepolis had been published,14 and in 1931 major excavations had begun under the direction of an American team from Chicago. In 1933–1934 texts of far-reaching interest had been discovered, i. e. the first set of Elamite tablets. Even before the first report on the excavations by Erich Schmidt was published in 1939, Ernst Herzfeld had presented an initial assessment of the find on the occasion of a lecture in London in December 1933, including a short inventory of the tablets, one of which is in Phrygian and quite a number of which contain Aramaic texts written in ink.15 While the excavator, naturally, made it 13 With respect to Persia proper, he writes (p. 52): “It was a region with flourishing agriculture in the 5th and 4th centuries, well irrigated, with developed animal husbandry and horticulture …” As he mentions no source, I think that he bases his certainty on his reading of Diodorus Siculus XVII 67.3 and XIX 21.2–3. 14 He inspected the site for six weeks in 1923–1924 (Herzfeld, Rapport, 1929–30: 17; cf. Dusinberre, Herzfeld in Persepolis, 2005). Further, Rostovtzeff does not appear to cite Herzfeld’s thesis on Pasargadae published in 1908 (on Herzfeld in Pasargadae, see Stronach, Herzfeld and Pasargadae, 2005). 15 “Among the small finds, not belonging to architecture and sculpture, is to be mentioned the discovery of two little archive chambers in the fortification wall: not apparently the archives of the State, but either military or judicial records. There are about 10,000 intact pieces, 10,000 more or less complete ones and probably more than 10,000 fragments. The shapes vary greatly, from the largest ever known to the smallest. They are mostly in Elamite cuneiform, and will require years of labour and study to be deciphered. Among them are about 500 small pieces with Aramaic writing in ink. As an exception there was found one piece – perhaps there are more – in Phrygian letters and language” (Recent discoveries, 1934: 231–232). The text of the article, which broadly covers most of what Herzfeld said in the lecture, is the work of an anonymous editor. (I attributed the text to Herzfeld himself in my article for the Herzfeld Collo-

21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic world 465

clear that much time would need to be spent before it would be possible to publish all this material, it is nevertheless somewhat surprising that someone as interested in archaeological evidence as Rostovtzeff should have ignored all these discoveries, or at least not mentioned them at all. The omission is even more striking given that, in another context, he cited (p. 1425, n. 229) the JRAS article of 1934. On Achaemenid Egypt, he has some very trenchant observations, although they contradict each other from one page to the next, especially on the changes in the situation of priests and temples in response to the Persian conquest. Nevertheless he writes: “The life of Egypt during the first Persian domination [and] also in the time of the second […] is but imperfectly known to us” (I, 82). It is very odd that, in relation to trade and the situation of Naucratis, he makes no reference to the famous Naucratis Stela, although Wilcken, with whose work he was familiar, had presented an excellent commentary on it; and it is further worth noting that Wilcken had connected the hieroglyphic document with the very Greek text whose value Rostovtzeff so much appreciated, i. e. the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica.16 One could cite other examples. But these two alone give us an insight into how Rostovtzeff worked, when he referred to the Achaemenid period. While he says nothing about Achaemenid Persepolis, he does refer (III, 1425, n. 229) to Herzfeld’s book of 1935 and the latter’s theories about the dating of certain structures there to the Hellenistic period (cf. II, 428).17 As for Egypt, he mentions the relevance of the Achaemenid period documents from Elephantine thus: “We have some reflections of the daily economic and social life of one part of Egypt and the relations between the Persian overlords, their mercenary soldiers of Jewish origin stationed at Elephantine, and the native population” (I, 82). Yes – but the reader is told no more, even though this material, and the studies and commentaries it had already generated, could well have supplied Rostovtzeff with food for thought. The simple conclusion is that, as the Persepolitan and Egyptian examples demonstrate, Rostovtzeff never undertook any in depth research on the Achaemenid period; he never tried to go back to the documents in any systematic fashion. In some instances, the bibliography used is very limited as a result of which Rostovtzeff’s text suffers. With respect to the Persepolis finds, we must remember that the greater part of his work was already complete when the first publications became accessible.18 With respect to others, he could have benefited from the then recent and innovative analysis by André Aymard published in 1938 of Seleucid Babylonia, in which the author referred repeatedly to the Achaemenid period. This

16 17 18

quium published in 2005; but see the correction in Henkelman¸ Other Gods, 2006: 42–45 [=2008: 69–70]). Erman & Wilcken, Naukratisstele, 1900: 133–135 (U. Wilcken, Die Steuer); cf. Briant & Descat, Un registre douanier, 1998: 88–90 (above, Chapter 18). The structure conventionally called the “Frataraka Temple” (or Frâtakâra), below the terrace, which Herzfeld had already discussed briefly in the report he wrote on the site prior to proper excavation (1929–30: 33); cf. Wiesehöfer, Die dunklen Jahrhunderte, 1994: 68–79. The main theses of the book were already presented in Rostovtzeff, Hellenistic World, 1936, and he mentions (1989: 1055, n. 229) that the results of the Persepolis excavations had not yet been published.

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was an instance – and it cannot be overemphasised – of a study well in advance of its time, a fact acknowledged by present day Assyriologists. Let me put it like this: Aymard was the first “to set the tablets to historical music”. It was a risky undertaking showing exceptional inventiveness, as he knew neither the script nor language of the documents he was using. Although Rostovtzeff does not pick out Aymard’s work for praise, as he does expressly that of Elias Bikerman,19 it is clear, from perusing the notes, that he used the 1938 article extensively, and rightly so.20 It should be obvious that I do not wish to condemn Rostovtzeff for the choice he made. It is an easy one to understand. At the time, for instance, Assyriologists were barely interested in social and economic history and, as Aymard observes, “the method employed in publishing cuneiform texts is not done with a view to making anyone’s task easy […] Any epigraphic or papyrological collection is infinitely less difficult to use both for the interested amateur as well as the specialist” ([1938 =] 1967: 181, n. 4). It would thus never have occurred to anyone to upbraid Rostovtzeff for not publishing, as a preamble, an economic and social history of the Achaemenid world, or for not carrying out the programme which he laid out in 1913! The very moment that he published his momentous Hellenistic study coincided, after all, with Olmstead in Chicago starting on what was to become in 1948 the first modern work on the Persian empire.21 My real interest here, from the perspective of historical method and knowledge, is to see whether this lacuna in his work undermines his dominant thesis of Achaemenid continuities in the Hellenistic kingdoms. The answer cannot be a simple yes or no – so I will approach it from two angles. In one or two cases it clearly weakens his argument. It is quite obvious that, after declaring the sources too meagre, Rostovtzeff more often than not goes on to make authoritative assertions or far-reaching analyses that were already dubious at the very moment he was writing his book. For example, let us look at what he says about Persian royal policy in Egypt and the changes made by the Ptolemies (I, 82): “[The Persian kings] endeavoured to improve the administration of Egypt by combating the feudal tendencies that prevailed before the Persian conquest, and especially the over-powerful clergy.” But the sole work he cites (III, 1323, n. 13) – Posener 1936 – contains nothing that supports such a statement.22 Or: “From the time of the Persian empire, many merchants had preferred the safe and well-organized ‘royal’ overland roads leading to the harbours of Ionia, to the inferior roads that ran from the Euphrates to the Phoenician and Syrian harbours” (I, 173). But 19

20

21 22

Especially Bikerman, Institutions des Séleucides, 1938. Clearly, Rostovtzeff had discussed the work with Bikerman: cf. Rostovtzeff 1989: 1059, n. 242; Bikerman, for his part, published later a review-article on Rostovtzeff’s great oeuvre: see Bikerman, Europeanisation 1944/45, together with my comments in Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie, 2005a: 42–46. It is frequently cited on pp. 1054 ff., from note 220 on (where Rostovtzeff only says that Aymard’s article is a “review article” of Rutten’s publication, which he cites approvingly); also nn. 226, 234–235, 249, 290–294, 309; see also p. 968, n. 6 (with an appalling French translation [1989: 968, n. 6], rendering “civil law” as “civil war”). History of the Persian Empire, 1948 (cf. my Leçon inaugurale 2000). Cf. Briant, Histoire de l’empire perse, 1996: 61–72, 488–500 (= HPE 2002: 50–61; 462–484).

21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic world 467

simply looking at some of the well-known classical texts throws such serious doubts on the assertion,23 that the contrast with the Seleucid period will puzzle the reader. In short, there is such a structural hiatus between the two features compared – the Achaemenid and Hellenistic period – that one ends up with the impression that, in several instances, the presumed continuities and breaks depend more on intuition (or, better, conviction) than on an argument based on careful examination of the evidence.24 Moreover, such an orientation is not risk-free, particularly one which postulates a continuity and adopts a teleological form of reasoning by which the Achaemenid period is reduced to no more than a “prehellenistic” phase. The very notions of “Achaemenid fusion” and “Vorhellenismus” are debatable, as I stressed already in my 1979 study.25 But my criticisms are directed less against Rostovtzeff himself than some of his predecessors, such a W. Schur who, in the wake of discussions begun at the end of the nineteenth century especially in Germany, argued in 1926 that the end of the Peloponnesian War marked a real change not just in the life of Greek cities but also the internal equilibrium of the Achaemenid empire. From then on, Greek influence grew in the ever more independent lands, especially one such as Egypt: Schur thus saw the independent Egypt of the fourth century as the prototype and “prehistory” of the Ptolemaic kingdom. The idea, which Rostovtzeff held ever since 1913, of a “cultural fusion” predating Alexander partly fits this view, but is not totally congruent with it.26 As for the second part of the discussion which, to my mind, is the most important: while Rostovtzeff stressed, consistently and for years, the absolute necessity of studying the Achaemenid empire in order to understand the origins and structures of the Hellenistic world, he did not suggest how this should be done, but rather outlined a vision, not just for himself, but for those of his readers, who were ready to listen and follow him, or at least those who were convinced of its sound scientific basis. Even though Rostovtzeff did not have the time or desire to devote himself to the study of the Achaemenid period, he alerted historians of the Hellenistic world to set their research into the Achaemenid-Hellenistic longue durée. 23 24

25 26

Cf. Briant, De Sardes à Suse, 1991: 75–79 (= above ch. 16). I omit the instances where the similarities suggested by Rostovtzeff have been challenged by recent re-examination of documents he knew. I am thinking in particular of the Letter of Darius to Gadatas, which he cites as an Achaemenid precedent in the argument he devotes to the introduction of new species in the Hellenistic kingdoms (III, 1163). He used the text again in his study on Hellenistic progonoi, and thinks that “the expression ‘the king and his ancestors’ seems to have been at the time a stereotypical phrase, possibly derived from official Persian royal terminology” (1935: 62 & n. 15). In fact, it appears that this very invocation, which Darius makes to his progonoi in the Letter, is precisely one of the elements which raises questions about the authenticity of the text (as I now think, see Briant, Lettre de Darius à Gadatas, 2003: 137–139 [above chapter 4, n. 142]). Rois, tributs et paysans, 1982: 318–323. See Schur, Vorgeschichte, 1926, whose discussion is essentially political. Rostovtzeff knew and cited the article (III, 1323, n. 14), but he does not seem to have been profoundly influenced by it (I, 82–3).

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To give a concrete illustration, let me return first to the example of the Persepolis tablets, whose discovery Rostovtzeff never mentioned. Apart from the publication of isolated tablets, the first set, the Treasury tablets, were published by George Cameron in 1948. While F. Altheim, one of the reviewers (1951: 192–193), stressed his debt to Rostovtzeff, he emphasised how much the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeco­ nomica could contribute to a discussion of the workings of the royal economy in Fārs. Cameron (1958: 168–172), too, expressed this view. Comparisons of this kind between pseudo-Aristotle’s text and Achaemenid administrative and fiscal practices have turned out to be extremely pertinent and fruitful.27 A second instance is even more revealing. In a well-known study published in 1932, Rostovtzeff published the inscribed bullae and seals from Seleucid Uruk. Several carried the seal of royal administrators called chreophylakes. Rostovtzeff tried to situate these archives in the history of the ancient Near East, describing the Seleucids with his favourite phrase “Heirs of Persia” (p. 57). It is plain that it was an article of faith with him that the roots of the institution were to be found in the Persian or an even earlier period. About this he consulted one of the leading specialists of first millennium cuneiform tablets and Babylonian law, Mario San Nicolò, whose unequivocally negative reply dated 1930 is cited (pp. 93–94). No single document, San Nicolò told him, suggests that this form of royal administration existed prior to the Seleucids. Rostovtzeff obviously noted this opinion, but cautiously, and added more boldly: “Precedents existed in the Classical Greek cities and probably in the oriental monarchies (about which we are ill informed) [here the San Nicolò reference], but the full development of these record offices” date from the Hellenistic period (p. 58). San Nicolò’s position was upheld in subsequent years. It was reaffirmed by, for example, Veenhof in 1986 in a study of Mesopotamian archives. Three years later, in 1989, Matt Stolper was able to show that “the caution in Rostovtzeff’s book was justified. There is now textual evidence for the registration and taxation of Babylonian slave sales under the Achaemenid Persian kings” (p. 81). The texts he published demonstrate the existence of such bureaus (‘the royal tax office’ in Babylonian; another Iranian derived term shows that it was a Persian innovation dating from Darius I’s time), and he concludes: “The royal tax office mentioned in these few slave sales appears to be an Achaemenid counterpart of the Seleucid chreo­ phylakion” (p. 90). Stolper goes on to define this in a way which Rostovtzeff would have appreciated: “Like other innovations of Achaemenid rule, the practice of registering sales co-opted existing Babylonian offices and accomodated forms of Baylonian legal behaviour and recording. The Seleucid change was to transform an Achaemenid procedure by cutting it loose from traditional Babylonian behaviour. […] In this matter, as was true with some other devices of imperial rule, an Achaemenid innovation worked initially through pre-existing Babylonian conditions, and the Hellenistic rulers later adapted and transformed the Achaemenid precursor” (p. 91–2). 27

Cf. HEP, 400–401, 461–468, 478–487, 956, 968–969 (= HPE, 389–90, 447–452, 463–471, 931, 943–4); also Préaux, Monopoles, 1954 (particularly p. 324, n. 2), Briant, Prélèvements tributaires, 1994 (above Chapter 20).

21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic world 469

After a gap of sixty years, Rostovtzeff’s intuition/conviction was brilliantly confirmed by new evidence and a historian who was himself concerned with the problem of Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities.28 In short, and in conclusion, I would say that a hostile, even aggressive, reviewer could easily have pin-pointed Rostovtzeff’s omissions and errors of detail. But in the historiographical long term, our presumed reviewer would have been profoundly wrong. Rostovtzeff’s thinking was, and remains, exceptionally fruitful. He was, of course, not alone in operating and working in this way: one might cite Elias Bikerman, André Aymard and Claire Préaux, but it was he, I think, who had the real vision and was truly far-sighted. Even today, studying his work continues to be a guide for scholars who take a particular interest in the dynamics and modalities of the transition between the Achaemenid empire and Hellenistic kingdoms.29 BIBLIOGRAPHY Altheim, F., 1951, review of Cameron 1948, in Gnomon 23: 187–193 Andréadès, A., 1933, History of Greek Public Finance, London Andreau, J., 1989, ‘Introduction. La dernière des grandes synthèses historiques de Michel Ivanovič Rostovtzeff,’ in M. Rostovtzeff 1989: I–XXIX [Anonymous], 1934, ‘Recent discoveries at Persepolis,’ JRAS 66: 226–232 Aperghis, G. G., 2004, The Royal Seleukid Economy, Cambridge Aymard, A., 1938, ‘Une ville de la Babylonie séleucide d’après les contrats cunéiformes,’ RÉA 40: 5–42 (repr. Études d’histoire ancienne, Paris 1967: 178–211) Bikerman, E., 1938, Institutions des Séleucides, Paris Bikerman, E., 1944–45, ‘L’européanisation de l’Orient classique. À propos du livre de Michel Rostovtzeff,’ Renaissance [New York, École libre des Hautes Études] 2: 381–392 Briant, P., 1972, ‘Remarques sur laoi et esclaves ruraux en Asie Mineure hellénistique,’ in Actes du Colloque de Besançon sur l’esclavage, Besançon, Paris: 93–133 (repr. Briant 1982: 293–330) Briant, P., 1979, ‘Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures,’ ASNP III/9: 1375–1414 (repr. Briant 1982: 293–330 [Here Chapter 20]) Briant, P., 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans. Études sur les formations tributaires du Moyen Orient ancien, Paris Briant, P., 1991, ‘De Sardes à Suse,’ AchHist VI: 67–82 [Here Chapter 16] Briant, P., 1994, ‘Prélévements tributaires et échanges en Asie Mineure achéménide et hellénistique,’ in J. Andreau, P. Briant & R. Descat (éds.), Économie antique: Les échanges dans l’An­ tiquité. Le rôle de l’État, (Entretiens d’archéologie et d’histoire 1), Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges: 69–91 [Here Chapter 19] Briant, P., 1996, Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre, Paris (= trans., 2002, From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake IN) Briant, P., 2000, Leçon inaugurale au Collège de France, Paris Briant, P., 2003, ‘Histoire et archéologie d’un texte. La Lettre de Darius à Gadatas entre Grecs, Perses et Romains,’ in M. Giorgieri, M. Salvini, M. C. Trémouille & P. Vannicelli (eds.), Licia e Lidia prima dell’ellenizzazione, Rome: 107–144 [Here chapter 4] Briant, P., 2005a, ‘“Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie”: l’histoire au passé et au présent,’ Studi Ellenistici XVII: 9–69 28 29

See also Stolper, Deposits 1993 (especially pp. 82–86), and Stolper, Continuity 1994. See Briant & Joannès (éds.) 2006.

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Briant, P., 2005b, ‘Milestones in the development of Achaemenid historiography in the time of Ernst Herzfeld (1879–1948),’ in A. Gunter & S. Hauser (eds.), Ernst Herzfeld and the Development of Near Eastern Studies 1900–1950, Leiden, Boston: 263–280 Briant, P., 2005–2006, ‘Montesquieu, Mably et Alexandre le Grand: aux sources de l’histoire hellénistiques,’ Revue Montesquieu 8: 151–168 Briant, P., 2006a, ‘De Sardes à Persépolis: l’économie royale entre privé et public,’ in R. Descat (ed.), Approches de l’économie hellénistique (Entretiens d’archéologie et d’histoire 7), Saint-Bertrand-de Comminges: 339–354 [Here Chapter 26] Briant, P., 2006b, ‘L’Asie Mineure en transition,’ in P. Briant & F. Joannès 2006: 309–351 [Here Chapter 27] Briant, P. & R. Descat, 1998, ‘Un registre douanier de la satrapie d’Égypte à l’époque achéménide (TAD C3, 7),’ in N. Grimal & B. Menu (éds.), Le commerce en Égypte ancienne, (IFAO Bibliothèque d’Étude 121), Cairo: 59–104 [Here Chapter 18] Briant, P. & F. Joannès, (éds.), 2006, La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (vers 350–300 av. J.­C.) (Persika 9), Paris Cameron, G. G., 1948, Persepolis Treasury Tablets (OIP 65), Chicago Cameron, G. G., 1958, ‘Persepolis Treasury Tablets, Old and New,’ JNES 17: 161–176 Cavaignac, E., 1923, Population et capital dans le monde méditerranéen antique, Strasbourg Descat, R., 2003, ‘Qu’est-ce que l’économie royale?,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée, Rennes: 149–168 Dusinberre, E., 2005, ‘Herzfeld in Persepolis,’ in A. Gunter & S. Hauser (eds.), Ernst Herzfeld and the Development of Near Eastern Studies 1900–1950, Leiden, Boston:137–180 Erman, A. & U. Wilcken, 1900, ‘Die Naukratisstele,’ ZÄS 38: 127–135 Fantasia, U., 1999, ‘Ellenismo e mondo ellenistico in Rostovtzeff,’ in A. Marcone (ed.), Rostovtzeff e l’Italia, Naples: 259–305 Hatzopoulos, M., 1996, Macedonian Institutions under the Kings, I–II, Athens, Paris Heeren, A. H. L., 1833, Historical Researches into the Politics, Intercourse and Trade of the Princi­ pal Nations of Antiquity, I, Oxford (English translation) Henkelman, W., 2008, The Other Gods Who Are. Studies in Elamite­Iranian acculturation based on the Persepolis Fortification texts (AchHist XIV), Leiden Herzfeld, E., 1908, ‘Pasargadae. Aufnahmen und Untersuchungen zur persischen Archäologie,’ Klio 8: 1–68 Herzfeld, E., 1929–1930, ‘Rapport sur l’état actuel de Persépolis et propositions pour leur conservation,’ AMI 1: 17–40 Herzfeld, E., 1935, Archaeological History of Iran, London Herzfeld, E., 1941, Iran in the Ancient Near East (Archaeological Lectures presented in the Lowell Lectures at Boston), New York Lefebvre, G., 1923, Le tombeau de Pétosiris, Paris Le Rider, G. & F. de Callataÿ, 2006, Les Séleucides et les Ptolémées. L’héritage monétaire et finan­ cier d’Alexandre le Grand, Monaco, Paris Niebuhr, B. G., 1828, ‘Ueber das zweyte Buch der Oekonomika unter den aristotelischen Schriften [1812],’ in B. G. Niebuhr, Kleine historische und philologische Schriften, I, Bonn: 410–416 Olmstead, A. T., 1948, History of the Persian Empire, Chicago Papazoglou, F., 1997, Laoi et paroikoi. Recherches sur la structure de la société hellénistique (Études d’histoire hellénistique I) Belgrade Picard, Ch., 1930, ‘Les influences étrangères au tombeau de Pétosiris: Grèce ou Perse?,’ BIFAO 30/1: 201–227 Posener, G., 1936, La première domination perse en Égypte (Bibliothèque d’Études 11), Cairo Préaux, C., 1954, ‘Sur l’origine des monopoles lagides,’ CdÉ 29: 312–327 Rostovtzeff, M., 1906, ‘Angariae,’ Klio 6: 249–258 Rostovtzeff, M., 1910, Studien zur Geschichte des römischen Kolonates, Leipzig, Berlin

21 Michael Rostovtzeff and the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic world 471 Rostovtzeff, M., 1913, ‘L’Asia ellenistica all’epoca dei Seleucidi. (A proposito del libro di Bouché-Leclercq, Histoire des Séleucides, Paris 1913),’ Naučnyi Istoričeskij Zurnal: 39–63 (in Russian: Italian translation in Quaderni di Storia 40 (1994): 9–31, introd. by A. Marcone, pp. 5–8) Rostovtzeff, M., 1932, Seleucid Babylonia. Bullae and seals of clay with Greek inscriptions (YCS 3), New Haven Conn. Rostovtzeff, M., 1935, ‘ΠΡΟΓΟΝΟΙ,’ JHS 55: 56–66 Rostovtzeff, M., 1936, ‘The Hellenistic world and its economic development,’ American Historical Review 41: 231–252 Rostovtzeff, M., 1941, The Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World, I–III, Oxford Rostovtzeff, M., 1944–1945, ‘L’Orient et la civilisation grecque: Doura-Europos sur l’Euphrate,’ Renaissance [New York, École libre des Hautes Études] 2: 43–59 Rostovtzeff, M., 1989, Histoire économique et sociale du monde hellénistique (French trans. by O. Demange. – Introduction, chronology and bibliography by Jean Andreau), Paris Schmidt, E., 1939, The Treasury of Persepolis and other discoveries in the Homeland of the Achae­ menians (Oriental Institute Communications 21), Chicago Schuler, C., 1998, Ländliche Siedlungen und Gemeinden im hellenistischen und römischen Kleina­ sien (Vestigia 50), Munich Schur, W. 1926, ‘Zur Vorgeschichte des Ptolemäerreiches,’ Klio 20: 273–302 Stolper, M. W., 1989, ‘Registration and taxation of slave sales in Achaemenid Babylonia,’ ZA 79: 80–101 Stolper, M. W., 1993, Late Achaemenid, Early Macedonian, and Early Seleucid Records of Deposits and Related Texts (Supp. Annali dell’Istituto Universitario Orientale), Naples Stolper, M. W., 1994, ‘On some aspects of continuity between Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylonian texts,’ AchHist VIII: 329–351 Stronach, D., 2005, ‘Ernst Herzfeld and Pasargadae,’ in A. Gunter & S. Hauser (eds.), Ernst Herzfeld and the development of Near Eastern Studies 1900–1950, Leiden, Boston: 103–135 Van Groningen, B. A., 1933, Aristote. Le second livre de l’Économique, édité avec une introduction et un commentaire critique et explicatif, Leiden Veenhof, K., 1986, ‘Cuneiform archives: an introduction,’ in K. Veenhof (ed.), Cuneiform Archives and Libraries, Leiden: 1–36 Wiesehöfer, J., 1994, Die “dunklen Jahrhunderte” der Persis (Zetemata 90), Munich

22 GRECO-HELLENISTIC SOURCES, PERSIAN AND MACEDONIAN INSTITUTIONS: CONTINUITIES, CHANGES AND ‘BRICOLAGES’*1 1 INTRODUCTION I fear that the connection between my contribution and the general theme of our Workshop will be considered somewhat loose, not to say remote. It concerns Macedon at least as much as the Achaemenid empire – in fact, some of the discussion is devoted exclusively to Macedonian institutions. I have chosen it not simply because it combines two of my chief interests – the Macedonian and Achaemenid empires – it is also that the subject is the result of my thoughts about methodology, which I hope to present as clearly as possible. Within the general framework of continuities/breaks, one often wonders – and rightly so – about the Persian or Macedonian origins of the various components making up the institutions of the Hellenistic kingdoms; at the same time, one has to consider how and to what extent they inter(re)acted. Alexander’s conquest and the period of the Successors naturally represent a decisive phase in this respect, a time when new institutions came into being, although there are also counter-arguments to this view. But the question presupposes clarification of a prior problem, a methodological one, which arises from the nature of the body of available evidence. Obviously, the Alexander historians make up an important part of this. Yet such texts are also used by historians of the Achaemenid empire, not only those interested in Macedonian institutions. And that raises a problem: what criteria for analysis can we use which will allow us to conclude that this or that element is something typically Macedonian * 1

First published as “Sources gréco-hellénistiques, institutions perses et institutions macédoniennes: continuités, changements et bricolages,” in H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg, A. Kuhrt & M. C. Root (eds.), Achaemenid History VIII: continuity and change, Leiden 1994: 283–310. This French term is untranslatable, at least in the way that it has been defined by Cl. Levi-Strauss in La Pensée sauvage (1962; trans., The Savage Mind, 1966) to characterise the process of creation in so-called ‘primitive’ societies. There it is marked by “mythical thought”, in contrast to the scientific thought processes of present-day societies, with “the Scientist creating events (changing the world) by means of structures, and the ‘bricoleur’ creating structures by means of events” (La Pensée sauvage, 1962, p. 22). The term has been widely adopted in anthropological and sociological literature, including by Anglophone writers. Here, it is used to refer to changes that were not planned which, while partial, were nevertheless real, in contrast to a deliberate policy used by Alexander (the so-called ‘Orientalization’) in order to effect profound and controlled transformations.

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which Alexander transferred to the conquered countries, or something typically Achaemenid which he copied in the course of his conquest and that was later adopted by his successors?2 The organisation of the Macedonian court prior to Philip and Alexander is so poorly known, that it is tempting to attribute Achaemenid influences on Macedonian institutions which are attested solely in texts of Alexander’s time or that of his successors – but we should reflect carefully before drawing such general conclusions.3 In some instances, an identical or comparable custom may be found among both the Argeads and Achaemenids, without necessarily implying Achaemenid influence. Just two instances (among several) will serve to illustrate this: *Royal gifts, well attested for the Persians [see also above chapter 12]. We know, too, that one of the privileges of the Macedonian ruler was “distributing kau­ sia and purple chlamydes” which signalled “the royal gift par excellence (dōrea basilikotatē)”, and men thus decorated became the king’s philoi (Plutarch, Eum. 8.12). Comparisons with Achaemenid practice are not hard to find. The term “royal gift par excellence” is found in Arrian (Anab. I 5,4) in almost the same form to describe the gifts Alexander bestowed on King Langaros: “He received great honours from Alexander, in particular those which a Macedonian king regards as the best gifts (kai dōra elaben hosa megista para basilei tōn Makedonōn nomizetai).” Identical and comparable expressions are found in Greek authors speaking of the Great King’s poludōria (cf. Hdt. III 84, 160; IX 109; Xenophon, Cyrop. VIII 2,7; Anab. I 2,27, I 8, 29; Ctesias Persika 22; Aelian VH VII 8). One need not, on this basis, conclude that this was the result of Achaemenid influences, but see it rather as a convergence (cf. also RTP: 56–60). The practice of royal gift-giving was widespread in many ancient societies (cf., e. g., Masson & Yoyotte 1988; Briant 1987 § 4.2 [above chapter 1]), especially the bestowal of garments. The same applies to 2

3

See already Briant 1988: 257, n. 5 on texts relating to royal entries, many of which date from the Hellenistic period. A Babylonian tablet dating to Artaxerxes II (published by Joannès 1988) shows clearly the existence of such ceremonies on the king’s official entries into Susa. [= Id., The Age of Empires. Mesopotamia in the first millennium B. C., Edinburgh (2000): 217–8]. This removes any lingering doubts. Note also a Seleucid period cuneiform text which echoes very closely the ceremonial of the “Achaemenid-Hellenistic” royal entries (Sherwin-White 1983: 267–268). The Macedonian ceremony to which Athenaeus (XI 467c) refers seems genuine as it mentions the obligation (widely attested) to welcome the king beyond the city ramparts (cf. Kalléris 1954: 142). Cf. Kalléris’ interesting discussion (1954: 162–169) on the origins of the court function of the edeatros, entrusted to Ptolemy by Alexander. In his view, this position is Macedonian, not Achaemenid, in origin, although several ancient texts (cf. p. 165, n. 1) suggest a different interpretation. Kalléris’ response (p. 168) is that “as the Byzantine grammarians and lexicographers were unable to find any trace of the former [office] in Greek sources, they found it easy to visualise it as having been adopted from the Persian court, where there was a slightly similar one. But, in fact, the origin of the Macedonian office goes back to practices in the courts of archaic Greek royalty, particularly, the Dorian one.” Whatever one thinks of Kalléris’ interpretation, what emerges is that, ever since Antiquity, the discussion on the origins of certain Antigonid practices and institutions (“Macedonian” or “Persian”) among scholars has continued (see also, Berve 1926 I: 39–40).

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gifts of land and towns, well attested for the Achaemenids (Briant 1985),4 but also known in Macedon (cf. Funck 1976; Hatzopoulos 1988). In the case of Eumenes, the one element that seems to be specifically Macedonian, is the gift of a hat – never, as far as I am aware, attested among the Persians.5 * The second example: Quintus Curtius (VII 4, 32–39) recounts how – in response to a challenge issued by Satibarzanes – a duel was fought between Darius III’s satrap and the Macedonian Erigyos, in order to decide the outcome of an indecisive battle between two evenly matched armies. We know from other instances that several ancient authors liked to present the Alexander/Darius confrontation at Issos as a single combat (cf. RTP: 374, n. 113). Hence the question: should we regard such a duel (monomachia) as an Iranian (or East Iranian) custom adopted by the Macedonians, or one common to both Macedonians and Iranians? The one piece of Macedonian evidence is late, coming from the time of the Diadochi. Athenaeus explains that prominent men and commanders traditionally responded to a challenge by engaging in single combat. And, for this, he cites (IV 155a) Diyllos according to whom, at the funeral of Philip III and Eurydice, Cassander did not restrict himself to performing the usual funerary obsequies for Macedonian royalty (cf. D. S. XIX 52.5) – he also organised a monomachias agon. To this we can add that the tradition of the single heroic combat is well attested in Archaic Greece. A methodological problem linked to using sources from the time of Alexander and the Successors is that Alexander’s campaign transformed Macedon into an itinerant kingdom (Briant 1973: 348–350; RTP: 91–93). The way it worked was based both on traditional Macedonian institutions and Achaemenid borrowings which Alexander increased over time. But several Macedonian institutions are known exclusively from texts of Alexander’s epoch: so how can one reconstruct the “original” Macedonian institutions while ignoring the very special circumstances that only reveal them in situations following the conquest?6 Similarly, how can we reconstruct Achaemenid institutions when they are only attested in Hellenistic sources, without assuming a global continuity – a risky procedure as is well known. There is a further problem connected to the sources: to what degree is this or that institution, which we regard as typically Macedonian, in fact an Achaemenid borrowing predating 334?7 Answering these questions is not easy. Certainly, there are many texts which refer explicitly to national customs, Macedonian8 or Persian,9 often explicitly 4 5 6 7 8 9

[See below chapter 27 § 3.2]. On Plutarch’s text, see the comments by Prestianni-Giallombardo 1991. Cf. the question of the Macedonian assembly (Briant 1973; I cannot cite here the bibliography that has since appeared; I will return to the issue elsewhere. See further on this view of Kienast’s, below § 4; also Briant 1991a (on the royal hunt and paradises in Macedon). Cf. Q. C. III 8,22, IV 8,6, VII 2,1, VI 8,25, VI 9,36, VI 10,23, VIII 4,27, VIII 6,2, IX 6,4, X 9,12; Arrian Anab. IV 11,6, IV 13,1, VII 6,5 etc. On Curtius and the Macedonian traditions, see the critical remarks of Errington 1983. Q. C. III 3,4, 8; III 8, 12–14, IV 5,5–6, IV 10,23, 24; IV 13,26, 14,24, 16,15, V 2,19–21, V 10,12 VI 2,2, VI 4,14, VIII 5,21, X 5, 17 etc.; D. S. XVII.34.6; 35.3, 114.5; XIX 14,5; Arrian Anab. II 11,10, 14,5, III 30,2, VI 30,2, VII 4,7, 6,2–3, 24,3 etc.

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contrasted at the point when Alexander tried to adopt Achaemenid court practice.10 However, the mere mention of Macedonian or Persian customs is not enough to provide clear evidence (cf., e. g., Renard & Servais 1955) – we have to keep in mind the personal agendas of later authors.11 In the circumstances, any discussion on the relationship between Macedonian and Persian institutions means that both have to be analysed in depth. I am not planning to present a synthesis of these problems here, as I think it more profitable to discuss them using just three representative examples. One (2, below) relates to an institution presented as an Achaemenid loan, but which is not in fact attested by any source at the time of the Great Kings. The other (3) considers the ways in which a Hellenistic text, directly concerned with an institutional continuity from the Achaemenids, Alexander and his immediate successors, is used. The third (4–5) deals with defining Macedonian continuities at the time of Alexander, as well as demonstrating the consequences when they are compared to Achaemenid traditions.

10 11

E. g. Plutarch. Alex. 45,1–4, 47,5–12; Q. C. VI 2,1–3, 6,1–11; Aelian VH VII 8. Just one example: according to Curtius (V 2,18–22), Alexander sent Sisygambis Macedonian textiles he had just received and suggested “that she accustom her grand-daughters to work it […].” Sisygambis was deeply offended, “as the women of Persia think it the worst insult to work wool with their hands.” Alexander apologised, explaining that the clothes he wore “were not merely a gift from his sisters, but their work (opus),” and said that he had not realised that there was a difference between Persian customs (cf. quae tui moris) and Macedonian ones (nostri … mores). But could this difference not have been Curtius’ (or his source’s) invention, anxious to paint a picture of Alexander’s filial affection for the Persian princess (cf. V 2,22)? In contrast, note that in Herodotus (IX 109), Xerxes received as a gift from his wife Amestris a garment that she had woven herself. But it is tricky trying to check Curtius using Herodotus, as Herodotus’ story bears all the hallmarks of a tale (Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1980: 48–83). Many ancient authors compare the “decadent kings of the Orient” to women, in whose activities they joined, such as Sardanapalos who, wearing female garb, carded wool alongside his concubines (Ctesias cited by Athenaeus XII 528F); compare Xerxes’ presents to Artemisia and a Persian general: to the first to distinguish himself at Salamis, he sent a panoply, to the second, “a spindle and distaff” (Polyaenus VIII 53,2), thus showing that his general had behaved in a lax fashion, or see the links made between the Cypriot ruler Euelthon and Queen Pheretime (Hdt. IV 162). All these passages are very revealing of Greek images of male/female relations and those between Greece and Asia (cf. Briant 1989), but they supply very little checkable information on the actual situation of Persian princesses at the Great King’s court. (On this, the Babylonian and Persepolis tablets are, despite their conciseness, immensely more informative; in particular, they make it possible to control other information provided by classical authors on the economic status of the princesses: cf. Briant 1985.)

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2 THE “ASSEMBLY OF THE MEDES AND PERSIANS” (ARRIAN, ANAB. IV 7,3): AN ACHAEMENID HERITAGE OR ALEXANDER’S INNOVATION? 2.1 Bessos’ capture and punishment Darius III’s assassination in the Summer of 330 by the conspirators Bessos, Satibarzanes and Barsaentes (Berve 1926, nos.205, 212, 244, 697; cf. Briant 1984a: 77– 80) is well known, as is Alexander’s launch of a war against Bessos, who was presented as a usurper and regicide (RTP: 401–403). Shortly after Alexander’s arrival in Bactria, the Macedonians succeeded in seizing Bessos.12 First, Bessos was tortured, then sent to Bactra to be executed (Arrian III 30,5). According to Curtius (VII 5,40–42), Diodorus (XVII 83,9) and Justin (XII 5,11), Alexander delivered Bessos to Darius III’s brother, Oxathres (and his circle, according to Diodorus), to avenge the king’s murder. Despite Diodorus, who states that their vengeance resulted in his death (XVII 83,9), it looks as though Alexander reserved the final decision for himself: “He stopped the torture so that he might be executed in the very place in which he had killed Darius” (Q. C. VII 5,43). In fact this was decided a little later at Bactra (cf. Q. C. VII 10,10) to which Bessos had been taken on Alexander’s orders (Arrian III 30,5). When he had taken up his winter quarters at Bactra, Alexander “had Bessos taken to Ecbatana to pay with his life for Darius’ assassination” (Q. C. VII 10,10). At this point, Arrian (IV 7,3) describes Alexander’s action more closely: “Then Alexander, having called together all those present, had Bessos brought before them; after accusing him of having betrayed Darius, he ordered that his nose and ears be cut off, then to take him to Ecbatana to be executed there in the assembly of the Medes and Persians (hos ekei en toi Medon kai Person xullogoi apothanoume­ non).” 2.2 Syllogos The passage presents major problems of interpretation. The most common attestations of the Greek term syllogos in the Achaemenid period refers to the periodic mustering of troops in the military centres of the empire – one of which was, certainly, Ecbatana (Widengren 1969: 152–159). Arrian also uses it in a specifically Bactrian context:13 he reports that at the beginning of the Sogdian revolt, there was a rumour that Alexander had ordered the local hyparchs to come together and “that 12

13

There are two versions of Bessos’ capture: one (coming directly from Ptolemy) attributes it to Ptolemy himself; the other, from Aristobulos, maintains that Bessos was handed over by Spitamenes and Dataphernes. Arrian does not express a preference for one or the other (III 30,1–5),while Aristobulos’ version is found in Curtius (VII 5,19–26; 5,36–37), Diodorus (XVII 83,7–8) and Justin (XII 5,10–11). The word can, of course, simply mean “reunion”: cf.,e. g., Arrian I 12,10.

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this gathering (syllogos) would not do them any good” (IV 1,5). This could refer to a local institution, illustrating the existence of social structures specific to Eastern Iran, but also belonging to the military context of a gathering of contingents (cf. Briant 1984a: 82–86). However this may be, Arrian’s expression in relation to Bessos clearly relates to a different institutional situation which could be understood as an assembly of the Median and Persian nobility. Although Alexander did not allow it to pass sentence on Bessos, he thought it essential that Darius’ murderer be executed in front of the most illustrious representatives of the Medes and Persians. 2.2.1 One’s first reaction on reading this is that, as part of Alexander’s Iranian policy, he adopted for his own purposes an extant institution. Arrian’s passage would be the sole evidence of an Achaemenid practice and proof of its adoption by Alexander. It is clear that Alexander did everything to pose as Darius’ avenger following the latter’s death (RTP: 401–403). Thus we know that “he sent Darius’ corpse to Persia with the order to bury it in the royal tombs like those who had reigned before him” (Arrian III 22,6; cf. Justin XI 15,15 and Plutarch, Alex. 43,7). Arrian’s statement fits this general picture. In fact, after referring to Bessos’ transfer to Ecbatana, Arrian gives voice to some serious reservations about Alexander’s new mode of behaviour (IV 7,4): – the mutilation of limbs condemned as “barbarous”; – his desire to “rival the wealth of the Medes and Persians” and the habit of barbarian rulers of maintaining a distance between themselves and their subjects; – adoption of the Median dress and Persian tiara. Arrian then devotes several chapters (IV 8–14) to the cases of Cleitos, Callisthenes and the Pages’ Conspiracy. He acknowledges straightaway (IV 8,1) that these came “a little later.” He returns to this methodological point at the end of his long excursus: “These events occurred a little later, but I have recorded them in connection with the affair between Cleitos and Alexander, thinking them to be more relevant here to my narrative” (IV 14.4). But Arrian’s comparison does not quite work. In the case of the Bessos affair, the only action picked out by Arrian is the command to cut off the nose and ears of the rebel, which was a punishment meted out to rebels well attested in the Achaemenid period.14 As for the assembly of the Medes and Persians, nothing resembling it is attested. Never was such an assembly called together by the Great King in order to pass sentence on a rebel or to have him executed before their eyes. Achaemenid theory and practice seems, moreover, to exclude the possibility of an assembly wielding any kind of control over the Great King’s absolute prerogatives.15 14 15

See Hdt. III 118, 154; Polyaenus VII 13 (calque of Hdt. III 74–75); cf. DB 32–33. The way Herodotus recounts the action of the royal judges under Cambyses shows that their activity was dependent on the royal will and their decision did not affect the sovereign’s decision (Hdt. III 31: the judges referred to a nomos (= custom) “allowing the Persian king to do whatsoever he wished;” cf. Plut. Art. 23,5: the king “is himself law and judge of good and evil”). Diodorus’ account (XV 10) beautifully illustrates the king’s overriding power as he

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The only occasions on which such meetings might have been held would have been the royal succession. Geo Widengren (1969: 102–108) even thinks that, like their successors in Iran, the Achaemenids had the institution of a Landtag of the nobility, who played a role in the election of the new king. But the argument lacks solidity: first, several of the sources he used are late; secondly, the vocabulary used by the Greek writers must be decoded and set into the context of Iranian institutions, their knowledge of which was poor.16 Without discussing all the texts on the Achaemenid royal succession, note that the right of succession was the result of the current holder of the throne selecting a crown-prince. Any intervention by the aristocracy was informal: plotting against the king, joining a pressure group within the court, supporting one or other candidate. There is the possibility that at the end of the coronation ceremony at Pasargadae, the new king appeared at the top of one of the towers (Zendan-i Suleiman, Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1983: 147). It may be that Herodotus is referring to something of this kind in his logos on Smerdis’ usurpation. He says that the magi persuaded Prexaspes to speak to all the Persians who had been called together at the base of the palace walls and proclaim that the person now reigning over them was Cyrus’ son Smerdis and no other. Prexaspes pretended to accept this and addressed the Persians from the top of a tower (pyrgos), denouncing the usurper. Further, “he recited, from Achaemenes down, Cyrus’ paternal lineage” (Hdt. III 74). One might be tempted to conclude, on the basis of this anecdote, that the new king was officially proclaimed to the Persian nobles gathered at the base of a tower at Pasargadae. The person entrusted with this task would have been expected to recite the new king’s genealogy in order to place him in the dynastic line and so attest to his perfect, and hence unquestionable, legitimacy. Even if this is right, such a gathering could not be dubbed an “elective assembly”, as there was no election, but simply a ceremony similar to the Hellenistic anadeixis: it is to this that Plutarch (De Amore Frat. 18: anagoreusai, cf. Briant 1991b) may refer. The king did not hold his position because of such an acclamation, but by dynastic right and divine recognition (so well expressed by Darius in his proclamation at Behistun). 2.2.2 The lack of any direct evidence and the general political context suggests that we should reject the theory of the existence of an assembly of Median and Persian nobles. A subsidiary hypothesis (which I presented in 1984b: 111–112) is that at this time the institution had fallen into disuse, but that it had existed prior to

16

could, if he wished, call upon the royal judges, but also condemn to death (including royal judges: D. S. XV 10,1 = Hdt. V 25), ignoring the judges’ opinion; cf. especially Ctesias, Persika F27 § 70. Neither judges nor counsellors had any power other than trying to persuade the sovereign, whose authority was not limited by any constraining nomos. Note just one example (not cited by Widengren). When Pausanias alludes to Darius the Bastard’s (Nothos) seizure of power (VI 5, 7), he writes that the latter’s success was due to the support of the Persian people (homou ton Person demoi). No-one could deduce from this statement that the “Persian people” rose in his favour and against Sogdianos, wrongly presented by Pausanias as a legitimate son of Artaxerxes I (pais gnesios; cf. Stolper 1985: 115, n. 22). Rather we have here the echo of Darius II’s royal propaganda, keen to demonstrate that the larger part of the nobility was on his side [HEP 605–8 = HPE 588–591].

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the formation of the empire when the king, a kind of primus inter pares, had to present himself before an assembly of clan chiefs. Widengren (1974: 85) cites Herodotus I 98–99, where Deiokes is elected king by a general assembly of Medes. But what credibility does Herodotus’ Median logos have? Besides, if that syllogos (the institutional kind) goes back to pre-conquest times, why would it have been summoned together with the Persian nobles? The (dubious: § 2.2.1) attestations for such an (informal) assembly to acclaim the new kings never mention anyone but Persians.17 2.2.3 There is a third possible theory, namely, that Alexander created an entirely new “institution” which had no prior existence. This may seem something of a paradox. It is interesting to note that initially (Quintus Curtius, Arrian) the king decided to execute Bessos in Bactra; it was only later that he decided the execution should be carried out in Ecbatana in the presence of the Median and Persian nobility. At a time when he was faced with strong resistance in Sogdiana, it was in his interest, on the one hand, to pose again as Darius’ avenger (Curtius) and, on the other, to constrain the West Iranian nobility to take (even if only passively) some responsibility for the execution of a regicide rebel. That was an important aspect of the policy of collaboration in which he hoped the ruling class of Iran to participate. At this point, I am uncertain about how to decide among these three theories; contrasting the “possibility” of one with the “possibility” of the other has no demonstrative value. In any case, this analysis has only served to emphasise the methodological difficulties involved in using a Hellenistic source to reconstruct an Achaemenid institution to which no contemporary text makes an unmistakeable allusion. 3 DIODORUS AND THE PERSIAN CHILIARCH: EXIT THE GRAND VIZIER? 3.1 The Achaemenid hazarapatiš The problem of using Hellenistic texts for reconstructing Achaemenid institutions is also well illustrated by the example of the chiliarch (“commander of a thousand”), which renders hazarapatiš,18 and is generally interpreted as the Grand Vizier of the Achaemenid court. The main difference from the preceding case is that 17 Bosworth (1988: 108) sees Alexander’s decision as reflecting his desire to follow Achaemenid precedent, and cites the execution of the rebel Fravartish by Darius I at Ecbatana. But this comparison is not convincing : while the execution of the “liar king” at Ecbatana is easily explicable (he led the Median revolt and was captured there), the transfer of the Bactrian satrap Bessos to Ecbatana by Alexander is problematic, as is the appeal to the Perso-Median syllogos. The presence of Medes alongside the Persians is particularly puzzling, as we know that from Darius I’s and Xerxes’ reign on the status of Persians was pre-eminent (Gschnitzer 1988; Joannès 1989). 18 Cf. Hesychius, s. v. azarapateis. Ctesias (Persika F15 § 49) gives the title azabarites for Menostanes (D. Lewis 1977: 17–18).

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several pieces of evidence indicate the existence of the office at the court of the Great King. But, at the same time, a crucial part of its reconstruction by historians rests on a text which, in my opinion, is highly ambiguous. Further, it must be stressed right at the beginning that the term Grand Vizier does not correspond to any expression known from the Achaemenid period, and implies assimilation to a wellknown Ottoman institution (B. Lewis 1989: 98–107).19 To illustrate the importance of this individual’s presence at the Persian court, we have a Hellenistic text in Diodorus (almost certainly derived from Hieronymus of Kardia) who, in reporting Antipater’s deathbed dispositions, writes (XVIII 48,4): “As for his son Cassander, he appointed him chiliarch and second in authority (kai deutere­ uonta kata en exousian). The position and rank of chiliarch had first been brought to fame and honour (taxis kai proagoge to men proton) by the Persian kings, and afterwards (meta de tauta palin) under Alexander he equipped him with great power and glory at the time when he became an admirer of this and all other Persian customs (persika nomima). For this reason Antipater, following the same course (kata ten auten agogen), appointed his son Cassander, since he was young, to the office of chiliarch.”

A cursory reading of the passage shows that the chiliarchy fits well into the issues under discussion. Diodorus says that it was adopted by Alexander from the Achaemenids, but does not exclude the possibility that he adapted and remodelled it. The expression he uses (palin) could suggest that the great power and honours conferred to the office holder (Hephaestion) were superadded to the duties given to the Achaemenid chiliarch. The text invites us, as it were, to question it. 3.2 Chiliarch The only way to arrive at an answer is to compare the Diodorus passage with what we know of the Achaemenid chiliarch. A problem is the fact that there are very few occurrences of the term in the Achaemenid period (at least, in the sense of a high court official). Yet another is that these texts provide very little information on the functions performed by this individual. 19

See particularly Christensen 1944: 113–115, who postulates a continuity between the Sassanian hazarbadh and the Achaemenid hazarapatiš, who is defined (p. 113) as “the first official of the empire, through whom the king directed the state.” Then, in view of the lack of information for the Sassanian period, he assumes that “the duty of the grand vizier in the form known from the Caliphate, the form the office retained in all the Islamic states, is directly borrowed from the Sassanian state, as well as the notices which Arab political theorists provide on the position of the grand vizier, are valuable in general on the vuzurg­framadar of the Sassanian empire” (p. 115). Chaumont (1973: 142) is more careful (“However there is no real proof that the chiliarch fulfilled the office of prime minister or grand vizier as it is known later”). Nevertheless, she adds (without any evidence): “… It would be rash to deny the Achaemenid chiliarch any competence in matters connected with the central administration” – why? By repeating that the various Iranian dynasties simply adopted the institutions of their predecessors (ibid.: 142–143; cf. p. 153), there is the risk of creating an [unchanging] “Iranian institutional entity” that never existed.

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Initial comparison with an Achaemenid text involves the expression Diodorus uses about Cassander: “the second”. When C. Nepos (Conon 3.2) speaks of Tithraustes, he writes that he held the position of second in the organisation of power (qui secundum gradum imperii tenebat). Benveniste (1966: 51–65), referring to classical attestations (Volkmann 1937–38), compared them with late texts (Armenian, Middle Persian and Parthian),20 as well as with a passage in a Xerxes inscription, where he asserts, in order to emphasise his legitimacy, “Darius my father made me the greatest after himself” (cf. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1980: 67–69). According to Benveniste (1966: 65), the title “the greatest after him is equivalent to being the second after the king.” Should we then conclude that the Persian chiliarch regularly bore a title exactly as Diodorus transmits it? I doubt it very much for several reasons. In the first place, rather than being a title in the full sense, it is a distinction and nothing allows us to say that it was regularly applied to the chiliarch. Further, even if it were a court title, it seems plain that, on the basis of the known instances, it was not attached to a defined function. It was a mark of favour which the Great King could confer or withhold as he wished. Thirdly, when Diodorus writes that Cassander became the second in power (kata ten exousian),21 he is simply recognising the reality of the relationship established by Antipater between Polyperchon and Cassander, as the former held all power (epimeletes of the kings and strategos autokrator). Cassander’s outraged reaction to his father’s arrangement (D. S. XVIII 49, 1–3) shows clearly that being given the position of second was not a sign of promotion. I thus remain sceptical about the comparison drawn between Diodorus’ terminology and the Iranian title put forward by Benveniste. And this also makes me wonder whether Nepos’ expression (secundum gradum imperii tenebat) allows us to conclude with any certainty that Tithraustes bore the title “second after the king”. Nepos, or his source, simply wanted to indicate that at this time Tithraustes wielded considerable political influence over Artaxerxes22 – which is not the same as saying that he had it because he held the office of chiliarch. 3.3 Chiliarch and hazarapatiš In the wake of Justi (1896) and Marquart (1898), Junge (1940) presented a daring article on the functions of the hazarapatiš. He made him the most important of all titled persons in the ancient Persian state (p. 35), and the chief of the central imperial administration, the royal chancellery (p. 36). He was, according to Junge, the chief finance minister, chief of the military organisation, with control of satraps (pp. 29–36) – in short, the Grand Vizier. And that picture is the one found in virtu20 21 22

The heterogeneity of the dossier is stressed by D. Lewis 1977: 15, n. 70. On the hazarapatiš of the later periods, see Chaumont 1973. This seems to me more rigorous (and neutral) than “the second person in the state” suggested by Goukowsky 1978a: 68 (ad loc.). On Tithraustes’ career, cf. D. Lewis 1977: 18, n. 95 (= p. 19).

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ally all studies of the central Achaemenid institutions, be it Olmstead (1948: 217, basing himself on Justi 1896 and Junge 1940),23 Cook (1983: 144 referring to Junge) or even more recently Dandamaev (& Lukonin 1989: 111–112, citing Diodorus and referring to Junge and Marquart).24 As far as I know, only David Lewis (1977: 16–19) was able to detach himself partly from this widely held opinion.25 Junge naturally cited the Diodorus and Nepos passages (p. 35, n. 5, but not closely) to support his thesis. But the foundations of his argument are now outdated.26 He based himself mainly on the existence of the audience reliefs in the Persepolis Treasury, under the impression that by placing these reliefs showing the haz­ arapatiš27 in such a location was prime evidence for his function. But the researches of the Tilias (cf. Tilia 1978; Shahbazi 1976b) have demonstrated that the reliefs were moved (probably by Artaxerxes I) and had originally been located in the central panel of the eastern and north-eastern façades of the Apadana staircases. As a result, all Junge’s theories on the pre-eminent role of the chiliarch in chancellery administration, finance and the army must be abandoned. 3.4 The functions of the chiliarch The only way forward is to concentrate simply on the label “chief of a thousand” and examine the chiliarch’s role wherever he appears. When Nepos talks of Conon’s demand for an audience, he says that “in accordance with Persian custom (ex more Persarum),” he first approached Tithraustes the chiliarch. He explained his wish to speak with the Great King “as no-one can do this without being introduced” (3.2– 3). He then reports a conversation between Tithraustes and Conon, with the former reminding the latter that the royal audience necessitated the performance of proskynesis. Should Conon refuse to comply, he might pass a message to the king via Tithraustes himself, which is what happened (3.3–4). With respect to another audience, the one requested by the Theban Ismenias again from Tithraustes, Aelian (VH I 21) reports an identical anecdote, explaining that “the chiliarch had the duty of announcing ambassadors to the king and introducing them.” Contrary to Conon, 23 “[He] was the most powerful official at court.” 24 “Supreme control over the entire state and all the civil servants;” cf. also p. 228: “The highest civil servant in the state.” 25 Nevertheless he continues to describe the chiliarch as Grand Vizier (pp. 17–18). Hinz (1969: 68) thinks that Junge had gone too far with his conclusions. 26 See Gabelmann 1984: 13 (and n. 40). Cook only mentions this in passing, and continues to regard Junge’s article as a “fundamental study”. As he writes: “But he [Junge] was probably right in seeing the hazarapatish as potentially (and often in practice) the most important person at court after the King from an early stage in the history of the Empire.” Cook appears not to have noticed the basic contradiction in his argument. The example serves to show yet again the strength and permanence of the authority of interpretations once they have been described as “fundamental”. It is a great pity that no recent historian has paid attention to D. Lewis’ lucid scepticism (1977: 15, n. 71 & 18, n. 93). 27 If it is indeed he! (see below n. 36).

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Ismenias rejected Tithraustes’ offer to transmit his message and agreed (slily!) to perform proskynesis. Exactly the same is reported by Plutarch (Them.27.2–7) when Themistocles arrived at the court, where the chiliarch Artabanus addresses him in the way Tithraustes had Conon and Ismenias.28 This is reminiscent of the definition given by Hesychius of the word azarapa­ teis: “They are court announcers (eisaggeleis) among the Persians.” So this function seems to be well attested.29 More precisely, he was the one in charge of the royal audience, with below him a substantial staff.30 This explains why for so long (cf. Justi 1896) there has been a general agreement that it is the chiliarch who is shown on audience scenes at Persepolis (Junge 1940).31 And it is thought that it is to this function of supervising and filtering access to the court that the title “commander of a thousand” is attached. The title itself is a common one within the organisation of the Achaemenid empire. In a very general way, it is thought that the chiliarch connected to the court was in command of the corps of 1000 melophoroi, selected from among the 10,000 Immortals – the guards depicted at Susa and Persepolis.32 He had the duty of royal body guard (cf. D. S. XI 69: Artabanus in command of the doryphoroi).33 3.5 List if chiliarchs As far as I know just nine individuals are given this title: – Rhanosbates, who accompanied Darius I in the Scythian campaign (Polyaenus VII 12) – Clemens of Alexandria cites someone called Orontopates in an analogous position (FGrH 3 F174) – Aeschylus (Persians 304) refers to the chiliarch Dadakes (he also names Artembares “commander of the 10,000 cavalrymen”) – Artabanus was chiliarch at Artaxerxes I’s court (Plutarch, Alc. 27,2); he was head of the palace guards and presented as “the most powerful in terms of influence” (D. S. XI 69.1) 28 29 30 31 32 33

Cf. Philostratus, Vita Apoll. I 127 (where the official in charge of introductions is simply called “satrap”). See Lewis’ reservations (1977: 18–19, note). Cf., for instance, “those in charge of the gates” (Hdt. III 77), separate from the announcer (eis­ aggeleus; I 84, 118). But see Hinz for a different opinion (1969: 63 ff.); cf. n. 34. On the doryphoroi/melophoroi, see particularly Heracleides of Cumae, ap. Athenaeus XII 514b. Hesychius (s. v.) describes their role as: therapeia persike tou basileos. Artabanus, one of the chiliarchs, is linked with the doryphoroi (D. S. XI 69,1). D. Lewis (1977: 17 & n. 91) thinks that in the time of Darius III, the chiliarch (Nabarzanes) commanded the cavalry corps of the Royal Kin, but nothing like that is to be found in the Arrian passages cited in support (III 21,1 & 23,4; cf. the next note) – with the exception that the cavalry accompanying Nabarzanes were the melophoroi, who had been with Darius at the Battle of Gaugamela (III 13,1). But that does not mean that Nabarzanes (not named in the battle order) was their regular commander.

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Plutarch (Them. 29,2) mentions a second chiliarch, Rhoxanes, at Artaxerxes I’s court Menostanes was azabarites (=hazarapatiš) at Sogdianos’ court (Ctesias, Persika F15 § 49) Tithraustes is twice cited in this position at Artaxerxes II’s court (Nepos Conon 3,2; Aelian VH I,21) Diodorus (XVII 5,3) calls Bagoas a eunuch and the chiliarch (ho chiliarchos) responsible for the assassination of Artaxerxes III. He also describes him as the “most loyal of the friends” of Artaxerxes III on the occasion of the reconquest of Egypt in 343 (XVI 47,3; cf.4). At that time, he was in command of one of the army divisions, before being given control of the Upper Satrapies (50,8). Finally, Nabarzanes held the title under Darius III34

Most of these chiliarchs are only known from brief allusions and the historicity of some is very doubtful. The list could be added to if one allows – with Junge and his followers – that all those who performed the functions usually attributed to the chiliarch bore the title. Other “court announcers” are known from classical sources, such as Prexaspes acting for Cambyses (Hdt. III 34: tas aggelias esephoree) and Aristozanes for Artaxerxes III (D. S. XVI 47,3: eisaggeleus). The usual conclusion is that they were chiliarchs (Junge 1940; 19), but that remains to be proved.35 At Astyages’ court, it was the royal cup-bearer Sakas who fulfilled this role (Xen. Cy­ rop. I 3,8): “His role was to introduce those who demanded an audience with Astyages and turn away those he thought not fit to be granted entrance.” 3.6 Chiliarch and Grand Vizier All in all, there is virtually nothing in the surviving evidence that makes the chiliarch into a Grand Vizier, controlling the whole central state apparatus. We are much too ignorant of the central court’s organisation to be in a position to say that the chiliarch indeed occupied the top position.36 The only function regularly per34 Arrian (III 21,1) describes him (after Gaugamela) as “chiliarch of the cavalry who fled with Darius”. But at III 23,4 he is given the title chiliarchos tou Dareiou. Berve 1926, no. 543 and Bosworth (1988: 341–342) considers only the second to be correct. 35 Cf. D. Lewis 1977: 19 referring to Aristozanes. In the case of Prexaspes, regarded as a chiliarch by Junge (1940: 27, n. 1), note that his title is “message bearer”, which is not the same as “court announcer”: cf. Hdt. III 77 where message carriers are eunuchs (similarly, Xen. Cyrop. VII 5,60–65). In Herodotus III 140, the pyloroi transmit to the king Syloson’s request and bring him the royal answer. 36 Is it, in fact, right to use the singular? We should remember (cf. 3.4) that two chiliarchs are attested at the start of Artaxerxes I’s reign (Artabanus and Rhoxanes) and that Hesychius, describing the function, uses the plural (azarapateis), as if he were referring to a corps of chiliarchs (cf. D. Lewis 1977: 17, n. 84). Justi (1896: 660) assumed that there were several chiliarchs at the Persian court. This is also Hinz’s view (1969: 66–68), who thinks that the figure on the audience reliefs is not the chiliarch as such but the marshall of the court, commanding several staff-bearers (skeptouchoi), while the (nine other) chiliarchs were under the command

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formed by the chiliarch37 is that of keeping individuals seeking audience with the Great King under control and, more generally, maintaining order in the palace aided by the 1000 melophoroi of the royal guard. This is, obviously, a politically important task as it theoretically allows the holder of the office to block direct access to the king, or indeed organise a plot against him. Obviously, the chiliarch was an important individual – were it not so, it would be hard to understand why Alexander bestowed the title on Hephaestion. But it is hard to see that this function by itself would have conferred on him the pre-eminent position at the court. While certain chiliarchs became individuals to whose opinion the Great King most often lent ear, that was a royal favour not restricted to chiliarchs. The examples of Rhanosbates and Orontopates in Darius I’s court, Dadakes38 with Xerxes, Aristozanes (known as eisaggeleus) with Artaxerxes III and Nabarzanes with Darius III show that their function was connected to the physical person of the king: the chiliarchs therefore had to accompany the king on the move (including military campaigns), during which the court ceremonial was followed as rigorously as in the palaces (Briant 1988). Note, too, that Aristozanes and Nabarzanes actively commanded military troops. 3.7 The chiliarch at Alexander’s court Let us now go back to the Diodorus passage with which I started. There is no reason to reject the idea that the title of chiliarch was adopted by Alexander from the Achaemenids. But it must be set in context. We know nothing as to what prerogatives the title conferred on Hephaestion.39 But when Diodorus (XVIII 48,4) says: “afterwards, under Alexander, he equipped him with great power and glory at the time when he became an admirer of this and all other Persian customs,” he indicates that Hephaestion’s political stature was superior to that of the Achaemenid chiliarchs of the Great King. Hephaestion retained his position as chief commander of the cavalry – i. e. the equestrian, as distinct from the court, chiliarchy (Goukowsky 1978: 177–178). Alexander’s prime concern was to bestow a position of honour on Hephaestion, his closest friend since infancy. With no equivalent title at the Macedonian

37 38

39

of the hazarapatiš proper, who was the commander of the royal body guard. But Hinz’s identification of the chiliarch as a Hofmarschall (the Parnaka of PFT) also creates problems, as Lewis points out (1977: 8–9). But Lewis (1977: 18–19, note) comments that the similarity between the three anecdotes in Plutarch, Nepos and Aelian is rather suspicious, suggesting that all may go back to the same source. If they are really historical individuals! Note that the anecdote about the chiliarch Rhanobastes (Polyaenus VII 12) is a calque of a Herodotus passage on Zopyrus (III 154). The fact that Dadakes is an Iranian name (Schmitt 1978: 37) does not prove that the individual in Aeschylus is historical. Plutarch (Alex. 47,9) states: “Alexander used Hephaestion to communicate with the Barbarians, and Craterus for relations with Greeks and Macedonians.” This does not suggest that he played the role of eisaggeleus, a separate duty at Alexander’s court.

