Rethinking the Jewish War: Archeology, Society, Traditions (Etudes Bibliques) 9042943017, 9789042943018

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ÉTUDES BIBLIQUES

RETHINKING THE JEWISH WAR: ARCHEOLOGY, SOCIETY, TRADITIONS edited by Anthony GIAMBRONE

PEETERS

RETHINKING THE JEWISH WAR: ARCHEOLOGY, SOCIETY, TRADITIONS

ÉTUDES BIBLIQUES (Nouvelle série. No 84)

RETHINKING THE JEWISH WAR: ARCHEOLOGY, SOCIETY, TRADITIONS edited by Anthony GIAMBRONE

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT 2021

ISBN 978-90-429-4301-8 eISBN 978-90-429-4302-5 D/2021/0602/11 A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © 2021, Peeters, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven, Belgium

INTRODUCTION

RETHINKING THE JEWISH WAR: AN ORIENTATION TO THE DEBATE Anthony GIAMBRONE, O.P. École biblique et archéologique de Jérusalem

The “Jewish War” or “First Revolt” against Rome (66–74 CE) remains one of the most perennially captivating conflicts of all time. From the momentous destruction of the Jerusalem Temple to the final showdown at the desert outpost in Masada, Flavius Josephus’ famous history of the war preserves an iconic image of the clash between Roman military might and the reckless bravado of the Jewish rebels, fighting under the banner “No master but God!” Contemporary scholarship has increasingly questioned the accuracy of certain cherished elements in Josephus’ account. The recent publication of Steve Mason’s magnum opus, A History of the Jewish War, which brings together the results of decades of research by one of the leading Josephus scholars of our day, represents an excellent introduction to the present shape of the discussion. The book accepts the responsibility of critically examining the history of this mythic confrontation, openly challenging many received truths. Unsurprisingly, it rather quickly elicited some heated reviews. In October 2018 the book accordingly served as the occasion for a large, three-day, international conference at the École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem entitled “Rethinking the Jewish War: Archeology, Society, Texts, and Traditions.” Eighteen scholars representing fourteen countries, four languages, and a wide range of diverse disciplines thus gathered in Jerusalem to address a series of targeted themes, not with the aim of examining Mason’s work minutely, but simply to use it as the occasion for a conversation, to help frame and analyze key issues and pressure points in our understanding of the Revolt. From numismatics, epigraphy, and field archeology, to the study of Roman military and legal history, the examination of ancient texts, rabbinic, classical, and Christian, down to the modern reception of the events, selected results from those three days of rich and focused discussion are presented in this book.

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1. CONTROVERSY AND CONSENSUS 1.1. Breaking with Josephus Although Mason’s study was only a conversation starter and does not control all the discussions advanced in this volume, it forms the context and a brief word about his approach will nevertheless help put the material in these pages into better perspective. (Mason will speak for himself in the final chapter and readers may wish to jump to the summary and methodological explanations he there offers.) As indicated, what is perhaps most characteristic of his work is a critical readiness to depart from the classical paradigm supplied by Josephus and to offer alternative reconstructions. Mason acknowledges that prior to his research for the book he “was still comfortable with, and assumed when teaching, the main contours of the prevailing story: a province under increasing stress from Roman rule, from some combination of political, religious, economic, and social oppression, and rife with seers and messiahs, finally exploded in revolt in 66 CE” (chapter 14). The new vision that emerged from his concentrated study discards major elements of this rendition, however. This revised vision is plainly built up by numerous detailed arguments and considerations, but two major leitmotifs broadly contour his counter-proposal. (1) First, the scale of the “Jewish War” in reality does not correspond to the inflated significance that it was subsequently given. This is a point not only about conventional Greco-Roman historiographical exaggerations, which are plainly employed by Josephus (although Mason would naturally agree that, on account of its genre, the Jewish War is simply unsatisfactory for answering many modern questions). Other issues also create a similar interpretative gap between the cause and its inflated portrayal, and it is these he has especially in mind. The rampant opportunism of Flavian propaganda is particularly noteworthy for its distorted representations (even if Josephus was not a “Flavian lackey” in Mason’s view). In effect, for Mason, a poorly coordinated and easily quashed internal disturbance in the southern part of the province of Syria was fraudulently recast as a major empire-expanding victory over an exotic eastern foe; a real, but rather beggarly revolt was made into a foreign war, from which vast riches supposedly flowed into Rome. The creation of a new Province of Judea was the fictional trophy crowning this fabricated triumph: all part of a public relations coup calculated to legitimate the fledgling Flavian regime.

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Alongside this highly dubious Roman amplification, Mason additionally highlights the self-serving theological exaggerations of Christian tradition, which like the imperial politicizing, managed to “package the war in ways that stifled inquiry.”1 The war thus became the legitimation of a doctrinal regime, invested with a meaning from the outside that had no part in the original terms of the conflict. Unlike the imperial exaggerations, however, which faded with the Flavian era, Christian anti-Judaism has fueled ongoing overstatements of the Revolt’s importance. Hence the urgency to take distance from so many received “truths” about this “Famous and Unknown War.” Faced thus with a problematic ancient historian and twined colossus of interpretative spin, Mason necessarily privileges alternative perspectives in his reconstruction of the events. In this regard, military strategy plays the major role in driving his analysis. Here the tactics of Roman risk-aversion, display violence, and a general policy of maximum intimidation with minimal investment are the recurring and central themes, meant to expose the slight scale and relative ease of the engagement. Galilee effectively capitulated without a fight. The only real hostilities, apart from some punitive burning of empty villages, was at Jotapata, where the simple siege action was a retributive strike, prompted by a momentary reversal and question of personal honor. With that, the northern theater was pacified and fully under control. The retirement of Vespasian’s troops to hot springs for the winter was only interrupted by Agrippa’s appeal for aid in settling some disturbances in his own cities of Tiberias and Taricheae. This was obligingly done and with little effort. Mason’s almost leisurely depiction of this Galilean campaign is characteristic. The whole affair was in effect a show: an attempt to draw out Judean militants from Jerusalem – or still better an embassy ready to submit – with no evident Roman rush to head south. The plan was to take their good time, isolating the Judean metropolis in a long and terrifying strangling maneuver. Ultimately, of course, rather than surrendering, the city became a refuge for an influx of external elements. The internal stasis that resulted left Jerusalem its own worst enemy; and the Romans were content to let the city steadily weaken itself, as they calmly squeezed the noose. The ultimate seizure of the Temple mount and from there the entire city came through the Romans’ shifting Auftragstaktik, i.e. Titus’ on-the-ground response to developing circumstances. In this light, Mason compares the burning of the Temple to the at once intentional and unwilled bombing 1

MASON 2016, 58.

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of Monte Cassino in WWII. After that came the desert fortresses including Masada, which, whatever it was, was not a final showdown with rebel resistance, but rather almost an off-season scrimmage to keep the troops in practice, unconnected and ultimately of no honest military significance. “From 66 until the final siege, Masada was ‘a camp of displaced persons.’ It was not a ‘Zealot’ stronghold.”2 Mason’s “demythologization” of the war accordingly also inevitably and intimately touches the cherished emblem of Jewish freedom fighting. This leads to the second point characterizing his reconstruction. (2) Behind this downscaled military history, stripped of its grand ideological investments, Mason importantly reconceives the casus belli. Without wishing “to advocate a single exclusive truth about the war’s causes,” he promotes a vision of the violence, not sought as classically imagined in religious fanaticism, sicarii, and simmering Jewish sentiment against Rome, but rather in regional rivalries with roots in the violent Hasmonean impositions on their Samaritan neighbors.3 Key to this situation is the status of Jerusalem and its chora, which was challenged by the polis of Caesarea and suddenly fell during the perfect political storm that gathered in Nero’s later reign. Above all, Nero’s dispatch of Gessius Florus to Caesarea, with full backing to ruthlessly find revenues to fill the evaporating imperial coffers, incapacitated Judea’s traditional Herodian advocates and their Roman partners and tipped the regional balance in a dangerous way. This led to the expulsion of the apparently useless Agrippa II from Jerusalem and let loose a shock of violent attacks and reprisals, as a spasm of mutual Samaritan-Judean bloodletting exploded – including the fateful Judean massacre of the aggressive Samaritan auxiliary garrison at Florus’ disposal. It was this circumstance, ultimately – not some coordinated, Temple-based declaration of independence of an at-that-time still non-existent Province of Judea – that entangled Rome in the south Syrian vortex and necessitated direct military action by Cestius, the Syrian legate. With Rome’s entry into this mess, Mason posits a “manufacture of enemies,” i.e. a widescale phenomenon of on-the-spot radicalization, with purported parallels to recent conflicts in the Middle East. In evaluating Mason’s considered displacement of “religion” as a generative force behind the violence in Judea – his preference for highlighting 2

MASON 2016, 550. See MASON 2016, especially chapter 4 (here 200). “The beginnings of this war had little to do with long-term antagonism… Judea’s real, and finally existential threats were local.” 3

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ethnic hatred and to follow the money from Florus to Nero in Rome – it is perhaps useful not only to note the effort to avoid anachronistic categories, but to highlight two specific principles that Mason identifies as guiding his reflections: realism and economy (in the argumentative, not the monetary sense). Realism… means bringing our gaze down from the heavens and high-level, purely rational explanations, to the human instinct for survival and emotions such as fear, anger, and humiliation as motives. This principle goes hand in hand with economy (parsimony in explanation), by which I mean testing first the most common kinds of human responses, proceeding to higher-order explanations only if these cannot satisfactorily explain the evidence.4

The methodological tendency of “realism” so understood to privilege animal instinct above rational and spiritual motivations is obviously a significant assumption. So is the systematic suspicion of “higher-order explanations.” As a professed disciple in the school of Collingwood and Bloch, Mason’s whole project aims to take human action as the proper object of historical inquiry. Of course, if certain Jewish agents in the conflict with Rome perceived “higher-order” significance within the confrontation, this need not commit the modern historian to the same perspective. “Bringing our gaze down from the heavens” must not entail simultaneously bringing down the heavenly gaze of ancient actors. On the contrary, a concentrated attempt to escape from our own characteristically modern “immanent frame” and enter into this ubiquitous ancient mode of thinking is perfectly consonant with Mason’s articulated humanistic ideal. Understanding a world where messianic deliverers could appear as viable military leaders sent by the Lord may require great imaginative effort for many modern minds – though reckoning such figures as charismatic charlatans and frauds might straightaway realign a secular modern account with the original estimate of Josephus (despite his adherence to the intelligibility of a messiah as such).5 If sharp disagreements accordingly arise concerning Mason’s abrogation of “religion” as a key factor in the messy affair in Judea in 66-74 CE, neglected data will certainly play a key role (see chapters 8-10 below). The final court of arbitration, however, must likely be sought in the philosophical anthropology (conscious or unconscious) presupposed in the debate. What counts as rightly “realistic” as a source of motivation for first-century Judeans in opposing a juggernaut like Rome? Whose “realism” is in question? 4

See chapter 14 below. On Josephus’ loathing for the messianic excitement of his day, but acceptance of the messianic paradigm as such, see PRICE 2007, 194. 5

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1.2. Emergent Debate Within Mason’s general framework – good Roman-Judean relations at the level of the reigning powers, an acute crisis at the end of Nero’s reign, and an imperial military intervention that amplified what was essentially long-standing regional violence – there is obviously room for much discussion and debate. In this regard, if many details in the proposal will be ultimately reducible to points of emphasis and personal judgment, there are also major paradigms at stake. On this front, the reaction to Mason’s book has not been feeble and it is an interesting irony that the work has been criticized at once for both its outdated positivism and post-modern deconstruction. Behind this paradoxical collocation of charges is seemingly the confidence that Mason has in his alternative version, which for some scholars not merely conflicts at key points with the actual data, but in its extremity runs a distinct theoretical risk. Nikos Kokkinos, for instance, in his aggressive review of the book, detects an historian cutting off the historiographical branch on which he is sitting: “To be critical and even skeptical of Josephus is more than fine, but to reject him wholesale in the name of theory is not… M’s book is not a radical or revisionist statement. It is a complete overthrow of the area of study as we know it.”6 Such a citation reveals to what an extent the agonistic ethos of ancient historiography remains alive and well. With his contemporary history of an ancient event Mason has positioned himself as the antiquarian rival of the eyewitness Josephus – and various contemporary colleagues are vociferously unconvinced by his modern rendition. The risks entailed in discrediting Josephus are certainly very real. Without his witness the whole scaffolding of the story is certainly lost – though, as many chapters in the present volume demonstrate, there is more material out there, independent of Josephus, than might be imagined: from archeology to Second Temple and rabbinic texts. Still, seriously divergent as it is from the classic account, and less attuned to some of this extraJosephan data than might be desired, Mason’s work remains a highly informed and imposing professional effort to wrestle with real and very difficult problems. His attempts to understand Josephus, moreover, cannot be confused with his own set of driving questions, which is not in the first place an inquiry to find out if Josephus was right or wrong. More characteristic of Mason’s professed “humanistic” approach are probes into the intentions of central actors like Cestius Gallus or Eleazar. 6

KOKKINOS 2018, 123, 125.

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Clarified in various ways, much that Mason contributes can arguably still be fitted within a more traditional framework, however much he also poses foundational challenges to certain lazy assumptions and decouples himself from Josephus’ project, at times forcing a choice between irreconcilable approaches. Returning, then, to the two large paradigms noted above, the best response to the issues raised by Mason’s alternative vision is certainly to welcome the work for what it can offer: new insights and an occasion to rethink old commitments. It is the detailed statement of a major expert in the field, built on critical and self-reflective argumentation and thus open to patient, equally argued analysis, whether this leads to confirmation, restatement, or open pushback. The results of the conference contained in this book help begin this work of adjustment, soberly testing the limits of key theses, while also probing the place where incompatible options are seemingly posed. The “Response” that Mason offers to conclude the present volume helps capture the dialogical spirit that inspired the original event and which is indispensable to a common academic search for truth. 2. THE CONTRIBUTIONS The fourteen participants of the conference who contributed papers to the present volume help analyze the war from diverse and complementary perspectives. After an initial overview of the whole action, offered from the perspective of a historian of the Roman military, the studies are organized under three major headings: Archeology, Society, and Traditions. A more informal, summative reply is then offered as the final word. 2.1. Sizing up the Conflict Chapter 1. The military historian Yann Le Bohec opens the volume with a very helpful overview and analysis of the war in all its proper stages of development, employing an apparatus of clear definitions and tracing the action as Josephus allows us to apprehend it. Carefully weighing what was full-scaled and small-sized, Le Bohec neatly distinguishes between guerilla warfare (“petite guerre”), characteristic of asymmetric conflicts, and war by open battle, finding both sorts of contest typical of the encounter between Judea and Rome. Noting several deadly guerrilla wars in the decades before 66 and acknowledging that the violence began on a minor scale in the form of an uprising, he discerns the familiar escalading cycle of insurrection-repression-insurrection and is unambiguous that the result

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was a bellum / πόλεμος in the proper sense, i.e. against the minimization of the affair “dans des travaux récents.” The mobilization of four full Roman legions and associated auxiliary units and socii (a force equal to the campaigns in Britain and Gaul) together with the considerable Hasmonean and Herodian fortifications held by the Judeans is more than adequate to confirm the staging of major military operations in Le Bohec’s estimation. In this connection, he recalls that, in addition to three significant Roman sieges (and three small ones) – specifically chosen by the Jews in preference to a continuation of their earlier successful guerilla actions – there was even a naval battle. If a settled Judean decision was thus made for “une grande guerre,” factional division and diversity of opinion fractured and weakened the Jewish side, which thus encompassed a variety of self-defeating behaviors, from the guerrilla interference led by John of Gischala to the outright surrender of Sepphoris. While the Romans too, as Le Bohec observes, uncharacteristically adopted a mixed approach, also employing guerilla maneuvers like ambushes and raids, their strategists quickly recognized that the decisive battle would be for the remarkably well-fortified city of Jerusalem – heavily buttressed by multiple walls, towers, and strongholds – the taking of which effectively required four sieges. Flavian propaganda may have found subsequent cause to exaggerate the martial glory, but Le Boehc thus insists that the “grande” in this blend of “grande guerre et petite guerre en Judée” should not be too easily discounted. 2.2. Archeology While evidence of the hostilities at sites like Jotapota in Galilee are an important part of the discussion and were handled in the context of the conference (see chapter 14), the archeological frame offered in this volume centers on the final stages of the conflict. Four specialized contributions accordingly trace a graphic arc from the critical siege of Jerusalem – as seen both from within and without – to the fall of Masada, and finally to Flavian Rome. Chapter 2. Émile Puech’s discussion of epigraphical evidence leads straight to the heart of the conflict and the internal Jewish factionalism that reigned in Jerusalem once it had fallen into the hands of the rebels. Specifically, he reexamines the interpretation of a pair of fragmentary Hebrew inscriptions found roughly incised on the drums of two broken columns, uncovered in the Jewish Quarter during the excavation of Nahman Avigad.

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Attributing these columns to the Palace of Herod the Great and detecting much more than mere masons’ marks and proper names, as suggested by the editor Esther Eschel, Puech proposes reading these combined inscriptions as a vivid record of the Jewish rebels’ violent attack on the Upper City, where the partisans of peace had together taken refuge. If one accepts his daring readings, Puech has not only helped confirm the description of Josephus concerning divisions and intramural violence; he has effectively frozen in stone the panicked horror and furious chaos that gripped the city in those terrible days. Chapter 3. From this peek into the violence of factional disorder, the view next shifts to the deadly moment of the city’s full collision with Rome. In this connection, the study of Dominique-Marie Cabaret locates with very careful precision the exact, pressurized point in Jerusalem where the full surge of Roman force and the maximum Judean military resistance fatefully met: the NW tower of the Antonia Fortress. Emphasizing its harmony with the information transmitted by Josephus, Cabaret defends a revision in the local topography of the Second Wall’s juncture with the stronghold, highlighting the special strategic importance of the NW tower. In this reconstruction, the fortress lay outside the wall, rather than within the Temple enclosure, so that the wall itself was defended by the Antonia, rather than the reverse. The peculiar tactical significance of the tower came from its situation near the “Eastern Gate” (today’s Ecce Homo Arch), which opened the Second Wall and northern quarter of the city towards the Kidron Valley, and this tower’s placement directly above the Strouthion Pool. This uniquely vulnerable point – which offered access to the city and water to the fortress – was naturally heavily fortified and naturally attracted the full power of the Roman siege. The back-and-forth of the intense military engagement localized on this spot helps gives concrete shape to the serious rigors of war evoked in Le Bohec’s contribution and vividly remembered and described in the rabbinic literature analyzed by Ben Shahar (chapter 11 below). Chapter 4. From this decisive site of confrontation guarding access to the Temple, where Judea’s fate was effectively decided, Haim Goldfus and Benny Arubas carry us into the desert to Masada and another important spot of Roman siege. They also drop us into a live scholarly exchange of fire over the topos “Josephus vs. archeology.” Instead of focusing on the much-disputed story of mass suicide, however, this terse but energetic paper clearly reiterates the stark incompatibility of Josephus’ account with the material evidence for the supposed Roman ramp (even while many

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other archeological finds are acknowledged to “correspond, to a large extent, to Josephus’ description”). A very firm response is thus made here to a recent paper by Gwyn Davies and Jodi Magness, who openly challenge Steve Mason’s “post-modern literary approach to Josephus” and attempt, without disputing the significant geological and geomorphological evidence previously brought forward by Goldfus and Arubas, to reject their conclusion that the ramp was never functional and hence that no breach was made in the manner that Josephus reports. For Davies and Magness, questionable assumptions have misled the analysis concerning the incompletion of the ramp, while archeological signs of the breach in the casemate wall, along with the associated finds of missiles and ballistae, is firm empirical evidence that supports Josephus’ testimony. No direct or detailed response is made here to these precise objections (that task is entrusted to Mason in a footnote), except to insist that Davies and Magness have simply failed to engage the results of the new geomorphic study, making it “futile” to argue about the weaponry found atop Masada. Ultimately, the stance of Davies and Magness appears to Goldfus and Arubas a kind of willful incoherence, “contradicting objective facts.” Real questions remain, of course, and the authors admit that what happened after construction of the ramp ceased must remain a matter of speculation. For their part, they speculate that perhaps Josephus filled in the missing facts “in accordance what seemed right and acceptable to him.” Chapter 5. Whatever precise shape the victories on the ground in Judea actually took, their celebration in Rome leaves little doubt. The richly illustrated study of Maria-Letizia Buonfiglio here wonderfully helps to visualize the power and extraordinary magnitude that Flavian propaganda invested in the Judean victory. She concentrates not on the famous, still-standing Arch of Titus, but instead on the poorly known, but in many ways much more important arch that the Senate raised to him in 81 CE in the Circus Maximus – “the most coveted space in the city.” This latter arch was the largest arch in arch-saturated Flavian Rome, positioned in the largest spectator stadium ever erected (holding up to 250,000 persons): the site where the most splendid view of Roman triumphs was offered, as the train could stretch out to its full length of more than 500m. Beneficiary of a peerless location, enjoying such huge visibility, Titus’ triumphal arch was accordingly the ultimate tool of imperial advertising. The reconstitution of the fabulous inscription, in letters of gilded bronze, giving Titus credit for subduing Judea and destroying Jerusalem, which “by all generals, kings, or races previous to himself had either been attacked in vain

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or not even attempted at all,” reveals how grotesquely far from the truth Flavian propaganda was publicly willing to stray – at least in the epigraphical fine print. 2.3. Society: Rulers and Religion The next group of five studies explores the social context of the revolt from various angles. Special attention is focused here upon the conditions prevailing in the period prior to the outbreak of violence. An expert discussion of the special situation of Judea within the imperial administration first provides a nuanced political background for the explorations that follow. After a magisterial account of Agrippa’s speech to the crowds, two complementary studies then highlight Jewish views of Rome, drawing upon a wide range of non-Josephan sources. A methodological probe into Josephus’ own perspectives on the “religious” dimensions of the event finally gives additional traction to the use of such materials. Chapter 6. The precise status of Judea and its officials within the Roman provincial system in the six-decade period after Archelaus and prior to the Revolt (6–66 CE) is a matter of obvious importance and interest – and also a subject of continued misinformation. Werner Eck accordingly responds with a very clear statement of why the region was at this time inevitably annexed and subordinated to Syria and not an independent province. Highlighting insurmountable objections to the notion of a self-standing province of Judea, presided over by an equestrian procurator in 6 CE, as well as bringing forward illustrative parallel cases observable throughout the empire (e.g. Asturia), he pointedly notes that the famous Caesarea inscription very accurately reads merely praefectus Iudaeae, not provinciae Iudaeae (i.e. just like the similar praefectus Asturiae, etc.). Eck, who notes the divergence of the later (incorrect) from the early (correct) Schürer on this whole question, ultimately reaches behind the influential opinion maker and traces much of the modern confusion about the precise status of Judea to Josephus’ own terminological chaos as regards provincial office holders: bluntly, “Seine Termini sind ohne historischen Wert.” Herod, for instance, is designated as ἐπίτροπος of Syria, which certainly cannot mean procurator; while a real procurator Syriae is falsely portrayed as holding equal power with the governing legate. Equestrian officials under Tiberius and Nero are incorrectly cast as holding the office of ἔπαρχος; and the period of the procuratores after Agrippa II, suffers from this same general confusion in Josephus’

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designations. The continued interventions of the Syrian legate expose their ongoing juridical competence over the region even after 44 CE, however. The most revealing part of the study then comes with Eck’s demonstration of (i) Josephus’ readiness to “correct’ his sources under the false assumption that a procurator (ἐπίτροπος) must have been the chief Roman official in Judea and (ii) his massively misleading, black and white presentation of culpable equestrian prefects and innocent senatorial legates. Against this background, discerning in a balanced way the actual role played by Florus – and, still more, the legate Cestius behind him – in the outbreak of the violence emerges as an important question to pursue. Such an inquiry should be methodologically led, Eck shows, by an informed readiness to depart from Josephus’ authority and presentation. If Josephus was not a “Flavian lackey,” his rather precarious situation did force him to tread carefully and avoid making enemies of implicated senatorial families in Rome. Distant equestrian officials, by contrast, were an obvious and easy target. Chapter 7. If regional jurisdictions define the Roman map and help plot the various Roman actors with greater precision, the key role played by Rome’s Herodian clients focuses the inquiry and opens up a revealing view of the deep ideological clashes behind the military conflict. With great skill Giovanni Brizzi thus examines the all-important speech of “Agrippa/ Josephus,” modifying the analysis of Emilio Gabba to show a rhetoric with Greek and Jewish audiences in mind, yet proceeding from “un punto di vista integralmente romano”: namely, the Romans’ inflexible logic of fides and the ius belli. Coupled with its wide, strategic geo-political perspective, this juridical Roman mindset framed the Jewish belligerents quite simply as “disobedient slaves, not lovers of freedom.” In this light, the controlling Roman notion of the guilty party emerges in the idea of rebels: violators of the demanding fides imposed by previous surrender, now engaged in treasonous bellum latronum, which by the rules of the relation must now be mercilessly crushed. From the Jewish side, of course, a very different optic of just warfare obtains and Brizzi finds a key expression in B.J. 5.164, where the hostilities take on the explicit character of a holy war. The martial violations of the Sabbath – an issue broached in Agrippa’s speech – represent a key development here. At a certain point, among radical sectors on the Jewish side, “a new principle” evidently took hold, whereby God not only willed this war; he willed it more than the fulfillment of the commandments that it was ostensibly meant to defend. “La guerra, ripetiamolo, è ormai, per loro, tò theion in sé, santa per definizione

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(B.J. 5.164).” This radical turn marks the uncoverable gap between the conventional Jewish religious mindset still accounted as inviolable by Agrippa in his reasoning and the hell-bent agenda assumed by the “rebellious” party. Between these two incommensurable views of the war stand Josephus’ culpable lestai and the lens applied to this group will ultimately be decisive. If a modern (Mason-like) vision of chaotic brigandage and free-roaming street thugs basically agrees with the self- and class-serving viewpoint offered by Josephus, for Brizzi this fabrication effectively hides from view “una sanguinosissima rebellio” and first century crusade much more earnest than a spasm of free-lancing gangsters. Chapter 8. The breakdown of Agrippa’s mediating vision before an extremity of religious fervor that he could not calculate or comprehend sets the stage perfectly for the contribution of Mireille Hadas-Lebel. Keenly alert to the ideological scope of the problem, which set two antagonistic worldviews against one another, she forcefully doubts that longstanding Palestinian regional rivalries are adequate to explain the civilizational conflict, as Mason would have it. On the one hand, she points to the documented deterioration of earlier, happier Roman-Judean relations in the period leading up to the war. The two nations’ bond of friendship, attested in 1 Maccabees 8, suffers a very visible trauma with Pompey’s aggressions in 63 BCE, for instance. The bitterness that such imperialistic behavior aroused is palpable in texts like Psalms of Solomon 2. The subsequent rise of the pro-Roman Herod and final fall of the already degraded Hasmonean house came at the cost of a civil war, moreover, abetted with the overt aid of Roman arms: not events likely to leave the population fully free of anti-Roman vendettas to prosecute. The emergence of the violent, so-called “fourth philosophy” makes clear that an aggressive “independence” party embraced just such an agenda. This movement is a critical factor in the pre-war Judean context, yet it was not merely an anti-colonial band of freedom fighters. Alongside the anti-Roman sentiment, HadasLebel thus stresses the significance of properly religious considerations in this concrete confrontation. Highlighting the importance of Daniel’s succession of empires prophecy and tracing certain ideas back to Pharisaic roots and scriptural exegesis, the motivating idea of a theocracy emerges under the motto: “Pas d’autre maître que Dieu.” Chapter 9. The contribution of Nadav Sharon extends the broad insights offered by Hadas-Lebel, while also proposing some significant interpretative decisions. Methodologically, Sharon carefully gathers and sifts the relevant texts into three chronological strata, helping thereby trace the

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trajectory of disenchantment first attested in the Psalms of Solomon down to the period close to and then several decades beyond the war. The results of his survey bring some surprises. Sharon rejects, for instance, the standard notions of the Dead Sea Scrolls’ view of Rome, suggesting that a hostile view is in fact present from the beginning (and not a later development in the Yahad), yet that the Danielic “Fourth Kingdom” paradigm never actually appears in the sectarian texts. On the other hand, the label “Kittim,” which strongly marks these texts, is clearly drawn from Daniel 11, so that the influence of this book is not in doubt. It is question rather of the controlling anti-Roman topos. Sharon detects what he calls “the Assyrian model.” Judging from the War Scroll, it would seem that the climactic eschatological battle depicted in Daniel 11, pitting the sons of light against the Kittim, held more power over the community’s thinking than the notion of Rome passing the way of all former empires. Chapter 10. In the wake of these clear statements of the religious dimensions in Judean anti-Roman sentiment, Joseph Sievers very cautiously tackles the difficult question of “religion” as category in Josephus’ Judean War. Borrowing a minimal definition of “religion” from Katell Bertholet and eschewing purely descriptive passages, Sievers observes that if the War is less “religious” in outlook than Antiquities and Against Apion, this seems driven by the differing intentions, audiences, and genres. Within the War, Sievers nevertheless probes a wide number of relevant tropes, which often move in curious directions. Josephus’ attention to the unique relationship of God both to the Jewish people and to the Romans is obviously of very special interest. “What is noteworthy throughout the War is the idea that God is (almost exclusively) on the side of the successful, with a focus on physical protection and political and military power.” The contrast of this depiction, common enough in the Greco-Roman world, with the biblical idea of God’s steadfast fidelity to Israel, significantly frames the religious rhetoric of the War. At the same time this plotline of the shift of God’s support to Rome is bound to a deuteronomistic style theodicy. It is in this perspective that the Greco-Roman historiographical topos of stasis as the gravest political catastrophe takes on for Josephus the particular character of a punishable sin, thereby becoming an explanation of the divine abandonment of the Judean cause. The lawless stasis is traced, moreover, to the grotesque impiety of cutting down the high priest with “no vestige of religious regard for God,” while the pollution and trampling of the Temple blends with the depiction of the collapse of the civil polity. The departure of God – or the “gods” (!?) – from the

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sanctuary and its consequent consignment to flames is closely connected to these sins of desecration. In addition to this biblical sin-and-punishment paradigm, a prophetic outlook ultimately also contours the religious shaping of the War. The centrality of Josephus’ own speeches is worth underscoring in this regard. Of particular significance is his speech in Book V, which is indebted to the four kingdoms of Daniel 2. Here Sievers can affirm that Josephus “considers the Romans the current holders of divine favor and instruments of God’s punishment, but not necessarily forever (cf. Dan 2:21).” As a final conclusion, Sievers admits the difficulty of penetrating behind Josephus’ own religious interpretations of the events to understand the actual evolution of the war. Still, he says, it is “dangerous to marginalize them or to reduce them to ethnic or other questions. Not only Josephus’s language but also rabbinic literature, coin-legends, post-war literature, as well as the Second Revolt suggest that messianic/apocalyptic expectations motivated many people to revolt.” 2.4 Traditions The final section of three studies explores the reception of the war in diverse Jewish and Christian contexts. The selected traditions span a range of times and places, measuring the impact and character of the war as registered among rabbinic and displaced priestly groups, and by the earliest Christian sources. Chapter 11. Forming a perfect bridge between questions of society at the time of the revolt and the dynamics of later reception, the masterful study of Meir Ben-Shahar proposes a careful and highly illuminating analysis of the memories of Jerusalem’s destruction as preserved in the earliest post-Tannaitic rabbinic text, the Avot de-Rabbi Nathan. Building upon the redactional framework laid by Menahem Kister, Ben-Shahar identifies two distinct and originally independent plotlines: one hagiographical story centered upon Rabban Yohannan b. Zakkai and one chronicle-like account focused upon Vespasian’s siege. As Ben-Shahar shows, the contrasting ideological outlooks of these two plots are very striking. On the one hand, the presentation of Yohannan as amicus caesaris and a principled opponent of the revolt transfers all culpability to the party of the rebels and aligns the subsequent rabbinic project at Yavneh with life in the new Roman order. In this rendition, Vespasian’s light terms of surrender invite Yohannan’s adopted posture, which wisely secures the conditions for Jewish survival. In the alternative perspective of the siege story, by contrast, Vespasian is

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cast as an impious villain doggedly intent on Jewish destruction, while the realia of ancient warfare are much more integral to the story. The siege itself is depicted as a military stalemate (perhaps bending towards Jewish victory?) until Vespasian renders the sanctuary impure by launching a pig’s head into the Temple. The city’s fall is thus in no way the rebel fighters’ fault – indeed the desecration of the sanctuary if anything justifies the rebels’ violent resistance to Roman aggression. Ben Shahar’s further alignment of these contrasting perspectives and literary styles within two very different social milieus, rabbinic and priestly, illuminates at once the placatory character of the early rabbinic movement and the priestly circles’ interest in stressing the life-or-death significance of the cult. The early dating of the chronicle account and detection of pro-revolt sentiment and sympathy for the Zealots in priestly circles naturally contributes suggestive information concerning the causus belli; while the two contrasting sources reflect the divisions with Jewish society at the time of the war – offering a privileged peek behind Shaye Cohen’s suggested post-destruction “grand coalition.” Ben Shahar’s ultimate location of the redactor in this more pacific period long after Jerusalem’s fall allows a safe valorization of the earlier, conflictual memories and their resolution in a softened mood of solidarity and lament. Chapter 12. The priestly stress on the cessation of sacrifice highlighted by Ben Shahar provides a good introduction to the contribution of Etienne Nodet. Specifically, Nodet considers the evidence that some form of Temple worship was in fact restored in the direct aftermath of 70 CE, while stressing the revealing way that rabbinic traditions interact negatively with the evidence of this priestly activity. Several reported decisions of Yohanan b. Zakkai, for instance, suggest that “Yohanan was opposed to the priests and made no move to prepare for the restoration of the Temple” – quite the opposite in fact: “His effort was given to a reorganization of Judaism (or at least of his own school), without official cult, conceived not as a continuation of the Temple, but in opposition to it.” This is sharply put, but fits with the broad paradigm of conflicting social groups elucidated by Ben Shahar. Nodet is pessimistic, at the same time, that the story about Yohannan in ARN represents anything more than “loose reworkings of a passage in Josephus.” Hostility to the Temple is also indicated in Nodet’s hypothesis that Essene views were amenable to proto-rabbinic figures like Hillel. If the hints that Nodet finds in the alternative, non-rabbinic sources do indeed point to reparable damage and a (short-lived) post-70 restoration of the sanctuary, he would like to draw a corollary conclusion

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about the final redaction of the Gospels. Specifically, in using the language of Dan 9:27 (τὸ βδέλυγμα τῆς ἐρημώσεως) to describe the profanation of the Jerusalem Temple, Matthew and Mark (in contrast to Luke) must be referring to the desecrating destruction after the Bar Kochba Revolt, not the less drastic damage done by Titus. Chapter 13. Chapter 13 continues the reflection concerning hints of the Temple’s destruction in Christian literature with an eye on Bar Kochba, albeit in a very different direction than Nodet’s proposal. On the one hand, the Gospel traditions are plotted within a firm deuteronomistic “murder of the prophets” context, which conceptually antedates the conflict with Rome. This interpretative context underscores the need to treat primitive Christian reception more carefully as a mode of Second Temple Jewish thought, animated by a mutually painful Jewish-Christian Auseinandersetzung. At the same time, elements of Roman policy and propaganda can be seen to intrude within a live Jewish-Christian dispute about who was to blame for the burning of the Temple. Here the special role of the Second Revolt must be stressed, for Hadrianic decisions appear to have introduced into the Christian sources an important motif of final destruction, then coupled with prophetic re-readings, just as later Byzantine views fused (and confused) imperial and theological aims in the rhetoric of a permanently destroyed Jerusalem Temple. In this light, “plotting and evaluating ‘supercessionist’ discourse should… be pursued in a much wider socioreligious field, which includes both expressions of Roman imperial hegemony over a vanquished Judea and the ultimate Byzantine Christian surmounting of the pagan religious order.” A more minute stratigraphy of the developing traditions accordingly emerges, hesitant to lump together the Christian material as essentially all contoured by a primordial “deicide” charge. 2.5. Concluding Thoughts Chapter 14. The final word is left to Steve Mason, whose book occasioned the gathering of scholars. Returning to his own work, he first helps clarify in seven points the methodological principles underlying his project, then responds to key points made in the various papers. This contribution, while greatly amplified and revised, still preserves something of the character of the original live exchange. As such, it is useful not only for its dialogical tone, but for the evocation of certain presentations not represented in this publication (i.e. Mordechai Aviam, Donald Ariel, and

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Tessa Rajak). The challenge of responding to multiple interlocutors on multiple themes is admirably executed; but as Mason observes, the multilateral conversation makes any effort at a unified closing statement unrealistic and unfitting. An open-ended ending ultimately corresponds well to the work of history writing as Mason himself describes it: namely, a project “focused on the process rather than on confident advocacy of a thesis.” “The historical journey,” he says, “must be its own destination.” Leaving the present discussion open for subsequent replies and ongoing exchange is thus a fitting way to conclude the conference collection. 3. TOWARDS AN INTEGRATED VISION The open ending of the conversation in this volume makes its own proper point. Still, as a final introduction to the questions uniting these contributions, rather than as a settled conclusion, some focused effort at a synthesis might here be indulged and useful. The two themes evoked above as shaping Mason’s novel reconstruction can thus serve to structure some parting remarks of orientation. 3.1. Reality and Perceptions To what extent is the Jewish War, as we conventionally know it, at base a staged event: an inflated historiographical, imperial, and theological construction – admitting that to some extent that it certainly was? Archeology delivers a mixed response to this question, if the contributions of this book are to be followed. Together the present studies juxtapose contrasting images of a violent stasis and serious martial conflict (chapters 23) with an enormous ghost confrontation (chapter 4): on the one hand circumstances that tightly fit the descriptions of Josephus, on the other a Josephan legend gravely undermined by the spade. The imperial scale of the subsequent pomp (chapter 5) accordingly stands in an uncertain relation with the foregoing findings. Does the scope of the former in any way justify the opportunistic magnitude of the latter, burdened as it was with the task of legitimating a new dynasty? Such questions are difficult to control and address in a satisfactory way. Whatever judgment one ultimately makes, the archeological studies presented here do help us inch closer to a correctly nuanced appropriation of the historian’s work. Josephus’ patterns of harmony and discord with the evidence on the ground clearly demands a variegated and nuanced appropriation of his witness. Above all, the reports of Masada and Jerusalem’s

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fall ask to be treated with different expectations and allowances for literary freedom. Of course, the concerted tendency of scholars to reject Josephus’ account of the former might be resisted on various grounds (as Tessa Rajak demonstrated during the conference); but this should not obscure larger questions about the significance of the desert fortresses as such: e.g. concerning Eleazar’s behavior in yielding while at Macherus and why Flavius Silva gave that site priority over Masada (chapter 14). These are places where Josephus’ historiographical program might obscure as much as it reveals about the strategic calculations of both sides. Galilee is an important case apart, here only touched upon in the final chapter. It reveals how far Josephus’ account might be taken as misleading, however – arguably misleading even the archeologists themselves, if one follows Mason. For, despite clear material evidence of city fortifications built up around the time of the revolt, the latter’s insistence on the spotty resistance in Galilee deserves attention. More specifically, as an exegete of Josephus, Mason resists the archeological interpretation of the data to the degree that this finds its basis in the testimony of the War, since Josephus’ own claims in this regard are problematic on their own terms. Josephus gives conflicting information in the War and Life, for instance; while the list of towns fortified for the revolt falls before a patient consideration of individual cases. In the end, Mason is clear: “That several settlements in Galilee had walls dating from the first or second century is not surprising. This evidence does not require the hypothesis of a coordinated revolt against Rome” (chapter 14). In other words, different settlements naturally faced different potential threats against which they fortified themselves at different moments. This is a perfectly fair and helpful point that does invite a more nuanced and contracted view of the action in Galilee. On the other hand, Mason’s rather sharp distinction between cities in revolt against King Agrippa, like Gamla, Tiberias, and Taricheae, and the communes piloted instead by hardliners set against Rome curiously neglects Agrippa’s own ostentatious vassalage to Roman rule: a significant circumstance that should seemingly force some honest adjustments in Mason’s own minimalist analysis. What else would one expect as evidence of such cities’ participation in a “coordinated” (let us say “contemporaneous”) uprising? If the Herodians and Romans were as intimately bound as Mason presumes – and scholars do not at all disagree on this well-evidenced truth (Brizzi’s chapter nicely reveals Agrippa’s Roman view) – then over-playing administrative jurisdictions and multiplying the micro-histories of mini-revolts might well risk missing the forest for the trees.

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Whatever the scope of the action in Galilee, the siege of Jerusalem commands attention as a truly formidable military confrontation. In addition to Josephus himself and what archeology can add (e.g. chapters 2-3), there is good reason to trust the memories preserved in ARN of the many menacing Roman war machines pummeling the city and conducting psychological warfare (chapter 11). If this climatic act of the revolt argues against a Roman walk in the park, in the eyes of a military historian, sensitive to the variable scale of all the engagements, the verdict is ultimately rather uniform and clear (chapter 1). This was a conflict that, while passing through various typical stages of build-up, in every way deserves to be respected as a genuine, full-scale war (admitting that legally seen, we are dealing rather with a revolt): a major operation on the order of Roman action in Gaul and Britain. From the purely administrative perspective, too, the unprecedented and massively militarized zone that in the aftermath became the tiny new province of Judea – where not less than 10,000 troops were stationed for some 12,000 km2, a greater density of military force than even dangerous frontier regions like Britain and Pannonia – confirms that serious security threats were perceived and reckoned as real (chapter 6). Agrippa’s attention to the normally strikingly thin distribution of Roman force across the empire makes this point all the more clear, especially for first century readers of Josephus who could have compared this to the very different post-war situation (chapter 7). The aggressive Flavian response to “the recent unpleasantness” in Judea was from this vantage point not only self-legitimating domestic bluster. It had boots on the ground. The call to consider the war’s reception more critically, nevertheless, remains a genuine challenge of great importance. On this score, however, greater care is perhaps required in characterizing the malign Christian contributions to the revolt’s reputation (chapter 13). Jewish views – both rabbinic and as a matter of modern Israeli state building (cf. Rajak, chapter 14) – are also not to be neglected in understanding the dynamics of subsequent amplification (chapters 11). On this point, at the obvious risk of blurring whole orders of important difference, one observation is perfectly clear. A major part of the Jewish project, common to both the formative rabbinic and modern Israeli settings, has plainly been to mobilize memories of the war in order to forge new forms of Jewish unity. It is ironic, perhaps, yet in the end also deeply fitting that an event grounded so fundamentally upon terrible social divisions (stasis) should later become the precise locus of a search for religious and national identity. Arguably this search was always, in fact, the genuine drama of the war. In this

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light, early Christian responses can and should also be plotted within the same context of dispute and division, i.e. within the fragmented milieu of Second Temple and early formative Judaism. Indeed, Christians’ own messianic reading of the events manifests a strong Jewish coloring that should not simply be written off as the irrelevant exterior imposition of an alien theme (chapter 13). In this sense, the ponderous weight of later tradition is perhaps not so much the opportunistic abuse of an event that was originally about something else altogether, but rather part of a loooong (and ongoing) process of identity resolution, which began at a seminal moment when profound fractures in Jewish society came to a tragic head and a moment of fateful decision. Dangerously conflicted and mortally exposed, first-century Judeans were laid open to a painful, extended experience of creative destruction. In such a paradigm, the closely connected Second Revolt appears inescapable as a conjoined point of reference in gauging the essential factors at play. 3.2. The Role of Religion So, if later religious perspectives have played their improper but also proper parts down through the ages in elucidating the war’s retrospective meaning, what of religion as a motive force at the time of the conflict itself? In response to the wide dissatisfaction of colleagues about his handling of this question, Mason explains that his ultimate interest is to hold together analytically the integral elements that were also held together in ancient minds, though separated in our modern world where religion and politics (supposedly) divide (chapter 14). Few would disagree on the correctness of this theoretical unity in the ancient context. In practice, then, the objection crystalizes around Mason’s characterization of the conflict’s ultimate causes; for here it seems to most interlocutors that he has in fact split apart exactly what he professes to hold together (e.g. chapter 8). Reducing the war’s onset to ethnic and regional conflict thus meets resistance, inasmuch as this approach appears to siphon off and ignore the strongly “religious” valence of a confrontation that must be imagined not just as a battle between two ethnoi, but between those two peoples’ gods. Perhaps, for Mason, this theological dimension is always implicit and simply concealed under his higher category of ethnos. This does not dispense one from handling the slippery sub-dimension as an important and identifiable aspect of ancient identity, however.7 Indeed, the discipline 7 An influential definition of “religion” understands “human cultural activities or institutions as the summum genus and religion as a subordinate taxon” (SMITH 2004, 281).

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of history of religions, which is far from insensitive to the real dangers entailed in this delicate matter, has largely resolved the decades-old debate evoked by Mason’s position and decided in clear favor of retaining the concept of “religion” – not least because relinquishing it would seem (to a very contemporary sort of sensibility) a mere reassertion of the monolithic hegemony of our own post-Christian culture’s particular manner of being religious, as if ancient people (or the “other” of whatever sort) had no religion at all.8 Methodologically, therefore, though it is clear that “religion” as an anachronistic term poses some difficult analytical issues, it is not in the end so much more problematic than saying that the “economy” or any number of other modern analytic abstractions played a demonstrable role in driving events (chapter 10). In any case, if human motivations are largely subrational in the first place, as Mason’s “realism” contends, why should the “thinkable thoughts” of the age and the ability of ancients to articulate the reasons for their actions in our preferred terminology decide whether “religion” was in “reality” somehow decisive? A better question might instead be: What was most instinctive and central to Judean ethnic identity in this period? Or perhaps: What role did cults and gods play in the warfare of the age? In this regard, for all its differences, the Maccabean Revolt represents a significant point of reference in understanding traditional Judean perspectives. Indeed, it is not without interest that Josephus finds it fitting to relate this earlier revolt at the beginning of his Bellum. As John Collins’ recent study of that self-defining moment of Judean resistance argues, even if the motivating causes did not (and could not) concern “a separated domain of ‘religion,’” they “were largely concerned with the temple and cultic practices” as these realities impinged on Judeans’ self-understanding, so that all reductionistic (broadly materialist) attempts to circumvent these factors remain problematic and unconvincing.9 In the admittedly different case of the war with Rome, evacuating the engine of the action of any preexistent and religiously motivated source of anti-imperial sentiment does not accord well with the data – for Rome was hardly the first empire that Judea had met and resisted. If Daniel’s prophecies are plainly relevant 8 SMITH 2004 offers a deeply learned review of the many shifting meanings of the term “religion” and in the end remains perfectly clear: “‘Religion’ is not a native term; it is a term created by scholars for their intellectual purposes and therefore is theirs to define. It is a second-order generic concept that plays the same role in establishing a disciplinary horizon that a concept such as ‘language’ plays in linguistics or ‘culture’ in anthropology. There can be no disciplined study of religion without such a horizon” (281–82). 9 COLLINS 2016, 201.

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here in shaping first century Jewish perceptions (both of self and of the other), a whole range of literary witnesses beyond Josephus’ account must likewise hold a more important place in any attempted social reconstruction (chapters 8 and 9). Mason’s complaint about the conflated “inclination to link up post-63 and post-70 anger and lament” (chapter 14) does invite greater precision and expose an unfortunate lacuna. Thin as this sandwiched first-century layer of data is (chapter 9), however, it is a weak objection; for it is not as though we have no information or solid ground. Putting aside the quite ample information afforded by Josephus, plus a variety of other lights into the period, Philo’s Embassy to Gaius alone should put to rest any doubt whether a straight line of anti-Roman feeling can be drawn through this critical intervening age. Philo’s account permits us, moreover, not only to see the highly agitated atmosphere obtaining and intensifying between Judea and Rome, but also what specific sort of provocations the Judeans sensed and so vehemently resented (and long remembered): namely, cultic threats that looked dangerously like old Seleucid behavior. Mason’s allowance of anti-Roman sentiment generated in the Herodian age, but his marginalization if it to insignificant “pockets” of the population seems hard to square with so organized and determined an action as Philo’s diplomatic mission. True, the embassy itself was an elite act in search of peaceful coexistence. The premise, though, was that peace stood under serious threat. Dodging bullets is not a sign that all is well. 3.3. Rome and Religion The negative picture of Rome that emerges from many Second Temple sources obviously contrasts with the views of Josephus and the extraordinarily pro-Roman Herodian house. If in this case a significant sector of the population stood in volatile conflict with elite opinion, the key question might be put as follows: How did the Herodians with their allies and patrons lose control of the situation? A basic failure to reckon with the radical perspective of a “holy war” mentality seems here to be crucial (chapter 7). There is no doubt, however, that Mason’s micro-history of how a regional rivalry spiraled out of control also has a great deal to offer. As he notes, in searching for sources of murderous intent, Judeans’ interactions with various neighbors clearly offer us a preexisting wellspring of lethal violence. His adopted perspective of an histoire événementielle is thus very useful for its punctual framing of the original outbreak, albeit jarringly iconoclastic in its rejection of deeper social trends (chapter 14).

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At some level, Mason’s ethnological turn is not so distant from Josephus’ own perspective on Judea’s descent into self-destructive stasis (cf. chapters 2, 7, and 11): this is stasis writ large, on the scale of the whole diverse polity that was once Herod’s great but patchwork kingdom. The fact that violent conflicts between Samaritans and Galileans were twice the occasion of an earlier intervention on the part of the Syrian legate in the decades leading up to the war is certainly more than sufficient to flag such tensions as a major, mounting issue of direct Roman concern. The introduction of an aggravating external factor in the imperial plundering of Judean treasuries may thus well have tipped the precarious regional balance in the fateful ways that Mason skillfully suggests. In granting this, we are well warned, however, that Josephus’ sinister portrait of Florus is dubious and cannot be leveraged as a fixed point in the discussion (chapter 6). Mason’s effort to “follow the money” is thus a quite genuinely helpful new perspective. It is necessary to add a significant point, however. This “external” Roman element, for all its intrusive and circumstantial connections to Nero’s later reign, was not some unknown and altogether alien factor in the local forms of inter-ethnic tension. On the one hand, attempts on Judean wealth were hardly Nero’s invention, but almost a standing tradition since the time of Pompey (thus a significant source of the Judean disenchantment with Rome; cf. chapter 8). The bloody Judean-Roman violence under Varus at the time of Herod’s death is a fine example. On the other hand, Herod’s own aggressive project of Romanization, faithfully continued by his successors (both Herodian and Roman), was itself responsible for creating the regional Caesarea-Jerusalem rivalry in the first place. There would be no Caesarea apart from Rome – nor apart from Jerusalem’s firmly demonstrated aversion to Roman presence, which first prompted Herod’s clever but doomed decision to create two capitals in his realm. The civic rivalry was, moreover, quite specifically and at its root the rivalry of two temple poleis, with their two incompatible cults and two ultimate commitments of allegiance.10 The casus behind the explosion of regional tensions in Judea cannot therefore be simply separated from all thought of Rome and the contest of kyrioi that an imperial cult, ostentatiously planted in Judea, inevitably, provocatively implied. “The conflict in Caesarea did not begin with a bird sacrifice,” Mason insists, “but with a bid to make the polis Judaean, governed by Judaean law” (chapter 14). This is accurate, yet fails to seize 10 On the character and origins of this temple/polis rivalry between Jerusalem and Caesarea within Herod’s broader career, see GIAMBRONE forthcoming.

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the critical truth. It is correct that some frame must be drawn around this odd avian provocation, which finally lit the fire already kindled for other reasons. Understanding the specific language of an ostentatiously ritual provocation must help correctly draw that all-important interpretative frame, however. “Land-ownership” falls well short of the full force of the contest. The bid was to make a Roman polis bound to Caesar’s cultic honor subject to what Jews recognized as the divine law of YHWH. From this perspective, the Samaritan auxiliaries who stand so close to the first drawing of blood and figure centrally in Mason’s reconstruction, are worth reconsidering in their specifically Roman and cultic light. Whatever its long and complicated historic relations with Judea, Sebaste, like Caesarea, boasted a giant temple to Augustus and had similarly stood under the provocative patronage of the Kaiserkult for nearly a century when the war broke out. Mason is thus on exactly the right track when he evokes long-standing Samaritan resentment against the Hasmonean policy of forced conversions. One must insist, however, on the specific impact and energy of such cultic coercion – including the razing of the Gerizim temple – in order to see that this critical regional rivalry, which manifestly played a role, was in many ways already a long-standing war of religion. And in the first century the particular religions at war were the cults of Caesar/ Roma and YHWH. Civic and regional identities are thus very welcome as a neglected factor in explaining the long fuse of social friction that finally hit the powder keg in 66. It is a healthy move to complicate an overly clean abstraction of “Jews vs. Rome.” Still, when describing the spark that finally took flame in Caesarea, it is difficult to intone the element of traditional ethnic rivalry yet ignore the overt associations with Rome manifest from various directions, as well as the open ritual goading that Josephus reports (B.J. 2.266270). Perhaps “religion” is at times a bad term for the integral constellation of factors at play. It is hazardous, however, systematically to avoid the “higher-order” preoccupations – e.g. gods, temples, and messiahs, a “holy war” – that plainly anchored the competing first-century identities behind this conflict (chapter 7). 3.4. Religion and Intra-Judean Divisions Josephus’ own depiction of the descent into anarchic stasis is in its own way a highly religious affair – more religious, it seems, than the normal deployment of the stasis topos. For Josephus it is intimately bound up with the violation of the sabbath, the murder of the High Priest, and pollution

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of the Temple (chapter 10). The implicit contrast of such integrally offensive behavior with the famous piety shown by the Maccabean leaders, who engaged only in defensive battle on the Sabbath (A.J. 12.6.2; 1 Macc 3:31) and were concerned to purify rather than to defile the Temple, may well inform the divergent outcomes of the two revolts in Josephus’ mind. That Judas was the first to make an alliance with Rome (B.J. 1.38) would certainly help elevate the Maccabean uprising as an admirable and acceptable alternative model in Josephus’ thinking. For Herodians like Agrippa, the limits of violent Hasmonean zeal were imagined as still in place (chapter 7). For many others, however, who also discerned in the Maccabees a model, this friendly face towards Rome was distant history. Unbounded violent zeal for theocratic independence, against all imperialistic presumption, was the true legacy of Judea’s recent past. If the trajectory towards conflict was thus ultimately set by the aggressive new policies of Herod and the pro-Roman party – with a largely postHasmonean outlook, but deep Hasmonean-era roots complexifying the situation in multiple ways – the road to the deadly face-off naturally implicates more actors than just Herod’s heirs. The compelling evidence detected in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan that priestly circles were a major and active block of support for the Revolt (chapter 11) should accordingly be traced back in large part to the marginalization of this clientele and the huge demotion in the old Hasmonean high priestly dignity, a degradation that began in mortal earnest with Herodian rule. An extended experience of Roman agents and allies meddling in the power-politics and priest-making of Judea had created clear sets of winners and losers, clients and displaced outsiders. That a traditional Temple-bound aristocracy would be jealous of their eroding cultic and social privileges only stands to reason. To evacuate this priestly sector of resistance of all “religious” sentiment would be gratuitous and unhelpful. Those who wanted a war wanted it for reasons deeply connected to both class and cult. It is worth observing that Mason’s alternative depiction of these priestly patrons as shrewd strategic leaders of the polis, who act “not from ideology, emotion, or reflex” but who rather pursue the clear and unselfish goal of the people’s true welfare, calmly searching out “the rational means most likely to secure it,” is an idealized depiction that closely follows Josephus’ presentation, not only of high priests like Ananus ben Ananus, but also of Josephus’ own behavior as a member of the same ruling class.11 It is not 11 MASON 2016, 111. “When we read Josephus, I suggest, we should be… impressed by the degree to which Judean leaders’ motives (as his own) lack reference to pro- or

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perfectly clear whether Mason is here simply highlighting a feature of Josephus’ (self-serving) rhetoric or whether we are also meant to assent that the leaders were not in reality moved by any hawkish or religious ideologies. Are we to accept, in other words, that these figures were in fact not anti-Roman (since anti-Roman sentiment as a mobilizing force is a red herring)… despite their organizing the preparations for war and being named as generals in command? Given Mason’s methodology and stated preference for “realism” in evaluating human motives, we should certainly expect some healthy suspicion of Josephus’ report. Thus, it may be that the speech material that the historian puts into Ananus’ mouth sounds admirably Polybian in tenor. Measured by actions, however, Ananus’ power grab at the moment of Festus’ departure and prompt deposition and humiliation by the incoming Albinus through the hands of Agrippa, are not likely to be signs of a neutral attitude viz-a-viz the resident ruling powers. In any case, confronted with the evidence of a text like ARN, it is advisable to take distance from Josephus’ too moderate rendering of the priestly caste. Attention might be drawn here also to the lower clergy, who found a natural ally in Albinus, with whom they worked to further erode the caste of upper clergy from below. It was thus under Albinus and with Agrippa’s backing that the Levitical singers successfully lobbied to enjoy certain equal priestly privileges with those who wore the linen. Even the longstanding liturgical underlings of the chief priests were accordingly turning against and isolating this sector of still proud leaders. Josephus’ strong censure of the Levites’ presumptuous novelty as a “transgression bound to make us liable for punishment” indicates the extent to which his own theodicy functions from an elite priestly perspective (A.J. 20.216–218). Disenfranchised priests might easily align with other dissatisfied groups, of course. It is question of the infamous zealots. Hengel-brand scholarship would discern here a key opportunity for the priestly party, not merely to secure their class interests by arms, but to openly reconnect with the original roots of Hasmonean legitimacy through Phineas-like deeds of zeal (1 Macc 2:26). A “holy war” party would benefit, for its part, from some form of priestly backing – not to mention the political capital and material resources. Whether or not the “brigands” are anything more than a protective priestly smokescreen (chapter 7), it is not easy using Josephus to demonstrate that the zealots were out for anyone but themselves. A heteroclite anti-Roman ideology, although that is what scholars often look for. Front and center are rather the Polybian notions of honour, safety, wisdom, and the attitudes of statesmen toward the polis” (109).

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union of chief priests and base zealots would have meant mixing oil and water, in any case. The murder of Ananus is enough to show how fractious and fragile (and fierce) the situation was. But again, Josephus’ studied care to portray this treacherous murder as the real start of Jerusalem’s misfortunes (B.J. 4.318) and his unlikely narrative of John of Gischla’s easy entrance into the city and quick access to the full confidence of Ananus hides John’s long-standing priestly contacts and evident influence in high circles (revealed in Vita 192-196).12 In extremis unsavory pacts would be made, even if mistrust and betrayal would have reigned. Inevitably, much must finally come down our handling of these rebel chieftains like John. Mason expresses serious doubts about the classical take on the zealots – he is hardly the first – and the dossier represents a major plank in his overall vision.13 On the one hand, the vigilante character of such Judean adventurers should not be underestimated. Imagining a grab bag of banditos and first-century de Hautevilles as joined together in an established party with a platform is as misleading as taking it all for a structured “philosophy.” On the other hand, however disparate and disorderly this movement of opportunistic terrorist posies may be, the kingdom dream contained in a compact slogan like “no master but God” is hard to ignore (chapter 8). Joining the sole lordship of God to unprecedented violation of his commandments in service to a higher zeal makes the situation still more complex (chapter 7). It certainly explains why this faction proves so difficult to control, no less by the priestly elites than by the Romans. Nevertheless, when to the horror of Ananus (and Josephus) the zealot radicals who hold the Temple name a non-aristocratic high priest by the ancient practice of casting lots (rather than by pure hereditary right), one ought to detect in the “worthless rustic” who emerges by this reformed act of divination genuine cultic and not only class motives. It is very appropriately in response to this action of rebooting the priesthood that Josephus comments upon the religious significance of the “zeal” in the zealot name (B.J. 4.161). Party names and common causes are inevitably abstractions, of course. To follow Mason’s person-centered approach and get to the bottom of the zealot problem, we should thus also ask very concrete questions about concrete characters like John, Simon, Menahem, and Eleazar. In what ways Judas the Galilean might deserve the credit as a founder that Josephus accords him is, naturally, one of the major issues to patiently address. This would all be the topic of another good conference. 12 13

See MASON 2016, 406. MASON 2016, 254–7.

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The outlines of fracturing stasis, in any event, start to appear. The nonpriestly, pro-Roman perspective of proto-rabbinic circles becomes evident not only from the striking traditions about Yohannan b. Zakkai preserved in ARN and other sources (chapters 11-12), but also from a clue like the Gospel collocation of the Herodians and Pharisees (Mark 3:6), a pairing which recalls the designation of both Yohannan and Herod as being amicus caesaris (chapters 10-11). Faced with this, Mason’s healthy challenge of drawing the line from post-Pompey to later perspectives now does require some moment of rupture, since the post-63 BCE Psalms of Solomon 17-18 are generally attributed to a Pharisee voice that no longer sounds like what one hears in the post-70 CE texts. The possible parentage of the “fourth philosophy” from out of Pharisean circles (A.J. 18.23), a genealogy white washed in the War by Josephus (B.J. 2.118; see chapter 8), might perhaps help explain this shift: a “schism” of sorts, though that sounds far too formal, balanced, and clean. The effect, in any case, would be a sharpening of positions. The divide between Pharisee and zealot would concern theocratic aspirations and the character of righteous praxis: was it a call to arms or a call to more peaceable behaviors? The Psalms of Solomon’s pronounced kingdom motifs and pattern of a delivering (Davidic) messiah – another combatted legacy of Hasmonean times – would fittingly migrate with the break-off faction. Conventionally, it was only the disastrous messianic misadventure of Bar Kochba that purged the rabbinic strain of serious messianic preoccupations. This process did not begin in that moment, however. Manifest tension between Pharisees and early Christians – a problem at least as old as Paul – attests that Pharisee (and one might extend to say establishment) mistrust of overexcitement on the messianic front predates the experience of the Second Revolt by a full two generations. So, if an important Sadducee-Pharisee rivalry must be added to the map of volatile, stasis-breeding social tensions, the rowdy zealots with their disruptive priestly and royal objectives intervene so as to agitate and recalibrate both sides – whenever we chose to date their precise arrival on the scene. One might also sprinkle some similar Christian disruptions into the picture (cf. Acts 23), for by 66 CE this much more organized, if still diverse group was far from invisible or inactive. 3.5. The Face of the Enemy The intensity of the ferment and the shifting realignments was such that many were brought down in the cross-fire. Major sitting targets are

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not hard to spot, however. The specific and repeated rejection of Agrippa helps us perceive to what an extent the whole revolt against Rome had a pointed and inescapable anti-Herodian accent, for instance. Agrippa’s own integrally Roman view of the situation only sharpened the friction and hastened his inevitable downfall (chapter 7). With the fall from power of the joint Herodian-Roman establishment – in part through acts like ejecting Agrippa from Jerusalem, in part by local warlords rejecting his rule in multiple Galilean towns, in part by slaughtering a Samaritan auxiliary unit, in part by ambushing a Roman legion – a deadly scramble for control was suddenly on. The Romans, too, had to leap in and try to fill the opening vacuum. From the imperial side, the question “Who was really in charge in Judea?” thus also demands a careful answer, for the region was never simply in the hands of the Herods and confusion still reigns on where the imperial seat of power was (chapter 6). To the degree that Roman rule explicitly passed into Judea by way of Syria, it is not surprising if distant officials mismanaged the initial manifestations of a problem with strong and immensely complex, context-specific local aspects: intra-regional ethnic animosity, but also class divisions and incompatible theological programs and visions. A Syrian base of government likewise means that inflammatory Roman abuses must be tracked higher up the line. Thus, to follow Josephus and excessively culpabilize the prefect Florus for his flagrant provocations and improbable resolve to incite a revolt “to cover his enormities” (B.J. 2.282-283; cf. A.J. 20.257), without interrogating the role of the legate Cestius Gallus inevitably distorts the picture. Here Mason’s research has helpfully “cast doubt on customary appraisals of the legate as an incompetent general” (chapter 14) and raises questions about why precisely he was sitting on his hands. Cestius conspicuously waited until the shockwave of bloody riots had spread as far as Egypt before he finally marched down from Antioch with Legio XII – namely until the chaos touched another jurisdiction and reached a Roman province outside his sphere of control. Does this signal a decisive external pressure to act that appeared in direct connection with Tiberius Alexander’s prompt decision in Egypt to mobilize two legions and lead a brutal massacre of Alexandria’s Jewish quarter? As for Agrippa’s visit to Cestius in the heat of this riotous bloodletting, this was anything but a courtesy visit and the reconstruction here is a vital key. Contradictory rumors were swirling about the king and the legate certainly meant to help clarify his position. Once Cestius’ decision was made to mobilize, in response to whatever specific factors, for Jewish observers the Syrian provenance of imperial

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power might have easily awakened highly charged memories of earlier enemies marching down from the north: specters of Babylon and Antiochus redividus. Thus, without denying the likelihood that the sight of Roman violence on the march would have provoked fatal new forms of Jewish resistance, modelling the ultimate engine of anti-Roman Judean revolt on a fortuitous factor, like the “on-the spot radicalization” experienced by the American military in the middle east underestimates the social role of religion not only in first century Judea, but also in the apocalyptic worldview of twenty-first century radical Islam – to make no mention of the lingering, combustible fumes of anti-colonial sentiment still hanging in the region. Viewed in this wider light, perhaps the deadly cocktail of issues fueling the Jewish resistance did follow a somewhat similar recipe. ***** So: What counts as rightly “realistic” as a source of motivation for first-century Judeans in opposing a juggernaut like imperial Rome? King Agrippa, as channeled to us though the speech-crafting artistry of Josephus, quite sanely warned that there was nothing “realistic” in this adventure, but only deadly folly of breaking fides (B.J. 2.345-406). From a straightforward perspective he was obviously right. The Roman viewpoint was not the Jewish viewpoint, however. Read through the lens of other asymmetric Judean revolts – first, paradigmatically, against the Seleucids, then later under Bar Kochba, once more against Rome – it is hard not to suspect that the belligerents were entirely convinced that the Lord was on their side in this “holy war.” Mason’s analysis, for all its unorthodoxy on the casus belli, clearly helps us perceive new internal enemies and thus new dimensions of the cause of final ruin intoned by Josephus. The great tragedy of the Judean calculation and the lethal national gamble that it induced was that those who bravely stood on the side of the one true God were themselves not finally one.

PART I

SIZING UP THE CONFLICT

CHAPTER 1

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Il ne nous paraît pas inutile, pour commencer, de rappeler quelques définitions, même si elles sont sommaires et prêtent à discussion.1 Par commodité, nous désignons la tactique comme l’art de remporter un combat, bataille en rase campagne, siège, ou autre. Et nous parlons de stratégie pour parler de l’art de remporter une guerre. On appelle grande guerre un conflit dans lequel les deux parties pratiquent la bataille en rase campagne, accessoirement la poliorcétique, et éventuellement la bataille navale. Pour traiter ces questions, il est également possible d’employer les expressions de guerre conventionnelle, ou de haute intensité, ou encore de stratégie directe. L’objectif est d’obtenir le plus rapidement possible une bataille décisive, notion difficile à définir. En effet, le dernier combat paraît toujours décisif ; et donc, à notre avis, il convient de réserver cette expression au cas où le cours de la guerre est inversé par une ultime rencontre. En résumé, il nous semble indispensable, pour éviter toute confusion, de définir la guerre de l’Antiquité par la bataille en rase campagne. La petite guerre quant à elle, qui est plus connue sous le nom de guérilla, peut être définie de manière négative et positive. Négativement, elle se produit quand une des deux parties en conflit refuse la grande guerre, c’est-à-dire la bataille. Positivement, elle recouvre des formes de combat diverses, les embuscades, le harcèlement, les raids et les autres entreprises analogues. En principe, elle constitue le recours du faible face au fort, ce qui fait qu’elle apparaît en règle normale au cours de guerres asymétriques, également appelées guerres irrégulières, ou encore guerres de basse intensité. Les auteurs latins la désignaient comme alia ratio, ou comme insidiae, ou bien encore ils employaient un des multiples noms réservés aux stratagèmes. 1

Pour ces définitions : LE BOHEC 2014, 27–34 et 311–28.

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Le recours à la grande guerre n’exclut pas toujours le recours simultané à la petite guerre ; un peuple en lutte peut cumuler ces deux moyens de résister à l’ennemi. Ce constat s’applique à la guerre juive de 66-73/ 74.2 1. LA NATURE DU CONFLIT Il faudra revenir sur la naissance du conflit. Un premier point à aborder tient à l’ampleur de cette guerre, qui paraît avoir été réduite dans des travaux récents, et il est bien évident que, dans ce cas, elle commença par un simple soulèvement.3 Mais cette insurrection prit une ampleur croissante avec le cycle bien connu insurrection-répression-insurrection accrue. Ce fut ensuite une vraie guerre, bellum en latin,4 πόλεμος en grec ;5 elle éclata dans la douzième année du règne de Néron, ce qui correspond à l’an 66 de l’ère chrétienne.6 Elle vit des éléments de grande guerre, de petite guerre et même, ce qui est souvent oublié, une rencontre sur l’eau, une bataille navale. Si un moderne a été réservé sur l’ampleur du conflit, Flavius Josèphe, pour sa part, n’hésite pas, et il réunit trois arguments :7 ce fut une vraie guerre, parce que le conflit a eu pour lui la durée, parce qu’il a mobilisé un grand nombre d’hommes et parce qu’il a nécessité l’intervention des meilleurs généraux romains.8 Certes, il faut manier avec prudence ce que dit cet auteur, mais l’histoire amène à lui donner raison sur ce point : l’empereur a appelé plusieurs dizaines de milliers d’hommes et les a placés sous l’autorité de Vespasien et de Titus. Il faut rappeler ici que les grandes batailles de l’époque romaine ne mobilisaient que rarement plus de 50 000 soldats, tout simplement en raison de la médiocrité des moyens de communication.9 Au-delà de ce chiffre, le général ne pouvait plus savoir ce qui se passait à ses ailes. Ce fut donc une guerre ; quels en furent les motifs ? 2

CLEMENTZ et KREISSIG 1990; HADAS-LEBEL 1990, 77–107 et 407–21; BERLIN 2002; BLOOM 2010; PITILLAS SALAÑER 2013; BLÁZQUEZ 2015; LEWIN 2015; MASON 2016. 3 B.J. 1.4. 4 Tacite, H, 1, 10, 5. 5 Essentiel : QUEYREL BOTTINEAU 2012. KRIEGER 1999. 6 B.J. 1.19. 7 B.J. 1.6, 10, 19, 29. Sur cet auteur : NODET 2019. 8 B.J. 1.8, 13. 9 LE BOHEC 2018, 192.

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Les historiens du passé ont évidemment posé la question des causes des guerres,10 étant bien entendu que chaque conflit s’explique par des motifs spécifiques. Rappelons les cas les plus fréquents. Les hommes se battent pour des raisons politiques, militaires et psychologiques, ou économiques. En effet, la guerre est en principe décidée par le pouvoir quand il veut défendre son territoire ou des alliés ; mais il peut aussi intervenir en faveur d’alliés, et les nobles formaient à l’occasion le souhait de prouver leur dévouement à l’État, leur virtus, ce qui est le vrai sens de ce mot. Il peut aussi être sensible aux sentiments de ses sujets, quand ils ressentent la peur du voisin, le metus hostilis, qui est d’autant plus forte que ce voisin est mal connu. Et tous les humains préfèrent commander qu’obéir ; c’est bien connu depuis Thucydide. Commander leur évitait de se trouver en esclavage ou de perdre des terres à blé ; c’est ce que disaient les théories du XXe siècle, marxisme et libéralisme. Mais ces objectifs sont absents des textes anciens qui, pour les motifs économiques de guerre, en citent souvent deux autres, la recherche du butin et du tribut. Toutefois, dans le cas de la guerre des Juifs qui est rapportée par Flavius Josèphe, il faut faire intervenir deux autres facteurs, d’une part le patriotisme et d’autre part la religion. Il est loisible à tout un chacun de ne pas aimer le patriotisme ; ce n’est pas une raison pour imaginer que personne ne l’a ressenti et ne le ressent. Et, dans cette affaire, nul doute que la présence en Judée de soldats et de représentants de l’État romain ne plaisait pas aux habitants de la région, ce qu’a établi M. Hadas-Lebel.11 Elle a en outre montré que la révolte a éclaté dans un contexte messianique. De fait, l’aspect religieux nous paraît fondamental ; Flavius Josèphe ne s’y est pas trompé qui dit, au début de son livre, que les Juifs ne voulaient pas offrir de sacrifices à l’empereur ni aux dieux des Romains.12 Il ne suffit pas de vouloir se débarrasser d’encombrants visiteurs ; encore faut-il en avoir les moyens.

10

En général : LE BOHEC 2014, 91–99. Pour ce cas : PITILLAS SALAÑER 2008. HADAS-LEBEL 1990; de la même, communication dans ce congrès. 12 B.J. 2.409. Sur cet auteur : WEBER 1921; HADAS-LEBEL 1989; EDMONDSON, MASON, et RIVES 2005; RODGERS 2007; PASTOR, STERN, et MOR 2011; NODET 219. 11

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3. LES FORCES EN PRÉSENCE 3.1. Les Juifs Du côté des Juifs, forces et faiblesses s’additionnaient. Au chapitre des avantages, Flavius Josèphe comptait le courage de ses compatriotes, renforcé par le goût du martyre et l’espoir d’une vie meilleure dans l’au-delà ; il l’a mentionné à plusieurs reprises et il trouvait là, sans doute, un moyen d’exalter ses propres mérites.13 D’autres éléments doivent être pris en compte, auxquels il n’a pas forcément pensé. Les villes de Judée possédaient des remparts très bien faits, héritage de la poliorcétique hellénistique.14 La meilleure preuve de leur efficacité a été fournie par les Romains, qui les ont détruits après leur victoire finale.15 Ce qui ne fut pas le moins important, pour Flavius Josèphe, ce fut son propre rôle et il énumère sans fausse modestie les éléments de son œuvre.16 Désigné comme un des généraux juifs, il développa le réseau de fortifications, renforçant les murs là où c’était devenu nécessaire, ou les érigeant quand il le fallait. Il réorganisa les transmissions et imposa la discipline. Et il appela au service de nouvelles recrues, ce qui lui permit d’aligner des effectifs importants, au maximum 100 000 hommes ; il garda pour lui 65 000 fantassins avec seulement 350 cavaliers. Ces données et ces chiffres plaident en faveur de la définition de ce conflit comme une vraie guerre. S’ils avaient des atouts, les Juifs souffraient aussi de faiblesses. C’était très divisés qu’ils entraient dans le conflit. Menant une guerre civile, ils se battaient entre eux,17 les uns soutenant la guerre,18 les autres non ; et c’était là le pire. Plusieurs d’entre eux firent appel au procurateur Florus pour qu’il écrase les séditieux,19 et ils voulaient envoyer une ambassade à Rome pour prouver à Néron leur loyauté.20 Agrippa II cherchait à renforcer leur camp, et il disait aux autres qu’ils étaient faibles et que les Romains étaient forts.21

13

B.J. 6.17 ; confirmé par Suétone, Vesp., 4, et par Tacite, H, V, 5, 6. B.J. 1.21. Communication de M. Aviam dans ce colloque. 15 B.J. 1.29. 16 B.J. 2.572 (avec liste des sites ; 576-580 ; 583). LANFRANCHI 2000; GICHON 2002a, et GICHON 1986. 17 B.J. 1.24, 25, 27; 2.419, 466. 18 B.J. 2.405. 19 B.J. 2.419. 20 B.J. 2.342. DE FILIPPIS CAPPAI 2005. 21 B.J. 2.345. 14

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La division ne peut pas être réduite à un affrontement social. Car si les pauvres n’aimaient pas les riches, ces derniers étaient très divisés entre eux.22 Et les divisions religieuses ajoutaient aux divisions sociales. Flavius Josèphe n’aimait pas beaucoup les pharisiens, qui certes étaient pieux, mais se conduisaient en tyrans.23 Il n’avait pas non plus beaucoup de sympathie pour les sicaires et les zélotes, ennemis des « gens de bien », qu’il a décrits comme de « vrais déments ».24 Malheureusement pour eux, les Juifs n’étaient pas isolés et les communautés qui vivaient autour d’eux les détestaient, à savoir les Arabes, que Josèphe qualifie de « racaille », et qui, dit Tacite, étaient poussés « par la haine habituelle entre voisins »,25 également les Grecs, sur lesquels nous reviendrons, et les Syriens qui éprouvaient une « haine innée pour les Juifs ». 26 Finalement, il est difficile de dire si deux dernières caractéristiques de la situation jouaient en faveur ou en défaveur des Juifs. La famine pouvait affaiblir les combattants et aussi leur donner envie de vaincre pour piller les biens de l’ennemi.27 Et le brigandage n’apportait rien ni aux uns, ni aux autres ;28 il sert seulement de témoin prouvant que la situation économique et sociale n’était pas bonne ; et la répression tentée, sans lendemain, par le procurateur Festus, n’y changea rien.29 3.2. Les Romains30 En 66, la Judée abritait seulement quelques unités auxiliaires. Ce n’était pas beaucoup, mais la région était très bien défendue. Du point de vue géostratégique, elle a toujours offert l’insécurité d’un couloir d’avalanche : c’est une plaine allongée et étroite, qui est serrée entre la mer et le désert, et qui est entourée par trois grandes terres, où ont surgi tour à tour des États puissants, l’Anatolie, la Syrie et l’Égypte. Mais avec un protecteur unique qui dominait ces trois régions elle se trouvait sous le contrôle des armées réparties entre les provinces qui leur correspondaient. C’étaient ces forces militaires considérables qui pouvaient intervenir en cas de 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

B.J. 1.31, 67, 150. B.J. 1.27, 110-112. B.J. 2.425, 651. BOHRMANN 1989; BRIGHTON 2009. Tacite, H, V, 1, 4. B.J. 1.88, 133. B.J. 1.27. WOLFF 2003, 137–50; GRÜNEWALD 2004; BLUMELL 2008; SARTRE 2011. B.J. 2.133. SADDINGTON 1988; GICHON 2002a; ISAAC 2004; DABROWA 2015.

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difficultés. En Syrie, se trouvaient alors quatre légions, leurs auxiliaires et des alliés, socii  ; en Égypte, elles étaient deux, avec les même appuis.31 En plus, il était toujours possible au commandement de faire venir des renforts de n’importe quelle région de l’empire, sous forme soit de légions entières, soit de vexillations comptant chacune environ 2 000 hommes. L’armée de Syrie reçut l’honneur de mener cette guerre, à laquelle elle envoya en un premier temps les légions XIIe Fulminata et Xe Fretensis ;32 elles furent renforcées en un second temps par la Ve Macédonique de Mésie et par la XVe Apollinaris de Pannonie. Ces fantassins lourds (5 000 × 4 = 20 000 soldats) étaient renforcés par des fantassins légers, 13 cohortes quingénaires (13 × 500 = 6 500 hommes) et 10 cohortes milliaires (10 × 1 000 = 10 000 hommes), et par 13 cohortes mixtes, fantassins-cavaliers (cohortes equitatae  ; 13 × 500 = 5 000 hommes). Josèphe comptait un total de 60 000 hommes, plus les « valets ».33 Ces effectifs ne reçurent l’ordre d’intervenir qu’après l’arrivée de Vespasien. C’était là une vraie armée pour une vraie guerre : quatre légions également avaient été envoyées par Auguste pour la conquête de la Germanie, et quatre également par Claude pour l’invasion de la Bretagne. Et le courage ne manquait pas non plus du côté des Romains. Au siège de Jérusalem, Titus rappela à ses hommes qu’« il est beau de mourir avec gloire ».34 Alors, un soldat syrien se sacrifia dans un acte à la fois militaire et religieux, une sorte de devotio des humbles : « César, dit-il, je te fais don de ma personne ». Puis il se jeta au milieu des ennemis qui le tuèrent.35 4. L’INSURRECTION POPULAIRE 4.1. Les caractères généraux Il est d’usage de distinguer, dans l’étude d’une guerre, les causes et le prétexte. Les causes sont toujours nombreuses, ancrées dans le passé ; le prétexte est souvent unique, immédiat, et il sert à justifier l’entrée en guerre. Dans le cas de la guerre juive entreprise en 66, il n’y eut pas de prétexte, pas de déclaration de guerre en bonne et due forme, parce que ce conflit n’était pas conforme au ius fetiale des Romains ; ce n’était pas 31 32 33 34 35

LE BOHEC 2018, 178–81. Suétone, Vesp., 4 : 2 légions, 8 ailes et 10 cohortes. B.J. 3.69. Sur ces unités milliaires précoces : MORIN 2003. B.J. 6.36. B.J. 6.56-67.

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un bellum iustum piumque, une guerre conforme au droit et à la religion.36 C’était, au contraire, l’insurrection d’un peuple qui avait été vaincu, qui avait reconnu sa défaite, qui l’avait acceptée et qui revenait sur ses engagements. C’est ce que voulut dire Vespasien quand il fit frapper des monnaies avec la légende IVDEA RECEPTA : la Judée était une partie d’une province reprise et pas prise.37 Quoi qu’il en soit, et dans ces conditions, la répression pouvait et devait être féroce. Les désordres, d’après Flavius Josèphe, auraient eu deux causes, la corruption des procurateurs et la haine des peuples voisins. Il n’y eut donc pas de prétexte, mais une série de petits conflits qui se transformèrent lentement en un grand conflit. Ils furent causés par des fonctionnaires malhonnêtes et ils opposèrent aux Juifs des voisins intolérants, les Syriens et les Grecs.38 Ils prirent racine dans un temps relativement long. Qu’un haut fonctionnaire soit corrompu n’a rien de surprenant. Mais que six de leurs collègues, successivement, l’aient été est un fait plus étonnant. Nous pouvons supposer que Flavius Josèphe, soucieux d’excuser ses compatriotes, a un peu exagéré. 4.2. Le rôle des procurateurs39 Un premier soulèvement est attesté quatre ans après la mort d’Hérode,40 c’est-à-dire vers le moment de la naissance du Christ (Hérode est mort en 4 avant notre ère).41 Par la suite, une véritable petite guerre est mentionnée pour le temps de Ventidius Cumanus (48-52) ; accompagnée d’épisodes de brigandage, elle aurait fait 30 000 morts.42 La situation se dégrada sérieusement avec son successeur, Antonius Felix (52-60).43 Il dut écraser une sédition,44 qui se transforma en une vraie guerre, ou plutôt une guérilla qui a compris des actions terroristes : « Des charlatans et des brigands se réunirent pour pousser à la défection un grand nombre de Juifs … Se répartissant dans le pays par petites 36 LORETO 2001 (surtout utile pour l’époque républicaine); RAMPAZZO 2012; LE BOHEC 2014, 107; CHEMAIN 2018. 37 VITALE 2014; ces monnaies ont été discutées au cours du présent colloque. 38 Intervention de W. Eck dans ce colloque. 39 BUNINE 2004a; BUNINE 2004b; ECK 2008. 40 B.J. 1.19. HADAS-LEBEL 2017, 276–78. 41 RODDAZ 2014, 165; HADAS-LEBEL 2017, 262–65. 42 B.J. 2.12. 43 DE FILIPPIS CAPPAI 2001. 44 B.J. 2.258-260.

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bandes, ils pillaient les maisons des principaux citoyens qu’ils tuaient, et ils incendiaient les villages … C’était une guerre qui se faisait de jour en jour plus violente ».45 Des actes de brigandage sont également attestés sous son successeur, Porcius Festus (60-62).46 Ils continuaient sans doute les précédents. Avec Lucceius Albinus (62-64) reviennent les accusations de malhonnêteté.47 Apparemment, et même si Josèphe ne le dit pas, la situation semble s’être apaisée. Ce fut avec Gessius Florus (64-66) qu’elle se gâta.48 D’une part, il aurait été encore plus malhonnête qu’Albinus ;49 d’autre part il aurait laissé les Grecs et les Syriens agresser les Juifs, ou même il les aurait encouragés à exercer des violences. Suétone rapporte qu’il fut tué par ses administrés.50 4.3. Le rôle des communautés grecque et syrienne C’était en avril-mai 66. Les Grecs de Césarée, avec la sympathie de Syriens, demandaient une autonomie avec contrôle des leurs sur la ville, ce qui excluait tous les autres, c’est-à-dire surtout les Juifs. Pour obtenir satisfaction, ils se présentèrent au tribunal impérial où ils obtinrent gain de cause.51 De plus, souhaitant sans doute humilier davantage ses ennemis, un Grec commit un sacrilège ; par esprit de provocation, il fit un sacrifice devant la synagogue.52 Ajouté à l’octroi de la promotion municipale, ce geste provoqua des désordres et des bagarres avec des Juifs,53 qui la contestaient, car ils passaient sous l’autorité de leurs ennemis déclarés. Florus, à en croire Josèphe, jeta de l’huile sur le feu. Il fit arrêter des Juifs et confisquer l’argent de la synagogue.54 Puis il marcha sur Jérusalem avec des troupes ; il y effectua une journée de répression, c’està-dire de tueries.55 Comme il estimait ne pas avoir assez de moyens, il fit venir deux autres cohortes, environ 1 000 hommes, pour de nouveaux 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

B.J. 2.264–265. B.J. 2.271. B.J. 2.273. Tacite, H, V, 10, 1. B.J. 2.277. Suétone, Vesp., 4. B.J. 2.284. B.J. 2.289. B.J. 2.266-270. B.J. 2.289. B.J. 2.296, 305-314.

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massacres.56 La progression dans la ville se transforma en une bataille de rues, une guérilla urbaine : des Juifs, postés sur les toits, lançaient des projectiles sur les Romains.57 Finalement, il laissa une cohorte à Jérusalem, par provocation dit Flavius Josèphe, et il retourna à Césarée.58 Les massacres s’amplifièrent. Dans Césarée, des Grecs et des Syriens éliminèrent 20 000 Juifs, chiffre considérable.59 Puis plus de 13 000 Juifs furent tués dans Scythopolis, une cité grecque où vivaient des Syriens.60 Les massacres de Juifs se multiplièrent et ils dépassèrent le cadre de la Judée, s’étendant à la Syrie et à Alexandrie d’Égypte.61 C’est ainsi que les Grecs de Damas auraient tué 10 500 Juifs.62 En représailles, des Juifs firent mourir des Grecs et leur mouvement s’amplifia,63 s’étendit depuis le nord du pays jusqu’au centre et au sud, à Jérusalem, Machaerus et Masada, un site dont nous parlerons plus loin. Des Romains y périrent. Dans Jérusalem, des combats opposèrent les notables, qui occupaient la ville haute, aux insurgés, qui tenaient la ville basse.64 Ces derniers eurent le dessus et ils prirent une grande partie du terrain ; la conquête de l’Antonia fut suivie par des exécutions sommaires et des Romains firent les frais du conflit entre Juifs.65 Mais les révoltés ne purent pas s’emparer du palais d’Hérode, et ils y mirent le siège espérant que la famine résoudrait le problème.66 D’autres insurgés s’emparèrent de Machaerus, d’où la garnison romaine fut chassée.67 Pour les Romains, c’est à Masada qu’eut lieu le pire. Des Juifs, dirigés par Menahem, fils de Judas, et par Eleazar, pillèrent l’arsenal et ils assiégèrent le palais68 où se trouvaient des Italiens aux ordres d’un certain Mutilius et d’autres Juifs.69 Ils firent s’effondrer un bout de rempart, mais un autre mur se trouvait derrière lui. Quand la cité fut prise, les Romains furent tués, les Juifs évacués.70 Une fois de plus, les insurgés se mettaient 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

B.J. 2.318-320, 330-332. B.J. 2.329. B.J. 2.330-332. B.J. 2.457 : Grecs ; 2.461-465 : Syriens. B.J. 2.477-486. B.J. 2.481-498. B.J. 2.559, 561. B.J. 2.458-460. B.J. 2.425-429. B.J. 2.430-432. B.J. 2.432. B.J. 2.485. VÖRÖS 2013. B.J. 2.433-434. B.J. 2.437-439. B.J. 2.408, 449-456.

