Polybius and his World: Essays in Memory of F.W. Walbank [Illustrated] 0199608407, 9780199608409

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PO LYBIUS AN D H IS WORLD ESSAYS IN MEMORY OF F. W. WALBANK

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Polybius and his world. Essays in memory of F. W. Walbank EDITED BY BRUCE GIBSON AND THOMAS HARRISON

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries # Oxford University Press 2013 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted First Edition published in 2013 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available ISBN 978–0–19–960840–9 Printed in Great Britain by MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King’s Lynn

Sleep to the noise of running water To-morrow to be crossed, however deep; This is no river of the dead or Lethe, To-night we sleep On the banks of the Rubicon—the die is cast; There will be time to audit The accounts later, there will be sunlight later And the equation will come out at last. From Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal XXIV (1938–9)

Acknowledgements The 2007 conference was supported generously by the British Academy as well as by the School of Archaeology, Classics and Egyptology of the University of Liverpool. Dr Georgina Muskett organized all aspects of the conference with great efficiency. We are also grateful to Hilary O’Shea and her colleagues at Oxford University Press for their continuing assistance, and to the anonymous readers for their reports. Chapter 14 was previously published in J. Pastor, M. Stean, and M. Mor (eds.), Flavius Josephus: Interpretation and History, Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism, 146 (Leiden, 2011), 149–62, and is printed here by kind permission of Brill. Finally, we should like to express our thanks too for the support and advice of Dorothy Thompson, Mitzi Walbank, and Christopher Walbank. B. J. G T. H. Liverpool March 2011

Contents Abbreviations List of Illustrations Notes on Contributors Welcome to the Liverpool Conference: Frank Walbank

1. Introduction: F. W. Walbank, Polybius, and the Decline of Greece Bruce Gibson and Thomas Harrison

ix xi xii xvi 1

2. ‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . .’ Oxford University Press Archive Files 814152, 814173, 814011 John Henderson

37

3. Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’: A Reconsideration John Marincola

73

4. Polybius, Aratus, and the History of the 140th Olympiad Andrew Meadows

91

5. Some Misunderstandings of Polybius in Livy John Briscoe

117

6. Polybius’ Roman prokataskeuē Hans Beck

125

7. Historiographic Patterns and Historical Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories: Marcellus, Flaminius, and the Mamertine Crisis Craige Champion

143

8. Polybius and Xenophon: The Mercenary War Bruce Gibson

159

9. Youthfulness in Polybius: The Case of Philip V of Macedon Brian McGing

181

10. Frank Walbank’s Philippos Tragoidoumenos: Polybius’ Account of Philip’s Last Years Boris Dreyer

201

11. Polybius in Context: The Political Dimension of the Histories John Thornton

213

12. How to Rule the World: Polybius Book 6 Reconsidered Andrew Erskine

231

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13. Polybius’ Distortions of the Roman ‘Constitution’: A Simpl(istic) Explanation Robin Seager 14. Polybius and Josephus on Rome Erich S. Gruen 15. The Rise and Fall of the Boeotians: Polybius 20. 4–7 as a Literary Topos Christel Müller 16. Zeno of Rhodes and the Rhodian View of the Past Hans-Ulrich Wiemer 17. Scipio Aemilianus, Polybius, and the Quest for Friendship in Second-Century Rome Michael Sommer

247 255

267 279

307

18. Mediterranean Economies through the Text of Polybius J. K. Davies

319

19. Imagining the Imperial Mediterranean Josephine Crawley Quinn

337

20. Growing up with Polybius: A Daughter’s Memoir Mitzi Walbank

353

Bibliography Index Locorum General Index

359 389 405

Abbreviations CAH

Cambridge Ancient History

CIL

Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin, 1853–)

FGrHist

F. Jacoby et al., Fragmente der griechischen Historiker (Berlin and Leiden, 1923–)

FHG

C. Müller and T. Müller, Fragmenta historicorum graecorum (Paris, 1841–70)

FRH

H. Beck and U. Walter, Die Frühen Römischen Historiker (Darmstadt, 2001–)

FWW

Frank William Walbank

GGM

C. Müller, Geographici Graeci Minores (Paris, 1855–61)

Glockman and Helms

G. Glockman and H. Helms, Polybios Lexicon, Band 2.1 (Berlin, 1998).

HCP

F. W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius (Oxford, 1957–79)

IAG

L. Moretti, Inscrizioni agonistiche greche (Rome, 1953)

IG

Inscriptiones Graecae (Berlin, 1873)

I.Lindos

C. Blinkenberg, Lindos: Fouilles de l’acropole 1902–1914, II. Inscriptions (Berlin and Copenhagen, 1941)

ILS

H. Dessau, Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae (Berlin, 1892–1916)

Inscr.It.

Inscriptiones Italiae

I.Magnesia

O. Kern, Die Inschriften von Magnesia am Maeander (Berlin, 1900)

I.Peraia

W. Blümel, Die Inschriften der Rhodischen Peraia (Bonn, 1991)

I.Pérée

A. Bresson (ed.), Recueil des inscriptions de la Pérée rhodienne (Besançon, 1991)

I.Priene

F. Hiller von Gaertringen, Inschriften von Priene (Berlin, 1906)

ISE

L. Moretti, Iscrizioni storiche ellenistiche (Florence, 1967–76).

K-A

R. Kassel and C. Austin (eds.), Poetae Comici Graeci (Oxford, 1983–)

LSJ

H. G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek—English Lexicon, 9th edn. rev. by H. S. Jones (Oxford, 1940)

LSS

F. Sokolowski, Lois sacrées des cités grecques. Supplément (Paris, 1962)

Mauersberger

A. Mauersberger, Polybios-Lexicon (1956–75); 2nd edn. rev. by C.-F. Collatz, M. Gützlaf, and H. Helms (Berlin, 2000–2004)

x

Abbreviations

MRR

T. R. S. Broughton, Magistrates of the Roman Republic (New York, 1951–2; suppl. 1986)

NS

A. Maiuri, Nuova silloge epigrafica di Rodi e Cos (Florence, 1925)

P.Köln

B. Kramer et al., Papyri Köln (Opladen, 1976–)

P.Mil.Vogl.

A. Vogliano et al., Papiri della R. Università di Milano (Milan, 1937–2001)

P.Schubart

W. Schubart, Griechische literarische Papyri (Berlin, 1950)

SCA

University of Liverpool Special Collections and Archives

SEG

Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (Leiden, 1923–)

SER

G. Pugliese Carratelli, Supplemento epigrafico rodio, Annuario della Scuola Archeologica di Atene, n.s. 14–16 (1952–4), 247–316

Staatsverträge

H. Bengtson and H. H. Schmitt, Die Staatsverträge des Altertums (Munich, 1962–75)

Syll.3

W. Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 3rd edn., 4 vols. (Leipzig, 1915–24)

T.Cam.

M. Segre and G. Pugliese Carratelli, Tituli Camirenses, Annuario della Scuola Archeologica di Atene, n.s. 11–13 (1949–51), 141–318

TGrF

B. Snell et al., Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta (Göttingen, 1971–2004)

TLG

Thesaurus Linguae Graecae

TLL

Thesaurus Linguae Latinae (Munich, 1900–)

Abbreviations for ancient authors follow Liddel and Scott’s Lexicon for Greek authors and the Oxford Latin Dictionary for Latin authors, with the following exceptions: Aesch.

Aeschylus

Dem.

Demosthenes

Dio

Cassius Dio

Diod.

Diodorus Siculus

Dion. Hal. A.R.

Dionysus of Halicarnassus, Antiquitates Romanae

Eur.

Euripides

Jos.

Josephus

Plb.

Polybius

Plut.

Plutarch

Soph.

Sophocles

Strab.

Strabo

Thuc.

Thucydides

Xen.

Xenophon

List of Illustrations F. W. Walbank, Bassae (1936) Period 1: The Age of the Telchines

6 287

Period 2: The Age of the Heliadae (sons of ‘Helios’)

289

Period 3: The Age of the Archegetae (‘Founders’)

292

Period 4: The Age of the Heroes

295

Notes on Contributors Hans Beck is Professor of Ancient History, John MacNaughton Chair of Classics, and Director of Classical Studies at McGill University in Montreal. Some of his most recent books include Karriere und Hierarchie (2005) and a two-volume edition of the early Roman historians (2001, 2004). He is the co-editor of (among other volumes) Res Publica: Holding High Office in the Roman Republic (2011). John Briscoe was Reader in Latin in the University of Manchester from 1982 to 1996 and is now an Honorary Research Fellow. He is the author of four volumes of commentary on Livy, covering books 31
45 (1973, 1981, 2008, 2012), as well as critical editions of those books (1986, 1991), and of Valerius Maximus (1998). He is a member of the team producing a new edition, with English translation and commentary, of the fragments of the otherwise lost Roman historians. Craige Champion is Associate Professor of Ancient History and Classics in the Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs at Syracuse University. He is the author of Cultural Politics in Polybius’s Histories (2004), editor of Roman Imperialism: Readings and Sources (2004), General Editor of the Wiley-Blackwell Encyclopedia of Ancient History (2012), and co-editor (with A. M. Eckstein) of the Landmark edition of the Histories of Polybius (forthcoming). J. K. Davies was Frank Walbank’s successor as Rathbone Professor of Ancient History and Classical Archaeology at the University of Liverpool from 1977 to 2003. He is the author of Athenian Propertied Families 600–300 BC (1971), Democracy and Classical Greece (1978), and Wealth and the Power of Wealth in Classical Athens (1981). He has jointly edited six further volumes, most recently The Economies of Hellenistic societies, Third to First Centuries BC (2011), and has been Editor of the Journal of Hellenic Studies and Archaeological Reports. Boris Dreyer is Professor of Ancient History at the University of ErlangenNürnberg. He is the author of Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Athens in spätklassischer Zeit (1999), Städtische Politik unter den Attaliden und im Konflikt zwischen Aristonikos und Rom (2003), Innenpolitik der Römischen Republik (2006), Die römische Nobilitätsherrschaft und Antiochos III. (2007), Als die Römer frech geworden: Varus, Hermann und die Katastrophe im Teutoburger Wald (2008), Arminius und der Untergang des Varus—Warum die Germanen keine Römer wurden (2009), and Polybios: Leben und Werk im Banne Roms (2011). He has also co-edited Lokale Eliten und hellenistische Könige: Zwischen

Contributors

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Kooperation und Konfrontation (2011) and Forschungen zur Alten Geschichte. Kleine Schriften von Gustav Adolf Lehmann (2011). Andrew Erskine is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Edinburgh. He is the author of The Hellenistic Stoa: Political Thought and Action (1990), Troy between Greece and Rome: Local Tradition and Imperial Power (2001), and Roman Imperialism (2010). He is also the editor of a number of volumes including A Companion to the Hellenistic World (2003), A Companion to Ancient History (2009), and most recently (with Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones) Creating a Hellenistic World (2011), and is a General Editor of the Wiley– Blackwell Encyclopedia of Ancient History (2012). Bruce Gibson is Professor of Latin at the University of Liverpool. His publications include Statius, Silvae 5. Edited with Introduction, Translation and Commentary (2006) and Pliny the Younger in Late Antiquity (Arethusa, forthcoming, co-edited with Roger Rees). Erich S. Gruen is Gladys Rehard Wood Professor of History and Classics, Emeritus at the University of California, Berkeley. Among his publications are The Last Generation of the Roman Republic (1974), The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome (1984), Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome (1992), Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition (1998), Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans (2002), and Rethinking the Other in Antiquity (2011). Edited volumes include Images and Ideologies: Self-Definition in the Hellenistic World (1993), Hellenistic Constructs: Essays in History, Culture, and Historiography (1997), Cultural Borrowings and Ethnic Appropriations in Antiquity (2005), and Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean (2011). Thomas Harrison is Rathbone Professor of Ancient History and Classical Archaeology at the University of Liverpool. He is the author of Divinity and History. The Religion of Herodotus (2000), The Emptiness of Asia: Aeschylus’ Persians and the History of the Fifth Century (2000), and Writing Ancient Persia (2011), and the editor of (among other volumes) Greeks and Barbarians (2002). John Henderson was Professor of Classics at the University of Cambridge and is a Life Fellow of King’s College. He has published across the range of classical topics, including A Plautus Reader (2009), The Medieval World of Isidore of Seville (2007), ‘Oxford Reds’ (2006), The Triumph of Art at Thorvaldsens Museum (2005), and HORTVS: The Roman Book of Gardening (2004). John Marincola is Leon Golden Professor of Classics at Florida State University in Tallahassee. He is the author of Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography (1997), Greek Historians (2001), and (with Michael Flower) Herodotus: Histories IX (2002). He has edited numerous volumes and is currently at work on a book on Hellenistic historiography.

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Contributors

Brian McGing is Regius Professor of Greek and a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin. His publications include The Foreign Policy of Mithridates VI Eupator King of Pontus (1986), Greek Papyri from Dublin (1995), The Limits of Ancient Biography (2006, edited with J. Mossman), and Polybius’ Histories (2010). Andrew Meadows is Deputy Director of the American Numismatic Society (ANS). He has written and edited numerous books and articles on the history, numismatics, and epigraphy of the Greek world, including three volumes in the Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum series and Coin Hoards IX and X, and is Editor of the joint ANS–Cambridge University Press Series Guides to the Coinage of the Ancient World. Christel Müller is Professor of Greek History at the University of Paris Ouest Nanterre La Défense. She is the author of D’Olbia à Tanaïs: Territoires et réseaux d’échanges dans la Mer Noire septentrionale aux époques classique et hellénistique (2010), the co-author of Archéologie historique de la Grèce antique, 2nd edn. (2006) and the co-editor of Les Italiens dans le monde grec (2002), Identités et cultures dans le monde méditerranéen antique (2002), and Citoyenneté et participation à la basse époque hellénistique (2005). Josephine Crawley Quinn is Fellow and Tutor in Ancient History at Worcester College, Oxford. She writes about Phoenician, Greek, Roman, and North African history, co-directs the Tunisian–British excavations at Utica (Tunisia), and has co-edited volumes on The Hellenistic West and The Punic Mediterranean. Robin Seager is Honorary Senior Fellow in Classics and Ancient History at the University of Liverpool. He is the author of Pompey the Great (1979, 2nd edn., 2002), Tiberius (1972, 2nd edn., 2005), and Ammianus Marcellinus: Seven Studies in his Language and Thought (1986), and editor/translator of The Crisis of the Roman Republic (1969), M. Gelzer, The Roman Nobility (1969), and Plutarch, Fall of the Roman Republic (1972, rev. edn., 2005). Michael Sommer is Professor of Ancient History at the Carl von Ossietzky University of Oldenburg. His publications include The Complete Roman Emperor: Imperial Lives at Court and on Campaign (2010), Die Soldatenkaiser (2010), Die Arminiusschlacht: Spurensuche im Teutoburger Wald (2009), Die Phönizier: Geschichte und Kultur (2008), Roms orientalische Steppengrenze: Palmyra—Edessa—Dura-Europos—Hatra: Eine Kulturgeschichte von Pompeius bis Diocletian (2005). John Thornton is Associate Professor of Roman History at Sapienza Università di Roma. He is the author of Lo storico il grammatico il bandito. Momenti della resistenza greca all’imperium Romanum (2001), and has written many articles on Hellenistic and Roman history and historiography.

Contributors

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Mitzi Walbank is the younger daughter of F. W. Walbank. She was a university administrator at the Open University, with whom she took her first degree. Now retired, she lives near her daughter and grandchildren in East Lothian. She is a published poet. Hans-Ulrich Wiemer is Professor of Ancient History at the University of Erlangen-Nürnberg. He is author of Libanios und Julian, Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politk im vierten Jahrhundert n.Chr. (1995), Rhodische Traditionen in der hellenistischen Historiographie (2001), Krieg, Handel und Piraterie: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des hellenistischen Rhodos (2002), and Alexander der Grosse (2005), and has edited Staatlichkeit und politisches Handeln in der römischen Kaiserzeit (2006), Feiern und Erinnern: Geschichtsbilder im Spiegel antiker Fest (with Hans Beck, 2009), and Johann Gustav Droysen: Philosophie und Politik—Historie und Philologie (with Stefan Rebenich, 2012).

Welcome to the Liverpool Conference Good morning—and welcome to the conference. I wish I could be with you in person, but this impressive piece of technology will have to do for both you and me. I am grateful to my Liverpool colleagues for setting it up. It is for me a great and much appreciated honour that this conference is taking place and especially that it is taking place in Liverpool, where my work on the Polybian Commentary was initiated and carried through; though Volume 3 only appeared in 1979, two years after I had retired. The year 2007 seems the right date to celebrate the Commentary—if indeed it is to be celebrated. But 2007 is also a significant date for quite another reason. It is the 80th anniversary of my first introduction to Polybius. And I should at this point like to pay a long-due tribute to E. H. Goddard, later a lifelong friend and an outstanding teacher of Classics at Bradford Grammar School, where in 1927 I was just starting on my last year before going up to Peterhouse. So let me tell you how first I met Polybius. To save us from repeating the normal prescribed period of Roman History, Ned Goddard had arranged for the Joint Matriculation Board to prescribe, just for Bradford Grammar School, a special paper on the period 200–133 bc. To help us prepare for this, he came up with a small German edition of Polybius— I don’t recall whose it was—which he handed to another boy and myself with the instruction to translate a number of chosen passages, to précis them and reproduce the result, using a kind of jelly stained with purple ink, for the rest of the form, which at the expense of several free periods we did. There was of course no question of using a Loeb in this operation. I don’t think we knew what a Loeb was! When I last heard of the other boy, he was lecturing in Economics at the University of Leeds, so it seems likely that Polybius didn’t play a great part in his later life. For me it was obviously going to be a different story. I just wonder how many grammar-school boys in the late 1920s were reading Polybius: not many, I fancy! I was the lucky one. We have a splendid range of participants in the congress: I am really moved that so many have chosen to come long distances to take part. And I’m grateful to Tom Harrison, Bruce Gibson, and their colleagues here in Liverpool for the organization it has surely involved. But I have already taken enough of your time; so let the work begin. Frank Walbank

1 Introduction: F. W. Walbank, Polybius, and the Decline of Greece Bruce Gibson and Thomas Harrison

This book derives from a conference, ‘Polybius 1957–2007’, held in Liverpool in July 2007 to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of the first volume of Frank Walbank’s Historical Commentary on Polybius. It might instead have commemorated other milestones: the completion (if not the publication1) seventy-five years before of Walbank’s Aratos of Sicyon; or— still further back—his introduction to Polybius, when as an 18-year-old schoolboy in 1927 he was asked by his teacher, Ned Goddard, to translate and précis ‘a small, rather grubby German school edition’ (in the phrase used in Walbank’s own unpublished memoir, the Hypomnemata).2 Above and beyond any such dates, of course, the conference was intended not to honour any particular volume but rather the man behind them. Frank Walbank was unable to attend the conference in person, but he discussed with us our plans for the conference, he opened the proceedings with a video message (printed before this introduction), and he was able to read a number of the papers. He died on 23 October 2008. Together with the contributors to this volume, and many more, we remain hugely grateful for his support, for his example, and for his scholarly legacy. There can be no modern scholar more closely associated with an ancient author than Walbank with Polybius. As Polybius made his life’s work the telling of the story of ‘by what means and under what form of constitution the Romans in less than fifty-three years succeeded in subjecting the whole 1

The following year, 1933. All references in this chapter are to Walbank’s own publications unless specified; Walbank’s papers are referred to by their first date of publication in English. 2 1992a: 76–7. The memoir covers Walbank’s life until 1946; Walbank’s extensive papers, lodged in the University of Liverpool’s Sydney Jones Library, include notes preparatory to a subsequent memoir, ‘Summary of years 1946–1977’: SCA D1037/2/3/21/57.

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Bruce Gibson and Thomas Harrison

inhabited world to their sole government’ (Plb. 1. 1. 5), Polybius and his world were Walbank's life and work.3 In addition to the 2,357 pages of distilled scholarship which make up the three-volume Commentary, the monographs on Aratus and on Philip V which were the stepping-stones to it, and his revisions to Paton’s Loeb edition (now emerging, but which for a long time seemed to have ‘run into the sand’4), his numerous articles which range over Hellenistic history and Greek historiography, even if they do not feature the name of Polybius in their titles,5 are frequently rooted in interpretations of his text. ‘Perhaps the day will come’, wrote one approving reviewer of Philip V,6 ‘when Mr Walbank, as he matures, will attempt a general view, and give to the general public (what his learning qualifies him to give) a picture of that Hellenized eastern Mediterranean into which Rome moved, and with which Rome fused, during the second and first centuries B.C.’ That too he duly accomplished, through his Fontana History, The Hellenistic World, and (for more scholarly readers) through his contributions to the histories of Macedonia and the Hellenistic volumes of the Cambridge Ancient History which he co-edited.7 Whatever disagreements might be had over details, and no matter that some of his earlier publications—written, it should be remembered, around three-quarters of a century ago—reflect the concerns and agendas of their time,8 it is clear that, if any scholar’s output can be said to represent more than the sum of its parts, Walbank’s can. His achievement, in the words of one recent assessment (that of John Davies), was to ‘[bring] Polybios out of the specialist side-channels into the mainstream of historiography . . . to make his theme and period . . . into one of the central stories of Classical Antiquity, and . . . to set the gold standard for a historical commentary on a Classical text’.9 In assessing Walbank’s career in 1984, Arnaldo Momigliano listed him, with Ronald Syme and A. H. M. Jones, as one of the three ‘Persons of the Great Trinity of contemporary British ancient historians’.10 Although Walbank’s 3

Explored by Henderson 2001a. 2002: 2. Five vols. of the revised Loeb have now been published. 5 Cf. Davies 2011: 348–9. Many of these articles are included in two collections: Walbank 1985 (which includes a full list of Walbank’s publications up to that point) and 2002. 6 Dr Ernest Barker, Observer, 29 Dec. 1940. 7 1984a, 1984b, Hammond and Walbank 1988. 8 See Davies’ dispassionate critique of esp. Walbank’s Decline of the Roman Empire in the West, 2011: 330–1, 343, of Walbank’s venture into the economy of the Later Roman Empire (Walbank 1952), 2011: 331–2, or his remarks on Aratos (Walbank 1933), an ‘apprentice work’, 2011: 327. Cf. Plb. 3. 59. 2 ‘We should not find fault with writers for their omissions and mistakes, but should praise and admire them, considering the times they lived in, for having ascertained something on the subject and advanced our knowledge’, Walbank 1962: 1. 9 Davies 2011: 349–50. 10 Momigliano 1984. For Walbank’s account of his relationship with Momigliano, and of the impact of their first meeting (‘I found the whole weekend . . . a completely new world’), see SCA D1037/2/3/9/46, a letter to Oswyn Murray dated 24 Aug. 1988. 4

F. W. Walbank, Polybius, and the Decline of Greece

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later writings are peppered with modest acknowledgements of how his views had been altered by subsequent work, or of his appreciation of the greater complexity of a given topic11—for, as he says of Polybius, ‘no man can remain entirely the same for fifty years’12—, there is also an extraordinary consistency in his work, both in terms of the themes addressed and the manner of their treatment, a consistency which conveys the sense almost of a sustained programme. How did he achieve all this? In part, of course, such productivity is the result of longevity. As John Henderson has put it, ‘melodramatically, we could say that it took Rome less time, according to Polybius, to achieve world hegemony— fifty-three years—than FWW has had to polish off the Histories’13, and the same point was made by Walbank himself in the context of Book 6.14 It was also the result of an extraordinary doggedness, an eye for detail, and ‘ship-shape organization’—traits reflected also in his dealings with publishers, and the organization of his papers15—as well as the difficult personal circumstances from which Polybius provided a refuge.16 It also required imagination—the imagination, first, even to conceive of a scholarly enterprise, such as the commentary, on so grand a scale and with such a consistent format. (Although the first volume of A. W. Gomme’s commentary on Thucydides was published in 1945, only a year after Walbank had agreed to undertake Polybius, his ostensible model in early discussions was How and Wells’ Herodotus.17) The leap of imagination required was all the more extraordinary given the wartime context. As Kenneth Sisam of Oxford University Press wrote to him in announcing that the delegates ‘have agreed to encourage’ the commentary, ‘It is good to think that in these times scholars can still settle down to such long-distance tasks’.18

11

See e.g. 2000: 21, 2002: ix, 12, 18, 140, 153, 154, and n. 10, 156, 260 and n. 11, 266 n. 46. 1972a: 26. 13 Henderson 2001a: 221. Work on the commentary itself, however, began in 1944 and ended in submission to the press of vol. iii in 1977. 14 1998b: 46: ‘I have been interested in this book for over fifty years—as long as it took the Romans to rise to world dominion!’ 15 See Henderson in this volume. Note, however, the contrast drawn by Dorothy Thompson (in her funeral address, SCA D1037/1/1/10/2) between Walbank within and outside his study: ‘Frank did everything at a rush . . . He cut our grass in a lather and a flurry. Being driven by him was not a restful experience. When he sat at his desk that outpouring of energy became mental focus and may help to account for his astonishing record of publications.’ 16 See Mitzi Walbank’s memoir in this volume. 17 See further Henderson in this volume. Note, however, that the first volume of Gomme’s commentary, like that of Walbank (HCP i. vii), opens with an underestimate of the number of volumes of commentary required: ‘This work is planned to be in three volumes’ (Gomme 1945: v). 18 See below, p. 53. Subsequently Walbank himself expressed regret that the pressure imposed for immediate publications ‘makes scholars less inclined to take on work likely to occupy several years’ (2002: 2). 12

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Imagination was also required to set Polybius and his Histories so painstakingly within their setting. An understanding of the physical context of ancient history, first, was fundamental both to Walbank’s own evolution as a historian and to his historical approach. The cruise on which Walbank first visited Greece and Sicily in the spring of 1930 was the prize for a Hellenic Travellers’ Club essay competition which had caught his eye, on the topic of federalism in the Greek world.19 ‘[S]tudents [of ancient history]’, he wrote later, ‘should all (ideally) have made their own periegesis of some Mediterranean land.’20 His earliest work, Aratos of Sicyon, is replete with references to the geography of modern Greece, the result of a Leaf Travelling Studentship awarded by his Cambridge college in 1932.21 (‘From the top [of Pentelicon]’, he wrote in his report on his travels, ‘there is as much to be learnt about Greek history as from weeks of Bury.’22) In his reviews of others’ work, sketch-maps and illustrations of topography are always welcomed, though ‘carelessness in matters of topography may seem more venial’.23 As he enjoined his students, ‘Unless one knows Greece as is, constantly making false pictures. Need of a conscious effort to correct this.’24 At the same time, however, he needed to put Polybius (and his audience) within their intellectual setting. As his discussion of Polybian geography makes clear, he knew not to make unrealistic assumptions of either:25 We habitually ask from ancient historians what we have no right to ask—namely that their topography shall be adequate to permit of pin-pointing an action on the 19

See further 1992a: 103–6. See below, pp. 41–2, for Walbank’s federalism essay. 1949a: 101; ‘since this is now rarely feasible’, he continues, ‘it is essential that they should have some alternative way of gaining a picture of those permanent features of the Mediterranean landscape that control the way of life of its inhabitants’. Cf. Polybius own emphasis on the need for historians to study topography (12. 25e. 1). 21 1933: ix; see further 1992a: 123–4. 22 SCA D1037/2/5/3, p. 6, continuing: ‘Attica lies spread out like a map, and one can trace the various routes by which it could be invaded—Daphni on the pass through Aegaleos, and the easier railway route to the north of the mountain, through Acharnae; the importance of Decelea, now the air station of Tatoi, during the Peloponnesian War, is at once evident; and the story of the shield at Marathon is lifted from the realm of fable, and becomes a possibility, if nothing more.’ Walbank also gave a more anecdotal account of his travels in a lecture ‘Modern Greece’, from the same period: SCA D1037/2/4/8/1/4. 23 See e.g. 1947a (with a ‘collection of Alpine views sufficiently catholic to suit all theories of Hannibal’s route’, p. 109), 1960b (on Hammond), 1950a (on topographical errors). 24 Lecture notes on ‘Geographical background to Greek history’, SCA D1037/2/3/18/125 p. 4. See, in particular, 1956a, on the route of Hannibal’s pass through the Alps, and his recurrent concern with the route of the Via Egnatia, e.g. 1977c, 1983a, 1986 (see also ‘The Via Egnatia: its role in Roman strategy’, SCA D1037/2/3/9/19/1). 25 1948a: 164, foreshadowed in an unpublished lecture ‘The Reliability of Polybius’, delivered 18 June 1946, p. 7 (SCA D1037/2/1/5/1–2); cf. 1943c: 79 (‘to demand complete consistency in Polybius’ use of technical language is to invite disappointment’), 1972a: 117–24. See also his critique of J. O. Thomson, 1949b: 361, for his lack of sympathy for his subject-matter, ‘little patience for the past myths and follies of mankind, for its confusions of thought and errors of judgement . . . he seems almost to apologize for mentioning such obvious nonsense’. 20

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contours of a large-scale Austrian Staff Map. Polybius had not the advantage of such a map, nor his readers either. For them, a long list of barbarous place names could have little meaning

There is a danger, however, of rendering Walbank as too coolly detached, his scholarship as merely the result of a long grind of historical reconstruction. Just as a central theme within his published work is the blindness of historical actors to the broader movements to which they were contributing (discussed below), so Walbank was highly sensitive to the contextual character of historical work itself and of the capacity of the historian to fail to appreciate this. Reviewing, half a century later, his earlier work on the idea of Greek history as a ‘struggle for Greek unity’, he supposed that ‘today . . . such an approach to Greek history must seem strangely out-of-date . . . mainly important to us today as a reminder of how much our preoccupations as historians may later be seen to have reflected contemporary issues’.26 (His own approach to the question, though it was indeed coloured by contemporary concerns—as we shall see—nevertheless in many ways anticipated much subsequent scholarship on Greek identity.27) Walbank also—as befits a historian working on Polybius—had a clear vision of history as a dialectical process; or as he put it more graphically: ‘Studying history does not mean absorbing the past as if one were drinking coffee.’28 With retrospect, it is easy to see how the themes of Greek federalism, of Achaean resistance to the looming ‘cloud in the west’, or a focus on the role of great men in history, spoke to contemporary concerns.29 In some of his earliest work, however, as will become apparent, he showed a willingness to develop analogies to contemporary history, or to reveal his own political commitment,30 explicitly. As his Hypomnemata make clear, he was 26

2000: 19; much of the argument of Walbank 1951 is anticipated in 1933: e.g. 2 (though cf. p. 21). Cf. his comments on Rostovtzeff 1941: Walbank 1944: 10 (‘his view of ancient history appears to have been influenced by his own vivid apprehension of certain contemporary events in Europe’), or on the interest of South African historians, 1953a, in the ‘broad question of how men of differing race, nationality, religion, and politics got on together in the ancient world’. 27 See also 1972b: 146–7. 28 1993a: 15: ‘it is a dynamic, dialectical process involving investigation, selection and interpretation. At each stage the historian interacts with his material. The past is in some sense recreated afresh for each person who concerns himself with it.’ Cf. the preface to 1940a: xi (‘Historical science, no less than history itself, represents a continuous process of integration’). 29 Cf. Henderson 2001a: 228. For great men, see e.g. 1933: 1, 28, 165–6; see further pp. 9–10 below, on Cleomenes III. 30 By his own account, Walbank had been a Labour sympathizer since ‘at least 1922, when [he] felt strongly on the side of the miners’, 1992a: 120; he had joined the Socialist Society and the League of Nations Union in 1930–1 at Cambridge, 1992a: 108. During a seven-week stay in Jena in 1931 he ‘had become very conscious of the dangers presented by the Nazi movement’, 1992a: 121 (cf. pp. 115, 128–9); reinforced by Mary’s more practical commitment (p. 132), later in the 1930s, he joined the Communist party, was Hon. Sec. of the Merseyside branch of the National Council for Civil Liberties (active in writing to local papers to counter National Union of Fascists propaganda), and was Chairman of the local branch of the Left Book Club. For his reading in this period, see below, n. 33.

F. W. Walbank, Bassae (1936)

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‘often worried by the problem of reconciling the subject of my work with the world we were now living in’.31 The work in question covers, at least prima facie, a wide historical range: in chronological order, an unpublished paper ‘Social Revolution at Sparta’ (1935), a short piece published under the pen name ‘Examiner’ asking ‘Is our Roman History Teaching Reactionary?’ (1943a), ‘The Causes of Greek decline’ (1944), his short book The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West (1946a), and a contribution to The Cambridge Economic History of Europe on the late Roman economy, completed in the same period as The Decline of the Roman Empire, but published only in 1952.32 It is quickly apparent, however, that these pieces all develop a common approach and a common historical thesis—an approach and a thesis which drew on (his response to) contemporary events and to a whole discourse on civilization and its decline which dominated the inter-war years.33 ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’ may look primarily at the reasons for Greek impotence in the face of Roman expansion, but it soon turns into a broader thesis of the decline of antiquity: ‘For in fact the Greek and the Roman failures are in essence one.’34 History, first, is pressingly, urgently relevant—or in Walbank’s term ‘topical’. ‘[To] the men of Western Europe the problem of why Rome fell has always been a topical question’ (his italics)—even if ‘the answers to this

31

1992a: 188, cited by Henderson below. The argument of 1944 can be seen anticipated e.g. in Walbank 1943d, and especially 1942c (a review of Rostovtzeff 1941). For Walbank’s extensive notes on the late Roman economy, see SCA D1037/2/3/15. By Walbank’s account, 1992a: 97, a crucial role in introducing him to the ideas of Rostovtzeff was played by the undergraduate lectures of Martin Charlesworth. 33 A point given prominence by Momigliano 1984: ‘First of all, it is impossible to think of [Walbank] as a man and as a historian without bearing in mind the pre-war atmosphere of discussion on ancient and modern problems of civilization.’ For Walbank’s reading, see e.g. 1992a: 76 (indoctrination, by Ned Goddard, with the ideas of Oswald Spengler’s Decline of the West: ‘later, of course, we all threw off these ideas and many other semi-mystical notions to which Goddard was partial’), p. 121 (G. B. Shaw). An early notebook, SCA D1037/2/3/22, contains two pages of reactions to Toynbee, A Study of History IV. 58ff. Spengler and Toynbee feature in his discussion of the reception of the mixed constitution in his third 1957 Gray Lecture, SCA D1037/2/1/11/9, p. 332 (Polybius ‘among the distant progenitors of Oswald Spengler and Dr. Toynbee’), though cf. its published version, 1964a: 34–5. The intensity and breadth of Walbank’s engagement with contemporary events can be gauged by his year-long Workers’ Educational Association (WEA) course on World Affairs, run at Lytham, in 1945–6, SCA D1037/2/1/4; lectures (mostly country by country) are interspersed with weekly updates on events across the globe; see below for the range of Walbank’s modern analogies in later writings, p. 25. 34 1944: 11; for the pairing of Greek and Roman decline, cf. 1983b: 199, where Walbank locates the achievement of de Ste Croix’s The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World in ‘its treatment of two developments of magnitude—the destruction of Greek democracy from 400 bc onwards and the causes of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire’. Walbank brackets 1943a, 1944, and 1946a together in his memoir, 1992a: 188–9. 32

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problem themselves form a commentary upon the ages that proposed them’.35 ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’ begins with Ser. Sulpicius Rufus’ evocation of the death of the cities of Greece in his letter of consolation to Cicero on the loss of his daughter (Fam. 4. 5. 4) before, with a magnificent film-like sweep, pressing the urgency of the question in a contemporary context:36 The Saronic Gulf, once the centre of the world, was now, for all that Greece meant, a dead lake lapping about the foundations of dead cities. In that tragic decay—which was not confined to mainland Greece—we are confronted with one of the most urgent problems of ancient history, and one with a special significance for our generation, who were already living in an age of economic, political and spiritual upheaval, even before the bombs began to turn our own cities into shattered ruins.37

The causes of decline, whether Greek or Roman, lie deeply in the structure of society: the ‘social relation of the classes’, the ‘contrast which underlay ancient civilization, between the leisured class of the city and the multitude labouring to support it on the land’, and the failure of the middle classes to extend democracy.38 The foundation of classical civilization on slavery and exploitation allowed for ‘brilliant minority civilization[s]’: so, for example, the ‘citizen of fifth-century Athens felt himself to be the member of a compact, brilliant, exclusive, and highly conscious community, which was, in fact, living largely at the expense of the resident alien, the slave and the subject ally’.39 But there was a price to pay. The pattern of class division led, first, to an ideological cleavage, a contrast in Greek culture between the ‘things of the hand and the things of the mind’.40 In the Greek case, it led also to a failure to achieve unity, ‘the unity which alone might have enabled them to preserve their freedom from outside conquest’.41 And the class system also brought about a stagnation in the kind of technical development that could have triggered an industrial revolution—and which, in turn, would have allowed for ‘mass civilisation, and also the concentration 35

36 1946a: 1. 1944: 10. A phrase sharpened, perhaps, by direct experience: Walbank’s service in the University Fire Watch, ‘tak[ing] a bearing on any fire that might be started by incendiary bombs’. See further 1992a: 175–7. 38 1944: 12, 1946a: 23. 39 1946a: 67, 1944: 12. Cf. his ‘violent dissent’ from the position of J. L. Myres, 1946b: ‘For instance, if “even in the most advanced and . . . progressive cultures of the Mediterranean the confessed goal was statical equilibrium”, the stories of fifth-century Athens, republican Rome, Dandolo’s Venice, and Mussolini’s Italy suggest that this confessed goal had little relevance to actual policies.’ 40 1946a: 24. Contrast Rostovtzeff 1941: 1311–12, seeing the lack of Greek unity as putting a stop on creativity. 41 1944: 11: ‘. . . where the artistic achievement of the Athenian Acropolis was made possible only by a tyrannous imposition exacted from unwilling subjects, what hope was there of unity? And what meaning was there in freedom?’ 37

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of the proletariat in factories and mines under conditions which enabled it to attain a community of purpose and a realisation of its own strength’.42 There were sparks throughout antiquity of social revolution43—a term which he justifies at length in his 1935 lecture.44 These, however, were comfortably suppressed. First, through bread and circuses, in other words by putting a plaster over the situation. Secondly, through more aggressive action: by ‘strengthen[ing] the instruments of the State’—what he refers to (in the context of later Roman empire) as the ‘Corporative State’.45 (‘Rigid state control’ then undermined the successful laissez-faire approach to economic activity of the early principate—with the Diocletianic price edict standing as a symbol of the transformation.46) And, finally, through what Walbank refers to as a ‘cultural failure’, by ‘the implanting of beliefs and attitudes convenient to authority’. Plato is a particular villain here, guilty—for his recommendation of religion as a means of social control in the Laws—of ‘the blackest treason to that flowering of the human spirit which we call Hellenism’. But subsequent philosophy is likewise condemned for narrowing its focus with ‘a common note of defeat’.47 There is one word which sums up this response to social inequality: fascism. The ‘corporative state’ of later empire reveals a ‘complete political, social and cultural correspondence’ with modern fascism:48 Both institutions represent an attempt to force a decaying social system to continue working at the expense of the happiness and freedom of the masses of the people. Both cater for the luxury needs of a fortunate minority, while forcing the rest to accept scarcity and hardship as their natural portion. Both go together with cultural decay, a decline in rationalism and scientific thought, and the fostering of superstition and new myths, whether of the saving grace of Mithras, or of the saving grace of Aryan blood and soil.

‘The Social Revolution at Sparta’—a piece rich with parallels to Lord Rothermere, Dr Goebbels, and English public schools—likewise casts the Spartan 42 1944: 19, 1946a: 68. Walbank’s use of the phrase ‘mass civilisation’ can in part be seen as a rejoinder to the much more negative and conservative use of the term by F. R. Leavis, author of the notorious Mass Civilisation and Minority Culture (Cambridge, 1930). Walbank was taken for tea with the Leavises, in 1930–1: see 1992a: 123. 43 1946a: 71–2. 44 The use of the term is, very likely, due to the strong influence at the time—on both Frank and Mary Walbank—of Palme Dutt’s Fascism and Social Revolution: A Study of the Economics and Politics of the Extreme Stages of Capitalism in Decay (London, 1934): see 1992a: 128. 45 1946a: 46–7; cf. p. 68 for the aggression of the City-State (which ‘precisely because it was a minority culture, tended to be aggressive and predatory, its claim to autonomy sliding over insensibly, at every opportunity, into a claim to dominate others’). 46 1952: 33. 47 1944: 15, 1944: 12; cf. 1946a: 68. Contrast Rostovtzeff ’s characterization of the ‘buoyant optimism’ of the age, 1941: 1095. 48 1946a: 76.

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reformer Cleomenes III as ‘unconsciously . . . foreshadowing the development and methods of the fascist dictatorship’:49 Establish the cult of the nationalist state, win a position of unquestioned command by a coup d’etat, and maintain it by force of arms and keen propaganda; let freedom be defined as the right to do as one is told . . . it is no mere accident that we find both here and in modern Germany appeals to an imaginary golden age under Lycurgos or the ancient Germanic heroes; emphasis on agriculture as a firm basis for the state; marshalling of the young in military fashion; careful organisation of thought through propaganda and censorship; rooting out of unsympathetic elements from the state by the employment of proscriptions and assassinations; the subordination of the individual to the state and an aggressive nationalism which rejects the claims of any greater unit than the national state.

Was this pattern of decline—first into fascism, then atrophy—an inevitable one? When it comes to the ancient world, the answer is uncertain. ‘The Social Revolution at Sparta’ suggests that there was an antidote to Greek decline (addressing the underlying social problem, extending democracy) but that it was one which was out of their reach. (‘What no-one offered, because no-one knew how to offer it, was a solution that would have given the workman a fair return for his labour, that would have removed the gap between the rich and the starving, and would have enabled a united and contented Greece to face Rome without class-warfare for ever striking her in the rear.’50) ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’ suggests more emphatically that a solution was impossible in antiquity, projecting its hopes onto the later adoption of a classical legacy. Even in the western half of the Roman empire there was never a complete break, in turn allowing for an ancient legacy to be the basis of a form of liberation in the modern world (but at what point?):51 Consequently, when the barbarian invasions were themselves events in the distant past, and new towns began to spring up in Europe, inhabited by neither serfs nor slaves, the techniques of the ancient world were there for men to build on. Unobtrusively the craftsmen grouped around manor or monastery had 49 1935: 16, continuing (pp. 16–17): ‘The analogy must not of course be pressed too far; there are forces of capital and large scale industry behind modern fascism that simply did not exist in 3rd century Sparta.’ The portrayal of Cleomenes in Walbank 1933 is markedly less negative; see also 1966a for the argument that Polybius saw Cleomenes as tyrannically undoing, rather than returning to, the Lycurgan constitution; his account of Cleomenes’ revolution, 1984b: 458–9, also contains no fascist overtones. 50 1935: 29–30. 51 1944: 20. Cf. 1946a: 82–4, 1952: 85 (‘With the collapse of the imperial state, that large section of the economy which depended on it simply disappeared. The residue—small artisans and traders in the towns, local markets, itinerant craftsmen, the villages around the manor or the monastery, and, for the rich, an irregular trade in luxuries from all parts of the Mediterranean— was left as the economic foundation of medieval Europe’). For a similar trope of long-term transmission of a classical heritage (the idea of monarchy) see, with variations, 1983d: 20, 1984a: 100.

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passed their knowledge down from father to son. And so once more, in an atmosphere free from the deadening effect of the ever more rigid class-system of late antiquity, men could go forward to the mastery of nature. With them they bore the full cultural legacy of the ancient world, adapted now to a task from which antiquity itself had necessarily drawn back, but which gave promise of easy accomplishment to the new and fruitful partnership between mind and hand.

In the modern world, by contrast, there was no inevitability to fascism and decline, a point hammered repeatedly in Decline of the Roman Empire. Fascism had closed itself off to the changing world, but the different circumstances of the modern world—industrialization, the ‘unlimited possibilities’ of economic growth, and above all ‘the will and the capacity [of the working class] to take over the organization of society in order to transform it into an equalitarian community’—were all entirely new.52 ‘Hence we have no reason to regard as our inexorable lot a stagnating, latter-world Byzantinism, resting on a rigidified industry, with industrial barons offering, gangster-like, the only resistance to an all-powerful State and common men creeping humbly beneath the protection of bands of rival exploiters. The future offers us something brighter than that.’53 This unshakeable belief in progress extends also to historical methodology. ‘Today the period is taking on a more definite shape: gradually the old problems are being solved.’54 In particular, the explosion of material evidence removes the historian’s dependence on literary sources, making it possible ‘for the first time . . . to turn a microscope on the ancient world’. The effects of this on knowledge of the ‘social man of antiquity’ are ‘the greatest revolution in the classical studies of the last sixty years’.55 When ‘Examiner’ asked the question ‘is our Roman history teaching reactionary?’, it was not a question which looked long for an answer. ‘Three years of war have clarified a good many issues . . . The war has forced us to take sides.’56 And so it is crucial that schoolboys should be able to distinguish in their understanding of Roman history between ‘intellectual assent’—understanding, for example, that Augustus’ religious revival was a ‘“good” measure for him, in those circumstances’ he faced—and ‘moral approval and emotional enthusiasm’.57 If we only ‘turn out the crambe repetita of our grandfathers, then, I suggest, our 52 1946a: 76–9. Walbank does conceive dangers in industrialization, e.g. the tendency of industry to ‘export itself ’, 1946a: 28, 78, exemplified by the migration of cotton manufacture from Lancashire to Bombay. 53 1946a: 80; cf. p. 76. 54 1937: 224, continuing ‘but there are unfortunately still enough to make a simple exposition well nigh an impossibility’. Cf. 1954b: 51 on Holleaux. 55 1946a: 5–6; see also 1945b. Walbank was clearly thinking, in large part, of Rostovtzeff: see 1991/2: 90. 56 57 1943a: 57. 1943a: 60–1.

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schools might do better to stick to mathematics.’58 And it is not the case that schoolteachers are inadvertently failing to pick up on a more enlightened consensus: ‘Our present attitude towards the history of the late republic and early empire is largely a legacy from an age and a class which are now themselves part of history’. History needs to be rewritten from a perspective free of class divisions—and, as he wrote in the aftermath of war, the humanist and the historian brought together, in an alliance both ‘offensive and defensive’, within a renewed Classics in which ‘we draw no frontiers’.59 ‘Cicero must no longer be forced into the pattern of the Victorian statesman. We must study him and read him against his own background and try to judge him by his own standards and criteria. We must be conscious of how strange the Greeks and Romans were, how different from, as well as how like ourselves.’60 The drive here to resolve the various dissonances between work and world is very clear. If we all espouse values of democratic openness, we must teach accordingly. It is not just, however, that the study of the past should be aligned with contemporary values. The conclusion of Decline of the Roman Empire in the West is that ‘it is our duty . . . to exert every sinew against the tendencies in our own society which resemble those predominating in the late Empire . . . ’.61 The unique problems of the contemporary world demanded an education tailored to them. As Walbank asked in a post-war lecture ‘Science, History and the Atomic Bomb’, written in the context of the new Education Act: ‘What kind of training will create the kind of people who can stabilise world society? i.e. WHAT IS AN EDUCATION for the age of ATOMIC POWER?’ The answer: ‘Must be a combination of science and humane studies’.62 Science provided the means for society’s development (as well as for its destruction)—

58 1943a: 60; a delayed response perhaps to the domineering head of Classics at Bradford Grammar School, L. W. P. Lewis, for whom see 1992a: 65 (cited below by Henderson, pp. 39–40). 59 1950d: 117; cf. his Inaugural lecture as Professor of Latin (1946), ‘The Roman Historians on the Roman Republic’, SCA D1037/2/1/7/1/1, p. 3 (‘The Humanities are of their essence the whole story of the classical world and its heritage, and within them we draw no frontiers’). 60 1950d: 116–17 . The passage is reminiscent of Walbank 1951: 58 (quoted below, p. 28) as well as of the famous passage of MacNeice’s Autumn Journal, section IX. 61 1946a: 80; cf. pp. 84–5. The same urgency is reflected in an earlier lecture, given as part of a series on citizenship (though history) for the Durham County Community Service Council in Sept. 1938. The final lecture concludes with questions over ‘the future of our liberties’, SCA D1037/2/1/3/1: Conclusion: —there is an attack on our liberties Defence—vigilance and agitation: unity. Context: that of wide-spread fascism [illegible reference to Ulster Unionists, 1913] Burning of Papers—Hitler Chamberlain—? Duty of Citizen to safeguard his rights, to watch over those on whom authority is conferred. 62 SCA D1037/2/1/9/1/7.

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one should resist an obscurantist reaction against scientific culture—and yet science also had its limits.63 At the same time, however, tensions emerge which are worth highlighting. The conclusion that we should put our energies into righting the wrongs of our own civilization is conceived as an alternative to ‘solacing ourselves with the passing of moral judgements on those who are now long since dead’:64 it is an historian’s business to understand, not to moralize, to discover causes and results, not to pass ethical judgements on individuals and policies. And let us avoid like the plague superficial analogies with the fundamentally different circumstances of the modern world. (1943a: 61)

And yet it can scarcely be claimed that Walbank here avoids moralizing himself. ‘Let us remind our classes of the truism—exemplified in Europe today—that no nation can enslave others and yet remain free itself ’; Rome had ‘a price to pay’ for its expansion; ‘the provinces found themselves obliged to shoulder the whole burden of an extravagant oligarchy and an unnaturally swollen and degraded populace’:65 it is hard to see these statements as reflecting only the dispassionate identification of historical patterns. There might appear to be a contradiction also in Walbank’s disavowal of analogies between ancient and modern. But the reasons he gives (in a footnote) for this position—on the one hand, the presence of slavery, on the other, the ‘completely changed material basis of modern society’, in other words the technical progress that offers the modern world its defence against fascism— suggest an answer: your analogies are superficial, mine are not. A similar contradiction appears when it comes to the idea of the ‘topical’. The contributions to (the first edition of) the Cambridge Ancient History of Oertel ‘conform to an old-established tradition for discussing the decline of Rome . . . he has approached it as a topical question, relevant (as all history must in the long run be relevant) to the issues confronting us in our times’.66 It is not clear where Oertel’s fault lies: would the lessons only emerge later? In approaching the fall of Rome as a topical question, how was he acting differently from Walbank? Or was his fault not in fact in the approach but in the answers it generated? Had Oertel failed to transcend his own context?

63 Brash and Walbank 1946: 80, 85 (‘[La science] . . . est impuissante à créer un code de morale et une échelle des valeurs, à resoudre les problèmes d’organisation sociale et à determiner les principes d’une vie raisonable, toutes questions sur lesquelles la culture classique a toujours son mot à dire’); the war, fought for western humanistic values, had had the ironic effect of subordinating the humanities to ‘des études ayant un rapport plus immediate avec les besoins de la guerre mécanique’ (p. 73, reprised at 1950d: 113). 64 1946a: 85. 65 1943a: 60, 1946a: ix, 17; see also 1942c: 82 on Rostovtzeff ’s bourgeoisie. 66 1946a: 69, 74–5.

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Finally, there is perhaps an aporia in Walbank’s model of the ‘mass civilisation’ that industrial techniques can unleash. ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’ takes as its starting-point Rostovtzeff ’s question:67 ‘Is it possible . . . to extend a higher civilisation to the lower classes without debasing its standard and diluting its quality to the vanishing point? . . . Is not every civilisation bound to decay as soon as it penetrates the mass?’ It is a question he answers by inverting it:68 it is only by penetrating the mass that civilizations can survive. And yet what would this ideal civilization, based on a ‘partnership of mind and hand’, look like? It would be based first on values ‘to which to-day . . . we all necessarily subscribe’:69 We believe in the virtue of free thought and discussion, in coming to conclusions on the basis of objective evidence, in deciding our courses of action through the operation of an informed democracy: we are against the autocratic rule of a group or an individual, we reject dogmas (such as racial teaching) based on emotion, a priori assertions that must not be tested, ‘inspired’ truth as the controller of scientific investigation. If anyone doubts that we have made up our minds about these values, let him consider the fact that 99.99 per cent. of the people of this country are ready to fight on in an increasingly conscious struggle against the Fascist enemy who denies them all.

At the same time, there is also a harshness—born of harsh times—in both the rhetoric of scientific (and historiographical) progress and in the picture of society that is conjured up. ‘In one way or another’, Walbank claims, ‘our own society has incorporated within its texture all that matters of classical culture . . . ’.70 But when one looks for culture, the emphasis throughout is on the practical, suggesting perhaps an unease over high culture: ‘Buses, bicycles and trains bring the villages to the town; the postal catalogue, the wireless, the van, and the cinema bring the town and city to the village.’71 If this failure to realize a cultured mass civilization counts as an aporia it is one shared by his contemporaries. On the threshold of war, Louis MacNeice asked and answered Rostovtzeff ’s question in similar terms:72 . . . It is so hard to imagine A world where the many would have their chance without

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1944: 10 on Rostovtzeff 1926: 436, 484; cf. Rostovtzeff 1941: 1125. Cf. Davies 2011: 331. 1943a: 57. There is a close parallel again here with Walbank’s directly political writings. See e.g. his letters to the Wallasey News, in answer to a Miss Collins of the British Union of Fascists and National Socialists, SCA D1037/1/8/6 (e.g. a letter of 27 Nov. 1937: ‘Let us be quite clear: Fascism is a movement which denies democracy in theory and outrages it in practice; and it claims liberty of speech to-day only in order that it may destroy it the moment it achieves the power to do so.’) 70 1946a: 84. 71 1946a: 73. On the interpenetration of town and country, see Walbank’s observations, 1991/ 2: 94. 72 Louis MacNeice, Autumn Journal , sect. III, written 1938. 68 69

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A fall in the standard of intellectual living And nothing left that the highbrow cared about. Which fears must be suppressed. There is no reason for thinking That, if you give a chance to people to think or live, The arts of thought or life will suffer and become rougher And not return more than you could ever give.

This wartime period was, unsurprisingly, the high-water mark of Walbank’s efforts to find direct political lessons in antiquity. As John Henderson has discussed,73 notwithstanding the fact that his work on Polybius ‘always turned on the assumption that the life and times of the history-writer must interactively engage with the production of the work’, Walbank soon learned to efface his own political engagement, an engagement which had had the ironic effect of disqualifying him from active service in the war against fascism.74 Just as Polybius was ‘kidnapped, for History’,75 so Walbank chose henceforth to ‘[abide] by the depersonalizing regime of the commentary within the ascetic order of Scholarship’.76 In his memoir—which ends its narrative, significantly, in 1946, the date at which he was appointed to the Liverpool Chair of Latin— Walbank distances his Decline of the Roman Empire in the West as a tract for the times, ‘not objective history as the historian understands it’.77 He also appears to undercut his own ‘political effusion[s]’, by juxtaposing reports of his lectures or publications with more momentous historical events, VE Day or the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.78 As Henderson characterizes Walbank’s own narrative, ‘FWW as good as marries into a . . . political radicalism that implodes before it can charge up a crusade, and instead ends up depriving him of a war, of all the histrionic rush and proving of self. His (substitutive) efforts to mobilize historical writing and Classics get neatly mocked by the planetary enormities of thermonuclear detonation . . . ’.79 This narrative of Walbank’s rejection of an earlier more direct political engagement through history-writing, of his ‘[smoothing] away obsolescent and lapsed investments and intellections’,80 needs to be qualified, however. First, it is clear that in the first decade of his career, he was writing in, experimenting with, a variety of styles and approaches. Many of the themes of ‘Social Revolution at Sparta’ feature in Aratos, although there they are 73

2001a and 2001b. See Davies 2011: 329–30 for the circumstances; for the Hans Bauer affair, Walbank 1992a: 161–5, 170–2. 75 Henderson 2001b: 37 (‘The aliens good as flew him off to another planet, and made Polybius “ours” ’). 76 Henderson 2001a: 222. 77 1992a: 187–8. 78 1992a: 191; on VE day, Walbank ‘was talking to the St Anne’s Rotary Club on “Is History Bunk?”’. Cf. his account of Koestler’s stay, 1992a: 146–7, revealing that they were really liberals. 79 Henderson 2001a: 227. 80 Ibid: 229. 74

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subordinated to a conventional historical narrative free of more than passing references to contemporary events.81 What was appropriate for the lecture hall was not appropriate for a first monograph. The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West was a different kind of book for a different audience. (And the same holds true of his later work: retrospective essays allow for a kind of reflection not possible within commentary.) Another way of putting this would be Walbank’s own: academic work, on the one hand, and political activity on the other were two worlds—‘almost like two separate forms of existence’ ‘temporarily brought together’: through the figure of (the Swansea professor) Benjamin Farrington, or through the correspondence with Piero Treves which moved effortlessly between the two.82 In a letter of 30 May 1942, for example, Treves dreamed of a post-war Italy: ‘—a free, liberated, decent and European Italy—, where Frank will be coming to lecture at our Universities on things Greek, Mary to inquire into the conditions of the Italian workers, and the children to enjoy Italian landscape, art and cooking.’ As this mirage suggests, however, it was Mary Walbank who was the more actively political of the two: he ‘had the academic’s inclination to talk and discuss and then to leave it at that: for Mary a conclusion was the first step to action.’83 With gradual political disillusionment, Mary’s periodic ill-health, and an academic career that became increasingly engrossing, the two worlds of academic work and political activity may well have diverged further.84 At the same time, it is worth emphasizing that the roots of Walbank’s later work lie precisely within this explicitly political phase. This is most clearly true of Walbank’s long-standing interest in federalism: a concern which reaches back to the 1930 prize essay which launched him on the M.V. Théophile Gauthier to Greece, and onto his career. This was the very year that he had joined the League of Nations Union,85 and the ‘Federal idea in Greece—with

1933: e.g. 49–51, 86–7, 95, notably giving Cleomenes credit for being ‘largely prompted by a genuine idealism’ (p. 86). 82 Two worlds: 1992a: 153, 166; cf. p. 187 for Farrington’s invitation to Walbank in 1943 to write the Decline of the Roman Empire in the West. Treves correspondence: SCA D1037/2/3/1/ 55–6, 59–63, 121. 83 1992a: 132. 84 A crucial moment in Walbank’s own narrative is the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact: ‘this political reversal coincided with Mary’s breakdown and seemed to be part of a shattering of all previous points of reference’ (1992a: 173); cf. p. 188 (‘I was still a Marxist (of sorts)’, in the context of the latest ‘contemptible’ shift of Communist policy, their reversal of their attitude to the war after Hitler’s attack on the Soviet Union in June 1941). 85 1992a: 108; Classics and the League of Nations had coincided for Walbank in the figure of Gilbert Murray, who had spoken to the Bradford Grammar School ‘Sixth Classical’ when he was in Bradford for a League of Nations Union meeting (1992a: 74), and who lectured on the Hellenic Travellers’ Cruise, 1930 (1992a: 105). For Murray’s League of Nations activities, see Stray 2007: esp. pp. 217–37. 81

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special reference to its development in Hellenistic times’ already directly exploits the parallel between ancient and modern:86 To the modern student this conception of Federalism and its practical application is of intense interest, since it is to a form of Federalism that Europe is today looking as a remedy for its misfortunes . . . And so it is well that we should at the same time recognise that it is to Greece that we owe our original conception of federal government; that it was in the Achaean League that men whose patriotism was far more local, and so far more intense than ours, first learned to sacrifice that patriotism for the good of a greater body.

Walbank’s subsequent reading in the thirties included researches into the widest variety of forms of political organization: in Celtic Ireland, Polynesia, and pre-Roman Italy, among other societies.87 After the war, however, the study of ancient federalism became no longer just a search for a better alternative but also a form of inquest. So, in the concluding lecture of his 1945–6 course on World Affairs:88 ‘The problem of peace. Why did we fail 1918–39? Growth of Nazi Germany! Yes, but why was the LN inadequate? Because the big nations would not shelve national authority.’ What of the future? ‘Towards world organisation? Is a world state possible or desirable? What would be the transition? Federation? In Achaea, Switzerland, USA.’ At this point, a marginal note shouts out: ‘value of ancient history!’ The roots of Walbank’s least directly topical work, the Polybian commentary can also be seen to lie within this political phase—and not only in the limited sense that it was in this period that the commentary was initiated. Walbank’s memoir gives the impression that the choice of Polybius as the subject of a commentary was almost serendipitous.89 But this is probably misleading. Walbank’s reviews of others’ work in the period running up to 1944 suggest that the idea of an outsized scholarly project that might take a lifetime had been playing on his mind. ‘The publication of vol. xii of the [Cambridge] Ancient History on 20 April, 1939, brings this vast work to completion’;90 a project, he adds, the design of which was based on ‘rigid exclusion of all prejudice, whether of race, creed, or party’. ‘In its comprehensive framework’, his critique of Rostovtzeff concludes, ‘its vast learning, its careful weighing of 86

SCA D1037/2/4/1/2, pp. 11–12; see D1037/2/4/1/1 for notes for the essay, D1037/2/4/1/3–5 for associated paperwork. Compare the second lecture of Walbank’s 1938 Durham County series on citizenship, SCA D1037/2/1/3/1, asking whether the ‘voluntary liquidation of states’ was possible. See also 1935, ‘Social Revolution at Sparta’, p. 3 (on the debt of modern federal organizations to the Achaean League and Aratus), p. 9 (on the Achaean League as ‘the instrument of the upper classes, a consolidation and guarantee against social revolt’). 87 SCA D1037/2/3/18/8, 10; D1037/2/3/21/1, 23. 88 SCA D1037/2/1/4/32, entitled ‘Forms of World Organization’. 89 See further Henderson in this volume, pp. 46–53. 90 1939/40: 54.

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evidence, its lively style, and above all in its essential humanity, it stands out as a triumphant assertion of that European scientific tradition which admits no frontiers of race, language, or creed’.91 As is clear from these examples, such projects—and we may suppose, the idea of the Polybian commentary—were attractive because they embodied values, not because they were free from them. As his reviews of wartime German scholarship make clear, the idea of a scholarship tainted by ideology is not just an abstract construct. ‘It is sincerely to be hoped that G. will eventually publish his proposed continuation of this study under conditions which no longer encourage the pernicious irrelevancies of Rassentheorie.’92 Similarly he lampoons the underlying narrative of Stier’s Grundlagen und Sinn der griechischen Geschichte:93 Ultimately, S’s interpretation of Greek history rests on a mystique, that of the indogermanic-nordic soul, with its unique collection of virtues . . . the chief among them being love of freedom. Greek history is the story of the clash between the innate European idea of freedom and the idea of order, which the Greeks took over from the Aryans of Asia, who had absorbed it from the soul of that continent. This conflict between freedom and order, after many vicissitudes, was eventually resolved by Christianity on the inner plane of the individual conscience.

At the same time, however, even a work which took a more enlightened cue from contemporary events (Schachermeyr’s Alexander der Grosse), modelling its historical protagonist negatively in the light of the recent phenomenon of National Socialism, was still subject to criticism: as ‘perhaps over-schematic, too much influenced by recent experiences’.94 In other words, just as the wartime context encouraged the quest for a history that wore its topicality on its sleeve, it also exerted a contrary force: heightening, rather than diminishing, the appeal of a scholarship conducted for its own sake, that could express humane values untainted by ideology. (To respond appropriately to the topicality of one’s subject was to tread a perilously narrow path.) This model of humane scholarship, however—though it may have been idealistic—was never woolly. Walbank revealed an instinctive distrust of abstract generalization as early as Aratos, but this tendency was 91 1942c: 84. Cf. 1945b on Taubenschlag, The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri (‘The present volume is a monument . . . to the integrity of purpose which, at the outset of the war, brought this sixty-year-old professor from Cracow to Aix-en-Provence and subsequently, in 1940, to Columbia University, so that he might crown a life’s work with this study . . . ’). 92 1942b: 88. For the emphasis on racial discrimination in Walbank’s political activity, see e.g. his anti-fascist letters to the Wallasey News, SCA D1037/1/8/6, or his lecture on anti-semitism, ‘one of the greatest dangers and tricks in the reactionaries’ pack’, for a WEA World Affairs course run at Lytham, 1945–6, SCA D1037/2/1/4/29. 93 1948b: 161. 94 1950c: 188. For the particular relationship between German scholarship and the Hellenistic world, see 1991/2: 91.

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only reinforced in this period.95 In the aftermath of the war, for example, he threw himself into the rebuilding of scholarly links across Europe,96 but as he did so he resolutely distanced himself from any bombast. ‘A conference on “the universal value of humanism”’, he began a paper to the Rome meeting of the Sodalitas Erasmiana in 1949, ‘cannot escape definitions’; his was a plea ‘for the humanist . . . to come out of his seclusion and adapt . . . to new conditions’.97 ‘One feature of the old [humanistic] classical training’, he insisted later, ‘was to create canons of clarity and relevance, and to discipline the writer’.98 Without this faith in scholarship, how else could Walbank have gone on writing and publishing, in the depths of war, such distilled scholarly pieces as ‘Olympichus of Alinda and the Carian Expedition of Antigonus Doson’?99 At the same time, the grander the planned project the greater the act of faith in humane scholarship. To ask how he could have conceived such a plan in wartime is on one level misconceived: the war itself helped to generate the scale of his ambition. Why Polybius? Given the scale of his previous work on Hellenistic history, this is perhaps the wrong question. The question that needs to be answered is why he ever thought to suggest any other work (Tacitus’ Histories)? The minimalist explanation is that Tacitus’ Histories was suggested to him as a topic (in 1943) by his mentor, and at the time Head of Department, James Mountford. Despite Mountford’s powerful influence, however, this minimalist explanation for a choice of topic is part of a pattern in Walbank’s narrative whereby all his academic choices are subject to chance—a pattern belied by the intensity of his academic interests.100 His other writings in the same period 95 See also the pattern of his distrust of metaphors masquerading as explanation: e.g. 1946a: 66, 1959b: 245. 96 See e.g. Brash and Walbank 1946, Walbank 1950d, and the evidence of his correspondence with Louis Robert, SCA D1037/2/6/1/20/52, 54, 55, 56, in which Robert gave a list of wartime French scholarship. 97 1950d: 112, 116, continuing to ask: ‘in short, if we cannot—as we assuredly cannot—have the whole cake, whether we cannot have a half, a quarter, or at least some fragment, which may awaken a taste here and there for a discipline which we cannot afford to lose’. 98 1953b: 49. Cf. his puncturing, 1966c: 197, of the ‘inflated and bombastic claims’ of a history sponsored by a special International Commission for a History of the Scientific and Cultural Development of Mankind. It was perhaps this tendency to undercut grand claims that— for all his political passion—prevented him from ever being a ‘party man’. As he warned the students of the Socialist Society in a post-war lecture, SCA D1037/2/1/9/1/2, ‘Warning: Don’t become “party” man in a narrow sense (—of any party!). Join parties if you think they are right but—don’t pretend they are infallible. Infallibility is a religious claim not a political one. Don’t surrender your power of judgement.’ 99 1942a; an article appreciated by Louis Robert in their post-war correspondence (‘précieux pour moi’), letter dated 4 Nov. 1945 (SCA D1037/2/6/1/20/54). 100 Mountford’s suggestion: 1992a: 186. Cf. his choice of Aratus (as opposed to the Delphic oracle) as his first research topic (p. 109), or his settling on a biography of Philip V (after ‘recalling a statement by W. W. Tarn that a series of monographs on the Antigonid kings of Macedonia was a desideratum’, p. 151). Walbank undertook considerable preliminary research on Tacitus’ Histories in this period, although it is not clear whether this antedates Mountford’s

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suggest some alternative answers. Although the decline of Greece and the decline and fall of Rome are envisaged as parts of the same story, Greek decline is no more than the first act; in turning to the Decline of the Roman Empire in the West, on the other hand, he would turn his attention to the end of the story. Secondly, although this may seem remarkable in the light of his subsequent achievement, he may well have had an intrinsic preference for the principate over the Hellenistic world as a historical period. Although it contained within itself the germs of its own destruction—and so a commentary on Tacitus would still have been a contribution to the central question of ancient history, the question of decline—Walbank conceived of the early empire in mostly positive terms, the high-point of a laissez-faire approach to economic activity, a successful political compromise.101 By contrast, ‘Anything that follows Demosthenes’, he wrote of Hellenistic history in 1943, ‘must seem an anti-climax—though not, of course, without its own interest and significance’.102 When Tacitus was thought to be spoken for, he reverted to Polybius, the historian of Greek decline and fall, so that when word came from Syme, in neutral Turkey, that Tacitus was in fact free, his choice was irreversible.103 Walbank’s 1943 piece ‘Polybius on the Roman Constitution’ shows very clearly the bridge between ‘The Causes of Greek decline’, on the one hand, and the commentary on the other: Polybius was unable to see the ‘contradiction in the very structure of second-century society . . . ; his whole upbringing combined to prevent his coming to terms with it’. He was attracted to the idea of anacyclosis as he struggled to deal with the ‘shadow of coming disaster thrown already over the internal history of Rome by the accumulation of foreign conquests . . . ’.104 With only a little hindsight, the choice of Polybius could easily be rationalized: as Walbank wrote in 1950 (in a review of a volume suggestion (a terminus post quem is provided by a 1942 exam paper used as scrap): SCA D1037/ 2/3/18/5–6. Walbank was clearly still entertaining the possibility of working on the Delphic oracle as late as 1939: a letter from Benjamin Farrington, 29 Jan. 1939, SCA D1037/2/6/1/20. 101 See e.g. his review of von Fritz, 1955b: 154: ‘It is clearly quite unrealistic to minimize the weaknesses which lay beneath the façade of early imperial prosperity. But it is equally unrealistic to neglect the achievements of the first two centuries of the principate and the relative success of Augustus’ compromise.’ 102 1943b: 91. 103 1992a: 186. 104 1943c: 89, 88, continuing ‘In a flash of inspiration the bourgeois historian of Megalopolis began to recognize in the first signs of popular unrest, in the first systematic challenge from within to the rulers of an empire now unchallengeable from without, the herald of approaching ochlochracy’. Cf. McDonald and Walbank 1937 on Roman imperialism, ‘Polybius and the Growth of Rome’ (summarized as Walbank 1946d), SCA D1037/2/3/21/3, pp. 30–1: ‘Polybius was blind to some of the most essential features of the scene, because he was obsessed with the presuppositions of the circle from which he sprang, and its counterpart among which he lived at Rome; his blacks were too black and his whites too white. And when at last the facts of change intruded upon his notice, his solution was to superimpose the pessimistic theory of the anacyclosis, to substitute perpetual movement for perpetual immobility—but in a form which equally ruled out the idea of progressive development.’

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published, as he noted, in a series entitled Problemi d’oggi), ‘there are few ancient writers whose work has the same immediate claim upon our interests today. POLYBIUS writes about things we have all known, Italians not least . . . ’.105 Even after this point, even as the urgent topicality of the ‘causes of Greek decline’ becomes sublimated in commentary, it is clear that Walbank’s concern to relate his work with the world did not evaporate. As Momigliano later observed, of the three Persons of the Trinity (Syme, Jones, and Walbank) ‘even in Jones the concern for the modern world was less pressing and explicit than it was and is for Walbank’.106 Far from being left to moulder on the shelves, for example, The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West was reissued in expanded and revised form in 1969 as The Awful Revolution, a title that consciously echoed Gibbon.107 ‘[T]he strident immediacy of the original gave way to a more scholarly tone’;108 further reading sections are added, and the corporative State is rebranded as the Authoritarian State. It is worth pausing, however, over what remained: the book’s opening declaration of the perennial topicality of the period (p. 11) or of the power of new approaches in turning a microscope on social life (pp. 16–18); its characterization of the ‘minority civilization’ of Athens, based on exploitation; its final injunction to the reader to focus his or her energies on the amelioration of modern society, and—in general—the whole thesis of social inequality and ‘stagnation of technique’ leading to authoritarianism and collapse. The question of whether a savage fascism inevitably awaits modern Europe is broadened (pp. 114–15). The common trend in the Late Empire and the modern world is not towards fascism per se, but from an age of laissez faire to one of control and state planning. From this point of view—whatever their other differences—there is a common element in the regimes of nazi Germany, communist Russia , ‘capitalist’ U.S.A and the ‘welfare’ states of Great Britain and several other European countries. Are we then (it is sometimes asked) witnessing a new and ominous stage in our civilization in which we must all gradually sink into a state of regimentation similar to that which heralded the end of western Rome . . . ?

105

1950b: 273. Momigliano 1984; ‘Walbank’, he continued, ‘would not be the historian he is without his deep commitment to rationality, social justice and international understanding’, before speculating how much of that is owed to family background. 107 1992a: 189. See the ‘General Observations on the Fall of the Roman Empire in the West’ in ch. 38 of Gibbon 2004: iv. 175–6: ‘This awful revolution may usefully be applied to the instruction of the present age.’ 108 Davies 2011: 343; it was still, he adds, ‘a serious essay in historiographical theory, offering a fully worked-out Marxist analysis of the “Decline and Fall”’. 106

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It may be said quite decisively and at once that there is no such necessity whatsoever driving the world of the twentieth century towards authoritarian tyranny.

The reason again is found in the different economic conditions of ancient and modern society. In short, the political call of the Decline of the Roman Empire in the West is not muted but refreshed. As late as 1983, he described de Ste Croix’s Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World as a book ‘which goes to the heart of some of the most important problems confronting students of the ancient world’—whilst maintaining positions from his Decline of the Roman Empire in the West.109 The same pattern is evident in Walbank’s adaptation of his original remarks on the ‘barbarian peril’ in the modern world. In 1946 a more confident picture is presented of barbarism at bay, with a memorable quotation from another passage in Gibbon’s ‘General Observations on the Fall of the Roman Empire in the West’: ‘The plough, the loom and the forge are introduced on the banks of the Volga, the Oby and the Lena, and the fiercest of the Tartar hordes have been taught to tremble and obey.’110 If barbarian peoples still pose a danger, it is only by virtue of their gaining material civilization and so the technical means of threatening civilization—with Japan cited as an example of the dangers of ‘too readily assuming that technical civilisation necessarily involves all-round culture’.111 By 1969 faith in civilization is less pronounced, and the potential for barbarism is, it is emphasized, within all peoples, though Walbank turns once more to the same passage from Gibbon:112 Can we be sure that the possession of the plough, the loom and the forge—to say nothing of the jet fighter and the hydrogen bomb—are sufficient guarantee that their owners will also automatically exhibit a high degree of civilization? . . . A salutary and painful lesson has taught us that barbarism in this sense remains a danger at all times, and in all societies, and that the price of civilization, like that of freedom, is eternal vigilance.113

Walbank no more recants his views on inequalities in the Greek world than on the fall of Rome. So much is made explicit in Walbank’s 1970 Presidential

109 1983b: 200. For his extensive notes on de Ste Croix 1981, see SCA D1037/2/3/21/22. See also his comments on Marx’s distinction between Asiatic and Classical modes of production (and on de Ste Croix’s underestimation of serfdom), 1991/2: 92–3 and n. 12. See also 1956b: esp. p. 293, taking issue with Katz’s The Decline of Rome and the Rise of Medieval Europe, for failing to do justice to the importance of slavery as a cause of decline, reiterating the arguments of Walbank 1946a, but then conceding ‘this is merely one point, singled out largely because it interests the reviewer’. 110 Gibbon 2004: iv. 177. 111 1946a: 78. 112 1969: 118–19. 113 Compare his call for vigilance in a 1938 lecture, SCA D1037/2/1/3/1, quoted above, n. 61.

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Address to the Classical Association (CA), a lecture which returned to the paper with which he had first addressed a CA ‘Annual Assembly’, at St Albans in 1944, ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’.114 His captatio benevolentiae gently mocks his youthful self, explaining the genesis of the original paper in terms of its wartime context. Quoting the response of Frank Adcock, then Professor of Ancient History at Cambridge, to his St Albans paper (‘perhaps a little onesided’), he sought then to ‘atone’ by giving the other side, by discussing a ‘field in which the Hellenistic age can be justly said to have made a more positive contribution’, the experiment in Greek union of the Achaean League. And yet he studiedly fails to recant the position of that earlier paper:115 The V2 attacks were still at their height; and with the manifest signs of catastrophe on every side, it had seemed to me—for I was an earnest young man—that the causes of Greek decline might be an appropriate subject on which to expatiate. My paper was devoted, I remember, to a discussion of the exclusiveness of Greek civilisation, the technical stagnation of the Hellenistic age, and the failure of the Greeks generally to extend their culture downwards to reach the masses of the poor . . . [Professor Adcock] was perfectly right: it was one-sided—though I thought (and I still think) it was an important side.

In an earlier version of the Presidential Address, a paper ‘The Political Contribution of the Achaean Confederacy’ given in June 1967, he invokes an argument reminiscent of ‘The Social Revolution at Sparta’: by leaving the social problem ‘suppressed and unsolved’, the Achaean League ‘had thus saddled itself with a liability which was to play a significant part in the final debâcle’.116 Moreover, when Walbank turned back to Greek historical narrative, in his Fontana history of the Hellenistic world (first published in 1981), it is striking how much of the pattern of ideas of his early ‘political’ phase shines through. The Fontana history achieves, arguably, a kind of marriage between the political and apolitical styles of the mid-thirties to mid-forties. Long-standing social problems were ‘endemic in Greece for many centuries’: ‘a low living standard, the absence of any margin to meet lean years or upsets due to mobilization and war will have played a large part in reducing peasants to a condition of dependence from which it was virtually impossible to emerge’.117 Economic distress and class conflict led to the threat of ‘social revolution’, though the upper classes were ‘fairly successful in their use of palliatives’.118 114 Published as Walbank 1970b; see also Walbank’s enthusiastic reception of Claude Mossé’s Marxist thesis of the decline of the Greek city-state, 1963b. 115 1970b: 13–14; Walbank returns to the theme of the St Albans lecture (‘the failure of the Achaean confederacy to solve the social problem’) in conclusion, 1970b: 26, but then insists on finishing on a positive note. 116 SCA D1037/2/3/21/38, p. 28; cf. 1935: 29–30 (quoted above, p. 10). 117 1992b: 166. 118 1992b: 167–75, 170.

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Here, in short, is the essential narrative of ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’, Walbank’s Marxist theory of decline.119 His portrayal of the decadent end of Ptolemaic Egypt significantly also makes the connection with the conditions of the later Roman empire and—without invoking the spectre of fascism—is clearly reminiscent of the corrupt obscurantist Corporative State:120 The power that the Crown has lost has fallen into the hands of the priests and of certain influential individuals, whose ability to offer protection . . . to runaways and others in distress seems to anticipate the conditions of the declining Roman empire half a millennium later. For this collapse of Ptolemaic rule there are many causes, some of which have been examined above, but to those must be added a disastrous foreign policy, the loss of markets abroad, the wastage caused by internal unrest and civil wars, incompetent government at home, bureaucratic corruption and currency depreciation. In considering the whole sorry tale it is difficult not to echo the judgement of E. Will that Ptolemaic Egypt fell a victim to its own wealth employed in the service of interests which were not its own.

By contrast to ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’, however (but in line with other earlier formulations121), Walbank seeks to balance the picture, just as he had done in his CA Presidential Address. ‘[The] flame of rational enquiry had begun to burn low and we can detect a growth in the attraction of mystery religions and eastern cults’, though the Hellenistic age is also said (in the same sentence) to have ‘remained a time singularly free from obscurantism and censorship . . . ’.122 Credit is given for the scientific discoveries of the age, but— for all the reasons we have already seen (the cheap price of human labour, whether free or slave, the contempt for manual labour123)—the Greek cities ‘never took a decisive step in the direction of harnessing scientific discoveries to the practical use of human communities and the achievement of material progress’.124 As in his earlier work also, the decline of Greece is set within a grander, historical canvas. Rome is both destroyer and heir of ‘this fertile age’; empire led to the creation of a ‘single cultural continuum in which many

119 Though contrast the opening of Momigliano 1984: ‘It must have been in 1947 or 1948 when I told Frank Walbank that (Soviet) Russian reviewers of his books, though thinking that his attempts at being a coherent Marxist were not very successful, had a healthy respect for his scholarship.’ 120 1992b: 122. 121 See e.g. the synopsis, SCA D1037/2/1/6/1, of a lecture ‘The Hellenistic Age’, read to the Sheffield Branch of the CA, 6 Nov. 1946, opening ‘A just appreciation of the Greek contribution to Western Europe cannot omit the achievements of the Hellenistic Age’, or the positive definition of the Hellenistic world (focusing on the exchange of ideas, prosperity, and the linguistic koine) at 1935: 3–4. Cf. the bolder description of the Hellenistic age, 1991/2: 113, as ‘one of the most dynamic in Mediterranean history and perhaps one of the most influential in respect of what was to follow afterwards’. 122 1992b: 250; cf. p. 209 on traditional religion as a husk. 123 1992b: 192–4. 124 1992b: 184; cf. 194–5.

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aspects of the Hellenistic world lived on’, to enjoy a ‘ghostly existence in Byzantium’.125 And the issue of whether there was another way is left hanging. Walbank speculates whether, ‘given another century without Rome, federalism might have developed fresh and fruitful aspects . . . Federalism offered the possibility of transcending the limitations of size and relative weakness of the separate city-state. But time ran out.’126 Walbank’s concern with the topical survives in the repeated analogies to the modern world scattered through his work: in references to Chairman Mao, Smuts, the Vietnam peace talks, Red Square march-pasts, working men’s clubs, or (less passingly) to comparisons between ancient and modern federalism (‘No ambassadors travel abroad from Pennsylvania, Wyoming signs no treaties’127). Such analogies are more than just decorative. The 1970 CA Presidential Address justifies the topic of federalism in terms of its contemporary importance, albeit more guardedly than in the grand opening of The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West (‘So perhaps its role in the Greek world may seem to be not entirely without topical interest’128). He makes this claim despite knowing, he adds, that ‘it is unpopular and even thought to be slightly disreputable for a historian to point to modern analogies’. For the most part, however, the topical aspect of Walbank’s work, and the sense of the historian’s commitment that relates to it, from now on appear more obliquely. A common pattern is for such contemporary relevance to be projected onto others—even as Walbank guards himself against simplistic associations between ancient and modern. His survey of Polybian studies in the last quarter of the twentieth century, for example, found that ‘it is hard to dissociate [the remarkable post-war surge of interest in Polybius] entirely from the contemporary clash of powers and the rise of the United States to preeminence, which were to dominate the next fifty years’.129 Similarly, the opening words of Walbank’s preface to the first volume of the Commentary, through comparison with Schweighauser’s eighteenth-century commentary, make the implicit claim that his contemporaries will, self-evidently, identify with the themes of Polybius’ Histories:130 1992b: 251, 249, 28; notably, it is primarily through the cities, ‘vital units of civilized life’, that the Hellenistic legacy was transmitted (p. 249). 126 1992b: 157–8. 127 1976/7: 35, 1964a: 244, 1977b: 85, 1984c: 54; cf. 1972b: 148, 1967: 135, 1991/2: 96, 1992b: 63. 128 1970b: 14. Cf. 1966b: 388 on Toynbee’s use of ‘enlivening’ parallels, 1949b: 360 (on J. O. Thomson), 1954a: 18, reviewing an edition of Plutarch’s Dion: ‘none of Plutarch’s Lives is more immediately relevant to these post-war years, when Dion and Heracleides are still familiar figures in a liberated Europe’. 129 2002: 1. For a similar litotes, see 1964a: 260 (the roles of the US and Rome ‘not altogether dissimilar’). Cf. Walbank’s observation (1944: 10) on Rostovtzeff 1926: ‘The comparison with Bolshevik Russia and the ancient world in decay is constantly implicit in his narrative, and frequently he pauses to draw a direct analogy’. 130 HCP i. vii. 125

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The last full commentary on Polybius, that of Iohannes Schweighauser, was published during the French Revolution; but his eight massive volumes . . . are fundamentally untouched by the stirring events going on at the time. . . . His commentary is primarily philological; whereas most people who read Polybius today turn to him as the main source for much Hellenistic history, as the historian of the Punic Wars, and, above all, as the first man who really came to grips with the problem of the rise of Rome to world empire—which is equivalent to saying that his readers today are pre-eminently those who share his interests. It is these readers whose needs the present work is intended to meet.

As John Henderson has put it, ‘“we” are “today” self-reflexively alive to the Revolutions, the stirring events, the problem of world empires, which entitles us to claim to share Polybius’ interests’.131 Here is the claim of ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’, that the events of the decline of Greece have ‘a special significance for our generation’, recapitulated. History-writing is not overshadowed by the enormity of surrounding events; it draws its power from them. Nevertheless, it is particularly in the context of discussions of the historian’s role that a sense of the historian’s proper commitment reveals itself. A crucial figure in this process of self-definition as a historian is Gaetano De Sanctis, whom he first read as a student in 1930–1132 and cited as a model as early as 1943 in the conclusion to ‘Is our Roman History Teaching Reactionary?’ ‘Properly told’, the Roman republic could be a tale ‘damning to the enemies of liberty and democracy’:133 It is no mere accident that Gaetano de Sanctis, perhaps the most eminent Roman historian of our generation and a great liberal thinker, broke off his Storia dei Romani abruptly at 167 b.c., never to complete it. His last volume, published in 1923, when Fascism had been in power for a year, is dedicated—who can read the words to-day unmoved?—‘to those few who disdain alike to be oppressed and to make themselves oppressors’. The story that De Sanctis could not finish in Mussolini’s Italy it is our task as teachers of Roman history in a democratic country to tell.

The implicit contrast here between De Sanctis’ abrupt halt at 167 bc and Polybius’ own decision (3. 4) to continue writing Roman history after 167 bc is a powerful one, but it is mitigated by Walbank’s own claim that such history is still a story that must be told. De Sanctis is also the subject of a later essay, written in 1983 to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of his refusal to swear the fascist oath, published in English only in Walbank’s second volume of

131

Henderson 2001a: 230–1. 1992a: 108 (his reading of De Sanctis was at first limited to a large portion on the Hannibalic War); see here Davies 2011: 327. De Sanctis acknowledged a copy of Philip V in a postcard dated 10 Nov. 1945, SCA D1037/2/6/1/20/58; Walbank subsequently went to De Sanctis’ door in Rome (and met him briefly), in Sept. 1949 (pers. comm., April 1998). 133 1943a: 61. 132

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collected papers in 2002. The essay is in part a defence of Polybius from De Sanctis’ charge that he was a quisling of Rome—clearly a charge for De Sanctis born from his personal circumstances, and a recurrent concern for Walbank.134 At the same time, however, it is difficult to resist hearing echoes of Walbank’s own position in what he says of the parallels between De Sanctis’ and Polybius’ careers (for both ‘an alternative means of self-expression’).135 And even as Walbank regrets that De Sanctis could not have been more forgiving of Polybius, even as he points towards the dangers of using ends to justify means, he aligns himself with De Sanctis’ moral perspective on history:136 His deep sense of humanity and hatred of injustice and oppression would have prevented De Sanctis from ever supposing that ends—whether regarded as aims or, retrospectively, as the results of the historical process—can justify means. But to talk of historical justification is to run the risk of seeing history in those terms; and when we speak of imperial conquest leading to the spread of humanity and civilisation, we should, I think, not forget—as De Sanctis did not forget—the cruel fate of Numantia and the severed hands of Uxellodunum.

De Sanctis is also a key inspiration behind one of Walbank’s most emphatic methodological statements (from his much cited article, ‘The Problem of Greek Nationality’)—a statement, if not of the historian’s duty to make moral judgements, at least of his or her duty to make full use of the advantage of hindsight. Walbank makes a distinction between two levels of historical interpretation. The first level of interpretation is to ‘investigate the various policies and aims of Greek and non-Greek statesmen, the interests likely to influence them, the actions of the various states, and their outcome, in terms of the concepts and ideals and knowledge actually available to the people concerned’.137 It is essential, he continues, however, that the historian goes beyond this first level:

134

Cf. 1970a: 305, 1995: 274, 284. 2002: 320, continuing ‘It was as a direct result of his own personal disaster that Polybius produced his great work’. 136 2002: 313. 137 1951: 58. The italics are ours. The tension between these levels of interpretation is explored earlier through Walbank’s narrative of Aratus, e.g. in its ironic concluding comparison of Cleomenes and Aratus (1933: 166) or his analysis of Sicyon’s admission to the Achaean League (‘there is no evidence that [Aratus] envisaged any of the consequences of the step he was taking’), in the conclusion of Philip V, 1940a: 275, or in his critique of Stier 1948b: 160: ‘Not only the facts, but the criteria by which to judge them must sometimes be drawn from the knowledge of later generations. One need not make an anachronistic theory of Greek unity one’s touchstone in order to assess the overwhelming price which Greece paid for the luxury of inter-polis warfare, and to see in this loss one of the causes of her downfall; nor is it unhistorical to characterise the nationalism which could not advance beyond the city (just as so far we have failed to advance beyond the nation state) as particularist. If the historian is concerned with the whole story he must assign responsibility in this way: if on the other hand his task is merely to assess the positive 135

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[He] is also living in his own age, with all the advantages of knowing how the play ended; and he can see each act in relation to the whole.138 Now because of what De Sanctis has called the ‘creativity of history’ its process is not a mere series of permutations and combinations similar to that of shuffling cards or shaking dice. Out of the clash of deeds and policies, the genius or the malice of outstanding individuals, the unthinking obedience or the revulsion of the mass, the victories, defeats, migrations, conquests, and settlements, the social struggles, the shifting currents of trade, and all the infinite variety of a thousand and one other factors, something new is constantly coming to birth; and what is born in this way is neither a haphazard nor an arbitrary creation but stands in a logical sequence to all that preceded it.

There is also an interplay through Walbank’s work between Polybius’ methodology, perspective, even personal narrative, and his own. At one level, we see in Walbank an identification—however unwitting—with the practical Polybius. A function of the prevailing ideology of contempt for manual work was, according to ‘The Causes of Greek Decline’, ‘the diversion of scientific thought away from practical experiment . . . into notional and metaphysical channels’.139 Walbank’s laudatory account of the Achaean League, in his CA Presidential Address, climaxes with the observation ‘And all this was done by practical politicians who owed virtually nothing to political theorists’.140 Similarly, just as Polybius resists the temptation to arouse an emotional response in his reader,141 so he later summarizes the strengths and weaknesses of (a later study by) Stier by describing it as an ‘extremely interesting, if somewhat emotionally charged, study’.142 At the same time, the ‘disingenuousness’ with

contribution of the Greeks (as S. seems to suggest), he may prefer to limit himself to their own standards.’ 138 Walbank’s analogy of history and drama goes back to his prize essay on federalism, SCA D1037/2/4/1/2: one result of the modern interest in federalism (p. 1) is that ‘the curtain has ceased to fall upon the spectacle of Greek history with the death of Alexander, but the play has been prolonged to a truer if less dramatic climax in the rout of Scarpheia and the burning of Corinth’. 139 1944: 15; he also portrays expenditure on festivals, as opposed to ‘capitalist and industrial expansion’, as ‘going into unproductive channels’. Cf. Plb. 9. 20. 5–6, cited at 1972a: 124: ‘I strongly disapprove . . . of any superfluous adjuncts to any branch of knowledge such as serve but for ostentation and fine talk . . . and I am disinclined to insist on any studies beyond those that are of actual use.’ 140 1970b: 27. Cf. 1947b: 658 (‘Thiel writes of the sea as one who knows it . . . ’). 141 Cf. 1938: 64: ‘Polybius makes no attempt to involve the reader emotionally in the development of the situation’. Walbank would return to the contested topic of tragic history in 1960a: see now Marincola in this volume. 142 1963a: 7, discussing Stier 1957. Statesmen too, not least Philip V, are regularly assessed for the degree to which they are mastered by their emotions, e.g. 1940a: 260, Hammond and Walbank 1988: 219 (‘Demetrius occupied the throne of Macedonia . . . without ever disciplining his restless nature to the pursuit of a single consistent policy, or deciding whether to concentrate realistically on ruling Macedon effectively or to follow the will-o’-the-wisp of a universal empire’).

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which Polybius claims to ‘defend high principle’, Polybius’ identification with Roman imperial expansion, his ‘ruthless’ acceptance of the means employed (‘success was apt to be his main criterion’), and his lack of sympathy for those caught up in its progress are plainly a concern:143 One thing worries me a little. Polybius’ commitment to the doctrine of ‘the possible’ is no doubt a praiseworthy quality in a statesman—even though the really ‘great’ statesman is the man who makes his own definition of the possible. But had this commitment perhaps a slightly corrupting effect on Polybius as a historian? With his increasing sympathy for Rome, the successful super-power, goes a marked lack of sympathy for those who had resisted her.144

Moving beyond such ex cathedra statements on methodology and approach, and at risk of being fanciful, it is also possible to trace a more delicate, implicit relationship between these two co-dependent historians. Given Polybius’ famous opening statement, it is striking how frequently the figure of fifty years features in Walbank’s own work. De Sanctis’ ‘great act of courage’, the work of Schwartz, his own study of Greek nationality, the development of Holleaux’s thesis, are all reviewed after half a century—in each case to consider (in a parallel to Polybius’ extension?) ‘how far [they have] stood the test of time’.145 Walbank’s reflection (quoted above) on the coincidence of the post-war surge in interest in Polybius and contemporary affairs—‘the contemporary clash of powers and the rise of the United States to pre-eminence, which were to dominate the next fifty years’146—suggests that this fifty-year trope is more than, as it were, a Polybian tick: ever so tentatively, Walbank points to the new Rome and to its inevitable eclipse.147 The recurrence of this motif, moreover, is not just the product of Walbank’s unusual opportunity for hindsight, ‘of knowing how the [scholarly] play ended’. In another passage of his ‘Problem of Greek Nationality’, he in fact anticipates his own subsequent review:

143

1963a: 11, 1974b: 28–9, 1970a: 301, 1972a: 54, 86–7, 178, and esp. 180–1. The characterization of a ‘great’ statesman recalls Walbank’s opening description of Aratus, 1933: 1 (‘his significance he attained not by forcing events into the shape he planned . . . ’). 144 Cf. Walbank’s discussion (HCP iii. 669–70) of the much-debated passage on Greek views of Roman policy towards Carthage in the Third Punic War (Plb. 36. 9–10). 145 Walbank 1963a: 1, 1960a: 216, 1962: 8, 11. ‘Great act of courage’: 2002: 321. See also Walbank’s reflection on the fifty years separating the first and second editions of the Cambridge Ancient History, 1991/2: 113. 146 Walbank 2002: 1. 147 The same analogy between the US and Rome is drawn in the conclusion of 1964a, a lecture (adapted from the third of his 1957 Gray Lectures at Cambridge: SCA D1037/2/1/11/9) with which Walbank toured a number of US universities: ‘For this feature [the inheritance of the mixed constitution], good or ill, we must, I suggest, reserve at least a part of our thanks or execration for Polybius, whose essay on the constitution . . . has thus by a strange and unexpected channel of transmission helped to shape the destiny of a people whose role in the modern world is perhaps not altogether dissimilar to that of the Romans in theirs’ (p. 260).

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though the historian is apt to believe that the subject he has chosen for study is one which he came to by chance, or because it seemed to have been neglected, or because it arose out of some earlier work, or for some other wholly personal reason, fifty years hence it will be quite obvious that the themes chosen by historians today, and the treatment accorded to them, were directly related to contemporary problems, or, to use De Sanctis’ words, to the spiritual needs of men and women living in the middle of the twentieth century. (1951: 60)

Walbank’s narrative of his own early career in the Hypomnemata contains further Polybian parallels.148 It plays repeatedly on the tension between his ‘two levels of interpretation’: the reconstruction of his own limited vision as an agent in his own story; and his own vantage-point from beyond the story’s end.149 In Walbank’s account, his early career turns on a small number of crucial chances: his knowledge from a cigarette card that Peterhouse was the oldest Cambridge college, for example; or his writing of an article elucidating some lines of the Georgics on weaving, later cited as evidence that he was not an ‘historian in disguise’ when he was appointed to the Liverpool Chair of Latin.150 ‘I now know’, he wrote later of the twist that led him to take the Classical side at Bradford Grammar School, ‘that chance and error play a great part at all times in shaping one’s life and I do not regret at all that my parents’ ignorance turned me into a classical scholar’.151 This pattern can be seen in part in the context of Henderson’s thesis of his self-effacement, Walbank’s ‘coolant irony for the actor-self ’s efforts to string together a chosen path toward a settled goal or rational objective’.152 The parallel with Polybius might suggest, however, a more providential form of Tyche guiding his career—no matter how knowing or ironic the analogy might have been.153 In a striking passage of a late article, Walbank finds that Polybius’ personal narrative, the genesis of his great work, is likewise founded on a small number of ‘arbitrary and idiosyncratic features’: ‘an Aristotelian philosopher’s obiter dictum on the rise of Macedonia154 . . . a generally 148

See Henderson in this volume, pp. 37–8 and n. 2. Its title, of course, refers further back in his own career to the Hypomnemata of Aratus, though Walbank’s own grandfather’s memoir was a crucial model: SCA D1037/1/1/9. 149 Cf. 1994: 29–30: ‘It is an observed fact that many historians have a strong inclination to create some sort of overall structure or pattern for the events with which they are dealing’. 150 1992a: 85, 149. Georgics article: 1940b. 151 1992a: 65. 152 Henderson 2001a: 227. 153 Cf. his remark on Polybian tyche, 1972a: 65 (cf. 1972a: 165): ‘it is hard to resist the impression that as he looked back on the remarkable and indeed unique process of Rome’s swift rise to power, and recollected the words of Demetrius of Phalerum, he was led to confuse what had happened with what was destined to happen, and so to invest the rise of Rome to world power with a teleological character’. 154 Demetrius of Phalerum, cited at Plb. 29. 21. 4–6, observing that no one would have believed the warning that in fifty years the name of the Persians would be obliterated; referred to also at Walbank 1970a: 291, 1980: 41, 1993a: 22, 1994: 34–5.

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accepted Hellenistic belief in Tyche, and, probably, his family involvement with Ptolemaic Egypt’.155 History, for Walbank, was likewise a matter of unintended consequences, of swirling movements the shape of which would only become apparent to the historian, and of practical men doing their best in the midst of these great currents. His two earliest books, both biographical in focus, have strikingly ironic endings. Philip V is the unwitting vehicle for Greek culture ‘to spread along the paths of the legions to Rome, and so to the western civilisation that grew up after her’.156 His life had been ‘necessarily a ding-dong struggle, demanding a constant readaptation of both ends and means, in which changing circumstances again and again suggested new objectives’.157 Aratos sees the roles of its two chief protagonists reversed: ‘Cleomenes the idealist and man of action becomes a mere expression of one aspect of his age, without significance for the future; Aratos, by keeping close to actual events and situations, and letting these condition his acts, shapes the history of the Greek people for a hundred years after his death.’158 The value of history is not just a generalized one, ‘the enrichment of experience which comes from an added understanding of all that is past in the present’, and nor can it be narrowed to a search for insights into a specific contemporary objective159— for the context for action changes from historical moment to moment160—but

Walbank 1994: 42; cf. 1972a: 2–3, 1963a: 6, 8, 12: ‘But a history is not necessarily the worse because it is sustained by a conviction that it reveals a purpose; and perhaps without Demetrius of Phalerum and Polybius’ belief that he had witnessed the unfolding of a superhuman plan there would have been no Histories—certainly no Histories in the form we have them in today’ (p. 12). 156 1940a: 275: ‘But the clear logic of world movements emerges only from out of an infinite variety of minor streams, a host of contingencies, conflicting ambitions and cross-currents: what in the light of centuries proves all-important may be regarded as little more than an accident, or may even pass unnoticed by the uncomprehending gaze of its contemporaries’. Cf. the ironic conclusion, 1984a: 100, that ‘the very process of [the Romans’] annihilating the Hellenistic kingdoms had accentuated the conditions which made the survival of the republic impossible’, or the conclusion of Walbank’s 1946 inaugural lecture as Professor of Latin, ‘The Roman historians on the Roman Republic’, SCA D1037/2/1/7/1/1, p. 36 (‘history had become a profession divorced from politics. It gained autonomy at a moment when it ceased to be possible for real political history to be written’). 157 1940a: 258. Cf. 1958a: 271 on the career of Dio (‘one of the most striking illustrations within the field of ancient history of the extent to which any given political end lays limitations upon the means which can be employed to achieve it, and further of the extent to which the realities of political life and human nature themselves restrict the field of profitable action’), 1946c: 43, on Philip V. 158 1933: 166 (our italics). 159 See Walbank’s critique, 1954c: 102, of Michael Grant’s focus on the prevention of war: ‘It is also arguable that the greatest service that history can render to those seeking to understand the present lies in the general increase of awareness that comes from the study of any real historical problem, rather than in a universal concentration on one selected issue. In short, to prevent wars we should study not merely past wars, but history in general.’ 160 Cf. 1984a: 71–2 on Hellenistic kings’ use of ‘a combination of force and cajolery in a proportion which varied according to the location and strength of the city and the political constellation of the moment’. 155

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‘also that wisdom which is the fruit of men partly like and partly unlike ourselves meeting, and either solving or failing to solve, problems that are partly like and partly unlike those which we ourselves have to face’.161 In this broader context, in the ‘ding-dong’ struggle with its countless contingencies, moral judgements are necessarily shaded.162 The historian balances delicately above the fray, aware that his own work is historically contingent, that its meaning and motives will only be clear in retrospect—and is therefore wary of being over-harsh in judging previous writers similarly blind to their own context.163 The historian’s role—as reflected here through Polybius, De Sanctis, and the ideal historian of the ‘Problem of Greek Nationality’—is clearly less directly political than in Walbank’s earlier ‘political effusions’. It is arguably no less powerful, however: a kind of romantic, moral calling. The choice of such highflown language might seem at odds with the practical orientation of much of Walbank’s writing. (Though, as many of the passages cited above reveal, Walbank was not above high-flown language himself.) Critically, however, there need be no opposition between the down-to-earth, the practical, on the one hand, and the loftily romantic on the other. For Walbank, the romantic consists in the practical: the men who pioneered federalism without any philosophical guide; the itinerant craftsmen who kept alive the legacy of the ancient world; the buses, vans, and postal catalogues that bring the town and country together and mark progress. The historian (in the consistent pattern of his reviews) must be balanced and objective in his judgements, his work 161 1951: 60. Cf. his characterization of the utility of history according to Thucydides, 1990: 254–5 (history was useful, ‘not, it is true, in providing a series of formulae or blue-prints for future generals and statesmen, but certainly in giving his readers an extension of that generalised experience which, as von Fritz puts it, enables a ship’s captain—or, one might say, the driver of a car—to know the right thing to do in a particular emergency’), or in a lecture, ‘How Democracy Began’ given Sept. 1957, SCA D1037/2/1/10/1, p. 18 (‘noone would be so foolish as to use our experience of democracy at Athens to provide a blue-print for modern practice or a prognostication as to how modern democracy is likely to turn out. . . . But, even so, the story of Greek democracy is valuable to us, not perhaps to incite us like certain politicians of the eighteenth century to revolutionary action, but rather to emphasise and illustrate in a smaller context what are still important problems which democracy has to solve . . . it remains one of the essential objects of study for anyone who is concerned with the problems that confront modern democracy.’). 162 See e.g. 2002: 321, 1984b: 224 on Pyrrhus; cf. his early characterization of Polybius’ ‘moralist’s view of history’, 1938: 58: ‘to him history is a storehouse of moral examples, a training for life’s vicissitudes. Sensationalism obscures the moral issues, inaccuracy of detail puts the later events in their wrong perspective, neglect of cause and effect ruins the whole moral scheme. Polybius was a firm believer in the power of Fortune (Tyche) to bring a man the destiny he had earned; the historian had only to sift the details carefully and patiently—the bald record of what was said and done—bring out the nexus of cause and effect and the moral lesson would emerge, clear for all to see.’ 163 See e.g. his judgement, 1967: 692–3, of Plutarch, ‘this warm, shrewd, but mediocre writer’, whose ‘enviable myopia [concerning Rome and the possibility of historical change] . . . goes a long way towards accounting for the unruffled kindliness that is his most attractive characteristic’; cf. 1964a: 241 on Polybius, 1983c on Hieronymus of Cardia.

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‘anchored in facts, free from abstraction and generalization, and with no axe to grind’.164 But he should also take positions, ‘[feel] passionate and . . . not shrink from battle’.165 In a series of passages through his work, Walbank identified similar aspects to Polybius. ‘When one has cleared away the jejune moralising, the didacticism and the stilted and creaking metaphysics’, he wrote in a paper in 1946, ‘there is something solid and valuable beneath . . . a firm conviction that history is a thing that matters, a rational study in which one asks questions and obtains answers, and uses the knowledge gained to enrich and inform one’s own experience.’166 Polybius’, unlike Herodotus’, was only an ‘apparent candour’, that of a man ‘who has persuaded himself of the truth about matters in which he has a strong personal commitment, and is not prepared even to envisage the possibility that there may be another point of view’.167 Comparing himself with Odysseus—‘a grand, if slightly humourless, comparison’168—reveals ‘disguised beneath the didacticism of the practical historian . . . a glimpse of a romantic’.169 Polybius’ polemics also reveal hidden depths:170 We are apt to think of Polybius as a didactic and even prosy writer. His long passages of polemic, properly read, enable us to correct that picture and to see something of the strong emotional background which coloured his attitudes and probably gave him the impetus to carry through his great enterprise to a successful conclusion.

It must remain a non liquet, but it is hard to resist the conclusion that for Walbank too an equivalent emotional background was similarly fundamental, in allowing him to conceive and to carry through his great enterprise. After Walbank, what now for Polybius? Recent years have seen a new surge of interest: with a wave of new volumes (both specialist studies on particular themes and works of synthesis or introduction), and a series of important

164 1959a: 217 on Syme’s Colonial Elites; see also 1954b: 51 on Holleaux; contrast 1968: 253 (‘L. is not the kind of scholar who believes that a good way to exercise historical objectivity is to hold the balance level between good and evil’). 165 1964b: 211–12 on Gomme; cf. 1963a: 2 on Holleaux’s passion. Contrast 1958b: 157 on Cloché (‘His honesty is exceeded only by his caution; and this combination can sometimes be somewhat paralysing’). 166 ‘Polybius and the growth of Rome’, SCA D1037/2/3/21/3, pp. 30–1, continuing ‘Polybius saw— and said—that if history was not this, it was nothing. It is in this that his claim to greatness lies.’ 167 1972a: 6. 168 1972a: 52, including the suggestion that Cato’s mockery of Polybius’ attempts to restore honours to the Achaean exiles as akin to Odysseus going back for his hat from the Cyclops’ cave (Plb. 35. 6. 4) may have been a pointed rejoinder to such self-comparisons. 169 1948a: 171–2; Walbank himself compiled a list of his travels, year by year: SCA D1037/2/5/15. 170 1962: 12.

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conferences leading to published collections.171 Although older problems, as Walbank himself observed in 2002, have ‘remained uppermost in discussion’, it is possible to divine a number of trends in recent work.172 It is clear, first, that interest in Roman imperialism has rarely been more intense.173 With his position between Greece and Rome, as an imperial subject who came to identify with imperial power, Polybius provides a singular case study for further work, for example drawing on post-colonial approaches, or relating our characterization of ancient imperialism to modern debates.174 As Walbank himself recognized in his 2002 review of (late twentieth-century) Polybian scholarship, recent work has shown an increasing interest in rhetoric and narrative—though he added the balancing note that this new approach, ‘is basically less novel than it might appear to be’.175 This volume looks both back, in appreciation of past scholarship; and forward, looking for new answers to old questions. A number of contributions, for example, examine the intertextual relationship of Polybius’ work with others—Phylarchus (Marincola), Aratus of Sicyon (Meadows), Zeno of Rhodes (Wiemer), or Xenophon (Gibson)—or Livy’s use of Polybius as a source (Briscoe). Others take a fresh approach to Polybius’ position between Greece and Rome (Thornton, Sommer), follow Walbank in contrasting the responses of Josephus and Polybius to Roman power (Gruen), or offer contrasting approaches to one of the most familiar Polybian questions, that of Polybius’ account of the Roman constitution in Book 6 (Erskine, Seager).176 Still further contributions, influenced by narratological perspectives, trace narrative patterns in Polybius’ work through close analysis of particular sections: the Mamertine crisis (Champion), the youth and last years of Philip 171

Guido Schepens and Jan Bollansée’s 2001 Leuven conference, leading to Shadow of Polybius (2005); the 2008 conference in memory of Peter Derow, which sought to complete his unfinished project on ‘Rome and the Greeks’, Smith and Yarrow 2012; an important 2010 conference on Polybius, organized in the Helmut-Schmidt-Universität in Hamburg by Volker Grieb and Clemens Koehn. For conferences before 2000, see the brief survey of Walbank 2002: 3–4. 172 Walbank 2002: 1: ‘on the one hand Polybius’ views of his own craft, his methods of composition and the content and purpose of his work and, on the other, his explanation of how and why Rome had been so successful, together with his own attitude towards Rome and her domination since 168 b.c.’ 173 Studies of Roman imperialism which have drawn on Polybius include volumes by Champion 2004a, Erskine 2010, and most recently Baronowski 2011, published too late for consideration in this volume. 174 For a survey of recent comparative work, see Vasunia 2011. Cf. the emphasis on imperialism in the edited collection of Smith and Yarrow 2012. 175 2002: 9, continuing (pp. 9–10): ‘The good critic has always known that behind a historian’s account lie assumptions and aims directly related to his predecessors, to his contemporary situation and (if he is a public figure like Polybius) to his own political career, his present stance and his future ambitions; also that literary presentation can affect the emphasis of his narrative.’ A recent, innovative approach to Polybian narrative is McGing 2010. 176 For a survey of earlier work on Book 6, see Walbank 2002: 14–17.

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V (McGing, Dreyer), the role of the Roman prokataskeuē in Books 1 and 2 (Beck), or Polybius’ characterization of Boeotia in Book 20 (Müller). Two chapters look at Polybius through a wide Mediterranean context, exploiting the wealth of source material Polybius offers to the economic historian (Davies) or drawing on Benedict Anderson’s idea of ‘imagined communities’ to reconsider Polybius’ use of synchronisms and the geographical coming together of Mediterranean history (
ıºŒ).177 One area of potential research not covered is the rich reception history of Polybius—with one exception, the reception of Polybius by Frank Walbank himself. Beyond this introductory chapter, two very different contributions bookend the volume: the first a detailed account of the genesis of the Polybian commentary, by John Henderson; the second an insight into the personal context in which the commentary was developed, by Frank’s daughter Mitzi. What of the future direction of Polybian scholarship? Based on the direction of current work, we can speculate with some confidence: that the emphasis on Polybian narrative strategies will intensify, perhaps with literary commentaries on some individual books; that there might be a greater concentration on Polybius’ intellectual context, his engagement with contemporary debates;178 that the religious ideas of the Histories, Polybius’ ‘creaking metaphysics’ might be reassessed, in the light of new approaches to Greek religious belief;179 or that there might be a renewed interest in issues of identity and the representation of cultural difference within the text.180 Given recent explorations of the commentary as a genre, and given the extensive archive of papers that might support such a project, a fuller analysis (as called for by John Henderson below) of ‘the research methods, rhetorical strategies, or archival economy embodied’ in Walbank’s commentary might also be likely.181 How our current interests are shaped by contemporary concerns beyond academe we may only guess. However, with a recent experiment in political union reeling, the gap between the ‘rich and the starving’ extending ever further, and the ideal of a humane scholarship facing renewed threat, fifty years hence we can expect that readers will have continued to look, with profit, to both Polybius and Walbank.

On ‘imagined communities’, see Anderson 2006, and Quinn in this volume. On the
ıºŒ, the starting-point is of course Walbank 1975. Walbank reserved particular praise for the approach of Clarke 1999 (2002: 8, 25). 178 Cf. 1948a: 175–81. 179 See Walbank’s comments, 2002: 7. 180 See esp. Erskine 2000. 181 See below, p. 39. Davies 2011: 346 n. 44 notes the absence of discussion of Walbank from e.g. Gibson and Kraus 2002, Most 1999. 177

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2 ‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’ Oxford University Press Archive Files 814152, 814173, 814011 John Henderson

Coincidence between two very different projects concentrated my fire on Polybius at the turn of the millennium: the invitation to contribute to a collaborative Oxon conference organized around stand-off/co-operation between ‘scholarship’ and ‘theory’; and a Cantab essay collection on bipolarity/ integration in Hellenic cultural identity under imperial Rome. For the first I lined up on a ‘Historicism’ panel, and determined to explore parallelism in the narratives of the writing of Polybius’ Histories and of Frank Walbank’s great commentary on same, knowing beforehand that FWW (as I had known him since I did ‘Greats’ Roman History: ‘Early Period’) had begun his marathon a member of the BCP [British Communist Party], and had not shirked the fraught issue of his author’s politics through their half centuries of ongoing productivity. For the second, I joined the preponderant band of UK Polybians recruited from Wadham College and outlined my take on Polybius’ fight to respond to history through his, and Hellas’, switchback slide into subjection/ conversion to Rome; which meant re-reading and catching up with Walbank on same, from giant commentary through definitive paper upon classic article. What made these forays special for me was Frank’s involvement; he read what I wrote, promptly and with embarrassing clarity, and gave me a good long chat over the attempt I’d made to ‘situate’ his own investment in Polybius.1 In particular, Frank made sure I got to read his still unpublished memoir, from

1

Henderson 2001a and 2001b. The project on the classical commentary which became Gibson and Kraus 2002 spurred me to explore several books that I learned with, from Victorians through Elizabethans, toing-and-froing between the books and pertinent records, especially files in the OUP archives, as in the case of Walbank’s Polybius: see publications listed in my final footnote below. I’m so glad I got to hear from Frank first hand.

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birth to appointment to the Latin chair at Liverpool in 1946 (–1951), Hypomnemata (Walbank 1992a).2 When I learned of the plan to celebrate ‘Polybius 1957–2007’, I checked the University of Liverpool Library holdings, and was at once chuffed to find Frank had in 1996 contributed Arts at Liverpool: The First Hundred Years (in the Library’s Special Collection: Tom Harrison kindly lent me his copy at the conference), but no trace of the memoir.3 My plan to put that right and share the straight-twinkling frankness of this vividly detailed account of a scholar’s negotiation of the inter-war era and the war years with his troop of admirers was well and truly upstaged at the outset, when today’s cd-rom videotechnology brought us a rendering from the horse’s mouth in the form of a professionally polished five-minute taster that left no one in doubt that they’d been missing a treat of precise narrative in best humour. My second plan was to investigate the publishing history of the great Polybius commentary as documented in the OUP Archives, where the Director, Martin Maw, and his staff have got used to my irregular repeat visits to inspect files on classical books by the dozen, and helped me secure from the Secretary to the Delegates permission to use and cite telling records and correspondence. Since confidentiality extends to even ‘dead’ files of living authors, I first explained to FWW what I was up to, and got him to OK my request to be allowed to consult the Commentary files on his behalf. My reckoning that he wasn’t against finding out if there might be anything interesting there he’d never seen was largely but not entirely deflated when he gently observed that there would be no skeletons in the closet—‘I’m not conscious of any secrets’—and offered to send over the complete ‘archive’ of publishing history for the Commentary as he had conserved it from his end, parcelled in a bulging paper bag tied up with string. Didn’t take long for me to twig how he could be ‘quite’ so ‘happy for [me] to dig and use anything that turns up’. As it chanced, I set about gleaning the Oxon crop first; and settled to collate with the Cantab counterpart thereafter: the two caches were the product of rather different motives and filters, but with the exception of one or two items by way of preliminary advice on the proposal for the Commentary and its commission to FWW—equivalents of today’s ‘reader reports’—I

These ‘memoirs’ will have been so titled after Aratus’ own work, wherein the author played eyewitness and participant, providing Polybius with his own ‘starting-point’ both chronotopically and generically, and providing FWW with his first book and, in these memoirs, his own ‘starting-points’ in and on autobiography: this is how come Polybius at the outset dubs his own work hupomnemata (1. 1. 1, etc: see n. ad loc., with Marincola 1997: 180). On Polybius and Aratus, see further Meadows, ch. 4, in this volume. 3 Walbank 1998a: 118. Cf. Walbank 1996: 101–5, ‘1940s–1980s’—from arrival in 1934 ‘(at £250 p.a.)’. The volume title recycles the retirement tribute to the founder of the University’s Arts Faculty, John Macdonald Mackay, 1884–1914 incumbent in the Rathbone Chair of History (later of Ancient History and Classical Archaeology) held by FWW 1951–77. 2

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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found, to my delight, that there was virtually no divergence at all between the twin paradoses: more, FWW had not only kept each typescript missive4 as received matched to each reply in carbon-copy, but had clipped the stuff chronologically ordered in coherent batches/meaningful phases of activity. No doubt the shipshape organization was itself a symptom of the mindset required for, and trained by, the successful negotiation of an editio maior long haul; and the retirement shot at self-appraisal realized as Hypomnemata had been facilitated by the orderly accumulation of papers, and had then superimposed its own supplementary discipline, chapter by post eventum chapter. If I had been out to dig up dirt or discover gems to tickle Frank pink, he knew the odds stacked up against the likelihood. But no—I thought that memoir and file combined would supply a narrative of the publication history of the Commentary. I had got used to rummaging through the gestation of more or less modest working editions with commentary, but realized from the outset that the editio maior sets its own agenda: I wasn’t going to presume to ‘systems analyse’,5 let alone appraise the research methods, rhetorical strategies, or archival economy embodied in these doorstop tomes: Vol. I (1957), (then) xviii + 776, Vol. II (1967), xvi + 684, Vol. III (1979), xxi + 834. Rather, I meant to stick with two questions to put to these (now 802 + 700 + 855=) 2,357 pages of precisely graduated and unwaveringly condensed masses of editorial divisiones bossing their myriad adnotationes section by section, then fragment upon fragment. How come that novice thought he could big it up, and pull it off? How did he get away with it in the first place, and thereafter? Little did I foresee that the snoop would blunder big time into the history of publication, though it should’ve hit me that this is the way the serial lifework genre, the maius opus, is bound to cathect. I reckon that the documents write my story for me, clear and sharp: you’ll find I need only play scrivener. Moving from Hypomnemata to Correspondence with the Press. For the latter, I put letters from the Press in italics. [But all emphases, whether to or fro, are me being helpful.]

INTO CLASSICS The memoir is not shy of irony and enthymeme: ‘I opted for the classical side owing to a complete misunderstanding of what was involved. [The situation] should have been as plain as a pikestaff, but it just was not; and it was never explained to my parents, largely, I believe, because L. W. P. Lewis, a 4 5

TS: This will take on significance as the story unfolds. Someone should. Some proper Polybian.

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domineering and rather arrogant man, who was head of classics, exploited such confusion to capture any bright boys for the classical side. One of his most dismissive insults to anyone who had failed to meet his academic demands was to say: “If that’s the best you can do, you’d better go off and read mathematics (pronounced in the most contemptuous manner)”. I now know, however, that chance and error play a great part at all times in shaping one’s life and I do not regret at all that my parents’ ignorance turned me into a classical scholar. Indeed, I shall always be intensely grateful that I found myself at a school where I was able to learn Latin and Greek. Today such opportunities are of course much rarer and harder to come by.’ (1992a: 65)

INTO POLYBIUS First base, and the historic-didactic mode, at Bradford Grammar School (1924– 28): ‘Our other classics master was E. H. Goddard. . . . Ned, many years in advance of the acceptance of “general knowledge” as a subject, used to devote one hour a week to what he called “gas”, when he would come along and talk to us about say, the atomic theory, the table of elements, the background of the general strike (1926), philosophical problems, Nietzschian opposites or anything else that came into his mind. One thing that was always very much in his mind was Oswald Spengler and we were all indoctrinated with the cyclical views of The Decline of the West, a theory to which he fully subscribed . . . | [O]ne year Ned had the Joint Matriculation Board (the J.M.B.) approve a special period of Roman history for our school alone (this was permitted under the regulations). The period he chose was Roman History 200–133 b.c.; and this led to a piece of initiative on his part, which was to be decisive for my whole life’s work—little though either he or I could have foreseen this at the time. Pointing out that the main Greek source for the period we were to study was the second century Achaean historian Polybius, he produced a small, rather grubby German school edition of this author (I do not know to this day what edition it was) and instructed another boy in my year, Philip Sheard—he was later to become a lecturer in economics at Leeds University—and me to take this up to the prefects’ room in free periods, translate and make a précis of it, write this out and duplicate it on a jelly—the primitive form of duplication then used—for the rest of the form. The second century was a difficult period to study (apart from the main wars) and I don’t think I ever, at this stage, quite understood how the historian got from the scattered evidence (apart from Polybius and Livy) to the straight narrative contained in the text-books (nor indeed why different textbooks gave different dates for some laws and minor incidents). To have grasped that would have been a major step in my training as a historian. But even without that illumination, to read chunks of Polybius in the original (I forget now how

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

41

far down we went) and to set out the gist of his account, including the constitutional section in Book 6, was a very enlightening experience and, as I have said, fired me with an interest in that author which was later to bear unexpected fruit.’ (1992a: 75–7)

INTO OXBRIDGE Second base, more concentrated coincidence, and ingrained penny wisdom; backing and shunting the boy into his shoo-in destiny: ‘(T)he rest of us were encouraged to choose one of the less formidable institutions. My own choice was based on what I later realised were very unsubstantial reasons. From a set of cigarette cards, which I had collected some years earlier when I was in the third form, I had discovered that the oldest college in Cambridge was Peterhouse, founded in 1284. I knew absolutely nothing of its reputation or who would be teaching me, should I go there. . . . I heard that I had been elected to a Minor Scholarship at Peterhouse worth sixty pounds per annum. Along with the County Major Scholarship, worth a hundred pounds, it now put me within reach of the two hundred and twenty pounds estimated as necessary to cover a year at Cambridge; and later an Old Boys Foundation made me an additional grant of thirty pounds, bringing the total to one hundred and ninety, and leaving only a small amount for my father to find. . . . From the outset I regarded myself as primarily a historian and I never had any doubt that I should take Group C (Ancient History) in Part II, a decision strengthened by the fortuitous advantage that Bertrand Hallward was himself a historian and could provide the necessary teaching within the College. . . . [M]ost of our Roman history lectures were concentrated on the republic—perhaps because that was the subject of the Cambridge Ancient History volumes which were being written at that time. The exception here was Martin Charlesworth, who lectured on the early empire. . . . During the Michaelmas term of my second year at Cambridge (1929) I read in the Times Educational Supplement that the Hellenic Travellers’ Club was offering four prizes, two for ‘undergraduates at Oxford or Cambridge’ and two for ‘sixth form boys at public schools’ for essays on specified subjects; these were to take the form of free places on Club cruises. . . . What interested me was the first subject, ‘Federalism in the Greek World’, and I at once decided to have a shot at it. So in the Christmas vacation I did some reading of Freeman, Tarn and one or two other books and wrote my essay (using the reference room in the local Public Library as a quiet place in which to write). Some weeks into the Lent Term I heard to my great delight that I had won the prize for that subject. The examiner was T. R. Glover and I went to see him and got the essay back from him. . . . The cruise took place in March–April 1930; and this was the first time that I had been out of Great

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Britain. . . . I should perhaps add that in the previous Lent Term I had attended Hallward’s modern Greek course and the smattering of the language I acquired was quite useful to me when I got to Greece. . . . My final year, 1930–1931, I enjoyed greatly. I was happy to be rid of the compositions and able to spend the bulk of my time on my main interest, ancient history. The two special subjects were, in Greek history the sixth century, and in Roman history the Second Punic War. But there were also longish prescribed periods of Greek and Roman (republican) history for the more general papers. . . . On the evening of June 19th I received a telegram from Hallward summoning me back to Cambridge and returned the next morning to learn that I had got a good first with distinction in both the general part of the examination and (more important) in the special Ancient History papers. Would I care to stay on for a fourth year and do a ‘piece of research’? . . . Hallward’s suggestion was very attractive to me and at once I agreed . . . I now had to decide what I should do my research on; and since the Committee which dealt out scholarships and awards was meeting that afternoon, an early decision was essential. I retired to the Ward Library to ponder and write down ideas. Only two stick in my mind. One was the Delphic Oracle; but when I saw Hallward, he said too many people had already worked on that (not quite true, I think, though later Parke and Wormell certainly cornered that market). However, I had a better idea. In my essay on Greek federalism for the Hellenic Travellers’ Club competition, I had come across an Achaean statesman called Aratus, who had played an important part in the rise of the Achaean League in the third century. Would a study of Aratus do? Bertrand Hallward gave his approval and so later did Adcock, so that this was put forward as the subject of my research. I was given a University grant from the George Charles Winter Warr fund and by the College a Hugo de Balsham Research Studentship; and later, with a West Riding County Studentship and a Drummond Studentship from the Bradford Grammar School Old Boys’ Association I made my income for 1931–2 up to over £300, which was untold wealth.’ (1992a: 85, 96, 100, 103–4, 107–8, 109–10)

ON INTO RESEARCH One key after another, to a working lifetime of dedicated grit: ‘I returned from Jena to start upon a year’s research. Having got my subject accepted by the appropriate University Committee, I had a clear goal: to produce an essay of about 60,000 words on the Achaean politician and general, Aratus of Sicyon, and submit it the following summer for the Thirlwall Prize. . . . At some point in the summer I submitted my Aratus for the Thirlwall Prize. I had typed it out myself, having bought a second-hand typewriter in Bradford (for, I think, about £5) and having been taught by Josie to use all fingers in typing—a lesson

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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for which I am still grateful. The typewriter, incidentally, a portable Remington, remained in good shape until about two years ago, so I had over fifty years’ use of it.’ (1992a: 119, 125)

HIRE PO LITICS AND OVER TO LIVERPOOL Where lives are made, between kairos and wangle: ‘In September 1933 an Assistant Lectureship was advertised at Liverpool University to fill the vacancy created by the appointment of R. B. Onians to the Aberystwyth Chair of Latin. I decided to apply and in due course was called for interview on September 19th. Aratos of Sicyon (in this book I used the—os forms for Greek names) had been published ten days before and I was therefore able to send a copy to Professor J. F. Mountford, the Head of the Department, in support of my application. Meanwhile we decided to celebrate the publication in a more festive way . . . . At Liverpool two of us were interviewed, the other being Stanley F. Bonner, who had that summer graduated at Pembroke College, Cambridge. He too had no university teaching experience, but he had read the literature option in the tripos; also he came from the midlands, which may have subconsciously influenced Mountford in his favour, for he too came from that part of the country. Anyhow, the small sub-committee chose Bonner and I assumed that Mountford’s expression of regret that there were not two vacancies was just a formal piece of considerate politeness. However, fortune was with me after all. For on Saturday, November 25th, I got a letter from him to say that another member of his department, C. G. Cooper, had been appointed to a chair in New Zealand and offering me the job, as Assistant Lecturer, at £200 for the period January to September 1934. This letter stands out in my memory as one of the turning-points in my life. . . . [T]he regulations at Liverpool (as in many universities at that time) had no provision for promotion from Assistant Lecturer to Lecturer. Unless a vacancy at the higher grade occurred, however hard you had worked and however competent you had been, at the end of three years out you went. . . . [I]n the next year (1934–5), when he was due to lose both Bonner and myself, [Mountford] used his very considerable diplomatic and administrative skills to get the regulations changed, so that we both moved up to full lectureships (with a three year probationary period in Grade II) without a hitch.’ (1992a: 129–30, 136)

INTO PRINT Here’s how specializing somehow emerges, one way and another: ‘We also ran a Latin Reading Circle . . . Later we went on to the Georgics, and as a result

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I wrote an article, later published in the Classical Quarterly, in which I was given considerable help by Mary. It was entitled “Licia telae addere” and dealt with a passage in the Georgics describing the setting up of a loom; most editors had shown a deplorable ignorance of what the words meant and how a loom actually worked. This article was subsequently to be of quite unforeseen importance in my career for when, many years later, I was a candidate for the Chair of Latin, it was quoted to my advantage as evidence that I was a genuine Latinist and not simply a historian in disguise (which of course I really was). The seminar which gave rise to the article later stuck in both my mind and Mary’s because I had constructed a small model “loom” to illustrate the technical points involved and Mountford had been so impressed by this that he suggested (not wholly seriously) that we kept it in the Department; but I had reluctantly to reject this proposal, since the main beam had been borrowed from our bathroom, where it normally supported the roll of toilet paper. . . . Soon after I arrived in Liverpool I began to ask myself on what subject, following the publication of Aratos, I should now work; and recalling a statement by W. W. Tarn that a series of monographs on the Antigonid kings of Macedonia was a desideratum, I decided to write a biography of Philip V, who had already engaged my interest while working on the second half of the life of Aratus. This constituted my main research project from 1934 to 1938, when I presented it for the Hare Prize in the University of Cambridge. But in the course of my work on this I also wrote several articles, one on the date of accession of Ptolemy V, which eventually appeared in the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology. . . . I also wrote an article on the origins of the Second Macedonian War in conjunction with Alex McDonald, an Australian now lecturing at Nottingham, after taking a doctorate at Cambridge. We were brought together by Adcock, who suggested that we might combine two articles which we had submitted at the same time to the Journal of Roman Studies. I had already met McDonald when we were both candidates for the ancient history job at Nottingham, which he got, but we now had a close collaboration, which was the beginning of a long friendship. Much later, in 1969, we wrote another joint article on clauses of the Roman treaty with Antiochus III; and in the JRS for 1979 I had the melancholy task of writing a short obituary for him. A third article during this period concerned Polybius’ “tragic” treatment of Philip’s last years and this appeared in the Journal of Hellenic Studies for 1938.’ (1992a: 149, 151–2)

TO WAR Into political commitment, through the National Council for Civil Liberties (Hon. Sec.), the Spanish Medical Aid Committee, the Left Book Club . . . —and

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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a conviction for aiding and abetting, and failing to report, an illegal alien to the authorities . . . . There was this other side to the Walbanks: ‘In November 1939 the two worlds I was living in were temporarily brought together, when we put up Professor Benjamin Farrington of Swansea and after a little probing on both sides, he was able to ring up his wife to say that he had “fallen among comrades”. Ben was a delightful southern Irishman from Cork, whose books on ancient science, though they often missed the mark or drew unsustainable conclusions, were important for their conviction that science and philosophy had to be seen against the background of the society in which they sprang up. He was a Marxist and (as I shall explain later) was to be responsible for my writing my most controversial book, The Decline of the Roman Empire in the West. . . . The spring of 1939 was also marked by another event which sticks in my memory—a performance of Aeschylus’ Agamemnon in the translation of A. Y. Campbell, who himself took the part of the leader of the chorus. We junior lecturers, including Harri Hudson-Williams, who had recently replaced Fletcher in the Greek Department, were members of the chorus.6 . . . [I]n March we went to Cambridge, staying with Robert and Margaret Getty in Gilbert Road, in order to see the Greek Play there. It was the Antigone. The Greek ambassador attended and I think everyone felt the tension in the air, since this play embodied so much of what we felt was at stake in the Europe of 1939. In the course of this visit to Cambridge I called on S. C. Roberts at the Cambridge University Press, for towards the end of January I had heard that I had won the Hare Prize with my study of Philip V of Macedon, so that it was pretty certain that the Press would publish it. . . . The Press agreed to publish, but rather meanly required me to put down one hundred pounds. Since the Hare Prize was at that time worth eighty pounds, it left me twenty pounds out of pocket. However, Liverpool University came up with thirty-five pounds to cover the cost of the illustrations, so I ended up with about fifteen pounds in hand over the whole affair. Jumping ahead, I may add here that I got my hundred pounds back in 1968 (much diminished in value), when the book was reprinted by a firm in America. . . . [T]he worst [bombing raids] occurred in March and May 1941, two intensive periods of about a week each, in the course of which the centre of Liverpool was almost completely destroyed. . . . About this time I started lecturing to troops, an extremely useful experience, since to have to capture and hold the interest of a tired group of soldiers, many of whom have no intellectual interests, is good practice for lecturing anywhere. Over the next few years I lectured widely on “Campaigning with Alexander” This is Harri Llwyd Hudson-Williams, the self-styled ‘monoglott Welshman until the age of four’ and modestly macrobiotic Kingsman (1911–98: matric. 1932), who went on post-war to become Reader, then Professor, in Greek Tyne-side, before as Dean of Arts helping to found the University of Newcastle: ‘his one book on Isocrates was rejected by OUP and Harri did not bother sending it anywhere else’ (King’s College, Annual Report for 1999, p. 73). 6

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(actually “the Great”, though an officer at one unit thought I was going to talk about campaigning under General Alexander in North Africa), “The situation in Greece”, “The Problem of Albania” and eventually a whole series of talks called “British Way and Purpose”, organised through ABCA (Army Bureau of Current Affairs) and designed to get small groups talking and thinking, not least about post-war England.’ (1992a: 166–7, 176, 178)

T O T H E COMMENTARY Buying into the evitable, our author bares the joke of necessity: ‘Once Philip V was behind me and the task of seeing it through the Press over (it was published in December 1940 with a rather pusillanimous print number of only 500), I wrote several articles rather than embark on a large project while the future seemed so uncertain. But in 1943 I began to feel the need for something more substantial. Mountford suggested that I might undertake a commentary on Tacitus’ Histories to take the place of Spooner. This would be of interest to me as a historian and would also be a suitable task for a lecturer in Latin. It was a good idea and I had some correspondence with Martin Charlesworth about it; he was enthusiastic. So I wrote to Kenneth Sisam at the Oxford University Press with this proposal,’— January 16th, 1943 Dear Sir, I have recently been working on Tacitus’s Histories. and I am considering writing a commentary on them. The only work of this kind in English, the edition of W. A. Spooner, now out of print, was published over fifty years ago, in 1891, and even then left much to be desired. However, I do not want to spend a lot of time on this project, if there is no likelihood of its being eventually published, and I am therefore writing to you now, before involving myself further in the work. What I have in mind is a single volume, containing an introduction to Tacitus’s Histories and a full commentary, stylistic and historical, based on the Oxford Classical Text of C. D. Fisher, and arranged in such a way that the commentary could also be split up and published separately with the various books for use in schools and universities. I have discussed the scheme with various scholars and teachers, including Professor J. F. Mountford of Liverpool University, and they agree that the work would fill a definite gap. I realise of course that you cannot make any precise statement at this stage, particularly under present conditions. But as Tacitus’s Histories have [unreadable] for so long, {it} is possible that a similar project has been already envisaged or undertaken by some other scholar. I{t} would be of great help to me therefore if you could inform me whether the Delegates are without prior commitments as regards Tacitus’s Histories, and whether, when times are more normal and the

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work is fairly well advanced, they would be likely to consider my proposal sympathetically. Yours faithfully,

—‘but was a little disappointed to be told that Ronald Syme was supposed to be doing that very thing.’— 19th January 1943 Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 16th January suggesting a commentary on Tacitus’s Histories. I must explain that we are preoccupied. This work was undertaken for the press by the late W. W. How, who made considerable MS. collections. On his death, Mr. R. Syme of Trinity College undertook the commentary, and, though he is now engaged on war work in the Middle East, we have every reason to believe that he intends to continue the work when he returns to Oxford. We do recognise the gap, and I am very sorry to have to report that we are precommitted, as there is far too little central work on book scale being done in classical subjects. Yours truly,

—‘However, Sisam (who in the meantime had consulted Arnaldo Momigliano, who was now in Oxford, said he would get in touch with Syme, who was at that time holding a British Council post at Ankara in neutral Turkey, and enquire whether he still proposed doing the Tacitus. In the meantime, in case he did, had I any other alternative project in mind? . . . ’—that is, to document this crucial foreplay in detail, on receipt of polite thanks from FWW (plus (?) positive noises from e.g. Charlesworth—who had encouraged FWW to approach OUP in a note of 15th January 1943), the ultimately decisive follow-up note: 3rd February, 1943 Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 23rd January. In these days, when so few books are being written, I do not like to leave a suggestion with a reason that must be final against it from our point of view. So may I ask whether you have any other subject or possible subjects in mind which you would be prepared to mention informally, so that we might consider encouraging them i.e. accepting for publication in principle, subject to the work being finished on approximately the lines laid down and the standard we should expect from you? Frankly, we like central books, not too narrow in field, because too much classical work is being done on the fringe; but your suggestion indicates that you are thinking of a major work for the next few years.