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court, it was logical to adopt the Achaemenid title of chiliarch, especially at a time when the king was planning to put his Iranian policy into practice (cf. Plutarch Alex. 47,9). In other words, Hephaestion’s influence did not derive from his position as chiliarch – rather it is his owing to his influence that he received the title. Moreover, when Hephaestion died, no other Alexander companion was given the title. In very different circumstances, Perdiccas adopted the chiliarch title in 323 (Arrian, Succ. FGrH 156 F1.3; Dexippos¸ FGrH 100 F8.4), while Seleucus received the title and position of hipparch of the Companions (D. S. XVIII 3,4), which corresponded to Hephaestion’s equestrian chiliarchy. Junge (1940: 36, n. 1) sees Perdiccas as direct heir of the Achaemenid chiliarchs. But the circumstances are so unusual that the comparison is not valid.40 The chiliarch title vanishes at Triparadisus, with Antipater arrogating to himself that of epimeletes, which was Macedonian (Hammond 1988). Its reappearance in 319 occurred in special circumstances. The real powers were confided by Antipater to Polyperchon, who took on the duties of epimeletes of the kings and overall military commander. The chiliarch title conferred on Cassander was purely honorific, as he understood only too readily (D. S. XVIII 49,1–3). The results of the enquiry into this particular aspect of continuities/ruptures are rather disappointing. The reason is that the Achaemenid institution itself remains poorly documented and thus barely known. The Diodorus passage has been used both to augment the Achaemenid documentation and provide food for thought on Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities. Such a methodological confusion inevitably leads to errors. Diodorus’ text does not allow us to deduce with any kind of certainty that the chiliarch played the pre-eminent role of Grand Vizier at the Persian court. It would be better, in consequence, to abandon this terminology. 4 THE MACEDONIAN ROYAL PAGES 4.1 The Macedonian traditions Another question is whether the Macedonian rulers had borrowed Achaemenid institutions prior to Alexander’s expedition. Kienast’s answer, in his book of 1973 focussed on Philip II’s systematic Achaemenid borrowings, was positive. Apart from the satrapal system imposed in Thrace (Kienast 1973: 12–15), he laid stress on the court organisation introduced by Alexander’s father, whether it be the royal chancellery (ibid.: 15–19) or the institution of the Bodyguard and the Friends (ibid.: 19–20). In his eyes, the most revealing mark of these Achaemenid influences was the institution of the royal pages (basilikoi paides). He found the central support for his thesis in an Arrian passage (IV 13,1), which features at the time of the Callisthenes affair and what is generally called the “conspiracy of the pages” (IV 13,1): 40

Junge compares Perdiccas’ role in relation to the kings with that played, in his view, by the chiliarch on the occasion of Darius’ succession; but the arguments he presents (p. 27, n. 1) are worthless.

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“It was a practice going back to Philip’s time that the sons (paides) of Macedonian notables who had reached adolescence should be enlisted for the service of the king (therapeia tou ba­ sileos); and, besides general attendance on his person, the duty of guarding him when asleep had been entrusted to them. Again, whenever the king rode out, they received the horses from the grooms and led them up and they mounted the king in the Persian fashion (kai aneballon houtoi basilea ton persikon tropon), and they were his companions in the rivalry of the chase”. (Trans. Brunt 1989).

Curtius twice alludes to the institution. He describes in the first instance that among the reinforcements brought to Alexander at Babylon by Amyntas, son of Andromenes, were fifty young men of the highest Macedonian nobility to serve as bodyguards (ad custodiam corporis).41 “These act as the kings servants at dinner, bring him his horses when he goes into battle, attend him on the hunt and take their turn on guard before his bedroom door. Such was the upbringing and training of those who were to be great generals and leaders.” (V 1,42; trans. Yardley 1984.) He returns to the subject in his account of the “pages conspiracy”: As was observed above, it was customary for the Macedonian nobility to deliver their grown-up sons to their kings for the performance of duties which differed little from the task of slaves. They would take turns spending the night on guard at the door of the king’s bedchamber, and it was they who brought in his women by an entrance other than that watched by the armed guards. They would also take his horses from the grooms and bring them for him to mount; they were his attendants both on the hunt and in battle, and were highly educated in all the liberal arts. It was thought a special honour that they were allowed to sit and eat with the king. No one had the authority to flog them apart from the king himself. This company served the Macedonians as a kind of seminary for their officers and generals, and from it subsequently came the kings whose descendants were many generations later stripped of power by the Romans. (VIII 6,2–6; trans. Yardley 1984.)

4.2 Pages at Alexander’s court The institution continued to exist under Alexander. Diodorus (XIX 52,4) recounts how, in 316, Cassander treated the young Alexander IV and his mother Roxane in the citadel of Amphipolis: “He even removed from the child the pages who had been brought up with him as was the custom (tous eiothotas paidas suntrephestai) and ordered that henceforth his education should not be that of a king but that of a common person (kai ten agogen ouketi basiliken, all’idiotou).42 Pages are also attested later at the court of Philip V (Livy XXXIX 25,8) and Perseus (XLV 6; cf. Hammond 1988: 566). The presence of pages in the retinue of the Diadochs is also documented (cf. Hammond 1988: 195, n. 2). At the Battle of Gabiene (316), Eumenes had with him “two squadrons of pages, each consisting of fifty soldiers” (D. S. XIX 90,1; 91,4). Livy (VIII 24,12) says further that the institution was adopted by the Epirote court very probably following the Macedonian model. The 41 42

Cf. D. S. XVII 65,1: “Fifty sons of the king’s friends, sent by their fathers to serve as bodyguards” (pros ten somatophylakian). On this Diodorus passage, see Hammond’s critical comments (1988: 135, n. 1).

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existence of a corps of pages (six hundred in the time of Antiochus IV) is also attested at the Seleucid court (Bickerman 1938: 38). On the institution itself, the information given by the various writers agrees in most essentials. The pages were adolescents,43 sent to the court by the great families of the Macedonian aristocracy. There they were brought up and trained, particularly in horse riding. They were totally devoted to the king, who wielded complete power over them44 and conferred privileges on them (to eat seated with him). They were vowed to close service of the king, over whose person they had to keep watch permanently.45 Among their tasks was that of caring for the royal horses (cf. D. S. XVII 76,5) and particularly that of mounting the king on his horse. The continuity of the institution in Hellenistic Macedon, among the Successors and at the Seleucid court poses the question of its origin. Was it Achaemenid in origin and copied by Philip II as Kienast thinks?46 4.3 Page and anaboleus On this point,47 it must be admitted that the German scholars’ argument is allusive and unconvincing, as it depends on a preconception. Contrary to his assertion, Arrian’s use of the phrase (ton persikon tropon) does not prove that the corps of pages was borrowed by Philip from the Achaemenid court. There are contexts where the expression refers to use of a Persian custom by the Macedonians (cf. Arrian VI 30, 2–3: Peukestas; VII 4,7: the Susa weddings). But in this instance, the Persian reference only refers to one of the tasks undertaken by the pages: “to help the king mount his horse” (aneballon; cf. Curtius: cum rex ascensurus esset). Among the Persians, the weight of the armour and weapons and absence of stirrups meant that the rider needed help in mounting (cf. Heliodorus IX 15).48 One of the privileges granted to Tiribazus was that “no other than he helped Artaxerxes [II] to mount his horse” (Xen. Anab.IV 4,4: epi ton hippon aneballon). Xenophon’s equestrian treatises make it clear that the expression ton tropon persikon had become a technical expression for Greek riders: “The groom should know how to place the rider on his horse in the Persian manner” (Eq. 6,12; cf. Hip. 1,17), while later texts show that the expression retained its technical meaning into the Roman period (Vigneron 1968: 90–91).

43 44 45

46 47 48

Between 14 and 18, according to Hammond 1988: 371, n. 2. See also Aelian, VH XIV 49 and Val. Max. III 3,3 ext. 1. Cf. also Livy 45,6: “Those called the royal pages (pueri regii) in Macedon are the children of nobles selected for the service of the king (ad ministerium electi regis);” Val.Max. III 3,3 ext. 1: nobilissimi pueri, and Aelian, loc. cit.: “Philip took into his service (therapeia) the children of the most distinguished Macedonians (dokimotatoi).” I accepted this interpretation in an earlier study (Briant 1987: 3 & 6). I nevertheless maintain that this kind of research is extremely interesting. (I return to it in Briant 1991a.) See the discussion by Vigneron 1968: 89–93; cf. also Walser 1983, esp. pp. 17–18.

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And the same applies to the Macedonian cavalry: the presence of squires (anaboleus/­eis) with Alexander are attested by Arrian (I 15,6). At the Battle of the Granicus, Arrian refers to Aretes, from whom the king demanded a replacement lance; he is presented as “one of the royal squires” (anaboleus ton basilikon), although he does not specify him as one of the pages. It is possible that Arrian’s expression is not specific for the corps of pages – whether it is or not, the link with an Achaemenid institution is broken. Moreover, Kienast (who remained unaware of the problem) would have had the greatest difficulty in finding any trace of such a corps at the Achaemenid court, for the good reason that it is nowhere attested – with the exception of his mistaken interpretation of the Arrian passage! A final point is that there is no reason to attribute the creation ex nihilo of the corps of pages to Philip: it is much more likely that the royal pages existed in Macedon well before Philip II and that he did little more than reorganise them (Hammond 1979: 167, 168, n. 1; 401, n. 1). 4.4 Macedonian and Persian education The only conclusions, I think, that the historian can draw from this analysis belong not to the issue of institutional interconnections but the domain of comparative history. From Arrian’s and Curtius’ descriptions it seems that the royal remodelling of the corps of pages represents one of the king’s measures to ensure both that he had a “nursery” of officers devoted to the army and administration and simultaneously the loyalty of the great aristocratic families. The young nobles, entrusted to the king from adolescence on, served essentially as hostages (as Kienast 1973: 266 rightly remarks). The Achaemenids, too, had to deal with this problem. Hence, the young Persians of the aristocracy were sent to the court. There they underwent, in age sets, a long agoge, in the course of which they were trained to become model soldiers devoted to the dynasty. The final act of this training was a rite of passage compared by Arrian himself to the Spartan agoge (RTP: 449–451). For Persians, as Macedonians, the concern was how to transform an unruly clan nobility into a court nobility wholly vowed to serving the interests of the monarchy. In both cases, the “royal” agoge was articulated on the basis of old family and clan traditions – and this is where the analogy ends. There was no corps of pages among the Achaemenids. 5 HERMOLAUS AND ALEXANDER: MACEDONIAN AND PERSIAN TRADITIONS 5.1 Sources and issues To progress further, I think, a re-examination of the “pages’ conspiracy” will illustrate the incompatibility of Macedonian and Persian traditions. According to Arrian (IV 13,2) and Curtius (VIII 6,7), the conspiracy had its origins in an apparently very

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minor event: in the course of a boar hunt, Hermolaus (“the son of a great family who belonged to the corps of pages”) killed the animal charging at the king before the latter could do so. “But Alexander, too late for his chance, was angry with Hermolaus and in his passion ordered him to be whipped in the presence of the other pages, and took his horse from him” (Arrian). Hermolaus, outraged, confided in his lover Sostratos. The young men enlisted five other pages and planned to kill Alexander together. When one of the group denounced them, they were tortured, revealed the plot and executed (Arrian IV 13,3–7; Q. C. VIII 6). It has long been a matter of debate among historians whether Hermolaus and his friends rebelled for purely personal reasons or whether they were acting together with Callisthenes (cf. Seibert 1972: 143–144, 285; Hamilton 1969: 154– 155). The ancient writers themselves held contradictory views on the subject (cf. Plutarch, Alex.55). Ptolemy and Aristobulus developed the theory of a plot with Callisthenes, in contrast to many other court historians (Arrian IV 14,1). The speech placed in Hermolaus’ mouth indicates that his action was political: he wanted to rid the Macedonians of a despot who, in order to present himself as a new Great King, had not hesitated to execute highly respected individuals such as Cleitos, Philotas and Parmenio (Arrian IV 14,2; Q. C. VIII 7). 5.2 Macedonian and Persian etiquettes at hunting-parties 5.2.1 Rather than focussing the discussion on the assumed relationship between the pages and Callisthenes, it seems better to set the episode into its Macedonian and Persian context. In passing, we should note that the punishment the king inflicted on Hermolaus was hardly unusual, as “the king alone had the power to inflict physical punishment on the pages” (Q. C. VIII 6,5). Further, Aelian (VH XIV 49) and Valerius Maximus (III 3,3 ext. 1) state that the pages had to obey perinde ac cadaver: “Philip … wanted them to be accustomed to be always prepared to do anything demanded of them,” says the former.49 So if Hermolaus “was appalled by the outrage inflicted on him” (Arrian IV 13,3), it had more to do with the sentence imposed on him by Alexander because of his behaviour during the hunt. To grasp this point fully, it is necessary to make another detour to Macedonian institutions and their relationship to Persian practices. First, we should compare the outcome of this hunt with that of another in Sogdiana (Q. C. VIII 1,1–18) shortly before the Cleitos affair (cf. VIII 1,19–51). In the 49

Aelian says that the page Aristonetes was birched because “overcome by thirst, he had broken rank and stopped on the wayside to go into a hostelry;” while Archedamos, another of Philip’s pages, “was executed because he had stripped off his arms in order to run for the booty, despite the prohibition against it. He thought he would avoid it, as his smoothness and flattery had such a hold on Philip that he need not fear punishment.” Valerius Maximus’ example of total obedience is one of Alexander’s pages who, during a sacrifice, was struck by a burning piece of coal and chose to suffer in silence, although Alexander deliberately prolonged the ceremony to test him: the example was aimed at Darius III who, had he witnessed the event, would have realised that it would be impossible to defeat such men!

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course of the latter, which took place in a paradise, “an unusually large lion, charged forward to pounce on the king. Lysimachus (who subsequently became king) happened to be next to Alexander and had started to aim his spear at the beast when the king pushed him aside, told him to move out of the way, and added that he was as capable as Lysimachus of killing the lion single-handed” (VIII 1,14; trans. Yardley 1984). At this point, Curtius refers to an earlier hunt in Syria, during which “Lysimachus had single-handedly killed a beast of truly extraordinary size” (VIII 1,15). These passages concerning Alexander remind one forcibly of some from the Achaemenid period.50 There is, first, a Ctesias passage (Persika F14 § 43) part of a long account of the “heroic acts” of Megabyzos: “The king [Artaxerxes I] goes hunting and a lion attacks him. As the beast charges, Megabyzos strikes it with a javelin and slays it. The king’s anger because Megabyzos struck the beast before himself; he orders Megabyzos to be beheaded.” Contrast Tiribazus, who was able to boast of his closeness to Artaxerxes II, which he had gained because of an outstanding service he had rendered: “When out hunting, two lions charged at the king mounted in a chariot; they tore two of its horses in pieces and were about to pounce on the king’s person, when Tiribazus arrived, killed the lions and so rescued the king from a great danger” (D. S. XV 10,3). 5.2.2 In spite of appearances, the two passages do not necessarily contradict each other.51 Each provides complementary information on the ideology of the king as hunter among the Achaemenids. On the one hand, the general rule was to allow the king the opportunity to demonstrate his superiority in everything, especially on the occasion of the hunt. It is a prominent theme of the monarchic ideology of the Near East, also found in the Roman empire and Byzantium (Aymard 1951: 416–419). In killing a lion, the king exalted his capacity as a hunter-warrior and justified his power. That is the meaning of the words spoken by a Laconian ambassador to Alexander who had just slain a wild animal: “You fought well against the beast, Alexander, to decide who should be king” (Plutarch Alex. 40,4). By anticipating Artaxerxes in killing the lion, Megabyzos had challenged the physical virtues which the Great King presented as specifically royal (cf. DNb 32– 45 = XPl 36–5P). But when the very life of the king was threatened, it was the duty of all with him to come to his aid: the first to come forward would be considered as a royal benefactor (cf. Xen. Anab. I 9,6) – hence Tiribazus’ promotion. 5.2.3 It looks as though on the occasion of the royal hunts in the Middle East, Alexander adopted the customs of the Achaemenid court and with it the monarchic ideology. As I see it, we have here an illustration of a more general policy, i. e. his Iranian policy, or the Iranisation of an Alexander who was acting increasingly like the Great King. This suggests that he thus broke with traditional Macedonian practice. That is what Curtius refers to when he writes at the end of the hunt in Sogdiana: “Although Alexander emerged safe from the affair, the Macedonians decreed, 50 51

Knauth & Najmabadi 1975: 116–117, too, note the comparison, but do not draw any particular historical inferences. See the Appendix below.

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in accordance with their national custom (gentis suae more), that the king should no longer hunt on foot or without a select group of nobles and friends” (VIII 1,18). True, the Great King too was accompanied by nobles and favourites when hunting. But what underlies Curtius’ words is that Macedonian traditions did not grant the king the exclusive role which, in principle, the Great King had.52 We may assume that, almost certainly as shown on the Sidon Sarcophagus, Persian and Iranian nobles henceforth accompanied Alexander and his Macedonian companions on the hunt and the latter were now obliged to adopt Persian practices.53 The political and institutional context of the royal hunt provides a better understanding of the reaction of Hermolaus and his companions. Speaking of the royal pages, Arrian (IV 13,1) says “that they were his companions in the rivalry of the chase” (tēs epi thera philotimias basilei koinōnoi). So they not only accompanied or escorted the hunters (Q. C. V 1,42; VIII 6,4: comitantur), they could also pursue the game. To gain a better understanding of Arrian’s passage, we can compare it with one in the Cyropaedia (I 4,14), where the young Cyrus opposes Astyages who wants only him to hurl the spear at the prey in accordance with royal custom (basi­ likōs). Cyrus, on the contrary, insists that “all my comrades give chase and compete (diagonizesthai) and do their very best.” The adoption of Achaemenid royal behaviour collided head on with the ideas of Alexander’s young companions, who were accustomed to a less restrictive Macedonian etiquette, which partook more of the agōn than the arkhē. The same contrast is expressed by Cleitos and Callisthenes. 5.3 Boar hunt and Macedonian rite the passage Another element of the story should be examined, as it offers an additional key – namely that the hunt during which Hermolaus distinguished himself was a boar hunt. Now this is a typically Macedonian hunt, not Middle Eastern, where the royal hunt is almost exclusively the lion hunt – at least in the representations of court art (cf. Briant 1991a). One particular piece of evidence is that of Hegesandros, cited by Athenaeus (I 18a): “The Macedonian custom was that a man could not eat reclining unless he had caught a boar without using a net; until then, he ate sitting upright.” And he continues: “This is why Cassander at the age of thirty-five dined seated with his father, as he had not managed to achieve this, although naturally courageous and a good hunter.” Leaving aside the ideological attack on Cassander (which is not our concern here),54 the main aspect that emerges is of a Macedonian custom which 52 53

54

As Vidal-Naquet already noted (1984: 361): “In opposition to the royal hunt … [the Macedonians] re-established, even extended, the aristocratic rule.” Br. Tripodi (Messina) has pointed out to me that the interpretation of the expression used by Curtius (gentis suo more) is ambiguous: the reference to Macedonian traditions may only relate to the word sciuevere (“they decided, decreed”). Like that the passage would refer to the rights held by the Assembly (whatever its nature might be), not to court etiquette. On this, see Errington 1983: 92–93 (who is hypercritical of Hegesandros’ passage); also Briant 1991a.

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there is every reason to assume reaches back into the distant past. It must have been linked to a kind of rite of passage from adolescence to full manhood, during which the young man had to prove his courage on the occasion of a boar hunt, when he had to face the animal without the help of a net. It was a major achievement to face on one’s own a “noble” animal – generally, such a hunt was by a group of people equipped with nets (Aymard 1951: 299–318). Subsequently, the young man was incorporated into the community: as in the Orient, the reclining banquet was in Macedon a princely privilege (Dentzer 1982: 445). The line between the institution of pages and that of age sets was thus clearly marked. Curtius describes them as adulti liberi. Arrian (obviously using the same source) writes: es helikian emeirakisanto, i. e. at the moment they reached adolescence. Probably, they had to pass through this test in the last age set, before graduating from the final phase which would permit them to enter the class of adults.55 It is also significant that Curtius says that they ate seated with the king. He presents this as a royally granted privilege. But the only privilege was that of eating with the king, while the Hegesandros text makes it possible to see that they did not yet belong to the ranks of the adult companions of the king, his hetairoi. And it is that passage, I think, which helps us to understand Hermolaus’s violent reaction. Alexander punished him for having single-handedly killed a charging boar. In other words, he had just accomplished precisely the exploit which, under normal circumstances, would have allowed him to gain the status of adulthood,56 and enter the circle of the king’s hetairoi. Instead he was most humiliatingly degraded, birched under the eyes of his friends and his horse confiscated. If this interpretation is right, it confirms the deep rupture created by the adoption of the Achaemenid etiquette at Alexander’s court.57 And it gives us a better understanding of Hermolaus’ accusations against the king, who had adopted Median dress and wished to introduce proskynesis (Arrian IV 14,2). In the speech Curtius places in his mouth, denunciation of Alexander’s Iranisation recurs like a Leitmotif (VIII 7). When he has Hermolaus say that Alexander had transformed “a kingship over free men [into] a despotism over slaves” (VIII 7,1), we seem to hear Callisthenes reminding Anaxarches that the Macedonian king, unlike a Cambyses or a Xerxes, had to exercise power “not by force but in accordance with nomos” (Arrian IV 11,6).58 55 56

57

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See especially Sergent 1986: 202–205. According to Curtius (VIII 6,25), after Hermolaus had been chastised by Alexander, Callisthenes “asked them [Hermolaus and his companions] to remember that they were already men” (eos iam viros esse). Vidal-Naquet (1984: 363) observes on this: “It matters little whether Callisthenes actually did this or not, but what is clear from the story is that Alexander was struggling with the black hunters and wanted it to stop.” See also the Suda, s. v. basileioi paides: the title given by Alexander to his eight thousand young men raised in Egypt as soldiers. Hammond (1988: 20, n. 1) compares these royal pages to the young Iranian epigonoi trained in the Macedonian manner. Extension of the title to thousands of young men of non-Macedonian origin shows a profound change to the original institution; on this, cf. Hammond 1990: 277–280. In passing, note the selection made by Callisthenes/Arrian among the Great Kings as counters to traditional Macedonian rulers: Cambyses and Xerxes, i. e. those kings who, in the Greek

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My final, and brief, remark is a reminder of the methodological issue. An analysis of continuities/breaks between the Achaemenids and the Hellenistic kingdoms can only be done properly if one is in control of the evidence for both sides of the institution: the Macedonian and Persian. If not, one runs the risk of creating a scaffold of fragile hypotheses.59 Prudence is particularly needed when a Persian institution is only known from a Hellenistic text which implies or explains an adoption by Alexander and his successors. Adoption of an institution need not necessarily result in a major change; it may also result in significant ad hoc changes (‘brico­ lages’); and, finally, it may simply be an illusion, created by the rash utilisation of sources from the period of Alexander and the Diadochi. APPENDIX SERVICES RENDERED AND ROYAL ETIQUETTE The historical interpretation of the comparison between the Megabyzos and Tiribazus episodes (§ 5) raises some problems relating to institutions and requires further clarification of the rules governing royal etiquette. We know that the king did not hunt alone; it is, indeed, probable that the royal hunting parties included the whole court.60 But for the hunt itself, only some very close companions and courtiers were with the king; here he was surrounded by his closest companions and nobles.61 Clearly it was a great honour to be included as a hunting companion of the king – as emerges from Plutarch’s account of Themistocles (Them. 29,6). As shown in the examples of Megabyzos and Tiribazus, the royal hunts provided a prime setting for nobles to distinguish themselves in the king’s eyes and an exceptional opportunity for attracting royal favour, in return for a service rendered.62

59 60 61 62

imagination, represented the typical Persian despots, i. e., immoderate in all their actions. See the rightly critical remarks of Kuhrt 1989: 218 on the apparent similarity (often assumed) between the Persian tribute system and the Athenian one. See Athenaeus XII 514c (the Great King is accompanied by the whole court, including his concubines): to be compared with the Indian customs reported by Strabo (XV 1,55) and Curtius (VIII 9,28). Ctesias Persika F14 § 43, Aelian VH VI 14 & D. S. XV 10,3. Following Calmeyer (1979: 59), note that, in a fragment (ed. Hultsch XX F90), Polybius recounted the reason for the division of Cappadocia: it is the story of a Persian (whose name is unfortunately lost) who, during one of Artaxerxes’ lion hunts, had saved the king’s life by killing with his sword a lion who had attacked the king’s horse. In gratitude, the king gave him as a dōrea the entire territory he could see from the top of a mountain. The text raises some problems of interpretation. It differs from the family legend of Otanes who “had obtained sovereignty of Cappadocia free of tribute” (D. S. XXXI Exc.Photii, pp. 517–518); this is obviously the Otanes of 522 (cf. Hdt. III 83–84). The story contains the well-known motif of territorial delimitation, found in both Greek (e. g. Polyaenus VI 24) and Iranian traditions (cf. Root 1989: 46; see also RTP: 461–462). However this might be, Polybius’ story shows the popularity of the motif of aiding the king engaged in a lion hunt.

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But to compete in terms of keenness in proximity to the king, was to run the risk of offending him. Megabyzos experienced that in its most extreme form. Before making a move, the noble had to analyse the situation. The same applied to courtiers who, before offering advice, had first to inform themselves of the king’s wishes.63 According to Aelian, this was even strictly regulated at court.64 The same etiquette applied to the royal hunt and it is quite unrealistic to imagine that the interaction between nobles and king was only managed at a symbolic level. The rights and duties of his hunting companions were regulated by a strict code of behaviour. Several texts make it clear that they were not entitled to anticipate the king in making their moves. Xenophon attributes to Cyrus the Great, then at Astyages’ court, the granting of the freedom to his companions of “competing” with him (Cyrop. 1 4,14), as against the court rule mentioned by Astyages. Other texts refer both to court etiquette and changes to it – but how to date such changes to royal hunt regulations is problematic. In his collection of royal sayings, Plutarch attributes two innovations to Artaxerxes “the son of Xerxes, surnamed Longarm.” The king, he says, “was the first to introduce as a punishment for ‘chiefs’ who had committed a crime that, instead of undergoing a physical flogging and having their hair pulled out,65 it was their garments that were flogged and their tiaras, which they had removed, that were torn apart” (Moralia 173d; cf. ibid. 565A). He also says that Artaxerxes I was “the first to want his hunting companions (sugkunegetountes), who were able, and wished to do so, to have the first shot” (Apopht. Reg. Artaxerxes (I), 2 = Moralia 173D). Further, in his life of Themistocles (Them. 29,5), Plutarch has Artaxerxes I, at the beginning of his reign (en ekeinoi toi chronoi = Themistocles’ arrival at court), make major innovations relating to the court and his friends (pollon de kainotomoumenon peri tēn aulēn kai tous philous). He does not go into detail of what they were. He writes simply that the honours granted to Themistocles “roused the jealousy of the [Persian] aristocrats (dunatoi),” and goes on to explain: “It is true that the honours received by Themistocles were nothing like those given to foreigners (xenoi). He took part in the king’s hunts and palace entertainments, and was even admitted into the presence of the king’s mother becoming one of her intimates …” (29,6). It is tempting to take the two passages as complementary and credit Artaxerxes I with changes to hunting etiquette. But I think the question is more complicated than it seems, for several reasons: 63 64

65

See, for instance, Hdt. III 154 (Zopyrus), IV 97 (Coes). As he writes (VH XII 62): “Whoever had advice to offer to the king relating to certain difficult matters of which it was forbidden to speak placed himself on a golden brick (chrusos plinthos). If the advice was considered good and helpful, the brick was his reward; but, he also received strokes of the whip for having dared to flaunt a royal prohibition.” (In passing, one wonders whether this object is the same as that he describes as a ‘golden millstone’ (mulē chrusē), which Ctesias classifies as “the most striking gift bestowed by the king among the Persians” (Persika F13 § 26)? We should also mention that Aelian’s ‘golden brick’ has sometimes been compared to the object on which the royal counsellor stands as depicted on the Darius Vase (cf. Francis 1980: 85 [citing Brunn] and Villanueva-Puig 1989: 293.) This must in fact have been a whig.

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1) If we accept it, it becomes harder to explain Artaxerxes I’s conduct towards Megabyzos. It is difficult to see why the king was furious at him for killing the lion, if it was this same ruler who had modified the royal rules relating to the hunt at the beginning of his reign. It is not enough to say that in reality the king could do as he wished: for political reasons (the relationship with the Persian aristocracy), he was compelled not to infringe regulations he had himself decreed.66 2) There is also the fact that Plutarch confuses Artaxerxes I and II, even though, in the Apophthegmata, the anecdotes relating to each are distinguished from each other (and separated, in the text, by the remarks and acts of Cyrus the Younger). Among matters credited to Artaxerxes I is the punishment inflicted on the chamberlain Satibarzanes, guilty of bribery (Moralia 173E), yet we know from Ctesias (Persika F30 § 73) that this dates to Artaxerxes II’s reign. 3) We also know, from Plutarch himself (Moralia 173F; Art. 3,4; 5,5–6), that Artaxerxes II modified court regulations, in particular those relating to the royal audience. In my opinion, these acts are part of the rivalry between Artaxerxes and his brother Cyrus, each trying to gain the support of dignitaries and grand families (cf. e. g. Ctesias Persika F16 § 63; Xen. Anab. I 6 [HEP 649–650; HPE 630–1]). Given this state of affairs, it is possible that the innovations attributed to Artaxerxes I should in fact be credited to Artaxerxes II – at least, some of them. As for those assigned to the former in the Life of Themistocles, they seem to be associated with the introduction of the Greek statesman into the circle of court favourites, rather than reflecting substantial modifications in the etiquette of the royal hunt. It is quite likely that at the time of Artaxerxes I, strict etiquette forbade Megabyzos to strike at the lion before the king, while changes under Artaxerxes II make it possible to understand the marks of honour he bestowed on Tiribazus for killing the lions attacking the king’s chariot. REFERENCES Aymard, J., 1951, Essai sur les chasses romaines des origines à la fin du siècle des Antonins (Cyn­ egytica) (BEFAR 171), Paris Benveniste, E., 1966, Titres et noms propres en iranien ancien, Paris Berve, H., 1926, Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, Munich (repr. New York 1973) Bickerman, E., 1938, Institutions des Séleucides, Paris Bosworth, A. B., 1988, Conquest and Empire. The reign of Alexander the Great, Cambridge 66

It is true, as Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg rightly pointed out to me, that the novelistic nature of the Megabyzos story does not necessarily imply that Artaxerxes I’s reaction was justified with reference to the rules of court etiquette. There are obviously other symbolic aspects in play. But the story certainly belongs to a political and institutional context which, in the light of Plutarch’s contradictory statements, needs clarification.

22 Greco-Hellenistic Sources, Persian and Macedonian Institutions

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Briant, P., 1973, Antigone le Borgne. Les débuts de sa carrière et les problèmes de l’assemblé maé­ donienne, Paris Briant, P., 1984a, L’Asie Centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux du premier millénaire av. n. è., Paris Briant, P., 1984b, ‘La Perse avant l’empire: un état de la question,’ IrAnt 19: 71–118 Briant, P., 1985, ‘Dons de terres et de villes: l’Asie Mineure dans le contexte achéménide,’REA 87: 53–72 Briant, P., 1986, ‘Alexandre et les “katarraktes” du Tigre,’ in J.-M. Pailler (éd.), Mélanges offerts à Monsieur Michel Labrousse (= Pallas hors-série), Toulouse: 11–22 Briant, P., 1987, ‘Institutions perses et histoire comparatiste dans l’historiographie grecque,’ AchHist II: 1–10 Briant, P., 1988, ‘Le nomadisme du Grand Roi,’ IrAnt 23: 253–273 Briant, P., 1989, ‘Histoire et idéologie: les Grecs et la decadence perse,’ in M. Mactoux & M. Geny (éds.), Mélanges Pierre Levêque II, Paris: 33–47 [= ‘History and ideology: the Greeks and “Persian decadence”,’ in T. Harrison (ed.), Greeks and Barbarians (Edinburgh Readings on the Ancient World), Edinburgh 2002: 193–210] Briant, P., 1991a, ‘Chasse royale macédonienne et chasse royale achéménide: la chasse au lion sur la fresque de Vergina,’ DHA 17: 211–255 Briant, P., 1991b, ‘Le roi est mort, vive le roi!,’ in J. Kellens (éd.), La religion iranienne à l’époque achéménide, (Actes du Colloque du Liège, 11 Décembre 1987), Gent: 1–11 Brunt, P. A., 1989, Arrian: History of Alexander and Indica (Loeb Classical Library), Cambridge MA Calmeyer, P., 1979, ‘Textual sources for the interpretation of Achaemenian palace decorations,’ Iran 18: 55–63 Chaumont, M. L., 1973, ‘Chiliarque et curopalate à la cour des Sassanides,’ IrAnt 10: 139–161 Christensen, A. Ch., 1944, L’Iran sous les Sassanides (2nd ed.), Copenhagen Cook, J. M., 1983, The Persian Empire, London Dandamaev, M. A. & V. Lukonin 1989, The Culture and Social Institutions of Iran, Cambridge Dentzer, J. M., 1982, Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche­Orient et dans le monde grec du VIIIe au IVe siècle avant J.­C., Rome, Paris Errington, R. M., 1983, ‘The historiographical origins of Macedonian “Staatsrecht”,’ Ancient Mace­ donia 3: 89–101 Francis, E. D., 1980, ‘Greeks and Persians: the art of hazard and triumph,’ in D. Schmandt-Besserath (ed.), Ancient Persia: the art of an empire, Malibu: 53–86 Funck, B., 1976, ‘Zu den Landschenkungen hellenistischer Könige,’ Klio 60: 45–55 Gabelmann, H., 1984, Antike Audienz­ und Tribunalszenen, Darmstadt Goukowsky, P., 1978, Essai sur les origines du mythe d’Alexandre (336–270 av. J. C.) I: Les origines politiques, Nancy Gschnitzer, F., 1988, ‘Zur Stellung des persischen Stammesadels im Achaimenidenreich,’ in G. Mauer & U. Magen (Hsg.), Ad bene et fideliter seminandum: Festgabe für Karlheinz Deller zum 21. Februar 1987 (AOAT 220), Kevelaer, Neukirchen-Vluyn: 87–122 Hamilton, J. R., 1969, Plutarch, Alexander. A Commentary, Oxford Hammond, N. G. L., 1979 (with G. T. Griffith), A History of Macedonia II, Oxford Hammond, N. G. L., 1988, (with F. W. Walbank), A History of Macedonia III, Oxford Hammond, N. G. L., 1990, ‘Royal pages, personal pages and boys trained in the Macedonian manner during the period of the Temenid monarchy,’ Historia 39: 261–289 Hatzopoulos, M., 1988, Une donation du roi Lysimaque, (Meletemata 5), Athens, Paris Hinz, W., 1969, Altiranische Funde und Forschungen, Berlin Joannès, F., 1988, ‘*ig.gurki = Suse,’ NABU, note 19 Joannès, F., 1989, ‘La titulature de Xerxès,’ NABU, note 37 Junge, P. J., 1940, ‘Hazarapatiš,’ Klio 33: 13–38 Justi, F., 1896, ‘Der Chiliarch des Dareios,’ ZDMG 50: 659–664

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Kalléris, J. N., 1954, Les anciens Macédoniens. Étude linguistique et historique I (Collection de l’Institut Français d’Athénes 81), Athens Kienast, D., 1973, Philipp II von Makedonien und das Reich der Achaimeniden (Abh. Marburger Gelehrten Gesellschaft 6/1971), Munich Knauth, W. & S. Najmabadi, 1975, Das altiranische Fürstenideal von Xenophon bis Ferdousi, Wiesbaden Kuhrt, A., 1989, ‘Conclusions,’ in P Briant & Cl. Herrenschmidt (éds.), Le tribut dans l’empire achéménide (Actes de la Table Ronde de Paris, 12–13 novembre 1986; Travaux de l’Institut d’Études Iraniennes de l’Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle), Paris: 217–222 Lewis, B., 1989, Istanbul et la civilisation ottomane, (French trans.), Paris (English original: Istan­ bul and the Civilization of the Ottoman Empire, Norman OK, 1963) Lewis, D. M., 1977, Sparta and Persia (Cincinnati Classical Studies, n. s.1), Leiden Marquart, J, 1898, ‘Untersuchungen zur Geschichte von Eran. 6: Hazarapet,’ Philologus 57: 227– 234 Masson, O. & J. Yoyotte, 1988, ‘Une inscription ionienne mentionnant Psammétique Ier,’ EA 11: 171–179 Olmstead, A. T., 1948, History of the Persian Empire, Chicago Prestianni-Giallombardo, A. M., 1991, ‘Recenti testimonianze iconografiche sulla kausia in Macedonia e la datazione del fregio della Caccia di Vergina,’ DHA 17: 257–304 Renard, M. & J. Servais, 1955, ‘À propos du mariage d’Alexandre et de Roxane,’ AC 24: 29–50 Root, M. C., 1989, ‘The Persian Archer at Persepolis: aspects of chronology, style, and symbolism,’ REA 91: 33–50 Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H.,1980, Yaunā en Persai: Grieken en Perzen in een ander perspectief (PhD Leiden), Groningen Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H., 1983, ‘The Zendan and the Ka’bah,’ in H. Koch & D. N. McKenzie (Hsg.), Kunst, Kultur und Geschichte der Achämenidenzeit und ihr Fortleben (AMI Ergbd. 10), Berlin: 145–151 Schmitt, R., 1978, Die Iraniernamen bei Aischylos (Sitzungsber. Wien, phil.-hist. Kl. 337), Vienna Seibert, J., 1982, Alexander der Grosse (Erträge der Forschung 10), Darmstadt Sergent, B., 1986, L’homosexualité initiatique dans l’Europe ancienne, Paris Shahbazi, A. S., 1976, ‘The Persepolis “Treasury Reliefs” once more,’ AMI 9: 151–156 Sherwin-White, S. M., 1983, ‘Babylonian chronicle fragments as a source for Seleucid history,’ JNES 42: 265–270 Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire. The Murašû archive, the Murašû firm and Persian rule in Babylonia, Leiden Tilia, A. B., 1978, Studies and Restorations at Persepolis and Other Sites of Fārs, Rome Vidal-Naquet, P., 1984, ‘Alexandre et les chasseurs noirs,’ in Arrien, Histoire d’Alexandre. L’Ana­ base d’Alexandre le Grand (trad. P. Savinel), Paris: 355–365 Vigneron, P., 1968, Le cheval dans l’antiquité gréco­romaine, Nancy Villanueva-Puig, M. C., 1989, ‘Le vase des Perses. Naples 3235 (Inv. 81947),’ RÉA 91: 277–298 Volkmann, W., 1937–38, ‘Der Zweite nach dem König,’ Philologus 92: 85–316 Walser, G., 1983, Der Tod des Kambyses,’ in H. Heinen et al. (Hsg.), Althistorische Studien Her­ mann Bengtson zum 70. Geburtstag dargebracht von Kollegen und Studenten (Historia Einzelschr. 40), Wiesbaden: 8–18 Widengren, G., 1969, Der Feudalismus im alten Iran (Wiss. Abh. Arbeitsgemeinschaft f. Forsch. d. Landes Nordrhein-Westfalen 40), Cologne, Opladen Widengren, G., 1974, ‘La royauté de l’Iran ancien,’ActIr 1: 85–89 Yardley, J., 1984, Quintus Curtius Rufus: The History of Alexander (Penguin Classics), Harmondsworth

23 ALEXANDER IN SARDIS* 1 THE HISTORICAL QUESTION Immediately on his arrival in the Troad, Alexander, according to Diodorus (XVII 17, 2), “hurled his spear and, having fixed it in the ground, was the first Macedonian to leap ashore, declaring that he would receive Asia from the gods as spear-won (δορίκτητος) territory.” Justin, too, has the king be the first to throw a javelin, as though on enemy soil, hostilis terra, “and he leapt from the vessel in full armour glowing with joy” (XI 5, 10). With such highly significant gestures, Alexander proclaimed that everything won in the future would be definitive conquests. In other words, as Plutarch explains in his De Fortuna Alexandri, Alexander did not come to Asia merely to seek for booty. His proclaimed aim was to conquer the empire of the Great Kings, built up by Cyrus the Great and his successors.1 This, however, was not just an assertion of great ambitions reflecting an ideological vision of the war it was also a solidly planned project. Ever since his boyhood, Alexander had displayed a special interest in the administrative organisation of the Persian empire. From Plutarch we hear how he interviewed the Great King’s ambassadors who had come to Pella: “He gained information about the length of the route and the manner of travel within the empire, the person of the King, the bravery and strength of the Persians” (Alex. 5,2). In anecdotal fashion, Plutarch shows the young prince’s concern for the logistical problems posed by an expedition which his father was in the process of planning. And there can be little doubt that, by 334, he had relatively precise information on satrapal government. It is even plausible that Philip borrowed the Achaemenid model of satrapies when he organised the “Strategia of Thrace”. Further, ever since the reign of Philip II in particular, contacts with the satraps and satrapies of Asia Minor had been fairly frequent. There is, for instance, the fact that. around 356, Artabazus, satrap of Daskyleion, had been declared a rebel (Diod. XVI 22). A little later, he went into exile at Philip’s court, where he lived until he was recalled in 343/2. Artabazus belonged to an old family, which had occupied the position of satrap in Daskyleion virtually uninterrupted since the early fifth century. He went into exile in Macedon with all his children, ten sons and eleven daughters, born to him from his marriage with the sister of the two Rhodian condottieri, Mentor and * 1

Original publication: ‘Alexandre à Sardes,’ in J. Carlsen (ed.), Alexander the Great; myth and reality (ARID Suppl. 20), Rome (1993): 1–15. On these well-known questions, see Briant 1979, 1980.

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Memnon, the latter of whom accompanied him into Macedonian exile (cf. Briant 1985: 182–185). We should also note that, in the course of what one might call the pre-conquest period beginning in Philip’s time, the Macedonians had taken the opportunity to establish yet closer ties with some regions in Asia Minor. Alexander’s father had actually sent an army detachment into Asia Minor under the command of Parmenio and Attalos, with the command to “liberate the Greek cities.” As a result of the victorious counteroffensive conducted by Memnon, the expedition was not as successful as had been hoped. But it remains the case that in 334 Alexander was not setting off into the great unknown. He was definitely well aware that matters could not be decided simply by victory in the field. To consolidate his conquest, he would need to put in place suitable administrative measures in order to secure the transition from Achaemenid power. It is not my intention here to put forward a new synthesis of the Macedonian conquest of Asia Minor. What I hope to do is to study Alexander’s administrative policies and possible continuities with Achaemenid practice. At the same time, I want to consider the responses to the shock of the conquest by Persian officials and the subject communities. I hope also to show that a close reading of Arrian in the context of other sources makes it possible to put forward interpretations which escape the rapid reader, but which make perfect sense once set into the context of Achaemenid institutions. In order to do this, at least in part, I shall use as my example the measures taken by the conqueror at Sardis which, at that time, was the most prominent centre of Achaemenid rule in the west. 2 ALEXANDER’S ARRIVAL IN SARDIS After despatching Parmenio and Kalas to Daskyleion, Alexander and his army continued their march towards Sardis. Arrian’s account of Sardis’ surrender is rich in information not only about the administrative measures which were then put in place, but also about the attitude of some high level Persian officials in the satrapy. Arrian’s text runs as follows: Then he moved towards Sardis. When he was about 70 stadia from the city, there came to meet him Mithrenes, commander of the Sardis acropolis (ὁ φρούραρχος τῆς ἀκροπόλεως τῆς ἐν Σάρδεσι), as well as the notables of Sardis (καὶ Σαρδιανῶν οἱ δυνατώτατοι). These (μέν) surrendered their city; as for Mithrenes (δέ), he handed over the citadel (ἄκρα) and the treasury (τὰ χρήματα). Alexander, himself, set up his camp near the Hermos, a river that runs at a distance of about 20 stadia from Sardis. He sent Amyntas, son of Andromenes, to take possession of the citadel. He kept Mithrenes near him with all the honours (τιμή) due to his rank. He allowed the Sardians and the other Lydians to follow the traditional Lydian customs (τοῖς νόμοις τε τοῖς πάλαι Λυδῶν) and sent them back free (ἐλεύθεροι). He went up to the citadel where the Persian garιrison was stationed. The position seemed to him strong; the situation was high up, steep on all sides and defended by three layers of ramparts. He planned to erect on it both a temple to Zeus Olympios and an altar. As he was examining the most suitable position for this on the citadel, a sudden storm erupted (in the middle of summer) with violent thunder claps and streams of water which beat down on the palace of the Lydian kings (τὰ τῶν Λυδῶν βασίλεια). Alexan-

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der thought that the god was indicating to him the place where he should put up the Zeus temple and so gave orders. As commander of the Sardis citadel (τῆς μὲν ἄκρας … ἐπιμελητὴν), he left Pausanias, one of his hetairoi, Nicias to deal with the setting and collection of tribute (τῶν δὲ φόρων τῆς συντάξεώς τε καὶ ἀποφορᾶς), Asander, son of Philotas, as governor of Lydia and the rest of the territory subject to Spithridates (τῆς Σπιθριδάτου ἀρχῆς), together with cavalry forces and light infantry considered sufficient to deal with the situation for the moment. He sent Kalas and Alexander, son of Aeropos, to Memnon’s territory (ἐπὶ τὴν χώραν τὴν Μέμνονος) with the Peloponnesians and most of the other allies, except for the Argives who were left at Sardis as the garrison on the citadel.

This text has never, in my view, received the attention it merits. First, as we see, the surrender is made in the course of a meeting with the conqueror at a distance of around ten kilometres from the city. Arrian’s text reminds one immediately of Quintus Curtius’ account (V 1, 17–23) of the surrender of Babylon by Mazaios/Mazday after the Battle of Gaugamela: “Then as Alexander turned towards Babylon, Mazaios, who had taken refuge in the city after the battle, came to him, as a suppliant, with his adult children.” Then Quintus Curtius describes the triumphal entry of the conqueror into the city, along a route “filled all along its length with flowers and crowns.” Bagophanes, the chief treasurer, also came out to welcome his new master. Arrian (III 16, 3) writes: Alexander was already approaching Babylon and had his army in battle formation, when the whole population of Babylon came to meet him, with their priests and magistrates, each group bearing gifts (δῶρα); they handed the city, the citadel, the treasury over to Alexander (πόλις/ ἄκρα/χρήματα).

Similarly, when he approached Susa, he was met by the son of the satrap on the road from Babylon to Susa (κατὰ τὴν ὁδὸν), as well as by a messenger from Philoxenos, whom he had sent to Susa after the Battle of Gaugamela: “In the letter sent by Philoxenos, it was reported that the Susians had handed over the city and that the intact treasure was at Alexander’s disposal” (Arrian III 16, 6). The principle is simple. Any king or people who wished to surrender without fighting had to present themselves outside the city walls, in a ceremony known from the Achaemenid period (cf. Briant 1988), and indeed even earlier (Kuhrt 1990: 122–126). As the Great King moved from time to time with his court, this was the way in which he was formally received. Greeting gifts had to be presented at the same time. Thus, in Susa, the satrap Abulites “came to meet him with gifts of a royal opulence. In addition to these presents, there were exceptionally fast dromedaries, as well as elephants imported from India by Darius” (Q. C. V 2, 9–10). And, similarly, when Alexander crossed the Indus and neared the kingdom of Omphis of Taxila, the latter “emerged [from his capital], with his armed soldiers. […] He handed over himself and his kingdom to Alexander. […] He also presented fifty-six elephants, together with much cattle of an exceptional size, and about three thousand bulls.” (Q. C. VIII 12, 7; 10–11). More examples could be cited of official ceremony, including in Persia, in similar yet somewhat special circumstances (cf. Aelian VH I 31–33). Any who refused to act in this manner were openly declaring their opposition, as, for example, Musikanos: “He had not yet come to meet him in

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order to offer his and his country’s submission; he had not sent ambassadors to draw up a friendship agreement, nor had he sent any presents as was usual in the case of a great king, and he had asked nothing of Alexander” (Arr. VI 15, 5). When he heard of Alexander’s arrival “at his kingdom’s frontier, he hastened to meet the king, bringing him gifts of the most priceless kind among Indians. […] He offered his own and his people’s submission” (ibid.). The behaviour of Mithrenes and the leaders of Sardis can thus be seen to be determined by the institutional framework. Comparing it with these other pieces of evidence makes it possible to complete Arrian’s information. We may visualise the process like this: 1) Mithrenes entered into negotiations with Alexander’s camp once he had received news of the Persian defeat at the Granicus (cf. I 17,3), and 2) Mithrenes and leading citizens of Sardis approached the victor with gifts. After concluding the agreement, Andromenes was sent “to take possession of the citadel (παραλaμβάνειν),” just as Parmenio, a little earlier, had been ordered to take control of (παραλaμβάνειν) the citadel of Daskyleion (I 17, 2). Only after this, did Alexander himself make his official entry into Sardis and ascend the acropolis, thus asserting once more the fact that the city belonged to him. 3 MITHRENES’ SURRENDER AND ALEXANDER’S IRANIAN POLICY Mithrenes’ decision cannot fail to surprise. The situation in summer 334 cannot be compared to that of autumn 331: while one can understand that Mazaios might well have considered Darius III’s position as desperate after Gaugamela,2 it is much harder to understand why Mithrenes did not try to resist. On the one hand, Arrian, confirming the information of Herodotus and Polybius and well illustrated by the Sardis excavations, states that the Sardis acropolis was virtually impenetrable (cf. Pedley 1972: 68–69; Bosworth 1980: 129). At the very least, Alexander would either have had to spend much time to capture it, or to have continued on his way leaving a point of resistance behind him. As things stood, it was essential that he take Sardis given that it was the centre of Achaemenid rule in Asia Minor. Further, abandoning the citadel without a fight allowed Alexander to replenish his finances which had shrunk significantly since the start of his expedition. It is clear that Sardis’s surrender was a godsend for the conqueror, as the surrender of Babylon was to be later: “Mazaios’ arrival pleased the king, as the siege of a city so well fortified would have been a major undertaking.” (Q. C. V 1, 17). Mithrenes’ action surprises inasmuch as, at that time, the Persian commanders who had escaped from Granicus were preparing to mount a substantial resistance. 2

In fact, Mazaios’ precise official position within the Babylonian satrapy is unclear. Mazaios “returned to Babylon with the remnants of the defeated army” (Q. C. IV 16, 7; cf. V 1,17). Had he been ordered by Darius to put up resistance in a well fortified city (V 1, 17)? All we know is that, according to Arrian, after Gaugamela Darius decided to go to Ecbatana, leaving the road to Babylon and Susa open so that the two cities seemed like “the prize of war” (τοῦ πολέμου τὸ ἆθλον)” (Arr. III 16,2).

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Contrast with him Hegesistratos’ conduct to whom “the Great King had entrusted the defence of Miletus. He had, in the first instance, sent a letter to Alexander offering the surrender of Miletus; but then he had regained confidence as the Persian army was not far away, and he hoped to retain the city for the Persians” (Arr. I 18, 4). At the time, the Persians had a maritime superiority (cf. I, 18–20). And Memnon had been appointed chief of the satrapies of the seaboard and “he had long ago organised all the defences [of Halicarnassos]” (Arr. I 20, 3). True, the Sardis satrapy lay vacant as Spithridates, “satrap of Lydia and Ionia,” (Arr. I 12,8) had died on the Granicus (Arr. I 16, 3). The same was true of Hellespontine Phrygia, where the defenders of Daskyleion had evacuated the place (Arr. I 17, 2). But when Alexander, in the following spring, arrived at Kelainai, its satrap Atizyes, too, had left his post. Yet this did not prevent the garrison from refusing to surrender (cf. I 29, 1–3). The commanders declared “that they were ready if necessary to die rather than break their word (pro fide morituros)” (Q. C. III 1, 7). Quintus Curtius uses the same phrase (V 3, 4) in speaking of the resistance offered by Medates in a fortress at the entrance to Persis (pro fide). It is possible that the commander of a garrison as important as Sardis had received instructions from the Great King himself (cf. Tuplin 1987: 230). In any case, it is plain that Mithrenes made his decision without paying attention to any instructions he had (probably) been given by Darius and Memnon. He moved over to Alexander’s side quite deliberately: to repeat Diodorus (XVII 21, 7) – who wrongly calls him satrap – it was “voluntarily (εκουσίως),” that Mithrenes handed over the citadel and treasury. Quintus Curtius (III 12, 7) does not hesitate to label him “traitor” (proditor), which perfectly expresses the situation from the Persian perspective (Alexander was afraid that it might upset the Persian princesses taken prisoner after Issos).3 In other words, Alexander was for the first time able to put into practice the policy which emerges particularly clearly from the point of his arrival in Babylon onwards, but which he must certainly have had in mind from his first arrival on the Asiatic continent: namely, to bring over to his side the Persians, who made up the ruling “ethno-classe” of the Achaemenid empire (Briant 1985: 167–168). With Mithrenes, we have the first attested example of a Persian official responding positively to that policy. And his acceptance must have been the outcome of the negotiations with Alexander that took place, with the latter promising him compensations, to which Arrian refers with the words: “He kept Mithrenes in his entourage with all the honours due to his rank (ἐν τιμῇ ἅμα οἷ ἦγεν).” Arrian uses the same expression in referring to Artabazus’ and his sons’ move to join Alexander, in 330 (ἅμα οἷ ἐν τιμῇ ἦγε), who “were among the foremost Persians” (Arr. III 23, 7). The expressions relate to birth and royal favour (Briant 1990). In other words, Mithrenes agreed to surrender on condition that he continue to enjoy, in Alexander’s retinue, the favours he had enjoyed with Darius and the court titles he had been granted. For the first time, a Persian noble joined Alexander’s entourage and stayed with him until he was appointed satrap of Armenia in 331. 3

We know nothing of Mithrenes before this episode (Berve 1926, no. 324). It is a great pity that we no longer have the section where Quintus Curtius must have described the surrender of Sardis.

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Although we cannot say it with certainty, it is possible that Mithrenes’ example was followed by other Persians, of a lesser stature, whom Arrian does not name (cf. Q. C. V 1, 17). Particularly relevant here would be the Persians of the imperial diaspora, who held land in the satrapies, either in Hellespontine Phrygia or Lydia. They ran the serious risk of seeing themselves stripped of their domains, should they be try to resist the Macedonian advance. Could they have acted otherwise? Arrian notes that in Sardis Alexander entrusted a corps of soldiers to Kalas and Alexander (son of Aeropos). Their orders were to march against the chora of Memnon, situated in the Troad, thus in Kalas’ satrapy (Arr. I 17, 8; cf. Berve 1926, no. 497). Memnon was heading the Persian resistance in Asia Minor. Having ranged himself on the side of those opposing the man who already thought of himself as heir to the Achaemenids, Memnon was thus condemned to see the lands with which the Great King had rewarded him for his services confiscated. The same fate will certainly have affected the lands belonging to Memnon’s in-laws in Hellespontine Phrygia (Briant 1985: 184).4 Mithrenes rapidly saw where his interests lay, despite the risk he ran should there be a successful Persian counter-attack, of which there was a real chance at the time. However, in contrast to his action at Babylon, where Mazaios was appointed satrap, Alexander installed no Persians in responsible positions in Sardis: the military situation was too fragile to allow him to risk it, quite apart from the fact that it would certainly not have met with approval from his Macedonian companions. At the same time, the administrative organisation remained unchanged: a satrap (Asander) to whom the occupation forces were entrusted, a citadel commander (Pausanias) with Argive soldiers to hold the city, and finally someone to raise the tribute (Nicias). This policy we can see being pursued throughout the empire: just as at Sardis, Asander “was appointed to head Lydia and everything under the control (ἀρχή) of Spithridates” (Arr. I 17, 7); so Kalas at Daskyleion, “was made satrap (σατραπεύειν) of the region Arsites had commanded” (Arr. I 17, 1). 4 THE ISSUE OF TRIBUTE Defining the details of the office bestowed on Nicias raises a problem. Arrian states very clearly that Nicias was not simply briefed to raise the tribute (ἀποφορά), but also to fix the tax base (σύνταξις).5 Arrian’s remark seems very apt if we compare it with the measures Alexander took with respect to tribute elsewhere. 4

5

On this, cf. already Robert with respect to Bagadates and Amyzon in 321/0: “There existed in these lands, in the chief city, in the richest territories – Mysia, Lydia, Ionia – a Persian aristocracy. Once Darius’s empire had gone, once Hellenism triumphed in Asia Minor … what could have been the fate of the Persians settled in these regions? How could they maintain their rank?” (Robert 1953 = OMS III: 1532). The case of Bagadates, of course, is from a later time, but if, like J. & L. Robert, one acknowledges that he was a member of a Persian family long settled in Caria (1983: 110, 113–117), it can hardly be doubted that on Alexander’s arrival (or at the latest following the fall of Halicarnassos) he would have decided to join him; cf. also Briant 1985: 169–171 [below chapter 25, p. 521–523]. Below; cf. Bosworth’s remarks (1980: 129–130).

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In general, there is an observable continuity between the Achaemenids and Alexander. On several occasions, we find the expression “Darius’s tribute” used to signal this overall continuity: – Daskyleion (Arr. I 17): the inhabitants had to pay (ἀποφέρειν) the same tibute as they had to Darius; – Aspendos (Arr. I 26, 3) had to supply as many horses as they had given to the Great King as a form of dasmos (cf. I 27, 4). The remission of tribute indicates that there was a continuity in the amount expected: – Ephesus (Arr. I 17, 10): henceforth the city had to pay to the Artemis sanctuary the tribute it had been paying (ἀποφέρειν) to the barbarians; – the Greek cities of Aeolis and Ionia “still subject to the Persians (ὑπὸ τοῖς βαρβάροις)” and “delivered” by Alkimachos: “They were exempted from the tribute they had been paying (ἀποφέρειν) to the barbarians” (Arr. I 18, 2); – Paphlagonians: exempted from the tribute which they had already stopped paying to the Persians (but to which they were still theoretically obliged) (Q. C. III 1, 23; Arr. II 4, 1 is silent on this point); – Mallos was exempted “from the tribute it paid to Darius” (II 5, 9); – this was probably also true of Priene (Sherwin-White 1985: 84–86). On occasion the tribute demand was raised, but this did not fundamentally change the Persian tribute level: – Aspendos, following its revolt, had to pay not just the dasmos which it had paid to the Great Kings, but it was also compelled to pay an annual tribute to the Macedonians (I 27, 4); – Soloi had a fine of 200 talents imposed for having joined the Persian side (Arr. II 5, 5); I am tempted to think that this fine was on top of the tribute usually paid to the Persians. This shows clearly that it is always “the tribute of Darius” (or “the tribute of the barbarians”) which is the point of reference, whether the tribute remains the same, is lowered or raised, or is to be paid into a different fund (Ephesus). It is easy to understand the reason for this. Alexander had neither the time nor the will to reassess the tax base which the Persians had calculated minutely. It was retained at least down to the period of the diadochi, as a recent re-examination of the Mnesimachos inscriptions shows (Descat 1985). Other documents indicate the survival of the Persian cadasters in Hellenistic Asia Minor (cf. Wörrle 1988: 465, n. 205) and the continuity in Hellenistic bureaucratic traditions (cf. Plut. Eum. 8, 5). In some respects, Alexander found himself in a situation similar to that of the Athenians in 478/7. When Aristides was given the task of setting the tribute to be paid by the cities of the Delian League, he took as his base the tribute fixed ever since Artaphernes’ reforms in 493 (Hdt. VI 42).6 This practice was certainly the 6

On the continuity between the Achaemenid and Athenian tribute, cf. Wallinga 1989.