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hors la loi, surtout hors la loi de la guerre telle que la concevaient les Romains. Leur crime était donc inexpiable et la répression s’annonçait impitoyable.71 5. LA PETITE GUERRE L’État romain, devant ces désordres, décida de rétablir la situation. Cette mission, retirée au procurateur, passa au gouverneur de Syrie, un légat impérial propréteur consulaire, qui s’appelait Cestius Gallus et qui devait soutenir Florus.72 Il rassembla une armée73 qui regroupait une légion, la XIIe Fulminata (5 000 fantassins lourds), des vexillations de guerre en nombre inconnu (2 000 hommes chacune), 6 cohortes (3 000 fantassins légers), 4 ailes (2 000 cavaliers) et des socii non comptabilisés, soit en tout 14 000 + x : ce chiffre montre que ce n’était pas, dans l’esprit du général, une grande guerre, même si c’était sérieux. Avec ces effectifs, il prit Chabulon, qui fut pillée et incendiée,74 puis il se rendit à Ptolemais, à Césarée et à Joppé (Jaffa), qui fut également livrée aux soldats.75 Un combat fut engagé dans une zone tourmentée.76 Enfin, il établit son camp à Bethoron, à quelque 9 km de Jérusalem.77 Gallus pénétra dans Jérusalem,78 où les combats entre pro- et anti-Romains faisaient rage, et où ces derniers l’emportaient.79 Il tenta de reprendre le Temple,80 en vain. Quand il quitta la ville, les habitants pacifiques (et pro-Romains) firent de même.81 Les Juifs pratiquèrent un mode de conflit que G. Brizzi a analysé comme la première « guerre du peuple » de l’histoire.82 Ils appliquaient une tactique originale : ils pratiquaient le harcèlement, en attaquant systématiquement les arrière-garde, ce qu’ils firent à trois reprises :83 « S’accrochant à la colonne, (Les Juifs) tuaient les soldats de l’arrière-garde et, 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

B.J. 2.457. B.J. 2.280. GICHON 1981. B.J. 2.499-501. B.J. 2.504. B.J. 2.507. B.J. 2.507-509. BAR-KOCHBA 1976. B.J. 2.527-532 ; 2.527-532. B.J. 2.533-537. B.J. 2.537. B.J. 2.556. BRIZZI 2004, 242. B.J. 2.506, 509, 521, 541.

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l’encadrant de chaque côté de la route, ils criblaient ses flancs à coups de javelot ».84 Le mouvement se développa et une révolte générale en sortit.85 En difficulté dans la capitale et dans la plaine, Gallus jugea plus prudent de faire retraite. Flavius Josèphe s’en étonne ;86 c’est son étonnement qui surprend. Il repassa par le Scopus et par Gabao.87 De là, il retourna à Antipatris, Lydda et, finalement, à Bethoron, dans ce qui ressemblait à une fuite et il tomba dans une embuscade.88 L’odyssée de Gallus se terminait par un échec.89 Au total, il avait perdu une aigle,90 c’est-à-dire qu’une légion avait été déshonorée et détruite ; il avait aussi laissé sur le sol 5 300 fantassins et 480 cavaliers ; son matériel était tombé aux mains de l’ennemi, en particulier son artillerie que les Juifs surent récupérer et utiliser contre lui, le 25 novembre 66.91 La meilleure preuve de sa défaite, c’est qu’il n’avait pas vaincu ses ennemis, qui étaient plus forts et plus décidés que jamais. 6. LA

GRANDE GUERRE

6.1. Les caractères généraux La suite du conflit entre Romains et Juifs fut marquée par toutes sortes de combats, mais les plus importants furent trois sièges : Jotapata, Jérusalem et Masada. Ce n’est pas le lieu, ici, de retracer ce que fut l’art de la poliorcétique, science grecque comme son nom l’indique, illustrée par un roi de Macédoine appelé Démétrios Poliorcète. Bornons-nous à en rappeler quelques principes élémentaires.92 Une ville était défendue par un rempart, précédé par un ou plusieurs fossés, surmonté par un chemin de ronde et par des merlons ; il était équipé de tours et de bastions et percé par des portes, qui étaient autant de points faibles. La défense était assurée par de l’artillerie, par des hommes et, dans les mentalités des polythéistes, par des dieux. 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92

B.J. 2.542. B.J. 2.523. B.J. 2.540. B.J. 2.540-545. B.J. 2.513-516. Tacite, H, V, 10, 2. BRANDON 1970. Suétone, Vesp., 4. B.J. 2.551, 555. CAMPBELL 2005; LE BOHEC 2014, 257–73.

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Les méthodes des assaillants sont connues surtout grâce aux fouilles de Numance,93 d’Alésia94 et de Masada.95 Les Romains construisaient des camps pour s’y abriter. Puis ils encerclaient la ville à prendre par une défense linéaire tournée vers l’intérieur, afin d’empêcher les assiégés de sortir. Ensuite, parfois, ils construisaient une deuxième défense linéaire, celle-ci tournée vers l’extérieur, pour empêcher des renforts et des informations de passer. Chaque portion de rempart était construite sur le même modèle, ce que nous avons appelé « la défense élémentaire » ou « trilogie défensive » : les soldats creusaient un fossé (fossa), ils rejetaient la terre en arrière où elle dessinait un bourrelet (agger) qui était surmonté par un mur de bois (vallum). La fossa pouvait être précédée par des pièges. Le vallum était surmonté par des tours, des merlons, un chemin de ronde et il était percé de portes. Pour prendre une ville, les Romains pouvaient attendre que la faim et la soif jouent. S’il fallait attaquer, ils avaient le choix : passer sous, sur ou à travers le rempart. Ainsi, une mine permettait d’arriver dans la ville. Ou un bélier devait enfoncer une porte, une tour ou un mur. Ou alors des terrasses d’assaut, des tours sur roues ou des échelles permettaient d’atteindre le chemin de ronde, préalablement débarrassé de ses défenseurs par l’artillerie et les armes de jet. Comme les assiégés, les assiégeants comptaient sur les hommes et les dieux. 6.2. Le retour à l’ordre romain dans le nord Cette nouvelle étape, la première de la reconquête, fut marquée par plusieurs types de combat, mais l’événement le plus important fut le siège de Jotapata. À partir de ce moment, les Juifs privilégient la guerre au détriment de la guérilla, et ils préfèrent le siège à la bataille, ce qui est l’inverse des schémas habituels, où un peuple faible ne recourt à la petite guerre qu’après avoir échoué dans la grande guerre. 6.2.1. Les Juifs : la paix en Galilée96 La vraie guerre commença après la fuite honteuse de Cestius Gallus. Les insurgés nommèrent plusieurs généraux, auxquels ils confièrent des commandements territoriaux, notamment Josèphe, fils de Matthias, en Galilée. Parmi ces officiers supérieurs, se trouvait Jean de Gischala, un 93 94 95 96

MORILLO 2006, 27–38. REDDÉ et VON SCHNURBEIN 2001. Voir plus loin. Communication de M. Aviam dans ce colloque.

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personnage richissime qui avait deux ennemis : les brigands … et Josèphe.97 Malgré tout, Jean organisa une nouvelle forme de guerre, en recourant à la guérilla, qui était définie comme un ensemble de « menées souterraines ».98 C’est ainsi qu’il tendit une embuscade aux hommes d’Agrippa II99 et qu’il tenta de faire assassiner Josèphe par deux fois ;100 ce dernier échappa à son ennemi, et il réussit à prendre la ville de Tibériade, au prix d’un stratagème. Il rassembla 230 bateaux dans le port de Tarichée,101 où il n’avait que peu d’hommes à embarquer, 4 par barque. Il s’approcha de Tibériade, et il laissa les navires au loin ; puis il alla devant les murs de la ville en laissant croire qu’il disposait d’effectifs considérables, que chaque nef était remplie de soldats.102 Tibériade se rendit à lui et « ainsi prirent fin les troubles de Galilée ».103 6.2.2. Les Romains : reconquête Le pouvoir central décida de mettre fin à l’insurrection, et il chargea de cette mission Vespasien, qui se fit accompagner par son fils Titus.104 Le choix de ce personnage s’explique doublement : il était compétent dans les affaires militaires et il était de naissance obscure, ce qui aurait comblé Néron.105 Il se rendit à Antioche puis à Ptolémais, où il concentra ses forces, pendant que Titus allait chercher des renforts en Égypte.106 Pour commencer, il envoya Placidus en Galilée, avec mission d’y mener des raids.107 Dans le même temps, les Juifs menaient un raid contre Ascalon, où se trouvaient une cohorte et une aile (1 000 hommes). Ils furent repoussés. Ils tentèrent bien d’y retourner, mais les Romains leur tendirent une embuscade, leur causant de nouvelles pertes.108 D’autres Juifs avaient déjà fait un choix différent ; c’est ainsi que Sepphoris ferma ses portes à Josèphe qui ne put la reprendre.109

97

B.J. 2.622. RAPPOPORT 1982. B.J. 2.625. 99 B.J. 2.595. 100 B.J. 2.614-619. 101 KOKKINOS 2010. 102 B.J. 2.632-641. Sur les Juifs et la guerre sur l’eau : GICHON, 2002b. 103 B.J. 2.647. 104 Tacite, H, I, 10, 3 et 5-6. JONES 1989. 105 Suétone, Vesp., 4. 106 B.J. 3.8, 29-34; 69 pour les effectifs, vus plus haut. 107 B.J. 3.110. 108 B.J. 3.12, 16-17, 24. 109 B.J. 3.29-34, 59, 63. Sur le site : STRANGE, GROH, et LONGSTAFF 1994. 98

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Un fait exceptionnel mérite d’être remarqué : les Romains, avec raids et embuscade, recouraient à la petite guerre, ce qui se constate très rarement dans leur histoire, car ils avaient toujours une forte supériorité sur les autres armées. Ils agissaient ainsi sans doute pour combattre leurs ennemis avec les mêmes armes qu’eux. De toute façon, ils combinaient cette tactique avec la contre-insurrection. C’est à cet endroit de son livre que Flavius Josèphe place une célèbre description de l’armée romaine.110 Il voulait montrer qu’elle était invincible, et que sa propre défaite était inéluctable ; qu’il a fait ce qu’il a pu, mais qu’il était impossible à qui que ce soit de venir à bout de cette formidable machine de guerre. Sa justification a donné matière à de nombreux débats qui dépassent le cadre de notre propre enquête.111 6.2.3. Jotapata La ville de Jotapata subit un des sièges majeurs de cette guerre.112 Des Juifs firent le choix de s’enfermer dans cette ville, notamment Josèphe qui avait été abandonné par ses hommes ;113 ils n’avaient aucune envie d’affronter les légionnaires en rase campagne. Ils exhaussèrent leurs remparts.114 Quand les Romains furent arrivés, ils firent des sorties115 et des raids incessants,116 combinant la petite guerre à la grande ; cette attitude apporte un enseignement : dans la guerre, rien n’est jamais simple et il ne faut pas caricaturer la réalité. Des fouilles laissent penser que le récit de Josèphe est fiable, au moins pour ces combats.117 Les Romains, de leur côté, procédèrent à l’encerclement de la ville par un long mur,118 comme ils savaient le faire. Ils comptèrent d’abord sur la faim et la soif, mais ils ignoraient la situation réelle des assiégés, qui avaient accumulé du blé et des vivres, mais qui manquaient d’eau et de sel.119 Pour égarer les soupçons de leurs ennemis, qui suspectaient le manque d’eau, Josèphe recourut à un stratagème : il en fit gaspiller une certaine quantité pour faire croire qu’il en avait beaucoup.120 110

B.J. 3.70-109. Voir, par exemple, DE FILIPPIS CAPPAI 2010. 112 EDWARDS, ADAN-BAYEWITZ et AVIAM 1993. 113 B.J. 3.141-142. 114 B.J. 3.171. 115 B.J. 3.113, 169, 203-206. 116 B.J. 3.176. 117 ADAN-BAYEWITZ 1997; AVIAM 2002; du même auteur, communication dans ce colloque. 118 B.J. 3.253-257. 119 B.J. 3.155-157, 177, 181, 253-257, 265-270. 120 B.J. 3.186-189. 111

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Devant l’échec apparent de ce recours, les Romains firent d’autres travaux, pour compléter le rôle du rempart circulaire. Ils construisirent une terrasse d’assaut et trois tours ;121 ils mirent en place un bélier pour battre le mur122 et 160 pièces d’artillerie, des balistes ;123 Josèphe en fit incendier une partie ; c’était de bonne guerre, si l’on peut dire. Ne réussissant toujours pas à obtenir une reddition, il ne leur resta que la solution des assauts. Plusieurs échouèrent, notamment le 8 juillet 67. Durant le dernier, ils furent aspergés d’huile bouillante et du fenugrec rendit le sol glissant, interrompant leur progression.124 Finalement, une attaque de nuit leur permit de prendre la ville le 20 juillet 67.125 Ils procédèrent à un massacre général, qui était, – rappelons-le –, conforme au droit de la guerre antique. Le supplice des femmes et des enfants a été considéré comme une arme de guerre ; les légionnaires l’ont beaucoup utilisée.126 Josèphe se cacha pendant deux jours, puis il fut pris.127 6.2.4. Trois sièges mineurs D’autres Juifs s’étaient réfugiés dans d’autres agglomérations, et d’autres Romains les pourchassèrent, toujours avec succès. D’abord, Gabara fut prise et détruite.128 Ensuite, Trajan père fut envoyé pour prendre Jaffa. Les défenseurs firent une sortie puis ils se replièrent ce qui est bien, mais pas assez vite, ce qui est mal ; ils furent pris entre la première et la deuxième enceinte, et massacrés. La prise totale de la ville eut lieu le 13 juillet 67.129 Enfin, des Samaritains s’étaient réfugiés sur le mont Gerizim. Ils manquaient d’eau, ce qui facilita la prise de cette hauteur. Cerialis, qui commandait les forces romaines, s’en empara le 15 juillet 67.130 6.2.5. Les conséquences de Jotapata La chute de Jotapata causa un effondrement psychologique dans le camp des Juifs et, à l’en croire, une forte haine contre Josèphe, qui en fut rendu responsable, ce qui est sans doute excessif.131 Ils n’avaient pas fini de subir des désillusions : les échecs se suivirent sans discontinuer. 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131

B.J. 3.162, 283-284. B.J. 3.213-228. B.J. 3.166, 240-252. B.J. 3.271, 277. B.J. 3.316-331. B.J. 3.332-339. REEDER 2013. B.J. 3.340-360. B.J. 3.132-134. B.J. 3.289-297, 300-306. B.J. 3.312-314. B.J. 3.332-342.

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Le 23 juillet 67, Vespasien se retira vers Ptolémaïs puis Césarée.132 Les habitants de Joppé profitèrent de son départ pour rebâtir leur ville, et ils firent construire des bateaux pour se livrer à la piraterie. Vespasien la fit reprendre133 et il intervint contre Tibériade et Tarichée.134 Les insurgés de Tibériade chassèrent des messagers venus leur proposer la paix, mais ils étaient partagés ; les notables, finalement, reprirent le pouvoir, et ils expulsèrent ceux qui ne partageaient pas leur point de vue pacifique, qui se rendirent alors à Tarichée.135 Cette ville possédait des navires et des combattants. Le Romain recourut contre elle à la bataille en plaine, à la bataille navale et à la poliorcétique.136 Sur l’eau, Vespasien avait fait embarquer ses hommes sur des σχεδίαι, mot que l’on a traduit par « radeaux », et qui signifie en réalité « navires légers » ; faire la guerre sur des radeaux eût été une étrange entreprise.137 Ces combats se terminèrent par un massacre, auquel Titus, plus tard surnommé « les délices du genre humain », mit fin.138 Vespasien entreprit alors de reconquérir Gamala et Gischala. Il fit entourer la ville de Gamala par une défense linéaire continue, et il disposa des machines de siège, notamment trois béliers et des pièces d’artillerie.139 Le rempart fut enfoncé, mais une contre-attaque des Juifs causa quelques pertes aux assiégeants.140 Vespasien se retira, ce que Josèphe prend pour une défaite.141 Mais ses soldats restaient et ils construisirent des terrasses d’assaut.142 Finalement, la famine143 jointe à l’écroulement d’une tour144 permit aux Romains de l’emporter. Le 12 octobre 67, les Romains massacrèrent les habitants, pour effrayer les autres, comme on l’a dit, et cette fois encore Titus laissa faire.145 À Gischala, des habitants pacifiques et insurgés à la fois, ce qui est difficile à comprendre, vivaient dans la ville. Vespasien, qui était préoccupé surtout par Jérusalem, y envoya Titus. Jean de Gischala annonça sa 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145

B.J. 3.409. B.J. 3.414 ; 416 ; 418, 428. B.J. 3.443-445. B.J. 3.448-452, 457. B.J. 3.463, 466, 469-470, 486, 490-491. B.J. 3.522. B.J. 3.497-502. B.J. 4.11-13, 17. SYON 2002; AVIAM 2007. B.J. 4.20, 24-25. B.J. 4.30-38, 39. B.J. 4.52. B.J. 4.18, 62. B.J. 4.62-70. B.J. 4.70-83.

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reddition, mais il s’enfuit à pied, de nuit, avec ses hommes. Titus fit poursuivre les fuyards, qui laissèrent sur les routes 6 000 morts. Leur chef réussit à s’échapper et à entrer dans Jérusalem. Dans le même temps, Titus pénétrait dans Gischala. D’autres Juifs s’étaient réfugiés sur le mont Thabor, où ils étaient protégés par une enceinte ; malgré leurs ruses, ils furent contraints de se rendre, poussés par la famine.146 6.3. Le retour à l’ordre romain dans le centre Vespasien avait vite et bien vu que l’élément stratégique le plus important de cette guerre était la ville de Jérusalem. Son siège a donné matière à beaucoup d’études et notamment à un gros livre de G. Brizzi, ouvrage récent qui permet de le voir plus rapidement.147 6.3.1. Les insurgés Il fallait bien du courage ou de l’inconscience aux insurgés qui devaient affronter non seulement les Romains, mais encore leurs propres divisions.148 Car dans la ville elle-même les habitants étaient partagés, pour ou contre la paix, pour ou contre les Romains ; il est vrai que ceux qui furent jugés comme traîtres furent rapidement éliminés.149 Les insurgés, sicaires et zélotes pour l’essentiel,150 cherchaient à étendre leur domaine ; ils réussirent à contrôler, outre Jérusalem, l’Herodion, Masada et Machaerus.151 Simon prit Hébron, puis la perdit quand Cerialis, un officier romain connu et compétent, s’en empara.152 Pendant que les sicaires occupaient Masada et ravageaient le pays alentour,153 les zélotes, sous les ordres de Jean, Eleazar et Zaccharias (qui fut vite tué),154 attaquèrent le Temple devenu une vraie forteresse ;155 Eleazar s’y installa puis il fut attaqué par Jean qui réussit à éliminer les zélotes du théâtre des opérations.156 Ils firent venir 20 000 Iduméens 146

B.J. 4.54-61. BRIZZI 2015. Voir aussi PRICE 1992; HADAS-LEBEL 2012; LEVITHAN 2013, 142–69; PITILLAS SALAÑER 2013 148 PITILLAS SALAÑER 2005. 149 B.J. 4.128-134, 143-146. 150 FIRPO 2006. 151 B.J. 4.555. 152 B.J. 4.529, 534, 555. 153 B.J. 4.400, 405. 154 B.J. 4.342, 570; Tacite, H, V, 12, 5-8. BOHRMANN 1989. 155 B.J. 4.160; 4.579 ; 4.193 ; 4.202-204. 156 B.J. 4.99-100, 105. 147

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dans la ville ; ces derniers y commirent meurtres et pillages, puis partirent, mais pas tous.157 Et si Simon, fils de Gioras, tenta de s’opposer aux zélotes,158 gens en qui Josèphe voyait « une armée du crime »,159 il ne fut pas très heureux dans ses projets. De manière concrète, les nobles Juifs soutenaient les Romains contre les insurgés.160 Au début du siège, les Juifs obéissaient à deux chefs, Simon et Jean. Simon commandait à 10 000 hommes, à des Iduméens en nombre inconnu, et il était secondé par 50 officiers et 10 « chefs » ; ces troupes contrôlaient la ville haute et une partie de la ville basse.161 Jean, pour sa part, avait à sa disposition 6 000 hommes, les restes des zélotes, soit 2 400 hommes, et il était aidé par Eleazar et Simon, fils d’Arinus, et par 20 officiers ; ils étaient installés dans le Temple et ses environs.162 Finalement, devant la pression des Romains ils firent alliance, ce qui leur permit de disposer au total de 300 scorpions et de 40 balistes ;163 il est difficile de dire à quoi correspondaient ces termes, car le mot « baliste » désigne, en principe, toute pièce d’artillerie (le vocabulaire latin officiel ne connaissait que le mot ballistarius pour désigner l’artilleur) : le scorpion semble avoir été plus petit que la baliste courante. Quoi qu’il en soit, cet accord n’empêcha pas l’échec des sorties qu’ils organisèrent.164 6.3.2. Les défenses urbaines Les assiégés pouvaient aussi compter sur le travail de leurs prédécesseurs : la ville de Jérusalem avait été défendue avec une très grande habileté.165 En fait, un assaillant éventuel devrait conduire quatre sièges successifs. 1. La ville proprement dite, ville haute et basse, était entourée par un triple rempart de presque 6 kilomètres,166 flanqué de nombreuses tours ; trois d’entre elles étaient si exceptionnelles par leurs qualités et leurs dimensions qu’elles avaient reçu des noms : tours Hippicus, Phasaël et Mariamme. 2. Ensuite, au sud-ouest, le palais constituait une vraie citadelle, défendue par un rempart circulaire et des tours.167 3. Au centre-ouest, 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167

B.J. 4.225, 228, 235, 314-33, 353. B.J. 4.503. MICHEL 1968. B.J. 4.135, 139. B.J. 4.113-114. B.J. 5.248-249, 254. B.J. 5.250, 254. B.J. 5.268-269, 359. B.J. 5.275-290. Tacite, H, V, 8, 2 ; 11, 5-9.5, 12, 1-4 ; Dion Cassius, LXVI, 4. B.J. 5.136, 156, 159, 162-171. B.J. 5.177.

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le Temple était assimilable à une forteresse :168 il avait été bâti sur une hauteur et entouré par deux murs, le mur supérieur et l’inférieur. 4. Enfin, l’Antonia,169 posée contre le Temple, au nord-ouest, était un autre point très bien défendu, entouré de précipices, cerné par un rempart flanqué de tours aux angles. Elle abritait en permanence une cohorte romaine, soit quelque 500 soldats. 6.3.3. Les Romains Vespasien élabora une stratégie régionale, qui prévoyait d’assurer la sécurité des bourgs et des petites villes dans toute la Judée, pour renforcer ses arrières.170 Mais il apprit la mort de Néron, qui était survenue le 8 juin 68 ; son avenir politique changeait et il fut désormais plus préoccupé par ce qui se passait à Rome que par les événements de Judée ; il est vrai qu’il pouvait avoir une totale confiance dans son fils Titus, qui se révéla un excellent chef de guerre ; il lui demanda de prendre en charge le siège de Jérusalem.171 C’est à ce moment que Josèphe, qui était devenu esclave au moment de sa capture, fut affranchi :172 il s’appela désormais Titus Flavius Josephus, les deux premiers noms étant donnés par son patron, Titus Flavius Vespasianus. Pour en revenir aux militaires romains, ce fut Titus qui en prit personnellement le commandement. Il venait de Gaphna et, pour sa progression, il avait adopté un ordre de marche qui a fait l’admiration de Josèphe, qui était tout prêt à tout admirer.173 Il disposait de 4 légions, soit environ 20 000 hommes, d’unités auxiliaires et d’alliés, des socii, en nombre inconnu, 20 corps d’après Tacite.174 Arrivé devant Jérusalem, au lieu-dit Scopus,175 il fit de vrais travaux de Romains.176 Ses hommes aplanirent le terrain devant son quartier général et ils construisirent trois camps pour trois des quatre légions. Puis il disposa les troupes sur sept rangs, face aux parties nord et ouest du rempart. Il fit construire des hélépoles, des « tours 168

B.J. 5.187; Tacite, H, V, 12, 1-4. B.J. 5.187. DE SION 1956; MURPHY-O’CONNOR 2004; communication de D.-M. Cabaret dans ce colloque. 170 B.J. 4.440-450. Communication de G. Brizzi dans ce colloque. 171 B.J. 4.658; Tacite, H, II, 82, 6 ; 5, 13 ; Orose, VII, 9, 3. 172 B.J. 4.629. 173 B.J. 5.47-53. MORIN 2002. 174 B.J. 5.41-42; Tacite, H, V, 1, 3 (3 légions), voire 4 (vexillations et pas légions). GOLDSWORTHY 1999. 175 B.J. 5.67-68. BAR 1998. 176 B.J. 4.128-134, 143-146 ; 5.258-265 (pour l’ensemble des hommes). 169

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tueuses de ville », qui avançaient sur des roues, et qui comprenaient des balistes et des emplacements pour abriter des soldats. Il ajouta des béliers et des machines diverses,177 sans aucun doute des tortues et des cabanes de vigneron, ou vineae, c’est-à-dire des petits abris sur roues, qui permettaient aux soldats de faire des travaux à l’abri des missiles ennemis. Il ajouta quatre terrasses d’assaut. Ces constructions ne demandèrent que dix-sept jours ;178 on était alors en juin 70. Titus recourut abondamment à la guerre psychologique ; c’est un aspect des conflits à l’époque romaine qui a été peu étudié. Il fit crucifier un prisonnier pour effrayer les ennemis.179 Puis il organisa avec faste le versement de la paie, pour montrer la puissance de Rome face à des misérables,180 et il exhiba des vivres, ce qui devait être durement ressenti par des assiégés mourant de faim.181 Et il fit défiler les déserteurs pour décourager ceux qui voulaient résister.182 6.3.4. La victoire des uns, la défaite des autres Les Juifs tentèrent des sorties, notamment contre la Xe légion Fretensis, sans succès : ils furent pris par une contre-attaque de flanc.183 Mais ils souffraient terriblement, de la cruauté de Simon et de Jean si l’on en croit Josèphe, et surtout de la famine.184 Ce fléau les frappa si durement qu’une femme dévora son enfant ; cette anecdote a été abondamment commentée comme exemple de malheurs de la guerre et, par, certains chrétiens, pour établir la perversité des Juifs.185 Titus avança avec méthode. Il prit d’abord le premier rempart de la ville, puis le deuxième ; il en fut chassé, et il le reprit.186 Puis le troisième. L’Antonia fut occupée et rasée.187 L’assaut donné au Temple fut plus difficile, et il ne demanda pas moins de quatre nouvelles terrasses d’assaut et de béliers ;188 également, des incendies furent allumés. Les Romains furent repoussés. Finalement, ils prirent aussi le Temple, ou du moins ce 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188

4 et 6.

B.J. 5.275, 276, 277. B.J. 5.466, 473, 476-479; 6.23, 26. B.J. 5.284-290. B.J. 5.356. B.J. 5.519-526. B.J. 6.118-120. B.J. 5.75, 85-95; Dion Cassius, LXVI, 4. B.J. 5.420-459, 513, 527-533; 6.1, 368. B.J. 6.193-219. CHAPMAN 2007. B.J. 5.301, 331, 342, 347; Dion Cassius, LXVI, 5 et 6 ; Orose, VII, 9, 4. B.J. 6.93. B.J. 6.149-151; 6.220-235 ; 6.220-228 (220) ; Dion Cassius, LXVI, 6 ; Orose, VII, 9,

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que les flammes en avaient laissé ; les historiens actuels se demandent si Titus a volontairement fait détruire ce bâtiment, ou si sa disparition fut une simple conséquence de l’attaque.189 La ville haute, enfin, fut atteinte le 8 septembre 70, et là encore de grands travaux avaient été effectués et achevés le 25 de ce mois ; les Romains utilisèrent notamment une hélépole et des béliers.190 Ce dernier succès des armes romaines entraîna une fuite générale des derniers défenseurs. Les Romains, comme de coutume, procédèrent à des massacres et ils allumèrent des incendies.191 Les soldats chantèrent un péan,192 sorte de Te Deum pour païens, et ils acclamèrent Titus en lui donnant le titre d’imperator.193 Ce 28 septembre 70, ils avaient obtenu la victoire.194 Le siège avait laissé 97 000 prisonniers aux Romains et 1 100 000 morts, si l’on en croit Josèphe ;195 ces chiffres ont paru exagérés, à juste titre, et Orose ne compte que 600 000 morts pour toute la guerre (« que 600 000 », si l’on peut dire).196 La ville avait subi d’importants dégâts,197 toutes ses défenses furent détruites et une garnison y fut installée ; elle comprenait une légion, la Xe Fretensis, et des auxiliaires.198 L’ordre romain était rétabli dans le nord et le centre ; restait le sud, où Masada, l’Hérodion et Macheronte restaient aux mains d’insurgés. 6.4. Le retour à l’ordre romain dans le sud En réalité, l’Hérodion et Macheronte ne posèrent pas de problèmes. Un officier romain, Lucilius Bassus, régla les deux affaires sans délai : il prit les deux sites sans difficultés majeures.199 Le cas de Masada (nom écrit aussi Massada, avec deux s) est beaucoup plus délicat. Relevons d’abord qu’il a une immense valeur patriotique, morale et sentimentale pour les Israéliens actuels. Ensuite, comme il a été traité à la télévision ou au cinéma, il est plus ou moins connu du grand public. Enfin, ce site a été étudié avec soin par des archéologues, mais les interprétations des fouilles ont donné matière à des débats houleux 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199

B.J. 5.80; 6.266, 281, 284. LEONI 2000 et LEONI 2007; BARNES 2005. B.J. 6.374, 392, 394. B.J. 6,404, 406, 415. B.J. 6.403. B.J. 6.323; Orose, VII, 9, 6. B.J. 6.435. B.J. 6.420. Orose, VII, 9, 7. GIOVANNINI 1996. B.J. 7.5, 17; Orose, VII, 9, 6. B.J. 7.163, pour l’Hérodion ; 7.190-209 pour Machéronte.

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entre Y. Yadin200 et ses successeurs.201 Dans ces conditions, il nous paraît opportun de nous limiter aux aspects purement d’histoire militaire, d’autant plus que ce site sert de modèle pour les études de poliorcétique, au même titre que Numance et Alésia. La région se présente sous la forme d’un plateau très horizontal, entamé par des ravins profonds qui isolent un site en amande. Les Juifs s’étaient réfugiés au centre et les Romains avaient occupé la périphérie. La forteresse d’Hérode couvrait une superficie de 9,3 hectares environ.202 Elle était protégée par un double mur qui entourait des palais et des habitations diverses. Le génie du fondateur y avait installé des citernes et même des thermes ; des vivres et des armes y avaient été entreposés par des Juifs insoumis.203 Elle fut occupée par Eleazar et des sicaires, qu’accompagnaient leurs femmes et leurs enfants, environ 960 personnes au total.204 Installés sur le plateau environnant, les légionnaires de la Xe Fretensis, aux ordres de Flavius Silva,205 étaient arrivés en 72-73 ou 73-74 ; la date a donné matière à un débat, mais l’on admet en général, actuellement, que ce fut en l’année 74.206 Ils avaient construit une défense linéaire qui encerclait la zone, longue d’un peu plus de 3,6 km ; elle reliait entre eux des camps, au nombre de 8 ; les archéologues ont pris l’habitude de les désigner par des lettres, de A à H.207 Pour venir à bout des assiégés, les légionnaires construisirent une terrasse d’assaut qui visait le côté occidental de la hauteur208 et ils y firent avancer des machines, notamment un bélier.209 Le siège ne dura pas très longtemps, sans doute pas plus de sept semaines.210 Quand ils virent que les travaux de poliorcétique étaient bien avancés, les quelque 960 Juifs se suicidèrent collectivement le 3 mai ; seuls deux femmes et cinq enfants échappèrent.211 Un auteur bien intentionné a récemment soutenu que cette mort générale avait été 200 AVI-YONAH 1957; YADIN et NAVEH 1989; MESHORER 1989; COTTON et GEIGER 1989; NETZER 1991; BARAG et HERSHKOVITZ 1994; FOERSTER 1995; YADIN et SHEMARYAHU 1999; BAR-NATHAN et YADIN 2006; AVIRAM 2007; YADIN 1967. 201 SCHULTEN 1933; AVI-YONAH 1961; HADAS-LEBEL 1995; GICHON 2000; CHAPMAN 2007; ARUBAS 2008, 1937-1939. 202 B.J. 7.286. J.-M. RODDAZ 2014, 84–88. 203 B.J. 7.295-303. 204 B.J. 7.253, 262. 205 B.J. 7.252. 206 72-73 : KLASSEN 2000 ; début 73 : COTTON et GEIGER 1989, “Masada”. 207 B.J. 7.275-279. 208 Communication de Haim Goldfus et Benny Arubas dans ce colloque. 209 B.J. 7.304-319. RICHMOND 1962. 210 ROTH 1995. 211 B.J. 7.320-401.

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inventée parce qu’on n’a pas trouvé de sépultures ; il pense que les vaincus ont été vendus comme esclaves ou tués dans des arènes.212 Nous lui ferons remarquer que les gens tués après un siège n’avaient jamais de sépulture dite « honorable ». Les Romains laissèrent une garnison pour éviter que la forteresse ne soit ultérieurement utilisée par d’autres insurgés.213 CONCLUSION Les textes anciens, le nombre de morts et les effectifs engagés par Rome établissent clairement que le conflit qui commença en 66 fut une vraie guerre. Il présente un grand intérêt pour l’histoire militaire antique, parce qu’il contredit en partie les schémas élaborés surtout par les nonspécialistes. Il commença en effet par un épisode de petite guerre ; il se poursuivit et se termina par des actions relevant de la grande guerre, mais sans aucune bataille en rase campagne qui fût notable. En effet, les Juifs se sont fiés à leurs murailles et ils ont cherché à défendre leurs villes. Ce fut pour l’essentiel une affaire de poliorcétique. Ils perdirent la guerre ; Vespasien et Titus eurent droit à un triomphe célèbre, qui est représenté en partie sur le plus connu des arcs de Titus qui se trouvent à Rome, et qui a inspiré d’autres monuments moins connus.214 ICONOGRAPHIE 1. Défense élémentaire : dessin de Yann LE BOHEC, César chef de guerre, 2015 (Paris) 103. 2. Carte de la guerre de Judée en 66-74 : d’après un dessin de Yann LE BOHEC. 3. Jérusalem : source inconnue. 4. Masada : D. KENNEDY et D. RILEY, Rome’s Desert Frontier, 1990 (Londres) fig. 46.

212

ATKINSON 2007. B.J. 7.407. 214 B.J. 7.128 et 7.63-162; Suétone, Vesp., 8 ; Titus, 6 ; Orose, VII, 9, 8. PFANNER 1983; BEARD 2005; MAGNESS 2009; NORMAN 2009; FINE et PIENING 2012; LEPRI 2013. Communication de M. Buonfiglio dans ce colloque. 213

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19. La fortification élémentaire. Les soldats romains creusent un fossé (fossa) qui peut être en V ou en U, et il rejettent les déblais en arrière de ce premier obstacle de façon à ériger un bourrelet de terre (agger) sur lequel est ensuite construite une palissade (uallum). 1. Défense élémentaire : dessin de Yann LE BOHEC, César chef de guerre, 2015 (Paris) 103.

2. Carte de la guerre de Judée en 66-74 : d’après un dessin de Yann LE BOHEC.

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3. Jérusalem : source inconnue.

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4. Masada : D. KENNEDY et D. RILEY, Rome’s Desert Frontier, 1990 (Londres) fig. 46.

PART II

ARCHEOLOGY

CHAPTER 2

DESTRUCTIONS DANS LA VILLE HAUTE AU DÉBUT DE LA PREMIÈRE RÉVOLTE JUIVE Emile PUECH CNRS-Paris & EBAF-Jérusalem

Ma contribution comprend trois parties : un survol historique de la première révolte, les deux inscriptions sur des tambours de colonnes, et une proposition de leur provenance. 1. QUELQUES DONNÉES DE L’HISTOIRE DE LA PREMIÈRE RÉVOLTE JUIVE

Préparée par l’échec de divers mouvements d’opposition à la domination romaine, la première grande révolte juive devait s’achever par la prise de Jérusalem et la destruction du temple. En effet, son déclenchement en 66 est la résultante des manifestations de la violence qui n’avait cessé de grossir après la mort d’Hérode le Grand : les faux mouvements prophétiques, le banditisme des sicaires, les attentats et les coups de mains, les manifestations de foule liées à la dégradation de la vie économique, le tribut romain, etc., que n’avaient pas pu maîtriser les derniers procurateurs, ni Ponce Pilate ni Félix, auxquels s’ajoutaient des agitations nourries d’espérances messianiques, tout cela a contribué à une grandissante dégradation des rapports entre juifs et païens. En l’année 66, la saisie par le procurateur Florus de 17 talents dans le trésor du temple et de larges sommes de riches juifs fut à l’origine de conflits entre la troupe et la foule (Flavius Josèphe, B.J. 2.293, 403-404). Agrippa II et Bérénice tentèrent de rétablir le calme, comme en témoigne le discours d’Agrippa (B.J. 2.345-404) où Flavius Josèphe avertit qu’il est insensé de se rebeller contre la puissance romaine. Mais refuser de payer le tribut est un acte de rébellion qui suppose la complicité des autorités juives. Les appels au calme n’ayant pas été entendus, des notables adressèrent une délégation à Florus et à Agrippa leur enjoignant d’écraser rapidement la révolte. Le dynaste envoya 2000 cavaliers aider les partisans de la paix à se retrancher dans la ville haute, tandis que les insurgés

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appuyés par les sicaires tenaient la ville basse et le temple. Acculée par la foule des séditieux, la troupe d’Agrippa trouva refuge dans la citadelle ou les souterrains. Au même moment, les rebelles assiégèrent l’Antonia qu’ils prirent en deux jours, et ils se dirigèrent contre le palais d’Hérode. Le petit-fils de Judas le Galiléen, Menahem, équipa les zélotes d’armes récupérées à Masada, et se posa en chef de la révolte. Il accepta la reddition des artisans de la paix réfugiés dans la citadelle, juifs et troupes d’Agrippa, les soldats romains devant se replier dans les trois jours. Le grand prêtre Ananias et son frère Ézéchias découverts dans un souterrain furent assassinés par les sicaires, qui attaquèrent aussi Menahem et le tuèrent. Les soldats romains ayant déposé les armes furent tués, sauf leur chef Metilius promettant de se convertir. Le procurateur Cestius Gallus, gouverneur de Syrie, incapable de réprimer les troubles, prépara une intervention en septembre 66 avec la XIIe légion Fulminata et d’autres cohortes et contingents. Il réduisit les brigands de Galilée et vint camper à Gabaon, où il subit des attaques de juifs menées par Simon bar Giora. Il vint camper sur le Scopus, s’empara du Bézatha et occupa la ville haute. Mais il ne poursuivit pas ses efforts. Aussi dans sa retraite, il dut abandonner ses bagages et il subit de lourdes pertes à la passe de Beth-Horon. Cet échec encouragea les modérés à rejoindre le soulèvement général et à organiser une résistance pour se libérer de l’occupant, dont Éléazar fils de Simon prit la tête. Mais la rébellion était assez divisée entre zélotes et sicaires. Le parti des prêtres et des notables eux-mêmes était divisé, les uns attachés à la paix et à la soumission, les autres ralliés aux rebelles. Dès l’année 68, la stratégie de Vespasien fut d’isoler Jérusalem en la prenant en tenaille avec les trois légions : la XIIe aux ordres de Trajan par l’est, la Ve avec Cerealis par le nord-ouest, et la XVe avec Vespasien et Titus par le nord, mais à l’annonce de la mort de Néron, celui-ci marqua une pause. Alors la rébellion se radicalisa encore un peu plus et elle se divisa Ananie souhaitait l’intervention des Romains, alors que Jean de Giscala fit appel à des Iduméens sous le contrôle de Simon bar Giora et il rallia les zélotes et les sicaires. Mais l’assaut des Romains eut lieu en 70 avec la ruine de la ville et du temple. Ce rapide survol historique de la première révolte, essentiellement d’après les données de Flavius Josèphe,1 a-t-il trouvé localement quelque confirmation ? C’est l’objet de cette contribution qui parcourt les découvertes des dernières fouilles dans certains chantiers du quartier juif par 1

Voir aussi MASON 2016, spécialement chapitre 4, Why did they do it ? Antecedents, circumstances, and “causes” of the revolt, 199–280.

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65

Nahman Avigad en 1969-1982 dont le rapport final vient d’être publié.2 Les chantiers Q, H, N, A et C sont situés du sud au nord juste à l’est du cardo byzantin au sud du tétrapyle, précisément sur la pente orientale de la ville haute. 2. LES INSCRIPTIONS HÉBRAÏQUES DE LA

VILLE HAUTE

2.1. Inscription 1 : Au chantier Q le plus au sud, des remplois de fûts de colonnes ont été retrouvés dans un mur à quelque 5 m au nord-ouest de la citerne byzantine (mur W.572 du locus 2210B, strate 2) qui occupe le centre d’un grand miqweh d’époque hérodienne. Sur la base d’un tambour de colonne ont été gravés des mots en hébreu de la fin de l’époque hérodienne.3 Un déchiffrement correct de ces mots ne laisse pas de surprendre. Je lis ainsi cette inscription no 1 (voir figure 1) :4

‫יד פצו‬ ‫זע ̊ם‬ ̊ 1 2

1 2

Un monument ils ont démantelé/dispersé. Indignation/Colère/Révolte !

Visiblement on n’a affaire ni à des marques de maçons ni à un nom propre comme il a été écrit dans le rapport final, mais à des marques d’indignation des derniers occupants réfugiés dans la ville haute après la destruction d’un monument. Dans ce contexte le substantif ‫יד‬, de lecture certaine,5 désigne certainement ‛un monument’, voir 1 S 15,12, 2 S 18,18, 2

Voir GEVA 2017. ESHEL 2017, 148–153, p. 152b, penche pour des marques de maçons et des noms propres, de préférence à des incisions après la destruction des colonnes. 4 Voir GEVA 2017, photo 1.31 p. 40, tambour in situ, et PUECH 2018. 5 Une lecture de mem final avec un apex au départ du jambage gauche, sans trace de la partie inférieure qui serait bien étroite comparée à la tête de la lettre et sans lettre auparavant est exclue, tout comme une lecture du nun ensuite (Eshel) tracé de pe, certain. 3

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Is 56,5. Le verbe ‫פצו‬, de lecture certaine,6 au parfait qal de ‫ פוץ‬au pluriel, signifie ‛disperser, démembrer, abattre’, sens qui convient parfaitement dans ce cas où les colonnes ont été abattues et démembrées, et leurs divers éléments dispersés sur une distance nord-sud d’environ 100 m, comme l’ont révélé les divers chantiers de fouille. Dans une deuxième ligne, une lecture ‫זע ̊ם‬ ̊ « Indignation/Colère/Révolte ! » est tout à fait en situation, même si le ‛aïn n’est qu’en partie conservé par l’arc de cercle à droite, et le mem peut être quelque peu lisible malgré l’éclat de la surface.7 En effet, un tel mot ne serait pas hors contexte sous la ligne précédente. 2.2. Inscription 2 : Un deuxième fragment de tambour de colonne retrouvé parmi bien d’autres non réutilisés dans la partie occidentale du même chantier Q dans le voisinage de la citerne byzantine, porte sur une de ses tranches une courte inscription gravée mais incomplète au bord de la cassure.8 Eshel a noté trois lettres gravées à l’horizontale et trois signes dans un angle de 90° au-dessus séparés par un trait. Ces lettres ne sont pas, là encore, des marques de maçons ni un nom propre.9 Je lis ainsi cette inscription no 2 (voir figure 2) :

ሃ ‫ש[מם‬ ̊ ... ‫פח]ד‬ ̊ 1 2

1 2

Le palais(?) a été/est dé]vasté. ‫ۋ‬ La peu[r ...]

6 L’absence d’apex triangulaire à la dernière lettre (voir dalet) exclut la lecture d’un reš (ESHEL 2017, 149), et le nom propre ‫נצר‬. Le waw est assuré. 7 ESHEL 2017, 149, ne lit pas ces traces. 8 GEVA 2017, photo 1.24 p. 32, et photo 3.4 p. 71 ; ESHEL 2017, 150 ; et PUECH 2018, 263–64. 9 ESHEL 2017, 150–51 ; mais une lecture ]‫פדה‬, ou (‫ פדי]ה)ו‬n’est pas à retenir.

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67

Le premier mot en partie conservé en position à angle droit est à comprendre au mieux ‫ש[מם‬, ̊ en accord avec un substantif masculin en début de ligne, e. g. « ... (Le palais  ? a été/est) dé]vasté. La peu[r ... », faisant allusion à un important édifice dévasté, voir Flavius Josèphe, B.J. 2.422432) : Confiants dans ces forces, les notables, les grands prêtres et tous les citoyens épris de paix occupent la ville haute ; car les séditieux étaient maîtres de la ville basse et du Temple (422).

Après la dévastation rapportée par ces inscriptions, le fait que la peur ou l’effroi se soit emparé des résistants qui devaient craindre pour leur vie, s’explique aisément, une réaction contraire surprendrait. Ainsi lue, cette inscription gravée sur la base de ce fût de colonne s’accorde parfaitement avec le contenu de l’inscription no 1 sur l’autre tambour avant son remploi par les byzantins. Seule la cassure nous prive du mot important qui devait désigner le bâtiment d’où proviennent les divers tambours de colonnes. Cependant est-il impossible de proposer une identification ? 3. PROVENANCE DES

FÛTS DE COLONNES INSCRITS ET NON-INSCRITS

Les lectures de l’éditrice, E. Eshel, l’ont conduite à interpréter ces deux inscriptions comme gravées lors de la préparation des tambours pour la construction de l’édifice, plutôt qu’à la fin de l’époque hérodienne après la destruction des colonnes.10 Mais de telles marques de maçons uniques, associées à des noms propres sur la tranche de fûts de colonnes, sont inconnues, et la gravure de noms à ces endroits invisibles une fois la colonne érigée est des plus surprenantes.11 Au chantier H, Avigad a repéré la marque VIIII en chiffres romains, au bord inférieur externe d’un tambour avec un chapiteau complet désignant le neuvième élément de la colonne ; l’usage du chiffre romain exclut une époque pré-hérodienne. Il a aussi signalé une marque Δ indiquant sans doute l’ordre d’une rangée sur une grande base de colonne attique au chantier C dans une couche de l’époque hasmonéenne-hérodienne.12 Aussi les auteurs de l’étude des 10 ESHEL 2017, 152 : «It can be assumed that they were inscribed when the columns were assembled. However, we should also consider the possibility that they were added later in the Herodian period, after the columns were destroyed, although this seems less probable.» 11 Pour des marques de maçons (lettres hébraïques d’époque hérodienne et chiffres) sur les tranches de fûts de colonnes et des chapiteaux ioniques, voir FOERSTER 1995, 80–99 et 121–22. 12 AVIGAD 1983, 150–65, respectivement figure 158 et figures 178–81.

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éléments des colonnes retrouvés pencheraient plutôt pour les incisions après le démantèlement des colonnes. On two of the drums are remains of short Hebrew inscriptions, probably names, on the flat sides of the drums (Pl. 3.1:3; see Chapter Nine, this volume [= Eshel]). These inscriptions are dated on paleographical grounds to the Herodian period, but it remains unclear whether they were carved as mason marks before construction of the columns, or as graffiti after the building in which the columns once stood went out of use, and the columns were dismantled. If this latter option is correct, then the inscriptions offer a hint that the building was destroyed sometime before 70 CE and the destruction of the city.13

Ces deux graffiti en hébreu correctement lus ont visiblement été gravés en des temps de troubles et de panique après la destruction d’un important monument d’où provenaient les tambours de colonnes. Flavius Josèphe a rappelé que le grand-prêtre Ananie et son frère Ézéchias ont été assassinés par les sicaires dans les souterrains en lien avec la ville haute. On comprend alors sans peine que des habitants de Jérusalem aient exprimé leur lamentation et leur désapprobation devant des malheurs qui les affligeaient tous profondément, en utilisant des surfaces planes de ces blocs, dispersés mais désormais accessibles et visibles de leur temps. La graphie hérodienne tardive de ces deux courtes inscriptions, bien connue, attestée en particulier par des ossuaires et par le rouleau de cuivre lui-même gravé au printemps 68,14 s’accorde pleinement avec les couches archéologiques des lieux de découvertes des nombreux fragments de colonnes, datés par la céramique (tessons de jarre, etc.) et les monnaies de la première révolte juive (67/68), certainement antérieures à 70.15 Les fragments de colonnes, bases attiques, tambours, et chapiteaux ioniques, retrouvés dans des remplois byzantins ou dispersés dans les chantiers A, N, et particulièrement abondants aux chantiers H et Q, possèdent les mêmes caractéristiques stylistiques et ils appartiennent à des colonnes d’environ 1 m de diamètre. Leur abondance dans cette zone, somme toute assez délimitée à l’est le long du cardo, suggère qu’ils proviennent tous d’un même monument important de la ville haute dans la partie méridionale de la colline occidentale. Il est probable que l’abondance de ces fragments dispersés à l’est du cardo soit due à leur remploi ou à la mise à l’écart de nombre d’entre eux retrouvés sur la pente orientale lors de la construction du large et imposant cardo par les byzantins eux-mêmes. L’énorme terrassement par les byzantins dans cette zone pour construire le cardo et les entailles 13 14 15

Voir PELEG-BARKAT et BEN HAIM 2017, 68–84, p. 72-73. Voir BRIZEMEURE et al. 2006, 169–227. GEVA 2017, 24 et 32–33, et ARIEL 2017.

DESTRUCTIONS DANS LA VILLE HAUTE

69

profondes en “L” ou en équerre dans le versant rocheux de la colline pour y installer quelques boutiques et la toiture du promenoir occidental rendent compte de la pente et expliquent largement que des tambours de colonnes aient pu rouler sur la forte pente, ainsi que leurs déplacements à l’est par les byzantins. Plusieurs détails architecturaux de leur ciselage et leur ornementation datent de l’époque hérodienne, de la fin du 1er s. avant J.-C. ou du 1er s.16 La finesse dans l’exécution des chapiteaux représente le meilleur de l’architecture hérodienne de Jérusalem comparée à celle du temple d’Auguste érigé lui aussi par Hérode à Samarie-Sébaste.17 Avigad avait encore relevé l’imitation de chapiteaux ioniques en haut des pilastres des monuments de Zacharie et d’Absalom dans la vallée de Josaphat.18 On peut aussi ajouter des chapiteaux identiques dans les constructions hérodiennes de Machéronte.19 Bien qu’aucun de ces fragments de tambours de colonne n’ait été retrouvé in situ, est-il possible d’avoir une idée de leur emplacement originel ? Plusieurs suggestions ont été faites : il s’agirait soit des restes témoins d’un temple qu’aurait eu l’intention de construire Antiochus IV Épiphane à Zeus Olympien,20 ou des restes du Portique royal construit par Hérode dans la partie méridionale du Temple.21 Comme des bases de colonnes de forme identique et de même dimension ont été retrouvées en remplois 16 Voir les analyses et descriptions de PELEG-BARKAT et BEN HAIM 2017, 68–84, à la suite d’Avigad. 17 AVIGAD 1983,162, a relevé des colonnes et chapiteaux de dimensions comparables dans le temple d’Auguste construit par Hérode à Sébaste, mais l’exécution et la finition des chapiteaux sont de moins bonne qualité, qu’il qualifie d’’art provincial’. 18 Voir AVIGAD 1983, 161, a noté avec raison que l’architecte y imita les chapiteaux d’un bâtiment important de la ville, et PELEG-BARKAT et BEN HAIM 2017, 74–75, signalent ce type d’architecture hérodienne unique à Jérusalem. Voir AVIGAD 1954, 79–82 et 94, 96– 98 respectivement. 19 Voir VÖRÖS 2013, 299 et passim. 20 Suggestion de M. Avi-Yonah, voir AVIGAD 1983, 162, mais non retenue avec raison. 21 Une suggestion de AVIGAD 1983, 162–65, qui en a toutefois souligné les difficultés, mais reprise par REICH 2017, 272–74, et d’autres notes de Reich à paraître, citées par PELEG-BARKAT et BEN HAIM 2017, 79. En effet, Flavius Josèphe y mentionne des chapiteaux corinthiens non ioniques, et des colonnes de circonférence bien plus imposante nécessitant trois personnes non deux (A.J. 15.411-415), et Reich n’explique pas pourquoi les byzantins auraient remonté des blocs aussi lourds sur une distance non négligeable sur la colline occidentale, quelques-uns pour de simples remplois et le plus grand nombre sans aucune ré-utilisation. Les restes du chantier C un peu plus au nord seraient pré-hérodiens et pourraient provenir d’un temple hellénistique, écrit-il. Aussi, après de bonnes remarques, les auteurs concluent : «As frustrating as it is, the monumental Ionic columns uncovered in the Jewish Quarter excavations are ghostly remains of a monumental building of Herodian Jerusalem, whose identity we still fail to recognize».

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EMILE PUECH

dans la citadelle de David,22 il y a de bonnes raisons de penser que leur provenance n’est pas éloignée de leur emplacement originel, ces bases n’ayant pas roulé sur la pente. Dans l’état actuel de la documentation, les nombreux fragments de colonnes des chantiers Q, H et N à faible distance et en contre-bas du palais d’Hérode avec ceux remployés dans la citadelle suggèrent fortement l’emplacement originel probable du monument recherché. Flavius Josèphe a décrit le palais royal hérodien, les trois tours au nord et le corps du bâtiment au sud entouré de murs élevés, de tours, de nombreux péristyles ayant chacun des colonnes d’espèce différente, en y ajoutant le souvenir pénible que rappellent les désastres causés par le feu qu’y allumèrent les brigands. Il écrit : Ce ne sont pas les Romains qui ont brûlé ces merveilles, mais les conjurés de la ville, au début du soulèvement, comme nous l’avons déjà raconté ; l’incendie commença à la tour Antonia, puis gagna le palais, et consuma les toits des trois tours (B.J. 5.176-183, et 2.422-429, 433-456).

Un tel contexte paraît expliquer au mieux les quelques mots de panique et de révolte de juifs résistants gravés sur ces deux fûts de colonnes dispersés, retrouvés en contre-bas à l’est du palais hérodien. Le démantèlement du palais n’est pas l’œuvre des Romains mais des attaques des séditieux dans les premières années 66-67 de la première révolte juive précédant la capitulation lors du siège en 70. Il est bien plus difficile de penser au palais du roi Agrippa dans celui qui, jadis, avait été celui des Hasmonéens, situé dans un lieu élevé, (A.J. 20.189-190, et B.J. 2.427), mais sans aucune mention de tours ni de colonnes, alors que Flavius Josèphe (B.J. 2.439) mentionne expressément les tours royales Hippicos, Phasaël et Mariammé et nombre d’autres colonnes du palais dévasté. Une sculpture de tête de lion en remploi dans le mur de la citerne byzantine à quelques mètres des tambours de colonne inscrits confirmerait, elle aussi, une provenance du palais hérodien.23 22

Voir PELEG-BARKAT et BEN HAIM 2017, 78, photos 3.7 et 3.8. La tête de lion incorporée comme remploi dans le mur de la citerne byzantine à côté des fragments de tambours dont un inscrit, et de chapiteaux de colonne retrouvés dans ces fouilles semble appuyer une provenance du palais hérodien, voir PALISTRANT SHAIK 2017, 100, «it might be cautiously proposed that the lion head from Area Q could have originally been related to an impressive Herodian-period building, to which probably belonged the magnificent column elements found scattered in Areas Q and H, as well as fragments of the elaborate capitals found together with the lion head in secondary use in the walls of a Byzantine cistern. Though this appears likely because all the architectural elements and the lion head were found in close proximity, within a limited area, the find of a sculpted lion dated to the Herodian or Second Temple period is very surprising, not to say unusual, in view of our knowledge of the art of the Jewish residents of that period.» Cette remarque vaudrait sans doute aussi pour le palais d’Agrippa, mais dans le palais d’Hérode cela ne peut surprendre, bien au contraire. 23

DESTRUCTIONS DANS LA VILLE HAUTE

71

CONCLUSION Si la proposition avancée ici paraît tout à fait recevable, me semble-t-il, ce n’est pas un mince apport à l’histoire locale que révèlent ces quelques mots gravés par des résistants juifs. Ils rappellent les combats des partis juifs divisés et les désastres de ces années agitées dans la ville haute de Jérusalem au début de la première révolte juive, comme le rapporte l’historien Flavius Josèphe qui trouve ici une confirmation inattendue de ses lignes dans la Guerre. Ces maigres inscriptions semblent permettre enfin d’identifier à la fois leurs auteurs parmi le clan des pacifistes, et le palais hérodien d’où proviennent ces colonnes, même si la confirmation irréfutable fait défaut du fait de la cassure au début de la ligne perpendiculaire de l’inscription no 2, – il semble toute fois possible d’y remédier sans trop d’imagination. En tout état de cause, ces graffiti sont en plein accord avec l’ensemble des autres données archéologiques et historiques des chantiers.

CHAPTER 3

LE SIÈGE DE LA FORTERESSE ANTONIA, LE RÉCIT DE LA GUERRE DES JUIFS AU CRIBLE DES DERNIÈRES RECHERCHES ARCHÉOLOGIQUES Dominique-Marie CABARET, O.P. École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem

INTRODUCTION Les recherches menées par l’auteur dans le cadre de son doctorat soutenu à l’Université Paris I – Panthéon-Sorbonne sous la direction du Professeur Fr. Villeneuve, conduisent à réviser le traditionnel tracé du deuxième mur de Jérusalem, en particulier dans le secteur de la forteresse Bâris/Antonia.1 Comment le deuxième mur s’y rattachait-il ? Flavius Josèphe signale simplement qu’il « montait jusqu’à la tour Antonia » sans préciser davantage.2 La plupart des spécialistes pense qu’à partir de l’éperon rocheux de la colline de Bezetha, il atteignait l’extrémité orientale de la forteresse (fig. 1, ligne pointillée).3 Nos recherches vont à l’encontre de cette hypothèse qu’aucun vestige archéologique ne corrobore : nous préférons restituer un deuxième mur aboutissant à la tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia, en longeant la piscine du Strouthion sur son côté ouest, et laissant ainsi la forteresse à l’extérieur de l’enceinte (fig. 1, ligne continue). Le deuxième mur était défendu par la forteresse et non l’inverse. L’orientation de la piscine, située sur la ligne de crête de la colline séparant le Cédron du Tyropéon, trouve ainsi sa meilleure explication : ce bassin est orienté sud-est - nord-ouest, parce que creusé contre la muraille du deuxième mur comme réservoir d’eau de la Bâris – avant qu’elle ne fût baptisée Antonia par Hérode le Grand. Ainsi, la deuxième enceinte de Jérusalem 1

CABARET 2020. « Le second mur s’amorçait à la porte de Gennath, qui faisait partie de la première enceinte ; il n’entourait que la partie septentrionale de la ville et montait jusqu’à la tour Antonia » (B.J. 5.146). 3 À l’orient de l’éperon rocheux en question, un effondrement karstique, consécutif à la fragilisation, sous l’action de l’eau de pluie, de roches solubles carbonatées (calcaire, marbre, dolomie, craie et sel) et antérieur à toute période historique, rend malaisé une éventuelle continuation du mur. 2

LE SIÈGE DE LA FORTERESSE ANTONIA

73

Fig. 1.

et la piscine du Strouthion – du moins dans une version primitive – seraient l’œuvre non du premier des Hérodiens, comme beaucoup le supposent,4 mais de Jean Hyrcan, le commanditaire de la Bâris (A.J. 13.173-176),5 soucieux de relier son propre palais par une enceinte au temple et au premier mur.6 De la sorte, comme le soutenait déjà Y. Blomme dans la Revue Biblique en 1979, l’arc de l’Ecce Homo ne daterait pas de la fondation d’Ælia Capitolina mais serait un vestige d’une porte urbaine antérieure.7 4 « The other forum was situated in the eastern sector of the city, near the present-day Sisters of Zion Convent. In this area in the large moat dug by Herod for the defense of the Antonia fortress, and in this period, too, the Struthion Pool was dug in the center of this moat as a water reservoir » (BAHAT 1973, 63) ; « When Herod decided to erect the Antonia Fortress north of the Temple Mount, it was necessary to protect it from the north since the Antonia Hill upon which it was constructed. Herod’s builders deepened the north-south width of a portion of the moat, thus creating the Struthion Pool, 60 m. long and 15,50 m. from east-west » (BAHAT 2013, 323–24). 5 « Du côté nord on avait construit, dans l’angle du péribole, une citadelle, admirablement fortifiée et pourvue d’excellents moyens de défense. Elle fut bâtie par les rois pontifes de la race des Hasmonéens, prédécesseurs d’Hérode, qui l’appelèrent Bâris et la destinèrent à abriter le vêtement sacerdotal que le grand-prêtre ne revêt que lorsqu’il doit offrir un sacrifice » (A.J. 15.403). Par un autre extrait de la Guerre, nous savons que la Bâris était terminée à la mort de Jean Hyrcan puisque son fils Aristobule y mourut après avoir assassiné son frère dans le souterrain de la « Tour de Straton » y menant : B.J. 1.195 et suivants. 6 « During the reign of Hyrcanus I occupation began to expand down into the northern half of the Tyropeon Valley, next to the Temple enclosure wall. Hyrcanus may have built the Second Wall as a protection for this new suburb, at the same period that he erected the Baris » (WIGHTMAN 1993, 187); cf. WIGHTMAN 1991. 7 BLOMME 1979.

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Fig. 2

Nous proposons qu’elle fût percée dans le deuxième mur par Hérode le Grand lors de l’agrandissement du temple. Il convenait alors d’ouvrir une rue au nord de la nouvelle esplanade pour permettre aux hiérosolymitains d’accéder facilement à l’est de la ville et aux contrées d’outre-Jourdain, quitte à devoir franchir par un pont une piscine préexistante (fig. 2). Ce n’est pas le lieu ici de revenir sur le bienfondé de ces conjectures novatrices largement exposées ailleurs.8 Nous voudrions simplement montrer leur justesse à l’aune des écrits de Flavius Josèphe qui prennent sens d’une manière inédite à la lumière de ces hypothèses, en particulier le récit de la prise de l’Antonia par les Romains en 70 ap. J.-C. 1. LA

PORTE ORIENTALE DU DEUXIÈME MUR

Dans les Antiquités Juives, Josèphe mentionne une « porte orientale » (τὴν ἀνατολικὴν θύραν) située à proximité de l’Antonia : Le roi se fit aussi creuser un passage souterrain, conduisant de la tour Antonia à l’enceinte sacrée intérieure, du côté de la porte est (τὴν ἀνατολικὴν θύραν), 8

Cf. note 1 supra.

LE SIÈGE DE LA FORTERESSE ANTONIA

75

au-dessus de cette porte il se fit construire une tour (πύργον), dont il voulait avoir ainsi l’accès par des souterrains, pour se mettre à l’abri en cas de soulèvement populaire (A.J. 15.424).

Où localiser la « porte est » ? S’agit-il de la porte orientale de l’Antonia donnant sur la vallée du Cédron, c’est-à-dire à l’extérieur du deuxième mur ? Mais est-il sérieux de concevoir une porte de l’Antonia donnant sur l’extérieur de la ville, alors qu’un fossé avait été creusé pour la rendre inexpugnable ? La description de Flavius Josèphe parle d’un rocher escarpé de toutes parts entouré de glacis (B.J. 5.238-239). De plus, comment comprendre qu’Hérode ait alors fait construire un souterrain vers la « porte orientale » afin de pouvoir quitter la ville en cas de soulèvement populaire ? Ou s’agit-il de la porte orientale du temple, c’est-à-dire de la porte sise à l’emplacement de l’actuelle Porte dorée de l’esplanade ? Une telle configuration semble encore plus absurde tant l’Antonia et la Porte dorée sont à l’opposé de l’esplanade du temple dans son ordonnancement hérodien ou pré-hérodien : il faudrait imaginer un souterrain traversant l’esplanade d’ouest en est jusqu’à une Porte dorée chapeautée d’une tour (πύργον), ce qui n’est pas vraisemblable. En revanche, le texte des Antiquités Juives prend sens si l’on considère que la « porte orientale » est une porte du deuxième mur ainsi dénommée pour la distinguer des portes septentrionale et occidentale de la même enceinte. Dès lors, la « porte orientale » n’est plus à l’orient de l’Antonia mais au contraire dans la proximité de sa tour ouest surplombant la piscine du Strouthion. Apparaîtrait ainsi dans le passage des Antiquités Juives le nom communément utilisé par les hiérosolymitains pour désigner l’arc de l’Ecce Homo : la « porte orientale.» Le souterrain mentionné par Flavius Josèphe – à identifier au canal dit hasmonéen sortant de la piscine du Strouthion – serait le passage secret, bizarrement dénommé « tour de Straton » (Στράτονος πύργος),9 permettant d’accéder directement au temple, dans lequel, en 103 av. J.-C., Antigone 1er fut assassiné sur ordre de son frère Aristobule 1er.10 Le mot Straton se 9 Cf. B.J. 1.75 ; « “Hélas ! Il convient désormais que je meure, puisque l’esprit de vérité m’a déjà quitté et qu’une de mes prédictions se trouve démentie. Car il vit cet Antigone, qui devait être tué aujourd’hui. Le lieu marqué pour sa mort était la tour de Straton : elle est à six cents stades d’ici, et voici déjà la quatrième heure du jour ; le temps écoulé rend impossible l’accomplissement de ma prophétie.” Cela dit le vieillard resta livré à une sombre méditation ; mais bientôt on vint lui annoncer qu’Antigone avait été tué dans un souterrain appelé aussi tour de Straton, du même nom que portait la ville aujourd’hui appelée Césarée-sur-mer » (B.J. 1.79-80). 10 « Peu à peu Aristobule ajouta foi malgré lui à ces discours. Préoccupé à la fois de ne pas dévoiler ses soupçons et de se prémunir contre un danger incertain, il fit porter ses

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serait petit à petit transformé en Strouthion, les consonnes restant inchangées à l’exception du θ remplacé par un τ et les voyelles se modifiant selon l’usage des langues sémitiques. Le nom propre Straton aurait ainsi été remplacé par un sobriquet populaire signifiant « moineau » facilement adopté par le peuple souvent enclin à se moquer d’un personnage public, comme l’était peut-être Straton.11 2. L’ATTAQUE ROMAINE DE L’ANTONIA L’attaque romaine de l’Antonia se concentra sur la tour nord-ouest de la forteresse à l’aplomb de la piscine du Strouthion. La description de Flavius Josèphe est riche d’enseignements pour comprendre la stratégie suivie par Titus et ses tribuns : Les Romains, qui avaient commencé les terrassements le douze du mois d’Artémision, les achevèrent à grand peine le vingt-neuf. (…) L’un [des quatre terrassements], dirigé contre la tour Antonia, fut élevé par la cinquième légion contre le milieu de la piscine du Strouthion. Un autre terrassement [fut élevé] à une distance de vingt coudées environ, par la douzième légion (B.J. 5.466467).

À première vue, l’attaque de l’Antonia au moyen d’une tour de siège en un endroit peu pratique – au milieu d’une piscine –, exigeant un surcroît de travail – son comblement –, paraît sinon incompréhensible du moins improbable dans la presse d’un siège qu’on souhaitait le plus court possible. En réalité, pour peu qu’on tienne compte des fortifications de la citadelle, elle s’explique aisément : la piscine du Strouthion, dont l’extrémité sud se situe à l’aplomb de la tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia, était l’un des seuls endroits de la forteresse – sinon le seul – non défendu par le glacis dont elle était ceinte (fig. 2).12 Dès lors, l’approche d’une tour de siège au plus près de la fortification sommitale était impossible à tout gardes du corps dans un souterrain obscur – il demeurait dans la tour nommée d’abord Bâris, depuis Antonia – et ordonna d’épargner Antigone, s’il était sans armes, de le tuer, s’il se présentait tout armé » (B.J. 1.75). 11 DALMAN 1930, 114–115. Cf. VINCENT 1954, note 2, p. 300. Jésus ne qualifie-t-il pas Hérode Antipas de renard ? (Lc 13, 31-35) Un autre exemple hiérosolymitain moderne met bien en évidence le processus de glissement de nom : le Garden Tomb qui conserve la tombe vénérée par les anglicans comme étant la tombe de Jésus (au nord de la porte de Damas), s’appelait à l’origine Gordon’s Tomb, du nom du colonel anglais qui s’était risqué à une telle identification. On voit comment s’est substitué au nom Gordon sans sens explicite un autre nom ayant les mêmes consonnes mais au sens concret : le jardin (garden). 12 L’escarpe rocheuse, visible au sud de la piscine du Strouhion lorsqu’on visite le Tunnel de l’esplanade, est verticale: « On avait construit [l’Antonia] sur un rocher élevé de cinquante coudées et escarpé de toutes parts. (…) Le rocher depuis ses fondements, était

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autre endroit. Aussi, le comblement de la piscine pour y placer l’engin d’assaut s’imposait-il sur le plan stratégique malgré le surcroît de travail. L’existence d’un pont avec une pile en son milieu au plus près de l’escarpe de la tour nord-est de l’Antonia facilitait évidemment la tâche des légionnaires, laissant entrevoir un délai court pour réaliser une telle besogne13. Le mystérieux « milieu de la piscine », mentionné par Flavius Josèphe, serait donc une allusion à la pile du pont – qu’elle soit de bois ou de pierres – sise au milieu du bassin que les Romains auraient utilisée pour asseoir le plus solidement possible leurs tours de siège. L’existence du pont, permettant d’entrevoir une attaque plus facile, aura joué un rôle dans la décision de Titus et des tribuns de ses légions de choisir cet endroit pour attaquer l’Antonia. Il convient d’ailleurs de remarquer que l’autre terrassement attaquant l’Antonia – celui de la 12ème légion – a été réalisé à une dizaine de mètres seulement (20 coudées) à l’est du premier. Si Flavius Josèphe ne nous égare pas par des chiffres approximatifs, cela signifie que la seconde tour de siège était située sur le bord oriental de la piscine du Strouthion, d’où elle ne pouvait assiéger que la même tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia, ou du moins son extrémité orientale, elleaussi non, ou mal, protégée par le fameux glacis qui devait rendre la forteresse inexpugnable (fig. 3). Les deux tours de sièges étaient proches l’une de l’autre, comme pour mieux s’épauler mutuellement, ou s’enflammer ensemble suite au travail de sape des révoltés juifs ! La pile du pont était sans doute trop peu massive pour qu’elle puisse stabiliser complètement les tours de siège, dont la hauteur nécessitait qu’elles aient une base importante : compte-tenu de la largeur de la piscine (environ 15 m) et de l’éloignement des tours de sièges (10 m), il est probable qu’elles fussent disposées d’un côté et de l’autre, à cheval sur les bords du bassin et le remblai le comblant. Cela donnait aux tours de siège une stabilité toute relative, expliquant leur destruction par un travail de sape astucieux dans une terre encore meuble traversée par des mines enflammées. Si le remblai s’affaissait tout à coup, elles ne pouvaient que se fracasser l’une contre l’autre dans un vacarme assourdissant : Jean mina le sol depuis la forteresse Antonia jusqu’aux terrassements, garnit les souterrains d’étais qui laissaient les travaux romains comme en l’air, y fit porter du bois enduit de bitume et de poix, et enfin y mit le feu. Quand les recouvert de plaques de pierres lisses, servant d’ornements et en même temps de défense » (B.J. 5.238-239). 13 Flavius Josèphe précise qu’il a fallut 17 jours pour réaliser les travaux de terrassements : « Les Romains, qui avaient commencé les terrassements le douze du mois d’Artémision, les achevèrent à grand peine le vingt-neuf » (B.J. 5.466).

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Fig. 3. étais furent consumés, la mine céda sur un grand nombre de points et les terrassements s’y effondrèrent avec un bruit effroyable (B.J. 5.469-470).

Un tel travail de sape impliquait un accès facile au comblement de la piscine dans une discrétion absolue. Le canal hasmonéen apparait comme le souterrain idéal à partir duquel la sape put se réaliser sans que les Romains ne s’en aperçoivent. Si notre identification avec l’antique « passage de la Tour de Straton » est juste, l’accès au souterrain depuis la Bâris/Antonia devait dater de la construction de la forteresse non seulement pour accéder ni-vu ni-connu au temple mais aussi pour s’approvisionner en eau. Les Romains l’utilisèrent sans doute pour entrer dans la forteresse une fois prise14. Les fouilles archéologiques réalisées par D. Bahat ont confirmé l’existence dans le canal d’un embranchement perpendiculaire pouvant être le vestige d’un tel passage15. 3. LE

DEUXIÈME MUR EN APPUI

La volonté romaine d’assiéger la tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia ne s’explique pas seulement par l’absence de glacis dans la piscine du Strouthion, 14 « Les Juifs s’étaient enfuis vers le Temple et les Romains pénétraient [dans l’Antonia] par la galerie que Jean avait fait creuser pour atteindre leur terrassements » (B.J. 6.71). 15 BAHAT 2013, 287.

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mais aussi par la proximité immédiate du deuxième mur. Un chemin de ronde reliait nécessairement la « porte orientale » du deuxième mur (l’arc de l’Ecce Homo) à l’Antonia, permettant de s’approcher au plus près de la forteresse et de constituer un troisième point d’attaque renforçant les deux tours de siège. Les Romains ne pouvaient qu’être sensibles à une telle convergence stratégique dont ils pouvaient facilement tirer profit. Certes, la tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia devait surplomber la « porte orientale » et le chemin de ronde qui les relie. Mais, avec les protections nécessaires, les deux endroits pouvaient servir de solides points d’appuis offensifs à ne pas négliger. Flavius Josèphe le confirme : Titus, s’étant donc une seconde fois emparé du [deuxième] rempart, le fit aussitôt abattre dans toute sa longueur du côté nord ; au sud, il plaça des postes sur les tours et médita d’attaquer le troisième rempart (B.J. 5.347).

Ainsi, les tours du deuxième mur situées à proximité du premier mur (ou du troisième dans l’ordre de l’attaque de Titus) et de l’Antonia, non mentionnées ici par Flavius Josèphe, ont été conservées pour y placer des légionnaires au plus près des lignes ennemies qu’il restait à conquérir. Les détruire aurait consisté à exposer la vie de nombreux légionnaires aux tirs ennemis en se privant de tours utiles à la poursuite du siège. L’arc de l’Ecce Homo fut ainsi conservé pour des raisons stratégiques. Titus avait d’autant moins intérêt à démanteler la porte urbaine qu’elle était aussi un point de contrôle d’un axe de communication majeur, sur lequel il convenait que la circulation des légionnaires et des chariots des légions reste facile16. Un sort analogue fut sans doute réservé à la porte septentrionale (la porte de Damas), en dépit de l’ordre de Titus de rendre inopérant le deuxième mur. Le désarmement d’un navire de guerre peut servir de comparaison : on ne s’attaque pas à la structure du navire mais on lui ôte ses organes vitaux. Le deuxième mur de Jérusalem fut détruit pour qu’il ne puisse plus retrancher des insurgés, mais fut sans doute conservé sur la majeure partie de son tracé, en particulier là où il pouvait encore servir les intérêts stratégiques de Rome. 16

On peut penser que la porte de l’Ecce Homo intacte joua un rôle important pour apporter tous les matériaux nécessaires, lorsque, l’Antonia étant prise, Titus « ordonna de raser les fondations de l’Antonia et de préparer une ascension facile pour l’armée tout entière » (B.J. 6.93 ; 6.149). La forteresse n’en fut pas pour autant détruite entièrement puisque les Romains s’y fortifièrent (B.J. 6.249) et que Titus assistait du haut de ses tours aux combats faisant rage sur l’esplanade du temple ; « De l’Antonia venait constamment une clameur qui variait avec le déroulement des opérations : quand les leurs avaient le dessus, les Romains criaient d’avoir bon courage et, quand ils pliaient, de tenir bon. C’était comme lorsqu’on représente une pièce de théâtre : en effet, rien de ce qui se passait dans la bataille n’échappait à Titus et à ceux qui l’entouraient. » (B.J. 6.145-146).

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CONCLUSION Au terme de ce bref parcours, une conclusion s’impose : les hypothèses novatrices exposées en introduction – un deuxième mur longeant la piscine du Strouthion au plus près de l’arc de l’Ecce Homo aboutissant in fine à la tour nord-ouest de la Bâris/Antonia – donnent un sens inédit aux descriptions de Flavius Josèphe. La stratégie romaine pour se saisir de la forteresse ne s’en comprend que mieux. S’éclairant mutuellement, nos hypothèses et les écrits de Josèphe s’en trouvent accrédités. Plusieurs points méritent d’être notés : – L’arc de l’Ecce Homo serait identifiable à la « porte orientale » du deuxième mur par laquelle, en cas de révolte populaire, Hérode pouvait s’échapper de l’ancien palais hasmonéen – qu’il habita pendant la première partie de son règne17. – Le mystérieux « milieu de la piscine » mentionné dans la Guerre des Juifs serait en réalité une allusion à la pile du pont qui la franchissait dans l’axe de la porte de l’Ecce Homo et qui fut sans doute utile aux Romains pour caler leurs tours de sièges. – La piscine du Strouthion fut le lieu de l’attaque romaine – en dépit du surcroit de travail que cela exigeait – parce que le glacis protecteur, dont était ceinte la forteresse, ne s’y prolongeait pas. Les engins de siège installés en cet endroit pouvaient ainsi s’approcher au plus près du sommet de la tour nord-ouest de l’Antonia. – Les tours de la porte de l’Ecce Homo et le chemin de ronde du deuxième mur accolé à la piscine du Strouthion fournissaient un appui stratégique important pour soutenir l’attaque romaine. – Les deux tours de siège furent disposées d’un côté et de l’autre de la piscine, à cheval sur ses bords et le remblai qui la comblait, expliquant qu’un travail de sape astucieux réalisé à partir canal hasmonéen – le souterrain de la « Tour de Straton » – obtienne la destruction des deux tours.

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CHAPTER 4

MIND THE GAP: FLAVIUS JOSEPHUS AND THE ROMAN ASSAULT RAMP AT MASADA* Haim GOLDFUS Ben-Gurion University of the Negev

Benny ARUBAS Hebrew University, Jerusalem

PREFACE In the summer of 1995, we had the opportunity to conduct excavations at the western section of the Roman siege works surrounding Masada. The work took place within the framework of the Masada development program and the preparations of the site, initiated by the Israel Nature and Parks Authority (NPA), for the admission of visitors in the third millennium CE. We conducted extensive excavation in siege camp F – generally identified as Silva’s headquarters during the siege – and in the smaller but later camp within it (F2), which was most likely occupied by the garrison deployed there in the aftermath of the siege. At the same time, we also conducted investigations at the assault ramp. A trench was cut across the middle of the ramp (S-N). At the southern side-slope we cut a stepped trench while in the northern side-slope we dug a deep probe into the fill layers of the ramp.1 The results of our excavation, especially, at the assault * This paper is dedicated to the blessed memory of a dear friend and colleague, Prof. Doug Nelson, of Northwestern College, Cody, Wyoming. Doug supervised the limited, yet meticulous excavation carried out at the Roman assault ramp. 1 Since there are, in various publications, orally and in writing, varied descriptions of the technical details related to our excavation at Masada, it is important to clarify the following: The license, de jure, to conduct the excavations at the Roman siege camp F and at the assault ramp was granted, by the Israel Antiquities Authority, to Gideon Foerster, Benny Arubas, and Haim Goldfus on behalf of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. We invited Jodi Magness, then at Tufts University, to join us as a co-director and upon her request we asked Prof. Foerster to issue a formal letter of invitation for her. The excavation was directed, de facto, by Benny Arubas and Haim Goldfus. The work on the assault ramp was

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ramp, were presented at various academic stages, in Israel and abroad. It also appeared in writing, in several publications.2 Still, we find it important, to reiterate, right at the opening of this paper that, in light of the data we retrieved and analyzed (the non-existing data being as important as the existing data) in the course of our excavation and after, we claim that the building of the assault ramp was never completed, thus it was not operational. In other words, the dramatic scenario of breaching of the walls of Masada, as it is portrayed in Flavius Josephus’s account, could not have happened. The reason for repeating in brief the result of our work in this international conference, convened to recognize Steve Mason’s recent study on the Jewish War (66-74 C.E,) is to firmly rebut dubious claims, which appeared in a recent paper, by Davies and Magness. In their paper, they openly criticize Mason’s treatment of Masada (in relation to Machaerus) because, to their annoyance, he took our work and stance seriously, even including it as a foundation for one of the four scenarios (and the “simplest” one), that he offers for explaining Masada’s end. Their article mistakenly presents Mason as accepting our view completely, clearly an excuse to undermine, and not for the first time, our research.3 1. RELEVANT EXTRACTS FROM FLAVIUS JOSEPHUS’ DESCRIPTION OF THE MASADA STORY The royal fort of Masada was built on a high elevated and isolated rocky block, a horst in geological terms, on the extreme eastern edge of the Judean desert, nowadays circa 500 m. above the Dead Sea Lake and ca. 60 m. above Mediterranean Sea level (fig. 1). According to Flavius Josephus, our supervised by the late Doug Nelson of Northwest Collage, Wyoming. Students from Tufts University, Georgetown University, and Northwest College participated in the excavations, as did a group of local Bedouins. The excavators received much help from the staff of the Masada site. T.I.K Projects group was responsible for the management of the administrative work. 2 ARUBAS and GOLDFUS 2008, 1937-39; ARUBAS and GOLDFUS 2010. For our last paper on the topic, recently published in Catena, a leading interdisciplinary journal, in geoscience, see GOLDFUS, AVNI, ALBAG, ARUBAS 2016. 3 DAVIES and MAGNESS 2017. We have no doubt that when Steve Mason chooses to respond to the above-mentioned criticizers he will do so thoroughly, and eloquently. When it comes to the research on Masada (as well as on other topics) Magness has long ago set herself as a “guardian” against “intruders,” who do not toe the line of her conservative approach. Later, G. Davies who sees himself as an expert on Roman siege warfare, could not resist and joined Magness. The two take advantage of every opportunity to undermine our work in the siege system while ignoring the actual evidence or worse, misrepresenting it to fit their presumptions. We intend to address, in detail, their claims, in a separate paper.

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Fig. 1: Location map

only contemporary source of the historical events and fate of Masada, a group of Jewish rebels, occupying Masada, chose to kill each other and die as free people rather than go into captivity. This act took place after the rebels realized that the Roman army, throwing an assault ramp against the fort of Masada, were about to breach its walls. Josephus describes, in a relatively detailed manner, how Flavius Silva, the Roman commander, ordered the construction of an assault ramp on top of the white natural rock (leuke in Gr.) jutting out from the cliff of Masada. He goes on to tell us that the ramp was neither high nor stable enough to support siege machines and to enable the breach of the wall of Masada. To overcome this gap, an extremely massive stone platform (bema in Gr.), made of perfectly fitted stones, was added on top of the ramp. The Romans, then, began their direct attack using an enormous iron-clad wooden tower equipped with a battering ram that was placed on the latter construction. Next comes the description of the breaching the Herodian casemate wall of Masada, after which comes the second attack in which a second wall, built hastily by the rebels from earth and timber, was set on fire.4 4

For Flavius’ description of the Masada story, see B.J. 7.275-406 (Thackeray, LCL).

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The archaeological finds unearthed at Masada, revealing the daily life of the Jewish rebels, and the well-preserved remains of the Roman siege apparatus correspond, to a large extent, to Josephus’ description. It seems also to conform, in many details, to the general course of war described by Josephus. It most certainly fulfilled its purpose in bringing the siege operation to an end with the taking over the Masada fortress. 2. THE ASSAULT RAMP5 The man-made assault ramp to the west of Masada is, noticeably, the most prominent element in the entire siege system. When looking at the western side of the Masada cliff, it appears as a soft, white, narrow earthen strip lying in a sharp angle against the fortress, glaring against the background of the harsh brown cliff (fig. 2-3). This man-made assault ramp was in this case a crucial component of the siege apparatus, as it was, under the harsh local conditions, the only option for the Romans to put a decisive end to the battle in a relatively short time. In order to examine the infrastructure, composition and construction of the siege ramp a trail trench was cut across the middle of the ramp. Due to logistic obstacles, as well as for the sake of causing as little damage as possible to the substructure of the ramp, the excavation did not reach the natural formation. Yet, as a result of a painstaking examination of the topographic and morphological structure of the ramp area, along with the description of Josephus, we could learn what the Romans faced, prior to their siege. According to Josephus, after building the circumvallation walls, Silva found only one place where he could build an assault ramp to reach the Masada plateau (B.J. 7.304). Indeed, a close examination of the terrain shows that the Romans laid out their man-made ramp on top of the easternmost part of a natural elongated spur/ridge oriented east west (figs. 2, 4C). This ridge comprised a series of natural knolls, the most prominent and easternmost of which is nowadays known as the “Zealots’ knoll.”6 The spur 5 In the following succinct description of the assault ramp, and its surroundings, we used modified excerpts from our papers cited above (fn. 2). Our description, in the main body of the present essay, is based, primarily, on our detailed paper in Hebrew, which uses almost no scientific, technical jargon. Nonetheless, if one wants to dispute the scientific facet of the research, as it appears in our paper in Catena, one must challenge it by using scientific tokens. 6 This spur is, in fact, a watershed between two streams bounding Masada from north and south. The northern one is Wadi Nimmer (Arb.) or, Nahal Ben Ya’ir (Heb.), and the southern one Wadi Sebbe (Arb.) or, Nahal Masada (Heb.).

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Fig. 2: An aerial view of the siege ramp and its surrounding, looking east. Visible features indicated in fig. 4 are also marked.

consists of Santonian-Campanian Menuha and Mishash geological formations, which are composed of friable whitish chalk and flint respectively. At the base of the ramp (the broad part) one can clearly see the inclined layers of that natural chalk formation, deliberately truncated at the top (fig. 3, 4B). It indicates clearly that at this spot there was once another natural hillock, then, the easternmost one. From there the natural spur continued upward until it was abruptly cut by the fault line, along which the hard dolomite western crag of Masada was lifted up, leaving the white spur some 15 m below its top. It is apparently the easternmost segment of the spur that Josephus (B.J. 7.305) refers to as the “White

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Fig. 3: The present state of the siege ramp as seen from camp F, looking southeast. The arrows point to the jutting remnants of the truncated hillock.

promontory” (Gr. leuke). In Herod’s times, and maybe even before, it had offered the most convenient access to the uplifted precipice of Masada. Silva’s engineers certainly realized that this spot is the most vulnerable access to the fortress and thus is the most suitable place, if not the only one, for commencing the construction of the assault ramp, designed to reach the walls of the Masada fortress. Obviously, they also realized that in order to do so the, now truncated, hillock should be razed in order to create a continuous ramp. Due to the height differences (ca. 80 m) the ramp had to be constructed in as low as possible gradient, in order to ease the ascending of heavy troops while they are pushing and hauling the siege tower and other machines to the closest possible spot near the fortress wall (note in fig. 4C the gradient differences of the various options). Interestingly enough, Josephus tells us that before doing so Silva apparently had to take over the place (B.J. 7.306), which implies that the rebels had some control over it. In another passage, Josephus bothers to tell us that in Herod’s times a watch tower, protecting the western approach to the fortress had been constructed in the vicinity (B.J. 7.293 and 304). The given distance seems overstated, as is typical of Josephus, but it makes perfect sense to assume that the tower stood on the truncated hillock, from which one could efficiently monitor the traffic, either to the fortress or to the water cisterns (fig. 4A). Indeed, Josephus explicitly writes that the proper place

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Fig. 4: Masada Siege Ramp in stages. A. The situation in pre-73 CE; B. in post-73 CE. C. East-West section along the ramp with the relevant features indicating its actual state, in relation to the plausible options of a would-be functional ramp. MF – Menuha Formation. BF – Bina Formation. GFL – Geological Fault Line. 1. Casemate wall; 2-3. The truncated hillock with a now-missing watch tower atop. 4. The “Zealots’ knoll” with circumvallation wall atop. 5. The actual man-made embankment. 6-7. a stone platform and a siege tower as specified by Josephus. 8. Restored line of an operational ramp (option 1); 9. Possible elevated surface (platform) at the top of the ramp. 10. Restored line of an operational ramp with moderate inclination (option 2, preferred). 11. The so-called engineers’ yard (“Bauplatz”).

