Piracy, Pillage, and Plunder in Antiquity: Appropriation and the Ancient World 0429440448, 9780429440441

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Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity

Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity explores appropriation in its broadest terms in the ancient world, from brigands, mercenaries and state-sponsored ‘piracy’, to literary appropriation and the modern plundering of antiquities. The chronological extent of the studies in this volume, written by an international group of experts, ranges from about 2000 BCE to the twentieth century. The geographical spectrum is similarly diverse, encompassing Africa, the Mediterranean and Mesopotamia, allowing readers to track this phenomenon in various different manifestations. Predatory behaviour is a phenomenon seen in all walks of life. While violence may often be concomitant, it is worth observing that predation can be extremely nuanced in its application, and it is precisely this gradation and its focus that occupies the essential issue in this volume. Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity will be of great interest to those studying a range of topics in antiquity, including literature and art, cities and their foundations, crime, warfare, and geography. Richard Evans has taught at the University of South Africa, Pretoria, and at Cardiff University, UK. Most recently he has been a Visiting Researcher and Research Fellow in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies at the University of South Africa. He is the author of a number of monographs, of which the most recent are Fields of Death: Retracing Ancient Battlefields (2013), Fields of Battle: Retracing Ancient Battlefields (2015) and Ancient Syracuse: From Foundation to Fourth Century Collapse (2016). He has also edited Mass and Elite in the Greek and Roman Worlds: From Sparta to Late Antiquity (2017). He is currently an Academic Associate at the University of South Africa. Martine De Marre is an Associate Professor of Ancient History in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies at the University of South Africa. Her research to date has focused on the social and cultural history of Roman North Africa during the entire period of antiquity up to the wars of Justinian, particularly in interpreting the role of women. The latter has also been the focus of studies on the literary sources of Late Antiquity, such as the works of Augustine, Fulgentius and Corippus.

Routledge Monographs in Classical Studies

Titles include: Thinking the Greeks A Volume in Honour of James M. Redfield Edited by Bruce M. King and Lillian Doherty Pushing the Boundaries of Historia Edited by Mary C. English and Lee M. Fratantuono Greek Myth and the Bible Bruce Louden Combined Warfare in Ancient Greece From Homer to Alexander the Great and his Successors Graham Wrightson Power Couples in Antiquity Transversal Perspectives Edited by Anne Bielman Sánchez The Extramercantile Economies of Greek and Roman Cities New Perspectives on the Economic History of Classical Antiquity Edited by David B. Hollander, Thomas R. Blanton IV, and John T. Fitzgerald The Bible, Homer, and the Search for Meaning in Ancient Myths Why We Would Be Better Off With Homer’s Gods John Heath Fantasy in Greek and Roman Literature Graham Anderson Piracy, Pillage, and Plunder in Antiquity Appropriation and the Ancient World Edited by Richard Evans and Martine De Marre For more information on this series, visit: https://www.routledge.com/classicalstudies/series/RMCS

Piracy, Pillage and Plunder in Antiquity Appropriation and the Ancient World

Edited by Richard Evans and Martine De Marre

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 selection and editorial matter, Richard Evans and Martine De Marre; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Richard Evans and Martine De Marre to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Published in association with Acta Classica as Acta Classica Supplementum X (ISSN 0065–1141). British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Evans, Richard J., 1954- editor. | De Marre, Martine Elizabeth Agnáes, editor. Title: Piracy, pillage, and plunder in antiquity : appropriation and the ancient world / edited by Richard Evans and Martine De Marre. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge monographs in classical studies | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019013817 (print) | LCCN 2019017295 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429440441 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429803048 (web pdf) | ISBN 9780429803024 (mobi/kindle) | ISBN 9780429803031 (epub) | ISBN 9781138341005 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Pirates–Mediterranean Region–History. | Piracy– Mediterranean Region–History. | Brigands and robbers–Mediterranean Region–History. | Pillage–Mediterranean Region–History. | Pirates in literature. | Brigands and robbers in literature. | Mediterranean Region– History–To 476. | History, Ancient. Classification: LCC DE61.P5 (ebook) | LCC DE61.P5 P57 2019 (print) | DDC 937–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019013817 ISBN: 978-1-138-34100-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-44044-1 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

List of contributors Preface Acknowledgements Abbreviations in this volume Piracy, pillage and plunder in antiquity: An introduction

vii x xii xiii 1

CLIFFORD ANDO

1 By the hand of a robber: States, mercenaries and bandits in Middle Bronze Age Mesopotamia

9

SETH RICHARDSON

2 The limits of nationalism: Brigandage: piracy and mercenary service in fourth century BCE Athens

27

MATTHEW TRUNDLE

3 Piracy and pseudo-piracy in classical Syracuse: Financial replenishment through outsourcing, sacking temples and forced migrations

38

RICHARD EVANS

4 Terra cognita sed vacua?: (Re-)appropriating territory through Hellenistic city foundations

60

ALEX MCAULEY

5 The colonisation of Pontiae (313 BC), piracy and the nature of Rome’s maritime expansion before the First Punic War

84

ROMAN ROTH

6 Campaigning against pirate mercenaries: A very Roman strategy? AARON L. BEEK

97

vi

Contents

7 Pirating pastoral poverty: Poetics in Tibullus 1.1

115

STEPHEN HARRISON

8 The revolt of the boukoloi, class and contemporary fiction in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon

129

JOHN HILTON

9 ‘Bad girls’?: Collective violence by women and the case of the Circumcellions in Roman North Africa

145

MARTINE DE MARRE

10 Piracy, plunder and the legacy of archaeological research in North Africa

170

EVE MACDONALD AND SANDRA BINGHAM

11 Spoils of Empire: Rider Haggard’s appropriation of the katabasis motif in King Solomon’s Mines

185

LILIANA CARRICK-TAPPEINER

Epilogue

203

RICHARD EVANS AND MARTINE DE MARRE

Bibliography Index of ancient sources cited in the chapters General index

205 232 234

Contributors

Clifford Ando is the David B. and Clara E. Stern Professor; Professor of Classics, History and Law and in the College; Co-Director, Center for the Study of Ancient Religions, University of Chicago, USA. His research focuses on the history of religion, law and government. His publications include: Law, Language and Empire in the Roman Tradition (2011); Le Droit et l’Empire. Invention juridique et réalités politiques à Rome (2012); Imperial Rome: The Critical Century (A.D. 193–284) (2012); Religion et gouvernement dans l’Empire romain (2012). Aaron L. Beek has a PhD in Classical and Near Eastern Studies and has taught at the University of Memphis, USA, in the Department of History. He is currently on a postdoctoral fellowship at the University of the NorthWest in South Africa. His research interest lies in pirates, bandits and mercenaries, primarily in Hellenistic Greece and Republican Rome. He has published book chapters, encyclopaedia entries and articles on piracy and naval matters in the context of the ancient world. Sandra Bingham is a Senior Teaching Fellow in Classics at the University of Edinburgh, UK, with a research focus on Roman imperial history, specifically the praetorian guard, Roman imperial women, ancient Carthage and the Severans. Her published work focuses on exile, Severan coinage and games in the imperial period, in particular The Praetorian Guard: A History of Rome’s Elite Special Forces (2013). Liliana Carrick-Tappeiner completed her Master’s degree in the field of Classical reception and is a Lecturer at the University of South Africa, where she teaches across the range of Classical Studies and Ancient History. Her main areas of research are in Classical Reception Studies as well as in Italian and South African literature. Martine De Marre is an Associate Professor of Ancient History in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies at the University of South Africa. Her research to date has focused on the social and cultural history of Roman North Africa during the entire period of antiquity up to the wars of Justinian, particularly in interpreting the role of women. The latter

viii

List of contributors

has also been the focus of studies on the literary sources of Late Antiquity, such as the works of Augustine, Fulgentius and Corippus. Richard Evans has taught at the University of South Africa, Pretoria, and at Cardiff University, UK. Most recently he has been a Visiting Researcher and Research Fellow in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies at the University of South Africa. He is the author of a number of monographs, of which the most recent are Fields of Death: Retracing Ancient Battlefields (2013); Fields of Battle: Retracing Ancient Battlefields (2015); Ancient Syracuse: From Foundation to Fourth Century Collapse (2016). He has also edited Mass and Elite in the Greek and Roman Worlds: From Sparta to Late Antiquity (2017). He is currently an Academic Associate at the University of South Africa. Stephen Harrison is a Professor of Latin Literature and a Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Corpus Christi College at the University of Oxford, UK. His main research interests are in Latin literature and its reception. He has published a number of books on Vergil, Apuleius and Horace, from a Commentary on Vergil Aeneid 10 (1991) to most recently Victorian Horace: Classics and Class (2017) and a commentary on Horace Odes 2 (2017). He has also been the editor or co-editor of over twenty books and numerous articles on Latin literature and Classical reception. John Hilton is a Professor of Classics and a Research Associate at the University of the Free State (UFS), South Africa, and is also the current editor of Acta Classica, the journal of the South African Classical Association. He has published extensively on the ancient novel (especially with regard to Heliodorus), in Reception Studies and in Greek and Latin Linguistics. He is the co-author of Apuleius: Rhetorical Works (2001 & 2007) and Alma Parens Originalis? Classical Receptions in South Africa, Cuba and Europe (2007). Eve MacDonald currently lectures in Ancient History at the University of Cardiff, UK. Her research is focused on the social history and archaeology of the opponents of Rome and the Roman Empire, and she has published articles on the Carthaginians and the Sasanian Persians in particular. Alex McAuley is a lecturer in Hellenistic History at the University of Cardiff, UK. His primary research interest is the society and culture of the Hellenistic world in the Greek mainland, particularly aspects of globalisation and localisation. He has published a number of articles on royal women in the Hellenistic period, and ancient federalism. Seth Richardson is a historian of the Ancient Near East who works in several different areas of ancient history, including problems of violence, rebellion and social histories of the ancient military. He has been a Research Associate at the Oriental Institute at the University of Chicago, USA, and the Managing Editor of the Journal of Near Eastern Studies since 2011.

List of contributors

ix

Roman Roth is an Associate Professor in Classics at the University of Cape Town, South Africa, who is interested in the archaeology and history of Roman Italy, particularly ceramic studies and historiography. He has published numerous articles and book chapters as well as a monograph, Styling Romanisation. Pottery and Society in Central Italy (2007), and is also the Director of the Capena Excavation Project. Matthew Trundle was the Chair and Professor of Classics at the University of Auckland, New Zealand. His research interests are primarily in ancient Greek history, and his publications focus on the social and economic aspects of the classical Greek world. He is the author of Greek Mercenaries from the Late Archaic Period to Alexander (2004) and has edited volumes entitled New Perspectives on Ancient Warfare (2010) and Beyond the Gates of Fire: New Perspectives on the Battle of Thermopylae (2013). He has also published numerous articles and book chapters on aspects of warfare in the ancient world. He died suddenly on 12 July 2019 and will be greatly missed by colleagues and friends.

Preface

The majority of the chapters in this volume had their origins in the Eighteenth Unisa Classics Colloquium held at the University of South Africa in October 2017. The objective of the conference was to explore aspects of a phenomenon which manifested itself in all walks of life: predatory behaviour. While violence may often be concomitant it is worth observing that predation can be extremely nuanced in its application and precisely this gradation and its focus occupies the essential issue in this volume. The objective was to endeavour to come to some understanding of the terminology within its broader context. Descriptions of historical episodes of predation often involve harsh realities, but these just as often lend themselves by elaboration as adventurous tales that are incorporated into plays, poetry, novels and not least histories. In some cases those who indulged in piracy, pillaging and plunder even attain a swashbuckling aura, a romantic characterisation, and this has persisted down to modern times. Piracy was universally feared in the Ancient World and was ubiquitous, whether it was on sea or on land. It is frequently to be seen in association with, or as a by-product of, the employment of mercenary troops in rival armies or naval forces. Unemployed mercenaries easily became privateers. By the first century BCE the Roman republican elite gained considerable political capital, undertaking the suppression of pirates or speaking out against their criminal activities. However, the sceptic might have questioned the efficacy or need for these state responses, and whether they were motivated by self-interest, individual gain or even a justification of imperialism in which state-sponsored ‘piracy’ becomes as evident. Far from the battlefield, the reproduction of a literary work without authorial permission is also termed ‘piracy’, hence the exploration of artistic plundering or appropriation of material from the works of earlier authors, and whether ethical or practical considerations touched these practices. Finally, the pillage and plundering of antiquities in the modern world also warrants some attention because the rediscovery of the Ancient World developed out of pillaging. Places of archaeological interest and importance today were very often for a long time associated with smuggling, an aspect of appropriation which accelerated the rediscovery of the civilisations and cultures of the regions around the Mediterranean and Mesopotamian World.

Preface xi The chronological extent of these studies is indeed a broad one, ranging from about 2000 BCE to almost the current century. Moreover, the geographical spectrum is similarly diverse encompassing Africa, the Mediterranean and Mesopotamia. Such breadth will arguably indicate that this theme has had an immense impact on and been of considerable significance to the various societies dealt with here over the last four thousand years. Richard Evans and Martine De Marre, Pretoria, February 2019

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank the numerous reviewers of the papers which in due course became the chapters of this volume. This is a time-consuming but often unacknowledged task, and it is essential to the process of ensuring a high standard of scholarship. We take this opportunity to thank all of you for the hard work that went into the compilation of this volume. We also would like to express our thanks to the University of South Africa and its College of Human Sciences for funding to invite speakers to the Eighteenth Unisa Classics Colloquium held in October 2017. Our thanks also to Amy Davis-Poynter, Fiona Hudson Gabuya, Elizabeth Risch and colleagues at Routledge (Taylor & Francis) for their assistance and advice during the preparation of this volume.

Abbreviations in this volume

AASS AbB AHw ARM BDTNS BM CAD CCL CIL CSEL CUSAS ePSD ETCSL IG KAR LAOS LE LH MDP MHET MiAg

Acta Sanctorum, Société des Bollandistes. Turnhout (1643–) Altbabylonische Briefe in Umschrift und Übersetzung. Leiden (1964–) Wolfram von Soden, Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. Wiesbaden (1965–1981) Archives royales de Mari (= TCL 22–31). Paris (1950–) Base de Datos de Textos Neosumerios, http://bdtns.filol.csic.es. Madrid (2002–) British Museum. London The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago (1956–) Corpus Christianorum Series Latina. Turnhout (1954–) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 16 + Volumes. Berlin (1863–) Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum. Vienna (1866–) Cornell University Studies in Assyriology and Sumerology Bethesda, (2007–) The Electronic Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary, http://psd. museum.upenn.edu Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature, http://etcsl. orinst.ox.ac.uk/catalogue.htm Inscriptiones Graecae. Berlin (1873–) Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts I/II (= WVDOG 28, 1919; 34, 1923) Leipziger Altorientalistische Studien. Wiesbaden (2011–) Das Lugalbandaepos. Wiesbaden (1969) Laws of Hammurabi Mémoires de la Délégation en Perse. Paris (1900–). Also cited as MDAI, Mémoires de la Délégation Archéologique en Iran Mesopotamian History and Environment: Texts. Ghent Miscellanea Agostiniana, Sancti Augustini Sermones post Maurinos Reperti. Rome (1930)

xiv Abbreviations in this volume OECT OGIS OLA OSP1 OSP2 PBS PL PSD RIME SEG SIG ŠL UET VS YOS

Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts. Oxford (1923–) Orientis Graeci Inscriptiones Selectae. (1903/5) Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta. Leuven (1975–) Old Sumerian and Old Akkadian Texts in Philadelphia Chiefly from Nippur 1 (BiMes. 1). Malibu (1975–) Old Sumerian and Old Akkadian Texts in Philadelphia 2. Copenhagen (1987–) University of Pennsylvania, Publications of the Babylonian Section. Philadelphia (1911–) Migne, J.-P. (ed.), Patrologia Latina. Paris (1845) The Sumerian Dictionary of the University Museum of the University of Pennsylvania. Philadelphia (1984–) The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Toronto (1987–) Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum. Leiden (1923–) Dittenberger, W. (ed.) Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum (1915–1924) Anton Deimel, Šumerisches Lexikon. I–IV. Rome (1928–1933) Ur Excavations. Texts. London (1928–) Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler der (Königlichen) Museen zu Berlin (1907–) Yale Oriental Series. Babylonian Texts. New Haven (1915–)

Piracy, pillage and plunder in antiquity An introduction Clifford Ando

In an extended reflection on the nature of states, Saint Augustine urged that earthly kingdoms, absent justice, are merely great banditries. Indeed, what is a group of bandits, but a little kingdom? It is a band of persons, ruled by the command of a leader, constrained by the compact of their association, in which booty is divided according to a set rule. If this evil grows to a considerable size through the arrival of demoralized persons, such that it holds territory and establishes a home, and seizes city-states and subjugates peoples, then, obviously, it takes for itself the name of kingdom, which is now conferred upon it not by the setting aside of greed, but the acquisition of impunity. Thus, elegantly and truly did the captured pirate respond once to Alexander the Great. For when the king had asked the man, what had he been thinking, when he infested the sea? To which the pirate replied, with open contempt: ‘The same as you, when you infested the world; but because I do it with a single ship, I am called a bandit; because you do it with a fleet, you are called an emperor.’1 Augustine drew the anecdote about Alexander from the third book of Cicero’s On the Commonwealth, written in the late 50s BCE, but he employs it to very different ends. In the first book of that work Cicero had drawn a sharp distinction between political communities that were united by a consensual commitment of their members toward a shared conception of law and right and bound by common utility, and mere gatherings of persons, who came together for any reason whatever.2 In the spring of 46 BCE, Cicero returned to this theme in his work on Paradoxes of the Stoics. There he poses the question, ‘What is a civitas?’ The term’s most basic meaning is ‘citizenship,’ but by common metonymies could mean ‘political society’ and ‘city-state.’3 What is a civitas? Every coming-together of wild and violent persons? Every multitude of fugitive slaves and bandits, gathered together in one place? No one would allow this. Therefore, there was no political society at that time, when the laws had no force, when the law courts were silent, when ancestral custom had collapsed, when the magistrates were chased

2

Clifford Ando away at the point of a sword and the name of the senate was nowhere heard in the commonwealth. That gathering of marauders and bandits that established itself in the forum, with you as its leader, and the remnants of Catiline’s conspiracy that turned from his ravings to your crime and madness: that was not a civitas. 4

As is clear from the apostrophe to Clodius, Cicero’s normative theorizing is in no way disconnected from its instrumental deployment in the service of contemporary politics. Indeed, he had been provoked to similar reflections by the capture of the state’s legislative machinery in the time of Clodius and his own exile.5 Then, too, he concluded that where standards regarding democratic legitimacy, violence and the rule of law ceased to obtain, the res publica had ceased to exist. But as his invocation of Alexander suggests, these contingent provocations elicited from him theoretical reflections that were far more wide-ranging and of far greater normative purchase than their Roman context. For Cicero and the participants in what we might term the Alexander tradition, piracy and banditry are distinguished by a number of factors. For one thing, they are forms of collective action: this is why it is possible to pose the question whether the conduct of life within a bandit community can or should be understood using the developed tools of political thought. As importantly, banditry exists in the shadows of state power and may be mimetic of it: the aggressive inversion of norms effected by the pirate’s reply to Alexander relies on this foundation. In so thinking, this ancient tradition is largely consonant with modern trends in the study of so-called social banditry: bandit groups (and bandit action) exist in spaces where state power does not quite penetrate; they are defined by statal authorities as illegal, but operate according to sets of imminent norms that allow them to be understood by others in different terms, whether as honorable, or external to the state, or as political and resistant to state power, and so forth. The great analysis of late classical banditry along these lines was performed by Brent Shaw in an essay whose original form continues to inspire.6 But here as elsewhere, social forms exist or evolve in mimetic relation to that which they resist, and in this sense both hermeneutically and in actual reality, banditry in the social-bandit tradition is constituted by the state. It also becomes visible in history through its construction by the state as other to itself. Brent Shaw republished, augmented and revised Bandits in the Roman Empire twenty years after its original publication.7 In the new text, he steps back from the formalism that undergirded the structuralist analysis in the original essay, and he positions this revision of his own work in the context of contemporary scholarship on banditry. In Shaw’s view, this scholarship has, in ways large and small, departed from the framework laid out by Eric Hobsbawm in the works with which he launched the field of bandit studies. Shaw understands his own act of revision as consonant with these trends. In their own ways, both John Hilton and Martine De Marre contribute to this careful recalibration in

Piracy, pillage and plunder in antiquity

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how we read the evidence for systemic social violence in the late ancient world. In Chapter 8 Hilton performs an exemplary act of historicism in regard to the herdsmen-outlaws in the novel Leucippe and Clitophon of Achilles Tatius. The ideological commitments that shape the evolving representation of the boukoloi are laid bare; and the relationship of Achilles Tatius to contemporary politics, and that of his narrative to contemporary events, are greatly clarified. The terror of the civilized at the prospect of unknown and unknowable Egyptians, who form a non-political society (a bandit-village, a le-ste-rion) and speak there a barbarous language, is revealed at once to be based on ethnographic falsehoods and yet justified; the violence of the bandits is real, because the civilized created it. For her part, De Marre (Chapter 9) poses the question of the Roman world in general, and of late ancient North Africa in particular, whether the systematic occlusion of women as agents of violence, but representation of them as integral to violent social movements, can be the whole story, as it were. In particular, she shows how Catholic sources used the presence of women among the Donatists to lay bare the depths of their moral degradation, all the while denying those women the agency that would dignify their deaths as martyrdoms. Attention to the particularities of the sources at this level provokes further reflection on the importance of ideological construal in the history of banditry and piracy—and likewise on the importance of international politics in the rising to salience of each as a problem. In sources of the first century BCE, for example, piracy is associated with regions of the Mediterranean that are not recognized as having macro-regional and juridically-constituted forms of government, including most famously Cilicia and Crete, but also Illyria. It might of course be true that these regions lacked in this period statal authorities that made claims to trans-regional control; certainly in all three cases, topography and ecology militated against the forms of state power that Rome and the Hellenistic monarchies recognized as kindred unto themselves. It is also true that, so far as we know, no government in these regions advanced claims on its own behalf with the sort of metaphysics of sovereignty that had become necessary to peer-polity recognition in the late Hellenistic Mediterranean. This made them problematic, but also rendered them susceptible to forms of unilateral action on the part of Mediterranean powers that would otherwise have been impossible. In the world charted by the Roman law on provincial provinces of 101/100 BCE, for example, the wider Mediterranean is distributed into macro-regional units with a limited number of public-law forms (kingdoms; ethnoi = nationes; provinces; as well as Rhodes—and each of these types of state might contain substituent poleis). Beyond these existed two areas that had had to be incorporated as provinces, for the lack of any alternative way of understanding and therefore governing them: Cilicia, on the one hand, and the Chersonese and Caenice, on the other.8 This pattern in the way Hellenistic states treated as piratic, or given to banditry, regions that resisted (as it were) ‘standard’ forms of macro-regional power, suggests that further investigation of the discourses of banditry in the high Roman period might be instructive. (I exclude from consideration the

4

Clifford Ando

ideological trope whereby emperors labeled usurpers as ‘bandits,’ in order to ascribe to them an illegitimate form of social rather than public power.) These, too, often focused on banditry as a structural feature of certain landscapes and, indeed, of certain types of landscape. On one level, these accounts take as foundational the view that peoples of the hill tend to prey upon peoples of the plain. That is to say, Graeco-Roman texts take agriculture to be normative as a form of economic production, and the settled lifestyle that agriculture requires makes its practitioners vulnerable to predation by non-agricultural populations that opt to dwell in geographical proximity but ecological and topographical distance, one might say, from agricultural ones.9 But there is a further ethnographic or anthropological level to such accounts. They also understand certain forms of social, cultural and political development to be co-constituted by the practice of agriculture. To cite only a famous instance in another Mediterranean tradition, not for naught is Cain at once the first farmer and the founder of urbanism. In consequence, as a matter of the history of ideology, discourses of criminality in respect of structural banditry of this type calque related discourses of ethnographic evaluation that locate politics, culture and law in cities, and understand social life outside those contexts as deficient along each of these indices of evaluation. The remark of the pirate points us in the direction of numerous further considerations in the history of piracy. Chief among these is that the relationship between states and pirates was often symbiotic, and could be so in multiple ways. The most obvious is that intended by the pirate himself: to a neutral observer, and, it seems likely, in the perspective of the victims of such violence, the difference between pirates and kings was negligible. The essays by Richard Evans and Roman Roth (Chapters 3 and 5) pick up on these themes. Evans offers a portrait of primitive state-building in fifth-century Syracuse, studying the efforts of Hieron and Dionysius to shape the demography of the territories under their control through forced resettlement of populations, as well their plundering of the coast of Italy in pursuit of funds. These actions were undertaken both by unaffiliated purveyors of violence—pirates—as well as fleets operating under Syracusan control. Through its own marauding, Syracuse raised the money it needed for the employment of mercenaries; through its relations with pirates, it protected its own ships and ensured that mercenaries were available for its hire when needed. It was therefore through a combination of alliances with small powers, and networked, destabilizing actions by Syracuse and its friends that Syracuse could persist in a Mediterranean dominated by larger powers with more stable sources of revenue. States might also tolerate or promote piracy because one or another of its effects was understood to conduce their contingent interests, especially in situations of multistate competition. This was, of course, the situation in the seventeenth-century Atlantic, when English pirates preyed upon Spanish ships, even as their status as pirates was intended to give the English crown plausible deniability with the Spanish crown. Likewise, although people commonly write that piracy in the eastern Mediterranean waxed in the

Piracy, pillage and plunder in antiquity

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vacuum created by the decline in Seleucid power, there is every reason to believe that several players in the region understood themselves to benefit from the destabilization that piracy furthered—and many will have exploited the slave trade, which was perhaps the chief economic interest of the pirates themselves. Roman Roth describes the Roman colony at Pontiae as existing in an international system of this nature. Rejecting in this and other instances the interpretive tradition that sees Roman so-called maritime colonies as bulwarks against naval powers, Roth urges that Pontiae was intended to be an affiliate of Rome as well as a full participant in an ecology of naval violence. Only this, Roth argues, makes sense of the stipulations in the fourth-century treaty between Carthage and Rome, which assumes that the two states pursued symmetric goals using similar means: the clauses against raiding and slave-trading are pointless if Rome was not understood to engage in these practices. Nor did it escape the attention of observers in the later fourth century that colonies of Rome—and of Syracuse, for that matter—served the interests of their founders in their selection of targets for their piratical raiding. As Roth makes clear, the request by Demetrios Poliorcetes that Rome should force its colony at Antium to desist from piracy puts paid to the notion that colonies were believed to be independent from their mother-cities in their foreign policy—to use an elevated term that their brigandage does not deserve. The same issue lies at the heart of Matthew Trundle’s chapter on fourth-century Athens (Chapter 2). Trundle studies two episodes in Athenian history in which individual Athenians became in their private capacity, or threatened to become, entrepreneurs of violence. The cases pose questions about the responsibility of ancient political communities for members of their community when they acted as free-agents of social violence (how easily might a pirate who happens to be Athenian provoke a war between another state and Athens itself ?) and also about the ability of ancient states to constrain such citizens, by forbidding all citizens to seek employment as soldiers-for-hire in foreign wars. Episodes like those studied by Trundle call our attention to an essential fact about the history of piracy in relation to the state, namely, that pirates, bandits and soldiers were often the same persons. Indeed, this fact is the subject of another essential, but less well known ancient analytic tradition about bandits and pirates, which sees them as not so much criminals, as simply hired purveyors of violence. A compressed statement along these lines is provided by Varro in his work On the Latin Language: In The Helmet-Horn: Who for ten years fought for wages (latrocinatus) for King Demetrius? They were called latrones (‘mercenaries’) from latus (‘side’), who were at the king’s side and had a sword at their own sides, whom later were called stipatores (‘bodyguards’) from stipatio (‘close attendance’), and who were hired for pay; for in Greek this pay is called λάτρον. From this the old

6

Clifford Ando poets sometimes call soldiers latrones. But now those who besiege the roads are called latrones (‘bandits’), because like soldiers they carry swords, or because they hide to make their ambushes.10

The same definition, employing nearly the same terminology, appears in the dictionary of Festus, first under the lemma ‘Latrones’ and in the poorly preserved entry for ‘Stipatores.’ Latrones antiqui eos dicebant, qui conducti militabant, ἀπὸ τῆς λατρείας. At nunc viarum obsessores dicuntur, quod a latere adoriuntur, vel quod latenter insidiantur. 11 The ancients called those latrones who performed military service for pay, from the Greek term λατρεία (‘service for hire’). But now the besiegers of roads are so named, because they spring up out of hiding (a latere), or because they practice treachery in hiding (latenter). Ancient authors, particularly those of the late Hellenistic period, thus understood the labor force of war not narrowly in terms of citizen-soldiers (if ever they did so), but as embracing also cadres of young men—often of particular ethnicity or arising from specific regions—who move easily between self-employment as pirates, and employment by others as soldiers. (Once again, the early modern world provides notable comparanda, including the surge in piracy that followed the decommissioning of fleets at the end of the war of the Spanish succession.) This landscape forms the basis of the Aaron Beek’s fascinating analysis of Roman foreign policy in the second and early first centuries BCE. In Beek’s view (Chapter 6), much of Roman action, both diplomatic and martial, can be understood as directed at shaping the market of mercenaries: action against pirates was not undertaken out of a disinterested regard for lowering the risks of maritime trade, but with an eye toward depriving particular strategic enemies of access to soldiers. This could be accomplished through alliance, or through violence against those territories whence the mercenaries tended to spring, which violence would call their soldiers home. Many of the chapters in this volume establish their agenda in relation to traditional scholarship on banditry through acts of imminent critique. This is possible in part because, like Brent Shaw in his landmark essay, they focus on the late Hellenistic and Roman worlds, when the language and ideologies of sovereignty had so developed as to make clear that states aspired to account for all persons and territory within some borders— which aspiration is precisely what made possible the retreat of bandits to, or emergence of bandits from, those geographic and topographic spaces that state power did not in fact reach. As we have seen, the chapters by Evans and Roth begin to trace the limits of this scholarship in their focus on contexts of international action in which neither were all spaces

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controlled by states subject to mutual acts of recognition, nor (in consequence) did there exist any network of states of sufficient robustness that might allow a discourse of a rule of (international) law to emerge. The most radical assault on classical bandit theory along these lines is advanced by Seth Richardson (Chapter 1). Richardson seeks to discern the underlying sociological realities that were described—which is to say, construed and classified—in the state languages of violence in Middle Bronze Age Mesopotamia. As in other contexts studied in this volume, the terminology employed to denote robbers, which is to say, petty criminals preying on individuals within territories ‘controlled’ by the state, was also used to describe bandits that operated in groups in territories beyond state control, and also mercenaries. But they were not an epiphenomenon of state power, nor should we be misled by the simplicity of state language into imagining a single class of human being, or singular form of social action, that comprised either bandits or banditry. Instead, the desperate effort to contain diverse worlds within the simplifying taxonomy of ḫabba-tu is revealed by Richardson to be an index of state weakness, and both conceptually and materially, the diversity that the states could not capture ultimately overwhelmed them. A final array of essays makes the concept of piracy into a metaphor for appropriation, above all of a colonialist type. It is in this spirit that Alex McAuley (Chapter 4) approaches the history of Seleucid Syria, and analyzes both the big moves made by imperial powers to control the landscape and how the resulting landscape might be read; he also pays careful attention to the constraints on those moves imposed by the need of imperial powers to surmount infrastructural weakness through ideological power. More metaphorical still are invocations of piracy in Stephen Harrison’s study of Tibullus 1.1 (Chapter 7); Eve MacDonald and Sandra Bingham’s essay (Chapter 10) on the early history of Mediterranean archaeology and the relationship between the rediscovery of Carthage, French colonialist knowledge and seventeenth-century piracy; and Liliana Carrick-Tappeiner’s reading (Chapter 11) of Rider Haggard’s appropriation of classical motifs and especially pillage and plunder in a piratical sense in King Solomon’s Mines. Piracy is still with us, and it’s good to think with. Thus: The possibility of huge riches seemed to have been the main driver of piracy off the Somali coast. But it was a lack of effective government … and … navy, that enable it to happen. But 10 years ago, the European Union, Nato and others began to deploy naval forces to the region … Pirate attacks have now all but stopped, after reaching a peak in 2011. But there continues to be a danger that the piracy cycle could be repeated. (A. Soy for BBC News 11.12.2018)

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Notes 1 Augustine, De civitate dei 4.4. The same passage of Cicero is exploited by Nonius Marcellus three times: s.v. infestum mare haberet (181.13L); s.v. habere (498.18L); s.v. myoparo (856.15L). The fragment is numbered 3.24a by Ziegler and numbered first among the fragmenta incertae sedis of book 3 by Powell. 2 Cicero, De re publica 1.39a: Est igitur, inquit Africanus, res publica res populi, populus autem non omnis hominum coetus quoquo modo congregatus, sed coetus multitudinis iuris consensu et utilitatis communione sociatus. 3 On civitas and its metonymic range see Ando (2015) 7–14. 4 Cicero, Paradoxa Stoicorum 27: Quae est enim civitas? omnisne conventus etiam ferorum et immanium? omnisne etiam fugitivorum ac latronum congregata unum in locum multitudo? Certe negabis. Non igitur erat illa tum civitas, cum leges in ea nihil valebant, cum iudicia iacebant, cum mos patrius occiderat, cum ferro pulsis magistratibus senatus nomen in re publica non erat; praedonum ille concursus et te duce latrocinium in foro constitutum et reliquiae coniurationis a Catilinae furiis ad tuum scelus furoremque conversae, non civitas erat. 5 On this theme in the speeches after Cicero’s return see Riggsby (2002). 6 Shaw (2004a [1984]); see also Shaw (2000). 7 Shaw (2004b). 8 Roman Statutes no. 12, Cnidos copy, column 3, lines 28–41, and column 4, lines 5–30. 9 See Shaw (1990) and Lenski (1999), together with Hopwood (1983). 10 Varro, Ling. 7.52 (trans. Kent, revised). 11 Festus s.v. latrones 105L; see also s.v. stipatores 412L, with the representation of that entry in Paul the Deacon s.v. stipatores 413L.

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By the hand of a robber States, mercenaries and bandits in Middle Bronze Age Mesopotamia Seth Richardson

When a fire it kindled by the hand of a robber, it consumes the land. ina qa-ti habba-ti iša-tum napḫat ma-tam ikkal AbB VIII 28, Old Babylonian letter, ca. 1750 BC

Introduction As it was for many Mesopotamian social groups, literary depictions of the class of people called ‘robbers’ (Sumerian lúsa-gaz, lit. ‘head-bashers’/Akkadian ḫabba-tu) differed significantly from what we can see of them as actors in the everyday economic, political and social arena. Thus, ‘robbers’ were on the one hand archetypal villains who populated the Mesopotamian imaginary at the mantic and divine levels; on the other hand, we find that while robbery existed (up to and including collective, organized brigandage), it was only occasionally connected to people called ‘robbers,’ who instead appear to have been marginal people partly integrated into state orders, working as laborers and mercenaries. It is difficult to discern, then—between the florid descriptions of omens and rituals, the letters describing highway banditry, and the administrative texts documenting the utterly routine farming work of ‘robbers’—whether we are looking at organized-crime groups with parasocial features, ‘social bandits’ à la Hobsbawm, or indeed whether any meaningful group identity existed at all for ‘robbers’ outside of literary imagination. I will describe the evidence for ‘robbers,’ both literary and socio-economic, and then establish their context within the age in which they are best attested, the Middle Bronze Age in Mesopotamia (ca. 2100–1600 BC). These five centuries are among cuneiform culture’s best documented, with a rich fund of sources permitting close reconstructions of economy, society, and political life, sometimes fine-grained enough to let us see daily events. They were also the closing scenes in the region’s great first historical act of city-states (beginning as far back as ca. 3300 BC), with a ‘Dark Age’ intermission (ca. 1600–1400) intervening before Act II, the Late Bronze and Iron Age sequence of ca. 1400–539 BC, more characterized by national states and empires. My analysis of the confusing and conflicting signals about the existence and practices of brigandage concludes that its substantial socio-political

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identity lay in ‘warlordism’ rather than a criminal, subaltern, or romantic/antiromantic character. I argue that the ultimate impact of that warlordism in this time was to profoundly alter the nature of state authority itself. One could overstate the importance of brigandage to the geo-political scene of the Middle Bronze Ur III and Old Babylonian periods, but its footprint on the landscape is informative about the extent and shape of the power of early states altogether. The Middle Bronze would seem an ideal vantage point from which to consider states and their others. By 2100 BC, state organization would seem well rooted after a thousand years of development and practice. The institution of kingship was at least a thousand years old, some dynasties measured their lifespans in centuries, and a dynamic international system tied regional and distant polities together (if as much in conflict as in mutuality). The state as both form and idea would seem to have achieved transhistorical durability. But Middle Bronze states still often struggled to control even local hinterlands and the marginal populations who lived there. This was not only a product of interstate competition (as is often assumed), but also of cross-scale conflicts between states and non-state groups they sometimes identified as ‘enemies,’ ‘robbers,’ or any number of ethnonyms. States seemingly remained vulnerable to some of the same local security threats they claimed to have long since overcome and surpassed by this point. This paradox of significant numbers of ‘social bandit’ groups at a high-water moment for states is best seen first as ‘a response to [the] monopolist incursions and restrictions’ of the state system upon the political landscape (following Dawdy and Bonni 2012: 676). But in its latter phases, the result was not (as it was by the early 19th century AD in the West) that states more or less successfully excluded systems of piracy from substantial power-sharing. Rather, following a particularly intense century of warfare ca. 1830–1730 BC, bandit-groups in Mesopotamia were models for, and perhaps precipitators of, the stateless ‘Dark Age’ that arose when that system deteriorated.

The literary context: ‘the cut-throat’ and ‘the robber’ The shadowy figure of the brigand and the plunderer appears in proverbs1 and magical spells; his origins perhaps go back to the late Early Dynastic period (ca. 2500 BC). Here he appears with a demonic aspect in prophylactic incantations: ‘the evil Galla-demon, released in the steppe, the unsparing robber.’2 Among literary works, robbers figure prominently in a chilling tale of the youthful god Dumuzi (traditionally called Dumuzi’s Dream), whose nocturnal vision of marsh reeds is interpreted as ‘The rushes rising up for you, which kept growing for you, are bandits rising against you from their ambush!’ The bandits indeed soon appear—‘big men who bind the neck,’ a ‘motley crew,’3 and ‘demons’—and murder the beautiful youth, destroying his idyllic sheepfold.4 In a very different composition, the literary-historical Cursing of Agade text, an infestation of robbers in the land is emblematic of a breakdown of cosmic order, when ‘brigands occupied the highways,’ cutting off communications between

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cities; robbers were likened to prisoners and to monkey-faced Gutian people from the mountains.5 In omens, hemerologies, and magical texts from the third to the first millennium BC, ‘the robber’ was a figure who cut off travel, whose attack was like that of a lion,6 who caused crop losses in the countryside. ‘Will the man be saved from the business of the brigand and robber who block the road?’ one tamı-tu-query reads;7 ‘Will the herd and the robber-wolf ever come to an agreement?’;8 ‘If robbers are numerous in a city,’ intones one omen’s protasis from the series Šumma Ālu, ‘there will be enmity.’9 The apodoses of many omens foresaw the robber as the dire outcome of some interpreted sign: [If [If [If [If [If

A]: B]: C]: D]: E]:

robbers will turn the country into ruins. a robber will cut off his head. he will chance upon a den of robbers, but will not be stripped. robbers will kidnap him. anarchy, robbers will rage.10

The robber was a paradigmatic enemy whose power of theft extended to all spheres: as a sign of social alienation (‘I will roam over the remote open country like a robber’);11 of affliction and disease (‘Or whether you may be the evil Ala-demon who, as “sleep-robber,” always stands about in order to deprive a man of sleep’);12 or as an expression of sexual potency, as in this ritual dialogue: (She:) Like a robber, I want to plunder your attractiveness! (He:) When may I expose your clitoris (lit. ‘nose of desire’)?13 The robber was even set among the stars and planets in the night sky, as the ‘plunderer-star’ (múllusa-gaz, another name for Mars), which also enjoyed the epithet aḫû (‘strange, hostile, ill-portending’), and was listed with stars named for predators such as the Lion and the Eagle.14 As a symbolic figure inhabiting the mantic world, the robber was accordingly to be warded away ritually: ‘it is the wording for an incantation,’ begins one ritual text, ‘for going through the steppe against the enemy, for overcoming lion and robber.’15 A namburbi-ritual reads: ‘You recite the namburbi, and robbers and enemies will not attack the man and his house.’16 Alternatively, the robber could be summoned apotropaically to punish witches and sorcerors: ‘Let a robber lie in wait in their fields’; ‘let a robber lie in ambush for their earnings.’17 The image of the robber conveyed a trope about theft and seizure that formed at an early point and endured for millennia. He was styled as a solitary figure inhabiting the wastelands and mountains at the fringes of the settled areas, blocking the highways and striking at night. He became symbolic of the many dangers that lay outside of cities and away from the temples of the gods, where people were also vulnerable to illness, ghosts, scorpions, wild dogs, and demons—numbered among the mortal enemies of civilized mankind. Perhaps

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significantly, however, so were the cops: demons also took on the aspect of police, signalling to us how ambivalently claims of legitimate versus illegitimate force were received in early states.18

Robbers and robbery in the Middle Bronze Borrowing from these stock images and apparently corroborating their reality, the inscriptions of Middle Bronze kings, from the time of ca. 2100 BC, began to introduce royal claims to have brought something called ‘banditry’ under control. From a hymn to King Ur-Namma of Ur, we find: ‘I place my foot on the necks of thieves and criminals. I clamp down on evildoers, who will be caught like snakes. I fenced out fugitives, and their intentions will be set right.’19 ‘I have brought about the extermination of the cut-throats who roam the desert,’ reads another hymn to King Išme-Dagan of Isin,20 and Nu-r-Adad of Larsa boasted ‘I destroyed the robber, the wicked, and the evil-doer among the people.’21 Kings of the Ur III and Old Babylonian periods also alluded in vague terms to the dangerous conditions they alleviated beyond the city walls, claiming to ‘secure safe roads’ through the countryside,22 ‘eradicate armed violence,’ and put an end to ‘intimidation.’23 In omens and royal inscriptions, ‘robbers’ were semantically assimilated to other excoriated and dangerous (but ill-defined) non-state peoples at the geographic fringes of the state, in need of organizing, variously called ‘enemies’ (nakru-), ‘evildoers’ (ḫa-bilu-), ‘criminals’ (sarra-ru-), ‘runaways’ (munnabtu-), and ‘cattered people’ (nišı- sapḫati).24 By the Old Babylonian period, sa-gaz/ḫabba-tu more specifically denoted a class of persons recognized at an institutional level, rather than designating individual ‘thieves’ (whether fictional or real).25 We do not lack for attestations of such people: already by 1982, by one account, there were more than two hundred and fifty known references to sa-gaz,26 with new examples emerging all the time. Raymond Westbrook distinguished between the legal sense of (individual) theft/burglary and (collective) robbery in this way: Theft with violence was regarded as a separate offence (verb ḫaba-tum), probably because it reflected a different social reality. Robbers were typically outsiders who waylaid travelers or raided settled areas. If caught, they could be killed [SR: i.e., as hostis humani generis], but they were not often caught. Consequently, it was the local authorities who were obliged to compensate the victims (LH 22–24).27 Hossein Badamchi has collected a host of Ur III, OB, and Nuzi texts alluding to attacks on merchants and messengers by ‘robbers,’ and the responsibility of provincial authorities to protect against them,28 including a few other Old Babylonian letters which associate ḫabba-tu- with raiding, robbery, and ‘enemies’: ‘concerning the well-being of the land: a raid by the enemy’; ‘concerning the palace servant girl whom they carried off in the razzia’; and so on.29 Another letter tells us that ‘robbers’ are to surrender after their plundering of

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a farmstead (AbB VII 116); while in another, an official is reprimanded for not bringing ‘criminals and robbers’ in to his superior (AbB VIII 28; but see below). Yet another reads: As you have heard, the land is in confusion, and the enemy has settled in the countryside. … Take one lamb from the sheep to the diviner and find out about my oxen and my sheep, whether they must come here where I am. If no enemy attack (tı-bi nakrim) or raid by robbers (tı-bi ḫabba-tim) will take place, they must come here where I am. Or else bring them into the city of Kiš, so that the enemy cannot get them.30 Loan documents for overland trade expeditions indemnified investors against losses incurred due to brigandage: ‘If the creditor entrusts the silver for trade or lends it to a third party, he is not liable for outstanding debts or loss due to highway robbery.’31 This concern was mirrored by the common use of a repayment clause in other commercial loans, in which repayment was stipulated only ‘at the safe completion of the journey.’32 Old Assyrian letters show that ḫabba-tu could also be a problem for caravans in the north, characterizing their looting as them having ‘eaten the land clean’;33 at least two intercity trade treaties of the period specify that the other party would not use ḫa-piru to disrupt trade.34 One Old Assyrian letter (to which we will return) reads in part: Speak to the gods and to the city, thus (said) the merchants of Tamkur: You know that the roads have become full of hardship. As for the revolt of the region, since ḫabba-tus rebelled (and as a result) are controlling the mountains, the caravans … repeatedly [in the middle of] the country in distress. … Our profit and every single shekel of silver which we left behind in the region have disappeared.35 Evidence from documents like these lends credence to the idea that there were some patches of territory that were not under the full control of states;36 one imagines a countryside infested by thieves. Where the documentation of piracy becomes more tricky is in the question of what to do with the many references to piratical behavior that was not clearly attributed to sa-gaz by name. One dimension of this question is functional, insofar as cattle raiding, kidnapping, and asymmetric warfare (e.g. ambushes, use of difficult terrain, spectacular violence) are all well-attested in several periods of Mesopotamian history without necessarily having been carried out by sa-gaz.37 Another dimension is areal, in that the countryside for all sorts of purposes was often held to be an unsafe place, one to be avoided by individuals and occasionally patrolled by troops, though the dangers were various and never limited to sa-gaz.38 And a third dimension is terminological: when brigandage was carried out by people only called ‘the enemy,’ without distinction to origin; where ‘enemy,’ of course, could just as easily refer to the troops of another state as to anyone else, and sometimes certainly did.39 But

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some references also likened ‘enemies’ to ‘robbers,’40 and many ‘enemies,’ instead of engaging in regular warfare, rustled cattle,41 seized hostages,42 and ‘blocked (passage out of) the city gate’43 or otherwise made travel and commerce unsafe,44 activities more paradigmatic of ‘robbers.’ (I find it odd that letter-writers would not identify the specific name or origin of enemies if and when they could, as for, e.g., ‘enemies from Ešnunna.’)45 Taken together, what we can say is that there is some modest corroboration for the literary image of the robber as a real and everyday problem for Mesopotamian states. A small but steady drumbeat of letters and economic texts suggests brigandage as a hazard to travelers, a perpetual transaction cost for overland trade, and a subsistence strategy for some marginal people—even if they were not always called ‘robbers.’ What are we to make of all this? Of piracy without pirates, and (as we shall now see) vice-versa?

The ḫabba-tu and their alters The foregoing ‘police blotter’ must be tempered by the fact that when people called ‘sa-gaz’ appeared in administrative texts of the Babylonian south as far back as the mid-third millennium, they only did so in the blandest possible roles, as economic producers: reporting for work,46 delivering finished products,47 or given rations.48 The lúsa-gaz is even listed among the so-called ‘professions’ in Early Dynastic lexical lists, alongside anodyne jobs such as ‘oil-presser,’ ‘courtyard sweeper,’ and ‘midwife.’49 One Ur III literary letter depicts the ‘sa-gaz’ as an unruly and unregulated (but not dangerous or hostile) people who simply had the unmitigated gall to carry out their affairs without reference to state rules: These bandits (lúla-ga) and brigands (lúsa-gaz) applied their hoes to level the desert completely. As for their men and their women: the man among them goes wherever he pleases, the woman among them, holding a spindle and hair clasp in her hand, goes the way of her choice. In the vastness of the desert they knock up animal pens, and after setting up their tents and camps, their workers and agricultural labourers spend the day together on the fields. A structured connection between a ‘robber class’ and the state persisted down through the Ur III and into the Old Babylonian period, when sa-gaz remained a distinct group of people who collected rations, tilled fields, performed military service, and were overseen by designated state officials (sukkal/ugula sa-gaz, ‘secretary/captain of the sa-gaz’).50 In the north, where ḫabba-tu were clearly organized along military lines as seasonal mercenaries, there are references to them in numbers up to 10,000 at a time under the control of generals (ugula), section-leaders (gal ku5 ša lúḫ.), tribal ‘princes’ (buka-šum),51 and named individuals (i.e., strongmen who, without title, commanded their own contingents of armed men).52 From letters and administrative texts—practical documents— ḫabba-tu- were overwhelmingly documented as mercenaries (especially in northern Mesopotamia),53 workers (in the south),54 and semi-nomads outside

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of the settled areas—but not as brigands. Through their project and group identity (at the exonymous level, at least), their identifiable leadership structure, and their control of territory, sa-gaz units exhibited some degree of parasocial organization. Yet though we find this second-millennium record mostly descriptive of settled and productive fringe groups, we must also acknowledge undeniable records of attacks on caravans, cattle raiding, ships gone missing in transit, highway robbery, slaving, smuggling, and local protection rackets, even if many of them have no clear connection to ḫabba-tu- or ḫa-piru-. It is a mixed picture which might lead one to think that a search for real Mesopotamian pirates would be chimerical. But the amount of evidence wants an account that makes sense of all these features within one framework. Though it would be too much to say that Mesopotamians were at the mercy of brigands, brigandage did exist at the vulnerable margins of state societies—out in the countryside, in the night, when a poor northern girl was trafficked down the Euphrates for sale in Babylonia. We may begin by untangling some of the easy equations between ‘robbers’ and brigandage without turning them into full negations. Some of the conflicting signals about who ‘robbers’ were, for one, may stem from either our modern uncertainty about and/or the actual ancient ambivalence of the etymological derivation of ḫabba-tu-. Akkadian offers us not one, not two, not three, but four separate homonymous verbs ḫaba-tu (A–D): in brief, ‘to rob,’ ‘to borrow,’ ‘to prevail,’ and ‘to move across (territory),’ respectively. It has been suggested that the dual(?) root of ḫabba-tu may accommodate both the first and last of these senses,55 pointing to the essentially perspectival nature of the word. An equation of ‘robbers’ with ‘emigrants’ bespeaks a lack of clarity or concern on the part of settled, literate people about who many of these outside people were, an assumption of a fundamental identity between many different groups. The word ḫabba-tu is then a classic structural trap, inviting us to imagine a single coherent social class with a strong abstract sense of ethnocultural identity, where only multiple and disparate group consciousness existed among dozens if not hundreds of separate collectives. As if these several contexts, functions, and terminological problems were not confusing enough, the term ḫabba-tu was and is profoundly entangled, etmyologically and notionally, in a special historiographic problem. This has to do with the word's possible relation to the word ḫa-piru-, which was, problematically enough, also sometimes written as Sumerian lúsa-gaz.56 Ḫa-piru was another collective term for a class of (mostly) soldiers (much like the ḫabba-tu in north-Mesopotamian contexts), best known from Late Bronze contexts, especially in the Amarna letters.57 Although the two words may be near-synonyms for the same kinds of people, the word ḫa-piru- alone generated a very large secondary literature for about a century (still ongoing in some quarters) that attempted to tease out the relationship of these wandering outsider ḫa-piru--people to ‘the Hebrews.’ One should better imagine this intellectual thicket than enter it.58 But the problem is an instructive model for

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how the historical roles of Babylonian ‘robbers’ and ‘enemies’ have often been complicated by ultimately unhelpful questions of their ethnic identity. Enemies, robbers, and scattered people have all often been associated with various ethnonyms on very scanty evidence—as Amorites, Kassites, Suteans, Subareans, among dozens of others, people with whom central states came into both conflict and cooperation. Some of these names were purely exonyms anyway (i.e., with no clearly meaningful identity for the people those names purported to distinguish).59 We may take up two instructive examples, though they clarify the nature of our confusion rather than resolving it. The first example relates to the rebellious ḫabba-tu in the Assyrian letter quoted above. Although their predation on caravans indeed seems the most likely reading of that letter (though it is uncertain that the letter actually accuses them of robbing), it is clear that these ḫabba-tu were mercenaries who had secondarily turned to piracy as a consequence of their ‘rebellion,’ rather than performing a primary function as a ‘band of robbers.’60 The letter illustrates how slippery a slope we are talking about when we mistake a name for an identity: these are titularly ‘robbers’ who were engaged in ‘robbery,’ yet we miss their identity as mercenaries if we think of them as brigands. Another case comes in two related Babylonian letters, AbB VIII 24 and 28. In AbB VIII 28, an official upbraids a man named Ṣilli-Marduk for failing to bring in ‘robbers and criminals’ (sarram ù ḫabba-tam), and says that he will be held responsible for any crime committed in the land. But in AbB VIII 24, we find that Ṣilli-Marduk is himself called the ‘Overseer of the “Robbers”’ (ugula lú sa.gazmeš, an office attested several times in Babylonian sources).61 He is informed that twenty men have been killed between a city and a fortress; that the way of a caravan is cut off; and that he is to restrain the caravan from proceeding. It is hardly clear, between the two letters, whether the ‘robbers’ under the authority of Ṣilli-Marduk were the source of the attacks on the road; or whether he was meant to regulate interactions between ‘robbers’ and the state authority; or whether yet again the ‘robbers’ who were summoned were not in fact mercenaries meant to protect the caravans and travelers. It is very likely that these two situations do not call for exclusive readings, but describe problems of liminality—descriptions for groups which were neither fully in nor out of state control, and whose capacity for violence was ambivalently both used and feared by state societies. This would hardly be the first or last time in history that a sub-class which otherwise cooperated with states also occasionally clashed with it, and/or was simultaneously vilified by that culture’s literature. It is the kind of cultural ambivalence that has marked the stories of imperialism, colonialism, and Orientalism from earliest times, and it is one that deserves to be applied as well to groups I would classify as ‘warlord’ societies.

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Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges … Warlordism should describe groups with a primary project identity as mercenaries (whether currently employed or not), identifiable by sufficient attributes such as distinct denomination, toponymic/territorial location, independent subsistence, and parasocial organization (especially officers or strongmen). They had a name, they lived in a place, they got by on their own or on their own terms, and one could treat with them through identifiable leaders. What they lacked (or cared not a fig for) were the aspects of state society which validated these social, economic, and political dimensions by ideology or theology. In fact, it is this absence of validating maneuvers that is the warlord’s necessary attribute: as Dawdy and Bonni (2012: 677) write, ‘pirate cultures’ are those that ‘share a basic set of characteristics defined by their ambiguous legitimacy (often imperially illegal but locally licit).’ Warlordism is a form of social organization which we may think of as imitative or derivative of state behavior (if not openly parasitical of states) but which deserves an account independent of normative state narratives. The discourse of state societies can be expected to code non-state people living outside of legimated (i.e., by law)62 systems—even ones whose services they regularly used—as ‘robbers’ or the like; while by all functional criteria such groups were non-aligned warlord societies. In this context, I am not concerned to establish wardlordism as an ineradicable feature of some long-term homeostatic balance between state and non-state mercenary-groups, of which there are almost innumerable examples (e.g., the Italian condottieri of 14th/ 15th centuries AD, or the armatoloi of the Ottoman empire), and which undoubtedly persists as a sociological type to this day. Rather, my interest lies in the specific dynamic and categorical changes wrought upon Middle Bronze state organization through long-term exposure to the sa-gaz as an episode of historical change; not in how these robbers came to resemble a state, but in how this state came to resemble its robbers, down to the point where it just didn’t exist anymore. Space here does not permit a full survey of the whole political landscape of mercenaries in the Middle Bronze Age. A brief description will have to make do with a partial list of the groups employed as the mercenaries of these Mesopotamian states: Amorites, Gutians, Subareans, Suheans, Kassites, Elamites, Samḫareans, Haneans, Hanigalbateans, Aḫlamû, Amna-nû, Yaḫrurû, Rabbeans, Jamutbal, Yaminites, Sima’lites, Suteans, Numḫeans, Lullû, Hadneans … the parade of ethnonyms is virtually endless. Yet as long as the list is, for the bulk of the epoch the list of kingdoms and state armies was longer: as a general rule for the period ca. 2100–1750 BC, mercenary groups, whether denominated ethnically or geographically, were actors squarely subordinate to the states that employed them. Notwithstanding, we may note that state warfare practices themselves set standards sometimes indistinguishable from brigandage. As early as the Ur III period, the regular tax structure for conquered territories (gún ma-da, ‘the

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tribute of the lands’) was based on the annual delivery of animals seized by soldiers from the local population, depending on their rank: ten oxen and 100 sheep from generals (šagina), two oxen and twenty sheep from lieutenants (nu-banda), and a notional amount of silver from foot soldiers (erén).63 Methods of collection are not documented, but it seems naïve to think it was effected as orderly ‘taxation.’ Old Babylonian state armies regularly engaged in cross-border cattle raiding, hostage-taking, guerilla tactics, night attacks, caravan attacks, destruction of canals, fields, and civilians, spectacular/terrorizing violence, fearmongering and anonymity, and of course looting and the seizure of booty (šallatu): ‘How can 5,000 troops return empty-handed to camp?’ asked a disappointed Ḫammurabi after one campaign gone awry.64 At this level, it seems almost pointless to distinguish the ‘regular’ warfare of state militaries from the ‘irregular’ predations of bandits; the only real distinctions seem to be whether or not mercenaries were employed, and whether or not they retained their independent nomenclature. If non-state groups were ‘imitative’ of state behaviors, we must allow that those behaviors included everything we might, absent legitimizing titles, call ‘banditry’ anyway. The balance of state/non-state military groups changed drastically around the middle of the 18th century. The pace of regional warfare first began to pick up around 1830 BC. By the pivotal decades of 1770–1750, in the wake of the super-regional wars between Babylon, Mari, Ešnunna, and Elam (among many others), mercenary contingents attained larger and larger sizes while maintaining their ethnic diversity and gaining the collective nomenclature ḫabba-tu—while the list of sponsoring states grew smaller and smaller. After 1750, the number of states in contact with one another shrank from a massive network to a bare handful. Here there is no reason to try to improve on the language of Jesper Eidem, writing of the north-Mesopotamian ḫabba-tu (emphases mine):65 What is particularly interesting about the ḫabba-tum is the fact that they seem to be a basically new phenomenon. From the slightly older texts found at Mari we have many examples of kings using foreign troops, but such troops were usually sent as auxiliaries by foreign kings. … The ḫabba-tum, on the other hand, are apparently independent groups of professional soldiers who seem basically detached from any fixed political control … [with movements that were] seasonal and related to conventional periods for conducting war. … Why then do we in this particular period, i.e. around 1750 BC, have the occurrence of large groups of professional mercenaries, fundamentally outside of state control, and apparently able to influence political events in a fairly decisive manner? … The end of this period is marked by a severe reduction in the number of such major city-states. … Viewed in this perspective, the appearance of large groups of redundant soldiers in the countryside is hardly surprising … [O]n a long term basis, their existence must clearly have constituted a destabilizing factor.

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What has not received so much attention is what happened with these destabilizing ḫabba-tu-groups in the south of Mesopotamia, especially following the collapse of the great states in 1750.66 Without states to name them collectively, I have proposed (2005) that the many mercenary groups stationed in ex-urban fortresses were in effect not only exactly the same politically ambivalent mercenary-forces, but ones which had developed substantial group identity over the 150-year period of a weak Babylonian state from 1750–1600. By the Late Old Babylonian period, the state’s fortresses substantially outnumbered its cities six to one. At least twenty-eight fortress communities can be identified as active—and perhaps another fifteen more—against only four cities.67 Who was in these fortresses? Within the past decade, we have been lucky enough to have the archives of not one, but two of these fortresses published. The first, from Ḫaradum on the Euphrates, paints a multi-ethnic portrait through the onomasticon of its inhabitants alone.68 The second archive, with hundreds of texts, comes from the fortress Du-r-Abiešuḫ, and is even more revealing by documenting at least fifteen separate mercenary groups stationed or passing through the place—including ḫa-piru (and perhaps ḫabba-tu)69—all marked by different ethnonyms or geographic origins. They came from as far apart as Aleppo and Elam (a distance of almost 1500 km), including groups as diverse as Arameans from Syria, Jamutbal from the trans-Tigris, and Suteans from the mid-Euphrates region. Altogether, there are fifteen non-Babylonian groups mentioned in seventy-two texts.70 Next to these, only four or five specifically Babylonian contingents are named, in only twelve texts.71 Are these not ḫabba-tu-? Mirroring the heterogeneous makeup of fortress life, the Late OB countryside was also dotted with tribal encampments and military outposts not belonging to the state: Kassite troop encampments (é.ḫá Kaššû),72 a ‘camp of the Elamites’ (karaš lú.nim.ma),73 and the still-mysterious term maḫanu,74 among other unspecified ‘enemies.’75 A military apparatus had grown up to facilitate interaction between the multi-ethnic fortresses and the non-state camps, in the use of the erén kı-dim (‘troops in the outskirts’),76 scouts (lúa-miru),77 and the development of civic titles for countryside places, such as ‘governors/elders/ citizens of the countryside/river-district/fortress.’78 There was also a new emphasis for divination to determine questions of safe movement in the countryside. The textual tradition of liver divination, by then in its second editorial phase,79 had been repurposed as a particular knowledge claim related to the movement of troops and goods in a militarized countryside, as well as for the use of kings and courts engaged in interstate competition, which better characterized its first phase.80 Mercenaries thus had not only senses of community, identity and order, but also epistemic control. What we read in state records about the lives and towns of mercenary groups has of course been heavily filtered through the lens of state administrative practices: what they were paid, how much grain they ate, how many men they had. It may take an act of historical imagination to think that groups of non-state people settled in small garrison towns for decades and

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then centuries took on a form of group identity we might call warlordism— but not much. By the 17th century BC, these mercenaries had been settled for generations in these fortresses, undertaken primary production of fields they called their own (rather than being provisioned by the state),81 and developed semi-independent powers to levy travel tolls, control local territory, and detain persons for ransom or enslavement. The conditions we see reflected in the 17th century Babylonian record are consistent not only with the idea that warlordism was emergent in this era, but that the state itself began to take on features of warlordism. This included a receding level of the king’s authority inside of cities, where they invested less and less in building city walls and temples, and an increasing authority over the countryside, as they increasingly voiced their power over the ma-tim, ‘the land.’ Meanwhile, the king’s messaging apparatus shrank to almost nothing: the royal inscription and hymnic tradition that had been vigorously pursued by Hammurabi and Samsuiluna in the 18th century was now all but abandoned. It is also from the late reign of Samsuiluna onward that we see more of an emphasis on specific contingents of troops that belonged to the king,82 and designations of officials loyal to his person.83 There was an overall devolution from a legal and territorial royal authority to one that better resembled the desmesne authority of a lord over a fief, one step closer to the warlords with whom the kings now treated, instead of other kings. What happened at the end of the First Dynasty of Babylon in 1595 BC may never be known. Despite the confident tone of many textbooks, which tell us that the Hittites destroyed Babylon, only four of thirteen later accounts of the event named the Hittites as the responsible party (and two of those four are Hittite texts anyway). In fact, no fewer than eleven other groups of attackers are named by later omens, epics, and just-so stories: Hurrians, Amorites, Haneans, Kassites, Suteans, Elamites, Idamaras., Ḫanigalbat, Samḫarû, and the troops of the Sealand.84 In some accounts, seemingly no single identity can be summoned forth from historical memory, where the ethnic makeup or origin of the enemy hardly mattered. Here, they are just called ‘the enemy,’ or ‘the foreign-speaking troops,’ or—perhaps most eloquently—the so-called ‘Edašuštû troops,’ which means literally ‘the sixty-armed mob.’85 A tradition survived that a Hittite invasion finished Babylon off, but only in the broader context of struggles against many armed groups who were already inhabiting the local landscape. The list of remembered enemies is perilously similar to ethnicities we find for the troops quartered in Du-r-Abiešuḫ. We may also consider an 8th-century tamı-tu-oracle purporting to describe the final peril of Samsuditana, last king of the dynasty, besieged by these many enemies and defended only by ‘the garrison of Marduk’ at the gate of Babylon.86 I think I do not overtax the evidence if I draw a likeness between the ḫabba-tu of the 18th-century north; the multi-ethnic contingents of soldiers at Du-r-Abiešuḫ (and undoubtedly in many of the state’s other fortresses); and the hordes who were dimly remembered in later ages as the ones who demolished the state.

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Conclusions This returns us to the ḫabba-tu, about whom I will make two propositions, first to conceive of a spectrum of legitimacy and parasocial organization along which political authority may be located: {illegitimacy} criminals ↔ ‘social bandits’ ↔ mercenaries ↔ states {legitimacy} The de-legitimizing terminologies for all groups to the left of the state’s position were, of course, products of the ideologies and discourses of state society, while those groups themselves (especially in deep antiquity) rarely expressed their own views about the state in the record left to us.87 But if one accepts that every culture includes some social groups at all points along the spectrum simultaneously, we are never talking about a single absolute status for any one state society, but rather a distribution of weight along a continuum, and it is that distribution which is historically-particular and informative about the whole. The second and more important point is that the most vital aspect of the simple diagram above is not the relative weight of legitimacy accorded to each point along the spectrum, but the relational symbol ‘↔’ itself. This is not so much because legitimacy is a relative or fluid discourse (as it is), but because the center of gravity exercises force upon and informs neighboring points along the organizational spectrum. In this sense and case, it is not relevant in and of itself whether we call ḫabba-tu ‘robbers’ or mercenaries; not whether they were more closely assimilated to states or criminals; but that the weakness of the Babylonian state in the 17th century, and indeed the weakness (if not full collapse) of the international system (only within which can states maintain their meaningful identity anyway) relative to the strength of these groups was the crucial motor for historical change. The larger proportion of social power located with ḫabba-tu groups changed the premises on which the state acted and organized, corroding, destabilizing, and finally dismantling the state itself. Just in the way that it would be fruitless to study Roman pirates absent the context of Rome’s sovereign claims on the Mediterranean; or early modern pirates without reference to European colonialism; the bandits of Middle Bronze Mesopotamia make sense only by reference to the territorial expansion of and interstate warfare between states in that political landscape. These states first made their ‘monopolist claims and incursions’ upon that landscape;88 then tried to limit the power of the peripheral groups over whom they could not establish full sovereignty; then organized them as proxies to fight in what was as close to a ‘world war’ as that culture ever knew; and finally, the state system, collapsing everywhere, found that those groups remained more resilient and archetypal than states themselves. These pirates were not only responsive to the ‘monopolist incursions and restrictions’ of the state, but made incursions and restrictions of their own on states. By the end, at a point when the distinction

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hostis humani generis had lost all meaning, the ḫabba-tu felt they no longer needed badges to exercise their power. But this was also, hardly coincidentally, the very moment at which our sources go silent for nearly two centuries, until very different states would emerge in the Late Bronze Age, along with their own ḫa-piru. But that is a pirate story for another time.89

Notes 1 ETCSL 6.1.13 (SP 13.3), as la-ga, ‘thief ’ rather than sa-gaz. 2 Geller (1985) 59 ll. 648, 658, with commentary 124–125 (an Old Babylonian text); cf. Geller (2007) 135, 220, Tablet 7 l. 2 (first-millennium BC): ‘the evil Sheriff-demon, released from the steppe, takes no pity (even) on the robber.’ See also Schwemer (2012). Cf. the demonic aspect of the šagga-šû, ‘murderer.’ See also n. 15 below. 3 L. 110, lú ḫi-ḫi-a-meš, lit. ‘mixed(-up) men;’ cf. the Edašuštu mentioned below, ad loc. n. 83. 4 ETCSL 1.4.3 l. 45. 5 Invective about ‘robbers’ linked them repeatedly to mountain origins and Gutian ethnicity, as in a Hymn to Nergal (ETCSL 4.15.2: ‘You are the lord who has made the bandits come forth from the mountains’) and the Šulgi E Hymn (ETCSL 2.4.2.05: ‘I repelled the tribal Gutians, the bandits of the hills’). 6 For the likening of desert thieves to lions, note the proverb: ‘A thief is a lion, but after he has been caught, he will be a slave’ (ETCSL 5.6.1: 30f.); the omen apodosis ‘either a lion or robbers will cause that man to abandon his expedition’ (CT 39 25 in CAD N/2 s.v. ne-šu s. 1b-2'); and the tamı-tu-oracle query ‘Will he escape from an attack of the enemy, an attack of lions, an attack of robbers?’ (IM 67692, ibid. 1b-3'). Other aspects of lion behavior which are possibly metaphorical for brigandage include: their blocking of the roads, attacking caravans, and those who leave the city gate; the close restriction of the term (CAD A Š/2) šiḫt.u A to refer to attacks by lions/snakes/dogs, demons, and raiding; and the description of behavior of both robbers and lions as ‘rampaging’ see CAD N/1 s.v. nada-ru v. 2a, c. 7 CAD S sarru A s. 3f; see a similar tamı-tu-query s.v. CAD Š/1 s.v. šala-lu 2c: ‘inquiry concerning a campaign to an enemy country for killing, robbing, and plundering.’ 8 CAD S s.v. sugullu s. a. 9 Freedman (1998): Šumma Ālu 1:129; see also Freedman (2006): Šumma Ālu 2:24; cf. 1:105 and 133: ‘thieves’ and ‘marauders,’ respectively. 10 Exs. from CAD Ḫ s.v. ḫabba-tu s. 1b; T s.v. te-šû s. 1a; N/1 s.v. nadû v. 7e. 11 CAD B s.v. be-ru B adj. b. 12 Geller (1997) 1. 13 LAOS 4, 11 obv. 2 (http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/seal/akklove/corpus); see also LAOS 4 27–34, obv. 20 for ‘the enemy.’ 14 W 23766 obv. i’ 23' (http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/dcclt/qpn-x-celest#X000182. 21); see also Rutz (2016) 32, 45. 15 Schwemer (2012) ll. 26–27. One later OB incantation likewise protected against ‘the enemy and the robber,’ Stol (2004) 799 n. 1085. See also ḫabba-tu in Maqlû 2: 120–121: ‘May [the god] cause a robber to carry off [the afflicting witch’s] goods, cause a plunderer to lie in wait at their resting place.’ Though most incantations (even in Sumerian) date to substantially later than the Early Dynastic, some are thought to have much earlier forerunners, the most relevant of which would be the robber’s likeness to the Alû-demon of the series Udug-ḫul. See n. 2 above; Geller (1985) 3–5 & (2007) xi–xiii. 16 CAD N s.v. nakru s. 2h. 17 CAD M/1 s.v. ma-naḫtu s. 4; E s.v. ekke-mu s. a.

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18 Not only were ‘legitimate’ wielders of force such as policemen demonized just like robbers in early Sumerian literature (e.g., as when the same attackers of Dumuzi are called rabis.u or ‘baliff-demons’), but the police-demon and the thief were even lexically equated; see Erimḫuš 5 l. 72, lú lul-la-ga = ra-bi-s.u (http://oracc.museum.upenn. edu/qcat/corpus). See further Geller (1997) 2 on demons as ‘police-like’ figures. 19 Ur-Namma C ll. 35–37 (ETCSL 2.4.1.3), with gur5 (about the ‘fugitives’) understood as ‘to cut off’, more specific than ‘to cut.’ 20 Išme-Dagan A (ETCSL 2.5.4.01). 21 RIME 4 2.8.7 ll. 53–54 (sa-gaz, lú-ḫul-gál, and lú-nì-erím, respectively); similarly RIME 4 2.13.13 ll. 20–31. See further Badamchi (2013) 59. 22 Roth (1995) 16 (Ur-Namma). See similar boasts of ‘making the roads safe/passable.’ See also ETCSL 2.4.1.3 l. 19, 2.4.2.01 l. 28, 2.5.3.2 l. 24, 2.6.9.5 l. 75, 2.8.5. a l. 20, etc. Cf. images of chaos characterized by robbers blocking the roads, e.g., in the Erra Epic: ‘I will make robbers rise,’ swears the god, ‘and they will block the road’ (CAD A/1 s.v. alaktu s. 3b). 23 Roth (1995) 25 (Lipit-Ištar) and 133 (Ḫammurabi), respectively. At least one Old Babylonian law refers not to the burglary of urban houses by individual thieves, but protections for citizens captured while raiding (LE {29, šiḫit. ḫarra-ni); others may include LE {50 and LH {23, both invoking the responsibilities of rural authorities to protect property against theft, and perhaps LH {102, concerning losses on a business trip. 24 Richardson (2012) 9, 25–32. 25 Beside e.g. šarra-qu typically an individual ‘thief,’ and šagga-šû ,‘murderer’, perhaps Perhaps also written sa-gaz, see discussion s.v. Š/1 p. 71, where that reading is noted, but not accepted. See further Badamchi (2016). Although ḫabba-tu could also be used to refer to an individual ‘robber’, the verb ḫaba-tu itself (‘to rob’) is rare in the OB, while the noun was commonly pluralized, e.g. awilê ḫabba-tı- used to form classifications like ma-r ḫabba-tu (lit. ‘son of a robber’, recognizing a type), appeared as a collective term for administrative purposes, e.g., rations distributed to the lúsa-gaz(meš) (where the optional meš indicates a group) and was often paired with other collectives such as ‘the enemy.’ 26 Owen (1982) 73. 27 Westbrook (2003) 421 {8.4.5. 28 Badamchi (2013). It is not clear that every instance he discusses is a theft by ‘robbers’ as such, but the overall picture in which the delegation of responsibility for the safety of goods and persons in the countryside to local officials is convincing, well-accepted, and similar treaty terms existed in the Old Assyrian and Amarna corpora. See also for example this Nuzi text reading: ‘[The mayor] will watch over his town within its borders all around, and there shall occur no robbery within the borders of his town; if within the borders of his town a robbery occurs, the mayor will be held responsible’ (CAD P s.v. pa-t.u s. 3a). 29 E.g., AbB VIII 28. See also CAD Š/2 s.v. šiḫt.u A s. 1c with the meaning ‘attack, raid, razzia’ for more examples. 30 AbB XIV 81. 31 MDP 23 271 cited by CAD Q s.v. qâpu A v. 3b; see other exs. CAD A/1 s.v. aḫa-zu 9f. The concern is echoed by a later hemerological omen, which concludes: ‘He should not make a journey, or robbers will kidnap him’ (KAR 147 r. 12). 32 The clause ina šalam girrišu and the like, Skaist (1994) 183–188. Although Skaist translates only a functional ‘at the completion of the journey.’ CAD Š/1 s.v. šala-mu v. 2c provides the examples that demonstrate the context of risk, with the meaning ‘to arrive safely’ for caravans/boats, goods, and people. 33 Dercksen & Donbaz (2001) 108. From Mari letters, note examples of razzia cited CAD Š/2 s.v. šiḫtu A s. 1c.