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general one throughout the period of the Macedonian conquest, as attested, for example, by Arrian’s account of Alexander’s order to Cleomenes: “He was instructed to let the nomarchs administer their respective nomes in accordance with long-established (ἐκ παλαιοῦ) practice, but himself to collect the tribute which they had been ordered to render to him personally (III 5, 4).” It seems then that Nicias’ commission would have been quite specific. Does the technical terminology Arrian uses imply that there must have been modifications in the assignment of dues to the various tribute-paying communities of the satrapy? Did Alexander order a revision of the tax base which had, as we think, remained in force ever since Artaphernes’ measures in 493 (Hdt. VI 42)? Was the tribute of Sardis not lowered? That question suggests in turn that the city paid a tribute to the Persians – which poses another problem. 5 THE STATUS OF SARDIS This leads us to consider the status of Sardis, before and after the conquest. We know very little about this in the Achaemenid epoque. Sardis was the satrapal capital, but also the centre of Achaemenid power in Asia Minor. It was linked to the coast (Ephesus) and Phrygia by the Royal Road. The city’s population was extremely mixed: Lydians, Persians, Greeks constituted almost certainly the major communities. But there were also population groups from all over Asia Minor (Phrygians etc.), as well members of the Jewish diaspora. This cultural heterogeneity is reflected in an inscription from Ephesus usually dated between 340–320. It contains a list of forty-six men from Sardis condemned to death because of sacrileges committed at Sardis against cultic ambassadors (theoroi) sent from Ephesus to the sanctuary of Ephesian Artemis in Sardis. The names in the list are Greek and Lydian, as well as “Asian” and Iranian (Masson 1987; Hanfman 1987). Further evidence of this ethnic medley is the diversity of sanctuaries and cults. The temple of Kybebe is well-known from Herodotus’ account of the start of the Ionian Revolt (V 102); here the Persians dedicated, after 479, a statue looted from Athens (Plut. Them. 31, 1). The inscription just mentioned also shows that each community residing in Sardis had its own sanctuary dedicated to its god (an Artemision in this instance). Persian cults also were not unknown. Sanctuaries to Anahita were numerous in the environs of Sardis (Robert 1975) and her cult is also attested at Sardis itself (Briant 1986b: 430–431). An inscription published by Robert in 1975 was taken by him to refer to a sanctuary of Ahura-Mazda, but this interpretation has been challenged recently: it is more likely that it concerns the foundation of a familial cult, on the initiative of the Persian Droaphernes, son of Barakes, governor of (ὕπαρχος) of Lydia, who dedicated a statue to Zeus (Gschnitzer 1986). The same inscription demonstrates the popularity of some Anatolian mystery cults (Ma, Angdistis) in the Lydian capital7. 7

[See now above chapter 2]

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To return to the issue of the status of Sardis, we find ourselves once again in a difficult situation: namely, how to evaluate any changes eventually wrought by Alexander on the basis of a text which presumes such an action.8 Arrian, as we saw, writes: “Alexander allowed the Sardians and the other Lydians to live in accordance with their ancient customs and sent them back free (ἐλεύθεροι).” Does this mean that from Alexander onwards the town obtained the status of a city, which it had not enjoyed under the Persians? The term eleutheria used by Arrian has too plastic a semantic content to permit one to use it as the point of departure for an argument. Ancient authors frequently assert that Alexander granted people the right to live anew according to their nomoi, which one presumes they had lost during the time of Persian rule. But all these texts are dubious in terms of their evidential value, as they transmit an article of royal propaganda, which presents the conquest as a liberation from the unbearable yoke of Persian rule. But in fact we know that, on the contrary, the Persians themselves, as far as it was possible, left local traditions in place, which made it possible for them to make use for their own advantage of the ruling classes of the conquered lands.9 Note, too, that the text alludes not merely to Sardians, but also to “the other Lydians” (cf. below n. 19). In his study of Symbola, Gauthier twice engages with the problem. The first instance relates to a Delphian city decree dating from the first half of the third century, honouring the people of Sardis (1972: 47–50). The Delphians decided “to honour the populace of Sardis for the devotion it showed towards the Delphians.” Gauthier, in his comment on the text, refers to Arrian’s text (p. 49, n. 117), but notes that the existence of a mint from 332/1 onwards and the fact that Sardis was also a royal residence under the Seleucids casts “doubt on the existence of a ‘community of Σαρδιανοί’, with some level autonomy” (but cf. below, note 13). He returns to the subject (p. 240–242) in his analysis of the text of an agreement drawn up between Miletus and Sardis in the fourth century. Referring to opinions by earlier writers on the subject, Gauthier (p. 242, n. 95) reiterates his doubts about the possible existence of a political community of Σαρδιανοί. This view is discussed again in a more recent work (1989: 151–170); according to this, a new coinage struck around 226 in the name of the Sardianoi provides the crucial evidence for an evolution, which he summarises thus: “At this point, the community of Greeks and hellenised natives living in Sardis side by side with each other in the gymnasium and theatre, which had constituted an informal body, organised themselves around 226 into a political unit” (p. 167). Before that, he writes (p. 166), Sardis had “never had an autonomous status”. Elsewhere (1989: 156), he wonders whether Sardis had a politikē chōra, with the following comment: “If so, no document so far known has indicated it. Given that not every ‘inhabitant’ of Sardis and its environs, whether or not he owned land, was a ‘citizen’ (in 213) and there was an enormous variety of 8 9

[See above Chapter 22]. Bosworth’s hypothesis (1980: 129) that the Lydians had their laws restored which had been suppressed by Cyrus when he conquered them is valueless as it rests on a text (Hdt. I 155) which, when compared to many others, simply uses the sterotype of the transformation of the conquered into “effeminate” persons.

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peoples, royal policy had to deal with a great diversity of statuses, in personal and property terms, so the question seems insoluble to me. […] In third century Sardis […] the obligations imposed on, and the rights acknowledged of, village dwellers, [… and] of descendants of Iranians installed in the fifth and fourth centuries […] must have formed a complex mosaic of conditions and statuses, which solely a king’s power and administration could hold together.” Approached in this manner, the question of Sardis’ late transformation into a city reflects normative assumptions, which I am not at all sure are appropriate. Was the subjected status of a town housing a royal administration and a garrison (or a royal mint) peculiar to Sardis? Many other Greek cities of the Hellenistic period had to accommodate a garrison and pay tribute, yet no-one would dream of challenging their polis character. We need to distinguish, I think, between the fact of a city’s existence, and its possible dependence on a foreign power (which may just as well be Greek rather than anything else): royal control does not annihilate a community’s internal organisation, unless one assumes on a purely ideal plane that the very existence of a city is inextricably linked with its independence. Certainly, such an idea has often been espoused by theorists of Antiquity, who have no problem including the cities subject to the “tyranny” of Athens; but, “in practice”, Greeks knew perfectly well how to manage, especially so the Greek cities of Asia Minor.10 While conceding that Sardis’ institutions and society had evolved over the centuries, I do not think that the (sudden, according to Gauthier) formation of Sardis into a polis can simply be attributed to “the decline of the Seleucids and the henceforth more distant and loose control of the Attalids” (p. 166), nor that the absence of civic institutions is explicable (or justified) by the presence of a Persian satrap and his administration. The prevailing impression is that Gauthier’s argument is based on the fundamental conviction that the creation of the city of Sardis is indissolubly linked to its hellenisation (1989: 161–165, 167, 169–170). If it were simply a matter of saying that Achaemenid Sardis was not a Greek city, in the ethnic sense, one would not hesitate to agree. One would also not hesitate to agree that in the Persian period, Sardis’s institutions were not copied from Athens’ democratic ones – as is the case, by contrast, with a majority of the Hellenistic cities in the Middle East, and as may have been perhaps the case later with those of Sardis itself. If that were the proposition then it would be pointless to argue against it. But the argument clearly goes deeper than this. The basic problem is obviously quite other: if Sardis is not a “Greek” city, is it therefore ipso facto the case that it is not a “city” at all? Must we assume that a civic organisation is peculiar to Greece? If not, how can we define (in terms of function) the “civic” (or “non-civic”) nature of this or that institution? What are the characteristics to be differentiated? As Gauthier’s terminology seems to suggest, the very term “city” should be reserved for the Greek world, while the internal organisation found among other peoples (such as Sardis) should be (rather vaguely) designated “informal community” (1989: 167). In other words, if I have 10

See, for example, the situation of the Greek cities of Asia Minor following Artaphernes’ reorganisation in 493: Briant 1987: 3–4 [above chapter1, p. 45–46].

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understood him correctly, something that barely amounts to a community, as there is no “body politic”, i. e. a citizen body governed by common rules and customs, and “informal” because it consists simply of the juxtaposition of a mass of ethnic minorities. But is it true that Sardis really was an “informal community”, and are all the urban communities of the Near East reducible to this model? This is a huge question which Gauthier never really answers, as he seems to consider that by repeatedly insisting on the fact that as the majority of Sardis’s population was not Greek is self-explanatory. I must express my doubts both about the conclusions as well as his justifications. Briefly, I do not see what separates, in terms of function, Greek civic organisations (in all their diversity!) from the communal ones of, for example, the Babylonian community: although a royal residence and seat of the satrapal government, Babylon (both before, during and after the Achaemenids) had its institutions, sanctuaries, citizens (even “metics”), slaves, deliberative assembly, territory:11 in short, Babylon is not merely a town, nor is it an “informal community”, it is a city which, in the Hellenistic period, continued to pursue its own life alongside a Greek foundation.12 One might object that Sardis is not Babylon. The documentation for the Lydian city is vastly less full, but it exists. Of course, we must be careful not to overinterpret the (relative) silence of the sources, on the one hand and, on the other, to ensure that we subject the available documentation to a close reading. I am not sure that Arrian has, as yet, been fully exploited.13 He states that, when Mithrenes came to meet Alexander, he was accompanied by τῶν Σαρδιανῶν οἱ δυνατώτατοι. The expression is hardly precise, but it implies at least that, however they were selected, there were representatives recognised by a community designated collectively as Σαρδιανοί. Thus it seems clear that the Sardians existed as a community and that it operated alongside the Persian governor, i. e. simultaneously separate from, and linked to, him. The subsequent passage is even more revealing: in scanning his 11 12

13

The literature on this is substantial and I will not cite it in full here; for convenience I refer the reader to Dandamayev 1981. For the purpose of methodological comparison, I stress the importance of Van der Spek’s study of 1987 on the Babylonian cities in the Seleucid period, their institutions and relations with royal representatives. It would seem that the Babylonian cities retained their traditional deliberative institutions while not being turned into Greek cities. Thus when a Greek city was founded, we have to reckon with the coexistence of two organisations both of which can be described as “civic”, in the functional meaning of the term: cf. Van der Spek 1987: 67–70 on Babylon (note in passing the transcription of polites as pulite). Gauthier includes Arrian in his discussion (1972: 49, n. 117 & 242, n. 95; 1989: 160), but does not analyse him in detail. He notes, however, in this context (1972: 242, n. 95) that Sardis “enjoyed considerable autonomy under Persian domination and satrapal control did not stop the town from using its ancestral laws” – an interesting way of putting it, scarcely compatible with his other comments on the text (1972: 49, n. 117, where he doubts “the existence of ‘a community of Sardianoi with even a minimum of autonomy’,” and 1989: 160: “As for the old nomoi, that was simply a recognition of a fact: the town was Lydian, Iranians and Greeks (or hellenised natives) constituted the minorities”). The Arrian passage is also cited by Frei (1990: 169), who points out how interesting it is, while taking care to observe that the question of what form the community (Gemeinde) organisation took remains open.

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phrase with μέν and δέ, Arrian distinguishes two agreements: one made by Mithrenes concerns solely the citadel and treasury, i. e. the location and symbols of Achaemenid power; the other is made by the representatives of the Σαρδιανοί: it is they who hand over the city (πόλις) to the conqueror. This seems to me to be evidence of the existence of two powers in Sardis, one, imperial, exercised by representatives of the Great King, the other, local, exercised by the δυνατώτατοι of the town. Such co-existence is characteristic of Persian rule. This conclusion is confirmed when we compare, as I already suggested, the surrender of Sardis with that of Babylon. In Babylon, too, the satrap Mazaios and the Persian treasurer Bagophanes were not the only ones who went to meet Alexander. Arrian writes: “The Babylonians came in a mass (πανδημεί) to meet him, with their priests (ἱερεῖς) and chiefs (ἄρχοντες), each group bearing its gifts and gave him the citadel and the treasury” (III 16, 3). Arrian’s presentation needs to be corrected with the help of Quintus Curtius: it was the Persian leaders (Mazaios and Bagophanes) who handed over the citadel and treasury (of which Bagophanes was in charge, Q. C. V 1, 17–20). Yet, we also see that, as in Sardis, the local leaders had their place, and it was to them (in Sardis as in Babylon) that the task of handing over the city fell – which implies some type of local autonomy (very clear in the case of Babylon). In one instance (V 101), Herodotus characterises Sardis as a πόλις in a phrase analogous to that used by Arrian (I 17,3): πόλις is explicitly opposed to the citadel (which Herodotus calls the acropolis): in Arrian, the πόλις has δυνατώτατοι τῶν Σαρδιανῶν, the garrison a Persian commander. It is, of course, true that the Greek vocabulary for inhabited establishments of the Middle East is not very precise, with the use of the term polis on several occasions clearly wrong (e. g. Ctesias, Persika F16 § 65; Diod. XVII 67, 5; RTP 142–143). What was the Persian perspective? A fourth century Aramaic-Lydian funerary inscription is headed as follows (in Aramaic): “Day 5 of month Marcheswan, in year 10 of Artaxerxes, in Sardis the Fortress (byrt’)” (Cowley 1921; Lipiński 1980: 155). This is the expression found in Achaemenid period Aramaic documents, whether it be Samaria, Xanthos or Meydançikkale in Cilicia (Lemaire & Lozachmeur 1987). The term fortress (byrt’) does not mean that the establishment consists of nothing but a citadel and garrison; in some instances, it designates establishments with all its urban functions (RTP 212– 213); Samaria itself can relate to the province (medinah), the fortress (byrt’) or the city (qryt’) (Cross 1985: 11). But the institutional reality is not reducible to Persian administrative terminology which embraces with the same words a great range of different entities: a community run by a local dynast under satrapal supervision (Samaria) or a centre of Persian power with no tangible autonomous organisation (Meydançikkale). The Xanthos Trilingual demonstrates this very well. The Aramaic version emanating from the chancellery starts with a phrase similar to that of the Aramaic-Lydian inscription from Sardis: “In the month of Siwan, in year one of King Artaxerxes, in the fortress (byrt’) of Arnna,” and the Xanthian decree is presented as a simple “proposal”. Although it refers to the satrap’s authority (Pixodaros), the Greek text, on the contrary, is introduced by a civic formula: “It seemed good to the Xanthians

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and perioikoi …”14 Their dependence on the satrap is plain (both the Lycian and Greek text mention the fact that Pixodaros had appointed two archontes in Lycia), but in the eyes of the Xanthians themselves their internal organisation permitted them at the same time to take decisions within the framework of institutions which can only be described as civic; moreover, the Greek version uses the term πόλις.15 The only point in referring to this well-known example (however many obscurities still remain) is to recall that when studying the Sardian institutions circa 334 they must be placed into the history of relations between the various communities and the Achaemenid imperial administration (cf. Frei 1984, 1990; Graf 1985; Briant 1987). It is against this background that it has become possible to make some more detailed comments on Arrian’s text, which forms the basis for this discussion. There is yet another aspect raised by the Arrian passage. As noted, Alexander stopped 70 stadia distant from the town. Several texts on royal entries show that the meeting between king and city authorities always took place at the frontiers: it is here that the regional satrap or the community head had to come to receive the king (Q. C. VIII 10, 1). This makes it obvious that Sardis had a definable territory, a χώρα which could well be defined as πολιτική. Within this χώρα, the Sardians will undoubtedly have had land which they cultivated and the sanctuaries with their well-defined territory.16 Looked at in this light, the passage in Arrian constitutes a “new” document, inasmuch as it contributes to discussions by archaeologists on the extent of Sardis’s territory.17 If we free ourselves from the usual preconceptions, several different interpretations may be drawn from the extant documentation. First, it must be remembered that the available decrees mentioning Sardis come from other cities, for whom it was irrelevant to refer in detail to the Sardian institutions, the existence of which they both ignore and presuppose. Thus an agreement between Miletus and Sardis dated a little after 334 represents the situation from the Milesian perspective (Schmitt 1969, no. 407). It mentions that delegates had come from Sardis to Miletus. The text ends with the phrase: “These are the Sardians who had been chosen in The question of the status of the perioikoi is discussed by numerous writers (Wörrle, Hahn, Borchardt, Asheri …), but the debates on this do not affect the line of my argument. 15 On the relations between Pixodaros and Xanthos, cf. Asheri 1983: 107–123; Frei 1984: 12–14; Briant 1986b: 434–437 [see above Chapter 3]. 16 Cf. (for the Greco-Roman period) Herrmann 1989: 144–145. It is virtually certain that the Artemis sanctuary was well established in the Persian period, as shown by the Mnesimachos inscription, for one; cf. also the Lydian inscription discussed by Gusmani 1975: 23–24. Among the sanctuaries cited in the inscription of year 44 is a sanctuary sited at Kolo[e]: this must be the sanctuary well-known from other contexts (Herrmann 1989: 147), also cited in the fourth century Aramaic-Lydian inscription from Sardis (Cowley 1921; Lipiński 1980: 154–159; Hanfman 1987: 5). This Ephesian Artemis (Artimus ibsimsis in the Lydian text) must be the divinity referred to in the Sacrilege Inscription, and whose installation at Sardis certainly reaches back several generations (cf. I. Ephesos 2, ll.5–6: κατὰ τὸν [ν]όµον τὸν πάτριον; cf. also the document cited by Hanfman 1983: 221). Obviously, then, these sanctuaries had held sacred lands ever since the Achaemenid epoch. 17 While not referring to Arrian, Hanfman & Waldbaum (1975: 19) stress the difficulty in determining the exact boundaries of the city’s territory. 14

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accordance with the decree (κατὰ τὸ ψήφισμα)” – followed by the names of three Sardians. Gauthier comments quite logically: “Chosen by whom, if not the Assembly or magistrates representing the community?” (1972: 242, n. 95), while immediately adding reservations expressed in an uncertain and contradictory manner (see above n. 13). He returns to it in more detail in his more recent work, while emphasising 1) that the Sardian delegates are labelled angelos and not presbeutes, 2) that no Sardian magistrates are mentioned, and that 3) the Sardians selected have Lydian names. The line of reasoning demonstrates very clearly that, in the author’s view, Sardis was not a Greek city at that point (1989: 161–165). But, while there are some debatable terminological factors, his argument is purely negative, and leaves the question of Sardis’ internal organisation open,18 while the text suggests to me that it had deliberative and representative institutions. The same is true of the Ephesus inscription condemning the Sardians. We should note in particular that Masson, adopting a sensible suggestion made to him by R. Baladié, thought that there must have been a judicial hearing in Sardis: “In such circumstances, the advocates of Artemis had been ordered by Ephesus to have the sacrileges condemned in Sardis itself; when they returned from their mission, they had drawn up and displayed at Ephesus this inscription, giving the results of the court case. But, as R. Baladié has suggested, there must have also have been an inscription, now lost to us, in Sardis publishing the condemnation of the sacrilegers, all of whom came from the town and its vicinity. This would be an example of a two-fold announcement of a decision concerning two towns following a public court case” (Masson: 1987: 228–229). At this point, Masson expresses some reservation, but in such a way as to suggest that he himself is not convinced of its effectiveness: “One possible objection would be that Sardis, at the relevant time, was not yet a Greek-style polis” (1987: 229, n. 15). But would holding a hearing within a tribunal really imply that Sardis was a “Greek-style polis”? Obviously not! Baladié’s very interesting suggestion implies that, on the contrary, the Sardians were condemned in Sardis by a Sardian tribunal. But, then, what is it that differentiates a “Greek-style polis” from a “nonGreek” city where a deliberative assembly is operating?19

18 19

In his 1989 book, Gauthier does not follow up the importance of the remark he made some years earlier (1972, 242, n. 95): “But Sardis’s institutions may be difficult to translate into Greek …” Gauthier does not discuss or refer to Baladié’s interpretation; he simply mentions the document (1989: 161–163) in order to stress the Lydian onomasticon, which he wishes to use in order to say that the (later) creation of the polis of Sardis was linked to its hellenisation (p. 165): but such a suggestion does not answer the question posed by the Sardian institutions. Note that another decree, compared to the Sacrilege Inscription by Robert (1967: 34–35), may represent a text voted a little later by Ephesus in honour of a [Sardia]nos (taken by Robert 1967: 35 as citizen of Sardis), who obtained citizen rights at Ephesus because of the role he had played in supporting the sanctuary of Ephesian Artemis in Sardis. Whether one accepts or not Robert’s proposed restoration of [Sardia]nos, note that the existence of a specific Sardianos polity is implicitly proved by Arrian’s use of the expression (I 17,4): Σαρδιανοί καὶ οἱ ἄλλοι Λύδιοι.

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My discussion does not, obviously, solve all the problems. The reason for that is simple, namely that the current documentation does not allow us to say with certainty that the Sardian δυνατωτοι, a body certainly recognised by the Achaemenid authorities, were selected via an election process in accordance with the city laws of Sardis. At the same time, we should acknowledge that in the current state of documentation we cannot categorically exclude this as, on the one hand, several pieces of evidence suggest that this was indeed the case, and, on the other, no appeal to first principles of what the [Greek] city is can invalidate it. 6 ALEXANDER AND THE TEMPLES OF SARDIS At the level of symbolic politics, the main break seems, in the first instance, to be Alexander’s decision to erect a temple dedicated to the Macedonian Olympian Zeus in Sardis. At first sight, there is little difference between this royal decision and the traditional visit of a king to the chief sanctuary of a city into which he had just made his official and triumphant entry. This was the situation in Babylon, where Alexander did not fail – like Cyrus two centuries earlier – to sacrifice in the Marduk temple, in accordance with the instructions of the Babylonian priests. Taking possession of a country means that one must solemnly affirm one’s alliance with the local gods (Dandamayev 1975; cf. Bing 1991). There was seemingly no question of founding a Greek sanctuary in Babylon. However, in at least one respect, the decision Alexander took at Sardis is not completely atypical. Like Cyrus, who presented himself in Babylon as the opposite of Nabonidus, Alexander was careful to pose as the restorer of temples which, according to Macedonian propaganda, had been destroyed by Xerxes (Kuhrt & Sherwin-White 1987; Kuhrt 1990; Briant 1986a: 95–96). In this respect, Alexander’s action in Sardis is (ideo)logically related to his behaviour in Babylon. The divine sign Arrian describes was plain: by indicating to Alexander that the location be the Lydian palace, the god told Alexander to set himself into the continuity of the Mermnad dynasty, which the Persian conquest had ended. Nothing indicates that the sanctuary was built where a temple previously dedicated to a Persian divinity had stood.20 20

Herrmann (1989: 131, n. 10) is careful to say that the question must remain unanswered. It is clear, as he remarks (cf. n. 55), that the hypothesis depends on Robert’s interpretation of the Sardis inscription, which he takes as showing not merely an Ahura-Mazda cult, but also that the Megistos Zeus or Zeus Polieus known in the Hellenistic period could be analogous to Ahura-Mazda (Robert 1975: 321). But all such inferences have come to nought since Gschnitzer (1986) has demonstrated that Robert’s understanding of the text is wrong (cf. also Frei 1984: 20–21; [above, Chapter 2]). The identity of the Zeus honoured by Droaphernes remains open: he could as well be a Lydian Zeus, attested in Sardis since the sixth century (cf. Johnston 1981: 10; Hanfman 1983: 228). (I do not understand Bosworth’s hypothesis (1980: 129), who thinks that “the presence [of Zeus Olympios] could serve as a counterweight to Kybebe, the patron goddess of Sardis and herself the victim of a Greek sacrilege in the course of the Ionian Revolt.”)

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A Tacitus passage is very interesting here (cf. Herrmann 1989: 127–131). In an account relating to an enquiry by the Roman authorities (in the reign of Tiberius) into the privileges claimed by cities and sanctuaries of Asia Minor (Ann. III 60–63; cf. IV, 14), Tacitus refers directly to Sardis: “The Sardiani prided themselves on a grant (donum) from Alexander” (III 63). The grant clearly related to the Artemis sanctuary, well known from a series of Lydian documents dating to the Achaemenid period,21 and by the no less famous, so-called Mnesimachos inscription (end of the fourth century; Descat 1985). It is in relation to this that the Romans took their decision: they were trying to ensure that places with asylum privileges, where slaves, debtors and criminals could find refuge, should be limited (Tac. Ann. III 60). And a Greek inscription from Sardis, dating from 44 BC, shows that Caesar, too, decided something of this kind in favour of Artemis of Sardis, whose right of asylum was enlarged (Herrmann 1989: 137, 144). Tacitus indicates that other cities and sanctuaries traced their privileges back to the Persian period: this is true of Ephesus, which went right back to the Lydian period in order to stress that its privileges had been preserved through the Persian and Macedonian phases; similarly, Hierocaesarea maintained that its sanctuary of Persian Diana had enjoyed an asylum of 1000 paces ever since Cyrus the Great, while Miletus referred back to a decision by Darius (III 61–63). In contrast, Tacitus describes the inhabitants of Sardis as tracing their privileges back to a less distant time (propriora Sardianos, III 63). At first sight, this seems to imply that such privileges were unknown for the Persian period. However, the construction of Tacitus’ passage suggest a different interpretation. Tacitus’ expression does not, in fact, set up a broad contrast between a period before and after Alexander, rather he contrasts the Sardis (as well as Miletus) claims with those of other cities, such as Smyrna and Tenos, who claimed they rested on divine decisions – which the consuls considered to be “obscure traditions given their antiquity (ob vetustatem)”. It is in this context that Tacitus, following the logic of his text, refers to Sardis and Miletus whose claims, in both cases, did not reach so far back, i. e.: they referred to a historical period and to verifiable documents. The Miletus example – where the claim was justified with reference to an edict of Darius – shows that Tacitus’ expression on Sardis (propriora Sardianos …) and Miletus (neque minus Milesios …) is not intended to contrast the Alexander period with that of Achaemenids. The Tacitus passage is allusive: with respect to Ephesus, for example, he does not refer expressly to any measures taken by Alexander: not only did the latter sacrifice to Artemis, but “the tribute which the Ephesians paid the barbarians, he ordered them to pay to Artemis” (Arr. I, 17,10; cf. 18,2); Strabo (XIV 1, 23) similarly says that Alexander extended the rights to asylum of Ephesian Artemis. Finally, it is remarkable that, in the 44 BC inscription, the measures taken in favour of Artemis of Sardis refer to the similar privileges which Artemis of Ephesus enjoyed, which, as Tacitus says, dated from the Persian period (Herrmann 1989: 143–144): as is well known, the links between Artemis of Ephesus and Artemis of Sardis are well attested in the Persian 21

Cf. Barnett 1969; Hanfman & Mierse 1983: 104; Hanfman 1983: 221–222; Hanfman 1987: 4–5.

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period. It is, thus, possible that simply and in contrast to another sanctuary at Sardis,22 that of Apollo of Aulai (ML 12), Miletus (III 63), or generally the sanctuaries cited in the first section of Tacitus’ story (III 61–62), the temple authorities of Artemis at Sardis were unable to produce documents dating earlier than Alexander. Although it is impossible to be definite on this, the possibility cannot be excluded that Alexander did little more than increasing a privilege which the Sardis Artemis sanctuary had already been enjoying in the Persian period.23 BIBLIOGRAPHY Asheri, D., 1983, Fra Ellenismo e Iranismo. Studi sulla società e cultura di Xanthos nell’età ache­ menide, Bologna Barnett, R. D., 1969, “A new inscribed Lydian seal,” Athenaeum 47: 21–24 Berve, H., 1926, Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage I–II, Munich Bing, J. D., 1991, “Alexander’s sacrifices dis praesidibus loci before the battle of Issus,” JHS 111: 161–165 Boardman, J., 1970, “Pyramidal stamp seals in the Persian empire,” Iran 8: 19–45 Bosworth, A. B., 1980, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander I, Oxford Briant, P., 1978/79, “Contrainte militaire, dependence rurale et exploitation des territoires en Asie achéménide,” Index 8 = RTP: 175–225 Briant, P., 1979, “Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures,” ASNP: 1375– 1414 = RTP: 291–330 [here Chapter 20] Briant, P., 1980, “Conquête territoriale et stratégie idéologique: Alexandre le Grand et l’idéologie monarchique achéménide,” = RTP: 357–403 Briant, P., 1985, “Les Iraniens d’Asie Mineure après la chute de l’Empire achéménide,” DHA 11: 167–195 [here Chapter 25] Briant, P., 1986a, Alexandre le Grand, Paris Briant, P., 1986b, “Polythéismes et Empire unitaire,” Les grandes figures religieuses. Fonctionne­ ment pratique et symbolique dans l’Antiquité, Paris: 425–440 Briant, P., 1987, “Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’Empire achéménide: quelques réflexions et suggestions,” AchHist I: 1–31 [here Chapter 1] 22 23

The inscription Robert published is a re-engraving of the Roman imperial period (Robert 1975: 306–308); the reasons for the reinscription continues to pose problems (Robert 1975: 325–326; Briant 1985: 180–181. [See above Chapter 2]). Herrmann (1989: 131), too, thinks that the summary form of the Tacitus’ passage leaves open the possibility of privileges antedating Alexander. – The hypothesis would gain in strength if one could prove that the Artemis of Sardis had become amalgamated wholly or in part with the Persian Anahita (Persian Diana/Anaïtis; suggested tentatively by Hanfman 1987: 4; cf. Hanfman & Mierse 1983: 104). This is too large a question to be treated in full here, as it would need to include a discussion of the links between Artemis and Kybebe (Hanfman & Waldbaum 1969; Gusmani 1975: 28–30) and on the extent of acculturation between Persians, Lydians and Greeks in Sardis. Note simply that it was in front of the altar of Artemis of Sardis that Orontas swore loyalty to Cyrus the Younger (Xen. Anab. I 6,7). There are also many instances showing Tissaphernes’ devotion to Artemis of Ephesus (Thuc. VIII 109, 1; Xen. Hell. I 2,6; cf. Cahn 1985). There are also the many ties directly linking Artemis of Sardis and Artemis of Ephesus (Hanfman 1983: 221; above note 16). To this we can add that a man with an Iranian name (Mitratas) had close links with the sanctuary of Artemis at Sardis (Barnett 1969; Boardman 1970: 20–21, 39).

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Briant, P., 1988, “Le nomadisme du Grand Roi,” in Mélanges P. Amiet = IrAnt 23: 253–273 Briant, P., 1990, “Hérodote et la société perse,” in Hérodote et les peoples non grecs (Entretiens sur l’Antiquité Classique 35, Fondation Hardt), Geneva: 69–104 Cahn, H., 1985, “Tissaphernes in Astyra,” AA: 587–594 Cowley, A. E., 1921, “L’inscription bilingue araméo-lydienne de Sardes,” CRAI: 7–14 Cross, F. M., 1985, “Samaria Papyrus 1: an Aramaic slave conveyance of 335 B. C. found in the Wadi ed-Daliyeh,” Eretz Israel 18: 7–17 Dandamayev, M., 1975, “La politique religieuse des Achéménides,” in Monumenta H. Nyberg I (A I. Hommages et Opera Minora), Leiden: 193–200 Dandamayev, M. 1981, “The Neo-Babylonian citizens,” Klio 63: 45–49 Descat, R., 1985, “Mnésimachos, Hérodote et le système tributaire achéménide,” RÉA 87: 97–112 Frei, P., 1984, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenidenreich,” in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich, (OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 7–43 Frei, P., 1990, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im achämenidischen Kleinasien,’ Trans. 3: 157– 171 Gauthier, Ph., 1972, Symbola. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy Gauthier, P., 1989, Nouvelles inscriptions de Sardes, II, Geneva Graf, D., 1985, “Greek tyrants and Achaemenid politics,” in J. W. Eader & J. Ober (eds.), The Craft of the Ancient Historian. Essays in honor of C. G. Starr, Lanham MD: 78–123 Gschnitzer, F., 1986, “Eine persische Kultstiftung in Sardeis und die ‘Sippengötter’ Vorderasiens,” in W. Meid & H. Trenkwalder (Hsg.), Im Bannkreis des Alten Orients. Festschrift K. Oberhu­ ber, Innsbruck: 45–54 Gusmani, R., 1975, Neue epichorische Schriftzeugnisse aus Sardis (1958–1971), Cambridge, Mass. Hanfman, G. M. A., 1983, “On the gods of Lydian Sardis,” in R. Boehmer & H. Hauptmann (Hsg.), Beiträge zur Altertumskunde Kleinasiens. Festschrift für K. Bittel, Mainz: 219–231 Hanfman, G. M. A., 1987, “The Sacrilege Inscription: the ethnic, linguistic, social and religious situation at Sardis at the end of the Persian era,” BAI 1: 1–8 Hanfman, G. M. A. & W. E. Mierse, 1983, Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times, Cambridge, Mass. Hanfman, G. M. A. & J. G. Waldbaum, 1969, “Kybebe and Artemis. Two Anatolian goddesses in Sardis,” Archaeology 22: 264–269 Hanfman, G. M. A. & J. G. Walbaum, 1975, Archaeological Exploration of Sardis. A survey of Sardis and the major monuments outside the City Walls, Cambridge Mass. Herrmann, P., 1989, “Rom und Asylie griechischer Heiligtümer: eine Urkunde des Dictators Caesar aus Sardeis,” Chiron 19: 127–158 Johnston, A., 1981, “The Greek coins,” in: Archaeological Exploration of Sardis. Greek, Roman and Byzantine coins from Sardis, Cambridge, Mass. Kuhrt, A., 1990, “Alexander in Babylon,” AchHist V: 121–130 Kuhrt, A. & S. Sherwin-White, 1987, “Xerxes’ destruction of Babylonian temples,” AchHist II: 69–78 Lemaire, A. & H. Lozachmeur, 1987, “Birāh/birta en araméen,” Syria 64: 261–266 Lipiński, E., 1980, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics, I, Leuven Masson, O., 1987, “L’inscription d’Ephèse relative aux condamnés à mort de Sardes (I. Ephesos 2),” REG 100: 225–239 Pedley, J. G., 1972, Ancient Literary Sources on Sardis, Cambridge, Mass. Robert, J. & L., 1983, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie. I: Exploration, histoire, monnaies et inscrip­ tions, Paris Robert, L., 1953, “Le sanctuaire d’Artémis à Amyzon,” CRAI: 1–15 = OMS III (1969): 1525–1537 Robert, L., 1967, “Sur des inscriptions d’Ephèse,” RPh 41: 7–84 Robert, L., 1975, “Une nouvelle inscription de Sardes relative à un culte de Zeus,” CRAI: 306–330 RTP = P. Briant, Rois, tributs et paysans, Paris, 1982 Schmitt, H. H., 1969, Die Verträge der griechisch­römischen Welt von 338 bis 200 v. Chr., Munich

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Sherwin-White, S., 1985, “Ancient archives: the edict of Alexander to Priene – a reappraisal,” JHS 105: 68–89 Tuplin, C., 1987, “Xenophon and the garrisons of the Achaemenid empire,” AMI 20: 167–245 Van der Spek, R. J., 1987, “The Babylonian city,” in A. Kuhrt & S. Sherwin-White (eds.), Hellenism in the East: the interaction of Greek and non­Greek civilizations from Syria to Central Asia after Alexander, London, Berkeley CA: 57–74 Wallinga, H., 1989, “Persian tribute and Delian tribute,” in P. Briant & C. Herrenschmidt (eds.), Le tribut dans l’empire perse, Louvain/Paris: 173–181 Wörrle, M., 1988, “Inschriften von Herakleia am Latmos I: Antiochos III, Zeuxis and Herakleia,” Chiron 18: 421–471

24 THE INSTITUTIONS OF ACHAEMENID SARDIS: AN ADDITIONAL REMARK* In a recently published article (“Alexandre à Sardes,” in J. Carlsen (ed.), Alexander the Great: myth and reality (ARID Suppl.20), Rome 1993: 13–25, in particular (18–23) [see above ch.23]), I expressed doubts about Philippe Gauthier’s historical reconstruction (Symbola 1972 and Nouvelles Inscriptions de Sardes II, 1989) of the institutions in Achaemenid Sardis, which he regards as “an informal community”. I will not re-examine the entire dossier here, but would like just to add one remark suggested to me by two passages I came across recently. First of all, in rereading Herodotus IV 45, I noticed that in the fifth century there existed at Sardis a tribe (phule … Asias). Its name derived (according to Lydian traditions collected by Herodotus) from Asies, “daughter of Cotys son of Manes.” This Manes can be no other than the Masnes, who appears on a Sardis coin of the imperial period, at a time when the city tried to promote its ancient origins (cf. L. Robert, Études Anatoli­ ennes, Paris 1937: 303–304, and Documents d’Asie Mineure, Paris 1987: 115–116). In commenting on this coin, Robert observed that, in his opinion, the names of the Sardis tribes were assigned them only at a late date, even if ancient Lydian traditions were drawn on for that purpose (Ét. Anat.: 158); but the evidence of Herodotus, which he does not cite, undermines that interpretation, at least with respect to the Asias tribe. This view is shared by P. Herrmann in an epigraphic study, which I recently came across by chance in the library of the American Mission to Sardis (“Ein Phyle von Sardis”), in Neue Inschriften zur historischen Landeskunde von Lydien und angrenzenden Gebieten, ÖAW, Phil.-Hist. Kl. Denkschr. Bd. 77/1 (1959): 7–8). Herrmann here published a late inscription which, for the first time, mentions [the tribe] Asias, in the shape of the tribal membership of a citizen of the town, which was discussed without further comment by J. & L. Robert¸ Bull. 1960, no 359. Herrmann stresses that, according to Herodotus IV 45 – which gains in credibility as a result -, such a tribe had existed in Sardis since at least the middle of the fifth century B. C. It is, thus, quite possible that the other tribes known at Sardis existed much earlier than Louis Robert assumed. In any case, if the inhabitants of Sardis (at least those constituting the ruling group: Arrian, Anab. I 17,3) were divided into tribal (i. e. civic) groups, I think that rather supports the thesis I put forward (cautiously) in my 1993 article and at the same time further weakens the validity of the (somewhat vague) idea of an “informal community.” *

First published as “Les institutions de Sardes achéménide: une remarque aditionelle,” Lettre de Pallas 1995, note 1.

25 THE IRANIANS OF ASIA MINOR AFTER THE FALL OF THE ACHAEMENID EMPIRE: THE AMYZON INSCRIPTION* 1 PRESENTATION OF THE PROBLEM One of the most frequently discussed problems raised by Alexander’s conquest of the Achaemenid empire is that of his policy towards Persians and Iranians,1 which has often been contrasted somewhat simplistically, with that adopted by his successors.2 Documentary and historical factors have led to the analysis of Alexander’s Iranian policy usually beginning at the point when ancient authors first mention it directly, i. e. when, after the fall of Babylon, Alexander appointed an Iranian satrap (Mazaios/Mazday). It then emerges ever more markedly as the army from Europe moves on to the conquest of Persis and the satrapies of the Iranian plateau and Central Asia, at which point the numbers of Iranians appointed to high satrapal positions grow apace. But Alexander had to face the issue of co-opting the elites from the moment he landed in Asia Minor. In contrast to the aims Isocrates had set out for Philip, his goal at that point was not limited to liberating the Greek cities or a partial conquest. Alexander’s objective was the conquest of Darius III’s empire in its entirety, which necessarily meant the adoption of Achaemenid administrative structures. The appointment in Hellespontine Phrygia of Kalas after the victory at Granicus and the letter sent to Priene a few weeks later demonstrate this: Alexander is clearly planning to take over the Achaemenid tribute system, mainstay of the Great King’s and the Persians’ power, for himself.3 The narrow military focus of the ancient writers is determined by the immediate imperatives of conquest and the persistent Achaemenid resistance in Asia Minor between 333 and 331. But that does does not mean that during those years Alexander never thought of offering the opportunity of collaboration to those Persians and Iranians who were prepared to submit. On his arrival in Sardis, Mithrenes, the phrourarch of the Sardis acropolis, as well as the leading citizens (Sardianon hoi dunatotatoi) came to meet him; the latter surrendered their city to Alexander and Mithrenes handed over the citadel and treasure.4 The manner in which the city and treasure were handed over recalls the move by * 1 2 3 4

First published as ‘Les Iraniens d’Asie Mineure après la chute de l’Empire achéménide,’ DHA 11 (1985): 167–195. See most recently Bosworth 1980a. Cf. RTP : 30–54. Ibid. 360–362. Arrian, Anab. I 17, 3.

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Mazaios, together with the civil and religious authorities of Babylon, to Alexander after the battle of Gaugamela.5 By coming out from the city to welcome the conqueror, Mithrenes de facto acknowledged Alexander as his legitimate sovereign.6 ‘Alexander kept Mithrenes close to him, with the honours due to his rank,’ just as he did in 330, when he bestowed honours on the Iranian nobles.7 It was a public expression of continuity with Achaemenid court practices; in particular, it served to affirm solemnly that, by submitting to their new master, the Persians would not lose any of the privileges or power. Mithrenes’ example was undoubtedly followed by a goodly number of Persians resident in Sardis8. From then on, Mithrenes remained in the king’s entourage.9 After the battle of Issos, he was entrusted [at least in the first instance] with the task of consoling the captured Persian princesses, because he spoke Persian.10 In Babylon, he was sent to take command of the Armenian satrapy, which had not yet submitted.11 From Spring 333, Sabiktas, who was almost certain a Persian, was in command of Cappadocia12 – another indication of Alexander’s willingness to utilise members of the Achaemenid administration. Iranians were, moreover, particularly numerous in the satrapies of Asia Minor.13 First we should note the extensive satrapal personnel in the provincial capitals: subordinates of the satrap, all kinds of administrators, soldiers. The find of an inscription in Sardis regulating the cult of Zeus Baradates, throws a particularly interesting light on the existence of Persian cults in the Lydian capital;14 but there is also evidence for a strong Persian presence in Daskyleion and Kelainai. Secondly, we should also remember that, after the conquest of the region, Cyrus and his successors distributed domains to Persian nobles with the obligation to supply cavalry troops at the satrap’s command.15 Finally, there were military colonies, fre5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15

Ibid. III 16,3; Q. C. V 1, 17–23. Alexander’s entry resembles that of Cyrus in 539, as reported by Akkadian sources, very closely. On the reception of kings by Hellenistic cities, cf. Briant 1973: 306 & n. 4; Robert 1984: 479–486. Cf. Arrian, Anab. III 23.7. [See above Chapter 23]. Cf. Berve 1926, no. 524. Q. C. III 12,6; [but cf. § 7: “Then fearing lest the sight of the traitor should renew the prisoners’ anger and grief, he sent Leonnatos”: HPE, pp. 842–844]. Arrian, Anab. III 16, 5; Q. C. V 1, 44. Berve, no. 690; Bosworth 1980b: 189. Cf. RTP: 458 ff. for references. Robert 1975. In a recent study, Frei has cast doubt on Robert’s suggested interpretation (see Frei & Koch 1984: 20–21): in his view, Zeus Baradates does not mean Ahura-Mazda, but a local deity of possibly Greek origin. The hyparch’s intervention in this matter should be compared to that of Pixodaros at Xanthos. But such a comparison has little to support it: Droaphernes intervened directly in a cultic matter, while Pixodaros’ action at Xanthos is limited to the administrative sphere (cf. Briant 1986). So Droaphernes’ action makes more sense if Zeus Baradates is in fact the great god of the Persians: ‘He is protecting the purity of Zeus-Ahura-Mazda’z cult.’ Robert 1975: 325. [But see now above chapter 2]. Xen. Cyr. VIII 8, 20; for the Persian cavalry in Asia Minor, see Hdt. V 102; Xen. Hell. III 2, 15.

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quently consisting of contingents from Iran (Persians, Hyrcanians, Bactrians).16 They clustered particularly around Sardis and very probably took part in the battle of the Granicus.17 Robert’s numerous studies, devoted to the survival of Iranian onomastics, toponyms and cults right into the Roman period, have demonstrated that these Iranian communities did not suddenly vanish after Macedon’s victory.18 But simply documenting the fact of this remarkable survival does not by itself answer the question: what was the process that allowed the Iranians to retain their identity, when the political framework, which had given rise to their presence, had changed so radically? The isolated example of Mithrenes is not enough to make the modalities of such a fascinating phenomenon intelligible. 2 BAGADATES, ASANDER AND AMYZON Fortunately, J. and L. Robert have recently published an inscription from Amyzon in Caria, which provides some answers as well as raising new questions.19 L. Robert had already mentioned the document in a preliminary report of 1953, where he laid out the issue with great clarity: ‘In this country, there was, in many a city, in the richest parts of the countryside – in Mysia, Lydia, Ionia – a Persian aristocracy. When Darius’ empire had disappeared, when Hellenism triumphed in Asia, not only by means of its seductive and permeating civilisation, but also politically, when the Greek city became the prime and regular political organism, what was the fate of the Persians living in these regions? How could they maintain their positions to any degree?’20

The Amyzon text records a decree passed by the city in Philip III’s third regnal year, i. e. 321/0, when Asander was satrap of Caria, a post he had received at Babylon. After listing the city’s magistrates (prostates, three archons, an orophylax) and an individual (Menandros), who played a part in making the decision, the decree contains the following clause: ‘The demos of Amyzon decided in the plenary assembly, on the proposal of Asander the satrap, that the neokoros of the temple of Artemis be Bagadates, whom the oracle at Delphi has designated because he is devoted to the affairs of the sanctuary, and he and his son Ariaramnes are to be granted citizenship and immunity from all taxes.’ (Amyzon 2; trans. S. Sherwin-White & A. Kuhrt, From Samarkhand to Sardis [1993]: 122)

Here we have a living, concrete example of the integration of a Persian (or Iranian) family into the body politic of a Greek city. If we remember that the text dates from the period of transition from Achaemenid to Macedonian power, it becomes even more interesting. Moreover, this was a lasting act of integration, as the civic rights were simultaneously granted to Bagadates’ son, Ariaramnes. Another decree 16 17 18 19 20

See esp. Robert 1948; 1975: 322–3; 1976. Briant 1984b: 92–4. Robert’s previous studies are listed in J. & L. Robert 1983: 115–6. J. & L. Robert 1983: 97–118 (cf. Bernard1984, nos.261–3). OMS III: 1532.

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(Amyzon 18), from the time of Antiochus III, shows that the neokoros at the period was also called Ariaramnes; obviously, he was a descendant of the family which had received citizen rights from Amyzon a century earlier. The family of Bagadates had been settled in Caria at the time of Achaemenid rule. The decree makes clear that Bagadates’ devotion to Artemis was one of long standing. The evidence of Iranian names from Caria, although not as rich as that for Lydia, demonstrates the presence of Iranian families at the time of Mausolus.21 We should also note that several buildings at Amyzon date to this period, in particular a dedication by Idrieus.22 We should understand such structures as evidence of the dynastic work undertaken by the Hekatomnids throughout their province, its cities and sanctuaries.23 The decree also provides some insight into Asander’s policy and suggests something about the reaction of Amyzon’s citizens. What emerges very clearly, in the first instance, is that the city was not the prime mover. The proposal was made by the satrap: Asandrou gnomē. And, as J. and L. Robert have stressed, to translate gnomē by ‘proposal’ distorts the realities of the interaction of local and satrapal power. The reality is that the ‘proposal’ was an ‘order’, which the city could not evade. It is here that the role played by Menandros, who ‘contributed to the matter’ has to be considered. Menandros was a Greek, who seems to have been sent as temporary commissar to Amyzon, charged with presenting the satrap’s wishes to the city and to negotiate with the authorities. Consulting the Delphic oracle in such a matter was not a mere banality and should be examined more closely. Asander obviously required consultation of the oracle. The reason is not to be found purely in the religious aspect of the case. The neokoros himself was, after all, himself a priest:24 ‘his duties included maintenance of the sanctuary and ensuring performance of the cult under the authority of the priest, order and respect for the regulations.’ The text’s structure suggests rather that Asander had to force the city’s hand. In other words, there was opposition to Asander’s proposal that Bagadates and his family be incorporated into the civic community. But the city did not have to worry about a total take-over of the sanctuary as the bulk of Artemis’property (land and workers) was under the control of the ‘treasurer of the goddess’, appointed by the city. So was there some kind of opposition on principle against Iranian elements? That is unlikely, because Amyzon was home to an ethnically mixed population: basically, the population was Carian, as shown by the patronymics of several city magistrates; there was also a Greek component settled prior to Alexander’s conquest. This decree, as well as other inscriptions from the same region, attest the increasing use of Greek spoken and written. The Iranians did not live a totally separate existence. As we saw, the text shows that 21 22 23 24

Hornblower 1982: 25–6. Ibid. : 278. OMS III: 1534. On the Hekatomnid building programme, see now Hornblower 1982: 294 ff. On the institution of neokoroi, see also Robert 1975: 318–9 and Debord 1982: 258–60, who stresses local divergences.

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Bagadates’ devotion to the cult was long established. Moreover, the Artemis of the text was neither the Greek goddess nor the Iranian Anahita – she was a local goddess of nature, implying that there were direct links between the Iranian and local population.25 And, of course, the city had nothing to lose by Bagadates’ naturalisation, as he certainly owned estates, which would be attached to the city’s territory. So it seems more plausible to assume that the opposition was the result of purely economic circumstances: perhaps an important family harboured ambitions to gain, or retain, the stewardship of Artemis? What is certain is that Asander’s determination to have the affair settled as he wished is borne out by his sending of Menandros and the appeal to the authority of Delphi. It is obviously impossible to known why the satrap was so set on imposing Bagadates on the community. Presumably he expected that, by appointing a man who owed him everything, it would be possible for him to establish his authority more firmly. In any case, this evidence shows that the thesis that Alexander’s successors were opposed to collaborating with the social and political elites of the Achaemenid empire is built on shaky foundations. 3 HOW REPRESENTATIVE IS THE AMYZON TEXT? Analysis of the document from Amyzon immediately raises the question of how representative it is. Did other Iranians in Asia Minor obtain the politeia of the cities in whose vicinity their estates were located? To the best of my knowledge, we have no other text, comparable in terms of clarity and wealth of detail. There are, however, two other pieces of evidence whose scope and specificity make it possible to amplify our understanding of this issue. 3.1 The first one refers to the introduction of high-born Iranians into the circle of leading citizens of Heraclea-Pontus.26 The importance of Heraclea-Pontus derived from the productivity of its land and the labour of the Mariandynians (laoi, in effect, if not literally); it also commanded a powerful fleet and army and disposed of great commercial wealth. The city had at all times taken care to maintain good relations with the Persians, via an agreement analogous to that drawn up between Miletus and Cyrus. According to Justin XVI 3.9, Heraclea had declined to join the Delian league ‘because of their friendship with the Persian kings (ob amicitiam regum Persicorum)’ – the friendship, in this instance, referring to the sphere of international relations. Its relationship with the Achaemenids made it possible for the city to enjoy a large measure of autonomy – even, at times, real independence. But the satraps of Daskyleion always hoped to bring the city back under their control, less for the sake of the Great King than their own interests. In 364 Clearchus was able 25 26

OMS III: 1532–3 The information relating to Heraclea’s situation and history derives from Burstein 1976. See also Hofstetter 1978: 104–5, no. 179 (Klearchos (2), where the sources are conveniently assembled.

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to gain control of Heraclea with the help of mercenaries supplied by Mithradates, son of Ariobarzanes, the satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia – although he quickly forgot his promise to the Persians to hand the city over to them. At the time of the Macedonian invasion, the city’s close links with the Persians again emerges clearly. Dionysius, who like so many tyrants, feared the return of exiles, sent up prayers that the Great King might triumph. The episode I want to discuss dates from the time of the Diadochoi. In 322, Craterus repudiated his Persian wife, Amastris, daughter of Darius III’s brother, Oxathres, and cousin to Alexander’s wife, Stateira. He then intervened in Heraclea in order to arrange a marriage between Amastris and Dionysius, tyrant of Heraclea. So, at one stroke, a prominent Persian family became part of a Greek city, albeit one which had become a veritable familial dynasty. Amastris bore children and thus a Graeco-Iranian dynasty, the first of its kind, came into being at Heraclea. Amastris was regent from 305 to 300, while the sons she had borne Dionysius ruled the city between 301 and 284. One of them bore the dynastic name Clearchus, the other was called Oxathres after his grandfather, while one of the daughters had the same name as her mother, Amastris. This situation is, of course, profoundly different from that of Bagadates in Amyzon. But it seems likely that the creation of this Graeco-Iranian power base made it possible for the great Iranian families of the area to tighten their links with the city and perhaps even to be integrated permanently into the community. A further fact to note is that Amastris founded a city, formed by the synoecism of four settlements and bearing her name.27 Moreover, several Iranian names are attested in the city of Amastris.28 3.2 The second piece of evidence comes from western Asia Minor.29 Around 243, Smyrna granted citizenship to several groups of soldiers settled in the Seleucid colonies and garrisons of Magnesia-Sipylos and environs. According to the text, the grant was limited to ‘free and Greek’ inhabitants. Another text from the same dossier records a grant of citizenship to a group of soldiers from Palaimagnesia. Part of the text specifies that the same privileges are to be bestowed on ‘Omanes and on the Persians under his command.’ In other words, the Iranians obtained the same privileges as the other colonists; the politeia also gave them the right of retaining their kleroi provided that the area where they were settled was linked (prosorisai) to the city – another method of transferring land to the chōra politikē. It is virtually certain that the Persian soldiers were descended from Iranian colonists settled in the Hyrcanian Plain at the time of Cyrus and his successors.30 Hyrcanis itself31 shows that some Macedonian military colonies, which later became cities, were established on 27 28 29 30 31

Strabo XII 3.10. Robert 1963: 347. Text in Schmitt 1969, no. 492 [= I. Smyrna 573]. See Launey 1950: 669–675 for these texts. RTP : 55; 196 and now J. & L. Robert 1983: 116 and n. 156 : “The Persian soldiers could change their allegiance to serve the Greek rulers and keep their allotments, as shown in the instance of Omanes and the Persians of Old Magnesia (in Sipylos) in the Seleucid army”. Robert 1948: 16–22.

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the sites of earlier Iranian colonies. In this instance, the colonists from the Achaemenid period did not disappear, but were incorporated into the new structure, resulting in a double-name for the polity: Makedones­Hyrkanoi. 3.3 In the absence of any other unequivocal evidence, scholars often have recourse to the high incidence of Iranian names in the onomastica of many regions and cities of Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor to fill it out – the assumption being that this reflects the incorporation of Iranian families into cities. In Caria, for example, Iranian names are attested not only at Amyzon, but also at Tabai, Sebastopolis, Heraclea, Kibyra and others. L. Robert, making an explicit link with Amyzon, makes this plain: ‘It is not an overinterpretation to deduce from the presence of Persian colonies in the region, some more some less important, entire villages or families, who had been granted land and so became part of the local population.’32 For J. and L. Robert there is no doubt that when Iranian names appear among the citizens of a Hellenistic or Roman city, they reflect the presence of prominent Persian and Iranian families, who had experienced a similar fate to that of Bagadates in Amyzon. Iranian names are also well attested in Lycia, Ionia, Phrygia, Lycaonia and even Cappadocia, representing ‘a conservatory of Iranian names.’33 Take, for example, Apamea-Phrygia, founded by Antiochus Sôter close to the site of Kelainai, the Achaemenid capital of Greater Phrygia, where Xerxes had built a palace on his return from Greece and the Persians had laid out an enormous para­ deisos.34 The cult of Artemis-Anaïtis appears on its coinage in the Hellenistic period, and an Iranian (Maiphernes) figures among the mint masters of the city.35 We also know that there were large estates in the vicinity of Kelainai. Pythios (well known from Herodotus) was probably a member of the Persian aristocracy of the imperial diaspora.36 A passage of Plutarch (Eum. 8.5) informs us of the existence of tetrapyrgia in the country adjoining Kelainai. They were probably fortified domains like the tursis of Asidates in Mysia (Xen. Anab. VII 8). Eumenes of Kardia made no attempt in Winter 321/0 to expropriate the Iranian landowners in order to transfer their property to Greeks and Macedonians, contrary to what is sometimes argued. According to Plutarch’s passage, the great estates continued to exist, despite the raids mounted by Eumenes in order to pay his soldiers.37 This makes it tempting to conclude with L. Robert,38 on the basis of the Amyzon events, that Persian families were incorporated into the community with the foundation of Apamea. This fact may explain why Antiochus chose the name of his father Seleucus’ Iranian wife for the city: ‘The choice of site for his foundation and its new name are expli-

32 33 34 35 36 37 38

J. & L. Robert 1954: 79. Robert 1963: 519. On Kelainai, see Briant 1973: 47–53. Robert 1963: 348–9. Cf. Balcer 1984: 202 and n. 29 (p. 479). See RTP : 56–62 Robert 1963: 349

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cable, in our view, by the presence of a flourishing Iranian community’ (J.&L. Robert 1983: 117). 3.4 Obviously the available documentation is, in each case, quite specific with respect to purpose and context. Nevertheless, if we take it all together we gain some hints of the procedures by means of which the previous Iranian rulers became members of the civic communities. Of course, situations varied, which explains the diversity of processes in each instance: marriage, naturalisation, collective incorporation. But one common feature is worth noting: the initiative, in all instances discussed, comes from the royal or satrapal authority. This is true of Amyzon, as we saw; it is also true of Smyrna, as in all instances where soldiers became part of the citizen body; and it is true of Heraclea, where the marriage of Dionysos and Amastris was arranged by Craterus, even though, as the historian Memnon makes clear, Dionysos was extremely keen to fall in with a plan that would enhance his power and prestige. This suggests that royal policy did not differ fundamentally, whether it was a case of an Iranian-owned estate (Bagadates), or one held by a Greek or Macedonian. Whether an Iranian noble was naturalised as a citizen (Bagadates at Amyzon) or Iranians were incorporated into a new city (Kelainai/Apamea) or Persian colonists were collectively inscribed in civic registers (Smyrna), their land, estate or allotments became part and parcel of the chōra politikē. This suggests to me that we have here an illustration of a more widespread royal practice, which we can also discern in grants of land of the Seleucid period. When, c.275, Antiochus I made a landgrant in the Troad to Aristodicides of Assos, a condition of the grant was that he would attach the land (prosorizein) to that of a neighbouring city of his choice.39 Similarly, when Laodike received a domain in Hellespontine Phrygia in 254/3, she had the right to attach the land to a city of her choice.40 Aristodicides chose Ilium and expected to receive a number of advantages (polla philanthropia),41 i. e. citizenship and additional honours such as those Bagadates received in Amyzon. A text from Seleucia-Pieria from the time of Seleucus IV, containing part of a royal pros­ tagma, probably reflects a comparable procedure.42 According to this, the city agreed to honour Aristolochos, the king’s friend, with a public eulogy and citizen rights, as well as the erection of a bronze statue, which the king himself had demanded be set up within the city. Elsewhere the text says that Aristolochos planned to settle there (katoikisein), and the logical conclusion must be either that the was in receipt of a land grant from the king or that he owned a domain in the city’s neighbourhood, which would henceforth be part of the chōra politikē.43 The document also illustrates the strength of royal involvement in civic affairs. The way in which the decree is structured implies that the citizens had to bow to the king’s wishes: 39 40 41 42 43

RC, nos.10–13 RC, nos.18–20 RC, no. 13, ll.14–5 Edition and commentary of text, Holleaux 1968: 199–254 Atkinson’s (1968: 269) hypothesis (cf. RTP : 279).

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rather than being an honorific decree passed by a sovereign independent city, it is a royal prostagma arranged to look like a spontaneous decision issuing from the civic authorities. The same process is observable at Amyzon, where Asander the satrap had dictated the ‘sovereign assembly’s’ decision. Amyzon and elsewhere reflect a realistic policy, which allowed diadochi and kings simultaneously to exploit Iranian expertise by integrating it into the new dominant framework of public life and to expand, or create, the civic territory of cities already in existence (Amyzon) or being established (Apamea). None of Alexander’s successors could ignore the political and military power still represented by the Iranians of Asia Minor.44 For their part, it seems likely that the great Iranian families, settled in Asia Minor for several generations since the Achaemenid period, were quite ready to accommodate themselves to the new rulers, provided they were incorporated, in one way or another, into the new framework of public life and with their socio-economic status (their estates) preserved intact. Royal initiatives of this kind could sometimes arouse resistance, as at Amyzon. But, in general, cities were well aware of the advantages to be gained from increasing city land, as shown by the enthusiasm with which the cities in the Troad welcomed Aristodicides.45 The documents and comparisons indicate, in my view, that the Amyzon decree does not illustrate merely the ‘Iranian policy’ of the diadochi and Hellenistic kings; rather, the attitude shown towards the Iranians was part of a global royal policy, aimed at (re)shaping the citizenbody and chōra politikē of the old cities and even more that of the new foundations. Any Iranians that were present were only one element among several. The kings’ prime aim was to give to, or preserve for, their cities an authentic Greek character, both with respect to their institutions and the ethnic make-up of the citizenbody.46 We should note that the onomastic evidence shows that kings often had recourse to Macedonians;47 the old cities of Asia Minor, for example, ‘granted politeia to several officers in the service of Hellenistic rulers, often of Macedonian origin, who dwelt there.’48 At the new city of Laodikea-Lykos, the onomastic evidence indicates the presence of Ionians, Macedonians and Iranians.49 This may explain the occasional opposition or resistance evinced by cities worried by the king settling individuals, who owed everything to him, in their midst. 4 CONTINUITY AND CHANGE Following the Macedonian conquest, the fate of the Iranian community of Asia Minor needed to be placed on a secure footing. This raises two questions: one, is that of the subsequent evolution of the relationship between the Iranian and the 44 45 46 47 48 49

Cf. RTP : 30–54 RC, no. 13, ll.4–10 See Robert 1969:329, n. 1; also RTP : 227–279 Robert 1963: 116–9 and index, s. v. ‘Macédoniens. OMS II: 528 Robert 1969: 328–333

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other ethno-cultural communities. The other question is what kinds of relationship had existed prior to Alexander’s conquest between the Iranians and their subjects? The problem I want to tackle can be expressed quite simply. Iranian communities are attested as present in Asia Minor from the middle of the sixth century BC right into the late Roman empire, given the survival of personal names, toponyms and Iranian sanctuaries, especially in Lydia.50 Is it conceivable that the political disruption brought about by Alexander’s conquest had no effect on the ethno-cultural reproduction of these communities, that their habits and customs survived with no discernible change over the centuries and political upheavals? At the same time, does the existence of intercultural contacts in the Achaemenid period51 allow us to conclude that in the Hellenistic and Roman periods they continued to evolve in a linear fashion along the lines begun before Alexander’s conquest? 4.1 Survival and survivals The available documentation presents two contradictory, or at least contrasting, images of the cultural reproduction of the Iranian communities. While the persistence of toponyms of Iranian (Hyrcanis) or Achaemenid (Dareioukometon katoikia) origin does not prove a great deal, the same cannot be said of the continuity of personal names and sanctuaries. More often than not, as we saw, our reconstruction of Achaemenid period centres peopled by Iranians rests on later references. One striking example among several is the bishop of Hypaipa, who participated in the Council of Nicaea, with the Iranian theophoric name Mithres.52 This survival is particularly remarkable as, with the progress of hellenisation in the Hellenistic and Roman period, ‘local’ names tended to become rare and be replaced by Greek ones.53 The survival of Iranian cults and sanctuaries is no less striking. L. Robert has collected some examples, which serve to show this. There is, for example, a funerary curse from the late Roman empire in which the ‘Gods of the Hellenes and Persians’ is invoked, from a region (the Karahüyük plain) where the onomastic evidence ‘indicates the presence of a fairly dense Iranian population reaching back to the Achaemenids.’54 We should also not forget Pausanias,55 himself from Lydia, who describes the ceremonies held at Hypaipa and Hierakome: ‘A magus, wearing a tiara, sings the invocations in a barbarian tongue incomprehensible to the Hel50

51 52 53 54 55

In addition to the work of J. and L. Robert, see also the brief synthesis by Raditsa 1983: 100– 115. Wikander 1946 remains fundamental for Iranian cults. I was unfortunately unable to consult Debord’s study, ‘The survival of Iranian cults in Graeco-Roman Asia Minor,’ Table Ronde de Besançon sur les polythéismes antiques (avril 1984). [On this question, see also below Chapter 27 § 2.2.]. See most recently Balcer 1983, although I am not in agreement with all his suggestions. Robert 1965: 94. J. & L. Robert, 1954: 76–77; Robert 1963: 348–9. Robert 1978: 283–6; cf. id. 1975: 330 (Sardis). Paus. V 27, 5–6.