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to start the ramp is just beyond the watch tower. Otherwise, why would Silva felt obliged to take it over by force?7 The chalk fragments quarried from the Menuha Formation were found to be a chief component in the construction of the assault ramp. Tamarisk trees and date palms, grown in the area surrounding Masada, were also used in its construction. However, they were used neither consistently nor extensively. The builders used, mostly, thin branches of Tamarisk and to a much lesser extent short trunks of date palms. These branches were placed into the earthen matrix at varying heights and directions; sometimes perpendicularly and diagonally. It was, most likely, a constructional element designed to tie together the crumbling lumps of the chalk and earth fill, in order to reduce, or even overcome, the inherent instability of the sharp sideslopes. The simplicity of the work, as it was exposed, seem to disprove the past reconstructions, scientific as well as cinematic, which gave the siege ramp an imaginary appearance of a spectacular wooden truss with high engineering qualities. CONCLUDING REMARKS Indeed, the discrepancy between the archaeological record and the description of the final stages of the Roman siege, found in Josephus writings, deserves a special inquiry but, such inquiry must be also impartial. The Masada site, both due to its remoteness and detachment from the inhabited land and due to the extreme desert conditions prevailing in it, is a unique example of the optimal preservation of archeological data. A deficient treatment of archaeological data obtained from such a unique site does not bode well for the desired scientific quality of archaeology as a research method. According to Josephus the ramp was neither solid nor high enough to perform a firm assault; an enormous stone platform, measuring 50 cubits3 (22.5 m3) and a 60 cubits (ca. 27 m) high siege tower, to be placed on top of it (fig. 4C: 6,7), were also needed in order to reach the wall and breach it by means of a battering ram (B.J. 7.306-310). However, no remains whatsoever of this platform survived at the top of the existing ramp and not even a tiny clue for its existence was detected there either. In fact, should such a gigantic platform exist, by its sheer height it would have acted as an un-passable barrier for the hauling of the huge siege tower up to its top. 7

Obviously, this tower was dismantled when the work of the assault ramp began. For visual illustration compare Fig.4.1 to 4.2.

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To claim that the current state of the ramp, in its original form looked different two thousand years ago, does not hold water. As we have clearly shown in our new multi-disciplinary research, based on macro and micro geomorphological investigation, soil survey, as well as examining the make, size, and angles of the slopes, from the constructional perspective, the structure of the assault ramp, seen today in the field, is almost identical to its original construction by the Romans, two thousand years ago.8 An operational ramp would have looked substantially different (e.g. fig. 4C: 8, 10).9 The implication of all of this is that the Roman ramp at Masada was never operational and could not have been functional for the reasons it was built for. Such a conclusion challenges our common conception about how the Roman siege of Masada ended. In light of the result of our work at the assault ramp, presented above in a nutshell, we find it futile here to delve into Davies and Magness’ interpretations of the various weaponry remains found on top of Masada; the doubtful assumption about the missing wall, the so-called the “breach” above the assault ramp; or their questioning the validity of our claiming, on the clear lack of evidence, any substantial erosion or damage caused to the ramp as a result of earthquakes.10 However, we would like to make here one comment on a point that cannot pass unnoticed, as it seems fundamental to the way in which critical arguments are presented in a controversial issue. In their paper, referring to our work, they write “Without questioning the validity of the geological and geomorphological data, we do not believe this evidence supports their conclusion for the following reasons.”11 To state “without questioning the validity of” and, in the same breath, claim “we do not believe,” about meticulous scientific observations, ignoring macro as well as micro data, is an oxymoronic statement contradicting objective facts. Davies and Magness, thus, casually tossed over our main argument from the discussion while wishing to hold the stick at both ends. They first approve, rather offhand, the validity of our argument, thus free themselves from the need to tackle it and disprove it, while at the same time they also virtually reject it, just to open a discussion, polemic in essence, on secondary finds, which depend, in large, on 8

GOLDFUS, AVNI, ALBAG, ABRUBAS 2016. Fig. 4.3 is a hypothetical, yet, realistic reconstruction of a would-be functional and operational ramp. This reconstruction, one of several options, was generated by computer programs calculating the various technical components essential to build a functional way from the terrain below Masada block up to the level of its wall-either to the foundation of the wall, or further up. 10 See DAVIES and MAGNESS 2017, and therein references to their earlier papers. 11 DAVIES and MAGNESS 2017, 58. The emphasis in italics is ours. 9

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the soundness of our argument on the main question. This cannot be a rational and acceptable premise. To sum up, it seems plausible to us to postulate that when the Romans had reached the stage of the construction of the ramp, as we can see it today (and as they must have seen it two thousand years ago) the siege apparatus had already fulfilled its purpose, and the work on the construction of the ramp ceased. Why? We can only speculate about the events that took place at Masada about two thousand years ago. At the heart of the Josephus’ story of Masada, who by then was already in Rome, lies the mass suicide committed by the defenders of Masada. This event might have created a great stir at the time. For Josephus, it was not important if the battle was fought, in one way or another, since in his opinion, the events prior to the mass suicide were, probably, secondary. Where the “dry” data was lacking he drew the picture in line with the requirements of the story, and in accordance to what seemed right and acceptable to him. He knew very well the tactics and practices of the Roman army and, therefore, could have easily complement the missing facts in accordance with “if you have seen one siege work you have seen them all.”

CHAPTER 5

THE ARCH OF TITUS AT THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS: THE ARCHITECTURE OF A TRIUMPH Marialetizia BUONFIGLIO Sovrintendenza Capitolina ai Beni Culturali, Rome

In the second half of the 8th century, probably in Rome itself, a guide containing a number of itineraries for visiting the city was produced by an unknown author (or authors) better known as “Anonymous of Einsiedeln.”1 In the Xth itinerary (f 71v), the route that went from Porta Appia and continued up to the Schola Graeca indicated the presence of an arch in the Circus Maximus, evidently still standing at the time, and its dedicatory epigraph was quoted (fig. 1): senatus populusq. romanus imp. Tito Caesari divi Vespasiani f. Vespasian[o] Augusto pontif. Max.) trib. pot. × imp. xvii [c]os. VIII p. p. principi suo quod praeceptis patr[is] consiliisq. et auspiciis gentem Iudaeorum domuit et urbe(m) Hierusolymam omnibus ante se ducibus regibus gentibus aut frustra petitam aut omnino intem[p]tatam delevit 2

While the arch at the center of the Circus Maximus was depicted in some Roman reliefs and mosaics, there is no mention in ancient sources of the reason it was erected. 1 DE ROSSI 1852; LANCIANI 1891; HÜLSEN 1907; BAUER 1997; VALENTINI and ZUCCHETTI 1942, 155–207; HÜLSEN 2016. The parchment codex 326 [8nn.13] is known as the Einsiedeln Codex, from the name of the Benedictine Abbey of Einsiedeln (canton of Schwyz, Switzerland) where it has been stored since the first half of the 1300s. It was rediscovered in 1683 by Father Jean Mabillon and published two years later (Veterum Analectum, IV, 1685: Descriptio Regionis Urbis, 491), with some errors in the arrangement of words. Later the CIL (VI 944) incorporated the text modifications proposed by Mommsen. Currently, the most widely accepted hypothesis (DEL LUNGO 2004, 18 ff.) is that the Codex was composed in the Carolingian age, probably drawn up in Rome at the same Papal court in a period between the pontificate of Hadrian I (772-795 CE) and that of Leo III (795-816), perhaps for use by dignitaries from the court of Charlemagne on the occasion of his fourth stay in Rome (800). See GRANINO CECERE, 2017, 229–34, for a bibliographic review. 2 CIL VI 944.

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Fig. 1 – The inscription of the Arch of Tito in the Circus Maximus reproduced by the Anonymous of Einsieldeln, f. 71v (picture from: e-codices - Virtual Manuscript Library of Switzerland, Codex 326 (1076), f.71v: https://www.e-codices.unifr.ch/en/sbe/0326/71v/0/Sequence-1016)

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However, it would not be until the excavations of the last century that archeological confirmation of the arch’s3 existence would be obtained, as well as its dedication by the senate and the people of Rome to the emperor in 81 CE. This was the year of Titus’ tenth tribunicia potestas, to celebrate the victory over the Jews and the taking of Jerusalem in 70 CE, which all of the generals, kings, and peoples before Titus had either failed to achieve or even attempt.4 This was the greatest of celebratory monuments, which, along with its inscription and presumably its decoration, was meant to exalt the role of Titus in the Judean War. Vespasian and Titus jointly celebrated the triumph for the victory in Rome, in 71 CE.5 It was the first time Vespasian and his two sons appeared together in public as an imperial family. The Flavian emperors espoused the pomp and ceremony of a traditional Roman triumph6 but made some significant changes, such as the parade of the two imperatores, father and son, on two different quadrigas, and the fact that the army itself paraded before them, not after them. The ceremony of the Judaic triumph has been carefully described by the historian Flavius Josephus,7 and his account constitutes a document of exceptional interest, not least because it is also the best account of this spectacular event. The show was organized with great care, given that the desired effect of the various sets presented to the public was to astonish and at the same time magnify the grandeur of Rome through the parade of the winners and losers of the military campaign. In June, Vespasian and Titus, after resting overnight outside the pomerium near the Temple of Isis, the Egyptian goddess to whom they were particularly devoted, proceeded at the break of dawn to the Porticus of Octavia. They were crowned with laurel and clad in the traditional purple robes.8

3 The various studies and analyses of the Arch of Titus were drawn up following the results of the excavation campaigns of the years 2014-2015 by the Capitoline Superintendency, directed by the writer of this footnote, and published in the Bollettino della Commissione Archeologica di Roma, 2017. 4 The text of the inscription tends to underline how the subjection of the Jewish people and the capture of Jerusalem were absolutely unprecedented. In reality, Jerusalem had been occupied by Pompey in 63 BCE (Tacitus, Hist. 5.10) and by Sosius in 37 BCE. 5 Cassius Dio, Hist. rom. 66.4-7, 12. 6 COARELLI 2009, 68; VERSNEL, 1970. 7 B.J. 7.123-157; Cassius Dio, Hist. rom. 66.7. 8 See VERNSEL 1970, 56ff.

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A tribunal had been erected, and there the two rulers extolled the valor of the army and recited the customary prayers. Then they retired to the gate called the Porta Triumphalis, because Roman triumphs always went through that gate. “Here the princeps first partook of refreshment, and then, having donned their triumphal robes and sacrificed to the gods […], they sent the pageant on its way, driving off through the theatres, in order to give the crowds an easier view.”9 It is very important to stress this passage of Flavius Josephus’ account: the procession went through the streets and squares as well as the διὰ τῶν ϑεάτρων, which refers to theatres, porticoes, circuses, and any large structures for popular entertainment that could provide an excellent vantage point for the public.10 Josephus described in great detail the triumph (pompa) as it wended its way to the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill: various treasures were carried in procession, along with large quantities of works of art, gold and ivory, the finest fabrics, gems and animals of all species, while prisoners of war were paraded dressed in their exotic costumes. Among the objects on display were the spoils of the Temple of Jerusalem: a heavy table made of gold, a seven-branched candelabra, and a copy of the Mosaic Law. Much astonishment greeted the structure consisting of moving stages, some even three or four stories high, and divided into sections in which the most dramatic phases of the Judean War were depicted. The statues of Victory, made of gold and ivory, preceded the chariots of Vespasian and Titus, while Domitian rode beside them.11 Cassius Dio tells us that after these events both generals received the title of imperator but neither took that of Iudaicus; still they received all the honors that were reserved for such a glorious victory, and triumphal arches were also dedicated to them.12 The arches and the images that were to adorn them ensured that the memory of the most important achievements of Vespasian and Titus, the 9

English translation by Henry St. John THACKERAY, Josephus. The Jewish War, Harvard University Press, Cambridge MA, London England, books IV-VII, 1961, 543-545. 10 The passage through the places of the entertainment is also found in the relief in Castel S. Elia (LA ROCCA 2008, 34–35, 39–40), where a procession (ludi?) is depicted with a magistrate facing a stage. The pompa triumphalis crossed the wide stage of the Theater of Marcellus: CIANCIO ROSSETTO and PISANI SARTORIO 2017, 252–56. 11 The winner also had the honor of being accompanied on the quadriga by his younger sons, but in this case it is evident that Domitian desired to obtain for himself an active role in the celebration of the triumph. 12 Cassius Dio, Hist. rom. 66,7; LEVICK 2016, 81. ‘They had reconquered a small rebellious province. And the name would have laid them open to the mocking charge of being proselytes’,

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re-establishment of the peace and the victory in the Judean War, would be perpetuated. Military victories were widely exploited in the propaganda of the Flavian dynasty. The family could not boast an illustrious descent; hence the exaltation of the victory over the Jews became the most important theme depicted in the decoration of the new monuments.13 Images celebrating the victory were also found on coins. The silver trumpets and the seven-branched candelabrum from the Temple of Jerusalem were kept in the Temple of Peace, a monument built with war booty and dedicated by Vespasian to the peace restored in Rome.14 The Senate’s provisions for erecting an arch in the center of the Circus Maximus15 were resumed on the tenth anniversary of this event, in 81 CE, to be followed shortly by another on the slopes of the Palatine hill, dedicated to the deified Titus.16 The latter arch constituted a monumental access to the imperial palace.17 Both arches drew on the triumph in Judea and the taking of Jerusalem for their iconographic and decorative schemes (fig. 2). The same decoration was also to be found on the ‘twin’ arch to that of the deified Titus, built along the route to the imperial palace on the Palatine and most likely dedicated to Vespasian;18 and also on the Domitian arch at the eastern entrance to the Iseo Campense. The arch dedicated to Isis there is now lost, but it is known to us through its depiction in the relief of the tomb of the Hateri (fig. 3, a). On the attic of this lost arch there are a quadriga in the middle and a palm tree on each side, with a kneeling prisoner and a trophy.19 This arch, featuring three semicircular archways, was one of the monumental gates to the shrine dedicated to the goddess Isis, rebuilt after the fire in 80 CE 13

HÖLSCHER 2009, 46–61; FIRPO 2009, 42–45. B.J. 7.158-162: The Temple of Peace was built by Vespasian between 71-75 CE. 15 Main references in: COLINI, 1934, 175–77; LA ROCCA, 1974, 1–5; CIANCIO ROSSETTO 1985, 213–23; HUMPHREY 1986, 97–100; CIANCIO ROSSETTO 1987, 39–46; BRANDIZZI VITTUCCI 1990, 68–71; BRANDIZZI VITTUCCI 1991, 7–40; CIANCIO ROSSETTO 1993, 108– 109, fig. 157, 159, 160; PARISI PRESICCE 2008, 345–54; MARCATTILI 2009, 221–33; BUONFIGLIO 2014, 326–38; PERGOLA and COLETTA 2014, 338–45; BUONFIGLIO 2017a, 119–26; BUONFIGLIO 2017b, 163–87; PERGOLA and COLETTA 2017, 127–36; COLETTA and PERGOLA 2017, 201–23. 16 This arch was not situated on the Via Sacra: COARELLI 2009, 86–90. 17 In the Middle Imperial Age the Via Sacra started from the Temple of Venus and Rome: COARELLI 2009, 87. 18 COARELLI 2009, 88. Domitian’s decision to build these honorary monuments dedicated to the gens Flavia along the new ceremonial route to the imperial Flavian Palace was significant. The palace was accessed via a further arch (Arcus Domitiani,) dedicated to the emperor, Dominus et Deus : CASSATELLA 1993, 92. 19 DE MARIA 1988, 292–94. 14

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Fig. 2 – The Circus Maximus on the left and the Palatine Hill to the right (from Google Maps). The white arrows indicate the position of the arches dedicated to Titus.

Fig. 3 – The Hateri relief (by Christian HÜLSEN, The Roman Forum: Its History and Its Monuments, 1909, fig. 150, p. 249) with depiction of the Arcus ad Isis (a) and the four-sided arch (b).

in the very place where, on the night before the triumph, Vespasian and Titus had prayed to the goddess.20 The same relief on the tomb of the Haterii shows another four-sided arch seen from the side, possibly located on the Palatine, near the Temple of Magna Mater (fig. 3, b). 20

The devotion of the Flavian emperors to the goddess Isis is well known. Destroyed in the 80 CE fire, the temple was rebuilt by Domitian; COARELLI 1993, 97, with bibliography.

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The triumphal character of this last arch is underscored by the quadriga on the attic bearing the emperor, who is holding a palm frond (?).21 Lastly, the actual location and attribution of the monument depicted on the attic of the arch of Titus on the Palatine is uncertain. The monument is found in the southern passageway relief, which shows the Romans carrying the spoils from the Temple of Jerusalem and about to pass under an arch. This relief anticipates how the Roman triumph actually unfolded, since the archway was topped with the statues of two emperors (Vespasian and Titus) in chariots, with Domitian on horseback.22 Titus died in September 81, a few months after the Senate’s provisions for this arch, so it is highly likely that the Circus Maximus arch was built and completed by his brother Domitian, whose rule would be characterized by intense construction activity that affected all neighborhoods of the city, entailing renovations of existing buildings or the construction of new ones. Moreover Domitian ordered numerous honorary arches to be erected to the point that he provoked ironic comments on the part of Roman residents.23 His first major construction project was carried out following the violent fire that struck different areas of Rome in the 80s. In the Circus Maximus, the works redefined the profile of its two extremities: they involved the hemicycle, where the triumphal arch was built in 81, along with restoration work on the interior and, in 84, also in the carceres.24 The architectural model of the three-bay honorary arch would be taken up again after Augustus, by the Flavian emperors, and not only in Rome.25 On the basis of a reconstruction of its dimensions, we can safely say that the monument at the center of the hemicycle of the Circus Maximus was the largest in Rome in the Flavian age, at least among those known to us today. As we shall see, all of its parts glorified the imperial family: the gilded bronze chariot placed on the attic, the dedicatory inscription, and the decorative apparatus, which celebrated the victory in the Judean War. Above 21

S. DE MARIA 1988, 121, 294. On the basis of a stylistic and structural comparison, the likelihood that this arch represents that of the Circus Maximus is to be ruled out. 23 Suet. Domit. 13,2: Ianos arcusque cum quadrigis et insignibus triumphorum per regiones urbis tantos ac tot exstruxit, ut cuidam Graece inscriptum sit: “Arci” (“He erected so many and such huge vaulted passage-ways and arches in the various regions of the city, adorned with chariots and triumphal emblems, that on one of them someone wrote in Greek: ‘It is enough’”). 24 Starting from 84 a loggia was built above the carceres. Placed directly above the Porta Triumphalis, it was especially reserved for the magistrate so that he could give the starting signal: MARCHET 2008, 291–317, 298. 25 DE MARIA 1988, 61–62. 22

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all, what was extraordinary was the very choice of the site where the arch was erected.26 The Arch of Titus was situated in the spot that could offer the greatest visibility in the whole city. It stood out in all the numerous events at the Circus Maximus and played a specific role in the Roman triumphs, which were urban tools of mass propaganda that had no equal in the ancient world.27 Indeed, this was the most coveted space in the city, where the ruling powers (be they republican or imperial) could easily obtain public consensus. Although the Circus had taken shape as a venue for ludi, or public games, under the Roman kings, it was first endowed with a stable masonry structure by Julius Caesar.28 During the first century CE, a series of fires and consequent restoration and reconstruction efforts increased the circus’s initial capacity of 150,000 spectators29 up to 250,000 spectators in the Flavian age, as Pliny the Elder (d. 79 CE) reports.30 To this day, the Circus Maximus remains the largest arena ever created for mass spectator sports events, the largest such structure ever built and hence the best place in Rome to watch the parades and processions. Therefore, it was also the monument that was absolutely best suited to imperial propaganda, as Flavius Josephus understood when he mentioned the passage of the Roman triumph of Vespasian and Titus through this enormous entertainment venue.31 On this site, with its great popular appeal, the procession could extend to its full length (the track was roughly 560 m long) and the extraordinary capacity of the monument made for deafening ovations from the packed audiences. The Arch in the Circus Maximus may have been erected on the same spot earlier occupied by the fornix built by L. Stertinius in 196 BCE, possibly the very arch destroyed by Nero in 68 CE (diruto Circi Maximi arcu) for the passage of his triumph in the circus, on the occasion of his return from Greece. In this case we may assume that over the following thirteen years, the area of the hemicycle remained empty or else was perhaps briefly occupied by another lost monument, until the erection of the Arch of Titus. 26 The presence of the triumphal arch inside the curved end of the Circus Maximus would become a model for the architectural design of other Roman circuses such as those in Leptis, Antiochia, Tito, Gerasa, Massenzio, Setif, and Toledo. 27 See: LA ROCCA 2008, 34–55; DE MARIA 2017. 28 Pliny, Nat. hist., 36, 102; Suet. Iul., 39. 29 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. rom., III, 68. 30 As reported by Pliny the Elder. Recent investigations, however, have largely borne out his claim as to the capacity of the Circus Maximus: BUONFIGLIO 2018. 31 Outside the pomerium the procession could change its route, but the passage through the sacred urban space was more restricted: LA ROCCA 2008, 40.

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Fig. 4 – The Arch of Titus and the hemicycle of the Circus Maximus in the Marble Plan of Ancient Rome (Forma Urbis Romae).

1. THE DISCOVERY OF THE

ARCH: THE

1928-2015 EXCAVATIONS

Despite the absence of mentions by ancient sources, coins and drawings attest to the existence of the Arch in the Circus Maximus.32 The floorplan featuring three intercommunicating arches is shown in the Forma Urbis Severiana, with seven rows of steps connecting it to the racetrack and two lines on the outside that may indicate the presence of another difference in elevation (fig. 4). Steps are present in the representation of the Arch in the Luni mosaic (seven steps) and in the Foligno Relief (four steps). In the coins minted by Trajan and Caracalla (213), the arch is depicted synthetically, with only one fornix. However, our knowledge of the Arch of Titus at the Circus Maximus has been rounded out by the excavations of the last century, which have led to the discovery of some elements still in situ, and the studies and analyses that started in the last few decades. In recent years, they have also resulted in the reconstruction of a virtual model of the Arch of Titus.33 The remains of the arch were first discovered in the years from 1928 to 1936, following the demolition of the small neighborhood that since 32

Cf. HUMPHREY 1986, 97–100; MARCATTILI 2009, 221–33. For the 2013-2014 excavations and the reconstructions, see: A. M. COLINI 1934; CIANCIO ROSSETTO 2018; BARTOLONI 2017, 189–199: M BUONFIGLIO 2017b; CANCIANI, FALCOLINI, PASTOR ALTABA et al. 2017, 250–37; COLETTA and PERGOLA, 2017; GRANINO CECERE 2017. 33

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Fig. 5 – Summary of the main findings of the parts of the Arch of Titus (1928-2015 excavations). Photos from the Archivio Fotografico Sovrintendenza Capitolina.

the Middle Ages had grown up around the Tower ‘della Moletta’ and completely concealed any traces of the ancient monument.34 Due to the presence of groundwater, the digs were interrupted and, in any case, did not go deep; however, the central area of the hemicycle was brought to light and the base of a pedestal column, detached from the façade and featuring some fluted drums, was identified. On the external, eastern front, a column pedestal and an honorary marble base were also found (fig. 5).35 The central fornix had been occupied since medieval times by the aqueduct of the Acqua Mariana watercourse (12th century), the floor of which, at a higher level than the Roman one, was made of reclaimed marble and stones.36 The aqueduct helped transform the appearance and function of the original building definitively. Generally speaking, the monument must have had a prospectus in which freestanding Corinthian columns resting on projecting pedestals were detached from the facade, according to a new innovative model already developed in the Neronian era.37 34 The tower was built in the 12th century in the Circus hemicycle, a few meters from the spot where the Arch of Titus was located. 35 CIANCIO ROSSETTO 1982, 571–73. 36 The channel was built to supply vegetable gardens and water mills. 37 The first freestanding columns appear on an arch with a single archway erected on the Capitoline Hill by Nero (after 58 CE: Tacitus, Ann., 13.41.4; 15.18.1) but then demolished due to the damnatio memoriae inflicted on the emperor: KLEINER 1985, 76–90; DE MARIA

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In the late 1980s, new investigations revealed part of the southern column of the central fornix and its corresponding pedestal.38 These excavations also brought various structures to light that since the Early Middle Ages had occupied the site of the arch, along with hydraulic ducts with sluices that diverted the water towards the two sides of the hemicycle, where cisterns and tanks had been carved out of the ancient ruins. A wall made with marble splinters from the same arch was found on the façade, set at the height of the bases of the columns and datable to the 12th century. This was interpreted as being the subsidence of an embankment connected to the medieval aqueduct of the Acqua Mariana watercourse. On the basis of the discovery of a number of travertine blocks, it was also hypothesized that a stairway originally passed through the central arch,39 although this was disproved by a subsequent survey. However, very few stone elements pertaining to the decoration of the arch survive. The excavations of 1934 revealed a Pentelic marble fragment depicting the head of a Roman soldier whose helmet featured a large angular cheekpiece decorated with a lightning bolt, alluding to the Roman legion called the Legio XII Fulminata operating in Judea under Titus (fig. 15, h).40 In addition, a fragment depicting a foot and perhaps another bas-relief from the demolition of buildings were found.41 Another very important finding towards the reconstruction of part of the decorative complex was a fragment carved from a block of Luni marble, of which a portion of a leg remains, dressed in trousers with part of the laces of the shoe, recalling the typical footwear of the barbarian populations (excavations 1986-88). On the left, part of a palm tree remains (fig. 15, a). In 1989, thanks to the discovery of further architectural elements, it was possible to create the first reconstructive model based on the anastylosis of the fragments of the arch, drawn up by P. Ciancio Rossetto and G. Ioppolo. The model was further developed in the electronic maquette of the Circus Maximus by J. P. Golvin, in collaboration with P. Ciancio Rossetto in the early 2000s.42 1988, 193. This is the first known example of the use of an order framing the fornix independent from the body of the building, with the consequent strong articulation of the loadbearing elements, entablature and attic. 38 On the front of the arch on the east side, a marble fragment was also excavated, but later covered; this constituted a connecting element between the capital and the entablature: CIANCIO ROSSETTO 1987, 45. 39 HUMPHREY 1986, 99; BRANDIZZI VITTUCCI 1990, 69–71; MARCATTILI 2009, 226–31. 40 LA ROCCA, 1974. The fragment (Musei Capitolini, inv. S 129) is 22,5 cm high, 13 cm wide. The eye is 3.5 cm high, the lightning bolt is 8,3 cm high. 41 PARISI PRESICCE 2008, 351–52. 42 CIANCIO ROSSETTO 2008, 17–38; GOLVIN 2008, 243–58.

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Fig. 6 – Excavations on the front of the arch of Titus (2015). Detail of the northern plinth.

In 2013 the modern structures still in place were dismantled: that is, the flaking wall that occupied the space between the front columns,43 built using almost exclusively fragments of the arch, especially from the front columns. The analysis of the data confirmed the dating of this wall to the 12th century, when the Acqua Mariana aqueduct was also built. Important findings also came out of the excavation carried out between 2014 and 2015 on the front of the two lateral arches (with the help of water pumps due to the presence of groundwater).44 These archaeological investigations allowed us to deepen our knowledge of some parts of the original structure and create a virtual model of the triumphal arch. Both sides of the medieval Acqua Mariana aqueduct, set almost in the center of the central archway, were excavated, allowing us to reach the original level of the ground on which the arch stood. The pillars of the frontal columns rest on a platform made of travertine slabs, set at 12 m a.s.l. Overall, only the first plinth, with the base of the applied order column, was discovered (fig. 6), starting from the northeast; the second plinth 43

At its highest point, the wall reached a height of 2.5 m. At present, the Circus is subject to frequent flooding, probably due to the backfill material that after the Roman Era created disruption of the water flow directed to the Tiber. 44

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Fig. 7 – Hemicycle of the Circus Maximus – Excavations and remains of the Arch of Titus (2015). In the central area can be seen the floor of the Acqua Mariana aqueduct and on the right the travertine slabs that cover the Aqua Iopia canal.

(partially), with the base of the column and the rear wall in opus quadratum with travertine ashlars; and part of the third, with a pilaster behind and the wall of opus quadratum with travertine ashlars, while only a fragment on the Roman pavement remains of the fourth plinth (fig. 7). The excavations have brought to light a number of large architectonic fragments, including a piece of the highest part of the monument. All these blocks are made of Luni marble, quarried near Carrara. When the Circus fell into disuse, the space where the arch had been was occupied, as early as the sixth century, by structures made of salvaged material in brick and marble. The abandonment of the area and the consequent rise of the ground level is signaled by layers of black clay containing ceramics and numerous stone fragments, even if some do not come from the arch itself. Starting from the eighth century, if not earlier, a hydraulic channel passed through the central fornix. This was presumably the Forma Iopia, built in brick and travertine slabs in different phases. Moreover, it was possible to refute the earlier hypothesis of the presence of a staircase inside the central fornix because the blocks attributed to the internal staircase proved to be the walls of the Iopia aqueduct.

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Fig. 8 – The Circus Maximus hemicycle with the area of the Arch of Titus (2018)

Further architectural fragments of the arch were recovered: made of Luni marble, they were also of large dimensions and included elements of the decoration and fragments of the large inscription on the attic, containing some of the letters. Some letters still had the lower and upper frame, which made it possible to reconstruct the original text, thanks to a comparison with the text mentioned by the Anonymous of Einsiedeln. Indeed, in the eighth century, although it was buried almost two meters deep, the arch was still standing when the anonymous compiler of the Einsiedeln itinerary copied the text of the epigraph, perhaps the part placed on the front of the arch. However, especially starting in the middle of the 9th century, the arch was gradually stripped of most of its structural and stone elements. The large collapsed marble blocks and the architectural and sculptural material formed an ideal supply of building material, especially for Rome’s residential and religious constructions. So they were very likely broken up, partly baked in limestone or reused in new buildings. At the beginning of the 12th century some of the standing elements were probably still intact, but in the year 1122 the central arch of the Arch of Titus was crossed by the medieval aqueduct of the Acqua Mariana watercourse, and a wall built largely with fragments of the frontal columns was erected as an embankment. Also, in the twelfth century the so-called Torre della Moletta, or tower ‘de arcu’, still standing, was constructed on the area of the hemicycle.45 45

MITTARELLI and COSTADONI 1775, V, App. c.342, n. CCII.

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The tower was built about 6 m above the Roman race track, on layers of soil that also contained Luni blocks from the collapsed arch.46 The passage of the Acqua Mariana in this spot led to the construction of new buildings connected to the use of water mills in the central area of the hemicycle, between the 16th and 17th centuries. But even earlier than this period the Arch of the Circus Maximus had already definitively disappeared. Currently, our understanding of the monument is limited. Of the façade facing the Circus, only two plinths with column bases and the base of only one of the pilasters corresponding to the eastern fornix remain in situ (fig. 8). 2. THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE MODEL OF THE ARCH AND THE RE-ASSEMBLY OF THE DEDICATION (2015-2016) Excavations in the archaeological area of the hemicycle have allowed us to complete the measurements of the plan of the arch, and thanks to the finding and cataloging of important architectural fragments and a few letters of the inscription, it is now possible to propose a new reconstructive model created by an interdisciplinary research group (Sovrintendenza Capitolina - Università di Roma3 - Dipartimento di Architettura) (fig. 9).47 The height of the letters made it possible to reconstruct the layout of the lines of the text and also the height of the attic itself. On the whole, the number of recovered fragments of use to the reconstruction was not large; however, we have gone from the 27 fragments from the first finds to the approximately 100 from the latest excavations.48 46

M. BUONFIGLIO 2014, 330–31. The working group was composed of archaeologists, architects and a mathematician. The archaeologists from the Capitoline Superintendency (M. Buonfiglio, S. Pergola) analyzed the excavation data, compared the ancient depictions and archive images, and performed a typological and stylistic study of the recovered fragments, while the architects (M. Canciani, M. Pastor, M. Saccone,) and the mathematician (C. Falcolini,) from the Laboratorio di Rilievo e Rappresentazione Grafica of the Dipartimento di Architettura of the University of Roma Tre provided the technology and methodology to create appropriate mathematical models and reproduce, with great precision, a number of fragments for placement within the reconstructive design. Archaeologist S. Coletta was also part of the working group, along with M.G. Granino Cecere (Università di Siena), who helped reconstruct the epigraph. 48 The final work on the Arch resumed and improved on what had been analyzed in 2013. The reconstructions were based on its objective dimensions: the general reference dimensions of the arch were verified, along with the correspondences with the proportions of the different parts of the architectural order, following the indications of Vitruvius. The reconstruction of the architectural sequences (of the plinth, the trabeation column, and the attic) resulted in an overall 3D model of the Arch of Titus, the best model currently reconstructable based on the fragments recovered and identified. 47

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Fig. 9 – Reconstructive designs and models of some architectural elements of the Arch of Titus (Dipartimento di Architettura UniRomaTre ‒ Laboratorio Rilievo e Tecniche Digitali)

The Arch of Titus had three intercommunicating arches, with a small central transverse passageway. It was about 18m wide (about 60 Roman feet) and 15m deep (about 50 Roman feet), and was recomposed with a height assumed to be about 20m. The lateral arches are 2m wide, while the central one is over twice as wide as the ones on the sides: 5m (fig. 10).49 The arch is made of Luni marble (bases, frontal columns, cornices) with the supporting structure in blocks of travertine, covered with marble slabs; all the architectural moldings found are smooth. On the front, it was decorated with large fluted columns with a composite base placed on plinths (2.30 m high) detached from the facade and with pilasters behind (fig. 11). The height of the columns was presumably about 10m, while the Corinthian capitals must have been about 1.40 m tall. The arch stood on a horizontal platform made of travertine slabs, which has been identified for a length of at least 5 meters towards the racetrack, without any traces of a stairway to the racetrack being found. 49 The width of the central arch is in line with that of the Roman arches between 6.8m (Arch of Septimius Severus) and 4.65m (Arch of Titus on the Palatine hill): LA ROCCA 2008, 36

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Fig. 10 – Reconstructive model of the Arch of Titus (Sovrintendenza Capitolina- Dipartimento di Architettura UniRomaTre ‒ Laboratorio Rilievo e Tecniche Digitali)

Fig. 11 – Reconstructive model of the Arch of Titus, side view and plan (Sovrintendenza Capitolina- Dipartimento di Architettura UniRomaTre ‒ Laboratorio Rilievo e Tecniche Digitali)

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The transcription of the text of the epigraph contained in the Codex of Einsiedeln nr. 326 is continuous, with no division into lines;50 Theodor Mommsen proposed a division of the text into seven lines, with some corrections.51 Overall, the inscription has been expanded by Walser as follows: Senatus populusq(ue) Romanus imp(eratori) Tito Caesari divi Vespasiani f(ilio) Vespasiani Augusto pontif(ici) max(imo) trib(unicia) po(te)st(ate) × imp(eratori) XVII

co(n)s(uli) VIII p(atri) p(atriae) principi suo q(uo)d p(rae)ceptis patriae consiliisq(ue) et auspiciis gente(m) Iudaeor(um) domuit et urbe(m) Hierusolyma(m) omnib(us) ante se ducibus regib(us) gentibus aut frustra petita(m) aut omnino intemptata(m) delevit. The Senate and People of Rome to Imp(erator) Titus Caesar Vespasianus, son of the Deified Vespasianus, Pontifex Maximus, with tribunicia potestas for the tenth time, (hailed as) Imp(erator) for the seventeenth time, consul for the eighth time, their princeps, because on the instructions and advice of his father, and under his auspices, he subdued the race of the Jews and destroyed the city of Jerusalem, which by all generals, kings, or races previous to himself had either been attacked in vain or not even attempted at all.

During the 2014-2015 excavations, four fragments of the dedicatory inscription were found, two of which fit together. These are marble fragments with engravings of deeply hollowed letters that must have contained the (lost) letters in gilded bronze. Two of the fragments contain the upper and lower cornices that framed the surface containing the epigraph, enabling us to identify their original positions with accuracy (fig. 12). Despite the small number of fragments, the analysis of their position and the size and the presence of the lower and upper frame made it possible to reconstruct the layout of the text and then define the height of the epigraphic text fairly accurately.52 The letters have different dimensions, since the height of the characters progressively decreased in the different lines. The two largest and most closely matching fragments are: the upper part of the ‘S’,53 with the remains of the upper frame that delimited the text field, and a large empty space on 50

WALSER 1987, 33. CIL VI 944. Specifically: in row 2 ‘Vespasiano’ in place of ‘Vespasiani’, in line 3 ‘pot(estate)’ instead of ‘po(te)st(ate)’ and ‘COS’ instead of ‘PO’S; in line 4 ‘patris’ instead of ‘patriae’: GRANINO CECERE 2017, 231. 52 With the help of the careful analysis by M.G. Granino Cecere. 53 The letter is 23.4 cm high. 51

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Fig. 12 – Letters carved in marble in the dedicatory inscription of the Arch of Titus

Fig. 13 – Reconstruction of the dedicatory inscription of the Arch of Titus in the Circus Maximus (Sovrintendenza Capitolina- Dipartimento di Architettura UniRomaTre ‒ Laboratorio Rilievo e Tecniche Digitali).

the left that suggests it is the first letter of the text, or the word SENATVS to which a ‘P’ is attached, also with an empty space above.54 It was therefore possible to reconstruct the arrangement as follows: unlike what had been reported by the Anonymous and reconstructed by Mommsen, the words SENATVS and POPVLVSQ(VE) ROMANVS were arranged on two lines and not on one, which is the same arrangement also found in the dedication of the Arch of Titus on the slopes of the Palatine Hill. The two other fragments found are the ‘C’,55 attributed to the word CAESARI and an ‘R’,56 with remains of the frame of the lower limit of the text field, also attributed to the word REGIBUS, due to its dimensions (fig. 13). So there were two lines for the dedicators, two others lines relating to the name and title of Titus, and three relating to the dedicatory inscription. The presence of the ‘R’ of REGIBVS connected to the lower frame attests that the last line extends for at least 58 letters. The length of the last line 54 55 56

The dimensions are slightly smaller: 21cm. The line spacing is 3 cm. The letter is 20.6 cm high. The letter is 18.6 cm high.

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Fig. 14 – Reconstructive model of the Arch of Titus with the insertion of the marble fragments used for the reconstruction (Sovrintendenza Capitolina- Dipartimento di Architettura UniRomaTre ‒ Laboratorio Rilievo e Tecniche Digitali)

has allowed us to establish that the dedication itself (highlighted by QVOD at the beginning of the line) occupies three lines and not four, as proposed by Mommsen. Hence the inscription in the first line bears the names of dedicators, that is, the Senate and the Roman People; the next two lines refer to the addressee, Titus, son of Divus Vespasianus, by his complete title of Pontifex Maximus, in the year of his tenth tribunicia potestà (obtained on July 1st of the year 81, shortly before his death on the 13th of September of that same year) and the same year as his seventeenth imperial acclamation and eighth consulship. The wording of the dedication itself, and therefore of the past concession of a triumph, was expressed in the following four lines: “according to the will, the advice and the auspices (praecepta, consilia et auspicia) of his father Vespasian, Titus had subjugated the population of the Jews and destroyed the city of Jerusalem, a success to which all the commanders, kings, and peoples had in vain aspired or which they had never attempted before him.” The text is very long and the lines are very close to each other, yet it must nevertheless be remembered that the dedication could easily be read by the public sitting on the steps of the Circus, placed on the sides of the arch and thus much closer to it (fig. 14).

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3. THE DECORATIVE PROGRAM During the 2014-2015 excavations, it was verified that most of the elements belonging to the decoration of the arch and found over roughly a century of excavations lay in layers dating back to before the 12th century: layers that covered the floor of the arch up to the height of the column bases57. The design of the reliefs and the Corinthian capitals (of both columns and pilasters) can be attributed to to the decorative tradition of the Flavian period. The presence of smooth cornices on the entablature and attic, even if it is uncommon for the time, corresponds to those on other monuments from the Flavian age.58 The largest relief fragment59 found (1986 excavations) belongs to a block that must have occupied much of the depth of one of the central piers.60 It shows part of a leg dressed in trousers and a palm tree (fig. 15, b). Even if the exact iconography of this fragment is difficult to establish, it may safely be said that we are dealing with figures and symbols that the Roman citizen knew very well. In fact, the most obvious comparison is found in all the images and statues that extolled the victories of Titus and Vespasian and the conquest of Jerusalem, widely exploited by Flavian propaganda. On coins minted by Vespasian, Titus and even Domitian,61 the conquered Iudaea (capta) is depicted in the form of a woman sitting under a palm tree,62 further proof of how important the event was to the Flavian dynasty. The symbolic figure of a barbarian dressed in trousers and a cape also appears; he generically represents the conquered inhabitants of Judea but also inhabitants coming from outside the borders of GrecoRoman civilization.63 In addition to generically symbolizing triumph, the palma triumphalis indicates the geographical location of the conquered territory. The height of the panels must have been about 2 meters;64 therefore this block was most likely placed in one of the pillars of the central arch, or in the opposite 57 See: M. BUONFIGLIO 2014, 332–34; V. BARTOLONI 2017, 197; M. BUONFIGLIO 2017b, 167, 180–81. 58 PERGOLA and COLETTA 2017, 36. 59 The block is 40cm high, 125 cm wide and 155 cm deep. 60 As also noted in the reliefs on the Arch of Titus on the Palatine Hill. 61 In 85, Domitian also minted coins showing the Judaea Capta, although he had no role in the war: CODY 2003. 62 The coin type with the palm appears in various forms on coins from the years 71, 72-73 and 77-78 bearing the names of Vespasian and Titus. CODY 2003, 107 ff. 63 CODY 2003, 109. 64 LA ROCCA 1974, 5; PARISI PRESICCE 2008, 352.

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Fig. 15 – Fragments of the decoration of the Arch of Titus at the Circus Maximus (Depositi della Sovrintendenza Capitolina). Images are not in scale (see text): a: head of a Roman soldier; b: block with a palm tree and portion of a leg dressed in trousers; d: fragment with leg covered with trousers; e: figure of an attendant or bearer; f: head wearing a crown; g: head of a bull ; h: relief showing a procession.

façade of the same pylon.65 The analysis of the fragments recovered in the excavations of the last few decades has not yet been completed, but it has been possible to identify other marble fragments that recall the same theme as well:66 one piece attributed to a palm tree (fig. 14, c)67 and a leg covered with trousers (fig. 14, d).68 A triumphal procession was presumably depicted on the frieze of the entablature: to this triumph may be attributed a fragment with figure of an attendant or bearer (fig. 15, e),69 a figure wearing a crown (fig. 15, f),70 a fragment (fig. 15, g) of the head of a bull (for sacrifice?) while a fragment of a female head wearing a diadem may represent Victory.71 To the decoration of the arch may be further assigned a further relief showing a procession, found in the 1928-36 excavations, in which three 65

COLETTA and PERGOLA, 2017, 215–16. Important contributions to the decorative program of the arch are due to the identification of some new fragments made by my colleagues S. Pergola and A. Coletta. 67 The fragment is about 30 cm high, 40 cm wide and 28.5 cm deep. 68 COLETTA and PERGOLA, 2017, 215–16. The dimensions of the limbs (diameter about 10 cm) seem to be compatible with the leg in the fragment found in 1986. 69 The fragment is about 20 cm high, 19.4 cm wide and 15.4 cm deep. 70 The fragment is 10 cm high. 71 COLETTA and PERGOLA 2017, 220–21. 66

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figures are visible (fig. 15, h): from the left a togate, another figure in the foreground who proceeds to the right (bearing a ferculum?), and the right leg of a third figure seen moving to the right. The figures reach a height of roughly 140-150 cm and can be dated to the Flavian age.72 The reliefs that adorned the Roman triumphal arch assumed particular importance in the decorative program that mostly featured scenes with military and civilian subjects. Although very few marble fragments have been found, it is certain that the decorations symbolized an out-and-out political and propaganda campaign centered on victory and triumph, with emblematic scenes that presumably alluded to military victories, spoils of war and trophies. These scenes were probably similar to those found on the Arch of Titus on the Palatine Hill, in terms of both the coloristic style of the sculptures and the subject matter.73 The attic of the arch was occupied by the long central inscription celebrating the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus and surmounted by a bronze quadriga and trophies. A long frieze likely depicting the procession of the same Jewish War triumph was placed on the entablature, and the spandrels of the main archway were presumably decorated with reliefs showing victory figures, while panels featuring ritual scenes such as the adventus (the emperor’s solemn entrance into Rome) or the profectio (the ceremonial departure of the emperor), to which the military head with the helmet of the XII Legio may perhaps be attributed (fig. 15, a),74 were mounted on the front of the monument, above the entrances of the minor archways, as also found in the Arch of Trajan in Benevento.75 The walls of the interior passageways were also decorated with reliefs. It is very likely that panels were placed along the walls of the lateral arches, which were longer since they were not interrupted by transverse 72 See: PARISI PRESICCE 2008, 353; COLETTA and PERGOLA 2017, 221–22. The fragment was probably found during the excavations conducted at the Circus Maximus in the years between 1928 and 1936 and placed in the Caffarelli Gardens on the Capitoline Hill. 73 LA ROCCA 1974, 5. 74 The soldiers in the profectio scenes were represented in full armor, wearing helmets. The legion known as the XII Legio Fulminata lost its eagle standard in an ambush near Beth Horon. However, when Vespasian was made Emperor in 69 CE, a detachment of the XII left for Italy, led by C. L. Mucianus, governor of Syria, to claim the title on Vespasian’s behalf (B.J. 5.43). Later the 12th legion would be called back by Titus to assist in the siege of Jerusalem. (B.J. 5.41). In 75 CE Domitian sent the legion to Metiline in the Caucasus, on the border between Armenia and Cappadocia (B.J. 7.18). 75 The arch of Trajan in Benevento (114-117) is chronologically the best point of reference for hypothesizing the decoration of the arch in the Circus Maximus. In fact, it takes up and embellishes many subjects found on the Arch of Titus on the Palatine Hill, illustrating the triumphal procession on the frieze of the entablature as well, while panels with scenes of war or donations by Trajan adorn the two facades.

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passageways. These reliefs depicted scenes of Titus’s feats or details of the triumphal procession of 71 CE. The theme of victory over the nonRoman population was recalled in the interior of the fornices, where the panel showing the ‘barbarian’ prisoner and the palm tree was presumably located. 4. THE ARCH OF TITUS AND THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS Domitian’s fervent building activity in Rome was characterized by the construction of various types of monuments aimed at the exaltation and glorification of the gens Flavia.76 He paid particular attention to the construction of arches, which were honorary monuments par excellence, designed to hand down the memory of his father and brother and their deeds for posterity, by means of their monumentality and dedicatory epigraphs. Many buildings by Domitian were built on the most prestigious urban sites or erected to magnify especially places connected with his family. Domitian commissioned the construction of the Templum Gentis Flaviae around 95 CE on the Quirinal Hill, on the site of the house where he was born. The triumphal Arch dedicated to Titus may have been built near the well-known emperor’s birthplace. In fact, Titus was born in 39 CE ‘in a mean house near the Septizonium and in a very small dark room besides; for it still remains and is on exhibition.’77 In the 3rd century, the Septizodium was a monument that stood on a strategic spot between the Caelian and Palatine hills, a few meters from the circus hemicycle. But in the 1st century this toponym might have been related to the Latinized form of the Greek term78 that indicated the seven streets near the hemicycle of the Circus, as the root of the term makes clear: the term Septem viae would survive into the Middle Ages. Following the fire of 80 CE,79 a series of reconstruction and restoration projects were undertaken throughout the city. Along the route of the triumphal procession, a new arch was built in the Circus Maximus: the Arch of Titus, which probably occupied the position of an earlier one constructed by Lucius Stertinius in 196 BCE, using the spoils of his victory in the wars in Hispania Ulterior. In 68 CE the Arch of Stertinius was destroyed by Nero, who had returned victorious 76

TORELLI 1987, 563–82, 575. Suet. Tit., 1: ‘Titus….natus est III. Kal. Ian. insigni anno Gaiana nece, prope Septizonium sordidis aedibus, cubiculo vero perparvo et obscuro, nam manet adhuc et ostenditur’. 78 That is: ἑπτα ὁδοί. 79 Cf. COARELLI 2009, 75. 77

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Fig. 16 – Reconstructive plan of imperial-age structures in the Circus Maximus hemicycle. Above, the golden ratio in the plan of the Arch of Titus

from Greece, probably to allow for the passage of his triumphal procession.80 Recent archaeological investigations have not fully confirmed this hypothesis; however, some evidence has been noted, such as the orientation and the level upon which the building stands, which is consistent with that of the late-republican circus (12 m above sea level), suggesting that the Arch of Titus was built on a site previously used, at the center of the hemicycle.81 The sacredness of the monument is also signaled by a peculiarity that is found in its planimetry: the rectangle formed by the planimetry of the arch is a golden rectangle, a geometric model recognized as an ideal of harmony that was often applied in design in Greek and Roman architecture, particularly in the design of honorary arches,82 to match the parts or elements of such structures to the ideals of harmony and proportion (fig. 16). 80 81 82

Suetonius, Nero 25; Dio Cassius, Hist. rom. 63, 20.1-4. BUONFIGLIO 2017b, 175–77. DE MARIA 1988, 76–77.

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Other observations may be made regarding the ‘visual links’ between the arch and the other parts of the circus. The orientation of the arch differs slightly from that of the long sides of the circus, while it is in line with the supposed orientation of the spina,83 the central barrier on the track which also delimited the route of the triumphal procession. The arch faced towards the pulvinar, the seat of the deities who attended the races, where the imperial seats were also located. The Arch of Titus thus creates an intentional visual connection between these two important sectors of the circus (fig. 17).84 Following the damnatio memoriae inflicted on Domitian, many of the monuments he built were destroyed. However, perhaps the very dedication to Titus and the powerful message (written and pictorial), which focused on the theme of the victory and triumph, allowed the arch to remain intact and preserve its pre-eminent position at the center of the hemicycle even when the Circus was rebuilt by Trajan in monumental form a few years later, at the end of the first century. It is also important to specify another structural aspect of the Arch of Titus. The Circus Maximus was below street level, with the outer road higher than the level of the track.85 Therefore, in order to cross under the arch to exit the Circus, it was necessary to overcome a difference in height by climbing the steps. So the steps to the Arch of the Circus Maximus were actually necessary, yet the importance and influence of its architectural model was such that even in other Roman circuses a flight of steps is featured in connection with the arch or gate in the center of the hemicycle.86 Precisely because of the steps, many scholars have raised doubts as to the passage of the triumphal processions through the arch of the Circus Maximus,87 but this difference in height obviously must not have constituted an obstacle for the Roman carpenters. During the pompa, the hurdle of the staircase could be overcome by building solid wooden ramps.88 83 Originally the triumph took the form of a sacred ceremony (lustratio) around the Palatine Hill (COARELLI 1988, 366; MARCATTILI 2009, 182) and the central barrier of the Circus perhaps retraced the border of the original pomerium, of which one of the sacred points was the altar to Consus, later incorporated into the same barrier. 84 A similar orientation, slightly uneven on the long sides, is also found in the gate at the center of the hemicycle in the Circus of Maxentius: IOPPOLO and PISANI SARTORIO 1999, 158. 85 For the ground levels in the 1st century in the Circus Maximus, see BUONFIGLIO 2018, 132–33. 86 In the Circus of Maxentius there are seven steps leading to the Porta Triumphalis (IOPPOLO and PISANI SARTORIO 1999, 159) and perhaps such steps were also initially present in the Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum: BRILLIANT 1967, Pl. V. 87 HUMPHREY 1986, 97–98; MARCATTILI 2009, 225. For the route of the triumphal procession: LA ROCCA 2008, 41–42. 88 See also: POPKIN 2016, 32. See for example the episode of the ceremony in the forum in Suet. Nero, 13.

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Fig.17 – Plan of the Circus Maximus in the 2nd century CE (reconstruction by Sovrintendenza Capitolina di Roma)

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Fig. 18 – The Arch of Titus at the Circus Maximus (reconstruction by Sovrintendenza Capitolina di Roma)

The triumphal procession began in the Campus Martius and then headed to the Capitoline Hill via a route that passed through the most crowded places in the city. But by far the best place in Rome was the Circus,89 where the procession entered by the carceres or starting gates at the northwest end, marched the length of the very long track and left through the arch at the southeast end, on the opposite side (fig. 18). The circus was absolutely the place which allowed for the greatest visibility, where the broadest possible ‘media’ coverage was achieved, and the passage through the triumphal arch decorated with the quadriga, decked with enemy spoils, military insignia and honorary banners sanctioned the sacredness of the passage of the victorious general or emperor. All the elements analyzed above confirm the importance attributed by the Flavians to the victory in the Jewish War, exalted through a real ‘advertising campaign’ carried out at various levels. The Arch dedicated to Titus in the Circus Maximus is a monument built to exalt imperial power, so it focused on different meanings and messages, as expressed through its very majesty and its decoration. In the intentions of the emperor at the time of its construction, the monument was meant to represent the celebration of the exploits of his family and was also, in the words of M. Beard, “a 89

Plutarch (Aem 32) mentions the triumph of Aemilius Paulus in 167 BCE.

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permanent memorial to the Jewish triumph”:90 a triumph and a conquest, used as a means of legitimizing imperial power and also a source of great wealth for the Roman people. Precisely because the arch was erected in a truly special place, it had to be decorated with images and symbols by then fully incorporated into the Romans’ collective memory and easily understood by anyone. This was not only a monument dedicated to the exaltation of a victory, in which the pride of the winners and the subjugation of the vanquished was duly celebrated. It should be stressed that the arch’s function as a propaganda tool and a celebration of imperial power would persist over time. The Arch of Titus displayed all the symbolic elements inherent in the universal notion of victory, and consequently it constantly recalled the greatness of Rome to the minds of the thousands of spectators who watched the games in the Circus Maximus.91

90 91

BEARD 2003, 557. A special thanks to Darcy Dimona for helping me with the translation.

PART III

SOCIETY: RULERS AND RELIGION

CHAPTER 6

JUDÄA ALS TEIL DER PROVINZ SYRIEN IM SPANNUNGSFELD ZWISCHEN DEN LEGATEN VON SYRIEN UND DEN RITTERLICHEN FUNKTIONSTRÄGERN IN JUDÄA VON 6-66 N.CHR. Werner ECK Historisches Seminar-Alte Geschichte, Universität zu Köln

When did Judaea separate from Syria? Steve Mason stellt diese Frage im Kontext der Untersuchung der Ursachen und Gründe, die schließlich zum Krieg zwischen einem Teil des Ethnos der Juden und Rom im Jahr 66 n.Chr. führte.1 Er verweist auf Emil Schürers bedeutsame, aber im Verlauf seines Lebens massiv wechselnde Antworten auf diese Frage, deren letzte aber die Diskussion über die Frage der Stellung Judäas zwischen den Jahren 6 und 66 n.Chr. und damit der Frage, wann Judäa eine selbständige Provinz geworden sei, für fast ein volles Jahrhundert bestimmte.2 Denn während Schürer in seinem Anfangswerk davon ausgegangen war, Judäa sei bis zum militärischen Eingreifen Vespasians im Jahr 66/67 n.Chr. der südliche Teil der Großprovinz Syrien gewesen, betonte er später mehr und mehr, Judäa sei von Beginn an eine unabhängige Einheit innerhalb des Imperiums gewesen, deren Leiter, ein Procurator, ähnlich unabhängig habe handeln können wie die Statthalter in anderen Provinzen auch. Nur in Ausnahmesituationen sei der Statthalter Syriens berechtigt gewesen, dort einzugreifen. Erst in jüngster Zeit, so Mason, seien manche Forscher zu der Ausgangsposition Schürers zurückgekehrt, was er mit der Aussage beschließt: „And I have come to agree that pre-70 Judaea is best understood as an ethnic zone of Syria…not as a Roman province with Caesarea as capital.“3 Das findet sich nochmals sehr klar in seiner conclusion mit den 1

MASON 2016. Folgende Abkürzungen werden verwendet: AE = Année epigraphique CIL = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum Dessau = Hermann DESSAU, Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, Berlin 1892-1914 (ND 1962). 2 SCHÜRER 1874; SCHÜRER 1890. Weitergeführt in: SCHÜRER 1979. 3 MASON 2016, 240. Ethnic zone ist dabei eine nicht zutreffende Aussage; inhaltlich richtig wäre: ein administrativer Teil der Provinz Syria.

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Worten: „Judaea remained an integral part of Rome’s province of Syria from Pompey to Vespasian (64/63 B.C.-A.D. 67/70), becoming an independent province only after the war although effectively from Vespasian’s arrival.“4 Zur Begründung seiner Position führt er insgesamt 12 Argumente an, von denen manche für mich voll überzeugend sind, manche weniger, was jedoch hier nicht im Detail ausgeführt werden soll. Seine Grundposition, die ich selbst seit längerem so beschrieben habe, scheint mir jedenfalls nicht mehr bezweifelbar zu sein, und bei dieser Annahme steht er nicht alleine. Denn schon eine Reihe von vorausgehenden Arbeiten der letzten zwei Jahrzehnte haben gezeigt, dass vielmehr zu viele Gründe dagegen sprechen, von einer Provinz Judäa und von wirklichen Statthaltern dieser Provinz zwischen 6 und 41 und erneut von 44 bis 66/67 n.Chr. zu sprechen. Judäa war – so inzwischen die Überzeugung vieler – in all diesen Jahren der südliche Teil der Provinz Syrien und die ritterlichen Amtsträger in Judäa – wie auch immer sie benannt worden sind – waren den wechselnden konsularen legati Augusti pro praetore provinciae Syriae untergeordnet.5 Wären die Funktionsträger in Judäa, die von Josephus und anderen Autoren höchst unterschiedlich, aber meist unpräzis bezeichnet werden, tatsächlich Präsidialprokuratoren gewesen, dann hätte es deren deutliche Abhängigkeit von den senatorischen Statthaltern Syriens sachlich und ideologisch nicht geben können. Voll hat sich diese Position in der wissenschaftlichen Diskussion freilich noch nicht durchgesetzt. Noch in der neuesten englischen Übersetzung des Bellum aus dem Jahr 2017 wird Judäa ab dem Jahr 6 n.Chr. als “province” bezeichnet und ἐπίτροπος in einem der entscheidenden Sätze in B.J. 2.117 als “governor of low rank” verstanden.6 Und gerade in einigen im Internet zugänglichen Übersetzungen, die natürlich schon älter sind, wird die alte und nun überholte Sichtweise weiter getragen.7 Deshalb scheint es mir berechtigt, die Frage nochmals, und zwar im Wesentlichen 4

MASON 2016, 581. Die verschiedenen Autoren hier anzuführen, würde zu weit führen. Verwiesen sei aber auf die umfassende Behandlung der Frage durch LABBÉ 2012; dazu die Besprechung von KOSSMANN 2017, 345 ff. Ferner meine eigenen Arbeiten: ECK 2007; ECK 2008; ECK 2011, 45–68. 6 HAMMOND 2017, 103. 402 f. in den Anmerkungen zu B.J. 2.117. 7 In der im Internet unter der Adresse: https://pace.webhosting.rug.nl/york/york/ showParallel?text1=wars&version1=whiston&book1=2&niese1=117&niese1from=117 &niese1to=117&text2=anti&version2=whiston&book2=17&niese2=355&niese2from= 355&niese2to=355 zugänglichen früheren Übersetzung lautet der Text: “And now Archelaus’s part of Judea was reduced into a province, and Coponius, one of the equestrian order among the Romans, was sent as a procurator, having the power of [life and] death put into his hands by Caesar.” 5

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beschränkt auf die Werke des Josephus, zu behandeln. Wichtig erscheint es mir aber auch, einige fundamentale Aspekte einzubeziehen, die sich aus allgemeinen historischen Überlegungen und nicht zum wenigsten aus administrativen und sozialen Strukturen des Imperium Romanum ergeben, die im gesamten Herrschaftsbereich Roms von der späten Republik bis weit in die Kaiserzeit hinein gültig waren. Solche Überlegungen sollen auch der Ausgangspunkt der folgenden Behandlung der Thematik sein. Alle diejenigen, die über lange Zeit hinweg ganz selbstverständlich seit dem Jahr 6 n.Chr. von einer Provinz Iudaea unter einem ritterlichen Präsidialprokurator gesprochen hatten, haben freilich nicht berücksichtigt oder nicht realisiert, dass eine Provinz Judäa, also eine selbstständige administrative Einheit unter einem Präsidialprokurator in augusteischer Zeit von der Sache her prinzipiell ausgeschlossen war. Einen solchen Provinztyp hat es damals noch nicht gegeben. Denn eine solche provincia Iudaea müsste analog etwa zu den prokonsularen Provinzen wie Asia, Africa oder kaiserlichen Provinzen wie Hispania citerior, Gallia Lugdunensis oder Illyricum gesehen werden. Zwei fundamentale Gründe schließen in augusteischer Zeit eine selbstständige administrative Einheit unter einem Präsidialprokurator aus: Zum einen gab es damals noch keine Provinzen, die einem ritterlichen Statthalter, der die Bezeichnung Prokurator trug, unterstanden. Dass Ägypten von einem ritterlichen Präfekten geleitet wurde, kann dabei nicht als Gegenargument verwendet werden.8 Denn Ägypten blieb auf lange Zeit ein absoluter Sonderfall, den Augustus nicht wiederholte. Welcher Sonderfall Ägypten war, ersieht man daran, dass ein eigenes Gesetz seine Stellung der eines senatorischen Magistrats, eines Prokonsuls, angeglichen hat. Bei der Erörterung der Situation in Judäa genügt es zudem nicht, einfach von procurator ohne nähere Spezifizierung zu sprechen. Natürlich gab es seit frühaugusteischer Zeit ritterliche Prokuratoren; die frühesten sind schon in den 20er Jahren in Sizilien bezeugt;9 ebenfalls unter Augustus finden sich Zeugnisse für weitere in der Hispania citerior sowie in Lusitanien.10 Doch um einen Prokurator dieser Art würde es sich in einer angeblichen Provinz Judäa eben nicht gehandelt haben. Denn Funktionsträger wie die eben genannten, waren nur für die Finanzen der Gebiete zuständig, die ihnen zugewiesen waren, entweder als Patrimonialprokuratoren wie 8

Zuletzt zum Präfekten von Ägypten FAORO 2011. PFLAUM 1960, III 1044. 10 Dessau 2007; AE 1935, 5: T(itus) Pompeius T(iti) f(ilius) Trom(entina) Albinus domo Vienna, IIvir, tr(ibunus) mil(itum) leg(ionis) VI Victr(icis), adiutor T(iti) Decidi Domitiani procuratoris Caesaris Augusti. 9

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etwa in der prokonsularen Provinz Sicilia, oder als allgemeine Finanzprokuratoren wie in der Hispania citerior oder in der Lusitania. Präsidialprokuratoren aber, die eine Provinz als Statthalter übertragen erhielten, gab es damals noch nicht. Erst mit der Einrichtung der Provinzen Thracia sowie der Mauretaniae Caesariensis und Tingitana unter Claudius werden die ersten Statthalter dieses Typs eingesetzt.11 Damit aber ist klar, dass es zumindest bis zur Regierungszeit des Claudius allein auf Grund der allgemeinen Entwicklung im Imperium Romanum keinen Präsidialprokurator in Judäa und damit keine Provinz dieses Namens gegeben haben kann, unabhängig von allen disparaten Aussagen, die wir bei Josephus finden. Dieses Faktum ist zumeist überhaupt nicht berücksichtigt worden. Ein weiterer Grund ist ebenfalls struktureller, noch mehr aber praktischer Natur gewesen, nämlich die Größe der angeblichen Provinz. Das ist ein besonderer Umstand, der, was man nicht vergessen sollte, auch später stets mit der Provinz Iudaea oder Syria Palaestina, wie sie seit Hadrian hießt, verbunden war: Auch seit der flavischen Zeit ist die damals geschaffene Provinz äußerst klein gewesen. Vespasian wusste natürlich, weshalb er Judäa, trotz der geringen Größe, zu einer Provinz machte, die er zudem von Anfang an mit einer im Verhältnis zum Territorium extrem starken Streitmacht ausstatten musste. Obwohl die Provinz ein so kleines Territorium aufwies, nämlich maximal 10–12.000 qkm, wurden dort neben einer Legion, der legio X Fretensis, noch mindestens neun Auxiliareinheiten stationiert,12 insgesamt nicht weniger als 10.000 Soldaten. Es gab in der Zeit Vespasians keine kaiserliche Provinz, und erst recht nicht später, die im Verhältnis zu ihrer territorialen Ausdehnung eine solch starke Besatzung aufwies. Seit spättraianischer oder frühhadrianischer Zeit ist das Heer der Provinz sogar verdoppelt worden. Seitdem gilt noch mehr: Keine Provinz des Imperiums war im Verhältnis zu ihrer Größe derart militarisiert wie Judäa, auch nicht Britannien, Niedergermanien oder Pannonien, an deren Grenzen man mit gefährlichen Feinden konfrontiert war. Im Jahr 6 n.Chr. aber war das Herrschaftsgebiet des Archelaus, also Iudaea, Samaria und Idumaea, klein, sehr klein, deutlich kleiner als die spätere Provinz; denn nicht wenige Gebiete, die Herodes als König regiert hatte, waren nach dessen Tod nicht Archelaus zugewiesen worden. Es umfasste sicher weniger als 10.000 qkm. Galiläa gehörte nicht dazu, auch nicht die Decapolis, also z. B. auch die wirklich bedeutende Stadt Scythopolis, oder auch Askelon an der Küste des Mittelmeers. Als griechische Städte hatten sie nicht zum Herrschaftsgebiet des Archelaus gezählt. Eine 11 12

THOMASSON 1996; FAORO 2011. COTTON, ECK, und ISAAC 2003; ECK und PANGERL 2012.

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solch kleine Provinz aber hat es damals im Imperium Romanum nicht gegeben. Cypern mit etwas mehr als 9000 qkm kann man nicht als Gegenbeispiel anführen, da es als Insel naturgemäß eine Sonderstellung einnahm. Creta, das noch etwas kleiner war als Cypern, bildete zusammen mit Cyrenae eine Provinz, war damit deutlich größer. Natürlich hat Augustus große Provinzkomplexe geteilt wie etwa die Gallia Comata im Jahr 15 v.Chr. in die drei Provinzen Belgica, Lugdunensis und Aquitania; jede dieser Provinzen übertraf jedoch, wie schon ein kurzer Blick auf eine Karte des Imperium Romanum zeigt, mit ihrem Territorium das Herrschaftsgebiet des Archelaus um ein Vielfaches. Weshalb hätte Augustus, als er Archelaus absetzte und dessen territorial kleine Tetrarchie einzog, von den üblichen Prinzipien auch hinsichtlich der Größe des Provinzterritoriums abgehen sollen, die man bis dahin stets voraussetzte, bevor man zur Einrichtung einer selbstständigen Provinz schritt. Welches Motiv hätte ihn dazu bringen sollen? Wohl aber gab es Modelle, wie man kleinere Territorien, die Rom im Laufe der Zeit erworben hat, die nach unterschiedlichen Gründen eine gewisse Einheit bildeten, jedoch allein nicht den Umgang aufwiesen, um eine eigene Provinz zu bilden, in die administrative Struktur einer größeren, schon bestehenden Provinz einschließen konnte. So kennen wir einen praefectus civitatium in Alpibus maritumis, offensichtlich in der Zeit des Tiberius,13 das einer benachbarten Provinz, vermutlich der Lugdunensis oder auch dem Befehlsbereich des Legaten in der Provinz Germania angeschlossen wurde. In Nordspanien ist ein praefectus Asturiae bezeugt, der für ein Gebiet zuständig war, das auch nicht mehr als rund 10.000 qkm umfasste;14 ebenso ist ein praefectus Gallaeciae bezeugt, für ein Gebiet, das wohl sogar deutlich größer war als Asturien. Beide Bereiche wurden, als sie in den späten 20er Jahren des 1. Jh. v.Chr. erobert wurden, nicht als eigene Provinz organisiert, sondern in die Hispania citerior eingeschlossen.15 Auf Sardinien ist, wohl in mittelaugusteischer Zeit, ein praefectus civitatium Barbariae in Sardinia bekannt; das 13

CIL V 1838/39 = Dessau 1349: C(aio) Baebio P(ubli) f(ilio) Cla(udia) / Attico / IIvir(o) i(ure) [d(icundo)] primo pil(o) / leg(ionis) V Macedonic(ae) praef(ecto) / c[i]vitatium Moesiae et / Treballia[e pra]ef(ecto) [ci]vitat(ium) / in Alpib(us) Maritumis t[r(ibuno)] mil(itum) coh(ortis) / VIII pr(aetoriae) primo pil(o) iter(um) procurator(i) / Ti(beri) Claudi Caesaris Aug(usti) Germanici / in Norico / civitas / Saevatum et Laiancorum. 14 CIL II 4616 = Dessau 6948: L(ucius) Marcius Q(uinti) f(ilius) Gal(eria) Optatus / aedil(is) Tarracone IIvir Ilurone / et IIvir quinquennalis primus / praefectus Asturiae tribun(us) milit(um) / legionis secundae Augustae / annor(um) XXXVI in Phrygia decessit. 15 CIL II 3271 = FAORO 2018, 250: [--] fisci et curatori divi Titi in Baetica, prae[f(ecto)] Call(a)eciae, pr(a)ef(ecto) fisci Germaniae Caesarum Imp(eratorum), tribuno leg(ionis) VIII, flamini Augustali in Baetica primo [--].

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so beschriebene Territorium umfasste den inneren Kern der Insel, ein Gebiet, das wegen seiner unruhigen Bevölkerung einer besonderen Kontrolle bedurfte, die der damalige proconsul provinciae Sardiniae wohl nicht leisten konnte.16 Auch Raetia, dessen Territorium in der augusteischen Zeit nicht genau zu erfassen ist, aber sicher weit mehr als 30.000 qkm umfasste, unterstand damals einem Militär mit der Funktionsbezeichnung praefectus Raetis Vindolicis vallis Poeninae et levis armaturae,17 der seinerseits dem kaiserlichen Legaten zugeordnet war, der die Truppen am Ober- und Mittelrhein kommandierte. Auch Noricum dürfte, seit es bald nach der Eroberung der Alpen 15 v.Chr. in die direkte römische Herrschaft eingegliedert war, einem praefectus unterstanden haben, der seinerseits von dem Provinzlegaten des damals noch ungeteilten Illyricum, später vielleicht von Pannonia abhängig war. Es ist ein fast konstantes Modell, das wir an nicht wenigen Stellen im Imperium antreffen: ein ritterlicher praefectus kontrollierte einen begrenzten Bereich innerhalb einer größeren Provinz, deren Statthalter er untergeordnet war.18 Das ist auch, abgesehen von Judäa, in anderen Regionen des Ostens bekannt. Noch in flavischer Zeit wird von einem namentlich unbekannten Ritter berichtet, er sei ἔπαρχος [εἴλ]ης β Παννονίων, [ἡγησά]μενος Δεκαπόλεως τῆς ἐν Συρίᾳ gewesen.19 Dieser Ritter hat damals neben einem Kommando über eine berittene Einheit die administrative Überwachung der Städte der Decapolis erhalten; doch die Städte bildeten einen Teil der Provinz Syrien, wie eigens konstatiert wird, und unterstanden natürlich dem Statthalter dieser Provinz, dem gegenüber der praefectus seinerseits rechenschaftspflichtig war. Auch im Norden Syriens können wir diese Doppelstruktur sehen: Als Commagene für das Imperium eingezogen wurde, beauftragte der Kaiser dort ebenfalls einen praefectus [--- C]ommagene[s] mit der konkreten Administration des Gebiets vor Ort; Commagene war aber Teil einer größeren benachbarten Provinz, dessen Legat der Statthalter auch von Commagene war, entweder der Legat von Syrien oder vielleicht auch der von Cappadocia, der seit frühvespasianischer Zeit die östlichste Provinz des Reiches leitete.20 Dieses Modell: senatorischer konsularer Statthalter und ritterlicher Präfekt für einen Teil einer Provinz, hatte 16 CIL XIV 2954 = Dessau 2684: Sex(tus) Iulius S(puri) f(ilius) Pol(lia) Rufus evocatus divi Augusti, praefectus [I] cohortis Corsorum et civitatum Barbariae in Sardinia. 17 CIL IX 3044 = Dessau 2689. 18 ZWICKY 1944; BRUNT 1983, 42 ff., bes. 55 ff.; DEMOUGIN 1981, 97 ff. 19 KRAUSS 1980 = Johannes KRAUSS, Die Inschriften von Sestos und der thrakischen Chersones (= Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien 19), Bonn 1980, 53 = ISAAC 1981 = SEG 31.675. 20 AE 1926, 82 = 1982, 885.

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Augustus selbst geschaffen. Auch in Judäa richtete er sich danach. Vielleicht darf man etwas Ähnliches auch für die Tetrarchie des Herodessohnes Philippus voraussetzen; denn als er im Jahr 34 starb, provinzialisierte Tiberius dessen Territorium, indem er es zu einem Teil der Provinz Syrien machte.21 Es ist durchaus möglich, vielleicht sogar wahrscheinlich, dass er für dieses Gebiet einen eigenen praefectus ernannte, analog zu Judäa, der Decapolis und Commagene. Was aber findet man bei Josephus zu der Thematik „When did Judaea separate from Syria?“ im Bellum und in den Antiquitates, worauf die Rekonstruktionen der Administration Judäas und seiner Träger in den sechs Jahrzehnten seit Archelaus’ Verbannung beruhen? Essentiell ist die Feststellung, dass vor allem Josephus – allerdings nicht nur er – keine einheitliche Terminologie für die römischen Funktionsträger in Judäa erkennen lässt, eher könnte man diese unter systematischer Blickpunkt als chaotisch bezeichnen, was aber generell für seine Schilderungen gilt, nicht nur für die sogenannten Prokuratoren in Judäa.22 Ein besonders eklatantes Beispiel ist seine Behauptung im Bellum zum Jahr 20 v.Chr.: Augustus κατέστησεν δὲ αὐτὸν (sc. Herodes) καὶ Συρίας ὅλης ἐπίτροπον.23 Wäre dies zutreffend gewesen, dann hätte Herodes nicht nur für den Einzug der Steuern in der Provinz Syrien zu sorgen gehabt, sondern vor allem auch für die Versorgung des Heeres mit Sold und Ausrüstung. Natürlich hat Augustus auch nicht einen Augenblick daran gedacht, einem Klientelkönig diese gerade für die Sicherheit Roms zentrale Aufgabe zu übertragen. Was Augustus damals von Herodes wollte, geht sicher in eine ganz andere Richtung, worauf hier nicht einzugehen ist. Ἐπίτροπος ist hier jedenfalls kein Terminus, den man mit Blick auf Herodes mit procurator übersetzen darf. Symptomatisch ist auch sein Bericht über den Prozess, den Herodes in Antiochia gegen seine eigenen Söhne führte. Daran nahmen, wie Josephus B.J. 1.538 schreibt, folgende Römer teil: οἱ ἡγεμόνες … Σατορνῖνός τε καὶ οἱ περὶ Πεδάνιον πρέσβεις, σὺν οἷς [καὶ] Οὐολούμνιος ἐπίτροπος. Hier gebraucht er den Begriff ἡγεμόνες für Sentius Saturninus, für einen Pedanius, der offensichtlich Legionslegat war, obwohl die Formulierung οἱ περὶ Πεδάνιον πρέσβεις enigmatisch ist. Der procurator Syriae Volumnius wird hier noch mit dem Begriff ἐπίτροπος von ihnen abgehoben. Doch A.J. 16.277 schreibt Josephus: ἐκεῖνος δὲ διελέγετο περὶ τούτων τοῖς Καίσαρος ἡγεμόσιν Σατορνίνῳ τε καὶ Οὐολομνίῳ … Auch 16.280 fasst er diese beiden Namen zusammen: ἐπί τε Σατορνίνου καὶ Οὐολομνίου τῶν Συρίας 21 22 23

A.J. 18.108 (dankenswerter Hinweis von Bieke Mahieu während des Kolloquiums). Siehe ECK 2008. B.J. 1.399.

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ἐπιστατούντων. Er beschreibt sie so, als ob sie innerhalb der Administration der Provinz gleiche Aufgaben gehabt hätten und auch gleichen Ranges gewesen wären. Ἡγεμών aber ist der übliche politisch-rechtliche Begriff für den Statthalter, und zwar fast stets für die kaiserlichen legati Augusti pro praetore, nicht aber für die procuratores. Doch Josephus benutzt den Begriff ἡγεμών bei den ritterlichen Amtsträgern in Judäa zwischen 6 und 66 n.Chr. neben ἐπίτροπος, ἔπαρχος oder διοικήσας τὸ ἔθνος völlig bedenkenlos und vermischt.24 Josephus weicht zwar ein wenig von dem ab, was auch andere römische Historiker praktizieren, die nämlich termini tecnici der administrativen Struktur eher vermeiden. Josephus seinerseits verwendet, oberflächlich gesehen, gerade diese Termini, ohne jedoch darauf zu achten, wen er wie bezeichnet. Dies gilt nicht nur für die Bezeichnung ἡγεμών, das geschieht besonders auch bei ἐπίτροπος, dem Äquivalent von procurator. Diese Bezeichnung kommt, wenn er von den ritterlichen Funktionsträgern in Judäa spricht, bei ihm weitaus am häufigsten vor, insgesamt bei neun Personen, ebenso bei zwei weiteren Personen, für die er aber auch ἔπαρχος verwendet. Diesen letzteren Terminus wendet er bei insgesamt fünf Rittern in Judäa an; in drei Fällen ist dies die einzige Bezeichnung für ritterliche Funktionsträger, nämlich für Annius Rufus und Valerius Gratus unter Tiberius sowie für Lucceius Albinus, den Vorgänger des berüchtigten Gessius Florus, in der Spätzeit Neros. Es ist also ein völlig unklares Bild, das sich aus den Schriften des Historikers für die Beschreibung der Stellung der Ritter in Judäa ergibt. Seine Termini sind ohne historischen Wert. Für die Jahre zwischen 6 und 41 n.Chr. muss man nicht mehr nachweisen, dass die meisten Angaben bei Josephus zu den angeblichen procuratores Iudaeae falsch sind. Die Inschrift des Pontius Pilatus hat das klar gemacht oder hätte es zumindest klar machen müssen. Es ist jedenfalls bezeichnend und nicht dem Zufall zuzuschreiben, dass die Funktionsbeschreibung in der Bauinschrift aus Caesarea nur praefectus Iudaeae lautet, nicht provinciae Iudaeae;25 es ist dieselbe Präzision wie bei praefectus Asturiae, praefectus Gallaeciae oder praefectus civitatium in Alpibus maritumis. Nimmt man übrigens Josephus’ Text in B.J. 2.117 ernst, worauf sich vor allem die Ansicht über eine Provinz Judäa bereits im Jahr 6 zu stützen sucht, dann steht dies Aussage dort, wenn ich die Passage recht verstehe, eben nicht so eindeutig, wie es wohl alle Übersetzungen suggerieren. Der Text lautet: Τῆς δὲ Ἀρχελάου χώρας εἰς ἐπαρχίαν περιγραφείσης ἐπίτροπος τῆς ἱππικῆς παρὰ Ῥωμαίοις τάξεως Κωπώνιος 24 25

ECK 2008, 218–26. AE 1963, 104 = 1999, 1681 = CIIP II 1277.

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πέμπεται. In der deutschen Übersetzung bei Michel-Bauernfeind lautet das: „Das Gebiet des Archelaos wurde in eine Provinz umgewandelt und als Prokurator wurde Coponius, ein Mann aus dem römischem Ritterstand, entsandt.“26 In der letzten englischen Übersetzung des Bellum von Martin Hammond heißt das: „Archelaus’ territory was now designated a Roman province, and Coponius, a member of the equestrian order at Rome, was sent out as procurator.“27 Tatsächlich muss man wohl die Bellum-Passage wegen des Verbum περιγράφω so übersetzen: „Nachdem des Archelaos’ Gebiet in den Provinzstatus überführt worden war, wurde als sein (d.h. des Gebietes) Prokurator Coponius ... entsandt.“28 D. h. es wird auch im Bellum nicht direkt gesagt, Judäa sei zu einer Provinz gemacht worden, vielmehr ist die Aussage durchaus mit dem vereinbar, wie es in den späteren Antiquitates geschrieben ist: παρῆν δὲ καὶ Κυρίνιος εἰς τὴν Ἰουδαίαν προσθήκην τῆς Συρίας γενομένην: Judäa war ein Annex von Syrien geworden.29 Es ist die gleiche Wortwahl, die Iosephus im Jahr 34 beim Anschluss der Tetrarchie des Philippus an die Provinz Syrien wählt: προσθήκην ἐπαρχίας ποιεῖται τῆς Συρίας, wobei Tiberius dennoch anordnete, die Steuern dieses Gebiets separat zu vereinnahmen.30 Dieses Territorium behielt somit, obwohl eingegliedert in die Provinz Syrien partiell noch einen Sonderstatus. Hat sich der Status Judäas und des ritterlichen Amtsträgers dort seit dem Tod des Königs Agrippa im Jahr 44 geändert oder ist der alte Status erneuert worden? Aus den Benennungen der ritterlichen Amtsträger bei Josephus ist erneut nichts zu gewinnen, da die Termini genauso willkürlich verwendet werden wie für die vorausgegangene Periode. Doch davon unabhängig kann man sehen, ob die Legaten von Syrien weiterhin wie schon bis zum Jahr 41 in Judäa als ihrem südlichen Provinzteil eingreifen. Denn hätte ab 44 dort tatsächlich ein procurator im Sinn eines Präsidialprokurators amtiert, dann hätte dies nicht mehr in derselben Weise geschehen können wie früher. Dass vor dem Jahr 41 wie auch nach 44 immer wieder legati Augusti pro praetore in Judäa eingriffen, entweder um mit militärischen Mitteln 26

Übersetzung nach MICHEL-BAUERNFEIND. HAMMOND (Anm. 6) 103. 28 Georg Petzl bin ich dankbar, dass er mich bei der Klärung der Übersetzung unterstützt hat. 29 A.J. 17.355 fügt Josephus (HAMMOND) hinzu: τῆς δ᾽ Ἀρχελάου χώρας ὑποτελοῦς προσνεμηθείσης τῇ Σύρων = “Now the territory subject to Archelaus was added to Syria...” Ferner 18, 1 f.: παρῆν δὲ καὶ Κυρίνιος εἰς τὴν Ἰουδαίαν προσθήκην τῆς Συρίας γενομένην = “Quirinius also visited Judaea, which had been annexed to Syria.” 30 A.J. 18.108. 27

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Aufstände niederzuschlagen oder in Jerusalem Hohepriester ab- und einzusetzen, braucht hier nicht im Detail aufgezeigt zu werden. Den Kern des Verhältnisses zwischen beiden zeigt jedoch eine Kompetenz der Legaten, die zweimal ausgeübt wurde, einmal im Jahr 36/37 und einmal im Jahr 51/52. Im Jahr 36 oder 37 enthob L. Vitellius den praefectus Iudaeae Pontius Pilatus seiner Funktion und sandte ihn nach Rom, damit er sich dort wegen eines schweren Konfliktes zwischen Samaritanern und Leuten aus Galiläa vor Tiberius verantworte. Gleiches berichtet Josephus für das Jahr 51/52. Ventidius Cumanus, der seit 48 in Judäa amtierte, hatte in einem Konflikt – erneut zwischen Samaritanern und Galiläern – eine zweifelhafte Stellung eingenommen; angeblich sei er von den Samaritanern dabei bestochen worden. Dabei kam es auch zu heftigen Kämpfen zwischen Samaritanern und Juden mit nicht wenigen Toten. Ummidius Quadratus, Legat der Provinz Syrien, wurde von den Samaritanern angerufen; allein schon dieses Handeln zeigt, wo diese die eigentliche Zuständigkeit für ihre Region sahen. Quadratus zog schließlich durch Samaria bis nach Lydda, und verurteilte in zwei Verfahren eine Reihe von Leuten, die an den gewaltsamen Unruhen teilgenommen hatten, was zeigt, dass an den Unruhen sehr verschiedene Kreise beteiligt waren. Am Ende aber sandte er sowohl Cumanus als auch die führenden Leute der Juden und Samaritaner sowie einen Tribunen Celer nach Rom, die sich vor dem Gericht des Kaisers, diesmal des Claudius, verantworten sollten.31 Nun ist klar, dass, abgesehen von den Prokonsuln, jeder Statthalter, gleichgültig ob senatorischen oder ritterlichen Ranges, vom Kaiser ernannt wurde. Niemand außer ihm konnte den Leiter einer Provinz, den der Kaiser selbst beauftragt hatte, während seiner Tätigkeit abberufen. Doch ein Statthalter einer Provinz hatte diese Kompetenz gegenüber Leuten, die ihm unterstanden, gleichgültig welchen sozio-politischen Status sie hatten. So berichtet Cassius Dio, der Konsular Aufidius Victorinus habe in der Zeit Marc Aurels zweimal Untergebene gezwungen, ihr Amt, das sie unter ihm ausübten, aufzugeben und nach Rom zurückzukehren. Im einen Fall war Victorinus konsularer Statthalter in Germania superior. Als er erfahren hatte, dass einer seiner zwei senatorischen Legionslegaten sich bestechen ließ, befahl er ihm, sich für die Zukunft öffentlich durch einen Schwur von solchem Verfahren zu distanzieren. Als dieser sich dem Befehl widersetzte, zwang ihn der Statthalter zur Rückkehr nach Rom, obwohl der Legionslegat auch senatorischen Ranges war. Gleiches veranlasste Victorinus, als er als Prokonsul die Provinz Africa unter sich 31

A.J. 20.125-136.

