Shaping Good Faith: Modes of Communication in Ancient Diplomacy [1. ed.] 9783515124683, 9783515124799, 3515124683

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Shaping Good Faith Modes of Communication in Ancient Diplomacy Edited by Francesco Mari and Christian Wendt

ORIENS E T OCCIDENS Studien zu antiken Kulturkontakten und ihrem Nachleben | 37 Geschichte Franz Steiner Verlag Franz Steiner Verlag

88

contubernium Tübinger Beiträge zur Universitäts- und Wissenschaftsgeschichte

Oriens et Occidens Studien zu antiken Kulturkontakten und ihrem Nachleben Herausgegeben von Josef Wiesehöfer in Zusammenarbeit mit Pierre Briant, Geoffrey Greatrex, Amélie Kuhrt und Robert Rollinger Band 37

Shaping Good Faith Modes of Communication in Ancient Diplomacy Edited by Francesco Mari and Christian Wendt

Franz Steiner Verlag

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2022 Layout und Herstellung durch den Verlag Satz: DTP + TEXT Eva Burri, Stuttgart Druck: Memminger MedienCentrum, Memmingen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-12468-3 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-12479-9 (E-Book)

Foreword Shaping Good Faith stems from a conference that we had the privilege of organising in October 2018 at the Freie Universität in Berlin, on the premises of the Excellence Cluster TOPOI. Intense discussions, a lively and friendly atmosphere and stimulating talks encouraged us to ask the participants to turn their papers into contributions for this volume. We are happy to present this collection, which reflects the different approaches brought together on that occasion. We have to thank many people who have been involved in this enterprise. First, these are the guests who generously shared their knowledge and insights with us during the conference: Edith Foster, Francesca Gazzano, Dominique Lenfant, Felix Maier, Lynette Mitchell, Sebastian Scharff, Christopher Tuplin and Pietro Vannicelli. We are also grateful to Gabriel Herman, who unfortunately had to cancel his participation in the conference at the last minute, though was nevertheless present, as references to his inspirational research were made repeatedly throughout the event. And speaking of inspiration, we cannot forget that the idea of organising our conference came during a month of intense talks on the subject of ancient diplomacy with Erich Gruen, whose warm hospitality at the University of California, Berkeley in 2017 represents one of Francesco’s most precious recent memories. We are also very grateful to the Dahlem Research School and the officials at TOPOI who sponsored and supported our project. And we extend our gratitude to Josef Wiesehöfer for accepting our manuscript into the series Oriens et Occidens as well as for commenting on and thus improving the volume. Katharina Stüdemann at Franz Steiner Verlag has helped with the genesis of this publication in every way – a great many thanks to her! And a special mention is due to Anna Zappala and Jano Meyer for taking care of the index, as well as Jasper Donelan for proofreading the final text. We understand this book as a plea: we believe there is value in focussing on aspects of ancient diplomacy that have, at times, been treated merely as decorum. Yet these aspects can be telling in many ways. If we are able to contribute something to the ongoing discussion in the field, we will have fulfilled our task. Francesco Mari and Christian Wendt Berlin – Bochum, March 2021

Table of contents List of abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Francesco Mari / Christian Wendt Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Sebastian Scharff Treaties and trust Oath rituals as a flexible diplomatic instrument for shaping good faith in interstate agreements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Francesca Gazzano Bridging the gap Using the past to shape good faith in Greek diplomatic speeches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Dominique Lenfant The role of xenia in diplomatic relations between Greek cities and the Persian Empire. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Christopher J. Tuplin Diplomatic mercenaries Treaties, truces and transactions in Xenophon’s Anabasis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 Edith Foster Artaxerxes’ letter to the Spartans in Book 4 of Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Francesco Mari From king to King Persian royal ideology and Macedonian propaganda in the exchange of letters between Darius III and Alexander (Arr. Anab. 2.14) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

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Felix K. Maier Don’t mention the war Escalating effects during the conflict between Perseus and Rome before the Third Macedonian War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165 Christian Wendt Etiquette and ambition Great Roman individuals and the rules of diplomacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Indices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201

List of abbreviations CT = Hornblower, S., Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 1–3, Oxford 1991–2008. EncIr = Yarshater, E. et al., Encyclopædia Iranica, vol. I–XVI, London 1982– FGrHist = Jacoby, F., Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin 1923–1958. HCT = Gomme, A. W. / Andrewes., A. / Dover, K. J., Historical Commentary on Thucydides, vol. 1–5, Oxford 1945–1981. IG = Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Inscriptiones Graecae, Berlin 1902– RDGE = Sherk, R. E., Roman Documents from the Greek East, Baltimore (MD) 1969. RE = Pauly, A. F. / Wissowa, G. / Kroll, W. / Mittelhaus, K. / Ziegler, K. (ed.), Paulys Realencycolpädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft: neue Bearbeitung, München/ Stuttgart 1893–1980. SEG = Supplementum epigraphicum graecum, ISSN: 0920–8399, Amsterdam 1923– StV = Bengtson, H. et al. (ed.), Die Staatsverträge des Altertums: im Auftrage der Kommission für Alte Geschichte und Epigraphik, vol. 2–4, Munich 1962– Syll.3 = Dittenberger, W., Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, editio tertia, Leipzig 1915– 1924.

Introduction Francesco Mari / Christian Wendt In the summer of 168 BC, when the Roman Republic put an abrupt end to the sixth and last Syrian War between Ptolemaic Egypt and the Seleucid kingdom, a suburb of Alexandria called Eleusis experienced the birth of “a new sort of diplomacy”.1 As Polybius and Livy narrate, Antiochus Epiphanes was advancing the siege of Alexandria when he was met by a Roman embassy led by the senate’s legate Gaius Popilius Laenas, who ordered the Seleucid king to retreat from Egypt.2 Antiochus desisted and withdrew, surprised at receiving this ultimatum regarding a war that did not involve the Romans, though unwilling to fight with them. So much for the substance of the meeting. Together with the Roman victory against Macedonia in the same year, the ‘Day of Eleusis’ marked a geopolitical turn in the history of antiquity.3 Its ancient and modern commentators, however, have been more interested in the form of the encounter between the king of Syria and the former consul of Rome, that is, in Laenas’ breach of diplomatic protocol. Shortly after his accession to the throne, Antiochus had secured a friendship treaty with Rome, where he had spent part of his youth.4 Upon the arrival of the Roman embassy, he stretched his hand out to Popilius, in response to which the latter held out not his hand, but rather the senatus consultum demanding that Antiochus retreat. To greet an ally by holding out one’s right hand was not a mere reflex in antiquity. As a common preliminary to diplomatic talks, it signified a confirmation and renewal of the bond of good faith under which the concerned parties believed they were operating.5 1 2 3

4 5

Bevan 1902: 145. Polyb. 29.27.1–8; Livy 45.12. Cf. Diod. 31.2. Cf. already Polybius, who took 167 BC as the lower limit of the fifty-three-year long period during which “almost the whole inhabited world was conquered and brought under the dominion of the single city of Rome” (1.1.5: σχεδὸν ἅπαντα τὰ κατὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην οὐχ ὅλοις πεντήκοντα καὶ τρισὶν ἔτεσιν ὑπὸ μίαν ἀρχὴν ἔπεσε τὴν Ῥωμαίων). 173 BC. Livy 42.6.6–12. See Gwyn Morgan 1990: 50–51. On the handshake as a diplomatic practice, see Rollinger/Niedermayr 2007; Mari 2018: 118–126.

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Just as Polybius may have been right to suppose that Popilius Laenas refrained from “giving the usual sign of friendship until he knew the mind of the recipient, whether he were to be regarded as a friend or foe”,6 by neglecting the preliminary handshake, the Roman legate made clear that Rome’s alliance with Syria could not be taken for granted. The lack of a handshake and the senate’s orders startled Antiochus, who asked for time to consult with his advisors. But Laenas used a stick to draw a circle in the sand around Antiochus, and insisted that he respond before stepping outside of it. Only after Antiochus’ acceptance of the Roman terms did Popilius shake hands with him. This is how a Roman legate forced a Seleucid king to capitulate. Some one hundred and fifty years after the episode, Livy would ascribe Laenas’ gesture to “the usual harshness of his temper” (pro cetera asperitate animi).7 Modern scholarship too has emphasised the personal side by combining Livy’s comment on the Roman legate’s behaviour with a later (dubious) tradition about an old friendship between Popilius and Antiochus dating back to the latter’s Roman years.8 But Laenas’ breach of diplomatic etiquette is far from anecdotal, and there are arguably downsides to keeping diplomatic substance separate from diplomatic form. Alongside the fact that diplomatic protocols are interesting for historians per se, the forms of ancient diplomacy were often meaningful. As we have just suggested, Laenas’ refusal to shake Antiochus’ hand conveyed a substantial message about the Syro-Roman alliance and the bond of good faith that underpinned it. Rather than supposing Popilius Laenas to have been genuinely untrained in Eastern Mediterranean diplomatic customs (or simply harsh of character), it is worth considering that, by deliberately altering diplomatic rituals, that is, the formal structure of negotiations and agreements, the Romans aimed to alter also their substance, namely the fundamental element of good faith upon which they rested, from both an ideological and a cultural point of view.9

6 7

8 9

Polyb. 29.27.3: μὴ πρότερον ἀξιώσας τὸ τῆς φιλίας σύνθημα ποιεῖν πρὶν ἢ τὴν προαίρεσιν ἐπιγνῶναι τοῦ δεξιουμένου, πότερα φίλιος ἢ πολέμιός ἐστιν. Livy 45.12.5. Polyb. 29.27.4 says that the gesture was “exceedingly overbearing and insolent” (Ποπίλιος ἐποίησε πρᾶγμα βαρὺ μὲν δοκοῦν εἶναι καὶ τελέως ὑπερήφανον). He also describes Antiochus as “astonished by what had happened and by the ὑπεροχή” (ξενισθεὶς τὸ γινόμενον καὶ τὴν ὑπεροχήν, 29.27.6). However one translates ὑπεροχή, the complexity of the situation can be seen in Polybius’ wording: a) Antiochus has expectations that are not met, for he is “astonished” (ξενισθείς) by Laenas’ action; b) the imbalance of power is not only an existing fact that the Seleucid king acknowledges; it is the brutal display of it that seems to have a major impact on Antiochus’ changing attitude – and this would lead us to understand ὑπεροχή not only as the real excess of authority represented by the magistrate bearing the will of the senate, but as the overwhelming supremacy made visible in Laenas’ behaviour that alone can account for Antiochus’ surprise (since he was already aware that Rome’s influence and power easily outweighed his own); c) τὸ γινόμενον signifies the scene that the reader has just witnessed. Just. Epit. 34.3.2. This detail helps to contextualise Livy’s comment; the argument that Justin’s account aims at discharging the senate from any accusation of undiplomatic conduct should also be taken seriously. On the episode, see Grainger 2019: 231–232; Mittag 2006: 214–224; Gruen 1984: 690 f. See e. g. Huss 2001: 559. On the episode, see also Wendt (Ch.) in this volume, p. 187–188.

Introduction

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Born from the concluding discussion of a 2018 conference bearing the same name,10 Shaping Good Faith aims to tackle the ideas that: 1) the fundamental element of ancient diplomacy was good faith (gr. πίστις, lat. fides), and 2) different kinds of good faith could be shaped by negotiators by means of their interpretation of diplomatic etiquette, that is, the codes of ritual communication that ancient civilisations developed. These two guiding ideas intersect in many ways and on specific points, which the various contributions of this volume explore. Our aim in this Introduction is to provide a general description of our enquiry and to show how it might lead to a better understanding of ancient diplomacy as a historical phenomenon. Let us begin by addressing the key concepts of ‘good faith’ and ‘diplomacy’. This volume deals mainly with the Greek, Persian Achaemenid, and Roman cultures, as well as their ‘hybrids’ such as the Hellenistic kingdoms or the Parthian Empire. Words associated with the idea of believing in someone else’s reliability, honesty, or ability to accomplish a given task do not always share the same semantic field in Ancient Greek, Old Persian, or Latin. For example, the correspondence between Greek πιστός and Persian bandakā (as words for the King’s trusted associates) is between words based respectively on the idea of persuasion and that of being bound.11 And what about the idea of entrusting oneself to another, which is embedded in the Roman fides? This peculiarity of fides caused the Aetolian envoys, who in 191 BC had accepted a deditio in fidem request spoken in Greek (Polyb. 20.10.2: ἐγχειρίζειν εἰς τὴν Ῥωμαίων πίστιν), to complain that taking orders from the consul Glabrio was “neither just nor Greek” (Polyb. 20.10.6: ἀλλ᾽οὔτε δίκαιον […] οὔθ᾽ Ἑλληνικόν ἐστιν). Although πίστις is used to translate fides both in literary texts and in epigraphic sources containing official formulas,12 the Greek concept is often claimed to be based on a free decision by both contracting parties (whatever the power relationship between them), whereas the Roman concept of fides travels from the stronger party to the weaker, and can be defined as a promise to renounce one’s right to destroy the other.13 Our choice of ‘good faith’ rather than ‘trust’ as a common English translation for all these ancient concepts depends on such complexities, and stems from the impression that ‘trust’ is a more egalitarian word than ‘good faith’, which has a wider semantic field and allows for inequality in the diplomatic relationship (because it can stand for both ‘trust’ and ‘fidelity’). Let us now come to ‘diplomacy’ and its definitions. Diplomacy has not been the object of a dedicated epistemology until quite recently. With few exceptions, the topic 10 11 12 13

FU Berlin TOPOI, 11–12 October 2018. See e. g. Hdt. 3.30; Aesch. Pers. 2; Xen. Anab. 1.8.28; DB §§ 25, 26, 29 et al. For πίστις and πιστός, cf. Benveniste 1969: 115; Chantraine 1977: 968–969, s. v. πείθομαι. On bandakā, see Eilers/ Herrenschmidt 1988; Tuplin 2010. Cf. e. g. Livy 26.24.8–13 with IG IX, I2 2, 241. See also Polyb. 18.21 and Livy 33.13. On πίστις and fides, see Calderone 1964; Gruen 1982. On Glabrio and the Aetolians, see e. g. Eckstein 1995; Burton 2011: 116–117; Moreno Leoni 2014.

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has been treated by either practitioners in manuals and memoirs or by scholars in the field of International Relations (IR). For centuries now, the first group has been producing an impressive amount of literature, which has provided the work of the second with valuable case studies. However, the latter have not deemed diplomacy worthy of a proper theory, considering it – alongside war – as a mere technique employed by polities to pursue their interests and gain power in the political sphere.14 State and Power, not diplomacy, are the theoretical tenets of most IR models, whatever approach these adopt (e. g. Realism and Neo-Realism, Idealism/Liberalism, Structuralism).15 This mirrors the long-lasting State-centred international (dis)order of the post-Westphalian era. During the last three decades, however, worldwide phenomena such as globalisation and the progressive crisis of multilateralism have been causing deep changes in international relations, as both States as well as new actors like NGOs have begun to target transnational audiences thanks to communicative media made available by the IT revolution.16 In parallel with these changes, around the turn of the century, several IR scholars put forward some radically new views. IR Constructivists in particular have tried to go beyond Realist theories – which frame international relations by focussing solely on the calculations of power and advantage that motivate States as political actors – by complementing Realpolitik considerations with culturally determined values and principles. These factors impact especially upon the discursive and ceremonial frames of agreement-making, thus shaping the moral imperatives by which the parties believe themselves to be bound.17 Based around similar ideas on discursive practices, members of the so-called English School eventually proposed a thematisation of diplomacy.18 In their view, diplomacy is not defined by the structures that make it (i. e. States), but rather emerges from their (conflicting) relationships, which shape, transform, and reproduce it. In other words, diplomacy is a social institution that structures relationships among polities, that is, “a collection of social practices consisting of easily recognised roles coupled with underlying norms and a set of rules or conventions defining appropriate behaviour for, and governing relations among, occupants of these roles. These norms and rules […] provide a framework of shared expectations that facilitates purposive and predictable action among the occupants of certain roles, in our case diplomatic agents”.19

14

15 16 17 18 19

Some classic references: Morgenthau 1966: 139; Aron 1966: 40; Gilpin 1981: 45. An often-quoted definition by G. Berridge also follows this perspective: “Diplomacy is an essentially political activity and […] a major ingredient of power. Its chief purpose is to enable states to secure the objectives of their foreign policies without resort to force, propaganda, or law” (Berridge 2015: 1). Cf. the overview of these in Low 2007: 22–30. See also Jönsson/Hall 2005: 15–23. See Stanzel 2018 and the bibliography provided by Gazzano in this volume, p. 53–55. For a Constructivist approach to IR, see e. g. Wendt (A.) 1992 and 1999. The English School was long regarded as a side-branch of Realism (cf. Almeida 2003). However, later authors turned decidedly to Post-Structuralism ( J. Der Derian) and Constructivism (Ch. Reus-Smit). For an overview of the English School, see Neumann 2002. Jönnson/Ηall 2005: 25.

Introduction

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In short, IR scholars have now come to define diplomacy as a form of language between polities, a shared code of communication featuring its own set of interaction rules and practices (to be sure, negotiators ought to follow the protocol, but can also exploit their counterpart’s knowledge of it to convey specific messages, as in the case of Popilius Laenas and Antiochus). It is according to this definition that Shaping Good Faith will analyse ancient diplomacy and add some important nuances to its historical reconstruction. Needless to say, this does not mean that States, legal institutes, power calculations, and interest-driven behaviour will not be major constituents of our analysis. Yet we maintain that a focus on the diplomatic process itself has the advantage of allowing for an interpretation that takes into account more factors than most of the current approaches. The code of diplomatic communication was a highly important and influential channel for shaping politics (and good faith) and thus is a fruitful heuristic tool for analysing interstate encounters in antiquity. In line with the models summarised above, scholarship on ancient interstate relations has, until recently, not devoted specific attention to diplomatic language, that is, to its ritual framework. According to Sheila Ager, the fact that it is “commonplace to characterize the diplomatic framework of antiquity as rudimentary and undeveloped” could be in large part due to “the absence of permanent diplomatic institutions”, such as the embassies as well as the international organisations that facilitate contemporary interstate relations (the UN or the various G7, G20, BRICS, etc., but also NGOs).20 Ager challenges this commonplace by emphasising the “styles and modes of ancient diplomatic communication that break the mold of modern popular conceptions about diplomacy. The fact that so many diplomatic interchanges in antiquity strike us as undiplomatic should not blind us […]. They are ‘diplomatic’: it is just that diplomacy itself is not quite so polished as we suppose”.21 This surprising argument is an example of how the same restrictive understanding of diplomacy that is increasingly perceived as frustrating by IR specialists risks becoming even more problematic for ancient historians. Ager feels uncomfortable with those IR Realism-inspired ancient scholars who claim that a state of general anarchy was the rule among ancient polities and who for that reason deem ancient Mediterranean diplomacy to be primitive.22 However, insofar as she considers diplomacy as a technique, Ager’s perspective is in fact akin to that of IR Realism. Contradictions of this sort require deeper reflection, since interpretative dead ends are less likely to depend on the ancient evidence than on one’s theoretical approach. From a Realist perspective, the diplomatic framework of antiquity is naturally rudimentary, because as long as diplomacy is considered as a mere tool, it either does not 20 21 22

Ager 2017: 292. Ager 2017: 310. But see also Grant 1965, who on the basis of similar assumptions comes to very different conclusions. Eckstein 2006. See Gazzano, this volume, p. 50–52 for further details and reflections.

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need to be framed at all (it suffices to study diplomatic encounters and investigate their effects on geopolitical events) or should be described in terms of the treaties, organisations, and laws that polities use to deploy it. And indeed, vast and diverse as it is, scholarship on ancient diplomacy seems to have followed these two general paths. On the one hand, many historians have focussed on the diplomatic history of selected periods and events or the role and prerogatives of ambassadors and envoys; these tendencies have framed research also in recent years, in several important studies of different regions and epochs.23 Moreover, in line with the general tendency to see diplomacy as a field as well as a tool of politics that is opposed to war and conflict, scholars have sometimes equated it with peace initiatives,24 or at least seen it as a contribution to non-violent politics.25 Interesting as it may be, this perspective does not sit comfortably with the elements of conflict, threats or dishonesty that characterise several of the diplomatic encounters recorded in antiquity (which sometimes seem more suited to paving the way for, rather than preventing, armed conflict) and therefore requires reworking. On the other hand, there exists a more legalistic perspective, which attempts to inscribe diplomatic contact within a widely acknowledged set of norms, a kind of early international law. This is true for all important forms of regulated interstate behaviour, beginning in the Bronze Age and spanning all antiquity, especially in Greece and Rome.26 Broader approaches have tended to argue for the existence of a wider system that served as a legal framework for ancient diplomatic actors.27 Ancient understandings of diplomatic interaction, however, did not draw as sharp a distinction between laws, customs, religious rituals, and routinised behaviour as we do today. Some scholars have attempted more inclusive approaches for analysing the common features or patterns of ancient diplomatic encounters. In 2007, for example, Polly Low showed that to focus exclusively on the calculations of power and advantage that motivate political actors is inadequate for understanding ancient diplomacy.28

23

24 25 26

27 28

See e. g. Liverani 2001; Podany 2010 (on the Near East); Ruberto 2009; Brosius 2015; Hyland 2018 (on the Achaemenid Empire); Piccirilli 2002; Wilker 2012; Gazzano 2020 (on Greece); Grainger 2019 and Auliard 2006 (on the Hellenistic kingdoms and the Roman Republic); Wendt (Ch.) 2008 (on Rome between the 1st c. BC and the 1st c. AD). Biller/Olshausen 1979: 1: “[D]ie Gesamtheit der Bemühungen souveräner Staaten um die friedliche Gestaltung internationaler Beziehungen”. Ager 2017: 293, for instance, chooses to define ‘diplomacy’ as “the mostly nonviolent means by which inter-polity relations are established and managed”; cf. the definition of Berridge 2015: 1 (note 14 above). See e. g. Pallavidini 2016 on Hittite diplomacy, proxenia (e. g. Marek 1984), symmachiai/foedera (e. g. Baltrusch 1994; Rich 2008), xenia/hospitium (e. g. Herman 1987; Nicols 2016), philia/ amicitia (e. g. Konstan 1997; Burton 2011), pistis/fides (e. g. Calderone 1964; Gruen 1982); syngeneia/consanguinitas (e. g. Jones 1999; Curty 2005; Fragoulaki 2013). See in general Baltrusch 2008; Bederman 2009. Low 2007: 7–32. Cf. also the balanced approach of Giovannini 2007.

Introduction

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Paul Burton has used a more constructivist model to introduce an ideological variable (amicitia) into his analysis of Graeco-Roman relations between 353 and 146 BC, and study its impact on diplomatic negotiations alongside considerations of Realpolitik.29 Signs of a renewal have also recently emerged in the legalistic branch of scholarship: Emiliano Buis has undertaken a redefinition of ‘international law’ as applied to ancient Greek diplomacy, now understood in terms of ‘normativity’ through an interdisciplinary perspective that combines legal, religious, moral, political, and performative dimensions.30 These theoretical impulses have accompanied a renewed interest in the practices, gestures, and formulas that regularly appear in ancient diplomatic encounters, an interest that has been growing for the last two decades.31 Shaping Good Faith draws on both these strands, combining attention to the ritual and discursive practices that comprised ancient diplomacy as a code of communication with an approach to diplomatic good faith informed by newer IR research perspectives. In other words, ‘diplomacy’ will be understood not as a simple instrument for conducting international relations or as a mere ‘practice’,32 but rather as a diversified toolbox, a system of meaningful procedures with a variety of options that the actors can select from, but also need to weigh against one another. Legal institutions play as important a role as gestures, performative aspects as important as political calculations. To be sure, one does not need to shift attention entirely away from either Realpolitik or power ideologies if one’s focus is diplomatic ritual language. It is clear that the goals pursued by diplomats shaped diplomatic etiquette as much as diplomatic etiquette shaped their path to those goals. From the historian’s point of view, it is the tension between the diplomatic actors, the protocols they had to follow, their concrete goals, the roles they play (that is, their performances), and their personal psychological attachment to such roles that set events in motion. In the next paragraph, we shall show how diplomatic good faith can be used as a theoretical pivot for an enquiry into this tension. Good faith between parties, whether genuine or simulated, is a sine qua non of diplomatic agreements. To pledge good faith means that one promises to be honest and 29

30 31

32

Burton 2011. Burton’s reading of Roman amicitia might be considered over-optimistic. Nonetheless, he has demonstrated that concepts in ancient foreign policy can benefit from being studied within their wider cultural framework. See also Baltrusch 2008: 113, 168; Coşkun 2017. Cf. Lebow 2001 for a constructivist reading of Thucydides. Buis 2018. See Bayliss 2013 and Scharff 2016 on oath-ceremonies in Greek diplomacy; Grainger 2019: 9–72 on the Hellenistic states; Grass/Stouder 2015 on Rome. With regard to Greece, see also the seminal works on interpersonal ritual practices that appear in political interactions by Herman 1987 (on Greek xenia), Mitchell 1997; Wagner-Hasel 2000 (on Greek gift-making). Cf. Faraone 1993 and Lafont 1997 on oath-ceremonies and their political use in the ancient Near East; Knippschild 2004 and Mari 2012 for Achaemenid Persia. Cf. e. g. Vlassopoulos 2013 who, although proposing a refreshing approach to ancient intercultural communication, still treats diplomacy as a “practice” (p. 135–138).

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reliable with regard to an agreement that one has committed to honour. This notwithstanding, good faith is a concept that changes depending on one’s perspective. On the one hand, the multi-faceted character of good faith is often exploited by ancient authors who relate specific diplomatic encounters to convey partisan impressions, and was surely exploited as well by diplomatic actors themselves (according to the context in which they operated). On the other hand, it is the complexity of the concept that provides the historian with many angles of enquiry, including its legal implementation, its effectiveness in creating lasting bonds, its moral implications, its psychological impact, and so forth. In order to use diplomatic good faith as a working category, it is useful to proceed from its performative aspect.33 Seen in this light, good faith benefits greatly from a general understanding of diplomacy as a social institution (that is, as the social representation with actors, rules, and roles made up of ritual and discursive practices as outlined above). To provide an illustration of how this can work, let us present a hypothetical successful agreement (that should, of course, be used as a pattern against which to contrast more complicated cases). 1.– When the parties meet, they first need to distribute the roles, acknowledge reciprocal positions, and hence define a space of safe, if temporary, communication. The establishment of such a basis for preliminary understanding, which we might call ‘operational good faith’, is shaped through a set of practices and formulas that show reciprocal respect and an openness to negotiate (e. g. a handshake or the use of respectful forms of address). Good faith between polities accordingly emerges from a performance. At this stage, it does not require any link to the emotional or moral spheres, for these values depend on an attribution that each negotiator makes depending on their degree of psychological identification with the powers and culture they represent.34 2.– Assuming that these preliminaries are successfully carried out, the parties start negotiating in order to determine possible agreements. One’s objective, to be sure, does not need to be an agreement. Sometimes, for example, the parties can use diplomacy to establish common frameworks and rules within which to wage war against each other. Yet more often, dialogue is pursued either because the parties genuinely prefer a peaceful settlement over conflict, or in order to delay conflict so as to gain some advantage. In either case, the outcome indicated by negotiators as their main goal is likely to be the conclusion of a lasting arrangement. Indeed, if and when the latter is achieved, it can in turn consolidate good faith and make it long-lasting by institutionalising the space for peaceful dialogue that it represents.35 33 34 35

On performance in ancient (Greek) diplomacy, see Rubinstein 2013; Gazzano 2016: 123–140. Consider, for example, the Athenian Alcibiades acting on behalf of the Persian satrap Tissaphernes (Petit 1997: 140–144). Social space – it has been argued – can be called ‘institutionalised’ when “there exists a widely shared system of procedures to define who actors are, how they make sense of each other’s actions, and what types of action are possible” (Stone Sweet/Fliegstein/Sandholtz 2001: 12). Jönsson/Hall 2005: 40 argue that modern formal organisations (the embassy system, the

Introduction

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3.– Negotiations consist of a fabric of discourse and behaviours that rest on a bedrock of expectations, which in turn depend on each party’s assessment of the existing power relationship. Negotiators embed their tangible reasons for seeking an agreement (real mutual benefit, fear of losing a potential war, wish to delay a war, etc.) into a number of rhetorical, legal, and often moralistic arguments in order to add ethical, emotive, and psychological constraints to the treaty as well as to prepare the ground for casting moral responsibility on the other party in case of breaches. The achievement of concrete goals relies on the discourse that surrounds them, while interests and performance intersect and become irreversibly intertwined. From an interpretative point of view, there is no way of keeping an actor’s tangible reasons and aims entirely separate from the role they perform during the diplomatic interaction. The preservation of that role, that is, the need to show that their discursive and behavioural practices represent the truth becomes itself a crucial goal for the negotiator, both during the talks and later, when it comes time to account for negotiations and their outcomes. 4.– Through this process, having arisen from ritual, good faith is understood a posteriori in ideological, moral, and emotive terms as a value that ought to be maintained for any agreement to persist (assuming that the parties want it to persist). Yet as we have seen above when comparing Persian, Greek, and Roman concepts of good faith, values are often culture-specific. This is why, heuristically, the circle only closes when culturally divergent conceptions of good faith become basic components of the ‘operational good-faith’ formula that negotiators need as a basis for diplomatic contact (pt. 1 above). To sum up, diplomacy can be regarded as a ritual and discursive script through which to shape, challenge, and synthesise different concepts of good faith from various cultural representations. The role of ritual practices in the process is crucial to this understanding of diplomatic good faith. As a performative principle, diplomatic good faith can be studied through the diplomatic practices that forge it. These can enable effective communication between the parties and provide a basis on which to reach lasting agreements; they may also fail to do so due to cultural misunderstanding(s) or calculated duplicity intended to make the most out of the other party’s good faith; and, of course, depending on the parties’ goals, an inherent ambiguity may simply allow negotiators to retain flexibility and later disown a covenant while placing themselves in a position of moral superiority. Accordingly, an effective method for assessing the importance of enduring good faith in early ‘international relations’, alongside the guar-

UN, etc.) are merely one possible form of diplomatic institutionalisation; another is a set of enforced laws and regulations; yet another is “a set of shared symbols and references”. We should add that such forms of institutionalisation do not correspond to phases of an evolutionary process: positive law is not necessarily more sophisticated than ritual or routinised behaviour; moreover, the edges of these concepts overlap, and in practice different forms of institutionalisation always exist simultaneously.