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lenes, reading them from a book, and places on the altar dry wood-ash, which catches fire spontaneously.’56 This description is strikingly close to what we know, from pictorial representations, of the Achaemenid period in Asia Minor.57 A Roman period inscription honours a family in which the title ‘Priest of Artemis Anaïtis’ had been handed down for generations.58 In Hypaipa itself there is a late reference to an archimagus.59 Hypaipa and Hierocaesarea were sanctuaries dedicated to the Persian goddess Anahita, worshipped as Anaïtis or Persian Artemis. ‘At Hierocaesarea nearly all the coinage is linked to the Iranian cult.’60 At Hypaipa, the goddess’ statue (represented on the coins) had lost none of its original features. ‘The two images in the chariot, just like the survival of the magi and archimagus, show that the goddess Anahita preserved her Iranian character, as depicted in the Avesta, since the Persian colony survived until the end of paganism.’61 Here the impression of continuity is particularly strong as the majority of the cited attestations (texts, coins, inscriptions) date to the Roman period. However, this documentation is not unambiguous. Scrutiny of the Hypaipa and Hierocaesarea coinage leads us to a somewhat paradoxical conclusion.62 While the features of the goddess’ image at Hypaipa are very similar to the ones she has in the Avesta, she is not the only deity to appear on the city’s coins; in fact, Greek gods predominate. Conversely, at Hierocaesarea, all the coins show Persian Artemis, but ‘she has all the attributes of Greek Artemis, the huntress, with her stags.’ As L. Robert rightly remarked, this reflects the process of symbiosis or syncretism which would have worked differently in each instance.63 But that remark instantly raises a question. Given the late date of the evidence, should we set these intercultural contacts into the context of the increasing hellenisation of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, or it is part of an evolution that had begun well before Alexander? It must be conceded that it is not easy to give a definitive answer. The late date of the evidence poses a methodological problem, as the Roman period documents are used both to reconstruct Iranian settlement in the Achaemenid period and to define the circumstances under which it survived in the Hellenistic period.64 But the simple fact of survival of personal names, toponyms and Iranian cults is not enough, by itself, to say that such survival was part of an immutable continuity. Let us look, for example, at the evidence of the name Mithres attested at the time of the Council of Nicaea. If this really does indicate the existence of an Iranian community at Hypaipa at a late period, the fact that a Christian bishop adopted the name is of quite a different order of significance, as stressed by L. Robert: ‘Bishop Letodoros of Kibyra and the bishop of Hypaipa had no reservations in having theo56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64

Robert 1976: 29. Cf., e. g. Macridy 1913; most recently, Altheim-Stiehl et al. 1983. See T. Reinach in RA 5 (1885): 104–5. Robert 1976: 32. Ibid.: 36. Ibid.: 48. Ibid.: 39. Cf. also Robert 1978, loc.cit (above n. 54). [On this methodological issue, see above Chapter 22].

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phoric names; they did not consider themselves devotees of Leto or Mithra because of it; they used them because they were common names in their communities. With continued use, these names lost their religious connotations; they nevertheless provide precious evidence for studying the local cults’.65 In other words, together with other evidence, it indicates the presence of an Iranian community at Hypaipa, which is assumed, not unreasonably, to go back to the Achaemenid period. But the transmission of this name down to the Roman period tells us nothing about the presence of an Iranian community at that time – what we have are relics rather than survivals. No less interesting is the fact that the hereditary priests of Artemis Anahita in the province of Asia all have Greek names.66 Moreover, it is probable that the onomastic hellenisation reflects a general tendency: in the famous inscription from Hanisa, for example, a certain Menophilos tou Maidatou appears; his father has a Persian name, the son a Greek one, which ‘translates’ the former, as both are theophoric names containing the Iranian and Asiatic name of a moon-god: ‘the son expresses it à la grecque, the father à l’iranienne.’67 This development is particularly interesting as hellenisation at Hanisa occurred in the absence of a Greek population.68 The continued existence of sanctuaries and cults raises analogous methodological problems. The documents provide evidence, as we saw, both of their survival and their evolution. It is clear that, in Achaemenid Lydia, Greeks and Persians linked the Greek Artemis to the Iranian Anahita. But the fact remains that, despite the conservatism of the goddess at Hypaipa, hellenisation in the various sanctuaries is very marked in several respects, just as in some places the original Anahita becomes more and more amalgamated with local divinities.69 It seems to me that the socio-political status of the goddess’ cult in the Hellenistic and Roman period was very different from the status and function it had enjoyed in the Persian and Iranian settlements of the Achaemenid period. When Iranians settled in Lydia, and elsewhere, at the behest of the Great Kings, they came with their language, families and cults: ‘Persian cults were set up – not an administrative arrangement arrived at whereby local cults were turned into Iranian ones,’ so that by the late period ‘Anahita became Anaïtis Artemis by means of an interpretatio graeca illustrated by the decree in honour of the hereditary priest, Theophron.’70 There can be little doubt, in my view, that hellenisation should, broadly, be attributed to the Hellenistic and Roman periods. In the Achaemenid period, the cult of the great Persian gods (Ahura-Mazda, Anahita, Mithra) formed an important element of the ruling élite’s ideology, which tried to preserve its cultural distinctiveness vis-à-vis the subject peoples. It is, of course, possible to find 65 66 67 68 69 70

Robert 1965: 94. ‘Theophron, son of Theophron, son of Hermolaos, son of Theophron. The adoption of the name Theophron may indicate the religious and theological concerns of these individuals’ (Robert 1976: 31). Nevertheless, the fact is that the onomasticon is purely Greek. Robert 1963: 515; also Lipiński 1976: 187. Robert, ibid.: 483–490. See in particular Golubtsova 1977; see RTP: 458–467, where I have not paid sufficient attention to the chronology of the documents. Robert 1976: 38, n. 60.

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traces of Graeco-Persian acculturation in Achaemenid Asia Minor, but they remained marginal; they did not dissolve the cultural cohesion of the Persian imperial diaspora in some kind of melting-pot.71 The political aspect of the Achaemenid period Persian cults is very clear as shown both by Artaxerxes II’s measure to extend and renew Anahita’s cults, as well as by Droaphernes’ edict at Sardis concerning the cult of Zeus Baradates72. Veneration of Persian gods was part of a broader process whereby the power and benefits of domination were reserved to the Persians. Conversely, from the moment when these very same Persians were incorporated into Greek cities in the Hellenistic period, the place and role of their cults were profoundly and enduringly transformed. The cults, too, became an integral part of civic space and time, and became relatively commonplace. In relation to Greek cults, they became marginalised even if their rites retained their distinctive characteristics. It was, in a way, the price Iranians had to pay to ensure their survival, i. e. integration into a Greek city, which both recognised their cults and robbed them of their political function. In time such survivals became ever more feeble until they were little more than a few sad relics, yet all the more remarkable for the present-day historian by being attested in late period documents. If this interpretation is correct, it casts a different light on the Pausanias passage relating to the rites performed in his life-time in sanctuaries at Hypaipa and Hierocaesarea. The passage is susceptible to two different readings, which are complementary rather than contradicting each other. On the one hand, it attests a great conservatism in cultic practices. But the meaning of a ritual changes according to the socio-cultural context in which it is practised: the (technical, institutional, artistic, religious …) form is inseparable from the broader contexts in which it originated and developed. Moreover, the Pausanias passage presents the ritual, not as one performed by convinced practitioners, but as a show watched by those present with interest, but no understanding of its intricacies.73 This suggests an analogy with the birching/flaying ritual at the altar of Artemis Orthia in Roman Sparta, with which Pausanias, like other Roman period writers, was familiar. It is very likely that the origins of the rite were ancient; but in the Roman period it seems to have been transformed into a show organised for the benefit of wealthy Romans, devoted to ‘ethnographic tourism’.74 I am tempted to think that the situation was somewhat 71 [See my 1987a study, above Chapter 1, now requiring modification: cf. below Chapter 27 § 2.2]. 72 [But see above Chapter 2.] 73 Strabo stresses the lack of understanding ‘Hellenes’ had for the language used by the magi, which indicates the limits of Graeco-Iranian acculturation in Roman Hypaipa. The Greeks are clearly there as spectators, and Strabo says nothing of the possible participation by people of Iranian origin. According to Cumont 1896: 4, n. 2, the fact that magi were reading the liturgical texts from a book indicates a degradation of a practice (attested in Cappadocia), according to which the liturgical rules and performances were handed down orally from father to son, and he defines this more closely: ‘It is likely that in this far-off Iranian colony (Hypaipa) the Iranian hymns were preserved in written form as knowledge of the Persian language began to fade.’ 74 Cf. Michell 1953: 138–9. The show was so successful that it is still attested in the second half of the fourth century AD.

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similar in Roman Hypaipa and Hierocaesarea: the priesthoods, cults and rituals persisted, but Greek cultural hegemony had reduced their significance so that they were mere folkloric remnants.75 L. Robert (1975: 320), discussing the Droaphernes edict at Sardis and its reinscription in the Roman empire (no earlier than the middle of the second century AD: p. 308), presents a totally different interpretation, when he writes: ‘While Iranism in Lycia […] can only be grasped through the traces it has left in the onomastics, the Sardis inscription illustrates both the strength of Persian influence in the fourth century BC and its persistence right into the Roman empire (cf. id. 1978: 283–6, on the Karahüyük inscription). The difference stems from the interpretation placed on the reinscribing of a text dating from the reign of Artaxerxes II (p. 310). For L. Robert, the reasons for its republication in the Roman period are the same as those when it was first put up in the fourth century; thus he concludes: ‘The cult of Persian Zeus is seeking to protect itself from contamination, just as was the case when it began in the fourth century: a remarkable fact’ (p. 326). Droaphernes’ desire to preserve the cult form symbiosis with Anatolian cults is plain, as L. Robert demonstrates (pp. 321–326). But I find it difficult to believe that the Roman period authorities of the sanctuary were motivated by the same concerns. Reinscribing old decrees was frequent in the Imperial period: the most obvious parallel is Darius’ letter to Gadatas, which the temple authorities in Magnesia had reinscribed in order to prove the antiquity of the privileges granted them in the Achaemenid period (cf. Cousin & Deschamps 1889: 541–2; Boffo 1978: 270–273; [above Chapter 4]). L. Robert rejects such a comparison vigorously (p. 326): ‘This is not a privilege solemnly recalled by being carved on a stele set up in the Zeus temple; it is an old cultic prohibition at a point in the Imperial period when such exclusiveness was only practised by Jews and Christians.’ He repeats instead his comparison with the Amyzon inscription, which ‘explains the tenaciousness of Iranian religious traditions many centuries after the end of Persian rule’ (p. 328). Certainly the Droaphernes edict, in contrast to the Gadatas letter, is not primarily concerned with privileges granted to the Zeus cult. But the text found at Sardis could, after all, be only a fragments of a more substantial dossier, as at Magnesia (on the Magnesia dossier, cf. Boffo 1978, p. 269–274). Further, all these texts are concerned with the relationship between sanctuaries and political authorities. Production of the Droaphernes edict by the Sardis temple establishment in the Roman period could have helped them prove that the civil authorities had always shown great reverence for the god – many temples in Roman Asia Minor referred back to Achaemenid period documents (Tacitus, Annals III 63). While I appreciate L. Robert’s arguments, I think another interpretation is possible (and, in my view, more plausible). The history of the Sardis text does not allow us to conclude that the Sardis community’s exclusiveness and cultural cohesion survived without change from the fourth century BC to the second century AD. All that the text’s reinscription shows is that there was still a sanctuary of Zeus Baradates at Sardis. Its survival is certainly re75

Roman period Egyptian sanctuaries, too, were also overrun by tourists keen to witness spectacles: cf. Holwein1940.

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markable and should be stressed (and is not an isolated instance); but postulating that the Persian community in Sardis lived for five centuries as if nothing had happened, since the time of Artaxerxes, is a different matter. We should remember that the truly exemplary nature of the Amyzon text is limited chronologically, given that by far the largest number of documents date to the Roman period. 4.2 Pharnabazus, son of Artabazus Although I think that the late date of the documentation does not allow us to trace the process of cultural intermingling, discernible in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, back to the time of Achaemenid rule, it is nevertheless true that Greco-Iranian contacts were established well before Alexander’s conquest. Graeco-Persian interaction under Persian political rule led to cultural ‘inter-reactions’ reflected particularly in the iconographic material.76 While a Persian such as Tissaphernes showed his reverence for Artemis of Ephesus,77 many European and Asiatic Greeks were fascinated by the way of life of the ‘Persians of the Upper Lands.’ Plutarch seems to make a reference to this in his Life of Lysander (3.3), when he says about Ephesus: ‘It was in danger of becoming totally barbarian and being contaminated by Persian customs, because it was encircled by Lydia and Persian generals lived here a great deal of the time.’

Obviously, Plutarch found such intermingling reprehensible as it would lead to an increase in strength of Persian elements at the expense of Greek ones.78 In his view, Ephesus was a kind of Greek enclave in Persian lands – a somewhat bizarre image, but reflecting a reality, i. e., the presence of many Iranian communities in Lydia and the attraction they felt for a Greek city such as Ephesus. The Plutarch passage shows nicely that the two worlds were well aware of each other and subject to interpenetration: high-ranking Persians enjoyed living in Ephesus, where they probably had houses and hosts; some Greeks for their part, maintained relations with the Persians, to whom they extended guest-friendship.79 At times, such ties even led to political collaboration between Greek property owners and Persians, linked to each other by a common way of life based on the exploitation of the large estates.80 Although evidence from Ionia is lacking, there is little doubt that there was intermarriage between Persians and Greek families along the coast.81 Plutarch’s terminology describing these intercultural exchanges also reflects another reality: the process of acculturation worked basically to Persian advantage – they remained beyond the world of the cities with which they were familiar but dominated. Looked 76 77 78 79 80 81

Akurgal 1966; Bernard 1969; Metzger 1971; Starr 1977; Boardman 1970: 303–327. Thuc. VIII 109; Xen. Hell. I 2,6; cf. Benveniste 1968: 108–113. See Dubuisson 1982: 10, 16, 19–21. Cf. Plutarch, Them. 26.1; Xen., Hell. IV.1.39. See Balcer 1984: 211 ff.; 381 ff. Id. 1979. Intermarriages are frequently attested in the Lydian epoch: Balcer, 1984: 46 (n. 66), 61, 65, 68, 80–81, 84, 87, 92 etc.

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at from this angle we can see that their integration in the Hellenistic period represented a sharp break on the political plane, even though it allowed them to retain their landed estates. It is possible that such links made it easier for the Persians to collaborate with the Graeco-Macedonians, once their hopes for political and military dominance had faded. Pharnabazus, son of Artabazus, may provide a typical, albeit isolated example. In 322, Pharnabazus commanded a cavalry corps in the army of Eumenes of Kardia.82 Artabazus, his father was a descendant of the satrapal dynasty which had been in control of Hellespontine Phrygia since the time of Xerxes.83 He was also connected to the royal family, being an offspring of a union between Artabazus (I) and Apame, the daughter of Artxerxes II.84 He was thus, a person of very high rank within Persian society and the Great King’s entourage.85 Around 361, Artaxerxes (II) hired Memnon and Mentor, two brothers from Rhodes, as mercenary commanders.86 The two Rhodians were rewarded with the grant of the towns of Skepsis, Kebren and Ilion in the Troad. In 360, an important marriage was contracted between Artabazus and Mentor and Memnon’s sister – a union blessed with many children: ten sons and eleven daughters,87 the eldest of whom, Pharnabazus, was the close associate of Eumenes in 322. One of the daughters, Barsine,88 married in succession, her uncles Mentor and Memnon. Here, then, we have a unique example of a matrimonial alliance between Greeks and Persians; as was the case in many Persian families, endogamy was the rule.89 Such alliances survived the vicissitudes of time. After a failed revolt against the Great King, Artabazus was forced to go into exile in Macedon in 352. His brotherin-law, Memnon, accompanied him. Thanks to Diodorus XVI, their subsequent career is known. Mentor entered pharaonic service: he is attested in command of the mercenaries sent by Nectanebo to Tennes of Sidon, who rebelled against the Persians in 343/2 (XVI 42, 2). Following Tennes’ surrender to Artaxerxes III (XVI 45), Mentor and his mercenaries entered the Great King’s service and delivered Sidon to him. Subsequently, Mentor took part in the Egyptian campaign at the head of an army corps in association with Bagoas (XVI 47). After a quarrel, the two men were reconciled: ‘Bagoas made an agreement with Mentor, both swearing only to act 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

Plutarch, Eum.7.1. Lewis 1977: 52. Plutarch, Art.27.4; Xen., Hell. V 1,28. Cf. Arrian III.23.7; Q. C.III 13,13. On the career of Memnon and Mentor, see Berve 1926, no. 497; Hofstetter 1978, nos.215 & 220; Seibt 1977: 89–106. D. S. XVI 52, 4. Berve 1926, no. 206. [In a personal letter of 2 April 1985, A. Bresson (whom I thank) indicates that ‘the family of Mentor and Memnon represents the sole example of a marriage between Rhodians and Persians. There are no Persian names in the Rhodian onomasticon (italics A. B.), (unless one takes into account much later material when the circumstances are quite different), which suggests that there were no marriages save for that of Mentor-Memnon.’ This information thus tends to confirm the exceptional nature, for Persians, to enter into exogamous unions.]

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together. This agreement lasted to the end of their life […] Mentor was appointed commander-in-chief of the maritime provinces in Asia’ (XVI 50). Because of his prestige and services rendered, he petitioned the Great King on behalf of his brother and his Persian relatives. Memnon, Artabazus and his children were allowed to return to Asia; through the good graces of their uncle, Artabazus’ sons were given high army commands.90 These marriages are all the more spectacular for being the only ones documented; the sole exception is the marriage contracted at Darius I’s command between a Persian noble lady and Metiochus, the son of Miltiades.91 Artabazus’ children92 were counted as wholly Persian;93 several of his sons fought against Alexander at Darius III’s side, to whom they remained loyal up to the moment of his death. We also know something of the prominent role played by Memnon on the Asia Minor front in the years 334/332.94 He seems to have been totally integrated into the ruling class of the empire. He was no longer regarded as a mercenary leader; he possessed estates in the Troad,95 as shown by the confiscation of Persian property by the kings; he took part in the war council of Zelea, where the top Persian commander of Asia Minor met in 334;96 on his death, he passed his command to his nephew Pharnabazus, son of Artabazus.97 So there was what we might call a ‘Persianisation’ (politically speaking) of this man from Rhodes and even more that of his children and sister. At the same time, of course, a notable Persian family became susceptible to Greek influence. One of Artabazus’ daughters, Barsine, received a Greek education.98 But Greek influence was probably a long-standing feature at the satrapal court in Daskyleion.99 During his long Macedonian exile, Artabazus and his children became familiar with Macedonian customs. We should also note that, in several respects, the Macedonian and Persian nobility shared an aristocratic mode of life (large estates, hunts, banquets, polygamy etc.) and values (the cult of war and bravery in battle). The Macedonian practice of royal gift-giving (adopted by Eumenes) is not dissimilar to the well-known Achaemenid one.100 To this should be added the fact that from the time of Philip II, the Macedonian court had adopted some aspects of Persian court etiquette.101 90 91 92 93

94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101

D. S., loc.cit. Hdt. VI 41. Berve 1926, no. 152. This is not too extraordinary, since name and ‘nationality’ was transmited through the paternal line among the Persians. In Metiochus’ case things were different: Darius conferred upon him the exceptional honour that the children borne him by his Persian wife would be admitted to the ranks of the Persians (es Persas: Hdt. VI 41). Berve, 1926, no. 497. Polyaen. IV 3, 15; Arrian I 17,8; cf. Lewis 1977: 54. Arrian I 12, 1–8. Id. II 1,3. Plutarch, Alex. 21.9. Cf., e. g., Macridy 1913. Plutarch, Eum. 8.12. Cf. On this, Briant 1987b: 1–10 [and above Chapter 22 § 1]. Kienast 1973 [with my critical remarks above Chapter 22 § 4.3].

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This makes it unlikely that someone like Pharnabazus, who had spent ten years of his childhood and adolescence in Macedon, will not have been lastingly marked by his experience.102 But Greek and Macedonian influence on this Persian family had no impact on the political plane: Artabazus and his family remained deeply loyal to the Achaemenid dynasty and cause. Artabazus and three of his sons (Pharnabazus was not there) made their submission to Alexander only after Darius III’s death. Alexander ‘kept Artabazus and his children close to himself and held them in honour, because they were among the very highest Persian dignitaries, and because, above everything else, they had been loyal to Darius.’103 Later, Artabazus was given the Bactrian satrapy, where he died. His sons must have continued to accompany Alexander on his campaign.104 Pharnabazus, who had been leading the seaborne counter-attack in the Aegean, disappears from the scene after escaping from prison on Cos in 332.105 Ten years later, we find him in the company of Eumenes. Things had changed profoundly in the intervening time: any hopes of restoring Persian power in Asia Minor had been snuffed out, so that he needed to find another allegiance. His decision to serve Eumenes may be connected to the fact that the two men were now linked by family bonds: on the occasion of the Susa weddings in 324, Eumenes had married Artonis, one of Pharnabazus’ sisters.106 But there may have been yet another reason. The Pharnabazus family owned a large estate near Daskyleion to which they were deeply attached, as shown by his grandfather Pharnabazus’ response to Agesilaos.107 Ever since Leonnatos’ departure for Europe at the beginning of 322, the satrapy of Hellespontine Phrygia had been lying vacant; Perdiccas had placed it under the care of Eumenes.108 It is possible that Pharnabazus hoped that with Eumenes’ support he might be able to regain control of his property – a hope dashed by Eumenes’ defeat. Unfortunately, we know nothing of Pharnabazus’ subsequent fate. But this does not lessen the significance of this particular example. In the wake of the appalling disruptions caused by the Macedonian invasion and the fall of the Achaemenid empire, the Persian nobles settled in Asia Minor faced the same problem: how to survive and preserve as far as possible their social position. Their ability to do so depended in the first instance on holding on to their estates and goods, which provided them with revenues and guaranteed their economic status. And to achieve that they had of necessity to acknowledge the political dominance of the new Macedo102 Kienast (1973: 21) suggests that Pharnabazus may have been co-opted into the circle of Philip II’s hetairoi. That could well be given the transformation of the Macedonian nobility into a court nobility (ibid. 21 ff.) paralleled in Achaemenid Persia (Briant 1984a: 109–113). Extending Kienast’s hypothesis, one might also assume that the young Pharnabazus received the aristocratic education to which young Macedonians were subject, which in many respects (physical training, military training, royal service) resembled the Persian one (RTP: 449). 103 Arrian III 23, 7. 104 Cf. Berve 1926, no. 459 (Kophen). 105 Arrian III 2,7. 106 Berve 1926, no. 155. 107 Xen. Hell. IV 1, 33. 108 Cf. Briant 1973: 162–168.

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nian rulers, and thus accept their incorporation into the new framework: the courts and armies of the Successors and satraps (as in the case of Pharnabazus), or the Greek cities. Any existing ties forged with Greeks and Macedonians previousy will undoubtedly have eased this harsh transition. The issue was less a matter of a breakdown leading to their eventual disappearance than one that destroyed the flourishing, dominant ethnic-cultural community. 5 ASSESSMENT AND PERSPECTIVES 5.1 The Amyzon inscription, when set beside several other pieces of more fragmentary evidence, is obviously a mine of information, and undeniably raises more questions than those addressed here. Whatever conclusion is drawn – preservation of cultural identity by the Iranians of Asia Minor or its gradual loss – the available documentary corpus forces us to be very careful in our approach, as it is extremely heterogeneous. Is there, for example, any logical link to be made between Bagadates’ naturalisation in 321/0 and the use of the name Mithres at Hypaipa at the time of the Council of Nicaea? Some may wish to see this as proof of a cultural continuity, but they run the risk of linking documents separated by several centuries; which is why I prefer to dwell on the profound rupture, which is masked by the continued use of names and cultic practices. This is not to say that the existence of such survivals in the late period is not a remarkable example of long-term cultural transmission and it would be nice to know by what means it occurred. However, while it allows the historian to postulate the existence of an Iranian community in the Achaemenid period, it does not, I think, allow us to assume that these communities remained in place, fundamentally unaffected by the upheavals of the Hellenistic and Roman periods. Alexander’s conquest, and the subsequent hellenisation of western Asia Minor, created not merely an immediate and obvious political caesura; these events also brought cultural changes in their wake. When Iranians were incorporated into Greek cities, the process offered them the means of survival, while simultaneously dictating the terms for their gradual absorption into a civic body dominated by Hellenism. Such fusion did not spell the end of certain traditions. But, once reduced to the state of mere survivals with their original function/context erased, they represented a dim echo of the Iranian communities’ original cohesion, not clear evidence of their resistance to change.109 Change, of course, proceeded in various ways and at a different tempo in each instance: collective or individual incorporation; access (or not, as the case might be) to the leading group within a city (Bagadates); it is impossible to plot the process. All we can say is that pinpointing late survivals does not seem to me to contradict the fact that change happened both as a result of the Graeco-Macedonian political and military victory and of the profoundly integrative character of the Greek civic frame109 Note also the case of Maïphernes who appears on the list of mint masters of Apamea (Robert 1963: 349). On the integration of Iranians at Ai Khanoum, see RTP 317–8 (although here we are dealing with a Greek city founded in a truly Iranian setting).

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work. The interpretation I suggest may seem somewhat paradoxical. But paradox and contradiction are the stuff of all processes of ‘cultural bricolage’, which the transition from one form of political domination to another brings with it.110 The spread of the cult of Perseus in Asia Minor confronts us with yet another paradox.111 An early version of the legend, known to Herodotus, cast the hero in the role of ancestor of the Persian kings.112 A much later version (Roman or Byzantine) had him setting the sacred fire ablaze with lightning, setting Persians and Syrians to worship it and installing priests called magi to look after the cult.113 The legend’s sense seems plain: the Greek hero forms a link between Greeks and Persians.114 In Glotz’s view,115 ‘the Greeks of Asia Minor, inside the Persian empire, created this myth which served their interests, and the Persians accepted it for reasons of political expediency.’ But the legend’s chronology raises some problems.116 Its spread, particularly in imagery used on coins, is attested primarily in the Hellenistic and Roman period. We find it on Roman coins from Hypaipa;117 one coin legend names him as the founder of Tarsos, and many other Cilician cities present him on their coinage;118 further he appears on the coinage of several Pontic cities at the time of Mithridates (Amisos, Tios, Amastris).119 But the meaning of the image differs in each instance: Tarsos honoured the Greek hero from Argos because the cities of Hellenistic Asia Minor were anxious to demonstrate the antiquity of their Greek origins, to support which they fabricated ingenious foundation-stories. At Hypaipa, he appears in front of an ‘Anahita’, so completely hellenised into Artemis the Huntress, that this is, at most, a distant echo of the Graeco-Persian hero.120 The situation in the Pontic cities is quite different: the spread of Perseus types is connected with the Hellenic policy of genuine Iranian dynasties. In other words, the spread of Perseus in the Hellenistic and Roman periods does not mean that Iranian or Graeco-Iranian traditions were rigorously preserved. The most we can assume is 110 The Apamea example should be considered again: the Iranians of Kelainai (above 3.3) retained their estates and traditional mode of life right up to the foundation of Apamea by Antiochus Sôter. As they were entered collectively (as one assumes), it may have been possible for them to attain a high rank, as well as maintaining a stronger cultural cohesion than was the case elsewhere (Apamea was, as far as I know, the only new city to strike coins of the Anaïtis type). It is also possible that the kings confiscated some estates: this may have been what happened to the estates of the great Pharnabazus family in Lower Phrygia, in view of the increase of royal land in the region (RTP: 193–4). 111 Cf. Briant 1987a. [above Chapter 1 § 3.5], where I was not careful enough with the chronological differences. 112 Hdt. VII 150–152. 113 Robert 1976: 41, n. 76. 114 Ibid.: 41. 115 Dict.Ant.Gr.Rom., s. v. ‘Perseus’: 401. 116 Robert 1976 (note). 117 Ibid. 118 Robert 1977: 100 ff. 119 Cumont 1905b. 120 Contrary to the Perseus of Amisos, the Perseus of Hypaipa does not seem to wear the Persian mitra.

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that it reflects the existence of a former Persian colony.121 But apart from the Pontic cities, the hero’s hellenisation is very plain and what the inhabitants of Tarsos are trying to do is to glorify the triumph of Hellenism. The Perseus story in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor seems to signify a restoration of Greek values and a concomitant withering of the Iranian presence. 5.2 The story of Perseus helps to illuminate the somewhat special situation of Cappadocia and Armenia. In contrast to the satrapies west of the Halys, these two areas were never really conquered by the Macedonians: neither of the satraps appointed by Alexander (Mithrenes and Sabiktas) were successful in taking up their posts. After 323, the situation remained the same. Despite Perdiccas’ victory over Ariarathes, neither Eumenes in Cappadocia, nor Neoptolemos in Armenia, were able to quash resistance between 323 and 321. Hostility between Eumenes and Neoptolemos, followed by incessant warfare after 321, made it possible for the local dynasts to maintain their independence.122 The original Achaemenid satrap, Orontes, kept his hereditary position123, soon to become a real dynasty. Iranian influence had left a profound imprint on both countries. Cappadocian onomastics show this very clearly.124 It emerges particularly with the introduction and spread of Iranian cults. These Iranian traditions remained vigorous in the Hellenistic period. The Anahita cult was very popular in Hellenistic Armenia; her sanctuary in Aciselene remained fully functional down to the Roman period.125 Iranian cults are also well attested in Cappadocia from the Achaemenid to Roman period.126 In contrast to Lydia, these are not instances of mere survival in a Greek milieu, but living traditions in a largely Iranian context. The dynasties prided themselves on their Iranian links: the Achaemenid heritage emerges strikingly in a court-legend, according to which Ariarathes was descended from one of the Seven Persians of Darius I’s time.127 The cult of Iranian divinities was, as in the Achaemenid period, intimately linked to the ideology of monarchy: in Armenia, royal devotion to Anahita is very marked.128 This rapid overview serves to show that the active preservation of authentic cultural traditions is closely connected to the maintenance of socio-economic structures and ideologies anchored in a country and people who had kept their ethno-cultural identity. With the disappearance of Achaemenid rule, the links of the Iranian communities of western Asia Minor with their Iranian roots were severed.129 As they were 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129

Robert 1978: 285 (note.). See Bosworth 1978: 231–233. D. S. XIX 23,3; Polyaen. IV 8, 3 (RTP: 31, n. 2; 33, n. 3). Robert 1963: 514–519. Cumont 1905a. See Bittel1952. D. S. XXXI 19. Chaumont 1965: 168–181. This rupture forms, in my view, an important explanatory element. While the Graeco-Macedonian colonies of the Middle East continued to receive reinforcements and to operate in a Graeco-Macedonian political context, which helps to explain the fact that they survived as homoge-

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grafted onto foreign socio-political entities, which functioned in ways opposed to their mode of social reproduction, their chance of maintaining cohesion and identity, except in the form of meagre relics and traces, was lost. Between Cappadocia and Armenia on the one hand, and western Asia Minor on the other, a gulf opened, separating real, vital survival from ever more artificial relics. In time, the imprint of Iranian colonisation faded in the face of accelerated hellenisation, while on its home territory, Iranism took its revenge with the emergence of Parthian and Sassanian Iran. BIBLIOGRAPHY Akurgal, E., 1966, “Griechisch-persische Reliefs aus Daskyleion,” IrAnt 6: 147–156 Altheim-Stiehl, R., D. Metzler & E. Schwertheim, 1983, “Eine neue gräko-persische Grabstele aus Sultaniyeköy und ihre Bedeutung für die Geschichte und Topographie”, Ep An 1: 1–23 Atkinson, K. M. T., 1968, “The Seleucids and the Greek cities of Asia Minor”, Antichthon 2 : 32–57 Balcer, J., 1979, “Imperialism and stasis in fifth century B. C. Ionia,” in Arktouros: Hellenic Studies presented to B. M. W. Knox, Berlin: 261–278 Balcer, J., 1983, “Greeks and Persians. The process of acculturation,” Historia 32/3: 255–267 Balcer, J. M., 1984, Sparda by the Bitter Sea. Imperial interaction in Western Anatolia, Chico, CA Benveniste, E., 1968, Titres et noms propres en iranien ancien, Paris Bernard, P, 1969, “Les bas-reliefs gréco-perses de Daskyleion à la lumière de nouvelles découvertes,” RA: 17–28 Bernard, P., 1984, Abstracta Iranica 7, nos.261–263 Berve, H., 1926, Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, I–II, Munich Bittel, K., 1952, “Ein persischer Feueraltar aus Kappadokien,” in Satura. Früchte aus der antiken Welt (Festschr. O. Weinreich)¸ Baden Baden: 18–29 Boardman, J., 1970, Greek Gems and Finger Rings, London Boffo, L., 1978, “La lettera di Dario a Gadata: i privilegi del tempio di Apollo a Magnesia sul Meandro,” BIDR 3rd series 20: 267–303 Bosworth, A. B., 1978, “Eumenes, Neoptolemus and PSI XII.1284,” GRBS 19: 227–237 Bosworth, A. B., 1980a, “Alexander and the Iranians,” JHS 100: 1–9 Bosworth, A. B., 1980b, A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, I, Oxford Briant, P., 1973, Antigone le Borgne: les débuts de sa carrière et les problèmes de l’assemblée macé­ donienne, Paris Briant, P., 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans: études sur les formations tributaires du Moyen­Orient (Centre de Recherche d’Histoire Ancienne 43) [RTP], Paris Briant, P., 1984a, “La Perse avant l’Empire: un état de la question,” IrAnt 19: 71–118 Briant, P., 1984b, L’Asie Centrale et les royaumes proche­orientaux du premier millénaire (c. VIIIe– IVe siècle av.n.è.),, Paris Briant, P., 1987a, “Pouvoir central et polycentrisme culturel dans l’empire achéménide. (Quelques reflexions et suggestions),” AchHist I: 1–31 [Here Chapter 1) Briant, P., 1987b, “Institutions perses et histoire comparatiste dans l’historiographie grecque,” Ach­ Hist II: 1–10 neous cultural communities, the Iranian colonies of Asia Minor lacked all this (see RTP : 274–275). In other cases, the political subjection did not automatically lead to the disappearance of local traditions, in as far as the subject population retained (in its home) cohesion in the face of the ruling minority (see, for example, Egypt under Persian and Hellenistic rule). Conversely, the fate of the Iranian communities is explicable in terms of three factors: the loss of political supremacy, severance of ties with Iran and the Graeco-Macedonian grip on the institutions, in their entirety, of political, social and cultural life.

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Burstein, S., 1976, Outpost of Hellenism. The emergence of Heraclea on the Black Sea, Berkeley CA Chaumont, M. L., 1965, “Le culte de la déesse Anahita (Anahit) dans la religion des monarques d’Iran et d’Arménie au Ier siècle de notre ère,” JA 253: 18–181 Cousin, G. & G. Deschamps, 1889, “Une lettre de Darius, fils d’Hystaspes,” BCH 13: 529–542 Cumont, F., 1896, Textes et monuments figurés relatifs aux mystères de Mithra, I, Brussels Cumont, F., 1905a, “Notes sur le culte d’Anaïtis,” RA: 24–31 Cumont, F., 1905b, “La Persée d’Amisos,” RA: 180–189 Debord, P., 1982, Aspects sociaux et économiques de la vie religieuse dans l’Anatolie gréco­romaine (EPRO 88), Leiden Dubuisson, M., 1982, “Remarques sur le vocabulaire grec de l’acculturation”, RBPh 60/1: 5–32 Frei, P., 1984, “Zentralgewalt und Lokalautonomie im Achämenideneich,” in P. Frei & K. Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich (OBO 55), Freiburg, Göttingen: 7–43 Golubtsova, E. S., 1977, L’idéologie et la culture de la population rurale d’Asie Mineure aux I–II s. de n.è., Moscow (in Russian with French résumé) Hofstetter, J., 1978, Die Griechen in Persien. Prosopographie der Griechen im persischen Reich vor Alexander (AMI Ergbd. 5), Berlin Holleaux, M., 1968, Études d’épigraphie et d’histoire grecques, III: Lagides et Séleucides, Paris Holwein, N., 1940, ‘Déplacement et tourisme dans l’Égypte romaine,’ CdÉ 15: 253–278 Hornblower, S., 1982, Mausolus, Oxford Kienast, D., 1973, Philipp II. von Makedonien und das Reich der Achaimeniden, Munich Launey, M., 1950, Recherches sur les armées hellénistiques, II, Paris Lewis, D. M., 1977, Sparta and Persia (Cincinnati Classical Studies, n. s.1), Leiden Lipiński, E., 1976, Studies in Aramaic Inscriptions and Onomastics, I Macridey, T., 1913, “Reliefs gréco-perses de la région de Daskyleion,” BCH 37: 340–357 Metzger, H., 1971, “Sur deux groupes de reliefs ‘gréco-perses’ d’Asie Mineure,” AC 40: 505–525 Michell, H., 1953, Sparte et les Spartiates (French trans.), Paris Raditsa, L., 1983, “Iranians in Asia Minor,” in Cambridge History of Iran 3/1: 110–115 Reinach, S., 1885, “Chronique d’Orient”, Revue Archéologique, 3è série, tome 6: 87–116 Robert, J. & L., 1954, La Carie, II, Paris Robert, J. & L., 1983, Fouilles d’Amyzon en Carie. I: Exploration, histoire, monnaies et inscrip­ tions, Paris Robert, L., 1938, Études épigraphiques et philologiques, Paris Robert, L., 1948, “Hyrcanis,” Hellenica VI (1948): 16–26 Robert, L., 1963, Noms indigènes dans l’Asie Mineure gréco­romaine, Paris Robert, L, 1965, Hellenica XIII: D’Aphrodisias à la Lycaonie, Paris Robert, L., 1969, Laodicée du Lykos, Québec, Paris Robert, L., 1975, “Une nouvelle inscription de Sardes. Règlement de l’autorité perse relative à un culte de Zeus,” CRAI : 306–330 Robert, L, 1976, “Monnaies grecques de l’époque impériale,” RN: 25–56 Robert, L., 1977, “Documents d’Asie Mineure”, BCH 101/1: 43–132 Robert, L., 1978, “Une malédiction funéraire dans la plaine de Karahüyük”, CRAI: 277–286 Robert, L., 1984, “Documents d’Asie Mineure”, BCH 108: 452–532 Schmitt, H. H., 1969, Die Staatsverträge der griechisch­römischen Welt von 338 bis 200 v. Chr., Munich Seibt, G. F., 1977, Griechische Söldner im Achaimenidenreich, Bonn Starr, C. G., 1977, “Greeks and Persians in the fourth century B. C.: a study in cultural contacts before Alexander,” IrAnt 12: 49–115 Welles, C. B., 1934, Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period, New Haven, Conn. Wikander, S., 1946, Feuerpriester in Kleinasien und Iran, Lund

26 FROM SARDIS TO PERSEPOLIS: THE ROYAL ECONOMY BETWEEN PRIVATE AND PUBLIC* To speak about the “royal economy” in this setting runs the risk of redundancy, not only because so much ink has been spilt on this topic over many years,1 but also because of the other contributions that have been, and will be, presented at this meeting. I have neither an unpublished document nor a revolutionary interpretation to offer which would add something new to a theme already so well supplied with studies. I am setting my suggestions into the perspective of the issue private/public,2 and hope to show that a properly reasoned dialogue between Achaemenid and Hellenistic documentation makes it possible, for one, to assess the current situation,3 and, for another, to suggest directions for further work. I need not remind you that this is an old debate – by which I mean the general discussions about the rights of kings over the land in their kingdoms. I begin with the most recent book by C. Nicolet, in which he specifically addresses the historiographical problems. Nicolet here recalls the debates held in France around the middle of the eighteenth century on the subject of Roman imperial institutions. He refers to the work of the Abbé de la Blèterie, who wrote numerous essays including biographies of Julian the Apostate and Jovian. La Blèterie touches on the question of the emperor’s authority over Rome’s territories, and thus the issue whether “the emperors simply held the empire in usufruct, or whether they owned it as their outright property;” his own inclination was in favour of the former. As Nicolet stresses, behind the discussion of Roman institutions, it was obviously the French monarchy and absolutism that was the real subject: “One can see that, while the subject is an aspect of Roman history, the true one is entirely French. It concerns what had long been dubbed the fundamental laws of the kingdom, the first of which and the one of deepest concern was the non-alienability of the Crown” (Nicolet 2003: 31–35). I should now like to join these debates which, ever since the modern period, have been taking place in Europe about the concept “Oriental Despotism,” the sub-

* 1 2 3

Originally published as “L’économie royale entre privé et public,” in R. Descat (éd.), Ap­ proches de l’Économie Hellénistique (Entretiens d’archéologie et d’histoire 7), Saint-Bertrandde-Comminges 2006: 343–358. See most recently Descat 2003. On the concepts “private” and “public” in the Greek cities, and the care needed in using them, see Descat’s 1998 remarks. My attempt to gather the relevant studies (by no means exhaustive) in the Achaemenid and Hellenistic areas explains the length of the appended bibliography.

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ject of a large number of publications.4 Here too the question of the king’s rights over his realm’s lands is central. Despite Anquetil-Duperron’s5 (and the paradoxical Linguet’s6) sound and vigorous counter-attack, the model of “Oriental Despotism” particularly diffused by Montesquieu has remained linked to the idea of the absence of private property and law. Further, the debates were closely connected to the furious objections to Louis XIV-style absolutism, with the king himself sometimes called the “Little French Turk.” Here it is relevant to mention a study published some time ago but still fundamental by Stelling-Michaud: “[…] Denying the existence of the right to private property and asserting that the king is the owner of his subjects and all their goods with the State as the sole proprietor, means that Louis XIV perfectly fits the Aristotelian definition of despotism ‘à l’orientale’ …” (1960– 1961: 334–335). He ends: “Absolute monarchy would not have collapsed so quickly if the myth of oriental despotism had not, from the reign of Louis XIV on, discredited absolute power and arbitrary government” (p. 346). I have not moved too far from my initial plan. Both examples show how the discussion has remained entwined with debates of an ideological and political nature. This is also illustrated by the discussions of the “Asiatic Mode of Production” – a concept which, from the start, has unfortunately been intimately linked to that of “Asiatic Despotism” and with all the eighteenth century baggage that that brings with it.7 In passing so rapidly over this, please rest assured that I am not throwing the baby out with the bath water. At the heuristic level, the debates about the Asiatic Mode of Production in the Achaemenid-Hellenistic context have definitely been fruitful and, to become personal for a moment, I even feel a kind of nostalgia for those old intellectual jousts. But, for a variety of reasons, this discussion is now closed. To illustrate the point, I will limit myself by referring to the latest article on the issue published approximately ten years ago by Maurice Godelier (1991).8 He, himself, chose to designate his argument unequivocally as more of a funeral eulogy than a research plan. What we need to acknowledge now is that the phase of (re-)opening the debate by western Marxists in the years between 1960 and 1970 is behind us, including in the field of Hellenistic studies.9 This is not intended to 4 5 6 7 8 9

They are cited in Briant 1979: 1380, n. 17 (= Briant 1982: 296, n. 17 [Above Chapter 20, n. 17]); see the highly relevant pages in Grosrichard 1979, and Hentsch’s persuasive arguments (1988: 156–165). See recently Wheelan 2001. On Linguet’s view, see for example Guerci 1979 [and P. Briant, in Annuaire du Collège de France 2006–7, at http://www.college-de-france.fr/media/pierre-briant/UPL18427_36.pdf]. See Briant 1981: 9–23, especially pp. 11–13; also Briant 1996: 821–822 (= From Cyrus…: 801–2), and Vidal-Naquet’s fundamental study (1990, originally published in 1964). It is unnecessary to recall the part played by the author in the revival and direction of the debates; cf. Godelier 1969 and 1970 (with my comments in Briant 2002: 517–521 = here, Chapter 15: 346–347). On the use of Marxist concepts (or vocabulary?) in the Hellenistic sphere, see most recently Papazoglou 1997, who introduces the discussion into a historiographical style presentation (p. 9–30, with Corsaro’s comments (2001a: 18–23). The AMP concept is invoked or evoked several times (cf. index p. 276: “Régime des terres. – mode de production asiatique (tributaire)”), but the impression is that the author does not use it in her own analysis. True, her

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devalue, even less consign to oblivion, numerous studies in this field,10 and does not exclude the possibility that it will resume some day on a new basis. But, for the moment, the paradoxical and not very happy result is that we lack a theoretical model – or, what amounts to virtually the same thing –, we have difficulties finding a way through the many different approaches on offer. In these circumstances, our task is, to say the least, not easy and, faced with documentation that is ambiguously formulated, there is a considerable risk of simply drawing up, in some shape or form, simply a negative list of impossibilities and uncertainties.11 This is particularly true of scholars working on the epigraphy of Asia Minor who make no effort to place their analyses into the wider framework of Seleucid evidence, in the broadest meaning of the term, especially the Babylonian cuneiform material,12 including

10 11

12

conclusion on the laoi is introduced thus (p. 130): “The social structure which I have just described globally is a variant of the Asiatic Mode of Production;” however, her discussion of previous studies (including some of my own from the 70s: cf. pp. 130–140) is less about the conceptual underpinnings than the articulation (which she is right to question) between the documentations used and the conclusions reached. In Schuler (1998: 163–164, 194), too, the reference to AMP is purely historiographical (unfortunately ignoring several recent studies: cf. Boffo 2001b: 265, 268 and, more briefly, Chankowski 2000: 502–503); it has not the slightest influence on his arguments, as he clearly follows a plan differing widely from his presentation. It is worth noting that the discussion of the Seleucid kingdom deals with a very short period only: the main influence is Ranowitsch, Heinz Kreissig’s work is less and less analysed now, although it is briefly mentioned by Chandezon 2003: 207–208, and discussed in greater detail by Papazoglou 1997 (pp. 23–25, and in several other places in the book). On Kreissig 1978a, see Van der Spek’s lucid review (1981) and its discussion in Van der Spek 1987: 130 ff. On these issues, see also the proceedings of the colloquium organised by Kreissig in 1976, published as a fascicle 60/1, 1978 of the journal Klio (Die antiken und die altorientalischen Kompo­ nente im Hellenismus = Kreissig 1978b), with Van der Spek’s review (1980); cf. also Van der Spek 1990 (review of Briant 1982). In this area, too, as in so many others, the Achaemenid empire remained very much on the margins of the discussion, particularly as most of the specialists of Achaemenid history were never involved, even at a distance (there is nothing to add to Zaccagnini’s assessment of a quarter of a century ago: Zaccagnini 1981, especially pp. 24– 25, 32–33, 61–65; his study is unfortunately ignored by Papazoglou and generally by Hellenistic period historians). See for instance Zaccagnini 1981 and Haldon 1993. On this see also Vidal-Naquet (1990: 270, citing R. Bonnaud): discussion of AMP had the advantage of “dewesternising the problem, at the cost of inevitable occidental distractions […]”. No-one will need reminding, to take just one example of many, that we have only one epigraphic instance of the formula chōra phorōlogoumenē (“tributary land”), which it is tempting to compare with a handful of occurrences of the phrase chōra basilikē (“royal land”). Obviously, I am not trying to stop scholars suggesting interpretations. But when we do not have more than this, confidently expressed attempts (e. g. recently Schuler 1998: 169–172) do not seem to add much to a question that has remained unanswered ever since Rostovtzeff’s first studies. On Schuler’s interpretation, see Chankowski’s criticisms (2000: 499, 501). On Hellenistic Babylonia, see the many discussions in Sherwin-White & Kuhrt 1993. (Current fashion dictates that one stresses exclusively the book’s “Babylonocentrism”, on the basis of the criticisms it has received [cf. the articles in collected in Topoi 4/2, 1994: 429–610]; but these reservations (I myself expressed some, ibid.: 456–467) do not exhaust the great wealth the book offers, and its current detractors would do well to profit from their global vision, rather than restrict their horizon to the lands located west of the Halys]. The cuneiform documentation

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tablets dating to the Achaemenid period.13 Along with that we should not forget to use some of the literary sources which sometimes imply a continuity from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic (even the Parthian) period, which can sometimes provide very revealing information on questions of the intersecting rights of king and local communities on the land and its products.14 The problem I want to consider concerns something that is on the margins of the well-known debate on land management, namely whether it is possible to distinguish, within lands and domains under royal authority, a “public” and a “private” sector (I will explain the terminology in a moment). My discussion is not primarily concerned with the Hellenistic kingdoms, but relates more to the Achaemenid context. For this period, we have at our disposal an enormously diverse set of materials. Only the impressive Hellenistic dossier on gifts of land and villages, much studied (including by myself, with explicit reference to the Achaemenid evidence),15 provides a parallel. To put it simply, when one can compare different corpora of material, coming from different imperial lands and in different languages, the chances of understanding background and implications increase enormously. This is true of the Achaemenid material. Which is why I thought that, as a piece of comparative history, my reflections are suitable for a colloquium on “approaches to the Hellenistic economy” – inasmuch as in this area, the documentary material (not exclusively Greek inscriptions) consists both of texts from the Hellenistic and the Achaemenid period.16

13

14 15 16

of the Hellenistic period on the status of land has led to Van der Spek’s fundamental studies, such as his thesis (1986, on which see Leemans 1988) and specialised articles (1981, 1987, 1993, 1995, 1998). While Van der Spek always pays attention to the Greek inscriptions, the same cannot be said of the Hellenists who, more often than not have not bothered to inform themselves of the Assyriological discussions: not one of Van der Spek’s studies is cited by Papazoglou; Schuler is only aware of his 1986 thesis; Chankowski (2000: 502 & n. 33) notes the Babylonian material in passing, but seems to be unaware of Van der Spek’s recent articles; Sève-Martinez 2003 refers to them, but does not actually analyse or use them in her overview article, although it has a title which promises much, including on this subject (cf. pp. 232–234), even though it was not specifically intended to deal with land management. On Achaemenid Babylonia there are now, beside my own numerous discussions in Briant 1996 (Index, p. 1103 (= From Cyrus…: 1174), s. v. nidintu šarri [“royal gift”]; p. 1157–1158 (= From Cyrus…: 1163), s. v. ‘Babylone, Babylonie,’) and Id. 2001a (esp. pp. 136–147), Joannès’ excellent introduction of 2000 [English trans., 2004], esp. pp. 143–160. On the notion of royal land in Achaemenid period tablets, see Cagni 1988, and particularly the many instances in Stolper 1985 (esp. pp. 36–70); bibliographical references in Briant 1996: 962 (= From Cyrus…: 937); 2001a: 63–69 and 136–147. I am thinking in particular of Polybius X 28, which I discussed recently: Briant 2001b [here Chapter 13], and the other studies collected in the volume, as well as Briant 2002: 526–529 [here chapter 15]. See Briant 1985 and the many instances and discussions in Briant 1996 (see Index, ‘Dons de terres, – de villes’, p. 1170 [= From Cyrus…: ‘gifts of land, – of towns, p. 1186]), as well as Corsaro’s assessment (2001b). See esp. Briant 1996 (= From Cyrus…), chs. X and XI. Note in passing that on the much discussed subject of the attachment of gifted land to a city, those working on the Seleucid kingdom will find something to aid their reflections in an Achaemenid text (Phoenician), which I pre-

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I will begin with recalling some of Bikerman’s ideas expressed in his Institu­ tions des Séleucides. He presented the Seleucid king’s authority as reflecting a “right of ownership”, with the succession being “a transfer of ownership through inheritance.” He sets this into what he calls the “legal order”, with the caveat that the ruling king always had the right to modify this if he so wished. This explains the relationship Bikerman establishes between the king and a private individual; the king behaved like any one of his citizens, including his ability to “leave his patrimony to whomsoever he wished” (pp. 14–18). As a result gē basilikē does not designate “all land subject to the royal administration”; rather it is “the personal property of the king, patrimonium Caesaris” (p. 184). Leafing through Bikerman, one sees that he associates this “personal property” with what he calls the “royal purse (hoi idioi prosodoi, according to Maccabees II 3: 3), separate from state funds, intended to meet the expenses of king and court, and thus a comparable institution to the Ptolemaic idios logos” (p. 130). This “royal purse […] was filled from the revenues levied separately on portions of the royal domain, etc.” (p. 131); at this point, Bikerman cites Maccabees I 10: 40, i. e. Demetrius I’s order to “charge to my own royal accounts, to be drawn from such places as may be convenient (apo ton logon tou basileōs apo tōn topōn tōn anekontōn)”. In a somewhat contradictory fashion, Bikerman also applies the term “patrimony” to the whole of the kingdom bequeathed to a successor as title to property (p. 16). This is so because, apart from city-land, “the soil belonged nominally to the state.” This “nominal” character has as its corollary, or theoretical foundation, another idea, that of “pre-eminent property”, which Bikerman also uses (p. 169). According to this concept, “its use [is] left to the subject population, on condition of service and tax” (p. 169).17 The question I wish to address now is simple to pose, but tricky to answer: does the idea of the ruler’s “private property” have a solid evidential base and is it relevant, in the way Bikerman perceives it, i. e. as something to be distinguished from what he calls “the properties of the state” (otherwise known by the very flexible term ta pragmata)?18 Were there then two separate administrations, distinct in

17

18

sented in 1996: 431, 506 (= From Cyrus…: 419, 490); bibliography and discussions, p. 977 (= From Cyrus…: 952): King Eshmunazzar of Sidon had a large piece of land bestowed on him by the Great King as a reward for his services, which he himself attached to the territory of Sidon “for ever”. I shall not go into this here, but it would be very interesting to trace in detail the historiographical network within which Bikerman operates while never disclosing it. The very terminology “pre-eminent property” clearly harks back to the eighteenth century debates on “Oriental Kingship”, which resurface again in the later discussions of the “Asiatic Mode of Production” (which is obviously not Bikerman’s conceptual and political environment). – As far as I am aware, we do not as yet have a biographical-historiographical study of Bikerman and his work [see now A. I. Baumgarten, Elias Bickerman as a Historian of the Jews, Tübingen, 2010]; on his intellectual relationship to Rostovtzeff and his opinion of SEHHW, see his “review-article” 1944–1945: I discussed some of this in Briant 2005: 42–49 [and more fully in my paper”“Michael Rostovtzeff, Elias J. Bickerman and the ‘Hellenization of Asia’: from Alexander the Great to World War II”, 2015]. On this, see the recent collection of sources and occurrences by Virgilio 2003: 131–133.

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their origin and in types of revenues, while being also under the king’s authority, where a distinction had to be drawn between him as a private persona (head of a dynastic line) and a public figure (head of the state)? Bikerman’s approaches to the issue continue to be discussed by scholars interested in the issue of Hellenistic royal land. Because the question is closely linked to the nature of the evidence, it is very difficult to arrive at a solution which commands agreement.19 As for the period of transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic period, the tagē naturally comes to mind, which Hesychius explained as a dōrea of exactly this type, i. e. a dōrea basilikē, whose function and purpose he describes: to supply (sc. the king) with all his personal needs, as expressed with respect to other kinds of dōrea. The obvious difference is that in that instance one could speak of “private land”, because it is hard to see how, with respect to the king, the oft-invoked principle of the revocability of a land donation could apply. Raymond Descat (1987),20 too, has often commented on the pseudo-Aristotelian phrase, according to which the king has access to incomes generated by the satraps en tē tagē: “What can this mean but that the king holds in the empire more or less regularly royal properties (villages, land …) whence he receives not a fixed sum […], but a percentage of their produce?” This would be, in Descat’s view, the equivalent of the gē basilikē, on which the king could levy those properties conceded as dōrea, such as, he adds, the dōrea of Mnesimachos.21 This approach takes us back to a narrow definition of “royal land”, as found in Bikerman and many others, “a small section of the Seleucid realm”, which the king “was able to exploit directly”, or yet “domain land”, another expression used here and there by Bikerman (pp. 180; 109), who strangely cites no ancient text on the tagē (it does not appear in the book’s index). It also brings us back to the distinction between tributary land on which the state levies revenues (phoroi, in the generic sense), and “private” land (from which the king would have access to the produce of the tagē gathered by the satrap). The interpretation makes sense and is attractive, but the problem remains: is it conceivable that the royal advisors and theoreticians of monarchy visualised what we, in our terms, designate as “private” and “public”? Here, the recent suggestions of Descat (2006) open up a very interesting possibility. He now thinks that, in the 19

20

21

Cf. Papazoglou 1997: 79–90; Schuler 1998: 167 ff., and the reviews by Chankowski 2000, Corsaro 2001a-b, and Boffo 2001a-b. One writer with the clearest approach is Van der Spek, using Greek and Babylonian sources: cf. 1995: 195–196, citing Bikerman, and 1993: 63: “As owner the king was in a similar position to his subjects […] The king as a private person also owned certain tracts of land. These were called ‘royal land’. This royal land is attested in the Greek as well as in the Babylonian sources.” Note in passing the section in Altheim & Stiehl (1963: 137–149), on pseudo-Aristotle and the tage; see also the conection made by Altheim (1951) between the Oeconomica and the Persepolitan evidence: cf. Briant 1994 (chapter 19 here), 1996 (pp. 400–401, 461–468, 478–487, 956, 968–969 [= From Cyrus…: 389–90, 447–56, 463–471, 931, 943–4]), 2008. Cf. more recently Descat 2003: 166, who refers to the tagē thus: “certainly an old term designating, in the Oriental tradition, the royal domain and the best way in which to reap its profits.” But in an article presented on the occasion of a colloquium on the transition from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic period (Descat 2006: 365–371) modified his view.

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pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica (II 1,4), the expression apo tōn idiōn should be understood not as “[taxes coming from] the specific products [of the country]”,22 but as “coming from the private revenues specific [of the king].” This suggestion is especially attractive as it fits with the current understanding of the expression ta idia, which includes the resources available to satraps.23 Here it is useful, not to say essential, to turn to the Achaemenid material. I have already presented and used it extensively in earlier studies (especially 1996), but I should like to return to it as, despite the fact that continuities in this sphere are often suggested, or postulated, comparisons are rarely put into practice – in general, those specialising in Hellenistic epigraphy are unfamiliar with the Achaemenid documentation.24 I want to draw attention again on this occasion to two dossiers in particular, relating to the position of the “royal economy” in Persia (in the narrow sense, i. e. Fārs) and the “domains” of Arshama the satrap in Egypt and elsewhere. The former consists of the Elamite Persepolis tablets, the latter of Aramaic letters, now strikingly paralleled by a corpus of Aramaic documents from Bactria in course of publication. Both provoke questions on the status and management of land. Land appears to be at the disposal of the king and high imperial officials, which raises the question whether it is personal or public, or even if it is in a position – hard to define – as belonging to one or other category. It is important to note that this material concerns not simply the land itself – the explicit or implied activity in the Elamite and Aramaic texts includes individuals who work on it and are attached (or belong) to it, such as peasants, shepherds and craftsmen. When we consider Persia,25 the available material (Greek and Elamite) suggests that it occupied a special place in the empire. It was not a satrapy – hence the 22 23 24

25

Contrary to the usual interpretation, including, at that point, of Descat himself (cf. 2003: 159, 165). Cf. Thucydides VIII 45.6 (ta idia chremata [Tissaphernes]); Hell. Oxy., 19, 2–3 (he ousia [Tissaphernes]; ta idia [the king’s generals]): Briant 1996: 612–613 (= From Cyrus…: 595–6). It is striking that, sadly, the frequency of references to continuities and breaks between the Achaemenid and Hellenistic periods is rarely accompanied, in Hellenistic studies by a genuine and systematic engagement with the Achaemenid documentation and the areas it covers (on this, see already my remarks in Briant 1979: 1392–1393 (= 1982: 308–309 [here Chapter 20 § 2.2.]), as well as my conclusion in Briant 2005: 62–64.) This oft repeated observation has become obligatory to the point where it is simply an empty phrase. Among recent books, see for instance Schuler 1998: 179, n. 91, or the rather odd remarks relating to the documentation of Papazoglou 1997: 116–118. Both writers (two among many) have only the vaguest notion of the Achaemenid material and bibliography (as Boffo 2001b observes of Schuler), neither cite my recent articles (not even the Histoire de l’empire perse), nor any other specialised Achaemenid work. Corsaro is certainly better informed, but when he refers to the “old Persian term ‘the king’s house’,” he merely cites Greek passages from Herodotus and the “Letter of Darius to Gadatas” (2001b: 253, n. 91). Apart from the fact that the latter should be treated with the greatest scepticism (cf. Briant 2003 [= here chapter 4]), one cannot limit oneself to Greek material, given that the Achaemenid evidence is both substantial and multilingual, including the expression “the king’s house”, well attested in Elamite, Old Persian, Aramaic and Babylonian (Briant 1996: 459–460 [= From Cyrus…: 445–6]; cf. below n. 27). See already Briant 1996: 434–487, 962–972 [= From Cyrus…, ch.11 with Research Notes]. On the Persepolis archives, see most recently Brosius 2003, and above all the revealing study of Henkelman 2003; further Briant 2001a: 133–136.