—‘I pondered and remembered, first having read Polybius with Philip Sheard in the Sixth Form at Bradford Grammar School, and then my constant use of Polybius in my work for Aratos and Philip V. Moreover, I had recently written

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an article on Polybius’ discussion of the Roman constitution. So I boldly replied: Yes, a commentary on Polybius.’ (1992a: 186)— February 8th, 1943. Dear Sir, I must thank you for your letter of February 3rd, with its enquiry whether I have any other subject in mind which I would be prepared to put before the Delegates. A piece of work which would occupy some years, and which I should be glad to undertake on the conditions you suggest, would be a historical commentary on Polybius’s Histories. I have been working with Polybius constantly for the last ten years, and I have frequently felt the need of a work such as How and Wells have provided for Herodotus. What I have in mind is a book on those lines, which would assist anyone coming to Polybius either as a source for the history of the 3rd and 2nd centuries or for his ideas on historiography and his political philosophy. There is already an adequate text (Büttner-Wobst), and I should not propose to discuss textual or linguistic questions except where they are essential to an understanding of historical or historiographical problems. Special topics would probably best go into appendices. As to the length of such a book, I should be in a better position to estimate this after working on it for some time. I think such a commentary would fall within your definition of a ‘central book’, since although Polybius lies outside the main ‘classical period’, and is not read for his Greek, he is the main source for a vital period of both Greek and Roman— indeed one must say Graeco-Roman—history, and is placed an unchallenged third among the Greek historians whose works survive in any bulk. I should be glad therefore to hear if you would be inclined to encourage such a project as I have outlined. Yours truly,

On 12 February Sisam pushed Arnaldo Momigliano’s button: ‘He doesn’t indicate the length of his proposed book on Polybius, which I suppose would be useful, though difficult and controversial. I shouldn’t expect it to sell very much, but well done and not too big it would deserve the Delegates’ consideration. I should like your very short view of his suggestion’. L’uomo took nearly a week to oblige—definitively: 18 Feb. 1943 Dear Sisam, I am sorry that a few days of absence have delayed my answer on Walbank. I enclose a short memorandum which is meant to integrate what I wrote before. I agree with you that a commentary on Polybius will not be a very remunerative affair, but the Clarendon Press could not choose a more useful subject in the field of ancient history. Walbank seems to me to have the right blend of youth and wisdom for such a magnificent enterprise. Yours sincerely,

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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I—A commentary on Polybius is a notorious ‘desideratum’ in any language. We are still left with Casaubon (1609) and Schweighaeuser (1789). A Lexicon Polybianum to replace Schweighaeuser’s appendix to his edition would, too, be very useful.7 II—Mr. Walbank is in general qualified for a commentary to Polybius by his painstaking and highly accurate method of research. As for the special qualifications necessary for this kind of work—a) competence in the military and diplomatic history of the Hellenistic period; b) understanding of style c) sound judgment in history of historiography—so much can be said: —On point a) Mr. Walbank’s competence is established beyond any doubt. —On point b) Mr. Walbank’s good judgment seems to me proved well enough by the whole of his work. An article in Class. Quart. 1940 seems also to give evidence that W. has capacity to understand minute philosophical interpretation. That, of course, does not necessarily mean that he can do original work on Polybius’ linguistic side, but so much does not seem to me implicit in a historical commentary. —On point c). The observations on sources which are to be found in W’s two books are not always those which are likely to be approved by specialized students of historiography, but they were written before Mr. W became interested in this kind of research. Two articles on Polybius written later (one published in JHS 1938 and the other on P.’s constitutional theories which I have seen in MS) represent definite progress. A painstaking worker of Mr. W’s class will learn much as he proceeds with the work and, in my opinion, can safely be trusted with the commentary. Perhaps Dr. Jacoby might be asked at the right moment to give some advice.

Sisam at once popped the question, of scale (22 February 1943): ‘Thank you for your letter of 8th February suggesting a commentary on Polybius. You must give me a little time, as we are very short of historians in Oxford now, but I particularly need a rough indication of the length of the commentary you have in mind: How and Wells’ Herodotus would serve as a basis of 7

At this the sole point of contextualization of the proposal for the Commentary within the history of Polybius scholarship, I should mention (as the Press did not) the curiosity of the grand edition with Ernesti’s text plus parallel Latin translation, apparatus, and critical annotationes, by the Revd. Philip Williams (1742–1830) which was printed but never published by OUP’s predecessor: pp. 1–642, Books I–XVII; 645–8, Prooemium; 649–808, E Polybii historiis excerptae legationes; 809–888, Excerpta ex Polybio de virtutibus et vitiis; 889–998, Polybii fragmenta; 989– 1008, Historiae Universae Polybii synopsis chronologica. The copy in Winchester College, brought to our editors’ attention by Barry Shurlock (cf. his 1986) as editor of ‘The Williams Papers’, is being studied by Stray (forthcoming), from whom I but garble this note. Williams had been at work on his folio Polybius (originally using Casaubon’s text) since well before 1772 when the Press enquired into his progress so far, with negotiations at OUP hotting up through 1783, but as completion neared in 1798 (when Williams was the new prebendary of Winchester and his first-born just up at New College), with discussion focusing on single or multiple volume formatting and the like, the publication of Schweighäuser’s Index in 700+ pages (1795; volume 1: 1789) intervened: despite repeat outlay towards a farmed-out index the Delegates pulled the plug on 2 April 1804.

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comparison. In the post-war period, we must reckon on high costs, which will hardly be equalled by increased money in the hands of scholars or students. So I think that conciseness will be called for . . . ’. FWW never flinched, but instantly quantified—precise and decisive: February 24th, 1943 Dear Mr. Sisam, Thank you for your reply to my suggestion of a commentary on Polybius. I appreciate your need for some kind of indication of length, and I have attempted what must necessarily be a rather rough-and-ready calculation. How and Wells’ commentary on Herodotus contains 869 pages, for a text covering 799, say 800 Teubner pages. Polybius set up in the same type requires 1716 pages, but the last volume has a critical apparatus at the page bottoms: subtract 116 pages for this, leaving 1600 pages in all, which is double the length of Herodotus. However, I think it might be possible to deal more concisely with Polybius than Herodotus . . . On the basis of these calculations, it looks as if I should require rather more space than How and Wells; with their format, say 1000–1200 pages in all. In fact, once I got down to the work, I might find it came out at something considerably less. But of course compression beyond a certain point can only be acheived very undesirably at the expense of the usefulness of the commentary. Yours sincerely,

Meantime, a second opinion was sought, from the Gomme (1 March 1943, en passant, hooked into sizing up proofs): ‘By the way, F. W. Walbank of Liverpool recently proposed to us a commentary on the Histories of Tacitus. . . . I did not like to leave anybody ready for big works with a blank negative, so I asked if he had anything else in mind. He now proposes a commentary on Polybius, which might make 1,200 pages in the usual style. It would, of course, be an expensive work, on which any publisher would lose a good deal, but I should be glad of a friendly hint from you; first on the desirability and usefulness of such a book, and secondly on Walbank’s qualifications for it, which are, I gather, not negligible, though to make a first rate job, he would have to show development in some directions’. March 17 Dear Sisam, [Memory of FWW’s two articles ‘refreshed’] . . . He shows care and good sense (in, perhaps, a cautious sort of way). I hope I am not dampening the project; on the Greek history side there is a demand for a first rate commentary. It is a work which wd. need both historical judgment and imagination; and, as far as I know, Walbank has hardly yet shown that he possesses these. But don’t take this for more than the negative opinion that it is. (It is possible that Roman historians, such as Last, know more about him.) . . .

Meantime Sisam had run the proposal by the Delegates, ‘in a preliminary way’, and wrote the same day (5 March 1943), keeping FWW dangling, since

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‘Tacitus has the better claims, and if for any reason Mr. Syme has decided not to go on, the Delegates would like to reconsider your original suggestion. I shall write to Istanbul, and I hope you won’t mind a little delay or think that it indicates any disinclination to undertake the commentary on Polybius.’ A year (some year!) passes, and Syme’s reply determines the fates of books: Extract from letter of 17th March 1944 from Professor R. Syme Now let me answer as clearly and briefly as possible your question about the Histories of Tacitus. At present, and for a number of years, let us say four or five, I see no prospect of being able to produce an edition of that work. Therefore I should resign interest in it: it would be wrong to block anybody else. This does not mean that I have no projects to submit to the Press. Now about Polybius. A proper annotated edition is much needed. The time is suitable—it would digest in an accessible form the results of the intensive (and dispersed) study of Hellenistic history in the last generation. There is no commentary in any European language. As for Tacitus, imperial history in the last thirty years has been able to get along very well without an exhaustive commentary on the Histories. They cover a short period of time, a year and a half at the most. Few, if any, new discoveries have supervened. One’s opinions about either the events or the author have not been much modified. Almost any professional historian, whatever his ‘period’, would welcome an edition of Polybius—and especially those who hitherto have found that author rather forbidding. The question of sales is another matter. Tacitus finds more readers than Polybius—fortunately. He would sell better—but how much better? The future will see a decline in the number of readers of the classics for their literary merits. On the other hand, institutions such as American libraries will presumably purchase editions of ancient authors, whoever they may be, if they issue from your Press. And, if there is ever a European market, universities and libraries will, I fancy, be not less attracted by an Oxford Polybius than an Oxford Tacitus. This is all apart from the personal tastes and qualifications of any editors in contemplation. In any case please rule me out.

A month later and Sisam was apologizing for delay and relaying on Syme’s decision: 18th April, 1944 . . . I had to repeat my enquiries about Tacitus . . . several times, because his letters to me showed that they had not reached him. . . . I am sure that, if he has any materials here, he would be willing to transfer them to you with How’s papers. Perhaps you will let me know whether you would prefer to do the Tacitus’ Histories as you originally proposed, treating Polybius as a secondary or more distant project. As a publisher, I should slightly favour continuing our old plan. There is probably less to be done on Tacitus, but far more people here and in America will read him; the Delegates have that project in being, as it were; and they are bound for some time after the war to think of making good necessary university textbooks, of which the shortage will be acute. But by saying this, I do not want to

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rule out Polybius as a learned project well deserving your time and our consideration. I am sorry to have been so long, but you will understand that I have no command over the vagaries of the post in these days.

FWW saw at once how to turn this around: April 22nd, 1944 . . . I fully appreciate the reasons for the delay, and also the preference that the Delegates have for Tacitus. Since our last exchange of letters in March of last year, however, I have been putting all my work into Polybius, with the result that I have now assembled a good deal of general material and have almost finished my first draft of the commentary on Book 1. I should therefore prefer to go on with this, if the Delegates are still willing to consider it. This does not mean that I have lost interest in the Histories, and I hope to collect more material during the coming session when I shall be lecturing on Book II. I should therefore be grateful if you would keep me informed if anything is planned for the Histories, since after the Polybius is finished I might well feel inclined to revert to my original plan. Meanwhile I should be glad if you would put the scheme for a commentary on Polybius as a definite proposal to the Delegates.

As the Memoir notes ‘ad loc.’ (1992a: 187): ‘little did I realise then that Polybius was going to occupy the next thirty-four years of my life’. Sisam took the reins straight back, tantalizing with the prospect of Capitalization while nicely brandishing the power ratio with his crucial pun: 24th April, 1944 . . . At their next meeting, I shall ask the Delegates whether they can encourage your Commentary on Polybius. But clearly the question of length will bulk large in their consideration: one has to think of the price of a book and how many can afford it in the new world. In your letter of 24th February you thought it might require 1,000–1,200 pages of How and Wells. After drafting the Commentary on Book I, can you tell me how this estimate stands?

On the chin, and right back at him, stealth folds in with the bravura: April 25th, 1944 It is not very easy to be certain about the ultimate length of the full commentary on Polybius, as I have worked so far on the principle of making it as full as possible in the first draft, with a view to cutting down bulk later. But my impression is that my estimate of a year last February still stands, viz: 1,000 to 1,200 pp. of the size of How and Wells. Certainly I don't think I could save anything on this; and to keep to that figure will mean publishing some ‘appendix material’ separately, as indeed I propose doing.

This sufficed to open sesame. Evidently a ready-reckoned pound-a-page tab was the going rate in mind at the outset:

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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1st June 1944 Dear Mr. Walbank, The Delegates have considered your plan for a Commentary on Polybius, and have agreed to encourage a book (presumably in two volumes) of 1,000 pages more or less, in the style (I mean typographical style) of Gomme’s Commentary on Thucydides now in the Press. I send you a stylesheet of this in proof, so that you may see what we have in mind. They think greater length would be undesirable, but must not be understood to say ‘On no account 1,050 pages’, or anything so narrow, for some margin is essential to your purpose. In these times I must make a reservation, which I don’t like making: assuming a first-rate book on this subject, present costs and the limited number of specialists who read Polybius suggest to us a debit balance of something like £1,000–£1,200. That the Delegates are willing to undertake, but in these times, when we are particularly unlucky in taxation, we cannot guarantee that it would be convenient to provide it in any future year when your MS. is ready. I hope it will be all right, because we are careful of our commitments, and deal with them in some order of priority, but if times are awkward when you have finished we might have to ask for delay. I don’t think I should attempt to go into more detail at present beyond saying that we should be very glad to give technical advice on any question of preparing the copy, and that it is of the greatest importance to us that the copy should be finished and polished in all details when it comes in, and that a whole MS. should be finished before we begin printing. So long a work makes it difficult to maintain regularity in all the details of punctuation, reference, etc., but perhaps you had adopted what Mr. H. W. Fowler used to call a ‘style book’, i.e. a notebook in which he entered all decisions of form as he made them, to secure that he had not forgotten by the time he had reached the last page what he had done at the beginning. Please put any questions that occur to you as they occur, bearing in mind that I can give you no help with Polybius, but only with the technical questions of production. It is good to think that in these times scholars can still settle down to such long-distance tasks.

FWW took all this on board instanter (3 June 1944). He had just been ‘in Oxford over Whit weekend, reading a paper (on Polybius) to the Philological Society’ and regretted there was no chance to meet up (and shake hands on it—‘become personally acquainted’).

TO PEACE AND T HE LATIN CH A IR ‘[I]n 1943 I was approached by Ben Farrington to write a book on the decline of the Roman empire in the west for a series planned by the Cobbett Press, a left-wing publishing firm. . . . The subject fascinated me and the book, when written, was lively and, I think, quite exciting. I was still a Marxist (of sorts)

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though I had split decisively from the C.P., whose shifts of policy made it contemptible. (For when Hitler attacked Stalin, the war had in their view once more become a just one and to be supported.) Moreover, especially during the early war years, I was often worried by the problem of reconciling the subject of my work with the world we were now living in—that constantly recurring problem of “relevance”. This book on the decline of Rome seemed to offer an opportunity to make a statement about how I saw the present and the future. It was going to be a tract for the times and my first sentence speaks of “turning to the records of the past for light upon the problems of the future”. This was not objective history as the historian understands it; but it suited very much my mood around the end of the war. By the time the book appeared in 1946 the war was already over and the atomic bomb had been dropped on Japan.8 . . . My concern with the relevance of the Classics also surfaced in two other things I wrote about the same time. The first was a short article published in Greece and Rome in June 1943, entitled “Is our Roman History Teaching Reactionary?” It dealt with the institution of the principate as a solution to the problems of the first century and the tendency of teachers (as revealed in answers served up in H.S.C. scripts) to applaud this autocratic solution and to echo the Roman optimate condemnation of the Gracchi. I signed it “Examiner”, as I thought (unnecessarily) that the Board might object to my using material obtained as an examiner to draw what were really political conclusions. My other “political” effusion was a paper I read to the Classical Association at its Annual General Meeting, held at St Albans, in 1944 and published in the Journal of Hellenic Studies that year, entitled “The Causes of Greek Decline”. It had grown out of a review I had written (in the Classical Review for 1942) of Rostovtzeff's Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World and it was, among other things, an attack on the role of Plato. . . . In May came VE day—8 May, to celebrate victory in Europe; that day I was talking to the [Lytham] St Anne’s Rotary club on “Is History Bunk?” Shortly afterwards came the dropping of the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the capitulation of Japan.’ (1992a: 187–191) ‘At Liverpool the Vice-Chancellor, Arnold McNair, now resigned to go to Cambridge and . . . Mountford accepted and as a result I was appointed Acting Head of the Latin Department for 1945/6. It was an obvious appointment, 8 ‘In 1962 I was approached by Iwanami Shoten to authorise a Japanese edition and I told them that I had . . . additional material, which they could use. So in 1963 the Japanese enlarged version was published. In 1969 the Liverpool University Press brought out a new English edition (the original publishers having relinquished the copyright to me), incorporating the new material. To distinguish it from the smaller original I gave it the new title of The Awful Revolution, which was intended to recall Gibbon’s remark that we should “learn the lessons of this awful revolution”. There were later Spanish and Swedish editions; and Iwanami Shoten went on paying me royalties for about 25 years and sold in all over 13,000 copies in Japan.’ (1992a: 189)

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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since Bonner had only recently returned from the forces, having been invalided out after a breakdown, and he was out of touch with affairs in Liverpool. Before we knew of this further development, we had invited the Mountfords over to St Anne’s for the weekend9 and we thought that they ought not to be deprived of the experience of visiting Blackpool. It gave JFM great satisfaction to espy on the South Shore a booth containing Professor X and his Flea Circus. ‘Now’, he observed, ‘I realise the true value of the title of Professor’ (which he was—though I did not yet know it—on the point of relinquishing). The war was over, but we stayed on in St Anne’s for the time being, since there were likely to be senior posts going and we did not know where we might find ourselves, if I were fortunate enough to be appointed to one. Nothing happened in the autumn term, but then chairs were advertised at University College, King’s College, and Royal Holloway College, all in the University of London. In April 1946 I was interviewed on two successive days in London for the King’s and Royal Holloway posts; and at the first interview I learnt that the U.C.L. chair had been filled internally. I got neither; nor was I successful at Reading, where Cormack, the acting head of the department, was preferred. This was all rather discouraging and I remember feeling a little disconsolate when, a week later, I spent a night with Gordon Rawcliffe (my tower watch companion) at Bristol, where he had been elected to a chair the previous summer. This was on my way to the Classical Association A.G.M. at Exeter [where] I read a paper . . . on “Polybius and the Growth of Rome”. As a result of Mountford’s appointment, the Latin Chair at Liverpool was now advertised and, after asking his advice, I put in an application and was called for interview on 28 May. This interview came as the climax of a somewhat hectic four days. At the weekend I had been invited to a rather exclusive gathering of ancient historians at Bedford, run on a sort of patronage basis by Norman Baynes, F. E. Adcock, and Hugh Last. . . . On the Sunday night I went on from Bedford to Cambridge and spent it with my old friends Robert and Margaret Getty—a rather piquant situation, since Getty was also a candidate, and I believed a very strong one, for the Liverpool Latin Chair. On the Monday I went up to Birmingham, where I had promised to lecture at the University on the Hellenistic age; and that night I returned to Liverpool, where for the first time in my life I stayed at an hotel in that city. Normally the Mountfords would have put me up, but in the circumstances that would not have been appropriate. So I booked in at the Shaftesbury Hotel at the bottom of Mount Pleasant (which figures in the film ‘Letter to Brezhnev’ as the rendezvous for the two scouse lasses and their Russian pickups). The interviews took place in 9 The Walbanks moved to St Anne’s-on-Sea, at Lytham, the tranquil end of Blackpool on the Fylde (coast), during 1941–6, to avoid the bombing, cope with postpartum problems for Mary Walbank with the help of her mother, and complete the family with two more children; after the war, they moved to Birkenhead, ‘where the schools were better than in Liverpool’ (1992a: 195).

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the old Senate Room in the Victoria Building and there were four candidates on the short list, all with Liverpool connections. The other three were Robert Getty, Stanley Bonner, and G. B. A. Fletcher. I knew all the Committee members, including Maurice Bowra and W. B. Anderson, the two external advisers. The interview went reasonably well, but I was a little disturbed when Mountford, who was in the chair as Vice-Chancellor (somewhat anomalously, since it was his chair that was being filled), asked me what my reaction would be if I were appointed now and later a chair were to come vacant in the near future in, for example, Ancient History. This was no hypothetical situation, since Ormerod was due to retire in about five years’ time. Apparently my noncommittal answer to this question was thought to be satisfactory. But there was of course no indication of the likely result. In the early afternoon I had to attend the Faculty Applications Committee, sitting alongside several of the colleagues who had been interviewing me that morning. No-one gave the slightest clue to their decision and I felt very uncertain. But, on my return to my room, I found a note from the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary, Miss Kay, asking me to go at once to his office. When I got there in a state of some trepidation he at once thrust out his right hand and told me that I had been appointed to the Chair. It was one of the great moments of my life.’ (1992a: 192–4)10 The rest—the rest is Histor . . . ical Commentary. Through to retirement age, and on into the Third Millennium.11

VOLUME I; OF TWO The file is mute until 1948,12 by which time FWW had outlasted his editor. D. M. Davin wrote to say the retired Secretary Sisam had popped in and In conclusion: ‘After discussion with the Mountfords we decided to go for a house in . . . Oxton, where we stayed until 1951. In that year we moved to Hope Lodge, 5 Poplar Road, where we were to remain until I retired in 1977. But that is another story. ||' (1992a: 195) 11 See Walbank 2005a, ‘The Two-way Shadow: Polybius among the Fragments’, keynote and overture to Schepens and Bollansée 2005. 12 But for a comic moment in 1946 where Sisam unsubtly wards off an offered commentary on Tacitus’ Histories from K. Brink, warning FWW off collaboration, and signs off (31 January): ‘I hope you are getting on with the great work. Syme is now back, and there are signs of a revival in our Oxford School of Roman History’. He ‘had temporarily forgotten that Polybius came first in your double plan, but “was” glad you wrote, because I don’t think Syme has changed his mind about the Histories (he has many other things on hand), so we hope you will go on to do that when Polybius is done. There is no hurry, but we are anxious that the field should be occupied’. (7 February). Frank quips, ‘I felt no desire at that point [1979] to return to Tacitus’ Histories. . . . ’ (1992a: 187). Plus the quietus in 1961, ‘unaware of these earlier tentatives and with Professor Syme’s advice, we have asked Mr. Chilver and Mr. Wellesley of Edinburgh to collaborate on a commentary. I thought you ought to be told of this at once, since it may affect your more long 10

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reminded him to ‘ask if there is anything we can do to help’ with the Commentary on Polybius (8 October 1948). New Secretary P. J. Spicer (Peter, but it stays ‘(Mr.) Spicer’ and ‘(Professor) Walbank’ in this correspondence) enters, in a tizz: 22nd September, 1950 It is long time since we heard from you about Polybius. How is he going? We are still anxious to have this edition, and our anxiety has recently been sharpened by the impatience of the University, for of course Polybius is a set book in the early part of the Roman History School in Greats and until your edition is available there can be nothing very satisfactory for the undergraduate to use.

Here, on a saucer, was the bridgehead towards separating and sequencing Volumes I and II: September 27th, 1950 Thank you for writing to me about Polybius. Your letter leads me to raise a point I have had in mind for some time. The Histories, as surviving, fall into two parts. Books I–V which are complete, and Books VI–XL which are fragmentary. In bulk, I–V with the fragments of VI, VII, and VIII occupy three out of the six Loeb volumes. Since I began my commentary about the middle of 1943 I have finished the first draft down to Book V, chapter 30. It is true that these seven years have not been devoted exclusively to this work; I have at various times been invited and have accepted invitations to do one or two smaller things, and I have published a series of articles devoted mainly to matters arising from my work on the commentary itself. But since, as you inform me, there is some impatience to have the work for use in Greats, I wonder if it would not be a good idea to aim at publishing the first volume separately, As Gomme has done in the case of his Thucydides, and to carry on with the fragmentary books afterwards. If you think this is a good plan, a second point which arises is: should the very important, but fragmentary Book VI on the Roman constitution and army organization go with I–V, or with the later books? I could finish Book V during the current academic year, but Book VI will obviously be one of the most difficult, perhaps the most difficult of all, and would delay publication considerably. In any case, I must work a second time over what I have written, since my commentary on I–IV, excluding the part of Book V already completed, amounts to between 650 and 700 quarto pages in handwriting, and I shall have to reduce this bulk considerably to get it within the scope envisaged for the whole work. Perhaps you would let me have your comments on this suggestion.

The Press jumped at the offer:

distant plans. . . . I wonder if you would be willing to put it [‘material towards the Tacitus commentary’] at the disposal of Mr. Chilver?’, capped in crassness by the follow-up: ‘I am glad that our Tacitus plans are not proving awkward for you. I do not think we need trouble you for the material you had collected; I imagine most of it Chilver will already have noted. But it is kind of you to offer.’ (D. M. Davin, 16 and 20 February).

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4th October, 1950 . . . The answer to your first question is I think quite clear. If we had no objection to producing Gomme’s Thucydides in two parts, one after the other, we should have much less reason for objecting to produce Polybius in the same way. So let us have your first volume as soon as it is ready for the Printer. As for your second question, we think it would be better to keep book VI with books I–V. It would be better, we feel, from the point of view of content, that it should be grouped with I–V in this way, and also it will make a more satisfactory division from the point of view of length. If my calculations are right the first volume would in this way contain rather less than half the whole, perhaps making 400 out of the thousand pages envisaged for the whole. To put book VI with the later books would mean volumes of very disproportionate size, or the very unsatisfactory alternative of going to three. My calculations assume of course that your commentaries on the books are of a size proportionate to their length—an assumption which I perhaps have no right to make. Anyhow, I should be grateful if you would let me know if the facts look like being very different from this, and in particular, if you think you are going to exceed greatly the estimated length of 1,000 pages of the size of Gomme’s Thucydides which were originally laid down. If you do put book VI with books I–V we shall have to accept the necessary delay in publishing the first volume. I shall be glad of any estimate of time you can usefully make; is the addition of book VI to what you have already done going to mean that we do not get copy for the first volume until 1952? I ask out of curiosity rather than any desire to press you; naturally we want to publish as soon as possible, but I should not like the desire for speed to deter you from going over the copy as carefully as possible before it is sent in for printing, as alterations in the proof stage are one of the most troublesome obstacles to swift and satisfactory publishing that there are.

FWW was ‘glad’ Volume I could go ahead without waiting for the rest; but he at once put up a simultaneous barrage of caveats, blinds, and some of the questions that should have been settled ‘at’ any ‘outset’: October 8th, 1950 . . . My impression is that Books I–VI, though not quite half the text will be about half the commentary, since many of the general problems—date of composition, objects in writing etc.—tend to be discussed in connection with the earlier books; and though Books XII and XXXIV present special problems, there is nothing quite like Book VI in the second half. This means, I think, that I can aim at making the two volumes approximately the same size. You enquire whether I am likely to exceed the original 1,000 pages, which we estimated at the outset. It is difficult to answer this at the present stage, as I have worked on the principle of putting as much as I could into the first draft, and being prepared to be fairly ruthless in revision. My 650–700 MS pages for Books I–IV can undoubtedly be cut down a good deal; but just how much I shant know till I start doing that particular job. And of course there will no doubt have to be an allowance for introductory remarks and discussion of general questions, as well as for indices. I do appreciate the need on the one hand to keep the thing

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within as small a compass as possible; on the other hand, it is important not to omit anything essential, which might lead to justifiable criticisms of the book, and detract from its usefulness. Entirely as an impression, not based on any calculations, I should say that I am likely to over-run the 1,000 pages to some extent; but how much I cant yet say. I shall certainly try to have the copy as complete as I possibly can before sending it to you. About dates. With the addition of Book VI I should say that late 1952 is the earliest I can hope to have copy ready. . . .

Whatever their salt, all Roman historians know perfectly well that a Volume I with Books 1–6 was what was wanted—and not just to give Greats students something to be going on with. Hellenistic historians and Latinists working on Livy might be crying out for help for Books 1–5, but 6 is the prize: the decision to cut the whole Commentary into two equal page-counts was entirely superficial, compared with the consequential weighting in favour of the first, and impending, published volume, over against what would be left as the residue for Volume II, where the fragmentariness took permanent hold, and there was to be no compensatory main attraction to rival the riches of book 6. To sell, Volume II would have to trust to buyers who hate to have ‘Vol. I’ solitaria on their shelves—particularly once Volume I was designed to stand free, ready supplied with its own indices pending completion to book 40. On the other hand, now its extent was settled, Volume I promised to bag customers aplenty, and, with a fair wind, soon: 9 October, 1952 I see that it is two years since we corresponded last about your great commentary on Polybius, and I hope you won’t mind a gentle enquiry now how things are getting on. . . . There is one point which I cannot see has ever been discussed, the question of text. I suppose you have no intention of preparing a new one yourself? I ask because I believe the Teubner is very difficult to get, so that a new text would surely add greatly to the value of your book.

The ‘How & Wells’ model of the ‘Historical Commentary’, amplified in Gomme’s Thucydides, had never envisaged the production of a text: recently installed as Chair of Ancient History (1951), and so slowed by a fresh load, FWW shut this terrorsome door in a trice: October 11th, 1952 Thank you for writing to me about Polybius. I have now carried my first draft down to VI, 15, which leaves only VI, 19–58 still to be done. . . . On returning to the problems of Book VI, I found myself revising views which I had put forward in Class.Quart.1943, with the result that, in collaboration with my colleague C. O. Brink, I have recently planned and written most of a substantial article which we hope will put the problem on a better footing. This was essential, and in the long run should reduce the amount which needs to be said in the

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commentary; but naturally it has taken time. . . . As soon as Book VI is finished, I shall begin the work of revising and compressing. How long this part will take it is a little hard to say until I get down to it; but I shall write to you as soon as I have an idea of this, and also, of how far it is possible to keep within the limits originally envisaged. I had always assumed that to print a text along with the commentary would send the cost up to a prohibitive figure. . . . Indeed this would be so big a task that it could hardly have been combined with the writing of a historical commentary. It is true that texts of Polybius are hard to come by now; but I have assumed that at any rate a Loeb edition will be reprinted from time to time. . . . Of course a new text, for instance in the O.C.T. series, would be a splendid thing; but I feel that it would be better done by someone whose interests were more philological than my own. May I add that if at any time you found anyone prepared to undertake a text, I should be very happy to give any help I could from the historical side.

INTO PRODUCTION The volume behaved itself in the writing up, did it? There was just the problem, occurring as if unforeseeable, of getting a major commentary, any major commentary, to lie down still and get done . . . in the pre-xerox era: March 22nd, 1953 . . . Compression is not proving too hard, and as far as I can estimate it should be possible to get I–VI (with introduction and extras) into 500 pages the size of Gomme’s Thucydides. In January [at a meeting in Oxford] you suggested that before going very far with the revision I should submit a specimen for general comment and advice as to ‘style’ in references, lay-out, etc. Since I now have about 60 pages of revised copy ready, I am wondering when I ought to send it. What I hadn’t foreseen (though it was perhaps obvious) was the extent to which as I go forward I have to keep referring back to what I have written. Consequently, while you have the MSS I am likely to be at a stand-still. So I should like to send it at a time when I am not likely to have much leisure for Polybius. . . . If I sent you as much as I have written on April 20th, do you think you could do what you want to do with it by May 11th? If you think you could, I will send it then.

There was evidently (to be) no question of referee reports on the scholarly quality of the submitted copy: by now, the débutant commentator had turned much-published professor. So this was born already a ‘great work’, thanks to length of gestation. And the Press jumped to it, too, precisely on command: 7 May 1953 We’ve now had a good look at your specimen chunk of copy, and so has the Printer, and I append our comments and suggestions on a separate sheet. Thank you very

‘A piece of work which would occupy some years . . . ’

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much for giving us the opportunity of seeing it at this stage: I am sure you will find that attention to these little points now saves an awful lot of time, trouble and money when we start to print. The Printer estimates that these 143 folios of copy will make 101 printed pages in the style of Gomme’s Thucydides. I calculate therefore that 900 folios will make a commentary of 635 pages. Can you give me any idea of how long Volume II is likely to be? The Delegates would not insist on 1,000 pages precisely for the whole work, but I ought to report to them if the discrepancy is going to be more than about 200. I am so glad that the great work really is making progress, and look forward keenly to the day when you can send us all your copy for the Printer.

The shunting of chunks of copy between author and press was under way, with few hitches, but more (we might have supposed) big decisions tripped over ob iter, as and when they cropped up: 16 December 1954 It seems to me that the method adopted by Gomme will do very well for your own problem of the bibliography and abbreviations. . . . Rather to my surprise I see that Gomme has a complete set of indexes for this volume, one for subjects, one for authors and passages discussed, and one for Greek words. I don't know whether he contemplates conflation when all his volumes are published, but I see no reason why you should not adopt the same plan. 28 January 1955 I write merely to acknowledge receipt of the nine pages of MS. that you have returned, and your letter of 25 January. We will now press ahead with composition. 18 October 1955 I am sending you some sheets of your Polybius which Syme has looked through. As you will see, he has found very little to change; I suppose we should be grateful for that. [!] 18th May 1956 Dear Spicer, I have just realised that an inconsistency has crept into the printing of my Polybius, in relation to the use of v and u in representing Latin words. . . . If you agree that we should try to get the v forms I will make sure of them in subsequent revises. My only other point is this. I am at present receiving revises at the rate of two sheets a fortnight. This means that it will take a further six months before I have the last, which doesn't look very hopeful for the appearance of the book this autumn! Is there any possibility of speeding up? . . . 22 May 1956 Dear Walbank, t Ø: I hear that sheets B–O have just gone to the machine room for printing. It will mean getting them back, and (I fear) reading them right through again. But no doubt we ought to do it: ‘Seru.’ at least revolts me. I will ask the Printer, and

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meantime please do carry on on the assumption that we shall use the consonantal v for proper names in future. I expect the Printer would say that it is examination papers that have slowed up the revises. They must be out of the way now, and we ought to be able to make better progress in future. 12 July 1956 I do not think that anything has ever been said about terms for your Polybius. You will not expect the book to be a money maker, though we regard it as a great contribution to scholarship, and I hope you will not be insulted if I suggest a fee of £100 to be paid on publication, with a further £100 if and when our condensed account shows that we have it standing to our balance. I am afraid that the price will have to be 84/-. All this applies, of course, to Volume I only. 16 August 1956 The Press has just sent me a copy of your Autumn Books list and I am pleased to see that ‘Polybius’ figures in it. There is, however, a printer’s error in it which I am writing to correct, as I understand that the same blurb will appear on the dust-cover. This is the spelling of Schweighaeuser. He spells it like that, but with the A and E joined together. I have used the form ‘Schweighaeuser’ throughout, and prefer it. But if a change is to be made, then it must be xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Schweighäuser, and not (as in your list) Scheighaüser. We have never discussed the binding. Is it the intention to give it a similar binding to Gomme, or have you any other Colour in mind? Kind regards, 30th October 1956 Dear Sir, We are pleased to send to you today, under separate cover, an advance copy of Polybius: Vol.I, which we hope to publish on 3rd January, price 84/- net. . . . x The finished copies will have ‘Vol.I’ on the spine. 1 November 1956 Warmest congratulations on the appearance of your great work (Volume I). I hope you like its form, and think that it is worthy of the contents. 5 November 1956 Very many thanks for your good wishes. It was certainly pleasant to see the volume after so long (my ‘so long’, not yours, for I think the Press has really been most expeditious in getting through a considerable job). I find the format attractive, and have nothing to detract from the admiration I have felt all through for the work of the Press and especially its compositors and proof-readers. Inevitably there are a few misprints which have slipped past, but very few for the number of pages (at least I have spotted very few so far). The main slip-up is the sketch-map on p. 536, where the key has been omitted and the letters A, B,

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and C are nowhere explained. It isnt very important, however, for I think my commentary makes the sense of the plan clear. However, please dont regard this as a criticism! I’m really very well pleased with the book and only hope it will get a reception to justify all the careful work that has gone into its production.

The tone for reception was set by that comrade Alex McDonald (in Journal of Roman Studies, 48 (1958), 179–83): ‘After a century and a half we have a worthy successor to Schweighaeuser in Professor Walbank. . . . We may congratulate him upon a model of scholarship. . . . This review has done scant justice to a distinguished and useful work of scholarship. . . . We may expect fresh activity where he has raked the sand. But he will be busy on the other half, performing the same service, and we may wish him well in his second volume’. By 25 March 1959 Spicer was able to inform FWW ‘that our total sales to date must be a little more than 750. I would say that this was very reasonable for a book of this size and complexity, and I think this is about what we should have expected. I hope you will not consider it disappointing’.

AND VOLUMES II? The Commentary took hold of its fragmented text into the 1960s quietly enough. 1965 made ripples in the form of negotiations with J. M. Moore, ‘who was a pupil of McDonald’s at Cambridge, and is now teaching at Radley’ for ‘a possible O.C.T. of Polybius’ (J. K. Cordy, 8 July 1965). Given three weeks to come up with reactions to a specimen, FWW’s ‘general reaction is favourable. His approach seems workmanlike and as far as I can judge accurate.’ He comes up with a set of pointed questions to press, and winds up all too damply (28 July 1965): . . . It would be a great thing to have an OCT Polybius and I hope Moore will be encouraged to produce one. A new text of this author is a desideratum. But I should add that I do not expect that the historian is going to get anything substantial out of this work. Pédech’s excellent version of book xii introduced many changes (mainly restoring the MS reading) but I think only about two had significance for the substance of what Polybius said. This is a job that needs great devotion, and I hope Moore will do it and see it through.

Nothing came of the idea. And by now the second, or third, grand coup had well and truly come off, back in 1962, just when Spicer was moving away to look after ‘the school side’ (11 April 1962). FWW’s big dare (déjà vu), blitzing the Press with a blinding hail of figures and calculations, was accordingly passed on to the new classical supremo, Cordy:

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Dear Spicer, I think the time has come to discuss Polybius again, since the commentary has now reached a point two thirds of the way through book xvi, and I have enough material to make some calculations about the probable length of the whole. What I have already written amounts to 693 pages of quarto MS representing commentary on 414 sides of Teubner text. From book vii to the end of the Histories comes to 1,042 Teubner sides. If therefore I continue to keep the same ratio (and this seems likely), the first draft of my MS will amount to about 1750 pages, which would probably be reduced in the revised draft to 1,450–1,500 pages. This works out about the same as the figures for vol. 1, where 672 Teubner sides produced a commentary of 900 MS pages. What I have gradually come to realise (and perhaps should have realised earlier) is that the original plan to complete the work in one more volume was too optimistic. In vol. 1 900 pages of MS came to 708 printed pages (I am speaking here of the actual commentary, and ignoring introduction, abbreviations, indices, appendices, addenda and corrigenda etc., perhaps another 75–100 pages, making say 1250 in all. I am afraid this begins to look like two volumes; and if, as I hope, the Press is willing to accept this in principle, the question arises where the break should come. If after xviii we shall have the commentary on 497 Teubner sides in vol. 2 and that on 545 in vol. 3; if after xxi, vol. 2 would contain the commentary on 685 Teubner sides and vol. 3 that on 457. A split after xx (there are no surviving fragments from xix) would not be suitable since it would come in the middle of the war with Antiochus; whereas the end of xviii or the end of xxi would make a reasonable break. My own preference is to have the break after xviii. This would have the advantage that it would allow us to get vol. 2 out earlier, and although it would leave a slightly larger volume for the last one, I should find the psychological effect of reaching the last lap earlier quite considerable! As it is, there would be more than two years work, to get down to the end of xxi [on retained copy, later note in pen below: ‘should be xviii’] and then to revise the whole thing, rewriting, checking references and looking up odd things I havent yet been able to see. I should be grateful to hear your views about this, for I realise that it implies a rather bigger commitment than we had originally thought of; but I derive some encouragement from the precedent of Gomme’s Commentary, which also worked out longer than was expected, and also from the unanimity of the reviewers that volume 1 at least avoided prolixity. With kind regards,

Cordy notes on the Press copy, for Secretary to the Delegates: ‘I don’t see how we can resist his division’, to which Colin Roberts responds: ‘I agree we can’t resist on the point of division, something will turn on whether each Vol. is to have its own index, appendices, etc. or not?’ So the Cordy era opens with instant cave-in, and but a crack of the whip for saving grace:

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16 April 1962 Spicer has passed on your letter of 8 April. The figures you give are irresistible and it is quite obvious that you must take two volumes to finish Polybius. If you had been keeping all the indexes for the end there might have been a case for making the break after Book XXI so as to leave room for them in the last volume. But presumably you will follow the pattern of Volume I and have indexes in both of the other two volumes, so that a break after Book XVIII would be perfectly acceptable. Like you, we are strongly tempted [superscript by hand: influenced]by the thought, of getting Volume II published two years earlier than would be possible if the break came further on.

So the do-or-die was cast: 17th April 1962 I am immensely relieved that you have been able to accept the idea of two more volumes for Polybius so readily. Since I wrote I have finished the draft of xvi, so my next bout will take me into the last book for vol. 2, book xviii. I have noted a mistake in typing in my last letter. Two lines from the end of p. 1 what I meant to say was that ‘down to the end of xviii’ would involve more than two years work. It is true that to get down to the end of xxi would mean a considerable time on the top of that, though not, I would hope, two years. Anyhow, I shall aim at letting you have the MS of volume 2 by the end of 1964. 15 March 1965 . . . My eight months in Pittsburgh [as Mellon Visiting Professor] gave me the chance to write out the definitive version of books vi–xviii, which form vol. 2. Since I returned in September I have been checking the references and got these down to a little under 300. . . . I should be able to hand over the MS sometime this summer. I may be delayed by a large French book on Polybius’ historical method (pp. 644), but I hope it will be dealt with fairly quickly. 13 August 1965 Under separate cover I am sending you the manuscript of volume ii of my commentary on Polybius. Like volume i it is literally manuscript and I hope that it will not worry you too much to have it that way. I could not face the task of having it typed and correcting it, and I remembered what a splendid job your compositors did from manuscript with volume i. I think everything is self-explanatory. But two three points need watching: where my pagination went wrong . . . 2 November 1965 I am afraid your manuscript was a victim of what I suspect is a natural law in this kind of publishing: that when we are on holiday our authors, being only on vocation, [sic] are unusually active, so that when we get back there is a particularly rich crop of scripts waiting as well as the accumulation of routine problems. However, it is on the move now and I hope will go smoothly. It is just possible that the Printer will be in difficulties over the fact that your copy is handwritten; I hope not because he did after all cope with the first volume, and in all formal matters it looks admirably prepared, but as the amount of work coming in to him

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increases year by year it gets harder for him to find the extra time that even clear handwriting takes to compose as compared with a typescript. . . .

There was one thing left to sort. Nothing a gentleman would have noticed: 24 December 1967 I learn from Mr. Horseman that Polybius is to be published on December 28th; judging from the advance copy sent to me about two months ago the Press has made its usual excellent job of what cannot have been an easy book to produce. May I say my thank-yous through you! The arrival of an invoice from your London office for half a dozen extra complimentary copies which they are kindly sending out for me reminds me that we have not yet had any discussion about the terms of publication for Vol. 2. For Vol. 1 I received £100 paid on publication, with a further £100 to be paid if and when the condensed account showed that it was standing to the balance of the Press. I assume that this desirable point has not yet been reached, but I should be interested to know how sales stand at present; in March 1959 when I last enquired they were a little under 750, according to Spicer. I do not know at what number sold the Press would break even. I imagine you would wish to suggest some similar arrangement for Vol. 2; certainly neither you nor I have ever thought of Polybius as a money-spinner for author or Press. However, money values have changed a good deal since 1957, and this is partly reflected in the increased price of Vol. 2, which is 25% [corrected to 50%] higher than that of Vol. 1, though Vol.1 was a little larger. I wonder if you would feel that this factor should also find some reflection in the payment due to the author. With seasonal compliments and best wishes for 1968, 29 December 1967 Many thanks for your letter of 24 December. I try to persuade myself that we are unworldly rather than mean, but there is a limit to the unworldliness we ought to practise at other people’s expense. So I am glad of the reminder that we are in danger of overstepping the limit in your case. For Volume 2 let us put the initial fee at £250, with a further £100 when the volume breaks even. Of Volume 1 we had sold 1,480 copies at 31 March 1967 and were still £175 in the red. We have probably sold enough copies since then to have paid this off, and so are ready to pay your £100 whenever you like; I wonder whether you would like it now or whether you would prefer to wait until after 5 April. Best wishes,

A second volume, and a second review from McDonald; all as you were (JRS, 58 (1968); 232–5): ‘ . . . no less distinguished then the first . . . for its method and the variety of its detail. There is an art of historical comment . . . W. is a master of the art. Serving Polybius he remains autonomous in his judgment; in elucidating the historian he writes ancient history himself. . . . No single reviewer can do full justice to this book . . . We can be grateful that he has been allowed a third volume in which to complete his work.’

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V O L U M E 3 (O R , R A T H E R , I I I ) ‘Two terms at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton in 1970/1 enabled me to make substantial headway with the final volume’ (1992a: 187). Working towards privately hardening up a private deadline, progress was—silent: 20 June 1967 It seems a long time since we were last in touch. Can you give me any idea, I wonder, of when you expect to finish Polybius, Vol. III? I hope all is well with you. 24 June 1973 . . . Briefly then, I have still to write the commentary on 130 pages of text and then I must revise the whole of vol. III and check the references. I would aim at letting you have the MS in three years, but this is bound to depend on what other commitments arise. However, can I say that I am at last beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel?

In fact, progress went ahead of schedule: 27 December 1975 At the same time as I send this letter I am dispatching to you by parcel post, with recorded delivery, the manuscript of Volume III of my Commentary on Polybius. I shall be relieved to hear that it has arrived safely and I hope that you will have it before 1975 is out. As I mentioned to you earlier, it has worked out a little longer than the first two volumes; but this time it is unquestionably the last. The lay-out will presumably follow that of Vols. I and II; but I hope that the spine will resemble that of Vol. II rather than the heavier lettering of Vol. I. . . . If there are any queries, please write and raise them. I hope our estimate that it can be done by 1977 is still true. Ought we now perhaps to have a contract? 8 January 1976 Many thanks for your letter of 27 December, and for the typescript, for which I hope you have already received the acknowledgement. I haven’t had a chance to look through the material yet, but from previous experience I imagine that you will have got the whole thing in excellent shape. You are quite right to raise the question of a contract, though I don’t believe we had one for the earlier volumes. On volume 2 the arrangement was that we should pay you £250 on publication and a further £100 when the account had broken even. That doesn’t now seem to me a very satisfactory arrangement. . . . The plan that would suit us best would be to pay you a royalty starting after a certain number of copies had been sold, say, 500. Would that sort of pattern suit you, I wonder? There is something to be said for leaving the details unsettled until we have had a printer’s estimate, but if you would prefer a commitment now I will be quite happy to send you a draft agreement.

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13 January 1976 It was a relief to hear that the manuscript of Polybius III had reached you safely. The sort of arrangement you suggest would suit me . . . It would also be helpful, when you are in a position to do so, if you could give me a likely time-table for the arrival of proofs, so that I can fit in commitments here. 20 January 1976 . . . Because of the effect of inflation on the flow of cash we are having to space out our production over a longer period than usual. As things stand at the moment I am hoping we can aim to publish between April and July 1977. But the outlook is a bit uncertain and we might have to wait a bit longer. As far as I can judge now, though, there is at any rate a good chance of publication in 1977—which is obviously desirable to complete the pattern of volumes coming out at ten year intervals.

True, half true, this was half the plan. The other half eluded the Press, and the long haul now imposed its own debenture: 9 June 1976 Polybius III . . . There are certain problems in our negotiations with the printers arising out of the fact that the material is hand written, but I expect we shall be able to resolve them: in any case I will write again about this. We certainly have not put the manuscript on to a shelf, and like you I hope that we shall be able to publish it during 1977. It would be helpful if you could let us have your corrigenda towards the end of July.

The MS.—all c.350,000 words of it—was in 1976 a handwritten problem: P.P.A., a copy-editor, had served notice on the classics editor: 5 May 1976 . . . apart from the prelims, the whole 1,000-page MS. is handwritten. . . . I would be frightened to try and copy-edit this copy, for fear of making it harder for the comp. to read copy. . . . I am at a loss to estimate the time needed for this one. In a way it is perhaps unnecessary/unwise to attempt to copy-edit it in its present form—,—we could perhaps try it on the printer as it is?

To which Cordy had, more or less promptly, memoed Davin: 13 July 1976 . . . I would be grateful, though, to have a ruling from you on what, if anything, should be charged to the author. No questions were raised about the earlier two volumes, which were also hand-written (though for all I know, the Printer silently included a charge for clarification in his bill); and in ordinary times I should not think of charging Walbank—this is after all a considerable and disinterested contribution to knowledge, not a mere thesis.

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. . . [hand-written ad calcem] If forced into a corner, I don’t think we cd insist that W. pay, given the kind of scholar he is. 21 July 1976 Polybius III I mentioned in an earlier letter that we were having some problems with your handwritten copy. The trouble mainly is that there aren’t any longer keyboard operators with experience of setting from manuscript. Your writing is unusually clear, but in any hand there is likely to be some difficulty in reading unfamiliar words. In your copy I notice this in the names of some German commentators I don’t know, so I can imagine the difficulties that might face an operator with no knowledge of Latin or ancient history (the Greek, over which you have obviously taken special pains, doesn’t seem to be a problem). So when the Printer says that names and Latin words need clarifying before setting starts I think we have to accept that. . . . The Printer could have the clarification done by one of his graduate readers and he estimates that his charge for this would be about £530. . . . A . . . possibility would be to have the whole work typed, which for all I know could be done for £500; the disadvantage of this, apart from the delay, would be the danger of mistakes creeping in. The main consideration is to get the right result without wasting time. But there is also the question of the cost. I mention this for two reasons. First, in present conditions we must not incur any avoidable expense (£500 even nowadays would nearly pay for the reprint of a small OCT). Second, you were rash enough to suggest having a formal agreement, and that agreement provides that ‘the Author shall deliver . . . in a fit state for the printer the complete text and illustrations of the work free of charge’. Let me say straight out that we have no intention of trying to enforce this clause, but it does justify our involving you in the problem—and of course we shouldn’t actually reject any offer of financial or practical help. 28th July, 1976 . . . Clearly the situation in your printing house has changed since they set up volumes I and II . . . The typing and checking of over 1,000 A4 sheets is likely to be slow and delay a start yet further. So I come back to the idea of clarification, and reluctantly reach the conclusion that the simplest and quickest solution is for me to do it myself. If you can assure me that the only problem for the printer lies in names and Latin words (and could one add titles in foreign languages?), I would be prepared to go through it putting these in capitals above or in the margin; and at the same time if, on re-reading, I noticed any word that seemed obscure I would clarify that. Does this sound a feasible solution? . . . 31 August 1976 Polybius III Thank you for returning the manuscript of this. It is a relief that the printer is satisfied with my clarification, and I am going ahead with it as hard as I can; I am up to about p. 350 now, but it is a horrible job!

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Your remark about the letter L was very helpful—the kind of thing one can very easily miss, with bad results all round. I shall let you have the whole thing back as soon as I can.

The next letter’s address tells plain what 1977 meant to FWW: September brought in a new academic year, but Polybius III had now missed not just its decade but his retirement, and a permanent move south to Cambridge: 64, Grantchester Meadows, Cambridge CB3 9JL 7 November 1977 Polybius III I return first proofs of pp. 63–86 . . . I received my first batch of proofs the third week in June; this set are stamped 21 October and we have reached p. 86. Am I right in thinking that they are coming rather slowly? 28 December 1977 Here are pp. 116–154; but I hope to send you another 150 pages very soon, indeed when I have had my daughter’s comments (she is reading a set of proofs but cant go as quickly as I can, since she has other claims on her time). My index is on slips to p. 300 and my pile is getting dangerously low. Can you send me another batch of slips, please, since I am not yet a third of the way through. With best wishes for 1978 (and may it see the publication of Polyb.III!) 11 September 1978 Polybius III Is it possible to improve the speed with which revised proofs are being processed? Today I corrected thirty pages (pp. 289–320), received this morning; pp. 241–288 came towards the end of July. Revises first started to reach me in mid-December 1977, so in nine months I have had rather more than a third of the book. At this rate I can hardly expect to have seen the whole of the revises before early in 1980. Since I am not ready to return sheets approved as for final printing before seeing the whole text—in a book of this kind things are apt to turn up later which involve going back to earlier pages—prospects for publication date seem to be receding to late 1980! Surely it cannot be right that a manuscript which I posted to the Press on 27 December 1975 should still be so far from publication. . . . I do hope that you can do something about it. 25 October 1978 Polybius III It was marvellous to get those two parcels this morning containing the revises as far as p. 792 (apart from pp. vii–x). So the printer has to some extent redeemed himself, though it would have been much more satisfactory for you if he had kept up a steady flow. I will ask for you to be shown a further proof of the bits you want, and I will check the whereabouts of the addenda to Volume III.

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18 April 1979 Polybius III Here at last is an advance copy. I hope that you will agree that if the Printer has taken his time about it he has at least produced a worthy result. Publication is scheduled for 24 May. . . . P.S. I was delighted to hear from Hammond that you had agreed to collaborate with him on Macedonia III. I shall have to think twice about distracting you by asking your advice as frequently as I have lately. 21 April 1979 Thank you for sending me the advance copy of Polybius III, which arrived this morning. Expectatus diu, it is certainly a beautiful piece of work of real Clarendon Press quality and I am very glad to see it and have it on my own desk, where it can take the place of the pile of proofs I have been using up to now. . . . Thank you for all your help over the years with Polybius. It is hard to believe that it is at last at an end; I began it in 1942.

Job done. Desk neat and tidy: ready to roll! With that, and the following 1-liner from the Royalty Manager, the correspondence is closed ( . . . so on with ‘a Fontana book and two chapters and an introduction to Camb.Anc. Hist.VII Part I (ed.2)’, plus Macedonia III.): 16 July 1980 Thank you for your letter of 11 July. We confirm that total sales of your Commentary on Polybius during the year ended 31 March 1980, amounted to 1,026 copies, and that the sales recorded on our royalty statement are, therefore, correct.

It’s easy to be sure, in large terms, that Megalopolitan Polybius provided FWW with the rich, multifaceted, scholarly longevity that the Greek name portends. The shifting problems of handling Hellenistic into Roman historical narrative, compounded by the accidents of transmission highlighted by the lapse from full text through major tableau to concurrent flights of excerption, made for an evolving challenge to adapt methods and focus under the shelter of a marvellously level and measured rhythm of exegesis secured in the shrinkage of first draft into revised copy for the first volume. As time sped by, steady-as-you-go tending of the Commentary anchored the cumulating years’ work round a self-justifying ‘project for life’, while at every turn provoking, requiring, demanding, spin-off sallies into major problems ob iter. Papers for conferences, turning to articles for journals, turned to collected papers, always supplying regenerative reinforcement for the main chance, and in turn drawing renewed energy from the gathering troop of committed fellow specialists united by the inspiration of the work achieved and their need for more, for the rest, for completion. From ‘wall’ to ‘bank’: I bet Frank wasn’t a bit surprised to find he could pen his notes clean and clear across so many unlined sheets, and regret so few corrigenda no matter how long he lived; but

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that his vocation brought him so many contacts worldwide and stirred him into ever more urgent encounters with his author through history must have wowed him every next new step of the way. Polybius doesn’t need heralding: he’s a big enough deal to oblige and repay so much expenditure of labour. But what his commentator needed was the motivation, temperament, and opportunity to find the necessary stickability—plus the ability to make the luck that kept him at it, smoothing the long path ahead and tearing up the least track behind. The trick wasn’t, after all, very much to do with how the thing got off the ground, with ‘chance and error’. It was much more about being good enough to take accelerating progress of research in his stride, while contributing to and compounding it. And of course it all boils down to long-distance writing, mechanically unassisted pen-pushing, to pull off an organic continuity in the teeth of time and technology. Writing which required, as it fed, a strongly absorbent and elastic approach to the synthesis of material into product, through commitment to ‘get from the scattered evidence to a straight narrative’: non mihi si linguae centum sint.13

13 Compare and contrast the projects studied in Henderson 1998 (Juvenal’s Mayor), 2001c (Farnell’s Cults), 2002 (R. G. Austin), 2003 (‘Par operi sedes: Mrs Arthur Strong and Flavian style’), 2006 (‘Oxford Reds’), 2007a (J. E. B. Mayor, Juvenal), 2007b (‘The “Euripides Reds” Series’), 2010 (the Oxford Latin Dictionary).

3 Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’: A Reconsideration John Marincola

In treating the topic of ‘tragic history’ I realize that I am taking up a time-worn theme, but it seems appropriate, in a volume honouring Frank Walbank, to revisit an issue to which he has contributed so substantially, and to reconsider a matter which, it seems to me at least, is critical in evaluating not only Polybius but also the writing of history in antiquity as a whole.1 Tragic history is thought to have its origins in a reaction by some historians—there is debate over who these are—against Aristotle’s criticism in the Poetics that poetry (i.e. tragedy) is more philosophical than history is because poetry speaks more to universals, history more to particulars;2 and so, in a desire to make history more universal, they began to use the manner and methods of tragedy. Now although each scholar might have a differently nuanced idea about tragic history, there are nevertheless certain recurring features that are considered characteristic: first, a particularly emotional narrative, that is, a narrative in which either scenes full of emotion are depicted, or scenes in which the historian’s aim is to raise the reader’s emotions; secondly, a particularly vivid style, one which is full of details and may include speeches of a sort one finds in tragedy, particularly give-and-take speeches; and, finally,

1 The scholarship on tragic history is vast; for its history to the early 1970s see Meister 1975: 109–26, to which add: Sacks 1981: 144–70, Fornara 1983: 124–34, Zucchelli 1985, Pauw 1986, Gray 1987, Vegetti 1989, Meister 1990: 95–101, Rebenich 1997, esp. 269–70, Pédech 1989: 368– 466, Leigh 1997: 30–40, Canfora 1999, Fromentin 2001, Moles 2001, Halliwell 2002: 289–92, Marincola 2003, Zangara 2007: 70–85, Marincola 2009, McGing 2010: 71–5. Walbank’s work on this issue—as always, a model of good judgement—can be found in Walbank, HCP i. 259–63, and Walbank 1960a. 2 Arist., Poetics 9, 1451a38–b5, esp. the remark  b ªaæ  Å
Ø Aºº a ŒÆŁºı,  b ƒ
æ Æ a ŒÆŁ’ ŒÆ
 ºªØ.

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a narrative that is full of æØØÆØ, reversals of fortune, something which Aristotle thought to be especially characteristic of tragedy.3 What I wish to do in this paper is to re-examine the single most important ancient testimonium on tragic history, Polybius’ refutation in his second Book of the Athenian historian, Phylarchus. Although other passages have been adduced in discussions of tragic history,4 this is, so to speak, the foundational text, for it is here that Polybius explicitly accuses Phylarchus of confusing the two genres. In reconsidering this passage I shall suggest first that, for Polybius at least, the criticism of historians who wrote ‘tragically’ did not, as is often supposed, refer to their style or their use of rhetoric or their employment of emotion, but rather was concerned with the truth or falsity of their account; and, secondly, that Polybius’ criticisms are best understood not in narrow dialogue with Aristotle’s Poetics, but within the larger context of a far-reaching ancient discussion on the benefits, aims, and methods of several genres, not to mention the inter-generic competition that was itself a feature of ancient literary criticism.

I Polybius’ attack on Phylarchus occurs within his narrative of the Cleomenean War. In stating that he will follow the Memoirs of Aratus of Sicyon for this war,5 Polybius expects surprise from some of his readers, since Phylarchus, who also treated these events, has a good reputation. In an attempt, therefore, to justify his decision and to discredit Phylarchus’ authority, Polybius focuses on four incidents from the latter’s history, the most important of which for our present purposes is the first, the fall of Mantinea in 223 at the hands of Aratus and the Achaeans. The crucial parts are as follows (2. 56. 3, 6–13):6 (3) ŒÆŁºı b s ›
ıªªæÆçf y ººa Ææ’ ‹ºÅ c æƪÆ Æ NŒB fi ŒÆd ‰ ıå YæÅŒ. . . . (6) ıº c ØÆ
ÆçE c TÅÆ c تı ŒÆd ÆŒ ø, –Æ b Ø c æı ŒÆd H `  åÆØH, çÅ
d f ÆØÆ ªı åØæ ı [A] ªºØ æØ
E IıåÆ
Ø, ŒÆd c IæåÆØÅ ŒÆd ª
Å ºØ H ŒÆa c æŒÆ Æ ź،ÆÆØ

ƺÆE
ÆØ
ıçæÆE u
 Æ N K
Æ
Ø ŒÆd ŒæıÆ f ῞¯ººÅÆ

3 It would be fruitless to document each of these items individually; cf. Meister 1990: 85–91 and Rebenich 1997: 269–70 for representative approaches. For more on æØØÆØ, see Beck in this volume. 4 Esp. Duris of Samos, FGrHist 76 F 1; Diod. 20. 43. 7; and Cic. Fam. 5. 12. 5 For more on Aratus, see Meadows in this volume. 6 The translations of Polybius here and elsewhere are modified (sometimes substantially) from the Loeb; for Books I–IV I use the revised version by Frank Walbank and Christian Habicht.

Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’

75

IªÆªE. (7) [B]
ı Çø ’ N º KŒŒÆºE
ŁÆØ f IƪØ
ή ήd
ıÆŁE ØE E ºªØ , N
ªØ æغŒa ªıÆØŒH ŒÆd ŒÆ

ØææØÆ ŒÆd Æ
H KŒº , æe b Ø [C] ŒæıÆ ŒÆd Łæı I æH ŒÆd ªıÆØŒH IÆd ŒØ ŒÆd ªF
Ø ªÅæÆØE Iƪø. (8) ØE b F Ææ’ ‹ºÅ c ƒ
æ Æ, [D] Øæ Œ
Ø Id æe H OçŁÆºH ØŁÆØ a Ø. (9) e b s Iªb ŒÆd ªıÆØŒH  B ƃæ
ø ÆPF Ææ
Łø, e b B ƒ
æ Æ NŒE –Æ ŒÆd åæ
Ø KÆÇ
Łø. (10) E تÆæF PŒ KŒºØ [Casaubon : KØºØ mss.] e
ıªªæÆçÆ æÆı Øa B ƒ
æ Æ f KıªåÆ , P b f K åı

ºªı ÇÅE ŒÆd a ÆæÆ E ŒØØ KÆæØŁE
ŁÆØ ŒÆŁæ ƒ æƪø fi تæçØ, H b æÆåŁø ŒÆd ÞÅŁø ŒÆ’ IºŁØÆ ÆPH ÅØ Æ, Œi ı æØÆ ıªåø
Ø ZÆ. (11) e ªaæ º ƒ
æ Æ

ŒÆd æƪø fi Æ P ÆPe Iººa PÆ · KŒE b ªaæ E Øa H ØŁÆø ºªø KŒºBÆØ ŒÆd łıåƪøªB
ÆØ ŒÆa e Ææe f IŒÆ , KŁ  b Øa H IºÅŁØH æªø ŒÆd ºªø N Æ e åæ Ø ÆØ ŒÆd E
ÆØ f

çغÆŁFÆ , (12) KØ æ K KŒ Ø b ªEÆØ e ØŁÆ, Œifi q łF  , Øa c IÅ H Łøø, K b Ø IºÅŁb Øa c TçºØÆ H çغÆŁø. (13) åøæd  ø [A] a º
Æ E KŪEÆØ H æØØH På ØŁd ÆN Æ ŒÆd æ E ªØØ , z åøæd h’ KºE Pºªø h’ Oæª Ç
ŁÆØ ŒÆŁÅŒø ıÆe K’ P d H
ıÆØø . . . (3) In general, then, this historian [sc. Phylarchus] throughout his whole work has made many random and careless statements . . . (6) Wishing to emphasize the cruelty of Antigonus and the Macedonians and with them that of Aratus and the Achaeans, he says that the Mantineans, when defeated, [A] were subjected to great misfortunes, and that the most ancient and the greatest of cities in Arcadia wrestled with such great misfortunes as to bring all the Greeks to dismay and tears. (7) [B] Eager to arouse the pity of his readers and to make them sympathetic (lit., fellow-feelers) to what is being said, he brings on women clinging to one another, tearing their hair and baring their breasts, and in addition he describes [C] the tears and lamentations of men and women accompanied by their children and aged parents being led away into captivity. (8) He does this throughout his history, [D] striving on each occasion to place the horrors before our eyes. (9) Let us ignore for the moment his ignoble and womanish disposition,7 and consider what is proper and useful to history. (10) Now then it is not the historian’s task to startle his readers by describing things sensationally, nor should he try, as the tragic writers do, to represent speeches which might have been delivered, or to enumerate all the possible consequences of the events under consideration, but rather to record with fidelity things that were actually spoken and done, however commonplace these might be. (11) For the aim of tragedy is not the same as that of history, but the opposite. The tragic poet seeks to thrill and charm his audience for the moment by the most persuasive words, while the historian’s task is to instruct and persuade for all time those who love learning, by means of the truth of the words and actions he presents, (12) since in the first case

7

On Phylarchus’ ‘womanish’ disposition, see Marincola forthcoming.

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the supreme aim is probability, even if what is said is untrue, the purpose being to deceive the spectators, but in the second it is truth, the purpose being to benefit those who love learning. (13) And apart from these considerations, Phylarchus [A] relates the majority of the reversals in his history without subjoining why things were done and to what purpose, without which it is impossible either to feel pity reasonably or anger appropriately at any of the events . . .

I have indicated by letters the supposedly main aspects of tragic history: the narration of reversals of fortune [A]; emotionalism, here the attempt to arouse the pity of readers [B]; a narration full of detail, here detailed scenes of suffering [C]; and a vivid style by which things are placed ‘before the eyes’ of the audience [D]. The passage thus at first glance seems to bear out the traditional interpretation, yet an examination of Polybius’ argument is essential to put each of these matters into its proper context. To begin with, we note that the distinction made by Polybius between history and tragedy in }11 follows immediately from a general observation that the historian must not, by using æÆ Æ, shock his readers, nor must he seek after the probable utterances of the characters, nor enumerate the consequences of the events under consideration, but rather narrate what was said and done in actual fact (ŒÆ’ IºŁØÆ, }10). This is then followed by an explanatory ªæ clause, and it is here that we find the comparison of the two genres. Thus the comparison is meant to explain and illuminate the nature of invention—this is what Polybius has just mentioned—and in fact that is exactly what it does. Tragedy is aligned with persuasion, history with truth, even if that truth is modest. Phylarchus’ scenes are faulted, therefore, in the first place because they are invented. Polybius had indicated as much in the introduction to his attack on Phylarchus, when he said the purpose of it was ‘so that we may not allow the falsehood in his writings to have equal weight with the truth’,8 and Polybius confirms this towards the end of his refutation when he claims that the Mantineans in actual fact did not suffer in the way that Phylarchus claimed: PŒF ›º
åæ
æÆ Øe ŒÆd  Ç ıåE q
Æ ¼ØØ Øøæ Æ , u
’ Yæ ÆŁ L ºÆæå çÅ
Ø, PŒ º NŒe q
ıÆŒºıŁE ÆPE Ææa H  Eººø, ÆØ b ŒÆd
ıªŒÆŁ
Ø Aºº E æı
Ø ŒÆd ÆæıØ c I
ØÆ ÆPH. Iºº’ ‹ø P e æÆØæø
ıÆŒºıŁ
Æ ÆØF
Ø ŒÆa c æØØÆ ºc F ØÆæƪBÆØ f  ı ŒÆd æÆŁBÆØ f KºıŁæı , ›
ıªªæÆçf ÆPB B æÆ Æ

åæØ P  łF  N
ªŒ e ‹º, Iººa ŒÆd e łF  I ŁÆ, Œº. These men therefore were worthier of some far heavier and more extreme penalty; so that even if they had suffered what Phylarchus alleges, it was not reasonable that they should have received pity from the Greeks; instead, praise

8 Plb. 2. 56. 2: ¥ Æ c e łF  K E
ıªªæÆ
Ø N
 ıÆF Iº ø æe c IºŁØÆ. Already recognized by Fromentin 2001: 85.

Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’

77

and assent should have been given to those who executed judgement on them for their impiety. Yet while nothing more serious befell the Mantineans in their reversal of fortune than the pillage of their property and the enslavement of their free population, this writer [sc. Phylarchus], for the sake of sensationalism, composed not only a falsehood, but an improbable falsehood, etc.9

A further indication that invention or falsehood is what Polybius has in mind is that he begins this refutation by saying that in general throughout his whole history Phylarchus has ‘spoken at random and as it happened’ (NŒB fi ŒÆd ‰

ıå YæÅŒ, 2. 56. 3), a characterization that echoes Thucydides’ criticism of his predecessors,10 the context for which is precisely the same, namely, a contrast between the actual events and exaggerated or false accounts. An examination of Polybius’ remarks elsewhere in his history on tragedy and the tragic bears out the interpretation that falsehood or factual inaccuracy is the core issue. Earlier in Book II Polybius, in describing the geography of the Po valley, says that he will omit from consideration Greek stories about the river (2. 16. 13–14): . . . ¼ººÆ b a æd e Æe F ƒ
æÆ Ææa E  ‚ººÅ
Ø, ºªø c a æd ÆŁÆ ŒÆd c KŒ ı H
Ø, Ø b a ŒæıÆ H ÆNª æø ŒÆd f

ºÆ Æ f æd e Æe NŒFÆ , o çÆ
Ø a K
ŁBÆ N
Ø F çæØ ØÆÆ Ie F ŒÆa ÆŁÆ Łı , ŒÆd A
Æ c c æƪ،c ŒÆd ÆfiÅ æ
ØŒıEÆ oºÅ Kd b F Ææ æŁÅ
ŁÆ, Œº. . . . the other tales the Greeks tell about the river, I mean about Phaëthon and his fall and the tears of the poplar trees and the black clothing of those who dwell around the river, who, they say, still dress this way from their grief for Phaëthon, and all matter for tragedy and the like, may be left aside for the moment, etc.

Polybius emphasizes here the fabulous or mythical nature of the material which puts it in a different realm from history. Elsewhere, Polybius finds fault with some writers who, he says, so exaggerated the difficulties of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps that they had some hero appear to him to show him a pass through the mountains. They do this, he says, because they themselves are ignorant of Alpine topography (3. 48. 8–9): . . . K z NŒø K ı
Ø N e Ææƺ
Ø E æƪø fi تæçØ . ŒÆd ªaæ KŒ Ø A
Ø ƃ ŒÆÆ
æçÆd H æÆø æ
ÆØ ŁF ŒÆd ÅåÆB Øa e a æÆ Ł
Ø ł Ø ŒÆd Ææƺªı ºÆØ,  
ıªªæÆçÆ

9 Plb. 2. 58. 1–15, esp. 10–12; we must leave aside, of course, whether or not Polybius is being honest in his criticism of Phylarchus; for the evidence that Polybius in polemic is not always to be trusted see Walbank 1962; cf. McGing 2010: 71–4 for this passage in particular. 10 Thuc. 1. 22. 2: ‘But the deeds of the war I deemed it worthy to write up not from any chance informant nor how it seemed to me (PŒ KŒ F ÆæÆıå . . . P ’ ‰ Kd K ŒØ), but by going through with accuracy on each matter, both for those at which I was present and those which I heard from others.’

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IªŒÅ e Ææƺ
Ø 
åØ ŒÆd ØE læø  ŒÆd Łf KØçÆØı , KØ a a Iæåa IØŁı ŒÆd łı E 

øÆØ. . . . from this, as one would expect, they fall into the same difficulties as the tragic dramatists, all of whom, to bring their dramas to a close, require the god and the crane [i.e. the deus ex machina], since the data they choose on which to found their plots are false and improbable. These writers [sc. on Hannibal] suffer something similar and must have heroes and gods appear, since they build on beginnings that are improbable and false.

Again we see falsehood, exaggeration, and invention—all bound together, not coincidentally, with a metaphor from the theatre. One last passage concerns the downfall of the Sicilian Hieronymus (7. 7. 1–6): Øb H ºªªæçø H bæ B ŒÆÆ
æçB F  Iæøı ªªæÆçø º ØÆ  ÅÆØ ºª ŒÆd ºº ØÆ ØÆŁØÆØ æÆ Æ, KŪØ b a æe B IæåB ÆPE ªÆ
ÅEÆ ŒÆd a Iıå Æ a ıæÆŒ
ø, (2) æƪø fi F b c TÅÆ H æø ŒÆd c I
ØÆ H æø, Kd b A
Ø e Æ溪 ŒÆd e Øe H æd c ŒÆÆ
æçc ÆPF
ıø, u
  ºÆæØ ’ ºº øæ ’ ¼ºº Å Æ ªªÆØ æÆ KŒ ı ØŒææ. [. . .] (4) ŒÆa b e åæ F Æ  ØÆ ŒÆd æ K
æºH
ŁÆØ ŒÆ ØÆ H ç ºø ŒÆd H ¼ººø ıæÆŒ
ø IŒŁÆØ ıÆ, æºc b ªªÆØ ÆæÆ Æ ŒÆd ÆæźºÆªÅ I
 Æ PŒ NŒ . [. . .] (6) Iººa  ŒF
Ø ƒ a Kd æı ªæç æØ , KØ a Ł
Ø Pæغı 

øÆØ ŒÆd
 , øå æƪø IƪŒÇ
ŁÆØ a ØŒæa ªºÆ ØE ŒÆd æd H Å b Å I ø ºº

ØÆ ØÆ Ł
ŁÆØ ºªı . Some of the historians who have described the fall of Hieronymus have done so at great length and introduced much sensationalism, telling of the prodigies that occurred before his reign and the misfortunes of the Syracusans, and writing up tragically the cruelty of his character and the impiety of his actions, and finally the strange and terrible nature of the circumstances attending his death, so that neither Phalaris nor Apollodorus nor any other tyrant would seem to have been more savage than he . . . . It is possible that one or two men may have been tortured, and some of his friends and of the other Syracusans put to death, but it is hardly probable that there was any excess of unlawful violence or any extraordinary impiety . . . . But those who write monographs, it seems to me, since they deal with a subject that is circumscribed and narrow, are compelled for lack of facts to make small things great and to devote much space to what is really not worthy of memory.

Here too we see that tragedy supposes an underlying factual inaccuracy: note the remark that it was only a few who were actually tortured and put to death—the same kind of argument Polybius used when attacking Phylarchus’ supposed exaggerations. The ‘tragic’ portrayal of Hieronymus is thus (again) closely linked with a lack of truthfulness and accuracy.

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This is not, however, the sole sense of ‘tragic’ in Polybius. In two places he invokes the ‘tragic’ to describe the splendour and pomp of individuals. The first describes the arrival of Apelles into Corinth, an entry that is described as ‘tragic’ on account of the multitude of leaders and soldiers who came out to greet him.11 The second concerns Hasdrubal when he meets Golosses and is portrayed as advancing slowly, in full armour and purple, cutting such a figure ‘as to leave the tyrants of tragedy far behind’.12 Here there is an emphasis on pageantry and spectacle, as well as a reference, no doubt, to the elaborate costumes worn on the tragic stage. Somewhat different are Polybius’ uses of the noun æƪø fi Æ and the verb KŒæƪø fi ø in Book VI. In the first passage, Polybius notes that decisions about triumphs are reserved for the senate (6. 15. 7): ŒÆd c a KØıå Æ H ªıø KŒæƪø fi B
ÆØ ŒÆd
ıÆıB
ÆØ ŒÆd ºØ IÆıæH
ÆØ ŒÆd ÆØH
ÆØ e
ı æØ åØ c ÆØ. The senate has the power to celebrate in splendour and magnify the successes of the general, or in turn to obscure and belittle them.

The contrast of the infinitives KŒæƪø fi B
ÆØ and
ıÆıB
ÆØ with IÆıæH
ÆØ and ÆØH
ÆØ shows that Polybius is here thinking, as in the previous examples, of pomp and splendour (perhaps exactly in the manner of Hellenistic kings or condottieri). The other appearance in Book VI is related. Here Polybius is discussing the way in which the Romans deal with religion (6. 56. 8–11): Kd 
F ªaæ KŒæƪfi ÅÆØ ŒÆd ÆæØ
BŒÆØ F e æ Ææ’ ÆPE Y

 f ŒÆ’ N Æ  ı ŒÆd a ŒØa B ºø u
 c ŒÆƺØE æº . . . F ºŁı åæØ F ØÅŒÆØ . . . Kd b A ºBŁ K
Ø KºÆçæe ŒÆd ºBæ KØŁıØH ÆæÆø, OæªB Iºªı, ŁıF ØÆ ı, º ÆØ E I ºØ çØ ŒÆd B fi ØÆfiÅ æƪø fi Æ fi a ºŁÅ
ıåØ. These matters are clothed in such pomp and introduced to such an extent in their private and public lives so as to omit no excess . . . They have adopted this course for the sake of the common people . . . [S]ince every multitude is fickle, full of lawless desires, unreasoned passion and violent anger, the multitude must be reined in by invisible terrors and such pageantry.

In these passages, as in the previous ones, there is an emphasis on pomp and pageantry, and although there is no suggestion of falsehood, it is noteworthy that the splendour and pomp are employed in the service of a type of deceptive control.

11 Plb. 5. 26. 9: ªÅ b B N
 ı æƪ،B Øa e ºBŁ H IÆÅ
ø ªø ŒÆd
æÆØøH, Œº. Walbank, HCP i. 559 translates B N
 ı æƪ،B as ‘entry in pomp’. 12 Plb. 38. 8. 6: › b [Hasdrubal] ºØ Kæ a ªºÅ I Æ K B fi æçıæ Ø ŒÆd B fi ƺ Æ fi  Å, u
 f K ÆE æƪø fi ÆØ ıæı º Ø æ
ç ºØ.

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One additional passage, different in tone from those mentioned above, occurs in Book V, where Molon falls upon the camp of Xenoetas and slaughters the soldiers who are drunk and scattered about: those who can get away rush into the river, forgetting the strength of the current, and they and all their animals and equipment are swept away, creating, Polybius says, a scene that was ‘tragic and extraordinary’.13 In this passage, ‘tragic’ is used to mean something particularly horrible or pitiable, as we might say ‘a tragic turn of events’, although neither in Polybius nor in English does such a phrase necessarily suggest the theatre, much less a whole method of writing history. In the cases sketched here, then, it can be seen that Polybius uses ‘tragic’ as a way of indicating something that is false or exaggerated, or something that is pompous, empty, or vain, and in at least one case something especially pitiable or sorrowful. There is one other important passage in which Polybius talks of history and tragedy, but I want to save that for a slightly later point.14 Let us move on to the charge that Polybius is faulting Phylarchus and thus ‘tragic’ history for raising the emotions of the audience: this is probably the most common claim made by scholars; in this interpretation, emotionalism is set at the opposite extreme from education and pragmatic or ‘sober’ history. I have already dealt with some aspects of this topic,15 so I shall here simply note the following. The main evidence against the view that Polybius is opposed to emotional portrayals in history is to be found at the end of the passage with which we began (2. 56. 13), where Polybius faults Phylarchus for failing to give causes and purposes of actions, ‘without which it is impossible either to feel pity reasonably or anger appropriately’ (h’ KºE Pºªø h’ Oæª Ç
ŁÆØ ŒÆŁÅŒø ıÆ). Now the form in which Polybius here expresses the relationship between event and emotion shows clearly that with or in the appropriate context one could feel, and the historian could raise, pity or anger. Indeed, this is hardly surprising, given that anger is never far from the surface in Polybius’ retelling of the story of Mantinea, and one can see it especially clearly in his indictment of Timaeus in Book XII.16 Furthermore, it can be shown from Polybius’ own work that emotion is in no way inappropriate to the business of history: note, for example, his praise of the Roman funerary custom of reciting the great deeds of the deceased man and his ancestors, a practice, Polybius says, that makes the listeners share in the feelings (
ıÆŁE , the same word used for Phylarchus), such that they feel the loss to be their own (6. 53. 2–3):

13 Plb. 5. 48. 9: K z
ıÆØ æƪ،c ŒÆd ÆæźºÆªÅ çÆ 
ŁÆØ F ÞÆ c çÆÆ
Æ ‰ i ›F E ÅåØ çæø ¥ø, Çıª ø, ‹ºø, ŒæH, I
ŒıB

Æ ÆB . 14 15. 36. 1–7, quoted below, pp. 84–5. 15 See Marincola 2003, where further evidence and arguments are adduced. 16 For the raised emotional tone of historiographical polemic, see Marincola 1997: 218–24.

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æØ b Æe F ı
 , IÆa Kd f Kºı , i b ıƒe K ºØŒ Æ fi ŒÆƺ ÅÆØ ŒÆd åfiÅ Ææ, y , N b , H ¼ººø Y Ø Ie ªı

æåØ, ºªØ æd F ºıÅŒ a Iæa ŒÆd a KØıªÆ K fiH ÇB æØ . Ø’ z
ıÆ Ø f ººf IÆØÅ
Œı ŒÆd ºÆÆ

e c ZłØ a ªªÆ, c  f ŒŒØøÅŒÆ H æªø, Iººa ŒÆd f KŒ , Kd 
F ª 
ŁÆØ
ıÆŁE u
 c H ŒÅ ıø Y Ø, Iººa ŒØe F ı çÆ 
ŁÆØ e
øÆ. The whole mass of the people stand round to watch, and his [sc. the dead man’s] son, if he has left one of adult age who can be present, or if not some other relative, then mounts the Rostra and delivers an address which recounts the virtues and the successes achieved by the dead man during his lifetime. By these means the whole populace, not just those who shared in the deeds but even those who did not, are involved in the ceremony so that when the facts of the dead man’s career are recalled to their minds and brought before their eyes, they become sharers of the feelings to such an extent that the loss seems not to be confined to the mourners but to be a public one which affects the whole people.

Or compare Polybius’ portrayal of Scipio’s tears at the fall of Carthage: Scipio’s emotion, indicative of his remembrance, at the height of his success, of the mutability of fortune is the reason that Polybius can describe him as ‘a great and perfect man, and, in short, one worthy to be remembered’.17 Polybius is not, therefore, condemning tout court the portrayal of emotion in history or attempts by historians to raise their readers’ emotions; rather, he finds fault with Phylarchus for raising the wrong or inappropriate emotions given the actual (ŒÆ’ IºŁØÆ) situation of the Mantineans. Next there is the notion that Phylarchus’ vividness, his placing things before the eyes of his readers, is also a component of tragic historiography. It is indeed true that tragedy, of all the genres, is the most immediate in terms of visual impact, since it literally brings things before the eyes of its audience. Polybius here might certainly be referring to such a thing, yet when we examine this concept of ‘placing before the eyes’ (æe OçŁÆºH ØŁÆØ) elsewhere in Polybius, it seems clear that tragedy is usually far from his mind. Sometimes he refers to what ancient literary criticism called KæªØÆ, the vividness of description which was considered a desirable trait in the best writing, a quality extolled by Plutarch:18 the most effective historian is he who, by a vivid representation of emotions and characters, makes his narrative like a painting. Assuredly Thucydides is always striving for this vividness in his writing, since it is his desire to make the reader a

Plb. 38. 21–2, esp. 21. 3: I æe . . . ªºı ŒÆd º ı ŒÆd
ıºº Å I ı Å . Plut. de glor. Ath. 347A: . . . ŒÆd H ƒ
æØŒH ŒæØ
 › c تÅ
Ø u
æ ªæÆçc Ł
Ø ŒÆd æ
Ø N øºØ
Æ . › ªF ¨ıŒı Å Id fiH ºªø fi æe ÆÅ ±غºAÆØ c KæªØÆ, x ŁÆc ØB
ÆØ e IŒæÆc ŒÆd a ªØÆ æd f ›æHÆ KŒºÅŒØŒa ŒÆd Ææƌ،a ŁÅ E IƪØ
Œı
Ø Kæª
Æ
ŁÆØ ºØåı . For more on KæªØÆ see Zanker 1981, Walker 1993, Newman 2002, and Zangara 2007: 55–69. 17 18

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spectator, as it were, and to produce vividly in the minds of his readers the emotions of amazement and consternation that were experienced by those who beheld them.

Yet vividness and emotional arousal are by no means the whole story. For when we look at Polybius’ own use of this concept, it is clear that vividness, this placing something before the audience’s eyes, is most of all a tool to convey knowledge and impart experience, since it allows the reader to see things clearly and therefore to understand the issues at stake. Davidson’s study of the gaze in Polybius showed the extent to which Polybius relies on visualizations, both for his characters and for his own audience.19 The proper ‘envisioning’ by a character of his situation is often the key to success or failure, and Polybius himself frequently emphasizes how important it is for his audience to place before their eyes what is going on.20 See, for example, the listeners at the Roman funeral mentioned above, where the deeds of the dead man and his family are brought ‘before their eyes’; in another passage, Polybius, in the course of praising the Romans and the Carthaginians for their conduct in the Second Punic War, compares their actions with some earlier Greek heroes, and sums up by saying (9. 9. 9–10): ÆFÆ b s På oø F   øÆ ø j ˚ÆæåÅ  ø KªŒø ı åæØ YæÅÆØ Ø . . . e b ºE H ªıø Ææ’ IçæØ ŒÆd H a ÆFÆ ººø åØæ ÇØ Ææ’ Œ
Ø a ŒØa æØ , ¥Æ H b IÆØÅ
ŒØ, a ’ e c ZłØ ºÆ ÇźøÆd ª øÆØ Ææº åØ Ø ŒÆd ŒØ ıH  , PÆ  I
çƺB b c ºÆ, ŁÆıÆ
Æ b c K ØÆ, I Å
 b ŒÆd ŒÆºc åØ c æÆ æ
Ø ŒÆd ŒÆæŁøŁÆ ŒÆd ØÆłı
ŁÆ ÆæƺÅ
ø , Œº. It is not for the purpose of extolling the Romans or the Carthaginians that I have offered these remarks . . . but rather for the sake of the leaders of both these states, and for all, no matter where, who shall be charged with the conduct of public affairs, so that by remembering some things and by placing before their eyes other things they may be moved to emulation, and not shrink from undertaking designs which may be fraught with risk and peril, but on the contrary are courageous without being hazardous, are admirable in their conception; and their excellence, whether the result be success or failure alike, will deserve to live in men’s memories for ever, etc.

This connection between the visual and the intellectual can be seen already in Thucydides, who uses the term e
Æç (‘clarity’ or ‘clearness’) to indicate

Davidson 1991; for characters holding or keeping things ‘before their eyes’ as a way of visualizing them intensely see Plb. 2. 35. 8; 3. 6. 13; 5. 11. 7; 5. 54. 3; 15. 10. 2; 15. 11. 5; 15. 11. 8; 20. 9. 1; 22. 8. 11, and passim. 20 Cf. Polybius’ interest in topography, which is certainly to be connected with his interest in visualization. 19

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what he sees as the object of his audience’s attention.21 Vividness for Polybius is also related to the whole issue of the historian’s experience: Polybius attacks Timaeus, saying his work lacks vividness because it is not a product of life, and çÆ
Ø can come only from ÆPŁØÆ.22 Elsewhere, Polybius links KæªØÆ with the reliability of testimony that comes from being an eyewitness of events (20. 12. 8): På ‹Ø K
Ø K IŒB æd æƪø ØƺÆØ ŒÆd ª ÆPÅ, Iººa ŒÆd ªºÆ ØÆçæØ, ºf  Ø
ıºº
ŁÆØ çıŒ Œ
Ø  ŒÆa c KæªØÆ 
Ø . It is not at all the same to judge of things from hearsay and from having actually witnessed them, but there is a great difference. In all matters a certainty founded on the evidence of one’s eyes is of the greatest value.

And this concept of eyewitness, of course, is an absolutely crucial element not only for Polybius but for all ancient historiography.23 In sum, then, we find that vividness can be a tool for raising the emotions24 but, just as (if not more) importantly, it is also a tool for instruction and explanation by the historian.25 There is nothing inherently problematic (and much that is inherently beneficial) with bringing matters ‘before the eyes’ of one’s readers, and that is not why Phylarchus is being faulted. We come then to æØØÆØ, reversals. It is well known that for Aristotle reversals are crucial in his definition of tragedy, for they are the very heart of the tragic action. Polybius refers to reversals twice in his attack on Phylarchus, once with the verb æØ
E (}6; note IıåÆ
Ø also), and once with the noun itself, a º
Æ H æØØH (}13). It is thus assumed that the reversals of which Polybius speaks must be specifically Aristotelian, and indeed some scholars have translated the word here as ‘tragic’ or ‘dramatic reversals’. But is this warranted? The short answer is ‘no’. For although reversals of fortune are, of course, found in tragedy, they are in no way the special preserve of tragedy. They had already been part of epic—indeed, no doubt, of story-telling from its origins—and beginning with Herodotus, reversals of fortune become the subject-matter of history as well: ‘for the cities that were great in my time were small once and those that are small in my time 21 Thuc. 1. 22. 4: ‘And in the hearing perhaps the lack of a mythic element (e c ıŁH  ) will perhaps appear less pleasurable (Iæ
æ). But it will be sufficient if all those who will wish to examine the clarity of the things that have happened and that will again happen in the same or similar ways in accordance with human nature (H  ªø e
Æçb
ŒE ŒÆd H ººø b ÆsŁØ ŒÆa e IŁæØ Øø ŒÆd ÆæƺÅ
ø 

ŁÆØ) judge this useful (TçºØÆ Œæ Ø).’ See S. Hornblower 1987: 102, Woodman 1988: 23–7, Kallet 2006, esp. 360–3. 22 Schepens 1975. 23 Schepens 1980, Marincola 1997: 63–86. 24 For the connection between KæªØÆ and emotion, see Zangara 2007: 55–89. 25 Note that ‘clarity’ is introduced right at the beginning of the history: 1. 1. 2, quoted below, p. 84.

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were once great’ (1. 5. 4). Thucydides too incorporates this notion in the account of the reversals experienced by Athenians and Sicilians in his Books VI and VII.26 Most to the point, however, are Polybius’ own remarks at the outset of his work, where he praises the value of history (1. 1. 2): IºÅŁØøÅ b r ÆØ ÆØ  Æ ŒÆd ªıÆ
Æ æe a ºØØŒa æØ c KŒ B ƒ
æ Æ ŁÅ
Ø, KÆæª
Å b ŒÆd Å Ø 
ŒÆº F ı
ŁÆØ a B

åŠƺa ªÆ ø çæØ c H Iººæ ø æØØH Å
Ø, Œº. . . . that the truest education and training for the life of political action is the study of history, and that the clearest [KÆæª
Å, which returns us to our discussion of KæªØÆ above] and indeed the only method of learning how to bear bravely the vicissitudes of fortune is the recollection of the reversals of others, etc.

Polybius goes on to narrate these changes of fortune which can, of course, be from great to small, but can also be the other way round, as in the case of the protagonist of Polybius’ work, Rome. So the narration of reversals of fortune is not something to be faulted—Phylarchus was not wrong to narrate the fall of Mantinea—but rather they are the very subject-matter of history. Some clarification, however, in this matter of reversals is afforded by a later passage where Polybius compares the courtier of Ptolemy Philopator, Agathocles, whom he deems a worthless villain, with Agathocles of Sicily, whom he considers an appropriate person to study and emulate (15. 36. 1–7): Øa c ÆÆ a ÆN Æ e ’ ÆP
ø ºª I ŒØ
Æ bæ ªÆŁŒºı , På lŒØ
Æ b ŒÆd Øa e 
Æ a KŒºÅŒØŒa æØ Æ  Æ åØ çÆÆ
Æ c æÅ I Æ KØ

ø , e b ºØe P  IøçºB ª 
ŁÆØ c IŒæÆ
Ø ŒÆd ŁÆ ÆPH, Iººa ŒÆd  Ø Oåº
ø KغE
ŁÆØ c KæªØÆ H Øø. ıE Ææåø ºH, Tçº Æ ŒÆd æłø , æe L E c IÆçæa ØE
ŁÆØ f Øa B IŒB j B ›æ
ø

ıºı Ø ºıæƪE, ŒÆd ºØ
Æ fiH B ƒ
æ Æ ªØ ı ŒÆŁŒ , Içæø ø › ºÆ
e bæ H KŒºÅŒØŒH
ıøø KŒe  Ø. ÇźF b ªaæ  i ıºÅŁ Å a Ææƺªı

æØ Æ ; P b c Ł P ’ IŒø l ÆØ
ıåH P d H Ææa ç
Ø ªø æƪø ŒÆd Ææa c ŒØc ØÆ H IŁæø. Iºº’ N
Æ b ŒÆd æH
ı Ç L b N E, L ’ IŒF
ÆØ, åæØ F ªHÆØ e c ŒF ıÆe r ÆØ ØØ ıÆ K
Ø· ‹Æ b Ø
ø, P d f

Ææa ç
Ø Kªåæ Çø P ŒE· fiH ’ ÆPfiH ºŒØ KªŒıæE P ’ ‹ºø i ıºÅŁ Å. Øæ j Çźøe r ÆØ E e ºª j æ· › b B KŒe

ø
ıçæA ºÆ
e NŒØæ K
Ø æƪø fi Æ Xæ ƒ
æ Æ . For these reasons I refrained from enlarging on the story of this man [Agathocles the courtier], and no less because all sensational reversals are worthy of attention only when first presented to our view, but afterwards it is not only unprofitable to 26

See Rood 1999.

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read about them and keep our eyes on them but such an exercise of our faculties produces a certain disgust. For since there are two objects, benefit and pleasure, which those who wish to study any subject either by the use of their ears or their eyes should keep before them, and since this is especially true of the study of history, a too generous treatment of sensational events contributes to neither. For who would wish to emulate irrational changes of fortune? No one has any permanent pleasure in seeing or reading of things which are contrary to nature and contrary to the general sentiment of mankind. It is true we are interested in seeing or hearing of them once for all and at first, just for the sake of observing that what seemed to be impossible is possible, but once we are convinced of this no one takes any pleasure in dwelling on the unnatural, and there is no one who would have the least wish to meet with frequent references to the same event of this class. Therefore what is told us should either excite emulation or cause pleasure, and the elaborate treatment of an event that does neither is suitable rather to tragedy than to history.

The passage is valuable because Polybius here speaks of various kinds of reversals of fortune, only some of which he sees as appropriate to history. Those which are sensational or irrational must be consigned to the realm of tragedy; those more in accord with nature are worthy of history. Again, it is not reversals themselves which are problematic,27 but only certain kinds of reversals which Polybius sees as characteristic of tragedy. To sum up this first part, then, we may reasonably question whether Polybius found fault with Phylarchus for his emotional scenes, for his vividness, or for his narration of reversals of fortune. Phylarchus’ crime in Polybius’ eyes was not that he employed these devices but that he misused them, because underlying them all was the essential falsehood of his narrative, since the sufferings Phylarchus supposedly described did not, according to Polybius, actually occur.

II From the earliest scholarship on ‘tragic’ history, it has been customary to connect Polybius’ attack on Phylarchus with Aristotle’s Poetics, and indeed several scholars have laid the responsibility for the phenomenon of tragic history at the door of the Peripatos.28 This ‘connection’ is supposedly guaranteed among other things by the strong similarity of vocabulary between the Poetics and Polybius’ characterization of what Phylarchus was doing. One scholar has even tabulated them,29 and although his collocations seem at first 27 The noun æØØÆ and verb æØ ø are extremely common in Polybius, see Mauersberger s.vv. 28 See esp. von Fritz 1958. 29 Zegers 1959: 6.

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sight very persuasive, closer examination reveals that they have been made with no regard for context in either Polybius or Aristotle; suffice it to say that in every case there are problems with the correlations.30 What I consider to be the most telling point is that Polybius in his attack on Phylarchus is not concerned with Aristotle’s tragic emotions of pity and fear, but rather with pity and anger (KºE . . . Oæª Ç
ŁÆØ, 2. 56. 13), emotions which, as I have pointed out elsewhere, are associated not with the tragic poet but with the orator.31 So if Polybius is not in dialogue with Aristotle’s Poetics, how are the remarks to be understood? They belong, I submit, to a long-standing debate, begun at least three centuries before Polybius, on the importance and value of literature in general and the various genres in particular: tragedy, history, but also epic, and even comedy. Aristotle’s Poetics, of course, is part of that debate although we tend to overemphasize its importance because of its author and because it happens to survive. Much of the ancient discussion is concerned with that old chestnut, the contrast between pleasure and utility. Put simply, no writer, unless he is being satirical, suggests that his work provides pleasure but not utility. Yet in the agonistic society of Greece, it was a common means of attack to suggest that your opponent’s genre provided pleasure but not utility.32 Now Eratosthenes, for one, famously denied any instructional value to Homeric or any other poetry, noting that ‘every poet strives for entertainment, not instruction’.33 But this was not the view of Neoptolemus of Parium, at least as it can be reconstructed from Book V of Philodemus’ On Poets. Neoptolemus, the third-century critic at Alexandria best known perhaps from Porphyrion’s remark that his views were the source of all the main precepts of Horace’s Ars Poetica, said that poetry aimed at bringing benefit along with pleasure.34 Even before Neoptolemus, however, the late-fifth- or early-fourth-century comic poet Timocles saw tragedy as providing pleasure and instruction. In one of his plays, a character speaks of the benefit of poetry, specifically tragedy: t A, ¼Œı
 X Ø
Ø ŒH ºªØ. ¼Łæø K
Ø ÇfiH K  ç
Ø, ŒÆd ººa ºıæ’ ›   K ÆıfiH çæØ.

30

See Fromentin 2001: 85; Marincola 2009. Marincola 2003: 301. 32 One can even see the discussion in intrageneric terms, e.g. in Plb. 9. 1–2, where Polybius suggests that different types of history bring different types of pleasure and utility. (I thank Bruce Gibson for reminding me of this passage.) 33 Eratosthenes ap. Strabo 1. 2. 3: ØÅc . . . Æ
åÇ
ŁÆØ łıåƪøª Æ , P Ø Æ
ŒÆº Æ . 34 Philod. On Poems V. col. xiii (xvi) 9–14: . . . fiH º ø fi ØÅB fi a B łıåƪøª Æ c H IŒıø TçºÅ
Ø ŒÆd åæÅ
غª Æ ŒÆd e OÅæ . . . ‘ . . . for the perfect poet along with his entertaining qualities to benefit his hearers and tell them useful things, and that Homer (both pleases and profits?) . . . ’ The translation is that of David Armstrong. 31

Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’ ÆæÆłåÆ s çæ ø Iæ ÆÆ · › ªaæ F H N ø ºŁÅ ºÆ æe Iººæ ø fi  łıåƪøªÅŁd ŁØ Ł’  B IBºŁ ÆØ ıŁd –Æ . . . . –ÆÆ ªaæ a  Ç’ j Ł Ø

IıåÆ’ ¼ººØ ªª’ K

a ÆPe ÆF
ıçæa w
Ø.

87 [5]

[17]

My good man, listen, if I seem to you to say something worth-while. Man is a creature born for toils and his life carries many distresses in itself. He has therefore contrived for himself these consolations for his anxious thoughts. For his mind, forgetting its own private troubles and taking pleasure at those of another, departs [sc. from the theatre] in pleasure, while at the same time instructed . . . . [17] For in thinking about all the calamities greater than his own which have happened to others, he groans less at his own misfortunes.35

This thought—that part of tragedy’s educative value lies in its ability to help people bear their own sufferings better when they see that other (sometimes greater) men have had to endure bad fortune—is also presupposed by a scholion on the grammarian Dionysius Thrax, which, though later than Polybius, is part of a debate already visible in Timocles:36 æƪ،d b Z ŒÆd Łº TçºE ŒØB fi f B ºø , ÆæƺÆ

ØÆ IæåÆ Æ ƒ
æ Æ H æø Kå
Æ ŁÅ Ø, 
Ł’ ‹ ŒÆd ŁÆı ŒÆd Łæı , K Łæø fi ÆFÆ K  Œı E ›æH
Ø ŒÆd IŒı
Ø, K ØŒØ ÆæÆçıº
ŁÆØ e ±ÆæÆE. Being tragic poets and wishing to benefit men of the city publicly, they took up certain ancient histories [or narratives] of heroes that contain sufferings, sometimes even deaths and lamentations, and they displayed these things in the theatre to those looking on and listening, pointing out to them to be on their guard against making errors.

The sufferings of others teach us how to bear better our own sufferings and they teach us how to avoid mistakes: are these not exactly the claims made by historians concerning the value of their own work? We noted Polybius’ opening remark above, and Diodorus echoes him in his own preface: For by offering a schooling, which entails no danger, in what is advantageous they [sc. historians] provide their readers, through such a presentation of events, with a most excellent kind of experience.37

35 Timocles, F 6. 1–7, 17–19 K–A. Line 19 is also recorded as a ÆPe ÆPF
ıçæa Þfi A çæØ (‘he himself bears more easily his own misfortunes’): see K-A ad loc. (vii. 758–9); see also Olson 2007: 170 on the development of thought from the earlier lines to the later. 36 Schol. in Dion. Thracem, p. 746. 1. Dionysius was born c.180 bc, only twenty years or so after Polybius. 37 Diod. 1. 1. 1: IŒ  ı ªaæ Ø Æ
ŒÆº Æ F
ıçæ N
ŪÅ
Ø ŒÆºº
Å KØæ Æ Øa B æƪÆ Æ ÆÅ æØØF
Ø E IƪØ
Œı
Ø.

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Yet here was tragedy claiming the very same thing. How then was history to show its superiority? Although, as Walbank long ago pointed out, tragedy and history had common roots in epic,38 tragedy developed earlier than history, and its prestige was greater. The Hellenistic world, moreover, saw a revival of interest in historical tragedy, perhaps best represented by Moschion, active in the second half of the third century, and author of a Themistocles and a People of Pherae, the latter a play about the murder of the tyrant Alexander in 358 at the hands of his wife and her brothers.39 With tragedy more prestigious and sharing the subject-matter of history, the historians, not surprisingly, had recourse to a line of criticism that questioned its truth-value. Now it so happens that there were several schools of thought in antiquity on the nature of tragedy: some critics classified it as history (ƒ
æ Æ, historia) for the same reasons as epic was thought to be, i.e. because its subjects were considered historical people; others as fiction (ºA
Æ, argumentum); still others as myth (FŁ or fabula).40 In two of the three categories, truth was absent, since ºA
Æ was defined as something that was probable but had not actually happened, while FŁ was improbable and had never happened. Historians, not surprisingly, were keen to remove tragedy from any privileged relationship to truth, and in their attempts they found an unusual ally in the comic poets, for whom there is evidence to suggest that they often criticized tragedy in comparison with their own genre. Such criticism appears in a well-known fragment from Antiphanes’ — Å
Ø , written probably in the mid-fourth century. The speaker contrasts the ease of writing tragedy with the difficulty of writing comedy: the tragedian has his plot and characters to hand, while the comedian must invent it all and make it probable and convincing: ÆŒæØ K
Ø  æƪø fi Æ  ÅÆ ŒÆa Æ’, Y ª æH ƒ ºªØ e H ŁÆH N
Ø KªøæØ
Ø, æd ŒÆd Ø’ NE· u
Ł’ B
ÆØ 

38

Walbank 1960a. Moschion's Themistocles: TGrF i, 97 F 1; his Pheraioi: ibid. F 3. On Hellenistic tragedy, see Schramm 1929, Easterling 1993 and 1997, Fantuzzi and Hunter 2004: 432–7. 40 Tragedy as history: Schol. in Dion. Thracem, p. 173. 3–4:  b æƪfiø Æ ƒ
æ Æ åØ ŒÆd Iƪªº Æ æø ªø, Œº. Cf. Asclepiades ap. Sext. Emp. Math. 1. 253: B b IºÅŁF

[sc. ƒ
æ Æ ] æ Æ ºØ æÅ·  b ªaæ K
Ø æd a æ
øÆ ŁH ŒÆd æø ŒÆd I æH KØçÆH.  b æd f ı ŒÆd åæı .  b æd a æØ . (‘And of true history again there are three parts: one sort is that about the persons of gods and heroes and notable men, another about places and times, the third about actions.’). Tragedy as fiction: Herm. Progymn. 4. 16 Rabe: ºÆ
ÆØŒe تÅÆ, n ŒÆd æÆÆØŒe ŒÆºF
Ø, xÆ a H æƪ،H (‘fictional narrative, which they also call “dramatic”, such as the works of tragic poets’). Tragedy as myth: [Cic.] Rhet. Her. 1. 13: fabula est quae neque ueras neque uerisimiles continet res, ut eae sunt quae tragoedis traditae sunt (‘the mythical tale comprises events that are neither true nor probable, like those handed down in tragedies’). 39

Polybius, Phylarchus, and ‘Tragic History’ E e Å. ˇN ØF ª’ i çB fi a ’ ¼ººÆ Æ’ Y
Æ
Ø· › Æcæ ¸Ø , Åæ "Œ
Å, ŁıªÆæ , ÆE    ,  
Ł’ y ,  ÅŒ. i ºØ YfiÅ Ø ºŒøÆ, ŒÆd a ÆØ Æ ’ PŁf YæÅå’, ‹Ø Æd IŒ c Åæ’, IªÆÆŒH ’ @ æÆ
 PŁø

XØ ºØ ’ ¼Ø
Ø [ . . . . . . . . . . . . ] ØŁ’ ‹Æ ÅŁb ø’ NE Ø, ŒØ B fi ’ IØæŒø
Ø K E æÆ
Ø, ÆYæı
Ø u
æ Œıº c ÅåÆ, ŒÆd E ŁøØ
Ø Iåæø åØ. E b ÆF’ PŒ 
Ø, Iººa Æ E æE, OÆÆ ŒÆØ, [ . . . . . . . . . . . . ] [ . . . . . . . . . . . . ] Œ¼ØÆ a Øø fi åÅÆ ææ, a F ÆæÆ, c ŒÆÆ
æç, c N
º. i  Ø ø Ææƺ fiÅ #æÅ Ø j  ø Ø , KŒ
ıæ ÆØ· —źE b Æ’ 
Ø ŒÆd $Œæø fi E.

89 [5]

[10]

[15]

[20]

Tragedy is fortunate in every respect, since first of all the stories are well known to the audience even before a character speaks. And so the poet must simply remind them. For if the poet merely says, ‘Oedipus’, they know all the rest. His father Laius, his mother Jocasta, who his daughters and sons were, what he will suffer, what he has done. If, in turn, one says Alcmeon, straightaway he has mentioned all his children, and that in a maddened state he killed his mother; and Adrastus, being aggrieved, straightaway will come and then depart [some words missing]. And then, when the poets can say no more, and they are altogether exhausted in their dramas, they raise the crane, like the finger [sc. of a defeated athlete], and the spectators are satisfied. But we [sc. comic poets] cannot do these things; we must, on the contrary, invent everything—new names [some words missing] and what has happened before, the current situation, the outcome, the prologue. If a Chremes or a Pheidon [i.e. a comic character] leaves out any one of these points, he is hissed off the stage; but a Peleus or a Teucer can do anything.41

Especially important here is the metaphor (13–16) of raising the crane and contriving an improbable ending, precisely the same charge we saw above used by Polybius in his attack on the Hannibal historians. This notion that the tragic poet’s characters are not bound by probability, much less truth, is also echoed by Antiphanes’ slightly younger contemporary, Diphilus, when he speaks of ‘the tragic poets . . . who alone are at liberty to say and do anything.’42 Such an attack on tragedy provided for the historians a place where the genre was vulnerable to criticism. If some claimed—as they did—that the value of 41

Antiphanes, F 189 K–A (ii. 418–19); I have used the text of Olson 2007: 154–5. Diphilus, F 29. 4–5 K–A (v. 65): ƒ æƪøØ d . . . x Kı
Æ j 
Ø ºªØ –ÆÆ ŒÆd ØE Ø . 42

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tragedy was its ability to portray human reversals and to impart understanding to the audience, then those who defended history claimed in opposition that history was superior to tragedy because it contained real events, not invented, fictive, or mythic ones, and as such it alone provided real models for consolation or emulation. And so for Polybius, those who, like Phylarchus, invented things crossed over into the realm of tragedy, a world of falsehoods and improbabilities from which the reader could derive no benefit or learning. Our re-examination of Polybius’ attack on Phylarchus has called into question some of the accepted wisdom on tragic history, and on Polybius as well. The supposed characteristics of tragic history cannot be justified from a contextual reading of Polybius, and in practice fall to the ground: all good historians— including Polybius—sought to raise their readers’ emotions; to portray events with vividness so that their audience could visualize them; and to narrate reversals of fortune, from which human beings could learn.43 When Polybius accuses someone of writing ‘tragically’, he is referring principally to the falsehood, the non-factuality, of the account, or to the mechanical and improbable way in which an author resolves difficulties or contradictions in his narrative (itself a result of building on false or improbable beginnings). In addition, Polybius’ criticism of Phylarchus should be seen not in a narrow dialogue with Aristotle’s Poetics but rather as a contribution to the ongoing debate in antiquity concerning the purpose and value of the different genres.44 Walbank pointed out long ago that it was Homer to whom the historians and tragedians both looked, and who provided the models that they needed: from the great poet they could learn how to structure a scene; how to bring vividness to their accounts; and how to create an impressive emotional narrative.45 Polybius was aware of this, of course, and his attack on Phylarchus was part of his attempt to assert the claims of history as a more valuable endeavour than tragedy because of history’s close relationship to truth, i.e. to real life. In this way he was partaking of a far larger and, in many ways, far more interesting and dynamic debate in antiquity on the importance of all literature, both factual and fictional.46

43

See McGing 2010: 72–4 for a brief but good discussion of dramatic and emotional scenes in Polybius’ history. He notes there that Polybius’ truth is not necessarily ours. 44 Cf. Zucchelli 1985 (a work I should have cited in Marincola 2009) on the complicated nature of Polybius’ relationship to Aristotle. 45 Walbank 1960a. 46 Earlier versions of this paper were given in Oxford, Cambridge, Tel Aviv, Austin, Leeds, Providence, and Dublin. I thank the audiences there for stimulating and helpful comments. I thank also the participants in the conference at Liverpool, especially Art Eckstein and John Rich, for stimulating discussion of the issues involved here; and also Bruce Gibson, who made a number of very helpful suggestions. None of these people should necessarily be thought to agree with the conclusions of this paper.

4 Polybius, Aratus, and the History of the 140th Olympiad Andrew Meadows

Before Polybius there was Aratus. This is true historically and historiographically. But it is also true of the career of Frank Walbank. Before HCP there was Aratos of Sicyon. At a number of levels it seems appropriate to celebrate the publication of the first volume of the great commentary devoted to Books 1–6 of the Histories with an examination of the complex relationship between Polybius and his predecessor. More specifically, I am particularly curious about the place that Aratus’ Memoirs occupy in Polybius’ own articulation of his starting-point, as well as in his subsequent narrative of Achaean affairs. In what follows I shall attempt to show that Polybius was using Aratus as his source for longer than has generally been supposed, and indeed for longer than Polybius himself states. In doing so I shall suggest that Polybius’ account of events in Greece during the 140th Olympiad is in fact badly muddled as a result of his mishandling of multiple sources for the same events. The resulting account, particularly of the warfare in the Peloponnese in 220 bc, will emerge as quite implausible. I conclude by offering an explanation for why Polybius presented his relationship with Aratus as he did, and suggesting what this may tell us concerning Polybius’ intentions at this early stage of his work. Polybius introduces us to Aratus’ Memoirs at the very beginning of his first book, where he offers an explanation for his decision to begin his history proper at the 140th Olympiad: My History begins in the 140th Olympiad. The events from which it starts are these: among the Greeks, what is called the Social war, the first waged by Philip, son of Demetrius and father of Perseus, with the Achaeans against the Aetolians; among those who inhabit Asia, the war of Coele-Syria which Antiochus and Ptolemy Philopator fought against each other; in the area of Italy and Libya the

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war between Rome and Carthage, which most call the Hannibalic war. These events are continuous with the last events in the work of Aratus of Sicyon.1

The watershed, as described here, is created by the confluence of the Social War of Philip and the Achaeans against the Aetolians, the Fourth Syrian War between Antiochus III and Ptolemy IV, and the Second Punic War between the Romans and Carthaginians.2 In historiographical terms, Polybius also defines this period as following on from the end of the account (Syntaxis) of Aratus of Sicyon. For Walbank, this is a sign that Polybius is inserting himself within the historiographical tradition of ‘continuation’.3 After the prokataskeuē of Books 1 and 2, and his book length account of the events in Spain and Italy in the 140th Olympiad (Book 3), Polybius turns to the east, and begins Book 4 with another justification of his starting-point in Olympiad 140, or 220 bc: briefly summarising the events included in my prokataskeuē up to the deaths of Antigonus, Seleucus, and Ptolemy, since they all died at about the same time, I announced that I was beginning with the events immediately following these. I thought this was the best point, first because the account of Aratus comes to an end at this period, and I had decided to take up the account from this point and provide a continuation for Greek affairs; and secondly, because the period of my history would fall partly in our generation and partly that of our fathers; and thus I should be able to speak as eye-witness of some of the events, and from the information of eye-witnesses for others. Were I to go further back in time and write the report of a report, I do not think I would seem reliable, either in my inferences or my assertions. But, above all, I began at this period because it was then that Tyche was beginning to remake the world anew.4

1

Plb. 1. 3. 1–2: @æØ b B æƪÆ Æ E H b åæø OºıØa ŒÆ
  ŒÆd ÆæÆŒ
, H b æø Ææa b E  ‚ººÅ
Ø › æ
ƪæıŁd
ıÆåØŒe º , n æH KªŒ  åÆØH æe `Nøºf  ºØ , ˜ÅÅæ ı b ıƒ , Æcæ b —æ
ø , Ææa b E c 
Æ ŒÆØŒF
Ø › æd ˚ ºÅ ıæ Æ , n  å ŒÆd —ºÆE › غøæ KºÅ
Æ æe Iºººı · K b E ŒÆa c "ƺ Æ ŒÆd ¸ØÅ Ø ›
ı
a

  øÆ Ø ŒÆd ˚ÆæåÅ  Ø , n ƒ ºE
Ø æ
ƪæı
Ø ØØÆŒ. ÆFÆ  
Ø
ıåB E ºıÆ Ø B Ææ æı ØŒıø ı
ıø . 2 As such, Polybius is writing within an established Greek framework of synchronism, albeit newly adapted to the rise of Rome. See Feeney 2007: 43–67, noting (p. 59), ‘A Greek predisposition to conceive of the oecumene in integrated terms is forced to redefine itself in order to accommodate the new power of Rome’. 3 Walbank, HCP i. 43 on 1. 3. 2: ‘In making himself Aratus’ continuator P. followed an established tradition. Among Thucydides’ continuators were Xenophon (Hell. i. 1), Theopompos (P. viii. 11. 3), and Cratippus (Dion. Hal. Thuc. 16); and Xenophon anticipates a continuator (Hell. vii. 5. 27).’ Polybius, too, would be continued by Posidonius: FGrHist 91 T2 (N
 ‹Ø ØÆ åÆØ c —ºı ı ƒ
æ Æ —
Ø Ø ) with Clarke 1999: 144–5, though note the caution of Yarrow 2006: 161–2. 4 Plb. 4. 1. 9–4. 2. 5:
ıªŒçƺÆØø
Ø b a KŒ B æŒÆÆ
ŒıB æØ ø B

تı ŒÆd ºŒı ŒÆd —ºÆ ı ºıB , KØ c æd f ÆPf ŒÆØæf  yØ ººÆÆ, ºØe KŪªغŁÆ B ÆH æƪÆ Æ Iæåc Ø
Æ
ŁÆØ a B E

æØæÅØ æØ , ŒÆºº
Å 
Æ
Ø ºÆ rÆØ ÆÅ Øa e æH b

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Having explained (4. 1. 9) that he has summarized events up to the deaths of Antigonos Doson (221), Seleucus III (223), and Ptolemy Euergetes (222), he recalls the promise to begin his history immediately after this, first because Aratus’ account ends with these times; secondly because it coincides with his own and the preceding generation; but most of all because Tyche was remaking the world afresh, Ie ø . . . H ŒÆØæH. Again we note the emphasis that is placed on the end of Aratus’ Syntaxis. It may indeed have been conventional by the second century bc for a historian to establish himself as a continuer of a previous writer, but two things about Polybius’ prominently expressed choice of Aratus as ‘continued author’ strike me as odd. First, it is intriguing that Polybius, whose historiographical conception of an account of the rise of Rome’s power comprised an interweaving (
ıºŒ) of regional histories into a single work with a geographical sweep from Spain to Egypt and Syria,5 should have cast himself as the continuer of the work of Aratus, at least as the latter’s work is conventionally envisioned. Aratus’ work, twice referred to here by Polybius with the somewhat neutral term Syntaxis, is elsewhere described by him as æd H N ø . . . æø ÅÆØ


(2. 40. 4=FGrHist 231 T3) or hypomnemata (2. 47. 11=FGrHist 231 T5), and by Plutarch as Hypomnemata.6 The title these books are commonly given in English is Memoirs, and they have sometimes been cited as an early form of autobiography.7 Certainly, they seem unlikely to have been an account of the oecumene, whose history Polybius was now taking up. Secondly, Polybius—and others—had a rather mixed opinion both of the man and, in some cases, of his work. For Polybius, the account of Aratus’ own deeds in his Memoirs could be clear and accurate (2. 40. 4: º Æ IºÅŁØf ŒÆd
ÆçE ), but at times Aratus’ own position in the events he narrated could result in obfuscation, or omission of important details altogether.8 Elsewhere, Polybius expresses his disapproval of reliance on Hypomnemata alone as

c æı
ÆØ Kd ı ŒÆÆ
æçØ f ŒÆØæ , x
ı c تÅ
Ø e IŒºıŁ bæ H  Eººø I Ø ÆØ æfiÅæŁÆ ºª, æ b Øa e ŒÆd f åæı

oø
ıæåØ f B ŒÆd f  Æ e c æÆ ƒ
æ Æ u
 f b ŒÆŁ A r ÆØ, f b ŒÆa f ÆæÆ H, K y
ıÆ Ø E b ÆPf A

ÆæƪªÆØ, a b Ææa H øæÆŒø IŒÅŒÆØ. e ªaæ Iøæø æ
ºÆØ E

åæØ , ‰ IŒc K IŒB ªæçØ, PŒ KçÆ Ł E I
çƺE åØ h a ØƺłØ h a Iç
Ø . ºØ
Æ  Ie ø MæŁÆ H ŒÆØæH Øa e ŒÆd c åÅ ‰ i N ŒŒÆØØÅŒÆØ Æ a ŒÆa c NŒıÅ K E æØæÅØ ŒÆØæE . 5 On Polybius and
ıºŒ Walbank 1975 remains fundamental; see also Quinn in this volume. 6 Plut. Arat. 3. 3 (=FGrHist 231 T6), 32. 5 (FGrHist 231 F2), 33. 3 (FGrHist 231 F3), 38. 6 (FGrHist 231 F4a), Cleom. 16. 4 (FGrHist 231 F4b). 7 See, in general, Jacoby FGrHist IIb Komm. 654–6, Walbank 1933: 6–9, Porter 1937: xv–xvii. On the Memoirs as autobiography: Momigliano 1971: 89, citing also (n. 23) E. Fraenkel. 8 2. 47. 9–11 (FGrHist 231 T5): Øæ åø ØÆÅ æŁ
Ø I ºø ÆPa ØE åØæ ÇØ. K y ººa Ææa c ÆıF ªÅ MƪŒÇ ŒÆd ºªØ ŒÆd ØE æe f

KŒ , Ø z Xºº c KÆ Æ çÆ
Ø  ØŒø ÆÅ KØŒæł
ŁÆØ c NŒ Æ. z åæØ ØÆ ø P  K E Æ
Ø ŒÆÆ.