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antees that were used to inspire fear in potential wrongdoers, is to search for traces of disturbances (or the opposite, that is, successful relationships based on good faith) in the documented negotiating processes. The contributions of this volume try to achieve this result while analysing different diplomatic situations and adopting various original perspectives on them. Sebastian Scharff opens our survey with an analysis of the role of ritual oaths in ancient Greek treaty-making, beginning from the diplomatic oath’s first attestations in the Iliad. Scharff breaks down the oath-ceremony into its basic constituents and explains these in terms of their religious, anthropological, and social function as deterrents to future breaches of the agreement. On this basis, Scharff questions the effectiveness of oaths as a diplomatic guarantee as well as their ability to mirror the power relationship between the contracting parties. By highlighting the way the constraints added by oaths were often flexibly designed in order to fill potential loopholes in treaties, Scharff ’s paper elucidates the double nature of ritual diplomatic practices, which gave negotiations a religious dimension while also having a tangible impact on the resulting treaties. Francesca Gazzano extends the same questions to discursive practices, the enquiry of which she embeds in a theoretical discussion of different IR theories. Her focus is Greek envoys’ persuasive speeches before foreign audiences of other poleis, which she compares to a recent trend in 21st-century scholarship on diplomacy, namely Public Diplomacy. Insofar as it relies on an impression of credibility, persuasion of the other party is the key to good faith (as the very etymology of Greek πειθώ and πίστις shows). Yet Gazzano insists on the circular nature of this relationship, as credibility can also stem from continuous good faith between the parties. This is why her study is centred on an especially suggestive and recurrent rhetorical strategy: recalling the past in diplomatic speeches. Greek envoys, she argues, attempted to create bonds of diplomatic good faith by evoking selected memories shared by the concerned communities. The picture grows more and more stimulating as Gazzano adds layers of complexity to her reasoning by assessing the role of historiographical biases in the narratives of the ancient sources for the speeches under investigation. Intercultural diplomacy and diplomatic rituals shared by an area larger than mainland Greece enter the discussion with Dominique Lenfant’s assessment of the role of personal guest-friendship bonds (Gr. ξενία) in relationships between Greeks cities and the Achaemenid Empire. A social institution akin to that which had filled Greece with a network of mutual obligations and exchanges among elite members of different poleis did exist in the Achaemenid Empire, as the numerous examples of guest-friendships between Greeks and Persians surveyed by Lenfant attest. These went beyond official hierarchies, linking Greek personalities with Achaemenid satraps, princes, and even kings, and were also exploited to pave the way for diplomatic encounters. The dialogue between the Greeks and the Persians or their Anatolian client peoples was rich in diplomatic practices, as shown by Christopher Tuplin in his survey of

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diplomatic events in Xenophon’s Anabasis. Tuplin provides a catalogue of no fewer than seventy diplomatic interactions, which he surveys to illustrate the great variety of combinations that the ritual framework of diplomacy allowed. Once again, diplomatic etiquette shows up as a flexible script that negotiators could adapt to both the contexts in which they operated and to their own goals. Ancient authors, while narrating the events, can also exploit this flexibility for various purposes: in the case of Anabasis (as Tuplin suggests) it allows Xenophon not only to produce an engagingly variegated literary texture but also to make us question how far ‘diplomacy’ is actually distinct from other types of political enterprise. With Edith Foster’s paper, we enter the realm of written diplomacy and its conventions. Her paper focusses on Thucydides’ record of a letter that the Great King Artaxerxes I addressed to the Spartans, but which was intercepted by the Athenians. Foster analyses Thucydides’ summary of the King’s language to show that the King uses an insistence on the proper performance of diplomatic protocols to create a context of ‘operational good faith’ for his future negotiations with the Spartans. She also questions the adequacy of previous interpretations of this letter, which do not take its diplomatic strategies into account. This topic is continued by Francesco Mari, who examines the exchange of letters between Alexander the Great and the Persian king Darius III after Alexander’s victory at Issus. Written diplomacy between kings implied the observance of a customary protocol made up of respect formulas. Returning to the issue of public diplomacy and the role held by the expected audiences of the letters, Mari reflects on the way intentional breaches of protocol (with special attention to forms of address) could be exploited to cast propagandistic images of the parties involved when the letters were made public. Prior to that, however, Mari questions the reliability of the extant traditions surrounding the events, weighing the historical facts (as far as we can reconstruct these from the sources) against propagandistic elements deliberately embedded in the narrative of Alexander’s campaigns. The troubled relationships among the Hellenistic kingdoms were thrown into greater disarray by the arrival of Rome on the international scene. As we have seen, the Roman view of good faith and diplomatic commitment did not always coincide with that of her Eastern interlocutors. Felix Maier offers an insightful interpretation of the sudden outbreak of the third Macedonian War. Neither Rome nor king Philip V wanted war, Maier argues, yet they ended up opening hostilities as a result of multiple failings in diplomatic understanding. Drawing on modern decision theory and its cognitive models, Maier shows how, in the months that preceded the war, various factors coincided to distort mutual perceptions in Rome and Macedonia, leading each party to doubt the other’s good faith and hence any pre-existing agreements (without any actual diplomacy taking place). It is not impossible that intentional breaches of diplomatic etiquette outnumber misunderstandings in Rome’s diplomatic history. Popilius Laenas is not an isolated case. As

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Christian Wendt claims in the final paper of this collection, the Roman envoy to Alexandria may be merely one link in a chain of individual actors who, depending on the political developments of their times, consciously disregarded expectations in an attempt to redefine a diplomatic relationship in Rome’s (or their own) favour. Wendt uncovers this pattern by juxtaposing three case studies of Romano-Parthian diplomacy from Sulla to Augustus, where deliberate alterations of ritual or discursive protocols led to a role redefinition among the concerned parties (of which diplomatic failure was a side effect). Wendt’s analysis not only highlights the importance of individual performances of the ritual script – performances that could be interpreted or altered to convey meaningful messages – but also stresses the importance of the narrative frameworks in which the accounts of relevant diplomatic encounters are embedded. In addition to the events themselves, these frameworks can contain cultural and even ideological elements that weave distinct episodes or individual choices into a greater story – in this case, the story of Rome’s ascension thanks to, or despite, the special character of her leaders. The contributions gathered within Shaping Good Faith provide a multi-faceted, albeit preliminary, identikit of ancient diplomatic good faith. We hope that, taken together, they will underscore the benefits that a vantage point on ancient diplomacy through good faith can offer. While keeping the focus on a single element and its components, the research perspective that we propose has allowed the contributors to investigate good faith from many different angles: it combines Realpolitik, the initiative and personality of individuals, as well as cultural beliefs and ideology, into a complex whole that is bound together by ritual and discursive patterns. We hope that this will provide a more complex and nuanced picture of ancient diplomacy. Bibliography Ager 2017 = Ager, S., “Diplomatic Communication in the Ancient Mediterranean”, in Naiden, F. S. / Talbert, R. J. A., Mercury’s Wings. Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, Oxford 2017. Alameida 2003 = Alameida, J. M. de, “Challenging Realism by Returning to History: The British Committee’s Contribution to IR Forty Years On”, International Relations 17 (2003): 273–302. Aron 1966 = Aron, R., Peace and War. A Theory of International Relations, New York City (NY) 1966. Auliard 2006 = Auliard, Cl., La diplomatie romaine : l’autre instrument de la conquête. De la fondation à la fin des guerres samnites (753–290 av. J.-C.), Rennes 2006. Baltrusch 1994 = Baltrusch, E., Symmachie und Spondai: Untersuchungen zum griechischen Völkerrecht der archaischen und klassischen Zeit (8.–5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.), Berlin 1994. Baltrusch 2008 = Baltrusch, E., 2008, Außenpolitik, Bünde und Reichsbildung in der Antike, München 2008. Bayliss 2013 = Bayliss, A. J., “Oaths and Interstate Relations”, in Sommerstein, A. H. / Bayliss, A. J. (ed.), Oath and State in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2013: 147–254, 266–306. Bederman 2009 = Bederman, D. J., International Law in Antiquity, Cambridge 2009.

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Benveniste 1969 = Benveniste, É., Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes, vol. 1, Paris 1969. Berridge 2015 = G. R. Berridge, Diplomacy: Theory and Practice, New York City (NY) 2015 (1st ed. London 1995). Bevan 1902 = Bevan, E. R., The House of Seleucus II, London 1902. Biller/Olshausen 1979 = Biller, H. / Olshausen, E., “Einleitung”, in Olshausen, E. (ed.), Antike Diplomatie, Darmstadt 1979: 1–13. Brosius 2015 = Brosius, M., “Pax persica: Königliche Ideologie und Kriegführung im Achämenidenreich”, in Meißner, B. et al. (ed.), Krieg–Gesellschaft–Institutionen, Berlin 2015: 135–162. Buis 2018 = Buis, E. J., Taming Ares. War, Interstate Law, and Humanitarian Discourse in Classical Greece, Leiden 2018. Burton 2011 = Burton, P., Friendship and Empire, Cambridge 2011. Calderone 1964 = Calderone, S., Πίστις-Fides. Ricerche di storia e diritto internazionale nell’antichità, Messina 1964. Chantraine 1977 = Chantraine, P., Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue grecque. Histoire des mots, vol. IV (1): Π–Y, Paris 1977. Coşkun 2017 = Coşkun, A., “Amicitia, fides und imperium der Römer aus konstruktivistischer Perspektive. Überlegungen zu Paul Burton’s ‘Friendship and Empire’ (2011)”, Latomus 76/4 (2017): 910–924. Curty 2005 = Curty, O., “Un usage fort controversé: la parenté dans le langage diplomatique de l’époque hellénistique”, Ancient Society 35 (2005): 101–117. Eckstein 1955 = Eckstein, A. M., “Glabrio and the Aetolians: a note on deditio”, TAPhA 125 (1995): 271–289. Eckstein 2006 = Eckstein, A. R., Mediterranean Anarchy, Interstate War, and the Rise of Rome, Berkeley (CA)/Los Angeles (CA)/London 2006. Eilers/Herrenschmidt 1988 = Eilers, W. / Herrenschmidt, C., “Banda”, EncIr III 7 (1988): 683–685. Faraone 1993 = Faraone, A. C., “Molten Wax, Split Wine and Mutilated Animals: Sympathetic Magic in near Eastern and Early Greek Oath Ceremonies”, JHS 113 (1993): 60–80. Fragoulaki 2013 = Fragoulaki, M., Kinship in Thucydides. Intercommunal Ties and Historical Narrative, Oxford 2013. Gazzano 2016 = Gazzano, F., “Celebrity diplomacy? Poeti e attori nelle ambascerie delle città greche”, Ktèma 41 (2016): 123–140. Gazzano 2020 = Gazzano, F., Fra polemos ed eirene. Studi su diplomazia e relazioni interstatali nel mondo greco, Alessandria 2020. Gilpin 1981 = Gilpin, R., War and Change in World Politics, Cambridge 1981. Giovannini 2007 = Giovannini, A., Les relations entre États dans la Grèce antique du temps d’Homère à l’intervention romaine, Stuttgart 2007. Grainger 2019 = Grainger, J. D., Great Power Diplomacy in the Hellenistic World, London/New York City (NY) 2019. Grant 1965 = J. R. Grant, “A Note on the Tone of Greek Diplomacy”, CQ 15/2 (1965): 261–266. Grass/Stouder 2015 = Grass B. / Stouder G. (ed.), La diplomatie romaine sous la République: réflexions sur une pratique, Besançon 2015. Gruen 1982 = Gruen, E. S., “Greek πίστις and Roman fides”, Athenaeum 60 (1982): 50–68. Gruen 1984 = Gruen, E. S., The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome, Berkeley (CA)/Los Angeles (CA)/London 1984. Gwyn Morgan 1990 = Gwyn Morgan, M., “The Perils of Schematism: Polybius, Antiochus Epiphanes and the ‘Day of Eleusis’”, Historia 39/1 (1990): 37–76.

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Herman 1987 = Herman, G., Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City, Cambridge 1987. Huss 2001 = Huß, W., Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit, München 2001. Hyland 2018 = Hyland, J., Persian Interventions: the Achaemenid Empire, Athens, and Sparta, 450– 386 BCE, Baltimore (MD) 2018. Jones 1999 = Jones, Ch., Kinship Diplomacy in the Ancient World, Cambridge (MA) 1999. Jönnson/Ηall 2005 = Jönnson C. / Ηall M., Essence of Diplomacy, Basingstoke/New York City (NY) 2005. Knippschild 2004 = Knippschild, S., “Im Namen des Königs: Identifikationsmarken zur Autorisierung königlicher Befehle im Perserreich”, Klio 86/2 (2004): 296–304. Konstan 1997 = Konstan, D., Friendship in the Classical World, Cambridge 1997. Lafont 1997 = Lafont, S. (ed.), Jurer et maudire: pratiques politiques et usages juridiques du serment dans le Proche-Orient ancien, Paris 1997. Lebow 2001 = Lebow, R. N., “Thucydides the Constructivist”, The American Political Science Review 95/3 (2001): 547–560. Liverani 2001 = Liverani, M., International Relations in the Ancient Near East, 1600–1100 BC, Basingstoke/New York City (NY) 2001. Low 2007 = Low, P., Interstate Relations in Classical Greece. Morality and Power, Cambridge 2007. Marek 1984 = Marek, C., Die Proxenie, Frankfurt/M. 1984. Mari 2012 = Mari F., “La destra del Re”, Sileno 38 (2012): 181–202. Mari 2018 = Mari F., “Les sens de la poignée de main en Grèce ancienne du VIIIe au Ve siècle avant J.-C.”, Ktèma 43 (2018): 105–131. Mitchell 1997 = Mitchell, L. G., Greeks Bearing Gifts. The Public Use of Private Relationships in the Greek World, 435–323 BC, Cambridge 1997. Mittag 2006 = Mittag, P. F., Anthiocos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie, Berlin 2006. Moreno Leoni 2014 = Moreno Leoni, A., “The failure of the Aetolian deditio as a didactic cultural clash in the Histories of Polybius (20.9–10)”, Histos 8 (2014): 146–179. Morgenthau 1966 = Morgenthau, H. J., Politics Among Nations. The Struggle for Power and Peace, 3rd edn., New York City (NY) 1966. Neumann 2002 = Neumann, I. B., The English School on Diplomacy (“Discussion Papers in Diplomacy” 79), The Hague 2002. Nicols 2016 = Nicols, J., “Hospitium: Understanding ‘Ours’ and ‘Theirs’ on the Roman Frontier”, in Slootjes D. / Peachin M. (ed.), Rome and the Worlds beyond Its Frontiers, Leiden 2016: 180–190. Pallavidini 2016 = Pallavidini, M., Diplomazia e propaganda in epoca imperiale ittita: forma e prassi, Wiesbaden 2016. Petit 1997 = Petit, Th., “Alcibiade et Tissapherne”, LEC 65 (1997): 137–151. Piccirilli 2002 = Piccirilli, L., L’invenzione della diplomazia nella Grecia antica, Roma 2002. Podany 2010 = Podany, A., Brotherhoods of Kings. How International Relations Shaped the Ancient Near East, Oxford 2010. Rich 2008 = Rich, J. W., “Treaties, Allies and the Roman Conquest of Italy”, in De Souza P. / France, J. (ed.), War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, Cambridge 2008: 51–75. Rollinger/Niedermayr 2007 = Rollinger R. / Niedermayr, H., “Von Assur nach Rom: Dexiosis und ‘Staatsvertrag’ – Zur Geschichte eines rechtssymbolischen Aktes”, in Rollinger R. / Barta H. (ed.), Rechtsgeschichte und Interkulturalität, Wiesbaden 2007: 135–178. Ruberto 2009 = Ruberto, A., Il Gran Re e i Greci. Un dialogo possibile, Todi 2009. Rubinstein 2013 = Rubinstein L., “Spoken Words, Written Submissions, and Diplomatic Conventions. The Importance and Impact of Oral Performance in Hellenistic Inter-polis Rela-

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tions”, in Kremmydas, C. / Tempest, K. (ed.), Hellenistic Oratory. Continuity and Change, Oxford 2013: 165–200. Scharff 2016 = Scharff, S., Eid und Außenpolitik. Studien zur religiösen Fundierung der Akzeptanz zwischenstaatlicher Vereinbarungen im vorrömischen Griechenland, Stuttgart 2016. Stanzel 2018 = Stanzel, V. (ed.), New Realities in Foreign Affairs: Diplomacy in the 21st Century (SWP Research Paper 11), Berlin 2018, URL: https://www.swp-berlin.org/fileadmin/contents/ products/research_papers/2018RP11_sze.pdf (last consulted on 18/05/2020). Stone Sweet/Fliegstein/Sandholtz 2001 = Stone Sweet A. / Fliegstein, N. / Sandholtz, W., “The Institutionalization of European Space,” in Iidem (ed.), The Institutionalization of Europe, Oxford 2001: 14–41. Tuplin 2010 = Tuplin, C. J., “All the King’s Men”, in Curtis, J. / Simpson, J. (ed.), The World of Achaemenid Persia, London 2010: 51–62. Wagner-Hasel 2000 = Wagner-Hasel, B., Der Stoff der Gaben. Kultur und Politik des Schenkens und Tauschens im archaischen Griechenland, Frankfurt/M./New York City (NY) 2000. Wendt (A.) 1992 = Wendt, A., “Anarchy is What States Make of It. The Social Construction of Power Politics”, International Organisation 46 (1992): 391–425. Wendt (A.) 1999 = Wendt, A., Social Theory of International Politics, Cambridge 1999. Wendt (Ch.) 2008 = Wendt, Ch., Sine fine: Die Entwicklung der römischen Außenpolitik von der späten Republik bis in den frühen Prinzipat, Berlin 2008. Wilker 2012 = Wilker, J. (ed.), Maintaining Peace and Interstate Stability in Archaic and Classical Greece, Mainz 2012.

Treaties and trust Oath rituals as a flexible diplomatic instrument for shaping good faith in interstate agreements Sebastian Scharff

1. Introduction In his Life of Pyrrhus, Plutarch describes how a peace treaty between Pyrrhus and Lysimachus was almost reached: Λοιδορήσας δὲ τὸν Λυσίμαχον ὅμως ἐποιεῖτο τὴν εἰρήνην, καὶ συνῄεσαν ὡς κατὰ σφαγίων ὁρκωμοτήσοντες. ἐπεὶ δὲ ταύρου καὶ κάπρου καὶ κριοῦ προσαχθέντος ὁ κριὸς αὐτομάτως ἀπέθανε, τοῖς μὲν ἄλλοις γελᾶν ἐπῄει, τὸν δὲ Πύρρον ὁ μάντις Θεόδοτος ὀμόσαι διεκώλυσε, φήσας τὸ δαιμόνιον ἑνὶ προσημαίνειν τῶν τριῶν βασιλέων θάνατον, ὁ μὲν οὖν Πύρρος οὕτως ἀπέστη τῆς εἰρήνης. Pyrrhus reviled Lysimachus for the fraud, but nevertheless made the desired peace, and they all met to ratify it with sacrificial oaths. However, after a bull, a boar, and a ram had been brought up for sacrifice, of its own accord the ram fell down dead. The rest of the spectators were moved to laughter, but Theodotus the seer prevented Pyrrhus from taking the oath by declaring that Heaven thus betokened in advance the death of one of the three kings. In this way, then, Pyrrhus was led to renounce the peace.1

The setting described here is a typical one for the conclusion of an interstate agreement, including the oath ritual. Three sacrificial animals, all male, are listed, representing the standard repertoire of an animal sacrifice during Greek oath-swearing ceremonies. The passage does not narrate a successful operation, however, but shows how an oath ritual 1

Plut. Pyrrh. 6.4–5 (transl. B. Perrin). The episode took place in 294 BC in the context of the Macedonian fratricidal war in which Pyrrhus supported Alexander V against his brother Antipater I. On the historical context, see Nederlof 1940: 32–34, Timpe 2017: 138. For the oath ritual, see Scharff 2016: 212. On alliances among the Diadochoi, see Meeus 2018.

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could fail.2 One of the animals (the ram) dies and this causes some of the spectators to laugh. We should not deduce that oath rituals were unserious affairs in Greek antiquity. It is rather the unexpectedness of the ram’s death and the contrast between this and the gravity of the situation that provokes laughter. The episode shows how important an oath ceremony was for the conclusion of a treaty. If this ritual was unsuccessful, the entire agreement could collapse.3 In what follows, I will focus on the performative aspects of Greek treaty oaths and ask how rituals and practices could shape good faith in interstate agreements. Did these help foster an operational basis, necessary for the conduct of diplomatic activities, or were they rather intended to communicate a kind of horror scenario, should either party break the treaty?4 The interstate arena represents a challenging context for the study of such phenomena. Undoubtedly, oaths served as a kind of ‘glue’ for the inner cohesion of political communities in the Greek world: they were considered a reasonable means of shaping good faith within a polity.5 This is why Greek poleis “deployed oaths to regulate almost every aspect of their public life”, as Sommerstein puts it.6 Each polis did so differently, however, because each disposed of its own oath deities and specific oath rituals. The question of what happened when an oath ritual traversed the borders of a polis thus becomes interesting.7

2 3 4

5

6 7

The failure of the ritual is probably the reason why we hear of this sacrifice in the first place, as Greek historians tended not to refer to the oath ritual in detail when they reported on the conclusion of a treaty (Scharff 2016: 275). That the treaty was not concluded was also a consequence of the political interests of the involved parties. Nevertheless, the failure of the ritual could be used, and was accepted, as an excuse for renouncing the peace treaty. I argued in favour of the second option in my dissertation (Scharff 2016), starting with the observation that Greek oath rituals in the interstate arena did not focus on staging commonality and concord. This still holds true for the oath ritual itself, but I would like to develop this perspective further by embedding it here into an analysis of the non-religious rituals that occurred before the oath ritual itself. Rituals that created common ground are not crucial for a study of the religious foundation of interstate agreements, which was the focus of my dissertation. But when it comes to the question of how good faith was shaped between conflicting parties, such rituals become an integral part of the picture, as I hope to demonstrate here. Although this idea is sometimes challenged in our sources (e. g. Pl. Leg. 948d), the overall picture is unambiguous and shows that the Greeks had faith in the oath as a domestic political instrument. “The power which keeps our democracy together is the oath” (τὸ συνέχον τὴν δημοκρατίαν ὅρκος ἐστί), Lycurgus says in Against Leocrates (79). In fact, the oath is even called pistis in the next but one sentence: τούτων (sc. ὁ ἄρχων, ὁ δικαστής, ὁ ἰδιώτης) τοίνυν ἕκαστος ταύτην πίστιν δίδωσιν. – “Each of these (sc. the archon, the juryman and the private citizen) gives this oath as a pledge”. And again in section 80: διόπερ, ὦ ἄνδρες δικασταί, ταύτην πίστιν (sc. τὸν ὅρκον) ἔδοσαν αὑτοῖς ἐν Πλαταιαῖς πάντες οἱ Ἕλληνες. – “It was for this reason, gentlemen of the jury, that all the Greeks exchanged this pledge (sc. the oath) at Plataea” (transl. J. O. Burtt). Sommerstein 2013: 8. Previous research has tended to focus on the oath ritual itself without concentrating on the interstate arena (Giorgieri 2001; Berti 2006; Torrance 2014), or has oaths and internation-

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The complexity of the question requires a methodologically sound examination. To this effect, my contribution begins with a structural approach that carefully analyses the ‘making’ of interstate oaths (Section 2). In that section, the different elements of interstate oath rituals, including animal sacrifice and formulae of oath deities, are investigated. To this structural approach, a chronological dimension is added via a description of how oath rituals changed over time (from the Archaic to the Hellenistic periods).8 In Section 3, the focus moves from ritual practices to the historically interesting question of how people reacted when a treaty (oath) was broken. I will analyse whether there were clauses in interstate oaths that might indicate an increased level of distrust between the concluding parties. The idea that standard clauses of treaties can mirror the power relationship between the concluding parties is further developed in the final section (4), which demonstrates that the question of who concluded a treaty could significantly influence the shape of the oaths themselves. 2. Making oaths. A structural approach to the elements of an oath ritual The oath ceremony that accompanied the conclusion of a treaty was one of the most common ways of securing peace in ancient Greek interstate politics. For any structural approach to oath rituals in the interstate arena, one needs to go back to Homer,9 since it is in a famous passage from the third book of the Iliad that we find the most detailed account of the different elements of such a ritual.10 The passage in question outlines the rituals that took place to secure an armistice between the Trojans and the Achaeans.