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34 Günbatti (2004) 254 (Kt. 00/k 6) including provisions against ‘vagrants’ and 259 (Kt. 00/k 10): ‘You shall not instruct vagrants (ḫa-pirum) in lie and evil to sink a boat (belonging to an Assyrian) and to cause the loss of that freight.’ 35 Dercksen & Donbaz (2001) 103, 107. The editors state that the earliest use of the word ḫabba-tu in the north comes from the time of Zimri-Lim of Mari (ca. 1770 BC) in ARM XXVIII 40, where the term strictly meant ‘mercenary.’ See further Eidem (2011)18f; Charpin (1984) 280: ‘solides montagnards.’ 36 See Dawdy (2011) 380–382 on incomplete sovereignties. 37 See Richardson (2016a) 41–47. Note also Eidem (2011) 21 on the case of a ḫa-piruemigrant who, collecting a band of ‘outlaws’ (sarra-rum), began kidnapping people (ḫaba-tum ‘to steal’) and selling them as slaves. 38 See esp. the ‘trouble in the countryside’ letters of Richardson (2005). My point there was that most of the efforts to discover the ethnic identity of ‘enemies’—i.e. who they were—has failed to take account of the aspect that is most stressed by the letters: where they were. See also AbB VII 88 datable by prosopographic evidence to the Late OB, and to be added to the foregoing dossier: IX 118, IX 134?, XI 188?, XII 124, XIII 25 and 154, XIV 131; also CUSAS 36 19. Cf. the cryptic distinction made by the fragmentary AbB XII 166 that ‘those who live in Larsa belong to the king,’ while ‘those who live in open country do the work of […].’ 39 See e.g., AbB VI 186; IX 32, 160; XI 61, 127; XII 182; XIV 8, 53, 114, 204. See also Richardson (2005). 40 XIV 81. See also CAD s.v. nakru s. 2h and i for pairings of enemies and robbers. 41 Cattle-rustling: AbB VI 165; XI 58; XII 172, 184; XIII 41; XIV 132. See also several of the letters in Richardson (2005) and CUSAS 36 22, in which a town, ‘besieged’ by a tribe, must move its cattle elsewhere. 42 E.g. AbB IX 32, XIV 224. It is, however, a very tricky business to distinguish between the legal detention of a person as a pledge for debt, and the illegal detention of a person for money as a ‘hostage.’ Notwithstanding the probability that most period references to ‘captives’ (s.abtu) were legally distrained pledges, it is easy to see how the system could be abused for extortion, ransom, and human trafficking, accusations much attested in the sources. 43 Enemies blocking the city gate: AbB IX 160; XI 61; XIV 8. Note the heavy presence of the image of the enemy blocking the city gate in ominous literature, e.g. Freedman (1998): Šumma Ālu 1:51, 9:17' and 21'. 44 Travel difficult: AbB XIV 53, 114. See above ad loc n. 32 concerning the phrase ina šalam girrišu. 45 Specified enemies: AbB VII 137; XII 182. 46 E.g., BDTNS TMH 5 8 (ED IIIb Nippur), listing five workers from the city of Šuruppak called sa-gaz; OSP 1 43, a man delivering five men called sa-gaz; cf. Attinger 2005 on sa-gaz AK as ‘faire le bandit.’ 47 BDTNS RA 86 97 r I 185. 48 BDTNS BM Messenger 180 1. 49 Lu D, Taylor (2003): §§6 and 7:14 and E (per PSD: Lu E 153, lú-sa-gaz![KUM]). See also OB lú-azlág B–C seg. 2 83–84, lú sa-gaz as šaggasum, ‘murderer,’ beside other terms: lú šu kar-re=maššiḫu, ‘robber’; lú gáb-kar-re=ekkemum, ‘robber’; lú zuḫ-a=šaraqum, ‘thief ’; lú é burudx-burudx=pallišu, ‘burglar’; and MB Ura 3:15, lú-šag4-gaz=ḫambatum. See http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/qcat. 50 For an overview, see the ca. 60 Ur III texts produced by a search of ‘sa-gaz’ in BDTNS; and the discussion under CAD Ḫ s.v. ḫabba-tu s. 2. 51 AbB VI 24. 52 Eidem (2011) 19; Durand (1992) 579; Durand (2005). 53 See esp. Eidem (2011) 18–22. 54 CAD Ḫ s.v. ḫabba-tu s. 2.

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56

57 58 59

60 61 62 63 64 65

66 67 68 69

70

71

72 73 74 75

25

See Durand (1992) 106 n. 71 observing the likelihood that both ḫa-piru and ḫabba-tu derive from verbs of motion (see also the discussion under CAD Ḫ s.v. ḫaba-ru B). Eidem (2011) 2, convincingly rejects the translation ‘robber’ in favor of ‘mercenary’ for the northern contexts he studies. Namely in Middle Bronze divinatory texts and in Late Bronze writings, including Syrian texts and the Amarna letters. Unlike ḫabba-tu, which survived into NeoBabylonian usage, ḫa-piru was substantially restricted to second-millennium use. See n. 25 above on the possible reading of sa-gaz also as šagga-šû, ‘murderer.' For Babylonian references, see e.g. OECT XV 10 and 29; CUSAS 29 39 and 62 (unindexed references); CAD Ḫ s.v. ḫa-piru s. (including also Assyrian and other citations). For a historiographic overview, see Durand (2005) 565–568. It has been my position that the absence of ethnonyms in Babylonian sources indicates a lack of knowledge about a group’s ethnic identity (because Mesopotamians were not shy of labeling people ethnically when they could) or its essentially non-ethnic makeup, a condition that has been very poorly theorized in Assyriological studies. See Richardson (2005). Note the several OB letters concerning caravans which contain no hint of even the worry of brigandage, e.g. AbB IX 130, 178, and 184; cf. AbB XI 193, on ‘killing’ caravans, the meaning of which is ambiguous. Also AbB II 35 and VII 116; YOS XIII 205; UET 5 687; see literature cited by Stol (2004) 798–799 and notes 1078–1083. However, see Richardson (2020 forthcoming) for a distinction between ‘legitimacy’ and ‘validity’ in the ancient context. Steinkeller (1991); see also Lafont (2009) §7.2. Richardson (2016a) 39–47. Eidem (2011) 19–21. As a corollary to the rapid emergence of this enormous population of stateless mercenaries, note also that Babylonia’s textual record post1750 also frequently documents women living as institutional dependents rather than as members of a household; on the connection of this phenomenon to warfare, see Richardson (2017) 90. E.g. Neither Durand (2005) or Eidem (2011) confines their remarks to the north-Mesopotamian world of Mari and northern Syria. See Richardson 2019a Against this, there were only four cities of the Babylonian state at this time: Babylon, Sippar, Dilbat, and Kiš. Joannès (2006). Oddly, neither of these two attestations of ḫa-piru is indexed by the editors. It is also possible that CUSAS 29 191:2 may be read as ½ gín aš-šum erén ḫa-°-ab-bi-tu (editors: ú-ḫa-x-ab-bi-tu), since no /ú/ sign is visible, and reading an erasure instead of a missing sign; ḫabbitu is of course not ḫabba-tu, but it is hard to think what else it would be. From the Du-r-Abiešuḫ texts edited in CUSAS 8 and 29: Aramean 29: 40; Arrapḫa 29: 40; Bimatî (a Kassite band) 29: 4, 6, 76, 85–106; Burašimu 29: 33; ‘citizens of the countryside’ (dumu.meš ma-tim) 29: 40, 120; Elam 29: 39–40, 56, 153–154; Gutium 29: 39–40, 142; Ḫalab (Aleppo) 29: 5, 39–40, 56, 142, 145, 186, 191; ḫa-piru 29: 39, 62; Idamaras. 29: 32, 39–40; Jamutbal 29: 40; Kassite 29: 31, 37, 39–40, 65, 77–80, 83–84, 107–108, 112, 152; Qatana 29: 30; Šadlaḫi 8: 82; Sutû 8: 81, 29: 28, 65, 206. From CUSAS 29: Babylon 29: 38; Isin 29: 8, 40; Kiš 29: 39; Uruk 29: 8. I will assume for the moment that troops from Maškan-ša-pir (CUSAS 29: 33, 39–40, 62, 110, 131, 142, 162) were regular state troops, but it is just as possible that they were in fact Jamutbal tribesmen. See especially van Koppen (2017); also Richardson (2005) 277; and AbB XI 94. CUSAS 29 56. CUSAS 29 162; see also Richardson (2005) 274 n. 2. See Pientka (1998) 257–272 (Kapitel 7, ‘Feindliche Bedrohung’) on the various Fremdvölker in the textual record of the Late Old Babylonian state.

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76 CUSAS 29 25; see also CUSAS 29 134. 77 CUSAS 29 17 (on a campaign into the countryside, ana girrim libbu ma-tim), 28, 39, 40; cf. 65, ‘information from/about the Kassites.’ Note also the role played by an a-miru in the second-to-last dated text we have from the Middle Bronze Age, moving grain into Babylon together with a diviner (VS 22 77, dated Sd 26/6/30); the next day (Sd 26/7/1), a related extispicy was performed by that same diviner (Richardson 2002: 234–35, 241–42 [Text 4]); I concluded this was ‘consistent with the probably increased militarization of the countryside in northern Babylonia in the late Old Babylonian period.’ 78 Richardson (2007) 24–25. 79 Richardson (2010a) 255–256. 80 See the extispical texts from the fortress Du-r-Abiešuḫ (CUSAS 29 45, 47–48, 55, 57, 62, 124, and esp. 206, along with probably many of the other sheep deliverytexts), and the important role that diviners played throughout the corpus published in CUSAS 8 and 29. See further Richardson (2010a) 250–251: ‘By a geography of knowledge, one would better contrast than compare temple religion (where truth was to be found with the god, in his cella, at the very heart of the city) to extispicy (where truth was to be found by a professional, inside a sheep, from the transhumant zones of the countryside).’ 81 E.g., many of the ration texts of CUSAS 29 for the fortress Du-r-Abiešuḫ specify the origin of their grain as local fields; see further Richardson (2007) 19, 24–25; (2010b) 15–18, ‘fortress provisioning texts,’ including rations for soldiers’ dependents. 82 Including the ‘royal guard’ (erén lugal.la: CUSAS 8 21, 51–53, 58, 62, 74–75, 82; MHET 6 893; etc.) and the ‘troops of the palace gate’ (erén ká é.gal: CUSAS 8 18–19; CUSAS 29 9, 40, 162–163; OLA 21 20; a.o.). Note from the later tamı-tuoracle that Samsuditana, the last king, is defended only by ‘the garrison of Marduk,’ Richardson (2016b) 118. 83 Those persons bearing the epithet lú ka-NE lugal (see e.g. CUSAS 8 p. 258 for references), known from the reign of Samsuiluna onward, whom Katrien De Graef and Anne Goddeeris have proposed as a ‘liaison officer of the king’ (in a paper given at the 2017 ASOR meeting in Boston). Note also šu.i lugal (Di. 214, YOS 13 163 and 271, and PBS 7 97), di.ku5 lugal, Joannès (2006) Text 23, dub.sar lugal (BM 80623 and 97643), and gal.ukken.na lugal (VS 7 141), all from the Late OB. 84 Richardson (2016b). 85 Richardson (2015). 86 Richardson (2016b) and (2019b). 87 As Dawdy and Bonni (2012) 675 put it: ‘Of course, the naming of who is a pirate and who is not—or whether piracy is a reprehensible crime against all humankind or not—depends upon the vantage point of the namer.’ 88 Richardson (2012). 89 In a paper on pirates, I will not resist a final note to point out that the cuneiform writing system permits at least five different ways to write the phoneme /ar/. See also Borger (1981) 227.

2

The limits of nationalism Brigandage: piracy and mercenary service in fourth century BCE Athens Matthew Trundle

What were the limits of a state’s and a citizen’s mutual obligations to each other in the fourth century BCE? On the one hand, individuals strove to better their circumstances and that of their family, economically and socially through service with others outside of the polis. On the other hand, the state balanced its duty to its people with a finite resource-base with which to redistribute a community’s wealth, provide reciprocal benefits for service and of course oversee the market and the exchange of commodities. States struck an ethical balance between prosecuting violence (hybris), while rewarding or denying rewards of honor. Honor and hybris aside, this chapter seeks to address the significant place of economic redistribution as an important aspect of the state. If we can use terms like nationalism and national identity in an Athenian context (let alone more broadly in a generic Greek-polis one), then these could not transcend the economic needs of the citizens of any Greek polis. Thus, mercenary service, brigandage and piracy offered enviable opportunities for enrichment overseas. This discussion explores the relevance of concepts like nationalism, poliscommunity and citizen-loyalty in fourth century BCE Athens.1 Two specific moments in the middle of the fourth century BCE illustrate well the tension between the city’s and its citizens’ responsibilities to each other and their mutual responsibilities or lack thereof. The first is a remarkable story found in the corpus of legal speeches attributed to Isaeus (Hagnias 11.48–9) concerning Macartatus. This Macartatus sold his land and bought a trireme in which he sailed to Crete, presumably on a plundering expedition. He almost started a war between Athens and Sparta. Fortunately for interstate relations he and his ship sank before matters could get out of control. The second moment comes in the form of an inscription that sought to prohibit Athenians from crossing the border to take military service in Boeotia, specifically then against Eretria an Athenian ally (Tod 2.154. 10–15). While different in nature and in source material,2 both incidents illustrate the loose nature of state control over Athenian citizens on the one hand and yet the state’s responsibilities for their actions on the other. Nothing resembling a modern nation-state emerged to unite those peoples who identified as Greeks in the classical era. Greek states themselves fiercely

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defended their independence (autonomia) and freedom (eleutheria). The Greeks of these poleis had found military service with eastern rulers from as early as the Archaic Age.3 By the fifth and fourth centuries Greeks in mercenary service increased exponentially.4 At the same time the disunity of Greek poleis manifested itself most clearly in warfare in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. Thus, more Greeks fought against the Greek states in the Persian wars than defended the mainland in 480 BCE. Spartans and Athenians had each sought Persian favor in the Peloponnesian War. Over 10,000 Greeks, whom Xenophon styled as xenoi, fought for Cyrus the Younger in his failed coup of 401 BCE. As the Theban Proxenus stated, Cyrus meant more to him than his native state (Xen. An. 3.1.4). On the other side a few Greeks even served for his brother the king (Xen. An. 2.1.7), for example Phalinus. Greeks found themselves on both sides between Persian Kings and Egyptian Pharaohs in the three fourth century wars for control of Egypt. Hired soldiers, those we would today call mercenaries in the Greek world, probably should be differentiated from ad hoc raiders (leistai) and pirates (peiratai) whether these were organized or more randomly in and out of piracy.5 That stated, G.T. Griffith notes and no doubt rightly that the profession of piracy – and with this he would likely also include those raiding on the land (leistai) – ‘had much in common with the mercenary calling.’6 Raiding, piracy and ‘mercenary’ activity would have attracted people seeking profit from violence and theft. The distinction between mercenary and raider or pirate was never big, though of course mercenaries by definition were employed and received (in theory) ‘regular’ wages. In this environment, individual Athenian aristocrats transgressed the boundaries of their own state and the loyalties that they owed to their individual polis. 7 Aristocratic Athenians, just like their poorer compatriots served overseas as the cohesion of the Athenian polis unraveled. The career of Alcibiades presents a paradigm of the complex allegiances of Greeks to their city of birth.8 This Athenian aristocrat sought Spartan and Persian support when it suited his needs, despite the damage he inflicted on his fellow Athenians, only to return to the Athenian cause and win major victories for his native state before once again returning to exile. Ritualized friendships and foreign relationships regularly transcended loyalty to one’s own city.9 Despite the realities of Greek military service, philosophers like Isocrates (most clearly at 5.120–121) called in vain for Greek unity against the Persians with idealized notions of common peace and united purpose. However, no such peace, and certainly no unity, ever emerged. As we discuss in a little more detail below, Athenian aristocrats and Athenians more generally continued to seek opportunities overseas. While the word nationalism with its modern connotations may not be the most accurate term to describe Athenian (or other Greek citizen) patriotic feeling, there was such a thing as the Athenian state and notions of citizenship and belonging that involved markers of identity and community, rights, duties and obligations. These rights, duties and obligations resemble those of modern nations in that they were of significance in social and political terms as well as

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religious, military and economic interconnections and associations. Edward Cohen in his important discussion of The Athenian Nation identifies several key points whereby we might isolate Athens as a nation for it had: a homogenous and mutually conceived identity, an ‘imagined community’ in its scale and organization that transcended an individual’s ability to know everyone within that community, a mythical identity that connected to its origins, influences and cohesiveness, a territorial focus, mobility and internal economy.10 In these facets, Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE could be said to have come close to ‘nationhood,’ even in modern terms. We might add to Cohen’s definitional models, and important for this discussion, that citizens represented their states as individuals and their individual actions were closely tied to their states, which in turn assumed some responsibility for the actions of their citizens both good and of necessity bad. The story of Macartatus presents both a good illustration of the relative potential freedom of citizens to act independently of their states, while highlighting at the same time the responsibilities that states had for the actions of their citizens. It also presents an alternative vision of Greek social, political and even economic ideals with civic identity dislocated from pure land ownership. We are so often told that land and its possession was central to Greek identity and belonging. Selling land for any reason theoretically carried enormous stigma. Indeed, in most states of the Greek world land-holding or land-ownership were pre-requisites of citizenship. Athens remained anomalous in that it incorporated citizens who theoretically owned no land at all (or even no property of any kind) and holding land was not a sine qua non for citizenship or status within the citizen group. The members of each of Solon’s tele achieved status, even those from the pentakosiomedimnoi through wealthproduction (even via trade) rather than solely through land-holding (though admittedly the vast majority of wealth remained in the hands of the landed elite). The new political class that emerged in the Peloponnesian War period did so in a world of new money and wealth accrued through trade, selling and investment as much as traditional land-holding.11 Cleon, hated by Thucydides as just such a ‘new’ man, notoriously known as the ‘seller of leather’ in Aristophanes’ Knights (125–143) on account of his family owning a tannery, represents neatly this new class of politician challenging the old elites. More significantly, as he was essentially the representative of the elite, Nicias the son of Nicaretus gained his wealth and associated place in the Athenian state through leasing slaves to the mines at Laureion (Plutarch, Nicias 4.2). He is thus a good example of how Athenian socio-political status transformed from one of purely land-based status to one of money even amongst those whose associations were entirely respectable in Athenian terms.12 His wealth and the position it allowed him, therefore, represent a significant shift in Athenian political life. Nicias led the Athenian elite and traditional aristocrats in the assembly, despite his business in slaves and coins. The Athenian Archê and the Peloponnesian War had cemented the significant place of coined silver as a form of money, a principal means of

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exchange, in the eastern Mediterranean.13 The importance of money to everything from state management, to trade and especially to warfare was a significant legacy of the fifth century to the fourth. Indeed, coinage produced a more mobile, transient and professional (for want of a better term) world in which specialists and soldiers could transcend their traditional communities and thrive abroad. We have already noted that the number of wage-earners (misthophoroi) serving in the military forces of wealthy foreigners grew exponentially in the last years of the fifth century and laid the foundations for the great mercenary armies of Greeks hired by men like Cyrus the Younger (in 401 BCE), and subsequently Egyptian Pharaohs, Persian Kings and their Satraps through the fourth century BCE. This monetized and mobile world provides the context for an obscure event that appears as an aside in one of Isaeus’ forensic speeches. The speech On the Estate of Hagnias concerns the legacy of the eponymous Athenian, Hagnias, who died in 396 BCE on official state business. The inheritance case in question is enormously complex, but almost as an aside and as part of the background information the speaker tells the jurors the story of a relative of the family named Macartatus. The story of this Macartatus has little (or even nothing) to do with the events that concern the trial. The speaker reminds the jurors that Macartatus sold his land and used the proceeds for the purchase of a warship with which he then set out on a plundering mission to Crete. He came close to igniting a war with Sparta as a result, but his ship sank with all on board before matters reached boiling point. The incident has received a good deal of discussion in the past, but not much in recent scholarship.14 The speech itself is usually dated to around 359 BCE. 15 The date of the Macartatus incident is not known. Edward Forster the editor of the Loeb edition on the speeches of Isaeus thinks it can only have occurred while Sparta remained in control of both land and sea, thus before 378 BCE when Athenians recovered their naval power, and with more certainty while Athens and Sparta were at peace. Athens was at peace with Sparta from 386–379 BCE and from 369–362 BCE. The incident, therefore, must relate to one of these two periods. Alongside the Loeb translator’s view that the incident must have occurred before 378 BCE, most of the other commentators also prefer the earlier dates of 386–379 BCE. Thompson, however, perhaps sensibly argues that the speaker noted that everyone in his audience knew about Macartatus’ modest circumstances and that each was aware of how he died. These facts, Thompson argues, suggest the more recent period of time from 369–362 BCE rather than some twenty years earlier. The context of the Macartatus story, and the motives behind it, have also received a good deal of attention in the past. The event raises a host of questions beyond even the motive for selling up and sailing to Crete. How did one purchase a trireme and from where? How much would it cost? Who would crew such a private vessel in fourth century BCE Athens: relatives, friends, metics, hired specialists and oarsmen, slaves? Our sources present plenty of examples of mercenary oarsmen in the Aegean in the Classical Period. In order to buy and fit out the vessel enormous resources were

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necessary. The speech (11.49) refers to thirty minae as the value of the estate of Chaereleos, Macartatus’ brother. If this then was of a similar value to that sold by Macartatus (as seems the implication in the speech) such an amount would certainly have been well short of the funds required to buy and fit out, let alone crew a trireme in the fourth century BCE, which would have likely run to several talents of silver. The speaker explicitly notes that Macartatus and his brother were not among those who provided liturgies to the Athenian state, so we would assume his overall resources were limited. Potentially neither brother would have been officially listed for the Trierarchy. Indeed, the speech confirms they were not wealthy enough to perform liturgies for the state. Some have suggested that Macartatus received the backing of a consortium. Thus, he sold his land for his part of the stake, received additional funds from investors to buy and fit out a warship (assuming his farm did not sell for that much – noting his modest means mentioned in the speech – and triremes were never cheap) and then headed to Crete to garner what plunder he could as something of a business enterprise.16 Rather than a private consortium, Meyer argued he had state backing.17 Indeed, he suggested that Macartatus was a covert agent for the Athenian council acting in secret and without the knowledge or sanction of the assembly. He draws parallels with the story of one Demaenetus (Hell. Oxy. 6.1–3) who sailed to Conon and the Persian fleet in 396 BCE under orders from the council, but without the knowledge of the assembly. He was sent to help the Persian-Athenian coalition that had been formed to overthrow Spartan naval power in the Aegean during the War between Sparta and Persia that had begun in 399 BCE. The Boulê subsequently disavowed any knowledge of this Demaenetus or the order to send him to Conon when the story broke and amidst fears that his presence with Conon might arouse Spartan hostility against the Athenians. This is an intriguing insight into ancient international relations and remarkably similar to modern national and international intrigues whereby secret operations take place under the radar and without the knowledge of politicians, let alone the public. The potential parallels with Macartatus are obvious. The Athenian state of course disavowed any complicity in Macartatus’ actions. To them he acted alone. Most recently, Lionel Casson argued that the venture of Macartatus was definitely and only a private one for material gain.18 Even so, he still wonders if Macartatus was capable of buying and fitting out a trireme on the proceeds of his land-sale alone. The argument for Macartatus as effectively a privateer, while possible, then opens up a host of issues. One of these must be that this is the sole story we have of its kind, that is of a private Athenian selling up and taking a ship on a plundering enterprise, in an age when mercenarism and privateering were common enough in and of themselves. This kind of privateering involving a rogue individual Athenian and a trireme appears unique in the fourth century BCE evidence. That stated, parallels for this kind of behavior hark back to the sixth century when wealthy aristocrats, admittedly in the period prior to

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the invention and the spread of the trireme, took to the seas in pentekonters (or fifties) in search of profit both by trade and theft.19 The rise of the trireme appears to have brought that age to an end. Only communities like Corinth, Aegina and Athens could control the resources and coordinate the manpower needed to build, maintain and crew large numbers of triremes.20 The trireme of course still required a combination of public (state) and private synergy if the Athenian state represents the norm. Thus, the creation of the Athenian fleet under Themistocles had the state’s wealthiest citizens provide half the funding for the building of the ships involved. The richest men in Athens were made responsible for the construction of each ship both in terms of oversight and financial costs (Aristotle, AP 22.7; see also Hdt. 7.144.1–2; Plut. Them. 4.1–2). It is hard to imagine that they did not then benefit in some way from the economic rewards of the navy and the Empire at least at the start of the imperial period. The loss of the Empire and the restructuring of the fleet that this entailed led to a series of reforms in the fourth century BCE. Nevertheless, Athens still relied on private input to assist in the fleet’s management. Despite the fact that the state navy had changed dramatically, the private impetus of wealthy Athenians remained an essential component of naval resourcing and management.21 Trierarchs came from the elite and wealthy citizen group throughout classical antiquity. We know from Demosthenes (51.7–9), as Casson suggests, that trierarchies might themselves be hired out for a fee for private enterprises.22 Demosthenes (51.11) is not alone in decrying the commonplace nature of privateering, plundering and pillaging in the period of the mid-fourth century, but his examples are of ships under Athenian aegis and acting, albeit loosely, in the context of Athenian state policy. Casson further argues that it is possible that Macartatus received payment for bringing aid to certain cities in Crete as a kind of ‘naval condottiere,’ even if not actually acting under orders from the Athenian state. Of course, this would still be the equivalent of a business venture. But as the development and management of the Athenian fleet illustrates, the boundary between public and private war-making (and pillaging more generally) was never very clear or indeed even recognized. There are good examples of the privatized nature of so-called public warmaking in fourth century Athens. At the top level the fourth century saw Athenian generals regularly flit between state service and service for rulers beyond the Greek world.23 Several of Athenian generals married into elite families abroad. Iphicrates presents a paradigm who became the son-in-law of the Thracian king Cotys (Demosthenes 23.130–132). Athenian generals often served as generals and advisors for Thracian chieftains, Egyptian Pharaohs, Persian Satraps and of course the Great King himself. Even while in Athenian service several stories highlight the privatized nature of war-making as trierarchs try to make war and make ends meet on scant and often their own private resources keeping crews paid and fed, and preventing desertion. Demosthenes (50.7–14) in his speech concerning Polycles highlights not only the blurred boundaries between public and private enterprise in manning and maintaining Athenian triremes in the fourth century, but also the proclivity of

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Athenian crew members to abandon their triremes and their trierarchs in search of better options for pay and for plunder while on campaign.24 In another speech, (Ps-) Demosthenes (47) details a feud between two Athenian trierarchs concerning their personal responsibilities to fit-out a single trireme that one had taken over command of from the other. The origins of the feud lay with one of the two men not giving up some of the ship’s essential materials (skeue), which he had presumably ‘stolen’ at the end of his trierarchy for his own personal profit. The second trierarch invoked a law of the central council to seize by force the equipment and a violent on-going quarrel ensued. A central point to take from these incidents remains the privatized nature of public war-making and leadership roles within the Athenian state navy. The story of Macartatus’ private enterprise appears more understandable and potentially more closely aligned with military circumstances in the context of the privatized nature of Athenian war-making in this period. The crews of triremes came from various sources as we have noted. Crews, even Athenian crews, deserted their Athenian ships regularly, as the example found in the Polycles speech above demonstrates. Many oarsmen were, as we have noted, not themselves Athenians, but metics and foreigners with potentially less loyalty to the Athenian navy. In addition, Wallinga also suggested that many triremes campaigned with less than a full complement of crew.25 Vincent Gabrielsen also highlighted the need to pay crews decent money to recruit and to prevent their desertion (see Dem. 50.11).26 In several examples, commanders feared the men under their command might abandon them on their campaign, for example, Tissaphernes (Thuc. 8.57.1) and Nicias (Thuc. 7.13.1–2). Some evidence suggests that the better crewmen were themselves more likely to abscond (Dem. 50.15–16). In one speech alone Apollodorus listed three instances of crew desertions while on campaign (Dem. 50.11–12, 14–16 and 23). To return then to the Macartatus episode, the conclusions to be drawn from it are complex. Above all the incident illustrates that land ownership in itself was not the be all and end all in the Athenian social, political and economic hierarchy of the fourth century BCE. Additionally, there were clearly tensions between state responsibility for its citizens and citizens’ responsibilities to the state. The state struggled to control its citizens and their actions. The fact that Macartatus almost drove Athens and Sparta into a war shows that even rogue members of a community could embroil the whole community in an international incident. As we have noted other incidents blurred the private with the public interest. This all stated, however, it remains possible that the Athenian state was not entirely innocent regarding the specific nature of this saga either. Thus, we might once again wonder from where Macartatus bought his trireme. There were plenty of triremes in the eastern Mediterranean throughout the Classical Period. Some states, even small states with few ships, might rent out their triremes to those with money to pay. Thucydides (1.128.3) tells us that Pausanias, the son of Cleombrotus, after his first recall to Sparta after the Persian Wars, sailed to the Hellespont in a private capacity. To do so he hired a

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trireme from the city of Hermionê. This at least suggests that triremes existed for purposes outside the purview of state business. It would only be a small step to go from renting triremes out for profit to selling them wholesale into the private domain. With this then firmly in mind, we might note that Lionel Casson concludes that the only viable option that existed for Macartatus for his trireme was from the Athenian state itself and that it was this fact that led to Athenian concerns about the actions of a private citizen pillaging and raiding in the Aegean. He was after all on and commanding an Athenian ship. The Athenians and the Athenian fleet ultimately enabled (at the very least) one of their citizens to attack cities in Crete and to contravene the terms of peace between Athens and Sparta. The fact that he was a rogue actor would do little to absolve the state of its responsibilities in this matter. Moving on from Macartatus and in a wider context, the fourth century was an age of mercenary adventurers and mercenary armies. The explosion in the numbers of Greek citizens seeking livelihoods from military service outside the Greek world in the generations following the end of the Peloponnesian War has been well documented. This phenomenon itself illustrates the weakness of Greek states not only to control their own citizens and their actions, but also to remunerate and reward them sufficiently in an economic environment that was always harsh and poor. Plunder rather than regular pay was the goal of most soldiers in any service abroad, whether they were citizen soldiers or professional mercenaries. The actions of Macartatus become clearer in the context of fourth century socio-political and economic conditions of mercenary and other non-state sanctioned military actions. The fourth century BCE context provides other examples of citizens seeking advantage abroad independent of the state. Epigraphic evidence illustrates Athenian citizens seeking military service and with it associated economic gain from warfare, not in navies, but in land armies. A decree cited in Greek Historical Inscriptions (2.154), dated to 357/6 BCE and translated by Toogood states that: If anyone from henceforth attacks Eretria or any other of the allied poleis, whether he is from Athens or from one of the Athenians’ allies, he is to be condemned to death and his property is to become the state’s and a tithe is to be given to the goddess.27 This inscription more than likely aimed at prohibiting Athenians planning mercenary adventures across the Athenian border. Indeed, and more likely, it was a reaction to what was a commonplace as Athenians took an opportunity to become involved in and benefit from a conflict close to the border of Attica and its coast. In this case action against Athenian neighbors. We have other examples of such prohibitions. Thus, the Thebans had prohibited their citizens from enlisting with the Spartan army as it marched through Boeotia in 383 BCE (Xen. Hell. 5.2.27). This Athenian decree and the story of

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Macartatus probably date to within a decade of each other in the 360s and 350s BCE. They share the same narrative in the sense that each incident illustrates the strange responsibility that states bore for the actions of their citizens, even though their citizens were acting independently of the state. This was after all a time of unparalleled Greek mercenary service, notably with Persian Satraps, the Great King himself and Egyptian Pharaohs. The Great Satraps Revolt reached its peak in 362 BCE attracting enormous numbers of Greeks into service for the Persian King and his adversaries across the eastern Mediterranean. The Macartatus incident and Eretrian prohibition fit neatly into this broader international context of what might be termed in modern parlance mercenary activity. Of some significance, though, is the fact that the Athenians felt they needed such a decree prohibiting Athenian citizens and allies from seeking military service. Similarly, they had felt they needed to disavow themselves from the actions of Macartatus (and Demaenetus before him). Prohibition is not prevention. In addition, decrees like this usually reflect existing situations that required some sort of regulation. Rather than pre-emptively preventing (or more accurately prohibiting) such military service, such decrees reacted to realities. Athenians clearly had been taking military service against Eretria and other Athenian allies. Such military action was indeed happening and on a scale worthy of a post-event attempt to stop them happening. Or, and this is more likely, the decree aimed to demonstrate clearly and publicly to the allies of the Athenians that the state cared about such activity and were trying (regardless of how successfully) to do something about it. Both these incidents, then, illustrate the uncomfortable relationship states had with their citizens and the role that the actions of their citizens, even ordinary and anonymous citizens, played – as individuals – in wider international relations. The men who sought service against Eretria were not famous and well known aristocrats and generals, like Iphicrates, Chabrias or Timotheus each of whom had served foreign rulers for great rewards at one time or another in this period, but ordinary men no doubt attempting to bolster their meagre incomes through local and not so local military adventure and for want of a better term ‘privateering.’ They were testing the limits of something akin to nationalism in Athenian society at the same time. Crucially, both Macartatus and those crossing the border to fight against Eretria did so for economic gain. They were not seeking political advancement within their community, nor the attainment of abstract military honor (timê) or glory (kleos) nor even perhaps social advancement. The argument to be made clearly here then is that the Athenian state’s economic weakness and inability to redistribute enough resources satisfactorily to all members of the community was an absolute and inherent weakness in the Athenian state’s political and social integrity. The state did not sanction the actions of rogue citizens, but neither could the state prevent such activity, the root cause of which was acquisition.

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Ultimately, this state and infrastructural economic weakness would lead to the collapse of the polis and of polis unity in the face of economically stronger and wealthier states like that of the kingdom of the Macedonians and the Successor Kingdoms of Alexander the Great’s conquests. The reality that underpinned the story of Macartatus and the inscription prohibiting military service against Eretria was the ultimate conflict between individual interest and state unity within the Greek city. Individual material self-interest triumphed over polis idealism and ‘national’ identity in the end.

Notes 1 For a crucial discussion of the notion of an Athenian nation see Cohen (2005); recent discussions of nationalism and identity see Cartledge (2002); Coleman (1997) 175–220; Gruen (2011); E. Hall (1989); J.M. Hall (1997, 2002); Isaac (2004); Papadodima (2013); Vlassopoulos (2013). 2 Toogood (1997) 295–297. 3 On Greek mercenary service generally, see Parke (1933); Griffith (1935); Aymard (1967) 487–498; Seibt (1977); Miller (1984) 153–160; Marinovic (1988); Bettalli (1995); Trundle (2004, 2013) 407–441; Gomez Castro (2012); and most recently and importantly Bettalli (2013). 4 In addition to the works listed in note 3, for discussion specifically of Greeks in the mercenary explosion of the later fifth and fourth centuries BCE see Roy (1967) 292–323; Weiskopf (1989); Fields (1994) 95–113; Fields (2001) 102–138. 5 Trundle (2004) 23–24. On raiders and other plunderers more generally see Ormerod (1924); Jackson (1973) 241–253; McKechnie (1989) 101–141. De Souza (1999) 2 makes the point that the terms correctly referred to both plunderers by land or sea without distinction. 6 Griffith (1935) 262. 7 The best discussion of elite Athenians abroad in fourth century service is Pritchett (1974) 56–116 for a long chapter on ‘The Condottieri of the Fourth Century BC.’ See also Trundle (2004) 147–159; and Trundle (1999) 28–38. 8 On Alcibiades generally see Ellis (1989). 9 On ritualized friendship see generally Herman (1987); Trundle (2004) especially 27–39, 147–162. 10 Cohen (2005) 79–103. 11 This is best illustrated by Connor (1971). 12 See most recently Trundle (2017) 21–31 with further references. 13 For discussion see Trundle (2010) 227–252. 14 For discussion of Macartatus see most recently Casson (1995) 241–224. Several scholars long ago have tackled the subject including Schomann (1831) 476; Wyse (1904) 712; Miinscher (1920) 311; Fiehn, K. RE s.v. ‘Makartatos’ (1928); Roussel (1960); Thompson (1976) 5. 15 Forster (1983) 386–387 for the relevant part of the introductory discussion to this speech. 16 Schomann (1831) 476; Wyse (1904) 712; Fiehn (1928) 632; Thompson (1976) 56– 57. 17 Meyer (1909) 43. 18 Casson (1995) 244, n. 14. See also Forster in the Loeb edition (1927 & 1983) 387, who refers to Macartatus’ venture without qualification as ‘a privateering enterprise.’ 19 Tandy (1997); also Van Wees (2004) 203–205; Haas (1985) 29–46.

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20 On the rise of the trireme see Van Wees (2004) especially 206–231; Morrison, Coates & Rankov (2000) 34–46; Wallinga (1993) 103–129; Casson (1991) 83–96. For discussion of the role of coinage in naval developments in the later sixth century and possible associations towards trireme adoption see Van Wees (2010) 205–225. For an emphasis on early developments see Haas (1985) 29–46; De Souza (1998) 271–294. 21 For a brief introduction to the changes to Athenian naval management c. 358/7 BCE see Van Wees (2004) 217–218; Gabrielsen (1994) especially 193; see Christ (2007) 53–69 for discussion of changes to the taxation system in Athens after 378/7 BCE alongside the symmories. 22 Casson (1995) 241–245; also Jordan (1975) 79–80. 23 See Pritchett (1974) 56–116; also Trundle (2004) 147–159. 24 Well discussed by Gabrielsen (1994) 105–125. 25 Wallinga (1993) on crews see 169–186. 26 Gabrielsen (1994), especially 122. 27 Toogood (1997) 295–297.

3

Piracy and pseudo-piracy in classical Syracuse Financial replenishment through outsourcing, sacking temples and forced migrations Richard Evans

Introduction There is a tendency to ignore the contribution of essentially piratical behaviour in ancient Greek history perhaps because of an assumption that the various Hellenic states were organised on a proto-modern basis. That since they were users of coin they did not require the contribution of plunder, from various ventures, to keep a healthy balance in their public treasuries. Two such methods of enhancing the public finances at Syracuse are highlighted in this discussion, namely the financial gains obtained from sacking temples and from the enforced movement of conquered populations.1 However, in order to reach some idea of the contribution of plunder generally to the treasury of Syracuse in the period under discussion, it is first necessary to briefly illustrate the normal avenues by which the government of a Greek polis of that period secured a regular income. That some form of taxation, however rudimentary, was an integral, if insecure, component of the finances of the Hellenic city-state by the classical period is well attested,2 but taxation as practised in these city-states does not bear much resemblance to modern systems, as is also well recognised. While some taxes, for example on basic foodstuffs such as salt, certainly affected a far wider demography,3 the evidence from Thucydides illustrates that at Athens, and almost certainly in most cities, there was a tendency for a particularised direct taxation (eisphora or a tax on property) to target the political and economic elite. Moreover, at Athens, it was the elite families who were responsible for maintaining the warships, although there was also some state subsidy, that policed the Aegean and protected the grain supply and the various members of the Delian League. The ships were in an optimum state the captains (trierarchs) and the state bearing the burden of the cost. Each of the crews received a state daily allowance of a drachma, the treasury of the Athenians also providing sixty additional warships and forty transports to be manned by the best

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available crews. The trierarchs also provided extra money to the thranitae – in addition to the state allowance – and to the rest of the crews. The trierarchs also spent extravagantly on decorative bows and equipment since each wished that his ship stood out from the rest in appearance and speed. (Thuc. 6.31; cf. Lysias, 19.29, 21.2–6) Furthermore, the religious festivals that were a regular feature of the annual civic calendar, especially those including theatrical competitions, were financed by the choregoi, who were also, for the most part, members of elite families.4 Thus the wealthy citizens, even if they represented a fairly broad cross-section of the Athenian citizenship, contributed by far the most to the smooth running of the community, but all citizens were expected to play some role albeit in a more modest capacity. How then did the revenue system at Syracuse equate with, or differ from, that of Athens and other mainland Greek city-states? In Syracuse the taxation of individual citizens appears to have been well established in the 350s if there is any accuracy in Plutarch’s statement (Dion, 30.1), but again it is far from clear if this evidence points to a universal system or rather was systemic only among a particular group – the wealthy elite.5 Syracuse and Athens each possessed territory that was not particularly fertile, but the former unlike the latter also functioned as a harbour of entry or departure for a region well beyond its chore-. 6 And that function certainly provided some basis for its wealth and power. That some system of payment must have been imposed on all goods entering or leaving Syracuse, either when these came from the interior moving down to the harbour or from the sea moving to the city and the inland parts of Sicily, seems a plausible conclusion to make both from contemporary evidence of harbour dues and the elaborate nature of the gates closest to the interior of the island.7 Syracuse’s role as the main entrepôt for at least this eastern sector of the island presumably became well established during the fifth century and this role and the income it generated compensated for too little productive land to feed a population of approximately the same size as Athens.8 Charging for the use of harbours also appears a common enough feature of the ancient Mediterranean world, applicable to cities such as Athens, Corinth, Miletus and Syracuse, the cost falling on both local and foreign merchants, and was a regular and lucrative source of revenue. Quite general similarities in state finances in various poleis do not however disguise more glaring discrepancies at the root of which was the sole rule which characterised the government of Syracuse for much of this period.9 Notwithstanding the existence of embellishment in the literary evidence regarding the magnitude of the power of the tyrants of Syracuse, these rulers (Gelon, Hieron I, Dionsyius I and Dionysius II) still represented a formidable military presence in the western Mediterranean, if not in the entire Hellenic World.10 But sole rule of a polis, even if this rule was really government by a ruler, close family and supporters, still brought with it profound implications for the nature and source of public revenues since how could these through a

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generalised taxation system have been the foundation of the Syracusan tyrants’ military power? Each tyrant possessed an army consisting solely of mercenaries, and this hoplite force, alone, numbered at least ten thousand and on many occasions far in excess of this number; and, moreover, the soldiers were generously paid (Diod. 13.94.1).11 On the other hand, the citizens of Syracuse seem rarely to have been called upon to undertake military service. The tyrants also excluded the Syracusan citizens from the strategically important sectors of the city. Gelon and Hieron favoured their own fellow Geloans and other groups including mercenaries and at the same time appear to have confined the Syracusan element of the city’s population to the quarter known as Tyche.12 Dionysius I is said to have added additional fortifications around the Island and the smaller of the two harbours (Diod. 14.7.2–4, 14.10.4) not only to secure the city from attack but to safeguard his family, supporters and his personal troops. Dionysius is also said to have forced his fellow citizens, much against their will, to disarm (Diod.14.7.6, 14.10.4, 14.45.5),13 and required them to serve in his armies or navy on a much more ad hoc process than is evident in, for example, Athens where all citizens had a military role. Even the elite Syracusans who formed the cavalry were seldom called upon since their loyalty was questionable. Thus in military circumstances the citizens were often debarred from gaining any personal wealth and hence there was no opportunity for this means to filter into the public treasury. Besides the absence of citizens on regular military duty, the tyrants could not allow either choregoi or a system of trierarchy to function since this would suggest a sharing of power and the possible opportunity for opposition to their rule. In 405 (Diod. 13.94.1) when Dionysius returned to Syracuse from fighting the Carthaginians he arrived just when a dramatic festival was coming to an end in the theatre at Neapolis and was met by the crowds who were coming away from attending this event. But this is the sole reference to festivals in a ‘democratic’ Syracuse whereas later the tyrant is invariably described as a patron of artistic competitions. Similarly, no reference is made to the manner in which Dionysius’ warships were commanded, if not personally then by no other individuals than his family members such as his brother Leptines (Diod. 14.53.5), or close supporters, such as Philistus (Diod. 14.8.5–6).14 As a result, as indicated below a system of outsourcing (real piracy), temple sacking (piratical action) and forced migrations (pseudo-piracy) all became necessary to ensure that Syracuse maintained its position as hegemon in the western Mediterranean.

Outsourcing Pirates were practically indistinguishable from mercenaries, a fact again made clear in the ancient references to such adventurers. For example, Postumius an Etruscan (Dio. 16.82.3) was arrested and executed on the order of Timoleon in 339/8 BCE. 15 This Postumius had a fleet of twelve ‘pirate ships’ – λῃστρίσι – and seems to have considered Syracuse his base.16 The Etruscans also have a long history as mercenary troops at Syracuse and so the difference between

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pirate and professional soldier is quite indistinct. Postumius was probably a supporter of one of Timoleon’s opponents such as Hicetas. These pirate ships were clearly not recognised as warships in the technical sense and so smaller (the rather elderly Loeb translation of Diodorus has ‘cosairs’ and the translator may have had yachts or dhows in mind) but they could easily have been pentekonters if they operated further out than coastal waters. Postumius’ force of pirates may therefore have been in the order of five to six hundred. If he was using Syracuse as a friendly port he must surely have been operating further afield and with a crew perhaps of mixed origin, Etruscans, Italians, Iberians and Greeks – the usual mercenary mix – they may actually have been pirating over a quite a wide range around the seas of Sicily. There was also Thrasius (the name could be Etruscan again) who had served as mercenary under Timoleon. He and his band of followers were expelled from Syracuse for treachery, unspecified by Diodorus (16.82.1) but Plutarch (Tim. 30.3) stipulates desertion. Plutarch states that these were ordered to leave Syracuse at short notice and they may have marched away, but perhaps more likely that they went by ship since they are next reported as having attacked and captured a harbour in Bruttium. The Bruttians responded by sending an army against these pirates or mercenaries and they were massacred.18 And there seems little to differentiate such freebooters working the seas with those Phocian mercenaries who served under Timoleon but who had been declared guilty of sacrilege by the Amphictionic Council. They had served under Philomelus and Onomarchus in the Third Sacred War. They were all killed in Sicily (Plut. Tim. 30.4) but they were also employed by Greeks who, if not members of the Amphictionic League, had treasuries in Delphi and attended the Pan-Hellenic Games. The Phocians had negotiated their freedom at the close of the war with Philip II and were perhaps meant to spend the remainder of their lives serving abroad in some non-Greek speaking region. That there were other Greeks even one with Timoleon’s apparent sensitivities who were prepared to hire the Phocians suggests some opportunism and a degree of religious indifference. Moreover, there can be little difference between those described as pirates and those mercenaries from Zacynthus hired by Dion for his expedition from the Peloponnese to Syracuse in 356 and who were later, presumably the same group hired by Calippus, and responsible for their former employer’s death (Plut. Dion, 22.8, 57.1–3).19 Notably there were numerous mercenary commanders such as Nypsius, described as a Campanian from Neapolis (Naples) hence a Greek or Italian, and Pharax a Spartan (Plut. Dion, 49.1) who served Dionysius II as commander at Neapolis (Licata).20 Nypsius played a crucial role in maintaining the presence of the tyranny in Syracuse after he was sent to reinforce Dionysius’ garrison on the Island in 356/5 (Diod. 16.18.10).21 Nypsius was evidently a mercenary but he could equally have been a pirate who, unlike more prosaic commanders of military forces, used unorthodox tactics to gain advantage in a conflict which was confined to the city streets and alleyways, primarily in Achradina which was densely populated but easy prey for piratical forces.22

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If real piracy was allowed to operate using Syracuse as a base then it is highly likely that the city authorities would also have gained financially from permitting such a situation. A system of taxing or taking a cut of the plunder could very easily have been implemented. This form of outsourcing was a common enough practice in the Caribbean during the seventeenth century and later where freebooters such as Henry Morgan were allowed to operate and indeed were supported by the British government which benefitted materially.23

Temple sacking The plundering of religious sites was hardly a phenomenon found only in Sicily and Magna Graecia as the literary sources beginning with Homer’s Iliad clearly show, and which also illustrate that as a source of revenue the treasures located in temples were always considered a worthy target. The origin of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles lay in the former being forced to return his captive woman concubine, Chryseis, to her father Chryses, priest of Apollo at the temple in Chryse that the Greeks had attacked on their way to Troy. Agamemnon finally compelled to return Chryseis in order to bring an end to the plague sent by Apollo for the Mycenaean king’s treatment of his priest meant in turn that the captive concubine of Achilles was demanded as fair compensation for the king’s loss of dignity.24 Since this episode begins the Iliad, one of the earliest extant Greek literary compositions, it would be fair to argue that temple sacking was a regular feature and byproduct of ancient warfare, and the most visible sign of institutionalised robbery. Syracuse was, therefore, not unique in the practice of using temple treasures for military or civic projects, although it is not a recorded feature among the other Greeks in their regular internecine struggles until the mid-fourth century when the Phocians in the Third Sacred War (356–346) sacked the treasuries at Delphi to finance their war against Philip II of Macedon and the Amphictionic League. By the second half of the third century, temple sacking had become a commonplace action in any military campaign.25 But from a much earlier time at Syracuse a fragment exists relating an episode that involved Hippocrates, the tyrant of Gela. Hippocrates, who ruled for much of the 490s, pursued a vigorous policy of expanding his control over much of eastern Sicily. Only Syracuse remained independent and a threat to his position.26 The Geloans are said to have defeated the Syracusans at the Elorus River and they advanced towards the city with the intention perhaps of starting a siege and forcing a peace on their enemy. The Geloans made camp outside the Olympieion at Polichne, which commands a good view over the harbour and the city. Diodorus relates that the priest of the cult of Zeus and other Syracusans who were attempting to remove certain valuables from the temple for safe-keeping in the city were arrested.27 Hippocrates is supposed to have ‘lectured these men accusing them of being temple robbers and ordered them to return to their city but he left the shrine’s treasures untouched because

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he wanted to gain a good reputation’ (Diod. 10.28.1–2). The actions of the temple priest and the Syracusan citizens suggest that temple sacking was a normal practice, at least in the minds of perhaps both Diodorus and the excerptor, and that they were simply trying to prevent the loss of the cult’s treasures. The account therefore also portrays the Geloan leader in a positive light behaving in a scrupulous manner and that Hippocrates had deviated from what was anticipated and as such this episode therefore became worth recording.28 Yet there is some ambiguity in the text which invites some analysis. Diodorus’ comments (10.28.2) wander from the specific episode involving Hippocrates to the more general observation that the majority in the community would perceive some misconduct among the ruling elite because the temple treasures at Polichne had been left in situ. It may be that this preserved fragment acted as the prologue to his coverage – lost – of the stasis at Syracuse which occurred soon afterwards and which was exploited by Hippocrates’ successor Gelon to further his own ambitions and to take sole power in the city adding this to his rule over Gela. So the passage is rather puzzling. Moreover, it seems that either Diodorus or his source had some doubts about the apparent integrity of the Geloan tyrant since the account considers two motives for his action: either that having begun this latest war Hippocrates did not wish to be seen despoiling Zeus’ shrine or that by leaving the treasures intact he would cause tensions in the city between the demos and the ruling oligarchy. Further afield, this was surely a time when plundering temples by Greeks was not normal practice and, therefore, the Syracusans should have been able to leave their temple unguarded in the knowledge that its contents would not violated. The Milesians had, after all, refused to plunder the temple of Apollo at Didyma to finance their revolt against Persia when it could very easily have been accomplished.29 The Persians similarly did not sack Delphi when they had the opportunity to do so in 480. Temples and shrines dotted the ancient landscape and most would have contained treasures but the Greeks avoided the sacrilege of stealing anything that had been dedicated to the gods. Even the Persian Datis attempted to return a statue of Apollo to its temple when it was discovered on board a ship in his fleet while on his return to Asia Minor after his defeat at Marathon (Hdt. 6.118). Had the looting of this temple at Delium, just north of Oropus, been regarded as the cause of the Persian defeat? Herodotus does not venture to connect this event with the Persian defeat, but the passage illustrates that it was possibly this act of plundering that worried Datis who elsewhere was scrupulous in not antagonising the deities to the extent that he personally deposited the stolen statue at Delos.30 Hieron’s victory over the Etruscans at Cumae in 474 (Diod. 11.51.2) must have been a profitable exercise since he sent warships at the request of the Cumaeans who certainly would have been expected to provide a financial incentive for such a major move: the Etruscans were not a threat to Syracuse or its sphere of influence. Diodorus gives only a brief notice of events, but the

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epigraphic evidence indicates that Hieron’s naval forces scored a major victory over their enemy and the tyrant was able to send lavish dedicatory offerings to Olympia.31 Dionysius is said to have stolen treasures from the temples of Syracuse (Diod. 14.65.2, 14.67.4) in a speech attributed to a certain Theodorus in 396 when the Carthaginians were besieging the city.32 Expropriation of temple funds may have been excused in times of adversity, but this evidence, such as it is, seem almost certainly ancient invective designed to denigrate Dionysius’ character and makes his actions conform to that of the archetypal tyrant.33 In his pursuit for financial gain Dionysius also went further afield to Etruria and perhaps Corsica, although he was not breaking new ground since warships of Hieron I had been active in this region which culminated in a great victory over the Etruscans in 474 at Cumae (Diod. 11.51.2). And Syracusan fleets operated openly during the period of the democracy along the Etrurian coast attacking Etruscan settlements on Elba and Corsica on two occasions, both dated by Diodorus (11.88.4–5) to 453. The account notes that the Syracusans had responded to the widespread occurrence at this time of Etruscan piracy. However no pirates among the Etrsucans are mentioned and no engagement with pirates is recorded. In the first episode some rather inept private enterprise is noted by the Syracusan commander Phaӱllus who was accused of taking bribes from the Etruscans to return to Syracuse. Once there he was prosecuted, found guilty and exiled. In the second episode, Apelles, replacement for Phaӱllus, commanded a fleet of sixty triremes and had more success in obtaining captives for sale as slaves and plunder although the extent of either is not stipulated. It is worth noting that these expeditions are said to have been inspired by a desire to curtail piracy but they seem very much to be simple pillaging exercises in themselves. Clearly plunder was not simply a characteristic of tyrannical rule. The most detailed account of this type of plundering expedition is dated to 384 by which time Dionysius had already been sole ruler of Syracuse for twenty years. The tyrant, as he often did, commanded in person a fleet, numbering sixty triremes, the objective of which was Pyrgi, one of the harbours for Agylla.34 Was this expedition meant to contribute to the payment of the costs of dockyards which could accommodate two hundred triremes, a major extension of the city’s fortifications, the construction of gymnasiums on the banks of the River Anapus, and temples and other unspecified projects which enhanced the splendour of the city (Diod. 15.13.5)?35 Diodorus lists the costly building programme which Dionysius had been pursuing in the city, probably for at least decade. As a result, which seems implicit, in his coverage of the following year, 384, Diodorus describes a major military intervention in Etruria. Dionysius was in need of money and waged war against the Etruscans with sixty triremes.36 His excuse for the expedition was the suppression of piracy but he actually intended to plunder a temple which contained

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expensive dedications. This was situated in Pyrgi, the harbour of Etruscan Agylla. He arrived after nightfall, his forces landed and they attacked at dawn. He accomplished his plan by overpowering the small number of guards, and looted the temple of one thousand talents. When a relief column came up from Agylla Dionysius’s troops routed the Etruscans in battle, took many prisoners and raided the surrounding countryside. Then the Syracusans returned to their city. The spoils of this successful adventure raised another five hundred talents. (Diod. 15.14.2–3) Diodorus goes on to record that this plunder was sufficient for Dionysius to hire mercenaries to initiate a new war against Carthage. Moreover, he relates as fact (15.13.1) the assertion that Dionysius I intended to attack Epirus and ultimately Delphi because of its wealth and that in preparation for this campaign he founded colonies on the Italian side of the southern Adriatic. This information is related for 385, the year before Dionysius’ successful expedition to Etruria. Dionysius gave aid to the Epirote exile Alcetas who hoped to regain his rule with support from neighbouring Illyrian tribes who attacked Epirus. Dionysius sent a force of 2000 allied troops and arms for a further 500, perhaps more a token display of support considering his resources. The Illyrians defeated the local Epirotes but were in turn defeated by an army sent by Sparta and the plans of Alcetas came to nothing. All mention of Delphi disappears from the account. Why would Dionysius have considered Delphi a viable target for plunder? The information is given without elaboration and related more to the foundation of the colonies. There was never an attack on mainland Greece from Syracuse, but in the years following the Peloponnesian War the growing power of the Sicilian city may have been viewed with some alarm and this anxiety may have found its way into Diodorus’ source.37 However, its position in the text does allow for some interesting speculation. The Persians were also said to have attacked Delphi following their victory at Thermopylae and failed in their objective, states Herodotus in an account which is obviously invention. Diodorus’ source may have written about Dionysius’ accumulation of power and compared the tyrant to Xerxes and to Xerxes’ ambitions. However, the account for the events for 385/ 383 makes for some humorous reading since for all the ambitions and initial successes, defeat by Carthage in 383 left Dionysius’ finances in a worse state that at the start of his campaigns, as a cursory glance at the text indicates (see Box). The Text: Dionysius’ Ambitions in the 380s 15.13.1 – Attack on Epirus and Delphi planned. 15.13.5 – Building programme in Syracuse and note of the dockyards accommodating up to 200 triremes.38 15.14.1 – Dicon of Syracuse won the stadion at Olympia. 15.14.3 – Dionysius short of money, expedition to Etruria.

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Richard Evans 15.14.4 – Dionysius gained 1500 talents, hired mercenaries, planned war against Carthaginians. 15.15.3 – Victory of Syracusans at Cabala. 15.16.3 – Defeat of Dionysius at Cronium. 15.17.5 – Dionysius ceded territory in western Sicily to Carthage and paid an indemnity of 1000 talents. Overall, there appears to be a theme linking the passages dealing with Syracuse in this section of Book 15, beginning with Dionysius’ seemingly extravagant building programme followed immediately by the plundering of an important religious site in Etruria.39 The financial results of this attack are precisely recorded which is interesting and immediately suspicious. First of all Dionysius had completed an ambitious elaboration of the city’s walls in 401 (Diod. 14.18.1–8), ship building, arms manufacture and extensions to the harbour facilities in 399 (Diod.14.41.2–43.4), yet here in the narrative there is a concatenation which appears to lead from cause to effect.

Hence why the prominent position of a contemplated pillage of Delphi when it then fades in importance? Its treasures would certainly have financed many wars had its plunder become a reality, but was this information in fact a creation of a historian rather than any indication of Dionysius’ ambitions? Furthermore, can this accusation have been an attempt to mitigate the actions of the Phocians, if Diodorus’ source here was Timaeus? As a result the Greeks might argue that the Phocians took their cue from Dionysius – held up as the tyrant par excellence – rather than being innovators themselves in this particular type of pillage. The notion of sacking Delphi seems fanciful especially since Dionysius, father and son, sent dedications to Delphi.40 And in fact the Syracusans at times appear to have fallen foul of the predations of their fellow Greeks. In 374/3 (Diod. 15.47.7) the Athenian general Ctesicles was dispatched to Corcya to intervene in a civil war which had broken out in this polis where one side had received aid from a naval force sent by Sparta. The Spartans were defeated.41 In the immediate aftermath a second Athenian fleet arrived, but was too late to play any significant role in this war. However, a Syracusan relief force sent by Dionysius to aid the Spartans was, relates Diodorus, intercepted by an Athenian force commanded by Iphicrates and nine triremes were captured. The prisoners were all sold as slaves which raised sixty talents with which Iphicrates was able to pay his rowers and troops.42 When Dionysius II was at Locri in about 347/6 (Diod. 16.57.2) he sent a naval force to deliver a number of gold and ivory statues to Delphi. These ships were intercepted by the Athenian Iphicrates who seized the valuable goods, and these were ordered to be brought to Athens by the demos. Dionysius complained by letter about this theft of goods which were to be dedicated to Apollo (Diod. 16.57.3) and accused the plunderers of sacrilege since they evidently intended melting down the stolen statues for

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coin. The Athenians ignored the complainant which Diodorus casts as indicative of the lack of observance of religion at that time.44 Instead the passage casts Dionysius II in a favourable light even in the last years of his rule as tyrant and accuses the Athenians of profiting from plundering of the gods, if not the temple itself.45 Athens in the fourth century was a much less prosperous city-state than Syracuse and this tendency to plunder from fellow Greeks indicates perhaps a breakdown in the cultural and political adhesion in the post-Peloponnesian war period, and that the Syracusans were better financially equipped to behave in a more civilised fashion.

The movement of people for financial gain Forced movement of populations of cities or whole regions in the ancient world was almost a commonplace whenever the defeated, if not killed, were expelled from their native lands to be resettled elsewhere.46 There are examples under Babylonian rule – the Israelites during the reign of Nebuchadnezzar – or under Persian rule – the Milesians in 493 and the defenders of Eretria three years later – but this procedure is not attested among the Greeks when the various citystates came into conflict with one another.47 In 404 a highly emotional occasion for such a process presented itself when Athens surrendered to Sparta. The Thebans and the Corinthians argued for the comprehensive destruction of the city, but they were opposed by the Spartans on the grounds that the defeated Athenians had in the past – the Persian Wars is implicit here – provided great service to the Hellenic cause (Xen. Hell. 2.219–20). Unlike in Mesopotamia where populations were often relocated to new places of habitation, for example the Eretrians to the Persian Gulf in 490 (Hdt. 6.119), in Sicily in the period discussed here the displaced were moved, arguably uniquely, certainly among the Greeks, to within another community. This was of course Syracuse and the movement was initiated by the tyrant rulers of that city.48 This phenomenon is first witnessed during Gelon’s rule when an unprecedented surge in population displacement occurred, and only economic gain can fully explain the peculiar details that emerge from the literature. Herodotus (7.156) states that once Gelon had obtained control of Syracuse he invested all his energy in ensuring that the city became a great power. In order to make that possible he ‘saw to it that all the inhabitants of Camarina were brought to Syracuse and made citizens, and he had the town demolished’.49 Camarina was not a large polis but must have contained about one thousand citizens plus their families and slaves. In a similar, less drastic yet more spectacular, move Gelon also ordered ‘more than half’ (ὑπερήμισυς) of the Geloan citizenship to relocate to Syracuse. Gela may not have been as populous a city as Syracuse but at the time it was the foremost power in the region and there were probably between fifteen and twenty thousand citizens. The combined influx of perhaps as many as ten thousand new settlers with a matter of weeks or months is not found elsewhere among the Greeks. Gelon was not content with these additional citizens for he also captured the small settlement of Megara Hyblaea situated less than

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twenty kilometres (about twelve miles) north of Syracuse. Like Camarina to the south, Hyblaea was never a viable community while it possessed such a powerful Syracuse as its neighbour and with more successful communities such as Catane and Naxos to the north. It was also a small community with a population plausibly of less than ten thousand. Gelon surprised contemporaries by incorporating into the Syracusan citizen body all those members of the Megaran elite. Their families and slaves moved effortlessly from one community to another, but that was not granted to the greater part of the population, the Megarian demos, all metics resident in that polis and slaves – who was transferred to Syracuse and sold. Gelon is also said (Hdt. 7.156) to have imposed the same conditions on a settlement named as ‘Sicilian Euboea’,50 and it is possible that other small communities were also absorbed into this ‘Greater Syracuse’.51 What economic impact would this occurrence have on the finances of Gelon and on the markets? A glut of commodities, which includes slaves, causes a decrease in prices but a shortage of the same would have produced good sales. The purpose of moving Geloans to Syracuse was surely to bolster Gelon’s security as the new ruler. It seems evident that these new citizens were kept closer to the tyrant and hence, even the Geloans from Camarina were probably rewarded for the move. But their contribution to the new regime must also have been significant for their numbers would have swelled the market potential and so the treasury while at the same time this new elite increased the city’s military capability. The Geloan presence – and this is more obvious in the case of the elites from Hyblaea and Sicilian Euboea – represents a human factor in plunder and which, whether as a citizen or a slave, was an asset to the state finances. Gelon’s successor, his brother Hieron continued the policy of forced movement and indeed took the process to greater heights. Diodorus, the sole informant for this period (11.48.3–11.49.2), illustrates – in a muddled fashion – that Hieron’s succession was not welcomed in Syracuse, as he had governed Gela during Gelon’s tyranny (Hdt. 7.156).52 It seems as if Hieron was fully aware of the antipathy towards him and was the cause for the tyrant to decide to take up residence in Catane to be renamed Aetna. In order to settle in this new city Hieron first ordered the entire current citizenship to relocate to nearby Leontini. These were to be accompanied by the citizens of Naxos (Diod. 11.49.2) who also lost their homes and land. Diodorus (11.49.1) states that in conjunction with the expulsion of the Catanaeans and Naxians, Hieron invited five thousand settlers from the Peloponnese to replace the previous inhabitants of Catane and Naxos together with another five thousand from Syracuse. Hieron is said to have chosen the new inhabitants himself – an unusual move surely – and to have allocated lands to these new citizens who were clearly to occupy both former urban sites. This policy states Diodorus was not only to ensure his own security but also that on his death he would be granted the honours of a founder. This move is put down to hubris by Diodorus who has Hieron wanting to be treated as a founder of a city, just as Gelon had been honoured, and that he decided Catane was a suitable community to indulge this whim.53

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No mention is made of the reaction of the people of Leontini who were ordered to accommodate a far larger number of newcomers than their current population, nor was the apparent loss of population to Syracuse a matter for debate. It is plausible to suggest that chaos was caused by the movement of these internal exiles, however, its impact on the fiscal wellbeing of Syracuse need not have been negative; and Diodorus gives some clues in that direction, and that order was rather its aim. The ten thousand new citizens of Catane and Naxos were allotted lands, presumably those which had previous owners, but they were to be members of a single polis (Diod.11.49.2).54 The Peloponnesian newcomers were almost certainly landless, but those from Syracuse perhaps less certainly so unless all the new citizens of these two towns were mercenaries. Diodorus (11.49.2) suggests that security was the main issue for Hieron rather than founding a city and so the status of the settlers is highly relevant here.55 Initially Diodorus (11.49.1, 11.67.7) describes the new citizens as ‘inhabitants’ (οἰκήτωρ), and in the stasis leading to the expulsion of Thrasybulus in 466 as ‘allies’ who abandoned the tyrant (Diod. 11.68.3).56 But rather later his normally disjointed narrative reveals that even before Hieron’s rule mercenary soldiers had augmented the citizenship numbers in Syracuse (Diod. 11.72.3).57 This is a stray comment but if accurate would indicate that Gelon, whose displacement of population policies had been a primary feature of his government, had also granted ten thousand mercenaries Syracusan citizen rights.58 In effect, this would also mean that Gelon doubled the numbers of citizens in Syracuse almost overnight. That there was under both Gelon and Hieron a significant number of mercenaries made citizens shows also the economic muscle of these professional soldiers who were usually not only highly efficient but also earned a good living from their trade. But this wealth also fed back into the local economy both through their contribution to a successful state but also in their role as part of the wealthy elite, yet many were probably not even Greek. As late as 460 there was stasis in Syracuse between the original citizens and the later arrivals who were mostly expelled or persuaded to leave (Diod. 11.72.73.1–3, 11.76.1–5), while elsewhere the former supporters of the Deinomenid tyranny were divided and were themselves displaced. The people of Catana were expelled from their city and then took Inessa, which they renamed Aetna, while other mercenaries were persuaded to return to the Peloponnese (Diod. 11.76.5).59 Overall, the citizens of Syracuse who possessed lands were unaffected, those transferred to Leontini, which may have required an infusion of new citizens, must have received new lands while the mercenaries who now comprised the polis of Aetna which included the territory of former Naxos, were all rewarded with land grants. In effect Hieron created an additional ten thousand citizens who further enlarged the wealthier section of the community. These could also be relied upon to serve his security needs with greater loyalty and commitment than any of the current citizens who lived in Syracuse. Moreover, those responsible for acquiring for the state treasury the greatest amount of plunder through successful military ventures also contributed to the public coffers through their newly gained civic responsibilities.

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Following the collapse of Deinomenid power and its dispersal in the 460s, Syracuse reverted to second class status among the powers of the Mediterranean. There is no mention of forced population removals during the next four decades, but that it was symptomatic of Syracusan internal policy can be seen when, in the 420s, the citizens of Leontini, who had asked for aid from Athens against their larger neighbour, abandoned by the Athenians, were compelled to move to the city and vacate their own homes (Thuc. 5.4).60 The case of Leontini stands out as an isolated example, as reported in the evidence,61 but with the coup of Dionysius in 405 the phenomenon again becomes a major feature of his rule as tyrant and his ambition to reconstruct the state’s powerbase.62 The military aspirations of the new tyrant can be measured by the extent of the manufacturing of armaments and the equipment of warships and renovations of the dockyards (Diod. 14.41.4–6). Almost immediately after he had obtained some permanency in his position Dionysius followed in the footsteps of Gelon and Hieron. Diodorus (14.14.1) makes it quite plain that this policy was a priority in the strategy of the new tyrant in his objective of controlling Sicily and defeating the Carthaginians. Dionysius is said to have viewed the occupation of Catane, Naxos and Leontini, situated adjacent to Syracusan territory, as essential in increasing his power. Diodorus’ account indicates that Diondyous made his first move in 403 by taking Aetna, the town established by Hieron’s mercenaries in about 460 and recently occupied by an element of the Syracusan elite hostile to the new tyrant. (Diod. 14.9.8).63 Dionysius was, however, unsuccessful at Leontini whose citizens refused to capitulate and prepared for a siege; the Syracusans, lacking siege equipment, withdrew. Enna and Herbitaea were next targeted, not because Dionysius was concerned to subdue either of the Sicel communities but to give the impression that his intentions against Catane and Naxos were no longer hostile. This ploy seems partially to have worked since in both members of the elite were bribed by the tyrant and handed over their cities. But neither of these communities were moved to Syracuse except perhaps for those who had collaborated with Dionysius. Diodorus (14.15.1–3, 14.66.4) records that the citizens of Catane and Naxos were sold as slaves and the lands of the former re-allocated to Dionysius’ mercenaries while those of the latter to some Sicels, probably in forging an alliance. Soon afterwards the citizens of Leontini gave up the unequal struggle and were also evacuated to Syracuse and Syracusan citizenship. The actions of Dionysius in 403 were on much the same sort of scale as the activities of Gelon and Hieron, perhaps dictated by defensive concerns but equally another example of economically motivated plunder and depopulation.64 Following the Deinomenid example, he also founded a city named Adranum (Diod. 14.37.5) which he must have filled with suitably loyal citizens, probably mercenaries. Under Dionysius II the sources are less specific but the foundation of colonies in the Adriatic suggest some movement of people and the economic benefits to be gained from taxing sea traffic in and out of this busy region.

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Moreover the resettlement of Rhegium as Phoebia (Strabo, 6.1.6) was surely also motivated by a policy of controlling traffic through the Straits.65 The forced removal of civilian populations might, however, cause major problems for a state’s public treasuries in a world in which economies were primitive by modern standards. Food shortages could easily result where additional mouths had to be fed because the newcomers had been obliged to abandon their lands and so any food surpluses these had possessed had also been left behind to spoil in the chaos of an evacuation. Thus adding numbers to a city which had already possessed sufficient inhabitants to function optimally could be viewed as destabilising and a threat to the existing government. Nonetheless, the prospect of additions to the available numbers for labour or military service, perhaps specifically at Syracuse in the huge numbers required for the operation of warships, outweighed any disadvantages.

Conclusion The sacking of temple sanctuaries for their treasures as a supplement to a state’s revenues does not appear to have been a regular feature of warfare at the start of the classical period. However, the practice became more common, arguably in tandem with an increasing cost of pursuing military campaigns. This is especially noticeable where mercenaries became integral components of armed forces which is in itself a phenomenon more of the fourth than the fifth century. Such a source of plunder allowed a Syracusan tyrant such as Dionysius I to pose as a super-power in the ancient Mediterranean and indeed to possess military capability equal to or exceeding that of Carthage or Persia. At the same time this capability was fragile, as Diodorus (14.43.4) indicates. A financially prudent Dionysius I in 400/399, during the planning stage for a campaign against the Carthaginians in western Sicily, is said to have delayed until the last moment enrolling mercenaries into his army for the coming war in order to avoid unnecessary costs. The purchase of competent mercenary troops was evidently vital, but was not a minor element in overall expenditure and was one which, if avoided to save funds, might easily jeopardise an entire campaign. Yet for all this supposed Syracusan wealth there was insufficient to allow territorial expansion to any real extent. Syracuse controlled much of Sicily and southern Italy through an intricate web of alliances and not necessarily a military or naval presence in places of strategic importance. Syracusan citizens appear never to have been sent out to colonise in the same way as Athenian clerics. Notwithstanding the regular forms of income to the state, when a polis, such as Athens, acquired a larger territorial role its income had to be augmented in the case of the Delian League/Athenian Empire by annual tribute from states dependent on the hegemon’s protection. The tyrants of Syracuse are not attested as imposing such conditions on its allies, although since the evidence is scant there may have been such arrangements. Still, in order to finance a suitably affluent lifestyle, although more important was defence of

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the city, piracy, plunder and pillage became institutionalised because the Syracusans cannot have generated sufficient wealth without this means of augmenting their finances. A further significant element in this process of state plunder was the forced movement of populations around Sicily and Magna Graecia. The phenomenon is well attested but its purpose has hitherto remained largely ignored by modern studies. Once again an economic motive can be discerned in that the augmentation of Syracuse’s civilian population maintained or increased state revenues. Syracuse was a small city-state, one of the largest Greek poleis certainly, but not comparable in territorial extent with the greatest powers in the Mediterranean such as Persia, Carthage, or the later Hellenistic kingdoms or Rome. Syracuse also did not expand its territory beyond frontiers established in the archaic period.66 Therefore the Syracusans did not acquire wealth through overseas conquests or by winning an empire, or even in extracting wealth from defeated enemies with the possible exception of Carthage. The Carthaginians however were never reduced – as they were by the Romans – and so were always able to give as much as they received. Whereas Carthage derived much of its wealth from silver mining and trade, Syracuse relied on its trade as a base to its financial security. This was clearly not enough to support the Syracusan role as defenders of Sicily and Magna Graecia. One might, therefore, return to the highly questionable attributions given to the people of Syracuse which dominate the ancient literature, especially a propensity for luxury.67 A combination of raiding expeditions by real pirates, using Syracuse as a base and encouraged by its rulers, extensive plundering and pillaging of sanctuaries, which was essentially piracy, and enforced migration, disguised as imperialism, altogether expose two fundamental issues which adversely affected the ancient world. The first is the primitive finances of states such as Syracuse, unable to afford an enormous expansion in expenditure without territorial gain. The second is the poverty of finances when access to income is deprived as seen by Athenian actions in the fourth century. Why then did the Syracusans under the tyrants not extend their territory far beyond traditional boundaries? The Athenians began to send out cleruchies in the fifth century, but the Syracusan tyrants beyond notable colonies along the Adriatic coast of Italy and for a short time Ischia had no concerted policy. This could reflect two things: either that the population of Syracuse was always insufficient to allow such a phenomenon or that the tyrants did not trust it to be successful and relied instead on tried and tested methods to accumulate funds for the city’s treasuries.

Notes 1 Ordinarily confiscations would have been an additional supplementary income for the treasury of any system of sole rule and the tyrants, especially Dionysius father and son, are remembered for exiling potential threats to their rule and the seizure of personal fortunes. However, only occasional reference is made to this action mainly involving family members of the tyrant and then their personal fortunes for the most part were unaffected by their expulsion from the city rather on a similar

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basis to the Athenian system of ostracism. Even during the democratic period of government in Syracuse expulsions, for example that of Hermocrates, occurred but does not appear to have cost him his personal fortune. For the lack of continuity in the taxation system or systems in ancient Greece, see Osborne (1991) 132–133. Personal or local taxation could be augmented by tribute of one kind or another from possible subjected populations and raised in kind (forms of food such as grain), in ships or in coined money (as from the members of the Delian League) or in cult offerings such as from the harvest (first fruits). For first fruits as taxation, see Garnsey (1998). For the annual phoros collected from the states in the Delian League, see Thucydides, 2.13 (600 talents); Plutarch, Aristides, 24.3 (460 talents in the 470s rising to 1300 talents in the Peloponnesian War). On taxing the wealthy at Athens, see Finley (1983) 58–60; for a tax on metics, Finley (1983) 90; generally for taxes in Ptolemaic Egypt in the third century BCE, see Von Reden (2001) 70–74. For a tax on salt in 204 BCE, see Livy, 29.37.3, surely not an innovation. For the process of tax farming see Plutarch, Alcibiades, 5. For mining in Sicily in general see Salmeri (2012) 257–260. For references to choregoi from the political elite, see Plutarch, Themistocles, 5.4; IG 22 2318 I.9–11 (Pericles); Plutarch, Nicias, 3.2–3. Plutarch, Dion, 17.5, recounts that Dion financed Plato in this role in 365; Wilson (2000) 53 n. 15. Dion as a foreigner and in exile could not act as choregos; more generally on the institution and its role, see Wilson (2000). Plutarch has perhaps the eisphora or a property tax in mind and this, as in most poleis, obviously targeted the elite. But eisphora was also levied mostly in time of war and therefore was not in itself a regularised system of revenue collection, hence the uncertainty of the text’s message. Syracuse also lacked the silver deposits which the Athenians possessed in south east Attica at Laurium. Harbour duties are well attested elsewhere and can be assumed to have been levied at Syracuse. For a 5% harbour tax by the Athenians throughout their empire in 413, Thucydides, 7.28; and a 2% harbour tax in the Piraeus in ca. 400, Andocides, 1.133–134; Finley (1983) 57, 257 n. 50. Payment to enter Syracuse via, for example, Epipolai seems evident especially from a later period when the highly sophisticated gate systems were operational, not to exclude attackers but to isolate and identify incoming traffic. See the plan of the Eurialos Gate at Epipolai, Evans (2009) 130; cf. the North Gate at Selinous for a very similar system. The extent of the payments is not attested, perhaps rather less than a ‘tithe’ or tenth and possibly similar to the harbour tax at Athens noted above. For specifically a tax of a ‘tenth’, but only from 210 BCE in a period of great instability in Sicily and for the Romans, Liv. 26.40.15–16; Serrati (2000) 123. On the systemisation of a tax of a ‘tenth’ see Cicero, Verr. 2.2.32, 2.3.12. These sources appear to reflect the taxation system after 212 although it may well be based on earlier Syracusan examples, Serrati (2000) 133. For the Roman adoption of existing ‘Greek’ taxation systems in the period after the Second Punic War see Serrati (2000) 115–133. The notion that Syracuse itself produced huge surpluses for export can easily be discounted by observation on the ground; cf. Serrati (2000) 117 where the argument applies to the third century BCE under the rule of Hieron II although much the same system of hegemony over the region rather than direct government control existed then as for earlier times. Athens imported its grain from further afield which involved sea transport. A form of democracy, seemingly controlled by the elite, emerged at Syracuse after the expulsion of Thrasybulus in 466 and survived down to the coup of Dionysius in 405.