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hatte.32 In beiden Fällen handelte es sich um Personen, die dem Provinzstatthalter untergeordnet waren. Sowohl L. Vitellius unter Tiberius als auch Ummidius Quadratus unter Claudius handelten so, wie es von Aufidius Victorinus berichtet wird. In dieser Kompetenz scheint es somit keinen Unterschied zwischen beiden Perioden vor 41 und nach 44 zu geben. Wenn aber Cumanus tatsächlich Präsidialprokurator gewesen wäre, dann wäre dies nicht möglich gewesen.33 Somit darf man von diesem Vorfall aus in Verbindung mit anderen Eingriffen der Legaten in Judäa zunächst schließen, dass sich nach 44 gegenüber der Zeit vor 41 nichts in dem Verhältnis zwischen den beiden Amtsträgern geändert hat. Allerdings ist ein gewichtiges Dokument, das Josephus A.J. 20.11-14 überliefert, zu berücksichtigen. Es ist ein Brief des Claudius, den er am vierten Tag vor den Kalenden eines Monats zwischen Oktober und Dezember des Jahres 45 unter den Konsuln Rufus und Pompeius Silvanus an Ἱεροσολυμιτῶν ἄρχουσι βουλῇ δήμῳ Ἰουδαίων παντὶ ἔθνει geschrieben hat.34 Dort heißt es am Ende: ἔγραψα δὲ περὶ τούτων καὶ Κουσπίῳ Φάδῳ τῷ ᾽μῷ ἐπιτρόπῳ = „darüber habe ich auch an Cuspius Fadus, meinen epitropos, geschrieben.“ Das ist – oder scheint zumindest – eine eindeutige Aussage über die rechtliche und damit inhaltliche Position des Fadus gewesen zu sein. An der grundsätzlichen Echtheit des Briefes zu zweifeln, gibt es keinen Anlass. Die kaiserliche Titulatur ist stimmig, und auch die Konsuln am Ende passen dazu, was eben auch auf das Datum in den letzten drei Monaten des Jahres 45 führt. Allerdings ist der Monat nicht überliefert und das Gentilnomen des ersten Konsuls fehlt, was so in einem kaiserlichen Schreiben nicht gewesen sein kann. Doch davon abgesehen: Müssen wir also davon ausgehen, dass in Judäa ab Claudius Prokuratoren tätig waren und müssen wir dann weiterhin annehmen, dass Judäa seitdem eine eigene Provinz darstellte und nicht mehr Teil von Syrien war? Diese Aussage steht in scharfem Kontrast zu dem, was wir, wie eben schon ausgeführt, ansonsten über Judäa und die dort amtierenden Ritter erschließen müssen, eben aus dem, was Josephus über das Handeln der syrischen Statthalter und der ritterlichen Beauftragten in Judäa schildert. 32

Cassius Dio, Hist. rom. 72.11.3. Tacitus, der in Ann. 12.54 davon spricht, Claudius habe Quadratus dazu eine Sonderkompetenz gegeben (wobei unklar bleibt, was mit ius statuendi … de procuratoribus gemeint ist), hat die Situation in Judäa nach dem beurteilt, wie er es aus seiner eigenen Zeit kannte, als es nur noch Präsidialprokuratoren gab; auch Pontius Pilatus ist bei ihm ein solcher Präsidialprokurator. Er ist deshalb kein Gegenargument gegen die grundsätzliche Kompetenz des Legaten von Syrien gegenüber dem ritterlichen Amtsträger in Judäa. 34 Zum Konsulatsjahr der beiden siehe TORTORIELLO 2004, hier 419. 33

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Zwei Überlegungen, die miteinander zusammenhängen, sind jedoch nötig, bevor man diesen Schluss ziehen sollte. Zum einen wird aus den Schriften des Josephus sehr klar, dass er offensichtlich tatsächlich davon ausging, der kaiserliche Beauftragte in Judäa sei ein ἐπίτροπος gewesen; andernfalls könnte man kaum verstehen, warum Josephus diese Benennung weitaus am häufigsten für diesen Funktionsträger verwendete – allerdings auch schon zwischen 6 und 41 n.Chr.35 Sodann hat Josephus – anders als die meisten anderen römischen und griechischen Historiker vor der Spätantike – zahlreiche Dokumente im Wortlaut in sein Werk aufgenommen. Bei manchen dieser originalen Schreiben aber lässt sich feststellen, dass er in solche Dokumente gelegentlich korrigierend eingriff, wenn ihm dies nach dem Zusammenhang, in welchem er sie verwendet hat, sachlich notwendig erschien. Besonders bezeichnend ist, worauf mich Claude Eilers hinwies, ein Dokument in Buch 14 der Antiquitates. Josephus überliefert 14.149 ff. einen Volksbeschluss der Athener, der ins Jahr 105 v.Chr. datiert ist. Mit diesem Beschluss wurde Hyrcanus I von der athenischen Volksversammlung geehrt. Bei Josephus wird dieses Dokument allerdings irrtümlich in die Darstellung der Beziehungen zwischen Caesar und Hyrcanus II eingeschoben; Josephus hat den athenischen Volksbeschluss fälschlicherweise auf den caesarischen Hyrcanus bezogen. Wie ursprünglich der Name von Hyrcanus I in dem athenischen Volksbeschluss gelautet hat, lässt sich nicht präzis sagen, sicher aber ist, dass dort nicht nur einfach der Name Hyrcanus gestanden haben kann. Denn wäre das so gewesen, dann hätte Josephus nichts ändern müssen, da jeder Leser aus dem Kontext heraus das Dokument auf Hyrcanus II bezogen hätte. Dort muss mehr gestanden haben, was aber mit der zeitlichen Einordnung des Dokuments in die Beziehungen zwischen Caesar und Hyrcanus II, wie Josephus meinte, nicht harmonierte. Deshalb hat er in den Brief eingegriffen und Namen und Titulatur so verändert, dass kein Zweifel mehr aufkommen konnte. Dort steht: Ὑρκανὸς Ἀλεξάνδρου ἀρχιερεὺς καὶ ἐθνάρχης τῶν Ἰουδαίων. Josephus fügte also den Vatersnamen von Hyrcanus II hinzu, Sohn des (jüdischen Königs) Alexander – Hyrcanus I war Sohn des Simon – und er fügte auch noch den Titel Ethnarch hinzu, der für Hyrcanus I nicht bezeugt ist.36 Josephus hat also die Angaben so verändert, dass sie zu seinen Vorstellungen passten. Auch in einigen anderen Dokumenten lassen sich ähnliche Eingriffe nachweisen. Geht man aber von dieser Beobachtung aus, dann scheint es durchaus möglich, dass Josephus auch in dem Brief des Claudius den Titel ἔπαρχος 35 36

ECK 2008. ZACK 2018 geht auf dieses Dokument nicht ein.

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durch ἐπίτροπος ersetzt hat. Es war schließlich für ihn selbstverständlich, dass in Judäa ein procurator amtierte. Das hat er bei den Rittern vor dem Jahr 41 ständig gemacht, obwohl er die richtige Titulatur ἔπαρχος gekannt haben muss. Ob er – das sei in Parenthese gefragt – überhaupt den essentiellen Unterschied zwischen beiden Termini verstanden hat, mag man bezweifeln. Man ist also wohl berechtigt, davon auszugehen, dass Josephus in dem Brief des Claudius die Bezeichnung ἔπαρχος durch ἐπίτροπος ersetzt hat. Das ist natürlich nicht bewiesen, scheint mir aber zumindest möglich, wenn nicht höchstwahrscheinlich. Damit aber hat man nicht mehr, wie es zunächst scheinen könnte, keinen entscheidenden Beweis für eine Änderung des Status von Judäa nach dem Jahr 44. Dann aber gewinnen die vielen sonstigen Berichte des Josephus das entscheidende Gewicht für die Ansicht, dass der Status von Judäa aus den Jahren 6-41 n.Chr. auch nach dem Jahr 44 weiter bestand. Denn das Verhalten der legati Augusti pro praetore provinciae Syriae in Judäa hat sich nicht geändert; für sie war diese Region weiterhin der südliche Teil ihrer Provinz. Geht man von dieser Voraussetzung aus, dann ist es doch auffallend, wie einseitig Josephus die Verantwortlichkeit für das, was in Judäa geschah, beurteilt hat, einerseits bei den senatorischen Legaten und andererseits bei den ritterlichen Präfekten. Durch den Einsatz ihrer militärischen Macht haben die Legaten nach der Schilderung des Josephus nicht selten den Tod vieler Juden verursacht, viele wurden auch durch Gerichtsurteile mit dem Tod bestraft. Das beginnt schon nach dem Tod von Herodes im Jahr 4 v.Chr. Sabinus, der Finanzprokurator von Syrien, versuchte, ohne auf die Entscheidung des Augustus über die Zukunft des Königreichs zu warten, das Vermögen des verstorbenen Königs einzuziehen. Dadurch kam es zu schweren Kämpfen mit jüdischen Gruppen, die schließlich Varus zwangen, fast mit dem gesamten Heer, das ihm zur Verfügung stand, in Judäa einzugreifen. Sepphoris wurde niedergebrannt und die Bewohner in die Sklaverei verkauft.37 Auch Emmaus wurde niedergebrannt, weil Varus, wie Josephus schreibt, zutiefst erzürnt war, dass jüdische Gruppen eine römische Einheit zusammen mit ihrem centurio Arius ermordet hatten.38 Nach weiteren Kämpfen ließ Varus an die 2000 Juden, die den Aufruhr verursacht haben sollten, kreuzigen.39 Als weitere 10.000 Juden den Aufstand mit Waffengewalt fortsetzten, sich aber schließlich ergaben, begnadigte er deren Mehrheit, einige aber sandte er nach Rom zur Bestrafung.40 37 38 39 40

A.J. 17.289. B.J. 2.63, 71; A.J. 17.282. B.J. 2.75; A.J. 17.295. B.J. 2.76 ff.; A.J. 17, 297 f.

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Und wie urteilt Josephus darüber? Er stellt nur fest, Varus habe auf diese Weise die Lage in Jerusalem geregelt und dort eine Legion zurückgelassen. Dann sei er nach Antiochien zurückgekehrt.41 Es wird kein einziges negatives Wort über ihn verloren. Ebenso werden L. Vitellius, der Pilatus nach Rom zurückbeordert hatte, und natürlich besonders P. Petronius in besten Farben geschildert; der letztere war den Befehlen Caligulas nicht einfachhin nachgekommen, die Statue des Kaisers im Tempel in Jerusalem aufzustellen, vielmehr hatte er versucht, den Kaiser von seinem Vorhaben abzuhalten. Nur bei Vibius Marsus, der mit König Agrippa wegen des Mauerbaus in Jerusalem und der Konferenz mehrerer Könige in Konflikt geraten war, lässt Josephus – allerdings nur in den Antiquitates, nicht im Bellum – erkennen, dass Agrippas beste Absichten durch den Statthalter behindert wurden, eine nur indirekte Kritik.42 Sie ist aber leicht verständlich, war doch der gleichnamige Sohn Agrippas ein entscheidender Gönner des Autors in der Zeit nach der Zerstörung Jerusalems.43 Ummidius Quadratus musste wegen des Konflikts zwischen Cumanus, Samaritanern und Juden im Jahr 51/52 mit militärischen Mitteln eingreifen, wobei er alle Juden, die von Cumanus gefangen gesetzt worden waren, hinrichten ließ, was in Lydda noch mit weiteren Juden geschah. Auch bei ihm kein negativer Hinweis auf sein Tun.44 Das, was dagegen etwa von den ritterlichen Amtsträgern Pontius Pilatus, Cumanus, Felix, Lucceius Albinus und schließlich insbesondere von Gessius Florus berichtet wird, erscheint durchwegs in den dunkelsten Farben; das braucht hier nicht im Detail dargelegt zu werden, da Josephus’ Schriften voll sind von Schilderungen über sie. Stets erscheinen sie als bösartige, korrupte, auf den eigenen Gewinn ausgerichtete Personen; diese Urteile sind auch von der modernen Forschung in weitem Umfang widerspruchslos übernommen worden. Nicht nur bei Gessius Florus, aber bei ihm besonders versteigt sich Josephus zu absurden Behauptungen, die am Ende darin gipfeln, dass Florus bewusst einen Krieg gegen die Juden herbeiführte, da seine eigenen Verbrechen dann nicht von Relevanz gewesen wären.45 Es ist eine massive Schwarz-Weiß-Malerei, mit tatkräftigen, in der Sache verantwortungsbewussten senatorischen Legaten auf der einen und verantwortungslosen Präfekten auf der anderen Seite. Da argumentiert Josephus 41 42 43 44 45

B.J. 2.79; A.J. 17.299. A.J. 19, 326, 341 f. 363. Siehe Josephus, Vita 362, 365 f. A.J. 20.125 ff. 133. B.J. 2.283; A.J. 20.257.

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zu simpel, um glaubwürdig zu sein. Da freilich Josephus unsere einzige ausführliche Quelle ist, lässt sich das im Detail höchstens sehr partiell nachweisen und damit relativieren.46 Man kann aber fragen, warum Josephus eine so offensichtlich einseitige Charakterisierung beider Gruppen gibt, der senatorischen Legaten von Syrien und der ritterlichen Präfekten in Judäa. Zu erklären ist dies m.E. aus der sozio-politischen Situation in Rom, in der Josephus das Bellum Iudaicum und die Antiquitates Iudaicae schrieb. Josephus hatte zwar einen gewissen Rückhalt im Kaiserhaus, aber wohl weniger, als er selbst suggeriert.47 Er konnte in Rom das wiedererkennen, was er schon in den Jahrzehnten, in denen er das Geschehen in Judäa beobachtete bzw. mitgestaltete, sowie vor allem während der Belagerung Jerusalems im römischen Lager: die massiven Unterschiede, die grundsätzlich zwischen den einzelnen römischen ordines bestanden. In Rom mit dem Übergewicht der großen senatorischen Familien wurde das noch deutlicher, auch durch das öffentliche Auftreten. Manche der ehemaligen Statthalter Syriens lebten noch in Rom, ebenso Nachkommen oder Familien, die mit ihnen verwandt oder verschwägert waren. Sie alle konnten in der einen oder anderen Weise – auch noch nach ihrem Ableben – Einfluss ausüben. So musste ein Mann wie Josephus, der letztlich ein Fremdkörper in Rom war, durchaus darauf achten, solche Personen oder Familien nicht zu seinen Gegnern zu machen. Was aber zählten da schon Gestalten wie die meisten Präfekten, Ritter, die größtenteils nicht einmal aus Rom stammten, die auch nach ihrem Dienst dort kaum lebten. Auch ihre Familien spielten dort keine Rolle – wenn man von Leuten wie Ti. Iulius Alexander absieht. Über ihn hat Josephus in seinen Schriften auch kein negatives Wort verloren. Wollte Josephus die Ursache für die Katastrophe in den Jahren seit 66 nicht allein bei Teilen seines Volkes sehen, dann konnte er natürlich weder die römische Politik generell dafür verantwortlich machen noch deren wirklich Verantwortliche im Osten, die senatorischen Statthalter von Syrien. Dagegen waren die sozio-politisch wenig herausragenden Präfekten in Judäa ein dankbares Ziel, auf die Josephus im flavischen Rom keine Rücksicht nehmen musste. Sie konnte er, wo es möglich oder nötig war, negativ schildern oder wie bei Gessius Florus sogar als die eigentliche Ursache des Krieges mit den Römern denunzieren. Die moderne Wissenschaft sollte Josephus bei dieser Simplifizierung, ja partiellen Verfälschung nicht einfach folgen.48 46 Siehe aber die wichtigen Hinweise auf Spannungen in Judäa in den 50er Jahren, von denen Josephus im Wesentlichen nichts berichtet, bei TOMSON 2019. 47 COTTON und ECK 2005. 48 Wie es aber zu einem nicht geringen Teil durchaus noch geschieht.

CHAPTER 7

IL DISCORSO DI AGRIPPA II (B.J. 2.345-401): REGOLE DELLA GUERRA A CONFRONTO? Giovanni BRIZZI Università di Bologna

Del celebre discorso tenuto da Erode Agrippa II1 nel giorno 17 (o 18…) del mese di Artemisio (inizî di giugno)2 del 66 p. per cercar di dissuadere il popolo di Gerusalemme dall’imboccare la pericolosa strada della rivolta contro Roma, ho già trattato spesso altrove;3 ma vorrei tornare a riflettervi qui una volta ancora, per vedere se si possa ricavarne qualche spunto ulteriore. Di questa allocuzione ha proposto, tra gli altri, un’analisi acuta e accurata ad un tempo un grande studioso, Emilio Gabba;4 analisi da cui mi sembra opportuno prendere di nuovo le mosse per riesaminare le implicazioni di un testo a mio avviso fondamentale alla comprensione di alcune ottiche che si confrontarono durante la grande rivolta giudaica di età neroniana.5 Mi sia concesso richiamarne i contenuti, almeno per sommi capi. Dopo avere, con sottili argomentazioni dialettiche, messo in evidenza le divisioni interne del popolo ebraico, non tutto secondo lui concordemente incline alla guerra, ed avere invocato, contro le soperchierie di alcuni tra i funzionari di Roma, il ricorso alla via, pacifica, del reclamo all’imperatore, Erode Agrippa passa poi a discutere del «desiderio di libertà», ed è proprio a questo proposito che formula una delle osservazioni più significative dell’intero discorso: questo anelito «è ora intempestivo, perché era prima che bisognava battersi per non perderla (= scil. la libertà). Orribile è l’esperienza della soggezione, ed è giusto lottare per non cadervi; ma chi, una volta assoggettato, poi si ribella (aphistamenos) è uno schiavo (doulos) disobbediente, non un amante della libertà».6 1

B.J. 2.345-404. B.J. 2.315. 3 BRIZZI 2013, 93-102; BRIZZI 2015, 144–49; 290–91. 4 GABBA 1976-77, 189–94. 5 Per una conoscenza sommaria dell’evento e un approccio alla sterminata bibliografia ad esso relativa rinvio qui a LABBÉ 2012; LEWIN 2015; BRIZZI 2015. 6 B.J. 2.355-356. 2

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Dopo avere alluso ad alcune delle tappe fondamentali attraverso le quali si è concretizzato il dominio di Roma, capace di sostituirsi al potere detenuto via via da Atene, da Sparta, da Alessandro Magno, l’oratore ricorda l’opera di «colei (=la Fortuna) che…gettò i semi del loro dominio universale»7. Secondo un’ottica impregnata delle concezioni teologicoapocalittiche allora attuali, è proprio la Fortuna che sposta gli equilibrî nel mondo; ed essa ha scelto, e ormai da tempo favorisce apertamente, i Romani.8 A chiunque dei due, tra Agrippa e lo stesso Flavio Giuseppe, vada attribuito in realtà il discorso (il responso è dubbio…) poco importa per quanto concerne i contenuti del discorso stesso. Si è osservato9, non senza fondamento, che l’accenno alla Fortuna dei Romani tende a vellicare, alla maniera che sarà poi di Plutarco,10 l’orgoglio di un uditorio di cultura greca; e tuttavia l’orientamento di Agrippa/Giuseppe mi pare, in realtà, del tutto opposto. Non solo, infatti, secondo il testo, la stessa Fortuna ha favorito i Macedoni ben prima dei Romani;11 ma, a differenza di Plutarco, Giuseppe esplicita poi il suo vero sentire quando12 afferma essere l’immenso impero dell’Urbe «…frutto del valore, e non dono della Fortuna» (cosa che non sorprende, vista la sconfinata ammirazione che egli nutre per lo straordinario apparato militare romano). Comunque sia, sotto il velo di questa figura divina – da assimilare sostanzialmente alla Tyche ellenistica – si cela in realtà il manifestarsi del favore celeste: da un lato è evidente che Dio ha abbandonato il Suo popolo, dall’altro è palesemente per Suo volere che la potenza romana si è imposta e domina il mondo. Non manca, nel discorso di Agrippa, una difesa non banale (e forse persino sentita…) dello Stato egemone, ben diverso dalle Potenze oppressive il cui dominio è stato sperimentato in altri tempi dagli stessi Giudei. «I Romani si comportano forse come l’Assiro, sì che voi possiate pensare di trarne uguale vendetta?». Non si contentano forse essi di chiedere «l’abituale tributo che i nostri padri pagarono ai loro? E dopo averlo riscosso non saccheggiano la Città, né toccano le cose sante, ma vi lasciano 7

B.J. 2.360. B.J. 2.360; 373; cf. 1.293; 5.367-368; 396. 9 VITUCCI 1974, I, 634 n. 11. 10 Il quale, in modo chiaramente anche se implicitamente polemico, contrappone, nel titolo di altrettante sue opere di erudizione storico-antiquaria, la fortuna an virtus Alexandri e la gloria Atheniensium alla fortuna Romanorum, sottolineando così il merito dei suoi compatrioti. 11 B.J. 2.360. 12 B.J. 3.71. 8

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tutto il resto, la libertà dei vostri figli e il godimento dei vostri beni, e tutelano le leggi sacre».13 Comunque sia, il dominio dell’Urbe si è esteso ormai a coprire l’ecumene; ed è quindi tale da non offrire a chiunque si ribelli alcun rifugio. L’impero ha raggiunto le regioni più remote della terra, assoggettando popoli estremi, come l’iberico;14 e, più di recente, ha superato persino quelli che da sempre, in precedenza, erano ritenuti i confini del mondo (l’Eufrate, il Danubio, il deserto africano, Cadice;15 il Reno16), ha persino cercato «un altro mondo oltre l’Oceano», spingendosi verso l’estremo limite della Britannia, che il mare non è bastato a proteggere dalla conquista.17 Pur certo enorme, la potenza militare di Roma appare tuttavia in fondo irrisoria, ridicolmente esigua rispetto all’immensità del territorio da controllare; e questa è, come vedremo, un’affermazione che ha probabilmente un sottinteso ben definito. Se i Bosporani e i popoli rivieraschi del Ponto e del lago Meotide sono sorvegliati da non più di tremila uomini e quaranta navi da guerra bastano a Roma per mantenere «la pace su di un mare prima non navigato e selvaggio»,18 gli orgogliosi Traci «prestano ubbidienza ad una guarnigione di duemila Romani» soltanto;19 gli Illiri «sono soggetti a due sole legioni»,20 così come l’«ampio Egitto…», con i suoi sette milioni e mezzo di abitanti, «che in un solo mese paga un tributo superiore a quello che voi (= scil. Giudei) versate in un anno intero». I Dalmati, poi, «se ne stanno tranquilli sotto una sola legione…», così come gli Iberi21 e come quell’Africa che, pure, costituisce «la terza parte del mondo abitato»; mentre i Galli, benché abbiano difeso la loro libertà per ottant’anni, sono ora «tenuti in soggezione da milleduecento soldati, un numero quasi inferiore a quello delle loro città».22 Alcuni territorî possono addirittura essere lasciati sgombri da ogni presenza militare: come l’Asia dalle «cinquecento città»,23 per esempio; o la Bitinia e la Cappadocia; e la Panfilia; e la Licia; e la Cilicia, che, senza essere presidiate, 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J.

2.358. 2.374-375. 2.363. 2.371. 2.363; 2.378. 2.367. 2.368. 2.369. 2.375. 2.373. 2.365-366:

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«pagano il tributo».24 Roma tiene a freno chi, come i Daci25 o i Germani,26 minaccia il suo impero, preservando la sicurezza e garantendo la pace, sulla terra e sul mare, a tutti i popoli in esso compresi. Tutti, poi, temono Roma, anche i Parti. L’ultima illusione che Agrippa/ Giuseppe si sforza di dissipare è quella circa l’eventualità di un possibile soccorso proveniente dalle terre oltre l’Eufrate, in cui sperano gli insorti. I correligionari ebraici dell’Adiabene, infatti, «né si lascieranno coinvolgere in una guerra tanto pericolosa per un motivo insignificante, né, ove anche si decidessero, glie lo permetterebbero i Parti: questi si preoccupano di mantenere la tregua con Roma, e se qualcuno di quanti sono soggetti a loro marciasse contro i Romani considererebbero la cosa come una violazione dei patti».27 Non ignorando certamente gli esiti di una guerra in fondo ancipite come quella appena conclusa in Armenia, Agrippa ritiene tuttavia che motivo di riflessione per i Giudei sul punto di insorgere dovrebbe essere il fatto che gli Arsacidi mandino «ostaggi ai Romani»;28 e, benché non ne faccia menzione, nel momento in cui redige per iscritto il discorso ascoltato anni prima a Gerusalemme, lo storico che gli fa da portavoce è perfettamente a conoscenza che, in quello stesso anno 66 p. in cui esso fu pronunciato Tiridate, il nuovo re dell’Armenia, era stato incoronato nell’Urbe da Nerone in persona, quasi ostaggio, e comunque formalmente vassallo, dell’imperatore. Tra i due Stati quello arsacide è, a suo avviso, senz’altro il più debole; e i timori circa l’ambigua linea adottata dai Parti troveranno una tragica conferma nell’atteggiamento successivamente assunto da loro, per esempio al tempo di Traiano. Di fronte alla supremazia militare avversaria – rileva i l’oratore – non resta che sperare nell’aiuto dell’Altissimo. «Ma – egli osserva subito dopo – anche questo punto è a favore dei Romani: infatti sarebbe impossibile creare un impero così grande senza l’aiuto di Dio stesso… Considerate, inoltre, quanto difficile sarebbe mantenere l’osservanza attenta dei vostri riti, persino se doveste entrare in guerra contro avversarî anche assai meno formidabili: costretti a trascurare quelle cerimonie in nome delle quali soprattutto confidate nell’aiuto di Dio, non potreste averlo più propizio. Qualora osserviate invece il costume di riposare il sabato e vi asteniate in quel giorno da ogni azione, facilmente sarete vinti, come i nostri antenati lo furono da Pompeo, che intensificava le operazioni di 24 25 26 27 28

B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J. B.J.

2.368. 2.369. 2.376-377 2.388-389 2.379.

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assedio proprio nel momento in cui gli assediati restavano inoperosi. Se poi nella guerra non rispettaste le tradizioni religiose, allora non so proprio a che scopo continuereste a battervi; infatti il vostro unico intento è di conservare inviolate le istituzioni patrie. Come invocherete l’aiuto di Dio se deliberatamente ne trascurerete il culto? Chiunque intraprenda una guerra confida nell’aiuto di Dio o in quello degli uomini; ma quando, verosimilmente, mancheranno l’uno e l’altro è evidente che chi scende in campo andrà incontro alla disfatta».29 Anche questo secondo passo merita un più approfondito commento. Per tornare all’analisi del testo sviluppata da Emilio Gabba «non vi è motivo – egli dice – di dubitare della storicità del fatto, tanto più che Giuseppe probabilmente era presente»; e, «dopo tutto, il re Agrippa lesse ed approvò la narrazione della guerra scritta da Giuseppe…», inviando – (come è ricordato in Jos., Vita 364-367) – ben «sessantadue lettere per attestarne la veridicità…». Il re «si sarà, quindi, riconosciuto almeno parzialmente anche nel complesso dei ragionamenti prestatigli dallo storico».30 Che, inoltre, la visione di Giuseppe «sia stata», secondo le parole con cui Gabba conclude, «…condizionata dalla drammatica esperienza dell’insurrezione e della guerra, non voluta, subita, ambiguamente condivisa, tragicamente vissuta, e, dopo, ancora appassionatamente ripensata in mezzo a contrasti e polemiche» è un’affermazione che si può senz’altro accogliere. Secondo lo studioso diventa però «…inutile un qualsiasi sforzo per comprendere e valutare storicamente l’impero di Roma e la sua funzione. Non vi è nulla nel discorso che possa richiamare le adesioni spontanee e consapevoli allo stato di fatto creato dai Romani,… o spiegare la politica di romanizzazione e di assimilazione anche […io direi soprattutto] nel ceto dirigente, o l’opera di incivilimento svolta in tante aree dell’impero, motivi tutti che condurranno sempre più frequentemente ad una visione ecumenica dell’impero stesso, in sede politica come in quella storiografica».31 Al di là di queste considerazioni, i rilievi avanzati da Emilio Gabba colgono nel segno quando vedono nel rigetto della metanoia con Roma, riuscita altrove quasi ovunque, da parte di un settore purtroppo traente del popolo giudaico prima, delle più vaste masse della Diaspora poi, una, e forse la decisiva, tra le cause di questa immane tragedia. Credo tuttavia che dalla percezione di una delle caratteristiche più autentiche e importanti dell’impero, e cioè la sua capacità di assimilazione, Agrippa/Giuseppe 29 30 31

B.J. 2.390-394. GABBA 1976-77, 189. GABBA 1976-77, 194.

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sia stato ben più che sfiorato; e che la coscienza di questo fondamentale requisito in qualche modo traspaia, per esempio là dove egli considera quanto esigue rispetto alla mole dell’impero stesso siano le forze destinate a controllarlo. Che esista anche per Agrippa/Giuseppe una qualche condizione la quale, al di là della Fortuna e del valore, favorisce un simile equilibrio all’interno dell’impero? Che abbia, l’oratore o chi lo ne ha trasmesso le parole, colto almeno in parte la valenza dei macrofenomeni cui accenna Emilio Gabba, avvertendo la capacità dei Romani di andare ben oltre i limiti dell’Italia facendo dell’impero tutto patriam diversis gentibus unam? Non mi sentirei di escluderlo; e tuttavia è comprensibile che, se non ad Agrippa, certo a Giuseppe, risucchiato com’era nello spaventoso vortice di una rievocazione atroce, sia venuto meno l’impulso a trattare diffusamente un aspetto per lui in fondo ‘collaterale’. Non posso sottoscrivere, invece, l’altro asserto di Gabba, secondo cui la visuale di Giuseppe «resta inevitabilmente giudaica».32 Certo giudaico – o almeno legato ad un’ottica (e ad una linea di condotta…) particolare di questo popolo, pur a volte così determinato e crudele – resta l’invito alla non violenza, costante (et pour cause!) lungo tutta la trattazione della Guerra: «nulla mette fine alle violenze – afferma ad un dato punto33 Agrippa/Giuseppe – quanto il sopportarle, e la mansuetudine degli offesi fa ravvedere chi li offende». Lo stesso può dirsi, ovviamente, delle argomentazioni adottate per disilludere circa l’eventualità di un risolutivo intervento divino in favore degli insorti. Compaiono tuttavia, nel discorso, alcuni elementi – sia riferibili alla mentalità romana, sia inerenti gli equilibrî strategici nel Vicino Oriente – che lo storico ebreo mostra di avere compreso alla perfezione e debitamente sottolinea; elementi che, letti secondo la prospettiva volta a volta del potere egemone e degli insorti, divennero importanti e persino decisivi nell’orientare i drammatici sviluppi del conflitto. Prescindendo dall’accuratezza delle cifre riportate per le singole guarnigioni, discussa e forse discutibile, assai più che alla potenza militare dell’impero Giuseppe presta attenzione, lo abbiamo visto, all’assoluta esiguità dei presidî che ne controllano le diverse porzioni; ma sembra al tempo stesso sottolineare la determinazione inflessibile che, nel loro contegno, i Romani adottano verso i popoli soggetti. A questa loro indefettibile linea di condotta fa riferimento, in particolare, il primo passo sottolineato supra, nel quale, mettendo l’accento sull’intempestività della rivolta, 32 33

GABBA 1976-77, 194. B.J. 2.351.

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l’autore afferma che gli eventuali insorti saranno «schiavi disubbidienti, non amanti della libertà». In questo specifico caso la sua ispirazione mi sembra palese; e, pur formulata in modo da riuscir comprensibile anche ad un pubblico greco e giudeo, rispecchia un punto di vista integralmente romano. Attraverso tutta l’opera – e non solo nell’allocuzione analizzata qui, per definire, chiunque essi siano e a qualunque setta appartengano, i protagonisti più attivi della Guerra, Giuseppe adotta di norma i termini lestai o lestrikoi,34 e cioè, letteralmente, «briganti»;35 sicchè, pur impiegato in maniera elastica, il vocabolo sembra però designare senza distinzione chiunque si sia comunque battuto contro i Romani e contro quella parte della classe dirigente ebraica che inizialmente li appoggiava, sia egli stato davvero un bandito da strada oppure un guerrigliero. Ora, però, il termine corrispondente a lestes è, nella lingua latina, quello di latro. Questo vocabolo designa tanto il brigante da strada36 quanto il combattente clandestino che non segue le regole; e, quale che sia l’etimo che se ne accetta, da latere – star nascosto – o da latus – lato, fianco –, il vocabolo sottolinea comunque, del bandito o del guerrigliero, un particolare aspetto comune, il carattere per così dire irregolare e subdolo dell’attività che entrambi conducono. Nel tenere il suo discorso per cercar di dissuadere il popolo di Gerusalemme dall’imboccare la pericolosa strada della rivolta, Erode Agrippa (e il testo di Giuseppe Flavio lo sottolinea…) sembra proporre un invito pressante a prestare attenzione ad un particolare aspetto del ius belli romano. Rispettarlo significa almeno formalmente, per quel popolo, conformarsi ai principî del bellum iustum; osservare cioè l’insieme delle norme concernenti tanto la dichiarazione di guerra, quanto la successiva condotta da tenere nei rapporti tra belligeranti. Frutto forse dapprima nel più antico ethos gentilizio, queste clausole trovano probabilmente una loro codificazione definita quando, in presenza di sempre nuovi interlocutori, si impone lo strumento codificato del foedus, quando cioè l’antichissimo codice originario, nel quale istintivo è il rispetto della fides,37 cede il posto 34

FIRPO 1997. Sulla nozione di ‘bandito’ nell’impero romano: GRUNEWALD 2004. Dei ‘briganti’ di Flavio Giuseppe si occupano, tra gli altri, FINLEY1966; HORSLEY 1979; HORSLEY 1981; HORSLEY-HANSON 1995; e DONALDSON 1990. 36 Per tutti: Fest.-Paul. Diac., epit.: latrones antiqui eos dicebant, qui conducti militabant.... At nunc viarum obsessores dicuntur, quod a latere adoriuntur, vel quod latenter insidiantur; Isid., Etym. 10, 159: latro, insessor viarum, a latendo dictus: Aelius autem ‘latro est – inquit – latero ab latere, insidiator viae; cf. anche Varro, l.L. 7, 52. 37 Su fides come valore fondante dello ius gentium fino dalla più remota antichità: FREYBURGER 1986; e soprattutto BRIZZI 1989; BRIZZI 2014 (ove bibliografia). 35

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al primo embrione di diritto internazionale vero e proprio. L’insieme delle regole viene allora raggruppato in un settore normativo preciso, lo ius fetiale, gestito appunto dai Fetiales, un collegio che veglia, innanzitutto, sulla dichiarazione di guerra; su un bellum che, nel mondo romano, non può essere nisi iustum. Usato, certo, ad indicare il conflitto intrapreso rispettando scrupolosamente ogni cautela procedurale,38 il termine sottintende però anche l’esigenza di una giusta causa Nella definizione di Cicerone la guerra per poter essere considerata ‘giusta’, ‘legittima’ doveva rispondere a determinati requisiti, di carattere sostanziale oltre che formale: vale cioè il principio secondo cui illa iniusta bella sunt quae sunt sine causa suscepta, sicché la guerra è sostanzialmente e oggettivamente considerata giusta solo se vi siano «delle motivazioni validamente determinabili»39 agli occhi degli dei e degli uomini. Si può affrontare una guerra solo aut pro fide aut pro salute, come affermano sia Cicerone;40 sia Varrone (nulla licentia), costui su fonti verosimilmente molto antiche.41 L’accenno ciceroniano alla fides richiama però anche ad una serie di limitazioni nella gestione stessa della prassi bellica; molte delle quali discendono forse direttamente dalla più antica consuetudine gentilizia. Come ancora Cicerone42 ricorda, due sono i modi – aut vi, aut fraude – in cui si può commettere iniuria; sicché, nel segno del circolo in sé concluso dell’antico costume, si comincia la guerra aut pro fide aut pro salute, e si deve poi conservare intatta la fides non solo in…suscipiendo, ma anche et gerendo et deponendo (scil.: bello).43 Nel segno di questa ininterrotta continuità, debbono dunque essere iusta, in gerendo, sia i proelia che decidono l’esito del bellum, concepiti come certamina, gare dalle regole ben definite; sia ogni altra azione di guerra. Esistono inevitabilmente atti che, pur dolorosi per chi li subisce, non recano biasimo a chi li infligge;44 ma il rispetto della fides va garantito, 38 Cic., Leg.2.9: Neque ullum bellum iustum esse existimarunt, nisi quod aut rebus repetitis gereretur, aut denuntiatum ante esset et indictum. 39 SINI 1991, 199; cf. SINI 2003, 70. 40 Rep. 3.23.5 = Isid. Orig.18.1.2 : Illa iniusta bella sunt, quae sunt sine causa suscepta. Nam extra ulciscendi aut propulsandorum hostium causa bellum geri iustum nullum potest  ; 3.23.34 = August. C.D. 22.6 : nullum bellum suscipi a civitate optima nisi aut pro fide aut pro salute. 41 de vita p. R. 2.13: bella et tarde et nulla licentia suscipiebant, quod bellum nullum nisi pium putabant geri oportere. 42 Off.1.41. 43 Leg.2.14.34 44 Per i Greci non meno che per i Romani : Liv. 31.30.3-4 : Sunt et belli, sicut pacis, iura quae ut facere, ita pati sit fas: sata exuri, dirui tecta, praedas hominum pecorumque agi misera magis quam indigna patienti esse…  ; cf. Pol.36.2.

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sempre. I Romani reputano dunque disonorevole condurre la guerra latronum modo. Un’etica arcaica impone loro di combattere faccia a faccia, senza ricorrere ad insidie o espedienti di qualunque genere; al punto che il lessico politico e militare, il quale pure si forma proprio dal greco nel corso del III secolo a.C., ignora la traduzione del termine stratégema, reso con una serie di vocaboli dall’accezione parziale, e tutti di significato negativo (fraus, dolus, calliditas, artes, etc.). Anche nel momento, infine, in cui si accetta in fidem il nemico vinto, ricomponendo lo status originario, riscatti e pene sono, in origine, riferiti alla medesima nozione. Significativa è, in origine, soprattutto la sorte dei disertori; dei quali Roma, se vittoriosa, chiede sempre la consegna, punendoli dapprima con il simbolico taglio della destra, santuario corporeo della fides. A chiunque dei due, Agrippa o Giuseppe, vadano davvero attribuiti i contenuti del discorso tenuto allo Xisto, chi parla sembra conoscere, e dunque richiamarsi, all’impostazione che, nel De officiis, Cicerone dà di questi particolare aspetto dello ius belli romano. Agrippa/Giuseppe sembra, in primo luogo, avere familiari proprio alcune particolari formule dell’Arpinate, tra cui il significato dell’espressione latronum modo45 riferita all’attività bellica irregolare, richiamata dal termine lestai. Ma, più ancora, attraverso l’accenno allo schiavo disubbidiente l’oratore si richiama ad una seconda clausola ciceroniana; che proietta l’ombra di un vulnus etico ancor più definitivo. Neppure la resistenza protratta all’estremo è, in sé – afferma l’Arpinate –, un motivo sufficiente per negare clemenza a coloro che, armis positis ad imperatoris fidem confugient, quamvis aries murum percusserit;46 ma, ove questi, recepti, riprendano le armi, la colpa precedente è oberata dall’aggravante estrema della recidiva. In tal senso va senz’altro interpretato, secondo me, l’accenno di Erode Agrippa alla lotta ad oltranza che, accettabile dai Romani senza vere conseguenze al tempo di Pompeo, sarebbe invece per i Giudei esiziale ora. A questo punto – ove almeno si escluda il più rigoroso etimo originario attribuito dalla lingua latina al termine servus a servare, secondo cui tale doveva considerarsi il vinto risparmiato quando sarebbe stato lecito, secondo l’originario costume, metterlo a morte47 – chi riprende le armi 45

Cic., Off. 3, 29, 108; cf., tra gli altri, Liv. 23, 42, 10. Cic. Off.1,11,35. 47 Anche se dubito che la conoscenza del latino di Erode Agrippa (o di Giuseppe…) fosse tanto profonda, l’interpretazione sostenuta nel passo citato supra del Bellum potrebbe in qualche modo adattarsi al significato (e all’etimo) assegnato al termine dai giuristi romani: Dig. 50.16.239.1: (Pomponius libro singulari encheiridii): ‘Servorum’ appellatio ex eo fluxit, quod imperatores captivos vendere, ac per hoc servare nec occidere solent. A moderare il più antico e crudele costume bellico, che permetteva di uccidere i vinti, 46

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dopo averle deposte non è veramente uno schiavo fuggiasco. L’atto di ricominciare la guerra dopo essersi arreso, di rebellare, ne fa invece un rebellis. Il senso originario del termine latino è ben diverso da quello, in fondo generico, assunto via via dal nostro ‘ribelle’: il gesto di impugnare nuovamente le armi dopo la resa rappresenta infatti, per il Romano, una reiterata violazione della fides, cui, vinti, ci si è appellati facendo atto di deditio, rimettendosi alla discrezione pietosa del vincitore. Si tratta di una colpa ancora più grave e totale del bellum latronum modo, poiché reca su di sé l’infamia del tradimento ultimo. Che non ammette perdono. Non so se la precisazione sia propria (e financo se sia sostenibile…) fino in fondo; ritengo però che per il Romano non ogni latro sia un rebellis, mentre mi pare ovvio che praticamente ogni rebellis sia un latro, costretto com’è dall’inferiorità sul campo che lo ha condannato alla sconfitta ad aggredire di nuovo il nemico con l’inganno e di sorpresa. Doppia colpa, per i Giudei in rivolta… Quella che dovranno affrontare sarà dunque una guerra senza scampo per chi soccomba: nessuno si illuda di poterla fare solo «fino a un determinato punto e che i Romani, dopo la vittoria», tratteranno con moderazione gli sconfitti «invece di cogliere l’occasione per dare un esempio agli altri popoli…».48 Qui, a dire il vero, Agrippa/Giuseppe ancora in parte fraintende: per i Romani è, a mio avviso, non solo e non tanto questione di dare un esempio, quanto di obbedire ad una sorta di maniacale coerenza loro propria punendo con inflessibile determinazione i violatori di un rapporto di fides impegnativo come quello tra vincitore e vinto, che in qualche modo ne accosta e contrappone insieme il radicalismo ‘laico’ all’integralismo religioso dei ribelli giudaici. La coerenza verso questo atteggiamento Giuseppe sembra ravvisarla in Tito, più volte incline verso il principio ‘ciceroniano’49 circa la clemenza da riservare ai vinti che si arrendono: dopo aver già graziato, come suo padre prima di lui (Tiberiade,50 Tarichea,51 Gadara52), alcune città che rinunciano a resistere (lui, in particolare, Giscala53), tenterà poi ripetutamente (ancora molto dopo l’inizio delle operazioni d’assedio, che ha più si era imposta la consuetudine di eos servare, donde l’etimo del termine. Cf. LAMBERTINI 1984, 2385 ss. 48 B.J. 2.397. 49 Cic., Off. 1, 11, 35. 50 B.J. 3.460-461 51 In questo caso Vespasiano risparmia i locali, che giudica incolpevoli, condannando gli altri: B.J. 3.532-542. 52 B.J. 4.414-418. 53 B.J. 4.116-120.

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volte interrotto per cercare il negoziato) di trattare con gli insorti, rinviando o sospendendo fino all’ultimo l’attacco contro la Città,54 e dunque, per richiamarci a Cicerone, fermando davvero i suoi arieti; e addirittura rivolgerà agli insorti – fino a garantire, con ciò, di risparmiare il Tempio – l’invito, se non vogliono arrendersi, a decidere la guerra attraverso un iustum proelium, uno scontro campale al di fuori della Città.55 Al contrario, nel resoconto di Giuseppe l’azione dei ribelli è tutto un susseguirsi di espedienti e di inganni abilissimi, capaci di beffare sovente lo stesso Tito; per i Romani un ricorso a quella fraus dalla quale ancora almeno formalmente rifuggono. Al contrario di quanto sostiene Emilio Gabba, dunque, l’autore del discorso, chiunque egli sia, mostra di conoscere appieno la logica inflessibile dei Romani a proposito dello ius belli. Quanto all’ottica degli insorti, pur sottilmente inquinato da un velo di capziosa logica sofistica tipicamente greca, che lo rende solo apparentemente inoppugnabile, il discorso muove, certo, da un presupposto iniziale evidente e pienamente giudaico: la volontà di battersi allo stremo in difesa della Legge e dei suoi aspetti fondamentali (peraltro, secondo Giuseppe, mai veramente minacciata dai Romani...). Questo atteggiamento, finirà in seguito, per una larga parte dei ribelli almeno, col modificarsi a fondo, quando la lotta contro Roma diverrà theios; e le necessità della guerra verranno sentite come prevalenti persino rispetto all’osservanza di quei riti e di quelle cerimonie in nome dei quali si è cominciato a combattere. Quella degli insorti si configura, se mi si passa l’espressione, come un’ideologia mutante, e per una parte prevalente di loro tale da trasformare la guerra in fine da mezzo che era; in liturgia primaria, e, più ancora, in debito imprescindibile nei confronti di Dio, le cui (=della guerra) esigenze trascenderanno persino norme mai discusse prima, quali la devozione verso il sabato o le festività tradizionali e la venerazione per i Luoghi Santi, relegate ora in secondo piano di fronte ad un compito ancor più sacro, una guerra santa – theios, appunto – per definizione. A sostegno di quanto affermato vorrei ricordare qui due episodi almeno. Ai soldati della coorte di presidio a Gerusalemme, costretta ad arrendersi, il capo zelota Eleazar promette salva la vita in cambio della consegna delle armi e di quanto resta delle loro dotazioni. A rassicurarli, inducendoli ad uscire dalle torri della reggia in cui sono asserragliati, vengono «giurati i patti», si fa cioè appello alla sacralità del giuramento; e dunque, agli 54 Su questa terribile vicenda, nei suoi innumerevoli risvolti, si vedano, da ultimi: LEWIN 2015, 61–135; BRIZZI 2015, 125–273. 55 Come ricordato, per es., in B.J. 6.128; 7.346.

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occhi dei Romani, alla fides che vi presiede... Ma ove quest’atto, assai meno cogente per i Giudei, non basti come probabile a rassicurarli, si concede loro di uscire in giorno di sabato.56 L’inganno è stato premeditato? Anche alla luce di successivi episodî consimili, è più che lecito pensarlo: oltre che destinato al riposo, il sabato è un giorno la cui sacertà nessun Ebreo aveva mai violato spargendo sangue, se non in casi eccezionali e solo per legittima difesa. In effetti, così tranquillizzati, i nemici possono esser sorpresi: il sabato, che in altre circostanze è stato sfruttato dai nemici di Israele per attaccare gli Ebrei quando questi sono più vulnerabili57 sembra dunque essere stato ritorto dagli zeloti contro le truppe romane, al fine di eliminarle senza ulteriori perdite. Quanto al secondo episodio, l’esercito di Cestio Gallo, in marcia verso Gerusalemme, fermatosi presso il villaggio di Gabao, vicino alla città,58 viene assalito da una folla enorme che, pur uscita a precipizio dalle mura «disordinatamente e fra grandi schiamazzi»,59 riesce, incredibilmente, a metterlo in difficoltà. Contro la caotica scorreria di una turba di civili i quali, forti solo del numero, caricano in disordine e senza alcun vero assetto tattico, l’armata di Cestio, se schierata a battaglia, non dovrebbe avere difficoltà alcuna. Siamo così indotti a pensare che le truppe romane si siano lasciate cogliere completamente di sorpresa durante la costruzione del campo. È possibile che, forse confidando troppo nelle sue forze, il legato abbia trascurato le precauzioni consuete in questi casi: destinare, ad esempio, un reparto a copertura di quanti sono al lavoro. Forse Cestio confida nella superiorità apparentemente indiscutibile delle sue forze, ma viene probabilmente ingannato anche da un altro fatto: i Giudei attaccano proprio in occasione della festa dei Tabernacoli, ricorrenza tra le più sacre della loro religione e ne abbandonano «la celebrazione...» uscendo «a battaglia senza darsi il pensiero di rispettare il riposo del settimo giorno»,60 dunque infrangendo di nuovo anche la norma del sabato. Di fronte a questo secondo episodio il dubbio che si tratti di una coincidenza si affievolisce di molto; e sorge il sospetto, destinato poi a trovare ulteriori conferme, che presso alcuni settori dell’integralismo ebraico vada imponendosi un nuovo principio, secondo il quale, nel caso di una guerra ‘santa’ (o divina: theios) come quella in corso, è non solo lecito, ma addirittura meritorio sospendere le norme cultuali per sorprendere il 56 57 58 59 60

B.J. 2.450-453. Cf., per es., 1 Macch., 2, 29-38; B.J. 1.146; Front., Strat., 2, 1, 17. B.J. 2.513-516. B.J. 2.517. B.J. 2.517.

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nemico e persino servirsi della festa a pro di un’attività bellica il cui valore viene considerato preponderante. La deriva appare epocale. Basti, in proposito, richiamare qui un solo episodio successivo: «Quando non vi fu più nulla da strappare al popolo» – ricorda Giuseppe61 – «Giovanni [= di Giscala] si diede a spogliare il Tempio, e fece fondere molti doni votivi e molti oggetti necessarî alle cerimonie sacre… Ai presenti disse che non dovevano farsi scrupolo nel fruire delle cose sacre a sostegno della santa causa; e che chi combatteva per il Tempio doveva trarre alimento dal Tempio stesso. Pertanto egli attinse il vino e l’olio santo che i sacerdoti conservavano nel Tempio interno per versarlo sugli olocausti, e lo distribuì alla sua banda, e quelli senza inorridire se ne unsero e ne bevvero». Ora, anche ammettendo che, al solito, Giuseppe esasperi o addirittura inventi alcuni particolari, come quello delle ruberie di arredi preziosi fusi per finanziare la guerra (ma è tanto incredibile che, al di là della rapina quotidiana, il cibo si acquisisse anche pagandolo? E in città, allora, costava tremendamente caro…), non può tuttavia non sorprendere l’osservazione, stranamente superficiale, di un grande studioso come lo Schürer: «in tali circostanze [=dato l’orrore dell’assedio]» – egli dice62 – «solo un uomo come Giuseppe può rimproverare a Giovanni di Giscala d’aver fatto un uso profano dell’olio e del vino sacri». Non profano, dal punto di vista dello storico ebraico, ma piuttosto sacrilego. Lo Schürer mostra, curiosamente, di non aver compreso la svolta operatasi nella mentalità degli estremisti. Certo, la situazione della città si era fatta tragica, ma l’aspetto toccato qui non è quello del nutrimento corporeo: se avessero voluto procurarsi cibo, gli occupanti del Tempio avrebbero dovuto scegliere piuttosto di riservare a sé stessi le vittime del cosiddetto sacrificio perenne in onore del dio, che continuava tuttora ad essere celebrato due volte al giorno (e che sarebbe stato interrotto solo per carenza di uomini).63 Qual mai sostentamento poteva trarsi, invece, dal vino? E, soprattutto, quale da quell’olio sacro con cui si aspergevano gli olocausti? Ungendosene il corpo come si ungevano ritualmente le vittime, gli occupanti del Tempio intesero, io credo, assimilarsi simbolicamente alle vittime stesse, care a dio, intesero sacralizzare sé stessi. Quella dei ribelli è la posizione di principio di chi sembra ritenere ormai non solo che la guerra intrapresa sia voluta da Yahveh, ma addirittura che, nei disegni dell’Altissimo, essa prevalga per importanza persino sul rispetto rituale da tributarsi ad alcuni tra i più sacri vincoli imposti dalla 61 62 63

B.J. 5.562-565. SCHÜRER 1985, I, 611. B.J. 6.94

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religione dei padri. La guerra è ormai, per loro, tò theion in sé, santa per definizione.64 Appare chiaro che la distanza tra le cautele religiose ritenute ancora inviolabili da Agrippa nel suo discorso al popolo di Gerusalemme e questo nuovo atteggiamento è divenuta incommensurabile. Ma torniamo al testo di Giuseppe. Malgrado non ignori le attese apocalittiche di molti gruppi rivoluzionari,65 l’uso che lo storico fa del termine lestrikoi – credo (e vedremo da ultimo perché…) volutamente ambiguo – ha finito per generare interpretazioni spesso discordanti circa la reale natura della turbolenza giudaica. Se, infatti, vi è, da un lato, chi pensa che effettivamente buona parte dei lestrikoi coinvolti nelle azioni violente fossero autentici resistenti, certo in lotta contro le élites del loro stesso popolo, ma determinati altresì ad opporsi al dominio di Roma sulla Palestina, vi è anche chi ritiene che – pur sostenuti e protetti dalle classi più povere, per le quali incarnavano lo spirito di una sommaria rivincita sociale contro le prepotenze dell’alta aristocrazia, legata ai gentili – questi lestai, questi latrones altro non fossero che comuni banditi da strada. Nessun sincero ideale politico o religioso, dunque, dietro le loro azioni, né alcuna autentica velleità rivoluzionaria, nessun vero programma di liberazione nazionale; ma solo il desiderio di reagire alle ingiustizie di una classe dirigente avida e scriteriata. Pur certo importante per la sua capacità di coinvolgere larghi strati del popolo ebraico, pur molto violenta, quella dei lestrikoi sarebbe stata dunque solo una forma di protesta sociale, scissa da qualsiasi programma cosciente volto a liberare il paese dalla presenza romana. Per venire ad uno tra i più recenti sostenitori di questa tesi, la matrice dei disordini sarebbe da ricercarsi assai più in generiche turbolenze interne alla società che in un fenomeno di decisa insorgenza antiimperiale: «gran parte delle persone che vi erano coinvolte», infatti, non sarebbero state – secondo questa tesi – «animate da ostilità nei confronti di Roma». Sia nella Guerra giudaica, sia nelle Antichità di Giuseppe Flavio non sarebbe dunque descritta una terra in ebollizione, in preda alle convulsioni di una vera e propria fase pre-insurrezionale, ma semplicemente un mondo lacerato «da dissensi interni e dal banditismo»; e una delle principali cause di questo disagio sarebbe da ricercarsi nell’«ingiusta distribuzione della ricchezza» in seno ad una «società complessivamente prospera».66 Le classi sociali attraverso cui Roma 64

B.J. 5.164 B.J. 2.258; 6.285 ss. Di «sempre più numerosi gruppi di ribelli escatologicamente motivati» parla PRICE 2001b, 117. Sul messianismo e i movimenti messianici cf. anche HORSLEY 1984; ABADIE & COUSIN 1998. 66 GOODMAN 2009, 465. 65

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esercitò a lungo il suo dominio sulla Giudea erano le più ricche; e dunque, poiché l’Urbe governava con l’appoggio degli abbienti, ogni attacco contro i ceti dominanti finì per apparire come una rivolta nei confronti del governo imperiale. Questi latrones altro non sarebbero stati dunque che criminali comuni, i quali riuscivano però ad ottenere il sostegno delle classi più povere della popolazione poiché rispondevano ad insopprimibili istanze di riscatto sociale.67 In verità, questa seconda ipotesi sembra di gran lunga la più fragile. Al di là del parere, nettamente schierato, degli studiosi moderni, vale forse la pena di richiamare qui, accanto a quello di Giuseppe, il resoconto, più breve ma assai incisivo, di Cassio Dione. Pur con qualche sfumatura, anche lo storico greco68 conferma le difficoltà dell’assedio nei suoi diversi aspetti. Ma aggiunge, rispetto a Flavio Giuseppe, alcuni dati originali, che pare avere desunto da fonti diverse, tra cui forse Giusto di Tiberiade,69 il grande storico giudeo ellenista che di Giuseppe è avversario. Rispetto a quest’ultimo, Dione dà assai maggior peso all’intervento in favore dei Giudei ad opera di forze esterne, truppe inviate da re barbari o ‘volontarî’ ebrei venuti dalle comunità della diaspora, dentro o fuori dai confini dell’impero,70 e dunque alla solidarietà ebraica; differenziandosi in parte, in ciò, dalle posizioni di Giuseppe, che sottolinea, viceversa, il prudente (ed ambiguo…) atteggiamento dei Parti (Vologese prima si offrì di mettere a disposizione di Vespasiano una forza di ben 40 mila cavalieri;71 poi, alla conclusione del conflitto, offrì a Tito una corona d’oro per la vittoria).72 In realtà qualche aiuto giunse dall’Adiabene: anche se l’afflusso di volontarî in difesa di Gerusalemme e del Tempio sembra esser stato abbastanza modesto. I congiunti di Izate, che, con pochi altri, vennero ad unirsi alla rivolta, finirono per invocare clemenza, consegnandosi a Tito, il quale li condusse a Roma in catene.73 Sempre Dione ricordail trauma riportato da Tito in persona; che, colpito da una pietra alla spalla sinistra, ne subisce una parziale invalidità destinata ad esser permanente.74 Così, accenna ad alcune ruses de guerre del tutto nuove rispetto al pur vastissimo repertorio presente già in Flavio 67 Sul banditismo per così dire ‘sociale’: HOBSBAWM 1971. Al fenomeno, spesso invocato in parallelo a talune manifestazioni della grande rivolta, mancano alcuni caratteri; tra cui quello, non secondario, di ridistribuire agli indigenti quanto si sottrae ai ricchi 68 Cass. Dio 66, 4, 1; 5, 3. 69 Cf. RAJAK 1973, 345–68; BARZANÒ 1987, 337–58; BARZANÒ 20052, 18–19. 70 Cass. Dio 66, 4, 2-3. 71 Tac., Hist. 4, 51, 1 s.: solo per sostenerlo contro Vitellio? 72 B.J. 7.105. 73 B.J. 6.352-356 74 Cass. Dio 66, 5, 1.

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Giuseppe. Estremamente abile, l’uso dei disertori da parte degli insorti vede, per esempio, sia l’invio di falsi fuggiaschi destinati ad infiltrarsi tra le legioni con il compito di distruggere le loro riserve d’acqua o di eliminare individui e gruppi isolati; sia, viceversa, l’accorto trattamento riservato a quanti tra i Romani – altra notizia del tutto originale – sono passati al nemico disperando di poter prendere la città. «Benché fossero a corto di cibo, i Giudei trattarono questi fuggiaschi con ogni riguardo, onde mostrare che vi erano disertori anche verso il loro campo».75 Per gli stratagemmi i Giudei mostrano poi un’autentica vocazione; ma, evidentemente decisi ad infligger danni ai Romani in qualunque modo, finiscono però, da ultimo, col cancellare, proprio a causa di tale atteggiamento, ogni residua possibilità di trattare con un nemico che, in ragione di una tradizione ancestrale, detesta tuttora questo modo di battersi.76 Ma vi è un particolare di ancor maggiore impatto nel resoconto dell’autore greco, la resistenza si fa più eroicamente disperata man mano che la lotta si avvicina al Tempio; fatto che – dapprima razionalmente spiegato con il restringersi per i difensori del perimetro da custodire – assume poi una suggestione particolare nell’osservazione che il nostro autore trae forse proprio da Giusto di Tiberiade: «Allora i Giudei presero a difendersi con molto maggior forza, quasi trovassero che era un dono della fortuna poter combattere nei pressi del Tempio e cadere per esso».77 Chiudono, infine, queste pagine l’attacco al santuario, di fronte al quale le legioni si fermano per un attimo, prese da superstizioso terrore; e l’incendio finale. Dione, che già ha sottolineato il carattere estremamente cruento di queste operazioni per entrambi i contendenti,78 rinnova qui l’omaggio più alto agli insorti giudaici: «E benché fossero in pochi a battersi contro forze assai più numerose, essi poterono esser vinti solo dopo che una parte del Tempio fu preda del fuoco. Fu allora infatti che andarono spontaneamente incontro alla fine, alcuni offrendosi alle spade dei Romani, altri dandosi la morte a vicenda, altri ancora togliendosi la vita da soli, altri infine gettandosi tra le fiamme. E pareva a tutti, ma in particolare proprio a costoro, che il fatto di perire insieme con il Tempio fosse un segno non di sventura e di morte, ma di vittoria, di salvezza, di felicità».79 Percepita fors’anche da Dione (il quale ricorda80 come, alla conclusione del conflitto, entrambi [= scil. i comandanti] abbiano accettato il titolo di imperator e ogni altro 75 76 77 78 79 80

Cass. Dio 65, 5, 3-4. Cf. BRIZZI 2015, passim. Cass. Dio 65, 6, 2. Cass. Dio 65, 5, 1; 6, 1 Cass. Dio 65, 6, 3. Cass. Dio 65, 7, 2.

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onore conferito loro; «ma né l’uno né l’altro abbia assunto il cognomen ex virtute di Judaicus», quasi che quel popolo non fosse stato veramente sconfitto), la dimensione sacrale dell’evento è chiara anche in Flavio Giuseppe, il quale ricorda come Vespasiano, che conservava nel suo palazzo uno dei libri della Legge predati a Gerusalemme e i veli purpurei del Tempio, abbia deposto i due trofei maggiori, la tavola dei pani della presentazione e la menorah, nel tempio della Pace.81 Di per sé indubbia, la rilevanza simbolica del gesto82 avvalora l’ipotesi che, come per le grandi ed ancestrali nemiche di Roma (Veio, Cartagine…), anche per Gerusalemme si sia proceduto al rituale dell’evocatio.83 Sia consentito, per chiudere, qualche ultimo rilievo. La posizione di chi interpreta come brigantaggio sia pure sociale una guerra di proporzioni vastissime come questa può sembrar rispecchiarsi alla perfezione – almeno nei termini prescelti per inquadrare il fenomeno – proprio in quella di Giuseppe. In realtà, però, dietro le posizioni di facciata lo storico ebraico è, secondo me, ben conscio della situazione reale. Egli chiama, è vero, lestai gli insorti giudaici; ma, in un uomo che conosce così bene la particolare mentalità romana in materia di ius belli, la scelta del termine è motivata da ben precise finalità. Lo spinge, certo, anche il proposito di sostenere la posizione accolta all’inizio dai Romani, che dovettero davvero scambiare dapprima per fermenti sociali quelli che erano, in realtà, i prodromi di una guerra di popolo, diversa oltretutto da quante ne avessero mai affrontate finora;84 lo muove poi l’intento di giustificare i fallimenti dell’élite giudaica filoromana, il cui operato intende almeno tenere distinto dalla condotta dei ‘briganti’ che hanno preso le armi contro l’impero. Infine lo anima il desiderio di sfumare per quanto possibile quella che, alla fine, è divenuta agli occhi dei Romani stessi la vera colpa dei Giudei, una spaventosa rebellio. Infine, mettendo per iscritto i ricordi di una guerra sbagliata e persa fin dall’inizio contro una potenza soverchiante, spera anche, secondo me, di scongiurare le future catastrofi che purtroppo presagisce al suo popolo. «Esiste Roma – è stato detto in uno dei libri più intelligenti mai scritti (e non solo su questo argomento)85 – «ed esistono i Giudei. Tra i due esiste Giuseppe».

81 82 83 84 85

B.J. 7.161. B.J. 7.158-162. Cf. MASTINO 2012, 25–47. È l’asserto sostenuto in BRIZZI 2015. VIDAL-NAQUET 1980, 33.

CHAPTER 8

« PAS D’AUTRE MAITRE QUE DIEU » LA « QUATRIÈME PHILOSOPHIE », POLITIQUE ET MYSTIQUE Mireille HADAS-LEBEL Université Paris-Sorbonne

Le livre de Steve Mason, qui a fourni l’occasion de ce colloque, s’intitule A History of the Jewish War. Il se présente donc d’emblée comme un ouvrage d’histoire militaire. Les fort nombreux parallèles avec divers épisodes de guerres antiques ou modernes, voire tout à fait contemporaines, pourraient faire croire que l’auteur sort de Saint Cyr ou de West Point. Ils sont indéniablement éclairants et stimulants mais l’on peut se demander si cette approche comparative, digne d’un prytanée militaire, n’estompe pas quelque peu la spécificité de la guerre qui opposa les Judéens aux Romains de 66 à 74. La thèse de l’auteur, déjà rappelée par d’autres, est que les Judéens n’avaient aucune raison de déclarer la guerre à Rome car ils se sentaient même, depuis Pompée, et encore plus depuis Hérode, « privilégiés » par le pouvoir romain qui les protégeait. Ce sont des rivalités régionales et ethniques anciennes qui finirent par dégénérer et entraîner Romains et Judéens dans une guerre que ni les uns ni les autres ne voulaient. Cela n’empêcha pas Vespasien d’organiser « un triomphe frauduleux » pour une prétendue guerre étrangère, laquelle n’était en fait qu’une opération de police dans une lointaine province. Une telle thèse, quoique soutenue avec brio, ne peut manquer de susciter des interrogations. Je reviendrai ici sur deux points essentiels qui me paraissent, comme à d’autres, manquer à cet imposant ouvrage : 1. l’existence et le développement de l’hostilité des Judéens envers Rome 2. la part d’éléments religieux dans cette hostilité. 1. UNE HOSTILITÉ GRANDISSANTE Peut-on affirmer avec Steve Mason que l’hostilité envers Rome n’a pas été au moins l’un des facteurs déterminants de la révolte juive de 66 :

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« A profound anti-Roman sentiment was not the generative force » ? Ce serait faire peu de cas d’une accumulation de griefs qui n’ont pu que s’exaspérer avec le temps. Si jamais Rome a bénéficié d’une image favorable auprès des Judéens, comme semble en témoigner le chapitre 8 du livre I des Maccabées qui évoque leur traité d’amitié et d’alliance au temps de la lutte contre le royaume séleucide, l’entrée de Pompée dans le saint des saints en -63 suscita une colère dont il nous reste des échos : Parmi les malheurs de cette époque, rien ne fut plus douloureux pour la nation juive que la profanation par des étrangers du Lieu saint alors soustrait à la vue (B.J. 1.152).

Ce témoignage de Flavius Josèphe est corroboré par quelques vestiges littéraires antérieurs à lui : « Selon qu’une œuvre littéraire des derniers temps de l’indépendance juive trahit de l’hostilité ou de l’admiration ou simplement de l’ignorance à l’égard des Romains, on peut affirmer qu’elle est antérieure ou postérieure à cet événement ».1 L’auteur des Psaumes de Salomon qui évoque avec jouissance la mort ignominieuse de Pompée « poignardé sur les collines d’Égypte anéanti plus que le dernier des hommes sur terre et sur mer, son cadavre ballotté par les flots » (Pss. Sal. 2, 3031) y voit le juste châtiment du chef de ces peuples étrangers qui ont foulé l’autel sacré « avec leurs chaussures orgueilleusement » (2, 2). Ce texte anonyme doit être daté de peu après l’assassinat de Pompée en -48. C’est vers ce temps-là aussi que je situerais le pesher de Habacuc trouvé à Qumran qui identifie les Romains aux Kittim « dont la crainte et la terreur sont sur tous les peuples » (1QpHab III, 4), ces conquérants invincibles et insatiables qui « viennent de loin, des îles de la mer pour dévorer tous les peuples, comme un vautour, sans se rassasier » (1QpHab III, 10-12). Le démantèlement du royaume hasmonéen, l’imposition d’un tribut, la suppression de la royauté après -63, ne paraissent pas de nature à avoir entretenu des sentiments favorables à Rome dans la population judéenne, malgré la protection de Jules César envers le culte juif qui s’ensuivit. Le retour de la royauté avec Hérode ne s’était fait qu’au prix d’une guerre civile où le protégé de Rome ne l’avait emporté que grâce aux légions romaines. Pour une partie au moins des Judéens, Hérode n’avait été que le valet d’une puissance étrangère et c’est ainsi qu’ils voyaient aussi ses fils, Archélaüs notamment, maintenu au pouvoir grâce à la répression sanglante de Varus qui avait fait des milliers de morts. Bien qu’une partie des Juifs 1

LEVI 1896, 177.

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ait affirmé préférer la domination romaine à celle de rois juifs indignes, c’est la mise en œuvre de cette domination qui déclencha en l’an 6, lors du recensement de Quirinius, l’émergence de ce que Flavius Josèphe appelle la « quatrième philosophie », caractérisée, nous dit-il, par un « invincible amour de la liberté ». Juda et Saddok, en introduisant et en éveillant chez nous une quatrième secte philosophique et en s’entourant de nombreux adhérents, remplirent le pays de troubles immédiats et plantèrent les maux qui sévirent plus tard, et cela grâce à cette philosophie inconnue avant eux (…). C’est la faveur de la jeunesse pour leur secte qui fut cause de la ruine du pays (A.J. 18.10).

Josèphe ne s’étend guère sur le contenu de cette « philosophie » mais le peu qu’il nous en dit paraît avoir les caractéristiques de tout mouvement indépendantiste à travers l’histoire : deux chefs charismatiques capables de s’opposer aux autorités en place trop complaisantes envers la puissance occupante, le refus d’un impôt signe de servitude, l’appel à fomenter des troubles au nom de la liberté, l’attrait de la jeunesse pour un discours qui redonne au peuple sa fierté. Dans les décennies qui suivirent, la répression romaine, la multiplication des crucifixions (comme celle des fils de Juda le Galiléen, fondateur de la « quatrième philosophie ») qui venaient châtier les rebelles des provinces, les exactions des procurateurs, ne pouvaient qu’exaspérer cette mouvance, surtout après le fragile espoir qu’avait fait renaître le règne d’Agrippa I. Cela ne veut pas dire que tout le peuple était uni dans un activisme anti-romain. Loin de là ! Les tièdes, les prudents, ceux qui pactisaient avec l’ennemi, furent bientôt l’objet d’éliminations ciblées de la part de ceux que les Romains appelaient désormais Sicarii, « bandits ». La situation devenait de plus en plus difficile à gérer pour les procurateurs qui ne contrôlaient pas toujours leurs troupes quand elles se laissaient aller à des provocations contre la population. Du moins savaient-ils réprimer les émeutes sans état d’âme. Loin de minimiser leur responsabilité, Josèphe montre qu’il partage l’animosité de son peuple à leur égard : « Florus fut celui qui nous força à commencer la guerre contre les Romains car nous aimions mieux périr en masse qu’en détail » (A.J. 20.257). Dans ce qui précède, je viens de décrire une guerre coloniale en préparation. Cependant, au cours de soulèvements coloniaux, ce qui domine c’est la volonté de ne plus avoir de maîtres étrangers, mais d’installer à leur place un chef national qu’il soit issu du peuple ou d’une dynastie évincée. Ce n’est pas ce que réclament les tenants de la « quatrième philosophie ». Ils ne veulent pas de roi fût-il national. « Ils ont un invincible

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amour de la liberté car ils jugent que Dieu est le seul chef et le seul maître » (A.J. 18.23). La doctrine suivant laquelle « Dieu est le seul maître » permet d’attribuer à la « quatrième philosophie » la devise « Pas d’autre maître que Dieu ». Avec une telle devise, nous ne sommes plus dans le domaine du politique, nous sommes passés dans celui du religieux. 2. « PAS D’AUTRE MAITRE QUE DIEU » Nous savons tous ici combien il est difficile de faire la part du politique et celle du religieux dans les courants juifs de l’époque énumérés par Josèphe (B.J. 2 et A.J. 18). Ce qu’il nous dit des Sadducéens, et des Pharisiens notamment, prouve qu’à l’époque hasmonéenne, les uns comme les autres agissaient en tant que partis politiques, tout en ayant aussi une conception différente de la lecture des textes sacrés qu’ils possédaient en commun. Les Esséniens, quant à eux, apparaissent plus comme une secte religieuse, mais la marginalité qu’ils cultivent par rapport au reste de la société n’est-elle pas en soi une forme d’opposition politique aux pouvoirs successifs ? On ne peut que constater, à travers l’histoire et jusqu’à nos jours, qu’un sentiment religieux peut s’exprimer en politique et qu’une attitude politique peut se donner un fondement religieux. La « quatrième philosophie », nous dit Josèphe en A.J. livre 18, est issue du mouvement pharisien. Cette version est préférable à celle de B.J. 2.118 où il soutient que « c’était une secte particulière, sans rapport avec les autres ». Il est évident que ce dernier passage, écrit au lendemain de la guerre, veut laver le groupe pharisien, auquel Josèphe dit appartenir lui-même, de toute responsabilité dans la tragédie nationale. La vérité semble ressurgir quelque vingt ans après : « ses sectateurs s’accordent en général avec la doctrine des Pharisiens » (A.J. 18.23). Mais peut-être au fond n’y a-t-il pas de véritable contradiction entre les deux passages car c’est l’élément nouveau, introduit dans la doctrine pharisienne en l’an 6 par Juda et Sadok, qui constitue la « quatrième philosophie », « cette philosophie inconnue avant eux », souligne Josèphe (A.J. 18.10). Le terme de « philosophie » a été largement commenté par nos collègues ainsi que celui de sophistes appliqué à Juda le Galiléen, son fondateur. Il est généralement admis que Josèphe n’utilise pas ce terme de façon polémique (au sens habituel de « sophiste ») mais qu’il désigne par là un maître et sans doute un exégète.2 Les Pharisiens n’étaient-ils 2 Nous ne voyons pas de vraie différence entre ces deux termes de sorte que la polémique qui s’est développée en 1957 à propos de la traduction du terme grec entre S. Zeitlin et Cecil Roth nous paraît vaine. Cf. FELDMAN 1984, 659.

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d’ailleurs pas connus pour être « les interprètes les plus rigoureux des lois » ? (B.J. 2.162). Étant donnée leur formation pharisienne, il ne fait pas de doute que Juda et son collègue Saddok aient appuyé leur doctrine sur des textes sacrés. Écrivant pour des Romains et des Grecs, et cherchant à pacifier les esprits, Josèphe ne jugeait pas opportun de dénoncer les écrits porteurs d’une invitation à la rébellion, d’autant qu’ils auraient nécessité de longues et inutiles explications. Il nous reste à essayer de découvrir la source d’inspiration de la « quatrième philosophie ». La doctrine de « Pas d’autre maître que Dieu » n’eût pas dû apparaître blâmable aux yeux de Josèphe, si l’on s’en tient à sa définition du judaïsme pour laquelle il forge le néologisme « théocratie ». « Notre législateur a – si l’on peut faire cette entorse à la langue – institué la théocratie, plaçant en Dieu le pouvoir et la force » (C. Ap. 2.165). La Loi de Moïse n’enseigne-t-elle pas que le pouvoir suprême est entre les mains de Dieu ? Malgré une similitude apparente, le mot d’ordre de la « quatrième philosophie » cache de toute évidence une tout autre conception à laquelle notre historien s’oppose violemment. La dissidence pharisienne que constitue cette mouvance pourrait avoir son origine dans une querelle de scribes. De nouvelles interprétations des textes sacrés ont surgi qui ne font pas l’unanimité. Les Pharisiens traditionnels s’en tiennent au commentaire de la Torah, ce sont des « interprètes des lois ». Ceux d’entre eux qui adhèrent à la « quatrième philosophie » n’auraient-ils pas adopté de nouvelles croyances en privilégiant certaines exégèses ? Lorsque l’on sait le développement de la littérature apocalyptique qui, à cette époque, se poursuit depuis deux siècles au moins, on en déduit qu’elle a eu son public de lecteurs et n’a pas été sans influence sur eux. Elle suscite en effet une attente eschatologique susceptible de prendre des formes variées. L’auteur des Psaumes 17 et 18 dits « de Salomon » est généralement considéré comme un Pharisien. Face à la situation politique désastreuse créée par les Hasmonéens puis Hérode, il attend la réalisation des prophéties d’Isaïe qui annoncent la venue d’un roi juste et pieux de la lignée de David. « Regarde, Seigneur et suscite-leur leur roi, fils de David, au moment que tu sais, ô Dieu pour qu’il règne sur Israël ton serviteur » (Pss. Sal. 17, 21). Dans une vision teintée de mysticisme, le livre des Paraboles d’Hénoch – s’il est permis de le dater de ce temps – laisse entrevoir le règne d’un « Elu de justice » qui sera « la lumière des nations » selon la promesse d’Isaïe.

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Les Esséniens semblent avoir été particulièrement réceptifs à la relecture des textes prophétiques dans une perspective eschatologique. Les Esséniens vivent certes en marge de la société judéenne et leurs écrits de secte restent limités aux initiés, mais l’on ne peut exclure que leur attente eschatologique ait été partagée par d’autres courants du judaïsme. Les écrits de Qumran propres à la secte reflètent une atmosphère de fin des temps où les prophéties du passé parviendront à leur réalisation. Les Chaldéens du prophète Habacuc sont devenus les “Kittim” arrogants « dont la crainte et la terreur sont sur tous les peuples » (1QpHab III, 4). Une guerre, ultime écho de celle prophétisée par Ezéchiel contre Gog ou encore par Zacharie, doit aboutir au triomphe définitif des Fils de lumière : « La domination des Kittim cèdera pour rabaisser l’impiété de sorte qu’il n’y ait pas de reste et sans qu’il y ait un rescapé de tous les fils de ténèbres » (1QM I, 6-7). Le messianisme semble s’être développé à cette époque où les prophéties bibliques font renaître l’espoir de voir régner un roi « oint » qui ferait la volonté divine. Le « bi-messianisme », attribué aux textes de Qumran, ne représente à mes yeux que la restauration de l’ordre divin qui partage l’autorité entre les deux « fils de l’huile fraîche » évoqués par Zacharie (4, 14) : le grand-prêtre qui a reçu l’onction sacerdotale et le roi qui lui aussi est oint. Le respect de cet ordre qui, dans le passé, avait subi tant d’infractions, était seul conforme à la volonté de Dieu. Telle est l’atmosphère dans laquelle a pu naître la « quatrième philosophie ». C’est une pensée, une doctrine professée par des maîtres qui s’appuient sur des textes. Ils ne semblent pas être les adeptes de la restauration d’une royauté, même consacrée par l’onction, car « ils jugent que Dieu est le seul chef et le seul maître ». Mais, s’ils ne sont pas dans l’attente messianique, ils sont du moins dans une attente eschatologique du Royaume. Alors, selon la prophétie de Zacharie (14,9) : « En ce jourlà, Dieu sera un et son nom sera un ». 3. L’INFLUENCE DU

LIVRE DE

DANIEL

Pour ceux qui scrutaient un avenir incertain, un autre texte était plein de promesses, c’est le livre de Daniel. Dans ses Antiquités, Josèphe lui consacre une longue paraphrase (10.186-281) destinée à démontrer la validité des prophéties. Né au cours de la révolte des Maccabées, ce livre était entouré de respect en raison de son habillage babylonien qui lui faisait attribuer une plus haute antiquité. Comme le souligne Momigliano,3 son 3

MOMIGLIANO 1980, 157.

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auteur était « le seul auteur non grec et non romain à faire de la succession des empires la trame de l’histoire ». Cette périodisation, inconnue des prophètes bibliques, est un des traits de la littérature apocalyptique.4 Une double vision contenue dans le livre de Daniel annonce la succession des empires. Au chapitre 2, c’est le roi Nabuchodonosor qui aperçoit en songe une statue à la tête d’or, aux épaules et aux bras d’argent, au ventre d’airain, aux jambes de fer et aux pieds en partie de fer en partie d’argile ; une pierre lancée d’une main invisible fera s’écrouler la statue et se transformera en « une grande montagne qui remplit toute la terre ». Au chapitre 7, c’est Daniel lui-même qui aperçoit quatre bêtes sortant de la mer. La quatrième, effrayante, couronnée de dix cornes, d’une extrême arrogance, finit par passer en jugement devant l’Ancien des jours qui la condamne à mort, tandis que les autres bêtes obtiennent un sursis. Alors apparaît avec les nuées célestes « comme un fils d’homme » auquel seront donnés « la puissance, la gloire et le règne », dont « la domination ne passera pas « et dont le royaume ne sera pas détruit » (Dan 7, 14). Cette vision allait avoir une place centrale dans le christianisme naissant. « L’auteur inconnu du livre de Daniel eut une influence décisive sur l’événement religieux qui allait transformer le monde. Il créa la mise en scène et les termes techniques du nouveau messianisme » écrit Renan.5 Cette image lumineuse du Fils de l’homme allait devenir la figure salvatrice qui se superposa à celle du fils de David auquel le titre de « Messie » serait donné. Une lecture quelque peu différente du même chapitre 7 de Daniel laissait entendre que celui qui était présenté sous forme humaine et non bestiale, à la différence des trois autres était une image collective du peuple de Dieu. L’ange qui s’adresse à Daniel promet que « les Saints du Très Haut recevront le royaume et possèderont le royaume pour l’éternité et d’éternité en éternité » (Dan 7, 18). Ainsi serait instauré sur terre le Royaume de Dieu où tout serait conforme à la volonté divine. Tel était le message consolateur du livre de Daniel en pleine crise maccabéenne. Une fois disparu l’ennemi grec de Syrie désigné par la quatrième bête, Israël se trouvait désormais confronté à l’empire romain. Celui-ci avait-il été prévu par Daniel ? Une nouvelle lecture s’imposait et Josèphe lui-même en atteste l’existence de son temps par son commentaire du songe de Nabuchodonosor. 4 Ce thème, sans doute venu de Perse, fait partie de la vision politique du monde grécoromain, cf. SWAIN 1940. 5 RENAN 1865, LXXXII.

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La tête d’or, c’est toi qu’elle montrait ainsi que les rois de Babylone d’avant toi ; les deux mains et les épaules signifient que notre empire sera défait par deux rois ; la puissance de ceux-ci, un autre venu d’occident et vêtu de bronze, la détruira mais une autre puissance, semblable au fer, y mettra fin et dominera pour toujours, du fait de la nature du fer (A.J. 10.209).

Selon cette réinterprétation, le quatrième empire n’est plus l’Empire grec (passé au troisième rang et symbolisé par le bronze) mais l’Empire romain, puissance invincible « semblable au fer ». Il est significatif que Josèphe omette les pieds d’argile de la statue qui démentent cette invincibilité, significatif aussi qu’il se refuse à nous livrer le sens de la pierre qui renverse la statue et finit par s’étendre sur toute la terre : « Daniel révéla aussi au roi la signification de la pierre, mais je n’ai pas jugé bon de la rapporter, car je ne suis tenu à écrire que sur les faits passés et révolus et non sur le futur » (A.J. 10.210). Il sait visiblement que, pour certains de ses contemporains, la pierre représente un agent divin – Messie ou peuple de Dieu – qui finira par abattre l’empire terrestre le plus puissant. La prudence lui impose de taire une telle espérance:6 « Si quelqu’un avide de vérité ne recule pas devant une tâche ardue et désire apprendre des choses cachées qui doivent arriver, qu’il prenne la peine de lire le livre de Daniel » (A.J. 10.210) Josèphe s’avère ainsi être le premier témoin avec le Nouveau Testament d’une réinterprétation des visions de Daniel, promise à une longue postérité dans le Talmud et le Midrash.7 Dans son commentaire du chapitre 8 de Daniel qui clôt le livre 10 des Antiquités, il affirme la fiabilité des prophéties de Daniel qui apportent la preuve que Dieu se soucie des affaires des hommes. Pour lui, celles-ci se sont déjà réalisées du temps d’Antiochus IV Épiphane qui a combattu le peuple et ses lois, souillé le Temple et interdit les sacrifices pendant trois ans mais il ajoute que la même prédiction vaut aussi pour les Romains (10.276). La vision du chapitre 7 aurait dû retenir l’attention de Josèphe. De fait, sa lecture réactualisée était encore plus embarrassante que celle du chapitre 2, car elle impliquait que Rome était la bête effrayante et innommable hérissée de cornes, symbolisant le quatrième empire. Dans les trois apocalypses de la fin du Ier siècle (II Baruch, IV Esdras et Apocalypse de Jean),8 le thème du quatrième empire précédant l’arrivée du Messie joue un rôle important. La bête de l’Apocalypse johannique a pour chiffre 666, 6 7 8

Cf. NIKIPROWETZKY 1971, 488-489. Cf. KRAUSS 1914. Voir commentaire dans HADAS-LEBEL 1986. Cf. BOGAERT 1980.

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où l’on croit reconnaître la valeur numérique de Nero Caesar. En IV Esdras, c’est l’aigle, symbole de Rome, qui joue ce rôle : « L’aigle qui montait de la mer, c’est le quatrième royaume de la vision qu’avait vue Daniel ton frère » est-il révélé à Esdras (IV Esd. V, XII,11). Une tradition orale interprétant ces textes, et dont nous avons ici la trace, avait pu se constituer déjà quand apparut la « quatrième philosophie ». Le renversement du quatrième empire de l’histoire était la condition même de l’avènement du royaume de Dieu sur terre. Les véritables soldats de Dieu devaient hâter cet avènement. Les sicaires commencèrent à traquer les adversaires de leurs idées avant d’oser le coup de main que fut la prise de Massada en 66 et le massacre de sa garnison romaine. Les zélotes, apparus dans le milieu sacerdotal de Jérusalem, se réclamèrent sans doute du zèle de Pinehas mais, s’ils n’hésitèrent pas à braver Rome, c’est qu’ils croyaient aussi fermement aux prophéties qui annonçaient sa chute et à la victoire finale de ceux qui étaient animés de zèle pour Dieu. Ces deux groupes, sicaires et zélotes, apparus à des moments différents, ont pour point commun d’avoir mis la violence au service de Dieu dans l’espoir d’un soutien providentiel qui ferait advenir le Royaume. Les quelques traces de la révolte juive qu’a gardées la littérature rabbinique ne sont pas plus favorables que Josèphe à ceux qu’elle appelle siqarin, qannaïm ou birioné.9 Les conflits ethniques locaux (« nasty regional rivalry ») dont Steve Mason fait la principale cause de la guerre ont certainement joué un rôle important dans son déclenchement. Mais la partialité des procurateurs ressentie par les Judéens dans le règlement de ces conflits n’a pu qu’ajouter à un sentiment antiromain déjà ancien qui a trouvé un terrain favorable dans des esprits exaltés. Pour les adeptes de la « quatrième philosophie », Rome devait être le dernier empire avant l’avènement du Royaume, conformément à la prophétie de Daniel et il leur incombait de hâter la fin de l’histoire.

9

Cf. ‘Abot R. Nat. version A, 6 p. 32 et version B13, p.31; b. Giṭ. 56 a, textes traduits dans HADAS-LEBEL 1990, 130–32.

CHAPTER 9

ROME AND THE FUTURE OF ITS EMPIRE IN SECOND TEMPLE AND POST-DESTRUCTION JEWISH TEXTS1 Nadav SHARON The University of Toronto

1. INTRODUCTION In comparison to other peoples who were dominated by the Roman Empire, the remains of Jewish texts that discuss or allude to Rome and its Empire are quite abundant. This paper will examine how the authors of such texts viewed the Empire’s future. These texts can be divided chronologically into three groups. One group consists of texts composed rather shortly after the Roman conquest of Judea in 63 BCE (the Psalms of Solomon and the Dead Sea Scrolls). A second group consists of texts composed during the first century CE, a few decades prior to the Destruction in 70 CE or shortly after it (Philo and Josephus’ Judean War). And the third group consists of texts that were composed a couple of decades after the Destruction and before the Bar Kokhbah Revolt; i.e., in the decade or two before and after 100 CE (Josephus’ Antiquities, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch). Obviously, a lot can be said about the view, or views, of Rome in some of these texts (especially Josephus), and this paper does not aim to cover all points and aspects. Rather, this paper will examine some passages that, explicitly or implicitly, allude to the future of the Roman Empire. In later rabbinic literature Rome is often labelled as “the wicked kingdom” and referred to as the “fourth” foreign kingdom to rule over Israel, in accordance with the Book of Daniel’s “four kingdoms” visions 1 I am most grateful to the organizers of the conference in honor of Steve Mason’s recent book for inviting me to take part in it. Steve Mason’s research has profoundly enhanced and transformed our understandings of Josephus, and thus of the Second Temple period. The volume which this conference celebrated will certainly do the same to the history of the Great Revolt, and it was a privilege to be a part of that celebration.

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(chapters 2 and 7).2 In Daniel’s original visions the “fourth” kingdom was Greece, and it was viewed as the last in a line of foreign, wicked, empires to rule over Israel and the world, that – like its predecessors – will fall, to be followed by an everlasting Jewish kingdom. But how did pre-rabbinic Jews view the Roman Empire and its future? Did they already employ Daniel’s scheme in relation to Rome? And how did the views of Jews change – if at all – after the Destruction? Obviously, we have no way of knowing the views of the common Jew, and each of the various texts that will be examined can attest directly only to the views of its author, and perhaps of a close group of associates or followers. Nevertheless, these texts offer us our only, albeit small, window into some parts of Jewish society. Moreover, I assert that the more we find common threads between these texts from different times, places, and groups, the more we can tentatively ascertain the views of wider circles of Jewish society. 2. POST-ROMAN CONQUEST LITERATURE 2.1. The Psalms of Solomon The Psalms of Solomon is a collection of Psalms written in Judea in the mid-first century BCE. Some of the psalms contain allusions to Pompey’s conquest and the beginning of Roman rule over Judea. Psalm 2 contains its latest historical allusion – to the murder of Pompey in Egypt in 48 BCE, and thus was probably composed shortly after that event.3 These psalms explain Pompey’s conquest and invasion of the Temple as punishment for sins of “the people of Jerusalem” (2:3, 11-18), and Psalm 17 clearly denounces the Hasmoneans for illegally usurping the Davidic throne (17:4-6). Nevertheless, this author’s antagonism towards Rome is obvious. Psalm 7, which appears to have been composed on the eve of the Roman conquest, pleads the Lord not to allow the conquest of Jerusalem by the Romans: “May their feet not trample your holy inheritance. Discipline us as you wish, but don’t turn us over to the gentiles” (vv. 2-3).4 Other psalms, which were composed after those gentiles – that is, Pompey’s army – were triumphant, strongly vilify the Romans. Psalm 2 opens with “the sinner contemptuously” smashing Jerusalem’s walls (v. 1), and 2 For examples of this rabbinic adaptation, see the Aramaic translations PseudoJonathan and Neofiti on Gen 15:12, and Midrash Lev. Rab. 13:5, 15:9. 3 For its time and place of authorship see NICKELSBURG 2005, 238–47. 4 For a similar notion see also 2 Macc 10:4.