8

9

10

al relations at its core but does not pay much attention to the oath ritual itself (Lonis 1980; Bolmarcich 2007a; Bayliss 2013). The chronological framework of this article is limited by the arrival of Rome. After the Battle of Pydna, an independent Greek foreign policy without consideration of Rome was no longer possible. The new asymmetric power relationship that manifested itself in the occurrences of the Day of Eleusis (Polyb. 29.27.1–8; cf. Mittag 2006: 214–224) had a clear impact on the design of Greek treaty oaths: these thenceforward included Roman elements. See e. g. StV IV 663 (Aphrodisias, after 168 BC), where three Greek cities from Caria and Lycia dedicate an altar to Zeus Philios, Homonoia, and Dea Roma (Errington 1987). The epigraphic context of the document shows that the three deities functioned as oath gods in a treaty between the dedicating cities. Here is not the place to address ‘Homeric questions’. Two remarks may suffice: first, the Iliad is not a historical work, but historians can use it. Second, from a methodological point of view, ‘the unaccented background’ of the epic is where historical realities mostly emerge (cf. Raaflaub 1997: 8–9; Scharff 2016: 26–27 with references). The passage consists of two parts that are interrupted by the teichoskopia. The first part (Hom. Il. 3.39–120) describes the diplomatic negotiations prior to the armistice, the second (Hom. Il. 3.245– 323) deals with the actual oath ceremony. Later sources refrain from the meticulous description of oath rituals, probably because the general elements of the ritual were well-known. On the Homeric oath ritual, see Faraone 1993: 72–76; Kitts 2003; Berti 2006: 183–193; Scharff 2016: 26–45. On Near-Eastern influences, see Weinfeld 1973; Weinfeld 1990; Karavites 1992: 58–81; Giorgieri 2001. For the contractual aspects, see Baltrusch 1994: 104–117;

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The spirit and purpose of the agreement is to encourage confidence on both sides, so that they would accept the duel between Menelaos and Paris/Alexander as decisive for the outcome of the war.11 Let us take a closer look at the specific elements of the ritual. First, the animal sacrifice. It is agreed that the Trojans shall bring two lambs, a white male one for Helios and a black female one for Ge, while the Greeks shall provide another for Zeus.12 The attention to detail with regard to the choice of the animals is striking. The colours and sexes of the animals correspond to the respective deities. It is also striking that the choice of the sacrificial victims, as well as the selection of the oath-takers, become part of the diplomatic negotiations that take place before the ritual starts.13 This is an important element of the Homeric episode because elsewhere we do not hear much about how oaths should be sworn during diplomatic negotiations. The Greek historians tend to focus on the outcome of negotiations and report the content of treaties, leaving aside the oath deities and specifics of the ritual.14 Menelaos insists on Priam taking the oath “because his sons are over-weening and faithless (apistoi)”.15 These characteristics make it difficult to create trust between the conflicting parties to a degree where both would accept the outcome of the duel. Prior to the oath ritual, another kind of ritual was therefore necessary. This ritual does not have a religious kernel, but rather consists of a set of symbolic gestures and practices aimed at bridging the gap between the two armies: the negotiations begin with Hector “stepping into the middle” (ἐς μέσσον ἰών) of the conflicting parties, alone and without the protection of his guard.16 The intention was doubtless to create and secure a “common ground”17 between the two hosts, a safe space where the duel between Menelaos and Paris would ultimately take place.18 According to Elmer, both parties thus merge and build a “super-community”.19 This may be going too far. Both sides remain sworn enemies. Yet in essence, the gestures constitute a set of diplomatic rituals of mutual rapprochement:

11 12 13 14

15 16 17 18 19

Baltrusch 2008: 5–9. On the importance of the oath scenes in Homer from a philological point of view, see Arend 1933: 122–123; Callaway 1990; Kitts 2005. On this passage, see Elmer 2012; Scharff 2016: 30–36 (with further references). Hom. Il. 3.103–104: οἴσετε ἄρν᾽, ἕτερον λευκόν, ἑτέρην δὲ μέλαιναν, | Γῇ τε καὶ Ἠελίῳ: Διὶ δ᾽ ἡμεῖς οἴσομεν ἄλλον. – “Bring ye two lambs, a white ram and a black ewe, for Earth and Sun, and for Zeus we will bring another” (transl. A. T. Murray). Hom. Il. 3.76–120, esp. 102–110. Exceptions were only made when some “extra sanctity” (Torrance 2014: 132) was given to the oaths during the ritual (Xen. An. 2.2.9; see note 94), when strange sacrificial animals such as a wolf were used (Xen. An. 2.2.9 with Parker 2004: 137, note 17; Scharff 2016: 264–268; cf. also Torrance 2014: 139–140) or foreign oath deities unfamiliar to the historian’s audience were invoked (Polyb. 7.9; cf. Scharff 2016: 274–281 with further references). Hom. Il. 3.106: ἐπεί οἱ παῖδες ὑπερφίαλοι καὶ ἄπιστοι (transl. A. T. Murray); cf. Scharff 2016: 40. Hom. Il. 3.77. Elmer 2012, p. 37. As first proposed by Paris/Alexander (Hom. Il. 3.69: ἐν μέσσῳ). Elmer 2012: 34.

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the oath ceremony itself must be prepared by other rituals that allow the diplomatic negotiations to begin. We may conclude that at least two types of ritual were necessary for the conclusion of a peace agreement. Returning to the oath ritual itself, the three most important Greek oath deities Zeus, Ge, and Helios are integrated into the ritual via the sacrificial animals, even before the invocation begins. The deities represent the elements of heaven, earth, and sun. Behind the choice of these deities was the idea that an oath-breaker could hide nowhere.20 To expand this idea, the Rivers (potamoi) and some vaguely described divine forces of the underworld are added.21 The message of the enlarged formula seems to be that perjury will be seen and punished also on water and under the earth.22 The choice of the deities demonstrates that the punishment of an oath-breaker would be inescapable and inevitable.23 A third element of the oath ritual emerges in the lines 245–249. The Trojan heralds bring the lambs for Ge and Helios, as well as the wine, a mixing bowl, and golden cups for a libation.24 The leaders of both parties, Agamemnon and Priam, accompanied by Odysseus and Antenor, step “into the midst of the Trojans and Achaeans”.25 Sacrificial wine is mixed in a bowl and the hands of the basilēes are sprinkled with water.26 Agamemnon himself cuts the hair from the head of the lambs and has it distributed to “the best (aristoi) of the Trojans and Achaeans”.27 That way, the chieftains of both sides are included in the ritual. They clean their hands and touch the sacrificial victims.28 This physical contact with the sacrificial animals is important as it allows the participants to ‘sense’ the fate of the victims, a fate that represents the ritual self-imprecation included in every Greek oath.29

20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29

On this idea, see Nilsson 1967: 139–142; Mikalson 2005: 178; Burkert 2011: 377. On its relevance in the interstate arena, see Scharff 2016: 249, 286–287. Hom. Il. 3.276–280. Poseidon is regularly integrated into the god lists of treaty oaths from the fourth century BC onwards (Brulé 2005, p. 156). The earliest known example is an amnesty oath from Dikaia (cf. Scharff 2016: 177, note 633). Burkert 2011: 377–379: “Charakter des nie wieder Zurückzunehmenden und oft des prägenden Schreckens” (quote: p. 377). On heralds in Homer, see Wéry 1979: 13–56; Tietz 2011. On Homeric envoys, see Karavites 1987. Hom. Il. 3.266: ἐς μέσσον Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν. As Karavites 1992: 116–117 has shown, the choice of Odysseus and Antenor is not coincidental. Odysseus appears as “a diplomat par excellence” (Berti 2006: 186, note 31; cf. Wéry 1979: 22, 26, 47, 52–53) and Antenor represented the Trojan ‘peace party’ (Hom. Il. 7.348–353). Note that the entire ritual takes place in front of the two armies, which is why we can speak of the “‘theatrical’ nature” (Berti 2006: 192) of the performance. Hom. Il. 3.269–270: κρητῆρι δὲ οἶνον | μίσγον, ἀτὰρ βασιλεῦσιν ὕδωρ ἐπὶ χεῖρας ἔχευαν. – “mixed the wine in the bowl, and poured water over the hands of the kings” (transl. A. T. Murray). Hom. Il. 3.274: Τρώων καὶ Ἀχαιῶν (…) ἀρίστοις. On this aspect, see Berti 2006: 186. Cf. Berti 2006: 192.

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The sacrificial slaughter of the animals is described with wording otherwise reserved in Homer for the death of soldiers.30 In this way, the fate of the sacrificial animals is likened to the fate of men, an “anthropomorphisation of the slaughter” as Berti puts it.31 The bleeding throats of the animals illustrate the fate of potential perjurers.32 By including an animal sacrifice in the oath ritual, it becomes a “high intensity rite” or a Drohritus.33 As Larson puts it: “oath sacrifice is the one sacrificial situation where the animal’s suffering is the undeniable focus, because it requires magical transfer of the suffering animal’s fate to the oath-breaker”.34 This interpretation is supported by the way the libation is described in the passage. It is important to note that the wine is not consumed, but rather spilled on the ground.35 Moreover, the libation is accompanied by a self-curse that reads: “whoever is the first to do wrong against the oath, let his brains flow to the ground like this wine”.36 Similarly, the participants in the ritual do not jointly consume the sacrificial animals. Priam carries them home on his wagon.37 At the end of the ritual, there is no common meal to promote consensus, but a ritual self-curse that depicts a possible horror scenario.38 The fact that the remains of the sacrificial animals are not eaten is the decisive element by which oath sacrifices differ from other types of animal sacrifice.39 In post-Homeric Greece, oath rituals were accompanied by other religious measures intended to shape good faith in interstate agreements, including most notably

30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39

Kirk 1985: 307. Berti 2006: 187; cf. Giorgieri 2001: 427 with note 15. Hom. Il. 3.292–294. Ekroth 2002: 325–330 (“high intensity rite”); Giorgieri 2001: 427; Berti 2006: 189; Scharff 2016: 58–62. Larson 2016: 233, note 68. Walter Burkert has been criticised for his idea of an essential link between violence and sacrifice. Members of the ‘Paris school’, such as Jean-Pierre Vernant and Marcel Detienne, focused rather on communal eating and drinking as key aspects of Greek sacrifice (but see Ekroth 2007a and 2007b; on the shifting approaches to Greek sacrifice in general, see Larson 2016: 200–204). With regard to the oath ritual, however, the importance of violence for the ritual has never been questioned (see e. g. Faraone 1993; Berti 2006; Torrance 2014). The fact that this violence is at the core of the ritual becomes evident when in Hom. Il. 4.158, the earlier oath from Book Three is referred to as ὅρκιον αἷμά τε ἀρνῶν. “The blood of lambs” is presented as one of the most important aspects, if not the essence of the ritual. Also note that oaths are “cut” in Homer. Thus ὅρκια τάμνειν appears as “a traditional phrase (…) for oath-taking” (Kirk 1985: 274) in the Iliad (for the evidence, Cohen 1980). The phrase has Near Eastern precursors and is evidence for a shared grammar of the oath ritual in a Mediterranean context (Scharff 2016: 281–282, 291–293). Giorgieri 2001: 426–427; Berti 2006: 189; Carastro 2012: 85; Torrance 2014: 147. Hom. Il. 3.299–300: ὁππότεροι πρότεροι ὑπὲρ ὅρκια πημήνειαν | ὧδέ σφ᾽ ἐγκέφαλος χαμάδις ῥέοι ὡς ὅδε οἶνος (…). The sacrificial prayer begins with an invocation of the gods: Ζεῦ κύδιστε μέγιστε καὶ ἀθάνατοι θεοὶ ἄλλοι (298). On the predominance of homoioteleuta in this prayer, see Scharff 2016: 35. Hom. Il. 3.110; cf. Berti 2006: 187; Burkert 2011: 378–379; Torrance 2014: 138–139. Scharff 2016: 36. Cf. Torrance 2014: 138: “The discarding of the sacrificial victim is the crucial difference between the oath-sacrifice and normal animal sacrifice”.

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the publication of treaty texts in sanctuaries.40 Document reliefs were also sometimes commissioned, depicting the most important polis deities of the contracting parties in a dexiosis scene.41 Despite these less intimidating measures, the ritual still emphasised the punitive function of the gods. Frightening stories circulated about a personified, but anonymous ‘Son of the Oath’ who had no hands or feet, but pursued his victims swiftly.42 To make the meaning of this clear, the oath ritual could be accompanied by an acoustic signal, as in the famous Oath of Plataea, for which the sound of a trumpet is attested.43 After the conflicting parties had created an operational basis by means of rituals of mutual rapprochement, the decisive element of the oath ritual itself was to establish a scenario in which the punitive potential of the oath deities was highlighted. The inescapable vengeance of the gods was evoked, should the oath be broken. This was intended to create “an unforgettable experience of terror” in the minds of any potential perjurer.44 It comes as no surprise that, in tragedy, “bloodthirsty Fear” (φιλαίματος Φόβος) could become an oath deity.45 Despite all the serious consequences that the breaking of an oath could trigger, a ‘creative handling’ of oaths must have been widespread. This included the excuse that an oath did not apply because of ambiguous wording.46 Odysseus’ grandfather Autolykos, for instance, is presented in the Odyssey as a master of “pretence and oath”,47

40

41 42

43 44 45 46 47

As Wéry 1979: 39 has shown, this is the only aspect of the religious foundation of Greek interstate agreements that cannot be found in Homer. On the publication of treaties in sanctuaries, see now Drauschke 2019. On Olympia, see Alonso Troncoso 2013. On Hellenistic Crete, see Chaniotis 1996: 77–81. For the publication and transmission of diplomatic documents in general, see Heuss 1934: 218–257 (with Klaffenbach 1960); Lalonde 1971; Sickinger 1999: 119–122 (on the Metroon as the place where treaties and alliances were housed in Athens). On document reliefs, see Meyer 1989; Lawton 1995; Ritter 2001. On the gesture of clasping right hands that can be found in Homer (e. g. Hom. Il. 2.341), but which is not part of the ritual analysed above, see Knippschild 2002: 29–38; Bayliss 2013: 156–158; Torrance 2014: 144–147. Hdt. 6.86γ: ἀλλ ᾽ Ὅρκου πάϊς ἔστιν, ἀνώνυμος οὐδ᾽ ἔπι χεῖρες | οὐδὲ πόδες· κραιπνὸς δὲ μετέρχεται, εἰς ὅ κε πᾶσαν | συμμάρψας ὀλέσῃ γενεὴν καὶ οἶκον ἅπαντα· | ἀνδρὸς δ᾽ εὐόρκου γενεὴ μετόπισθεν ἀμείνων. – “But Oath has a son, nameless; he is without hands or feet, but he pursues swiftly, until he catches and destroys all the family and the entire house. The line of a man who swears true is better later on” (transl. A. D. Godley). On the ‘son of the Oath’, see Scharff 2016: 52–54, 70–71, 231–237 (with further references); on the narratological context of the episode in Herodotus, see Hornblower 2007: 139–141. Note that the ‘Son of the Oath’ has no hands or feet because this is the way humans punish perjury, as stated in the oath of the Delphic Amphictyony (Aeschin. Leg. 115: τιμωρήσειν καὶ χειρὶ καὶ ποδὶ; the historicity of this oath has been questioned by Sánchez 1997 [but see Lefèvre 1998: 352–354], Scharff 2016: 68–77). RO 88, l. 47–48: ὑπὸ σάλπιγγος; on the Oath of Plataea, see Siewert 1972; Scharff 2016: 79–88 (with further references). Burkert 2011: 377. Aesch. Sept. 42–48. Bayliss 2014: 240 calls this phenomenon “‘artful dodging’, or the sidestepping of oaths” and gives some examples from the interstate arena, such as the “Thracian pretence” (p. 259–262). Hom. Od. 19.395–396. On Autolykos’ oaths, see Bayliss 2014: 256–258.

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which is meant as a compliment.48 But if, as the Homeric passage indicates, ambiguous wording with regard to oaths was a common phenomenon already in ‘the world of Odysseus’,49 this was clearly not suited to shaping good faith, all the more so in the interstate arena where one either did not know the other party or where it often included a (former) enemy. The question of how to shape good faith in interstate agreements must have become increasingly important in the Archaic period. One approach to this problem was to focus on the deities by which oaths were sworn, so that nobody could deny the gods were overseers of the agreement. This is why Greek city-states paid careful attention to the formulae of oath deities. On Hellenistic Crete, such lists regularly included more than twenty different gods.50 Hellenistic Crete is a special case, but the high number of deities does demonstrate the importance of the issue. In Eid und Außenpolitik, I analysed the god lists of Greek treaties in detail and it will suffice here to summarise briefly the history of such lists.51 Although in general it was Zeus alone who bore the epithet Horkios,52 the Greeks made good use of the special conditions of their polytheistic religion in the case of interstate politics. Usually, both parties agreed on the same oath deities by creating a common formula that included the most important oath gods from both sides. However, there are also cases in which two different lists of deities have come down to us and where each side swore by their own oath gods, a procedure that appears to have become standard practice in the Classical period (the so-called epichorios or nomimos horkos).53 One of the most interesting cases is a treaty between the Athenians and the Corcyreans in the year 375 BC, in which both parties swear by the same gods although in different dialects.54 While the Athenians invoke Zeus, Apollo and Demeter in their oath, the Corcyreans swear by Zeus, Apollo, and ‘Damatar’.55 Although an exception rather than the rule, this again shows how much importance could be attached to the small details of an oath ritual. Taken as a whole, we observe a process that ranges from the varying lists of the Archaic period (where an extreme example included a polis in the list of oath deities) via the epichorioi horkoi of the Classical period, and culminating in the standardisation and

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

Note that Odysseus himself is presented as a master of disguise in the epic poem. Finley 1977. Chaniotis 1996: 68–76; Brulé 2005: 161–162; Scharff 2016: 118–129. Scharff 2016. We find a strong connection between oaths and Zeus already in the Iliad (Hom. Il. 3.107: Διὸς ὅρκια); for the evidence, see Scharff 2016: 46–49. The locus classicus is Thuc. 5.47.7. For a comprehensive list of the use of the terms epichorios and nomimos horkos in Greek treaties, see Scharff 2016: 181, note 656. StV II 263 (Athens, 375 BC), see Scharff 2016: 112–116 (with further references). Oath of the Athenians (StV II 263, l. 23–24): νὴ τὸ|[ν] Δία καὶ τὸν Ἀπόλλω καὶ τὴν Δήμητρα. Oath of the Korkyraians (StV II 263, l. 35–36): να[ὶ τ]ὸν Δία [κα]ὶ | [τὸν Ἀπόλλωνα καὶ τὰν Δά]ματ[ρα].

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unification of the formulae of oath deities in the Hellenistic period.56 This standardisation, however, also triggered a revival of local oath deities in treaties not involving the great political powers of the period.57 The role of the oath gods was to take final responsibility for sanctioning perjury in the interstate sphere. They acted as confidants (συνίστορες)58 and witnesses (μάρτυρες)59 of the treaties in which they were invoked and could become allies (σύμμαχοι)60 of one of the contracting parties, should the other break the agreement.61 Alongside the oath deities, other divine forces, such as the Erinyes, also played a part.62 Finally, additional 56

57 58 59

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A polis in the list of oath deities: StV II 120, l. 5–8 (Olympia, before 510 BC, Sybaris and the Serdaioi): πρόξενοι ὀ Ζε|ὺς κ’ Ὀπόλον κ’ ο\λλοι θ|εοὶ καὶ πόλις Ποσειδα|νία. – “Witnesses (sc. of the treaty) are Zeus, Apollon, and the other gods, and the polis Poseidonia”. On this clause and the question of what exactly πρόξενος means here, see Gauthier 1972: 33–35; Lonis 1980: 271; Giangiulio 1992: 32, note 3; Bayliss 2013: 171–172. Standardisation of god lists: Scharff 2016: 209–213. Scharff 2016: 184–206. Thuc. 2.74.2: θεοὶ ὅσοι γῆν τὴν Πλαταιίδα ἔχετε καὶ ἥρωες, ξυνίστορές ἐστε (…). – “Ye gods and heroes of the Plataean territory, be my witnesses (…)” (transl. J. M. Dent). Thuc. 1.78.4: θεοὺς τοὺς ὁρκίους μάρτυρας ποιούμενοι (“Τaking the gods who heard the oaths to witness”), 2.71.4: μάρτυρας δὲ θεοὺς τοὺς τε ὁρκίους (“[Τaking] the gods to whom the oaths were then made to witness”); 2.74.2: ἐς ἐπιμαρτυρίαν καὶ θεῶν καὶ ἡρώων τῶν ἐγχωρίων (“Τo the witness of the gods and heroes of the country”), 4.87.2: μάρτυρας μὲν θεοὺς καὶ ἥρως τοὺς ἐγχωρίους ποιήσομαι (“I shall take the gods and heroes of your country to witness” [transl. J. M. Dent]); Xen. An. 4.8.7: θεοὺς δ’ ἐπεμαρτύραντο ἀμφότεροι (“Αnd both sides called the gods to witness” [transl. C. L. Brownson]). Xen. Hell. 3.4.11 (with the same wording in Xen. Ages. 1.13): ἐπιορκήσας αὐτὸς (sc. Tissaphernes) μὲν πολεμίους τοὺς θεοὺς ἐκτήσατο, τοῖς δ᾽ Ἕλλησι συμμάχους ἐποίησεν. – “By violating his oath, he had made the gods enemies of his side and allies of the Greeks” (transl. C. L. Brownson); Xen. An. 3.2.10: ἡμεῖς μὲν ἐμπεδοῦμεν τοὺς τῶν θεῶν ὅρκους, οἱ δὲ πολέμιοι ἐπιωρκήκασί τε καὶ τὰς σπονδὰς παρὰ τοὺς ὅρκους λελύκασιν. οὕτω δ᾽ ἐχόντων εἰκὸς τοῖς μὲν πολεμίοις ἐναντίους εἶναι τοὺς θεούς, ἡμῖν δὲ συμμάχους. – “We are standing true to the oaths we took in the name of the gods, while our enemies have perjured themselves and, in violation of their oaths, have broken the truce. This being so, it is fair to assume that the gods are their foes and our allies” (transl. C. L. Brownson). Evoking the gods as σύμμαχοι, however, seems to have been much easier when the party breaking the oath included non-Greeks (Scharff 2016: 284–286, 292). The gods assumed the same roles as human agents. Note, for instance, that Perdikkas III is called μάρτυρα δ[ὲ] καὶ συνίστορ[α] in an amnesty oath that the people of Dikaia swore after a stasis had afflicted their city (SEG LVII 576, l. 21 [365–359 BC]). Giovannini 2019: 374 has questioned whether the Erinyes were ever conceived by the Greeks as figuring in the interstate sphere. Yet they are already listed among the oath deities in the earliest Greek treaty oath (Hom. Il. 3.276–280: Ζεῦ πάτερ Ἴδηθεν μεδέων κύδιστε μέγιστε, | Ἠέλιός θ᾽, ὃς πάντ᾽ ἐφορᾷς καὶ πάντ᾽ ἐπακούεις, | καὶ Ποταμοὶ καὶ Γαῖα, καὶ οἳ ὑπένερθε καμόντας | ἀνθρώπους τίνυσθον ὅτις κ᾽ ἐπίορκον ὀμόσσῃ | ὑμεῖς μάρτυροι ἔστε, φυλάσσετε δ᾽ ὅρκια πιστά. – “Father Zeus, that rulest from Ida, most glorious, most great, and thou Sun, that beholdest all things and hearest all things, and ye Rivers and thou Earth, and ye that in the world below take vengeance on men that are done with life, whosoever hath sworn a false oath; be ye witnesses, and watch over the oaths of faith” [transl. A. T. Murray]. The formulation in Hom. Il. 19.258–260 [ἴστω νῦν Ζεὺς πρῶτα θεῶν ὕπατος καὶ ἄριστος | Γῆ τε καὶ Ἠέλιος καὶ Ἐρινύες, αἵ θ’ ὑπὸ γαῖαν | ἀνθρώπους τίνυνται, ὅτις κ’ ἐπίορκον ὀμόσσῃ. – “Be Zeus my witness first, highest and best of gods, and Earth and Sun, and the Erinyes, that under earth take vengeance on men, whosoever hath sworn a false oath”] makes

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gods who figured prominently in the pantheon of the concluding partners could be included in the religious safeguarding of a treaty via their depiction in document reliefs.63 There can be no doubt that the Greeks endeavoured to give their treaties a solid religious foundation. Before they could conclude a treaty, rituals of mutual rapprochement were in order. Such rituals focused on creating a common ground, an operational basis upon which the oath ceremony could begin. The oath ceremony itself was designed to generate fear in the minds of potential oath-breakers.64 3. Breaking oaths. When a common treaty oath was not enough We have seen that the Greeks paid close attention to religious procedures, the intention of which was to protect treaties against violation. In the centre of these elaborate efforts stood the oath ceremony with its focus on the suffering of the animals. But why was such a ritual necessary? Oaths were associated with especially serious problems in the interstate arena.65 First, treaty oaths (as opposed to, say, oaths sworn by magistrates at the beginning of their year in office) were always taken in delicate circumstances, such as the aftermath of war or civil strife. Second, treaty oaths were sometimes sworn to protect interstate agreements that were meant to last a long time.66 Third, the magistrates of a polis who had sworn a treaty oath changed every year, meaning they were sometimes no longer in charge of overseeing the fulfilment of the contractual obligations. Although usually the pacta-sunt-servanda rule applied, a change of magistrates could create political problems.67 The fourth and probably most important challenge faced by oaths in the

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clear that by οἳ ὑπένερθε καμόντας ἀνθρώπους τίνυσθον the Erinyes are meant; cf. also Quint. Smyrn. 13.378–382). If the Erinyes are not explicitly referred to in later treaty oaths, this is only because they had become the “embodiment of the curse upon oneself ” that accompanied every swearing of an oath (Burkert 2011: 302; cf. Fletcher 2012: 62–66). Thus, they appear in StV II 290, l. 9 (Athens, 362/61 BC) in a diplomatic context. We should also bear in mind that the boundaries between an interstate and a domestic political context were not as clear cut in Greek antiquity as they are today. This is of course only true in the chronological and spatial framework in which document reliefs flourished, i. e. in fifth- and fourth-century BC Athens (on the reasons for the end of the genre, see Meyer 1989: 258–262; Lawton 1995: 19–22). It is interesting that the gods who are usually presented shaking hands are not the oath deities, but rather those gods who served as an emblem for their city (e. g. Athena in Athens, where she did not serve as a regular oath goddess). We may better understand now why Burkert 2013: 23 has stated with good reason: “Oaths are simultaneously a primitive and a sophisticated thing”. Cf. Bolmarcich 2007a: 26–27. Note that the ἐς-ἀεί formula appears as a regular feature in Greek treaty oaths (Scharff 2016: 89–91, 197). One example can be found in Thuc. 5.36.1: τοῦ δ’ ἐπιγιγνομένου χειμῶνος (ἔτυχον γὰρ ἔφοροι ἕτεροι καὶ οὐκ ἐφ’ ὧν αἱ σπονδαὶ ἐγένοντο ἄρχοντες ἤδη, καί τινες αὐτῶν καὶ ἐναντίοι σπονδαῖς)

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interstate world was that there was no higher-ranking and neutral authority capable of enforcing the consequences when a treaty oath was broken. Lastly, there was the problem of “conflicting oaths” in the interstate arena.68 The classical example of such a constellation of conflicting oaths is found in Thucydides’ account of the Peace of Nicias.69 When Spartan envoys came to Corinth in the summer of 421 BC and demanded the Corinthians accept the terms of the Peace of Nicias, the Corinthians insisted on an article of an existing treaty between themselves and the Spartans. This article stated that “what the majority of the allies (sc. of the Peloponnesian league) voted should be binding unless there was some impediment on the part of Gods or heroes”.70 For the Corinthians, such a “religious impediment” (κώλυμα θεῖον) was seen in oaths they had given to their Thracian allies, which prevented them from accepting a treaty with the Athenians. Although the argument is described by Thucydides as an “excuse” (πρόσχημα),71 it was nevertheless accepted by the Spartans. To be sure, this was connected to the political circumstances of the day, but it also shows that religious arguments could be taken seriously in interstate politics. The Spartans, in particular, appear to have been ready to accept religious arguments.72 According to Thucydides, they interpreted their own failure in the Archidamian War, especially the Battle of Pylos, as a consequence of their own breach of the Thirty Years’ Peace.73 The argument of the Corinthians shows that the problem of conflicting oaths figured so prominently in fifth-century BC diplomacy that treaties could include specific clauses to deal with the problem. We should interpret such clauses as a response to a

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[…] – “Next winter, however, the Ephors under whom the treaty had been made were no longer in office, and some of their successors were directly opposed to it” (transl. J. M. Dent). See Bayliss 2013: 236–240, 324. Thuc. 5.30.1–3. Thuc. 5.30.1: κύριον εἶναι ὅτι ἂν τὸ πλῆθος τῶν ξυμμάχων ψηφίσηται, ἢν μή τι θεῶν ἢ ἡρώων κώλυμα ᾖ – “the decision of the majority of the allies should be binding, unless the gods or heroes stood in the way” (transl. J. M. Dent). Thuc. 5.30.2. In the ancient evidence, religious arguments are found with striking frequency in Spartan contexts or used by Spartan orators (Trampedach 2005: 150 calls it “Maske religiöser Heuchelei”); this still holds true for a critical appraisal of our sources, that is when we look “beyond the mirage” (Hodkinson/Powell 2002). On the special relevance of religious arguments with regard to oaths in Sparta, see West 2003: 446; Bayliss 2009: 233; Scharff 2016: 233–235. Thuc. 7.18.2: ἐν γὰρ τῷ προτέρῳ πολέμῳ σφέτερον τὸ παρανόμημα μᾶλλον γενέσθαι, ὅτι τε ἐς Πλάταιαν ἦλθον Θηβαῖοι ἐν σπονδαῖς, καὶ εἰρημένον ἐν ταῖς πρότερον ξυνθήκαις ὅπλα μὴ ἐπιφέρειν, ἢν δίκας ἐθέλωσι διδόναι, αὐτοὶ οὐχ ὑπήκουον ἐς δίκας προκαλουμένων τῶν Ἀθηναίων. Καὶ διὰ τοῦτο εἰκότως δυστυχεῖν τε ἐνόμιζον, καὶ ἐνεθυμοῦντο τήν τε περὶ Πύλον ξυμφορὰν καὶ εἴ τις ἄλλη αὐτοῖς ἐγένετο. – “In the former war, they considered, the offence had been more on their own side, both on account of the entrance of the Thebans into Plataea in time of peace, and also of their own refusal to listen to the Athenian offer of arbitration, in spite of the clause in the former treaty that where arbitration should be offered there should be no appeal to arms. For this reason, they thought that they deserved their misfortunes, and took to heart seriously the disaster at Pylos and whatever else had befallen them” (transl. J. M. Dent.).