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question: inasmuch as one can reconstruct the situation with the help of the tablets, was the management of land, workers and workshops dependent on a special administration, distinct from the imperial, in other words a “royal” one? In other words, should we think of Persia as a “crown domain”, in the sense of Bikerman’s patrimonium Caesaris, and/or the tagē (as Descat has interpreted it on the basis of pseudo-Aristotle and Hesychius)? Herodotus said that this region was not dasmo­ phoros and enjoyed an immunity (ateleia; III 97). The Persepolis tablets allow us to place Herodotus’ information into a larger context. We can see plainly that here the administration levied taxes, Elamite baziš, Old Persian bāji-. This is the term which, in royal inscriptions, is normally translated as “tribute”, but which originally designated a “share” (as dasmos did in Greek).26 This makes relating it to the tagē rather tempting. Some actions tend to reinforce this hypothesis, particularly those which reveal the existence of a royal house (ulhi sunkina in Elamite). For instance, it is from his “house” (ulhi) that Darius, in one tablet (Fort.6774), orders 100 sheep to be levied and transferred to Princess Irtašduna (i. e. Artystone); in another one, sheep are transferred to the royal house (PF 1987). Like the king, princes and princesses have their own “house”, which comprises land and workers. The Greek translation, or rather equivalent, of Elamite ulhi is obviously oikos, so that ulhi sunkina can be easily rendered as oikos basileōs. The concept is rendered by the same syntagma in all the languages of the empire: Akk. bît šarri; Ar. beyt mlk.27 The problem is that, depending on reference and context, the “royal house” can mean “the king’s property” or the imperial administration.28 Other texts, Greek in this case, suggest the existence of a royal purse, comparable to the one Bikerman speaks of in relation to the Seleucids. In a very lengthy passage on the Great Kings’ conspicuous luxury (tryphē), Athenaeus quotes Chares of Mytilene: “Near the king’s bed, behind his head, was a room large enough to contain five beds, where 5000 gold talents were deposited and totally filled it; this room was called ‘the royal cushion.’ At the foot of the king’s bed, was a second room, containing 3000 minted silver talents, called the ‘royal footstool’” (XII 514 f.).29 The phrasing is not particularly problematical – it links up quite well with other labels used by Greek authors to describe the goods or resources available to 26 27

28

29

On baziš, bāji-, see Briant 1996: 452–456 [= From Cyrus…, ch.11. 4] and most recently the study of Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1998. This comparison suggests a refinement of Descat’s interpretation (2003: 168), according to which it is only in Greek that “the king is compared to the owner of an oikos which remains the centre of all economic activity for the Greeks.” This is right in as much as, in my opinion, the concept of a “patrimonial economy” is not exclusively Greek. But I do not think that what Descat calls “the ‘globalisation’ of the patrimonial economy” should be attributed solely to the conception and action of the Greek-Macedonian conquerors. On the other hand, I agree with his conclusion: “Fuller studies will determine what changes should be credited to the new imperial rulers.” See, for instance, Briant 1996: 463–464 [= From Cyrus…: 449–50], and Briant & Descat 1998: 87 [here chapter 18]. For comparison, note Korotayev’s 1993 article, where he demonstrates very clearly the difficulties of “translation”, or rather, of understanding the socio-economic meanings of the term bayt in Sabaean inscriptions. On the text, see Briant 1996: 484–485, 971 [= From Cyrus…: 469–70, 946] (with explicit reference to Bikerman), as well as Rapin’s remarks (1992: 273–274), on the “archaeological”

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high level functionaries for their personal expenses, such as the instance of the wellknown “queen’s belt”.30 It is quite likely that such treasures should be distinguished from the royal treasures proper, and seen as part of the royal purse, which was replenished by the products of the tagē in Persia, itself part of the patrimonium prin­ cipis. Simply put, a comparison of the evidence of the Elamite tablets with the Greek sources suggests that the royal house was constituted as an autonomous economic unit, but one not totally distinct from the wider global management of the empire as an absolutely watertight separation between the two is hard to imagine. Let us look at the second set of material, the Aramaic correspondence between Arshama the satrap and his subordinates in Egypt,31 in particular his stewards (paqdu) in charge of managing the satrap’s properties, usually called his “domains”, i. e. Aramaic beyt, which is the exact equivalent of Persian viθ, Elamite ulhi, Akkadian bîtu and Greek oikos. I will not go through the texts one by one, as I have discussed them in detail in my book on the Achaemenid empire. What is at issue is that at every step the question arises as to what the status of these “domains” is. Is this private property, or is it related to the satrap’s office, in other words are these imperial lands made available to him? Are they the same as a dōrea, or is the status of this land somewhere on the movable and permeable frontier between private and public?32 Most important is the fact that there are comparable letters (about to be published) from ancient Bactria, and that their editor raises exactly the same questions about the management of the properties of the top satrapal administrators (Shaked 2004). One document raises a particularly interesting point. This is what one might call a “passport” issued by Arshama to his steward Nehtihor, whom he is sending back from Babylonia to Egypt. This Aramaic document can be compared to the Q series of the Persepolis tablets: each time that a caravan bearing an official authorisation arrived at a station on the royal road, the leader produced the “sealed document” (halmi), and so gained access to the food allocation which the issuing authority (usually the satrap) had detailed; the officials in charge of the storehouses were obliged to release the rations and it was up to them to draw up annually an inventory of their reserves (Briant 1991; 1996: 377–380, 477–478 [= From Cyrus…: 364–68, 446–7]). In the case of the Arshama passport several stations along the road are identifiable such as Arbela and Damascus. And this is how Arshama, addressing the managers at the various locations, describes what they are to do (slightly adapting

30 31

32

credibility of the text with respect to the palace’s lay-out; see also Henkelman’s ideas (2003: 123–129). Cf. Briant 1985; 1996 ibid. [= From Cyrus… ibid.]; Cardascia 1991/1995; Marr 1994. The dossier is easily accessible in a French translation with commentary by Grelot 1972: 297– 327; the standard Aramaic edition with English translation is Driver 1956;[see also Lindenberger 2003: 81–101]; a recent Aramaic edition is that of Porten & Yardeni 1986 (with English translation). On grants of land, see in particular the articles of Porten 1987 and Szubin-Porten 1988, and (following them) my remarks in Briant 1996: 429–430, 476–478, 970 [= From Cyrus…: 417–8, 445–6, 943]. See on this Bielman-Sanchez (2003: 50–59, esp. pp. 58–59), discussing Hellenistic queens and princesses; to be compared to Brosius (1996: 123–182) on the economic status of female members of the Achaemenid Persian royal house.

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Lindenberger’s translation, no. 41, p. 91): “You are to issue him daily provisions (sc. of rations: ptp) from my domains in your respective provinces (medinah) […] Issue these provisions, each official in turn, along the route from province to province, until he arrives in Egypt. If he stops in any place more than one day, do not give them any extra provisions (sc. of rations).” On the basis of this text, it has been thought that Arshama had “private” domains not only in Egypt, but also in each of the towns mentioned along the route between Babylon in the Nile Valley. This seems a priori very surprising. The word translated “domain” is in fact Aramaic beyt, which is bîtu in Akkadian, which is to say “House” in the sense of oikos. A different interpretation is thus possible, namely that there was an administration in charge of running the road stations. In the depots along the roads (called thesauros by pseudo-Aristotle II 2, 38) were the necessary supplies, issued to official travellers in the form of rations (ptp), on production of the satrapal order. These were essentially imperial depots. In other words, when Arshama writes: “Issue the provisions from my House” it clearly means that the account he has in his function as satrap for “business expenses” is to be debited later when the central administration draws up the balance sheet of incomings and outgoings (the eisagōgima and exagōgima of pseudo-Aristotle).33 In fact Arshama’s House has nothing to do with a series of private “rural domains” and can in no way be interpreted thus.34 This does not, however, solve all the problems. The terminology used by Arshama shows that, for him, his satrapal administration also involves the private sphere, as he designates the whole as “my House”, which clearly includes his landed estates in Egypt (let us call them “rural domains”), but not exclusively so. The correspondence shows that these domains provided him with “private” revenues – hence the orders to his subordinates to ensure that they be in good order and increase their profitability,35 as Mnesimachos does with respect to his dorea near Sardis. The stewards were also required to send each year the product of the “imposts” to Babylon.36 That is my translation of mandattu, but there are uncertainties as the term is a generic one.37 It may describe annual taxes which the House was obliged to deliver to the royal treasury annually; but in that case, why did they have to be transported to Babylon, rather than being transferred directly into the local satrapal treasury in Egypt? It may thus be that we are not dealing here with a royal impost, but rather an annual rent, which Arshama as beneficiary expects to arrive in Babylon where he has lived for several years and where his House also possessed landed property attested by Babylonian tablets (Stolper 1985: 64–66). If 33 34

35 36 37

Briant 1994: 74 [= chapter 19 here]. Briant 1996: 377–381, 476–477 [= From Cyrus…: 364–8, 445–6]; see also the similar remarks in Briant 1979: 1395, n. 89 (= Briant 1982: 311, n. 89 [here Chapter 20, note 92]), where I reached a conclusion very close to that of Whitehead 1974: 60–66 (of which I was unaware at the time). Grelot 1972, nos.62–66, 68–70, 73 (= Lindenberger 2003, nos. 37–40, 42–43, 46–47 – Grelot’s no. 63 is omitted as too fragmentary); cf. Briant 1996: 477, and Chandezon 2003: 210 (comparing Mnesimachos and Apollonios). Grelot 1972, nos. 71–73 [= Lindenberger 2003, nos.44–45, 47]. Cf. Briant & Descat 1998: 85–86 [Here chapter 18].

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that is right, then the rent would be the financial income produced from cultivated land (in the context of good management of his House: ta idia)38, after deducting the imposts and taxes which he certainly had to pay to the royal treasury. The time has come to close as I have no definitive conclusions to put forward. I simply hope that I have succeeded in demonstrating that there is much to be gained from this material on the subject of private/public/royal – even more so if we adopt Descat’s recent, very attractive, suggestion. Just like the satraps, princes and princesses, the kings had their “own incomes” (ta idia), distinct from the state revenues produced by “public” taxes and imposts (phoros). With respect to the Hellenistic period, in the absence of full and relevant documentation, I think the best way forward for any future study would be to employ as far as is possible a comparative historical approach – in the first instance, of course, using as an aid the resources of the Achaemenid documentation in a way that is not purely “cosmetic”. More broadly, connections can be made with the Near Eastern kingdoms of the first millennium, and going yet further afield, at least on precisely defined topics,39 by encouraging co-operative research with specialists of Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman40 and ancient Chinese history. BIBLIOGRAPHY Altheim, F., 1951, [Review of Cameron, Persepolis Treasury Tablets, Chicago 1948], Gnomon 23: 187–193 Altheim, F. & R. Stiehl, 1963, Die aramäische Sprache unter den Achämeniden. I: Geschichtliche Untersuchungen, Frankfurt Bielman Sánchez, A., 2003, ‘Régner au féminin. Réflexions sur les reines attalides et séleucides,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée. Cités et royaumes à l’époque hellénistique (Colloque international de la sophau, Rennes, avril 2003), Pallas 62: 41–61 Bikerman, E., 1938, Institutions des Séleucides, Paris Bikerman, E., 1944/45, ‘L’européanisation de l’Orient classique. À propos du livre de Michel Rostovtzeff,’ Renaissance [New York] 3: 381–392 Boffo, L., 2001a, ‘Lo statuto di terre, insediamenti e persone nell’Anatolia ellenistica. Documenti recente e probleme antichi,’ Dikè 4: 233–255 Boffo, L., 2001b, [Review of Schuler 1998], Athenaeum 89: 265–270 Briant, P., 1979, ‘Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures,’ ASNP III/9: 1375–1414 (repr. Briant 1982: 293–330; here Chapter 20) Briant, P., 1981, ‘Appareils d’état et développement des forces productives au Moyen Orient ancien: le cas de l’empire achéménide,’ La Pensée: 9–23 (repr. Briant 1982: 475–489) Briant, P., 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans. Études sur les formations tributaires du Moyen Orient ancien, Paris 38 39 40

On the profits in kind made by Arshama from his Egyptian properties, which he had sent to Babylonia, see also Grelot 1972, no. 74 (for a very different interpretation of the letter, see Lindenberger 2003, no. 48). See the instance of the transfer of villages in the ancient Near East (including the Hellenistic period) as brilliantly discussed by Zaccagnini 1981: 39–65. See for instance Haldon 1993.

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Briant, P., 1985, ‘Dons de terres et de villes: l’Asie Mineure dans le contexte achéménide,’ RÉA 87: 53–71 Briant, P., 1991, ‘De Sardes à Suse,’ AchHist VI: 67–82 (here Chapter 16) Briant, P., 1994, ‘Prélèvements tributaires et échanges en Asie Mineure achéménide et hellénistique,’ in J. Andreau, P. Briant & R. Descat (éds.), Économie antique. Les échanges dans l’An­ tiquité: le rôle de l’État (Entretiens d’archéologie et d’histoire 1), Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges: 69–81 (here Chapter 19) Briant, P., 1996, Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre, Paris (= 2002, From Cyrus to Alexander: a history of the Persian empire, Winona Lake IN) Briant, P., 2001a, Bulletin d’histoire achéménide II (Persika 1), Paris Briant, P., 2001b, ‘Polybe X 28 et les qanāts: le témoignage et ses limites,’ in P. Briant (éd.), Irriga­ tion et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines en Iran, Égypte et Grèce (Persika 2), Paris: 15–140 (= chapter 13 here) Briant, P., 2002, ‘L’État, la terre et l’eau. Entre Nil et Syr Darya. Remarques introductives, Annales HSS 57/3: 517–529 (here Chapter 15) Briant, P., 2003, ‘Histoire et archéologie d’un texte. La Lettre de Darius à Gadatas entre Perses, Grecs et Romains,’ in M. Giorgieri, M. Salvini, M. C. Trémouille & P. Vannicelli (eds.), Licia e Lidia prima dell’ellenizzazione, Rome: 107–144 (here Chapter 3) Briant, P., 2005, ‘“Alexandre et l’hellénisation de l’Asie”: l’histoire au passé et au présent,’ Studi Ellenistici XVII: 9–69 Briant, P., 2008, ‘Michael Rostovtzeff et le passage du monde achéménide au monde hellénistique,’ Studi Ellenistici 20: 137–154 (here Chapter 21) Briant, P. & R. Descat, 1998, ‘Un registre douanier de la satrapie d’Égypte à l’époque achéménide (TAD C3.7),’ in N. Grimal & B. Menu (éds.), Le commerce en Égypte ancienne (IFAO, Bibliothèque d’études 121), Cairo: 59–104 (here Chapter 18) Brosius, M., 1996, Women in Ancient Persia (559–331 B. C.), Oxford Brosius, M., 2003, ‘Reconstructing an archive: account and journal texts from Persepolis,’ in M. Brosius (ed.), Ancient Archives and Archival Traditions. Concepts of record­keeping in the Ancient World (Oxford Studies in Ancient Documents 1), Oxford: 262–283 Cardascia, G., 1988, ‘Aspetti dell’economia regia nella Mesopotamia achemenide,’ in Stato, econo­ mia, lavoro nel Vicino Oriente Antico (Istituto Gramsci Toscano. Seminario di Orientalistica Antica), Milan: 156–166 Cardascia, G., 1991, ‘La ceinture de Parysatis: une Morgengabe chez les Achéménides?,’ in D. Charpin & F. Joannès (éds.), Marchands, diplomats et entrepreneurs. Études sur la civilisation mésopotamienne offertes à Paul Garelli, Paris: 363–369 (repr. in S. Lafont, (éd.), Hommage à Guillaume Cardascia, Paris 1995: 137–146 [Méditerranées 3]) Cagni, L., 1988, ‘Aspetti dell’economia regia nella Mesopotamia achemenide,’ in Stato, Economica, Lavoro nel Vicino Oriente, Milan: 156–166 Chandezon, C., 2003, ‘Les campagnes de l’ouest de l’Asie Mineure à l’époque hellénistique,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée. Cités et royaumes à l’époque hellénistique (Colloque international de la Sophau, Rennes, avril 2003), Pallas 62: 193–217 Chankowski, A., 2000, [review of Schuler 1998], Topoi 10: 493–505 Corsaro, M., 1997, ‘A proposito della basilike chôra nelle iscrizione ellenistiche d’Asia Minore,’ Serta Antiqua et Mediaevalia, n. s. I: 9–18 Corsaro, M., 2001a, ‘Sovrani, cittadini, servi: aspetti sociali dell’Asia Minore ellenistica,’ Mediter­ raneo Antico IV/1: 17–40 Corsaro, M., 2001b, ‘Doni di terra ed esenzioni dai tributi: una riflessione sulla natura dello stato ellenistico in Asia Minore,’ Simblos 3: 228–261 Descat, R., 1985, ‘Mnésimachos, Hérodote et le système tributaire achéménide,’ RÉA 87: 97–112 Descat, R., 1989, ‘Notes sur la politique tributaire de Darius Ier,’ in P. Briant & C. Herrenschmidt (éds.), Le tribut dans l’empire perse, Louvain, Paris: 77–93

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Descat, R., 1998, ‘Public et privé dans l’économie de la cité grecque,’ Ktèma 23: 229–241 Descat, R., 2003, ‘Quest-ce que l’économie royale?,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée. Cités et royaumes à l’époque hellénistique (Colloque international de la Sophau, Rennes, avril 2003), Pallas 62: 149–168 Descat, R., 2006, ‘Aspects d’une transition: l’économie du monde égéen 350–300,’ in P. Briant & F. Joannès (éds.), La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistique (v. 350– 300 av. J­C.) (Persika 9), Paris: 353–37 Driver, G. R., 1956, Aramaic Documents of the Fifth Century BC, Oxford Godelier, M., 1970, Sur les societés précapitalistes. Textes choisis de Marx, Engels, Lénine (Recueils du CERM, Centre d’études et de recherches marxistes), Paris Godelier, M., 1991, ‘Le mode de production asiatique: un concept stimulant, mais qui reste d’une portée analytique limitée’, Actuel Marx 10: 181–199 Grelot, P., 1972, Documents araméens d’Égypte (Littératures Anciennes du Proche-Orient 5), Paris Grosrichard, A., 1979, Structure du sérail. La fiction du despotisme asiatique dans l’Occident clas­ sique, Paris Guerci, l., 1979, ‘Proprietà della terra e despotismo orientale,’ RSI 91: 477–481 Haldon, J., 1993, The State and the Tributary Mode of Production, London, New York Henkelman, W., 2003, ‘An Elamite memorial: the šumar of Cambyses and Hystaspes,’ in W. Henkelman & A. Kuhrt (eds.), A Persian Perspective. Essays in memory of Heleen Sancisi­Weerden­ burg (AchHist XIII), Leiden: 101–165 Hentsch, Th., 1988, L’Orient imaginaire. La vision politique occidentale de l’Est méditerranéen, Paris Joannès, F., 2000, La Mésopotamie au 1er millénaire avant J.­C., Paris (= 2004, The Age of Empires, Edinburgh) Korotayev, A., 1993, ‘Bayt: basis of middle Sabaean social structure,’ RSO 67: 55–63 Kreissig, H. 1978a, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im Seleukidenreich. Die Eigentums­ und Abhängig­ keitsverhältnisse, Berlin Kreissig, H. (ed.), 1978b, Die antiken und die altorientalischen Komponente im Hellenismus (Hartenstein, 30.3–1.4.1976) = Klio 60/1 Leemans, W. F., 1988 [review of Van der Spek 1986], RHDFE 66: 44–52 Lindenberger, J. M., 2003, Ancient Aramaic and Hebrew Letters, 2nd ed. (Society of Biblical Literature, Writings from the Ancient World 14), Atlanta GA Marr, L. L., 1994, ‘Don’t take it literally: Themistocles and the case of inedible victuals,’ CQ 44: 536–539 Nicolet, C., 2003, La fabrique d’une nation. La France entre Rome et les Germains, Paris Papazoglou, F., 1997, Laoi et paroikoi. Recherches sur la structure de la société hellénistique (Centre d’Études Épigraphiques et Numismatiques de la Faculté de Philosophie de l’Université de Belgrade, Études d’histoire ancienne I), Belgrade Porten, B., 1987, ‘Royal grants in Egypt: a new interpretation of Driver 2,’ JNES 46: 39–48 Porten B. & A. Yardeni, 1986, Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Egypt I: Letters, Jerusalem Rapin, C., 1992, Fouilles d’Ai Khanum, VIII: La trésorerie du palais hellénistique d’Ai Khanum (MDAFA XXXIII), Paris Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H., 1998, ‘Bāji,’ in M. Brosius & A. Kuhrt (eds.), Studies in Persian History: essays in memory of David M. Lewis (AchHist XI), Leiden: 23–34 Schuler, C., 1998, Ländliche Siedlungen und Gemeinden im hellenistischen und römischen Klein­ asien (Vestigia 50), Munich Sève-Martinez, L., 2003, ‘Quoi de neuf sur le royaume séleucide?’, in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient médi­ terranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée. Cités et royaumes à l’époque hellénistique (Colloque international de la sophau, Rennes, avril 2003), Pallas 62: 221–242 Shaked, S., 2004, Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur: documents araméens du IVe siècle av. notre ère provenant de Bactriane (Persika 4), Paris Sherwin-White, S. M. & A. Kuhrt, 1993, From Samarkhand to Sardis. A new approach to the Seleu­ cid empire (Hellenistic Culture and Society XIII), Berkeley CA, London

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Stelling-Michaud, S., 1960–61, ‘Le mythe du despotisme oriental,’ Schweizer Beiträge zur Allge­ meinen Geschichte 18–19: 328–346 Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire. The Murašû Archive, the Murašû Firm and Per­ sian Rule in Babylonia, Leiden Szubin, H. Z. & B. Porten, 1988, ‘A life estate of usufruct: a new interpretation of Kraeling 3,’ BASOR 269: 29–45 Van der Spek, R., 1980 [review of Kreissig 1978b], BiOr 37: 253–259 Van der Spek, R., 1981, [review of Kreissig 1978a], BiOr 38: 212–219 Van der Spek, R., 1986, Grondbezit in het Seleucidische Rijk, Amsterdam Van der Spek, R., 1987, ‘The Babylonian city,’ in A. Kuhrt & S. M. Sherwin-White (eds.), Hellenism in the East. The interaction of Greek and non­Greek civilizations from Syria to Central Asia after Alexander (Hellenistic Culture and Society II), Berkeley CA, London: 57–74 Van der Spek, R., 1990 [review of Briant 1982], BiOr 47: 300–303 Van der Spek, R., 1993, ‘New evidence on Seleucid land policy,’ in H. Sancisi-Weerdenburg et al. (eds.), De Agricultura. In Memoriam P.­W. de Neeve, Amsterdam: 61–77 Van der Spek, R., 1995, ‘Landownership in Babylonian cuneiform documents,’ in M. Geller, H. Maehler & A. D. Lewis (eds.), Legal Documents of the Hellenistic Period, London: 173–245 Van der Spek, R., 1998, ‘Land tenure in Hellenistic Anatolia and Mesopotamia,’ in H. Erkanal, V. Donbaz & A. Oǧuroǧlu (eds.), XXXIVe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale (6–10 juillet 1987), Istanbul: 137–147 Vidal-Naquet, P., 1964, ‘Karl Wittfogel et la notion de mode de production asiatique’, repr. in VidalNaquet P., La démocratie grecque vue d’ailleurs, Paris (1990): 267–324, 403–416 Virgilio, B., 2003, Lancia, diadema e porpora. Il re e la regalità ellenistica (Studi Ellenistici XI), Pisa Wheelan, F. G., 2001, ‘Oriental Despotism: Anquetil-Duperron’s response to Montesquieu,’ History of Political Thought 22: 619–647 Whitehead, J. D., 1974, Early Aramaic Epistolography, unpub. PhD Chicago Zaccagnini, C., 1981, ‘Modo di produzione asiatico e Vicino Oriente antico. Appunti per una discussione,’ Dialoghi di Archeologia 3: 3–65 (Eng. trans. In Zaccagnini, C. 1989, Production and consumption in the Ancient Near East, Budapest: 1–126)

27 ASIA MINOR IN TRANSITION* 1 SOURCES AND PROBLEMS: THE CURRENT SITUATION 1.1 Asia Minor: recent syntheses While recent discoveries and publications have given a new and welcome impetus to studies of the transition from the Achaemenids to the Hellenistic period in Babylonia and Egypt, it remains the case that, of all the territories which constituted Alexander’s empire and subsequently the Successor kingdoms, western Asia Minor is among the best documented, both in the Achaemenid and the Hellenistic period. A glance at an inventory1 would reveal the density of archaeological sites to be strikingly high; finds of iconographic documents are made annually;2 at the same time, the publication of epigraphic material (mainly Greek, but also in local languages,3 in Aramaic,4 as well as bilingual and trilingual) rises constantly; and, last but not * 1

2

3 4

Originally published as: “L’Asie mineure en transition,” in P. Briant & F. Joannès (éds.), La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (Persika 9), Paris 2006: 309–351 Overviews (for the Achaemenid period) are presented in HEP 1996: 718–733, 1034–1040 (= HPE 2002: 697–713, 1008–1014); BHAch I (1997): 15–27; BHAch II (2001): 32–52. An overview for the time following 2000 remains to be drawn up. I am not aware of a similar listing for the Hellenistic period (Ma’s study (2000) deals specifically with publications of inscriptions and has no pretensions to completeness; Archibald 2001, too, does not try to draw up an exhaustive table of material for Asia Minor at the beginning of the Hellenistic period). The most spectacular find is the publication of the Çan sarcophagus in the Granicus valley (Sevinç et al. 2001; cf. Kaptan 2003: 195–197), [followed by the first results of a survey conducted in the Granicus Valley (B. Rose et al., Studia Troica 17, 2007, pp. 65–134)]; see the preliminary publication (by Peter Calmeyer 1992) of the painted beams from Phrygia: in the lecture given by Lätife Summerer on the occasion of our colloquium, she demonstrated that the beams came from a tumulus burial (Tatarlı) near Dinair-Kelainai [cf. O. Bingöl, Malerei und Mosaik der Antike in der Türkei, Mainz am Rhein, 1997, pp. 39–42]; more fragments of beams from the same tomb are currently on exhibition and/or being conserved at the museum of Afyon [see now L. Summerer & A. von Kienlin (eds.), Tatarli. The return of colours, Istanbul, 2010]; mention should also be made of finds in Phrygia near Kutaya of the bullae with Persian motifs (see the preliminary discussion by Kaptan 2010). See Roosevelt (2006) for a study of one particular architectural and iconographic aspect, the “symbolic door stelae”. See the recent publication of an inscription dating to an Artaxerxes which may mention the Persian satrap Rhoisakes; its iconography is also striking (Gusmani & Akkan 2004). See, for example, Lemaire 2002 (Lydia) and 2004 (Cilicia); Kwasman & Lemaire 2002 (Lydia). These extremely fragmentary inscriptions are dated to the last phase of Achaemenid rule (fourth century) on palaeographical grounds – an uncertain criterion, as the authors admit.

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least, it is from Asia Minor that the great majority of coin hoards, found either in situ or (more often) in European and American museum collections, originate.5 As a result, several monographs on particular regions have appeared in recent years – Sardis and Lydia (Dusinberre 2003),6 Lycia (Keen 1998), Cilicia (Casabonne 2004), and, if we include the proceedings of colloquia in this brief survey, Hellespontine Phrygia7 (Bakır et al. 1997; see also Kaptan 2002, 2003) – and, indeed, on several regions (Giorgieri et al. 2003). In general, these regional researches are focussed on the Achaemenid period or more broadly the first half of the first millennium (often labelled as “Archaic and Classical periods”), even when – as happens – material from the Hellenistic period is used. In syntheses of Asia Minor, Alexander’s reign forms either the final chapter (as in Debord 1999: 427–492), or simply an introductory one (e. g. Sartre 1995: 13–20 = 2003: 12–24), depending on whether the focus is the Achaemenid or Hellenistic and Roman periods (the same is true of manuals of Hellenistic history: e. g., Shipley 2000: 33–58); it is very rare indeed that regional studies take both the Achaemenid as well as the Hellenistic period into account, and consider the transition from one to the other.8 On the Hellenistic side, a great number of studies have given pride of place to relations between kings and cities (Ma 1999, 2004a-b; Capdetrey 2004, etc.), something inevitably determined by the profile of the documentary dossiers, but one should also note some recent studies on the land and peasantry of Anatolia (Papazoglou 1997; Schuler 1998; Chandezon 2003a: 183–258; 2003b). One document, long known and analysed, is the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeconomica, which presents an Achaemenid-Hellenistic vision (see, for example, Descat 2003, 2004; Briant 1972a: 27, 1994a, HEP/HPE, see Index; 2006a; Aperghis 2004: 117–135 [with the criticisms of Le Rider & Callataÿ 2006]; Foraboschi 2004). For this and other reasons, the problematic issue of continuities/changes between the Achaemenid and Hellenistic period is frequently alluded to,9 even if it is only too rarely treated in a truly global and integrative manner.10

5

See the collection of several thousand coins in the British Museum and the department of Monnaies, Médailles et Antiques of the BNF (Paris), which can be consulted on www.achemenet. com. One of the most remarkable hoards is the so-called Hekatomnos and Pixodaros hoard recently published by Ashton et al. 2002a-b. 6 Note also the iconographic survey published by H. Dedeoǧlu 2003. 7 F. Maffre’s dissertation is not as yet published. 8 For Lycia, see the well informed, recent article by Savalli-Lestrade 2001; David Asheri (1983) has been the pioneer in this field. 9 With the exception of most of the recent books on Alexander the Great, where (in a way that is ludicrous and something of a caricature) the Achaemenid empire is frequently absent (see my observations in Briant 2003a: 126–130, 567–569; 2005b: 61–62). 10 For critical remarks and perspectives, see Briant 2006a, 2008, 2009a.

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1.2 Archaeology and history Not all the documentary material published recently is equally useful in studying the transition. We do not, in Asia Minor, have at our disposal a set of sequential evidence comparable to the documentation available for Babylonia,11 Idumaea,12 Egypt13 and Bactria14 – a documentation that covers the period from the late Achaemenid and beginning of the Hellenistic period, including in several instances items specifically dated to Alexander’s reign. Given their chronological span, the archaeological finds should be able to provide evidence for this phase, but, for a variety of reasons, they are rarely brought together: without dwelling on the chronological difficulties inherent in this kind of research, there is the fact that sites are often marked by, occasionally yawning, gaps, attributable to the hazards of research and/ or the diverse interests of the archaeologists themselves.15 The absence of a synthesis on the Achaemenid-Hellenistic phase in Anatolian archaeology, makes it extremely difficult to plot the transition on the ground – whether one looks at Daskyleion,16 Sardis, Xanthos or Gordion. With this in mind, and as it only concerns a rather limited aspect of the issue, I note in passing the interesting recent analyses of the pottery found at Ilion/Troy: they show very clearly the cross-cultural Athenian-Persian influences in the region during the fourth century, and help to explain better why Alexander was so keen to carry out rituals and sacrifices here (Berlin 2002; Berlin & Lynch 2002). Along with others, these studies remind us that the analysis of Greco-Persian-Anatolian cultural relations is an integral part of the tran-

11

See Briant & Joannès 2006: 17–309, where all the articles are devoted to the Babylonia of this period. Especially welcome is the launch, by Michael Jursa, of a new introduction to collections of Babylonian texts (Guide to the Mesopotamian Textual Record), with the avowed aim of “reducing the progressively fragmented nature of Assyriological research” (Jursa 2005: V). See also the many Babylonian texts now being made available on line on www.achemenet.com under the supervision of Francis Joannès. 12 See Lemaire in Briant & Joannès 2006: 405–441, along with Tom Boiy’s critical remarks on the chronology and identity of the Alexander of the texts, ibid.: 37–100. A general corpus of the material is currently in preparation by Bezalel Porten (cf. Porten & Yardeni 2003). 13 See Briant & Joannès (éds.) 2006: 377–406. 14 See Shaked’s preliminary publication (2004). Shaked & Naveh gave the manuscript of the final publication to the publisher in March 2006, but it remains unpublished. [The volume is now available: J. Naveh & S. Shaked, Aramaic documents from Ancient Bactria in the Khalili Col­ lection, London, 2012]. New Aramaic documents from the region have come to light and are in the process of publication (as communicated by Saul Shaked to the Colloquium on the Persepolis Archives, Paris 3–4 November 2006 [they are in fact still unpublished]). 15 See the proceedings of the international colloquium on this subject held at the Collège de France in November 2003, and the introduction by the editors: Briant & Boucharlat 2005 (two communications concern Anatolia: Lycia by Theodor Marksteiner and Cilicia by Charles Gates); on Casabonne 2004, Dusinberre 2003 and Kaptan 2002, see the evaluation by Gates 2005. 16 I find it difficult to accept Tomris Bakır’s interpretation of an ash layer found at Daskyleion (evidence, in her view, that the town was taken by storm by Parmenio’s army following the victory at the Granicus, Bakır et al. 2001: 172).

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sition process.17 In other words, discussion of the transition is not reducible to a simple opposition between continuities and changes, above all not in a region (i. e. western Asia Minor) where Greeks, Persians and local populations (Phrygians, Lydians, Carians, Lycians etc.) lived side-by-side and had been engaged in conflicts for centuries, as well as the interchange of men, goods, ideas, images and words.18 1.3 The coinage of Alexander and the Achaemenids Having just referred to, and deplored, the absence of continuous, archival sources for Asia Minor in this period, we should not forget the massive coin evidence. I hasten to add that I shall not discuss this at length here as, not being a specialist, I am hardly qualified to add more in the wake of Georges Le Rider’s recent book (2003)19, which sets out beautifully the current issues. Nevertheless, I should like to allude to some aspects of the debate as the documentation and the various analyses it has aroused concern primarily the period of transition, not only in Asia Minor, but also in Egypt and Babylonia. The question whether Alexander’s conquest brought in its wake the monetisation of economy and exchanges in Egypt and Babylonia has often been discussed by Assyriologists (it is raised again in Joannès 2006), rather less so by Egyptologists.20 Note that Le Rider’s analyses, and his own comments as well as those of François Callataÿ (2006) must be fully taken into account in the context of these discussions,21 which, in considering the coinage struck in the name of Mazaios/Mazday in Babylon, also raise the issue of the place of Iranians in the administration newly established by the Macedonian conqueror. The possibility that darics were struck in Alexander’s time is a further fascinating aspect to be considered in studying the move from Achaemenid to Macedonian control.22 To this period, too, belong the other coins struck by Mazday (published more recently) from the Syrian city of Membig.23 In Asia Minor itself the number of debates about the date at which Alexander initiated the first imperial mint is enormous. By dating the opening of the workshops to the end of Alexander’s reign, Le Rider’s argument24 has been decisive with respect to the process of conquest and transition, as the striking of coins in, and of, 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

See already my discussions in HEP: 718–733 [HPE 697–716] and the further clarifications in BHAch I and BHAch II. See, for example, Kearn’s 2003 article on Lydo-Greek linguistic exchanges; on the phenomena of acculturation, see Klinkott 2002 (Caria), Kolb 2003 (Lycia) and Salmeri 2004 (Cilicia). [In what follows, I will cite the work according to the English translation that is now published: Alexander the Great. Coinage, Finances and Policy, American Philosophical Society, Philadelphia, 2007]. However, see Chauveau 2000 (introduction of the stater) and Van Alfen 2002 (pre-Macedonian coinage in Egypt). See especially the very stimulating pages in Le Rider & de Callataÿ 2006, ch. VI: “Progrès et limites de la monétarisation des royaumes séleucide et ptolémaïque” (pp. 245–277). See Le Rider’s 2007 arguments (“Alexander and Coinage in Egypt”: 161 ff.; “Alexander and Coinage in Babylonia and East of the Tigris”: 202 ff.). See the discussion in BHAch I: 29; Briant 2000a: 268–269; 2003a: 73–76 (with references). 2007, ch. IV: “Alexander and Coinage in Western Asia Minor” (pp. 73–110).

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Alexander’s name and type in western Asia Minor only began very late on. Which indicates that, despite the striking of the first Alexandrine tetradrachms from the end of 333 onwards at Tarsus and then at Sidon (2007, pp. 113–117), Alexander adopted, at this time, the monetary and financial policy of the Great Kings (including probably the continued use of shekels and darics in Babylonia and the satrapies of the Iranian plateau). Le Rider draws the logical conclusion about the conqueror’s pragmatism, allowing the continued use of local coins “in a region where he could have imposed exclusive usage of his coinage without encountering any difficulty” (2007: 159; also p. 200 on Egypt, and the general conclusions on pp. 253–8). It is impossible to enter into details here. Let us just recall the terms of one debate in particular, that between Martin Price and Pierre Debord on the one hand and Georges Le Rider on the other. On the basis of the find at Saqqara of a bronze coin with a beardless head identified by Price as Alexander, Debord (1999: 479–492; 2000) made an analogous suggestion in order to interpret the bronze coins struck in western Asia Minor. He rejects the label “beardless satrap” and thinks that these represent the coinage of Alexander struck immediately following his conquest of western Asia Minor. He distances himself from an interpretation, which he considers too “hellenocentric”, and thinks that the Greek cities “represented Alexander not as a Macedonian king, nor as a new Heracles, but as a Persian king;” and goes on to link this conclusion with the evidence for administrative continuity in the course of the conquest of Asia Minor. Le Rider espouses a view directly opposed to this, giving his reasons in detail (2007: 171–9), and concludes that Alexander did not mint coins in Asia Minor nor in Egypt at the moment of conquest. I will not enter directly into this debate (even though some of Le Rider’s arguments on the “beardless satrap” strike me as very convincing).25 I should simply like to stress that the whole discussion and, in particular, Le Rider’s book in its entirety, forms an excellent introduction to debates on the Achaemenid-Hellenistic transition, while simultaneously adding a sizable, albeit difficult to interpret, corpus of evidence to it. 1.4 From Darius to Alexander Le Rider is well aware that his interpretation of the numismatic evidence is far-reaching in its implications. When referring to the administrative and organisational decisions taken by Alexander, Le Rider rejects an idea according to which “because of the brevity and tumultuousness of his reign, [Alexander] would not have had the time to carry through his monetary reform which he would have undertaken but was only able to sketch out”. In his view, taking the measures necessary for this would have been easy: it was simply a matter of substantial production and the imposition of a new coinage. So it was not due to a lack of time that an imperial coinage was not put into circulation: Alexander deliberately chose not to do so (2007: 256–7). 25

Note that since 1997, Le Rider has expressed doubts about Price’s interpretation (cf. Briant 2000a: 267, n. 11).

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These observations support a vision of Alexander, which fits the discussion I am engaging in now. Let me explain. Ever since the beginnings of Alexander historiography,26 and still omnipresent in today’s manuals, there is a thesis which tries to divide Alexander conquests into two great phases: one, far and away the longest (334–325), was devoted to the conquest proper, the other, very short (325–323), to the organisation of his territories and the establishment of an imperial administration27 – as though it were impossible to be simultaneously conqueror and administrator.28 It is thus unsurprising that, generally, Alexander’s organisational activity is treated very summarily: I would even say that, in reading recent books (which is not to say that they are new), that aspect is becoming ever more neglected (most often, the writer contents him (or her)self, like Droysen, with a few general phrases on putting the material from Persian treasuries into circulation and the expansion of commerce).29 Thus, throughout his conquests, Alexander paid no serious attention to organising the conquered lands (except to adopt, without any real thought, the customs he discovered as he went along), nor to defining an imperial policy. The reason for this was that the Macedonian ruler was profoundly uninterested in organisational and administrative issues.30 This approach is, implicitly or explicitly, linked to the idea that, in 334, Alexander had no detailed information on the workings of the empire which he was setting out to conquer. This amounts to saying that Alexander had no real sense of how the transition from Darius III’s empire to the one he was about to construct might work. Such an image of Alexander has always struck me as highly debatable given the available evidence, and I am delighted to note that Le Rider, too, assumes that the 26 27 28

29 30

In the historiographical longue durée, we have to go back to the discussions that developed in the course of the eighteenth century in Europe to find this theme: cf. my preliminary observations in Briant 2005c, along with my articles 2005–2006. But note that this “second phase”, too, was not free from plans of war, now directed against the Gulf Arabs. Exactly the same image has been long in vogue in Achaemenid historiography, traditionally marked by contrasting the conquering rulers (Cyrus in particular) with an organiser (Darius I): my argument in HEP: 73–108 [HPE 62–106] explicitly engages with this thesis. We should remember that in the Achaemenid period (HEP: 196–207 [HPE 183–195]) as with the Hellenistic kings (Savalli-Lestrade 2003: 28–207; Briant 2003a: 532–534), the movements of king and court never disrupted chancellery business. The same is true of Alexander throughout the eleven years of his expedition: the activities of army chief and those of a king concerned with administering his empire and responding to the many appeals made to him were not incompatible. I am referring here only to the (very repetitive) works and manuals on Alexander the Great, whose authors tend to reduce the history to a detailed analysis of military and event history. See, for example, Billows 1990: 46: “… the sources do not support the idea that Alexander was in any sort a reformer in administrative matters, or indeed that he had any particular interest in administration […] Alexander chasing his dreams eastwards, had no time to regulate a new system of administration […] “; or Worthington AHB 13/2 (1999: 51): “Alexander did not follow a strategy of conquests, consolidation and long-term administration but was constantly on the move.” See on this the sensible remarks of Higgins 1980: 129–130: “Indeed it may well be that Alexander had little taste for the business of government [referring to Welles and Badian]; but this does not diminish the soundness of his dispositions.”

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Macedonian conqueror was putting a proper imperial policy into operation. So if we admit that Alexander did not simply set out on an adventure to gather booty (with his eye on getting back to Macedon as soon as possible), then we must admit (as the evidence, indeed, suggests) that, from the moment of landing, he faced the challenge confronting all “imperial conquerors”: the lands he was conquering one by one were part of an imperial whole; he must thus have had plans in mind for safeguarding the transition including, in some instances, for imposing changes as he progressed: not merely in the short term (to deal with possible problems), but also in the long term (to put structural adjustments and changes in place).31 This is the reason why, as I have repeatedly said, studying the short period of Alexander’s reign presupposes both knowledge of Achaemenid imperial history and its regional evolution, as well as the structures of the Hellenistic period. In other words, it is crucial to assess Alexander and his successors as the nodal point between Achaemenid history (in all its aspects) and Macedonian history, which is too often omitted from such debates;32 crucial, too, is the history of political and economic thought in Greece and Asia Minor during the fourth century.33 The revival of Achaemenid, along with regional and Macedonian, history (thanks in large part to archaeology and epigraphy),34 offers the potential to ask new questions of, and use new methods to approach, the history of Alexander and the Successors.35 1.5 From Alexander to the diadochi I shall not spend long here on a discussion of the measures taken by Alexander in Asia Minor as, even if we leave aside his oft-studied policy vis­à­vis the cities,36 it demands a monograph37 – one not reduced to a history of events but including the 31

32

33

34 35 36 37

See on this Müller’s recent study (2005) who, in his analysis of hemiolos in the context of the organisation set up by Alexander, draws this conclusion: “… so that one can speak already from this point on of “Alexander’s empire” and – a precondition to this – of the king’s “imperial consciousness (Reichsbewusstsein)” (p. 380). See Briant 1994b (with references) as well as Elizabeth Carney’s critical review of Bosworth’s Conquest and Empire, Cambridge 1988 (AJPh 111 (1990): 558–561). I have the impression that the image of a Macedonian king exclusively concerned with war and conquest is based on the use of Greek narrative sources to the exclusion of anything else. The epigraphic documents now available make it possible to refine such a picture considerably, focussing attention on internal conditions and the officials of the royal administration. The recent articles of Descat 2004, Davies 2004 and Foraboschi 2004, which appeared along with three other articles on the transition from the classical to Hellenistic period (Dalla polis del IV secolo al regno ellenistico. Riflessioni sull’economia nella Grecia antica, pp. 459–568), should be read with care; note also Descat’s 2006 article. See, above all, the work of Hatzopoulos. See Briant 2005b: 61–62. See most recently Nawotka 2003 and Bencivenni 2003: 15–104; see below § 3.1. on Priene. This is not what Debord’s chapter (1999: 427–478) on “Asia Minor at the time of Alexander” is or pretends to be, although it is a very useful synthesis. (See the reviews by Weiskopf 2000 and Jacobs 2002.)

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last years of Achaemenid rule as well as the diadochic period down to the death of Antigonus Monophtalmus. Before coming to the epigraphic material, let me just say (as I have often said before) that even the Graeco-Roman narrative sources are full of important information on this, providing evidence both of Alexander’s policy and the situation prevailing in the Persian empire at the moment of Alexander’s take-over.38 First and foremost among all the texts that could be cited and commented on, we should note those which relate to the take over of satrapies, the administrative hierarchy set up by Alexander and the measures relating to the tribute and its collection. The measures taken by Alexander are sometimes explicitly set into continuity with the tributary structure of the Persians (which Alexander adopted without change, or replaced with an exemption39), but in at least one case Alexander’s policy is linked to a recent territorial reorganisation (in my opinion) initiated by the Great King.40 Further, some passages of literary texts on the diadochi period are also suggestive. I am thinking in particular of Plutarch’s Life of Eumenes. One passage (§ 8, 3) illustrates in picturesque and revealing detail bureaucratic practices: those in charge of managing the royal stables on Mount Ida, during the (first) diadochic war, received from Eumenes correctly made out receipts, as he believed that the annual accounts of those in charge of stables must be seen to be under the close control of the royal administration – as had been the case in the Achaemenid period:41 in other words, in contrast to the situation prevailing at the time which was hardly favourable for such an enterprise, he wanted to demonstrate publicly and symbolically that his action was part of the imperial legality represented at that point by Alexander IV and Philip III. This helps one to understand Antipater’s sarcasm (as reported by Plutarch), who had been appointed official guardian of the kings at Triparadeisos, when Eumenes himself had been declared an enemy of the Macedonians. By conforming so conspicuously with normal bureaucratic practices,42 Eumenes showed that he was not helping himself to royal property, i. e. he was not a brigand or a rebel:43 by producing certified accounts, he wished to demonstrate very publicly that the decisions taken (in his absence) at Triparadeisos had no validity. The second passage (§ 8, 5) is rather better known. It concerns Eumenes, a little later, in Greater Phrygia: involved in a quarrel with his army commanders, he “sold” them in advance the farms (epauleis) and the tetrapyrgia (fortified domains) in the environs of Kelainai, this being a way to pay the soldiers when he had run out of money. It is well known that this passage was used by Rostovtzeff to illustrate what 38 39 40 41 42 43

See most recently HEP: 713–715 [HPE 693–7] and Briant 2003a: 16–18. E. g. Arrian I 17,1 (Daskyleion); I 17,10 (Ephesus); I 18,2 (Aeolian and Ionian cities); I 26,3 and I 27,4 (Aspendus); II 5,9 (Mallos); Quintus Curtius III 1,23 (Paphlagonians); [cf. above Chapter 23 § 4]. Arrian I 24,5 (Milyas), with my comments in HEP: 726–727 and 1037–1038 [HPE 706–7 and 1011]. Cf. Briant 1972b, 1973 = 1982: 24, n. 14; 58, n. 4; 209; HEP: 466 [HPE 452] (on the “paperwork” used to manage royal interests). The anecdote suggests that Eumenes had taken care to send a copy of the receipts to the court! Compare with this Nepos, Datames 10,2, and my comments in HEP: 680–681 [HPE 661–2].

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he thought was a profound socio-economic change at the beginning of the Hellenistic period. Since then, it has been shown again and again that Rostovzeff’s image of the situation was wrong.44 It remains true, however, that the passage provides interesting information, not only on the conduct of penniless military commanders at the start of the Hellenistic period (directly comparable to devices described by Pseudo-Aristotle and Polyaenus), but also on the existence of large rural domains in Phrygia, which in the Achaemenid period had been in the hands of either old Phrygian families or members of the Iranian imperial diaspora.45 Each of the passages discussed (or referred to) would deserve (or has already received) detailed comments. These have for some time led historians to ask how one can determine what was new and what not in Alexander’s policy.46 Let us take one example: his decisions at Sardis. Apart from the questions they raise about royal initiatives, here and elsewhere, with respect to imperial administrative organisation, the procedure of Alexander’s entry into the city (Arrian I 17,3–8) shows, on the one hand, when compared to events at Babylon three years later, that Alexander was well aware how to negotiate both with the civic authorities and the chief representative of the Achaemenid imperial hierarchy (Mithrenes), and, on the other, that from that date on (not suddenly in Babylon) the king had begun to put into practice his Iranian policy, which consisted of integrating those Persians ready to co-operate with him into his entourage (Briant 1993; HEP: 862–871 [HPE 842–862]). On this occasion and others, Alexander’s behaviour showed his desire to consolidate elements in order to effect a successful transition: even when engaged in military conquest (but was there ever a pause in this process?), Alexander was careful to construct an empire, not simply to destroy and ravage what he was conquering.47 We should also not reduce the time of the diadochi to the wars and ravages resulting from their ferocious struggles against each other: with more or less luck and direction, several, too, tried to construct kingdoms and establish new powers.48 44

See my comments in Briant 1972a: 97–100 (= 1982: 99–102); 1973: 44–61 (= 1982: 56–73); more recently, Papazoglou 1997: 72–73 (following my interpretation), and Schuler 1998: 69– 70 (on tetrapyrgia). 45 On this, see also my comments below § 2.2. 46 See, for example, Griffith 1964, along with my critical remarks in Briant 1973: 45–49 (= 1982: 26–30). On the internal satrapal organisation (in a discussion embracing the Achaemenid-Hellenistic period), see Debord 1999: 158–165 (“Appendice I: L’organisation satrapique sous Alexandre”), Jacobs 1994 and the recent synthesis of Klinkott 2005 (no discussion of the Alexander period); on Antigonus’ changes to the satrapal system, see Descat 1998: 181–184. 47 On this, I completely disagree with Bosworth’s stance (cf. Briant 2005b: 49–62). However, I must confess that my position on this issue has evolved (I have modified substantially in Briant 2005a, what I wrote in the edition of the same book in 2002: 73–74, without major changes from its first edition in 1974 [see now the 7th edition, 2011]). I do not believe that Alexander’s conquest can be analysed simply in terms of the “predatory state” model. I will return to this subject which certainly merits a new full treatment (cf. for now, Briant 2005c, and below Chapter 28 § 5]). 48 For the logic of the policy to establish territorial bases by the diadochi, see my observation in Briant 1972b = 1982: 41–54. – On this, I am in complete agreement with Descat’s opinion expressed in these terms recently, using the example of Eupolemos (1998: 186): “It should be

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By insisting too much on the destructions resulting from the “Macedonian” war of conquest, one slips only too easily into turning the Persian period into a golden age of peace and prosperity, which it certainly was not49 – even if the first decades of the fourth century should no longer be regarded, as they have been for a long time, as a period of “accelerated decadence” and “stagnation”.50 1.6 The contribution of the epigraphic sources There is one category of documents to which I should like to draw particular attention here, namely inscriptions, particularly those in Greek.51 I shall leave to one side inscriptions specifically concerned with Alexander’s relations with the Greek cities (Heisserer 1980), as this particular aspect is, as already said, somewhat peripheral to the subject I am discussing here. The one exception is the Priene inscription (In­ schr. Priene, no. 1; Tod II, no. 185; Heisserer 1980, ch.6) as it involves a consideration of the status of lands and peoples. Although not precisely dated, some inscriptions are very important: I am thinking particularly of the Mnesimachos inscription (Sardis VII 1 1),52 but also the so-called Sacrilege Inscription (IK 11, 1a),53 an in-

49

50 51

52 53

stressed how, despite the political turmoil, the beginning of the period of the Successors’ struggles against each other is not one of a vacuum in terms of power giving adventurers free rein. Certain power structures, as in Caria, existed at the provincial and local level, which may be difficult to pinpoint due to the gaps in our information, but which remained solid where they survived from the Achaemenid period and that of Alexander.” On the rhetoric of peace and war, see my observations in Briant 1999b: 105–108 and 2002; see also 2009b: 58–60 (on the historiography of Alexander). This contrast is the basis for Susan Sherwin-White’s commentary on the Dynastic Prophecy in 1987, which I followed in HEP: 883–884, 1076 [HPE: 863–864, 1049–1050; but new readings and interpretations have been put forward since then (see especially Van der Spek 2003). See on this Descat’s interesting analysis (2006). For the usefulness of Graeco-Anatolian inscriptions in the context of Achaemenid history, see already Briant 2000b, and HEP, Index, p. 1235: “Inscriptions grecques” [HPE: 1146–7, “Greek Inscriptions”], as well as Briant 1998a & b, 2003b [above Chapters 2–4]. Note that several of the relevant Greek inscriptions have been republished by F. Canali di Rossi 2004 in a book theoretically devoted to Greek inscriptions from the Far East, and placed by him (puzzlingly) into a geographical category labelled “Persis” (VI), in which there is mix of inscriptions actually found in Persis together with those from the Persian period found in Asia Minor; he has also juxtaposed definitely genuine documents (a Persepolis tablet) and obviously fake ones (e. g., the Greek inscriptions “found” on Cyrus’ tomb), as well as texts inscribed in the Achaemenid period and those reinscribed in the Roman period, and inscriptions actually on stone with ones “retranscribed” by later Greek writers etc.; the non-specialist will be yet more seriously misled by the fact that the author is often poorly informed about recent (and not so recent) discussions. See the Greek text with English translation and bibliography (up to 2000) at http://www. achemenet.com/pdf/grecs/mnesimachos.pdf; French translation in Sartre 2003: 168–169; recently Dignas 2002: 70–73, 279–287, and Aperghis 2004: 137–144, 320–324. For the Greek text, with French and English translations and bibliography, see http://www. achemenet.com/pdf/grecs/sacrileges.pdf.

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scription from Aigai (Malay 1983; Chandezon 2003a, no. 52; rev. Descat 2003),54 or yet an inscription from Amyzon dated precisely to Philip III year 4 (Amyzon no. 2).55 To these must be added the Hellenistic inscriptions, which refer to earlier regulations, and/or were re-inscribed in the Hellenistic and Roman period, although these last often raise particular problems, related as to the reasons or contexts of their republication.56 Taken together these cover the last quarter of the fourth century, which is also the date postulated (and likely) for the pseudo-Aristotelian Oeco­ nomica,57 and so provides ample material for considering the theme of transition. 2 LANGUAGES AND CULTURES 2.1 From Xanthos to Kaunos Let us look first at the well-known trilingual inscription from Xanthos, now dated most plausibly to the first year of Arses/Artaxerxes IV. As I have argued elsewhere (Briant 1998b), it is one document composed in two versions and three languages – what I call the civic version, on the one hand, and the satrapal one, on the other. The latter, in Aramaic, is not an exact translation of the first version and performs a very specific function (a kind of satrapal sanction – known in English as an ‘en-

54

55 56

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Disputed dating: third century according to Malay and Chandezon, diadochi period according to Descat 2003: 162: “The two criteria (xi with vertical bar and stoichedon) used together in an inscription does not permit one to lower the date. So I think that the years 310–300 must be the terminus ante quem (and it could well be earlier).” Descat remarks (pp. 161–162) that Lund (1992: 149–152) had already suggested dating the text to the period of the Successors, using epigraphic arguments (employment of stoichedon: 244, n. 140). On the connections between this inscriptions and the taxes cited by pseudo-Aristotle, see already my remarks in HEP: 411 and 957 [HPE: 399–400 & 932] (adopting Malay’s dating without discussion). See for text, translation, bibliography http://www.achemenet.com/pdf/grecs/bagadates.pdf [with Chapter 25 above]. For other inscriptions dated to Philip III (year 8) recently published, cf. Varinlioǧlu et al. 1990 (together with the discussion on pp. 72–76). See my warnings, in Briant 1998a (the Droaphernes inscription: above Chapter 2) and 2003b (the letter of Darius to Gadatas: above Chapter 4). These articles are linked to each other: first, there is the possibility of late fakes (Briant 2003b; Fried’s disagreement (2004: 108–116) is unconvincing given her selectiveness; Lane Fox 2006, too, fails to convince; I shall return to this in more detail elsewhere); secondly, there is the question of why, in the Roman period, a city and/or sanctuary decided to re-inscribe a regulation (or just a simple dedication) which, in part or in its entirety, dated back to the Achaemenid period (Briant 1998a); note also the asylum text from Tralles (http://www.achemenet.com/pdf/grecs/tralles.pdf) and the decree of Plataseis dated to Pixodaros, cited forty years later in another one: http://www.achemenet.com/pdf/ grecs/plataseis.pdf (see now Varinlioǧlu et al. 1990: 67–68). According to Descat 2003: 154, it dates to the period 320–300. (I do not think the late date defended by Foraboschi 2004 and Aperghis 2004 should be accepted; cf. also Müller’s observation (2005: 361 and n. 35)).

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dorsement’);58 the former is truly bilingual, the Greek as precise a translation as possible of the original Lycian text.59 Very striking is the prominence of the Lycian version: it is a major contribution to the question of the relations between the Greek and Lycian languages in a city, Xanthos/Orna, where the signs of hellenisation are very marked and emerge ever more clearly, particularly in dynastic inscriptions, as Greek comes to replace Lycian as the dominant language around the middle of the fourth century. At the same time, the trilingual shows that, at the official level, a few years before Alexander, Lycian continued to be the more prominent language as it was the basis for the Greek text. Even the place names used in Lycian and Aramaic show that, seen from the Anatolian (not Greek) angle, the population dwelt in a city called Orna and its immediate environs (the perioikoi). It seems broadly clear that in Lycia there was a fairly brutal change from “civic bilingualism” to the exclusive use of Greek, at least at the official level, as the situation is quite different in private (funerary) inscriptions, where the Lycian language and onomastics remain dominant.60 The date cannot be fixed with complete certainty, as the two languages continued to be used side by side (Alexander’s name itself is known from epigraphic references in both Greek and Lycian61), but specialists are agreed that Lycian disappears around the end of the fourth century. In general, there is agreement that the advance of Greek occurred earlier in (Hekatomnid) Caria.62 J. and L. Robert already commented on this in discussing the Amyzon inscription of 321/0 (1983: 117). When publishing his study of the Sinuri inscriptions in 1945, L. Robert emphasised “the growing hellenisation of the region” in the Hekatomnid period (pp. 19 & 95), but he matched this with a significant observation on the relationship between Greek and Carian: “In the fourth century, Caria was very rapidly Hellenised, but the local language, not only as used by the local people, but also in official inscriptions remained vital; in the onomasticon local This hypothesis has not been accepted by all: cf. my discussion in BHAch II: 179–184. Since then several studies have appeared that I shall analyse elsewhere [above my Foreword, pp. 00–00]. Note that Fried (2004: 152) considers the expression kurios estō to be used differently in Xanthos from that attested by all other examples in Greek inscriptions (of which I cited a number in my 1998b article); the same argument is presented (independently) by Le Roy 2005: 336–337. This deserves further study. On the Aramaic version (in relation to the Greek and Lycian) see most recently the detailed analysis by Kottsieper 2002. 59 On the Lycian version, see Melchert 2000; on the dating formula, see Cau 1999–2000 (who agrees with my conclusion: Briant 1998b: 321–325). 60 See on this Schweyer’s 2000 analysis (cf. p. 134 on “the maintenance of the local onomasticon”; p. 170: “The Lycians did not lose their identity despite their attraction to Hellenism”; also p. 208); see also the wealth of documentation gathered by Cau 2004, 2005a & b, and Colvin’s study (2004). 61 The name “Alexander” in Lycian: see the references apud Frei & Marek 1997: 57, n. 138; Alexander dedication in Greek at Xanthos (on a reused block): Le Roy 1980; the date of the dedication has been debated – either when Alexander arrived or later in is reign (cf. Debord 1999: 450, and the pointlessly violent and polemical counterattack of Goukowsky 1981, who finally decided that Le Roy’s suggested date (n. 334) is the most likely!). 62 See, for example, Hornblower 1982, followed and refined by Le Roy 1996; also Brixhe 1993. 58

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names seem to predominate” (p. 103). More recent research has confirmed the vitality of Carian in the Sinuri inscriptions (Adiego 2000; Adiego, Debord & Varinlioǧlu 2005).63 But another opinion about epigraphy dating from the Hekatomnid period is expressed by Chr. Le Roy (1996: 353): “It is clear that Carian had become a minority vernacular, and was no longer the language of law and power – Greek became the language of the state.” In this, he agrees with Hornblower’s general position: “Mausolus is one of the founders of Hellenistic style monarchy”; and, elsewhere, he infers on the basis of this that the dating of “floating” inscriptions from Lycia should be fixed with reference to his suggested evolution of the language (p. 354).64 Even though the discussion is based on documentation some of it only very recently published, we are at the heart of an important debate of long standing: namely, the evolution of what is called “prehellenistic” in the Achaemenid period. In this perspective, Alexander merely realised, or just hastened, a move already well established towards “hellenisation”, at least in the Aegean littoral of the Great Kings’ empire.65 That Alexander’s conquest did not, in western Asia Minor, signal an abrupt change in socio-cultural evolution, which relates first and foremost to a local dynamic, is something with which we can readily agree. What remains to be defined though are the phases of the evolution, in particular in the sphere of linguistic and cultural practices, and here matters are infinitely more complex. One reason is that the majority of the inscriptions (this particularly applies to funerary texts) are not precisely dated: as a result, the attempt to establish a chronology related to the monolingual or bilingual nature of this or that inscription runs the risk of being very uncertain, or yet illusory.66 Even when we have a definite date for a Greek inscription (Amyzon no. 2: 321/0), it is difficult to trace the evolutionary thread from the earlier period, which might explain the context and details of the linguistic and cultural situation of which the text provides a momentary snapshot.67 We should then admit, more cautiously, that considerable uncertainties remain on “the length of survival of local languages in Carian and Lycian epigraphy”. This is the opinion of Frei and Marek (1997: 57), expressed in the course of a commentary on a document which they were publishing, the now famous Caro-Greek bilin63 64 65

On the survival of names of Carian orign, see also Dinç & Meyer 2004. On this Le Roy is followed by Brixhe 1993: 72. On the concept “prehellenistic/Vorhellenismus (particularly used by Weinberg 1976, but see also the term “Vorgeschichte” employed by Schur 1928 in relation to “pre-Ptolemaic” Egypt) see already my criticisms in Briant 1979: 1405–1407 = 1982: 321–323 [above Chapter 20]; I am somewhat surprised that Davies referring to my 1979 article (in Archibald 2001: 18) attributes to me – approvingly – a “protohellenistic” image of the fourth century. On “prehellenistic” hellenisation in Asia Minor, see the observations of Savalli-Lestrade 2001, or the title given to his paper by Marksteiner 2002. 66 See recently on this Adiego, Debord & Varinlioǧlu 2005: 626–627, and Blümel & Kızıl 2004: 138. 67 Stimulating as it is, the commentary by the editors (Robert 1983: 97–118) contains some uncertainties (and, sometimes, unwarranted certainties): [cf. above Chapter 25 § 4].