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10 Herodotus’ account (7.158) of Gelon’s boast of his military capability in 180, for instance, and what he could contribute, not the total strength of his armament, to the Greek cause against Persia is probably meant to be exaggerated, although the tyrant is not elsewhere accused of hubris: 200 triremes, 20000 hoplites, 2000 cavalry and 6000 light armed troops. Diodorus, 13.109.2, notes that his sources, including Timaeus, claim an army numbering between thirty-one and fifty thousand for Dionysius in 405, and a fleet of 200 warships under construction in 400/ 399 BCE in addition to already possessing 110 ships, Diod. 14.42.4. In total this represents far more than the Athenian fleet which operated around the Aegean under Pericles and in the Peloponnesian War. Diodorus’ figures are rather vague here since he also mentions a further 150 ships which were under repair in the larger of the two harbours. The war fleet of Dionysius is given elsewhere as 400 in total. Whatever the exact figure was is perhaps of less significance than the claim to possess a military capability equal or exceeding Carthage or Persia. For doubts expressed about the historicity of Herodotus’ claim for Gelon possessing much in the way of naval power see De Angelis (2016) 103 and n. 157. For Diodorus’ sources see Andrewes (1985) noting especially Ephorus; Pearson (1987) more specifically Timaeus. 11 There were fifteen thousand mercenaries in 466, Diod. 11.67.7. 12 The text of Diodorus, 11.67.8–68.1, 11.73.1, supports this argument. On more than one occasion during Deinomenid rule the Syracusans are said to have been excluded from Achradina and the Island, the two sectors comprising the greatest part of the city. 13 This policy seems to have been maintained by Hieron II during his rule of Syracuse and down to the Roman siege in 214 BCE, Livy, 24.21.8–11, 22.1. The fortifications of Dionysius I may well have been rather more extensive that sources suggest since he and his successor seem to have been able to move large numbers of warships in and out of the city without hindrance which suggests that the larger southern harbour was also enclosed to some extent. 14 Dionysius II was in southern Italy when Dion returned to Sicily and seized Syracuse. Plutarch states that the tyrant had a fleet of 80 warships with him and citizens must have been represented in this considerable force, but which was then used for Dionysius to return to the Island (Plut. Dion, 29). The total number in Dionysius’ fleet on this occasion, whether rowers or armed soldiers, must have been more than the sixteen thousand which would have crewed a fleet of 80 triremes since by this date the Syracusans possessed a mixed fleet of smaller and larger warships from biremes to the quadriremes. Plutarch’s information here is perhaps suspect since he gives the impression that the city welcomed Dion’s return yet Dionysius had no problem entering the harbour and returning to the Island just seven days after Dion had entered the city, Plutarch, Dion, 29. The tyrant’s fleet was not crewed only by mercenaries, and cannot have been entirely manned by slaves either. Plutarch gives the impression that Dion held the whole of Syracuse except for the Island but for a fleet of up to 80 warships to gain entry to the harbour must indicate that Dionysius’ garrison actually held some part of Achradina as well. Note that the ‘Biton of Syracuse’, Diod. 14.53.5, placed in command of Motya after its capture by Dionysius in 396 was probably a mercenary rather than a member of the Syracusan elite. 15 All dates hereafter are BCE. 16 Talbert (1974) 200 considered that Postumius might not have known that Timoleon the new ruler of Syracuse was unsympathetic to pirates. It seems unlikely that a pirate operating in the Ionian Sea could not have known about Timoleon, but that he misjudged a change in policy is perhaps possible. 17 Thucydides has Etruscans fighting on behalf of Syracuse and Athens in the conflict between 414 and 413 (Thuc. 6.103; 7.57) and these are perhaps mercenaries. Contacts between Syracuse and Etruria date back to the first half of the fifth century at least.

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18 Plutarch (Tim. 30.3) states that they were all murdered by the treachery of the Bruttians. 19 Diodorus (16.31.7) claims that they were hired by Calippus for the specific purpose of assassinating Dion. Calippus was also murdered by mercenaries (Plut. Dion 28–58). 20 For the argument that Nypsius was Oscan see Sherman (1952) 287 n. 3; IG 14.894 (from Lacco on Ischia). The name Νύμψιος is taken to be Oscan but if a native of Neapolis he may well been of Greek ethnicity as well. The Etruscan names all ending in ‘ius’ also suggests an origin further north. Ischia was a harbour used by Etruscans, Italiotes and Greeks alike. 21 The ethnic distinction between Greek (Spartan here) and barbarian Campanian or Etruscan – if there ever was one –seems irrelevant in the context of military behaviour. However, there does appear to be some nuance in the way that, for example, the actions of Apollocrates, son of Dionysius II, and Nypsius are described perhaps to be attributed to Diodorus’ source rather than Diodorus himself. Apollocrates is treated in an entirely neutral fashion yet he was the commander on the Island after Dionysius had withdrawn to Locri. For the date see Diod. 16.17.2; cf. Plut. Dion. 37.4. Apollocrates is not mentioned by name until he is noted as having vacated this command, Plut. Dion. 51.1. This may be related to Plutarch’s evidence (Dion. 56.1) that he was considered likely to become Dion’s adopted son and heir. Yet the supposed iniquities of Dionysius did not rub off onto his eldest son who rather became associated with the honourable character of his uncle Dion. 22 Dionysius left behind him on the Island the best of his mercenaries, Diod. 1617.2, numbering in total ten thousand, 16.19.3, and led by Nypsius attacked at night, 16.19.1, and overran the whole city, 16.19.4. Diodorus, 16.20.4, claims that four thousand of Dionysius’ mercenary troops were lost in the subsequent fight with Dion’s supporters. Plutarch refers to night attacks, Dion, 41.3, 44.5, burning houses, 44.8–9. In a counterattack Dion led the Syracusans and his own mercenaries to a victory but most of Nypsius’ force escaped. 23 Henry Morgan (1635–1688) was born in South Wales, but seems possibly to have captained a ship in Christopher Myng’s fleet which was active in the Caribbean in 1663 attacking the Spanish. By then he was clearly a privateer, more specifically a buccaneer, and the polite or acceptable name for a pirate. At the time it is estimated that 1500 privateers were using Jamaica as their base from which to attack Spanish shipping and harbours in the region with the permission of the British government which took its portion of the spoils under a licensing agreement. The privateers were not mercenaries but rather an illustration of an early example of outsourcing in the private sector, hence the title privateer. Morgan made quite a name for himself with numerous successful and profitable attacks on the Spanish and was hugely popular in Britain and ended his days a respectable member of the Jamaican elite, even serving as governor of the island. 24 Chryses is cast by the poet as a Greek priest for a Greek cult but it perhaps more likely that even in the southern Troad the site which is today known as Chryse and possesses a peristyle temple with Doric columns dating to the fifth century may well have been of a different culture perhaps more closely related to the Hittites of Central Anatolia. 25 See, for example, Chaniotis (2005) 5 for military campaigning in Greece in the 220s that also involved the destruction of temples such as the temple of Athena Itonia in Boeotia and the Artemisium at Achaean Lousoi. 26 Diodorus 10.28.1–2. Only scattered fragments remain from Book 10, but this is perhaps a good indication of why this particular episode caught the eye of the excerptor. Herodotus 7.155, was probably not Diodorus’ source since he does not specify when these hostilities occurred and lists only that Gelon, as commander of the Geloan cavalry under Hippocrates, was notable in his leadership qualities in wars against Callipolis, Naxos, Zancle, Leontini and Syracuse. This note is contained in the narrative about Gelon who achieved sole rule in Gela after Hippocrates’ death in a

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Richard Evans campaign against the Sicels of Hybla which seems to have occurred soon after his intervention in Zanclean affairs perhaps in 493 or 492. Diodorus 10.28.1, mentions certain dedications to the god made of gold and a mantle (himation) inlaid with gold which adorned the cult statue. Contrast the actions of Himilcon at Syracuse in 396, Dio. 14.76.3–4, when in his siege of the city he had apparently looted the same temple and other shrines of their wealth and took these with him to Carthage where, however, he died a figure of disgrace. See Evans (2018). It seems quite clear that, whatever the ancient propaganda might claim, the Persians did not sack Didyma in 494 since the site was occupied until immediately after the Greek victory at Mycale in 478 when the Branchidae vacated the sanctuary. Pausanias, 1.33.34, notes that Persian ambitions of a victory over the Athenians at Marathon were foiled by the goddess Nemeis on account of the hubris of the invaders. Herodotus’ account of a Persian attack on Delphi after Thermopylae is generally regarded as unhistorical. For the dedication of spoils at Olympia see Evans (2016). Pindar, Pyth. 1.70–75, also alludes to and commemorates this victory some years after the events. Gelon had sent dedications to Delphi; Hieron clearly wished to outdo his brother’s actions. Note the manipulation of the facts in asserting that Gelon never enslaved fellow Sicilian Greeks, Diod. 14.66.1, and that Dionysius was a far worse ruler. For Timaeus or Philistus as Diodorus’ source and the element of pillage in the speech see Sanders (1987) 126–127, 134–140. Dionysius is accused of sacrilege (Diod. 14.67.4) suggesting that the abuse of temple treasures in one’s own community was a graver offence than pillaging the shrines of enemies. Caution is however needed here since this oration builds towards the overall tyrannical persona of Dionysius. The source used by Diodorus, whether Timaeus or Ephorus, may have had its own agenda about tyrant-portrayal. The use of the Athenian Theoric Fund for military affairs was also highly controversial in the later fourth century. The other was Alsium eight kilometres to the south. The victory of the Syracusan Dicon in the Olympic Games’ stadion – the Blue Riband event – merely emphasised the success of the city and its place in the forefront of Greek affairs (Diod. 15.14.1). Accuracy about the size of these fleets is highly questionable. A fleet of sixty triremes, without cavalry or infantry transport ships, suggests a crew of about 15000 consisting mostly of light armed troops who doubled as rowers. The fleet of eighty ships attributed to Dionysius II’s expedition about 356, Plut. Dion. 26, indicates a force of more than 20000. The Syracusans fought a battle at Pyrgi which may indicate that transports were also used carrying hoplites and cavalry, but the Etruscans may not have been more than hastily armed citizens and so easily routed by more experienced troops. Dionysius’ use of mercenaries also suggests transport ships since hired troops probably did not expect to serve as rowers. Diodorus (14.109.3–4) notes that Lysias delivered his oration known as Olympiacus at the Hellenic Games in 388 in which the threat from Dionysius was emphasised. Lysias may have believed that a threat from Syracuse existed but its intention was surely to urge a more unified Greek response to any external threat than specifically Dionysius. Its place in Diodorus’ narrative perhaps reflects Ephorus’ interest in the affair. Cf Diod. 14.41.4–6, 400/399 for much the same sort of information about Dionysius’ building and arms manufacture. There is a lengthy lacuna in the text (Diod. 15.13.5) which deals with events in the Adriatic area and Dionysius’ activities at Lissus. This possibly suggests an earlier account of plundering in the Veneto or Po regions of northern Italy. The account perhaps indicated that the benefits of this exercise allowed Dionysius to finance his building programme in the first place.

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40 Dionysius II in 347, Diod. 16.57.2. Dionysius I is likely to have celebrated his victories over the Carthaginians by depositing offerings at Delphi or Olympia following the practice established by the Deinomenid tyrants. Dionysius was scrupulous in not allowing the plundering of Greek temples after the fall of Motya in 396 and his attendance, by proxy, at the games in Olympia does not denote a lack of respect for the deities. 41 Xenophon, Hell. 6.2.1–36, has a different account which indicates a Spartan attack on Corcyra with the intention of reducing Athenian power, and aid to the Spartans in the form of twelve Syracusan triremes being intercepted and captured by Iphicrates. The crews of the captured warships, according to Xenophon, were ransomed not sold, the end result being much the same, but the account less dramatic. Xenophon’s account may be preferred over the more sensational account found in Diodorus. However, Xenophon may also have not wanted to portray his fellow Athenians enslaving fellow Greeks. The sources for this engagement are discussed by Tuplin (1986) 46 n. 37; Gabrielsen (1994) 251 n. 26. Only Diodorus, through Ephorus, states that sixty talents was the income from the sale of the crews as slaves. Neither Xenophon nor Polyaenus (3.9.55) mention this point. The number of ships and their use is also disputed. Nine triremes being sent as reinforcements to the Spartans were captured in Diodorus’ account, while Xenophon has ten triremes sailing to aid the Spartans, one of which escaped, the others having beached. Polyaenus has eleven merchant ships one of which escaped. 42 We know from Thucydides that sixty talents in 415 paid for the Athenian fleet to Sicily for two weeks. 43 Probably not the entire statues but rather their decorative coverings in gold and silver. 44 Diodorus also notes (16.57.4) that the Spartans were not immune to collusion in such materialistic affairs, a vague remark but meant to show Sparta’s support for Phocis against Philip II in the Third Sacred War. 45 The question of how much Diodorus is reflecting the view of his source here is interesting. That appears to be antipathetic towards Athens and may be Theopompus since the coverage in Book 16 is focused on Philip of Macedon. 46 See, for example, Richardson (2016a) 44 for the forced movement of populations in Bronze Age Mesopotamia but similar enough to events in Sicily in the fifth– fourth centuries BCE. For chaotic removal of populations see Diodorus, 13.111.1–3, concerning the evacuation to Syracuse of the citizens of Gela and Camarina in 405 during the Carthaginian invasion of that year. 47 Homeric Troy was sacked and its population enslaved but often to individual victors and there was no mass transference of the population. Miletus was probably depopulated twice, in 493 and 478, but never entirely so, Evans (2018) 16–30. 48 Also worth noting is the relocation of the Branchidae from Didyma in 478 to Sogdiana, Curtius, 7.5.28; Evans (2018) 23. 49 Camarina on the south west coast of Sicily had a troubled history. It was first founded by Daxon and Menecolus, who were Syracusans, about 135 years after the establishment of Syracuse, according to Thucydides (6.5). However, the people of Camarina were expelled for having rebelled against Syracuse. There is no indication of a date for this incident but it appears that the site was unoccupied towards the end of the 490s when it was ceded to Hippocrates of Gela by the Syracusans. Hippocrates after receiving this land in exchange for some Syracusan prisoners re-founded Camarina himself, but it was again deprived of its population by Gelon, and settled a third time by Geloans probably soon after the end of the Deinomenid tyranny. 50 This community has never been identified and conceivably it had been completely obliterated by one of Etna’s many eruptions if indeed it was situated close to the volcano. It is not mentioned by later commentators such as Diodorus or Strabo

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Richard Evans which leaves open the possibility that Herodotus is simply in error and that Euboea never actually existed. However, its name suggests settlers from Chalcis which was active in establishing settlements for trade in the eighth and seventh centuries at Rhegium, Naxos and further north at Cumae and that these had penetrated further south on the island. Naxians also founded Leontini and so this Euboea could have been associated with that colonising activity. The numbers involved from Hyblaea and Euboea will have been small by comparison with Camarina and Gela but still perhaps as many as two hundred adult individuals and their families; and these were the wealthy and educated. Gelon is said to have been ill at ease living in close contact with the general body of citizens, Hdt. 7.156; cf. Diod. 11.26.6–7; Poly. Str. 1.27.1, where he is portrayed as a man of the people, but probably only those favoured by him, that is the ex-Geloan citizens. Polynaeus, Str. 1.27.3, seems to be under the impression that the entire community from Hyblaea was resettled in Syracuse. His brother Polyzelus was plainly more popular, probably among the ex-Geloans while the original citizens of Syracuse had little influence in public affairs. Hieron decided on a strategy to eliminate Polyzelus whom he appointed as general for a campaign to aid Sybaris from an attack by the Crotoniates, Diod. 11.48.4, who were expected to be victorious. An army was levied perhaps specifically from disaffected citizens. Polyzelus realised the plot and fled to Akragas from where he was reconciled with the tyrant. However, Hieron’s decision to move his residence to Catane soon after suggests that the peace between the brothers was fragile, and that to preserve power for the family, Polyzelus was granted the rule of Syracuse. This occurred early in the new tyranny. Diodorus includes the events in 476 less than two years after Gelon’s death. It suggests that there was considerable jockeying for power after Gelon and that Hieron’s position was not that secure in Syracuse. For further discussion see Green (2006) 108–109 and n. 185, who notes that Polyzelus had married Gelon’s widow, a sign of his own ambitions possibly, and had successfully campaigned in Italy. Gelon was granted a hero’s honours at his death, Diod. 11.38.5; Green (2006) 97. His successor clearly desired the same honours which in Hieron’s case was hubris so, Diodorus 11.49.2, surely implies rather than stating categorically, although the honours were granted to him after his death in 467, Diod. 11.66.4. It is impossible to tell whether or not the original landowners were compensated in monetary payments or rather instead were expected to be given lands at Leontini. The administration of such a deal seems complex and perhaps land-grabbing was more common than a juridical allocation of land. Both Catane and Naxos were occupied by the new settlers but Naxos retained its name. There is the possibility that Naxos was more a military establishment than a civil community under Hieron’s rule, but the town had prestigious cult centres and regular festivals. On the status of Naxos see Evans (2016) 16 and n. 38. Thrasybulus was defeated in this civil war because he was unable to maintain the support first of the Deinomenids and second the Geloan citizens of Syracuse, perhaps seen to be too dependent on the mercenaries to the detriment of the closest supports of the regime. Disjointed in that Diodorus attempted, sometimes unsuccessfully as is well recognised, to cover events in Greece, Sicily, Asia Minor and in Italy, chronologically, dated by the Athenian archons. However, as a result events are missed and some regions drew his attention more closely than others. For example, his focus on Philip II and Alexander in Books 16–17 meant that events not connected with Macedonia are unrelated or receive a very brief mention. See Green (2006) 143 n. 279; Haillet (2001) 95 n.1. Mercenaries were a necessary element in safeguarding a tyrant’s rule as is well attested, but the grant of citizenship as a concomitant exercise is not. Besides, Gelon is said to have not required a

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bodyguard which certainly illustrates a discrete appraisal of his personality and accomplishments. The negative tone emerges more in Herodotus than in Diodorus. Diodorus stipulates (11.76.4–6) that the previous supporters of the tyranny at Syracuse either returned to their former communities or returned abroad. He does not mention whether or not Naxos was regained by the former Naxians. Note that again the elite were granted Syracusan citizenship not the demos. The arrangement was not a success and the elite of Leontini soon returned to their former city. Leontini may not have been alone, but Diodorus, the main source for the history of Syracuse, barely mentions events here between about 450 and 427. For the evident military weakness of Syracuse even after 413, see Evans (2016). There is no mention of the fate of those living at that time in Aetna. Since they were opposed to Dionysius’ rule they may have been killed or exiled, rather than re-incorporated into the citizen body at Syracuse. Isolated examples punctuate the whole of Dionysius’ long rule but not on the same scale as that reported for 403. Thus, Tauromenium settled with mercenaries in 392, Diod. 14.96.4; Caulonia in 389, Diod. 14.106.3; Hipponium in 388, Diod. 14.107.2, whose communities were sent to Syracuse. However, following the sack of Rhegium in 387 its inhabitants were sold, Diod. 14.111.4, 15.1.6. Dionysius II, like Hieron I, therefore also became the founder of a community and he in due course must have hoped that he would be celebrated as its founder. It is possible that Diodorus, 16.45.9, means that the original Rhegians were able to return after the garrison established by Dionysius had been expelled by Calippus and Leptines in 351/0, although it is hard to imagine that many would have done so after an absence of nearly four decades. See for example Freeman (1894 [2006]) 63 for an overview of Syracusan power at the end of the fourth century. This cannot be historical however much it appears categorically asserted in sound sources such as Cicero (in Verrem), and later, perhaps the not so sound, Athenaeus (Book 12). See however Hobden (2013) 153.

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Terra cognita sed vacua? (Re-)appropriating territory through Hellenistic city foundations Alex McAuley

Rupture. Invasion. Colonisation. Imperialism. Transformation. Such are the terms in which the Hellenistic landscape is usually described in the regions conquered by Alexander and his successors. The idea in this, as in so many other aspects of Hellenistic history, is that nothing was the same after the conquest of these regions as before; once ‘the vessel is broken and the long-secreted elixir poured out for the nations’, as Bevan described the spread of ‘Hellenism’ in 1902, it could not be put back in the bottle.1 To Bevan, as to many other historians before and after him, the ‘Hellenism’ which was cast over the Hellenistic landscape with such lasting effect was fundamentally urban in character.2 The curious anomaly of the Greek polis, the unitary city-state, was the crucible in which the abstractions of Greek civic society, philosophy, literature and political theory were created, and this alloy was poured on to the ‘foreign’ lands now occupied by the Macedonians. Particularly in the Seleucid context, this spread of Hellenism was accomplished and enabled by the network of cities founded by the dynasty’s first kings throughout the territories they had conquered. And in the traditional analytical framework of the period this was precisely their intent: the ‘fixed policy of the kings’ was to establish these Hellenic communities as a means of securing their military control of a given region, and introduce a civilising element over the local ‘natives and half-breeds’.3 The language and prejudices have softened somewhat since the days of Bevan, but in a sense his overarching conclusions remain the same: we find the same perception of discontinuity and artificial re-appropriation he describes (‘Syria’ became a ‘new Macedonia’) in how Grainger concluded in 1990 that the actions of Seleucus I in Syria were ‘effectively revolutionary, and irrevocably wrenched the developing Syro-Greek relationship in an entirely new direction’.4 His actions, along with those of his son in this corner of the empire as elsewhere, were the foundation of dozens of colonies of Greek settlers which began as military establishments and subsequently blossomed into full-fledged poleis displaying, according to Walbank in 1981, a distinct cultural homogeneity with the Greek cities of the Mainland.5 What Sherwin-White and Kuhrt discuss under the heading of ‘colonialism and imperialism’ was fundamentally driven by the kings themselves, who in the process transformed imperial space into a Seleucid imperial place.6

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As Paul Kosmin has described, it is precisely this ‘recoding of the regional landscape’ that lies at the heart of the ideology behind Seleucid city foundations, and in a similar way to those of their Ptolemaic and Antigonid cousins as well. It was by (re-)urbanising the landscape, re-organising it into something new and different that the Seleucids re-appropriated it and fashioned it as their own.7 ‘The establishment of Seleucid colonies,’ he writes, ‘to a greater or a lesser extent depending on situation, deterritorialized and then reterritorialized the regional and local landscapes of the empire, like the pieces of a shaken kaleidoscope settling into a new order’.8 This begins with the cities themselves as the nuclei of such a programme, in turn ‘radiating out their influences and recognising their hinterlands’ through the rationalisation of agricultural space, re-distribution of lands and construction of irrigation channels, all at the behest of the king.9 It was through this wideranging effort that the Seleucid kings fostered and shaped what David Engels has identified as the ‘new imperial koine’, one which was not as exclusively Graeco-Macedonian as earlier commentators had thought but rather a new amalgam of traditions.10 What could simply have been the plunder leftover from Alexander’s campaigns was appropriated, organised and forged into an empire by this policy of the Seleucid kings.11 In the context of a volume such as this on the dynamics of plunder and appropriation in antiquity perhaps some measure of nuance can be added to our understanding of how this process played out in the world being re-appropriated by Seleucus and his progeny. Such patterns as discussed above are perceived with a bird’s-eye view of the empire as a whole, enabled by the gift of hindsight as well as the broad-angle lens of immense chronological and spatial scope. In such a top-down perspective, it is clear that this emergent urban network can be seen as an imperial policy of re-appropriation conceived at the highest echelon of Seleucid society which then trickles down through the channels of administration and bureaucracy to the local level of the empire.12 My intention with this chapter is not to argue against any of the conclusions of Engels, Strootman, Kosmin or Grainger, but rather to add a slightly different perspective by considering how this process of territorial appropriation takes on a slightly different hue at the local level. What may appear to be a purely imperial policy when seen from above is marked by rather more give and take when seen from below; a landscape that seems to have been reimagined almost ex nihilo seems rather to be more the sum of its constituent parts than a totally new fabrication. Such, I argue, is markedly the case with the foundation of Antioch-on-the-Orontes, which provides us with an ideal case study of an ‘imperial’ Seleucid foundation, and to consider the diversity of landscapes being re-appropriated we shall later turn our sights to another Hellenistic city, the enigmatic Hanisa in Cappadocia. The process of re-appropriation of territory in this Hellenistic urban world is not quite as simple as old versus new, or Greek versus not Greek, but instead represents a delicate blend of tradition and innovation characteristic of the Seleucid Empire as a whole, and the Hellenistic world more generally.

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Tabula rasa? Appropriating the landscape of Antioch Antioch on the Orontes is generally held to be an example par excellence of the ideological programme behind Seleucid city foundations, but in the broader context of our discussion of precisely how the Hellenistic landscape was re-appropriated it provides an illustrative case study because it adds some nuance to a situation that otherwise seems to be a clear-cut case of top-down royal city foundation.13 When Seleucus I acquired Syria as the spoils of his victory over Antigonus at Ipsus, he assumed control over a region that was rife with economic and strategic potential, but that still bore the scars of four centuries’ worth of conquest. With their urban centres having been all but destroyed in various conflicts, the native Syrian population, according to the studies of Grainger and Leriche, resided predominantly in small settlements on the coast and encroaching inland, subsisting primarily on agriculture and trade with the Greek merchants who had long been familiar with the region.14 Archaeological remains testify to the presence of Greek trading posts at Tell Sukas and Ras al-Basit on the coast (both destroyed after the Persian Wars), as well as at the port of al Mina and the nearby town Sabouni, which survived into the Hellenistic period albeit with a small population.15 Until the arrival of Alexander in 332 BC there was neither a substantial nor a permanent Greek population in the area that would become Antioch. It was terra cognita to the Greeks, decidedly on the margins of the Greek world, but also terra vacua, if not deserta, given the lack of persistent or large-scale Greek settlement, and the absence of major urban centres. As a nexus of communication for Alexander’s empire and a conduit for reinforcements being sent to the East, the region had a transient Greek presence but no significant centres of settlement until the foundation of Antigoneia-on-the-Orontes by Antigonus Monophthalmos in 307 BC.16 The early organisation of this region by the Antigonids merits review, as it makes the subsequent foundations of the victorious Seleucus represent less of a paradigm shift and more the continuation of a process that was already well under way by the time of his conquest of Syria. While Demetrius Poliorcetes was campaigning in Cyprus, Diodorus (20.47.5) relates somewhat derisively that ‘Antigonus was wasting time in upper Syria by founding a city near the Orontes river which he named Antigoneia after himself,’ and in a classic instance of imitatio Alexandri he marked out a lavish city with a seventy-stade perimeter that was meant to be a local bulwark from which he could keep an eye on Babylon and the Upper Satrapies, as well as lower Syria heading towards Egypt.17 But Antigoneia was not an isolated foundation as, according to the suggestion of H. Seyrig the king also founded the city of Alexandreia by Issos as the port city to his new city at roughly the same time.18 Antigonus was the first to mark out the local landscape as a means of solidifying his power with a fortified city and dedicated port, and his demarcation of the perimeter of the city, beyond simply evoking Alexander’s foundation of Alexandria, seems to have been aimed at transforming doriktetos chora into

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his own well-organised basilike chora. A local message was of course meant to be sent with this foundation, but Antigonus also sought to put this new city of his on the Panhellenic map by organising lavish civic games and an equally lavish festival. Somewhat later in Book 20 Diodorus relates that Antigonus spared no expense in expressing his wealth: he had gathered together the most famous and celebrated athletes and artists to compete for glory, renown and extravagant prizes and purses provided by the king. Unfortunately Lysimachus’ advance put a spanner in the works and forced Antigonus’ attention elsewhere, though the king nevertheless distributed two hundred talents to the athletes and artists who would have taken part in this celebration.20 In the foundation of Antigoneia we find the origins of the mechanism that would later be used on such a massive scale by Seleucus: the victorious king transforms plunder into possession by organising the landscape with an eponymous city, and then this grandiose act is communicated to a much broader audience through typically Hellenic means of competition. Both, in turn, were following in the footsteps of Alexander. But Antigoneia was the only such local project undertaken by Antigonus before Seleucus: in addition to this city named after himself, we find echoes of an early attempt to transform this region of Syria into something of a new or mini Macedon through creative toponyms. According to Strabo the city that would later be founded as Apameia by Seleucus I was the site of a village called Pharnake, but was also at one time called Pella by the Macedonians as a tribute to the birthplace and home of Philip II.21 Given the other foundations occurring nearby at the hands of Antigonus, it seems likely that he was responsible for this city as well.22 It is clear that as an ideological programme these city foundations with such evocative toponyms sought to re-appropriate an otherwise foreign landscape by grafting familiar place names into a new milieu, thereby transforming into something more familiar, and therefore one in which the Macedonians belonged. Two observations ought to be borne in mind as we reconstruct this longer history of appropriation: first, the insight of Seyrig that Seleucus would have had a rather limited choice of locations for his new cities given the local political context created by Antigonus; and second, the observation of Laurent Capdetrey that his choice would also have been guided by the fairly advanced state of Macedonian colonisation in the region by the time Seleucus arrived in Syria, ‘ce qui priverait l’entreprise séleucide d’une partie de son originalité’.23 This previously ‘empty’ landscape, in other words, had already become quite full by the time it fell into Seleucus’ hands. He was not working with a tabula rasa so much as an unfinished canvas.24 By all accounts Seleucus was aware of this fact, and accordingly had to outdo his predecessor in both concrete and symbolic terms. The ideology and mechanisms underlying the massive phase of foundation that ensued in Syria and elsewhere in the empire have been discussed by Cohen, Grainger, Sherwin-White & Kuhrt, and most recently Kosmin, and need not be repeated here save for two salient points.25 First, the raison d’être of each of these foundations was to be a bastion of Hellenicity in the midst of newly conquered territory, thus the cultivation of a Greek civic body served political as

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much as cultural ends. If these foundations did not stand out against the local landscape, in a sense they failed to serve their purpose.26 Second, it must be stressed that although Syria was doubtless a significant possession, it was neither the sole focus of Seleucus’ attention nor the exclusive base of his power. Many scholars have been all too willing to retroject Antioch’s primacy in the later Seleucid empire to the time of its foundation, but even among the cities of the Tetrapolis it was not intended for pre-eminence.27 Instead, Seleucia-in-Pieria, poised at the mouth of the Orontes River and bearing the king’s own name, was clearly meant to be first among the cities of Seleucid Syria.28 Neither should we presume that Seleucus was trying to craft the landscape into a new capital of Seleucid power. Capdetrey and Engels have demonstrated convincingly that the king’s interest was rather focused on the East, and that Seleucia on the Tigris is the most likely candidate for what we can tentatively call the Seleucid capital.29 Antioch, for its part, served a more propagandistic purpose: to erase the last vestiges of Antigonus’ claims to the region. Libanius and Malalas tell us that Seleucus destroyed his rival’s eponymous city, and transferred its populace and materials only a short distance to a new foundation named after his father.30 Despite this widely reported gesture, we should note that Antigoneia did not completely cease to exist, either in the short or the long term, as Cassius Dio records that in 51 BC the city was harassed by the Parthians during Cassius’ campaign against them, so there was still some form of city extant for nearly three centuries.31 There is, as ever, a disconnect between how such events are recorded at the level of the court, and how they played out on the ground. At any rate, whatever remained of Antigoneia would have been overshadowed by the emerging structure of the Tetrapolis, the geographical monument to the unity of the still-fledgling royal family that Seleucus carved into the landscape with the chisel of these city foundations: four cities, place four critical locations in Syria, individually named after a member of the royal family, but collectively the four sisters, as Strabo terms them, were the gatekeepers of access to the Seleucid East. To the south on the coast, Laodikeia, named after his mother Laodike, oriented towards the maritime approach from Cyprus and Coele Syria; east of it, Apameia, in honour of his wife Apama, on the banks of the Orontes at a crossroads of East and West trading routes, defended the land approach from Coele Syria and Palestine; to the north, Antioch, a double tribute to his father, Antiochus, as well as to his son of the same name, his chosen successor, was again at the crossroads of the Silk Road and the Royal road heading to the eastern interior; on the coast, Seleucia, the city named after the king himself, a prominent harbour and naval base from which power could be projected into the interior.32 Each of these cities could not provide an impenetrable defence on their own, but as a collective unit they were a formidable and impressive force. The message was clear: the royal family, like the Tetrapolis, stood unified in the protection of their realm from whatever may seek to beset it.

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It is easy simply to stop there and descend into panegyric at the awesome power of this king which extended even into the control of the very landscape of his kingdom. The physical layout of the city would seem at first glance to support this, as it follows the typically impressive Seleucid pattern. It was built on more or less unoccupied land and organised according to the Hippodamian plan, something which does not conform naturally to the landscape around it. This was exactly the point: as Paul Kosmin notes, this and other Seleucid cities were placed quite literally in the way of existing routes, so their impact on the local region and its flow of people and materials could not be missed.33 But there is rather more at work with the appropriation of the city’s landscape and its people than may appear at first glance, and on careful inspection the creation of the city cannot simply be understood as the imposition of the king’s will on a compliant canvas.34 Cities such as Antioch could not be created out of nothing, and even the fearsome power of the Hellenistic kings could not compel people to come to these new foundations without any sense of themselves or their previous history.35 Settling in such a city entailed the beginning of complex dialogue rather than the end of the discussion. In the case of Antioch, the city’s early populace was comprised of two very different groups: the recently displaced populace of Antigoneia, itself made up of a mix of Athenians and Macedonians, and veterans of Seleucus’ army who were also Macedonians.36 This initial group, along with the later settlement of Aetolians, Euboeans and Cretans in the city by Antiochus III roughly a century later, represent the only recorded instances of major migration to Antioch.37 In the intervening years, the population can be presumed only to have grown by a trickle as migrants arrived or soldiers retired. Yet Antioch is unique in the Tetrapolis for having something akin to a readymade civic body, one imbued with both the traditions of their Athenian and Macedonian roots, as well as the nascent civic traditions that were being cultivated in Antigoneia. Both of these would soon find themselves expressed in the nascent mythical traditions of the Antiochenes.

Plunder to property? Populating the landscape of Antioch The mythical tradition of Antioch is among the most robust that survives from Hellenistic foundations, rivalled perhaps only by Alexandria. Preserved primarily in Libanius (11.74–87), John Malalas (8.15) and Strabo (16.2), with small incongruities aside the general body of myths is fairly consistent across all three sources. Even though, as at Alexandria, the myths doubtless became more elaborate and ornate over time, I argue that the fundamental core of the narrative must have emerged shortly after the city’s foundation. It is not so much in the fiction of the tradition itself but in the manner and motive of its composition that its value for understanding the dynamics of territorial reappropriation lies. It was through this myth that the gift of kleros given by Seleucus I to each new citizen of Antioch seemed less like an intrusive policy decision by a self-aggrandising king, and more like the fulfilment of destiny.38

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The peculiarities of the mythical tradition as a whole, rather than simply discrepancies between specific accounts, divulge the presence of different groups at work. There are two broad categories of myth surrounding the city that are often treated in isolation but seldom synthesised: first, the ‘royal’ tradition of the city’s foundation by Seleucus as heroic ktistes set in the Hellenistic period; and second, the more pluralistic body of ‘ethnic’ myths set in the archaic past that relate how various ethne arrived in the region that would become Antioch.39 The royal tradition recorded in Libanius and Malalas casts Seleucus I as a mythical hero endowed with the sanction of the gods, and in short the myth goes as follows. After Ipsus, the victorious Seleucus travelled to what would be Antioch and sacrificed to Zeus at a shrine established by Alexander on Mt Silpius. An eagle then miraculously swooped down, picked up the sacrificial meat in its talons, and flew some distance away before dropping it. Seleucus quickly recognised this as a divine call for the foundation of a city, and there founded Antioch. Shortly thereafter, when he was out hunting on the Amuk plain, the king’s horse uncovered an arrow buried in the ground with its hoof which had ‘Apollo’ inscribed on it. Nicator again realised this auspicious import, and founded the Temple of Apollo at Daphne on the spot. Ogden, Buraselis and most recently Dumitru have eloquently elucidated the importance of the Alexander connection in Antioch’s foundation myth, as well as the political and religious valence of Zeus’ intervention in the sacrifice as conferring a sense of divine favour and inevitability to the city’s establishment.40 The idea that Alexander originally wanted to found the city and Seleucus’ realisation of his unfinished agenda served not only to legitimise himself as the heir of Alexander’s legacy, but also elevated his foundations over those of his rivals (namely Antigonus).41 Divine guidance for the location of the city further underscores that its existence was predestined.42 As much as divine favour plays a part in this, without the figure of the king there would be no Antioch; the city, from the very moment of its foundation, is dependent on the monarchy. The presence of Apollo and Zeus in this myth in turn play to the most prominent deities in the Seleucid royal cult, and Apollo’s favour in particular further reinforces the alleged mythical descent of Seleucus I from the god.43 The territorial dynamic merits note as well: the gods put the clues of the future city’s destiny in the landscape itself, and these are then recognised or literally unearthed by the king who is destined to rule over them. The entire tradition, of course, exudes royal interference and artful manipulation, but when we compare this myth to those of the other cities of the Syrian Tetrapolis, we can begin to see a broader strategy at work and a more general pattern that hints at the date and mechanism of the myth’s composition. Using the similar research of Buraselis and Ogden, it is safe to conclude that all four cities in the Tetrapolis have essentially the same foundation myth which can be recounted generically: the King arrives as ktistes, sacrifices in the region, some sort of divine portent marks out the location of the city, and the design of the gods is fulfilled with the city’s foundation. All that changes in each city are the precise variables: in Seleucia the portent is thunder, at Antioch, an eagle, but the process is the same in the end, as is the endpoint. A bit of extrapolation allows us

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to hazard a date for the emergence of this tradition. The presence of the same myth in all four cities of the Tetrapolis, along with the appearance of Seleucia-inPieria’s foundation myth in Appian, allows the entire tetrapolitan tradition to be dated roughly to the Hellenistic period – it could not simply have been a much later elaboration by Libanius.44 Bearing in mind that Nicator founded each of these cities at the same time, and that there is little or no mention of his son or later Seleucids in these myths, as well as the fact that Seleucus would have had a pressing need to re-write the local mythical history of these new foundations in order to give them a sense of tradition and belonging, it would seem that Capdetrey was correct in suggesting that these myths are part of a semi-official tradition ordered by the king shortly after having founded these cities, perhaps around 290 BC. 45 Even with such an early Hellenistic provenance, this foundation myth endured in the region over a great span of time and with remarkable consistency: a Roman mosaic dating to the fourth century AD was unearthed at nearby Apameia in October 2011 showing the foundation of the city is remarkably faithful to the literary tradition. It shows the sacrifice made by Seleucus to Zeus on the slopes of Mt Silpius, this time accompanied by his son Antiochus and Heracles, just at the moment when the mythical eagle has swept down to take the burnt offering. The fact that this scene survived in the region over the course of six centuries indicates the depth to which it was embedded in the regional landscape. Unfortunately the mosaic itself was stolen by traffickers of illegal antiquities and a search by Interpol continues.46 At any rate, the myth of the city’s royal foundation was not relegated to the literary tradition alone. If the royal mythical tradition was the work of Seleucus, then it follows logically that the ‘ethnic’ myths relating to the city and landscape must have been the work of the Antiochenes themselves.47 As a whole the body of ethnic myths is fairly unusual: unlike in other cities where the mythical tradition is modified to unify otherwise disparate ethnic groups, Antioch is unique in that each ethnic tradition remains distinct and in some ways separate. Also worth noting is the setting of these myths in the distant mythical past: they serve to populate the landscape and make it at once familiar and Hellenic, further reappropriating the region and laying the foundation for an old Greek claim to it that is not contingent on the Seleucid king, or any king, for that matter. The myths themselves relate the arrival of several different groups into what would become Antioch. In the distant past five distinct groups, each with their own hero, came to the slopes of nearby Mt Silpius. Inachus, father of Io, sent a group of Argives under Triptolemus to search for his daughter, who after searching everywhere arrived in the Amuk plain and were so enchanted with the locale that they decided to remain and found a city.48 Next, the heroic Kasos, guided by divine providence, set out to Mt Silipius with the noblest of the Cretans, where he was gladly received by Argives and settled on the mount in a new settlement named Kasiotis.49 Later, he married Amyke, daughter of the king of Cyprus, who arrived with some of her countrymen and gave her name to the plain surrounding the city.50 This last detail involving Amyke is fascinating, as it in essence creates a Greek teleological myth

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for a non-Greek toponym. Finally, a group of Heracleidae and Eleans, driven into exile by Eurysthes, wandered through Europe and Asia in search of a home, and eventually settled near what would become Daphne.51 At first glance this mythical tradition and the ‘historical’ record are at odds with one another to the point of being irreconcilable: if our literary sources relate that the early inhabitants of Antioch were Athenians, Macedonians and some scattered Greek settlers, then why does this robust mythical tradition describe the arrival of Argives, Cypriots, Cretans, Heracleidae and Eleans? The archaeological record discussed above discounts the possibility that any of these groups were resident near Mt Silpius before the city’s foundation, and neither the Eleans nor the Argives were likely to have made it to Syria before the Hellenistic period.52 But if we consider the valence and associations of each mythical ethnos, some parallels can be drawn that reconcile the discrepancies between the historical and mythical traditions of the city. First, the Cypriots are certainly within the local orbit of Antioch and may well have immigrated in strong enough numbers to the city to form an identifiable group, thus the myth of Kasos and the Cretans could be their attempt to forge a link between their new city and their ancestral home vis-à-vis an ancestral hero.53 This Cretan myth may also have an Athenian-Antigoneian nuance to it given the importance of Theseus to the island’s tradition. Second, the Heracleid and Argive myths are likely to have originated amongst the Macedonian Antiochenes, both Seleucid soldiers and settlers from Antigoneia and Macedon proper, given the mythical link between the Argead dynasty and Argos, as well as Seleucus’ claim of descent from Temenos.54 An association between Herakles and Athena might well link the Heracleid myth to the Athenian-Antigoneians as well.55 Besides these specific associations with the constituent groups of Antioch’s new citizen body, the mythic ethne themselves are delightfully ambiguous, and almost any Greek Antiochene could plausibly claim descent from one or more.56 The Eleans had long been associated with panhellenism as the guardians of the Olympic Games, to which the Macedonians of course were admissible since the time of Herodotus. The Heracleidae, for their part, were notoriously itinerant and could plausibly have gone nearly anywhere in the Greek world, hence they too are an easy group from which to claim descent. Indeed the Antiochenes would certainly not have been alone in doing so, as during the early Hellenistic period there are a swathe of cities and groups in Asia Minor and Northern Syria that claim Argive descent thanks to the region’s great, and most importantly, imprecise archaic prestige. In this group of myths therefore there was some strand at which every resident of the city could grasp, be they Athenian, Macedonian, Cypriote or a Greek settler from elsewhere. Perhaps most importantly, these new mythical traditions rooted these groups in the landscape around Antioch, not just in the city itself – the region, its lands and features, had long been theirs thanks to these myths, and in appropriating the territory in the historical present they also appropriated its mythical past.

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Can these myths, however, be put in the same fairly precise historical context as the royal tradition discussed above? I would argue yes, and that these emerge from the early years following the foundation of the city. The complete absence of the king from these ethnic myths, their plurality and their disparity, and their setting in the archaic past suggests that the Antiochenes came up with this tradition on their own. Doing so gave their city an archaic, Hellenic antiquity that counterbalanced the artificiality of the city’s foundation, and above all gave it a tradition that was free of Seleucid and royal interference. Mythologising new surroundings made them more familiar, less foreign, all the while linking them back to their mainland Greek origins. It is likely that they would want to adapt to their new surroundings fairly quickly, and the distinctly Greek character of the myths suggests at least an Hellenistic emergence for the tradition. More specifically, the absence of Euboeans and Aetolians, who were settled later during the reign of Antiochus III, suggests that the Heracleidae, Argive and Elean myths were the product of the original groups of settlers under Seleucus I and thus could date from around 300–250 BC. The Cretan myth is a bit more ambiguous: while it could plausibly be Athenian in origin and thus as old as the others, the explicit mention of later settlement of Cretans (Libanius 11.124) suggests that this particular myth came about during the reign of Antiochus III. I would be remiss not to mention that the only point of intersection between the royal and ethnic myths is the figure of the king himself: according to Libanius it was he who persuaded the as-yet disparate ethne on the mountain to come and live in his new city.57 Their unity in the city, as in myth, is contingent on the king, but nonetheless the robustness of this ethnic mythic tradition, its lack of unity and consistency, and absence of the king otherwise shows that the Antiochenes were ready and eager to find their own reason for being in the city (and indeed in the region) that did not revolve around the will of the king. Considering the monumental geography of the early city along with its numismatic iconography reveals the manner in which this emergent sense of local belonging was physically manifested. Nicator acted hurriedly to bridge the gap between the various religious traditions of Antioch’s new populace and its local landscape, revealing an underlying sensitivity to and cultivation of this unique sense of belonging and place. The institutionalisation of a cultic life for the young city, and patronage of the locales in which it was to take place, were of profound importance to the cultivation of the city’s fledgling traditions, and, thereby, to the appropriation of the landscape. The recurrence of festivals and rituals served as temporal markers of daily and yearly routines, while fostering an incipient sense of a communal self through religion.58 Foremost among this is the Temple of Apollo at Daphne, which of course was rooted in the dynasty’s own religious traditions while still having broad Panhellenic appeal.59 The Temple of Zeus Keraunios likewise served manifold purposes by simultaneously honouring a patron of Seleucus I, appealing to the cultic traditions of the city’s Macedonians, and reinforcing the city’s links to Alexander. Seleucus commissioned a large stone eagle to be

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placed at the site where the mythical eagle is reported to have dropped the sacrificial meat, serving to embed the myth of Seleucus as ktistes in the landscape itself. In a double-edged gesture that at once commemorates his destruction of Antigoneia and demonstrates his goodwill to its former residents, Seleucus transferred the Tyche of Antigoneia to a prominent position within the city.60 To further cater to their religious sensibilities, he erected a large bronze statue of Athena to facilitate their integration.61 The most renowned of Seleucus’ gifts to the city was the famed Tyche of Antioch by Euthychides of Sicyon, dating from between 296 and 293 BC. 62 Combining the traditions of the Greek West with the Syrian East by joining Tyche’s attributes of fortune and success with the fertility and prosperity associated with the oriental mother-goddesses Ba’alat and Atargatis, the statue also grounds the city itself in the local landscape: Tyche sits on a rock representing Mt Silpius, rests one of her feet on the surging river-god Orontes, and holds a sheaf of wheat representing the fertility of the Amuk plain. Atop her head sits the crown of the city’s walls, itself an adaptation of a near-eastern tradition of depicting mural crowns on the head of tutelary goddesses.63 This artefact elegantly unites the various strands that we have discussed above, as it stands as a physical testament to the efforts of the king and the demos alike to ground themselves in the local landscape. In the process, it became re-appropriated as their own. But before we move on to examine the local dynamics of these royal foundations elsewhere in the empire, an important point needs to be made. In the midst of such prevalent language of rupture, decline and revolution used by contemporary scholars to describe the ideology and process of such city foundations, in the case of Antioch at least it is striking how Seleucus and the Antiochenes went to such lengths to convey the exact opposite impression.64 The re-appropriation of the landscape around Antioch was cast by the royal mythical tradition as anything but a violent rupture, but rather the accomplishment of something that had been predestined by the gods.65 When his horse’s hoof uncovered the arrow of Apollo, Seleucus was symbolically unearthing an older Greek layer of the landscape that had lain hidden until his arrival, but had always been there. In a sense the foundation of Antioch becomes the restoration of a much older Greek presence in the landscape, rather than in the invasion of an entirely new people.66 This proclivity for continuity on the part of Seleucus extended to the residents of Antigoneia as well: the inclusion of their cultic and ethnic traditions in the new city, along with the physical transfer of the city’s Tyche, served to give the impression that the city is simply being relocated and rebranded, rather than destroyed and created anew. The same can be said of the city’s body of ethnic myths: the respective tales told by each of the city’s composite groups serves to give them an historical claim to the landscape.67 While they themselves might have been new settlers, according to these traditions their people had always been there. Again, these traditions emphasise continuity rather than rupture. While Grainger and Kosmin are certainly right to highlight the degree to which

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cities such as Antioch were meant to stand out from the local countryside as identifiable bastions of Greekness, the degree to which Seleucus and indeed the Antiochenes themselves look to their immediate landscape and familiarise themselves within it is remarkable. The re-appropriation of the Hellenistic landscape may well have been an imperial design from above, but in practice it was a fundamentally local project.68

The other way around: the local landscape of Hanisa Antioch on the Orontes is a curious case for a variety of reasons, not least among them being the fact that we have a fairly robust body of literary sources regarding the city’s Hellenistic history, but almost no contemporary archaeological or epigraphic evidence. To gain a fuller picture of the process by which the Hellenistic landscape was re-appropriated through urban foundations, it is beneficial to examine a city for which we have precisely the opposite evidentiary scenario: the mysterious city of Hanisa in Cappadocia which is attested by only one inscription and a few coins.69 While Antioch is illustrative as a case study derived for the dynamics of royal foundation and benefaction, these other two cities from the Hellenistic periphery provide a somewhat more complicated scenario. While Antioch was established in the first decades of the period as royal traditions were still emerging and the structures of power that would govern the Hellenistic world had not yet solidified, our next case study gives us a snapshot of the local landscape in the second century, thus the High Hellenistic period in which the line between Greek and non-Greek had become somewhat more ambiguous.70 In the same way that considering the local tradition of Antioch gives cause to reconsider our suppositions of rupture and discontinuity in the re-appropriation of the Hellenistic landscape, the city of Hanisa in Cappadocia makes us reconsider the sharp distinction between Greek and non-Greek that has traditionally been drawn by historians of the period, as well as the wider question of precisely who was appropriating what.71 The kingdom of Cappadocia emerged as a client state of the Seleucid empire during the third century, when a formal Achaemenid satrapal lineage had consolidated its hold on the region and sought recognition from the Seleucid royal house. As a means of communicating their prestige to both domestic and external audiences, the Cappadocian kings followed the lead set by their Seleucid overlords and adopted many of the trappings and practices of Hellenistic royalty. The Ariarathids married Seleucid princesses over subsequent generations, they began minting Greek-style coinage that shows increasingly Hellenised portraits of the kings themselves with Greek legends, and they adopted Seleucid court practices.72 A century after this alliance was first struck, we find a new king acceding to the throne in 163 BC who has had a Greek education, been made a citizen of Athens, and even erected monuments to a famous philosopher in his adoptive city.73 Suddenly the dynamics of imperial appropriation become more complex: where do we draw the typical Hellenistic lines between Greek and non-Greek, coloniser and colonised, in the case of

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Hellenistic Cappadocia? There is a highly visible programme of Hellenisation at work in the highest echelons of Cappadocian society, but the prime movers and shakers of this process were not Greek themselves, and neither were they new entrants to the region. Instead, as a means of bringing their ancestral homeland into the broader Hellenistic koine that had emerged by the second century, the Ariarathid dynasty had by either edict or example set the wheels of cultural change in motion. Just as the Ariarathid kings adopted the titles, iconography and self-image of their Hellenistic overlords, so too did they adopt the practice of city foundations as an expression of royal power and claim to the landscape.74 Although in the Cappadocian context precisely who founded what city and when is uncertain, it is clear that the Ariarathid kings established cities meant to glorify the dynasty itself in the same manner as Seleucus in Syria. A city named Ariaratheia was built on the modern Zamantisu River, a city previously named Mazake was re-founded as Eusebeia by either Ariarathes IV or V and intended as the new capital of the kingdom, while two other cities, another Eusebeia near the Taurus and Ariaramneia clearly bear the marks of royal intervention.75 But these cities were not founded in newly conquered territory which was being re-appropriated by what had until recently been an external power; rather, the Cappadocian kings were re-appropriating their own landscape and re-aligning it towards the broader Hellenistic community. It is in this complex background that we find our two attestations of the city of Hanisa: a coin struck in the city bearing the portrait of an Ariarathid king on the obverse and a standing Astarte with sphinxes on the reverse, and an inscription on a bronze tablet discovered in 1879 but lost during World War II.76 Christoph Michels has recently discussed the institutional dynamics of the inscription in great detail and we need not cover all of this ground again here, but in the context of this chapter the snapshot of the local cultural landscape this inscription provides is invaluable.77 The document honours a man named Apollonius for having successfully negotiated a dispute over the estate of a certain Sindenos, who had died without an heir.78 Various other parties had put forward claims to the estate of Sindenos, but Apollonius, at his own effort and expense, appealed to an official in nearby Eusebeia that the estate should go to the citizens of Hanisa. The official judged the case in his favour, and in return for his good deeds towards the city, the boule and demos of Hanisa honour him as euergetes, and resolve to crown him with a golden wreath at the festivals of Zeus and Herakles. On the surface this decree provides a snapshot of a thoroughly Greek civic culture working flawlessly here in far-flung Cappadocia: in the inscription we find evidence of a full-fledged polis with all the structures and officials we would come to expect, which in this instance is resolving a dispute through peaceful arbitration in another Greek civic community. This case regarding property inheritance is resolved by the appropriate channels, and a citizen of the community, in this instance Apollonius, is honoured and recognised for the service he has rendered to that community. This decree reveals not

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only the superficial presence of Greek civic structures and institutions, but the smooth functioning of the civic culture which lies beneath them. What we see reflected in this decree is not just a Greek city, but a Greek society. However, Michels was quite right in writing that to brand Hanisa as completely Hellenised ‘would be too sweeping a characterization’, as beneath the surface of the decree we find the reflection of a region that is very much in transition.79 As Robert noted, several members of the city’s populace have what seem to be Cappadocian names, particularly among the patronymics mentioned by the decree: Anoptenes, Maidates, Sasas, Teires. While Apollonius himself seems to have a Greek name, this may well have been theophoric and reflects an assimilation between an indigenous deity and the god Apollo, as happened elsewhere with other Cappdocian deities.80 It would seem then that this reflects a situation akin to that seen in Ptolemaic Egypt or identified in the Far East by Rachel Mairs: in both cases, ethnically non-Greek residents would adopt a Greek name when interacting with Greek civic structures, though this does not imply complete Hellenisation.81 The Hellenicity of the deities whose festivals are mentioned by the inscription – Zeus and Herakles – may well be only a veneer, as elsewhere the Anatolian goddess Ma is assimilated with Athena Nikephoros.82 The closing lines of the decree itself capture this blend of local religious tradition with a new Hellenistic civic influence perfectly: the decree is to be recorded on a bronze tablet and erected in the pronaos of the sanctuary of Astarte, ‘so that also the others, having witnessed the gratitude of the people, will always strive to render service to the polis’.83 The Hanisa decree attests to the transplantation of a new civic community and urban structure into a region that, like Antioch, was certainly not a blank slate at the time of these cities’ foundation. The integration of territory into the Hellenistic urban network through such royal foundations was not a simple or clear-cut process, as even the power and wealth of the Hellenistic kings could not erase the day-to-day local realities of their subjects. The intertwined local histories of cults, religious sensibilities, even estates, just like family names, could not simply be bent into a new shape by the imposition of a Hippodamian grid. In the decree of Hanisa we see the interaction of non-Greek individuals with new Greek-style legal and civic structures, and it is likely that Apollonius and his contemporaries were the first generation of their families to have done so – or indeed to have had to. The king may have set the royal foundations in motion, but as at Antioch these cities then took on a life of their own as they adapted to the local landscape that had now been integrated into royal territory. And neither was Hanisa alone: the decree mentions the presence of parallel structures at Eusebeia, and there is no reason to assume that the other attested Cappadocian cities of Ariaratheia and Ariaramneia would not have had the same in place as well. One can likewise assume that these other cities would have had their own equivalent to the sanctuary of Astarte, or the religious festivals in honour of Zeus, Herakles or whatever name their ancestral gods were now being called in this new civic language. Yet here, as in Antioch, the integration of territory into the Hellenistic fold was not simply a matter of rupture and discontinuity, but

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rather the negotiation of older local realities with the broadened horizons of the period. And here, in these new urban corners of Cappadocia, the hard and fast distinction between Greek and non-Greek falls apart quite quickly, as does the line between appropriation and re-appropriation.

Conclusions: in the footsteps of Darius The Hellenistic world, as ever, is not nearly as clear and simple as would perhaps be desired. The case of Seleucid Syria reveals that we cannot discuss the foundation of the Tetrapolis by the early Seleucids in terms of rupture and discontinuity; it is not, as early commentators on the period would suggest, a situation in which a new Graeco-Macedonian layer was simply steamrolled on top of the landscape like asphalt, covering all that had once lain beneath it. In the Seleucid context especially, the re-appropriation of territory in such a diverse realm could hardly be so heavy-handed or binary. It is not just plunder being melted down into something that could now be called property. The early history of Antioch is complex. In it we find Seleucus carefully entering into several dialogues with no small measure of nuance: he was eminently aware that he was following in the footsteps of Alexander and his numerous Alexandrias, but on the local level he was also picking up where his defeated enemy Antigonus had left off with his own incomplete re-shaping of this part of Syria. In the meticulous narratives crafted around the landscape by the myths recounting his foundation of the city and the preservation of traditions and sensibilities unique to each of its constituent ethnic groups there is, as I have argued above, a desire on the part of the king to stress continuity and persistence, rather than sudden rupture. The project of incorporating new territory into this fledgling empire was a delicate matter, not the simple domination by blunt cultural means that it may seem from a detached top-down perspective. There is, as ever, a local pushback against more global developments.84 This was certainly the case in Cappadocia as well. The Cappadocian kings, in the manner of their suzerains and contemporaries, created a network of city foundations as an urban monument to their power and prestige, as well as a means of demonstrating that they too were fully entitled players in the Hellenistic game. But in the process they were not re-appropriating territory that was not originally theirs, they were rather re-organising their ancestral domain as a means of introducing it into the broader Hellenistic world which brought its own promises of profit, both tangible and intangible. They had, after all, done the same to themselves in previous generations as they re-modelled their own selfimage, court customs, even language and education, on the Seleucid precedent as a means of crafting their passport to the Hellenistic koine.85 As in the case of Antioch, though, this was not in and of itself a destructive process, either for the dynasty or their subjects in Hanisa: old traditional elements were placed in a dialogue with new innovations, leading to, for instance, a man bearing a Greek name and a Cappadocian patronymic being honoured with a Greek civic wreath at a (civic) sanctuary of the goddess Astarte.

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But whom precisely were the Ariarathid kings imitating, and indeed whom was Seleucus imitating? In the early Hellenistic context it is tempting to point the finger at Alexander and conclude simply that Seleucus and his successors were following in his footsteps as they founded their own equivalents to his dozens of Alexandrias as a means of re-appropriating territory. Yet in this particular corner of the Hellenistic world Alexander was neither the first nor the last to establish new cities on the ruins of others that had been recently conquered as a means of integrating them into a broader network; neither was Seleucus the first to delicately include local sensibilities in an imperial project. Recent work on cultural integration in the Achaemenid Empire published in the Persika series has brought to light the delicate middle ground struck by the Achaemenids in simultaneously allowing room for cultural continuity in the local corners of the empire, while also conveying their own supremacy.86 There is, as Tuplin phrases it, a great deal of ‘cultural adjacency’ in the Empire, but induced change is rare.87 Robert Rollinger’s study of Greeks in the Achaemenid Empire highlights the variety of roles played by those identified as yauna who, interestingly, figure prominently in the Great King’s building programmes.88 At the highest level of the Empire, however, there is a remarkable similarity between the integrative tone conveyed by Darius the Great’s own accounts of his monumental constructions and the inclusion of diversity in Antioch’s early civic traditions fostered by Seleucus. In the famous Foundation Tablet of Susa (DSf), Darius recounts his building of the palace by describing how elements of it were brought from the far-flung corners of his empire: timber from Lebanon, bricks moulded by Babylonians, silver and ebony from Egypt, ornamentation from his Greek subjects.89 These elements would have remained identifiable in the midst of their inclusion into a new imperial whole, here again the strategy is one of diversity underneath the rule of the Great King rather than a simple project of imperial assimilation. This is precisely the same strategy that would later be adopted by Seleucus. In the more local vicinity of Syria and Cappadocia we find the Persian satrapal capital of Sardis, which itself had a long history before being conquered by the Achaemenids. The fascinating study of the city’s relationship with the Achaemenid Empire published by Elspeth Dusinberre describes the city’s trajectory in terms that are remarkably similar to our discussion of Antioch and Hanisa above.90 There is a mix of continuity and innovation in the establishment of Achaemenid imperial administration in this far western corner of the empire: Achaemenid rule certainly left its mark on the city, but not in a manner that signifies rupture or revolution. Sardis was meant to be an outpost of empire at the end of the Royal Road, but the Achaemenids did not completely divorce the city from its local context.91 Sardis was a military base for the royal army, it had a set of royal officials and governors, the court of a local satrap, and at times played host to the members of the royal family itself.92 The Persians left their mark on the city: the old Lydian walls were destroyed and replaced, the acropolis was re-fortified as a defensive bulwark for the king’s troops, and literary sources mention the construction of Persian paradeisoi. 93 Besides these new imprints on the city, however, the picture

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described by Dusinberre is dominated by continuity of local tradition: the palace of Croesus was probably re-used by Persian satraps, there is little to suggest a widespread change in domestic architecture, and indeed traditional cults were reinvigorated with the construction of a new altar to Artemis and the renovation of an older altar to Cybele.94 Figurines found in the city attest to local cultic continuity as well. This mix between imperial prestige and local continuity in the re-appropriation of the urban milieu at Sardis is precisely the same as we have seen in the Seleucid project at Antioch. On the level of civic society, we find a situation in Achaemenid Sardis that is similar to what we have found at Hanisa: a local elite interacts with a new imperial milieu in a manner that blends tradition and innovation. Continuity in burial practice and religious iconography point to the persistence of local cultic traditions, and while there are still separate and distinct tomb types linked to ethnicity, in the artefacts found within the tombs there is what Dusinberre identifies as ‘a koine in artistic style extending across such points as country of origin or ethnic affiliation, uniting the elite in a group linked by status rather than nationality’.95 The coexistence of Lydian, Aramaic and Greek epigraphic material in Achaemenid Sardis likewise hints at the continuity of local diversity under the new imperial administration, while at the same time elites from various groups began imitating Achaemenid practices as a means of local self-distinction.96 In the same manner as the Cappadocians of Hanisa could remain Cappadocian while still gaining access to the Hellenistic koine through some measure of cultural imitation, so too could the local elite of Sardis remain set in their traditional ways while still interacting in the broader Achaemenid network.97 The Achaemenids, of course, were not the last to leave their mark on the local world of Sardis in an attempt to bring it into an imperial fold: the Seleucids themselves refashioned the city at some point in the third century in a manner that was highly reminiscent of their Persian predecessors. Under the Seleucids the city’s history and local traditions were not simply whitewashed over with a new and Greek layer, but again a more nuanced process was at work. At the time of Alexander, the city had some Greek elements but was not a polis and did not have Greek-style magistracies or a Greek legal system.98 Even in the early third century, the city did not have the usual civic buildings associated with a polis community like those we find at Hanisa or Antioch. But by 213 BC a series of epigraphic documents give us a picture of the local life of Sardis: a letter of Antiochus dated to March/April 213 shows the king communicating with what appears to be a Greek polis, with a gymnasium, magistrates and all the institutions we would come to expect.99 A passage of Polybius (7.15–17) describing roughly the same time mentions a theatre and a hippodrome as well.100 The transformation, however, was neither complete nor total: another epigraphic document records a decision to inscribe a letter from Laodice III to the people of Sardis on the portico of the temple in the Metroon, which must be the Greek identification of the traditional temple of Cybele that we have discussed above.101 Just as under the Achaemenids, the traditional cult of Artemis would be reinvigorated as the new king paid homage to local cults in the same manner as the old: a massive temple of Artemis has been dated to the earlier

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third century and must be the product of Seleucid benefaction. This, too, continued to play to local sensibilities: although the temple was built in the Greek style, the dedication inscribed on two columns for the temple was written in Lydian. The apparent ‘Hellenisation’ of Sardis was neither something that happened overnight nor was it an entirely top-down process; rather, as Sherwin-White and Kuhrt argued, here as elsewhere it is the product of close interaction between the king and local elites seeking to gain access to a much broader empire.102 Perhaps, then, the Ariarathid kings as well as the Seleucids themselves were imitating an Achaemenid mechanism of territorial re-appropriation which was characterised by a delicate mix of local continuity and imperial innovation. The Achaemenids, like the Seleucids and their client kings, did not come into the landscape of Sardis, raze it to the ground, and erect something distinctly new and imperial in the ashes of its former settlements. Rather there is a mix of the local and the trans-local at work in the re-appropriation of the region that placed it on a much broader imperial map and included it in the imperial fold, but without sacrificing local place in its inclusion into imperial space. This would not have been the only element of continuity in the transition between the Achaemenid Empire and the Hellenistic monarchies in this region or elsewhere: the contributions to a 2006 volume on the topic edited by Pierre Briant and Francis Joannès argue that in such diverse corners of the Achaemenid world as Anatolia, Babylon, Uruk and Egypt, this transition cannot be characterised as a widespread disruption of the past.103 The project of city foundations as a means of creating a new imperial koine, one which was not exclusively GrecoMacedonian but rather characterised by a dominant sense of Hellenicity, can perhaps be seen as another element of this continuity. So too can the broader notion that the landscape, just like every other form of wealth and prestige ranging from men and horses to silver and precious textiles, must be refashioned somehow in the process of being repossessed, the conqueror must leave his or her stamp on what has been taken from the conquered, and in the process plunder is transformed into property. The re-appropriation of the landscapes we have encountered in Syria and Cappadocia was not marked by a sense of discontinuity or rupture, neither was it intended to. The Seleucids, the Ariarathids, their contemporaries, and indeed Alexander were not the first to try to bring these diverse landscapes into a new imperial network, and they would certainly not be the last.104

Notes 1 Bevan (1902) 1.14. Given the vast bibliography on many of the subjects considered in this chapter, I have opted for Syme’s approach to referencing and thus mention only those works immediately pertinent to the present discussion. I do not intend to provide an exhaustive bibliography in these footnotes. 2 A thought further developed in Bevan (1902) 1.1–22, his opening chapter ‘Hellenism in the East’ predicates Greek culture on the membership of the individual in the state, by extension the polis, as opposed to the perceived despotism of the East. On the decline of the Greek polis equating to the decline of Greek civic

78

3 4

5 6 7

8 9 10 11 12

13 14 15 16 17

18 19

Alex McAuley culture, see, for instance, Glotz (1928) 448; Tarn (1951) 79: Giovannini (1993) among others. Bevan (1902) 1.209. Bevan (1902) 1.208 for the first quotation, Grainger (1990) 47 for the second. Grainger (1990) 40–38 discusses the early Greek presence in this corner of Syria in great detail, and provides a very helpful narrative of Seleucus’ foundations in the subsequent chapter. Walbank (1981) cited in Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 143–144. See especially their comments on the scholarly history of Seleucid colonisation and Hellenistic urbanism more generally at Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 145–149. Their entire discussion on colonisation and imperialism is eminently erudite and helpful. See Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 141–187 with its pioneering discussion of the experience of Seleucid Babylon and Ai-Khanoum. Kosmin (2014) 192–199. The quotation above is the name Kosmin gives to this section of his analysis. Also see 93–119 for his analysis of the colonisation of Syria – what he identifies as ‘diasporic imperialism’ and the elegantly twinned chapters ‘King makes City’ 183–221 and ‘City makes King’ 223–252. Many of the observations below are inspired by Kosmin’s erudite work on the topic. Kosmin (2014) 199. Kosmin (2014) 199. See Engels (2017) 211 as well as his broader discussion from 157 to 212. On the consolidation of the early Seleucid Empire, see the volume edited by Erickson (2018). See also the prefatory discussion of Engels (2017) 3–12. Especially in the reconstruction of Kosmin (2014) and Grainger (1990). On the mechanism of Seleucid colonies as royal foundations, see Cohen (1978) and Bickerman (1938). See also Capdetrey (2007). For the process behind the introduction of royal cult in Seleucid Syria, with extensive references, see Strootman (2016). On the sources (or lack thereof) regarding Hellenistic Antioch: epigraphical deficiency, Gatier (2003) 102-103; archaeological issues, Morey (1936) 637-638; literary sources, Downey (1961) 24. On the pre-Hellenistic circumstances of this region of Syria, see Grainger (1990) 7, 17–20; Leriche (2003) 130–135. On the long development of this site, see Boardman (1999) on the Greek presence in Syria. Bosworth (1974) 46–60; Grainger (1990) 37–39 on Antigoneia. See also the detailed discussion of Cohen (2006) 76–79 with notes. Diod. 20.47.5: οὗτος δὲ τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον διέτριβε περὶ τὴν ἄνω Συρίαν, πόλιν κτίζων περὶ τὸν Ὀρόντην ποταμὸν τὴν ὠνομασμένην Ἀντιγονίαν ἀφ᾽ ἑαυτοῦ. κατεσκεύαζε δὲ πολυτελῶς, τὴν περίμετρον ὑποστησάμενος σταδίων ἑβδομήκοντα: εὐφυὴς γὰρ ἦν ὁ τόπος ἐφεδρεῦσαι τῇ τε Βαβυλῶνι καὶ ταῖς ἄνω σατραπείαις καὶ πάλιν τῇ κάτω Συρίᾳ καὶ ταῖς ἀπ᾽ Αἰγύπτου σατραπείαις (At this time Antigonus was tarrying in upper Syria, founding a city on the Orontes River, which he called Antigonia after himself. He laid it out on a lavish scale, making its perimeter seventy stades; for the location was naturally well adapted for watching over Babylon and the upper satrapies, and again for keeping an eye upon lower Syria and the satrapies near Egypt). Discussed by Cohen (2006) 73–76, 122 originally in Seyrig (1970) 298–309 with reference to Plutarch, Dem. 17.2–5; also discussed by Capdetrey (2007) 61. On this process more broadly see Billows (1995) especially his analysis of kings and estate holders in Asia at 111–131 and his reading of the Mnesimachos inscription at 132–145. On the foundation of Alexandria, see Plutarch, Alex. 26.3–10 in which we find many of the same elements that will later recur in the Seleucid foundation myths. On land policy in the Seleucid context see Van der Spek (1993).

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20 Diod. 20.108.1: Ἀντίγονος δὲ προκεχειρισμένος ἀγῶνα μέγαν καὶ πανήγυριν ἐν Ἀντιγονίᾳ συντελεῖν πάντοθεν ἀθλητάς τε καὶ τεχνίτας τοὺς ἐπιφανεστάτους ἐπὶ μεγάλοις ἄθλοις καὶ μισθοῖς ἠθροίκει. ὡς δ᾽ ἤκουσε τὴν Λυσιμάχου διάβασιν καὶ τῶν στρατηγῶν τὴν ἀπόστασιν, τὸν μὲν ἀγῶνα διέλυσε, τοῖς δ᾽ ἀθληταῖς καὶ τοῖς τεχνίταις ἀπέδωκε μισθοὺς οὐκ ἐλάττους διακοσίων ταλάντων (Antigonus, who had made preparations to celebrate great games and a festival in Antigonia, had collected from all sides the most famous athletes and artists to compete for great prizes and fees. But when he heard of the crossing of Lysimachus and the desertion of his own generals, he abandoned the games but distributed to the athletes and artists not less than two hundred talents as compensation). 21 Strabo 16.2.10 discussed by Cohen (2006) 94–95, 122. See especially the following remark of Strabo: ἐκαλεῖτο δὲ καὶ Πέλλα ποτὲ ὑπὸ τῶν πρώτων Μακεδόνων διὰ τὸ τοὺς πλείστους τῶν Μακεδόνων ἐνταῦθα οἰκῆσαι τῶν στρατευομένων, τὴν δὲ Πέλλαν ὥσπερ μητρόπολιν γεγονέναι τῶν Μακεδόνων τὴν Φιλίππου καὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου πατρίδα (It was also called Pella at one time, by the first Macedonians, because the majority of the Macedonians who made the expedition took up their abode there, and because Pella, the native city of Philip and Alexander, had become, as it were, the metropolis of the Macedonians.). 22 See Cohen (2006) 97 n. 3 for scholarly discussion mentioning Billows (1997) 299. 23 Seyrig (1970) 290–311; Capdetrey (2007) 61. 24 Interestingly, neither did Seleucus or his successors leave the area as a finished canvas. Daubner (2011) argues for a similar process in Asia Minor in which local military settlements in the region are the product of Attalid administration, rather than the initial wave of Seleucid colonisation. As will be discussed below, the Seleucids were neither the first nor the last to continue re-shaping the region. 25 See notes in the introduction above. 26 Cohen (1978) 4–30; Grainger (1990) 55–60; Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 22–30. See especially the discussion of Cohen (1978) 32–35; Kuhrt (1996) 44–47. 27 A tendency that is by and large decreasing as time goes on, but certainly implicit in the studies of Downey and Haddad. 28 Grainger (1990) 60; Downey (1961) 64–67. On the broader context of Seleucid imperial consolidation, see Engels’ (2017) discussion of the Upper Satrapies that by all accounts represent the thrust of Seleucid focus. 29 Capdetrey (2007) 51–60; Engels (2017) 103–156. 30 Cohen (2006) 80–93 provides a comprehensive bibliography of the ancient and modern discussions of Antioch. It is so thorough that it need not be condensed here. Diodorus 20.47 is the only dissenting voice, asserting that the Antigoneians were instead brought to Seleucia-in-Pieria, though the questionable wisdom of transferring settlers to a new city named after himself, along with the unanimity of Antiochene sources, makes it clear that Diodorus was in error, as discussed by Grainger (1990) 96–98; Kasher (1982) 72–74; Downey (1958) 84–90; Libanius 11.97–99. 31 Cassius Dio 40.29.1. 32 See Strabo 16.2.3–6 for the foundation of these cities. See also the relevant discussions in Grainger (1990) chapter 3; Cohen (2006) s.v. the respective city names. 33 For a variety of fascinating case-studies of the situation of these cities in the local landscape from throughout the empire, see Kosmin (2014) 186–208. 34 On the early organisation of the city and its populace see Downey (1958) 84–87; Haddad (1949) 74–75; Aperghis (2004) 93–94 in addition to the references to Cohen (2006) above. 35 In this sense I agree completely with Billows (1995) 149–154, pace Briant, that Greek settlers to the region were not poor or bankrupt emigres. 36 On the early relationship between king and populace see Kuhrt (1996) 44–47; Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 162–166; Cohen (1978) 81–85.