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historical sources (Plb. 12. 25e. 5–7). Of the man himself, Polybius gives us a forthright assessment in Book 4, Chapter 8. In summary, he was an excellent politician: a good speaker, clear thinker, could handle fellow politicians, and a clever wheeler and dealer. But the same man, when on campaign, was slowwitted, timid, and cowardly, an assessment shared by Plutarch, who adds the detail ‘that whenever the Achaean general prepared for battle, his bowels lost their retentive faculty; that when the trumpet sounded, his eyes grew dim and his head giddy; and that when he had given the word, he used to ask his lieutenants and other officers what further need there could be of him, since the die was cast, and whether he might not retire, and wait the event of the day at some distance’ (Plut. Aratus, 29. 7). Just as there were two sides to his character, so there were two sides to his Memoirs, which, as a consequence of the trophies that littered the Peloponnese commemorating his defeats (Plb. 4. 8. 6), apparently contained much apologetic, omission of fact, and manipulation of detail. It was not, then, for his reputation or the scope of his writings that Polybius held up Aratus as the man he was following. So in what sense was Polybius a continuer of Aratus? And did his history indeed start where Aratus’ Memoirs ended? The latter question requires closer examination than it has hitherto received and, in answering it, we may come somewhat closer to answering the former. It has generally been assumed, on the basis of the two passages of Polybius quoted above,9 that the Memoirs of Aratus stopped in 220 bc, if not earlier. So, for Walbank, ‘Aratus’ Memoirs did not descend beyond the accession of Philip V’,10 while Jacoby deduced that they ran ‘bis zum ende des Kleomenischen Krieges’, suggesting that the Battle of Sellasia marked a suitable point for Aratus to sign off.11 For Errington the Memoirs ‘ended before Polybius’ fourth book begins’.12 Whichever of these stopping-points we accept, the assumption that has been made is that Polybius is a continuer of Aratus in the same sense, say, as Xenophon is of Thucydides. To be sure, Polybius used Aratus as a source for his account of the Cleomenean War in Book 2, and explicitly acknowledges that fact. But after 220 bc, the assumption has been that the Memoirs were no longer available, and Polybius’ sources for the Social War, which began in that year, were different and are now obscure. This, I think, is an assumption that can be challenged at two levels. First, we must examine the context of Polybius’ statements about the continuation of 9

Plb. 1. 3. 1–2 and Plb. 4. 1. 9–4. 2. 5=FGrHist 231 T2. HCP i. 228 on 2. 40. 4; cf. Walbank 1972a: 42, 79 with n. 73. For Pédech also the Memoires ‘s’étendaient jusqu’en 221’ (1964: 261), though see below n. 27. 11 Jacoby FGrHist IIb Komm. 654, taking 221 as the date for Sellasia, instead of the more likely 222 (for the latter date see HCP i. 272 on 2. 65–9). For Sellasia as the terminal point, cf. Porter 1937: xvi. 12 Errington 1967a: 20 n. 9. 10

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Aratus; secondly, we must take a closer look at Polybius’ narrative. In his first statement (Plb. 1. 3. 1–2), Polybius cites three wars as his starting-point, the first of which began in 220 bc, the others in 219 bc. It is these things (ÆFÆ)— note the plural—that continue from the final parts (E ºıÆ Ø )—note again the imprecise plural—of Aratus’ Syntaxis. In the second passage things become even more vague, and Polybius is clearly self-conscious about the looseness of these synchronisms. Again we note the vague plural of æd f

ÆPf ŒÆØæ (4. 1. 9). In the historical events he alights upon, the reason for this is clear enough. Antigonus Doson died in 221, Seleucus Ceraunus in 223, and Ptolemy Euergetes in 222. It was thus over a period of more than two years that Fortune (TåÅ) had built the world afresh. In fact, in describing the refreshing of the world in 4. 2. 5–11, Polybius goes on to expand his geographical horizons beyond these three Hellenistic monarchies and beyond the period 223–1. Obviously, there is no one point in time at which all things began to change. Polybius’ point is that the deaths of the various monarchs all happened in the 139th Olympiad and led up to wars that began in the 140th. But in this general chronological landscape, we must be cautious about positing a precise end-point for Aratus’ Memoirs. Polybius is stretching chronology in these passages to produce an effect. Moreover, given Polybius’ own organization of books by Olympiad, even if Aratus’ work had finished in the middle of a year, or even, say, three-quarters of the way through an Olympiad, the likelihood is probably against Polybius having worried about a small time-lag or overlap. So, at one level, Polybius’ own statements cannot be used to define the end-point of Aratus’ narrative. A more detailed look at Polybius’ own narrative of the 140th Olympiad makes it almost certain, to my mind, that Polybius was using Aratus as a source after the point at which the Memoirs have traditionally been thought to end, and that the relationship between the Histories and the Memoirs, at least within this Olympiad, is more complex than continuation. To clarify this, it will be necessary to take a fairly detailed look at the account of Achaean affairs and the Social War across Books 4 and 5, which are broken up by Polybius into 3 sections (Table 1). To anticipate one conclusion, further examination of these three sections shows each of them to be of a fundamentally separate nature. This emerges most clearly if we consider them in reverse order.

S E C T I O N 3 ( PL B . 5 . 9 1– 1 0 5 . 3 ) The last and shortest of the three (5. 91. 1–5. 105. 3) deals with the events of the season of 217 from early summer (the entrance of Aratus to the Achaean strategia) down to the Peace of Naupactus in the autumn, and displays in

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Table 1. A summary of affairs treated in Books 4 and 5 Book 4

1–2 1 3–37 38–52 53–55 56 2a 57–87

Book 5

2b 1–30. 7 30. 8–57 58–87

88–90 3 91–105. 3 105. 4–10 106–107 108–111

Introduction: Reasons for beginning with Olympiad 140 Origins of the Social War: its course till spring 219 Situation of Byzantium; her War against Rhodes and Bithynia Events in Crete; Cnossian Hegemony; Destruction of Lyttus Mithridates of Pontos attacks Sinope; Rhodian Help (?220) The Social War: Events of 219 and following winter The Social War: events of 218 Revolts in Egypt Molon’s rebellion against Antiochus (222–220) The Fourth Syrian War (219–217) Contemporary events in Asia Minor (79–87 Antiochus’ campaigns of 217; Battle of Raphia) The Rhodian Earthquake Campaigns of 217 in Greece: end of the Social War Events of Greece, Italy, and Africa linked together Events of 217/16 in Greece, Egypt and Syria Activities of Philip and Prusias in 217/16

microcosm the movement that is taking place in the Histories as a whole at this point: the symploke, or weaving together of disparate strands.13 The activities of Achaeans (5. 91–5), Aetolians (5. 95–6), and Macedonians (5. 97–101) are told in turn, culminating in the scene at Argos (5. 101. 6), where Rome is woven in too. For obvious reasons, this section of the Social War narrative displays the least unity of focus. The Achaean part (5. 91–5. 95) has a distinctly official ring to it: in the latter half of chapter 91 Polybius provides a paraphrase of an Achaean decree ( ªÆ);14 in chapter 93 the arguments of a debate at Megalopolis over fortifications and constitution are recalled (together with Aratus’ contribution) and the inscription of the resolution mentioned (5. 93. 10). At the end of chapter 94 the news of financial success on the high seas provokes the reaction that the army became confident of its pay, and the cities of their financial positions, and since at the beginning of the chapter Aratus had departed to a synodos,15 it seems most plausible to assume that the reaction was felt at that meeting and the story recounted in chapter 94 recorded in the official records. The narrative of the Illyrian and Aetolian movements in chapter 95 might also 13 Cf. Sacks 1981: 116 n. 47: ‘There is a transition from kata genos to the annalistic method in Books iv–v.’ 14 Note the repetitive use of the cognates in }}5 ( ªÆ), 6 (Æ ÆÆ), 8 (  b), and the use of the accusative and infinitive in the official style. Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 623 on 5. 91. 5: ‘P. may here have drawn on the Achaean records’. On Polybius’ use of Achaean records in general, see Walbank 1972a: 83 n. 105. 15 For the nature of the Achaean
  at this period (apparently the primary assembly to which all citizens of the League were admitted), see Larsen 1955: 76–85, Aymard 1938: 88–95.

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in fact derive from official Achaean sources. The pattern is similar to the narrative structure of chapters 91 and 92: hostile activity followed by Achaean (Aratus’) responses. So in chapter 95, hostile activity is followed by Achaean responses—we are even told the location of the strategos (5. 95. 5), although he takes no part in the subsequent action. The sources for the two stories about the Aetolians in chapter 96 are unrecoverable. The episodes are linked by the involvement in both of the Aetolian strategos Agetas; the bias is certainly anti-Aetolian, but this could, of course, be Polybius’ own contribution. The activities of Philip on his way down through Thessaly and central Greece (chapters 97–101) are perhaps to be attributed to one of the ‘writers of monographs on Philip’ that Polybius is presumed to have turned to from time to time.16 Philip’s movements and their timings are recorded with some attention to detail (e.g. 5. 97. 3–5, 5. 100. 1, 5. 100. 4), though spiced up with characteristic Polybian didactic (5. 98. 1–11). In 5. 101. 5 Philip finally arrives in Argos for the Nemean games, perhaps in June or July, where, as we have already been told, Aratus was waiting (5. 95. 5).17 Thus, when the news of the Roman defeat at Trasimene arrived and Philip sought advice from his philoi, Aratus was among them. Indeed, from the description of the meeting and Philip’s reaction, Aratus’ advice emerges as the catalyst for the king’s desire to negotiate (5. 102. 2–4). The Achaean strategos has resumed his place centrestage at this key scene in the Histories, even upstaging the colourful Demetrius, who had been first to hear the news from Philip.

S E C T I O N 2 ( P L B . 4 . 5 7– 87 AND 5. 1– 30 . 7 ) This concentration on Aratus and his influence over the young king was the subject of a detailed study by R. M. Errington, who identifies this same ‘Aratocentric’ bias as central to much of the action of the second main section on the Social War. His conclusions, briefly summarized, are as follows. A Leitmotiv of this section of the narrative is the feuding among Philip’s advisers, culminating in the demise of three key Macedonians: Apelles, Leontius, and Megaleas. ‘This political crisis and the events leading up to it are seen by Polybius through the eyes of Aratus and the Achaeans. Achaea therefore plays a central part in Polybius’ account, and developments within the Macedonian governing clique tend to be interpreted in the light of their effect on Aratus or Achaea. This is very clear where Aratus or his son are personally involved: 16

Walbank, HCP i. 30. Walbank, HCP i. 628 on 5. 101. 5 gives the month of July, but this is far from certain: see Derow 1976: 276–7 n. 36. 17

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for Aratus saw himself competing with these Macedonian nobles for Philip’s attention, was therefore hostile towards the most influential of them and prone to exaggerate his own success.’18 This centrality of Aratus can be observed time and again at critical points in the story. At 4. 76 Aratus scores a victory against Apelles in the matter of the treatment of Achaean troops. Philip is forced to decide between Aratus and Apelles, and chooses the former. In the elections for the Achaean strategia in the following year (218) the hostility between the two breaks out again, and Aratus is equated, by some rather shameless flattery, with the greatness and freedom of Achaea (4. 82. 2–3). Later that year at Dyme, following the plot by Apelles to discredit Aratus, the latter increased his standing still further (4. 86. 8). When he experiences trouble coaxing money from the Achaean treasury, Philip drops Apelles’ and Leontius’ stooge strategos, Eperatus, and approaches Aratus for help instead, and obtains it (5. 1. 9–10). Again, at Cephallenia, where Philip must choose whether to sail north (Aratus’ advice) or south (Leontius’ advice), the king favours the Achaean (5. 5. 10). There follows a similar clash between Leontius and Aratus at the Achelous with a similar result (5. 7. 4–5). But for Aratus, we are led to believe, Philip’s glorious success at Thermum would never have happened. The affair reaches its culmination at Thermum, where Megaleas is fined and imprisoned for an assault on Aratus, and Polybius summarizes the affair quite explicitly at 5. 16. 9–10: Thus the plot of Apelles and Leontius turned out quite contrary to their original hopes: for they had thought that, by terrifying Aratus and isolating Philip, they could do whatever was in their interests; but the result was quite the opposite.19

For Errington this centrality of Aratus in Macedonian affairs is a mirage; the conceit of the Achaean statesman who was himself merely the pawn of the calculating young king: ‘His own [Aratus’] claims to influence at court, retailed faithfully by Polybius, were unrealistic when not wholly false.’20 Whether or not we accept this extreme view of the truth of the story, the bias of the account remains obvious.21 Polybius most certainly does have his information from an Achaean, pro-Aratean source. The question, then, is what might this source be? Errington does not commit himself: ‘Although Aratus’ Memoirs ended before Polybius’ fourth book begins (Pol. I. 3. 2; IV. 2. 1), the quantity of 18

Errington 1967a: 22.  H b s ººF ŒÆd H æd e ¸Ø æAØ K Ø q, ƺ æ ºÆı
Æ c æŒc ÆE K IæåB ÆPH Kº
Ø.  Æ b ªaæ ŒÆƺÅØ e @æÆ ŒÆd 
Æ e  ºØ Ø
Ø ‹ Ø i ÆPE ŒB fi
ıçæØ, IÅ b ø IÆ Æ See also McGing in this volume, p. 195. 20 Errington 1967a: 36. 21 In fact, as McGing 2010: 116–17 notes, there is a clear tension in Polybius’ treatment of Philip. At one level his narrative highlights the rapidity of his actions and the misperception of him as young and foolish; on the other hand, time and again ‘when Philip makes a good decision, it must be due to Aratus’ (p. 117). 19

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information about Aratus (and bias in his favour) is not appreciably less after 220. This may reflect an Aratean family record: Achaea still had a politically active Aratus in 180 who was associated with Polybius . . . ’.22 Are we then to accept this view of a family history, or is there another possibility? The answer lies, I believe, in a still closer examination of this central portion of the Social War narrative and the events that frame it. For the vast majority of the account the focus remains fixed firmly on Philip.23 The scenery changes at rapid speed, but the king is always there. His activities are narrated in extraordinary detail. Philip arrives at Corinth unexpectedly in the heart of winter. A close indication of date is given: æd æa åØæØ (4. 67. 7), the winter solstice (around 22 December 219). From this point on until early February of the following year (4. 87. 13) Philip’s movements can be accounted for on almost every day. I reconstruct these movements, taking 22 December as a starting date exempli gratia, in Appendix 1. The sequence ends at the end of Book 4 as Philip dismisses his troops to Macedonia. Book 5 picks up very much where the previous book left off: 5. 1. 1 begins with a similarly close dating: æd c B —ºØ  Kغ—around 22 May 218. After a brief stutter, we can again account for Philip’s movements day by day from around the beginning of June until early July (5. 2. 11–5. 24. 10). A reconstruction of this sequence with some exempli gratia dates appears as Appendix 2. Such precision of dating over so long a span (over 40 chapters, covering some 60 days) is unparalleled anywhere else in the surviving text of Polybius. There is more than just chronological detail that unifies this section of the narrative, however. When Philip first arrived at Corinth in December 219, one of his first actions was to send for Aratus (4. 67. 8). At the end of the campaign in the Peloponnese in the following year, we learn that Philip’s reaction to the honours being paid to Apelles was not good, because Aratus was always at his side working away on his own behalf.24 Aratus was Philip’s constant companion. Even were we not given such explicit statement of the fact, it would be evident from the narrative alone. Throughout the campaign of winter 219/18 Aratus was present: he was on hand to deal with Apelles’ insults to the Achaean troops (4. 76. 8–9); he was clearly present on campaign at Elis, the location of his supposed plot with Amphidamus (4. 84. 8).25 In the campaign of spring/summer 218, Aratus was

22

Errington 1967a: 20 n. 9. See now the detailed account of McGing 2010: 97–117. Plb. 5. 26. 6: Ææa ºıæa Z æı ŒÆd æƪÆØŒH KæªÆÇı c Ł
Ø. 25 There is no evidence (pace Errington 1967a: 26) that Aratus fell ‘out of favour with Philip in the late winter’ of 219/18. Aratus’ failure to secure the election of Timoxenus proves nothing about Aratus’ relationship with the king. Polybius makes it clear that Apelles (Philip’s enemy, if Errington is correct) was responsible for the election result (4. 82. 8). All this, of course, presupposes that Apelles could have had any influence on the result and that the election does not rather bespeak divisive Achaean factionalism. For the latter view, see Walbank 1933: 166. 23 24

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present at Cephallenia to advise the king (5. 5. 8) as he was at the River Achelous (5. 7. 4) and at the sack of Thermum (5. 12. 5). He was present to be assaulted on the night of Philip’s return to his ships at Limnaea (5. 15). In the Peloponnesian section of the campaign, he turns up at Amyclae leading the Macedonian phalanx (5. 23. 6). Finally, after his abortive Phocian expedition, Philip landed at Sicyon and taking up residence with Aratus he passed all his time with him.26 Aratus was constantly in Philip’s presence throughout these campaigns. Thus, Polybius’ source could accurately locate not only the king on every day during this period but also the Achaean statesman and writer. This we might readily attribute to coincidence, were it not for the fact that this is also the section of narrative that was clearly identified by Errington as pro-Aratean in its bias. We move inexorably to the conclusion that Polybius’ source for this section of his narrative must have been Aratus himself.27

SECTION 1 (PLB. 4. 3– 3 7 ) The matter of the sources for section 2 looks like an open-and-shut case, and we might therefore expect the first section of the Social War narrative to demonstrate a similar appearance. Intriguingly, this turns out not to be the case. This first section is highly complex and appears markedly different from the obviously Aratean middle section. For ease of discussion, I shall further break down the first section into three subsections, taking as my dividing lines Polybius’ own scheme of division: the points at which the causes of the war stop and the war itself starts. The three subdivisions thus formed run from (a) 4. 3. 1–4. 13. 7, (b) 4. 14. 1–4. 25. 8, and (c) 4. 26. 1–4. 37. 7, and their position in the Polybian system of causation28 is outlined in Table 2. The first and last of these subsections ([a] and [c]) are the most straightforward and so it is easiest to start with them. The first of these (a) is explicitly divided from the rest of the narrative by Polybius himself at the beginning (‘the causes of this [sc. the Social War] were as follows’) and end (‘such was the cause and pretext of the Social War’).29 In between these two ‘bookends’ 26

Plb. 5. 27. 3: Ææa  @æÆ ŒÆƺ
Æ a ı c A
Æ KØE Øƪøª. Pédech 1977: 21–2 in fact states this to be the case, though without argument. Elsewhere (above n. 10) he accepts the traditional end date of the Memoirs. 28 The clearest explication of this theory comes at Plb. 3. 6–7. On the theory of the causes of wars in Polybius, see the lengthy discussion of Pédech 1964: 75–98. More succinctly: Walbank 1972a: 157–60, McGing 2010: 76–80. 29 y a ÆN Æ
ıÅ ª
ŁÆØ ØÆÆ (Plb. 4. 2. 11) and c b s ÆN Æ ŒÆd c Içæc ›
ıÆåØŒe º 
å KŒ ø (Plb. 4. 13. 6). 27

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Table 2. Summary of the first section of the Social War Narrative Subsection

Nature

(a) 4. 3. 1–4. 13. 7 (b) 4. 14. 1–4. 25. 8: (c) 4. 26. 1–4. 37. 7

Aitiai and prophaseis. Pro-Aratean Muddle. Two principal sources Archai. Heterogeneous

comes a straightforward narrative account of the events from the arrival of Dorimachus at Phigaleia and the activities of the Aetolians in the spring of 220, to the defeat of the Achaeans at Caphyae, some days (ØÆ æÆ ) before the Achaean synodos of around late July or early August in the same year.30 Of themselves, the events detailed in this subsection cause few problems and need not trouble us further for the time being. As far as the sources are concerned, there are one or two tell-tale hints. In the background to the Aetolian– Messenian hostility an impressive amount of local detail is deployed.31 Polybius’ source was well informed on local matters. Later, as we enter the Achaean sphere, a familiar bias puts in its first appearance. Aratus, anxious to do something about the evil Aetolians, takes the strategia five days earlier than usual (4. 7. 10: note the specific number of days). With Aratus’ accession to the strategia a certain precision starts to appear in the narrative. The movements and counter-movements of the Achaean and Aetolian armies are recorded. There are two further precise indications of time.32 The description of the battle of Caphyae has proved detailed and accurate enough to allow identification of the battle-site to be made.33 But perhaps most telling of all is the coda to this section—the description of the subsequent Achaean assembly. The defeat of Caphyae becomes a foil for the display of loyalty to Aratus by the assembled Achaeans: The crowd quickly and generously reversed their opinion and were considerably displeased with those of his enemies who had attacked him, and in subsequent affairs they accepted Aratus’ advice in all things.34

Once more it becomes tempting to attribute this sort of account to Aratus himself. If the defeat of Caphyae was present in Aratus’ Memoirs, it should not surprise us, for it paved the way to Aratus’ greater glory at the very end

30

Plb. 4. 14. 1. For the date of the meeting, see Walbank, HCP i: 461–2 ad loc. An KÆºØ belonging to a certain Chyron is attacked (4. 4. 1). An ephor’s name (Scyron) is recorded (4. 4. 3), as is that of a private citizen, Barbyrtas (4. 4. 5). 32 Plb. 4. 9. 10: a  æÆ ; 4. 10. 1:  ˇ  @æÆ KØ Æ  æÆ . 33 Pritchett 1969: 120–32. 34 Plb. 4. 14. 8: oø Æåø ŒÆd ªÆºłåø ºŁÅ e ºBŁ u
 ήd E


ıØØŁØ ÆPfiH H IغØıø Kd ºf ı
Ææ
B
ÆØ ŒÆd æd H B Æ ıº
ŁÆØ ŒÆa c æı ªÅ. For similar expressions of respect for Aratus’ advice (ªÅ) in passages that, as we have seen, may derive from Aratus see Plb. 4. 76. 9 and 5. 5. 10. 31

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of the 139th Olympiad.35 The picture, then, for subsection (a) is of a local Peloponnesian source, in places detailed, with pro-Aratean bias. Aratus is a strong possibility for the entire account. I shall call this the pro-Aratean source. Subsection (c) is a more fragmented affair, but unity is provided by the historian himself. Its beginning, for Polybius, marks the beginning (Iæå) of the Social War: With the passage of this decree in the first year of the 140th Olympiad the socalled Social War began in a manner both just and appropriate to the crimes that had been committed.36

The reader is in any case well prepared for this division, for he has been warned of it already, when the discussion of ÆN ÆØ came to a close twelve chapters earlier at the end of subsection (a): Plb. 4. 13. 6. At the end of the campaigning season of 220 a meeting of the symmachy had voted to declare war on the Aetolians (Plb. 4. 25). Now, at the beginning of subsection (c), envoys are sent to each state requesting a formal vote for war and Philip dispatches a letter to the Aetolians (4. 26. 1–4). Subsection (c) describes the reactions of the various major players to these events. First the meeting of the Achaean League ratifying the decree of the symmachy (4. 26. 7– 8), next the decree of the Aetolians at their autumn meeting stating that they were not going to war (4. 27. 1–3). Then come Philip’s own arrangements (4. 27. 9–29. 7). Finally, the reception of the envoys is the motif used to unify the accounts of reactions at Acarnania (4. 30. 1–5), Epirus (4. 30. 6–8), Messenia (4. 31. 1–2), and Sparta (4. 34. 1–36. 6). The narrative of subsection (c) is wholly given over to diplomacy. The sources for these various events may well be as varied as the geographical locations. The overall impression is of a collection of heterogeneous episodes linked together by Polybius using the diplomatic motif. The chronology in all cases is left vague, a broad terminus post quem being provided by the autumn meeting of the Achaean League, around the autumnal equinox (4. 26. 7).37 The two synchronisms (4. 28. 1 and 4. 37. 1–7) confirm this date and offer a terminus ante quem of around May 219.38 35 Cf. Walbank 1936, whose comment on the inclusion of Aratus’ mistakes at Cynaetha in 241 (Plb. 9. 17) in his Memoirs might well apply here too: ‘while it is true that Aratos did not as a rule stress incidents to his discredit, he had no objection to excusing his failures, particularly if they happened to be followed by a corresponding success shortly afterwards’ (p. 65). 36 Plb. 4. 26. 1: $ı b F ªÆ ŒıæøŁ ŒÆa e æH  B ŒÆ
B ŒÆd ÆæÆŒ
B OºıØ  › b
ıÆåØŒe æ
ƪæı º Iæåc NºçØ ØŒÆ Æ ŒÆd æı
Æ E ªª
Ø I ØŒÆ
Ø. 37 On the identities and dates of the Achaean assemblies in 220, see Aymard 1938: 263–64, Larsen 1955: 79–81. 38 For the rough dates of these synchronisms together with a rejection of Pédech’s ‘six month’ theory, see Walbank 1974a: 60–5, 78.

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Now, when we turn to subsection (b) of the first section of Polybius’ Social War narrative, our first question must be a blunt one: what is this? As we have seen, subsection (a) contained the causes (ÆN ÆØ) for the war, among which Polybius mingles the pretexts (æç
Ø or IçæÆ );39 the beginning of subsection (c), that is to say the decree of the symmachy, marked the beginning (Iæå). As far as the Polybian rhetoric of outbreak of wars is concerned then, subsection (b) falls in no man’s land. This is not the only problem caused by subsection (b), however. Pédech, in a brief examination of this section, has raised some troubling questions about its logic. If the actions of the Aetolians that precede this section are the ÆN ÆØ and æç
Ø , how is the fact that the Macedonians and Epirots see these actions as nothing more than piracy to be reconciled? Both of these powers in fact vote to remain at peace at this stage (4. 16. 1–3). What was it that changed Philip’s mind and caused him to appear suddenly at Corinth with an army (4. 22. 2)? How has Aratus become a key adviser to Philip by the time he arrives at Sparta (4. 24. 3)? As far as editorial Polybius is concerned, the question of causes has been resolved since the battle of Caphyae in subsection (a). The narrative that follows betrays an inconsistency and absence of crucial fact.40 Matters become more complicated again on closer examination of the nature of the narrative in subsection (b). First comes the account of Aratus’ success at the League meeting, which, as noted above, seems to form a unit with the narrative of section (a) that precedes it. This description of the League meeting ends, quite strikingly, in a precise dating of the end of the Olympiad (4. 14. 9). It is so striking in fact, that some have doubted its authenticity.41 However, given the care that Polybius takes over his Olympiad dates elsewhere,42 this seems an unnecessarily bold reaction here. Rather, we must assume that Polybius had very good reasons for placing his date at this exact point, the obvious reason for this being that he had precise dates both for what preceded and what followed this date. Polybius’ pro-Aratean source specifically dated Aratus’ triumph in the assembly (or permitted Polybius to). The decree that follows (4. 15. 1–4) was undoubtedly also clearly dated.43 But there is more to this date than simple chronological interest, for it marks the first point at which a divergence from the preceding narrative source (subsection [a]) can clearly be identified. This might be explained away simply as Polybius’ desire to

39

Pédech 1964: 161 with n. 320, to which add Plb. 4. 5. 8. Pédech 1964: 164: ‘Aratos eut sans aucun doute fort à faire pour convaincre les uns et les autres. Malheureusement Polybe dit peu de chose de son activité diplomatique, ou du moins de l’essentiel, qui était d’emporter le consentement de Philippe.’ 41 e.g. Walbank, HCP i. 462 ad loc. 42 See Pédech 1955. 43 It looks very much again as if Polybius is quoting the text of the decree itself. Note the abundance of accusative and infinitives. Cf. Walbank 1972a: 83 n. 105 and the discussion above (p. 96 with n. 14) of 5. 91. 6–8. 40

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supplement his one-sided narrative with official records, were it not for the fact that it is also the point where Polybius’ own narrative starts to lose its coherence. To begin with, there is the fundamental irreconcilability of the account of the Aetolian campaign described in subsection (a) with that described as having followed it in subsection (b). The confused accounts of these two purported campaigns have tended to obfuscate the fact that a problem exists. It may be perceived most clearly by considering the movements of the Aetolian commander Dorimachus and his troops implied in these two subsections. In the spring of 220, before the first synodos of the Aetolian League, Dorimachus is in Aetolia plotting with Scopas. At this point they send out privateers to ravage the Peloponnese. Following the meeting Dorimachus gathers the entire Aetolian army (pandemei) and crosses the Corinthian Gulf at Rhium. The Aetolians move south via Patrae, Pharae, Tritaea, and Phigalia before invading Messenia. When threatened by the Achaean army, Dorimachus marches first north-east to Olympia, before encamping at Methydrium in Arcadia. From here he marches north again past Orchomenus to Caphyae, where he defeats Aratus in battle. The Aetolians next make an assault on Pellene, plunder the territory of Sicyon, before taking the circuitous route via the Isthmus back home to Aetolia. By the time they reached Thermum, Dorimachus and his troops had marched more than 1,000 kilometres, fought a major battle and a number of skirmishes, ravaged the territory of several cities, and spent a week at minimum terrorizing the Messenians.44 On Polybius’ chronology, they had completed this substantial campaign between the spring meeting (precise date uncertain) of the Aetolian League and the third meeting of the Achaean League (late July/early August). But, on Polybius’ account, Dorimachus was not finished for the year. In subsection (b) we encouter him negotiating for the betrayal of the city of Cynaetha in Arcadia. Once more the Aetolians invade the Peloponnese, again pandemei. After sacking Cynaetha, the Aetolian army marches via Lusi to Cleitor before eventually returning to Aetolia, this time apparently by sea. The late summer invasion of the Peloponnese had involved a march of no less than 350 kilometres, and must fit between the third meeting of the Achaean League in late July/August and the Aetolian autumn meeting. This narrative, which posits two Aetolian invasions of the Peloponnese pandemei within one campaigning season, the second not commencing until August, looks highly questionable, if not simply impossible. In addition to this fundamental historical implausibility, there is a specific chronological problem. Immediately following the Achaean League assembly at the time of the

44

For this last estimate, see Scholten 2000: 277.

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Olympic games (July/August), there occurs an account of B ŒÆŁÅŒ
Å

KŒŒºÅ
Æ of the Aetolian League (4. 15. 8), ‘an expression which probably, but for other evidence, would be taken by everybody to mean a regular meeting’.45 However, according to the orthodox view, there were only two regular meetings of the Aetolian League, one in the spring and one in the autumn. Since this one must occur in the first year of the 140th Olympiad (4. 14. 9), it ought to be the autumn meeting. However, the autumn meeting is clearly that described at 4. 27. 1–3, when the Aetolian elections take place. The standard explanation of the meeting at 4. 15. 8–11 has been, since Holleaux, that it was an extraordinary meeting and that the apparent meaning of the word ŒÆŁÅŒ
Å (‘regular’ or ‘customary’) cannot be trusted.46 This is clearly special pleading, and there is another, simpler explanation which it is worth exploring: that the Aetolian meeting recorded at 4. 15. 8–11 and that at 4. 27. 1–3 are both the same event. In fact, Polybius’ accounts of the two meetings make them sound similar. The central decision of both meetings is identical: in the first NæÅ ¼ªØ (4. 15. 8), in the second c ºE (4. 27. 2). The different interests (in the first the Achaean decision regarding the Messenians; in the second the election of Scopas) may be explained as a product of the interests of the different sources Polybius had for these meetings.47 Yet why did Polybius situate the two accounts thus? How could he have missed the fact that he was relating accounts of the same Aetolian assembly at two different points in his narrative? The answer is perhaps twofold. First, there is the subject-matter: the Aetolian ‘Messenian’ meeting follows directly on discussion of Achaean-Messenian relations (4. 15. 2–7). The ‘election’ meeting comes at the appropriate point for Aetolian elections, a date with which Polybius was familiar (4. 37. 2). The second part of the answer may be structural: in both cases, Polybius describes the meetings in pairs. In 4. 15, as in 4. 26. 7–4. 27. 2, Aetolian assembly is paired with Achaean, as if in answer to it. Thus Polybius came upon the meeting described in 4. 15. 8–11 in his source either already paired with the relevant Achaean meeting and left it there, or made the connection himself. If the above suggestion is correct, then Plb. 4. 15. 8–11 provides the first evidence that Polybius had two sources for this year, which overlapped in the information they provided. Support for this radical proposal comes with the account of Achaean activities in the two months between their third and fourth assemblies, and the account of the second Aetolian invasion. At 4. 15. 45

Larsen 1952: 5. Holleaux 1905: 363 (=1938–68: i. 220), cf. Larsen 1952: 5–6, Scholten 2000: 286 n. 112. Walbank, HCP i. 463 (and Paton, Walbank, and Habicht 2010) translates ‘appropriate assemblies’. 47 The Messenian interests of the first may link it to the Messenian oriented account of the ÆN ÆØ; the election aspect of the second may point to a more documentary account of the meeting; the polemic, of course, is Polybian. 46

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6–7. the Achaean strategos (Aratus) enrolls the levy. It is late in the season for enrolling a new army (probably around mid-August), yet this should not trouble the reader, since Polybius claims that this is being done ‘according to the decree’ (ŒÆa e ªÆ: 4. 15. 6). But a closer look at the text shows that this is just not true. The decree passed by the Achaeans at 4. 15 certainly does provide for the levying of such a force, but it does so on a condition—Ka KØÆ ø
Ø `Nøºd B åæÆ ÆPH (the Messenians). At this point in time, according to the earlier narrative (4. 13. 5) the Aetolians have returned home via the Isthmus, so the levy provided for by the decree should not have been triggered. Again, when we find the Achaean levy already complete (4. 16. 6), it is only then that the Illyrians set sail, probably now in mid- to-late August. The Aetolians still do not invade at this point, however: it is not until Scerdilaidas has sailed half way round the Peloponnese and back again that the Aetolians finally decide to attack (4. 16. 10). We must now be in late August at the very earliest, and again the question of timing comes up. As already noted, it is scarcely credible that the Aetolians commenced an expedition with their entire army (Æ Å : 4. 16. 11), their second of 220, this late in the year. When we encounter the Achaean levy for the third time (4. 19. 1), some time after we have heard that it was already completed (4. 16. 6), Aratus is still enrolling it (4. 19. 1—
ıBª). Finally, we must question the rationale of the Aetolians’ expedition. They cross to Achaea, attack Cynaetha, march to Cleitor, then back to Cynaetha, and then run scared to Rhium where they cross back to Aetolia. In the meantime the Achaean levy about which we have been told at length is nowhere to be seen. There is only the apologetic statement at 4. 19. 11–12 that Aratus was too worried by his recent defeat to do anything. There then follows a lengthy digression on the Cynaetheans (4. 19. 13–4. 21. 12), before the mysterious appearance of Philip at Corinth. What is to be made of this muddle? It should be noted that the narrative of subsection (b) covers the crucial period of Aratus’ and Philip’s rapprochement. Since we hear nothing about it, it seems a safe bet that the source that Polybius was using here was not Aratus, and therefore probably not the same source that he used for the narrative of subsection (a)—a further indication that there are now two sources in play. The resolution of the muddle over Achaean and Aetolian activities in the latter part of 220 hinges, I would suggest, on the fact that Polybius was now using two sources. Just as these two sources overlapped on the Aetolian autumn assembly, so too they told slightly different versions of the same military operations. The military activities related in 4. 16. 6–4. 19. 12 in part duplicate those already narrated in subsection (a) (4. 3. 1–4. 13. 7). There is an obvious similarity in the pattern of events (Table 3). The reason for Polybius’ confusion becomes clear on examination of the ending and beginning of the respective accounts. In the pro-Aratean version of subsection (a), the main military event was the battle of Caphyae. The

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Table 3. Structural similarities in the accounts of the two Aetolian campaigns of 220 Subsection (a) First campaign (Caphyae)

Subsection (b) Second campaign (Cynaetha)

Dorimachus, Scopas, and friends arrange hostilities without official sanction from Ariston and the assembly (4. 5. 1–10)

Agelaus, Dorimachus, and Scopas arrange hostilities while state is officially at peace; Ariston remains at home (4. 16. 11–17. 1)

Aetolians send out ØæÆ , who return to Aetolia and dispose of booty captured near Cythera (4. 6. 1)

Scerdilaidas and Demetrius set sail around Peloponnese. At some point between Pylos and the Cyclades Scerdilaidas turns back and arrives at Aetolia. Arranges booty distribution and agrees to invade Achaea. (4. 16. 6–10)

Dorimachus and Scopas then invade Peloponnese via Rhium (4. 6. 7–8)

Account of Aetolian military activity in Achaea (4. 16. 11–4. 19. 12)

Aetolians, having beaten the Achaean army, and without any form of pursuit, advanced through the middle of the Peloponnese making an attempt on Pellene and plundering the territory of Sicyon, before departing of their own accord. The Aetolians, thanks to the blunder of Aratus, had Achaea at their mercy but just went straight home by way of the Isthmus, even though Polybius has previously explained that Dorimachus’ plan had been to engage the Achaeans so that he might embark at Rhium (4. 10. 8). This account is suspicious in itself. On turning to the opening of the narrative of Aetolian activities in the ‘second’ campaign though, we find that there is no record of the Aetolians crossing over to the Peloponnese again. Polybius plunges the reader in medias res: ‘Dorimachus, having marched across Achaea, appeared suddenly before Cynaetha.’48 Where had Dorimachus come from? Plainly there is something amiss in Polybius’ account here. However, if we assume that at this point (4. 17. 3) Polybius has picked up an account of the same expedition as the Caphyae expedition, containing events after the battle, all becomes clear. When caught by Aratus at Caphyae Dorimachus was on the road from Orchomenus across Olygyrtus to Amilus (4. 11. 5), whence he had the choice of proceeding either to Stymphalus or to Pheneus.49 For Dorimachus Pheneus should have been the obvious next destination wherever he wanted to go in the northern Peloponnese (including Pellene): it formed the crossroads for many of the routes through this part of the country.50 From here Dorimachus must have 48 ƒ b æd e ˜øæ Æå Øa B åÆØØ  ØÅ
Ø c æ Æ, wŒ ¼çø æe c ˚ÆØŁÆ (4. 17. 3). 49 Pritchett 1969: 127–8, 130, who neglects the branch to Pheneus. Pausanias (8. 13. 4–5) describes the routes out of Orchomenus. 50 As described by Pausanias, there was one south to Amilus (8. 13. 5), one north-east to Pellene (8. 15. 2), one east to Stymphalus (8. 16. 1–17. 5), one south-west to Cleitor and northwest to Nonacris and Cynaetha (8. 17. 5).

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taken the road north-east to Pellene (4. 13. 5), made a feint towards Sicyon (ibid.) before returning in the general direction of his fleet via Pheneus again. Polybius’ claim at this point (ibid.) that the Aetolians now left via the Isthmus will be an incorrect inference necessitated by the break-off of his Cynaetha source at this point, and derived from the apparent direction Dorimachus was travelling. From here Dorimachus then took the northwest road to Cynaetha. It is at this point that the second account picks him up (4. 17. 3). From here Dorimachus marched south to Cleitor then back again (4. 18. 9–12, 4. 19. 2–4), receiving word at this point of stirrings in Macedonia, and struck out across country to Rhium (4. 19. 6), precisely as he had previously planned (4. 10. 8). The problem of the Achaean levies solves itself if we accept that there was only one Aetolian invasion in 220. There must presumably have been two levies: one early in the year (first described at 4. 9. 1); the second following the Achaean assembly in the wake of Caphyae. These two levies shared one important aspect: the proper participation of Sparta and Messenia was an issue. At the time of the first assembly there was clearly concern among the Achaean states that Messenia should continue to play her part—hence the required hostages (4. 9. 5); similarly Polybius makes a point of explaining that the Spartans were participating according to their alliance with the Achaean League (4. 9. 6). That it was still an issue at the time of the second levy is clear from the terms of the decree passed at the third Achaean assembly.51 Given the similarity of the prevailing concerns, it was all too easy to confuse undated accounts of the two separate levies, and this is what Polybius did. Even though the logic of his own account should not have allowed for a levy immediately upon the passage of the decree, he was lured into assuming one by the desire for neatness: the decree provided for the sending of ambassadors and the holding of a levy (if ever it were necessary); the ambassadors were duly sent and thus a levy was also held. However, since at this point in the text (4. 15. 5–6) Polybius was moving back in source from official records to narrative account, he was forced to cast around among his narrative sources to find the appropriate levy. He found what he thought was the correct levy in the ‘Cynaetha’ source; unfortunately, this was in fact the first levy of the year, since in the ‘Cynaetha’ source it must have preceded the arrival of the Illyrian and Aetolian expedition. Thus it is also the first levy that is being described at 4. 16. 6. The third mention of the Achaean levy in the ‘Cynaetha’ source (4. 19. 1), as has been noted, contradicts this previous one. However, if we assume that, as its place in the narrative (after the Aetolian move to Cleitor) requires, this is a reference to the second levy, the contradiction vanishes. 51

The strategos was to be responsible for agreeing terms with the Spartans and the Messenians (4. 15. 4)

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Table 4. The pro-Aratean Caphyae and the Cynaetha sources compared 220 bc

Subsection (a): Caphyae B

Privateers sent out by Dorimachus and Scopas (6. 1)

April–May C

They return to Aetolia with captured Macedonian ship and divide booty (6. 1) Privateers send force through Peloponnese to Clarium Dorimachus and Scopas invade with Aetolian troops (6. 3–12) Achaean Levy (1) (7. 1–10) The Caphyae Campaign (9. 1–13. 3) Dorimachus moves north through the Peloponnese (13. 4)

D

June–July

A E

Aug–Sept

F

Subsection (b) Cynaetha A B

C

D

Combined privateer and land forces invade Peloponnese (16. 10)

F

Dorimachus moves north through the Peloponnese (17. 3) The Cynaetha Campaign (17. 4–21. 12) Aetolian autumn meeting (27. 1)

G H

Aetolian autumn meeting (15. 8)

Achaean Levy (1) (16. 6) The Illyrian privateers sail around the Peloponnese (16. 6–8) Scerdilaïdas returns to Aetolia and arranges distribution of booty (16. 9)

H

To clarify the suggestion I am making about these two sources, I tabulate the main points in the two accounts in Table 4. The first source, the ‘pro-Aratean’ Caphyae account, ran from the start of the year 220 down to the end of the 139th Olympiad (?late July/August 220). The ‘Cynaethean’ source showed little interest in anything other than what happened in the neighbourhood of Cynaetha and Cleitor. This focus, together with the similar amount of detail in the story of the Aetolian attack on Aegeira (4. 57. 2–58. 12), may well point to a regional northern-Achaean source here. For the ‘pro-Aratean’ source, we are confronted with the interesting question of why it stopped with the Achaean assembly meeting at the end of the Olympiad. One possible answer is by now obvious: that it was here that the Memoirs of Aratus stopped. The chronology was right, so was the moment. The reason for the absence of Aratus’ diplomacy towards Philip is explained too. Aratus’ Memoirs were no longer available, and Aratus’ inactivity while the Aetolians continued to ravage the Peloponnese ensured that the strategos kept a low profile even in friendly sources. Polybius himself was forced to apologize for Aratus’ inactivity (4. 19. 11–12). Confirmation of the absence of any account by Aratus of this period comes in the account of Philip’s speech at Sparta (4. 24. 1–3). Polybius cannot say outright that Aratus advised Philip to speak as he did. He is forced to assume that among Philip’s advisers ‘it is to Aratus that one might most plausibly attribute the opinion expressed by the

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king’.52 The inference is perhaps made on the basis of what Polybius knew of the subsequent history of the two men, and seems a clear indication that he did not have explicit testimony as he did for episodes in the central section of the Social War narrative. Subsection (b) closes with the meeting of the symmachy at Corinth—again with the curious absence of Aratus (4. 25. 1–8). The source, it turns out, is another decree.53 The order of events in the preface to the decree could have helped little in the correct narration of events. The list is incomplete, Pylos is chronologically misplaced, and the attack on Megalopolis obscure.54 If this is correct, then we can see that when he came to deal with this first section of the Social War, Polybius faced a complex problem. He possessed Aratus’ Memoirs down to the end of the Olympiad, but thereafter was reliant upon a local Achaean history for any other narrative detail and official decrees for the decisions at the two key meetings of the year. Both of these decrees were imported at pivotal points in the story. The first marked the end of the causes and pretexts (ÆN ÆØ and æç
Ø ) (a), as well as the end of his best narrative source. The second marked the beginning (Iæå) of the war proper and the transition point from the bare local history (b) to the varied sources of (c) that were to be linked by the theme of diplomacy. In both cases the content of the pivotal decrees gave the structural link to what followed. In the latter case, the decree of the ambassadors formed a smooth unifying connection; in the former the decree of the levy led Polybius into a bad blunder.

CONCLUSIO N It seems, then, highly likely that the terminal date of Aratus’ Memoirs was, as Polybius’ own testimony suggests, precisely the end of the 139th Olympiad (c. August 220 bc), concluding probably with the assembly of the Achaean League that coincided with it. However, we have also noted that the subsequent account, beginning around the winter solstice in December 219 bc, offers a day-by-day account of Aratus’ and (Philip’s) activities for two periods, both in excess of a month in length. The source of this account is likely to be Aratus, yet this is long after anyone has previously sought to place

52 Plb. 4. 24. 3: æø fi Ø KØØŒ
Æ i æ
Ø c  ÞÅŁE
Æ e F Æ
غø

ªÅ. 53 Plb. 4. 25. 6: æŁØ b a æØæÅÆ ÆN Æ K fiH ªÆØ. . . . Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 472 ad loc.: ‘P. probably saw a copy of the decree’. 54 Walbank, HCP i. 472 ad loc. suggests that Polybius may have been glossing over internal stasis; the Aetolian advance to Methydrium B ªÆºº Ø  (Plb. 4. 10. 10) may be as likely to be the event being referred to.

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the end of Aratus’ Memoirs and, indeed, a year after Polybius himself seems to suggest that they had ceased. The daily character of this latter account may hold the solution to this apparent contradiction. Aratus’ Hypomnemata, or published ‘Memoirs’, may have ended with the 139th Olympiad, but his career did not. And nor, presumably did the ephemerides or journals in which a statesman recorded his activities on a daily basis.55 It was to these latter documents, rather than published books, that Polybius was able to turn for the events of 219–218 bc. As we have seen, it is likely that Polybius’ first source for the events of 220 came to an end in August. Aratus was not active militarily after this event, so far as we can tell. Certainly he is absent from the account of events at Cynaetha, and Polybius cannot be certain about his role in Philip’s actions in the autumn of this year (4. 24. 3: see n. 52 above). This absence of Aratus in the narrative from August 220 until December 219 is surely the clearest sign that Aratus’ Memoirs were unavailable at this point. But for Philip’s campaign of late 219 and 218 Polybius was able to draw on Aratus’ unpublished journals. This pattern of availability perhaps explains how Polybius was able to make such a mess of the account of 220, yet provide such a detailed account for the events of 219/18 bc. This fragmentation of sources, and the disappearance of Aratus’ Memoirs may also serve to explain two remaining puzzles concerning Polybius’ broader articulation of his historiographical project. The first of these concerns the place of the account of the Social War within the Histories as whole. Polybius had begun his work with an introduction, the æŒÆÆ
Œı (Books 1 and 2), but did not regard the main body of his work as beginning until the point at which the affairs of Italy, Greece, Africa, and Asia became fully entwined, the moment of
ıºŒ (interweaving), in the third year of the 140th Olympiad, when history became a unified whole (
øÆØ  ).56 The Social War falls into an interim period between the introductory Books 1 and 2 and this moment of symploke late in Book 5. Polybius was clearly conscious of the transitional nature of the contents of Books 3–5 and anticipated criticism of the approach he took to the short period they covered: Were it the case that the first activities of Hannibal were connected to Greek affairs from the beginning, clearly I would have included the latter in my previous book (Book 3). . . . But since the affairs of Italy, Greece, and Asia were such that 55 For the rise and importance of the KçÅæ during the Hellenistic period, see Welles 1934: 283–4. For a possible Ptolemaic example, cf. the ‘Gurob Papyrus’ (=FGrHist 160). The most obvious parallel for elaboration and publication is Roman: Caesar’s Commentarii. On the differences between ÅÆÆ/ÅÆØ
 and KçÅæ  as official documents, see Bickerman 1933: esp. 351–2: ‘Die “Ephemeriden” waren Aufzeichnung über einzelne Tage, der “Hypomnematismos” Protokoll über einen Einzelakt, die ersten wurden auf Rollen, der zweite als Einzelschrift aufgesezt.’ 56 Cf. Plb. 4. 28. 5 and, the moment of occurrence, 5. 105. 4–6. See also Walbank 1975.

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the beginnings of the wars there were particular to each place, while their ends were common to all, I decided to give a separate account of each of them until I reached the point at which these events became entwined with one another and began to move towards a single end. . . . This symploke came about around the end of the Social War in the third year of the 140th Olympiad. Therefore, after that date I shall narrate events in common according to chronological order; but up to that point, as I said, I shall give separate accounts, only cross-referring to those events that have been described in the previous book.57

So concerned was Polybius that the reader understand this rationale, that he repeats the explanation later in Book 5: To make my narrative easy to follow and clear, I think it is essential that for this Olympiad (the 140th) I do not interweave events with each other, but keep them separate and distinguish them from one another as much as possible, until in the following Olympiads I can begin to narrate things in chronological order.58

Polybius claims that he will present his readers with a separate account of the events in each of the theatres (Italy, Hellas, and Asia) immediately preceding the moment of
ıºŒ. This is the historiographical context of Polybius’ narrative of the Social War. Or is it? For, not ten chapters after he has made us the promise about his organization just quoted, Polybius breaks it. The reader might legitimately expect, having read a complete account of the Second Punic War down to the
ıºŒ, to be presented with a complete account of Greek wars and then Asian wars, for Polybius clearly differentiates between the two at 4. 28. 3 when he makes the promise. However, when it comes to telling of Greek and Asian events, this is not what happens. Polybius does interweave his accounts for the entire Olympiad, as is clear from Table 1 above. His narrative of the Social War is broken down into three separate sections and interleaved with accounts of events in Asia Minor and the Syrian kingdom. The reason for this broken promise perhaps lies in the nature of the sources Polybius had at his disposal, and may perhaps be connected to the prominent place that he gives to the terminal date of Aratus’ Memoirs in his articulation 57 Plb. 4. 28. 2–6: N b s a æÆ Kغa a  ı ÆE  EººÅØŒÆE æ
Ø I IæåB PŁø KغåŁÆØ
ıÆØ, Bº ‰ K B fi ææÆ fi ºø fi æd ø i A

Kƺºa  Ø . . . Kd b   ŒÆa c "ƺ Æ ŒÆd ŒÆa c  Eºº Æ ŒÆd ŒÆa c 
Æ a

b Iæåa H ºø ø N Æ NºçØ, a b
ıº Æ ŒØ , ŒÆd c KªÅ
Ø æd ÆPH KŒæ Æ Ø
Æ
ŁÆØ ŒÆ N Æ, ø i Kd e ŒÆØæe ºŁø F K fiz
ıºŒÅ
Æ ƃ æØæÅÆØ æØ IºººÆØ ŒÆd æe £ º XæÆ c IÆçæa åØ . . . Kª  
ıºŒc H æø æd c F ºı
ıºØÆ ŒÆa e æ   B ŒÆ
B ŒÆd ÆæÆŒ
B OºıØ  . Øe ŒÆd a a ÆFÆ ŒØB fi E ŒÆØæE IŒºıŁF

KŪÅ
ŁÆ, a b æe F ŒÆ N Æ, ‰ r Æ, æ
ÆÆØ
Π H ήa f

ÆPf ŒÆØæf K B fi ææÆ fi ºø fi  źøø. 58 Plb. 5. 31. 4–5: e  PÆæÆŒºŁÅ ŒÆd
ÆçB ª 
ŁÆØ c تÅ
Ø P b IƪŒÆØæ Kd ÆÅ B OºıØ  ªŁ r ÆØ F c
ıºŒØ IºººÆØ a æØ , Iººa åøæ ÇØ ŒÆd ØÆØæE ÆPa ŒÆŁ ‹
 K
d ıÆ, åæØ i Kd a B OºıØ Æ KºŁ ŒÆ 

IæŁÆ ªæçØ a ŒÆººÅºÆ ªÆ æØ .

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of a starting-point. Following the end of Aratus’ account at the close of the 139th Olympiad, there was no continuous account of Achaean affairs that Polybius could take as a single source. Polybius’ narration of these events was based upon a patchwork of evidence consisting of local histories, official documents, and unpublished journals. In this sense, therefore, it was necessary for Polybius to begin at the beginning of the 140th Olympiad, because there was no other historical account for the events of these years. Yet one cannot help suspect that there was something more in Polybius’ emphasis on Aratus than just the chronological. Mixed though his opinion of Aratus may have been, one aspect of Aratus’ Memoirs had obvious appeal to Polybius. They constituted a personal account—however flawed—of the events they described. For Polybius, the concepts of autopsy and autopatheia were, as we have seen, decisive in his choice of his history’s starting-point (4. 2. 2: quoted above, n. 4). But by casting himself as a continuer of Aratus, Polybius also implicitly contrasted Aratus’ parochial, self-interested Memoirs with the broader sweep of his own Histories. Polybius did not just follow, he superseded.59

Appendix 1: Philip’s Campaigns in December–January 219 (Plb. 4. 67–87) Tentative date

Event

Reference

22 Dec.

Philip arrives unexpectedly at Corinth Shuts gates and sends for elder Aratus Leaves Corinth and encamps near Phlius Euripidas marches on Sicyon on same night Philip unaware breaks camp and heads for Caphyae Happens upon Eleans and is victorious Marches through Olygyrtus in Snow Arrives at Caphyae Rests at Caphyae Rests at Caphyae Sets out for Psophis through Cleitor Marches on Psophis Arrives and encamps opposite Psophis Marches on town and captures it

67. 7–68. 5

23 Dec.

24 Dec. 25 Dec. 26 Dec. 27 Dec. 28 Dec. 29 Dec. 30 Dec. 31 Dec. [chain breaks down at this point with Philip’s enforced stay at

68. 6–69. 9

70. 1 70. 1 70. 2 70. 2 70. 2–5 70. 2–5 70. 5 71. 3–72. 4 72. 5–7

(continued ) 59

My thanks are due to David Potter, who commented on a very early draft of this paper, and to Bruce Gibson for his thoughts on a later one.

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Appendix 1: Continued Tentative date Psophis for several days. Dates from here on exmpli gratia] 5 Jan.

Event

Philip marches on Lasion and takes empty town Takes Stratus also 6 Jan. en route for Olympia 7 Jan. en route for Olympia 8 Jan. en route for Olympia 9 Jan. Arrives at Olympia and sacrifices 10 Jan. Rests at Olympia 11 Jan. Rests at Olympia 12 Jan. Rests at Olympia 13 Jan. Advances into Elis, encamps at Artemisium 14 Jan. Advances to the Dioskourion whence he raids Thalamae successfully 15 Jan. Returns with booty to Olympia60 and encamps [show-down between Apelles and Aratus] 16 Jan. Sets out for Telphousa and thence to Heraea Holds sale of booty and repairs bridge Philip crosses bridge and arives at 17 Jan.61 Alipheira 18 Jan. Philip takes Alipheira Triphylians start to worry and give up 19 Jan. Philip’s conquest of Triphylia 20 Jan. Philip’s conquest of Triphylia 21 Jan. Philip’s conquest of Triphylia 22 Jan. Leaves Lepreum for Heraea Divides up booty at Heraea; picks up 23 Jan.62 heavy baggage 24 Jan. Arrives at Megalopolis in mid-winter 25 Jan. Marches from Megalopolis to Tegea [There follows the meddling of Apelles in the Achaean Elections, to be dated, independently by Aymard, to early February at the latest

Reference

72. 7–73. 2

73. 3 73. 3 73. 3 73. 3 73. 3 73. 3 73. 3 73. 4 73. 5 75. 2–8 75. 8 76–77. 4 77. 5

78. 2–5 78. 6–13 79–80. 14 79–80. 14 79–80. 14 80. 15 80. 16 80. 16 82. 1 82. 2–8] (continued )

60 Polybius does not make it clear that this happened on the following day, but could there have been enough time on the day of the battle? Since Philip had established a camp at Dioskourion, better to suppose he used it. 61 Polybius does not mention a night spent at Heraea, but it seems best to assume one: Philip had been travelling heavy since Olympia and needed time to repair a bridge. 62 The overnight stop is a guess.

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Appendix 1: Continued Tentative date

Event

Reference

After this

Philip marches through Patrae and Dyme to Teichos Encamps before city The garrison surrenders Philip advances into Elis and pillages it Returns with booty to Dyme [Apelles’ plot against Aratus Philip returns to Argos, dismissing his troops to Macedonia

83. 1–2

?next day ?

?

83. 3 83. 5

84–87. 12] 87. 13

Appendix 2: Philip’s Campaigns in May–July 218 (Plb. 5. 1–30) Day

Events

Chapters

22 May ?late May

End of Younger Aratus’ strategia Philip summons the Achaeans to an ekklesia first at Aegium then at Sicyon Prepares fleet at Corinth; departure of Apelles Philip sets sail from Corinth Arrives at Patrae Sends dispatches to allies Arrives at Palus in Cephallenia Siege of Palus and arrival of allies Aratus persudes Philip to sail to Leucas Philip arrives at Leucas at night Philip arrives at Limnaea (before daybreak) Joined by Acarnanians Marches for 60 stades; stops for supper; continues Arrives at Achelous between Stratus and Conope Aratus’ good advice not to delay Occupies Metapa and negotiates pass Occupies Pamphium Marches to Thermum, encamps, and plunders area The sack of Thermum (and digression) Returns via same road; wins battle of the pass Sacks Pamphium; encamps at Metapa Razes Metapa; marches to, and encamps at, Acrae Advances to, and encamps at, Conope Remains at Conope Marches along Achelous to Stratus

1. 1 1. 6–12

?late May ? 1 June63 ? 2 June ? 3 June ? 4–7 June64 1 2 3

4

5

6 7 8 9

2. 1–10 2. 11 2. 11 3. 3 3. 3–4. 2 4. 3–13 5. 1–11 5. 11 5. 12–6. 6

6. 6–8. 7

8. 8–12. 8 13. 1–8 13. 8 13. 9 13. 9 13. 10–15. 9 (continued )

63 64

Approximate date supplied exempli gratia. How quickly can one dig a 200 ft mine?

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Appendix 2: Continued Day

10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 (1 July?) 25 26 27 28 29? 30?

? A few days afterwards ? Next day ?next day65 ?next day

Events

Chapters

Fails to provoke battle; continues towards Limnaea Rearguard action outside Stratus Philip encamps early at Limnaea The banquet and Aratus’ run-in with Leontius etc. Show-down between Leontius and Philip Sets sail for Leucas overnight Arrives at Leucas Remains at Leucas Sets sail for Lechaeum Ravages Oeanthe and arrives at Lechaeum Spends no time at Corinth, breaks camp Marches via Argos Arrives at Tegea Picks up Achaeans and sets out for Laconia March to Laconia Arrives on hill opposite Sparta Camps at Amyclae Plunders his way to Pyrrhus’ Camp Plunders the area Plunders his way to Carnium Failed assault on Asine; ravages as far as Taenarus Passes by Gythium; encamps in district of Helos Devastates as far as Acriae, Leucae, and Boiae Leaves Helos and ravages the land Ravages en route to Amyclae Ravages en route to Amyclae Arrives at Amyclae: the battle; Aratus’ role Marches towards Tegea; encamps at Sellasia Reaches Tegea; holds sale of booty Leaves Tegea Arrives at Corinth Receives embassies from Rhodians and Chians Goes down to Lechaeum The conspiracy hots up; Philip rushes back to squash it Apelles is put down The King’s Phocian business: sails from Lechaeum business falls through, returns via Elatea and Cirrha to Sicyon. He stays with Aratus Return of the Rhodian and Chian Ambassadors Philip accepts truce and summons allies to Patrae Arrives at Patrae Aetolians procrastinate; Philip calls off truce Philip returns to Corinth Philip dismisses his troops to Macedonia

65

A guess.

16. 1 18. 8 18. 8 18. 9 18. 9 18. 9 18. 1 18. 1–2 18. 2–3 18. 2–3 18. 10–19. 1 19. 2–4 19. 4 19. 4 19. 5–7 19. 8–9 20. 12 20. 12 20. 12 20. 12–24. 6 24. 6–8 24. 9–10 24. 10 24. 10–12

25. 1–26. 15 26. 16–27. 4

28.1–3

29. 1–4 29. 5

5 Some Misunderstandings of Polybius in Livy John Briscoe

It was in the year after the appearance of the first volume of Walbank’s Commentary that Peter Walsh published a short article entitled ‘The Negligent Historian; “Howlers” in Livy’.1 In it Walsh discussed a number of passages in Books 33 and 38 in which Livy has, in various ways, misunderstood Polybius. His conclusion was that the mistakes were due not to ignorance of Greek— Polybius’ language, he thought, ‘provides no great difficulty to anyone familiar with Greek’—, but to ‘a careless and casual scrutiny of his sources’.2 In the introduction to my first volume of commentary on Livy’s fourth decade I repeated, I regret to say, Walsh’s use of ‘howlers’ and added a number of other instances of misinterpretation of Polybius, certain, probable, or possible, both in passages where Polybius survives and (though, of course, none of these is certain) in those where he does not.3 I produced further lists for books 34–7 and 38–40.4 The matter is briefly discussed by Adams at the beginning of Bilingualism and the Latin Language and in more detail by Koon in Infantry Combat in Livy’s Battle Narratives.5 As is well known, Polybius was Livy’s principal source for the events in the Hellenistic world narrated in Books 31–45, which cover the years between the end of the Second Punic War in 201 and the end of the Third Macedonian War and the extermination of the Macedonian monarchy in 167 (a deliberate policy of regime change and that is not the only similarity between Livy’s account of the war and the events of 2003 in Iraq). It was Heinrich Nissen, in

1

2 Walsh 1958. Walsh 1958: 88. Briscoe 1973: 6; in the revised version of this section of the introduction (Briscoe 2009: 467) I have replaced ‘howlers’ by ‘errors’; cf. my remarks in Briscoe 1993: 48. 4 Briscoe 1981: 2, 2008: 3. 5 Adams 2003: 4–5, Koon 2010: 25–6 (at an earlier stage Sam Koon kindly showed me the corresponding pages of his 2007 Manchester Ph.D. thesis). 3

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1863,6 who first identified the sections of Livy which, even when the Polybian original does not survive, can be seen to have been derived from Polybius. But Livy did not merely translate Polybius: he adapted him for his own literary purposes, leaving out what he regarded as unimportant or of no interest to his readers, making additions—sometimes inserting blatant falsehoods which he found in his normal Latin sources, principally Claudius Quadrigarius and Valerius Antias—and re-arranging the Polybian material in what seemed to him, often rightly, a more satisfactory way.7 The detailed study of Livy’s methods began in 1910 with two long articles by Witte8 (he particularly stressed Livy’s desire to construct discrete episodes); the most important contribution since then is that of Hermann Tränkle, in his book Livius und Polybios, published over thirty years ago.9 The amount of this material over the whole fifteen books is immense—and let us remember that Livy will have continued to use Polybius for the years from 166 to 145, when Polybius’ narrative ended (the last Olympiad year in Polybius was almost certainly 146/510), and which Livy covered in Books 46 to 52. Overall, it is fair to say that he succeeded in conveying to his readers both the essentials and the details of Rome’s relations with the Hellenistic world (and with the western Mediterranean). In that perspective, even if all those passages I classified as possible misunderstandings are included,11 the number is relatively small. They certainly do not indicate—in case this seems more plausible than Walsh’s accusation of negligence—that Livy could be said to have had a deficient knowledge of Greek, at least in the sense of a reading knowledge: whether he could be said to have been bilingual in Latin and Greek is, of course, quite another matter. I would now like to reconsider the two passages which Walsh discussed first. They are also the two to which Adams refers, and are the most famous of the so-called howlers. The first comes from the account of the battle of Cynoscephalae, in Thessaly, in 197 bc, in which T. Quinctius Flamininus, consul in 198, defeated Philip V of Macedon and brought the Second Macedonian War to an end on Rome’s terms. Polybius (18. 24. 9) has ªı b ı, ŒÆd H º ø K åæ
d Zø, E b çƺƪª ÆØ K ŁÅ Æ檪ºÆ ŒÆÆƺF
Ø a
Ææ
Æ KªØ, Livy (33. 8. 13) Macedonum phalangem hastis positis, quarum longitudo impedimento erat, gladiis rem gerere iubet. Walsh translates Polybius thus: ‘Thereupon, since the enemy was close at hand, the men of the phalanx were ordered to lower their pikes and charge’. Livy, however, says (my translation) ‘He (sc. Philip) ordered the 6

Nissen 1863. Cf. Briscoe 1973: 1–8 (=2009: 461–70), 1981: 1–3, 2008: 1–3. 8 Witte 1910. 9 Tränkle 1977. 10 Cf. Walbank, HCP iii. 50. 11 Adams (2003: 4 n. 9) calls these ‘even less convincing’ (sc. than the one I shall discuss shortly) and in some cases ‘purely speculative’. 7

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Macedonian phalanx to lay aside their spears, whose length was an encumbrance, and to do the business with swords’. It is clear what has happened. ŒÆƺºØ here means ‘lower into a horizontal position’. Livy recognized the word, but took it in the sense of ‘lay down’ and, since the Macedonians were obviously not going to expose themselves to the Roman legions unarmed, explained that they were to use their swords and that the length of the spears was the reason for laying them down. As Adams says, Livy will have analysed ŒÆƺºØ correctly, but did not recognize the technical use of the verb. (Polybius refers to the man
uvre at 18. 30. 2 (c æº), in the course of his digression comparing the legion and the phalanx (18. 28–32); he makes no reference there to problems created by the length of the spears, but in his account of the battle of Pydna in 168, derived from Polybius, Livy (44. 41. 7) writes immobilem longitudine et grauitate hastam.) Even Walsh described this case as ‘a more pardonable mistake’.12 Two further factors may have contributed to Livy’s error. First, his battle scenes, reflecting actual practice, frequently involve the Roman soldiers discarding their spears and fighting with swords (cf., e.g., 6. 12. 8 pilis ante pedes positis gladiis tantum dextras armemus ‘let us lay down our spears at our feet and arm our right hands with swords alone’) and he would have assumed that the phalanx acted in the same way.13 Secondly, by K åæ
 Polybius means ‘close at hand’, but it often refers to hand-to-hand fighting (cf. LSJ s.v. å æ 6f) and Livy may well have taken it thus.14 In fact Adams is not convinced that Livy misunderstood Polybius at all. In his text he describes it as a possible case, but in a footnote says ‘the possibility cannot be ruled out that Livy made a deliberate change to the nature of the event, for whatever reasons of artistry’.15 I do not myself find it very likely that Livy, if he had correctly understood Polybius, would have deliberately introduced a piece of military nonsense for literary reasons. (It should be said that it is by no means certain, as is often thought, that Livy had no military experience: even if he was born in 59 bc, not, as Syme and Ogilvie thought, in 64,16 he could have served in the Perusine War.17) It looks as if Livy made the same mistake at 35. 35. 18 ponere hastas equites Alexamenus iubet (‘Alexamenus ordered the cavalrymen to lay down their spears’; the passage concerns the killing of Nabis of Sparta by Aetolian cavalry led by Alexamenus), though there we do not have the text of Polybius to enable us to be sure. In a recent article, however, C. L. H. Barnes has discussed 12

Walsh 1958: 84. See Oakley 1995: 509–10, commenting on 6. 12. 8. 14 I here develop a point made by a contributor to the discussion at the conference (I regret that I do not know his identity). 15 Adams 2003: 4 n. 9. 16 Syme 1979: 414–16, Ogilvie 1965: 1; contra Badian 1993: 10–11. 17 Cf. Koon 2010: 23. 13

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both 33. 8. 13 and 35. 35. 18, seeking to show that Livy understood Polybius correctly.18 His argument may be summarized as follows: (i) Livy did not misunderstand ŒÆƺºØ, since ponere can be allowed to mean ‘place in attack position’; (ii) gladiis is an interpolation by a scribe who made the mistake normally attributed to Livy; (iii) 35. 35. 18 implies that the Aetolians still had their spears and used them to kill Nabis; (iv) quarum longitudo impedimento erat is not an explanation of hastis positis, but a clue (sc. to Livy’s readers) that the Macedonians’ formidable weapon would lead to their defeat. This is totally unconvincing: (i) one cannot simply assign a word a meaning it does not possess anywhere in Latin literature;19 (ii) rem gerere, which is never used without some form of qualification (cf. TLL vi/2. 1944. 31ff.) does not mean ‘settle the matter’: to express that Livy would have had to say rem conficere or rem feliciter gerere; and while an interpolation is always possible in principle, to propose one here smacks of desperation; (iii) Alexamenus ordered his troops to lay down their spears: there is no indication that he did so himself; and while it is indeed the case that the Aetolians must have killed Nabis with spears, it does not follow that Livy did not think that they used swords. (iv) it is inconceivable that quarum longitudo impediento erat is not intended as an explanation of hastis positis: had Livy wanted to point forward to the result of the battle, he would have written futura erat or made the comment in a separate sentence.20 18

Barnes 2005. Bruce Gibson draws my attention to Virg. Aen. 9. 586, where positis . . . hastis clearly refers to laying down spears. 20 The footnotes to Barnes’s article contain a number of misleading statements about the views of various scholars, though it is unclear whether this is due to misunderstanding or clumsiness of expression. Thus at n. 1 I am said to have ‘condoned reading hastis positis to mean “move (the spears) into a horizontal position”’: what I said was ‘it is wrong to be overimpressed by Livy’s famous “howlers” such as interpreting ŒÆƺºØ a
Ææ
Æ as “putting their spears on the ground” rather than “move into a horizontal position ready for the charge”’ (Briscoe 1993: 48). In n. 3 the statement that Crévier and Drakenborch ‘preferred demittere’ might suggest an emendation: what Barnes should have said is ‘thought that Livy ought to have written demissis’ (which is how Casaubon translated Polybius into Latin); Drakenborch (1741: 690), moreover, merely reports the view of Crévier: he does not himself express an opinion. In n. 5 Barnes claims that Pianezzola (1969: 86) ‘pointed out that Livy had plenty of opportunities to encounter the term (sc. ŒÆƺºØ) throughout the text of Polybius’: in fact he said that 19

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The second passage comes from the account of the siege of Ambracia, in north-west Greece, by M. Fulvius Nobilior, consul in 189. Ambracia belonged to the Aetolian League, with which Rome was still at war following the League’s invitation to Antiochus III to invade Greece. Orthodox siege methods having proved unsuccessful, Fulvius decided to undermine the walls by a tunnelling operation. The Ambraciots realized what was happening and dug a trench to meet the Roman tunnel. An underground battle took place, which proved indecisive, according to Polybius (21. 28. 11) Øa e 溺
ŁÆØ Łıæf ŒÆd ªææÆ æe ÆH IçæØ (‘both sides used shields and wattles as protection’). Livy (38. 7. 10) writes segnior deinde ea (sc. pugna) facta est, intersaepientibus cuniculum ubi uellent, nunc ciliciis praetentis, nunc foribus raptim obiectis (‘it (sc. the battle) became rather sluggish, the Ambraciots blocking the tunnel wherever they wished, now stretching out blankets, now hurriedly using doors as barriers’). It seems that we have a confusion of Łıæ ‘shield’ and ŁæÆ ‘door’, a serious error, one might readily conclude. There is, however, as Adams suggests, a real possibility that the text of Polybius used by Livy was corrupt and read ŁæÆ .21 If that sounds like special pleading, consider Polybius 27. 5. 3 and, derived from it, Livy 42. 46. 7, where ¨Æ /Thebas are manifest errors for ¨
Æ /Thisbas.22 Livy, knowing nothing of Thisbe, might well have made such an error himself, but Polybius, obviously, would not have done so. It must be, as Mommsen saw,23 that the text of Polybius was already corrupt by the time of Livy. Tränkle24 refused to accept this, unable to believe in such an early corruption—corruption, of course, can occur the first time a text is copied—and held, with Reiske,25 that a lacuna should be posited between P Æ and H  (Plb. 27. 5. 3–4), which contained what appears at Livy 42. 46. 8, with nothing corresponding to it in Polybius. Tränkle, of course, wrote this before the publication of HCP iii, which might have persuaded him to change his mind. I return to the siege of Ambracia and to another, even more extraordinary error in the same sentence, one, however, which has attracted little attention, though it did not escape the notice of Tränkle.26 In Polybius mention of the Polybius used it on other occasions; the passages concerned (5. 85. 9, 11. 15. 6, and 11. 16. 1) all concern purely Greek affairs and Livy may well not have bothered to read them. In n. 11 Weissenborn and Müller (1883: 13) are said to have ‘realized that gladiis ought to refer to the Romans, not to the Macedonian phalangites’: they in fact said that the Romans fought with swords, but the Macedonian phalanx did not. 21 Adams 2003: 4. 22 Cf. Walbank, HCP iii. 298. 23 Mommsen 1913: 287–8. 24 Tränkle 1977: 39–40 n. 72. 25 Reiske 1763: 688. 26 Tränkle 1977: 180–1 n. 11. I here repeat what I wrote in my note on the passage (Briscoe 2008: 44).

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shields is followed by one of ªææÆ, while in Livy nunc foribus raptim obiectis is preceded by nunc ciliciis praetentis. ªææÆ are wickerwork screens or wattles, used in siege operations, covering what in Latin are called plutei or uineae.27 In fact Polybius had mentioned them earlier in the chapter, at the beginning of his account of the tunnelling operation (21. 28. 4) and Livy correctly rendered ªææÆ with uineis. Here, however, he wrote ciliciis: cilicia are rough blankets and I cannot conceive what possessed Livy to talk of them here, but presumably he could make no sense of ªææÆ in this context; cilicia do occur in a naval context in a fragment of Sisenna (107P),28 but the significance of that, if any, is unclear. What should be added, however, is that there follows in Polybius (21. 28. 12–16) a description of a device—a jar filled with feathers—which the Ambraciots constructed in order to blow smoke into the tunnel. Livy (38. 7. 11–13)29 misunderstood two points: spears to prevent the Romans approaching the device were placed between the jar and the walls of the tunnel, not through the holes in the lid, where they would have been useless; and fire was placed in the jar before the lid was fitted, not afterwards, but he can readily be excused for failing to grasp all the details of a difficult piece of Greek, and he succeeds, taking, as often, far less space than Polybius, in conveying the general nature of the device accurately enough. Tränkle’s claim that the attentive reader scarcely gets over their bewilderment30 is over-harsh. I now turn to a different category of misrepresentation of Polybius, namely passages where Livy appears to have taken over a present tense from his source in a way that creates, or may create, an anachronism.31 At 33. 17. 5–8 Livy has a geographical excursus, clearly taken from Polybius, who was fond of such things, concerning the island of Leucas, off the coast of Acarnania, in northwest Greece: he says (}6) Leucadia nunc insula est, uadoso freto quod perfossum manu est ab Acarnania diuisa; tum paeninsula erat (‘Leucas is now an island, divided from Acarnania by a manually excavated shallow strait; then it was a peninsula’). Polybius must have said, in accordance with the normal view, that Leucas was once a peninsula, but in his time was an island (the land joining it to the mainland, perhaps only a sandbar, was believed to have been severed in the time of Cypselus of Corinth32). Livy took this over without alteration and thus appears to be saying that Leucas was a peninsula in 197 but an island at the time he was writing.

27

Cf. Briscoe 1981: 81. puppis aceto madefactis centonibus integuntur, quos supra pereptua ac laxe suspensa cilicia obtenduntur. ac laxe is a conjecture of Salmasius for a classi in the MSS (of Nonius Marcellus, the source of the vast majority of the fragments of Sisenna) and is far from certain. 29 I repeat here what I said in my note on the passage (Briscoe 2008: 45). 30 Tränkle 1977: 186 ‘ . . . der aufmerksame Leser kaum aus dem Staunen herauskommt’. 31 To a considerable extent I am repeating my notes on the passages concerned, but hope that they will acquire greater point by being brought together. 32 Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 541. 28

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At 34. 51. 5 Livy says that the Thessalians, because of their restless nature (inquieto ingenio gentis; he is always interested in the innate characteristics of various peoples33), were unable to hold peaceful meetings of political organs iam inde a principio ad nostram usque aetatem (‘right from the beginning up to our own age’). It is improbable that Livy knew anything of current Thessalian politics, and it is likely that again he has merely repeated a phrase which in Polybius referred to the mid-second century bc.34 Similarly, when at 35. 38. 3 Livy talks of a festival of Diana of Amarynthus at Eretria quod non popularium modo sed Carystiorum etiam coetu celebratur (‘which is celebrated by a gathering together not only of the local people but also of those of Carystus’), it is unlikely that he knew of such a celebration in his own day and he has probably taken over a present from Polybius. Three further passages come from the end of Book 39 and the beginning of Book 40. At 39. 49–50 Livy relates the events leading to the death of the great Achaean leader (and hero of Polybius) Philopoemen. Messene had attempted to secede from the Achaean League and war had resulted. Philopoemen was caught in an ambush, fell from his horse, and was captured by the Messenians. It was decided to imprison him overnight in an underground store, and Livy writes (39. 50. 3) eo uinctus demittitur, et saxum ingens, quo operitur, machina superimpositum est (‘He was put down into it, bound, and a huge rock, with which it is covered, was put on top with a lever’—the latter is probably the meaning of machina; Walsh35 translates ‘crane’). It is scarcely credible that Livy had any knowledge about such arrangements at Messene in his own time, and the present operitur was probably taken over from Polybius. That was the view of Weissenborn and Müller in their note on the passage,36 though they suggest alternatively and less plausibly (they offer no parallels for such a use of the present) that operitur refers to the fact that the stone had to be replaced in position each time the store was opened. It may be, though, that Livy was influenced by the common use of the present of verbs of closing and surrounding to indicate a state of affairs brought about by past action.37 At 40. 3. 3 Livy is talking about Philip V’s forced movement of population from the cities of the north coast of the Aegean to the hinterland and their replacement by Thracians and other non-Greek peoples. He writes iam primum omnem fere multitudinem ciuium ex maritimis ciuitatibus cum familiis suis in Emathiam—quae nunc dicitur: quondam appellata Paeonia est— traduxit (‘First of all, he transplanted almost the whole of the citizen 33

Cf. Oakley 1998: 264, Briscoe 2008: 53. At 2. 14. 1, where Livy writes mos traditus ab antiquis usque ad nostram aetatem (‘a custom handed down from the ancients right up to our own time’), there is no reason to suspect an anachronism. 35 Walsh 1994: 95. 36 Weissenborn and Müller 1909: 108. 37 Cf. Kühner and Stegmann 1955: i. 118. 34

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population of the maritime states, together with their households, to Emathia—as it now is; it was previously called Paeonia’. In this case the corresponding passage of Polybius survives, and he writes (23. 10. 4) c F b  HÆŁ Æ, e b ƺÆØe —ÆØ Æ æ
ƪæıÅ, which corresponds exactly to the words of Livy. Here, then, there is no doubt that Livy has taken quae nunc dicitur38 from Polybius: what is uncertain is whether he has in fact committed an anachronism in so doing. He himself will scarcely have had any idea whether or not Emathia was still the name of the area. The following chapter of Livy relates the extraordinary story of Theoxena. She and her now dead sister, Archo, had been married to men who had been put to death by Philip V. She had subsequently married Archo’s second husband, Poris, and, when Philip, so it was said, decided to kill all the children of those he had executed earlier, committed suicide together with her husband, her son by her first marriage, and all the children of Archo. At 40. 4. 9 Livy says proficiscuntur ab Thessalonica Aeneam ad statum sacrificium quod Aeneae conditori cum magna caerimonia quotannis faciunt (‘They set out from Thessalonica to Aenea for a fixed sacrifice which they perform for their founder Aeneas each year with great ceremony’). The passage is precisely parallel to 35. 38. 3: the Polybian original does not survive, but there can be no doubt that he indicated that the sacrifice was being performed at his time. Livy is perhaps unlikely to have known whether it was still being performed, and, again, there is no other evidence.39 Finally, 42. 55. 3, in Livy’s account of the first year’s campaign (171) of the Third Macedonian War. The consul P. Licinius Crassus, marching from the Adriatic coast towards Thessaly, encounters difficult terrain in Athamania. Livy continues cui si uexatis hominibus equisque tironem exercitum ducenti acie instructa et loco suo et tempore obstitisset rex, ne Romani quidem abnuunt magna sua cum clade fuisse pugnaturos (‘If the king, at a place and time which favoured him, had blocked the consul’s way when he was leading an army of recruits and when his men and horses were distressed, not even the Romans deny that the battle would have resulted in a great disaster’). This is clearly the comment of Polybius, referring to what contemporary Romans had told him: the Romans of Livy’s own time would not have had a view on the matter.

38

For Livy’s use of the relative + nunc in such formulations, see Oakley 1998: 376 (though cf. Briscoe 2008: 288, 417). 39 In the discussion at the conference John Marincola argued that since Aeneas was involved, this is just the sort of detail which some people at Rome may well have known about. For the Aeneas legend at Aenea, see Erskine 2001: 94–5, Briscoe 2008: 421.

6 Polybius’ Roman prokataskeuē Hans Beck

It is a truism that we never get the full story of events, past or present. The human brain works in an innately selective way, and our ability to collect, analyse, and process data from sources other than our individual experience has its limitations. The nemesis of subjectivity adds to the accumulation of gaps and omissions. In order to create narratives and fill them with meaning, we select what we think is significant in any given context, a selection which is based on preconceptions that, again, are the result of our subjective approach. The inevitable process of selection (random or deliberate) poses one of the greatest problems for the writing of ancient history. Literary and material evidence is scarce and often isolated. Historians are not always in a position to compare different accounts on any given incident; more often than not, we are forced to rely on textual remains that offer brief snapshots of events rather than complex accounts, written from different perspectives and retrieved from multiple layers of investigation. The source narrative is in itself the product of a highly subjective process. What might appear as a ‘fact’ is nothing more than the preselection of an ancient author, made subconsciously or consciously, and modelled, presented, and appraised according to his own preconceptions. An author may have composed his account to meet certain literary standards and suit artistic purposes, to achieve a more persuasive message or meaning, or simply to adhere to the needs of his supposed audience. Indeed, the ancient author will have omitted as redundant information with which his audience was most likely very familiar. At the same time, he will have meticulously spelled out other items and episodes. But often they only made sense because the audience understood them in relation to other notions that were left unsaid. Finally, some remarks would have been completely new to the audience, in which case they were at the mercy of the author and his preconceptions, for better or for worse.1 1

Cf. Morley 1999, whose opinionated account is highly enjoyable. It echoes post-modern approaches and advances in narratology, discourse analysis, and critical thinking. But it also offers

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The processes of omission, selection, and framing contribute to a dramatic reduction of what we call the ‘body of evidence’. Much remains unknown or, at best, open to speculation, because details have been excluded from the narrative; or simply because another piece of information, crucial for understanding the significance of what was included, had been omitted. Aware of this problem, Jacob Burckhardt reached the famous verdict that Thucydides’ Histories may well contain a piece of first-class information that will only be discovered in a century or so.2 The key will be to recover the missing link that once connected the related piece of evidence to the information that was precluded. In the meantime, selection and subjectivity prevail more than ever. The writing of a commentary is one of the most effective scholarly antidotes against selectivity. Commentaries expand upon the narrative of the ancient sources: they spell out the unspoken; they delve into the text in an attempt to read between the lines, trying to see what the sources reveal about the subconscious assumptions and knowledge of a writer and his audience. The proper commentary, to be sure, distinguishes itself through linguistic expertise. For instance, when Cato is said to have used the word biber, the learned modern scholiast notes at some length that this may not mean ‘drinker’, but rather ‘to drink’, since biber is an archaic infinitive and not a noun.3 This is important. But it is hardly this sort of commentary that, to borrow a Polybian phrase, enlightens the reader so that he can make his own judgement and draw forth new conclusions. In contrast (and although the genre itself is exposed to the pitfalls of selectivity), the historical commentary attempts to fill the gaps of selectivity and provide a meaning to the narrative tradition that goes beyond the account of the written word. It explains both intra- and extra-textual references, and elaborates on the cultural characteristics of a past environment; in this regard, it also resolves textual or linguistic ambiguities. But, most of all, it sheds light on the text’s implicit assumptions and silent innuendoes. It discloses the intellectual environment surrounding the author and his readership, since it illuminates the background knowledge of their communication. In this regard, the critical commentary becomes one with the ancient tradition.4 The dangers

many traditional takes on ‘what history is’ or, in any case, what it should be. A. J. Woodman’s more general remarks, Woodman 2004: ix–xxiv, esp. xv–xix, on the complex correspondence between ‘event’ and narrative, point in the same direction; they are a welcome reminder of how fragile our towering intellectual constructs in ancient history at times are. 2 1982: 252. 3 Briscoe 2003: 355. 4 Cf. also FRH I2, pp. 52–3, which elaborates on this with regard to historical fragments. This is not the place to open Pandora’s box and embark on an in-depth analysis of the vexed relation between text and commentary. Earlier notions ‘against interpretation’ (e.g. S. Sontag, Against Interpretation and Other Essays, 4th edn., New York 1964), notably the belief that only the reader may provide a viable commentary (in his or her head, that is), have lost much plausibility.

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associated with such an enterprise are obvious: redundancy is one, overinterpretation another; and behind the façade of acquaintance with the ancient authorities lurks the temptation of self-importance. HCP is free from any of these misfortunes. Frank Walbank not only mastered the skill of critical commentary writing, but his commentary itself has set the standards for generations. It is an exemplum maiorum, a permanent reminder of what has been achieved, and can be achieved, by means of true scholarship. It was perhaps HCP Volume 1 that challenged its author in his dealings with selection and subjectivity more than anything else. Volume 1 covers Books 1–6. These books include a prelude to the actual topic of Polybius’ universal history, famously announced as ‘the fifty-three years [from 220 to 167] in which the Romans succeeded in bringing almost the whole inhabited world under them’.5 Before he turned to this, Polybius ‘thought it necessary to prefix this book [the first] and the next’ (1. 3. 8), in order that ‘no one after becoming engrossed in the narrative proper may find himself at a loss, and ask by what counsel and trusting to what power and resources the Romans embarked on that enterprise which has made them lords over land and sea in our part of the world’ (1. 3. 9). The grand scheme is clear. Books 1 and 2 were designed to provide a preliminary sketch, while the proper narrative commenced in Book 3. This preface was necessary—at least this is what Polybius thought—because the Greeks were not ‘well acquainted with the two states which disputed the empire of the world’. This led him ‘to deal . . . with the previous history [of the Romans and the Carthaginians] and to narrate what purpose guided them and on what sources of strength they relied, in entering upon such a vast undertaking’ (1. 3. 7). Polybius framed a new technical expression for this preface,  æŒÆÆ
Œı, which signifies the ‘preparation’ or ‘introduction’ to the main history (the ŒÆÆ
Œı, HCP i. 216). He generally uses the term prokataskeuē for the contents of Books 1 and 2,6 both throughout the books themselves, when he refers to ‘the brief summary of events included in these introductory books’ (1. 13. 1), and in later sections of his Histories. For instance, in Books 4 and 5, when the reader is reminded of events described in the preface, he is referred to the prokataskeuē (4. 1. 9; 5. 111. 10). On the first occurence of prokataskeuē in the text (1. 3. 10), HCP volume 1 lists other references in the Polybian text and informs the reader that, even though the word is a new term for an

Assmann and Gladigow 1995 is one of the most important single steps towards a reconceptualization of the genre; see also Most 1999, and Gibson and Kraus 2002. 5 Plb. 1. 1. 5. References to Polybius and translations are based on W. R. Paton’s Loeb edn. (first published 1922, latest repr. 2005), unless otherwise stated. 6 1. 3. 10; 1. 13. 1–8; 2. 14. 1; 2. 16. 14; 2. 37. 2–3; 4. 1. 9; 5. 111. 10. Cf. Glockmann and Helms, s.v. æŒÆÆ
Œı; Petzold 1969: 20–5.

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introduction, ‘the custom of appending introductions was already usual’ (44). Walbank refers the reader to Thucydides Book 1, whose Archaeology (1. 2–22) may well have formed a most eminent and most influential introduction to monographic history-writing in antiquity.7 Later occurrences of the term prokataskeuē, all of them in Books 1–5, receive no specific discussion in HCP Volume 1, with one notable exception. In 2. 37. 2, towards the end of his Roman preface, Polybius remarks that he has now ‘given a continuous sketch, suitable to the preliminary plan of my book, of events in Sicily, Libya and so forth . . . down to the second war between the Romans and Carthaginians. This, as I stated at the outset [1. 3. 1–2], is the date at which I propose to begin my own narrative.’ Yet, as the text unfolds, Polybius turns ‘to the affairs of Greece, so that everywhere alike I may bring down this preliminary or introductory sketch to the same date’ (2. 37. 3). In other words, Polybius closes the Roman prokataskeuē in 2. 37. 2 with the promise to turn to his genuine topic. However, in the next sentence (3) he begins to append a lengthy survey of the earlier history of Macedon and Achaea (2. 37. 3–70. 8). This is remarkable in the sense that it presents a significant rupture in the text. It also contradicts the programmatic statement on the nature of the prokataskeuē in 1. 3. 7–10 (cited above), which was conceived of as an introduction necessary because of Hellenic ignorance of Roman and Carthaginian histories prior to the Hannibalic War. This contradiction has triggered a lively debate on the Hellenic prokataskeuē and its place in the Histories. Notably, Matthias Gelzer and Richard Laqueur have argued that Polybius inserted the Achaean introduction (2. 37. 3–70. 8) only towards the end of his life (after 146).8 Gelzer in particular assumed that the second half of Book 2 was not envisaged at all when the Histories were composed. On a similar note, he suggested that references to the contents of the Hellenic introduction (such as 1. 13. 5) were also later additions.9 Gelzer surmounts the obvious difficulty created by those references by proposing the hypothesis of an early Polybian work which was composed in support of the propaganda conducted for the return of the Achaean exiles after Pydna. According to Gelzer, that work was later incorporated into the main history, along with a series of cross-references and anticipatory notes.10 This view prompted a lengthy response in HCP i. 215–16. Its main objective was to counter the hypothesis of a later insertion. Walbank points to various sections of the introductory chapters that imply the continued existence of the Achaean League at the time of the composition of Books 1 and 2.11 This argument 7 Cf. Luraghi 2000, Tsamakis 1995, esp. 20–63; also S. Hornblower 1991: 4–56, which replaces Gomme’s earlier interpretation of the Archaeology. 8 Gelzer 1940a, cf. also Gelzer 1940b, Laqueur 1913: 10–11, Petzold 1969: 91–100. 9 Gelzer 1940a: 28–9, 30–3. 10 Ibid.: 33–5. 11 Plb. 2. 38. 4; 2. 42. 2–6; 2. 62. 4.

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alone makes it difficult to accept the hypothesis of a later insertion, and there seems to be no compelling reason to revive it. However, this solution still provokes a certain discomfort, since Walbank does not explain the break in the narrative at 2. 37. 2–3 as noted above, when Polybius closes the Roman introduction and promises to turn to his own narrative only to continue with the Hellenic introduction. HCP Volume 1 leaves this incongruity without comment. The issue is difficult to resolve, but the terminology in 2. 37 may hint at a better understanding of this crucial passage. While the account of Roman affairs prior to the Hannibalic War is again referred to as prokataskeuē (2. 37. 2), the history which follows is announced as syntaxis (2. 37. 3) and, for the first time, as apodeiktikē historia (ibid.). As Walbank has shown as early as 1945 and again in HCP Volume 1, Polybius uses apodeiktikos here to mean ‘supported by full reasons’, which highlights apodeiktikē historia as ‘detailed, well-argued history’.12 The term thus opposes the ‘apodeictic’ narrative of the main theme and the preparatory account that consists of mere assertions (cf. 4. 40. 1) or, as of this point, the prokataskeuē of Books 1 and 2. The apodeictic narrative is concerned with a fully-fledged, elaborate methodology, tracing causes and effects. In contrast, the prokataskeuē is kephalaiōdōs, ‘summarily as introduction’ or, literally, ‘according to head topics’ (cf. 1. 13. 7; 2. 1. 4).13 Its summary nature does not allow for an in-depth analysis, and it may not even leave room for a critical review of other historians, let alone the inclusion of material of a tragic character.14 In short, apodeiktikos and its opposite, kephalaiōdēs, refer to distinct methodologies that are applied to different sections of the Histories. Polybius endorses this idea in 2. 37, at the end of the Roman introduction. He does so, most likely, to remind the reader of the different texture of the introductory books and the main narrative. The concluding remarks of Book 2 again highlight the conceptual approach towards history in the prokataskeuē. Polybius stresses that the topical and methodological scheme of the Histories made it necessary ‘to make clearly known to everyone the state of affairs in Macedonia and Greece’ (2. 71. 2). The term for ‘making (or being) clearly known’ applied here and elsewhere (2. 37. 6; cf. also 1. 5. 4, cited below) is ªæØ æåØ, which refers to a common

12

HCP i. 216; Walbank 1945a: 16, Sacks 1981: 171–86, Mauersberger, s.v. I ،، . For this meaning of ŒçƺÆØ Å (Latin: capitulatim) cf. FRH I2, p. 151 and Mauersberger, s.v.; on historiographical implementations of the concept, see Beck 2003, Walter 2004: 287, Timpe 2007: 156–60. 14 Cf. HCP i. 181. The criticism of Phylarchus in the Hellenic introduction (2. 56–63) is an exceptional case. As Walbank has indicated, Polybius’ polemic against him was not only inspired by Phylarchus’ ethos as ‘tragic’ historian but also by his partisanship for Cleomenes against Aratus. Thus, the digression is a powerful political statement, for which there was no other place than the Hellenic introduction. See also John Marincola’s contribution in this volume. 13

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knowledge that is generally agreed upon and free from disputes and doubts.15 The Hellenic introduction is thus consistent with the historiographical principles spelled out for the prokataskeuē. Despite its erratic positioning, it is well in line with the grand scheme of an introductory section that is written programmatically and without in-depth analyses of the causation of events, and that presents the reader with an (allegedly) undisputed narrative of events. Polybius endorses this approach both at the beginning and towards the end of the Hellenic introduction. The Roman prokataskeuē is less troublesome, at least as far as its place in the Histories is concerned. The section deals with affairs in the western Mediterranean before 220. It starts from ‘the first occasion on which the Romans crossed the sea from Italy’, an event that, according to Polybius, took place in the 129th Olympiad (264–1, that is) and that followed immediately on the close of Timaeus’ History.16 It is clear from this announcement that the Roman prokataskeuē covered the period of the First Punic War (1. 10–63), the Mercenary War (1. 64–88),17 as well as the events that led to the Hannibalic War (2. 1–36), a period of about forty-five years. This is indeed how Polybius summarizes the contents at the beginning of Book 2 and again in 2. 37 towards the end of the Roman introduction. But this preparatory outline receives yet another introduction: after a succinct description of the Gallic Wars of the fourth century and the expansion of Roman power in Italy (1. 6. 1–4), Polybius relates the events that led to the Tarentine War, Pyrrhus’ engagement in Italy, and the conflict between Messana and Rhegium (1. 6. 5–9. 8). This opening section is designed to extrapolate a clear starting-point, that is, a beginning that is generally agreed upon and recognized, and also ‘self-apparent from the events’ (1. 5. 4).18 It is ironic that of all possible candidates for such an undisputed startingpoint, Polybius picks the most controversial one possible—the Roman crossing to Sicily, an incident which he intends to relate without comment so that his narrative will not be discredited by disputes and digressions early in the 15

Mauersberger, s.v. ªøæ Çø. The crossing would be that of Ap. Claudius Caudex (cos. 264), which seems to have occurred in the late summer, HCP i. 46. Timaeus has now been re-edited by Craige Champion in FGrHist 566, who also offers a fully-fledged discussion of the close of his History. 17 On this, see the contribution by Bruce Gibson in this volume. 18 The passage deserves to be quoted in full: ‘I shall adopt as the starting-point of this book the first occasion on which the Romans crossed the sea from Italy. This follows immediately on the close of Timaeus’ History, and took place in the 129th Olympiad. Thus we must first state how and when the Romans established their position in Italy, and what prompted them afterwards to cross to Sicily, the first country outside Italy where they set foot. The actual cause of the crossing must be stated without comment; for if I were to seek the cause of the cause and so on, my whole work would have no clear starting-point and principle. The starting-point must be an era generally agreed upon and recognized (›ºªıÅ ŒÆd ªøæØÇÅ Iæåc Ææ’ –Æ
Ø), and one self-apparent from the events, even if this involves my going back a little in point of date and giving a summary of intervening occurrences.’ (1. 5. 1–4) 16

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text (cf. 1. 5. 5). Hence, the Roman prokataskeuē starts with a historiographical big bang. In order to establish a genuine and undisputed beginning, Polybius relates the occasion and motives of the first Roman crossing from Italy with an armed force (1. 7. 1–12. 4). But he does so in a highly opinionated fashion, according to events which he had selected as significant in their context and crucial for his approach, and he does so with no reference whatsoever to alternative interpretations, let alone to the contradictory accounts of other authorities. As mentioned above, the principle of including an opening section might have been inspired by Thucydides. But upon a closer look at what follows after the Roman crossing from Italy, it becomes obvious that Polybius’ prokataskeuē has little in common with Thucydides. The very nature of a universal history set a distinct tone. In his attempt to disentangle the interconnectedness of events that enable the reader to grasp a sense of the whole world, Polybius’ conceptual approach differs from that of Thucydides, whose aim was to disclose the mechanics of bipolarity.19 This difference is also reflected in the number of pages each devotes to the introduction. While Polybius’ introduction fills nearly one and a half books (some 155 Loeb pages, excluding the Hellenic introduction), Thucydides’ treatment of a similar time span comprises only 28 chapters (1. 89–117, 23 Loeb pages). So, despite his previous commitment to provide the reader with an introduction written in a kephalaiōdēs style, summarily and according to key themes, Polybius’ actual text is remarkably detailed and, at times, long-winded. This leads to a third major difference between Thucydides’ and Polybius’ introductory sections, which is also the most eminent one. For unlike Thucydides, whose Pentekontaetia was an unprecedented attempt to compose a narrative on the topic, Polybius’ enterprise was by no means without predecessors. The First Punic War had been treated by historians who had plenty of first-hand information, including personal experience. Their histories were both an invaluable source for Polybius and a challenge. The most important sources were of course Fabius Pictor and Philinus.20 Scholars have long been puzzled over which of the two historians Polybius followed as his principal source in any given passage. This exercise has 19 The locus classicus is 1. 1, when Thucydides justifies his perception of the Peloponnesian War as great and noteworthy above all, ‘inferring this from the fact that both powers were at their best in their preparations for war in every way, and seeing the rest of the Hellenes taking sides with the one state or the other, some at once, others in contemplation’. On this, Fliess 1966, and Strauss and Lebow 1991 are still useful. Cf. now also Eckstein 2003, whose reading of Thucydides’ interstate theory flirts with neo-realist paradigms. On Polybius’ universal approach, see Pédech 1964: 496–514, Sacks 1981: 96–121, Marincola 1997: 37; cf. also Champion 2004a: 2: ‘The unification of world events under Rome’s aegis required a new kind of history, universal in scope.’ 20 The most recent editions of both are those of Hans Beck and Uwe Walter in FRH I2 (Fabius) and Craige Champion in FGrHist 174 (Philinus). Both editions include extensive

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attracted scholars of all ages and—naturally—it has produced competing and often conflicting views on Polybius’ use of his sources.21 There is no need to flog a dead horse here and offer another precarious exercise in Quellenforschung. As Gelzer pointed out long ago, Polybius’ Roman introduction was not a mechanically constructed patchwork of easily separable material from Fabius and Philinus.22 For instance, Gelzer has shown that when Polybius mentions all Roman consuls for the years 263 to 250, this information as such does not indicate the use of Fabius Pictor (and, in turn, the absence of consul names does not point to the use of Philinus).23 Walbank has developed this idea further. In ‘Polybius, Philinus, and the First Punic War’ he stressed the interweaving of two inextricably connected strands in the Polybian tradition.24 This was not a new aperçu, but Walbank’s analysis also, and more generally, raised a red flag about Polybius’ independence from his sources in the Roman introduction. He demonstrated that many passages that seem essentially Polybian in character may in fact derive more or less as they stand from his predecessors.25 Walbank concludes that long sections in Book 1 may go back directly to either Fabius or, more extensively, Philinus, whose didactic history does ‘not [appear] dissimilar in temperament’26 to Polybius’. These observations, if taken seriously, cast additional light on our understanding of Polybius’ Roman introduction. The section is methodologically and conceptually unique, a historiographical piece sui generis. It is designed to set the stage for a universal history, but it actually relates the conflict between Rome and Carthage prior to the Hannibalic War. The material is arranged kephalaiōdōs, but the text is lengthy and significantly detailed. And, while the narrative is clearly not apodeiktikos but rather opinionated and selective, it is seemingly at the mercy of its sources. From 1.20 on, Polybius relates when and how the Romans first built naval forces. The incident, in the consulship of Cn. Cornelius Scipio and C. Duilius in 260, is described as a great turning-point that marks a defining moment in the course of the First Punic War (cf. 2. 1. 2). When the Romans saw that the war was dragging on, the senate decided to build a fleet of 100 quinqueremes and 20 triremes (1. 20. 9–10). Before the building programme and the training of the crews were complete, the consul appointed to the command of the naval forces, Cn. Cornelius Scipio, embarked on a mission to Lipara to capture the island with the support of certain traitors. But the plan fell through. The bibliographies, biographical accounts, and commentaries on individual fragments. Cf. also Ambaglio 2005. 21 e.g. Pédech 1964; Lehmann 1974. The most recent contribution is the volume edited by Schepens and Bollansée 2005. It contains up-to-date discussions on Polybius and all of his eminent sources. 22 23 24 Gelzer 1933: 133. Ibid.: 133–42. Walbank 1945a: 1. 25 26 Ibid.: 7–8, 11–14. Ibid.: 14.

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Roman armada was captured and Scipio was taken prisoner (1. 21. 1–8), which left the bulk of the fleet still in Ostia without a commander. Only now, as Polybius reports, was C. Duilius appointed to the naval command. Once at sea, he trounced a Carthaginian naval contingent near Mylae, landed on Sicily, and drove out the Carthaginians from the area around Segesta (1. 22. 1–24. 2). Duilius’ stunning success is said to have been due to a technical revolution. For someone (Ø : 1. 22. 3) had the idea of equipping the Roman vessels with boarding planks—the famous ravens—which allowed for a novel fighting method much more advantageous to the Romans than the traditional ‘ram and sink’. At least this is what Polybius says.27 This account is not unchallenged. For instance, the role of the ravens has long been questioned. Their impact on naval warfare in and after 260 was most likely much less significant than Polybius suggests.28 But there are other, and more profound, objections. Epigraphic evidence, as well as fragments of the Roman annalistic tradition, offer a different outline.29 Their version is complemented by Dio/Zonaras, who provides the only coherent narrative, besides that of Polybius, to survive.30 The Roman tradition sets a different tone. In Dio, Duilius is in command of the naval forces from the beginning,31 and it is Duilius, not Scipio, who is credited with the training of the crews and the invention of the corvi.32 The battles of Mylae and near 27 Esp. 1. 23. 6: ‘When the Roman crews boarded by means of the ravens and attacked them hand to hand on deck, some Carthaginians were cut down and others surrendered from dismay at what was going on, the battle having become just like a fight on land.’ 28 HCP i. 77–8 gives the relevant literature on the topic. Later discussions include Sordi 1967, who argues against the importance Polybius attributes to the corvi; cf. also Poznanski 1979, Lazenby 1996: 68–71. 29 The so-called Duilius inscription, Inscr. It. 13. 3. 69 = ILS 65 = CIL I2 25 and VI, 8, 3 1300 Add.: [consol secest]ano[s, socios p(opli) R(omani), Cartaciniensiom | opsidione]d exemet lecione [sque Cartaciniensis omnis | m]aximosque macistr[a]tos l[uci palam post dies | n]ovem castreis exfociont Macel[amque opidom |5 p]ucnandod cepet. enque eodem mac[istratud bene | r]em navebos marid consol primos c[eset copiasque | c]lasesque navales primos ornavet pa[ravetque] | cumque eis navebos claseis Poenicas omn[is item ma|x]umas copias Cartaciniensis praesente[d Hanibaled] |10 dictatored ol[or]om in altod marid pucn[ad vicet] | vique nave[is cepe]t cum socieis septer[esmom I, quin|queresm]osque triresmosque naveis X[XX, merset XIII. | aur]om captom numei (tria milia septingentei), | [arcen]tom captom praeda numei (centum milia) [—;|15 omne] captom aes (inter undetricies et tricies quater centena milia). | triump]oque navaled praedad poplom [donavet | multosque] Cartacinie[ns]is [ince]nuos d[uxit ante | curum —]eis [—] capt[—]. The recent analyses by Bleckmann 2002: 116–25, and Kondratieff 2004: 10–14, argue convincingly for a composition shortly after the events in question. Literary evidence includes Liv. Per. 17; Val. Max. 6. 3. 4; 6. 6. 2; Polyaen. 6. 16. 5; Flor. 1. 18. 9–11; Eutr. 2. 20; Oros. 4. 7. 7–9. See also MRR i. 205. 30 Dio fr. 11. 16–18 / Zonar. 8. 10–11. 31 Zonar. 8. 11. 32 Zonar. 8. 11; cf. Fron. Str. 2. 3. 24; Flor. 1. 18. 9–10; De vir. ill. 38. 1. Lazenby 1996: 70, is aware of these sources, but he goes out of his way to dissociate Duilius from the corvi, because Polybius doesn’t mention him in this regard: ‘Unfortunately he [Polybius] does not say who suggested it [the idea of boarding-ladders], but it may have been a Syracusan, perhaps even Archimedes. However, one should not rule out the possibility that a Roman was the inventor.’

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Segesta are presented as his personal achievements (Polybius does not mention Duilius with regard to these events), while Scipio’s attempt to seize Lipara is portrayed as an unauthorized, and in fact foolish, expedition.33 Dio’s narrative, along with scattered evidence from the annalistic tradition, enables us to reassess Polybius’. For once, we are in a position to compare accounts and evaluate their coherence and credibility. It has been argued elsewhere that the Roman tradition as preserved in Dio/Zonaras is trustworthy and in fact superior to Polybius’ version, which not only suffers from a lack of plausibility but also from internal contradictions.34 A close reading of the Roman tradition reveals a remarkably coherent alternative, an alternative that sheds a different light on the events as outlined by Polybius: not Scipio, but Duilius was in charge of the fleet.35 As consul with the naval provincia, he oversaw the technical equipment and the training of the crews.36 And it was due to his expertise that the Roman fleet fought a first successful naval encounter with the Carthaginians and drove them away from Segesta.37 As mentioned above, it has therefore been suggested that our picture of these events needs thorough revision, which, consequently, brings new light to the understanding of a defining moment in the history of the First Punic War. But, with regard to historiography, what are the ramifications of this for our understanding of Polybius’ prokataskeuē and the veracity of the section in general? Both Fabius Pictor and Philinus treated the events in question at some length, but it is not always easy to see to what extent their opposed prejudices coloured their accounts.38 As far as Scipio’s disaster near Lipara is concerned, the Roman tradition accuses the Carthaginians of betrayal and treason;

33 Mylae and Segesta: Zonar. 8. 11. For Scipio’s premature strike on Lipara, see 8. 10: ‘The latter [Scipio], neglecting the war on land, which had fallen to his lot, sailed with the ships which he had to Lipara, on the understanding that it was to be betrayed to him. But this was a ruse on the part of the Carthaginians.’ 34 It is surprising that Scipio put to sea with only seventeen ships to sail to Messana and then to Lipara before the bulk of his fleet was ready. Plb. 1. 20. 5 makes it clear that the Carthaginians by that time ‘maintained without any trouble the command of the sea’, which makes Scipio’s action as consul with the naval command (Polybius) most questionable. If appointed to the naval command, there would have been no need to rush. A thorough revision of these events, contra the Polybius-based communis opinio, has been suggested by Bleckmann 2002: 113–31, and Beck 2005: 22–5. Cf. also Kondratieff 2004. 35 This is also suggested by the Duilius inscription, ll. 5–6 (cited above). 36 Again, see ll. 7–8 of the Duilius inscription (cited above), which explicitly credit Duilius with this. 37 Cf. ll. 1–5 of the Duilius inscription, which refers to his advance on Sicily. Unlike Zonaras, the inscription places Duilius’ land engagement on Sicily before the naval encounter near Mylae. Most likely, this follows the formulaic order terra marique, which also added to a climax of Duilius’ actions as listed in the inscription (i.e. the sea battle as his most memorable achievement comes at the end): see Degrassi’s commentary on Inscr. It. 13. 3. 69 and Walbank, HCP i. 80. 38 Cf. Polybius’ famous verdict on Fabius’ and Philinus’ partisanship in 1. 14. 1–3, on which see Walbank, HCP i. 26–35, 64–6, and two seminal articles by Gelzer 1933 and 1934. Cf. also FRH I2 1 F 27 (comm.); Marincola 1997: 171.

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allegedly, the consul was taken prisoner during certain negotiations.39 Polybius, too, implies that Scipio’s mission was based on false promises (1. 21. 5; cf. 8. 35. 9), but he refrains from allegations, let alone accusations, against the Carthaginians. This observation points to Philinus rather than Fabius, who most likely will have promoted the version of Carthaginian infidelity.40 Polybius’ use of Philinus may also be supported by his emphasis on elements of surprise and unexpected turns throughout that passage. The opening remark in 1. 20. 9 that the senate decided to build a war fleet only in 260, when the Romans saw that the war was dragging on, sets the stage for a genuine turningpoint in Polybius’ account and enhances its dramaturgy. But it also eclipses the point that a massive Roman fleet of more than 100 ships had already been built and was in use as early as 263. Polybius simply ignored this, most likely to increase the narrative tension of the passage.41 In 1. 23. 1, he pinpoints the peripeteia that had befallen Scipio, and in 1. 24. 1 it is stated that the naval success at Mylae (Duilius is not mentioned by name) came paradoxōs, ‘contrary to all expectation’. The stress on paradoxa, sensational and unexpected reversals of fortune, as well as the prominent part played in human affairs by tyche42 seem to have been characteristic of Philinus’ work. Again, this was demonstrated long ago by Walbank, who deems Philinus’ history an outstanding contribution to the Hellenistic tragic school. It is thus possible to reinforce the proposal that the events of 260 as related by Polybius stem largely and widely from Philinus.43 But there is at least one important exception. For neither Philinus nor Fabius will have changed the provinciae of the consuls.44 This must have been a Polybian ingredient. What appears as a minor or maybe a cosmetic manipulation of a detailed piece of information had, however, huge ramifications for the overall account in that section. Not only was Cn. Cornelius Scipio portrayed in a more favourable light than he deserved45 but the course of events was tweaked and turned into a major peripeteia. Under the 39

Liv. Per. 17; Val. Max. 6. 6. 2; Flor. 1. 18. 11; Eutr. 2. 20; Oros. 4. 7. 7–9; Polyaen. 6. 16. 5. Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 77. 41 Piso FRH I2 7 F 32 (with commentary and Forsythe 1994: 361–2) relates a shipbuilding programme in the consulship of M. Valerius Messalla (cos. 263); cf. also Ined. Vat. FGrHist 839 F 4. Both sources are discussed by Thiel 1954: 70–1 and, more recently, Steinby 2007. A collegium of duoviri navales classis ornandae reficiendaeque causa is attested as early as 311: Liv. 9. 30. 4. 42 e.g. Walbank, HCP i. 16–26 (a classic discussion). 43 Walbank 1945a: 11–13, contra Gelzer 1933. 44 Bleckmann 2002: 134 and n. 1 believes that the provinciae were changed by a writer after Fabius, most likely by someone who represented pro-Scipionic family traditions. But who would that be? Polybius is notorious for his pro-Scipionic tendencies (as Bleckmann’s own analysis reveals: 131–9). The switch is best ascribed to him. 45 Plin. Nat. 8. 169 relates Scipio’s nickname ‘Asina’ to his unfortunate Lipara expedition. The emphasis on Carthaginian infidelity as reported in the Roman tradition (see above) exculpated Scipio; see Thiel 1954: 180–1, Eckstein 1995: 9. But Polybius’ account, too, is not unfavourable to Scipio. 40

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smokescreen of the prokataskeuē’s conceptual approach, Polybius took the liberty to promote this version as something that was common knowledge. While the year 260 is highlighted as a peripeteia in the First Punic War, the technique of singling out individual years and marking them as great turningpoints is by no means limited to that one campaigning season. Indeed, it is a prominent feature throughout the prokataskeuē. The naval battle of Cape Ecnomus in 256 (1. 26. 1–28. 14), to be followed by Regulus’ expedition to Africa (1. 30–4), is another major caesura in the narrative, as is the battle of Drepana in 249 (1. 49. 6–51. 12). As Walbank has demonstrated, Polybius’ source in both cases seems to have been Philinus who was either himself a contemporary of the events or drew on sources from eyewitness accounts.46 Both descriptions reveal a significant interest in battle formations and tactical man
uvring which underlines their importance in Polybius’ grand scheme of events. In Regulus’ case, his tragic fate even invited a longer reflection on the peripeteia of Roman and Carthaginian affairs that was brought about by the consul and by Xanthippus respectively (1. 35). While Regulus illustrates the turn of history wrought by fortune, Carthage was (temporarily) restored to confidence through the aid of a single man (cf. HCP i. 92–4). It was recently argued by Bruno Bleckmann that Polybius’ focus on the narrative exposition of ‘big events’ and turning-points hardly reflects the realities of the bitter, exhausting, and tenacious hostilities that had worn down both parties in the 250s and earlier years of the 240s.47 Bleckmann demonstrates that Polybius’ tendency to overemphasize the importance of single events also includes attempts to present the years preceding such key moments as relatively eventless. The narrative strategy seems to have been that of a ‘calm before the storm’, i.e. the reader’s anticipation of a major conflict is fuelled by the insinuation that both parties refrained from fighting in order to prepare a major strike in the following year. For instance, in Polybius’ account of the campaigning season of 257 (before Ecnomus) the naval engagement off Tyndaris is portrayed as a minor skirmish, and C. Atilius Regulus’ operations on Sicily are presented as ‘nothing worthy of mention’, as both parties spent their time ‘in minor operations of no significance’ (1. 25. 6). In contrast, Dio/Zonaras relates that the Roman fleet, after the Tyndaris encounter, waged a full-scale attack on Lipara to capture the island.48 The Roman tradition also claims that Atilius Regulus sailed as far as Malta and plundered the harbour.49 Both references may be authentic: towards the end of

46

Walbank, HCP i. 85–9, 113–17. Bleckmann 2002, esp. 19–31. 48 Zonar. 8. 12, accepted by Lazenby 1996: 76–9, Bleckmann 2002: 157–8. 49 Naevius fr. 32 Strzelecki: transit Melitam | Romanus exercitus insulam integram urit | populatur, vastat, rem hostium concinnat; cf. Oros. 4. 8. 5; Bleckmann 2002: 158. 47

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258, the senate freed funds to inaugurate an expensive ship-building programme, which was designed both to expand and intensify the warfare at sea.50 Exploring new sea routes and widening the maritime horizon, the expedition to Malta, the most southern spot to which a Roman fleet had ever sailed until that date, would have fitted into that strategy. Upon his return Atilius Regulus celebrated a triumphus navalis over the Carthaginians, which proves Polybius’ account of a dull campaign season wrong.51 The conceptual approach to the events covered in the prokataskeuē allowed for such a pin-pointing; in fact, the arrangement of the material in a kephalaiōdēs manner made it necessary to focus on peaks and turns. But at the same time, the information related in the introduction exceeds what is announced as a summary introduction; it often departs from the principle of ‘head topics’. Several passages are extremely elaborate and filled with numerous details that obfuscate rather than sharpen the narrative agenda of a topical peak. It is in those sections that Polybius’ account seems to be particularly prone to unreliability. The evaluation of the narrative on the consular years of 260 and 257 suggests as much. The final years of the First Punic War point in the same direction. In a famous passage, Polybius claims that the end of the war was not precipitated by mutual exhaustion in the fighting on land. For ‘both sides employed every device and effort that the siege [at Mount Eryx] demanded. Both endured every kind of privation and both essayed every means of attack and every variety of action. At length not, as Fabius Pictor says, owing to their exhaustion and sufferings, but like two uninjured and invincible champions, they left the contest drawn. For before either could get the better of the other . . . the war had been decided by other means.’52 Despite the decision of the people’s assemblies to withdraw from large-scale naval enterprises in 247,53 which by that time had involved heavy losses and devoured enormous sums from the state treasury, the senate in 242 decided once again to ‘court the prospect of using sea-forces’ (1. 58. 2). Polybius sets this decision in stark contrast to the previous maxim of avoiding the sea. It was due to this reversal, so he stresses, that Rome ultimately prevailed over the Carthaginians, since the latter had neglected their naval forces for many a year, ‘owing to their having never expected the Romans to dispute the sea with them again’ (1. 61. 5; cf. 1. 58. 3).54 Rome’s return to the sea is an unexpected move that marks the final peripeteia on the road to victory.

50

Cf. Thiel 1954: 200–10, Lazenby 1996: 82–4, Beck 2005: 235–6. Inscr. It. 13. 1. 77; Itgenshorst 2005: no. 133. 52 Plb. 1. 58. 4–6=Fabius Pictor FRH I2 1 F 28. 53 Plb. 1. 55. 2; cf. Zonar. 8. 16. 54 Polybius’ account of the years 247 to 242 (1. 55 to 1. 59) indeed refers to warfare on land in Sicily exclusively. 51

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This picture is widely accepted among scholars, although the tradition is not unchallenged. The annalistic tradition as preserved in Dio/Zonaras contains various references that point to a high frequency of sea raids that were undertaken by Roman privateers in the years after 247. Most prominently, a lengthy passage on a naval encounter in the harbour of Hippo in North Africa documents that the fighting at sea resembled some of the major operations in the decade before, especially in terms of the numbers of combatants involved.55 These man
uvres continued and, in fact, increased in the years before 242.56 It has been argued that the vessels used during those campaigns were maintained by private entrepreneurs rather than the state treasury, and that the crews were signed on from privateers and pirates, who looked for plunder and booty.57 This may indeed have been the case. But it is striking to note that Dio/Zonaras ascribes an interesting sidelight to those operations. He notes that ‘by the ravaging of Africa on the part of the private citizens who were managing the ships, they were no longer willing to neglect the sea, but again got together a fleet’.58 In other words: when the Romans ‘officially’ returned to the sea in 242, this was not so much due to a deadlock in the war on land and the general exhaustion that was provoked by it, but was triggered by a series of successful encounters fought by Roman ‘privateers’, whose victories instilled the voting assemblies with new confidence at sea.59 Polybius’ notorious picture of Rome’s capacity to mobilize its resources and overcome the miseries of exhaustion—a capacity that is ultimately explained by Rome’s moral superiority60—seems to be imperfect at best. The annalistic tradition offers a different explanation for the Roman return to the sea, and it is noteworthy that Dio’s account rests on elaborate historical contextualization rather than on moral preconceptions. When C. Lutatius Catulus was elected consul for 242 Roman hopes were put to the test. Polybius makes it clear that Lutatius’ actions were determined by speed. He unexpectedly (paradoxōs: 1. 59. 9) appeared off the coast of Sicily, 55

Zonar. 8. 16; cf. Fron. Str. 1. 5. 6, who credits C. Duilius with a successful raid in portu Syracusano (probably to be emended to in portu Hippocritano, i.e. Hippou Acra: Lazenby 1996: 147). The presence of the famous consul of 260 during those campaigns raises doubts about their strictly ‘private’ character. Note that a flotilla of only 20 quinqueremes would have required a crew of c. 6,000 men. 56 Cf. MRR i. 216–17, which assembles the evidence for various operations at sea. Zonaras’ account (8. 16) makes it clear that operations such as the one against Hippo were by no means extraordinary or isolated affairs. 57 Lazenby 1996: 146–7. 58 8. 16. 59 The dichotomy between ‘private’ raids and ‘public’ campaigns should not be overstretched. The two complemented each other in ancient Mediterranean warfare. On Rome and private mercenary campaigns in ancient Italy in genereal, see Schulz 2000, Loreto 2001, and Steinby 2007; ad rem, Bleckmann 2002: 209–14. 60 Note e.g. the didactic references to Roman łıåÆå Æ in 1. 58. 7–59. 6; cf. Bleckmann 2002: 212.

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‘allowed no time to pass uselessly’ (11) and, believing that it was only by a sea battle that the war could be finished, readied his oarsmen ‘in a very short time’ (12). Polybius’ account insinuates a dramatically accelerated course of events that leads to the final show-down at the Aegates Islands. According to the alternative tradition of Dio/Zonaras, upon his arrival on Sicily the consul was wounded during the preparations for the siege of Drepana, which posed a significant delay to the next steps.61 In the course of events, the actual sea battle is less dramatic in Dio, and its outcome is a much narrower victory.62 The Roman tradition again takes into account various details and some detours that add to a less streamlined course of events. On the other hand, Polybius’ version seems once again oversimplified, focusing on the sensation of Rome’s military and moral achievement. After his victory near the Aegates Islands, C. Lutatius demanded the surrender of arms and deserters, but when Hamilcar refused, the consul did not press these demands and readily consented to negotiate a peace treaty. Polybius reiterates the exhaustion motive, stressing that Lutatius’ readiness for peace was triggered by the fact ‘that the Romans were by this time worn out and enfeebled by the war’ (1. 62. 7). But when the peace terms were referred to Rome and put before the people’s assembly, the people did not accept them and sent ten commissioners to examine the matter in the next spring (241).63 Polybius offers no explanation for this delay, which seems to be odd, at best, in the light of omnipresent weariness. The historical reasons for the rejection of the first draft of the peace have been debated since the days of Mommsen: it has been suggested that the procedure of sending legati indicates a break with the nobility, or that the passage cloaks the activities of the equites who pressed for harsher economic terms to get higher interest on their loans to the state treasury.64 More recently, it has been argued that the idea of sending a group of ten emissaries was indicative of the aristocracy’s attitude that they should, rather than allow Lutatius to monopolize victory, divide it among the leading families that had provided holders of imperium over the past two decades.65 61

Zonar. 8. 17 (questioned by Lazenby 1996: 155). According to Zonar. 8. 17, the Romans prevailed only because the Carthaginian vessels ‘were impeded by the fact that they also carried freight, grain and money’. Diodorus, based on Philinus, also reports a close victory (24. 11). 63 Plb. 1. 63. 1–3; cf. Lazenby 1996: 158. 64 For relevant references, see Walbank, HCP i. 127; cf. Hoyos 1998: 120 and n. 8. 65 The names of the emissaries are unknown except for that of their leader, Q. Lutatius Cerco (cos. 241), brother of the consul of the previous year, C. Lutatius Catulus, MRR i. 219. Hence prosopography falls short. Although the people first rejected the terms, the embassy of the decem viri does not seem to have made substantial changes to Lutatius’ proposal. Hence, there was no controversy over the contents of the peace but rather over the formal arrangement. The procedure of sending delegates anticipates that towards the end of the Hannibalic War, when the senate stipulated ut P. Scipio ex decem legatorum sententia pacem cum populo Carthaginiensi 62

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Be that as it may, in historiographical terms, HCP Volume 1 bases the Polybian account ‘no doubt . . . on Fabius’ (127) and links it with the latter’s thesis of ‘popular greed’ (ibid.), which had decided the issue of helping the Mamertini at the beginning of the war. Fabius Pictor’s text for both instances, at the outbreak of the war and on its conclusion, is, of course, lost, which puts Walbank’s assumption in a plausible realm, yet it none the less remains unverifiable Quellenforschung. It is striking to note that the greed motive is in fact related in the sources. When Dio/Zonaras narrates the events that led to the peace treaty with Carthage, he relates that the people rejected the first draft of terms because ‘they could no longer restrain themselves, and hoped to possess all of Africa’.66 That is to say, in Dio’s account, the Roman forces are by no means exhausted, nor is the consul’s desire for peace driven by the hardships of a war that was dragging on for more than two decades. Instead, Dio points to Rome’s eagerness to maximize war spoils and, if necessary, prolong hostilities for the sake of a more profitable peace arrangement. Once again, Dio/Zonaras presents the reader with an alternative account that is not altogether unconvincing, whereas Polybius’ version, forceful as it may be, suffers from internal inconsistencies. By the time of HCP Volume 1, Polybius’ superiority over Cassius Dio and the remnants of the annalistic tradition in his work was axiomatic in classical scholarship. It was based on one of the fundamental tenets of ancient history that sources more contemporary to the events they describe are credited with more weight than later authorities, though not uncritically. There was also a widespread consensus that Polybius’ skills were intellectually and methodologically preferable to those of Cassius Dio and, with regard to the first quarter of his history, his Byzantine epitomizer, Zonaras.67 The latter’s record was mostly disregarded. In only a very few instances does HCP Volume 1 refer the reader to the account of Zonaras, while references to Cassius Dio are even less frequent.68 This prominent view was only recently subjected to thorough revision. The in-depth analysis of Dio/Zonaras’ narrative on the First Punic War by Bleckmann reveals striking similarities between Dio and a variety of non-annalistic source materials, including epigraphic evidence. Bleckmann is

quibus legibus ei videretur faceret (‘that Publius Scipio on the advice of ten envoys should make peace with the Carthaginians upon such terms as he saw fit:’ Liv. 30. 43. 4). On this, see Eckstein 1987a: 255–66 and Beck 2005: 352–4, who point to the nobility’s desire to de-monopolize Scipio’s fame. 66 8. 17, implicitly accepted by Hoyos 1998: 119. 67 The standard general accounts of Dio are still Millar 1964 and Manuwald 1979. Millar’s notion that a special study on Dio’s early books, which he deliberately omitted, would be worth the effort (3), has finally been satisfied: Bleckmann 2002 and Urso 2005; note also La Bua 1981. For the late republic, cf. Zecchini 1978, Fechner 1986, Berti 1988, Lintott 1997. 68 Index references to Zonaras and Cassius Dio are rare: five and two, respectively. On at least one occasion, HCP Vol. 1 finds Dio’s account preferable to that of Polybius (‘quite credible’: 168).

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able to extrapolate traces of a tradition that is not necessarily annalistic in a rigid sense of the concept, but which preserves scattered pieces of contemporary evidence from the third and second centuries, as well as historiographical information from both annalistic writers and other authors.69 Revisiting this stream of the tradition, Bleckmann credits it with ‘even more weight’70 than Polybius, at least concerning events related in the prokataskeuē. The true value of the ‘new’ Dio/Zonaras, then, is not so much—and certainly not in the first place—to prove Polybius wrong or convict him of ‘lies’.71 Rather, the comparative approach enables historians to broaden the basis of textual remains and tackle the challenges of selectivity. Most significantly, it allows for a better understanding of what is actually related in Polybius’ work. In other words: it is not necessarily their potential to revise Polybius’ information that makes parallel accounts such as Dio/Zonaras’ so valuable, but rather their contribution to the vexed process of unearthing the underlying assumptions of Polybius’ Histories and deciphering its inherent patterns of selecting the material, creating a narrative, and promoting a certain meaning. With regard to the Roman prokataskeuē, this approach is particularly promising. Scholars for long have been puzzled by the methodology and narrative techniques applied to the introduction and also by its reliability. The tradition preserved in Dio/Zonaras makes an important contribution to these questions. On Polybius’ own account, the narrative of the Roman introduction was designed to provide the main points necessary for understanding the history proper. Its goal was to familiarize the Greek audience with affairs in the western Mediterranean and to narrate what purpose guided the Romans when they began the unique undertaking of becoming the masters of all. To illustrate this, the material was presented summarily and in key topics, kephalaiōdōs. In turn, this implied that the introduction eschewed historical detail and in-depth analysis, a methodology that was presented in contrast to the pragmatic style of the main history. One may wonder how much justice the prokataskeuē does to that goal. To be sure, the narrative on the First Punic War meets a didactic aim in the sense that it illustrates some of Polybius’ basic convictions and beliefs: the works of tyche, but also the moral matrix of politics

69 Dio’s sources are a notorious problem. Neither Millar 1964 nor Manuwald 1979 (cf. above n. 67) were able to identify specific authors with certainty. The most comprehensive accounts are those by Bleckmann 2002: 36–50 and Urso 2005: 163–93. The latter argues for a liber de magistratibus (by Aelius Tubero?) as source of Dio’s early Rome. Bleckmann’s intention is not so much to name Dio’s sources, but to extrapolate similarities between Dio’s (late) account and more contemporary Roman sources from the third and second centuries, including epigraphic evidence (e.g. the Duilius inscription, elogia of the Scipios, fasti). 70 Bleckmann 2002: 18. 71 Cf. the provoking title of Hoyos 1985a.