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general problem, a problem that might not come as a total surprise in a world containing over one thousand separate poleis.74 This observation brings us to an important point: Greek treaty oaths were a flexible instrument that could be, and were, adapted to the changing political realities of the day.75 I do not mean that treaty oaths were intentionally ambiguous, leaving the way open to differing interpretations of sworn agreements.76 Rather, oath clauses were designed (and developed) in order to fill loopholes in treaties. The flexibility that I argue for here should be understood as a flexibility of the measures used to shape good faith in interstate agreements. As we have seen with regard to the oath ritual, and will see with respect to other means of shaping good faith in treaties, the Greeks were creative when it came to the invention (or combination) of diplomatic instruments in the interstate arena. Such flexibility can also be observed in a special type of provision that was found in treaty oaths, so-called ‘anti-deceit clauses’. These clauses were designed to counter intended fraud or deliberate deception.77 Elaborating on the work of Wheeler, who was the first to describe these provisions as a coherent phenomenon,78 Gazzano has demonstrated that ‘anti-deceit clauses’ should not be understood simply as sophistic interpretations triggered by philosophical developments, but rather as a concrete response to political problems that occurred in interstate politics. It is striking that the

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Hansen/Nielsen 2004. Magnetto 2018 has recently demonstrated that flexibility was also key to the success of another means of Greek ‘international’ politics: interstate arbitration that flourished in the Hellenistic period (Ager 1996; Magnetto 1997). On interstate arbitration in the Archaic and Classical periods, see Piccirilli 1973. This is how Bolmarcich 2007a: 27–31 interprets the clause of the “religious impediment” (κώλυμα θεῖον [Thuc. 5.30.1]) to which the Corinthians referred. In her opinion, this provision constituted one of a series of “escape-clauses” (Bolmarcich 2007a: 27) by which the Spartans tried to further integrate more powerful states (like Corinth and Thebes) into the Peloponnesian League. In her view, the oaths of the Peloponnesian league had a certain “built-in flexibility” (Bolmarcich 2007a: 27). Although this is an interesting idea, I remain sceptical with regard to its implications. First, I am not convinced that Sparta’s foreign policy was actually that sophisticated in the sixth and fifth centuries BC. Clauses such as “to follow whithersoever the Spartans may lead” (SEG XXVI 461 + SEG XXVIII 408, l. 4–6, Sparta and the Aitolian Exardieis; late sixth or fifth century BC) send another message and are much more likely to have been a regular pattern of Spartan treaties (Bayliss 2013: 216–240). Secondly, “Sparta need not be seen as a weak leader” (Bayliss 2013: 218) in this period and tried to avoid loopholes rather than to create them intentionally; and thirdly, the passage in Thucydides is the only attestation we have for such an escape-clause in the entire ancient evidence. They include (1) phrases involving the word δόλος such as ἄνευ τε δόλου καὶ ἀπάτης (“without fraud and deceit”), πιστὸς καὶ ἄδολος (“faithful and without deceit”), δικαίως καὶ ἀδόλως (“justly and without deceit”), ἁπλῶς καὶ ἀδόλως (“truthfully and without deceit”), ἀδόλως καὶ ἀβλαβέως (“without deceit and doing any harm”), and (2) variations of these phrases like οὐδὲ τέχνῃ οὐδὲ μηχανῇ (“with no trick or manipulation”, “in no way”), οὔτε τέχνῃ οὔτε παρευρέσει οὐδεμιᾶι (“without any trick or excuse”), οὐδὲ λόγωι οὐδὲ ἔργωι (“neither in word nor deed”); for the evidence, see Gazzano 2005: 13, 15–24, 27–28; cf. Bayliss 2013: 199–201. Wheeler 1984.

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clauses appear in three cases in particular: first, they are found in treaties between unequal partners, for instance, in the foedera iniqua between Athens and her symmachoi in the fifth century BC;79 second, in treaties between Greeks and non-Greeks;80 and third, in inner-Cretan treaties.81 All three cases have in common a level of distrust among the concluding parties. The existence of such clauses suggests that at least one of the contracting parties mistrusted the other.82 As we will see, such clauses could be flexibly designed for, and adapted to, particular historical constellations. But what happened when one of the parties actually thought that the other side had broken a treaty oath? A “highly unusual step”83 was undertaken by the Athenians in the winter of 419/18 BC when they engraved the following statement under the treaty of the Peace of Nikias: “The Lacedaemonians did not abide by their oaths”.84 As we have already seen, there is good reason to believe that “the Spartans really took a graver view of perjury than other Greeks”, or at least this is how other Greeks viewed the Spartans.85 It comes as no surprise that Thucydides, as our source of information, tells us that the inscription was Alcibiades’ idea.86 As a Sparta aficionado, Alcibiades knew that the Lacedaemonians would take offence. With Hornblower, we may reasonably assume that at least “some Spartans felt uncomfortable about [the inscription]”.87 4. Putting oaths into context. The importance of the question of who concluded a treaty We have seen that treaty oaths were flexible, and could be adapted to changing political constellations. The application of anti-deceit clauses in several treaties shows that the concluding partners and the power relation between them could influence the design of the treaty oath. Other examples that demonstrate the flexibility of Greek treaty oaths include examples where the level of threat for a potential oath-breaker was increased. This could be done, for instance, by formulating particularly strong imprecations referring to the 79 80 81 82 83 84

85 86 87

Gazzano 2005: 30–31; cf. Siewert 1972: 39–40; Wheeler 1984: 258; Scharff 2016: 109–110. Gazzano 2005: 29, 32; cf. Scharff 2016: 288–289. Gazzano 2005: 29–30; cf. Chaniotis 1996: 77; Scharff 2016: 120, 128. Scharff 2016: 295. Bolmarcich 2007a: 37. Thuc. 5.56.3: Ἀθηναῖοι δὲ Ἀλκιβιάδου πείσαντος τῇ μὲν Λακωνικῇ στήλῃ ὑπέγραψαν ὅτι οὐκ ἐνέμειναν οἱ Λακεδαιμόνιοι τοῖς ὅρκοις, (…). – “The Athenians were persuaded by Alcibiades to inscribe at the bottom of the Laconian pillar that the Lacedaemonians had not kept their oaths, (…)” (transl. J. M. Dent); cf. Bolmarcich 2007b: 481–482. West 2003: 446; cf. Bayliss 2009: 233: “Oaths were perhaps an even more central part of Spartan society than they were at other Greek poleis”. Ἀλκιβιάδου πείσαντος (Thuc. 5.56.3). Hornblower 2007: 139.

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entire family of an oath-taker, his property and even his cattle, or by creating dramatic oath rituals. Consider the famous μύδροι (‘iron bars’) that the Athenians and their allies dropped in the sea when the Delian League was founded in 478/77 BC.88 Another example is a ritual described in the second book of Xenophon’s Anabasis. An agreement between the Greek soldiers and the Persian Ariaios is settled by an elaborate sacrifice: the blood of the sacrificial animals is collected in a shield “in which the Greeks dipped their swords, the barbarians their lances”.89 In doing so, an indirect physical contact with the sacrificial blood is achieved, intended to demonstrate the fate that awaited any potential perjurer. The desperate situation of the Greeks, who had just been abandoned by the Thracian cavalry, may have inspired this powerful gesture for which the level of ‘ritual clarification’ is high.90 Although there was usually a similar structure for all oath ceremonies, we cannot identify a sole oath ritual that prevailed under all circumstances. Some ritual elements could be absent or the sequence of the ceremony could be changed and interpreted differently according to the cultural background of the oath-takers. The structure of oath rituals can only be understood if we consider the cultural and historical context in which an oath was taken. Those who concluded the agreement clearly mattered for the design of a treaty oath.

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Loci classici are Arist. [Ath. Pol.] 23.5: διὸ καὶ τοὺς φόρους οὗτο (…) τοὺς ὅρκους ὤμοσεν τοῖς Ἴωσιν, ὥστε τὸν αὐτὸν ἐχθρὸν εἶναι καὶ φίλον, ἐφ’ οἷς καὶ τοὺς μύδρους ἐν τῷ πελάγει καθεῖσαν. – “Hence it was Aristeides (…) who administered the oaths to the Ionians when they swore to have the same enemies and friends, ratifying their oaths by letting the lumps of iron sink to the bottom out at sea” (transl. H. Rackham) and Plut. Arist. 25.1: ὁ δ’ Ἀριστείδης ὥρκισε μὲν τοὺς Ἕλληνας καὶ ὤμοσεν ὑπὲρ τῶν Ἀθηναίων, μύδρους ἐμβαλὼν ἐπὶ ταῖς ἀραῖς εἰς τὴν θάλατταν, ὕστερον δὲ τῶν πραγμάτων ἄρχειν ἐγκρατέστερον, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἐκβιαζομένων ἐκέλευε τοὺς Ἀθηναίους τὴν ἐπιορκίαν τρέψαντας εἰς ἑαυτὸν ᾗ συμφέρει χρῆσθαι τοῖς πράγμασι. – “Aristides did, indeed, bind the Hellenes by an oath, and took oath himself for the Athenians, to mark his imprecations casting iron ingots into the sea; but afterwards, when circumstances, forsooth, compelled a more strenuous sway, he bade the Athenians lay the perjury to his own charge, and turn events to their own advantage” (transl. B. Perrin). A similar ritual is described for the Phokaians leaving their home in Hdt. 1.165.3: ταύτῃσι καὶ μύδρον σιδήρεον κατεπόντωσαν καὶ ὤμοσαν μὴ πρὶν ἐς Φώκαιαν ἥξειν πρὶν ἢ τὸν μύδρον τοῦτον ἀναφανῆναι. – “Not only this, but they sank a mass of iron in the sea, and swore never to return to Phocaea before the iron should appear again” (transl. A. D. Godley). On the mydroi ritual, see Scharff 2016: 89–92 (with references); for a different interpretation, see Scheibelreiter 2008; Scheibelreiter 2013: 73–90, but contrast Torrance 2014: 132 who understands the kernel of this ritual (and that of another famous oath ceremony, the burning of wax images in the ‘Oath of the founders of Cyrene’ [SEG IX 3; cf. Faraone 1993]) as “engineered reminders of the punishments for oath-breaking”. Xen. An. 2.2.9: ταῦτα δ᾽ ὤμοσαν, σφάξαντες ταῦρον καὶ λύκον καὶ κάπρον καὶ κριὸν εἰς ἀσπίδα, οἱ μὲν Ἕλληνες βάπτοντες ξίφος, οἱ δὲ βάρβαροι λόγχην. – “These oaths they sealed by sacrificing a bull, a boar and a ram over a shield, the Greeks dipping a sword in the blood and the barbarians a lance” (trans. C. L. Brownson). See also the contribution of Christopher Tuplin in this volume. On the term “ritual clarification” (“rituelle Verdeutlichung”), which is preferred here to “sympathetic magic” (Faraone 1993: 60), see Graf 2005: 244; Torrance 2014: 132 (“extra sanctity”); Scharff 2016: 35.

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I will illustrate this point with another example. In the late fourth or early third century BC,91 the Macedonian dynast Eupolemos concluded a treaty with the small Carian city of Theangela and with a group of mercenaries.92 Eupolemos appears in our sources as an enigmatic figure, a man who concluded treaties in his own name and minted his own coins.93 As a former general of Cassander (and appointed στρατηγὸς ἐπὶ τῆς Ἑλλάδος), he seems to have gained an independent reign in Caria after Asandros, who held office until 313 BC. This is the context for our treaty, in which the city of Theangela was surrendered to the dynast.94 It is striking that the oath is unilaterally sworn by Eupolemos, since he clearly represented the stronger party.95 Also striking is an element of the oath that we do not find in any other extant treaty. Eupolemos swears: Οὐ κωλύσω τὴν πόλιν ἀναγράψαι τὰς | συνθήκας καὶ τὸν ὅρκον ὃν ὠμώμοκα ἐν στήληι καὶ στῆσαι ἐν ἱερῶι | ὧι ἂν βούλωνται ἐν Θεαγγέλοις. I will not prevent the city from inscribing the treaty and the oath I have sworn on a stele and placing it in any sanctuary in Theangela they wish.96

Publishing the text of a treaty in a sanctuary was common practice.97 It is therefore surprising that Eupolemos has to swear that he will not interfere with the publication of this particular treaty. His assurance constitutes a highly unusual combination of the oath text with a publication clause. Regarding the content, his assurance should be interpreted as a major concession to the safety needs of the people of Theangela.98

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The date of the treaty is controversial. It oscillates between a traditional date of (shortly after) 310 BC and the 290s BC advocated by more recent studies. The question depends on aspects concerning the person (one Eupolemos or two Eupolemoi in Diod. Sic. 19.68.5–7) and reign of Eupolemos in Caria (sub-agent of Cassander or independent dynast). Whereas Robert 1936, p. 71, 77 dated the Carian activities of Eupolemos to the years 320 to 310 BC (or more precisely to the years 316/15– 314/13 BC), Buraselis 1982, p. 11–22 opted for the time between 311/10 and 302/01 BC. Today, most scholars advocate a reign in the 290s BC (Billows 1989; Gregory 1995: 26; Kobes 1996: 92–93, 126–128, 175–180; Fabiani 2009: 67, 74), but cf. Descat 1998; Couvenhes 2004: 82–86. StV III 429 (Theangela, ca. 310 BC), cf. Couvenhes 2004: 107–109; Giovannini 2007: 271– 273; on the treaty oath, see Scharff 2016: 131–137. For the topography of Theangela, see Bean/ Cook 1955: 112–116, Plate 16a (city walls), and 145–147; Bean/Cook 1957: 89–96, esp. 91 (map of the city) and Plate 21a-e. The soldiers led by Philippos, Damagathos, and Aristodemos (StV III 429, l. 7–10) were former mercenaries of Eupolemos. Treaties: Fabiani 2009: 73; on Eupolemos’ coins, see Kobes 1996: 231–237; Descat 1998: 170– 174; Ashton 1998: 33–34, 47–48; Ashton 2004: 43–46. Cf. Kobes 1996: 177: “Kapitulationsvertrag”. Scharff 2016: 132–133, note 360. StV III 429, l. 27–29 (transl. Austin 20062, no. 33). On this particular clause, see Heuss 1934: 230; Scharff 2016: 132–133. Lalonde 1971; Drauschke 2019. Hatto H. Schmitt on StV III 429: 46: “Ein Zugeständnis an das Sicherheitsbedürfnis der Stadt”; see also Ma 2000: 170.

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Eupolemos’ position of strength allows him to abstain from administering an oath to the opposing party. He does not consider it necessary for the other side to take an oath. This is a very different behaviour from, say, what the Athenians as the stronger party did in the fifth century BC when they forced their allies to take oaths of allegiance.99 In terms of its form, however, the cited passage must be understood as an implicit anti-deceit clause, since it is a way of counteracting potential manipulation of the agreement by Eupolemos. This interpretation also explains the fact that no conventional anti-deceit clause appears in the treaty, although we clearly have an asymmetric power relation here. A very similar interpretation applies to another peculiar clause of the treaty: the dynast has to swear that the people of Theangela will receive a sealed version.100 The idea behind this clause is to prevent Eupolemos from changing the content of the treaty after the agreement has been made. Like the clause regarding the publication of the treaty, this provision is unique in the epigraphic record. Other parts of the oath are conventional: the list of oath deities by which Eupolemos swears is more or less the standard version found in most Hellenistic treaties. Ὀμνύω Δία Γῆν Ἥλιον Ἄρη Ἀθηνᾶν | Ἀρείαν καὶ τὴν Ταυροπόλον καὶ τοὺς ἄλλους θεοὺς πάντας καὶ | πάσας. I swear by Zeus, Ge, Helios, Ares, Athena Areia and the Tauropolos and all the other gods and goddesses.101

Whereas the first three gods represent the regular Greek ‘oath triad’, the three that follow have a military flavour. Particularly the last deity, (Artemis) Tauropolos, deserves attention. Separated from the other gods by καὶ τήν, the goddess who is invoked here only by her epithet occupies a prominent position in the list. We know from Diodorus Siculus that Alexander favoured Tauropolos by the end of his life.102 By order of Alexander, the goddess received a temple in Amphipolis and also became popular

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A course of action the Athenians were criticised for at least by the Thucydidean Spartans, who speak of “enforced oaths” (Thuc. 4.19.2: κατ᾽ ἀνάγκην ὅρκοις). On oaths and swearing as an instrument of power in the Delian League, see Scharff 2016: 102–111, 117–118. 100 StV III 429, l. 25–27: καὶ σημανοῦμαι τὰς | συνθήκας ἃς πεποίημαι πρὸς Θεαγγελεῖς καὶ ἀποδώσω ἐσφραγισ|μένας Θεαγγελεῦσι. – “And I will place a seal on the treaty I have made with the people of Theangela and hand it over to them sealed up” (transl. Austin 20062, n. 33). 101 StV III 429, l. 22–24. 102 Diod. Sic. 18.4.5: τοὺς δὲ προειρημένους ναοὺς ἔδει κατασκευασθῆναι ἐν Δήλῳ καὶ Δελφοῖς καὶ Δωδώνῃ, κατὰ δὲ τὴν Μακεδονίαν ἐν Δίῳ μὲν τοῦ Διός, ἐν Ἀμφιπόλει δὲ τῆς Ταυροπόλου, ἐν Κύρνῳ δὲ τῆς Ἀθηνᾶς. – “The temples mentioned above were to be built at Delos, Delphi, and Dodona, and in Macedonia a temple to Zeus at Dium, to Artemis Tauropolos at Amphipolis, and to Athena at Cyrnus” (transl. R. M. Geer). On this passage, see Brulé 2005: 158. Such a temple for Artemis Tauropolos existed by the end of the third century BC at the latest (Liv. 64.44.4).

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among Macedonian soldiers.103 Due to the terrifying nature of her cult,104 she became a perfect oath deity and was always included when a sole ruler of Macedonian descent swore a treaty oath.105 In sum, the design of Eupolemos’ oath shows that the Theangeleans mistrusted him. This mistrust, however, led to the development of completely new measures of shaping good faith in a treaty. Although most of these measures were not continued in later treaties (the exception is the inclusion of Tauropolos in the list of oath deities), the way the people of Theangela tried to counteract an asymmetrical power relationship demonstrates that the contracting parties remained in control of the proceedings. They designed the oath and the ritual. 5. Conclusion The question of who concluded a treaty was key for its religious foundation. Different types of interstate agreements, such as war alliances (συμμαχίαι) and peace treaties (σπονδαί), may have influenced the provisions included in the agreement, but the way the contracting parties shaped good faith in a treaty was independent of these formal categories. This needs to be emphasised because there still is a tendency in classical scholarship to focus on judicial categories. Greek judicial language was not as unambiguous as we might wish; and at least for the creation of a deity list (and probably also for the oath sacrifice), it made no difference whether the agreement in question was a peace treaty or a war alliance. Treaty oaths constituted a flexible instrument in interstate politics, an instrument that could be adapted to changing political constellations, including agreements with non-Greeks. Its most important advantage was that individual elements could be adjusted to the particular needs of the contracting parties. Having created common ground via rituals of mutual rapprochement, the new partners had several options at their disposal for protecting the treaty against violation: they could increase the level of threat included in the oath sacrifice, invent completely new elements, or create tailored lists of oath deities. Of course, none of these options prevented treaties from being broken.106 Nevertheless, oaths were an omnipresent phenomenon in international relations, an element of interstate communication whose importance was never

Prominence among Macedonian soldiers: SEG XXXI 614 (Amphipolis, 179 BC): βασιλεὺς Περσεὺς | βασιλέως Φιλίππου | ἀπὸ τῶν εἰς Θράικην στρατειῶν | Ἀρτέμιδι Ταυροπόλωι. – “King Perseus son of king Philipp (has dedicated this) from the soldiers in Thrace to Artemis Tauropolos”. 104 Eur. IT 1450–1468; cf. Graf 1979: 33–34, 37–38; McInerney 2015. 105 Scharff 2016: 166. 106 Rhodes 2008. 103

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questioned.107 To sum up: the Greeks might not have been the inventors of diplomacy, but they were creative in the way they consistently developed new forms of political interstate communication.108 Bibliography Ager 1996 = Ager, S., Interstate Arbitrations in the Greek World, 337–90 BC, Berkeley (CA)/Los Angeles (CA) 1996. Alonso Troncoso 2013 = Alonso Troncoso, V. “Olympie et la publication des traités internationaux”, in Birgalias. N. et al. (ed.), War – Peace and Panhellenic Games, Athens 2013: 209–232. Arend 1933 = Arend, W., Die typischen Scenen bei Homer, Berlin 1933. Ashton 1998 = Ashton, R. H. J., “The Coins of the Macedonian Kings, Lysimachos and Eupolemos in the Museums of Fethiye and Afyon”, in Burnett, A. et al. (ed.), Coins of Macedonia and Rome. Essays in Honour of Charles Hersh, London 1998: 19–48. Ashton 2004 = Ashton, R. H. J., “Kaunos, not Miletos or Mylasa”, NC 164 (2004): 33–46. Austin 2006 = Austin, M. M., The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest. A Selection of Ancient Sources in Translation, Cambridge 2006 (1st ed. 1981). Baltrusch 1994 = Baltrusch, E., Symmachie und Spondai. Untersuchungen zum griechischen Völkerrecht der archaischen und klassischen Zeit (8.–5. Jahrhundert v. Chr.), Berlin/New York City (NY). Baltrusch 2008 = Baltrusch, E., Außenpolitik, Bünde und Reichsbildung in der Antike, Munich 2008. Bayliss 2009 = Bayliss, A. J., “Using Few Words Wisely? ‘Laconic Swearing’ and Spartan Duplicity”, in S. Hodkinson (ed.), Sparta. Comparative approaches, Swansea 2009: 231–260. Bayliss 2013 = Bayliss, A. J., “Oaths and Interstate Relations”, in Sommerstein A. H. / Bayliss, A. J. (ed.), Oath and State in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2013: 147–254, 266–306. Bayliss 2014 = Bayliss, A. J., “‘Artful Dodging’, or the Sidestepping of Oaths”, in Sommerstein A. H. / Torrance, I. C. (ed.), Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2014: 243–280. Bean/Cook 1955 = Bean, G. E. / Cook, J. M., “The Halicarnassus Peninsula (Plates 11–17)”, ABSA 50 (1955): 85–171. Bean/Cook 1957 = Bean, G. E. / Cook, J. M., “The Carian Coast III (Plates 16–26)”, ABSA 52 (1957): 58–146. Berti 2006 = Berti, I., “‘Now let Earth be my witness and the broad heaven above, and the down flowing water of the Styx …’ (Homer, Ilias XV, 36–37): Greek Oath-Rituals”, in Stavrianopoulou E. (ed.), Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World, Liège 2006: 181–209.

107 A “decline of the oath” (Sommerstein 2014: 381) may be seen in the writings of Plato (in Laws, see Sommerstein 2014: 388–391) and Theophrastus (in Characters, see Sommerstein 2014: 392). These authors criticised an over-abundant use of oaths, but this represents an attitude of fourth-century BC Athenian intellectuals who may have been over-exposed to oaths and swearing in their own political and judicial lives. Their concerns did not apply to the interstate sphere and had no impact on the interstate arena. 108 The invention of diplomacy has been over-optimistically ascribed to the Greeks by Piccirilli 2002.

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Billows 1989 = Billows, R. A., “Anatolian Dynasts. The Case of the Macedonian Eupolemos in Karia”, CA 8 (1989): 173–205. Bolmarcich 2007a = Bolmarcich, S., “Oaths in Greek International Relations”, in Fletcher/ Sommerstein 2007: 26–38. Bolmarcich 2007b = Bolmarcich, S., “The Afterlife of a Treaty”, CQ n. s. 57 (2007b). 477–489. Brulé 2005 = Brulé, P., “Le polythéisme en transformation. Les listes de dieux dans les serments internationaux en Grèce antique (Ve–IIe siècle av. J.-C.)”, in Belayche N. et al. (ed.), Nommer les Dieux. Théonymes, épithètes, épiclèses dans l’Antiquité, Turnhout: 143–174. Buraselis 1982 = Buraselis, K., Das hellenistische Makedonien und die Ägäis. Forschungen zur Politik des Kassandros und der drei Antigoniden im Ägäischen Meer und in Westkleinasien, Munich 1982. Burkert 2011 = Burkert, W., Griechische Religion der archaischen und klassischen Epoche, 2., überarbeitete und erweiterte Auflage, Stuttgart 2011 (1st ed. Stuttgart/Berlin/Köln 1977). Burkert 2013 = Burkert, W., “Ritual between Ethology and Post-modern Aspects: Philological-Historical Notes”, in Stavrianopoulou, E. (ed.), Ritual and Communication in the Graeco-Roman World, Liège 2013: 19–30. Callaway 1990 = Callaway, C. L., The Oath in Epic Poetry, PhD Diss. University of Washington 1990. Carastro 2012 = Carastro, M., “Fabriquer du lien en Grèce ancienne: serments, sacrifices, ligatures”, Mètis 10 (2012): 79–100. Chaniotis 1996 = Chaniotis, A., Die Verträge zwischen kretischen Poleis in der hellenistischen Zeit, Stuttgart 1996. Cohen 1980 = Cohen, D., “‘Horkia’ and ‘horkos’ in the Iliad”, RIDA 27 (1980): 49–68. Couvenhes 2004 = Couvenhes, J.-C., “Les cités grecques d’Asie Mineure et le mercenariat à l’époque hellénistique”, in Couvenhes, J.-C. / Fernoux, H.-L. (ed.), Les cités grecques et la guerre en Asie Mineure à l’époque hellénistique. Actes de la journée d’études de Lyon, 10 Octobre 2003, Tours 2004: 77–103. Descat 1998 = Descat, R., “La carrière d’Eupolémos, stratège macédonien en Asie Mineure”, REA 100 (1998): 167–190. Drauschke 2019 = Drauschke, M.-K., Die Aufstellung zwischenstaatlicher Vereinbarungen in griechischen Heiligtümern, Hamburg 2019. Ekroth 2002 = Ekroth, G., The Sacrificial Rituals of Greek Hero-Cults in the Archaic to the Early Hellenistic Periods, Liège 2002. Ekroth 2007a = Ekroth, G., “Meat in Ancient Greece: Sacrificial, Sacred or Secular?”, Food and History 5 (2007): 249–272. Ekroth 2007b = Ekroth, G., “Thighs or Tails? The Osteological Evidence”, in Brulé, P. (ed.), La norme en matière religieuse en Grèce ancienne, Liège 2007: 153–169. Elmer 2012 = Elmer, D. F., “Building Community Across the Battle-Lines. The Truce in Iliad 3 and 4”, in Wilker, J. (ed.), Maintaining Peace and Interstate Stability in Archaic and Classical Greece, Mainz 2012: 25–48. Errington 1987 = Errington, R. M., “Θεὰ ῾Ρώμη und römischer Einfluss südlich des Mäander”, Chiron 17 (1987): 97–118. Fabiani 2009 = Fabiani, R., “Eupolemos Potalou o Eupolemos Simalou? Un nuovo documento da Iasos”, EA 42 (2009): 61–77. Faraone 1993 = Faraone, C. A. “Molten Wax, Spilt Wine and Mutilated Animals: Sympathetic Magic in New Eastern and Early Greek Oath Ceremonies”, JHS 113 (1993): 60–80. Finley 1977 = Finley, M. I., The World of Odysseus, 2nd rev. ed., London 1978 (1st ed. 1954).