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continues: “Gentiles who worship other gods went up to your altar; they brazenly trampled around with their sandals on” (v. 2). The psalmist requests that God retaliate against the Romans, and especially that he disgrace “the dragon’s arrogance.” In the Septuagint, δράκων usually translates ‫ תנין‬or ‫לויתן‬, animal designations that are used in the Bible in reference to such evil kings as Pharaoh (e.g., Ezek 29:3, 32:2), and Nebuchadnezzar (Jer 51:34; cf. Ps 74:13-14). The psalm immediately describes the fulfillment of that request – Pompey’s murder in Egypt, a description that undermines Roman, or specifically Pompeian, imperial ideology, saying: He did not realize that he was merely mortal... He said: “I will be lord of the whole world;” he failed to recognize that it is God who is great (μέγας), who is mighty in his great strength. He himself is king over the heavens, he who judges kings and rulers. (vv. 28–30)5

The psalm makes a pun on Pompey’s title magnus, clarifying that it is God who is great. Moreover, the heretical saying of the arrogant one: “I will be lord of the whole world,” juxtaposed with the determination that it is God who is king over the heavens and judges all mortals, seems to be an allusion to contemporary Roman perceptions of Rome’s universal rule, perceptions which were especially evident in Pompey’s selfportrayal.6 Furthermore, Psalm 8 presents Pompey as untrustworthy and murderous: after being peacefully let into the city by its leaders – an act which the author criticizes – he tore down its walls and killed its leaders and many others (vv. 16–20). Psalm 17 again maligns the foreign conqueror (vv. 11, 13–14), and – in language drawn from the description of the Davidic Messiah in Isaiah 11 – describes the future rise of a Davidic Messiah and his judgment of the gentile enemies (vv. 21–25). 2.2. The Dead Sea Scrolls A rather large portion of the Dead Sea texts that scholars identify as sectarian were composed or copied in the first century BCE, and many of those were probably composed after the Roman conquest of Judea 5

Translations of the Psalms of Solomon are based on WRIGHT 2007. For example, Diodorus (40.4) records an inscription of Pompey in Rome in which he claims to have “extended the frontiers of the empire to the limits of the earth” (trans. Walton in LCL). Cf. Plutarch, Pompey 38.2-3, 45.5. See SHATZMAN 1999, 49–84, esp. 78– 80, with further references; MENDELS 1997, 243–44; ATKINSON 2004, 32–36. 6

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in 63 BCE. In Dead Sea Scrolls scholarship, one finds two, somewhat conflicting, assertions concerning their view of the Romans. According to one assertion, initially after the Roman takeover, the Qumran sect, or group, had a neutral, even positive, attitude towards Rome, which brought the end to the group’s Hasmonean foes, and only much later in its history did the group adopt a negative view.7 According to the second assertion, the sectarians viewed Rome as Daniel’s “fourth” kingdom almost immediately after the conquest.8 I would like to suggest that both of those assertions should be rejected. In several important sectarian texts that were apparently composed in the few decades after Pompey’s conquest, we rather find an unchanging negative view of Rome, but no usage of the “four kingdoms” topos. In many Scrolls the Romans are designated with the nickname “Kittim,” apparently being used for the first time to designate an eschatological enemy.9 Despite the fact that Pesher Habakkuk views the Kittim/Romans as being God’s agents to punish the Jewish enemies of the sect, it nevertheless presents them as very evil. It says that “the fear and dread of” the Kittim “are upon all the nations. And by design all their plans are to do evil, and with cunning and deceit they shall deal with all the peoples” (3:46).10 They “trample the land with [their] horse[s] and with their beasts. And from a distance they come, from the islands of the sea, to devour all the peoples, like an eagle, and there is no satiety. And with rage th[ey] gr[ow hot and with] burning anger and fury they speak with all [the peoples(?)]” (3:9-13); they come “to ruin the land” (4:12-13) and “to lay waste many lands” (6:8);11 and the term ‫“ =( בית אשמתם‬their guilty house” or “the house of their guilt;” 4:11) probably refers to the Roman Senate. It is significant that what the Romans are accused of here is not the injuries they inflicted on the Judeans or on Judea, but rather on “all the peoples.” Furthermore, not only is there deep-seated hostility towards the Romans in these pesharim, but there is, moreover, an expectation of their punishment and fall in the near future. Pesher Habakkuk 5:3-4 says: “God will not destroy His people by the hand of the nations, but into the hand of 7

E.g., VERMES 2007, 139; STEGEMANN 1998, 131–32 Thus, for example, STEGEMANN 1998, 133, wrote that following the Roman conquest “the Essenes arrived at a new understanding of the book of Daniel. Now they interpreted the fourth and last empire as the Imperium Romanum…” 9 For this term and its usage in the Dead Sea Scrolls see SHARON 2016, 357–372 [in Heb] and SHARON 2017, 171–90, with additional references noted there. 10 Translations of the Dead Sea Scrolls are based on CHARLESWORTH et al., 1994-2011. 11 Compare Pss. Sol. 17:11: “The lawless one devastated our land, so that it was uninhabitable.” 8

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his chosen God will give the judgment of all the nations.”12 Moreover, according to the commonly accepted reconstruction of the beginning of Pesher Nahum, the pesher on the verse “He rebuked the sea and dried it up” (Nahum 1:4) is: “‘the sea’ – that is all the Ki[ttim…] so as to ren[der] a judgment against them and to wipe them out from upon the face of [the earth]” (1-2 ii 3-5).13 Similarly, in the text describing the eschatological war of the “Sons of Light” against “the Sons of Darkness,” the War Scroll, the main eschatological enemy is the Kittim. While some have suggested that in this sectarian text the Kittim are the Greeks, many scholars assert that they are, in fact, the Romans, and elsewhere I have argued further in favor of this latter view.14 The use of the title “Kittim” for the Romans is clearly derived from chapter 11 in the book of Daniel, where, for the first time, that term patently refers to a specific nation (elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible it alludes generally to peoples from the Mediterranean coasts or islands), and that nation is clearly the Romans. Daniel 11 was also a major source for the first column of the War Scroll, which lays out the eschatological scenario and in which the Kittim are mentioned multiple times. Given this and the generally significant place of the book of Daniel and other Danielic literature in the Qumran library,15 it is almost natural to expect that, as becomes prevalent in later Jewish literature, the sect would have viewed the Roman Empire as Daniel’s “fourth empire.” However, neither in the War Scroll, nor in the remains of any other sectarian scroll is Rome ever depicted, or even hinted, as being that “Fourth kingdom.” In fact, elsewhere I have concluded that the “four empires” scheme is never employed as such in any of the scrolls.16 12 Although this sentence speaks of the “nations” and does not explicitly mention the Kittim, in light of this text’s great interest in the Kittim and the topical sequence – just a few lines above, 4:10-13 speaks of “the rulers of the Kittim” – we can assume that the author had the Romans primarily in mind here, even if not only them. Cf. HAGEDORN and TZOREF 2013, 501. 13 See also FLUSSER 2007, 198–200; BROOKE 1991, 138–139. 14 SHARON 2016 and SHARON 2017, 171–90. 15 See FLINT 2001. 16 Scholars have often identified a “four kingdoms” scheme in two scrolls, the “New Jerusalem” text (4Q554), and, the so-called “Four Kingdoms” text (4Q552–553). However, (A) Neither scroll is necessarily sectarian; (B) both scrolls likely precede the Roman conquest; and (C) I argue elsewhere that the understanding of these texts as “four kingdoms” schemes is highly questionable and they probably have different scenarios. It appears, in fact, that we have no evidence for the adaptation of Daniel’s “Four Empires” scheme in relation to Rome in any texts that preceded the Destruction. See SHARON 2020.

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Rather than employing the “four kingdoms” scheme, the scrolls employ a different biblical model for their resistance to Rome – “the Assyrian model.” That is, they modeled their vision of redemption on the biblical story of the 8th century BCE-siege of Jerusalem by the Assyrian king Sennacherib and the miraculous salvation from it (2 Kings 18-19; Isa 3637). Thus, in the War Scroll the Kittim are explicitly equated with Assyria, and the expected fall of Rome is likened to the fall of the Assyrian army near the walls of Jerusalem (e.g., 11:11-12).17 It is important to note that there is a significant difference between the two models: whereas the “Four Kingdoms” prophecy may more easily be taken to refer to some far-off salvation,18 the “Assyrian model” is one of imminent salvation. Two other Qumran texts employ the “Assyrian model” in regards to the Kittim. Pesher Isaiaha (4Q161) and Sefer Ha-Milhama (4Q285) both offer similar interpretations of the prophecy about the miraculous deliverance from Sennacherib’s siege and the rise of the Davidic Messiah in chapters 10-11 of Isaiah. Both texts interpret those verses as pertaining to the fall of the Kittim, and – given the sect’s self-perception that it existed in “the end of days” – this apparently applied to the group’s very recent past, present, or imminent future.19 The more complete text is found in Pesher Isaiaha. The Kittim-Romans, who are identified with “the lofty,” “the thickets of the forest,” and “Lebanon” of Isaiah, will be hacked down with an axe, and are to fall by “a mighty one.” They will be defeated by Israel in battle.20 The Messiah, son of David, will assume the throne, and will judge and apparently – according to 4Q285 (5 4) – kill the ruler of the Kittim.21 It is noteworthy that the Messianic chapter 17 of the Psalms of Solomon, is also structured upon these same verses in Isaiah 11.

17 Even though the Scroll envisages that fall in a military battle, not through a heavenly miracle. 18 For such an understanding of Daniel 2 see COLLINS 1998, 98. In chapter 7 the scheme is given a more imminent implication by the phrase “a time, and times and half a time” (‫ )עד עדן ועדנין ופלג עידן‬which is taken to mean 3.5 years. However, that does not change the basic inherent gist of the scheme itself, it is only the added time-line with which the author furnishes the notion (as 4 Ezra also does – see below). Moreover, Michael Segal has recently convincingly argued that that phrase is misunderstood, and that its original intended meaning was “until the end time”; see SEGAL 2018. 19 See STEUDEL, 1993. 20 Cf. NOAM, forthcoming 2020. I am grateful to Prof. Noam for sharing her paper with me prior to its publication. 21 Cf. 1QHab 5:4.

170 3. LITERATURE

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FIRST CENTURY CE: PHILO AND JOSEPHUS’ WAR

Following the composition of the Psalms of Solomon and the Qumran texts shortly after the Roman Conquest of 63 BCE, there are scarcely any surviving Judean texts that mention or allude to Rome and the Roman Empire and its future until after the Destruction in 70 CE. One exception is the Jewish-Alexandrian philosopher Philo, whose enormous literary output was in the early first century CE. Applying the general idea of the succession of empires, Philo implies that, like earlier empires, the Roman Empire is destined to fall: . . . when the Persians ruled land and sea, who expected that they would fall? And again, when the Macedonians (ruled)? But if anyone had dared to say so, he would most certainly have been laughed at as a fool and a simpleton. And no less necessary a change awaits those nations that opposed them, though they have become illustrious and conspicuous in the meantime; so that those at whom (others) laughed are beginning to laugh (at them), while those who laughed are becoming (an object of) laughter for thinking that things which are by nature mobile and changeable are immobile and unalterable. (Quaest. Gen. 4.43; cf. Joseph 131–137, Deus 173–176)22

Similarly, in his Judean War, which was composed rather shortly after the Great Revolt, Flavius Josephus recounts his own speech to the besieged in Jerusalem, urging them that it was futile to resist the Romans, and in it he says: “Fortune [tyche], indeed, had from all quarters passed over to them [i.e., the Romans], and God who went the round of the nations, bringing to each in turn the rod of empire, now rested over Italy” (B.J. 5.367). By this Josephus appears to imply that Rome too shall inevitably fall – the rod of empire rests over Italy now, not forever.23 Both of these texts apply the popular general notion of the succession of empires, but not the specific “four empires” scheme. In addition, these formulations do not involve the Jews directly, neither as a cause for the 22

See further: BERTHELOT 2011; and BERTHELOT forthcoming 2020. I am grateful to Prof. Berthelot for sharing her paper with me prior to its publication. 23 SPILSBURY 2003, 15; GRUEN 2011, 160. Two passages in Josephus’ last work, the Contra Apionem, might be seen as implying the same. In 2.41 Josephus speaks of “the Romans who are now rulers of the world.” However, given that this passage does not mention the cycle of empires which we find in B.J. 5.367, it does not necessarily intend to hint that Rome’s empire will not last (see BARCLAY 2007, 191 n. 137.). In 2.127 Josephus says that “it has fallen to few [nations] to gain sovereignty over a period of time, and changes have again brought even these under the yoke to serve others.” While it is possible to read here a hint at Rome’s future, the use of the past tense and the lack of an explicit reference to Rome makes such a suggestion not compelling. This statement may simply be meant to serve Josephus’ rhetorical-polemical needs at this point, without any ulterior intentions.

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future Roman downfall, nor as a future empire. Nevertheless, given that Josephus explicitly refers to Rome, and considering his delicate position – writing in Rome, under the auspices of the Flavians, and having been a rebel leader in the Great Revolt24 – his implied skepticism about the future of Rome is surprising, perhaps even subversive. 4. LITERATURE

FROM THE

TURN OF THE SECOND CENTURY

4.1. Josephus’ Antiquities If in the War Josephus employed a formulation that implied skepticism about the Empire’s future, in his later magnum opus, the Antiquities, he employed a more clearly subversive formulation. This formulation is in Josephus’ retelling of the “Four Kingdoms” vision of Daniel 2 – Nebuchadnezzar’s dream and its interpretation. In his retelling of Daniel’s interpretation of the dream, Josephus writes: The golden head was indicating both you and the Babylonian kings who were before you. But the hands and the shoulders signify that your sovereignty is to be destroyed by two kings [i.e., Cyrus of Persia and Darius the Mede]. But a different one from the west wearing bronze [i.e., Alexander the Great] will put down their rule, and yet another like iron will bring its power to an end, and this one will dominate everything because of the nature of iron – for it is stronger than gold and silver and bronze.” And Daniel also explained to the king about the stone, yet it seemed to me proper not to recount this, being obligated to record past events and things that have happened but not what is about to happen. But if anyone, anxious for precision, will not be deterred from being curious to the extent of even wishing to learn about the unexplained – what is to happen – let him make the effort to read the book of Daniel (A.J. 10.208–10).25

Like Daniel, Josephus does not name the empires that follow Babylon, but he clearly implies that the fourth empire, the iron, is the Roman Empire.26 However, when he comes to the last part of the prophecy, about the stone that crushes the iron and dominates the world – symbolizing the future Jewish kingdom – Josephus stops his retelling and tells the curious reader to go read Daniel’s text. His intention, however, would not have been difficult to recognize. 24

Cf. SPILSBURY 2003, 15. Translation: BEGG and SPILSBURY 2005, 282–84, and cf. their notes ad loc. 26 SPILSBURY 2003, 12–13; GRUEN 2011, 159–60. Indeed, elsewhere Josephus claims that Daniel predicted the rise of the Roman Empire (A.J. 10.276). 25

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Given that this Josephan passage and its implications have been thoroughly discussed in scholarship, this brief discussion suffices for now. It is significant, though, that more or less at the same time in which Josephus employed the “Four Empires” scheme in relation to the Roman Empire – a usage which, as mentioned, is not found in earlier extant texts – it appears in a number of other texts. These include the New Testament book of Revelation (chaps. 13, 17), the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, Fourth Ezra, and Second Baruch, all from the last couple of decades of the first century CE or the first couple of decades of the second century CE. The text from Revelation deserves independent treatment that is beyond the scope of this paper, which will now discuss the other three texts. 4.2. The Fourth Sibylline Oracle Erich Gruen has, in recent years, extensively examined the attitude of the Jewish Sibylline Oracles to the Roman Empire.27 While several of the Oracles envision a future destruction of Rome, only the Fourth book contains a “four Empires” scheme.28 This book’s place of composition is uncertain,29 and, at least in its current version, it was probably composed shortly after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE, which it mentions (ll. 130-134).30 In its scheme, the reference to the Roman Empire is by far the longest and most elaborate of all the empires. This text speaks of a history of ten generations until the final end (l. 47), and divides those generations between consecutive rising and falling empires. The Assyrians – six generations (ll. 49-53); the Medes – two (ll. 54-64); the Persians – one generation (ll. 65-87); and the Macedonians (ll. 88-101). But these four are followed by a fifth empire – the Roman Empire – which will enslave the world. The Sibyl next mentions various cities that will be destroyed, and only then are the Jews first mentioned in the scheme: 27

GRUEN forthcoming 2020. Sib. Or. 3.156–161 has a cyclical view of history, speaking of ten successive kingdoms, ending with Rome; cf. GRUEN forthcoming 2020, 162–195. 29 For the popular suggestion that it was actually composed in Judea, see JONES 2011, 181. 30 Many scholars suggest that the original text was composed earlier, in Hellenistic times, and was perhaps not Jewish at all, and that the reference to the Roman Empire was added by the later Jewish redactor (FLUSSER 1972, 150–153; COLLINS 1983, 381–82; GRUEN, forthcoming 2020). However, JONES 2011, 185–89, argues against this view and maintains that the scheme, as we have it, including the Roman Empire, was the original construct. Cf. MENDELS 1981, 336–37. Be that as it may, for my current purposes the final – Roman – product is what is important. 28

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An evil storm of war will also come upon Jerusalem from Italy, and it will sack the great Temple of God…Then a great king will flee from Italy like a runaway slave [i.e., Nero]…A leader of Rome will come to Syria who will burn the Temple of Jerusalem with fire, at the same time slaughter many men and destroy the great land of the Jews… (ll. 115-127)31

And then the eruption of Vesuvius is mentioned: But when a firebrand, turned away from a cleft in the earth in the land of Italy, reaches to broad heaven it will burn many cities and destroy men. Much smoking ashes will fill the great sky, and showers will fall from heaven like red earth. Know then the wrath of the heavenly God, because they will destroy the blameless tribe of the pious. Then the strife of war being aroused will come to the west, and the fugitive from Rome will also come, brandishing a great spear… (ll. 130-139)

The Sybil, thus, explicitly defines the eruption of Vesuvius as divine retribution for the harms afflicted by the Romans upon the Jews. The list of empires named here is not the same as Daniel’s or of the Roman-period re-adaptations of Daniel. Namely, whereas Daniel begins with Babylonia as the first empire and overlooks the Assyrian empire, here Assyria is first and Babylonia is left out. In contrast, this list of four empires, followed by Rome as the Fifth empire, is common in GrecoRoman versions of the Four Empires scheme. Indeed, there is no hint of Daniel in the Fourth Sibylline Oracle.32 Yet in Greco-Roman literature, the scheme of Four Empires that arose and fell was applied in two opposing ways: One was meant to establish the uniqueness of the Roman Empire – by comparing it to its predecessors and showing or claiming the unprecedented nature of its power and geographical and temporal extent – thus suggesting that it may never fall. This application can be found in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (1.2.1–3.5). The opposite application used the same scheme to argue that the rise and fall of empires is basically the natural course of history, and therefore the Roman Empire is no different and may fall like its predecessors. This skeptical application is perhaps best attested in Appian’s story, commonly assumed to have originated with Polybius, about Scipio following the Roman victory over Carthage. Scipio is said to have reflected upon the rise and fall of cities and empires, noting especially the same four empires – the Assyrians, Medes, Persians, and Macedonians – and pronounced a fear that the Roman Empire will have a similar fate (Appian, Punica 132).33 31

Translations of the Fourth Sibylline Oracle are from: COLLINS 1983. JONES 2011, 185–86. See also, MENDELS 1981, 336 n. 24. 33 Cf. PRICE forthcoming 2020. I am grateful to Prof. Price for sharing his paper with me prior to its publication. D. MENDELS 1981, 333–34, raises doubts whether the story 32

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Thus, by using the Greco-Roman scheme, the author of the Fourth Sibylline Oracle accepts the Roman claim to its being the “fifth empire,” but his adaptation of that scheme is quite complex. He adapts it in a way that is not only skeptical of the possibility of Rome’s eternity, as in Appian’s text, but rather, by setting the scheme as a prophecy, he undermines that Roman view completely. That is, the Empire’s future fall is provided prophetic certainty. Such certainty is unattainable in the skeptical application of the scheme in Greco-Roman literature. An additional significant point to note about this text is that Rome’s punishment is seen here specifically as a result of the harm it inflicted onto the Jews.34 However, like Philo, Rome’s fall here is not at the hands of Jews or of their Messiah, nor is it accompanied by the rise of a Jewish kingdom,35 and thus it does not encourage active resistance. 4.3. 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch It is widely agreed that the apocalyptic works 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch were originally composed in Judea in Hebrew (though they only survived in translations) a few decades after the Destruction, around the turn of the second century.36 Both works strive to offer some comfort and a way of coping with the disaster of 70 CE by being written in disguise as ancient works written after the destruction of the First Temple by prominent figures/ scribes who lived during or after that Destruction: Ezra and Baruch. While mostly focused on theodicy, both works contain eschatological-messianic sections, including a “Four Empires” vision in each. In fact, they provide the two most elaborate reformulations of Daniel’s “Four Empires” scheme. In addition to these general similarities, scholars have pointed to specific points of contact between these two works, leading some to even suggest a direct literary relationship between them,37 and often to ascribe them similar views or interpret them in similar ways. For example, Lester Grabbe about Scipio originated in Polybius. See also WOOLF 2001, 321, who refers to the sequence of empires in Aelius Aristides. 34 JONES 2011, 191; cf. GRUEN forthcoming 2020, [pp. 6–7]. Therefore, in my view, this text may indeed be seen as “resistance literature” (contra GRUEN forthcoming 2020 [esp. 17–18]), or “discursive resistance” (for this term see WHITMARSH 2013, 57–78, 76). 35 E. GRUEN forthcoming 2020. 36 Although early scholarship tended to view both as mere collections of sources, the current consensus is that they are unified wholes – but that is not to say that they did not use previously existing sources. 37 For a comparison of 2 Baruch and 4 Ezra that asserts a literary relationship between them, but also points to significant differences between them (but not the one pointed out below) see SAYLER 1984, 123–34.

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writes: “In spite of some small differences, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch seem to hold a very similar view of eschatology, including their image of the Messiah.”38 And Mireille Hadas-Lebel writes: “The consolation borne in the two apocalypses shortly after 70 coincides with the hope that the end of Rome was imminent.”39 The following discussion will examine and compare the reformulations of the Four Kingdoms scheme in these two works, in order to evaluate these assertions. I begin with Fourth Ezra: In chapter 11, Ezra has a vision in which an Eagle with twelve wings and three heads rises from the sea and gains dominance over the earth. Each of the wings then rules consecutively, followed by the three heads. When only the last head remains, a lion arises and speaks to the eagle. The lion identifies the eagle as the last of the four beasts that God had proclaimed to rule the world, admonishes it, and then the eagle disappears. This clearly alludes to the four kingdoms vision of Daniel 7, in which each kingdom is represented by a different beast. The vision’s interpretation (chapter 12) explicitly identifies the Eagle as the fourth beast of Daniel’s vision, and explains (at 12:11-12) that that part of the vision had not been explained to Daniel, but is now being explained to Ezra:40 Behold, the days are coming when a kingdom shall arise on earth, and it shall be more terrifying than all the kingdoms that have been before it. And twelve kings shall reign in it one after another. But the second…shall hold sway for a longer time than (any other of) the twelve…As for your seeing three heads at rest on it, this is the pronouncement: In its last days the Most High will raise up three kings, and they shall… oppress the earth and its inhabitants more oppressively than all who were before them…As for your seeing two little wings passing over to the head which was on the right side, this is the pronouncement: It is these whom the Most High has kept for its end; this was the reign which was brief and full of tumult…And as for the lion whom you saw rousing up out of the forest and roaring and speaking to the eagle and reproving him for his unrighteousness…this is the Messiah whom the Most High has kept until the end of days, who will arise from the posterity of David…he will denounce them for their ungodliness and for their wickedness…For first he will set them living in judgment, and when he has reproved them, then he will destroy them. But he will deliver in mercy the remnant of my people…

Hence, according to the interpretation, the eagle’s reign shall be more evil than its predecessors. The twelve wings represent twelve kings, and the 38

GRABBE 2013, 224. HADAS-LEBEL 2006, 463. Grabbe’s view is similar; see his entire paper mentioned above. 40 Compare 1QHab 7:1-5. Translations of 4 Ezra are from STONE 1990. 39

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three heads represent three kings who will rule at the end of its days, and will be even more oppressive, and the lion represents the Davidic Messiah, who will judge and destroy them and deliver the Jewish people. It is noteworthy that – similar to the Qumran pesher texts’ condemnation of the Kittim (e.g., 1QHab 3:4–13) – the eagle is condemned for oppressing humanity in general, not specifically for its maltreatment of the Jews.41 Consequently, although its base text is Daniel 7 and not Isaiah, its scenario is similar to that of the Qumran texts: the fall of Rome and the rise of the Davidic messiah, who judges and destroys the Roman leader. The Eagle in this vision clearly represents the Roman Empire,42 and each wing and head represents specific Roman emperors. While scholars disagree about the identification of some of the emperors, some identifications are quite clear. The second emperor, who will rule longer than all the others, is clearly Augustus. Therefore, the first must be Julius Caesar. Most scholars also agree that the three heads represent the Flavian emperors,43 and therefore this book is often dated to Domitian’s reign (81-96) or shortly thereafter. Such specific historical references to easily identifiable recent and contemporary emperors, were certainly meant to be identified by this text’s immediate audience. Thus, this text adapts Daniel’s “four empires” vision into a very specific historical scenario and sets the end of the Roman Empire, and the coming of a militant Davidic Messiah, at a specific historical moment in the identifiable immediate future of its author and audience – following the third head, Domitian.44 Turning to Second Baruch, in a vision described in chapters 36-37, Baruch sees a great forest, which is uprooted by an overflowing fountain, leaving only one cedar. The remaining cedar itself is then cast down and a vine rebukes it for its wickedness and accuses it: “…you kept conquering that which did not belong to you, and you did not show compassion to that which did belong to you. And you kept extending your power over those who were far from you… and you prided yourself always as one that could not be uprooted” (36:8).45 The vine condemns the cedar to destruction, and then Baruch sees it burning and the vine growing (37). 41

Cf. JONES 2011, 73–74. The eagle is not the fourth Beast in Daniel 7, but it was a symbol of the Roman legions, and the Romans are described as an eagle in 1QHab 3:9-11. 43 STONE 1990, 363–65; JONES 2011, 44–56. Some have, however, suggested other identifications, such as the Severan Dynasty (DITOMMASO 1999). 44 This was also noted by scholars, such as Grabbe, who writes that 4 Ezra here anticipates the fall of the Roman Empire and the coming of the messiah in the near future (GRABBE 2013, 225). 45 Translations of 2 Baruch are from GURTNER 2009. 42

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This vision is constructed upon a few biblical passages, such as Ezekiel 31, and also – as some scholars have noted46 – the same passages from Isaiah 10-11 that were mentioned earlier and which, as shown above, lay behind some of the Qumran texts as well as Psalms of Solomon 17. Indeed, the scenario in this vision is very similar to that of the Qumran pesher, with the “Assyrian model,” that we saw earlier. Most notably: the cedar (of Lebanon) which symbolizes Rome, the arrival of the Messiah, and his rebuke, or judgement, of the cedar, followed by a messianic kingdom. Moreover, like the Qumran texts, there is no trace of a “four empires” scheme in this vision. That scheme is only introduced in the interpretation of the vision (chaps. 39-40).47 The interpretation briefly speaks of three successive kingdoms, the first of which had “destroyed Zion” (i.e., Babylon), and then turns to the fourth kingdom: And after these things a fourth kingdom will arise, whose power will be more harsh and more evil than those which were before it, and it will rule many times like the forests on the plain, and it will hold fast for times, and will exalt itself more than the cedars of Lebanon. And the truth will be hidden by it, and all those who are polluted by unrighteousness will flee to it... And it will be when the time of its completion is coming, that it should fall has approached. Then the reign of my Messiah will be revealed…and when it is revealed it will uproot the multitude of its hosts. And concerning that which you have seen, the tall cedar which remained of that forest…this is the meaning. The last leader of that time will be left alive, when the multitude of his hosts will be put to the sword, and he will be bound, and they will take him up to Mount Zion, and my Messiah will convict him of all his wicked deeds. And he will gather and set before him all the deeds of his hosts. And afterwards he will put him to death, and protect the rest of my people who will be found in the place that I have chosen. And his reign will last forever, until the world of corruption comes to an end, and until the aforementioned times are fulfilled…” (39:5– 40:3; emphases mine – N.S.)

Though using different imagery, this scenario is quite similar to the scenario of 4 Ezra – with four empires, a fourth empire whose rule is much harsher than that of its predecessors, the arrival of the Messiah (the vine), who will judge and punish the fourth empire’s last leader (the last cedar), and ending with a Jewish messianic empire. In addition, as in Fourth Ezra and the Qumranic texts, in Second Baruch, too, the Romans are punished for their general wickedness, not specifically their harsh treatment of the Jews.48 46

BAUCKHAM 1995, 206-210 and n. 21; NOAM forthcoming 2020. For the visions in 2 Baruch being independent traditions and for the asymmetry between the vision and interpretation here see also KLIJN 1970, 72–73, and cf. HOBBINS 1998, 51. 48 Cf. JONES 2011, 98–99; MURPHY 1985a, 665. 47

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Consequently, while much of this interpretation fits the vision that it interprets, the theme of the four empires is not warranted and has no equivalent in the vision itself, which, as I have asserted, is more aligned with the “Assyrian model.” The interpretation thus combines the two models, or scenarios, laying Daniel’s “Four Empires” scheme onto a scenario similar to the Qumranic interpretation of Isaiah 10-11 (i.e., onto the “Assyrian model”). As we have seen, in both the Isaianic prophecy and its Qumranic interpretation and in 4 Ezra the redemption is seen as imminent. But when will salvation come according to Second Baruch? Unlike 4 Ezra’s imagery of the eagle and its wings and heads, the imagery of a forest and a last cedar, does not provide a clue. However, the text provides some indications that for its author the time of salvation remains unknown. First, it is important to note that, whereas 4 Ezra claims an exact understanding of Daniel’s fourth beast, which is left unexplained in Daniel (12:11-12), 2 Baruch does not. In other words, while 4 Ezra seems to claim exact knowledge of the end time and can thus point to a precise time when Rome will fall and the messiah will come, the author of 2 Baruch claims no such knowledge.49 For him, all that is certain is that eventually Rome will fall and the messiah will come; when this will happen remains unknown. Indeed, verse 39:7 says: “And it will be when the time of its completion is coming, that it should fall has approached. Then the reign of my Messiah will be revealed.” Salvation is here envisioned in some unforeseeable future – when the fourth kingdom will complete its time. In the meantime, the people are to follow the Torah, as Baruch tells the people after this vision (chapter 44).50 Furthermore, in a comparison of 2 Baruch to the Qumran texts, but not to 4 Ezra, Vered Noam observed that whereas the Qumran texts envision an eschatological but earthly war between Jews and Rome, 2 Baruch envisions “a miraculous heavenly victory over the Romans, with no human involvement.”51 This similarly contrasts the rather violent redemption of 4 Ezra. It is also significant that, whereas 4 Ezra speaks of a Davidic messiah, even though his source, Daniel, does not, 2 Baruch speaks of a 49

Cf. HENZE 2011, 280–81 and n. 80. Cf. MURPHY 1985a, 667; JONES 2011, 101–102. 51 NOAM forthcoming 2020. Cf. MURPHY 1985a, contra OEGEMA 2012, 137–38, who speaks about a militant messiah in 2 Baruch. Possibly related to these points are also the assertions of Klijn and Murphy that the author of 2 Baruch does not demonstrate much interest in the Temple or its rebuilding (KLIJN 1970, 71; MURPHY 1987), a conclusion which likewise contrasts starkly with that of Oegema (ibid.). 50

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messiah but does not identify him as Davidic,52 even though Isaiah, and its Qumran pesher, explicitly do. Consequently, while the Qumran interpretation and 4 Ezra proclaimed imminent salvation and envisioned an earthly war or judgement and a Davidic Messiah, and thus kindled millennial anticipation and possibly – whether intended to or not – encouraged active resistance to Rome,53 Second Baruch actually seems to discourage it.54 As noted above, there is general agreement that these two apocalypses, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch, were composed in Judea between the Great Revolt and the Bar-Kokhba Revolt of 132-135, around the turn of the century. Thus, we may have here a testament to an internal Jewish debate, on the eve of the latter revolt. In the first century BCE, the interpretations or reuses of Isaiah and the “Assyrian model” encouraged millennial anticipation and hope as did 4 Ezra’s use of the Four Empires scheme around 100 CE. In contrast, the author of 2 Baruch – whether familiar with 4 Ezra itself or not55 – combined that Four Empires scheme with the Isaianic vision, but did so in a way that inverted those connotations and rejected resistance.56 He provided comfort for the people in the promise that Rome will indeed fall, but at the same time discouraged the brewing winds of resistance by promising – like later rabbinic texts57 as well as his contemporary Josephus – heavenly salvation at some unforeseeable future.58 52 KLIJN 1970, 75 even suggests that the messiah is not really important at all for the author of 2 Baruch and appears in this composition only because he appeared in the sources used by the author. 53 Cf. GRABBE 2013, 228–29, 232–34. 54 This is in line with Murphy’s understanding of 2 Baruch’s attitude to Rome (MURPHY 1985a and see also his book, MURPHY 1985b, 136–40). However, Murphy only deals with 2 Baruch, and does not compare to the Qumran texts or to 4 Ezra (apart from briefly in the conclusions of his book, in pp. 140–142, and, even there, not specifically for this issue and scheme), and he also barely treats this vision. Cf. KLIJN 1970, 75–76; COLLINS, 1998, 217 n. 71. 55 COLLINS 1998, 224, suggests that 2 Baruch may have been a response to 4 Ezra, but there is no certain evidence. Collins, does not deal specifically with the “four empires” scheme. 56 MURPHY 1985b, 137–40 makes such an argument for 2 Baruch vs. the Apocalypse of Abraham. 57 V. NOAM forthcoming 2020. 58 Murphy, too, interpreted 2 Baruch’s view similarly on the background of the approaching Bar Kokhba revolt (e.g., MURPHY 1985b, 136–42), but, as already noted, he does not compare it to 4 Ezra, and does not focus on the “four empires” scheme. The suggestion proposed here contrasts with the view of OEGEMA 2012, 133–42, who does not see a difference between 4 Ezra and other apocalyptic texts of the same period and 2 Baruch, and argues that 2 Baruch envisaged the messianic era in the near future and has the same mindset as did Bar Kokhba himself.

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5. CONCLUSION Despite their different times and places of composition, the texts examined in this paper attest to an almost unchanging negative view of Rome’s future. Yet, the different groups of texts examined each employ different models, with differing implications, for their visions of the Empire’s future. The texts composed very soon after Pompey’s conquest, the Psalms of Solomon and the Dead Sea Scrolls, were perhaps opposed to the Judean rulers that preceded Rome, the Hasmoneans, and both explain the Roman conquest as just punishment for the sins of the Judeans. Nevertheless, both demonstrate significant animosity towards Rome, and a hope, or anticipation, for its immediate fall. This is done, in some of those texts, by the employment of the “Assyrian model.” Philo and Josephus, especially when writing his Jewish War, may have felt more comfortable under Roman rule and do not reflect similar animosity. However, both imply a skeptical view about the future of Rome – implying that it is destined to fall, as have all previous kingdoms and empires – though both could have easily been overlooked or viewed as harmless. However, in Josephus’ later work, the Antiquities, he employs Daniel’s “four empires” vision in regards to Rome, thus implying certainty about the future fall of Rome, rather than mere skepticism. Other Jewish texts from around the same time as Josephus’ Antiquities employ the same “four empires” scheme from Daniel, which appears not to have been employed until then. I suggest that Jewish texts employed the scheme for the Romans only then and not earlier, because in its essence it naturally lends itself to be used only after an empire or kingdom rules for a significant amount of time. Moreover, the Romans overtook Judea after a period of independent Judean rule, which cut into the succession of foreign empires dominating Judea. Thus, it may have become reasonable or “necessary” for Jews to employ that scheme to account for the Roman Empire only then – after over a century of Roman rule and after the Destruction, when the period of Hasmonean rule could be “discounted.” Be that as it may, all of these Jewish uses of the scheme undermine the perception of Rome’s eternal empire, either by depicting Rome as the fourth, not the fifth, empire, or by claiming prophetic certainty of Rome’s eventual fall, or both. Unlike his obscure hint in the War, by using this scheme in the Antiquities, Josephus clearly insinuates the future fall of Rome and the rise of a Jewish Empire, and, given Josephus’s history and context, this is quite bold and subversive. Yet, by not clarifying when and how that would occur, and not positing the Roman Empire against the Jews,

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but rather stating that God has given Rome the rod of empire, Josephus advocates acceptance of the empire in the present.59 The Fourth Sibylline Oracle clearly uses the Greco-Roman version of the scheme with Rome as a fifth empire, rather than Daniel’s scheme. Nevertheless, it gives that non-Jewish scheme a particularly Jewish, and more subversive, tone, by setting it in a prophecy, and attributing the future fall of Rome to the Jewish God as punishment for harms inflicted by Rome onto the Jews. Thus, it constructs its community’s relationship with the Empire as one of opposition, though by ascribing Rome’s future destruction to foreign powers and not envisioning a Jewish empire, it seems to discourage active resistance. Lastly, both apocalyptic texts – 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch – clearly employ Daniel’s scheme, and describe similar scenarios, envisioning the fall of Rome and the rise of the Messiah, which are reminiscent of the scenario of the Qumran interpretation of Isaiah. However, they do so with opposing practical consequences. By grounding the redemption in a recognizable immediate future, 4 Ezra predicts imminent redemption, whereas 2 Baruch, which inserts the seemingly imminent prophecy of Isaiah into the “Four Empires” scheme, does so in a way that undermines hopes of imminent redemption, promising that eventually Rome will fall and the Messiah will arrive. Thus, while 4 Ezra created a millennial atmosphere for its community, and potentially encouraged active rebellion, 2 Baruch discourages that by promising divine redemption in an unknown future, similar to later rabbinic formulations.

59

Cf. SPILSBURY 2003, 20–21.

CHAPTER 10

RELIGIOUS LANGUAGE IN JOSEPHUS’S JUDEAN WAR1 Joseph SIEVERS Pontifical Biblical Institute, Rome

θεοσεβέες δὲ περισσῶς ἐόντες μάλιστα πάντων ἀνθρώπων They [the Egyptians] are religious beyond measure, more than any other people Herodotus, Hist. 2.37.1 (Godley, LCL)

1. QUESTIONS OF DEFINITION AND TERMINOLOGY While it is common knowledge what is meant by Josephus’s Judean War, although some scholars by conviction or by tradition call it the Jewish War, the even more problematic part of the above title is of course “Religious Language”: What is Religious Language? As far as I can see, it has been mostly philosophers who have been on the forefront of addressing this question. Michael Scott states in the introduction to a lengthy recent article on the subject in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: “In principle, [sentences about] religious subject matters could encompass a variety of agents, states of affairs or properties – such as God, deities, angels, miracles, redemption, grace, holiness, sinfulness. Most attention, however, has been devoted to the meaning of what we say about God.”2 He goes on to discuss different views of the matter, from Augustine to Maimonides and Spinoza but mostly 20th (and 21st) century authors from Ayers to Wittgenstein to Rowan Williams. According to some authors, advocating the so-called “face value theory,” “there’s nothing special about religious discourse other than its distinctive subject matter.”3 Others instead, like Wittgenstein, advocate very different and divergent views that are too complex to present in this context. 1 My sincere thanks go the organizers and participants of the conference at EBAF. I would also like to thank Jonathan J. Price for reading and commenting upon a semi-final version of this essay. 2 SCOTT 2017. 3 SCOTT 2017, Section 1.1.

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If we take one step further back to look for definitions of “religious” and “religion,” we find 48 different ones collected by James Leuba already more than a century ago, with many other attempts to follow.4 Ernst Feil, in the latest edition of Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart and in a separate book on the subject, has given up hope that a consensus definition of religion is achievable.5 In the words of Jonathan Z. Smith, “The term ‘religion’ has had a long history, much of it, prior to the sixteenth century, irrelevant to current usage.”6 He goes on, however, to state that “the moral of Leuba is not that religion cannot be defined, but that it can be defined, with greater or lesser success, more than fifty ways.”7 Despite all these debates with uncertain outcome, related mostly to recent centuries, I tend to concur with Katell Berthelot who states: “In the context of the ancient Near East and of the Mediterranean area, it seems possible to propose a minimal definition of ‘religion’ as the set of rites, norms and representations mobilized by human beings, either individually or collectively, in their relationship with one or more divinities.”8 For comparison, one might add that “economy” does not seem to have existed as a defined field, least of all in the term οἰκονομία, which had several meanings, but not that of “economy.”9 In his magisterial volumes on The Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World, M. Rostovtzeff felt obliged to define what he meant by “Hellenistic world,” but not what “economic” meant for him, although he did distance himself from a Marxian interpretation.10 If we accept that, despite the lack of “proper” nomenclature or definition, “economy” was an important aspect of ancient life, we may argue the same for “religion.” 2. RELEVANT TOPICS

IN JOSEPHUS’S

WAR

Considering all of the above, it is with some trembling that I enter the topic assigned to me. Facebook in this case was not only a distraction but also an encouragement, because I came across the following (unprovenanced but frequently repeated) reminder:

4 LEUBA 1912, 339–61; also available at https://archive.org/details/apsychologicals02 leubgoog/page/n358, accessed September 14, 2019. 5 FEIL 2004; see also FEIL 2000. 6 SMITH 2004, 180. 7 SMITH 2004, 193. 8 BERTHELOT 2018, 60–61. 9 See LSJ, p. 1204 s.v. οἰκονομία. 10 ROSTOVTZEFF 1941, 1.v-viii. See also ROSTOVTZEFF 1957.

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Being taught to avoid talking about politics and religion has led to a lack of understanding of politics and religion. What we should have been taught was how to have a civil conversation about a difficult topic.

The specific question, then, that I need to address is not “What is” but “What was or may have been considered religious language?” even if such a category did not formally exist – and did Josephus use such language? This leads to the question of how may Josephus’s language have been religious? Did he speak “Jewish,” “Roman,” “Greco-Hellenistic,” or did he speak “catholic,” that is all of the above, or none of the above? Does he show an awareness of religious language? Or was he like Molière’s Monsieur Jourdain who was unaware that for forty years he had always been speaking prose?11 Thucydides generally refrains from expressing “religious” views and to some extent, along with Polybius and others, serves as Josephus’s model. As Momigliano wryly stated: “Thucydides has become the great villain of historiography in so far as he identified history with political and military events.” Momigliano continued by noting that classical historians “explored a limited field which corresponds to what we call military and political history, to the almost total exclusion of economic, social and religious phenomena.”12 Nevertheless, in some cases Thucydides carefully and perceptively analyzes religious institutions and rites and their influence in political events,13 but should we call that religious language, in the absence of specific vocabulary that he uses only for analysis of what we call religious institutions and behavior? If it is outside our range of possibilities to define religious language, it is perhaps possible and useful to describe areas which involve what may or may not be called religious language.14 Certainly, we should not assume that questions considered religious today were considered such in the early Roman empire, and vice versa. Descriptive language might deal with religious matters, such as the high priestly vestments (B.J. 5.230-236) or the structure of the Jerusalem Temple (B.J. 5.184-228) or the fact that the refusal to accept sacrifices on behalf of Rome was one of the causes of the war (B.J. 2.409). Although these statements deal with religious matters, in most of these instances the language used is not necessarily to be considered religious. Elsewhere, Josephus states that “by this speech he [Herod] encouraged the army. When he saw that they were enthusiastic, 11 12 13 14

MOLIÈRE, Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, Act 2, Scene 4. MOMIGLIANO 2012, 141–42. JORDAN 1986; PARKER 1983, 277. See also RAMSEY 1967; STIVER 1997; SOSKICE 1985.

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he offered a sacrifice to God, and after that sacrifice crossed the river Jordan with his troops” (B.J. 1.380). This passage deals with a somewhat unusual sacrifice and a crossing of the Jordan River that may contain religious symbolism, but the descriptive language does not seem to be of a particularly religious kind. When, instead, a divine presence or absence is discussed or the effects of divine or demonic intervention are used to explain events, it may be helpful to refer to this as religious language. When in the description of the incense altar, Josephus says that the spices from every part of the world “signified that all things are of God and are for God” (ἐσήμαινεν ὅτι τοῦ θεοῦ πάντα καὶ τῷ θεῷ B.J. 5.218), I believe there is some justification to consider this religious language. Certainly, “virtue” is a related category, yet it does not cover the same ground, especially where relations to the divinity and also questions such as impurity and purity are concerned.15 Pragmatically, I would suggest including the following topics and expressions as legitimate objects of inquiry: 1. Talk about God and his perceived power a. The special relationship of God with Israel/the Jewish people b. God’s special relationship with other peoples, especially with the Romans c. God’s relationship with the Jerusalem Temple – and departure from it d. Demons and angels 2. Afterlife 3. “True” and “false” prophecy (pseudo-prophecy) 4. “Signs and wonders” 5. Purity and defilement16 6. Sacrifices of various kinds 7. Synagogues/holy places 8. Sabbaths and Festivals 9. Priests and other religious officials 10. Groups of people: Zealots/Disciples/Emulators, Ioudaioi I will not attempt an impossible completeness but try to offer examples from some of these topics, to see how invested Josephus was in these areas, and what effect they may have on more general affairs, in this 15 16

PARRY 2014. See especially the chapter about “Sacrilege” in PARKER 1983, 144–90.

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context especially the unfolding of the war and its description and analysis. As stated above, I do not include purely descriptive language of religious institutions, but where value judgments, especially with reference to divine commandments, are involved, we might consider this religious language. 3. GOD-LANGUAGE The earliest extensive discussion of the first of these topics that I am aware of is Adolf Schlatter’s essay “How Did Josephus Speak about God?”17 This study was later expanded in Die Theologie des Judentums nach dem Bericht des Josefus.18 Schlatter, as summarized by Michel and Bauernfeind, concluded: “Das Bellum ist im Ganzen unjüdisch, d.h. es kann nicht aus der Feder des Josephus stammen.”19 Today many if not most scholars would strongly disagree. There are too many indicators that the War is the fruit of thoughtful composition by one mastermind that can only be Josephus, although the role of Nicolaus of Damascus and other sources is debatable, especially in the description of the period before Josephus reached adulthood in the mid-fifties of the first century. The less “religious” outlook in War compared with Antiquities and Against Apion, however, may be driven by different intentions, literary genre, audience, and personal development of Josephus. Yet, Klawans correctly observes “Although Jewish War is, primarily, a work of history… Josephus’s account is liberally peppered with theological observations.” 20 References to God and to divine intervention are relatively rare in War Book 1.21 The most devout and openly religious person seems to be none other than King Herod. The term εὐσέβεια occurs about 100 times in Josephus, but only 11 times in War.22 Shalomzion Alexandra enjoyed a “reputation for piety” (δόξαν 17

SCHLATTER 1910, 1–82. SCHLATTER 1932. 19 MICHEL and BAUERNFEIND, 1959-1969, III, xxv. 20 KLAWANS 2012, 187-90, here 187. 21 ILAN 1998, “Appendix D: The Absence of God from J.W. 1,” 228–31; SHUTT 1980, 188–89. 22 Its meanings range from reverence for gods or parents (filial piety) to loyalty. In the instances cited below, some form of relationship to the God of Israel seems to be implied, although in the case of Herod other divinities might be included as well. In the case of Antipater’s defense before his father Herod (B.J. 1.630, 633), filial piety or perceived lack thereof is clearly intended. Mason observes that “Piety (εὐσέβεια and cognates) expressed toward the Deity (πρὸς τὸ θεῖον or τὸν θεόν) is a characteristic expression of Josephus, not found in other authors to anywhere near the same degree” (MASON 2008, 105 n. 799 ad B.J. 2.128). 18

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εὐσεβείας B.J. 1.108). Yet, Herod and he alone, in the narrator’s voice, actually directed the better part of his generous character towards εὐσέβεια (B.J. 1.400).23 By contrast, in Antiquities Josephus will comment that the treatment of Hyrcanus II by Herod and Antipater was “neither just nor pious” (οὔτε δίκαιον οὔτ᾽ εὐσεβές A.J. 15.182).24 In War, Herod prides himself saying that “everyone should consider my age, the way I live, and my piety (εὐσέβεια)” and claims that “I have revered the deity with such devotion that I might hope to reach a very old age” (B.J. 1.462 draft trans. Forte).25 Herod’s peculiar piety apparently led to the observation “that he filled his own country with temples” (B.J. 1.407), not only the temple in Jerusalem, but also shrines to Augustus (and Roma) in Samaria/Sebaste, Paneion, and Caesarea Maritima, all mentioned in this context (B.J. 1.403-404, 414), probably more an expression of Herod’s status or aspiration to be Φιλόκαισαρ than of any particular piety. In his speech before Octavian, shortly after the latter’s victory at Actium, Herod asserts: “His (Antony’s) passionate love for Cleopatra, as well as God (or: “a god” – anarthrous θεός), who wanted to grant you victory, stopped up his ears” (B.J. 1.390 trans. Forte). Shutt argues, on the basis of a detailed study of the evidence, that the more frequent use of θεός with the article and the less frequent use without article does not signal a substantially different meaning but is “attributable to the particular needs of emphasis, nuance, or euphony.” 26 In this entire section of Book 1, Herod’s religious concerns – and his positive relationship with God (and/or the gods) – are repeatedly emphasized. Herod “acquired 23 The emphasis on Herod’s piety (εὐσέβεια) is rather unexpected. The origin of such language has been attributed to Nicolaus of Damascus rather than to Josephus. See ILAN 1998, 229. Josephus’s intention could be ironic, but here “piety” finds very concrete expression immediately in the next paragraph with Herod’s initiative of rebuilding the Jerusalem temple, and other temples in honor of Augustus and Roma. It has been discovered that, sometime after 30 BCE, Herod appears to have held the titles Εὐσεβής (“Pious”) and Φιλόκαισαρ (“Friend of Caesar”). This titulature has been read on an inscribed lead weight from Ashdod (KUSHNIR-STEIN 1995, 81-84, pl. Xb) and has been partially restored on a stone weight, now in Jerusalem, dated 9/8 BCE (CIIP I, 660-661, #666). An inscription bearing these titles and sometimes attributed to Herod of Chalcis (DITTENBERGER 1903 [=OGIS], #427), has more recently been attributed to Herod the Great (KUSHNIR-STEIN 1995, 84; KOKKINOS1998, 307 n. 152). The same titles (plus Φιλορωμαῖος) are attested for Herod’s grandson Agrippa I and for the latter’s son Agrippa II (OGIS 419). At least in this case, given the additional titles, perhaps Εὐσεβής meant more filial piety i.e. loyalty, like Latin Pius. 24 See VAN HENTEN 2014, 121–22 n. 1087. 25 τὸ δὲ θεῖον οὕτως τεθεραπεύκαμεν ὥστ᾽ ἂν ἐπὶ μήκιστον βίου προελθεῖν. See also RICHARDSON 2004, 236-38 and B.J. 1.458. 26 SHUTT 1980, 173; cf. 188: “Appendix A: Number of occurrences in Josephus of ho theos, theos, and to theion.”

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the reputation for being in God’s special favor” or most beloved by God (θεοφιλέστατος B.J. 1.331). The superlative occurs only here in War, where the adjective is repeated only once, namely in Josephus’s speech during the siege of Jerusalem. There he asserts that when Pharaoh encountered Sarah and Abraham, he considered the Hebrews beloved by God (B.J. 5.381).27 There are a few references to divine intervention in Herod’s speech to his troops after their defeat by the Nabateans (1.373, 378). Here, as elsewhere in War 1, Josephus’s religious language is not very specifically Jewish. By contrast, it is more pronounced in the Antiquities version of the same speech, which stresses divine intervention much more than what is found here (θεός 10× in A.J. 15.130–146; only 2× in the parallel B.J. 1.373–379).28 Ilan attributes the War version of the speech to Nicolaus of Damascus, the parallel in the Antiquities to Josephus, primarily on the basis of the way God-language is treated in the two.29 The distinction may not be so clear-cut, but as Steve Mason states in a chapter on the “Judean War in context”: “Both of his (Josephus’s) Herod accounts are indebted to Nicolaus, yet they differ greatly in structure, perspective, and often content.”30 Perhaps we may suggest that sometimes the War remained closer to Nicolaus, as in the encomium of Herod in 1.429-430 – and in Herod’s speech, whereas in other instances echoes of Nicolaus may be heard more clearly in Antiquities. What is noteworthy throughout the War is the idea that God is (almost exclusively) on the side of the successful, with a focus on physical protection and political and military power rather than on wealth or other material success. Such ideas were certainly widespread in the Greco-Roman world, but they reflect only part of the biblical tradition, which also emphasizes God’s care for the defeated and the brokenhearted.31 27 It is noteworthy that the epithet “beloved [of God]” is used for Abraham, not only in Jewish and Christian biblical (Isa 41:8; Jas 2:23) but also in Islamic tradition (Qur’an, Sura 4.125), perpetuated by the Arabic name of Hebron, al-Khalīl (“the beloved”). In Antiquities, the term recurs 10 times, in reference to Noah and the early patriarchs, Isaac, David, Solomon (2×, once in superlative), Elisha, Daniel and companions (2×). The only non-biblical figures to whom this epithet is given are Onias the Circle-Drawer (A.J. 14.22) and Herod (A.J. 14.455, there in the positive instead of the superlative form of our passage). That Herod would earn the reputation of being especially beloved by God should be surprising unless this is a title he perpetuated himself. It is paralleled, however, by the claim that “the better part of his [Herod’s] noble character was directed towards piety” (1.400). The origin of the application of such terminology to Herod may plausibly be attributed to Nicolaus of Damascus, or to Herod himself (ILAN 1998, 229; GÜNTHER 2005, 80–81). 28 See VAN HENTEN, 2005, 183-206, 204-206, and VAN HENTEN 2014, ad A.J. 15.127146, esp. nn. 765-766, 784, 789, 822, 827, 840. 29 ILAN 1998, 230–31. 30 MASON 2016, 134. 31 1 Kgs 8:33-34; Is 61:1; Ps 34:19, etc.

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Talk about God becomes much more pronounced and explicit in the later books of the War, especially in speech acts, a brief but masterful study of which is provided by Jonathan Price.32 We will return to it repeatedly. Among the most striking examples of God-talk is Josephus’s own silent prayer, quoted after he has duly identified himself as a skilled dreaminterpreter, a priest of priestly descent, and an expert on the prophecies in the sacred books (B.J. 3.352). He claims a special relationship with God, and to be turning himself over to the Romans in fulfillment of God’s will and a new mission – only to be loudly contradicted by his fellow fighters. In this prayer, according to Lindner, Josephus claims a prophetic element for his own mission calling himself “Your servant” (σὸς εἶμι διάκονος B.J. 3.354).33 Although other prayers, by Jews and non-Jews, are mentioned in the War, this is the only one that is explicitly quoted.34 It also has a fairly blatant earthly purpose, that is to exonerate Josephus from the accusation of being a traitor and to justify his actions for his readers but Josephus clearly wants to show this as a transformative moment in his life, when he took on a divine mission that was enacted not only in his immediate actions but also in his later writings. Josephus could have chosen other means, such as a speech or authorial comment. Therefore, it is still significant that he chose to appeal to no less an authority than God for this operation. By comparison, the Antiquities includes a much larger number of prayers and references to prayer.35 Immediately after his prayer and the protestations of his companions, Josephus opens his speech at Yodfat/Jotapata (B.J. 3.362-382) by asserting that he “proceeded, in this emergency, to reason philosophically” with them.36 Outside the introduction and conclusion of the “Schools” passage (B.J. 2.119, 166), this is the only occurrence in War of the verb φιλοσοφέω or its cognates. Here as there, the significance of the term is not limited to what moderns consider “philosophy” but as Mason and others have shown, it covers a whole range of meanings concerning different ways of life.37 In his later works, Josephus will use such terminology more extensively, claiming for example “the Ancient History I translated 32

PRICE 2005, 109-19. LINDNER 1972, 60-61. 34 JONQUIÈRE 2007, 207-13. A peculiar prayer by the prophet Elisha, directed to earth and heaven, is given in indirect speech (B.J. 4.462-464). See JONQUIÈRE 2007, 213-16. 35 JONQUIÈRE 2007, 278-86, identifies 122 prayers in Antiquities, 12 in War. 36 B.J. 3.361 (Thackeray, LCL). 37 See MASON 2008, 96 n.734 ad B.J. 2.119; MALINGREY 1961, 93, observes regarding philosophical terminology in Josephus: “l’emploi de philosophia avec le sens de revelation de Dieu à Israël n’y était pas inconnu.” 33

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from the sacred writings, being a priest by ancestry and steeped in the philosophy contained in those writings.”38 Elsewhere he speaks of “our ancestral philosophy” (τὴν πάτριον ἡμῶν φιλοσοφίαν C.Ap 2.47), thereby referring to Judean/Jewish traditions that others would not include in the categories of philosophy. In his Yodfat speech, he goes on to condemn suicide as “an act of impiety towards God who created us” (B.J. 3.369) and scorn for God’s gift of life (371). In this discourse he uses the term θεός eight times (twice without article), plus two references to the Creator (369, 379). Perhaps we may consider this religious language, although Josephus himself, lacking a more suitable term, has put it in the category of “philosophy.” Josephus does appeal to divine authority and intervention especially forcefully in his long speech (B.J. 5.362-419), reportedly given at the request of Titus during the final phase of the siege of Jerusalem, perhaps in instalments and in different locations. As Stemberger has shown, in this speech Josephus is not merely expressing Roman propaganda but is indebted to apocalyptic traditions such as the four-kingdom idea in Daniel 2. He considers the Romans the current holders of divine favor and instruments of God’s punishment, but not necessarily forever (cf. Dan 2:21).39 He bluntly observes: “It was clear on all sides that Fortune had gone over to them [the Romans], and God, having passed the dominion around the nations, has now rested over Italy.”40 Therefore, Josephus warns that fighting against the Romans at this time means also fighting against God: “Listen that you may learn that your war is not just with the Romans, but with God.”41 He repeats and takes up again arguments already attributed to Agrippa in his earlier speech, such as “How will you call upon the Deity for defense when you have willfully violated your attentiveness42 toward him?” (B.J. 2.394 trans. Mason). Further on, Josephus asserts belief in divine justice and claims that it is madness to expect God “to be as kindly to the wicked as to the just.”43 38

C. Ap. 1.54, trans. BARCLAY 2007, 40. STEMBERGER 1983, 36-37. 40 B.J. 5.367, trans. P. Rogers, adjusted. On this passage, see especially LINDNER 1972, 28-29, 143-44 and passim. 41 The expression used here is “μὴ μόνον Ῥωμαίοις πολεμοῦντες ἀλλὰ καὶ τῷ θεῷ (B.J. 5.378)” whereas only in C. Ap. 1.246, 263, he adopts θεομάχος and cognates. Cf. Acts 5:39. 42 θεραπεία translated by Mason as “attentiveness” should probably have a more specific meaning when referred to God such as “service” (LCL; Thackeray) or “worship” (Rogers), especially in this case, with the Temple still standing and presumably visible from the location where the speech was delivered (B.J. 2.344). 43 B.J. 5.407, trans. P. Rogers, adjusted. 39

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Similarly, in a shorter speech Josephus addresses to John of Gischala and the Jerusalemites under siege, he recalls an otherwise unattested prophecy – but one he presupposes as well-known – that Jerusalem “would be taken whensoever one should begin to slaughter his own countrymen” and adds “God it is then, God Himself, who with the Romans is bringing the fire to purge His Temple and exterminating a city so laden with pollutions” (B.J. 6.109-610, Thackeray, LCL). He had earlier alluded to such a prophecy “that the city would be taken and the sanctuary burnt to the ground by the right of war, whensoever it should be visited by sedition (στάσις) and native hands should be the first to defile God’s sacred precincts” (B.J. 4.388, Thackeray, LCL). As Tessa Rajak notes, in this context “stasis is not just a sin, but the ultimate sin.”44 Sedition or internal strife is considered by many ancient historians, including Thucydides, one of the most pervasive tragedies in history.45 Josephus, too, in War indicates it as a root cause of the tragedies he describes, beginning at the very outset of his narrative46 Here, however, internal strife is not only described as a calamity, but as an act against God himself and the outcome is not only a human tragedy caused by dissension. Rather it is divine punishment of the most severe kind. Josephus’s speeches and often editorial comments frequently use Godlanguage in order to warn of impending doom or to explain calamities of the recent past. By contrast, the speeches by Eleazar at Masada (B.J. 7.320388), especially the second, longer one, refer more to collective suicide, Indian philosophy, and Greek tragedy than to divine intervention, although here too Josephus inserts a few references to the guilt of the besieged and their allies that has caused divine wrath to reach them (B.J. 7.328-329, 331333, 358-359, 387). In the closing sections of the War, he describes the horrible death of his accuser Catullus, “providing the clearest proof of divine Providence and showing that God does indeed punish the wicked.” (B.J. 7.453). Here this final and concluding judgment by Josephus has clearly religious overtones – although it concerns the fate of a personal enemy of his. His introduction to the entire work (B.J. 1.1-30), instead, lacks such language.47 The same, with some exceptions, goes for the entire first book. 44

RAJAK 2002, 95, with reference also to Gen. Rab. 38.6. PRICE 2001. 46 Josephus’s account begins with the words Στάσεως τοῖς δυνατοῖς Ἰουδαίων ἐμπεσούσης (“Factional strife arose among the leaders of the Judeans” B.J. 1.31 trans. Sievers), in relation to the time of Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175-164 BCE). He had already used the term three times in the preceding preface (B.J. 1.10, 25, 27), always in relation to the calamities of the war of 66-74 CE. 47 PRICE 2005, 111 n. 9. 45

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4. LANGUAGE OF PURITY, DEFILEMENT,

AND

LAWLESSNESS

Outside the Herod narrative, the term εὐσέβεια is mostly associated with lack of “piety” as in the case of those who slaughtered Cestius’s troops on the Sabbath (B.J. 2.518).48 In this context, Mason speaks of “an ominous notice, recalling Agrippa’s admonition at 2.392-93 that either Sabbath observance will hinder a war or its violation will bring divine punishment.”49 As Mason correctly notes, the term “Sabbath” is used rarely in Josephus’s earliest work (B.J. 1.146; 2.456, 517, 634). In all four cases it relates to military action – or abstention from it. In the first instance, during his siege of Jerusalem in 64/3 BCE, Pompey was aware that his opponents would not fight on the Sabbath and acted accordingly. In the last case, Josephus refrains from considering gathering his forces because of the Sabbath, thereby proving – and advertising – his lawabiding behavior.50 The other two instances refer to the criminal and tragic events, when first the Roman garrison of Jerusalem was slaughtered, on the Sabbath, despite oaths given to them granting them safe conduct in return for laying down their arms (B.J. 2.455-456). Here Josephus warns that this is not only an abominable act by a few but that thereby the entire city has suffered defilement, that calls for supra-terrestrial wrath.51 Similarly, the sudden assault on Cestius’s troops on the Sabbath, in which allegedly over 500 Roman troops lost their lives, is described by Josephus in ominous terms: the rebels disregard their “paramount devotional commitment” (B.J. 2.517 trans. Mason) and therefore risk retribution, not from the Romans but through divine intervention.52 In an excursus about people he considers the worst criminals responsible for the fall of Jerusalem and Judea, Josephus pronounces a harsh judgment on John of Gischala, whose lack of piety for God and of respect for his commandments, especially regarding purity, prepare the way for his total lack of justice and kindness toward his fellow human beings: “it was no wonder that, mad in his impiety towards God, he did not observe any rules of gentleness and common affection towards men.”53 Similarly, 48 Here the term may refer concretely to “Sabbath observance” that is tragically disregarded. 49 MASON 2008, n. 3150 ad B.J. 2.517. 50 See also Vita 159-161 and MASON 2001, 88-89, with detailed notes 733 and 736 ad loc. 51 PRICE 2005, 112. 52 Cf. Agrippa’s speech cited above and Mason’s comment at n. 49 above. 53 ἵν’ ᾖ μηκέτι θαυμαστόν, εἰ τὴν πρὸς ἀνθρώπους ἡμερότητα καὶ κοινωνίαν οὐκ ἐτήρησεν ὁ τῆς πρὸς θεὸν εὐσεβείας οὕτω καταμανείς. (B.J. 7. 264 trans. P. Rogers

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in the same excursus Josephus chides the Idumean contingent in Jerusalem (B.J. 7.267).54 Here, perhaps, the complicated connection between religious and political issues is referred to most explicitly. Josephus uses the superlative μιαρώτατοι – the “most abominable” or, more specifically, “most polluted” people, cut down the chief priests – who should represent the highest degree of purity. With these actions there remains “no vestige of religious regard to God” (μηδὲ μέρος τι τῆς πρὸς τὸν θεὸν εὐσεβείας) or in Thackeray’s translation “no particle of religious worship” (omitting the reference to God that is in the text). Aside from that, “then they proceeded to wipe out the last remains of political government” or of “civil polity” (as Thackeray translates) and “introduced the most perfect lawlessness,”55 a rare oxymoron that seems to be unknown before Josephus56. The adjective τέλειος, here again in the superlative, is often used in the context of sacrifices without blemish, or of gods who are all-powerful – whereas in this case it is ironically lawlessness that is brought to absolute perfection.57 In the later books of his War, Josephus devotes much attention to the Temple and its defilement, before its destruction. In his above-mentioned speech to the besieged in Jerusalem he states: “the temple has become the receptacle for all, and native hands have polluted those divine precincts (χερσὶν ἐμφυλίοις ὁ θεῖος μεμίανται χῶρος), which even Romans reverenced from afar, forgoing many customs of their own in deference to your law.”58 Such defilement and misuse are shown as causes of the Temple’s demise: “Others advised that if the Jews would leave it [i.e. the Temple] and none of them stored arms there, it should be spared, but that if they got up on it and fought on, it should be burned, since it is no longer a sanctuary but a fortress, and the impiety would fall on those who made this necessary rather than on them [i.e. the Romans].”59 http://www.biblical.ie/). In an earlier polemical and derogatory description of John of Gischala, Josephus did not insert any God-language (B.J. 2.585-589) but called him a “schemer” (ἐπίβουλος cf. 2.615, 620, 622, always with reference to John) and a most slippery, crafty, and bloodthirsty person (see notes by MASON ad loc). 54 This passage is briefly mentioned in MASON 2016, 100, as a retrospective on the pivotal role of Ananus and his murder. 55 τὴν τελεωτάτην εἰσήγαγον διὰ πάντων ἀνομίαν (B.J. 7.268). 56 In TLG the expression occurs only here, in Josephus, and in De virtutibus et vitiis by Constantinus Porphyrogenitus, which excerpts this passage of the War. 57 The only other unquestionably favorable use of the term εὐσέβεια in War is to be found twice in the account of Onias’s temple (B.J. 7.425, 430), where it is translated by Thackeray as “religious toleration” and “service (of God).” 58 B.J. 5.402 (trans. Thackeray, LCL). 59 B.J. 6.240 (trans. P. Rogers).

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5. DIVINE PRESENCE AND ABSENCE One of the most astonishing statements, that Josephus repeats in different ways on various occasions is the assertion that God has fled the Temple. He hints at this as early as the missed opportunity by Cestius to prevent the war by recapturing the city because “God, having already been turned away even from the holy places, prevented the war from reaching a conclusion on that day.”60 Toward the end of his speech to the people of Jerusalem under siege he states: “I reckon that God has fled from his sanctuary and is on the side of those with whom you fight” (B.J. 5.412).61 Further on, he asserts that God had long ago “sentenced (the Temple) to the flames” (B.J. 6.250 Thackeray, LCL).62 Along the same line, but even more mysterious is the voice heard at night by priests during the feast of Pentecost proclaiming, “We are departing hence” (B.J. 6.299). The verb μεταβαίνω usually means not just departure but a change of place or allegiance.63 As is well known, Tacitus has a similar statement “Of a sudden the doors of the shrine opened and a superhuman voice cried: ‘The gods are departing’: at the same moment the mighty stir of their going was heard.”64 Tacitus of course prefaces this statement by attributing this to a gens superstitioni obnoxia, religionibus adversa (“a people prone to superstition but hostile to religious observances”). For him, evidently Judaism as well as Christianity were nothing but superstitiones.65 But whether the language here is to be judged superstitious or not, with its plural reference to the occupants of the Temple, it has some biblical precedent as in Gen 1:26, but leaves itself open to a polytheistic interpretation, as in Tacitus who mentions multiple deities. The explanation offered by Michel and Bauernfeind, that the plural refers to angels embodying the Shekhinah is too hypothetical to be convincing, since in 60

B.J. 2.539 trans. MASON. See Mason’s n. 3247 ad loc.; PRICE 2005, 112. It has often been noted that a similar sentiment is expressed in A.J. 20.166. See PRICE 2005, 109. 62 Josephus emphasizes that even the timing coincided with the date of the destruction of the first temple, here and in Jer 52:12 given as the 10th day of the fifth month or the month of Lous (Λῷος), which corresponds to July/August. Jewish tradition places these two (and other) tragic events on the 9th of that month (Tisha Be’Av). On chronological and ideological aspects of this question, see BEN SHAHAR 2015. 63 “Change one’s abode, PTeb.316.20 (i CE), pass from one subject to another, pass from one state to another, change” (LSJ). 64 Hist. 5.13.1; trans. C. H. MOORE, LCL; “apertae repente delubri fores et audita maior humana vox, excedere deos; simul ingens motus excedentium.” 65 See STERN, 1974-1984, 2.60 (#281). 61

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this context there is no reference to angels.66 Elsewhere in War there are few references to divine messengers. In the most egregious instance, Josephus calls himself a messenger, clearly not an angel, sent by God to Vespasian (B.J. 3.400). In at least two other cases such messengers should be considered angels, as in Agrippa’s speech when in closing he invokes τοὺς ἱεροὺς ἀγγέλους τοῦ θεοῦ (“the sacred messengers of God” trans. Mason).67 The only time such an expression occurs in an earlier text in TLG is in Philo (Abr. 115), with reference to Abraham’s visitors in Gen 18. The last reference to an angel of God recurs in Josephus’s speech in Jerusalem, where he lists various lessons to be drawn from history. In this case, he recounts the famous story that an angel of God destroyed Sennacherib’s army in a single night.68 It is not yet clear what the relationship between Tacitus and Josephus may be in this case, whether Tacitus could have relied directly or indirectly on Josephus or both on a common source. The astonishing fact is that Josephus for such an important statement uses god-language that is quite unusual in Jewish tradition. The perception that the Divine Presence was bound primarily to the Temple is found frequently in biblical and other Second Temple texts.69 The idea that at the time of its destruction the Shekhinah left the Sanctuary and went into Exile with Israel is well attested in rabbinic literature, although there are also references to its presence in the ruins of the Temple.70 Whether Josephus was aware of these ideas is 66 MICHEL and BAUERNFEIND 1959-1969, II, 2.185 n. 142: “Der Text ist gemeint als eine Umschreibung für den göttlichen Ratschluss: Das Heer der Engel als Verkörperung der Schechina zieht aus dem Tempel aus.“ (The text is intended as a circumlocution for the divine decision: The host of angels as embodiment of the Shekhinah moves from the Temple). 67 B.J. 2.401 with Mason’s n. 2528. Mason asserts that “Divine messengers were well understood in the Greco-Roman world, not least in tragedy.” Yet, Chapman, whose dissertation he cites in support, points out that Josephus was “working within the Jewish mindset, but writing for hellenized audiences” (CHAPMAN 1998, 19 n. 54). In Greek tragedy, the role of the messenger and divine speech are usually clearly distinguished. In drama, Hermes, the divine messenger par excellence, hardly appears in a messenger role, except in comedy (Aristophanes, Peace). Messenger speeches and divine messages are clearly distinguished: “Quite unlike the angelia that gains an important part of its power from the messenger’s self-effacement, divine speech acquires its force from its divine source.” BARRETT 2002, 50. 68 B.J. 5.388, recounting 2 Kgs 19:35; cf. Isa 37:36; 2 Chron 32:21; Sir 48:21; 1 Macc 7:41; 2 Macc 8:19; 15:22. In A.J. 10.21 Josephus recounts the same episode but omits the intervention of an angel, saying that “God inflicted a pestilent disease upon his (Sennacherib’s) army.” 69 1 Kgs 8:13, 27 and passim; 2 Macc 14:35; TERRIEN 1978, 161-226, 305-12. 70 GOLDBERG 1969, 125-60, 176-88, 487-93; SIEVERS 2017, https://docs.lib.purdue.edu/ claritas/vol6/iss1/4/ consulted July 9, 2019.

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not quite clear, although Michel and Bauernfeind connect the alleged collective departure to that of the Shekhinah.71 6. TENTATIVE CONCLUSIONS Josephus uses what we would call religious categories, values, and experiences to explain what happened and why it happened. Even several years after the war, this was a very difficult enterprise, for him as for most believing Jews. In this respect, in several ways his interpretations are precursors of what we later find in rabbinic literature. We may not agree with him or the rabbis on those explanations, but it is important to listen to them. Aside from Josephus’s interpretation of events, it is hard to be sure about the influence of religious factors on the actual evolution of the war. But it is equally dangerous to marginalize them or to reduce them to ethnic or other questions. Not only Josephus’s language but also rabbinic literature, coin-legends, post-war literature, as well as the Second Revolt suggest that messianic/apocalyptic expectations motivated many people to revolt. I hope I have been able to pull together some passages, mostly well-known to the specialists, without reading into them religious elements that are not there or that have to be explained in entirely different ways.

71

See n. 66 above.

PART IV

TRADITIONS

CHAPTER 11

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION: BETWEEN PRIESTS AND RABBIS Meir BEN-SHAHAR Sha’anan, College, Kiryat Shmuel

Shortly after the destruction of the Second Temple at the hands of the Romans, a member of the Jewish priestly class, Flavius Josephus of Jerusalem, settled in Rome and began to write the history of the war that occasioned this event. Given his status as an eyewitness, Josephus’ personal recollections are an important element in the story of that war. He was not alone in recording them. Josephus himself mentions another Jew named Justus of Tiberias who also wrote a history of the war. Apparently, several high Roman officials penned memoirs on the topic as well.1 Naturally, each writer, particularly if he had been present at the battles, recounted matters from his own point of view and as befitting his past and present cultural and conceptual milieu. What about the rest of the Jews? Did they, too, try to remember and retell the hurban? In this article, I investigate the Jewish memories of the war as they are preserved in one rather lengthy rabbinic text, a passage that is part of a work known as Avot de-Rabbi Nathan (The Fathers according to Rabbi Nathan, hereinafter: ARN). Indeed, the use of rabbinic literature as a historical source has been questioned in recent decades.2 Within this constraint, 1 Josephus points out that by the time he wrote Wars there were already other works on the topic (B.J. 1.7-10). Josephus specifically refers to the work of a Jew named Justus of Tiberias, who heavily criticized Josephus for the conduct of the war in the Galilee (Vita 336367), see STERN 2011, 381–96. Greek and Roman historians who also wrote on the Great Revolt, including Tacitus, Epianus and Suetonius, apparently made no use of Josephus’ book and may not even know of it. Probably, they relied on other sources, memories and reports of Roman commanders who took part in the battles. We are aware of one such source. Marcus Antonius Julianus was the Roman Governor of Judaea at the end of the revolt and wrote a book on the war. The work itself is now lost and its existence is known only through the Church Father Minucius Felix, Oct. 33.2-4. There are scholars who think that this book was used by Tacitus, see STERN 1980, 3–4, n. 4. Some believe that Julianus’ essay was the “official” history and was based on the commentaries of Vespasian and Titus, see PARENTE 2005, 45–69, 47–48. 2 The historical reliability of the rabbinic literature has been debated in many publications in recent years. A good summary of the discussion can be found at TROPPER 2016.

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my intention is not to try to reconstruct the events as they were, but to deal with memory – what some Jews chose, and especially how they chose, to retell and remember the destruction. I wish to show that the passages in ARN addressing the destruction, although told in uninterrupted sequence, actually accommodate different recollections and different, if not clashing ways of perceiving this event. 1. AVOT

DE

RABBI NATHAN: SEPARATING THE LATER FROM EARLIER AND EVEN-EARLIER

THE

The works of the Rabbis are very different from Josephus’ books and from the Greco-Roman literary tradition. In the classical world, each book has an author and receives this author’s vigor and powers. The work is meant to express the author’s worldview, his ideas, and, of course, the message that he wishes to impart to his readers. The most salient characteristic of rabbinic literature, in contrast, is the absence of an author. Not only does no author’s name appear on the cover, but the various works are not even the products of one person’s mind. The rabbinic work is an accumulation of sayings, stories, and homilies that gelled over a long period of time, sometimes centuries, and underwent subsequent redaction and development.3 In principle, one can discern three layers in rabbinic works: 1. “Raw material” – sayings, stories, exegetic or homiletic passages, and more, of ancient provenance, each transmitted through different channels without any necessary connection with other sayings in the work. 2. Redaction/compilation – a redactor or group of redactors who combine the various sayings and stories into a single work within defined limits. 3. Transmission – after redaction, the work is passed on in written or oral form. In this stage, of course, it may change in minor or major ways. Errors, copying mistakes, or even deliberate proofing changes, additions, and deletions may significantly change the form and even the content of the work. The first two of these levels of treatment are the concern of “Higher Criticism”; the third is dealt with in “Lower Criticism.” Although these remarks are valid in regard to every work in the rabbinic corpus, they are 3 NOAM 2018, 8–9 and n. 32. On the anonymity of the redactor in rabbinic literature see FRAADE 2011, 9*–29*, 10*–14*. For detailed description of the rabbinic literary model see DRORY 2000, 130–35.

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particularly important in reference to ARN, the work at issue in the discussion that follows.4 ARN is a quasi-Talmudic composition on the Mishnaic tractate Avot.5 Much of it presents the sayings of Mishnah Avot in sequence, as well as an abundance of additional narrative and didactic material accompanying each saying. It has come down to us in two versions, known as version A and version B. These versions are similar in many respects but very different in others. Over the years, scholars have disagreed on how to date the work. Menahem Kister has shown convincingly that both versions in our possession acquired their form in the late Byzantine era, around the seventh century CE. Both versions, however, are derivatives of an earlier, ancient version. On the basis of internal evidence in the text as it has come down to us, Kister dates the original and earlier version to the third century CE, making ARN the oldest post-tannaitic work in existence.6 No less important, the earliest core of ARN, like all rabbinic literature, is composed of sayings and stories that are themselves even older. Therefore, the first stratum of the corpus of the Hurban’s stories is composed of memories that took shape in the immediate aftermath of the destruction. They are the oldest sayings and stories that those who experienced the event passed on to their offspring and their intimate acquaintances. These recollections were transmitted from generation to generation for nearly 200 years until they coalesced in the earliest version of ARN. Did these reminiscences gel into a cohesive and unalterable narrative tradition, and, if so, when? Were these memories, or some of them, written down, and thereby expressed more rigidly and immutably? As important as these questions are, they are largely unanswerable. These memories first appear in rabbinic literature within the framework of the early ARN7 – the second stratum. This work, whether created for oral transmission or committed to writing at the time, contains various stories that were likely 4 These fundamental distinctions appear at the opening of EPSTEIN 1948, 7. But as FRAADE 2011, 16 [Heb.], has pointed, the distinction and the differentiation between the editorial layer and the ancient saying is very problematic. The question of the editor’s involvement in the ancient material has been hotly debated in recent years in relation to the Babylonian Talmud, the Mishnah and other rabbinic works. A good summary of the methodological issues can be found at STEMBERGER 2009, 79–96. For the implications of editorial questions for describing the history of the period see GAFNI 2011, 355–75. 5 Menahem Kister intensively investigated the editing and delivery processes of ARN. My discussions are based on the infrastructure he laid, see KISTER 1998a [Heb.]. 6 KISTER 1998a, 217–21. 7 In rabbinic literature there are four versions of the story of the Second Destruction, ARN-A, ARN-B, Lam. Rab. (Buber ed., pp. 69–65), b. Git. 55b-57a. There are various opinions as to what is the earliest version. Adiel Schremer briefly reviewed the different approaches, SCHREMER 2005, 219–35, 228–31. For a detailed review of the scholarly literature see ZFATMAN 2011, 106–107 [Heb.].

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selected and shaped by a redactor. This is the second stage of the coalescence of the cycle of destruction stories. In the third stage, the work was transmitted until the two versions that we possess took shape. Reconstructing the older ARN is a complex task, but one within the realm of possibility; the more successfully it is done, the closer we can approach the ancient memories that are embedded in the original work. 2. THE CYCLE OF DESTRUCTION STORIES: TWO PLOTS AND A LAMENTATION Both versions of ARN recount the destruction of the Second Temple. This redundancy is the best evidence of the existence of this story in the earlier version as well. As a rule, insofar as a story or saying appears in both versions and in similar wording, the more probable it is that it is part of the earlier ARN. The presence of a saying or story in one version only, in contrast, raises suspicions that it was added or inserted only in a late transmission stage and did not exist in the earlier ARN.8 The full text of the destruction story in both versions is in the appendix at the end of the article. I have divided the text into subunits and below I will indicate these units in square brackets. In both versions, three main sections of the destruction narrative are easily discernible. The first two are differentiated foremost at the textual level. Both begin similarly: “Now, when Vespasian came to destroy Jerusalem” [1A; 9A] in ARN-A and “Now, When Vespasian came and encircled Jerusalem” [1B; 9B] in ARN-B. The double prolegomenon that denotes Vespasian’s arrival in Jerusalem twice [!] disrupts the narrative continuum and, in effect, disregards everything stated and recounted previously, as though starting a new story. The first part, which we will call the Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai plot (hereinafter for brevity: YP), presents Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s views on the Jewish revolt and recounts his departure from Jerusalem. It ends with his prophecy to Vespasian (ARN-A [8A]) or the granting of the town of Yavne (ARN-B [7B]). The siege plot (hereinafter: SP) deals with Vespasian’s conquest of Jerusalem [9A; 9B] and ends with the destruction of the city and the Temple [13A; 14B]. The distinction between the plots comes through clearly in that they appear in different chapters.9 In ARN-B, YP is retold in Chapter 6 and SP occurs in 8

KISTER 1997, 8. To the best of my knowledge, no attention has yet been paid to the various plots within ARN, and they were read in one sequence. Probably the fact that the two plots are 9

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Chapter 7. In ARN-A, the difference is even more conspicuous: Wedged between YP in Chapter 4 and SP in Chapter 6 is an additional chapter that has nothing to do with the destruction.10 The best evidence for the separate nature of the two plots is that one can read each plot independently of the other. The third passage is a lamentation [15A-19A; 15B18B], which is not a natural continuation of SP because it entails a retreat in time: “Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was sitting opposite the wall of Jerusalem watching to learn what would happen to it” [15B]. This unit presupposes the existence of both plots: it “knows” that Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai has left Jerusalem and that the Temple has been destroyed. As I demonstrate below, the composition and nature of the lamentation are much different from that of the two plots. The differentiation of plots relates not only to the specific content of each but to their literary-linguistic and ideological contents. 2.1. Story vs. Chronicle One can explain the differences in content between the stories, of course, by defining the texts as different episodes in the history of the siege. In the first episode, which I call the Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai plot (YP), the initial stage of the siege is described, including negotiations between the rebels and the Romans and an intra-Jewish dispute over the value and logic of the war. In the second episode, which I call the siege plot (SP), the description ostensibly concerns the next stage, in which the Romans and the rebels engage each other militarily.11 A literary and linguistic examination of the two plots, however, reveals discrepancies and differences not only in content but also in literary and linguistic form. The plots are differentiated in the way each progress. YP is propelled largely by declarative and expressive verbs that are placed in the heroes’ mouths. Vespasian and the rebels confront each other via exchanges of words [1A; 1B]. Vespasian makes himself known to Rabban Yohanan well intertwined in the Babylonian Talmud and Lamentations Rabba blurred the distinction between the two plots. Menahem Kister, who focused on ARN, hinted that there was room to distinguish the siege story from Rabban Yohannan b. Zakkai’s story, but his remarks imply that these two plot lines were intertwined in an even earlier source, see KISTER 1998b, 486. 10 No doubt KISTER 1998b, 485, is right that ARN-A is inferior to ARN-B and in the original ARN the two plots came in sequence as it is in ARN-B. However, the fact that another section was inserted into ARN-A exactly in the seam between the plots indicates that the early readers also felt the difference between the two plots. 11 KISTER 1998b, 486.

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b. Zakkai through a written message from spies [4A; 4B]. Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai speaks to (“tells”) the rebels [2A; 2B] two or three times [5A]; they reject his message [5A; 5B]. Pursuant to this, he “he sent and called for his disciples” [5A]. He accepts Yavne through Vespasian’s statement, “Here it is; it’s yours, a gift” [7B], and assures the Roman generalissimo that the empire will be his by asking, “By thy leave, may I say something to thee?” [8A]. The function of these rhetorical verbs is to reveal the protagonists’ considerations and explain their motives. The siege plot, in contrast, abounds with action verbs: encircled [9B], took up a position [9B], burned [9A; 9B], boil [11A; 11B], go out [11B], brought [13A; 13B], struck [13A], hurled [13A], firing [13B], and so on. The only speech-act in the story is Vespasian’s [12A; 12B]. His statement, however, neither pushes the storyline forward nor has any discernable effect. His soldiers’ fighting does not improve; his remarks may as well not have been made. In addition, even though SP tracks the stages of the siege with exactitude, it does not establish a causal relationship between the events except for the successive nature of their occurrence. The SP plot is noteworthy also for its realistic descriptions that find expression in the relative profusion of technical terms, as I show below. Finally, SP seems to be divorced from the Rabbis’ cultural world. Whereas in the YP plot the sage acts and is accompanied by two students [5A; 5B], SP features no rabbinic personality whatsoever. One may, it is true, attribute this absence to the internal logic of the narrative, i.e., once Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai has left, no rabbis or their students remain in Jerusalem. The estrangement of SP from the rabbinic world, however, is also manifested in the complete absence of biblical verses. In both the Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai plot and in Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s lamentation, the text makes use of biblical verses and their interpretation. There is also an awareness of the observance of the Torah and the commandments. In SP, biblical allusion is absent, and the Torah and the commandments are not referred to, with the exception of the Temple service. This set of differences, particularly the first one, concerning the progresses of the plot, is evidence not only of different plots but also of different literary genres. YP meets the accepted definitions of rabbinic hagiography. It centers on a sage who, under dire circumstances, applies his wisdom and, particularly, his Torah erudition, to save rabbinic culture, as is revealed in the end. The literary characteristics of SP, in contrast, are a good fit for the chronicle. Chronography is comprised of short and laconic sentences that merely offer reportage of events. It establishes

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causal relations by arraying the events on a timeline, and in no other way.12 Indeed, the chronicle genre was common in the East and in Greco-Roman culture; it was also familiar to the Jewish world of the late Second Temple period.13 2.2. To Rebel or Not to Rebel? Two Plots and Two Ideologies The Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai plot and the siege plot are not only different literary types; they present contrasting outlooks on the Jewish revolt. YP clearly draws the ideological battle lines. Vespasian reaches Jerusalem and besieges it. At this point, ARN-B is more sensitive to the course of events as reported by Josephus and which are familiar from the Roman doctrine of warfare. ARN-A begins as follows: “When Vespasian came to destroy Jerusalem” [1A]. The narrator presumes that it was Vespasian’s ultimate goal to lay waste to the city. In ARN-B, however, we find: “When Vespasian came and encircled [heqif] Jerusalem” [1B]. Thus, only Vespasian’s act of besieging the city is described. The word heqif is simply a translation of the Latin verb circumvallo, which denotes “surrounding with a wall” and signifies the onset of a siege.14 According to Roman military doctrine, an effort must be made to avoid siege warfare – a protracted and costly form of combat lacking glory and resulting in many casualties.15 Therefore, in the first stage of imposing a siege, the Romans preferred to offer the besieged an opportunity to surrender. Indeed, Vespasian’s surrender proposal reaches those trapped in Jerusalem: “Fools, why do you seek to destroy this city and why do you seek to burn the Temple? For what do I ask of you but that you send me one bow or one arrow, and I shall go off from you” [1A]. This account squares with Josephus’ account of the Roman siege of Jerusalem, which began in the middle of the month of Nisan (B.J. 5.99, 302). Josephus, it is true, does not state that Titus has already issued a surrender offer at so early a stage, but about ten days after the second wall falls, on the eleventh of the month of Iyar (B.J. 5.302), Josephus is sent to the rebels in order to persuade them to surrender (B.J. 5.361). Josephus, like Vespasian in the midrash, warns the rebels against dooming the city and the Temple to destruction: 12

For the characters of the chronicle genre see BURGESS and KULIKOWSKI 2009, 156; for an expanded discussion see BURGESS and KULIKOWSKI 2013, 20–35. 13 Examples of Jewish chronography are found in Midrash Seder Olam and literature of Alexandrian Jewry; see MILIKOWSKY 1985; MILIKOWSKY 2013, 5–17 [Heb.]. 14 CAMPBELL 2006, 50–53; LEVITHAN 2013, 63–65, 126–27. On the connection between the Latin term and the Hebrew verb see OPPENHEIMER 1980, 18. 15 LEVITHAN 2013,49–52.