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and Rome’s superior mental qualities, notably its łıåÆå Æ.72 But, unlike Thucydides, Polybius often refrains from axiomatic reductions. His didactic agenda is embedded in long-winded narratives on campaign seasons and the technicalities of warfare. The actual content of this year-by-year account is rendered from Fabius and Philinus—indeed, it is not implausible to suggest, as Walbank has done,73 that much of the Roman prokataskeuē was copied from Philinus. In this regard, the Roman introduction remarkably lacks independence. Yet, at the same time, the approach is individualistic and highly opinionated, especially when didactic or other high-minded goals are at stake. True, this technique was covered by the claim to write kephalaiōdōs. But it might be argued that this principle also helped to promote Polybius’ preconceptions and distort the reporting of details so that they suited the didactic or moral agenda of a passage. It is not easy to determine to what extent such a rewriting of events took place, but the comparison with Dio/Zonaras’ account suggests that Polybius was not over-scrupulous in his dealings with what he had found in his sources. The Roman introduction oscillates between the reproduction of material that was already related by his forerunners and Polybius’ creative rewriting of selected events. It is this dichotomy that defines its unique historiographical legacy.74

72 i.e. the ability to fight, and succeed, under extreme pressure: 1. 59. 6 and Walbank, HCP i. 123; cf. also 6. 52. 7 and n. 60 above. 73 1945a: 11–14. 74 I would like to thank the organizers of the symposium, Thomas Harrison, Bruce Gibson, and Gina Muskett, for their cordial invitation and kind hospitality. Bruce Gibson also provided many valuable comments and suggestions on the text. Thanks are also due to my colleagues in McGill’s think-tank on the Roman republic, especially Michael Fronda and John Serrati.

7 Historiographic Patterns and Historical Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories: Marcellus, Flaminius, and the Mamertine Crisis Craige Champion

This chapter examines some historiographic problems in Polybius’ Histories, seeking to understand seeming incongruities between large narrative patterns in the work and its representations of particular historical events. My first section (‘Narrative Patterning in Polybius’ Histories’) summarizes an argument I made more extensively in an earlier study (Champion 2004a); namely that Polybius represents the Roman polity as a well-ordered political community at the outset, but as the history proceeds he shows Rome’s deterioration in both its domestic and foreign policy spheres. According to his political theory, the causes of this deterioration were Rome’s uncontestable interstate power and the rise of the popular element in political life. Yet there are notable instances of what Polybius regarded as egregiously deplorable behaviour on the part of Roman officials prior to, or at the very beginning of, the stated onset of this decay (sometime after the heroic Roman response to the disaster at Cannae; cf. 6. 11. 1, 51. 3–8). My second section (‘Reading Marcellus and Flaminius’) considers two of these instances: the representations of the behaviours of M. Claudius Marcellus and C. Flaminius, which I use to study the apparent contradiction between Polybius’ generally pristine image of third-century Rome and his representation of particular examples of improper behaviour in the period. In my third section (‘Curia, Comitia, and the Mamertine Crisis: Historiographic Interventions’) I turn to the main focus of this chapter: the generally positive representation of the Roman decision to cross to Sicily under arms in 264. Critics sharply condemned this action as duplicitous and immoral, both at the time of its occurrence and at the time of Polybius’ composition—making the Roman resolution fit most uncomfortably with the image of third-century Roman political virtue. Some of the interpretative strategies proposed in my

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second section are not of much help here, suggesting that the Messana crisis presents perhaps the most difficult historiographic problem in the entire history.1 My contention is that we can best understand Polybius’ representation of this crucial juncture in Roman history by attending to the large narrative trajectories of the Histories.

NARRATIVE PATTERNING IN POLYBIUS ’ HISTORIES Professor Walbank has taught us many things about Polybius, not least of which is the need to understand the historian on his own terms, giving due consideration to historiographic problems such as the historian’s conception of tyche (Fortune), his ideas on relationships between history and tragedy, and his concessions to the supernatural in historical causation. He has written that ‘although Polybius is commonly regarded as a rational or “factual” historian, his work reveals an obsession with what I may call historical patterns’.2 In a book published several years ago, I tried to make a case for the presence of such patterns in the Histories, claiming that in Polybius’ representation, Roman (and Achaean) collective character deteriorates as the work progresses towards the historian’s own day. This deterioration, in Polybius’ opinion, was the result of political and societal debasement; meanwhile the Roman polity in the third century was, by contrast, in its optimal condition as a ‘mixed constitution’ under the direction of its aristocratic element, the Roman senate.3 Polybius maintains that politeiai in their prime operate according to the dictates of reason, or logismos. In their corrupted form, they slide into ochlocracy or mob-rule, in which collective behaviour is characterized by intemperance, irrationality, and violent emotion—the realm of the Polybian barbarian. I asserted that these political convictions are ever-present throughout Polybius’ work; and that at the outset of the Histories his narrative objectives pushed him to depict Rome at its acme, before the corruption had begun.

1 My argument addresses a historiographic problem in Polybius’ Histories; it is best served by treating the passages under consideration (concerning Marcellus, Flaminius, and the Mamertine crisis) in reverse chronological order, leading up to the momentous Roman decision to cross the Straits of Messana in 264. An earlier version was presented at the annual meeting of the Association of Ancient Historians held at Princeton University, 4 May 2007. I wish to thank the organizers of Polybius 1957–2007, Thomas Harrison, Bruce Gibson, and Gina Muskett, for inviting me to participate, and the participants (as well as the audience at Princeton), whose trenchant comments and penetrating questions enabled me to make the paper a much better one. I extend special thanks to Bruce Gibson for his editorial queries and suggestions. Any remaining flaws are, of course, entirely my own. All dates are bc. 2 Walbank 1994: 29. 3 Champion 2004a: 105–22.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 145 The most important passages for this narrative patterning in the Histories are as follows. Polybius emphasizes the Roman politeia in his account of the rise of Rome,4 which is shown to have reached the pinnacle of its moral virtue sometime around the time of the Hannibalic War (6. 2. 5–6, 11. 1). At this time Carthage, Rome’s great nemesis, was already in decline (6. 51. 5–8, explicitly contrasting the condition of Carthage and Rome’s apogee), the cause of which was, as for all Polybian states, the preponderance of the popular element in political life, which is a result of interstate supremacy and domestic prosperity. For Polybius, the non-elites are always responsible for this decay (6. 57. 7–9). As for Polybius’ own time, Roman collective degeneracy was all too evident in the historian’s estimation. For example, Roman military virtue was but a shadow of its former self, and Roman public officials no longer uniformly exhibited integrity in financial transactions.5 In cases such as these, Polybius contrasts glaringly base behaviours on the part of Romans with the stated period of immaculate Roman political and moral virtue. A dissonant narrative tension arises, however, when immoral Roman behaviours occur in the period in which Rome was ostensibly at its height of political and moral excellence. This dissonance demands some attempt at analysis and explanation. The following section briefly considers two such instances—Polybius’ representations of M. Claudius Marcellus and C. Flaminius—and it concludes by suggesting some interpretative strategies for understanding such seemingly incongruous passages.

READING MARCELLUS AND FLAMINIUS M. Claudius Marcellus first appears in Polybius’ narrative as the consul in 222 engaged in suppressing the remnants of the Gallic tumultus, whose main force was broken at the battle at Telamon. Polybius mentions Marcellus as the leader of the Roman cavalry and a small infantry force that responded to the Insubres’ siege of Clastidium, but he features Marcellus’ consular colleague, Cn. Cornelius Scipio Calvus, as the commander responsible for taking the Insubres’ stronghold of Mediolanum and thus ending the war.6 Münzer

4 Plb. 3. 2. 6; cf. 1. 1. 5, 64. 2; 3. 118. 8–9; 6. 2. 2–3, 18. 4–5; 8. 2. 3–11; 39. 8. 7–8; Pédech 1964: 303–30. 5 Plb. 13. 3. 6–8; 18. 35. 1–2; Champion 2004a: 144–69. 6 Plb. 2. 34. 1–35. 1. According to Plutarch (Marc. 6. 5–7. 1), Marcellus saved Cornelius at Mediolanum, and the senate decreed a triumph for him alone; cf. Eutr. 3. 6; Oros. 4. 13, 15; Zonar. 8. 20.

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reasonably believed that Polybius may have emphasized Cornelius’ role at Marcellus’ expense out of partisanship for the Cornelii Scipiones.7 If Polybius only slighted Marcellus in his account of the final phase of the Gallic War of the 220s, Livy’s narrative suggests that he roundly condemned his behaviour at the siege of Syracuse in 211, in the course of the Hannibalic War.8 Earlier in the Leontian campaign, Marcellus had had 2,000 Roman deserters beheaded, and after Syracuse fell, he plundered precious Greek artwork in order to adorn temples near the Porta Capena.9 When Polybius comes to recount his death as an unwitting victim of Hannibal’s ambush in Venusia, he plainly states that Marcellus acted more like an imbecile than a general.10 Meanwhile C. Flaminius was branded in Roman senatorial tradition as a renegade, demagogic politician, a revolutionary villain in the mould of the early republican socio-economic agitators Sp. Cassius Vecellinus, Sp. Maelius, and M. Manlius Capitolinus, who callously disregarded Roman religious traditions.11 Flaminius was one of those traitorous members of the political elite whose radical socio-economic tactics regularly elicit the historian’s savage contempt.12 Polybius (2. 33. 1–9) remarks that the Gallic wars of the 220s revealed the excellence of Roman military training and discipline, which could overcome even the ineptitudes of commanders such as Flaminius. However, he flatly states that Flaminius’ land redistribution scheme was the beginning of the moral decline of the populace—a statement curiously at odds with the idea that the onset of Roman deterioration began sometime after the moral highpoint of the Roman response to the disaster at Cannae (6. 2. 5–6, 11. 1).13 Polybius’ acknowledgement of the degeneracy of Marcellus and Flaminius strikes a discordant note with his larger narrative trajectory from third7 Münzer 1899: col. 2738. In addition to failing to mention Marcellus’ triumph, Polybius is silent on Marcellus’ single-handed combat with the Gallic leader, Britomarus or Virdumarus, his winning of the spolia opima, and his dedication of a temple to Virtus and Honos, all amply attested in the annalistic tradition; Münzer 1899: cols. 2739–40 assembles the references. Note, however, that Marcellus is the first consul mentioned at 2. 34. 1. 8 For a detailed analysis of Marcellus’ Sicilian campaign, see Eckstein 1987a: 157–69, 345–9; for Livy’s depiction of Marcellus’ character, see now Levene 2010: 197–214, 333–4. 9 Liv. 24. 30. 6; for Marcellus’ savagery, see further Liv. 24. 19. 9–11 (Casilinum); 24. 35. 2 (Megara Hyblaea); 24. 39. 1–10 (Henna); 26. 30. 4–5 (Leontini), with Nissen 1863: 53–85, esp. 83–5, for Livy’s reliance on Polybius in these books. Polybius elsewhere (9. 10. 1–13; 39. 2–3) condemns Roman removal of Greek artwork, which made the Romans targets of hatred. Cf. Cic. 2 Verr. 2. 4 for a favourable tradition on Marcellus’ behaviour at Syracuse (cf. salus Siciliae, 2. Verr. 2. 8), mentioned in order to excoriate Verres. 10 Plb. 10. 32. 7–8, with Walbank, HCP ii. 242–3 on 10. 32. 1–33. 7, Eckstein 1995: 28–9. 11 Champion 2004a: 190–2, Rosenstein 1990: 58 n. 11, 77–8 n. 74. According to Zonaras (8. 20), the senate denied a triumph to Flaminius in 223, but the people overturned the senators’ wishes. For Flaminius’ career and senatorial politics, see Feig Vishnia 1996: 11–48. 12 See Welwei 1966, Mendels 1979, 1981b, 1982, Eckstein 1995: 129–40, Champion 2004a: 185–93, Champion 2004b. 13 Plb. 2. 21. 8 (‘the first step in the corruption of the people’); cf. 2. 33. 8–9; 3. 80. 3, 84. 4–5.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 147 century Roman political excellence and moral virtue to a mid-second-century debased Roman morality. In this context it is well to remember that for Polybius the individual is the product of his society and an accurate mirror of its cultural practices.14 How are we to account for the apparent discrepancy? We might posit influences from political pressures applied by the senatorial aristocracy. As we have seen, Münzer argued that Polybius’ representation of M. Claudius Marcellus redounded to the credit of his consular colleague in 222, a member of the Cornelii Scipiones, the historian’s patrons. In the case of C. Flaminius, Polybius’ highly negative assessment would have simply fallen into line with what seems to have been an undisputed senatorial tradition on an outlaw and treacherous demagogue. Alternatively, we might simply conclude that Polybius was not always able to reconcile his commitment to painstaking accuracy and impartiality with his historiographic patterning.15 Finally, we could read the condemnatory assessments of a Marcellus or Flaminius as part of a subtle attempt to give voice to anti-Roman sentiments among Polybius’ Greek readership, offering subtexts that create a tension with and resist the straightforward idea of third-century Roman excellence. Elsewhere I have adopted this approach, calling the historiographic strategy a ‘politics of cultural indeterminacy’ (Champion 2004a). Each of these approaches offers a valid interpretation of specific instances where Polybius’ historical narratives are in discord with his general image of third-century Roman political culture. It would be absurd to insist that one of them is correct to the exclusion of the others, but in my opinion the idea that Polybius wrote with an eye to his multiple readerships and their political predispositions renders an infinitely more subtle, complex, and interesting writer and artist. I shall return to these interpretative approaches in the conclusion to this chapter in order to underscore the unique historiographic problem Polybius struggled with at the very opening of his Histories in recounting Rome’s decision to cross to Sicily under arms.

14 Plb. 6. 47. 3–5. Conversely, it is true that for Polybius, where strong individuals are in power, changes in their dispositions can result in changes in the nature of their states: see 9. 23. 8–9; cf. 4. 2. 10–11, with Champion 2004a: 103–5. Such cases, however, appear to be more or less confined for Polybius to monarchies or politeiai in a decadent condition to begin with (e.g. Boeotia, Aetolia). For the well-ordered state of Achaea, at any rate, Polybius feels compelled to digress on individual psychology in order to explain Aratus of Sicyon’s deviations from Achaean collective character (4. 8. 1–12). He concedes that rare individuals, who are politically and morally superior to their contemporaries, can arise in states already in decline; see Champion 2004a: 146–51, 158–63. 15 For Polybius’ ideas on the main criterion of truth in historical writing, see Plb. 1. 14. 6–9 and assembled references at Champion 2004a: 22 n. 30.

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CURIA, COMITIA, AN D T H E M A M E R T I N E C R I S I S : HISTORIOGRAPHIC INTERVENTIONS Polybius’ primary sources for the First Punic War—Q. Fabius Pictor and Philinus of Agrigentum—undoubtedly presented a much fuller narrative of the events than we find in his Book 1. His abbreviation of these narratives requires explanation. Along these lines I shall argue two points: (1) the fact that the account of the First Punic War occurs in Polybius’ prefatory and cursory introduction is in itself an insufficient explanation for the truncated and ambiguous treatment of the events at Rome in 264; and (2) the narrative obfuscation is best understood by attending to Polybius’ historiographic patterning and his contemporaneous readerships. In studying Roman imperialism, historians rightly stress the determination in 264 to campaign in Sicily. This decision marked the first step in Rome’s transition from a powerful state confined to the Italian peninsula to one of world history’s most successful, largest, and longest-lasting hegemonic empires.16 Yet the decision-making processes ultimately leading to Mediterranean-wide domination are in Polybius’ version shrouded in obscurity. The historical issue concerned the strategically important town of Messana, and Syracusan and Carthaginian interventions there. The so-called Mamertines (Campanian mercenaries) seized Messana and made a large part of northeastern Sicily insecure by their marauding activities (Plb. 1. 8. 1–2; cf. Diod. 22. 13. 1; 23. 1. 4; Plut. Pyrrh. 23. 1, 5). Under pressure from Hiero II of Syracuse, the Mamertines appealed to both Carthage and Rome for aid. According to Polybius, Roman senators feared Carthage would acquire a bridgehead at Messana for invading Italy, but the questionable morality of assisting the treacherous Mamertine usurpers gave them pause (1. 11. 1; cf. 3. 26. 6). Polybius’ narrative compression makes it unclear as to whether the senate or the popular assembly determined to aid the Mamertines, and just what the nature of this aid was to be. He simply states, ƒ b ºº . . . ŒæØÆ ÅŁE (1. 11. 2, ‘the majority . . . determined to give aid’). Chapters 10 and 11 of the first book comprise our only detailed narrative of the momentous Roman resolution to become involved in Sicilian affairs—a 16 Interestingly, Polybius gives another ‘first step’ when he reports the news of the fall of Agrigentum early in 261 (1. 20. 1–2). He represents the arrival of the news at Rome as the moment when the senate first began to think of ending the Carthaginian presence in Sicily. Consequently, the idea that the Romans were merely helping the Mamertines in 264, with no imperial designs, is reinforced. For historical reconstructions of the preliminaries to and outbreak of the war, see e.g. Hoffmann 1969, Petzold 1969: 129–79, Hampl 1972: 413–27, Rich 1976: 119–27, Eckstein 1980, Hoyos 1984, Eckstein 1987a: 73–101, Scullard 1989: 537–45, Lazenby 1996: 11–42, Hoyos 1998: 33–99. For Rome’s imperial expansion in this period, see (from among a vast literature) Errington 1971, Harris 1979, Gruen 1984, Ferrary 1988, Hoyos 1998, and now Eckstein 2008. Kallet-Marx 1995 is indispensable for the period from the Achaean War to the ascendancy of Cn. Pompeius Magnus.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 149 resolution which eventually led to the First Punic War. The preliminaries to the war in Polybius’ account (1. 7–10) are well known; only a brief summary is required here. Italian Rhegium, fearing both Pyrrhus’ designs on Italy and Carthaginian naval power, appealed to Rome for a protective garrison.17 Around the time of Pyrrhus’ crossing to Italy, the Romans sent to Rhegium a group of 4,000 Campanian mercenaries under the command of a certain Decius.18 These Campanians forcibly took control of Rhegium, much as the Campanians in Sicily had treacherously occupied Messana. In Sicily, Hiero defeated the Mamertines nearby the Longanus river, and then returned to Syracuse, where he was named king (1. 8. 3–9. 8). In Italy, a Roman expedition subdued and punished the treacherous mercenaries at Rhegium.19 The Mamertines now found themselves in a difficult situation, since they were deprived of the support of their compatriots at Rhegium. They had been so weakened by their defeat at Hiero’s hands that they could no longer pursue warlike activities with their own resources. They were forced to seek outside assistance, but they disagreed as to whom they should appeal. One party sent for help to the Carthaginians, entrusting themselves and their defences to them. Others went to Rome, offering to place Messana under Roman protection and begging for assistance on the grounds of kinship.20 This embassy caused the senatorial quandary at Rome. In a meticulous study of the events, Eckstein has persuasively argued that the Roman decision was initially to make a public statement to the international political community that Rome had received Messana into its amicitia, and that it was only later that the consul Ap. Claudius Caudex was entrusted with relieving the Syracusan and Carthaginian siege of the town, by diplomatic

17 Plb. 1. 7. 6–7; cf. Diod. 22. 1. 2–3; Dio fr. 40. 7–12; Dion. Hal. A.R. 20. 4. 1–5. 5. Dionysius states that the Roman consul C. Fabricius Luscinus sent out the garrison; based on Fabricius’ consulships, the dispatch was in 282; an attack on the Campanian usurpers at Rhegium followed in 278 (MRR i. 189, 194). 18 Plb. 1. 7. 6; see Walbank, HCP i. 52–3 on 1. 7. 6–13 for discussion of the date and numerical variants for the size of the garrison. The identity of the commander Decius is exceedingly complicated; see Liv. Per. 12 (Decius Vibellius); Liv. 28. 28. 2–4 (registering a D. Vibullius as military tribune); App. Samn. 9. 2–3; and the ‘Jubellius’ at Val. Max. 2. 7. 15 (with Campanian mercenaries as ciues Romanos, cf. Salmon 1967: 39 n. 1 on the legio Campana; MRR i. 199). Decius was clearly a member of a powerful Capuan family (cf. Cic. Agr. 2. 93–4, with Syme 1955: 129). 19 Rhegium was reduced in 270: Walbank, HCP i. 53 on 1. 7. 6–13; MRR i. 198. Only in Book 3 does Polybius concede that the Roman action could be condemned (3. 26. 6–7; passage quoted in full in n. 41.). 20 Plb. 1. 10. 1–3, Ø ÅŁ
Ø
ç
Ø ÆPE ›çºØ æåı
Ø; Serrati 2006: 131 n. 70 assembles references for Italian appeals to consanguinity with Rome; on kinship diplomacy generally, see Jones 1999. The question of the chronological relationship between the battle at the Longanus (269 or 265/64?) and the Mamertine appeals to Carthage and to Rome is vexed, but Zonar. 8. 8 is clear about Hiero besieging Messana in 265/64, which led to the Mamertine request for outside assistance; see Petzold 1969: 160–1, Eckstein 1987a: 74 n. 3.

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or—as a last resort—military means.21 Therefore there appear to have been at least two stages in the Roman deliberations, whereas Polybius’ compressed narrative suggests only one. Polybius’ account of this diplomatic situation forms part of the so-called prokataskeuē, the somewhat hurried and abbreviated Books 1 and 2. These books stand outside of his history proper, which begins with the 140th Olympiad (220–16). In his prokataskeuē he sought only to sketch earlier history in order for his readership to have the requisite background knowledge for the detailed narrative to follow. He was therefore interested in merely summarizing the sequence of events leading up to the First Punic War; in historiographic terms, his simplification is, therefore, understandable.22 Yet according to Polybius (1. 63. 1–9), the Roman action precipitated the greatest war in human memory and created ambitions for universal dominion. It is therefore reasonable to expect a lucid and complete treatment of such an important chain of events. As Eckstein has demonstrated, the ancient tradition outside of Polybius’ history (most importantly the surviving fragments of Diodorus’ Books 22 and 23) suggests the following sequence of events: the Mamertine expulsion of a small Carthaginian garrison from Messana (which itself had been called in as a defence against possible aggression from Pyrrhus); the formation of a Syracusan–Carthaginian alliance against Messana, now under some sort of Roman protection; and a joint Syracusan–Carthaginian siege of Messana (Diod. 22. 13. 9–23. 3, esp. 23. 1. 4). Beyond Diodorus’ fragmentary account, the annalistic tradition also is consistent with a historical reconstruction involving more complex circumstances than that offered by Polybius.23 Indeed, at 1. 20. 13–16 Polybius himself narrates Claudius’ naval skirmishing in the straits of Messana; and at 3. 26. 6 he seems to say that there were two distinct stages in the development of Roman intervention in Sicily: acceptance of the Mamertines into amicitia (Polybius’ æ
ºÆ N c çغ Æ); and later (Polybius’ ŒÆd a ÆFÆ) a resolution for active assistance. Finally, at 1. 11. 4–9, the Mamertines invite Claudius into Messana after they have expelled the Carthaginian garrison, but he crosses over to Sicily only after the Carthaginians and Syracusans have formed some sort of alliance and have begun to besiege the city.

21

Eckstein 1987a: 73–101, 335–40. On Polybius’ prokataskeuē, see Gelzer 1940a and 1940b (the ‘Achaean prokataskeuē’), Petzold 1969: 135–48; cf. Champion 2004a: 138 n. 150. See also Hans Beck’s chapter in this volume. 23 Liv. Per. 16; Dio 11, fr. 43; Zonar. 8. 8 (Roman hesitation, P Æåø ÆPE KŒæÅ
Æ); Flor. 1. 18. 3–6; De vir. ill. 37. 2; Oros. 4. 7. 1. For careful reconstruction of the events, see, in addition to Eckstein 1987a: 73–101, 335–40 (who differs in some details), Hoyos 1998: 33–104. 22

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 151 Clearly Polybius knew of a fuller tradition concerning these events and chose to truncate it. His sources were, on his own admission, the pro-Carthaginian Philinus and the pro-Roman senatorial historian Fabius Pictor.24 A lively polemic regarding the question of war-guilt informed the debate, with Philinus characterizing the Romans as unjust aggressors, and Fabius representing them as upright and morally impeccable statesmen, engaging in war only as a last resort. Such debates continue to the present day, but they cannot proceed very far without considering the so-called Philinus Treaty. This is not the place for detailed discussion of the long-standing controversy surrounding the treaty, which, if historical, probably dated to the year 306. For my purposes, it will be sufficient to state that there was an intense, politically motivated historiographic argument as to whether a Romano-Carthaginian treaty of the late fourth century, stipulating that the Romans must stay away from the whole of Sicily and the Carthaginians from the whole of Italy, actually existed; and that Polybius vigorously denied it (3. 26. 1–7). If there was indeed such a treaty, then the Roman crossing in 264 violated a formal international agreement. Philinus accepted it as historical fact—as did the later annalistic tradition, which did not contest the treaty’s existence but rather strove to prove that the Carthaginians were the first to break it when they sent a fleet to Tarentum in 272.25 Since publication of a seminal article by Matthias Gelzer, scholars have been in general agreement that Fabius’ history, written in Greek, was in large part aimed at justifying Rome’s diplomatic and military actions before a readership of the Greek political classes.26 Polybius’ account of the earlier part of the war suggests that he relied more heavily on Fabius than on Philinus, since here he refers to consul-names; whereas in his narrative of the war’s later stages he

24 Plb. 1. 14. 1–3; for Polybius’ further criticisms of Fabius, see 1. 15. 12, 58. 5; 3. 8. 1–9. 5; of Philinus, 1. 15. 1–12; 3. 26. 2–7, with Walbank, HCP i. 64–5 on 1. 14. 1; and now Ambaglio 2005. Polybius perhaps also drew upon Timaeus, from whom his digression on Hiero II (1. 8. 3–9. 8) is likely to have derived; see Walbank, HCP i. 53–4 on 1. 8. 3–9. 8. For the fragments of Philinus, see my article (Champion 2010), ‘FGrH 174 Philinos’, in Brill’s New Jacoby On-Line (http://www. brillonline.com); for Fabius, see Beck and Walter FRH I2, pp. 55–136. 25 See e.g. Serv. A. 4. 628 (cf. Serv. A. 1. 108; Cato fr. 84 Peter, referring to a foedus); Liv. 9. 43. 26; 21. 10. 8; Per. 14, with Hampl 1972: 422 n. 18. The post-Polybian annalistic tradition also fabricated a formal treaty (foedus sociale) between Rome and the Mamertines at the time Messana came under attack in 264: Liv. 30. 31. 4; Flor. 1. 18. 3. Serrati 2006, esp. 120–9, has recently argued for the historicity of the Philinus Treaty, and provides bibliographic references for modern scholarly positions, both for and against, at 120 n. 25 (see also Hoyos 1984: 92 n. 6; Hoyos 1998: 10 n. 10, Foucault, Foulon, and Molin 2004: 191 n. 117); cf. Hampl 1972: 423 n. 20 for earlier literature on the question. 26 Gelzer 1933 (see also Gelzer 1934); cf. Hampl 1972: 413 and n. 2, with references to earlier literature. For Fabius’ composition in Greek, see Dion. Hal. A.R. 1. 6. 2; Cic. Div. 1. 43, with Frier 1999: 255–84.

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mentions years of the war, which suggests heavier reliance on Philinus.27 But such circumstantial evidence is not necessary for us to be confident that Fabius was Polybius’ main source for third-century Roman diplomacy in general and the decision-making processes in 264 in particular. What can we reasonably conjecture about Fabius’ treatment of the Roman deliberations? Polybius’ narrative shows that Fabius described long, agonizing senatorial debates regarding the Mamertine appeal (1. 11. 1, ŒÆd e b
ı æØ P ' N º KŒæø
 c ªÅ). Eckstein has written of a ‘complex and highly fluid diplomatic situation’, in which the senate presented Claudius with a ‘spectrum of possible actions’.28 Two passages from later Roman sources may also reflect Fabius’ representation of the events; at least they are consistent with his picture of a morally conscious senate that did not aggressively initiate the First Punic War. First, Livy’s Periocha 16 states that when the Messana affair reached a crisis point, the senate determined to aid the Mamertines.29 Diodorus states that as soon as the Romans learned that Messana was under siege by Carthaginian and Syracusan forces, they sent Claudius to Rhegium with a strong army.30 Claudius dispatched envoys to both parties in order to negotiate a lifting of the siege. The harsh response Diodorus attributes to Hiero, castigating the Romans for taking impious murderers under their protection and thinly disguising under the pretext of fides their lust for possessing Sicily, shows that Diodorus was not following only Fabius but probably using the pro-Carthaginian Philinus as well.31 Consequently, it is important to exercise caution in attempting to study Diodorus in order to ascertain what either Fabius or Philinus had to say about the crisis. That caveat notwithstanding, it is noteworthy that, before Hiero’s hostile reply, Diodorus has Claudius state publicly that he would not proceed with war against Hiero.32 The combination of Livy and Diodorus may cautiously be taken as evidence that, in a very detailed account, Fabius represented Claudius as agonizing over his duty to carry out the senate’s authorization to aid the Mamertines, but unwilling to take any action that might precipitate a war 27

See Walbank, HCP i. 65 on 1. 14. 1; the perverse attempt to reverse this reasoning at Laqueur 1938: col. 1283 must be rejected. In the prokataskeuē Polybius was dependent on the chronological methods used by his sources; see Errington 1967b. 28 Eckstein 1987a: 74. 29 Liv. Per. 16: auxilium Mamertinis ferendum senatus censuit. For Livy’s direct use of Fabius, see Luce 1977: 159–62. 30 Diod. 23. 1. 4. Note that Diodorus’ sense of urgency (n [Ap. Claudius] PŁf qºŁ N

  ªØ) conflicts with the delay in Zonar. 8. 8 (see n. 23 above). 31 Diodorus cites Philinus three times as a source for his account of the First Punic War (23. 8. 1; 23. 17; 24. 11. 1). For Diodorus’s use of Fabius, see Diod. 7. 5. 4, with Sacks 1990: 118 n. 3. 32 Frontinus (Str. 1. 4. 11) describes Claudius’ ruse in crossing from Rhegium to Messana. The general proclaimed that he could not engage in war without a formal war-vote of the Roman people, and then, feigning a return to Italy, turned around and sailed to Sicily.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 153 against Syracuse and/or Carthage without a formal war declaration from the Roman senate and people. In the end, the demands of fides towards the Mamertines gave Claudius little choice but to engage in open hostilities at Messana, which led to war with Carthage. None of these details is present in Polybius’ narrative. His ƒ ºº at 1. 11. 2 has spawned a vigorous scholarly debate on the decision-making processes at Rome. For a long time a nearly unanimous consensus held that ƒ ºº means the Roman people meeting in formal assembly.33 Beginning around the mid-point of the twentieth century, however, scholars have raised objections, arguing that ƒ ºº instead means here a majority in the senate.34 Eckstein’s 1980 article, in particular, was dealt a sharp rejoinder by Hoyos, who attempted to restore ƒ ºº as the people meeting in comitial assembly.35 Calderone and his collaborators suggested that 1. 11. 1, containing the phrase ŒÆd e b
ı æØ P ' N º KŒæø
 c ªÅ, was meant as a conditional apodosis without ¼, but that Polybius became involved in explaining the aitiai for the senate’s hesitation and left the phrase as an anacoluthon. Eckstein argued Polybius did not state there was a permanent deadlock in the senate, but intended for the phrase N º to have intensive, not temporal, force. He added that the  at 1. 11. 1 was a reduplicated , resumed from 1. 10. 9, so the correct reading is that the senate debated at length (  øÆEØ . . . ºf b åæ Kıº
Æ), but ultimately the majority of the senators resolved to help the Mamertines (1. 11. 2, ƒ b ºº . . . ŒæØÆ ÅŁE). Finally, Hoyos argued against Eckstein that the ªÆ at 1. 11. 3 need not mean a senatus consultum, but rather represents a formal vote in comitial assembly.36 All of these close philological arguments based on particular words or phrases beg a historiographic question: why did Polybius represent the situation in such a way that has allowed for this fierce debate to arise in the first place, especially since elsewhere he unambiguously describes activities of both the senate and the popular assemblies?37 As already stated, part of the reason 33

Eckstein 1980: 176 n. 5 assembles the references. De Martino 1951: 239–40, Develin 1973: 121–2, Calderone 1977, Eckstein 1980 and 1987a: 80–2, Calderone, Bitto, de Salvo, and Pinzone 1981. 35 Hoyos 1984. 36 Calderone 1977: 386, Calderone, Bitto, de Salvo, and Pinzone 1981: 27–30, Eckstein 1980: 182 and n. 22, 188 and n. 39, Eckstein 1987a: 82 and n. 35, Hoyos 1984: 89–90; cf. Hoyos 1998: 57–64. 37 When Polybius wants to denote unequivocally the Roman senate, he uses e
ı æØ (but only at 1. 11. 1 in Books 1–2; it also describes the Carthaginian ‘senate’ at 1. 31. 8 and Pythagorean councils in Magna Graecia at 2. 39. 1) or 
ªŒºÅ (in the prokataskeuē at 1. 20. 1 and 2. 8. 3). In relation to the ªÆ at 1. 11. 3, note that Polybius frequently makes it clear that he refers to senatus consulta by adding the words B
ıªŒºı (6. 13. 2; 18. 44. 1, 2, 5; 24. 10. 3 (ÆPB ); 28. 13. 11, 16. 2; 29. 27. 2; 30. 30. 2–3, 31. 20). As Eckstein 1980: 184–5 notes, ƒ ºº clearly means a majority in the Roman senate at 33. 18. 10–11, where Polybius discusses a division (E b s æ Ø . . . ƒ b ºº ), but this cannot be said of 1. 11. 2. When Polybius 34

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for this is that Polybius’ treatment of the First Punic War forms part of his first two summary books, but I would like to suggest that a more satisfactory explanation lies in considering the larger narrative pattern of the Histories and the circumstances of its composition. Polybius’ first six books were probably written and published before 150, when he was still technically a political prisoner.38 During these years there were intense disagreements in Greek political circles about the justice of Rome’s acquisition of empire. Polybius indicates the presence of such debates, both in stating that his work will enable readers to decide whether the Roman dominion was worthy of praise or blame and in relaying divided opinions of Greek statesmen on Roman behaviour during the Third Punic War.39 In this connection we may consider the celebrated ‘philosophical embassy’ to Rome in 155, when the Academic philosopher Carneades mesmerized members of the ruling elite with his lectures, in which he apparently called into question the justice of the Roman imperium. There is evidence that Polybius himself may have attended Carneades’ lectures.40 In any event, Polybius makes it clear that the dubious morality of Roman imperial expansion was discussed particularly in the light of the crossing to Sicily in 264.41 It is reasonable to assume that Polybius’ personal predicament as a political hostage and the fact that he wrote for both Roman and Greek readerships had a profound influence on his composition.42 The decision to assist the Mamertines presented a historiographic dilemma—there was no way to explain the action while preserving the image of a third-century Roman society morally superior to that of the mid-second century. To assign unequivocally the

wants to refer unambiguously to the Roman people meeting formally in comitia, he regularly uses B (twenty-one occurrences), not ƒ ºº (Eckstein 1980: 183 and n. 28); but we do read ƒ º  in what is clearly a comitial context at 6. 12. 4; cf. Hoyos 1984: 91. 38 Walbank 1972a: 19–25. 39 Plb. 3. 4. 6–8; 36. 9. 1–10. 1, with Champion 2004a: 193–203. Cf. Plb. 1. 83. 3–4 (on Hiero II’s wisdom in counterbalancing the powers of Rome and Carthage), P  ªaæ åæc a ØÆFÆ ÆææA P b ź،ÆÅ P d
ıªŒÆÆ
ŒıÇØ ıÆ
 Æ, æe m P b æd H ›ºªıø K
ÆØ ØŒÆ ø IçØ
ÅE (‘for these kinds of things should never be overlooked, and we should never assist an empire to such an extent that none dare dispute with it concerning acknowledged rights’). 40 Cic. Rep. 3. 7 Powell (Lactant. Inst. 5. 14. 3–5); Quint. Inst. 12. 1. 35; Polybius’ attendance: Plb. 33. 2. 10 (Gel. 6. 14. 10), with Ferrary 1988: 360 and n. 30. Champion 2004a: 197–8 responds to the reservations of Gruen 1984: 342 and Ferrary 1988: 351–63 concerning the historicity of Carneades’ lectures. 41 Plb. 3. 26. 6, P c Iºº’ N ŒÆa F Ø KغÆÆØ   øÆ ø æd B N ØŒº Æ ØÆ
ø , ‹Ø ŒÆŁºı Ææ ı æ
ºÆ N c çغ Æ ŒÆd a ÆFÆ Ø

KŁÅ
Æ, ¥ Ø P  c 

Å ø ºØ Iººa ŒÆd c   Ū ø Ææ
 Å
Æ, NŒø

i Ø ı
Ææ
E (‘It might seem plausible to blame the Romans, in their invasion of Sicily, for having taken the Mamertines into alliance at all, and for answering their request for aid when they had betrayed Rhegium as well as Messana—one could reasonably disapprove [of the action]’). 42 For Polybius’ multiple audiences, see Plb. 6. 11. 3–8; 31. 22. 8, with Champion 2004a: 4 n. 5.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 155 responsibility for crossing to Sicily to the senate, which I have suggested is what Polybius may have found in Fabius, would have been to represent the senators in a morally dubious light.43 On the other hand, to state unambiguously that the people took this executive decision would have undermined his image of Rome at this time, since the rise of the popular element in any state was for him a clear sign of decadence and corruption.44 His ambiguous ƒ ºº at 1. 11. 2, therefore, can be viewed as a device to avoid commitment to either of these interpretations—and one whose indeterminacy serves the larger narrative pattern. In cases of historiographic shaping, we should expect to find inconsistencies and uneasy tensions between narrative patterns and actual events. These do in fact occur in Polybius’ work: for example, in the aftermath of the First Punic War, Rome took advantage of Carthaginian weakness (1. 79. 1–7), as Polybius touches on only lightly in Book 1. He states that at the time of the Carthaginian mercenary rebellion in Sardinia, both Rome and Carthage adhered to treaty obligations; and that, for its part, Rome returned all prisoners of war to Carthage, did not accept an invitation from the rebels to enter Sardinia, and would not accept Utica’s surrender.45 Polybius concedes that at some later time the Romans did in fact accept the invitation to enter Sardinia, and they threatened to declare war on the Carthaginians when the latter began to make retaliatory preparations against their rebellious mercenaries. Although Carthage protested that it had sovereign rights over Sardinia, it was forced to submit, relinquishing the island and agreeing to pay an additional war indemnity of 1,200 talents.46 Although these events could be used to cast Rome in a most negative light, it is important to recognize that Polybius preserves his representation of thirdcentury Rome by making no moral judgement on the Roman behaviour in Book 1, and that he does not relate the senate’s role at this juncture.47 43 In the end, the question of Fabius’ representation of the events in 264 must remain open. Gelzer 1933: 134–6 and Hampl 1972: 417, 421, and n. 17 argued that Fabius assigned responsibility for the decision to the Roman popular assembly; Bung 1950: 138 and Hoffmann 1969: 171 suggested that this was Polybius’ own reconstruction. What is certain is the ambiguity of Polybius’ ƒ ºº at 1. 11. 2, which this chapter attempts to explain in historiographic terms. 44 See Welwei 1966, Eckstein 1995: 129–40, Champion 2004a: 185–93, Champion 2004b. Cf. Plb. 12. 25k. 6–7, where Polybius discusses Timaeus’ representation of Hermocrates’ speech at Gela in 424 (cf. Thuc. 4. 59–64). Hermocrates, according to Timaeus, praised the Geloans and Camarinians for making sure that important matters of state were not discussed by the multitude but rather by the leading citizens. Polybius missed few opportunties to castigate Timaeus (cf. Sacks 1981: 21–95), but he does not here question the political judgement of Timaeus’ Hermocrates. 45 Plb. 1. 83. 5–11; cf. 3. 28. 3, 30. 4. For the Roman tradition on these events, see Zonar. 8. 17; App. Pun. 5; Sic. 2. 3; Nep. Ham. 2. 3; Val. Max. 5. 1. 1; Walbank, HCP i. 146 on 1. 83. 2–4. 46 Plb. 1. 88. 8–12; cf. 3. 10. 3–4; these terms were not part of a new treaty, but rather were an KØ
ıŁŒÅ to the arrangements of 241; see Walbank, HCP i. 355 on 3. 27. 2–8. 47 Polybius takes up Rome’s seizure of Sardinia in his discussion of Romano-Carthaginian treaties in Book 3. He says there that the Roman action (IçÆ æ
Ø ) gave the Carthaginians just cause for undertaking the second war against Rome (3. 30. 3–4). At 3. 28. 1–2, he states that

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Polybius’ criticisms of Rome down to the climactic battle at Cannae (Books 1–6) are infrequent; we have a generalized statement on the Romans’ obstinate application of  Æ, or force against nature (1. 37. 7), and on several occasions (including representations of Marcellus and Flaminius) Polybius censures the mistakes of individual commanders.48 Overall, however, his representation of third-century Roman society and government is highly positive. As noted earlier, he represented Roman virtue in this period as being predicated upon its political and societal institutions, and above all the strong, guiding hand of the senate. Nowhere does he state this more explicitly than in his narration of reactions to the aftermath of the devastating defeat at Cannae in Book 3. In this seemingly hopeless situation, he shows the senate taking firm control by encouraging the masses, preparing for the city’s defence, and deliberating on all necessary measures to meet the coming challenges.49 It is not until after his account of the Romans’ response to Cannae in Book 6 that the narrative pattern changes, and Polybius more openly suggests signs of Roman deterioration. As we have seen, Polybius was willing to admit some anomalies to upright Roman behaviour characteristic of earlier periods (Marcellus and Flaminius). But he could not deny that the crossing to Sicily in 264 initiated the First Punic War and was the object of the sharpest criticism, both at the time of its occurrence and among statesmen in the mid-second century. He chose to omit the controversy in the narrative of his introductory books. At the opening of his history, he instead deflected the question of the decision’s dubious morality from the senate. At the same time, he avoided any explicit statement that the popular assembly played the leading role, a notion which would have been incongruent with his representation of the third-century Roman politeia. The ambiguous ƒ ºº at 1. 11. 2 was therefore a key phrase in helping him to perform this delicate historiographic balancing act.

Rome’s taking of Sardinia was Ææa Æ a ŒÆØÆ; cf. 3. 15. 10. But in this account Carthage still emerges as the initiator, albeit with good cause, of the Hannibalic War. Moreover, Polybius’ aitiai for the war subordinate the Sardinian affair to the aggressive designs of the Barcids and to ‘Hannibal’s Oath’, which occupy the emphatic first and last positions in Polybius’ list of causes of the war; see Rich 1976: 64–71, 1996: 5 n. 5 for modern scholarship on Polybius’ aitiai; cf. Champion 2004a: 119–20. 48 Cf. Champion 2004a: 199–201. 49 Plb. 3. 118. 5–9; cf. 6. 58. 1–13. It is noteworthy that in his treatment of the preliminaries to the Hannibalic War, Polybius (3. 20. 1–9) disallows any division in the senate regarding a war declaration against Carthage after news arrived of Saguntum’s fall. Other sources present a more complicated picture with intense senatorial debates over the correct policy (for the likelihood that these debates were in Fabius’ history, see Bung 1950: 34–5): Liv. 21. 6. 6–7. 1; Dio fr. 55 B; Zonar. 8. 22; Sil. 1. 675–94; App. Ib. 11, with Walbank, HCP i. 331–2 on 3. 20. 1, Frier 1999: 245–6; see Rich 1976: 110 n. 182 for modern works rejecting Polybius’ account.

Historiographic Patterns and Historic Obstacles in Polybius’ Histories 157

CO NCLUSION In conclusion, let us return to the interpretative strategies outlined at the end of the second section in order to appreciate the magnitude of the historiographic problem which recounting the Mamertine crisis presented for Polybius. Clearly we can discount the possibility of influence from possible senatorial rivalries or his political allegiance to the Cornelii Scipiones, since in 1. 10–11 the historian discusses the senate as a collective body, without mention of any particular statesmen. We can also reject the position that in this case Polybius’ exacting standards for detailed and accurate reporting resulted in a contradiction with his larger historiographic pattern. On the contrary, I have argued that his account of Roman deliberations on the Messana crisis seems to be deliberately vague,50 and that the indeterminacy actually served the goal of his historiographic patterning, since it obscures both the responsibility for aiding the Mamertines and what precise roles the senate and people played in the decision.51 To assign the responsibility unequivocally to either curia or comitia would not have simply undermined Polybius’ pattern of progressive deterioration from pristine Roman moral virtue; it rather would have utterly destroyed the grand structure at its point of inception. The indeterminacy of the historian’s representation, on the contrary, allowed his Greek and Roman readers to interpret the Roman decision to cross to Sicily under arms in 264 according to their own political predispositions.

50

Note that Polybius’ treatment of Rome’s more ambitious plans after the fall of Agrigentum (1. 20. 1) also seems to be deliberately vague. The news is brought to the Senate (N c
ªŒºÅ), but Polybius then shifts to an unspecified nominative plural (æØåÆæE ªØ): senators or Romans in general? 51 The discussion period following the paper’s presentation at Polybius 1957–2007 wonderfully supported my contention that Polybius’ account may have been deliberately obscure, as there was lengthy debate as to what particular words and phrases in 1. 10–11 might possibly mean.

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8 Polybius and Xenophon: The Mercenary War1 Bruce Gibson

I N T R O D U C TI O N The Mercenary War was a violent and paradoxical coda to Carthage’s final defeat in the First Punic War in 241 bc, with Carthage now forced to fight its own mercenaries and their African allies.2 Though the dating of the conflict is subject to some uncertainty, as noted by Frank Walbank in his commentary,3 this was a war which, according to Polybius, lasted for three years and four months (1. 88. 7). As regards Polybius’ sources, while it has been argued that Polybius may have used Philinus, Walbank suggests that Philinus may have been the author of a monograph on the First Punic War alone, and is therefore doubtful that Philinus was the source.4 Polybius is, of course, careful to explain why he chooses to cover this war (Plb. 1. 65), offering three reasons: first, the war is the perfect example of what a truceless war is like; secondly, it gives a salutary warning of the need for caution in using mercenaries;5 and, thirdly, it offers crucial material for anyone reflecting on the origin of the Second Punic War, especially as the causes of that war are themselves a matter for debate. Before we consider these reasons,6 it may be 1 I am indebted to Thomas Harrison, John Marincola, Chris Pelling, Tim Rood, Christopher Tuplin, and Tony Woodman for their comments and suggestions on earlier versions of this paper, and also to audiences in Liverpool and at the Center for Hellenic Studies in Washington, DC. 2 Key recent studies are Huss 1985: 252–68 and Hoyos 2007. 3 Walbank, HCP i. 148–50 on 1. 88. 7–8. Hoyos 2007: 275–6 offers a chronology, which he cautions is approximate. He dates the outbreak of the mutiny to November 241 bc, and puts the end of the war in March 237 bc. 4 Walbank, HCP i. 130–1; cf. i. 65 on 1. 14. 1. See also Hoyos 2007: xviii–xxi for an overview of the sources; cf. id. 263–6. 5 For discussion of this theme, see Eckstein 1995: 125–9; cf. Hoyos 2007: 272–3. 6 For Polybius’ reasons for narrating the war, see also Hoyos 2007: xix–xx.

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useful in the first instance to address the striking issue of the extent of Polybius’ coverage of the Mercenary War. If we consider the events of the first two books of Polybius,7 the Mercenary War is proportionately given a large amount of space.8 The chapters in Book 1 covering the First Punic War, even if we exclude the chapters on that war’s origins (1. 5–9), run from 1. 10 (where we first hear of the Romans considering how to respond to the Mamertines) to 1. 64, where Polybius rounds off his treatment of the war with general reflections on the nature and significance of the conflict. There are thus fifty-five chapters devoted to the First Punic War, covering the twenty-three years from the outbreak of the war in 264 bc to the final defeat of the Carthaginians in the naval battle of the Aegates Islands in 241 bc. Polybius then moves on to his coverage of the Mercenary War, which covers twenty-four chapters from 1. 65 to 1. 88, the end of the book, so that it receives just under 45 per cent of the space devoted to the First Punic War. If we look forward into Book 2, the achievements of Carthage in the period between the Mercenary War and the outbreak of the Second Punic War are crammed into a very small space indeed. Thus a single chapter (2. 1) is given over to the period of Hamilcar Barca’s command in Spain (237–229 bc);9 another chapter is given over to Hasdrubal’s continuation of Hamilcar’s Spanish command (2. 13), taking events down to 221 bc; while a third chapter deals with Hasdrubal’s death and Hannibal’s assumption of the command in the same year (2. 36). Thus, even though Polybius specifically mentions the anger of Hamilcar Barca and the success of Carthage in Spain as his first and third causes of the origins of the Second Punic War (3. 9–10),10 Carthage’s history after the Mercenary War down to Hannibal’s assumption of the Spanish command is only discussed in three chapters in Book 2. Whilst the second cause of the Second Punic War given by Polybius in Book 3, Carthaginian anger over the loss of Sardinia in the immediate sequel to the Mercenary War (3. 10. 1–4), is said by Polybius to be the greatest cause of the Second Punic War, it remains the case that Polybius deals with the loss of Sardinia and the additional indemnity of 1,200 talents imposed by the Romans only very briefly, in the last chapter of Book 1 (1. 88. 8–12).11 Furthermore, if we compare the other material in Book 2, the coverage given to the Mercenary War is similar to that given over to Rome’s dealings with the Gauls (2. 14–35),12

7

On the prokataskeuē, see Beck in this volume. For a different emphasis, see Hoyos 2007: xviii–xxi, who argues that the wars in Book 1 are covered in a fairly concise and compressed fashion. 9 Hoyos 2007: 276 suggests April 237 bc as the date for Hamilcar’s departure for Spain. 10 On Polybian causation, see Derow 1979: 9–13; Derow 1994. 11 Though note that Polybius mentions Roman ambitions in Sardinia as early as 1. 24. 7; see also Champion in this volume (p. 155). 12 Note the way in which both conflicts are summed up with the phrase ØF 
å e º (1. 88. 5; 2. 35. 2), before general reflections on the two conflicts. 8

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and more extensive than the space allotted to the First Illyrian War (2. 2–12); only the First Punic War itself in Book 1 and the account given of Greek affairs in the second half of Book 2 are in fact lengthier than the Mercenary War in terms of coverage. Now Polybius does at the start of his narrative of the Mercenary War explain that there is a link with the origins of the Second Punic War (1. 65. 8): e b ªØ
, a ÆN Æ KŒ H K KŒ Ø E ŒÆØæE æƪø ŒÆÆ
Ø, Ø’ L › ŒÆ’  Æ
ı
Å  øÆ Ø ŒÆd ˚ÆæåÅ  Ø º . But the most important thing is that one might from the events that took place in those times be able to understand the reasons because of which the war arose between the Romans and Carthaginians in the time of Hannibal.

It is true that Sardinia does receive a few mentions in the course of the narrative: in 1. 79 the mercenaries stationed there revolt from Carthage and kill the Carthaginian commander sent to relieve them, Hanno.13 The significance of this moment as the end of Carthaginian power in the island is accompanied by Polybius’ observation that Sardinia has been described at great length already by other writers and does not require a description from him (1. 79. 6–7). There are two other briefer references to Sardinia: at 1. 82. 7, there is a passing reference to Carthage having lost the island; while in 1. 83. 11, Polybius records an invitation from the mercenaries on Sardinia to the Romans to initiate an occupation, an opportunity which on this occasion was turned down, though in 1. 88. 8, the Romans subsequently accept the chance to annex Sardinia, at around the time of Carthage’s final victory over the mercenaries in Africa.14 Thus, the fact that Sardinia would be an important cause for the Second Punic War cannot really explain why Polybius should give such extensive coverage to the Mercenary War at the end of the first book. If we turn to modern narrative historians of the wider period, the contrast with Polybius is striking.15 Thus John Lazenby, in his history of the First Punic War, ends with an epilogue of six pages in which he mentions the Mercenary War and the Roman seizure of Sardinia in its aftermath,16 remarking that ‘The details do not concern us, but the wider repercussions do’ (Lazenby 1996: 173); similarly, in his earlier book on the Second Punic War, Lazenby mentions the Mercenary War only on two pages.17 Walbank himself, when discussing Polybius’ 13

On this revolt, see Hoyos 2007: 154–9. See Walbank, HCP i. 148–50 for the chronology of the war and the date of the Roman annexation: Walbank suggests that it is possible that the Roman expedition took place in 238/7, while Ti. Sempronius Gracchus was still consul, though Eutr. 3. 2 puts it in the following year, which might imply that the diplomacy took place so as to give a final settlement in 237/36. See also Hoyos 2007: 249–52, 276, who dates the diplomatic crisis to March–April 237. 15 Hoyos 2007 is, of course, a substantial and extremely important study of the war, but is not a general history of the period. 16 17 Lazenby 1996: 171–6 Lazenby 1978: 20–1. 14

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reasons for including the Mercenary War, observes that ‘In fact the link with the Hannibalic war is very tenuous, and amounts to no more than the Roman seizure of Sardinia during the Libyan war. . . . Having decided on a detailed account of the Libyan War, P. is determined to justify it in terms of the whole work.’18 Though Polybius could have passed over the Mercenary War very rapidly, as he does with the Carthaginian campaigns in Spain that are briefly mentioned in Book 2, he chooses not to. The extent of his coverage invites us to address the contribution of the episode to Polybius’ history. A crucial feature that emerges is Polybius’ exploitation of the treatment of mercenaries in earlier historiographical traditions, notably the presentation of mercenaries in the Anabasis of Xenophon.19 At first glance, there might appear to be little in common between these two texts. Assuredly, both episodes deal with mercenaries,20 but one might feel that the similarities end there. How could there be much in common between Polybius’ account of the horrors of what might appear to be a fairly unimportant, if unpleasant, conflict in Africa, and Cyrus’ famous expedition of the Ten Thousand against Artaxerxes II of Persia?

PO LYBIUS AND XENO PHON One issue which can be addressed straightaway is whether Polybius shows any interest in Xenophon’s works. Polybius refers directly to Xenophon on three occasions in his Histories.21 One instance is Plb. 6. 45. 1, where Polybius praises Xenophon as part of a list of ºªØÆØ (‘men most learned, most skilled in words’) who have written about the constitution of Crete, which includes Ephorus, Callisthenes, and Plato.22 Another is Plb. 10. 20. 7, where Polybius is describing Scipio’s activities in New Carthage (Cartagena), where he points out that an observer would have to resort to Xenophon’s phrasing 18

Walbank, HCP i. 132 on 1. 65. 5–9. For the Nachleben of Xenophon in antiquity, see Münscher 1920, esp. pp. 36–70 on the Hellenistic period. Note the striking claim of Arrian (Anab. 1. 12. 3) that Xenophon’s account of the march of the Ten Thousand was better known than the story of Alexander’s conquests. 20 Two important recent studies of mercenaries in Xenophon are Roy 2004 and Azoulay 2004. 21 Compare e.g. the single reference by name to Thucydides (Plb. 8. 11. 3). For the recent and welcome tendency to attach more importance to Polybius’ historiographical predecessors, see McGing 2010: 52–66. Rood 2012 examines Polybius’ accounts of the First Punic War and of the Roman constitution, and compellingly argues that the significance of Thucydides in Polybius has been underestimated. 22 It is worth noting, however, that we have no extant evidence for Xenophon writing in this vein, and it is possible that Polybius may be drawing on inaccurate memory here: see Walbank, HCP i. 727 on 6. 45–47. 6, though see also Pédech 1964: 326–7 for the suggestion that we are dealing with a reference to a lost work. Dillery 2004: 265 offers a harsher view of Polybius’ knowledge of Xenophon in this passage; see also Prandi 2005: 76–7. 19

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(Hell. 3. 4. 17; Agesilaus, 1. 26) in calling the place an KæªÆ
æØ ºı, a ‘workshop of war’. Though the phrase might by Polybius’ time have become proverbial—which would in any case point to the wider influence of Xenophon—Polybius again chooses to mention him by name here.23 The third instance of direct reference to Xenophon comes earliest in the text, in Polybius’ discussion of the causation of the Second Punic War, which then becomes a more wide-ranging discussion of other instances of causation, including his consideration of the causes of the war between the Persian empire and Alexander the Great (Plb. 3. 6. 10): q b æÅ b  H a ˛çH  Eººø KŒ H ¼ø
ÆæÆØH K  , K fi w A
Æ c 
Æ ØÆæıø ÆPH º Æ æåı
Æ P d KºÆ Ø ŒÆa æ
ø H Æææø· And the first cause was the return of the Greeks with Xenophon from the upper satrapies, during which, while they were marching through the whole of Asia as hostile territory, none of the barbarians dared to face them.

For Polybius, therefore, the events of the expedition of the Ten Thousand were of great significance, the argument being (3. 6. 12–13) that the revelation of the weakness of the Persian empire in the face of a determined aggressor was a decisive motivation for Philip II’s plans, and Alexander’s invasion. The point is borne out by the fact that Polybius’ second cause of Alexander’s war was Agesilaus’ success in Persia after the campaign of the Ten Thousand (3. 6. 11); similar are the views of Isocrates on the march of the Ten Thousand (Or. 4. 145–9; 5. 90–101), that it exposed the weakness of the Persian empire and could show the way to future Hellenic success.24 Isocrates, however, does not name any Greek commander in the Panegyricus (Or. 4), and only mentions Clearchus in the Philippus (Or. 5), whereas Polybius explicitly associates the return of the Ten Thousand with Xenophon. In this respect, Polybius also differs from Xenophon’s Hellenica, since Xenophon makes no mention of himself in the famously brief summary of the expedition of Cyrus at Hell. 3. 1. 2, where the reader is simply referred to Themistogenes the Syracusan, usually thought to be a pseudonym for Xenophon himself.25 Thus, in terms of direct references to Xenophon, our examples include mention of the return of the Ten Thousand, which draws on the argument

23 Pace Dillery 2004: 265, who offers a sceptical assessment of the link between Polybius and Xenophon here. McGing 2010: 62–3 has a much more positive view of Xenophontic connection; see also Levene 2010: 92–5 for a perceptive analysis of Livy’s exploitation of this passage of Polybius in a ‘parasitic’ case of ‘double allusion’ both to Polybius and to Xenophon at Liv. 26. 51. 7–8. For other echoes of this phrase, cf. Plut. Marc. 21. 3, Ath. 10. 18. 4–5, 421b, Julian, Epist. 444a (=Epist. 50 Wright, 59 Hertlein), where ºı is Hertlein’s conjectural supplement. 24 Walbank, HCP i. 307 on 3. 6. 10; see also Pédech 1964: 96–7, and the discussion of Rood 2004a: 306–7 on the ancient reception of the Ten Thousand. 25 A tradition which goes back to Plut. Mor. 345e (De gloria Atheniensium): for the general issues here, see e.g. Marincola 1997: 186, Tuplin 2004: 15–16.

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that the actions of the Greeks were a tool in understanding the weakness of the Persian empire, and also an instance of direct quotation. We might also be open to considering Polybian allusion to Xenophon in terms of historiographical practice. Consider, for instance, Polybius’ remarks on his decision to continue his work beyond 167 bc (3. 4. 12–13): Øe ŒÆd B æƪÆ Æ ÆÅ F’ 
ÆØ º
ØæªÅÆ, e ªHÆØ c ŒÆ
Æ
Ø Ææ’ Œ
Ø ,  Æ Ø q a e ŒÆƪøØ
ŁBÆØ a ‹ºÆ ŒÆd 
E N c H  øÆ ø Kı
Æ ø B a ÆFÆ ºØ KتÅ ÆæÆåB

ήd ί
ø . bæ w Øa e ªŁ H K ÆPB fi æø ŒÆd e Ææ  H
ıÆØø, e b ªØ
, Øa e H º
ø c  ÆPÅ , Iºº’ z b
ıæªe z b ŒÆd åØæØ
c ªªÆØ, æåŁÅ x Iæåc ØÅ


¼ººÅ ªæçØ. And therefore this will be the final work of this history, to recognize the condition of each people, what it was after everything had been defeated and fell into the power of the Romans, until the turbulence and disturbance that again took place after this. About this, due to the extent of the actions, and the unexpected nature of the events, and, most of all, due to the fact that I was not only a witness of most events, but was involved in some and was even the lead actor in some, I was impelled to write as if I were starting to write another history.

Lorenz observed that the language of turmoil used by Polybius here recalls similar phrasing in other texts, including Xen. Hell. 7. 5. 27, where the word ÆæÆå occurs.26 The temptation might be to see Xenophon as one of a number of possible parallels, and therefore of no significance, but the passage from the Hellenica merits further examination:27 IŒæØ
Æ b ŒÆd ÆæÆåc Ø º ø a c åÅ Kª j æ
Ł K B fi  Eºº Ø. Kd b c åæØ ı ªæÆç
Łø· a b a ÆFÆ Y
ø ¼ººø fi º
Ø. There was still more confusion and turbulence in Greece after the battle [of Mantinea] than there was before. But let what happened up to this point be written by me. Perhaps the events that happened after this will be a concern for someone else.

Two features might be felt to link the Hellenica passage with Polybius’ announcement of his intention to continue his history.28 In the first place, 26

Lorenz 1931: 102 n. 252; cf. Walbank 1989/90: 49. Note, too, that such language can be found in scientific contexts: see e.g. Aristotle, Insomn. 461a24–5, Ph. 248a1–2. 27 On the context of Xenophon’s ending, see Badian 2004: 44–5. 28 See also Rood 2004c: 155–6 for the links between this passage of Xenophon and the intrusion of a new (posthumous) narrator in the remains of Book 39 of Polybius. Another link with the Hellenica has been suggested by Eisen 1966: 107, who suggests that Polybius’ comparison between Hannibal’s march on Rome in order to relieve the siege of Capua and Epaminondas’ marches from Tegea to Sparta and then back to Arcadia (Plb. 9. 8–9. 10) is likely to have drawn on Xen. Hell. 7. 5. 8–14, but note that Walbank, HCP ii. 127–8 suggests that Polybius’ source is likely to have been Callisthenes.

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we can note Polybius’ use of a ÆFÆ (‘after this’) to denote a subsequent period of chaos, which is a possible subject for history. Even more important, though, is the position of Xenophon’s Hellenica passage, for it is the very close of the Hellenica. Polybius thus, in a complex move, evokes—in what is effectively a second proem to the Histories—a closural device from another historian, which itself evokes another opening, Xenophon’s own beginning to the Hellenica (a b ÆFÆ, Hell. 1. 1. 1), with its implied continuation of Thucydides;29 at the same time Polybius offers a new take on the convention of continuations of previous historiography by becoming his own continuator. Xenophon’s close is thus evoked, but as a reason for a new start in the proem to the third book, and Polybius eclipses his predecessor by providing the continuation of his own history.30

POLYBIUS AND XENOPHON ON MERCENARIES If we return to the Mercenary War in Polybius, I shall attempt to demonstrate cumulatively areas where reading Polybius through Xenophon can be productive, and then consider how such a connection might actually work in practice. It is important at the outset to note that the relationship with Xenophon might not operate solely in terms of similarities and parallels: differences in emphasis might also be a significant aspect. On a straightforward level, we can begin by noting occasions where similar activities are described. For example, in both Xenophon and Polybius, mercenary troops are told to leave a city and wait elsewhere for their pay, at Anab. 7. 1. 7, when Anaxibius tells the troops to leave the city with their baggage, and at 1. 66 in Polybius,31 when the troops are sent to Sicca.32 And, on the military side, one might compare the tactics used by the mercenaries at Plb. 1. 75, the deployment of forces in the hills and the attempt to prevent the Carthaginians 29 On Xenophon’s glance at the opening of the Hellenica at the end of the work, see Rood 2004b: 341. 30 For the complex traditions of continuation of earlier historical works in ancient historiography, see Marincola 1997: 237–57; cf. Rood 2004b on continuations of Thucydides. For Polybius’ own role as a continuator, see also 1. 3. 1–2 and 4. 2. 1, on starting the main narrative from the end of Aratus of Sicyon’s work at the beginning of the 140th Olympiad in 220/19 bc (though for the complexities of this ‘continuation’, see Meadows in this volume), and 1. 5. 1 for starting the narrative in the prokataskeuē with the First Punic War in 264 bc where Timaeus had finished. See also 8. 11. 3, where Polybius notes that Theopompus set out to continue where Thucydides finished. This passage is part of a longer discussion where Polybius criticizes Theopompus for changing his mind by turning from a general history of Greece to writing about Philip II of Macedon; see further Shrimpton 1991: 40–3, M. A. Flower 1994: 29–32, 100–1. 31 On the meaning of I
ŒıÆ in Plb. 1. 66. 7, see Walbank, HCP i. 133, Huss 1985: 253, Hoyos 2007: 36; cf. Trundle 2004: 35. 32 On this episode, see Hoyos 2007: 36–9.

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from crossing the river Macaras (Bagradas),33 with a similar moment in Xenophon: Hamilcar Barca’s crossing of the river at the right moment in this chapter of Polybius might be compared to the successful river-crossing into Armenia in Anab. 4. 3. Such details might of course seem to be coincidences (these are the kind of activities one would expect mercenaries—or any kind of troops—to be engaged with), so one might not expect to place too much weight on such parallels in themselves. An area worth considering, however, is the language which Polybius uses of the mercenaries. In spite of a willingness to refer to mercenaries with words such as Ø
ŁçæØ, unambiguously referring to the financial basis of their service, including within the Mercenary War itself,34 he first introduces the conflict by calling it a war æe f ı ŒÆd f ˝ Æ ŒÆd f –Æ Ø I
Æ ¸ ıÆ , ‘against the xenoi and the Numidians and the Libyans who had revolted with them’ (1. 65. 3).35 Xenoi, as Matthew Trundle has noted, is a word which Xenophon uses extensively of the army of Cyrus in the Anabasis, whilst avoiding words like K ŒıæØ and Ø
ŁçæØ; Trundle suggests that xenoi may even be regarded as a kind of euphemism, with hints of ritualized friendship.36 In Polybius’ case, the use of such a word might seem to misdirect the reader towards expectations that are far too high:37 the language that Xenophon had favoured turns out to be illusion as one moral convention after another is overthrown by the mercenaries. Polybius’ account of the Mercenary War emphasizes, as we have seen, its importance as a part of the causation of the Second Punic War. But it also contains a preamble in which Polybius presents the causation of the Mercenary War itself, even if this section is not explicitly highlighted as such. Thus in 1. 70 he notes that the arrest of the Carthaginian commander Gesco and others with him was the beginning (Iæå)38 of the war (1. 70. 7).39 The preceding chapters (1. 66–70) describe how this state of affairs came about, and are essentially a study of the Mercenary War’s causation. Within this first section of Polybius’ coverage, a number of themes play their part in the slide towards warfare which also have a resonance with Xenophon. 33

For discussion of the crossing and the subsequent battle, see Hoyos 2007: 111–24. Ø
ŁçæØ: 1. 66. 5, 10; 1. 68. 2, 6; 1. 72. 6; 1. 73. 1, 6; 1. 74. 9; 1. 75. 2; 1. 79. 1, 8; 1. 81. 11; 1. 83. 11; 1. 84. 3; 1. 88. 7, 8. 35 Cf. 1. 70. 7  ˇ b s æe f ı ŒÆd ¸ØıŒe KØŒºÅŁd º . For discussion of the relationship between the Libyans and the mercenaries, see Hoyos 2007: 78–9. Polybius also refers to the war as a ‘kindred war’ (º . . . KçºØ, 1. 71. 5; cf. 1. 71. 7 Kçıº ı

ø

ŒÆd ÆæÆåB ), using the same phrasing that he used to describe the Roman conflict against the Falisci (1. 65. 2). 36 Trundle 2004: 14–17. 37 For this technique of subverting the expectations of readers, see further McGing in this volume. 38 For such language, cf. e.g. Hom. Il. 11. 604, Hdt. 5. 97. 3. On the role of beginnings in Polybian causation, see Derow 1979: 9–11, Derow 1994: 86–7. 39 On the arrest of Gesco, see Hoyos 2007: 74–6. 34

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In the first place, the theme of negotiation about pay,40 which is one of the immediate reasons for the war, has a wide Xenophontic resonance. The idea of payment for military services previously rendered, the concern of the Carthaginians’ mercenaries, has obvious parallels in Xenophon: as early as the first book of the Anabasis, the issue of non-payment and the need to secure funds is raised, when Cyrus is asked for three months’ pay owed to his troops and gives reassurance (Anab. 1. 2. 11). Similarly, a little while later on, there is a minor mutiny at Tarsus (Anab. 1. 3), cleverly dealt with by Clearchus, which ends with a promise from Cyrus of more pay. After Cyrus’ death, the theme of pay naturally recedes for a while, but it returns with a vengeance at the end of the Anabasis, where the start of Book 6 sees reports of promises to the army from the Spartan Anaxibius that they would be paid once they had left the Black Sea region (Anab. 6. 1. 16), a promise which comes to nothing at the start of Book 7; this last book also has the story of the Thracian Seuthes, and his attempts to avoid remunerating the Greeks from Cyrus’ army (Anab. 7. 5–7). Polybius not only raises the issue of non-payment by the Carthaginians but also the theme of promises of exceptional payments made by generals (Plb. 1. 66. 12). Similarly, Polybius is at pains to point out that a mercenary army is only as good as its funding, when he notes that the defection of most of Libya to the mercenaries’ side meant that their commanders were able to fund a long war against Carthage (1. 72. 6). In a similar vein, we can note that the constant Leitmotiv of the Anabasis, the need to provide supplies for the mercenary army, is a theme alluded to in Polybius’ account of the Mercenary War, though in fact with reference to problems experienced by both sides.41 In the end, of course, it is the mercenaries and their allies who fall victim to the extreme effects of lack of supplies, starvation and cannibalism (1. 84. 9–1. 85. 2), when they are surrounded by Hamilcar Barca’s forces; note too the hint in 1. 85. 2, where the mercenary commanders decide to seek terms with Carthage because they recognized the dangers to themselves from their own troops in this extraordinary plight.42 We can set this moment alongside Xen. Anab. 6. 4. 13–19, when the reunited army at the harbour of Calpe is unable, because of poor omens, to go out in order to obtain supplies at a time when they were running dangerously low, and Xenophon is blamed. The starvation that overtakes the mercenaries in Polybius is something which constantly looms over the Ten Thousand, but is always somehow averted in the Anabasis.

40

On the pay and hire of mercenaries, see Trundle 2004: 80–131; cf. Hoyos 2007: 8–10. See e.g. Plb. 1. 71. 1 (the Carthaginians had been accustomed to depend for their livelihoods from the countryside); 1. 82. 6 (the Carthaginians lose a fleet of supplies in a storm), 1. 84. 1–2 (the mercenaries are forced to raise the siege of Carthage due to lack of supplies). On the importance of supplies in Polybius, see Davies in this volume. 42 On the background to the decision to attempt to negotiate with Hamilcar, see Hoyos 2007: 213. 41

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A further theme which emerges repeatedly in Polybius is the disunity of the mercenaries. This is a complex issue, since there are occasions where they are capable of acting with resolve,43 but Polybius does represent the effects of their lack of unity as well. This is a motif which is arguably linked to questions of ethnicity and notions of the contrast between civilized and uncivilized peoples, since Polybius makes it clear at the outset of his narrative that one reason for covering the Mercenary War is to gain an understanding of such differences (1. 65. 7):44 . . . æe b Ø  ØÆçæØ ŒÆd ŒÆa 
 XŁÅ
ØŒÆ ŒÆd æÆæÆ H K ÆØ  ÆØ ŒÆd Ø ŒÆd ºØØŒE Ł
Ø KŒŁæÆø· And additionally, [one might recognize] how and to what extent nations that are mingled and barbarous are different from those who have been raised through education and laws and the customs of city-states.

Such concerns of course emerge in a whole host of Greek authors, and the Anabasis of Xenophon is certainly a text which directly explores these ideas. Ethnicity is a central theme of the Anabasis as a whole, with Cyrus’ Greek soldiers (and of course their Asiatic allies) holding their own against the Persian empire. In Xenophon, an early instance of this polarity occurs at Anab. 1. 2. 14–18, where Cyrus reviews his Greek and non-Greek forces at Tyriaeum, in what may be a complex echo of Xerxes’ review of his troops at Abydos in the Persian war against Greece (Hdt. 7. 44–53),45 and decides to tell his Greek phalanx to march forward as if about to fight. After the resulting panic, Xenophon rounds off the episode by reporting how pleased Cyrus was that his Greek troops inspired such terror in his other forces (Anab. 1. 2. 18); the point is then reinforced a little further on when Cyrus explains to his Greek commanders that he is sure that they are far better men than his Asiatic soldiers (Anab. 1. 7. 3). Elsewhere in Xenophon the same point is made through the general contrast between the Greek soldiers and the adversities, both military and physical, of the Persian empire which they are able to overcome. Encounters with various other native peoples also point out the difference between Greek and non-Greek: after the meeting with the Mossynoeci (Anab. 5. 4) Xenophon notes indeed that the army explicitly rated that people as the most different from the Greeks in their customs (5. 4. 34). Thus in Xenophon the account of the activities of the mercenary army of Greeks is a locus which allows the exploration of ethnic difference.

43 Note e.g. the decision of Mathos and Spendius to lay siege to Carthage (1. 82. 11), or Mathos’ sudden attack on the camp of the Carthaginian general, Hannibal (1. 86. 5). 44 On this theme, see Hoyos 2007: 274–5. For Polybian concepts of barbarians and the usage of æÆæ , see Erskine 2000, Champion 2004a: 70–5, 245–54. 45 On such imperial reviews of Achaemenid armies, see Briant 2002: 196–8; on the  in Xenophon, see Dillery 2004.

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In Polybius, the position is more complex. This is partly because the mercenaries in question are mainly non-Greeks, though it is interesting to note that Polybius in fact does mention the presence of some mercenaries with Greek connections, in his rather dismissive list of nationalities involved at 1. 67. 7:46 q
Æ ªaæ ƒ b  ”Åæ , ƒ b ˚º , Øb b ¸Øªı
EØ ŒÆd BƺØÆæE , PŒ Oº ªØ b غºÅ , z ƒ º ı ÆPºØ ŒÆd FºØ· e b ªØ
 æ

ÆPH q ¸ ı . For some were Iberians, some were Celts, some were Ligurians and from the Balearic isles, and not a few were mixellenes, of whom most were deserters and slaves. But the largest part of them were Libyans.

The contemptuous reference to mixellenes should perhaps not be taken so seriously,47 but should rather be seen as an attempt to make it clear that regular Greek mercenaries could not possibly have been present. This is, of course, in spite of the fact that Polybius has already mentioned in his treatment of the First Punic War the exploits of the Spartan general Xanthippus, culminating in his role in the defeat of Regulus. Xanthippus plays a large role, but Polybius also reports that he came with a great number of troops from Greece (1. 32. 1), who can only be mercenaries.48 In fact the possibility that Greek mercenaries were present in the Mercenary War seems not unreasonable, especially as their presence in Sicily is attested in the siege of Lilybaeum (1. 48. 3). That and the fact that the mercenaries were evacuated from Sicily— and that Sicily itself of course included many Greek cities—mean that Polybius’ attempt to dismiss the presence of the Greeks in the Mercenary War as only mixellenes may be no more than a smokescreen. One can compare the way in which he is keen to denigrate those who supported the Achaean War against Rome as men of low status (Plb. 38. 12. 5).49 The emphasis on ethnic divisions among the mercenaries may also be seen as a response to Xenophon’s treatment of different kinds of division among the Greeks of the Ten Thousand. In Polybius, divisions between nationalities replace those latent discords that in Xenophon threaten to (and occasionally do) break out between the Greeks of the army. In Xenophon, the most 46 Huss 1985: 253 notes that this list includes no mention of Numidians. For another dismissive list of mercenary forces, see Plb. 13. 6. 4 (various social outcasts enlisted with Nabis), with Eckstein 1995: 127. 47 The meaning of this term here is debated: Tarn 1938: 38 and Walbank, HCP i. 134 see the word as reflecting ethnic mixing, while Dubuisson 1982: 11–14 sees the word as denoting individuals in the process of gaining a cultural identity as Greeks. Hoyos 2007: 6–8 suggests that the mixellenes here may originate from Greek cities of southern Italy and Sicily. See also Harrison 1998: 19 on conceptions of mixed ethnicities in Herodotus. 48 In spite of later traditions that Sparta was an ally of Carthage, rightly rejected by Walbank, HCP i. 91 on 1. 32. 1. 49 See e.g. Eckstein 1995: 135–6 on the folly of the masses in Polybius, Champion 2004a: 220–2.

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dangerous moment occurs in Book 6, where the army in fact splits into three, with the joint Arcadian and Achaean contingent being particularly hostile to Xenophon, until they have to be rescued by him (Anab. 6. 1–3); there is obviously also a wider theme of Greek disunity present in the Anabasis, reflected in the rather tense relations between the army and the Spartans in the closing phase of the work, especially at Byzantium (Anab. 7. 1), and indeed in some of the encounters with Greek cities along the Black Sea, such as Cotyora (Anab. 5. 5). Polybius’ approach is to emphasize that divisions among mercenaries repeatedly lead to difficulties. One issue used to bring out this point is language. Polybius introduces the theme in 1. 67. 4 by specifically mentioning the Carthaginian habit of having troops from many different nationalities as a means for preventing insubordination; Polybius adds, however, that this practice can backfire when insubordination takes place, as it is very hard to calm feelings when so many languages are involved (1. 67. 5).50 This theme is taken up immediately in the rest of the chapter, with the initial attempt of Hanno to soothe the mercenaries’ feelings failing owing to the variety of languages being spoken and the resulting confusion (1. 67. 8–13).51 Polybius returns to this theme when he notes in 1. 69. 12 that ºº, ‘stone him’,52 was the only word which was widely intelligible, as Spendius and Mathos took control of the confusion in setting the mercenaries on a path towards war. Polybius seems to place unusual emphasis on the imperative ºº: the word is found immediately afterwards at 1. 69. 13, where stonings are a habitual sequel to the midday meal. It also occurs at 1. 80. 5–11, where the Gallic mercenary commander Autaritus succeeds in recommending the harshest treatment for the Carthaginians because he had some knowledge of Punic,53 a language which was to some extent understood across the various nationalities: those individuals who attempted to argue for less cruel treatment of the Carthaginian captives in other languages were again shouted down with demands for them to be stoned (ºº, 1. 80. 9), and immediately killed. 50

For this traditional cliché of barbarian languages as multiple and chaotic, see e.g. Dubuisson 1982: 23–4, Harrison 1998: 19–20. Compare also the contrast between the unison shouts of the Romans and the confused and discordant languages of the Carthaginian mercenaries at Plb. 15. 12. 8–9 (cf. Liv. 30. 34. 1 and see Levene 2010: 88–91 on the use of Homer, Il. 4. 437–8 by both Polybius and Livy), and Plb. 11. 19. 3–5 on the disparate forces led by Hannibal in Italy (cf. Liv. 28. 12. 2–5, and see Levene 2010: 237–9). 51 On this episode, see Hoyos 2007: 43–6, who suggests (p. 45) that the financial character of Hanno’s message may have caused some of his officers to misunderstand the details. 52 Hoyos 2007: 70–1 suggests that ºº means that the actual Greek word was used, with the implication that it was first used by the mixellenes, whom he closely associates with Spendius, in view of Polybius’ description of him as a Campanian ex-slave in 1. 69. 4. 53 On the issue of language, see again Hoyos 2007: 43–5, who does not see the episode of Autaritus as contradicting the earlier story of Hanno’s problems in conveying his message.

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These are the only three instances of the form ºº in the extant remains of Polybius, all found within his treatment of the Mercenary War. This concentration might look back to the use of the word in the Anabasis. At Anab. 5. 7. 21, Xenophon, addressing the army, recalls an incident when the people of Cerasus had complained about the stoning of their ambassadors, and how some of those responsible sent up a cry to stone then: —ÆE ÆE, ºº ºº, ‘strike them, strike them, stone them, stone them’. Xenophon subsequently repeats the phrase ºº ºº (Anab. 5. 7. 28), when he evokes in his speech the kind of chaotic violence which might overtake the army in the future if there is no responsible leadership. Similarly, such behaviour is seen as bestial both in Polybius (1. 80. 10, where those who have been killed are compared to the victims of wild beasts, u
æ e ŁÅæ ø ØçŁÆæı ) and in the Anabasis (Anab. 5. 7. 32, where Xenophon asks his audience if the violation of the rights of ambassadors is the action of wild beasts rather than men, N Ø E ŒE ŁÅæ ø Iººa c IŁæø rÆØ a ØÆFÆ æªÆ). Polybius’ treatment of the mercenary army, and the moral collapse of its members, thus reflects an enactment of the potential for anarchic violence which is for the most part kept under control in the Anabasis.54 The fact that in Xenophon the issue of stoning is raised in connection with a violation of the rights of ambassadors also has a strong resonance in Polybius: one can compare the decision first to capture and then to kill Gesco and those with him when he had been negotiating with the mercenaries (1. 70. 4–6; 1. 80. 4–13), and the warning to the Carthaginians that heralds would be killed (1. 81. 3). The general point can also be made that Xenophon’s repeated emphasis on assemblies and discussions among the army in the Anabasis is something that finds its way into Polybius, who gives a good degree of detail on the deliberations and votes of the mercenaries. Thus we hear at 1. 69. 14 that Mathos and Spendius were elected as generals after the decision to capture Gesco, recalling the kind of debates and elections which we find in Xenophon.55 Indeed the notion of an army as a kind of potential polis is a theme which finds various applications in both Xenophon and Polybius.56 Thus, soon after the death of Cyrus at the battle of Cunaxa, Xenophon records his suggestion to his troops that they might wish to give the impression to the Persians that they are about to settle and establish themselves within the Persian empire (Anab. 3. 2. 24);

54 McGing 2010: 63 notes the stoning of Dexippus (Anab. 6. 6. 5–7), and the near-stoning of Clearchus (Anab. 1. 3. 2), and the threat of stoning made against Xenophon himself (Anab. 7. 6. 10). 55 Hoyos 2007: 71–2 cites precedents in Carthaginian history for armies taking control of affairs, and also notes the election of new officers in Xen. Anab. 3. 1. 47–2. 1. S. Hornblower 2004 is a key paper on the theme of political activity among the Ten Thousand, arguing that other Greek armies also exhibit some of the same features. 56 And also in Thucydides: see e.g. Avery 1973: 11–13 on the presentation of the Athenian forces in Sicily as like a ‘city on the move’ (p. 11).

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further on, he even considers founding a city on the Black Sea (Anab. 5. 6), which comes to nothing owing to the opposition of the soldiers.57 In Polybius the mercenaries of course go further, since their conflict with Carthage, which begins as a dispute over pay, turns into something much more elemental, with the mercenaries seeking to conquer Carthage;58 this is made clear right at the start of the narrative (1. 65. 4), where Polybius emphasizes the danger to the Carthaginian state (in language which will be closely echoed when he describes the danger incurred by Rome in the Second War).59 Moreover, the mercenaries had their families with them, something Polybius criticizes as a grave strategic error on the part of the Carthaginians (1. 68. 3), since they had lost the opportunity for using them as a bargaining tool for good behaviour. This is a theme which is briefly mentioned in the Anabasis: when Xenophon notes that although there were Greek women and children kept at Tralles (Anab. 1. 4. 8), Cyrus magnanimously explained that he would not use the families as a weapon against two of his commanders.

A MI R R O R T O E M P I R E S ? If we consider why Polybius might have chosen to make so much of the Mercenary War, various answers are possible. In the first place, the pervasiveness and importance of mercenaries in Polybius’ own time should not be underestimated. Mercenaries were a regular part of the scene in Hellenistic warfare,60 but not in the case of Rome itself. In Book 6, Polybius accordingly contrasts the superior political arrangements of the Romans, who did not make use of mercenaries (6. 52. 5–7), with those of the Carthaginians, who did. 57 On the potential (always thwarted) of the Ten Thousand founding a city in the Anabasis, see Ma 2004: 339–40. 58 Note the siege of Carthage briefly embarked on by Spendius and Mathos at 1. 82. 11, on which see Hoyos 2007: 188–96. This episode perhaps echoes the earlier threat of siege from Regulus during the First Punic War (1. 31. 2–3) and also of course looks forward—after Polybius’ decision to keep going down to 146 bc—to the fall of Carthage itself, so that assaults on Carthage occur towards the beginning and end of the Histories. 59 1. 65. 4: . . . K fiz ººf ŒÆd ªºı  Æ çı º P  bæ B åæÆ

KŒØ ı
Æ, Iººa ŒÆd æd
çH ÆPH ŒÆd F B Ææ  K çı ; 3. 2. 2: . . . KæF ‰ N

"ƺ Æ Kƺ ˚ÆæåÅ ØØ ŒÆd ŒÆƺ
Æ c   øÆ ø ıÆ
 Æ N ªÆ b ç KŒ ı XªÆª æd
çH ŒÆd F B Ææ  K çı , ªºÆ ’ 
å ÆPd ŒÆd ÆæÆ ı

Kº Æ , ‰ ŒÆd B   Å ÆPB K Kç ı ŒæÆ
 . The same phrase, æd
çH ŒÆd F B Ææ  K çı , is also used by Polybius at the end of the third book (3. 118. 5) in describing Roman anxieties after the catastrophe at Cannae; see also 15. 6. 6, where Hannibal observes how the Romans in the past and now the Carthaginians are in danger æd F B

Ææ  K çı . 60 On the social context of mercenary service in the Hellenistic period, see the useful discussion of Chaniotis 2005: 80–8. Not even the Achaean League avoided using them: see Griffith 1935: 99–107.

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One significant aspect, therefore, of Polybius’ treatment of the Mercenary War is the emphasis on the shortcomings of mercenaries.61 It is of course a theme which had already begun to emerge in the earlier part of Book 1. Thus, after concluding his account of Rome’s rise to power in Italy, Polybius moves on in 1. 7 to write of how Campanian mercenaries who had served with Agathocles of Syracuse had seized Messana during the 280s,62 calling themselves the Mamertines, which is an early indication of the danger they could pose. Mercenaries can also provide incentives to others to cause trouble, for this is how Polybius also explains the role of another Campanian, the Capuan Decius, commander of a garrison sent to protect Rhegium, in taking over the city (Plb. 1. 7), perhaps in 280 bc.63 Similarly, there is the extraordinary anecdote given by Polybius in 1. 9 about Hiero’s strategy for consolidating his position in Syracuse, and his deliberate decision to go into battle against the Mamertines64 in the hope of losing his more difficult mercenaries in battle, before immediately afterwards recruiting more mercenaries (1. 9. 4–6). Book 1 thus starts and ends with difficulties caused by mercenaries; similarly, problems caused by Campanians also begin and end the book, since Spendius, the runaway Roman slave who is one of the mercenaries’ two key leaders, is also from Campania.65 There are, moreover, episodes during the First Punic War in which mercenaries are prominent: Polybius refers to the recruitment of Iberian, Celtic, and Ligurian mercenaries by Carthage to be deployed in Sicily very early on in the course of his narration of the war (1. 17. 4), and members of all these groupings will be mentioned as being among those who revolted in the Mercenary War (1. 67. 7). There is also the moment during the siege of Lilybaeum at 1. 43, when the Achaean Alexon intervenes to prevent some of the mercenary officers opening negotiations with the Romans for the handover of the city. There is likewise a reference to an earlier desertion to the Romans of some Gallic mercenaries at 1. 77. 5 in the vicinity of Mount Eryx;66 the wider context of the Mercenary War narrative underlines the point, already adumbrated in Polybius’ account of the First Punic War, that mercenary troops cannot be considered as something safe. However, a further effect of the Mercenary War is that it provides an extensive opportunity to consider the internal affairs of Carthage. In this

61

On the general issue of mercenaries in Polybius, see e.g. Eckstein 1995: 125–9, 175–6, Champion 2004a: 83, 111. 62 For the date, see Walbank, HCP i. 52. 63 Walbank, HCP i. 52. On the ‘chronological compression’ (p. 106) in this section of Polybius’ narrative, see Champion 2004a: 106–7. See also Champion in this volume (p. 149). 64 Strikingly referred to as f Æææı f c 

Å ŒÆÆ
åÆ in 1. 9. 3. 65 On Spendius, see further Hoyos 2007: 66–9. 66 Champion 2004a: 110 n. 33, however, notes that Polybius does not mention the tradition found in Diod. 23. 21 that the drunken behaviour of Celtic mercenaries ruined a Carthaginian attempt to recapture Panormus in 250 bc.

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respect, the episode might point back to the Anabasis which holds up a kind of mirror to the Persian empire, as at Anab. 1. 5. 9, when the empire’s fundamental weakness in terms of its vast size and the scattered deployment of its forces is noted. In Polybius, we hear more of the internal politics of Carthage in this war than we do even in the much longer First Punic War. This affords the opportunity for a number of telling observations about the Carthaginian state: Polybius accordingly notes its dependence on mercenaries (even during the Mercenary War itself, the Carthaginians are forced to raise mercenary forces, 1. 73. 167), and its unsatisfactory relations with its African allies (1. 72), whose defection leads to such serious consequences. Polybius also highlights the erratic nature of Carthage’s commanders; though he praises Hamilcar Barca,68 there are, as in the First Punic War, enough examples of poor leadership from the Carthaginians even down to the closing phases of the war to suggest the country’s weaknesses. These Carthaginian failings illustrated within the Mercenary War can also be linked to Polybius’ wider discourse on Carthaginian moral deterioration. In Book 6, when comparing Rome’s and Carthage’s constitutions, Polybius indicates that Carthage had undergone decline by the time of the Second Punic War (6. 51. 3).69 This, of course, modifies the earlier picture of moral equivalence between Rome and Carthage that Polybius emphasizes at the outset of the First Punic War (1. 13. 12):70 ÆP  a ºØÆÆ ŒÆ’ KŒ ı f ŒÆØæf IŒc IŒæÆØÆ b q E

KŁØ
E , æØÆ b ÆE åÆØ , æØ
Æ b ÆE ı
Ø. And the two states themselves in that period were as yet unravaged in their morals, enjoyed only moderate fortune, and were equal in their strength.

At the end of the First Punic War, Polybius again implies something very similar (1. 64. 5), suggesting that both sides were equal in their efforts, their greatness of spirit, and their desire for the glory of primacy.71 But by the time Polybius comes to discuss Carthage in general terms in Book 6, set at the moment of Roman crisis after Cannae, moral decline has set in. Part of the evidence for that tendency, it may be argued, is provided in 67 Hoyos 2007: 92 suggests that these additional mercenary forces may have been recruited in the region of Cap Bon and Byzacium. 68 For Hamilcar Barca in the Mercenary War, see Eckstein 1995: 174–7, who sees the episode as contrasting the rationality and civilized generalship of Hamilcar with the chaos of the mercenaries. 69 On Polybius’ views of Carthaginian decline, see Champion 2004a: 117–18. 70 For programmatic statements of parity between two main protagonists, cf. e.g. Thuc. 1. 1. 1 . . . ŒÆØæ ‹Ø IŒÇ fi q
Æ K ÆPe IçæØ ÆæÆ
ŒıB fi B fi 
fiÅ . . . ; Liv. 21. 1. 2 (with Levene 2010: 235–6). 71 1. 64. 5: ºc  ª fiH æØæÅø fi ºø fi a b H ºØıø Içæø æÆØæ
Ø KçÆ ººı oæØ Ø i ªªÅÆ P  ÆE KغÆE Iººa ŒÆd ÆE

ªÆºłıå ÆØ , ºØ
Æ b B fi æd H æø ø çغØ Æ fi ...

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Polybius’ account of the Mercenary War. Though Polybius underlines the wickedness of the mercenaries’ actions in the conflict,72 his account also reveals disturbing similarities between the two sides. Polybius’ claim that the war shows the differences between barbarous peoples and those educated in a civilized manner (1. 65. 7) is something that is, in fact, undermined repeatedly throughout the narrative by the degeneration of Carthaginian conduct.73 Thus, after the torture and murder of Gesco and his fellow-Carthaginians at 1. 80, the Carthaginians wish to achieve vengeance. Even though Hamilcar Barca has previously followed a policy of sparing prisoners (1. 78. 13–15),74 this approach is abandoned, with captives being thrown to the elephants (1. 82. 2),75 in an echo of the mercenaries’ own decision not to take prisoners (1. 81. 4);76 the wider context includes Polybius’ reflections on the fact that neither pardon nor retaliation has any effect on souls that are untreatable (1. 81). Now a detail such as this might simply be explicable in the light of Polybius’ views on the need to exterminate a rebellion of such savagery, but we can also note that Hamilcar uses a trick with the heralds of the mercenaries. When ten leaders from the mercenaries’ side go to negotiate (1. 85. 3–5), Hamilcar secures the agreement that he can take in his possession any ten individuals of his choice from the other side. Once the deal is agreed, Hamilcar then claims as his ten captives Spendius and the other nine emissaries; here we might see a parallel with Tissaphernes’ stratagem to get hold of Clearchus and other Greek leaders with a fatal conference (Xen. Anab. 2. 5). This refusal on the part of the Carthaginians to treat envoys properly also recalls the mercenaries’ own rejection of Carthaginian heralds who ask for the return of the dead (1. 81. 2–3), and evokes Polybius’ opening description of the war as a ‘truceless war’ (¼
  º, 1. 65. 6). This phrase might be seen as a programmatic echo of the decision of the Ten Thousand not to negotiate with Persia (Xen. Anab. 3. 3. 5):77 . . . K ŒØ E
æÆŪE ºØ r ÆØ ªÆ Ø
Æ
ŁÆØ e º IŒæıŒ rÆØ 
’ K B fi º Æ fi r. . . . to the generals it seemed that it was a better decision for the war to be without heralds while they were within enemy territory.

72

See further Champion 2004a: 83; see also e.g. Hoyos 2007: xx. 1. 65. 7: . . . æe b Ø  ØÆçæØ ŒÆd ŒÆa 
 XŁÅ
ØŒÆ ŒÆd æÆæÆ H K ÆØ  ÆØ ŒÆd Ø ŒÆd ºØØŒE Ł
Ø KŒŁæÆø. Eckstein 1995: 177 has a positive view of the war’s outcome as being the saving of civilization, but hints in n. 73 that ‘the Carthaginians themselves . . . are continually susceptible to disreputable emotion’. See also Erskine 2000: 170–1 on the wider tradition of characterizing Carthaginians as barbarian. 74 On Hamilcar’s initial decision to spare the prisoners, see Hoyos 2007: 152–3. 75 On this practice, see Hoyos 2007: 175, with n. 4. 76 Hoyos 2007: 174 sees this tactic as designed ‘to extend indefinitely the rebellion’s bonding through blood’. 77 Hoyos 2007: 174 notes the parallel. 73

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But whereas in Xenophon the decision not to negotiate is a rational decision taken on the basis of treachery already committed by the Persians, Polybius’ interest in a truceless war is much more concerned with the outrages that such a conflict can produce, in this case on both sides. Thus the punishment of Spendius and his colleagues, even though it might seem just, is somehow tainted in Polybius’ account by its juxtaposition with the similar fate meted out in reply to the Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who is crucified on the same cross that had been used for Spendius (1. 86. 6); the thirty Carthaginians slain around him78 provide a disturbing and striking echo of the Trojans killed by Achilles at the funeral of Patroclus in Homer (Iliad 23. 175–6),79 an incident which in Homer furnishes a rare instance of explicit moral comment: ŒÆŒa b çæ
d   æªÆ, ‘he planned evil deeds in his heart’ (Iliad 23. 176).80 Polybius indeed explicitly goes on to underline the moral equivalence between the two sides in the Mercenary War (1. 86. 7): . . . B åÅ u
æ K Å  KŒ ÆæÆŁ
ø IçæØ Kƺºa Ø 
Å

Içæa N æºc B ŒÆ’ Iºººø Øøæ Æ . . . . as if fortune were deliberately for the sake of comparison giving to both sides in turn incitements towards excessive cruelty in taking vengeance against each other.

This is borne out in the war’s final act, where Mathos is led through Carthage and tortured, with Polybius observing that the war was the cruellest of all (1. 88. 6–7). The humilation of Mathos is described as e Łæ Æ (‘triumphal procession’), in what is curiously the first instance of the word in Polybius’ work, giving a strange echo of Roman celebrations of triumphs over defeated enemies. Though the noun can also carry the implication of a Bacchic hymn of celebration (see LSJ, s.v.), we should note that Polybius does explicitly identify the Łæ Æ as a Roman practice in Book 6, explaining the institution to his readers at 6. 15. 8, and only otherwise using Łæ Æ in the surviving text to denote Roman triumphs.81 It is striking that while Polybius does not record the Roman triumph celebrated over the Falisci in his brief account of Rome’s conflict (1. 65. 2),82 he does use the language of triumph for the first time in his work in reference to the Carthaginian ‘triumph’ over Mathos.

78 On this incident, see Hoyos 2007: 224, who suggests that the thirty Carthaginians would have been senior officers or members of Hannibal’s entourage. 79 Plb. 38. 22, with Scipio’s quotation of Iliad 6. 448–9 at the fall of Carthage is, of course, a celebrated instance of Polybian exploitation of Homer, but note also Polybius’ extensive interest in Homeric geography, on which see further e.g. Pédech 1964: 582–6, Walbank 1972a: 51, 125–6. 80 Cf. the description of the mutilation of Hector as IØŒÆ . . . æªÆ at Iliad 22. 395. 81 Łæ Æ : 2. 31. 6; 3. 19. 12; 4. 66. 8; 11. 33. 7; 16. 23. 5–6; 21. 24. 17. Cf. 25. 1. 1 (K ÆE

ŁæØÆØŒÆE ÆE ). 82 For the ancient sources on the war against the Falisci, see MRR i. 219–20.

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Indeed, the equivalence between the Carthaginians and their enemies posited by Polybius may encourage reflection on the evocation of another possible equivalence in Book 1, that between Carthage and Rome. The comment on the parallelism between the Carthaginians and the mercenaries in 1. 86. 7 is striking indeed if we reflect that in 1. 64. 5–6 Polybius offers a much more positive pairing of similarities between the Romans and Carthaginians, praising their similar virtues, and only distinguishing between them in terms of the greater courage of the Romans, and the superior generalship of Hamilcar. Looking over the trajectory of the whole of the first book, the equivalence established between the Romans and the Carthaginians at the beginning of the narrative of the First Punic War in 1. 13. 12 (‘And the two states themselves in that period were as yet unravaged in their morals, enjoyed only moderate fortune, and were equal in their strength’, cited above) is reaffirmed at the end of the war, at 1. 64. 5–6. However, Polybius’ suggestion of parity on the level of (im)morality between the Carthaginians and the mercenaries represents a striking shift at the end of the book, as Carthage, having previously been a match for Rome, now seems to be moving in a rather different direction. Rome, however, is a latent presence in the Mercenary War narrative, which Polybius begins by evoking the similar problems faced by Rome and Carthage at 1. 65. 1–3: the revolt of the Falisci, which Rome was able to crush very rapidly, and the much more serious war faced by Carthage against its internal enemies. At the end, Polybius also draws out the parallelism between the final victory of the Carthaginians over the mercenaries and the Roman decision to accept the invitation to Sardinia; the Carthaginian attempt at protest is followed by the threat of war from Rome and Punic acquiescence (1. 88. 8–12). Within the Mercenary War narrative, there are various retrospective glances at the Romans in the First Punic War (1. 68. 7, 1. 71. 5, 1. 77. 5, 1. 82. 8), but there are hints at the future as well. Polybius mentions right at the outset the role that the Mercenary War played in the causation of the Second Punic War (1. 65. 8), but there is also the reference to Hiero’s desire to help the Carthaginians and thus to preserve a balance of power as a means of securing his friendship with the Romans (1. 83. 3–4). The Romans themselves are also involved at 1. 83. 5–11, where they decide to observe their treaty with Carthage, even though there is a potentially awkward dispute about the fate of traders from Italy who have had dealings with the enemies of Carthage; they also decline invitations to accept the surrender of Sardinia and Utica (1. 83. 11). There is thus always the possibility for Rome to be involved in affairs beyond her borders, and the decision not to intervene in Sardinia is, of course, reversed at the end of the book, and even accompanied by the threat of war. The Mercenary War illustrates the propensity of the Romans to act at moments of their choosing, that will be seen later in the text on occasions such as the Roman decision to pay heed to the complaints about Illyrian piracy that had hitherto been ignored (2. 8. 1-3), or the decision to do nothing about the assassins of Cn. Octavius who had been handed over to

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them by the Seleucid king, Demetrius I, on the grounds that this grievance might usefully be stored up for later use (32. 2. 1–3; 32. 3. 10–13).

CONCLUSIO N For Polybius, the Mercenary War is the moment when Carthage was most threatened. This is made clear at the outset in 1. 65. 4, when the Carthaginians are said to have been fighting not just for territory (with an implicit glance at both of the first two Punic Wars) but for their very survival. It is thus for Carthage a time of danger analogous to Rome’s situation in the immediate aftermath of Cannae, which is, of course, the context of Polybius’ discussion of the Roman constitution in Book 6. That moment of crisis for Rome moreover furnishes Polybius with the anecdote in 6. 58 about the ten ambassadors sent to Rome from among the prisoners after Cannae to negotiate a ransom, and the Roman rejection of this opportunity. Carthage’s conduct during the Mercenary War and in its aftermath similarly reveals a kind of strength and endurance,83 but Polybius also suggests that Carthaginian moral decline is already underway. The Mercenary War is thus an extremely important episode for Polybius: as well as his stated explanation for his account, the connection with the causation of the Second Punic War (surely not a sufficiently good reason for such detailed coverage), it allows him to revisit and prepare ongoing aspects of the military conflict between Rome and Carthage in both the First and Second Punic Wars, as well as anticipating—if one considers Polybius’ work in its final, extended form—the emphasis on Carthage and Africa in the account of the Third Punic War. The Mercenary War holds up a mirror to the true state of Carthage’s power (and her weaknesses), just as Polybius argued that the march of the Ten Thousand with Xenophon showed up the weakness of the Persian empire (3. 6. 10). We can moreover note a further hint at Rome’s ongoing trajectory towards dominion with the episode of the Roman seizure of Sardinia in the very last chapter of Book 1. There is also an anticipation of what is to come with the Illyrians, when the Romans complain to Carthage on behalf of their sea traders who had been imprisoned by Carthage for dealing with the mercenaries (1. 83. 6–8), which looks forward to the complaints made to Rome about Illyrian pirates in Book 2 (2. 8). The narrative of the conflict also enables Polybius to explore the mercenary theme,84 which in the case of Carthage offers such an important foil to his emphasis on the significance not only of Rome’s legions but also of her Italian 83

As noted by Champion 2004a: 111. See also Champion 2004a: 111; cf. Eckstein 1995: 129, Champion 2004a: 114 on the betrayal of Phoenice by Gallic mercenaries in Book 2. 84

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allies, who represent an implicit point of contrast with the defections of the overtaxed and resentful Libyans in the Mercenary War. It also affords Polybius an opportunity for extensive engagement with Xenophon’s account of the Ten Thousand, a key text on mercenaries, echoing aspects of the narrative but also offering a different view of mercenaries, and perhaps even drawing attention to some of the more problematic sides of Xenophon’s account, such as the dangers of indiscipline and disunity. It is worth reminding ourselves that Polybius in fact singles out the war as one which was exceptional and which in some respects went beyond others. We have already seen Polybius’ remarks on the danger faced by Carthage in the war (1. 65. 4), a point echoed at 1. 71. 5, where Polybius contrasts Carthage’s war over Sicily, the First Punic War, with the danger of the Mercenary War, fought for survival.85 For Polybius, not only was the Mercenary War a greater and more fearful war ( Ç ªaæ K
Æ ºı ŒÆÆæåc ŒÆd çæøæı, 1. 71. 4), but it also far exceeded all other wars in savagery and wickedness (TÅØ ŒÆd ÆæÆ Æfi, 1. 88. 7).86 We are obviously not dealing here with a war whose geographical or even temporal scale could match more celebrated conflicts. Nevertheless, Polybius applies to the Mercenary War a version of the time-honoured trope used by Thucydides and others—including Polybius himself—that there was no greater war.87 85 For this antithesis, cf. e.g. Dem. Olynth. 1. 5, and other parallels collected by Ogilvie and Richmond 1967: 243 on Tac. Ag. 26. 2. See also Rood 2012: 60–1, noting the parallel between the evocation of the desperate situation faced by Carthage at Plb. 1. 71. 5–6 and Thuc. 8. 1. 2 on the plight of the Athenians after the Sicilian disaster. 86 On ÆæÆ Æ, see Champion 2004a: 243–4. For the rhetorical presentation of acts of superlative savagery in Thucydides and Xenophon, see now Gray 2011: 82–4. 87 Cf. Hdt. 7. 20. 2 (on the size of Xerxes’ expedition); Thuc. 1. 1. 2–3 (on the Peloponnesian War; cf. 1. 10. 3 on the Trojan War as a previous greatest conflict, and 1. 23. 1–3 for Thucydides’ emphasis on the length and extent of the suffering caused by the Peloponnesian War); Plb. 1. 63. 4 (on the First Punic War), with Rood 2012: 60; Liv. 21. 1. 1–2 (on the Second Punic War). On this motif, see further Herkommer 1968: 164–71, Woodman 1983: 171 on Vell. 2. 71. 1, Martin and Woodman 1989: 251 on Tac. Ann. 4. 69. 3, Wiedemann 1990: 293, Marincola 1997: 34–43, Gibson 2010: 53–4.

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9 Youthfulness in Polybius: The Case of Philip V of Macedon Brian McGing

It has been observed before that the literary aspect of Polybius’ Histories, with which you might expect modern approaches to engage closely, has not received the attention devoted to other aspects of his work.1 This probably stems from two conspicuous characteristics of Polybius’ writing. First, the perceived ordinariness of his literary style, famously disparaged by Dionysius of Halicarnassus (De compositione verborum 4. 110): failure to pay adequate attention to the proper composition of words, Dionysius argued, made Polybius one of the many authors that no one could abide to read from cover to cover. And indeed Polybius says himself that he consciously espoused a simple, straightforward style (16. 17. 9–11). Distracted by this lack of ornament, readers can all too easily be lulled into thinking that here is a hard-nosed, straight-talking soldier-statesman who tells the truth, simple and unvarnished (29. 12. 8).2 Along with Polybius’ stylistic plainness goes a readiness to think out loud that was quite uncharacteristic of most other historians writing in the ancient world. As J. B. Bury noted:3 He is always on the stage himself, criticizing, expounding, emphasizing, making points, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, propounding and defending his personal views . . . Polybius takes the reader fully into his confidence, and performs all the processes of analysis in his presence.

1

See e.g. Davidson 1991: 10, Marincola 2001: 113. As Bury 1909: 218 pronounced, ‘To illustrate his diction and vocabulary we must look not to belles lettres but to the language of officialdom—decrees and despatches—and technical treatises on philosophy and science.’ Bury’s analysis of Polybius was characteristically astute. See particularly Miltsios 2009: 481–2 for discussion of how Polybius’ lack of stylistic quality has distracted scholars from literary analysis. 3 Bury 1909: 211. 2

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Although this constant authorial intervention can appear tiresome to a modern audience,4 it is also the case that it produces analytical passages of great interest and importance on a host of different topics. These have attracted close scholarly attention and perhaps diverted it from the simple narrative. And yet it was the story that interested ancient audiences. Polybius may not have been a sharp stylist in the use of language, but he did produce a narrative of very carefully contrived design. Just over seventy years ago Frank Walbank wrote an article on this subject, examining Polybius’ treatment of Philip V of Macedon as a sort of figure from Greek tragedy.5 It deals largely with the end of Philip’s reign. In this article I look at its beginning, examining how Philip’s presentation as a ‘young’ king affects the development of the narrative. Before turning to Philip, it might be appropriate to place this youthfulness in the wider context of Polybius’ engagement with age.

I From the very beginning of the Histories Polybius displays an interest in age, how old people are (1. 1. 4–5): ‘the extraordinary nature of the events I decided to write about is in itself enough to interest everyone, young or old, in my work, and make them want to read it’.6 Later, he explains that he has spoken at such length about Scipio Aemilianus because he thought it would be pleasant for older people and useful for the young (31. 30. 1).7 On the whole, Polybius does not have a great deal to say about old age. Older men sometimes have wise advice to offer. When Philip V was trying to decide how to deal with the Spartans in 221 bc, some urged him to make an example of them, but older courtiers ( æØ b H æ
ıæø) said this was too harsh (4. 23. 9); in the end he treated the Spartans leniently. A little later the Spartans were invited to join the Aetolians against Macedon, but older Spartans (H æ
ıæø Ø ) could remember the benefits bestowed on them by Antigonus and persuaded their fellow citizens to maintain the alliance with Macedon (4. 34. 8–9). When action was called for, however, as you might expect, old age was a disadvantage. In response to Antiochus III’s invasion of his territory, for example, Artabazanes of Atropatene yielded without a fight, mostly because 4

See e.g. Sacks 1981: 8. Walbank 1938: 55–68; see also Dreyer in this volume. 6 ÆPe ªaæ e Ææ  H æø, bæ z æfiÅæŁÆ ªæçØ, ƒŒÆ K
Ø æŒÆº
Æ
ŁÆØ ŒÆd ÆææB
ÆØ Æ ŒÆd  ŒÆd æ
æ æe c ıØ B

æƪÆ Æ . For passages from Books 1–5, 6 and 12, I have mostly used Robin Waterfield’s excellent new translation for Oxford World’s Classics (2010). 7 Kªg b º ø  ÅÆØ ºª bæ B ŒØ ø ƃæ
ø KŒ B æÅ ºØŒ Æ ,  EÆ b ºÆø r ÆØ E æ
ıæØ , TçºØ b E Ø c ØÆÅ ƒ
æ Æ . . . 5

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of his age, for he was a very old man (ºø ªaæ X Å ªÅæÆØe q, 5. 55. 10). And Alexander the Isian refused to pay a ransom for his freedom when captured by the Epirots: he remained in prison, an old man (æ
æ

¼Łæø ), even though he was the richest person in Greece (21. 26. 14). The implication is that he was a stubborn old fool, rather than that Polybius was sorry for an old person being in prison. Old age even affected the great, but 70year-old, Philopoemen (e B ºØŒ Æ Ææı , 23. 12. 1). The exception that proves the rule was provided by Archimedes, whose artillery and defence engines helped to protect Syracuse against the Romans during the Second Punic War: ‘if someone would only remove one old Syracusan (æ
Å Æ ıæÆŒ
ø)’, the Romans believed they would have no trouble in capturing the city immediately (8. 7. 8–9). It is overwhelmingly youthfulness that attracts Polybius’ attention, in particular young leaders.8 He conveys a widespread belief among the actors of his story that young men are gullible, rash, and not able to manage public affairs. Young men speak out of turn. At the siege of Abydos in 202 bc, the youngest (Æ ) of the Roman ambassadors, M. Aemilius Lepidus, addressed king Attalus in an abrupt manner. The king was shocked but forgave him for three reasons: he was young and inexperienced (æH b ‹Ø  K
d ŒÆd æƪø ¼Øæ ); he was extremely handsome; and he was a Roman (16. 34. 6). At an audience with queen Teuta of Illyria the younger Coruncanius spoke ‘with a candour which was wholly justified, but far from diplomatic’ (Kåæ
Æ ÆææÅ
Æ fi ŒÆŁÅŒ
fi Å , P ÆH b æe ŒÆØæ, 2. 8. 9): Polybius does not actually say so, but the implication is that Coruncanius spoke with the rashness of youth. Young men are also unable to deal with complicated affairs. When Demetrius, son of Philip V, was sent to Rome to defend his father against a multitude of complainants, the senate excused him from having to speak himself: they liked him, Polybius explains, and saw that he was very young and quite incapable of dealing with such a tangle of complications (23. 2–3).9 This assessment proved correct in a most unfortunate manner. For the senate’s favour turned the young man’s head (KæØ
 b e ØæŒØ) and annoyed Philip and his other son, Perseus. The situation was made even worse by Flamininus, who took the young man (e ØæŒØ) into his

8 A TLG search shows that the word ºØŒ Æ, used in all but one or two cases for youthfulness rather than old age, occurs 83 times in the remains of Poybius; ÆE in its various forms occurs over 100 times,  50 times. Defining exactly what Polybius meant by the terms is not easy. Schmitt 1964: 8–9 identifies ÆE as referring to someone up to and including the age of 20, while  lasts from 21 to at least 30. See also Golden 1990: 12–16 (ÆE ), 107–8 ( ). In fact, as we shall see below, Polybius applies  to people well into their thirties. 9 – ŒÆd çغÆŁæø æe ÆPe ØÆŒØÅ ŒÆd ŁøæF
Æ  ZÆ ŒØ B fi ŒÆd ºf B

ØÆÅ
ı
æçB ŒÆd ،غ Æ IºØ. Demetrius was about 23 years old at this time: see Walbank, HCP ii. 601 on 18. 39. 5.

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confidence and deluded the youth (  ªaæ Æ
Œ KłıåƪªÅ
) into thinking that Rome would immediately secure the throne of Macedon for him. This all led to his death in the end. In the military context, although young men must do the fighting, inexperience can be a problem. Antiochus III, being young and inexperienced (‰ i ¼Øæ ŒÆd  )—he was 24 or 25—assumed from his own success that he had won the battle of Raphia in 217 bc; he needed an older officer to point out the truth (5. 85. 11–12). When besieging Cynaetha in 241 bc the Achaean general Aratus, who was 30 at the time,10 mistook a signal and attacked too early (9. 17); for Polybius the cause of the problem was the use of a signal by a commander who was still young ( IŒc ZÆ) and ignorant of the use of double signals. Even if you were not young, you could still show childish gullibility. At the beginning of the Second Punic War, for example, the Carthaginian general Bostar allowed himself to be tricked into handing over Spanish hostages to the Iberian prince Abilyx, thus giving Abilyx the opportunity to use them strategically instead of doing so himself (3. 98–9). For this display of gullibility and naivety he was thought to have acted rather childishly, given his age.11 And the word ‘childish’ can function as a term of abuse for people acting in a particularly stupid way. The Aetolian general Ariston pretended not to know about the Aetolian invasion of Achaea in 220 bc, which is identified as ‘a childishly silly thing to do’ (hÅŁ ŒÆd ÆØ ØŒe æAªÆ ØH), since the facts proved otherwise (4. 17. 2). Polybius felt it was necessary to discuss the hydrography of the Black Sea because of ‘the false and fanciful yarns of seafaring traders: we should not be condemned by our ignorance to believe everything we hear, like children’ (4. 42. 7–8).12 In continuing to believe that Africa was dry, sandy, and barren Timaeus was ‘like a child who is quite incapable of thinking for himself ’ (ÆØ ÆæØ Å ŒÆd ºø I
ıººªØ
, 12. 3. 2). Similarly, his belief that the sacrifice of the October horse was connected with the Trojan War was ‘a most childish notion’ (æAªÆ ø ÆØ ÆæØø 
Æ, 12. 4b. 2). And writing speeches in which you tell the audience what they already know, as Timaeus did, is utterly futile and childish (ÆÆØÆ r ÆØ ø ŒÆd ÆØ ÆæØø 
Æ, 12. 25k. 9). It is in the field of political leadership that youthfulness in the Histories is perceived to be most disadvantageous. When Hiero II of Syracuse died, in 215 bc, the Romans sent a mission to his 15-year-old successor and grandson, Hieronymus, in order to confirm the treaty between Rome and Syracuse (7. 3).

10

See Walbank, HCP ii. 144 on 9. 17. 6. B
øæ b ÆØ ØŒæ j ŒÆa c ºØŒ Æ Æ KªŒåØæØŒÆØ f ›æı E

º Ø , 3. 99. 8. 12 Ø b Aºº Næ
Łø ŒÆd B H ºœÇø łı ºª Æ ŒÆd æÆ Æ åæØ, ¥ Æ c Æd fiH ºªø fi æ
ŒåÅÆØ ÆØ ØŒH IƪŒÆÇŁÆ Øa c IØæ Æ. 11

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Hieronymus tactlessly (I
å Æ) sympathized with them on being so badly defeated by the Carthaginians in Italy, and asked why they had sent a fleet to Pachynum before his grandfather’s death. The answer was they thought Hiero had died and were afraid that the Syracusan people would despise his successor’s youthfulness (ŒÆÆçæ
Æ B F ŒÆƺºØı ÆØ e ºØŒ Æ ) and depose him. No matter how self-interested the Roman action and bogus the claim, the excuse was that they were watching over him in his youthfulness and protecting his rule. As a youngster, the assumption is, he would not be able to do this himself. Hieronymus ruled for only a year before being deposed, and although Polybius admits that he was extremely rash and violent ( ØÆçæø NŒÆE ÆPe ªªÆØ ŒÆd Ææ), he also says you have to remember that he was only a boy (ÆE ) when he succeeded to the throne and lived only for another thirteen months (7. 7). He seems to accept the Roman view that Hieronymus was simply too young to rule and did not live long enough to improve. The sort of trouble a young ruler could get into is illustrated by the case of Charops of Epirus (32. 5–6) in 160/59 bc. When Rome removed his rivals, he and his courtiers went on a rampage of criminal misgovernment, as he was himself very young (–  b J ÆPe ŒØ B fi ) and they were the worst types. Although not actually deposed by Rome, he was studiously ignored by leading Romans and the senate, when he went to look for their support. A young king was always at the mercy of enemies and unscrupulous courtiers. At the Seleucid court the wicked Hermias thought he had the young Antiochus III entirely under his control ( Øa c ºØŒ Æ å æØ åø e Æ
Œ, 5. 45. 7), and Molon and Alexander decided to revolt against Antiochus partly because they despised the king for his youthfulness (ŒÆÆçæ
Æ b ÆPF Øa c ºØŒ Æ, 5. 41. 1). To Polybius’ disgust, Philip V and Antiochus III ganged up on Ptolemy V Epiphanes of Egypt, who was only an infant (ÆØ  Ø)—he was 5 years old when his father was killed13—and planned to carve up the boy’s kingdom between them (c F ÆØ e Iæå, 15. 20). A decade later the Ptolemaic courtier Scopas is described as enjoying strong support and a good opportunity as Epiphanes was still only a boy (ÆE , 18. 53. 4). As we shall see, various courtiers and opponents regarded Philip V as a youngster who could be disregarded. The process of moving from youthful incapacity to adult capability is illustrated by the Seleucid prince Demetrius (31. 2). He had been held, unjustly it was thought, as hostage in Rome for many years, but had previously done nothing about it, ‘as he was still a boy’ (q ªaæ Ø ÆE ). Now that he was grown to adulthood ( b c IŒÆØÅ åø ºØŒ Æ)—he was 23 years old14—he appeared before the senate to ask for permission to return and take 13 14

See Walbank, HCP ii. 473 on 15. 20. 2. See Walbank, HCP iii. 465 on 31. 2. 1.

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up the throne. His request was refused, Polybius believed, because the senate thought that the youth and incapacity of the young Antiochus V served their interests better than a king in his prime.15 The evidence for this senatorial attitude is the embassy of Cn. Octavius sent in 163 to burn the Seleucid warships and hamstring their elephants: no one was likely to resist as the king was a boy (F b Æ
غø ÆØ e Z ) and the leading Seleucid courtiers were delighted not to have Demetrius foisted on them. In spite of calling him an adult, Polybius was still worried that Demetrius’ fondness for drink and extreme youth could endanger the plans for his escape from Rome (31. 13. 8).16 And he did not even have the good sense to take Polybius’ advice not to ask the senate for release a second time. Instead, he consulted one of his entourage, Apollonius, who was guileless and very young (¼ŒÆŒ J ŒÆd ŒØ B fi  ) and gave Demetrius poor advice (31. 11). The faults of youth, however, do not affect all young leaders. Young men of exceptional ability repeatedly defy expectations of their youthfulness. Aratus of Sicyon freed his city of tyranny at the tender age of 20. Eight years later, when already general for the second time, he liberated Corinth and brought Megara into the Achaean League too (2. 43. 3–5). Scipio Africanus is another good example.17 When he asked his mother’s permission to stand for the aedileship she agreed, thinking he was just joking as he was very young (ŒÆd ªaæ q ŒØ B fi  , 10. 4. 8): he was 19.18 In 210/9 bc he was just 27 years old and yet he took over a situation in Spain that most people regarded as desperate, and devised a course of action that neither his own side nor the enemy expected (10. 8. 10–11). He spent all winter making plans for the capture of New Carthage, but in spite of his youth, told no one except Gaius Laelius (10. 9. 1). In 208 after the battle of Baecula the Spaniards wanted to call him king, but he refused, thus showing a greatness of mind even in one so young (ŒØ B fi  þ, 10. 40. 6). And in addressing him before the battle of Zama in 202, when Scipio was now 34, Hannibal said he was afraid Scipio was so young ( Øa e  r ÆØ ŒØ B fi ) and successful that he would not listen to him (15. 7. 1). By this stage the praise of his tender years is wearing thin, and the suspicion arises that triumph over youthfulness is a quality Polybius likes to attribute to his favourites, even when they are no longer very young. The

15

Ø Å c IŒc F ˜ÅÅæ ı, Aºº b Œæ Æ
Æ
ıçæØ E
çæØ

æªÆ
Ø c ÅÆ ŒÆd c I ıÆ Æ F ÆØ e F ØÆ  ªı c Æ
غ Æ, 31. 2. 7. 16 – F ˜ÅÅæ ı
ıØŒF çı
ØŒH ŒÆd øæı ºø æå . 17 Other ‘young’ leaders—not all of them favourites of Polybius, but high achievers—include Hannibal (3. 15. 6), his brother Mago (3. 71. 6), the Aetolian Dorimachus (4. 3. 5), Seleucus III (4. 48. 7), Agathocles of Syracuse (15. 35. 1), the Ptolemaic advisers Tlepolemus (16. 21. 1), Sosibius (16. 22. 2), and Polycrates (18. 55. 5), Flamininus (18. 12. 5), the Spartans Agesipolis (23. 6. 1) and Chaeron (24. 7. 1), Fabius Maximus (29. 14. 2), the future Attalus III (33. 18. 1). 18 There are inaccuracies in Polybius’ story here: see Walbank, HCP ii. 199–200 on 10. 4. 1–5. Scipio was aedile in 213, not 217, the date implied in the story (when he was 19).

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same seems to apply to Scipio Aemilianus at the end of the 150s (35. 4). The senate was facing a recruitment crisis for the war in Spain as no one wanted to fight there, but Aemilianus, who was a young man ( b þ), volunteered, much to the senate’s surprise, given Scipio’s youth and caution (ŒÆd Øa c ºØŒ Æ ŒÆd Øa c ¼ººÅ PºØÆ). Aemilianus was about 33 at the time. Similarly with Hiero of Syracuse. In the build-up to the First Punic War, Hiero is described as being just a young man ( b ZÆ ŒØ B fi , 1. 8. 3), but he had a natural talent for politics and the Syracusans unanimously appointed him general. He was born in 315 bc and his coup took place either in 270/69 (in which case he was about 36 or 37), or in 275/4 (when he would be 31 or 32).19 In neither case is the praise of his youth very convincing. The great Philopoemen also benefits from an attribution of scarcely convincing youthfulness. At the battle of Sellasia in 222, when he was 30, Philopoemen tried to warn his superiors of danger, but was ignored as he had not held high command yet and was young ( Øa e ’ Kç’ ª Æ åŁÆØ Å  ŒØ B fi   æåØ ÆP, 2. 67. 5). Without orders, he led an attack that had an important influence on the course of the battle. When Antigonus later asked his cavalry commander, Alexander, why he had engaged the enemy before getting the signal, Alexander replied that he had not done so, but that a ‘youngster from Megalopolis’ (ØæŒØ Ø ªÆººØØŒ) had attacked prematurely without permission. Antigonus said that the youngster had behaved like a good commander in spotting an opportunity, while the commander had acted like an untried youngster (2. 68. 1–2).20 Even Polybius himself showed precocious ability when he was appointed along with his father, Lycortas, as an ambassador to Egypt, in spite of the fact that he had not yet reached the legal age for the job (24. 6. 5).

II The characteristic set of youthful failings that I have been illustrating has important narrative functions for Polybius. It is one of the considerations that lead individuals in the narrative to take action. Sometimes the assumptions are safe: youths behave with youthful incompetence, and those around them are enabled to take appropriate action. At other times the uncritical assumption of youthful folly leads, or misleads, the actors in the story to underestimate certain individuals, particularly outstanding ones, and take the wrong action. Not only are the actors of the story misled, however, but the readers too: 19

See Walbank, HCP i. 54–5 on 1. 8. 3. NE ØØ e b ØæŒØ ª æª IªÆŁF Ø
ÆØ,
ıŁÆ
 e ŒÆØæ, KŒE ’ ªg æåø ØæÆŒ ı F ıå . 20

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Polybius can use the discourse of youth as a mechanism to direct or at times confuse and misdirect his audience.21 The career of the young Philip V offers a particularly good example of the way in which the common expectations of youthfulness can help to shape the narrative, challenging both the actors in the story and the reader. Philip’s introduction into Book 4 is gradual and unobtrusive. He is mentioned first in chapters 2, 3, and 5, with an emphasis on his youth: he was only a boy (ÆE ) when he came to the throne (4. 2. 5). This is important information, as it is presented as an element in the causes of the Social War: for, Polybius says, as long as Antigonus ruled in Macedon, the Aetolians were cowed into inactivity, but when he died, leaving Philip only a boy, they thought they could ignore him and intervene in the Peloponnese (4. 3. 2–3).22 The view is ‘focalized’ through the Aetolians: it is their perception that Philip is too young to manage, not the narrator’s (that is, in simple terms, Polybius’).23 This Aetolian interpretation of the situation led the violent Dorimachus into various acts of aggression in the Peloponnese. In looking for an ally, he urges Scopas to join him in attacking Messenia, as they would be quite safe from Macedonia, Philip being only 17 years old.24 Chapters 22–9 contain the first continuous narrative of the king in action. He arrives at Corinth, calls the allies to a conference, and takes off to deal with internal troubles developing at Sparta. Here three of the ephors were taking the Aetolian side, convinced that Philip was too young to control Peloponnesian affairs (4. 22. 5).25 This is now the third different focalization of this point. 21

O’Gorman 2000: 13 presents a similar, although more complicated, network of relationships in Tacitus: ‘Tacitus’ reader follows the characters (sometimes the narrator) in the act of reading, not always coming to the same conclusion; the differences as well as the parallels are suggestive. In particular, Tacitus continually represents his characters in the act of misreading . . . ’. For detailed analysis, see O’Gorman 2000: 81–97. See too Miltsios 2009: 492–8 on ‘illusory expectations’ in Polybius. 22

ø  ª ÇÅ,  Ø ÆŒ Æ qª 
ıå Æ. KØ c ’ KŒE ººÆ e  , ÆE Æ ŒÆƺØg  ºØ, ŒÆÆçæ
Æ KÇı Içæa ŒÆd æç
Ø B N

—ºÅ
 KغŒB . . . 23 The terminology of narratology is now familiar in classical scholarship. Davidson’s (1991: 10–11) choice of ‘gaze’ as opposed to ‘focalization’ does reflect his concern with Polybius’ visual presentation of perspective, but does not really make his analysis any less narratological; and most no longer share his worry about applying a narratological approach to a historical text: see e.g. S. Hornblower 1994: 131–66, Rood 1998 (which is is a particularly good example of the fullscale application of narratology to historiography), Miltsios 2009. One of the most interesting and revealing discussions of focalization remains Fowler 1990. The basic work cited on narratology is now usually Bal 1997, but a much more attractive introduction is Genette 1980. 24 Plb. 4. 5. 3: ææ e ŒÆ ŒØøB
ÆØ B KغB ÆPfiH B ŒÆa H 

Å ø,  ØŒø b c Ie ÆŒ ø I
çºØÆ Øa c ºØŒ Æ F æ
H — P ªaæ rå ºE KH   ºØ ÆŒÆ ŒÆ . . . The general statement about Philip’s youth is certainly focalized through Dorimachus, but it may be that the specific information that he was 17 years old is an authorial statement by Polybius to explain Dorimachus’ position. 25 ƒ b æE KŒØı E `NøºE H æƪø, Ø
Ø Øa c ºØŒ Æ e  ºØ P ø ı

ŁÆØ E ŒÆa c —ºÅ
 æªÆ
Ø KÆæŒE.