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gual from Kaunos – an inscription which, in the form of a civic decree “à la grecque” confers various honours (proxeny and the title euergetes) on two Athenians and their descendants (SEG XLVII. 1568).68 Aside from the considerable contribution (which does not concern me here) which it makes to an improved understanding of the structures, syntax and terminology of the Carian language,69 the inscription of course makes one think about the use of these languages and scripts in the period of transition from Achaemenid rule and the installation of Macedonian power. This explains why the editors presented it as “a pearl”, it being the only parallel to the Xanthos Trilingual as it belongs to the category of civic decisions inscribed in a local language (Frei & Marek 1997: 53–54). While the document clearly shows the strength of Greek influence (in the use of formulae and terminology), the problem of dating it remains, which involves, as we saw, the debate about the stages of “hellenisation” and the (contemporary?) disappearance of Carian. The names of the two Athenians being honoured, Nikokles and Lysicrates, allow us to place their activities into the final third of the fourth century. Any more precise dating depends on what the postulated historical circumstances might have been that led to such political relations being established between Kaunos and Athens. The editors envisage three possibilities: the Lamian War period, the Hekatomnid one, or that of the Diadochi. They admit that they cannot reach any certainty, although they are tempted to adopt the first hypothesis (pp. 66–77).70 In a more recent examination of the question, Funke (1998) reaches the same conclusion or, rather, the same uncertainty (cf. p. 228). Without denying the hypothetical nature of this kind of research, Descat (1998: 187) has explained why, in his opinion, associating the document with the Lamian war strikes him as “very unlikely” and why he thinks it should be rejected (p. 188). He is tempted to lower the date to “the only Athenian maritime expedition which could have touched the region of Kaunos, the one directed by Tymochares” in either 315 or 314 – although, it should be noted in passing, neither Caria nor Kaunos nor Lycia are mentioned in the relevant Athenian inscription (quoting the relevant lines of the inscription, p. 189: … eis tèn Asian … polemon ton en Kyprôi). I am unable to come up with a solution and am prepared to accept the conclusion, full of uncertainties as it is, of the first editors. One general observation remains: whether it belongs to the time of the Lamian War or a somewhat later event, the document increases the dossier of continuities and linguistic and cultural adaptations in western Anatolia in this very period of transition, a fact that has not escaped either the first editors or later commentators.71 Descat, in order to strengthen 68 69 70 71

A new fragment has been discovered and published: Frei & Marek 1998; the same authors (Frei & Marek 2000) have now added this inscription to the corpus of Carian inscriptions from Kaunos.[Cf. Ch. Marek, Die Inschriften von Kaunos, Munich, 2006, p. 119 ff.]. See most recently, I.-J. Adiego, “The current state of knowledge of Carian,” in Adiego, Debord & Varinlioǧlu 2005: 640–653, and his study of the Carian language which he has just published (Adiego 2006). Descat (1998: 187) attributes to the authors’ conclusion a certainty which it does not have and which they do not indicate. See my thoughts in BHAch I: 20–21, and BHAch II: 171–174.

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his chronological hypothesis, remarks: “Finally, we cannot reject the idea that it is this atmosphere of autonomy, within the framework of a Carian alliance, which helps to explain the official use of bilingualism” (p. 190).72 However that may be, as it seems to be perfectly feasible73 that the inscription is dated to the beginnings of the Hellenistic period, one must infer that Macedonian political supremacy did not mean the immediate abandonment of the local language for an official decree.74 We are in the politico-cultural world of the Trilingual rather than that of official Xanthian epigraphy (i. e. monolingual Greek) of the Ptolemaic and Seleucid epoch. To move beyond this, we must wait for the publication of new inscriptions in local languages (of whatever kind),75 including bilinguals, in the hope that their dating may provide absolute certainty.76 72

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I think that the formula is explained by the arguments on pp. 180–184 on the existence, at this time, of a royal Carian title, reverted to Alexander on the death of Ada: “So there was henceforth a personal alliance between the king and the koinon of the Carian cities, an alliance which was continued by his successors” (p. 182). I must, nevertheless, admit that I cannot follow the logic of the argument which links the existence of this koinon and the use of Carian in the Kaunos decree: a good number of “Carian” cities do not use Carian (cf. the Amyzon 2 inscription to which Descat refers, p. 183). Descat’s formulation recalls that used by Brixhe (1993: 69, n. 27) commenting on the Carian inscriptions from the end of the fourth and third century: according to him, these documents show that Carian continued “to be used at least as a means of oral communication (by the elites) with their compatriots,” and he adds that their “occasionally public character indicates a ‘nationalist’ reaction.” I am not sure that such a formulation is really appropriate. I note that the Hekatomnid thesis is not rejected outright by the editors. See on this Le Roy’s sceptical comments who, as in earlier studies, does not think that Carian could have retained an official status: “Kaunos did not escape the Hekatomnid influence, as shown by the statues of Hekatomnos and Mausolus that were set up and whose bases survive […] As I have indicated above with respect to the trilingual stele, it seems to be a fact that the Hekatomnid period is one when, broadly speaking, Greek became the language of the state” (2005: 341). What should be done is study them from a global perspective, including Lydian, Phrygian and Aramaic inscriptions dating from this time on the model of Brixhe’s corpus of Palaeo-Phrygian inscriptions (2002, 2004); see most recently the Lydian inscription published by Gusmani & Akkan 2004 dated to an Artaxerxes; this could be Artaxerxes III, but that depends on identifying the name Rasakas as the satrap Rhoisakes. For the present, note the remarkable Lydian continuity in the place and personal names of two Greek inscriptions from this period, both concerning Sardis and villages connected to it; the texts are (obviously) the Sacrilege inscription (Masson 1987: 233–239; including, too, Greek, Asiatic (??) and Iranian names) and the Mnesimachos text (Buckler & Robinson 1912: 28–52); see my notes in HEP: 722–725, 1035– 1036 [HPE 702–5; 1009–1010]. In dating the Mnesimachos inscription to the time of Antigonus Monophtalmus I, like most others, have adopted Debord’s proposal (1982: 244–247); dating the Sacrilege inscription is harder to do with any certainty, but placing it in the time of transition is very likely (cf. HEP: 1036 [HPE 1010]). Note that in their editio princeps, Frei and Marek (1997: 76) refer to an as yet unpublished Greek inscription from Kaunos dated to Antigonus year 15, whom they identify as Antigonus Gonatas. Descat (1998, 190, n. 81) has expressed doubts, which in turn has caused Herrmann to express reservations in SEG XLVII.1568, p. 448. In a letter (revised in December 2006), Descat defines his position further: “Without a publication or photograph, all one can say is that it is an inscription dating to year fifteen of King Antigonus. Is it conceivable that an inscription

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2.2 Iranians and Iranian culture in Hellenistic Asia Minor As part of this discussion, I should like to consider the much debated question of the survival and/or relics of Iranian and Persian communities in western Asia Minor and their cultural traditions. I shall survey this briefly as, in the wake of Louis Robert, the question has often been looked at: I myself have contributed to the discussion in specialist articles (Briant 1985a [above Chapter 25], 1998a; see also HEP, Index, s. v. “diaspora impériale”, p. 1169). The issue, nonetheless, deserves some notice here, as it is directly connected to the debate on the transition phase. In the first instance, it should be remembered that the evidence for the imperial diaspora in Asia Minor (what he preferred to call “Iranian colonisation”) was conducted mainly by Louis Robert on the basis of Greek epigraphic documents, often of a very late date, using the evidence of personal and place names (see also Rüdiger Schmitt’s many studies). Although, more recently, Robert’s sweeping view has been modified, there is no doubt that, in the Achaemenid period, a considerable number of Persian and Iranian families settled in Asia Minor, where they were frequently given official functions and gift-estates (dōrea). What was the fate of these Iranian communities after the fall of the Achaemenid empire? The question, directly relevant to the topic under discussion, was put bluntly by Louis Robert in 1953, in his announcement of the publication of the Amyzon inscriptions – which did not appear for another thirty years (J. & L. Robert 1983). Dated to year 4 of Philip III (321/0), under Asander the satrap and with the involvement of Menandros,77 the document concerns the granting of citizenship to Bagadates and his son Ariaramnes as well as ateleia and the privilege of a front seat (proedria). The matter was sufficiently important for Asander to intervene personally, as shown by the formula: “It has seemed good to the Amyzonians, following the proposal of Asander, that Bagadates become a neokoros of Artemis as the oracle of Delphi has designated him …”. Robert saw in this another attestation of the Iranian diaspora, and an illustration of what happened to it after the Macedonian conquest: its members were incorporated into the citizen body, including the attachment of its land (pp. 115–118). Is this case indicative of Macedonian-Iranian relations in this period (as Robert suggested forcefully)? Caution suggests that we are not in a position to affirm this. Of the satraps and top level commanders of satrapies a number were killed in the Battle of the Granicus (including committing suicide, as in the case of Arsites, satrap

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of Antigonus Gonatas would be published in Ptolemaic territory? It would be a first to have an inscription dated by a king who is not the local powerholder (moreover an inscription that was preserved). Another possibility is that it is Antigonus Monophtalmus. We have no other instance of an inscription dated by one of his regnal years, but that does not mean there were none; further, the fifteenth year is not illogical for someone who was able to lay claim to the succession of Philip as he did in Babylonia, and who received royal honours in Persia around 316. If that is indeed the case, he could have had a regnal year 15 in 302 for example.” The inscription has just been published by Marek, Die Inschriften von Kaunos, Munich 2006: 133– 136, who now favours Antigonus Monophtalmus (cf. also, p. 112). On this, see Descat 1998: 182–184.

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of Daskyleion). We know that Mithrenes at Sardis offered his allegiance to Alexander, on condition that he be admitted to the court circle (Briant 1993 [here Chapter 23]), but he then disappears from the documentation (Berve 1926, no. 524). As far as I am aware, only one descendant of a great family, the satraps of Daskyleion (before Arsites became governor), is known to have played an active role, first in the fight against Alexander and then in the wars of the diadochi: this was Pharnabazus, but he disappears from the historical record fairly rapidly (Briant 1985a). This clearly makes it risky to draw far-reaching conclusions from the example of Bagadates, especially as we know nothing about either him or his family: the Amyzon text says nothing about his “domains” (whose existence is assumed by Robert), nor of his previous links with the Greeks and Carians of the city, save for his devotion to the sanctuary of the goddess Artemis; as for the connection presumed by Robert (rather allusively) to exist between Artemis of Amyzon and Artemis Persikē, I must admit that I see not the slightest indication of that in the civic decree. Robert’s commentary is inspired by the image he has created through his long term research, namely that, in spite of all kinds of political ups and downs, the Iranians of western Asia Minor preserved, virtually intact, their linguistic, cultural and religious traditions. I already expressed my doubts on this in an article published in 1985a [Chapter 25 § 4]. I am now totally convinced that this image is untenable. Robert even hardened his position when he published the Droaphernes inscription from Sardis: from the re-inscribing of the text at the height of the Roman empire, he drew the conclusion that, at that time, regulations (or at least the first one) directed at the servants of the cult of Ahura Mazda in the Achaemenid period, had continued to be republished over the five centuries separating the initial promulgation from the second century of our era. But no-one believes any longer that the text refers to Ahura Mazda and, if one accepts my interpretation (Briant 1998a [above Chapter 2]), the cult regulations themselves do not date from the Achaemenid period. All that remains is a Greek dedication to a local divinity (the Lydian or Greek Zeus), which, on the contrary, bears witness to the process of acculturation in Sardis.78 In short, however quantitatively substantial and dense (with regional variations) the Iranian communities settled in western Asia Minor might have been in the Achaemenid period, it must be conceded that, despite Louis Robert’s optimistic assumptions, we know extremely little, at least in the short term, what the consequences of Macedonian conquest were. If we leave the Amyzon inscription to one side (which itself is not free of interpretative uncertainties), the very late date of the documentation usually used makes it difficult to analyse in detail the nature and importance of intercultural contacts (including in the religious sphere)79 between 78

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My epigraphic analysis and commentary has won approval from Philippe Gauthier, BEp 1999, no. 469, and has led Weiskopf (2000: 456, n. 9) to modify his earlier view (HEP: 1027 [HPE 1001]); see also Lane Fox 2006: 153. The counter arguments recently put forward by Liesbeth Fried (2004: 129–137) are not very convincing: I have already discussed them briefly in BHAch II: 183–185; see also ibid.: 177–179, on Debord 1999: 376–384. See also Brosius 1998, who even thinks that far from illustrating a process of hellenisation of the goddess Anahita, the literary and epigraphic texts on the cult and Persian/Iranian religion indicates rather a “persianisation of the cult of Artemis.” Not all her arguments are equally

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Iranians, Greco-Macedonians and local populations in the Hellenistic period, even less to develop a global thesis on the period of transition. 3 THE ACHAEMENID HERITAGE, MACEDONIAN TRADITIONS, HELLENISTIC INNOVATIONS 3.1 Alexander and Priene Moving on to the political and administrative aspects of the transition, the uncertainties loom no less large. The first difficulty lies in identifying and measuring the various and sometimes confused practices and traditions that influenced and guided Alexander. The relations he established with the Greek cities will not be considered here as a whole, as the issue is not relevant, but I shall consider (briefly) one particular instance, Priene, which has given rise to a substantial number of studies and analyses.80 As a start, let us remind ourselves briefly what is at issue: apart from a dedication of the temple of Priene in Alexander’s name and a decree in honour of Antigonus, the dossier includes an inscription, unfortunately fragmentary, citing a decision taken by Alexander when he passed through the city in the Spring of 334.81 Before proceeding further, a preliminary remark is necessary: as Sherwin-White has made crystal clear (pp. 80–87), we do not have the original text of Alexander’s decision. When, in the reign of Lysimachus, the city decided to present it in order to support its plea for the recognition of rights to certain categories of land, it re-inscribed only those extracts likely to help with its approach to the Hellenistic ruler. In what has been transmitted, the royal decision concerns three population categories: 1 – the citizens living in Priene; 2 – the citizens of Priene living in the harbour of Naulochos; 3 – the local people (the Pedieis) living in villages. The decision also deals with various types of land and properties and their fiscal obligations: 1 – “Those living in Naulochos who are Prienian citizens will be autonomous and free, possessing the land and all the houses not only in the city (Priene) but also in the [civic] countryside, (like the) Prienians;”82 2 – the inhabitants of Priene (polis) shall be exempt from syntaxis;83 3 – those living in villages reside on land

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valid, but the article is a reminder that the documentation is not as simple and plain as Robert presented it throughout his researches. See also, since then, Herrmann’s observations (2002) on the archimagus of Hypaipa known from a Roman period inscription published by him. The fundamental study is that of Susan Sherwin-White 1985, who naturally takes into account the epigraphic analyses of Dittenberger, Van Gaertringen, Welles and the more recent one of Heisserer; see since then the relevant material in Higgins (1980: 137), Debord’s discussion (1999: 439–445) and that of Bertrand 2004: 84–85 and 2005 (on the relations between the Pedieis and the city of Priene). Despite Badian’s objections (1966: 47–49), this is the most likely date (Sherwin-White 1985: 82–83). On this clause (text and translation), see also Debord 1999: 440. On this term, see Sherwin-White 1985: 84–86, and most recently Nawotka 2003: 26 ff., and Capdetrey 2004: 107–111. There is also the word phrou[ra]n, but it is hard to define the con-

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over which Alexander claims absolute control using the striking phrase: “I know/ declare/decide that this land is mine (khôran ginôsko émèn einai);” and the village dwellers are subject to tribute payments (tous de katoikountas en tais kômais tautais phérein tous phorous). What does this royal decision mean in the context of the passage from Achaemenid to Macedonian domination? As far as the phrase used by Alexander – which is extremely interesting84 – goes, I refer to a recent comment made by John Ma (2003: 246–247), which puzzles me. In explaining the use he makes of the expression (borrowed from S. Petrey) “performative word”, Ma cites the Priene inscription, and comments as follows: “In his letter to Priene, the most remarkable is this clause with ginôskô, ‘I recognise that land as mine’,” and he asks this: “How can Alexander, who had never set foot in this region of southern Ionia before 334, know that the villages formed part of the royal domain, whose territory was now his? By the right of conquest. But this was only realised by an act of speaking. The utterance is performative […] in the form of a record to affirm the fiction of a pre-existing legitimacy with the king’s verbal act merely the manifestation [… This] explains the choice of the verb, not a usual one in the performance of power […]”85 There follows a rather obscure allusion to a concept of “social magic” used by Bourdieu. Apart from the fact that it is not easy to understand how Ma conceives the passage (Achaemenid continuity or change?),86 the very basis of the commentary is very unclear to me.87 Even using the form of a rhetorical question, it is somewhat strange to ask oneself how Alexander could have been aware of the circumstances of Priene’s territory. On the one hand, western Asia Minor was not terra incognita for the Macedonians and Alexander in 334. On the other, it would be wrong to think that the installation of a new power was done in a hasty, disorderly and precipitious manner.88 What happened in Asia Minor after Granicus was the same as what occurred in Babylonia and at Susa after Gaugamela: Alexander’s camp made contact with the cities with messages and messengers informing Alexander of their demands; contacts were also set up with high level imperial governors, including

text: installation of a garrison, an exemption, or something else? Cf. Debord’s suggestions (1999: 441). 84 I do not know how many royal edicts or letters are in the first person: cf. the remarks of Sherwin-White 1985: 84, n. 120 and Savalli-Lestrade 2003, especially pp. 20–22. 85 Cf. also p. 256, where the French translation is introduced with the phrase: “Alexander to Priene: Petrey’s paradox in action.” 86 I think that he is probably setting it in the context of continuity. 87 I am also unconvinced by the way Ma explains the word ginôskô, “recognise”, considering that, in a performative act introduced by the term, “to recognise” implies “to take possession”. It seems to me that, in the context where it is used, the word ginôskô expresses less “a cognitive aspect” than a decision (one of the possible meanings of the verb; it deserves a detailed and exhaustive study). Let us add that we do not have the complete text of Alexander’s edict, and know nothing of the context in which the term appears; no-one knows whether the “quotation” reflects the original terminology and syntax. 88 I am quite sure that even before setting out for Asia Minor, Alexander and his administration had prepared dossiers relating to the situation.

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satraps.89 In these circumstances, it is likely that, when Alexander arrived at Priene, the royal chancellery had already drafted a decision.90 C. Mileta (2002: 159–160) sees this decision as proof that the new master confiscated the land: lacking funds, Alexander created a royal domain at the expense of the cities (Priene is presumed not to have been the only one to have suffered damage); this royal domain gave him access to the resources (phoroi) which he lacked; if it was the lands of the Pedieis and other Carian peoples which was seized, it was because they were villagers and locals. In other words – if I follow his argument – this would be the origin of Hellenistic khôra basilikè. While we must await the monograph Mileta has announced (note 1),91 I must admit that I am very doubtful about his thesis of such a brutal change initiated by Alexander, as the notion of “royal land” is obviously not a total novelty created by the Macedonian conquest. Moreover, if it had been a matter of confiscating the city lands, the city would certainly not, a few decades later, have published Alexander’s decision in the framework of a plea presented to Lysimachus. It is probably more appropriate to see Alexander’s solemn declaration as intended to reaffirm for his benefit a situation that was a reality in the Achaemenid period, including the distinction made between civic and royal (tributary) land.92 Yet the inscription does not necessarily imply complete continuity. The text itself and the later ones added to the dossier by the Prienians themselves reflect the fact that there were numerous conflicts, or disputes, at the time with neighbouring cities and local inhabitants of the villages. It is thus possible (albeit unprovable) that at an unknown date, the Prienians had tried to nibble at the village lands: Alexander would then have reaffirmed his royal rights over these (“I declare that this land is mine”), while at the same time he attached Naulochos to Priene in compensation 89

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See, for example, Briant 2003a: 79–84 (Babylonia and Susa, with references); also Briant 1993 [above ch. 23] (negotiations with Sardis and Mithrenes); on the exchange of letters in Asia Minor, see Arrian I 18,4; I 20,5–6; also Quintus Curtius III 13, 2–5 (Damascus); the texts show the existence of a model which is broadly applicable: after the battles, each city, ethnos, dignitary negotiated with the victor on the basis of relative forces (HEP: 862 ff. [HPE: 842 ff.]). There is nothing to indicate that this decision was inscribed on the stone at that time; it would suffice to save the text on parchment in the archives; the partial engraving was only made on when Priene decided later to utilise Alexander’s decision in the course of their negotiations with Lysimachus (see Sherwin-White’s study). Mileta (n. 18) mentions in passing that Sherwin-White has a quite different position, but does not explain why, nor its various aspects, and does not go into the fact that other scholars hold views close to those of Sherwin-White. The latter shows no hesitation (1985: 83, n. 114) in disagreeing with Hornblower (1982: 162–163), who thought that Alexander was laying claim to Priene’s lands. While they are all designated with the same word (khôra), the context shows that any ambiguity about the differences in type and status is out of the question. With respect to the “Achaemenid” period, there is a parallel, where the king, speaking in the first person, recalls that certain land is “mine”, there too contrasting it with another category of land (that belonging to a sanctuary): this is the case in the Letter of Darius to Gadatas (I already made this comparison in RTP: 361 and HEP: 430–431 [HPE: 418–419]); but, for reasons which I explained at length elsewhere (Briant 2003b [above Chapter 4]), the comparison which I attributed to it is worthless (but others may wish to see, on the contrary, that it proves the authenticity of the Letter!).

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and proclaimed the inalienable rights of the Prienians to their own lands, while exempting them from syntaxis.93 In this view, Alexander’s decision was intended not only to assert his right to assign “spear-won lands” to whomever he wished, but also to proclaim his absolute and incontestable right to take possession of Achaemenid royal land and levy phoroi. Even if, from Alexander’s perspective, the dia­ gramma solemnly recalled the king’s rights, from the Prienian perspective, it had the inestimable advantage of affirming publicly that the civic land was the inalienable property of the community and its members, or, in other words, that the civic land was considered by the king not to form part of the “spear-won territory” subject to the whim of royal distribution.94 In a recent article, Farraguna (2003: 110–111) pronounced the Priene situation “extremely important, as it introduces us to the basic principles of Alexander’s administration.” Apart from demonstrating the obvious limits of the slogan “liberty and autonomy for Greek cities,” it provides precious insights into the legal status of the cities. Farraguna thinks that the closest parallel to this is Philippi in Macedon, about which, at a still debated date, Alexander made dispositions concerning the limits and frontiers of its lands: civic land, the lands of nearby ethnē (Thracians), and royal land (even though the term is not used):95 “In terms of administrative procedure, there are striking similarities between the Priene and Philippi documents. Everything we know about Priene suggests that, here too, the king wielded supreme power over the city” (p. 112). Farraguna’s discussion deserves some comment. On the one hand, the article is limited in its scope (as virtually all such) to the theme of “Alexander and the Greek cities”, so that is suffers sadly from an absence of considerations of the Achaemenid period and material. At no point does it occur to him to study the document from the perspective of Achaemenid practice. Yet the problem of relations between kings and cities (Greek or not!) did not begin with the installation of the Hellenistic monarchies. It is one of the components of Achaemenid imperial policy in western Asia Minor (including a “non-Greek” entity such as Sardis: Briant 1993 [above Chapter 23), as well as Phoenicia and Babylonia. To take just one example that falls squarely into the period of transition, the Xanthos Trilingual should obviously be taken into account by historians interested in the relations between kings/satraps and cities in the Hellenistic epoch. In this respect it also contributes to the issue of continuities/ruptures, and the adaptations that occurred in the shift from the Achaemenid to the Hellenistic period, including the image the city presents of itself and its position in relation to the central power – even more so as we can see how the 93

See, for example, Sherwin-White 1985: 81–86; Marasco 1987; Papazoglou 1997: 66–68 (with earlier bibliography). 94 Even if, as Bickerman already noted (1934, especially pp. 361, 371), that situation was solely the result of a royal concession or generosity. 95 The text was first published in 1985; for full publication and commentary see Hatzopoulos 1996, II: 25–28 and 1997 (see also Ager 1996, no. 5); it has generated a huge bibliography and some controversy, which can be followed via the Macedonian section of the Bulletin Épigraphique by Hatzopoulos.

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satrap wanted to view the situation.96 As for intervention by the Achaemenid authorities in disputes about territorial boundaries (including civic ones), this is amply attested by epigraphic as well as literary texts.97 In other respects, Farraguna’s commentary reminds us most opportunely of the fact that the problem Alexander dealt with at Priene was not a complete novelty for a Macedonian ruler. The Macedonian inscriptions published in the last quarter of a century bear eloquent witness to this. They abundantly illustrate the theme of royal and civic lands, also that of royal dōreai, already familiar from several literary texts, from Philip II to Cassander and beyond.98 Note, too, that Macedon borrowed from the Achaemenid empire, especially the satrapal model, wth which it had had direct contact following the Persian conquest of territories in Europe (including Macedon itself) in the reign of Darius I, and, somewhat later, with Philip II’s conquest of Thrace.99 Alexander thus stands at the confluence of several heritages, the Macedonian and the Achaemenid, itself multi-faceted (the traditions of the central state, as well as local ones such as Lydian, Egyptian, Babylonian etc.). This gives rise to the problem which I presented in the following terms on the occasion of the Achae­ menid History Workshop in Ann Arbor in 1990: “What are the analytical criteria which would permit us to conclude that this or that element is a typically Macedonian one transferred by Alexander into the conquered lands, or a typically Achaemenid one copied by Alexander during the conquest and ultimately borrowed by his successors” (1994b: 283)?100 And I went on to add: “In some instances, an identical or comparable custom can be found both among the Argeads and the Achaemenids, whithout it being necessarily the case of Achamenid influence” (p. 284: above, p. 473). It might then be better to speak of a cultural coincidence rather than influence. To return to the case of Priene, I do not really see which elements allow us to conclude, even hypothetically, that Alexander’s decision is, primarily, part of Macedonian royal traditions (Farraguna), even less so when, by acting thus (in creating, according to him, a dichotomy between cities [coast]/royal territory [interior]), Alexander wanted to separate himself from Achaemenid concepts, which are assumed 96 See Briant 1998b: 336 on the position of Xanthos in relation to the satrap (comparison with the situation of the Hellenistic cities [above Chapter 3]), and already Le Roy 1996: 345, on the same topic; also Ma 2004a: 115 on royal control of cities in the Hellenistic period: “In other cities, decrees were submitted for approval by the royal administration;” various examples are given in the corresponding note 173, including the Xanthos example; a note in square brackets refers to my study of the Trilingual and the relations between Pixodaros and Xanthos. 97 See HEP: 510–511 [HPE 494–5]; for a grant of land to Sidon and its attachment to the city’s territory, see ibid. 506 [HPE 490]. 98 See in particular Hatzopoulos 1996, I: 167 ff.: “National territory, royal land and allied cities”. On royal intervention in fixing territorial boundaries, see p. 396 ff. On royal land donations, see also Funck 1978, and now the text published by Hatzopoulos 1988. 99 See on this already Kienast’s suggestions (1973), some of which I have discussed in Briant 1994b: 298–302 [above Chapter 22 § 4.2–4; see also HEP: 950 = HPE: 924–925]. 100 Müller’s recent thoughts on the possible origins of the function of hemiolos (Achaemenid or Macedonian?) are part and parcel of this debate.

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to have combined all territories under the all-embracing label of “land of the Great King [khôra basileôs]” (Mileta 2002: 160). I detect no sign whatsoever of such a change, nor of such a differentiation between Macedonian as against Achaemenid royal land, arising from territorial conquest. What one can say, is that, faced with this situation, Alexander was neither surprised nor caught short, as the Macedonian kings were accustomed to decide on such matters and, finally, the Hellenistic rulers did the same without having to apply an Argead royal policy to the Near East.101 We should simply observe that at Priene, Alexander solved a local situation deeply embedded in the history of the Achaemenid empire, using the experience of acting as a king inherited from his father and his own Macedonian practice. 3.2 The system of dōrea: on the Mnesimachos inscription The comments made above suggest some thoughts of a historiographical nature essential for arriving at a proper understanding of current debates. Looking at the recent literature on the Hellenistic kingdoms, it seems clear to me that the approaches I have just mentioned on the character and meaning of Alexander’s decisions at Priene are part of a broader tendency to, if I may so put it, “re-europeanise” or “re-macedonise” the socio-political institutions established by Alexander, and subsequently developed by his successors in what became the Hellenistic kingdoms. In some respects, even quite overtly, this tends to restore the image of an Imperium Macedonicum developed some time ago by C. E. Edson (1958), a specialist of Macedonian history. The new material on Macedonian history and institutions has, of course, contributed to current ideas. This process is very obvious, and has been conducted at times in a pointlessly polemical manner, as in the debates on the book by Susan Sherwin-White and Amélie Kuhrt (1993) which were published in the journal Topoi (4/2 [1994]: 429– 610) – to such a point that, in an intellectually indefensible manner,102 the book has been, at least in certain circles, reduced to playing the role of “scarecrow” or a counter-example denounced for the new insights it brings: namely, the need to re-centre the Seleucid kingdom in its Mesopotamian and Iranian setting, while not denying the strong links that continued to attach the Seleucids rulers to their Macedonian origins.103 This quite disastrous polemic has, in several instances, hardened the prejudices of specialists of Greek sources, and restricted the vision of some to

101 From this point of view, if one is looking for a parallel to the Philippi inscription, there is an even more striking one (as I already stressed in Briant 1999a: 315–317) in the decision taken (between 238 and 221) with respect to Arsinoeia in Cilicia and Nagidos (BEp 1990, no. 304; SEG XXXIX. 1426; Ager 1996, no. 42 along with Gauthier’s critical remarks, Topoi 8/1 (1998): 312–313). 102 See my remarks in Briant 2006a, note 12 [above Chapter 26, note 12]. Note that other scholars, while expressing some reservations, have spoken in more measured terms of Sherwin-White and Kuhrt’s book: cf. for example, Sève-Martinez 2003: 232–236. 103 Which is precisely what I tried to demonstrate in my own paper (Briant 1994c).

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that of an Isocrates, for whom “Asia” was synonymous with the territory situated between the Aegean and the Halys. If we return, more serenely, to the starting point of this discussion, it becomes clear that this “re-macedonisation” inevitably brings with it a “de-persianisation”, as the one allows no room for the other. As a result, many of the institutions which, especially since Rostovtzeff (Kolonat), were generally considered (despite some important nuances by this or that scholar) as an Achaemenid inheritance, have since come to be presented, at times in a rather crude way, as innovations introduced into Asia Minor on the model of Macedonian institutions. Such a vision emerges particularly in a work published just over ten years ago by Richard Billows (1995), and placed under the intellectual patronage of Edson and his 1958 article.104 The book is equipped with a programmatic sub-title: As­ pects of Macedonian Imperialism. I shall not embark here on a detailed analysis, but will take as an example the chapter (V) which he devoted to the Hellenistic dōreai, using as a case study the dōrea of Mnesimachos (“Kings and estate-holders in Asia: a case study”, pp. 111–145). Nor do I plan to study here the tiny details of the inscription nor the enormous bibliography it has produced since its publication by Buckler and Robinson (1912, 1932). Billows presents an edition and translation of the text, and his interpretation, often too rapid, of a series of much discussed points (Pytheas’ and Adrastos’ exhairema, the composition of the dōrea, the fiscal dues of the concessionaries, etc.). All of them could be examined one by one.105 But that is not the purpose of this paper. What I wish to do is discuss the writer’s general thesis, which he makes very clear: the system of royal gifts of land, of which the Mnesimachos case is an example, is Macedonian in origin; it was introduced into Asia Minor according to a model known in “the late Argead kingdom”, i. e. Philip’s Macedon (pp. 135–137 and 219); the example of Mnesimachos illustrates the vectors of Macedonian imperial domination (“a prop of Macedonian imperial rule”, p. 112).106 No-one is obviously going to deny that the new Macedonian discoveries have given rise to new ideas, or led to a re-examination of received ones. But, in this instance, Billows’ approach is extremely debatable in terms of method. 1 – In his eyes, “Asia” is reduced to western Asia Minor, even though his idea is that the term refers to the Seleucid empire as a whole.107 He clearly sees no need to go further than western Asia Minor, as – he insists in the introduction with a 104 In his introduction, Billows (p. XV) expresses his regret that Edson’s article had been, as he sees it, sadly neglected. 105 See for example Aperghis 2004: 137–144, and Index, s. v. Mnesimachos – to be read along with Le Rider & Callataÿ’s critical commentary (2006: 262–266: on the payment of tribute). 106 It is obvious that Billows reached this conviction early on, when he was preparing his book on Antigonus Monophtalmus (1990), who is presented as the creator of the Hellenistic state organised on the Macedonian model of Philip. On this book, see Derow’s devastating review of 1993. 107 Rather surprisingly (we are, after all, in 1995!), Billows talks regularly of “Asia” (in the Greek manner), although he is dealing with a document from Asia Minor; but it is clear that for him, implicitly, his conclusions are valid for the entire Seleucid and Ptolemaic kingdoms, which he

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certain aplomb (p. XIV)) – documentation for the Seleucid regions east of Mesopotamia is sparse and scattered;108 a remark which, of course, allows him not to talk about it anymore and retreat to his Asia Minor base. 2 – It should be noted that what hampers the whole of his argument is that it is conducted on the basis of a binary alternative: the underlying structures of the donation must either be “Macedonian” or “Asiatic” (p. 115: “Asian”). But there is a major problem: nowhere does Billows think it necessary to analyse in depth the second term of his alternative (Achaemenid) with all its regional and documentary components.109 Displaying a superb and total ignorance of Achaemenid bibliography, including everything to do with land grants,110 or distorting it in his (rare) allusions,111 Billows seems to think it inconceivable that the system of land grants by the king is well known in the Achaemenid period, not only in western Asia Minor, but also in Egypt (Aramaic documents) and Babylonia (Babylonian texts), not forgetting Phoenicia (the donation made to Eshmunazar). He pays no attention to isolating the elements, which, in the Sardis document, have generally been thought to come from the Achaemenid period, nor does he discuss their validity. Let me cite just two among several examples: – Billows discusses at length chiliarchies, the tributary districts, which ever since Buckler and Robinson, have been thought to be an Achaemenid heritage – whether rightly or wrongly is another question which one could have wished the author to address.112 But he limits the discussion to the administrative topography (pp. 117–120), never considering the administrative character of the district; nor does he ever try to show that the chiliarchy was Macedonian in origin;113 – he notes in passing (p. 116) that a section of the land is valued in terms of the seed needed, but never explains why the word artaba is used, although we know from Elamite, Babylonian, Aramaic and Greek documents that it is in origin a Persian measure.114 The sole exception, seemingly, is the archives in which (among others) the reports on dōreai and lands were kept: while not ex-

108 109 110 111 112 113 114

persists in labelling “Asia”, as though all the countries between the Aegean and the Indus had the same socio-cultural traditions. Here, Billows refers in an offhand way to the work of Sherwin-White and Kuhrt, as though this could justify and authenticate his own statement. A short bibliography on Achaemenid-Hellenistic history is given on p. 115, n. 9 (Westerman, Briant RTP, Sherwin-White and Kuhrt), but is not discussed anywhere. When Billows refers to Kreissig’s book, it is not in order to consider the problem. As Billows is familiar with RÉA 1985 (see the next note), he could easily have informed himself on the institution in Achaemenid Asia Minor (and the bibliography) by consulting my article there (Briant 1985b). Descat’s seminal article on this text (1985) is rapidly “dealt with” in a footnote on p. 124 (n. 32); Billows contents himself with stating that “it would take too much space to argue in detail against his views.” Extraordinary! See Aperghis 2004: 278–279 (without the history of the issue as is too often the case in this book). See also Billows 1990: 283–284, with Derow’s critique (1993: 331). Cf. HEP: 298–300, 426–427, etc. [HPE 286–7, 41–5, etc.].

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cluding the possibility of a Macedonian practice, Billows seems to accept the idea that such archives could be Achaemenid;115 it is a pity that on this question (investigation of a piece of land), he is unaware of a very obvious parallel referred to in an Aramaic document from Achaemenid Egypt.116 – Billows thus never suggests the idea of a combined influence of Macedonian traditions and Achaemenid heritage (certainly not “Asiatic”). One instance will suffice: in remarking (rightly) that the dōrea is made up of scattered portions of land, he refers to just one parallel in Macedon (the inscription from Cassandreia published by Hatzopoulos 1988), and concludes: “It would appear then not to be unusual for Macedonian rulers to grant land in different regions to an individual” (p. 120). He is plainly ignorant (as he has not bothered to do the research) that the same was true of numerous dōreai of the Achaemenid period (e. g., Stolper 1985). Thus, his insistence on the Macedonian origin of this aspect reflects a desire to illustrate an already established thesis. I think that these examples are enough to show that Billows’ reasoning cannot be accepted, and that, inasmuch as a systematic comparison of each element has not been carried out, it is not possible, purely from a methodological point of view, to assume that the Hellenistic institution of dōrea was directly inherited from Philip II’s Macedon. Obviously, I am not suggesting that such research is not worth doing – quite the opposite. But it is essential when doing so to be familiar with Achaemenid as well as the Macedonian documentation. But this is not the case here. One of the crucial elements, in Billows’ view, relates to the king’s right to revoke dōrea (pp. 132–137). In order to demonstrate this, he tries to examine the Mnesimachos inscription in the light of the Cassandreia text which was published and studied in detail by Hatzopoulos (1988). But the problem is that Billows treats the Macedonian dossier with an equally superficiality. Despite the questions it raises, he thinks the comparison justified, because “the system of land grants was identical in the two kingdoms [‘Asia’ and Macedon], as it worked in the empire precisely as it had under Philip and possibly earlier rulers” (p. 135) – by which, it should be noted in passing, the problem is assumed to be resolved before being addressed. But this is not at all Hatzopoulos’ opinion, who has stressed again that the domains given by Cassander and Lysimachus to Cassandreia were given in perpetuity (the terminology is very clear and utterly different from that used at Sardis). As a result, he thinks that the rather forced parallel drawn by Billows with the Mnesimachos inscription is meaningless (BEp 1997, no. 403, p. 550).117 In short, as already long established, the 115 Billows 1995: 115 (the only reference, note 9, to a brief bibliography on Achaemenid-Hellenistic continuities). I note in passing that, a few years earlier, he was much more positive on the Achaemenid continuity in the management of archives (1990: 283). 116 DAE: 69; HEP: 425–426 [HPE 413–4] with a comparison to the Aristodicides inscription (referred to by Billows in his treatment of that of Mnesimachos). 117 “B[illows] argues that the domains granted were given as full property, as the text stipulates for the foundation […] and maintains that they are revocable concessions. To support this, he invokes the case of Mnesimachos’ domains […] and the Doura-Europos kleroi […], which are far

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revocability of a dōrea of the type held by Mnesimachos is certain,118 but there is nothing to suggest that this depends on an Argead precedent. We should note in parallel to this that the theory and practice of the revocability of royal grants is amply attested in the Persian empire, and thus the Sardis document fits easily with practices known from the Achaemenid court.119 In the absence of new information, we should, therefore, continue to consider Mnesimachos’ dōrea as an Achaemenid one, redistributed following Alexander’s conquest to a Macedonian, either in 334, or in the time of Antigonus (Mnesimachos may well not have been the first Macedonian concessionary). It is conceivable that Macedonian elements were introduced (they remain to be identified), but there is nothing to indicate, broadly, that either the structure or the function of the dōrea was fundamentally changed. May the reason for this be, not simply that Macedonian practices were like Achaemenid ones in such matters, but rather that here too (as in the case of Priene discussed above), Argead Macedon had adapted a system already present in nearby Asia Minor? Whatever the answer, compared to the examples which I have presented in the course of my contribution, the case of Mnesimachos’ dōrea reminds us again that no study of the establishment of Hellenistic structures, starting with Alexander’s conquest, can be conducted without taking fully into account the documentation relating to the period of Achaemenid domination, particularly in the fourth century. What is true of Babylonia, Egypt or Central Asia also applies to Asia Minor and every other region of the former empire, which, following the death of Alexander was divided into several competing kingdoms. Any study of this kind must combine the Achaemenid heritage, Macedonian traditions and Hellenistic innovations and try both to give each its proper weight and to understand the mechanisms of mutual encounters and interactions. BIBLIOGRAPHY Adiego, I.-J., 2000, ‘La inscripción greco-caria de los Hecatómnidas en el sanctuario de Sinuri,’ Kadmos 39: 133–157 Adiego, I.-J., 2005, ‘L’état actuel des conaissances sur le carien,’ RÉA 107/2: 640–653 Adiego, I.-J., 2006, The Carian Language (Handbook of Oriental Studies. Section 1, the Near East and Middle East), Leiden Adiego, I.-J., P. Debord & E. Varinlioǧlu, 2005, ‘La stèle caro-grecque d’Hyllarima (Carie),’ RÉA 107: 601–653 from identical (we should like to remind readers that we did not say that ‘all of the Chalkidike – as the territory of Cassandreia – had been removed from the ge basilike,’ as B. writes on p. 135, n. 56, but, on the contrary, that they continued to be ‘important Crown domains’ […], and of the fact that Cassander’s donation does not date to the foundation of Cassandreia in 315, but to the time of his elevation to the royal title ten years later. B.’s argument is due to his ignorance of the realities relating to the foundation of a city …”. 118 See also, for example, Chandezon 2003b: 210, referring to Billows. 119 See already Briant 1985b and, since then, HEP: 429–430, 458–460, 475–478 [HEP 417–8, 444–6, 460–3].

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Ager, S.-L. 1996, Interstate Arbitrations in the Greek World 337–90 B. C., Berkeley CA Aperghis, G. G., 2004, The Seleukid Royal Economy: the finances and financial dministration of the Seleukid empire, Cambridge Archibald, Z., 2001, ‘Making the most of one’s friends: Western Asia Minor in the early Hellenistic age,’ in Archibald et al. 2001: 245–272 Archibald, Z., J. Davies, V. Gabrielsen & G. J. Oliver (eds.), 2001, Hellenistic Economies, London Asheri, D., 1983, Fra ellenismo e iranismo. Studi sulla società e cultura di Xanthos nella età ache­ menide, Bologna Ashton, R. H. J. et al., 2002a, ‘The Hecatomnus Hoard (CH 5.17, 8.96, 9.387),’ in A. Meadowes & U. Wartenberg (eds.), Coin Hoard vol. IX, Greek Hoards (Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication no. 35), London: 95–158 Ashton, R. H. J. et al., 2002b, ‘The Pixodarus Hoard (CH 9.421),’ in A. Meadowes & U. Wartenberg (eds.), Coin Hoard vol. IX, Greek Hoards (Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication no. 35), London:159–243 Atkinson, K. M. T., 1972, ‘A Hellenistic land conveyance: the estate of Mnesimachos in the plain of Sardis,’ Historia 22: 45–74 Badian, E., 1966, ‘Alexander and the Greeks of Asia,’ in Ancient Society and Institutions. Studies presented to V. Ehrenberg on his 75th birthday, Oxford: 37–69 Bakɩr, T. et al. (eds.), 2001, Achaemenid Anatolia. Proceedings of the First International Symposium on Anatolia in the Achaemenid Period (Bandirma 15–18 August 1997), Leiden Bencivenni, A., 2003, Progetti di riforme costituzionali nelle epigrafi dei secoli IV–II A. C., Bologna Berlin, A., 2002, ‘Ilion before Alexander: a fourth century B. C. ritual deposit,’ Studia Troica 12: 131–165 Berlin, A. & K. Lynch, 2002, ‘Going Greek: Atticizing pottery in the Achaemenid world,’ Studia Troica 12: 167–178 Bertrand, J.-M., 2004, ‘Frontières externes, frontières internes des cités grecques,’ in Cl. Moatti (dir.), La mobilité des personnes en Méditerranée de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne. Procédures de contrôle et document d’identification (Coll. de l’École Française de Rome 341), Paris: 71–98 Bertrand, J.-M., 2005, ‘À propos des paroikoi dans les cités d’Asie Mineure,’ in P. Fröhlich & Ch. Müller (éds.), Citoyenneté et participation à la basse époque hellénistique (Hautes Études du monde gréco-romain 35), Geneva: 39–49 Berve, H., 1926, Das Alexanderreich auf prosopographischer Grundlage, I–II, Munich Bickerman, E., 1934, ‘Alexandre le Grand et les villes d’Asie,’ RÉG 47: 346–374 Billows, R., 1990, Antigonos the One­Eyed and the Creation of the Hellenistic State, Berkeley CA, London Billows, R. 1995, Kings and Colonists: aspects of Macedonian imperialism (Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition XXII), Leiden Blümel, W. & A. Kɩzɩl, 2004, ‘Eine neue karische Inschrift aus der Region von Mylasa,’ Kadmos 43: 131–138 Briant, P., 1972a, ‘Remarques sur les laoi et esclaves ruraux en Asie Mineure hellénistique,’ Actes du Colloque de Besançon sur l’esclavage, Besançon, Paris: 93–133 (= Briant 1982: 95– 135) Briant, P., 1972b, ‘D’Alexandre le Grand aux diadoques: le cas d’Eumène de Kardia (I–II),’ RÉA 74: 32–73 (= Briant 1982: 13–54) Briant, P., 1973, ‘D’Alexandre le Grand aux diadoques: le cas d’Eumène de Kardia (III–IV),’ RÉA 75: 43–81 (= Briant 1982: 55–93) Briant, P., 1979, ‘Des Achéménides aux rois hellénistiques: continuités et ruptures (Bilan et propositions),’ ASNP 1375–1414 (= Briant 1982: 291–330) [Here Chapter 20] Briant, P., 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans. Recherches sur les formations trbutaires du Moyen­Orient ancien, Paris Briant, P., 1985a, ‘Les Iraniens d’Asie Mineure après la chute de l’empire achéménide,’ DHA 11: 167–195 [Here chapter 25]

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Savalli-Lestrade, I., 2001, ‘I Greci e i popoli dell’Anatolia,’ in S. Settis (ed.), I Greci, III: I Greci oltre la Grecia, Turin: 39–78 Savalli-Lestrade, I., 2003, ‘L’élaboration de la décision royale dans l’Orient hellénistique,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient méditerranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée (Colloque International de la SOPHAU, Rennes, avril 2003) = Pallas 62, Rennes, Toulouse: 17–39 Schuler, C., 1998, Ländliche Siedlungen und Gemeinden im hellenistischen und römischen Kleina­ sien (Vestigia 50), Munich Schur, W., 1928, ‘Zur Vorgeschichte des Ptolemäerreiches,’ Klio 20: 270–302 Schweyer, A.-V., 2002, Les Lyciens et la mort. Une etude d’histoire sociale (Varia Anatolica XIV), Paris Sève-Martinez, L., 2003, ‘Quoi de neuf sur le royaume séleucide?,’ in F. Prost (éd.), L’Orient médi­ terranéen de la mort d’Alexandre aux campagnes de Pompée (Colloque International de la SOPHAU, Rennes, avril 2003) = Pallas 62, Rennes, Toulouse: 221–241 Sevinç, N. et al., 2001, ‘A new painted Graeco-Persian sarcophagus from Çan,’ Studia Troica 11: 383–420 Shaked, S., 2004, Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur: documents araméens du IVe s. avant notre ère provenant de Bactriane (Persika 4), Paris Sherwin-White, S. M., 1985, ‘Ancient archives: the edict of Alexander to Priene, a reappraisal,’ JHS 105: 69–89 Sherwin-White, S. M., 1987, ‘Seleucid Babylonia: a case study for the installation and development of Greek rule,’ in A. Kuhrt & S. M. Sherwin-White (eds.), Hellenism in the East: the interaction of Greek and non­Greek civilisations from Syria to Central Asia (Hellenistic Culture and Society II), London and Berkeley CA: 1–31 Sherwin-White, S. M. & A. Kuhrt, 1993, From Samarkhand to Sardis: a new approach to the Seleu­ cid empire (Hellenistic Culture and Society XIII), London and Berkeley CA Shipley, G., 2000, The Greek World after Alexander, 323–30 B. C., London Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire: the Murašû archive, the Murašû firm, and Persian rule in Babylonia, Leiden Van Alfen, P.-G., 2002, ‘The “owls” from the 1989 Syria Hoard with a review of the pre-Macedonian coinage in Egypt,’ AJN, second series 14: 1–57 Van der Spek, R. J., 2003, ‘Darius III, Alexander the Great and Babylonian scholarship,’ in W. Henkelman & A. Kuhrt (eds.), A Persian Perspective: essays in memory of Heleen Sancisi­Weerden­ burg (Achaemenid History XIII), Leiden: 289–346 Varinlioǧlu, E. et al., 1990, ‘Une inscription de Pladasa en Carie,’ RÉA 90/1–2: 59–78 Wankel, H., 1979, Die Inschriften von Ephesos (IK 11.1a), Bonn Weinberg, J.-P., 1976, ‘Bemerkungen zum Problem “Vorhellenismus” in Vorderasien,’ Klio 58: 5–20 Weiskopf, M., 2000, Review of Debord 1999,’ Topoi 10: 451–458 Worthington, I., 1999, ‘How Great was Alexander?,’ AHB 13/2: 1–3

28 THE KATARRAKTAI OF THE TIGRIS: IRRIGATION-WORKS, COMMERCE AND SHIPPING IN ELAM AND BABYLONIA FROM DARIUS TO ALEXANDER 1 TEXTS AND ISSUES The following pages represent an extract from a very lengthy historiographical and historical study which I published in two successive issues of Studi Ellenistici 2006b and 2008a [henceforth cited as Katarraktes 2006 & 2008 respectively]. They were the result of engagement, over many years (1986–2012), with an episode in the history of Alexander, well known and precisely contextualized. It is primarily known from the accounts which Arrian and Strabo devoted to it in their different ways, using partly the same primary sources. The episode concerns Alexander’s decision, in spring 324, about what the ancient writers call the katarraktes of the Tigris. The reason I have decided to return to it, “is that I want both to complete the documentation on the subject, and to demonstrate how an apparently minor historical event has shaped and given rise to a historiographical and methodological debate about the nature of the Macedonian conquest, and which allows us to pinpoint the genesis of the images which have formed around it in European literature” (2006b: 10). In order to present the problem of interpretation in all its aspects, I devoted most of the study to an exhaustive historiographical enquiry, stretching from the beginning of the 18th to the start of the 21st century (2006b: 12–67; 2008a: 155– 189). This I have not considered need be translated, but I do advise readers who are particularly interested to consult the article,1 as the hermeneutic considerations are literally inseparable from the heuristic investigation.2 It is as a result of these that I put forward an overarching interpretation (2008a: 189–121), picking up on the main points of the argument. The present chapter presents the chief results of this research (Katarraktes 2008: 189–212).3 I indicated at the beginning of my article (Katarraktes: 10–11), that it is, above all, essential to go back to the Greek texts which have fuelled this debate, and continue to do so. Strabo knew the story, as did Arrian, in much greater detail, both 1 2 3

I will refer to it myself repeatedly in order to avoid useless bibliographical repetition. See especially my Alexandre des Lumières (2012), passim, and on the question of the katarrak­ tes, pp. 58–63, 330–371, 474–481, and the relevant notes. The main arguments are given in summary form in Briant 2010a: 83–96 (89–93); also id. 2011: 78–81.

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placing it in the Spring of 324. After celebrating the Irano-Macedonian weddings at Susa, Alexander ordered Hephaestion to move to the coast of the Persian Gulf with a major part of the infantry.4 He himself, accompanied by light troops, boarded fast boats, sailed down the Eulaios to the sea and then up the Tigris in the direction of Opis. It was during this journey upriver that he decided the following: “During this voyage upstream he removed the weirs (katarraktai) in the river and made the stream level throughout; these weirs had been made by the Persians to prevent anyone sailing up to their country overpowering it with a naval force. All this had been contrived by the Persians, inexpert as they were in maritime matters (ou nautikoi); and so these weirs, set up at frequent intervals, made the voyage up the Tigris very difficult. Alexander, however, said that contrivances (sophismata) of this kind belonged to those who had no military supremacy; he therefore regarded these safeguards as of no value to himself, and indeed proved them not worth the mention by destroying with ease these labours of the Persians.” (Arrian, Anabasis VII 7,7)

Strabo, in the chapter devoted to Persia and its surroundings (XV 3), but in a chronologically vague context, gives details which he says he has obtained from reading Polycletus: namely, that the movement of goods between the sea and the lower course of the rivers in Susiana was rendered impossible, “on account of the cataracts, deliberately constructed” (§ 4). In his long description of Babylonia, where he locates several Alexander episodes, he asserts that the rivers are in general navigable, including the Euphrates as far as Babylon and the Tigris up to Opis. That is followed by a disclaimer, or rather more precisions, relating an earlier period, when the region was under the rule of the Persian kings: “Now the Persians (hoi men oun Persai), wishing on purpose to prevent voyaging on these rivers for fear of attacks from without (exothen), had constructed artificial cataracts (kateske­ uakeisan kataraktas kheiropoietous), but Alexander (ho de Alexandros), when he went against them, destroyed as many of them as he could, and in particular those at Opis.” (XVI 1.9; trans. H. L. Jones, LCL)

The grammatical construction of the passages in Strabo (men … de) and Arrian (Persai … Alexandros) makes one think about the changes wrought by the Macedonian conqueror in the life of a particular region. In Arrian’s view especially, the transition from Persian to Macedonian rule was marked in Babylonia and in the daily life of its population by the destruction of structures on the Tigris, which he and Strabo labelled katarraktai. Although Strabo’s account is briefer than Arrian’s, it is included in an argument which makes the author’s belief quite clear: Alexander’s government partook of those qualities displayed by “good leaders” (hegemo­ nes agathoi)” (XVI 1.10), and his action on the Euphrates, Tigris and the canal network was synonymous with benefits and improvements for the land and its people. Arrian and Strabo emphasise in particular Alexander’s care to “do something for the Assyrian country,” by restoring the system of overflows on the Pallacopas canal and, more generally, by undertaking the periodical work needed from season to season (Arrian VII 21; Strabo XVI 1.10–11). 4

At this point, Arrian (VII 7.3–5) inserts a comparison of the Euphrates and Tigris courses and their respective usefulness for irrigation.

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2 WORDS AND REALITIES 2.1 Greek and Roman terminology: words in context Apart from a fantastical, albeit picturesque, image woven by Arcq de Sainte-Foix in 1768,5 every author since 15816 has considered the katarraktai of the Tigris to be some kind of riverine barrage. But that is where agreement among writers discussing the episode of 324 ends. Whether using French, English or German, the terminology used differs from one to the other. More often than not, it even varies within the work of a single author, as though the multiplication and addition of new terms might help the reader to understand the situation, although it more usually reveals the writer’s lack of understanding; and, finally, the very diversity of the vocabulary employed reflects its marked lack of precision.7 It is largely agreed nowadays that in the context of siege warfare the word cat­ aracta refers to a type of iron portcullis which, when erected in front of the gate of a city, would descend when attacked by an enemy and prevent access. Procopius, too, uses katarraktai in a technical sense (hoi katarraktai kaloumenoi): if equipped with iron bars (ton sideron obelon), a besieged town would be able to strengthen its defences,8 or an individual could take refuge in a building protected by bolted doors and grills.9 Saglio, in his article in Daremberg-Saglio 1892: 967, adds: “It is conceivable that the same name could have been used for a lock or weir intended to slow down the flow of water, or to conserve a sufficient depth of water, or yet to stop the passage of bodies in it.” Schiwek in 1962 plumped for this meaning in his discussion of the structures on the Tigris, with reference to the dictionaries (p. 83 and n. 649). Although he was persuaded that their prime aim was regulation of the water flow (Stromregulierung­ sanlagen), he thinks that they could also have served as a defensive measure. He explains this two-fold function thus: in times of peace, the barrages were open in order to allow boats to pass, while when an attack threatened, they were blocked by means of portcullises (Fallgitter). At the same time, he rejected the notion that they could be dykes made of dressed stone, as he envisaged less substantial installations.

5

6 7 8 9

Like others, he thought of an Arab threat from the sea, and “that, as the Persians were less concerned with the advantage obtainable from this shipping than defending themselves against Arab rape and pillage, they dug down into the bed of the Euphrates in a number of places, in order to stop the river being navigable” (Histoire du commerce: 160; italics P. B.). The author obviously wanted to present the picture of a cataract or water chute, in order to do which, a sloping bed had to be made by excavating the river bed. Date of the first French translation by Cl. Vuitard (Katarraktes 2006: 15–16). See for details, Katarraktes 2008: 189–192. Aedificia II 2.18 (equating it with “temporary barricades” as in Briant 1986: 16 is wrong); apart from Procopius, see the very clear passages in Polybius X 33.8 and Dionysius of Halicarnassus VIII 67.7. Plutarch, Anthony 76, 4; Aratos 26.5 (translated as “trap doors” by Flacelière-Chambry, Plu­ tarque, Vies XV, CUF, p. 99).

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In his view (n. 649), this explains why Alexander was able to clear them away as easily as implied: he did no more than raising the grills. But there are some difficulties with his interpretation. On the one hand, Arrian’s and Strabo’s vocabulary argues against the image of a straightforward raising of grills. The action Alexander took to remove the katarraktai involved “breaking/ destroying/removing” (diakoptein: Arrian;10 anaskeuazein: Strabo). Besides, if we are visualising portcullises, we also need to imagine an installation capable of moving them up and down.11 This could be imagined with a very light barrage set over a small stream (a kind of “fish trap”),12 but the situation is very different in the case of one which, in theory, blocked the course of the Tigris in order to regulate its flow, particularly as Schiwek thinks it would have been especially useful at the time of high water. Finally, if we allow for metonymy, we cannot assume that, by using the word katarraktai, Arrian and Strabo (or rather, their source) were describing a relatively minor installation, such as a grill placed in the middle of the stream would be. At this point it will be helpful to widen our research into the terminology. Leaving aside the quite different cataracts of the Nile and water chutes,13 that of door grills or grappling irons used in naval battles (Appian Civ. V 82), and the metaphorical use for torrential rain (“heavenly cataracts”), the word katarraktes/ai always has the sense of a closure. This is how Ammianus Marcellinus uses it, for example, to describe the mound of stone blocks which the Sassanian Persians piled up in order to stop the Romans under Julian sailing along the Narmalcha, which linked the Euphrates and Tigris (XXIV 6.1–2). In this instance it designates an emergency structure erected to frustrate a military advance, not to describe a policy of hydraulic management. Clearly we cannot envisage the katarraktai of the Tigris in this manner. In a 1986 study (pp. 15–16), I used a passage from Heliodorus’ Aethiopica as, apart from a reference to the Nile cataracts (IX 1), it contains the only detailed description of a katarraktes built across a stream in order to control its flow and direction (IX 8.5). We should look at this again more closely, as the terminological parallel is important. The setting of the novel is the Egyptian city of Syene besieged by the Ethiopian king Hydaspes. Faced with the resistance of the inhabitants, Hydaspes decided to erect an enormous structure: an earthen wall surrounding the fortifications was put up; into this he had the waters of the Nile brought by means of a canal so that the besieged population found itself surrounded by water – “Syene 10 11 12

13

Dionysius of Halicarnassus VIII 67 uses the same verb: kai tous katarraktas ton pylon diakop­ sas. Cf. Polybius X 33.8: …katarraktas … dia mekhanematon anemmenous. See the description of such barrages in Caunos (Caria) collected by Robert, Caunos 1984/87, together with photographs; they are called dalyan (= keletra in ancient Greece, daïliani in modern Greece from the Turkish: Helly, Archéologie du paysage 1999): “the iron grills of the dalyan trap all the fish, except for the smallest” (Robert p. 513); the barrier has an opening (also made of wood) for boats (p. 509, n. 141); this door can be raised or lowered using a pulley (see the photo on p. 511: dalyan in Caunos). For example, Herodotus VII 26 (Kelainai); cf. Müller, Bilderkommentar 1997: 129–148.

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was thus turned into an island” (IX 4). A further result was that the water undermined the base of the (earthen) walls, creating considerable danger for the besieged. A breach was soon opened to the delight of the (Ethiopian) besiegers, who realised that they would soon be able to enter. But to do that, they had to drain the ditch in order to block Nile water flowing along the canal they had excavated. Hence the mention of katarraktai: The Ethiopians were already stopping up the mouth of the feeder canal by placing katarraktai made of planks they had gathered (ek sanidon synerosmenon), which they strengthened with huge wooden tree trunks (xylon pakhesi kormois), and which they attached using earth and brushwood (phryganitida hylen). The work was done by thousands of men, some on the bank, others in boats. And so the water receded. But neither side was able to reach the other, as thick silt covered the ground… (IX 8.5–6).

Heliodorus was familiar with the pattern of Nile flooding and its vocabulary. To this we can add that the term katarraktes is also found in a papyrus (BGU XIII, 2257, 5), so that we are clearly dealing with a technical term designating a certain kind of barrage, constructed in the way indicated by Heliodorus, who describes both the materials used (earth, wood, tree trunks and faggots), its placing across a stream (the teams worked both on the bank and in boats), and its purpose (in this instance, to block a canal and prevent the water flowing in).14 So it is a light barrier, which a team of workers can erect in a few days, as and when needed, in times of war (as here) or peace. This is the way that we should visualise the katarraktai of the Tigris. The picture of a permanent barrage of dressed stone must be rejected definitively. Not because the Persians were incapable of such a construction – prospections in Fārs suggest that they were.15 But setting up a stone barrier across a fast flowing river such as the Tigris demanded different techniques, particularly when the evidence indicates that the barrages were placed at different points – in other words there were a considerable number. It is also hard to see how Alexander’s troops could have destroyed them so quickly and easily (Arrian). This is something that bothered William (1829) who was persuaded that it was a permanent irrigation barrier (formed of stone) and thus had to admit that Alexander could never have accomplished the “Herculean task” of destroying them in a short time and so was forced (without any evidence) to assert that it was in fact Seleucus who destroyed them as far as Opis.16

14 15

16

See Bonneau, Les realia des paysages égyptiens, 1992: 215–216, where, in essence, she develops the contents of a letter dated 8 December 1984, written in response to my questions; it is cited in my 1986 article. See on this the several studies by the indefatigable Kleiss (e. g. 1988); but much remains to be done in order to date and describe these works precisely. Rémy Boucharlat is currently supervising a thesis on the subject by Tijs de Schacht [not yet submitted; see T. de Schacht et al., “Geoarchaeological study of the Achaemenid dam of Sad-i Didegan (Fārs, Iran),” in: Géomor­ phologie: relief, processus, environnement 2012/1: 91–108 = http://geomorphologie.revues. org/9767]. Katarraktes 2006b: 51–52, also p. 60.