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“Take pity of your country already going to ruin; return from your wicked ways, and have regard to the excellency of that city which you are going to betray, to that excellent temple […]” (B.J. 5.416). In the same breath, Josephus assures the rebels that surrendering to the Romans now means not suffering and enslavement but merely the restoration of the status quo. The rebels categorically reject the surrender offer: “Even as we went forth against the first two [= Roman generals] who were here before thee and slew them, so shall we go forth against you and slay you” [2A]. The rebels’ argument – they have already defeated two generals – is also rooted in the events of the revolt. Some scholars believe that it relates to the destruction of Metilius’ garrison force and subsequently to Cestius Gallus’ panicky retreat.16 For our purposes, the rejection of the surrender bid is more important than the reliability of the claim. At this point, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai intervenes and turns to the rebels: “Why do you destroy this city and why do you seek to burn the Temple? For what is it that he asks of you? Verily he asks naught of you save one bow or one arrow, and he will go off from there” [3A]. That Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai adopts Vespasian’s words is no coincidence. For our purposes, it matters not whether and what Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai told the rebels; what counts is that the narrator places Vespasian and Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai on the same side. Both men have the same intent. Both wish to salvage the Temple and the city, and both insist that the rebels surrender. Their relationship is clearly expressed in the following passage: “Vespasian had spies (qatulin, σκουλκάτωρ?)17 stationed inside the walls of Jerusalem. Every word which they overheard they would write down, attach (the message) to an arrow, and shoot it over the wall, saying that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was one of the Emperor’s friends” [4A]. Vespasian’s spies advised the Emperor that Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai was indeed in Jerusalem but was one of the “friends of the Emperor.” This immensely important epithet is evidently a translation of the latin term amicus caesaris, a person who is bound to the ruler in a client–patron relationship that assures the client the Emperor’s protection and various emoluments in return for political support.18 Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai not only foresees the bitter outcomes of the revolt; he adopts the Roman 16

See the bibliography at KISTER 1998b, 506, n. 134. The Hebrew text reads “qatulin,” which is reckless. KISTER 1998b, 499, suggested that the Hebrew word is a disruption of the Greek “σκουλκάτωρ,” which means ‘spy.’ 18 On Rabban Yohannan b. Zakkai as amicus caesaris, see TROPPER 2005, 133, n. *. 17

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general’s stance as his own. Consequently, his exit from Jerusalem takes on an additional dimension. If it is merely an attempt to flee the doomed city, why does he approach Vespasian? By leaving Jerusalem, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai reveals his principled stance against the revolt and his siding with the Roman military commander. In return for his loyalty, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai receives Yavne so that he may learn and teach Torah and fully observe its commandments there. This is the gist of the story in ARN-A. In ARN-B, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s “prophecy” of Vespasian’s coronation as Emperor does not appear until the two have their encounter, giving the impression that the sage received Yavne as a reward for supporting Vespasian’s ascension to the imperial throne.19 Either way, the quid pro quo is similar in both versions: Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai does not believe in the revolt and he attempts to persuade its protagonists to stop it. Failing at this, he abandons the city and openly sides with Vespasian. Throughout YP, not an ill word is said about Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai, unless one interprets amicus caesaris in that manner.20 On the contrary: the plot, which at this stage does not even mention the coming destruction, presents Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai as having had the good sense to extricate himself from Jerusalem and assure continued Jewish existence in the absence of a temple. His “prophecy” to Vespasian lends his actions and decisions a religious justification, of course. YP sees the revolt as a preordained failure and praises the sage who tries to thwart the destruction and manages to sustain Jewish life in its aftermath. The siege plot presents a different, if not opposite, outlook on the risks of the revolt, the reason for the destruction, and the persona of Vespasian. The plot begins with the besieging of Jerusalem [9A; 9B]. Unlike YP, which quotes Vespasian’s offer of surrender and thus depicts him as an even-handed, moderate military leader if not a friend of the Temple and Jerusalem, in SP Vespasian is depicted as interested in demolishing the city from the beginning and is averse to negotiations. Afterwards, the burning of the food stores is described [10A; 10B]. This occurrence is also well known due to Josephus’ description of it (B.J. 5.21–26) and Tacitus’ brief remarks on the topic (Tacitus, His. 5.12). It appears that this suffices to establish the credibility of the event and, more important, the stark impression that it left on the generation that experienced the destruction. Indeed, Josephus traces the destruction of Jerusalem to the famine that 19 On the foreignness of the prophecy section and its insertion into ARN-B see ZFATMAN 2011, 120–23; BEN-SHAHAR 2017a, 651–55 [Heb.]. 20 ZFATMAN 2011, 121–22.

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gripped the city, which otherwise could have held out for much longer (B.J. 5.26).21 For Josephus and Tacitus, this event also represents the climax of the rebel factions’ internecine war. This leads Josephus to state that Jerusalem fell not due to the Roman siege but as a direct consequence of the civil war that raged within its confines (ibid).22 Thus, the theological rationale for the destruction – the sin of civil war – and the rational historical explanation, the famine, become one.23 A close reading of SP, however, shows that the famine did not diminish the Jerusalemites’ capacity for making war. In fact, it almost forced Vespasian to abandon the siege. According to the account in ARN, the people of Jerusalem did experience severe hunger but lost none of their fighting fitness on that account: “The people of Jerusalem used to boil straw and drink its broth and then go out and fight with the Romans and slaughter them” [11B]. In fact, when Vespasian discovered the source of the Jewish warriors’ nourishment, he gathered his soldiers “and told them, come and see men who are starving and thirsty and who go out and fight with you and slaughter you. What if they had sufficient, food and drink!” [12B]. In ARN-A, hunger becomes an impetus: “He said: ‘Someone give me five dates and I will go down and capture five heads!’ When given five dates, he would go down and capture five heads of Vespasian’s men” [11A]. The famine not only fails to dent the rebels but enhances their fighting ability. For our purposes, the historical reliability of these accounts is immaterial. What matters is that SP subtly rejects the claim that Jerusalem fell due to famine or as the result of the fraternal strife that caused the reserves to be burned. According to this plot, insofar as the fighting depended solely on the rebels’ fighting capacity, Jerusalem and the Temple would have continued to stand. If so, what caused the destruction? SP describes the stages of the siege in detail and with relative accuracy. Although the siege machines did 21 For Josephus the severe famine also serves another purpose. The famine causes the rebels to exert cruel violence against the people of Jerusalem in their search for food, and by this he blames them for moral corruption. The culmination of hunger is the story of the mother who ate her son. This story, according to Josephus, persuaded Titus to destroy Jerusalem (B.J. 6.215-219). 22 According to Josephus and Tacitus, the burning of the treasures of food preceded the siege, and probably they are right. According to ARN, the blockade allegedly preceded the burning of the treasures, thus creating a close connection between the famine and the fire. But apparently the siege plot opens at the arrival of Vespasian (not Titus!) to Jerusalem which took place in the summer of 68 (see below), while the food treasures were probably only burned during winter or spring of 69. For dating the burning of the treasures see BEN SHAHAR 2017b, 681–84. 23 Josephus points out that according to ancient prophecy or tradition, it is the civil war that will bring destruction (B.J. 4.388).

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manage to breach the wall, the struggle was not decided on that account [13A;13B]. The denouement arrived after the warfare transitioned from the physical to the metaphysical plane. In the second stage of the siege, Vespasian engages neither in hand-to-hand combat with the rebels nor in breaching the array of fortifications behind the wall. Instead, he loads an artillery piece with a swine’s head in order to render the altar ritually impure. When this happens, the Temple service ceases and the city collapses immediately [13A;13B]. The destruction is in no way the rebels’ fault. On the contrary: the burning of the food stores, perceived by Josephus as a socio-religious sin and a cause of the destruction, serves as a stimulus and a source of encouragement. The Jews’ fighting prowess drives the Roman warriors to the brink of despair. The fault for the destruction lies with Vespasian, who in his villainy launches a religious attack on the Temple in order to mask his military failure. Thus, the two plots take contrasting stances on Vespasian, the rebels, and the reason for the destruction. YP stresses Vespasian’s mild nature, conciliatory offer of surrender, and commitment to the future of (rabbinic) Judaism. The fault for the destruction belongs to the rebels’ short-sightedness and conceit, as Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai himself says. In SP, in contrast, Vespasian is a villain who exploits the sanctity of the Temple to bring the city down, whereas the rebels are war heroes who under ordinary conditions could have polished off the Roman army despite, if not because of, their hunger. Vespasian’s religious odium justifies the revolt as well, of course. While YP offers no explanation for the revolt – in view of Vespasian’s generous surrender offer, it appears to be an inexplicable act of madness – at the end of SP the reason for rising against Rome is very clear: The Roman authorities are fundamentally hostile to everything that Israel considers sacred. Hence the war against Vespasian is a milhemet qodesh, a justified holy war. Now that the discrepancies and the differences between the plots are revealed, we can consider the possibility that the ideological differences originate in different social circles that differently, if not contrarily, told the story of the destruction and its causes. 2.3. Narrative, Remembrance, History The literary, linguistic, and ideological differences between the plots in ARN come into focus when they are compared. Examining the attitudes toward the historical information about the revolt, we again find a perceptible difference between the plots. YP concerns itself with a sage whose

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name we know solely from rabbinic literature. The plot does provide some historical information. Above I noted Vespasian’s offer of surrender, which in principle resembles Titus’ offer to the rebels as cited by Josephus. The debate within Jerusalem between the rebels and the opponents of the uprising, too, is certainly based on the war that these groups conducted in the course of 68 CE, until the assassination of the former high priests Hanan b. Hanan and Yehoshua b. Gamla effectively ended the overt struggle between proponents and opponents of the uprising. Apart from this general information, however, YP offers no details that might shed greater light on what transpired. SP, in contrast, abounds, relatively speaking, with such details. The plot begins as follows: “When Vespasian came and encircled Jerusalem, he took up a position against the east side of Jerusalem” [9B]. This report – that Vespasian attacked the city from the east and established his headquarters there – clashes with what we know about the final siege of Jerusalem, which Titus [!] mounted in 70 CE. Titus reached the city from the north and encamped first on Mount Scopus and afterwards in the northwest sector of the city (B.J. 5.106–108).24 Painstaking examination of Vespasian’s campaign in the spring and summer of 68, however, yields an interesting picture. When winter ended, Vespasian set out from Caesarea and conquered the Judean foothills and Samaria (B.J. 4.443– 449). From Shechem (Nablus), he headed southeast and captured Jericho on the third day of the month of Sivan (4.449–450). Then he headed toward Jerusalem and encircled it (4.490).25 Several weeks later, however, he was back in Caesarea, where he was advised of Nero’s death (4.491).26 The 24 On Titus’ headquarters see BROSHI 1992, 213–22. It is hard to accept KISTER 1998b, 506, that “east of Jerusalem” refers to Titus’ camp on Mount Scopus and Mount of Olives. On Mount Scopus, Titus spent only few days, then moved his camp to the northwest of the city. On the Mount of Olives there was a camp of the Tenth Legion (B.J. 5.70, 135). It was one of the three camps that surrounded Jerusalem. 25 PRICE 1992, 259, believes that the Roman army was not close to Jerusalem, but elsewhere he agrees that the conquest of the territories around Jerusalem may have been seen by the rabbis as a siege (p. 267). There seems to be an archaeological manifestation of the arrival of the Roman army in the vicinity of Jerusalem. ISAAC and HAR-EVEN 2011, 82 [Heb.], revealed a Jewish village now near Beit Hanina, about seven kilometers north of Jerusalem, that was abandoned during the rebellion. A coin dating to the second year of the rebellion, 68, possibly indicates the date of the abandonment. The village lies on the road leading from Hadid to Jericho and it appears that its abandonment was related to the arrival of the Roman army into the region. 26 Vespasian’s schedule during this period is unknown. Jericho was conquered on Sivan 3 (B.J. 4.450) which took place on May 25 (LEVICK 1999, 40). News of the death of Nero, who committed suicide on June 9, found Vespasian in Caesarea (B.J. 4.494). If news of Nero’s death came in about two to four weeks, Vespasian was in Caesarea as of late June. This schedule leaves Vespasian about one month to carry out various operations

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opening sentence in ARN-B does contain a reliable historical note: Vespasian ascended to Jerusalem from the east and began to besiege it. If so, then the account of the burning of the reserves immediately afterward is chronologically sound. By comparing Josephus’ account with that of Tacitus, we find that the reserves were destroyed in autumn 69 or, at the latest, winter 70.27 ARN-A specifies exactly who committed this act: “The Zealots (qa’anaim) sought to burn all that wealth in fire” [9A]. In the rabbinic literature, the term “zealots” (qa’anaim) is reserved for those whose zeal adheres to God and who are willing to assault transgressors on these grounds. This is the only time in rabbinic literature that the term is used as Josephus uses it: to denote one of the rebel groups, irrespective of observance of the Torah and the commandments.28 Although the versions offer different hypotheses on how the people of Jerusalem coped with the famine, both say of these people that they “used to boil straw and drink its broth” [11B]. Josephus provides a strongly similar detail: “The very leather which belonged to their shields they pulled off and gnawed: the very wisps of old hay became food to some; and some gathered up fibers and sold a very small weight of them for four Attic [drachmae]” (B.J. 6.197-198). In ARN-A, another detail in the account of the famine is preserved in a very problematic wording: “They would bring dung (=‘agalim) and [scratch them MK] and plaster them over with clay and raked them with rakes and covered them with mud” [11A]. The word ‘agalim should be construed according to its ancient meaning: gelalim, droppings.29 Thus, according to Kister’s proposed emendation, the men of Jerusalem “combed the droppings with rakes and covered them with mud.”30 The besieged crumbled the droppings in order to extricate bits of food from them, Josephus reports: “Some persons were driven to that terrible distress as to search the common sewers and old dunghills of cattle, and to eat the dung which they got there” (B.J. 5.571). related to the siege of Jerusalem. It is unclear what caused Vespasian to abandon the siege of Jerusalem. He may have realized that Rome was on the verge of anarchy and he preferred to keep his army, rather than get involved in prolonged siege. 27 See above note 22. 28 ARN-B called them “Sikaron” which mean “Sicarii.” This term did indeed become derogatory, but it must be remembered that according to Josephus, this group had withdrawn from the rebellion at the beginning and settled in Masada (B.J. 2.447, 400). Probably, the original term was “qa’anaim” – zealots, during the delivery of the story the name was changed to “Sicarii” in view of the negative attitude of rabbis to this group, as opposed to the positive charge associated with the term “zealots,” see BEN-SHAHAR 2017b, 684–85. 29 YALON 1971, 125–28, followed by KISTER 1998b, 490–91. 30 KISTER 1998b, 490.

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In the next passage, the progression of the Roman siege is described in minute detail: “They brought him planks of wood and he made them into something like masbikh/mesokhek [= shielded = Vinea] and a kind of qelonas [= pillar = battering ram?]. He made it into two pagoshot [= catapults]” [13B]. The recurrence of the verb ‘ayin-shin-heh, “made,” apparently denotes the presence of two siege engines: (1) a qelonas and (2) two pagoshot. We first treat the last machine. Pagoshot denotes sling stones31 and is an excellent fit for the description that follows: “and they kept firing (projectiles) against the wall until it was breached” [13B]. The machine in question is almost certainly a ballista, which launched large stones. Josephus describes the special procedure that the defenders on the wall used to cope with the ballista stones that were hurled at them (B.J. 5.269-273). What siege engine is described as “made … like masbikh/mesokhek and a kind of qelonas”? The incomprehensible word masbikh, emended as mesokhekh per ms. Parma 327, apparently denotes a wooden structure that shelters something.32 A qelonas is merely a post or a beam; the term occurs often in rabbinic language.33 Thus, the term probably refers to a machine composed of an awning and a beam. This account fits Tacitus’ remarks that due to the city’s topography and walls, Titus decided to fight by means of aggeribus vineisqua – “siege-works and penthouse shelters” (Tacitus, Hist. 5.13.4). The siege-works (agger) are very familiar and are apparently not mentioned here. The vinea are shelters – in the context of war, large shelters under which soldiers who held the battering ram congregated as they approached a wall, for protection against defenders of the wall who rained stones, barbs, Greek fire, and other ammunition on them.34 Sometimes the battering ram was part of the siege tower; soldiers stood atop the tower and engaged the defenders in order to keep them from damaging the battering ram below.35 Josephus reports the doings of the battering ram that approached the third and outermost wall: “[…] The wall already gave way to the Nicon [= winner], for by that name did the Jews themselves call the greatest of their engines, because it conquered all things” (B.J. 5.299). Indeed, the Jews had despaired of 31 “Beit ha-pagoshot” (m. Kelim 16:8). According to the context in the Mishna “pagoshot” means ‘sling stones’ and “Beit ha-pagoshot” is the case into which they were inserted, see KISTER 1998b, 497, n. 75. 32 As very tentatively suggested by KISTER 1998b, 497, n. 75. 33 Compare with “long cedar, klonseot” (m. Rosh Hash. 2:3), see KRAUSS 1924, 298 [Heb.]. 34 On the vinea see CAMPBELL 2006, 132 35 On the battering ram in the siege of Jerusalem see B.J. 3.213-217, and see the detailed review of LEVITHAN 2013, 72–77.

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defending the third wall. Thus, on the seventh of the month of Iyar, “The Romans mounted the breach, where Nicon had made one, and all the Jews left the guarding that wall, and retreated to the second wall” (B.J. 5.301). This account closely parallels its midrashic counterpart. The shelter protected the qelonas, the wooden pole that served as a battering ram. The mention of the battering ram and the ballistic stones attests to the bold impression that they left in the witnesses’ memory: “they kept firing (projectiles) against the wall until it was breached” [13B].36 The last sentence describes how the Romans placed the head of a swine atop: “He made keshet shel zir [a bow with torsion mechanism = a catapult] and put a pig’s head in it. And they were firing [mafqi’in be-mekhni] with the machine and they kept moving down until (the head) landed on the sacrifices which are on the altar” [13B]. Again, a Roman siege engine is mentioned. The expression keshet shel zir, Kister has shown, is Hebrew term for a Roman artillery piece, possibly the catapult, a device that fired lances and was operated by energy released from the twisting of tendons wound around two axes. The word zir signifies a tightly twisted object, consistent with the action of the catapult.37 The expression mafqi’in bemekhni also comes from Roman siege warfare. The root peh-qof-‘ayin denotes hurling or throwing.38 Mekhni is simply μηχανή, a machine or an engine.39 The use of the general expression mekhni for artillery pieces is common in Josephus, who sometimes notes only μηχάνημα, μηχανή (engine), ἀφετήριοι ὄργανα (“engine for throwing”) (B.J. 3.211, 285), or ἀφετήριοι μηχαναί (3.166).40 For our purposes, there is no need to determine whether the Romans actually did catapult a swine’s head onto the altar. What matters is that the entire account is bracketed in various details of the Roman siege of Jerusalem as it evidently happened.41 36 Careful examination of Josephus’ description reveals that in most cases the breakout of the wall was more complex and the contribution of the ram and the artillery to the campaign was important but not exclusive. The second wall was breached on Iyar 12 (B.J. 5.319318, 329), but the Romans were repulsed (5.342), and the wall was conquered in face to face combat four days after it was breached (5.347). Rams were operated to conquer the fortress of the Antonia at the beginning of Tammuz (6.23-25), but Josephus explicitly states that they were unable to break through the wall (6.26), and the stones were to be uprooted by hands in order to undermine the wall (6.28-27). 37 On the linguistic aspect see KISTER 1998b, 495–96. 38 Compare with ‘organs that were exploding (“pokeim”) over the altar’ (m. Zevah. 9:6) – organs that due to fire were allegedly shot from the altar. Maybe the “person in charge of the “pakia”’ (m. Sheqal. 5:1) was responsible for handling with them? 39 KISTER 1998b, 495. 40 SHATZMAN 2009, 624–38, 636–37 [Heb.] 41 Needless to say, dropping carcasses into the besieged city was a common practice in ancient warfare (MAYOR 2004, 119–23). In addition, any warfare, especially siege warfare, was also accompanied by psychological warfare designed to weaken the spirit

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In sum, SP and YP are also differentiated in the way they relate to the minutiae of the Roman siege as reported by Josephus. YP is patterned after the familiar foundational story.42 It stresses the sage’s vitality, sagacity, and success under the circumstances. Although it takes place at a time of which we know quite a bit, it is hard to corroborate. In contrast, the large majority of details in SP are confirmed by other historical sources. Importantly, my argument here is not that SP is more “correct” than its counterpart, but that it is better anchored in the realia of its era. 3. REMEMBERING THE HURBAN: WHERE RABBIS DIVERGE

THE

PRIESTS AND

The differences between YP and SP inhere in all possible strata of the narrative act. From the formal perspective, YP focuses on the heroes’ thoughts and motives and progresses by means of exchanges of words among them. SP, in contrast, is framed by a continuum of action verbs that describe the historical players’ doings without rhetorical linkages and causal descriptions. The plots also clash at the ideological level in assessing the revolt and determining the attitude toward Vespasian. YP stresses Vespasian’s moderation, his generous surrender offer, his regard for Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai and, pursuant to it, his willingness to help to reestablish the Torah world. Concurrently, it stresses the hopelessness and foolishness of the revolt and even insinuates that the rebels act in contravention of God’s will. SP, in contrast, lauds the rebels’ heroism and their exemplary coping with the famine; conversely, it describes Vespasian as a scoundrel and an evil-doer who failed on the battlefield. Jerusalem is conquered not due to the warriors’ weakness but in the aftermath of a piece of religious mischief that defiled the altar and brought the Temple service to a halt. These differences suffice to broach the possibility that these two plots originate in different social circles, each phrasing its story on the basis of its own literary rules and ideological principles. The last passage in ARN is helpful in identifying the social circles behind each of the plots. YP, as stated, follows the pattern of the foundational story. Narratives of this type come about in the second and third of the opposing party. The Jews’ disgust for the pig was well known in the ancient world, see ROSENBLUM 2010, as well as the holiness the Jews attributed to the temple. So it is not inconceivable that after three months of debilitating siege in the summer heat, some Roman artillery units were sending pig organs towards the temple, see already KISTER 1998b, 506. 42 The definition of Rabban Yohannan b. Zakkai’s story in its various versions as a “foundation story” is very common in the scholarly literature, see especially ZFATMAN 2011, 105–29 and TROPPER 2016, 155.

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generations after the foundational event and are produced by the founders’ offspring and their associates. These elements are indeed found in YP. It is R. Yehoshua and R. Eliezer, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s most eminent students and heads of the rabbinic center at Yavne, who carry their rabbi away and save his life [5A; 5B]. There is no need to thrust them into the plot; furthermore, they “disappear” from it in a somewhat odd way. Their presence, however, is instructive of the circles in which YP was produced: those of students of R. Eliezer and R. Yehoshua. YP, unlike SP, is sparse on concrete details. Befitting a foundational story, it stresses the special characteristics of the founder and his feats and not the precise historical circumstances. The inattention to historical detail also probably reflects the retreat of the events into the past. Still, the story attests to the existence of the dispute that split Jewish society: to rebel or not. Admittedly, the intensity of the debate as Josephus describes it is not manifested here. The rebels’ cruelty toward the pro-surrender forces does not find expression; even Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai addresses the rebels as “my sons.” This somewhat conciliatory tendency may be traced to the time that passed, but an additional factor may be at work. In a highly influential article, Shaye Cohen claims that the rabbis after the destruction were interested in placing the residues of the past behind them so that Judaism and Jewish society in the Land of Israel could be revitalized.43 The placatory tone toward the rebels may be an echo of this intent. Above I described SP as a chronicle. An allusion to the identity of those behind this chronicle may be found in the way the destruction is reported. The rabbinic tradition that persists to this day dates this event to the ninth of Av (m. Ta’an. 4:6), the day the Roman soldiers entered the Temple and began to set it ablaze.44 Prevalent along with this tradition, however, is another one that sets the event on the day the tamid sacrifice was cancelled, Tammuz 17 (B.J. 6.94). In Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum (Book of Biblical Antiquities), evidently composed in the second century CE,45 there is interesting evidence of the importance and centrality of Tammuz 17. This work, which rewrites Scripture from Genesis to the era of Saul, presents an expanded version of the prophecy given to Moses before his death: 43

COHEN 1984, 27–53. Although Josephus sets the day of destruction for Av 10 (B.J. 6.250), it is probably the Jewish tradition of Av 9 that preserved the actual date of the second destruction, see BEN SHAHAR 2015. 45 For a critical edition and a comprehensive introduction see JACOBSON 1996. Jacobson convincingly proves that LAB was composed after the second destruction (I, 204–206). 44

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I will show you a place where they will serve Me (locum, in quo mihi servient) for 740 years.46 Afterwards, it will be placed in the hands of their enemies and they will destroy it and strangers will encircle it. That day, according with the day on which you shattered the Tablets of the Covenant that I prepared for you at Horeb […] is the seventeenth day of the fourth month” (LAB 19.7).

Here the destruction of the Temple – the place where God is served – takes place on Tammuz 17. The prophecy ostensibly pertains to the destruction of the First Temple; this date, however, is meaningless in the context of the events surrounding that destruction.47 It stands to reason that the author of Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, who produced the work decades after the destruction of the Second Temple, considered the cessation of the daily sacrifice on Tammuz 17 as the destruction itself.48 Even though the Temple proper was captured by the Romans and set ablaze three weeks later, on Av 9, it is easy to understand Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum’s perspective. The very crux of the Temple is the sacrificial service. In the eyes of many Jews in the Second Temple era, this service literally sustained the world and established a line that connected heaven to earth. In tractate Avot, a saying is given in the name of Simon the Just, evidently a High Priest who served in the late third century BCE: “The world stands on three things: Torah, the service of God, and acts of kindness” (m. Avot 1:2). The main pillar is the service, i.e., the Temple service.49 SP concurs, directly connecting the cessation of the Temple service with the destruction. After the Romans successfully hurl the swine’s organs onto the altar and defile it, SP concludes by stating “That hour, Jerusalem was captured” [13A].50 The plot does not explain why the desecration of the altar results in the capture of the city, but the underlying theological stance is not hard to conjecture: It is the performance of the sacrifices in due sequence that assures the city’s safety and that of the nation. The 46

Some scholars have suggested that the it should be 850 years, in order to match the time passed from the entry to the Land until the first destruction. JACOBSON 1996, I, 604, corrects the text for 440 years, a plausible approximation for the duration of the First Temple. 47 On Tammuz 17 the daily sacrifice ceased as is evidenced by Josephus (B.J. 6.94) and the rabbinic tradition (m. Ta’an. 4:6), see BEN-SHAHAR 2016, 15–17 [Heb.]. 48 JACOBSON 1996, I, 204. A similar proposal was made by SAFRAI, SAFRAI, and SAFRAI, 2010, 154 [Heb.]. 49 On the ideological and theological significance of the temple in the Second Temple period see KLAWANS 2007, 109–44. 50 These words are found only in ARN-A, and they are a clear end to the siege plot. In ARN-B a well-developed story of Titus’s entry into the sanctuary was added. Certainly significant parts of this story are a late addition as KISTER 1998b, 487, has already written. Apparently, the unique addition to ARN-B begins with the words “they destroy all of Jerusalem.” Due to this addition ARN-B omitted the concluding words found in ARN-A that described the city’s final conquest.

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

217

cessation of this service, irrespective of the reason, snaps the link between heaven and earth and ends God’s watch over and concern for His people and His city. Now we can easily surmise, too, which group adopted such an ideology. Positioning the Temple and, particularly, its service as a constitutive fundament of Jewish national life and well-being was a quintessential interest of the priesthood. Eyal Regev elaborates at length on the Sadducee worldview, which stresses the importance and ritual purity of the Temple.51 This is not the place for expanded discussion of the halakhic issues that surround the ritual purity of the Temple; I settle for one example pursuant to Regev. The gravest defilement is brought about by contact with a corpse, and purity in such a case is restored by sprinkling water in which ashes of a red heifer have been placed. The Sadducees and the Pharisees disagreed about the requisite level of purity of the priest who burns the heifer. According to the Sadducees, the highest level of purity is needed. That is, insofar as the priest sustains any form of mild defilement during the day, he must immerse himself, wait until sunset, and only afterwards burn the heifer. For the Pharisees, in contrast, immersion alone suffices (m. Parah 3:7). Behind the specific dispute, Regev explains, lurks a material one: Can anything less than the highest level of purity suffice? The Pharisees answered in the affirmative; the Sadducees demurred.52 Continuing, Regev shows that the high priests of the late Second Temple era applied the Sadducees’ Temple ideology in diverse ways, inter alia by taking strong and inflexible action toward any group or individual caught offending or deriding this sanctity.53 Importantly, Josephus himself expresses this ideology. At the end of Antiquities, he states that the crime that ultimately brought down the Temple was the Levites’ wish to wear clothing similar to the priestly garb (A.J. 20.216–218). Thus, it was an offense against the orders of the Temple and, particularly, contempt and affront to the priests’ status, that precipitated the destruction, in the opinion of Joseph b. Matityahu the priest! Thus, the chronicle that describes the siege and places the Temple service in its center seems to originate in priestly circles. Josephus does insinuate that the high priests headed the moderate camp, which apparently wished to open a dialogue with the Romans.54 In contrast to the implication 51

REGEV 2005 [Heb.] describes the Sadducees’ ideology. Some of the issues are discussed in REGEV 2006. 52 REGEV 2005, 172–81; REGEV 2006, 130 53 REGEV 2005, 331–47; REGEV 2010. 54 Throughout his book Josephus gives no evidence of the high priests’ attempts to speak to the Romans. On the contrary, Joshua Ben Gamla uttered a vigorous denial (B.J. 4.257251, 269-268). Indeed, Josephus claims that the high priest Hanan would know in time

218

MEIR BEN-SHAHAR

of his remarks, however, there appears to have been a rather sizable group of priests, including members of high priestly families, who supported the uprising. Indeed, the revolt began when Elazar b. Hananya, governor of the Temple and son of the High Priest, ceased to accept sacrifices with which to pay the Emperor (B.J. 2.409). This decision was supported, as Josephus notes, by those doing the divine service, presumably young priests and Levites who worked in the Temple. Although Josephus does not specify the priests’ attitude as a social class toward the revolt, between the lines one may infer that no few of them favored it.55 This support persisted almost to the end of the uprising. Josephus describes several waves of departure from the city during the revolt, of which the last followed the cessation of the tamid sacrifice on Tammuz 17, 70 CE (B.J. 6.94). Among those leaving were former high priests, members of their families, and many others of lofty lineage (B.J. 6.114). Titus received them and sent them to Gophna, his rear base and a detention camp for war prisoners, where they were to wait out the war. Josephus, it is true, claims that all these escapees left the city due to his own reproachful speech, which he describes as of “influence” (B.J. 6.113). It is more probable, however, that if they had remained in the city until then and had not been harmed by the rebels, it is because they were among the supporters of the revolt.56 On Tammuz 17, when the daily sacrifice and the priestly service were terminated, they realized that God was no longer protecting the Temple and that it would be best for them to leave Jerusalem.57 In sum, the many differences between YP and SP originate in the different social circles that produced them. SP is in effect a priestly chronicle, probably written either by one of the priests or by a supporter of the priestly Zealot faction. Its close tethering to the realia of the revolt and the siege, its use of unique expressions such as “keshet shel zir,” and its familiarity with “the Zealots - qa’anaim” as a social group that acted at the time of the uprising suggest that it was created at a time very close to the destruction. The fact that the plot does not fault the rebels and to talk to the Romans and prevent the destruction (4.321-320), but this assessment is not based on any evidence. In his autobiography, Josephus argues that in fact, when the rebellion began, he and the high priests joined the rebellion only for the sake of appearance, so that they could eventually subside the public outrage and dispel the rebellion (Vita 23-20, 29-28). 55 PRICE 1992, 40–43. 56 This is another example of Josephus being misleading when he describes the rebels as social margins who do not enjoy the support of the aristocracy, see BEN-SHAHAR, 2017c, 586–87 [Heb.]. 57 PRICE 1992, 166–67.

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

219

presents Vespasian as a religious scoundrel is unsurprising. The treatment of the burning of the food reserves and its outcome, the famine, may even have been meant to clarify that the Temple did not fall on account of these events. On the contrary, YP, as its own contents indicate, is a foundational story created by second-generation disciples of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai. Its crux is neither the destruction nor the reasons for that event but Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s sagacity and audacity. The side-by-side positioning of these narratives, which contrast one another in ideological conception and literary style, forces us to give thought to the redaction of the cycle of destruction stories and to the redactor who saw fit to present the different recollections of the destruction era. 4. LAMENTATION

AND

MEMORY

The cycle of the destruction stories concludes with the lamentation of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai and his students. Here Versions A and B of ARN differ in many ways; in fact, as the homiletic lamentation progresses, the distance between the versions grows. This indicates, foremost, that this passage was rather flexible and fluid in the early ARN and that those who transmitted ARN felt free to add to and subtract from it. The first section is the most stable: Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was sitting opposite the wall of Jerusalem watching to learn what would happen to it; Scripture speaks of Eli in the same way: “Lo, Eli sitting on a seat, waiting beside the road, watching...” (1 Sam 4:13). When Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai saw the Temple destroyed and the Sanctuary burned, he rose and tore his clothes, removed his tephilin (phylacteries) and sat down to mourn along with his disciples. (15B)

The opening statement describes Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai awaiting the expected destruction of Jerusalem. The imagery used is validated by the likening of this sage to Eli the priest. Eli, too, knew from the time God had spoken to Samuel that his line was to be terminated (1 Sam 3:11–18). When his sons set out for war against the Philistines as the leaders of their nation, bearing the Ark with them, Eli feared that the prophecy was about to come to pass. Therefore, the first sentence of the lament in ARN acknowledges Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s prophecy and anticipates the city’s imminent devastation. The second sentence, describing the destruction of the city and the Temple, is of course based on the end of the siege plot. This passage summarizes and concludes both accounts of the destruction of Jerusalem. It also expresses a slight change in the assessment of the revolt and the heroes of the two preceding plots. The very fact

220

MEIR BEN-SHAHAR

that Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai sits and waits for Jerusalem to fall and then rends his clothing and bemoans the burning of the Temple softens the image of the Jewish sage who left Jerusalem because he opposed the revolt and its protagonists. His lament over the destruction distances him from the image of the amicus caesaris and strengthens his affiliation with the Jewish public at large, which bemoaned the destruction and the failure of the uprising. Eschewing Schadenfreude, Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai does not exploit the actualization of his prediction to reproach the rebels and their supporters; instead, he and his students mourn the loss of the Temple. Such imagery surely did not emanate from the circle of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s students who described his close relationship with Vespasian. On the contrary: the continuation warranted by YP is the building of Yavne even as the Temple goes up in flames. The presence of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai and his students near Jerusalem is an attempt to blur the distance between the sage, who left Jerusalem, and the rebels, who did not. Conversely, the lament refrains from explicitly naming the party at fault for the destruction; it does not blame the rebels but does not exonerate Vespasian either. What matters is the loss as such, irrespective of who caused it.58 Thus, the lamentation passage internalizes both destruction narratives and leads them to their terminus. The encounter of the two plots attenuates the conceptual differences and the ideological gaps between the social groups that created them. Here too, perhaps, is the key to understanding the redaction that produced the cycle of destruction stories in ARN. Active in the Jewish society immediately preceding the destruction were groups that had strong self-awareness and coherent creedal outlooks. It suffices to mention the bounteous literary harvest of the Qumran group. Presumably the priests, the Pharisees, and other groups also worked to formulate and express their beliefs and outlooks.59 It stands to reason that just 58 The comparison with Eli’s story may suggest that the editor blames the destruction on the socio-moral sins that preceded the destruction. Social injustices on the part of the families of the high priests were mentioned by Josephus (A.J. 20.181-179, 205207, 213-214) and the Rabbis, see FISCH 2017 [Heb.]. Indeed, nowhere in rabbinic literature is there explicit claim that the high priests’ social injustices brought the destruction. However, it is worth noting that below in ARN-B the lament is told a story about priests who committed suicide while the temple was burning then calling: “We were not loyal treasurers...” This self-blame may be an echo of the accusations against the high priests. 59 The existence of such literature can only be conjectured considering the existence of many texts composed by relatively marginalized groups, such as the group sitting in Qumran. One of the conclusions that comes from examining the comparison of Josephus and the rabbinic parallels is that there was indeed literary activity by priests and Pharisees,

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

221

as Josephus and Justus felt it necessary to recount the destruction, so did other Jews in different social circles. It is also probable that the disagreements among the groups, especially between the opponents and proponents of the revolt, persisted in the generations immediately following the destruction. These points and counterpoints are strongly reflected in the attitudes toward the uprising and toward Vespasian in SP and YP. Admittedly, no manifestation of this dispute seems to have survived in the tannaitic literature. On the contrary: as noted, this literature hardly mentions the destruction, let alone its precipitants. Here it is worth returning to Shaye Cohen’s remarks about Yavne and its sages. Cohen claims that a decision was made in Yavne to put aside the sectarian disagreements that had fragmented Jewish society and produce a “grand coalition” in order to make the revitalization of Jewish life possible. If this was indeed the postdestruction trend of thought in Jewish society, one may easily understand why the tannaitic literature skirts the topic of the destruction.60 Still, as stated above, the diverse groups definitely produced cycles of recollections of those days and passed them on to their affiliates. The redactor of the early ARN plied his craft some 200 years after the destruction, by which time the disputes had run out of steam. From this temporal distance, it became possible to go back and take up the matter of the destruction again. However, when the redactor of ARN came upon the topic, he did not find an agreed-upon canonical narrative because no such narrative existed. Instead, he found collections of stories that reflected the various groups’ memories. Two of the most literate groups in Jewish society on the eve of the destruction were the priests, who also had a distinct class consciousness, and the Pharisaic sages. There is no way to know whether these are the only sets of recollections that found their way to the redactor or whether he chose them among others. Either way, he placed them side-by-side. I tend to hypothesize that the story of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s departure originally did not include the opening sentence about Vespasian’s arrival, instead focusing on the confrontation with the rebels and the sage’s rescue. The redactor of ARN chose, for understandable chronological reasons, to position Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s exit before the account of the destruction itself. To set YP see the intrusive remarks of NOAM 2017 [Heb.]. Her conclusions are based on a comprehensive project that examined all historical stories of the Second Temple period, which are found both in Josephus and rabbinic literature, see ILAN and NOAM with BEN-SHAHAR, BARATZ and FISCH 2017 [Heb.]. 60 See above near n. 43. Elsewhere, Cohen is debating about the silence of the tannaitic literature on the destruction, implying that the rabbis preferred to concentrate on restoring Judaism over dealing with the past, see COHEN 1982, 18–19.

222

MEIR BEN-SHAHAR

within a clear historical context, however, he had to mention the advent of Vespasian. To do so, he doubled the opening sentence of SP, thus producing the double introduction. The very juxtaposition of the stories makes a statement of principle: Both groups are legitimate, and their memories deserve to be mentioned and told. In this way, the redactor took a first step toward reconciliation and peace-making between the rival narratives. The second step occurred in Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s lamentation. Now Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai, like Jeremiah in his own time, is not only a prophet of rage and destruction, but also a deliverer of lament and consolation to the nation after the destruction of its temple.61 5. CONCLUSION The destruction of the Second Temple was the greatest of disasters for the Jews who experienced it. The loss of this centuries-old structure occurred in connection with a cruel civil war that left its imprints on Jewish and non-Jewish authors alike. Consequently, various Jewish groups must have told themselves different stories about it and shaped diverse recollections about its sequence of events and causes. In this article, I attempted to trace these memories by studying the cycle of destruction stories in Avot de-Rabbi Nathan. Undoubtedly, the attempt to raise ancient memories from a later work, especially a problematic one such as ARN, poses many challenges. Much caution is needed when one deals with the early strata of this work. Conversely, one should be wary of the common tendency to focus on the redacted stratum only. Finally, we should assume that different redactors of ancient works worked in different ways. Some probably regarded the ancient stories and sayings as non-obligatory grist – as an infrastructure – for the creation of their own stories. They must have deleted, added, and revised the original contents in accordance with their culture and values, treating them indeed “like clay in the potter’s hands,” as Amram Tropper maintains.62 Other redactors, however, must have taken a more refined and less intervening approach.63 The literary, linguistic, and narrative differences between the siege plot and 61

Many scholars remarked on the linkage between the images of Jeremiah and Rabban Yohannan b. Zakkai see for example TROPPER 2005, 143–49. 62 TROPPER 2011. 63 A good example of this is the story of the rift of Alexander Jannaeus with the Pharisees (b. Qidd. 66a). In this story, the Babylonian Talmud retained the original wording of the Pharisee story, which was created in the midst of the days of the Second Temple period, as showed NOAM 2014.

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

223

the Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai plot show that the redactor of ARN was not inclined to meddle with the stories before him and did not impose his beliefs, values, and language on them. Therefore we are able to trace the memories, and not necessarily the historical truth, back to the period proximate to the destruction. YP is the product of the second generation of students of Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai. Its gist is the account of the sage’s departure from Jerusalem and the establishment of a new center. The story, however, does not settle for this alone. Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s trenchant confrontation with the rebels and the narrator’s willingness to call him an amicus caesaris clearly echo the intra-Jewish standoffs between the proponents of the revolt and its opponents. As stated above, tannaitic literature refrained from dealing with the destruction, perhaps in order to avoid a confrontation with the accusations and counter-accusations. This story may have preserved something of the remembrance that the rabbis, or some of them, chose to recount in their internal circles. Contrastingly, the siege plot is evidently based on a priestly chronicle that was produced shortly after the destruction. In this chronicle, the fault-finding exhibited by Josephus and probably shared by others – that the fratricidal war and the torching of the food reserves caused famine and brought on the destruction – is rejected. For them, the only culprit is Vespasian’s act of desecration. The redactor of Avot de-Rabbi Nathan did not favor either of the versions; instead, he laid them side-by-side in reasonable chronological order. By making them appear to be part of one story, he attenuated their contrasts. I am almost inclined to say that this was his goal. Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai’s lamentation, which concludes the cycle of the destruction stories, again positions Rabban Yohanan b. Zakkai next to Jerusalem. When the Temple is destroyed, he neither condemns the rebels nor praises Vespasian and his actions; instead, together with his students, bemoans the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. Thus, the redactor of ARN bridges the gulf between the rivaling memories and the contrasting narratives one last time.

3

2

1

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955

Now, when Vespasian came and encircled Jerusalem, he took up a position against the wall of Jerusalem and said to the citizens of Jerusalem: “Send me one bow and arrow and I will leave you in peace.” He said this to them once and then a second and a third time, but they did not accept.

When Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai heard this, he sent for the men of Jerusalem and said to them:

They said to him: “Even as we went forth against the first two who were here before thee and slew them, so shall we go forth against you and slay you.”

Now, when Vespasian came to destroy Jerusalem he said to the inhabitants: “Fools, why do you seek to destroy this city and why do you seek to burn the Temple? For what do I ask of you but that you send me one bow or one arrow, and I shall go off from you?”

The Escape of Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975

‫ א]מר ל[הם רבן יוחנן‬Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai :‫ בן זכיי‬said to the men of Jerusalem: ‫“ גורמים אתן לעיר הזאת‬You will be the cause of this city

‫וכשבא א]ספסי[נוס‬ ‫והי]ק[יף על ירושלם‬ ‫שרה כנגד חומת‬ .‫ירושלם‬ :‫אמר לאנשי י]רוש[לם‬ ‫צאו שיברו ממני קשת‬ ‫אחד וחיץ אחד ואלך לי‬ ‫ ]אמר[ להם‬.‫מעליכם‬ ‫פע]ם[ ראשונה ושנייה‬ ‫ושלישית ולא קיבלו‬ .‫עליהם‬

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

APPENDIX: THE DESTRUCTION STORIES IN ARN

,‫כיון ששמע רבן יוחנן בן זכאי‬ .‫שלח וקרא לאנשי ירושלם‬ :‫ואמ׳ להם‬

‫ כשם שיצאנו על‬:‫אמרו לו‬ ‫ כך‬,‫שנים שבפניך והרגנום‬ .‫נצא לפניך ונהרגך‬

‫וכשבא אספסינוס להחריב‬ :‫את ירושלם אמר להם‬ ‫ מפני מה אתם‬,‫שוטים‬ ‫מבקשים להחריב את העיר‬ ‫הזאת ואתם מבקשים לשרוף‬ ‫את בית המקדש? וכי מה אני‬ ‫ אלא תשגרו לי‬,‫מבקש מכם‬ ‫קשת אחת או חץ אחת ואלך‬ .‫מכם‬

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

224 MEIR BEN-SHAHAR

When Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai saw that the people were not willing to listen to him, he said to his disciples: “Comrades, get me out of here at once. I know this city is going to be destroyed and this house is going to burn.” What did they do? They put him in a wooden coffin. Rabbi Eliezer took the head

5 ‫וכיוון שראה רבן יוחנן בן‬ ,‫זכיי שלא רצו לשמוע לו‬ ,‫ חבירינו‬:‫אמר לתלמידיו‬ ,‫עמדו והוציאנו מיכן‬ ‫שאני יודיע שסוף העיר‬ ‫הזאת לחרב והבית הזה‬ ?‫ מה עשו‬.‫שישרף‬ ‫נתנו אותו בארון‬ ‫ונטל רבי אליעזר בראשו‬

[?σκουλκάτωρ=] ‫היו קטולין‬ ‫לאספסינוס שרויין נגד‬ ‫ וכל‬,‫חומותיה של ירושלים‬ ‫דבר ודבר שהיו שומעין היו‬ ‫כותבי׳ על החץ וזורקין חץ‬ ‫ שרבן יוחנן בן‬:‫ לומר‬,‫לחומה‬ .‫זכאי מאוהבי קיסר הם‬

‫ מפני מה אתם‬,‫בניי‬ ‫מחריבין את העיר הזאת‬ ‫ואתם מבקשים לשרוף את‬ ‫בית המק]דש[? הא אינו‬ ‫מבקש מכם אלא קשת אחת‬ .‫או חץ אחת וילך לו משם‬ ‫ כשם שיצאנו על‬:‫אמרו לו‬ ‫ כך‬,‫שנים שבפניו והרגנום‬ .‫נצא עליו ונהרגנו‬

Now, after Rabban Yohanan ben ‫וכיון שאמ׳ רבן יוחנן בן זכאי‬ Zakkai had spoken to them one day, ‫יום אחד ושנים ושלשה ולא‬ two and three days, and they still ,‫קבלו ממנו‬ would not attend to him, he sent ‫ לר׳‬,‫שלח וקרא להם לתלמידיו‬ :‫ אמ׳ להם‬.‫אליעזר ור׳ יהושע‬ and called for his disciples, for .‫ עמדו והוציאוני מכאן‬,‫בניי‬ Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Joshua. .‫עשו לי ארון ואישן בתוכו‬ “My sons,” he said to them, “arise ‫ר׳ אליעזר אחז בראשו ור׳‬ and take me out of here. Make a ‫יהושע אחז ברגליו והיו‬ coffin for me that I might lie in it.”

Vespasian had spies stationed inside the walls of Jerusalem. Every word which they overheard they would write down, attach (the message) to an arrow, and shoot it over the wall, saying that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was one of the Emperor’s friends.

Everything that Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai said to them, they pious people [=Roman agents] wrote into documents; these they attached to arrows and shot outside the wall, reporting: “Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai is a friend of the emperor.”

‫על כל דבר ודבר‬ ‫שהיה רבן יוחנן בן זכיי‬ ,‫אמר להם‬ ‫היו שם חסידים כשירים‬ ‫והיו כותבים אותם‬ ‫בשט]רים[ וכורכים‬ ‫אותם בחוצים וזורקין‬ ‫אותן חוץ לחומה‬ ‫ רבן יוחנן בן‬:‫ואומרין‬ .‫זכיי אוהבו שלמלך‬

4

“My children, why do you destroy this city and why do you seek to burn the Temple? For what is it that he asks of you? Verily he asks naught of you save one bow or one arrow, and he will go off from there.” They said to him: “Even as we went forth against the two before him and slew them, so shall we go forth against him and slay him.”

‫ שתחרב ולבית ]הזה‬being destroyed and this Temple .‫ ש[ישרף‬being burned.” They said to him: “As we sallied forth against the ‫ כשם שיצאנו‬:‫ אמרו לו‬previous commanders and ‫ על השרים הראשנים‬slaughtered them, so will we sally ‫ כך נצא על זה‬,‫ והרגנום‬forth against this one and kill .‫ ונהרגנו‬him.” MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

225

6

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975

and Rabbi Joshua the foot. They kept making their way until they reached the city’s gateway. When they reached the city’s gateway, they said (to the guards): “Open up for us at once so that we can go out and bury him.” (The gate keepers) said to them: “We will not open (the gate) without first stabbing the body with a sword.” The disciples replied: “You will be responsible for the spreading of an evil report about your city; tomorrow people will say: They even stabbed their Rabban [=Master].” Finally the guards got up and opened the gates for them.

As soon as Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai got outside the gate of the city, he went and greeted Vespasian the way a sovereign is greeted. He said to him: “Ave domine imperator [=Long live (my) lord, the emperor]”

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

‫ורבי יהושע ברגליו והיו‬ ‫ממשמשים והולכים עד‬ ‫שהיגיעו לפיתחה‬ ‫ וכיוון שהיגיעו‬.‫שלמדינה‬ ,‫לפיתחה שלמ]די[נה‬ ‫ עמדו ופיתחו‬:‫אמרו להן‬ .‫לנו כדי שנצא ונקברנו‬ ‫ לא עד שנידקרנו‬:‫אמרו‬ :‫ אמרו להם‬.‫תחילה‬ ‫מבקשים אתן שתוציאו‬ ?‫שם רע על מדינתכם‬ ‫ אף‬:‫למחר יהו אומרין‬ .‫את רבן דקרו‬ .‫ובסוף עמדו ופתחו להם‬

‫כיוון שיצא רבן יוחנן‬ ‫בן זכיי חוץ מפיתחה‬ ‫ הלך ושאל‬,‫שלמדינה‬ ,‫בשלומו שלאספסינוס‬ ‫כדרך ששאלים‬ .‫בשלום המלכות‬

Rabbi Eliezer took hold of the head end of it, Rabbi Joshua took hold of the foot; and they began carrying him as the sunset, until they reached the gates of Jerusalem. “Who is this?” the gatekeepers demanded. “It’s a dead man,” they replied. “Do you not know that the dead may not be held overnight in Jerusalem?” “If it’s a dead man,” the gatekeepers said to them, “take him out.” So they took him out and continued carrying him as the sunset, until they reached Vespasian. They opened the coffin and Rabban Yohanan Ben Zakkai stood up before him.

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955 ‫מוליכין אותו עד שקיעת‬ ‫ כיון שהגיעו אצל‬.‫החמה‬ ‫שערי ירושלם אמרו להם‬ ‫ מי הוא זה? אמרו‬:‫השוערים‬ ‫ וכי אין אתם‬.‫ מת הוא‬:‫להם‬ ‫יודעי׳ שאין מלינין את המת‬ ?‫בירושלם‬ ‫ אם מת הוא‬:‫אמרו להן‬ .‫ והוציאוהו‬,‫הוציאוהו‬ ‫והיו מוליכין אותו עם‬ ‫שקיעת החמה עד שהגיעו‬ ‫ פתחו‬.‫אצל אספסינוס‬ .‫הארון ועמד לפניו‬

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

226 MEIR BEN SHAHAR

7

Vespasian asked him: “So you are ben Zakkai?” He answered: “Yes.” Vespasian said: “You have killed me.” Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai answered: “Do not be afraid. Our Scripture says that this Temple will be destroyed only by king, as Scripture says: ‘And the Lebanon trees shall fall in their majesty’ (Isa. 10:34).” He [=Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai] was put in the custody of two jailers. In three days letters came [to Vespasian] from Rome, saying: Nero the emperor is dead and the Romans have made you emperor.

He summoned Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and said: “Ask a favor of me.” He [=Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai] replied: “I ask of you Jamnia where I may study Torah and carry out the law of fringes [=Tzitizt], and keep all the other commandments.” He said to him: “Here it is; it’s yours, a gift.”

‫ אוודי דומני‬:‫אמרו לו‬ [Ave domine ‫פיטון‬ imperator=] ‫ אתה הוא בן‬:‫אמרו לו‬ .‫ הין‬:‫זכיי? אמר לו‬ .‫ הרגתני‬:‫א׳ לו‬ .‫ אל תירא‬:‫א׳ לו‬ ?‫ למה‬:‫א׳ לו‬ ‫ כתוב בתורתינו‬:‫א׳ לו‬ ‫שאין הבית הזה חרוב‬ :‫ שנ׳‬,‫אלא ביד מלך‬ ‫׳והלבנון באדיר יפול׳‬ .(‫)ישעיהו י לד‬ ‫מסרו לשני פילקריס‬ .(φυλακτῆρες=) ‫לאחר שלושה ימים באו‬ .‫לו איגרות מירומי‬ [Nero=] ‫ מת רימון‬:‫לו‬ ‫המלך והימליכוך בני‬ .‫רומי תחתיו‬

‫שלח וקרא לרבן יוחנן‬ ‫ שאל לך‬:‫ א׳ לו‬.‫בן זכיי‬ .‫שאילה‬ ‫ שואל אני ממך‬:‫א׳ לו‬ ‫יבנה שאלמד בה תורה‬ ‫ואעשה בה מצות ציצית‬ ‫ואעשה בה שאר כל‬ :‫ א׳ לו‬.‫המצות שבתורה‬ .‫הרי היא נתונה לך מתנה‬

“Art thou Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai?” Vespasian inquired; “tell me, what may I give thee?” Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai replied: “I ask naught of thee, save Jamnia, where I might go and teach my disciples and there establish a prayer and perform all the commandments.” “Go,” Vespasian said to him, “and whatever thou wishest to do, do.”

‫ איני מבקש ממך אלא‬:‫א״ל‬ ‫יבנה שאלך ואשנה בה‬ ‫לתלמידיי ואקבע בה תפילה‬ :‫ א״ל‬.‫ואעשה בה כל מצות‬ ‫לך וכל מה שאתה רוצה‬ .‫לעשות עשה‬

‫ אתה הוא רבן יוחנן‬:‫אמ׳ לו‬ .‫בן זכאי? שאל מה אתן לך‬

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

227

8

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975 Said Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai to him: “By thy leave, may I say something to thee?” “Speak,” Vespasian said to him. Said Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai to him: “Lo, thou art about to be appointed king.” “How dost thou know this?” Vespasian asked. Rabban Yohananen Zakkai replied: “This has been handed down to us, that the Temple will not be surrendered to a commoner, but to a king; as it is said, ‘The thickets of the forest shall be hacked away with iron, And the Lebanon trees shall fall in their majesty’ (Isa. 10:34).” It was said: No more than a day, or two or three days, passed before messenger reached him from his city (announcing) that the emperor was dead and that he had been elected to succeed as king.

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955 ‫ רצוני לומר לפניך‬:‫א"ל‬ .‫ אמור‬:‫ א"ל‬.‫דבר אחד‬ .‫ הרי את עומד במלכות‬:‫א"ל‬ ‫ כך‬:‫מנין אתה יודע? א"ל‬ ‫מסור לנו שאין בית המקדש‬ ‫נמסר ביד הדיוט אלא ביד‬ ‫ ׳ונקף סבכי היער‬:‫מלך שנ׳‬ ‫בברזל והלבנון באדיר יפול׳‬ .(‫)ישעיהו י לד‬ ‫ לא היה יום אחד‬,‫אמרו‬ ‫שנים ושלושה פעמים‬ ‫עד שבא אליו דיולפא‬ [δίπλωμα /διπλοῖ] ‫מרומי שמת קיסר ונמנו‬ .‫עליו לעמוד במלכות‬

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

228 MEIR BEN SHAHAR

Chapter 8 When Vespasian came and encircled Jerusalem, he took up a position against the east side of Jerusalem. All the Sicarii thereupon burned all the provisions that were in Jerusalem; they intended to leave no means of sustenance.

[Chap. 13] It was told of Ben Kalba Sabua’ that he had food enough for three years for each inhabitant of Jerusalem. When the Sicarii rose and burned the storehouses in Jerusalem, they measured all that he had and found food enough for three years for each inhabitant of Jerusalem.

The people of Jerusalem used to boil straw and drink its broth and then go out and fight with the Romans and slaughter them.

‫פרק ח‬ ‫וכשבא אספיסינוס והקיף‬ ‫על ירושלם שרה כנגד‬ [‫מזרח]ה[ ]של ירושלם‬ ‫עמדו הסיקרון וסרפו את‬ ‫כל האוצרות שהיו‬ .‫בירושלם‬ ‫חש]בו[ שלא להשאיר‬ .‫מחייה‬

‫]פרק יג[ אמ׳ עליו על‬ ‫בן כלבא שבוע שהיה‬ ‫לו מזון שלש שנים לכל‬ ‫אחד ואחד שבירושלם‬ ‫וכשעמדו הסקרין שרפו‬ ‫את האוצרות‬ ‫ מדדו כל‬,‫שבירושלם‬ ‫מה שהיה לו ומצאו מזון‬ ‫שלש שנים לכל אחד‬ .‫ואחד בירושלם‬

9

10

11 ‫והיו אנשי ירושלם שולקין‬ ‫תב]ן[ ושותים את מימיו‬ ‫ויוצאין ועושין מלחמה‬ .[‫עמהן והורגי]ן בהם‬

‫]פרק ו[ וכשבא אספסינוס‬ ‫קיסר להחריב את ירושלם‬ ‫בקשו הקנאים לשרוף כל‬ .‫הטוב ההוא באש‬

What did the men of Jerusalem do? ‫מה היו אנשי ירושלם עושין היו‬ They would bring [dung and scratch [?‫מביאין את העגלים ]=גללים‬ them MK] and plaster them over ‫וגודרין ]וגוררין[ אותן בגדרים‬ with clay. ‫ ועוד עשו‬.‫וטח אותם בטיט‬ The men of Jerusalem did yet ‫אנשי ירושלם שולקין את התבן‬ another thing: they would boil ‫ כל אחד ואחד מישראל‬.‫ואוכלין‬ straw and eat it. .‫שרוי נגד חומותיה של ירושלם‬

‫אמ׳ להם כלבא שבוע מפני‬ Kalba Sabua’ said to them: ‫מה אתם מחריבין את העיר‬ “Why are you destroying this city and why do you seek to burn all that ‫הזאת ואתם מבקשים כל‬ wealth in fire? Give me time to go .‫הטוב הזה לשרוף באש‬ and see what I have in the house.” ‫המתינו לי עד שאכנס‬ He went and found that he had food .‫ואראה מה יש לי בתוך הבית‬ for twenty-two years, enough for a ‫ומצא שיש מזון כ״ב שנה‬ feast for each and every one in ‫סעודה לכל אחד ואחד‬ Jerusalem. But they paid no ‫מירושלם ולא השגיחו עליו‬ attention to him.

[Chap. 6] Now when the Emperor Vespasian came to destroy Jerusalem, the Zealots (Ka’anaim) sought to burn all that wealth in fire.

The Siege

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

229

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975

When Vespasian saw that there was no sign of grain in the excrement of the people of Jerusalem, he summoned his forces and said to them: “Come and see men who are starving and thirsty and who go out and fight with you and slaughter you. What if they had sufficient, food and drink!”

They brought him planks of wood and he made them into something like Masbikh/Mesokhek [= shielded= Vinea] and a kind of Qelonas [=pillar = battering ram?].

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

‫כיון שרא]ה א[ספסינוס‬ ‫ציאתן שלבני ירושלם‬ .‫שאין ]בה מין[ די]ג[ן‬ ‫שלח וקרא לכל חיילותיו‬ ‫אמר להם באו וראו בני‬ ‫אדם ]רעבים[ וצמיאים‬ ‫ויוצאים ועושים מלחמה‬ .‫עמכם והור]גי[ם בכם‬ ‫א]ילו[ אכולים ושתויים‬ .‫על אחת כמה וכמה‬

‫הביאו לו נסרין של עץ‬ ‫שעאן ]עשאן[ כמסביך‬ ‫כמין כלונוס עשאו שתי‬ ‫פגושות והיו מזרקין בהן‬ .‫לחומה עד שניפרצה‬

12

13

They brought him a bow of twigs, drawn up against the wall of Jerusalem. They brought him boards of cedar which he set into the bow of twigs, and with these he

‫הביאו לו קשת של זרדים‬ ‫]=זירים[ ותיפא כנגד החומה‬ ‫ הביאו לו נסרים‬.‫של ירושלם‬ ‫של ארז ונתן לתוך קשת של‬ ‫זרדים ]זירים[ והיה מכה בהן‬

‫הציץ בצואתן וראה שאין בהן‬ ‫מין דגן ואמ׳ לחיילות שלו‬ ‫אלו שאינן אוכלי׳ אלא תבן‬ ‫ אלו היו‬,‫כך הורגין בהן‬ ‫אוכלין כל מה שאתם אוכלי׳‬ [‫ושותין על אחת כ]מה[ ו]כמה‬ .‫שהיו הורגין אתכם‬

‫אמ׳ מייתן לי חמש תמרים‬ ‫וארוד ואטול חמשה ראשים‬ ‫ ירד‬.‫נתנו לו חמשה תמרים‬ ‫ונטל חמשה ראשים‬ .‫מאספסינוס‬

And everyone in Israel stationed at the walls of Jerusalem. He said: “someone give me five dates and I will go down and capture five heads!” When given five dates, he would go down and capture five heads of Vespasian’s men. As Vespasian looked at their excrement and saw that there was in it no sign of grain, he said to his troops: “If these who eat nothing but straw kill a number of you in this fashion, how they would kill you if they ate everything you eat and drink!”

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955

230 MEIR BEN SHAHAR

They destroyed all of Jerusalem until they reached the Temple. When they reached the Temple, they said to one another: “Who will be first to enter the Temple.” There was present there a wicked man, Titus, son of Vespasian’s wife, who defiantly entered, confirming what was said: “A wicked man puts on a bold face (Prov. 21:29).” What is more, he drew his sword and slashed the curtain…

‫חרבו את כל ירושלם עד‬ ‫ וכיון‬.‫שהיגעו להיכל‬ ‫ אמרו זה‬...‫שהגיעו להיכל‬ .‫לזה מי יכנס כתחילה‬ ‫ושם היה אדם רשע‬ ‫טיטוס בן אשתו‬ ‫שלאספסנוס והעיז בפניו‬ ‫ונכנס לקים מה שנאמר‬ ‫׳העז איש רשע בפניו‬ ‫ ולא‬.(‫וגמ׳ )משלי כא כט‬ ‫עוד אלא שנטל את הסיף‬ .‫וגידד את הפרכות‬

‫ היה רבן יוחנן בן זכאי‬Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was ‫ יושב ומצפה כנגד חומת‬sitting opposite the wall of ‫ ירושלם לדעת מה יעשה‬Jerusalem watching to learn what

14

15

That hour, Jerusalem was captured

struck against the wall until he made a breach in it. They brought him a swine’s head and set into the bow of twigs, and this he hurled toward the (sacrificial) limbs which were on the altar.

Meanwhile Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai sat and waited trembling, [the way Eli had sat and waited];

Mourning

He made it into two Pagoshot [=catapults] and they kept firing (projectiles) against the wall until it was breached. He made Keshet shel zir [a bow with torsion mechanism = a catapult] and put a pig’s head in it. And they were firing [mafqi’in be-mekhni] with the machine and they kept moving down until (the head) landed on the sacrifices which are on the altar; it made (the alter) unclean.

‫עשה לו קשת שלזיר‬ ‫ונתן בתוכה ראש חזיר‬ ‫והיו מפקיעין במיכני‬ ‫ויורדין עד שעלתה‬ ‫וישבה על האברים שעל‬ .‫גבי המזביח וטימ]א[תו‬

‫והיה רבן יוחנן בן זכאי יושב‬ ‫ומצפה שנ׳ ׳והיה עלי יושב‬ ‫על הכסא יד דרך המצפה כי‬

.‫באותה שעה נלכדה ירושלם‬

‫על החומה עד שפרץ בו‬ ‫ הביאו ראש חזיר‬.‫פרצה‬ ‫ונתנו לתוך קשת של זרדים‬ ‫]זירים[ והיה משליך אותו‬ ‫כלפי אברים שע"ג המזבח‬

MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

231

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975

would happen to it; Scripture speaks of Eli in the same way: “Lo, Eli sitting on a seat, waiting beside the road, watching...” (1 Sam. 4:13). When Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai saw the Temple destroyed and the Sanctuary burned, he rose and tore his clothes, removed his tephilin (phylacteries) and sat down to mourn along with his disciples.

Some say that Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were with them, as Scripture says: “Howl, cypresses…” (Zech. 11:2), this clause refers to Abraham who from the first carried out the commandments; “For cedar has fallen” (ibid) this refers to Zedekiah, the King of Judah. “How the mighty are ravaged” (ibid) this refers to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; “Howl, you oaks of Bashan” (ibid) this refers to the princes of Judah and Benjamin; “For the

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

‫בה כדרך ש)ל(בעלי שנ׳‬ ‫׳והנה עלי יושב על‬ ‫הכסא יד דרך מצפה׳‬ (‫ יב‬,‫)שמואל א ד‬ ‫כיון שראה רבן יוחנן בן‬ ‫זכאי שחרב בית המקדש‬ ‫ונשרף היכל עמד וקרע‬ ‫את בגדיו וחלץ את‬ ‫תפליו והיה יושב ובוכה‬ .‫ותלמידיו עמו‬

16 ‫ויש אומ׳ אף אברהם יצחק‬ ‫ויעקב היו עמהם שנ׳‬ (‫׳הליל ברוש׳ )זכריה יא ב‬ ‫זה אברהם שקיים את‬ ‫ ׳כי נפל‬.‫המצוה מראש‬ ‫ארז׳ )שם( זה צדקיהו מלך‬ ‫ ׳אשר אדירים‬.‫יהודה‬ ‫שודדו׳ )שם( אלו אברהם‬ ‫ ׳הלילו אלוני‬.‫יצחק ויעקב‬ ‫בשן׳ )שם( אלו חורי‬ ‫ ׳כי ירד יער‬.‫יהודה ובנימין‬ ‫הבציר׳ )שם( זה עם‬ .‫ירושלם‬

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

‫היה לבו חרד על ארון‬ as it is said “Lo, Eli sitting on a (‫ יב‬,‫האלהים׳ )שמואל א ד‬ seat, waiting beside the road – his heart trembling for the Ark of God” ‫כיון ששמע רבן יוחנן בן זכאי‬ ‫שהחריב את ירושלם ושרף‬ (l Sam. 4:13). When Rabban ‫את בית המקדש באש קרע‬ Yohanan ben Zakkai heard that ‫בגדיו וקרעו תלמידיו בגדיהם‬ Jerusalem was destroyed and the .‫והיו בוכין וצועקין וסופדין‬ Temple was up in flames, he tore his clothing, and his disciples tore their clothing, and they wept, crying aloud and mourning.

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955

232 MEIR BEN SHAHAR

17

stately forest is laid low” (ibid) this refers to the people of Jerusalem. Another interpretation: “Howl, cypresses…” (Zech. 11:2) this refers to Abraham who obeyed the Torah from the first; “For cedar has fallen” (ibid) this refers to the (high) priest; “How the mighty are ravaged” (ibid), this refers to Isaac and Jacob; “Howl, you oaks of Bashan” (ibid) this refers to the prominent men of Judah and Benjamin; “For the stately forest is laid low” (ibid) this refers to all those exiled from Jerusalem.

Rabbi Hananiah, prefect of the priests, says: “Forty years before the Temple was destroyed and the sanctuary burned, the people of Jerusalem used to lock the doors

‫ויש אומ׳ אף‬ ‫אברהם יצחק ויעקב היו‬ ‫עמהם שנ׳ ׳הליל ברוש׳‬ ‫)זכריה יא ב( זה אברהם‬ .‫שקיים את המצוה מראש‬ ‫׳כי נפל ארז׳ )שם( זה‬ .‫צדקיהו מלך יהודה‬ ‫׳אשר אדירים שודדו׳‬ ‫)שם( אלו אברהם יצחק‬ ‫ ׳הלילו אלוני‬.‫ויעקב‬ ‫בשן׳ )שם( אלו חורי‬ ‫ ׳כי ירד‬.‫יהודה ובנימין‬ ‫יער הבציר׳ )שם( זה‬ .‫עם ירושלם‬ ‫ד״א ׳הלל ברוש׳ )שם( זה‬ ‫אברהם שקיים את‬ ‫ ׳כי נפל‬.‫התורה מראש‬ ‫ ׳אשר‬.‫ארז׳ )שם( זה כהן‬ ‫אדירים שודדו׳ )שם( אלו‬ ‫ ׳הלילו אלוני‬.‫יצחק ויעקב‬ ‫בשן׳ )שם( אלו גדולי‬ ‫ ׳כי ירד‬.‫יהודה ובנימין‬ ‫יער הבציר׳ )שם( זו גלות‬ .‫ירושלם‬

‫ר׳ חנניה סגן הכהנים‬ ‫ קודם לארבעים‬:‫אומ׳‬ ‫שנה עד שלא חרב בית‬ ‫המקדש ונשרף ההיכל‬ ‫היו אנשי ירושלם נועלין‬

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233

19

18

Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the twelve tribes wept, crying aloud and mourning. And it says,

‫אברהם יצחק ויעקב וי״ב‬ ‫שבטים היו בוכין וצועקין‬ ‫וסופדים ואומרי׳ ׳הלל לייו׳‬

‫אלו כהנים גדולי]ם[ שהיו‬ This refers to the high priests who ‫במקדש שהיו מפתיחותיהן‬ were in the Temple, who took their .‫בידן וזורקי׳ כלפי מעלה‬ keys in their hands and threw them ‫ רבונו ש׳ע׳‬:‫ואומ׳ לפני הק׳‬ up to the sky, saying to the Holy One, blessed be He: “Master of the ‫הילך מפתחותיך שמסרת לנו‬ Universe, here are Thy keys which ‫הואיל ולא היינו גזברין נאמני׳‬ ‫לעשות מלאכת המלך ולאכל‬ Thou didst hand over to us, for we have not been trustworthy .‫משולחן המלך‬ custodians to do the King’s work and to eat of the King’s table.”

‫כיון שראו בני כהנים‬ ‫גדולים שחרב בית‬ ‫המקדש ונשרף ההיכל‬ ‫נטלו את המפתחות ועלו‬ ‫לראש הההיכל וזורקים‬ ‫ הא‬:‫ ואמרו‬.‫כלפי מעלה‬ ‫לך את המפתחות‬ ‫שמסרתה לנו שלא היינו‬ ‫אפטרופים נאמנים לאכל‬ ‫ והיו‬.‫מגנזיו של מלך‬ ‫אוחזים זה בזה ונמשכים‬ .‫לתוך האור ונשרפים‬

When the sons of the high priests saw that the Temple was being destroyed and the Sanctuary was being burned, they took the keys and went to the top of the Sanctuary and threw the keys toward heaven, saying: “Look, here are the keys which you gave us, for we were not faithful custodians, (worthy) to eat from the stores of the king.” They held on to another and were drawn into the fire and burned.

(of the Temple) in the evening, and And it says: “Throw open your gates, ‫ואמ׳ ׳פתח לבנון דלתיך ותאכל‬ when they rose early in the morning, O Lebanon, And let fire consume (‫אש בארזיך׳ )זכריה יא א‬ they would find them open, as your cedars!” (Zech. 11:1). Scripture says: ‘Throw open your gates, O Lebanon [And let fire consume your cedars!]’ (Zech. 11:1).”

‫ פרק ד‬,‫אדר"נ נו"א‬ (Oxford, Bod. Opp. 95 [=Neub. 408])

‫הדלתות מבערב‬ ‫ומשכימים ומוצאין אותן‬ ‫ ׳פתח לבנון‬:‫ שנ׳‬,‫פתוחין‬ (‫ א‬,‫דלתיך׳ )זכריה יא‬

ARN A The translation based on: Judah Goldin, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (Version A), New Haven 1955

ARN B The translation based on: Anthony J. Saldarini, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan, Version B, Leiden 1975

‫ פרק ו‬,‫אדר"נ נו"ב‬ (Genizah fragmaents: Oxford, Bod. Heb. d. 45, 70-7 + RNL, Ant. Heb. III B 297)

234 MEIR BEN SHAHAR

“Howl, cypresses, for cedars have fallen! How the mighty are ravaged! Howl, you oaks of Bashan” (Zech. 11: 2) refers to Moses, Aaron and Miriam; “For the stately forest is laid low!” refers to the Temple; “Hark, the wailing of the shepherds, For their rich pastures are ravaged” (Zech. 11: 3) refers to David and Solomon, his son; “Hark, the roaring of the great beasts, For the jungle of the Jordan is ravaged” (ibid.) refers to Elijah and Elisha.

‫ברוש כי נפל ארזאשר‬ ‫אדירים שודד)י(]ו[ הלילו‬ ‫אלוני בשן׳ )זכריה יא ב( זה‬ ‫ ׳כי ירד‬.‫משה אהרן ומרים‬ ‫יער הבציר׳ )שם( זה בית‬ ‫ ׳קול יללת הרועים‬.[‫המק]דש‬ ‫ ג( זה‬,‫כי נפלה אדרתם׳ )שם‬ ‫ ׳קול שאגת‬.‫דוד ושלמה בנו‬ ‫כפירים כי שודד גאון הירדן׳‬ .‫)שם( זה אליהו ואלישע‬ MEMORIES OF THE DESTRUCTION

235

CHAPTER 12

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE JERUSALEM TEMPLE Étienne NODET, O.P. École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem

According to both Josephus and Rabbinic tradition, the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed by fire during the war of 70, and it is usually taken for granted that no worship was ever restored there. Before the blaze, Josephus reports the date when the sacrifices stopped as 17 Panemos (August) 70 “for want of men” (B.J. 6.94). Later, he mentions that, after the triumph of Vespasian and Titus, the Jewish poll tax was taken over by the Romans and paid into the Capitol (B.J. 7.218).1 In support of these views, Rabbinic tradition indicates that the daily sacrifices ceased during the siege of Jerusalem on 17 Tammuz (m. Ta’an. 4:6), and that the half-sheqel poll tax and the offering of first fruits had been suspended, since they are due only if the Temple exists (m. Sheqal. 8:8). So, the public sacrifices’ financing had dried up. But, we may ask, what happened afterward? The purpose of this note is to bring together the sources suggesting that before the Bar Kochba war (132-135) something of the Jerusalem Temple worship was indeed restored. Most of them point to such a conclusion, but the available Rabbinic documents seem to state otherwise.2 The reason of this discrepancy is to be found in another question: To what extent was the Rabbinic organization the direct heir of the Jerusalem situation that prevailed before the 66-73 war? 1. RABBINIC TRADITIONS These traditions, written down after the 2nd century, are well known for their legal disputes and legends, but not for historical accuracy. They claim to represent the sole true Israel, while they lie at a significant distance from the 2nd Temple realities. Some hints about our topic, however, can be collected. For example, a new convert had to offer a dove in sacrifice or put 1 2

On the fiscus iudaicus, see SCHÜRER 1987, III, 122. This is the mainstream view since the essay of FRIEDMANN and GRAETZ 1848.

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE JERUSALEM TEMPLE

237

aside the corresponding amount until the day when the Temple should be restored, but Yohanan b. Zakkai (ca. 1-80), the founder of the Yabneh school in Judea, abolished the obligation to keep this money unused (b. Rosh Hash. 31b). This rite, which completes circumcision and immersion, is the propitiation which opens the way to participating in sacrificial meals, in particular the Passover (t. Sheqal. 3:20).3 So its abrogation is to be understood as the abandonment of hope for a swift restoration of worship and thus suppresses any link, real or virtual, with the Temple.4 Similarly, it is reported that, in the days of the Temple, witnesses of the new moon could break the Sabbath in order to present their testimony, so that the sacrifice of the new month could be made on time (b. Rosh Hash. 21b). After the downfall, Yohanan b. Zakkai had to declare that there were no more sacrifices (as if that was not obvious), and the possibility of breaking the Sabbath was restricted to Nisan and Tishri, since these months begin the liturgical and civil year respectively and contain the principal feasts. There is no reason, however, to suppose that these decisions were taken only in view of the prevailing circumstances. There is no mention of the priestly courses, and the priests that Titus protected by putting them under house arrest at Gophnah during the siege of Jerusalem are ignored (B.J. 6.118).5 Yohanan was opposed to the priests and made no move to prepare for a restoration of the Temple cult.6 His effort was given to a reorganization of Judaism (or at least of his own school), without official cult, conceived not as a continuation of the Temple, but in opposition to it.7 In fact, Yohanan’s heirs, who were a non-priestly group, did not at first keep a very lively memory of the downfall of Jerusalem in 70. Other sources indicate that Yohanan was a Galilean, who taught for 20 years at Arab, a town near Sepphoris (y. Shabb. 16:8, 15d), and 3 Not biblical, but the proselyte is regarded as newly born (see b. Yevam. 48b), which may explain a sacrifice analogous to that prescribed for the firstborn (Lev 12:1-8). 4 Whence a rite of substitution, expounded in b. Yevam. 47a-b. 5 See TRIFON 1989. AVI-YONAH 1964, 24-28, shows that ‫מסרבי מרום‬, “refusing the Most High,” added to the name of Yehoyarib on priestly lists uncovered in the country, is very negative. Now, this was the course of Mattathias, father of Judas Maccabee; Judas and his brothers are unknown to Rabbinic tradition, even in the foundation story of Hanukkah (b. Shabb. 21b). 6 See GUTTMAN 1967, who insists, with support of sources, on the opposition of Yohanan to war against the Romans, also to the Sadducees, the priests and the Temple worship. 7 According to ARN A 4, Yohanan declared that there is a mode of expiation which is just as effective as the cult, to wit, charity, but that is actually a way of bypassing the Temple, for this precept already existed well before the destruction, cf. m. Avot 1:2, which attributes it to Simon the Righteous.

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ÉTIENNE NODET

that he was a disciple of Hillel the Elder (m. Avot 2:8), who came from Babylonia to the colony of Bathyra,8 founded by Herod the Great in the Golan heights (A.J. 17.23-31; most likely the modern Katzrin). There are good reasons to believe that Yohanan was settled at Yabneh in 68 by Vespasian, who after his victories in Galilee came to Judea, bringing along “a sufficient number of Jews who had rallied to him” (B.J. 4.444).9 Further, a curious Christian legend tells how, still in Galilee, his father (Zakkai-Zacchaeus) had to bow before the knowledge of the child Jesus (Gospel of Thomas §6-8); such a fact is somewhat unlikely, but chronologically not impossible.10 Some traditions state that by the time of the war Yohanan was the head of the Jerusalem Sanhedrin. A story tells us that he gave himself up to Vespasian, foretold in Latin that he would become emperor, and obtained permission to settle at Yabneh with some other teachers. Another account tells how, having tried in vain in Jerusalem under siege to persuade his fellow citizens to give up a hopeless war, he fled the city hidden in a coffin in order to give himself up to Vespasian and obtain concessions.11 However, Vespasian never reached Jerusalem, and these stories are loose reworkings of a passage of Josephus, in which he foretold Vespasian, after being captured at Iotapata, that he would become emperor (B.J. 3.141). Moreover, Josephus, who never fails to allude to anyone of social consequence, mentions neither Yohanan nor Hillel, whereas he knows of some prominent Pharisees of the list of the Fathers (m. Avot 1-2), such as Shemaya, Abtalion or Simon b. Gamaliel. There is a tradition of migrations of the Sanhedrin after the downfall of Jerusalem: Yabneh, Usha, Shefar‘am, Beth-She‘arim, Sepphoris, Tiberias (Gen. Rab. 97).12 After Yabneh, all the places are in Galilea, a kind of return back home, and the last stage was the city from which the Mishna 8 See y. Pesah. 6:1, 33a. Two other versions are given at t. Pesah. 4:13-14 and b. Pesah. 66a; according to them, Hillel’s arrival takes place at Jerusalem, before the whole people, but the high priest and Sanhedrin are not mentioned, which is not realistic, see below. 9 See NEUSNER 1970, 152–56. 10 This legend went around, as it is known to Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 1.20.1. There are also some features in common between Jesus’ parables (of the kingdom) and those of Yohanan b. Zakkai, cf. Matt 22:1-14 and b. Shabb. 153a. 11 See ARN A, §4; these accounts have been transmitted in several versions, presented with commentary by NEUSNER 1970, 152–56. 12 There is a longer version of this list in b. Rosh Hash. 31a-b, which gives two stages in Jerusalem and a doublet “Yabneh, Usha, Yabneh, Usha”. This repetition is not simply an accident in copying, for the context requires ten stages. It is evidence of a long-standing hesitation about the center of moral authority: there was a school at Usha, where Judah b. Ilai studied with his father (b. Menah. 18a).

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE JERUSALEM TEMPLE

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was published at the beginning of the 3rd century, so that the list skips over the Bar Kochba war (132-135).13 Since there is no high priest, this body cannot have been the heir of the Sanhedrin that was extant before the war; it only was the highest Rabbinic authority.14 A pillar of Rabbinic Judaism is the “Oral Torah”, which is supposed to stem from Moses (m. Avot 1:1). This indicates that it does not derive from Scripture (the “Written Torah”), which was the typical Pharisean view, rooted in Babylonia and developed in Galilee. Later on, the Rabbis strove in various ways to unite these two Torahs into one teaching, by putting the Oral Torah as a commentary of the written one, with the help of sophisticated hermeneutic rules. The result was the Midreshei Halakha. Another pillar of this Judaism was a connection with the Essenes, who were not very fond of the Temple, to say the least, and pretended to be the true Covenant. It has been shown that it contains a deep layer that is identical to the culture of the Qumran Manual of Discipline (1QS), that is, the brotherhoods of haberim, which were opposed to the “people of the land.”15 Other features may be adduced: the most significant is the “Blessing of the Sun”, to be recited every 28 years on a Wednesday at dawn and facing East, as a memorial of the creation of the sun and moon. That day is supposed to have a full moon, and to occur at the vernal equinox. The “28 years” rhythm is the shortest time span that allows the natural Julian year of 365.25 days to correspond with the Essene (or Jubilees) year of 364 days by adding an integer number of weeks.16 This device does not match the Babylonian lunar calendar, which has been used for all the Jewish feasts. Another saying indicates a closeness to the Essenes (m. Hag. 2:2): “Hillel and Menahem were in agreement. Menahem left, Shammai arrived,” and they disagreed.17 This Menahem was an Essene of the time of Herod, 13 Some letters of Bar Kochba (Shimon Ben Kosba) and his party have been found at the Murabba‘at caves in the Judean wilderness; he is styled “Patriarch” (‫)נשיא‬, like the head of the Rabbinic Sanhedrin, but there is no allusion to any Rabbi. Among other things, Bar Kochba urges some people not to harm the “Galileans”, see BENOIT, MILIK, DE VAUX 1961, 44. 14 See among others MANTEL 1965, 54–101, who strives to show a continuity, but he nevertheless underlines the gap. HERR 2010 is more cautious, for he recognizes that the only sources available are Rabbinic, with their poor historical accuracy. 15 See LIEBERMAN 1952. Unfortunately, this essay is seldom cited. 16 The Julian year (Shmuel’s year in Rabbinic sources) is somewhat too long, so that the last occurrence of the Blessing was on Wednesday April 8th, 2009, that is, with an error of ca. 17 days; see NODET 2010. 17 The controversy, which is deemed to be of old, is reduced to a single word (‫)לסמוך‬, “to lean on” vs. “not to lean on”, where the verb means “to find a Scriptural basis for an oral tradition.” See ZEITLIN 1917, who links the term with a previous passage (m. Hag. 1:8).

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ÉTIENNE NODET

to whom he foretold the future even before he became king (A.J. 15.373375).18 We may add that the very title of “Rabbi,” which only appears after Hillel and is used in the Gospels for Jesus and John the Baptist, is of Essene origin.19 These remarks show that Hillel and his heirs where not very much interested in the actual Temple worship, although many traditions were collected later on in the Rabbinic sources. However, some allusions have been kept. The most conspicuous is at m. Ta’an. 4:6: ,‫ ובשנייה‬,‫ וחרב הבית בראשונה‬,‫נגזר על אבותינו שלא ייכנסו לארץ‬--‫בתשעה באב‬ .‫ ונחרשה העיר‬,(‫ונלכדה בתר )בית תור‬ On the ninth of Ab (5th month), it was decreed that our fathers should not enter the Land, the Temple was destroyed the first and second times, Bethar was captured and the city [of Jerusalem] was plowed through.20

This list is a kind of synthesis of painful events, concentrated on one date: the first is God’s undated decision to let the sons of Israel die in the wilderness (see Num 14:30); the last two refer to Hadrian’s founding of Colonia Ælia Capitolina upon Jerusalem in 132, hence Bar Kochba’s uprising and the final disaster of Bethar.21 As for the two Temple destructions, the datings are somewhat unsure: for the first, Jer 52:12 has “the 10th of the 5th month, and 2 Kgs 25:8 “the 7th of the 5th month.” In his Biblical paraphrase, written later than the War, Josephus inadvertently puts “the new moon (1st) of the 5th month” (A.J. 10.146). As for the second ruin, the latter’s story is not very clear: according to B.J. 6.234-250, the porticoes and gates of the Temple were set ablaze, and the fire prevailed on that day and the following night. On the following day, Titus gave orders to extinguish the fire, and gathered a council of his generals. He said that he wanted to spare the beautiful building, but the Jews again attacked the Romans, and Titus determined on the following day to invade the Temple.22 Then Josephus concludes, without further details: “In the revolution of the years had arrived the fated day, the 10th of the month Loos (August), the day on which of old it had been burnt by the king of Babylon.” Josephus, who in the sequel repeats the same 18

See LIEBERMAN 1942, 180–87. There was a lengthy discussion about whom borrowed from whom, but a breakthrough was provided by CARMIGNAC 1971. Some disagree, e.g. MORAG 2000, 178–92. 20 The Biblical reference is the fast of the 5th month (Zech 8:19). 21 See SCHÜRER 1987, I, 535–52. 22 According to Tacitus in a lost passage that has been quoted by Sulpicius Severus, Chronica 2.30.7, Titus wanted to destroy the Temple “in order that the religion of the Jews and Christians should be more completely exterminated.” 19

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE JERUSALEM TEMPLE

241

account with slight differences (6.266-269), wanted the two disasters to have happened on the same date, but he navigates between the Roman (Julian) and lunar calendars, so that we do not know how 10 Loos became 9 Ab; in any case, the connection with Scripture is loose. The common denominator of the five events was the impossibility at specific times any longer to reach Canaan or Jerusalem, but nothing is said about what happened between them or thereafter. As a matter of fact, Yehoshua, a Levite disciple of Yohanan b. Zakkai, is reported at the end of the 1st century as wanting still to permit the sacrifices and the consumption of the most holy foods, even if there were no longer an altar or curtains, since the holiness of the place is permanent since Solomon (m. Ed. 8:6). At b. Ned. 23a we hear of pilgrimages after the downfall and before the Bar Kochba war. It is clear that the “place” can survive the Temple installations, as the persistence of the Samaritan customs demonstrates. On the most basic level, for sacrifices only an altar of unhewn stones is necessary, and it can be erected quickly and inexpensively, as at the time of Zerubbabel (Ezra 3:2-3) or Judas Maccabee (1 Macc 4:47).23 More intriguing is another portion of the same m. Ta’an. 4:6, which refers to the previous month: ‫ והעמיד צלם בהיכל‬,‫ ושרף אפוסטמוס את התורה‬...‫בשבעה עשר בתמיז‬ On 17 Tammuz… Apostomos burned the Torah and placed an idol in the Temple.