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The reader has not been told anything definite yet about the validity or otherwise of this view: Polybius has not, so to speak, taken responsibility for it—it is simply the way certain of the parties involved see the situation—and neither the reader nor the participants in the action know whether the assumption of youthful inability will prove correct in this case. For the moment, things turn out contrary to expectation (4. 22. 6), as so often in Polybius:26 the Aetolians withdraw swiftly, and even more swiftly Philip makes an appearance from Macedon. This is the first reference to Philip’s speed, a theme Polybius develops and links with that of the king’s youthfulness (see below pp. 190–1, 195–6). The pro-Macedonian ephor Adeimantus is murdered by the pro-Aetolian ephors, who try to keep Philip away from Sparta. He listens, but will not be put off and requires that the Spartans send a delegation with the necessary authority to discuss the situation. This is a firm and measured response: there is nothing to imply that anyone other than the king is in complete control. The Spartans make their case at the king’s council, but there was disagreement about how to react. Some advised Philip to make a brutal example of the Spartans, in the way that Alexander the Great treated Thebes at the beginning of his reign;27 others urged greater restraint and punishment only for the guilty parties (4. 22. 11–4. 23). Finally Philip spoke (4. 24). Polybius immediately casts doubt on the ability of a 17-year-old boy to make such weighty decisions all on his own. Writers, he argues, have to simplify the decision-making process by attributing all policy to the king, while in fact it is a more complicated process of advice from, and discussion among, the king’s associates, particularly those closest to him. In the present case, Polybius surmises, without explaining why, that Aratus was probably the one behind the policy that emerged.28 We now appear for the first time to have Polybius’ own view of Philip’s youth: in all likelihood, he says, a young king like this is not the one going to be making the big decisions. As a direction to the reader—or, as it will prove, a misdirection—he seems to be implying that those who regarded the king as too young to rule were right: he was not really in effective charge, in the way he would have been if he were older. We are being invited to believe that Dorimachus, the Aetolians, and the Spartan ephors are justified in the assumptions they have made about Philip. This is the first time Philip is called on to make a major decision, so it is a fitting place to introduce the theme of the court and

26 A TLG search gives thirteen instances of the phrase ‘contrary to expectation’ (Ææa c æ
Œ Æ) in Polybius. 27 See Dreyer in this volume (pp. 204, 206–9) for discussion of the parallels Polybius draws between the family of Philip II and that of Philip V. 28 The responsibility for courtiers influencing the decision of young kings is a matter raised on two further occasions: Philip’s attacks on Thermum (5. 9–12) and Messene (7. 11–14). See below for discussion.

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courtiers, a theme that will dominate the rest of the story of Philip’s early years.29 This statement about the decision-making process and the role of the courtiers is immediately undermined by Polybius’ return to his narrative mode, in which he describes the action simply in terms of the king. Everything Philip does is marked by excellence. His response to the Spartan situation is measured and restrained: the Spartan behaviour had not damaged the alliance as a whole, and so harsh punishment was not required. This decision to overlook the incident ‘gave the allies a fine illustration of his principles’ (ŒÆºe EªÆ B ÆıF æÆØæ
ø , 4. 24. 9). As he has the allies assembled at Corinth, he calls for a debate on what to do about the Aetolians. The decision is made to declare war, but Philip wisely sends them a letter keeping open a channel of negotiation (which they reject). He then departs for Macedonia to prepare for war, having ‘given not just the allies, but all Greeks, good reason to expect his reign to be that of a man who was not easily ruffled, but could maintain a kingly objectivity’ (4. 27. 9–10).30 Even in winter he continues to act decisively, fearlessly putting himself in danger to win over Scerdilaidas to the Macedonian side (4. 29). With that, the story takes leave of Philip to follow the war preparations of the other states, before breaking away entirely from the Social War to examine the war of Rhodes and Bithynia against Byzantium, and the situation in Crete and Sinope (4. 38–56). When coverage of the Social War resumes in chapter 57, after a brief look at Peloponnesian affairs (4. 57–60), Polybius then puts Philip centre-stage. It is a story of sustained military success, with the king continuing to display courage and decisive leadership. He captures one town after another, repeatedly defeating the enemy, and, although Polybius does not say it, repeatedly defying the expectations of youthful inability. In chapter 66 he hears the Dardani are planning to invade Macedonia and rushes back. I have already alluded to Philip’s speed, and his return from Macedonia to the Peloponnese in chapters 67–9 brings it out fully, effectively set off by focalization. The situation is focalized first through the Peloponnesians. With the onset of winter, everyone had given up hope that Philip would come, but he brought an army to Corinth with such speed and secrecy that no one in the Peloponnese was aware of what had happened.31 Polybius then views the situation through the eyes of the main players: Philip, the Aetolian general Euripidas, and the Elean army, all stumbling around in ignorance of each other’s presence. We, the audience, 29

On Hellenistic courtiers, see particularly Herman 1997: 199–224. P  E
ıåØ , Iººa A
Ø E  ‚ººÅ
Ø Øa F æØæÅı łÅç
Æ ŒÆºa

Kº Æ  ØŒø æÆ fi Å ŒÆd ªÆºłıå Æ Æ
غ،B . 31 Plb. 4. 67. 6–7: F b åØH Ø æÆ  , ŒÆd ø IźØŒø c Ææı
Æ F غ ı Øa e ŒÆØæ . . . wŒ Øa B BØø Æ ŒÆd ªÆæ  N ˚æØŁ æd æa

åØæØ , Kæªe ŒÆd ºÆŁæÆ Æ ØÅ c Ææı
Æ oø u
 Å Æ —ºÅ
ø B
ÆØ e ªª . 30

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have all the necessary information, but not the protagonists themselves. The Peloponnesians were astonished at all this: ‘for they heard at the same time of the king’s arrival and of his victory’.32 This episode is neatly framed by the Peloponnesians’ ignorance at the beginning and their astonishment at the end. A king displaying such ability to move fast in a theatre of war and confound the enemy is not likely to be one affected by the usual weaknesses of youth. Up to this point Polybius has presented Philip in two ways. Through the eyes of certain protagonists he is seen as a youngster who can safely be ignored, a view reinforced by Polybius’ own authorial intervention about young kings and their dependence on advisers. This perception is one of the main generators of the Social War. On the other hand, the account of his exploits paints a very different picture of the king as a dynamic leader and general, fast-moving, brave, and militarily successful, creating high hopes for the future. No suggestion has yet been made explicitly that these achievements undermine the other view of Philip as a young weakling. Further undermining it is the uncluttered focus on Philip himself. In spite of Polybius’ statement on advisers (in 4. 24), the only other person in the court whose name has even been mentioned is Aratus, and he faded from the picture when Philip took command of the war against the Aetolians. In the narrative, to all intents and purposes Philip has so far stood alone. In chapter 76, however, Apelles is introduced. He and his fellow conspirators and their antagonism towards Aratus are going to be the big story linking Books 4 and 5, which run together as a single unit.33 He was, Polybius tells us, one of the guardians of the young Philip left by Antigonus, and he now enjoyed great influence with the king.34 This is, in narratological terms, an analeptic displacement: it is something that happened before the story-events now being recounted, but not mentioned at that time. We were informed of Antigonus’ death at the very beginning of Book 4. Polybius observed then that Philip was just a boy when he succeeded to the throne, so he had an excellent opportunity to mention Apelles, if he had wanted to. When narrating the beginning of the reigns of Ptolemy IV (5. 34–40) and Antiochus III (5. 40–57), Polybius immediately introduces the courtiers to the scene. So there is nothing unavoidable in the way Polybius has kept silent about Apelles: he has held him back on purpose and we must ask why.35 I suggest a twofold reason. First, it leaves the field clear for us to see Philip entirely as himself. This has the 32 Plb. 4. 69. 9: E b —ºÅ
Ø A
Ø Ææ  KçÅ e ªª · –Æ ªaæ XŒı c Ææı
Æ ŒÆd c  ŒÅ F Æ
غø . 33 For analysis of Apelles’ ‘conspiracy’, see Errington 1967a: 19–36. 34 ººB ’, n q b x H ’ تı ŒÆƺØçŁø KØæø F ÆØ  , ºE
 ’ KªåÆ  ı Ææa fiH Æ
غE . . . 35 On might compare the way Tacitus holds back the character sketch of Sejanus until the beginning of Annals 4, even though he has been present before. Just as in Tacitus the introduction of Sejanus marks a new beginning, ‘when fortune suddenly started to turn disruptive’ (Ann.

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advantage of maintaining doubt in the mind of the reader about his youthfulness: are we to believe that Dorimachus, the Aetolians, and the Spartan ephors have got it right? Or has the narrative of Philip’s performance as king given us sufficient reason to think otherwise? Secondly, it is a way of emphasizing the good beginning to Philip’s reign. Polybius is about to tell us that it all went wrong, and he has a vested artistic interest in creating a clear contrast between the hopeful beginning and what happened later. On the whole, courtiers in the Histories are presented by Polybius as wicked schemers.36 And their absence from Philip’s early reign leaves him, at least in the literary presentation, uncontaminated by their baneful presence. Immediately following the introduction of Apelles, Polybius offers his first major assessment of Philip’s reign, in chapter 77. It is very favourable. His performance was gaining him an excellent reputation, not just with those under his command but with all the rest of the Peloponnesians. Intelligent, he had a good memory, the authority of a king; he was charming, and able, and brave as a general. Polybius found it ‘hard to think of a king who was more richly endowed with the temperament necessary for the possession of power’ (4. 77. 2).37 With all this praise, Polybius seems to have forgotten the issue of Philip’s youthfulness. But now we get the proleptic reference to future disaster I have just mentioned, a sort of dramatic foreshadowing: what went wrong, he asks? What turned Philip from a natural king into a savage tyrant? It is a question not easy to answer, Polybius says, and he will discuss it at a more suitable moment (4. 77. 4). But perhaps the juxtaposition of Apelles’ introduction and the evaluation of Philip suggests the answer that court intrigue is an element in the change. When Polybius does come to his answer (at 7. 11–14), when attempting to explain Philip’s murderous attack on Messene in 215/14 bc, which marked the beginning of the king’s change for the worse, courtiers’ advice is crucial. Even though Philip succeeded to the throne at such a young age (ŒÆ Ø ø fi ZØ ÆæƺÆØ c ÆŒ ø ıÆ
 Æ, 7. 11. 4), he attracted more loyalty than any other Macedonian king. But his ability to triumph over his youthfuness was dependent on two things. First, he had to pursue the same policies that had brought him such success up to this point. Secondly, in order to be able to do this, he had to take the right advice. As long as he followed Aratus’ advice, Polybius says, everything was fine and the king enjoyed the affection of all the Greeks. But when he allowed the wicked Demetrius to lead him astray and reverse previous policy, ‘he lost both the affection of his allies and the confidence of the other Greeks’: so important is it for young kings to choose 4. 1—see Martin and Woodman 1989: 77; 80–1), so in Polybius no sooner is Apelles mentioned than we learn of how it all turned bad for Philip (4. 77). 36 See Pédech 1964: 231–5, McGing 2010: 28–9. 37 Æ
غÆ ªaæ º 
Ø IçæÆE KŒ ç
ø ŒåæŪÅ æe æƪø ŒÆŒÅ
Ø PŒ PÆæb æE.

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wisely their courtiers (7. 14. 4–6). At least one of the secrets of being a successful young king was the ability to take the right advice. In Book 7 we learn that in the end Philip in his youthfulness failed to listen to the right advice, but at this point in Book 5 the reader still does not know this. We have just been told that he turned bad in the end, but we do not know when this change began to affect the outcome of events. Polybius is sending too many conflcting signals for the reader to know whether Philip will be able to meet the challenge offered by Apelles at court and the Aetolians on the battlefield. Philip is thought by his enemies to be too young to manage, and we know it all goes bad in the end; yet he is performing very impressively— although Polybius has cast doubt on whether it is he who is responsible for that or his advisers. In the military context, we have already seen enough to suggest that Philip was well able to meet the challenge, and further narrative of the course of the Social War reinforces this impression (78–82). By chapter 82 there appears the first sign of a change in the general perception of Philip’s youthfulness: he is in Argos, admired for his all-round behaviour and exploits ‘beyond his years’ (bæ c ºØŒ Æ, 4. 82. 1). In the Greek word for ‘admired’ (ŁÆıÆ
 ) there is an implied focalization of public opinion: this is how people were now seeing the situation—Philip was performing ‘beyond his years’. Within a short time we will receive confirmation that in court circles, too, Philip would soon dispel any doubts about his youthfulness. At this point the Apelles story returns and dominates the narrative: the last chapters of the book are almost entirely about the Apelles–Aratus opposition. The pace of the narrative slows right down as the story of the dispute between the two courtiers is developed in detail. Chapter 87 brings the book to a close by opening up the court and its intrigues to fuller inspection. It is repeated that Apelles had been installed as one of the king’s guardians at the very beginning of his reign, but now we get the rest of the cast, so to speak. Antigonus had also left in important positions Leontius, Megaleas, Taurion, and Alexander. This whole group has been there all along, but held back—for the same reason, I would suggest, as Apelles: Polybius does not want the scene cluttered with courtiers, distracting attention from Philip and indeed corrupting him. And here we have another proleptic displacement looking to the end of the conspiracy story: ‘before long he [Apelles] paid for his selfishness and greed: exactly what he had tried to do to his associates was done to him, very soon afterwards’ (4. 87. 10–11). This comes at the very end of the book, adding weight to the forward reference. So now we know Philip destroys Apelles, although we do not know how. The whole notion of the incapable youngster is beginning to fall apart, and the remaining references to Philip’s youth complete the demolition. Before his triumph, however, Philip makes a mistake. To avenge the Aetolian destruction of Dium and Dodona, he orders the sacrilegious

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destruction of the town of Thermum (5. 9–12). Polybius argues at some length that this action was a serious error because it represented a reversal of all the policies that had made Macedon great.38 He should have followed the example set by Philip II and Alexander, but ‘since his behaviour was the opposite of theirs, as he grew older he earned the opposite reputation too’ (5. 10. 11). By failing to treat the Aetolians with restraint and magnanimity, he lost a great opportunity to win their admiration and respect. Interestingly, Polybius is prepared to excuse him on the ground of youth; ‘perhaps Philip was too young to be held entirely responsible for what happened’ and some blame should attach to his courtiers (5. 12. 5).39 His main advisers were Aratus and Demetrius, and, based on their character and the advice they gave on a later occasion (Polybius is referring to the situation at Messene in 7. 11–14), it is easy to conclude whose advice Philip must have followed in this case. This repeats what Polybius had said about Philip in Sparta (4. 24), that he was too young to exert effective control and was under the influence of his court, except that there he had followed the good advice of Aratus, here the bad advice of Demetrius. Both passages undermine the narrative surrounding them where Philip excels, but if the scene at Sparta had served to mislead the reader into thinking that perhaps the perceptions of Philip’s youthfulness current at the time were correct, at this stage in Book 5 we now know that Philip wins out against Apelles. What happens at Thermum, and later Messene, is a forewarning of Philip’s ultimate descent into tyranny: as a young king meeting the challenge of Apelles and the Aetolians, he exhibits qualities that defy his age but in the end he cannot overcome his youthful failure to listen to the right advice. This is all in the future. For the moment those who doubted him come to realize that they were wrong about his youth. Leontius is the first to face the reality. He had combined with Apelles and Megaleas to form a conspiracy against Philip, although it is far from clear what their ultimate aim was (5. 2. 7–8). Apelles went to Chalcis to sabotage the king’s authority there, while Leontius and Megaleas were to stay with the king and do whatever damage they could. In pursuit of these aims, Leontius deliberately prevented his troops from capturing Palus (5. 4. 10–13), and gave advice to Philip that would hold him in Messenia all summer (5. 5. 5–8) and slow his advance to Thermum (5. 7. 1–2). The focalization of these incidents effectively pits Leontius in a battle of wits against the king. We see Leontius’ motives through his own eyes, and Philip’s reponse through his. If Leontius could persuade Philip to sail to Messenia, the king would be stuck there all summer, as it was easy to sail 38 On the importance Polybius attaches to a state pursuing, after its rise to power, the same policies that had made it great, see McGing 2010: 159–63. 39 Y
ø b s PŒ ¼ Ø ÆPfiH غ ø fi H  ªø A
Æ KØçæØ c ÆN Æ Øa c ºØŒ Æ . . .

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there when the Etesian winds blew but impossible to get back. This, Leontius calculated, would allow the Aetolians to plunder Thessaly and Epirus unhindered. Philip, on the other hand, was already suspicious of Leontius for his behaviour at Palus, and, now understanding the treachery of his advice, followed Aratus’ counsel to attack Aetolia instead. Similarly, in relation to the advance on Thermum, Leontius tries to slow it down—interestingly recognizing that the Aetolians will be unprepared for Philip’s energy and speed (an ‘embedded’ focalization in which the Aetolian position is focalized through Leontius)—while Philip knows what is going on and follows Aratus’ counsel again. When Crinon and Megaleas are fined and arrested for their part in a drunken assault on Aratus, Leontius attempts, unsuccessfully, to intimidate the king (5. 15–16). This scene is also focalized through Leontius and is the first specific unravelling of Philip’s youthfulness: Leontius takes some of his soldiers with him, ‘expecting that it would not take him long to bully the young king into changing his mind’ (5. 16. 2).40 But Philip stands up to him— clear evidence that the ‘boy’ is in fact no boy. The Spartans are next. In their case it is Philip’s speed that particularly leads them to adjust their assessment of him. It is entirely their focalization that dramatizes Philip’s speed (5. 18. 4–6; 10). Four days after leaving Corinth, he marches past Sparta itself. We see the scene through Spartan eyes as, astonished, they watch the Macedonian army march past the city. The last they heard, Philip was in Aetolia destroying Thermum; they were even thinking of sending Lycurgus to Aetolia to help. No one thought that danger could come from so far away so quickly. ‘They could not help but be astonished at this unexpected turn of events, because they were still tending to regard Philip as too young to pose a threat’ (5. 18. 6).41 The word ‘still’ (IŒ) is an interesting pointer to their incorrect judgement: there is a strong implication that they should not ‘still’ be thinking anything of the sort. And indeed with things turning out contrary to their expectations, they were dismayed and forced into a reappraisal: ‘for Philip had shown daring and energy in his initiatives beyond his years and reduced all his enemies to a state of bewilderment and helplessness’ (5. 18. 7).42 The explanatory word ‘for’ (ªæ) indicates that this is now the Spartan assessment of the situation. By his daring and energy, they concluded, Philip had overcome his youth and left his enemies helpless, for it had only taken him seven days to get from Aetolia to Sparta. The Spartans could not believe their eyes.

40

wŒ æe c
ŒÅc  Øø ºÆ
H, Ø
 ŒÆƺ
ŁÆØ Øa c ºØŒ Æ ŒÆd Æåø N ØÆ ¼Ø e Æ
غÆ. 41 – ŒÆd B ºØŒ Æ Kå
Å IŒc PŒÆÆçæÅ Ø B F Æ
غø . 42 › ªaæ  ºØ ºÅææ ŒÆd æƌ،æ j ŒÆa c ºØŒ Æ åæ ÆE

KغÆE N Iæ Æ ŒÆd ı
åæÅ
 Æ –ÆÆ qª f º ı .

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A similar emphasis on speed, conveyed by varying focalizations, characterizes Polybius’ description of the march of Hannibal (another ‘young’ commander, 2. 36. 3, 3. 15. 6) from Spain to Italy (3. 35–61).43 Just as the Spartans were astonished to see Philip in the Peloponnese, so the Romans were astonished to see Hannibal in Italy: they thought he was still in Spain, having just sacked Saguntum, and had sent a consul to fight him there (3. 61. 6–9). I do not think it is fanciful to see a parallel between the speed of the two generals, which would serve to emphasize Polybius’ high opinion of Philip’s military prowess at this early stage in his career. Another parallel comes to mind. With a young Macedonian king displaying an impressive speed of movement (even matching that of the great Hannibal), it is tempting to think that Polybius has in mind a comparison with Alexander the Great. Such a comparison is not unproblematic, given the contrast Polybius draws in Book 5 between Philip’s actions at Thermum and Alexander’s mildness: ‘even though throughout his life he tried hard to prove that he was related to both Alexander and Philip, he never made the slightest effort to imitate them’ (5. 10. 10).44 This is, however, an illustration of what began to go wrong for Philip: he listened to the wrong advice and was led to reverse previous Macedonian policy. It stands in contrast to his early behaviour, when he was the darling of the Greeks, and might well be thought to rival Alexander’s speed. We saw how at Sparta some of his advisers made the comparison with Alexander explicit, referring to his dramatically swift descent on Thebes in 335 bc. Alexander was the ‘boy’ par excellence. ‘He was’, Demosthenes scathingly, but unwisely, wrote to the Persian leaders (Plut. Dem. 23. 2), ‘just a boy and a fool’ (ÆE Æ ŒÆd Ææª Å IŒÆºH ÆP). Alexander’s response should have sent a shiver down Demosthenes’ spine: ‘since Demosthenes had called him a boy while he was among the Illyrians and Triballians, and a stripling when he had reached Thessaly, he wished to show him that before the walls of Athens he was a man’ (Plut. Alex. 11. 6).45 In the suggestion of a similarity to Alexander, perhaps Polybius is inviting the reader to see Philip’s transition from boy to man. After Philip’s campaign in the Peloponnese (5. 17–24), the scene changes back to the court. It is now Apelles’ turn to recognize his mistaken estimate of the young Philip. He has been lording it in Chalcis, acting with more authority than he really had, ‘letting it be known that the king was still young ( Ø) and was ruled by him in most things and did nothing of his own accord’ (5. 26. 3–4). The Macedonian officials were deferring to Apelles, and the other Greeks were ignoring Philip. The reader knows that Philip has the matter under 43

See McGing 2010: 112–14. See Dreyer in this volume, pp. 204, 206. ÆE Æ b ÆPe ø q K "ººıæØE ŒÆd $æØƺºE IŒÆºFØ, ØæŒØ b æd ¨ƺ Æ ª, ºÆØ æe E ŁÅÆ ø  å
Ø Icæ çÆBÆØ. 44 45

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control, but is holding his peace and laying his plans. Apelles does not know this. Summoned by Leontius, who had given up hope of achieving anything, Apelles thought he would be able to arrange everything as he wanted by browbeating the king, if he could just meet with him—exactly what Leontius thought, and equally wrong. Arriving at Corinth with great ceremony to a generous reception by the troops, Apelles is refused access to the king, and his support begins to melt away, until he is finally left on his own. Philip is now completely in control. He orders the arrest of Leontius when Megaleas flees to Athens, and when the peltasts beg the king not to put Leontius on trial in their absence, Philip is merely exasperated and orders the execution of Leontius earlier than he had intended (5. 27). This is technically analeptic information: we have not actually been told that Philip was intending to execute Leontius, although the threat was in the air, as Philip watched and kept his counsel until he was ready to strike. Letters then come into Philip’s possession incriminating Megaleas and Apelles, and they are both arrested. Both commit suicide, thus meeting the end they deserved (5. 28. 4–8). The last of the conspirators, Ptolemaeus, is executed shortly after (5. 29. 6). There is one last group who have yet to recognize their mistake in underestimating Philip—the Aetolians. We now hear that the Aetolians want peace, as things were not turning out as they expected (5. 29. 1–2):46 His youth and inexperience had led them to expect that, in dealing with Philip, they would be dealing with a foolish child, but instead they found him to be a mature man, in terms of both his plans and their execution, while it was they who appeared incompetent and childish in both small-scale and largescale operations.

This neatly returns us to the beginning of the Social War at the start of Book 4, and to the beginning of the theme of Philip’s youth: for it was the Aetolians who first thought Philip was too young to manage and therefore started interfering in the Peloponnese, thus causing the war. The language is reversed to emphasize the Aetolian about-turn: in 4. 3. 3 the child (ÆE ) was Philip and they thought they could despise him (ŒÆÆçæ
Æ ); now they are the childish ones (ÆØ ÆæØ Ø ) and to be despised (PŒÆÆçæÅØ). With the realization of their mistake we have come full circle. The theme of Philip’s young age has been a sort of signpost, not always pointing in the right direction, for both the reader and the protagonists in the action. With his triumph over Apelles and the other conspirators, and his victories on the battlefield, Philip seems to have overcome his youthfulness.

46 Kº
Æ ªaæ ‰ ÆØ ø fi Å ø fi åæ
Æ
ŁÆØ fiH غ ø fi Ø  c ºØŒ Æ ŒÆd c IØæ Æ, e b  ºØ yæ ºØ ¼ æÆ ŒÆd ŒÆa a Kغa ŒÆd ŒÆa a æØ , ÆPd ’ KçÅ
Æ PŒÆÆçæÅØ ŒÆd ÆØ ÆæØ Ø   E ŒÆa æ ŒÆd E ŒÆŁºı æªÆ
Ø.

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But Polybius persists with the theme when he turns back in time to cover Egyptian history. He tells us that at the beginning of his reign Ptolemy IV Philopator felt that he was free from danger abroad because both Philip V and Antiochus III were very young, indeed all but boys (ÆÆ
Ø ø ŒÆd  P Æ ø Ææåø, 5. 34. 2). This was, of course, just what the Aetolians thought about Philip at the same time. The removal of both external and domestic rivals led Philopator to ignore all aspects of government. His behaviour as a king was so manifestly inadequate that his assessment of Philip and Antiochus as too young to worry about was almost irrelevant. Even without getting that wrong, he was clearly heading for trouble; and, indeed, ‘as you would expect’ (NŒø ), Polybius says (5. 34. 10), people began to conspire against him. The negative assessment of Philopator, however, is reinforced for Polybius’ audience by the fact that at this stage in the narrative they already know that Philopator is completely wrong about Philip, at least with regard to the early years of his reign. As we have seen, the narrative of Book 4 and of the first chapters of Book 5 has demolished the misconception that Philip was an ineffective youth. This knowledge serves to confirm Philopator’s incompetence. On the other hand, the audience has not yet come to the story of Antiochus’ first years on the throne. So the nature of Polybius’ direction concerning him is uncertain. Will Ptolemy also prove to be wrong about Antiochus? Youthful helplessness misidentified is one of the main thematic strands Polybius has developed to portray the beginnings of Philip’s reign. It is a theme worked out in the complex of relationships between the perceptions of author, reader, and the protagonists in the story; focalization plays a central role. This is not just about narrative patterns, however. Although Polybius offers no general theory of causation, it is clear time and again that in his estimation perceptions, correct or not, are what make things happen.47 As we have seen, young leaders cause people to act, or react, in certain ways based on the assumption of youthful failings. Generals attack cities at their strongest point, or undertake dangerous enterprises, because they think that is where the enemy will least expect them.48 In order to delay the enemy and have time to prepare for war, ministers at the Ptolemaic court play on what they believe is the Seleucid conviction that Ptolemy IV will not go to war (5. 63). Even in Polybius’ most famous statement on causation, his analysis of the causes of wars (3. 6–7), which appears to give no particular help outside the specific domain of war, it is perceptions that drive the action. The causes of Alexander the Great’s invasion of Persia were the march of the Ten Thousand under Xenophon’s command and Agesilaus’ campaigns in the east. The reason why these are identified as the causes is that they led Philip II to believe that the 47 48

On causation in Polybius, see Derow 1994, McGing 2010: 76–80. See esp. Davidson 1991: 11–12.

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Persians would be no match for the Macedonians.49 Focalization is a crucial mechanism for helping to explain why things happen. There is too an artistic point. Polybius was a writer who we know thought very carefully indeed about how he could best tell the very complicated story he wanted to communicate. This is most obvious in the clarity of his overall structures. But I would argue that when it comes to the execution of the details, there is a subtlety of presentation that we can miss if we buy too easily into Dionysius’ claim that Polybius was an author you could not read all the way through.

49 One might compare Thuc. 1. 22. 6, where the ‘truest explanation’ (IºÅŁ
Å æçÆ
Ø ) for the Peloponnesian war is both the growth of Athenian power and the fear that this inspired in the Spartans, i.e. an emphasis on perception. See also the discussion in Gibson 1998: 124–6 for a similar emphasis on perceptions in Dio 53. 19.

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10 Frank Walbank’s Philippos Tragoidoumenos: Polybius’ Account of Philip’s Last Years Boris Dreyer

In this paper,1 I would like to pick up a topic that was addressed by Frank Walbank already in 1938, in an analysis of Philippos Tragoidoumenos.2 Everyone would surely wish his or her own analyses were as long-lasting and as topical as the theme discussed so long ago by Frank Walbank, this great scholar to whom we are rendering homage as a reminder of what can be achieved by honest scholarship. My general topic here is the historiographical working method of Polybius, a specific example of which reveals a key principle about the way in which the historian worked with and selected from the sources which his predecessors had made available to him: his principle, that is to say, that the source-writer had to be an eyewitness or at least contemporary to the events,3 certainly as far as the main part of his Histories is concerned. The specific issue is concerned with Polybius’ account of the downfall of the Macedonian monarchy. The main focus of this analysis will therefore be the source on the Macedonian court employed by Polybius in his account—an argument Frank Walbank brought up for the first time. Additionally, I want to examine whether Polybius’ choice of source fits his own criteria, or supports his thesis that the reasons for the fall of the Macedonian kingdom can be traced back to Philip’s policy of revenge against Rome from the mid-180s, and to Philip’s character—as Polybius depicted that character and constructed that causal chain in his œuvre. After Walbank’s treatment of this theme, only a few researchers focused exclusively on it, no doubt because of the authority of the first scholar to 1 My teacher Professor Gustav Adolf Lehmann originally urged me to think about this topic, and accompanied his encouragement with good advice. The results presented here are preliminary, and the larger issue of sources deserves a thorough examination. Likewise I am indebted to Professor Arthur Eckstein for improving my English and the argument. 2 Walbank 1938: 55–68; cf. Walbank, HCP iii. 229. 3 See explicitly on himself: Plb. 29. 21. 8, with Dreyer 2011: 100–20.

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address it. But this can probably also be explained by the fact that the assumption that Polybius relied on secondary sources for large parts of his description of events has been gaining ground.4 The conclusions arrived at by Walbank, and elaborated upon by Pédech,5 with regard to the demise of Macedonia do not fit so well into this perspective, because in that case the multiple traditions within Polybius’ work are elided. Even before Walbank, historians had been struck by Polybius’ peculiarly grim and morbid account of the downfall of Demetrius, the younger son of Philip, and of the last years of Philip V, as far as it is preserved, and by the even denser and darker version in Livy, which is completely preserved, deriving originally from Polybius. In Polybius this dark account of doom appears to be a consequence of the maddened Philip’s previous bad deeds:6 (1) first of all he transported people to Emathia from the coast and vice versa, in preparation for his war with Rome; (2) when Philip heard the curses of the people, he became more fierce, and he ordered the imprisonment of the children of those men of high birth he had killed. Thus the king and his children were openly cursed; and (3) these curses—heard by the gods according to the grim account in Livy (40. 5. 1)—impelled Philip to turn upon his own house, and the plot against Demetrius follows. Benecke7 explained this aspect of the story as an artificially constructed tragedy that Polybius integrated into his description of events. Walbank, in contrast, argued persuasively that it was less a tragedy than an overdramatized presentation of historical fact, quite in keeping with fashion in contemporary history-writing at the time of Polybius. We know that Polybius fiercely criticized those writers of history who represented the ‘tragic’ tendency.8 Their purpose was to entertain via sensationalism, but not to explain the causes underlying historical occurrences, as Polybius declared his approach to history-writing would do. Polybius was thus setting out what had become widely accepted goals among history-writers, goals which had also been expressed by Thucydides (the ‘didactic purpose’ of history 9), but which were achieved very rarely. 4

Cf. Dreyer 2007: 321–33. Pédech 1964. 6 Plb. 23. 9. 6, 23. 10. 1–17; Liv. 40. 3–16. 3, 40. 20. 5–24. 8; cf. Plb. 23. 11; Liv. 40. 56–8. Shorter accounts about the last years of Philip V, depending more or less on the Polybian record: Plut. Aem. 7–8, Diod. 29. 25, Just. 32. 2. 7–3. 5. Date: Porph. FGrH 260 F3. 9. 7 Benecke 1930: 254. 8 Polemic of Polybius: e.g. 2. 16. 14; 2. 56–60 (against Phylarchus); 3. 48. 8; 7. 7. 2: exaggerations, inaccuracy, thrill, sensationalism, etc. On Polybius and ‘tragic history’, see now Marincola in this volume. 9 Thuc. 1. 22. 4. 5

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However, this begs the question of whether Polybius actually lived up to his own standards. Walbank answers in the negative as far as the description of Philip’s doomed final years (182–179) are concerned: Polybius’ mistake . . . was to interpret Philip’s last years as a career of infatuation induced by Tyche, . . . He is not convicted of stupid incompetence in his choice of sources, of treating a tragedy or a novel as a proper material for history. On the other hand . . . his excessive emphasis on the moral issues and his unique and unfortunate use of a tragic scheme and tragic terminology . . . make Polybius’ account of these last years one of the least satisfying in his whole work.10

Polybius’ narrative—according to Walbank—even obfuscates the deeper reasons for the war of Perseus against the Romans, the main topic he was actually addressing, and shifts the geopolitical causes of the war to a level of personal tragedy, an approach that is inadequate. The conclusion is that although Polybius did not write ‘tragic history’ in his account of the fall of the Antigonid house, he was guilty of offences similar to those he criticized in his fellow historians.11 However, Walbank’s 1938 analysis also outlines an approach that goes beyond this conclusion, an approach that was subsequently adopted by Pédech. At the end of Walbank’s analysis, he considers the possibility—although he does not elaborate on it—that a particular source at the Macedonian court (from the circle of Apelles and Philocles) may have been responsible for Polybius’ over-dramatization of the monarchy’s downfall.12 Pédech pursued this idea further and did indeed trace the dark mood of Polybius’ account to a source at the Macedonian court, and suggests that this source was probably used to the full by Polybius during his exile in Italy, where he enjoyed preferential treatment as well as access to all the available material (including oral accounts). In the case of Macedonian history Polybius profited, according to Pédech, from a single homogeneous source as the basis for his picture of Philip V from around 213 bc onwards; Pédech proposed that Polybius’ source was the Macedonian courtier Onesimus.13 10

Walbank 1938: 67 n. 2. The source on developments in Macedonia emphasizes the personal and ‘tragic’ dimension of Demetrius’ fall, which fits into Polybius’ account: the suspicions of Philip and especially of Perseus against Demetrius were caused by the favourable way the younger son of Philip was treated by the senate in Rome. There, his task was to defend Philip’s policy of rearmament, which, according to Polybius (22. 18), was the ultimate reason for the Third Macedonian War and consequently for the downfall of the Macedonian kingdom. Contrary to Walbank, Polybius’ concept of a long-term policy of revenge conceived by Philip is plausible, including the strategy of a double strike against Rome, which modified Hannibal’s plans proposed to Antiochus III in 196 bc: see Dreyer 2007: 223–8. At the moment when the war with Perseus started in 171, Rome was not ready: see Pédech 1964: 128 nn. 146 and 148 with references. 12 Walbank 1938: 65. 13 Pédech 1964: 123–39. The account of the Macedonian source, which culminated in the tragic downfall of Demetrius, is of course not positive towards Perseus, and has a similarly negative view of the behaviour of Philip, which started the tragic development. Likewise, the 11

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Polybius needed the Macedonian informant in order to narrate the outbreak of the Roman war against Perseus according to his theory of the causal chain (aitiai, prophaseis, and archai)14, which leads—according to the historian—back to the policy of revenge against Rome which was initiated by Philip in the 180s. The information about the secret decision which results in this fatal policy can only have been provided by a person near to the king, whom Polybius could interrogate concerning the catastrophe to the kingdom. This source offered the kind of exclusive information that would always satisfy his selection criterion for his sources—the point was not to amuse the reader nor to provide a thrilling situation. This court source elaborated the comparison between the Antigonid Philip and his Argead predecessors on the Macedonian throne, a theme that was popular at the Macedonian court (Plb. 4. 23. 8 and 5. 10).15 According to this source and with the perspective the source now possessed after the defeat of Perseus, the rise of Macedon under Philip II and Alexander was paralleled in the downfall of Macedon under Philip V and Perseus. This opinion, as Pédech also argued, fitted well with Polybius’ aetiology of the Third Macedonian War,16 where Philip’s long-term plan of war with Rome from the 180s was the deeper reason for Perseus’ war against the Romans in the late 170s (22. 18). Philip’s intention was that Perseus should be the person to enact (cheiristes) the policy of revenge, just as Philip II planned that his son Alexander should carry out the policy of war against the Persians. In what follows, I shall try to establish to what extent the perspective of the Macedonian source and Polybius’ own views can be brought into agreement— building on the argument of Walbank and Pédech. The issue of who was to blame for the war, according to research,17 takes second place in this context to the historiographical question, although there are of course close links between the issues. First, I examine Polybius’ views concerning the downfall of Macedonia, so that they can be compared (in a second step) with the perspective of the ‘over-dramatized’ presentation of the Macedonian source. In several passages, Polybius describes the causes of the Roman war with Perseus and distances

naive behaviour of the young Demetrius is not always rated very highly. It was argued that Polybius’ informant was a member of a ‘peace-party’ or an adherent of the royal line of Antigonus Doson. Thus, the unhistorical plans of Philip just before his death in this account, acccording to which Antigonus, the nephew of Doson, should become successor, can be explained (Liv. 40. 56. 7), cf. Pédech 1964: 130–1 and 133–4. 14 Derow 1994: 73–90. Cf. Walbank’s review discussion (1997: 170–2). 15 See also McGing in this volume. 16 This source was not likely to be responsible for Polybius’ aetiology, because the historian claims to have had no predecessor in his view on the outbreak of the Perseus war, 22. 18. 17 e.g. Mommsen 1902: i. 754–65, Gruen 1984: 403–23, Will 1982: 255–70, Errington 1971: 212, Giovannini 1969: 853–61, Bickerman 1953: 479–506.

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himself from the way his predecessors had treated the material, especially through his search for the deeper roots of the conflict in Philip and his actions, as we have noted.18 Polybius’ view is complex: a considerable role must be given to the motives of Philip the individual, since Philip was a major challenger to Rome’s rise to become a world power.19 In discussing this question, Polybius refers to many documents and other (oral) sources, probably but not necessarily including the same source he used especially for the downfall of Demetrius. But it is clear—contrary to a widespread view among researchers20—that Polybius’s views on monarchy in general and on the rule of Philip in particular were not one-sidedly negative.21 Quite the opposite: Polybius’s account of the early days of Philip’s rule is often couched in positive terms—a position that cannot be explained merely on the grounds that Polybius was working with a pro-Philip source from Philip’s court.22 This is because there is a positive assessment not only of Philip’s character and talents but also of his actions up to the peace of Naupactus, the effectiveness of which was obvious to all observers. Philip, according to Polybius, was following in the footsteps of Antigonus Doson and knew well how to reconcile his own interests with those of the other members of the Hellenic League. The respect he enjoyed among the Greeks was therefore great.23 Polybius had evidence to support this view, including the fact that the Cretan cities elected him to the position of prostates in the year 217.24 Polybius’ positive assessment coincided with the positive reception given to the deeds of the Macedonian king by the Hellenic public in that period, as clearly evidenced by epigrams we possess in his praise.25 18 Plb. 22. 18; cf. Perseus as cheiristes of Philip’s plans: Liv. 42. 11. 4 (speech of Eumenes 172); 39. 21. 4; 39. 23. 5. The official version at the beginning of the war against Perseus in 172 (see Liv. 42. 40, Syll.3 643) refers only to the deeds of Perseus, leaving out the part of Philip. 19 Cf. Plut. Aem. 8. 20 See the critique of such views in Welwei 1963. 21 See e.g. Dreyer 2007: 129–137 (describing the change of Philip in 215-213). In contrast to contemporary opinion on the irreconcilability of monarchy and the city-freedom, note the negotiations of 189: Dreyer 2007: 332–3. 22 On Philip’s early years, see McGing in this volume. 23 Alcaeus of Messene AP 9. 518 (cf. Geffcken 1916, no. 324); contrast the later epigram AP 7. 247 (cf. Plut. Flam. 9, Geffcken 1916, no. 325, cf. Walbank 1942d, 1943b, HCP iii. 519–20). Honours for Philip V in Epidaurus: Moretti, ISE 47: ῞ˇ

  IºØ  ª[Æ º ¼
æÆ  I] Ø ÆNe ῾¯ººø ±ª[ Kø], N ŒÆd 庌 NØ, Œ[æØ æe oŒÆ] 
øØ  ` Ø a Oºa ¼æŒ[
 ıº
Æ], 5 ººa b `NøºE
Ø Œ[Æd  `º Ø ŒÆŒa Þ]Æ

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Æ
 · Iº]ºa çºÆ

 ZF e Ie æÆ [Pæf ºÆÆ] Œº . 24 Plb. 7. 11. 9 (Trogus, Prol. 29). 25 See Bohm 1989, esp. 73–80.

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The Antigonid king was also endeavouring to continue traditions connected to the Argead dynasty and their policy.26 Evidence of such aims can be found in many places, quite independently of Polybius. For example, Philip followed the Argead custom in founding cities in his kingdom.27 The Polybian tradition captured these elements in Philip’s policy also with Philip’s replication of the pothos motive historically ascribed to Alexander himself (e.g. Philip’s ascent of the Haemus mountain28), and, most importantly, with reference to the ambitions for universal dominion which he ascribed to Philip. These ambitions of Philip for universal dominion are addressed in Polybius’ discussion of the reorientation of Philip’s expansionism from Greece towards the west from 217 onwards—a crucial step of course, in the more general Polybian theme of the symploke, the growth of interconnectedness between the eastern and the western halves of the Mediterranean world.29 Thus, Polybius (5. 102. 1)—like his contemporaries also in Macedonia30—is not unsympathetic to Philip: ‘ . . . these ambitions were to be expected in the case of a king so young, who had achieved so much success, who had such a reputation for daring, and above all who came of a house which we may say had always been inclined more than any other to covet universal dominion.’ The goal of universal rule thus dated to the period before the change in Philip’s behaviour that Polybius identified (in 215-21331), and which helped to bring the king’s negative traits—deeply rooted in his character, as Polybius says32—increasingly to the fore as time progressed, to the detriment of his positive qualities. And it belongs to a time after Philip executed the advisers of Doson (219/218), a turning-point that would be decisive for the (oral) source of Polybius about the downfall of Demetrius. 26

Plb. 5. 10. In 5. 10. 10–11 the negative traits in Philip’s unstable character can be already recognized. He therefore failed to stay in the mould of Philip II and Alexander, despite the reminders of his advisers, 4. 23. 8. Endeavours of Philip accepted by contemporaries: Walbank 1993b: 1721–30, esp. 1729–30. 27 On Euromus-Philippi in Caria, see Errington 1986: 1–8. 28 In 181 bc: Plb. 24. 4; Liv. 40. 21. 2: cupido . . . ceperat (march to Haemus: 40. 21. 1–22. 14), see also Liv. 39. 35. 4. For Alexander, cf. Arrian, An. 1. 1. 4–3 (on the way to Istrus, ten marching days away from Philippopolis on Hebrus, see Seibert 1994: 44). (Re-)Founding cities: Philippopolis and Perseis 183 bc: Liv. 39. 53. 12–16. 29 Probably deriving from the Macedonian informant (though not necessarily only from him). Plb. 5. 105. 1: ‘Agelaus by this speech made all the allies disposed for peace and especially Philip, as the words in which he addressed him accorded well with his present inclination, Demetrius having previously prepared the ground by his advice.’ This happened in: Plb. 5. 102. 1: ‘By such words as these he [sc. Demetrius of Pharus after he escaped to Philip] soon aroused Philip’s ambition, as I think was to be expected in the case of a king so young, . . . [see the rest of the sentence in the quotation in the main text]’. Cf. Plb. 5. 101; 5. 108. Reception by Romans: Liv. 31. 7. 8 (annalistic material: speech of Galba). On the symploke, see further Quinn in this volume. 30 Cf. Plut. Aem. 8. 4 for Philip’s view of himself as the only possible challenger of Roman dominion. 31 Walbank 1970a. 32 And therefore in evidence even before the turning point: 5. 10. 9–11.

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Philip continuously pursued these ambitions of universal dominion, also by entering into the so-called Raubvertrag with Antiochus III to destroy the Ptolemies and their whole empire (according to Polybius at least).33 In my view, however, this is where the crucial difference can be seen in relation to the source that Polybius chose, or had available, for the grim presentation of Demetrius’ downfall and the last years of Philip’s reign. For Polybius, it is beyond question that Philip was pursuing a goal of universal dominion. To Polybius, moral issues were present but secondary in judging these aims; but their method of implementation had to be condemned from the moral point of view.34 This classic example is Polybius 15. 20. 4: ‘Who can look into this treaty as into a mirror without fancying that he sees reflected in it the image of all impiety towards God and all savagery towards men, as well as of the unbounded covetousness of these two kings?’ Polybius, as a rational analyst, draws a distinction between a moral evaluation and his analysis of the available opportunities and necessary means for accomplishing that goal. We can note the praise that Polybius heaps on the effectiveness of Philip’s actions during the war with Pergamum and Rhodes prior to the entry of the Romans into the war in autumn 200, and his praise of Philip’s loyalty to his friends in destroying their correspondence with him after his final defeat in 197. But, despite Polybius’ contrasting of Philip’s energy with the laxness of future Roman allies such as Attalus,35 his criticism of the king’s lack of firmness in pursuing his goals of world dominance is all the sharper. Thus Polybius is harshly critical when, in the historian’s opinion, a unique opportunity arose for an attack by Philip on Egypt, which had perhaps been allocated to Philip in the pact with Antiochus III, i.e. during the narrow window of time between the victorious battle at Lade and Rome’s intervention in the war in the east. Philip, however, failed to make use of the chance (Plb. 16. 10): 33

Dreyer 2007: 259–71. Eckstein 2006: 86–7; cf. Eckstein 1995. Cf. Plb. 15. 24. 6 (enslavement of all inhabitants of Thasos): ‘But who would not qualify as perfectly irrational and insane the conduct of a prince [sc. Philip V], who, engaging in vast enterprises and aspiring to universal dominion, with his chances of success in all his projects still unimpaired, yet in matters of no moment, in the very first matters he was called upon to deal with, proclaimed to all his fickleness and faithlessness?’; on explicitly moral criteria as being of lesser value, see further Bohm 1989: 24. Cf. Plb. 15. 20. 1–2: ‘It is very surprising that as long as Ptolemy in his lifetime could dispense with the help of Philip and Antiochus, they were ready to assist him, but when he died leaving an infant son whom it was their natural duty to maintain in possession of his realm, then encouraging each other they hastened to divide the child’s kingdom between themselves and be the ruin of the unhappy orphan. . . . ’ Tyche, however, is punishing them. 35 Liv. 31. 15. 8–16. 8 (behaviour more like a king than Attalus). Brave and prudent behaviour after the defeat against Romans: Plb. 18. 33; Liv. 33. 11. 1; 33. 13. 4; 33. 19. 1 (burning of documents and records, contrary to Perseus, which became the basis for pursuit of the adherents of Perseus after the war, Plb. 30. 13. 10). 34

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After the sea-fight at Lade was over . . . it was evidently quite possible for Philip to sail to Alexandria. This is the best proof that Philip had become like a madman when he acted thus. What was it then that arrested his impulse? Simply the nature of things. For at a distance many men at times strive after impossibilities owing to the magnitude of the hopes before their eyes, their desires getting the better of their reason: but when the hour of action approaches they abandon their projects again without any exercise of reason, their faculty of thought being confused and upset by the insuperable difficulties they encounter.

Although the moral aspect of Philip’s behaviour is important for Polybius, what is historically more crucial in his view is the character flaw that deprived Philip of the ability to take decisive action at the right moment to achieve his ambitious aims, which probably appeared feasible to Polybius. This, in Polybius’ view, is also the key reason for the downfall of the Macedonian monarchy in general. In Polybius’ account, the occasional inability of Philip V to take decisive action at crucial moments was also a trait of Philip’s son, Perseus, but to a much greater degree. One may note in this respect Perseus’ refusal to keep to the obligations towards the hired barbarian tribes (i.e. his cheating of them), his spendthrift nature, above all, his loss of nerve in battle, and the fact that he did not burn his documents after defeat.36 Consequently, a consistent theme in the description of Perseus’ actions is that he was unable to implement Philip’s plans with any force. By contrast, Polybius notes the decisiveness of those kings of Macedonia who achieved the monarchy’s rise to empire, namely Philip II and his son, Alexander.37 In the second proem in the third book as well, Polybius contrasts the one pair, Philip II and the ‘executor’ (cheiristes) Alexander (whose powerfully effective and efficient actions to enforce their plans led to the creation of an empire), with Philip V and Perseus, the very different pair who presided over Macedonia’s decline and fall. Polybius is referring back to this passage in the second proem when, later on, he discusses the deeper reasons of the fall of the Macedonian kingdom, arguing that it started with Philip (Plb. 22. 18. 6–10):38 36 Perseus’ failure to provide money and provisions promised by Philip to the Bastarnae: Plb. 25. 6; Liv. 40. 5. 10, 57–8; 41. 19. 3–11; 42. 11. 4. His meanness towards the Galatoi, Genthius, and Eumenes: Plb. 29. 5–9, cf. Liv. 44. 24. 9–26. 2, esp. 26. 1–2. The failure to use cavalry after a cavalry victory: Liv. 42. 57. 1–62. 2. Cowardice during and after battle of Pydna: Liv. 44. 42. 1–2; Plb. 29. 17; Plut. Aem. 19. Records not destroyed: Plb. 29. 17; 30. 13. 10 (cf. n. 35 above). 37 Cf. Pédech 1964: 131: ‘Le parallélisme était parfait entre Philippe II and Philippe V, entre Alexandre et Persée.’ 38 Cf. Plb. 3. 6. 12–14: ‘From these facts [sc. about the military strength of the Persians] Philip perceived and reckoned on the cowardice and indolence of the Persians as compared with the military efficiency of himself and the Macedonians, and further fixing his eyes on the splendour of the great prize which the war promised, he lost no time, once he had secured the avowed goodwill of the Greeks, but seizing on the pretext that it was his urgent duty to take vengeance on the Persians for their injurious treatment of the Greeks, he bestirred himself and decided to go to war, beginning to make every preparation for this purpose. We must therefore look on the first

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But most writers are guilty of confusion in this matter, owing to their not observing the difference between a pretext and a cause, and between the beginning of a war and the pretext for it. I am therefore, as the circumstances themselves recall to my mind what I said on a previous occasion [Plb. 3. 7], compelled to repeat myself. For of the events I just mentioned the first are pretexts, but the last . . . constitute indeed evidently the actual beginning of the war between the Romans and Perseus and the consequent fall of the Macedonian power, but not a single one of them was its cause. This will be evident from what I am about to say. For just as I said [3. 6] that Philip, son of Amyntas, conceived and meant to carry out the war against Persia, but that it was Alexander who put his decision into execution; so now I maintain that Philip, son of Demetrius, first conceived the notion of entering on the last war against Rome, and had prepared everything for the purpose, but on his decease Perseus was the executor of the design.

Contrary to this, the source whom Polybius drew upon when describing Philip’s last years and Demetrius’ fall concentrates on the (royal) tragedy of the last years of Philip’s reign and has a negative assessment of Perseus, which he perhaps emphasized by contrasting (superficially) the situation to the glorious past of the great Argead kings. But, like all the predecessors of Polybius, the Macedonian source failed to locate the reason for the Third Macedonian War and the downfall of the Macedonian kingdom in Philip’s policy of revenge. As Walbank has said, the description of the downfall of Demetrius and the death of Philip is over-dramatized. The core statement being made by Polybius is that Philip was ultimately overtaken by his own moral misdeeds and that these compelled him to attack his own children.39 This comes out very clearly at Plb. 23. 10. 12–13: And the third tragedy which Fortune produced at the same time was that concerning his sons. The young men were plotting against each other, and as the matter was referred to him, and it fell to him to decide of which of them he had to be the murderer and which of them he had to fear most for the rest of his life, lest he in his old age should suffer the same fate, he was disturbed night and day by this thought. Who can help thinking, that, his mind being thus afflicted and troubled, it was the wrath of heaven which had descended on his old age, owing to the crimes of his past life? And this will be still more evident from what follows.40

considerations I have mentioned as the causes of the war against Persia, the second as its pretext and Alexander’s crossing to Asia as its beginning.’ See also the summary of Macedonian history at Plb. 29. 21 (cf. Plb. 5. 9–10; 7. 11–14), and the speech of Lyciscus at Plb. 9. 32–39; with Walbank 1993b: 1729–30, Lehmann 1974: 154–7. 39 Walbank 1938: 60–1, Plb. 23. 10. 1–16, Liv. 40. 3–5. The quarrel between Demetrius and Perseus: Liv. 40. 5–24, Plb. 23. 10. 17, 23. 11. Death of Philip V in 179: Liv. 42. 54. 1–57. 1 and 58. 9. 40 On divine madness, see Walbank, HCP iii. 233 on Plb. 23. 10. 14, who compares 31. 9. 4 (Antiochus IV), 32. 15. 14 (Prusias), 36. 17. 15 (the Macedonians). Polybius sometimes offers reasons such as Tyche when rational explanations seem to fail. These examples do not have anything to do with the general outline of the source about the decline of the Macedonian kingdom.

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In contrast to Polybius’ own analysis of the causes of the downfall of the Macedonian monarchy, here Philip’s misfortunes are attributable not to an intensifying inability to accept the unpleasant consequences of ambitious aims, but rather the moral burden of Philip’s atrocities during the final years of his reign, which turned the king more and more into a raging fury. However—and this is something that has not yet been realized by scholars—what may have fascinated Polybius41 so much about his over-dramatizing source, to the point that he relied on it extensively, is the fact that Philip, according to this source, did not dare to take the final step when faced with the alternative of killing one son or the other (Plb. 23. 10. 12–13, quoted above). The source, who took a negative view of Perseus, ascribes the murder of Demetrius to the elder brother, Perseus, while Philip himself is supposed to have attempted shortly before his death to put Antigonus, the nephew of Doson, on the throne rather than Perseus—another effort that went nowhere.42 We do not know whether these two stories are historical,43 and indeed they are unlikely to be so (they are certainly not very logical), but it is understandable why Polybius would find the source, his Macedonian informant, so attractive. What the source said fitted with Polybius’ own considered and rational opinion about Philip, based on his career. Polybius’ source may have been one of the monarchy’s closest advisers, and certainly had first-hand information from the court, but he was clearly biased (at least after the fact) against Perseus. This court personage was probably (in retrospect?) an advocate of the Doson family, as we see in the story that Philip at the end wanted to put the nephew of Antigonus Doson on the throne; he wished he could turn back the wheel of history by using the family of Antigonus Doson and making their descendants the new kings.44 The pro-Doson political perspective of the court source was probably irrelevant to Polybius because that particular issue would fail to achieve Polybius’ ambitious historiographical aim of looking for the deeper roots of Philip’s downfall in his policy of revenge and in his specific character. Nevertheless, the exclusive information which this source possessed about the intensifying conflict between Philip’s sons, with Demetrius perceived as becoming a tool of the Romans and increasingly an obstacle to Philip’s agenda of a war of revenge, moved Polybius to make use of this source, particularly since it shows Philip to have been weak and inconsistent in his final actions shortly before his death.

41

Also emphasizing that Philip acted more and more like a madman, not morally though: 16. 10 (quoted above). 42 Liv. 40. 22. 15–24. 8; 40. 55. 8–57. 1. 43 See Briscoe 2008: 555 for bibliography on the reliability of this passage. 44 Cf. Liv. 40. 56. 3 for praise of Antigonus and his uncle.

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Polybius also wove exclusive details obtained from court sources into his history of the Seleucids and his history of the Ptolemaic dynasty,45 even when these involved some dramatized descriptions (see his history of the fall of Agathocles, to take just one example46). None the less, the dramatized version of the downfall of Demetrius, provided by the source within the Macedonian court, came quite close to the view adopted by the historian himself, who organized the entire history of Macedonia (from the rise of Philip II and Alexander to the downfall of Philip V and Perseus) around the question of the ability of the kings to implement rigorously the goals they propagated. We can say, in concluding, that Polybius did not betray his own historiographic principles by using court sources, even where this concerns the demise of Demetrius and the final years of Philip’s reign, especially since (as can be proved in the case of Macedonia) he availed himself of the source that was closest in time and location for the sake of giving a historical account of events that was as precise as possible. In doing so, however, and in order not to disrupt the line of narrative, he relied on his Macedonian source extensively, a source that did not spare dramatic effects when describing the demise of Demetrius. But this over-dramatizing source could be integrated quite well into the context of Polybius’ narrative. Thus the source did not prevent the historian from proposing his primary causes for the war against Perseus and the downfall of the Macedonian monarchy. These primary causes, for Polybius, were rooted deeply in the revenge policy of Philip V (a dangerous policy, of which Perseus turned out to be an ineffective executor) and in Philip’s unstable character. What Polybius underlined in this respect about Philip was not simply his morally conditioned ‘madness’ (as his Macedonian source emphasized) but also his inability to take firm action at crucial moments (both in 200 bc and after 182 bc), and Polybius stressed that this was a negative characteristic of Philip’s son Perseus even more. In this respect Polybius felt himself confirmed in what his pro-Doson source said about Philip’s increasing madness between 182 and 179. Despite his great intelligence, military talent, and occasionally impressive energy, in which he surpassed most contemporary rulers, and his fearlessness in encountering dangers, at crucial moments Philip backed away. Polybius found this a fatal flaw for someone with Philip’s highly ambitious aims, as for any ruler, who wanted to face up to the Roman challenge.47 45

Schmitt 1964: 175–85, Dreyer 2007: 225–6, 260–1 with n. 104. Plb. 15. 26; for polemic against this source, see Plb. 15. 34–5; see also the fall of Hermias (Plb. 5. 40–58, esp. 56 and 58 with the decisive role of Apollophanes, the physician to king Antiochus III, cf. Walbank, HCP i. 584). 47 Cf. Polybius’ similar repeated criticism of Antiochus for his behaviour: see e.g. 15. 37. 46

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11 Polybius in Context: The Political Dimension of the Histories John Thornton

. . . no one is above the battle, because the battle is all there is1

In 2002, when reviewing Polybian studies conducted during the last two to three decades of the twentieth century, on the subject of Polybius’ attitude towards Rome as a dominant power, Frank Walbank was not in a position to record the adoption of new approaches.2 In order to commemorate the 1957 publication of the first volume of Walbank’s Commentary, it is therefore not out of place to assess the potential offered by applying lines of interpretation that are now established in the history of modern political thought to this classical theme, of great importance also in the activity of Professor Walbank. It will thus be attempted to consider Polybius’ work as a voice in the diplomatic dialogue between the Greek world and Rome in the mid-second century bc. In this perspective, our scrutiny will bear not so much on Polybius’ judgement of Rome as on the goals he pursued through the Histories. If it were possible to conceive of Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan ‘as a speech in Parliament’,3 it might be deemed no less legitimate to consider Polybius’ work as a diplomatic speech. In other words, it could in the first instance be repositioned in the context of the similar speeches Polybius had to deliver before the Roman authorities, often in difficult, and even dramatic, circumstances, prior to, during, and after his enforced stay in Rome; and so, therefore, in the broader context of diplomatic relations between the Greek world and Rome during the 1

Skinner 2002: i. 7. Walbank 2002: 26. Quentin Skinner interviewed by Alan Macfarlane, 10 Jan. 2008 (http://www.alanmacfarlane. com/ancestors/skinner.htm); cf. Skinner 2002: ii. 209–37, 264–86. 2 3

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second century bc which can be retrieved above all, although not exclusively, through the Histories. Compared with the conventional investigation aimed at determining Polybius’ views on Rome, in my opinion, this approach offers several advantages. In the first instance, as already mentioned, it resituates the Histories within the context of the other activities of the author and more generally within its proper time. Polybius’ work should be considered a response to the central problem of the contemporary Greek world—that of its relations with Rome. The image of the transformation of the politician Polybius into a historian, in what is virtually an ontological mutation, starting with his deportation to Rome, will be set aside in favour of a more realistic continuity between the two phases and a constant contamination between the two aspects of Polybius’ activity. Throughout his political life, Polybius seems to have striven to gain for the Achaean League, and for the Greek world in general, the most favourable position possible vis-à-vis the hegemonic powers, that is to say, at least from a certain point on, vis-à-vis Rome. Also the Histories are aimed at pursuing this goal and must be viewed against such a background. In the second place, analysing the Histories as a diplomatic speech will make it possible, or even necessary, to take into account the constraints imposed on its author by the real power relations. In the relationship between Polybius, and the Greek world in general, and Rome, in the second century bc, the same distinction may also be made between the hidden and the public transcripts elaborated by James Scott with reference to all relations characterized by a great disparity in power between the parties involved. Generally speaking, in such conditions, the public transcript imposed by the dominant group (in our case, by the hegemonic power) corroborates its beneficial role and even its generosity; in the public discourse it is adopted by the subordinate group, above all because the public domain is controlled by the dominant group, but then also for strategic purposes. The acceptance of the public transcript actually provides protection against the repression that would otherwise smash any open challenge to the legitimacy of the role of the dominant group. Furthermore, at the diplomatic level, it represents a weapon, an instrument, by which to endeavour to convince the powerful to apply the principles of their self-representation, so emphatically declaimed on the most solemn official occasions. However, the public transcript does not exhaust the attitudes and cannot reflect the deepest beliefs of those having to subscribe to it. On unofficial occasions and whenever it is reasonable to assume one is outside the earshot of power-holders, a different, more realistic, interpretation of their conditions of oppression emerges among the subordinates. The resentment, the anger, and the dreams of revenge habitually repressed in the public sphere regularly find expression in this hidden transcript. The attempt to apply the work of James Scott to Polybius is to some extent justified by the analogy drawn by Scott from the dialectical relationship between the public and hidden transcripts, on the one hand, and the variability

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of a diplomat’s discourse ‘depending on whether he is talking informally with his own negotiating team or formally with the chief negotiator of a threatening enemy power’.4 In the case of Polybius, and the contemporary Greek world, a further analogy with the situations analysed by Scott may also be found in the great disparity of power vis-à-vis Rome. The analysis must start from the acknowledgement of the public nature of the Histories. In some cases, as will be demonstrated, it seems possible to discern traces here and there in the work of the hidden transcript of Polybius or the Achaean ruling class regarding Rome. As a rule, however, the principles and statements contained in it may be linked to the public transcript. They cannot therefore be taken at face value in order to draw immediate conclusions concerning Polybius’ ‘conversion’ to Rome, or his ‘conviction’ of the ‘legitimacy’ of Roman domination. It is instead necessary to examine the aims underlying Polybius’ statements and the rhetorical strategies adopted in his negotiations with the senate. While it is impossible immediately to grasp Polybius’ judgement on Rome, it is possible, and of interest, to attempt to grasp his diplomatic objectives in the dialogue with Rome. In the following, I will endeavour first to illustrate the forms of contamination between historiography and politics in Polybius in one concrete case; it will then be shown how the principles sustained by Polybius were chosen to suit the various political objectives pursued (}I). In the light of these results, it will then be attempted to investigate the significance of several recurrent themes in the Histories: an analysis will be made of the appeal for moderation, in particular, when Tyche was in favour. More generally, Polybius’ considerations on the most appropriate way to maintain one’s hegemonic position after it had been won (} II) will be also examined. Lastly, it will be attempted to outline the strategic function of the idealization of several Roman figures, such as Scipio Africanus, Aemilius Paullus, and Scipio Aemilianus, and of the positive judgement passed even on Lucius Mummius. The level of Polybius’ innermost convictions, inaccessible in these passages, conditioned by the pursuit of political objectives in power-laden situations, must rather be sought in the occasional emergence of dissonant indications which enable us to glimpse for a moment the hidden transcript of Polybius and the group he belonged to.

I In 38. 4, Polybius seems to make a clear-cut distinction between his political activity and that of historian. This passage is, however, more complex and ambiguous than may appear at first sight. With reference to the hated leaders of 4

Scott 1990: 27–8.

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the Achaean War, Critolaus and Diaeus, Polybius initially seems practically to admit having run counter to the ethos of the historical account and to have adopted a style more biased5 and closer to that of apodeictic oratory. However, we are not up against an open confession of contamination between politics and historiography. Polybius indeed claims that his hostile attitude towards Critolaus and Diaeus was not the result of political prejudice, but of his historian’s fidelity to truth. The charge from which he feels he has to defend himself, as far as his condemnation of the leaders of the revolt is concerned, is not that of bias but rather the opposite charge of not having discharged his duty ‘to throw a veil over the offences of the Greeks’. He proudly claimed that he had not baulked ‘at the time of the occurrences’ at the task of helping his fellow citizens ‘in every way, by active support, by cloaking faults and by trying to appease the anger of the ruling power’ (38. 4. 7); but, as a historian, nothing ought to take precedence over the truth and he was duty bound to hand on to posterity an account uncontaminated by falsehood (Plb. 38. 4. 5–6). This appeal to truth is thus deployed to legitimize his ruthless condemnation of Critolaus and Diaeus; it is only a rhetorical device employed to lend authority to what is asserted. Polybius’ intention is to equate his condemnation of Critolaus and Diaeus with the truth; only for this purpose does he deliberately deny that at the level of historical reconstruction it was his duty ‘to throw a veil over the offences of the Greeks’ (æØ
ººØ a H  Eººø ±Ææ Æ , 38. 4. 2). Moreover, Polybius had already patently violated the noble principle of the clear-cut distinction between political apology and historiography in 27. 9–10, a passage which was explicitly aimed at defending his compatriots from the accusation of acharistia.6 In these two chapters recounting the reaction of Greek public opinion to the victory of Perseus’ cavalry in the battle of Callicinus—the first clash in the Third Macedonian War—Polybius adapted his oratorical skills and aims to historiography.7 This results in a masterpiece—‘a masterpiece of hypocrisy’, according to Adalberto Giovannini;8 but what is more important than passing a moral judgement is to point out how, in actual fact, a diplomatic, or at least political, dimension is indeed present in the Histories,9 and this must be taken into account. The circumstances are well known: the unexpected news of the Macedonian victory was greeted with manifestations of joy throughout Greece.10 Polybius endeavoured to explain away the joy engendered by Perseus’ victory by

5

Polybius uses çغØ in this same sense in 21. 16. 5. Cf. Deininger 1971: 160, with the bibliography in n. 8. 7 See Thornton 2001: 131–48; now cf. also Virgilio 2007: 64–5. 8 Giovannini 1984: 38. 9 No less than in the work of Zeno of Rhodes, analysed by Wiemer 2001 (cf. Thornton 2004: 516–17); see also Wiemer in this volume. 10 Cf. Deininger 1971: 159–61. 6

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appealing to a natural impulse to side with the underdog.11 In this way, he attempted to deny Greek hostility to Rome.12 The declared aim of the digression was to prevent anyone, through ‘ignorance of what is inherent in human nature’ from accusing the Greeks of acharistia (27. 10. 5). In other words, a political apology had seeped into the Histories. In order to deny that the plethos of the Greek cities was stubbornly anti-Roman, Polybius included arguments that a moderate political leader might have addressed to the masses to bring them to their senses (27. 10. 2–3). In the first instance, he played upon the irresponsible nature (IıŁı ) of kingly power,13 something they would all have been obliged to endure if Perseus had actually won (27. 10. 2). But what was to prove decisive was the comparison ‘of all the hardships that the house of Macedon had inflicted on Greece, and of all the benefits she had derived from Roman rule’ (H ªªø KŒ b B ÆŒ ø NŒ Æ ı
Œºø E

 ‚ººÅ
Ø, KŒ b B ῾øÆ ø IæåB
ıçæø, 27. 10. 3). Coming from a citizen of Megalopolis, such a negative judgement passed on the role of the Macedonians in Greek history might appear a little surprising.14 However, in a passage like this, it is idle to try and find traces of Polybius’ ‘conversion’, of the adoption of ‘a point of view much closer to Rome than that which Polybius had held during his detention’,15 or of a ‘conviction that Roman power was advantageous . . . with respect to the monarchic power of Macedonia and of the Hellenistic kings that was ‘‘in no way accountable’’’.16 Polybius’ statements concerning the role played by Macedonia or Rome in Greek history are not the reflection of changes in his ideas; rather they are at the service of the political objectives he pursued. In 27. 10, Polybius, who on other occasions had expressed his appreciation of Philip II, Antigonus III, or the young Philip V, condemns Macedonia’s role in order to show the Romans that the Greek political leaders were capable of getting the masses to acknowledge the benefits received from the republic, as opposed to the harm caused by Macedonian dominion. Since the apology was addressed to the Romans, it smacked more of adroit diplomacy rather than appearing as a sincere opinion, the fruit of mature reflection. All that can be demanded of this passage is an indication of the political aims pursued through the Histories—which is already quite a lot.17 11 Plb. 27. 9. 3; 5 (ŒÆd fiH ŒÆÆ 
æø fi ç
Ø æ
æ Ç c ÆıH hØÆ); 10. 4–5 (a ç
Ø ÆæÆ E IŁæØ ). 12 Plb. 27. 9. 5 (P Ø
F P b ŒÆƪØ
Œ ). 13 On this aspect, cf. Virgilio 2007: 49, 51, 72–3. For the importance of accountability and the control of the magistrates in the Hellenistic city, see Fröhlich 2004. For the persistent tensions between Hellenistic monarchs and the Greek cities, cf. Erskine 2007: 278. 14 On the relations between Megalopolis and Macedonia, see Eckstein 1987b: 145, and cf. Liv. 32. 22. 8–12. 15 Walbank, HCP iii. 308 on 27. 10. 3. 16 Virgilio 2007: 51; cf. 64–5. 17 Ferrary 2003: 30 correctly establishes the need ‘to analyse the message Polybius wishes to transmit through his Histories’. For Thucydides, cf. Leppin 1999: 14 n. 5.

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The wavering of Polybius’ judgements parallels that in the official stance of the Achaean League between Macedonia and Rome, and must be explained in the same terms, as a response to the same problems. Towards the end of 198, during the negotiations with Flamininus and his Greek allies, Philip V, after listing benefactions vis-à-vis the Achaeans, first on the part of Antigonus and then of himself, again evoked the great honours granted to them by the Achaeans. He concluded by reading out the decree by means of which, in 198, the Achaeans had withdrawn from the alliance with Macedonia and sided with Rome, using this as an opportunity to accuse them of disloyalty (athesia) and ingratitude (acharistia) (18. 6. 5–7). Only a few months earlier, Aristaenus, addressing his fellow-citizens in an attempt to convince them to join forces with the Romans, had explained away their hesitation in terms of their fear of the cruelty (crudelitas) of Philip V (Liv. 32. 21. 25), and had aired their hopes of freedom, long cherished in secrecy without daring to express them openly.18 The Roman military presence now provided the occasion to translate into practice a hidden transcript that belied the official language used in the decrees in honour of the Macedonian kings. The contradictory nature of the official acts contemptuously evoked by the Macedonian king thus perhaps does not justify the judgement of betrayal upon which his reproaches are based and which Polybius attempted to deny. The troubled history of Achaeo-Macedonian relations19 is the history of a political community compelled to come to terms with the hegemonic ambitions of the major powers. When forced to submit to a hegemony, the weaker ally adopts the public transcript of the superpower: it interprets its interventions as euergesiai, and reciprocates with the granting of honours, which in their turn are supposed to elicit fresh benefits.20 However, when international political circumstances offer a chance to free oneself from hegemony, or make this decision practically compulsory, as happened to the Achaeans in 198, the opposite interpretation of the role of the hegemonic power emerges. Here, the harassments of such a role are clearly apparent. In the case of the Achaeans, when freedom from hegemony is achieved only through submission to another power, the hardships caused by the Macedonian dynasty are offset by the benefits of Roman dominion. In the dramatic moments in which it is necessary to choose between two opposing superpowers, it is easily understandable that the politicians in the Greek cities should re-interpret the past against the background of the urgent needs of the present—even at the cost of exposing themselves to recrimination and accusations of betrayal such as those made by Philip V against Aristaenus. 18 Liv. 32. 21. 36: liberare uos a Philippo iam diu magis uoltis quam audetis (‘For a long time you have wished, but not dared, to free yourselves from Philip’, trans. by E. T. Sage). 19 See Eckstein 1987b. 20 See Scott 1990; Ma 1999.

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As the circumstances and the political goals change, so do the historical interpretations aimed at attaining the latter. In 174 Archon, the Achaean politician closest to Polybius in the years of the Third Macedonian War, intervened in favour of the abrogation of the ban that from the time of Philip V had prevented the Macedonians from entering Achaean League territory. In that context, Archon referred to ‘so great benefits conferred upon us by former kings of Macedonia’ (tanta priorum Macedoniae regum merita erga nos); it was because of the ‘long-standing association with the Macedonians and the ancient and great services rendered us by their kings’ (uetusta coniunctio cum Macedonibus, uetera et magna in nos regum merita, Liv. 41. 24. 12–14)21 that in 198 the fact of siding with Flamininus had warranted a long and vigorous debate.22 The positions declared in 174 did not prevent Archon, in 170, from recognizing the need ‘to act with the Romans and their friends’ (
ıæØ ῾øÆ Ø ŒÆd E ø ç ºØ , 28. 7. 1). In a very frank meeting of Lycortas’ party, held behind closed doors,23 Archon was able to justify his proposal for a pro-Roman shift in the politics of the League on purely tactical grounds: it was necessary to adapt to the circumstances in order not ‘to give their enemies any pretext for accusing them’ (28. 6. 7). In an official meeting held before a much larger and heterogeneous audience, when the contents of the oration were in danger of reaching the ears of the Roman authorities, it would have been difficult to employ such arguments; it would rather have been necessary to make use of the arguments that, in 27. 10. 2–3, Polybius ascribed to a hypothetical Greek leader addressing the masses after the battle of Callicinus, comparing the benefits derived from Roman rule with the hardships that the Macedonian Kings had inflicted on Greece. The points that Polybius makes in the Histories concerning the decisive events in the relationship between the Achaean League and the powers contending the hegemony over the Mediterranean do not appear to carry more weight than arguments that might have been used at the time to orient or justify the Achaean political line, and fluctuate accordingly. They thus do not allow us to plumb the deepest levels of Polybius’ conviction; but they enable us to detect the political goals pursued and the rhetorical strategies implemented to attain them.

II So far, using a clear example, we have seen how Polybius did not hesitate to pursue political goals through his Histories, and have pointed out how this prevents us from taking his assertions at face value. As in political speeches, it 21

Trans. by E. T. Sage. Liv. 32. 19. 1–23. 3. 23 See Pédech 1964: 281 n. 136, 290, Lehmann 1967: 200, Deininger 1971: 162, Walbank, HCP iii. 333 on 28. 6. 1 (‘Lycortas’ supporters in Achaea’), Eckstein 1985: 278. 22

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is not possible to read into them the immediate reflection of his personal opinions but only the choice of the arguments most likely to convince the public at large. Now, by shifting our attention from a single passage to the general structure of his work, I would like to offer at least one more example of Polybius’ pursuit of political objectives where forms and themes of diplomacy are applied to his historical work. We shall examine the main principle underpinning Polybius’ political thinking—or rather a theme essential to his political message: the thesis that the best way to win and maintain a hegemonic position is to treat one’s defeated enemies and subjugated peoples with generosity. John Marincola claimed that, in the original thirty-volume project, the speech by which Aemilius Paullus urged the members of his consilium ‘never to boast unduly of achievements and never be overbearing (hyperephanon) and merciless (anekeston) in their conduct to anyone, in fact never place any reliance on present prosperity’ (Plb. 29. 20), ‘using Perseus himself as an example of the truth of the words’, occurred towards the conclusion of the work and thus took on even greater prominence.24 It is worth noting that Polybius had dwelt on these issues right from Book 1, taking advantage of Regulus’ African campaign to impart the lesson ‘to distrust Fortune, and especially when we are enjoying success’ ( ØÆØ
E B fi åfi Å, ŒÆd ºØ
Æ ŒÆa a Pæƪ Æ , 1. 35. 2): the Roman commander, ‘who so short a time previously had refused to pity or take mercy on those in distress was now, almost immediately afterwards, being led captive to implore pity and mercy in order to save his own life’ (1. 35. 3). The insistence on the advisability of learning not ‘through their own mischances’, Øa H N ø
ıøø, but ‘through those of others’, Øa H Iººæ ø (1. 35. 7), not ‘by their own misfortunes’, K ÆE N ÆØ Iıå ÆØ , but ‘by those of others’, K ÆE H ºÆ

(29. 20. 4), makes the parallel between the two passages even more striking.25 The same Leitmotiv is stressed at the beginning and the end of the Histories; it actually also recurs at the end of the final project, in forty volumes, in the considerations attributed to Scipio Aemilianus with reference to Hasdrubal (Plb. 38. 20. 1–3)—a warning against hyperephania—as well as in the wellknown chapters on Aemilianus’ reflections before the flames of burning Carthage (38. 21–2). Then, in what seems to be the true epilogue of the work, the theme of the unpredictability of Tyche, particularly sensitive in moments of great success, is carried over from the well-being of the states to 24

Marincola 2001: 147 and n. 145. Concerning the importance that Polybius attributes to the usefulness of learning from the mistakes of others, something to which he already refers in 1. 1. 1–2 (cf. Marincola 2001: 147), see also 3. 62–3, and the words attributed to Aristaenus in Liv. 32. 21. 29 (satis exemplorum nobis clades alienae praebent: ne quaeramus quem ad modum ceteris exemplo simus). Significantly, this same theme also appears in Diod. 1. 1; for its earlier occurrences in Greek literature, see Pani 2001: 74 n. 41. 25

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that of the author himself: Polybius prays to the Gods, asking that the stability brought about through his ultimate diplomatic mission to Rome might last, ‘seeing as I do how apt Fortune is to envy men, and how she especially puts forth her power in cases where we think that our life has been most blessed and most successful’ (39. 8. 2). It is significant that the same theme is found in diplomatic negotiations; it recurs both in Hannibal’s speech during the negotiations with Scipio Africanus prior to the decisive battle (15. 6. 4–7. 9), and in the peace proposals presented by Heracleides, ambassador of Antiochus III, after the Romans landed in Asia (21. 14. 4).26 Again, after the battle of Magnesia, Zeuxis and Antipater begged the Romans to exploit ‘mildly and magnanimously’ (praōs and megalopsychōs) the successes granted them by Tyche, claiming that this would benefit them in the first instance (21. 16. 7–8); and Scipio Africanus hastened to reassure them, denying that the victory had made the Romans ‘more exacting’ (Ææıæı , 21. 17. 1). Prior to him, after the battle of Cynoscephalae, Flamininus lectured to the Aetolians on the need, after the victory, to show themselves to be restrained, ‘gentle and humane’ (æ ı ŒÆd æÆE ŒÆd çغÆŁæı , 18. 37. 7). Such arguments were commonplace when imploring the victor’s leniency; they are found already in Thuc. 4. 17–20 in the speech proposing peace delivered by the Spartan ambassadors at Athens to save the prisoners of Sphacteria. It is in this diplomatic context that their presence in the Histories is to be interpreted. As regards the words attributed to Aemilius Paullus, Diodorus 30. 23 perhaps reflects the Polybian original better than the excerptum making up chapter 20 of Book 29.27 But there is no doubt that this passage containing the praise of Aemilius Paullus for being ‘considerate of a defeated foe’ (æe b f ŒæÆÅŁÆ KØØŒB) and the observation that ‘since there were others also who affected a similar attitude, Rome’s worldwide rule brought her no odium so long as she had such men to direct her empire’28 are in harmony with Polybius’ aspirations to propose models of behaviour based on clemency, epieikeia, for the hegemonic powers to follow.29 To my mind, Polybius’ insistence on this theme is linked to its use in the diplomatic field, to the use made of this argument in peace negotiations, in an attempt to elicit epieikeia from those to whom one was compelled to submit. Just like the king of Pergamum, Eumenes II, in the senate, after the defeat of Antiochus III (Plb. 26

See Wooten 1974: 244. See Nissen 1863: 273 (‘genauern’), with the support of Walbank, HCP iii. 392 on 29. 20. 1–4. 28 Diod. 30. 23. 2 (English trans. by F. R. Walton), on which see Sacks 1990: 153. 29 For the centrality of the theory ‘that kind actions inspire loyalty, harsh ones disaffection’ in the reflections of Diodorus, see Sacks 1990: 39, 42 ff., 124, and passim; Sacks 1994: 216–19, 220 (‘The pervasive use of the schema may have been intended as a subtle warning to Rome’). As regards the level of independence of Diodorus from his sources, cf. Wiemer 2001: 13 n. 14. 27

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21. 18–21), Polybius ‘really hopes to show the Romans that a course of action is in their interest when of course it is also very much in his own’.30 Epieikeia, praotes, metriotes, megalopsychia are keywords used in Polybius’ reflection on empire and on the best way to maintain hegemony after gaining it. They may be found in several points in the Histories, whenever Polybius is given the opportunity to dwell on the benefits that a generous treatment of the defeated foe and the subjugated peoples accrues also to the hegemonic power. Of particular significance is his insistence on the generosity ( Øa B KØØŒ Æ

ŒÆd çغÆŁæø Æ H æø, ‘by the leniency and humanity of his character’, 5. 10. 1) displayed by Philip II, after the victory at Chaeronea, in order to win the hearts and minds of the defeated Athenians, releasing the prisoners without ransom and rendering funeral honours to the fallen. In 5. 10. 1–5 Philip II’s conduct is contrasted with the quite different behaviour of Philip V at Thermum, the federal sanctuary of the Aetolians plundered and destroyed by the king in 218; in a few brief lines, Polybius attributes to Philip II the virtues of leniency (epieikeia), humanity (philanthropia), gentleness (eugnomosyne), moderation (metriotes), clemency (praotes), goodness (kalokagathia), and magnanimity (megalopsychia). The adoption of this stance is also deemed to be the fruit of sagacity, anchinoia: in other words, Polybius shows his appreciation not only at the moral level but also at that of practical effectiveness, in the interest of Philip II himself. Polybius returns to the same topic in the first person again in 18. 14. 13–14, in his polemic against Demosthenes, reiterating the megalopsychia and philodoxia (‘love of glory’) of the Macedonian king; and again in 22. 16. 1–3, where Philip II’s conduct after Chaeronea is once again raised to the status of a paragon, in contrast with Ptolemy V’s cruel treatment of the Egyptian rebels. This was an inevitable issue in the political debate concerning the political role of Macedonia in the Greek world, and was still topical in the late third and the early decades of the second centuries bc: in the debate between the Aetolian Chlaeneas and the Acarnanian Lyciscus, at Sparta, in 210, even Chlaeneas, who was hostile to Macedonia, could not deny the magnanimity of Philip II, and could only give it a malicious interpretation (Plb. 9. 28. 4). Polybius significantly uses this episode to demonstrate the advantages presented by the epieikeia line, and on several occasions proposes it as a model to be adopted. At the same time, the opposite approach, that of terror (kataplexis) and harshness, is repeatedly rejected—even when it was apparently followed by Polybius’ father, Lycortas.31 Polybius never tires of describing its devastating effect also for the hegemonic power, as it attracts the resentment and hatred of the conquered peoples, who would like nothing better than a chance to rid themselves of an oppressive domination. The same lesson is delivered starting 30 31

Kennedy 1972: 35. Plb. 23. 15 with Walbank, HCP iii. 247–8 on 23. 15. 1–3.

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in Book 1 in reference to the Carthaginian domination of Libya, and again, repeatedly, almost obsessively, with reference to Philip V’s relations with the Greek world, right from the beginning of his reign.32 Then, in Book 10, both the Carthaginians and Scipio Africanus seek to win the loyalty of the indigenous populations of the Iberian peninsula. After the victories in 211, now convinced they are in an unassailable position (aderitos), the Carthaginians give themselves over to hybris and hyperephania, whereas Scipio embraces the contrary policy of bestowing benefits. The Iberian peoples thus quickly abandon the Carthaginians and go over to Scipio. Polybius dwells at length, and with satisfaction, on the different effects of the two opposite policies.33 In all these passages, it is not a question of seeking an abstract Polybian theory of empire, which matured after an implausible detached reflection. Once again, continuity with a political tradition is what is observed: the tradition of Aratus of Sicyon and Agelaus of Naupactus vis-à-vis Macedonia, of Philopoemen and Lycortas vis-à-vis Rome—the tradition of subjugated peoples striving to persuade the hegemonic powers to treat them with moderation, to respect treaties to the letter, and to gain the favour of lesser allies through the benefits granted. The principles repeatedly reiterated by Polybius thus point us in the direction of the diplomatic confrontation between Aratus and Philip V, between Philopoemen and the senate; at a more general level we are dealing with an amplification of traditional diplomatic practices developed over the centuries by the Greek cities in their relations with hegemony-seeking powers. The two opposing policies available to a hegemonic power in order to gain the obedience of subjugated peoples—that of terror, applied for instance by Alexander in the destruction of Thebes in 336 bc, on the one hand, and what may be defined as epieikeia, on the other—may be traced back at least to the debate between Cleon and Diodotus on the punishment of Mytilene in Thucydides’ Book 3. In their request for an alliance with Sparta, the Mytilenean ambassadors justified their defection by complaining that their relations with Athens were not cemented by eunoia and philia, mutual friendship and goodwill, but by phobos and deos, that is, terror (Thuc. 3. 12. 1). Therefore, in the dramatic debate in which Cleon proposes that the Mytileneans should be given an exemplary punishment, and cites epieikeia as one of the three vices most detrimental to an empire (Thuc. 3. 40. 2), the opposite option is actually the more favourable to Mytilene’s interests—even though Diodotus cunningly endeavours to suggest that a sign of willingness to pardon would be in Athens’ interest. It is no coincidence that the bulk of Diodotus’ speech is devoted to the 32

Cf. at least Plb. 5. 9–12; 7. 11, 13–14; 15. 22–24a. Plb. 10. 6. 3–4, 35. 6–36. 7. Already in Thucydides, metriotes and praotes assure the Spartan Brasidas of the defection of Athens’ allies: Thuc. 4. 81. 2, 108. 2–3. 33

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attempt to shield himself from the defamatory suspicion of corruption; and the Mytilenean ambassadors present at Athens played an active role in the matter,34 although of course it was in Diodotus’ interest to soft-pedal this. If they had been allowed to express themselves directly, it is probable that, like Diodotus, they too would have adopted the point of view of the hegemonic power’s utility. Likewise, the Melians were also obliged to adopt it in the other well-known Thucydidean debate on empire (Thuc. 5. 90, 98); they warned the Athenians of the risks involved of falling foul also of neutral populations by following a policy of harshness; Polybius was to impart the same lesson to Philip V after the capture of Cius.35 Polybius seizes every available opportunity to demonstrate the usefulness for the hegemonic power of following a policy of epieikeia; at the same time, he warns of the risks deriving from the temptation to give into hybris and hyperephania, which is all the more likely the more unassailable the dominating position attained. His insistence cannot be accounted for merely by a wistful restatement of Aratus’ or Philopoemen’s policies. I would even discard any ‘Polybian theory of empire’, the fruit of a detached reasoning by an armchair scholar. Polybius’ ‘theory’ was not concocted in a library; it is rather a matter of Polybius brandishing in the diplomatic arena what is probably the main weapon in the rhetorical arsenal available to peoples subjugated by superpowers. Significantly, Polybius insisted at great length on the success achieved in Spain by Scipio Africanus by following a policy of moderation. The Carthaginians, now convinced they had an unassailable grip (aderitos) on Spain, gave themselves over to hybris and hyperephania; they lost first the support of their allies and then the war. To the Romans, who, starting in 168, had gained unopposed dominion (aderitos exousia, 31. 25. 6) over the Mediterranean basin, the Greek Polybius indicated rather the model of Scipio Africanus, who gained victory by following the opposite policy, that of epieikeia and benefits accorded to ensure the loyalty of the allies. This being the situation, it would seem necessary to reiterate forcefully the hypothesis previously put forward rather timidly, and in some cases then discarded, by scholars such as Domenico Musti,36 Jacqueline de Romilly,37 Gustav Lehmann,38 Arthur Eckstein,39 Andrew Erskine,40 Jean-Louis Ferrary,41 and latterly by Christopher Pelling:42 when Polybius reflects bitterly on the historical experience of Philip V, or extols the magnanimity of Philip II, or even more, when he analyses the moments of crisis in the Punic dominion of Africa and then Spain, his main purpose is to send a message to the Roman political establishment. 34 36 38 40

35 Cf. e.g. Thuc. 3. 49. 3. Thuc. 5. 98, and cf. Plb. 15. 23. 6–7, 24. 4–6. 37 Musti 1978: 135 n. 9, on Plb. 10. 36. De Romilly 1979: 247. 39 Lehmann 1989/90: 76–7. Eckstein 1985: 271–3. 41 42 Erskine 2003: 235. Ferrary 2003: 30–1. Pelling 2007: 249.

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I II It has long been accepted that the idealized portraits of Scipio Africanus, Aemilius Paullus, and Scipio Aemilianus had the function of examples. However, I would not say that their depiction in the Histories represents a stage in the process of justifying Roman dominion ‘from a doctrinal standpoint’.43 There is no doubt that Polybius aimed to defuse any attempt at an anti-Roman revolt, but I do not believe that he intended to ‘justify Rome’s hegemony over the Greeks’ by praising the virtues of a few figures. His aim was rather to contribute to improving the position of the Greeks within the framework of Roman hegemony, to convince the Romans to exert their dominion with moderation, taking these models as examples. Polybius aspired to being a mediator between the Greeks and the Romans; if he sang the latter’s praises it was only because he had this sole purpose in mind.44 As often happens in relations with the powerful, an encomium also serves as a vehicle for advice; when all other avenues seem to be blocked, the strategic potential inherent in the acceptance of the public transcript is exploited to the full. Since public eulogies of hegemonic power composed by subordinates have a tactical function, one ought not to take them all at face value.45 Examination of the deepest-lying convictions of Polybius and of the Achaean political group to which he belonged with regard to Macedonia and Rome must be conducted by means of an analysis of the passages that enable us to perceive the echo of their confidential discussions. One of these passages is the account of the party meeting called by Lycortas in 170 to discuss the stance to adopt after the diplomatic mission of Gaius Popillius Laenas and Gnaeus Octavius in 28. 6. Here Lycortas expressed the hope of maintaining the balance of power so as to avoid the need to submit to a single superpower. Polybius was more clearly aware of the seriousness of the situation, and accepted Archon’s proposal to collaborate with the senate (28. 6. 7–7. 1). Nevertheless he clearly shared the principles affirmed by his father.46 A trace of what Polybius really thought deep down inside as regards Rome can also be found in his bitter criticism of the speech delivered by the Rhodian ambassador, Astymedes, to the senate in the winter of 168/7. Here Polybius

43 Gabba 1974: 638–9. For the exceptional nature of Aemilius Paullus and Scipio Aemilianus in comparison to their contemporaries in the accounts of Polybius, cf. also Musti 1978: 91, 136 n. 21; Marincola 2001: 147–8. 44 See Thornton 1998 for the way in which the political objectives pursued by Polybius at the end of the Achaean War are reflected in the work. For the growing awareness of the importance of Polybius’ mediation in the most recent studies, see Thornton 2004: 508–24, and see also Ferrary 2003: 18. 45 Scott 1990. 46 Cf. Liv. 42. 30. 5–7 and the appreciation of Hiero II’s policies in Plb. 1. 83. 2–4.

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seems once more to adopt the old pan-Hellenic polarity with regard to the barbarians, taking it to a purely diplomatic level. Astymedes, clearly very proud of the results obtained in favour of his country during one of the most dramatic episodes in its relations with Rome,47 had no scruples about publishing a written version of his speech (30. 4. 11). For Polybius, the ambassador ought to have been ashamed of having based his defence upon a comparison between the merits and faults in populum Romanum of the Rhodians and the other Greek communities. Inevitably, such a comparison worsened the accusations against the other Greek states, making them appear even more guilty in order to make the wrongdoings of the Rhodians appear ‘small and deserving of pardon’, ØŒæa ŒÆd
ıªªÅ ¼ØÆ (30. 4. 13–14). Polybius severely condemned this type of dikaiologia, ‘since surely in the case of men who have taken part in secret designs we do not praise those who either from fear or for money48 turn informers and betray confidences, but we applaud and regard as brave men those who endure the extremity of torture and punishment without being the cause of similar suffering to their accomplices. How then could those who heard of it fail to disapprove the conduct of a man who for fear of an uncertain danger revealed to the ruling power and published all the errors of others, errors which time had already veiled from the eyes of their masters?’ (30. 4. 16–17). This passage would thus seem to betray the persistence of a need for a pan-Hellenic solidarity in the face of the imperium Romanum. The latter was seen as an external power which, like a tyrant, controlled and judged them and against which—in their dreams—they might eventually unite and conspire.49 Even more significant is the well-known comparison between Philopoemen and Aristaenus,50 in which Walbank perceived ‘two fictitious speeches condensing the arguments which they employed on several occasions’.51 The sincerity of the open debate that Polybius attributes to the two leaders is such as to point to the debate within the Achaean political groups in the places of the hidden transcript to which the Roman authorities were not allowed access. Nevertheless, Polybius also places side by side the arguments that the two adopted in public in order to support their diverse political lines. The two rivals, together probably with Polybius, shared the view that the growing and increasingly oppressive Roman interference in the internal affairs of the Achaean League 47 He helped obtain from the senate ‘an answer which relieved indeed their extreme apprehension of war’ (Plb. 30. 4. 7); moreover, the senate’s reply indicated explicitly that it was above all due to the ambassadors (ºØ
Æ Ø ÆP , 30. 4. 9) that it was decided not to inflict upon the Rhodians the punishment they deserved. 48 Paton translates Øa ç j æ, but see Walbank, HCP iii. 421 on 30. 4. 16: ‘it seems preferable to read Øa ç j , “through fear or (actual) suffering” (cf. Strachan-Davidson)’. 49 Cf. Thornton 2001: 127–30, and now Thornton 2010: 72–6. 50 Plb. 24. 11–13; for the most recent analysis, see Desideri, forthcoming. 51 Walbank, HCP iii. 265 on 24. 11. 1–13. 10.

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was a process that was, in the end, inevitable.52 Philopoemen claimed that the process might best be held up, wherever possible, by opposing it with all diplomatic means available, while, on the other hand, Aristaenus’ advice was to placate the Romans by promptly obeying all orders so as to avoid needlessly irritating them.53 The moderate Aristaenus went as far as to declare, as though it were something obvious and acknowledged by all, that if the Achaeans had had the military capacity, it would have been their duty to stand up to the Romans and not yield to their orders (24. 12. 1). However, the argument with which Philopoemen would have defended to the hilt his tough diplomatic stance— aiming to delay the moment in which it would be necessary to obey all Roman commands—does not, I believe, belong to the deeper level of conviction of Philopoemen or of Polybius. Philopoemen is accredited with the affirmation— an affirmation that even Aristaenus himself could not deny—that ‘the Romans, up to now at least, set a very high value on fidelity to oaths, treaties, and contracts with allies’ (24. 13. 3). As observed by Ferrary,54 Polybius had himself supported a similar thesis in 24. 10. 12, when he commented on the embassy of Callicrates to the senate in 180 bc. However, the affirmation that the Romans were endowed with ‘un sens particulièrement aigu de la justice et des devoirs envers ceux qui ont été de fidèles alliés’55 is only a diplomatic ploy, an exhortation more than a statement of fact, and should be interpreted as an integral part of the strategy of the public transcript. This claim of Roman exceptionality actually also surfaces elsewhere in the Histories; but it always surfaces in diplomatic contexts. Before the senate, after the defeat of Antiochus III, the Rhodian ambassadors strove to influence the decision on the fate of the cities in north-western Asia Minor seized from the Seleucid king. In their speech, they placed the Romans above all other men; with generous disinterest they would prefer the renown due to having liberated the Greeks to gain: ‘for money is a possession common to all men, but what is good, glorious, and praiseworthy belongs only to the gods and those men who are by nature nearest to them’ (Plb. 21. 23. 2–12, particularly 9). It would be naive to interpret this as a sincere conviction: it is rather an attempt, using diplomatic means, to convince the representatives of the hegemonic power to put into practice the grandiloquent declarations of principle contained in their official speeches and documents.

52

Cf. 15. 24. 4 for the inevitable degeneration of the basileis, who at the very outset tend to treat their inferior allies
ıÆåØŒH , and then 
ØŒH ; on this passage see Virgilio 2007: 60. In 24. 13. 2 Philopoemen takes the framework of the basileis and extends it to all hegemonic powers, Rome included; cf. also }6 (‘I know too well’, he said, ‘that the time will come when the Greeks will be forced to yield complete obedience to Rome’) and see Ferrary 2003: 25. 53 For this interpretation, cf. Thornton 1995: 265–72, with an analysis of the preceding bibliography, and see also Musti 1978: 76–7. More recently, Ferrary 2003: 23–4 has defended the different thesis already proposed in Ferrary 1988: 296–7. 54 Ferrary 2003: 26. 55 Ferrary 2003: 26; cf. also Wooten 1974: 246.

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The Rhodians recalled Flamininus’ solemn declarations at the Isthmian games in 196 in the hope of convincing the senate to implement the principles thus publicly stated at the time. On another, much more dramatic, occasion another Rhodian ambassador, the above-mentioned Astymedes, begging the senate to put an end to the anger against his native country, lamented the persistent hatred of the Romans, ‘who are considered to be most lenient and magnanimous (æÆ fi ÆØ ŒÆd ªÆºłıåÆØ) towards all other peoples’ (Plb. 30. 31. 15). Astymedes appealed for an application to the Rhodians of virtues claimed in the Romans’ self-representation: Scipio Africanus boasted of wanting to extend them even to the defeated Carthaginians, treated æfi ø . . . ŒÆd ªÆºłåø despite repeated violations of pacts, in consideration of Tyche (Plb. 15. 17. 4).56 It is unlikely that Astymedes was convinced deep down of the exceptional leniency of the Romans; what is important is to acknowledge how useful this argument was in the pursuit of concrete diplomatic objectives. The image of themselves projected by the Romans is taken up again in the negotiations aiming to induce them to put into practice all of these noble declarations.57 As we have seen, such arguments also appeared in Greek internal political debates where they were used to embarrass all those who were in favour of complete obedience to the senate—as if Aristaenus and Callicrates were the only ones not to recognize the Romans’ scrupulous respect for fides. As Arthur Eckstein has recently observed, the very fact that ancient diplomacy was actually public in nature was a major stumbling-block in its ability to function and resolve disputes. Concessions were rare since they were all too often considered as an admission of inferiority and thus a prelude to submission.58 However, the public nature of ancient diplomacy could also lead to different results. Indeed, once the dominant power had solemnly proclaimed the lofty principles underpinning its actions, the very public nature of the process effectively transformed such worthy proclamations into a diplomatic weapon that could be taken up by its weaker allies. Since the dominant power did not wish to lose face on the international scene, the weaker parties could remind the presiding power of the need to respect the engagements it had undertaken. However, to do this, the weaker allies had to recall and reiterate the dominant power’s public declarations with regard to their euergetic aims. We should consequently be extremely wary of attempting to extrapolate opinions, convictions, and points of view from speeches whose primary function was first and foremost diplomatic and political. Polybian scholars ought rather to abandon such an approach in favour of a more mature understanding of the strategic capabilities of a public transcript, focusing on 56 For the peace negotiations with the Aetolians in 190, see 21. 4. 10: Polybius claims that Scipio would have treated them Ø b æÆ fi æ ŒÆd çغÆŁæøæ. 57 See Scott 1990: 18. 58 Eckstein 2006: 61–5, 97–9, 121.

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the veritable political nature of the Histories and on the influence that continued to be exerted on Polybius by an ancient diplomatic tradition. In this way, the positive judgement of Rome’s handling of Macedonia after Pydna59 should not be considered as a clear reflection of the ‘convictions’ of Polybius, but rather a meditated adhesion to the public transcript drawn up by the victors. Even the idealization of the figure of Aemilius Paullus, an example of moderation in the exercise of dominion,60 should be viewed in the perspective of a need to provide the Roman ruling class with an example to follow.61 In my opinion, not even Polybius’ positive judgement of Mummius62 countervails the idea that, if the choice had been available, it would have been better to avoid the Romans gaining such an aderitos exousia, in accordance with the principle clearly stated by Lycortas in the party meeting mentioned by Polybius in 28. 6. The attribution to Mummius of self-control, purity, and mildness (KªŒæÆH ŒÆd ŒÆŁÆæH . . . ŒÆd æfi ø ) should be placed on the same plane as the honours granted to him in the conquered cities:63 not an immediate reflection of deep-set convictions and sincere gratitude nor proof of any kind of conversion to Rome, but the acceptance by the defeated of the public transcript proposed by the hegemonic power and an attempt to exploit the political resources emerging from the possibility of convincing the Romans to keep faith with the self-image they had disseminated. In his Histories, Polybius enjoyed playing the part of teacher,64 also of a teacher of politics. His are not disinterested lessons—or at least, not always. Polybius’ historiography is occasionally to some extent mingled with the diplomacy of the defeated, whose aims he shares: to convince the Romans through a clever use of the instruments refined during the long tussle between the Greek cities and hegemonic powers of the utility of an exercise of authority based on epieikeia—thus ensuring the Greeks could maintain as comfortable a position as possible under the inevitable Roman domination. 59

Plb. 36. 17. 13–14, with Ferrary 2003: 27. A complex historiographical process that cannot be analysed here; see however Reiter 1988 and Ferrary 1988: 547–72. 61 These themes, already noted supra, will be treated more comprehensively elsewhere. 62 Plb. 39. 6. 2–5: ‘It was only natural indeed that he should be treated with honour both in public and in private. For his conduct had been unexacting and unsullied and he had dealt leniently (æfi ø ) with the whole situation, though he had such great opportunities and such absolute power in Greece’. On this passage, see Thornton 2005: 212–13 and n. 87. On Polybius’ opinion of Mummius, cf. Sacks 1994: 222–3 (who compares it to the much harsher judgement of Diodorus). 63 Plb. 39. 6. 1–2. For the honours received by Mummius in Greece, along with the epigraphic attestations to them, cf. Knoepfler 1991. 64 Cf. for example 3. 32. 10, with the explicit claim of e ÆŁE as a benefit of reading the Histories, and see Marincola 2001: 125, 134, 140. 60

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12 How to Rule the World: Polybius Book 6 Reconsidered1 Andrew Erskine

INTR ODUCING BOOK 6 The question of ruling the world and how it is achieved is a central one for Polybius. At the beginning of his history he writes those much-quoted lines: ‘For who is so worthless or so indolent as not to wish to know by what means and by what system of government in less than 53 years almost the whole inhabited world was subjugated and brought under one rule, that of the Romans, something that had never happened before?’ (1. 1. 5). ‘By what means’ (H ) is answered by the narrative of the history but ‘by what system of government’ ( Ø ªØ ºØ Æ ) is taken up in particular in the sixth book.2 Polybius is concerned to explain Roman success, but more than this he is explaining to Greeks and to himself why the Greeks failed, why they too now obey Roman orders; how it was that the world of the third century had gone, the phalanx yielding to the legion (see further 18. 28–32). This was, he says in the prefatory remarks to his history, an extraordinary transformation and one that demanded attention. Permeating Polybius’ analysis in the sixth book are two themes, which will be treated in turn in successive sections of this chapter: first, Rome as a model of order and efficiency, secondly, as a society in which all parts serve the interests of the whole. The importance that Polybius placed on this sixth book is evident from the number and nature of his anticipatory references to it, which give us a sense of how he understood the purpose of the book himself.3 In the first book, while 1

This chapter has benefited from the discussion at an especially stimulating conference. I am grateful in particular to Bruce Gibson and Robin Seager for helpful comments on an early draft. 2 The theme recurs at Plb. 6. 2. 3, 8. 2. 3, 39. 8. 7. 3 Anticipatory: 1. 1. 5, 1. 64. 2, 3. 2. 6, 3. 118. 11–12; perhaps also 3. 87. 7–9, referring to a later (lost) discussion which deals somehow with the dictatorship and related offices. In the

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discussing the Roman navy, he looks forward to his account of Rome’s system of government (politeia) in Book 6, emphasizing its centrality and advising his readers to pay careful attention to it. The subject is, he comments, a noble sight, yet one barely known thanks to those who have written about it. Some were ignorant; others gave an account that was obscure and without profit (1. 64. 2–4). Polybius here is typically dismissive about his fellow-historians, while at the same time drawing attention to the originality and usefulness of his own contribution.4 The significance of his analysis of the Roman state to his work as a whole and to the understanding of Roman power is expanded upon in the third book. Here in the preface, which introduces the history proper, he gives an outline of what will follow. He explains that once he has treated Hannibal’s successes in Italy and other contemporary events, he will pause the narrative to offer an account of the Roman system of government. He will show how its singular character (N ØÅ ) ‘made a major contribution not only to the reestablishment of Roman mastery over the Italians and Sicilians and the extension of their rule to the Spaniards and the Celts, but also, in the end, after their victory over the Carthaginians, to the formulation of the idea of universal dominion’ (3. 2. 6). It is this distinctive politeia that Polybius promises to consider in Book 6; here he will be looking at those aspects that enabled both Rome’s recovery after the disastrous defeat at Cannae, and its drive for empire—in other words those aspects that explained Roman success. By the end of Book 3, Rome’s distinctive politeia explains not only the drive for empire but also its achievement of that empire: ‘by the singular character of their politeia and by their own sound judgement the Romans not only regained their mastery over Italy and subsequently defeated the Carthaginians but in a few years they were in control of the whole inhabited world’ (3. 118. 9).5 Thus, by the time that Book 6 is reached, the reader is aware of the importance of its subject-matter for the history as a whole, a point reiterated in the introduction to that book. Whereas the first five books of Polybius’ Histories survive complete, the sixth book does not. Instead the modern text is composed of a series of substantial extracts to be found in the Excerpta Antiqua, as the Byzantine collection of excerpts from the first eighteen books of Polybius is known, a collection that appears to follow the order of the original text closely.6 How much is missing is a matter of conjecture. References to the sixth book in

fragmentary later books there are also a number of references that look back to Book 6: 10. 16. 7, 18. 28. 1, 21. 13. 11 (indicating that he described the Salii in a lost part of Book 6), 39. 8. 7. 4 For attitude to other historians, see Walbank 1962, Walbank 1972a: 46–55, Lehmann 1974, Schepens 1990, McGing 2010: 65, 83–4. 5 For the role of sound judgement, cf. 6. 51. 7–8. 6 Moore 1965, esp. 55–61, Walbank, HCP i. 635–6.

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Polybius himself and other writers reveal something of what has been lost. Polybius, for example, refers the reader back to Book 6 for a discussion of the priesthood of the Salii; Athenaeus cites it for the Roman prohibition on winedrinking by women; and Stephanus of Byzantium cites it for the foundation of Ostia—none of which appears in the extant portions.7 It is usually accepted that the book included a summary of the development of the main institutions of the state until the time of the decemvirate, a section that scholars have named the archaeologia.8 The present chapter, however, is based on what survives rather than speculation about what does not. Before going any further, I should own up to a certain confusion that I feel when confronting this material. My problem is to do with the terminology used in modern scholarship, and it comes down to this: how should you translate politeia? A common translation is ‘constitution’, but this, in its modern usage at least, seems too restrictive, too narrow, and too legalistic. Polybius several times says that he will interrupt his narrative to give an account of the politeia of the Romans, and when it does come his account is impressive for its range: the political structure of Rome (how it is a combination of kingship, aristocracy, and democracy), the functioning of the army (how it is enrolled, punishments and rewards, the layout of the Roman camp), funeral customs, attitudes to religion, comparisons with other states, and in a lost part the review of early Roman history.9 All these occur within a book which Polybius professes to be devoting to the Roman politeia. Together they go well beyond what we would normally expect to be captured in the term ‘constitution’; only the first part, the political structure of Rome, the so-called mixed constitution, really fits our modern usage of the term. But when Polybius writes about the politeia of the Romans, he clearly has in mind something that can embrace all these elements—they are part of the public life of the citizen.10 On this he would be in agreement with other Greek writers, such as Xenophon, Aristotle, and Plato.11 Politeia does refer to the narrow political structure that we would call a constitution, for instance an 7 Salii: Plb. 21. 13. 11; wine: Ath. 10. 55, 440e (=Plb. 6. 11a. 4); Ostia: Steph. Byz. s.v. Ὠ
 Æ (=Plb. 6. 11a. 6). 8 The fragments attributed to the archaeologia were collected by Büttner-Wobst as Plb. 6. 11a, on which Walbank, HCP i. 663–73 on 6. 11a and Weil and Nicolet 1977: 28–35 (who include the passages in their Budé edition). Attempts have been made to reconstruct it from Cicero’s De re publica, notably Taeger 1922 whose approach did little to convince the more cautious Pöschl 1936; cf. also Pédech 1964: 313–17, Ferrary 1984, Zetzel 1995: 22–3, Walbank 1998b (with p. 52 on the origins of the term archaeologia). For a succinct account of the problems, see McGing 2010: 178–80. 9 Political structure: 6. 11–18; army: 6. 19–42; comparison: 6. 43–56 (which includes the funeral at 6. 53–4 and religion at 6. 56. 6–15); early history: see n. 8 above. 10 For this broader conception of politeia in Polybius, see Pédech 1964: 303, Derow 1994: 89, Champion 2004a: 75–84. Note also Plb. 6. 47. 1–5, where politeia includes both customs and laws, on which see Martínez Lacy 1991. 11 Bordes 1982.

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aristocracy or a democracy, but in the ancient context that structure cannot be understood separately from the polis itself. Isocrates neatly encapsulates this idea in his Areopagiticus: ‘the soul of the polis is nothing other than its politeia’.12 Consequently I have preferred the use of politeia or the phrase ‘system of government’ (cumbersome though it is) to ‘constitution’ when describing Polybius’ theme in Book 6, while keeping ‘constitution’ for the discussion of Roman political structures in the narrow sense, that is to say the interaction between the people, senate, and consuls. This may be a trivial anxiety on my part but I have a suspicion that it has wider repercussions. One effect of the modern scholarly tendency to translate politeia as ‘constitution’ and then apply it chiefly to the ‘constitutional’ section is to fragment further what is already a fragmented book, to take away what holds the remnants together. Thus, instead of it being a book about the politeia of the Romans, it becomes a study of the Roman constitution, the Roman army, the Roman funeral, and so on. By abandoning the politeia as a governing principle, and therefore the full range of concepts that go with it, we are losing the coherency that Polybius himself surely felt was there—and even in its present fragmented state it is possible to see that he began and ended the book with Cannae. Yet, for all its importance, scholars rarely tackle the book as a whole. Titles that promise an interpretation of Book 6, the construction of Book 6, or the sources of Book 6 turn out, in practice, to be about the nature and development of the mixed constitution.13 In these studies the twenty-four chapters on the army (chapters 19–42) may be dispensed with in a single sentence. In Paul Pédech’s sizeable book on Polybius’ historical method it is striking that, full as it is, the index locorum jumps from Book 6 chapter 18 to chapter 42, thus almost completely eliminating a major part of a book that Polybius himself conceived as fundamental to his history.14 This is not to say that scholarship ignores what Polybius has to say of the Roman army, but it is treated for the most part in discussions of the Roman army rather than of Polybius and there the Polybian context tends to get neglected. These are generalizations and there are, of course, exceptions, notably Craige Champion’s holistic treatment in his Cultural Politics in Polybius’s Histories.15 We may lack the Polybian text that links the section on the army to the rest of the book, but it is clear that for Polybius himself the army was an integral part of

12 Isoc. 7. 14, cf. 12. 138, on which Haskins 2004: 92–5, Balot 2006: 179. Similar is Aristotle’s statement that ‘the politeia is the way of life (  ) of the polis’, Pol. 1295a40–b1. 13 e.g. ‘Interpretation des sechsten Buches’ (chapter title in Eisen 1966), ‘The construction of the Sixth Book of Polybius’ (Brink and Walbank 1954), ‘The Sources and Composition of Polybius VI’ (Cole 1964), ‘Die Natur und die römische Politeia im 6. Buch des Polybios’ (Eisenberger 1982). 14 Pédech 1964. 15 Champion 2004a, esp. 91–9, emphasizing the role of reason (logos) in Polybius’ account, cf. also Nicolet 1974: 243 for concern with unity of the book.

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Rome’s politeia. This is one of the respects in which the Roman politeia is superior to the Carthaginian: for, instead of using foreigners and mercenaries as the Carthaginians do, the Romans use soldiers who are natives of their own country and citizens. Fighting is thus one of the duties of citizenship and so inseparable from the politeia itself.16 Polybius’ choice of the sixth book for his analysis of the Roman politeia was very deliberate. Chronologically it is placed after the traumatic Roman defeat at Cannae in 216, in which over 70,000 men were reported to have been killed on the Roman side, all the more devastating because it was the third successive defeat at Hannibal’s hands.17 Observers, not least Philip V of Macedon, wrote the Romans off at this point.18 Yet they recover and go on to achieve world domination. Polybius sees a time of crisis as the ideal opportunity to test the validity of his ideas about the Roman state. Just as what one says about a man, whether he is good or bad, can be tested by how nobly he copes when his life is going exceptionally well or exceptionally badly, so too with what is said about a system of government (6. 2. 5–7). In this case Cannae becomes a test for the distinctive qualities that Polybius attributes to the Roman politeia that enable its success. Polybius’ book on the politeia is not, however, placed immediately after the account of Cannae, which occurs in Book 3. Instead two Books, 4 and 5, intervene to tell the story of Greek events in the 140th Olympiad, thus bringing the Greek world up to the time of Cannae. As a result, the analysis of the politeia leads directly into the subsequent narrative and so precedes the recovery as much as it follows the disaster of Cannae. Polybius has been frequently criticized for the omissions or inadequacies of his account; there is, it is pointed out, no mention of the complexity of the aristocracy (patricians and plebeians, nobiles and noui homines), the range of popular assemblies, or patrons and clients;19 there are anachronisms in the account of the army;20 he talks of Roman financial probity when elsewhere he calls it into question.21 Yet these criticisms fail to take notice of Polybius’ purpose; he is not putting forward so much a description of the Roman Plb. 6. 52. 4–5, cf. Millar 2002b: 34 on this section: ‘military service was one of the fundamental aspects of citizenship’. 17 On the outcome of the battle, Plb. 3. 117–18. 18 Observers in general: Plb. 3. 118. 3–5; Philip: Liv. 23. 33. 4, Plb. 7. 9 with Walbank, HCP ii. 42. 19 Seager, ch. 13 in this volume, details many of Polybius’ omissions (cf. also Nicolet 1974: 215–22), although the incomplete nature of the book does mean that we should be wary of too readily assuming that because something is not there he did not mention it (cf. McGing 2010: 183–4); certainly he does make reference elsewhere to topics that may have been treated in Book 6 but which are now lost, see nn. 3 and 7 above. 20 e.g. Brunt 1971: 624–8, and de Ligt 2007: 115 on the levy. 21 Plb. 6. 56. 4 and 56. 13–15, contrasting with 18. 35, usually explained as having different dates in mind, Walbank, HCP i. 741, Martínez Lacy 1991: 90–1. On Roman attitudes to money, Erskine 1996. 16

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politeia as an explanation of its success. So those aspects that do not contribute to that success, to Roman recovery and achievement, at least in Polybius’ view of things, do not need to be mentioned at this point. When the book is examined, it is fascinating to see there is so little that is otiose; even the elaborate detail of the Roman army’s activities has a function. Indeed Polybius anticipates criticism (or perhaps he had already shown a draft to a Roman acquaintance), when he writes: ‘The good critic should not judge writers by what they leave out but by what they relate, and if he discovers anything incorrect in what they write, he may conclude that he made the omissions as a result of ignorance; but if everything that is related is true, he should acknowledge that these matters are passed over in silence deliberately and not from ignorance’ (6. 11. 7–8). Similarly, to take Book 6 as evidence for a very positive view of Rome would also be unjustified. This is not a book that was written to point out Roman deficiencies, that would hardly explain Rome’s success, but rather it is intended to highlight Roman strengths and, in the process, Polybius’ politeia becomes something that Rome itself may never in practice have achieved. To appropriate Platonic terminology we may say that what we have here is not Rome but the form of Rome. The very placing of the politeia in the past at the time of Rome’s worst crisis while using the present tense to describe it gives a quality of timelessness while simultaneously frustrating scholars—does he mean this was true in 216 bc at the time of Cannae or in his own day?22 One might compare the way in which the use of the present tense in ethnographic writing can objectify the subject and almost deny change.23 In Book 6 Polybius explains Roman success but he is also writing primarily for Greeks, and implicit in the book, therefore, is an explanation of Greek failure.24 In what follows I explore two themes in particular which run through his whole account of the Roman politeia. In the process I aim to rehabilitate the Roman army to show that it is central to Polybius’ conception of the Roman state, not merely a tool used by it. The first theme, which will be the subject of the next section, is that of Rome as a model of order and efficiency. Greek readers could, no doubt, look at their own communities and in the contrast see reasons for their present situation. The second important theme, which will be addressed in the final section, is the subordination of the part to the whole. In Rome the interests of the state turn out to be paramount, overriding all else. The way in which Polybius presents these two themes offers his readers something both terrifying and seemingly unstoppable. As he Cf. the distinction between ‘then’ and ‘now’ at 6. 11. 13 with Walbank’s note, HCP i. 675. On the ‘ethnographic present’, Fabian 1983: 80–7. 24 On Greeks as Polybius’ primary audience, see Walbank 1972a: 3–4, who is surely right in his interpretation of Plb. 31. 22. 8–9, and is not refuted by Dubuisson 1985: 266–7, where it is argued that Polybius is addressing a Roman audience as much as (or even more than) a Greek one. 22 23

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puts it in the conclusion to his discussion of Rome’s mixed constitution: ‘consequently this particular form of state possesses an irresistible power to achieve whatever it has set out to do’ (6. 18. 4).

ROME A S A MODEL OF ORDER AND EFFICIENCY Early in his account of the Roman army Polybius describes the enrolment of new legions. The density of detail may encourage the less committed reader to pass over it hurriedly, but it is the detail itself that is of interest. It is useful here to quote it in full: When the consuls are about to enrol soldiers, they announce at a meeting of the popular assembly the day on which all Romans of military age must be present. They do this each year. When the day arrives and those liable for military service have come to Rome and gathered together on the Capitoline, the junior military tribunes, according to the order in which they have been appointed by the people or the consuls, divide themselves into four groups, because the main and primary division of their forces is into four legions. The four tribunes who were appointed first they assign to the legion called the first, the next three to the second, the four following them to the third, and the final three to the fourth. Of the senior tribunes they assign the first two to the first legion, the next three to the second, the next two to the third and the final three to the fourth. When the division and assignment of the tribunes have been completed in such a way that every legion has an equal number of officers, the tribunes, those of each legion, take up a separate position, draw lots for the tribes one by one and summon the tribe which is selected on each occasion. From this tribe they choose four young men of roughly the same age and physique. When they are brought forward, the first to take their pick are those of the first legion, second are those of the second legion, third those of the third and lastly those of the fourth. When the next four are brought forward, the first to make their selection are those of the second legion and so on in turn, the last to choose being those of the first legion. After this when the next four are brought forward, the first to choose are those of the third legion and the last those of the second. Since they continue in this way to give the choice to each alike in succession, it turns out that the men that each legion gets are of a very similar standard. (6. 19. 5–20. 7)

If we imagine what is going on, it is quite extraordinary. First there is the distribution of military tribunes among the legions to ensure a rough balance of junior and senior tribunes. Then an even more complex process begins. Four men similar in build and age are chosen from each tribe, then the tribunes of each legion in turn pick one of these four men, a process that continues in an elaborate rotating system in order to ensure that each legion is equally balanced, each the same strength. Thus, every soldier is chosen

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individually, no insignificant feat with four legions made up of at least 4,200 men each, a total of almost 17,000 soldiers.25 The whole description conveys a powerful impression of Roman order and efficiency, all the more so because of the meticulous way that Polybius records each stage of the process. This degree of detail is a feature of the army section of Book 6 and not without purpose; Polybius’ attention to detail is but a reflection of the Romans’ own attention to it, evidenced again later in his account of the layout of a military camp and the organization of the night watch.26 Nothing the Romans do is by chance; this is a carefully organized and rational system. Accumulatively, all this detail comes to represent the overwhelming and relentless efficiency of the Roman army, a point surely not missed by Polybius’ Greek readership.27 None the less scholars have not been happy with Polybius’ account. Criticisms are many. He says that the enrolment is carried out in this way every year, but it must in practice have changed from year to year depending on the state’s requirements. He says all citizens of military age attended, but that would mean a potential 100,000 converging on Rome for this event. He says it took place on the Capitoline, but that location can hardly have been large enough to accommodate this activity.28 A further problem is the source of Polybius’ information. One might assume that he gained it by personal observation as a resident of Rome; certainly he was a man who believed in the value of personal experience and autopsy in the writing of history, scorning the bookish Timaeus (cf. 12. 26e–28). But the consensus now seems to be that he had read it somewhere; influential in developing this consensus were the arguments of Peter Brunt and Elizabeth Rawson in the early 1970s. Brunt thought it most likely to have its roots in an antiquarian description by some Roman annalist and so be better suited to an older, smaller Rome, while Rawson saw less anachronism and suggested that Polybius had access to a handbook for military tribunes of a generation or so back (and thus representing at least some form of original research).29 These are issues that are beyond the scope of this chapter, but I do think that before they are addressed some attempt must be made to understand what Polybius is doing in his account of the army and in Book 6 more broadly. Discussion has tended to overlook a point made some fifty years ago by the scholar whose memory is being celebrated in this collection. Commenting on the two chapters on the enrolment of the army, Frank Walbank wrote, ‘P.’s account is over-schematic, like 25

Legion sizes as Plb. 6. 20. 8, though note de Ligt 2007: 115. Camp: 6. 26. 10–6. 32, 6. 41–2; night watch: 6. 34. 7–37. 6. 27 Cf. Champion 2004a: 92–3; see Plb. 10. 16–17 on the sack of New Carthage for a vivid depiction of the ruthless efficiency of the Roman army in action. 28 Walbank, HCP i. 698–9, Brunt 1971: 625–8, de Ligt 2007: 115–16. 29 Brunt 1971: 625–8, Rawson 1991 (first published 1971), the latter taken up (partially at least) by Weil and Nicolet 1977: 153–4 and de Ligt 2007: 115. 26

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his account of the constitution’.30 This, I think, is the point. There may never have been an enrolment exactly as Polybius describes it, but Polybius here is providing its essence, the Platonic form I mentioned earlier, and the same applies to the rest of his account of the Roman military system. His detailed, meticulous descriptions can mislead us into seeing this part as much more empirically based than the rather theoretical section on the mixed constitution. Polybius’ remarks about omissions are as relevant here as they were to his account of the mixed constitution. For instance, he all but passes over the enrolment of the cavalry, perhaps because it did not have the impact of the carefully choreographed display of infantry selection, which vividly displayed the lengths that the Romans would go to in order to achieve legions that were equal in physical strength, not simply equal in numbers.31 What Polybius captures very effectively is the way in which these military institutions contributed to Roman success—and that is what the sixth book is all about. This sense of order is displayed even more forcefully in the account of the Roman army camp.32 Hierarchy is asserted from the very beginning: the first step is to designate the general’s quarters, which are marked by planting a military standard in the ground,33 then the rest of the camp is constructed around this according to a set template. But Polybius does not merely tell his readers this, he gives them enough information to build their own camp: where units are situated and their relation to each other, the position of the tribunes’ tents, dimensions of all sorts, the number of corridors or streets through the camp, and so on. Orderliness and regularity are stressed but they are not for their own sake; everything here has a function. Just as the complex and orderly method of enrolment had as its end-result an equal distribution of fighting strength across the four legions, so the regularity of the camp means that a soldier once familiar with one camp is familiar with all. So stable is this environment that even before it is constructed a soldier will be able to look at the general’s standard and thus determine where his own tent will be pitched, just as if he was returning to his own city and finding his home there (6. 41. 10–12). Again Polybius presents so much detail that there is no escaping the 30

Walbank, HCP i. 699. At 6. 20. 9 Polybius concludes the description of the infantry enrolment with a remark that the cavalry used to be enrolled after the infantry but now they are enrolled before. Rawson 1991: 35 takes this as evidence that Polybius is following the order of a dated literary source, hence the addition of his correction. Yet, clearly, the enrolment of the cavalry is of secondary importance and the very cursory remark could just as easily be treated as the equivalent of a footnote. 32 Plb. 6. 26. 10–6. 32 with 6. 41–2 on the process of laying out the camp. The fullest discussion of the Roman camp is now Dobson 2008. 33 Plb. 6. 27. 2;
ÅÆ Æ is sometimes translated as a ‘flag’ rather than ‘standard’ (cf. Walbank, HCP i. 712), but it is more likely that here and elsewhere in the camp they planted standards which they decorated in some way with colours, perhaps flags, thus at 6. 41. 7: ŒÆd ÆÆ (sc.
ÅÆ Æ ) b ØF
Ø çØØŒØA , c b F
æÆŪF ºıŒ (‘they make these standards crimson and that of the general white’). At 6. 24. 6 Polybius uses
ÅÆØÆçæ for the standard-bearer, the signifer. 31

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rigour of the Roman army and the formidable character of the Romans themselves. This might seem sufficient to demoralize his Greek readership, but he concludes with a brief comparison between Greek and Roman methods of encampment. Essentially the Greek camp changes constantly to suit the land, while its Roman counterpart changes the land to suit the camp; Polybius’ explanation for Greek practices here lies partly in Greek suspicion of manmade defences but also in a basic laziness (6. 42).34 Nor is this preoccupation with order confined to the army; it is there too in the very political structure of Rome, its constitution which combines democracy, aristocracy, and kingship, a set of constitutional types that reflect the Greek standpoint of the observer.35 Again, just as in his account of the army, Polybius was seeking the essential features, so this is a model of the Roman constitution, an attempt to explain how it operates.36 Indeed he says at one point: ‘If any of these things or those that I am about to describe undergo change either in the present or the future, that would be no argument against the analysis that I am now putting forward’ (6. 12. 10). The Roman constitution is distinguished by its stability and the clear division of responsibilities between the key elements, the people, the senate, and the consuls; the responsibilities and powers of each are carefully listed (6. 12–17). All this is in marked contrast to the chaotic cycle of constitutions which leads good forms such as aristocracy to deteriorate into oligarchy and bad forms to be overthrown by the next good form in the cycle (6. 7–9). In Rome’s mixed constitution all three parts (æÅ) work together, and if one part should get out of line it will be opposed by the others (6. 18). The good of the state as a whole predominates.