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Fletcher 2012 = Fletcher, J., Performing Oaths in Classical Greek Drama, Cambridge 2012. Fletcher/Sommerstein 2007 = Fletcher, J. / Sommerstein, A. H. (ed.), Horkos. The Oath in Greek Society, Exeter/Bristol 2007. Gauthier 1972 = Gauthier, Ph., Symbola. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy 1972. Gazzano 2005 = Gazzano, F., “Senza frode e senza inganno. Formule ‘precauzionali’ e rapporti interstatali nel mondo Greco”, in Santi Amantini L. (ed.), Dalle parole ai fatti. Relazioni interstatali e comunicazione politica nel mondo antico, Rome 2005: 1–34. Giangiulio 1992 = Giangiulio, M., “La φιλότης tra Sibariti e Serdaioi (Meiggs-Lewis, 10)”, ZPE 93 (1992): 31–44. Giorgieri 2001 = Giorgieri, M., “Aspetti magico-religiosi del giuramento presso gli Ittiti e i Greci”, in Ribichini S. / Rocchi, M. (ed.), La questione delle influenze vicino-orientali sulla religione greca: stato degli studi e prospettive della ricerca. Atti del Colloquio Internazionale di Roma, 20–22 maggio 1999, Rome 2001: 421–440. Giovannini 2007 = Giovannini, A., Les relations entre États dans la Grèce antique. Du temps d’Homère à l’intervention romaine (ca. 700–200 av. J.-C.), Stuttgart 2007. Giovannini 2019 = Giovannini, A., “Rev. on Scharff 2016”, Klio 101 (2019): 372–375. Graf 1979 = Graf, F., “Das Götterbild aus dem Taurerland”, AW 4 (1979): 33–41. Graf 2005 = Graf, F., s. v. “Eid”, ThesCRA 3 (2005): 237–246. Gregory 1995 = Gregory, A. P., “A Macedonian δυνάστης. Evidence for the Life and Career of Pleistarchos Antipatrou”, Historia 44 (1995): 11–28. Hansen/Nielsen 2004 = Hansen, M. H. / Nielsen, T. H. (ed.), An Inventory of Archaic and Classical Poleis. An Investigation Conducted by the Copenhagen Polis Centre for the Danish National Research Foundation, Oxford 2004. Heuss 1934 = Heuss, A., “Abschluß und Beurkundung des griechischen und römischen Staatsvertrags”, Klio NF 9 (1934): 14–53, 218–257. Hodkinson/Powell 2002 = Hodkinson, S. / Powell, A. (ed.), Sparta. Beyond the Mirage, Swansea 2002. Hornblower 2007 = Hornblower S., “Thucydides and Plataian Perjury”, in Fletcher/ Sommerstein 2007: 138–147. Karavites 1987 = Karavites, P., “Diplomatic Envoys in the Homeric World”, RIDA 34 (1987): 41–100. Karavites 1992 = Karavites, P., Promise-Giving and Treaty-Making. Homer and the Near East, Leiden 1992. Kirk 1985 = Kirk, G. S., The Iliad. A commentary, I, Cambridge 1985. Kitts 2003 = Kitts, M., “Not Barren is the Blood of Lambs: Homeric Oath-Sacrifice as Metaphorical Transformation”, Kernos 16 (2003): 17–34. Kitts 2005 = Kitts, M. Sanctified Violence in Homeric Society. Oath-Making Rituals and Narratives in the Iliad, New York City (NY) 2005. Klaffenbach 1960 = Klaffenbach, G., Bemerkungen zum griechischen Urkundenwesen, Berlin 1960. Knippschild 2002 = Knippschild, S., “Drum bietet zum Bunde die Hände”. Rechtssymbolische Akte in zwischenstaatlichen Beziehungen im orientalischen und griechisch-römischen Altertum, Stuttgart 2002. Kobes 1996 = Kobes, J., “Kleine Könige”. Untersuchungen zu den Lokaldynasten im hellenistischen Kleinasien (323–188 v. Chr.), St. Katharinen 1996. Lalonde 1971 = Lalonde, G. V., The Publication and Transmission of Greek Diplomatic Documents, Ann Arbor (MI) 1971.

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Larson 2016 = Larson, J., Understanding Greek Religion. A Cognitive Approach, London 2016. Lawton 1995 = Lawton, C. L., Attic Document Reliefs. Art and Politics in Ancient Athens, Oxford 1995. Lefèvre 1998 = Lefèvre, F., L’amphictionie pyléo-delphique. Histoire et institutions, Athens 1998. Lonis 1980 = Lonis, R. 1980, “La valeur du serment dans les accords internationaux en Grèce classique”, DHA 6, 1980: 267–286. Ma 2000 = Ma, J., Antiochos III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor, Oxford 2002 (1st ed. 1999) Magnetto 1997 = Magnetto, A., Gli arbitrati interstatali greci, II: Dal 337 al 196 a. C., Pisa 1997. Magnetto 2018 = Magnetto, A., “Interstate Arbitration as a Feature of the Hellenistic Polis: Between Ideology, International Law and Civic Memory”, in Börm, H. / Luraghi, N. (ed.), The Polis in the Hellenistic World, Stuttgart 2018, p. 85–107. McInerney 2015 = McInerney, J., “There will be blood: the Cult of Artemis Tauropolos at Halai Araphenides,” in Daly, K. / Riccardi, L. A. (ed.), Cities Called Athens. Studies Honoring John McK. Camp II, Bucknell, PA, 2015: 289–320. Meeus 2018 = Meeus, A., “The Alliances among the Diadochoi,” in Howe T. / Pownall, F. (ed.), Ancient Macedonians in the Greek and Roman Sources. From History to Historiography, Swansea 2018: 103–136. Meyer 1989 = Meyer, M., Die griechischen Urkundenreliefs, Berlin 1989. Mikalson 2005 = Mikalson, J. D., Ancient Greek Religion, Malden (MA)/Oxford/Carlton 2005. Mittag 2006 = Mittag, P., Antiochos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie, Berlin 2006. Nederlof 1940 = Nederlof, A. B., Plutarchus’ Leven van Pyrrhus. Historische commentaar, Leiden 1940. Nilsson 1967 = Nilsson, M. P., Geschichte der griechischen Religion, I: Die Religion Griechenlands bis auf die griechische Weltherrschaft, 3. Auflage, Munich 1967 (1st ed. 1941). Parker 2004 = Parker, R., “One Man’s Piety. The Religious Dimension of the Anabasis”, in Lane Fox, R. (ed.), The Long March. Xenophon and the Ten Thousand, New Haven (CT)/London 2004: 131–153. Piccirilli 1973 = Piccirilli, L., Gli arbitrati interstatali greci, I: Dalle origini al 338 a. C., Pisa 1973. Piccirilli 2002 = Piccirilli, L., L’invenzione della diplomazia nella Grecia antica, Rome 2002. Raaflaub 1997 = Raaflaub, K. A., “Politics and Interstate Relations in the World of Early Greek Poleis: Homer and Beyond”, Antichthon 31 (1997): 1–27. Rhodes 2008 = Rhodes, P. J., “Making and Breaking Treaties in the Greek World”, in de Souza, P. / France, J. (ed.), War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, Cambridge 2008: 6–27. Ritter 2001 = Ritter, S., “Fremde Götter und Heroen in attischen Urkundenreliefs”, JDAI 116 (2001): 129–162. Robert 1936 = Robert, L., Collection Froehner, I: Inscriptions grecques, Paris 1936. Sánchez 1997 = Sánchez, P., “Le serment amphictionique [Aeschin. Legat. (2) 115]: un faux du ive siècle?”, Historia 46 (1997): 158–171. Scharff 2016 = Scharff, S., Eid und Außenpolitik. Studien zur religiösen Fundierung der Akzeptanz zwischenstaatlicher Vereinbarungen im vorrömischen Griechenland, Stuttgart 2016. Scheibelreiter 2008 = Scheibelreiter, P., “Rechtspraktiken im Kontext des delisch-attischen Seebundes. Die Besicherung des Seebundvertrages – μύδροι”, in Barta H. / Rollinger, R. (ed.), Menschliche und göttliche Gerechtigkeitsvorstellungen im Alten Orient und Griechenland, Wiesbaden, 2008: 169–190. Scheibelreiter 2013 = Scheibelreiter, P., Untersuchungen zur vertragsrechtlichen Struktur des delisch-attischen Seebundes, Vienna 2013. Sickinger 1999 = Sickinger, J. P., Public Records and Archives in Classical Athens, Chapel Hill (NC) 1999.

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Siewert 1972 = Siewert, P., Der Eid von Plataiai, Munich 1972. Sommerstein 2013 = Sommerstein, A. H., “Introduction”, in Sommerstein A. H. / Bayliss, A. J. (ed.), Oath and State in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2013: 3–8. Sommerstein 2014 = Sommerstein, A. H., “The Decline of the Oath?”, in Sommerstein/Torrance 2014: 381–393. Sommerstein/Torrance 2014 = Sommerstein A. H. / Torrance, I. C. (ed,), Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2014. Tietz 2011 = Tietz, W., “Die homerischen ‘Herolde’. Die Entwicklung des κῆρυξ zur Proto-Institution einer nicht verfassten Gemeinschaft”, Chiron 41 (2011): 55–89. Timpe 2017 = Timpe, D., “Introduzione”, in Scardigli, B. (ed.), Plutarco. Vite parallele: Pirro e Mario, Milan 2017: 131–193. Torrance 2014 = Torrance, I. C, “Ways to give Oaths Extra Sanctity”, in Sommerstein/Torrance 2014: 132–155. Trampedach 2005 = Trampedach, K., “Hierosylia. Gewalt in Heiligtümern”, in Fischer G. Moraw, S. (ed.), Die andere Seite der Klassik. Gewalt im 5. und 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr., Stuttgart 2005: 143–166. Weinfeld 1973 = Weinfeld, M., “Covenant Terminology in the Ancient Near East and Its Influence on the West”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 93 (1973): 190–199. Weinfeld 1990 = Weinfeld, M., “The Common Heritage of Covenantal Traditions in the Ancient World”, in Canfora L. / Liverani, M. / Zaccagnini, C. (ed.), I trattati nel mondo antico. Forma, ideologia, funzione, Rome 1990: 175–191. Wéry 1979 = Wéry, L.-M., “Die Arbeitsweise der Diplomatie in homerischer Zeit”, in Biller H. / Olshausen, E. (ed.), Antike Diplomatie, Darmstadt 1979: 13–56 (ed. orig., “Le fonctionnement de la diplomatie à l’époque homérique”, RIDA 14 [1967]: 169–205). West 2003 = West, S., “ΟΡΚΟΥ ΠΑΙΣ ΕΣΤΙΝ ΑΝΩΝΥΜΟΣ. The Aftermath of Plataean Perjury”, CQ n. s. 53 (2003): 438–447. Wheeler 1984 = Wheeler, E., “Sophistic Interpretations and Greek Treaties”, GRBS 25 (1984): 253–274.

Bridging the gap Using the past to shape good faith in Greek diplomatic speeches Francesca Gazzano

Ἤκουον μὲν ἔγωγε, ὦ Σώκρατες, ἑκάστοτε Γοργίου πολλάκις ὡς ἡ τοῦ πείθειν πολὺ διαφέροι πασῶν τεχνῶν – πάντα γὰρ ὑφ᾽ αὑτῇ δοῦλα δι᾽ ἑκόντων ἀλλ᾽ οὐ διὰ βίας ποιοῖτο, καὶ μακρῷ ἀρίστη πασῶν εἴη τῶν τεχνῶν. Plat. Phlb. 58a-b

1. In limine* In The Human Condition (1958), Arendt defines the peculiarity of the political behaviour of the ancient Greeks as follows: “to be political, to live in a polis, meant that everything was decided through words and persuasion and not through force and violence”.1 Arendt was referring here – as throughout her book – to political activity within the polis. In her view, the interrelation between speech, rhetoric and persuasion was the key feature of the political process among fellow citizens.2 Although Arendt’s model is Athenian democracy,3 public debates were typical of most Greek councils and assemblies, where deliberation was conducted through oral discussion, and issues pertaining to the public good were decided through speech. The importance of rhetoric and persuasion was paramount also, on a larger scale, in the inter-polis realm, as shown * 1 2 3

I would like to thank the organisers of the conference, Francesco Mari and Christian Wendt, for their kind invitation and their superb organisation, as well as all the participants for their useful comments. Arendt 1958: 26. On Arendt’s interpretation of Greek political life, and the criticism that her ‘Hellenism’ elicited, see respectively Villa 2000; Euben 2000. Cf. Taminiaux 2000.

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by Greek diplomatic practices. These were original in their ways and means compared to other diplomatic systems, both in antiquity as well as modern times. Greek diplomacy was firmly grounded in the oral and public exchange of speeches, through which envoys communicated their motives and tried to convince their audiences (usually collective bodies, such as councils or assemblies). In interstate contexts, however, persuasion was more closely linked to good faith than in domestic politics: the numerous Greek poleis were often at odds with each other and they exchanged envoys especially in times of war, that is, in a setting of mutual suspicion and distrust. Under these conditions, ambassadors aiming to persuade needed to present themselves and the polis that sent them as trustworthy and faithful. Starting from an analysis of the uniqueness of Greek diplomacy (and its place in the history of diplomacy), I will investigate a possible strand of connections between the shaping of rhetoric and the shaping of good faith in the preserved speeches of Greek ambassadors. 2. A diplomacy of their own Greek diplomacy of the Archaic and Classical periods stands at odds with what Cohen calls the “Great Tradition” of diplomacy in the ancient world.4 Greek diplomacy, especially within the confines of Greek world itself is, to be sure, a part this Great Tradition,5 but it shows quite far-reaching departures from the norms and customs fashioned by the Near-Eastern ‘Great Powers’ Club’ of the Amarna Age (II millennium BC) and later inherited by the Achaemenid Persian Empire.6 The latter was the foremost power of the Classical period and the most important foreign diplomatic counter-party of the Greek poleis prior to the rise of Macedon.7 The most striking feature of interstate relations in the Greek world is undoubtedly their oral and public nature.8 International communication through written messages and letters, which was typical of the Bronze-Age empires as well as the Persian and Macedonian kingdoms, was avoided by the Greek poleis.9 Most diplomatic activity was entrusted to envoys whose main 4 5

6 7 8 9

Cohen 2001. The influence of the 2nd-millennium BC diplomatic tradition on the Greek world has been analysed by Weinfeld 1973; Id. 1990. See also the contributions of Karavites 1991; Cohen 2001: 27–30. For a broader analysis of diplomacy in the ancient world, see Bederman 2001. On a different scale, the book of Jönsson/Hall 2005 is effective in identifying, throughout history, the ‘essence’ of diplomacy and in subsuming its varying forms under timeless categories (communication, representation, reproduction of international society). On the so-called Amarna Age, see especially Westbrook 2000. It is worth noting that Greek diplomatic customs, although aimed primarily at relationships within the Greek-speaking world of independent poleis, were constantly adopted to deal also with foreign powers such as the Achaemenid Empire, the Macedonian kingdom and, later, Rome. See Cohen 2001: 31–32; Jönsson-Hall 2005: 88–89; Hamilton/Langhorne 2010: 14–17. See especially Ceccarelli 2013; cf. also Gazzano 2020.

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mission was to win over an audience (usually city councils and assemblies) with public speeches, sometimes in the form of a debate with other delegations.10 Persuasion was the goal of these ambassadors. Eloquence and rhetorical delivery, much more than knowledge of protocol and ceremony, were their main tools.11 This was made possible by the fact that all Greek communities, while maintaining their political autonomy and independence, shared the same language as well as a common culture and religion. Although these conditions were necessary for the establishment of diplomatic communications on a public and oral basis, they alone cannot explain the preference for oral diplomacy. The use of written messages would have been equally effective and simple, as the use of writing to seal the outcomes of negotiations (oaths, treaties, agreements, etc.) demonstrates.12 Whatever it was that caused the Greeks to prefer an oral-based approach (the ‘agonal’ spirit of their civilisation?13 the importance of ‘performance culture’?14 the strong association of written messages with the will of a single, autocratic ruler?15), it is worth noting that, until recently, the ‘Greek experiment’ has always been depicted in negative terms in studies of the evolution of international relations and diplomacy. This is particularly evident in the works of scholars who adhere to the Realist theory of international relations, as well as (albeit from a different standpoint), historians and practitioners whose analyses are based on the traditional ‘Post-Westphalian’ model of diplomacy. According to followers of the Realist theory of international relations, the foundations of which lie in the thinking of historians like Thucydides,16 polities in antiquity existed in a state of general anarchy. Especially the world of the Greek city-states was “always an anarchy under formal definition”.17 The poleis recognised no overarching common government or authority, while international law was practically inexistent. Greek customs of interstate conduct were few in number, informal, and of limited scope; tensions and wars between poleis were frequent and even when treaties existed, accusations and acts of bad faith were common. In an admittedly debated book, Eckstein writes bluntly that “an atmosphere of distrust was pervasive”.18 In Eckstein’s opinion, Greek diplomacy of the Classical period had a ‘primitive character’, with no channels of quick or regular communication among the various poleis. This meant that 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

See Adcock/Mosley 1975; Angeli/Piccirilli 2001; Piccirilli 2002. Piccirilli 2002: 73–79 (who uses the expression “pubblici persuasori”, 74). On oaths, see now Scharff, in this volume and 2016. On written interstate agreements, see e. g. StV 2 (1975). In the sense widely explored since Burckhardt 1956. See e. g. the essays collected in Goldhill/Osborne 1999; Papaioannou/Serafim/ da Vela 2017. On performance in diplomacy, see especially Rubinstein 2013 (Hellenistic period); Gazzano 2016. See Ceccarelli 2013: 126–136, and passim; Gazzano 2017. Although see Thauer 2016. Eckstein 2006: 37–78 (quotation on page 37). Eckstein 2006: 39.

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“the situations that did require the dispatch of official envoys abroad were most often those in which strains in relations with other states had already reached a dangerous level”, while “Greek diplomatic interactions tended to parallel the blunt tones of bitter private altercations”.19 This Realist interpretation is by no means undisputed. More nuanced analyses of Greek interstate relations and diplomacy have been put forward in recent years by scholars such as Giovannini, Low, and Buis.20 These have highlighted different aspects of Greek diplomacy and suggested subtler reconstructions to explain the peculiarites of Greek interstate relations. Taking a different approach, though equally partial, is the interpretation of Greek interstate relations offered by historians of diplomacy who adopt a ‘Post-Westphalian’ (i. e. state-centred) perspective.21 Greek interstate customs, precisely because of their openness, public character and lack of specialisation, are seen as underdeveloped and basic, not only in comparison with modern times, but also when compared to the much older, sophisticated and written communication system of the Late Bronze Age or the elaborate protocol and procedures at the court of the Persian kings.22 In the words of two eminent scholars, Hamilton and Langhorne: one of the more surprising elements in Greek diplomacy was its open and public nature. Policy in the sending state was frequently debated at length in public, and the arguments to be used by ambassadors openly determined. They were often issued with extremely restrictive instructions and very rarely were plenipotentiary powers given. Such openness also had the effect of excluding the collection, recording and subsequent use of military or diplomatic intelligence. This exclusion was not complete, but to the modern eye, the diplomatic exchanges of the Greeks were marked by an astonishing ignorance.

Consequently, “(the) lack of consistency, lack of continuity and lack of confidentiality rendered the pace of Greek diplomacy extremely slow, as it staggered between shifting domestic public opinion and the ignorance which the absence of any kind of administrative process and record keeping imposed”.23

19 20 21

22 23

Eckstein 2006: 58 and, for a more detailed analysis, 58–63. Giovannini 2007; Low 2007; Buis 2018. See also Ager 2017. Since the Treaties of Westphalia (1648 AD), diplomacy has been regarded as the exclusive domain of the State, but recent changes have affected this fundamental principle, which stemmed from the ‘Westphalian’ concepts of sovereignty, statehood and the territorial nature of the State. The state-centred standpoint is clearly present even in an accurate and otherwise unbiased description of Greek diplomacy such as that of Adcock 1948 (and also of Adcock/Mosley 1975). See for instance Cohen 2001; Wolpert 2001; Hamilton/Langhorne 2010. Both quotations from Hamilton/Langhorne 2010, 15–16.

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3. Ancient Greek diplomacy and the 21st century: back to the future? Until the end of the twentieth century, the peculiarities of Greek diplomacy could be deemed, and indeed were, alien to the issues and organisation of ‘Post-Westphalian’ world diplomacy. However, IR scholars, diplomatic practitioners and foreign policy experts acknowledge that the beginning of the twenty-first century marked a profound transformation in the international realm, “a time of paradigm change” in the way international relations are interpreted and conducted, especially in diplomacy.24 The end of the Cold War, the advent of globalisation and the IT revolution have all deeply affected the diplomatic arena, defying traditional forms of statecraft.25 In a complex and ever-evolving scenery, state-to-state diplomacy is being challenged not only by new factors, but also by new actors: the ‘old school’ national and professional diplomats, who until the nineties of the twentieth century were practically the exclusive agents in the field, are now flanked by different kinds of non-professional diplomatic agents, such as representatives of NGOs or private multinational industries, even celebrities and rock-stars.26 While international relationships develop among an increasingly heterogeneous cast of diplomatic actors, the nature and function of diplomacy also evolve, and their very ways and means are undergoing a process of redefinition. This is a matter of concern for theorists and practitioners alike. The 21st-century international context has been called a sort of ‘anarchy’ (the same term applied by Realists to the ancient world), an attempt to define its uncertainty and anomalies, that is, power structures not aligned within the traditional nation-state system.27 These changing circumstances have had an impact on diplomacy itself and on diplomatic exchanges.28 In this modern environment, ‘New Diplomacy’29 seems to share at least some of its features not only with the ‘Pre-Westphalian’ diplomatic system,30 but also with ancient

24 25

26 27 28 29

30

See e. g. Hocking/Melissen/Riordan/Sharp 2012; Hill 2015; Haynes/Hough/Malik/ Pettiford 2017. Quotation from Rana 2011: 11. The bibliography is large. Useful guides include Griffith 2007; Rana 2011; Sending/Pouliot/ Neumann 2011; Oğurlu 2019; and see especially Stanzel 2018 (English edition of the project “Diplomatie im 21. Jahrhundert’ developed at the Stiftung Wissenschaft und Politik [SWP] of the Deutsches Institut für Internationale Politik und Sicherheit: https://www.swp-berlin.org/projekte/abgeschlossene-projekte/diplomatie-im-21-jahrhundert-abgeschl/das-projekt/). See e. g. Badie 2008. E. g. Danelo 2013; Murray 2016. Cf. Sharp 2019. Although the label ‘New Diplomacy’ can mean simply “the latest fashion in diplomatic method”, since the end of the twentieth century, it has conventionally defined “forays into international affairs undertaken by anyone other than professional diplomats” (Berridge/James 2001: 167). For a more detailed definition, see Kelley 2010. Parallels with ‘pre-Westphalian’ systems include especially the Middle Ages (New Medievalism: see Lazzarini 2016; Duran 2019; Oğurlu 2019).

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Greek diplomatic practices, which have enjoyed new popularity.31 Despite the chronological and historical gap, the two approaches, New Diplomacy and Classical Greek diplomacy, seem to share facets and concerns. Among the most remarkable is the open nature of both ancient Greek diplomacy and current Public Diplomacy (PD), whose exact definition remains controversial but which can be broadly defined as the act of addressing foreign audiences to inform, influence and change these in accordance with national goals and foreign-policy decisions.32 Other resemblances include the role of non-professional actors in interstate relations, the wide variety of diplomatic channels, and the need to operate in a fluid setting where fixed rules and protocols do not yet exist or change rapidly.33 4. Rhetoric and persuasion in Public Diplomacy (now and then) Particularly striking has been the revival of rhetoric, or rather the importance that studies in PD attribute to the role of rhetoric as a tool for persuasion.34 In general terms, persuasion is consistently recognised as one of the most important assets of ambassadors and negotiators. It lies at the core of diplomacy itself. A skilful diplomat is nothing but a persuasive one. Kappeler thus remarks: From the faraway days when representatives of fighting tribes tried to arrange for a truce, thereby risking their head, to the […] endless discussions within present-day international frameworks, the common aim of diplomacy has remained persuasion. The better a diplomat is at persuading, the more successful he will be in furthering the cause he represents.35

It is in PD that the relationship between rhetoric and persuasion is particularly close: No other form can better depict the role of rhetoric in present day politics and diplomacy than public diplomacy […]. On the one hand, public diplomacy as a concept is the product of a rhetorical initiative; on the other hand, public diplomacy as a practice and foreign policy instrument is fed by rhetoric. Considering that an actor’s attempt to make foreign publics behave parallel to its own national interest and foreign policy, it is appropriate to argue that rhetoric is the essence of public diplomacy.36

31

32 33 34 35 36

See e. g. Berridge 2018; cf. Heine 2013: 67: “Twenty-first century diplomats must actively engage the society in which they reside, not just the government to which they are accredited. They must look for ways to project their own nation upon the one they are posted to, and try to make a difference. They ought to reclaim the tradition of the Greek city-states’ orators and walk once again into the modern-day equivalent of the agora – the modern mass media – and speak out”. On ‘Public Diplomacy’, see e. g. Melissen 2005; Cull 2009. Otte 2006 provides a good synthesis of the features of ancient Greek diplomacy. On this aspect, see especially Kurbalija 2013; Graham 2014. Kappeler 2013: 16. Özyilmaz 2014: 219.

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In the essay from which the last quotation is taken, Özyilmaz makes interesting remarks about the framing of rhetoric in PD. She underscores the importance of the selection and salience of one’s arguments (making particular information more noticeable, meaningful or memorable in the mind of the audience), the relevance of credibility (matching words with deeds), and the use of mutually comprehensible frames of reference to inspire trust.37 Others too have highlighted the importance of trust for successful persuasion.38 A particularly assertive statement, in this regard, has been made by George Vella, former diplomat and minister of Foreign Affairs of Malta, who asserted that “the most important factor in any discussion between parties wanting to come to some sort of agreement [is] trust. Trust is reliability. Trust underpins confidence. Trust gives credence. Trust makes for assurance”.39 Despite the substantial differences between the two historical contexts, theoretical discussions around the limits, methods and strategies of modern PD might help us better understand the ‘public diplomacy’ of ancient Greece, at least as far as the role of rhetoric and persuasion is concerned. No one would deny that in the Greek world, especially in the relationships among the poleis of the Archaic and Classical periods, diplomacy was in essence a matter of rhetoric and persuasion.40 That the audiences of Greek envoys were not generic foreign audiences, but rather sovereign assemblies (or councils) whose members took the final decision, does not weaken the comparison, but rather strengthens it, given the decisive role of the audience for the desired outcome of ambassadors.41 5. The rhetoric of history in Greek diplomatic speeches: a road to good faith? It is often remarked, sometimes critically, that Greek envoys and ambassadors were amateurs and not bestowed with full powers to negotiate or take decisions on behalf of their communities, except perhaps if sent as αὐτοκράτορες.42 When selected for a mission, they generally received written instructions by the authorities at home, but 37 38 39 40

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Özyilmaz 2014: 222. See especially Anton/Peterson 2003; cf. Rana 2013: 83–89. Vella 2013: 11. The importance of trust and confidence between nations helps differentiate the aims of PD from propaganda, which is associated with manipulative processes and an absence of truth (see e. g. Misyuk 2013). The relevance of rhetoric in Greek diplomacy is emphasised in studies devoted to later periods, such as Gillett 2003: 11–16. Diplomatic speeches, as reported in the literary sources, are seldom considered per se in the rich and ever-growing studies on persuasion in Greek oratory (the issue is not discussed in e. g. Worthington 1994, Id. 2007, or Spatharas 2019). A notable exception is Chaniotis/Kropp/Steinhoff 2009. On an ambassador’s ethos, see Rubinstein 2016. On the role of audiences in Thucydides, see Westlake 1973; Debnar 2001. On the selection, stance and powers of Greek ambassadors, see Piccirilli 2002; on the qualification of αὐτοκράτορες, see Magnetto 2013.

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had to persuade the citizens of the receiving city with a sophisticated speech, often in public meetings and in front of ambassadors of other poleis who could, and typically did, respond. Their oratorical skills were of foremost importance, as was their ability to answer questions or debate specific points.43 It is no coincidence that, among the individuals who were selected as envoys, numerous orators, politicians, poets, philosophers and even actors – all categories well trained in public performance – are attested.44 And whatever the outcome of their mission, the ambassadors then had to perform a second time when called to report back in a public meeting at home. Here, fellow-citizens would judge the success of their mission and ambassadors could be prosecuted, for example for bribery or wrongdoing.45 Speaking about Aeschines, Demosthenes remarks: For what else should envoys be held accountable if not their speeches? Envoys are not in charge of triremes, territory, soldiers, or citadels – for no one entrusts these things to envoys – but of words and time. Now, if an ambassador did not waste the time available to the city, he is not guilty; if he did waste it, he has committed a crime. If the words in the report he gave were true or in the city’s interests, he should be acquitted; if they were false, paid for, and against the city’s interests, he should be convicted.46

In sum, the main asset at a Greek envoy’s disposal was his rhetorical talent and – because ambassadors advocated more than they negotiated – the ability to combine words and arguments to persuade an audience (a foreign audience, primarily) was a key skill. In their speeches, they likely employed all oratorical devices appropriate to the circumstances.47 The task was anything but easy, not least because the Greeks were keenly aware of the ambivalent nature of persuasion.48 This was represented by the

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On the genre of oratory to which ambassadors’ speeches belong, see Rubinstein 2016. Cf. Gazzano 2016. Cf. the accusation of fickleness made by Andocides, ambassador to Sparta, against his fellow citizens: “we delegates have to bear in mind not only our written instructions but also your own character, Athenians. You tend to be suspicious and disgruntled with whatever is available to you, and keep talking about what isn’t available as if it were. If you have to fight a war, you want peace, and if someone arranges peace for you, you add up all the advantages you got from war” (Andoc. 3.35, transl. by D. M. MacDowell). Dem. 19.183: τίνος γὰρ ἄλλου δεῖ δίκην παρὰ πρέσβεων ἢ λόγων λαμβάνειν; εἰσὶ γὰρ οἱ πρέσβεις οὐ τριήρων οὐδὲ τόπων οὐδ᾽ ὁπλιτῶν οὐδ᾽ ἀκροπόλεων κύριοι (οὐδεὶς γὰρ πρέσβεσι ταῦτ᾽ ἐγχειρίζει), ἀλλὰ λόγων καὶ χρόνων. τοὺς μὲν τοίνυν χρόνους εἰ μὲν μὴ προανεῖλε τῆς πόλεως, οὐκ ἀδικεῖ, εἰ δ᾽ ἀνεῖλεν, ἠδίκηκε· τοὺς δὲ λόγους εἰ μὲν ἀληθεῖς ἀπήγγελκεν ἢ συμφέροντας, ἀποφευγέτω, εἰ δὲ καὶ ψευδεῖς καὶ μισθοῦ καὶ ἀσυμφόρους, ἁλισκέσθω. (transl. in the text by H. Yunis, slightly modified). A well-known example is Diodorus’ account of Gorgias’ diplomatic mission to Athens in 427 BC (12.53), where his success is attributed to the novelty and the brilliance of his rhetoric. This is said to have filled the Athenians with wonder and won them over to an alliance with the Leontines. Unfortunately, the arguments Gorgias used to persuade the Athenian assembly are not recorded. See for instance Naas 1995; Knudsen 2014.