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37 For the reign of Antiochus III and later waves of migration to the city see Libanius 11.124; Downey (1961) 92–94; Grainger (1990) 96–105; Strabo 16.2.4. 38 The discussion below heavily employs the interesting analysis of Dumitru (2016), which discusses the religious dimensions of Seleucid city foundations in various parts of the kingdom. 39 In contemporary discussion of these foundation myths, there tend to be two groups. The first, represented by Downey (1961) 80–82; Grainger (2010) 107 and SherwinWhite & Kuhrt (1993), tends to dismiss the myths as embroidered artefacts. The second group, including Buraselis (2010); Ogden (2010); and Haddad (1949), treats the myths primarily as literary devices with little historical value. Bevan’s treatment (1902) of these myths is a notable exception. See also the references to previous discussions of these myths in Strootman (2016) notes 22–25. See more recently Ogden (2017) on the broader mythical tradition surrounding Seleucus I. 40 Ogden (2010); Buraselis (2010) 264–270; Dumitru (2016) 183–194. 41 Capdetrey (2007) 62–63; Downey (1961) 80–85. 42 Libanius 11.74–87; Malalas 8.14–16; Buraselis (2010) 268–270. 43 Justin Epit.15.4.2–10 for Seleucus’ mythical parentage. See Erickson (2009) on numismatic associations between the early Seleucids and the god Apollo. 44 In the same vein, the presence of parallel myths in Seleucid city foundations discussed by Ogden (2010) in Diodorus allows us to date the entire tradition to the late Hellenistic period at the very latest. 45 Capdetrey (2007) 62–65. 46 On the mosaic itself see the news article by Olszewski & Saad (2017) and an image of the mosaic on M. Olszewski’s academia.edu profile page. 47 Downey (1961) 55 goes as far as to call them ‘patently local’. See also the discussion of Bevan (1902) 1.212. 48 The Argive myth is found in Strabo 16.2.5; Libanius 11.52–56; discussed by Downey (1961) 50; Haddad (1949) 38–39. 49 Libanius 11.52–55; Malalas 8.15. 50 Libanius 11.52–55; Malalas 8.15. 51 For the Cretan/Cypriote myth, Libanius 11.52–5; Malalas 8.15; Argive myth, Strabo 16.2.5; Libanius 11.52–6; Malalas 8.15. Eleans come through in the above Argive citations as well. 52 Grainger (1990) 20–25. 53 On Theseus, Athens and Cyprus see Walker (1995) 52–53. See also Strootman’s discussion of these myths (2016) with extensive references. 54 On the malleability of the Argive ethnos see Scheer (2005) 226–229 and her general discussion of the malleability of myth in this context, 217–225. See also Scheer’s previous studies (1993, 2000) which bear on the Argive context. 55 Downey (1961) 50–55; Haddad (1949) 38–44. 56 Grainger (1990) 35; Haddad (1949) 40–43. See also McAuley (forthcoming a) on Argive religious connections with Macedon and elsewhere in the Aegean being developed in the early Hellenistic period. 57 This aligns neatly with the bonds of personal obligation fostered between the king and the city’s new resident settlers through his civic benefactions, as discussed by Grainger (1990) 112–123, and then the evolution of the urban hierarchy, 121–142, and his conclusion regarding the relationship between the Seleucid cities of Syria and the Seleucid kings, 143–149. 58 Kondoleon (2001) 198. Downey (1961) 74–77 provides an invaluable examination of the city’s early geography. 59 On this development of Daphne see Strootman (2016) 16–19. See also the work of Petridou (2016) on the role played by divine epiphany in civic traditions.

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60 Kondoleon (2001) 198 and Downey’s discussion (1961). Malalas 202.6–7 for the construction of a statue at the site of the sacrifice, and also Malalas 201.5–18 for the early landscape of the city. 61 On this statue see Malalas 201.16–18; Downey (1961) 76 notes 102–103. Interestingly the connection between Seleucus and Athena is emphasised on the city’s early coinage, for instance, Houghton (2002) 1.20–22; Newell (1941) 92–94. 62 Downey (1961) 74 on the statue. On Hellenised Atargatis see Bilde (1990) 152–165. 63 The presence of mural crowns associated with city sovereignty is an extremely old one in the Ancient Near East, found in Assyria and in Elam. For an overview of the image, see Metzler (1994). Among the early images that we have of queens being associated with mural crowns is Aššur-šarrat, wife of Ashurbanipal, who is depicted in his garden scene with mural crown as discussed by Ataç (2018) 168–175. 64 On the later troubled interaction between king and demos, Grainger (1990) 126–154; Gatier (2003) 109: Downey (1961) 96–107. For the most concise summary of Antiochene revolts in later Seleucid dynastic politics see Grainger (2010) 321–380; Downey (1961) 119–142. 65 See Kosmin (2014) 211–218 for further discussion of these foundation narratives elsewhere in the empire. 66 From this perspective of continuity and restoration, we begin to see the other side of the coin described by Kosmin (2014) 210 when he writes ‘Seleucid nomenclature quite deliberately framed their colonial enterprise as something new. Although much would have remained of the earlier cities physically and demographically, court-derived naming patterns chose to portray a specific image – the Seleucid monarch forging, not inheriting, an empire.’ This certainly may be the case from the top-down royal perspective, but the creation of local traditions at Antioch adds some nuance to this process. 67 On this relationship between myth and the local landscape see Strootman’s (2016) relevant comments. 68 In this context, see also the Wright (2012) on the role played by religion in the appropriation of Seleucid Syria over the longer span of time. Wright uses a variety of evidence in his analysis, and seeing these mythical patterns reflected in the numismatic iconography he analyses is particularly interesting in the context of the present discussion. On this, see chapters 3–6, and also his discussion of religion in Syria under the later Seleucids. 69 Much of my discussion below is owed to the insight of Michels (2012) who applies the peer-polity interaction model to the Hellenisation of Cappadocia, with interesting results. Michels nevertheless provides an invaluable overview of the scholarship and situates this decree of Hanisa in the broader questions surrounding Hellenisation and cultural transfer in the period, especially 283–286. See also McAuley (forthcoming b) on the inclusion of Hellenistic Cappadocia in the Seleucid Empire, and especially the role played by royal women in this process, McAuley (2017). 70 The High Hellenistic as a concept and period will be elaborated in more detail in Llewellyn-Jones & McAuley (forthcoming). 71 On Cappadocia in the Hellenistic period see Gabelko (2017); Hansen (1947) 73–76; Grainger (2010) 131; Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 32–36; Ballesteros-Pastor (2013). Michels (2012) 284 n. 9 for discussions of Achaemenid-era Cappadocia. 72 Diod. 31.19.6; Por. F32.6 record the first marriage between the Seleucids and the Ariarathids. Discussed by Grainger (2010) 131. See Diodorus’ description of the subsequent generations of the dynasty at 31.19.6. See McAuley (2017) 196 for the next marriage within the dynasty, and the adoption of Seleucid court practice in McAuley (forthcoming b).

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73 The king in question is Ariarathes V, who at some point between 163 and 160 BC made a benefaction to the Dionysiac Technitai in Athens in which he is recorded as being a member of the deme Sypalletos and the Phyle of Kekropis, and thus a full Athenian citizen in OGIS 353. Diodorus 31.19.8 praises Ariarathes for his Greek education and his encouragement of a Greek-style court in the kingdom. He had a close relationship with the philosophe Carneades, and according to Diogenes Laertius 4.65 carried on correspondence with him. Ariarathes and his brother in law Attalus II dedicated a statue to the philosopher in Athens, Syll3 666 = IG II² 3781. 74 On this see McAuley (forthcoming a). 75 Cohen (1995) 375–276 for a full discussion of this Ariaratheia, with references to its external and internal attestations. On Eusebeia near Argaios see Strabo 12.2.7, and Cohen’s discussion (1995) 377–378 of the city s.v. ‘Eusebeia near Argaios’. Eusebeia near the Tauros is discussed by Cohen (1995) 378–379, with references and epigraphic attestations. Given the use of the epithet Eusebes, we can safely date the city to the reign of either Ariarathes IV Eusebes or Ariarathes V, the city would have been founded at some point in the early second century BC. Ariaramneia is a scantly attested city, Cohen (1995) 375. 76 For an image of the coin and its scholarly history see Michels (2012) 286 n. 20, who discusses the debate regarding precisely who struck the coin and when. See also his discussion 286–288, and the image of the coin, 291 Fig. 21. 77 The following recapitulation of the decree is based on the excellent text, translation and commentary of Michels (2012) 286–291. 78 Following the text and translation of Michels (2012) 287 and Fig. 22 for an image of the decree itself. 79 Michels (2012) 290. 80 Robert (1963) 508; Michels (2012) 290 n. 29. Michels also mentions the discussion of Lipinski, who concluded that some of the names in the inscription were potentially Semitic. 81 See the authoritative study of Mairs (2014) for this fascinating experience of selective identities in selective contexts. On the Ptolemaic parallel, see the various case studies in Lewis (1986) and the discussion of Goudriaan (1988). 82 On the debate for this see Michels (2012) 291 n. 33 with discussion, mentioning the objections of Mitchell (1993) to this hypothesis. 83 ὅπως ἂν και οἱ λοιποὶ θεωροῦντες τὸ τοῦ δήμου | εὐχάριστον πειρῶνται ἀεί τινος ἀγαθοῦ παραίτιοι | γίνεσθαι τῆι πόλει (ll. 32–34). 84 See also Kosmin (2014) 222–251 on the other dynamic of, as he puts it, how ‘city makes king’. 85 On this see McAuley (forthcoming a) and the concluding discussion to Michels (2012). 86 The volume edited by Briant and Chauveau in 2009, Persika 14, is an important contribution to our understanding of the Persian Empire. My brief recapitulation here is based on Tuplin’s (2009) conclusion to the volume and summarising remarks, especially 427. 87 Tuplin (2009) 427. 88 Rollinger (2009) 343–348 on the Greeks at Babylon, and his preceding discussion of how the Greek are identified in the Persepolis fortification tablets. See also the case studies on Egypt by Defernez, Persepolis and the Skurdrians by Henkelman, and the interaction among Persians, Anatolians, and Greeks in Asia Minor by Lintz in the same volume. 89 DSf lines 28–45 for the various ethnic contributions to this project, which is mirrored in how Darius describes the construction of Persepolis and the vast variety of materials contributed from through the empire. On the imperial dynamics of the king and his court, see Llewellyn-Jones (2013).

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90 See Dusinberre (2002) who situates the discussion of Achaemenid Sardis brilliantly in the larger context of debates regarding empire in the Achaemenid world and elsewhere. My summary of her findings also draws on the excellent and thorough review of the work by Ebbinghaus (2004) published as BMCR 2004.02.20. 91 Dusinberre (2002) 1–31. 92 Dusinberre (2002) 31–45 with conclusions summarised 196–218. 93 Drawn from Dusbinerre’s (2002) discussion of the urban structure of Achaemenid Sardis 46–77. 94 Dusinberre (2002) 60–68. 95 Dusinberre (2002) 148 quoted by Ebbinghaus (2004). 96 Dusinberre (2002) 128–171 on the evidence from mortuary practices and seal stones. 97 Dusinberre (2002) 148–154. 98 On this see Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 180–184. According to Arrian. Anab. 1.17.3, Lydian laws were in use in the city at the time of Alexander the Great, and a decree of Miletus for the inhabitants of Sardis Syll.3273 does not mention any Greek magistrates in the city, or any Greek civic structures. 99 Gauthier (1989) 13–15 cited by Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 181 with a translation of the letter. 100 On Polybius’ descriptions of Sardis after the siege by Antiochus and the defeat of Achaeus see Piejko (1987). 101 Gauthier (1989) 47–49 for the document itself, and discussion in Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 181–182. 102 Sherwin-White & Kuhrt (1993) 183–187. 103 Briant & Joannès (2006) which was published as Persika 9, especially the concluding remarks by Kuhrt 471–476. 104 On the legacy of Hellenistic city foundation myths in the Roman world see Noreña (2016).

5

The colonisation of Pontiae (313 BC), piracy and the nature of Rome’s maritime expansion before the First Punic War Roman Roth

Introduction In the year 313

BC,

Rome founded two colonies in the South of Latium:

Suessa et Pontiae eodem anno coloniae deductae sunt. Suessa Auruncorum fuerat; Volsci Pontias, insulam sitam in conspectu litoris sui, incoluerant. The colonies Suessa and Pontiae were founded in the same year. Suessa had belonged to the Aurunci; the Volsci had dwelled on Pontiae, an archipelago visible from their mainland coast. (Liv. 9. 28. 7)1 Situated on the Isole di Ponza, the colony of Pontiae does not feature prominently in the history of the Roman Republic. In fact, the only other notice we have about the settlement before the early Empire concerns its position in the Hannibalic War when it featured among the colonies that remained loyal to Rome (Liv. 27.10.8). It is on the basis of this last passage that Pontiae is usually counted among the colonies of Latin status although we shall see that, just as in other cases, the significance and indeed, historicity of the conventional typology of Roman colonisation might be doubtful for this early period. The archaeological record of Republican Pontiae is not well known either. With the exception of two stretches of polygonal masonry of uncertain function, no structures that are datable to the mid-Republican period have been found, nor does Pontiae appear to have numbered among those of Rome’s colonies that issued their own coinage.2 During the late Republic and early Empire, the islands were known both for their relative prosperity – Strabo at any rate describes them as well-peopled (5.3.6) – and their remoteness. Both may have been factors influencing Roman Emperors in their choice of Pontiae as a place of exile for those who had fallen out of favour, a function which the Isole di Ponza continued to fulfil occasionally into more recent times.3 Despite the peripheral place which the archipelago holds in the history of ancient Italy, however, Livy’s notice of the deductio of Pontiae in 313 BC opens a window to discussing the nature of Rome’s early maritime expansion. Specifically, I seek to explore the extent to which the phenomenon of Roman

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colonisation on the coasts of Italy before the First Punic War (264–241 BC) might directly or indirectly be linked with certain ancient reports about piracy in the western Mediterranean during the fourth and early third centuries BC. In a recent study, Bispham has raised the possibility that piracy might have occurred as a phenomenon that was incidental to Roman expansion and possibly tolerated by Rome in the case of the colony of Antium.4 In this chapter, I push this argument considerably further by locating such forms of maritime exploitation structurally among the economic motives of mid-Republican colonisation, the importance of which is now increasingly recognised. Rather than being purely a matter of military expediency and strategy, mid-Republican Rome’s colonisation in coastal areas may have been more similar than is usually acknowledged to the maritime expansion practised by contemporary states such as Syracuse. In these cases both ancient sources and modern historians readily accept that toleration of or even active support for piracy formed part of the mix of expansionist strategies during the Hellenistic period.

Roman colonisation of coastal areas: a re-assessment The seemingly odd place of Pontiae among Rome’s conventionally known colonies has not escaped her historians’ notice. First, it is the only known mid-Republican colony that was situated on an island. Second, although the ancient tradition regarded Pontiae as a colony of Latin status (see above), its potential size – which has been speculated to have been 300 settlers and their families – and location on land with limited agricultural potential would appear to make the settlement fit better into the category of coastal citizen colonies.5 However, this categorisation has increasingly been the target of scholarly criticism in recent years. More specifically, several historians of midRepublican Rome have expressed some doubt as to whether the coastal citizen colonies (coloniae maritimae) identified by Salmon in fact represent a valid historical category.6 In addition, we should note that Livy does not usually distinguish between Roman colonies of citizen and Latin status for the period before the second century BC. This is also the case in the passage about the foundation of Suessa and Pontiae with which I began my discussion (9.28.7). Livy was perhaps following an annalistic notice here that went back to an older record of colonisation, in which those categories simply did not figure.7 This would fit in with Crawford’s hypothesis according to which the emergence of the distinct group of Latin colonies as it is known to us is unlikely to pre-date the late third or early second century BC.8 For the purposes of this chapter, therefore, I discuss Pontiae as a colony in a coastal area and thus in the context of other littoral settlements which Rome established between the mid-fourth century and her first war with Carthage. Based on shared geographical and chronological criteria, this analytical category may provide a firmer basis for historical interpretation in this case than what we might expect from a framework that was retrospectively imposed by a later tradition and further embellished by modern scholarship.9

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Dismissing such preconceptions also allows us to approach the location of Pontiae from a new angle. For unlike the foundation of other colonies on the coasts of the Italian mainland, that of Pontiae cannot be explained in either of the two ways that are conventionally offered for mid-Republican colonisation: neither did the islands offer a territory that was large and fertile enough to support a large population and thus to help increase Italian manpower, nor is it likely that a garrison was required to keep a hostile population on the islands at bay. Since these two explanations are not readily available, several historians have come up with a third suggestion which, though superficially attractive, should be dismissed as anachronistic and therefore implausible. According to this view, the Senate decided to found Pontiae in 313 BC as Rome was getting the upper hand in the Second Samnite War, in order to create a sea route to Campania at a time at which the close alliance with Capua had turned out to be sine qua non for long-term success against the Samnites. This is supposed to have been the Roman response to the experience of the previous decade: for between the Roman defeats at Caudium in 321, and at Lautulae in 315 BC, the Samnites had intermittently managed to cut off the land route between Rome and Capua.10 Yet this proposal is problematic for several reasons. For example, it is highly unlikely that Rome was in a position to transport troops by sea in any significant number at this point her history.11 This is not to deny that Rome was involved in naval activity before the First Punic War.12 However, the nature of this naval activity was probably quite different from the large-scale sea warfare and deployment of marines which Rome undertook during the Punic Wars – and even then, the transportation of troops on any significant scale was contracted out to publicani while, for naval operations on any scale, the Romans also relied on their socii navales (see also below).13 At any rate, the existence of a sea route for the transportation of Roman troops on any scale comparable to those moved by land is very unlikely for the late fourth century, especially since there is no mention of it whatsoever, either in Livy’s narrative or in any of the Greek sources that are concerned with this period.14 To a considerable extent, then, the apparent lack of historically plausible explanations for the colonisation of Pontiae is to do with its Latin status or, rather, with modern categorisations of the colonies that were founded by the Roman Republic. As we saw earlier, this approach to colonisation under the Republic is increasingly seen as problematic, certainly for the period before the second century BC. In addition, there is now a growing consensus among historians of Republican Italy that economic motives constituted an important factor in Roman colonisation, over and above the strategic considerations concerning defence and the proliferation of manpower to which traditional accounts assign privilege. While these factors doubtless played a significant role, it is equally important to acknowledge that economic prospects almost certainly helped to attract volunteers to sign up for a new colony.15 There is little evidence to suggest that Roman citizens – and others – were press-ganged into signing up for colonisation. If anything, the second-century examples of

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Buxentum and Sipontum suggest that Roman colonists were capable of leaving the settlements they had been assigned to, presumably because they had turned out to be economically unattractive (Livy 39.23.3–4; cf. 34.45.2–3). Other examples – admittedly all from the second century BC – attest to the difficulties the colonial commissioners had in recruiting sufficient numbers of men, although the issue of the colonies’ status may have been the decisive factor in these cases.16 Therefore, both the initial success and the long-term viability of a colony to a considerable extent depended on its economic prosperity. This in turn required the colonists successfully to integrate themselves into and subsequently to shape existing networks of trade and of the exploitation of regional resources. The emphasis on regional factors is of importance here: while colonisation may always have involved economic motives, what these specifically translated into varied from case to case and depended on geographical factors as well as on existing practices and networks.17 While the presence of salt pans probably presented a motive in the case of the Adriatic site of Firmum, for instance, scholars have plausibly pointed to the significance of animal husbandry for the Apennine colonies, or to the advanced state of horticultural production in the hinterland of Brundisium.18 This last case in particular demonstrates how the colonists initially inserted themselves into an existing trajectory of economic exploitation which subsequent generations gradually transformed into a major regional player in the economic networks of the late Republican Mediterranean. In the case of Pontiae and other coastal colonies of the fourth and early third centuries BC, economic motives almost certainly played a role too. It is, in fact, possible to draw connections between the military-strategic and the economic functions of these settlements. In his recent monograph on the origins of the Roman army, Armstrong has raised the possibility that, in addition to protecting the viritane settlers in their respective hinterlands – the usual interpretation of their main function – Rome’s coastal colonies not only defended the littoral from naval attacks but themselves conducted such raids.19 Armstrong’s theory elaborates the hypothesis put forward by Mitchell some years earlier, according to which each coastal colony had a contingent of male citizen settlers (300) that was just large enough to man one war-ship.20 In its rigid detail, this reconstruction is implausible. It not only adheres to Salmon’s dogma of the coloniae maritimae but also fails to take account of the fact that the loss of a ship and its crew would most probably have resulted in the demise of the colony it belonged to – and we do not have a single piece of evidence to support this scenario.21 However, Mitchell’s general idea that coastal colonies were involved in naval activities offers an attractive perspective.22 As we saw earlier, midRepublican Rome to a considerable extent depended on her naval allies (socii navales) in realising her limited seaborne ambitions. Through colonisation, the Romans were able to create new allied communities, and there is no reason why Pontiae or other coastal colonies should not have joined the ranks of the socii navales. There is in fact good evidence that this was the case: for the year

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210 BC, Livy (26.39.5) lists Paestum – a Latin colony since 273 BC – as a naval ally, together with Rhegium and Velia.23 Even more importantly, we should also consider the possibility that the naval activities of the colonists – as well as, presumably, other allies – were not limited to formal warfare. In this respect, we should take note of Rediker’s work on the eighteenth-century Anglo-American maritime world.24 As he demonstrates, there was a rather symbiotic relationship between formalised trading and warfare on the one hand and piracy on the other. Although Rediker writes about a very different epoch, our perspective might profit from his observations concerning the ‘seaman as pirate’ and the rootedness of piracy in its historically specific, socio-economic and political configurations. In particular, Rediker’s work lends conceptual weight to Armstrong’s idea that Roman colonists might have engaged in raiding, to which we might also add piracy.25 This would after all make eminent sense in a regional historical context in which both activities formed part of the naval practices of contemporary Greek and ‘Tyrrhenian’ city-states – from which the sources routinely and almost certainly wrongly exempt Rome (see below) – and where the boundaries between formalised and rogue maritime pursuits were rather blurred.26 Although we should be cautious when it comes to generalisations about the nature of Republican colonisation during the fourth and third centuries BC, we may accept that the individual plot-sizes assigned to each settler were smaller compared to those in inland colonies. In the case of Pontiae, geographical constraints alone render this highly probable. Therefore, it is most likely that, in this and other cases, maritime colonisation was an elite-sponsored activity, motivated primarily by economic gain.27 In this respect, it is worth noting that the Roman navy heavily relied on private sponsorship until well into the First Punic War, which cannot be explained entirely without invoking economic motives.28 Going back to the idea that Roman colonists in coastal areas took part in naval warfare, we could furthermore raise the possibility that such overtly military activities fulfilled economic functions too. In this respect, Armstrong’s suggestion that conducting naval raids formed part of those men’s practices makes eminent sense on the basis of what we know about some of mid-Republican Rome’s contemporary regional powers. To this we might add Timpe’s observation regarding the relationship between colonisation and the formalisation of the Roman military.29 According to Timpe’s argument, the distribution of land by means of colonisation removed from Roman citizens the attractions of attaching themselves to individual warlords or of serving as mercenaries. Timpe specifically focuses on land as the main point of attraction, although we have already seen that the economic motives and effects of Roman colonisation may have covered a far wider spectrum of activities, depending on each regional situation. In the case of Rome’s coastal colonies, naval raids and piracy might have formed part of such economic incentives, with the colonists slotting into existing mechanisms and networks involved in the exploitation of regional resources. In the case of Pontiae, this might have been even more important than in other colonies on the mainland that had larger hinterlands at their disposal.

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The nature of Rome’s early naval expansion In his description of southern Latium, the Augustan geographer Strabo (5.3.5) reports that the town of Antium had been a pirates’ nest once upon a time, even though its people were under Rome’s suzerainty (kaiper e-de- Ro-maiois hupakouontes). Joining forces with the Tyrrhenoi, the Antiates constituted a source of harassment to the Greek coasts, to the extent that the kings of Macedon had felt the need to intervene. As Strabo recounts, Demetrius Poliorketes eventually appealed to the Romans (presumably the Senate), asking them to rein in the people of Antium. As the masters of Italy, Demetrius demanded, the Romans had a duty to prevent their subject states from engaging in piracy against Greeks. The Senate obliged and duly reined in the Antiates, Strabo asserts without providing any more detail. My interest in this episode – which most likely belongs into the period 294–287 30 BC – concerns three aspects: the fact that there had been a Roman colony at Antium since at least 338 BC (Liv. 8.14.7);31 the notion that the Antiates had fallen in with Tyrrhenoi; and that the Romans decisively intervened against the pirates. The fact that Antium as a Roman colony was engaging in piracy jars with the modern notion of Rome’s coastal colonisation as a countermeasure against pirates, even if it this was not necessarily its objective.32 The usual explanation given for this apparent anomaly is that the Antiates whom Strabo mentions belonged to the original Volscian population, not the Roman colony.33 Strabo does not in fact say this: he expresses surprise at the fact that subjects of Rome were willing to engage in such activities, without specifying whether they were colonists or Volscians.34 Strabo’s source may not have drawn this distinction, and it is unlikely that it would have been apparent to outside observers during the early third century BC, let alone to a Hellenistic historian. Rather, Strabo’s view that it should be unusual for Roman subjects to engage in piracy may have stemmed from Rome’s position as a champion of anti-piracy measures during the geographer’s own lifetime, a fact which he himself emphasises elsewhere in his account.35 However, this does not mean that Rome had not supported or at least benevolently ignored her subjects’ pursuit of piracy. Our passage in fact suggests that the opposite might be the case. For Strabo also mentions that Alexander – whether the Great or the Molossian is unclear – had previously complained about the Antiates. If this is true – which we have little reason to doubt – the Romans acted only once Demetrius had reiterated the complaint.36 What might have influenced their decision is that Rome was considerably more involved in the Hellenistic East at the time of Demetrius than she had previously been during the reigns of either Alexander, and as a result had a greater interest in maintaining good diplomatic relations (see also below). The fact that Strabo names the Antiates’ accomplices as Tyrrhenoi requires less discussion. In 1924 Ormerod established that Tyrrhenoi does not necessarily denote ‘Etruscans’ but can refer to any non-Greek Italian resident of the Tyrrhenian coast in the context of piracy – as in others – and this is firmly supported by ancient literary sources.37 Of particular significance to my argument is

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the Tyrrhenos Postomion whom the Syracusan Timoleon had captured and executed for being a leading pirate in the early 330s BC (Diod. 16.82.3). As many others have noted, Postomion is quite clearly a Graecised version of the Latin name Postumius.38 Therefore, he might have been Latin or even Roman since Hellenistic authors could and did refer to Romans as Tyrrhenoi.39 It is even possible that the accords between Tyrrhenoi and Carthaginians that are mentioned by Aristotle (Pol. iii. 1280a 35–40) include the Romano-Carthaginian treaties. In fact, the second – and best attested one – of these was concluded in 348 BC and thus less than two decades before Aristotle wrote the Politics.40 At any rate, we cannot exclude or, rather, have to take into account the possibility that such instances of Tyrrhenoi in ancient Greek accounts might in many cases extend to include Romans or Latins, and this of course applies to those contexts that deal with piracy too. Why the Antiates were singled out for criticism – and presumably punishment – in Strabo’s account still requires a specific explanation. I suggest that, in this way, the Romans were able to punish a group of scapegoats in order to satisfy Demetrius and at the same time avoided having to address a widespread phenomenon in which other allies and possibly Roman citizens too were equally implicated.41 Rather than representing an outlier, Antium may have been rather typical of coastal settlements in their inhabitants’ pursuits which Rome tolerated or even harnessed to her own ends from time to time. The fact that the Romans themselves could fall victim to the marauding activities of others does not provide a counter-argument. The coasts of Latium and Etruria offered rich rewards for seaborne raiders, most famously in the case of the sanctuary at Pyrgi that was ransacked by the fleet of Dionysius I of Syracuse in or around 384 BC.42 Rome and her territory were similarly affected by such raids. In the year 349 BC, for instance, Greek pirates – possibly from Sicily, as Livy adds (7.26.15) – were infesting the sea and repeatedly raided the coast of Latium – ora litoris Antiatis Laurensque tractus et Tiberis Ostia (7.25.4). There was little the Romans could do, Livy opines, other than drive the pirates off the land and wait for them to depart from the coastal waters: nec Romanus mari bellator erat (7.26.13). While it is perfectly possible that the Romans were unable to fight the pirates at sea on this occasion, we should reject Livy’s view that, as a rule, fourth-century Rome had no naval capacities.43 Rather, Livy’s generalising statement might be informed by the same historical construct which we earlier encountered in the case of Strabo: of Rome as both a victim of and a bulwark against piracy.44 The fact that Rome sent a colony to Pontiae, a relatively small and exposed archipelago but ideally located as a basis from which to conduct sea-borne raids on land as well as piracy, really makes sense only if Rome’s naval strategy was not merely defensive during the second half of the fourth century.45 One of the most prominent pieces of evidence for this in fact dates to the year after the pirates’ raid on Latium (348 BC), in which the Romans concluded – or renewed – a treaty with Carthage (Liv. 7.27.3).46 While Rome’s interest in this may partly have been the prospect of Carthaginian support against raiders and pirates – Carthage being one of the leading sea-powers of

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the fourth century, and superior to Rome as the treaty itself makes clear – the document’s primary concerns are as follows47 First, it contained a territorial agreement that, amongst other clauses, defined those areas in which Rome promised not to ‘raid/engage in piracy or found a city’ (me- le-zesthai … me-d’emporeuesthai me-de polin ktizein).48 Second, the treaty sets out to protect the rights of people – Carthaginians, Romans and their respective allies – taken captive at sea or on land. This second concern appears to respond to a reality in which people were at danger of being captured as a result of piracy and coastal raids, and subsequently being sold into slavery. While this clause might have been of specifically Roman interest in 348 BC – since it is probable that the raids of the previous year had resulted in many Romans and Latins being sold on Mediterranean slave-markets – it also makes it very clear that both Carthaginians and Romans partook of such activities.49 This is more than confirmed by the first area that is addressed by the treaty: the Carthaginian sphere of interest is declared to be out of bounds for Rome’s naval enterprises, the three central ones of which – trading, raiding and colonising – are named in the same context. On the basis of this evidence alone, both Rome’s abstinence from piracy and her naval incapacity during the mid-fourth century appear to be historical misrepresentations. On the contrary, sporadic notices of Roman overseas expeditions – to Corsica and Sardinia – during the early and mid-fourth century may deserve more credit than has sometimes been given, and these may have been contributing factors to a Carthaginian desire to define their city’s spheres of interest vis-à-vis Rome in 348 BC.50 If we readily accept that other powers – notably Syracuse – founded colonies partly in order to establish suitable bases from which to conduct raids, we should be open to the strong possibility that Rome did the same, albeit on a more limited scale.51 The fact that Rome also had to defend herself against pirates represents no counter-argument here. On the contrary, the foundation of predatory colonies like Antium and Pontiae and even piratical raids could successfully be dressed up as antipiracy measures, as in the case of Dionysius I’s Adriatic colonisation and his robbery of the sanctuary at Pyrgi.52

Conclusion In the year 310 BC – three years after the foundation of Pontiae and in the year following the first appointment of duumviri navales – Livy reports that a fleet under the command of Publius Cornelius sailed to Campania from where it proceeded to conduct land raids.53 Initially successful, the crews were so overladen with booty that a crowd of armed locals caught up with them, recovering the plunder and killing some of the sailors. The survivors barely made it back to their ships. Livy’s view of the incident is revealing: he heavily criticises the Romans for having been overcome dulcedine praedae. In the end, they got what they deserved since, the historian implies, they behaved in a fashion unbefitting to Romans. This disclaimer fails to convince: rather, it

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corresponds to a later stereotype about Roman attitudes to piracy and raiding which we have already encountered in the writings of Strabo, Livy’s slightly older contemporary. On the contrary, Rome’s naval activities – including colonisation – before the 260s BC depended on that very ‘charm of booty’.54 Granted, the colonisation of coastal areas and islands did afford a certain protection against piracy and raids. Yet in order to entice Roman citizens into signing up to such dangerous undertakings, economic prospects had to be on offer: in the western Mediterranean of the period, raiding and piracy provided major sources of them. Thus, in the Roman raid of Campania in 310 BC, the supposedly defensive sea route that was secured by the foundation of Pontiae in fact turned out to be ideally suited to the staging of a potentially major heist. Once we regard Pontiae as primarily a coastal – as supposed to a Latin – colony, we may see its foundation as a key point at the beginning of a new phase in Rome’s maritime expansion. Twenty-five years after the colonisation of Antium (338 BC), and sixteen after the settlement of Tarracina (329 BC), Pontiae was the next in a new series of (known) colonies that were to be founded on the Tyrrhenian coast until the beginning of the First Punic War.55 It is impossible not to link the emergence of the college of the duumviri navales with this colonisation of the coast, no matter how limited our knowledge is of what this office entailed and how often it was filled. In this respect, we should also note that Livy describes Publius Cornelius – the commander in charge of the raid on Campania – as quem senatus maritimae orae praefecerat (9.38.2). If other praefecti interpreted their role in the same way Cornelius did, we just about catch a glimpse of an institution – probably little formalised and appointed on an ad hoc basis – that might have been a source of decision-making at this early stage of Rome’s maritime expansion. It corresponds to the type of military leadership which had also been in evidence in Roman land warfare before the formalisation of the army during the late fifth century BC, and which very much depended on the initiative of an individual commander and the economic prospects of an operation from the point of view of his followers.56 At sea, the process of formalisation was still underway during the fourth and early third centuries, conditioned by a different scale of warfare but also by greater personal dangers and more immediate prospects of economic gain than may have been the case on land. My model of Rome’s coastal colonisation, as sketched out in this chapter, would appear to complement this picture rather well.57

Notes 1 Cf. Oakley (2005) 333–335, ad loc. (340). The colonisation of Pontiae is also mentioned by Diodorus Siculus 19.101.3. 2 Termeer (2015) 381, 387–388. 3 Suet. Tib. 54, cf. Cal. 15; Dio 59.22.8. The last prominent captive held on the island was Benito Mussolini who spent a few days in Ponza following his first arrest in July 1943, Mack Smith (1981) 299.

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4 Bispham (2012). 5 Thus Oakley (2005) ad loc. (336), on the basis of the figure which Salmon (1969) postulated for his category of coloniae maritimae. However, some caution is advisable in respect of this and other general rules which Salmon established for Rome’s Republican colonisation. 6 Salmon (1969) followed by, for instance, Von Hesberg (1985); Oakley (1998, 2005); for recent skepticism, cf. Bispham (2006); Stek (2017) with extensive references. For the place of Rome’s so-called citizen colonies within the context of central Italian settlement expansion and fortification, and thus not necessarily as a special case, see also Lafon (2004) as well as Crawford (2014). 7 There is little reason to doubt the dates which Livy gives for the establishment of Rome’s colonies, which does not mean that his account of colonisation is complete, Stek (2017); Patterson (2006). Not all those settlements that had been founded as colonies of some sort necessarily retained that status or, for that matter, survived, and the idea of what was a colony must have changed between the fifth and second centuries BC, Crawford (2014); and now Gargola (2017) esp. 167–169. Similarly, specific details such as the number of colonists might be doubted for the period before the second century BC. In general, I am sceptical in respect of narrative details in Livy’s account in Books 1–10, especially where these are repetitive or follow patterns that appear to have been imposed retrospectively by later historians; see also Forsythe (2005) 66–68; but cf. Cornell (1995) esp. 16–18, 355–356; Oakley (1998–2005) and now Armstrong (2016) 20–36, for less sceptical perspectives. Conversely, I attach greater significance to episodes that do not correspond to such patterns, especially in those cases in which Livy admits to being confused, is quick to question the veracity of his information or characterises them as historically untypical. His notice of a classis on the Tiber in 414 BC (4.34.6–7; cf. my note 14 below), and the episode of the Roman raid on Campania in 310 BC (9.38.2–3) each fit into one of these categories. 8 Crawford (2014); Bispham (2006). This is not to deny that some of the Latin colonies shared distinctive features – such as the emission of coinage – during the earlier period, which are not encountered in colonies outside that category: Termeer (2015); cf. also the cautionary remarks by Stek (2017). 9 For a parallel case, cf. Mouritsen’s (2007) discussion of the civitas sine suffragio. 10 Oakley (2005) 333–335, with further references. Similarly, Cornell (1995) 388 views the foundation of Pontiae as a primarily defensive measure. 11 This is furthermore suggested by the fourth Romano-Carthaginian treaty of 279/8 BC which stipulated that Carthage would supply the Romans with ships for transport and battle in case of an attack by Pyrrhus, Polyb. 3.25.2–5; cf. Serrati (2006) 129–130. 12 Ladewig (2014); Harris (2017); see also Armstrong (2016) 269–272; for the traditional view, cf. Thiel (1954); see also my discussion below. 13 Thiel (1954) 84–86; Scullard (1989) 548–549; Bleckmann (2002) esp. 205–214, on the predominantly private nature of Rome’s naval warfare down to at least 242 BC. For the origins of this phenomenon, see Armstrong (2016) 269–272. Harris (2017) argues for more direct state involvement while acknowledging the possibility that this might have been funded by ‘wealthy citizens’ who were looking to benefit from such naval activity, with specific reference to the colonisation of Pontiae, 17, 19. While Harris recognises the importance of the socii navales, he argues convincingly that the Romans were themselves building ships and maintaining a fleet during the period before the First Punic War. However, he concedes that the large-scale adoption of decked war-ships might have occurred only during the decade leading up to the war with Carthage. 14 Livy’s mention of a Roman classis for the year 414 BC (4.34.6–7) is almost certainly based on his ignorance of the Archaic use of the term to denote an army (viz. the

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Roman Roth collective of citizens assigned to the classis by the censors and thus not infra classem and ineligible for military service); cf. Armstrong (2016) 203–204. Livy himself doubts the notice in his source, ascribing it to later fabrication. I argue this in analogy to the partially voluntary registration for the census and thus enlistment in military service. When military service became more dangerous and carried too few prospects of economic gain – as during the late second century BC – census figures stagnated or even decreased. For this view, see De Ligt (2012). In the case of Aquileia (181 BC), for instance, the senatorial debate over its status (Livy 39.55.5–6) suggests that the senators were aware of the need to offer incentives to colonists. Some years later (169 BC), the colony had to be supplemented with additional settlers (Liv. 43.17.1), quite possibly because its Latin status and dangerous location had proved to be insufficiently attractive with the first group of colonists. Stek (2017). Giovannini (1985) salt; Hermon (2001) transhumance; Yntema (2006) Brindisino; cf. also Cornell (1989) 315. Armstrong (2016) 269–272. Mitchell (2005) 166. Note that Mitchell’s chapter in the revised edition of Raaflaub (2005) is a reprint of the original version published in 1986. From the case of the fifth-century Athenian empire, we may deduce that the smaller a community the greater (and more existential) was the risk of building and manning a ship or ships; for this argument, see Meiggs (1972) 255–272 passim. I am less convinced by Mitchell’s other main suggestions, namely that naval service and enlistment for a coastal colony were particularly attractive to the urban poor who did not ordinarily qualify for either service in the army or (presumably) settlement in Rome’s other colonies during the fourth and third centuries BC. In the only passage in support of this hypothesis, we are indirectly informed that the death toll of P. Claudius Pulcher’s naval defeat at Drepana in 249 BC was particularly high among the urban plebs; cf. Val. Max. 8.1 damn. 4, but it is difficult to assess the historical value of this anecdote about the consul’s sister Claudia. This might suggest that capite censi regularly served as rowers on Roman ships by the time of the First Punic War, though there is no way of proving that this had been the case during earlier periods too. If anything, Mitchell’s model appears unduly to draw on the paradigm of fifth-century Athens. It is more likely that coastal colonisation at Pontiae and elsewhere was sponsored by the elite, which does not mean that non-elites were not involved or did not benefit. Yet their interests were not the driving factor behind the phenomenon. Cf. Harris (2017) 23, who views this as an anachronism since, in his view, a Latin colony would not have been counted among the socii navales. At 27.10.8 (209 BC) Livy mentions Paestum among the loyal colonies on the Tyrrhenian coast, alongside Pontiae and Cosa, though without specifying a naval alliance, as claimed by Harris (2017) 23. Rediker (1987) esp. 254–287. I do not agree with De Souza’s rigid distinction between piracy and raiding. From the passages discussed below, and the Romano-Carthaginian treaties in particular, it is evident that praedones maritimi and leistai/peiratai gladly followed both pursuits. For Graeco-Roman terminology referring to piracy, see De Souza (1999) 2–13. During the early period of central Italian land-warfare until the early fourth century BC, raiding had arguably been an accepted form of aggression, and its terms been stipulated by the foedus Cassianum and other conventions: Armstrong (2016) 141–145. But cf. Cornell (1995) 309–313, for the less convincing view that the Roman army had been in existence as an institution of a developed state since the early Republic. I follow Armstrong’s argument in respect of land warfare but add that less formalised, principally booty-driven activities may have continued at sea until the emergence of a navy in the conventional sense of the term from the 260s BC; cf. also Harris (2017).

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These included both sea-borne raiding and piracy which are clearly covered by Polybius’ use of le-zesthai in his account of the second (mid-fourth century) Romano-Carthaginian treaty; see my discussion in the next section. De Souza (1999). See also Rawlings (2016) although he exclusively focuses on irregular land warfare during the First and Second Punic Wars. Thus also Harris (2017) 17, 19, with specific reference to Pontiae. Cornell (1995) 388 concedes that the foundation of Pontiae provides evidence for the existence of a Roman navy by this date but explains both as primarily defensive measures. See also Bleckmann (2002) esp. 205–214 and my discussion earlier in this section. Timpe (1990). While Demetrius was ruler of Macedon; see also Harris (2017) 22. Cf. Bispham (2012) 227–230, who entertains the possibility that ancient accounts of an earlier colonisation in 467 BC (Liv. 3.1.5–7) might be factually correct. My view on the reliability of Rome’s colonial history prior to the fourth century is decidedly more sceptical; see also Termeer (2010) for the early Latin colonies; but cf. Chiabà (2011) for a very optimistic view. Certainly in the case of Antium, the history of the first colony is suspiciously similar to that of the second: the colonists included both Romans and Volscians, and the community was shaken by internal discord soon after the colony’s foundation (in 463, 459 and 319 BC respectively: Liv. 3.4.4–5; 3.22.2; 9.20.10). By contrast, the notice of Antium’s colonisation in 338 BC is almost certainly trustworthy, which may be said in general of the dates given for Republican colonisation from the fourth century onward; see also Patterson (2006) and my discussion above. As argued by Ormerod (1997) 161–162; cf. De Souza (1999) 91–92. Ormerod (1997) 130; De Souza (1999) 203. For a similar view, see Bispham (2012) 240–243. E.g., at 10.4.9: the Romans ended all piracy (katelusan de pantas Ro-maioi te-n te Kre-te-n ekpoleme-santes kai ta peiratika to-n Kiliko-n phrouria). The passage is specifically concerned with the pirates of Crete and Cilicia (first century BC) whom Strabo describes as successors of the Tyrrhenoi. On Strabo’s positive attitude to Rome’s actions against piracy, see De Souza (1999) 200–204. Cf. Ormerod (1997) 129, mention of Alexander ‘may be apocryphal’. Both De Souza (1999) 52 – Alexander the Great – and Bispham (2012) 239 – Alexander the Great or possibly the Molossian – lean towards the factuality of Strabo’s notice. On balance, I think that the Molossian is a more likely candidate, given his substantive involvement in Italy. Ormerod (1997) 129–130; De Souza (1999) 51–53; Bispham (2012) 234–237; but cf. Bruni (2017) 1146–1147. Ormerod (1997) 130: ‘The Tyrrhenian bore the good Italian name of Postumius’; De Souza (1999) 51; Bispham (2012) 236; for a contrasting view; cf. Cinquantaquattro & Pellegrino (2017) 1389. More than a century later, M. Postumius Pyrgensis, a notorious publicanus of the Second Punic War (Liv. 25.3.8–15), is said to have come from Pyrgi in Etruria: by that time, Pyrgi had long been a Roman colony, making Latin family names a common occurrence among its inhabitants. A point made by Crawford (2006) in relation to the Tyrrhenoi whom Aristoxenus mentions as responsible for the moral decline of Poseidonia (F. 124 Wehrli); though cf. Cinquantaquattro & Pellegrino (2017) 1389 for a contrasting view. For the work’s date, see Lord (1984) 1–8; cf. also Oakley (1998) 257 (ad Liv. 7.27.2); and my discussion of the second Romano-Carthaginian treaty below. The episode might also indicate that Rome was increasingly interested in maintaining good diplomatic relations with the Greek East. This concern was certainly in evidence just over twenty years after Demetrius’ complaint when Rome surrendered her ambassadors to the city of Apollonia in order to make amends for a diplomatic transgression, Dio 10. fr. 42; Zon. 8.7; Liv. Per. 15; Val. Max. 6.6.5.

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42 Diod. 15.14.3–4. One might also add the episode of the Roman ambassadors whom Liparian pirates temporarily relieved of the Veientine spoils which they had intended to dedicate at Delphi (Liv. 5.28.1–4). To the Liparians, Livy reports, mos erat ciuitatis uelut public latrocinio partam praedam diuidere (5.28.3; cf. Diod. 14.93.3–5). 43 On these capacities, see now Ladewig 2014, with a useful overview of older scholarship, of which Thiel (1954); Scullard (1989) 545–554 should be singled out for mention here; cf. also Harris (2017). 44 The Caeritans – fourth-century Rome’s allies and the city in control of the sanctuary at Pyrgi – appear to have popularised a similar view about themselves as objectors to piracy, Strabo 5.2.3. This is unlikely to be a coincidence. 45 This is in agreement with Harris (2017); for a contrasting view, cf. Cornell (1995) 388, with specific reference to the naval duumvirate and the foundation of Pontiae. 46 Cf. Diod. 16.69. This is usually considered to be Polybius’ (3.24) second RomanoCarthaginian treaty. Hampl (1972); Petzold (1972); Scullard (1989) 517–537 continue to provide the most comprehensive overview; for recent developments in the debate, though mainly concerning the so-called Philinos treaty, see Serrati (2006). 47 Polyb. 52.24.3–13, with Walbank (1970) ad loc. 346–349; Scullard (1989) 526–530. Serrati (2006) 11 furthermore suggests that the wording and structure of the treaty followed Carthaginian conventions, thus supporting the idea that Carthage was the senior party. 48 Polyb. 3.24.4. This juxtaposition of raiding/piracy and colonization in the treaty might lend additional support to my argument that the two were functionally linked during the fourth and early third centuries BC. 49 Cf. also Serrati (2006) 119. 50 Theophr. Hist. of Plants 5.8.1–3 (Corsica); Diod. 15.27.4 (Sardinia). Cf. also Cornell (1989) 315; Bispham (2006) 123; Isayev (2017) 235; Stek (2017). 51 Diod. 15.13.1, Dionysius I established colonies in the Adriatic in c. 385 BC. 52 Diod. 15.13.1; 15.14.3–4. 53 Liv. 9.38.2–3; cf. also Harris (2017) 20. I am sympathetic to Harris’ (2017) 19–20 view that the naval duumvirate might have been a far more regular institution than is usually assumed. 54 Cf. also the observations made by Eich & Eich (2005) concerning the importance of plunder to the success of mid-Republican Rome’s expansion which, in particular, included the cohesion of her military alliances. 55 The others were (in chronological order): Minturnae, Sinuessa, Castrum Novum, Cosa, Paestum and probably Pyrgi. Although the colony at Pyrgi is of uncertain date, it may have been founded in the wake of Rome’s victory over Caere in 274/3 BC; for the latter, cf. Torelli (2000). 56 Timpe (1990); Armstrong (2016); cf. my discussion in the previous section. 57 I would like to thank Martine de Marre for the opportunity to take part in the Centurion workshop, and the anonymous referees for providing helpful comments and suggestions. I am responsible for any errors or infelicities that may remain.

6

Campaigning against pirate mercenaries A very Roman strategy? Aaron L. Beek

Pirates in the Mediterranean had a long history of readily accepting military service, and pirates proved an influential naval arm at times for the Macedonians, Seleucids, Ptolemies and Mithridates of Pontus. In this chapter, I argue that the Romans paid close attention to the impact of the mercenary culture of the Hellenistic Age and the successes of Hellenistic armies and took steps in response. Because of the Romans’ use of treaty obligations to gain troops from their allies, they stood to gain little from the typical recruiting-lands of mercenaries that had been tolerated by the Hellenistic states, such as Illyria, Crete and Cilicia. Rather than turning to the hiring of mercenaries themselves, the Romans sought to limit the military potential of mercenaries and the available manpower from these traditional mercenary recruiting areas. With these forces limited, the Roman system of levying allied manpower allowed Roman commanders to more easily ensure local numerical superiority. Methods of this limiting of manpower varied, but a predominant method was to consider (not always unfairly) the mercenaries as pirates and declare them criminal. In several cases, the Romans also engaged in short campaigns in Illyria, Crete or Cilicia before embarking on a war with the larger powers of the Mediterranean. Whether intentional or not, this pre-emptively limited the mercenary manpower the Hellenistic kingdoms were accustomed to call upon, giving Roman commanders a military advantage.1 To this end, I mean to show that a) there was a substantial overlap between pirates or bandits and mercenaries, b) these pirate mercenaries were effective in both the wars in the Hellenistic East and against Rome, c) Rome engaged in a variety of diplomatic activities to limit mercenary recruitments, including monetary bans, treaties limiting or forbidding mercenary recruitment and military intervention, and d) the timing of certain Roman campaigns against ‘pirate peoples’ makes more sense if the goal were to limit mercenary recruitment from these territories rather than to defeat pirates. Moreover, this last line of argument also has the further effect that republican Roman campaigns against pirates, though lauded in the early empire as having been altruistic, may not have had much of a moral objection to piracy, so much as a pragmatic and strategic desire to keep pirates from working with the enemy. For the purposes of my discussion I follow de Souza’s assessment that the

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land–sea distinction between pirate and bandit in English is not present in the Greek and Latin vocabulary, thus a number of the groups I refer to as pirates may appear land-bound.2 In any case, these small campaigns against the ‘pirate-lands’ of the Mediterranean also limited the supply of pirate mercenaries, to Rome’s advantage. While I do not suggest this was the result of overarching Roman plotting, I do suggest this trend was no accident, but a recognition by the Romans of the impact of these mercenaries and an attempt to compensate.

Mercenaries and pirates: a background Neither mercenary nor pirate were new professions to the Mediterranean landscape in the Hellenistic period. In the eastern Mediterranean, evidence of both appears back into our earliest records, though mercenaries appear to have remained a relatively small proportion of the overall army. In the western Mediterranean, Celtic and Italic mercenaries were known to serve the Phoenician and Sicilian states at least by the sixth century BCE. Because of the scarcity of our sources, we can dispute their numbers, but it is safe to say that in the relatively sparsely settled colonies of the west, mercenaries played an outsized role in the wars between the colonies on the coast. The fifth century also saw waves of Thracian mercenaries hired by the Greeks, particularly Athens. And by the early fourth century BCE, veteran soldiers and exiles from around the Aegean could be found seeking employment in the eastern Mediterranean. The many wars in the Eastern Mediterranean of the fourth century BCE left many states scrambling to put together armies and also saw many people dispossessed of belongings and property. Greek tyrants and Persian commanders easily hired forces of pirates for short-term campaigns.3 Many sources have long held that mercenaries took up mercenary service as a means of improving their economic situation. Increasingly, modern sources have agreed that while this is true, we have tended to slightly overstate the baseline economic situation. What I mean by this is that mercenaries are tending to take up military service to get out of a bad economic situation rather than to get into a good one.4 Evidence of this is keenly seen by mercenary soldiers happily accepting land allotments in lieu of payment, in Egypt, in Cyrene, in Sicily, in Pergamum.5 Many of the pirates and bandits of the Aegean in the fourth century had been discharged sailors, soldiers or mercenaries. Consider the wave of banditry across the Persian Empire when Alexander forced the satraps to dismiss their mercenary forces. Without an employer, they relied on plunder to support themselves on their way to their homeland, and many of these were Greek mercenaries.6 Without owing any particular allegiance to any given side, they were naturally seen as lawless and untrustworthy. An example of this is found in the 287 BCE example of the pirate Andron, who betrays the city of Ephesus and is then dismissed.

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Aenetus, the general of Demetrius, was left in charge of Ephesus, and he gave shelter there to a number of pirates, who committed great depredations in the neighbouring countries. Lycus, the general of Lysimachus, managed to bribe Andron, the pirate-chief, to betray Ephesus to him, and the plot was carried out as follows. The pirate admitted into the city a body of Lycus’ troops, who were unarmed, in their coats and cloaks, and bound as prisoners. As soon as they had advanced up to the citadel, he ordered them to draw their swords, which they carried concealed under their arms. After slaying the sentinels and guards, they gave the prearranged signal to Lycus. Lycus forced his way to them with the rest of his army, took Aenetus prisoner, and made himself master of Ephesus. But after paying the pirates, according to their agreement, he expelled them from the city; because he rightly concluded that he could not depend on their loyalty to him, when they had been so very unfaithful to their former friends. (Polyaenus 5.19, trans. adapted from Shepherd)7 The tactic is clever in and of itself, but while Polyaenus portrays this episode as an exceptional one-off bribe, it is evidently clear, since he was in a position to be bribed in the first place, that this Andron was already serving in the military. And while Polyaenus likely disapproved of the decision of Aenetus to hire pirates, it was nevertheless not an unusual practice. Some later authors, such as we see in the following example from Curtius, do try to make a distinction between mercenary soldiers and mercenary pirates but it is not always at all clear that this distinction is truly able to be made. praeter eas XXX inanes et [L] piratici lembi Graecorumque [III] milia a Persis mercede conducta […] Forte Aristonicus, Methymnaeorum tyrannus, cum piraticis navibus ignarus omnium and besides these, 30 unmanned triremes and 50 pirate vessels and three thousand Greek mercenaries paid by the Persians [were surrendered (at Chios)]. … By chance, Aristonicus, tyrant of Methymna, with some piratical ships, ignorant of everything [at Chios] (Curtius 4.5.18–19) Here, Chios is surrendered to Alexander’s forces with both pirates and mercenaries, while nearby Methymna also has a force of pirate mercenaries. As we see, Alexander executes the pirates and hires the mercenaries and oarsmen. Thus we desire to distinguish between the hired men Alexander killed and those he hired himself. Three more examples should suffice to attest the general practice of such hiring practices. In the first, during the fourth century BCE, where Iphicrates and Anaxibius engage in proxy warfare with pirates as their tools, this piracy is more a form of tactical weakening of the enemy. Second, Demetrius

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Poliorcetes hired pirates in his attempt to reduce Crete in 305. Third, we have an example in the third century, where Euripidas readily bolsters his army with pirates. ἐπεὶ δὲ ἀφίκετο εἰς Χερρόνησον, τὸ μὲν πρῶτον Ἀναξίβιος καὶ Ἰφικράτης λῃστὰς διαπέμποντες ἐπολέμουν ἀλλήλοις Now when he (Iphicrates) reached the Chersonese, at first Anaxibius and Iphicrates warred against each other through sending forth pirate bands. (Xenophon, Hell. 4.8.35 (389 BCE)) Δημήτριος δὲ πᾶσαν τὴν δύναμιν ἀθροίσας εἰς τὸν ἐν Λωρύμοις λιμένα στόλον ἐξήρτυε πρὸς τὸν ἐπίπλουν τὸν ἐπὶ τὴν Ῥόδον. εἶχε δὲ ναῦς μακρὰς μὲν παντοίας μεγέθει διακοσίας, ὑπηρετικὰ δὲ πλείω τῶν ἑκατὸν ἑβδομήκοντα: ἐν δὲ τούτοις ἐκομίζοντο στρατιῶται βραχὺ λειπόμενοι τῶν τετρακισμυρίων σὺν ἱππεῦσι καὶ τοῖς συμμαχοῦσι πειραταῖς. ὑπῆρχε δὲ καὶ βελῶν παντοίων πλῆθος καὶ πάντων τῶν πρὸς πολιορκίαν χρησίμων μεγάλη παρασκευή. Demetrius, gathering all his forces in the harbour at Loryma, made his fleet ready for the attack on Rhodes. He had two hundred warships of all sizes and more than one hundred and seventy auxiliary vessels; on these were transported not quite forty thousand soldiers besides the cavalry and the pirates who were his allies. (Diodorus Siculus 20.82.4, trans. Geer (305 BCE)) Εὐριπίδας, ἔχων Ἠλείων δύο λόχους μετὰ τῶν πειρατῶν καὶ μισθοφόρων... And Euripidas, having two companies of Eleans, along with the pirates and the mercenaries... (Polybius 4.68 (218 BCE)) As these examples show, this employment of pirates is standard practice in the ancient Mediterranean.8 Indeed, there can be found few examples of pirates or bandits refusing to take up regular military service, suggesting that piracy was not a particularly lucrative lifestyle.9 Cretans and Illyrians served as mercenary auxiliaries throughout the Mediterranean. But they were also seen as ‘natural’ pirates or ‘prone to’ piracy. These associations are linked, but the class ramifications cannot be ignored. A Greek mercenary hoplite was more likely to be an exile or a middle-class yeoman who had lost his property, while sailors tended to come from a lower social class. This was entirely bound up in the cost of equipment, which individuals generally had to procure themselves (though some cities might have a reserve for emergencies). For the most part, there was little international concern for piracy. Rhodes alone has sufficient evidence to support the existence of anti-pirate actions.

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The major states of the Mediterranean clearly could have done more to stop piracy – the resulting question of many scholars is why they did not do so.10 The utility of pirates as mercenaries poses a reasonable solution. Pirate mercenaries served as a useful naval auxiliary force. While actually employing them full time in a standing navy would have been cost-prohibitive, shortterm employment was useful. In peacetime, these mercenaries would return to piracy and be ‘self-supporting’. In short, there was little profit to be had for most states in actively repressing piracy beyond their immediate harbours. In cases where states did take some action against piracy, they did not seek the outright elimination of pirates, but rather immunization from piracy or amelioration of their worst effects. This immunity could take the form of sending warships with trade convoys (as Athens occasionally did), establishing friendly outposts in pirate-heavy zones such as in south-eastern Apulia (done by both Athens and Syracuse), or through negotiation with the pirates’ homelands. This becomes the motive of treaties struck between Athens and various Cretan cities, promising Athenian ships immunity from raids (or at least recompense if their goods were taken).11 Athenian actions against piracy display a primary concern of protecting Athenian commerce, and little altruistic concern with piracy against non-Athenians.12 Other smaller states, such as Teos, followed suit. Still other states signed treaties giving them particular recruitment rights for mercenaries (the Cretan city Aptara gave such rights to Pergamum, Gortyn and Olous to Rhodes).13 Clearly, many of the Cretan cities served as marketplaces for surplus manpower, and it is likely that the reputation for Cretan piracy both was bolstered by the presence of these mercenary bands and made these mercenaries more attractive for employ as raiders, like in the example of Iphicrates and Anaxibius.14 By the time the Romans had become a major regional power, the freelance soldier/bandit was a well-known feature of the military economy. In times of peace, many such soldiers became raiders and pirates, in times of war, many preferred to enlist for regular pay. Even Roman subjects were inclined to enlist in foreign wars if Rome’s own were insufficient. In the following centuries, states competed heavily for access to these freelance troops.

Roman diplomacy and mercenaries The Romans, as noted above, recruited substantially from their allies, but their elected leaders rarely found it worthwhile to hire mercenaries. This meant that the Romans were far more likely to face mercenaries as enemies. From a practical standpoint, the mercenary economy meant that states with which Rome was at war could also draw upon the manpower resources of other states, so long as they had sufficient funds. This is not an altogether novel suggestion; we see it in the famous consideration of the Punic Wars as wars of attrition, on the one side, Italian manpower, on the other, the Carthaginian treasury.15 Where smaller states in the Aegean like Pergamum and Rhodes actively sought to ensure favourable recruiting grounds for mercenaries in other parts of the

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Aegean, the Romans did not stand to benefit from this, and instead acted to limit the mercenary economy. For my purposes, I consider that the peace terms and diplomatic treaties of the middle and late republic express clear evidence of this. Additionally, the direction of Roman wars towards the recruiting grounds of larger empires also supports this idea. Rome instituted a ban on the export of money to the Gauls roughly around 230–228 BCE.16 The presumable rationale was that precious metal enabled the Gallic and Illyrian states to be stronger in times of war. Money had many military uses; it could enable importing weapons, stockpiling food or other supplies, or payment of troops.17 That this is a form of economic warfare is clear, but I argue it is this last concern that the Romans chiefly worried about. That is, after a peace was concluded with a given enemy, the mercenary soldiers hired by the enemy could simply go elsewhere and sign up with the army of another Roman enemy.18 This is in some ways less an accusation of collusion than simply understanding how the mercenary economy works. For Rome, it was clearly advantageous to limit the amount of coin the Gauls had, because that should limit the Gauls’ ability to hire each other’s forces in wars against Rome. Otherwise, the Romans could find themselves effectively fighting large alliances over and over. Plutarch and Polybius both note this in the case of the Insubrians in particular, who had hired the Gaesatae in 225 BCE.19 Bans on exports of money remained quietly in play for centuries. For example, Cicero asserts not only that the movement of gold was sharply limited while he was consul, but also that this was frequently done in previous decades.20 No particular rationales for the limiting of the export of money is given here, but it is presented as a security issue. There are two reasonable ways to frame this concern. First, the more liquid foreign wealth was, the greater danger it posed as a resource for hiring mercenaries. Second, illiquidity in the Roman economy also hindered effective operation of the Roman military. Running out of liquid funds did frequently cause problems for ancient commanders. For example, Polybius reports (4.60.2) that Aratus was unable to recruit a force (c. 219 BCE) because the Achaeans had previously defaulted on their obligations to pay their mercenaries.21 Mercenary mutinies caused by arrears of pay were not uncommon, causing commanders to seek out novel methods of funding, including plundering one’s own territory, granting land, selling hostages into slavery and raiding temples with diplomatic immunity. Thus, limiting the amount of available currency could be an effective method of keeping the military potential of an area low. Also as a means of lowering this military potential, we see the Romans, after a peace was concluded, immediately waging war on states neighbouring the enemy. In the Gallic example above, for example, the Romans moved against Liguria, which had provided mercenary troops to both Carthage and the Cisalpine Gauls. Liguria was known as a local provider of mercenaries; Ligurian soldiers appeared in the armies of Massilia, Carthage and Gauls like the Boii. In Liguria, the Romans engaged in a variety of activities from war to negotiation that limited Liguria’s ability to export mercenaries, including the

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eventual deportation of entire villages to Central Italy in the early second century. In this way, the Romans tried to limit the effectiveness of their northern enemies, who, despite the lists of victories and triumphs over several decades in the mid-third century, the Romans were only marginally successful in defeating. That is, if their goal was to conquer territory; a generation or two later, Ligurian manpower largely served Roman ends.22 The Romans accused the Ligurians of acting out of banditry rather than waging war, and also sought to stop Ligurian piracy at the behest of Massilia.23 These accusations are linked. The surplus military manpower of Liguria had been turned toward monetary goals either in mercenary service or in freelance banditry. Through deportations, warfare and treaty obligations, less of that manpower became available to serve with enemies’ forces, and some served with Roman. The Romans then, a few years later waged war against the Histri in northern Illyria (221–220), Following Harris, I would suggest this campaign was not altruistically undertaken out of a moral objection to piracy, nor because of threats to an otherwise minimally attested Roman Adriatic grain trade, but because the Histri served to provide mercenaries to the Gauls of the Po Valley and to the Illyrians of Demetrius.24 Appian’s account shows the link: Ῥωμαίων γὰρ Κελτοῖς ἐπὶ τριετὲς τοῖς ἀμφὶ τὸν Ἠριδανὸν οὖσι πολεμούντων, ὁ Δημήτριος ὡς ὄντων ἐν ἀσχολίᾳ τὴν θάλασσαν ἐλῄζετο, καὶ Ἴστρους ἔθνος ἕτερον Ἰλλυριῶν ἐς τοῦτο προσελάμβανε, καὶ τοὺς Ἀτιντανοὺς ἀπὸ Ῥωμαίων ἀφίστη. οἱ δέ, ἐπεὶ τὰ Κελτῶν διετέθειτο, εὐθὺς μὲν ἐπιπλεύσαντες αἱροῦσι τοὺς λῃστάς, While the Romans were engaged in a three years’ war with the Gauls on the river Po, Demetrius, thinking that they had their hands full, set forth on a piratical expedition, brought the Istrians, another Illyrian tribe, into the enterprise, and detached the Atintani from Rome. The Romans, when they had settled their business with the Gauls, immediately sent a naval force and overpowered the pirates (i.e. the Histri, my parenthesis). (Appian Ill. 8, trans. White) Appian (Ill. 9) casts this as piracy, though the international nature of the joint expedition and the political outcome of fomenting rebellion in former territory certainly suggests a more serious move. That the strike is against the Histri is clear from the following paragraph, which has the Romans turn from the Histri to Demetrius and the southern Illyrians. Such a decision might also shed light upon the surprising Roman decision to send armies to Sardinia when faced with a Gallic invasion in 225.25 We find a similar example fifty years later, when the Romans send an expedition to Istria to prevent the Histri from sending mercenaries to the Aetolian League.26 The resulting principle: providing mercenaries to an enemy will be treated as the same as an alliance. The Romans also concluded a treaty with Messana in which the Mamertines promised not to provide mercenaries to Rhegium.

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The opposite limitations were imposed upon the Carthaginians, who relied substantially on mercenary troops. Dio reports that a sharp limit was placed upon Carthaginian recruiting of mercenaries after the First Punic War.27 Treaty negotiations with Carthage in 202 and 149 took issue with Carthaginians hiring pirates in war and demanded that they stop (Livy 30.37, 30.31; App. Pun 25). The conduct of the Second Punic War also provides evidence that the Romans sought to fight Carthaginian allies before fighting Carthage. To defeat Hannibal, they marched against the sources of his troops: Iberia, Liguria, Illyria, the Balearics, Gaul. While all these campaigns had the benefit of being winnable, they also support the idea of a different strategy: of slowly defeating Hannibal by denying him reinforcements. When this was successful, it was natural for the Romans to apply this to other powers. So similarly, the Macedonians were discouraged from hiring Illyrians, while the Seleucids, following Apamea (188) were banned from hiring mercenaries from the Aegean, Roman territory, Pergamene territory or Galatia.28 By setting a boundary at the Taurus, this provision also excluded ‘Rough’ Cilicia and Pamphylia, which had become an important factor in the second century for pirates and mercenaries.29 And just as they had before following the wars in Northern Italy, the Romans immediately turned on neighbouring Galatia and Cappadocia. [legati] ab Ariarathe rege Cappadocum venerunt ad veniam petendam luendamque pecunia noxam, quod auxiliis Antiochum iuvisset. Huic sescenta talenta argenti sunt imperata Ambassadors came from Ariarathes, king of Cappadocia, to ask pardon and to wash away with money his guilt in that he had aided Antiochus with (2000 mercenary)30 auxiliaries. Six hundred talents of silver were demanded of him (Livy 38.37.5–6, trans. Sage) Here, Livy’s account sees the Romans demand a severe cash penalty from Ariarathes for providing (for money) soldiers to aid the Galatians and Seleucids in the previous decade. Certainly, we can debate to what extent these 2000 were mercenaries or allied troops, but regardless, we have a clear case for Roman commanders reducing the manpower available to the Seleucids. And looking at smaller states, we have a plethora of minor examples. Many citizens of smaller states served as soldiers in others’ armies, and Rome’s treaties do not change this practice so much as try to limit it. These states continue the practice with the agreement they will stop their citizens from serving with a particular city. Similar agreements are made with some Greek cities. In particular, the evidence suggests that Roman society was moving from a stance of ‘peacetime raiding generally being permitted unless a treaty existed’ to ‘peacetime raiding not being permitted’. In 161 BCE, the Romans concluded a treaty with Judea in which the Jews promised not to supply, give

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or rent out supplies or soldiers to the Seleucids, and the Romans promised to defend Judea from the Seleucids essentially without charge.31 Not only was Judea often a source of mercenaries, it was one that the Seleucids might rely increasingly on without ready access to their old recruiting centres on the Aegean. In the mid-second century, the Romans made a treaty with Methymna on Lesbos (SIG 2.693) and in other years, with Astypalaia, Callatis and Cibyra.32 These treaties with minor states are pretty short – promising aid to each and promising not to aid each other’s enemies. Others have focused on Rome’s gradual collection of Greek allies in the second century, but the other clauses are perhaps more important here. That is, late-second-century Rome doesn’t generally need this coalition of Greek states to achieve military victory in the Eastern Mediterranean, so much as it needs to keep these states from lending out their citizens and ships to other states.33 Thus, there is a pattern of Rome’s waging small campaigns not only against the allies of defeated enemies but also against the sources of mercenaries employed by defeated enemies, even if there was no formal alliance. This attitude is partially justified by Roman insistence that individuals can only enlist as mercenaries with the state’s explicit permission. Despite evidence to the contrary that many non-Romans did not agree with this principle on the international stage, it nevertheless formed a driving force of Roman policy.34 In many situations, the alliance with an enemy power was a sufficient casus belli to declare war, but in others, the accusation of banditry/piracy was a useful further justification. Nor was this a uniquely Roman tactic. Acting as president of the Cretan League, Philip V of Macedon sent forth incognito plundering raids on the allies of the Rhodians in the Cyclades and the Hellespont, most notably Cius, which Philip took and turned over to Prusias. Rhodes in turn, compelled several Cretan cities to give Rhodes, among other things, first rights of hiring mercenaries. Hierapytna is known, but Gortyn, Olous and Chersonesos probably had similar treaties.35 This treaty provision emphasizes the importance of maintaining recruitment sources outside one’s own state in the Hellenistic World.

Fighting pirates to win wars If we accept the pattern of behaviour I laid out in the previous section (namely that Rome, through the third and second centuries BCE, sought to isolate their foes and potential foes from access to the military manpower of mercenaries, including pirates), how does this affect our understanding of Rome’s greatest pushes against Mediterranean piracy, those occurring in the early first century BCE? In the first section, I made it clear that there was substantial overlap between pirates, bandits and mercenaries. While this meant that pirates could readily be hired into military service, it also meant that mercenaries easily could be labelled as illegitimate bandits. As the Roman idea of the bellum iustum developed, the accusation of piracy was an easy way to justify these minor wars (both at home and abroad).36

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Cilicia, of course, became the primary locus of piracy in the late second and early first centuries BCE, born out of the civil wars between the Cilician and Syrian possessions of the Seleucids (Cf. Flor. 3.6.). Rome’s first expedition to Cilicia was the command of Antonius Orator in 102 BCE,37 and had some link to Roman fears of Cilicia harbouring escaped slaves from Sicily, selling arms to the revolted slaves or even providing military aid.38 The timing of this campaign was unusual: if the pressures from the borders in Numidia and Gaul prevented Roman interference with Mithridates (as suggested by Strabo and Florus), how did the Roman state have the wherewithal to embark on simultaneous campaigns in Sicily and Cilicia?39 By representing the Cilicians as pirates and winning a minor victory in Cilicia, Rome achieved a larger goal: limiting the ability of Cilician cities or mercenaries to interfere in Sicily. Following this campaign, the Romans sent forth the famous lex de provinciis praetoriis, which insisted Rome’s allies not harbour pirates or fugitive slaves.40 While this law seems to have been observed more in the breach than in true practice, it does also contribute to this overall pattern of limiting manpower. Mithridates of Pontus hired pirates from Cilicia and Crete to swell the ranks of his navy, a navy that managed to halt Roman forces from crossing to Anatolia on several occasions.41 Mithridates was operating in a standard Hellenistic framework: maintaining a small standing army, supplemented by Galatians, Cretans and Cilicians to bolster his armies during wartime. He had established recruitment treaties with several Cretan cities and sent generals to Crete to recruit men.42 Besides being a location to hire Cretan sailors and archers, the Cretan cities also sometimes served as intermediaries or recruiting grounds in recruiting men from elsewhere in the Aegean. In the First and Second Mithridatic wars, Mithridates had a sizable naval advantage, at one point having Sulla unable to cross from Greece to attack Mithridates in Anatolia and his subordinate Lucullus fleeing pirates in his attempts to recruit Greek allies to assist Sulla (Plut. Lucullus 2–3). In all likelihood, these pirates were not randomly opportunistic, but rather were employed in some fashion by Mithridates.43 Mithridates generally sought to please local mercenary forces: on multiple occasions, defeated Anatolian recruits and mercenaries were pardoned by Mithridates or invited to serve in his army (App. Mith. 19–20). Upon leaving for Italy, Sulla ordered Murena to build a fleet, though Appian and Cicero disagree as to the target: Mithridates or the pirates (App. Mith. 64; Cic. Verr. 2.1.86–89). The difficulty Murena and Lucullus had in recruiting Aegean sailors suggests a combination of Roman unpopularity and Pontic dominance of the manpower market. The rhetoric of piracy was also turned toward both Mithridates and his general Archelaus. Through portraying them as acting piratically and hiring pirates, Roman commanders sought to discredit them and bolster local support for the Romans in Greece.44 While Mithridates sent offers of alliance all around the Aegean, few states openly allied with him, but several offered him mercenaries (chiefly, the aforementioned Cretan cities).