THE GOOD OF THE WHO LE In the case of Rome’s mixed constitution the subordination of the part to the whole comes across in a fairly benign manner; this is what maintains the longterm stability of the state and prevents the deterioration evident in most other states.37 But it is also a fundamental feature of the Roman state, as presented by Polybius, one that recurs throughout his account of the politeia. What matters is the state; everything else, whether it be life, friendship, or family, is subordinate to the state, and it is from this that Rome derives its strength. 34

Cf. also the comparison between the phalanx and the legion, 18. 28–32. On Polybius and the mixed constitution note in particular, von Fritz 1954, Nippel 1980, Lintott 1999: 16–26, 214–32, Millar 2002b: 23–36, Hahm 2009, and Seager, ch. 13 in this volume. 36 It is still very different, however, from the imagined politeiai of the philosophers, 6. 47. 7–10. 37 Plb. 6. 10, 6. 18, 6. 50; as these passages show, one of the other states that possesses a mixed constitution is Sparta but, unlike the Roman constitution, the Lycurgan constitution there cannot maintain dominion (6. 50. 4–6). 35

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This comes out very clearly towards the end of the book in the account of the Roman aristocratic funeral.38 Such a funeral celebrates the life and ancestors of the dead man through visual spectacle and through words. It recalls the great achievements of the family, the noble deeds performed for the state. The most important consequence of this funeral ceremony, says Polybius, ‘is that the young men are inspired to endure every kind of suffering for the sake of the common good (bæ H ŒØH æƪø39) in the hope of winning the glory that awaits the brave’ (6. 54. 3). On one level, this might seem to be what would be expected in the Greek world as well, where the polis is regularly represented as having priority over both the household and the citizen.40 Polybius, however, believes that the Romans take it rather further than most. He notes that there have been Roman magistrates ‘who have put their own sons to death contrary to every custom and law, valuing what is in the interest of their country (e B Ææ 
ıçæ) more highly than their natural ties to their closest relatives’ (6. 54. 5). He would have had in mind men such as L. Iunius Brutus who executed two sons for conspiracy against the new republic, and T. Manlius Torquatus who as consul in 340 had his son beheaded for disobeying orders.41 Here the interests of the country override all else, not in theory but in practice. Polybius expands on one story in particular as an example to show the eagerness of Roman young men to achieve glory through service to their country; curiously it is not a recent story but one from early Roman history, Horatius Cocles guarding the bridge across the Tiber as it was demolished behind him (6. 55). Polybius’ treatment of this story serves to demonstrate how important the theme of self-sacrifice on behalf of the state was for his conception of Rome. In his version, once the bridge is demolished Horatius dives in full armour into the Tiber and drowns, an act of deliberate self-sacrifice driven by two motives— the safety of his country, and future glory. Significantly, although the story was well known, all other sources have Horatius swimming across the Tiber and surviving.42 Either Polybius did not know a version in which Horatius survived, or it suited his purposes to have Horatius sacrifice himself for Rome. We might see here an aristocratic ethos, but the idea that it is the good of the state that drives everything forward is not limited to the aristocracy. It is

38

Plb. 6. 53–4, with H. I. Flower 1996 for a full study of the aristocratic funeral. A phrase that might be intended to capture the idea of the res publica, cf. shortly afterwards, åæØ c H ŒØH æƪø I
çƺ Æ (6. 54. 4), although it is also used more generally, e.g. 4. 62. 4, 5. 93. 4, and 28. 6. 5. 40 Wallace 2009: 171–3. The classic formulation of the priority of the polis is owed to Aristotle, Pol. 1. 1253a1–5, cf. also the evidence from classical Athens, a state that Polybius discards in his constitutional comparison: Thuc. 2. 43. 1 (death in war), Xen. Hell. 1. 7. 21 (interests of the polis over family), Plato, Crito 51a–c (necessary to do as country commands). 41 Brutus: Livy 2. 5; Torquatus: Livy 8. 7; cf. also A. Postumius at Livy 4. 29. 42 Livy 2. 10, Plut. Publicola 16, Dion. Hal. A.R. 5. 23–5, De vir. ill. 11. 1. 39

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evident in more brutal forms elsewhere. In the army discipline is enforced above all by the death penalty. This is the punishment for a whole range of offences, such as stealing in the camp, giving false evidence, false claims of courageous acts, and throwing away your weapon in battle (6. 37. 9–12). But the offence that prompts Polybius to describe (at 6. 37. 1–6) the manner of punishment in detail is failing to keep watch in the camp satisfactorily, for instance by leaving one’s post, in other words the death penalty for jeopardizing the safety of the whole camp. The punishment in this context is especially revealing—the tribune lightly touches the offender with a cudgel, then all the soldiers ( ƒ F
æÆ ı, 6. 37. 3) proceed to batter him to death with clubs and stones. In other words, it is his comrades (cf. aristocratic fathers killing their sons), those whose lives were at risk, who take it in their hands to kill him. Even if he survives, he is an outcast, even to his own family. The interests of the whole are paramount. Polybius concludes that ‘as a result of the extreme severity and inevitability of this penalty the night watches of the Romans are faultlessly kept’ (6. 37. 6). This is discipline by terror. Roman soldiers, he says, stay at their post when outnumbered and facing certain death because they fear the punishment they will get if they abandon it (6. 37. 12).43 The Roman army no doubt was brutal, but Polybius may well have chosen to emphasize this punishment because it helped to convey Rome’s ruthless single-mindedness.44 The elder Cato, writing at roughly the same time in a now-lost work on military matters, apparently gave not death as the punishment for stealing in the camp but loss of the right hand.45 This is still harsh, but it lacks the communal outrage. Elizabeth Rawson, commenting on Polybius’ account of punishment in the army, notes that the military tribune is here given responsibility for the punishment rather than the consul, even though legally any power to punish comes from the imperium of the consul. She sees this, together with the emphasis on the tribune elsewhere in the section on the army, as evidence that Polybius used some form of manual for military tribunes.46 The problem of responsibility may be more illusory than real. Polybius immediately makes clear the military hierarchy: ‘the soldiers have to be subject to the tribunes, and the tribunes subject to the consuls’ (6. 37. 7); thus punishment ultimately depends on the consul. None the less, the emphasis on the tribunes is indeed

43 Note, too, the description of decimation in the following chapter (6. 38), a practice especially effective at inspiring terror (ŒÆºÅØ , 6. 38. 4). 44 These themes of collective interest play out in practice in Scipio’s handling of the mutiny in Spain, which culminates in the execution of the mutiny leaders in front of the rest of the frightened soldiers (11. 25–30). 45 Rawson 1991: 47, Fron. Str. 4. 1. 16 (=Cato, De re militari 15). Cf. Phang 2008 on punishment in the Roman army, esp. 120–9 on capital punishment and decimation, although the focus is on the late republic and empire. 46 Rawson 1991: 46 (see also pp. 238–9 above). Punishment from the consul: Plb. 6. 12. 7.

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curious and I wish to suggest tentatively another possible explanation. In the passage just quoted, Polybius breaks the army down into three key components: the soldiers, the military tribunes, and the consuls.47 Could it be that he sees here a tripartite structure roughly comparable with the political structure of the mixed constitution, each part having some responsibility for the whole? The consuls, of course, appear in both the army and the mixed constitution, but the tribunes and soldiers might be seen as the equivalents of the senate and people, respectively. The relationship between senate and consuls may be rather more nebulous than that between tribunes and consuls in the army, but peacetime (or the domestic sphere at any rate) allows for checks and balances in a way in which war does not.48 For Polybius the Roman political and military system is one where the interests of the whole override absolutely everything else.49 Each part of the mixed constitution is restrained by its partners. Aristocrats are bred to sacrifice themselves in pursuit of glory and the safety of the state. The soldiers themselves, as befits the masses, are motivated by less uplifting goals—for them it is punishments and rewards that count, and Rome has much to offer here.50 Fear as a motivator is a feature, too, of Roman religion, where deisidaimonia, superstition, or excessive fear of the gods keeps the state together, in particular through the fear it instils in the masses (6. 56. 6–11).51 It is the system that is important not the individual, and this is one reason why Polybius does not make a comparison between the Roman politeia and those of Thebes and Athens. Any greatness that these states attained was the result not of their politeiai but of the abilities of their leading men, namely Epaminondas and Pelopidas in Thebes and Themistocles in Athens (6. 43–4). In contrast, individual Romans are for the most part absent from the surviving portions of Book 6, a silence that further serves to emphasize the contribution of the Roman politieia to Roman success.52 The theme that the interests of the state are paramount is summed up in the last chapter of the book (6. 58), which returns the reader to the narrative and so to the aftermath of Cannae. Hannibal sends ten Roman prisoners back to Rome as a delegation to put forward his proposal that the 8,000 Roman 47 That this conception of the army is Polybius’ rather than due to his possession of a manual is suggested by the way these three elements appear elsewhere in his history, cf. 2. 33, where it is the tribunes who are responsible for the success against the Gauls rather than the incompetent consul Flaminius, or 11. 27 where they have a role in the handling of the mutiny. 48 For a broader comparison, cf. McGing 2010: 183–4: ‘It is difficult not to see the order, the calm, the discipline, the clear structures, and the logic of the army as a metaphor for the Roman state as a whole.’ 49 Contrast Carthage, which does not have this kind of focus, 6. 52. 5–7. 50 Punishments: 6. 37–8; rewards: 6. 39. 1–11. 51 Erskine 2000: 176–81. 52 Apart from Horatius (6. 55) exceptions to this are likely to have been found in the lost archaeologia (6.11a).

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prisoners he holds will be released on payment of a ransom. He makes them swear to return, but one pretends to forget something so he can go back into the camp and free himself of his oath. The senate, however, on hearing their appeal, calculates that it is in the interests of the state to reject the offer, even if it means abandoning their own people. The nine delegates, bound by their oath, return to Hannibal of their own free will, while the tenth is sent back in chains. What makes it all the more potent as an exemplary story is the way that the delegation of prisoners plead that the ransom be paid, yet the senate nevertheless decides against this, thus making the reader that much more aware of the sacrifice involved. Polybius chooses this story deliberately to illustrate the character of the politeia he has spent the book analysing.

CONCLUSIO N Book 6 may represent Polybius’ most positive take on Rome, but it is one that is constructed to explain success and therefore necessarily positive. Even in this book Polybius’ attitude is complex. He suggests that the book will be of value to those setting up or reforming constitutions (3. 118. 12), yet how far would he want imitation to go? In his remarks on fathers executing sons, he implies that there would be limits on what one might do for one's own state. The actions of those Roman magistrates were ‘contrary to every custom and law’ (Ææa A Ł X , 6. 54. 5), a phrase that might easily put the reader in mind of the term, Ææ (lawless), commonly used to describe barbarians.53 It is significant, too, that only a few chapters earlier (6. 47. 1–5) he had pondered on the role of custom and law in making a judgement about a state and its system of government, a passage which begins ‘I think there are two fundamental components of every politeia, by means of which we can decide whether its true quality and form are to be preferred or avoided. These are its customs and its laws.’ Elsewhere in his history the very same action is one of the signs of the degeneration of the Macedonian king Philip V—that he executed his own son Demetrius in the interests of the kingdom—an irony that it is the Romanophile Demetrius who meets such a Roman end.54 Polybius is writing for an audience who have seen Rome overturn the established order of the east, kings who were on a level with gods and powerful confederacies such as his own Achaean League. He presents an image of Rome that explains this, highly organized, almost pathologically obsessed with detail, driven solely by the needs of the state, as willing to terrorize its own citizens as 53 Erskine 2000; the Romans are accused of ÆæÆ Æ in a speech at Plb. 11. 5. 7, cf. 1. 65. 7–8; for its use in Polybius generally, Champion 2004a: 243–4. 54 Plb. 23. 3. 4–10, Livy 40. 7–28; cf. Dreyer, ch. 10 in this volume.

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its enemies, and at heart alien.55 To a Greek readership this may all have been confirmation of their worst fears about the Romans: what hope was there against men who beat their own soldiers to death and have no qualms about sacrificing themselves, yet are at the same time hyper-efficient and relentlessly logical. Polybius himself became convinced that revolt against the Romans was madness, as he made clear when commenting on the Achaean and Macedonian revolts of the 140s.56 If anyone needs an explanation for why he thought this, it is here in Book 6. 55 Cf. Champion 2004a: 95–6, who suggests that it is ‘the very degree of their quasi-Hellenic virtues’ that makes them something alien to Polybius’ Greek readership. 56 Plb. 36. 17. 13–15, 38. 13. 8, 38. 18. 7–8, Erskine 2003: 242–3.

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13 Polybius’ Distortions of the Roman ‘Constitution’: A Simpl(istic) Explanation1 Robin Seager

‘A book about which too much has been written’: thus Syme on another work about the Roman constitution, Cicero’s De re publica.2 But the same might well be said with even greater truth about Polybius’ sixth book. The historian’s account of the Roman constitution and the problems it presents have led some scholars to write works of great length, great ingenuity, and great optimism in the attempt to understand what Polybius is saying and why he says it, and to reconcile what he says with stubbornly recalcitrant reality. It is the contention of this brief paper that such diligent investigations do Polybius too much honour. It is pointless here to become involved in the ongoing debate about the nature of the Roman constitution: whether it was, as scholars comfortably believed for generations, an aristocracy, or in fact some form of democracy. I myself have no new arguments to add. The traditional view still seems to me correct. It is to my mind the natural conclusion to draw from a reading of Polybius’ text, and in a wider context I find the arguments of those who believe in oligarchy more convincing than those of the champions of democracy.3 Here I endeavour to concentrate on Polybius’ own claims and their plausibility—or lack of it. Polybius’ account is founded on two axioms. (1) The peculiar character of the Roman constitution was an important, indeed the most important, factor in the restoration of Roman power after the Hannibalic War, the conquest of 1 I am grateful to Bruce Gibson and Jeff Tatum for their comments on a draft of this paper, to Andrew Erskine for some helpful suggestions, and to all who contributed to the discussion at the conference. Source references without author’s name are to Polybius. 2 Syme 1939: 144 n. 1. 3 In favour of democracy, cf. above all Millar 2002a: 110–42, 165–6, also Lintott 1999: 198–207, and, more cautiously, Tatum 2009: 214–28. Against, cf. e.g. North 1990b: 3–21; Hölkeskamp 2004b: 257–80.

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Spain and Gaul, and Rome’s eventual rise to world domination after the final defeat of Carthage (3. 2. 6; 3. 118. 9; 6. 2. 9; 39. 8. 7).4 (2) The mixed constitution was the best form of constitution (6. 3. 7). With reference to the first of these propositions, an innocent or cynical observer might suspect that the pragmatic historian actually knew better. Why else should he devote a mere eight pages of Book 6 as we have it to the Roman constitution, but thirty pages to the Roman army?5 That question conjures up the possibility that in fact Polybius wrote a perhaps much longer account of the constitution, now lost.6 I have no opinion on that matter either, save only that it is of no great importance here. Even if Polybius did write more, his fundamental point that the Roman constitution was the supreme example of the mixed constitution is unlikely to have been affected, and that is all that matters.7 Thus far then Polybius’ two preliminary axioms: the Roman constitution was the major factor in Rome’s rise to mastery of the universe; the mixed constitution is the best form of constitution. With these points stated he goes to great lengths to try to demonstrate that the Roman constitution was the most perfect example of the mixed constitution ever achieved. The question to be asked is therefore simply this. Was there in the Roman constitution a sufficient degree of balance between the three elements of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy (which need not of course mean an exactly even balance)8 to justify applying to it the label ‘mixed constitution’?9 In pursuit of his claim that there was, Polybius systematically misrepresents the Roman system with a doctrinaire ruthlessness which is striking but perhaps not surprising. This is after all the man who dismisses the Athenian and Theban constitutions as unworthy of attention because they do not conform to the pattern of development that, according to him, all constitutions must follow (6. 43. 2). Polybius’ distortions are almost all of a single basic nature: they are sins of omission, whether omissions of fact or omissions of the (true) interpretation and/or significance of stated facts.10 These omissions are not the accidental consequences of carelessness, ignorance, or inadequate research. They are deliberate. Polybius knew exactly what he was doing and exactly why he was doing it. He himself makes no bones about it when he pre-empts possible 4 That is not to deny that Polybius discerned a moral dimension in Rome’s survival in adversity, as forcefully argued by Eckstein 1995: 65–8. 5 On the importance of this section to the overall purpose of Book 6 as a whole, cf. e.g. von Fritz 1954: 123, Walbank 1998b: 48, Champion 2004a: 92–4, Erskine, ch. 12 in this volume. 6 Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 635–6. 7 That ‘constitution’ is an unsatisfactory rendition of politeia is stressed by Erskine in this volume, pp. 233–5. But it will serve for the purposes of this paper, provided it is remembered that the ‘constitution’ was by no means limited to legally defined written rules. 8 Despite von Fritz 1954: 328, Pédech 1964: 306. 9 Cf. Walbank 1998b: 49–51, refuting Nicolet 1983. 10 On Polybius’ omissions, cf. in general Nicolet 1974: 219–22.

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criticism by Roman readers (6. 11. 3–8). They will, he remarks, find his account defective, and so will carp about what he leaves out instead of appreciating what he does say, assuming that his omissions are the result of ignorance, not calculation. In fact they should realize that, since everything he does say is true, his omissions are deliberate.11 This last assertion is strikingly illogical, but that need not concern us. All that matters is that Polybius admits, or rather boasts, that his omissions are deliberate. Polybius’ earlier account of the various types of constitution describes the mixed constitution as combining characteristics drawn from kingship, aristocracy, and democracy (6. 3. 5–7), with the Spartan constitution as devised by Lycurgus cited as an example (6. 3. 8). Lycurgus consciously combined the merits and characteristic features of the best constitutions, sc. the three uncorrupted forms (6. 10. 6). But whereas he reached his conclusions by ratiocination, the Romans learned from practical experience (6. 10. 12–14). In the Roman constitution the elements of the three good constitutions were so well blended that even the Romans themselves were unable to say with certainty whether their constitution was aristocratic, democratic, or monarchic: the power of the consuls pointed to monarchy, that of the senate to aristocracy, that of the many to democracy (6. 11. 11–12). The catalogue of the powers of the consuls in 6. 12 is said to suggest monarchy (6. 12. 9). They introduce foreign embassies to the senate, submit questions for the senate to discuss, and are responsible for putting its decrees into practice (6. 12. 2–4).12 Similarly, they are responsible for summoning the assemblies, introducing legislative proposals, and supervising the execution of majority decisions (6. 12. 4). On the strength of this, we might say that, if the consuls are monarchs, they are constitutional monarchs, with less freedom of action than the Euripidean Demophon or Theseus, and a very far cry from Agamemnon or Alexander.13 Only in the field is their power close to absolute (6. 12. 5–7). And what Polybius, of course, does not say is that the consuls were restricted by collegiality14 and their limited term of office, and that, once that term had elapsed, they had to coexist with their fellow-senators, and in particular with their fellow-consulars for the rest of their careers, perhaps a 11 Erskine in this volume (pp. 235–6) justifies Polybius’ omissions on the ground that matters which did not contribute to Rome’s success did not need to be mentioned. This is true, but it would have been not merely unnecessary but damaging for Polybius to mention aspects that called into question his claim that the Romans enjoyed a mixed constitution. 12 Polybius could have put his case more strongly here, since he does not make clear that the presiding consul set the agenda for meetings of the senate. (This was, however, mitigated by the regular practice of including on the agenda the item de re publica.) 13 Cf. von Fritz 1954: 204–5, 217, with the conclusion that there was no truly monarchic element in the Roman republic; Brunt 1988: 15–17; Mouritsen 2001: 6; Millar 2002a: 113–14. 14 That Polybius was well aware of the problems of collegiality is implied by 3. 87. 7–8, where he contrasts the position of the consuls with that of a dictator. For a specific example in his narrative, cf. 3. 70. 1–8.

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stronger disincentive to independent or provocative action while in office than any formal definition of powers.15 The senate exercised an almost complete control over disbursements from the treasury (6. 13. 1–3, cf. 14. 2) and over the principal practical aspects of Rome’s domination of Italy (6. 13. 4–5). Without interference from the people, it made arrangements for any embassies that had to be sent abroad, and received and answered all foreign envoys to Rome (6. 13. 6–7). In short, it was more or less solely responsible for finance and foreign affairs. In these respects, says Polybius, the constitution appeared aristocratic, especially when the consuls were absent from the city (6. 13. 8–9).16 So what part is left for the demos (6. 14. 1)? There is one, and a very weighty one. The demos is the sole source of honour and punishment, and it alone has capital jurisdiction (6. 14. 4–6). It bestows magistracies on the deserving; it passes or rejects legislative proposals; and, most important, it decides issues of peace and war, accepting or refusing alliances, truces, and treaties (6. 14. 9–11). All this is suggestive of democracy (6. 14. 12).17 As stated here, perhaps it is, and of course nothing that is stated here is false. But under this rubric the list of omissions is long and grave.18 When we think of the timocratic structuring of the assemblies, of the fact that assemblies met only when summoned by a qualified magistrate and could consider only the proposals he brought before it, which they could neither amend nor even debate, and of the institution of clientela and its consequences, the importance of this democratic element rapidly begins to dwindle.19 Recent scholarship has rightly protested against the once widespread belief that clientela was all-pervasive and all-powerful.20 It has also, again rightly, insisted on the importance of the institution of the contio and of contional oratory.21 But none of this vouchsafes to democracy a larger slice of the constitutional cake.22 Thus far, then, Polybius has not presented a very convincing portrayal of the perfect mixed constitution.23 He has slightly exaggerated the powers of 15

Cf. von Fritz 1954: 218, Meier 1966: 49, Hölkeskamp 2004b: 265–8. Cf. Brunt 1988: 13–14 and in particular von Fritz 1954: 158 on the strange importance of the presence or absence of the consuls to the question of whether the constitution appeared to be a monarchy or an aristocracy. 17 Cf. Brunt 1988: 19–23, but note also Meier 1966: 52–3. 18 As admitted by Millar 2002a: 138–42, with the conclusion that the crowd ‘symbolized and represented the sovereignty of the people’; precisely so: it did not exercise it. Cf. also Mouritsen 2001: 13–17. 19 Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 689–90 on 6. 15. 9–10; also von Fritz 1954: 234–41, Finley 1983: 70– 96, esp. 84–96, North 1990b: 5, 15 on the differences between Athens and Rome. 20 Cf. Brunt 1988: 27–32, 424–31; also Yakobson 1992 on the effects of competition at elections. 21 Cf. Brunt 1988: 45–9; Millar 2002a: 135–6; Hölkeskamp 2004b: 233–7; Morstein-Marx 2004: 4–12, 119–59. 22 Cf. North 1990b: 12–13, 16–18; Hölkeskamp 2004b: 238–42; Morstein-Marx 2004: 12–32, 160–203, 257, 283–7. 23 For a much more charitable view, cf. Lintott 1999: 16–26. 16

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the consuls in relation to the senate, given a relatively fair picture of the degree of control exercised by the senate, and seriously misrepresented the independence of the popular assemblies.24 It is hardly surprising that he felt the need to say quite a lot more on the relationships between the three elements of the constitution. The theme of the next four chapters is the possibilities for obstruction and co-operation afforded by the system (6. 15. 1). The ultimate outcome of the investigation is that the three elements coexist in alleged perfect harmony, so that no better form of constitution could possibly be found (6. 18. 1). Polybius deals first with the consuls’ need for the good will of both senate and people (6. 15. 11). The dependence of the consuls on the senate is very real. Despite their power in the field, their freedom of action as commanders can be paralysed if the senate chooses to be obstructive by failing to provide supplies, uniforms, and pay for the legions. Prorogation is in the senate’s gift and, when the campaign is over, so too is the award or refusal of a triumph (6. 15. 4–8). The people is relevant in only two respects (6. 15. 9–10). It controls, as already remarked, truces and treaties, and, at the end of their term of office, the consuls must render their accounts to it. Of these two assertions the latter is false, or at best seriously misleading.25 So this chapter reinforces the impression that the senate enjoyed a dominant position, while the competence of the people was very limited. The people’s supposed control over the senate is equally unimpressive. The senate cannot conduct enquiries if these have not been authorized by the people (6. 16. 2), while the people can pass or reject laws that affect the powers and privileges of the senate itself (6. 16. 2–3). Thus these instances of popular sovereignty are limited to special occasions, and are in any case much undermined by the socio-economic structuring and procedural rules of the popular assemblies, about which, as already observed, Polybius says nothing. His only other point is the power of the tribunes, who must, he says, always do what seems good to the people (6. 16. 5). Whether that was ever true even in theory is debatable, but there can be no doubt that even at the time of Cannae, let alone in Polybius’ own day, it was not true in practice.26 From this chapter too, the predominance of the senate emerges as essentially untrammelled. The next chapter purports to show the other side of the coin by demonstrating that the people needs the support of the senate. But the evidence offered is concerned with the senate’s capacity for positive and negative interference in the granting of public contracts, and the fact that judges are appointed from the senate (6. 17. 2–7). Hence nobody risks a confrontation with the senate, just as men are afraid to provoke the consuls for fear of reprisals on campaign (6. 17. 24

Despite Millar 2002a: 115–24. Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 689–90 on 6. 15. 9–10. Cf. von Fritz 1954: 160, 330–2; Walbank, HCP i. 691–2 on 6. 16. 4–5; contra: Nicolet 1974: 234–6. 25 26

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8–9). As is notorious, all this has nothing whatever to do with the people, but is concerned with relations between the senate and the as yet embryonic equestrian order in a kind of pragmatic prototype of concordia ordinum.27 It should therefore by now be clear that, even if we were to confine our attention to what Polybius says, his attempt to present the Roman system as a mixed constitution is a failure.28 When we also consider the various points he omits, the truth—that Rome was an oligarchy controlled by the senate—becomes even plainer. The omissions have a common purpose, to try to conceal, or at least minimize, the predominance of the senate over magistrates and people, and the relative insignificance of the popular assemblies.29 In other words, Polybius’ distortions and omissions alike serve a single end, to give some semblance of plausibility to the claim that the Roman constitution was mixed. The overriding importance of that objective provides the answer to a question that might arise: why did Polybius not praise the Romans for those undemocratic features of their system which he chooses instead to pass over in silence? After all, Polybius had no love of democracy. His definition of true democracy (6. 4. 4–5) is revealing. It is not where the mass of the people has the right to do whatever it likes (a defining criterion of democracy in classical Athens),30 but where majority rule exists in an environment of piety towards the gods, respect for parents and elders, and obedience to the laws (all of which, be it said, are also covered by defining criteria of democracy in classical Athens).31 The same mindset is apparent in his contemptuous dismissals of Athens and Thebes, where the mob controls everything according to its whim (6. 44. 9), and Carthage, which by the time of the Hannibalic War had so far declined that the demos enjoyed the greatest power in deliberations, whereas at Rome policy was determined not by the many but by the best men (6. 51. 5, 7). So, too, his definition of ochlocracy, where the demos is no longer willing to obey authority and have an equal share with its leaders, but wants to control everything itself (6. 57. 8). When things reach that pass, the constitution may call itself by the fairest of names, freedom and democracy, but in fact it deserves the worst, ochlocracy (6. 57. 9). 27

Cf. Walbank, HCP i. 692–7 on 6. 17; Brunt 1988: 25, 388. Cf. von Fritz 1954: 345: ‘a picture which bears but little relation to reality’, though he opts (218, 342) for a mixture of oligarchy and democracy. 29 Von Fritz 1954: 159 notes that Polybius uses much weaker language to describe the powers of the senate than he does of those of the consuls or people. He offers no explanation, but an obvious one would be that Polybius was deliberately trying to play down the senate’s predominance. 30 Cf. e.g. Xen. Hell. 7. 1. 12, 26; Dem. 20. 120, 148; Ps.-Dem. 59. 88. 31 For piety, cf. Ar. Nub. 1506–9; Ps.-Lys. 6 passim; Ps.-Dem. 26. 27, 59. 12, and of course the fate of Socrates. For respect for one’s elders, cf. Ar. Plut. 1044; Xen. Mem. 1. 2. 9–10; Isoc. 7. 37; Ps.-Dem. 25. 24, 66. For obedience to the laws, cf. Ar. Eccl. 944–5; Xen. Hell. 1. 7. 29; Pl. Crito 50b; Isoc. 4. 39; Dem. 21. 150, 24. 5; Ps-Dem. 26. 10; Aeschin. 1. 179, 3. 169. In general, cf. the more favourable judgement of Eckstein 1995: 140. 28

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Polybius must then have approved wholeheartedly of those features of the Roman constitution that were calculated to limit the initiatives of the people and ensure the continuing supremacy of the bettermost classes. But to list and praise them would have rendered even harder the already difficult task he had set himself of trying to show that Rome enjoyed a mixed constitution. Instead, he had to risk the irritation of his Roman readers, who knew perfectly well that they lived in an oligarchy, not a mixed constitution, and were no doubt justly proud of the elaborate arrangements they had made to ensure that it remained so. So why did Polybius do it? The answer is, I believe, very simple. It is derived from the two axiomatic propositions to which I alluded earlier. Polybius believed that the Roman constitution was the best constitution, because it had enabled the Romans to make themselves masters of the universe in doublequick time. He also believed that the mixed constitution was the best form of constitution, because it combined the most commendable features of the three types of constitution. It is tempting to think of these two beliefs as respectively practical and theoretical, but that would, I think, be misleading, since Polybius’ reasons for preferring the mixed constitution were themselves at least in part practical: it promoted internal stability and external security (6. 18. 2–6; contrast 6. 50 on the defective Spartan constitution). It might therefore perhaps be better to distinguish them as specific and general. Be that as it may, Polybius then found it necessary to reconcile these two propositions. In other words, if the mixed constitution were the best in general terms and the Roman constitution were the best in terms of specific political and military achievement in a given historical context, then the Roman constitution had for Polybius to be not merely an example but the supreme example of the mixed constitution.32 His compulsion to try to prove this is, as far as I can see, the sole and sufficient explanation of all the distortions and omissions that make his account of the Roman constitution so bizarre, and that is really all that needs to be said about it. So let me say just a little more, about an aspect of Polybius’ analysis that I have not so far mentioned. The major problems that the Greeks had encountered in their dealings with the Romans stemmed largely from their very different attitudes to written rules, especially in the matter of treaties. The Greeks had become accustomed to elaborate treaties that defined in ever increasing detail the rights and obligations, the permissions and prohibitions, that bound the contracting parties.33 So they had come to believe that if a treaty said you were allowed to do something, that meant you were free to go

32

In other words, the second of the possibilities adumbrated by North 1990b: 8. For the opposite view, cf. Pédech 1964: 316–17. 33 The most obvious examples can be found in the successive renewals of the King’s Peace during the fourth century, with their progressively more elaborate attempts to define the specific content of freedom and autonomy; cf. Staatsverträge II 242, 265, 269, 270, 282, 285, 292.

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ahead and do it, and, more balefully still for their dealings with Rome, that if a treaty did not say you were not allowed to do something, you were likewise free to go ahead and do it. The story of Graeco-Roman relations is the story of the Greeks learning the hard way that that was not what the Romans meant by the one thing on which they insisted, respect for maiestas populi Romani.34 Now one of the major aims of Polybius’ work was clearly to explain the Romans to the Greeks, to help the Greeks to understand the savagely unfathomable monster that had come out of the west and turned their world upside down, to make it easier for them to cope with Rome in the future, and save them from repeating the same disastrous mistakes.35 Yet in his account of the Roman constitution, however much he misrepresents their nature, purpose, and consequences, what Polybius is talking about is almost exclusively the written rules. In that, he remains essentially Greek. He is of course aware that other factors existed. He makes a token reference to habits and customs (6. 11. 4), and discusses the importance of religion (6. 56. 6–11) and funeral practices (6. 53–5, cf. 52. 10).36 But he never allows full importance to the fact that at Rome, in constitutional as in other matters, what was written down mattered far less than what was not written down but universally understood and accepted.37 In that regard, for all his long residence at Rome, his acquaintance with Roman luminaries, and his copious researches, perhaps even he had not fully plumbed the true nature of the beast. 34 It should always be remembered that the literal meaning of maiestas is ‘greaterness’, a fact that goes a long way towards explaining the attitude of Rome to the outside world. Polybius and some other Greeks were at least aware of the problem, as his narrative of his own time shows; cf. in particular the speech of Callicrates to the senate (24. 9. 1–4) and the conflict of principle between Aristaenus and Philopoemen (24. 11. 4–8). 35 Cf. Erskine, ch. 12 in this volume. 36 Cf. Nicolet 1974: 216, Walbank 1998b: 46, Champion 2004a: 94–6, Erskine in this volume, pp. 241, 243. It must of course be admitted that some at least of these matters would have been more fully dealt with if Book 6 had survived complete. 37 Cf. von Fritz 1954: 307 on Polybius’ failure to distinguish between legal competences and actual powers; Meier 1966: 54–7; Brunt 1988: 13, 51; Hölkeskamp 2004b: 247–53, 276.

14 Polybius and Josephus on Rome1 Erich S. Gruen

The great Greek historian Polybius set high standards for historical writing. His scorn (or at least professed scorn) for most of his predecessors was deep. Polybius delivered sharp criticism of armchair historians who sit in their studies, collect and examine documents, and write with authority about matters of which they lack all experience. Those who have never engaged personally in politics and war, he asserted, have no business writing history because they don’t know what they are talking about (12. 25g. 1–2, 28a. 7–10). Josephus, the indispensable historian of the Jews, echoed those sentiments. In the opening of the Jewish War, his first composition, he blasts those historians who have written on the subject but did not take part in the actions (1. 1). Much later, in his final work, the Contra Apionem, he still hammered at that theme. He ripped Greek historians who write about events in which they played no role. And he reiterated his contempt for those who published accounts of the Jewish War but never set foot in the places about which they wrote (1. 45–6). It is worth noting that Josephus attacks those who criticized his history as if it were nothing but a schoolboy exercise entered in a prize competition (1. 53). That appears, as most scholars recognize, to be based on Thucydides’ famous comment that his history is a possession for all time, not a prize essay composed for the moment and then forgotten (Thuc. 1. 22). What many have failed to notice, however, is that this statement also closely resembles a passage in Polybius, who maintains that the purpose of writing history is not to publish a clever essay but to deliver a lesson that will endure for the indefinite future (3. 31. 12–13). The parallels in the lives, careers, and attitudes of these two historians, in fact, are quite remarkable. Both reached positions of prominence in the political and military spheres of their respective states, Polybius as a leader 1

The generous (if not always concurring) comments of Jonathan Price have produced a number of improvements in this paper.

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of the Achaean League, a major regional power in Greece, and Josephus as member of a distinguished family and himself a Judaean general. Both held critical posts in their nations at a time when they came into conflict with the might of Rome. Polybius was among those implicated in purported anti-Roman activities during the Third Macedonian War and was summarily removed to Rome, where he lived as a semi-hostage for close to twenty years. Josephus served as commander of Jewish forces in Galilee during the great Jewish rebellion, surrendered to the Romans, was released, and, like Polybius, landed in Rome, where he stayed for more than two decades. Both wrote the bulk of their work in Rome, under the patronage of Rome’s most powerful and influential figures, the house of Aemilius Paullus in the case of Polybius, the imperial family in the case of Josephus. And, most importantly, each wrote histories directed, at least in large part, to their fellow-countrymen, defeated and crushed by Rome, histories that sought to elucidate Roman behaviour and explain Roman success as a lesson to Greeks and Jews, respectively. A compelling motive inspired Polybius’ whole enterprise: a desire to trace the rise of Rome to a position of pre-eminence through which the city brought the whole Mediterranean world under its sway (1. 2. 7–8, 1. 3. 7–10, 3. 1. 4). Resistance to this juggernaut could—and did—lead to disaster. Polybius repeatedly brands the enemies of Rome as irrational, irresponsible, and even mad (2. 21. 2, 5. 102. 1, 7. 2–7, 8. 24. 10). That judgement culminates in his bitter and furious comments about Greek leaders whose reckless actions propelled his own homeland into an insane conflict with Rome, the Achaean War, the upshot of which was to cast destruction and calamity upon Greece, a pitiable fate that the folly of the Greeks brought upon themselves.2 All of this, of course, strikes familiar chords for readers of Josephus. The Jewish historian fastened blame for the disastrous Jewish War with Rome upon heedless leaders, afflicted with irrationality, lunatic schemes, and unreasonable passion that amounted to insanity.3 The rash and headlong destructiveness ascribed by both authors to their own fellow-citizens stemmed, so they argued, from a failure of understanding—a failure to see that the Roman acquisition of world supremacy was guided by an invisible hand that led to a predetermined outcome. Polybius characterized the process as åÅ, an ambiguous and tortured term. The historian employs it in more than one sense in his history. It often carries the connotation of chance or randomness, even happenstance. At other times, it comes closer to fate or providence. Polybius had no rigorous consistency on this score.4 He does, on occasion, even construe the word as an alternative or 2

Plb. 38. 1. 1–9, 38. 10. 6–13, 38. 11. 6–11, 38. 12. 4–11, 38. 13. 8, 38. 16. 1–9, 38. 18. 7–8. e.g. Jos. BJ 2. 346, 2. 395, 2. 412, 5. 364–5, 5. 376, 5. 406, 6. 378, 6. 409. See e.g. Plb. 1. 2. 2–4, 18. 28. 5, 29. 21. 3–5 (as capricious fortune); 36. 17. 2 (in the sense of chance or the unexpected); 15. 20. 4–6, 38. 7. 11, 38. 8. 8; 39. 8. 1–2 (in the sense of watchful spirit 3 4

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parallel to the gods.5 Most significantly, he renders åÅ as a form of divine fate that guaranteed the success of Rome in bringing the entire world under a single rule and dominion, something never heretofore accomplished.6 That striking phraseology expressed his considered judgement and the summation of his agenda. The similarities with Josephus here cannot be missed. The Jewish historian also employs the term åÅ in the context of transferring world dominion to the Romans. The speech set in Agrippa’s mouth to dissuade the Jews from taking up arms against Rome makes the point more than once.7 Here too God and åÅ seem almost interchangeable. Agrippa asserts that God has moved to the side of Rome, the role that he had also assigned to åÅ.8 The overlapping between the concepts makes a striking conjunction. In Josephus’ formulation, åÅ advanced the aims of Vespasian, a feature that the Roman ascribed to divine pronoia (BJ 4. 622). When Josephus seeks to justify his surrender, he cites his prayer to God affirming that the divine will accorded with the passage of åÅ to the Romans.9 The point emerges most forcefully in Josephus’ own speech outside the walls of the city, at the instigation of Titus, urging the Jews to yield to the imperial power. There is no use, he says, in defying the masters of the universe: åÅ has passed from everywhere over to the Romans, and God who has brought imperial power from nation to nation has now set it in Italy.10 The correspondences between these two historians are numerous and undeniable. Josephus also cites Polybius three times on other matters.11 He plainly knew and evidently read the work of the Achaean historian. That is now generally acknowledged and need not be re-argued.12 How far Josephus’ own attitudes and opinions on the relations of Jews to the power of Rome owe their formulations to the closely comparable views of Polybius on the Greeks’ experience with Roman might and authority can only be a matter of speculation. The issue requires no investigation here. Both historians, in any case,

with the power of punishment). For Polybius’ varied usages of åÅ, see the careful studies of Walbank, HCP i. 16–26; 1972a: 60–5; Pedech 1964: 331–54; and, more recently, Sterling 2000: 138–9; Walbank 2007: 349–55. 5 Plb. 10. 5. 8, 10. 9. 2: N b f Łf ŒÆd c åÅ. 6 Plb. 1. 4. 1–5, 8. 2. 3–6, 21. 16. 8:  åÅ Ææ øŒ ÆPE c B NŒıÅ Iæåc ŒÆd ıÆ
 Æ. 7 Jos. BJ 2. 360, 2. 373. 8 Jos. BJ 2. 390; cf. 2. 360. 9 Jos. BJ 3. 351–4: Å b æe   øÆ ı  åÅ A
Æ. 10 Jos. BJ 5. 367–8; 5. 412; esp. 5. 367: ÆBÆØ ªaæ æe ÆPf Ł c åÅ, ŒÆd ŒÆa Ł e Łe KæØªÆ c Iæåc F Kd B "ƺ Æ r ÆØ; Vit. 17. Cf. Price 2005: 116–17. 11 Jos. AJ 12. 135–7, 12. 358–9; Ap. 2. 84; cf. AJ 12. 402. 12 The case was adumbrated by Cohen 1982: 366–81. And the compelling arguments of Eckstein 1990: 175–208 put the connection beyond doubt. See now also Hadas-Lebel 1999: 159–65, Mader 2000: 40–3, 46, 52, Sterling 2000: 135–51, Walbank 1995.

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writing in Rome in analogous circumstances, and analysing the reasons (or absence of reasons) that impelled their nations to clash with the masters of the universe only to suffer baleful consequences, reached similar conclusions. The march of history, whether identified with åÅ or with Yahweh, now sides with Rome, justifies Rome’s triumph over reckless and self-destructive rebels, and proclaims the hand of destiny in Roman rule. It behoves Greek and Jew alike to swim with the tide of the future. All of this is widely acknowledged in the scholarship. Yet there is another aspect of the story that has received little attention. Polybius and Josephus are no mere apologists for Roman power. They recognize the folly of overt resistance to the great behemoth. And they lament the irrational excesses of their own peoples that brought catastrophe upon their nations, a lesson to be learned, and mistakes never to be repeated. But that is not the same as welcoming the rule of Rome and enjoying the peace, prosperity, and security of living in the embrace of the empire. Neither Polybius nor Josephus praises the benefits that Rome brought to the world. Nothing in their texts hails the establishment of stability, the blessings of civilization, or the benefactions of Rome to the far-flung regions of the world.13 The power of Rome and its invincibility—not its benevolence—constitute the recurring motif. And one can go further. A closer look at the writings of Polybius and Josephus shows a notable number of criticisms of Rome, some subtle and veiled, others more direct and undisguised, that give a different impression of the historians’ outlook and analysis. They might not quite qualify as ‘speaking truth to power’. But they do suggest a slyly subversive and cautiously cynical perspective that put them in a category very different from the apologists for empire. Polybius, to be sure, admired Roman principles and Roman institutions. As is well known, he gives much credit to the strength and balance of Rome’s constitution for its imperial success.14 Polybius reckons the unbroken expansion of Roman territory into the western and eastern Mediterranean as a feat of incomparable magnitude.15 But his understanding of Roman behaviour was rudely shaken by the upheavals of the late 150s and early 140s bc, culminating in the subjugation of his native land. This shock induced Polybius to reconsider his perspective and to attach a whole new portion to his history. He gives as his reason a desire to assess the character of Roman rule and to determine whether it merits praise or blame.16 That he should pose such an issue at all 13

See Stern 1987: 74–8 on Josephus, with regard to this point. Cf. Eckstein 1990: 203–4. See e.g. Plb. 6. 11–18 (on the Roman constitution); 24. 8. 2–5, 24. 10. 11–12, 24. 13. 13 (on Roman character). See further the chapters of Erskine and Seager, chs. 12–13, in this volume. 15 Plb. 1. 2. 1–7, 3. 59. 3, 29. 21. 1–9. 16 Plb. 3. 4. 7: æÆ çıŒc j PÆ  ƃæc r ÆØ
ıÆ Ø c   øÆ ø ıÆ
 Æ . . . æ KÆØc ŒÆd Çźøc j łŒc ªªÆØ Ø
 c Iæåc ÆPH. 14

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constitutes a powerful statement. The historian here invites his readers to consider the consequences and desirability of the entire Roman enterprise. It would certainly stop any reader short. Polybius’ motivation here has been the subject of much speculation and controversy. This is not the place to settle that matter. The complex blend of moralism and pragmatism defies a confident conclusion. But the idea that Polybius considered Roman success as sufficient to establish the propriety of empire and that his final books represented a defence of Roman policy falls well short of persuasion. Such a verdict cannot adequately account for the series of scornful observations that Polybius delivers in those books. There is more going on here. The historian, most probably, sought to leave his readers in no doubt about the nature of Roman behaviour, thus to warn his countrymen by implication against any further suicidal upheaval.17 One looks in vain for an explicit overall evaluation. Perhaps it proved too problematic—or hazardous. But a notable message comes through. The historian indulges in a striking sequence of remarks scattered through the last books of his history that shine a less than flattering light upon Roman actions. Polybius repeatedly draws attention to Roman cynicism and self-interest, to the encouragement of servility among eastern princes, to deliberate efforts to undermine other states, to devious diplomacy, and to specious pretexts for the infliction of terror. A number of instances can illustrate the point. The Roman senate prompted king Prusias of Bithynia to appear before them in an outfit normally worn by manumitted slaves and to grovel before them in humiliating and contemptible fashion (30. 18). In the case of Dalmatia, so Polybius claims, Rome lacked an excuse for making war but invented one for no other reason than to give its troops some work to do, lest they become too lazy and idle from inactivity (32. 13. 4–9). To keep the Seleucid rulers of Syria in line, a Roman envoy took it upon himself to burn their warships, hamstring their elephants, and generally degrade the royal power (31. 2. 9–11). And, in a series of arbitration decisions that adjudicated rival claims between Carthaginians and Numidians, Roman arbiters always decided against the Carthaginians, according to Polybius, not because of the merits of the case but because it was in the interests of Rome (31. 21. 5–6). Indeed, so Polybius observes elsewhere, the Romans had long since determined to make war on Carthage, and were simply looking for a pretext that might appear justifiable in the eyes of others (36. 2. 1–4). As Polybius puts it more generally, Romans adapt their policy for capitalizing on the faults of neighbours in order to augment their own dominance (31. 10. 7). And they were indignant if all affairs were not brought to them and done in accordance with their wishes (23. 17. 4). 17 Cf. Gruen 1976: 74–5; 1984: 346–8, with additional bibliography. For the view that Polybius became a spokesman for the Roman point of view, see Walbank 1965: 2–11, 1972a: 166–81, 1977: 139–62. That interpretation is cogently contested by Shimron 1979–80: 94–117.

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These passages constitute a remarkable assemblage of comments—and much of Polybius’ text in these last books is missing. There may have been a lot more of the same. It misreads Polybius to interpret these remarks simply as detached observations, even indeed as a positive evaluation of Roman pragmatism. They do not amount to a mere record of events but to a clear judgement.18 The Greek historian, living and writing in Rome, and acquainted with a circle of Roman aristocrats and intellectuals, delivered a sharp assessment. He did not shrink from exposing what he saw as adulteration and impairment of Roman character. Romans of an earlier day, he stated, would not compromise principle for cash—but he could no longer make such a confident assertion about Romans of his own day (18. 34. 6–18. 35. 2). Indeed, the arrival of great wealth in the wake of Rome’s military triumph over Perseus deeply affected the deportment of Roman youths. They indulged in extravagant expenditures and (in Polybius’ view) disgraceful sexual adventures.19 Expansion across the sea had eroded sensitivity to moral behaviour. Romans had once confiscated works of art from Syracuse, at least exhibiting some aesthetic interest; now they used priceless Corinthian paintings as dice boards for the sport of soldiers (9. 10, 39. 2). Even more telling, Polybius sets this sombre evaluation at a broader level, beyond the particular case of Rome. As he puts it, the state that attains unchallenged empire will enjoy prosperity but yield to extravagance, its citizens absorbed in mutual rivalries; the struggle for office, wealth, and boastful ostentation will signal the beginnings of a change for the worse (6. 57. 5–6). The institutions and character of Rome’s citizenry had gained them an empire. But once they had acquired that empire, the very qualities that had made it possible began to unravel and would eventually place it in jeopardy. Polybius stood in awe of the Roman achievement, but suffered disappointment and expressed disillusionment. The darker portrait casts its spell. The darker portrait lurks in Josephus’ vision as well. Ruthlessness and terror appear again and again in the actions of Roman military men. No surprise here, one might argue: war and the crushing of rebellion naturally call forth such actions; Roman military mentality engendered them, and the historian simply recorded them. One can leave aside such actions as demanded by the exigencies of battle and the ferocity of conflict. But Roman behaviour of this sort with regard to Jews occurs repeatedly in Josephus’ narrative of events well before the outbreak of open rebellion. It appears from the start, when Pompey captured the Temple and his troops butchered Jewish priests in the course of 18 The idea that Polybius’ analysis was essentially hard-headed, realistic, and non-judgemental gains expression in several of Walbank’s works; see previous note. Petzold 1969: 53–64, however, rightly recognized the moral posture of Polybius in the last books. Eckstein 1995 shows in detail the moral dimension that inheres in much of Polybius’ history and the intensity of his commitment to an evaluation of behaviour on moral grounds; see, esp. 96–117, 225–36. 19 Plb. 31. 25. 2–7.

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pouring libations and conducting their rituals (BJ 1. 150; AJ 14. 66–7). A decade later Crassus stripped the Temple of all its gold, taking everything that Pompey had left (BJ 1. 179; AJ 14. 105–9). Another ten years passed, and Cassius was in the east, reducing Judaean cities to servitude, so Josephus puts it.20 In the upheavals after the death of Herod, in 4 bc, soldiers of the Roman procurator Sabinus burned the porticoes of the Temple and plundered the treasury. Whatever remained was simply confiscated by Sabinus (BJ 2. 49–50; AJ 17. 261–4). Once Judaea became a Roman province, Josephus does not hesitate to set out the transgressions committed by a sequence of governors appointed by the crown. One needs to look only at his account of Pontius Pilate’s actions under Tiberius that included notorious provocations of the Jews and the beating to death of Jewish protesters (BJ 2. 169–77; AJ 18. 55–62). In the reign of Claudius, the Roman governor Ventidius Cumanus quelled turmoil by killing substantial numbers of Jews.21 His successor, Felix, also engaged in widespread executions of Jews and even, according to Josephus, engineered the murder of a high priest.22 Worse was still to come. Josephus describes the procurator Albinus, an appointee of Nero, as one who omitted not a single known act of villainy.23 But even Albinus’ wickedness was far exceeded by that of his successor, Gessius Florus, who, Josephus says, made Albinus seem by comparison a man of exemplary virtue.24 There is no need to catalogue the acts of iniquity and criminality that Josephus ascribes to these Roman officials and that led to the outbreak of the Great Revolt. The Jewish historian certainly did not hold back in detailing the atrocities of the Roman leadership and the military. It is telling that in his Vita Josephus asserts that Jews took up arms against Rome not by choice but out of necessity (Vit. 27). This extended to the emperors themselves. Josephus is quick to recite the failings of the Julio-Claudian rulers. He outlines the grim and suspicious character of Tiberius, the murderous megalomania of Gaius Caligula, and the excesses and cruelty of Nero.25 Of course, in each of these cases, Josephus merely follows the consensus of Roman historians and the portraits that prevailed in the age of the Flavians. But it is noteworthy that he dwells in considerable detail on the accession of Claudius, following the death of Caligula. Josephus provides a graphic presentation of Claudius’ panicked efforts to hide in a closet, and the need of the Praetorian Guard to drag him 20

Jos. BJ 1. 221–2: KÆ æÆ Ø
 ; AJ 14. 275. Jos. BJ 2. 236; AJ 20. 110–12, 20. 122. 22 Jos. BJ 2. 260, 2. 270; AJ 20. 160–5, 20. 177. 23 Jos. BJ 2. 272: PŒ 
Ø b lØÆ ŒÆŒıæª Æ N Æ ÆæºØ. 24 Jos. BJ 2. 277: I Ø › ' ÆPe KºŁg ˆ

Ø ºHæ IªÆŁÆ ŒÆa
ªŒæØ
Ø; AJ 20. 252–3. 25 Tiberius: Jos. AJ 18. 168–78, 18. 225–6; Caligula: BJ 2. 184–203; AJ 18. 257–303, 19. 1–27, 19. 201–11; Nero: BJ 2. 250–1; AJ 20. 154. 21

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out and thrust him into power against his will, in part through the intervention of the Jewish king Agrippa.26 The narrative exposes not only the fearfulness and spinelessness of Claudius but the impotence of the Roman senate, the emptiness of aristocratic rhetoric in the face of the troops, and the raw military power and ruthlessness that lay at the heart of Roman rule. Josephus does not spare Vespasian. He calls attention to the future emperor’s ruthlessness, the slaughter of captives, the merciless treatment of young and old, the demolition of villages and towns, and the enslavement of survivors.27 Nor does Titus himself escape the strictures of the historian. Josephus, so it is usually assumed, presents a rosy portrait of the man who led Roman forces at the time of the destruction of the Temple.28 After all, Titus became his patron and protector. And Josephus notoriously strains to exculpate Titus from the dastardly deed: the commander sought to spare the city and its great shrine. If Josephus be believed, the burning of the Temple came against Titus’ wishes and much to his sorrow.29 Whatever the credibility of that judgement, it does not form part of a consistently positive image of the Roman. Josephus more than once calls attention to atrocities ordered by Titus—even when he attempts to offer explanations for them. After taking a Galilean city, for instance, Titus ordered the massacre of every male, old and young, in that town, and the sale of all women and children into slavery (BJ 3. 298–305). He showed equal unscrupulousness at Jotapata, where he conducted wholesale slaughter, even having soldiers shove helpless defenders down a steep incline where they were crushed in a general mêlée (BJ 3. 329–31). He had no qualms about the torture and crucifixion of Jewish prisoners (BJ 5. 289, 5. 449–51). And, for relaxation, after the taking of Jerusalem, he enjoyed the spectacles at Caesarea Philippi and Beirut in which captives in the thousands were torn apart by wild beasts, perished through gladiatorial combat, or were consumed by flames (BJ 7. 23, 7. 37–9).30 All perhaps is fair in war. But these episodes hardly present an edifying picture of Titus. One can press the point further. Josephus’ presentation of Titus’ generalship implies more subtly that the commander did not always match Roman expectations of looking to the safety of his men, enforcing adequate discipline, and exercising good judgement.31 And, if the destruction of the Temple did indeed occur against Titus’ wishes, this surely reflects ill upon the general’s own control of that most critical episode, an inference that Josephus’ readers could readily draw—without his 26

Jos. AJ 19. 212–73. Jos. BJ 3. 132–4, 3. 336–8, 3. 532–42, 4. 447–8. 28 See e.g. Yavetz 1975: 411–32, Paul 1993: 56–66. 29 Jos. BJ 1. 28, 5. 334, 6. 124–8, 6. 214–43, 6. 254–66, 7. 112–13. Cf. also the occasional reference to Titus’ pity for the victims of Roman cruelty—which he had himself allowed; e.g. BJ 5. 449–51. 30 Cf. Yavetz 1975: 415. 31 See on this the cogent comments of McLaren 2005: 282–7. 27

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having to spell it out.32 Indeed, despite the laboured exculpation of Titus, Josephus elsewhere acknowledges that, after the fall of Jerusalem and the fire, the Roman commander ordered the destruction of the city and its Temple—a notable signal to his readership (BJ 7. 1; AJ 20. 250). That the Roman empire was a despotic entity emerges without ambiguity from Josephus’ work. His text makes that point most conspicuously in the famous speech that he puts into the mouth of Agrippa in attempting to dissuade the Jews from taking up arms against Rome. Agrippa expounds at length upon the irresistible and invincible might of Rome that extends over all the known peoples of the world and against which no opposition stands a chance. And it is telling that Agrippa repeatedly represents the status of those who dwell under Roman sovereignty as ‘servitude’. He employs the terms ıº Æ, ıºØ, and Fº again and again in that speech.33 He characterizes Roman officials as unbearably harsh.34 And he refers to the Romans unabashedly as ‘despots’.35 Reduction of the peoples of the world to the condition of slavery is the main message. The best that Agrippa can do is to advise the Jews to submit to it rather than resist it (BJ 2. 361). That hardly constitutes an advertisement for the blessings of Roman rule. Roman rule, however, might not endure forever. That prospect emerges in the pages of both Polybius and Josephus. They suggest a future without Rome—a not unwelcome future. Polybius draws a memorable portrait set in the immediate aftermath of Rome’s destruction of Carthage. The Roman general Scipio Aemilianus, who headed the forces that defeated Carthage and ordered its annihilation, was a friend and former pupil of Polybius. And the historian was present as flames rose over the city of Carthage. Scipio, so he tells us, burst into tears, and then explained the reason to Polybius. He wept because he could foresee another conqueror some day issuing similar orders for the destruction of Rome—and punctuated the prophecy by quoting Homeric verses on the fate of Troy. The scene left a potent impact upon Polybius, who redrafted it later in moving fashion for his readers.36 The melancholy character of this passage as a reminder of the capriciousness of fortune is not

32

Cf. the discussion of Parente 2005: 61–9. Jos. BJ 2. 349, 2. 355–6, 2. 361, 2. 365, 2. 379. Jos. BJ 2. 352. 35 Jos. BJ 2. 397:   øÆ ı 
Æ . 36 Plb. 38. 21–2: Iºº' PŒ r ' ‹ø Kªg  ØÆ ŒÆd ææHÆØ   Ø ¼ºº F e Æ檪ºÆ 
Ø æd B æÆ Ææ  . Scipio’s citation of Homer appears in Diodorus, 32. 24 and Appian, Pun. 132, not in the extant fragment of Polybius. But both authors make reference to Polybius’ conversation with Scipio, and there is no reason to doubt that they found it in his text; see Walbank HCP, iii. 722–5. Appian also ascribes to Scipio a reference to the succession of world empires, including most recently Macedonia, all of which had met their doom, thus presaging Rome’s own. It is not altogether clear that this derives from Polybius. See Mendels 1981a: 333–4. 33 34

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uncharacteristic of Polybius.37 Whether or not Scipio meant his words as a lugubrious reflection upon Roman policy, Polybius’ decision to reproduce them and thus to reaffirm the reversals that åÅ can bring left an ominous cloud over Roman success—as the historian clearly intended. Allusion to the future fate of Rome appears less dramatically, but most revealingly, in Josephus’ writings as well. His lengthy but selective paraphrase of the Book of Daniel contains a significant passage. Daniel was asked to decipher the dream of Nebuchadnezzar regarding the huge image made of various parts (gold, silver, bronze, iron, and a mixture of iron and clay), then smashed to bits by a stone that grew to be a great mountain filling the earth (Dan. 2: 31–5). The prophet interpreted it as a sequence of kingdoms, the last of which would be shattered by the kingdom of God that will endure forever.38 In the period when the Book of Daniel was composed or completed, in the 160s bc, the last earthly kingdom can only have been that of the Hellenistic monarchies. But, by Josephus’ day, that kingdom was widely understood to be Rome. Josephus himself asserts that Daniel had predicted the coming of the Roman empire (AJ 10. 276). In paraphrasing Daniel’s interpretation of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream, however, Josephus stops short of recounting his explanation of the great stone, referring the reader to Daniel’s text itself.39 An outright statement about the kingdom of God eventually pulverizing the Roman empire might have been impolitic. But Josephus had already said enough for any knowledgeable reader—at least any knowledgeable Jewish reader. He had no need to be too explicit about it. The eschatological future was plain enough. Rome’s demise had already been predestined, and Josephus made a point of calling attention to it.40 Josephus did not lack subtlety. In addition to the remarks on Daniel in the Antiquities, Josephus twice more makes veiled allusions to the eventual fate of the Roman empire: one in his first work, the Jewish War; and one in his last, the Contra Apionem. In the War he recounts his own speech to the besieged Jews, urging them to surrender to the overwhelming force of Roman might. There is no point in resisting the despots, he says, to whom all are subject.41 He adds further that åÅ has passed to the Romans and that God, having granted supreme rule to various nations in turn, now rests in Italy.42 The ‘now’ is notable, and possibly pregnant with significance. The idea that Rome too will have its end is unexpressed, but lurks not too far beneath the surface. In the Contra Apionem Josephus remarks, almost in passing, that only a few nations 37

Cf. Eckstein 1995: 268–70. Dan. 2: 36–45. See the commentary of Collins 1993: 165–71. 39 Jos. AJ 10. 210: ŒÆd æd H I ºø  ª
ÆØ º
ŁÆØ ÆŁE,
ı Æ
ø e غ  IƪHÆØ e ˜Æغı. 40 So, rightly, Mason 1994: 165–76, Spilsbury 2003: 10–17, 2005: 224–5. 41 Jos. BJ 5. 366: E Ø ŒÆd 
Æ I E ÆØæı , På x å æØÆ a Æ. 42 Jos. BJ 5. 367: c Iæåc F Kd B "ƺ Æ . Cf. Barclay 2005: 329–30. 38

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have had the opportunity to gain empire (ª Æ) and even they have suffered changes in fortune (ÆºÆ ) that reduced them again to servitude.43 He does not elaborate on this. That would have been superfluous. The implication could hardly be missed. In short, Polybius and Josephus did indeed share common ground. Not only in their life experiences as intellectuals and leaders of their nations who wrote about the subjugation of those nations to Rome, while being sponsored and subsidized in the land of the conqueror, but also in their complex and equivocal outlook on the ruling power. They respected the success of Roman imperialism and they castigated the calamitous foolishness of contesting its overwhelming might. At the same time, however, they exposed, in more nuanced fashion, the oppression and despotic character of the conqueror, and could look ahead to a time when that conqueror would meet its own fate. How many Roman readers would pick up on these subversive sentiments—or would care—we cannot know. But acute Greek readers of Polybius would understand and appreciate—as would the discerning Jewish audiences of Josephus. 43 Jos. Ap. 2. 127: ŒÆd ı ƃ ƺÆd ºØ ¼ººØ ıºØ ÇıÆ; Barclay 2005: 329, 2007: 235.

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15 The Rise and Fall of the Boeotians: Polybius 20. 4–7 as a Literary Topos Christel Müller

I N T R O D U C TI O N M. Feyel’s work on Boeotia, Polybe et l’histoire de Béotie au IIIe siècle avant notre ère, published in 1942, was based above all, as its title suggests, on an analysis of Polybius’ work, and in particular on the part of Book 201 where the Achaean historian offers his reader a tableau of the situation in Boeotia between c.250 and 200 bc. Book 20, which has survived only in fragments, was devoted to the arrival in Greece of king Antiochus III. The sections that concern us appear in the first year of the 147th Olympiad, 192/91 bc,2 at the very moment when Antiochus reaches the gates of Thebes after staying at Chalcis. To summarize, we can say that Polybius offers, in an especially unfavourable light, an account of a series of events from 245 bc (the Boeotarchy of Abaeocritus) to 192 (the alliance of the Boeotians with Antiochus). The primary function of this passage in Polybius’ account is clear: to look back to Boeotia’s past for an explanation for such an inexplicable action.3 This passage from Book 20 is, however, almost unique: few Greek states in Polybius are given such a complete and detailed account of their decadence. Modern commentators have never really considered it totally trustworthy, decadence of course being a rather suspect concept; but this has not stopped them from taking some elements literally, while thinking that Polybius has simply 1 Plb. 20. 4–7. This passage has been commented upon by various scholars: Feyel 1942; Cloché 1952: 240–9; Aymard 1946 (in a review of Feyel 1942); Roesch 1965: 112–21 (on the federal Strategos); Roussel 1970, ad. loc.; Mendels 1977: 161–5 (on Philip V as demagogue); Mendels 1978: 29–30 (on Antiochus III as demagogue); Étienne and Knoepfler 1976: 331–7 (the entry of Opus in the Boeotian Confederacy and the incident at Larymna); Walbank, HCP iii. 66– 74; Roesch 1982: 404–11 (justice in Boeotia and in particular foreign judges). 2 For the counting by Olympiads, cf. Walbank, HCP iii. 56. 3 Feyel 1942: 13–14.

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exaggerated. With some degree of distrust, commentators have accordingly adopted this passage in their own way, fitting it into their preoccupations concerning the period. Only the chronology of this account of decadence has been subject to debate. A couple of specific examples are worth revisiting. The first is Feyel, who, although he makes an effort to ‘control’ (in his terms) Polybius’ viewpoint, fails to eliminate the idea of decadence. Not wanting to give too much credit to Polybius’ assessment, Feyel dates the start of Boeotia’s decline only to the 220s,4 and not from 245, when Abaeocritus was a leader. But after 220 he falls in line with the Polybian ideology on which his analysis depends, especially in terms of Boeotia’s internal politics. In the conclusion to his chapter on political life, Feyel offers a pessimistic view of Boeotia based on Polybius. At the same time he denounces both the internal situation in France and Germany at the end of the 1930s and Philip V, the Macedonian king, is ‘a complicated soul capable of cruelty’ who ‘for the pleasure of inflicting harm’ comes and ‘destroys the social order of his neighbours’. Feyel’s target is as much Hitler as it is Philip V.5 The second example, M. Rostovtzeff, is even more of a caricature.6 For him, the theme of decadence evokes all the political problems of Russia at the start of the twentieth century: he uses a vocabulary that is characteristically Marxist and bourgeois at the same time. One fragment of Polybius therefore shows how ‘the class struggle reaches its culmination in Boeotia at this time. The mob ruled. They were represented by generals whose decisions were determined by their desire to please the proletariat.’ My paper offers a completely different angle on this passage from those of previous commentators. I shall demonstrate that the passage, in so far as it is a digression on decadence, is more a literary construct than anything else. Its different elements can be found in what I shall refer to as the ‘vertical intertext’, namely the whole of Greek literature before Polybius; and the ‘horizontal intertext’, or the ‘intratext’,7 namely the text of Polybius’ Histories, 4

The date is not supported by Aymard 1946, who considers that there is virtually no difference between the situation before and after what he regards as a false watershed: on the ground that the inscriptions offer few tangible indications of change, Aymard 1946: 313 argues that ‘le contraste entre les années qui précèdent et celles qui suivent 220 demeure insuffisamment établi. Bien plutôt, les choses ne devaient pas aller très brillamment avant 220 et elles n’ont pas tourné brusquement à la catastrophe’. So what influenced Feyel in his choice of 220 as this pivotal date? Is it not in fact Polybius’ own text that suggested it? For this is the year when Book 3 starts, the first real year of his Histories: the previous two books serve in fact as prolegomena to the work as a whole (cf. Beck, ch. 6 in this volume). On the beginning of the Histories, cf. Walbank 1972a: 16. 5 The supposed demagogic intervention in central Greece has been dismissed by Mendels 1977: 163: ‘It is rather difficult to find evidence for an active demagogic role played by Philip in Boeotia.’ 6 Rostovtzeff 1941: 611–12. 7 On intratextuality, see e.g. Sharrock and Morales 2000. As a general point, it is notable that concepts such as intertextuality are less theorized on the Greek side than on the Roman one (see

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which itself offers keys to understanding, through the reading of similar digressions. My thesis is as follows: (a) First, that the passage is nothing but a motif, in the rhetorical or aesthetic sense of the term, a Leitmotiv, and is understood better in narrative rather than historical terms. (b) Secondly, that, contrary to Polybius’ assertion on the importation of Greek decadence into Rome after the Third Macedonian War, the matrix on which the Leitmotiv is constructed is Roman and not Greek. My paper will consider three elements: the text, the context, and the intertext. Or, in more elaborate terms, an internal critique to show the passage’s incoherences, an external critique, i.e. a historical analysis to demonstrate the inappropriate assessment offered by the passage; and finally an analysis of the intertext or the different layers of the intertext.

INTERNAL CRITIQUE AND THE PROBLEMS OF THE TEXT ’ S PO S I T I O N I N T H E N A R R A T I V E If Polybius’ aim is clear, to explain the absurd behaviour of the Boeotians, then the inclusion of the passage in the narrative train is less obvious. Feyel had already raised the questions without being able to offer an answer: ‘why has Polybius inserted this lengthy disposition at the moment when he describes the arrival of Antiochus at Thebes, an event of little consequence for Boeotia, as he himself recognizes at the end of the digression (20. 7), instead of holding it back for the book where he has to narrate the catastrophes of 172 or those of 146?’8 In fact the digression finds no natural place either in the course of the events or in the narrative. The disjunction is clear between paragraphs 3 and 4: Polybius makes no transition between the support given by Antiochus to the Epirotes and the Eleans and the decadence of Boeotia, the description of which begins abruptly with ‘The Boeotians, already for a long time . . . ’. One could, of course, fall back on the fragmentary nature of Book 20 and suggest that the passage has not survived intact. However, the order followed by Livy,9 who condenses Polybius, shows that no gap between 20. 3 and 20. 4 is possible. Livy, interested exclusively in the narrative, passes over Polybius’ digression without any acknowledgement.10 The same observation can be made at the e.g. Riggsby 2006 on Caesar). The opportunity to raise these issues was missed by Schepens and Bollansée 2005 (for which see below). 8 Feyel 1942: 14 n. 1. 9 Livy 36. 5–6. 10 Though Livy 36. 6. 2 does closely echo Plb. 20. 4. 1.

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end of the passage, where the return to the narrative is awkwardly signalled by a ŒÆd ªæ (20. 7. 5), which, contrary to its normal sense, introduces neither an explanation nor an example.11 On the other hand, the passage contains at least two allusions to Boeotian events mentioned in other books. First there is the punishment inflicted by Fortune on Boeotia after 192, probably in 171 when the Boeotian Confederacy was dissolved by the Romans, bæ z E

K E B ØÅ
ŁÆ Å, ‘to which we will refer later’, as Polybius underlines at the end of the passage (20. 7. 2). Certainly Polybius is following an established plan in his writing of the History and knows without doubt in what order he is establishing his narrative. But one might also hypothesize that he has already written the section to which he refers in anticipation and is dipping into the rhetorician’s toolbox so as to fix more firmly the digression into the narrative. Secondly, Polybius places the argument found in Book 20 again in Book 22, stating that the Boeotian courts had stopped working for almost twenty-five years,
å e YŒ
Ø ŒÆd ’ KH (20. 6. 1 and 22. 4. 2), repeating verbatim his earlier text. Feyel,12 like all the commentators, is embarrassed by this repetition and thinks that the second instance was ‘this time sincere’, while giving little credit to the first. Independent from the content of this passage, it should be noted that Feyel’s judgement is based largely on the fact that the second instance of the mention of the Boeotian law courts appears less artificial than the first. In other words, it is suggested that Polybius was merely repeating in the first instance his own argument with more emphasis.

EXTERNAL CRITIQUE OR THE ANALYSIS OF THE HISTORICAL VALIDITY OF THE PASSAGE We now turn to consider the historical ‘reality’ of the decadence described by Polybius. Once we remove the diplomatic/military basis of the narrative, the concrete elements on which Polybius constructs his argument about Boeotian decadence are revealed to be few and far between. Polybius’ main concern here is moral judgement and the only point on which any argument can rest is indeed the interruption to judicial life for twenty-five years. For this is 11 Livy, almost certainly embarrassed by his source, wanted to present more continuity in his own account: after the Epirus episode, he runs on with some elegance, In Boeotiam ipse (Antiochus) profectus est (36. 6. 1) and sums up, in fairly brutal fashion, his discussion of Boeotian decadence, explaining it by the fact that re uera per multa iam saecula publice priuatimque labante egregia quondam disciplina gentis et multorum eo statu, qui diuturnus esse sine mutatione rerum non posset (36. 6. 2). This last sentence is, in fact, a variation on Polybius’ own statement B fi ’ IºÅŁ Æ fi ŒÆåŒF (q
Æ) ÆE łıåÆE Øa a æØæÅÆ ÆN Æ (20. 7. 4). 12 Feyel 1942: 275.

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seemingly one piece of precise information, potentially verifiable, on which Polybius stakes his claim. We should remember that the return of this argument takes place in two passages whose dates of reference, or terminus ante quem, differ, one being 192, the other 188. This difference therefore prevents any attempt at calculating precisely when the interruption took place. To give an example, Feyel and Walbank agree on the date of 188 as the point from which this retrospective judgement is made, and consider that the twenty-five-year period dates back to 213, counting back from the Peace of Apamea in 188. But the vague context in which this deceptively precise observation is offered by Polybius in Book 20 gives the impression that the whole century itself is concerned, as is the rhetorical aim of the author. Whatever the starting date of the twenty-five years, we need to identify the breakdown in judicial life in order to verify Polybius’ observation and so confront other contemporary sources, both literary and epigraphic. As Feyel has already pointed out,13 for the Hellenistic period we can turn to the lively, perhaps satirical, description of the Boeotian cities offered by Heraclides Criticus—or Creticus.14 In Heraclides’ account, Thebes, and in particular judicial life there, functions with some difficulty and ‘trials last more than thirty years’, ƃ ŒÆØ Ææ’ ÆPE Ø’ KH PºåØ
 N
ªÆØ æØŒÆ. The mention of a precise length of time, and a rather similar one to that found in Polybius, demands some comparison of the two texts. The difficulty is that the Heraclides passage poses just as many problems as that of Polybius. Heraclides’ description may appear to us to be first-hand impression and so to offer an effet de réel, but in fact it is in itself only an assemblage of clichés and sketches about the Boeotians. Nevertheless, it is thought that Polybius had been aware of Heraclides’ description and indeed drew some inspiration from it, above and beyond any question of Glaubwürdigkeit, as G. A. Lehmann might say.15 However, as Walbank has shown,16 Heraclides’ description concerns only Thebes, while Polybius’ observation applies to the whole of Boeotia. In fact the information given by the two writers is not the same: for Heraclides, the thirty years applies to the trials themselves which drag on forever; while for Polybius it is the interruption in judicial activity which lasts for twenty-five years. In this case Polybius would have been severely misrepresenting his source, or at least have injected his own chronological calculation if he had been following Heraclides. There is also a question about the date of authorship. The work of Heraclides is usually dated to the third century. Feyel raised some doubt about the 13 14 15 16

Feyel 1942: 275–6. GGM, 258, }12–16. See Pfister 1951: 44 and, more recently, Arenz 2006. Lehmann 1967. Walbank, HCP iii. 72.

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date of Heraclides without being able to offer any precision apart from looking for difficulties in judicial procedure in Thebes.17 In other words, Polybius allows us to date Heraclides, who, in turn, confirms Polybius. Walbank was right to point out the circular nature of this argument,18 which leads us nowhere. A final possibility is that both Polybius and Heraclides shared a common source whom each interpreted in his own way. This, however, will not resolve the problem. For the historian, the only way out of this literary dilemma is to consider Polybius alongside the epigraphical evidence. This is what Feyel attempted to do, but my own interpretation differs from his.19 Feyel seeks to show how Polybius’ observation is valid from 220 and not 245: he wants to have his cake and eat it. For Feyel is unable to offer any Boeotian text that indicates the presence of foreign judges in the cities of the Boeotian Confederacy at the end of the third century. According to him, the presence of such judges would tend to suggest some kind of paralysis in the local courts. All the texts he offers come from parallel examples elsewhere, such as Delphi or cities in northern Greece. In fact, as Paul Roesch has demonstrated, no Boeotian decree honouring foreign judges can be found before the middle of the second century. After this point, at least six decrees are known.20 Elsewhere, foreign judges appear at the end of the third century or at the beginning of the second century. Is the situation in Boeotia peculiar to this region? Roesch argues that all the Boeotian decrees for foreign judges date from after the dissolution of the Boeotian Confederacy, in 171 bc, concluding that the ‘institutional framework of the Confederacy . . . provided all necessary jurisdiction’ for the cities.21 After 171 the Confederacy ceased to exist and with its disappearance this juridical infrastructure was lost. At some point, to compensate for this loss, Boeotian cities began to turn to foreign judges. In sum, the catastrophic impression offered by Polybius is relevant neither to 245 nor to 220, nor even to 192 nor 188! In fact, it may simply represent an interpretation, perhaps not a totally objective one, of the situation in Boeotia during the middle of the second century. The clearly anachronistic nature of the passage allows us to highlight an important contradiction: Polybius (20. 7. 1) has to concede that during the 17 Feyel 1942: 276. Feyel ends by suggesting ‘une date voisine de 180’ (n. 1), which means we cannot see how the period that Polybius has in mind can possibly be 213–188. 18 Walbank, HCP iii. 72: ‘It may be noted that many attempts to date Heraclides use the conditions described in Polybius as a point of reference; hence the danger of circular argument.’ 19 Feyel 1942: 276–7. 20 Roesch 1982: 407–11. 21 Ibid. 407–8. Roesch offers seven examples from which we should in fact remove the two decrees of ‘Thebes for the judges of Oropus’ that were published later on the basis of the Roesch archives in 1993. Gauthier 1993 has demonstrated that these inscriptions not only belong to one inscription but are also part of an Eretrian decree honouring Oropian judges who have come to Thebes to rule on pending trials between the Boeotian and Euboean cities who are linked by a symbolon, i.e. a judicial agreement.

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difficult period of the reigns of Philip V and Antiochus III ‘in spite of their constitution being in a deplorable state, and by I do not know what kind of fortune, the Boeotians avoided the catastrophes that came about at the time of the wars against Philip and Antiochus’, ØÆÅ ’ å ƒ BØød c ØŁ
Ø B ºØ Æ , PıåH ø غØ
Ł ŒÆd f ŒÆa  ºØ ŒÆd f ŒÆ’  å ŒÆØæ . The author’s embarrassment is made clear by the use of the particle ø . This passage must therefore be understood in terms other than its description of a historical reality.

POLYBIUS AND THE INTERTEXT I now change completely the tone of my paper in this, the third, section dealing with Polybius and intertext. I first explain what I understand by intertextuality and especially the way in which I am going to use this heuristic tool. The concept of intertextuality has been revisited recently in relation to Polybius in a colloquium at Leuven published in 2005 as The Shadow of Polybius: Intertextuality as a Research Tool in Greek Historiography.22 In this volume, research into intertextuality is limited to those passages where the historian cites and evaluates his predecessors in a polemical framework. Here we are analysing the intertext by way of citation, and more precisely in what is called the ‘cover-text method’, the ‘cover-text’ being the receiving text, text B. Of course, this is hardly the first occasion on which intertextuality has been used to analyse ancient historiography. It is now around twenty years since this approach has entered the mainstream: we may think of Simon Hornblower’s introduction to the 1994 volume Greek Historiography,23 in which the central issue is the reception of earlier authors of Greek history by later ones.24 Some may think that there was no need to wait for modern literary criticism to be interested in reception, and that intertextuality amounts to little more than jargon, in the same way that Monsieur Jourdain one day made the discovery that he was speaking in prose. But I do not hold to this view for, if no new theoretical techniques are applied to historiography, we can never be very far from the old form of source criticism which is always more interested in the text of origin rather than the receiving text, the receptor; this technique gives preference to text A rather than text B, and considers the latter largely in terms 22

Schepens and Bollansée 2005. S. Hornblower 1994: 54–72, whose entire chapter is called ‘Intertextuality and the Greek Historians’. 24 See also Woodman 1988, where the emphasis on inuentio and literary conventions might also be felt to encourage intertextual approaches to set pieces like descriptions of the fall of a city and the like, or Laird 1999 for an interesting treatment of both intertextuality and historiography. 23

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of flaws in transmission. Intertextuality, on the other hand, offers us the chance of considering transformation, text B being no less creative than text A. In fact, we can consider intertextuality in a much more open way, as modern literary criticism has done since the term was defined by J. Kristeva in 1966 and in the light of subsequent developments.25 Of course, I think of G. Genette,26 whose 1982 work Palimpsestes has to a large extent served to codify our understanding of the concept and offered a ‘Periodic Table’ of all the categories that the concept covers going beyond a purely structural analysis of text. To adopt this approach requires us to consider Polybius outside of his genre, outside of the historiographical status of the text, and to envisage the work as pure text, a difficult step for the historian but a useful one, especially if a historical sense is added to what might otherwise be purely formal. The aim here is, therefore, not to limit analysis to reception alone, or to external or vertical intertextuality, but to explore what some have termed ‘intratextuality’.27 Intratextuality is not only the search for points of comparison, something that has been done for a long time. It plays more on the idea that the text, through repeating ideas, motifs, in linguistic terms ‘isotopies’, stops being referential (e.g. ‘justice in Boeotia’) but is itself self-generating. Intratextuality offers keys to the text that are no longer outside but found within. Kai gar . . . So let us return to Polybius and Boeotian decadence. The first appearance of ŒÆå Æ among the Boeotians in Book 20 (20. 4. 1) comes in its aberrant foreign policy. Polybius’ vision of Boeotian foreign policy is one suggesting a permanent disaster. Victory at Leuctra (20. 4. 2) was a kind of positive mistake, largely the result of the exceptional personality of its two leaders.28 This peak sits between two long troughs, periods of degradation that serve to echo each other in the narrative. Here one can see the first intervention of intertextuality, at once both internal and external. The ‘Macedonianism’ of the third century, if one can forgive the neologism, balances the Medism of the fifth century; Thebans in Polybius are only ever spoken of in terms of their betrayal.29 It is not Polybius’ judgement that is interesting here, which is easy to deconstruct in historical terms, just as Eric Perrin has demonstrated concerning Polybius’ judgement of Athens between 229 and 168.30 Rather we have here the first motif in this embroidery of the Boeotians; here is the original sin that forms part of the historiographical inheritance, the cultural baggage of the second century, without there being a need to search 25 On the history of this idea, see the excellent introduction in Limat-Letellier 1998, esp. 18–19 and 36–46. 26 Genette 1982. 27 Limat-Letellier 1998: 26–7 and n. 18. 28 This point is seen at 20. 4, but is particularly evident earlier at 6. 43. 29 For example, 4. 31 and 9. 39. 30 Perrin-Saminadayar 1999: 445–53.

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for direct allusions to predecessors. Polybius is incapable of interpreting Boeotian policy towards Macedonia without referring to this motif of betrayal. This motif produces the sense of the passage and imposes on the author his interpretation of the third century. Therefore Polybius in Book 6 (6. 43) has a problem. For he does not know how to treat the Theban constitution. It should be remembered here that, even if it is not always the case, the Thebans in Polybius are often the Boeotians as a whole, and that it is difficult to say whether the Theban constitution is civic or federal, just as Epaminondas and Pelopidas are at the same time Thebans and Boeotians. The Boeotians are not alone in the difficulties their constitution presents to Polybius. Another constitution, the Athenian, is also dropped because it does not fit in with the criteria that Polybius has established for anacyclosis. When we fit the Boeotian constitution onto Polybius’ scale, then it is identified as an ochlocracy without any hope of a way out. For Polybius himself says (6. 44. 9), ‘it is useless to turn to the institutions of Athens and Thebes, cities in which the impulses of the mob drive everything’. Each time that Polybius refers to the behaviour of the Boeotians, it is in these terms. This is a severe case of denying reality, since Polybius refuses to consider his subject (the Theban constitution). We see here how the disconnection between the text and the referent works. Our second example of intertextuality: moral decadence produced by political decadence, and, to start with, the Boeotian pig (BØø Æ y ). This is a fascinating device, a motif that can be traced a long way back and that is reinserted into the Polybian construction. The ‘Boeotian pig’ is a linguistic isotopie that can be traced through Greek literature from Pindar through at least to Plutarch.31 It is in Pindar’s sixth Olympian (l. 87–90) that we find the appearance of this idea that a Boeotian can be assimilated to a pig, a notion that Pindar already understands to be an ancient one. We then find the satirical traditions of Athenian comedy in the fifth and fourth centuries which crystallize the topos, as a passage from Alexis demonstrates.32 At the other end of this chronological chain, Plutarch33 refers to the Boeotians’ I Åçƪ Æ, their greed. What concerns us here is not so much that Polybius uses a motif typically voiced by the Athenians, whom he hates, but how this operation takes place. The original ‘Boeotian pig’ contains at least two representations, as outlined by Plutarch. One is of the crass ignoramus, the thick country-bumpkin, and the second is his pathological addiction to eating and drinking, Pøå Æ ŒÆd ŁÅ, an expression that Polybius uses twice in the

31

For a nearly complete survey, see Guillon 1948, esp. 79–92, in an exasperated attempt to rehabilitate Boeotian values: nevertheless, one should remember his analysis of Heracles, the mythical hero who has become the target of much humour. 32 Alexis F 239 K-A. 33 Mor. 995e, De esu carnium.

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passage in Book 20. Polybius focuses in particular on the second aspect because he can insert it into his own paradigm: the association between drunkenness and moral decline, individual or collective, as already shown in Eckstein’s work.34 This paradigm allows Polybius to show that the Boeotians are not the only Greeks to experience decadence. Among the most well-developed parallels, Walbank had already isolated two other examples of decline that are particularly significant:35 the savagery of the people of Cynaetha in Arcadia (4. 21. 2–12); and the OºØªÆŁæø Æ (‘scarcity of people’) affecting Greece (36. 17. 5–10). In the Cynaetha episode, supposed to be taking place in the 220s, the crucial word is ‘savagery’, IªæØÅ for the noun and better still the verb IŁÅæØø in the passive. This savagery leads us to two further points: the Boeotian pig, even if it is usually a domestic animal, represents bestiality, as do those who fall into ochlocracy (6. 9. 9, IŁÅæØø, applied to the ºBŁ ). The process of IŁÅæ ø
Ø is a typical narrative motif that belongs to the paradigm of the barbarian.36 The Cynaethean story confirms, though in an inverted manner, the topos of the civilizing power of music. The reason why they have become so savage is, in contrast to the rest of the Arcadians, that they have not practised music, a cliché on the same scale as those that the Athenians created with regard to the Boeotians! It is also worth noting that the digression on the Cynaetheans is as badly inserted into the narrative as the passage on the Boeotians, thus showing its own particular status in the story: while the Cynaetheans are the victims of Aetolian brutality, it is the Cynaetheans who are presented as savage apparently because of an earlier episode. Now to OºØªÆŁæø Æ. Moral decline is one of the reasons for OºØªÆŁæø Æ and this motif is played out differently depending on context. Boeotians who die childless drink away their wealth without leaving an inheritance to their agnate descendants (20. 6. 5). In Book 36 (36. 17. 7), Polybius charges the Greeks with love of money (çغåæÅ
Å), which distracts them from marrying and from having children (from which results IÆØ Æ, childlessness); instead, they prefer to spend their money elsewhere or to fritter away their patrimony. Here is a variation on the same theme that, like food and drink, leads us to the body. There would probably be much to say on this theme, in historical terms, echoing as it does Aristotle on the concentration of wealth in Sparta. But from a purely narrative perspective, we can see clearly how Boeotian decadence is woven with several threads. Here the Romans enter the frame. They have clearly not been spared from moral decadence, as Polybius explains in Book 18 (18. 35) and especially in 34 35 36

Eckstein 1995: 285–9. In an article devoted to decline in Polybius, Walbank 1980. For the links between the rule of the mob and barbarism, cf. Champion 2004a: 89.

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Book 31 (31. 25. 2–7), with the influx of wealth in Italy following the collapse of the Macedonian Kingdom. Polybius offers here a portrait of his friend Scipio, a eulogy that displays Scipio’s virtue in the midst of widespread depravity. The social changes that take place between the end of the last Macedonian war and the destruction of Carthage are interpreted by Polybius, an eye-witness of the ‘Roman crisis’37 in terms that are essentially moral. From ‘musical spectacles’ to the abuse of banquets, via courtesans and demagogic practices, all strands come together to present Rome after 167 as a sort of paragon of decadence. Claude Nicolet, following Polybius’ reasoning very closely, considered that, when he described demagogic practices at Rome, ‘the impression corresponds too closely to the descriptions of extreme democracy in Polybius, for him not to have thought in particular of Greek states’.38 However, it seems to me that the model, whether ideal or decadent but everywhere implicit, is that of Republican Rome. It is a model all the more immediate because the author makes it the object of his Histories and because he has been in part an eye-witness of it, while some of the examples of ‘extreme democracy’ in Greece date to the third century. It is tempting to see then that this scheme underlies the description that Polybius offers of Boeotian decadence in Book 20 and certainly other cases of Greek decadence. All the known ingredients of Roman decline are found in Boeotia: an ideal era—the Boeotia of Epaminondas—is followed by a miserable period in which political decadence, the demagogy of generals, interruption of judicial life doubles up with a perversion of customs, ‘good food and drunkenness’, mentioned on two occasions.

CONCLUSION: P OLYBIUS AND THE THEORY OF DECADENCE To conclude, three points. In terms of its composition, the passage from Book 20 on Boeotia shows all the signs of having been grafted a posteriori onto the central theme, at a date that obviously we cannot know, but which may be after 146. This is what the absence of internal logic, the external critique, and the analysis of the structural elements of the digression indicate. This suggestion conforms to what we know about how Polybius composed his work. As Pédech notes, after his return to Greece, Polybius was not happy to add a ‘supplement to his earlier work; he revises it; he enriches it with additions’.39 Among those additions, some are only ‘dated by a precise detail and identified 37 38

The term used by Pédech 1973. 39 Nicolet 1974: 214 n. 2. Pédech 1964: 563–4.

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distinctly by a remarkable unity’. It is very likely that with 20. 4–7 we have an example of this kind. The interruption of judicial life, even if Polybius gives his own version of it, is also much easier to understand if the situation to which he refers is that of the middle of the second century. Next, decadence. I have already mentioned the article in which Walbank suggested that, ‘as the historian of Rome’s rise to world power, Polybius was not particularly interested in the concept of decline’.40 He followed this observation with a list of passages that refer to decline in Greece. This conclusion clearly owes much to optimism, the product of Walbank’s sympathy for his subject. But in fact decadence is everywhere in the Histories. One can even see, as Craige Champion41 has shown, how Polybius drew an evolving curve of it, in Greece as in Rome, in spite of the fragmentary state of the books where its traces are the most obvious. Finally, method. The analysis of the Polybian narrative, taken beyond the framework of its precise genre, allows us to reveal a number of motifs, often ancient and traversing the boundaries of previous works and from which the author draws to produce variations. So the Polybian intertext is not to be found only in the earlier historians, but in a range of texts, and even in representations and cultural codes that either precede him or are contemporary with him. Polybian narrative must therefore be studied as an object in itself, and not only as a marvellous referential canvas that allows us partially to fill the ‘historiographic hole’ that is the third century. In this sense I echo, albeit on a different plane, the analysis presented by Craige Champion, for whom Polybius is a fait culturel in himself, to use the term once employed by Claire Préaux.42 This type of analysis allows us to deconstruct the narrative, to avoid giving it too much credit. And it allows us to go further than a more straightforward study of Polybian prejudices. It allows us to show how the narrative is produced, by way of intratextuality, and what remains of it once one has patiently unwound the threads. This is where we see how the use of topoi nourishes the writing of history. 40

41 Walbank 1980: 41. Champion 2004a: 144–69. Préaux 1978: i. 83: ‘Polybe n’est pas seulement pour nous un historien. Il est un fait culturel en soi.’ 42

16 Zeno of Rhodes and the Rhodian View of the Past1 Hans-Ulrich Wiemer

HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE HELLENISTIC WORLD In the Hellenistic world, historiography was only one of the means by which images of the past were created and disseminated, and it was surely not the most important.2 Given that the general level of literacy was relatively low, the circulation of books on historical topics was necessarily restricted to a small group of people who had both the leisure and the education necessary to read and appreciate detailed and highly stylized accounts of the past.3 For ordinary citizens and their families there were other ways to learn how the present had been shaped by the events and figures of the past. They listened to stories told within their families and to historical examples adduced by speakers in the political assemblies.4 But more formal education also contributed, despite the fact that history as we understand that term was not among the subjects Greek pupils were taught at school. In Hellenistic poleis, a sizeable if varying number of future citizens received instruction and physical training in a public institution, commonly known as ephebeia, that familiarized future generations with the traditions believed to be of timeless value and with the sites where

1 In this article, Rhodos is used as the name of the city whereas Rhodes means the island. Most other Greek names have been latinized, with exceptions such as Helios. I should like to thank Charles Fornara, Bruce Gibson, Tom Harrison, and David Konstan for their perceptive and helpful comments on this paper. 2 To list the enormous theoretical and empirical literature on collective memory and assorted topics would here be out of place. For encyclopedic introductions, see now Pethes and Ruchatz 2001 and Erll and Nünning 2008. A long, though by no means comprehensive, bibliography is to be found in Beck and Wiemer 2009. 3 On literacy and its limits in Classical and Hellenistic Greece, see Harris 1989: 65–146. 4 On the use of historical examples in political oratory, see the fundamental study of Nouhaud 1982 on which Clarke 2008: 245–303 is heavily dependent.

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their memory was located.5 And on many occasions the citizens and their families assembled to celebrate festivals in honour of the gods that provided a framework for commemorative practices focused on what was considered to be of lasting importance for the community as a whole. These festivals impressed images of the past on people drawn from all groups of the citizen body, and they did it with an emotional intensity that solitary reading hardly ever achieves.6 Nevertheless, the period after Alexander undoubtedly witnessed an enormous upsurge in historiographical activity when compared to the fifth, or even the fourth, century.7 Many Greek cities now had their history written down for the very first time since their foundation. This rising genre of so-called local historiography was closely connected to an intensified concern for defining collective identities, and for upholding what was regarded as the basis of living together in a polis: the heritage of the forefathers. Competition between cities had, of course, always been a driving force in Greek culture, but it gained further momentum when Greek cities came to form a cultural network that stretched from as far west as Sicily to as far east as Iran and Afghanistan. Being accepted as a full member of this community depended on being able to demonstrate Greek origins and a record of services rendered to fellow-Greeks. From this resulted an endless process of negotiation between the powers involved, in which historiography fulfilled a very practical function: to show that the claims to status and prestige staked by one’s own polis were well founded.8 In this chapter, I shall examine only one small aspect of this vast subject: the rich and versatile historiography of Hellenistic Rhodes. In one way or another, the titles of more than twenty works dealing with the history and antiquities of this island have come down to us.9 None of these works, however, is preserved 5 There is no comprehensive study of this institution to replace the outdated account of Nilsson 1955; Kennell 2006 merely provides a catalogue of inscriptions. On the ephebeia of Athens Pélékidis 1962 has now been partly superseded by Perrin-Saminadayar 2007, who covers only the period from 229–88 bc, however. 6 The seminal study on Greek festivals as a framework for mnemonic practices was Chaniotis 1991; see now also Gehrke 2001, Beck 2009, Wiemer 2009a, Wiemer 2009b. 7 A comprehensive survey of Hellenistic historiography is a desideratum. A recent bibliographical survey is to be found in Marincola 2001: 105–49. The texts have been edited by Felix Jacoby in FGrHist, many of them with a penetrating commentary. Inscriptions relevant to history and historiographers have been studied by Chaniotis 1988, while the careers of early Hellenistic historiographers have been dealt with by Meissner 1992. Some aspects of local historiography are now treated by Clarke 2008: 304–69, who does, however, seem to equate Rhodian historiography with the ‘Lindian Chronicle’ (on which see below n. 29). 8 A famous example for the use of historical arguments in Hellenistic interstate diplomacy is the arbitration between Priene and Miletos in which the jury was composed of Rhodians: I.Priene 37 = Syll.3 599, discussed by Curty 1989. An invaluable collection of epigraphical sources on what might be called kinship diplomacy is provided by Curty 1995. 9 The fundamental account is by Felix Jacoby in FGrHist IIIb (Text): 432–55 with notes in FGrHist IIIb (Noten): 255–66. The authors of monographs on Rhodian history and antiquities

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in the original, and many are mere titles with not even a single quotation or excerpt preserved. It is my contention that, despite this deplorable state of preservation, it is still possible to reconstruct, at least in outline, one of these historiographical works—that of Zeno—and I shall argue this proposition in three steps. First, I shall look at what Polybius has to say about Zeno and supplement this information by what can be inferred from portions of Polybius’ work that are likely to derive from Zeno. Secondly, I shall present and analyse the account of Rhodian prehistory that we find in Diodorus and that can, I believe, confidently be regarded as going back to Zeno, too. Thirdly, I shall turn to the account of the famous siege of Rhodos by the diadoch Demetrius, also to be found in Diodorus, to see whether this can help us to get a more complex picture of Zeno as a writer and a historian. Finally, I will summarize the results and try to put them into the broader context outlined at the beginning.

ZENO IN POLYBIUS: RHODES, THE HELLENISTIC MONA RCHIES AND ROME Polybius is not usually under suspicion for being overgenerous with praise for those who practised his art; on the contrary, he is known as a severe and sometimes unfair critic of their real or supposed faults and errors.10 It therefore amounts to high praise that he singles out two Rhodians, Zeno and Antisthenes, as authors of historical monographs that deserve detailed examination; in fact, they are the only writers on the period that Polybius himself dealt with to be treated with such respect. Both Zeno and Antisthenes were, according to Polybius, contemporaries of the events they described; both had gained the practical experience necessary for the serious historian through active participation in politics; and both wrote not for the sake of gain but to win fame and out of patriotic duty. Polybius is at pains, however, to warn his readers that, despite these virtues, they should not be believed wherever they differ from his own account; out of excessive partiality for their own country they had, he asserts, drawn a distorted picture of events in which the Rhodians were involved.11 are listed as nos. 508–33. It is a pity that Justin saw fit to cut out the account of Rhodian origins Pompeius Trogus gave in his fifteenth book. 10 On Polybius as a critic of earlier and contemporary historiographers, see among others, Walbank 1962, Walbank 1972a: 48–55, Lehmann 1974: 145–200, Meister 1975, Schepens 1990: 39–61, Marincola 1997: 222–3, 229–32, and the contributions assembled in Schepens and Bollansée 2005. Polybius’ critique of Zeno and Antisthenes is analysed in detail by Meister 1975: 173–8, Wiemer 2001: 19–32, and, most recently, Lenfant 2005. 11 Plb. 16. 14. 1–4 = FGrHist 523 T 3.

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It has long been recognized that this critique is directed mainly against Zeno.12 Though Antisthenes is included in the general accusation of Rhodian bias, he vanishes from sight quickly when Polybius goes into details. The Achaean historiographer adduces three examples from Zeno’s work in order to demonstrate that it was inferior to his own: the sea-battle the Rhodians had fought against the Macedonian king Philip V in 201 at the island of Lade, the Spartan king Nabis’ expedition against Messene, and the battle between the Seleucid king Antiochus III and the generals of Ptolemy IV fought in 198 near the shrine of Pan at the springs of the River Jordan. Zeno’s account of the seabattle of Lade is examined to substantiate the charge of excessive partiality for the Rhodians. This fault was obvious, so Polybius claims, from Zeno’s overall account, but especially from a letter by the commanding Rhodian admiral that Zeno himself had quoted. According to Polybius, this letter in fact disproved rather than supported the interpretation that Zeno had put on the events.13 Zeno’s account of Nabis’ expedition against Messene is criticized for betraying a serious lack of geographical expertise.14 While Polybius concedes that errors of this kind admit of some explanation and excuse, in the account of the battle at the Paneion he finds Zeno guilty of a vice that, in his view, was simply unforgivable: being more concerned about style than getting one’s facts right. According to Polybius, Zeno wrote in the sensational manner of authors of declamatory pieces.15 This verdict, however, clearly has to be taken with a pinch of salt, as Polybius had good reason to fear that readers might prefer a well-written monograph over his own multi-volume, dry, and pedantic account of Rome’s rise to world power.16 From Polybius’ critique, Zeno emerges as an experienced politician who set out to write the history of his own country within a very wide framework that encompassed events as far away from Rhodes as the Peloponnese in the west and Palestine in the east. He saw the world from a Rhodian perspective, and was eager to show his country in a favourable light. He did not, however, suppress Rhodian failures entirely or invent victories they had never won. 12 By e.g. Ullrich 1898: 16, Lehmann 1974: 201, Meister 1975: 173, Wiemer 2001: 20, Lenfant 2005: 191–2. 13 Plb. 16. 14. 5–15. 8 = FGrHist 523 F 4. In 16. 15. 8 Polybius explicitly states that the letter was extant in the Rhodian Prytaneion. In fact, Zeno’s account might have been less one-sided than Polybius would have us believe: see Wiemer 2001: 21–5 and Lenfant 2005: 193–5. 14 Plb. 16. 16. 1–17. 7 = FGrHist 523 F 5. Polybius (16. 20. 6–7) prides himself on having pointed out these geographical errors in a letter to Zeno himself, who responded by saying that he accepted the criticism but was now unable to correct his errors since his work was already published. Not all of Polybius’ points seem valid and even if they were they would not justify the conclusion that Zeno’s knowledge of geography was deficient in general: see Meister 1975: 175–6 and Lenfant 2005: 195–7. 15 Plb. 16. 17. 8–19. 11 = FGrHist 523 F 6. For a more balanced assessment of Zeno’s account, see Meister 1975: 177 and Lenfant 2005: 198–200. 16 Plb. 9. 1–2, esp. 1. 2: PŒ IªH b ØØ
ıÆ Ø c æƪÆ Æ H åØ ÆP
Åæ Ø ŒÆd æe  ª IŒæÆH NŒØF
ŁÆØ ŒÆd Œæ 
ŁÆØ Øa e Ø b B
ıø .

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From Polybius’ critique we are also entitled to infer that Zeno described naval warfare with expertise, and that he made use of Rhodian documents to which, as a Rhodian politician, he had easy access.17 And he was clearly an artful writer, whose ornate style met the expectations of a reading public versed in rhetorical prose. But there is more to be learned about Zeno from the remnants of Polybius’ history. More than a hundred years ago, Hermann Ullrich, in a Latin dissertation, argued convincingly that Polybius made extensive use of the Rhodian’s work in dealing with events in the eastern Mediterranean that lay outside the reach of his personal experience, and since then further arguments have been adduced to confirm this hypothesis.18 That Polybius was prone to put his trust in Zeno’s work seems a plausible assumption not only because he ranked Zeno among the best historiographers of his age. Zeno’s political outlook is also likely to have appealed to Polybius. Since 198 at the latest, Rhodes and the Achaean League had adopted very similar policies and often co-operated closely. They had fought together against Philip V, against Nabis, and against Antiochus III; later on, they were both reluctant to fight Perseus. When in 154/3 the Rhodians needed help for the war against the Cretan League, they turned to the Achaeans.19 If one examines closely what is preserved of Polybius and those parts of Livy that are derived from him, one finds clear traces of his dependence on a Rhodian source of information that was historiographical in character. Passages derived from it stand out for their intimate knowledge of Rhodian affairs and institutions, a striking inclination and ability to refer to documents that were available in Rhodes (and, in some cases, only there),20 a disproportionate interest in the fortunes of the Rhodians, and a blatant tendency to glorify their successes and to downplay or excuse their failures. When all those clues are taken together, it is hard to escape the conclusion that Zeno has exerted a strong influence on Polybius’ representation of some major wars of the late third and early second centuries. Apart from the famous account of the earthquake of 228/7, which shows Rhodes courted by all the great powers of 17

It seems unlikely that Polybius had consulted the letter of the commanding Rhodian admiral (cf. n. 13) himself, as he had neither motive nor opportunity to do so; Polybius did not deem it necessary to base his polemic against other historiographers on independent evidence, and the notion that a foreigner had access to the Rhodian Prytaneion is hard to square with what we know about Hellenistic archives: see Wiemer 2001: 22–4. 18 Ullrich 1898; recently elaborated by Wiemer 2001 and endorsed by Walbank 2005a. 19 For a revisionist account of Rhodian foreign policy, see Wiemer 2002. The traditional view is presented in Berthold 1984. 20 Apart from the Rhodian admiral’s report referred to above, a documentary source of Rhodian provenance or pertinence seems indicated in Plb. 4. 56. 2 (Rhodian decree on helping Sinope against Mithridates); 5. 88–90 (list of donations made after the earthquake of 227, analysed by Wiemer 2001: 33–9); 25. 4. 5 (S. C. de Lyciis); 28. 17. 1–2 (Marcius Philippus’ letter to the Rhodians); 30. 23. 2–4 (S. C. de Stratonicensibus et Cauniis); 31. 5 (S. C. de Calyndiis).

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the Hellenistic world,21 his work left its mark in the following passages: (i) the events leading up to the war of the Rhodians against Philip V and the war itself;22 (ii) the war at sea against Antiochus III;23 (iii) Rhodian rule in Lycia;24 and (iv) the relations between Rhodes and Rome from the treaty of Apamea down to the treaty with Rome struck after the Third Macedonian War.25 These passages show Zeno as a patriotic historiographer who told tales of Rhodian glory and honour. He depicted his compatriots as the victims of the unprovoked aggression of Philip V, as valiant warriors and seamen, and as unselfish fighters for the welfare and liberty of all the Greeks. But he also needed to come to terms with the disastrous result of Rhodian foreign policy during the war the Romans had waged against the Macedonian king Perseus. Having actively tried to prevent the defeat of Perseus, the Rhodians fell out of favour with the Roman senate as soon as the king was vanquished, in July 168, and they feared the worst. Several years of trepidation and humiliation followed. Many Rhodian embassies went to Rome, before the senate in 164 finally deigned to offer them a treaty of alliance, albeit on unequal terms. Relations between Rome and Rhodes were thus a very sensitive issue when Zeno wrote. He offered an apologia for these traumatic events, stressing the long history of Rhodian neutrality and excusing their wavering stance during the war against Perseus as the machinations of a small proMacedonian clique that was duly punished as soon as the Rhodians came to their senses.

ZENO IN DIODORUS I: RHODIA N HISTORY BEFORE THE TR OJAN WA R We have so far come to know Zeno as a chronicler of recent events and as a political historian describing wars and feuds, battles and negotiations. This choice of subject-matter clearly endeared him to Polybius, for whom the affairs of peoples, cities, and dynasts formed the theme of the most interesting 21

Plb. 5. 88–90 with Walbank, HCP i. 616–22 and Wiemer 2001: 33–9. Polybius’ account is largely lost, but can partly be recovered from scattered fragments and allusions (esp. Plb. 13. 4–5; 15. 23. 2–6; 16. 9. 1–5; 18. 54. 7–11) and from adaptions in Diodorus (27. 3; 28. 1), in Livy (33. 18), and in Polyaenus (4. 18. 2; 5. 17. 2). For a detailed discussion, see Wiemer 2001: 59–106. 23 Antiochus’ march along the southern coast of Asia Minor: Liv. 33. 20 (P); Rhodian defeat at Panormus: Polyaen. 5. 27 (P); Liv. 37. 8–17 (P); App. Syr. 114–21; Rhodian victory at Side: Plb. 21. 10; Liv. 37. 18. 9–25. 3 (P); victory of the allies at Myonnesus: Plb. 21. 12; Liv. 37. 26–32 (P); App. Syr. 132–6. 24 Plb. 22. 5; 25. 4–5 (cf. Liv. 42. 14. 8); the case for a Rhodian source is argued by Wiemer 2001: 151–8. 25 See the references and arguments given in Wiemer 2001: 151–206. 22

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and most useful genre of historical writing.26 There was, however, another side to Zeno to which Polybius does not even allude. Though Zeno described events of his own time in great detail and with an almost ecumenical breadth of vision, his work was not a history of the world as the Greeks conceived it, but a monograph centred on Rhodes. Like so many other writers of local histories, he started not at some definite point in the recent past but somewhere in the mists of time. Even if the precise structure of Zeno’s history is irrecoverable,27 we can be sure that he dealt with the very beginnings of Rhodian history in the form of an ‘archaeology’, a narration about a primeval world supposed to have existed before the Trojan War. If we are still able to form a relatively clear picture of how Zeno depicted the earliest history of Rhodes, we owe this to Diodorus Siculus, who included an excerpt from Zeno’s history in his monumental compendium of world history.28 But for this excerpt, our knowledge of how Hellenistic Rhodians conceived the very beginnings of their history would be reduced to a few tiny and disjointed bits of information preserved in writers of the imperial period, and to what can be inferred from the famous list of dedications and epiphanies known as the ‘Lindian Chronicle’, and published as an inscription in 99 bc. This fascinating text is, however, entirely focused on the history of one single sanctuary, not on the island as a whole.29 Fortunately, Diodorus is a writer 26 The locus classicus is Plb. 9. 1–2, but there are many other relevant passages, cited and discussed in Pédech 1964: 21–32 and in Walbank 1972a: 55–8, 66–96. 27 The title #æØŒc
ÆØ points to an annalistic framework (thus, rightly, Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb [Text]: 425; IIIb [Noten]: 253 n. 5; cf. FGrHist 240 F 1 and 22; Diod. 13. 103. 5; App. Celt. 1. 8; Dion. Hal. A.R. 1. 8. 3). In the ‘Lindian Chronicle’ the second book of Zeno’s history is cited as an authority for a dedication of king Pyrrhus to Lindian Athena (I.Lindos 2, C, XL, ll. 114–21). This, however, can hardly mean that Zeno’s ‘archaeology’ occupied only the first book, if D.L. 7. 35 = FGrHist 523 T 1 has been correctly emended to yield the number of 15 books for Zeno’s work as a whole (suggested by Ullrich 1898: 13–4, reading KØ ªªæÆçg ƒ
æ Æ K Ø, endorsed with some hesitation by Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb [Text]: 435 and by Wiemer 2001: 250–1, who points out, however, that the numeral K ØÆ [eleven] is just as likely). One way out of the problem is to assume that in discussing dedications made by famous rulers Zeno anticipated events that lay far ahead in relation to the period he was dealing with, another to posit an error either by the authors of the ‘Lindian Chronicle’ or the mason who inscribed it on the stone. 28 Diod. 5. 55–59 = FGrHist 523 F 1. 29 The editio princeps (Blinkenberg 1912) includes a very full commentary which still repays consultation; the editio minor, published a few years later (Blinkenberg 1915b), has a shortenend commentary, but incorporates improvements subsequently made to the text and contains useful tables listing all the sources cited in the ‘Chronicle’. The final edition, published in 1942 as I. Lindos 2, has no commentary, but a comprehensive bibliography of literature bearing on the text; this text was reprinted by Jacoby as FGrHist 532. Higbie 2003 provides translation into English, a wealth of mythological parallels and perceptive observations on narrative patterns; her interpretations do, however, suffer from insufficient knowledge of Rhodian history and institutions: see the rightly critical reviews by Gabrielsen 2005 and Bresson 2006. The notion that the text was commissioned as a means of impressing Roman visitors to Lindus with a sense of the venerable antiquity of its most important sanctuary is implausible for two reasons: the inscription is, and always was, very difficult to read; and there is no evidence for Romans visiting Lindus in any numbers at this early date. This objection also applies to the much more nuanced interpretation

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who follows his sources closely. To be sure, for his purpose of writing a universal history in forty books ranging from the beginnings of human life on earth to Julius Caesar, he had to read widely. But in composing each one of these forty books, Diodorus usually stuck to a single authority and transformed this narrative into his own, uniform style, though he often skipped whole passages that he thought were not sufficiently interesting to be included, and from time to time supplemented his main authority by material drawn from a secondary source.30 Now Zeno is the only authority on Rhodian history that Diodorus singles out by name (Diod. 5. 56. 7). We can, therefore, be quite confident that what Diodorus writes about Rhodian origins is a faithful mirror of how Zeno narrated the beginnings of Rhodian history.31 In what follows I shall summarize his account, trying to bring out how it relates to other sources and media of collective memory. Zeno’s story opened in a very distant past indeed, in a time when the island was not yet inhabited by human beings and was not yet called Rhodes either; even the Olympian gods had yet to be born. His elaborate account of Rhodian origins showed a striking contrast with the much simpler genealogy used by Pindar in his famous ode on the Rhodian aristocrat Diagoras.32 According to Zeno the island of Rhodes had already experienced four successive ages before the Trojan War even started: first came the Age of the so-called Telchines, children of Thalatta; secondly the Age of the Heliadae, children of the sun-god Helios; thirdly the Age of the Archegetae, the founders of the three old cities on the island of Rhodes: Ialysus, Camirus, and Lindus; and fourthly and last, the Age of the Heroes, stretching down to the Trojan War. For the Telchines, Zeno was following a tradition that he himself called legendary.33 Although conceived of as a kind of demon, they were at the same of Shaya 2005, who fails to convince me that the concept of museum is a useful tool in analysing the function of a text that was inscribed on stone and displayed in a Greek sanctuary. 30 The results achieved by nineteenth-century Quellenforschung, as summarized in Eduard Schwartz’s magisterial Pauly-Wissowa article (Schwartz 1903), have not been invalidated since. That Diodorus copied his sources without making substantial changes to their narrative structure or the value judgements they express is conceded even by Sacks 1994, who claims originality only for Diodorus’ prefaces. Even this is debatable, I believe, but need not be argued here. 31 Thus Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb (Text): 435 with IIIb (Noten): 257 nn. 13 and 14; Wiemer 2001: 207. Lenfant 2005: 201–3 opines that in the Rhodian ‘archaeology’ Diodorus combined several sources to create an original piece of writing, but this hypothesis does not account for his usual method of working. A strong case for believing that even the switch from direct to indirect reporting that is so conspicuous a feature of Diodorus’ first five books is more a reflection of the sources Diodorus used than of his own judgement on the traditions he relates was made by Volkmann 1955. 32 Pind. Ol. 7. In Pindar, Rhodos and Helios have seven sons, and from one of them the eponyms of the three old Rhodian cities descend: ll. 71–5. According to Gorgon FGrHist 515 F 18, the poem had been inscribed with golden letters and dedicated in the sanctuary of Lindian Athena. The conclusion that the dedication was still on display when Zeno wrote would be unsafe, however, as it is not mentioned in the ‘Lindian Chronicle’. 33 Diod. 5. 55. 1: ‰ › FŁ Ææ øŒ.

Gigantes or Ignetes Thalatta

six sons (Telchines) among them Lycus who emigrates to the Xanthus-valley

Halia (Leucothea)

six sons (eastern demons)

Deluge

Fig. 1. Period 1: The Age of the Telchines

Poseidon

Rhodos

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time regarded as cultural heroes who had discovered certain arts and made inventions useful to mankind.34 In particular, the Telchines had been the first to craft statues of the gods. This was the reason why, Zeno explained, in all three old cities of Rhodes certain statues of gods were still called after them.35 In Zeno’s account, the nymph Rhodos—known to every Rhodian from depictions on local bronze coins36—was not a daughter of Aphrodite, as Pindar (Ol. 7. 13) had asserted, but one of the seven children Poseidon had from Halia, a sister of the Telchines. Her six brothers, by contrast, were rather sinister figures: when they raped their own mother, Poseidon had no choice but to bury his wayward sons beneath the earth. The significance of this story for understanding the present was again spelled out explicitly: the sons of Poseidon had after their burial been called ‘Eastern Demons’, and their mother, Halia, was revered as Leucothea because after the rape she had leapt into the sea out of shame.37 The Age of the Telchines was terminated by a great flood. The Telchines, though, had left the island in advance and were scattered: one of them, named Lycus, went to Lycia on the southern coast of Asia Minor, where he dedicated a temple of Apollo.38 Most of the inhabitants, however, perished in the disaster, with only the sons of Zeus finding rescue in the upper regions of the island. This is the last we hear of these mysterious beings; Zeno obviously felt bound to mention them, but found no satisfactory way of integrating them in his overall scheme.39 The account of the next age, that of the Heliadae, opened with a discussion about how the island became inhabitable again. Here again Zeno showed himself to be a rationalist: in his opinion, the story that Helios, having fallen in love with the nymph Rhodos, had personally caused the water to disappear was merely a legend. He preferred a natural explanation: the sun had quite simply dried the earth from its wetness and thereby caused living creatures to spring up.40 Despite this reservation, however, Zeno did not call into doubt the existence of those ‘sons of the sun’ celebrated by Pindar, and he even gave them a sister

34 The Telchines as demons: Diod. 5. 55. 3. Zeno compared them to the Magi of Persia. On the concept of cultural hero in the Greek world, see the excellent overview in Thraede 1962, which reaches far beyond the classical period covered in the study of Kleingünther 1933. 35 Diod. 5. 55. 2: an Apollo Telchinius in Lindus, a Hera Telchinia and Nymphae Telchiniae in Ialysus, and a Hera Telchinia in Camirus. 36 Diod. 5. 55. 4. Zeno implicitly refuted Pindar’s version by asserting that the Telchines had prevented Aphrodite from landing on Rhodian shores. On the nymph Rhodos, see Robert 1967: 7–14. 37 Diod. 5. 55. 6–7, esp. 7. 38 Diod. 5. 56. 1–2. It is not clear whether this is a reference to the temple of Apollo at Patara (on which see Frei 1990: 1757–60) or the even more famous Letoon at Xanthus (ibid. 1747–53). 39 In Diod. 5. 55. 5 these are said to have been sons of the nymph Himalia and called by the names of Spartacus, Cronius, and Cytus. 40 Diod. 5. 56. 2–3.

Rhodos

Actis

Heliopolis (city of the sun) in Egypt

Alectrona (heroized)

Helios

Tenages (slain)

Ochimus

Hegetoria

Cydippe (= Cyrbia)

Great Flood

Fig. 2. Period 2: The Age of the Heliadae (sons of ‘Helios’)

Macar

Triopium

Lesbus

Candalus

Cos

other autochthonous peoples

Cercaphus

Foundation of Cyrbe = Achaïa

Triopas

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that was unknown to the poet: Alectrona. Zeno affirmed that the island had in consequence of these events come to be considered sacred to Helios, and that the Rhodians of later times had persevered in honouring Helios more than any other god, regarding him as the ancestor from whom they ultimately descended;41 he also mentioned that Alectrona was the recipient of a heroic cult which happens to be attested epigraphically, too.42 Alectrona, however, was of minor importance when compared to Helios, whose portrait adorned the city’s silver coins.43 The most magnificent festival of Hellenistic Rhodes was celebrated in his honour,44 and his priesthood was more prestigious than any other in the Rhodian state.45 The need to have his cult anchored in the very distant past was therefore felt very strongly—notwithstanding the fact that it cannot have been of pan-Rhodian significance before the synoecism of 407/8. To explain the fireless sacrifices offered to Athena Lindia—whose sanctuary was one of the glories of Hellenistic Rhodes46—Zeno refined a story that in outline was already familiar from Pindar (Ol. 7. 39–51). In Pindar, the Heliadae simply forget to bring fire when they climb up the acropolis to offer sacrifice. In Zeno, the story is more complex and more dramatic. According to him, Helios staged a contest between the inhabitants of Rhodos and those of Attica, promising to grant the continual presence of Athena to whoever would be the first to offer sacrifice to the goddess. His sons, the Heliadae, performed the sacrifice on the spot, but in their haste forgot to put fire beneath the victims. The Athenian king Cecrops, on the other hand, performed the sacrifice over fire, as was usual in the Greek world, but later than his Rhodian rivals.47 Once again Zeno did not leave it to his readers to draw the conclusions, obvious though they were: he commented that this story explained both why the Rhodians (in Lindus) to his day sacrificed to Athena in this peculiar way, and how the goddess had come to take her abode on the island. The Lindian cult of Athena was thus shown to be older than any other in the whole Greek world, and thus more venerable even than the cult of Athena housed in the Erechtheum on the acropolis of Athens. Not only were the Heliadae the first to offer sacrifice to Athena; according to Zeno, they also surpassed all other men in learning, and especially in astrology. 41

Ibid. 4. Ibid. 5. We know from the ‘sacred law’ Syll.3 338 = LSS 145 that the cult was located in Ialysus. 43 On these coins which were minted in large quantities, see Ashton 2001. 44 The evidence is collected in Morelli 1959: 15–20. 45 The fundamental study, based on the long lists of priests discovered in 1944 (SEG 12, 360), is still Morricone 1953; see now also Habicht 2003. 46 On the sanctuary, see Dyggve 1960 and Lippolis 1993. 47 Diod. 5. 56. 5–7, esp. 7. From Schol. Pind. Ol. 7. 86a, we learn that Apollonius Rhodius— who is known to have written a Œ
Ø    ı—had given a completely different explanation for this peculiarity of Lindian cult—Athena’s hatred of Hephaestus because of his marriage to Aphrodite—which Zeno discarded in favour of Pindar’s. 42

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They introduced many improvements in seamanship and established the division of the day into hours. Zeno thus extended the claim of Rhodian priority to fields of knowledge that many Greeks regarded as adopted from Egypt.48 Zeno even went so far as to claim that the Egyptians—far from having taught the laws of astrology to the Greeks—had themselves learned them from Rhodians. To buttress this claim, he enlarged on a story which had several sons of Helios fleeing the island after they had slain their brother Tenages: one of the murderers sailed off to Egypt, where he founded the city of Heliopolis, the city of the sun, and taught astrology to Egyptians. If the Greeks had lost all memory of this Rhodian achievement, Zeno contended, it was because a disastrous flood among Greeks had destroyed all documents that could have furnished proof of the priority of Rhodian astrology, and had even extinguished the art of writing from the Greek world entirely. Since this theory presupposed the use of writing by Greeks long before the Trojan War, he went on immediately to demonstrate that the widespread belief in the Phoenician origins of Greek script was also mistaken. Zeno also came up with an explanation as to how this misconception, shared by many Greek authors from Herodotus onwards,49 could have taken root among the Greeks themselves: by the time Cadmus brought the Phoenician alphabet to Greece, all memory of the earlier Greek script had vanished completely as a result of the flood.50 While four of the Heliadae fled Rhodes after the murder of their brother Tenages,51 two, who had not taken part in the crime, Cercaphus and Ochimus, stayed on the island and together founded the city of Achaïa, which confusingly was also called Cyrbe. Although Diodorus’ excerpt is at this point so condensed as to be almost incomprehensible,52 there is little doubt that Zeno 48

On Egypt in Archaic and Classical Greek literature, see Froidefond 1971. Astronomy was said to be an Egyptian invention by Hecataeus of Abdera FGrHist 264 F 25. 49 Hdt. 5. 58–9. A rival theory that credited Danaus with giving script to the Greeks originated with Hecataeus FGrHist 1 F 20. For Greek views on the invention of Greek script, see the study of Jeffery 1967. Greek traditions about Cadmus are surveyed in Edwards 1979: 17–44. 50 Diod. 5. 57. 2–5. Zeno added that Saïs, an Athenian colony in Egypt, was later forgotten for the same reason. 51 Zeno gave their names and might have told their stories: Apart from Actis, who sailed off to Egypt, he mentioned Macar coming to Lesbos and Candalus going to Cos; he also related that Triopas took possession of a Carian promontory and thereby became the eponym of the Triopium, the common sanctuary of the Dorian cities of Caria. Macar’s story also seems to have a political point: since all cities of Lesbos traced their origin back to this mythic king, the version that has him originating from Rhodes might have been brought up when we know the Lesbian koinon was allied to Rhodes: see IG XII Suppl. 120 (on which see Labarre 1996: 69–88, Wiemer 2002: 290). 52 In Diodorus’ account (5. 57. 6–8) king Ochimus marries the nymph Hegetoria from whom he has a daugther called Cydippe, who is later renamed Cyrbia. In a second marriage she is wife to Cercaphus and bears him three sons: Ialysus, Camirus, and Lindus. We are then told that a city called Cyrbe was buried beneath a flood without any explanation being given as to how it had come into being or how it was related to Achaïa, which has vanished from sight completely. It is clear from Plut. Mor. 297c that there was an elaborate mythology around Cyrbe (and

Cydippe = Cyrbia Cercaphus

Lindus

Ialysus

Polis Lindus

sojourn of

Danaus

Temple of Athena in Lindus

Polis Ialysus

sojourn of

Cadmus

Temple of Poseidon in Ialysus Plague of serpents

Fig. 3. Period 3: The Age of the Archegetae (‘Founders’)

Camirus

Polis Camirus

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regarded this first city to be founded on Rhodian soil as a forerunner of Ialysus, the acropolis of which was called Achaïa in his own time.53 The city of Achaïa did not, however, survive for very long. Its first king, Ochimus, was succeeded by his brother Cercaphus, who in turn had three sons, Ialysus, Camirus, and Lindus. They were later to become the founders of the homonymous cities on Rhodes after a second deluge had submerged the city their father had ruled. This was, according to Zeno, the end of the Age of the Heliadae.54 The Age of the Archegetae saw the foundation of three old cities of Rhodes.55 Although their eponymous founders are barely mentioned in Diodorus’ excerpt, they demonstrably held a prominent place in the collective memory of Hellenistic Rhodians. Not only were Camirus, Ialysus, and Lindus among the deities to whom the assembly of Rhodian citizens prayed when solemnly ratifying treaties,56 but each of the three received cultic honours in the city he was supposed to have founded.57 In this period Zeno placed two further episodes relating to the origins of Rhodian sanctuaries. By crediting the Egyptian Danaus with the foundation of both the temple and the statue of Lindian Athena, he clearly placed panhellenic knowledge above local tradition, even though the latter, too, had by his time presumably been transformed into literature, albeit of an antiquarian character.58 Readers of Herodotus knew that Athena’s temple in Lindus had been founded by Danaus’ daughters, and connoisseurs of poetry probably remembered that Callimachus had ascribed her wooden cult image to Danaus himself.59 Zeno, however, went for a version Cercaphus), and the temptation to connect her in some way to the gods who on Rhodes were called Cyrbantes was surely too strong to be resisted since they had public cults in both Camirus (T.Cam. 90, I, l. 34) and in the city of Rhodos itself (IG XII 8, 6; Segre 1949: 73). 53 For Achaïa as an old name of Ialysus, see the evidence cited in Pugliese Carratelli 1981, even if his attempt to restore it in the ‘Periplus’ of Scylax (}99) is dubious. The name was also used by Ergias FGrHist 513 F 1 = Ath. 8. 61, 360d-e in his ‘History of Rhodes’. 54 Diod. 5. 57. 6–8. Excessive compression might be the reason why Diodorus says so little about Cercaphus and his sons. A cult of Cercaphus is now attested by two olpai from the late sixth century with graffiti that were found in the deposit of a sanctuary at Ialysus (SEG 46, 989). 55 It seems characteristic of Diodorus’ method of working that in 4. 58. 8, where he does not follow Zeno, he gives a completely different account, naming Tlepolemus as founder of the three Rhodian cities. 56 Staatsverträge III 551, ll. 1–4 (treaty between Rhodes and Hierapytna). 57 The evidence for the cult of Lindus has been collected by Morelli 1959: 59–69; the cult of Camirus is attested by T.Cam. 81b, l. 1. Zeno does not seem to have mentioned Camirus’ daughter Alce, who in the imperial period received the dedication T.Cam. 147. Epigraphical evidence for the cult of Ialysus has not so far turned up, but we know that the famous painter Protogenes drew a portrait of him: see Işık and Marek 1997: 65–74. 58 The ‘Lindian Chronicle’ refers to a speech on Lindus (¸Ø ØÆŒ ) by a certain Eudemus (FGrHist 524 F 1–4) and a book ‘On Rhodes’ by an author called Phaennus (FGrHist 525 F 1). 59 Hdt. 2. 182. 2; likewise Marmor Parium (FGrHist 239) A 8; Strab. 14. 2. 11. For the wooden image of Lindian Athena, see Callim. fr. 100. 4 Pfeiffer and further testimonies discussed by Blinkenberg 1917, to which a papyrus dating from around 100 bc (P.Schubart 34, col. II) can now be added, if in line 1 the name of Danaus has been supplemented correctly by Pugliese Carratelli 1955. In Diogenes Laertius (1. 89) the foundation of the temple is ascribed to Danaus himself.

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in which Danaus—miraculously driven to Rhodes by a storm at sea—alone gets credit for both achievements.60 This version cannot reflect what the Lindians themselves considered to be the true origins of their sanctuary, because Danaus is never mentioned in the numerous inscriptions preserved from this sanctuary or at least in the ‘Lindian Chronicle’. Zeno’s preference for information vouched for by literary sources with a wider circulation also explains his inclusion of a dedication to Lindian Athena supposedly made by the Phoenician Cadmus, since the detailed description Zeno gives is in all probability drawn from a written source; it demonstrably featured in other works of Rhodian historiography also, but is very unlikely to have been on display in Hellenistic Lindus.61 But Cadmus’ primary function in Zeno’s account was to act as founder of the temple of Poseidon in Ialysus. In this case, Zeno clearly followed local tradition, as he himself is eager to emphasize that the priests who served this sanctuary in his day were descendants of the men Cadmus had left behind. It looks, though, as if Zeno made a radical selection from the material that was available to him, since we know that other Rhodian historiographers indulged in dramatic tales about how the Phoenicians had been besieged on the acropolis of Ialysus and were finally forced to leave the island.62 Zeno seems to have been content with constructing a narration that testified to the venerable antiquity of a Rhodian sanctuary by linking it to a figure of the distant past, who, to many Greeks, was a common point of reference.63 The Age of the Founders came to an end when a plague of serpents broke out that caused the death of many of the inhabitants.64 This time, however, not all was lost that had been achieved before. The three cities and some of their inhabitants survived into the new age, the Age of the Heroes. In this period several tribes from the Greek mainland immigrated, whose leaders held a

60 As Zeno has three of the Danaids dying on Lindian soil, one might speculate that their graves were shown on the spot, but this hypothesis does not account for the non-Lindian provenance of the story. 61 Diod. 5. 58. 3; I.Lindos 2, B, no. III, ll. 15–17 = Polyzelus FGrHist 521 F 1. Cadmus’ dedication is listed among the items that are described in the past tense. 62 Ath. 8. 61, 360d–361c = Ergias FGrHist 513 F 1 and Polyzelus FGrHist 521 F 6. As Ergias mentioned treasures the Phoenicians had buried when they left one wonders whether objects that were said to come from them may have been on display in Hellenistic Ialysus. Polyzelus added an erotic touch to the story of the siege by having the daughter of the Phoenician commander fall in love with Iphiclus, the leader of the Ialysians. Whether Polyzelus used this motif to explain the supposed Phoenician extraction of Ialysian families in which the priesthood of Zeus was hereditary (see next note) is for us impossible to tell. 63 Diod. 5. 58. 2–3, esp. 3. 64 Here again it is probable that Diodorus has suppressed much of what Zeno wrote. We know from other sources that  Oç ı

Æ was an epithet applied to Rhodos, and still find traces of aetiologies for this: Heracl. Pont. FHG II, 222 F XXXIII; Polyzelus FGrHist 521 F 7 = Hyg. Astron. 2. 14; Strab. 14. 2. 7; Plin. Nat. 5. 132; Steph. Byz. s. v.     . See further Blinkenberg 1915a: 289–303, Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb (Text): 433.