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goddess Peitho, who could take the form of enchantment, or even deceit.49 The selection of cases and issues by ambassadors must have been made carefully, in order to foster mutual trust between themselves (as representatives of the issuing polis) and the receiving community. The topics of discussion could be manifold and probably chosen on a case-by-case basis by the ambassadors, according to the instructions they received and the purpose of their mission.50 For example, according to Aeschines, in the much debated affaire of the Athenian embassy to Philip in 346 BC, the ten envoys discussed together, on their way to Pella, both what each would say (with Demosthenes promising πηγὰς δὴ λόγων)51 and the order of speakers.52 Each then held his own speech in front of the Macedonian king (except for Demosthenes, who failed miserably). I shall return to Aeschines’ account and his speech to Philip. For now, we should note – at least as far as one can judge from the extant evidence – that among the most frequently recurring tropes in Greek ambassadorial speeches is a reference to past events. In this sense too, comparison with modern PD may be interesting, given that formal speeches by ambassadors delivered in front of a foreign audience usually begin with what is sometimes called ‘an iron formula’, that is, a passage that rehearses friendly, long-standing contact between the two countries in question. With regard to the ancient Greeks, their tendency to value the past is not surprising. Many studies in different fields of literature and thought, from historiography to drama, from oratory to the visual arts, have demonstrated the paramount importance of the past (both mythical and historical) in Greek culture and mentality.53 As Osmers observes, “die Vergangenheit war in den griechischen Gesellschaften omnipräsent”.54 Particularly studied in this context is the use (and abuse) of historical references in the speeches of the Attic orators. They could and often did lie, distort, or deliberately deceive in order to persuade their audiences, both in the courts and in the assembly.55 49 50 51 52

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See especially the essays collected in Worthington 1994 and Queyrel Bottineau 2017: 25. Several of these are listed by Piccirilli 2002: 73–108. Aeschin. 2.21: […] ὃς διασκοπούντων ἡμῶν ὅ τι χρὴ λέγειν, καὶ Κίμωνος εἰπόντος ὅτι φοβοῖτο μὴ δικαιολογούμενος περιγένοιτο ἡμῶν ὁ Φίλιππος, πηγὰς δὴ λόγων ἐπηγγέλλετο. Aeschin. 2.22: ἵνα δὲ μὴ μακρολογῶ τὴν τούτου διεξιὼν ὑπερηφανίαν, ὡς τάχιστα ἥκομεν εἰς Μακεδονίαν, συνετάξαμεν πρὸς ἡμᾶς αὐτούς, ὅταν προσίωμεν Φιλίππῳ, τὸν πρεσβύτατον πρῶτον λέγειν καὶ τοὺς λοιποὺς καθ᾽ ἡλικίαν (“but, to avoid a lengthy account of this man’s arrogance, as soon as we got to Macedonia, we arranged among ourselves that, when we came before Philip, the oldest should speak first and then the rest in order of age”, transl. by C. Carey). Scholarship on these subjects has flourished in the last decades. See e. g. Pownall 2004; Grethlein 2010; Osmers 2013; Steinbock 2013; Canevaro 2017, as well as the essays collected in Grethlein/Kreb 2012; Marincola/Llewellyn-Jones/Maciver 2012; Ker/ Pieper 2014; Franchi/Proietti 2017; Castagnoli/Ceccarelli 2019. Osmers 2013: 11. See Worthington 1994: 111–115; cf. Usher 2007. A more nuanced reading is now offered by Canevaro 2017 (and 2019) whose remarks on the skilful exploitation of the past by Attic orators are convincing and may be applied also to ambassadorial speeches.

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In the realm of diplomacy, the frequent recollection of historical facts by envoys and ambassadors confirms the widely attested practice. However, their handling of the past seems to have been somewhat different from that of the orators. It is often biased, but never outright false, for obvious reasons. Given that ambassadors had to interact with a foreign power and most frequently in circumstances of strain or suspicion, if their ultimate goal was persuasion, the first step was to gain trust. As we shall see, the most significant technique for achieving this appears to be a shrewd selection of episodes and memories which, substantiating the good faith of their senders, could be useful to the cause that the ambassadors were pleading. At any rate, as Wooten recognises,56 the inclusion of historical references was a typical feature of Greek diplomatic speeches, or rather of the literary ‘revised editions’ offered by the ancient historians from Herodotus to Polybius.57 In his article, Wooten argues that the inclusion of historical examples in the presbeutikoi logoi could serve different purposes, depending on the circumstances; an ambassador could refer to past events to emphasise why previous relations between two communities had gone a certain way, or to justify a particular behaviour, or to show that a given policy would be well grounded, or to stress past favours that his community had done the other.58 The importance of the Geschichte als Argument motif in diplomatic speeches has been analysed by Chaniotis, who in studying the literary and epigraphic evidence has identified three fundamental functions – logical, legal and moral – behind the use of historical arguments in ambassadors’ speeches.59 Calling on history may logically justify a decision, give it a legal legitimacy, or emphasise a moral responsibility, as the examples offered by Chaniotis confirm.60 These central functions notwithstanding, other potential diplomatic exploitations of historical material may be envisaged. In the admittedly rare case of ambassador-suppliants, references to the past could add an emotional value to their plea.61 In less critical circumstances, references to the past often seem to have been selected according to a rhetorical strategy aimed at creating a close correlation between history, good faith and persuasion. On this basis, I will now discuss some historiographical examples of allusions to the past included in ambassadors’ speeches. These may be intended to connect the community 56 57

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Wooten 1973, with the remarks of Rubinstein 2016: 79–82. Of course, none of the ambassadors’ speeches preserved by historians and orators can be considered to be the ipsissima verba of the individual to whom they are attributed (Piccirilli 2002: 65–73). This does not mean that the presbeutikoi logoi are wholly invented or unworthy of examination. On speeches in historiography – another extensively explored subject – see in general Marincola 2007; Id. 2010, and the essays in Pausch 2010. Wooten 1973: 210–211. Chaniotis 2005; Id. 2009. Chaniotis 2009. The Theban diplomatic speeches are now fully discussed by Tuci 2019, who notes the importance of the historical references (41–43), although not from the same perspective as this paper. On the risks associated with abuse of the Geschichte als Argument topos, see Gottlieb 2000. See Gazzano 2019.

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that had sent the ambassadors to that which received them. This historical link, recalling some particular and judiciously selected episodes or shared memories, seems to be aimed at creating a new (or strengthening an existing) bond of good faith between the receiver and the sender, thus helping the speaker create a scenario in which his chances of persuasion would be higher. 6. History and good faith in ambassadors’ speeches According to Thucydides, when Lesbos revolted from Athens (427 BC), envoys were sent by the Mytileneans to Olympia to seek aid from Sparta and her allies.62 The speech by the Mytileneans is particularly instructive.63 The purpose of the mission was to receive military aid from the Peloponnesian League and to persuade Sparta to engage far away from the Peloponnese. However, the position of the Lesbians was a weak one, especially on moral grounds, because they had until then been powerful, free and privileged allies of the Athenians. The Mytileneans needed assistance without delay, but had much to clarify, given that their secession from Athens may well have sounded to Spartan ears like treason.64 They therefore begin by recognising the “established way of things among the Greeks”65 by which “when people secede and desert their previous alliance in time of war, others are glad to welcome them to the extent of their usefulness, but think the less of them for their betrayal of their former friends”.66 And they admit that “no friendship between individuals or association between cities can have any lasting basis unless the partners treat each other with patent loyalty”.67 The first and foremost issue is, therefore, trust. Only by demonstrating their good faith to Sparta,

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Thucydides (3.5.2; 9.1) states that Mytileneans sent their embassy to Sparta, but that the Spartans redirected the envoys to Olympia so that the rest of their allies too could hear their case and discuss it. On Sparta’s contribution to Greek diplomacy, see Mosley 1971. On assembly debates in Thucydides, see Kremmydas 2017. Thuc. 3.9–14: on the whole episode, see the analyses of HCT III: 252–260; MacLeod 1983; CT I: 391–398; Orwin 1994: 64–70; Debnar 2001: 102–124; Price 2013: 437–443 with further references. HCT III: 261 (ad 3.9.3) emphasises that “in a different society, we should not expect to see this so frankly avowed in the course of diplomatic negotiations for a change of side”. On this incipit, see Debnar 2001: 107–108. Thuc. 3.9.1–3: τὸ μὲν καθεστὸς τοῖς Ἕλλησι νόμιμον, ὦ Λακεδαιμόνιοι καὶ ξύμμαχοι, ἴσμεν· τοὺς γὰρ ἀφισταμένους ἐν τοῖς πολέμοις καὶ ξυμμαχίαν τὴν πρὶν ἀπολείποντας οἱ δεξάμενοι, καθ᾽ ὅσον μὲν ὠφελοῦνται, ἐν ἡδονῇ ἔχουσι, νομίζοντες δὲ εἶναι προδότας τῶν πρὸ τοῦ φίλων χείρους ἡγοῦνται. Καὶ οὐκ ἄδικος αὕτη ἡ ἀξίωσίς ἐστιν, εἰ τύχοιεν πρὸς ἀλλήλους οἵ τε ἀφιστάμενοι καὶ ἀφ᾽ ὧν διακρίνοιντο ἴσοι μὲν τῇ γνώμῃ ὄντες καὶ εὐνοίᾳ, ἀντίπαλοι δὲ τῇ παρασκευῇ καὶ δυνάμει, πρόφασίς τε ἐπιεικὴς μηδεμία ὑπάρχοι τῆς ἀποστάσεως· ὃ ἡμῖν καὶ Ἀθηναίοις οὐκ ἦν. Μηδέ τῳ χείρους δόξωμεν εἶναι εἰ ἐν τῇ εἰρήνῃ τιμώμενοι ὑπ᾽ αὐτῶν ἐν τοῖς δεινοῖς ἀφιστάμεθα. (All translations of Thucydides, in the text and notes, are from M. Hammond.) Thuc. 3.10.1: […] οὔτε φιλίαν ἰδιώταις βέβαιον γιγνομένην οὔτε κοινωνίαν πόλεσιν ἐς οὐδέν, εἰ μὴ μετ᾽ ἀρετῆς δοκούσης ἐς ἀλλήλους γίγνοιντο καὶ τἆλλα ὁμοιότροποι εἶεν.

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despite being traitors to Athens, could the Lesbian ambassadors hope to reach their goal.68 They review at length the history of their previous relations with Athens, trying to prove that: 1) they became allies of Athens when (and so, because) Sparta retired from the war against the Persians;69 2) they had been faithful followers of the Athenians until they began to enslave their allies;70 3) Athens had not yet formally enslaved them out of a cynical plan to use the strongest to subjugate the weaker allies, leaving the strongest to last;71 and 4) they were forced to stay in the alliance because of what they call “a bond of fear”, instead of one of mutual good will, for they “were held in the alliance more out of caution than friendship”.72 Only toward the end of the speech do the Mytileneans hint at reasons more attractive to both the Spartans and the members of the League, such as convenience and practical advantages: “you will gain a city with a large navy, which is your greatest need; you will find it easier to defeat the Athenians by drawing away their allies”.73 The use of the past as a strategy to demonstrate the Mytileneans’ good faith strengthens the reliability of the ambassadors’ subsequent arguments. The speech has failed to convince modern readers,74 but it did persuade its immediate audience: “having heard this appeal, the Spartans and their allies accepted the arguments and took the Lesbians into alliance”.75 Xenophon reports a similar pattern for eliciting trust in a diplomatic speech, delivered by an unidentified Theban envoy in Athens (396/5 BC) to conclude an alliance against Sparta.76 It is widely agreed that this speech is a Xenophontic creation.77 Giv68 69 70 71 72

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The importance of the speaker’s credibility to enhance persuasion is highlighted, in absolute terms, by Anton/Peterson 2003. Thuc. 3.10.2: ἀπολιπόντων μὲν ὑμῶν ἐκ τοῦ Μηδικοῦ πολέμου. Thuc. 3.10.3–6: the Mytileneans could no longer trust the Athenians when she started to enslave her allies. Thuc. 3.11. On the difficulties of this Thucydidean passage, see Price 2013. Thuc. 3.12. Again, the vocabulary of trust (12.1: φιλία; ἐλευθερία πιστή; εὔνοια; πίστιν; φιλίᾳ) is evoked here as in other passages in this speech. See e. g. 3.9.2: ἴσοι μὲν τῇ γνώμῃ ὄντες καὶ εὐνοίᾳ; 10.1: δικαίου καὶ ἀρετῆς; φιλίαν; κοινωνίαν; μετ᾽ ἀρετῆς; 10.4: προθύμως; 10.6: πιστοὺς; ἐνσπόνδους; 11.2: πιστόν. At 3.9.2, the reading ἐπινοίᾳ, proposed by Hude instead of εὐνοίᾳ, seems unnecessary: CT I: 392 accepts the amendment, but gives no reason for this. Thuc. 3.13.7: βοηθησάντων δὲ ὑμῶν προθύμως πόλιν τε προσλήψεσθε ναυτικὸν ἔχουσαν μέγα, οὗπερ ὑμῖν μάλιστα προσδεῖ, καὶ Ἀθηναίους ῥᾷον καθαιρήσετε ὑφαιροῦντες αὐτῶν τοὺς ξυμμάχους. See especially Macleod 1983b; Price 2013: 437–443. Thuc. 3.15. The role of good faith is clear from what Thucydides (3.16.2) relates about the Spartans’ reaction when the Athenians managed to keep the fleet in Lesbos while sending one hundred ships to ravage the Peloponnesian coast: “the Spartans found this quite astonishing and thought that the Lesbians must have misled them” (οἱ δὲ Λακεδαιμόνιοι ὁρῶντες πολὺν τὸν παράλογον τά τε ὑπὸ τῶν Λεσβίων ῥηθέντα ἡγοῦντο οὐκ ἀληθῆ). Xen. Hell. 3.5.8–15: on the events, see Tuplin 1993: 60–64, and passim; Beck 2008: 33–43; on this speech, see Rood 2012: 80–85; Schepens 2012; Steinbock 2013: 245–253 (whose conclusions are similar to mine); Baragwanath 2017; most recently Tuci 2019, all with previous bibliography. On Xenophon’s use of rhetoric (in general terms), see Cuniberti 2011; Pontier 2014; on the speeches, see Buckler 2008; Pontier 2013a; Tamiolaki 2014; Baragwanath 2017; Tuci 2019. But see Tuci 2019: 41, who considers as genuine “at least the gist of this speech”.

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en the harsh critical assessment of Sparta’s policy towards the Greek cities made by the Theban ambassador, evaluating the meaning and function of the speech in light of Xenophon’s own political stance has been controversial.78 Nonetheless, the reasons put forward by the speaker, from a rhetorical point of view, are interesting because they reveal a connection between history, good faith and persuasion comparable to that found in the Mytileneans’ appeal to Sparta.79 In Xenophon’s case, the first task of the Theban envoy is to overcome the long-standing suspicion and distrust between the two poleis, and so he begins with an historical review of Thebes’ role after the fall of Athens in 404 BC. The Thebans’ vote at that time to enslave Athens was a cause of significant resentment.80 In the envoy’s reconstruction, the Athenians should not blame the Thebans as a whole, however, because “it was not the city of Thebes that voted then; it was just one man who happened at that time to have a seat at the council of the allies. When, on the other hand, the Spartans asked us to join them in attacking Piraeus, the whole city voted and the whole city said ‘no’”.81 In this way, the previous actions of one man are outweighed by the ensuing goodwill of the entire polis. The next step is even more noteworthy, as the speaker takes advantage of the same topic as that of the Lesbian ambassadors in Thucydides’ account, but assumes explicitly the Athenian standpoint: There is nothing to be afraid of in the fact that their power is so widely extended […] remember your own case. It was when you had most subjects that you made most enemies. […] And they only concealed their hatred of you during the time when they had no one to support them if they revolted; but as soon as the Spartans came forward as leaders they soon showed what they really thought about you.82

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Status quaestionis in Schepens 2012: 228–231; Tuci 2019: 36, 38–40. As Baragwanath 2017: 381 notes: “it is in the most disingenuous of speeches in Hellenica and Anabasis where we find the strongest claims to be telling the truth (alethe legein), as when the Thebans petition the Athenians with offers of empire (3.5.8–15)”. As Steinbock 2013: 250 notes, the Thebans’ arguments “are emotionally charged and thus carry much argumentative weight”. According to Xenophon (Hell. 2.2.19–20), the proposal to destroy (ἐξαιρεῖν) Athens in 404 BC was advanced in a conference at Sparta by the Corinthians, the Thebans, and “many other Greeks” (πολλοὶ δὲ καὶ ἄλλοι τῶν Ἑλλήνων). The Spartans refused, and their decision prevailed. See Steinbock 2013: 281–285. Xen. Hell. 3.5.8: Ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ἃ μὲν μέμφεσθε ἡμῖν ὡς ψηφισαμένων χαλεπὰ περὶ ὑμῶν ἐν τῇ καταλύσει τοῦ πολέμου, οὐκ ὀρθῶς μέμφεσθε· οὐ γὰρ ἡ πόλις ἐκεῖνα ἐψηφίσατο, ἀλλ᾽ εἷς ἀνὴρ εἶπεν, ὃς ἔτυχε τότε ἐν τοῖς συμμάχοις καθήμενος. ὅτε δὲ παρεκάλουν ἡμᾶς οἱ Λακεδαιμόνιοι ἐπὶ τὸν Πειραιᾶ, τότε ἅπασα ἡ πόλις ἀπεψηφίσατο μὴ συστρατεύειν αὐτοῖς. (All translations of Xenophon are from R. Cawkwell). Xen. Hell. 3.5.10: ὅτι δὲ πολλῶν ἄρχουσι, μὴ φοβηθῆτε […], ἐνθυμούμενοι ὅτι καὶ ὑμεῖς ὅτε πλείστων ἤρχετε, τότε πλείστους ἐχθροὺς ἐκέκτησθε. Ἀλλ᾽ ἕως μὲν οὐκ εἶχον ὅποι ἀποσταῖεν, ἔκρυπτον τὴν πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἔχθραν· ἐπεὶ δέ γε Λακεδαιμόνιοι προύστησαν, τότε ἔφηναν οἷα περὶ ὑμῶν ἐγίγνωσκον.

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The analogy allows the envoy to build a relationship of trust with the audience.83 He then moves on to explain the situation in the League, thus winning full support from the Athenian assembly where “very many Athenians rose to speak in agreement with him, and there was a unanimous vote to send help to the Thebans”.84 Historical episodes could also be exploited to increase the trust of the receiving polis toward the speaker and undermine the trustworthiness of his opponents. Leontiades, the leader of the Theban pro-Spartan faction, does this to discredit his fellow-citizens in front of a Spartan audience: You saw that they [sc. the Thebans] were invariably friends to your enemies and enemies to your friends. You remember how they refused to march with you against the Athenian democratic government in Piraeus, who were bitter enemies of yours, and how, on the other hand, they marched themselves against the Phocians, because they saw that you were friendly to them.85

This speech too was successful and the Spartans, upon “hearing these things” (ἀκούουσι ταῦτα: 5.2.35), were convinced. A passage in Diodorus seems to confirm the idea that, in an uneasy relationship such as that between Athens and Thebes, trust needed to be established by references to past events. In 378 BC, after the assault to liberate Cadmeia from the Spartan garrison, Theban envoys were sent to Athens to ask for help and “to remind them that they too once aided in restoring the democracy of the Athenians at the time when the Athenians had been enslaved by the Thirty Tyrants”.86 No direct speech is reported, but the Athenians’ answer is perhaps more revealing than the Theban request: “the Athenian 83

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The feeling of mutual confidence seems heightened by the repeated invitation to the audience, made by the Theban envoy, to recall specific facts (ἐνθυμούμενοι: 3.5.10; ὡς ὑμεῖς ἐπίστασθε: 14) as if he knew and shared the same emotional reaction as his audience. This is a typical feature in diplomatic speeches and, as Canevaro (2017: 194–196; 2019: 136–157) has demonstrated in the case of oratory, worked as a powerful tool for persuasion. The orators frequently tried to guide their fellow citizens’ memory with expressions such as ‘you all know’, ‘you all remember’, ‘let me remind you’ to lend authority to their own statements while adjusting or misdirecting the audience’s expectations (Canevaro 2019: 151). Xen. Hell. 3.5.16: τῶν δ᾽ Ἀθηναίων πάμπολλοι μὲν συνηγόρευον, πάντες δ᾽ ἐψηφίσαντο βοηθεῖν αὐτοῖς. On the events, see Tuplin 1993: 96–100. Xen. Hell. 5.2.33: ἑωρᾶτε γὰρ ἀεὶ τούτους τοῖς μὲν ὑμετέροις δυσμενέσι φιλικῶς ἔχοντας, τοῖς δ᾽ ὑμετέροις φίλοις ἐχθροὺς ὄντας. Οὐκ ἐπὶ μὲν τὸν ἐν Πειραιεῖ δῆμον, πολεμιώτατον ὄντα ὑμῖν, οὐκ ἠθέλησαν συστρατεύειν, Φωκεῦσι δέ, ὅτι ὑμᾶς εὐμενεῖς ὄντας ἑώρων, ἐπεστράτευον; On the events, see Tuplin 1993: 96–100. Diod. 15.25.4: οἱ δὲ Θηβαῖοι μεγάλην δύναμιν προσδοκῶντες ἥξειν ἐκ τῆς Ἑλλάδος Λακεδαιμονίοις, ἐξέπεμψαν πρεσβευτὰς εἰς τὰς Ἀθήνας, ὑπομιμνήσκοντες μὲν ὅτι καὶ αὐτοὶ συγκατήγαγον τὸν δῆμον τῶν Ἀθηναίων καθ᾽ ὃν καιρὸν ὑπὸ τῶν τριάκοντα τυράννων κατεδουλώθησαν, ἀξιοῦντες δὲ πανδημεὶ βοηθῆσαι καὶ πρὸ τῆς τῶν Λακεδαιμονίων παρουσίας συνεκπολεμῆσαι τὴν Καδμείαν. (All translations of Diodorus are from C. L. Sherman.) Diodorus’ (or Ephorus’) account is different from that of Xenophon (Hell. 5.4.2–12). Other sources are Nep. Pel. 3; Plut. Pel. 7–12; Mor. 596). See especially Stylianou, 1998: 230–237. On the Theban speech, see Tuci 2019: 42.

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people heard the ambassadors through to the end and voted to dispatch immediately as large a force as possible for the liberation of Thebes, thus repaying their obligation for the former service and at the same time moved by a desire to win the Boeotians to their side and to have in them a powerful partner in the contest against the superiority of the Lacedaemonians”.87 Exploiting historical episodes was a more delicate matter when rival ambassadors from other cities were present, all aiming to persuade the same audience. This seems to have been a frequent occurrence, at least according to Thucydides. Interesting historical allusions are found on each side in the debate between the Corcyreans and Corinthians at Athens (Thuc. 1.31–44), in the debate between Hermocrates of Syracuse and Euphemus the Athenian at Camarina (6.76–88), as well as in the so-called Plataean debate (3.52–68). These occasions show how ambassadors could make shrewd use of the past to gain the upper hand over their opponents. A full analysis of these episodes lies beyond the scope of this paper, so I shall confine myself to noting the passages where a connection between the past, good faith and persuasion seems to be at issue. The antilogia of the Corinthians and Corcyreans poses problems that have puzzled scholars, and the allusions to the past on both sides should be understood within a more articulated framework.88 The Corcyrean envoys – who speak first – admit that they cannot rely on any shared memories with the Athenians.89 They did not take part in the Persian Wars and, although islanders, did not join the Athenian League. Their plea to sign an alliance therefore had to focus on other matters, such as justice, future relations, and especially future practical advantages.90 As Debnar notes, the Corcyreans

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Diod. 15.26.1: ὁ δὲ δῆμος τῶν Ἀθηναίων διακούσας τῶν πρέσβεων ἐψηφίσατο παραχρῆμα δύναμιν ὡς πλείστην ἀποστεῖλαι τὴν ἐλευθερώσουσαν τὰς Θήβας, ἅμα μὲν τῆς εὐεργεσίας ἀποδιδοὺς τὰς χάριτας, ἅμα δὲ βουλόμενος τοὺς Βοιωτοὺς ἐξιδιώσασθαι καὶ συναγωνιστὰς ἰσχυροὺς ἔχειν κατὰ τῆς Λακεδαιμονίων ὑπεροχῆς. See Steinbock 2013: 262–267. Detailed analyses of this debate can be found in e. g. HCT I: 166–176; CT I: 112–125; Crane 1992; Morrison 1999; Price 2001: 82–89; Debnar 2011; Fragoulaki 2013: 82–87. On the historical context, see Parmeggiani 2016. Thuc. 1.32.1: δίκαιον, ὦ Ἀθηναῖοι, τοὺς μήτε εὐεργεσίας μεγάλης μήτε ξυμμαχίας προυφειλομένης ἥκοντας παρὰ τοὺς πέλας ἐπικουρίας, ὥσπερ καὶ ἡμεῖς νῦν, δεησομένους ἀναδιδάξαι πρῶτον, μάλιστα μὲν ὡς καὶ ξύμφορα δέονται, εἰ δὲ μή, ὅτι γε οὐκ ἐπιζήμια, ἔπειτα δὲ ὡς καὶ τὴν χάριν βέβαιον ἕξουσιν (“Men of Athens, it is only right that those who come to others asking for their help, as we do now, with no record of major service rendered or existing alliance on which to base their claim, should demonstrate firstly that what they ask is in fact to the others’ benefit (or at least not to their harm), and secondly that there will be gratitude expressed in concrete form”). Thuc. 1.32.3–4: τετύχηκε δὲ τὸ αὐτὸ ἐπιτήδευμα πρός τε ὑμᾶς ἐς τὴν χρείαν ἡμῖν ἄλογον καὶ ἐς τὰ ἡμέτερα αὐτῶν ἐν τῷ παρόντι ἀξύμφορον. Ξύμμαχοί τε γὰρ οὐδενός πω ἐν τῷ πρὸ τοῦ χρόνῳ ἑκούσιοι γενόμενοι νῦν ἄλλων τοῦτο δεησόμενοι ἥκομεν, καὶ ἅμα ἐς τὸν παρόντα πόλεμον Κορινθίων ἐρῆμοι δι᾽ αὐτὸ καθέσταμεν. καὶ περιέστηκεν ἡ δοκοῦσα ἡμῶν πρότερον σωφροσύνη, τὸ μὴ ἐν ἀλλοτρίᾳ ξυμμαχίᾳ τῇ τοῦ πέλας γνώμῃ ξυγκινδυνεύειν, νῦν ἀβουλία καὶ ἀσθένεια φαινομένη (“our past policy has proved doubly unfortunate – inconsistent towards you when we now have need of your support, and against our own interests in our present situation. Having never yet in any previous time made deliberate alliances with anyone, we are now here to ask for outside help as this very

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not only present their prior lack of engagement (ἀπραγμοσύνη) as a mistake, in order to show Athens their repentance and good faith,91 but they also try also to portray the future as a sort of past: war will surely come and if the Athenians join with Corcyra, she will repay Athens in the future for helping now.92 Whereas the Corcyreans’ ‘historical’ precedent lies in promised future actions, the Corinthian ambassadors rely on past episodes to highlight the existence of a trust-bond between them and the Athenians. They are treaty partners “while Corcyra have never had any relations, not even a truce, with the Athenians”.93 They voted to let Athens be free to punish Samos after the revolt, and gave Athens twenty ships for the war against Aegina.94 The relevance of these memories – despite the present antagonism – must have had at least some influence on the Athenian decision because Thucydides records that two assemblies were held. In the first, “there was a manifest disposition to listen to the representations of Corinth”; only in the second did they lean toward a compromise, signing a defensive alliance (epimachia) with Corcyra.95 Finally, while arguing in front of the Athenians, both the Corcyrean and the Corinthian envoys had to touch upon their mutual behaviour as colony and mother-city. We know from a previous passage that the Corcyreans, trying to dismiss the purported image of an unfaithful and ungrateful colony, had symbolically cut ties with its mother-city, affirming that in reality Corcyra was a foundation of the Homeric Phaeacians, and therefore not affected by the accusations levelled by Corinth and that were intended to damage Corcyra’s trustworthiness.96 The exploitation of the traditional ties between colony and mother-city looms large in the second debate mentioned above, where each of the speakers at Camarina insists on the traditional Greek division between Ionians and Dorians. This is a well-known theme in Thucydides, who describes its ideological and propagandistic impact during the Peloponnesian War.97 Here it will suffice to note that in this debate, the ambassa-

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policy has left us isolated in our present war with Corinth. What we once thought of as prudent self-containment – not exposing ourselves through any external alliance to the risks of others’ policies – has now proved our mistake and our weakness”). Debnar 2011: 126, note 59. Thuc. 1.32.5: […] καὶ ξυγγνώμη εἰ μὴ μετὰ κακίας, δόξης δὲ μᾶλλον ἁμαρτίᾳ τῇ πρότερον ἀπραγμοσύνῃ ἐναντία τολμῶμεν. (“[…] we trust you will understand that this is no faint-heartedness, but rather the acknowledgement of a mistaken policy which emboldens us to go counter to our previous isolationism”). Thuc. 1.33.3: τὸν δὲ πόλεμον, δι᾽ ὅνπερ χρήσιμοι ἂν εἶμεν, εἴ τις ὑμῶν μὴ οἴεται ἔσεσθαι, γνώμης ἁμαρτάνει (“we would be useful to you in war. And if any among you do not think that war is coming, they are deceiving themselves”). Thuc. 1.40.4: Κορινθίοις μέν γε ἔνσπονδοί ἐστε, Κερκυραίοις δὲ οὐδὲ δι᾽ ἀνοκωχῆς πώποτ᾽ ἐγένεσθε. On the meaning of the rare word ἀνοκωχή, see Gazzano 2012. No interference with Samos: Thuc. 1.40.5. Help in the war against Aegina (and Samos again): Thuc. 1.41.2. On the relevance of this passage in Thucydides’ narrative, see Rood 1998: 216–218. Thuc. 1.44.1. See Parmeggiani 2016. On the epimachia, see Couvenhes 2016. Thuc. 1.25.3–4, with Crane 1992: 6–11; Intrieri 2011. See e. g. Alty 1982; Connor 1984: 191–196; Price 2001: 153–161; Fragoulaki 2013, and especially Osmers 2013: 117–143.