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The end of the first war between Mithridates and Rome included a demand for the surrender of the Pontic fleet (App. Mith. 55).45 Despite having to give up his navy, Mithridates put 500 ships on the sea at the outset of the third war. This rebuilding is implausible unless we assume many of the ships (not simply the sailors) were hired by Mithridates, possibly from the ranks of those who had turned to piracy a decade earlier.46 This might even imply that Mithridates simply gave the expensive ships to his sailors so as to meet Roman demands, thus preserving a fleet for later, and creating a large number of additional pirates by releasing thousands of sailors from his employ.47 And not long after the second war, we see Servilius Vatia Isauricus detailed to march into the recruiting grounds of southern Anatolia to reduce the Isaurians.48 This is ascribed to their piracy, but Vatia marches deep inland far from the sea and across the Taurus. While this could be a case of a Roman commander seeking out victories from whichever sources are available, it could readily be the case that another motive was to exclude southern Anatolia as a recruiting ground for Mithridates. While there is no direct ancient evidence that Vatia’s main foe, Zeniketes, had such an arrangement with Mithridates, it is entirely plausible.49 Sources differ as to how effective Vatia’s campaign was: clearly effective at subjugating the minor cities of Isauria, Lycaonia and parts of Cilicia, it put only a small dent in the piracy of the time. The timing of campaigns remains important. At the outbreak of the third war against Mithridates, despite the obvious danger of that campaign, we find Rome also launching a campaign immediately against Crete under the command of Marcus Antonius (Creticus). And Simon Day argues that we might even push the outbreak of war to before the Mithridatic War.50 The explanation is given here by Appian: Ὅτι Κρήτη ἐξ ἀρχῆς εὐνοϊκῶς ἔχειν ἐδόκει Μιθριδάτῃ βασιλεύοντι Πόντου, καὶ αὐτῷ μισθοφορῆσαι πολεμοῦντι Ῥωμαίοις ἐλέγετο. ἔδοξε δὲ καὶ τοῖς πλεύσασι τότε λῃσταῖς ἐς χάριν τοῦ Μιθριδάτου συλλαβεῖν καὶ συμμαχῆσαι σαφῶς διωκομένοις ὑπὸ Μάρκου Ἀντωνίου. […] ψηφισαμένων δὲ Ῥωμαίων Κρησὶ πολεμεῖν διὰ τάδε, οἱ Κρῆτες ἐπρέσβευσαν ἐς Ῥώμην περὶ διαλλαγῶν. οἱ δὲ αὐτοὺς ἐκέλευον ἐκδοῦναί τε αὐτοῖς Λασθένη τὸν πολεμήσαντα Ἀντωνίῳ, καὶ τὰ σκάφη τὰ λῃστικὰ πάντα παραδοῦναι, καὶ ὅσα Ῥωμαίων εἶχον αἰχμάλωτα, καὶ ὅμηρα τριακόσια καὶ ἀργυρίου τάλαντα τετρακισχίλια. The island of Crete seemed to be favorably disposed towards Mithridates, king of Pontus, from the beginning, and it was said that they furnished him mercenaries when he was at war with the Romans. It is believed also that they recommended to the favor of Mithridates the pirates who then infested the sea, and openly assisted them when they were pursued by Marcus Antonius. […] When the Romans declared war against the Cretans, on account of these things, the latter sent an embassy to Rome to treat for peace. The Romans ordered them to surrender Lasthenes, the

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This was a huge indemnity to pay, and it should be no surprise that the Cretans refused. The objective, I believe, should be clear at this point. The Romans attributed their past difficulties in defeating Mithridates to the strength of his fleet, which had many Cretan and Cilician mercenaries in it.51 The Cretan cities, whether or not they were actually helping Mithridates in a formal fashion, had the power to stop this outflow of mercenaries, and if they didn’t have such power, then the cities would surely limit their export of mercenaries if they were under direct attack. Appian is clear that this employ of mercenaries led to the Cretans being blamed for piracy. The first campaign against Crete failed, and a treaty was signed on fairly favourable terms for the Cretans, but the Romans, now presuming the Cretans were entirely in league with Mithridates, began a second campaign in 68, this time under the proconsul Metellus. Day’s argument for the Cretan campaign to have begun before the outbreak of war with Mithridates is very reasonable, not only for the reasons Day gives, but because Lucullus asserts that he does not need the Greek ally fleet to engage Mithridates.52 This claim makes little sense unless Mithridates’ Cretan allies and reserve mercenaries were already embroiled in another war with Antonius, allowing Lucullus to cross the Aegean. One might recall Lucullus himself had been in charge of the fleet during the time Sulla had failed to secure a supply line across to Anatolia.53 Considering the threat of Mithridates, and their previous failures in crossing to Anatolia effectively, it would even make strategic sense for the Romans to intentionally lose a war with the Cretans simply to land sufficient forces in Anatolia to fight Mithridates. Sallust, too, supports the idea: in Sallust’s Histories (Hist. 4.69.12 (Epistula Mithridatis)), Mithridates (in his supposed letter to the king of Parthia), notes that he had sent aid to the Cretans, who were under attack by Rome. This also implies that the outbreak of the Cretan campaign preceded the Third Mithridatic War. Even without the Cretans and with limited access to the Isaurians (who were now obligated to provide allied forces to Rome), Mithridates still had pirate mercenaries from Cilicia, and apparently rather competent ones. The pirate admiral employed by Mithridates held Sinope to the end of the war, and Mithridates even sailed with pirates in his employ (much to Plutarch’s shock).54 Nor were these Cilicians only a threat as allies and employees of Mithridates. The civil war contender Sertorius hired Cilicians as well, using them to attack Ibiza.55 They later abandoned him when he expressed an intent to leave the Roman Empire entirely and settle in the ‘Isles of the Blest’ (likely the Canaries).56 Mithridates justified beginning the third war partially as an ally of the true Roman state in exile in Spain under Sertorius, a useful

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fiction at best. Moreover, it is not implausible, indeed it is likely, that the Pontic fleet sent to Sertorius in 73 BCE was at least in part a Cilician pirate fleet (Plut. Sertorius 23–24). This combination of Cilician activity could motivate Roman action against Cilician pirates, providing mercenary troops to two serious threats to Rome. Moreover, we might also then expect a Roman attack on the third infamous ‘pirate-land’ of the Mediterranean: Illyria –and under Gnaeus Cosconius in the mid-70s BCE, Illyria was the target of such a campaign.57 Pompey was issued the authority for his grand campaign against the pirates in 69 BCE. Even excluding the above matters, the pirate menace posed a military threat, having burned the Ostia fleet and sacked the port of Delos (69). But the timing of the campaign in 69 suggests that it was seen as necessary to contain Mithridates, who had put forth a strong showing against the Romans and Rhodians at sea despite the lack of Cretan assistance. As Mithridates controlled much of the grain-rich Crimea as well, cutting off supply routes across the Black Sea would be an important strategic consideration. Recruitment-wise, Pompey’s campaign against Cilician piracy would have had much the same effect as the Cretan campaigns: the Cilician pirates would be less likely to serve Mithridates if their own homes were under attack. Moreover, this motivation could also affect Pompey’s settlement of the Cilician pirates. Plausibly, this settlement of pardoned pirates on vacant farmland was conditional on the pirates assisting Pompey against Mithridates, who again, had been reasonably effective in the Roman fleet in the Black Sea. This task would then be rewarded with tracts of land in Lower Cilicia, from which Marcius Rex had already driven any opposing Cappadocian and Armenian forces. This was quite a reasonable offer for Pompey. With the defeat of the pirates, and the capture of many ships, he had a surfeit of ships but perhaps a lack of people to man them. Furthermore, the Cilicians in Pompey’s employ would be able to negotiate with Cilicians in the employ of Mithridates or even recall any such Cilician mercenaries.58 At minimum, employing the Cilicians precluded Mithridates from hiring them out of his apparently limitless war chest. With many of the Cretans already occupied by Metellus and the Cilicians engaged in fighting the Romans on behalf of Mithridates, the pirates had lost most of their teeth before Pompey’s campaign swept through.59 Employed pirates were seen as pirates or not seen as pirates as it suited Roman commanders.

Conclusions From the third century BCE down to the early first century BCE, the interwar periods consistently see a resurgence in pirate activity and Roman campaigning against these pirates. Given the Hellenistic propensity for hiring mercenaries in war, the resurgence in pirate activity has a relationship to the sudden unemployment of soldiers and mercenaries. The Romans, in turn, no doubt have several motivations, but establishing control of this surplus military

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manpower or at least excluding it from potential adversaries needs to be recognized as a motivation. The Romans may not always be the most internally organized or agreeable of people, but they do know where the mercenaries are coming from. More importantly, for all the disdain for mercenaries by aristocratic historians, they recognized that the professional mercenaries of other states have given them serious trouble in the past, most notably the largely mercenary armies of Pyrrhus of Epirus and of Hannibal. Through their peace treaties, Romans attempted to limit both the means of hiring mercenaries and their supply. Large states like the Seleucids agreed not to hire Aegean mercenaries and smaller states in the Aegean agreed not to supply them to Rome’s enemies. Likewise, Carthage agreed not to hire mercenaries from states in the Roman sphere of influence, and as this sphere of influence grew, the manpower available to Carthage shrank (which drove the Carthaginians in the third century to seek out new sources of manpower in Iberia and Africa). This, I argue, explains the motive to embark on new wars against Crete and Cilicia in the late Republic. Since whatever these states’ attitudes toward Rome may have been, both Cretans and Cilicians kept appearing as mercenaries in enemies’ armies. There may have been a realization that the mercenary manpower pool was of both more use to Rome’s neighbours (who did not have the internal manpower pool the Romans possessed) and was more easily accessed by Rome’s neighbours, who had the financial wherewithal to win bidding wars. To control the contingent military, therefore, Rome had to conquer it. In most cases, even simply eliminating this resource was ultimately beneficial to Rome. Thus the wars against certain ‘piratical peoples’ served to deny naval auxiliaries to states that had previously relied upon accessing these forces. And upon becoming subjects of Rome, the freelance warriors of various tribes and cities could be provided, as part of the treaty obligations, to serve Rome. This system works because many mercenary bands were not stateless (as sometimes supposed) but did have ties to a state and could not simply migrate elsewhere. The ancient Romans thought of controlling territory second, but of controlling peoples first. Thus a campaign that seized territory but could not catch the people was less effective than one in which the people were captured and deported but the territory itself was left unincorporated. In the end, we need to further examine mercenary employment and Roman reaction to it in trying to determine the causes for Rome’s many smaller wars in the Mediterranean. Arguments posing Rome as generally aggressive or generally defensive frequently struggle with the relationship between the Senate in Rome and the commander in the field.60 Regardless of whether or not there was a formal understanding, the timing of Roman campaigns suggests a general trend of attacking pirates not because of their piracy or its economic impact, but because of the pirates’ strategic value in recent or forthcoming wars.

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Notes 1 I would like to thank the organizers and attendees of the UNISA Classics Colloquium and the two anonymous reviewers for their thoughts and comments on this piece. Regarding my quotes of ancient sources, the longer translations are noted; shorter translations are my own. 2 De Souza (1999) 9–13; and at greater length in de Souza (1992) 27–51. See also the related discussions of Grünewald (2004) 4–9; Beek (2015) 3–6. 3 Multiple examples will be shown below. The events at Chios in 333 in particular show pirates appearing in multiple forces. 4 For example, Isocrates assesses much of the problem as due to the greater one of desperate landless wanderers around Greece in the early fourth century, and calls upon Jason of Pherae, Philip of Macedon and Archidamus of Sparta to put a stop to it, by formally hiring the men, if necessary. See Isocrates, Panegyricus (4).167–168; To Philip (5).96, 119–121; Letters 9.8–11. 5 See Avramovic (2015). For the Egyptian cleruchies, see Buraselis et al. (2013) particularly the article by Stephanou, 108–131. For Cyrene, see Hdt. 4.158–163, cf. Plut. De Mulierum Virtutibus, 25. See OGIS I.266; SEG 55–1401; Beek (2015) 20, 57; Garlan (1987) 355 for Pergamum. 6 Diod. 17.111, cf. 17.106, Paus. 1.25.5 See also Trundle (2004) passim for Greek mercenaries turning to plunder, cf. de Souza (1999) 43–48; 2012, 51 inter alia. 7 Cf. Front. Str. 3.3.7, where he is named Mandro. See also Polyaenus 4.18; cf. Plut. Pyrrh. 29 for the similar story of Antipater and Ameinias. See also de Souza (1999) 46–48 on this episode. 8 For bibliography on this matter, see Grünewald (2004) 5, 23; de Souza (1999) 6 for similar such assertions. On these specific situations, see Beek (2015) 11; de Souza (2013) 45–46; Trundle (2004) 23; McKechnie (1989). 9 In a few cases, such bands refuse to agree on a rate of pay or try refuse service based on location of fighting. We see examples in the Anabasis of Xenophon, with the Cilicians hired by Sertorius, and with the Galatians in the early third century. Such examples do not constitute unwillingness to serve as a mercenary. 10 For discussion see, de Souza inter alia (1999) 45–60, 80–92; (2012) 51–54; Berthold (1984) 58; Ormerod (1924) 108–120. In particular, the Ptolemies and Seleucids seemed more bent on directing the depredations of pirates and bandits toward the territories of the other kingdom than on defeating pirates that threatened them. That these Cretans, Galatians and Cilicians also frequently show up in Ptolemaic and Seleucid armies in the same period is no coincidence. 11 See Gawantka (1975); Brulé (1978), de Souza (1999) 68–73, Perlman (1999) 150; for discussion, and IG II2 1130 for a probable Athens-Kydonia example. See also Rauh (1999) 162–186 for an analysis of the increase of the wine trade in the Aegean in the peak of pirate activity, theorizing that the wine-traders had established immunity. 12 Beek, (2015) 26 for a fuller defence, see also de Souza (1999) 38–41; cf. Ormerod (1924) 108–120. 13 There is plenty of room to discuss the overlap between a relationship between allies and a relationship between employer and employee, but that is beyond the scope of this chapter. 14 Xenophon, Hell. 4.8.35, see above (page 00) for the quotation. 15 See Brunt (1971) on the role of Italian manpower in the Roman system. 16 Τῶν δέ γε Βοουίων καὶ τῶν ἄλλων Γαλατῶν πολλὰ μὲν καὶ ἄλλα, πλείστους δὲ καὶ αἰχμαλώτους πωλούντων, δείσαντες οἱ Ῥωμαῖοι μήποτε κατ’ αὐτῶν τοῖς χρήμασι χρήσονται, ἀπεῖπον μηδένα ἀνδρὶ Γαλάτῃ μήτ’ ἀργύριον μήτε χρυσίον διδόναι. (Dio 12/Zon. 8.19). (In view of the fact that the Boii and rest of the Gauls were offering for sale various articles and an especially large number of captives, the Romans

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became afraid that they might someday use the money against them, and accordingly forbade anybody to give to a Gaul either silver or gold) (trans. Cary). One might be reminded of some gnomic statements in for example Thuc. 1.83 καὶ ἔστιν ὁ πόλεμος οὐχ ὅπλων τὸ πλέον ἀλλὰ δαπάνης, δι᾽ ἣν τὰ ὅπλα ὠφελεῖ (the greater part is not a war of arms, but rather of resources, through which it makes the arms of use); 6.34 χρυσὸν γὰρ καὶ ἄργυρον πλεῖστον κέκτηνται, ὅθεν ὅ τε πόλεμος καὶ τἆλλα εὐπορεῖ (For they possess plenty of gold and silver, from which both war and everything else are fuelled). For a pre-Roman example, consider the 6000 African and Italian mercenaries employed by Athens in Sicily to defend Segesta from the Selinuntines, later rehired and sent against the Selinuntines again by Carthage after the failure of the Sicilian expedition. Diod. 13.44. Polyb. 2.22–34, esp. 2.22.1–2, cf. Plut. Marcellus 3, 6–7. Plutarch’s dating appears incorrect, he places this war in roughly 240 BCE, immediately following the First Punic War, rather than preceding the Second. Cic. pro Flacco 67: Cum aurum Iudaeorum nomine quotannis ex Italia et ex omnibus nostris provinciis Hierosolymam exportari soleret, Flaccus sanxit edicto ne ex Asia exportari liceret. quis est, iudices, qui hoc non vere laudarepossit? exportari aurum non oportere cum saepe antea senatus tum me consule gravissime iudicavit. (As gold, under pretence of being given to the Jews, was accustomed every year to be exported out of Italy and all the provinces to Jerusalem, Flaccus issued an edict establishing a law that it should not be lawful for gold to be exported out of Asia. And who is there, O judges, who cannot honestly praise this measure? The senate had often decided, and when I was consul it came to a most solemn resolution that gold ought not to be exported) (trans. Yonge); Cic. in Vatinium 12: in eo magistratu cum tibi magno clamore aquaria provincia sorte obtigisset, missusne sis a me consule Puteolos, ut inde aurum exportari argentumque prohiberes? (In that magistracy, when the province of Ostia, down by the water’s edge, had fallen to your lot, raising a great outcry at the time, were you not sent by me, as I was consul, to Puteoli, to prevent gold and silver being exported from thence?) (trans. Yonge). This was not unique at all. The long-term struggles to afford an army in the field are attested by Polyaenus, who detailed several strategies employed by many leaders, particularly Dionysius of Syracuse to maintain cash flow in the army. Poly. 5.2.19, 5.2.21, 7.21.1. See also Wheeler (2010); Beek forthcoming (2019b) esp. 12 n. 34 for further citations. It is also worth recalling that it was the Carthaginian inability or unwillingness to pay their mercenaries after the first Punic War that sparked the Mercenary War. See Beek, (2015) 67 for the tactic of detaching Ligurians from Carthage in the Second Punic War. See Gabba (1989) 202; Salmon (1982) 94–95 for the Ligurian deportations. See de Souza (2012) 57–58 for the impact of piracy as motive for the Ligurian wars. For an example, see Flor. 2.3.4–5 on the Ligurian wars. Harris (1985) 199. See also Cassola (1962); Dell (1970) for cases in favour of the piracy explanation. See also Bragg (2005) for Illyrian piracy more generally. Cf. Livy 10.2.4, Eutropius 3.7. Harris (1985) 198 argues that our ancient authors were mistaken in the Romans being afraid for the Gallic border, that Rome would never have sent a consular army to Sardinia if they thought the Gauls would attack. I would suggest, contra Harris, that this is perfectly logical when compared to the Romans’ multiple campaigns during the second Punic War. Rather than assuming Rome did not know about the Gallic threat, we should assume that for whatever reason, they thought the Sardinians would throw in with the Ligurians and Gauls. See Livy 44.31 for this case.

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27 Zon. 8.17 (Dio 12), ἢ μισθοφόροις τισὶν ἀπ᾿ αὐτῶν κεχρῆσθαι (or to hire mercenaries from these lands (sc. Rome and her allies’ lands)). 28 Polyb. 21.45 cf. Livy 38.38.9. The version by Polybius also excludes exiles while Livy’s excludes volunteers. 29 See Beek (2015) 31, Griffith (1935) 257–258, Perlman (1999) 135. 30 The mercenary aspect is implied at Livy 37.31.4, though not repeated here. See Bar-Kochva (1976) 48–50 for discussion of which contingents were mercenaries. 31 Josephus AJ 10.12.6; 1 Maccabees 12, 14:16ff, 15:16–24, see Johnson et al. (1961) Document 35 and following for discussion. While it is of interest that this deal was not always honoured, the intent of the deal remains clear. 32 See Johnson et al. (1961) Documents 42, 52–54. 33 Also of interest here may be Raggi (2002) who argues that Greek naval leaders would serve in the forces of larger states as a means to establish status at home. (My thanks to the anonymous reviewer who passed this article onward.) 34 Two examples: at Livy 6.5.5, the Romans upbraid their Latin allies for providing mercenaries (and they respond that they merely did not prohibit volunteers from enlisting elsewhere). Polyb. 2.8.8 depicts the Romans chastising Teuta for not controlling piracy (and she claims all piracy against Rome was individual, not state, activity). In neither case were the Romans particularly satisfied by these explanations. Athens had also had problems with mercenaries serving in foreign armies, and needed to recall Athenians on the wrong side. See Toogood (1997); Rosivach (2005) for examples. 35 See Craven (2017); Perlman (1999); Chaniotis (1991). 36 We see the development of the idea of the bellum iustum mainly in Livy and Cicero in the Late Republic, but Livy’s attempts to place these ideas into the furthest Roman antiquity (e.g. Numa’s decisions on the laws of war in 1.32) are suspect. It may be more accurate to speak of a phase of a bellum pium and bellum impium that predated a concept of a bellum iustum and conceptions of iura belli that we see appearing in the later part of the Middle Republic (e.g. Livy 31.30. Polyb. 2.58). It should be noted that the primary Roman concern for a just war appears to have been for a legal defence against charges of misconduct back in Rome. See also de Souza (2012) 55–61 for accusations of piracy as pretexts. 37 See Beek (2016) 102; de Souza (1999) 102–108; Ormerod (1924) 204 for discussion. 38 Beek (2016) especially 109–111. This article discusses the Syrian and Cilician slaves in the Second Servile War, the unusual timing of the Cilician campaign, the political connections between M. Aquilius and M. Antonius Orator and the lex de provinciis praetoriis. 39 See Beek (2016) 103–104; Madsen (2009) 194–195. 40 By ‘sent forth’ I mean that the law enjoins the consuls of the next year to send letters to Roman allies in the eastern Mediterranean. See Beek (2016) 113–114 for further discussion. 41 This discussion on Mithridates as employer of pirates and mercenaries appears in greater detail in Beek (2015) 135–145, 158–163. 42 For details on this recruitment see McGing (1986) 139. 43 That Mithridates was the sponsor of Cilician pirates is noted by several sources, but most clearly App. Mith. 63, cf. 92 who claims that Mithridates outfitted squadrons that then turned to piracy: καὶ κακῶν ἄδην εἶχεν ἡ Ἀσία: ἐπέπλει δ᾽ αὐτὴν καὶ λῃστήρια πολύανδρα φανερῶς, στόλοις ἐοικότα μᾶλλον ἢ λῃσταῖς, Μιθριδάτου μὲν αὐτὰ πρώτου καθέντος ἐς τὴν θάλασσαν, ὅτε πάνθ᾽ ὡς οὐκ ἐς πολὺ καθέξων ἐλυμαίνετο, πλεονάσαντα δ᾽ ἐς τότε μάλιστα, καὶ οὐ τοῖς πλέουσι μόνοις ἀλλὰ καὶ λιμέσι καὶ χωρίοις καὶ πόλεσιν ἐπιχειροῦντα φανερῶς (Asia had its fill of evils: large robber-bands (leisteria) sailed around her openly, looking like fleets rather than pirates. And Mithridates first let these same bands fall on the sea when he was plundering everything which he was not holding for long. Also [these bands were]

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increasing greatly at that time, and they were not making attacks just on ships alone, but also openly on harbors, towns, and cities). I discuss this reputation in greater detail in Beek (2015) 136–138; and Beek forthcoming (2019a). Plutarch, Sulla 23, notes only a surrender of seventy ships, and that the surrender of the fleet was a sticking point in the negotiations. See App. Mith. 112 for the writer’s amazement that Mithridates was able to continue the wars after so many losses. See also Memnon F27; Strabo 12.8.11. See also Beek (2015) 160–161. This would not be unique, similar tactics for ‘not having’ a piratic navy had been employed by Philip V of Macedon, Agathocles and Dionysius of Syracuse, and Diodotus Tryphon in Cilicia. For bibliography on this campaign see de Souza (1999) 128–131; Ormerod (1922). See Flor. 3.6.1–5 for the ancient narrative of the campaign. Grünewald (2004) 76–80 argues in favour of this interpretation. Day (2017) 300–308. The argument that Antonius failed to do much in 75 BCE also fits in well with his reputation for being lazy. Plut. Lucullus 2 attributes this to Sulla, and Appian Mith. 33 would seem to support this assertion. Day (2017) 302. This declaration by Lucullus, already in Asia, might have had more to do with disparaging the commanders of the fleets. See Plut. Lucullus 8–14; Memnon 24–28 for evidence, though Appian Mith. 72 reasserts that Lucullus depended on the fleet for supplies. As noted above, Plut. Lucullus 2–3. Notably, Lucullus gathered a fleet of his own from Asia after a loss of a substantial portion the Pontic fleet at sea, Appian Mith. 76–78. Plut. Lucullus 13.3 μετεμβὰς εἰς λῃστρικὸν μυοπάρωνα καὶ τὸ σῶμα πειραταῖς ἐγχειρίσας ἀνελπίστως καὶ παραβόλως εἰς τὴν Ποντικὴν Ἡράκλειαν ἐξεσώθη (He abandoned it for a light brigantine belonging to some pirates, and, entrusting his person to their hands, contrary to expectation and after great hazard, got safely to Heracleia in Pontus) (trans. Perrin); cf. App. Mith. 78. Plut. Sertorius 7. Cf. Sallust Hist. F12 (McGushin) for a possible parallel. See Konrad (1994) 102–103 for arguments that this was an alliance rather than employment. Plut. Sertorius 8–9. See McAlhany (2016) for a detailed analysis of this passage and these islands. This campaign is one of the most opaque of the first century, though the rationale given was explicitly piracy. See the passing mentions in Eutropius 6.4.1; Orosius 5.23.1; Sall. Hist, 2.38; Cic. pro Cluentio 97. I discuss this also in Beek (2015) 127. Indeed, Pompey sent some Cilicians to negotiate with the Cretans, but they were captured by Metellus. Dio 36.18. This argument is advanced in greater detail in Beek (2019a). Plutarch notes at Lucullus 23 that over eight thousand Cilicians were serving Mithridates in Sinope at the time of Pompey’s victory. Eckstein (1987) 24–72 and to a lesser extent 268; (2009) stand out as important contributions here.

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Pirating pastoral poverty Poetics in Tibullus 1.1 Stephen Harrison

Introduction This chapter considers the presentation of rustic paupertas (poverty) in the programmatic opening poem of Tibullus’ first book of elegies, and argues that it represents a poetic ideology rather than being an indicator of the poet’s true socio-economic position;1 it is in effect metapoetic, an element which has been popular in recent analysis of Tibullus.2 This poetic ideology of Tibullus 1.1 has two parts. The first is a claim that poetic paupertas in the country is a lifestyle alternative and superior to Roman militarism and plutocracy, and to that of the poets who support it; this can be seen as appropriated, even pirated, from the recent Epodes of Horace and Georgics of Vergil. The second is a claim that Tibullan elegy is ‘poor’ in the sense of belonging to the ‘slender’ Callimachean aesthetic. The second of these has been common in writing on Tibullus for a generation,3 but the combination of the two can add a new perspective.4

Tibullus 1.1 and its poetic programme It is important to consider the cultural and historical context of Tibullus 1.1 before turning to detailed analysis.5 Though interesting attempts have been made to push its date earlier,6 most scholars still hold to the traditional view that Tibullus 1.7 must refer to his patron Messalla’s Aquitanian triumph of 27 BCE and that that date is accordingly the terminus post quem for the book as a whole. This is important for the argument of this piece, which wants to maintain that important elements in the poem are derived from Vergil’s Georgics (published in my view in the summer of 29 BCE when the triumph of Augustus is imminent but its triple nature is as yet unknown, cf. Georgics 3.26–33) as well as from Horace’s Epodes, traditionally dated to 30 BCE. The opening priamel (laying out of alternatives, followed by a final choice) of Tibullus’ poem is of interest here, especially the way in which it suggests that the acquisition of money and land is a consequence of warfare (1.1.1–6):7 Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro Et teneat culti iugera multa soli,

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Stephen Harrison Quem labor adsiduus vicino terreat hoste, Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent: Me mea paupertas vita traducat inerti, Dum meus adsiduo luceat igne focus. Let another pile up riches for himself in tawny gold And possess many acres of cultivated ground, He whom unending toil terrifies when the enemy is near, Whose slumbers are routed by the trumpet-blasts of Mars: Let the poverty I have chosen lead me in the line of inaction, For as long as my hearth gleams with unending flame.8

The martial life is here presented not (as in the similar book-opening inverse priamel of Horace Satires 1, another likely model here)9 as an alternative to the life of monetary gain, but as an integral part of it. This suits the climate of the first half of the 20s BCE; in particular, we might think of Messalla himself, whose booty from his Aquitanian triumph of 27 BCE seems to have been enough to finance the remaking of the via Latina (cf. Tibullus 1.7.57–60). These opening lines might also look beyond Messalla to the contemporary victories of the young Caesar, especially to the massive booty of his triple triumph of 29 BCE.10 But these opening lines may be more than a differentiation in material terms of Tibullus’ modest lifestyle of rural retreat from the larger public careers of his more worldly contemporaries. Scholars have often suggested that Tibullus’ poetics, unlike those of Propertius and Ovid, are set out implicitly rather than explicitly,11 and here the text may look to the generic choices and associated material rewards of Tibullus’ poetic coevals. At Epistles 2.1.245–7 Horace mentions Augustus’ discerning choice of and generosity to Vergil and Varius (both probably already dead)12 as the poets who honoured him in their works: at neque dedecorant tua de se iudicia atque munera quae multa dantis cum laude tulerunt dilecti tibi Vergilius Variusque poetae. And neither your judgement about them, not the gifts Which they gained with much praise from the giver, dishonoured Vergil and Varius, the poets whom you loved. The reference here is to the Aeneid and to a lost work of Varius, both poems including praise of Augustus;13 ps-Acro’s ancient commentary on the passage claims that both Varius and Vergil were given a million sesterces by Augustus for what they wrote about him.14 This can be mapped back on to the conjunction of military activity and financial gain in Tibullus’ lines. Vergil and Varius gained money and land as a result of their political/military poetry in favour of Augustus, for example the propagandising view of Augustus’ crucial

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civil war victory at Actium which forms the centrepiece of the Shield of Aeneas in Aeneid 8.675–713. At the time of Tibullus 1, of course, only Varius’ political poetry is available; the Aeneid was yet to come, though Vergil’s recent emphatic suggestion in the proem to Georgics 3 (16–48) that he would praise Caesar and his conquests in future work had already given an idea of his intentions.15 But Varius’ role as the poet who earned high reward for epic poetry about Augustus’ wars may well be at issue here for Tibullus in the first half of the 20s BCE; in that case, Tibullus sets out an intention not to follow the well-rewarded literary path of Caesarian epic. The young Caesar is not at all mentioned in Tibullus; the poet presents himself, indeed, as the comrade (1.3) and encomiast (1.7) of Messalla, but even the latter’s deeds are cleverly incorporated into Tibullus’ own elegiac world. In 1.7 in particular, the traditional epic themes of triumph and conquest are woven into a learned literary framework of complex Hellenistic character.16 Tibullus’ rejection in 1.1 of this transactional view of rich rewards for the right kind of public/epic poetry fits the view we find of him17 in Horace Epistles 1.4, where he is depicted as a financially independent individual who is following his own private poetic preferences in the country: Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide iudex, quid nunc te dicam facere in regione Pedana? Scribere quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula uincat, an tacitum siluas inter reptare salubris, curantem quicquid dignum sapiente bonoque est? Non tu corpus eras sine pectore; di tibi formam, di tibi diuitias dederunt artemque fruendi. Quid uoueat dulci nutricula maius alumno, qui sapere et fari possit quae sentiat, et cui gratia, fama, ualetudo contingat abunde, et mundus uictus non deficiente crumina? Inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum; grata superueniet quae non sperabitur hora. Me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute uises, cum ridere uoles, Epicuri de grege porcum. Albius, kindly critic of my satires, What shall I say you now are doing in the area of Pedum? Writing something to outperform the poetic pieces of Cassius of Parma? Or strolling peacefully amid the health-giving woods, Applying yourself to all that is worthy of the man of wisdom and virtue? You were never a body without a soul. The gods gave you beauty, The gods gave you wealth, and the art of enjoying them. For what more would a fond nurse wish for her beloved nursling –

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Stephen Harrison To think aright and utter his thoughts, To have favour, fame, and health fall to him in abundance, With a refined lifestyle and a never-failing purse? Amid your hopes and cares, amid your fears and passions, Believe that every day that has dawned is your last. The hour that is unhoped for will come to you as welcome. As for me, when you want to laugh, you can come and see me Fat and sleek with fine skin, a hog from Epicurus’s herd.

Tibullus is clearly wealthy by Horace’s own standards. His programmatic paupertas at the opening of his first collection, then, can be seen as a choice about what kind of poetry to write: though he may not be able to compete in riches with the great conquerors of the age, he also chooses not to compete for their riches by writing conventional encomiastic epic in the manner of Varius for Augustus. In this context, the rejection of large estates at Tibullus 1.1.2 (culti iugera multa soli) may also have a metapoetical dimension. In a prominent passage at the end of the programmatic poem of Horace’s Epodes (30 BCE), another recent publication at the time of Tibullus 1, we find a similar profession of small-scale land-ownership which can be applied to literary endeavour (Epodes 1.25–30) – the poet claims to be loyal to his patron Maecenas not for mere material motivations: non ut iuvencis inligata pluribus aratra nitantur meis pecusve Calabris ante Sidus fervidum Lucana mutet pascuis neque ut superni villa candens Tusculi Circaea tangat moenia... Not so that ploughs may be bound to And press on a greater number of oxen of mine, Or so that my herd should change Lucanian pastures For Calabrian before the burning star rises, Or so that a shining villa may stand close to The walls of Circe at Tusculum on high... Horace claims not to want these desirable material objectives from Maecenas’ patronage, but they can also stand for poetic genres into which his collection will not venture which have been taken up by his fellow-poet and fellow Maecenas-protégé Vergil.18 Ploughing and Italian pasturing look to Vergil’s Georgics, almost complete as Horace writes,19 using the very lexicon of Vergil’s poem: iuvencus/a occurs seventeen times in the Georgics and on only one other occasion in the Epodes, aratrum thirteen times in the Georgics and only here in the Epodes. Likewise, the reference to Circe may evoke not only

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the traditional foundation of Tusculum by Telegonus, her son by Odysseus, but also the Odyssey more generally (Horace’s poetic edifice in the Epodes is not to be compared to an Odyssean epic);20 as we have seen, Vergil for much of this time was signalling his intentions to move to epic at the half-way point in the imminent Georgics, again using an architectural metaphor for literary intentions.21 Horace, then, is no Vergil, venturing into the worlds of agricultural didactic or Homeric epic, but is content with his own more modest iambic poetry of friendship for Maecenas. In Tibullus 1.1, however, the poet aligns himself with the recent Georgics rather than distancing himself from it. Its opening priamel (1–6), already cited above, with its overt rejection of war and materialism in favour of country life and personal farming, picks up the similar priamel at Georgics 2.503–15 which places the rustic existence of the farmer above urban riches and war/ politics, with Tibullus’ phrase divitias alius (1.1.1) echoing Vergil’s opes alius (507) in pointing to the idea that seeking after riches belongs to those other than the poet: sollicitant alii remis freta caeca, ruuntque in ferrum, penetrant aulas et limina regum; hic petit excidiis urbem miserosque penatis, ut gemma bibat et Sarrano dormiat ostro; condit opes alius defossoque incubat auro; hic stupet attonitus rostris, hunc plausus hiantem per cuneos geminatus enim plebisque patrumque corripuit; gaudent perfusi sanguine fratrum, exsilioque domos et dulcia limina mutant atque alio patriam quaerunt sub sole iacentem. agricola incurvo terram dimovit aratro: hic anni labor, hinc patriam parvosque nepotes sustinet, hinc armenta boum meritosque iuvencos. Others stir up mysterious straits with oars, and rush To take up the sword, penetrating courts and the thresholds of kings: This one attacks a city and its pitiful households with destructive force, That he may drink from a jewelled cup and sleep in Tyrian purple; Another hides his wealth and watches over his buried gold; Another is amazed and astonished at the speakers’ platform, Another is carried away by applause doubled through the rows Of people and senate; they rejoice when soaked by their brothers’ blood, And change their homes and loved thresholds for exile, Seeking a new country lying under a different sun. The farmer for his part shifts the earth with curved plough: There is the labour of the year, from there he sustains his country, His small descendants, his herds of cattle and his bullocks who have done him service.

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The farming envisaged in Tibullus 1.1 matches that of the Georgics in a number of ways, presenting the life of the independent owner-occupier who attends personally to the annual cycle of agricultural tasks; how far this was actually the case for either Tibullus or Vergil is a moot point (Horace at least, we know, had a farm-manager (vilicus) who supervised his Sabine estate for him, the addressee of Epistles 1.14). This apparent sole operation of a farm is a feature of paupertas: Seneca clearly thinks it is a sign of ‘poverty’ to have only one slave to work one’s personal farm (Dial. 12.12.5), let alone to work it on one’s own, and the absence of slaves from both the Georgics and Tibullus is one of the indicators that we should not treat them as wholly realistic reports of actual agricultural operations.22 In Vergil’s poem the life of the farmer is clearly symbolic of the life of the citizen, a parallel brought out by the final Platonic-style myth in Georgics 4, where the supreme farmer Aristaeus easily evokes the supreme citizen the young Caesar in his capacity to rescue his community’s disastrous situation by personal intervention with divine support.23 Several further features of Tibullus 1.1 could be seen as appropriated from Vergil’s recent poem, which must have made a real impact on Tibullus’ first book as it did on the second book of Horace’s Odes, which seems similarly to belong to the years immediately after the Georgics.24 1.1.7–10 refers to arboriculture: ipse seram teneras maturo tempore vites rusticus et facili grandia poma manu; nec spes destituat, sed frugum semper acervos praebeat et pleno pinguia musta lacu. May I myself plant the tender vines at the ripe season, A countryman, and large fruit-trees with easy hand: And may expectation not desert me, but always provide Heaps of produce and rich must in a full trough. The emphasis here on the planting of vines and fruit-trees matches Georgics 2, where these two activities take up most of the space devoted to arboriculture: 2.259–420 on planting and maintaining a vineyard, and 2.426–32 on fruit-trees, which as in Tibullus are called poma (426), more usually ‘fruits’ but so used of trees in Cato and Varro.25 The idea that Tibullus himself might plant the vines ‘at the ripe season’ perhaps looks to Vergil’s calendrical calibrations of the best days for certain tasks in Georgics 1, which includes the prescription that the seventeenth day of the month is the best for planting vines (1.284). The fact that such hands-on agriculture remains only a wish for Tibullus 1.1 may again also pick up the recent Epodes of Horace.26 Epodes 2 opens with a famous evocation of the happy existence of the owner-occupier smallholder:

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Beatus ille qui procul negotiis, ut prisca gens mortalium, paterna rura bubus exercet suis solutus omni faenore neque excitatur classico miles truci neque horret iratum mare forumque vitat et superba civium potentiorum limina... Happy he who far from business Like the ancient race of mortals Works his ancestral estate with his own oxen Freed of all debt interest, And is not aroused as a soldier by the fierce trumpet And does not shudder at the sea’s rage, And avoids the forum and the proud thresholds Of more powerful citizens... Horace’s poem is famously revealed at its end as spoken by the urban moneylender Alfius, voicing a pipe-dream of rustic existence which never in fact comes to fruition since he can never bear to leave his life of money-getting in the city (1.67–70). Perhaps the longing of Tibullus for a simple country life is equally fantastic, since the traditional locale of love-elegy for its beloveds is the city of Rome.27 Tibullus’ move can thus be said to be appropriated from both Vergil and Horace. Another key aspect of country life in Tibullus 1.1 is its religious side (1.11–18): Nam veneror, seu stipes habet desertus in agris Seu vetus in trivio florida serta lapis, Et quodcumque mihi pomum novus educat annus, Libatum agricolae ponitur ante deo. Flava Ceres, tibi sit nostro de rure corona Spicea, quae templi pendeat ante fores, Pomosisque ruber custos ponatur in hortis, Terreat ut saeva falce Priapus aves. For I turn to worship, when a lonely stump in the fields Or an ancient stone at the crossroads bears garlands of flowers, And whatever fruit the new season brings forth for me Is laid as an offering before the god of farming. Golden Ceres, may you be given from my farm A garland of corn-ears to hang before your shrine’s door, And may a Priapus be set as a crimson guard in my fruit-rich gardens, To fright the birds with his savage sickle.

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The theme of offerings to the gods of the country and the mention of Priapus (and perhaps Silvanus, commonly identified with the agricolae … deo of 14)28 looks back again to the fantasy of Alfius in Epode 2 (17–22):29 vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput Autumnus agris extulit, ut gaudet insitiva decerpens pira certantem et uvam purpurae, qua muneretur te, Priape, et te, pater Silvane, tutor finium. Or when Autumn raises its head fair with ripe fruit Above the fields, How he [the farmer] joys in harvesting the grafted pear-trees And the grapes that vie with purple dye, To present them to you, Priapus, and you, father Silvanus, Guardian of borders. The pair of rustic gods evoked by Tibullus also recalls the Georgics: flava Ceres echoes the same phrase in the same hexameter-initial position at Georgics 1.96, while the idea of Priapus as guard of the fruit-garden looks to Georgics 4.111 tutela Priapi. The appropriation in Tibullus 1.1 of the lifestyle of rustic independence and paupertas from the recent work of Vergil and Horace, then, suggests a poetic choice which sets Tibullan elegy apart from more ambitious genres such as panegyrical epic and their richly rewarded contemporary practitioners such as Varius. This is accompanied by a parallel claim to small-scale aesthetics which aligns Tibullus in general with the modest poetics of Callimachus, dedicated to less ambitious, shorter and more polished work, much of it in the elegiac metre used by Tibullus.30 This seems to be symbolised in the description of the poet’s small land-holding in 1.1 (19–24): Vos quoque, felicis quondam, nunc pauperis agri Custodes, fertis munera vestra, Lares. Tunc vitula innumeros lustrabat caesa iuvencos, Nunc agna exigui est hostia parva soli. Agna cadet vobis, quam circum rustica pubes Clamet ‘io messes et bona vina date’. You too claim your own gifts, Lares, guardians Of an estate once prosperous, now poor: Then a sacrificed she-calf purified numberless steers: Now a she-lamb is the small offering of a tiny patch. A she-lamb will die for you, and around it the country youth Will cry, ‘Hurrah, grant us harvests and fine vintages’.

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The surface reference is to reduced economic circumstances, but in this programmatic context it is tempting to see some reference to reduced length of poetry. Instead of the longer and wealth-generating poems of other previous practitioners on politics and conquest, Tibullus’ own poetics of ‘poverty’ offers less ambitious subject-matter (love in the country) in a less ambitious form (elegiacs not hexameters). Varius is only the latest in a long line of poets at Rome who were richly rewarded for epic-style work praising the military achievements of successful Roman military commanders, for example Archias on Lucullus’ campaigns against Mithradates (Cicero Pro Archia 21) or Furius Bibaculus on Caesar’s Gallic wars;31 this tradition is here represented by the ‘prosperous estate’ of the past. The particular image of small-sized agricultural lands here in the description of Tibullus’ own estate clearly picks up and reverses the large-sized lands of the poem’s opening, which have been seen above as symbolic of Varius-type epic with its extensive length and rewards; exigui … soli (1.1.22) explicitly inverts 1.1.2 culti iugera multa soli. Such metapoetic imagery involving land and sacrifice is found outside Tibullus. As for land, we have already seen above how the close of Horace’s Epodes 1 uses the symbol of the poet’s modest Sabine estate to represent his modest poetics, and Tibullus’ use of exiguus for the small, Callimachean poetic scale of elegy as opposed to the larger scale of epic is later found in prominent programmatic passages of Propertius (3.9.35–6, 4.1.57–60).32 As for sacrifice, at the close of Odes 4.2 (written 16–13 BCE), Horace presents his own small offering to mark Augustus’ forthcoming triumphal return to Rome as an alternative to Iullus Antonius’ hyperbolically grand offering (57–60):33 Te decem tauri totidemque vaccae, me tener soluet vitulus, relicta matre qui largis iuvenescit herbis in mea vota, fronte curuatos imitatus ignis tertius lunae referentis ortum, qua notam duxit niveus videri, cetera fuluus. Ten bulls and the same number of cows Will pay off your pledge, a tender calf mine, Growing up in lush pastures after leaving his mother, Redeeming my promise, Resembling on his forehead the curved fires Of the moon as it rises for the third time, Snow-white where he shows a blaze, Otherwise tawny. As I have argued elsewhere,34 Horace’s ‘tender calf ’ seems to stand for his carefully crafted and relatively brief lyric poem, while Iullus’ large-scale

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offering suggests a poem of epic length suitable for a known author of a Diomedeia as well as a member of the imperial family. Tibullus, Horace and Propertius thus share a move from the Roman literary tradition of big epic to smaller Callimachean poetry. In Tibullus 1.1 paupertas, defined as a modest, small-scale lifestyle, points in the same Callimachean metapoetical direction, matching the similar choices of Tibullus and Vergil’s Georgics to write rustic poetry different from the public and lucrative verse of their more ambitious contemporaries. The equation of a modest-consumption lifestyle and a modest poetics was a familiar one for Augustan poetry,35 and this lies behind 1.1.25–28: Iam modo iam possim contentus vivere parvo Nec semper longae deditus esse viae, Sed Canis aestivos ortus vitare sub umbra Arboris ad rivos praetereuntis aquae. May I now at last be able to live happily on little And not always be given up to long travels, But rather avoid the summer rising of the Dog-star In a tree’s shade by streams of water passing by. The modest country life is here contrasted with the public life of travel and war, reprising the opening priamel of the poem; as there, and as with the reference to the small size of the poet’s estate, there is an obvious surface meaning (the poet would like to leave behind his travels in the train of Messalla’s conquests which underlie poems 1.3 and 1.7), but a symbolic significance is also attractive in this programmatic context of an opening poem. ‘Long travels’ suggests not just real-life voyaging but the great voyages of traditional epic plots such as the Odyssey and Apollonius’ Argonautica,36 the latter perhaps newly prominent from the 30s BCE through the now lost but influential Latin version by Varro of Atax.37 Through similar symbolism, the country life as described here once more appropriates the country life of Vergil’s poetry, this time not the laborious Georgics but rather the pastoral Eclogues:38 the shade39 and running water of the typical locus amoenus recall its more relaxed and restful landscape, for example in Gallus’ plea in Eclogue 10 to his puella Lycoris to enjoy the beauties of the countryside (10.42–3):40 Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori; hic nemus; hic ipso tecum consumerer aeuo. Here are cool springs, here are soft meadows, Lycoris, Here is a grove: here I would be consumed by age in your company. Gallus’ plea to Lycoris looks forward to Tibullus’ hopes for a country life with Delia in 1.1; it has often been suggested that Tibullus’ whole scenario of hopes for life with the generally urban puella in the country picks up Gallus’

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41

lost elegies, but I would suggest that this is one more element appropriated from Vergil; a key point in Eclogue 10 is that the elegiac life of love is not possible in the different framework of pastoral.42 In lines 37–40 we find an invocation of the rustic gods which may incorporate a further metapoetical element: Adsitis, divi, neu vos e paupere mensa Dona nec e puris spernite fictilibus. Fictilia antiquus primum sibi fecit agrestis Pocula, de facili composuitque luto. Be with me, gods, and do not spurn gifts From a humble table and in clean earthenware vessels. For of earthenware were the cups which the peasant of old Made for himself, and fashioned out of pliable clay. The paupere mensa here suggests Callimachean aesthetics like the similar use of mensa tenuis at Horace Odes 2.16.14:43 poor/thin diet points to poor/thin poetics.44 The earthenware cups could also be symbolic:45 drinking vessels and other containers for wine can often be symbols for poetic form given the common equivalence of wine and poetry. We may compare the Sabine wine sealed in a Greek jar of Horace Odes 1.20.1–3, surely a metaphor for Horatian Latin lyric in Greek metrical form,46 or Catullus 27, which seems to introduce a set of (invective?) poems as calices amariores, ‘more bitter cups’ (27.2). The verb composuit supports this, since it can refer both to artefact manufacture and the making of poetry.47 Tibullus’ poetic vessels are of humble material (pointing to the elegiac couplet, lowly in comparison with the hexameter) but are clean and pure, recalling another Callimachean metapoetical metaphor: at the end of the Hymn to Apollo (2.107–12) the pure and unadulterated spring-water (καθαρή τε καὶ ἀχράαντος … λιβὰς, 111–12) carried by Demeter’s bees stands for modest verse in contrast with the muddy Euphrates representing larger and less subtle forms (108–9).48 Tibullus’ gods are addressed here in humble elegiacs (cf. Callimachus Hymn 5), not the usual grand hexameters of the hymnic tradition; this might add an extra dimension to the conventional request to the gods not to spurn the poet’s gifts. In 1.1.41–4 we find again a contrast between past and present which can be read as metapoetical: Non ego divitias patrum fructusque requiro, Quos tulit antiquo condita messis avo: Parva seges satis est, satis requiescere lecto Si licet et solito membra levare toro. I ask not for the riches of my fathers or the produce Which the stored harvest brought to my grandfather of old: A small crop is enough, it is enough if I can rest On a couch and give my limbs relief on their usual bed.

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The image of poetry as a crop is found in Ovid’s exile poetry in lines addressed to his fellow-poet Cornelius Severus (Ex Ponto 4.2.11–12): Fertile pectus habes interque Helicona colentes uberius nulli prouenit ista seges. You have a fertile mind and that crop of poetry of yours Grows no more abundantly for any of the denizens of Helicon. As in lines 19–24, in lines 41–44 there is a contrast between larger ancestral poetics and Tibullus’ own less ambitious writing: the ‘riches of my fathers’ can be seen as the Latin epic tradition, while the ‘small crop’ looks like Callimachean small-scale poetry, and the ‘accustomed couch’ might refer to the bed as the usual place of action for the lover in elegiac poetry (as seen in Tibullus 1 at 1.2.77 and 1.8.62). The same contrast seems to be articulated in the lines where the poet turns to address his patron (1.1.53–58): Te bellare decet terra, Messalla, marique, Ut domus hostiles praeferat exuvias; Me retinent vinctum formosae vincla puellae, Et sedeo duras ianitor ante fores. Non ego laudari curo, mea Delia; tecum Dum modo sim, quaeso segnis inersque vocer. It is fitting for you, Messalla, to war by land and sea So that your house may exhibit the spoils of the enemy: I am held tied fast by the bonds of a beautiful girl, And I sit as a door-keeper in front of her unrelenting portals. I am not concerned to receive praise, my Delia: as long as I am with you, I ask to be called sluggish and cowardly. Messalla’s wars could also potentially be epic poems, as he was a poet as well as a commander; according to the (perhaps dubious) evidence of Catalepton 9 (Tibullus 3.7) he wrote Greek pastoral and Latin erotic poetry, while Pliny mentions him as an author of light verse (Epistles 5.3.5). Tibullus, on the other hand, presents himself as an erotic poet as well as an actual lover, constrained by the elegiac conventions of servitium amoris or erotic slavery (cf. vincla)49 and the exclusus amator or locked-out lover (cf. ante fores). He can be with Delia both literally as her lover and metaphorically as the poet who writes about her. In both cases he rejects war, both as a lifestyle option in the form of going on campaign, and as a poetic choice in the form of epic.

Conclusions In setting out the programme for its book, published soon after 27 BCE, Tibullus 1.1 appropriates the theme of the rustic simple life and its analogous

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symbolic poetics from the recent Georgics of Vergil and Epodes of Horace. The poet and country-dweller is seen as poor in comparison with poetic peers such as Varius who engage with political themes which lead to rewards and riches, and the Tibullan choice of private elegiac love-poetry with rural colour is seen as a modest Callimachean mode of writing in contrast with the grand public genre of traditional Roman military epic, lively again in the eventful political context of the 20s BCE.

Notes 1 My thanks to the anonymous reviewers for this chapter, whose comments were salutary and helpful. 2 See e.g. Wray (2003), Maltby and Booth (2005), Putnam (2005). 3 Since Bulloch (1973) and Cairns (1979). 4 The first is raised also by Henkel (2013–14) and implicitly by the list of parallels in Murgatroyd (1980). 5 This is not a central feature of the two most important recent analyses, Lee-Stecum (1998) 27–71 or Cairns (1979) 11–34, or of the commentaries of Murgatroyd (1980) or Maltby (2002), both of which I have consulted with profit. 6 Knox (2005); see Lyne (1998) for the traditional date. 7 I use the text of Maltby (2002) for Tibullus, with some adjustments of punctuation. 8 Translations throughout are my own. 9 In Horace’s poem (published c. 35 BCE) the poet-speaker evokes representatives of the classes of merchant, soldier, lawyer and farmer who claim one of the other’s life-styles is preferable to their own (1.1.1–12; note the second and last as echoed in Tibullus), inverting the usual claim that one’s own is the best (cf. Tibullus and Horace Odes 1.1). 10 For these vast spoils and their ostentatious display see e.g. Dio 51.21.5–8. 11 See e.g. recently Kozic (2012) and Henkel (2013–14) as well as those cited in n. 2 above. 12 Though as Hollis (2007) 262 points out, the mention of a tragedian Varius in Ovid Ex Ponto 4.16.31 makes it just possible that he lived on some years after Vergil. 13 This is controversial for Varius, but the evidence of Horace Odes 1.6 and Epistles 1.16.28–30 (and the ancient commentaries on them) in my view suggest that he wrote a hexameter encomium of Augustus: for the evidence see Hollis (2007) 256, 273–275. 14 This is likely to be the source of the information in the supposed introduction to Varius’ Thyestes, see Hollis (2007) 257–258, 277–278 (who does not cite the ps.Acro passage), that Varius was given the same amount for his Thyestes in 29 BCE. 15 See e.g. Nelis (2004). 16 See e.g. Cairns (1979) 171–172; Maltby (2002) 280–281. 17 I agree with the ancient commentators and most modern scholars that the Albius of this poem and of Odes 1.33 is Albius Tibullus the elegist, see e.g. Nisbet & Hubbard (1970) 368; Maltby (2002) 33–34. For a more sceptical view see Mayer (1994) 133; (2012) 201–202. 18 See Harrison (2007a) 112–113. 19 For Epodes 2’s use of the Georgics in general, see Watson (2003) 77. 20 For the metaphor of poetry as building city walls cf. e.g. Propertius 4.1.65–6. 21 Georgics 3.13–40 develops at length the Pindaric idea of a poem as a building – see Mynors (1990) 181. 22 On the realism of agriculture in the Georgics see Spurr (1986). 23 See especially Morgan (1999), picked up by Harrison (2007a) 163–165.

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On its dating, see Harrison (2017) 1. Cf. Oxford Latin Dictionary s.v. 1. As noted e.g. by Murgatroyd (1980) 49. See e.g. Harrison (2013). See e.g. Maltby (2002) 126. As noted by Maltby (2002) 126. On Tibullus and Callimachus see e.g. Cairns (1979) 6–11, 20–21 (the latter on 1.1). Much of what I say here expands brief elements in Cairns’ account. See Hollis (2007) 119–20, 124–127. These both in fact refer to water, another common metapoetical symbol. See e.g. Harrison (2007b). Cf. Davis (1991) 144; Harrison (2007a) 203–204. For the Hellenistic origins of the symbol see Cairns (1979) 21. Harrison (2007a) 198–204. See Mette (1961/2009). See further Harrison (2007b). For this element here in Tibullus see also Henkel (2014) 465–466. For this see Hollis (2007) 171–176, 196–211. On the Eclogues in Tibullus 1.1 see especially Putnam (2005). Umbra is a key term in the Eclogues, occurring fifteen times. This too is very likely to be metapoetic: see Harrison (2007a) 59–74 for this angle of interpretation. E.g. Ross (1975) 85–106. Harrison (2007a) 59–74. See e.g. Harrison (2017) 190. For tenuis and the idea of slimness as Callimachean see Nisbet & Hubbard (1970) 86. As explored in a different way by Wray (2003). See Commager (1962) 326. Here Nisbet & Hubbard (1970) 248 are too sceptical, as also Nisbet (1995) 162. Compare the similar pun at Horace Epistles 1.1.12 condo et compono quae mox depromere possum (storing produce and composing poetry), Oxford Latin Dictionary s.v. 2b and 9. See again further Wray (2003). See e.g. Stephens (2015) 73. He behaves like a slave ianitor (for this chained servile doorkeeper cf. Ovid Amores 1.6).

8

The revolt of the boukoloi, class and contemporary fiction in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon John Hilton

A group of outlaws – the boukoloi (βουκόλοι = ‘herdsmen’, ‘cowboys’, ‘rangers’) – feature extensively in Books 3 and 4 of Achilles Tatius’ novel Leucippe and Clitophon and to a lesser degree in Books 1, 2, 5 and 6 of the Ethiopian Story of Heliodorus.1 These characters should be clearly distinguished from the pirates who are usually the most serious threats to the safety of the main characters in the genre.2 In ancient fiction pirates are mostly Greek citizens who have turned to piracy as a way of life: for example, in Chariton, the leader of the pirates (λῃσταί) is Theron, a Syracusan, who ‘lived a life of crime on the sea’ (1.7.1: ἐξ ἀδικίας πλέων τὴν θάλασσαν).3 Theron bears the same name as the father of a desperado mentioned by Apuleius (Apul. Met. 7.5);4 in Longus, pirates (λῃσταί) from Pyrrha, a city on the southern coast of Lesbos, ‘manning a Carian cutter to look like barbarians’ abduct Daphnis (1.28.1),5 but he is miraculously rescued by cattle reacting to the sound of the herdsman Dorcon’s flute. In Xenophon of Ephesus the pirate Hippothous tells Habrocomes that he was originally a member of the leading family of Perinthus in Thrace (3.2.1), but he had turned to piracy in desperation after the death of his beloved Hyperanthes (3.14.1, ἀπορίᾳ βιοῦ καὶ ἀθυμίᾳ τῆς συμφορᾶς). He operated as a pirate in Cilicia, Cappadocia, Syria and, apparently, Ethiopia, and later even became friends with the hero, Habrocomes (2.14.3).6 In addition to pirates, however, ancient fiction also includes the boukoloi, wild men who live close to nature.7 Sometimes, these too are Greeks.8 In Homer’s Iliad the boukoloi are strong men able to catch cattle (Il. 13.571), protect their herds (Il. 15.587), and throw their cattle-herding sticks far distances (Il. 23.845). In a religious context, these men belong to a Dionysiac cult that centres on the totem of cattle.9 In Longus, the cowherd (βουκόλος 1.15.1, 1.16.1) Dorkon, who makes a sexual assault on Chloe (1.20), is a native of Lesbos. Similarly, the Lesbian cowherd Lampis (4.28.1) carries Chloe off by force, but she is rescued by Gnathon. Philetas, too, is an older cowherd (2.3.2, 2.15.1), who is knowledgeable about love and a devotee of Pan. Far more fearsome than these men, however, are the foreign boukoloi. In Xenophon of Ephesus (3.12.2), for example, Habrocomes and his fellow-travellers are wrecked near the ‘Paralian mouth of the Nile near Phoenicia’, where they are attacked by local, that is Egyptian, ‘shepherds’

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(οἱ ἐκεῖ ποιμένες), who plunder their cargo and take them to Pelusium where they are sold as slaves. It is on these Egyptian herders that this chapter focuses. First, though, it is important to sketch the broader literary context of this motif.

Prior treatment of the boukoloi motif in Greek literature Prior treatment of the boukoloi in Greek drama had already established their reputation for cruelty and savagery. Euripides exacerbates the ferocity of the boukoloi by locating them among the barbaric Taurians on the Black Sea Chersonnese, near Scythia.10 In Iphigenia among the Taurians Iphigenia states that she has been brought by Artemis, after her supposed sacrifice by her father, Agamemnon, to a land ‘which is ruled by a savage for savages’ (οὗ γῆς ἀνάσσει βαρβάροισι βάβαρος, line 31). These people follow ‘an ancient law’ (νόμος) that requires them to sacrifice all foreigners who land there to the goddess (lines 38–39, 277–278).11 In the play Orestes and Pylades are shipwrecked on the Taurian coast and are captured by local herdsmen (βουκόλοι), but Iphigeneia contrives their escape from the land by exploiting the religious scruples of the Taurian king.12 The Charition Mime (P. Oxy. 413),13 which is clearly based on Euripides’ Iphigenia among the Taurians, makes the aggressive locals even more alien by situating the action in the remote land of India, describing the characters in the sketch as speaking an unrecognisable Indian language,14 and depicting them as ignorant of the nature of wine.15 The Greeks exploit their ignorance and manage to escape from their Indian captors by inducing them to get drunk. One of the characters in the mime is an Indian king, who is made to say: βάρβαρον ἀνάγω χορὸν ἄπλετον, θεὰ Σελήνη / πρὸς ῥυθμὸν ἀνέτῳ βήματι βαρβάρῳ προσβαίνων: ‘I lead the barbarian chorus unending, O Moon-goddess, advancing to the beat with loose barbarian step’ (lines 88–89). It is clear that Achilles Tatius was aware of Euripides’ play Iphigenia among the Taurians because, in the final book of the novel, Clitophon complains, when attacked by Thersander, that he has polluted the temple of Artemis with human blood in a way worse than the barbaric Taurians do in Scythia (8.2.3). Although Tersander had merely given him a slight nose-bleed, Clitophon protests that such deeds only happen in ‘deserted places’ where no human witness is at hand (8.2.1). This exaggerated speech turns tragedy into farce, thus undermining the dread that the reader is expected to feel when the theme of human sacrifice is employed.16 However, although the passage humorously subverts the previous literary treatments of the boukoloi as terrifying bogymen, who threaten the well-being of the lovers, Achilles Tatius also introduces very detailed information about them that provides the reader with a vivid depiction of contemporary life in the Nile delta (see further below). This chapter focuses on Achilles’ portrayal of these outsiders and seeks to explain why he chose to include so much detail about them and their rebellion against the authorities in his novel. It will show that in describing these men, Achilles Tatius overturns the expectations

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raised by the previous treatments of the boukoloi motif – that they will be unrelentingly ferocious and savage – and provides what purports to be an eyewitness account of their rebellion against the authorities in charge of the government of villages in the Nile delta.

Who were the Egyptian boukoloi? In Egyptian, the term used for boukoloi is ‘3m, which means “Semite”’.17 Rutherford suggests a link between the Egyptian term and the Hyksos, mentioned by Manetho, as cited by Josephus (FGrHist 609F10), and views them as Semitic or Asiatic in origin.18 Strabo (17.1.6) states that the earlier pharaohs had posted these men at Rhacotis near Alexandria to ward off colonisers and traders in general, but especially the Greeks.19 The location of the boukoloi varies in the sources. Stephanus Byzantinus Ethnica s.v. Ἡερακλειοβουκόλια· Αἰγυπτιακὴ συνοικία (‘He-rakleioboukolia: an Egyptian settlement’) suggests that the inhabitants of this place, the Βουκόλοι are found near the Heracleotic (otherwise known as the Canopic) mouth of the Nile, where they are also located by Heliodorus (1.5.1).20 They may possibly be equated with the ‘marsh-dwellers’ mentioned by Thucydides at 1.110.2: Egypt again came under the King’s command, except for Amurtaios, the king in the marshes. They were unable to catch him on account of the size of the marsh, and because the marsh dwellers (οἱ ἕλειοι) are the most warlike (μαχιμώτατοι) of the Egyptians. Whether all these accounts refer to the same people or not – and Achilles Tatius’ description of them as black-skinned (see below) is inconsistent with the view that they were Semitic – in Egypt the term boukolos had acquired a reputation for wild fearsomeness by the time Achilles Tatius used them in his novel.

The boukoloi in L&C Despite their terrifying reputation, Achilles Tatius provides a substantial amount of realistic detail about the herdsmen, especially in Book 4, that actually reduces the supposed savagery of their nature. At first sight though (3.9.2–3), this does not appear to be the case: ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐγενόμεθα κατά τινα πόλιν, ἐξαίφνης βοῆς ἀκούομεν πολλῆς. καὶ ὁ ναύτης, εἰπών· ‘ὁ βουκόλος’, μεταστρέφει τὴν ναῦν ὡς ἐπαναπλεύσων εἰς τοὐπίσω. καὶ ἅμα πλήρης ἦν ἡ γῆ φοβερῶν καὶ ἀγρίων ἀνθρώπων· μεγάλοι μὲν πάντες, μέλανες δὲ τὴν χροιάν – οὐ κατὰ τὴν τῶν Ἰνδῶν τὴν ἄκρατον, ἀλλ’ οἷος ἂν γένοιτο νόθος Αἰθίοψ –, ψιλοὶ τὰς κεφαλάς, λεπτοὶ τοὺς πόδας, τὸ σῶμα παχεῖς· ἐβαρβάριζον δὲ πάντες. 3. καὶ ὁ κυβερνήτης, εἰπών· ‘ἀπολώλαμεν, ἔστησε τὴν ναῦν, ὁ γὰρ ποταμὸς ταύτῃ στενώτατος.

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John Hilton As we approached one city, we suddenly heard a lot of shouting. The sailor said, ‘The boukolos,’ and turned the boat around to sail back in the opposite direction. All at once the shore was full of fearful and savage men, all large and black-skinned (not unmixed black like Indians but as black as an Ethiopian of mixed race might be), bare-headed, bare-footed, and with thick-set bodies. They were all speaking in a foreign language. The pilot said, ‘We’ve had it,’ and stopped the boat. (The river was very narrow at that point.)

Here the narrator, Clitophon, describes ‘the boukolos’ as a generalised but distinct somatic type, since he remarks on their unusual skin colour – not pure black like Indians but like Ethiopians of mixed race21 – and their large, thick-set bodies (μεγάλοι μὲν πάντες … τὸ σῶμα παχεῖς). So much is usually agreed on by translators of and commentators on this passage, but there is no consensus about the precise meaning of the phrases ψιλοὶ τὰς κεφαλάς, λεπτοὶ τοὺς πόδας (discussed below in the appendix). The fact that these men ‘were speaking in a foreign language’ (ἐβαρβάριζον δὲ πάντες) suggests that this was a language unknown to Clitophon, who, although he was Phoenician, had an Egyptian friend, Menelaus, and so was presumably familiar with the Egyptian language, at least on a rudimentary level. The foreignness of the language uttered by the boukoloi is confirmed by the fact that the prisoners feel completely helpless when they are first captured, because they are unable to appeal to their captors, who did not understand Greek (3.10.2). At 4.14.9, however, the boukoloi are called Egyptians (ἀνὴρ … Αἰγύπτιος – another generalising singular), and Clitophon guesses by lip-reading that they are singing an Egyptian hymn (3.15.3, ᾠδὴν Αἰγυπτίαν) when they are sacrificing Leucippe. It is possible that the herders spoke more than one language – their own language among themselves and Egyptian in formal religious contexts, since a variety of languages was spoken in Roman Egypt at this time.22 Clitophon appears to be describing men who are not only different racially and culturally, as indicated by their skin colour and language, but also in their economic status – and they are in fact described as ‘desperate’ (3.24.1–2, ἀνδρῶν ἀπονενοημένων, see further below). The fact that their horses lack accoutrements, such as saddle-blankets and head-gear (3.12.1)23 and that the boukoloi are only armed with sharp clods (the βῶλος Αἰγύπτιος) is a further indication of this, although later they do appear with shields and spears when planning a more elaborate ambush (4.13.1). In the first engagement between the boukoloi and the government forces, the latter prove to be far more effectively armed and they ultimately win a convincing victory (3.13.4, 4.18.1). The sensational sacrifice of Leucippe may also reflect the desperation of the rebels. According to the narrative, the sacrifice is undertaken because of an oracle (3.19.3). It is presided over by a priest who in the Greek manner sprinkles water as a libation over Leucippe’s head, leads her around the altar, and chants a hymn to the accompaniment of a flute (3.15.2, cf. Hdt. 1.132 on

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the difference between Persian and Greek sacrifices). However, as noted above, Clitophon guesses that the hymn was Egyptian (3.15.3), but he was unable to hear the words of the hymn and only surmised that they were singing in Egyptian from the distortion of their mouths (3.15.3). Participants in the sacrifice had to eat part of her liver before burying her in a coffin (3.15.5).24 The sacrifice is said to have had a number of purposes, including one that points towards Egyptian magical practices. The passage is as follows (L&C 3.19.3): ἐξαιτοῦμαι δὴ καὶ τὸν Σάτυρον ὡς ἐμόν. οἱ δέ, ‘ἀλλ’ ὅμως,’ ἔφασαν, ‘ἐπίδειξον ἡμῖν σεαυτὸν τολμηρὸν πρῶτον.’ κἀν τούτῳ χρησμὸν ἴσχουσι κόρην καταθῦσαι καὶ καθᾶραι τὸ λῃστήριον καὶ τοῦ μὲν ἥπατος ἀπογεύσασθαι τυθείσης, τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν σῶμα σορῷ παραδόντας ἀναχωρεῖν, ὡς ἂν τὸ τῶν ἐναντίων στρατόπεδον ὑπερβάλοι τῆς θυσίας τὸν τόπον. I claimed Satyrus as my servant, but they said: ‘First show us that you are capable of doing something daring.’ At this time they were in possession of an oracle telling them to sacrifice the girl, to purify their hideout. They were to eat her liver after she had been sacrificed, and to put the rest of her body in a coffin and to advance, so that the army of the enemy would pass over the place of the sacrifice. Clitophon here gives no less than four reasons for the sacrifice: 1. that it was required by an oracle, 2. that it was necessary to purify the rebel army, 3. that it was intended to bind new recruits to the cause (the bandit leader states that the boukoloi had the custom of requiring new initiates to undertake human sacrifice and gives Menelaus and Satyros a free hand to carry out the ceremony, cf. 3.19.3; 3.22.3–4), and 4. to desecrate the land over which the enemy army would have to pass, thus causing the government forces to incur pollution (3.19.3).25 Appropriately for an Egyptian ritual, it appears to have had a magical purpose that is entirely plausible in its context. The lurid details of the eating of the entrails of the centurion’s companion is in keeping with the desperation of the boukoloi and their need to preserve a common purpose against the government forces by committing an atrocity. Such sacrifices are attested in other crises in human society. For example, Plutarch refers to a possible case of human sacrifice before the battle of Salamis (Plut. Them. 13.2–5) and the Roman civil wars of the first century provide further instances.26 On these occasions, as in the case of the boukoloi, desperation, combined with the influence of a powerful priest, swayed the emotions of the armies. The boukoloi are said to inhabit an Egyptian village among the papyrus marshes near Cercasorus (4.11.3, the λῃστήριον). This hideout is given a precise location on the Nile, which flows to this village at the end of the main stream of the river from Upper Egypt via Thebes and Memphis (see map,

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Fig. 8.1).27 They are ruled by a king (3.9.3) and their numbers have grown to huge proportions (3.24.1–2).28 They are further described as ‘desperate’ (ἀνδρῶν ἀπονενοημένων) and as ‘barbarian’ (βαρβάρους, 3.24.1–2). They are furthermore the reason why a government force of at least 5000 troops is posted nearby in the town of Heliopolis (see map, Fig. 8.1) to suppress any outbreaks of violence from them. These military forces are later reinforced by an additional 2000 soldiers. Although greatly outnumbered, the general in command of these troops is confident that the experience and discipline of his soldiers will make them capable of defeating 20 000 of the boukoloi. Achilles Tatius provides a detailed account of the papyrus marshlands in the Nile delta where they live (4.11), downstream from the village of Cercasorus. The dense papyrus plants act as fortifications for them and some islands constitute their ‘cities’ (4.12.8), one of which was known of Niko-chis in the Mendesian nome (see further below). This was a collection of huts situated among papryus colonies, constituting the ‘city’ of the boukoloi, set on a narrow causeway (στενωπός) a stade in length, protected by on all sides by water (πόλιν … λίμναις τετειχισμένην). The final assault on these outlaws is precipitated by a message that arrives from the satrap of Egypt (in Achilles’ day this would have been the Roman prefect) instructing the general to attack the boukoloi (4.11). The general, who is characterised in Achilles Tatius as corrupt,29 gives orders together with a

Figure 8.1 Places in the Nile delta mentioned in L&C, P.Thmouis 1 (map adapted by author).

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password for his men to arm themselves, build their camp and form up in their battalions.30 The boukoloi prepare their defence when they see the general advancing (4.13). They send a group of old men with branches of date-palm to supplicate him, offering a bribe of 100 talents of silver to him personally and promising that 100 men would carry the money and further plunder directly to his headquarters. Clitophon comments that they seemed quite sincere in this offer (4.13.5). Behind them, but concealed by the branches, they place a band of young men armed with swords and spears, which they trail behind them so that they could not be seen. The aim was to do nothing if the general agreed to the terms requested by the old men, but if he did not they would fall back to the city to a causeway at which point they would break the dyke holding back the waters of the Nile and flood the battlefield (4.14). This plan is put into action when the general refuses the conditions. The boukoloi kill the general and massacre his forces (4.14). However, the victory of the boukoloi is short-lived, because a larger force is then sent from the capital (4.18 [Alexandria?]) that destroys the bandit camp and razes it completely.

Contemporary disturbances (anacho-re-sis) in the Mendesian nome of the Nile delta A number of recent studies have convincingly shown that the military action taken against the boukoloi in Achilles Tatius’ L&C reflects the socio-economic disturbances in the Mendesian nome of the Nile delta in AD 166–169. Our knowledge of these events is derived from a surviving papyrus (P.Thmouis 1).31 According to a recent reconstruction of these troubles, in AD 166–167, the village of Zmoumis was destroyed by ‘the unholy people of Niko-chis’ (ὑπὸ τῶν ἀνο- / σίων [ανοσειων] Νικωχειτῶν, P.Thmouis 1.116.4–5). As a result the village clerk (ὁ κωμογ[ρα(μματεύς)]) had lifted the levies imposed by the Roman authorities. In the following year (AD 167–168) it was the turn of the village of Kerkenouphis to be overrun by the Niko-chites, with the same result (P.Thmouis 1.104.9–18). Finally, P.Thmouis 1.99 also records the destruction of the villages of Petetis and Psenarpokrates and Psenbie-nchos by ‘military forces’.32 As a result of these violent events, the remaining inhabitants of the villages in the Medesian nome had fled. A report on these events was compiled by a general (strate-gos) by the name of Ho-rio-n and a centurion, Kodratos, and sent to the prefect, Quintus Baienus Blassianus.33 The troubles in Egypt at this time are mentioned also in the life of Avidius Cassius in the Historia Augusta, which records that the ‘bucolic soldiers committed many atrocities throughout Egypt’ (Bucolici milites per Aegyptum gravia multa facerent), before they were suppressed Avidius Cassius, who was the governor of Syria in 172.34 In addition, this incident is described by Dio Cassius (72.4 [unfortunately only in the epitome of Xiphilinus]), who relates that the boukoloi (οἱ

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καλούμενοι δὲ Βουκόλοι), led by a priest, Isidorus (ὑπὸ ἱερεῖ τινι Ἰσιδώρῳ), instigated a rebellion in Egypt and caused other Egyptians joined them (τοὺς ἄλλους Αἰγυπτίους προσαποστήσαντες). The boukoloi had assassinated a Roman centurion (τὸν ἑκατόνταρχον) in a meeting with him in which they were dressed as women intent on paying him gold to ransom their husbands (χρυσία δώσουσαι αὐτῷ ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀνδρῶν). The boukoloi also sacrificed his companion (τὸν συνόντα αὐτῷ καταθύσαντες) and ate his entrails after swearing an oath over them (ἐπί τε τῶν σπλάγχνων αὐτοῦ συνώμοσαν καὶ ἐκεῖνα κατέφαγον). The revolt was initially successful and the rebels almost managed to capture Alexandria (μικροῦ καὶ τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρειαν εἷλον). Because of the seriousness of the revolt Avidius Cassius was sent from Syria to deal with the situation. He waited for some time before launching an attack because the rebels were numerous and desperate (διὰ γὰρ τὴν ἀπόνοιαν καὶ τὸ πλῆθος αὐτῶν) and he wanted to undermine their common purpose (ὁμόνοιαν λῦσαι) before overcoming them. The narrative of the revolt of the boukoloi in Achilles Tatius fits these historical accounts well.35 One detail in particular stands out, namely the casual mention of the name of the village Niko-chis as the stronghold of the bandits (L&C 4.12.8): βουκόλων αὗται καταγωγαί· τῶν πλησίον οὖν ἦν μία μεγέθει καὶ καλύβαις πλείοσι διαφέρουσα (ἐκάλουν δὲ αὐτήν, οἶμαι, Νίκωχιν)· ἐνταῦθα πάντες συνελθόντες, ὡς εἰς τόπον ὀχυρώτατον, ἐθάρρουν καὶ πλήθει καὶ τόπῳ· εἷς γὰρ αὐτὴν διεῖργε στενωπὸς τοῦ μὴ πᾶσαν νῆσον γενέσθαι. ἦν δὲ σταδίου μὲν τὸ μέγεθος, τὸ δὲ πλάτος ὀργυιῶν δώδεκα. λίμναι δὲ τῇδε κἀκεῖσε τὴν πόλιν περιέρρεον. These are the refuges of the outlaws. Of those near at hand, then, there was one distinguished from the rest by its size and the number of its huts – I think they called it Niko-chis. On it, since it was the strongest place, they had all gathered, and were confident because of their numbers and the terrain. For only one narrow strip of land prevented it from being entirely an island. It was two hundred metres long and twenty-five wide: lakes flowed this way and that around the city. In both accounts the rebels were strong in numbers and had reached a point of desperation (διὰ … ἀπόνοιαν, Dio Cassius, cf. ἀπονενοημένων, AT 3.24.1–2); in both the rebels perform a sensational human sacrifice under the leadership of a priest (Achilles Tatius also mentions a ‘king’), after which they consume the entrails of the centurion’s ‘companion’ (in Dio Cassius they also swear an oath to bind themselves together in a common cause); both mention a bribe (gold coins in Dio Cassius, a talent of silver in AT) offered to the military commander;36 in both the army commander is deceived by means of a stratagem and defeated;37 in both the rebels meet with initial success but ultimately fail and are destroyed when reinforcements under a new general arrive.

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It is impossible to avoid the conclusion that Achilles Tatius’ narrative is loosely based on the historical events in the Mendesian nome in the years 166–169, which is related retrospectively in the SHA and Dio Cassius. What is most remarkable about Achilles Tatius’ treatment of the revolt of the boukoloi, however, is how the narrative has become more detailed and realistic, after the initial depiction of them as terrifying and hostile.

Class and cultural identity in L&C It is widely accepted that Achilles Tatius lived in Alexandria in the second century of our era.38 The hyperrealistic description of Alexandria at the beginning of Book 5 (5.1) is often cited as supporting evidence for this assertion,39 and the details of life in the Nile delta given in Books 3 and 4 confirm this.40 The account of the phoenix (3.25), for example, while it owes a lot to Herodotus (2.73), Pliny (HN 10.2.3) and other sources, contains a uniquely Egyptian emphasis on the Egyptian priest at Heliopolis who authenticates the mythical bird, and mentions that the bird is nurtured in Ethiopia but becomes an Egyptian at its death. The description of the flooded delta (4.12.4–5) notes the pools of water and mud left behind after the fall of the Nile. The narrator, Clitophon, mentions that the Egyptians navigate these waters in boats resembling coracles that can take no more than one passenger, giving them the very shallow draught needed to handle the unique conditions. Even then they sometimes need to pick up their boats and port them to the next stretch of water. The patches of land in the marshy delta are planted so closely with papyrus (παπύροις πεφυτευμέναι) that there is hardly enough room for one man to pass between them, providing perfect conditions for the bandits to hide or to construct ambushes (4.12.6). Here and there huts (καλύβαι) are constructed closely together and these are the hideouts (καταγωγαί) of the boukoloi. Clitophon is also able to describe the peculiar manner in which Egyptians scoop water out of the Nile in order to drink it (4.18.5–6) and Leucippe had previously learnt magic spells from an Egyptian woman to relieve the pain of stings (2.7.3).41 In addition to Menelaus, the Egyptian friend of Clitophon (2.33.2: Ἐγὼ Μενέλαος … τὸ δὲ γένος Ἀιγύπτιος; 3.19.1: Ἀιγύπτιός εἰμι τὸ γένος), many of the minor characters in Books 3 and 4 are specifically stated to be Egyptian. When Leucippe is driven mad by an excessive dose of a love drug, a certain Chaereas informs Clitophon that an Egyptian soldier (Ἀιγύπτιος στρατιώτης), Gorgias, who had died in battle against the boukoloi, had previously fallen in love with Leucippe and, being an expert in drugs (φάρμακευς) had mixed an aphrodisiac and had persuaded Clitophon’s Egyptian servant (τὸν διακονούμενον ὑμῖν Ἀιγύπτιον) to spike her drink with it (4.15.3–4). He states further that Clitophon’s Egyptian servant (θέραπων) had not diluted the concoction and as a result Leucippe had had a seizure, but he adds that Gorgias’ servant could provide an antidote in exchange for four gold pieces (4.15.5, 4.16.2). Clitophon then seeks out his servant and beats him up in order to extract a confession from him (4.15.6).