The character “Apostomos” and his deeds have not been clearly identified. For the first episode, Josephus reports something similar, which may be the source (as suggested by y. Ta’an. 4:6, 68c): by the time of Cumanus’ procuratorship (48-52), a Roman soldier seized in a town a copy of the laws of Moses and, with abusive and mocking language, tore it apart and burned it in public (B.J. 2.229). As for the idol, b. Ta’an. 28b opines that it was the “abomination of desolation” mentioned at Dan 12:11 (‫שקוץ‬ ‫)שמם‬, so that Apostomos would be Antiochus IV Epiphanes, the Syrian 23 This question is distinct from that of possible dissident sanctuaries. According to m. Meg.1:11, the holiness of Jerusalem is indelible, as also its monopoly of the cult, but a dissident opinion denies that the holiness of Jerusalem survived its downfall, and states that sacrifices then took place in the temple of Onias (b. Meg. 10a). The prophecy of Isa 19:21 announced that “in those days, Egypt will know Yhwh; there will be sacrifices and offerings; vows will be made and fulfilled.” Commenting implicitly on this passage, m. Menah. 13:10 declares that vows and sacrifices can be fulfilled in the Onias temple, but that the priests who officiated there will no longer be able to serve in Jerusalem. It was destroyed by Vespasian some years after 70 (B.J. 7.421),

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ÉTIENNE NODET

king who did set up an idol in the Temple in -167 (1 Macc 1:54). However, the name and phrase are really different, and the identification is quite unwarranted. We shall see that Apostomos may indeed be a veiled allusion to emperor Hadrian, who actually did something very similar (§IV below).24 To sum up, the overall suggestion, not proof, conveyed by Rabbinic traditions is that Temple activity never resumed after 70, but it appears that their origins were far removed from the priestly milieus. Moreover, Greek-speaking Judaism was plainly discarded, as a 2nd century baraita shows (quoted b. Menah. 110a): “West of Tyre, they neither know Israel, nor their Father in heaven.” 2. JOSEPHUS In his War of the Jews, Josephus reported at length the circumstances and events of the 66-73 fighting, including the blaze of the Temple, but he interrupts the parallel account in his Antiquities with the exactions of Florus in 66. He concludes (A.J. 20.257): “It was Florus who constrained us to take up war with the Romans.”25 He does not mention there the misdeeds of the zealots and is content to refer to his previous Jewish War for more details. In his Life, he gives a new account of the six months he spent in Galilee until Vespasian’s arrival, with a very brief allusion to his capture: “After the siege of Iotapata I was in the hands of the Romans” (Vita 414). As for the downfall of Jerusalem, he just gives a short summary: “When Titus had quelled the disturbances in Judea… he gave me a parcel of ground in the plain” (Vita 422). In other words, when he wrote the Antiquities and Life, around 93/94, the ruin of Jerusalem was just past history, and the fate of the Temple was not in his radar any more. Well after 70, Josephus speaks of the laws concerning the marriage of priests, which require a study of genealogies in order to avoid any mismatch (C. Ap. 1:31). He explains that a copy of all documents concerning personal priestly status drawn up in the Diaspora are sent to the archives at Jerusalem, which have been restored after each war (i.e. the wars of Antiochus, Pompey, Varus, and recently, that is to say after the 66-73 war). So, this administration was functioning at the time he was writing, very 24 There are good reasons to surmise that shortly after the foundation of Ælia Capitolina an official equestrian statue of Hadrian was erected on the spot of the previous Holy of Holies, see CABARET 2020, 260–88. 25 So Tacitus, Hist. 5.10.1: “Still the Jews’ patience lasted until Gessius Florus became procurator: in his time, war began.”

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probably still during the reign of Domitian. Again, when Josephus describes the organization of the cult, he writes systematically in the present tense (A.J. 3.224-258). In C. Ap. 2.193-198, he recalls, still in the present, that there is one sole Temple for one sole God, and that the priests are constantly occupied in its service, and he even mentions the daily sacrifices offered by the Jews for the emperors and the Roman people (2:77).26 In this perspective, the reservation of priests at Gophnah by Titus, to prepare, just in case, for a future worship under Roman control, can be understood as a wise measure.27 Further, it is significant that, contrary to other glorious generals who received an agnomen alluding to their victories (e.g. Africanus, Gallus, Germanicus…), Vespasian and Titus were never called Iudaicus,28 which means that in spite of their victory over Judea and the following triumph, there was no question of a victory over all the Diaspora Jews. In fact, the Romans were somewhat lenient after the capture of Masada in 73. Besides the fiscus iudaicus, no hindrances were put in the way of the Jews exercising their religious customs in Judea or elsewhere. The Tenth Legion stayed at Jerusalem, but it was withdrawn in the time of Trajan to engage in the Parthian war. Later, in order to quell the Bar Kochba uprising, the Romans had to assign the best generals, with at least four legions as well as auxiliaries, which indicates that there were many Jews in Judea and the neighborhoods, but the Rabbinic circles, a minority, stayed outside.29 It is also worth noting that Josephus, although he claims to be an eyewitness, begins his account of the War with the Maccabean crisis, more than two centuries earlier: it was a forced cessation of the cult (the daily 26 According to Philo, Leg. 157, these sacrifices had been instituted by Caesar at his own expense, but a change of custom after 70 is likely, since the poll tax was confiscated, which implies the Roman authority’s control of the cult as of the rest of the administration. Previously, the half-sheqel served also for maintenance of the city, aqueducts, etc., cf. m. Sheqal. 4:2 and ALON 1984, I:46–50. Until Domitian’s death (96), there appear not to have been any major conflicts, which would tend to show that a modus vivendi was found, at least for the time being. It is also not impossible that the place where this cult was restored, at least for a time, was the temple of Onias. 27 According to B.J. 6.322, after the destruction of the sanctuary he put to death the priests who had remained. Titus’ two acts towards the priests are not contradictory: one corresponds to the military action of reducing a revolt in Judaea (including priests still in the sanctuary, presumably in revolt or under the influence of the rebels), the other, more political, corresponds to the desire to look to the future (with submissive priests), even if the local gods had decided to quit Jerusalem. For the Roman authority the Jewish ethnos constituted a recognized religio; it was not a negligible portion of the population of the Empire (about one tenth, cf. SCHEIDEL 2001, 57–59), where it was widely diffused, and also in the territories of the enemy Parthians. 28 Which was surprising Dio Cassius, Hist. rom. 66.7.2, and possibly others. 29 See SCHÜRER 1987, I, 547–49.

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sacrifice) followed by its restoration at the end of three and a half years (half a “week of years”, to borrow the terminology of Dan 9:27). This suggests that he was already envisaging something similar after 70, even if he does not say so expressly, or even perhaps that things were already moving in this direction. All this indicates that, by the end of Josephus’ life, something of the Jerusalem Temple had been restored. In his apologetic Against Apion, written for the Greeks, he envisions and defends the Jewish people as scattered in the Empire, but with Jerusalem as a metropolis. In the Antiquities and Life, written for the Jews, he provides brilliant credentials as a teacher.30 3. PAGAN AUTHORS In his Against Apion, Josephus collected together as many Greek authors as he could, in order to prove the antiquity of Moses and the Jews, but it appears that none of these authorities knew of the Biblical narratives. This is true, too, of later authors: of Judaism, they only knew what could be seen, without any knowledge of Biblical matters. As for Josephus himself, the first writers who knew or quoted his works were Christian. This wholesale ignorance is well witnessed by Tacitus, who wrote after 100. After some inquiry, he gives six explanations of the origins of the Jews (Hist. 5.2-4), of which only one is remotely similar to the Biblical account. For his part, Juvenal gibes at the new converts, who revere “all that Moses handed down in his secret book” (Satyrae 14.102). It should be granted that Eusebius (H.E. 3.9.1) says that a statue of Josephus was erected in a square at Rome, and that his works were deposed in public libraries. The latter detail most probably refers only to the War, which received Titus’ formal approval (Vita 363), but it seems that the other works were not easily available. About the consequences of the war, the ancient literature is scant. The most interesting Greek author is Plutarch, who traveled extensively and wrote his Quaestiones conviviales about 110. We read at 4.6.1-2 about the similarity of “Adonis” and “Adonai” (Yhwh): Lamprias, are you enrolling your national god in the calendar of the Hebrews and insinuating into their secret rites “him of the orgiastic cry, exciter of women, Dionysus, glorified with mad honors”?… (Moragenes, an Athenian, replies) “First, the time and character of the greatest, most sacred feast of the Jews clearly befit Dionysus. After celebrating their so-called Fast, at the height of the vintage they set out tables of all sorts of fruit under tents and huts plaited 30

See NODET 2019, 199–207.

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for the most part of vines and ivy. They call the first of the days of the feast Tabernacles. A few days later they celebrate another festival, this time identified with Bacchus not through obscure hints but plainly called by his name, a festival that is a sort of “Procession of the Branches” or “Thyrsus Procession,” in which they enter the temple each carrying a thyrsus (lulab). What they do after entering we do not know, but it is probable that the rite is a Bacchic revelry, for in fact they use little trumpets to invoke their god as do the Argives at their Dionysia… (The High Priest) leads the procession at their festival wearing a miter and clad in a gold-embroidered fawnskin, a robe reaching to the ankles, and buskins, with many bells attached to his cloths and ringing below him as he walks. All this corresponds to our custom…”

The wording indicates a witness of the present position, and not memories of the past. Again, the author only speaks of what can be seen, for the rites are “secret.” This is not the place to discuss the shape of the feast of the Booths, though the best agrarian similarity is with Neh 8:13-17. As for the comparison with Dionysus-Bacchus, Tacitus (Hist. 5.5.5) displays a very different opinion: Since their priests used to chant to the accompaniment of pipes and drums and to wear garlands of ivy, and because a golden vine was found in their temple, some have thought that they were devotees to Father Liber (Bacchus), the conqueror of the East, in spite of the incongruity of their customs. For Liber established festive rites of joyous nature, while the ways of the Jews are preposterous and mean.

Tacitus alludes to the Jewish customs he is aware of, and mentions the Temple customs in the past, for he describes the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, but the end of the passage is lost, so that we cannot know what he could have said afterward. In fact, he probably lost sight of Judea after the war, for it definitely ceased to be a significant part of Roman politics; the same can be said of most Roman historians. Dio Cassius, however, soberly says that a part of the Temple was set on fire (65.6.3), which opens up the possibility of a worship resumption in not too distant a future. 4. CHRISTIAN WRITERS Various ancient Christian authors speak of the Temple in the present tense, but only two ones are clearly dated.31 The first is Clement, bishop of Rome, who wrote to the Corinthians about 95. At 40.5 and 41.2, he accurately speaks of the Temple worship without any embarrassment, 31 See CLARK 1960. Other mentions are difficult to use: for instance, Hebrews mentions ten times the Temple (8:2.5, 9:2 etc.), but always with the word σκηνή, which refers to the Biblical Dwelling of God in the wilderness.

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and it would be artificial to surmise that he only mentions past or Biblical customs: To the High Priest the proper ministrations are allotted, and to the priests the proper place has been appointed, and on Levites the proper services have been imposed. The layman is bound by the ordinances for the laity… Not in every place are the daily sacrifices offered… but only in Jerusalem, and there also the offering is not made in every place, but before the shrine, at the altar.

The second witness is Justin Martyr, who about 150 reminds Tryphon (perhaps the Tarfon of Rabbinic sources), that it is since the Bar Kochba war, and not since that of 70, that the sacrifices are no longer possible in Jerusalem (Dial. 46:2). He could, strictly speaking, be taken to mean that they were only possible and not really performed between 70 and 132, but that is not the most natural sense, and in this particular case Justin’s argumentation would be pointless. He was born at Flavia Neapolis (Nablus), and was well aware of local realities, both Jewish and Samaritan. We can finally mention a collection of ancient traditions, entitled Chronicon paschale, in which it is said that Hadrian destroyed the temple that had actually been rebuilt.32 Taken alone, this piece of information could be deemed unreliable, but a possible rejoinder is Apostomos’ profanation, alluded to at m.Ta’an. 4.6 (§I above).33 5. CONCLUSION AND CONSEQUENCES In the conclusion of his Antiquities, Josephus speaks of further projects, one of them being to compose an account “of the later events of our history up to the present day,” in Domitian’s 13th year (93/94). It was never fulfilled, and we do not have a Josephus-like historian for the Bar Kochba war. However, if we dispose of the early Rabbinic traditions, which represented a very limited portion of the Jewish people between 70 and 135,34 we may safely conclude that during this period the population grew up in Judea, and that something of the Temple worship was restored. 32 DINDORF 1870, I, 474. The sources about the causes of Bar Kochba’s uprising are scant, but at least the profanation of the Temple location emerges, see SCHÜRER 1987, I, 535-42. 33 There were more traditions developing similar views, and here is a sample : according to Barn. 16.1-9, “Those who destroyed the Temple shall again build it up”; Gen. Rab. 64 explains that the Samaritans opposed this Roman intention, so that Hadrian prescribed a shift in the location of the Temple, which of course was not accepted; CHRYSOSTOM, Adv. Judaeos 5.10, asserts that the Jews rebelled in the time of Hadrian and began to restore the Temple, thus provoking him to wage war against them. 34 The idea of a common Judaism between 70 and 200 can hardly be substantiated, pace SCHWARTZ in BOUSTAN et al. 2013, 3–23.

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A side conclusion concerns the Gospels. Here is a warning of Jesus: Matt 24 :15-16

Mark 13 :14

15 Ὅταν οὖν ἴδητε

14 Ὅταν δὲ ἴδητε

Luke 21 :20-22

20 Ὅταν δὲ ἴδητε κυκλουμένην ὑπὸ τὸ βδέλυγμα τῆς ἐρημώσεως τὸ βδέλυγμα τῆς ἐρημώσεως στρατοπέδων Ἰερουσαλήμ, τὸ ῥηθὲν διὰ Δανιὴλ τοῦ τότε γνῶτε ὅτι ἤγγικεν ἡ προφήτου (Dan 9:27) ἐρήμωσις αὐτῆς. ἑστηκότα ὅπου οὐ δεῖ, ἑστὸς ἐν τόπῳ ἁγίῳ, – ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω –, – ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω –, 16 τότε οἱ ἐν τῇ Ἰουδαίᾳ τότε οἱ ἐν τῇ Ἰουδαίᾳ 21 (τότε οἱ ἐν τῇ Ἰουδαίᾳ φευγέτωσαν εἰς τὰ ὄρη. φευγέτωσαν εἰς τὰ ὄρη. φευγέτωσαν εἰς τὰ ὄρη) καὶ οἱ ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῆς ἐκχωρείτωσαν καὶ οἱ ἐν ταῖς χώραις μὴ εἰσερχέσθωσαν εἰς αὐτήν, 22 ὅτι ἡμέραι ἐκδικήσεως αὗταί εἰσιν (Deut 32:35), τοῦ πλησθῆναι πάντα τὰ γεγραμμένα (Jer 25:15). 20 But when you see 15 Therefore when you see 14 But when you see the Jerusalem surrounded by the Abomination of Abomination of Desolation armies, then recognize that Desolation which was her desolation is near. spoken of through Daniel the prophet (Dan 9:27), standing in the holy place standing where it should – let the reader not be – let the reader understand –, understand –, 16 then those who are in then those who are in Judea 21 (Then those who are Judea must flee to the must flee to the mountains. in Judea must flee to mountains. the mountains), and those who are in the midst of the city must leave, and those who are in the country must not enter the city; 22 because these are days of vengeance (Deut 32:35), so that all things which are written will be fulfilled (Jer 25:15).

In Luke, the prophecy can allude to the 70 war, but in Matthew-Mark, the “Abomination of Desolation” of Daniel means a formal profanation of the Temple, which refers to the idol erected by Antiochus IV,

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as indicated above. In Jesus’ prediction, the only possible reference is to Hadrian’s destruction and profanation, and not Titus’ storming and destruction. This may have some implication for the final editing of these Gospels.35

35

The similarity between Judas Maccabee’s uprising and Bar Kochba’s had a side consequence, the removal by the Rabbis of the Hebrew book of 1Maccabees, which could be a dangerous charter of Messianic war, because Origen, who gives a list of the books of the Bible with transcriptions of their Hebrew names, mentions only one apocryphal work (“outside”), the Μακκαβαικά, with a transcript σαρβηθσαρβανεελ to be deciphered as ‫ספר סרבניבית אל‬, that is, The Book of the House of the Rebels of God, meaning against God (apud EUSEBIUS, HE 6.25.2); see, too, note 5.

CHAPTER 13

TEMPLE ARSONS AND MURDER OF THE PROPHETS: EARLY CHRISTIAN RESPONSES TO JEWS AND THE JEWISH REVOLT(S) Anthony GIAMBRONE, O.P. École biblique et archéologique de Jérusalem

INTRODUCTION In his roguish classic, Redating the New Testament, John A. T. Robinson, famously declared that, “One of the oddest facts about the New Testament is that what on any showing would appear to be the single most datable and climactic event of the period – the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70, and with it the collapse of institutional Judaism based on the temple – is never once mentioned as a past fact.”1 The formulation is striking, but flawed. Thus, despite enjoying a certain transgressive fascination for two generations, few Neutestamentler have ever rallied to Robinson’s cause. Recent scholarship has even begun to undermine its governing premise, openly asking whether 70 CE was, in fact, a watershed in Jewish history.2 Steve Mason’s recent magnum opus, without entering into this precise “watershed” problematic, nevertheless pushes in the same direction, systematically minimizing the scale of the Judean War.3 As an opening move in this operation, moreover, Mason attempts to peel back the mythic overgrowth, which quickly swamped the event in a dubious manufacture of inflated meaning. An ironic inverse of Robinson’s view thus emerges, a sort of “Much Ado about Nothing” (if a glib tag may be pardoned), minimizing the conflict (which was in reality no seismic cataclysm, but a kind of oversized police action) and maximizing its importance for the early Christian imagination. Ideological fabrication – one part Flavian dynastic marketing, one part malign Christian theology – thus stands behind the inherited watershed view. The possibility, or rather the certainty that Jewish 1 2 3

ROBINSON 1976, 13. See, e.g. SCHWARZ and WEISS 2012. MASON 2016.

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sources also contributed something essential to this process of rhetorical amplification is regrettably not a factor that Mason acknowledges or explores. Much is obviously to be gained from unraveling ancient campaigns of strategic exaggeration. It must be carefully done, however. If political and religious agendas can manifestly obscure and distort the facts, von Rankean illusions of “what really happened” are also a danger – especially in an event like the Jewish Revolt, where political and religious meaning were such important, internal engines of the action.4 Our own theological and political ideas are not innocent in the task of identifying distorting lenses, moreover. To this point, Mason’s handling of the Christian material under the charged heading of “an abusive relationship” exerts a gravitational pull that perhaps draws into the discussion an unnecessarily broad range of sad specimens of Christian anti-Judaism, while misrepresenting power relations as they were in the years just after Jerusalem’s fall. Focus on guilt for the death of Jesus, of course, dominates scholarly discussion on the question – and surely not without reason. The contours and tenor of the conversation leaves much to be desired, however. Deicide is neither the earliest nor the most salient aspect of the Christian reception of the Jewish Revolt, as I read it; and preoccupation with its presence has obscured important dimensions of the data. 1. DEICIDE OR PROPHETENMORD? 1.1. A Jewish Theodicy The danger is nicely illustrated by a Pauline text, which Mason himself cites and which exposes both more and less than he sees.5 For you, brothers, became imitators of the churches of God that are in Judea in Christ Jesus. Because you too suffered the same things under your own kinsmen as they did under the Judeans, who killed both the Lord Jesus and the prophets and persecute us and who are not pleasing to God and oppose all men, who prevent us from speaking to the nations so that they might be saved, in order to constantly make their sin complete. The wrath has thoroughly fallen upon them (1 Thess 2:14–16).

4 Although Mason significantly downplays this aspect of the conflict, most scholars agree that the religious ideologies of the various Jewish actors contributed substantially to the development of revolt. At the same time, Flavian imperial propaganda was already at work in the final management of the war, after Titus took control. 5 MASON 2016, 46.

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By general consensus this passage is Paul’s “most vituperative and polemical statement” against the Jews;6 and it certainly represents a spirited application of the apocalyptic ὀργὴ θεοῦ (albeit minus the θεοῦ – at least in most MSS). But what is the application more precisely? The poignant ambiguity of the retributive divine wrath that Paul has in mind is quite instructive. Since F.C. Bauer, many scholars have been determined to see here a post-70 interpolation, yet problems beset every line of argument.7 Together with the effectively unanimous manuscript tradition, the accepted date of the letter around the year 51/52 should settle the matter.8 The Jewish Revolt is not in view. A crucial lesson can, nevertheless, be learned, for deicide is also not in view. We encounter here, instead, a familiar deuteronomistic trope that Odil Hannes Steck labeled das gewaltsame Geschick der Propheten (e.g. Neh 9:26; Jub. 1.12; Test. Lev. 16:2; 5 Ezra; cf. CD 1:15), already adapted for Christian usage.9 Paul transmits a topos in precisely the same form that will later be adopted without alteration in reactions to the Great Revolt. The Christian answer to the event was thus largely pressed into a ready-made, Second Temple template, shaped by factors fully extraneous to Judea’s epic confrontation with Rome. As such, Christian reception must be recognized as being fundamentally grafted onto a prepackaged Jewish response to national calamity, colored by distinct Christian preoccupations. Valorizing the Jewish character of this “murder of the prophets” trope forces an important change in perspective. First of all, it means assigning the Christian reaction a place among the various strategies outlined in Kenneth Jones’ very useful study of Jewish reactions to 70 CE.10 Plotted against this comparative grid, however, one is struck in the first place not by any focus on the cosmic crime of the crucifixion, but rather by the discordant Christian sense of vindication and the corresponding lack of any spirit of repentance or lament.11 At the same time, the peculiarity of 6

POLLEFEYT and BOLTON 2011, 230. Arguments against Pauline authenticity on the basis of linguistic usage are precarious in so short a passage in so small a corpus. Similarly, it is not necessary to posit the Roman response to the Jewish Revolt as the revelation of divine wrath, as various events in the 40’s might be equally well imagined. See, e.g. PEARSON 1971; and POLLEFEYT and BOLTON 2011, 236. 8 See, e.g., WEATHERLY 1991. Only the eleventh-century Latin manuscript (vat lat 5729) lacks the passage. None of the extant papyri include this section of the letter, but Origen cites the text in his commentary on Matthew, which confirms a date contemporary with the papyri. 9 STECK 1967. See also SCHOEPS 1943. 10 JONES 2011. See also PRICE 2007. 11 There is also in this context an interesting lack of Christian interest in witnessing a future act of divine vengeance against Rome. It is not the same disinterest as in 2 Baruch, 7

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the Christian material is illustrated by a pre-war work like the Lives of Prophets, which both predicts the Temple’s destruction (twice) and develops the Prophetenmord motif, but never brings the two ideas together, making the latter the cause of the former (Liv. Pro. 10.10–11; 12.11).12 Here the memory of Jesus’ poignant logion should not be neglected, for it provides the missing link – albeit with a tone of grief that quickly faded in the Christian context: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, city that kills the prophets and stones those sent to it… behold your house is left to you” (Luke 13:34– 35). Of course, after the fact Christian groups were not alone in considering God’s justice in the tragedy suffered by the Jewish nation; but it is significant that the theodicies found in texts such as 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch, which are preoccupied with Adam and the fact of universal human sin, never attribute God’s wrath in the ruin of Zion to the rejection of the prophets (e.g. 2 Bar. 77:9–10). Evidently, mantic characters like Josephus’ famous Jesus ben Ananias made much less of a retrospective impact on the guilty consciences of the authors of such works, than Jesus of Nazareth made upon Christians with his Temple predictions. It was the Christians whose prophet starred as Jeremiah in the sequel to 587; the topos of Prophetenmord was thus uniquely theirs for the taking. 1.2. Triggering the King’s Wrath The Jeremianic rendering of Jesus is not so surprising, of course. It has an echo, for instance, in the pseudonymous identity of Baruch ben Neriah in 2 Baruch. The Babylonian analogy was obvious to all and 2 Chron 36:15–21 even offered precedent for the Lukan Jesus’ link between the destruction of the Temple and the rejection of the prophets. This link is directly echoed in 1 Enoch 89:51–56, moreover, where the Babylonian destruction of the First Temple is attributed to the people’s murderous treatment of the messengers sent by God. It is accordingly much less the motif itself, than its re-appropriation that draws our attention in the Christian context. Still, the more interesting Christian mutation of the Prophetenmord motif lies elsewhere, for more is at work than a simple however, (e.g. 2 Bar 52:3–7), where “Rome is to be ignored… Rome will be punished, but only because most Romans refuse to acknowledge God, not because God wants to avenge his people” (JONES 2011, 102). See HARLOW 1996, 96–108. 12 On these texts, see EVANS 1992, 98. It is interesting that the Slavonic text of B.J. 5.195 says that Jesus was crucified because he predicted the ruin of the city and the Temple’s destruction. The provenance of the Slavonic tradition is an uncertain affair, but there are indications that some primitive Jewish traditions are preserved in this version of Josephus; see NODET 2000.

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reapplication of the Enochic trope. Two variant instincts of apocalyptic theodicy arise. Where the pseudepigraphical reflex generally dominated Jewish circles and explored Jerusalem’s devastation through the archaizing lens of the distant past, the Christian response was firmly anchored in current events, however much these eschatological happenings were seen to resemble ancient patterns. This Christian sense of the present, moreover, must not be restricted to the recent experience of Jesus’ execution. It extends beyond this to embrace events simultaneous with the deployment of Roman force. Consider Matthew’s parable of the wedding feast (Matt 22:1–14), which (pace Robinson) contains the New Testament’s most probable allusion to the war.13 Again he sent other servants, saying, “Say to those invited, Behold my banquet has been prepared, my oxen and the calves are slaughtered and everything is ready: come to the wedding feast.” But taking no notice, they went off, one to his field, one to his business; the rest, seizing his servants, manhandled and killed them. But the king was enraged and, sending his troops, he destroyed those murderers and burnt down their city (Matt 22:4–7).

There is a surprise in this familiar account. While Mason says that “evidently Matthew’s Jesus is speaking allegorically about Christ, Jerusalem, and divine retribution,”14 and this is all quite true, the destructive wrath of the king, which results in the razing and burning of the city, is not in fact depicted as the result of the people killing the king’s son, as the deicide topos conditions us to expect. The charred city results rather from the people’s mishandling and killing of the king’s slaves. The difference is a detail of the first order. These murdered slaves are already a second wave of messengers (πάλιν ἀπέστειλεν ἄλλους δούλους); and to get the full picture the parable must be read in tandem with the immediately preceding parable of the wicked tenants (Matt 21:33–41), which serves as Matthew’s redactional preface. The wicked tenants, of course, are transparently understood as those who murder Israel’s prophets, then Jesus himself, the son who appears climatically as last in their line. This is all quite traditional and corresponds to Mark 12:1–9. The subsequent transfer of the vineyard to another ἔθνος, one that will produce fruit in its proper season, envisions believers not Romans, it should be added (Matt 21:41– 43). But the story goes further. In the immediately succeeding tale of the wedding feast, the murdered servants/prophets become those who follow 13 On significance of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple in the Matthean context, see KONRADT 2007. 14 MASON 2016, 47.

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Jesus, who announce that the kingdom banquet has begun. It is in response to these murders that the king’s violent rage is inflamed against the city, which he destroys. In a word, the Prophentenmord motif has been extended and adapted and reapplied to Jerusalem’s fall, not in order to articulate a proto-charge of deicide – serious as the killing of Jesus most surely is – but rather to address the violent rejection of Christian missionaries, seen as the last and fateful, ongoing stage of Israel’s contumacious resistance. The rejection of Christ thus stands at the center of a much larger historical and sociological construction, not in splendid theological isolation. Punishment here results not least from continued post-Paschal resistance. 2. BLOODGUILT For Matthew it is thus quite clear. Bloodguilt falls upon the Judean nation not only from the death of Jesus – “His blood be upon us and upon our children” (Matt 27:25) – but also and no less from the violence exercised against believers and preachers of the Gospel. Therefore I send you prophets and sages and scribes, some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some of them you will flog in your synagogues and pursue from town to town, so that upon you may come all the righteous blood shed upon the earth, from the blood of Abel, the righteous, to the blood of Zechariah son of Barachiah, whom you murdered between the sanctuary and the altar. Amen, I say to you, all these things will come upon this generation (Matt 23:34–36).

The correspondence with Paul’s perspective 1 Thessalonians is exact. Divine wrath falls upon the Judeans, not only because they have killed the Lord Jesus and the prophets who went before him, but because, perhaps even especially because, “they…persecute us… [and] prevent us from speaking to the nations” (1 Thess 2:15). The harassment and oppression that early believers experienced from certain Jewish parties – an abusive treatment that Paul, of course, knew firsthand and from both sides – represents a social reality/perception essential to understanding this primitive Christian divine wrath theodicy. If believers in Jesus detected divine vengeance in the Roman war machine this was not a view born of abstract Christological reflection. The destruction of Jerusalem appears in Matthew as a prominent but parasitic element in an inherited polemical trope, already configured by a continuing history of acrimonious, intramural strife over messianic claims. In such terms, we might repurpose Robinson’s intuition about the Temple’s destruction as a nonstarter.

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If Matthew’s reckoning of national sin is thus clearly heir to preexisting Jewish traditions formed well-before 70 CE, the centrality of Jerusalem’s fall might be detected precisely where Matthew’s rhetoric exceeds the framework of Paul. Bloodguilt, namely, is also a classic element in Jewish theodicy about the Temple’s destruction and not a Christian invention required to talk about Jesus’ death – however much sacrificial and eucharistic covenant echoes amplify the resonance of the theme. From Manasseh’s shedding of innocent blood, which brought on the Babylonian exile (2 Kgs 21:16; 24:4), to Josephus’s notion that the rebels’ murderous pollution of the Temple with rivers of blood somehow stood behind Jerusalem’s fall (cf. A.J. 20.164–166; B.J. 4.305-313, 335–344; 5.19-20), Matthew’s thematization of the heavenward-crying stain of violent sin as the cause for the deadly fate of “this generation” has an obvious native Jewish theological home. Within this Jewish setting, Matthew naturally fits among other early believers. Even here he is also not such an exceptional case, however. At the very least, the construction of the social context as a hostile, agonistic field of messianic controversy, in which Christians join their rejected Christ as co-victims, should not be too easily consigned exclusively to the reconstruction of an embattled “Matthean community.” Essentially, the same picture emerges in the Gospel of Luke, even if the Lukan view is more dispersed than Matthew’s convenient parabolic discourse. Perhaps the most concentrated expression occurs in the proto-martyr Stephen’s paradigmatic speech in Acts 7, where again we find the familiar triple cluster of prophet murder, the murder of Jesus, and the murder of his followers, all in the open context of a threat upon the Temple (cf. Acts 7:51–52, 57–58).15 3. A PERDURING PATTERN 3.1. Martyrs for Messianic Claims The text of 5 Ezra confirms the continuity of this aggregate of ideas into the second century. Closely linked to Matthean perspectives and plausibly identified as a Christian response to the Bar Kochba Revolt, the text includes one of the clearest examples of the Prophetenmord motif, followed in the very next verse by a quotation from the Gospel: “Domus 15

DILLON 1978, 259 n. 85, following Hahn and Wilckens, takes Acts 7:43 as possibly being an allusion to 70 CE.

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vestra deserta est – Your house is abandoned” (1.33). The murder of Jesus is tellingly never directly evoked; the violent fate of all the prophets is evidently an entirely adequate explanation. The nearest the short composition comes to specifying the victims of the bloody crime is, very interestingly, the final scene of a heavenly assembly comprised of those who carry the palm and wear the crown for having confessed the Son of God, namely the company of Christian martyrs (2.42–28). As Graham Stanton observes in commenting on this scene, “Justin Martyr informs us that Christians suffered severely at the hands of Jews during the Bar Kokhba revolt. There is no reason to doubt this. The messianic claims of Bar Kokhba himself involved deep suspicion, to say the least, falling on those who confessed Jesus as Messiah or Son of God, for they were traitors to the Jewish cause.”16 It is little surprise in view of this that down to Justin Martyr, in the shadow of the Second Revolt, the same combination of ideas remains in place, highlighting the fate of Christians as much as the fate of their Christ. In the Dialogue, Justin plainly says to the Jewish Trypho: These things [speaking of Judea’s devastation at the hands of the Romans] have thus rightly and justly happened to you, for you have murdered the Righteous One, and his prophets before him; and now you reject and dishonor, as much as is in you, those who hope in him, and the one who sent him, God almighty, maker of all, cursing in your synagogues those who believe in the Messiah (Dial. 16.4).

If something like the problematic Birkhat HaMinim has here replaced more violent measures, Justin is clear about the reason: “For you do not have the authority to become our murderers, on account of those who are now ruling. But as often as you were able, you did so” (Dial. 16.4). Questions will naturally be raised about the accuracy of Justin’s claim – just as Matthew’s rhetoric of crucifying believers in the synagogues must be intelligently read as hyperbolic imitatio Christi speech. Paul’s autobiographical evidence of harsh harassment is, on the other hand, of another sort and it would be gratuitous to suppose that the whole persecution topos arose from nowhere. The best one can do in the face of all this is to exercise tremendous caution and maintain a clear focus on Christian perceptions rather than bold social reconstructions, acknowledging, nevertheless, the plausibility of localized acts of aggression, always fitted to constantly changing circumstances.

16

STANTON 1992, 263.

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3.2. James the Just and the Jews If Justin, like others, is emphatic in connecting Jewish rejection of God’s servants to Roman vengeance, perhaps the most striking witness of all comes from Justin’s second-century contemporary, Hegesippus, and concerns the reported murder of James, the brother of Jesus, around the year 62. The text from Hegesippus’ Ὑπομνήματα, preserved by Eusebius, is quite remarkable, but need not be quoted at length (E.H. 2.23.19). The critical line comes immediately after James is brutally clubbed to death in close proximity to the Temple (ἐπὶ τῷ τόπῳ παρὰ τῷ ναῷ): “At once (εὐθὺς) Vespasian began to besiege them,” Hegesippus reports. Eusebius adds that the account agrees with Clement, then reinforces the moral with the following remark: “It seems that James was indeed a remarkable man and famous for righteousness, so that the wise even of the Jews thought that this was the cause for the siege of Jerusalem immediately after his martyrdom, and that it happened for no other reason than the crime which they had committed against him.” A direct link between the murder of James and the destruction of the Temple further appears in two Gnostic texts and it is known by Origen, as well, who strikingly attributes the view to Josephus (In Matt. 10.17; Cont. Cel. 1.47). This may be false information or perhaps the indication of access to some unknown version of the Jewish historian’s writings.17 In any case, it corresponds with the idea of Eusebius that the James connection was a specifically Jewish theory. Eusebius’ own acceptance of the theory that the war was “reward for the iniquity of the Jews and their impiety against the Christ of God” (E.H. 3.7.1) may well indicate that what was still for Hegisippus a legitimate Christian view, no longer harmonized with the new fashion in polemical theodicy and thus had to be retrofitted as a Jewish idea. (The possibility that Hegisippus may have been a convert from Judaism would have aided this procedure.) Heinz-Martin Döpp conjectures that due to its date only a few years before the outbreak of the revolt the James tradition was “möglicherweise sogar ursprünglicher” than the link between the destruction of Jerusalem and the death of Jesus.18 It is impossible to pronounce on this, but what might be said is that the James material brings into perfect focus a martyrological etiology 17 The reasoning would fit with Josephus’ report of Herod Antipas’ disastrous war with the Nabateans, which “some of the Jews” attributed to his murder of John the Baptist (A.J. 18.5.2). It is a coincidence worth noting that Jesus ben Ananias started prophesying the destruction of the city in 62, the year of James’ murder. 18 DÖPP 1998, 71.

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that endured for several generations and did not orbit exclusively around Jesus. The flexibly “Jewish” or “Christian” attribution of the James material indicates as clearly as we might hope that this tradition belongs within a shared conceptual and social space where lines between “Christians” and “Jews” remain quite blurred. 4. REGICIDE, CHRISTOCIDE,

AND

DEICIDE

4.1. Mapping Murder Theodicies Perhaps it is necessary to adds “Greeks” or “pagans” to this picture, in view of the remarkable letter of Mara bar Serapion, which directly attributes the end of the Jewish state to the execution of “their wise king,” situating this tragedy in a classical triad of just deserts for national folly.19 What advantage did the Athenians gain from murdering Socrates? Famine and plague came upon them as a punishment for their crime. What advantage did the men of Samos gain from burning Pythagoras? In a moment their land was covered with sand. What advantage did the Jews gain from executing their wise king? It was just after that their kingdom was abolished, God justly avenged these three wise men: the Athenians died of hunger; the Samians were overwhelmed by the sea and the Jews, desolate and driven from their own kingdom, live in complete dispersion. But Socrates is not dead, because of Plato; neither is Pythagoras, because of the statue of Juno; nor is the wise king, because of the “new law” he laid down.

The text is “as intriguing as it is problematic.”20 Traditionally dated to the year 73 CE, but more recently regarded as a late Christian forgery, Fergus Millar cautiously concludes that “if there is an appropriate context, it is the early 70s.”21 Michael Spiedel, by contrast, who detects strong evidence for a connection to known events in Commagene around 72, determines that the later second or early third century is nevertheless most likely the letter’s formative environment.22 In point of fact, the imagery of the Jews being driven from their homeland and living in dispersion does likely reflect a post-Hadrianic origin. Regardless, the author’s 19 On this text, see MERZ and TIELEMAN 2012, as well as RAMELLI 2010. NODET 2003, 230–31, finds traces of the original Aramaic Josephus informing Mara bar Serapion’s letter. 20 MERZ and TIELEMAN 2012, 1. 21 MILLAR 1993, 461. BROCK 2004, 169, remarks that both the pagan authorship and the early date are now “convincingly challenged, on the grounds that the linking of the death of Jesus with the destruction of Jerusalem is an essentially Christian motif, and one that only came into currency in the post-Constantinian period.” 22 SPIEDEL 2012.

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straightforward, sapiential, murder-punishment formula obviously held appeal beyond Jewish and Christian circles reflecting on events in Judea of particular interest to them. Whatever its socio-religious origins, Mara ben Serapion’s cultural mix of ideas is revealing. We must evidently reckon with the idea of Philosophen- alongside Prophetenmord. To this extent, broad Gentile influences should not be discounted in considering the formation of an early Christian regicide (killing-of-the-Christ/“wise king”) theodicy. Greater clarity of what is specifically Christian and what is distinctly Jewish is certainly discernable in later material – and not only in Christian developments of the topos. If an adventuresome hypothesis might thus be indulged, the murder motif can perhaps be set in dialogue with the famous rabbinic story of Bar Qamza (b. Gittin 55b–56a), where the destruction and burning of the Temple is credited to Rabbi Zechariah’s lamentable meekness in not killing the troublesome figure. The wild story arguably represents more than a reconfiguration of the Josephan causus belli, tracing the war to an interruption of sacrifice for the emperor. It may also be a kind of rabbinic inversion and response to the Christian sources. Not only is the charge of murdering an execrable man rejected; John 11:50 is ostentatiously reversed and returned to Caiaphas’ original sense: it would have indeed been much better to have saved the nation from the Romans at the price of one expendable life. Such a reading would permit a welcome Jewish voice to enter into the fray and offer a reception – and quite a clever one – of the Christian (and pagan) reception. If the Fourth Gospel, like the Bavli and bar Serapion, concentrates on a single murder as unleashing (or potentially hindering) the wrath of Rome, the narrowing to a single momentous death is not necessarily a Christological move – as Hegisippus proves. Even when it is, moreover, scholars must be much more careful of how they interpret the blood guilt implied in this act of Christocide, which is in the first place about the rejection of the Messiah. This need for greater caution applies notably to Acts 3:15 – “You killed the ἀρχηγὸν τῆς ζωῆς, whom God raised from the dead” – a text introduced into the conversation by Mason as an unambiguous deicide charge, but where, in fact, the title applied to the murdered Christ, at least in the view of many Lukan scholars, signifies “leader to life” in the (for Luke) archaic or archaicizing sense of “resurrected one / first born of the dead,” rather than “author of life” in the sense of “divine creator of all things.”23 23

See JONES 1994, 627–36.

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Luke’s ironic formulation thus stops well short of the supreme accusation and should not be read as a communicatio idiomatum. The murder charge in Peter’s speech, moreover, is at best several steps removed from any immediate reflection upon or allusion to the Jewish Revolt. Its relevance to the discussion must thus also be measured. For one thing, Peter’s postPaschal preaching is meant as a wide appeal to prompt repentance for the slaying (Acts 3:19), which after all was a sin of ignorance as he says (Acts 3:17). Peter thus extends to the crowds the happy promise of “times of refreshment” rather than calling down a Roman malstrom on the city (Acts 3:20). As guilt trips go, this is rather mild. The significant possibility raised by Mason that readers of the Doppelwerk would hear Acts 3:15 in connection with Jesus’ earlier prophecies about the coming destruction of Jerusalem (all murder charges being read together by attraction and the entire composition being a kind of giant response to the revolt) is worth taking seriously – but this narrative approach would only frame Peter’s charge in Acts by Jesus’ own earlier, explicit “murder of prophets” framework in Luke 13:33–35. Peter’s explicit identification of Jesus as the prophet foretold by Moses further reinforces this perspective (Acts 3:22; cf. Deut 18:15–16). The fact that Peter’s speech is then immediately interrupted by his own arrest and imprisonment (Acts 4:1–3) then ultimately places the charge about Jesus’ murder in the plain context of a violent rejection of the Christian message (which theme would have been impossible for Peter himself to broach openly, since he is presently being made the first victim). In contrast to Matthew, whose single-volume “open story” (Luz) is often transparent to the early community and must thus place later circumstances prophetically in Jesus’ mouth, Luke elaborates a cumulative narrative that allows the events of Acts to be progressively added to the picture in the Gospel: to the killing of Jesus, like all the prophets, is added the stiff-necked, post-Paschal rejection of his followers, like Peter and Steven. From a traditionsgeschichtliche perspective, then, we have not discovered here any new lens for viewing the tragedy of the war. Instead, we simply perceive Luke’s integral narrative rendering of an already familiar perspective. Jesus’ lament in Luke 19:41–44 does ostensibly introduce a distinct new “visitation” theodicy concerning Jerusalem’s destruction, but here it must simply be recalled that in the Third Gospel this divine ἐπισκοπή motif articulates a distinctly prophetic Christology (cf. Luke 7:16; 13:33–35). Missing God’s visitation means precisely failing to recognize the visit of his prophet – with no direct mention made of the prophet’s

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blood.24 While Mason thus supplies an important reminder to avoid too narrow a focus on a tightly circumscribed Prophetenmord motif in thinking of Gospel responses to the events of 70, introducing Acts 3:15 into the mix ultimately serves only to further chasten a problematic attachment to an overstated deicide paradigm. 4.2. A Nefarious Turn It is perhaps worth highlighting as a final point in this connection that the strongest single New Testament candidate for a true “deicide” text is 1 Cor 2:8, a text obviously predating the First Revolt by many years. “If they had understood, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory,” says the Apostle. Here the perpetrators of Jesus’ crucifixion are explicitly named as “rulers of this age,” however, usually understood as angelic, heavenly powers, though some argue that human rulers like Pilate and Herod are in view. In either case, the Jews/Judeans are in no way targeted with blanket condemnations as the culprits in this cosmic crime, which is characterized, moreover, as having been committed in ignorance, just as in Peter’s sermon. Not the faintest hint of retributive justice colors the text. This whole broad effort to more cautiously contextualize and characterize charges of murdering Jesus and its connection (or lack of connection) with Jerusalem’s fall should not be mistaken as a claim that New Testament authors or early Christians did not accept Jesus’ divinity or the cosmic importance of his unique death, which they plainly did, as the Pauline text shows. Nor is it meant to deny that deicide traditions and theodicies of the Temple’s destruction ultimately entered into nefarious commerce. On the contrary, it is meant simply to recognize thematic variations more accurately for what they are. To this degree, a clear distinction should be made between explaining the Jewish catastrophe as a result of killing God and explaining it as a result of the killing a long parade of his messengers, down to those preaching the crucified one’s resurrection and who thus stand significantly as the last in the line. Against this grid, a clear and significant step is taken in the direction of a new manner of indictment when Hippolytus, in the late-second to 24 Luke 19:41–44 makes no open charge of bloodshed, but rather suggests a sin of blind ignorance, reminiscent of 1 Cor 2:8. Any link between Jesus’ lament in Luke 19:41–44 and Acts 3:15 must therefore still pass through more explicit texts such as Luke 11:47–51 and 13:33–35.

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early-third century, first openly divorces the death of Christ from the Prophetenmord motif in his theodicy about Jerusalem’s end. For what reason was the Temple made desolate?... Was it on account of the idolatry of the people? Was it for the blood of the prophets?... by no means… for in all these transgressions they always found pardon… it was because they killed the Son of their Benefactor (Dem. Ad Iud. §7).

Novel as this formulation is, in most scholars’ view Melito’s slightly earlier Peri Pascha conventionally marks the spot where the topos is decisively reconfigured as an open charge of killing God. It may well be – indeed, I think it is true that the relation of the Improperia tradition to the Dayenu is more complicated and less sinister than Eric Werner fifty years ago claimed;25 still Melito’s own biting language is impossible to ignore: ὁ θεὸς πεφόνευται…῍Ω φόνου καινοῦ, ὢ ἀδικίας καινῆς (§96–97). It is the καινός rhetoric of unprecedented newness that here clearly carries us outside the established murder of the prophets frame. It must be added, however, that the discourse of criminal enormity by this so-called “first poet of deicide” only lightly intersects in one passing couplet with the issue of Jerusalem’s fall: “After leveling the Lord, you have been leveled to the ground” (Ἠδάφισας τὸν κύριον / ἠδαφίσθης χαμαί, §99; cf. Luke 19:44).26 In other words, whatever may be the sources of anti-Judaism behind the bishop of Sardis’ poetics – and various proposals have been made – reflection upon the Jewish Revolt appears only marginally present as a factor.27 5. TEMPLE ARSONS 5.1. Blame Games Instead of concentrating on Melito, who belongs to a different context than the earliest layers of the tradition, I prefer to draw attention to the Gospel of Peter.28 Intriguing links join the two, to the point that Othmar Perler posited Melito’s knowledge of the apocryphal Gospel. Thomas Karmann, nonetheless, appears correct that the relation cannot be diachronically solved in this way, although comparisons remain useful.29 For 25

See, e.g., WERNER 1996; and BROCKE 1977. For Melito, whose language directly echoes the graphic verb ἐδαφίζω of Luke 19:44, Jerusalem is simply razed to the ground. The persecuted disciples never enter the picture (cf. Melito, 762-3). 27 See, e.g., SYKES 1997. 28 KARMANN 2007. 29 KARMANN 2007, 234 26

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our purposes, a subtle, but revealing divergence is of special interest. Where Melito offers the couplet just seen, the Gospel of Peter makes the narrative connection in different manner. Then [i.e. after the crucifixion and the immediately following cosmic signs] the Jews, and the elders, and the priests knowing what evil they had done to themselves, began to lament and to say, “Woe to our sins! The judgement and the end of Jerusalem is at hand!” But I [i.e. Peter] mourned with my companions and being wounded in mind we hid ourselves, for we were sought after by them as evildoers and as persons who wanted to burn the Temple (τὸν νάον θέλοντες ἐμπρῆσαι; GP 7.25–26).30

As for Melito, the destruction of Jerusalem could not be more conspicuously pinned to guilt for the death of Jesus (who, in a way somewhat reminiscent of bar Serapion, is characterized as “King of Israel,” cf. GP 3.7; 4:11). For the Gospel of Peter, however, the persecution of the disciples is not far behind. What is fascinating and new here, however, is the sudden introduction of a very precise Jewish charge against the followers of Jesus: they are sought as persons who want to set fire to the Temple. In Acts, Stephen was accused of making threats against the Temple and some form of this vague but viable charge is evidently reflected here as well. The New Testament betrays no knowledge of a destructive fire in this connection, however; and wanting specifically to burn down the Temple represents a much more concrete and suggestive crime than the vague universalist views of the Hellenist Stephen. Vaganay is surely right that a memory of 70 is here recorded; but the form of this memory allows us to take an additional speculative step. At the evident risk of mirror reading, one plausibly finds preserved here a genuine shard of Jewish polemic, something of the content of a controversy preserved by the Christian side, yet where a Jewish voice can perhaps again be heard – this time more aggressively blunt than in the much subtler instance of Bar Qamza. The curiously embittered apocryphal text may accordingly be less isolated than scholars have imagined, reflecting some real, if indeterminate stage in an ugly back-and-forth exchange. In this context the Gospel of Peter arguably knows an anti-Christian variant in that blame game framing Josephus’ entire account of the Jewish Revolt. Who is responsible for burning the Temple? The Gospel of Peter is arguably not alone as evidence of Jews tracing the destructive fire to the early Christians. The Apocalypse of Abraham, in its search to understand the catastrophe, might preserve a first-century 30

On this text, see FOSTER 2010, 348–60.

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Palestinian voice moving in the same direction. In chapter 27, the burning of the Temple with fire is twice evoked as the act of heathens “from the left side,” and a thing brought on by acts of idolatry; while in 29.3-14 a polemic is targeted against those “from the left side” who worship Jesus as a pseudo-Messiah.31 The hypothesis is fragile due to uncertainties about the text itself. Still, the notion that messianic deviance stands somehow behind Jerusalem’s fall is an idea known and acceptable to Josephus.32 That Christians, with their open fraternizing among the goyim and aberrant veneration as God of a messiah rejected as a rebel by Rome, should at some point be singled out as the problem only stands to reason. Jerusalem “owed its ruin to civil strife,” Josephus says, “and … it was the Jewish tyrants who drew down upon the holy temple the unwilling hand of the Romans and the conflagration” (B.J. 1.4). Avot de-Rabbi Nathan contains a similar view, exculpating the Romans (and the protoRabbis) and laying the blame clearly on the rebels: “Fools, why do you seek to destroy this city and burn the Temple?” (1A, 3A).33 Other Jewish perspectives were less favorable to Rome, it hardly bears saying. Like Josephus and at least one stream of thought in ARN, however, the Gospel of Peter systematically exculpates the Romans and lays all guilt upon the Jewish nation – though for different reasons, in different ways, and with no attention to inner Jewish divisions: thus with a newly unnuanced and viciously anti-Jewish edge. The fact that the same sacrilegious charge of Temple arson might equally impugn Titus (or Vespasian) and the ecclesia of Peter, however, makes this fundamental congruence between Flavian (Josephan) propaganda and Christians (counter-)polemics intriguing.34 The dynamics of Josephan supersessionism – God’s transfer of sides to Rome (not unconnected to the rebels’ acceptance of false messiahs) – might conceivably have much closer links to Christian variations on the theme than has generally been suspected or allowed, with the fate of the Temple and the charging of culpable parties deeply implicated on all sides.35 31

On this anti-Christian polemic, see HARLOW 2013. “Josephus presents with utter loathing the messianic figures and movements which haunted Judea during the sixty years leading up to the war. But the reason that he hated them was not that he hated the idea of a Messiah or disbelieved in the apocalypse, but that he was certain that the time and place were not yet right, not ripe,” PRICE 2007, 194. 33 See the contribution of BEN-SHAHAR in this volume. 34 Even if Josephus was no “Flavian lackey” as Mason rightly contends, RIVES 2005, 147–48, is right to note that “Josephus was apparently alone in his insistence on Titus’ attempts to preserve the Temple. Moreover, his account of the destruction contains discrepancies that confirm the assumption that he deliberately shaped his account,” e.g. Titus’ plundering of the golden Menorah and offering table, etc. 35 KLOPPENBORG 2005. 32

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5.2. Scapegoats and the Piety of the Victors Since Jacob Bernays cunning argument in 1861, most historians – with the notable exceptions of Tessa Rejak, Tommaso Leoni, Mason and the long-forgotten Karl Beck – have granted that Josephus simply whitewashed Titus’ factual guilt in the act of burning, which they suppose is plainly recorded in the fragment of Tacitus presumably preserved in Sulpicius Severus’ fourth-century Chronica (§2.30.3–4). Eric Laupot’s recent proposal that we should take at face value the reference at the end of this passage to the Roman eradication of Christiani as Titus’ actual driving motive obviously faces major problems; and, without citing him, Mason’s discussion only makes these difficulties more clear. Like Bernays, Laupot does, nevertheless, highlight an important observation for the present, different line of reflection. Christians were already a scapegoat superstitio on the imperial radar. Indeed, Nero’s celebrated incrimination of the followers of Christus specifically as arsons in the catastrophic fire of 64 (Tac. Ann. 15.44; Suet. Nero 16) could have easily found echoes in Jewish quarters, where the rumor might have admirably served in multi-lateral denunciations of believers in Jesus as dangerous persons: criminals, atheists, and traitors.36 Nero himself is strikingly blamed for burning the Temple in Sib. Or. 5.150 and the epic burning of Rome thereby manifestly held a strong attraction in assigning causes for the impious act at the end of the Great Revolt – a tragedy begun under this infamous emperor and ending in flames. That the Roman smear of Christian arson, official imperial fake news, should be drawn into the swirling post-70 search for culpability would hardly be surprising. The Gospel of Peter gives cause to think it even likely. Whatever Titus’ war council actually decided (taking account of Mason’s salutary cautions about imagining grand policy-making, rather than responsive on-the-ground tactics), the projection of Roman greatness was clearly implicated, as Sulpicius Severus attests and Josephus agrees (B.J. 6.241). And whatever was decided (and however), the Flavian political machine was not abashed to embrace the end-result, intended or not.37 Paintings of burning temples were proudly paraded in the Judean triumph, Josephus reports (B.J. 7.144). The stock imagery that must here be imagined (the plural “temples” hints at something less than scrupulous accuracy) is reflected no less in the stock imagery of ancient literary texts, themselves reflecting the scorched-earth and scorched-sanctuary practices of much 36

See VAGANAY 1930, 272; and FOSTER 2010, 358. The Flavian transport of the Jerusalem Temple’s key cult items into the Temple of Peace in Rome obviously created an obstacle to any continuation of cultic life in Judea. 37

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ancient warfare.38 Historiographically, the twin stories of Alyattes’ war and the Persians’ burning the temple of Demeter, which with Herodotus frames his History, provide a perfect emblem of this whole complex, classical context (1.19; 9.65); while the apocalyptic rendering of the halfburnt Temple in Testament of Moses 6.9 offers a distinctly Jewish coloring to this ancient topos.39 As for Flavian court literature, the poet Valerius Flaccus (1.12–14) celebrated the victorious general “hurling burning brands” (spargentemque faces) in triumphing over Idume and Solyma. If torching temples was a strategic common place (and occasional collateral damage), Martin Goodman correctly observes the strangeness of the Romans not subsequently allowing the Jews to rebuild their Temple.40 Reconstruction does seem to have been normal. A vivid instance of this ritualized rhythm of destruction and rebuilding is provided by the inscription commemorating P. Servilius Vatia’s fulfilled votum in 75 BCE.41 In accord with the Roman practice of evocatio deorum and devotio, the proconsul had invited the tutelary deity of the town of Isaura Vetus to temporarily vacate the doomed city, with the promise to rebuild the god’s temple after its destruction (a promise fulfilled and commemorated by the inscription).42 The famous Greek Oath of Plataea indicates how the inflammatory presence of lingering sacred ruins would have served precisely as fuel for perennial enmity and thus future revolt.43 It was thus in the Romans own interest to be cautious about their acts of impiety in Judea.44 Precisely in view of such practice and considerations, it is quite possible that Goodman overstates the case. For, while Titus’ use of the evocatio ritual cannot be positively confirmed or denied (cf. B.J. 6.299-300), hints do emerge from this dark period that some sort of provisional cult was in fact erected or permitted on the site, as Kenneth Clark argued long ago – inconclusively, of course, but with some plausibility in my view. Barnabas 16:3–4 38 The catalogue of curses listed in T. Judah 23:3 puts the horror of a burnt temple in its proper context of plague upon plague. 39 ATKINSON 2006, 460, discussing Test. Moses 6.9 determines that it “is inconceivable that this passage refers to any event other than the Jewish rebellion of 4 B.C.E,” when under Varus, Sabinus and his troops both burnt the porticoes of the Temple and massacred a large number of the Judeans (cf. A.J. 17.222-223, 252–268; B.J. 2.18-19, 45-54). 40 GOODMAN 2005, 463–65. See also RIVES 2005, LEONI 2007, and BEN ZEEV 2011. 41 For the editio princeps of the inscription, see HALL 1972, 572 (cf. AÉ 1977, 816). 42 KLOPPENBORG 2005, 439. Cf. RIVES 2005, 149. 43 The text of the oath as recorded in Lycurgus (Against Leocrates 1.81) has the Greek soldiers swear: “I will not rebuild a single one of the sanctuaries which the barbarians have burnt and razed but will let them remain for future generations as a memorial of the barbarians impiety” (ἀσεβείας). 44 See RIVES 2005.

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is adequate ground to entertain the question: “‘Those who destroyed this temple will build it themselves (αὐτοὶ αὐτὸν οἰκοδομήσουσιν).’ This is happening now.”45 The αὐτοί in view are certainly the Romans (cf. 16:4), though we can expect Josephus to have eagerly informed us if Titus were piously behind some such affair.46 If the hint in Barnabas is therefore not a pure illusion, one might tentatively imagine some change in policy around the time of Nerva. Indeed, the Flavian diversion of finances (fiscus Iudaicus) away from Jerusalem’s cult speaks strongly against plans for future rebuilding; while Nerva’s relaxation of Domitian’s tax (fisci Iudaici calumnia sublata) might well have been accompanied by some connected gesture of cultic goodwill. The date would fit the supposed date of Barnabas well. 6. MIXING RELIGION AND POLITICS 6.1. Hadrian’s Solution Epiphanius’ late report of Hadrian finding “the temple of God trodden down and the whole city devastated” during his visit in 130 CE complicates the picture, but should be rather cautiously considered.47 Dio Cassius (65.6.3) draws a modest and believable picture of Titus’ limited act of destruction: a partially burnt structure, not a leveled pile of ash; but this contradicts the account of Josephus, who has Titus ordering the remains of the Temple to be razed (B.J. 7.1-2). Vespasian’s additional order to destroy the Jewish temple in Leontopolis in Egypt (B.J. 7.421) might give the impression of a resolute intention to destroy Judaism per se; but as John Rives points out “if he [Vespasian] was hostile, it is difficult to account for his apparent indifference to Jewish religion apart from the Temple cult” i.e. circumcision, sabbath observance, synagogues, etc; while his permission for the creation of a school at Yavneh indicates a positive readiness to support an alternative, more pacific Jewish order.48 It was only later, with Hadrian’s zero-tolerance program, that the very practice of Judaism as such, right down to circumcision, came into the imperial cross-hairs. 45 Barnabas’ supposed citation of this verse from Isaiah relies upon some unknown textual tradition. If, as recent scholarship inclines to affirm, the ‫ סקריקון‬belongs to the period after Bar Kochkba, the legislation of m. Bikk. 1.2, regulating the non-participation of these “robbers” in the bringing of first fruits, could also suggest some post-70 continuation or resumption of the cult. See SHAHAR 2012. 46 The expression in Barnabas 16:4 is a little awkward, and may perhaps mean that the Romans are using the subject Jews to rebuild. 47 See DEAN 1935, 30. 48 RIVES 2005, 157.

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Between these two regimes stands not only the milder reign of Nerva, but the so-called “War of Qitos,” eliciting Hipploytus’ report (commenting on Matt 25:15-22) that “Vespasian did not erect an idol in the Temple, but the legion brought by Trajanus Quietus, the first man of the Romans, did erect an idol there called Kore.”49 Hadrian subsequently broke radically with the expansionist foreign policy of Trajan and had Quietus himself executed as a rival. Still, the result, if anything, was to intensify the significance of a loyal Judea, as the relinquishments of Trajan’s Parthian conquests made the Jewish homeland a newly important fortification near the eastern frontier. A pagan province seemed the best way to assure this. Whatever shifting Roman policies one might thus imagine to make sense of all the data during these crucial but dark decades in Judea, the clear drift was thus towards increased severity towards the Jews. At a minimum one must accordingly accept that it was not the razing by Titus, but the ostentatious planting of Hadrian’s pagan colony of Aelia Capitolina – “unique in its use…not to flatter but to suppress the natives” – that formed the irreversible exclamation point stamping out all Jewish cultic life. Indeed, Hadrian’s solution to the diaspora uprisings, which were not yet quelled when he came to power, “was to ensure that the Jews could never again expect to have a temple…by founding a miniature Rome on the site of the Jews’ holy city.”50 The Bar Kochba Revolt, which seems to have come as a response to this work of paganization (rather than vice versa), only reinforced Hadrian’s determination. At work in countless statements about the huge impact of the Temple’s destruction is thus a far too common conflation, or at least the lack of clear distinction between of the state of affairs after the First and after the Second Revolt: “70 CE after 135 CE,” as Ruth Clements nicely puts it.51 The importance of reversing this concertina effect can hardly be overstated. The lack of a Josephus to chronicle the second Jewish uprising has more than slanted our vision and minimized its towering and integral importance. Imagine how twentieth century historiography would be crippled with an account of only the first of the two world wars. If a sequel to Mason’s study is, therefore, to be fervently wished – with a careful disentangling and separation of the matter proper to each account – the task is a historiographical challenge of the highest order.52 49 On the historical context and text of Hippolytus, preserved in Dionysius Bar-Salibi, see BEN ZEEV 2018, 89–90. 50 GOODMAN 2003, 28–29. 51 CLEMENTS 2012. 52 Efforts to reconstruct the history on the basis of the non-literary sources, Dio Cassius, Eusebius, and rabbinic literature have naturally been made. See notably the recent work of HORBURY 2014.

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6.2. Prophecies and Policies One step that might be taken in this direction is indirectly registering the impact of the Bar Kochba episode through the emergence of new topoi. The finality of Jerusalem’s ruin is preeminent among these, I suggest. This idea, with all its exaggerated ideological potential, is not a simple deduction from Jesus’ prophecies about the Temple’s destruction, which never exclude a future work of rebuilding (as contemporary Third Temple evangelicals serve to prove).53 Indeed, Mark 14:58 suggests that Jesus himself expected a rebuilt heavenly Temple, not made by hands. Admittedly, this primitive-sounding tradition is complicated by its Markan qualification as “false” testimony and its retrospective Johannine relecture as Jesus’ body – which openly opposes the literal understanding of the original bystanders, it should be added (John 2:20–22). The lacunary logion in Gospel of Thomas 71 – “I will destroy this house and no one will be able to rebuild it [except me??]” – is unfortunately more trouble than help at this point. In any case, even if one rejects Schenke’s proposed restoration (“except me”) and ignores the other interpretative problems besetting the text (e.g. is the “house” in view already understood Jesus’ body?), the wide mid-second century affinities of GT make it very difficult to insist that Thomas’ putative assertion of the Temple’s conclusive ruin is not simply a post-Bar Kochba perspective. As the Second Revolt itself shows, many Jews remained keenly hopeful during the 70 years after 70 CE; and already before 70 many had anticipated that the Lord would provide a new earthly Temple of one form or another (e.g. Jub 1.26–29; 4QFlor 1:2–6; 11QT 29:8–10; 1 Enoch 90:28–29). It was only natural that many Christians too were influenced by such eschatological currents. The express finality of Jerusalem’s degraded state thus remains essentially alien to the earliest wave of Christian reflection, which openly entertained its own committed visions of a New Jerusalem and a New Temple (e.g. Heb 12:22; Rev 3:12; 21:2, 10).54 53 HOLMÉN 2014, 217: “As for what the future holds, Mark 13:1–2 leaves open two alternatives: either a new temple will not come at all, or, otherwise, the new temple will be characterized by a clear discontinuity with the currently existing one. In both cases, the sentence with the word ‘no stone upon another’ denotes in effect the end of this kind of temple, this temple tradition.” In certain contexts, Christians were still expecting the rebuilding of the Temple into the 7th century; see MILLAR 2015. 54 Rome is the only victim of a New Testament Spottlied: “Babylon the great city will be thrown down and will be found no more… the smoke goes up forever and ever” (Rev 18:21). If a permanently wasted city of Jerusalem stood contrary to various Christian eschatological perspectives – so tightly bound to Jewish prophetic expressions – entertaining the disinherited state of the Jewish nation, no longer heirs to their own kingdom (cf. Matt 21:43), was a more natural configuration of Christian ideas.

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The notion of a permanently annihilated Judea and Jewry entails a definite softening of this acute eschatological energy that was so characteristic of the period just after Jerusalem’s initial destruction. This “softening” came through the second hammer blow of Roman force. The topos of a final fate accordingly marks the demonstrable entry of Roman military policy and imperial propaganda into the polemical texture of Christian Adversos Iudaeos perspectives. Tertullian’s remark in Apology 21 (which, for this reason, is to my mind misplaced evidence in Mason’s account) offers a perfect illustration, for it is not a strict reaction to the events of 70, but rather echoes the further post-135 fallout.55 The critical motif at work in this passage is the graphic image of a wandering, homeless people. The picture is new and certainly arises from Hadrian’s notorious expulsion of the Jewish population from Aelia Capitolina (cf. Justin. 1. Apol. 77; Eus. H.E. IV.6).56 Hippolytus, Tertullian’s near contemporary, similarly engages the image of an exiled Jewish people, intensifying the punishment to be an eternal fate: “Not four hundred and thirty years as in Egypt, nor seventy as in Babylon, but bend them to servitude, he says, always” (§6).57 As no general banishment is associated with the First Revolt, historically the motif calls for a Hadrianic pedigree (but cf. B.J. 6.420; 7.21, 24, 138; and T. Lev. 16:1–5). The reference becomes unmistakable in Tertullian’s more explicit remark in Adversus Iudaeos 13. 55 “In the past the Judeans were in favor with God, and notable for the justice and loyalty of their ancient founders…but how badly they have failed…their final predicament [exitus] nowadays would prove, even though they would not own up to it themselves. Scattered, wanderers, exiles from their own sun and sky, they roam the earth without a king either human or divine… While holy voices were threatening them severely with this, all were constantly declaring that in the final courses of time God would choose for himself much more faithful worshippers, from every race, people, and place, to whom he would transfer his favor.” See JONES 2011,103–104. 56 HARRIS 1926. 57 “For now that the true light has arisen, you wander as in the night, and stumble on places with no roads, and fall headlong, as having forsaken the way that says, I am the way. Furthermore, hear this yet more serious word: And their back do you bend always; that means, in order that they may be slaves to the nations, not four hundred and thirty years as in Egypt, nor seventy as in Babylon, but bend them to servitude, he says, always. In fine, then, how do you indulge vain hopes, expecting to be delivered from the misery which holds you? For that is somewhat strange. And not unjustly has he imprecated this blindness of eyes upon you. But because you covered the eyes of Christ, (and) thus you beat Him, for this reason, too, you bend your back for servitude always. And whereas you poured out His blood in indignation, hear what your recompense shall be: Pour out Your indignation upon them, and let Your wrathful anger take hold of them; and, Let their habitation be desolate, to wit, their celebrated temple” (Dem. Ad. Iud. §6; trans. ANF 2).

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We observe that now none of the race of Israel has remained in the city of Bethlehem, where it is prohibited that any of the Jews should linger within the boundaries of the territory, – in order that this prophecy also should be fulfilled: “Your land is deserted, your cities burnt up by fire (which the period of war did to them) foreigners devour your territory in your sight, it will be both deserted and overthrown by a foreign people (Isa 1:7)” namely by the Romans; and in another place the prophet speaks thus: “You shall see the king with his glory,” namely Christ, “doing deeds of power in the glory of God the Father, and your eyes shall see the land from afar” (Isa 33:17) – since it is prohibited for you, as you deserve, since the storming of Jerusalem, to enter into your land; it is permitted merely to see it with the eyes from afar.

Averting to the Jewish banishment from their land and citing Isa 1:7 – “Your land is deserted, your cities burnt up by fire” (already a favorite text of Justin in this connection; cf. Dial. 16; Apol. 77) – Tertullian adds a further verse from the same prophet (Isa 33:17), concluding with the phrase et oculi uestri uidebunt terram de longinquo. The formulation here differs slightly from the Vulgate text and in a tour de force of textual sleuthing Rendel Harris showed nearly a century ago that Tertullian’s phrasing seems to echo the precise language of Hadrian’s decree (ἐξ ἀπόπτου), crafted on the model of standard edicts of banishment and traceable through traditions attributed Aristo of Pella. This outright fusion of Hadrianic policy with biblical prophecy naturally canonizes and crowns with a halo the Roman decision to sow Israel with salt. A drastic, imperial solution to the persistent problem of unruly Judeans – Iudaea delenda est – was thus easily assimilated into polemical theological tracts and later coopted by the Eusebian state theology of the ascendant Constantinian order. Alongside the relentless rhetoric of permanent desolation in a text like Theophania 4.18, however, it is significant that in his panegyric at the conclusion of the Ecclesiastical History Eusebius could also indulge an entirely allegorized reading of the Temple’s devastation, speaking of the fiery darts of passion that have burnt down the true sanctuary of God in the soul. And just when he paints the image of a great burned-out heap of rubble “bereft of all hope of salvation” (ἀνέλπιστον πάσης…σωτηρίας), he speaks of the Lord gloriously rebuilding his dwelling place (E.H. 10.4.57–60). Such homiletic redeployment exposes the complexity of Temple symbolism; and it is far from clear what belongs to imperial politics and what is specifically Christian in the triumphalist, ethnic supersessionism born of that momentous Roman decision to leave Jerusalem’s burnt-down Temple permanently in ruins. It would be sheer folly, in any case, to imagine that Christian ideas about the surmounting of Judaism after the two Revolts were not overtly fed and at times

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even openly determined by imperial policy regarding the Judeans. Perhaps Roman state religion is more of a culprit in the messy affair of JewishChristian relations than we have the habit of imagining. 7. EPILOGUE: FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE The irony of the whole story is that the one fleeting shift in this policy of enduring suppression, under Julian the Apostate in May 363, reignited the old fires to give new expression to the idea of a final religious supremacy and dispensation.58 The famous account of the mysterious flames that burst up from the foundations to interrupt and end the determined Jewish efforts to rebuild their Temple, at the emperor’s instance, clearly signals the separation of the Christian theologoumenon from its original political moorings. Although this first obstacle [i.e. a great earthquake] was a manifest indication that God was upset at what was happening [i.e. the re-erection of the Temple], they hastened back to the unrealizable project. Now, all parties relate that they had scarcely set to work the second time, when fire burst forth suddenly from the foundations of the Temple (πῦρ ἐξαίφνης ἐκ τῶν θεμελίων τοῦ ἱεροῦ) and consumed many people. This fact is fearlessly recounted and believed by all and contradicted by no one. The only disagreement is that some say that fire appeared as they were pushing towards the Temple, while others say that it was when they began to haul away the earth. In either case, the former or the latter, it is equally miraculous (εἰς θαῦμα; Sozomen, E.H. 5.22.11).

The definitive burning of the Temple is no longer upheld by the strength of imperial policy, but by the naked and invincible will of God. As for the author of 2 Baruch, nearly a quarter millennium before, God alone is responsible for the fire (2 Bar 6:4–9) – this time not to temper Roman pride, however, but to assure that the result is everlasting. It is suggestive that in the midst of this dramatic mid-fourth-century commotion on the Temple Mount, Cyril of Jerusalem offered a reinterpretation of Matt 24:2. “One stone shall not be left upon another” now foretells that the Temple must perforce fall again, should it be raised by the Antichrist in a “pretense of new buildings” (§15). If, as John Kloppenborg has argued, this prophetic phrase in the Gospel tradition hints explicitly at the Roman devotio of the city, Cyril’s new reading would subvert the original Roman logic in now turning these words against the imperator’s long-delayed but properly pious effort to rebuild the abandoned house of Judea’s god. 58

See the bibliographical information provided in MILLAR 2015, 122 fn. 7.

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The bishop of Jerusalem’s prediction pronounced the doom of Julian’s efforts, transpiring but a stone’s throw away; but it left open the manner of the Temple’s renewed destruction: “whether by decay of time or demolition.” Unless we accept the fascinating Syriac letter preserved in Cyril’s name, the story of the mysterious fire would be spread by other voices.59 It is rarely recalled, in this connection, that the powerfully influential passage in Sozomon’s history is preceded just before by a striking parallel account: the destruction of the temple of Apollo at Daphne in a great conflagration (E.H. 5.20.5-7). The familiar question thus arose in a reconfigured context: Who was responsible for burning the temple? It seemed to the Christians [Sozomon reports] that the prayers of the martyr [Babylas] caused fire to fall upon the demon (ἐμπεσεῖν τῷ δαίμονι πῦρ); but the pagans were spreading tales that the deed was done by Christians. The suspicion of this having grown strong, the priest of Apollo was brought to the tribunal of justice to reveal the one who had dared the incendiary act. But being bound and enduring many severe blows and having been maltreated, he denounced no one. Hence the Christians were more fully convinced that it was not by a human plot, but that heavenly fire was cast by divine wrath upon the temple (κατὰ θείαν μήνιν ἐνσκῆψαι τῷ νεῷ οὐράνιον πῦρ)... As I conjecture from the events at Daphne caused by the martyr Babylas, the emperor, learning that houses of prayer in honor of martyrs were near the temple of Apollo Didymus…wrote to the governor of Caria to destroy with fire any sanctuary having both a roof and an altar.

Julian’s efforts to reconstruct the Jerusalem Temple immediately follow this fire-fight with the Christians. The divine flames ignited on the site of the Temple accordingly mimic and repay Julian’s own actions against the Christian houses of worship. In allying himself and his pagan revival with the Jewish nation against these “Nazoreans,” the familiar Jewish-Christian dispute has been recast two centuries later as a pagan-Christian polemic: Is it the Christian martyrs or Christian acts of arson that is cursing their opponents’ sanctuaries?60 Despite the changed dialogue partner, the Christian answer does not change – except that the martyrs have become the active agents of their own revenge, through their intercessory power in heaven. Judgment still falls on the persecutor’s head and fuels a fiery destruction. In succession both Jewish and pagan temple-based religions must fall to a power stronger even than the empire.61 59

On this letter, see BROCK, 1984. An interesting echo of Nero’s accusations of Christian arson as it was still alive in the fourth century is preserved in Letter 12 of the apocryphal correspondence between Seneca and Paul. 61 A Jewish view of Julian’s attempted rebuilding is famously missing. If the sole pagan report of the aborted project sees a natural disaster behind the events, this voice represents 60

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CONCLUSIONS At the close of this study it has become apparent that a great deal more complexity attends early Christian theodicy regarding the destruction of Jerusalem than the conventional scholarly accounts suppose. Several methodological conclusions might accordingly be offered. 1. Efforts to treat primitive Christian reception of the Jewish Revolt(s) should be more alert to the mutual dynamics of a painful Auseinandersetzung, particularly the Christian perception of Jewish persecution and its encoding in Second Temple theodicy. Charges of malign theological fabrication should accordingly be more cautiously measured and contextualized in the generative socio-historical settings. This includes avoiding overly hasty characterizations and explanations of the Christocide motif apart from the broader martyrology traditions and the acute contest of messianic claims that gave it birth. To this extent, the messianic color of the First Revolt, like the Second, should be more carefully studied and intoned. Manifestly, if Jewish messianic excitement was indeed linked to the disastrous consequences of Jerusalem’s destruction (pace Mason but following Josephus), primitive Christian readings of the war, reinserted within this proper Jewish matrix, are much easier to contextualize and interpret. 2. The discovery of pointed Neronian and Hadrianic elements embedded in the Jewish-Christian polemic highlights the important impact of imperial propaganda on religious controversy. The need to incorporate Roman political perspectives and to reconstruct a multi-lateral exchange thus becomes clear. This means that neither narrow focus on a two-way Jewish-Christian debate, nor isolated treatments of Flavian and Christian traditions respectively can adequately represent the full dynamics of the reception of 70. Plotting and evaluating “supercessionist” discourse should accordingly be pursued in a much wider socioreligious field, which includes both expressions of Roman imperial hegemony over a vanquished Judea and the ultimate Byzantine Christian surmounting of the pagan religious order. 3. The wide conflation of material and themes drawn from the First and Second Revolts demands, finally, the establishment of a more careful chronological stratigraphy in treating our sources. Here the earliest not an alternative “enlightened” worldview, a modern secular counterpoint to the religious Christian version. Rather, Libanius reads the earthquake of May 363 as a heavenly portent foretelling Julian’s death. The collocation of fireballs and an earthquake evidently belongs to the characteristic Christian crafting of the story. See LEVENSON 2013.

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entre-deux-guerres period should be marked on the upper end by the gradual fading away of a generation that still empirically connected Roman vengeance with Jewish rejection of Christian believers, i.e. somewhere between Justin and the age of Tertullian and Hippolytus. Once this moment passed and Roman power had established its will in annihilating the Judean community, with every appearance of utter finality, even ongoing Jewish-Christian tension lost its explanatory force in accounting for the visibly wretched circumstances of the Jewish people. How could supposed Jewish complicity in the martyrdom of Polycarp, for instance, explain a Jewish tragedy that transpired generations before? New forms of contra Iudaeos polemics had to be forged. The crucifixion, by contrast, was anchored safely in the past, well prior to the Jewish calamities, and could be newly leveraged to bear the displaced explanatory bulk of a formerly wider charge of bloodguilt. Steve Mason is rightly sensitive to the dangerous potential of these charges and we may be grateful to him for his conscientious and erudite challenge to so many myths inflating the historical and religious import of the Judean War. Greater care in future research will hopefully help us avoid propagating new myths of our own.

CHAPTER 14

RESPONSE Steve MASON University of Groningen

1. INTRODUCTION 1.1. The Conference When Anthony Giambrone floated the idea of a conference at Jerusalem’s École Biblique to pursue issues raised in my 2016 book A History of the Jewish War, AD 66–74, I felt a combination of honour and terror. The honour part is explained by an exchange in Armando Iannucci’s 2009 film, In the Loop. When a British cabinet minister asks how Canadian delegates will align in a transatlantic debate about going to war, a mandarin responds: “No, you needn’t worry about the Canadians, they’re just happy to be there … they always look surprised when they’re invited.” This Canadian-Briton was definitely surprised by Anthony’s proposal, and gratified to think that his book could have such a catalytic function. My gratitude was quickly tempered, however, by anxiety. About half of the experts Anthony was planning to invite I knew personally, the others by reputation: historians of Judaism, the Roman empire, and warfare, archaeologists, epigraphers, numismatists, philologists, and textual interpreters. Even those I counted as friends were not the people to confuse professional gatherings with affirmation-therapy. What about those I did not know? Historical investigation had required me to make use of all available evidence. Lacking deep experience in each subdiscipline, I had done my best with the most relevant-seeming reports. What makes experts expert, however, is that they have independent views. Those attending the conference would undoubtedly express disagreement with my choices and interpretations, possibly in a marked manner. Because I would not be able to read their papers in advance, this could be the intellectual equivalent of a public, three-day colonoscopy. My concern was not completely irrational, given the published responses to my book. An old joke imagines two academics chatting at a bar on a

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conference evening. One says to the other, “I was wondering what you thought of Smith’s new study. Have you read it?” The other: “Read it? I haven’t even reviewed it!” With this book more than others I had written, my perception was that only younger scholars remembered that an academic review should give its readers a fair idea of the book’s content, method, and purpose as a condition of meaningful criticism.1 Established scholars often seemed to feel that they could skip that and move straight to high dudgeon, propping up an orphan sentence or footnote as a target. What if some conference presentations turned out to be of that mind? I thought about tranquillisers. What overcame my apprehensions – along with the honour involved, the potential to foster productive debate, and the chance to correct some of my errors – was Anthony’s reassuring approach. He and I had not met, but his emails convinced me that we had a shared interest in what happened in the West’s most consequential conflict, not in defending positions. He would invite scholars from the spectrum of disciplines and perspectives who shared this concern for historical truth above all. As a research student at the Hebrew University in the 1980s, I had visited the École’s great library, and had since come to know and respect scholars working there. But my deeper prejudices would not have suggested that the Order of Preachers would be ideal hosts of a conference on ancient Judaism – the context of Christian origins. Then again, the secular humanities, which I have long cherished as my working environment, tends to prefer conferences on identities, images, and perspectives, which avoid direct debate about the past. Historians must seize opportunities where we find them. Plato’s Socrates already prescribed the qualities needed of participants in truth-seeking discussions:2 knowledge, good will, and frankness (Gorg. 487a: ἐπιστήμη, εὔνοια, παρρησία). Anthony somehow persuaded sixteen eminent scholars with these traits – local and foreign, Jewish, Christian, and unaffiliated – to assemble in Jerusalem. In retrospect, having not required medication after all, I can only express my gratitude to him and to the École’s genial director, Jean-Jacques Pérennès, for their initiative, labour, and relentlessly constructive approach to hosting this event. I also want to thank the distinguished colleagues who were willing, in spite of sharp disagreement with my book at times, to make this discussion so productive.

1 2

WESTWOOD 2017; NOVENSON 2017. His likely irony with respect to Callicles’ ἐπιστήμη is not relevant for the moment.

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1.2. From Conference to Chapter My presentation unavoidably differed from the others, and since that difference endures here I should explain it. They had prepared academic papers in advance. Because my role was to respond to them, and I heard them for the first time during the conference, I could not do that. My preparation was in real time: following their talks – in English, French, German, and Italian – as well as possible, consolidating my notes and drafting responses after dinner, creating a digital presentation, and finishing up on the final day. The last prepared paper finished at 4:00 on Friday; my response began at 4:30 after a break. Josephus might have considered two things that happened that day as omens. First, while setting my laptop on the table at lunch – I had left the group to work – I managed to empty a tall lemonade over my suit. It was refreshing in unexpected ways, but I had no alternative clothes. Happily, the warm air dried me quickly. Then, as I sat on my hotel-room bed finishing the visual presentation, an explosion in the bathroom sent flecks of glass flying across the bed. The shower stall had spontaneously exploded. The receptionist, whom I alerted on my way out, recommended confession and fervent prayer. My contribution is less formal than the others, therefore, and not a single argument. For the printed version, documentation presented the biggest conundrum, for it would have elbowed out my substantive responses, which are the main point. Against my instinct to let readers follow the underpinning of every judgement, I must refer them to the book for most of that, including only a few notes where they are new or otherwise necessary. Finally, a word about coverage. This chapter responds to only eight of the sixteen papers presented. That is because the others did not substantially engage my book. That was proper, and this is not a complaint. They all enriched the conference theme of “rethinking the Jewish War,” and they were all inspiring. The very latest archaeology of the Arch of Titus in the Circus Maximus (Buonfiglio), of Jerusalem’s Upper City (Puech), and of the Antonia fortress and Ecce Homo arch (Cabaret), new reflections on the Bar-Kochba Revolt (Nodet), and post-70 traditions about the war (Ben-Shahar), along with different kinds of military analysis (Le Bohec, Brizzi) were stimulating indeed. Although I could have attempted banal comment on each talk, it seemed better to use the limited space to respond to those papers that significantly engaged my book.

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2. A HISTORY OF THE JEWISH WAR, AD 66-74 Since most readers of the present volume will not have had a chance to read the book, and the conference contributors – unlike reviewers – had no reason to summarise it, an overview of its origins, aims, and content will provide the necessary foundation for my responses. 2.1. Origins I did not write it because I thought I had a new vision of the Jewish War to offer the world. While in Oxford on a research leave in 2005–6, I received an invitation from Cambridge University Press to write for their series “Key Conflicts in Classical Antiquity.” The point of the new series, they stressed, was not to add another familiar narrative, but to lay bare for students the kind of historical thinking that underlies historical narratives – in Luke Pitcher’s metaphor, the submerged “action of the swan” beneath the seemingly effortless glide.3 At the time I was still comfortable with, and assumed when teaching, the main contours of the prevailing story: a province under increasing stress from Roman rule, from some combination of political, religious, economic, and social oppression, and rife with seers and messiahs, finally exploded in revolt in 66 CE. A number of questions had dented this construction, to be sure, as a result of more careful study of Josephus in his historiographical contexts and of trying to reconcile that with always advancing archaeology. For example, I had conceived doubts that the “fourth philosophy” and sicarii were actual groups, that there was a Roman province of Judaea before 70, and that “religion” or “Judaism” were useful explanatory categories. Although no expert in material remains, since first visiting the Burnt House as a doctoral student in the 1980s, I had already been puzzled by the prevailing explanation: a wealthy priestly family enjoying their life when Roman legionaries burst in and torched their mansion. That was hard to square with Josephus’ account (cf. Tacitus and Dio) of a city plagued by bloody internal conflict and starvation long before Titus reached the Upper City – after the temple was ablaze. Although I had no answers to such questions and had kept them largely to myself, there were enough of them that CUP’s invitation was welcome. The less noble motive of self-explaining also played a part. Since graduate school I had tried to be a methodologically aware historian. From my 3

PITCHER, 2009, 6–7.

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first book, on Josephus’ Pharisees, I stressed that studying Josephus’s presentation of any X – Pharisees, Essenes, priests, Cestius Gallus, the war’s origins – was not (for me) an end in itself, but a first step in exploring the lost ancient reality. We cannot try to explain evidence if we have not tried to figure out what it means. Josephus’ thirty volumes turned out to be such a rich field for original work, however, that the following two decades kept me almost entirely in this interpretative mode. In conjunction with all-consuming work on the Brill commentary (since 1997), I published smaller studies on “Josephus and X,” often emphasising the previously neglected problems – for example, connecting his Essenes with the Qumran Scrolls – that arise for our confident conclusions about the past when we interpret his narratives as intelligent compositions rather than as raw data sources. Although some colleagues found this helpful, others began to register concern from two directions. Some imagined that I was trying to settle historical questions on the cheap, merely by interpreting Josephus and without realising that he was but one source. In an SBL Hellenistic Judaism panel focused on my work in the 1990s, for instance, an eminent scholar portrayed me as a nice but gullible Canadian. He confused my interest in understanding Josephus with trust, though I have always made a radical distinction, more than nearly anyone in the field, between narrative and real-live events. Other colleagues broke in the opposite direction, supposing that I had given up on history or adopted a solipsistic “post-modern” view of history as nothing but the assemblage of competing, fiction-like, hegemonic narratives, which I set about deconstructing. Depressingly, one published response to my History of the Jewish War introduces me as a “post-modern literary scholar,” though my theory and practice of history sit on the opposite, critical-realist pole from postmodernism. What I considered basic to the humanistic study of history, in the tradition of Vico, Ranke, Droysen, Dilthey, Croce, Collingwood, and Bloch, was somehow coming across as the abandonment of history. I cannot deny that my puzzlement at these reactions added to the appeal of undertaking a full-scale history. 2.2. Method Historical method has been a central concern of mine. Of all the authors I have read on the subject, the two that have proven most consistently valuable are Marc Bloch’s unfinished, posthumous manual Apologie pour l’histoire (ca. 1943; English: The Historian’s Craft, 1953) and the British

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archaeologist-historian-philosopher R. G. Collingwood’s posthumous The Idea of History (1940s).4 Rather than trying to precis their views, I can summarise my method, which underlies the CUP book, in seven points. 1. The human past in any period was (like the present) a chaos of unfathomable intentions, instincts, actions, and interactions, hence no longer knowable in a comprehensive way. Since the objects that most interest us – the people, their thoughts, and motives – do not now exist, we cannot study them directly or objectively. We can study whatever remains they left, but these do not declare their meaning or disclose how they came to be. 2. These remains are of two main kinds: (i) what we call artefacts, purpose-built objects for needs at the time – building structures, kitchenware, coins, implements and weapons, stone inscriptions, documents – which had no interpretative intention, and (ii) meaning-making accounts, which were written to shape contemporary and to some extent later understanding of the period, usually in the form of narratives. Relative to what once existed in the Roman world, little of either kind of evidence has survived. We need to make the most of what has. 3. The most frequently travelled bridge between past and present is not history but tradition, or “that which is handed down.” Tradition is a oneway thoroughfare, bringing the past to us whether we request it or not, for present needs. All social groups – families, peoples, states, religions, corporations, military units – spawn traditions. Tradition needs the past, but can use only a few select elements from it, usually founding events and other perceived watersheds that can serve as emblems of group values. Most people know the past only through such traditions. Indeed, the most potent shaper of past-knowledge is the tradition that school curricula call “history” – the value-laden past that governments and school boards want their future citizens to absorb. 4. The word history has acquired innumerable meanings – the past itself, elite accounts of it, the irrelevant past, medical biographies – but for most working historians the term preserves the original Greek sense (historia) of “investigation.” In the modern university as in ancient Hellas, the pursuit of history arose from discontent with traditions as guides to what happened – though history studies traditions also, for what they are. Historians must assume that we know nothing reliable about the past unless and until we investigate some part of it. Jacob Neusner’s maxim, “What we cannot show, we do not know,” reflects the spirit. Or as Bloch 4

BLOCH 1953; COLLINGWOOD, 1994.