1) Immigration of Thessalians led by Phorbas

Hero-cult for Phorbas

Althaemenes

Cult of Zeus Atabyrius

2) Immigration of Cretans led by

3) Immigration of Argives led by Hero-cult for Tlepolemus

Tlepolemus

Link with Homer

Fig. 4. Period 4: The Age of the Heroes

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prominent place in the collective memory of the Hellenistic Rhodians. The first to come were Thessalians, whose leader, Phorbas, had been recommended to the Rhodians by the oracle of Apollo on Delos.65 According to Zeno, Phorbas was accorded heroic honours because he destroyed the serpents and proved himself to be a virtuous man in many other respects.66 Some time later the Cretan Althaemenes arrived on Rhodes wishing to circumvent an oracle that predicted he would slay his own father. Inevitably he did not succeed in escaping from his fate. He did, however, found a temple of Zeus on Mount Atabyrus, where in Zeno’s day representatives of the three old Rhodian cities met to celebrate the cult of Zeus Atabyrius.67 Zeno did not need to spell out the conclusion that the heroic honours Althaemenes received in Hellenistic Camirus were well deserved.68 The third and last of the heroes to arrive on Rhodes hailed from Argos in the Peloponnese. Shortly before the Trojan War Tlepolemus, a son of Heracles, having slain his own father, immigrated to Rhodes. He quickly became king of the whole island, carried out an equal distribution of the land, and ruled equitably in every other respect, too. Being a responsible ruler, Tlepolemus left behind a regent to make sure that there would be no power vacuum in his absence before he finally set out to fight the Trojans. The excerpt ends with the remark that in the Trojan War Tlepolemus gained great fame for himself and met his death in the Troad. This is surely due to Diodorus rather than Zeno; the Rhodian historiographer cannot have wished to give the impression that there was a gap between the distant and the more recent past of Rhodes. Tlepolemus was a hero known all over the Greek world as his memory was enshrined in Homer’s Iliad.69 For the Rhodians, however, he was special. The ‘Lindian Chronicle’ lists a dedication supposedly made before he went to 65 Again the choice of a presiding goddess reflects contemporary concerns: on Hellenistic Rhodes, Delian Apollo had its own priest—at Camirus (T.Cam. 50, l. 25; T.Cam. 90, I, l. 28)— and Delos was the religious centre of the Cyclades over which the Rhodians had during the early second century exerted a kind of protectorate until the Nesiotic League dissolved in the aftermath of the Third Macedonian War: on this, see Wiemer 2002: 271–6, where the earlier literature is cited. 66 Diod. 5. 58. 4–5. The Rhodian cult of Phorbas is not as yet epigraphically attested, but the Rhodian author Polyzelus FGrHist 521 F 7 = Hyg. Astron. 2. 14 related that Rhodians used to sacrifice to him whenever they went on a journey by the sea. Polyzelus, like Zeno, connected Phorbas to the serpent plague, but used a different genealogy as he called him a son of Triopas, while in Zeno’s account Phorbas is a son of Helios. Dieuchidas of Megara FGrHist 485 F 7 = Ath. 6. 82, 262e–263b told a story that explained why in Ialysus slaves were not allowed to participate in Phorbas’ cult. 67 A list of theoroi has been preserved: T.Cam. App. 19 and 20 with SEG 49, 1070. The sanctuary was excavated in the 1920s, but the results were never properly published: Jacopich 1928: 88–91. 68 Diod. 5. 59. 1–4. A priesthood of Althaemenes in Camirus is known from two inscriptions dating to the first half of the second century bc: T.Cam. 50, l. 36; T.Cam. 90, II, l. 20. 69 Hom. Il. 2. 653–70. On the early development of this legend, see the excellent account in Prinz 1979: 78–95.

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Troy, and another made by his companions from the booty they had taken from the Trojans; for both no less than three Rhodian authorities are given.70 In Rhodos, Tlepolemus received sacrifice in a sanctuary of his own, where his grave was shown, and was honoured by a festival with athletic contests that bore his name.71 The reason why Hellenistic Rhodians considered his memory to be so important is not hard to find: since Tlepolemus had been the leader of a strong and united island, his reign furnished decisive proof that what Hellenistic Rhodians, especially those of the political elite, were proud of—a unitary state, well governed, and capable of leading an independent foreign policy—had already been achieved before the Trojan War. His story thus strengthened the conviction that the Hellenistic present was the fulfilment of what Rhodians had always striven for. The very distant past was shown to be in accordance with present ideals and aspirations, and thus confirmed the belief in a collective identity inherited from the island’s forefathers; in substance, so the message ran, we are what we’ve always been. For us, Zeno’s ‘Archaeology’ is an instructive example of how the distant past could be put to use in Hellenistic Rhodes. His literary method is typical for writers of monographs on peoples and cities. Zeno tried to systematize widely differing, often flatly contradictory, traditions about the earliest history of his home town by bringing them into a genealogical order. Not content, however, with working out a chronological scheme for Rhodian prehistory based on genealogy, he divided his timeframe into four successive stages that were separated by natural catastrophes. This somewhat artificial construct presumably appealed to his readers, as the idea that in the distant past whole civilizations had been wiped out by recurrent cataclysms was current among educated Hellenistic Greeks.72 In telling his story, Zeno made use of established narrative patterns like sea-storms, oracles, killings of relatives, or love affairs of

70 I.Lindos 2, B, VI, ll. 37–41; B, IX, ll. 54–61. The authorities cited are Gorgon’s monograph ‘On Rhodes’ FGrHist 515 F 5 and 7 and letters by the Lindian priests Gorgosthenes FGrHist 529 F 5 and 7 and Hierobulus FGrHist 530 F addressed to the local board of officials called Æ
æ . 71 Pind. Ol. 7. 77–82; Schol. Pind. Ol. 7. 36c; 141c. Kowalzig 2007: 247–9 canvasses the idea that this festival in honour of Tlepolemus was later transformed into one that in Hellenistic inscriptions (SER 18, l. 9; NS 18, l. 15; I.Lindos 222, l. 6; 707, l. 4) is called  ¯ØçØÆ and might have been celebrated in memory of the war-dead. This is implausible in view of the fact that an agonistic inscription from Cedreae in the Rhodian Peraia dating to the early second century bc lists $ºÆºØÆ: Syll.3 1067 = IAG 50 = I.Peraia 555 = I.Pérée 5, l. 8. 72 The idea that whole civilizations had in the past been swept away without trace by recurrent cataclysms was rooted in the myths of Deucalion and Phaethon, and had in the fourth century been espoused by both Plato (Tim. 22b–23c; Crit. 104d–e; 109d–e; Laws 677a) and Aristotle (Meteor. 352a–353a; Metaph. 1074b). Polybius (6. 5. 4–6) took it for granted: see further Guthrie 1957: 25–6, 63–9. The early Stoics, on the other hand, believed in periodic destructions of the cosmos brought about by universal conflagrations; see e.g. Mansfeld 1979.

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all sorts, from incest to rape.73 Sea-storms were a stock device for moving people to places where they had no obvious rationale to be; oracles, crimes, and love affairs conveniently supplied motives for acts that could otherwise not easily be accounted for, and provided ample opportunity for dramatization. Zeno was eager to bring out the relevance that events and figures of the distant past held for his own time, and often asserted an unbroken chain of continuity between the present and the very beginnings of Rhodian history. He pushed Rhodian claims of being a Greek polis with an unimpeachable pedigree and an outstanding record of achievements by ascribing venerable antiquity to many Rhodian cults and institutions, and by claiming Rhodian priority in many accomplishments in the arts and sciences. As an educated Hellenistic Greek, he showed a predilection for natural causes as explanations of cultural developments, and tended to reject stories based on an anthropomorphical conception of the divine. His scepticism, however, was limited to the earliest phase of Rhodian prehistory, and did not lead to his denying the historicity of mythical events and figures in principle. To be sure, this attitude to the distant past had been characteristic of Greek historical writing since its beginnings; even Thucydides believed that there was a kernel of truth in the tales told by epic poets.74 Polybius regarded monographs on genealogies, foundations, and kinship ties between cities as inferior to his own work, not because he believed that these types of history-writing belonged to the realm of fiction but because, in his opinion, they were bound to be either derivative or disingenuous and had no practical value for mastering contemporary problems.75 In this respect, Zeno diverges sharply from Polybius: for Zeno the distant past was heavily loaded with social meaning, serving to explain how the institutions and ideals of the present were deeply rooted in the past and were to furnish models of behaviour for the future.

ZENO IN DIODORUS II: THE GLORIOUS DEFENCE AGAINST DEMETRIUS The argument so far developed can be carried one stage further, if it is correct that Diodorus took his account of the famous siege of Rhodos by Demetrius from Zeno also.76 On this hypothesis, which cannot be argued here but may 73

These patterns are analysed in detail by Higbie 2003: 204–42. Thuc. 1. 2–12 (‘archaeology’); cf. 2. 68. 3 (Amphilochus); 2. 102. 5–6 (Alcmeon, son of Amphiaraus). 75 Plb. 9. 2. 1–3; 34. 4. 1–4 (history in Homer); cf. 2. 41. 3–5 (Tisamenus, son of Orestes); 4. 33. 1–6 (the Aristomenean war); 34. 2–4 (Odysseus). Polybius is non-commital, however, as to Jason (4. 39. 6) and openly sceptical as to Io (4. 43. 6). 76 Diod. 20. 81–8, 91. 1–100. 4. The fragmentary account of the siege in the Berlin Ägyptisches Museum Papyrus no. 11632, edited with a commentary by Hiller von Gaertringen 1918 and 74

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gain some confirmation from the analysis that follows, it is possible to reconstruct yet another facet of his work: the way he dealt with events that firmly belong to the realm of history as we understand that term, but which also, in the collective memory of Hellenistic Rhodians, served as a patriotic myth. For them, the victorious defence against Demetrius Poliorcetes not only marked a turning-point in their recent history.77 It was above all a symbol of those political virtues they considered most important. Soon after the events they had erected the gigantic Colossus to serve as a memorial to their victory; an epigram incised on its base depicted the Rhodians as valiant and victorious descendants of Heracles with an ancestral claim to leadership on both land and sea.78 Though the Colossus fell down in consequence of the earthquake of 228/7, its impressive ruins remained visible all through the Hellenistic period.79 Another memorial to the siege has only recently been uncovered by archaeologists: in a sanctuary below the acropolis of Rhodos more than 1,000 large bullets left behind by the Macedonian artillery were carefully piled up to remind posterity of how the Rhodians had defeated an enemy whose resources were seemingly inexhaustible.80 Admittedly, we know nothing about the commemorative practices associated with these sites of memory. We do, however, have explicit evidence that there was an institutionalized framework ensuring that the siege was duly remembered each and every year, since a festival in honour of Ptolemy I—who had been instrumental in warding off the Antigonid attack—is known to have been celebrated into the second century bc. There can be no doubt, therefore, that these momentous events were remembered by means of public ritual.81

reprinted by Jacoby as FGrHist 533 no. 2, goes back to the same source, but preserves details Diodorus cut out. That the common source of Diodorus and the Berlin papyrus was an author from Rhodes seems clear and is generally acknowledged. The hypothesis that this author was Zeno has the merit of being economical given that he is the only Rhodian historiographer to be cited by Diodorus. Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb (Noten): 256 entertained the possibility that knowledge of the Rhodian source behind Diodorus was mediated by Agatharchides of Cnidus, but on that assumption it is hard to explain why Diodorus preserves so much detail of purely local significance as that kind of material tends to be reduced in the process of adapting a source to a new context. The question is discussed at length in Wiemer 2001: 222–50. 77 On the course of events see e.g. Berthold 1984: 66–80 or Wiemer 2002: 78–94. 78 AP. 6. 171 (on which see Wiemer 2011: 131–3). 79 To the textual sources collected in Hebert 1989: 16–45 no. Q 28–103 can now be added an epigram by the poet Posidippus that has recently been deciphered on a papyrus in Milan (P.Mil. Vogl. VIII 309) and is now conveniently accessible in Austin and Bastianini 2002; its historical significance is discussed in Wiemer 2011: 129–30. 80 Kantzia 1999. The engines of war and the huge amount of ordnance at Demetrius’ disposal are strongly emphasized in the literary tradition, and seem to have been a topos of Rhodian memory culture: Diod. 20. 82. 4, 83. 1, 85–8, 91. 1–92. 1, 5; FGrHist 533 no. 2, ll. 2–12; Diod. 20. 93. 5 (engineers), 95. 1–3, 96. 3–97. 4, 6–7. In Diod. 20. 97. 1–2 Demetrius has the missiles hurled by the Rhodians collected and counted; their number is given as more than 800 fire missiles and more than 1,500 catapult bolts. 81 Diod. 20. 100. 3–4; Gorgon FGrHist 519 F 9 = Ath. 15. 52, 696f. A priest of Ptolemy appears in a list of magistrates dating to the early second century bc, edited by Segre 1941: 30 l. 16–17.

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Reading Diodorus’ account as an adaptation of Zeno’s, we see that after Rhodian policy during the Third Macedonian War had ended in disaster, the memory of the great siege by Demetrius took on additional layers of meaning. Of course, it was still conceived as providing shining examples of timeless virtues such as valour or public spirit. For Zeno, however, the story also served an apologetic aim: he wanted to demonstrate from history that Rhodian policy had always been guided by firm principles and directed towards the common good of all Greeks. Consequently, he prefaced his narrative of the siege with a programmatic declaration as to the principles of Rhodian policy: being strong in sea-power and having the best government among all the Greeks, the city of the Rhodians had thrived because it had always, according to Zeno, preserved an independent stance among the great powers, and at the same time undertaken a relentless war against piracy on behalf of all the Greeks. Out of respect for such noble spirit and dependability, Alexander had promoted the Rhodians to a commanding position, and honoured them above all other cities by depositing his testament on the island.82 For Zeno, Alexander’s testament, which we know (and many contemporaries presumably suspected) to have been forged on Rhodes,83 constituted documentary proof of the esteem in which the Rhodians had been held by the greatest of all kings. After Alexander’s death, Zeno added, the Rhodians were friends with all kings and dynasts, though for economic reasons they had a special relationship with Ptolemy of Egypt.84 The story that Zeno went on to tell about the origins of the war between Antigonus and Demetrius on the one hand, and his country on the other, was designed to confirm the programmatic statements made in the introduction. Needless to say, for Zeno as for his compatriots, the Rhodians had been the victims of unprovoked aggression. Zeno laid the guilt for the war squarely at Antigonus’ door: the king had tried to compel the Rhodians to betray their principles by participating in his war against Ptolemy of Egypt. Even so, the Rhodians had tried to reach a compromise with the king right up to the last minute, only to find that he was increasing his demands as soon as they acceded to his original request. In the end, the Rhodians had no choice but to fight the huge army Antigonus’ son Demetrius led against the island.85

82

Diod. 20. 81. 1–4, on which see Wiemer 2001: 222–31. On the testament of Alexander, Merkelbach 1977: 121–51 is still fundamental. 84 A papyrus in Cologne (P.Köln VI 247) preserves remnants of an account of how Ptolemy was proclaimed king that stresses the special relationship between him and the Rhodians and would, therefore, seem to come from a Rhodian historiographer. Lehmann 1988 has identified this author with Zeno, but as the Cologne papyrus diverges from Diodorus’ account in several points it seems more likely that it derives from another Rhodian author, e.g. Antisthenes, who depicted the events in a broadly similar but not identical way (thus Wiemer 2001: 231–8). 85 Diod. 20. 82. 1–4. 83

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There is neither space nor need to re-tell here the story of the siege as it was narrated by Zeno. Instead I should like to comment on the way the narrative is constructed and the messages it conveys. The most conspicuous feature of Zeno’s narrative is dramatization by means of creating empathy with the besieged and building up suspense. Not only was the story told from the point of view of the Rhodians, but time and again the reader was made to feel the anxiety that the onslaught of a superior enemy caused among them. To give but one example, in a sort of Homeric teichoscopy, Zeno related how the sight of Demetrius’ huge armada crossing over from Caria to Rhodes struck fear and panic into those watching from the city, with soldiers awaiting the enemy on the walls and women and old men looking on from their homes.86 Zeno was a writer who knew full well that even the most patriotic of tales cannot hold the same level of suspense for long without becoming monotonous and dull. To make the narration more varied, he divided his plot into three major blocks clearly separated from each other: the battle in the harbour, the fight against the famous siege engine known as Helepolis, and the subsequent attack on the walls.87 The first section is divided from the second by an elaborate description of the Helepolis in the manner of an ekphrasis, and by a complex portrait of Demetrius as a character,88 while a lively description of an assembly of the Rhodians is placed between the second and the third section. Each of the three narrations is thus self-contained in the sense that it has its own beginning and end, and rises from a low level of suspense to a climax. It was within these three narrations that Zeno deployed his art to the full. The narrative is carefully structured so as to give the reader the impression he is himself living through the events. Dramatic reversals of fortune let him experience the full range of emotions, from anxiety and fear to relief and joy. Clever retardations prevent the story from reaching its climax prematurely and allow the reader to gain a moment’s respite before the final denouement is reached. All this was artful story-telling in the service of patriotic historiography. Another feature that leaps to the eye is the frequency with which the main narrative is interspersed with short episodes of the heroic deeds of Rhodian warriors. Whereas the soldiers of Demetrius are rarely mentioned by name and, if so, only to record their being killed or taken prisoner, many Rhodian 86

Diod. 20. 83. 2; cf. 88. 8. Diod. 20. 82. 4–84. 6, 85–8, 91. 1–100. 4. 88 Diod. 20. 91. 1–8 (Helepolis), 92. 1–5 (Demetrius). As both the description of the Helepolis and the portrayal of Demetrius’ character have close parallels in Plutarch’s life of Demetrius (2. 3; 19. 6; 21. 1–2) which is based on Hieronymus of Cardia, it seems likely that Zeno drew on Hieronymus, too (thus S. Hornblower 1981: 57–9, Wiemer 2001: 248–50). Hieronymus also mentioned the royal robes sent off by Phila to Demetrius that the Rhodians intercepted and passed on to Ptolemy: cf. Diod. 20. 93. 4 with Plut. Demetr. 21. 1. 87

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warriors are immortalized with brief narratives of their heroism and courage. The Rhodian general Amyntas, for example, was praised for having seized many freighters carrying ordnance for Demetrius and having captured eleven engineers famous for their skill in making missiles and catapults.89 Later on, he fought a battle against three ships manned by people whom Zeno regarded as pirates, and captured all three with their crews.90 The loyalty of Athenagoras, a mercenary from Miletus who served as commander of the Rhodian guard, was depicted with loving detail: when some of Demetrius’ men tried to bribe him into betraying the Rhodians, he pretended to consent, only to hand over to the Rhodian authorities the emissary sent by Demetrius to sign the final agreement. Zeno was careful to record that Athenagoras was duly honoured with a golden crown and the gift of 5 talents.91 It seems unnecessary to multiply examples92 as the overall impression is clear: Zeno laid out before his readers a whole gallery of portraits devoted to the men who, by their valour, had saved Rhodos from falling into slavery and thereby enabled future generations to enjoy a life in freedom. The assertion that Zeno was a patriotic historian and an artful writer should not, however, be taken to mean that he did not bother with evidence. On the contrary, in narrating the siege he displays knowledge of several documents that presumably were either on public display in the city of Rhodos or available in Rhodian archives (or both). Zeno referred to spoils the Rhodians had dedicated to their gods and to statues they had erected in honour of Cassander and Lysimachus, summarized Rhodian decrees passed as emergency measures when the siege began, paraphrased honorific decrees awarded to fighters who had shown exceptional bravery, and quoted from an oracle the Rhodians had received from Ammon at Siwa and from the treaty they had concluded with Demetrius.93 Zeno clearly shared the concern for 89

90 Diod. 20. 93. 5. Diod. 20. 97. 5. FGrHist 533 no. 2, ll. 12–48; Diod. 20. 94. 4–5. The Berlin papyrus is more detailed than Diodorus. 92 Diod. 20. 88. 3–7 (the Rhodian nauarchos Exacestus); 93. 2 (Demophilus); 93. 3–4 (Menedemus). In other cases, Diodorus seems to have compressed such an aristeia into one single, laudatory sentence on a Rhodian magistrate who gave his life fighting for his countrymen: Diod. 20. 97. 7 (the strategos Ameinias); 20. 98. 9 (the prytanis Damoteles). In Diod. 20. 84. 5–6, on the other hand, the name of the commanding Rhodian officer might have fallen out. 93 Diod. 20. 84. 2 (census of men capable of bearing arms), 84. 3–4 (decree or decrees on emancipating and enfranchising slaves who excelled as fighters; cf. 100. 1, on burying at public cost citizens who fell in battle and on providing maintenance for their parents and children), 87. 4; cf. Aelius Aristides, Or. 25. 4 (dedications in Rhodian sanctuaries made out of the booty taken from Demetrius’ troops); FGrHist 533 no. 2, ll. 40–4; Diod. 20. 94. 5 (decree in honour of the Milesian Athenagoras), 99. 2 (letter from Demetrius to the Rhodians), 99. 3 (treaty between Demetrius and the Rhodians), 100. 2 (statues of Cassander and Lysimachus), 100. 3–4 (response of the oracle of Siwa to the Rhodians). The precise figures given for the amount of grain sent to the Rhodians by Ptolemy, Lysimachus, and Cassander (Diod. 20. 96. 3, 98. 1) also seem ultimately to derive from a list stored in Rhodian archives. And we can be sure that for Zeno Alexander’s testament was an authentic document, too. 91

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documentary evidence that is typical of Hellenistic representations of the past. This feature of his work clearly satisfied Polybius, who appreciated the evidential value of documents and himself referred to letters and treaties several times—even taking the trouble to have treaties between Rome and Carthage translated into Greek.94 Unsurprisingly, idealization of Rhodes’ political order and foreign policy is another peculiarity of Zeno’s profile as a historiographer that pervades Diodorus’ account of the great siege. The Rhodian claim to lead an uncompromising fight against piracy is corroborated by several episodes in which combatants fighting on the side of Demetrius are called pirates. The decision of the Rhodian assembly not to pull down the statues of Antigonus and Demetrius is interpreted by Zeno as an expression of Rhodian magnanimity and constancy.95 Zeno described the city of Rhodos as being blessed by social harmony and public spirit in all classes: the rich contributed money, the craftsmen gave their services for the manufacture of arms, and everyone strove in a spirit of rivalry to surpass the others.96 He explicitly called the Rhodian constitution a democracy,97 but also stressed the leading role of the Prytaneis, a board of officials elected for six months, by showing them keeping a cool head whenever the fortunes of their country were on a knife-edge.98

HISTORIOGRAPHY AND THE CULTURE OF MEMORY IN HELLENISTIC RHODES It is time to pull together the threads that have so far been spun. Through the lens of Polybius we see Zeno as the author of a historical monograph dealing with political and military events of the recent past. His work—though focused on Rhodes—included events that happened far away from the island and without the direct participation of the Rhodians. He did, however, view the events he narrated from a Rhodian perspective, and tended to stress the virtues of his compatriots. To judge from the Rhodian traditions used by Polybius, Zeno published his work after the Third Macedonian War.99 Polybius 94 On the use of documents in Greek (and Roman) historiography, see Higbie 1999 and the many contributions assembled in Biraschi et al. 2003. For Polybius, see Walbank, HCP i. 31–3, Pédech 1964: 377–88, Prandi 2003, Schettino 2003, Zecchini 2003. His famous discussion of the treaties with Carthage is in 3. 22–7. 95 Diod. 20. 93. 6–7. 96 Diod. 20. 84. 4. 97 Diod. 20. 93. 7. This terminology accords with official Rhodian parlance: Staatsverträge III 551, ll. 13–14; III 552, l. 29. 98 Diod. 20. 88. 3, 8, 98. 4. 99 The date when Zeno’s history was published can only be inferred from the use Polybius made of it. The last traces of his being dependent on Rhodian tradition are to be found in his

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regarded him as a competent historian and a serious threat to his own reputation, because Zeno’s writings appealed to the reading public but were, from the point of view of the Achaean historian, mere sensationalism. As Polybius was concerned in criticizing Zeno to defend his own way of writing history and not to give a balanced assessment of Zeno’s method,100 it is no surprise that in Diodorus we find that there was another side to the Rhodian historian that Polybius entirely passes over in silence. Zeno adhered to the conventions of the genre of local history by giving a detailed account of the origins of his country. He designed a carefully structured narration that depicted the earliest history of Rhodes as a succession of four ages preceding the Trojan War. Despite the fact that these stories were situated in a very distant past, they clearly were important to Zeno and his readers, and he was eager to bring out their significance for understanding and mastering the present. As stories about origins demonstrated the present to be firmly rooted in the past and furnished examples of timeless virtues, they were an integral part of the culture of memory in Hellenistic Rhodes and could not be dispensed with. While the ‘archaeology’ of Rhodes that we read in Diodorus has very little in common with what we learn about Zeno from Polybius, the account of the great siege of Rhodos by Demetrius does, I believe, in two respects corroborate and substantiate what the Achaean historian tells us about his Rhodian colleague and rival. Polybius’ contention that Zeno tended to exalt the Rhodians is amply confirmed by Diodorus, as the great siege is narrated as a patriotic tale glorifying the dead in order to instruct and also to exonerate the living. The literary techniques that make this tale so vivid and dramatic enable us to see more clearly what Polybius meant when he accused Zeno of taking ‘so many pains about his style that his sensationalism could not be excelled by any of those declamatory works written to impress the vulgar masses’.101 If we try to put Zeno into the broader context of Hellenistic memory culture, we must face the thorny problem of whether his account of Rhodian history—if my reconstruction is accepted—can in any way be regarded as representative for the collective memory of the Rhodians as a political

account of how in 163 the Rhodians got possession of Calynda; references to later events are either indifferent or openly hostile to the Rhodians and cannot, therefore, derive from a Rhodian source of information. The conclusion that Zeno published his work around 160 or a little later is compatible with the few indications Polybius gives about Zeno’s life: when the two corresponded Polybius was still at work, but Zeno’s history had already been published (Plb. 16. 20. 5). As Polybius started writing after 168, this would seem to point to a date around the middle of the second century. 100 Rightly stressed by Lenfant 2005: 187. 101 Plb. 16. 18. 2: æd b c B ºø ŒÆÆ
Œıc Bº K
Ø Kd 
F K
ı ÆŒg ‰

æºc æÆ Æ c ŒÆƺØE E a KØ ØŒØŒa ŒÆd æe ŒºÅØ H ººH
ÆØ ØıØ .

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community. Since Zeno was only one among many Rhodian historiographers, albeit the most widely known, this question has two closely interrelated aspects: first, whether Zeno’s account substantially agreed with that of earlier writers on the subject; and, secondly, how the depiction of the Rhodian past in historiography related to widely held beliefs created and disseminated in other commemorative media. That Rhodian historiography did not draw a uniform picture of the island’s remote past seems clear if only because its writers competed against each other, but the degree to which they differed is difficult for us to gauge as we lack the evidence to undertake a detailed comparison. To be sure, the little we know of Rhodian writers other than Zeno is sufficient to show that they disagreed on many details. Polyzelus, for example, gave a completely different geneaology of Phorbas, making him the son of Triopas, who in Zeno is a son of Helios. He also told a melodramatic tale about Phoenicians besieged in Ialysus that Zeno apparently ignored.102 From the ‘Lindian Chronicle’ we learn about an epiphany of Lindian Athena during the great siege by Demetrius that must have been prominent in Rhodian writers but is conspicuous by its absence in Diodorus’ excerpting of Zeno.103 And in a fragmentary papyrus in Cologne we find an account of Ptolemy’s proclamation as king that, while probably coming from a Rhodian author, differs in several points from what Diodorus copied from Zeno.104 But the question as to whether in the early second century there was something like a vulgate version of the Rhodian past is, on present evidence, better left open. We may feel more confident in considering the relation between historiography and popular conceptions about the Rhodian past. On the one hand, Zeno’s view of Rhodian prehistory bears all the hallmarks of being an artificial creation designed to integrate as many traditions as possible into a coherent and intelligible picture of the past. As we know from independent sources, there were traditions that could not by any means be made to fit his tidy scheme,105 and even in Zeno’s own account some loose ends remained. I have already pointed out that he was obviously uncertain about what to make of the sons of Zeus mentioned above. He also referred in passing to a mysterious people that in Diodorus’ manuscripts is named ‘the so-called Gigantes’ and may be identical with the equally puzzling Ignetes known from lexicographical

102

See above n. 62. I.Lindos 2, D, III, ll. 94–115. There are 13 more lines on the stone which today are illegible; in these we cannot now recover references that were given to the sources used. 104 See above n. 84. 105 For example, Strab. 14. 2. 5 relates that, according to some, Tlepolemus named the three old cities of Rhodes after three of the Danaids; the mythographer Conon has (FGrHist 26 F 1 }47) a unique version of Rhodian prehistory in which the Heliadae are kings over an ‘autochthonous’ people that is then expelled by the Phoenicians who in turn are driven out by Carians. Only then do the Dorians arrive and found the three old cities of Rhodes. 103

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texts.106 And he knew still others that are hidden under the enigmatic label of ‘other autochthonous peoples’.107 There can, of course, be no certainty as to whether this artificial construct was designed by Zeno himself rather than one of his forerunners. It seems clear, however, that it is far too complex and coherent to have sprung up as a reflection of widespread beliefs, or to replace simpler visions of the past that were created and disseminated in other media. On the other hand, the very fact that Zeno did include an extended account of Rhodian origins in his historical monograph is not at all idiosyncratic. There is no doubt that Hellenistic Rhodians believed that their past began long before the Trojan War, and that their island was connected by personal bonds created in this period with a wide range of cities and peoples all over the eastern Mediterranean. Decisive proof of this is again to be found in the ‘Lindian Chronicle’ because it expresses a vision of the Rhodian past that in structure is an exact match to what we find in Zeno: it begins long before the Trojan War, brings together many Homeric heroes, and then glides imperceptibly into what we regard as history proper. The ‘Lindian Chronicle’, however, was composed in 99 bc on the order of the citizens of Lindus, and inscribed on a stele that was to be put up in one of the most venerable sanctuaries of Rhodes. This text surely comes as close to an officially approved account of Rhodian history as one can possibly get in the world of Greek city-states. If this discussion allows a general conclusion, I would formulate it on the following lines. Works of local historiography like that of Zeno, while reflecting patterns of thought characteristic of the culture of memory of their age, should not be regarded as passive reflections of one unified and generally accepted view of the past, even within the bounds of a single polis. There were basic points of common ground, but there was also much space for constant reinterpretation and creative elaboration. Hellenistic historiographers did not articulate a view of the past that was regarded or intended to be final and binding on others. They interacted with other media of collective memory that produced other versions of the past, and in large city-states like Rhodes they also competed with other practitioners of their own art. The collective memory of Hellenistic cities was polyphonic, and historiography was only one of several voices that could be heard.

Diod. 5. 55. 5. On the ῎"ªÅ , see Blinkenberg 1915a: 274–6, who proposed emending ª ªÆÆ to  ”ªÅÆ . Against this proposal, Jacoby, FGrHist IIIb (Text): 438 pointed out that the awkward expression might be due to excessive compression by Diodorus. 107 Diod. 5. 56. 3. The Rhodian writer Gorgon FGrHist 515 F 13 knew of a çıºc `PåŁø. 106

17 Scipio Aemilianus, Polybius, and the Quest for Friendship in Second-Century Rome1 Michael Sommer

Now that the progress of my narrative and the date call our special attention to this family, I wish in order to satisfy the reader’s curiosity to execute a promise I made in the previous book and left unfulfilled, and this was that I would tell how and why the fame of Scipio in Rome advanced so far and became so brilliant more quickly than it should, and to tell also how his friendship and intimacy with the author grew so great that this report about them not only spread to Italy and Greece, but that even further afield their liking and intercourse were a matter of common knowledge.2

With these words, Polybius sets out the story of his friendship with the man who was later to become Carthage’s nemesis and, at least for many modern scholars, the leading figure of the so-called Scipionic Circle, a group of intellectuals that features in some of Cicero’s works and has been subject to considerable speculation more recently. It is the present paper’s objective to revisit Polybius’ role in Scipio Aemilianus’ life and, more broadly, both men’s importance for the intellectual climate of second-century bc Rome. In addition, it will discuss the influence of Greek philosophical thought on the Roman nobility, and, vice versa, the repercussions that Polybius’ moving in these circles may have had on his conceptions of the Roman senatorial class.3 1 This is a substantially revised version of my paper given at the Polybius conference in 2007. I take this opportunity to thank the organizers of this event, and in particular Bruce Gibson for his comments on this chapter. All quotations from Polybius are taken from the Loeb edition of Paton. 2 Plb. 31. 23. 1–3. 3 On Scipio Aemilianus in general, Kaerst 1929, Bilz 1935, Astin 1967, Abel 1971, Elvers 1997, Zahrnt 2000. On Scipio’s mysterious death, Worthington 1989, Beness 2005.

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THE ‘ SCIPIONIC CIRCLE’ —FACT OR FICTION? What do the sources tell us about the two men’s relationship? According to Polybius’ own account, the author befriends the young man, who is upset that the Greek historian seems to prefer his elder brother, Fabius Maximus Aemilianus, during table talk in the house of L. Aemilius Paullus, Scipio’s real father. When Polybius replies that he simply presumed that Scipio shared his brother’s opinions, the young man replied: ‘Would I could see the day on which you, regarding nothing else as of higher importance, would devote your attention to me and join your life with mine; for then I shall at once feel myself to be worthy of my house and my forefathers.’4 So it happened: Polybius, who became Scipio’s mentor and a member of his entourage, accompanied the aspiring aristocrat at some of the key moments of his career, most notably at Carthage. Not surprisingly, Polybius’ portrayal of Scipio is thoroughly idealized. He praises him as an example of humanity and Greek ÆØ  Æ. After having erased Carthage from the map, Polybius’ Scipio, with the author being eyewitness, cites Homer: A day will come when sacred Troy shall perish, And Priam and his people shall be slain.5

Polybius then expresses his own conviction that ‘at the moment of our greatest triumph and of disaster to our enemies to reflect on our own situation and on the possible reversal of circumstances, and generally to bear in mind at the season of success the mutability of Fortune, is like a great and perfect man, a man in short worthy to be remembered’.6 Polybius’ Scipio is not only capable of Greek-style compassion with a defeated enemy, he also embodies the entire canon of Roman virtues, being firm, courageous, modest, generous, and liberal.7 This image of a Roman 4

Plb. 31. 24. 9–10. Plb. 38. 22. 2; Hom. Il. 6. 448. The episode, which is also passed down by Diod. 32. 24 and App. Pun. 132 (both referring to Polybius but giving different versions), has been widely discussed in recent scholarship: according to Mommsen 1902–4: ii. 37–8, Scipio feared retribution for the destruction of Carthage. This view is still followed by Miles 2010: 346–7. Gehrke 1996: 536–7, following Walbank, HCP i. 722–5 on 38. 21. 1–3, views Scipio’s quoting Homer as ‘eine Sensibilität für die menschlichen Wechselfälle’ owing to the influence of Greek philosophical thinking and, in the case of Scipio Aemilianus, mediated through Polybius. Gehrke (p. 537) sees here at least rudiments of a policy of thoughtfulness (‘den Ansatz geben zu einer Politik der Nachdenklichkeit’). Others are more sceptical: Zahrnt 2002: 94 suspects that Scipio’s tears may well have flowed from Polybius’ pen and points to Plb. 8. 20. 9–10, where another victorious leader (Antiochus III) sheds tears in the face of a defeated enemy (Achaius). On weeping and tears as topoi in Hellenistic historiography, now Lateiner 2009: 122 (with reference to Scipio and Polybius). 6 Plb. 38. 21. 2–3. 7 Polybius lists numerous examples of Scipio’s temperance (31. 25. 2–8), generosity (31. 25. 9–28. 9), and courage (31. 29). 5

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gentleman who unites the fortune of a successful general with the refined taste and manners of a Greek intellectual, combined with the role Scipio Aemilianus assumed in Cicero’s dialogues De amicitia and De re publica, seems, at first glance at least, to justify his reputation as the heart of an intellectual circle that contributed substantially to establishing Greek ways of thinking in the parvenu capital of an expanding empire, with immediate consequences for Roman politics. Scholarship on the ‘Scipionic Circle’ used to oscillate between unthinking acceptance and scepticism. Ruth Martin Brown, who, in the 1930s, wrote the only monograph dedicated to the Scipionic Circle so far, was straightforwardy overwhelmed by the group’s importance: ‘We must believe that the Scipionic group held a leading place in politics almost uninterruptedly from the beginning of the second century until the death of Tiberius Gracchus.’ For Brown, the circle’s intellectual hegemony was shaken only occasionally by opposition which ‘need cause but little worry to the powerful Scipionic Circle, which found its position secure both because of the traditional fame of its founder, Africanus Maior, and the high quality of leadership displayed by his successor, Scipio Aemilianus’.8 This is, to be sure, a fairly extreme statement. But the politically and intellectually omnipotent think-tank of the liberal current of Rome’s senatorial aristocracy is a spectre that still haunts textbooks9—a chimera which cannot stand up to the facts. Consequently, the present orthodoxy has adopted a contrary position. For Hermann Strasburger, the ‘Scipionic Circle’ was no more than a literary trick, a device that provided a historical frame and setting for the dialogues’ philosophical contents, modelled on the circle surrounding the Scaevolae and the orators Antonius and Crassus, which Cicero claimed to have formed part of in his youth.10 Similarly, A. E. Astin rejected the idea of an intellectual circle of Philhellenes that could have diffused the blessings of Greek thought in Roman society.11 James Zetzel went even further, viewing the frames of the historical settings, among them the ‘Scipionic Circle’, as sheer ‘vehicles for the dialogues in which they are used, not independent

8

Martin Brown 1934: 79. e.g. Christ 1984: 92–102, Dreyer 2006: 81–3, Ferrary 1988: 589–602, Gruen 1968: 17, Heuss 1998: 128 (‘In jener Begegnung lagen überhaupt die Keime einer höheren römischen Geistigkeit von eigenem Fühlen und Empfinden und wurde die Prägung einer besonderen, durch das Griechische befruchteten Gesittung vollzogen.’). Gruen, however, has subsequently joined the sceptics (Gruen 1992: 252: ‘The idea of a “Scipionic Circle”, the centre of Roman Hellenism, encompassing the nation’s cultivated elite and the source of intellectual activity in the city, no longer carries conviction’). 10 Strasburger 1966: 72: ‘Das geistige Leben und Fluidum des “Scipionenkreises” fingiert Cicero nach dem konstituierenden gesellschaftlichen und zugleich Bildungserlebnis seiner Jugend im “Kreise” der Scaevolae und der Redner Crassus und Antonius.’ 11 Astin 1967: 294–306. 9

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entities’.12 As a result, the dialogues’ philosophical contents were ‘distinctly removed from the unpleasant contemporary scene’.13 Finally, Gary Forsythe argued that the word grex in De Amicitia 69 does not refer to the ‘Scipionic Circle’ (as most scholars believed) but to the ‘common herd [ . . . ] of Roman politicians’.14 His attack was intended as the final blow to the idea of an intellectual round table convening at regular intervals in Scipio’s house and determining the course of Roman politics.15

—`"˜¯"` AND THE ECONOMY OF SYMBOLIC CAPITAL On a closer look, however, the seemingly cogent conclusion of a non-existent ‘Scipionic Circle’ is no more satisfactory than the position held by the old orthodoxy. The idea that the group was invented by Cicero for mere literary purposes is a pseudo-solution to the puzzle that leaves a great many questions unanswered. First, what exactly was the nature of Scipio’s interest in Greek ÆØ  Æ? Strasburger argues that a man who was not only responsible for the ‘Vollstreckung der Staatsraison an Karthago und Numantia’16, but went about it with enthusiasm, could hardly be susceptible to the enlightening ideas of cultural Hellenism. The argument has little substance. The grim realities of warfare and the sublime ideals of philosophy were a surprisingly good match at all times.17 Scipio’s genuine dedication to Greek art, literature, and philosophy is indisputable, and Polybius’ portrayal of an exemplary aristocrat of outstanding virtue, idealized though it may be, does not appear to lack some solid foundation.18 Despite there being a substantial number of Romans who indulged their philosophical and literary passions,19 Scipio stood out as a Philhellene of distinction. Scipio, unquestionably, felt the ‘appeal of Hellas’ in a particularly strong way.20 This brings us to a second complex of questions: why did Hellas have such an appeal that people like Scipio and his father Aemilius Paullus invested their 12

13 14 Zetzel 1972: 176. Ibid. 177. Forsythe 1991: 363. For a convincing philological refutation of Forsythe’s argument, see, however, Wilson 1994. 16 Strasburger 1966: 70. 17 Gruen 1984: 268–9 lists numerous Roman commanders, from L. Aemilius Paullus to C. Sulpicius Galus, from Cn. Octavius to L. Licinius Crassus, with whom Greek ÆØ  Æ and profound erudition did not translate into philhellenism in politicis. 18 On art, Coarelli 1990: 644, Gruen 1992: 119; on Hellenic philosophy and Scipio’s attitudes towards Roman tradition, Christ 1984: 99–100, Gruen 1992: 128. 19 Gruen 1992: 251 lists L. Marcius Censorinus, Q. Lutatius Catulus, Q. Aelius Tubero, M. Aemilius Lepidus, Q. Mucius Scaevola, Q. Metellus Numidicus, and M. Claudius Marcellus as ‘Roman aristocrats with sincere interest in Hellenism and notable accomplishment in that sphere’. 20 Gruen 1992: 223. 15

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time in ÆØ  Æ? Why did Scipio seek Polybius’ friendship at all? Why does a young Roman nobleman surround himself with Greeks? And what exactly was Polybius’ position in the house of the Aemilii and later in Scipio’s entourage? Greek culture and ÆØ  Æ were hardly uncontroversial in second-century bc Rome. When Carneades of Cyrene, head of the New Academy and a member of the Athenian philosophic embassy of 155 bc, gave two public lectures in Rome, one on justice and one on injustice, thus showing off his oratorical skills, it was not his intention to undermine or even criticize Roman morality. None the less, Cato was disconcerted by so much ethical relativism. Convinced that Rome’s youth needed protection from the Greek wordmongers and their ideas, which he perceived to be threatening traditional Roman values, he could not wait for the Athenian philosophers’ return to Greece. For people like Cato, who clung to Ennius’ maxim that Rome relied on ancient mores and men, Carneades’ and his fellow-philosophers’ ideas had enough subversive potential to shake the Roman state to its foundations.21 But Cato represented a minority of Roman aristocrats. His concerns make sense only if we consider how popular the performances of Carneades and the other Greeks were. According to Plutarch, young Romans came to their lectures in droves.22 The episode sheds light on a rapidly changing intellectual climate in Rome. The city on the Tiber was about to become a cosmopolitan hub of education and erudition in its own right, where rhetoric, philosophy, and knowledge that went beyond the practical things of life were held in high esteem. This is the milieu in which Scipio Aemilianus was brought up. He had embraced Greek culture and the prestige it carried from early childhood. Aemilianus is the living proof that Cato’s concerns were unfounded: versatility in Greek ÆØ  Æ did not alter the attitude of Roman officials towards their Greek, let alone barbarian, opponents. If Cato had fretted that cultural Hellenism would turn the offspring of the she-wolf into unprincipled, effeminate weaklings, he was wrong. No shift in political principles and priorities accompanied the rise of Greek cultural influence.23 One aspect of political life in Rome did change, however, and quite profoundly: the availability of a new resource of capital symbolique—ÆØ  Æ— added an entirely new battleground to the centuries-old struggle for dignitas that concerned members of the Roman nobility more than anything. Along 21 Plut. Cato 22. 4–5; Plin. Nat. 7. 112. See also Cic. Rep. 3. 21. On Carneades, the philosophic embassy, and Cato’s reaction, see Kienast 1954: 105, Fuchs 1964: 2–5, Gruen 1984: 341–2, Gruen 1996: 174–7, Jehne 1999, Drecoll 2004, Vössing 2006: 137–8. Gruen has shown that it was not Carneades’ purpose to criticize or even challenge Rome (as argued, for instance, by Fuchs). 22 Plut. Cato 22. 2–3. Their popularity has been emphasized by Gruen 1996: 176. 23 Ironically it was, according to Polybius (30. 6. 5–6), Cato who, with his famous defence of the Rhodians in 167 bc, brought a new element into Roman foreign politics. On the famous ‘turn’ of 167, see Kienast 1954: 120–1, Calboli 1978, Gabba 1990: 208–10, Gabba 1993: 68–70.

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with other factors—the repercussions of empire, the concentration of enormous wealth in the hands of the nobiles, and loosening social ties between the few and the many24—the introduction of ÆØ  Æ contributed to Rome’s aristocratic competition becoming fiercer than ever. Soon, philosophical, oratorical, artistic, and literary connoisseurship became hard cash on the aristocratic vanity fair and, when amassed, the hallmark of a senator’s dignity. The ultimate arbiter in this race for this symbolic capital, that could then be converted into social capital and, finally, power, was the Roman people.25 When Scipio Aemilianus first met Polybius in his father’s house, he was anxious over rumours that he was the degenerate offspring of a once illustrious family, incapable of leading the Cornelii Scipiones.26 It was the archetypical fear for a Roman nobleman to be incapable of matching his glorious ancestors. The social capital of a Roman aristocrat comprised two components: ‘Ahnenkapital’, or the social prestige accumulated by the previous representatives of the gens, and individual achievements. In order to equal the maiores, he had to perform well when holding high magistracies and to accomplish memorable deeds. Only by doing so could he enter the collective memory of his gens as an exemplum—the licence for being carried around as a wax mask on the pompae funebres of his descendants.27 As the son of L. Aemilius Paullus and the adoptive grandson of Scipio Africanus, Scipio was under a dual pressure. He could hardly draw level with such ancestors through performances of diplomatic shrewdness and military leadership. However, in a world where Greek ÆØ  Æ increasingly mattered, its ostentatious display was also regarded as a source of aristocratic dignitas: Fabius Pictor explicitly addressed a Greek-speaking audience in his historical work; L. Aemilius Paullus, after his victory over Perseus at Pydna (168 bc), held agones in the Greek tradition;28 Scipio Africanus maior went to Syracuse, dressed as a Greek, and visited the gymnasium; T. Quinctius Flamininus boasted of his knowledge of Greek literature and learning; and even Cato was a sound connoisseur of Greek culture. 24 A concise summary of the structural changes affecting Roman society in the second century bc is provided by Alföldy 1985: 42–64. The rules of aristocratic competition are explained by Hölkeskamp 2004a: 85–92, based on Simmel 1992 (chapter ‘Der Streit’). According to Hölkeskamp, aristocratic competition in Rome was a race ‘um den Erfolg ihrer Leistungen bei einer dritten Instanz’ (Simmel: 340): the Roman populace. Competetion was ‘Konkurrenz um den Menschen, ein Ringen um Beifall und Aufwendung, um Einräumungen und Hingebungen jeder Art’ (Simmel: 328). 25 On the economy of social distinction and the convertibility of symbolic capital, see Bourdieu 1979. 26 Plb. 31. 23. 10–13. 27 On the accumulation of social capital through individual achievement and genealogical memory—and its display in the pompa funebris—H. I. Flower 1996: 211–16, Hölkeskamp 1999, Flaig 2003: 49–98, Walter 2003, Walter 2004 84–130. 28 The agones of Amphipolis were, however, clearly framed by elements of the Roman ludic ritual, thus sending a clear message to the Greeks as to who was now in power (Flaig 2000: 139–40).

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By establishing a hub of Greek ÆØ  Æ in the heart of Rome, Scipio Aemilianus surpassed them all. He ensured that he would be remembered as a true champion of Greek erudition in the capital of a young and growing empire. His strategy paid off: through Polybius’ historical work, he assured himself a most prominent place in the collective memory of the Roman aristocracy, and, by sponsoring the philosopher Panaetius, he became the incarnation of aristocratic otium cum dignitate, a model for people such as Cicero who referred to him when vindicating the more contemplative parts of their public lives.29 No longer was historiography the only intellectual discipline in which a Roman nobilis was allowed to excel. Scipio Aemilianus proved that versatility in a number of fields added to an aristocrat’s decorum. By combining formidable ÆØ  Æ with impressive military achievements, Scipio even managed to outdo his father, the victor of Pydna and conqueror of Macedonia, and adoptive grandfather, the victor over Hannibal.30 The role of Polybius in Scipio’s life begins to take shape now. The key to its understanding is the changing importance of ÆØ  Æ in Roman aristocratic competition, which made the company of a Greek intellectual an invaluable asset. This explains why the mighty sought the friendship of the sage. But how can we define their ‘friendship’? What was the nature of the relationship between the two men, which, according to Polybius, was distinguished by çغ Æ and
ıŁØÆ?31

THE SOCIAL SEMANTICS OF FRIENDSHIP In order to appreciate fully the fuzziness and complexity of this problem, a short digression on the social semantics of friendship—çغ Æ and amicitia, respectively—in Greece and Rome is indispensable. For the Greeks, friendship was a social bond, generally between equals, of paramount importance— arguably more important than even kinship. A powerful source of friendship was affection, but friendship was far too serious to be only a matter of emotion; absolute loyalty and the desire to help friends under all circumstances, in personal, economic, and political affairs, were essential constituents of çغ Æ, too. Friendship, which could be handed down over several generations, was guided by two behavioural norms constitutive for Greek society: reciprocity, and ‘agonal’ competition. In politics, friendship could easily lead

29 30 31

Habicht 1990: 116. On the Greek perspective on rhetoric, history, and ÆØ  Æ, see Oliver 2006: 123–8. Plb. 31. 23. 3.

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to upheaval,

Ø , when groups of friends (ÆØæ ÆØ) turned into political factions.32 In political systems based on monarchic rule, social ties gained even more political significance. In the absence of the concept of a ‘court’ proper, the Greeks used ‘friendship’ to indicate a person’s association with the ruler. Hierarchies were informal and often covert. Greek tyrants surrounded themselves with loyal supporters and celebrities, most notably intellectuals and artists, whose skills came in handy when the ruler’s achievements were to be celebrated publicly. Again, the degree of formalization of such bonds of patronage was low, the transition from symposiastic to ‘courtly’ company rather smooth.33 One famous example is Anacreon of Teos, who first ‘befriended’ Polycrates, the tyrant of Samos, and after Polycrates’ death, in 522 bc, moved to Athens, where he worked for Hipparchus. Hiero I of Syracuse was the patron of Bacchylides of Ceos and Pindar, the famous poets.34 Later on, circles of ‘friends’, ç ºØ, as hubs of political leadership became a standard feature in Hellenistic capitals. The most striking example is Alexandria, where the Ptolemaic kings created a functional elite of Macedonian and Greek immigrants whose position depended entirely on their personal relationship with the king. The museion, established by Ptolemy I, was the Hellenistic world’s unrivalled centre of scholarly and literary activity. It operated not as an academic ‘institution’ with meritocratic procedures of entry, but rather on the basis of a concept of extended çغ Æ: the scholars and poets kept company with the king as ‘friends’, ideally equals, who had, of course, to accept the king’s superiority in the real world. This paradox of çغ Æ gave Hellenistic ‘court’ relationships in general, and the relationships between rulers and intellectuals in particular, their peculiar flair. The arrangement was, as befits a relationship between friends, of mutual benefit: the scholars, philosophers, and writers made their living—lavishly—whereas the king excelled as a promoter of wisdom and beauty.35 As with Greek çغ Æ, Roman amicitia entailed reciprocity and the usefulness of friends to one another. Like çغ Æ, amicitia had a strong emotional component of affection and intimacy. But the two concepts are not synonymous. Still more than çغ Æ, Roman amicitia was an elusive, even contradictory, concept, 32 On concepts of çغ Æ in classical and Hellenistic Greece, see Fraisse 1974, Gehrke 1985: 333–4, Gehrke 1987: 129–30, Gehrke 1990: 53–4, Konstan 1997: 53–120, Gehrke 1998. 33 Goldhill 1991: 128–36. 34 On artistic patronage under the archaic Greek tyrants, Barceló 1993: 159 n. 570, De Libero 1996: 286–7. On Anacreon Alexis of Samos, FGrHist 539 F 2, Strab. 14. 1. 16, Paus. 1. 2. 3, Ath. 13. 72, 599c, [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 18. 1. Many others committed themselves to Polycrates, among them the poet Ibycus, Democedes of Croton, the famous physician, and the architects Eupalinus of Megara and Rhoicus of Samos. For Syracuse under Hiero I, see Weber 1993: 38–44. 35 Weber 1993: 23–5, Gehrke 1995: 90–1, Meissner 2007: 98–100, Murray 2008. On the careers of individual ç ºØ in the period of Ptolemy IV, Huss 2001: 458–64. The peculiar ‘charismatic’ component of Hellenistic kingship has been exposed by Gehrke 1982.

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spanning the spheres of personal, social, and political identity. But in what respects exactly did amicitia differ from çغ Æ? First, a friendly relationship in Rome was more strictly ‘utilitarian’ than çغ Æ, although there was certainly space for personal feelings, too.36 Secondly, the urge to observe the rules of reciprocity was stronger than in Greece and the exchange of beneficia and officia was an essential requirement of fides, which, in turn, was the basis of any social relationship, no matter whether symmetric or asymmetric.37 Thirdly, and most importantly, amicitia, far more than çغ Æ, was a relationship between equals. False symmetry, which had been at the core of friendship between individuals of profoundly unequal social standing in Greece, was unknown to Romans in the republic.38 To be sure, senators could join in aristocratic amicitia with members of the equestrian order; but the inclusion of a (slightly) inferior social group only highlights the fundamental egalité which was both expressed and created by amicitia. There were some borderline cases: in the Augustan period, poets like Horace occasionally avoided the term patronus and addressed Maecenas and other patrons as magnus or potens amicus.39 But they were people of some social standing, and Romans, too; they worked at a time when Greek ideas had firmly taken root on the Tiber and when Augustus was already beginning to blur the boundaries between symmetric and asymmetric social relationships. By contrast, ‘friendship’ between a second-century bc Roman senator and an individual from the rank-and-file of Roman society, let alone a foreigner, was straightforwardly unthinkable, even if they shared common interests and were 36

Brunt 1988: 351–3 has rightly emphasized the emotional component of friendship and disposed of the axiom that amicitia was a purely political institution, but he has also—wrongly to my mind—rejected the notion that feelings and ‘utility balance’ could well go hand in hand. Brunt is correct when stating that personal friends are not always and necessarily political friends, but as a rule both groups of friends will have been rather congruent than divergent. Like patrocinium, amicitia was no genuinely political institution, but it certainly played its part in politics (Gotter 1996: 346: ‘Amicitia war einerseits der allgemeine Rahmen, in dem sich die aristokratische Politik abspielte, amicitiae waren aber auch die mehr oder weniger stabilen Gefolgschaften innerhalb dieses Rahmens, die sich auf ganz unterschiedliche Intensität gründeten’). For the position of the old orthodoxy, see Münzer 1920, Gelzer 1962: 102–10, Bleicken 1975: 123–4. 37 Spielvogel 1993: 14–15. Again, the requirements of fides and the iron rules of reciprocity did not imply that amicitia was primarily a social adhesive tying together aristocratic factions. The amici of political foes could still be amici; occasional and even persistent political dissension did not lead to friendships being revoked (Gotter 1996: 343–4). 38 It was developed only from Augustus onwards, and the reason was to maintain the fiction of social balance between the princeps and the ordo senatorius (Winterling 1999, Winterling 2001: 5 and passim, and esp. Winterling 2003: 28: ‘Augustus schaffte es auch hier, paradoxe Sachverhalte miteinander in Verbindung zu setzen, indem er das neue, durch kaiserliche Gunst strukturierte hierarchische Beziehungssystem in den Formen einer alten, auf Egalität und persönlicher Nähe basierenden Freundschaft praktizierte’). 39 Hor. Ep. 1. 18. 44; but see ibid. 1. 7. On patronage, the Augustan poets as clients and the use of the language of amicitia, see White 1978, Gold 1982: 16 and 94, Bowditch 2001: 19–29, Bowditch 2010: 55. On patronage in general, Saller 1982, Wallace-Hadrill 1989, Deniaux 2007.

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connected through fides and gratia. Such ties invariably required the bonds of an asymmetric relationship, and the asymmetric relationship par excellence in Rome was patrocinium.40 The nature of the relationship between Scipio Aemilianus and Polybius emerges more clearly as a consequence. Undeniably, there existed between the two men a strong bond of çغ Æ, but they were no amici in the Roman sense. Polybius, when describing the relationship the young Roman was seeking to establish with him, the Greek exile, uses the term çغ Æ—and quite rightly so. From a Roman perspective, Polybius was deep in Scipio’s debt, as Scipio and his brother, through their advocacy, had achieved for Poybius the many privileges he enjoyed. Instead of being retained in one of the Etruscan cities,41 Polybius could stay in Rome and become part of Aemilius Paullus’ household. This established, in Roman terms, a reciprocal relationship of mutual solidarity (fides), but one which was asymmetric, a patrocinium. As a foreigner with no social standing whatsoever in Rome, who did not even hold Roman citizenship, Polybius could not be the amicus of a Roman senator: he was his client. As such, it was his role to enhance his patronus’ standing as a promoter of scholarship and as an intellectual of some calibre. The same holds true, mutatis mutandis, for Panaetius, who did not come to Rome as a hostage but of his own volition. This Stoic, whose father had been in Rome as an envoy of his home polis of Rhodes, came to Rome shortly after 144 bc. He very quickly became an associate of Scipio Aemilianus and accompanied him on his famous diplomatic mission to the Near East, visiting such exotic places as Ecbatana and Babylon.42 Did he serve as Scipio’s adviser in diplomatic affairs? The diplomatic experience of his father notwithstanding, this seems hard to believe. Panaetius was a philosopher and not a diplomat by training. From a professional point of view, he was dispensable for the mission and thus not required in Scipio’s entourage. Fides rather than any professional qualification, erudition rather than more practical skills look likely to be the explanation for Panaetius’ accompanying Scipio to the Near East.43 It is remarkable that in Polybius’ account of his relationship with Scipio Aemilianus only the Greek side features, while the Roman side is mute. Roman patterns of interpretation are conspicuously absent from the passage: no reference is made to fides and its implications of mutual officia and beneficia, the asymmetry in social status between the two ‘friends’ is omitted, and the relationship appears more informal than even the ties between 40 Hutter 1978: 141–5, Brunt 1988: 382–442, Spielvogel 1993: 14–15, Gotter 1996: 344, Flaig 2003: 17–20. 41 Paus. 7. 10. 11. 42 Cic. Luc. 5; on the dating of the mission and the evidence of the Constantinian excerpta from Diodorus Siculus, see Astin 1959, Mattingly 1986. 43 On Panaetius, his life, and philosophical thought, see Pohlenz 1948: 1. 191–207, Abel 1971, Kraus 1997.

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Maecenas and the poets of his ‘circle’ 150 years later. All that we see is the Greek notion of friendship, çغ Æ, including the appearance of symmetry between the partners.44

WAS P OL YBI US RIGHT? While it should be clear by now what the mighty and the sage had to gain from their mutual relationship, it is a different question how this affected their views on the conditio humana in general, and on Roman politics in particular. It is evident that men like Panaetius and Polybius, for Scipio, provided a gateway into the colossal inventory of Greek wisdom; they served as guides into the (for Romans) so far uncharted territories of philosophy and science. But how did his ‘friendship’ with Scipio shape Polybius’ views on Rome’s political landscape? How did he use the intimate knowledge of Roman political practice he acquired owing to his capacity as one of Rome’s powerful men’s ç ºØ? The most manifest result of Polybius’ study of Rome’s political system is, of course, his theory of the ‘mixed constitution’ in Book 6. The groundbreaking originality of this passage, essentially a treatise in its own right, lies in its application of Greek political theory in an attempt to decode the political grammar of an alien society, the Roman republic, and explain it to its—Greek and Roman—audience.45 To Polybius, the Roman state’s balance between the three ideal forms of government established by Plato and Aristotle was the key to understanding its triumph over the other polities in the Mediterranean world. The communis opinio of modern scholarship rejected the idea of a democratic component in the Roman political system, claiming instead that political power in the Roman republic was monopolized by its all-powerful nobility—until, nearly thirty years ago, Fergus Millar emphatically declared: ‘Polybius was right and his modern critics are wrong’.46 Was he? This is not the place to recapitulate in detail a debate, originally triggered by Karl-Joachim 44 Actually, since Scipio is seeking Polybius’ friendship, and since his portrayal is that of a selfconscious, rather unassertive, young man—as compared to the mature Greek who converses confidently in Aemilius Paullus’ house—the social asymmetry even seems reversed, making Polybius the stronger and Scipio the weaker partner. 45 Plb. 6. 3–9. See, among others, Nicolet 1974, Nicolet 1980: 208–9, Schubert 1995, Nippel 1980, Lintott 1999: 16–26, and now Polverini 2005: 86: ‘Polibio mutua dal pensiero greco questa concezione politico-costituzionale, ma (storico e non filosofo) ne fa strumento di interpretazione di una concreta realtà storica, in funzione di un preciso problema, del problema che ha ispirato la sua opera . . . .’ For a summary of the discussion, see Walbank 2002: 16. On the intended and actual readership (‘the political elite in Greece and Rome’) of Polybius’ work, Champion 2004a: 7. 46 Millar 1984: 2. On the further elaboration of Millar’s thesis see Millar 1986, Millar 1989, North 1990a, North 1990b, Millar 1995, Millar 1998, Millar 2002a, North 2007, Yakobson 2007.

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Hölkeskamp’s doctoral thesis,47 and which is still simmering. The questions Millar asked—or rather reopened—were valid ones and stimulated further investigation. But, on balance, his critics seem to have got the upper hand with their painstaking argumentation in defence of the Roman nobility as a heuristic concept, an ideal type: the static ‘constitutional machinery’.48 Millar’s replacement for Matthias Gelzer’s Nobilitätsherrschaft is a rather bloodless fictional construct, whereas the effectiveness of the informal, as it were ‘subconstitutional’, sources of power originally described by Gelzer can hardly be disputed. In effect, Millar’s revision marked a step backwards, behind Gelzer’s sociological approach and back to Mommsen’s formalist constitutionalism.49 But if popular power and the constituents of Polybius’ ‘mixed constitution’ were indeed a mere façade and the nobility was an exclusive ruling class effectively monopolizing access to political decision-making, one enigma remains to be solved: why was Polybius ‘wrong’, given that he was so close to the republic’s inner circle of power? Why did he ignore the structures underlying the constitutional surface? Is it possible that he did not understand how Scipio Aemilianus and his fellow-nobiles acted on Rome’s political stage—and behind the scenes? Polybius may have ignored the social bonds that created the nobility and guaranteed its political dominance for precisely the same reasons that he refused to acknowledge the Roman dimension of his relationship with Scipio Aemilianus. He may have written his history for a Greek and Roman audience, but his perspective was entirely Greek. His questions were Greek, and so was the specific angle from which he approached his subject: Polybius’ purpose was not to deliver an accurate description of the political functioning of the Roman republic, the procedures and processes that kept the Roman state running, but a theoretical—ideal–typical in the Weberian sense—explanation for its superiority over the other Mediterranean polities. Hence, his analysis was not guided by any autopsy but by the categories of Plato’s and Aristotle’s political utopianism. Polybius’ constitution of the Roman republic, like Mommsen’s Römisches Staatsrecht, did not exist in the real world but only in the academic mind of its creator. 47

Hölkeskamp 1987 and later Hölkeskamp 1996, Hölkeskamp 2004a and the papers collected in Hölkeskamp 2004b. Hölkeskamp’s ideas have been absorbed and further developed by numerous scholars. Largely in support of his ideas, see the following: Jehne 1995, Kloft 1998, Jehne 2000, Jehne 2001, Bleckmann 2002, Goldmann 2002, Walter 2003, Beck 2008. 48 Millar 1998: 15. 49 As pointed out by Hölkeskamp 2004a: 19.

18 Mediterranean Economies through the Text of Polybius J. K. Davies

US ING P OLYBI US AS S OURCE OF ECONOMIC INFORMATION In her presentation to a 2007 colloquium at Nottingham hosted by the Centre for Spartan and Peloponnesian Studies, Catherine Grandjean commented that ‘Polybius stands out among the ancients as one of those most interested in the economic factors in history’.1 Her observation was prompted by his comment that Sparta needed to be able to deploy ‘a common currency in universal circulation and supplies drawn from abroad’ in order to be able to extend her power beyond the Peloponnese after 404 (6. 49. 7–10), but it has a far wider application. True, no one will call Polybius an economic historian, and not just because the phrase is intrinsically inappropriate for any historian writing before the later nineteenth century, but his text is so loaded with economically significant information that it seemed worthwhile to embark upon a systematic trawl and see what emerged. The outcome is quite remarkable, for the material is overwhelming, far more indeed than can possibly be presented in detail here. This is partly because his own interests, his historiographical agenda, and his own travels combine (however casually and incidentally) to offer a series of invaluable snapshots of life in the Mediterranean regions and their hinterlands in the third and second centuries bc, and partly because he describes the behaviour of powerful individuals and polities in such a way as to offer the raw material for a real theoretical analysis. In consequence I express here very openly my warm gratitude to Catherine Grandjean, both via her initial comment and

1

Grandjean 2009: 5.

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via subsequent fruitful conversation, for engendering the exploration which follows here.2 Its context has two other components. One is doubly personal. Late in 1977, in his capacity as one of the editors of the new CAH VII2, the honorand of this volume invited me to contribute what became a 63-page chapter (Davies 1984) on the ‘Cultural, Social, and Economic Features of the Hellenistic World’. The prolonged engagement which that involved, both with the primary evidence and with Rostovtzeff, left a lasting and complex impression,3 which the present volume offers an opportunity to take further. The second component is the lively state of current scholarly study of the economies of classical antiquity, both generally and for the three post-Alexander centuries in particular. Not only are four brief recent sketches of ‘Hellenistic economies’ currently available4 but also the issues involved have already stimulated four conferences devoted to the economies of the period.5 Since (perhaps rather strangely) no contribution to them has yet focused on the economically relevant evidence provided by one literary source, in such a way as to correspond with (or to contrast with) that offered by one site or one genre of artefact, there is a lacuna to be filled. One the one hand, therefore, given his primordial contribution to our knowledge of those centuries, Polybius’ text is the obvious first source with which to fill that lacuna. On the other hand, that ‘primordial’ status presents the problem of deciding how to present and use the information which he offers. Here, three scholarly activities have to be distinguished. The first is that of assembling and presenting the ‘economic’ information which he provides. That is itself a complex business, for his information falls into a number of distinct genres. One comprises the explicit descriptions of regions and peoples, especially but not only in the central and western Mediterranean areas, which he knew would be largely unfamiliar to his Greek-language readers. A second comprises historiographical critiques, while the incidental details about this or that economic aspect of life which emerge from his narratives of campaigns and events constitute a third. I have not found it easy either to decide which ‘genres’ it was appropriate to distinguish, or what counts as ‘economically relevant’ information. What follows in my second section (‘The Descriptive Raw Material’) must therefore be seen as a first and provisional framework, devised with some sense that it reflects the more salient clusters of data in his 2 My thanks are also due to Bruce Gibson as editor, and to the Press’s referee, for exceptionally detailed and helpful comments. Throughout what follows, all naked references of the form ‘6. 49. 7–10’ are to the text of Polybius, and ‘T’ denotes ‘talents’. 3 Briefly adumbrated in Davies 2004b. 4 Alcock 1994, Reger 2003, Chankowski-Sablé 2004, Davies 2006. Van der Spek, Manning, and Reger in Scheidel et al. 2007: 409–83 provide a more lengthy delineation. 5 Archibald et al. 2001, Archibald et al. 2005, Descat 2006, Archibald et al. 2011. Konuk 2012 is in effect a fifth: and cf. also Ambaglio 2004.

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text, but with no pretence that it reflects any awareness of economic discourse as such on his part. The second activity is that of identifying the structures of behaviour which can be detected from the narratives and descriptions given in his text. Again, such an analysis can legitimately be compiled irrespective of whether Polybius explicitly offers any relevant formulation. That is not because for Polybius ‘the news columns’ can be separated from ‘editorial matter’, any more than they can for Thucydides. Rather, it is because such structures can be identified as being exemplified by repeated patterns of behaviour. Those patterns cut across the region-by-region grid of reference for simultaneous but geographically distinct activity, which becomes his preferred format from Book 7 onwards, and are therefore generically distinct from the animadversions on the behaviour of this or that ruler, politician, or community which Polybius deliberately chooses to make. My third section (‘Three Types of Economic Behaviour’) attempts to identify some of the more salient patterns of collective or individual behaviour which recur in his text. The third activity is that of trying to assess how far his witness should be kept on its own or even privileged, instead of being merged (or indeed submerged) in the general and ever-growing mountain of primary evidence which is transforming our interpretation of those centuries. That is a matter of comparing what emerges from my third section with currently available analyses, and of attempting to assess their relative explanatory value. That final task is attempted in conclusion (‘Polybius the Unconscious Informant’). Throughout all three sections, the title of this contribution is pertinent. It is not a study of Polybius as an economic historian, or of Hellenistic economies ‘through the (interpretative) eyes of Polybius’. It is a study of those economies purely and simply ‘through the text of Polybius’, i.e. of the patterns of behaviour of the peoples and individuals who are presented in his extant text. In order to minimize the risks of anachronism and of insecure attribution, these sections will refer only to his transmitted textual words, without using the indirect tradition in Livy, Diodorus, Plutarch, or Appian. Likewise, for present purposes the task of identifying his sources is of secondary importance, for what matters are the choices which he himself has made of what to record, emphasize, or omit.

THE DESCRIPTIVE RAW MATERIAL His text offers two kinds of raw material, the first being evidence which contributes to a descriptive survey, the second analytic and interpretative. The latter, which will be reviewed in the following section, has its own internal logic, and is therefore easier to present; the former does not. Perforce,

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therefore, the descriptive material will be presented via eight arbitrarily ordered sets of headings, each with a review (which will have no claim to completeness) of relevant passages. I am well aware that each set, or cluster of data, deserves a paper to itself, with a far more detailed evaluation and contextualization than the limits of a contribution to a Denkschrift permit. It has none the less seemed more helpful, alike to the student of Polybius and to the economic historian, if a summary overview of the topic and its material is assembled and made available, for individual components can always be revisited on a larger scale. Comments on landscapes, especially fertile landscapes and their products. It is proper to begin thus, since such comments exemplify the second part of Polybius’ tripartite division of æƪÆØŒc ƒ
æ Æ, that ‘concerned with the aspect of cities, places, rivers, and harbours, and in general the special features of land and sea, and distances’ (12. 25e. 1). Remarkably, he interprets this portion of his task very liberally, extending well beyond militarily relevant topography sensu stricto in order to report productive economic activities. Such comments are invaluable, for various reasons. First, they reflect both his own eye for the land and his awareness of the growth of geographical knowledge since Alexander (3. 59. 3–5). Secondly, since his witness predates that of Strabo by at least 150 years, the contrast between them, not least in the case of Cisalpina, can be informative. Thirdly, the shape of his narrative causes him to embrace and even to overstep the entire ‘classical’ world. Indeed, though to some degree Hecataeus had already set the mould, it is above all Polybius’ text, even in its surviving fragmentary form, which defines the geographical and human scope of that world. In terms of geographical extent, it ranges from Lusitania (34. 8) to Byzantium (4. 45. 7–8) and Media (5. 44; 10. 27. 1–2), and thence across the entire Iranian plateau to Bactria (10. 48). In terms of economic information, the harvest is perhaps at its richest with Cisalpina,6 but is valuable for other regions as well. One may cite Corsica and Etruria with their herds of goats and swine respectively (12. 3–4), the fertility of Samnium (3. 90. 7), of Campania with Capua (2. 17. 1; 3. 91), or of Echinus in Malis,7 or the irrigation systems on the Iranian plateau (10. 28). Modes of transport rate occasional mention, as when the Oxus and Tanais are reported as navigable (10. 48. 1), while his references to the silver mines near New Carthage (34. 9. 8–11) and to gold mines near Aquileia (34. 10. 10) are of fundamental importance. Secondly, human landscapes and patterns of settlement, where his eyewitness information thankfully subverts cliché after cliché. That applies not so much, indeed, in noting Gaulish settlement ŒÆa ŒÆ (‘in villages’) in the Po valley (2. 17. 8–12) or in noting Roman and Carthaginian acts of imposing

6

2. 14–15; 3. 34. 1–2, 44. 8, 48. 11.

7

9. 41. 11, with HCP ii. 183 for location.

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colonialist urban settlements on expropriated land,8 as in emphasizing that the Alps were perfectly permeable and supported a considerable population (3. 48. 7) or in identifying, notably for uncolonized territories such as Hispania in the 230s and 220s but also elsewhere,9 nucleated settlements10 which he cheerfully calls poleis in happy ignorance of recent terminological debates.11 Non-nucleated settlements also appear occasionally, as with the forts (çææØÆ) and rural masserie (
ıØŒ Æ ) in the area round Prinassus in Caria (16. 11. 1). Moreover, if we extend the sense of the term ‘human landscapes’ while remaining within the economic historian’s purview, we may include wider demographic or behavioural observations under this heading. Examples are his comment on the bucolic opulence of Elis (4. 73. 6–10), his aspersions on the state of Boeotia (20. 6. 1–6), or his endlessly debated paragraph on the depopulation of Greece in his own time (36. 17. 5–11), not to mention his comments on the ostentation of Aemilia (31. 26. 3–9) with its waspish sting in the tail (31. 26. 9).12 Of course, such comments depict divagations from his idea of the norm, reflect his prejudices as much as they report real behaviour, and are not to be trusted without scrutiny, but are all the more revealing for that. Thirdly, the scale of human movement, forced or willing, through these landscapes. Forced movement did not only involve slaves, for we hear of two enforced migrations on the northern frontier of Macedon after 188,13 while slaves, rarely appearing in their own right except when being offered freedom in a city under siege in order to retain their loyalty,14 occupy a major indirect place in the picture via allusions to the slave-trade,15 to captured populations 8 e.g. the expropriation of land for the sake of its resources (3. 10. 5, Hamilcar in Spain) and the colonialist imposition of urban centres, both by Romans (as at Sena Gallica, 2. 19. 11–13, Placentia and Cremona in 218, 3. 40. 5, and Mutina, 3. 40. 8) and by Carthaginians (2. 13. 1–2). 9 Althaea/Cartala, 3. 13. 5–7; Hermandica, 3. 14. 1; Arbocala 3. 14. 1; Northern Spain in general in 218, 3. 35. 3. Mediolanum, too, is represented, though without a label, as a significant settlement in the 220s (2. 34. 10–11 and 15), all the more if the temple of Athene was there (2. 32. 6, with HCP i. 208). 10 e.g. 3. 50. 6 and 67. 4 (Cisalpina), 76. 5 (Cissa in Spain); 5. 97. 1 (Bulazora ‘the largest polis in Paeonia’); 10. 7. 5 (Spain, among the Carpetani); 10. 38. 7 (Baecula in Turdetania); 15. 4. 1 in the chora of Carthage. 11 The Lex hafniensis (for which, see Hansen and Nielsen 2004: 34, with references), is not thereby infringed, since it is deemed to apply only before 300 bc and only to Greek cities. 12 ‘For absolutely no one there ever gives away anything to anyone if he can help it’, with Walbank’s dry comment ad loc. (HCP iii. 505). Of the same kidney, but reflecting an even more heroic degree of over-simplification, are Polybius’ characterizations of Romans as intrinsically honest, of Greek office-holders as inherently dishonest, and of Carthaginians that ‘at Carthage nothing which results in profit is regarded as disgraceful’ (6. 56). 13 (a) ‘Desert Illyria’, evacuated in order to create a cordon sanitaire against Dardanian invasion (28. 8. 3, with HCP iii. 338 for its uncertain location), and (b) the transfer of populations between Thrace and Macedon (23. 10. 4–7, with HCP iii. 230–1 for explanatory detail). 14 In Selge (5. 76. 5) and in Abydos (16. 31. 2). In contrast, the mass manumissions of 146 in Achaea (38. 15. 3–5) were driven by a need for military manpower. 15 4. 50. 3 (Byzantium) and perhaps 14. 7. 1–3 (Utica).

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being sold off,16 and to the numbers involved in silver mining. Free movers include Romans themselves, such as those present in significant numbers at Taras in winter 213/12 (8. 25. 2) or the emporoi both Italic and other.17 Even more pervasive were the Greeks, who, with the occasional Gaul, provided the military and civilian Apparat of most major powers, even including Carthage on occasion, and above all the mercenaries who permeate the text.18 Especially if to such a picture one therefore adds the movements of armies, not to mention invasions and migrations, one plainly has to populate the landscapes, and especially the seascapes, of Polybius’ world with a perpetual and numerically very significant Brownian motion of human particles, who were often being impelled long distances by need, compulsion, or ambition. Men were not the only entities in motion, for the movements of materials and bullion were equally conspicuous. They are classified below under three separate headings in order to be able to distinguish, alike for their mechanisms and their effects, supplies, booty, and monetary transfers. Of course, these are all part of the politico-military domain, but Polybius’ text shows them as having enormous economic effects and as carrying a high level of structural centrality within the sum total of all economically significant actions performed throughout the area and period. One may begin with supplies, whose structural centrality to the conduct of warfare needs no emphasis or proof. What matters here, therefore, is how the theme presents itself. A handful of cases must suffice. If, for example, we follow Hannibal eastwards from the Rhone in 218, the availability or otherwise of supplies features repeatedly.19 Likewise, if we follow his narrative of Antiochus III’s campaign against Molon, he makes a point of reporting Zeuxis’ advice that the most important consideration was to deny Molon his supply route from Media, while giving royal forces access to the fertile area round Apollonia-inSittacene,20 just as the follow-up campaign against Artabazanes was intended to deny supplies to other potential rebels (5. 55. 1). The same motif surfaces several times during the Raphia campaign (5. 68. 2, 70. 2 and 5, 75. 1), while 16 Cited numbers range from less than 100, captured in an Achaean raid on Aetolia (5. 94. 7), through unquantified groups (9. 42. 5–8 (Aegina); 15. 4. 1 (Tunisia)) to the 150,000 captured and sold by Paullus in Epirus (30. 15). 17 Most conspicuously those who were ill-treated at Phoenice (2. 8. 2), or conversely those whom Cavarus the king of the Gauls in Thrace protected in Pontus (8. 22). 18 One case among many: the Gauls employed successively in the 240s and 230s by the Carthaginians, the Romans, and the Epirots (2. 5. 4 and 7. 5–11). 19 In 218 at the ‘island’ between the Rhone and the Isère, ºåº ŒÆd
Øçæ (3. 49. 5 and 11), in the unidentified polis halfway up the valley (3. 51. 12, 52. 5), at his camp south of Piacenza (3. 68. 8), and at Clastidium (3. 69. 1); in 217 during the traverse of the Arno marshes (3. 79. 1–2), near Ancona after Trasimene (3. 87), in Samnium round Beneventum and Telesia (3. 90. 7–8), in the Capuan plain (3. 91), and while wintering in Apulia (3. 100. 1–2, 101. 8–11); and not moving from Gerunium in spring 216 until the corn harvest was available (3. 107. 1). 20 5. 51. 7–11, with (pending the appearance of Cohen’s Vol. III) Tscherikower 1927: 97 and 168 for its approximate location.

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Polybius’ narrative of concurrent hostilities in Pisidia, with its note that the men of Selge who were besieging Pednelissus went home for the harvest (5. 72. 7), reminds us yet again that the agrarian calendar dominated life, just as it did in early July 219 when Philip V, remarkably, sent his Macedonians back home from Pella to gather the harvest (4. 66. 7). Even more does the motif figure in Philip’s early campaigns, with its disconcerting hints that his commissariat was a perilously hand-to-mouth affair and that several times in 218 the need for a corn supply drove his campaign as much as, if not more than, the ambition to secure specific strategic objectives.21 Next, booty. The motif is as central in Polybius’ war narratives as is the role which the resources thus obtained played in public life. Even if Aetolian behaviour is temporarily left on one side (see the following section), it runs right through his narrative of the First Punic War, on the Roman and on the Carthaginian sides alike, and characterizes the behaviour of virtually all belligerents in all the wars he reports (even, on occasion, the Achaeans). Significant in this context is the detail with which, in the context of Scipio’s capture of New Carthage, Polybius records the systematic way in which Romans sold off booty, in contrast to what he calls the general rule that each man ‘keeps what he grabs’.22 So, too, throughout his work he reports quantities and values (such as the 600 talents from New Carthage, 10. 19. 1–2) in such a way as to reveal both the scale of plundering and the fact that records of the take were kept. Equally, he allows us to complement Phylarchus-style horror-journalism by populating battlefields, sieges, and capitulations with a hovering crowd of hard-nosed slave-traders.23 Next, large-scale monetary transfers. Polybius’ extant text reports a remarkable number of such transfers. It is simplest to begin by setting the list out, as follows: Reference

Date

Details

1. 63. 1–3 1. 88. 11–12 5. 54. 10–12

241 238 221

5. 76. 9–10

218

An indemnity of 3200 T to be paid by Carthage to Rome An extra indemnity of 1,200 T to be paid by Carthage Fine of 150 T (initial demand by Hermias for 1,000 T) from Seleucia to Antiochus III An indemnity of 400 T at once, 300 T more later, to be paid by Selge to Achaeus (Continued )

21 5. 1. 6 and 10–12 (formal agreement for materiel to be provided by the Achaean League); 5. 3. 5 (opportunistic raid on Cephallenia); 5. 28. 4 (Philip alleged to be in major difficulties for lack of supplies); but 4. 63. 10 and 4. 65. 2 are neutral earlier references. 22 10. 16–17, with HCP ii. 217 but also with the warnings of Ziolkowski 1993 that much of Polybius’ description of procedure at New Carthage comprises eulogy rather than first-hand reportage. 23 For other reverberations of tragic history, cf. Marincola in this volume.

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Continued

Reference

Date

Details

5. 88–90

220s

7. 5. 6–7

215

8. 23

214

Gifts to Rhodes after the earthquake, mostly in materiel but including 500 T in silver Hieronymus attempts to extract from Rome the return of gifts made by Hiero II: amounts are unspecified Gift of 300 T+ from Antiochus III to Xerxes of Armosata, as well as the remission of tribute Indemnity of 1,000 T initially demanded from Aetolians as the price of peace) Indemnity of 200 T payable by the Aetolians to Rome at once, with a further 300 T in later instalments, as the price of peace. Crown of 150 T presented to Fulvius by Ambracia Cibyra pays 15 T crown + 100 T to buy Manlius off Termessus pays 50 T to Manlius for an alliance Cyrmasa and Sagalassus pay Manlius 50 T and specified quantities of grain Ariarathes is told by Manlius to pay 200 T for peace (but 300 T in 21. 44 for the same transaction) Antiochus III to pay as indemnities 12,000 T and a specified quantity of grain to the Romans, and 350 T to Eumenes plus another 127 T in lieu of grain An offer of 120 T from Eumenes to the Achaean League is refused) Back-reference to the sale of Aegina by Aetolians to Attalus for 30 T) Indemnities, to be paid by Pharnaces, of 900 T to Ariarathes and 300 T to Eumenes, and of 300 T by Mithradates (of Armenia) to Ariarathes Gifts of Antiochus IV, on withdrawing from Egypt, of 50 T to the Romans and of 100 T to certain unidentified Greek cities An offer of 500 T by Demetrius I of Syria for the possession of Cyprus fails) Prusias of Bithynia to pay 500 T over 20 years to Attalus II and to pay 100 T in reparations to four Greek cities

(21. 4. 12–14

190

21. 30. 1–5

189

21. 34 21. 35. 4 21. 36

188 188 188

21. 40. 6

188

21. 42. 19 ff.

188

(22. 7. 3

185

(22. 8. 10

207

25. 2

179?

28. 22

169

(33. 5. 1–3

155

33. 13. 8

154

Such are the raw data from Polybius’ text. They are a mixed bag, some being indemnities imposed by treaty, some being gifts from polity X to polity Y, and some being bribes and extortions, while they largely exclude ongoing or indefinite subsidies such as those being paid by Egypt to Cleomenes of Sparta in the 220s (2. 63. 2–5). Further, they exclude booty, and of course they also exclude the capillary circulation of monies paid during or after military campaigns to mercenary or citizen soldiers and seamen. All the same, three impressions from these data strike the eye at once. The first is their sheer

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scale, of a whole order of magnitude greater than those which a historian of the pre-Alexander fourth century bc would encounter: thereby they expose the size of the resources which even minor Hellenistic monarchies could amass and disburse. The second is the overwhelming extent to which Romans, whether collectively or individually, were the beneficiaries. Together with much other evidence, now most usefully gathered together by de Callataÿ 2006: 70–4, they begin to reveal just how much bullion came to be stripped from the eastern basin of the Mediterranean. Since its impact on the Roman state and society is well enough known (and is highlighted by Polybius himself),24 this is not the place to reiterate the obvious. Equally obvious, however, is a third impression, that of the consequences for the debtor parties. For example, not only were public and private accumulations milked ruthlessly but also the money supply was squeezed in regions which may have still been only half-monetized and had little direct access to fresh bullion resources. The consequences for regional liquidity and for the growing incidence of debt cannot be pursued in detail here, any more than the problem of how such ‘international transfer payments’ can be theorized within any normal economic framework.25 Even this lightning sketch must touch on that holy grail of the economic historian, quantification. Besides those alluded to above, International Transfer Payments and proceeds from booty, it is perhaps most obvious and most useful in his figures of the sizes of contingents for the major battles,26 which prompt reflections on modes of recruitment and on the (sometimes very explicitly flagged) scale, logistics, and difficulties of supply. Equally valuable, but equally problematic, are his rare figures for populations, for whatever one does with his figures for Roman military manpower in 225 is paralleled on a much smaller scale by his figure of only 6,000 for the free population of Seleucia-in-Pieria in 219,27 or by the implications of accepting that in 218 Selge in the middle Eurymedon valley in Pamphylia could lose ‘not less than 10,000’ of their own forces and still resist the Pednelissians successfully.28 Equally invaluable as reports of figures and quantities are his detailed descriptions of the gifts made by Hellenistic rulers to Rhodes after the 227 earthquake,29 and of the constituent parts of Antiochus’ ostentatiously spectacular  at Daphne in 166 or 165,30 or his report, presumably based in part on his visit to Spain in 151, that the silver

24 e.g. 9. 10 (editorial comment on the transfer to Rome of the spoils of Syracuse), with HCP ii. 134–6; 31. 25 (linking the growth of extravagance with the defeat of Perseus). 25 For a possible alternative framework, cf. Davies 2009. 26 e.g. his figures for both Roman and Carthaginian fleet manpower at the battle of Ecnomus (1. 26. 5–8). 27 5. 61. 1, with HCP i. 585 and 587. 28 5. 73. 16 (losses); 5. 76. 11 (eventual outcome). 29 5. 88–90, with HCP i. 616. 30 30. 25–6, with Ath. 5. 22–4, 194c–195f and de Callataÿ 2006: 40–1.

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mines near New Carthage then had 40,000 miners and yielded 25,000 drachmas per day (24. 9. 8–11). Whatever the problems involved, such figures are central to any assessment of public and private money supply, and of its routes of accumulation and distribution. Finally, since so much of the foregoing has remained perforce within the military domain, it is valuable to be reminded of his eye for the world of agrarian production and prices, all the more so since outside Egypt and Babylon we have so little post-Alexander evidence for them.31 Two vignettes must suffice, both probably stemming from autopsy in the 150s, and both using the same three commodities (wheat, barley, and wine) as comparators.32 The first is a passage in the ‘minor masterpiece’ which is his sketch of Cisalpina, with its fertility, its pigs, its acorns, and the open-handedness of its inn-keepers (2. 15. 1). The second, if we can trust the transcription, verges on the lyrical: Polybius of Megalopolis. . . . describing the prosperity of Lusitania (this is the region of Iberia, which the Romans now call Spain) in his 34th book, says that there, owing to the pleasant blending of the air, both animals and humans are very prolific, and the crops in the region never fail. Roses, white violets, asparagus and plants similar to these cease flowering for no more than three months, while in respect alike to quantity, to excellence, and beauty the sea-fish show a great difference when compared with those of our own sea. The Sicilian medimnus of barley costs a drachma, that of wheat 9 obols of Alexandria, the metretes of wine costs a drachma, and a reasonable kid or hare an obol. The price of lambs is 3 or 4 obols. A fat pig weighing 100 minae costs 5 drachmas, a sheep 2. A talent of figs costs 3 obols, a calf 5 drachmas and a ploughing ox 10. The meat of wild animals is scarcely considered worth pricing, but they exchange these freely with each other as presents and marks of favour.33

Yet, Herodotean though the genre may be, the plethora of figures reads more like an Economic Survey: historiography has moved on.

THREE TYPES OF ECONOMIC BEHAVIOUR So much, in the space available, by way of illustrating some of the ways in which Polybius’ text is an invaluable—and seriously under-exploited—quarry of material for economic historians of the Hellenistic Mediterranean.34 I turn 31 His comment that the Carthaginians were accustomed ‘to support their private livelihoods from the produce of the countryside, assembling their public preparations and supplies from the revenues of Libya’ (1. 71. 1) is all the more frustratingly brief on that account. 32 The parallels were noted by Walbank (HCP i. 173 and iii. 602). 33 34. 8. 4–10, from Strabo 3. 2. 7 and Ath. 8. 1, 330c–331b. Walbank (HCP iii. 601) canvassed a confusion by Athenaeus with Turdetania (sc. the Guadalquivir valley), an interpretation resisted by Étienne 1996: 396 = 2006: 556. 34 I know of no monograph on Polybius which addresses the theme of the present chapter: none is cited in Walbank 2000: 1–27.

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now to the second kind of material which he offers, the analytic and interpretative, for implicit throughout his extant text is a continuous, at times brutally violent, three-way tug-of-war among three different types of economic behaviour on the part of polities. The first comprises predatory behaviour, whether by private individuals or by formally constituted state forces, outwith a polity’s own boundaries and directed towards the acquisition by force of movable goods, the objective being either to take those goods back home or to sell them off and thereby to capitalize their value. As portrayed in Polybius’ text, the main practitioners of this mode were Illyrians, Cretans, and Aetolians, but the kings were quite capable of joining in on occasion, as were the Romans,35 while it would be foolish to assume that no comparable behaviour was exhibited elsewhere within the world which came within his purview. The reasons are obvious, for such behaviour had deep roots within even the Greek world: one may recall Homeric portraits of Nestor-style cattle-raiding or the endless allusions in Greek myths and legends. Indeed, it can be seen as a reflection of the universal assumption that, in default of any specific mechanism of protection, any other community except one’s own is an enemy with no rights and is fair game if one can get away with it. Moreover, such behaviour had its own rationale, for it worked best when five conditions were fulfilled:  a significant able-bodied male population available in slack periods of the  

 

agrarian or pastoral year; access to, and command of, an effective hit-and-run technology (for example, for Aetolians and Illyrians, the Viking-long-boat-style º ); an accessible and attractive set of potential targets, such as the ships of the Italian traders (2. 8. 2–3) or the rural landscape of Messenia which had escaped the effects of the Cleomenean War (4. 5. 4–5); inadequate systems of protection of those targets on the part of the community concerned; and collusion (at least) or more usually active collaboration on the part of the polities of the predatory community.

This mode was effective, widespread, and had significant economic impact. One may, for example, think of the extensive sphere of influence which the Aetolians built up in the third century bc via their network of asylia-treaties,36

35

e.g. the refugees from Agathurna licensed by M. Valerius Laevinus to plunder Bruttium (9. 27. 10). 36 References in Rigsby 1996. It is no accident that the phrase ‘The politics of plunder’ (Scholten 2000) has also been applied to the piracy of 1550–1650 (Jowitt 2006) as well as to certain modern misgovernments, real or alleged.

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or of the mode’s two principal formal encapsulations. The first was queen Teuta’s reply to the Coruncanii in 230 (2. 4. 8), the second the provisions about booty which were written into the Romano-Aetolian treaty of 212 or 211—not indeed directly preserved in Polybius, but reflected well enough in the ferocious comments which he reports of Thrasycrates of Rhodes in June 207.37 I am not, however, here concerned to explore ethical or moral judgements on this mode of behaviour, whether Polybius’ or our own, each with its oscillations and its ambivalences;38 what matters is that it was rational because it was profitable,39 and that it was therefore widely practised in regions where the five conditions identified above converged with sufficient force. It was not just a pattern of widespread individual freebooting, of the kind which allowed Scerdilaidas off Cape Malea and towns in Pelagonia in summer 217 to ‘treat all merchants as enemies’ (5. 101. 1, 108. 1–2), for just as at Nicaea in November 198 Philip V could cite to Flamininus the Aetolian law of sylē,40 so correspondingly the Aetolians could complain after 217 that the Peace of Naupactus had ‘cut off all their sources of booty by making peace with all the Greeks’.41 This mode has to count as a structural component of the societies of its leading practitioners, and hence also of the economic behaviours of Polybius’ world. A second mode is the complement of the first, namely the behaviour of polities in providing a safe environment for non-belligerent economic and social life. This allowed gainful processes of production, distribution, and consumption to proceed, and protected persons and property within and between civil societies at the cost of imposing and enforcing systems of public order and taxation. There is not much about this mode in Polybius, understandably in so far as he is concerned not with infrastructures but with events. However, enough survives not merely to confirm what one would in any case assume, that all the polities which entered his narrative had a civil order of sorts, but also to reveal that for at least some polities the protection of a supra-national civil order was important enough to justify active and collaborative intervention.

37 11. 5. 2–8; cf. also those of Lyciscus of Acarnania at 9. 39. 1–3. The various versions of the Wortlaut of the treaty are best set out in Staatsverträge III 536, with Austin 2006: no. 77 for translations and references to more recent bibliography. 38 As variously explored by Sacks 1975, Garlan 1978, Davies 1984: 285–90, and Grainger 1999. 39 Having captured a group of Aetolian envoys to Rome in 189, the Epirots demanded a ransom of 5 T for each, and accepted 3 T a head for all except Alexander the Isian, whose refusal to pay was providentially vindicated (21. 26. 7–19). If these figures represented anything like the going rates for high-status captives, it is no wonder that pirates proliferated. One may fitly compare the figure of $500,000, reported in June 2007 as the going rate for ransoming oil workers in the Niger Delta area and as apparently paid by oil companies as a routine cost. 40 18. 4. 8–5. 3. In contrast, Philopoemen granted the Achaeans strictly limited Þ
ØÆ against the Boiotians (22. 4. 13–17, with HCP iii. 181). 41 5. 107. 5–7, if honestly reported by Polybius.

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The most explicit example is his sketch of the crystallization and consolidation of the Achaean ‘federal state’, though interestingly even there his emphasis is on common laws, weights, and measures (2. 37. 10–11); taxation as such featured only when in summer 217 the League voted to set up a small permanent army and navy, triggering edginess in Argos about who would pay for it (5. 91. 4 and 93. 6). Other information is largely incidental42 and tends (understandably) to focus on deviations from the norm, such as his comments on the weight of taxation felt on both sides during the First Punic War,43 or his reports of Perseus’ cancellation of debts to the state on his accession (25. 3) and of the Rhodian loss of revenues after 167 (30. 31). Likewise, light shed on the real economy, as distinct from the fiscal economy or the predatory economy, is indeed scattered and scrappy but far from absent. Predictably, we have evidence for production, with craftsmen reported as active in towns as far apart as Saguntum, New Carthage, and Antioch;44 and for consumption, whether by Aemilia and the Roman jeunesse dorée of the 160s (31. 25. 5; 31. 26) or by the M. Livius (Macatus?), whose drunken banquet lost the Romans their control of most of Taras in winter 213–12.45 Less predictably, we also have real evidence for distribution, whether in the form of his report of the commodities which moved into and out of Pontus (4. 38) and his associated comparison between the amount of that traffic and that which passed through or across the straits of Gibraltar (16. 29. 11–12), or in his comment that, at least before the Roman colony at Brundisium was founded, Taras as the only east-coast harbour was the unavoidable entrepôt for all who travelled from Greece or Italy to Apulia (10. 1. 5). All the same, those are vignettes which yield little on their own. Much more significant, as reflecting a regularity and an apparent commonality of interest, are his references to the states which threw their diplomatic influence behind moves to end major wars. A skeleton list, compiled by the rules of this paper from Polybius’ text only, would need to include, for the Social War, the Rhodians and Chians in 218 (5. 24. 11, 28. 1) and the Chians, Rhodians, Byzantines, and Ptolemy IV in 217 (5. 100. 9); for the Fourth Syrian War in 217, first the Rhodians, Byzantines, Cyzicenes, and Aetolians (5. 63. 5) and then the Chians, Rhodians, and Byzantines (5. 100. 9); and for the First Macedonian War in 207, Ptolemy IV, the Rhodians, Byzantines, Chians, and Mytilenians.46

42 e.g. (a) 1. 71. 1 on Carthaginian resources; (b) a passing reference to Tlepolemus administering the pragmata and the chremata of Egypt (16. 22. 7); (c) a bland note of the Ptolemaic viceroy in Cyprus applying himself diligently to the collection of revenue (27. 13. 2: the papyri allow us to envisage all too clearly what that meant in practice). 43 1. 58. 9; 1. 72. 2 (doubled from 25 per cent?, Walbank, HCP i. 137). 44 Respectively, 3. 17. 2; 10. 8. 5 and 17. 9; 26. 1. 2. 45 8. 25. 11; 27. 1–2; 27. 4 ff.; 30. 5–6, with Walbank, HCP ii. 102, and MRR i. 262 n. 7 for his cognomen. 46 11. 4–6, with Walbank, HCP ii. 274–5 for the evidence of Appian that Amynander of Athamania was also party to the mediation.

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Both the recurrences of names and their geographical concentration are striking, all the more when territorial interests are not said to be directly involved and when (as with the Social War) the theatres of conflict lay mostly well away from the Aegean. Obviously, any interpretative framework for this activity must incorporate his report of the help given to Rhodes after the earthquake (5. 88–90), his narrative of the Rhodes–Byzantium war (4. 38–52) with its explicit emphasis on Byzantine action to protect the Pontic trade (4. 50. 1–3) and on the role of traders in arousing Rhodians to action (4. 47. 1), and his report of Rhodian fiscal losses after 167 (30. 31).47 Even a minimalist interpretation has to accept that these interventions cannot have been driven purely by fiscal interest or by the need to ensure the import of essential foodstuffs, important though such motives may well have been; they have to reflect a common interest, which we may as well call commercial, in protecting the viability and security of movement of goods by sea—i.e. the total opposite of the predatory mode.48 Inevitably, the third mode of economic behaviour to be singled out here is that shown principally, but not only, by the post-Alexander monarchies. Here it is necessary to be radical and to assert that even though—alike for Polybius, for other ancient literary sources, and for modern historiography—their behaviour is seen to attest itself in political, diplomatic, and military activity, it has fundamentally to be seen as economic. That is not as revolutionary as it appears, for it starts from the elementary fact that (if we couch it in realist terms) the unipolar system of the Achaemenid Persian empire had given way to a multipolar system. Or rather, it had reverted to a very longue durée regularity, not so much because much competitive multipolar activity among satraps and dynasts went on within the Achaemenid empire (though that is true) as because what emerged after Ipsus within ex-Achaemenid territories was grosso modo the re-emergence of a deep-rooted polymorphic competitive system. That system had had much the same geographical configuration since the Late Bronze Age, intensified pari passu with the spread of Greek language, culture, and institutions (Davies 2002), and is still perfectly visible in a very similar configuration at the present day.49

47 However, Roman intervention in the Sixth Syrian War does not belong in this list, because Popillius Laenas’ peremptory behaviour at Eleusis (29. 27) shows the Roman state behaving as a power-wielder, not as mediator or power-broker. 48 The Roman intervention against Illyria (2. 8–12) therefore exemplifies the mode (Davies 2004a). A maximalist interest will, of course, look outside Polybius’ text, both forwards in time to the Aegean response to Mithradates’ control of the Hellespont and backwards in time, e.g. to the collaboration of (largely the same group of) Aegean states over a century earlier in the First Social War of 350s, in the second Aegean League, in the )˝-coinage alliance of the 390s, in the original Delian League, and even into the sixth century bc. 49 Except that, of the three intrinsic power-resource nuclei (Egypt, Anatolia, and SyriaMesopotamia), the third is currently divided.

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Perforce, therefore, the Successor kingdoms were in competition for survival and power. However, survival and power are not primary ‘goods’; they are the product of what is primary, namely productive land, fighting men, tax revenues, a viable and well-staffed administrative structure, and stored wealth. It will be otiose to pick out from Polybius’ text the endless examples of the behaviour of each and every royal polity in seeking to protect, and if possible to increase, its command of those five commodities.50 Rather, I want to emphasize that though that compulsion could and did generate predatory behaviour, vitriolically described by Polybius on occasion, it was structurally different from the Aetolian and other behaviour which I have called my first mode. It differed both because it was essentially territorial and directed towards tax revenues, not loot and booty,51 and because it aimed to maximize stored wealth for re-use: in that sense, it was behaviour directed towards productive reinvestment. What is more, such behaviour was not a monarchs’ monopoly, for the Rhodians behaved in much the same way after 188 in their cold war with Pergamum over influence and revenues from western Asia Minor. One is tempted to use the phrase ‘market share’, but that would be a grave error: these polities were not so much like competitive supermarket chains, concerned to sell, as like oil companies, seeking to seize and control as large a share of the available primary good as they can acquire, by fair means or foul.

POLYBIUS THE UNCONSCIOUS INFORMANT The ‘economic reading’ of Polybius sketched above may now be juxtaposed, and compared, with recent generalized pictures of the period. Six such pictures come into question, which are reviewed in chronological order of publication.52 Three of them may suitably be viewed through their subheadings:

50 e.g. the action of Perseus in expelling Abrupolis from his principality in order to recover control of the Pangaeum mines (22. 18. 2–3). I thank Joe Manning for preliminary sight of his interpretation of Egypt under the Ptolemies as a ‘bandit state’, in a sense which is fully compatible with what is set out in the text above. 51 e.g. the action of Masinissa in coveting and eventually getting hold of Lesser Syrtis because of its fertility and abundant revenue (31. 21). 52 With apologies to the author, I have translated the headings in Chankowski-Sablé 2004. I exclude here any review of Davies 1984, both because its purview was not exclusively economic and because, basically drafted by 1981, it is already thirty years out of date. Likewise, though in itself invaluable, Alcock 1994 is best referenced here rather than in the text because she uses only one main type of evidence, twelve surface surveys of regions within the eastern Mediterranean zone. That does indeed offer a more direct access to the experience of its populations, by spotting trends such as urbanization, demographic fluctuation, agrarian intensification, and the reality or otherwise of cultural discontinuities.

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Reger 2003 1 Introduction. 2 Physical preconditions. 3 Human resources. 4 Forms of movement. 5 Institutions of the economy (price settings; banks, financing, credit; the polis; forms of inter-state co-operation; Hellenistic kingdoms; money). 6 How monetarized was the economy? 7 Did states have ‘economic policies’? 8 The impact of Rome. Chankowski–Sablé 2004 1 The sources and their limitations. 2 The economic systems of the kingdoms of the eastern Mediterranean: from patterns to practices (the range of influences; economic systems and pragmatism); royal wealth; from ‘king’s finances’ to ‘economies of kingdoms’ (the Ptolemaic system, the Seleucid system, the Attalid system); from Hellenistic kingdoms to Roman provinces. 3 Economic agents: land use (royal lands and dōrea; royal land and private property; civic territories and temple domains); the cities and their economic activities (economic policies; urban centres and markets; large and small cities); the world of the merchants. 4 Areas of prosperity and periods of crisis: exchange networks; system impairments and breakdowns; A unified economic area? Davies 2006 1 Preliminaries and problems. 2 Environment and stabilities: landscape and environment; use of complementary habitats and resources; communications; land and land ownership. 3 The main processes of change. Monetization; royal economies; the rise and fall of Egypt as a ‘royal economy’; population movements; seaborne transport; new institutions and installations; knowledge transfer; luxuries and lifestyles; the polarization of wealth; west central Italy as an economic actor. 4 The drift towards integrated economies. Though there are differences, these three chapters show a strong family resemblance. They all know the diversity of the region and period in question, they all remain within the discourse of orthodox economic historians, and they all use epigraphic, papyrological, environmental, and artefact evidence rather than the narrative texts of the historians or the biographers. The same is true for the remaining three pictures, planned and published as a trio in the Cambridge Economic History of the Greek and Roman World of 2007. Steered by their editors and by the use, as standard categories, of the two triads ‘production, distribution, and consumption’ and ‘land, labour, and capital’, all three (Van der Spek 2007, Manning 2007, and Reger 2007) use a common framework of heads of exposition, which focuses on agricultural and other production and consumption, monetization and prices, urbanization, taxation and revenues, state and private institutions, the effects of warfare, and the extent to which advances in knowledge allowed real economic growth. They too have little cause to cite Polybius directly.53 53 They do so mainly for his sections on population decline and on the war between Rhodes and Byzantium.

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All in all, the differences between the shapes of these six surveys and the picture offered by Polybius are sobering: he almost seems to be describing a different world. Many factors contribute. To begin with, at least after the start of Book 3, his main focus is not on the Greek or Greek-style poleis which— partly because they are disproportionately well documented—have attracted so much (perhaps too much) attention in current scholarship: nor even (Achaea apart) does he dwell much on the ‘federal states’. His attention is focused above all on the royal regimes whose gigantic taxing and purchasing powers and near-monopoly control of primary resources permitted large-scale and far-reaching royal activity in war and peace. Book 6 conspicuously excepted, he is far less interested in institutions than in peoples and personalities. He is not concerned, except incidentally, with the static or slowchanging rhythms of production, distribution, and consumption, but above all with politics, diplomacy, and warfare, together with their conduct and effects. He is not, after all, an ‘economic historian’, even in posse, let alone in esse—and yet that very fact makes his text reveal via its details utterly invaluable economic information which is all the more reliably usable for being very largely raw,54 i.e. for not having been processed within an interpretative framework of his own. In consequence, and especially when chronicling the movements of Philip V and Antiochus III, his geographical purview takes him across countless ecological boundaries in a way which (experto credite) authors of smaller scale sketches of economic life find it very hard to encompass. Furthermore, and crucially, his focus on the actions of the great powers allows his text to provide the materials for constructing a diachronic dynamic model for the Hellenistic Mediterranean as a whole, and to provide the evidence that its scale and impetus were set by the behaviours of rulers and of polities, not of individuals or of groups. Above all, as the preceding section has attempted to show, his narrative brings out the crucial facts that conflicts were not just between powers and polities but also between three opposed forms of collective behaviour, each of which carried major consequences for the economic shape of the post-Alexander world. Polybius tells us more about that world of competitive and incompatible modes than anyone else, and more than he knew himself. 54 There are exceptions, such as his saccharine portrayal of the economic unification of Achaea (2. 37. 9–11) and most conspicuously his outrageous caricature of Boeotia (20. 6), on which see Müller in this volume, but it is relatively easy to plant warning flags round them.

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19 Imagining the Imperial Mediterranean1 Josephine Crawley Quinn

Polybius invented a new way of writing history, in response, he says, to the
ıºŒ or ‘interweaving’ of history itself in the 140th Olympiad: Previously [before 220–216] the doings of the inhabited world (NŒıÅ) had been, so to say, dispersed, as they were held together by no unity of initiative, results or locality; but ever since this date2 history has become as if organic (x N
øÆØ B), and the affairs of Italy and of Africa have been interweaved (
ıºŒ
ŁÆ ) with those of Asia and Greece, all leading up to one end (º ) . . . Just as Fortune has steered almost all the affairs of the inhabited world in one direction and has forced them to incline towards one and the same end, so it is the task of the historian to bring before his readers under one synoptical view (e  Æ
łØ) the operations by which she has accomplished her general purpose. (1. 3. 3–4. 1)

It is this synoptic approach that I shall explore here, and what it means for Polybius’ presentation of the Mediterranean, not in terms of geography but in terms of human experience. Frank Walbank’s classic 1975 article on the
ıºŒ comprehensively covers the practical aspects of this topic;3 what I want to do here is to examine its ideology. I am going to argue that Polybius’ structure is in itself a construction—of the Mediterranean as a unity between east and west, Greece and Rome—and that this can be understood as a political as well as a literary strategy. At the same time, however, alternative constructions of the Mediterranean can be traced through Polybius’ account 1 I would like to thank Karl Britto, Christopher Brooke, Craige Champion, Tim Cornell, Bruce Gibson, Erich Gruen, Kieran Hendrick, Irad Malkin, Guy Métraux, Jonathan Prag, and Andrew Stewart for useful discussion of drafts of this essay. Translations are taken (often with amendments) from the Loeb edition; I have taken advantage of the Walbank and Habicht revision now available for Books 1–4. 2 Polybius specifically locates this ‘interweaving’ at the peace conference at Naupactus in 217 that ended the Social War between Philip V of Macedonia and his Hellenic confederation, on the one side, and the Aetolians on the other (5. 105. 4–5). 3 Walbank 1975.

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and other sources. First, though, a glance at a pair of more recent studies of the historical treatment of time will set the scene for the rest of the discussion, not because I think they explain Polybius’ strategy but because I think they don’t, quite.

EMPTY, HOMOGENEOUS TIME In his 1983 book Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson famously pointed to the importance of a conception of simultaneous, empty time across a limited geographical space for the rise of nationalism in the early modern period: Beneath the decline of sacred communities, languages and lineages, a fundamental change was taking place in modes of apprehending the world, which, more than anything else, made it possible to 'think' the nation . . . [T]he mediaeval Christian mind had no conception of history as an endless chain of cause and effect or of radical separations between past and present . . . it views time as . . . a simultaneity of past and future in an instantaneous present. In such a view of things, the word ‘meanwhile’ cannot be of real significance . . . What has come to take the place of the mediaeval conception of simultaneity-along-time is . . . an idea of ‘homogeneous, empty time’, in which simultaneity is, as it were, transverse, cross-time, marked not by prefiguring and fulfilment, but by temporal coincidence, and measured by clock and calendar.4

As a result, time is understood as an experience shared by all members of the national community, and Anderson shows how the structures of novels and newspapers in emerging nations reinforced this modern idea of simultaneity across homogeneous, empty time. Novels of this sort present their characters as doing different things at the same time, linked too because they are embedded in the same society and in the minds of the common readership; and they often contain copious references to the readers’ own experience of, and even involvement in, the events and places discussed. In the case of the newspaper, events and readers are linked through the simultaneous, large-scale consumption of that newspaper as well as ‘calendrical coincidence’—which is to say that the paper prints the date at the top of page 1, meaning that there is a single date for the first time, shared by protagonists and consumers of events. Much of the inspiration for Anderson’s account comes from Walter Benjamin’s last essay, the ‘Theses on the Concept of History’, an attack on what he calls the ‘historicist’ form of history-writing, in which the historical progress of mankind 4

Anderson 2006 (1983): 22–4.

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was regarded as irresistible, something that automatically pursued a straight or spiral course . . . the concept of the historical progress of mankind cannot be sundered from the concept of its progression through a homogeneous, empty time . . . 5

For Benjamin, this ‘historicism’ always empathizes with history’s victors, whom it sees as inevitably successful.6 He contrasts with the ‘historicist’ the ‘historical materialist’ for whom time is not progressive, ‘empty’ and ‘homogeneous’, but is ‘filled by the presence of the now’;7 this is Anderson’s contrast between simultaneity-across-time and simultaneity-along-time. And historical materialism, in this sense, was a political act of serious contemporary relevance: To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’ (Ranke). It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger8 . . . One reason why Fascism has a chance is that in the name of progress its opponents treat it as a historical norm.9

According to Benjamin, revolutionaries can ‘make the continuum of history explode’, and sometimes do this literally by introducing a new calendar, as happened after the French and Soviet revolutions, or, more dramatically, by gunning down clock towers.10 I want to suggest in what follows that this conception of simultaneityacross-time is not confined to the modern period, as Anderson suggests,11 but is central to the synoptic approach Polybius adopts, which invokes a sense of simultaneous, shared time and history between the peoples of the Mediterranean. In particular, he presents the Romans and the Greeks as participating in one historical community as both characters and readers, building not a nation but an empire.12 This does not mean, however, that Polybius’ history is 5

Benjamin 1968: Thesis 13. Ibid. Thesis 7: ‘ . . . if one asks with whom the adherents of historicism actually empathize [t]he answer is inevitable: with the victor. And all rulers are the heirs of those who conquered before them. Hence, empathy with the victor invariably benefits the rulers . . . ’. 7 Ibid. Thesis 14: ‘[Materialist] History is the subject of a structure whose site is not homogeneous, empty time, but time filled by the presence of the now [Jetztzeit]. Thus, to Robespierre ancient Rome was a past charged with the time of the now which he blasted out of the continuum of history. The French revolution viewed itself as Rome reincarnate.’ 8 Ibid. Thesis 6. 9 Ibid. Thesis 8. 10 Ibid. Thesis 15: ‘The awareness that they are about to make the continuum of history explode is characteristic of the revolutionary classes at the moment of their action. The great revolution introduced a new calendar . . . In the July revolution an incident occurred which showed this consciousness still alive. On the first evening of fighting it turned out that the clocks in towers were being fired on simultaneously and independently from several places in Paris.’ For examples of the manipulation of time in the Greek world, see Clarke 2008: 41–5. 11 Implied at Anderson 2006: 37 and elsewhere; cf. Momigliano 1966 on, inter alia, the difficulties of pinpointing the invention of time. 12 Denis Feeney has made the same general point about the application of Anderson’s ‘sense of simultaneity in a shared time and participation in a parallel space’ to universal, synchronistic 6

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a straightforward example of Benjamin’s historicism; it does not empathize solely with the Roman ‘victors’, but suggests alternative ways of understanding historical events, and recognizes alternative conceptions of the Mediterranean world. First, I shall discuss how Polybius establishes simultaneity across the Mediterranean, and what this might have to do with Roman imperialism, and then I shall look briefly at a couple of slightly earlier and rather different versions, or visions, of the way the Mediterranean works; before returning to Polybius, to show that his text, too, contains alternatives to the hegemonic message of unity between east and west, that he too deals in simultaneity along as well as across time.

THE POLYBIAN MEDITERRANEAN First, then, how does Polybius’ structure, and in particular his
ıºŒ, construct space? After the two introductory books covering sketchily the years 264–221, and the three books which treat the wars which took place in the 140th Olympiad I undertook to make a fresh beginning . . . and henceforth to deal with the shared experiences13 of the oikoumene (a ŒØa B NŒıÅ æØ ), classing it under Olympiads and dividing those into years and placing contemporary experiences side by side for comparison (
ıªŒæ  KŒ ÆæƺB a

ŒÆƺººı ) until the capture of Carthage, the battle of the Achaeans and Romans at the Isthmus and the consequent settlement of Greece [i.e. 146]. (39. 8. 6)

So Polybius tells his story year by year, and within each year he works his way across the world in a figure-of-eight pattern, starting with events in Italy, Sicily, Spain, and Africa, moving on to Greece and Macedonia, thence to Asia, and finally reaching Egypt.14 Not every area features every year, not every year in the narrative conforms strictly to the chronological pattern, and some books are digressions beyond the narrative history, but that is the basic synoptic structure, the ‘shared history’ (ŒØ ƒ
æ Æ) by which Polybius organizes

histories, although he discusses this in the context of the early empire, and does not relate it to specific structural models (2007: 66–7). For a comparable approach to space, see now Purves 2010 on the competition of synoptic (‘protocartographic’) and hodological (‘countercartographic’) approaches to space in archaic and classical Greek narrative. Purves notes with reference to the former model how a map’s ‘ability to lie and distort’ allows it ‘to engage seamlessly in fictions of power’ (pp. 21–2). 13 I am grateful to Erich Gruen for suggesting this translation of a ŒØa æØ . 14 See in particular 28. 16. 11.

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horizontal space in vertical time in a completely new way to describe ‘shared experiences’.15 What are the contours of this space? As we have seen, Polybius claims at the end of the work (39. 8. 6, quoted above) that his history has dealt comparatively with the shared experiences of the inhabited world, or NŒıÅ,16 suggesting that for him this NŒıÅ is made up of the areas his synoptic structure cycles through: Italy, Sicily, Spain, Africa, Greece, Macedonia, Asia Minor (with occasional forays further to the Seleucid east), and Egypt. But at other times he says he is dealing with the known parts of the NŒıÅ (2. 37. 4), or almost all the affairs of the NŒıÅ (1. 4. 1); and when he defines the NŒıÅ geographically (3. 37), it is as Asia, Africa, and Europe, with boundaries at the river Don, the Nile, and the Pillars of Hercules. Asia and Africa lie south of the Mediterranean; Europe lies north. Polybius is very vague about the extension north and south of these zones, explaining that these outer areas are not yet known (3. 38. 1–3). It is clear that he conceptualizes these regions in terms of their centre, the Mediterranean, rather than their far-off and barbarous peripheries, but it is also clear that when he is technically defining the concept of the NŒıÅ, he includes the whole world known to him, certainly a far larger area than that covered by the synoptic structure.17 The community united by that structure, however, ‘almost’ the NŒıÅ, maps fairly closely onto the lands surrounding the Mediterranean. And this community is not imagined in a vacuum: outside it, defining and threatening it, lie the barbarians, not included in the regular cycle of events unless they are on the receiving end of a war. The Persians (3. 6. 10) are a traditional choice, but Polybius is also and particularly concerned by the Gauls (2. 35), common enemy to the Romans and the Greeks, as we shall see further below. While Rome is subsumed into Greek Olympiadic history, these tribes and peoples remain outside time. The Mediterranean peoples, by contrast, are now tied together through time: Polybius’ structure relies on and reinforces a conception of chronological simultaneity across this space. After the
ıºŒ, Polybius and his readers Cf. Derow in OCD3 (s.v. ‘Polybius’) for the horizontal/vertical image. For ŒØ ƒ
æ Æ after the 140th Olympiad, see 4. 28. 3–4; 8. 2. 11 (ŒÆŁºØŒ ŒÆd ŒØ ƒ
æ Æ: combining universal and synoptic approaches); 1. 4. 11 for the importance of seeing the interconnection and comparison of events, and cf. 5. 31. 7 and 32. 11. 2 (noting a departure from the standard pattern). Katherine Clarke has discussed at length the various attempts of historians from Thucydides onwards to draw different communities with different ways of reckoning time into a single historical narrative (2008: 90–168); on Polybius’ tactics in particular, see 112–21. She points out that, because of the fragmentary survival of Books 6 and following, ‘we are more reliant on Polybius’ explicit statements of intent than on the extensive exemplification of the Olympiadic structure’ (p. 112). 16 5. 31. 6 is a rather vague statement along the same lines. 17 This means that his work cannot describe, as Walbank puts it, the unification of the NŒıÅ under Rome (1972a: 68). 15

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enter Benjamin’s ‘empty, homogeneous time’ as members of a historical community that stretches from Spain to Egypt. The concurrent narratives that he employs from this point are the structural exploitation and constant reassertion of the meaningfulness of ‘meanwhile’ within the Mediterranean world: ŒÆa ı ÆP ŒÆØæ , a phrase which recurs constantly throughout the Histories.18 And the synoptic structure is by no means the only way that Polybius produces this community in time between the eastern and western Mediterranean, and in particular between Greece and Rome: another is the provision of synchronisms; the alignment of different dating systems is a third. Synchronisms orient the reader with respect to events in other areas,19 and bring the Mediterranean together before the full synoptic structure starts in Book 7, synchronism systematized.20 This is not just about pulling together Rome and Greece: six of the nine synchronisms found in Books 4–5 involve not just Philip V of Macedon and the Greek states but also Rome, eight include Carthage, and five either Ptolemy or Antiochus.21 Synchronisms between west and east are not of course unheard of by the time that Polybius is writing, but he takes this technique unusually far back in time for a Greek historian. Denis Feeney draws attention, for instance, to the way that Eratosthenes and Apollodorus (writing in the later third and midsecond centuries, respectively) only ‘start to take notice of Roman events at all when they arrived at the invasion of Italy by the Greek king Pyrrhus [in

18

With some variation, and usually marking a geographical move sideways within the synoptic structure, or synchronisms before that structure starts; e.g., before the
ıºŒ: 2. 37. 1 referring to 220; 3. 2. 3 on 220–16; 4. 27. 1 on 220; 4. 37. 4, 8 on 219; 4. 68. 1 on 219/18; 5. 1. 3 on 218; 5. 29. 7 on 218; 5. 101. 3 on 217; 5. 109. 5 on 216; 5. 111. 1 on 216. After the
ıºŒ, from a random sample of Books 23–7: 23. 6. 1; 24. 5. 2; 27. 1. 1; 27. 3. 1. 19 Denis Feeney now reminds us that the relative rather than absolute nature of ancient timekeeping made synchronisms a peculiarly powerful ideological tool: ‘correlating Greek and Roman dates means correlating Greek and Roman events . . . ancient writers are not connecting numbers; they are connecting significant events and people’ (2007: 15). 20 Synchronisms do occasionally occur later: see Walbank, HCP i. 229 on 2. 41. 1, HCP iii. 235–9 for the synchronism of the deaths of Scipio, Hannibal, and Philopoemen in the same year (Livy 39. 50. 10, 51. 1 (from Polybius)), although this might be an example of the traditional Greek respect for striking coincidences (see Feeney 2007: 44) rather than a genuine attempt to anchor events in time; by this point the synoptic structure renders the latter unnecessary. 21 Synchronisms in Books 4–5 (after Walbank 1972a: 5 n. 20): 4. 26. 7–28. 1 (preparations for the Social War by Philip and the Achaeans with the elections of the Aetolian strategoi and the attack of Hannibal on Saguntum); 4. 37 (Achaea, Aetolia, Carthage/Spain, Rome, Syria, Egypt, Sparta and Macedon, and Rhodes and Byzantium); 4. 66. 7–67. 1 (Philip’s prosecution of Social War with Rome, Carthage/Spain, and Aetolia); 5. 1. 1–4 (Aetolia and Achaea, Carthage/Spain, Rome, Antiochus, and Ptolemy); 5. 29. 5–8 (Philip/Social War with activities of Carthaginian and Roman forces, Antiochus, and Lycurgus of Sparta); 5. 101. 3 (Philip’s siege of Thebes with Rome and Carthage at Trasimene); 5. 105. 3 (Naupactus, Trasimene, and Antiochus’ battle in Coele-Syria); 5. 108. 9–10 (Philip, Hannibal, and Rome); 5. 109. 4–6 (Philip, Antiochus, and the Roman fleet operating off Sicily).

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280] . . . By this approach, the Romans are denied the “likeness” of synchronicity, not being allowed to be part of civilized time until the latest possible moment.’ The Romans are made allochronic, in Johannes Fabian’s terms.22 But Polybius synchronizes Roman and Greek history much earlier, in his famously complex evocation in Book 1 of what we call 387/6: It was, therefore, the nineteenth year after the battle of Aegospotami and the sixteenth before that of Leuctra, the year in which the Spartans ratified the peace known as that of Antalcidas with the King of Persia, that in which also Dionysius the Elder, after defeating the Italiot Greeks in the battle at the river Elleporos, was besieging Rhegium, and that in which the Gauls, after taking Rome itself by assault, occupied the whole of that city except the Capitol. The Romans, after making a truce on conditions satisfactory to the Gauls and being thus contrary to their expectation reinstated in their home and as it were now started on the road of aggrandizement, continued in the following years to wage war on their neighbours. (1. 6. 1–3)

For Polybius, the Romans start on their historical journey more than a century before Pyrrhus turns up in Italy;23 it is identified here as an imperial journey,24 and it is identified with the history of the Hellenistic east.25 At 3. 22. 1–2 Polybius goes back even further, dating the first treaty with Carthage in 509/8 by ‘the first consuls of Rome after the expulsion of the kings and the founders of the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus’ and by the years before Xerxes’ invasion. Polybius may be following Timaeus for the 387/6 synchronism,26 and Fabius Pictor for 509/8,27 in which case it is interesting that he chose to repeat them. Certainly later Roman authors fill in pre-Pyrrhic parallels between Greece and Rome—in an attempt, Feeney suggests, to establish likeness between the two peoples where the Greeks had made Rome different28—but Polybius got there beforehand, and perhaps even first. 22 Feeney 2007: 24–5, discussing Fabian 1983. The same could be said of Polybius’ Persians and Gauls (discussed above, p. 341). Timaeus has the even earlier synchronism of the foundation of Carthage and Rome (Dion. Hal. A.R. 1. 74. 1 = FGrHist 566 F 60), though not examples that cross east and west, and there are of course mentions of Roman events in fifth- and fourthcentury Greek historians: see the fifth-century reference to Aeneas founding Rome (Dion. Hal. A. R. 1. 72. 1 = FGrHist 4 (Hellanicus) F 84) and the fourth-century version involving Lavinium (FGrHist 560 (Alcimus) F 4). 23 Which he admittedly does in the text only a few sentences later, at 1. 6. 5–7. 24 It is none the less striking that this journey begins with a setback, and a more comprehensive one in Polybius’ version than the later Roman tradition on the Sack of Rome suggests (Williams 2001: 143). Bruce Gibson points out to me that there is a comparable ‘narrative synchronism’ in the use of Cannae as the date at which to interrupt the historical narrative for the discussion of the excellence of the Roman constitution (5. 111. 8–10; cf. 6. 58 for the Roman exploitation of their own defeat there). 25 Cf. Feeney 2007: 47. 26 So Walbank, HCP i. 48 on 1. 6. 2: ‘probably’. 27 Walbank, HCP i. 340 on 3. 22. 2 for a discussion of earlier opinions on this point. 28 Feeney 2007: 25.