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This episode gives the reader a unique insight into class relations in Egypt as depicted in this novel.42 The Egyptian Menelaus is a man of property and friends with the ruling men of an unnamed town near which Leucippe was ‘sacrificed’ (3.19.1, ἦν οὖν μοι τὰ πλεῖστα τῶν κτημάτων περὶ ταύτην τὴν κώμην καὶ οἱ ἄρχοντες αὐτῆς γνώριμοι; cf. 3.9.2: κατά τινα πόλιν; cf. also 5.2.3). He later becomes a companion (φίλος) of the general, Charmides (3.24.1), and provides him with information about the rebels. He is clearly educated and able to give a diagnosis of Leucippe’s seizure in terms of the medical theory of Eratosthenes.43 The soldier Chaereas, who was in civilian life a fisherman from the island of Pharos, later resigned from the army and became friends with Clitophon and his companions as a result of the information he had given him concerning the aphrodisiac administered to Leucippe (4.18.1–2). As noted above, he was skilled in herbal lore (4.15.3).44 Despite his friendship with Menelaus and Chaereas, the Phoenician Clitophon makes disparaging remarks about Egyptians after their defeat of the army forces sent to subdue them (4.14.9). According to him, the Egyptian bandits had won this victory not through bravery but through a trick and he opines that Egyptians as a whole lack moderation, being slavish cowards in adversity and excessively rash when things go well (he ends his statement with a rhetorical isocolon: ἀμφότερα δὲ οὐ κατὰ μέτρον, ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν ἀσθενέστερον δυστυχεῖ, τὸ δὲ προπετέστερον κρατεῖ, ‘in both he [the Egyptian] does not act with moderation, but suffers misfortune too weakly and is too precipitate in victory’). Elsewhere, Clitophon often talks of the Egyptians in the third person (cf., e.g., 4.2.1 – Egyptians call the hippopotamus the ‘Nile horse’; 4.18.5 – Egyptians drink Nile water straight without wine). Social relations in the novel appear to reflect the complexity of Egyptian society in the second century,45 but from an elitist perspective.46

Conclusion The close and detailed relationship between the narrative of the revolt of the boukoloi in L&C, the historical accounts (the SHA and Dio Cassius), and P.Thmouis 1 carries unavoidable implications for the date of Achilles Tatius’ novel. Dio’s account belongs to the narrative of events that took place in the years leading up to Avidius Cassius’ suppression of the revolt in AD 171/2 and if Achilles Tatius’ L&C is invoking memories of these events then the novel must be placed during or after this date.47 Previous dates for the composition of the novel favoured the first half of the second century,48 but these estimates were made prior to recent research on the socio-economic conditions in the Nile delta AD 166–172, and were based on assessments of the dates of handwriting on papyri, which are very broad measures.49 The description of the revolt of the boukoloi also confirms the emphasis on contemporary concerns in this novel. It is not unusual in ancient fiction for the narrative to include quasi-historical accounts of battles, sieges and political conflicts, usually set in the prestigious Classical era of Greek history.

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This is part of the ‘historical pose’ adopted by most of the writers in the genre.50 Heliodorus, for example, includes an account of a war between Persians and the Ethiopians, while Chariton describes a conflict between the city of Syracuse and Persia. Achilles Tatius, on the other hand, offers his readers something comparable but altogether new – a fictionalised eye-witness account of a sensational rebellion by the notorious boukoloi in the Nile delta in his own day. Egypt, the river Nile, and Egyptian religion and culture fascinated many Romans, as is clear from the Nile mosaic of Palestrina, the Andromeda paintings at Boscoreale, and much other evidence that deals with similar material to that found in L&C.51 In this respect, L&C is much closer to Petronius’ Satyrica and Apuleius’ Metamorphoses than to the other Greek novels.52 Finally, the narrative of the revolt of the Egyptian boukoloi against the Roman occupying forces53 provides a coherent and detailed, if sensationalised, account of a dramatic episode in the troubled history of Egypt that begins by describing them as conventionally threatening savages but ends on a far more realistic and detailed note.54 As often, Achilles Tatius subverts the conventions of the novelistic genre. His complex narrative of a revolt of the boukoloi is consistent with a hybrid Graeco-Egyptian perspective in the novel, which may be attributable to the disjuncture between author and narrator, as others have noted.55

Notes 1 This chapter focuses mainly on the boukoloi in Achilles Tatius. It is based on work done for an as yet unpublished commentary on Books 3 and 4 of L&C. Recent work on the socio-economic conditions in the Nile delta, such as Blouin (2014), have confirmed many points of detail relating to the revolt of the boukoloi. 2 Pirates, bandits and robbers are stock elements in the ancient novel. For example, Chariton informs his readers that his last book will be different from the previous ones (8.1.4) because there will be ‘No more piracy (λῃστεία) or slavery or trials or battles or starving oneself to death or war or captivity, but in this one there will be true love and lawful marriage’ (all translations in this chapter are my own unless otherwise stated). This brief summary lists the stock elements of the ancient novels, and piracy and enslavement come first and second on the list. The conventional role of pirates in the ancient romances is noted by Bakhtin (1981) 87–88 as part of the conventional ‘adventure-time’ of this genre. For a recent study of pirates in the ancient novel and the metaphor of the ‘piracy of love’ see Boulic & Letoublon (2014). For general studies of piracy/brigandage in the Greco-Roman world, see De Souza (1999); McGing (1998); Hopwood (1989); Ormerod (1924). 3 The reader must assume that Theron is a Syracusan because he ‘comes across’ the funeral of Callirhoe outside the city (1.7.1), but his exact identity is not actually disclosed in the novel. He is, however, familiar with Athens (1.11.6), and knows Homer sufficiently well to lie like Odysseus about being a Cretan (3.3.17). On whether Theron should be classed as a brigand or a pirate, see Boulic & Letoublon (2014) 130. 4 In Apuleius the fictitious ‘Haemus the Thracian’ says rather melodramatically that he is patre Therone aeque latrone inclito prognatus, humano sanguine nutritus ‘descended from my father Theron, who was also a famous bandit, suckled on human blood’.

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5 The text is doubtful: Morgan (2004b) has Πυρραῖοι in his text and translation, as does Reeve (1994), but Morgan argues (173 note) that Τυρίοι should ‘probably’ be read here, since Pyrrha in Lesbos was an unlikely place for pirates to come from and Tyrian pirates occur elsewhere in the Greek novels (Xen. Eph. 1.13; AT 2.17.3). Henderson (2009) 50 n. 18 prefers Τυρίοι on similar grounds. The difficulty can be resolved if we understand Longus to mean that some Pyrrhaeans from Lesbos undertook this act of piracy but disguised themselves as ‘barbarian’ (or at least ‘other than Lesbian’) Carians by sailing a Carian ship as a distraction in order to avoid detection. There would be little point for Tyrians to disguise themselves as foreigners, since they already were such. On the fine line between legitimate trading and piracy, see De Souza (1999) 22–23. Theron’s men passed themselves off as legitimate ferrymen (1.7.1). 6 For Hippothous’ piracy in Cilicia, see 2.11.9–11, 2.13.3. Cilicia became so notorious as a base for pirates that Pompey was appointed to an extraordinary military command in order to deal with them in 67 BCE (cf. Cic. Leg. Man.). For Cilician piracy, see De Souza (1999) 97–148; Ormerod (1924) 190–247. Hippothous also recruited a gang in Cappadocia where he was regarded as a native of the land because he could speak the language (3.1.1–2). His gang later moved to Syria, where they passed themselves off as tourists (4.1.1), and they also travelled as far as Ethiopia (4.3.1). 7 In Achilles Tatius the bandits are sometimes referred to as βουκόλοι but at other times they are called λῃσταί, Schwartz (1967) 540–541, but this does not necessarily mean that the reader should imagine two separate groups of people, as Schwartz implies (‘Les idées concernant les Boucoloi ont varié’, 540). The term βουκόλος is used by Achilles Tatius 11 times in Books 3–4, 15 times in the novel as a whole, while λῃστής is used more frequently (34 times in Books 3–4, 78 times in the novel as a whole), but both terms are used to refer to the same group throughout Books 3–4 (cf., e.g. 3.9.2–3, 4.18.1). The term πειρατής is not used at all in Books 3–4. The terms βουκόλος and λῃστής are also used interchangeably in Heliodorus (cf., e.g., 1.6.1, cf. Schwartz (1967) 541: ‘Chez Héliodore, la fusion des deux termes est nettement mieux faite.’). Nevertheless, Schwartz’s suggestion that there is some variation in the way these men are conceived in Books 3–4 is useful as there is a difference between the initial impact of the boukoloi as the terrifying savages of literature and the later description of their habitat and lifestyle in the Nile delta in Book 4. 8 In Greek, the term βουκόλος refers to cow-herders (βουκολέω = ‘tend cattle’) and it is present already in Mycenean according to LSJ9 Suppl. p. 71a. 9 Lucian On Dancing 79 identifies boukoloi as satyrs who carry out Bacchic dances. In Greek drama Dionysos often appears in the form of a bull (cf. Eur. Bacch. 920–922). 10 For the location of the Taurians on the fringes of the Black Sea, cf. Hdt. 5.99–100. 11 This ‘ancient law’ is very similar to the ‘ancient law of the Ethiopians’ requiring the first spoils of victory to be sacrificed to the Sun in Heliodorus (9.1.4). 12 Ironically, the king states, in respect of Iphigenia’s claim that her brother needed to undertake rites of purification for the murder of his mother, that even he, a barbarian, would find Orestes’ crime of matricide shocking (line 1174). 13 For the Charition Mime in the imperial period, see Hall (2013) 111–134; Grenfell & Hunt (1903) 3.41–55; Cunningham (1987) 42–47; Santelia (1991). 14 Barnett (1926); Hultzsch (1904). 15 The historical sources disagree about whether the Indians knew of wine. Cf. Curt. Ruf. 8.30; contra Strabo 15.22.1. 16 Mignogna (1997) argues, on the basis of a comparison between the second century Charition Mime and the sacrifice of Leucippe in Achilles Tatius (3.15), that Clitophon’s account of this horrific deed should be read as a mimic parody of the play by Euripides.

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See the excursus on the boukoloi in Birchall (1996) 90–98, esp. 93–94. Rutherford (2000) 114. Rutherford (1997). Birchall (1996) 90–92. For black skin as a somatic marker in antiquity, see Snowden (1970) 2–7 (but Snowden does not offer a detailed discussion of this particular passage). Clitophon makes an unusual distinction between Indians, who are considered to be uniformly pure black, and other Blacks (the term ‘Ethiopians’ was often used generically of both Indians and Africans), who vary in the darkness of their skin. The description here purports to provide a personal observation of actual Blacks in Egypt who are different from the fabled Indians. On the language situation in Egypt in the Ptolemaic period, see Muhs (2010). For language contact and cultural contact in Roman Egypt, Depauw (2012) and references given there. For a more general perspective, see Mullen & James (2012). On names, see Quaegebeur (1992). ἐκόμα δὲ καὶ ὁ ἵππος· γυμνὸς ἦν, ἄστρωτος καὶ οὐκ ἔχων φάλαρα· τοιοῦτοι γὰρ τοῖς λῃσταῖς εἰσιν οἱ ἵπποι: ‘The horse’s mane was also untrimmed and the horse was ridden bareback, without a saddle-blanket or head-gear as bandits’ horses always are.’ See Henrichs (1972); Winkler (1980). Gaselee (1917) 175 n. 1 notes this detail but also suggests an alternative reading of ἄτοπον for τόπον ‘so that the strangeness of the sacrifice should overawe the army of the enemy’. However, Carney (1960) ad loc. confirms the more natural meaning of the Greek word here (ὑπερβάλοι, translated as ‘pass over’) and concurs with Gaselee’s interpretation of the passage that it was intended to pollute the pursuing army. The idea of transferring pollution by a form of magic would be natural in an Egyptian context, where sympathetic magic was widely practised. On the importance of having the gods on one’s side in ancient warfare, see Goodman & Holladay (1986) 152. For the importance of pollution in ancient Greek thought, see Parker (1983). The sacrifice is not actually carried out, of course, since the initiate Menelaus performs a mock sacrifice with stage equipment instead (3.19–20), but the sensational sacrifice has a rationale. This answers the objection raised by Winkler (1980) 177 that the sacrifice and eating of the centurion’s companion makes no sense in the context of the revolt. Henrichs (1972) 208–224 and n. 5. For oaths sealed by human sacrifices by the Samnites during the Social War, see Livy 10.38, 10.41, and for the oaths taken before the abortive Catilinarian coup, see Sall. Cat. 22.1. See also Cueva (2001); Hughes (1991); O’Bryhim (2000); Rives (1995). For initiation rituals in the transferral of power among magicians, see Moyer (2003). The horror of the atrocity was not directed at the enemy, as supposed by Winkler (1980) 177 n. 102 (atrocity as an act of display, or as propaganda), but at the rebels themselves. By committing an irrevocable act, they would be fully committed to the revolt. The MSS have κέρας σύρος (which means nothing), but Wesseling notes that Herodotus (2.15, μέχρι Κερκάσωρον πόλιος, κατ' ἣν σχίζεται ὁ Νεῖλος) shows that the place name was Κερκάσωρος (cf. also Hdt. 2.17). The text (ὡς εἶναι μυρίους ‘tens of thousands strong’) does not give an exact number. Ancient historians generally used the term μύριοι in a loose sense. For the usage of Herodotus and Thucydides, see Morpeth (2006). He is ironically named Charmides, recalling the young man who is described by Plato as concerned about his so-phrosyne- (Hilton 2019). Charmides offers to bribe Menelaus to seduce Leucippe (4.6.2), and is offered payment in silver by the boukoloi (4.13.5), although he does not accept it. The operations of the military forces deployed against the boukoloi have all the marks of the Roman army, as argued in Hilton (2009).

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31 For the text of P.Thmouis 1 see Kambitsis (1985). This papyrus is discussed in detail by Blouin (2014) 267–297. I am grateful to a reader for pointing out this important book-length study, which argues that Achilles Tatius’ narrative fits the historical socio-economic situation in the Mendesian nome of the Nile delta at this time. See also Blouin (2010), Bertrand (1988) as well as other studies mentioned below n. 34. 32 Not all of these places can be precisely located on a map, since the topography of the Nile delta is complex and shifting. However, they all belong in the Mendesian nome. 33 Blouin (2014) 270. 34 SHA Avidius Cassius 6.5–7 (Avidius Cassius had been the ab epistulis of Hadrian, born in Egypt and was a legate in Parthian War 162–166, and later a governor of Syria in AD 172). On this and other revolts in Egypt in the second century, see Blouin (2014); Polan´ski (2006); Alston (1999); Milne (1928) 231. MacMullen (1964) 185–186 n. 1 is sceptical of the religious aspect of this revolt, but does not discount the incident itself: ‘The Bucoli certainly represented no main current in the country’s culture, and like the Blemmyes to the southeast, they appear at other times as raiders joined to more respectable movements.’ Roman forces also put down a similar rebellion in Egypt during the reign of Antoninus Pius: SHA 5.5.2: in Achaia etiam atque egyptum rebelliones repressit. ‘He put down rebellions in Achaia and in Egypt.’ 35 On the similarities between the accounts of AT and Dio Cassius, see also Plazenet (1995) esp. 10–12, although P.Thmouis 1 is not discussed in this article. The fullest treatment of the revolt is now Blouin (2014) 267–297. 36 The corrupt nature of the general’s behaviour in the Dio Cassius passage is noted by MacMullen (1964) 185. The mention of silver here is a little odd since elsewhere gold coins are referred to (4.6.2, 4.15.5, 4.16.2). 37 The elaborate ambush in Achilles Tatius bears little resemblance to the simple device of using female attire in Dio Cassius. The latter was in any case something of a commonplace (cf. Hdt. 5.20 [Alexander and Amyntas]), as noted by Winkler (1980) 176. By way of contrast the ambush in L&C 4.13–14 is entirely plausible in terms of the topography of the Nile delta and is described in specific detail. 38 See the testimony of Photius Bibl. 66a (ninth century); Suda s.v. Ἀχιλλεὺς Στάτιος (tenth–eleventh centuries). 39 On the ‘hyperrealism’ of Achilles Tatius, see Morales (2004) 129–130. Morales views the excessive detail provided by Achilles Tatius in some passages as a negative quality in his writing: ‘the hyperrealistic patches in the narrative not only hide descriptions of emotions and desire (how it felt) but also make us aware of what they deny us, the depth of description which it would take to reveal what is hidden. This is a perverse practice, parasitic upon the desire of the “student” for enlightenment that is generated by the narrative.’ 40 See also Morales (2004) 38–48, for a fascinating discussion of the bivalent or hybrid readings of the opening Selene/Europa ekphrasis. L&C is a culturally complex work, as should be expected from an extended narrative fiction emanating from Alexandria in the second century. On a sketch of cultural identity in the Greek and Roman novels, see Stephens (2008). 41 Further details relating to Egypt are: Egyptian ox (2.15.3); the Egyptian passenger boat on the Boutic canal (3.9.1); Egyptian bandits (3.10.2); the Egyptian clod (3.13.3); Egyptian servants (3.14.4, 4.15.4); Egyptian hymn (3.15.3); Egyptian priest (3.25.6); the hippopotamus as the Egyptian elephant (4.3.5); Egyptian Thebes (4.11.9). 42 On class in the ancient novels, see Whitmarsh (2008), although Whitmarsh does not discuss the present passage. For race relations in Roman Egypt see the pioneering study of Davis (1951).

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43 McCleod (1969). 44 Aphrodisiacs and erotic magic feature prominently in Graeco-Egyptian magical papyri. Betz (1992). 45 On status and citizenship in Roman Egypt, see Jördens (2012). Settlement and population in Roman Egypt is discussed by Tacoma (2012). 46 For the elitist perspective of the ancient novels, see Whitmarsh (2008) 72–76. 47 It is not necessary to posit a common literary source for these two accounts, as Alston (1999) 132 does. Assuming that Achilles Tatius was a resident of Alexandria at this time (see above and Blouin (2014) 275, 279), word of mouth concerning these dramatic events would have been sufficient, and this mode of communication, added to the complexity and long duration of the revolt, would also account for the variations in these narratives. Blouin (2014) 267 stresses the singularity of this revolt (‘the only Egyptian uprising known to have happened in the province’), although it continued for a number of years. 48 Alston (1999) 132; Morales (2004) 5 (‘somewhere in the second century CE, possibly not later than the middle of that century’). But cf. also Chew (2014) 65 (in the second half of the second century). 49 Parsons’ estimate of the date of the earliest papyrus fragment of L&C, P.Oxy 56.3836, goes no further than stating that the papyrus should be dated to the second century of our era. This estimate is based on Roberts (1955) no. 13b. However, Willis (1990) 76 dated this papyrus to the fourth century. 50 For the ‘historical pose’ of Heliodorus, see Morgan (1982). For Chariton, see Hunter (1994). 51 For the Palestrina mosaic, which illustrates many scenes described in L&C such as the hunting of hippopotami, the housing of inhabitants of the Nile delta, and so on, see Meyboom (1994). For paintings of Andromeda in Italy, see Phillips (1968) and the discussion in Hilton (2009). Nothing is known of the readership of L&C but it is clear Egyptian material would certainly have interested the educated elite of the Roman Empire. 52 For this, see the discussion in Morgan (2007). 53 Ostensibly the Persians are in control of Egypt in Achilles’ novel, but in reality it is the Romans who are in charge of course. See Hilton (2009). 54 Schwartz (1967) 541 notes that there are ‘deux histoires’ in Achilles’ narrative. 55 Morgan (2004a, 2007); Morales (2004) 38–48.

Appendix: the meaning of ψιλοὶ τὰς κεφαλάς, λεπτοὶ τοὺς πόδας The phrase ψιλοὶ τὰς κεφαλάς has been variously interpreted. Gaselee (1917) has ‘with shaven heads’, as does O’Sullivan (1980: s.v. ψιλός) who refers to the meaning of the verb ψιλόω (‘strip off’), and Garnaud (1991): ‘le crâne rasé’. However, shortly afterwards Clitophon goes on to describe an outlaw with long hair (3.12.1: καί τις ἵππον ἐπελαύνων ἔρχεται, κόμην ἔχων πολλὴν καὶ ἀγρίαν. ‘Then a man with a long, wild hair rode up on horseback.’) The boukoloi also have long hair in Heliodorus. When living among these men, Knemon had deliberately grown his hair to pass himself off as one of them (Hld. Aeth. 2.20.5). It would be more plausible for the boukoloi to have long, unkempt hair, rather than carefully shaven heads, since they live in the wild and behave in a violent and aggressive manner. Having long hair would give the bandits a more frightening appearance.

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Winkler (1989) prefers ‘bareheaded’, with which Whitmarsh (2001) concurs. There is some support for this interpretation, since Xenophon (An. 1.8.5) uses this phrase to refer to the fact that Cyrus went into battle without a helmet, that is bare-headed (Κῦρος δὲ ψιλὴν ἔχων τὴν κεφαλὴν εἰς τὴν μάχην καθίστατο). This interpretation is appropriate to the indigence of the outlaws; their horses also lack accoutrements and they are armed only with clods, as discussed above. It is also more likely that they would all be without headgear out of poverty than that they would all choose to shave their heads. The difficulty with both versions is that both ‘with shaven heads’ and ‘bare-headed’ are not somatic features, as seems to be required by the immediate context. If Clitophon is referring to the physical features of the bandits then the phrase would refer to short, or sparse hair. However, this meaning is excluded by the references to the long hair of the boukoloi. It is also less suited to the desperate socio-economic conditions under which the outlaws live. If ψιλοὶ τὰς κεφαλάς means ‘bare-headed’, this would support a similar meaning for the following phrase, λεπτοὶ τοὺς πόδας, which has also given translators difficulty. Gaselee (1917) has ‘small feet’ here, as does O’Sullivan (1980); Winkler (1989) ‘quick on their feet’, Whitmarsh (2001) ‘light of foot’. However, Clitophon says that the outlaws were tall and thick-set, which makes it less likely that they would have small feet, and again not all of them could convincingly have been alike in this respect. Instead λεπτοὶ could be taken in its primary sense ‘husked’ or ‘bare’ (the literal meaning of the word derived from λέπω = ‘strip off rind’), that is ‘bare-footed’. This at least could apply to all of them alike – they lack the usual attributes of civilisation in respect of dress and armour, namely helmets and boots, because of their extreme poverty.

9

‘Bad girls’? Collective violence by women and the case of the Circumcellions in Roman North Africa Martine De Marre

In 2006 Brent D. Shaw published an article called ‘Bad Boys. Circumcellions and Fictive Violence’ in which he explored the origins of the bad reputation of a group accused of sectarian acts of violence in Roman Africa during the fourth and fifth centuries. The article and Shaw’s later publications show quite clearly how we can perpetuate manipulated images of antiquity when we are too dependent on the sources that transmit them. The discussion, however, dealt with the male majority of the group. What I would like to explore here is, firstly, how ancient sources generally represent violence perpetrated by women, particularly when acting as a group (or part of a group), within the context of the Roman world up to end of the fifth century CE. In the second instance, in reviewing these constructions of female violence in ancient texts and visual media during the earlier part of this period, the aim is to investigate whether the patterns established in these processes are at all useful in assessing the accounts of the ‘bad girls’, the alleged female members of the Circumcellions in our sources. Violence is generally understood to be the use of physical force to injure or kill someone, or to cause material damage or destruction.1 Within that description one can differentiate between close-contact violence (and whether or not this involved weapons), and ‘roof-tile’ incidents,2 or violence at a distance, as it were. But even though this may give us a good idea of what we are looking for in our ancient evidence, we cannot take what we find as an unadulterated reflection of violence in the ancient world.3 Today we are more than ever aware of the subjectivity of our evidence and the influence of literary, artistic or political agendas in our ancient source material – in fact, the modern adage, ‘one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter’, is particularly applicable in our case here. One must ask oneself, can some of this evidence even be useful in reconstructing any kind of historical or social reality in the ancient world? And how do we avoid ending up in ‘epistemic aporia’?4 Apart from a rigorous examination of our sources for agendas, literary topoi and so on, how do we negotiate a useful relationship with the past?5 To try to move beyond this at some points in the discussion I have utilised studies on female violence from other periods and contexts in an effort to fill the gaps, or counterbalance perspectives, in the ancient material.6 Anthropologists

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such as Mead and Goldstein, for example, have identified the conspicuous unwillingness of most societies (outside mythology) to officially arm women, despite advances in modern weaponry to level the playing field.7 But in modern guerrilla warfare, they have found that women fighters are not uncommon.8 Such perspectives are useful in investigating our own evidence for the Roman world. Using cross-cultural comparisons can also help us to reassess our own cultural assumptions and identify stereotypes that are sometimes perpetuated by us as modern scholars.9

Violence and women in the ancient context The wide body of scholarship on violence in the ancient world underscores the fact that violence was a favoured topic in ancient literature.10 This was particularly the case for writers of epic and history, since military violence was an excellent arena to display male achievement.11 As a counter side to that, male defeat and humiliation is quite often depicted through the abuse and captivity of their women.12 Violence against women is therefore very well documented by our ancient sources, ranging from the mythological to the comic.13 The scholarly consensus seems to be that this is symptomatic of a patriarchal society where women feature as pawns or possessions in a world run by men.14 As has been shown through many studies, women who were successfully controlled by their menfolk contributed to male honour, women who were beyond the control of their men, by their own doing or that of others, led to their disgrace. Control was then justified through the perception that women needed to be controlled because of their lack of self-restraint, muliebris inpotentia, as Tacitus calls it.15 Within the above context of shame and honour, we can also include the act of violence to the self, although this is – usually – an individual form of violence. Accounts of women killing themselves are often an expression of how much chastity in a woman was admired in Roman society, and related to their pudor16 – there are many descriptions contrasting how, where a non-Roman woman would respond with ferocity, Roman women were expected to be of Lucretian virtue.17 Stories of collective self-killing seem to be relatively rare – Van Hooff’s study found mention of 76 collective suicides among ‘barbarians’, Greeks and Romans. Of these, 35 were suicides obsidionaux, suicides of despair by soldiers or people of a besieged city.18 Only one collective suicide by women is mentioned, but the circumstances are obscure, and the cause left unexplained, so that the incident does not offer anything useful for the present investigation.19 The shame and honour context makes it fairly clear why violence by women is referred to as an aberration in our ancient sources, usually as a foreign one. Direct acts of violence by women did not fit the Roman ideals of womanhood.20 That is not to say that women were depicted as innocent of the intent to harm, but most of our accounts favour a less direct route by which women achieved their ferocious ends – Locusta’s poisons,21 Agrippina’s mushrooms,22 these are all far more popular means to display women achieving their violent ends.

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We know, of course, that ancient writers were not primarily interested in writing about women, and, as all the topoi on female representation described above indicate, female figures tend to become an ancillary theme to the narrative about the male figures.23 Should any ancient writer wish to discredit a male figure by showing a woman in his family with undesirably masculine traits such as an interest in violence – a Tullia or a Fulvia, for example – then a single female figure would usually achieve this aim. Such figures can be said to display an unbecoming lack of femininity that places them, and the men associated with them, as an inversion of the social norm.24 The women thus become associated with Roman portraits of the ‘other’, barbarian warrior women like Boudicca or Zenobia.25 Also more generally, in ancient writings of all genres, women who did not conform to the desirable stereotypes of wifely weaving, and were not, as Thucydides (2.45.2) puts it, those about whom least was said, often feature as symbols reflecting declining times and mores. One thinks for example of Sallust’s Sempronia, or Agrippina Minor whose antics as described by Suetonius are only equalled in ridiculousness by those of her son, the emperor of Rome.26 Exceptions were better received, as Clark and others have long since pointed out, when they were just that – women who stepped forward in times of crisis, and then retired, rather than seeking glory for themselves.27 They were not the feminae duces of Tacitus, who were un-Roman not only in associating themselves with bloodshed and warfare, but also in aiming for, or even exercising, imperium.28

Collective violence by women in the Roman world As far as incidents of organised female violence are concerned, we do not have a great deal of evidence for a period that covers almost a millennium. Sources recounting early Roman history mention incidents of women’s collective action – for example the intercession of the Sabine wives, the women’s protests against the Oppian Law in 195 BCE, or the 1400 Roman women who forced their way into the forum in 42 BCE to protest against the taxing of wealthy matrons.29 However, although a great deal of bombastic rhetoric is at play at the hands of the later historians, invoking all the tropes of ‘women on the loose’, there does not seem to have been actual female violence in the descriptions.30 In addition, these collective actions are described as ultimately being for the good of the Republic. Women are still, despite their unusual united public presence, portrayed as acting in the interests of hearth and home. Then there are a few isolated incidents of collective aggression where women are accused of co-operating in doing harm, such as Livy’s account (8.18) of a total of 190 women who were condemned for concocting charms or poisons in 331 BCE – even Livy is sceptical here, although he states that he is repeating his sources faithfully (8.18.3).31 Poisoning is of course, as mentioned above, a stereotype for female violence, and not particularly useful to us here apart from its alleged collective action. Another example, a scene of

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female assault on Trajan’s column is therefore unlikely to represent a revolutionary break from what seems to be a Roman aversion to presenting violent Roman women. In this scene women are depicted torturing captives who appear to be Dacian soldiers.32 Who these women are, however, has not yet been satisfactorily established, or what the meaning of the scene might be, but the fact that women are torturing Dacian soldiers is of course seen as particularly humiliating.33 It seems difficult to argue for violent Roman women in this case. The scene might be ritualistic, of which we have several examples below, but on the whole, since it was not unusual for non-Roman women to be associated with violence in our sources,34 it is tempting to follow the latter suggestion. Violence committed by non-Roman women, if not the norm, is not uncommon in our sources. In the literary tradition there are even some instances where non-Roman women take to the battlefield. But to what extent is this an accurate rendition of female barbarian behaviour, as opposed to a literary topos? Ancient writers from Diodorus Siculus to Ammianus have made use of this theme. Diodorus barely touches on it with a reference to the courage of Gallic women (5.32.2) but he says nothing about them engaging in actual fighting. With Plutarch (Mar. 19.7), the Celtic women of the Ambrones rush to the assistance of their menfolk armed with swords and axes (ξιφῶν καὶ πελέκεων),35 while in the Res Gestae of Ammianus, Gallic women become fearsome fighters, stronger than the men (multo fortiore) (15.12.1). These seem to be examples of a growing stereotype and rising exaggeration that served as a means of ‘othering’ the enemy. The descriptions of non-Roman women by Tacitus, on the other hand, also achieve the latter effect, but through a different avenue: On the beach stood the adverse array, a serried mass of arms and men, with women flitting between the ranks [intercursantibus feminis]. In the style of Furies, in robes of deathly black and with dishevelled hair, they brandished their torches [faces praeferebant]. (Ann. 14.30.1, trans. Jackson) And elsewhere a different version of an active supporting role: Civilis36 … ordered his own mother and his sisters, likewise the wives and little children of all his men, to take their stand behind his troops to encourage them to victory or to shame them if defeated [hortamenta victoriae vel pulsis pudorem]. (Hist. 4.18, trans. Moore) He thus describes the role of Germanic and Celtic women as hortative, urging on their men in battle, rather than as participants. This seems less of a stereotypical ‘reversal of the proper order of things’37 than the examples of Diodorus, Plutarch and Ammianus above. Such roles are also evidenced in other cultures, both ancient and in later times, as diverse as the Indian Aryans and the Zulu kingdom.38

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By way of a comparison within the ancient context, the juxtaposition of own and other women’s behaviour is not quite as stark in ancient Greek sources. Their cultural ideology also sought to keep women away from battle, but the muted ‘otherness’ of their enemies may be attributed to the fact that most of these references are describing the women of other Hellenic citystates, rather than non-Greeks. Our earliest example of female violence is not Greek, however, and is to be found in Herodotus (4.180), when he describes a custom of two Libyan groups, the Machlyes and the Ausees, who fight each other with stones and sticks (δίχα διαστᾶσαι μάχονται πρὸς ἀλλήλας λίθοισί τε καὶ ξύλοισι) as a test of virginity. Evidence in Herodotus should be approached with caution, since some of his exotic information is hardly credible. Nevertheless, it is at least possible that local tribal groups in Africa may not have had the same aversion to female violence that the Roman authors projected for their own culture. Although the Circumcellions were active to the west of the area identified by Herodotus, and almost a millennium later, this is quite suggestive for our later discussion on the Circumcellion women. Accounts of women in fifth century Greece also mention their involvement in actual warfare, albeit something more like guerrilla warfare.39 Thucydides describes how the Plataean women and slaves joined in the fighting in a Theban attack upon Plataea, throwing stones and rooftiles at the enemy hoplites (Thuc. 2.4.2), and another similar incident of rooftile projectiles from the Corcyrean women (Thuc. 3.73–4). Aristotle’s comment on the detrimental (βλαβερώταται) contribution of Spartan women during a battle (in contrast to that of other Greek women) also confirms that in general Greek women offered support in warfare.40 There are even a few anecdotes in which women fought with weapons – Pausanius’ account (2.20.9) of the Argive women relates how the poetess Telesilla gave weapons to the women of the neardefeated city, with which they ‘fought valiantly’ (ἐρωμένος). Plutarch’s account of the incident (De Mul. Vir. 4.245C–E) adds that the women who fell in battle were buried beside the Argive road, their graves accompanied by a memorial honouring their bravery.41 It would seem, therefore, that under these circumstances (what Payen calls ‘defensive warfare’), women in patriarchal societies also joined in the fighting,42 and that it is the nature of particularly Roman biases in our sources that presents us with the image that Roman women did not do so. The comparative studies on women in warfare mentioned at the beginning of this chapter confirm that most societies, driven by dominant social or cultural ideologies, are reluctant to officially utilise women in fighting, while insurgent groups make use of women more often.43 In contrast, the highly dramatised (and sometimes illogical) nature of the ancient sources describing non-Roman women engaged in battle point clearly to a literary topos,44 particularly since such accounts are regularly juxtaposed with the Roman custom of keeping women away from the scene of battle.45 Our Roman authors were more preoccupied with validating their own norms with regard to female behaviour than with the accuracy of the inversion of the norm in barbarian contexts.46 It

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is more likely that the role of the non-Roman women was one of spurring men on (as battle spectators or enacting rituals with incantations and torches), than physical engagement in hand-to-hand fighting.

Christianity, women and violence From a study of the Republic and early Empire, we now embark on a period when the influence of Christianity becomes increasingly more evident in some of our source material. When it comes to the information our sources provide on women, a fairly clear divide can be drawn between those featuring in the works of ancient writers like Cicero, Tacitus or Ammianus, and those who are written about by authors from a Christian perspective, like Augustine or Jerome.47 With Christianity the ideals of womanhood had become somewhat diversified, since virtues of self-sacrifice and dedication, at least in the eyes of some women, now trumped the traditional ideals of child-bearing and the interests of hearth and home. The degree to which this brought about active change in these women varied, but the opportunity of an active pursuit of greater holiness was a great change in the possibilities for women.48 Women could now, in fact, separate themselves from the world, rejecting father, husband and even children, and in doing so could exercise a certain amount of autonomy and social power.49 Women could now, in fact, have a voice, muted and translated though it may have been.50 The virginal ideal had gained traction by the late fourth century, and women as well as men could join the ‘ascetic revolution’.51 And beyond that, women could become martyrs, and be venerated as such, giving them a voice beyond their own lifetime.52 However, their context did not make access to these possibilities easy, in addition to which female ascetics and martyrs were not always received with open arms by the Church fathers.53 Augustine’s sermons on the female martyrs give an indication of how the Church fathers attempted to deal with the behaviour of such female icons in times when imperial persecutions of Christians were a thing of the past. Augustine must for example commend Perpetua and Felicitas for following their calling to martyrdom and giving up their husbands and families for this purpose, since this is firstly the message of the New Testament – to leave everything behind and follow Christ, pursuing chastity and poverty as cardinal virtues (and even, imitatio Christi, to sacrifice themselves).54 But in a more contemporary context he reprimanded Ecdicia who, in following her calling to celibacy and giving away her jewellery and clothes, was disobeying her husband (Ep. 262).55 Thus far the discussion on women and violence has been related more to situations of siege and warfare (which were of course a large part of the writings of ancient historians). But with Christianity, and certainly from the time of Constantine, power struggles were no longer only secular, but also religious, as our sources reflect.56 While current debates rage around whether Late Antiquity was indeed more violent, or whether this perception is, once again, the result of our sources which had their own particular aims in

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57

emphasising violence, it cannot be denied that the development of the idea of orthodoxy led to ‘a kind of discourse that was authoritarian and intolerant in the extreme’, and that strong group identifications and rivalries led to clashes, even if these may not have been as catastrophic as some of our sources suggest.58

The Donatist Christians, the Circumcellions and our sources One such group was the Donatist Christians.59 Donatism arose in the African provinces (in opposition to Catholicism) because of their refusal to accept the return of clergy who had previously lapsed under the pressure of the imperial persecutions.60 The Donatists therefore saw the martyrs (those who had not bowed to the pressure of persecution) as key to their identity. In seeking imperial recognition in 313 for what they saw as the true faith, they fell foul of Constantine’s aim of creating a unified church, and after 317 attempts were made to suppress them.61 In this rivalry, both Catholics and Donatists seem to have enforced their rights with the support of local gangs.62 In the case of the Donatist Christians, these came to be associated with the Circumcellions.63 Although there is no shortage of references to the Circumcellions, almost all of these come from two authors: Optatus, bishop of Milevis and, after him, Augustine, bishop of Hippo, whom we may both regard as contemporary, or near-contemporary, but biased sources.64 Both writers were Catholic Christians and supporters of the landed aristocracy at a time when Catholics were determined to win (or strengthen) recognition as the orthodox faith from imperial Rome.65 Their descriptions of violence are therefore aimed at creating the picture of a wholesale insurrection that threatened public order and Empire, as Shaw has so ably demonstrated.66 And they met with no little success, judging by the number of imperial edicts against their opponents.67 The Donatists, on the other hand, since their loss of imperial favour in 313, and apart from a brief reversal under Julian, were defending their beliefs, churches and land against imperially supported Catholics, and using Circumcellion gangs to help them.68 The name ‘circumcellions’ seems to have started out as a description of casual labourers who were sourced at periodic rural markets, and who were paid in part with wine.69 Many of them were migrant workers, which may have found some connection with the nomadic tendencies in the less Romanised parts of society,70 but the group seems to have been composed of members from different social strata at different times in its history.71 Circumcelliones grew to be a name used by their opponents who used the associations of having no fixed abode (in contravention of the Constantinian laws), were hired labour (with mercenary motives), and had associations with drunk and disorderly behaviour (they were paid with wine) to paint them as bands of raving, nomadic terrorists.72 In our sources, the Circumcellions are also associated with the agonistici or milites Christi, ‘soldiers/fighters for

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Christ.’73 Their leaders were called the duces sanctorum, chiefs of the saints, in keeping with their identity as the defenders of the church of Donatus.74 As Holy Fighters, they served for free, but from the words of Optatus onwards, they were tarred with the same brush as the broader Circumcellion group.75 Some modern scholars tend to disregard or downplay the religious fervour of the Circumcellions, but while we must not be overly influenced by contemporary developments in expressions of religious zeal and ritual suicide, it would surely also be a mistake to deny such developments and be influenced by the dominance of secularism in the modern West.76 As will be discussed below, it should not be thought implausible that their ‘intense longing for martyrdom was, more than anything else, the bedrock of the ideology that formed the basis of their activities’.77 Unsurprisingly (for the majority of people of this social stratum), we have almost no direct material or epigraphic evidence that refers to them.78 And thus, as Shaw has so convincingly demonstrated, the Circumcellions were a ‘rhetorical construct of fourth-century religious conflict’.79 Nevertheless, while we must acknowledge that there is considerable polemical exaggeration in the picture drawn by Optatus and Augustine, these authors did not entirely invent the events they describe – something must have taken place, if we can isolate a reasonable account from inference and suggestion by prejudiced sources. This also applies to the role the Circumcellion women played in the alleged events. Are they just a part of these authors’ rhetorical constructs, or were they real participants in the events of the fourth century?

Recruitment – class, culture and gender base The number of Donatist churches, martyr sites and other material evidence give an indication of where this dissident Christianity had the strongest following.80 The less urbanised environment of the Donatists naturally facilitated a relationship with the Circumcellions, who were hired as casual labour on the land. Recruitment for the group seems to have come from a wide social range, but also included Punic-speaking, marginalised figures, and seasonal migrant workers – and some of these were ‘out-of-control women’.81 It is likely that in North Africa, women as well as men formed part of the agricultural labour force.82 Shaw provides a number of modern parallels of migrant worker groups that included women (also from the Maghreb), but is tentative in supporting the idea of female rural labour in Roman Africa.83 However, the absence of evidence in the Romanised sources is probably due to a cultural bias against showing women working in the fields,84 and we do have some evidence in favour of female workers in North African mosaics. A mosaic from Carthage for example shows a woman carrying a container of black olives, another carrying a lamb,85 and mosaics from Zliten depict women hoeing.86 In neighbouring Egypt, we also have documentary evidence of women earning money by carrying olives to the oil press.87 Moreover, in the local tradition of some indigenous groups, polygamy also had as a

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consequence that women worked in the fields, as is common throughout Africa today.88 Optatus and Augustine must have been familiar with this sight, but from a Romanised perspective, the presence of women ‘roaming about freely’ was a cause for raising the alarm, and placing a further black mark against their opponents. Both Optatus and Augustine mention the presence of female members of the Circumcellions on several occasions. There are a few dramatised accounts implying and naming ‘outrageous’ female behaviour, but also brief and uncommented mentions of their presence. This range, however, should give one pause for thought. The first group of examples below show how Optatus and Augustine use the women’s presence as a rhetorical tool to highlight a breakdown in social mores (in Roman terms) to their local and imperial audiences.

The presence of Circumcellion women as a rhetorical tool In the first example, Augustine (in a letter to Eusebius, mediator between Augustine and his Donatist counterpart, Proculeianus) indicates how a woman had become a member of the Circumcellions and a sanctimonialis or consecrated virgin, and tacitly admits that women joined the group of their own free will:89 The daughter of one of the cultivators of the property of the Church here, had been, against the will of her parents, drawn away by the other party [ad illos], and after being baptized among them, had assumed the profession of a nun [sanctimonialis]. Now her father wished to compel her by severe treatment to return to the Catholic Church; but I was unwilling that this woman, whose mind was so perverted, should be received by us unless with her own will, and choosing, in the free exercise of judgment, that which is better [libero arbitrio meliora diligentem suscipi noluissem]. (Ep. 35.4, CCL 35; trans. Cunningham) All the positive expressions are associated with the Catholics, while the negative terminology is applied to the Circumcellions. Independence is desirable when a woman should choose for the Catholics, but she shows a lack of filial piety when she chooses for the Donatists.90 It seems clear, however, that this is an example of the change in the possibilities for women mentioned above – women who could reject the traditional patriarchal authority and follow their own path.91 Augustine’s attack on this freedom links up to Elizabeth Clark’s argument that the Church fathers saw a need to build ‘strategies of containment’ for women against the ‘liberating effects of Christianity’. An earlier passage in the same letter provides another example of rhetorical flourish, where Augustine manages to use both the man to cast aspersions on the women, and vice versa. The context is the purported sexual deviancy of a dismissed cleric. Augustine relates how, when the man subsequently joined the Circumcellions, he was followed by two religious women who were rebaptized and joined:

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Augustine ignores the Christian ideal of retiring from the world and espousing virginity and reverts to a Roman paradigm for women. These women are censured firstly because they transgressed the social boundaries through their rejection of any form of male control, and then it is suggested that they are somehow complicit (through their association with the former cleric) in both sexual misconduct and drunken debauchery. Most probably stating that the women had rejected male control was enough – in a world that believed that women were naturally inclined to intemperance without male control – to implicate them in further excesses.93 In fact, Augustine claims elsewhere that the immoral transgressions of such women are ‘countless’ (innumerabilia stupra).94 A contemporary of Augustine also exploits social prejudices when he describes the excessive consumption of alcohol at the festivals of the martyrs as even affecting women of rank, turning them, as Shaw eloquently puts it, into ‘nearalcoholic lushes who destroyed the moral foundation of good homes’.95 The Donatist Christians used similar terms in describing the Catholics who seized one of their basilicas, referring to ‘lascivious young men’ (lascivientum iuvenum) and ‘despicable women’ (aspernamenta feminarum), who more or less turned their church into a saloon.96 This was clearly the popular invective of the day. Again in Contra litteras Petiliani (2.88.195), we hear that there were women members who were husbandless (feminis maritos non habentibus) and who could thus (again he does not go so far as to say they did) participate in all-night orgies. He refers to the women as ‘mixed in indiscriminately with the gangs against the natural order’ (quae cum illis passim commixtae contra ordinem rerum). Again, innuendo and suggestion are employed to avoid accusations of outright lying. Since our authors also mention that there were women who had chosen virginity or chastity (continentes, virgines sanctae, sanctimoniales), it seems logical to assume that the presence of such women would, as Baldwin notes, have discouraged the more licentious pleasures.97 The frequent references to drunkenness and female intemperance are a well-known topos in the ancient world, and there is little doubt that Augustine is employing this and all its associations to play on a number of Roman gender prejudices. Most scholars believe that these denigrating references to bacchanalian rowdiness allude to the feasts celebrated in honour of the martyrs.98

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If we set aside the polemical style of the above passages, we can make a few firm deductions about the Circumcellion women. Firstly, that women were free to join the Circumcellions, and formed a part of this group. Secondly, that some of the women who joined were or became consecrated virgins, and lastly, that women participated in the sacred meals and ritual dances on their feast days. These are the elements which Optatus and Augustine manipulate to discredit the Circumcellions and the Donatist church with allegations of debauchery. There can be little doubt that, in this case, the female Circumcellions were part of the ‘rhetorical construct’. The women’s presence was used to paint lewd contexts of debauchery and social decline, not so much to taint the women in particular as to discredit the Circumcellion group.99

Utriusque sexus With the second category of references mentioning the presence of women, we come to the accounts of violence more specifically. The violence that the ‘terrorist gangs’ are accused of falls, broadly, into three categories: damage to property, physical attacks on persons (beatings, blindings with acid, etc.) and self-killings. With regard to the damaging of property ascribed to the Circumcellions, Optatus, Augustine and also Possidius provide us with many examples of destructive behaviour – setting fire to houses of clerics, killing livestock, and destroying altars and sacred objects in basilicas. The basilicas themselves were in some cases claimed (often by force), purified and re-used.100 Only in one instance are women indicated as being part of the action. In one of his letters Augustine describes the Donatist bishop, Macrobius: at present going round in all directions, followed by bands of wretched persons of both sexes [stipatus cuneis perditorum utriusque sexus]. (Ep.139.2, CSEL 34.419–20, trans. Cunningham) These bands were assisting Macrobius in opening the Donatist churches that had been shut down by imperial legislation. Since Augustine mentions that both men and women were a part of this group, it indicates women’s collective participation in the violence.101 What is interesting, however, is that Augustine does not make much of their presence. It seems as though he is less interested in highlighting women’s participation in violence than in implicating women in licentiousness and moral decline. Women behaving destructively does not seem to have been particularly useful as a gender-specific rhetorical tool, and Augustine does not see women’s participation as instrumental in making his case.102 There is another item which I believe can be used to point also to at least a perception of female agency in the alleged Circumcellion misdeeds, and that is Honorius’ edict of 412 against the Donatists.103 This constitution fines the dissidents according to their rank and the Circumcellions (as the lowest rank

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of freeborn men) had to pay ten pounds of silver. There are some controversial aspects to this constitution, but most of the discussion has been centred on whether or not the Circumcellions could have constituted an actual ordo, and were therefore more settled than has heretofore been supposed.104 Little attention has been paid to the fact that only the wives of the Circumcellions, whether an ordo or not, are fined an equivalent sum to their husbands (uxores quoque eorum maritalis segregatim multa constringat).105 None of the wives of the other ordina are mentioned. It seems as though the Catholic appeals to Rome had given rise to an image that gave Circumcellion women the same responsibility in the alleged crimes as men. Shaw’s suggestion is that the wives are specifically mentioned in the edict because they had a fixed abode and could therefore be more easily targeted by imperial control systems, but if at least some of the Circumcellion men were an ordo, then that would imply that they had a fixed abode themselves.106 Unfortunately for our purposes this points only to an imperial view of female participation, rather than constituting actual evidence of it. With regard to violence inflicted on persons, Optatus and Augustine paint a vivid picture of organised but unrestrained mobs armed with farm implements and clubs,107 or with vials of lime and acid to blind people,108 who would descend unexpectedly on travellers, houses and churches.109 These rhetorical passages, couched in the language of social revolution, painted the Circumcellions as not only against Catholic clergy, but attacking money-lenders, creditors and slave owners on the roads and in market places.110 But, as a matter of fact, as Shaw has demonstrated, very few actually lost their lives at the hands of the Circumcellions.111 Most of the violence seems to have been more of the intimidatory kind.112 It is possible that women were equipped with the implements that the Circumcellions used to intimidate passers-by. In all likelihood women, being on average of lesser strength than men (despite the awe-inspiring assertions of female capabilities in Ammianus and others above), would only have been able to participate in this if there had been a great number of persons on their side. The implication that ‘even’ women were being led to violence by the dissident Christians is already present with Optatus: those I mean whom you [Parmenianus] have been able to seduce by factious or devious talk, so as to make them yours, not only men but women too [non solum masculi sed etiam feminae]; once sheep, they have suddenly become wolves [vulpes], once faithful, now perjurers, once patient, now madmen [rabidi]; once peaceable, now litigants. (De Schism Don. 6.8, CSEL 26.6.20, trans. Edwards)113 But, unlike Optatus, Augustine does not specifically mention that there were women among the groups that physically attacked people for the purpose of simple violence and intimidation, and he has not employed the topos that our non-Christian sources were utilised to create the ‘other’. It may be that Augustine did not think that men and women descending on the Catholic fold

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would make as intimidating a picture, or that he did not see the presence of women in a motley horde as particularly significant. However, there is another form of violence to others in which it is suggested that women did play a part: when the avowed aim in undertaking their violent activities was their pursuit of personal martyrdom.114 The Circumcellions were said to confront their opponents with chants and cries of ‘Laudate Deum’ or ‘Laudes Deo’ thus in turn inviting their victims to kill them.115 Augustine describes the following collective action: how vast crowds of them used to come in procession to the most frequented ceremonies of the pagans, while the worship of idols still continued – not with the view of breaking the idols, but that they might be put to death [interficerentur] by those who worshipped them. For if they had sought to break the idols under the sanction of legitimate authority, they might, in case of anything happening to them, have had some shadow of a claim to be considered martyrs [nominis martyrum]; but their only object in coming was, that while the idols remained uninjured, they themselves might meet with death. (Aug. Ep. 185.12, CSEL 57.23, trans. King)116 Optatus and Augustine roundly condemn the Donatist desire for martyrdom and it is not really surprising that, in this specific context, the gender of the suicide-attackers is not that significant. When Augustine does remark on women in this context his comment is, once again, very perfunctory: There also pertain to this heresy in Africa those who are called Circumcellions, a wild kind of human being [genus hominem agreste] whose boldness is known far and wide, not only because they perpetrate terrible crimes on others, but because they do not spare even their own members in their mad fury [sed nec sibi eadem insania feritate parcendo]. For they are accustomed to kill themselves in various ways, especially by hurling themselves off cliffs, or into water or fire. And they lead others whom they can, of both sexes, into this madness [et in istum furorem alios quos potuerint sexus utriusque seducere], at times in order that they might be killed by others [aliquando ut occidantur ab aliis, mortem], threatening them with death unless they kill them. (Aug. De Haeres. 69.4, CCL 46: 332, trans. Rotelle) Who the ‘others’ (alios) refers to in the last sentence is not quite clear. Either they were not Circumcellions, but were seduced into joining them in the suicides, or they were Circumcellions (sibi eadem) who were seduced by other members. Or perhaps these others are the agnostici, as Shaw argues.117 What is clear from the passage, however, is that both men and women committed suicides of both types. This gives a new dimension to the idea of women as inciters and exhorters to violence identified as a key role in our earlier sources – this time the aim is to incite others to commit violence on themselves!118

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We have a great deal of evidence of both male and female martyrs on record.119 If ‘suffering, and triumph over it, formed a crucial and ineradicable element of Christian self-identity’, then this was as much the case for women as it was for men, and applied to both Catholics and Donatists.120 Moreover, many scholarly works have dealt with strong tendencies of holy women to renounce their own gender, to become ‘as men’, and ambitions to enhance their spiritual power would surely also have influenced Circumcellion women to participate in these ritual suicides with their male compatriots.121 The evidence for women participating physically in the acts of violence on persons when it was a question of ritual suicide is therefore more likely than in cases where violence and intimidation were the primary aim. In the passage quoted above, precipitation, or death by fire or drowning seem to have been the options practised by the aspiring martyrs.122 These are mentioned so often by our sources that they cannot just be dismissed as improbable, even if the numbers may be exaggerated.123 Augustine qualifies their activities as ‘insane’ (a continuation of his depiction of the group as mad (insanus, rabidus)), and does his best to make the suicides look ridiculous,124 and ultimately, illegitimate.125 In the same way that Augustine is active in undermining the role of the Donatist sanctimoniales, as we have seen, since he equates their conduct with dissipation, he makes a considerable effort to downplay the suicide martyrs, and he is very unspecific about the roles of both men and women – no doubt he did not want to add particulars to advertise martyrs for the opposition.126 The popularity of martyrs in his African environment must have presented him with a considerable challenge, and as far as female martyrs are concerned, even the female martyrs of the Catholic group are often downplayed, or at least manipulated for his own ends.127 Not that Augustine was alone in this – other studies have shown that the Catholics gave prominence to male martyrs, whereas the Donatists valued male and female martyrs equally.128 Martyrdom had been a ‘successful stratagem of Christian resistance’ during the period of imperial persecution,129 and the role of a religious motivation should not be discounted as the ‘easy’ explanation for the new waves of selfkillings.130 As Ando has indicated in this context: ‘The politics of violence is communication. If one must respond and yet is robbed of voice, how else to dissent, except by non-discursive means?’131 This would be even more the case for women, who had had no voice at all, than for men. It has been noted that in North Africa the number of female martyrs was particularly high in comparison with the rest of the early Christian world,132 and some solutions have been suggested as to why women here should be particularly drawn to martyrdom.133 Shaw has ascribed this to a reaction against the lower public valuation of women in Roman African society than elsewhere in the Mediterranean, and that female martyrs reacted proportionately against this devaluation of their sex, seizing the opportunity for glory and everlasting life. This ‘lower valuation of women’ is not very easy to prove, but even if this were not the case, women would have been one of the lower status groups which, with the disintegration of the suppressive effects of imperial authority, rose up, also wanting to be heard.134

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Conclusion And thus finally, we must ask ourselves whether, amid this plethora of topoi, bias and tendentiousness in the ancient source material, we can determine whether women played a part in the collective violence in the Roman world up to Late Antiquity. For both the pre-Christian and the Christian periods, our evidence is prejudiced and even polemical, in addition to which we have to bear in mind that none of these writers was particularly interested in writing about women per se. But by examining the texts closely and identifying that which is stereotypical, exaggerated and tendentious, it is possible to build something that we can sometimes supplement with information from other spaces, and we can conclude that women participated in violence far more than our ancient sources would have us believe. It is true that we do not have anything approaching formal Amazonian troops of women. But we do have evidence that women participated in contexts that were informal and supportive, in both preChristian and Christian contexts. The fact that we have so little evidence for women participating in violence during the entire Roman period (especially when contrasted to women participating in war in earlier Greek sources) clearly shows that it is something which our sources are reluctant to discuss, but mutatis mutandis it is likely that women of both contexts participated in defensive warfare. By contrast, the topos of violence by non-Roman women is utilised by our authors to create the ‘bad girls’ making them increasingly participant, but the only credible information on women and violence is linked to their role in exhortation and ritual. Our sources for the Circumcellion women are even more tendentious, at times making use of Roman stereotypes and on other occasions avoiding them for their own polemical ends. Shaw’s comment that the presence of women was one of the aspects which ‘most excited’ Augustine relates more to this bishop’s use of his ‘bad girls’ image in contexts of alleged debauchery than in contexts of violence. His primary aim was to discredit the Donatist and Circumcellions on a moral level with associations of ‘wine, women and song’ (a well-known Classical topos)135 while at the same time undercutting the women’s role as devoted Christians and consecrated virgins – the sanctimoniales, the ‘good girls’, become the ‘bad girls’. When they serve no rhetorical purpose, they are barely mentioned, and there is no comment on their presence in acts of group violence or the self-killings. Like the Classical writers, Optatus and Augustine were not interested in the women themselves, and certainly not in calling attention to their individual martyrdoms, ‘false’ though they called them. Their descriptions in these cases are as underminingly generic as possible. However, if the goal was martyrdom, as has been shown, women were as, if not more, keen than men, and they would have seized this opportunity as often as their male counterparts did, and for us to draw out their participation in groups destroying property as well as in groups which participated in self-killings.

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It has therefore been possible to piece together some idea of how women participated in the Circumcellion violence, from the destruction of property to self-killings (in their various forms), and we can conclude that women participated far more in violence in the ancient world, particularly in unauthorised and informal contexts like the Circumcellions, than our evidence will allow. But in the case of the Circumcellion women in particular, we should not argue too strongly that they were all ‘good girls’ – as everyone knows, there are advantages to being ‘bad girls’ – they ‘go everywhere’, and, in the case of our Circumcellion women, they planned to go to heaven, too.136

Notes 1 For complexities and difficulties of terminology on violence in the ancient world, Carlsen (2011) 14–17; Cameron (2018) 102–114; Gale and Scourfield (2018) 1–42. See Gibson (2018) 269 for good discussion on the problems around defining violence; Pohl (2006) 22 on ‘violence as a common stylistic feature’ in certain genres. 2 Plutarch, Pyrrh. 34.2, relates how an old woman felled Pyrrhus from the top of a house with a roof tile, 272 BCE; discussed by Barry (1996) 55; multiple examples are discussed below. 3 For example, in her overview of research on women in the ancient world, Tulloch (2013) 3–4: ‘the growing academic discourse on gender, sexuality and history … contributed to the destabilization of the academic ideal of objectivity in scholarly discourse, the notion of fixed meanings in texts and visual representations.’ 4 Ando (2013) 197 refers to this in his introduction to a journal volume responding to Brent Shaw’s seminal work Sacred Violence, African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine (2011), a book to which the present study is also heavily indebted. 5 There have been scholarly ‘counternarratives’ to the ideologically constructed depictions of women in the ancient world since the 1960s, Tulloch (2013) 1. 6 See overview by Tulloch (2013) 6–9. Some utilisations of modern anthropological and sociological comparisons have met with criticism, however, e.g. Ando’s review (2012) of Shaw’s book as above in n. 4. 7 Although this does occur, it presents less than 1% of all warriors in history, Mead (1967) 236; Goldstein (2001) 34–35; 10–22. 8 Goldstein (2001) 77–83; Jakobsen (2011) 136; De Pauw (2014) 286–287. The power of ideology and tradition is something that will be explored in more depth when we deal with the Circumcellions towards the end of the period under investigation here. 9 See for example the studies on modern female gangs in Miller (2001) and Moore & Hagedorn (2001). 10 An overview in Drake (2006) 3 n. 4. For violence in a domestic context, references in Dossey (2008) 4 n. 5–7. 11 As voiced by epic poets from Homer (Il.1.1–2), and ancient historiographers from Herodotus (1.1) and Thucydides (1.1.1–2) onwards. 12 Gibson (2018) 270: ‘Rape was, in fact, part of a soldier’s spoils.’ Vikman (2005) 28–29; Dillon (2006) 260 with further references in n. 48; Jakobsen (2011) 125–127 on modern contexts. 13 For some good discussions of violence against women in a variety of contexts, see the essays in Deacy & Pierce (1997); Card (1996). See Vikman (2005) 27 on rape in myth and significance in historical time; Rosivach (1998) on rape in New Comedy.

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14 For example, Bowman (2007); Campbell (1964); Wikan (1984). 15 Tacitus uses the term when speaking of Livia at Ann.1.4.5, and of Agrippina Minor at 12.57.2. 16 Van Hooff (2002) 21–22 warns that although female suicides in literature are better represented, this is not a reflection of social reality, where the number of recorded self-killings for men far outstrips that for women, as it does for other cultures up to the modern period. 17 For example, Appian relates (BC 1.109) how an Iberian woman, threatened with rape by a Roman soldier after the sack of Lauro, tears his eyes out with her fingers; similarly, Strabo (3.4.17) on how Iberian mothers killed their children or fellow-captives before capture. Hill (2004) 28 deals with a number of these types in Roman literature, such as Medea or Dido; for other heroic female suicides, such as women not afraid of death by a weapon, Loreaux (1987); Weigel (2012) 183–184. Further discussion in Shaw (2011) 729–730 on Augustine’s wrestling with female suicide in the mythology and history of Rome, which Augustine ultimately condemns. 18 Van Hooff (2002) 238. 19 Plutarch, Mor. 102C, relates the incident of the Milesian parthenoi, 227 BCE. Discussed in van Hooff (2002) 21, 91. In the case of individual suicides only 27 women are recorded, as opposed to 146 men. 20 This is in fact borne out by many societies. The incident in Sun Tzu where the general trained an army of women to prove his generalship is evidence of his great skill, rather than of women warriors. Archaeological discoveries of women with weapons remain highly controversial in scholarship, see Gräslund (2001) 92. 21 Tac. Ann. 12.66,13.15; Suet. Nero 33, 47; Dio 61.34; 63.3; Juv. Sat. 1.71. 22 The many evil deeds which are ascribed to Agrippina Minor are not directly accomplished by her hand, although Tacitus calls her ferocia (Ann. 13.2); further discussion in Traub (1953) 259–60; Hayne (2000) 39–40; Gibson (2018) 272–273. 23 Sallust Cat. 25; Tac. Ann.12–14. Much work has been done on women in Livy and Tacitus; for Livy: Smethurst (1950) to Stevenson (2011), and for Tacitus: Baldwin (1972); Marshall (1984–1986); Swindle (2003), mainly arguing a rhetorical use of female figures (in the Annals in particular). 24 For Agrippina Major compared with duces feminae in Tacitus, see McHugh (2012) 73, with further references to scholarship on Tacitus’ description of Agrippina as ferocious, n. 6. 25 Boudicca: Tac. Ann. 14.35; Agr.16.1, 31.4; Cass. Dio 62.3–7. Zenobia: Amm. M. 28.4.9; HA Aur. 22.1. See Santoro L’Hoir (1994) 6–7 on Tacitus’ depiction of women as military commanders. Späth (1994) demonstrates that women play a cardinal role when Tacitus wishes to denigrate a princeps and cast aspersions on the legitimacy of his authority; also Benoist (2015) 266–267, ‘effeminate emperors and virilized women’. Women’s assumption of the manly role in warfare is meant to cast a slur on the manliness of the men in that society. 26 Suet. Nero 34.1–4, only marginally more soberly described in Tac. Ann. 14.3–8. 27 Clark (1989) 29: ‘Real power was acceptable only if it was temporary, exercised in special circumstances by a woman doing what remained a man’s job … Artemisia was a widow standing in for her husband.’ Also McHugh (2012) 78–80. 28 Feminae duces, first used by Vergil for Dido, is taken up by Tacitus when speaking of barbarian queens like Boudicca, Agr.16.1, 31.4; see also Ann.14.35.1. See discussions by Santoro L’Hoir (1994) 6–13, and Ginsberg (2006) 112–116. 29 Sabine wives’ intercession, Liv. 1.13; Oppian Law protests where women ‘blocked the streets and approaches to the forum’ (omnis vias urbis aditusque in forum obsidebant), Liv. 34.1.5. One thousand four hundred matrons protesting against the tax on jewellry, Val. Max 8.3.3; Appian Pun. 4.32–34. Other incidents of the same type: the matrons’ support of Virginius in the fight against Appius Claudius

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Martine De Marre (Liv. 3.47–8), and women who entreated the Senate to ransom their sons and husbands after Hannibal’s victory at Cannae (Liv. 22.60–61.10; 34.3.7). Also Plutarch, De Mul. Vir. 253E, who mentions some deeds (as examples of female ἀρετή) where women acted together (τῶν μὲν οὒν κοινῇ πεπραγμένων γυναιξὶ μυρίων ὄντων ἱκανὰ ταῦτα παραδείγματα). For example, when women protested against the Oppian Law in 195 BCE (Liv. 34.1–7), Cato’s speech dramatically refers to male fear (‘our liberty, destroyed at home by female violence … we dread them collectively’ (libertas nostra impotentia muliebri … universas horremus, 34.2.2). But the description by Livy does not support this rhetoric and describes only a collective appeal by the women. Such a large number of matrons conspiring to poison the citizens of Rome seems frankly implausible, given that no motivation is given, and that Roman citizen soldiers must have been rather depleted by wars during the fourth century BCE, such as the struggles against the Latins and Samnites. Herrmann (1964) speculates on possible liberational aspirations of these women, which is hardly likely at this time. The first 20 women captured on the charge drank their own poison, classified as a ‘collective self-killing’ with ‘the profile of a desperate suicide in a police-enquiry’, Van Hooff (2002) 91. Livy mentions that at first a plague or pestilence was suspected, and one must ask if the women were not the scapegoats for the many deaths that occurred. Further discussion in Pagan (2012) 42–43. Livy deals with other and even bigger convictions of poisonings (veneficia), for example the 2000 people condemned for poisoning in 184 BCE by the praetor Q. Naevius (39.41.5), and in 180, 3000 were sentenced by C. Maenius (40.43.3). Dillon (2006) 264–267 is ambivalent on the identification of the women, who seem by their dress to be neither Roman nor Dacian elite women. Kampen (1995) 64: ‘what men would fall so low as to be tortured by women?’ Kampen (1995) 63–64. Plutarch relates a similar incident, Mar. 27.1–3, where the Cimbrian women continued to fight when the men were killed, and when they saw that defeat was near, killed their children and themselves. A description of Celtic women by Polyaenus, Strat. 7.48–50, has more in common with the legend of the Sabine wives. It relates how the women intervened in a civil war by throwing themselves between the two advancing armies and begged them to desist, whereupon the dispute was eventually resolved. Julius Civilis, a Batavian, Tac. Hist. 4.13. Kampen (1995) 67. Also at Ger. 7.2; 8; 20. These are described as women with dishevelled hair bearing torches, and not, as supposed by Santoro L’Hoir (1994) 9 engaged in actual fighting. This image of women on the periphery of the action is also borne out by the depiction of women (Roman and of other cultures) in the scenes on the column of Trajan (with one exception discussed above), see Kampen (1995) 64. But on the column of Marcus Aurelius, women are centrally involved as victims of violence, Dillon (2006) 246. Women as onlookers to battle, Plutarch, Pyrrh. 34.2, already cited above. Schaps (1982) 198–199 has several examples of women exhorting men to fight in Greek literature. More examples from ancient literature in Fuhrer (2015) 52–70; De Pauw (2014) has many examples from earliest records to the present; Sémelin (2007) 281 discusses the general phenomenon of women as onlookers, encouraging men in battle. Further modern examples in Goldstein (2001) 301–322. Payen (2015) 220. Arist. Pol. 2.1269b, 35–39. See discussion on this in Georgoudi (2015) 202–203, 210: ‘This effort involves every person – regardless of social or political position, regardless of age or gender – who might be useful in the defense of city and country.’

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41 In another instance, the Tegean women also armed themselves and helped to defeat the Spartan invaders, Paus. 8.48.4. 42 Payen (2015) 221. However, Thucydides (3.7.1) and Plutarch Pyrrh. 27.3, use the verbs συνεπιλάμβανομαι and συνεργάζομαι respectively which both indicate collaboration or cooperation, rather than assistance; on this see Georgoudi (2015) 209. 43 Mead (1967) 236; Goldstein (2001) 34–35; 10–22; 77–83; Jakobsen (2011) 136; De Pauw (2014) 286–287. 44 Kelly (2008) 37. There are a number of other examples: Lusitanian and Hispanic women fought with swords alongside their men in Appian Hisp. 71–72; Plut. Mor. 248e. 45 For example, the words given to the soldiers in Plutarch, Mar. 16.4: ‘What cowardice, pray, has Marius discovered in us that he keeps us out of battle like women under lock and key?’ 46 Saavedra (1999) 59. 47 Clark (1994) on the ideological construct of ‘woman’ (from Eve to Mary) by the Church fathers; Cloke (1995) 2 on women of the third and fourth centuries, ‘the kind of women Jerome was writing about; and where and why they chose to part company with the lives of the women of whom Ammianus was writing’. 48 McNamara (1976) 145–158; Cloke (1995) 4. 49 Cloke’s work (1995) 2 in particular looks at the religious exploits and accomplishments of groups of religious women during the patristic era. 50 Very few texts authored by these women remain to us. Male editors, such as fellow martyrs and Church fathers, are almost always present. 51 Cooper (2013) 529. 52 Cooper (1998) 149–150. Already at the beginning of the fourth century Arnobius, Adv. Nat. 7.42, had pointed out that it was women ‘whose weaker constitution kept them from public concerns’ (quas ab negotiis publicis condicio fragilitatis excepit) who were now dying for their faith in the most public manner and were venerated as Christian martyrs. 53 Shaw (1993, 2011) 651–652; Salisbury (1997) 170–179; Cloke (1995) 5–7. 54 For example Augustine’s treatment of Perpetua’s dream in which she becomes a male gladiator at Serm. 281.2 (PL 38: 1284), an image that he links with imitatio Christi and Paul’s letter to the Ephesians (4:13). See also Moss (2010) 129–130. 55 Taken together the four sermons on Perpetua and Felicitas offer rather contradictory approaches (which may have had something to do with the occasion at which they were read) but it is noticeable that the Acta are all influenced by the social morality of Augustine’s own day. 56 Many scholars of religion identify a deep split between Christian and nonChristian ideas of religion, as discussed by Carlsen (2011) 8 with further references. 57 For example, the increasing use of violence as an instrument of government over the first six centuries CE would indicate that violence was on the rise generally, see further MacMullen (2003) 479. The question is of course whether these laws were actually enforced. 58 Cameron (2018) 113. Brief summary, Frankfurter (2013) 294–295. The rivalry is quite clear at Aug. Ep.185.11 (CSEL 57.10–16), for example. See also the arguments by Rebillard (2014) on the absence of a divide between Christian and nonChristian religions in North Africa in practice. 59 Although we refer to this group as Donatists, the name was in fact given to them by our Catholic sources after one of the group’s first leaders, Donatus, and in giving them this appellation the Catholic clergy distanced themselves and removed them from the fold of Christianity, Shaw (2011) 5–6, 343–44. Many modern scholars now refer to the Catholic sect as the ‘Caecilianists’, since both sides claimed to be orthodox.

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60 This is the simplified version - the complexity of their origins and comprehensive overviews can be found in many modern works, from the works of Frend (1952– 2002); Brown (1961–2012) to those of Shaw (1984–2013). In giving in to imperial demands and betraying the faith, the lapsed were thus considered to be at the very opposite of those who died for it, the martyrs. 61 Brown (1968) 85–86. As Averil Cameron has recently re-emphasised (2018) 111 orthodoxy and heresy were very much in the eye of the beholder – no one was going to call themselves a heretic, in their own eyes they were themselves the true believers and represented orthodoxy: ‘Orthodoxy claims to be true, and condemns everything else to the realm of falsehood. It is not benign; it entails demarcation, and condemnation.’ For further discussion on Constantine and North African Christianity, see a good overview in Lepelley (1979) 279–282. 62 For the argument that both sides were equally prone to employ this practice, Grig (2004) 48; Shaw (2011) 584–585. 63 Baldwin (1962) 3. We first hear of them following Constantine’s order that the Donatist churches be handed over to the Catholics. Specifically attested from 340 CE. For discussion of evidence of late fifth century activity, see Atkinson (1992) 488 n. 3; Shaw (2006) on spuriousness of later evidence. For who the Circumcellions were, discussions in Shaw (2004); Brown (2012) 328; Shaw (2011) 630–674. 64 Decret (2009) 101: ‘While historical documentation can be received through a critical reading of such texts, it should be noted that Optatus was writing around 365, some forty years following the developments he addressed. Similarly, Augustine’s treatises and letters were written a century – perhaps three full generations – after the movement’s birth.’ 65 Aug. Ep. 35.2 (CCL 31.127–28); 108.14 (CCL 34.2: 628–9); 185.12, 15 (CSEL 5.34.2;) Optat. De Schism. Don. 3.4 (CSEL 26.81–82). 66 Shaw (2011) 159, 520–532. For some earlier cautionary comments on the sources and their orthodox Catholic bias, see Baldwin (1962); Shaw (2006); Brown (2012) 328–329. 67 Lenski (2016) provides a survey of these, from Constantine to Honorius. 68 On the struggle for control of physical spaces between the two groups, Lander (2016). 69 Shaw (2011) 152, 634–635, 659–664, following Optatus 6.1 (CSEL 26.143): ‘quid perditorum conductam referam multitudinem et vinum in mercedem sceleris datum?’ Pottier (2016) 160 on the other hand sees them as wandering ascetics who encouraged voluntary martyrdoms, who only used violence against clergy who had converted to Catholicism. 70 The peasant of Mactaris (CIL 11824) records that the annual migrations for work in the fields around Cirta were a sign that he should start to prepare to harvest his own crop. 71 Gotoh (1988) 305–306; Atkinson (1992) 490–492. 72 Baldwin (1962) 5; Shaw (2011) 152–153. Aug. Contra Gaud. 1.28.32; Enar. in Ps. 132.3: Nam Circumcelliones dicti sunt, quia circum cellas vagantur. The name Circumcellions is likely derived from circum cellas eutes, ‘they go around the store rooms’ – these ‘store rooms’ have been interpreted variously as martyrs’ tombs, Frend (1952) 87–89; Pottier (2016) or farm buildings, Brisson (1958) 332 but most plausibly, Shaw (2011) 637 refers to cellars where wine was stored, from which they were paid. 73 Optat. 3.4 (CSEL 26.81–82); Aug. Ep.108.18 (CSEL 5.34.2); Enar. in Ps. 132.6 (CCL 40:1930–1). Discussion in Shaw (2011) 719, 794–795. 74 Shaw (2011) 167–168. Optatus also tells us that they called themselves sancti, which in turn is used by Augustine to label them as heretics, Optat. 3.4 (CSEL 26.81–82); Aug. Contra litt. Petil. 2.44.103; 111–112 (CSEL 52:81, 152); Sermo

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129.6 (PL 38, 717); Ep. 185 (CSEL 57.10–14). Epigraphical evidence also supports Optatus’ remarks on their use of sancti, see Atkinson (1992) 491. Optat. 3.4 (CSEL 26.81–82). Tengström (1964) 27; Shaw (2011) 649 suggests that there was some overlap between the Circumcellions and the agnostici, since work as sectarian fighters was probably just as seasonal as harvesting See Lenski’s overview (2013) 236 of the contemporary concerns influencing scholarship on Donatism. Gotoh (1988) 307. On shrines and material evidence, Lenski (2013) 238; Duval (1982); Leone (2016); Brown (1969) 33: ‘It is easy to be glib about this “African temperament.” But it would be superficial to ignore the strength of the harsh and exacting patterns of behaviour current in a provincial society.’ Also Lenski (2013) 243 on African religious violence as being particularly ‘highly charged’. Shaw (2011) 610–611, on the distribution of evidence for African martyrs, 630– 631. Since the Circumcellions were mainly from the lower echelons of society, and moreover did not refer to themselves by this name, it is perhaps logical that inscriptions and other evidence would be scarce. But see also the collection and discussion on the archaeological and epigraphical evidence for the martyrs of North Africa in Duval (1982) and further discussion in Grig (2004) 36–37. Some evidence attests indirectly to seasonal labour practices, e.g. the inscription CIL 8.11824 mentioned in n. 63 above, discussion by Shaw (2011) 642–643. There is also an edict from 412 that will be discussed below. Shaw (2011) 656. Duval (1982); Grig (2004) 38; Shaw (2011) 610–611. Donatism was popular in less Romanised areas (especially Numidia and Mauretania), Catholicism in cities and towns, particularly in Africa Proconsularis and Byzacena, Brown (1968) 86. But see also Leone (2016) that these divisions are not borne out by archaeology, and the difficulties in dealing with the primary evidence. Some scholars have regarded the Circumcellion rebellion as both social (repressive Constantinian legislation tied coloni to the soil and Catholic landowners were forcibly converting them to their own creed) as well as religious (they were co-opted by the Donatist faction), Baldwin (1962) 5–7, overview of these views in Lenski (2013) 236. Punic-speaking, Aug. Ep.108.14 (CCL 34.2: 628–9), discussion in Shaw (2011) 432; peasant origin of the Circumcellions, Aug. Contra Gaud. 1.28.32 (PL 43). Shaw (2011) 650 on ‘out of control women’. Shaw (2011) 648, 651. Shaw (2011) 651, 653–654. Scheidel (1995) explains this as stemming from Graeco-Roman ideology, which made working out of doors and in the fields the man’s role, while indoor work such as spinning and weaving was that of women. Ideologically not much had changed since Columella’s first century writings on Roman agriculture and the division of labour, putting the woman in the house and the man in the fields (De Re Rust. 12). Roman sources in particular stress the connection between textile production and women remaining indoors, Scheidel (1996) 206. Scheidel (1996) Figures 11.4 and 11.5. Dunbabin (1978) Plate XXXVI, Figures 95 and 96. There is some parallel evidence of Thracian and Scythian women as field labour in Strabo 3.4.17. Gardner (1986) 244. Ploughing and sowing scene from a tomb at Ghirza showing a woman ploughing, Mattingly (1994) Figure 59. On women as agricultural labour, see the study by Sachs (2018) 20–22, with further references. During the Byzantine period indigenous women were still responsible for much of the agricultural labour, from building the huts to looking after the animals (Cor. Ioh. 4.1076–1077).