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put it (my emphasis), “every historical research supposes that the inquiry has a direction. …Every historical book worthy of the name ought to include a chapter…, ‘How can I know what I am about to say?’ … The sight of an investigation, with its successes and reverses, is seldom boring.”5 5. The unique object of historical research is not the past of flowers, frogs, or rock formations, but human activity, which we, as human beings interested the possibilities of human existence, are well equipped to study. To understand humanity is to understand mind or consciousness in the broadest sense: thoughts, intentions, desires, instincts, fears. 6. The effort to understand requires historians to shift between two distinct intellectual modes: (a) interpretation of what has survived and now exists before us and (b) our imaginative, hypothetical explanation of the lost realities that produced these remains. As for literary survivals, we can only be grateful that the ancient histories of Thucydides, Josephus, or Tacitus have reached us, at least in substantial part. Our first task is to understand what they are and mean. This requires studying their verbal cues in dialogue with our acts of sympathetic imagination, as we try to figure out what these authors wanted to communicate in their ancient contexts. When we turn to the lost realities outside the texts, however, we become cold-hearted critics. That is because we realise that they cannot have mentioned even a tiny fraction of the events that happened, and their explanations of what they do mention are nowhere near complete. To imagine the many scenarios that may have existed, we need to exploit every experience and analogue available to us, from all times and places. The same two-sided activity of interpretation and imaginative explanation applies to coins, inscriptions, papyri, building remains, and pottery. Our goal of grasping human consciousness also has consequences for the language and categories we use while investigating. Social-scientific history differs here, insofar as it uses trans-temporal models defined by investigators. But in the humanistic stream, we usually prefer to seek out their terms and categories. Bloch justifies the use of “probability” in historical research, even though probability was designed to calculate future outcomes, on the ground that the historian travels back imaginatively to the time when choices and outcomes were still in the future. We want to relive their thoughts as far as possible. Collingwood similarly speaks of our “re-enacting” the thoughts of ancient actors. But we can only engage in such re-enactment if we adopt their discourse. This is a point of central importance for the problem of “religion” in antiquity (below).6 5 6

BLOCH 1953, 71. BLOCH, 125; COLLINGWOOD, 282–302.

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7. The most transparent form for representing historical research is not narrative, though this remains the usual content of “history books,” but rather a report that walks readers through the investigation – a kind of argumentative essay, but focused on the process rather than on confident advocacy of a thesis. Since our conclusions are always subject to change, and with ancient questions we often cannot know what happened, the historical journey must be its own destination. Immersing ourselves in an alien world, to understand what our forebears did and why, how they thought and communicated with each other, is the only indispensable work of historians. If our research can generate probable conclusions, all the better, but often it cannot. History does not expect its practitioners to believe things. Doubt, especially of one’s own too-easy constructions, is the highest and most necessary virtue in our field – not a purely destructive doubt, to be sure, but one that clears away the fog of misunderstanding so that we may imagine new possibilities, which might take us closer to the truth of the ancient past. 2.3. Structure and Logic My book tried to apply these principles concretely to the history of the Jewish War. Its heart (chapters 4 to 9), entitled Investigations, therefore comprises five inquiries – not narratives. There are six chapters because I divided the investigation of Jerusalem into two (still-long) chapters as a concession to reader tolerance. Each investigation begins by contextualising a problem or two in contemporary scholarship, with a cascade of sub-questions. For example, Chapter 4 attempts not to narrate Judaean life before 66 in a proportionate-omniscient way, but to solve a problem: Where could the energy for an outbreak of lethal conflict in 66 CE have come from? Investigating this problem requires a solid understanding of the relevant part of Josephus’ War, surveyed as a whole in Chapter 2. We must also consider what, in general, makes groups willing to kill others. Causes do not usually include low-grade grumbles about taxation or acute indignation at a single offensive politician, who will soon be gone. After weighing possibilities and clarifying basic terminology (e.g., that “Judaea” was not a Roman province but the zone of the Judaean ethnos anchored in Jerusalem), I proposed that long-existing conflicts with Judaea’s neighbours, from which the auxiliary army was drawn after 6 CE, were a demonstrated cause of lethal conflict and hence the most plausible engine of its final outbreak, notably in the massacre of the Samarian-auxiliary garrison in Jerusalem and that of the Judaean minority in Caesarea, which

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together drove the spiral of conflict until the Flavians arrived. These profound tensions were normally contained under Roman rule, however, which favoured and protected Jerusalem. Only the peculiar turn of events in Nero’s later years unleashed the hatreds and left Jerusalem vulnerable. Each subsequent inquiry followed the same investigative logic. Instead of beginning with Josephus and judging his work right or wrong, I began with my own historical questions, usually about the intentions of key actors. For example, asking what Cestius Gallus intended in making his expedition to Jerusalem (autumn 66) opened up largely unexplored questions about his political situation vis-à-vis Nero, other imperial legates, and the Jerusalem elite. This approach incidentally cast doubt on customary appraisals of the legate as an incompetent general. Other chapters asked about the intentions of Flavians and Judaeans in Galilee in 67, in Jerusalem in 68–70, and in relation to the desert fortresses after the Flavian triumph. In each case, posing such questions required an effort to interpret the relevant parts of Josephus’ narratives, not in order to pass judgement on them but to understand how his shaping of events in each work might bear on our investigations. Other literary and material evidence, where available, attracted a similar interpretative effort, before I went on to imagine and weigh explanatory scenarios. This method often led me to emphasise that we cannot be sure of much, two millennia after the fact. But two principles aided my analysis: political realism and economy. By realism I mean not a modern school of thought but taking account of the ancient situation, often discussed by Graeco-Roman authors, in which power was the only right. When power was expressed as coercive violent force, one had to decided how to respond – in the absence of international courts or concepts of human rights – and the turn to self-help by way of physical defence was one predictable option. Realism also means bringing our gaze down from the heavens and high-level, purely rational explanations, to the human instinct for survival and emotions such as fear, anger, and humiliation as motives. This principle goes hand in hand with economy (parsimony in explanation), by which I mean testing first the most common kinds of human responses, proceeding to higher-order explanations only if these cannot satisfactorily explain the evidence. Applying these principles suggested plausible low-resolution solutions to each set of problems, which I drew together in the conclusion. Namely, Jerusalem, with its uniquely wealthy temple, was unwillingly thrust into an emergency by an emperor desperate to seize its wealth. As his eager muscle, Nero used the Judaeans’ age-old local enemies, an auxiliary recruited

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from Samaria and Caesarea, under the command of his untouchable freedman Florus. This caused an abrupt reversal in Jerusalem’s fortunes, which had prospered under Rome for more than a century. It also neutralised both King Agrippa II and the consular legate in Antioch (Cestius), who had usually cooperated in securing Judaea’s interests. Some of Jerusalem’s residents naturally resorted to self-help, eventually killing the hated auxiliary garrison and attacking Cestius’ legionary expedition, after the violence it had displayed. Once arms had been raised against the Roman order, no matter how justifiably, it became impossible for those involved to contemplate surrender. The old walls increasingly provided refuge for outsiders in fearful flight, including John of Gischala and Simon bar Giora (of Gerasa), the warring strongmen who would hold out until the city and temple were in flames. I consider this a more plausible explanation of our evidence than the abstract image of a population in thrall to theological-messianic expectations for generations before finally summoning the courage to revolt in 66. The traditional views of national revolt would not well explain the conflicts in Caesarea, the reaction to Florus’ humiliations in Jerusalem, Simon bar Giora’s vehemence against Zealots and others, or the flight of families to Machaerus and Masada. Investigations began only in Chapter 4 because it seemed necessary first to establish a shared frame of mind with readers. While the book was in preparation, this contextual material expanded to seven chapters. Since they were the least original, however, they took the biggest hit when I finally shrank Part I (“Contexts”) to a Jungian three. The present first chapter explores the chasm between the fame of the war and historical understanding. If the interests that made the war famous did not encourage historical understanding, where should we turn for such understanding? The second chapter examines the most impactful ancient text, Josephus’ tragic account in The Judaean War. It aims equally at sympathetic understanding of this priceless composition and at sceptically laying bare its limitations for the historian (above). Josephus’ hindsight interests, thematic palette, structuring devices, and criteria for including material could never be ours. This realisation undergirds the remaining investigations, which begin from my questions as a historian, not by asking whether Josephus is right or wrong. My last throw at establishing a foundation for the investigations was Chapter 3, which invited the reader to think with me about ancient warfare in longue-durée terms: strategic concerns, the structure of Roman forces and the nature of Judaean irregular combatants, motivations for taking up arms, sources of inspiration and hope, the centrality of morale,

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the role of piety and the divine on all sides, and problems attending siege warfare. The glaring omission is a standard introduction, something I would not accept in student work. The explanation of this oddity is that the book originally had a far too elaborate introduction, the seven contextual chapters mentioned above. Radical surgery on Part I required triage. I decided that an immediate “hook,” drawing readers into the shambolic Flavian celebrations, might sustain their interest until Chapter 2, which would provide a brief methodological introduction while discussing the nature of Josephus’ War. The state of scholarship in relation to Josephus would also come up here, and in Chapter 4 in relation to the war’s causes. That seemed preferable to including a formal academic introduction, discussing method and the state of scholarship – but in a dry vacuum for most readers. A more orthodox structure would no doubt have helped readers (and reviewers) figure out what I was up to. 3. RESPONSES This background underlies my responses to those conference papers that significantly interacted with my book. 3.1. Mordechai Aviam Mordechai (Motti) Aviam is a world expert in the archaeology of Galilee, and my generous host, academic friend, and guide in the region. In the context of this conference his lecture, asking why historians ignored archaeological evidence, seemed a challenge to my analysis of Galilee in 67. In keeping with its principle of economy, my book found no evidence that required us to imagine a proper war or national revolt encompassing Galilee. After all, the region’s chief polis, Sepphoris, sent delegates to welcome Vespasian and Agrippa II in Ptolemais, before they even reached Galilee. Sepphoris requested a sizeable garrison, which Vespasian sent. This force, supplemented by auxiliary and allied cavalry, meant that he arrived in Lower Galilee with instant control of the west-east valleys. The lakeside cities, buffered from the west by a south-north range, had become Agrippa II’s property a decade earlier, and so were not on his itinerary at this point. Anyway, their leaders had also greeted Vespasian and Agrippa in Ptolemais. The only sites for which there is clear literary and archaeological evidence of conflict, Iotapata (Yodfat) and Gamala, were special cases: Iotapata because it was singled out by Vespasian’s general Placidus

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for having embarrassed him; Gamala as the redoubt of those who had serious issues with the king, which were not related to Roman rule (below). Aviam’s argument focused on the evidence for fortifications. He saw western Galilee and Sepphoris as somewhat isolated from the heartland of Jewish Galilee, where he found a number of such fortifications – for him evidence of a coordinated national defensive effort and determination to fight Rome. Mounts Tabor and Nitai had walls of uncertain date, but first or second century. The village Kfar e-Seba had a Hellenistic-Roman wall. The walls of Taricheae/Magdala were built in part from its destroyed first-century synagogue, suggesting wartime construction. Gamala and Iotapata had emergency walls clearly built around this time. Even limited excavation in both places found hundreds of arrowheads and ballista balls, supporting the stories of conflict in Josephus. Aviam then turned to Josephus’ War (2.572–75), which lists eighteen or nineteen sites that he claims to have fortified upon his arrival as general. Aviam argued that such hasty wall-building, broadly supported by archaeology, could only be explained as part of a coordinated revolt against Rome. Let us begin, in keeping with the method I have outlined, by trying to understand the relevant indications in Josephus’ War. I lack the expertise to interpret the archaeology, and rely on reports of Aviam and others, but Josephus’ account obviously plays a crucial explanatory role also for Aviam. My first observation is that Josephus, the only one who claims a coordinated fortification effort, directed by him, does not present this as a consequence of a desire for war, on his part or among the command in Jerusalem. As narrator he appears to be of one mind with the sober-minded leaders of Jerusalem, whom he describes as urgently counselling against war, if only from fear that the Romans would hold them responsible (e.g., 2.409–19). He seems to agree with King Agrippa, for whom he crafts a lengthy speech on the folly of confronting Rome (2.345–406). Most impressively, he admires Ananus II, the chief priest who commissioned him, for trying gradually to bring the militants over to a non-violent course, while nevertheless preparing Jerusalem’s defences in case the city should need to defend itself – trying not to alienate the militants in the process (2.650– 51). Those who successfully ambush Cestius’ legion make war preparations indeed, in their misguided excess of passionate enthusiasm, but the men they choose as leaders are more politically savvy. This phenomenon is familiar from modern conflicts. Hardliners often see the need for leaders more capable than themselves, or with broader public support, who are likely to have wiser counsels – even if they keep these to themselves and promote a hard line in public.

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Josephus’ character appears for the first time in War, out of the blue, as a general selected by Jerusalem leaders for this defensive effort after the Cestius affair. As a wise statesman, according to his shimmering selfpresentation, he wins the trust of the Galilean population and establishes administrative routines among them, then recruits a 100,000-strong army and trains them in legion-like manoeuvres in a demanding boot camp, which only 60,000 can complete, and fortifies many sites (2.569–83). Josephus’ literary self-aggrandisement is understandable. Writing in Rome, he wants to portray himself as the hero Vespasian’s greatest opponent. Still, he makes clear that this generalship was a duty, which he patriotically discharged in spite of his political judgement, just as Ananus was doing. Even though he and other generals had no taste for war, they expected a Roman army – under Cestius Gallus – to return looking for blood. Since this army would reach Galilee first, he had no choice but to try to protect its people (2.573). This dynamic continues through Book 3: he flees to the safety of Tiberias when Vespasian arrives, returns to Iotapata from a sense of duty when it is imperilled, tries to leave when he foresees a futile death there, and when compelled to remain, resolves to put up the best possible fight (e.g., 3.127–31, 138–40, 192–206). Within the world of War’s story, then, it was prudent to build defences, which might at least buy time for Galileans and those farther south, but these do not prove a unified desire for war. When we move from sympathetic interpretation to sceptical history, War’s simple account (“I was sent to Galilee as general, and built an army to equal Vespasian’s”) crumbles at the slightest poke. That Josephus recruited 100,000 – as many soldiers as the modern State of Israel conscripts, and a force larger than Britain’s regular army – although the largest Galilean cities held 12–15,000 residents, is preposterous. In any case, War has this mighty army evaporate before glimpsing the enemy (3.129). The Vita, which puts Josephus in Galilee with two priestly colleagues on a mission to pacify the area, knows nothing of an army at all. If we doubt Josephus’ general’s work on his arrival in Galilee, as we must, then his claim of methodical fortification collapses. The main point is that Josephus himself refutes the claim. Take Sepphoris. Although Aviam seemed to marginalise Sepphoris as not very Jewish, it was the capital of Jewish Galilee after Tiberias lost its regional pre-eminence by absorption into King Agrippa’s kingdom in the mid-50s (Vita 37–42). Sepphoris eagerly welcomed Cestius in 66 and again Vespasian in 67, securing garrisons from each. Since Josephus includes it in his list of fortifications, walls did not imply revolt against

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Rome.7 Josephus claims that the Sepphorites used their walls to keep him, not the Romans, out (Vita 375). We should remember that most Mediterranean settlements were walled in the Graeco-Roman world, Sparta being a famous exception with its boast that walls were for sissies. The concept of a polis assumed a walled (asty) settlement of 1 to 2 km2, protecting the core institutions against all hazards, chiefly bandits and hostile neighbours – not in order to revolt – and a larger hinterland. The Decapolis poleis had walled cores, as did Ascalon (3.14). That several settlements in Galilee had walls dating from the first or second century is not surprising. This evidence does not require the hypothesis of a coordinated revolt against Rome. Or consider Gischala. In the passage mentioned by Aviam (B.J. 2.575), Josephus claims that John built its wall under his direction. This is difficult to believe because of Josephus’ contrary and more plausible account in the Life. There, John adamantly opposes conflict with Rome. He fortifies Gischala on his own sheqel, after it is attacked and burned by raiders from neighbouring poleis (Vita 43-45, 70-72). Josephus later claims that John fortified his town against Josephus, during their months of deadly conflict (189). However exactly those details played out, Gischala shows that even if a town was fortified in 66 or 67, we cannot be sure that it was part of a coordinated war effort against Rome. If John did fortify Gischala against local enemies and then Josephus, moreover, it becomes possible to imagine that Iotapata’s wall, which no one doubts was later attacked by Vespasian, originated in the preceding months, as an emergency fortification against John and the delegation from Jerusalem. We have no basis for claiming that, but I do not see how it could be ruled out, if John was fortifying against locals and Josephus. Or take Agrippa’s lakeside towns, Tiberias and Taricheae, which Josephus also includes in the list. Since these cities were not on either Cestius’ or Vespasian’s itineraries, but belonged to an allied king, and they had welcomed that Vespasian and the king just as Sepphoris and the 7 B.J. 2.218, (cf. 5.147-55; A.J. 19.26-27) describes a wall around Jerusalem begun by Agrippa I in the early 40s, which his death prevented him from completing. Josephus reflects that if he had finished it, it would have much impeded the Roman siege. B.J. 5 says that Agrippa started it because Jerusalem’s population had outgrown its older walls, and Agrippa wished to have them feel safe – the obvious reason for walls. So Agrippa lays the foundations but then stops, from a sudden fear that Claudius (whose elevation he had facilitated in Rome) might suspect a revolutionary motive. The Antiquities parallel says that the legate in Syria prompted this concern to Claudius. Putting all the pieces together, however, it seems most likely that Agrippa had no revolutionary intention. Walls did not mean revolt.

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Decapolis did (Vita 341-343), it is hard to see how they could have been part of a revolt against Rome. Their residents’ problems were with Agrippa (below). Anyway, at War 2.606–10 Josephus explains in detail how he came to build their walls, and it has nothing to do with fighting Rome. He claims that his efforts to preserve for Agrippa some plunder that had been stolen from him put Josephus in mortal danger with anti-Agrippa elements. Purely as a stratagem for his personal survival, in a Taricheae suddenly turned against him, he fabricated the fib that he was holding the money for them, to build walls for security against nearby Tiberias and others keen to get their hands on this loot. Eventually, he promises to find other funds to build big beautiful walls for Tiberias and other towns, which have become jealous of Taricheae. This charming story of resourcefulness quietly destroys Josephus’ claim about a systematic fortification under his command. Incidentally, it is difficult to see why these cities should be seen as particularly Jewish, over against Sepphoris.8 Josephus’ list also includes Seleucia and Sogane in the Golan, although his mandate mentions only Gamala there (2.568). He stresses that the region belonged to Agrippa (3.37, 56) and that these two cities, unlike Gamala, confirmed their loyalty to Agrippa from the beginning of unrest (4.4). How and why they came to be fortified remains unclear. Even in the case of Gamala, which was undoubtedly later assaulted by the Flavians, it is not certain that the wall was constructed against them. The Life seems to exclude it from any coordinated programme of fortification. The story is that when Agrippa and his sister went to Beirut to confer with Cestius, after the mother-city had expelled Agrippa for ineffectiveness in checking Florus, he left Varus/Noarus in charge. Agrippa had already dispatched his top-most aide Philip ben Iacimus – of the martial “Babylonian Judaeans” whom King Herod had settled in Batanaea – with 2000 cavalry to assist Jerusalem’s leaders in calming the populace. As a royal scion of Ituraean descent, Varus reportedly considered himself superior to Philip and the equal of Agrippa (Life 52), which made playing second fiddle to Philip a humiliation. With both Agrippa and Philip out of the territory, Varus saw his big opportunity, should the Romans implicate the king along with Philip in Jerusalem’s unrest (Life 51–52). Philip’s survival (with his troop) of the 8 For the opposite view, that Antipas founded Tiberias – named for the emperor, built over graves, structured as a polis, open to lake-based trade – as a counterweight to traditional Sepphoris, see BERNETT 2007, 221–29. In Vita 142–43, Josephus characterises Taricheae as particularly hospitable to resident foreigners, and that is his reason for offering them walls.

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auxiliary massacre in Jerusalem looked suspicious. Egged on by Syrians in the auxiliary headquarters of coastal Caesarea, Varus destroyed letters that Philip sent to the king, killed their couriers, and hatched a plot to do away with Philip’s clan. After the first victims fell in this plot, and Philip’s relatives thought that Agrippa might be behind their persecution by his lieutenant, they fled to Gamala, the most secure site in his territory (Life 58). Philip, puzzled that the king had not responded and his couriers had not returned, made his way back and also found refuge in Gamala. Rumours abounded there, including the false but plausible claim that the Caesareans had done away with Agrippa. Philip’s compatriots urged him to become their champion and “make war on Varus and the Syrians of Caesarea” (Life 59). In Beirut, Agrippa became outraged upon hearing of Varus’ coup-like moves and murder of Judaeans. He replaced Varus with a third trusted aide, the Roman Modius Aequus (Life 61). Still fearing that Philip had defected or been killed, however – why had he not heard from him? – the king saw the action of the Batanaean Judaeans in seizing Gamala as worrying and ordered Modius to besiege Gamala. When Philip learned that his old friend Modius was there, he got out word that he was inside. The delighted Modius alerted the king that Philip was both alive and loyal. Agrippa sent a cavalry force to escort Philip out and later sent him back with cavalry to conduct the Babylonian Judaeans to their homes (Life 114, 179–84). Josephus frames this complex human story with the headline that Gamala “stood firm in loyalty to the Romans” (Life 46). He and his colleagues were sent north to report on any anti-Roman feeling after events in the south. He explains that Gamala had never opposed Rome, but did experience unrest for these reasons. Philip managed to defuse the hostility to Agrippa by reminding people of all the king had done for them, not to mention his Roman backing (Life 60). At what point was Gamala walled, and why? A larger question of loyalty to the king had arisen because of Nero’s gift of Tiberias and Taricheae to Agrippa a decade earlier, which caused widespread disgruntlement (Life 37–42). Immediately after the story about Philip’s persuading those in Gamala to stay loyal (Life 61), Josephus mentions two relatives of Philip in Gamala among the victims of a vigorous youthful faction. They coerced Gamala’s principal men “to defect from the king and take up weapons” (Life 185–88). Josephus’ chronology is unclear (cf. 177–79), and this internal conflict may have begun before Philip’s arrival and before Cestius’ expedition, which both preceded Josephus’ appearance. In any case, once Josephus is in the north (late 66), these anti-Agrippa rebels ask him

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for additional fighters and men to raise their walls (186: τοὺς ἀναστήσοντας αὐτῶν τῇ πόλει τείχη). Josephus agrees, in keeping his policy of feigning support for militants while quietly supporting Agrippa II (Life 22, 64–69). This is how Gamala comes to be walled, re-walled, or strengthened. Again, it is not part of a coordinated fortification: Josephus responds to an unexpected request from a town suddenly rebellious against Agrippa, not something predicted. Vespasian and Titus will only be there in September 67 because Agrippa requests their help with unrest in his territories. My book by no means ignored the archaeology of Galilee, which I learned from the generous and insightful Aviam, while reading all the reports I could find. Uzi Leibner’s survey of fifty sites in eastern-central Galilee confirms the absence of evidence for a region-wide conflict at this time, although it notes that a few places were abandoned as Roman forces arrived.9 3.2. Donald Ariel Donald Ariel’s expert paper on the wartime coins moves in a similar direction, arguing that material evidence points to a national revolt. I had to miss part of his presentation (on coin symbology) for a media interview, but caught the gist I think. Although he noted that the war began in a series of unplanned pushes, shoves, and responses – I agree – Ariel saw the silver and bronze issues from 66 to 70 as evidence of a revolt mentality: the palaeo-Hebrew legends, the numbered years, and the name sheqel (not a currency as much as a national statement) all indicating pride in the Jerusalem minting authority. The openly nationalistic legends on the smaller coins and the very existence of the high-quality silver series were for Ariel declarations of independence from Rome. He made some small and pointed criticisms of my book, though I think these resulted mainly from miscommunication.10 James McLaren and Martin Goodman have likewise taken the Jerusalem silver coins as evidence – against what they see as Josephus’ equivocating and cover-up – of a coordinated revolt and the creation of a state led by Jerusalem’s elite, boldly asserting its minting 9

LEIBNER, 2009. For example, I had written that Herod was permitted to mint low-value coins but not silver issues, which would have needed special permission; Ariel objected that no permission was needed for small coins. When I say that as the employee of a Dutch university I am permitted to travel to give talks within the country, but must request leave to go abroad, I mean exactly that: what I do within the country is below the radar of concern – not that I need permission for it and for the bigger trips. 10

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autonomy.11 Given the importance of this question about the coins’ value for recovering the motives of Jerusalem’s wartime leaders, I shall focus on it here. I think I understand the argument. I am simply not sure how, whatever the coin engravings mean, their historical contexts might be deduced from them. The question reminds me of times when, finding myself in charge of a project or department, I have worked with graphic designers to create a logo. They always amazed me with the effort they put into understanding the project, so as to make every element of the design resonant with meaning – each typeface had a story – although no one but another designer would appreciate much of this. Similarly, although the designers of Euro coins undoubtedly put enormous care into making their designs meaningful, and I carry Euros in my pocket each day, other than noticing some stars and angular strokes, I have never studied them and have no idea what they mean. With the Jerusalem coins, everyone seems to agree that, while the designers relished the palaeo-Hebrew they had engraved, few could read it. This suggests that the designs aimed more at emotional responses than communicating specific messages. Even with the beautiful gold Flavian coins featuring a bereft female Judaea, I imagine that someone using such a coin in Lyon might have felt something between “Yeah, we did it!” “Nice coin!” and “Those Flavians never stop!” rather than “So, they have transformed this suppression of rebellion in a province into a great eastern conquest.” Design-meaning, overall impact, and practical function are clearly different things. It took decades of research for the sheqel series to be confidently dated to 66 to 70. Since then, scholars have often tried to deduce particular contexts and causes from their content, with a marked tendency – which I do not attribute to Ariel, who stays close to their actual properties – to sublimate and theologise, as with other remains from the war. A divorce bill from Masada (Mur. 19), for example, has the dating formula ‘On the first of Marcheshvan, Year 6 in Masada (beMasada).’ From this meagre indication, eminent scholars have inferred: “This document attests to the messianic expectations and aspirations of the occupants of Masada, who continued to use the era initiated at the time of the First Revolt even after the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple.”12

11 GOODMAN 2007, 33–34; MCLAREN 2011, 148: ‘There is no room for this action [minting] to be viewed as anything other than the decision of people committed to the new state of ‘Israel’.” 12 ESHEL 2002, 159. My emphasis.

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I mention this example for two reasons relevant to the coins. First, if its Year 6 (71–72 CE) continues the same series that we see on the coins, as Eshel assumes, then these years do not imply a functioning state. If the date is aspirational, as Hanan Eshel must allow, then the coin years could also be aspirational. They need not say anything about actual conditions on the ground. The Bar Kochba coins, which give both numbered years and images of the temple, were produced after Jerusalem had become Aelia Capitolina, occupied by the Tenth Legion. If they had been produced in Jerusalem, scholars would presumably have attributed all kinds of meanings to them, but they were aspirational in some sense. Coin legends and images by themselves tell us nothing, unidirectionally, about their underlying political context or aims. We must interpret them. Second, “year 6 at/ in Masada” in the document does not warrant Eshel’s exegesis. It is not even clear why it should refer to destroyed Jerusalem’s years. A simpler interpretation would be: Year 6 of the community in/at Masada. There was no shared dating system in antiquity, but each polis had its own. Why would the inhabitants of Masada, who had fled Jerusalem, and whose founders (Menachem’s group led by Eleazar ben Yair) and at least some later arrivals (the Simon bar Giora family) were in serious conflict with Jerusalem’s leaders, not have dated life in Masada from the community’s founding? I do not know that they did, but that seems the most obvious explanation of the dating formula, which thus implies nothing of a Judaean state elsewhere. I mention this example to emphasise that we must bring assumptions even to what seems the interpretation of material remains by themselves. With the coins, if we lower our gaze from the heavens to normal human realities, the indisputable facts they exhibit may not require a posture of revolt or a functioning state called Israel. We need to remember the general security situation. After Vespasian advanced to Judaea from his winter base in Caesarea in the early spring of 68 – following the instant submission of Galilee and a hearty welcome from the coastal cities, the Decapolis, and Samaria in 67 – he garrisoned all Judaea, without noticeable resistance, in April and May (War 4.490). He rode up to the walls of Jerusalem, to inspect the situation (4.551). The only reason Vespasian did not begin operations against Jerusalem was that Nero died in June 68, ending Vespasian’s mandate and initiating an eighteen-month civil war in Rome. When Vespasian entrusted Titus with some depleted legions to resume the task in 70, Titus could again march his army straight to the walls because Judaea had remained in Roman hands. Titus, with his large force, hoped for a quick surrender. He could have had no wish for

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the logistical nightmares of a prolonged upland siege.13 However we theologise a “state of Israel” at this point, then, it could only have been a state in the sense that Machaerus and Masada were states – in Roman perspective, bandit sites outside the law, in the square kilometre or so within Jerusalem’s oldest walls. These realities severely limited the impact of any messaging on the coins. What did the various coin symbols and legends mean, nevertheless, in their designers’ intentions? I do not know, and am happy to let experts decide. My book reviews a range of contradictory (but confident) readings of both silver and bronze issues, for example the frequent sermonising about the change from “freedom” to “redemption” on the Year 4 bronzes – although the terms are synonymous in the Bible, and the Bar Kochba coins make the reverse change. Since Jerusalem had never been occupied by Romans, and the auxiliary garrison had been massacred before the coins appeared, I like Uriel Rappaport’s proposal that the bronze legends reflect Simon’s hope to seize Jerusalem from his enemies: the DisciplesZealots.14 A more basic question for me is whether the production of these coins was necessary. This question has not gone unaddressed in scholarship, but it is usually treated as a consequence of interpretation: the silver coins mean × (usually: revolt!) and so were used to pay for temple needs or the half-sheqel tax or the like. But what if we begin with the simpler question: Were the silver coins needed for practical life in Jerusalem? The Bar-Kochba coins, being overstruck, seem not to have met such an urgent practical need – if the underlying coins would have served for buying and selling. Indications that those in control of the temple in 66 to 70 thought it necessary to produce new high-value coins include these. First, Judaea had been the main user of the high-quality tetradrachms produced in Tyre, but Nero closed that mint in 65–66. Second, the young priests in control of the temple had, in outrage at their neighbours’ and the auxiliary’s abuse of Jerusalem, cut off relations with foreigners, refusing even to accept the gifts and sacrifices they had customarily offered. Third, the simple fact that Jerusalem’s temple produced coins at least as pure (up to 98%) as the Tyrians, in the middle of a crisis, suggests that they were needed for practical purposes, not primarily as medallions or political statements. Once we take it as a working hypothesis that the coins were needed for something – we do not need to know what – their legends and images 13 14

Tacitus, Hist. 5.12; Dio [epit. Xiph.] 65/66.4.1; Josephus, B.J. 5.52-54. RAPPAPORT 2007.

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become of secondary importance. If they are not to circulate as blank discs, coins need some engraved content. This is likely to be of a traditional character, whether lulav and etrog or temple accoutrements such as the menorah. If we work up from the ground this way – “We need coins, so what shall we put on them?” – rather than down from the peaks of interpretation, we find ourselves trying re-think their choices (cf. Bloch and Collingwood), including the options they did not take. To state the obvious, it was not necessary to have a functioning independent “state,” whatever that could have meant in the Roman empire, for a community to need a currency. In normal times, undertaking to produce high-quality silver coinage without Rome’s agreement would have been a strange and brazen act. But these were not normal times in Jerusalem. If the relatively small number of Year 1 coins suggests that they began production late in the year from spring 66 to spring 67, that was after the massacre of the auxiliary garrison and perhaps the autumn ambush of Cestius’ legion. In any case, the coins appeared after many lethal exchanges between Jerusalemites and Gessius Florus’ auxiliary in 65–66. In the new context of isolation from its neighbours, minting coins was the least of Jerusalem’s worries, not a standalone offence. If it needed money for food and supplies, and among its few resources inside the walls had large silver reserves in the temple, why not produce high-quality coins to help survive? Although we habitually call the silver issues “revolt coins,” this label says more about our assumptions than the engraved content, which has nothing about war, conflict, or rebellion. The Romans knew how to depict war on coins: with swords, helmets, trophies, spears, mounted warriors, and symbols of victory and triumph. So did those who revolted against the central power. In 68, the legate Clodius Macer in Africa, having cut himself off from Rome, raised a second “liberator” legion and produced emergency silver coins to pay his soldiers and meet other expenses. Along with calming ears of corn and other symbols, they featured warships, javelins, shields, trophies, and victory images. The coins of the briefly successful Batavian-Gallic Revolt in 69–70, likewise, bore traditional symbols for Gallia (torc, boar, grain), along with such martial images as the defeat of the Legio XV Primigenia, a coin fronted by a helmeted Champion of Liberty. Even King Herod, when fairly secure in power with Roman backing, liked to put shields and helmets on his small coins. Jerusalem’s wartime coins have none of this. They undoubtedly convey a feeling of pride in ancient traditions, though no more than the Tyrian silvers they replaced. The Tyrian coins had on their obverse the Lord of Tyre, Melqart, interpreted as tough-god Heracles,

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and on the reverse an eagle, Hercules’ club, and palm branch with the legend “Tyre, Holy and Inviolable [or place of asylum].” Some of this could have sounded bellicose, but it was only civic pride. These coins had been produced from Seleucid times and continued under Roman rule until Nero’s time. When the Jerusalem priests (let us imagine) decided what to put on their coins from late 66, they created some parallels with Tyre’s, especially “Jerusalem the Holy,” but omitted even the Tyrian kind of swagger, let alone emblems of revolt. If we begin from the assumption that those in control of the temple needed high-quality coins, and consider the symbols and legends they chose against the whole range of possibilities, they seem to me to have opted to project calm and stability in the midst of turmoil. Jerusalemites were not in need of inspiration to revolt. They had been thrust into dire straits since 66, with many leaving, armed groups arriving, and leaders losing their lives in the turmoil. On top of it all, no one knew when Vespasian would arrive at the walls with an army, when he could do more or less whatever he wished. In the face of these horrors, which would include starvation in the final year, the coins have a calming appearance. Their old, unintelligible words, the chalice or measuring cup, a flowering stem – these are not symbols of belligerence or revolution. They might suggest that, appearances to the contrary, someone is in charge, the old values remain in place, and things will turn out all right. The 1939 British “keep calm and carry on” slogan comes to mind as an analogue, particularly because it was prepared for posters to be used if the expected German attacks turned out to be crippling, and a desperate nation needed reassurance. In short, I find Ariel’s expert insights into properties of the coins helpful, and I agree that their effect is to create confidence in the minting authority. If one already believes that there was a coordinated national revolt against Rome, the coins do not contradict that view. But the laws of contradiction and proof have little purchase in ancient history. Our task has more to do with finding the optimal background matrix to make sense of the survivals. In my view, a lower-resolution, lower-intensity matrix of human fears and conflicts better explains the designers’ choices, in tiny and isolated Jerusalem, than an intended call to arms or celebration of nation-wide independence. The coins do not tell us about any scenario. 3.3. Benny Arubas and Haim Goldfus Haim Goldfus presented the results of his excavations with Benny Arubas, a couple of decades ago, of the ramp at Masada. This was welcome to me

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because these results are not yet well known outside specialist circles, although they are obviously important for the history of the site. After their excavations and consultation with other experts for the geology, Arubas and Goldfus concluded that the ramp was never completed. Since erosion in the area seems to have been minimal, whereas a functional ramp for storming the summit would have needed to be much wider than the current ridge, creating a vastly larger volume than the largely natural spur now visible, Flavius Silva must never have completed his main assault ramp. Nor did they find any evidence of the 23 m cube platform Josephus pictures atop the ramp, to host the 18 m siege tower and ram – items widely ignored by scholars and by whoever created the reconstructions presented to visitors today. (They see a peculiar siege tower with an angled base.) Arubas and Goldfus have admirably insisted on staying with their primary task of interpreting the archaeology, without feeling the need to solve the historical problems of what happened at the end of Masada’s Judaean occupation. Reaction has been fierce in some quarters, though it is not entirely clear what those who disagree perceive to be at stake: Josephus’ honour? Although I find their research fascinating and reasonable-sounding, I stress in my book that I am neither an archaeologist nor a geologist, therefore not in a position to make an independent judgement about the material remains. Other archaeologists do not agree, and I must take all of their positions into account. In Chapter 9 of the book, my investigative questions concerned Judaean and Roman motives, respectively, in going to the desert fortresses. What kind of places were they, and why one would go there and want them recovered? I included a discussion of Masada’s end, where Judaean and Roman aims finally confronted each other. Given the different interpretations of the physical evidence, I offered a number of possible scenarios: some if the ramp was completed, some if not. See further my response to Rajak below. 3.4. Werner Eck Werner Eck’s name on Anthony’s list was certainly one cause of anxiety. Eck’s formidable knowledge of Roman governance, at home and in the provinces, prosopography, and epigraphy would make almost anyone awaiting his response nervous. I took some comfort in knowing that Eck’s and Hannah Cotton’s work on the nature of the prefect or procurator of Judaea underlay my developing ideas. In the book I built on their arguments that Judaea before the war was not a province but an ethnic

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zone in the province of Syria, that a procurator had no governing (praisidial) authority, procurators being financial officials, and that prefects did sometimes manage ethnic zones within larger provinces – as Judaea within Syria. Whereas Eck had argued that the provincia Judaea came into existence with arrival of the ex-consul Vespasian in 67, however, I proposed that Vespasian created the regular province of Judaea, with a praetorian legate and legion, in 70 as a “trophy” of his victory, to help justify the triumph, claims to a massive influx of resources for the Flavian rebuilding programme in Rome, and the right to expand the pomerium. I do not think that the two views are contradictory, if one thinks of provincia in two different senses: as “portfolio, sphere of imperium and responsibility” and as a settled province under legate and legion. In any case, I was pleased to hear Eck’s clear and thorough case that Jerusalem and Judaea were part of the province of Syria, which included an exposé of Josephus’ “chaotic” terminology for Roman officials. In effect, Eck rejected Josephus’ explicit claim at War 2.117–18 (Judaea was made a province in 6 CE) in favour of the still clearer Antiquities 17.354– 18.2 (Judaea was annexed to Syria). This view, which overturns the handbooks, including later editions of Schürer (see my book), seems necessary to explain the census of 6 CE and the evident responsibility of the consular legate for Jerusalem. It has enormous consequences for understanding the revolt, explaining why the legate Cestius Gallus felt responsible: visiting Jerusalem at Passover of 66, sending a tribune alone with Agrippa II that summer, and reluctantly fielding his own expedition that autumn. It helps us to understand, by analogy with nearly contemporary situations in Britain and Spain, the complex relationship among Nero, his senatorial legates, and his procurators. We can thus better understand why Gessius Florus could act with such impunity, though nominally under Cestius. In removing the foundation from a common view of the Judaean War as a provincial revolt, this perspective also raises new questions, such as “When, if ever, did this conflict become a war?” The Romans knew war (bellum iustum) as a distinct activity – the assumption being that it was fought in foreign territory, though the definition of such territory could change back and forth. The Flavians later presented the Judaean conflict as one of the greatest wars ever, to justify their triumph and legitimate their rule, and Josephus took advantage of that claim to highlight his and his people’s virtues, as well as the scale of trauma suffered by Jerusalem (War 1.1). But when had it become a war? As Cestius was trying to manage the unrest in the south of his province throughout 66, there was no obvious war. He expected to return in the spring of 67, heading straight

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to Jerusalem as the heart of the problem. Nero’s unexpected decision to replace him with Vespasian did not change either the causes of Judaean grievance or Roman aims. Although now able to take much more time, Vespasian followed Cestius’ basic plan of display violence the north before proceeding south, and risk-aversion in general. Given the lack of combat through most of 66 to 70, and Vespasian’s clarity that the war was over with Jerusalem’s fall in 70, the unpredicted end of the troubles ignited by Florus, it is difficult to see when an actual war began. 3.5. Nadav Sharon, Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Joseph Sievers From various angles, these three papers raised the most consistent line of critique of my book, during the conference and in reviews, namely: its apparent marginalisation of “religion” as a factor in the war. I hope that these colleagues will not mind if I group them together, so that I may respond to this important challenge most efficiently. Nadav Sharon explored Jewish views of Roman rule. He focused on the clearest literary expressions of Jewish grievance, in the period following Pompey’s conquest and then after the destruction of the temple in 70, with 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch. He made the important point that the last two texts are not as similar as scholars often suppose. I found his interpretations helpful. Once again, we differ mainly on the question of historical explanation. Sharon suggests linking up the post-Ptolemy and post-70 texts to extrapolate a coherent Jewish view of animosity toward the conquering power and hopes for divinely assisted liberation, though we have little in this vein from the intervening period. Mireille Hadas-Lebel’s considerable body of work on Jewish-Roman relations and the war, following an influential strain of French historiography, shows particular interest in the longue durée and a longstanding Jewish mentalité, somewhat like that posited by Sharon. In her earlier work as in her conference paper, Hadas-Lebel argued that the Hasmonean revolt, the book of Daniel, and 1–2 Maccabees fundamentally shaped Jewish views of freedom and independence, that these views naturally came to the fore with Pompey’s conquest, and that they remained in play with the emergence of the fourth philosophy in 6 CE, acts of rebellion after that, and especially the outbreak of war in 66. Her approach was one that my book, an exercise in l’histoire événementielle, challenged by questioning its explanatory power for particular events. Hadas-Lebel linked anti-Roman sentiment with religious motives. A crucial example was the younger priests’ halting of sacrifice on behalf of the emperor in

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the summer of 66, which seemed to her at once a religious and an antiRoman act. Joseph Sievers, another imposing scholar who never lets our old friendship interfere with clarity in disagreement, took up the question of religious language in Josephus, to propose that I had minimised its importance. I tried to listen for the criteria he had in mind for identifying religious language. Here he made a number of moves. First, he cited Katell Berthelot to the effect that religion is present wherever we see rites, norms, and interpretations of texts and events connected with one or more deities. Second, he argued that, even if a category of religion comparable to ours today was not available in antiquity, we should nevertheless recognise religion (and call religious) what clearly fits the bill – of what we would recognise as religion. He mentioned Thucydides, who eschewed religious categories and yet described religious institutions of Hellas. Again, when a divine presence or absence is discussed, in Sievers’ view it “may be helpful to refer to this as religious language.” (Why it might be helpful – for everyone’s questions? – I did not quite grasp.) On this foundation, Sievers found plenty of religious language in Josephus: everything related to God and divine power, God’s relationship with Israel, demons or spirits of the dead, afterlife, sacrifices, synagogues and holy places, calendar and festivals, priests and religious officials, true and false prophecy, signs and wonders, groups such as Zealots, and themes such as purity and defilement. Why the reticence to call it religious? This is, as I say, the most commonly asserted puzzle of my book. Even the exemplary reviewers I mentioned in the introduction asked about the absence of religion. One offered that religion was just as real and human as the human and realistic issues I consciously pursued. The other could not understand “the almost total exclusion of religion as a force of any kind within the progression of the war,” given that the cessation of sacrifice for foreigners was a religious act, and the conflict in Caesarea “began explicitly through religious conflict” (when non-Judaeans sacrificed birds near the synagogue entrance).15 As if in coordinated support, while my book was in production Vasily Rudich’s Religious Dissent in the Roman Empire: Violence in Judaea at the Time of Nero (2015) appeared.16 Rudich had written two splendid earlier books on dissent and doublespeak in Neronian Rome, and this one completed the trilogy. I find it striking that, although the Romans were every bit as concerned with piety, 15 16

WESTWOOD, 192. RUDICH 2015.

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sacrificial ritual, and the pax deorum as any people, their conflicts are treated in human social-political dimensions, whereas once we move to the “holy land” the westerly winds receive a theological turbocharge, the very same sorts of human conflicts being covered in holy water. Rudich even develops a distinctive model of religious dissent, grounded in revealed truth and best exemplified in Judaea. In agreement with William Farmer, Martin Hengel, and Gottfried Mader he thinks that Josephus suppressed the war’s (noble) religious causes in favour of political disparagement.17 This, incidentally, creates a difficulty for me. Should I respond to the argument that Josephus uses religious language everywhere, or that religion was everywhere but he expurgated it from his Thucydidean-Polybian analysis? In any case, the question of religion clearly needs addressing. Again, I do not know what is at stake for most contributors, and I cannot avoid the suspicion that much disagreement comes not from the evidence but from the long association of this area of research with theology and the tendency to study ancient Judaea (or “Judaism”) from a religious perspective, as part of religious or Jewish studies rather than ancient history. However that may be, let me try to put the matter crisply. 1. The underlying method of my book and the way I normally work as a historian (above) lead me to try to put myself and my readers, imaginatively: in the world of the ancient actors, to rethink their decisions in their contexts. Although religio and thrēskeia were among the categories available to them, neither can usefully be translated “religion” because they are not significantly like what we call religion.18 2. As soon as I say this kind of thing, colleagues respond immediately: “What do you mean we? What you call religion, Mason, is not what I mean! I define it thus and so, and therefore it is there.” But this is to miss my point. When I speak of “what we call religion,” I am speaking not of any particular content or definition, but of the category itself. It does not matter how one defines religion, just as we need not define health-care or public-education or banking systems to say that the Roman world did not have them, and the ancients could not talk about them. I suppose that one could say “I define kingship or health-care systems or banks thus, and so by my definition the Romans had kings in their emperors, banks in their temples, and a health-care system in the temples of Asclepius.” But this would not actually help us understand them. It has long been recognised in religious studies – since at least Wilfred Cantwell Smith’s The Meaning 17 18

FARMER 1956; HENGEL 1961; MADER 2000. BARTON and BOYARIN 2016.

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and End of Religion (1962), which saw itself as consolidating a decadeslong trend in research – that religion was as anachronistic for the ancient West as it was problematic for the East.19 3. Sievers gave an example of the problem with a prioris in the quotation he used of Josephus’ War 7.267, on the evil presence of Idumaeans in Jerusalem: “no vestige of religious regard to God was preserved (μηδὲ μέρος τι τῆς πρὸς τὸν θεὸν εὐσεβείας). … they proceeded to wipe out the last remains of political government (πᾶν ὅσον ἦν λείψανον ἔτι πολιτικοῦ σχήματος).” This translation seems to take the pairing of piety with politics as a reason to find a modern-sounding distinction between religion and politics. Thackeray did something similar: “no particle of religious worship.” But the pairing is a false friend to the modern western distinction. Josephus thematises the bonded pair of piety toward God and justice toward fellow-humans as the two sides of (divinely ordered) human obligation, in which Judaeans excel all others. This two-sided coin becomes the dual test of Israel’s leaders (Ant. 7.338, 341, 356 374, 384; 8.280; 9:16, 236; 12.43; 12.56). It summarises the teaching of John the Baptist (Ant. 18.117). And it constitutes the first two oaths of Josephus’ Essenes (War 2.139). Sometimes he glosses justice toward one’s fellows as involving proper treatment of the polis or its citizens (Ant. 9.236; 10.51; 15.375), as he does with the Idumaeans here, and in remarks on John of Gischala just before (War 7.263–64). Josephus may have been influenced by the Athenian orators and later historians and philosophers, who all made the same piety-justice pair the sum of virtue (cf. Xenophon, Mem. 4.8.11; Ages. 3.2–5; 4.1–3). It less closely resembles the famous line in Micah 6.8: God requires of humanity that they practice justice and mercy toward their fellows and walk humbly before God. Calling half of this two-sided scheme religion, however, would rupture Josephus’ insistence on the unity of the obligation. Where would that leave justice, which is an inextricable part of the same divine requirement and not a separate or secular domain? Josephus himself remarks, “I did not consider it to be pious [surely not religious] to ignite a war against fellow-citizens (πρὸς μὲν οὖν τοὺς πολίτας ἐξάπτειν πόλεμον οὐκ ἐνόμιζον εὐσεβὲς εἶναι)” (Life 321). 4. This does not mean that the ancients were not what we would call religious. We can define religion however we wish, and we shall find it in antiquity. But that tells us more about ourselves than about them. If our goal is to rethink their thoughts, the choice of categories is not our call. Certainly, my book did not avoid subjects we would call religious. 19

SMITH 1962, 48, 59–63; cf. NONGBRI 2013.

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It mentioned God(s) more than a hundred times, sacrifice more than seventy, cult(ic) thirty-six, and piety fourteen times. I made quite an issue of pollution and purity as a prominent theme of Josephus’ War. By calling the Roman legions the “sharp end of piety” (Chapter 3), I tried to make the point that every ancient people had its Gods, temples, and rituals of piety. This is how they spoke about it. They also had philosophical schools, where a good half of what I have experienced in religious contexts – textual exegesis, speeches exhorting to virtue, discussion of the soul and afterlife, encouragement to repentance – found a home. What they lacked was our unifying category religion, no matter how defined. That would begin only with the Christian lexical innovation of late antiquity, and come to full expression with Locke and his French and American successors, in isolating the business of government from religion and other matters of conscience – creating our modern western discourse. Again, it does not matter how one defines religion or how much one sees religion actually being present in political and social life today. The point is simply that we have the category – it is meaningful to ask about someone’s religion, to study religion in university, read the religion section of a newspaper, or insist that religion be kept out of schools and government – and they did not. It could not, therefore, be for them a distinct cause of action. 5. My book comprises a series of investigations into particular problems (above). When I ask where the energy came from for outbreaks of violence in Jerusalem and Caesarea (Chapter 4), what Cestius Gallus’ motives were (5), what Vespasian or the Judaean poleis intended in Galilee or Judaea (6–8), why Judaeans went to the desert fortresses, or why Roman legates eventually wished to recover them (9), I am looking for the motives that will explain the evidence. The conflict in Caesarea did not begin with a bird sacrifice (pace Westwood), but with a bid to make the polis Judaean, governed by Judaean law. The bird sacrifice, which I mention, was a small part of the larger land-ownership question. Was that, or the appeal to Nero, religious? Should I have noted that Cestius was likely a religious man because he probably led the legion in sacrifice? How would that help us to understand his expedition? When Jerusalemites became outraged at the auxiliary violence, would it have helped to add “and don’t forget about religion” as a cause for their arming themselves? It was not a category at the time, and it had no separate explanatory power in the investigations of my study. By contrast, “compatriot bloodshed” and the resulting “curse” and need for “purification” were thinkable thoughts – and I show how they were part of Josephus’ interpretation of the conflict, though they too would not help much with my questions.

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6. On Sharon’s and Hadas-Lebel’s inclination to link up post-63 and post-70 anger and lament – under Pompey and after Titus’ destruction of the temple – no one today would readily link feelings in any European country today with those of the 1890s. There is something artificial about imagining a nation, over several generations, in thrall to the same (theological) hopes, and it leads us to downplay the concrete life-situations that occupied the intervening 130 years, with their normal human actions and responses. In this period, King Herod became a favourite of Rome and vaulted Jerusalem again to regional supremacy, a condition it retained under Archelaus and Agrippa I and arguably in the intervening periods, with a prefect assigned to care for Judaea. None of this is to deny that some people may have been disgruntled with Roman rule and all it had brought. It seems to me likely that more Samarians, Gadarenes, Ascalonites, and others were disaffected in this way, however, given that their people had never enjoyed Jerusalem’s privilege. Nor is it to deny messianic or similar other-worldly hopes on the part of some Judaeans (see pp. 278–79 in the book). It is only to say that if these things were present in pockets of society – we have no clear evidence – they would not help much with the problems I was investigating. 3.5. Anthony Giambrone Our host Anthony Giambrone’s paper focused on my handling of Christian use of Jerusalem’s fall, in my Chapter 1. He called for the same kind of careful diachronic precision and sensitivity there that he found more satisfactorily realised in the rest of the book. He was right that I had treated mainstream early Christianity (there were Judaising and other streams, which saw these things differently: p. 47) as fairly unified in asserting: (a) the replacement of Judaean law by faith in Christ, (b) the proof of this in God’s destruction of Jerusalem, and (c) the explanation of Jerusalem’s fall as alleged punishment for the Jews’ murder of God’s son. Giambrone’s challenge seemed to be that I was making a simplistic synthesis from diverse strands of early Christian writing, which needed far greater care in interpretation with respect to their unique contexts. Specifically, he made three important points. First, he understood me to argue that the so-called war was really much ado about nothing, a police action in southern Syria became something huge only in later Roman and Christian imagination. Second, he thought that by synthesising Christian views over three centuries, I gave the impression that Christians held a whip-hand before the fourth century, when this rather powerless group began working out its

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identity over against Jewish culture. I had misunderstood or misrepresented power relations when Christianity was born. Third, on the substance of the question, I was importing later ideas, such as the deicide charge, found no earlier than Melito of Sardis (latter half of the second century) into a supposedly early synthesis. This was all a welcome and partly deserved challenge. Indeed, I had little space in that first chapter to sketch the two most impactful uses of the war in western history. Having opted to give priority to the launch vehicle of Flavian Rome, from 70 to 90 CE or so, I left little space for Christian use over the next 1900 years. But my limited purpose was to identify themes present in the canonical texts that persevered or became more potent later: in Eusebius, the high Middle Ages, the Counter-Reformation, and after Napoleon. But lest readers of the present volume get the impression that I do not care about the Christian texts, I must clarify that things are the other way around. Just as biblical studies helped forge the modern discipline of critical history, so in my life it was a rigorous training in the historical-philological study of early Christian texts, mainly at the feet of Jesuits and ex-Jesuits (plus E. P. Sanders, R. N. Longenecker, and John C. Hurd) that shaped me as a historian. I readily grant that each of these texts needs to be understood in its particularity. Still, I would stand by my synthetic picture in the book, with its limited aims. First, a clarification about the war. I understand Giambrone’s impression that I saw the war as a minor conflict, amplified by the Flavians and Christians. In pushing against the common notion of a coordinated national revolt from 66 to 73/74. I argue that it is a mirage. There was little fighting in this period, and outside of the sieges of Iotapata and Jerusalem, it was largely caused by King Agrippa’s problems. The desert fortresses were not part of the Flavian move on Jerusalem, which continued Cestius’ efforts and was not a new foreign conquest as they made out. All true. But I did not minimise the trauma of Jerusalem’s fall. I wanted to avoid the common historian’s fallacy that assumes huge results must have had huge origins (see p. 200). Obviously, the consequences of the siege of Jerusalem were enormous for Jews, both in their internal life and in reacting to the exploitation of the event by Romans and then Christians (see p. 4). The end was of terrible consequence, so not at all much ado about nothing, but that does not mean that the conflict itself – the subject of my book – began from such a momentous cause as the mutually lethal hatred of Rome and Jerusalem. Second, I also see why Giambrone inferred that I was fusing later times, when Christians held power, with texts from a period in which they had

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none. I teach two courses on Roman-Jewish-Christian relations to 400 CE, and the vulnerability and placeless-ness of early Christians are an important part of our study. But there in Chapter 1 I did not see it as particularly relevant to explore the context – date, location, themes (all of which are much debated) – of each text. Untypically, to be sure, my goal was limited to showing that positions concerning Jerusalem that would become central in later Christian teaching were already inscribed in the canonical texts. That seemed a warrant for Eusebius and others, on the cusp of Christian political power, to use them as they did. Third, what about the substance? I am not as theologically sophisticated as I used to be, but the claims I made seem to me correct in the way we normally use language. Deicide means killing God, or a divine being. Supersession means the replacement (superseding) of something deemed obsolete – even if only because the new is preferred, without the old having faults. Giambrone and I had a chance to speak later, and I think I understood his view to be that these things are not brought together in a systematic explanation until well after New Testament times. That may be, but it was not my point. Later Christians indeed combined bits from different places in the canon to systematise their thinking. Debates over adoptionism, Arianism, and Ebionitism depended on which texts were privileged. But my claim was that the elements of the classical Christian view I sketched were already significant in the New Testament, such that later Christians could think they were being faithful to those founding texts in holding such positions. Paul probably died before Jerusalem’s destruction. Did he already believe that fellow-Judaeans were responsible for killing Christ, that God was punishing those who did not accept Christ, that Christ was divine, and that Judaean law had been replaced by Christ’s coming? It seems (to me) so. The first two points are found in his earliest letter (1 Thess 2:14–16), and the fourth in Galatians 3–5 among other places. Did Paul consider Christ divine? Although Rom 1:3–4 sounds as though a man was raised to divine status, and Phil 2:5–11 need not have the Johannine sense that a pre-existent being took on human flesh, Paul certainly regards Christ “the Lord” as uniquely the son of God. He also likes to speak of the “new creation” in Christ, insisting that “the old has gone away” (2 Cor 5:17; Gal 6:15) – the very definition of supersession. So the pieces are there, although Paul’s occasional letters indeed do not pull it together as the gospels and Acts would. Luke-Acts makes Christ’s divine origin clear in its first two chapters. Later it shows Jesus lamenting his failure to influence Jerusalem, a city that stones prophets and others sent to it, and sees its house (the temple)

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abandoned and desolate as a result (13:34–35). Later, having been hailed as the king who comes in God’s name as he enters Jerusalem, Jesus foresees the coming siege and destruction of Jerusalem, because the city did not recognise the time of its inspection (οὐκ ἔγνως τὸν καιρὸν τῆς ἐπισκοπῆς σου; Luke 19:37–44). Acts repeats the charge that the Jews killed Christ, including this formulation from Peter: “But you rejected the holy and righteous one and asked to have a murderer given to you, and you killed the author of life” (Acts 3:13–14). That sounds very much like a deicide charge, not very different from Melito, Pasch. 96: “He who hung the earth is hanging; … the Sovereign has been insulted; the God has been murdered. …” Matthew has a similar picture on this score. Its famous words making Jews perpetually guilty for the death of God’s son (Matt 27:25) would echo through the ages. Its reworking of a simpler parable into one in which a king throws a banquet for his son and, when the son is murdered, sends an army to burn the city of those extremely hostile invited guests, has an unmistakable meaning in view of the work’s theme of Jewish exclusion and gentile salvation. Jewish rejection of Christ, apparently, led to Jerusalem’s destruction – though this text is not supersessionist in relation to Moses’ law. 3.6. Tessa Rajak The final presentation was by the distinguished historian of Hellenistic Judaism and field-shaping Josephus scholar, Tessa Rajak. She framed her talk as the defence of a vaguely defined but authoritative Masada story. She brought forward what she perceived as assaults on that story by scholars she considered “critics,” “snipers,” “Masada doubters,” or “attackers,” and arranged their “lines of attack” under eight kinds of claim, namely: • the speeches Josephus composes for Eleazar are his inventions; • his story inflates philosophical tropes; • the scene of night-time speeches and self-immolation while the breach burns is implausible; • Josephus’ description of the physical realities (ramp and breach) is doubtful; • the suicide story has close parallels in Graeco-Roman, not Jewish literature; • Josephus is a generally sloppy historian; • Josephus’ focus on the defenders is not to praise them but to find subtle fault, whereas Rajak considered the story obviously admiring of heroes; and • the significance of the Masada episode in Josephus has been overstated.

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Although Rajak’s counterpunches were not all aimed at me – a long line of scholars from the 1960 has doubted the canonical story in history, more recently its role in Israeli life – she included my book among the works of doubters and critics, citing examples from it at some points. For example, against my observations about the lack of evidence for fighting from Masada’s summit, Rajak suggested that I missed the virtual imperative that ancient Jewish men would have fought to protect their families. The gravamen of her talk seemed to be that all the criticisms listed were rather carping and egg-headed, deliberately or deludedly missing the main import of Josephus’ account – which Rajak has always stressed should be trusted unless there is good reason not to – to the effect that Masada’s defenders held out to the last before nobly taking their lives rather than surrender. Again, I am grateful for a challenge that allows me to clarify my intended contribution. As the introduction above explains, I see no benefit in asking whether a given narrative of the past is right or wrong. It is not likely to be either an omniscient and “reliable” account of what happened (we may not rely on others to do our work) or a complete fabrication. It is simply an account, for which we are grateful but which needs to be understood for what it is: the author’s perspective, sources, language, themes, rhetoric, and structure. Nor do I see it as the historian’s task to pass moral judgement on what happened. Our goal is understanding human actions and their motives. The meaningful distinction in my view is not between those who defend a tradition and those who attack it. It is between those who undertake methodical investigations – who will differ in their results – and those who do not. Chapter 9 of my book pursued two main questions – What did Judaeans and Roman governors, respectively, seek in the desert fortresses? – as well as a final question about what happened to the Judaeans on Masada when Flavius Silva, legate of Judaea, restored it as a garrison. Already from the fact that the chapter is not about Masada alone, but about all of the fortresses, I hoped it was clear that my purpose was not to defend or attack some views of Masada. There is no great tradition about Herodium, Machaerus, or the Iardes thicket, which occupy much of the chapter. I was seeking a better understanding of all the fortresses together. My quotation of common views of Masada at the beginning of the chapter might have given the impression that my unstated goal was to refute these views. But the chapter’s content would not suit that purpose. With each investigation in the book I quoted standard views near the beginning, not to establish a programme of refutation but to help situate my investigation – and show how different my approach was.

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So too in Chapter 9, in trying to discover what each party wanted with the desert fortresses, I asked first about their locations, what they were designed for, and how they were used before 66 CE. It seems that the desert redoubts were built as places of refuge, for valued (royal) people and objects, and not as combat fortresses. Why, then, did Judaeans flee to them with their families from 66? Both material and literary evidence, showing the abundance of women and children and Masada, suggests that men went there to put themselves and their dependants as far as possible from the violence in and around Jerusalem. This has a bearing on how one evaluates the scenarios for the end. Re-examining the evidence this way also put the focus on Machaerus, because that site was the legate’s priority on account of its perceived strength. These are not my opinions, certainly not efforts to snub Masada. I was trying to cut through encrusted tradition to the once real but fog-overlaid past. I also examined the speech-action ratio at Machaerus and Masada and found that Josephus contrasts the two sites, which were both led by an Eleazar. The Eleazar at Machaerus leads the Judaeans in both having a plan to surrender the site if necessary and, in the meantime, fighting courageously to see whether they could dissuade the Romans from persevering, frequently leaving their compound to do so. Masada’s Eleazar has neither a plan nor the desire for such heroics. Eleazar at Machaerus talks little but acts vigorously – and eventually yields up the fortress (hence the unfinished north-western ramp perhaps). Masada’s Eleazar mainly talks and does not act. This Eleazar’s overblown rhetoric drives an initially terrified male audience to become eager, deluded “miserable wretches” as they were, to kill their own wives and children as though strangers. Just on the level of interpreting Josephus, it is difficult to find any nobility here, not because of small nuances but because of the whole drift of the narrative. As for what really happened at the end, I do not know – and nor does anyone else. It is futile to pass moral judgement on either the ancient families or on scholars who favour different guesses, from our shared pool of ignorance. We do not even know whether the ramp was finished sufficiently to support an assault of some sort. Whether it was or not, Josephus’ account is not physically possible, without the adjustments scholars have quietly applied while claiming to uphold it. That is why my book offers a number of possible scenarios, with the ramp completed or not. The criteria for a plausible scenario is that it accords with common tactical sense, with Roman practice known from other places, and above all with Flavius Silva’s interests in Josephus’ Rome. Silva likely offered surrender at some

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point, perhaps a number of times. How the Judaean residents responded, and why, is what we do not know. The end might have come with Roman assault and mass slaughter, though it would then be a puzzle that Josephus denied Silva a military conquest in the Flavian mode. Other possibilities include the residents’ substantial mass suicide, much as Josephus alleges but without the speeches, their surrender followed by massacre, their partial surrender and some kind of miscommunication leading to their deaths, or a last-ditch fighting breakout in which they perished.

4. CONCLUSION There is no point in trying to summarise my responses to such highly varied contributions. I conclude instead by reiterating my gratitude to our generous hosts in Jerusalem, to Anthony Giambrone also for his labours as editor of this volume, and to the many colleagues who came from near and far to lend their expertise to the shared project of rethinking the Jewish War. I am grateful beyond words that my book could serve as a catalyst for the event, which went considerably farther than the book. I hope that these responses to the papers that most directly engaged it have helped to clarify not only my intended arguments but also some possible ways forward. That is what I intended in constructing the study as a series of transparent investigations rather than as a supposedly authoritative narrative. Its value, I hope, lies in the method and the process of opening up historical issues, more than in the tentative conclusions summarised at the end.

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INDEXES BIBLICAL REFERENCES GENESIS 165, 194–195, 215 DEUTERONOMY 247, 260 NUMBERS 240 1 SAMUEL 65 2 SAMUEL 65 1 KINGS 188, 195 2 KINGS 169, 195, 240, 255 2 CHRONICLES 195, 252 EZRA 241 NEHEMIAH 245, 251 1 MACCABEES 13, 26, 27, 149, 195, 241, 242, 301 2 MACCABEES 165, 195, 301 PSALMS 165–166, 188 SIRACH 195 ISAIAH 66, 159, 166, 169, 176–179, 181, 188, 195, 227–228, 241, 267, 271 JEREMIAH 166, 194, 222, 240, 247, 252 EZEKIEL 166, 177

DANIEL 15, 17, 160–163, 164–165, 167– 169, 171, 173–176, 178, 181–181, 190, 241, 244, 247 HABAKKUK 160 ZECHARIAH 232–235, 240 MATTHEW 238, 247, 253, 254, 268, 269, 272, 309 MARK 17, 29, 247, 253, 269, LUKE 17, 247, 252, 255, 259, 260, 261, 262, 308, 309 JOHN 259, 269 ACTS 255, 259–263, 308–309 ROMANS 308 2 CORINTHIANS 308 GALATIANS 308 PHILIPPIANS 308 1 THESSALONIANS 250, 254, 308 HEBREWS 269 JAMES 188 REVELATION 269

PARA-BIBLICAL LITERATURE DAMASCUS DOCUMENT (CD) 251 MANUAL OF DISCIPLE (1QS) 239 WAR SCROLL (1QM) 14, 160, 168–169 PESHER ISAIAHA (4Q161) 169 PESHER HABAKKUK (1QpHab) 156, 160, 167, 169, 175–176 PESHER NAHUM (4QpNah) 168 FLORILEGIUM (4Q175) 269 BOOK OF WAR (4Q285) 169 FOUR KINGDOMS TEXT (4Q552-553) 168 NEW JERUSALEM TEXT (4Q554) 168 TEMPLE SCROLL (11QT) 269

JUBILEES 239, 251, 269 1 ENOCH 252, 269 PSALMS OF SOLOMON 13–14, 29, 156, 159, 164–166, 169–170, 177, 180 4 EZRA 164, 169, 172, 174–179, 181, 252, 301 5 EZRA 251, 255 2 BARUCH 164, 174–179, 181, 251–252, 272, 301 LIVES OF THE PROPHETS 252 SIBYLLINE ORACLES 165, 172–174, 181

RABBINIC LITERATURE MISHNAH m. Sheqalim 213, 236, 243 m. Rosh Hashanah 212

m. Ta’anit 215, 216, 236, 240, 241 m. Megillah 241 m. Hagigah 239

342

INDEXES

m. Eduyyot 241 m. Avot 216, 237, 238, 239 m. Zevahim 213 m. Menahot 241 TOSEPHTA t. Sheqalim t. Pesahim TALMUD y. Shabbat y. Pesahim

237 238

b. Pesahim 238 b. Rosh Hashanah 237, 238 b. Ta’anit 241 b. Megillah 241 b. Nedarim 241 b. Gittin 163, 201, 259 b. Menahot 238, 242 ABOT DE-RABBI NATHAN (ARN) 16, 20, 27, 29, 199–203, 205, 207–209, 211, 214, 216, 219–235 GENESIS RABBAH 191, 238, 246

237 238

b. Shabbat 237, 238

EARLY CHRISTIAN TEXTS BARNABAS 246, 266–267 CHRONICON PASCALE 246 CHRYSOSTOM, JOHN (Ad. Iud.) 246 1 CLEMENT 245, 257 CONSTANTINUS PORPHYROGENITUS 193 CYRIL OF JERUSALEM 272–273 DIONYSIUS BAR-SALIBI 268 EUSEBIUS 268, 307, 308 H.E. 244, 248, 257, 271 HIPPOLYTUS (Dem. Ad Iud.) 262, 270, 275 IRENAEUS 238 ISIDORE (Etym.) 144–145

AND

AUTHORS

JUSTIN 256, 257, 275 Dial. 246, 256, 270 1 Apol. 270, 271 MINUCIUS FELIX 199 MELITO OF SARDIS 262–263, 307, 309 PAULUS DIACONUS 144 PETER, GOSPEL OF 262–265 SULPICIUS SEVERUS 240, 265 TERTULLIAN 275 Apol. 270 Ad. Iud. 270–271 THOMAS, GOSPEL OF 238, 269

GRECO-ROMAN AUTHORS ARISTOPHANES (Peace) 195 CASSIUS DIO 94, 115, 152, 153, 243, 245, 267, 268, 296 CICERO 145, 148 Leg. 145 Off. 146, 147 Rep. 145 HERODOTUS 182, 266 JOSEPHUS B.J. 12, 13, 25–26, 28–31, 36–45, 47–57, 63, 67, 70, 72–73, 75–79, 83, 84–86, 88, 93, 95, 113, 124, 129–130, 135–136, 138–143, 147– 152, 154, 156, 158–159, 170, 184– 195, 199, 205–208, 210–213, 215– 218, 236–238, 240–241, 243, 252, 255, 264–267, 270, 290, 296 A.J. 26–27, 29–30, 69–70, 73, 75, 129, 131–133, 135–136, 157–158,

162, 171, 187–188, 194–195, 217, 220, 238, 240, 242–243, 255, 257, 266, 290 Vita 28, 136, 142, 192, 199, 218, 242, 244, 289, 290–291 C. Ap. 190, 242–243 JUVENAL (Sat.) 244 LIVY 145–146 MARA BAR SERAPION 258 PHILO 164, 170, 174, 180 Abr. 195 Leg. 243 Legat. 23 QG 170 PSEUDO-PHILO (LAB) 215–216 PLATO 278 PLUTARCH Aem. 118 Pom. 166

INDEXES

Quest. Conv. 244 POLYBIUS 27, 173–174, 184, 303 TACITUS 39, 195, 199, 208, 211, 240, 265, 280, 283

343

Ann. 100, 133, 265 Hist. 36, 38, 42, 45, 47, 51, 52, 53, 93, 152, 194, 207, 242, 244, 245, 296 VARRO (De vita p. R.) 144, 145, 212

MODERN AUTHORS Philippe ABADIE 151 David ADAN-BAYEWITZ 48 Gedaliah ALON 243 Roy ALBAG 82, 89 Donald T. ARIEL 17, 293, 294, 298, Benjamin ARUBAS 9, 10, 56, 81, 82, 298, 299 Kenneth ATKINSON 57, 166, 266 Mordechai AVIAM 17, 38, 48, 50, 287, 288, 290, 293 Nahman AVIGAD 8, 65, 67, 69 Joseph AVIRAM 56 Mikhael AVI-YONAH 56, 69, 237 Yoav AVNI 82, 89 Dan BAHAT 73, 78 Doron BAR 53 Dan BARAG 56 John M. G. BARCLAY 170, 190 Bazalel BAR-KOCHBA 44 Rachel BAR-NATHAN 56 Timothy D. BARNES 55 James BARRETT 195 Valeria BARTOLONI 99, 111 Carlin BARTON 303 Alberto BARZANÒ 158 Richard BAUCKHAM 177 Franz Alto BAUER 91, 251 Otto BAUERNFEIND 13, 186, 194–196 Mary BEARD 57, 118 Christopher T. BEGG 2, 171 Asaf BEN HAIM 68–70 Meir BEN-SHAHAR 9, 16, 194, 207, 208, 211, 215, 216, 218, 222 Miriam BEN ZEEV 266, 268 Pierre BENOIT 239 Andrea M. BERLIN 36, 123 Monika BERNETT 291 Katell BERTHELOT 171, 183, 302 José María BLÁZQUEZ 36 Marc BLOCH 5, 281–283, 297 Yves BLOMME 70 James J. BLOOM 36 Lincoln H. BLUMELL 39

P. M. BOGAERT 162 Monette BOHRMANN 39, 51 David BOLTON 251 Ra`anan S. BOUSTAN 246 Daniel BOYARIN 303 Paola BRANDIZZI VITTUCCI 95, 101 S. G. F. BRANDON 45 Mark A. BRIGHTON 39 Richard BRILLIANT 116, 244 Daniel BRIZEMEURE 68 Giovanni BRIZZI 12, 13, 19, 44, 51, 53, 138, 144, 148, 153, 154, 279 Sebastian BROCK 258, 262, 273 Michael D. BROCKE 262 George J. BROOKE 168 Magen BROSHI 210 Peter A. BRUNT 128 Alexis BUNINE 41 Marialetizia BUONFIGLIO 10, 57, 95, 98, 105, 111, 115, 116, 279 Richard W. BURGESS 205 Dominique-Marie CABARET 9, 53, 72, 80, 242, 279 Duncan B. CAMPBELL 45, 205, 212 Marco CANCIANI 99, 105 Jean CARMIGNAC 240 Alessandro CASSATELLA 95 Honora Howell CHAPMAN 54, 56, 195 James H. CHARLESWORTH 167 Jean-François CHEMAIN 41 Paola CIANCIO ROSSETTO 94–95, 99– 101 Kenneth W. CLARK 245, 266 Ruth CLEMENTS 268 Heinrich CLEMENTZ 36 Filippo COARELLI 93, 95–96, 114, 116 Jane M. CODY 111 Shaye J. D. COHEN 16, 215, 221 Andrea COLETTA 95, 99, 111–113 Antonio Maria COLINI 95, 99 R. G. COLLINGWOOD 5, 281–283, 297 John. J. COLLINS 22, 169, 172, 179 Hannah M. COTTON 56, 126, 137, 299

344

INDEXES

Anselmo COSTADONI 104 Hugues COUSIN 151 Edward DABROWA 39 Gwyn DAVIES 10, 82, 89 J. E. DEAN 267 Hermann DESSAU 123, 125, 127–128 Chiara DE FILIPPIS CAPPAI 38, 41, 48 Sandro DE MARIA 95, 97–98, 100, 115 G .B. DE ROSSI 91 Marie-Aline DE SION (sœur —) 53 Roland DE VAUX 239 Stefano DEL LUNGO 91 Richard DILLON 255 Ludovicus DINDORF 246 Lorenzo DITOMMASO 176 Wilhelm DITTENBERGER 187 Heinz-Martin DÖPP 257 Rina DRORY 200 Werner ECK 11–12, 41, 124, 126, 129– 130, 134, 137, 299–300 Jonathan EDMONDSON 37 D. EDWARDS 48 Jacob Nahum EPSTEIN 201 Esther ESHEL 65–68 Hanan ESHEL 294–295 Craig EVANS 252 Corrado FALCOLINI 99, 105 Davide FAORO 125–127 William R. FARMER 303 Ernst FEIL 183 Louis H. FELDMAN 158 Steven FINE 57 Giulio FIRPO 51, 95, 144 Yael FISCH 220–221 Peter W. FLINT 168 David FLUSSER 168, 172 Gideon FOERSTER 56, 67, 81 Paul FOSTER 263, 265 Steven D. FRAADE 200–201 Gérard FREYBURGER 144 Bernhard FRIEDMANN 236 Emilio GABBA 12, 138, 141–143 Isaiah M. GAFNI 201 Joseph GEIGER 56 Hillel GEVA 65, 66, 68 Anthony GIAMBRONE 24, 277, 306–308, 312 Mordechai GICHON 38, 39, 44, 47, 56

Adalberto GIOVANNINI 55 Arnold M. GOLDBERG 195 Haim GOLDFUS 9, 10, 56, 81–82, 89, 298–299, 343 Adrian K. GOLDSWORTHY 53 Jean-Claude GOLVIN 101 Martin GOODMAN 151, 266, 268, 293, 294 Lester L. GRABBE 174–176, 179 Heinrich GRAE 236 Maria Grazia GRANINO CECERE 91, 99, 105, 108 Dennis E. GROH 47 Erich S. GRUEN 170–172, 174 Thomas GRÜNEWALD 39, 144 Daniel M. GURTNER 176 Linda-Marie GÜNTHER 188 Alexander GUTTMAN 238 Mireille HADAS-LEBEL 13, 36, 37, 40, 51, 56, 175, 301, 306 Anselm C. HAGEDORN 169 Alan HALL 266 Martin HAMMOND 124,131 J.S. Hanson 144 Benjamin HAR-EVEN 211 Daniel C. HARLOW 252, 264 Rendel HARRIS 270, 271 Martin HENGEL 27, 302, 303 Matthias HENZE 179 Moshe D. HERR 241 Malka HERSHKOVITZ 56 John F. HOBBINS 177 Eric John Ernest HOBSBAWM 153 Tom HOLMÉN 269 Tonio HÖLSCHER 95 William HORBURY 268 Richard A. HORSLEY 144, 151 Christian HÜLSEN 92 John. H. HUMPHREY 95, 99–100, 116 Tal ILAN 186–188, 220 Giovanni IOPPOLO 101, 116 Benjamin ISAAC 39, 126, 128, 210 Naftali ISAAC 39, 126, 128, 210 Howard JACOBSON 215, 216 Brian W. JONES 47, 172–174, 176–178, 251, 252, 270 Kenneth R. JONES 47, 172–174, 176– 178, 251, 252, 270 Tessel M. JONQUIÈRE 189 Borimir JORDAN 184

INDEXES

Thomas KARMANN 262 Menahem KISTER 15, 200–204, 206, 210–214,216 William KLASSEN 56 Jonathan KLAWANS 186, 216 Fred S. KLEINER 100 A. F. J. KLIJN 178–179 John KLOPPENBORG 264, 266, 272 Nikos KOKKINOS 6, 47, 187 Matthias KONRADT 253 Dirk KOSSMANN 124 Johannes KRAUSS 128 Samuel KRAUSS 128, 162, 212 Heinz KREISSIG 36 Klaus-Stefan KRIEGER 36 Michael KULIKOWSKI 205 Alla KUSHNIR-STEIN 187 Gilbert LABBÉ 124, 138 Renzo LAMBERTINI 147 Rodolfo LANCIANI 91 Pierluigi LANFRANCH 38 Eugenio LA ROCCA 94, 95, 98, 101, 106, 111, 113, 116 Yann LE BOHEC 7–9, 35, 36–37, 40–41, 45, 57–58, 279 Uzi LEIBNER 293 Tommaso LEONI 55, 265, 266 Gabriele LEPRI 57 James LEUBA 183 David B. LEVENSON 274 Israël LEVI 156 Barbara LEVICK 94, 210 Josh LEVITHAN 51, 205, 212 Ariel LEWIN 36, 138, 148 Saul LIEBERMAN 239, 240 Helgo LINDNER 189, 190 Thomas R. W. LONGSTAFF 47 Luigi LORETO 41 Gottfried MADER 303 Jodi MAGNESS 10, 57, 81–82, 89 Anne-Marie MALINGREY 190 Hugo D. MANTEL 239 Francesco MARCATTILI 95, 99, 101, 116 Gwénaëlle MARCHET 97 Steve MASON 1–7, 9, 10, 13, 17–19, 21–31, 36, 64, 68, 82, 98, 123, 124, 155, 163–164, 186, 188–190, 192– 195, 249, 250, 253, 259–261, 264, 265, 268, 270, 274, 275, 303

345

Adrienne MAYOR 213 James S. MCLAREN 293, 294 Doron MENDELS 166, 172, 173 Annette MERZ 258 Yaakov MESHORER 56 Otto MICHEL 52, 131, 186, 194, 195, 196 Jozef T. MILIK 239 Chaim MILIKOWSKY 205 Fergus MILLAR 258, 269, 272 Giovanni Benedetto MITTARELLI 104 Arnaldo MOMIGLIANO 160, 184 Menahem MOR 37 Shelomo MORAG 240, 244 Angel MORILLO 46 Anne MORIN 40, 53 Frederick J. MURPHY 177–179 Jerome MURPHY-O’CONNOR 53 Joseph NAVEH 56 Jacob NEUSNER 239, 282 George W. E. NICKELSBURG 165 Valentin NIKIPROWETZKY 162 Vered NOAM 169, 177–179, 200, 221– 222 Étienne NODET 16–17, 36–37, 239, 244, 252, 258, 279 Brent NONGBRI 304 Naomi J. NORMAN 57 Matthew V. NOVENSON 279 G. S. OEGEMA 178, 179 Aharon OPPENHEIMER 205 Ronit PALISTRANT SHAIK 70 Andreas PANGERL 126 Fausto PARENTE 199 Claudio PARISI PRESICCE 95, 101, 111, 113 Robert PARKER 184, 185 Richard PARRY 185 Jack PASTOR 37 María PASTOR ALTABA 99, 105 Birger PEARSON 251 Orit PELEG-BARKAT 69 Stefania PERGOLA 95, 99, 105, 111– 113 Michael PFANNER 57 Hans-Georg PFLAUM 125 Heinrich PIENING 57 Luke PITCHER 280 Eduardo PITILLAS SALAÑER 36–37, 51

346

INDEXES

Didier POLLEFEYT 251 Giuseppina PISANI SARTORIO 94, 116 Maggie L. POPKIN 116 Jonathan J. PRICE 5, 51, 152, 173, 183, 189–192 194, 210, 218, 251, 264 Emile PUECH 8, 9, 63 Anne QUEYREL BOTTINEAU

36

Tessa RAJAK 18–20, 152, 191, 299, 309– 310 Illaria RAMELLI 258 Natale RAMPAZZO 41 Uriel RAPPAPORT 296 Ian T. RAMSEY 184 Michel REDDÉ 46 Caryn A. REEDER 49 Eyal REGEV 217 Rony REICH 69 Ernst RENAN 161 Peter RICHARDSON 187 Ian Archibald RICHMOND 56 James RIVES 37, 48, 264, 266, 267 John A.T. ROBINSON 4, 253–254 J.M. RODDAZ 41,56 Zuleika RODGERS 214 M. ROSTOVTZEFF 183 Jonathan ROTH 56 Vasily RUDICH 302–303 Denis B. SADDINGTON 39 Chana SAFRAI 216 Shmuel SAFRAI 216 Ze’ev SAFRAI 216 Maurice SARTRE 39 Mauro SACCONE 105 Gwendolyn B. SAYLER 174 Walter SCHEIDEL 243 Adolf SCHULTEN 56 Adolf SCHLATTER 186 Hans Joachim SCHOEPS 251 Adiel SCHREMER 201 Emil SCHÜRER 11, 123, 150, 236, 240, 243, 246, 300 Daniel SCHWARZ 249 Michael SCOTT 182 Michael SEGAL 169 Yuval SHAHAR 267 Israel SHATZMAN 166, 213 Nadav SHARON 13–14, 167–168, 301, 306

Talmon SHEMARYAHU 56 R. J. H. SHUTT 186–187 Joseph SIEVERS 14–15, 191, 195, 301– 302, 304 Francesco SINI 145 Jonathan Z. SMITH 21–22, 183 Wilfred Cantwell SMITH 303–30 Janet M. SOSKICE 184 Michael SPIEDEL 258 Paul SPILSBURY 170–171, 181 Graham STANTON 256 Odil Hannes STECK 251 Hartmut STEGEMANN 167 Günter STEMBERGER 190, 201 Menahem STERN 194 Pnina STERN 37, 199 Annette STEUDEL 169 Dan R. STIVER 184 Michael E. STONE 175–176 James F. STRANGE 47 J. W. SWAIN 161 Alistair Stewart SYKES 262 Danny SYON 50 Samuel TERRIEN 195 Henry St. John THACKERAY 83, 94, 189– 191, 193–194, 304 Bengt E. THOMASSON 126 Teun TIELEMAN 258 Peter J. TOMSON 137 Mario TORELLI 114 Annalisa TORTORIELLO 133 Dalia TRIFON 237 Amram D. TROPPER 199, 206, 214, 222 Shani TZOREF 168 Léon VAGANAY 263, 265 Roberto VALENTINI 91 Jan W. VAN HENTEN 187–188 Geza VERMES 167 Hendrik Simon VERSNEL 93 Pierre VIDAL-NAQUET 154 L.-H. VINCENT 76 Marco VITALE 41 Giovanni VITUCCI 139 Siegmar VON SCHNURBEIN 46 Gyözö VÖRÖS 43, 69 Gerold WALSER 108 Jon WEATHERLY 251 Wilhelm E. WEBER 37

INDEXES

Zeev WEISS 249 Eric WERNER 262 Ursula WESTWOOD 278, 302, 305 Tim WHITMARSH 174 G. J. WIGHTMAN 73 Catherine WOLFF 39 Greg WOOLF 174 Robert B. WRIGHT 166

Yigael YADIN 56 Henoch YALON 211 Andreas ZACK 134 Solomon ZEITLIN 158, 239 Sara ZFATMAN 201, 207, 214 Giuseppe ZUCCHETTI 91 Hans ZWICKY 128

347

TABLE OF CONTENTS INTRODUCTION

Anthony Giambrone, “Rethinking the Jewish War: An Orientation to the Debate” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

PART I

SIZING UP THE CONFLICT

Chapter 1: Yann Le Bohec, “Grande guerre et petite guerre en Judée de 66 a 74” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

33

PART II

ARCHEOLOGY

Chapter 2: Émile Puech, “Destructions dans la ville haute au début de la première révolte juive” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 3: Dominique-Marie Cabaret, “Le siège de la forteresse Antonia : Le récit de la Guerre des Juifs au crible des dernières recherches archéologiques” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter 4: Haim Goldfus and Benny Arubas, “Mind the Gap: Flavius Josephus and the Roman Assault Ramp at Masada” . . . . . Chapter 5: Marialetizia Buonfiglio, “The Arch of Titus at the Circus Maximus: The Architecture of a Triumph” . . . . . . . . . .

63

72 81 91

PART III

SOCIETY: RULERS AND RELIGION

Chapter 6: Werner Eck, “Judäa als Teil der Provinz Syrien im Spannungsfeld zwischen den Legaten von Syrien und den ritterlichen Funktionsträgern in Judäa von 6-66 n.Chr.” . . . . . . . . . 123 Chapter 7: Giovanni Brizzi, “Il discorso di Agrippa II (B.J. 2.345401): regole della guerra a confronto?” . . . . . . . . . . . 138 Chapter 8: Mireille Hadas-Lebel, “« Pas d’autre maitre que Dieu » : La « quatrième philosophie », politique et mystique” . . . . 155

350

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 9: Nadav Sharon, “Rome and the Future of Its Empire in Second Temple and Post-Destruction Jewish Texts” . . . . . 164 Chapter 10: Joseph Sievers, “Religious Language in Josephus’s Judean War” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182 PART IV

TRADITIONS

Chapter 11: Meir Ben-Shahar, “Memories of the Destruction: Between Priests and Rabbis” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Chapter 12: Étienne Nodet, “On the Destruction of the Jerusalem Temple” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 236 Chapter 13: Anthony Giambrone, “Temple Arsons and Murder of the Prophets: Early Christian Responses to Jews and the Jewish Revolt(s)” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 249

CONCLUSION

Chapter 14: Steve Mason, “Response” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277 BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 313 INDEXES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 341