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dors on both sides rely on kinship diplomacy not only to exploit a faraway past, but also to bring forth arguments connected to a much closer historical time, that of the foundation of the Athenian Empire. The Syracusan Hermocrates, whose aim was “to prejudice the people of Camarina against the Athenians”,98 uses the Dorian origins of both Syracuse and Camarina as a mark of mutual friendship and trust (while concealing the imperial stance of Syracuse herself), and emphasises the ‘natural’ enmity between Dorians and Ionians. On this basis, he shows that Athens’ leadership over the Ionians after the Persian Wars was aimed at their enslavement because “the Athenians were not fighting for Greek freedom, nor the Greeks were fighting for their own: the Athenians were looking to replace Persian enslavement with theirs, and the Greeks to make a change of slave-master”.99 “If we fail to persuade you”, he concludes, “the truth of the matter will be this: we Dorians are under attack by Ionians, our inveterate enemies, and we are betrayed by fellow Dorians, you!”.100 On the opposite side, the rhetorical strategy of Euphemus, the Athenian ambassador, is also notable for its use of the past. To show that Dorian city of Camarina has nothing to fear from the Athenians, he points out that Athens as the Ionian metropolis was compelled to build an empire to preserve her freedom, precisely because of the ‘natural’ hostility between Ionians and Dorians.101 As for the harsh treatment inflicted on the Eastern Ionians, which ended with their enslavement, this was due to their treason as Athenian colonists who sided and fought with the barbarians during the Persian invasion: There was no injustice in our subjection of the Ionians and the islanders, which the Syracusans describe as ‘enslavement of our kinsmen’. We were their mother-city, and they joined the Persian invasion against us; they did not have the courage to revolt and lose their homes, as we did when we abandoned our city; they chose slavery for themselves and wanted to impose the same state on us.102

As for Sicily, the only threat to Ionian and Dorian cities alike is not Athens, but rather Syracuse. This is because of her aspirations to rule over the entire island: “their aim is to dominate you. They plan to unite you in suspicion of us, and then by force or default

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Thuc. 6.75.4: ὁ Ἑρμοκράτης […] βουλόμενος προδιαβάλλειν τοὺς Ἀθηναίους ἔλεγε τοιάδε. Thuc. 6.76.4: καὶ οὐ περὶ τῆς ἐλευθερίας ἄρα οὔτε οὗτοι τῶν Ἑλλήνων οὔθ᾽ οἱ Ἕλληνες τῆς ἑαυτῶν τῷ Μήδῳ ἀντέστησαν, περὶ δὲ οἱ μὲν σφίσιν ἀλλὰ μὴ ἐκείνῳ καταδουλώσεως, οἱ δ᾽ ἐπὶ δεσπότου μεταβολῇ οὐκ ἀξυνετωτέρου, κακοξυνετωτέρου δέ. 100 Thuc. 6. 80.3: δεόμεθα δὲ καὶ μαρτυρόμεθα ἅμα, εἰ μὴ πείσομεν, ὅτι ἐπιβουλευόμεθα μὲν ὑπὸ Ἰώνων αἰεὶ πολεμίων, προδιδόμεθα δὲ ὑπὸ ὑμῶν Δωριῆς Δωριῶν. 101 Thuc. 6.81.2: τὸ μὲν οὖν μέγιστον μαρτύριον αὐτὸς εἶπεν, ὅτι οἱ Ἴωνες αἰεί ποτε πολέμιοι τοῖς Δωριεῦσιν εἰσίν. Ἔχει δὲ καὶ οὕτως. 102 Thuc. 6.81.4: ἦλθον γὰρ ἐπὶ τὴν μητρόπολιν ἐφ᾽ ἡμᾶς μετὰ τοῦ Μήδου καὶ οὐκ ἐτόλμησαν ἀποστάντες τὰ οἰκεῖα φθεῖραι, ὥσπερ ἡμεῖς ἐκλιπόντες τὴν πόλιν, δουλείαν δὲ αὐτοί τε ἐβούλοντο καὶ ἡμῖν τὸ αὐτὸ ἐπενεγκεῖν.

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(if we have failed and left) to take Sicily under their own control”.103 In the end, neither ambassador was convincing and the Camarineans opted to remain neutral. The speeches are interspersed in Thucydides with negative sentences, phrases and words, and thus abound in negative persuasion.104 One suspects that this kind of ‘oudenology’ was a Thucydidean device used to strengthen the impression of this double diplomatic failure. The Sicilian antilogia is an interesting instance of the appeal, in ambassadorial speeches, to episodes selected from a watershed moment in Greek history, namely the Persian Wars. Xerxes’ invasion in particular represents a rich repository of shared historical memories, to which envoys made frequent allusion as a means of provoking emotions, gaining the good faith of their audience and thus raising their chances of persuasion.105 The Greek world was often at odds, so finding an undisputed historical episode was no simple task, especially in debates open to other delegations. The collective resistance against the Persians, with the memory of its heroic battles and glorious victories, was a powerful means of creating solidarity between a speaker and his audience. We find several hints of this in both Thucydides and Xenophon. In the former, the liberation of Greece is evoked by the Corinthian envoys at Sparta on two different occasions, and with a different emphasis.106 The merits of Athens as saviour of the Greeks are boastfully underscored by Athenian ambassadors to state their right to an empire,107 in a tone quite different from that of Euphemus.108 Memories of the Persian 103 104

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Thuc. 6.85.3: ἀρχῆς γὰρ ἐφίενται ὑμῶν καὶ βούλονται ἐπὶ τῷ ἡμετέρῳ ξυστήσαντες ὑμᾶς ὑπόπτῳ, βίᾳ ἢ καὶ κατ᾽ ἐρημίαν, ἀπράκτων ἡμῶν ἀπελθόντων, αὐτοὶ ἄρξαι τῆς Σικελίας. See Thuc. 6.76.1: μὴ ὑμᾶς πείσωσιν; 80.3: εἰ μὴ πείσομεν; 85.2 ἀπιστεῖν δὲ οὐ χρή; 86.2: καὶ νῦν οὐ δίκαιον, ᾧπερ καὶ ἡμᾶς ἠξιοῦτε λόγῳ πείθειν, τῷ αὐτῷ ἀπιστεῖν, οὐδ᾽ ὅτι δυνάμει μείζονι πρὸς τὴν τῶνδε ἰσχὺν πάρεσμεν ὑποπτεύεσθαι, πολὺ δὲ μᾶλλον τοῖσδε ἀπιστεῖν; 87.1: ἀλλὰ μήτε ὑμεῖς, ὦ Καμαριναῖοι, ταῖς τῶνδε διαβολαῖς ἀναπείθεσθε μήτε οἱ ἄλλοι. Cf. Pontier 2013b: 365. The most recent and exhaustive treatment of this subject is Osmers 2013, with a full catalogue and detailed discussion of the evidence. Thuc. 1.71.7; 122.3. See Debnar 2001: 30–58; Osmers 2013: 320–327; Guelfucci 2017. E. g. Thuc. 1.73.4–5: φαμὲν γὰρ Μαραθῶνί τε μόνοι προκινδυνεῦσαι τῷ βαρβάρῳ καὶ ὅτε τὸ ὕστερον ἦλθεν, οὐχ ἱκανοὶ ὄντες κατὰ γῆν ἀμύνεσθαι, ἐσβάντες ἐς τὰς ναῦς πανδημεὶ ἐν Σαλαμῖνι ξυνναυμαχῆσαι, ὅπερ ἔσχε μὴ κατὰ πόλεις αὐτὸν ἐπιπλέοντα τὴν Πελοπόννησον πορθεῖν, ἀδυνάτων ἂν ὄντων πρὸς ναῦς πολλὰς ἀλλήλοις ἐπιβοηθεῖν. Τεκμήριον δὲ μέγιστον αὐτὸς ἐποίησεν· νικηθεὶς γὰρ ταῖς ναυσὶν ὡς οὐκέτι αὐτῷ ὁμοίας οὔσης τῆς δυνάμεως κατὰ τάχος τῷ πλέονι τοῦ στρατοῦ ἀνεχώρησεν (“we assert that at Marathon we were at the front, and faced the barbarian singlehanded. That when he came the second time, unable to cope with him by land we went on board our ships with all our people, and joined in the action at Salamis. This prevented his taking the Peloponnesian states in detail, and ravaging them with his fleet; when the multitude of his vessels would have made any combination for self-defence impossible. The best proof of this was furnished by the invader himself. Defeated at sea, he considered his power to be no longer what it had been, and retired as speedily as possible with the greater part of his army”). On the entire speech, see Guelfucci 2017. Thuc. 6.83.1–2: ἀνθ᾽ ὧν ἄξιοί τε ὄντες ἅμα ἄρχομεν, ὅτι τε ναυτικὸν πλεῖστόν τε καὶ προθυμίαν ἀπροφάσιστον παρεσχόμεθα ἐς τοὺς Ἕλληνας, καὶ διότι καὶ τῷ Μήδῳ ἑτοίμως τοῦτο δρῶντες οὗτοι ἡμᾶς ἔβλαπτον, ἅμα δὲ τῆς πρὸς Πελοποννησίους ἰσχύος ὀρεγόμενοι. Καὶ οὐ καλλιεπούμεθα ὡς ἢ τὸν βάρβαρον μόνοι καθελόντες εἰκότως ἄρχομεν ἢ ἐπ᾽ ἐλευθερίᾳ τῇ τῶνδε μᾶλλον ἢ τῶν ξυμπάντων τε

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Wars are also found in the two debates already discussed (especially that at Camarina) and play a distinct role in the Plataean debate. In Xenophon, they find their way into the speeches of the Spartan envoys at Athens in the aftermath of Leuctra (371 BC) to emphasise mutual cooperation in times of crisis, including during the Persian Wars: They also described all the blessings which were enjoyed at the time when both peoples were acting in union, recalling how they had together driven the barbarian back, recalling likewise how the Athenians had been chosen by the Greeks as leaders of the fleet and custodians of the common funds, the Spartans supporting this choice, while they had themselves been selected by the common consent of all the Greeks as leaders by land, the Athenians in their turn supporting this selection.109

This appeal did not persuade the entire assembly. It may have come across as disingenuous in light of the contemporary Spartan commitments to the Great King. At the same meeting, Procles the Phliasian ambassador also mentions mythical memories, doubtless appreciated by his Athenian audience, and a specific event from the Persian War, namely the Spartan sacrifice at Thermopylae.110 The aim is to boost Athens’ trust of Sparta.111 By blending praise of Athenian generosity with praise of the Spartans, he καὶ τῇ ἡμετέρᾳ αὐτῶν κινδυνεύσαντες. Πᾶσι δὲ ἀνεπίφθονον τὴν προσήκουσαν σωτηρίαν ἐκπορίζεσθαι (“this gives one reason for our empire – we have earned it. We supplied the largest navy and unhesitating determination in the service of Greece, while those who are now our subjects were equally energetic in the Persian cause to our intended detriment. A second reason was our desire to build up strength against the Peloponnesians”). 109 Xen. Hell. 6.5.34: ἔλεγον δὲ καὶ ὅσ᾽ ἀγαθὰ εἴη, ὅτε κοινῶς ἀμφότεροι ἔπραττον, ὑπομιμνῄσκοντες μὲν ὡς τὸν βάρβαρον κοινῇ ἀπεμαχέσαντο, ἀναμιμνῄσκοντες δὲ ὡς Ἀθηναῖοί τε ὑπὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ᾑρέθησαν ἡγεμόνες τοῦ ναυτικοῦ καὶ τῶν κοινῶν χρημάτων φύλακες, τῶν Λακεδαιμονίων ταῦτα συμβουλομένων, αὐτοί τε κατὰ γῆν ὁμολογουμένως ὑφ᾽ ἁπάντων τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἡγεμόνες προκριθείησαν, συμβουλομένων αὖ ταῦτα τῶν Ἀθηναίων (“and they referred to those happy days when the two were acting in concert, reminding their audience of how together they had driven back the Persians and of how, when Athens was chosen by the Greeks to be the leader of the naval forces and the guardian of the common funds, Sparta had supported the decision; and of how Athens on her side had given her support to the unanimous choice of all the Greeks that Sparta should act as leader by land”). Cf. Tuplin 1993: 110–113, Osmers 2013: 251. 110 Xen. Hell. 6.5.46 (in the story of the Seven against Thebes, the intervention of the Athenians compelled the Thebans to permit the burial of the dead); 48 (the Athenian protection and aid to the children of Heracles). The choice of these episodes shows that Procles, if we can trust Xenophon, was cleverly exploiting the Athenian self-representation as the ‘city of justice’, since these myths were always mentioned, in the Athenian civic tradition, as proofs of Athens’ altruism and generosity towards the weak, the wronged, and suppliants. See Grethlein 2003; Christ 2012: 118–176; Gottesman 2014: 86–99; Gazzano 2019. 111 Xen. Hell. 6.5.43: πρὸς δὲ τούτοις ἐνθυμήθητε καὶ τάδε. εἴ ποτε πάλιν ἔλθοι τῇ Ἑλλάδι κίνδυνος ὑπὸ βαρβάρων, τίσιν ἂν μᾶλλον πιστεύσαιτε ἢ Λακεδαιμονίοις; τίνας δὲ ἂν παραστάτας ἥδιον τούτων ποιήσαισθε, ὧν γε καὶ οἱ ταχθέντες ἐν Θερμοπύλαις ἅπαντες εἵλοντο μαχόμενοι ἀποθανεῖν μᾶλλον ἢ ζῶντες ἐπεισφρέσθαι τὸν βάρβαρον τῇ Ἑλλάδι; πῶς οὖν οὐ δίκαιον ὧν τε ἕνεκα ἐγένοντο ἄνδρες ἀγαθοὶ μεθ᾽ ὑμῶν καὶ ὧν ἐλπὶς καὶ αὖθις γενέσθαι πᾶσαν προθυμίαν εἰς αὐτοὺς καὶ ὑμᾶς καὶ ἡμᾶς παρέχεσθαι; (“and there is another point, too, to remember. If at any time in the future Greece should be again threatened by a foreign power, is there anyone you would trust more than the

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was able to convince the Athenians to sign an alliance against Thebes. As Xenophon remarks: “after the speeches there was further discussion, and the Athenians refused to listen to any speakers who argued against the views expressed. They voted to go to the help of Sparta in full force”.112 It comes as no surprise to find allusions to the common war against Persia especially in diplomatic addresses delivered against the Thebans, since Thebes’ medism was a stigma that could be used against the city.113 No one knew that better than the Thebans’ sworn enemies, the Plataeans. The Thucydidean debate at Plataea, after the city surrendered to the Spartan army in 427 BC, is not a true ambassadorial event because the Plataean representatives were pleading for their life before five Spartan judges.114 However, according to Thucydides, very similar issues had already been put forward by Plataean envoys, who had reminded Archidamus and the Spartans – ready to attack the city – of the oath taken by Pausanias and “their fathers” to respect Plataean freedom and autonomy.115 In the Thucydidean debate, the Plataeans’ appeal – admired since Dionysius of Halicarnassus for its pathos – is followed by a bold reply from the Theban envoys.116 Whereas the Plataean spokesmen dwell on memories of the Persian War, with powerful and moving images (the tombs of the Spartan warriors who fell at Plataea) and eager to restore the old bond of trust and friendship with the Spartans,117 the Thebans recall events related to their cooperation with Sparta during the pentecontaetia, dealing only briefly with the time before that period, and then only to minimise the charge of medism.118 Noteworthy in this respect is the fact that the Thebans, whose fate was not at stake, follow the same line of reasoning that, according to Xenophon, they would later use with the Athenians in 395 BC:

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Spartans? Are there any others you would be more glad to have as your comrades-in-arms than these men whose countrymen, standing at Thermopylae, chose to a man to the fighting rather than to live and let the barbarian into Greece? These Spartans, fighting at your side, have shown themselves good men in the past, and there is every reason to suppose that they will do so in the future. Is it not right, then, that you and we, too, should be willing to give them our help unreservedly?”). Xen. Hell. 6.5.49: μετὰ ταῦτα ἐβουλεύοντο οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι, καὶ τῶν μὲν ἀντιλεγόντων οὐκ ἠνείχοντο ἀκούοντες, ἐψηφίσαντο δὲ βοηθεῖν πανδημεί. See Steinbock 2013. Thucydides’ account of the events leading to the Spartan conquest of Plataea: 3.20–24, 52. Speech of the Plataean representatives: 53–59; speech of the Theban envoys: 61–67; Sparta’s final decision: 68. On the Plataean debate (and its deliberative and pseudo-forensic character), see e. g. HCT III: 337–358; Macleod 1983a; Debnar 1996; Schmitz 2010; Grethlein 2010: 228–240; Id. 2012; Steinbock 2013: 120–123, 135–136; Bruzzone 2015; Fragoulaki 2016; Gazzano 2019. Thuc. 2.71.2–4, with Fantasia 2003: 523–529. The same agruments are found in Isocrates’ Plataicus (14.45–63), written in circa 373 BC, in a diplomatic speech made by a Plataean envoy to the Athenian assembly. See Christ 2012: 126–137, 154–176; Steinbock 2013: 187–189; Cuniberti 2015; Gazzano 2019. See Dion. Hal. de Thuc. 42. Thuc. 3.54–59. The battle of Plataea (and of Cape Artemisium): 54.4; its aftermath: 57.2; the battle again: 58–59. Four times it is recorded that the Thebans fought on the Persian side: 54.3; 56.5 (implicitly); 56.4; 58.4 (explicitly). Thuc. 3.61–67, with Debnar 1996.

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Our affairs were controlled by a small dominant clique […] very close to tyranny. This clique hoped that a Persian victory would extend their own power, so they suppressed the common people by force and invited in the Persians. This act was done without the whole city having control of its own affairs, and it should not be blamed for errors committed when there was no rule of law.119

These statements sound very different from those made by Pelopidas to the Great King during his mission in 367/6 BC. If Xenophon is to be believed, the Theban leader “enjoyed a great advantage with the Persian. For he was able to say that his people were the only ones among the Greeks who had fought on the side of the King at Plataea, and that they had never afterwards undertaken a campaign against the King”.120 This episode (if it is not merely a display of Xenophon’s malignitas) might indicate that recalling a shared past in order to enhance trust and bolster one’s chances of persuasion was a diplomatic tool used also in relationships that extended beyond the borders of the Greek world. Finally, there is another embassy, related by Herodotus, which shows e contrario what could happen when it was the receiver rather than the ambassadors who refer to past events. When Greek envoys were sent to Gelon in 481/0 BC to ask for help against the Persians, the Spartan ambassador mentions no past event to reinforce his plea.121 It is Gelon who vehemently reminds the Spartans of their past faults: although called upon, they did not aid him during his war against the Carthaginians nor did they answer his prayer to send a force to vindicate the slaying of the Spartan Dorieus.122 In

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Thuc. 3.62.3–4: ἡμῖν μὲν γὰρ ἡ πόλις τότε ἐτύγχανεν οὔτε κατ᾽ ὀλιγαρχίαν ἰσόνομον πολιτεύουσα οὔτε κατὰ δημοκρατίαν· ὅπερ δέ ἐστι νόμοις μὲν καὶ τῷ σωφρονεστάτῳ ἐναντιώτατον, ἐγγυτάτω δὲ τυράννου, δυναστεία ὀλίγων ἀνδρῶν εἶχε τὰ πράγματα. Kαὶ οὗτοι ἰδίας δυνάμεις ἐλπίσαντες ἔτι μᾶλλον σχήσειν εἰ τὰ τοῦ Μήδου κρατήσειε, κατέχοντες ἰσχύι τὸ πλῆθος ἐπηγάγοντο αὐτόν· καὶ ἡ ξύμπασα πόλις οὐκ αὐτοκράτωρ οὖσα ἑαυτῆς τοῦτ᾽ ἔπραξεν, οὐδ᾽ ἄξιον αὐτῇ ὀνειδίσαι ὧν μὴ μετὰ νόμων ἥμαρτεν. 120 Xen. Hell. 7.1.34: ἐπεὶ δὲ ἐκεῖ ἐγένοντο, πολὺ ἐπλεονέκτει ὁ Πελοπίδας παρὰ τῷ Πέρσῃ. Εἶχε γὰρ λέγειν καὶ ὅτι μόνοι τῶν Ἑλλήνων βασιλεῖ συνεμάχοντο ἐν Πλαταιαῖς, καὶ ὅτι ὕστερον οὐδεπώποτε στρατεύσαιντο ἐπὶ βασιλέα (“when they all arrived, Pelopidas had a very great advantage over the rest in dealing with the Persian King. He was in a position to say that his countrymen were the only ones in Greece who had fought on the King’s side at Plataea, that they had never since then undertaken a campaign against the King”). 121 Hdt. 7.157. On this embassy, see Grethlein 2006; Pelling 2006. 122 Hdt. 7.158.1–3: οἱ μὲν ταῦτα ἔλεγον, Γέλων δὲ πολλὸς ἐνέκειτο λέγων τοιάδε. “Ἄνδρες Ἕλληνες, λόγον ἔχοντες πλεονέκτην ἐτολμήσατε ἐμὲ σύμμαχον ἐπὶ τὸν βάρβαρον παρακαλέοντες ἐλθεῖν· αὐτοὶ δὲ ἐμεῦ πρότερον δεηθέντος βαρβαρικοῦ στρατοῦ συνεπάψασθαι, ὅτε μοι πρὸς Καρχηδονίους νεῖκος συνῆπτο, ἐπισκήπτοντός τε τὸν Δωριέος τοῦ Ἀναξανδρίδεω πρὸς Ἐγεσταίων φόνον ἐκπρήξασθαι, ὑποτείνοντός τε τὰ ἐμπόρια συνελευθεροῦν ἀπ᾽ ὧν ὑμῖν μεγάλαι ὠφελίαι τε καὶ ἐπαυρέσιες γεγόνασι, οὔτε ἐμεῦ εἵνεκα ἤλθετε βοηθήσοντες οὔτε τὸν Δωριέος φόνον ἐκπρηξόμενοι, τό τε κατ᾽ ὑμέας τάδε ἅπαντα ὑπὸ βαρβάροισι νέμεται. Ἀλλὰ εὖ γὰρ ἡμῖν καὶ ἐπὶ τὸ ἄμεινον κατέστη. νῦν δὲ ἐπειδὴ περιελήλυθε ὁ πόλεμος καὶ ἀπῖκται ἐς ὑμέας, οὕτω δὴ Γέλωνος μνῆστις γέγονε” (“this is what they said, and Gelon, speaking very vehemently, said in response to this: ‘Men of Hellas, it is with a self-seeking plea

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this scenario, past events are the reason for refusing an appeal. Both the Spartan and the Athenian envoys have to resort to the Homeric tradition (the role of Agamemnon and Menestheus) to justify their refusal of Gelon’s counterproposals.123 In this instance, the lack of a shared past lies behind the mistrust that the Sicilian tyrant feels toward the Greeks, and no persuasion is thus possible. 7. History and good faith: beyond historiography Given the literary nature of the presbeutikoi logoi and the absence of any ‘original’ document of this genre, it is hard to believe that the words of envoys and ambassadors reflect τὰ ἀληθῶς λεχθέντα. A certain amount of authorial rewriting is beyond dispute and at least some of the diplomatic references to the past may have been rhetorically added at a later stage by the historians. Nevertheless, the use of historical exempla by Greek embassies can be ascertained from evidence of other kinds, such as epic, comedy, oratory and inscriptions. The trope is attested already in the Iliad, in the scene of the failed embassy to Achilles, where one of the ‘ambassadors’, his old teacher Phoenix, tries to persuade the hero to give up his wrath by alluding to the past.124 Phoenix recalls shared memories from Achilles’ infancy – a living past, so to speak – to emphasise their mutual trust, and also uses an example (that of Meleager) belonging to a more distant time.125 This embassy merits a more thorough analysis than I can provide here, as it probably played an exemplary role in the development of the later diplomatic tradition. At any rate, comparable instances may be found elsewhere too, such as in Aristophanes’ comedies or in diplomatic speeches composed or summarised by the Classical orators. Concerning comedy, a remarkable allusion to a shared past is made by the Spartan ambassador in the final scene of Lysistrata.126 The agreement between the Athenians and Spartans is rooted in reciprocal good faith and is fostered by Mnemothat you have dared to come here and invite me to be your ally against the foreigners; yet what of yourselves? When I was at odds with the Carthaginians, and asked you to be my comrades against a foreign army, and when I desired that you should avenge the slaying of Dorieus son of Anaxandrides on the men of Egesta, and when I promised to free those trading ports from which great advantage and profit have accrued to you, – then neither for my sake would you come to aid nor to avenge the slaying of Dorieus. Because of your position in these matters, all these lands lie beneath the foreigners’ feet. Let that be; for all ended well, and our state was improved. But now that the war has come round to you in your turn, it is time for remembering Gelon!”, transl. by A. D. Godley, slightly modified). 123 Hdt. 7.159.1 (Spartan envoy); 7.161.3 (Athenian envoy). 124 Hom. Il. 9.432–622. Dularidze 2005 underscores the importance of this embassy as a model for diplomatic speeches; cf. also Gazzano 2019: 64. On its relevance to Herodotus’ description of the Greek mission to Gelon (Hdt. 7.153–163), see Grethlein 2006. 125 Hom. Il. 9.485–491, 524–599. 126 Ar. Lys. 1248–1262. Cf. Osmers 2013: 220. I owe this reference to the courtesy of Lynette Mitchell. See Henderson 2012 and, on the role of Mnemosyne, Milanezi 2019.