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89 Since the letter concerns the Circumcellions and the incident is followed by an account of their aggression against Augustine, it seems likely that this woman had joined the Circumcellions rather than the Donatists. 90 In one of the martyr texts (Passio sanctorum Datiui Saturnini presbyteri et aliorum 7), Victoria rejects her brother’s claim that her choice of virginity was coerced, which suggests that she associated her free choice of virginity as being an expression of ‘a certain amount of agency and social power’, Tilley (1996) 33; also Praet (2003) on the choice of virginity as exemplum. 91 Clark (1994) 174–175. 92 This letter dates from 396. Also Ep. 35. 2 (CSEL 34.28); Enar. in Ps. 132.4–6 (PL 37:1732–3); Contra Ep. Parm. 2.3.6; 9. 19 (PL 43:53); Contra lit. Petil; 2.88.195 (PL 5.43:320); Contra Gaud. 1.31.37; 36. 46 (PL 43:729; 734–735). 93 Best expressed by Valerius Maximus, 6.3.9: ‘It is agreed that any woman who drinks without restraint puts any virtue she may have at risk and risks falling prey to every vice’ (trans. Gardner & Wiedemann (1991) 57). For the New Testament parallel of female susceptibility, see discussion and references in Knust (2006) 162. On Chrysostom’s use of the stereotype, see Clark (1994) 167. 94 Contra ep. Parm. 3.3.18 (CCL 31.128). 95 Ps.-Aug. De Sobrietate et Castitate 3 (PL 40: 110–11). Shaw (2011) 173 on the consumption of wine by labourers who received wine quotas. This was, in all likelihood, a real social problem, as it has been in later times, and this image was probably plausible to Augustine’s contemporaries. On alcohol problems in rural labour, see London (1999) 1407–1414. 96 Passio Sancti Donati 4; Shaw (2011) 189–190. 97 Baldwin (1962) 9. A few such consecrated virgins are known among the African martyrs, such as Maxima, Donatilla and Maria. The label implies an autonomous vow to chastity. Pottier (2016) has collected the references to both Catholic and Donatist sanctimoniales and places more emphasis on their role as ascetics. 98 Local traditions also emphasised the importance of the spirits of the dead and the communication of the dead via dreams. Rebillard (2015) 271–279 on the material evidence for the cult of the dead in Africa, demonstrating that the banquet became a more prominent feature, rather than the sacrifice to the dead of earlier times. The employment of terms such as detestabilis vinolentiae bacchationibus in the passage quoted above, associated with women, was also associated with disturbing mythic images of the bacchantes of mythology, as in Euripides, and more recently in the account in Livy, 39.8–14, all depicting women led astray by religion. The Circumcellions visited the graves of martyrs where they held ceremonies with offerings and shared meals, accompanied by oral readings of the martyr’s deeds (acta) and singing, Stirling (2004) 427–449; Jensen (2008) 128. Augustine ascribes pagan antecedents to this practice (Conf. 6.2; De Mor. Eccl. Cath. 34), and this may link up with a continuance of the pagan Parentalia or Feralia, where celebrations were held on the tombs of the dead, see discussion in Hopkins (1983) 214; Jensen (2008) 107–119, 120–122 on Christian continuation of the practice. Augustine alleges immoral and drunken behaviour by both men and women (Aug. Ep. 22; also Ambrose, Helia 17.2). Frend (1985) 174–175; Shaw (2011) 609, 659–663 support the ritualistic nature of their activities. Aug. Ep. 209.2; Contra Ep. Parm. 2.3.6; 2.9.19. On reverence for the ancestors in Africa, see Fortes (1965) 122–142; Kopytoff (1997) 129–142. 99 Shaw also presents a convincing argument of another way in which Augustine indirectly employs women as a rhetorical tool. Like Epiphanius (‘For every heresy is a vulgar woman’, Pan. 79.8), who follows the Hebrew metaphor of fornication when the people of Israel worship false gods, his rhetoric equates heresy with adultery. This is extensively explored by Shaw (2011) 324, 327–332.

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101 102

103 104

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Also Cloke (1995) 5, 76. For aspersions on women involved in the founding of a number of dissenting traditions such as Montanism, Arianism or Donatism, and that women can transcend the legacy of Eve, Jerome Ep. 133.4; Aug. Serm. 280.1. For New Testament precedents of virtuous and bad women, see Knust (2006) 61–62. Shaw (2011) 172, 682–683; Lenski (2013) 241. Opt. 2.17 (CSEL 26.51); for confrontations over property, see Aug. Ep. 29.12, 108.16, 18 (CSEL 34.122, 630, 632); Ep. 88.8 (CSEL 342.410); Ep. 185.4.15 (CSEL 57.10–11); Enar. in Ps. 21.2.31, 36.2.20, (CCL 38.133, 364); Contra Litt. Petil. 2.23 [52], 43 [101–102], 83 [184] (CSEL 52.51, 79–80, 114); Contra Cresc. 3.43 [47], 4.47 [57] (CSEL 52.453–454, 554). Optatus also mentions attacks on the churches at Castrum Lemellefense, Carpi, and Tipasa (2.17–18), (CSEL 26.41–52); 3.1 and 3.4 (CSEL 26.67–68, 81–82). See Frankfurter (2013) 295–297. Shaw (2011) 653, 672. In martyr narratives the writers did not seem to find random evidence of violent behaviour in women worthy of comment. For example, in the account of Marciana, a young Catholic Christian in Caesarea, we read how she pulled down the head of the public statue of Diana and started to smash the statue to pieces, Acta Marcianae 4 (AASS 1: 569). CTh 16.5.52. Honorius had been attempting to enforce orthodoxy in North Africa since 405, discussed by Brown (1963). For a succinct summary of the discussion, see Gotoh (1988) 303–304, and discussion on how Augustinian polemic engaged Honorius, Lenski (2016) 181–187. On the evidence of the constitution it seems that there was an ordo of Circumcellions by at least 412, but at the same time the distinction is made between those who belonged to the ordo in its statutory sense and adherents of the Circumcellion movement, Atkinson (1992) 494. CTh 16.5.52.2. By Honorius and Theodosius, 30 January 412; discussion in Atkinson (1992) 488–492; Shaw (2011) 643–644. There is some discussion around what is meant by eorum, but the consensus is that it refers to the wives ‘of these men’, the Circumcellions, Atkinson (1992) 496; Shaw (2011) 652; contra Tengström (1964) 30 who holds them to be the wives of the conductores and procurators mentioned earlier in the edict. Shaw (2011) 652 n. 65 also suggests that uxores quoque indicates that these wives, of all the categories mentioned, were held responsible for the behaviour of their menfolk, and the fine brought extra pressure to bear on them, in other words that this was a form of bringing the roaming bands under control. On being organised, Optat. 3.4 (CSEL, 26.81–82). On their weapons, Optat 3.4; Aug. Contra Ep. Parm. 1.11.17 (CSEL 51.41–42). Tengström (1964) 24; Atkinson (1992) 494; Shaw (2011) 664–666. Ideologically the use of clubs was justified by Biblical parallel, since in John 18:11 Jesus is said to have told Peter to lay down his sword in the Garden of Gethsemane, this was ostensibly the reason why they fought with clubs, Optat. 2.25 (CSEL 26.64). Discussion in Shaw (2011) 486–487; 678. Lenski’s argument (2013) 244 that their choice of weapons was limited by laws against deadly weapons fails to convince, since he places the argument in a context of the breakdown of imperial authority, and enforcement is doubtful. A concoction of vinegar and lime, Aug. Contra Cresc. 3.42.46. (CSEL 52:453); Ep. 88.8 (CCL 31A: 145); Possid. Vita Aug. 10.6. Shaw (2011) 667, 684, 726. For example, Aug. Ad Donatist Post Collat. 17.22 (CSEL 53:121); Ep. 105.2.4 (CSEL 34.2:598). Shaw (2011) 695–697. Shaw (2011) 125, 623–624, 698–699.

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112 Augustine was ‘almost’ attacked, while Possidius relates how he was ambushed near Calama by the Circumcellions in which he was beaten and terrorised but escaped with his life, Aug. Enar. in Ps. 54.26; 132 6; Sermo 299A.3; Enchiridion 17; Poss., Vita Aug. 12; Aug. Contra Cresc. 3.46.50–51 (CSEL 52:456–59). 113 Optatus already refers to the Circumcellions earlier at 6.1.3 (CSEL 26.6.10), and this passage, with its allusions to violence, is surely linked to this, see Shaw (2011) 173. Optatus emphasises the presence of ‘men and women’ (masculi … feminae and one Cai Sei, Caia Scia) by repeating it five times in 6.8. The association of maniacs is also often used, indiscriminately ascribed to both men and women here, to complete a menacing picture of raving, uncontrollable wolves that could descend at any time on the sheep in the fold, the Catholic Christians. David Frankfurter (2006) 129–167 argues that gruesome descriptions of a violent and monster-like other propel the insider audience into a cycle of ‘voyeuristic disavowal and participation’. 114 Optatus (3.4) mentions the use of this route to martyrdom in 347: ‘To this class had belonged those who, in their false desire for martyrdom, used to bring assailants on themselves for their own destruction.’ 115 See Shaw (2011) 726 on the historical plausibility of the suicides. Augustine’s elaborated stance on the issue of suicide after 405, discussed in Shaw (2011) 607, 730, gives credence to the fact that these and other types of suicide took place. On the intimidatory chanting and battle cries, Shaw (2011) 474, 697–698. 116 Market places were often located near temples and market days coincided with pagan festivals, Dossey (2001) 176. Other references to this type of suicide at Aug. Sermo 313E.5 (MiAg 1:540), Contra Cresc. 4.62.77 (CSEL 52:577), discussion in Shaw (2011) 242, 761–768. 117 See Shaw (2011) 719 n. 142. 118 Shaw (2011) 651 n. 62 sees women as physically passive, but ‘egging on’ the violence. 119 Scourfield (2018) 310; Potter (1993) 53–54. 120 Scourfield (2018) 309. 121 Cameron (1980); Aspregen (1990); Castelli (1991); Miles (1991) 53–80; Cooper (1998) 155–156; Cobb (2008); Cooper (2013) 530–531. This is traditionally seen as complementing the ideal of the Christian virgin as the bride of Christ, Cooper (2013) 531. 122 ‘From this source also came those who used to cast their vile souls headlong from the peaks of the highest mountains’ (Optat. 3.4, CSEL 26.81–82, trans. Edwards). 123 Aug. Ep. ad Cath. Contra Donatist. 19.50 (CSEL 52: 297); Contra Cresc. 4.64.77 (CSEL 52: 577); Sermo 313E.2 (MiAg 1: 536–7, 539–42). Van Hooff (2002) 196 also refers to an inscription under a rock at Ain M’lila (43 km south of Cirta) that provides a name, month and the Latin redditum (meaning something like ‘compensated’ or ‘settled’) where he claims the Circumcellions were said to have committed their ritual suicides, but see solid refutation of this by Shaw (2011) 841–842. 124 Augustine addressed the importance of discerning ‘true’ Catholic martyrs from fake martyrs, for example Serm. 53A.13 (Morin 11: 634 [PLS 2: 684]), how only those who died for the right cause should be commemorated, and at Mon. 28.36 (CSEL 41: 585) how false relics were being sold and promoted. See also Aug. Ep. 43.24 (CSEL 34.106); 88.8 (CSEL 34.415); 185.8, 12 (CSEL 57: 8, 10–11); 204.1–2, 5 (CSEL 57, 317–318, 320); Optatus, 3.4 (CSEL 26.81–82); Aug. Ad. Don. Post Col. 17.22 (PL 43: 666); Contra Gaud. 1.22.25; 27.30–33 (PL 43: 720–21, 724, 725); Contra Lit t. Petil 2.20.46 (CSEL 52.46); Civ. Dei 1.26 (CCL 47.271). Since their activities are spread over a long period, Atkinson (1992) 491–492 proposes that the Circumcellions’ aims of social revolution eventually gave way to ‘suicidal resistance’.

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125 He condemned the suicides as acts of heresy, distinguishing them from the acts of ‘true’ martyrs. They themselves justified their actions by referring to Old Testament texts where Saul and Samson gave justification to the taking of one’s own life, and also 2 Maccabees 14.37–46, where Razis’ sacrifice of his life functioned as an exemplary story for Donatist Christians. Discussion in Shaw (2011) 744–745. Also Frilingos (2009) on how the spectacles of violence can be undermined. 126 On the importance of martyrs, particularly female martyrs in general, see Cooper (1998) 147–149; Moss (2016) 126–129. 127 On the popularity of martyrs in North Africa, Grig (2004) 36–38. On the power of female martyrs, Cooper (1998) 147–51. On the Church fathers’ attempts or strategies of containment regarding contemporary women’s roles, Clark (1994) 163–183; Cloke (1995) 130, 137. On Augustine’s manipulation of female martyrs see Salisbury (1997) 170–179; Shaw (1993) 41; (2011) 651–652; Martin (2011). 128 Tilley (1996) x. 129 Shaw (2011) 601. 130 Shaw (2011) 726. This does not mean that these could not also be ‘political suicides of protest’, Shaw (2011) 722–723. Van Hooff (2002) 7 discusses the complexity of this issue, and the difficulty in determining participants’ level of ‘personal will’. 131 Ando (2013) 200. See also Tilly (2003) 26–54 on violence as politics. 132 Monceaux (1905) 531–551 counts 120 out of the 600 North African martyrs to be women; see also Lockwood (1989) 168; Decret (2009) 115 rates the number of female suicide martyrs as ‘quite high.’ Generally it would seem that male martyrdoms dominate in the literature of early Christianity, though possibly not in actual historical incidences, discussion in Shaw (1993) 13; Vorster (2003) 80–82. 133 Shaw (1993) 13–14 finds that in the Roman world in general male martyrs were celebrated at least four times as often as female martyrs, but compared to general Mediterranean trends, women in Africa ‘represent a markedly higher proportion of all female saints’. 134 Lenski (2013 243–249) also argues that it was the decline of the central authority, Rome, which led to the growth in influence of groups like the Donatists, as supported by the overall argument of MacMullen (2003) who deals with shifts in class during Late Antiquity. This also links up with the suggestion that the Circumcellions saw martyrdom as an opportunity for ‘upward social mobility’ denied to them in their social stratum, Gotoh (1988) 303, 307–308. 135 Shaw (2011) 651. 136 ‘Good girls go to heaven, but bad girls go everywhere.’ A witticism attributed to Mae West, and also the title of a song written by Jim Steinman, performed by the all-female band Pandora’s Box on their album Original Sin (1989).

10 Piracy, plunder and the legacy of archaeological research in North Africa Eve MacDonald and Sandra Bingham

Following the prosperous days of the Roman era, Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco … vegetated, barely surviving, cultivating piracy … One by one, the former riches disappeared … all fell into ruin.1

In the 19th and early 20th centuries, European visitors and the colonial overlords who occupied North Africa often repeated a prevailing sentiment of post-antique decline.2 The discourse around the colonial encounter in North Africa was one of imperial domination and Christianisation of a forgotten place. The land was imagined as given over to ruin by those who lived there and those who had aided and abetted Mediterranean piracy for the previous centuries.3 These were also, simultaneously, the nascent years of archaeological research in North Africa. As French colonial power in North Africa took over the classical past and archaeological heritage of the region, these acts would be justified in the name of re-civilising a place that had once exemplified the height of Roman conquest and appropriation. The perceived decline was often expressed by invoking piracy and the pirate legacy of these so-called Barbary States.4 There has been much critical analysis of European views from the latter 19th and early 20th centuries that placed French occupation of the Maghreb in this context.5 To some European colonists a return to Rome became the cultural model upon which to build their new Empire. They brought with them ‘a new breeze; and France … combatting as little as possible, arrived to conquer so that Roman civilization could be saved’.6 The colonial view allowed the years between antiquity and the 19th century to be erased, dismissing more than a millennium of history as a period of domination by pirates whose very name, Barbary, had become synonymous with the people. The story of the Roman defeat of Carthage and the rise of a great urbanising Roman Empire across the Mediterranean played into this larger narrative. By the 16th century, the tales of Rome’s conquests had already been firmly ingrained into European popular society based on the writing of Latin authors such as Livy and Virgil. Translations of these works into the vernacular languages of Europe begin to appear around this time. A simplified narrative of Rome’s acquisition of Empire and the spread of

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civilisation across North Africa thrived and captured the imaginations of European powers in the process of extending their own influence in the region. That an urbanised and also highly productive agricultural civilisation thrived in the Maghreb pre-Rome was largely overlooked with the exception of a focus on Carthage. Carthage’s position was outlined both as Rome’s fiercest enemy and as an orientalist and essentially barbaric power.7 In due course, along with the rest of the Roman Empire, the region had been Christianised, giving rise to some of the great thinkers of the Latin west, such as St Cyprian, Tertullian and St Augustine of Hippo.8 The traditional narratives of decline and decay also populated the late antique Christian sources on North Africa as the influences from Vandal and Byzantine conquest took hold over the 5th to the 7th centuries CE.9 The conquest of North Africa by the Arab armies in the 7th century created a new dynamic across North Africa, one that reflected both continuity and change. After the final seizure of a mostly deserted Carthage by the Umayyad armies under the command of Hassân ibn Numân (CE 698) the region became part of the Umayyad caliphate. The social and political orientation of North Africa shifted towards the eastern capitals of Damascus and then Baghdad.10 The Umayyads chose to establish their new city on the site of ancient Tunis (Tynes/Thuna), set back behind a lake and more protected from the sea compared to nearby ancient Carthage.11 The new Umayyad city grew to become a regional power and then capital of the Medieval Hafsid kingdom by the 13th century (1228–1574). Tunis, like other coastal cities of North Africa in the post-antique centuries, functioned as an important location of connectivity in the world of Da-r al-Isla-m that reached from the east to the west of the Mediterranean. It was, for example, cheaper to transport goods from Tunis to Alexandria by sea than from Damascus to Cairo by land – primarily by camel – though nearly three and a half times the distance.12 In the colonial European eye, however, a reductive attitude towards historical events in North Africa from the 7th century onwards persisted and the most frequent references to the regional history was linked to piracy merged with a fear of the Ottoman threats to Europe.13 Despite the fact that this view overlooks the rich history of the medieval cities of the Mahgreb as well as the deep levels of contact, movement of people, ideas and skilled labour between Europe and North Africa and the Middle East, it was, until quite recently, the prevailing attitude.14 Thus in the 18th/19th century as the study of archaeology developed and was transported across the Mediterranean, this narrative of Empire, decline and piracy was embraced by many of the early European explorers and travellers.15 From the very beginning of the archaeological exploration in the regions of North Africa, the perception of piracy played an active part in creating the narrative. The conscious employment of the idea of piracy by French colonial occupiers also served to separate the indigenous occupants of the North African kingdoms from the earlier history and from much of their archaeological heritage.16 The effect was to create a deep division between those

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engaged in the search for ruins of the region and the people who had lived and worked there for millennia. The colonial narrative created a discontinuity in the historical narrative and emphasised the European inhabitants who had, in their minds, appropriated the greatness of Rome’s power and the endurance of the Christian tradition.17 This chapter looks to consider the development of North African piracy in the pre-colonial period from a different perspective. Although the colonial narrative has been successfully deconstructed over the last decades, the role of piracy as an active agent in the nascent stages of archaeological heritage in North Africa, and Carthage specifically, remains to be fully explored. A variant reading of the events can reflect that this early period of contact and connectivity between North Africa and Europe was created by piracy. Pirates became the means by which ideas and people moved around the Mediterranean. Piracy would also have a profound impact on the way that Mediterranean commerce developed in the early modern era.18 At the same time popular notions of the discovery of ancient sites and cultures in North Africa shifted as the cultures north and south of the Mediterranean shore became better connected. This shift comes into view more clearly in the 16th century as a monumental power struggle for dominance across the Mediterranean played out between the Ottoman Empire and the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. The practice of piracy and the kingdoms of North Africa became synonymous during this period. Legends of the great pirates of the so-called Barbary kingdoms dominated the myths and stories of those who travelled at the time. These were legends built in great part upon the legacy of two brothers originally from the Greek island of Lesbos whose lives encapsulate the prevailing experience of growing Mediterranean trade, contact and warfare in the 16th century: they were Aruj Reis and his brother Hizir.19 It is the younger brother Hizir who was, depending on your viewpoint, the greatest of all the Ottoman naval commanders or the greatest of all Mediterranean pirates. He is better known as Kheir-ed-Din Barbarossa but both brothers were initially instrumental in the creation of the kingdom of Algiers in the 16th century and in the rise of Ottoman dominance in North Africa.20 The brothers from Lesbos were adventurers who set out to take advantage of the growing connectivity of the Mediterranean. They manned ships and went to sea to gain their fame and fortune. Born into relative obscurity, the younger brother Kheir-ed-Din would go on to the greater notoriety when the Ottoman Sultan, Suleimain the Magnificent, employed him for his skill in naval affairs. The Barbarossa (as he was known) would organise and build a new navy for Suleimain that would challenge the Mediterranean dominance of the Holy Roman Emperor.21 One of the main theatres of war between the two powers was the city of Tunis and its sea-facing fortification of La Goulette. These events would bring the history and ruins of Tunis’ neighbour, Carthage, once more to a wider audience.

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The battle for commercial and political dominance by the two largest powers of the 16th century played out in the gulf of Tunis.22 In the contemporary accounts of the wars between Ottoman and Hapsburg, the ancient battles between Carthage and Rome were emphasised and used as context. The celebratory tapestries issued by Charles V depict him as a 16th century Scipio Africanus landing and taking Carthage. These magnificent tapestries celebrate what was, in reality, a fleeting victory and the Hapsburg forces only briefly held Tunis. Elsewhere a map produced in 1574 shows the fortress of La Goulette with the remains of the ancient aqueduct at Carthage clearly visible.23 The Ottoman fleet re-conquered the city in 1569 and held Tunis until 1573. At that point Charles V’s son, Don Juan, took the city once more and he promptly rode his horse out to the ruins of Carthage to survey what remained at the site. By 1574 the city had passed back to the Ottomans and from that time became a client state of the Ottoman Empire.24 The role Tunis played in these epic wars in the 16th century reflect growing connectivity in the early modern world and is paralleled by a growing awareness of the historical heritage of North Africa. This is illustrated in the story of Shakespeare’s Tempest where the broad connections between the ancient past and contemporary events were made evident when the wrecked shipmates discuss their location (Act 2, Scene 1).25 Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen. Not since widow Dido’s time. ANTONIO: Widow? A pox o’that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido! SEBASTIAN: What if he had said ‘widower Aeneas’ too? Good Lord, how you take’d it. ADRIAN: ‘Widow Dido’ said you? You make me study of that. She was of Carthage, not of Tunis. GONZALO: This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. ADRIAN: Carthage? GONZALO: I assure you, Carthage. ADRIAN:

GONZALO:

Thus by the time of Shakespeare’s writing of The Tempest in the early 17th century the links between the kingdom of Tunis and ancient Carthage, and by implication, shipwrecks and piracy had already been clearly established. We can view this prevailing attitude as formational in the early modern European notions of its ancient past. The play as a vehicle for post-colonial discourse has been debated over the past decades and Brotton challenges the idea of The Tempest as a reflection of new colonial adventures in the Atlantic. Instead, Brotton seeks to re-emphasise the importance of this play in articulating growing English involvement in Mediterranean trade and the politics of naval and commercial trade in the 17th century.26 To this we would also argue its importance as a record of growing European awareness of North Africa and of the secondary impact that Mediterranean piracy had in re-connecting histories and pasts.

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The Tempest illustrates how the Barbary kingdoms of North Africa and their spreading fame and fortune had grown increasingly in the European consciousness as the power of the Ottoman Empire spread, reached its height and then declined.27 This was supported by the tales of returned and ransomed captives, many of whom were celebrated across Europe, who brought the realities of these once faraway lands home. The ancient civilisations of North Africa were reborn in the popular imagination and the reputation of the ancient city of Carthage, especially, spread far and wide.28 More frequent, but often less celebrated, were those Europeans who stayed in North Africa, converted to Islam and started new lives. These individuals, those who ‘turned Turk’ in the 17th century were numerous and the ‘borders between Christian Europe and Muslim North Africa much more porous than has been generally acknowledged’.29 The connectivity and porousness makes identifying the cultural origins of a pirate in these formational years more than difficult to pin down.30 The Barbarossa was demonised as a pirate across Europe and celebrated in the Ottoman Empire for his mastery of the sea. His statue still overlooks the Bosphorus in Istanbul and Turkish schoolchildren study his achievements.31 The underlying considerations in identifying a pirate seem to be economic, as there were many ships and captains of all nationalities who privateered for profit and preyed on the shipping of other nations in the Mediterranean at this time.32 The protagonists in this drama at sea cannot be separated by religious affiliation and a simplistic duality of Muslim pirates and Christian victims does not reflect the realities on the ground. Infamous examples of European pirates abound and can be explored in contemporary accounts.33 The well-known 16th century French geographer, Nicolas de Nicolay describes those participating in piracy from Algiers as: of the Kings Household or the Gallies, are Christians renied, or Muhametised, of all Nations, but most of them Spaniards, Italians and of Provence, of the Ilands and Coasts of the Sea Mediterran, given to all Whoredome, Sodometrie, Theft and all other most detestable vices.34 At stake here was Mediterranean trade and the enormous potential for plunder as ships and shipping were disrupted across the region by the corsairs and privateers of many nations. Most of these ships were sponsored by various ‘big’ powers to attack and loot their rivals. It was in the aftermath of the epic battles between the Ottomans and the Holy Roman Empire that growing naval powers of the day, notably England and France, entered the fray. Treaties between English monarchs and the rulers of North African states set out clear lines of exchange, rules and commerce as do many of the documents that outline the position of the French king, all reflecting the political ambiguity of the times.35 Declining Ottoman influence combined with an increase of state sponsored piracy led to the creation of kingdoms in the western Mediterranean whose rulers often had a symbiotic relationship with the pirates. For the merchants

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and ships plying the Mediterranean, the threat, fear and horror of being captured by the pirates became part of a wider public narrative. The stories were hugely popular in European nations and many people published their tales upon release from captivity and return. It is also in tales of the victims of pirates that we have the earliest European accounts of the archaeological site of Carthage and other locations of ruins across North Africa. The tales of those captured by Barbary pirates and sold into slavery at Tunis and Algiers through the 17th–19th centuries have been frequently discussed but rarely has the impact of piracy on the understanding of the archaeological heritage been emphasised.36 Piracy was essentially a commercial transaction and the capture, sale, ransom and return of the victims was a lengthy process. The time it took to obtain their freedom allowed a few of these victims to become nascent archaeologists and antiquarians as they set out to explore the local environment. The best known of these accounts come from the region that included the city of Tunis and the nearby ruins of Carthage. The result was an increased knowledge and understanding of both the landscape of the famous ancient city of Carthage and a growing curiosity about the state of the remains at the site. The case of Thomas d’Arcos is one of the earliest examples of a captive who searched out the physical remnants of North Africa’s past civilisations after being sold into slavery at Tunis by Barbary pirates in January 1625.37 He spent his time exploring the ruins in the area and began a process of plundering the landscape to acquire valuables, sending Punic and Roman artefacts, drawings and notes back to France. D’Arcos’ patron was the great French scholar Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc, who encouraged his man on the ground to continue his explorations and mapping. The correspondence between the two men provides insight into the birth of archaeological study and antiquarian interest at Carthage. Over the period of d’Arcos’ residency in North Africa knowledge of the region and the sites at Carthage and beyond was systematically collected for the first time (that we know of). A native of Rouen, d’Arcos had served as secretary to a French Cardinal and was in his early 50s when first enslaved.38 He was soon freed.39 Though it is not entirely clear from the correspondence he sent back to his friends in France, it seems that d’Arcos never left Tunis after being released and entered into the service of the ruling Bey, becoming a key advisor.40 In 1630, he came to the attention of Peiresc, a magistrate and cleric in France with an interest in all things antiquarian.41 D’Arcos wrote a letter in April of that year to a friend in Toulon, Honoré Aycard (who was also known to Peiresc); in that letter he made mention of some ‘bones thought to be those of a giant’ and when Peiresc heard of them, it caught his interest.42 Peiresc had been intrigued by the report of a Punic inscription brought from the area around Tunis ten years before, indicating that artefacts from Carthage had already been making their way to France.43 He saw d’Arcos as well placed to follow through on such intriguing discoveries and to widen his knowledge of the region. Peiresc had an interest in the ancient Mediterranean

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and was in the process of creating an up-to-date map of the region. He had placed men in strategic locations to send back information.44 To Peiresc, the antiquity and epic history of the site of Carthage meant that it deserved to be placed on a level with Rome and in d’Arcos he found his agent on the ground.45 There is a wealth of correspondence between Peiresc and d’Arcos, often coming via their common friend Aycard. Much of the discussion in the later letters concerns d’Arcos’ conversion to Islam in 1632, after which he signed his name Osman. Peiresc, who continued to address d’Arcos as Thomas, found it difficult to comprehend the conversion given what that meant in contemporary France and the perceived implications for eternal damnation.46 Despite Peiresc’s reaction, it was far from uncommon across the Barbary kingdoms for European captives to convert, especially if they chose to settle in North Africa after they were freed. D’Arcos had remained in Tunis and his conversion gave him the freedom to continue to explore the area.47 Peiresc wrote twenty-eight letters to d’Arcos and frequently repeats demands for information on the site. These occur so often that a recent scholar notes that Peiresc ‘beleaguered d’Arcos with numerous requests’.48 In the summer of 1632, d’Arcos sent Peiresc a copy of a Punic inscription and in August of the same year, Peiresc asked for a squeeze to be made. He provided detailed instructions to his protégée on how this should be achieved: by pressing into the stone a double thickness of wet paper which, when dried, preserved the imprint of the inscription.49 His concern was that previous attempts to reproduce the Punic script visually had not been accurate. Further letters detail the problems that d’Arcos encountered in attaining this squeeze, supposedly because of the difficulty in finding someone skilled enough to make it.50 As Tolbert has noted, despite d’Arcos’ offers to help Peiresc, he frequently seems to have found reasons not to do so.51 In fact, there is evidence from Peiresc’s other letters that he often found d’Arcos’ information ‘of poor quality’ and d’Arcos writes that he feels Peiresc’s displeasure with his results.52 The letters reveal a level of frustration between the two men, with the desires of Peiresc for more detail and information than was available causing friction. This illustrates the divide between the expectation of Carthage’s archaeological potential and the realities on the ground. Peiresc took a special interest in the topography of the region and asked d’Arcos to make a map of the site of Carthage from his view. Peiresc was hoping for something along the lines of what had been attempted much earlier at Rome.53 The main reason for providing information about what could be seen on the ground was to enable a comparison with descriptions provided by ancient writers such as Appian (Pun. 95–96, 117–118, 124, 127–128, based ultimately on Polybius). D’Arcos provided Peiresc with several maps of the area and of Tunis in particular.54 He also sent sketches and drawings of Carthage, some quite detailed. The examples that survive have Peiresc’s annotations on them where he has extrapolated from the information available to him in the ancient historians.55 It is clear that the plans were produced

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by personal observation, which was pioneering for its time and has been called the ‘leading edge of new scientific thinking in the 1620s and 1630s’.56 This was the first attempt at setting the topography of Carthage down on paper. In fact, after looking at what d’Arcos had provided and trying to match this with the ancient texts, Peiresc concluded, with a certain understatement, that ‘there are some difficulties in accommodating the statements of the ancient authors with the plan of Carthage which was made according to the present state [of the ruins].’57 The debate on the topography of Carthage would continue for those who visited the site in the coming centuries. The last we hear of Thomas d’Arcos is in Tunis in 1637, the year in which Peiresc died.58 Of all d’Arcos’ endeavours, it was his part in the study of Punic inscriptions that sparked a particular interest in European scholars. His capture by Barbary pirates illustrates how connected the rediscovery of the ancient site of Carthage was to the vicissitudes of Mediterranean piracy. D’Arcos’ interest in antiquity and role as a vehicle for the intellectual pursuits of Peiresc helped to disseminate the understanding of ancient Carthage in the 17th century beyond what the ancient authors told of wars with Rome. It was the beginning of a concrete idea of the site as a locus for further research and inquiry. Thus through the agency of pirates and increasing connectivity between Europe and North Africa we have the unintentional connections between the pirate states and early archaeologists – both of whose tendencies were towards appropriation. These connections are especially frequent in the early modern views of North Africa. D’Arcos’ contemporary, Frere Pierre Dan, head of the Mathurin (Trinitarian) brotherhood at Fontainbleu, departed on a mission to ransom captives in the Barbary Kingdoms in 1634. Upon his return he published a history of the region, Histoire de Barbarie, and it proved popular enough to be reprinted in 1649. Dan remarks on the ancient site of Carthage but claims that there is nothing left there except a few bits of old masonry and that the site was now covered with orchards that bore lovely fruit.59 In the 17th century both Dan and d’Arcos were wandering the site of Carthage hinting that it was more travelled, multi-cultural and generally known about than has been widely considered.60 These connections between pirates and archaeological discovery continued right through to the early 19th century. A later example of a character whose capture by pirates aided and abetted the re-discovery of the site of Carthage was the Italian monk Père Caronni. When Barbary corsairs captured Felice Caronni, a Milanese Barnabite priest, he was travelling on a Sicilian ship out of Palermo on 9th June 1804. The story of Caronni is, in itself, a fascinating account of travel, piracy and archaeology in the Napoleonic era. He describes embarking on a Sicilian ship bound for Napoli with oranges to sell and when they were thirty miles south of Capri a pirate ship appeared coming out of the port of Salerno as the sun was rising. The captain and sixteen of the crew fled the ship in the only lifeboat leaving the passengers alone to face the pirates.61 This is how Caronni found himself transported to Tunis and there he was immediately drawn into the world of international diplomacy and archaeology.

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His pressing need was for a new passport that proved his Milanese credentials and therefore allied him to France. Napoleonic France was in treaty with the ruling Bey and therefore his captivity would end once his citizenship was proven. In the meantime the Italian priest also happened to be a keen classicist and amateur antiquarian who found he had some time to spare and could not resist exploring his environs.62 The French consul in Tunis suggested that Caronni spend some time with his Danish counterpart whose residence was located at La Marsa, near the ruins of ancient Carthage. For three weeks, sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback, Caronni diverted himself among the ruins with the expert guidance of a Dutch engineer by the name of Jean Emile Humbert.63 Humbert, who had originally come to Tunis to help build a port at the strategic point of La Goulette, was in the process of pioneering a scientific approach to the sites and artefacts on the ground at Carthage. A recent publication even refers to Humbert as ‘the man who rediscovered Punic Carthage’.64 There is little doubt that his contribution and systematic approach to the site would prove to be a watershed moment for the study of ancient civilisations in North Africa. The diplomatic correspondence of the ruling Bey at Tunis included a note about Caronni who appears as a ‘celebrated antiquarian’. It is clear that Caronni’s position complicated matters for the Bey and his liberation necessitated compensation of the governor of Bizert for his loss of two captives who could be ransomed. The correspondence provides a view into the way international politics, archaeology and piracy intersected in the Napoleonic period. Caronni’s captivity was summed up by the Bey as an opportunity for a little excursion among the ruins of Carthage.65 Immediately on his return to Milan in 1805 Caronni published his observations on ancient Carthage to great success. Celebrity status grew from his adventures in North Africa and the public interest in archaeological discovery was a large part of this, as was his clash with the pirates of North Africa. Caronni’s observations on Carthage continued to add to the body of knowledge about the ancient city and its environs. His publication included a sketched map that seems to be the first published example of the urban topography of Carthage based on the ideas Jean-Emile Humbert. This included the correct location of key topographical sites at Carthage that had previously been disputed, such as the Byrsa Hill and the ports.66 The importance of Caronni’s publication can be traced in the attention it attracted and its part in the diffusion of knowledge of Carthage. This is proven by the fact that the well-known contemporary French writer and academic, François René de Chateaubriand, refers to Caronni’s report of Carthage in his book Paris to Jerusalem published in 1811. Chateaubriand was fundamental in creating and disseminating a deeply orientalist view of the ancient world and near east and his influential publication would have had a wide impact.67 That he barely saw Carthage, and only ever visited the site because his own ship was delayed in leaving from La Goulette does not

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seem to matter. The importance of Chateaubriand lay in his renown, so his published acceptance of Caronni’s report on the location of the Punic harbours, as discovered by Jean-Emile Humbert, are relevant to the dissemination of the understanding of the site of Carthage in the early part of the 19th century. These connections are also key in linking the stories of travelling in North Africa to both archaeology and piracy.68 There is a long list of others who were directly or indirectly guided by the hands of corsairs or pirates to a land that was rich in history and archaeology. In the post-Napoleonic period, the danger and urgency of piracy decreased as colonial foundations took hold. France established direct occupation of Algeria in 1830 and a ‘protectorate’ in Tunisia by 1881.69 A distinctly romantic notion of pirates and piracy persisted alongside the growing interest in travel, exploration and archaeological investigation. In fact early in the 20th century, Cook’s Practical Guide to Algeria and Tunisia advertised and celebrated the piratical aspects of North African travel. The guidebook comments that ‘to the general reader the most interesting part in the history of Algiers commences with the rule of the Turks, and of the brothers Barbarossa, the famous pirates’.70 This illustrates how, as actual danger from piracy diminished, the use of the ‘pirate’ epithet remained entrenched in popular media. It would become, as demonstrated above, the verbal means by which local and indigenous inhabitants of these new colonial lands were disassociated from their heritage.71 Thus we can consider the label of ‘piracy’ and the acts of the pirates from different perspectives. Here piracy is a primary agent of archaeological rediscovery in North Africa and not just at Carthage but also across the region of the so-called Barbary kingdoms. The transportation of people and ideas and cultures from point to point in the Mediterranean had long been carried out by sea from the beginnings of the 1st millennium CE and right through to the early modern centuries. Horden and Purcell have outlined how the Mediterranean was a natural connector and unifier, and include the fears expressed by northern Europeans in the 15th century when faced with this reality of connection.72 Renewed Mediterranean connectivity created an environment of learning and understanding, although often overshadowed by a narrative of conflict and difference. The distinctions between the simplistic categorisation of a ship as privateer or pirate or corsair belies the realities on the ground in the early centuries of reconnection between North Africa and Europe. The fact is that any interpretation of piracy depends very much on the point of view of those describing it. In pre-colonial times, ships that someone, somewhere, considered to be piratical also were involved in increasing the communication and connection between cultures in the Mediterranean.73 The pirates and their legacy have had a profound impact on the understanding of the ancient cultures of North Africa. The label ‘pirate’ was used for a long time by the colonial powers to label inhabitants of North Africa. This label allowed for the appropriation of the past and guided much of the research and heritage conservation across the region that resulted in a skewed landscape that

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focused on Roman Imperial dominance. The result has been a disassociation between the inhabitants of North Africa and their relationship to their archaeological and cultural heritage. Assessing piracy as a connector in the pioneering centuries of archaeological research and outlining its role as a fundamental part in re-connecting the cultures around the Mediterranean basin in the early modern world can help to close this divide. The inadvertent impact achieved by those who sailed and explored, acquired and appropriated in the Mediterranean in the early modern world broadened our understanding of the North Africa in antiquity. Where the piracy label has been a means of framing a debate on heritage and association, the act itself should also be seen as the means by which we understand the shared heritage of North Africa’s long history.74

Notes 1 Germain & Faye (1924) ii–iii. This translation is found in Swearingen (1987) 29 who explores views from early 20th century French writing on North African (Moroccan) agriculture. Unless indicated translations in this chapter are the authors’ own. This chapter stems from research for Bingham & MacDonald (forthcoming). 2 Discussed extensively in Lorcin (2002); Ford (2015). 3 Laroui (1970) 9–17 introduces the way in which the colonial narrative of the history of the centuries between Rome and France was described as one of perpetual ‘malchance’. 4 Of the Barbary States, Morocco and Libya have slightly different narratives attached to the birth of archaeological excavation and this chapter is focused on Tunisia and, in terms of the general narrative, Algeria. Swearingen (1987) is a place to start for the Morocco narrative. See Kaiser & Calafat (2014) for an overview of early modern Mediterranean piracy. See Lorcin (2002) 300 on the colonial mission in Algeria. 5 For discussion of Roman Empire and North African archaeology and colonialism there is a long pedigree. A selection includes Laroui (1970) 21–65; Bénabou (1976); Mattingly (1996, 2011); McCarty (2018); Modéran, (2003); Fenwick (2007) on Algeria specifically; for an archaeological review see Mattingly & Hitchner (1995). Although not specifically about archaeology Goff (2005) provides interesting approaches. 6 Germain & Faye (1924) ii–iii quoted in Swearingen (1987) 29. See also Lorcin (2002) 295–296, who calls it the ‘cultural idiom’ of European colonialism. For an outline of the history of archaeology in North Africa see Fenwick (2012), and for Roman period archaeology and background, Mattingly & Hitchner (1995). 7 The publication of Gustav Flaubert’s Salammbô in 1851 provides just such a framework. 8 See Lorcin (2002) 313–315 for the role of Cardinal Lavigerie, archbishop of Algiers and founder of the Père Blancs, the monks who would play a key role in early archaeological excavation in Carthage. See also Freed (2008) on the key figure of Père Delattre of the White Fathers at Carthage. Lavigerie’s aims to ‘resurrect’ the legacy of the church of St Augustine and Cyprian are explored in Bingham & MacDonald (forthcoming), chapter 5. 9 Leone (2013) looks closely at the evidence for changes in urban settlement patterns across the period discussed here. 10 Although there is no clear contemporary account of the events, later Arabic writers attribute the conquest of Carthage to the forces of Hassân ibn Numân

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commander for the Caliph Abd el-Melik. For example Ibn Sa’id Gharnati claims Carthage was destroyed in the time of ‘Abd el-Melik ben Merwân and the pillage carried away to Damascus. See Martinez (2002) for a survey of the sources for Tunis as an Arabic foundation and the destruction of Carthage. See Fenwick (2013) who provides an overview of the formation of early Medieval North Africa and outlines the need to address the traditional narrative with more careful consideration of the evidence. Kaegi (2010) for the complete story of the conflict between Byzantine and Arab forces for North Africa. Siraj (2002) focuses on the continuities. See Kaegi (2010) 200–212 on the leadership and decision making of the 7th century Arabic commanders. Strabo 37.3.16 for the location of Tynes. See Greenhalgh (2009) 135 for these calculations. Laroui (1970) provides an excellent overview of the period, see also Sebag (1998) 100–105. See Bingham & MacDonald (forthcoming) chapter 2 for the process of plunder and the formation of the archaeological site at Carthage. This is a brief summary of the frequently expressed views in the 19th and early 20th century narrative. See Ford (2015) for more detail and bibliography. For details of the movement of peoples between the countries of the Britain and North Africa, especially to Algiers and Tunis, see Matar (2001) whose introduction to the accounts of England captive of Barbary pirates lays out the depth of connectivity. Mattingly (2011) 10 notes the deep interconnectedness between the development of the European empires and the study of ancient Rome. See Ford (2015) 57–58 and Lorcin (2002) for specific examples and the background explored by Thomas (1994). Bénabou (1976) shifted the narrative to one of resistance both to France and Rome and was, along with others discussed by Mattingly (1996), instrumental in the postcolonial engagement on this heritage. See general discussion in Horden & Purcell (2000), also Kaiser & Calafat (2014). See Kaiser & Calafat (2014) 74–85 including an interesting discussion on state formation. For the complete list of sources for the life of the Barbarossa and his brother see Weiss (2011) 7 n. 1. The sea battles won and lost by the Barbarossa are recounted by the 17th century Ottoman scholar Haji Khalifeh (Kâtip Çelebi). The life and times of the Barbarossa have been written about since the 17th century. See Bradford (2009 [1969]); Fisher (1957) 41–80; also Weiss (2011) 7 n. 1 who provides a number of the primary sources. Laroui (1970) 227–243 notes the cities caught between two powers, esp. 232, on the ‘condottières turcs et pouvoir ottoman’. The discussion by Brotton (1998) helped to re-emphasise the importance of the Mediterranean theatre and the knowledge and communications of the central Mediterranean zone between Naples and Tunis in the wider imagination. Braudel (1995 [1966]) 865–891 covers the broader perspective and aftermath. Tapestries: (http://tapestries.flandesenhispania.org/The_Conquest_of_Tunis_series) and map: (www.sanderusmaps.com/en/our-catalogue/detail/159966&e=antique-map-of-tu nis-by-braun-and-hogenberg/). Laroui (1970) 227–243; Sebag (1998); Brotton (1998) 33–35 outlines the events briefly. Details are provided by Matar (2005) with a focus on the connections and impact between Britain and the Barbary states. For the history of the Ottoman state and North Africa see Panzac (2009). See Brotton (1998) 24 and see also Matar (2005) discussion on ‘The Moor on the Elizabethan Stage’, esp. 36–37 & 46 on how the character of Caliban reflects the conditions of those who had been captured by Barbary pirates in Shakespeare’s tale.

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26 Brotton (1998) 24. 27 Also key to this in English (with many other examples in Italian and French): Marlowe’s Dido: Queen of Carthage leading to Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas 28 The Aeneid was well known in Latin at this time and over the 16th and 17th centuries was frequently translated into the vernacular languages of Europe. Gavin Douglas’ translation, the Eneados, appeared in 1513 in Middle Scots and was the first complete translation to appear in the British Isles. See also Brammall (2015) for English translations in this period. 29 Matar (2001) 2 provides examples of impoverished Europeans choosing to settle in North Africa in the period where there was plenty of work. 30 Weiss (2011) 170 emphasises that piracy and enslavement were reciprocal activities in the Mediterranean and that the suffering of those enslaved was equally distributed among citizens from the north and south of the Mediterranean. 31 For an English biography of the Barbarossa see Bradford (2009 [1969]). 32 Parker (2004) outlines what the notion of ‘barbary’ meant in England in the 16th and 17th centuries. 33 See for example Weiss (2011); MacLean (2004); Vitkus (2001); Parker (2004) who reproduce various accounts. 34 This is a quotation from Nicolay’s 16th century publication taken from MacLean, (2004) 195 and is from a translation into English by Thomas Washington the Younger from 1585. See Brafman (2014) for Nicolay’s works and context. 35 For the treaties between Barbary kingdoms and English kings see Matar (2005); Parker (2004); while Weiss (2011) looks at the French role and the function of slavery in the context of piracy. The role of the European states in sponsoring pirates is outlined clearly by Kaiser & Calafat (2014) 78–85. 36 Except in collections such as Vitkus (2001). See also accounts in Parker (2004). 37 The most comprehensive study of d’Arcos is Dakhlia (2013), who reassesses the evidence for d’Arcos in Tunis and questions some commonly held assumptions about his time there. Tolbert (2009) focuses on his conversion and there is mention of d’Arcos in Weiss (2011) 24–25 as well as in Miller (2005); (2015) 338–355. We are indebted to these works. An Algerian novel, Vaste est la prison by Assia Djebar (1995) features d’Arcos as a character, with details taken directly from his letters. 38 Dakhlia (2013) 84–90 provides details about d’Arcos’ early years, including time spent as a spy for the English at the end of the 16th century and an incarceration in Rome in 1601. He was a frequent traveller and it was on one of these trips that he was captured. 39 He was ransomed in April 1625 by a merchant who then was repaid by d’Arcos’ wife, Mariana d’Arcos y Valentin. See Dakhlia (2013) 77. 40 Scholarly opinion is divided as to d’Arcos’ movements after his release in the spring of 1625. Dakhlia (2013) 78–79 provides evidence that he never left the city and that the fiction of his second capture was to cover his decision to stay for those who would not understand his reasons why. She notes in support, 94, that there is no evidence in the French consular acts for a release in the year 1630 although there is for 1625. Miller (2005) 496 incorrectly has d’Arcos taken captive in 1628. 41 Tolbert (2009) 2 refers to a letter of that year in which Peiresc offers his assistance in gaining D’Arcos’ release. Again, this is part of the ‘fake news’ of his recapture; for his part, d’Arcos finally admits to being free in a letter to Peiresc in 1630. See Dakhlia (2013) 94. 42 Tolbert (2009) 6. D’Arcos’ giant was recognised by Peiresc as a large mammal, either elephant or whale, as noted by Gassendi in his Life of Peiresc (Bk. IV) trans. Lasalle & Bresson (1992) 206; Godard (2009) on the rumour of giant bones from St Augustine to the 17th century.

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43 Miller (2015) 335 records that Peiresc had received a letter from a friend who knew someone that had ‘gone to Tunis and, hearing reports of Latin and other inscriptions being found in the environment, set out to copy them’. He adds that ‘the inscriptions followed, with drawings and identifications’, see 587 n 157. 44 Miller (2015) 133 notes contacts in Syria, Lebanon and Egypt. 45 Miller (2005) 496. 46 On the date see Dakhlia (2013) 71, 104. D’Arcos in his letters works to reassure Peiresc that he had not fully given up on his Christian roots and hinted in a letter that he had not been circumcised and that his salvation was still assured. See Weiss (2011) 68 n. 109. 47 Tolbert (2009) 22; Dakhlia (2013) 119–128 looks at the conversion in some detail and notes that d’Arcos neither concealed the act nor completely converted. Conversion is frequently discussed in the extant sources and many chose to convert, see Matar (2001) 2. 48 Tolbert (2009) 8. 49 Miller (2005) 498. 50 Tolbert (2009) 19. Peiresc was adamant that inscriptions should not be sent, since he not only understood the dangers of transport but also acknowledged the loss of context. See also Miller (2005) 499. 51 Tolbert (2009) 19. 52 The letters consulted here include the volume published in 1815 by de Saint-Vincens. See de Saint-Vincens (1815) 28 n. 4 where d’Arcos writes to their mutual friend Aycard and discusses that he had not heard from Peiresc for a long time but wanted to assure him of his continued ‘wish to serve’. See also Tolbert (2009) 16 for Peiresc’s displeasure. Dakhlia (2013) 130 notes that d’Arcos had written several works while in Tunis, including something on Alexander the Great and his successors, and in several languages so it is clear that he had the antiquarian interest. 53 Miller (2005) 497. 54 Miller (2015) 559 n. 49 observes that these maps are not mentioned in the correspondence that survives and there is some question, therefore, of authorship. Accompanying the maps was a memorandum that provided details and measurements. Miller (2015) 553 n. 55, notes ‘the precise location of Tunis-Carthage so as to correct the bookish cartography is a main theme of the memorandum’. 55 Miller (2015) 251–254 provides images of these in his book: Figure 21 reproduces d’Arcos’ map of the site of Carthage and Figure 22 gives an example of the annotations made by Peiresc in the margin. The maps are currently held in the Bibliothèque Inguimbertine, Musées et Bibliothèques de Carpentras (CBI, MS. 1831, f428r and f.430v). 56 Miller (2015) 252. As Miller (2005) 497–498 notes, d’Arcos was diligent in taking measurements of whatever he saw on the ground, which was uncommon for the period. 57 As quoted in Miller (2015) 251. 58 He appears in consular sources in both 1635, acting as an intermediary for Italian and French merchants in Tunis and again in 1637 but then no more is heard of him there. See Dakhlia (2013) 81–82. The Muslim name d’Arcos had adopted, Osman, seems to have been in use by another French renegade in a similar position in Tunis by 1641. See Dakhlia (2013) 149. 59 Reference here from Dan (1649) Chapter III 166 where he notes: ‘un peu de vieilles mazures’. See also Brahimi (1978) for the history and papers of European travellers in the 17th century especially 13–33 for Dan. 60 For example correspondence between the French consul in Tunis in 1684–1685, Claude Lemaire and the Marquis de Seignelay, the French secretary of State for the navy and based in Toulon reveal that Lemaire was regularly sending ancient

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coins and searching out other artefacts for Seignelay who was an avid collector, see Plantet (1893) Vol. 1 Letters 353, 354, 359. See Caronni (1993 [1805]) 18 for his own account of the capture. Discussed in detail in Debergh (1998). Humbert was instrumental in the process of archaeological rediscovery at Carthage. For more detail on his role and the archaeological discoveries see Debergh (1998); Halbertsma (1995, 2003). See Docter et al. (2015) 7. This was Hammouda Bey of the Husainid dynasty. For the Bey’s diplomatic correspondence see Plantet (1893) Vol. 3 851. The map is reproduced in Caronni (1993 [1805]) 18–19; cf. Halbertsma (2015) 119–125 for a short summary of Humbert’s work that includes reproductions of his topographical sketches. See Said (2003 [1978]) 171–177 on Chateaubriand’s work and influence. Neppi Modona (1983) has reproduced an anonymous pamphlet, now thought to be written by Jean-Emile Humbert, critical of European attitudes towards the local government and people at Carthage. The fact that it had to be written anonymously reflects the realities of European cultural dominion decades before colonial states were put in place. The so-called Barbary Wars of the early 19th century, and the end of the Barbary States, are discussed in Panzac (1999). Algerian occupation can be dated to 1830, and the processes that led to the protectorates in Tunisia and Morocco later in the century. See Diaz-Andreu (2007) 245–277; McCarty (2018) for post-colonial approaches to 19th century archaeology. See Matar (2009) for a study of these events from an Arabic perspective. This quote is reproduced in MacLean (2004) 194 and the chapter on ‘Slavery in Algeria’ provides much detail and context. As discussed in nn. 1 & 2 (above). See the discussion in Horden & Purcell (2000) 22–25. On this fear see Matar (2005) 12–37. Various articles outline this in Amirell & Muller (2014), including de Souza (2014) 25 who emphasises the tradition in classical antiquity for the pirate label to be applied to political enemies in order to delegitimise them. Maritime activities, extortion tribute from allies, capturing and selling slaves, this was the stuff of normal naval behaviour until well into the 19th century. The outline of first steps in the development of archaeological research in North Africa has been more clearly elucidated in the recent scholarship, Debergh (1998, 2000); Halbertsma (2003). Docter et al. (2015) and the Leiden museum came together in an exhibit of early archaeological exploration carried out by Humbert. See also Bingham & MacDonald (forthcoming) chapter 2.

11 Spoils of Empire Rider Haggard’s appropriation of the katabasis motif in King Solomon’s Mines Liliana Carrick-Tappeiner

Since antiquity the katabasis (literally ‘a going down’) has referred broadly to a range of descents such as a journey from the interior down to the coast, or one into the underworld usually in order to obtain something (or someone) valuable.1 It is the latter definition with which the interests of this discussion are aligned, as well as the less literal use of the term to describe figurative descents, or journeys, into the unknown. Of particular significance to this chapter is the aspect of plunder common to the katabatic narratives of antiquity or, at least, acquiring from the underworld something extraordinary and generally off-limits whether material or more abstract and numinous. Examples from antiquity can be found in the heroic accounts of Theseus and Pirithous, Herakles, Orpheus, Psyche, Odysseus and, of special interest here, Aeneas. The appeal of the katabatic motif post-antiquity and across many genres can no doubt be attributed to its compelling narrative structure accompanied by its now distinct topoi, which, while not necessarily distinct in themselves, have become so as a result of their frequent appropriation and recurrence in various works both during and post-antiquity. On a related note, and to introduce to the chapter a further aspect of plunder, it is necessary to acknowledge that the meaning of a text, image or idea from antiquity, in this case the concept of the katabasis, is influenced and altered through successive layers of literary plundering and appropriation over the centuries, or what Martindale would refer to as a ‘chain of receptions’.2 Moreover, it is also important to appreciate the unique nature of each reception and to explore how a text begins to accrue new meanings that should be understood according to the text’s historical context as well as its relationship to antiquity and the tradition from which it has emerged. Attesting to the lasting popularity and wide reception of the katabasis is the scholarly attention given to the use of this motif in an assortment of media such as modern cinema (specifically Science Fiction, the American Western and depictions of the Vietnam War)3 and the poetry of the Beat movement,4 to offer a few examples. Of particular relevance to the present study is Vynckier’s ‘Exotic Hades’, in which he observes that ‘the western imagination has envisaged from the beginning an intrinsic connection between

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the journey to distant lands […] and the journey to the underworld’.5 Accordingly, it is perhaps not surprising to observe this phenomenon in the literature of empire, and, specifically, the quest-like African romances of British novelist Sir Henry Rider Haggard (1856–1925), the focus of this discussion. Haggard’s African romances, especially those featuring lost cities, regularly exploit the tropes of the katabatic journey as the novels’ intrepid explorers venture into the unknown, descending into alien and inhospitable regions often in pursuit of knowledge, adventure or material gain,6 reflecting the aspect of ‘plunder’ or ‘acquisition’ common to katabatic literature. This is especially evident in King Solomon’s Mines (1885) which follows the escapades of three treasure-seeking Englishmen who attempt to locate King Solomon’s fabled diamond mines in the lesser-explored deep interior of southern Africa. Coupled with frequent references to the Diamond Fields of Kimberley the objective of the quest clearly reflects contemporary colonial endeavours of mineral exploitation and plunder of southern Africa. This chapter will explore Haggard’s ‘mining’ or appropriation of various katabatic topoi that accompany the treasure-seeking endeavours of the heroes in King Solomon’s Mines in order to determine the historical, conceptual and symbolic significance of this motif in Haggard’s literary imagination. Important to this enquiry, is an understanding of how Haggard’s own background informed the text. The son of a country squire, Haggard was initially set to embark upon a career in the Foreign Office, but at the age of nineteen, before he had the chance to sit the necessary entrance exam, Haggard was at a moment’s notice offered the opportunity to join the staff of Sir Henry Bulwer, a friend of the family and the newly appointed LieutenantGovernor of the British Colony of Natal, South Africa.7 Haggard remained in South Africa in various capacities from 1876 until 1881, joining the staff of Theophilus Shepstone, then Special Commissioner to the Transvaal, at the end of 1876, during which time he was part of the mission sent to annex the Transvaal ‘in order to secure the peace and safety of our said colonies and our subjects elsewhere’.8 Soon after the annexation Haggard took up the position of Master and Registrar of the High Court in Pretoria, but tiring of government service in 1879, he and a friend decided to move to Natal to farm ostriches in Newcastle where they had purchased some land. This enterprise, however, was short-lived as increasing conflict between the British and the Boers resulted in the retrocession of the Transvaal. In 1881, Haggard thought it wisest to return to England though his time in South Africa had provided him with ample opportunity to explore the land and collect colourful stories and anecdotes along the way, stirring in him a lasting fondness for the country. ‘It is impossible to overestimate the impact of South Africa on his writing,’ as Etherington notes: ‘The physical environment supplied the raw material for a thousand varied landscapes of the imagination.’9 The novel follows the adventures of elephant hunter and trader, Allan Quatermain who has been recruited by Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good to lead an expedition to the fabled diamond mines of King Solomon,

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rumoured to exist in Kukuanaland, a physically isolated and mostly uncharted territory cut off by natural barriers – including a vast desert – in the interior of southern Africa. Motivating this mission is the disappearance of Sir Henry’s estranged brother, George, who on the strength of an old yarn, has disappeared in an attempt to locate the mines. Quatermain initially cautions against the expedition claiming that ‘I am not aware that any white man ever got across [the desert] save one’10 and that ‘to undertake such a journey would be to go to certain death’.11 Quatermain’s warning is significant for reading the journey as a type of katabasis given the air of exceptional danger and inaccessibility that both trips share. Fortuitously, the party is guided by a treasure map in Quatermain’s possession that was drawn by José da Silvestra who made the trip into Kukuanaland three hundred years before. The men are accompanied by the enigmatic Umbopa, a proud and stately Zulu man, who it soon transpires is Ignosi, the true heir to the throne of Kukuanaland. The Englishman assist their companion in claiming his birthright and take part in a decisive battle, in which Ignosi and his faction of warriors emerge victorious. In return for their loyalty in battle, Ignosi grants the men access to the mines and its store of diamonds but vows that henceforth no other strangers shall be permitted into Kukuanaland in search of riches or bent on imperial endeavours, curiously ending the novel on an anti-imperialist note. Dedicated ‘to all the big and little boys who read it’,12 King Solomon’s Mines is ostensibly a simple adventure story written in imitation of R.L. Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883) as part of a wager with his brother, that he could write an adventure story to rival it.13 The enticing promise of hidden treasure and the inclusion of a treasure map take an obvious cue from Stevenson, and combine to emphasise the quest-like nature of this terrestrial piracy. The inclusion of the map is particularly striking as not only are maps integral to the pursuit of hidden treasure, but cartography is also closely related to the imperial endeavour to which the novel, and indeed Haggard himself, are bound. One might think of Thomas Baines’ ‘Map of the Gold Fields of Southern Africa’ (1873), commissioned by the South African Gold Fields Exploration Company, and with which Haggard was quite likely to be familiar.14 The relationship between maps, treasure and empire is further shown in the novel through the image of the bone pen da Silvestra used to draw the treasure map that becomes instrumental to the men’s mission and acquisition of spoils. The pen ends up in Quatermain’s possession and is kept as a memento that he occasionally uses to sign his name back home in England. Quatermain’s choice to identify himself with the pen, given its clear link to the colonies, is a powerful image for the persistence of empire and Quatermain’s relationship to the project. The novel, which has never been out of print,15 proved a great success, so much so that it spawned a series of books which covered the past and subsequent exploits of its protagonist, Allan Quatermain,16 and set the pace for Haggard’s later lost-city narratives. Despite its simple premise and targeted readership, King Solomon’s Mines is remarkable and complex in both its reception of ancient themes and its ability to capture the concerns and

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atmosphere of the Victorian era along with its most prominent preoccupations: namely British Imperialism and, attending this, colonialism, exploration and the plundering of mineral wealth. That King Solomon’s Mines proved a great success can no doubt be attributed in part to the allure of its rich and thrilling portrayal of Africa as a land of the unknown, and thus of dangerous adventure, but also as a land of plenty, abundant in game and material wealth – two aspects which converge in the novel. Of particular significance to the treasure seeking aspect of this African romance are the circumstances that drive the majority of the novel’s characters to venture into southern Africa, the unknown, and for some, the eventual katabasis into Kukuanaland and its mines. Quatermain notes at the beginning of the novel that while ‘other boys are at school [he] was earning [his] living in the Old Colony and Natal’ and has been ‘trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since’17 and emphasises that ‘it is only eight months ago that [he] made [his] pile’,18 referring here to King Solomon’s treasures. While not explicitly stated, this background hints that his arrival in southern Africa as a youth, somewhat reminiscent of Haggard’s own circumstances, was a matter of practical necessity and an opportunity to earn a living. Then there is Captain Good, a retired naval officer, who, he discloses, has ‘nothing else to do’19 having ‘been turned out by [his] Lord Admiral to starve on half-pay’.20 The vanished George is said to have ‘started out for South Africa in the wild hope of making a fortune’,21 after he became estranged from his brother, and was later left penniless when their father died intestate and the family fortune descended by law to Sir Henry, the eldest son. While Sir Henry’s journey into the unknown is not motivated by fortune like the others, his quest to be reunited with a lost, and possibly deceased, loved one has obvious katabatic allusions. Lastly, and more peripheral to the action, is José da Silvestra, the long-dead maker of the treasure map, who 300 years prior had made his way to southern Africa as ‘a political refugee from Lisbon’.22 The underlying suggestion here is that southern Africa presents itself as an opportunity to outcasts or those who are unable to prosper back home in Europe and England in particular. Certainly, the reality was that in the last quarter of the century many were starting to look to Africa as a land of opportunity. This is evident in King Solomon’s Mines where, as Stiebel points out, in the 19th century Africa was represented as a vast and abundant paradise and that ‘[s]uch a view of Africa stressed a positive primeval aspect, an unspoiled place where the European man could make a fresh start, test himself against physical (and unspoken psychological) challenges, and emerge victorious.’23 This reveals a further element related to the pull of Africa – namely testing one’s mettle against a multitude of unknown threats that the continent presented. This aspect of Africa is elucidated by Bristow, who believes that ‘Africa, perceived as the most degraded and dangerous corner of the world, was correspondingly considered to present the greatest challenge to its conquerers [sic]. No other continent at this time could rival it in terms of ideological value.’24 Accordingly, Africa is cast as a land of plenty with spoils

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on offer to those willing to hazard the necessary trials and dangers it presented. Such a journey into the unknown corners of Africa, with the promise of fitting rewards, shares much with the katabasis, and might account for Haggard’s appropriation of the motif in King Solomon’s Mines. The concept of Africa as a hazardous unknown is central to the novel and the idea is evoked explicitly on several occasions, accompanied by a deep sense of awe and foreboding. After a solemn prayer to the ‘Power that shapes the destinies of men’25 at the onset of their trek through the desert, Quatermain expresses his belief that ‘the unknown and the awful always bring a man nearer to his Maker’.26 Later, regarding the corpse of José da Silvestra, he remarks on ‘the fate that so often overtakes those who would penetrate into the unknown’27 and soon after acknowledges ‘the sense of unknown dangers’28 on the threshold of Kukuanaland. To drive home the import of this concept in Haggard’s work, he himself once expressed sympathy for future writers of romance who ‘with all the world explored and exhausted’ would run out of new material with which to work.29 Even earlier he had speculated in an almost prophetic fashion that in the future storytellers would have to set their tales on other planets.30 The katabatic allusions that feature in King Solomon’s Mines appear to be influenced mostly by Aeneas’ katabasis in Vergil’s Aeneid 6, as I shall presently demonstrate, which in turn borrows elements from the nekyia in Homer’s Odyssey 11, a special ritual whereby Odysseus is able to consult with various shades from the underworld without physically entering the realm himself. Haggard was familiar with Vergil’s Aeneid as is confirmed by some educational background he supplies in his autobiography, The Days of My Life (1926). Here Haggard notes how, intent on pursuing a legal career, he was obliged to undergo intensive tutoring in order to pass an entrance exam before being admitted to Lincoln’s Inn. Thus, despite having forgotten the bulk of his Latin, which he had presumably learnt at school, he recalls that ‘with the assistance of a crammer, in a month learned more Latin than [he] had done all the time [he] was at school; indeed, at the end of a few weeks [he] could read Caesar fluently and Virgil not so ill.’31 Furthermore, two of Haggard’s subsequent novels, Cleopatra (1889) and The World’s Desire (1890) with Helen of Troy as its subject, testify to Haggard’s familiarity with and interest in Classical themes. Although the characters in King Solomon’s Mines do not move through a literal underworld, katabatic features are present in its sense of alterity, extreme hostility and frequent allusions to death. Accordingly, the katabatic motifs characteristic of the traditional descent that structure the narrative are thus applied in a symbolic sense. These include an evocatively katabatic mood and topography, the figure of a guide, and objectives suggestive of the typical purposes of such a journey. King Solomon’s Mines contains two identifiably katabatic episodes where the heroes move through unknown and treacherous spaces. These episodes can be seen to mirror one another at several points – with the first episode presumably anticipating the second more climactic one.