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2.2 Textual evidence, travel accounts and geographical expertise The idea of a solid barrier began with D’Anville (1777), using the accounts of travellers who had seen such structures on the Upper Tigris and connecting them with the Tigris katarraktai.17 This image was subsequently passed on by Carsten Niebuhr (1778), the first person who thought that it could be an installation connected to irrigation rather than defence. When he was in the vicinity of Eski Mosul, he described “a strong wall (eine starke Mauer), used by the local people to hold back the water, so that they could irrigate their grain fields.” However, this picture scarcely fits with a parallel passage to which Niebuhr nevertheless refers the reader, namely one located in the Lower Euphrates valley, where he refers to a dyke or barrier (Dämme) used to hold the irrigation water and water the grain fields,18 and equipped with an opening for boats to pass through. Everything here suggests that in this instance we are dealing with a light, temporary barrage.19 That is how Mannert understood it in 1797: the katarraktai, he writes, served “to irrigate the adjacent land; they were comparable to those Niebuhr saw on the present-day Euphrates. So they were not permanent structures (keine dauerhafte Arbeit), nor were they water chutes.”20 Unfortunately, Niebuhr’s description is not very detailed. But he does mention that these dykes had in the centre “a narrow passage (eine schmale Durchfahrt)” allowing passage to boats, although with some difficulty as the current was very strong where it was concentrated, so that “it took us nearly half a day before we could manage to manoeuvre our vessel through.”21 Other writers have provided more details on these barrages. W. K. Loftus, who sailed in the marshy region around Babylon, speaks of dams constructed to stop the whole land being flooded; they were made, he explains, “of stakes and reed matting”.22 Almost a hundred years later, Wilfred Thesiger recounted his travels and visits in the same marshy region on the lower courses of the Tigris and Euphrates among the “Marsh Arabs”. He had a similar experience to Niebuhr: On each branch we had to negotiate a great earthen dam, which the sheikhs had built to supply water to their winter cultivation. The pent-up current poured like a mill-race through a narrow gap in the middle, forming eddies and whirlpools for thirty yards downstream. My companions fought their way up foot by foot and then inch by inch. The tarada (special type of boat) never had more than two inches of freeboard and I was afraid it would be swept sideways and swamped. Coming down, we shot the other dam like a rapid with an exhilarating surge of speed. (The Marsh Arabs 1964 (Penguin ed. 1967): 166–167)

Apart from confirming that such irrigation barriers were set closely one behind the other and allowed boats to pass, we find in Thesiger’s account details of the materi17 18 19 20 21 22

Ibid.: 43–44. He uses the same expression in both instances: um das Wasser zur Saat aufzuhalten. See the passages cited in Katarraktes 2006b: 45–466 and my remarks on p. 61, n. 106. Ibid.: 49. Ibid.: 46. Travels and researches 1857: 38.

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als used – in this instance, earth during the period of low water. Elsewhere, the author says how amazed he was to see “the way that deep rivers, fifty yards wide and tearing along in flood, could be damned with nothing more than brushwood, reeds and earth” (Thesiger 1967: 133). This is reminiscent of Chesney 1850, who understood the katarraktai as equivalent to what he calls “ordinary irrigating walls” which overlap (as in Thesiger) and leave space for the passage of a boat (Euphrates II: 362). He comes back to this later on, when describing their construction and observing that nothing has changed for the Marsh Arabs of his own time: This operation is performed by forcing into the stream near one bank a large mass of furze, faggots of brushwood, or numerous bundles of reeds, to serve as a substratum; this is kept down by stones or other weighty matrials, till it is so firmly fixed that another portion of brushwood or reeds can be added to its extremity; and thus the work proceeds, piece, by piece, till the dam is completed by touching the opposite bank; after which one of more solid materials can be constructed if necessary … Probably it is in this way … that Alexander filled the channel of the Pallacopas.(Euphrates II: 614; italics P. B.).

In all examples the material used for the katarraktai is as described by Heliodorus – in other words it is a light structure. 2.3 Katarraktai and muballitum I was already able to note this in my 1986 article, thanks to Thesiger’s and Chesney’s information, while noting that, sadly, there was no parallel cuneiform evidence (p. 16).23 I returned to this issue in a short note published in 1999 where I made the most of Jean-Marie Durand’s 1998 publication of Mari texts. Let me now go into more detail and present texts and commentary to the reader. Several of the texts deal directly with the canal system and its maintenance (p. 578 ff.). One set (nos.803– 804), dealing with a type of barrage called muballitum, attracted my attention instantly: “the fundamental installation serving both to raise the water level in order to feed the irrigation canals as well as protecting against over-silting as a result of diverting water” (p. 579). The muballitum was not a barrier: The basic meaning of the word is that of a cage where ‘an animal can be kept’ without the need to kill it. So it was an installation consisting of a first palisade set upstream in the river in order to check the muddy discharge which could obstruct the flow of canal water and a second one downstream which raised the water level in order to fill the canal diverted from the river as effectively as possible […] The system effectively ‘trapped’ the water. (Durand, Maîtrise de l’eau, 2002: 573).

The system required annual maintenance to prevent the canals diverted from the Habur silting up (no. 799). These muballitums were set at intervals – one administrator pointed out that he was in charge of maintaining six such structures (no. 803). 23

But see the dams made of earth (Dämme/mušannitu) bordering fields and regulating the irrigation system in the Sippar region: Jursa, Landwirtschaft 1995: 184–189: “The evidence indicates that mušannitu never means a barrage (Staudamm) set across a canal” (p. 184).

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He also had to look after another kind of barrier, situated downstream from the muballitums, the kisirtum-dyke, not a barrage in the full sense of the term – it served to reinforce the bank and prevented low-lying regions being flooded (p. 613). The text shows how the muballitums were constructed. Squared off tree trunks (tarqul­ lum) were placed in front, forming a palisade. Here is how Yaqqim-Adum, in charge of the sector, describes his work to his master (the king of Mari): When one (wants) to take water for the channels/furrows, at the point where the trunks (form) the palisade, it (takes) a heap of 3000 bundles of brushwood to form the muballitum-barrier. Now, (this is only) when the Habur has risen one inch! One installs the trunks (forming) the palisade: for ten days one forms the wooden structure out of brushwood: by piling them on top of each other one sets up the muballitum-barrier. Today the system is damaged (creating) big problems! I will go to the Habur: I will estimate the damage… Who, aside from me, has to control six muballitum-barriers? … (Durand 1998, no. 803).

The way in which these texts fit together is remarkable, particularly the manner of construction and the materials used for the katarraktai in Heliodorus and the mub­ allitums of the Mari kingdom, all of which is found again in the techniques employed in Lower Babylonia in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries by the Marsh Arabs. This makes it possible to remove from the term katarraktai the image of water gushing from the top of the barrage in “cataracts”24 – a meaning also absent from other renderings of the term (hatches, portcullises etc.). When we place the Heliodorus passage alongside Arrian’s and Strabo’s information there can be little doubt that the katarraktai of the Tigris have nothing to do with fortifications stretching from one bank to the other in expectation of an invasion from the Gulf. In fact they are not barriers at all – it is better to speak, more broadly, of lightly constructed irrigation installations, placed one behind the other at an angle, with an opening.25 They made it possible to direct the Tigris water in the low water season to the canals and channels whence it passed into the fields set on their banks.26

24 25

26

As against Bosworth’s reconstruction (Alexander 1988: 159): “… water was flowing in torrents over the holding dams.” Compare Durand, Textes de Mari (1998: 579) who rejects the term “barrage” in favour of “barrier” and writes: “The various muballitums must then have formed, from one bank to the other, a system of semi-barrages which created barriers to the river current making the water level rise while not holding back the water on the river bed as a veritable barrage would have done. Part of the river continued to flow, the rest was more or less imprisoned and supplied the canals cut into the ground.” To be compared with the situation described by Xenophon between the Euphrates and Opis: “They crossed two canals (dioryx), one by an ordinary bridge, the other by a bridge made of seven boats. These canals led off from the Tigris river, and from them, again, ditches had been cut that ran into the country, at first large, then smaller, and finally little channels (mikroi ochetoi), such as run to the millet fields in Greece” (Anab. II 4.13); the Greek leader, Clearchus, thought that these canals were “not always full of water in this way, for it was not a proper time to be irrigating the plain” (II 3.13), which is why “he suspected that the King had let the water into the plain” (but see Joannès 1995: 188–190). The description implies the presence of barriers serving to replenish the canals (ibid. p. 194 & n. 17).

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3 TEMPORARY OR PERMANENT STRUCTURES? While the preceding pages suggest, in my view, that the katarraktai were part of an irrigation system, there is still the question whether they were permanent or temporary structures. This is linked in part to another question: did these installations serve a year-long function or one limited to the irrigation season? Obviously, the answer will affect substantially how one might understand Alexander’s decision to destroy them as he sailed up the Tigris. The first is clearly the one envisaged with the use of the term holding dams (Staudämme) by Schachermeyr (1949; 1973) and Bosworth (1988: 159).27 Without considering the mode of construction of these holding dams, the latter indicates very clearly that for him the katarraktai functioned throughout the year: at the time of high water, they held the rising waters, with the surplus “flowing in torrents over the holding dams”; while “in the quieter seasons, [they] diverted some of the flow to irrigation channels.” This hypothesis is, I think, connected to the image of “cataracts”, which creates a picture in the mind’s eye of high water; but once the two images are separated (as suggested by Heliodorus), Schachermeyr and Bosworth’s conclusion becomes much less convincing. To this must be added the fact that the word “holding dams” implies dams capable of sustaining the powerful current of the Tigris in flood – a river whose flow is fuller and more powerful than that of the Euphrates and far more destructive when in flood.28 Moreover, a large number of these strong barrages would have been placed one after the other at intervals.29 Thus we would need to envisage extremely solid barriers, their bases anchored with the help of deep foundations on each bank and, of necessity, equipped with a flushing system in order to relieve them of some of the load they had to bear which made it possible for them to resist the enormous pressure of the Tigris in full flood. I do not think such a technique ever existed in ancient Mesopotamia. Further, as I said already, such structures could never have been destroyed with the ease Arrian takes such delight in describing. Schiwek (1962: 83), while not committing himself on this point, thinks that they were particularly useful when the Tigris was in spate (beim reissenden Tigris). As with Schachermeyr and Bosworth, his theory depends on the date at which Alexander was sailing up the Tigris, i. e. February-March (“river at high water”, Bosworth) – and, in fact, it is at the start of Spring that the river level begins to rise. But at this point the flooding is just beginning to take effect: we are not, in other words “at high water” but at the period of transition between low and high.30 As Cf. Katarraktes 2008: 162–163. See De Graeve, Ships, 1981: 12–13; comparing the rate of flow of the Tigris with that of the Euphrates, see also Arrian VII 7.3–5. 29 Cf. Arrian, Anab. VII 7.7: synekheis (placed “without interruption”); Strabo XVI 1.9: Alexander destroyed “as many as he could”. 30 Of course, the exact time of the flood depends on the snow melt in the mountains where the sources of the Tigris and its tributaries are located; Thesiger (1967: 182) notes that the Tigris was already in flood by mid-February in 1954 (cf. also Layard 1894: 374–375: Karun), as well as the “exceptionally low waters” in the following year (p. 193): “… by April the Tigris had 27 28

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we are dealing with an irrigation device,31 it is far more likely that they were intended to collect water when the river level was low so that the fields could be watered.32 As Schiwek rightly observes they naturally created an obstacle to shipping, but not a major one: for one, comparative archaeo-ethnography suggests strongly that they did have an opening (as he, too, thinks); further, they only formed an obstacle (relatively speaking) in the season of low water. Thus, just like Mannert (keine dauerhafte Arbeit), I think that they were temporary installations.33 If, as I believe, we are dealing with light structures, then either the katarraktai were swept away with each flood, or the administration undertook each year their removal prior to reinstalling them some months later, with the help of dependent labourers.34 This could be a total or partial dismantling/reinstatement: as they were made of light materials (wooden planks, faggots of brushwood, earth), the katarraktai may have been stabilised using strong wooden posts planted in the river bed;35 so we can presume that the posts stayed in place from one season to the next with only the mobile sections that could be easily rebuilt (with wooden planks, faggots of brushwood, earth) being removed annually. In any case (total or partial dismantling), shipping was possible at the time of high water, obstructed, but by no means impossible, at the time of low water. As the water began to go down, the administration had to re-erect the mobile sections as well as replacing any posts that might have been swept away by the flood. This meant permanent maintenance was required, just as the administrator in charge of the six muballitums on the Habur described. As noted, Alexander sailed up the Tigris just about the time when the katarrak­ tai had, as usual, to be dismantled (beginning of high water) and this allows us to understand why Alexander, too, removed them with ease (ou khalepôs: Arrian). As to the statement that the Persians paid close attention to this work (cf. spoudas­

31

32 33

34 35

scarcely risen above its winter level.” Unfortunately, we do not know the situation in 324 BC: the astronomical diaries do not reveal the Euphrates levels that year (cf. Brown 2002: 41). Arrian (following Aristobulus?) says that “as the land is higher than the level of the water […] the Tigris does not make it possible to water the land with its waters,” differing in this respect from the Euphrates, from which “canals derive whose courses have been dug from its course” (VII 7.4–5). It is true that it is more difficult to manage the Tigris than the Euphrates. But this description shows clearly that any irrigation system using the Tigris requires the water level to be raised artificially, particularly at the season of low water, which was precisely the function of the katarraktai. This was the function of the installation described by travellers and observers from Niebuhr to Thesiger; the same is true of the muballitums of the Habur in the Mari period. In my 1986 article, I took both possibilities into account, and did not exclude the possibility that the katarraktai. “might also have functioned to control the river when in spate” (p. 17). For the reasons given here, that now seems no longer tenable; cf. also HEP 741 [= HPE 720]: “Light structures set out by the satrapal administration each year to regulate the river at the time of high water;” this should read “low water”, as in Briant 1986: 17! Cf. Arrian, Anab. VII 21.5: work on the Pallacopas canal used every year “more than ten thousand men” subject to Babylonian satrapal authority. Compare with this the kormoi (tree trunks) of Heliodorus’ katarraktai and “the trunks which formed the palisade of the muballitums” (above § 2.1. and 2.3).

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mata), it shows that it was a regular annual activity demanding constant maintenance. 4 FROM DARIUS III TO ALEXANDER As I indicated in my assessment of the historiography of the subject (Briant 2006: 171–172 – see above), the present discussion contributes to the debate on the figure of Alexander. Did he, in dismantling riverine fortifications erected by the spineless Persians, demonstrate his usual boldness? Or was he someone who did not scruple to destroy crucial irrigation installations – unless, of course, yet a third solution removes these sterile alternatives (“positive/negative”, below § 5)? By the same tokens, the Achaemenid imperial administration is also to be judged: was it a state experiencing accelerated decline – incapable of fighting against its foes and maintain river and sea traffic? Or was it fully functional – with a navy in the Gulf and traffic on the Tigris and Euphrates while keeping a good irrigation system going on both rivers? So the debate also concerns the transition from the Achaemenid administration to that of Alexander: was it a break (with the definitive disappearance of the katarraktai) or were there continuities (taking over the management of the long established irrigation system in Achaemenid Babylonia)?36 In recent years, the episode has come to form part of an argument against seeing Alexander as following in the footsteps of the Great Kings when developing the administration of his empire, or trying as much as possible to follow the example of his Mesopotamian predecessors. To my mind, the katarraktai incident, as well as his actions with respect to the Pallacopas canal, suggests precisely the opposite.37 36 37

On the role played by the royal administration, see especially Stolper Entrepreneurs, 1985 : 36–51, and Joannès, ‘Droits sur l’eau’, 2002. The particular article I have in mind is that by Wiemer, “Eroberungspolitik,” 2007. His discussion of Alexander’s actions on the Tigris and Pallacopas (pp. 298–301) form part of a broader attack (also found in a recent article (2007) by Lane Fox) on the expression I have often used, i. e. “Alexander, last of the Achaemenids”. I will respond in more detail elsewhere [above, p. 26–29], and confine myself to a few simple remarks here: 1) As I have often pointed out, this is a metaphor, which should be cited in its entirety: I did not simply say that “Alexander was the last of the Achaemenids”; the exact quotation should read: “Was he the first of a long line of Hellenistic rulers? Of course! But with respect to the history of the Near and Middle East in the first millennium, Alexander could be regarded also as “the last of the Achaemenids.” (1979, 1414= RTP, 330; above Chapter 20, last paragraph, italics mine). Perusal of my studies on the Achaemenid-Hellenistic transition would quickly show that it absolutely does not signify that Alexander severed himself from his Macedonian and Greek roots (for the terms of the debate, see Briant 2006a [= above chapter 27); 2) The phrase is intended to remind Alexander specialists that the history of his conquests cannot be conducted without a solid understanding of the structures and history of the Achaemenid empire (see my study on Rostovtzeff in Studi Ellen­ istici 2008b [= above chapter 21], and my Alexander the Great 2010a. As for the criticism of the katarraktai, let me just say that: 1) while the author cites my 2006b study on the katarrak­ tai, I fear that he has read it too quickly (I have never, for instance, said that there were katar­ raktai on the Tigris ever since the second millennium, p. 300 – I know nothing of the sort), and he has not grasped the fact that I left open two possible interpretations, as they evolved between

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Let us begin by asking a simple question to which the answer is not obvious. As I have said, in Arrian’s text we must distinguish several aspects: 1 – his information on the existence of the katarraktai (which I have just discussed at length); 2 – the words put in Alexander’s mouth on their ineffectiveness as defensive measures; and the ease with which he destroyed them – beyond the anti-Persian polemic, this may reflect the actual slightness of their construction and their yearly re-erection: see above; 3 – there remains the third point: both Arrian and Strabo assert that Macedonians believed them to be riverine fortifications, which protected the country against invasion by an enemy fleet. Could the Macedonians have made such a blunder either in good faith or from ignorance, or are we dealing with a later reconstruction in Arrian and Strabo’s source, keen to present Alexander as standing in total contrast to, and creating a clean break with, his Achaemenid predecessors? While Mannert explains this as a mistaken Macedonian image,38 according to Chesney, Alexander and his advisors did not commit such an error inasmuch as they did not see the katarraktai as serving a military function (Briant 2008: 171 – see above). And there are other factors arguing in favour of this interpretation, stronger than those put forward by Chesney. Here we need to separate ourselves from the picture imposed on us by a literal reading of Arrian, Strabo and the other ancient writers. All are affected by their consistently close focus on the person of Alexander and his supposedly exceptional and innovative acts, so that their way of writing creates a unique individual, which tends to make one forget the cultural, institutional and administrative setting within which he had to make his decisions. Alexander was, in fact, surrounded by a mass of advisors not all of whom, in Babylonia, were Macedonians. If we take the examples of the two satrapies affected by the katarraktai, Babylonia and Susiana, we see that both surrendered to Alexander without battle, and Mazday (Mazaios), as well as Abulites, gained (Mazday) or retained (Aboulites) their title of satrap; it is further quite clear that the Babylonian élites offered their support to the new ruler, however such relations may have evolved later.39 Which means, with respect to the down-to-earth business of administrative life, that, while the top governmental positions (finances, armies, garrisons) were entrusted to Greco-Macedonians, the intermediate hierarchical level stayed in Babylonian hands – inevitably so, given the structure of Babylonian society and sanctuaries. In short, as in the years following Cyrus’ conquest (539),40 the effective executive had long experience of administering the population, temples,

38 39 40

1986, 1996 and 1999; he has picked one of the two hypotheses I put forward in 1986, which supports his thesis, while omitting entirely the other one which I present here having already envisaged it in my 1986 study and subsequent work; 2) it would have been good if the author had gone back to the sources instead of working with secondary and tertiary material, frequently in a very muddled way (I am quite at a loss to understand what his opinion of Högemann’s thesis is after reading pp. 299–300 and particularly note 60). Quoted in Katarakktes 2006: 48: “… den leeren Gedanken der Mazedonier”. See HEP, 881–884, 1076–1077 [= HPE, 862–4, 1049–50], omitting the comments on the Dy­ nastic Prophecy, which are to be replaced by Van der Spek’s study, “Darius, Alexander”, 2003 (cf. Briant, Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre, 2003: 79–84 & 565). See HEP, 82–87, 919–920 [= HPE, 70–75, 891–892].

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land and water – which does not, of course, amount to denying the fact that innovations were introduced by the Persians. When Alexander decided in 323 to undertake the clearing of the Pallacopas canal, the initiative was not something that had suddenly sprung from his brilliant brain. The way Arrian and Strabo present it makes it quite clear that it was the enterprise of a ruler fully informed of the circumstances, and it was these which determined his decision, to use Arrian’s words.41 And he was obviously put in the picture by the local water and canal administration, who were accustomed to these seasonal activities.42 Further, Arrian clearly places Alexander’s activity into the longue durée, as it is at that moment that he recalls the fact that “the satrap of Babylon used to dam the outlets of the Euphrates into the Pallacopas with considerable effort, even though they were easily opened, since the earth there is muddy and mostly soft clay […] so that for over two months more than ten thousand Assyrians used to be engaged on this task” (VII 21.5). Here we find the words used and images created by Arrian in the passage on the katar­ raktai, namely the contrast between the satrap’s way of doing things (with considerable effort: polloi ponoi) and what he presents as Alexander’s innovation (easily: mē khalepōs, 21.6), which, if we accept Arrian, was never put into practice. Whatever the case might be, in general it was the satrap’s duty to oversee such periodical activities. Only the king’s representative had the authority to enlist thousands of workers through the forced labour system well attested in Achaemenid Babylonia (and earlier) with the word ūrašu, which appears particularly in the context of hydraulic work.43 This could not be done in the absence of the satrapal administration, and it was particularly the large temples who sent the requisitioned workers. Pliny even refers to a Persian satrap, Gobares (Gobryas), who had diverted the Euphrates into an artificial canal (the Narmalcha), in order to stop its fierce current devastating Babylonia (ne praecipiti cursu Babyloniam infesterat).44 This is reminiscent of Arrian speaking of Alexander wanting “to bring help to Assyrian territory” and Strabo (XVI 1.10) that it is the duty of good leaders, agathoi hegemones, to undertake such work, just as it is that of the king of lands (šar matāti) which is what Alexander had been since 331.45 He was not the first ruler of the region to order an inspection of the river and canal system and study their suitability for navigation.46

41 42 43 44 45

46

Anab. VII 21.6: Tauta apaggelthenta epegagen Alexandron ophelesai ti en khoran ton Assirion. Cf. VII 21.6: periodic work done “at the appropriate season.” On this, see Joannès 1980: 151–162; cf. Briant 2010b. NH VI XXX.120, with my remarks in Briant HEP, 920, 1013 (= HPE 892, 987). Wiemer’s contrary view (Eroberungspolitik 2007: 300–301) is hard to understand, unless one shares his conviction that Alexander had no interest in Babylonian traditions, of which he was totally ignorant. The fact that the king “in any case, did not learn Old Persian, Aramaic, Babylonian” (p. 306, n. 7) strikes me as an exceptionally weak argument (not to say naive); did Darius know how to write cuneiform and hieroglyphics, and did he speak Hebrew, Greek and Lycian? See the Neo-Assyrian examples cited by Cole & Gasche in Gasche & Tanret (eds.) Changing Watercourses, 1998: 31.

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It is also the case that when, in the preceding year, Alexander decided to sail up the Tigris he had been already informed while in Susa about the existence of the katarraktai, which he did not discover on his own or suddenly – he will certainly have had with him members of the satrapal water administration. Contrary to what has been generally assumed (including by myself), sailing down the Pastigris and then up the Tigris had no military objective. Alexander could easily have reached Opis by land and, when he left the town to go to Ecbatana, it is likely that the navy regained Babylon by sailing down the Tigris without any plan of military conquest or maintenance of order.47 While we cannot speak of a voyage of “discovery” – he was certainly not the first Macedonian, since 331, to go down the Pasitigris and up or down the Tigris – Alexander’s prime aim was to acquaint himself in person with the course of the Tigris and its environs,48 and at the same time to remove the ka­ tarraktai for the reasons set out above. This makes it unlikely that the king would have been poorly informed about the function of these installations.49 Since they were intended to irrigate the soil at low water, Alexander was doing what the satrap was accustomed to do regularly: with the help of the local labour force, he had the katarraktai removed at the point when the waters in the Tigris began to rise, or had reached the height, when the decision to do so had to be taken;50 or he may have cleared the Tigris of some of the debris as a result of the installations having been partially destroyed by flooding. In conclusion, I do not think that Alexander misunderstood the function of the katarraktai – the mistake or deformation of the story originates in Arrian and Strabo’s source, as well as in the unremittingly eulogistic nature which Arrian imposed on his text, concerned as he was to illustrate at every opportunity the contrast between the Persians and his “hero”, between the useless efforts (spoudasmata; ponos) vainly deployed by the former and the ease (ou khalepōs) with which Alexander overcame the obstacles placed in his path. Obviously, however much Alexander’s ego might have been inflated, the problem was never seen in such terms. While Arrian (VII 21.1) paints a dramatic picture (based on rumour) of Alexander sailing alone in his boat through the Babylonian marshes, the reality is that, just like his Macedonian companions, he needed a local guide/pilot to stop him losing his 47 48

49

50

See Seibert’s remark in Kart. Grundlage, 1985: 188, n. 11. Cf. Arrian VII 7.1 and VII 1.1 (pothos); on the concept of pothos, see Ehrenberg 1933. I have tried to render it by emphasising “in person” as, if it was a matter of discovery, then it must be understood from Alexander’s perspective as a concern to know and understand his realm in full (both land and sea), and thus take possession of it (including countries that had been subject already for several years). To compare Alexander’s presumed “mistake” with the mythical tale recounted by Herodotus about Nitocris’ operations is completely irrelevant (pace Wiemer 2007: 301, n. 64). Herodotus’ and Alexander’s respective relations with the Babylonian water and canal administration have nothing to do with each other. In other words, the comparison lends no extra credibility to the thesis of “Alexander’s mistake”. Just as the Astronomical Diaries allow us to infer the existence of a kind of Euphratometer in Babylon (HEP, 1046 [= HPE, 1020]), the Tigris water levels, too, must have been scrutinised carefully throughout the year: should we be thinking of a Tigrometer?!

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way in the labyrinthine marsh-land, and one (to continue the metaphor) who would make it possible for him to govern and manage a region such as Babylonia and take the appropriate administrative decisions when required. The way in which the chroniclers focus on the person of Alexander, following his “exploits” step by step, has another distorting effect which is that one sometimes forgets that, in 324/3, Alexander was returning to an area that had been occupied and governed for the last seven years by his own subordinates. This distortion of the historical perspective is already present in Arrian and Strabo, who assume that Alexander destroyed installations built by the Persians and thus imply that they were permanent structures. By continuously presenting Alexander as a deus ex machina, neither Arrian nor Strabo ever refer to the administration of Babylonia and Susiana conquered by the Macedonians in 331. But we know that in 324 Alexander did not enter enemy territory, even less a terra incognita.51 We know virtually nothing about Susiana between 331 and 324, apart from the fact that the satrap Abulites and his son Oxathres were accused “of having committed crimes in the course of their government of Susiana,” and that they were executed, and that Herakon was convicted of having destroyed “the Susa temple”.52 But it is for quite another reason that Högemann (1985), convinced that by the end of the Achaemenid period the administration was no longer willing to look after works regulating the rivers, adds that the government put in place by Alexander in 331 did nothing to improve the situation and prevent “a further decline of this old cultivated landscape (einen weit­ eren Verfall dieser alten Kulturlandschaft);” hence, he says, the existence of the katarraktai on the Tigris at this date and the absence of any maintenance work on the Pallacopas canal (pp. 146–147). But his reasoning is, to say the least, illogical. As he accepts the thesis that the katarraktai were defences against Arab pirates, why would they still be in place in 324?53 They would surely have been swept away by successive flooding of the Tigris and/or removed by the Macedonian administra51 I am elaborating here an idea briefly sketched in Briant 1986: 18 (bottom of the page): “We might also add that probably the same [canal maintenance] had been performed by the administration Alexander had set up after his conquest of Susa and Babylon in 331, as the katarraktai were still in place in 324!” 52 Arrian VI 27.5 (Herakon) and VII 4.1 (Abulites and his son). 53 Although he makes no reference to Pallacopas or the katarraktai, Tom Boiy (Late Achaemenid … Babylon, 2004: 111–112) mentions an Astronomical Diary from 330 (ADRTB no. -329) which contains the word “Arabs in an unclear context”: it is vague as, following the destroyed first line, line 2 of the reverse only has [… lúA]r­ba­a­a DU[meš], i. e. […] the Arabs made […]. He points out that texts dated between 130 and 106 BC “regularly mention Arab raids on Babylonia”, and suggests that for text -329 “possibly a similar situation has to be restored here”. But that would mean transposing to 330 the very unstable situation that obtained in southern Babylonia two centuries later, which strikes me as a questionable method of proceeding. Further, the (“regular”) examples cited amount to two only; one of these late second century “raids” is, in fact, qualified as “probable” by Boiy (p. 174) who, to support his argument, refers to a third text (126 BC), which only contains the word “Arabs”: “after lúAr­ba­a­a the text is lost” (pp. 177–178)! The way this somewhat tangled hypothesis is presented lacks a solid foundation and makes it impossible to deduce from it an Arab danger threatening Babylonia during Alexander’s absence. – In conclusion, I note (unconnected to the preceding) that a Late Baby-

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tion. If they remained in place throughout this period, the reason was that they were essential for the fertility and very survival of the country. There can further be no doubt that between 331 and 323 the Pallacopas continued to be maintained.54 The Strabo passage (XVI 1.10) quoted by Högemann in no way supports his thesis and the corresponding one in Arrian (VII 21.5) makes this certain. Moreover, the Babylonian Astronomical Diaries note the river levels of the Euphrates in Babylon. Several of them show that work was carried out on the Pallacopas (Pallukatu); the purpose probably was to regulate the Euphrates level at Babylon, because the Pallukatu was “blocked”, i. e. in order to raise it.55 It is also possible that, in times of high water, the canal was opened as it served as an overflow outlet preventing the city and surrounding fields being flooded. In the period being discussed here, such work is mentioned in tablets dated to September 329 and 325, possibly also September 324 (when Alexander was in Media).56 Despite its limitations, the available material allows us to deduce with some certainty that the essential annual work on the irrigation system continued to be undertaken as without it Babylonia, whether suffering flood or drought conditions, would have been devastated by famine and/or risen in open revolt. The situation in Babylonia was replicated in Susiana. When Nearchus sailed up the Pasitigris at the beginning of 324, he thought that “the land is populous and prosperous (khora oikoumene kai eudaimon”) (Indica 42.5). The phrase may have been borrowed from Xenophon’s repertoire of descriptive expressions (polis oikou­ menē; megalē; eudaimōn; etc.) so that it seems vague and imprecise but, throughout his journey, Nearchus was well aware of lands whose productiveness was flourishing and agriculturally prosperous, which he often evaluated using Greek norms: wheat, wine, olive trees.57 At the very least, the terms show that, at the time of low water, the Karun valley was cultivated and supported a sizable population, implying that the irrigation systems were functioning. There can be no doubt that from Autumn 331 to Spring 324, Alexander’s administration had continued to perform the tasks of the Achaemenid organisation, which included looking after the katarraktai of the Tigris which guaranteed (unless I am very much mistaken) the agricultural prosperity of the region. It is thus unthinkable that Alexander and his companions could have been ignorant of their function and how they worked.

lonian chronicle (probably) refers to Alexander’s preparations against Arab territory (KURArabi), after his return from Ecbatana (crossing of Tigris): Van der Spek 2003: 310–311. 54 On this, Schiwek is infinitely clearer (1962: 85); while he puts forward the hypothesis that the difficulties in several satrapies could have undermined administrative efficiency, he points out that work on the Pallacopas was definitely carried out and that, in any case, the Euphrates was navigable in 324. 55 This is also explained by Arrian VII 21.3; cf. Boiy & Verhoeven 1998. 56 See Van der Spek 1994: 17–18; Slotsky 1997: 88–98; Boiy & Verhoeven 1998, and especially now the specialised study by Brown 2002, passim and p. 41. 57 E. g. Indica 33.1, 38.6, 41.1.

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5 CONCLUSION AND PERSPECTIVES Pierre Vidal-Naquet, when referring to the relationship between Arrian and Aristobulus with respect to the “Carmanian Bacchanalia” and the discussions to which the divergences between various ancient writers have given, and continue to give, rise among modern historians, wrote: “To venture to take sides requires immense erudition and critical analysis in order to reach probabilities, not certainties” (1984: 346). I believe that I have displayed the necessary erudition and critical analysis; I am hopeful that, even if only in the form of “probabilities”, my conclusions will be found convincing, because, as I have repeatedly said, the discussion about the ka­ tarraktai episode allows us to perceive Alexander the Great’s behaviour not only as a military commander but also as the ruler of a state. The old problem that has been discussed for years is whether the Macedonian ruler was capable (or not) of organising, administering and managing his empire in the short and long term. Given the shortcomings and the incomplete state of the available evidence it is not surprising that such an apparently minor episode carries with it such a historiographical and cognitive load. So what is my conclusion? Alexander never dismantled some useless riverine fortifications, nor did he wilfully destroy the system of irrigation barrages set on the Tigris during times of low water. If we were to put the rather pointless and naive (but frequently asked) question whether Alexander was either “good” or “bad”, the answer would have to be “neither”. But such terminology is, in any case, foreign to the work of the historian. It is also good to avoid describing this or that action as either “positive” or “negative” – judged by what values and using what parameters?58 He was neither the “glorious” remover of a Persian fortification, nor the “unworthy” destroyer of the Babylonian irrigation system. Alexander was carrying out simultaneously “works of war” and “works of peace”; he conquered and managed his conquests. He conducted military expeditions and did not shrink from employing brutal measures when he met strong and lasting resistance; he took the conquered and/or surrendered countries in hand; he organised an empire whose prosperity was the most certain guarantee of its financial feasibility. He reached agreements with local élites; he had Persians/Iranians guilty of trying to challenge his power executed;59 after holding due hearings,60 he deposed administrators and satraps who had not carried out his orders,61 or who had been accused by subjects of poor administration (ouk en kosmoi),62 pillage, murder, violations, or disregard for local religious

58 59 60 61 62

See Briant 2005a: 49–57. Arrian VI 27.3; VI 29.3 (neoterismos kai apostasis); cf. Quintus Curtius IX 10.21 (res novare). Cf. Arrian VI 27.5: initially, Herakon was found innocent of the crimes commited in Media; cf. Quintus Curtius IX 10.21: “Astaspes retained his title during the enquiry into the accusations brought against him.” Arrian VI 27.1. Arrian VI 15.3.

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traditions.63 Alexander was well aware that order in such a huge empire could only be achieved if the subjects did not feel crushed under the heel of an unjust government.64 In a place such as Babylonia, he was fully informed as to the basis on which the economic and social life of its cities and the organisation of its great temples rested. His duty and interest went hand in hand: to maintain and look after the installations on the Euphrates and Tigris which, depending on the season, made it possible to avoid catastrophic floods and ensure the irrigation of land under cultivation. In short: while it is inappropriate to dub Alexander a “grand economist” or “civilizing hero,” we should note that he governed like a statesman, adopting the administrative traditions previously adopted and adapted by the Achaemenids while introducing Greco-Macedonian innovations. He did not pass over the conquered lands and populations like a predator subjecting them to the random will of an “Oriental despot;” he did not turn his empire into a desert65 – he had a vision of the future.66

63 64

65

66

Arrian VI 27.5 (Herakon was accused by the Susa population of having destroyed a temple and executed); VI 27.4: Cleander and Sitalces were charged by the inhabitants of Media of robbing the temples, violating ancient tombs and committing other crimes (alla adika erga). See especially Arrian VI 27.5 (note Antigonus’ contrary actions who, in spite of the urgings of Persian nobles, deprived Peucestas of his governorship as he had managed Persia by adopting local customs: Diodorus XIX 48.5). On all these points, I disagree with Badian’s interpretation (‘Harpalus’, 1961), who presents Alexander’s decisions as a “reign of terror” (reiterated in Badian 2000: 75 & n. 44 to counter Bosworth’s criticism). I continue to believe that accusations of malpractice brought against Alexander’s satraps does not simply reflect court historiography, and that his mode of government cannot be put down to his presumed paranoia. I refer to Bosworth’s expression where he places Alexander conquest into the same condemnatory category as that of Cortès in Mexico: “The conquerors created a desert and called it empire” (2000: 49). ‘Desert’ is a classic metaphor to delegitimize a conquest or domination; see, for instance, Linguet, Histoire du siècle d’Alexandre 1 (1762): 167–168, contrasting the Turks with Alexander: “They turned their empire into a desert in order to assure themselves of possessing it;” this disappears from the second edition (1769) for reasons I have explained elsewhere (‘L’Histoire du Siècle d’Alexandre de Linguet,’ in Annuaire du Collège de France, 2007). This conclusion opens new perspectives for research and debate which will be developed elsewhere – they are not appropriate here (but see Briant 2006a: 314–317 [above Chapter 27]). I should stress that I have changed my opinions considerably, as I explained in 2005a: 51. To follow the evolution of my ideas, read the successive editions of my “Que sais-je” book on Alexander published between 1974 and 2005b (cf. now the English version, Briant 2010a); particularly to be noted is the section called “Conquest and Economic Development” in the sixth edition (2005b): 73–84; they will need to be modified yet again in the next edition [see now the 8th French edition, 2016: 70–82], if only because I did not follow through my ideas on the issue of the katarraktai which I began twenty years earlier (see 2005a: 77: “the destruction of (temporary) barriers erected each year on the Tigris by the Persian government”). One of the reasons (or/and one of the symptoms) for my former position is that I continued to attribute a crucial importance to the strategic aspects of Alexander’ decisions concerning the Tigris and Euphrates (“Alexander’s objective was certainly not to promote irrigation”).

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REFERENCES Anville, J. B. Bourguignon d’--, 1779, L’Euphrate et le Tigre Paris, Imprimerie royale Arcq de Sainte-Foix, 1768, Histoire du commerce et de la navigation des peuples anciens et mo­ dernes. Première Partie, tome I et II, à Amsterdam et à Paris chez Saillant, Durand, Vincent et Duchesne Badian, E., 1961, ‘Harpalus,’ JHS 81: 16–43 = G. T. Griffith (ed.), Alexander the Great: the main problems, Cambridge 1966: 205–233 [= Collected papers on Alexander the Great, London, New York 2012: 58–95] Badian, E., 2000, ‘Conspiracies,’ in A. B. Bosworth & E. Baynham (eds.), Alexander the Great in fact and fiction, Oxford: 50–95 [= Collected Papers on Alexander the Great, London, New York 2012: 420–456] Boiy, T., 2004, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon (OLA 136), Leuven Boiy, T. & K. Veerhoeven, 1998, ‘Anabasis VII.21.1–4 and the Pallukkatu channel,’ in Gasche & Tanret 1998: 147–158 Bonneau, D., 1992, ‘Les realia du paysage égyptien dans le roman grec: remarques lexicographiques,’ in M. Baslez et al. (éds.), Le monde du roman grec (Études de Littérature Ancienne 4), Paris: 213–219 Bosworth, A. B., 1988, Conquest and Empire: the reign of Alexander the Great, Cambridge Bosworth, A. B., 2000, ‘A tale of two empires: Hernan Cortés and Alexander the Great,’ in A. B. Bosworth & E. Baynham (eds.), Alexander the Great in Fact and Fiction, Oxford: 23–49 Briant, P., 1979, ‘Impérialismes antiques et idéologie coloniale dans la France contemporaine: Alexandre le Grand “modèle colonial”,’ DHA 5: 283–292 = RTP, 281–290 Briant, P., 1982, Rois, tributs et paysans, Paris Briant, P., 1986, ‘Alexandre et les katarraktes du Tigre,’ Pallas hors-série = Mélanges M. Labrousse, Toulouse: 11–22 Briant, P., 1996, Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre [HEP], Paris (=2002, From Cyrus to Alexander: a history of the Persian empire [HPE], Winona Lake, IN) Briant, P., 1999, ‘Katarraktai du Tigre et muballitum du Habur,’ NABU, note no. 12 (= http://www. achemenet.com/pdf/nabu/nabu1999-012.pdf) Briant, P., 2003, Darius dans l’ombre d’Alexandre, Paris Briant, P., 2005a, ‘“Alexandre le Grand et l’hellénisation de l’Asie”: l’histoire au passé et au présent,” Studi Ellenistici XVI: 9–69 Briant, P., 2005b, Alexandre le Grand, 6ème éd. rev. (Que-sais-je? 622), Paris Briant, P., 2006a, ‘L’Asie Mineure en transition,’ in P. Briant & F. Joannès (éds.), La transition entre l’empire achéménide et les royaumes hellénistiques (Persika 9), Paris: 309–351 [Here Chapter 27]) Briant, P., 2006b, ‘Retour sur Alexandre et les katarraktes du Tigre. L’histoire d’un dossier (I),’ Studi Ellenistici XIX: 9–75 Briant, P., 2008a, ‘Retour sur Alexandre et les katarraktes du Tigre. II (Suite et fin),’ Studi Ellenistici XX: 155–218 Briant, P., 2008b, ‘Michael Rostovtzeff et le passage du monde achéménide au monde hellénistique,’ Studi Ellenistici XX: 137–154 [Here Chapter 21] Briant, P., 2010a, Alexander the Great and his empire, Princeton NJ Briant, P., 2010b, ‘Suse et l’Élam dans l’empire achéménide,’ in J. Perrot (éd.), Le Palais de Darius à Suse: une résidence royale sur la route de Persépolis à Babylone, Paris: 22–45 (= The Palace of Darius at Susa: the Great Royal Residence of Achamenid Persia, London 2013: 3–25) Briant, P., 2011, Alexandre le Grand (Collection Que sais-je? 622), 7ème éd. rev., Paris Brown, D., 2002, ‘The level of the Euphrates,’ in C. Wunsch (ed.), Mining the Archives: Festschrift for Christopher Walker, Dresden: 37–56 Chesney, R. A., 1850, The expedition for the survey of the rivers Euphrates and Tigris carried out by order of the British Government in the years 1835, 1836 and 1837, preceded by geographical

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and historical notices of the regions situated between the rivers Nile and Indus, 2 vols., London, repr. New York 1969 Durand, J.-M., 1998, Documents épistolaires de Mari, t.II (LAPO 17), Paris Durand, J.-M., 2002, ‘La maîtrise de l’eau dans les régions centrales du Proche-Orient,’ Annales HSS, mai-juin: 561–576 Ehrenberg, V., 1933, ‘Pothos,’ in Festschrift M. Winternis = G. T. Griffith (ed.), Alexander the Great: the main problems, Cambridge 1966: 74–83 Gasche, H. & M. Tanret (eds.), 1998, Changing Water Courses in Babylonia: towards a reconstruc­ tion of the ancient environment in Lower Mesopotamia, I (Mesopotamian History and Environment, Series II, Memoirs V), Gent, Chicago Graeve, M. C. de --, 1981, The Ships of the Ancient Near East (c.2000–500 B. C.), (OLA 7) Leuven Helly, B., 1999, ‘Modèle, de l’archéologie des cités à l’archéologie du paysage,’ in M. Brunner (éd.), Territoires des cités grecques (Actes de la Table Ronde Internationale 31/X–3/XI, 1991), (BCH Suppl. 34), Paris: 99–124 Högemann, P., 1985, Alexander der Groβe und Arabien (Zetemata 92), Munich Joannès, F., 1980, Archives de Borsippa. La famille des Ea-ilûta-bâni, Geneva Joannès, F., 1995, ‘L’itinéraire des Dix-Mille en Mésopotamie et l’apport des sources cunéiformes,’ in P. Briant (éd.), Dans les pas des Dix­Mille: peoples et pays du Moyen­Orient vus par un Grec [= Pallas 43], Toulouse: 173–199 Joannès, F., 2002, ‘Les droits sur l’eau en Babylonie récente,’ Annales HSS, mai-juin: 577–609 Jursa, M., 1995, Die Landwirtschaft in Sippar in neubabylonischer Zeit (AfO Beih. 25), Vienna Kleiss, W., 1988, ‘Achämenidische Staudämme in Fars,’ AMI 21: 63–68 Lane Fox, R., 2007, ‘Alexander the Great: “Last of the Achaemenids”?,’ in C. Tuplin (ed.), Persian Responses: political and cultural interactions with(in) the Achaemenid empire, Swansea: 267–311 Layard, H. A., 1894, Early Adventures in Persia, Susiana and Babylonia, London Linguet, S.-N.-H., 1762, Histoire du Siècle d’Alexandre, avec quelques réflexions sur ceux qui l’ont précédé, Amsterdam Loftus, W. K., 1857, Travels and Researches in Chaldaea and Susiana, London Mannert, K., 1797, Geographie der Griechen und Römer. V. Theil: Indien, und die persische Mon­ archie bis zum Euphrat, Nuremberg, E. C. Grattenauer (Zw. Aufl., Leipzig, Hahn 1829) Müller, D., 1997, Topographischer Bildkommentar zu den Historien Herodots. Kleinasien und an­ grenzende Gebiete mit Südthrakien und Zypern, Tübingen Niebuhr, C. 1778, Reisebeschreibung nach Arabien und andern umliegenden Ländern, II, Copenhagen Robert, L., 1984/1987, ‘À Caunos avec Quintus de Smyrne,’ BCH 108 = Documents d’Asie Mineure (BEFAR 239 bis), Paris: 487–520 Saglio, E., 1892, ‘Cataracta,’ in Dictionnaire des Antiquités de Daremberg et Saglio, II, Paris: 967 Schachermeyr, F., 1949, Alexander der Grosse: Ingenium und Macht, Vienna Schachermeyr, F., 1973, Alexander der Grosse: das Problem seiner Persönlichkeit und seines Wir­ kens, Vienna Schiwek, H., 1962, ‘Der Persische Golf als Schiffahrts- und Seehandelsroute in achämenidischer Zeit und in der Zeit Alexanders des Grossen,’ Bonner Jahrbücher 162: 4–97 Seibert, J., 1985, Die Eroberung des Perserreiches durch Alexander den Groβen auf kartogra­ phischer Grundlage (TAVO Reihe B, 68), Wiesbaden Slotsky, A.-L., 1997, The Bourse of Babylon. Market quotations in the Astronomical Diaries of Babylonia, Bethesda MD Stolper, M. W., 1985, Entrepreneurs and Empire: the Murašû archive, the Murašû firm and Persian rule in Babylonia, Leiden Thesiger, W., 1967, The Marsh Arabs, Harmondsworth Van der Spek, R. J., 1994, ‘The Seleucid state and economy,’ in E. Lo Cascio & D. Rathbone (eds.), Production and Power in Antiquity (Proceedings of the 11th International Economic History Congress, Milan 1994), Milan: 15–25

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Van der Spek, R. J., 2003, ‘Darius III, Alexander the Great and Babylonian scholarship,’ in W. Henkelman & A. Kuhrt (eds.), A Persian Perspective. Essays in Memory of Heleen Sanci­ si­Weerdenburg (AchHist XIII), Leiden: 289–346 Vidal-Naquet, P., 1984, ‘Flavius Arrien entre deux mondes,’ in P. Savinel (trans.), Histoire d’Alexandre le Grand, Paris: 309–394 Wiemer, U., 2007, ‘Alexander – der letzte Achämenide? Eroberungspolitik, lokale Eliten und altorientalische Traditionen im Jahr 323,’ Historische Zeitschrift 284: 281–309 William, J., 1829, Two Essays on the Geography of Ancient Asia intended partly to illustrate the campaigns of Alexander and the Anabasis of Xenophon, London

INDEX OF NAMES A Abrokomas 181 Abulites 501, 601, 604 Achaemenes 58, 478 Achaemenes, satrap 172, 191 Achaemenes, chief of inspectors 191 Ada 115, 570 Adrastos 90, 93, 579 Aeschines 159 Agesilaos 58, 68, 332, 366–367, 536 Ahasuerus 233 Ahmose 193 Ahmosis 195 Ahoapi 192 Ahura-Mazda 57, 60, 79–82, 84–86, 91, 136, 139, 197, 210, 234, 236, 243, 280, 506, 513, 520, 530, 572 Akoris 186–187 Alcibiades 66, 363–365 Alexander the Great 1, 6, 18–19, 21–29, 44, 54, 56, 58–61, 63, 68–71, 86, 90, 138, 144, 172, 180, 182–183, 189, 192, 194, 202, 221–224, 228, 230, 254, 257–258, 260, 262, 267, 290, 305, 311, 313–314, 325, 331–335, 338, 342, 344, 350–351, 360–361, 367–369, 371, 418, 420, 429–435, 437–438, 441, 443, 445, 447, 449–452, 454, 457–462, 464, 467, 472–477, 479–480, 485–487, 489–494, 499–507, 509–511, 513–515, 519–520, 522–524, 527–529, 533, 535–537, 539, 556–565, 567–568, 570, 572–578, 582, 590–591, 593–594, 596, 598–607 Alexander IV 418, 563 Alexander, son of Aeropos 501, 504 Alkimachos 505 Amasis, pharaoh 193, 195, 216, 392, 403, 406, 409 Amasis, official of Aryandes 190 Amasis, father of Knemibre 193 Amestris, wife of Xerxes 475 Amestris, daughter of Oxathres 59 Amestris, daughter of Dionysius of Heraclea-Pontus 59 Amonrasater 196 Amorges 59

Amun 226 Amyntas, historian 289 Amyntas, son of Andromenes 487, 500 Amyrtaios 178, 180–181, 186, 202, 392 Anahita 9, 25, 50, 53, 57, 60, 80–81, 85–86, 91, 506, 515, 523, 525, 529–531, 538–539, 572 Anaïtis, see Anahita Anaxarches 493 Andromenes 500, 502 Angdistis 57, 78, 81, 506 Antigonus Gonatas 570–571 Antigonus Monophthalmus 6, 25, 318, 415–418, 420–422, 462, 563–564, 570–571, 573, 579, 582, 607 Antimenes of Rhodes 397 Antiochus 228 Antiochus I 248, 525–526, 538 Antiochus II 296 Antiochus III 305–306, 310–314, 320, 322– 328, 339, 341, 343, 354, 416, 421, 522 Antiochus IV 229, 417, 488 Antiochus V 382 Antipater 418, 480–481, 486, 563 Anudaru, see Inaros Apame, daughter of Artaxerxes II 534 Aphrodite 60, 80 Apollo 87–88, 94, 128, 130, 132, 134, 136, 139, 143–144, 147, 149–151, 156–157, 160–162, 177, 218, 228, 300, 515 Apollodotos 46, 111, 114 Apollonios, priest 112 Apollonios, dioiketes 398, 551 Appuašu 366 Apries 187–188 Arbinas 136 Aretes 489 Ariaeus 69 Ariaramnes 521–522, 571 Ariarathes 69, 539 Ariobarzanes 8, 90, 93, 363, 524 Aristandros 90 Aristides 505 Aristodicides of Assos 526–527, 581 Aristolochos 526 Aristozanes 484–485

612

Index of names

Ariyawrata 190–191, 195–196, 211 Arkesimas 104–105, 117, 236 Armaïtidata 199 Arrhidaios 417–418 Arsaces I 305 Arsaces II 305–306, 310–314, 317, 322, 324, 328, 339, 354 Arsames, see Amasis (official) Arsames, see Arshama Arses, see Artaxerxes IV Arshama (Arsham) 12, 20, 46, 151, 154, 156, 174–175, 191–192, 197, 208–209, 213–214, 217–218, 362, 397, 399, 401, 444, 548, 550–552 Artabana 191 Artabanus, chiliarch 483–484 Artabanus, the Hyrcanian 61 Artabanus II of Parthia 457 Artabazus satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia (I) 375, 534 Artabazus satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia (II) 61, 66, 499, 503, 534–536 Artam, father of Djedherbes 195, 211, 239 Artames, father of Atiyawahy and Ariyawrata 191 Artaphernes, satrap of Sardis 45–46, 362, 505–506, 508 Artaxerxes I 47, 63, 67, 78–79, 81–82, 86, 90, 94, 108, 137, 145, 147, 150, 172, 179, 210, 255, 299, 355, 378–380, 397, 423, 478, 482–484, 491, 494–496, 510 Artaxerxes II 8–9, 22–23, 60, 78–82, 85–87, 90, 94, 108, 137–138, 145, 150, 181, 210, 286–287, 292, 295–296, 299, 301–302, 363, 392, 418–419, 473, 481, 484, 488, 491, 496, 510, 531–534 Artaxerxes III 22–23, 70, 99, 111, 137–138, 145, 152, 182, 184–185, 188–189, 228, 327, 484–485, 510, 534, 556, 570 Artaxerxes IV 99, 111–112, 236, 566 Artayntes 66 Artembares 300, 483 Artemelis 46, 111, 114 Artemis 56–57, 86, 90, 94, 112, 505–506, 511–512, 514–515, 521–523, 525, 529–531, 533, 538, 571–572 Artemisia 475 Artonis 536 Aryandes 173, 190–191 Aryāvana 260 Asander, satrap of Caria 418, 504, 521–522, 527, 571

Asander, son of Philotas 501 Asidates 525 Asies 518 Astyages 54, 180, 270, 299–300, 484, 492, 495 Athena 90, 93, 196 Atiwahya 211 Atiyawahy 191, 193, 195, 197 Atizyes 503 Atrofarna 191 B Bagabatas 141 Bagadata 141 Bagadates 7–8, 92, 141, 504, 521–523, 525–526, 537, 571–572 Bagaios 66 Bagapaka 191 Bagdana 191 Bagoas 158 Bagoas, eunuch of Artaxerxes III and Darius III 65, 299, 484, 534 Bagohi 156, 208 Bagophanes 501, 510 Bakabada 142 Bakabaduš 362 Bakabana 362 Barakes 78–79, 94, 506 Barakos 79 Bardiya (see also Gaumata) 172–173 Barsaentes 476 Barsine, daughter of Artabazus 534–535 Berenice, wife of Antiochus II 296 Basileus Kaunios 104–105, 111–112, 117, 236 Bel-Erech 264 Belshunu 194 Bessos 56, 457, 476–477, 479 Branchidae 160 C Callias 367 Callisthenes 477, 486, 490, 492–493 Cambyses 12, 14, 43, 54–55, 161, 172–173, 177–178, 182–185, 188–189, 193–195, 197, 207, 213, 215, 217–218, 228–229, 237–238, 253, 263, 297, 299, 317, 386, 405, 458, 477, 484, 493 Camisares 59 Cassander 474, 480–481, 486–487, 492, 577, 581–582 Chabrias 187, 400, 402 Chairophanes 325

Index of names Chardin, J. 131, 273, 325, 336–337, 341–344 Chares 419, 549 Charidemos 64, 419 Charisthenes/Charystion 382 Charles XII of Sweden 332–333, 335 Clearchus, general 597 Clearchus, son of Dionysius of Heraclea-Pontus and Amastris 523–524 Cleomenes 194, 506 Cleitos 477, 490, 492 Conon 89, 369, 482–483 Cortés, H. 607 Cranaspes 66 Croesus 54, 160, 180 Cyrus the Great 18, 43–44, 47–48, 53–56, 68–69, 71, 89, 132–133, 144, 158, 160–162, 172, 183–184, 207, 214, 234, 253, 257, 267, 270, 292–295, 297–298, 300, 307, 325, 360, 438–439, 450–451, 457–458, 478, 492, 495, 499, 507, 513–514, 520, 523–524, 561, 565, 601 Cyrus the Younger 69–70, 181, 190, 272, 363–368, 496, 515 D Dadakes 483, 485 Damastes 369–370 Darius I 4, 7, 9–11, 14–15, 19, 22, 43, 47, 51, 54–55, 63, 65, 67, 69, 81, 88–89, 92–93, 95, 100, 109, 128, 130–139, 141–151, 156–158, 160–162, 171–173, 177, 182, 188–189, 194-195-197, 208, 214–216, 218–219, 221, 224, 233–236, 238, 241, 243–245, 247, 249, 253, 258–259, 262, 266, 273–274, 277, 289, 291, 295, 300, 307, 327, 345, 361, 364, 369–371, 398, 420, 440, 451, 456, 458, 462–463, 467–468, 478–479, 481, 483, 485, 495, 514, 532, 535, 539, 548–549, 561, 566, 575, 577 Darius II 46, 71, 81, 132, 137, 156, 207–208, 210, 229, 235, 355, 392, 423, 478 Darius III 6, 23–24, 28–29, 59, 66, 81, 137, 144, 185, 221, 299, 305, 313, 327, 334, 367, 458, 474, 476–477, 479, 483–486, 490, 501–505, 519, 521, 524, 535–536, 560–561, 590, 600, 602 Databara 85 Datames 58–59, 61, 65–67, 70 Datis 55, 88, 94, 160, 361–362 Deiokes 479 Delayah 156

613

Demetrius I 546 Democedes 63 Diana, see Artemis Diocles 417 Dionysius, tyrant of Heraclea-Pontus 59, 524 Diotimos, son of Strombichos 369–370 Dja-hap-imou 188 Djam 223 Djedherbes 195, 211, 239–240 Djedhor 189 Djeho see Ariyawrata Doloaspis 194 Dorates 78 Droaphernes 5, 7–8, 57, 77–87, 89–95, 100, 135, 137, 145, 149–152, 155, 223, 506, 513, 520, 531–532, 566, 572 E Eirenias 417 Engels, F. 346 Epyaxa 366, 370 Eratosthenes 369 Ergilos 383 Erigyos 474 Eshmunazar 382, 546, 580 Eshor, son of Seha 192 Euelthon 475 Eumenes of Cardia 474, 487, 525, 534–536, 539, 563 Eumenes II of Pergamum 417 Eupolemos 564 Eurydice 23, 474 Evagoras 180, 371 Ezra 132–133, 137, 154, 157, 159, 233, 371 F Faridoun 223 Farnak 260, 267 G Gadatas 7, 9, 47, 63, 92–93, 95, 109, 128, 130–133, 135, 137, 139, 141–144, 148–150, 154–156, 158, 160, 177–178, 214, 218, 233, 273, 277, 307, 467, 532, 548, 566, 575 Gadatas, (Babylonian?) prince 158 Gaumata 172, 235–236, 262 Glaphyros 382, 395, 404 Glous 67, 190 Gobryas 158, 602 Gorgon 57 Gubaru 66

614

Index of names

H Hakôris 187 Hanani 208 Hananyah 209, 211 Haomadata 191 Harbezza 260 Harpagus 55, 270 Hattubashti 192 Hekatomnos 111, 557, 570 Hephaestion 267, 480, 485–486, 591 Heraclitus 157 Hermes 383 Hermolaus 489–490, 492–493, 530 Hieron, Lycian 46, 111, 114 Hieronymus of Cardia 62, 258, 318–319, 480 Hinzanay 197 Hippocrates of Cos 157 Hippomedon 416 Hnûm, see Khnûm Hôri 199 Horus 196 Hydarnes 210, 363 Hydaspes, Ethiopian king 593 Hydaspes/Widranga 210 Hystanes 157 Hystaspes, father of Darius I 130, 138, 243–244, 247 Hystaspes, grandfather of Amorges 59 I Idrieus 99, 145, 522 Inaros 15, 172, 174, 176, 179–180, 185, 187, 200, 397 Intaphernes 61, 67 Iokles 382 Iqiša 263 Irdabanuš 362 Ishtar 263 Isis 196 Ismenias 482–483 Ithamitres 66 J Jesus 153–152 Julian the Apostate 542, 593 K Kalas 500–501, 504, 519 Karkiš 261, 362 Kesindelis 104, 107 Khabbabash 12, 181, 392

Khnûm 13, 46, 110, 151, 207–212, 214, 217–218 Knemibre 193 Korris 123–124 Kotys, king of Paphlagonia 58 Kundasirma 192 Kybebe 506, 513, 515 L Labynetos, see Nabonidus Lamartine 25, n. 88 Langaros 473 Leonidas, teacher of Alexander 290 Leonnatos 90, 520, 536 Leto 106, 111, 120, 530 Letodoros of Kibyra 529 Louis XIV 543 Lysander 66–67, 89 272 Lysicrates 569 Lysimachus 491, 573, 575, 581 M Ma 57, 78, 80–81, 92, 506 Mahes 198 Mahomet Ali 298 Maidates 530 Maiphernes 525, 537 Makos 382 Maliya 112 Manes/Masnes 518 Mardonios 46, 367 Mardontes 66 Marduk 71, 89, 513 Mardunda 362 Marx, K. 15, 346–347, 453–454 Masapata 192 Masistes 61, 67 Mateis 79 Mausolus 99, 115, 522, 568, 570 Mazakes 191 Mazares 55 Mazaios/Mazday 501–502, 504, 510, 519–520, 559, 601 Mazdayazna 191 Medusa 57 Megabyzos 64, 67, 180, 491, 494–496 Megabyzos (Bagabuxša), priest of Ephesian Artemis 56, 141 Megadates 141 Memnon of Rhodes 58–59, 66, 81, 500–501, 503–504, 526, 534–535 Men 84, 91–92