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As well as the synchronisms, there is the dating system itself: the use of the Olympiads as the backbone of the text from Book 3 onwards creates an impression of one calendar, one kind of time, across the Mediterranean, quite removed from the local ways of reckoning time that people, including many historians, actually used.29 Polybius relies on the universality of the Olympiad scheme, and thus of time itself within the community he creates. He is not the first to use Olympiads: for that we should probably look again to Timaeus, though he may not have used them consistently.30 Again, they certainly weren’t the only choice available: they were not, for instance, the choice made by Philinus, who seems to use years of the (First Punic) War.31 And, as Walbank points out, a rigid Olympiad scheme which runs midsummer to midsummer doesn’t sit well with a history that is principally concerned with the campaigning season, running spring to autumn, and where Polybius is often also following local time-markers, such as Roman consular years running March to March.32 He suggests, following De Sanctis, that Polybius therefore uses ‘manipulated’ and somewhat flexible Olympiads, normally closing with the return to winter quarters in the autumn.33 The scheme he adopts necessitates the alignment of different dating systems as if they were simultaneous: an imaginary calendar unites the imagined Mediterranean community.34 A final Polybian parallel between east and west, Greeks and Romans, is the involvement of the reader in the story. It seems quite clear that Polybius’ 29

See Errington 1967b for the way in which Polybius has no consistent method of reckoning time in the first two books, but tends to follow his sources. On local time, see Clarke 2008. 30 Olympiads are not Timaeus’ only time-keeping system: he puts the founding of Corcyra 600 years after the Trojan war (F 80), and that of Massilia 120 years before Salamis (F 71). See Clarke 1999: 11 n. 20 on the claims by some scholars that Eratosthenes, though later than Timaeus, should be given the ‘honour of having first developed the use of Olympiads as a system of reckoning’ with 2008: 110 on the relative contributions of each to the developing scheme. 31 Walbank 1945a: 1–5, noting the possibility that he also uses consular years. Feeney points out that Jerome and Eusebius make all their different systems artificially start on the same day (2007: 225 n. 77). 32 Clarke points out that while Polybius’ use of Roman consuls as dating-markers continues sporadically after the 140th Olympiad (2008: 116), ‘it is interesting and significant that Polybius refers both to the election and to the accession of consuls, two events which occurred at different times of year’ (p. 117). 33 Walbank 1972a: 101–2. 34 Compare the way in which Polybius misleadingly involves Asia in his
ıºŒ: when he claims that events in Italy, Greece, and Asia come together for the first time after Naupactus, he is faced with the problem that there is no plausible way to include Asia in this story at this time: it had nothing to do with either the Social War or the Hannibalic War. None the less, we are told that when all eyes in Greece turned to Italy ‘very soon the same thing happened to the islanders and those living in coastal Asia’, and that after this embassies were sent from those with grievances against Philip and Attalus to Rome in future, rather than to the kings of Asia and Egypt, and vice versa (5. 105. 6–8), though ‘in fact, many years were to pass before any islanders or Asian Greeks sent embassies to Rome; and no Roman embassy crossed the Aegean before 200’ (Walbank 1972a: 69; cf. Feeney 2007: 59). The alliance of Attalus I of Pergamum with Rome in the First Macedonian War might have provided Polybius with a better example of Asian eyes turning west relatively soon after the
ıºŒ.

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intended and expected audience was largely Greek,35 but there are textual references to Roman readers as well.36 Polybius’ claim at 31. 22. 8 that he is ‘perfectly aware that this work will be perused by Romans above all people, containing as it does an account of their most splendid achievements’ is especially striking. I would propose, however, that the unity implied by the synoptic structure helps to explain this statement and others like it, by suggesting an implicit parallel claim to Greek readers that they were sharing the cultural and historical experience of reading Polybius with a Roman audience; that they and the Romans were progressing together through homogeneous, empty time, both in the text and in reading the text. The story so far then is that Polybius constructs for his readers a panMediterranean community, indeed constructs of his readers a pan-Mediterranean community, crossing the boundaries of east and west, and experiencing the same processes in the same chronological framework. Is this imagined community imagined as imperial, one Mediterranean under Rome? In some ways it seems so: the space which is treated by the synoptic structure and in which history—‘almost all the affairs of the NŒıÅ’—organically (so inevitably?) comes together (1. 4. 1, above) is clearly supposed to map on to the space, ‘almost the NŒıÅ’, which he says is subjected to Rome over less than fiftythree years (1. 1. 5).37 And in practice the areas regularly treated in the synoptic cycle are in fact almost those controlled by the Romans by 167, at least according to Polybius’ own account:38 he is ordering and homogenizing time across the space of the nascent Roman empire.39 And one might say that this imperial space is pre-written in time onto the Mediterranean landscape: these areas may be for the most part under Roman sway by the mid-second century, but they were not in the late third century at the time of the
ıºŒ. By manufacturing a shared historical space and time from the 140th Olympiad, which fits so closely the practical and political community experienced by the author and readers under Roman hegemony, the structure of the Histories seems to write the Roman historical sphere back several decades, and in this way reinforce the inevitability and inviolability of Roman empire. (The 35

There are various references to, or assumptions of, a Greek audience (e.g. 1. 42. 1–7; 2. 35. 9; 3. 59. 8), the histories of Rome and Carthage are not well known to ‘us’ Greeks (1. 3. 7–8), there is much explanation of the technicalities of Roman military and political life (3. 72. 12, 87. 7, 107. 10–14; 10. 16–17; 14. 3. 6; 21. 2. 2, 13. 11) (adapted from Walbank 1972a: 3–4). See Seager in this volume on Book 6 as an attempt to explain Rome to the Greeks. 36 3. 21. 9; 6. 11. 3 37 Cf. 3. 1. 4 (the known parts of the NŒıÅ). See Clarke 1999: 119 for the suggestion that after the
ıºŒ space was subordinated to time in Polybius’ account, and 114–28 for Polybius’ universalizing strategies, including the
ıºŒ, more generally. 38 On which account Roman control is, of course, hegemonic rather than territorial: for the classic statement, see 3. 4. 3, with the classic discussion of Derow 1979. 39 Time and space none the less remain separate concepts for Polybius, as discussed at Clarke 1999: 80–1.

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barbarians without were in little danger, as it seemed at the time, of being subsumed.) So Polybius’ imagined Mediterranean community is inextricably linked to Roman empire. But they are not the same thing: despite his use of a structure based on simultaneous progress through homogeneous, empty time, Polybius does not necessarily empathize with the victors.40 The rise of Rome is for Polybius a process that is not supposed to be complete until 167, whereas the ‘interweaving’ happens more than fifty years earlier. Polybius’ synoptic structure may foreshadow the empire, but it is not, or not yet, entirely Roman. Instead, the implied chronological equality and shared community here could as easily be read as Polybius redefining the victors to include the Greeks. Indeed, the primary chronological focalization of the work is Greek, panhellenic even, structured around Olympiads, and employing synchronisms to tie the narrative of events in other places into those in Greece and Macedonia,41 even though the geographical focal point could be seen as Roman, since each year starts in the west.42 This use of time could, in fact, be seen as a technique of resistance, an attempt to impose a different calendar and a different understanding of the Mediterranean: an alliance with Rome in Greek time, rather than subjection to Rome on Roman terms. This would not then be the creation of a nation by the hegemonic classes, but the redefinition of an empire by its subjects.43

ALTERNATIVES TO POLYBIUS And Polybius wouldn’t be the only one doing something like this. So far I have argued that he creates a textual unity for the Mediterranean in the light of, and in reaction to, Roman imperialism of the mid-second century. By way of comparison and contextualization, I now want to look at two earlier attempts to do something similar, one artistic, one epigraphic. Polybius’ synoptic Mediterranean is a rewriting of these earlier versions, and that is part of its power.

40 Sometimes he certainly does: Dubuisson, for instance, discusses his frequent use of the phrase  ŒÆŁ’ A ŁºÆÆ, i.e. the Latin mare nostrum, which in that period ‘n’a guère de sens dans la bouche d’un Grec’ (1985: 172). Thanks to Craige Champion for pointing this out to me. 41 Walbank 1972a: 105; Plb. 5. 31. 3 for the Greek basis of the synchronism technique in the 140th Olympiad, ‘in which I state in what year of this Olympiad and contemporaneously with what events in Greece each episode elsewhere began and ended’. 42 Cf. Clarke 1999 on the Greek focal point of Polybius’ history and ideology, in contrast to the broader focalization of his geography (98–101). 43 The panhellenic nature of Olympiad dating is emphasized at Clarke 2008: 66.

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A similarly broad conception of Mediterranean community identity, defined by the presence of external barbarians, can be found in the Lesser Attalid Dedication on the Athenian acropolis (the Little Barbarians, or Small Gauls). We now possess only in Roman copies this series of battle-scenes involving statues of defeated and dying barbarians, a little less than 1 metre high, in high baroque style.44 These were a gift to the Athenians from Attalus I of Pergamum (r. 241–197), who owed his royal title to his defeat of the Gauls, ‘then the most formidable and warlike people in Asia’.45 Although no date is given by our sources for the dedication, Attalus came to Athens in the spring of 200 bc and successfully persuaded the Athenians to join his alliance against Philip of Macedon after a long period of neutrality; this visit, or perhaps the brutal season of campaigning that followed for Athens, provides an ideal context for the gift.46 Rome was involved in this alliance, too: Attalus had appealed to them the previous year, the Roman senate had already decided to renew hostilities with Macedon, and in fact Roman ambassadors were also in Athens at the time with a declaration of war against Philip.47 Pausanias describes the group: By the south wall [of the acropolis at Athens] Attalus dedicated the legendary battle of the Giants, who once lived around Thrace and the Isthmus of Pallene, the battle of the Athenians against the Amazons, the affair against the Persians at Marathon, and the destruction of the Gauls in Mysia. (1. 25. 2)

The Athenians defeated the Amazons and the Persians, the Pergamenes defeated the Gauls in Mysia, at the Caïcus Battle of c.237, and now they will join together to repeat the divine defeat of the giants, whose geographic location suggests identification with the Macedonians and the neighbouring barbarians; it is striking that immediately after this passage Pausanias launches into an attack on Macedon, calling the battle of Chaeronea ‘the beginning of misfortune for all the Greeks’ (1. 25. 3), and discussing its unhappy aftermath at length. This identification between giants and Macedonians is not just a conceit that can be read into Pausanias, but an ongoing theme of Pergamene sculpture: on the Great Altar of the 160s or so, one of the humanoid giants has a Macedonian starburst on his shield.48 So with this gift Attalus is propagandizing on behalf of a Pergamene–Athenian alliance against

44 For a comprehensive study of these sculptures from the Hellenistic period to the present, see Stewart 2004. 45 Plb. 18. 41. 7–8; cf. Strab. 13. 4. 2. It is unlikely that the ‘Attalus’ referred to here is Attalus II (r. 158–138), or Attalus III (r. 138–133) since no battle against the Gauls took place during their reigns. 46 See Stewart 2004: 218–36, esp. 218–23, on the dating problems, and the weight of evidence in favour of a date in or shortly after 200. 47 Plb. 16. 25. 48 Stewart 2000: 40 for this and other ‘anti-Macedonian allusions’ on the Altar.

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Macedon, by defining a historical community which excludes Gauls, Persians, and Macedonians, and emphasizes Athenian and Pergamene battles against them. In real life Rome, too, was part of this alliance, as noted above, and this is mentioned in a letter that Attalus wrote to the Ecclesia in 200, underlining the benefits for the Athenians of an alliance with him, the Rhodians, and the Romans,49 but it is striking that Rome is left out of the picture on the acropolis: the terms, and symbolism, of the sculpture are entirely eastern Mediterranean.50 Polybius then repeats this overall scheme and technique half a century later, but with modifications: Attalus’ Gauls and Persians do map on to Polybius’ barbarians, but by the time he is writing the Macedonians are firmly under Roman control, and so he no longer needs to define them as barbarians. Instead, they are included in his synoptic Mediterranean community, as are the Romans, now very visible indeed. The Attalid dedication can, however, be seen as a challenge to another discourse of Greco-Macedonian unity, emanating from the allies of Macedonia in Greece, which was flowering just a few years earlier in a famous set of inscriptions found at Magnesia-on-the-Maeander.51 The story is well known. The Magnesians decided to found a festival for their goddess, Artemis Leukophryene, after an oracle given in 221/0. According to an inscription they erected in the marketplace, they appealed to the rest of the Greeks in Asia to participate in the festival, who seem to have completely ignored them.52 But they renewed the appeal in 207, in the last stages of the First Macedonian War: In the stephanephorate of Moiragoras (son) of Stephanos [208/7], they [established] a crowned [contest], Pythian in rank, offering as prize a crown made from fifty gold pieces, and when the kings accepted, and [all] the others to whom they sent envoys by leagues and by cities [voted], to honour Artemis Leukophryene and that the city and land of the Magnesians should be [inviolable], because of the bidding of the god and the [friendships and] relationships obtaining from ancestral times between them all and the Magnesians. (Syll.3 557, tr. Bagnall and Derow 2004, no. 153)

49

Plb. 16. 26. 5–6. Cf. Gruen 2000: 18: ‘Attalos’ success is conjoined with those of the great historical and legendary triumphs of Hellenism over barbarism.’ Gruen also draws attention to Attalus’ late third-century building projects at Delphi, suggesting that the location ‘deliberately associated’ his own defeat of the Gauls with the Aetolian victory over them in 279 (25). The implicit shadow of Rome, ally of Aetolia and Attalus in the First Macedonian War, may fall over the Delphic monuments as well. 51 For a comprehensive and thought-provoking account of Hellenistic Greek approaches to the Mediterranean that differentiated east from west, including the Magnesia-on-the-Maeander dossier, see Erskine forthcoming; I want to acknowledge a major debt both here and in the next section to this detailed survey of the varieties of conceptual gulf between east and west in this period. 52 I.Magnesia 16. 50

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In response there was an avalanche of letters to the Magnesians recognizing their festival and in some cases the city’s inviolability; the letter from Epidamnus records that the envoys from Magnesia requested these honours on the basis that those asked were ‘kinsmen and friends’.53 The letters come from Greek cities in Asia and on the mainland, from Ptolemy IV, Antiochus III, and Attalus I, and, almost certainly, from Philip V himself.54 Notable by their absence in the marketplace are the Romans. Peter Derow drew attention to this dossier as a panhellenic phenomenon,55 but it is panhellenic in a rather particular, which is to say broad, sense: the states and monarchs that do accept the Magnesians’ invitation form an eastern Mediterranean community (stretching as far west as Sicily) that does not require, or request, Roman validation. This is closer to the traditional eastern Greek view of a Mediterranean divided between east and west, with Rome out of the(ir) picture.56

ALTERNATIVES IN POLYBIUS This is, of course, a quite different imagined community from the one I have claimed that Polybius synoptically constructs, but it is none the less visible even within the Histories, and it is with some examples of this that I want to finish. Again, they suggest that we should not read Polybius straightforwardly as a Benjaminian historicist: his text opens up multiple possibilities for understanding the geography and history of the Roman empire.57 At the peace conference at Naupactus in 217 between Philip V of Macedonia, his Hellenic confederation, and the Aetolians, the very event which Polybius saw as ushering in the
ıºŒ, there is an appeal from the Aetolian ambassador to panhellenic sentiment, with a warning of dangers to come from the west, whether Rome or Carthage. Addressing Philip, he says It would be best of all if the Greeks never made war on each other, but regarded it as the highest favour in the gift of the gods could they ever speak with one heart and one voice, and marching arm in arm like men fording a river, repel barbarian invaders and unite in preserving themselves and their cities . . . For if once you wait for these clouds that loom in the west to settle on Greece, I very much fear 53 Syll.3 560, l. 22, trans Bagnall and Derow 2004, no. 155. See Rigsby 1996: 179–279 for the full dossier. 54 Welles 1934, letters 31–4; Philip’s letter is not preserved but seems assured by Syll.3 561, ll. 1–5, where Chalcis recognizes the festival at his request. 55 Derow 2003: 57. 56 e.g. Purcell 1995: 139, and Erskine forthcoming. 57 See Davidson 1991 for the similar point that Polybius often surveys different views of the same episode ‘overlaying one another and competing with each other’ (p. 13); I suggest here that the same is true of larger phenomena.

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lest we may all of us find these truces and wars and games at which we play rudely interrupted . . . (5. 104. 1–10)

Then there is the speech made by a Rhodian ambassador to the Aetolians ten years later, in order to persuade them to make peace (again) with Philip, accusing them of making a treaty with the barbarians—i.e. the Romans—for the enslavement and ruin of Greece: You say that you are fighting with Philip for the sake of the Greeks, that they may be delivered and may refuse to obey his commands; but as a fact you are fighting for the enslavement and ruin of Greece. This is the story your treaty with the Romans tells . . . you have made a treaty by which you have given up to the barbarians the rest of the Greeks to be exposed to atrocious outrage and violence. (11. 5. 1–7)

At 3. 7. 3 Polybius describes the Aetolians going round with Antiochus III in the 190s, announcing the liberation of the Greeks.58 These Greeks do not see Roman rule as inevitable, nor alliance between east and west, but instead represent the point of view that divided the Mediterranean. This point of view continues to feature in his account of the second century, with resistance to Rome and attachment to Macedon on the part of, in particular, the lower classes in Greece; in Achaea of the 180s, for instance, partisans of Rome faced violence and contempt from the mob;59 in the next decade when Perseus of Macedon won a cavalry battle against Rome, ‘the attachment of the people to Perseus burst forth like fire’.60 This disjunctive version of the Mediterranean is found not only in other voices in Polybius but also, despite what I have argued above, in the text’s own time and structure. In terms of time, I have already noted that Polybius chooses to use not only a Greek core dating system, but one which is specifically panhellenic; not, for instance, Athenian archonships or Achaean strategoi.61 In addition, he sometimes uses his synchronisms to exclude rather than include Rome (and less often Carthage) in historical time.62 And finally, to 58

A phrase with a long history: see e.g. Seager 1981. 24. 10–13 (Callicrates’ speech). 60 27. 9. 1; see also 28. 4. 12; 39. 3. 8. 61 Cf. Thucydides’ use of Argive priestesses, Spartan ephors, and Athenian archons to date the beginning of the Archidamian war (2. 2. 1). The Marmor Parium (FGrHist 239) uses Athenian kings and archons. Feeney notes that while ‘[w]e may talk casually about synchronisms between Greece and Rome . . . there is no Greek time against which to plot Roman time. Roman time is unified, as the time of one city, but Greek time is not . . . It is always vital to ask which perspective on Greek time is being adopted at any moment, through which calendrical or historical tradition the idea of Greek time is being focalized, and what motivates the choice of dates that are going to be used as hooks on either side’ (2007: 23). It should be noted that for a truly pan-Mediterranean system of synchronisms, we have to wait for Castor of Rhodes writing his Chronica in the midfirst century bc, a work which brings together the times of Asia, Greece, and Rome (Feeney 2007: 63–4). 62 e.g. 2. 41 on 284/80 with Greek and Egyptian dates. 4. 27. 9–28. 1 and 5. 29. 7–9 include Carthage but not (directly) Rome. 59

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come full circle, in 3. 2–3, the proekthesis (preliminary summary) of the account of the years 220–168, there is the shadow of an alternative structure to the whole work. Polybius introduces this summary by saying that he is going to use ‘the following method of procedure in my exposition (KªÅ
Ø )’ (3. 1. 11), but the summary of Books 7–39 that follows is not in fact a fair reflection of what he actually does in Books 7–39: rather it ignores, contradicts even, the annual synoptic structure which might be reasonably said to be his ‘method of procedure’, and instead emphasizes progress along time rather than through space, dividing the Mediterranean into different historical places: Interrupting my narrative at this point, I shall draw up my account of the Roman constitution, as a sequel to which I shall point out how the peculiar qualities of the constitution conduced very largely not only to their reconquest of the Italians and Sicilians, and subsequently of the Spaniards and Celts, but finally to their victory over Carthage, and their conceiving the project of universal empire. Simultaneously in a digression I shall narrate how the dominion of Hiero of Syracuse fell and after this I shall deal with the troubles in Egypt, and tell how, on the death of Ptolemy, Antiochus and Philip, conspiring to partition the dominions of his son, a helpless infant, began to be guilty of acts of unjust aggression . . . Next, after summing up the doings of the Romans and Carthaginians in Spain, Africa, and Sicily I shall shift the scene of my story definitely, as the scene of the action shifted, to Greece and its neighbourhood. I shall describe the sea battles in which Attalus and the Rhodians met Philip, and after this deal with the war between the Romans and Philip, its course, the persons engaged in it, and its result. Following on this I shall make mention of the angry spirit of the Aetolians yielding to which they invited Antiochus over, and thus set ablaze the war from Asia against the Achaeans and Romans. After narrating the causes of this war, and how Antiochus crossed to Europe, I shall describe first how he fled from Greece; secondly how on his defeat after this he abandoned all Asia up to the Taurus . . . (3. 2. 6–3. 4)

After Book 6, he says, he will deal with Roman victories in the west up to the defeat of Hannibal and Rome’s conception of a universal aim, with a digression on Hiero and a brief diversion to Egypt for the civil war and plot to dismember the country before rounding off the events of the Second Punic War; this does describe Books 7–15. 20, though there is also much on the east in those books.63 Then ‘I will shift the scene of my story definitely, as the scene of the action shifted, to Greece and its neighbourhood.’ As a result, the events of 15. 21 and thereafter (which in fact contain plenty of activity in the west as well) are presented here as happening over their own time, not at the same time as those in the west: this is a denial of the importance of meanwhile. The emphasis in this passage, first on Rome and the west up to 200, and then on 63

The dismemberment of Egypt is actually discussed at 15. 20, after the discussion of the settlement after Zama in 15. 19.

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Greece and the east after 200, illustrates the counter-conception of the historical division rather than unification of the Mediterranean, with different things happening in different places at different times. This historical division is drawn more succinctly at 3. 32. 2–3, where Polybius is discussing how easy it is ‘to acquire and peruse forty books, all as it were woven together in an unbroken series, and thus to follow clearly events in Italy, Sicily, and Libya from the time of Pyrrhus to the capture of Carthage, and those in the rest of the world from the flight of Cleomenes of Sparta on till the battle of the Romans and Achaeans at the Isthmus . . . ’: here the Mediterranean is again divided into east and west, identified as having quite different historical narratives. Polybius’ Mediterranean community maps onto Roman hegemony, but it does not simply reproduce that hegemony; instead, the text reinterprets, and at points subverts it, reproducing instead recent and contemporary frictions between wider cultural conceptions of mutual identity. In this sense the account of the rise of Rome is not at all historicist in Benjamin’s terms but is instead ‘filled with the presence of the now’, which was, of course, for Polybius a disturbed and troubled time.64

64 3. 4. 12–13 on the period after 167 as a time of ÆæÆåc ŒÆd Œ Å
Ø . As I said in Liverpool, this approach has also been characteristic of much work on Polybius, including that of Frank Walbank and of other absent friends.

20 Growing up with Polybius: A Daughter’s Memoir Mitzi Walbank

In 1942, the year I was born, Frank was writing an article on Polybius’ discussion of the Roman constitution. The following year it would seem natural to turn to the historian with whom he had already been working for his choice of subject for a bigger work. He and Mary had moved to their first house, a 1930s semi in St Annes, from which he commuted to Liverpool and a tenured post. The same year may have seen his best effort as a hands-on dad. To avoid any recurrence of the postnatal depression and psychosis that had followed Dorothy’s birth, he did my night feeds and nappy changing. I was bottle-fed. Thereafter involvement with his children waned. We saw him at meal times, he carried us when we whined to be piggy-backed on family walks, and he dried our hair in front of the fire when it had been washed. That was it. That was normal for the times, and also it was undeniable that we didn’t yet have anything very interesting to say. At the centre of Frank’s life was Mary and the progression of her life is crucial to any picture of Frank’s, and to the history of the writing of the Commentary. Our parents belonged to their times, and their lives were bound by a specific set of social mores. I am sure that at the outset they thought of their marriage as an equal partnership. Hers was the dominant personality. She was beautiful, intelligent, headstrong, vivid, and had been much courted. Her mother had pressed Frank’s suit, regarding him as a good catch, and so it proved, for their love lasted through some bad times. They read the same books, shared ideas, grappled with the political issues of the time. They engaged with the outside world, had friends with similar aspirations. They wanted to mould the future, they took responsibility for it. But their lives would inevitably grow less equal. Frank had the University of Liverpool for his arena; he had a discourse with Polybius to engage with. Mary had us, and the house. As Frank’s life expanded, hers grew more constricted.

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On their marriage, in 1935, Mary’s somewhat menial post as her father’s factotum in his office had had to be relinquished. The country in the thirties was in economic depression and it was thought that married women should not occupy any job that a man and breadwinner might fill instead. Women’s jobs were for pin-money. Frank was later to regret this, and to wish that he had encouraged her to study then and complete her education. In later years he was also to realize that he had missed something by not being the kind of father that he would see younger colleagues becoming. Once he asked me: ‘What was that game you played on the swing when you jumped off and shouted, “A bird, a bird!” and sometimes you shouted, “A bird of paradise!”?’ I told him: ‘That was it, that was the game. The bird of paradise was when the jump soared beautifully.’ I like to think that sometimes he looked up from his desk and saw his children playing. In 1944 my brother Christo was born; two years later Frank gained the Chair of Latin. Subsequently we moved to Birkenhead. Mary’s self-appointed job was to keep us quiet so he could work. Coffee would be provided at 11.00 and he would tell her what he had been writing. She would do something she called ‘making the right noises’. It would be a future joy to have produced a daughter who could reflect back something more fruitful than the right noises, and even (later in Cambridge) to live next door to him. That was not yet; Dorothy was still small. In Birkenhead the need to keep us quiet, together with the post-war lack of traffic, would make for an unfettered childhood. We had to be back for meals. We had a street life; we had a territory. It was circumscribed somewhat after we all caught nits and scabies from the evacuated slum children opposite. Mary was a creative parent and wet days were filled with painting, craftwork, stamp albums, reading, making a den in the airing cupboard. Polybius was the enemy, a baleful presence in our lives: ‘Be quiet, your father’s working.’ Lunch was at 1.00 and that was when Frank would put down his pen and come down to eat. If it wasn’t ready, he would play the piano to fill the time pleasantly. Mary would erupt and dragoon us all into helping set the table. ‘He’s playing the piano’, she would hiss angrily. Music was regarded by her as warfare. Lunchtimes at the Walbanks’ were, my friend Linda said, shaking her head, like feeding time at the zoo. We talked with our mouths full; it was noisy. We took it for granted that interesting issues might be discussed, that dictionaries would be fetched, and the encyclopaedia consulted. The pursuit of truth was part of daily life. So it was ‘quality time’ after all, although it was Mary that Frank talked to. If we wanted attention we had to interrupt, demand it. Occasionally we all scrubbed up for a visitor and would understand exactly why meeting Michael Ventris was significant—I knew about Linear B. We were also politicized in a left-leaning direction, and I’d take on the entire class at school over Suez in 1956. Mary’s attitude to Frank’s activities was one of fierce pride and of bitter contempt. She could always be comfortable with holding logically conflicting

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positions. We made professor puppets with big noses. They whacked each other like Punch, no doubt defending academic territory. Sometimes Frank dressed up in his ‘penguin suit’ and took her to a university function. She was beautiful in a turquoise evening gown and fur stole (everyone wanted one then). They had dinner parties; they entertained students; friends came to stay. Frank worked. From time to time Mary hatched some scheme which was designed to help Frank to get to know us. Reading at bedtime: he chose ‘The Odyssey’ and we had nightmares about the blinding of Polyphemus. But I know my Homer. Going one at a time for walks with him: I remember a walk in Delamere Forest as a teenager; he told me about resin and I told him about school. He listened politely. It was a struggle but we both tried. We were sent on weekends to the Lake District with him, out of season because of the cost. On separate occasions both Dorothy and I were dragged up Bowfell in blizzards wearing highly unsuitable shoes. Outdoor gear hadn’t really been invented yet. As we had approached adolescence, we’d moved to a bigger house with a large garden. It was called Hope Lodge and we were not to know then how short a commodity hope was to be there. There were fruit trees, vegetable gardens, chickens and ducks, bushes to play in, and trees to climb. For Mary it was a dream realized, but then what? It was also isolating and required continual work. It required a gardener, a cleaner, and a sewing lady. It drank money; and available cash for anything else became even tighter. It had its own problems. It was cold. Frank sat in his study wrapped in layers of clothing and wore remaindered airforce boots with fur linings to try and save on heating bills. Partial central heating was later installed but not in the bedrooms; I remember that my alarm clock rusted up one winter. Then wet rot was found in my bedroom. Also woodworm. Frank’s study had always remained the same and survived many changes of rooms and moving of homes. It had its own smell, of books, of peace. He sat at its centre and knew where each book was, like a spider in its web’s centre feeling down the strands for some vibration, his mind extended out onto the shelves. When in his late nineties he was unable to climb the stairs, he would send us off to fetch down a book with precise and accurate instructions. His grandson James Walbank was later to write of that study: This place Smells of old paper and words, of the desk And chair and of time and wonder. Frank sat here to work.

Sometimes I crept secretly in and drank in its atmosphere, or read the words on the spines of books. What might a Pauly Wissowa be? In its last incarnation in Birkenhead, the study was upstairs and had a magnificent view out over Birkenhead and across the river to Liverpool, where the boats plied their trade

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to America still, where the Pierhead buildings and Anglican Cathedral, being built very slowly with its solitary crane on one end, were clearly visible. As we grew older our territory gained in scope. We ranged between the houses of friends. We made turf huts in run-down gardens and slept out in tents, walking barefoot and cooking our meals. After keeping the country running during the war, women had been sent back into their homes to provide jobs for returning soldiers. The media supported the government in this with a long campaign against ‘latch-key kids’. It was not unusual in our travels to find someone’s mother sitting gloomily in the kitchen, contemplating her grizzling baby, or just sitting. But Mary’s illness, which returned in 1954, was more than that. It was a full-blown bi-polar disorder involving swings between the singing-in-streets-spending-sprees-and-angry-scenes-inshops kind of behaviour and the lying-in-bed-all-the-time-weeping-andaccusatory-rows kind of behaviour. It was intensely upsetting for all of us, not least Mary. Perhaps it was worst for Christo, my younger brother, who had been sent away to school and must have never known what he was coming back to. Frank escaped into work. Mary’s illness, her stays in mental hospitals, must have clarified his lack of options. He had sometimes pondered a next move. He was an excellent administrator and loved university committee work, its politics, manœuvring, the jokes and witticisms. The latest sallies of Seaborne Davies were often recounted at mealtimes. Frank may have been tempted to follow his mentor, Sir James Mountford, into the higher echelons of university governance. He flirted with All Souls and found himself allergic. The selection process reactivated his northern grammar-school insecurities among the Oxbridge toffs and his stomach revolted. He came home sickened, sick, and not a little bruised. Mary’s illness removed such possibilities, and no other change could be coped with when life was all about fire-fighting (again, for he’d watched for fires in the war). Mary would have been an embarrassment to him in other roles; she’d never be equal to playing the required spouse. It was all too much. Frank stayed put and work on Polybius gained from it. Volume 1 was published when I was 15 and we were three years into Mary’s illness. There would be periods in between the swings when an uneasy equilibrium would be maintained for a while, but the tribulation suffered would go on and on. The disorder would only really begin to loosen its grip when she had a reason to co-operate in taking control of it, something of her own at last; when the incentive to persevere with medication had coincided with an improvement in its effectiveness. Mary enrolled as an undergraduate at Liverpool University at the age of 54 and read Economics. She raised a standing ovation from the senate when she took her degree. Until then its ravages affected us all. In the worst periods of illness Frank would look ten years older. I think we all worried about each other. I did not understand what was happening. Talking about mental illness didn’t happen

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in the fifties. It was referred to obliquely in a Victorian manner. ‘How’s Mother?’, ‘Much the same.’ We kept a brave face to each other and cried in our separate bedrooms. For Frank his work on Polybius was a refuge, and a certainty, the only certainty. It was security when the solid outlines that had defined his life until that time had lost their normal shape. He could continue all alone to watch over and unpick Polybius, engage with and assess him, have a relationship that was not available anywhere else, not in time and not in space. When all other things failed, Frank loved his work and he was to see this in his last years as the greatest good fortune of his life, to love what he did. That did not mean that the sheer graft of this huge endeavour made for the happiest years, even though it defined him so completely. He was only human. The happiest years were before and after the writing of the Commentary, when Mary was well, when work was not so hard, when there were no children. Nineteen sixty-seven was a good year. Fiona Alexander, his first grandchild, had been born the year before. Mary gained her degree; Volume 2 of the Commentary was published. Finally, two years after he retired to Cambridge in 1977, the third volume came out. We had a party. And Dorothy breathed again. Like her namesake Dorothea in Middlemarch, she had been haunted by the fear that she might have to finish the ‘great work’ if the ‘great man’ died before he had done so himself. There the analogy ends. Frank after all was a kind of anti-Casaubon; he was the real thing, a competent and accomplished scholar. Casaubon hadn’t even learned German and The Key to all Mythologies was never going to take off. Frank’s commentary on Polybius was already airborne. Now it had landed safely and the destination had been reached, I decided it was time to get to know the enemy. I bought a copy of the paperback translation and was amazed, gratified, delighted to discover what a good read he was. There he was (this is a layperson’s approach), before Tolstoy, before Brecht, asking all the right questions. He was fit for Frank, they fitted each other. The gatekeeper and preserver of Frank’s peace and quiet had been Mary. She was the warm person with whom the grandchildren loved to stay at half term; he was the shadowy character in the study. After she died, in 1987, we all got to know him better. We had an Indian summer in our relationships with him. He was good company. Christo and I both had many separate holidays with him. Perhaps something in him could relax a little with Polybius under his belt. He discovered that teaching Latin to his recently graduated grandson, Gavin Alexander, was a complete delight. In time, in the next century, Alexander the Great-grandson would come along, to be followed swiftly by Tom, Hamish, and Sophie. He was proud of his family. In turn I was proud of the way he learned to cook for the first time and to make new friends, to make a new life after his huge loss. He found homes too in his old college, Peterhouse, and in the Cambridge Classics Faculty. Once in Crete, on holiday with Frank and Mary, I was swimming in the sea when Frank was submerged by a great wave. He came up spluttering, ‘What a

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horrid wave that was!’ I was surfing it and disagreed. ‘I thought it was a lovely wave’, and then I added, ‘There you have it, the problem of the eyewitness account for History’. And we laughed. And there you have it, that was his life. He served a chameleon beast, History, in thrall to the past, or in love with the latest contemporary fashion, now a spotlight, now a wide illumination, with its rigours, and its challenges, and always exerting its constant fascination. Frank served it well and learned to grow and change with it. After all I’m rather proud that Polybius was a character in my life, and I’m very proud of my dad.

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Index Locorum For epigraphic and other abbreviations used here see pp. ix–x above. Square brackets denote pseudonymous authors, e.g. [Lysias] = Ps.-Lysias Aelius Aristides Or. 25. 4: 302 Aeschines 1. 179: 252 3. 169: 252 Alcaeus of Messene See s.v. Palatine Anthology 9. 518 Alexis (comic poet) F 239 K–A: 275 Alexis of Samos (FGrHist 539) F 2: 314 Alcimus (FGrHist 560) F 4: 343 Antiphanes F 189 K-A: 88–9 Apollodorus (FGrHist 240) F 1: 285 F 22: 285 Appian Celt. 1. 8: 285 Ib. 11: 156 Pun. 132: 263, 308 Syr. 114–21: 284 Syr. 132–36: 284 Aristophanes Eccl. 944–5: 252 Nub. 1506–9: 252 Plut. 1044: 252 [Aristotle], Athenaion Politeia 18. 1: 314 Aristotle Insomn. 461a24–5: 164 Metaph. 1074b: 297 Meteor. 352a–353a: 297 Poet. 9, 1451a38–b5: 73 Ph. 248a1–2: 164 Pol. 1253a1–5: 241 Arrian Anab. 1. 12. 3: 162 Athenaeus 5. 22–24, 194c–195f: 327 6. 82, 262e–263b: 296

8. 61, 360d–361c: 294 8. 61, 360d–e: 293 8. 1, 330c–331b: 328 13. 72, 599c: 314 15. 52, 696f: 299 Callimachus fr. 100. 4 Pfeiffer: 293 Cassius Dio fr. 55B: 156 fr. 40. 7–12: 149 fr. 43: 150 fr. 43. 16–18: 133 53. 19: 198 See also Zonaras Cato fr. 84: 151 De re militari 15: 242 [Cicero] Rhet. Her. 1. 13: 88 Cicero Amic. 69: 310 Div. 1. 43: 151 Fam. 4. 5. 4: 8 Luc. 5: 316 Rep. 3. 7: 154 Rep. 3. 21: 311 2 Verr. 2. 4: 146 2 Verr. 2. 8: 146 Conon (FGrHist 26) F 1 } 47: 305 Daniel, Book of 2: 31–5: 264 2: 36–45: 264 [Demosthenes] 25. 24: 252 25. 66: 252 26. 10: 252 26. 27: 252 59. 88: 252 Demosthenes 1. 5: 179 20. 120: 252 20. 148: 252 21. 150: 252

390 Demosthenes (cont.) 24. 5: 252 De Viris Illustribus 11. 1: 241 37. 2: 150 38. 1: 133 Dieuchidas of Megara (FGrHist 485) F 7: 296 Diodorus Siculus 1. 1: 220 1. 1. 1: 87–8 4. 58. 8: 293 5. 55–9: 285 5. 55. 1: 286 5. 55. 2: 288 5. 55. 4: 288 5. 55. 5: 288, 306 5. 55. 6–7: 288 5. 56. 1–2: 288 5. 56. 2–3: 288 5. 56. 3: 303 5. 56. 5–7: 290 5. 56. 7: 286 5. 57. 2–5: 291 5. 57. 6–8: 291, 293 5. 58. 2–3: 294 5. 58. 3: 294 5. 58. 4–5: 296 5. 59. 1–4: 296 7. 5. 4: 152 13. 103. 5: 285 20. 81–8: 298 20. 81. 1–4: 300 20. 82. 1–4: 300 20. 82. 4–84. 6: 301 20. 82. 4: 299 20. 83. 1: 299 20. 83. 2: 301 20. 84. 2: 302 20. 84. 3–4: 302 20. 84. 4: 303 20. 84. 5–6: 302 20. 85–8: 299, 301 20. 87. 4: 302 20. 88. 3–7: 302 20. 88. 3: 303 20. 88. 8: 301, 303 20. 91–100. 4: 298, 301 20. 91–92. 1: 299 20. 91: 301 20. 92: 301 20. 93. 2: 302 20. 93. 3–4: 302 20. 93. 4: 301 20. 93. 5: 299, 302 20. 93. 6–7: 303 20. 94. 4–5: 302

Index Locorum 20. 95. 1–3: 299 20. 96. 3–97. 4: 299 20. 96. 3: 302 20. 97. 1–2: 299 20. 97. 5: 302 20. 97. 6–7: 299 20. 97. 7: 302 20. 98. 1: 302 20. 98. 4: 303 20. 98. 9: 302 20. 99. 2: 302 20. 99. 3: 302 20. 100. 1: 302 20. 100. 2: 302 20. 100. 3–4: 299, 302 22. 1. 2–3: 149 22. 13. 1: 148 22. 13. 9–23. 3: 150 23. 1. 4: 148, 150, 152 23. 17: 152 23. 21: 173 23. 8. 1: 152 24. 11: 139 24. 11. 1: 152 27. 3: 284 30. 23: 221 32. 24: 263, 308 Diogenes Laertius 1. 89: 293 7. 35: 285 Dionysius of Halicarnassus A.R. 1. 6. 2: 151 A.R. 1. 8. 3: 285 A.R. 1. 72. 1: 343 A.R. 1. 74. 1: 343 A.R. 5. 23–5: 241 A.R. 20. 4. 1–5. 5: 149 De compositione verborum 4. 110: 181 Diphilus F 29. 4–5 K–A: 89 Ergias (FGrHist 513) F 1: 293, 294 Eutropius 2. 20: 133 3. 2: 161 3. 6: 145 Fabius Pictor (FRH I2 1) F 28: 137 FGrHist 533 F 2, ll. 2–12: 298–9 F 2, ll. 12–48: 302 F 2, ll. 40–4: 302 Florus Epit. 1. 8. 3–6: 150

Index Locorum Epit. 1. 18. 3: 151 Epit. 1. 18. 9–11: 133 Frontinus Str. 1. 4. 11: 152 Str. 1. 5. 6: 138 Str. 4. 1. 16: 242 Gorgon (FGrHist 515) F 5: 297 F 9: 299 F 13: 306 F 18: 286 Gorgosthenes (FGrHist 529) F 5: 297 F 7: 297 Hecataeus of Abdera (FGrHist 264) F 25: 291 Hecataeus of Miletus (FGrHist 1) F 20: 291 Hellanicus of Lesbos (FGrHist 4) F 84: 343 Heraclides Criticus GGM 258 }12–16: 271 Hermogenes Progymn. 4. 16: 88 Herodotus 1. 5. 4: 83–4 2. 182. 2: 293 5. 58–9: 291 5. 97: 166 7. 20. 2: 179 7. 44–53: 168 Hierobulus of Rhodes (FGrHist 530) F: 297 Homer Il. 2. 653–70: 296 Il. 4. 437–8: 170 Il. 6. 448–9: 176 Il. 11. 604: 166 Il. 22. 395: 176 Il. 23. 175–6: 176 Horace Ep. 1. 7: 315 Ep. 1. 18. 44: 315 Hyginus Astron. 2. 14: 294, 296 IG XII 8, 6: 293 XII Suppl. 120: 291 I.Lindos 2, B, III, ll. 15–17: 294 2, B, VI, ll. 37–41: 297

391

2, B, IX, ll. 54–61: 297 2, C, XL, ll. 114–21: 285 2, D, III, ll. 94–115: 305 222, l. 6: 297 707, l. 4: 297 I.Magnesia 16: 348 Ined. Vat. (FGrHist 839) F 4: 135 Inscr. It. 13. 1. 77: 137 13. 3. 69 (Duilius Inscription = ILS 65 = CIL I2 25 and VI, 8, 3 1300 Add.): 133, 134 I.Peraia 555: 297 ISE 47: 205 Isocrates 4. 39 (Paneg.): 252 4. 145–9 (Paneg.): 163 5. 90–101 (Phil.): 163 7. 14 (Areopag.): 234 7. 37 (Areopag.): 252 12. 138 (Panath.): 234 Josephus AJ 10. 210: 264 AJ 10. 276: 264 AJ 12. 135–7: 257 AJ 12. 358–9: 257 AJ 12. 402: 257 AJ 14. 66–7: 261 AJ 14. 105–9: 261 AJ 14. 275: 261 AJ 17. 261: 261 AJ 18. 55–62: 261 AJ 18. 168–78: 261 AJ 18. 225–6: 261 AJ 18. 257–303: 261 AJ 19. 1–27: 261 AJ 19. 201–11: 261 AJ 19. 212–73: 262 AJ 20. 110–12: 261 AJ 20. 122: 261 AJ 20. 154: 261 AJ 20. 160–5: 261 AJ 20. 177: 261 AJ 20. 250: 263 Ap. 1. 45–6: 255 Ap. 1. 53: 255 Ap. 2. 84: 257 Ap. 2. 217: 265 BJ 1. 1: 255

392 Josephus (cont.) BJ 1. 28: 262 BJ 1. 150: 261 BJ 1. 179: 261 BJ 1. 221–2: 261 BJ 2. 49–50: 261 BJ 2. 169–77: 261 BJ 2. 184–203: 261 BJ 2. 236: 261 BJ 2. 250–1: 261 BJ 2. 260: 261 BJ 2. 270: 261 BJ 2. 272: 261 BJ 2. 277: 261 BJ 2. 346: 256 BJ 2. 349: 263 BJ 2. 352: 263 BJ 2. 355–6: 263 BJ 2. 360: 257 BJ 2. 361: 263 BJ 2. 365: 263 BJ 2. 373: 257 BJ 2. 379: 263 BJ 2. 390: 257 BJ 2. 395: 256 BJ 2. 397: 263 BJ 2. 412: 256 BJ 3. 132–4: 262 BJ 3. 298–305: 262 BJ 3. 329–31: 262 BJ 3. 336–8: 262 BJ 3. 351–4: 257 BJ 3. 532–42: 262 BJ 4. 447–8: 262 BJ 4. 622: 257 BJ 5. 289: 262 BJ 5. 334: 262 BJ 5. 364–5: 256 BJ 5. 366: 264 BJ 5. 367–8: 257 BJ 5. 367: 264 BJ 5. 376: 256 BJ 5. 406: 256 BJ 5. 412: 257 BJ 5. 449–51: 262 BJ 6. 124–8: 262 BJ 6. 214–43: 262 BJ 6. 254–66: 262 BJ 6. 378: 256 BJ 6. 409: 256 BJ 7. 1: 263 BJ 7. 23: 262 BJ 7. 37–9: 262 BJ 7. 112–13: 262 Vit. 17: 257 Vit. 27: 261

Index Locorum Livy 2. 5: 241 2. 10: 241 2. 14. 1: 123 4. 29: 241 6. 12. 8: 119 8. 7: 241 9. 43. 26: 151 21. 1. 1–2: 179 21. 1. 2: 174 21. 6. 6–7. 1: 156 21. 10. 8: 151 23. 33. 4: 235 24. 19. 9–11: 146 24. 30. 6: 146 24. 35. 2: 146 24. 39. 1–10: 146 26. 30. 4–5: 146 26. 51. 7–8: 163 28. 12. 2–5: 170 28. 28. 2–4: 149 30. 31. 4: 151 30. 34. 1: 170 30. 43. 4: 140 31. 7. 8: 206 31. 15. 8–16. 8: 207 32. 19. 1–23. 3: 219 32. 21. 25: 218 32. 21. 29: 220 32. 21. 36: 218 32. 22. 8–12: 217 33. 8. 13: 118–19, 120 33. 11. 1: 207 33. 13. 4: 207 33. 17. 5–8: 122 33. 18: 284 33. 19. 1: 207 33. 20: 284 34. 51. 5: 123 35. 5–6: 269 35. 35. 18: 119–20 35. 38. 3: 123 36. 6. 1–2: 270 36. 6. 2: 269 37. 8–17: 284 37. 18. 9–25. 3: 284 37. 26–32: 284 38. 7. 10: 121 38. 7. 11–13: 122 39. 49–50: 123 39. 50. 3: 123 39. 50. 10: 342 39. 51. 1: 342 39. 53. 12–16: 206 40. 3–16. 3: 202 40. 3–5: 209

Index Locorum 40. 3. 3: 123 40. 4. 9: 124 40. 5. 1: 202 40. 5. 10: 208 40. 7–28: 244 40. 20. 5–24: 202 40. 21. 1–22. 14: 206 40. 21. 2: 206 40. 22. 15–24. 8: 210 40. 55. 8–57. 1: 210 40. 56–8: 202 40. 56. 3: 210 40. 56. 7: 204 40. 57–8: 208 41. 19. 3–11: 208 41. 24. 12–14: 219 42. 11. 4: 205, 208 42. 14. 8: 284 42. 30. 5–7: 225 42. 40: 205 42. 46. 7: 121 42. 46. 8: 121 42. 55. 3: 124 42. 57. 1–62. 2: 208 44. 24. 9–26. 2: 208 44. 42. 1–2: 208 Per. 12: 149 Per. 14: 151 Per. 16: 150, 152 Per. 17: 133, 135 [Lysias] 6: 252 Marmor Parium (FGrHist 239) A 8: 293 Moschion (TGrF 97) Pheraioi F 3: 88 Themistocles F 1: 88 Naevius fr. 32: 136 NS 18, l. 15: 297 Orosius 4. 7. 1: 150 4. 7. 7–9: 133, 135 4. 8. 5: 136 4. 13, 15: 145 Palatine Anthology (AP) 6. 171: 299 7. 247: 205 9. 518: 205 Pausanias 1. 2. 3: 314 1. 25. 2–3: 347 7. 10. 11: 316

8. 13. 4–5: 107 8. 15. 2: 107 8. 16. 1–17. 5: 107 Pindar Ol. 6. 87–90: 275 Ol. 7: 286 Ol. 7. 13: 288 Ol. 7. 39–51: 290 Ol. 7. 77–82: 297 Piso (FRH I2 7) F 32: 135 P.Köln VI 247: 300 P.Schubart 34, col. II: 293 Philodemus On Poems V, col. xiii (xvi), 9–14: 86 Plato Crito 50b: 252 Crito 51a–c: 241 Crito 104d–e: 297 Crito 109d–e: 297 Leg. 677a: 297 Tim. 22b–23c: 297 Pliny the Elder Nat. 5. 132: 294 Nat. 7. 112: 311 Nat. 8. 169: 135 Plutarch Aem. 8: 205 Aem. 8. 4: 206 Aem. 19: 208 Alex. 11. 6: 196 Arat. 3. 3: 93 Arat. 29. 7: 94 Cato 22. 2–3: 311 Dem. 23. 2: 196 Demetr. 2. 3: 301 Demetr. 19. 6: 301 Demetr. 21. 1–2: 301 Flam. 9: 205 Marc. 6. 5–7. 1: 145 Marc. 21. 3: 163 Mor. 995e (De esu carnium): 275–6 Mor. 297c (Quaest. Graec.): 291 Mor. 347a (De glor. Ath.): 81–2 Mor. 345e (De glor. Ath.): 163 Public. 16: 241 Pyrrh. 23. 1: 148 Pyrrh. 23. 5: 148 P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309: 299

393

394 Polyaenus Strat. 4. 18. 2: 284 Strat. 5. 17. 2: 284 Strat. 5. 27: 284 Polybius 1. 1. 1–2: 220 1. 1. 1: 38 1. 1. 2: 84 1. 1. 4–5: 182 1. 1. 5: 2, 145, 231, 345 1. 2. 1–7: 258 1. 2. 7–8: 256 1. 3–4: 345 1. 3. 1–2: 91–2, 94, 95, 128, 165 1. 3. 3–4. 1: 337 1. 3. 7–10: 128, 256 1. 3. 7–9: 127 1. 3. 7–8: 345 1. 3. 10: 127 1. 4. 1–5: 257 1. 4. 1: 341 1. 4. 11: 341 1. 5–9: 160 1. 5. 1–4: 130 1. 5. 1: 165 1. 5. 4: 129, 130 1. 5. 5: 131 1. 6. 1–4: 130 1. 6. 1–3: 343 1. 6. 5–9. 8: 130 1. 6. 5–7: 343 1. 7–12. 4: 131 1. 7–10: 149 1. 7: 173 1. 7. 6–13: 149 1. 7. 6–7: 149 1. 8. 1–2: 148 1. 8. 3–9. 8: 149, 151 1. 8. 3: 187 1. 9. 3: 173 1. 9. 4–6: 173 1. 10–63: 130 1. 10–11: 157 1. 10: 160 1. 10. 1: 149 1. 10. 9: 153 1. 11. 1: 148, 152, 153 1. 11. 2: 148, 153, 155, 156 1. 11. 3: 153 1. 11. 4–9: 150 1. 13. 1: 127 1. 13. 5: 128 1. 13. 7: 129 1. 13. 12: 174, 177 1. 14. 1–3: 134, 151 1. 14. 1: 151, 152, 159

Index Locorum 1. 14. 6–9: 147 1. 15. 1–12: 151 1. 15. 12: 151 1. 17. 4: 173 1. 20. 1–2: 148 1. 20. 1: 132, 153, 157 1. 20. 9–10: 132 1. 20. 9: 135 1. 20. 13–16: 150 1. 21. 1–8: 133 1. 21. 5: 135 1. 22. 1–24. 2: 133 1. 22. 3: 133 1. 23. 1: 135 1. 23. 6: 133 1. 24. 1: 135 1. 24. 7: 160 1. 25. 2: 347 1. 25. 3: 347 1. 25. 6: 136 1. 26. 1–28. 14: 136 1. 26. 5–8: 327 1. 30. 4: 136 1. 31. 2–3: 172 1. 32. 1: 169 1. 35: 136 1. 35. 2–3: 220 1. 35. 7: 220 1. 37. 7: 156 1. 42. 1–7: 345 1. 43: 173 1. 48. 3: 169 1. 49. 6–51. 12: 136 1. 55–9: 137 1. 55. 2: 137 1. 58. 2: 137 1. 58. 3: 137 1. 58. 4–6: 137 1. 58. 5: 151 1. 58. 7–59. 6: 138 1. 58. 9: 331 1. 59. 6: 142 1. 59. 9: 136, 138 1. 59. 11–12: 139 1. 61. 5: 137 1. 62. 7: 139 1. 63. 1–9: 150 1. 63. 1–3: 139, 325 1. 63. 4: 179 1. 64–88: 130 1. 64: 160 1. 64. 2–4: 232 1. 64. 2: 145, 231 1. 64. 5–6: 177 1. 64. 5: 174 1. 65–88: 159–79

Index Locorum 1. 65: 159 1. 65. 1–3: 177 1. 65. 2: 166, 176 1. 65. 3: 166 1. 65. 4: 172, 179 1. 65. 5–9: 162 1. 65. 6: 175 1. 65. 7–8: 244 1. 65. 7: 168, 175 1. 65. 8: 161, 177 1. 66–70: 166 1. 66. 7: 165 1. 66. 12: 167 1. 67. 4: 170 1. 67. 5: 170 1. 67. 7: 169, 173 1. 67. 8–13: 170 1. 68. 7: 177 1. 69. 4: 170 1. 69. 12–13: 170 1. 69. 14: 171 1. 70. 4–6: 171 1. 70. 7: 166 1. 71. 1: 167, 328, 331 1. 71. 4: 179 1. 71. 5–6: 179 1. 71. 5: 177, 179 1. 72: 174 1. 72. 2: 331 1. 72. 6: 167 1. 73. 1: 174 1. 75: 165–6 1. 77. 5: 173, 177 1. 78. 13–15: 175 1. 79: 161 1. 79. 1–7: 155 1. 79. 6–7: 161 1. 80. 4–13: 171 1. 80. 5–11: 170 1. 80. 10: 171 1. 81: 175 1. 81. 2–3: 175 1. 81. 4: 175 1. 82. 2: 175 1. 82. 6: 167 1. 82. 7: 161 1. 82. 8: 177 1. 82. 11: 168, 172 1. 83. 2–4: 225 1. 83. 3–4: 154, 177 1. 83. 5–11: 155, 177 1. 83. 6–8: 178 1. 83. 11: 161, 177 1. 84. 1–2: 167 1. 84. 9–85. 2: 167 1. 85. 2: 167

1. 85. 3–5: 175 1. 86. 5: 168 1. 86. 6: 176 1. 86. 7: 176, 177 1. 88. 5: 160 1. 88. 6–7: 176 1. 88. 7–8: 159 1. 88. 7: 159, 179 1. 88. 8–12: 155, 160, 177 1. 88. 11–12: 325 2. 1–36: 130 2. 1: 160 2. 1. 2: 132 2. 1. 4: 129 2. 2–12: 160 2. 4. 8: 330 2. 5. 4: 324 2. 8–12: 332 2. 8: 178 2. 8. 1–3: 177 2. 8. 2–3: 329 2. 8. 2: 324 2. 8. 3: 153 2. 8. 9: 183 2. 13: 160 2. 13. 1–2: 323 2. 14–35: 160 2. 14–15: 322 2. 15. 1: 328 2. 16. 13–14: 77 2. 16. 14: 202 2. 17. 1: 322 2. 17. 8–12: 322 2. 19. 11–13: 323 2. 21. 2: 256 2. 21. 8: 146 2. 32. 6: 323 2. 33: 146, 243 2. 33. 8–9: 146 2. 34. 1–35. 1: 145 2. 34. 10–11: 323 2. 34. 15: 323 2. 35: 341 2. 35. 2: 160 2. 35. 8: 82 2. 35. 9: 345 2. 36: 160 2. 36. 3: 196 2. 37: 130 2. 37. 2–3: 129 2. 37. 3–70. 8: 128 2. 37. 3: 128 2. 37. 4: 341 2. 37. 6: 129 2. 37. 9–11: 335 2. 37. 10–11: 331

395

396 Polybius (cont.) 2. 38. 4: 128 2. 39. 1: 153 2. 40. 4: 93 2. 41: 350 2. 41. 3–5: 298 2. 42. 2–6: 128 2. 43. 3–5: 186 2. 47. 9–11: 93 2. 47. 11: 93 2. 56–63: 129 2. 56–60: 202 2. 56. 2: 76 2. 56. 3: 74–7 2. 56. 6–13: 74–7 2. 56. 13: 80, 86 2. 58: 76–7 2. 62. 4: 128 2. 63. 2–5: 326 2. 67. 5: 187 2. 68. 1–2: 187 2. 71. 2: 129 3. 1. 4: 256, 345 3. 1. 11: 351 3. 2–3: 351 3. 2. 2: 172 3. 2. 6–3. 4: 351 3. 2. 6: 145, 231, 232, 248 3. 4. 3: 345 3. 4. 6–8: 154 3. 4. 7: 258 3. 4. 12–13: 164, 352 3. 6–7: 100, 209 3. 6. 10: 163, 341 3. 6. 11: 163 3. 6. 12–14: 208 3. 6. 12–13: 163 3. 7. 3: 350 3. 8. 1–9. 5: 151 3. 9–10: 160 3. 10. 1–4: 160 3. 10. 3–4: 155 3. 10. 5: 323 3. 13. 5–7: 323 3. 14. 1: 323 3. 15. 6: 196 3. 15. 10: 156 3. 17. 2: 331 3. 20. 1–9: 156 3. 21. 9: 345 3. 22. 1–2: 343 3. 22. 2: 343 3. 26: 151 3. 26. 2–7: 151 3. 26. 6–7: 149 3. 26. 6: 148, 150, 154

Index Locorum 3. 27. 2–8: 155 3. 28. 1–2: 155 3. 28. 3: 155 3. 30. 3–4: 155 3. 31. 12–13: 255 3. 32. 2–3: 352 3. 32. 5: 342 3. 32. 8: 342 3. 32. 10: 229 3. 34. 1–2: 322 3. 35–61: 196 3. 35. 3: 323 3. 37: 341 3. 38. 1–3: 341 3. 40. 5: 323 3. 40. 8: 323 3. 44. 8: 322 3. 48. 7: 323 3. 48. 8–9: 77–8 3. 48. 8: 202 3. 48. 11: 322 3. 49. 5: 324 3. 49. 11: 324 3. 50. 6: 323 3. 51. 12: 324 3. 52. 5: 324 3. 59. 2: 2 3. 59. 3–5: 322 3. 59. 3: 258 3. 59. 8: 345 3. 67: 198 3. 67. 4: 323 3. 68. 8: 324 3. 69. 1: 324 3. 70. 1–8: 249 3. 72. 12: 345 3. 76. 5: 323 3. 79. 1–2: 324 3. 80. 3: 146 3. 84. 4–5: 146 3. 87: 324 3. 87. 7–9: 231 3. 87. 7–8: 249 3. 87. 7: 345 3. 90. 7–8: 324 3. 90. 7: 322 3. 91: 322, 324 3. 98–9: 184 3. 99. 8: 184 3. 100. 1–2: 324 3. 101. 8–11: 324 3. 107. 1: 324 3. 107. 10–14: 345 3. 117–18: 235 3. 118. 3–5: 235 3. 118. 5–9: 156

Index Locorum 3. 118. 5: 172 3. 118. 8–9: 145 3. 118. 9: 232, 248 3. 118. 11–12: 231 3. 118. 12: 244 4. 1. 9–2. 5: 92–3, 94 4. 1. 9: 93, 95, 127 4. 2. 1: 165 4. 2. 2: 113 4. 2. 5–11: 95 4. 2. 5: 188 4. 2. 10–11: 147 4. 2. 11: 100 4. 3–37: 100–110 4. 3. 1–13. 7: 100, 106 4. 3. 2–3: 188 4. 3. 3: 197 4. 4. 1–5: 101 4. 5. 3: 188 4. 5. 4–5: 329 4. 5. 8: 103 4. 7. 10: 101 4. 8: 147 4. 8. 6: 94 4. 9. 1: 108 4. 9. 5: 108 4. 9. 6: 108 4. 9. 10: 101 4. 10. 1: 101 4. 10. 8: 107, 108 4. 10. 10: 110 4. 11. 5: 107 4. 13. 5: 106, 108 4. 13. 6: 100, 102 4. 14. 1–25. 8: 100 4. 14. 1: 101 4. 14. 8: 101 4. 14. 9: 103, 105 4. 15: 105, 106 4. 15. 1–4: 103 4. 15. 2–7: 105 4. 15. 4: 108 4. 15. 5–6: 108 4. 15. 6–7: 105–6 4. 15. 8–11: 105 4. 15. 8: 105 4. 16. 1–3: 103 4. 16. 6–19. 12: 106 4. 16. 6: 106 4. 16. 10: 106 4. 16. 11: 106 4. 17. 2: 184 4. 17. 3: 107, 108 4. 18. 9–12: 108 4. 19. 1: 106, 108 4. 19. 2–4: 108

4. 19. 6: 108 4. 19. 11–12: 106, 109 4. 19. 13–21. 12: 106 4. 21. 2–12: 276 4. 22. 2: 103 4. 22. 5: 188 4. 22. 6: 189 4. 22. 11–4. 23: 189 4. 23. 8: 204 4. 23. 9: 182 4. 24: 189, 191, 194 4. 24. 1–3: 109 4. 24. 3: 103, 110, 111 4. 24. 9: 190 4. 25: 102, 110 4. 25. 6: 110 4. 26. 1–37. 7: 100 4. 26. 1–4: 102 4. 26. 1: 102 4. 26. 7–27. 2: 105 4. 26. 7–8: 102 4. 26. 7: 102 4. 27. 1–3: 102, 105 4. 27. 9–29. 7: 102 4. 27. 9–28. 1: 350 4. 27. 9–10: 190 4. 28. 1: 102 4. 28. 2–6: 111–12 4. 28. 3–4: 341 4. 28. 3: 112 4. 28. 5: 111 4. 29: 190 4. 30. 1–5: 102 4. 30. 6–8: 102 4. 31: 274 4. 31. 1–2: 102 4. 33. 1–6: 298 4. 34. 1–36. 6: 102 4. 34. 8–9: 182 4. 37. 1: 102 4. 37. 2: 105 4. 38–56: 190 4. 38–52: 332 4. 38: 331 4. 39. 6: 298 4. 42. 7–8: 184 4. 43. 6: 298 4. 45. 7–8: 322 4. 47. 1: 332 4. 50. 1–3: 332 4. 50. 3: 323 4. 56. 2: 283 4. 57–87: 97–9 4. 57–60: 190 4. 57. 2–58. 12: 109 4. 62. 4: 241

397

398 Polybius (cont.) 4. 63. 10: 325 4. 65. 2: 325 4. 66. 7: 325 4. 67–87: 113–15 4. 67–9: 190 4. 67. 6–7: 190 4. 67. 7: 99 4. 67. 8: 99 4. 69. 9: 191 4. 73. 6–10: 323 4. 76: 98, 191 4. 76. 8–9: 99 4. 76. 9: 101 4. 77: 192 4. 77. 2: 192 4. 77. 4: 192 4. 78–82: 193 4. 82. 1: 193 4. 82. 2–3: 98 4. 84. 8: 99 4. 86. 8: 98 4. 87: 193 4. 87. 10–11: 193 4. 87. 13: 99 5. 1–30: 115–16 5. 1–30. 7: 98–100 5. 1. 1: 99 5. 1. 6: 325 5. 1. 9–10: 98 5. 1. 10–12: 325 5. 2. 7–8: 194 5. 2. 11–5. 24. 1: 99 5. 3. 4: 198 5. 3. 5: 325 5. 4. 10–13: 194 5. 5. 5–8: 194 5. 5. 8: 100 5. 5. 9 100 5. 5. 10: 98, 101 5. 7. 1–2: 194 5. 7. 4–5: 98 5. 7. 4: 100 5. 9–12: 189, 194, 223 5. 10: 204, 206 5. 10. 1–5: 222 5. 10. 1: 222 5. 10. 9–11: 206 5. 10. 10–11: 206 5. 10. 10: 196 5. 10. 11: 194 5. 12. 5: 100, 194 5. 15–16: 195 5. 15: 100 5. 16. 2: 195 5. 16. 9–10: 98

Index Locorum 5. 17–24: 196 5. 18. 4–6: 195 5. 18. 6: 195 5. 18. 7: 195 5. 18. 10: 195 5. 23. 6: 100 5. 24. 11: 331 5. 26. 3–4: 196 5. 26. 6: 99 5. 26. 9: 79 5. 27: 197 5. 27. 3: 100 5. 28. 1: 331 5. 28. 4–8: 197 5. 28. 4: 325 5. 29. 1–2: 197 5. 29. 6: 197 5. 29. 7–9: 350 5. 31. 3: 346 5. 31. 4–5: 112 5. 31. 6: 341 5. 31. 7: 341 5. 34–40: 191 5. 34. 10: 198 5. 40–58: 211 5. 40–57: 191 5. 41. 1: 185 5. 44: 322 5. 45. 7: 185 5. 48. 9: 80 5. 51. 7–11: 324 5. 54. 10–12: 325 5. 55. 1: 324 5. 55. 10: 183 5. 61. 1: 327 5. 63: 198 5. 63. 5: 331 5. 68. 2: 324 5. 70. 2: 324 5. 72. 7: 325 5. 73. 16: 327 5. 75. 1: 324 5. 76. 5: 323 5. 76. 9–10: 325 5. 76. 11: 327 5. 85. 9: 121 5. 85. 11–12: 184 5. 88–90: 283, 284, 326, 327, 332 5. 91–101. 3: 95–7 5. 91–5: 96 5. 91–2: 97 5. 91. 4: 331 5. 91. 6–8: 103 5. 93. 4: 241 5. 93. 6: 331 5. 93. 10: 96

Index Locorum 5. 94. 7: 324 5. 95–6: 96 5. 95. 5: 97 5. 97–101: 96–7 5. 97. 1: 323 5. 97. 3–5: 97 5. 98: 97 5. 100. 1: 97 5. 100. 4: 97 5. 100. 9: 331 5. 101: 206 5. 101. 1: 330 5. 101. 6: 96 5. 102. 1: 206, 256 5. 102. 2–4: 97 5. 104. 1–10: 350 5. 105. 1: 206 5. 105. 4–6: 111 5. 105. 4–5: 337 5. 105. 6–8: 344 5. 107. 5–7: 330 5. 108: 206 5. 108. 1–2: 330 5. 111. 8–10: 343 5. 111. 10: 127 6. 2. 2–3: 145 6. 2. 5–7: 235 6. 2. 5–6: 145, 146 6. 2. 9: 248 6. 3–9: 317 6. 3. 5–7: 249 6. 3. 7: 248 6. 3. 8: 249 6. 4. 4–5: 252 6. 5. 4–6: 297 6. 7–9: 240 6. 9. 9: 276 6. 10: 240 6. 10. 6: 249 6. 10. 12–14: 249 6. 11–18: 233, 258 6. 11. 1: 143, 145, 146 6. 11. 3–8: 154, 249 6. 11. 3: 345 6. 11. 4: 254 6. 11. 7–8: 236 6. 11. 11–12: 249 6. 11. 13: 236 6. 11a: 243 6. 11a. 4: 233 6. 11a. 6: 233 6. 12–17: 240 6. 12: 249 6. 12. 4: 154 6. 12. 7: 242 6. 12. 10: 240

6. 13: 250 6. 14. 1: 250 6. 14. 2: 250 6. 14. 4–6: 250 6. 14. 9–11: 250 6. 14. 12: 250 6. 15. 1: 251 6. 15. 4–11: 251 6. 15. 7: 79 6. 15. 8: 176 6. 15. 9–10: 250 6. 16. 2–3: 251 6. 16. 4–5: 251 6. 17: 252 6. 17. 2–7: 251 6. 17. 8–9: 251–2 6. 18: 234, 240 6. 18. 1: 251 6. 18. 2–6: 253 6. 18. 4–5: 145 6. 18. 4: 237 6. 19–42: 233, 234 6. 19. 5–20. 7: 237 6. 20. 8: 238 6. 20. 9: 239 6. 24. 6: 239 6. 26. 10–6. 32: 238, 239 6. 27. 2: 239 6. 34. 7–37. 6: 238 6. 37–8: 243 6. 37. 1–6: 242 6. 37. 3: 242 6. 37. 7: 242 6. 37. 9–12: 242 6. 38: 242 6. 39. 1–11: 243 6. 41–2: 238, 239 6. 41. 7: 239 6. 41. 10–12: 239 6. 42: 240 6. 43–56: 233 6. 43–4: 243 6. 43: 274, 275 6. 43. 2: 248 6. 44: 275 6. 44. 9: 252 6. 45–47. 6: 162 6. 45. 1: 162 6. 47. 1–5: 233, 244 6. 47. 3–5: 147 6. 47. 7–10: 240 6. 50: 240, 253 6. 50. 4–6: 240 6. 51. 3–8: 143 6. 51. 3: 174 6. 51. 5–8: 145

399

400 Polybius (cont.) 6. 51. 5: 252 6. 51. 7–8: 232 6. 52. 4–5: 235 6. 52. 5–7: 172, 243 6. 52. 7: 142 6. 52. 10: 254 6. 53–5: 254 6. 53–4: 241 6. 53. 2–3: 80–1 6. 54. 3: 241 6. 54. 4: 241 6. 54. 5: 241, 244 6. 55: 241, 243 6. 55. 7: 252 6. 56: 323 6. 56. 4: 235 6. 56. 6–11: 243, 254 6. 56. 8–11: 79 6. 56. 13–15: 235 6. 57. 5–9: 145 6. 57. 5–6: 260 6. 57. 8–9: 252 6. 58: 156, 343 7. 2–7: 256 7. 3: 184 7. 5–11: 324 7. 5. 6–7: 326 7. 7: 185 7. 7. 1–6: 78 7. 7. 2: 202 7. 9: 235 7. 11–14: 189, 192, 194 7. 11: 223 7. 11. 4: 192 7. 11. 9: 205 7. 13–14: 223 7. 14. 4–6: 193 8. 2. 3–11: 145 8. 2. 3–6: 257 8. 2. 11: 341 8. 7. 8–9: 183 8. 11. 3: 162, 165 8. 22: 324 8. 23: 326 8. 24. 10: 256 8. 25. 2: 324 8. 25. 11: 331 8. 35. 9: 135 9. 1–2: 282, 285 9. 2. 1–3: 298 9. 8–9. 10: 164 9. 9. 9–10: 82 9. 10: 146, 260, 327 9. 17: 184 9. 17. 6: 184

Index Locorum 9. 20. 5–6: 28 9. 23. 8–9: 147 9. 27. 10: 329 9. 28. 4: 222 9. 32–9: 209 9. 39: 274 9. 39. 1–3: 330 9. 39. 2–3: 146 9. 41. 11: 322 9. 42. 5–8: 324 10. 1. 5: 331 10. 4. 1–5: 186 10. 4. 8: 186 10. 5. 8: 257 10. 6. 3–4: 223 10. 7. 5: 323 10. 8. 5: 331 10. 8. 10–11: 186 10. 9. 1: 186 10. 9. 2: 257 10. 16–17: 238, 325, 345 10. 16. 7: 232 10. 17. 9: 331 10. 19. 1–2: 325 10. 20. 7: 162 10. 27. 1–2: 322 10. 28: 322 10. 32. 1–33. 7: 146 10. 32. 7–8: 146 10. 35. 6–36. 7: 223 10. 36: 224 10. 38. 7: 323 10. 40. 6: 186 10. 48: 322 10. 48. 1: 322 11. 4–6: 331 11. 5. 1–7: 350 11. 5. 2–8: 330 11. 5. 7: 244 11. 15. 6: 121 11. 16. 1: 121 11. 19. 3–5: 170 11. 25–30: 242 11. 27: 243 12. 3–4: 322 12. 3. 2: 184 12. 4b. 2: 184 12. 25e: 322 12. 25e. 5–7: 93–4 12. 25g. 1–2: 255 12. 25k. 6–7: 155 12. 25k. 9: 184 12. 26e-28: 238 12. 28a. 7–10: 255 13. 3. 6–8: 145 13. 4–5: 284

Index Locorum 13. 6. 4: 169 14. 3. 6: 345 14. 7. 1–3: 323 15. 4. 1: 323, 324 15. 6. 4–7. 9: 221 15. 6. 6: 172 15. 7. 1: 186 15. 12. 8–9: 170 15. 17. 4: 228 15. 19: 351 15. 20: 185, 351 15. 20. 1–2: 207 15. 20. 2: 185 15. 20. 4: 207 15. 21: 351 15. 22–24a: 223 15. 23. 2–6: 284 15. 23. 6–7: 224 15. 24. 4: 227 15. 34–5: 211 15. 36. 1–7: 80, 84–5 15. 37: 211 16. 9. 1–5: 284 16. 10: 207 16. 11. 1: 323 16. 14. 1–4: 281 16. 14. 5–15. 8: 282 16. 16. 1–17. 7: 282 16. 17. 8–19. 11: 282 16. 17. 9–11: 181 16. 18. 2: 304 16. 20. 5: 304 16. 20. 6–7: 282 16. 22. 7: 331 16. 25: 347 16. 26. 5–6: 348 16. 28–32: 231 16. 29. 11–12: 331 16. 31. 2: 323 16. 34. 6: 183 18. 4. 8–5. 3: 330 18. 6. 5–7: 218 18. 14. 13–14: 222 18. 24. 9: 118 18. 28–32: 240 18. 28. 1: 232 18. 30. 2: 119 18. 33: 207 18. 34. 6–35. 2: 260 18. 35: 276–7 18. 35. 1–2: 145 18. 37. 7: 221 18. 39. 5: 183 18. 41. 7–8: 347 18. 53. 4: 185 18. 54. 7–11: 284

20. 3–4: 269 20. 4–7: 267 20. 4. 1–2: 274 20. 4. 7: 278 20. 6: 335 20. 6. 1–6: 323 20. 6. 1: 270 20. 6. 5: 276 20. 7: 269 20. 7. 1: 272–3 20. 7. 2: 270 20. 7. 4: 270 20. 7. 5: 270 20. 12. 8: 83 21. 2. 2: 345 21. 4. 10: 228 21. 4. 12–14: 326 21. 10: 284 21. 12: 284 21. 13. 1: 232 21. 13. 11: 233, 345 21. 14. 4: 221 21. 16. 5: 216 21. 16. 7–8: 221 21. 16. 8: 257 21. 17. 1: 221 21. 18–21: 221–2 21. 23. 2–12: 227 21. 26. 7–19: 330 21. 26. 14: 183 21. 28. 4: 122 21. 28. 11: 121 21. 28. 12–16: 122 21. 30. 1–5: 326 21. 34: 326 21. 35. 4: 326 21. 36: 326 21. 40. 6: 326 21. 42. 19: 326 22. 4. 2: 270 22. 4. 13–17: 330 22. 5: 284 22. 7. 3: 326 22. 8. 10: 326 22. 16. 1–3: 222 22. 18: 203, 204 22. 18. 2–3: 333 22. 18. 6–10: 208 23. 2–3: 183 23. 3. 4–10: 244 23. 9. 6: 202 23. 10: 202 23. 10. 1–16: 209 23. 10. 4–7: 323 23. 10. 4: 124 23. 10. 12–13: 209, 210

401

402 Polybius (cont.) 23. 10. 14: 209 23. 11: 202 23. 12. 1: 183 23. 15. 1–3: 222 23. 17. 4: 259 24. 4–6: 224 24. 4: 206 24. 6. 5: 187 24. 8. 2–5: 258 24. 9. 1–4: 254 24. 9. 8–11: 328 24. 10–13: 350 24. 10. 11–12: 258 24. 10. 12: 227 24. 11–13: 226 24. 11. 4–8: 254 24. 12. 1: 227 24. 13. 2: 227 24. 13. 3: 227 24. 13. 13: 258 25. 2: 326 25. 3: 331 25. 4. 5: 283, 284 25. 6: 208 26. 1. 2: 331 27. 1–2: 331 27. 4: 331 27. 5. 3–4: 121 27. 5. 3: 121 27. 9. 1: 350 27. 9. 3: 217 27. 9. 5: 217 27. 9–10: 216 27. 10: 217 27. 10. 2–3: 217, 219 27. 10. 5: 217 27. 13. 2: 331 28. 4. 12: 350 28. 6: 225, 229 28. 6. 1: 219 28. 6. 5: 241 28. 6. 7–7. 1: 225 28. 6. 7: 219 28. 7. 1: 219 28. 8. 3: 323 28. 16. 11: 340 28. 17. 1–2: 283 28. 22: 326 29. 5–9: 208 29. 12. 8: 181 29. 17: 208 29. 20: 220 29. 20. 4: 220 29. 21: 209, 258 29. 21. 4–6: 30

Index Locorum 29. 21. 8: 201 29. 27: 332 30. 4. 7: 226 30. 4. 11: 226 30. 4. 13–14: 226 30. 4. 16–17: 226 30. 5–6: 331 30. 6. 5–6: 311 30. 13. 10: 207, 208 30. 15: 324 30. 18: 259 30. 23. 2–4: 283 30. 25–6: 327 30. 31: 331, 332 30. 31. 15: 228 31. 2: 185 31. 2. 1: 185 31. 2. 7: 186 31. 2. 9–11: 259 31. 5: 283 31. 10. 7: 259 31. 11: 186 31. 13. 8: 186 31. 21: 333 31. 21. 5–6: 259 31. 22. 8–9: 236 31. 22. 8: 154 31. 23. 1–3: 307 31. 23. 3: 313 31. 23. 10–13: 312 31. 24. 9–10: 308 31. 25: 327 31. 25. 2–8: 308 31. 25. 2–7: 260, 276–7 31. 25. 5: 331 31. 25. 6: 224 31. 25. 9–28. 9: 308 31. 26: 331 31. 26. 3–9: 323 31. 29: 308 31. 30. 1: 182 32. 2. 1–3: 178 32. 3. 10–13: 178 32. 5–6: 185 32. 11. 2: 341 32. 13. 4–9: 259 33. 2. 10: 154 33. 5. 1–3: 326 33. 13. 8: 326 33. 18. 10–11: 153 34. 2–4: 298 34. 4. 1–4: 298 34. 8: 322 34. 8. 4–10: 328 34. 9. 8–11: 322 34. 10. 10: 322

Index Locorum 35. 4: 187 36. 17. 5–11: 323 36. 17. 5–10: 276 36. 17. 13–15: 245 36. 17. 13–14: 229 36. 2. 1–4: 259 36. 9–10: 29 36. 9. 1–10. 1: 154 36. 17. 7: 276 38. 1: 256 38. 4: 215 38. 4. 2: 216 38. 4. 5–6: 216 38. 4. 7: 216 38. 8. 6: 79 38. 10. 6–13: 256 38. 11. 6–11: 256 38. 12. 4–11: 256 38. 12. 5: 169 38. 13. 8: 245, 256 38. 15. 3–5: 323 38. 16. 1–9: 256 38. 18. 7–8: 245, 256 38. 20. 1–3: 220 38. 21–2: 81, 220, 263 38. 21. 1–3: 308 38. 22: 176 38. 22. 2: 308 39. 2: 260 39. 3. 8: 350 39. 6. 1–2: 229 39. 6. 2–5: 229 39. 8. 2: 221 39. 8. 6: 340–1 39. 8. 7–8: 145 39. 8. 7: 232, 248 Polyzelus (FGrHist 521) F 1: 294 F 6: 294 F 7: 294, 296 Quintilian Inst. 12. 1. 35: 154 Scholia Dion. Thrax p. 173. 3–4: 88 Dion. Thrax p. 746. 1: 87 Pind. Ol. 7. 36c: 297 Pind. Ol. 7. 141c: 297 Pind. Ol. 7. 86a: 290 SEG 12, 360: 290 46, 989: 293 49, 1070: 296 SER 18, l. 9: 297

Servius A. 1. 108: 151 A. 4. 628: 151 Silius Italicus 1. 675–94: 156 Strabo 1. 2. 3: 86 3. 2. 7: 328 13. 4. 2: 347 14. 1. 16: 314 14. 2. 5: 305 14. 2. 7: 294 14. 2. 11: 293 Syll.3 338: 290 557: 348 560: 349 561: 349 599: 280 643: 205 1067: 297 Tacitus Ag. 26. 2: 179 Ann. 4. 1: 191–2 T.Cam 50, l. 25: 296 50, l. 36: 296 81b, l. 1: 293 90, I, l. 28: 296 90, I, l. 34: 293 90, II, l. 20: 296 147: 293 App. 19 and 20: 296 Thucydides 1. 1. 1: 174 1. 1. 2–3: 179 1. 2–22: 128 1. 2–12: 298 1. 10. 3: 179 1. 22: 255 1. 22. 2: 77 1. 22. 4: 83, 202 1. 22. 6: 199 1. 23. 1–3: 179 1. 89–117: 131 2. 2. 1: 350 2. 43. 1: 241 2. 68. 3: 298 2. 102. 5–6: 298 3. 12. 1: 223 3. 40. 2: 223 3. 49. 3: 224 4. 17–20: 221 4. 59–64: 155

403

404 Thucydides (cont.) 4. 81. 2: 223 4. 108. 2–3: 223 5. 90: 224 5. 98: 224 Timaeus (FGrHist 566) F 60: 343 F 71: 344 F 80: 344 Timocles F 6 K–A: 86–7 Valerius Maximus 2. 7. 15: 149 Velleius Paterculus 2. 71. 1: 179 Xenophon Ages. 1. 26: 163 Anab. 1. 2. 11: 167 Anab. 1. 2. 14–18: 168 Anab. 1. 2. 18: 168 Anab. 1. 3: 167 Anab. 1. 3. 2: 171 Anab. 1. 4. 8: 172 Anab. 1. 5. 9: 174 Anab. 1. 7. 3: 168 Anab. 2. 5: 175 Anab. 3. 1. 47–2. 1: 171 Anab. 3. 2. 24: 171 Anab. 3. 3. 5: 175 Anab. 4. 3: 166 Anab. 5. 4: 168 Anab. 5. 5: 170 Anab. 5. 6: 172 Anab. 5. 7. 21: 171 Anab. 5. 7. 28: 171

Index Locorum Anab. 5. 7. 32: 171 Anab. 6. 1–3: 170 Anab. 6. 1. 16: 167 Anab. 6. 4. 13–19: 167 Anab. 6. 6. 5–7: 171 Anab. 7. 1: 170 Anab. 7. 1. 7: 165 Anab. 7. 5–7: 167 Anab. 7. 6. 10: 171 Hell. 1. 1. 1: 165 Hell. 1. 7. 21: 241 Hell. 1. 7. 29: 252 Hell. 3. 1. 2: 163 Hell. 3. 4. 17: 163 Hell. 7. 1. 12: 252 Hell. 7. 1. 26: 252 Hell. 7. 5. 8–14: 164 Hell. 7. 5. 27: 164–5 Mem. 1. 2. 9–10: 252 Zeno of Rhodes (FGrHist 523) F 1: 285 F 4: 282 F 5: 282 F 6: 282 See also FGrHist 533 Zonaras 8. 8: 149, 150, 152 8. 10: 134 8. 11: 133–4 8. 12: 136 8. 16: 137, 138 8. 17: 139, 140, 155 8. 20: 145, 146 8. 22: 156

General Index All dates are BC unless otherwise indicated. Dates given for consulships refer only to the year of an individual’s first consulship. Long syllables are only marked in places where the pronunciation might otherwise be unclear. Abaeocritus, Boeotarch 267, 268 Abilyx, Iberian prince 184 Abydos 168, 183, 323 Acarnania(ns) 102, 122, 222 Achaea(ns) 16, 23, 28, 74–5, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101, 105, 106, 107, 123, 128, 144, 169, 170, 184, 214, 215, 218, 219, 225, 226, 227, 283, 304, 325, 331, 335, 350, 352 Achaean League 17, 23, 28, 42, 96, 100, 102, 103, 104, 108, 123, 186, 218, 219, 226, 244, 245, 256, 283, 331 Achaean War 148 n.16, 169, 216, 225 n.44, 245, 256, 269, 340 Achaemenid Persia see Persian Empire Achaïa, Rhodian hero and city 289, 291, 293 Achelous, river 98, 100 Acropolis, Athenian 290, 347 Acropolis, Rhodian 299 Adcock, F. E. 23, 55 Adeimantus, Spartan ephor 189 Aegates Islands 139, 160 Aegeira 109 Aelius Tubero, Q. (tr. pl. 130) 311 n.19 Aemilia 323, 331 Aemilius Lepidus, M. (cos. 187) 183, 311 n.19 Aemilius Paullus, L. (cos. 182) 215, 220, 221, 225, 229, 256, 308, 310, 312, 316, 317 n.44 Aenea 124 Aeneas 124 Aetolia(ns) 92, 96, 97, 101, 102, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 182, 184, 186 n.17, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 197, 198, 276, 325, 329, 330, 331, 333, 349, 350 Aetolian League 105, 120–1 Afghanistan 280 see also Bactria Africa 46, 96, 111, 136, 138, 140, 159, 161, 162, 174, 178, 184, 220, 224, 337, 340, 341, 351 Agamemnon 249 Agathocles, courtier of Ptolemy IV Philopator 84–5 Agathocles, tyrant of Sicily 84, 173, 211 Agelaus of Naupactus 223 Agesilaus, Spartan king 163, 198

Agetas, Aetolian general 97 agrarian production 328 Agrippa II, King of Judaea 257, 262, 263 Albinus, procurator of Judaea 261 Alectrona 289–90 Alexamenus 120 Alexander the Great, of Macedon 163, 189, 194, 196, 198, 204, 206, 208, 211, 223, 249, 300, 322 Alexander the Isian 183 Alexander, Macedonian cavalry commander 187 Alexander, Macedonian courtier 193 Alexander, Seleucid rebel 185 Alexandria 86, 208, 314, 328 All Souls College, Oxford, F. W. Walbank’s allergic reaction to 356 Alps 323 Althaemenes of Crete 296 ambassadors 25, 45, 102, 108, 110, 139, 149, 152, 154, 171, 175, 178, 183, 184, 186, 187, 221, 223–4, 225, 226, 227, 228, 249, 250, 259, 284, 302, 311, 316, 330 n.39, 344 n.34, 347, 348, 349, 350 see also diplomacy Ambracia, Ambraciots 121–2 amicitia 313–16 see also friendship, philia Amilus 107 Ammon at Siwa 302 Amphipolis 312 n.28 Amyntas, Rhodian general 302 Anacreon of Teos 314 anacyclosis 275 Anderson, B. 338–9 Antigonid kings 203, 204, 299 Antigonus I 300, 303 Antigonus III Doson 93, 95, 182, 187, 188, 191, 193, 205, 206, 210, 211, 217, 218 Antigonus, nephew of Antigonus III Doson 210 Antioch 331 Antiochus III, Seleucid king 121, 182, 184, 185, 191, 198, 207, 221, 227, 267, 269, 273, 282, 283, 284, 324, 335, 342, 350, 351

406

General Index

Antiochus IV, Seleucid king 209 n.40, 326 Antiochus V, Seleucid king 186 Antipater, ambassador of Antiochus III 221 Antiphanes 88–9 antiquarianism 237 Antisthenes, Rhodian historian 281 Antonius M. (cos. 99) 309 Apamea, treaty of 271, 284 Apelles, Macedonian courtier 79, 97, 99, 191, 192, 193, 194, 196, 197, 203 Aphrodite 288 Apollo 288, 296 Apollodorus 342 Apollonia-in-Sittacene 324 Apollonius, Seleucid courtier 186 Appian 321 Aquileia 322 Aratus of Sicyon (the elder) 2, 34, 42, 74–5, 91–116, 129 n.14, 147 n.14, 184, 186, 189, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 223, 224; Ephemerides, daily journals 111; Hypomnemata 30 n.148, 38 n.2, 74, 91–116; Hypomnemata as Syntaxis 93, 95; personality 94; see also Walbank, F. W., Aratos of Sicyon Aratus the Younger, son of Aratus of Sicyon 97, 115 Arcadia 104, 170, 276 Archaeologia, historical account of prehistory 128, 233, 243 n.52, 284–98, 304 Archegetae, Founders of Rhodes 286, 292, 293 Archimedes 183 Archo 124 Archon, Achaean politician 219, 225 Argead kings of Macedonia 204, 206, 209 Argos, Argives 97, 193, 295, 296 Aristaenus 218, 220 n.25, 226–7, 228 aristocracy 139, 144, 147, 233, 234, 235, 240, 241–3, 247, 248–50, 260, 262, 286, 308–18 Ariston, Aetolian general 184 Aristotle 233, 317–18; Poetics 73–4, 83, 85–6, 90 army, Roman 234–6, 237–40, 242–3 Artabazanes, of Atropatene 182–3, 324 Artemis Leukophryene 348 Asia, Asia Minor 112, 221, 227 assemblies, Achaean 101, 103, 104, 108, 109, 110; Aetolian 105, 106; among Ten Thousand 171; Roman 137, 138, 139, 148–56, 235, 237, 249, 250–2; Rhodian 293, 301, 303 Astin, A. E. 309

astrology 290–1 Astymedes, Rhodian ambassador 225–6, 228 asylia 329 Atabyrus, Mt. 296 Athamania 124 Athena Lindia 290, 292, 293, 305 Athenaeus 233, 328 n.33 Athenagoras, Milesian mercenary 302 Athens, Athenians 196, 197, 199 n.49, 221, 222, 223, 224, 248, 252, 274, 311, 314, 347, 350; empire 8, 21; politeia 243 Atilius Regulus, M. (cos. 267) 136, 137, 220 Attalus I, of Pergamum 183, 207, 347, 348, 349, 350 Attica 290 audience for history 125–6, 151, 279, 283 see also Fabius Pictor, Q., Josephus, Polybius, Zeno Augustus, emperor 8, 315 Autaritus 170 Babylon 316, 328 Bacchylides of Ceos 314 Bactria 322 Baecula, battle of 186 Balearic islands 169 banquets 277 barbarism 168, 170 n.50, 175 battles 327 see also Baecula, Callicinus, Cannae, Chaeronea, Cynoscephalae, Drepana, Issus, Caïcus, Lade, Leuctra, Magnesia, Pydna, Raphia, Sellasia, Telamon, Trasimene, Zama Baynes, N. 55 Beirut 262 Benecke, P. V. M. 202 beneficium 315–16 Benjamin, Walter 340, 342, 349, 352 Bithynia 190 Black Sea 172, 184, 331, 332 Bleckmann, B. 136, 140–1 Boeotia(ns) 35, 267–78, 323; confederacy 270, 272; courts 270, 271; decadence 147 n.14, 267–78, 323, 335; pig 275 Bonner, S. F. 43, 55–6 booty 324, 325, 326 Bostar, Carthaginian general 184 Bowra, C. M. 56 Bradford Grammar School see Walbank, F. W., schooling at Bradford Grammar School Brunt, P. A. 238

General Index Burckhardt, Jacob 126 Bury, J. B. 181 Byzantium, Byzantines 190, 322, 331, 332 Cadmus 291, 294 Caecilius Metellus Numidicus, Q. (cos. 109) 310 n.19 Caesar, Julius see Julius Caesar Caesarea Philippi 262 Caïcus, battle of 347 Calderone, S. 153 Caligula, Gaius, emperor 261 Callataÿ, F. de 327 Callicinus, battle of 216, 219 Callicrates, Achaean ambassador 227, 228 Callimachus 293 Callisthenes 162 Camirus 286, 292, 293, 296 camp, military 239–40, 242 Campania 148, 149, 173, 322 see also Mamertini Cannae, battle of 143, 146, 156, 172 n.59, 174, 178, 232, 234–6, 243, 251, 343 n.24 cannibalism 167 Caphyae 101, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 109 capital, social 312 capital, symbolic 311–12 Capitoline hill, Rome 237–8 Capua 322 Caria 300, 323 Carneades of Cyrene, philosopher 154, 311 Cartagena see New Carthage Carthage, Carthaginians 82, 127, 128, 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 140, 145, 148, 149, 151, 152, 153, 155, 159–79, 184, 220, 223, 224, 228, 248, 252, 259, 263, 277, 303, 307–8, 324, 325, 342–3, 349, 352; affinities with Rome 174, 177; decline and fall 81, 174–5, 178, 232; politeia 235 Carystus 123 Cassander 302 Cassius Dio 133, 134, 136, 138, 139, 140, 141 Cassius Longinus, C. (pr. 44) 261 Cassius Vecellinus, Sp. (cos. 502) 146 cataclysms 297–8 see also serpents, floods Cato the Elder see Porcius Cato, M. cavalry, enrolment of, 239 Cecrops, Athenian king 290 Celts 17, 169, 173, 232, 351 Cephallenia 98, 100 Cercaphus, son of Helios 289, 291, 292, 293 Chaeronea, battle of 222, 347 Chalcis 194, 196, 267 Champion, C. 234, 278 Chankowski-Sablé, V. 334

407

Charlesworth, M. 7 n.32, 46–7 Charops of Epirus 185 Chios 331 Chlaeneas, Aetolian ambassador 222 Cicero see Tullius Cicero, M. Cisalpina 322, 328 Cius 224 clarity, in history-writing 19, 82, 199 Classical Association of England and Wales 22–5, 54, 55 Clastidium 145 Claudius, emperor 261–2 Claudius Caudex, Ap. (cos. 264) 149–50, 152 Claudius Marcellus, M. (aed. cur. 91) 310 n.19 Claudius Marcellus, M. (cos. 222) 143, 145, 146, 147, 156 Claudius Quadrigarius, Q., historian 118 Clearchus 163, 167, 171 n.54, 175 Cleitor 104, 106, 108, 109 Cleomenean war 74, 94, 329 Cleomenes III of Sparta 10, 31, 128 n.14, 326, 352 Cleon, Athenian politician 223 clientela 250 collective memory 279–80 comedy, its difficulties contrasted with tragedy 88–9 comitia see assemblies commentaries on Classical texts 35, 126–7 see also Gomme, A. W., How, W. W., and Wells, J., Walbank, F. W., Historical Commentary on Polybius concordia ordinum 252 constitution, mixed, 233, 237, 239, 240, 243, 248, 250, 252–3 constitution see politeia, Polybius Book 6 consuls, role of 240, 242–3, 249, 251 continuators, historiographical 92, 164–5, 165 n.30 Corinth 99, 103, 110, 186, 188, 190, 195, 197, 260 Cornelii Scipiones 146, 147, 157, 312 Cornelius Scipio Africanus Aemilianus, P. (cos. 147) 81, 182, 187, 215, 220, 225, 263–4, 277, 307, 308 n.5, 309, 311–13, 316, 318 Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P. (cos. 205) 162, 186, 215, 221, 223, 224, 225, 228, 309, 312 Cornelius Scipio Asina, Cn. (cos. 260) 132–3, 135 Cornelius Scipio Calvus, Cn. (cos. 222) 145–6 Corsica 322 Coruncanii 330 Coruncanius, Lucius 183

408

General Index

courts, law 270, 272 courts, royal 84, 98, 182, 185, 186, 189–94, 196, 198, 201, 203–5, 210, 211, 314 Cratippus 92 n.3 Cretan League 283 Crete, Cretans 190, 205, 295, 296, 329 Crinon, Macedonian courtier 195 Critolaus, Achaean leader 216 curia see senate, Roman cursus honorum 308, 314 n.34 Cynaetha, Cynaetheans 104, 106, 107, 108, 109, 111, 184, 276 Cynoscephalae, battle of 118, 221 Cypselus, Corinthian tyrant 122 Cyrbe see Achaïa Cyrene 311 Cyrus the Younger 162, 163, 167, 168, 171, 172 Cyzicus, Cyzicenes 331 Dalmatia 259 Danaus 293, 294 Daniel, Book of 264 Daphne 327 Davies, J. K. 2, 334 decadence 267, 268, 269, 277–8 see also degeneration decline see decadence, degeneration Decius, Campanian mercenary 14, 173 degeneration 143, 146, 207; Achaean 144; Boeotian 147 n.14, 267–78, 323, 335; Carthaginian 174, 178; of Philip V, 201–11; Roman 144, 156, 157, 260 see also Rome, decline and fall deisidaimonia, superstition 243 see also religion Delos 296 Delphi 272 Delphic oracle 19 n.100, 42 Demetrius of Pharus 97 Demetrius I, Seleucid king 178, 185–6 Demetrius Poliorcetes 281, 298, 300, 301, 302, 304 Demetrius, Macedonian courtier 192, 194 Demetrius, son of Philip V 183–84, 202, 205, 206, 209, 210, 211 Democedes of Croton 314 n.34 democracy 8, 10, 12, 14, 26, 32 n.161, 233–4, 240, 247–50, 252, 277, 303 see also ochlocracy Demophon 249 Demosthenes, Athenian statesman 196, 222 depopulation 276, 323 Derow, P. S. 349, 352 n.64 De Sanctis, Gaetano 26–30, 32, 344

Diaeus, Achaean strategos 216 Diagoras, Rhodian aristocrat 286 Diana (Artemis) of Amarynthus 123 dignitas 311–12 Dio Cassius see Cassius Dio Diodorus Siculus 87, 150, 152, 281, 284–98, 304, 305, 316 n.42, 321 Diodotus, Athenian politician 223, 224 Dionysius Thrax 87 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 181, 182, 199 Diphilus 89 diplomacy 43, 49, 102, 109, 110, 149–50, 151, 152, 154, 161 n.14, 183, 217, 220, 221, 223–9, 259, 270, 280 n.8, 312, 316, 331, 332, 335 see also ambassadors, Polybius’ Histories as diplomacy discipline, military 242 Dium 193 divine see god(s) documentary evidence 300, 302–3 Dodona 193 Dorimachus, Aetolian commander 101, 104, 107–8, 186 n.17, 188, 189, 192 drama as metaphor for history 28, 78 Drepana, battle of 136, 139 Duilius, C. (cos. 260) 132–3, 134, 135 Dyme 98 earthquake of 228/7 283, 299, 327 Ecbatana 316 Echinus 322 Eckstein, A. 149, 150, 152, 153, 224, 228, 276 Ecnomus, Cape 136 economy, Hellenistic 35, 319–35 Egypt, Egyptians 24, 31, 187, 198, 207, 222, 291, 293, 300, 326, 328 Elis, Eleans 99, 269 Emathia 124, 202 embassies see ambassadors emotions in history 11, 14, 28, 33, 73, 74, 76, 80–1, 82, 83, 86, 90, 301; of barbarians 144, 175 n.73; in friendship 313–15; of reader 73–5, 86 enargeia see vividness Ennius 311 envoys see ambassadors Epaminondas of Thebes 243, 275, 277 Eperatus 98 ephebeia 279 Ephorus of Cyme 162 epieikeia, fairness, leniency 221, 222, 223, 224, 229 Epirus, Epirotes 102, 103, 183, 195, 269 equestrian order 252

General Index Eratosthenes 86, 342 Eretria(ns) 123, 124, 272 n.21 Errington, R. M. 94, 97, 98, 100 Eryx, Mt. 137 ethnography 236 Etruria 322 Eumenes II of Pergamum 221 Eupalinus of Megara 314 n.34 Euripidas, Aetolian general 190 Eurymedon valley 327 exemplum 312 experience, of the historian 83, 113 Fabian, J. 342 Fabius Maximus Aemilianus, Q. (cos. 145) 308 Fabius Pictor, Q., historian 131, 132, 134, 135, 137, 140, 142, 148, 151, 152, 312, 343; audience 151 fable see myth Falisci 166 n.35, 176, 177 family, Roman 240–1 Farrington, B. 16, 45, 53 fascism 9–11, 12 n.61, 13–14, 15, 18, 21, 24, 26–7, 339 federalism 4, 5, 16–17, 25, 18 n.138, 32, 35, 41, 42, 222, 275, 331, 335 see also Achaean, Aetolian, Boeotian, Cretan Leagues, League of Nations, Walbank, F. W., Achaean League Feeney, D. 342, 343 Felix, procurator of Judaea 261 Ferrary, J.-L. 224, 227 festivals 97, 280, 290, 327 Feyel, M. 267, 268, 269, 270, 271 fiction, tragedy defined as 88 fides 152, 153, 228, 315–16 Flaminius, C. (tr. pl. 232, cos. 223) 143, 145, 146, 147, 156 floods 288, 291 focalization 188, 190, 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199 judges, foreign 272 see also courts languages, foreign 170 Forsythe, G. 310 fortune, reversals of 17, 43, 74, 76–7, 81, 83–5, 135–6, 137, 209, 220–1, 256, 263–5, 301, 308 see also tyche, Walbank, F. W., role of fortune in life of freedom 8–10, 18, 22, 98, 218, 252, 284, 302, 323 friendship 223, 307, 311, 313–15, 317 see also amicitia, philia Fulvius Nobilior, M. (cos. 189) 121

409

funerals, Roman, 80–1, 82, 233, 234, 241, 254, 312 Gallic War 130, 146 Gaul(s) 130, 145–6, 160, 170, 173, 243 n.47, 248, 322, 323, 324, 341, 343, 347–8 gaze, the 82, 188 n.23 Gelzer, M. 128, 132, 151, 318 gens 314 geography see imperialism, Roman, Mediterranean, Polybius and geography, Walbank, F. W., importance of geography Germany, modern 10, 17, 21 Gesco, Carthaginian general 166, 171, 175 Gessius Florus, procurator of Judaea 261 Getty, R. and M. 45, 55–6 Gibbon, Edward 21–2 Gibraltar 331 Giovannini, A. 216 glory, 241, 243 god(s) 202, 207, 209 n.40, 221, 243, 244, 252, 256–7, 264, 280, 286, 287, 288, 290, 293, 295, 302, 348 Goddard (né Gropius), E. H. (Ned) xvi, 1, 7 n.33, 40 Gomme, A. W., Thucydides Commentary as model for HCP 3, 50, 57–62, 64 Grandjean, C. 319–20 ‘greatest conflict’ motif 179 Greek art 146, 260, 310, 312, 314; cultural influence on Rome 307–318; literature 310, 312; philosophy 307, 308 n.5, 310, 311–14, 317; science 317 Greeks, character of 240 Hallward, B. 41–2 Hamilcar Barca 139, 160, 166, 167, 174–5, 177 Hammond, N. G. L. 71 Hannibal, Carthaginian commander during 2nd Punic War 77, 146, 160, 186, 196, 221, 232, 235, 243–4, 313, 324, 351 Hannibal, Carthaginian commander during Mercenary War 176 Hannibalic war, see Punic War, 2nd Hanno, Carthaginian commander in Sardinia during Mercenary War 161, 170 Hasdrubal, Carthaginian commander in Spain (229–221) 160 Hasdrubal, Carthaginian commander in 3rd Punic war 79, 220 Hecataeus of Miletus 322

410

General Index

Helepolis, siege engine 301 Heliadae, children of Helios 286, 288–93, 305 Heliopolis 291 Helios, sun 286, 288–90 Hellenization 332 Hellenism 307–18, esp. 309–10 Henderson, J. 3, 15, 26, 30, 35 Heracleides, ambassador of Antiochus III 221 Heracles 299 Heraclides Criticus/Creticus 271–2 Hermias, Seleucid courtier 185 Herod the Great 261 Herodotus 33, 83–4, 291, 293 Hiero I of Syracuse 314 Hiero II of Syracuse 148, 149, 152, 173, 177, 184–5, 187, 225, 351 Hieronymus of Syracuse 78, 184–85 Hipparchus, Athenian ‘tyrant’ 314 Hippo 138 Hispania 322, 323, 328 see also Spain history and tragedy 74–6, 88; in relationship to poetry 73; and narrative of real events 90 Hobbes, Thomas 213 Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 318 Holleaux, M. 29, 105 Homer 176, 295, 296, 301, 306, 308, 329 Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) 315 Horatius Cocles 241 Hornblower, S. 273 How, W. W., and Wells, J., Herodotus Commentary as model for HCP 3, 47–50, 59 Hoyos, B. D. 153 hybris 223, 224 hydrography, of Black Sea 184 Hypomnemata, Memoirs 91, 93–4 see also Aratus of Sicyon, Walbank, F. W. Ialysus 286, 292, 293, 294, 305 Iberia(ns) 169, 173, 184, 223, 328 see also Hispania, Spain Ibycus 314 Illyrian War, 1st 160, 177, 178 Illyria(ns) 96, 106, 108, 160, 177, 178, 196, 329, 330 imperialism, Roman 27, 29, 33, 34, 148, 154, 253, 256, 257, 258, 259, 265, 340, 345; cultural effects on Rome 309, 312, 313; and the Mediterranean 340–6; resistance to 221, 222–4, 232, 255–65 indemnities 155, 160, 325–6 Insubres 145 intertextuality 34, 162–72, 268, 273–4 intratextuality 268–9, 274

Ipsus, battle of 332 Iran 280, 322 Isocrates 163, 234 Isthmian games 228 Italy 112, 130, 250 Iunius Brutus, L. (cos. 509) 241 Jacoby, F. 94 Jerusalem 262–3 see also Temple Jews 255–65 Jones, A. H. M. 2, 21 Josephus 34, 255–65; audience 256, 259, 264–5; compared to Polybius 255–65; criticisms of Rome 260–3 Jotapata 262 Judaea(ns) 256, 261 see also Jews judicial life, Boeotia 270, 271 Julius Caesar, C. (cos. 59) 286 Jupiter Capitolinus 343 kalokagathia 222 Koestler, Arthur 15 n.78 Lade, battle of 208, 282 Laelius, C. 186 landscapes, economic 322 landscapes, human 322–3 Laqueur, R. 128 Last, H. 55 Lazenby, J. F. 161 League of Nations 5 n.30, 16–17 see also federalism Leavis, F. R. 9 n.42 legati see ambassadors legions, enrolment of 237–9 Leontius, Macedonian courtier 97, 98, 193, 194, 195, 197 Lesser Attalid Dedication 347–8 Leucas 122 Leucothea 288 Leuctra, battle of 274 Libya(ns) 91, 128, 162, 166–7, 169, 179, 223, 352 Licinius Crassus, L. (cos. 95) 309–10 Licinius Crassus, M. (cos. 70) 261 Licinius Crassus, P. (cos. 171) 124 Liguria(ns) 169, 173 Lilybaeum 169, 173 Limnaea 100, 115, 116 ‘Lindian chronicle’ 285, 294, 305, 306 Lindus 286, 290, 292, 293, 294 see also Athena Lindia Lipara 132, 134, 136 literacy 279 Liverpool xvi, 1, 353, 355–6; University 15, 30, 38, 43–6, 54–6, 356

General Index Livy 34, 146, 152, 202, 269, 321; military service 119; use of Polybius 117–24 logismos, reason 144 Lusi 104 Lusitania 322, 323, 328 Lutatius Catulus, C. (cos. 242) 138, 139 Lutatius Catulus, Q. (cos. 102) 310 n.19 Lycia 284, 288 Lyciscus, Acarnanian ambassador 222 Lycortas, father of Polybius 187, 219, 222, 223, 225, 229 Lycurgus, Spartan lawgiver 249 Lycurgus, Achaean commander 195 Lycus, hero 288 Lysimachus 302 Macedonia(ns) 30, 96, 97, 99, 103, 108, 117, 120, 128, 182, 184, 188, 189, 190, 192, 194, 195, 196, 201, 203, 208, 210, 211, 216, 217 n.14, 218, 219, 222, 223, 225, 229, 245, 275, 277, 313–14, 323, 325, 346, 347, 348, 350; court 201, 203 Macedonian War, 1st 331, 348; 2nd 118; 3rd 117, 124, 204, 209, 216–17, 219, 256, 269, 284, 300, 303 MacNeice, Louis v, 14–15 Maecenas 315, 317 Maelius, Sp. 146 Magnesia, battle of 221 Magnesia-on-the-Maeander 348–9 maiestas populi Romani 254 maiores 314 Malea, Cape 330 Malis 322 Malta 136, 137 Mamertini 34, 140, 143, 148–57, 160, 173 Manlius Capitolinus, M. (cos. 392) 146 Manlius Torquatus, T. (cos. 347) 241 manpower, military 327 Mantinea(ns) 74–6, 81 Marcius Censorinus, L. (cos. 149) 310 n.19 Marincola, J. 220 Marmor Parium 293 n.59, 350 n.61 Martin Brown, R, 309 Mathos, leader of mercenaries 168 n.43, 170–2, 176 McDonald, A. H. 44, 63, 66 Media 322, 324 Mediolanum 145 Mediteranean 141, 206, 219, 224, 283, 317–18, 337, 340, 341, 342, 345, 348, 349, 350, 352;

411

economy 319–35 Megaleas, Macedonian courtier 97, 193, 194, 197 Megalopolis 96, 110, 187, 217 megalopsychia 222, 228 Megara 186, 314 n.34 Melos, Melians 224 Memoirs see Aratus of Sicyon, Hypomnemata, Walbank, F. W., Hypomnemata mercenaries 148, 162, 302, 324, 326; as a community 171–2; ethnicity 168–70; families 172; lack of unity 168–70; language used to describe 166; leadership 169, 171; not used by Rome 172–3; pay 165, 167, 172; unreliability 173 see also Mamertini Mercenary War 130, 159–79; conduct of Carthaginian allies in Africa 159, 166, 167, 169, 174, 179; Carthaginian 'triumph' after victory 176; causation 166; moral equivalence of belligerents 176–7; role of Rome 177–8; savagery 170–1, 175–6, 179; ‘truceless war’ 159, 171, 175; uncertain date 159 see also Polybius, Sardinia, supplies Messana 130, 143, 148, 149, 150, 152, 157, 173 Messene, Messenia 101, 102, 104, 105, 108, 123, 188, 189 n.28, 192, 194, 282, 329 Millar, F. 317–318 mob-rule see ochlocracy Molon, Seleucid rebel 80, 185, 324 Momigliano, A. 2, 7 n.33, 21, 24 n.119, 48–9 Mommsen, T. 139, 318 monarchy 95, 117, 201, 203, 205, 208, 210, 211, 217, 248–9, 264, 314, 332–3 Moore, J. M., possible editor of Polybius Oxford Text 63 Moschion, 88 Mossynoeci 168 motivation for war Greek 256; Jewish 256, 261 Mountford, J. F. 19, 43–4, 46, 54–6 movement, human 323–4 Mucius Scaevola, Q., augur (cos. 117) 309–10 Mucius Scaevola, Q., pontifex (cos. 95) 309 Mummius, L. (cos. 146) 215, 229 Münzer, F. 145–6, 147 Museion of Alexandria 314 Mylae 135

412

General Index

Mysia 347 myth 77, 280, 286–98, 304, 329; tragedy defined as 88 mythical ages of Rhodian prehistory 286–98, 304 Mytilene, Mytileneans 223, 224, 331 Nabis, ruler of Sparta 120, 282, 283 narratology 188 n.23 see also focalization National Socialism 18, 21 see also fascism, Walbank, F. W., fascism Naupactus, peace of 95, 205, 330, 349 naval power 283; Achaean 331; Carthaginian 149; Roman 132–8, 232 Nebuchadnezzar 264 Nemean Games 97 Neoptolemus of Parium, 86 Nero, emperor 261 New Academy 311 New Carthage 162, 186, 322, 325, 328, 331 Nicolet, C. 277 nightwatch, Roman 242 nobiles, 235 nobility, Roman 307, 311–13, 317–18 noui homines 235 Numidia(ns) 259 Ochimus, son of Helios 289, 291, 293 ochlocracy 144, 252, 275 see also democracy Octavius, Cn. (cos. 165) 177, 186, 225, 310 n.17 October Horse, Roman festival 184 Odysseus 33 officium 315–16 oikoumene, inhabited world 111, 337, 340–1, 345 see also Polybius, geographical range of Histories oligarchy 252–3 Olygyrtus 107 Olympia 104 Olympiads 95, 341, 344, 345; 140th 91–116, 337, 340, 345 Onesimus, Macedonian courtier 204 Onians, R. B. 43 oracles 296, 297, 298, 302, 348 see also Delphic oracle Orchomenus 104, 107 Ormerod, H. A. 56 Oropus 272 n.21 Ostia 133, 233 otium cum dignitate 313 Oxford University 47, 49, 56 n.12, 60; Press 3, 37–9, 46–72; Oxus, river 322

Paeonia 124 paideia 307–18 Palus 194, 195 Pamphylia 327 Pan 282 Panaetius 313, 316, 317 Patrae 104 patricians 235 patrocinium 314–16 patronage 235 Pausanias 347 Pédech, P. 103, 202, 203, 204, 234 Pednelissus 325, 327 Pelagonia 330 Pella 325 Pellene 104, 107, 108 Pelopidas 243, 275 Peloponnese 91, 104, 107, 188, 190, 191, 192, 196, 197, 296, 319 people, Roman, role of, 240, 243, 250–3 see also maiestas populi romani Pergamene Altar 447 Pergamum 207, 221, 333, 347, 348 peripeteiai see fortune, reversals of Perrin-Saminadayar, E. 274 Perseus, king of Macedon 183, 203, 204, 208, 210, 211, 216–17, 220, 283, 284, 314, 331, 350 Persian Empire 163–4, 168, 171, 174, 178, 332 Persians 341, 347–8 Perusine War 119 Peterhouse, Cambridge xvi, 4 see also Walbank, F. W., Cambridge student phalanx 118–19 Pharae 104 Pheneus 107, 108 Phigaleia 101, 104 Philhellenism 309–10 philia 223, 313–17 see also amicitia, friendship Philinus of Agrigentum 131, 132, 134, 135, 142, 148, 151, 152, 159, 344 Philinus treaty 151 Philip II of Macedon 163, 189 n.27, 194, 196, 198, 204, 208, 209, 211, 217, 222, 224 Philip V of Macedon 35, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103, 106, 109, 111, 118, 123–4, 181–199, 201–11, 217, 218, 219, 222, 223, 224, 235, 244, 268, 273, 282, 283, 284, 325, 330, 335, 342, 347, 349, 350; and Alexander the Great 196; alliance with Antiochus III 185; attack on Messene 189 n.28, 192, 194; attack on Thermum 189 n.28, 194, 195, 196; and son Demetrius 183–4; and Philip II 194, 204, 206, 208, 222;

General Index speed as military leader 189, 190, 195, 196; tragic figure 182, 201–11 treatment of Sparta 182; as youthful figure 188–98 see also Walbank, F. W., Philip V Philocles, Macedonian courtier 203 Philodemus, 86 Philopoemen 123, 183, 187, 223, 224, 226–7 Phocia 100 Phoenicians 291, 294, 305 Phorbas 295, 296 n.66, 305 Phylarchus 34, 73–90, 325 Pindar 275, 286, 288, 290, 314 piracy 103, 138, 177, 178, 300, 302, 303, 329 n.36, 330 Pisidia 325 Plato 9, 233, 317 plebeians 235 Plutarch 32 n.163, 81–2, 311, 313, 321 Po valley 322 poetry, distinguished from history, 86 politeia 144–5, 156; meaning of 233–4; Rhodian 300, 303; Roman 231–54 see also Polybius Book 6 Polybius 140th Olympiad 91–116; and Aratus of Sicyon 91–116; audience 147, 150, 154, 157, 236–7, 245, 247–54, 256, 259, 263, 265, 320, 345; on autopsy 113, 201, 238, 255, 281; Boeotia 35, 267–78; Book 6 3, 34, 41, 156, 167, 170, 172–6, 178, 231–54, 275, 317–18, 335, 351; captivity in Italy 154, 203, 256, 316; causation 160–2, 163, 166, 198; continuation of Histories after 167 164–5; criticisms of Rome 236, 244–5, 258–60; De Sanctis, Gaetano, on 26–7; ethnicity, approaches to 168–9; genesis of Histories 30–1; geographical range 93, 95, 112, 322, 337–58; geography 35, 77, 122, 176 n.79, 282, 322, 335; Histories as diplomacy 213–29; and Homer 176; on individual in relation to his society 147; and Josephus 255–65; literary style 181–2; and Livy 117–24; modern study of 25–6, 33–5; on monarchy 205; on old age 182–3; omissions 235–6, 247–54; patterns in his Histories 144, 148; and Plato 162;

413

polemic 33, 128 n.14, 155 n.44, 184, 202, 232, 255, 281, 282; prokataskeuē 92, 125–42, 150, 152 n.27, 165 n.30; reception of 35; religion 33, 35, 79; and Scipionic circle 307–18; sources for 91–116, 148, 159, 238, 343; as a source of economic data 319–35; survival of 232–3; symploke 93, 96, 111, 112, 206, 337–52; and Thucydides 162; on Timaeus 80, 83, 343; on time 339–52; tragic history 73–90; on truth in history 147 n.15, 216; and Xenophon 162–72; on youthful leaders 183–8; and Zeno of Rhodes 281–3, 298, 304 see also Walbank, F. W. Polycrates of Samos 314 Polyzelus of Rhodes 296 n.66, 305 pompa funebris see funerals, Roman Pompeius Magnus, Cn. (cos. 70) 260–1 Pontius Pilate 261 Popillius Laenas, C. (cos. 172) 225 popular sovereignty 251 populations, evidence for 327 Porcius Cato, M. (cos. 195) 126, 242, 311–12 porta Capena 146 Poseidon 287, 288, 294 Posidonius 92 n.3 praise as vehicle for advice 225 Préaux, C. 278 present tense, anachronistic use of 122–4 Prinassus 323 prophecies of Rome’s end 264–5 Prusias I of Bithynia 96 Prusias II of Bithynia 209, 259, 326 Ptolemaeus, Macedonian courtier 197 Ptolemies 198, 207, 211 see also individual Ptolemies below Ptolemy I 299, 300, 305, 314 Ptolemy III Euergetes 93, 95 Ptolemy IV Philopator 84, 191, 198, 282, 314 n.35, 331, 342, 349, 350 Ptolemy V 185, 222 Punic War 1st 130, 131, 132, 134, 137, 140, 149, 150, 152, 154, 155, 156, 160–1, 169, 177, 187, 325, 331, 344; nd 2 82, 92, 112, 117, 128, 129, 130, 132, 145, 146, 160–2, 163, 183–4, 247, 252, 351; 3rd 154, 178 punishment 242 Pydna, battle of 119, 129, 229, 312–13

414

General Index

Pylos 110 Pyrrhus 130, 149, 150, 285 n.17, 342–3, 352 quantification in ancient economic history 327 Quinctius Flamininus, T. (cos. 198) 118, 183–4, 218, 219, 221, 228, 312, 330 Raphia, battle of 184, 324 Rawson, E. 238, 242 readership for history see audience Reger, G. 334 religion 9, 11, 24, 35, 146, 193–4; Roman 79, 233, 243, 252, 254 see also tyche, god(s) revolutions 339 Rhegium 130, 149, 152 Rhium 104, 106, 107, 108 Rhodes, Rhodian(s) 190, 207, 225–6, 227, 228, 279–306, 327, 331, 332, 333, 348, 350; Colossus 299; mythical prehistory 280, 284–98; as origin of Egyptian wisdom 291 Rhodos, city 281, 290, 294 n.64, 297; siege of 281, 298–303, 304 Rhodos, nymph 286 n.32, 287, 288, 289 Rhone, river 324 Roesch, P. 272 Rome, Romans 127, 130, 132, 136, 218, 219, 223, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 307, 309, 311, 312, 313, 315–17, 318; army 234–40, 242–3, 248; as barbarians 244; constitution 145, 231–54 see also Polybius Book 6 benefits to subject peoples 258; decline and fall 7 n.34, 9–11, 21, 22, 24; as democracy 247, 317–8; success of 231, 235–6, 244–5 see also funerals, imperialism, maiestas populi Romani, naval power, people, religion, senate Rostovtzeff, M. 5 n.36, 7 n.32, 11 n.55, 14, 17–18, 25 n.129, 54, 268, 320 Sabinus, procurator of Judaea 261 Saguntum 196, 331 Sainte Croix, G. E. M. de 7 n.34, 22 Salii 233 Samnium 322 Samos 314 Sardinia 155; during the Mercenary War 161; taken by Romans from Carthage after Mercenary War 160, 161, 177, 178

Scerdilaidas, Illyrian king 106, 190, 330 Schachermeyr, W. 18 Schweighauser, I. 25 Scipio see Cornelius Scipio Scipionic Circle 307, 309, 310 Scopas, Aetolian leader 104, 105, 188 Scopas, Ptolemaic courtier 185 Scott, J. 214 Segesta 133, 134 Seleucia-in-Pieria 327 Seleucids 185, 186, 198, 211, 227, 259, 282 see also Antiochus III, Antiochus IV, Antiochus V, Demetrius I, Seleucus III Seleucus III Ceraunus 93, 95 Selge 325, 327 Sellasia, battle of 94, 187 Sempronius Gracchus, Ti. (tr. pl. 133) 309 senate, Roman 148, 153, 154–7, 249–52, 284, 347; rejects ransom demand 244; role of, 240, 243 serpents, plague of 292, 294, 296 settlement patterns 322 Sicily, Sicilians 128, 130, 133, 136, 138, 143, 151, 154, 156, 157, 169, 232, 328 Sicyon 100, 104, 107, 108 Sinope 190 Sisenna, historian 122 Siwa 302 slave trade 323 Social War 91–2, 94, 95, 100, 102, 110, 111, 112, 188, 190, 191, 193, 197, 331, 332 sons, execution of 241, 242, 244 Spain 44, 92–3, 160, 162, 184, 186–7, 196, 224, 232, 242 n.44, 248, 327, 328, 340–2, 351 see also Hispania Sparta, Spartans 7, 9–10, 15, 23, 102, 103, 108, 109, 169, 182, 186 n.17, 188, 189, 190, 192, 194, 195, 196, 221, 222, 223, 249, 253, 282, 319, 352 speeches in history 73 Spendius, leader of mercenaries 168 n.43, 170–2, 173, 175–6 Spengler, Oswald 7 n.33, 40 Sphacteria 221 starvation 167 see also cannibalism, supplies stasis 314 statues 288, 293, 302–3, 347 Stephanus of Byzantium 233 Stier, H. 18, 28 Stoa 316 stoning 170–1 Strabo 322 Strasburger, H. 309–10 Stymphalus 107

General Index Sulpicius Galus, C. (cos. 166) 310 n.17 Sulpicius Rufus, Ser. (cos. 51) 8 supplies 167 Syme, R. 2, 20, 21, 33, 47, 49–51, 56 n.12, 61, 247 symploke 96, 111–12, 206, 337–52 see also Polybius, symploke, Walbank, F. W., ‘Symploke’ synchronisms 95, 102, 342–3, 350 Syracuse 146, 148, 150, 152, 183, 312, 314 Syria(ns) 112, 259 Syrian war, 4th 92, 331 Tacitus 188 n.21, 191–2 n.35; Histories as possible topic for F. W. Walbank 19–20, 46–7, 50–2, 56 n.12 Tanais, river 322 Taras 324, 331 Tarentine war 130 Taurion, Macedonian courtier 193 Telamon, battle of 145 Telchines, children of Thalatta 286, 287, 288 Temple in Jerusalem 260–1, 262, 263 Tenages 289, 290 Teuta, queen of Illyria 183, 330 Thebes, Thebans 189, 196, 223, 248, 252, 267, 269, 271, 274; constitution 243, 275 Themistocles 243 Theopompus of Chios 92 n.3 Theoxena 124 Thermum 98, 100, 104, 189 n.28, 194, 195, 196, 222 Theseus 249 Thessaly, Thessalians 97, 118, 123–4, 195, 295, 296 Thompson, Dorothy 353–4, 357 Thrace, Thracians 123 Thrasycrates of Rhodes 330 Thucydides 77, 81–4, 92 n.3, 94, 126, 128, 131, 142, 162, 165, 202, 223, 224, 255, 298, 321 Tiber, river 311, 315 Tiberius, emperor 261 Timaeus of Tauromenium 80, 83, 343, 130, 155 n.44, 184, 238, 343, 344 time, conceptions of in history 338–52 Timocles, comic poet 86–7 Titus, emperor 257, 262–3 Tlepolemus, son of Heracles 295, 296, 297 topography 4–5, 77–8 tragedy 86–7, 88 see also drama tragic history 44, 73–90, 202–3 Tränkle, H. 118, 121–2 transcript, hidden or public 214–15, 218, 225–6, 228–9

415

Trasimene, battle of 97 treaties 25, 44, 95, 139, 140, 150, 151, 155, 175, 177, 184, 205, 207, 227, 250, 251, 253, 254, 271, 284, 293, 302, 303, 326, 329, 330, 343, 349, 350 Treves, P. 16 Triballians 196 tribunes, military 237–8, 242–3 tribunes of the people 251 see also people, Roman Triopas 305 Tritaea 104 triumph 137, 176, 251 Trojan War 176, 184, 285, 296, 297, 304, 306 Troy 297, 307 truth in history 74, 76–8 Tullius Cicero, M. (cos. 63) 8, 12, 247, 307, 309, 310, 313 tyche 30–1, 93, 95, 144, 203, 207 n.34, 209, 215, 220, 221, 228, 256–7, 258, 264, 270, 337 see also Walbank, F. W., role of fortune in life of Tyndaris 136 Ullrich, H. 283 Utica 155, 177 Uxellodunum 27 Valerius Antias, historian 117 Ventidius Cumanus, procurator of Judaea 261 Ventris, Michael 354 Venusia 146 Vespasian, emperor 257, 262 Virgil, Georgics 30, 43–4 virtus 308, 310 vividness 81–3 Walbank, Dorothy see Thompson, Dorothy Walbank, F. W. 1–72, 182, 271, 320, 353–8; Achaean League 16, 23, 28; British Communist Party 5 n.30, 37, 45, 53–4; Cambridge student: xvi, 4, 26, 41–3; De Sanctis, Gaetano 26–30, 32; fascism 9–11, 17–18, 21, 24, 26; federalism 4, 5, 16–17, 25, 32, 41; geography, importance of 4–5; Liverpool career 37–8, 43–6, 54–6, 353, 355, 356; nature of history 5, 7, 11–12, 18–19, 25–33, 358; political commitment 5, 9 n.44, 12–33, 44–5, 353–4; relationship of life and work 3, 5–7, 12–13, 16, 35, 71–2, 353–8;

416

General Index

Walbank, F. W. (cont.) relationship with Polybius xvi, 1–5, 15, 19–21, 28–30, 32–3; retirement to Cambridge 70, 357; role of fortune in life of 19–20, 29–31, 40, 43; schooling at Bradford Grammar School xvi, 7 n.33, 12 n.48, 30, 39–40, 42, 47; Second World War 8, 15, 23, 45–6, 54; Tacitus, Histories: 19–20, 46–7, 50–2, 56 n.12; travels 4, 16 n.85, 33 n.169, 41–2; United States 21, 29; Aratos of Sicyon 1, 2, 4, 15–16, 18–19, 27 n.137, 29, 31, 42–4, 47, 91; Awful Revolution 21–2, 54 n.8; Cambridge Ancient History 2, 13, 17–18; ‘The causes of Greek decline’ 7, 8, 10, 14, 20, 23, 26, 28, 54; Decline of the Roman Empire in the West 7, 11, 12–13, 15–16, 20, 21–2, 25, 45, 53–4; Hellenistic World 2, 23–5; Historical Commentary on Polybius 1, 2, 15, 17–18, 37–72, 91, 94, 121, 127–9, 140, 159, 161–2, 213, 226, 238–9, 344, 353, 356–7; ‘History and tragedy’ 88, 90; History of Macedonia 71; Hypomnemata 1, 4–5, 7–8, 9, 12, 15–16, 19–21, 26, 30–31, 37–48, 52–6; ‘The idea of decline’ 276, 278; ‘Is our Roman history teaching reactionary?’ 7, 11–12, 14, 54; ‘Olympichus of Alinda’ 19; ‘Philippos Tragoidoumenos’ 182, 201–11; Philip V 2, 31, 44–6, 47;

‘Polybius, Philinus, and the First Punic War’ 132, 135, 142; ‘The Problem of Greek nationality’ 27, 29–30, 32; ‘Social revolution at Sparta’ 7, 9–10, 15, 23; ‘Supernatural Phenomena’ 144; ‘Symploke’ 337; Walbank, Mary 5 n.30, 9 n.44, 16, 44, 55 n.99, 353–7 Walsh, P. G. 117–19, 123 Weber, Max 318 Williams, Philip, unpublished Polybius edition 49 n.7 writing, origins of 291 Xanthippus 136, 169 Xanthus valley 287 Xenoetas 80 Xenophon 34, 92 n.3, 94, 198, 233; Nachleben 162; and Polybius 162–72; 'Themistogenes the Syracusan' 163 Xerxes, at Abydos 168 Yahweh 258 see also gods Zama, battle of 186 Zeno of Rhodes 34, 216 n.9, 279–306; audience 283; and Polybius 281–3, 298, 304 Zetzel, J. 309 Zeus 305; Atabyrius 295, 296 Zeuxis, Seleucid official and ambassador 221, 324 Zonaras 133, 134, 136, 138, 139, 140, 141