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The repeated motifs that appear here include an extreme sense of foreboding upon the threshold, the threat of starvation and thirst, the death, or sacrifice, of a companion, and ultimately the rebirth of the heroes. These episodes include the initial trek into Kukuanaland – through a hellish desert and over an unforgiving mountain range – and the ultimate episode towards the end of the narrative describing their passage into King Solomon’s mines led by a female guide with strong links to the occult. If, in Classical katabases, as Holtsmark observes, ‘[t]he usual purpose of the journey is to obtain spiritual or material wealth – wisdom, gold, flocks, or some other form of treasure – or to rescue a friend’,32 King Solomon’s Mines clearly satisfies two of these requirements. The men’s foremost objective for journeying into Kukuanaland is to recover a friend (Sir Henry’s lost brother) and secondly, although admittedly more central to the novel, to locate the diamond mines – an obvious signifier of treasure – which if all is to be believed will make them ‘the richest men in the whole world’.33 Haggard’s heroes, along with a few local servants and bearers, must begin their journey into the unknown by trekking through one hundred and twenty miles of hellish desert that is juxtaposed by a passage over a mountain terrain as icy as the desert is hot. While the landscape described here may not immediately stand out as typically katabatic, Holtsmark proposes that, depending on the narrative requirements, the ‘entrance to the underworld may manifest itself associatively in any given narrative as claustrophobic defiles or narrowing passes’34 and that ‘the underlying motif of the demarcating body of water may appear inversely as a scorching desert’.35 Holtsmark observes this in his study of katabatic motifs in the American Western film genre which ‘undoubtedly has the most readily available material for transformation and remapping: unbroken deserts and delimiting mountain ranges stretching ceaselessly westward and filled with hostile Indians, Mexican bandits, or greedy outlaws bent on rape, pillage, and murder’.36 Holtsmark could very well be describing mutatis mutandis the backdrop of much of King Solomon’s Mines. Thus, while in ancient narratives, as is the case in the Aeneid, caves usually serve as entrances to the underworld and rivers such as the Styx or Acheron may represent thresholds to otherworldly realms, the topographic features of the first katabatic episode accomplish this function. From the outset the desert and the mountains are strongly associated with death as is revealed by Umbopa’s foreboding words of caution before the men enter the desert: ‘Death sits upon them [the mountains]. Be wise and turn back.’37 The men’s expedition into the desert is preceded by a riveting hunting scene which at first glance gives Haggard the opportunity to indulge in a lengthy description of a typical African hunt, with which he had first-hand experience,38 and to offer his readers some necessary escapism before the heroes’ first hurdle. On closer inspection, however, two rather explicit katabatic allusions may be discerned. Firstly, the slaughter of nine elephants, called ‘bulls’,39 calls to mind Aeneas’ sacrifice of ‘four young bulls’40 before he

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enters the underworld and serves as a prime example of how Haggard reworks katabatic imagery to suit his African setting. Then there is the death of Khiva, a Zulu servant, who saves one of the men from a charging elephant that brutally rips him in half in the process. Khiva assumes the role of the Elpenor figure of katabatic literature whom Holtsmark describes as ‘the sacrificial victim who pays with his life for the hero’s journey to the beyond’.41 Elpenor is one of Odysseus’ companions who suffers an unheroic death after drunkenly falling off a roof on Aiaia42 – home to the sorceress Circe. Since this episode anticipates Odysseus’ journey to the land of the Cimmerians where he will consult the shade of the seer Tiresias and others at the entrance to the underworld,43 it is then conceivable that Elpenor’s death has come to take on a sacrificial meaning. The concept of this sacrificial victim is perhaps a bit more distinct in Vergil’s Aeneid 5 and 6 in which Elpenor appears to be a forerunner to Palinurus, Aeneas’ helmsman, who falls overboard as the Trojans approach Italy and is later killed by a hostile people when he is washed ashore. Reminiscent of Elpenor, this occurs just before the hero and remaining companions land at Cumae, where Aeneas will make his katabasis, thereby fulfilling Neptune’s promise to Venus that Aeneas will reach the haven of Avernus safely in exchange for the life of one who will be lost at sea.44 Hardie suggests that ‘sacrifice operates through substitution and exchange; the victim is offered in exchange for benefits’ and that Palinurus ‘is the price exacted in return for the safe arrival in Italy of the rest of the Trojans’.45 Following the symbolic gesture of the elephant hunt and the first death of a companion, the heroes take their first irrevocable steps into the unknown. Sir Henry announces that ‘we are going on as strange a journey as men can make in this world’ and ‘it is very doubtful if we can succeed in it’46 which emphasises the ‘Otherness’ of the space into which they are about to step and the inevitable dangers that accompany the ‘unknown’. The men pray ‘to the Power who shapes the destinies of men […] that it may please Him to direct [their] steps in accordance with His will’47 and it is at this point that clear links to Aeneas’ journey begin to emerge. Like the uneasy heroes who entrust their fate to a higher power, Aeneas too is required to perform a ritual through which to appease the gods,48 including the sacrifice of the ‘four young bulls’.49 Furthermore, there is a degree of correspondence as to the conditions of their respective journeys that are characterised by a nocturnal quality. On account of the blistering heat the men travel ‘silently as shades’ through the night,50 which lends the journey an eerie mood and quality. This is evidenced by a ghostly encounter with a herd of sleeping quagga whose spectral presence spooks a superstitious group of bearers. While in keeping with the ominous mood of the episode, the scene also offers a bit of comic relief, and appears to subtly parody Aeneas’ sombre encounters in the underworld. The nocturnal journey is a feature not uncommon to the katabatic journey, as according to Holtsmark ‘[t]he lower world is generally dank and dark, and the journey usually takes place at dusk or during the night’.51 While the interior of the underworld has a clearly nocturnal atmosphere,52 travelling at

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night is not actually a feature of the katabasis in Vergil’s Aeneid 6. While the necessary rites are performed at night,53 Aeneas begins his descent into the underworld ‘at the first light of the rising sun’54 and midway through Aeneas’ katabasis it is mentioned that ‘Dawn in her rosy chariot had already passed the midway point in her celestial course’,55 causing the Sibyl to hurry Aeneas along as, ‘Night hastens on’.56 This is another interesting point of comparison: having marched on through the night, Quatermain describes, in imitative epic fashion how ‘at last the east began to blush like the cheek of a girl. Next appeared rays of primrose light, that changed presently to golden bars, through which the dawn glided out across the desert.’57 Having trekked throughout the night the men rest during the day and, to protect themselves from the blistering heat, dig an ‘amateur grave’58 into which they climb and which they cover with shrubs – an image that seems to foreshow their looming deaths. The severely dehydrated men ultimately survive the desert when their intuitive servant, Ventvögel, guides them to a hill upon which they discover a pool of unappealing but life-saving black water. Having crossed the desert, they arrive at the base of a towering mountain rising into two peaks named Sheba’s Breasts – the last obstacle between them and Kukuanaland. The peaks are described by Quatermain himself as ‘placed […] like the pillars of a gigantic gateway’,59 suggesting their function as a threshold. The men must ascend one of Sheba’s snow-capped breasts and contend with the bitter cold before making their way towards ‘Solomon’s Road’ that will lead them into Kukuanaland. Having passed the night in a cave, the men wake up to discover of the body of José da Silvestra, who has been preserved by the cold, as well as the lifeless body of poor Ventvögel who, according to Quatermain, ‘like most Hottentots, cannot stand the cold’.60 While the remaining companions make it into Kukuanaland unscathed, Ventvögel dies on the last leg of the journey, serving not only as an example of the expendability of Africans in Haggard’s romances and a possible foil to the virility of the Englishmen, but also as a second Elpenor figure. While the deaths of Elpenor and Palinurus appear to have a numinous function, the death of Ventvögel is most likely mimicking this pattern. Subsequently, Ventvögel’s death appears to be a symbolic one in terms of its allusion to the katabatic tradition and, in this sense, can be understood as a narratological necessity. This, however, is not to say that his death is devoid of purpose for the plot as it provides the narrative with a real sense of foreboding and suspense, reminding the reader of the dangers concomitant with such a journey. The second katabatic motif appearing in King Solomon’s Mines plays out in ‘The Place of Death’, a chapter named after the cavernous diamond mines and their related chambers that have been dug into a mountainside and repurposed more recently as catacombs for the bygone kings of the Kukuana. The depiction of the diamond mines as a place of death is particularly striking from a Classical perspective because an alternative name for Hades, the god of the underworld, is Pluto (Πλούτων) which in turn is connected to the Greek ‘ploutos’ (πλοῦτος) meaning wealth. This idea is elucidated clearly in

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Plato’s Cratylus where the figure of Socrates explains that Pluto was named ‘the giver of wealth because wealth is sent up out of the earth from below’.61 While the earth may offer up various forms of wealth the obvious example for the present focus is mineral wealth. The expedition of the treasure-seekers makes frequent allusions to the famous katabasis of Aeneas in Vergil’s Aeneid 6 as they enter the eerie mines in search of plunder together with their guide, the witch-doctor, Gagool, and Foulata, a loyal Kukuana maiden who has become romantically connected to one of the companions. Haggard’s portrayal of the men’s passage into these chthonic mines is comparable to Aeneas’ katabasis in at least two major ways. First amongst these parallels is Haggard’s use of a female guide, Gagool, who, like Aeneas’ Sibyl, is clairvoyant and possesses almost preternatural abilities. Secondly, Haggard’s gloomy and morbid depiction of these mines captures an atmosphere reminiscent of Vergil’s underworld, achieved through its persistent katabatic topoi and a strong association with death, adding to the katabatic feel of the scene.62 The malevolent and hoary witch-doctor Gagool serves as the primary adviser to the illegitimate and equally evil king, Twala, and later, begrudgingly assists the Englishmen in their navigation of the mines. Haggard clearly draws upon the ancient figure of the Sibyl63 extensively in both his characterisation of Gagool and her narrative function, most likely borrowing ideas from sources such as Vergil’s Aeneid 6 and Ovid in his Metamorphoses. Before attempting to draw any parallels between Gagool and her ancient Mediterranean ‘sister’, I would like to explore an African source and context for this fascinating character. In the novel Gagool refers to herself as an Isanusi, 64 an isiZulu term which refers to ‘a traditional healer or diviner, often an aged practitioner who has developed his or her psychic gifts, and whose clairvoyant powers enable them to “smell out” evil’.65 This description is entirely consistent with the depiction of Gagool who is endowed with psychic abilities, referred to as the ‘smeller out of witches’,66 and, at a later point in the novel, orchestrates a mass witch-hunt. What is more, Haggard himself had the occasion to observe an Isanusi’s ecstatic performance during his time in South Africa and may very well have taken inspiration from the performance which he describes in Cetywayo and His White Neighbours (1882), a work of non-fiction. The character of Gagool thus seems to be informed by two figures who, while worlds apart, share remarkably similar features. It is my suspicion that the Isanusi’s display provided Haggard with a modern analogue to ancient seers he knew from texts such as Vergil’s. These ecstatic female prophets subsequently inspired Haggard’ representation of Gagool, a witch-hunting seer with a hybrid identity, being at once Classical and African. It is important to point out, however, that while the two guides share a similar function and many notable features, in a kind of sinister inversion, Gagool should rather be seen as the Sibyl’s diabolical double, acting, as it were, like a photo-negative counterpart who betrays rather than assists the trio. Moreover, it has been suggested by Laing and Frost that Gagool also

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functions as a type of threshold guardian,67 ‘who might need to be cajoled, bribed or even tricked into helping the hero’.68 Additionally, it is solely through the jurisdiction and assistance of their guides that the heroes may undertake their respective journeys. The singular authority and faculties of the Sibyl and Gagool can be identified in their relevant texts. The Sibyl’s rank and the full extent of her command is pointed out by Aeneas who, while imploring the Sibyl to guide him through the underworld, states: ‘you have power over everything, and not without ground has Hecate set you over the sacred grove of Avernus’69 and it is only through Gagool’s prerogative that the men are able to gain access to the mines and the hidden treasure chamber whose location ‘is known to none but the king and Gagool’.70 Apart from their obvious roles as guides, the most recognisable similarity between Gagool and the Sibyl is the shared gift of prophecy. It is known from the Aeneid 6 that it is Apollo who inspires the Sibyl ‘into whom he breathes a great mind and spirit, and reveals the future’.71 Comparably, Gagool is described as a ‘wise woman’,72 and is observed predicting the advent of a great battle interpreted through a series of bloody images. Unlike the Sybil, it is never made explicit from where her inspiration derives. What is more, this shared trait manifests fairly similarly as their prophetic episodes are both marked by frenzied states. While inspired by Apollo, the Sibyl is described as follows: suddenly neither her countenance, nor her colour were the same, her braided hair did not stay in place; but her panting breast and wild heart swell with frenzy; and she appeared greater, not sounding human.73 Similarly, Gagool also experiences a violent reaction, albeit after receiving her vision. Quatermain explains that ‘the features of this extraordinary creature became convulsed, and she fell to the ground foaming in an epileptic fit’.74 Interestingly, Gagool is at the same time reminiscent of both the Sibyl and the Isanusi Haggard had the chance to observe. Describing the spectacle of the Isanusi addressing a crowd, Haggard recalls how ‘the genuineness of her frantic excitement was evident by the quivering flesh and working face, and the wild spasmodic words she spoke’.75 Curiously, the prophetic display of the Sibyl, who is described earlier as ‘horrendae’,76 is so disturbing to the Trojans that consequently ‘an icy shudder runs through [their] hardy bones’.77 Likewise, Quatermain explains how Gagool possessed ‘a countenance so fearful indeed that it caused a shiver of fear to pass through us’78 and again later on in the novel Gagool is described as having ‘laughed a horrible laugh which always sent a cold shiver down [Quatermain’s] back’.79 Perhaps one of the most striking resemblances between these women is their supernaturally old age. Here, Haggard’s characterisation of Gagool was more likely inspired by an account of the Cumaen Sibyl in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 14 in which the Sibyl reveals to Aeneas her ill-calculated transaction with Apollo who has gifted her an extraordinarily long life but not perpetual

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youth and contemplates her lot, lamenting how ‘There will be a time, when the length of days will wither my present form, and worn by old age my limbs age will be reduced to an insignificant weight’.80 Similarly, Gagool is described as the ‘terrible woman, who does not die’81 and has been alive for as long as anyone can remember. In this regard, the Englishmen are told by an elderly man amongst the Kukuana that when he was young ‘she was even as she is now and as she was in the days of my great grandfather before me; old and dried’.82 Much like the fated and foretold appearance of the Sybil, Quatermain describes Gagool’s countenance: as that of a woman of great age so shrunken that in size it seemed little larger than the face of a year-old child, although made up of a number of deep and yellow wrinkles. […] indeed, the visage might have been taken for that of a sun-dried corpse.83 While Gagool claims she ‘knew your fathers, and your fathers’ fathers’ fathers’84 and that she ‘cannot die unless [she] be killed by chance’,85 the source of her longevity is never explained, adding to the elusive manner in which she is consistently presented. While as a guide Gagool clearly shares many similarities with the Cumaean Sibyl of Vergil and later Ovid, it is important to acknowledge that the Sybil herself belongs to a broader tradition of female guides in epic literature who provide fundamental assistance to heroes.86 The last and most evocatively katabatic element of the novel comes towards the end of the narrative with the heroes’ much anticipated passage into the mines. After playing a key role in aiding Ignosi claim his rightful place as king, the heroes are given permission to seek out the diamond mines with Gagool as their ‘fair guide’.87 Despite the men’s generally good spirits and eagerness to reach the mines, the mood is dampened by a strong sense of foreboding provoked by Gagool’s incessant taunting. At one point she exclaims ‘walk more slowly, white men. Why will ye run to meet the evil that shall befall you, ye seekers after treasure’,88 and upon entering the mines, recalling the Sibyl’s warning to Aeneas (Verg. Aen. 6.261) exhorts the men to ‘make strong your hearts to bear what ye shall see’.89 While the mines are not an actual underworld in the spiritual sense, they do at least function as a literal place of death in various ways. In his eerie and underworldly depiction of the mines, Haggard evokes images of a Vergilian underworld. Like Dis, these mines are dark and dreary and endowed with an almost numinous quality, which is understood by Quatermain’s comparison of a section of the cave to ‘the hall of the vastest cathedral […] windowless indeed, but dimly lighted from above’;90 as ‘an old Grecian temple’91 on account of the pillar-like stalactite formations; and then by a later reference to another room described as a ‘gloomy apartment’.92 This is not dissimilar to Vergil’s representation of Aeneas’ own dim passage through the underworld when he describes how the Sibyl and Aeneas travel through the gloomy and desolate halls of Dis (Verg. Aen. 6.268–272). Additionally, Quatermain points out how a group of

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‘stalactites below took strange forms’93 some of which ‘resembled strange beasts’.94 Perhaps here Haggard is invoking Vergil’s chthonic monsters whom Aeneas encounters as he enters the underworld (Verg. Aen 6.285–293) adding a nightmarish quality to the passage through the mines. While the mines are not a true underworld, and the men do not encounter any spirits or chthonic deities, the setting emerges as a proxy for the netherworld due to their constant reminder of death. The most morbid and disturbing evidence for this is Haggard’s placement of a kind of mausoleum within the mines for the dead Kukuana kings who have been preserved in a bizarre manner. When Quatermain enters an ante-cave, also called the ‘Hall of the Dead’,95 he distinguishes a large stone table around which are seated ‘life-size white figures’,96 and at its head he makes out ‘Death himself, shaped in the form of a colossal skeleton’97 who Quatermain, ironically, suspects was ‘set there to frighten away marauders’.98 While this statue, carved out of a single stalagmite, was the work of a foreign and ancient craftsman several thousand years before, the smaller white figures are identified as the bodies of the Kukuana kings. These bodies are undergoing a natural process of preservation caused by a siliceous fluid that drips from the roof, which is essentially turning these men into stalagmites, thus accounting for their spectral presence. In addition to the ‘Hall of the Dead’ further associations evocative of a Vergilian underworld include the actual events that occur within the mines such as the death of Foulata. The men are led into the secret treasure chamber, hidden behind a massive stone door, where they become spellbound by the vast store of diamonds within. Quatermain describes how ‘we stood still with pale faces and stared at each other […] as though we were conspirators about to commit a crime, instead of being, as we thought, the most fortunate men on earth’99 and notes ironically that ‘they were full to the brim; at least the second one was; no wretched, burglarious da Silvestra had been filling goats’ skins out of that’.100 These statements are striking as while both suggest a form of criminality they do so in different ways with varying subtextual results. While the former statement seems to reveal a sense of momentary guilt towards imperial plunder, the latter denigrating statement, however, seems to reveal a sense of possessiveness and perhaps even British imperial entitlement; the fate of Africa’s riches is the sole prerogative of the British and not that of other colonial powers such as da Silvestra and the Portuguese. According to Stiebel, ‘[t]he British adventurers through their courage and intelligence have earned the right to take what is lying about in the caves that have been conquered, although they almost die in their efforts.’101 While hypnotised by the diamonds, the men are shaken from their daze by the shrieks of Foulata, who, functioning as another Elpenor figure like Ventvögel, is ultimately stabbed by the vindictive Gagool, moments before the old crone too meets her own demise, crushed beneath a stone door released to imprison the men in the mines. In contrast to Ventvögel’s death, however,

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Haggard has presumably killed off Foulata to avoid an awkward and socially deviant relationship (for that time) developing between her and Good – a white man. In the subsequent chapter entitled ‘We Abandon Hope’, presumably evoking Dante’s ‘lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’ entrate’102 at the entrance to Dis, the men are left to contemplate their impending doom, having been immured within the treasure chamber by the double-crossing Gagool, ‘cut-off’ according to Quatermain, ‘from every echo of the world […] as men already dead’.103 Here Quatermain regards the treasure with a deep sense of pessimism and, taking stock of the situation, comments that: Soon, doubtless, we should be rejoiced to exchange [the diamonds] for a bit of food or a cup of water, and, after that, even for the privilege of a speedy close to our sufferings. Truly wealth, which men spend their lives in acquiring, is a valueless thing at the last.104 This expresses a clear anti-materialist sentiment at odds with the overarching theme of plunder barring, of course, Sir Henry’s noble quest to find his brother. Accordingly, while entering the mines was a simple enough task, the real challenge lies in escaping them, recalling the Sibyl’s warning to Aeneas: the descent to Avernus is easy. Night and day the doors of gloomy Dis stand open; but to recall your steps and escape into the upper air, here is the difficulty, here is the labour.105 Ultimately, the men discover a trap door, below which is revealed a staircase ‘plunging down into the unknown bowels of the earth’.106 Haggard’s projection of the mines as a quasi-underworld is underscored by his insertion of a subterranean river referred to as an ‘African Styx’107 and discovered by the trio during their labyrinthine passage out of the mines. This stygian theme extends to other works by Haggard, for example in Allan Quatermain (1887), the novel’s sequel, when the reunited heroes travel down a treacherous subterranean river, on their way to find yet another lost city. Quatermain narrates how they were ‘borne on the bosom of a Stygian river, something after the fashion of souls being ferried by Charon’.108 These various descriptions help Haggard to establish his presentation of the mines as a ‘Place of Death’ and demonstrate the extent to which he appropriated Classical depictions of the underworld to construct the scenes of his novels. When the men do eventually resurface in a sort of anabasis, emerging from a subterranean passage through a jackal-hole, they are met with disbelief by their friend, Infadoos, who proclaims, ‘my lords, it is indeed you come back from the dead!’109 His exclamation highlights the men’s figurative encounter with death and the function of the mines as an underworld. The men’s

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symbolic rebirth ties in well with Etherington’s assertion that ‘the European characters of Haggard’s romances […] dive deeply into African darkness and emerge shaken but refreshed.’110 Thus, with the men finally out of harm’s way, the eventful katabatic narrative is mostly brought to a close. Since this is in the end a boys’ adventure story, the narrative is more or less obliged to end on a successful note, and the men do not leave the mines or Kukuanaland empty-handed but depart with ‘ninety-three large stones [diamonds] ranging from over two-hundred to seventy carats in weight’.111 Significantly, however, their departure from Kukuanaland ends on glaringly anti-imperialist note revealing Haggard’s complicated attitude towards imperialism when Ignosi, bidding his former companions farewell, declares: No other white man shall cross the mountains […]. I will see no traders with their guns and gin. My people shall fight with the spear, and drink water, like their forefathers before them. I will have no praying-men to put a fear of death into men’s hearts, to stir them up against the law of the king, and make a path for the white folk who follow to run on. […] None shall ever seek the shining stones; no not an army, for if they come I will make war on them with all my strength, and they shall not prevail against me.112 Ignosi’s statement presents a clear indictment of the destructiveness of Empire and reveals a complexity regarding Haggard’s relationship to Imperialism that is perhaps best explained by Stiebel who notes while ‘Haggard exhorted his countrymen to settle in the colonies […] he lamented the changes that the inevitable culture clash would bring’.113 This then goes some way towards explaining some of the contradictory impulses regarding wealth and the spoils of empire as presented in the text, as, on a final note, ‘an open door policy to Kukuanaland in King Solomon’s Mines would most certainly lead to an undesired cycle of greed, violation and violence.’114 While the heroes’ katabasis ends here, a letter from Sir Henry to Quatermain, placed at the very end of the narrative offers one final, and especially striking, katabatic allusion. In his letter, Sir Henry refers to a pair of ivory tusks in his hall and another of buffalo horns placed above his writing desk. This is surely a reference to the two respective gates of horn and ivory through which Aeneas may exit the underworld. Ending the novel with this image not only reinforces the importance of the katabatic structure to the work, but may also suggest that the book itself has led the reader through an Underworld which they are now leaving. In closing, this discussion has argued that the katabatic narrative lends itself particularly well to Haggard’s African romance characterised by the themes of imperial adventure, exploration and plunder. Haggard’s appropriation of the Classical katabasis, it should be also be noted, is innovative rather than slavish as evident here are typically katabatic structures and

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themes reworked into a Victorian imperial narrative that is able to exploit and refigure quite innovatively age-old katabatic tropes into an entirely new and unconventional, African setting. The aspect of venturing into the unknown and, in a loose sense, the concept of plunder or the retrieval aspect of the katabatic genre – both in antiquity and how it has come to be used since then – transfers especially well to this ‘new’ context where exploration and plunder were largely representative of the Victorian age.

Notes 1 I wish to thank my anonymous reviewers for their insightful comments and suggestions. 2 According to Martindale (1991) 46, our interpretation of an ancient text is influenced by the ‘chain of receptions through which their continued readability over the centuries has been affected.’ He illustrates this point by claiming, for example, that ‘since Virgil, no reading of Homer […] has been, or could be, wholly free of a vestigial Virgilian presence’ (1991) 46, original emphasis. He further states that poets have been a key factor in ‘creating our sense of what earlier poems can mean’ (1991) 46. This is significant for the present chapter since it is through poets, such as Vergil and Dante, that the katabatic motif has been transmitted and refigured through the centuries. 3 Holtsmark (2001). 4 Dickey (2018). 5 Vynckier (1992) 864. 6 These are the respective objectives of the protagonists in She (1887), Allan Quatermain (1886) and King Solomon’s Mines (1885). All of which feature lost cities and varying degrees of katabatic motifs. 7 Haggard (1926) 44. 8 Haggard (1926) 73. 9 Etherington (1984) 2. 10 Haggard (1951) 15. 11 Haggard (1951) 22. 12 Haggard (1951) 4. 13 Haggard (1976) 121–122. 14 Stiebel (2001) 29. 15 Stiebel (2001) 27. 16 These novels include Allan Quatermain (1887), Allan’s Wife & Other Tales (1887), The Ancient Allan (1920) and She and Allan (1920). 17 Haggard (1951) 7. 18 Haggard (1951) 7. 19 Haggard (1951) 14. 20 Haggard (1951) 14. 21 Haggard (1951) 14. 22 Haggard (1951) 18. 23 Stiebel (2001) 19. 24 Bristow (1991) 128. 25 Haggard (1951) 46. 26 Haggard (1951) 46. 27 Haggard (1951) 62 own emphasis. 28 Haggard (1951) 66 own emphasis. 29 Haggard (1926) Vol. 2.91. 30 Etherington (1984) 116 citing Haggard (1894) 762.

200 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

Liliana Carrick-Tappeiner Haggard (1926) Vol.1.203–204. Holtsmark (2001) 26. Haggard (1951) 163. Holtsmark (2001) 26. Holtsmark (2001) 26. Holtsmark (2001) 27. Haggard (1951) 44. Haggard (1926) Vol. 1.54–55. Haggard (1951) 37. ‘Quattuor … iuvencos’, Verg. Aen. 243. Note that all translations in this chapter are my own. Holtsmark (2001) 35. Hom. Od. 10.552–560. Hom. Od. 11. ‘Tutus, quos optas, portus accedet Averni. / Unus erit tantum, amissum quem gurgite quaeres; / unum pro multis dabitur caput’, Verg. Aen. 5.813–815. Hardie (1993) 32. Haggard (1951) 46. Haggard (1951) 46. Verg. Aen. 6.243–254. Verg. Aen. 6.243. Haggard (1951) 47. Here Holtsmark appears to have in mind a pattern established by the broader katabatic tradition as opposed to one that is derived faithfully from purely Classical narratives. To the best of my knowledge, as with Aeneas, the katabases of Orpheus (Verg. Georg.) and Psyche (Apul. Met.) seem to take place during the day with characters described as emerging into the sunlight, which works quite well as a ‘birthing’ motif in terms of its juxtaposition with the gloom of the underworld. The one exception here is Odysseus’ Nekyia (and thus not a true katabasis) which takes place in the land of the Cimmerians that is perpetually covered in darkness (Hom. Od. 11.13–19). It is therefore unclear which texts Holtsmark has in mind. However, in terms of texts emanating from the Classical katabatic tradition, Dante’s Inferno is a good example of a katabasis that commences and ends at night. Verg. Aen. 6.268–272. Verg. Aen. 6.252. ‘primi sub lumina solis et ortus’, Verg. Aen. 6.255. ‘roseïs Aurora quadrigis / iam medium aetherio cursu traiecerat axem’, Verg. Aen. 6.535–536. ‘Nox ruit, Aenea; nos flendo ducimus horas’, Verg. Aen. 6.539. Haggard (1951) 48 own emphasis. Haggard (1951) 50. Haggard (1951) 50. Haggard (1951) 58. ‘τὴν τοῦ πλούτου δόσιν ὅτι ἐκ τῆς γῆς κάτωθεν ἀνίεται ὁ πλοῦτος’, Plat. Crat. 403a. It should be noted, however, that each reader’s reception of the novel will differ and that anyone unfamiliar with the katabatic tradition may only pick up on the gothic undertones of the episode. The term Sibyl refers to a number of female figures appearing throughout the ancient Mediterranean world, renowned for their oracular abilities. Interestingly, this psychopompic role attributed to the Sibyl by Vergil is an anomaly that does not appear in earlier traditions concerning the Sibyls. According to Ustinova (2009) 164 Vergil ‘patterned this ability of the Cumaean Sibyl, which

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64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106

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distinguishes her from other Sibyls, on Hermes and other psychopomps, as part of his strategy to conflate multiple traditions in creating poetic images’. Haggard (1951) 90. DSAE online (2009), ‘Isanusi, n.’. Haggard (1951) 74. Well known examples of specifically chthonic threshold guardians from Vergil’s Aeneid 6 include the ferryman, Charon, the three headed watchdog, Cerberus, and even the Sibyl herself. Laing & Frost (2012) 12. ‘potes namque omnia, nec te / nequiquam lucis Hecate praefecit Avernis’, Verg. Aen. 6.117–118. Haggard (1951)150. ‘magnum cui mentem animumque / Delius inspirat vates, aperitque future’, Verg. Aen. 6.11–12. Haggard (1951) 74. ‘subito non vultus, non color unus, / non comptae mansere comae; sed pectus anhelum, / et rabie fera corda tument, maiorque videri / nec mortale sonans’, Verg. Aen. 6.47–50. Haggard (1951) 91. Haggard (1882) 287. Verg. Aen. 6.10. ‘gelidus Teucris per dura cucurrit / ossa tremor’, Verg. Aen. 54–55. Haggard (1951) 89. Haggard (1951) 154. ‘tempus erit, cum de tanto me corpore parvam / longa dies faciet, consumptaque membra senecta/ ad minimum redigentur’, Ov. Met. 14.147–149. Haggard (1951) 75. Haggard (1951) 181. Haggard (1951) 89. Haggard (1951) 151. Haggard (1951)152. For more on this see Foley (2005); Nagy (2009). Haggard (1951) 159. Haggard (1951) 154. Haggard (1951) 156. Haggard (1951) 175–176. Haggard (1951) 157–158. Haggard (1951) 159. Haggard (1951) 158 original emphasis. Haggard (1951) 158. Haggard (1951) 160. Haggard (1951) 159. Haggard (1951) 160. Haggard (1951) 161. Haggard (1951) 167. Haggard (1951) 167. Stiebel (2001) 78. Dante, Inferno 3.9. Haggard (1951) 172. Haggard (1951) 172. ‘facilis descensus Averno: / noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; / sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, / hoc opus, hic labor est’, Verg. Aen. 6.126–129. Haggard (1951) 175.

202 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114

Liliana Carrick-Tappeiner Haggard (1951) 177. Haggard (1994) 114. Haggard (1951) 179. Etherington (1984) 55. Haggard (1951) 181. Haggard (1951) 183. Stiebel (2001) 75. Low (1996) 39.

Epilogue Richard Evans and Martine De Marre

In 1879 William S. Gilbert in his libretto to the operetta The Pirates of Penzance (music composed by Arthur Sullivan) humorously exposed the fine and often obscurely drawn distinction that existed between ‘the very model of a modern major-general’ (father of the heroine Mabel) and the hero Frederik who was effectively an apprentice to ‘A rollicking band of pirates we, who, tired of tossing on the sea, are now trying their hand at burglaree, with weapons grim and gory.’ Of course true love prevails and Frederik and Mabel are finally married, although the audience might well reflect on whether it was the forces of law and order or the piratical crew and its ‘king’ that were the more benign in their actions. ‘Pirata’ is one of the earliest identifiable words of the language spoken by the Romans while, arguably, the earliest literature in verse of the ancient Greeks, the epic poem Iliad is mainly a highly elaborate story of an episode in a predatory attack on Troy. Once that deed had been accomplished successfully there follows the quintessential pirate adventure tale Odyssey. Ancient Greek and Roman society did not therefore necessarily perceive pirates and their trade in general negatively either socially or economically. Indeed the Homeric ‘pirates’ were in almost every sense heroes. However, any view of piracy, pillage and plunder in antiquity as morally acceptable should not obscure the fact that at times privateers whether state sanctioned or not, unemployed mercenaries, Anatolian robbers or just the plain enemy were able to cause a huge destabilization of everyday life in the ancient world. The interlinked themes treated in this volume have evidently provided the entire history of literature with a supremely enduring topos. For example, it appears in Plautine comedy in the second century BCE, later in the ancient novel Satyricon of Petronius, and surfaces more than once in serious historical narrative such as in Tacitus’ Annales – the role of pirates in the initial attempt to murder the younger Agrippina. It is a crucial compositional element in the Adventures of Leucippe and Clitophon by Achilles Tatius, and in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. Since antiquity both serious and romantic characteristics of the piracy theme have been reworked and refined many times. In literature, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island (1883) has the pirate Long John Silver as the hero–anti hero figure while in H. Ryder Haggard’s King Solomon’s

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Mines (1885) the hero Alan Quartermain espouses politically acceptable comments for that time but his search (and the hoped for result) was not that much at odds with that of the average buccaneer. In the last century, with the dramatic rise of the motion picture (film) industry, visual imagery has gained as much popularity as, if not overtaken an interest in, the written word. Paradoxically the popularity of films and more recently their availability on the internet has been accompanied by the continued presence of the piratical theme, with notable examples including Errol Flynn in Captain Blood (1935), Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean (2003) and others too numerous to list here. In this volume we hope to have similarly illustrated – over an immensely broad chronological span (from Bronze Age Mesopotamia through Classical Greece, Rome of the Republic and Early Empire thence late Antiquity down to early modern piracy and Victorian treasure-hunting finally to the fertile crescent of the early years of the current epoch) that this ambiguity is deeply ingrained both in societal norms and in political environments of virtually all definitions. Pretoria 2019

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Index of ancient sources cited in the chapters

AbB (ed. F.R. Kraus Altbabylonische Briefe) 7.28, 8.24, 8.28, 14.81 Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon 2.7.3, 2.33.2, 3.9.2–3, 3.10.2, 3.12.1, 3.13.4, 3.15.2, 3.15.3, 3.15.5, 3.19.1, 3.19.3, 3.22.3–4, 3.24.1–2, 3.25, 4.2.1, 4.11.3, 4.12.4–5, 4.12.6, 4.12.8, 4.13.1, 4.13.5, 4.14.9, 4.15.3–4, 4.15.5–6, 4.16.2, 4.18.1–2, 4.18.5–6, 5.1, 5.2.3, 8.2.1, 8.2.3 Ammianus Res Gestae 15.12.1 Appian Punic Wars 25, 95–96, 117–118, 124, 127–128; Illyrian War 8–9; Mithridatic Wars 19–20, 55, 64; Sicilian Wars 6 Apuleius Metamorphoses 7.5 Aristophanes Knights 125–143 Aristotle Athenaion Politeia 22.7; Politics 3.1280a.35–45 Augustine Epistolae 2.88.195, 35.2, 35.4, 139.2, 185.12, 262; de Haeres 69.4; de Civitate Dei 4.4 Callimachus Hymn to Apollo 2.107–12 Cassius Dio 12 (Zonaras 8.17), 72.4 (Xiphilinus) Catullus 27.2 Chariton Callirhoe 1.7.1 Cicero Pro Archia 21; in Verrem 2.1.86–89; de re publica 1.39a; Paradoxa Stoicorum 27 Curtius Rufus 4.5.18–19 Demosthenes 23.130–132, 50.7–14, 51.7–9 Diodorus Siculus 5.32.2, 10.28.1–2, 11.48.3–11, 11.49.1–2, 11.51.2, 11.67.7, 11.68.3, 11.72.3, 11.73.1–3, 11.76.1–5, 11.88.4–5, 13.94.1, 14.7.6, 14.8.5–6, 14.9.8, 14.10.4, 14.15.1–3,

14.18.1–8, 14.37.5, 14.41.1, 14.41.2, 14.41.4–6, 14.43.4, 14.45.5, 14.53.5, 14.65.2, 14.66.4, 14.67.4, 15.13.1, 15.13.5, 15.14.1, 15.14.2–3, 15.14.4, 15.15.3, 15.16.3, 15.17.5, 15.47.7, 16.57.2, 16.57.3, 16.82.1, 16.82.3, 20.47.5, 20.82.4, 20.108.1, 31.19.6, 31.19.8 Euripides Iphigenia among the Taurians 31, 38–39, 88–89, 277–278 Florus 2.49, 3.6 Heliodorus Aethiopica 1.5.1, 2.20.5 Hell. Oxy. 6.1–3 Herodotus 1.132, 2.73, 4.180, 6.118, 6.119, 7.144, 7.156 Homer’s Iliad 13.571, 15.587, 23.845 Horace Epistles 1.4, 1.14, 2.1.245–7; Epodes 1.25–30, 2.1, 2.17–22; Odes 1.20.1–3, 2.16.14, 4.2.57–60; Satires 1 Isaeus Hagnias 11.48–9 Isocrates 5.120–121 John Malalas 8.14–16, 201.16–18, 202.6–7 Josephus FGrHist 609F10 = Manetho Justin, Epit.15.4.2–10 LAOS (Leipziger Altorientalische Studien) 4 Libanius 11.52–56, 11.74–87, 11.97–99, 11.124 Livy 7.25.4, 7.26.13, 7.26.15, 7.27.3, 8.14.7, 8.18, 9.28.7, 26.39.5, 27.10.8, 30.31, 30.37, 34.45.2–3, 38.37.5–6, 39.23.3–4

Index of ancient sources cited in the chapters Longus Daphnis and Chloe 1.15.1, 1.16.1, 1.28.1, 2.3.2, 2.15.1, 4.28.1 Lysias 19.29, 21.2–6 Optatus de Schism Don. 6.8 Ovid Ex Ponto 4.2.11–12; Metamorphoses 14 Papyrus Oxyrhinchus 413 PapyrusThmouis 1.104.9–18, 1.116.4–5 Pausanias 2.20.9 Pliny (The Elder) HN 10.2.3 Pliny (The Younger) Epistles 5.3.5 Plutarch Dion, 22.8, 30.1, 49.1, 57.1–3; Lucullus 2–3; Marius 19.7; Nicias 4.2; Sertorius 23–24; Themistocles 4.1–2, 13.2–5; Timoleon 30.3–4; Moralia (de Mul. Vir) 4.245C–E Polyaenus 5.19 Polybius 4.60.2, 4.68, 7.15–17 Propertius 3.9.35–6, 4.1.57–60 Pseudo-Demosthenes 47 Sallust Hist. 4.69.12 (Epistula Mithridatis)

233

Seneca Dial.12.12.5 Stephanus Byzantius Ethnica s.v. Herakleioboukolia Strabo 5.3.5, 5.3.6, 6.1.6, 16.2.3–6, 17.1.6 Tacitus Annales 1.4.5, 12.57.2, 14.30.1; Historia 4.18 Thucydides 1.110, 1.128; 2.4, 2.45, 3.73–74, 5.4, 6.31 Tibullus 1.1.1–6, 1.1.11–18, 1.1.19–24, 1.1.25–28, 1.1.41–4, 1.1.53–58, 1.2.77, 1.7.57–60, 1.8.62, 3.7 Varro, de Lingua Latina. 7.52 Vergil Aeneid 6.47–50, 6.126–129, 6.261, 6.268–272, 6.285–293, 8.675–713; Eclogue 10.37–40, 10.42–3; Georgics 1.1.7–10, 1.96, 1.284, 2.259–420, 2.503–15, 3.26–33, 3.16–48, 4.111 Xenophon Anabasis 1.8.5, 3.1.4; Hellenica 2.219–20, 4.8.35, 5.2.27 Xenophon of Ephesus Anthia and Habrocomes 2.14.3, 3.2.1, 3.12.2, 3.14.1

General index

Achaeans 55n25, 102 Achaemenid Empire 71, 75–77, 81n71, 83n90 Achilles 42 Achilles Tatius 3, 129–143, 203 Leucippe and Clitophon 3, 129, 203 Achradina 41, 54n14 Actium 117 Adranum 50 Adriatic 45, 50, 52, 56n39, 87, 91, 96n51, 103 Aegean Sea 30, 31, 34, 38, 54n10, 80n56, 98, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 108, 110, 111n11 Aegina 32 Aeneas 117, 173, 182n27, 185, 189, 190, 191–192, 198, 200n51 Aenetus 99 Aetna 48, 49, 50, 59n63 Aetolian League 103 Aetolian 65, 69 Africa 3, 8n2, 110, 112n18, 141n21, 145, 149, 152, 153, 157, 158, 163n58, 164n61, 165n77, 165n78, 165n80, 166n96, 166n97, 166n98, 167n103, 169n127, 169n132, 169n133, 170, 171–184, 186–199 Agamemnon 42, 130 Agrippina Maior 161n24 Agrippina Minor 146, 147, 161n15, 161n22, 203 Agylla 44–45 Ahlamū 17 aḫû 11 Aiaia 191 Akkadian 9, 15 Ala-demon 11 Albius 117, 127n17 Alcibiades 28, 36n8, 53n3

Alcetas 45 Aleppo 25n70 Alexander the Great 1–2, 36, 58n57, 60–63, 66, 69, 74–77, 79n21, 83n98, 89, 95n36, 98, 99,142n37, 183n52 Alexander the Molossian 89, 95n36 Alexandria 62, 65, 74–75, 78n19, 131, 135, 136, 137, 142n40, 171 Alfius 121–122 Algeria 170, 179, 180n4, 180n5, 182n37, 184n69 Algiers 172, 174–175, 179, 180n8, 181n14 Al Mina 62 Amarna letters 15, 23n28, 25n56 Ambrones 148 Ammianus Marcellinus Res Gestae 148, 150, 156, 163n47 Amnānû 17 Amorites 16, 17, 20 Amphictionic League, Council 41, 42 Amuk plain 66, 67, 70 Amurtaios 131 Amyke 67 Anapus River 44 Anatolia 55n24, 73, 77, 82n88, 106–108, 203 Anaxibius 99–101 Ando, Clifford 1–8, 158 Andron 98–99 Antiates 89–90 Antigoneia-on-the-Orontes 62–65, 68, 70, 78n16, 79n30 Antigonids 61, 62 Antigonus (Monophthalmos) 62–66, 78n17,79n20 Antiochenes 65, 67–71 Antioch-on-the-Orontes 61–76, 78n13, 79n30, 80n37, 81n64, 81n66, 83n100

General index Antiochus (father of Seleucus I) 64 Antiochus I 67 Antiochus III (the Great) 65, 69, 76,80n37, 83n100 Antium 5, 85, 89, 90–92, 95n31 Antonius, Iullus Diomedia 123 Antonius, M. (consul 99 BC) 106, 113n38 Antonius, M. (Creticus) 107, 108, 114n50 Anoptenes 73 Apama 64 Apameia (Apamea) 63, 64, 67, 104 Apelles 44 Apennine mountain 87 Apollo 42, 43, 46, 66, 69, 70, 80n43, 125, 194 Apollocrates 55n21 Apollodorus 33 Apollonia 95n41 Apollonius 72–73 Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 124 Appian 67, 103, 106, 107, 108, 114n51–53, 161n17, 161n29, 163n44, 176; Punic Wars 161n29, 176 Aptara 101 Apuleius (Apuleius Madaurensis, L.) 129, 139, 139n4; Metamorphoses 129, 139 Apulia 101 Aquitania 115, 116 Arameans 19, 25n70 Aramaic 76 Aratus 102 aratrum 118 Archaic Age 28, 52 Archelaus 106 Archias 123 Argead dynasty 68 Argives 67–69, 80n48, 80n51, 80n54, 80n56, 149 Ariaramneia 72–73, 82n75 Ariaratheia 72, 73, 82n75 Ariarathes IV 72, 82n75, 104 Ariarathes V 72, 82n73, 82n75 Ariarathid dynasty 71, 72, 75, 77, 81n72 Aristonicus, Tyrant of Methymna 99 Aristophanes Knights 29 Aristotle 32, 90, 149 Athenaion Politeia 32; Politika (Politics) 90, 162n40 armatoloi 17 Armenian 109 Armstrong, Jeremy 87–88, 93n7, 93n12–13

235

Artemis 76, 130 Artemisium 55 Aruj Reis 172 Aryans 148 Asia Minor 43, 58n57, 68, 79n24, 82n88 Asiatic 131 Assyrian 31, 16, 23n28, 24n34, 25n57 Astarte 72, 73, 74 Astypalaia 105 Atargatis 70, 81n61 Athena 55n25, 59, 68, 70, 81n61 Athena Nikephoros 73 Athenaeus 59n67 Athenians 5, 27, 28, 30, 31–35, 36n7, 38, 47, 50, 53n6, 53n7, 56n30, 57n41, 65, 68, 101, 113n34 Athens 5, 27, 29, 30–34, 37–40, 46–47, 50–54, 57n45, 71, 80n53, 82n73, 94n22, 98, 101, 111n11, 112n18, 113n34, 139n3 Atintani 103 Attica 34, 53n6 Augustine of Hippo 1, 8n1, 150–159, 160n4, 161n17, 163n54–55, 164n64, 166n89, 166n95, 166n98, 166n99, 168n112, 168n115, 168n124, 169n127, 171, 180n8, 182n42; contra litteras Petiliani 154; de Haeres 157; Epistles 153, 154, 157; de schismate Donatistarum 156 Augustus (see also Caesar) 115–118, 123, 127n13 Ausees 149 autonomia 28 Avernus 191, 194, 197 Avidius Cassius 135–136, 138 Aycard, Honoré 175, 176, 183n52 Ba’alat 70 Babylon 18, 20, 25n71, 62, 77, 78n6, 78n17, 82n88 Babylonia 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 25n57, 25n59, 25n67, 2675, 26n77, 47, 75 Babylonian letters 9, 16 Badamchi, Hossein 12 Baghdad 171 Baienus Blassianus, Q. 135 Baines, Thomas 187 Balearic Islands 104 Baldwin, Barry 154 Barbary pirates, 175, 177, 181n14,181n25, 182n32

236

General index

Barbary States 170–179, 180n4, 181n14, 181n24, 181n25, 182n32, 182n35, 184n69 Barnabite Brotherhood 177 basilike chora 63 Beek, Aaron 6, 97–110 bellum iustum 105, 113n36 Bevan, Edwyn 60 Bingham, Sandra 7, 170–180 Bizert 178 Black Sea 109, 130, 140n10 Boeotia 27, 34, 55n25 Boers 186 Boii 102, 111n16 Boscoreale 139 Boudicca 147, 161n25 boukoloi 3, 129–139, 139n1, 140n7, 140n9, 141n17, 141n30, 143–144 boulē 31, 72 Briant, Pierre 77 Brigands, brigandage 5, 9, 10–11, 13–17, 22n6, 25n60, 27, 139n2, 139n3 Bristow, Joseph 188 British 42, 55n23, 182n28, 186, 188, 196 Brotton, Jerry 173 Brundisium 87 Bruttians 41, 55n18 bukāšum 14 Bulwer, Henry 186 Buraselis, Kostas 66 Buxentum 87 Byrsa (Carthage) 178 Byzantine 165n88, 171, 181n10 Cabala 46 Caecilius Metellus Creticus, Q. 108, 114n58, Caenice 3 Caesar (Augustus) 116, 117, 120 Caesar (Julius Caesar, C.) 123, 189 Caesarea 167n102 Cain 4 Cairo 171 Calabria 118 Calippus 41, 55n19, 59n65 Callatis 105 Callimachus 122,125, 128n30 Camarina 47, 48, 57n46, 57n49, 58n51 Campania, Campanians 41, 55n21, 86, 91, 92, 93n7 Capdetrey, Laurent 63, 64, 67 capite censi 94n22

Cappadocia, Cappadocians 61, 71–77, 81n69, 81n71, 104, 140n6 Capri 177 Capua 86 Caribbean 42, 55n23, 204 Carian 127, 140n5 Caronni, Père Felice 177–179 Carrick-Tappeiner, Liliana 7, 185–202 Carthage 5, 7, 45, 46, 51, 52, 54n10, 56n28, 85, 90, 93n11, 93n13, 96n47, 102, 104, 110, 112n18, 112n22, 152, 170–179, 180n8, 180n10, 181n12, 182n27, 183n54, 183n55, 184n62, 184n68 Carthaginians 40, 44, 46, 50, 51, 52, 57n40, 90, 91, 104, 110 Cassius Dio (= Dio Cassius) 64, 79n31, 135, 136–137, 138, 142n35, 142n37 Cassius of Parma 117 Casson, Lionel 31–34 Catane 48–50, 58n52, 58n55 Catholics 151, 153, 154, 158, 164n63 Catiline (Lucius Sergius) 2 Cato (= Porcius Cato, M.) 120, 162n30 Catullus 125 Caudium 86 Celtic 98, 148, 162n35 Cercasorus 133 Ceres 121, 122 Chabrias 35 Chaereas 137–138 Chaereleos 31 Chariton 129, 139, 139n2, 143n50 Charles V (Holy Roman Emperor) 172–173 Charmides 138, 141n29 Charon 197, 201n67 Chersonese 3, 100 Chios 99, 111n3 Chloe 129, 203 chorē 39 choregoi 39–40, 53n4 Christ 150–152, Christian, Christianity 150–159 Chryseis 42 Chryses 42, 55n24 Cibyra 105 Cicero (Marcus Tullius) 1–2, 8n1, 8n2, 8n4, 8n5, 53n7, 59n67, 102, 106,113n36, 123, 150; On the Commonwealth (de Republica) 1–2, 8n2; Paradoxes of the Stoics (Paradoxa Stoicorum) 1, 8

General index Cilicia 3, 95n35, 97, 104, 106–110, 111n9, 111n10, 113n38, 113n43, 114n47, 114n58, 114n59, 129, 140n6 Cimmerians 191, 200n51 Circe 118, 191 Circumcellions 145, 149, 151–160, 160n8, 164n72, 165n75, 165n78, 165n81, 166n89, 166n98, 167n105, 168n112, 168n113, 168n123, 168n124 Cius 105 civitas 1–2, 8n3, 8n4, 93n9 Clark, Elizabeth 147, 153 Claudius Pulcher, P. 94n22 Cleon 29 Clitophon 3, 129–138, 141n21, 143–144 Clodius (Publius) 2 Coele Syria 64 Cohen, Edward 29 condottieri 17 Conon 31 Constantine the Great 150–151, 164n61, 164n63, 164n67 Cook’s Practical Guide to Algeria and Tunisia 179 Corcyra 57n41 Corinth 32, 39 Corinthians 47 Cornelius, P. 91, 92 Cornelius Severus 96 Corsica 44, 91, 96n50 Cosconius, Cn. 109 Cotys 32 Cretan League 105 Cretans 65, 67–69, 80n51, 100–101, 105, 106, 108–110, 111n10, 114n58, 139 Crete 3, 27, 30–32, 34, 95n35, 97, 100, 106–108 Crimea 109 Croesus 76 Cronium 46 Ctesicles 46 Cumae 43, 44, 58n50, 191 Cursing of Agade 10 Curtis, Sir Henry 186 Curtius 57n48, 99 Cybele 76 Cyclades 105 Cyprian 171, 180n8 Cypriots 68, 80 Cyprus 62, 64, 67, 80n53 Cyrus the Younger 28, 30, 144 Cyrene 98, 111n5

237

Damascus 171, 181n10 Dan, Frere Pierre Histoire de Barbarie 177 Dante 197, 199n2, 200n51, 201n102 Daphne 66, 68, 69, 80n59 Daphnis 129, 203 D’Arcos, Thomas (Osman) 175–177 Darius I 74–175, 82n89 Dark Age 9–10 Da Silvestra, José 187–189, 192, 196 Datis 43 Day, Simon 107–108 De Chateaubriand, François René Paris to Jerusalem 178 deductio 84 Deinomenid tyranny 49–50, 54n12, 57n40, 58n56 Delia 124, 126 Delian League 38, 51, 53n2 Delium 43 Delos 43, 109 Delphi 41, 42–46, 56n30, 56n31, 57n40, 96n42 Demaenetus 31, 35 De Marre, Martine 2, 3, 145–169 Demeter 125 Demetrios (Demetrius) Poliorcetes (Poliorketes) 5, 62, 99–100 Demos 43, 46, 48, 59n60, 70, 72, 81n64 Demosthenes Polycles 32–33 De Nicolay, Nicolas 174, 182n34 De Souza, Philip 97 Dido 161n17, 161n28, 173, 182n27 Didyma 43, 56n29, 57n48 Dio Cassius see Cassius Dio Diodorus Siculus 41–51, 54n10, 54n12, 55n19, 55n21, 55n22, 55n26, 56n27, 56n32, 56n33, 56n37, 57n41, 57n44, 57n46, 57n50, 58n52, 58n53, 58n57, 59n58, 59n59, 59n61, 59n65, 62, 63, 79n30, 80n44, 81n72, 82n73, 92n1, 100, 148 Dionysius I 4, 39, 40, 45–46, 50–51, 52n1, 53n9, 54n10, 54n13, 55n22, 56m32, 56n33, 57n40, 59n63, 59n64, 59n65 Dionysius II 39, 41, 42, 46–47, 50, 52n1,54n14, 55n21, 56n36, 56n37, 56n38, 56n39, 57n40, 59n65 Dis 195, 197 Donatists 3, 151–155, 157–159, 163n59, 164n63, 165n80, 166n89, 166n97, 169n125, 169n134 Donatus 152, 163n59

238

General index

Don Juan 173 Dorcon (Dorkon) 129 doriktetos chora 62 Drepana 94 duces sanctorum 152 dulcedine praedae 91 Dumitru, Adrian 66, 80n38, 80n40 Dumuzi 10, 23n18 Dumuzi’s Dream 10 Dūr-Abiešuḫ 19, 20, 25n67, 26n80, 26n81 Dusinberre, Elspeth 75–76 duumviri navales 91–92 Early Dynastic 10, 14, 22n15 Ecdicia 150, Edašuštū 20, 22n2 Egypt 28, 53n3, 62, 73, 75, 77, 78n17, 82n88, 98, 111n5, 131–136, 139, 141n21, 141n22, 143n45, 143n53, 152, 183n44 Egyptians 3, 28, 30, 32, 35, 129–130, 131, 132–133, 136–139, 141n25, 142n34, 142n41, 142n42, 143n47 Eidem, Jesper 18, 24n35, 24n37, 24n52, 24n53, 25n55, 25n65, 25n66 eisphora 3853n5 Elam 18, 19, 25n70, 81n63 Elamites 17, 19, 20 Eleans 68, 80n51, 100 eleutheria 28 Elorus River 42 Elpenor 191–192, 196 Engels, David 61, 64 England 61, 64, 78n10, 79n28, 79n29 Enna 50 Ephesus 98–99, 129 Epirus 45, 110 erén 18–19 Eretria 34–36, 47 Ešnunna 14, 18 ethne 66, 68–69 ethnoi 3 Ephrates River 15, 19, 125 Epicurus 118 Etherington, Norman 186, 198 Ethiopia 129, 137, 140n6 Ethiopian 132, 139, 140n11, 141n21 Etruscans 40–41, 43–45, 54n17, 55n20, 55n21, 56n36, 89 Etruria 44–46, 54n17, 9095n38 Euboea (Sicily) 48, 58n50, 58n51 Euboeans 64 Euripidas 100

Euripides 130, 140n16, 166n98; Iphigenia among the Taurians 130 Europe 21, 68, 170–179, 180n6, 181n15, 182n28, 182n35, 183n59, 184n68, 188, 198 European Union 7 Eurysthes 68 Eusebeia 72–73, 82n75 Euthychides of Sicyon 70 Evans, Richard 4, 38–59 Fabri de Peiresc, Nicolas-Claude 175 Felicitas 150, 163n55 feminae duces 147, 161n24, 161n28 Festus 6, 8n11 Firmum 87 First Punic War 84, 85, 88, 93n13, 94n22, 112n19, 112n21 Florus 106 Fontainbleu 177 Foulata 193, 196–197 Forster, Edward 30 France 170, 174–176, 178, 179, 180n3, 181n17 French 7, 170, 171, 174, 175, 178, 180n1, 182n27, 181n35, 181n40,183n58, 183n60 Frost, Warwick 193 Fulvia 147 Furius Bibaculus, M. 123 Gabrielsen, Vincent 33 Gaesatae102 Gagool 193–197 Galatia 104, 106 Galatians 106, 111n9, 111n10 gal ku5 ša lúḫ 14 Galla-demon 10 Gallic 102, 103, 112n25, 123, 148 Gallus (Cornelius Gallus, C.) 124 Garnaud, Jean-Philippe 143 Gaselee, Stephen 143–144 Gaul 104, 106 Gauls 102, 103, 111n16 Gela 42–43, 47–48, 55n26, 57n46, 57n49, 58n51 Geloans 40, 42–43, 47–48, 55n26, 57n49, 58n51, 58n52, 58n56 Gelon 39–40, 43, 47–50, 54n10, 55n26, 56n31, 56n32, 57n49, 58n51, 58n52, 58n53, 58n58 Germanic 148 Gilbert, William S. The Pirates of Penzance 203

General index Gnathon 129 Goldstein, Joshua 146 Good, Captain 186 Gorgias (Egyptian soldier) 137 Gortyn 101, 105 Grainger, John 60–63, 70 Greek Historical Inscriptions 34 Griffith, Guy Thompson 28 gún ma-da 17 Gutians 17, 22n5 ḫabbātu 7, 9, 12–21, 22n10, 24n35, 25n56 habātum 12, 15, 18 ḫābilū 12 Hades (Pluto) 183, 192–193 Hadneans 17 Hafsid 171 Haggard, Henry Rider 7, 185–199 Cetshwayo and his White Neighbours 193; King Solomon’s Mines 7, 185–198, 199n6; Allan Quatermain 186–187, 199n6; Cleopatra 189; The World’s Desire 189; The Days of my Life 189 Hammurabi 18, 20, 23n23 Haneans17, 20 Hanigalbateans (Hanigalbat) 17 Hanisa 61, 71–76, 81n69 Hannibal 104, 110, 162 Hannibalic War 84 hāpirū 13, 15, 16, 18, 22 Hapsburg Dynasty 173 Haradum 19 Harris, William 103 Harrison, Stephen 7, 115–128 Hassân ibn Numân 171, 180n10 Hebrews 16 Helicon 126, Heliodorus 129, 131, 139, 140n7, 140n11, 143n50, 143 Heliopolis 134, 137 Hellenization 72. 73, 77, 81n69 Hellespont 33, 105 Heracles (Herakles) 67, 68, 73, 185 Heracleidae 68–69 Herbitaea 50 Hermionē 34 Herodotus 43, 45, 47, 54n10, 55n26, 56n30, 58n50, 59n58, 68, 137, 141n28, 149, 160n11 Hicetas 41 Hierapytna 105

239

Hieron I 4, 39, 40, 43, 44, 48–50, 53n8, 54n13, 56n31, 58n52, 58n53, 58n55, 59n65 Hilton, John 2–3, 129–144 Hippocrates 42–43, 55n26, 57n49 Hippodamus 65 Hippothous 129, 140n6 Histri 103 Hittites 20, 55n24 Hizir Reis (Kheir-ed-Din Barbarossa) 172 Hobsbawm, Eric 2, 8 Holy Roman Empire 174 Holtsmark, Erling 190–191 Homer 42, 57n47, 119, 129, 139n3, 160n11, 189, 199n2, 203; Iliad 42, 129; Odyssey 119, 189 Honorius 155, 164n67, 167n103, 167n104, 167n105 Horace 115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 127n9, 127n13; Epodes 1 118; Epodes 2 120; Satires 1 116; Epistles 1 117, 128n47; Epistles 2 116; Odes 1 125, 127n9, 127n13; Odes 2 120, 125; Odes 4 123 Horden, Peregrine 179 hostis humani generis Humbert, Jean Emile 178–179 Hurrians 20 hybris 27 Hyksos 131 Hyperanthes 129 Iberia 104, 110, 161n17 Ibiza 108 Idamaras 20, 25n70 Illyria 3, 97, 102–104, 109, 112n24 Illyrians 45, 100, 103–104 imitatio Alexandri 62 imperium 147 Inachus (father of Io) 67 India 130, 132, 140n15, 141n21, 148 Inessa 49 Infadoos 197 Ignosi 187, 195, 198 Insubrians 102 Iphigenia 130, 140n12 Ipsus 62, 66 Iphicrates 32, 35, 46, 57n41, 99–101 Ipsus 62, 66 Iron Age 9 Isaeus 27, 30 On the Estate of Hagnias 27, 30 Isanusi 193–194, 201n65 Isauria 107

240

General index

Isaurians 107, 108 Isidorus 136 isiZulu 193 Islam 174, 176 Išme-Dagan King of Isin 12, 23n20 Isocrates 28, 111n4 Isole di Ponza 84, 92n3 Israelites 47, 166n99 Istria 103 Italian 17, 41, 45, 86, 89, 93n6, 94n25, 95n38, 101, 111,15, 112n18, 118, 174, 177, 178, 182n27, 183n68 Italic 98 Italy 4, 51, 52, 54n13, 56n39, 58n52, 58n57, 84, 85, 86, 89, 95n36, 103, 104, 106, 112n20, 143n51, 191 Iudaeoi 112n20 iuvencus/a 118, 119, 122 Jamutbal 17, 19, 25n70, 25n71 Jerome 150, 163n47, 167n99 Jews (see also Iudaeoi) 104, 112n20 Joannès, Francis 77 John Malalas 64, 65, 66, 80n42, 80n49, 80n50, 80n51, 81n60, 81n61 Josephus 113n31, 131 Julian 151 Kasos 67–68 Kasiotis 67 Kassites 16, 19, 20, 25n70, 26n77 katabasis 185–198, 200n51 Khiva 191 Kimberley 186 Kiš 13, 25n67, 25n71 kleros 65 Knemon 143 koinē 61, 72, 74, 76–77 ktistes 66, 70 Kodratos 135 Kosmin, Paul 61, 63, 65, 70 Kuhrt, Amelie 60, 62, 77 Kukuana 192, 193, 195, 196 Kukuanaland 187, 188, 189, 190, 192, 198 La Goulette 173, 178 Laing, Jennifer 193 La Marsa 178 Lampis 129 Laodike 64 Laodike (Laodice) III 76 Laodikeia 64 Lares 122

Lasthenes 107 Late Antiquity 150, 159, 169n134, 204 Late Bronze Age 9, 15, 22, 25n56 Latin 5, 84–86, 88, 90–92, 93n8, 94n16, 94n23, 95n31, 95n38, 98, 113n34, 124, 125, 126, 168, 170, 171, 182n28, 183, 189 Latins 90–91, 162n31 Latium 84, 89, 90 latrocinatus 5; λατρεíα 6; λáτρον 5 latrones 5, 6, 8n11 latus 5 Laureion (Laurium) 29, 53n6 Lauro 161n17 Lautulae 86 Lebanon 75, 183n44 leistai 28, 94n25, Leontini 48–50, 55n26, 58n50, 58n54, 59n60 Leptines 40 Leriche, Pierre 62 Lesbos 105, 129, 140n5, 172 lēstērion 3; λῃστρίσι 40 Leucippe 3, 129–132, 137–140n16, 141n29, 203, 138 lex de provinciis praetoriis (= lex de Piratis) 113n38, 106 lex Oppia (Oppian Law) 147, 161n29, 162n30 Libanius 64–66, 69, 79n30, 80n37, 80n42, 80n48, 80n49, 80n50, 80n51 Libya 180n4 Libyan 149, Licinius Lucullus, L. 106, 108, 114n52, 114n53, 114n54, 114n59, 123 Licinius Murena, L. 106 Liguria 102–104, 112n23 Ligurians 102–103, 112n22, 112n25 Lincoln’s Inn 189 Lisbon 188 liturgies 31 Livy 53,3, 54n13, 84–88, 90, 91–92, 93n7, 93n14, 94n14, 94n23, 96n42, 104, 112n24, 112n26, 113n27, 113n28, 113n29, 113n34, 113n36, 141n26, 147161n23, 162n30, 162n31, 166n98, 170, 176 Locusta 146 Longus 129, 140n5 Loryma 129, 140n5, 203 lúamiru 19 Lucania 118 Lucullus (see Licinius Lucullus, L.) Lucretia 146

General index lú

la-ga 14, 22n1 Lullû 17 lú sa-gaz 9, 12–15, 17, 22n1, 23n21, 24n46, 25n56 Lycaonia 107 Lycoris 124 Lycus 99 Lydian 75–77, 83n98 Lysimachus 63, 79n20, 99 Ma 73 Macartatus 27, 29–36, 36n14, 36n18 MacDonald, Eve 7, 170–184 Macedon (Macedonia) 42, 58n57, 60, 61, 63, 68, 74, 77, 80n56, 89, 95n30, 105, 111n4, 114n47 Macedonians 36, 60, 63, 65, 68, 69, 79n21, 97, 104 Machlyes 149 Macrobius 155 Maecenas 118–119 Maghreb 152, 170, 171 Magna Graecia 42, 52 maḫanu 19 Maidates 73 Mairs, Rachel 73 Malalas (see John Malalas) Mamertines 103 Manetho 131 Marathon 43, 56n30 Marcius Rex, Q. 109 Marduk 20, 26n82 Mari 18, 23n33, 24n35, 25n66 Mars 11, 116 Martindale, Charles 185 Massilia 102–103 Mathurin (Trinitarian) Brotherhood 177 mātim 20 Mazake 72 McAuley, Alex 7, 60–83 Mead, Margaret 146 Megara Hyblaea 47–48 Memphis 133 Mendesian nome 134, 135, 137, 142n32 Menelaus (friend of Clitophon) 132–133, 137138, 141n25, 141n29 mercenaries (see also latrones) x, 4–7, 9, 14, 17–21, 24n35, 25n55, 25n65, 27–28, 30–31, 34–35, 36n3, 36n4, 40–41, 45, 46, 49–51, 54n11, 54n14, 54n17, 55n19, 55n22, 55n23, 56n36, 58n56, 58n58, 59n64, 88, 97–110, 111n6, 11n9, 112n18, 112n21, 113n30, 113m34, 113n41, 203

241

Mesopotamia xi, 7, 9, 10, 13, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 21, 25n66, 47, 57n46, 204 Messalla (Valerius Messalla, M.) 115–117, 124, 126 Messana 103 metapoetry 115, 118, 123, 124, 125, 128n32, 128n40 Metellus (see Caecilius Metellus Creticus, Q.) 109, 109, 114n58 Methymna 99, 105 Metics 33, 48, 53n3 Meyer, Eduard 31 Michels, Christoph 72–73 Middle Bronze Age 7, 9, 17, 26n77 Milan 178 Milesians 43, 47 Miletus 39, 57n47, 83n98 Milevis 151 Misthophoroi 30 Mitchell, Richard 87 Mithridates VI Eupator (= Mithradates) 97, 106–109, 113n41, 114n46, 114n59, 123 Mithridatic Wars 106 Morgan, Henry 42 Morocco 180n1, 180n4, 184n69 Mount Silpius 66–70 muliebris inpotentia 146 múllu sa-gaz 11 munnabtū 12 Murena (see Licinius Murena, L.) Mycenaeans 42, 140n8 nakrū 12, 13, 22n16, 24n40 namburbi 11 Namma King of Ur 12, 23n22 Napoleonic Era (Period) 177–179 Napoli (Naples, see also Neapolis) 41, 177, 181n22 Natal 186, 188 nationes 28, 60, 174–175 Nato 7 Naxos 48–50, 55n26, 58n50, 58n55, 59n59 Neapolis (Licata) Neapolis (Naples/Napoli) 41, 55n20 Neapolis (Syracuse) 40 Nebuchadnezzar 47 Neptune 191 New Testament 150, 166n93, 167n99, 169n125 Nicias son of Nicaretus 29, 33 Nikochis 134 Nile River 133, 135, 137, 138, 139; delta 130–131, 134, 135, 137, 138, 139n1,

242

General index

140n7, 142n31, 142n32, 142n37, 143n51; Canopic Mouth 131; Paralian Mouth 129 Nile mosaic 139 nišī sapḫati 12 North Africa 3, 145, 152, 158, 163n58, 165n78, 167n103, 169n127, 169n132, 170–180, 180n1, 180n5, 180n6, 181n10, 181n14, 181n24, 182n29, 184n74 nu-banda 18 Numidia 106, 165n80 Nūr-Adad of Larsa 12 Nuzi 12, 23n28 Nypsius 41, 55n20, 55n21 Odysseus 119, 139n3, 185, 189, 191, 200n51 Ogden, Daniel 66 Olous 101, 105 Olympia 44–45, 56n31, 56n37, 57n40 Olympic Games 56n35, 68 Olympieion 42 Onomarchus 41 Optatus 151–153, 155–157, 159, 164n64, 164n69, 164n74, 167n100, 168n113, 168n114, 168n124 Orestes 130, 140n12 Orientalism 16 Ormerod, Henry 89 Orontes River 62, 64, 70, 71, 78n17 Oropus 43 Orpheus 185, 200n51 Ostia 90, 109, 112n20 O’Sullivan, James 143–144 Ottoman Empire 17, 171–174, 181n20, 181n22, 181n24 Ovid 116, 126, 128n49, 193; Metamorphoses 193 Palermo 177 Palestine 64 Palestrina (Preneste) 139, 143n51 Palinurus 191, 192 Pamphylia 104 Pan 129 papyrus Thmouis 135, 142n31 paradeisoi 75 Parmenianus 156 Parthia 64, 108, 142n34 paupertas 115–116, 118, 120, 122, 124 Pausanias 30 Pausanias, son of Cleombrotus 33 Payen, Pascal 149

Pedum117 peiratai 28, 94n25 Pella 63, 79n21 Peloponnese 41, 48, 49 Peloponnesian War 28, 29, 34, 45, 47, 53n2, 54n10 Pelusium 130 pentekonters 32, 41 pentakosiomedimnoi 29 Pergamene 104 Pergamum 98, 101, 111n5 Perpetua 150, 163n54, 163n55 Persians 28, 30, 31, 32, 35, 43, 45, 47, 56n29, 75–76, 82n86, 82n88, 98, 99, 133, 139, 143n53 Persian Wars 28, 33, 43, 47, 56n30, 62 Petetis 135 Petronius 139, 203 Satyrica 139 Phalinus 28 Pharax 41 Pharnake 63 Pharos 138 Philetas 129 Philip II 41–42, 57n44, 57n45, 58n57, 63, 79n21, 111n4 Philip V 105, 114n47 Philistus 40, 56n32 Philomelus 41 Phocians 41–42, 46 Phoebia 51 Phoenicia 129 Phoenician 98, 132, 138 Pirithous 185 Plataea 149 Plataeans 149 Plato 53n4, 141n29, 193; Cratylus 193 Pliny the Elder 137; Historia Naturalis 137 Pliny the Younger 126 ploutos (Greek) 192–193 Plutarch 29, 32, 39, 41, 53n2, 53n3, 53n4, 53n554n14, 55n18, 55n19, 55n21, 55n22, 56n36, 78n18, 78n19, 102, 106, 108, 109, 111n5, 11n7, 112n19, 114n45, 114n51, 114n52, 114n53, 114n54, 114n55, 114n56, 114n59, 133, 148, 149, 160n2, 161n19, 162n29, 162n35, 162n38, 163n42, 163n44, 163n45; Themistocles 53n4, 133; Nicias 29, 53n4; Dion 41, 53n4, 54n14, 55n19, 55n21, 55n22, 56n36; Lucullus 106, 114n53, 114n54, 114n59; Marius 148, 163n45; Sertorius 109, 114n55, 114n56; de mulierum virtutibus 111n5

General index Po Valley 103 poleis 3, 28, 34, 39, 52, 53n5, 60 Polichne 42–43 polis 27, 28, 36, 38, 39, 46–49, 51, 60, 72, 73, 76, 77n2 Polybius 76, 83n100, 96n46, 100, 102, 113n28 Polyaenus 57n41, 99, 111n7, 112n21162n35 Pompey (Pompeius Magnus, Cn.) 109, 114n58, 114n59, 140n6 Pontiae 5, 84–92, 93n10, 93n13, 94n22, 94n23, 95n27, 96n45 Pontus 97, 106–107, 114n54 Postumius (Postomion) 40–41, 54n16, 90, 95n38 praefecti 92 Pretoria 186 Priapus 121–122 Proculeianus 153 Propertius 116, 123, 124, 127n20 Proxenus 28 Prusias 105 Psenarpokrates 135 Psenbiēnchos 135 Psyche 185, 200n51 Ptolemaic Egypt 53n3, 61, 73, 82n81, 111n10, 141n22 Ptolemies 97, 111 Publicani 86 pudor 146, 148 Purcell, Nicholas 179 Punic 175–176, 178 Punic language, script 152, 165n81, 176, 177 Punic Wars 53n7, 84–88, 92, 93n13, 94n22, 95n26, 95n38, 101, 104, 112n19, 112n22, 112n25 Pylades 130 Pyrgi 44–45, 56n36, 90–91, 95n38, 96n44, 96n55 Pyrrha 129, 140n5 Pyrrhus 93n11, 110, 160n2 Quartermain, Alan 204 Rabbeans 17 Ras al-Basit 62 Rediker, Marcus 88 Rhacotis 131 Rhegium 51, 58n50, 59n64, 88, 103 Rhodes 3, 100–101, 105 Richardson, Seth Robert 7, 9–26 Rollinger, Robert 75

243

Roman Republic x, 84–88, 93n5, 94n25, 95n31, 96n54, 97, 102, 110, 113n36, 147, 204 Roman Empire 2, 108, 143n51, 170–171, 174, 180n5 Rome 3, 5, 21, 52, 84–92, 93n5, 93n7, 93n13, 94n22, 95n31, 95n35, 95n41, 96n44, 96n54, 96n55, 97–98, 101–110, 112n25, 113n27, 113n34, 113n36, 121, 123, 147, 151, 156, 161n17, 162n31 Roth, Roman 4–5, 6, 84–96 Rouen 175 Royal Road 64, 75 Sabine 120, 123, 125, 147, 161n29, 162n35 Sabouni 62 sa-gaz 9, 11–15, 17, 22n1, 23n21, 23n25, 24n46, 24n49, 25n56 šagina 18 Salerno 177 šallatu 18 Sallust 108, 114n55, 147, 161n23; Histories (Epistula Mithridatis) 108, 114; Conspiracy of Catiline 161n23 Samhareans (Samharū) 17, 20 Samnites 86, 141n26, 162n31 Samsuditana 20, 26n82 Samsuiluna 20, 26n83 sanctimonialis 153, 154, 158, 166n97 Sardinia 91, 96n50, 103, 112n25 Sardis 75–77, 83n90, 83n93, 83n98, 83n100 sarram ù ḫabbātam 16 sarrārū 12 Sasas 73 Satyrus 133 Scipio Africanus (Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P.) 173 Scythia 130, 165n86 Second Punic War 53n7, 95n26, 95n38, 104, 112n22, 112n25 Second Samnite War 86 Seleucia-in-Pieria 64, 67, 79n30 Seleucids 5, 60, 61, 68, 69, 71, 74, 76–77, 78n5, 78n11, 78n12, 78n19, 79n28, 80n38, 80n44, 80n57, 81n64, 81n66, 81n68, 81n69, 81n72, 97, 104–106, 110, 111n10 Seleucus I (Nicator) 60–75, 78n4, 79n24, 80n39, 80n40, 80n43, 81n61 Semite 131 Semitic 82, 131 Sempronia 147

244

General index

Seneca 120; Dialogues 120 Sertorius, Q. 108–109, 111n9, 114n55, 111n56 Servilius Vatia Isauricus, P. 107 Seyrig, Henri 62–63 Shakespeare, William The Tempest 173 Shaw, Brent 2, 6, 145, 151–159 Shepstone, Theophilus 186 Sherwin-White, Susan 60, 77 Sibyl (of Cumae) 19–197, 200n63, 201n67 Sicel 50, 56n26 Silk Road 64 Silvanus 122 Sindenos 72 Sipontum 87 skeue 33 Sicily 39, 41, 42, 46, 47, 50–52, 53n3, 53n7, 54n14, 57n42, 57n46, 57n49, 58n57, 90, 98, 106, 112n18 Silli-Marduk 16 Sima’lites 17 Sinope 108, 114n59 socii navales 86–87, 91–92, 93n13, 94n23 Socrates 193 Solomon 186, 188, 190, 192 Solon 29 Somalia 7 South African Gold Fields Exploration Company 187 Sparta 27, 30, 31, 33, 34, 45, 46, 47, 57n44, 111n4 Spartans 28, 31, 34, 41, 46, 47, 55n21, 57n41, 57n44, 149, 163n41 stasis 43, 49 Stevenson, Robert Louis Treasure Island 187, 203 Stephanus Byzantius Ethnica 131 Stiebel, Lindy 188, 196 stipatio 5 stipatores 5–6, 8n11 Strabo 51, 57n50, 63, 64, 65, 79n21, 79n32, 80n37, , 80n48, 80n51, 82n75, 84, 89–90, 92, 95n35, 95n36, 96n44, 106, 114n46, 131, 140161n17, 165n86, 181n11 Sraits (of Messina/Messana) 51 Styx River 190, 197 Subareans 16, 17 Suessa 84–85 Suetonius 92n3, 147, 161n21, 161n26 sukkal 14 Suleimain the Magnificent 172

Sulla (Cornelius Sulla, L.) 106, 108, 114n45, 114n51 Šumma Ālu 11 Sumerian 9, 15, 22n15, 23n18 Suteans 16, 17, 19, 20, Syracusan 4, 40, 42–51, 53n7, 54n12, 54n14, 55n22, 56n35, 56n36, 57n41, 57n49, 59n60, 59n66, 90, 129, 139n3 Syracuse 4–5, 38–52, 53n1, 53n6, 53n7, 53n8, 53n9, 54n13, 54n14, 54n16, 54n17, 55n26, 56n28, 56n37, 57n46, 57n49, 58n51, 58n52, 58n56, 59n59, 59n61, 59n62, 59n64, 85, 90, 91, 101, 112n21, 114n47, 139 Syria 7, 19, 25n66, 60, 62–64, 68, 72, 74, 75, 77, 78n4, 78n7, 78n12, 78n14, 78n15, 78n17, 80n57, 81n68, 129, 135, 136, 140n6142n34, 183n44 Syrian 25n56, 66, 70, 106, 113n38 Tablet of Susa 75 Tacitus 146–148, 150, 161n15, 161n22, 161n23, 161n24, 161n25, 161n28, 203; Annales 148, 161n15, 161n22, 161n23, 161n25, 161n28, 203; Historiae 148; Agricola 161n28 tamītu 11, 20 Tamkur 13 Tarracina 92 Taurians 130, 140n10 Taurus Mountains 72, 104, 107 Teires 73 tele 29 Telegonus 119 Tell Sukas 62 Telesilla 149 Temenos 68 Temple of Apollo at Daphne 66, 69 Temple of Zeus Keraunios 69 Teos 101 Tertullian 171 Tetrapolis (Syria) 64–67, 74 Thebans 28, 34, 47, 149 Thebes (Egypt) 133, 142n41 The Helmet Horn 5 Themistocles 32, 53n4 Theodorus 44 Thermopylae 45, 56n30 Theron 129139n3, 139n4, 140n5 Thersander 130 Theseus 68 Third Sacred War 42, 57n44 Thompson, Wesley 30 Thracians 32, 98, 139n4, 165n86

General index thranitae 39 Thrasius 41 Thrasybulus 49, 53n9, 58n56 Thucydides 29, 33, 38, 39, 50, 53n2, 53n7, 54n17, 57n42, 57n49, 112n16, 131, 141n28, 147, 149, 160n11, 163n42 tībi ḫabbātim 13 tībi nakrim 13 Tibullus 7, 115–126, 127n7, 127n9, 127n17, 128n30, 128n36, 128n38 Tigris River 19, 64 Timaeus 46, 54n10, 56n33 Timoleon 40–41, 54n16, 90 Timotheus 35 Timpe, Dieter 88 Tiresias 191 Tissaphernes 33 Tolbert, Jane 176 Toogood, N. 34 topos 148, 149, 154, 156, 159, 203 Toulon 175, 183n60 Transvaal 186 Trajan’s Column 148, 162n38 trierarchs 32–33, 38–39 trierarchy 31, 33, 40 Triptolemus 67 Trojans 191, 194 Trundle, Matthew 5, 27–37 Tullia 147 Tunis (Tynes/Thuna) 171–173, 175–178, 181n10, 181n14, 182n37, 183n43, 183n52, 183n54, 183n58, 183n60 Tunisia 179, 180n4, 184n69 Tuplin, Christopher 75 Turks 174, 179 Tusculum 118–119 Twala 193 Tyche 40, 70 Tyche of Antioch 70 Tyrian 119, 140n5 Tyrrhenian 88, 89, 92, 94n23, 95n38 Tyrrhenoi (see also Etruscans) 89–90, 95n35, 95n39 Ugula 14, 16 lúsa.gazmeš 14, 16 Umayyad 171 Umbopa 187, 190 Ur 10, 12, 14, 17, 24n50 Uruk 25n71, 77

245

Vandals 171 Van Hooff, Anton 146 Varius (Varius Rufus, L.) 116–118, 122–123, 127, 127n 127n12, 127n13, 127n14 Varro (Terentius Varro, M.) 5, 8n10, 120; On the Latin Language (de Lingua Latina) 5, 8n10 Varro of Atax (Terentius Varro Atacinus, P.) 124 Ventvögel 192, 196 Venus 191 Vergil (Virgil) 115–127, 127n12, 161n28, 170, 189, 191–193, 195–196, 199n2, 200n63, 201n67; Georgics 115, 118–120, 124, 127; Georgics 1 122; Georgics 2 119; Georgics 3 117; Georgics 4 120, 122; Aeneid 194–196; Eclogues 10 124, 125, 128n38, 128n39 via Latina 116 Victorian Era (Age) 188, 189, 204 vilicus 120 Vynckier, Henk 185 Volscians 89, 95n31 Walbank, Frank 60 Wallinga, Herman T. 33 warlordism 10, 17, 20 Winkler, Jack 144 Whitmarsh, Tim 144 xenoi 28 Xenophon 28, 57n41, 100, 111n9, 111n14 Xenophon of Ephesus 129, 144 Xerxes 45 Xiphilinus 135 Yahrurū 17 Yaminites 17 Zacynthus 41 Zamantisu River 72 Zeniketes 107 Zenobia 147, 161n25 Zeus 42, 43, 66, 67, 69, 72, 73 Zliten 152 Zmoumis 135 Zulu 148, 187, 191