Index of names Menandros 521–523, 571 Menon 366 Menophilos 530 Menostanes 479, 484 Mentor 65–66, 499, 534–535 Metiochus, son of Miltiades 55, 535 Metrodoros from Cy[zicus?] 417 Miltiades 55, 535 Min 91, 196, 211 Mithradates, the cowherd 270 Mithradates, son of Ariobarzanes 524 Mithrenes 500, 502–504, 509–510, 519–521, 539, 564, 572, 575 Mithres 528–529, 537 Mithridates, Persian officer 47 Mithridates Eupator 57, 538 Mithrobaios 191 Mithrobarzanes 59, 66 Mnesimachos 25, 135, 422, 505, 511. 514, 547, 551, 565, 570, 578–579, 581–582 Montesquieu, Ch.-L. de Secondat de 18, 131, 331–344, 543 Morsolis 382 Mrggs or Mrygs 382 Muranu 398 Murašû 397, 399, 423 Musikanos 501 Myrsilos 382 N Nabarzanes 483–485 Nabonidus 54, 180, 265, 513 Nabugu 66 Nabukudurri 194 Nafaïna, son of Widranga 66, 177, 191, 208, 212–213, 217–218 Nafaïna, judge 192 Nearchus 258, 605 Nectanebo I 188, 392, 402–404, 406 Nectanebo II 185, 188, 392, 534 Nehemiah 299, 371 Nehtihor 19, 154, 192, 550 Neith 160, 184, 197, 247, 402–403, 405 Neoptolemos 539 Nepherites 202 Neriglissar 366 Nicias 501, 504, 506 Nicogenes 364 Nicomedes 306, 339 Nikokles 569 Nimasu 191

615

Nitocris 293–294, 603 Nymphs 120 O Olympichos 123–124 Omanes 524 Omphis 501 Onophris 185 Oroites 66, 249, 364 Orontes, satrap of Armenia 539 Orontes, satrap of Mysia , 70, 418–419, 422 Orontopates 483, 485 Osiris 91, 210, 239–240 Osor-Wêr 190 Ostana 208 Otanes 65, 67, 494 Otys 367 Oxathres, son of Aboulites 604 Oxathres, brother of Darius III 59, 476, 524 Oxathres, son of Dionysius of Heraclea-Pontus and Amestris 59, 524 P Païouenhor 193 Paitos 157 Pantaleon 382 Paraudig(k)os 383 Parmenio 490, 500, 502, 558 Parnaka 362, 485 Parnu 190–191 Parysatis 298 Pausanias, Spartan king 136, 148 Pausanias, hetairos of Alexander 501, 504 Payô, son of Pahi 192 Pedon 238 Perseus, hero 57–58, 538–539 Perseus of Macedon 487 Peteise 192, 195 Peteisis 198 Petemehû 199 Petesis 192 Petisis 194, 202 Petosiris 189, 462 Peucestas 268, 607 Phanes 382 Pharnabazus I of Hellespontine Phrygia 363–364, 538 Pharnabazus II of Hellespontine Phrygia 66–68, 363–364 Pharnabazus III of Hellespontine Phrygia 58, 61, 66, 533–537, 572 Pharnaces II of Hellespontine Phrygia 66

616

Index of names

Pharnakes of Pontos 84, 91 Pherendates I 191, 208 Pherendates II 191 Pheretime 475 Philip II 461, 473, 486–490, 499–500, 519, 535–536, 577, 579, 581 Philip III 23, 418, 474, 521, 563, 566, 571 Philip V 416, 487 Philoxenos 501 Phocion 63, 419 Phrasaortes 458 Pigres 104, 107 Pissouthnes 59, 191 Pixodaros 4, 9, 46–47, 85, 91, 99, 101, 104–105, 107–117, 119–120, 122–124, 236–237, 396–397, 510–511, 520, 557, 566, 577 Polycletus 591 Polyperchon 481, 486 Prexaspes 299, 478, 484 Protokles 382, 395 Psammetek 192 Psammetichus I 181, 410 Psammetichus II 181 195, 237 Psammuthis 186 Ptah-hotep 50, 188–189, 192–193, 197–198 Ptolemy I, 183, 225–226, 229–230, 473, 476, 490 Ptolemy II 184, 225, 229, 296–297, 380, 398 Ptolemy III 183, 225 Ptolemy IV 179, 225, 248 Ptolemy VI 229–230 Pytheas 579 Pythios 63, 525

Sabiktas 520, 539 Sakas 299, 484 Sarapis 112 Sardanapalos 475 Satet 229 Satibarzanes 474, 476, 496 Seleucus I 228, 248, 486, 525, 594 Seleucus II 123, 305 Seleucus IV 526 Semiramis 293–294 Semtutefnakht 185, 195, 247 Shamash 265 Širku 398 Šuzubu 268 Simias 104–106, 112, 117–118 Simsai 397 Sisygambis 475 Sômenos(nès), son of Simonides 382 Somtutefnakht, surnamed Wahibre-men 403 Sinetes 292, 301–302 Sisamnes 65 Smerdis 478 Sogdianos 478, 484 Sousimithres 66 Spentadata 199 Spitaka/es 383 Spithridates 58, 61, 65, 67, 367, 501, 503–504 Stateira 298, 524 Straton, king of Sidon 363 Strouthas 45, 66, 122 Sumpheron 383 Syloson 63, 249, 484 Symmachos of Pellana 136

Q Qandjou 195

T Tabeel 47 Tachos. 187, 188, 190, 200, 400, 402 Takmaspada 55 Tamos 190–191 Tanofrether 195, 211, 239 Tattenai 47, 214 Themistocles 58, 364–365, 375, 483, 494–496 Theophron 530 Thersippos 418 Thibron 320–321 Thuys of Paphlagonia 58–59 Tiberius 145–147, 514 Tigranes 66 Timokedes, son of Mikkos 382 Timotheos 382 Tiribazus 66–67, 190, 302, 488, 491, 494, 496 Tiridates 458

R Ramandaîna 191 Rawaka 191 Rehum 397 Rešef 151 Rhakokes 61 Rhanosbates 483, 485 Rhoisakes 556, 570 Rhoxanes 484 Roxane 487 Rtaštūnā (Artystone) 267 S Sabaces 191 Sabazios 57, 78, 81, 92

Index of names Tissaphernes 57, 67–68, 181, 190, 365–366, 515, 533, 548 Tithraustes 481–484 Tuthmosis III 369, 381 Tymochares 569 U Udjahorresnet 54, 132, 160, 183–184, 188–189, 193, 247, 249–250, 364, 371, 405 V Vahyazdata 236 Vazyata 191 Vidarna, see Hydarnes W Widranga 4, 13–14, 46, 66, 91, 110, 175–178, 181, 191, 207–219 X Xenophantes 24 Xerxes 4, 47, 54, 58, 63, 89, 136, 142, 148, 171–172, 181, 183, 193–194, 225, 227–228, 234, 241, 244, 267, 286, 288–291, 295, 301, 355, 365, 378–379, 475, 479, 481, 485, 493, 495, 513, 525, 534

617

Y Yahweh 13, 46, 110, 175, 178, 184, 207–208, 211–212, 218, 229 Yaqqim-Adum 597 Yatma 199 Yohanan 208 Yrgilos 383 Z Zahâk 223 Zeus 9, 57, 78–87, 89–94, 150, 500–501, 506, 513, 520, 531–532, 572 Zeuxis 416–417, 421 Ziššawiš 267 Zopyrus 485, 495 Zoroaster 336

INDEX OF PLACES AND PEOPLE A Abanu 267 Abar Nahara, see Ebir Nari Abu Simbel 237 Abydos 209, 211 Aciselene 539 Adoulis 183, 225–226, 232 Aegean Sea 20, 28, 56, 179, 194, 237, 359, 361, 419, 423, 441, 456, 536, 568, 579–580 Aeolis 256, 290, 505 Afghanistan 16, 26, 349 Aigai 58, 364, 566 Ai Khanum 442, 446–449, 537 Aleppo 369 Alexandretta, Gulf of 377 Alexandria 20, 298, 395, 407 Amanus Gates 368 Amarna 233 Amastris 524, 538 Amisos 538 Amu Darya 349, 352 Amyzon 7, 57, 141, 504, 519, 521–527, 532–533, 537, 566–567, 571–572 Anatolia 6, 101, 236, 256, 372, 446, 456, 557–558, 569 Andros 121 Apamea-Kelainai 525–527, 537–538 Aqaba, Gulf of 455 Arabia 19, 201, 298, 319, 346, 369–370, 456 Arabs 172, 318, 342, 456, 561, 595–597, 604 Arachosia 361–362 Areia 361–362 Argos 58, 538 Armenia 6, 65, 69, 224, 256, 365, 503, 539–540 Arññna, see Xanthos Artemision 89, 506, Ashdod 381 Asia 23, 27, 58, 86, 139, 173, 228, 253–254, 258, 264, 306, 327, 338–339, 343, 346, 354, 429–432, 435, 437–439, 446, 450, 452–456, 475, 499, 521, 530, 535, 546, 579, 581 Asia Minor 1, 5–7, 10–11, 19–20, 22, 24–25, 45, 53, 55–58, 60, 66–67, 69–70, 80, 82, 86, 94, 100, 122, 130–134, 138, 141, 147, 150, 152, 160–162, 170, 190, 201, 211, 222–224, 237, 256, 273, 282, 320, 324,

331, 359–361, 363–364, 366–368, 370–372, 375, 380–383, 388, 392–393, 395–396, 407, 409–410, 415, 417, 419, 422–423, 434, 442, 445, 452, 459, 463, 499–500, 502, 504–506, 508, 514, 519–520, 523–525, 527–529, 531–532, 536–540, 544, 556–560, 562, 565, 568, 571–572, 574–576, 580, 582 Aspendos 505 Assos 287, 290, 526 Assyria 197, 234, 348, 451, 460 Assyrians 158, 197, 225, 456, 602 Aswan 91, 190, 217 Athenians 147, 179–180, 187, 200, 289, 366, 372, 417, 419, 505, 569 Athens 14, 56, 89, 120, 143, 179, 181, 183, 289–290, 363–364, 369, 372, 417–419, 422, 506, 508, 569 Atlit 381 Aulai 134, 515 Avroman 79 Ayn Manawir 13, 15–16, 307–308, 327, 355–356, 392 Azotos, see Ashdod B Babylon 24, 54, 60, 80, 89, 132, 137, 158, 173, 183–184, 194, 226, 228, 235, 248, 267, 273, 292–293, 295, 298, 351, 361, 366–369, 375, 398–399, 401, 487, 501–504, 509–510, 513, 519–521, 551, 559, 564, 591, 595, 602–605 Babylonia 4, 19, 26–27, 44, 47, 54, 56, 59, 66, 71, 141, 173, 194, 196, 208, 211, 222, 234, 238, 247, 253, 255, 262, 263, 267, 269, 283, 293–294, 299, 331, 345, 348, 350, 352–353, 361–362, 366, 388, 397–398, 400, 406, 408–409, 423, 451–452, 455–456, 460, 463, 465, 544–545, 550, 552, 556, 558–560, 571, 574–576, 580, 582, 590–591, 597, 600–602, 604–605, 607 Babylonians 71, 189, 510 Bactra 12, 56, 448, 476, 479 Bactria 3, 12, 16, 22, 26–27, 44, 48, 50, 56, 59,196, 238, 349–350, 361–362, 408, 442, 446–447, 449, 476, 548, 550, 558

Index of places and people Bactrians 59–60, 80, 521 Balikh 352 Batrakataš 259 Behistun 139–140, 152, 232, 234–235, 239, 243, 255, 258, 269, 345, 478 Beyond the River, see Ebir Nari Billios 367 Bisotun, see Behistun Black Sea 57, 359 Buto 181 Byblos 369 C Cadusians 44 Camiros 407 Canopus 225, 232 Cappadocia 25, 69, 84, 224, 494, 525, 531, 539–540 Carchemish 368–369 Caria 44, 57–59, 106, 108, 111, 113, 115, 122–123, 236,418, 504, 521–522, 525, 559, 565, 567, 569, 593 Carians 14, 199, 237, 369, 380, 406–407, 559, 572 Carmania 362 Caspian Gates 305 Caspian Sea 253 Cassandreia 581–582 Caucasus 258 Caunos 112, 367, 383, 593 Central Asia 15, 50–52, 56, 138, 295, 340, 347, 349–350, 352–353, 355, 361, 446–449, 456, 459, 519, 582 Chalybon 287, 290, 299–300 China 338, 342–343 Choarene 305, 312, 328 Choaspes 286–301, 366, 369 Cilicia 58, 85, 173, 277, 283, 324, 367, 369, 371, 389, 510, 556–559, 578 Cilician Gates 360, 365–368 Cilicians 174, 257, 366 Claros 134 Colchidians 456 Comisene 305, 312, 328 Commagene 224 Constantinople 298 Cos 148, 157, 536 Cossaeans 48, 257, Crete 265 Cunaxa 69, 292, 295 Cydnos 367, 369 Cyprus 369, 371, 409, 455

619

Cyrene 190 Cyzicus 366–367 D Damascus 60, 80, 362, 444, 455, 550, 575 Daskyleion 6, 66, 84499–500, 502–505, 520, 523, 535–536, 558, 563, 572 Delians 88 Delion 88 Delos 87, 94, 112, 142, 160 Delphi 121, 248, 521, 523, 571 Delphians 507 Delta 11, 174, 176, 178–181, 186, 200–201, 207, 237, 359, 369, 402–404, 406 Dilmun 456 Diyala 265, 366 Dor 381–383, 385–386, 388 E Eanna 263–264, 267–268, 353 Ebabbar 263, 349 Ebir Nari 47, 137 Ecbatana 60, 80, 228, 269, 298, 305, 339–340, 476–477, 479, 502, 603, 605 Egypt 1–2, 4, 10–16, 19, 27, 44, 48–49, 54–56, 87–88, 91, 93, 117, 141, 151, 153–154, 170–174, 176, 178–201, 207–209, 211–213, 216, 218, 221–222, 224–226, 228–229, 233, 237–239, 243–244, 247–249, 253, 289–290, 302, 338, 342–343, 349, 351–353, 355, 361–362, 364, 366, 368, 377, 379–382, 386–396, 398–402, 404–410, 416, 423, 436, 438, 442, 444–454, 456, 463–467, 484, 493, 540, 548, 550–551, 556, 559–560, 568, 580–582 Egyptians 12–14, 55, 71, 170–173, 175–180, 182, 185, 187, 189, 191–200, 208–211, 213–216, 221, 226, 232, 359 Elam 173, 234, 249, 261, 364, 438, 444, 590 Elburz 305, 308–309, 311, 339, 354 Elephantine 4, 12–13, 46, 66, 110, 117, 122, 151–152, 174–178, 181–184, 191–192, 195, 199–200, 202, 207–209, 211–217, 229, 235, 237, 377, 386, 388, 392–393, 395, 400, 403, 405–406, 410, 465 Elymaeans 257 Emar 368 Ephesus 56, 58, 89, 360–361, 366, 368, 371–372, 505–506, 512, 514–515, 533, 563 Epidauros 383

620

Index of places and people

Eretria 319, 321, 325–326 Erythrae 89, Ethiopians 456, 594 Eulaios 287, 290, 296, 591 Euphrates 26, 130–131, 137–139, 172, 273, 287, 292–294, 296, 348–349, 351–352, 360, 363, 366, 368–370, 372, 398, 407, 466, 591–593, 595–600, 602, 605, 607 Europe 44, 55, 58, 61 295, 354, 430, 432, 439, 519, 536, 542, 561, 577 F Fahliyun 62, 366 Fārs 17, 53, 61, 222, 253, 257, 258, 269, 371, 444, 458, 464, 468, 548, 594 France 44, 184, 314, 431, 434, 542 G Gabiene 487 Gaugamela 185, 366, 483–484, 501–502, 520, 574 Gaza 318, 368 Gazer/Gezer 381 Gedrosia 362 Gordion 360, 363–365, 558 Granicus 489, 502–503, 519, 521, 556, 558, 571, 574 Greater Phrygia 6, 364–365, 525, 563 Greece, 16, 45, 88, 140, 295, 324, 326, 332, 365, 368, 370, 386, 392–393, 433, 438, 461, 474–475, 508, 525, 562, 593, 597 Greeks 24, 56–60, 62, 65, 90, 128, 138, 142, 157–158, 160–161, 171, 189, 196, 199–200, 249, 262, 282, 359, 365, 370, 392–393, 402, 404, 407, 440, 447, 450, 485, 506–509, 515, 525, 530–531, 533–534, 537–538, 549, 559, 572 Gyndes, see Diyala H Habur 352, 596–597, 599 Halicarnassos 383, 406, 503–504 Halys 365, 367, 539, 544, 579 Hamadan, see Ecbatana Hanisa 530 Hauran 79 Hekatompylos 305–306, 311, 339 Heliopolis 184, 243–244 Hellenes, see Greeks Hellespont 157, 367 Hellespontine Phrygia 58, 65–66, 363, 418, 503–504, 519, 524, 526, 534, 536, 557

Henwe, see Thonis Heraclea-Latmos 416, 525 Heraclea-Pontus 59, 367, 523–524, 526 Heraion 89 Herat 313 Hermopolis 207, 215–216 Hibis 197, 327 Hierakome 528 Hierocaesarea 57–58, 90, 514, 529, 531–532 Hinzanu 197 Hiran 259 Holland 338, 342–343 Hypaipa 25, 53, 57, 528–532, 537–538, 573 Hypios 366 Hyrcania 366 Hyrcanians 521 Hyrcanis 524, 528 I Iamana 408–409 Idumaea 22, 27, 387, 558 Ilion 8, 93, 534, 558 India 44, 61, 361–362, 432, 453, 456–457, 501 Indus 194, 237, 253, 331, 346, 361, 501, 580 Ionia 45, 58, 65, 133, 364–365, 406, 466 503–505, 521, 525, 533, 574 Ionians 45, 122, 199, 237, 257, 369, 380–381, 383, 406–407, 460, 527 Iranian Plateau 52, 56, 201, 236, 305, 309, 353–354, 361, 456, 519, 560 Ireland 233, 432 Iris 367 Issos 185, 367–368, 371, 474, 503, 520 Issos, Gulf of 368 Ister 289 J Jaffa 368, 381–383, 386 Jerusalem 18, 44, 46–47, 208–209, 214–215, 222, 397 Judaeans 12–13, 47, 110, 175–178, 182–184, 208–218, 237 Judah 10, 132, 207–208, 213, 217–218, 381, 397, 460 K Kandaÿda 396 Karabel pass 366 Karahüyük 528, 532 Karakušan 269 Karun 257, 598, 605 Kaunos 112, 237, 566, 569–570

Index of places and people Kebren 534 Kelainai, see Apamea­Kelainai Keos 121 Kerman 325, 361–362 Kharga 193 Khorasan 311–312, 354 Khuzistan 257 Kibyra 525 Kios 363 Kiršu 366 Koptos 91, 191, 196, 211 Koranza 106 Kotyora 367 Kotys 318 Kyme 364 L Labraunda 123–124 Lagash 265 Laodikea-Lykos 527 Larissa 320–321 Latakia 369 Lebanon 368–369, 388, 408–409 Lebedos 415, 417 Leontokephalai 364 Leontopolis 198 Lesbos 134, 419 Letôon 99, 106, 109, 124, 236 Libya 180, 237, 403 London 345–347, 464 Luristan 257 Lycaonia 360, 366, 370, 525 Lycia 47, 57, 104, 108, 111–115, 122, 236, 262, 388, 511, 525, 532, 557, 559, 567–569 Lycians 124, 559, 567 Lydia 6, 53, 56–58, 69, 78–80, 84, 86, 90, 94, 392, 501, 503–504, 506, 521–522, 528, 530, 533, 539, 556–557 Lydians 90, 500, 506–507, 515, 559 Lykos 367 M Macedon 24, 390, 461–462, 472, 474, 488–489, 493, 499, 534, 536, 562, 576–577, 579, 581–582 Macedonians 56, 71, 185, 192, 194, 248, 325, 331, 418, 449, 457, 474, 476, 485, 487–492, 500, 505, 525, 527, 534, 536–537, 539, 563, 573–574, 601, 604 Maeander 132, 138, 366 Magnesia on the Maeander 128, 132, 138, 146–147, 153–154, 157, 218, 532

621

Magnesia-Sipylos 524 Magnesians 143 Mallos 277, 505, 563, Mardians 257, 270 Mareia 179 Mari 265, 349–353, 596–597, 599 Mariandynians 523 Marisa 382 Matezziš 259 Medes 55, 172, 180, 183, 186, 224–225, 229, 232, 261, 269, 282, 325, 363, 476–477, 479 Media 173, 234–235, 256–257, 269–270, 361–362, 605–607 Mediterranean Sea 179, 193, 253, 359, 368, 378, 385–389, 395, 403, 407, 409, 455–456, 461 Melissa 364 Membig 559 Memphis 12, 27, 175, 179–181, 187, 190–191, 195–196, 199, 207–208, 217, 219, 225–226, 380, 383, 400, 404, 406, 409–410 Mendes 188, 197 Meshed 311 Mesopotamia 253–254, 264–265, 345, 347, 349–350, 353, 359, 388, 437–438, 455, 580, 598 Métrôon 94 Mexico 431, 607 Meydancikkale 25, 366, 510 Middle East 15–16, 26, 49, 197, 253, 298, 345, 347–348, 449–450, 456, 458–459, 491, 508, 510, 540, 600 Migdol 191, 404 Miletus 45, 47–48, 58, 122–123, 228, 264, 367, 417, 503, 507, 511, 514–515, 523 Milyas 563 Morocco 431 Mylasa 123 Myriandros 368 Mysia 363, 419, 504, 521, 525 Mysians 201 Myus 45 N Nabataeans 318–319, 322, 324 Nape 134 Naqsh-i Rustam 243, 247 Narmalcha 593, 602 Naucratis 20, 388, 392, 397, 399, 401, 402–407, 409, 465 Naulochos 573, 575

622

Index of places and people

Near East 23, 28, 49, 324, 339, 350, 372, 388, 438, 441, 443, 446, 451, 453–454, 460, 468, 491, 509, 552, 578 Nesos 418 Nile 11, 49, 179, 182, 187, 195, 199, 207, 221, 224, 227, 229, 237–238, 243–245, 247, 289–290, 296–298, 307, 345, 349–350, 352, 355, 359, 369–370, 383, 395, 401, 403–407, 409, 438, 551, 593–594 Nimrud 455 Nisa 448–449 O Olympia 89 Oman 314, 327 Opis 398, 591, 594, 597, 603 Oropos 121 Oxus, see Amu Darya P Pactolus 77 Palaimagnesia 524 Palestine 48, 172, 196, 381, 385 Pallacopas 591, 596, 599–600, 602, 604–605 Paphlagonia 44, 47, 58, 367 Paphlagonians 367, 505, 563 Parni, see Parthians Parthia 305, 327 Parthians 311–312, 318, 449, 457 Parthyene 305–306, 326, 339–340 Pasargadae 61, 144, 197, 234, 267, 325, 457, 464, 478 Pasitigris 603, 605 Pella 462, 499 Peloponnesians 501 Pelusium 380, 398, 406 Pergamum 267 Persepolis 2, 12–13, 17, 19–20, 28, 48, 61–62, 85, 105, 141–142, 197, 228, 233–234, 241, 249, 254–255, 257–259, 261–262, 264–268, 288, 291, 298, 325, 336, 361–362, 366, 371, 406, 421–422, 442, 448–449, 455, 457–458, 464–465, 468, 475, 482–483, 542, 548–550, 565 Persia 5, 19, 24, 53, 62, 68, 70, 131, 146, 191, 197, 225, 228, 234, 238, 243–244, 247, 257, 266, 274, 287, 292, 298, 302, 306, 325, 332, 335–338, 341–347, 437, 440–441, 461–464, 468, 475, 477, 501, 536, 548–550, 571, 591, 607 Persian Gulf 19, 25–26, 253, 257–258, 331, 359, 366, 369–370, 456, 591

Persians 5, 13–14, 19, 25, 28, 46, 48–50, 52–53, 55–65, 68–71, 80, 89, 128, 130–131, 140, 160–161, 169–170, 172–173, 176, 179–183, 185–201, 211–212, 222, 224–230, 232, 234, 237, 253, 258, 261–262, 265–266, 282, 288, 291, 300, 302, 306, 313, 324–325, 327, 331, 334–336, 338–339, 341–344, 354–355, 359, 369, 375, 392–393, 405–406, 457, 473–474, 476–479, 483, 488–489, 495, 499, 503–507, 515, 519–521, 523–525, 528, 530–531, 533–535, 538–539, 559, 563–564, 591–594, 599–600, 602–604, 606 Persis 53, 253–255, 257–261, 265, 267–270, 362, 452, 458, 503, 519, 565 Phaselis 381, 383, 407 Philippi 576 Phoenicians 94, 199, 237, 368, 372, 409, 450 Phrygia 5, 90, , 363, 506, 525, 536, 538, 556, 564 Phrygians 506, 559 Pi-emroye, see Naucratis Pinara 396 Pisidians 201, 364, 370 Pithom 225 Pontic Cappadocia 84 Pontus 25, 57, 84, 91 Priene 24, 214, 238, 417, 505, 519, 562, 565, 573–578, 582 Pteria 360 Pura (Puruš) 362 R Rakkan 259 Ramidda 261 Raphia 248 Red Sea 244, 369, 406–407 Rhodes 58, 388, 397, 407, 534–535 Rhodians 534 Rhyndakos 367 Romans 128, 143, 146, 158, 487, 514, 531, 593 S Sagartia 361–362 Sahara 346 Saimarreh/Kerkha 257 Saïs 187, 247, 402–403, 405 Saka 48 Salamis 55, 475 Samaria 141, 208, 213, 217–218, 510 Samians 214

Index of places and people Samos 89, 389–390 Samothrace 416–417, 421–422 Sangarios 366 Saqqara 13–14, 141, 207, 211, 213, 239, 398–399, 401, 406, 560 Sardianoi 507, 509 Sardians 500, 507, 509, 511–512 Sardis 8, 18, 22, 24, 27, 45, 57, 60, 66, 77, 79–82, 84–95, 100, 135, 138, 145, 150, 211, 214, 264, 272, 359–362, 366, 370–371, 416, 421, 442, 499–504, 506–515, 518–521, 528, 531–533, 542, 551, 557–558, 564, 570, 572, 575–576, 580–582 Scythia 201 Sebastopolis 525 Seistan 313 Seleucia-Pieria 526 Selinounte 389 Serapeum 196 Shiraz 259 Sidon 363, 450, 492, 534, 546, 560, 577 Sidonians 182, 359, 368, 382 Sinope 367 Sinuri 104, 567–568 Sippar 4, 263, 349, 596 Skepsis 534 Smyrna 514, 524, 526 Sogdiana 44, 449, 479, 490–491 Soloi 505 Sounion 385 Sparta 66, 68, 188, 531 Sumer 265, 348, 436 Susa 7, 11, 18, 51, 58, 60, 80, 89, 197, 228, 241, 244, 247, 249–250, 258–259, 267, 286, 288–289, 295, 359–363, 366, 369–372, 375, 473, 483, 488, 501–502, 536, 574–575, 591, 603–604, 607 Susiana 249, 290, 360, 591, 601, 604–605 Syene 13, 46, 66, 175–176, 191–192, 199, 207–208, 210, 216, 399, 593 Syr Darya 237, 345, 349 Syria 181, 187, 287, 290, 296, 360, 367–368, 398, 409, 460, 463, 491 Syrian Gates 367 T Tabai 525 Tarsus 58, 159, 272, 274–275, 277, 280, 283, 360, 366–368, 370, 560 Tartaria 346 Taurus 306, 308, 316, 338–339, 354

623

Taxila 501 Tebtunis 215–216 Teheran 311, 354 Tell Arad 361 Tell Daphnae 404 Tell el-Maskhouta 245, 248, 406 Tell Hariri 349 Teos 190, 415, 456 Terenouthis 404 Termis, see Lycia Teuzoi (El-Hibeh) 195 Thapsacus 367–370 Thebes 176, 191 Thonis 20, 402–407, 409 Tigris 25, 287, 296, 324, 351, 360, 366, 590–595, 597–600, 603–607 Til Hurasi 263 Tios 538 Tlos 396 Tokharistan 448 Tralles 8, 128, 137, 145, 152, 566 Transjordan 455 Triparadisus 486 Tripoli 369 Troad 70, 90, 499, 504, 526–527, 534–535 Tyre 368, 392 U Uknu, see Choaspes Urartu 253, 438 Uruk 263, 268, 468 Uxians 48, 257 W Wadi el-Natrun 404 Wadi Hammamat 193, 197 White Castle 179 X Xanthians 46–47, 104–105, 107, 111, 113–115, 119, 122–124, 236–237, 510–511 Xanthos 4, 7, 24, 46–47, 85, 91, 99–101, 103–109, 111–115, 119, 121–124, 135, 137, 149, 151, 155, 217, 236, 262, 396–398, 442, 445, 510–511, 520, 558, 566–567, 569, 576–577 Z Zab 366 Zagros 48, 201, 257–258 Zelea, 535

INDEX OF ANCIENT SOURCES Elamite tablets Fort. 6774: 549 PF 200: 360 681: 362 684: 371 688: 371 1250: 365 1287: 361–362 1289: 361 1318: 361 1321: 361 1330: 361 1332: 361 1340: 361 1342: 371 1348: 361–362 1351: 361–362 1352: 362 1357: 371, 375 1358: 361–362 1361: 361 1367: 360 1370: 362 1377: 361 1381: 362 1383: 361–362 1385: 361–362 1393: 362 1398–99: 361 1399: 361 1400–1402: 362 1404: 361–362 1409: 362 1422: 362 1436: 361 1438: 361–362 1439: 361 1440: 362 1443: 361 1448: 362 1466: 361–362 1474: 362 1477: 361 1484: 361 1486: 362

1487: 365 1495: 371 1501: 361 1510: 361 1512: 361 1524: 361 1528–1529: 362 1540: 361 1541: 361 1544: 361 1550: 361–362 1552: 361–362 1555: 361–362 1556: 361 1570: 362 1572: 361 1573: 362 1902: 365 1980: 105 1987: 549 2049: 361 2056: 361–362 2057: 362 PFa 5: 371 14: 371 16–17: 362 22: 362 31: 361–362, 371 35: 361 PFT 6–7: 269 23: 267 29: 262 35: 259 58–74: 259, 265 200: 259 267–272: 262 267–273: 262 271: 260 336–351: 267 362–4: 267 367: 267 376: 267 443: 262 451: 262 567: 262

654: 260 654–663: 266 666: 259 675: 260 678: 267 693: 261 738: 259 749: 259 842: 259 857: 265 858: 265 871: 261 874: 259 1137: 261 1184: 259 1251: 259 1259: 259 1271: 259 1276: 259 1398: 259 1399: 259 1400: 259 1402: 259 1402–4: 259 1403–7: 259 1404: 444 1406: 259 1412: 267 1442: 259 1455: 444 1542: 259 1572: 266 1573: 266 1587: 265 1597: 259 1712–1716: 260 1714: 260 1790: 266 1791: 266 1791–94: 260 1793: 266, 269 1794: 266 1848: 259 1851: 259 1946: 260 1987: 261 1994: 259

625

Index of ancient sources 2007: 255, 259, 266 2008: 260, 262 2009: 260 2010: 261 2011–12: 262 2025: 260, 262 2028: 262 2057: 259, 266 2070: 260, 262 PT 85: 399 PTT 50: 259, 261–262 61: 259, 261–262 Q 901: 361 1809: 361 Royal inscriptions DB OPers § 14: 173 § 21: 172 § 22: 173 § 32–33: 477 § 33: 55 § 49: 173 § 172: 173 § 60–61: 141 § 70: 141 DB Bab § 30: 399 Babylonian tablets ADRTB -329: 604 BM 72747: 4 PBS 2/1 140: 398 TCL 12.84: 408 13.196: 398 YOS 6.168: 408 Greek Inscriptions Amyzon 2: 521, 566–568, 570 18: 522

BE 1953 no. 218: 79 1955 no. 210: 87 1960 no. 359: 518 1967 no. 714: 387 1968 no. 603: 386 1971 no. 648: 93 1974 nos. 290–292: 100 no. 389: 88 no. 553: 104, 106–107, 111–112, 119 1976 no. 624: 83, 87–88 1977 no. 472: 99 1979 no. 466: 106 no. 529: 85 1980 no. 457: 134 no. 486: 99, 101 1987 no. 336: 80 1997 no. 403: 581 1999 no. 469: 8, 135, 572 GDI 5421: 88 IG II2 207: 418 II2 207(a): 418 II2 401: 417 II2 10032: 79 IV 988: 383 XL 1299: 112 I. Delos 4: 88 I. Ephesos 2: 511 11, 1a: 565 I. Priene 1: 565

37: 146 82: 417 I. Smyrna 573: 524 I. Tralles 36/1, no. 3: 145 Labraunda III/1, no. 1: 124 III/2, no. 42: 112 MAMA IV no. 275A: 87 ML 12: 7, 92–93, 128, 131, 133, 141, 420, 515 91: 390 OGIS 4: 418 415: 94 483: 321 SEG X 10: 385 XXVI 1228: 112 XXVII 942: 100, 103 XXVIII 1224: 121 XXIX 1205: 77 XXXI 416: 121 XXXV 1092: 106 XXXV 1253: 77 XXXVI 1089: 77 XXXVI 1221: 106 XXXIX 1426: 578 XL 1071: 77 XLVII 1568: 569–570 RC 3: 415 10–13: 526 13: 526–527 18–20: 526 Sardis VII.1, 1: 565 VII.1, 22: 94 VII.1, 85: 93 VII.1, 93a: 82

626 Syll. I3: 20: 153 21: 139, 148, 161 22: 128, 133 283: 321 958: 121 967: 321 Tod II 106: 89 II 113: 45, 122 II 128: 89 II 139: 363 II 184: 420 II 185: 565 Lycian inscriptions TL 45: 105 84: 106 149: 106 Hieroglyphic Inscriptions Posener 1: 189 6–7: 193 7: 193 11: 193 12–13: 193 13: 193 24–35: 191 33: 190 36: 191 Satrap Stele 12, 181, 225–226, 232 Demotic texts Berlin Papyrus 13539: 151 13540: 151 Demotic Chronicle 171, 173, 183, 186, 188, 189, 216, 224, 232 Petition of Peteise 12 Aramaic Texts AD 8: 397 10: 401 AP 1: 393 2: 400

Index of ancient sources 17: 401 26: 388, 401 37: 386 43: 400 72: 379 DAE 2: 393 6: 392 7: 392 8: 400 12: 379, 382 14: 405 17: 405 26–27: 387, 405 41: 395 43: 387 48: 387 52: 400 53: 392 54: 400 60: 401 61: 383, 388, 390, 406, 410 67: 208 68: 444 69: 581 70: 90 71: 401, 406 71–72: 399, 401 72: 401 75: 91, 209–211, 217 96: 209, 211 97: 214, 386 97–100: 208, 214, 386 98: 211–212 101: 207–209, 215, 217–218 102: 207–208, 212–213, 217 103: 208, 213, 215, 218 104: 208–209, 214 105: 208, 217, 383 106: 377 Segal 1983 3–4: 379 4: 213 5: 399–400 10: 400 7: 400 10: 400, 406 43, n. 25: 406 19: 400 21: 399 22: 172

24: 399 24a: 398 26: 190–191, 199, 380, 383, 406 31: 401 75: 399 92: 400 TADAE A6.2: 410 C3.7: 2, 12, 19–21, 377–410 C3.8: 410 Classical sources Aelian De natura animalium IV 41: 289, 299 VII 1: 268 XV 26: 364 Varia historia I 21: 482, 484 I 22: 63 I 31: 292, 302 I 31–33: 301, 501 I 32: 286, 292, 301 I 33: 297, 302 I 34: 61 II 24: 361 VI 14: 494 VII 8: 473, 475 XII 40: 286, 291, 295, 301 XII 62: 495 XIV 49: 488, 490 Aeschylus Persians 304: 483 Ammianus Marcellinus XXIV 6,1–2: 593 Appian The Civil Wars V 82: 593 Aristotle Athenaion Politeia XLV 2: 120 LII 3: 120 De Mundo 398a: 201, 359

627

Index of ancient sources Pseudo-Aristotle Oeconomica II 1,2: 419 II 1,3: 396, 419 II 1,3–4: 419 II 1,4: 254, 396, 400, 548 II 1,6: 419 II 2,25a: 400, 402 II 2,34a: 397 II 2,38: 422, 551 Arrian Anabasis I 5,4: 473 I 12.1–8: 535 I 12,9: 334 I 12,10: 476 I 15,6: 489 I 17,1: 504, 563 I 17,2: 502 I 17,3: 183, 502, 510, 518–519 I 17,3–8: 564 I 17,4: 512 I 17,7: 504 I 17,8: 504, 535 I 17,10: 563 I 18,2: 563 I 18,4: 575 I 20,5–6: 575 I 24,5: 563 I 26,3: 563 I 27,4: 563 II 1,3: 66, 535 II 5,9: 563 II 7,1: 367 II 11,10: 474 II 14,5: 474 II 15,6: 182 II 27,3: 368 III 1,4: 189 III 2,7: 536 III 5,2: 194, 202 III 5,3–4: 194 III 5,4: 506 III 7,1–2: 368 III 13,1: 483 III 16,2: 366, 502 III 16,3: 501, 510 III 16,5: 520 III 16,6: 501 III 17,6: 257

III 18,1: 366 III 21,1: 483–484 III 21,2–3: 313 III 21,6: 313 III 21,7: 313 III 22,6: 477 III 23,2: 366 III 23,4: 483–484 III 23,7: 503, 520, 534, 536 III 30,1–5: 476 III 30,2: 474 III 30,5: 476 IV 1,5: 477 IV 7,3: 476 IV 7,4: 477 IV 8,1: 477 IV 8–14: 477 IV 11,6: 474, 493 IV 13,1: 474, 486, 492 IV 13,2: 489 IV 13,3: 490 IV 13,3–7: 490 IV 14,1: 490 IV 14,2: 490, 493 IV 14,4: 477 VI 15,3: 606 VI 22,4: 371 VI 27,1: 606 VI 27,3: 458, 606 VI 27,4: 607 VI 27,5: 604, 606–607 VI 29,3: 606 VI 29,4–11: 457 VI 29,7: 267 VI 30,1: 457 VI 30,2: 474 VI 30,2–3: 488 VII 1,1: 603 VII 4,1: 604 VII 4,7: 474, 488 VII 6,2–3: 474 VII 6,5: 474 VII 7,1: 603 VII 7,3–5: 591, 598 VII 7,4–5: 599 VII 7,7: 324, 591, 598 VII 13,1: 256 VII 19,2–4: 369 VII 21: 591 VII 21,1: 603 VII 21,3: 605 VII 21,5: 599, 602, 605

VII 21,6: 602 VII 24,3: 474 Indica 33.1: 605 38.6: 605 41.1: 605 40.3–4: 258 42.5: 605 Events after Alexander see FGrH 156 Athenaeus Deipnosophists I 18a: 492 II 28d: 299 II 41f: 297–298 II 42b: 296 II 44: 298 II 45a-c: 296 II 45b: 286, 291, 296 II 45c: 296 II 46b: 297 II 67a: 287, 289 II 67b: 289 II 145a: 299 II 145b: 299 II 145c: 299 II 145d: 299 II 145f: 299 II 146b: 299 IV 144a: 299 IV 155a: 474 V 192c: 299 VI 256c: 190 X 434e: 288 X 442b: 287 XI 467c: 473 XI 503f: 299 XII 514b: 483 XII 514c: 494 XII 514f: 549 XII 515a: 288 XII 528f: 475 XIII 574 e-f: 364 XIV 652b: 288 XV 688: 387 XV 688–690: 388 Berossus see FGrH 680

628 Chariton of Aphrodisia Chaireas and Callirhoe 5.4: 66 Ctesias of Cnidus Persika (see also FGrH 688) F 13 § 26: 495 F 13b § 26: 63, 495 F 14 § 34–43: 64 F 14 § 40: 67 F 14 § 43: 491, 494 F 15 § 47: 59 F 15 § 49: 479, 484 F 15 § 55: 65 F 16 § 58: 65 F 16 § 63: 496 F 16 § 65: 510 F 27 § 70: 298, 478 F 30 § 73: 496 F 37–40: 287 Indika F 45 § 9: 300 On rivers F 74: 287 On the tributes of Asia F 53–54: 287 Deinon see FGrH 690 Demosthenes Against Dionysodorus LVI 30: 395 Against Macartatum XLIII 75: 120 Against Timocrates XXIV 11: 404 On the False Embassy XIX 172: 370 Dexippus of Athens see FGrH 100 Didymes ap. Harpocration: 107 Diodorus of Sicily I 19,4: 402 I 46: 184 I 46,4: 197 I 66: 181 I 68: 188

Index of ancient sources I 95,4–5: 216 I 97,2–3: 290 X 25: 46 XI 69: 483 XI 69,1: 483 XI 71: 55 XI 71,1: 67 XI 71,3: 171, 397 XI 71,4: 179, 187 XIII 46,6: 176 XIV 11: 363 XIV 19: 70 XIV 19,6: 190 XIV 22: 69–70, 359–360 XIV 25,7: 365 XIV 39: 64 XIV 80: 65 XIV 81: 64, 369 XIV 82: 190 XV 3,1: 424 XV 3,1–3: 371 XV 8,2–4: 65 XV 8,5: 65 XV 9: 67 XV 9,3: 190 XV 9,4: 190 XV 10: 477 XV 10,1: 214, 478 XV 10,3: 302, 491, 494 XV 10–11: 65 XV 41,2: 360 XV 41,5: 64, 360 XV 43: 65 XV 90: 359 XV 90,3: 419 XV 90,4: 359 XV 91,1: 70 XV 91,1–2: 419 XV 91,3: 66–67, 70 XV 92,5: 188 XVI 40: 368 XVI 41: 363 XVI 42,2: 534 XVI 44: 359 XVI 45: 182, 534 XVI 46: 359 XVI 47: 534 XVI 47,1: 67 XVI 47,3: 484 XVI 50: 65, 535 XVI 51: 184 XVI 52: 61, 66, 535

XVI 52,4: 534 XVI 74,2: 115 XVII 5,3: 484 XVII 5,6: 299 XVII 17,2: 499 XVII 17,6: 8, 90, 93, 197 XVII 18.2–4: 334 XVII 21,7: 503 XVII 22,5: 368 XVII 24,1: 368 XVII 30: 64 XVII 34,6: 474 XVII 35,3: 474 XVII 49,1: 172 XVII 65,1: 487 XVII 67,3: 258, 464 XVII 67,5: 510 XVII 68,5–6: 262 XVII 68,6: 260 XVII 69,2–8: 262 XVII 76,5: 488 XVII 83,7–8: 476 XVII 83,9: 476 XVII 110,6: 256, 269 XVII 114,5: 474 XVII 115,6: 268 XVIII 3,4: 486 XVIII 22,1: 370 XVIII 28,2: 365 XVIII 48,4: 480, 485 XVIII 49,1–3: 481, 486 XVIII 73,3: 294 XIX 13,2: 294 XIX 14,5: 474 XIX 19,2: 361, 365 XIX 21,2–3: 464 XIX 21,3: 62, 258 XIX 22,3: 258 XIX 23,3: 539 XIX 48,5: 607 XIX 52,4: 487 XIX 52,5: 474 XIX 90,1: 487 XIX 91,4: 487 XIX 92,3: 361 XIX 94–97: 172 XIX 94,2: 318, 324 XIX 94,6: 318 XIX 94,6–8: 319–320 XXXI: 67, 494 XXXI 19: 539 XXXI 19,1–5: 84

Index of ancient sources Diogenes Laertius Lives of Eminent Philoso­ phers 9, 13–14: 157 Dionysius of Halicarnassus VIII 67: 593 VIII 67,7: 592 FGrH (The Fragments of the Greek Historians) 3 F174: 483 90 F66, 3: 270 90 F66, 5–7: 300 100 F8, 4: 486 115 F262a-b: 294 115 F263a-b: 302 156 F1, 3: 486 328 F187: 386 680 F11: 80, 89 688: 287 688 F33: 361 688 F34: 287 688 F35: 287 688 F37: 286 688 F45b: 287 688 F45b, 9–18: 300 688 F45d: 287 688 F45 g–m: 287 688 F45q–r: 287 688 F46a: 287 688 F53: 289 689 F2: 299 690: 287 690 F4: 299 690 F12a: 288 690 F23a: 289 690 F23b: 289 690 F28: 300 Heliodorus Aethiopica IX 1: 593 IX 4: 594 IX 8, 5: 593 IX 8, 5–6: 594 IX 15: 488 Heracleides of Cumae see FGrH 689

Herodotus I 84: 65 I 98–99: 479 I 110: 270 I 113: 270 I 114: 270 I 123–124: 365 I 125: 190 I 131: 85, 89 I 131–140: 287 I 133: 299 I 136: 61 I 155: 507 I 156: 55 I 158–159: 160 I 162: 55 I 173: 262 I 178: 293 I 178–179: 293 I 178–184: 293 I 178–188: 293 I 178–200: 293 I 180: 293 I 183: 89 I 184–187: 293 I 185: 368, 407 I 185–186: 293 I 188: 286, 293, 295 I 189: 256, 292–293, 295 I 190–191: 293 I 190–192: 293 I 192: 294 I 192–194: 293 I 194: 293, 368, 407 I 196–200: 293 I 201: 293 II 97: 405 II 152: 181 II 159: 182 II 161–163: 188 II 164–165: 181 II 179: 401 II 180: 409 III 1: 297 III 9: 319–320 III 15: 180, 187, 201 III 19: 319–320 III 20: 386 III 31: 477 III 34: 300, 484 III 67: 63, 172 III 69: 318

629 III 74: 478 III 74–75: 300, 477 III 77: 483–484 III 83–84: 494 III 84: 63, 67, 69, 473 III 89: 172 III 89–96: 456 III 91: 172 III 97: 172, 262, 361, 456, 549 III 106: 256, 269 III 118: 477 III 118–120: 61, 67 III 126: 364 III 126–127: 66 III 129: 249, 297 III 129–132: 63 III 130: 63 III 136: 372 III 140: 249, 484 III 154: 63, 477, 485, 495 III 160: 473 IV 45: 518 IV 84: 62 IV 97: 64, 495 IV 162: 475 IV 167: 65, 190 V 11: 64 V 25: 65, 177, 214, 478 V 31–32: 64 V 35: 365 V 49: 249, 256 V 52: 297, 361, 365–366 V 52–53: 249 V 52–54: 360 V 100: 366 V 101: 510 V 102: 67, 506, 520 V 105–106: 289 VI 20: 45 VI 41: 55, 535 VI 42: 45, 122, 505–506 VI 42–43: 45 VI 43: 46, 367 VI 59: 63, 173 VI 94: 64 VI 97: 160 VI 101: 64 VI 118: 88, 94, 160 VII 1: 172, 295 VII 7: 172 VII 20–25: 295

630 VII 23: 421 VII 26: 593 VII 38–39: 62–63 VII 40: 256, 269, 295 VII 43: 267 VII 55: 295 VII 83: 295 VII 85: 63 VII 105–107: 63, 67 VII 135–136: 363 VII 146: 365 VII 150–152: 58, 538 VII 194: 177, 214 VII 239: 365 VIII 10: 65 VIII 19: 63 VIII 26: 63 VIII 86: 65 VIII 89: 65 VIII 130: 66 IX 32: 181 IX 109: 63, 473, 475 IX 110–111: 63 IX 113: 61, 67 Hesychius s. v. azarapateis: 479, 483–484 s. v. doryphoroi: 483 s. v. sipyē: 387 s. v. tagē: 420, 547 Hippocrates De mul.affect. III 235: 387 Isocrates Evagoras 63: 180 Panegyricus 152: 69 164–165: 359 Justin Epitome I 7,2: 172 I 9,12: 172 I 9,12–13: 63 III 1,2: 61 XI 5, 10: 499 XI 15,15: 477 XII 5,10–11: 476

Index of ancient sources XII 5,11: 476 XVI 3,9: 523 XLI 5,7: 305, 313 Letter of Themistocles 20: 375 Memnon of Heraclea ap. Photius Bibl. IV, 224a-b: 59 Nepos, Cornelius Conon 3,2: 481, 484 3, 2–3: 482 3, 3–4: 482 5,4: 287 Datames 1,1: 59 1,1–2: 59, 65 1, 2: 66 1,4–5,2: 59 2,3–4: 59 3: 65 4,2: 371 5,2–3: 65 5.4: 64 5,5: 65 5, 5–6: 67 6: 61 6, 3: 66 7,1: 67, 70 10,2: 563 Nicolaus of Damascus see FGrH 90 Pausanias Description of Greece I 16, 3: 228 I 24,3: 89 I 27,4: 94 V 27, 5–6: 528 VI 3,1: 248 VI 3,14: 89 VI 3,16: 89 VI 5,7: 478 VII 6,6: 90, 94 X 7,8: 248

Pherekydes see FGrH 3 Philochoros see FGrH 328 Philostratus, Vita Apollonii I 127: 483 Plato Laws III 693: 433 VII 793b: 83 Pliny the Elder Naturalis Historia VI 97–99: 366 VI 120: 602 VIII 190: 256 XII 40: 295 XXIII 106: 407 XXIV 162: 297 XXXI 1: 286 XXXI 35: 287 XXXI 38: 296 XXXI 40: 297 XXXI 117: 389 XXXV 191: 389 XXXV 194: 389 XXXVII 156: 296 Plutarch Agesilaos 37,3: 188 Alcibiades 27,2: 483 31,1: 363 37, 7–8: 363 39,1: 66, 364 Alexander 5,2: 499 21,9: 535 36,4: 289 37,1–2: 262 40,4: 491 43,7: 477 45,1–4: 475 47,5–12: 475 47,9: 485–486 55: 490 69, 1–2: 61

631

Index of ancient sources Anthony 54,7: 153 76,4: 592 Aratos 26,5: 592 Artaxerxes 3,4: 496 4,4–5: 302 5,1: 302 5,5: 299 5,5–6: 496 9: 288 12,2–6: 295 12,4–6: 292 12,6: 296, 301 13, 4–7: 287 14–16: 63 18,4–8: 287 19,3: 298 19,5: 298 19,9: 298 24,3: 294 25,1: 297 26: 63 26,1–2 : 291 26,3–5: 291 26,4–5: 291 27,3: 291 27,4: 70, 534 Cimon 19.4: 397 Eumenes 7,1: 534 8: 434 8,3: 256, 563 8,5: 421, 459, 525, 563 8,12: 473, 535 Lysander 3,3: 56, 533 Phocion 18,6–7: 63 Solon 24, 1–2: 421 Themistocles 26: 58, 364 26,1: 533 27,2–7: 483 29,2: 484 29,5: 495 29,6: 494–495 30: 364 31: 94

Moralia Apopht. Reg. 172b: 301 173c: 290 173d: 63, 301, 495 173e: 496 173f: 496 174a: 302 De Alex. Fort. I 8: 430 De Amore Frat. 18: 478 Mul. Virt. 246a-b: 61 De sera num. vind. 565a: 495 Polyaenus Stratagemata IV 3,15: 535 IV 3,27: 260, 262 IV 8,3: 539 VI 24: 494 VII 1,7: 173 VII 12: 295, 300, 483, 485 VII 13: 477 VII 28,1: 190 VIII 53,2: 475 Polybius Histories II 45c: 296 V 43: 67 X: 338 X 27f: 305 X 27,1: 256, 269 X 27–28: 159 X 28: 16, 131, 272, 305, 307, 339–340, 545 X 28,1–2: 316 X 28,1–7: 306 X 28,2: 310–311, 314–316, 320 X 28,3–4: 354 X 28,4: 307, 316, 341 X 28,5: 310, 315–316 X 28,5–6: 341 X 28,6: 315–316 X 33,8: 592–593 XIV 12: 179 XX F 90: 494

Quintus Curtius Rufus III 1,7: 503 III 1,23: 505, 563 III 2,9: 360 III 2,10–19: 64 III 3,4, 8: 474 III 8,12–14: 474 III 8,22: 474 III 12,6: 520 III 12,7: 503 III 13,2–5: 575 III 13,13: 534 IV 5,5–6: 474 IV 7,1: 172 IV 8,6: 474 IV 10,23–24: 474 IV 13,26: 474 IV 14,24: 474 IV 16,15: 301, 474 IV 16,7: 502 V 1,17: 502, 504 V 1,17–20: 510 V 1,17–23: 501, 520 V 1,42: 487, 492 V 1,44: 520 V 2,9: 296 V 2, 9–10: 501 V 2,18–22: 475 V 2,19–21: 474 V 2,22: 475 V 3,4: 503 V 3,16: 366 V 4,4: 260 V 4,9: 258 V 4,10–12: 262 V 4,12: 260 V 4,18: 260 V 5,5–24: 262 V 5,15: 262 V 6,11: 458 V 6,12–13: 260 V 8,5: 313, 361, 365 V 10,2: 56, 201 V 10,12: 474 V 13,23: 313 VI 2,1–3: 475 VI 6,1–11: 475 VI 2,2: 474 VI 4,14: 474 VI 5,4: 61 VI 8,25: 474 VI 9,36: 474

632 VI 10,23: 474 VII 2,1: 474 VII 4,32–39: 474 VII 5,19–26: 476 VII 5,36–37: 476 VII 5, 40–42: 476 VII 5,43: 476 VII 10,10: 476 VIII 1,1–18: 490 VIII 1,14: 491 VIII 1,15: 491 VIII 1,18: 492 VIII 1,19–51: 490 VIII 4,27: 474 VIII 5,21: 474 VIII 6: 490 VIII 6,2: 474 VIII 6,2–6: 487 VIII 6,4: 492 VIII 6,5: 490 VIII 6,7: 489 VIII 6,25: 493 VIII 7: 490, 493 VIII 7,1: 493 VIII 9,28: 494 VIII 10,1: 511 VIII 12,7: 501 VIII 12,10–11: 501 IX 6,4: 474 IX 10,19: 458 IX 10,21: 606 X 1,9: 458 X 1,22: 458 X 5,17: 474 X 9,12: 474 Strabo Geography I 3,1: 369 XI 13,7: 256, 269 XI 13,8: 256 XII 3,10: 524 XII 3,13: 256 XII 3,31: 84, 91 XII 8,16: 256 XIV 1,23: 514 XV 1,55: 494 XV 3: 591 XV 3,2: 259 XV 3,6: 258 XV 3,7–8: 325 XV 3,13: 89, 267

Index of ancient sources XV 3,17: 61 XV 3,18: 62, 258 XV 3,18–19: 266 XV 3,19: 265 XV 3,21: 254, 265, 359 XV 3,22: 296, 301 XVI 1,9: 598 XVI 1,10: 591, 602, 605 XVI 1,10–11: 591 XVI 1,11: 368 XVI 2,16: 367 XVI 2,28: 381 XVI 2,29: 381 XVI 2,39: 288 XVII 1,13: 410 XVII 1,27: 184 Suda s. v. basileioi paides: 493 s. v. Khoaspeion hydōr: 291 s. v. phreatia: 319 Tacitus Annals III 60: 514 III 60–63: 145, 162, 214, 514 III 61–62: 515 III 62: 161 III 63: 514, 515, 532 IV 14: 514 VI 31: 457 Theophrastus see Athenaeus II 41f Theopompus see FGrH 115 Thucydides History of the Peloponnesian War I 104,1: 179 I 104,2: 179–180 I 109,1: 179 I 110,2: 180–181 I 110,3: 180 I 112,3: 180 I 129,3: 136 II 69,1: 381 II 97,3–4: 63 IV 50: 147 VIII 35,2: 181

VIII 45,6: 548 VIII 58,1: 66 VIII 109: 57, 533 VIII 109,1: 515 Xenophon, Agesilaus III 3: 70 Anabasis I 1,5: 70 I 1,8: 64 I 2,5: 366 I 2,16: 70 I, 2,20: 70 I 2,21: 366 I 2,24: 371 I 2,25: 366 I 2,27: 63, 473 I 3,14: 70 I 3,20: 368 I 4,2: 190, 368 I 4,5: 367 I 4,6: 368, 371–372 I 4,7: 368 I 4,17–18: 70 I 4,18: 368 I 5,6: 371 I 5,9–10: 359 I 6: 496 I 6,7: 515 I 7,6–7: 359 I 8,5–6: 69 I 8,25: 70 I 8,28: 70 I 8,29: 473 I 9,3–4: 63 I 9,6: 491 I 9,13: 364 I 9,14–28: 70 I 9,29: 63 II 1,3: 190 II 4,1: 69 II 3,13: 597 II 4,13: 597 III 4,13: 70 IV 4,4: 488 V 6,5–10: 367 VII 8: 525 VII 8,7: 434 Cyropaedia I 3,8: 299, 484 I 3,9: 299

633

Index of ancient sources I 4,14: 495 V 2,28: 158 V 3,8–21: 158 VI 2, 26–29: 295 VII 5,9–25: 293 VII 5,24–32: 158 VII 5, 57–70: 298 VII 5,59: 298 VII 5,60–65: 298, 484 VIII 2,7: 473 VIII 2,24–25: 297 VIII 5,1–16: 294 VIII 6: 44 VIII 6,9: 44 VIII 6,10–12: 53, 62 VIII 6,16: 44 VIII 6,17: 361 VIII 6,17–18: 359–360 VIII 6,17–19: 44 VIII 8: 298 VIII 8,14: 298 VIII 8,20: 67, 520 Hellenika I 2,6: 57, 515, 533 I 2,19: 55 I 3, 8: 363 I 4,1–2: 363 I 4,3: 64 I 4,5–7: 64 I 5,2–5: 64 III 1,7: 320–322 III 2,12: 68 III 2,15: 520 III 2,20: 64

III 4,10: 61, 67 III 4,12: 68 III 4,13: 66 IV 1,4–5: 58 IV 1,4–15: 367 IV 1,32–38: 68 IV 1,33: 536 IV 1,39: 533 IV 8,16–17: 64 IV 8,21: 66 V 1,28: 534 Hipparchicus 1,17: 488 Oeconomicus IV: 307 IV 4: 272 IV 5–11: 259 IV 7–8: 158 IV 8–11: 272 IV 13: 272 IV 15–16: 158 IV 18: 272 IV 20–25: 272 IV 22: 273 IV 22–24: 158 On Horsemanship 6,12: 488 Valerius Maximus, Memorable Doings and Sayings III 3,3 ext. 1: 488, 490

Biblical sources Esther 2.2–4: 289 3.12: 233 3.13: 362 8.10–14: 362 Ezra 3.7: 368 4.5: 175, 177 4. 12–13: 215 4.12–16: 47 4.13: 397 4.20: 397 5.3–4: 177, 214 5.3–17: 214, 218 5.5: 217 5–6: 47 7.24: 144 8.21–22: 364, 370 8.31: 364 8.33: 370 Isaiah XIX 5: 407 Nahum III 8: 407 Nehemiah 1.11: 299 2.7–9: 362 2.9: 364 5.4: 399 Avesta Vendidād, Fargard III: 131,159, 272–273, 306

oriens et occidens Studien zu antiken Kulturkontakten und ihrem Nachleben

Herausgegeben von Josef Wiesehöfer in Zusammenarbeit mit Pierre Briant, Geoffrey Greatrex, Amélie Kuhrt und Robert Rollinger.

Franz Steiner Verlag

ISSN 1615–4517

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Josef Wiesehöfer / Philip Huyse (Hg.) Ērān ud Anērān Studien zu den Beziehungen zwischen dem Sasanidenreich und der Mittelmeerwelt. Beiträge des Internationalen Colloquiums in Eutin vom 8.–9. Juni 2000. Hg. unter Mitarb. von Carsten Binder 2006. 288 S. mit 57 Abb., geb. ISBN 978-3-515-08829-9 14. Nikos Kokkinos (Hg.) The World of the Herods Volume I of the International Conference The World of the Herods and the Nabataeans held at the British Museum, 17–19 April 2001 2007. 327 S., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-08817-6 15. Konstantinos D. Politis (Hg.) The World of the Nabataeans Volume II of the International Conference The World of the Herods and the Nabataeans held at the British Museum, 17–19 April 2001 2007. 392 S., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-08816-9 16. Henning Börm Prokop und die Perser Untersuchungen zu den römischsasanidischen Kontakten in der ausgehenden Spätantike 2007. 382 S., geb. ISBN 978-3-515-09052-0 17. Charlotte Lerouge L’image des Parthes dans le monde gréco-romain Du début du Ier siècle av. J.-C. jusqu’à la fin du Haut-Empire romain 2007. 327 S. mit 9 Abb., geb. ISBN 978-3-515-08530-4 18. Michael Blömer / Margherita Facella / Engelbert Winter (Hg.) Lokale Identität im Römischen Nahen Osten Kontexte und Perspektiven. Erträge der Tagung „Lokale Identität im Römischen

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Nahen Osten“ in Münster vom 19.–21. April 2007 2009. 340 S. mit 171 Abb., geb. ISBN 978-3-515-09377-4 Ted Kaizer / Margherita Facella (Hg.) Kingdoms and Principalities in the Roman Near East 2010. 453 S. mit 22 Abb., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-09715-4 Josef Wiesehöfer / Thomas Krüger (Hg.) Periodisierung und Epochenbewusstsein im Alten Testament und in seinem Umfeld 2012. 155 S., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-10114-1 Lucinda Dirven (Hg.) Hatra Politics, Culture and Religion between Parthia and Rome 2013. 363 S. mit 38 Abb., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-10412-8 Lawrence J. Baack Undying Curiosity Carsten Niebuhr and The Royal Danish Expedition to Arabia (1761–1767) 2014. 443 S. mit 22 Abb., geb. ISBN 978-3-515-10768-6 Julien Monerie D’Alexandre à Zoilos Dictionnaire prosopographique des porteurs de nom grec dans les sources cunéiformes 2014. 255 S. mit 11 Abb., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-10956-7 Joseph Gilbert Manning (Hg.) Writing History in Time of War Michael Rostovtzeff, Elias Bickerman and the “Hellenization of Asia” 2015. 153 S., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-10948-2 Rolf Strootman / Miguel John Versluys (Hg.) Persianism in Antiquity 2017. 557 S. mit 79 Abb., kt. ISBN 978-3-515-11382-3

Pierre Briant’s work focuses particularly on the Achaemenid Empire, Alexander the Great and the Hellenistic Kingdoms. For the first time a selection of articles, originally published between 1979 and 2008, is now available in an English translation. The essays, translated by Amélie Kuhrt, deal with a wide range of topics, from regional studies to more universal subjects.

A thought-provoking introduction gives a deeper understanding of his thinking by sometimes adopting his conclusions and by occasionally questioning his ideas and presenting an alternative line of thought. Thus, Kings, Countries, Peoples gives us an insight into the evolution of Pierre Briant’s work.

www.steiner-verlag.de Franz Steiner Verlag

ISBN 978-3-515-11628-2

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