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syne, who is evoked to teach the young (that is, the audience) about shared memories of the Persian Wars, such as the ‘twin’ battles of Cape Artemisium and Thermopylae. In oratory, the Plataean speaker in Isocrates’ Plataicus (c. 373 BC) asks the Athenians for help by blending allusions not only related to the more recent past, but also to the Peloponnesian War, the Persian Wars and even mythical times.127 The presbeutikos logos preserved among the works of Hippocrates and featuring his son Thessalus is also interwoven with historical references. The latter was sent as official ambassador from Kos with an appeal to the Athenians. Although apocryphal, and written probably in the third century BC, this oration is noteworthy for the extensive use of historical evidence, this time filtered through a personal lens. Thessalus shapes his plea by connecting crucial events from the Athenian past to the medical assistance granted to Athens by members of Hippocrates’ (and his own) family, the Asklepiadai.128 In On the False Embassy, Aeschines reports to the jury a detailed and careful summary of the ambassadorial speech he had delivered, three years earlier, in front of Philip II. On that occasion, Aeschines claims, his intervention had focused mainly and at length on the past relationship between Athens and Macedon, recalling episodes taken from Philip’s life-span, from recent and older history, and from myth. He supported his arguments with documents and letters.129 Inscriptions, too, preserve interesting information, even if (or indeed because) all the relevant documents belong to the Hellenistic period and record almost exclusively the existence of a mythical kinship-relation (συγγένεια) between two communities. A famous case relating the contents of an ambassadorial speech is the response given, in 206/5 BC, by the city of Xanthos in Lykia to the plea for financial help advanced by the envoys of Kytenion, a small Dorian polis. The text makes clear that the ambassadors “most zealously and eagerly exhort us to remember our kinship-relations (συγγένεια) with them, that originate from the gods and heroes, and hence to refuse to tolerate that the walls of their homeland lie destroyed”; a long and complicated genealogy is then duly recorded.130 The decree of Xanthos is just one of the numerous instances of συγγένεια in Hellenistic inscriptions,131 and its significance in diplomatic meetings of that age has been explored by several scholars.132 Especially noteworthy is the framework outlined by Erskine, who emphasises that

127 128 129 130 131 132

Notoriously, the mythical past is one of the most exploited themes. See Grethlein 2010; Fragoulaki 2013; Osmers 2013, as well as the essays collected in Grethlein/Krab 2012. [Hippoc.] Ep. 27 = Presb.: on this speech, see the edition of Smith 1990 and the studies of Nelson 2005, 2007, 2012. See also Gazzano 2019: 63–64. Aeschin. 2.26–33. See e. g. § 26: πρῶτον μὲν γὰρ πρὸς αὐτὸν διεξῆλθον τὴν πατρικὴν εὔνοιαν καὶ τὰς εὐεργεσίας ἃς ὑμεῖς ὑπήρξατε Ἀμύντᾳ τῷ Φιλίππου πατρί, οὐδὲν παραλείπων, ἀλλ᾽ ἐφεξῆς ἅπαντα ὑπομιμνῄσκων, δεύτερον δὲ, ὧν αὐτὸς ἦν μάρτυς εὖ παθών. SEG XXXVIII, n. 1476: l. 12–17. Translation from Ma 2003. Several instances are collected and discussed by Erskine 2002; Id. 2003. There is a growing amount of scholarship on this topic. See e. g. Curty 1995; Erskine 2002; Id. 2003; Ma 2003; Chaniotis 2013; Ceccarelli 2018.

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“kinship claims in diplomatic initiatives should not be understood simply in terms of persuasion. They create a bond which both legitimates the request and defines the relationship for the future. Kinship implies that both cities are willing to assist each other if the need arises”.133 The appeal by ambassadors to the rich and flexible past is well attested from the Classical period onward.134 It was, however, just one possible argument and when used alone (as in the case of the Greek envoys to Gelon) could be unsuccessful.135 In the Hellenistic period, civic entities operated in a much wider and more complex world, one in which power and real diplomacy lay in the hands of kings, and the use of συγγένεια and the exploitation of mythical logoi were the only way to strengthen ties between Greek communities. In modern terms, this would be called a sort of ‘cultural diplomacy’. Inscriptions testify that ambassadors, even in this changed world, continued to use the past to create a bond with their audiences. But the most significant conclusion we may draw from the overall picture is that Greek diplomacy used practices now recognised by modern theorists as useful. One of these is the importance of history as a rhetorical tool for encouraging mutual good faith and thus facilitating persuasion. Bibliography Adcock 1948 = Adcock, F. E., “The Development of Ancient Greek Diplomacy”, AntCl 17/1 (1948): 1–12. Adcock/Mosley 1975 = Adcock, F. E. / Mosley, D. J., Diplomacy in Classical Greece, London 1975. Ager 2017 = Ager, S. L., “Diplomatic Communication in the Ancient Mediterranean”, in Talbert, R. J. A. / Naiden, F. S. (ed.), Mercury’s Wings: Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, Oxford 2017: 291–310. Alty 1982 = Alty, J., “Dorians and Ionians”, JHS 102 (1982): 1–14.

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Erskine 2002: 105. Cf. also the allusion to the bond of friendship between Athens and Sparta via the myth of Triptolemus, Heracles and the Dioscuri made in his speech by the Athenian Callias of the Kerykes, dadouchos of the Eleusinian mysteries, Spartan proxenos and member of the embassy of 371 BC (Xen. Hell. 6.3.6: ἐπεὶ λέγεται μὲν Τριπτόλεμος ὁ ἡμέτερος πρόγονος τὰ Δήμητρος καὶ Κόρης ἄρρητα ἱερὰ πρώτοις ξένοις δεῖξαι Ἡρακλεῖ τε τῷ ὑμετέρῳ ἀρχηγέτῃ καὶ Διοσκούροιν τοῖν ὑμετέροιν πολίταιν, καὶ τοῦ Δήμητρος δὲ καρποῦ εἰς πρώτην τὴν Πελοπόννησον σπέρμα δωρήσασθαι [“according to the tradition, the first foreigners to whom our ancestor Triptolemus revealed the mysteries of Demeter and Core were Heracles, who founded your state, and the Dioscuri, who were your citizens; and the Peloponnese was the first place on which he bestowed the seed of the fruit of Demeter”]). On this Athenian embassy and the speeches, see Schepens 2001. In a different context, a ‘mythical kinship’ between Jason and king Aietas is the main argument put forward by Phryxos’ son Argos in his ‘diplomatic’ speech to Aietas in Apollonius’ Argonautica (3.356–367). His plea, too, fails to reach its goal and aggravates the king. Jason, on the contrary, is portrayed by Apollonius as a skilful orator and diplomat (Volonaki 2013).

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Haynes/Hough/Malik/Pettiford 2017 = Haynes, J. / Hough, P. / Malik, S. / Pettiford, L., World Politics. International Relations and Globalisation in the 21st Century, Los Angeles (CA)/ London 2017. Heine 2013 = Heine, J., “From Club to Network Diplomacy”, in Cooper, A. F. / Heine, J. / Thakur, R. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Modern Diplomacy, Oxford 2013: 54–69. Hill 2015 = Hill, C., Foreign Policy in the Twenty-First Century, London/New York City (NY) 2015. Hocking/Melissen/Riordan/Sharp 2012 = Hocking, B. / Melissen, J. / Riordan, S. / Sharp, P., Futures for diplomacy: integrative diplomacy in the 21st century, The Hague 2012 (http://www. clingendael.nl/publication/futures-diplomacy-integrative-diplomacy-21st-century). Intrieri 2011 = Intrieri, M., “Corcira fra Corinto e l’Occidente: rapporti e sincronismi di colonizzazione”, in De Sensi Sestito, G. / Intrieri, M. (ed.), Sulla rotta per la Sicilia: l’Epiro, Corcira e l’Occidente, Pisa 2011: 175–208. Kappeler 2013 = Kappeler, D., “Why persuasion? Reflections after 50 years of practising, teaching, and studying diplomacy”, in Kurbalija 2013: 15–18. Karavites 1991 = Karavites, P., Promise-Giving and Treaty-Making. Homer and the Near East, Leiden/Boston 1991. Kelley 2010 = Kelley, J. R., “The New Diplomacy: Evolution of a Revolution”, Diplomacy & Statecraft 21/2 (2010): 286–305. Ker/Pieper 2014 = Ker, J. / Pieper, C. (ed.), Valuing the Past in the Greco-Roman World, Leiden/ Boston (MA) 2014. Knudsen 2014 = Knudsen, R. A., Homeric Speech and the Origins of Rhetoric, Baltimore (MD) 2014. Kremmydas 2017 = Kremmydas, C., “Ethos and logical arguments in Thucydides’ Assembly debates”, in Papaioannou/Serafim/da Vela 2017: 93–113. Kurbalija 2013 = Kurbalija, J. (ed.), Persuasion: the essence of diplomacy. A publication in honour of professor Dietrich Kappeler, Geneva/Msida 2013. Lazzarini 2016 = Lazzarini, I., 2016, “Storia della diplomazia e International Relations Studies fra pre- e post- moderno”, Storica 65 (2016): 9–41. Low 2007 = Low, P., Interstate Relations in Classical Greece: Morality and Power, Cambridge 2007. Ma 2003 = Ma, J., “Peer Polity Interaction in the Hellenistic Age”, Past & Present 180 (2003), 9–39. Macleod 1983a = Macleod, C. W., “Thucydides’ Plataean Debate”, in Id., Collected Essays, Oxford 1983: 103–112 (1st ed. GRBS 18 [1977]: 227–246]). Macleod 1983b = Macleod, C. W., “Reason and Necessity; Thucydides 3.9–14, 37–49”, in Id., Collected Essays, Oxford 1983: 123–139 (1st ed. JHS 98 [1978]: 64–78). Magnetto 2013 = Magnetto, A., “Ambasciatori plenipotenziari delle città greche in età classica ed ellenistica: terminologia e prerogative”, in Mari, M. / Thornton, J. (ed.), Parole in movimento. Linguaggio politico e lessico storiografico in età ellenistica, Pisa/Rome 2013: 223–241. Marincola 2007 = Marincola, J., “Speeches in Classical Historiography”, in Id. (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Houndmills/Basingstoke/New York City (NY) 2007: 118–132. Marincola 2010 = Marincola, J., “The Rhetoric of History: Allusion, Intertextuality, and Exemplarity in Historiographical Speeches”, in Pausch 2010: 259–290. Marincola/Llewellyn-Jones/Maciver 2012 = Marincola, J. / Llewellyn-Jones, L. / Maciver, C. (ed.), Greek Notions of the Past in the Archaic and Classical Eras. History without Historians, Edinburgh 2012. Melissen 2005 = Melissen, J. (ed.), The New Public Diplomacy. Soft Power in International Relations, Houndmills/Basingstoke/New York City (NY) 2005.

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Milanezi 2019 = Milanezi, S., “Aristophanes and his Muses, or Memory in a Comic Key”, in Castagnoli/Ceccarelli 2019: 115–135. Misyuk 2013 = Misyuk, I., “Propaganda and Public Diplomacy: The Problem of Differentiation”, Humanities and Social Sciences (2013), online: http://hss.ukrscience.org. Morrison 1999 = Morrison, J. V., “Preface to Thucydides: rereading the Corcyrean conflict (1.24–55)”, ClAnt 18 (1999): 94–131. Mosley 1971 = Mosley, D. J., “Diplomacy by conference: almost a Spartan contribution to diplomacy?”, Emerita 39 (1971): 187–193. Murray 2016 = Murray, R. W. (ed.), Seeking Order in Anarchy: Multilateralism as State Strategy, Edmonton 2016. Naas 1995 = Naas, M., Turning: from persuasion to philosophy. A reading of Homer’s Iliad, Atlantic Highlands (NJ) 1995. Nelson 2005 = Nelson, E. D., “Coan Promotions and the Authorship of the Presbeutikos”, in Van der Eijk, Ph. (ed.), Hippocrates in Context, Leiden/Boston (Ma) 2005: 209–238. Nelson 2007 = Nelson, E. D., “Hippocrates, Heraclids, and the ‘Kings of the Heracleidai’: Adaptations of Asclepiad History by the Author of the Presbeutikos”, Phoenix 61/3–4 (2007): 234–246. Nelson 2013 = Nelson, E. D., “Coan Asylia: Small-state Diplomacy and the Hippocratic Legend”, in De Angelis, F. (ed.), Regionalism and Globalism in Antiquity. Exploring Their Limits, Leuven/ Paris/Walpole (MA) 2013: 247–266. Oğurlu 2019 = Oğurlu, E., “Understanding the Distinguishing Features of Post-Westphalian Diplomacy”, Perceptions 24/2–3 (2019): 175–194. Orwin 1994 = Orwin, C., The Humanity of Thucydides, Princeton (NJ) 1994. Osmers 2013 = Osmers, M.,“Wir aber sind damals und jetzt immer die gleichen”: Vergangenheitsbezüge in der polisübergreifenden Kommunikation der klassischen Zeit, Stuttgart 2013. Otte 2006 = Otte, T. E., “Diplomacy”, in Wilson, N. G. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece, London/New York City (NY) 2006: 231–232. Özyilmaz 2014 = Özyilmaz, B., “Rhetoric and public diplomacy: analysis of a double dimensional link”, Gazi Üniversitesi İktisadi ve İdari Bilimler Fakültesi Dergisi 16/3 (2014): 209–225. Papaioannou/Serafim/da Vela 2017 = Papaioannou, S. / Serafim, A. / da Vela, B. (ed.), The Theatre of Justice. Aspects of Performance in Greco-Roman Oratory and Rhetoric, Leiden/Boston (MA) 2017. Parmeggiani 2016 = Parmeggiani, G., “Atene e l’epimachia con Corcira (433 a. C.)”, Erga/Logoi 4/1 (2016): 29–47. Pausch 2010 = Pausch, D. (ed.), Stimmen der Geschichte. Funktionen von Reden in der antiken Historiographie, Berlin/New York City (NY) 2010. Pelling 2006 = Pelling, C., “Homer and Herodotus”, in Clarke, M. / Currie, B. G. F. / Lyne, R. O. A. M. (ed.), Epic Interactions, Oxford 2006: 75–104. Piccirilli 2002 = Piccirilli, L., L’invenzione della diplomazia nella Grecia antica, Rome 2002. Pontier 2013a = Pontier, P., “L’utilisation de l’histoire dans les discours politiques de Xénophon, de Marathon a Platees”, DHA Suppl. 8 (2013): 165–187. Pontier 2013b = Pontier, P., “The litotes of Thucydides”, in Tsakmakis, A. / Tamiolaki, M. (ed.), Thucydides Between History and Literature, Berlin/New York City (NY) 2013: 353–370. Pontier 2014 = Pontier, P. (ed.), Xénophon et la rhétorique, Paris 2014. Pownall 2004 = Pownall, F., Lessons from the Past. The Moral Use of History in Fourth-Century Prose, Ann Arbor (MI) 2004. Price 2001 = Price, J., Thucydides and Internal War, Cambridge 2001.

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Price 2013 = Price, J. J., “Difficult Statements in Thucydides”, in Tsakmakis, A. / Tamiolaki, M. (ed.), Thucydides Between History and Literature, Berlin/New York City (NY) 2013: 435–446. Queyrel Bottineau 2017 = Queyrel Bottineau, A., “Introduction”, in Queyrel Bottineau/ Guelfucci 2017: 17–32. Queyrel Bottineau/Guelfucci 2017 = Queyrel Bottineau, A. & Guelfucci, M. R. (ed.), Conseillers et ambassadeurs dans l’Antiquité (DHA Suppl. 17), Besançon 2017. Rana 2011 = Rana, K. S., 21st Century Diplomacy. A Practitioner’s Guide, London/New York City (NY) 2011. Rood 1998 = Rood, T., Thucydides: Narrative and Explanation, Oxford 1998. Rood 2012 = Rood, T., “The plupast in Xenophon’s Hellenica” in Grethlein/Kreb 2012: 76–95. Rubinstein 2013 = Rubinstein, L., “Spoken Words, Written Submissions, and Diplomatic Conventions: The Importance and Impact of Oral Performance in Hellenistic Inter-Polis Relations”, in Kremmydas, C. / Tempest, K. (ed.), Hellenistic Oratory. Continuity and Change, Oxford 2013: 165–200. Rubinstein 2016 = Rubinstein, L., “Envoys and ethos: team speaking by envoys in classical Greece”, in Edwards, M. / Ducrey, P. / Derron, P. (ed.), La rhétorique du pouvoir. Une exploration de l’art oratoire délibératif grec, Vandoeuvres 2016: 79–128. Scharff 2016 = Scharff, S., Eid und Außenpolitik. Studien zur religiosen Fundierung der Akzeptanz zwischenstaatlicher Vereinbarungen im vorrömischen Griechenland, Stuttgart 2016. Schepens 2001 = Schepens, G., “Three voices on the history of a difficult relationship. Xenophon’s evaluation of Athenian and Spartan identity in Hellenica VI 3”, in Barzanò, A. / Landucci Gattinoni, F. / Zecchini, G. (ed.), Identità e valori: fattori di aggregazione e fattori di crisi nell’esperienza politica antica (Bergamo, 16–18 dicembre 1998), Rome 2001: 81–96. Schepens 2012 = Schepens, G., “Timocrates’ Mission to Greece – Once Again”, in Hobden, F. / Tuplin, C. (ed.), Xenophon: Ethical Principles and Historical Enquiry, Leiden/Boston (MA) 2012: 213–242. Schmitz 2010 = Schmitz, T. A., “The Mytilene Debate in Thucydides”, in Pausch 2010: 45–66. Sharp 2019 = Sharp, P., Diplomacy in the 21st Century. A Brief Introduction, London/New York City (NY) 2019. Sending/Pouliot/Neumann 2011 = Sending, O. J. / Pouliot, V. / Neumann, I. B., “The future of diplomacy: changing practices, evolving relationships”, International Journal 66/3 (2011): 527–542. Smith 1990 = Smith, W. D., Hippocrates. Pseudepigraphic Writings: Letters, Embassy, From the Altar, Decree, Leiden/New York City (NY)/Cologne 1990. Spatharas 2019 = Spatharas, D., Emotions, persuasion, and public discourse in classical Athens, Berlin/New York City (NY) 2019. Stanzel 2018 = Stanzel, V. (ed.), New Realities in Foreign Affairs: Diplomacy in the 21st Century, Berlin 2018 (online: https://www.swp-berlin.org/fileadmin/contents/products/research_papers/ 2018RP11_sze.pdf). Steinbock 2013 = Steinbock, B., Social Memory in Athenian Public Discourse. Uses and Meanings of the Past, Ann Arbor (MI) 2013. Stylianou 1998 = Stylianou P. J., A Historical Commentary on Diodorus Siculus. Book 15, Oxford 1998. Taminiaux 2000 = Taminiaux, J., “Athens and Rome”, in Villa, D. R. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt, Cambridge 2000: 165–177. Tamiolaki 2014 = Tamiolaki, M., “À l’ombre de Thucydide ? Les discours des Helléniques et l’influence thucydidéenne”, in Pontier 2014: 121–137.

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Thauer 2016 = Thauer, C. R., “It’s Time for History! Thucydides in International Relations: Toward a Post-‘Westphalian’ Reading of a Pre-‘Westphalian’ Author”, in Thauer, C. R. / Wendt, C. (ed.), Thucydides and Political Order. Concepts of Order and the History of the Peloponnesian War, Houndmills/Basingstoke/New York City (NY) 2016: 41–58. Tuci 2019 = Tuci, P. A., “The Speeches of Theban Ambassadors in Greek Literature (404–362 B. C.)”, Ktèma 44 (2019): 33–52. Tuplin 1993 = Tuplin, C., The Failing of Empire. A Reading of Xenophon Hellenica 2.3.11–7.5.27, Stuttgart 1993. Usher 2007 = Usher, S., “Symbouleutic Oratory”, in Worthington 2007: 220–235. Vella 2013 = Vella, G., “Persuasion: importance of trust, relevance for small states, and limitations of computers”, in Kurbalija 2013: 11–14. Villa 2000 = Villa, D. R., “Introduction: the development of Arendt’s political thought”, in Id. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Hannah Arendt, Cambridge 2000: 1–22. Volonaki 2013 = Volonaki, E., “The Art of Persuasion in Jason’s Speeches: Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica”, in C. Kremmydas, C. / Tempest, K. (ed.), Hellenistic Oratory: Continuity and Change, Oxford 2013: 51–70. Weinfeld 1973 = Weinfeld, M., “Covenant Terminology in the Ancient Near East and its Influence on the West”, JAOS 93 (1973): 190–199. Weinfeld 1990 = Weinfeld, M., “The Common Heritage of Covenantal Traditions in the Ancient World”, in Canfora, L. / Liverani, M. / Zaccagnini, C. (ed.), I trattati nel mondo antico. Forma, ideologia, funzione, Rome 1990: 175–191. Westbrook 2000 = Westbrook, R., “International Law in the Amarna Age”, in Cohen, R. / Westbrook, R. (ed.), Amarna Diplomacy. The Beginnings of International Relations, Baltimore (MD)/ London 2000: 28–41. Westlake 1973 = Westlake, H. D., 1973, “The Settings of Thucydidean Speeches,” in Stadter, P. A. (ed.), The Speeches in Thucydides, Chapel Hill (NC) 1973: 90–108. Wolpert 2001 = Wolpert, A., 2001, “The genealogy of diplomacy in classical Greece”, Diplomacy & Statecraft 12/1 (2001): 71–88. Wooten 1973 = Wooten, C., “The Ambassador’s Speech: a Particular Genre of Oratory”, QJS 59 (1973): 209–212. Worthington 1994 = Worthington, I., “History and oratorical exploitation”, in Id. (ed.), Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action, London/New York City (NY) 1994: 109–129. Worthington 2007 = Worthington, I. (ed.), A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, Malden (MA)/ Oxford/Victoria 2007.

The role of xenia in diplomatic relations between Greek cities and the Persian Empire* Dominique Lenfant Unlike wars, which bring masses into contact, ancient diplomacy promoted relationships between states with the aid of only a few persons. Diplomatic dialogue in ancient Greece involved non-professional envoys being sent to another state, where they would convey an official message and needed to persuade the negotiator(s) with whom they met. Personality could be an important factor, and envoys were selected on a case-by-case basis according to requirements that aimed at giving their mission the best chance of success. Most important in this respect was an ambassador’s ability to inspire good faith, for example thanks to their social, military or political standing, or because they were personally known in the receiving state.1 Among the citizens selected to be sent as ambassadors (presbeis), there was sometimes one who had a friendship – either he or his family – with an influential member of the receiving state. Xenia, which was a private, though not secret relationship between two elite members of different states, could be put to good use in diplomatic exchanges.2 During the Peloponnesian War, for example, Endios, a xenos of Alcibiades, was sent several times by Sparta as an ambassador to Athens, even though Alcibiades was merely one influential politician in a democracy where all citizens voted. When an embassy was sent to a monarch, an envoy who was the latter’s xenos could be particularly helpful. That is the reason why Conon, when he travelled on an embassy to Sicily in 393 BC, took with him Eunomos, who was “friend and xenos” of the tyrant Dionysius of Syracuse.3 In the Classical period, the institution of proxeny developed. This generally became more important for Greek diplomacy than xenia, as Herman has highlighted. Herman

* 1 2 3

I would like to thank Jasper Donelan for his careful revision of my English text. RE Suppl. XIII (1973), s. v. Presbeia (D. Kienast): 530–533. Ibid.: 582; Mitchell 1997: 35–36, 46. Lys. 19.20. In Xenophon’s Cyropaedia, a fiction that could draw on real practices, the man sent by the king of the Assyrians as an ambassador to the king of the Bactrians to negotiate an alliance is the xenos of the latter (5.1.3).

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ascribes this evolution to the development of the city with its civic values and a concomitant suspicion of personal relationships.4 A proxenos was a man who, in his own state, protected the citizens of a foreign city that had conferred this honorific title upon him. It was not rare for his own city to send him as an ambassador to the city that had made him proxenos, taking advantage of the personal links he had established there. For example, Callias, who was an Athenian proxenos of the Lacedaemonians, was several times sent to Sparta as an ambassador.5 Proxeny was practicable above all in relations between Greek cities. It could not play a role when Greek cities sent envoys to the Persian court, as the Great King did not award the title of proxenos and there were, therefore, no proxenoi of the Persians in Greek cities. As I have argued elsewhere, proxeny played a negligible role in diplomatic relations between Greek cities and the Persians. There were no proxenoi of Greek cities at the Persian court and proxeny only sometimes played an indirect role in the choice of external intermediaries between a Greek city and the Persians.6 Here I would like to ask if this led to a more frequent recourse to xenoi in diplomatic contacts between Greeks and Persians. As a personal relationship, xenia might seem more suited to relations with a monarch, and scholars have indeed compared Greek envoys sent to the King with xenoi of the King.7 To examine the issue, I will first summarise the main features of xenia, then its role in relations between Greeks and Persians, before questioning more specifically its role in defining diplomatic negotiators between the two. Were there, in other words, Greek ambassadors who were also xenoi of the King? 1. Xenia Xenia, which means ‘hospitality’ but also ‘guest-friendship’, is a socio-cultural practice well attested in the Greek world from Homer to the Classical period and beyond.8 As Herman has shown, xenia was a contractual relationship that implied an exchange of gifts and established a link between men of different countries and between their respective descendants.9 The contractual nature of the relationship is often reflected in the vocabulary (the verb συντίθεσθαι, ‘to conclude’, is used for both xenia as well as for

4 5 6 7 8 9

Herman 1987: 130–142. On proxeny, see RE Suppl. XIII (1973): 629–730, s. v. Proxenos (F. Gschnitzer); Mack 2015. Further bibliography in Lenfant 2016: 275, note 1. On the choice of proxenoi as diplomatic envoys, see RE Suppl. XIII (1973), s. v. Presbeia (D. Kienast): 581–587. Lenfant 2016. For example, Badian 1993: 20–21 (on Antalcidas, Timagoras, Pyrilampes and Demos); Mitchell 1997: 124–125 (on Agesilaus and Artaxerxes, but see below), 196–197 (on Pyrilampes); Bivar 1999: 382–383 (on Pyrilampes/Demos). Herman 1987; Scheid-Tissinier 1994: 115–176; Finley 2002: esp. 89–95. Herman 1987.

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treaties and covenants).10 The circumstances where the relationship is established can be the reception of a foreigner in one’s home, the reception of a guest (xenos) by a host (xenos),11 or an encounter outside the respective homes of both men.12 In the first case, a hospitality-meal (xenia) is offered to the guest, but the special relationship is concluded through a performative statement such as “I make you my guest-friend (xenos)” or “Let’s become guest-friends (xenoi)”.13 Another distinctive feature of this kind of contract concerns the hospitality-gifts (xenia): either there is an initial exchange of gifts, or the gift is only given by the host who, however, expects to receive a counter-gift at a later date.14 Such a relationship implies reciprocity and each participant becomes the xenos of the other. Both have mutual duties of hospitality and solidarity. Although a private relationship, it is publicly displayed, since having xenoi was a source of prestige in one’s own community. The evidence presents two sorts of difficulties for analysing such relationships. First, our sources do not always explicitly specify that such and such men are xenoi. Secondly, the polysemy of the word xenos (host, guest, guest-friend, foreigner) can cause confusion.15 2. The intercultural dimension: xenia between Greeks and Persians In his fundamental study on Greek guest-friendship, Herman presents xenia as universal in the ancient world (or at least as a practice not limited to the Greek world). He states that, as a general rule, the elites of distinct communities were connected by horizontal ties and formed networks of solidarity beyond their own community.16 He specifies, moreover, that “xenia relationships could exist between members of different Greek cities”, but also “between Greeks and non-Greeks (for example, Persians, Lydians, Egyptians, Phoenicians, Romans)”, or even “between different non-Greeks”.17 He points out that “xenia, in all these cases, seems to have followed an identical pattern”,

10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17

See, for example, Hdt. 3.39 (on Amasis and Polycrates). Cf. Benveniste 1969: 94. Such was the case of Glaucus’ and Diomedes’ grandfathers, since Bellerophon was hosted by Oeneus (Hom. Il. 6.212–236). Such was the case of Odysseus and Iphitos, when the latter offered his bow to the former, while Odysseus gave him a sword and a spear (Hom. Od. 21.13–40). See Scheid-Tissinier 1994: 159. See esp. Xen. Hell. 4.1.39. Cf. Herman 1987: 58–59. Finley 2002; Scheid-Tissinier 1994. Cf. Hom. Od. 24: when the disguised Odysseus meets Laertes in Ithaca and alleges that he gave to Odysseus hospitality and gifts of friendship (271–279), the old man replies that he gave these gifts in vain (283) since Odysseus is absent and will not give him gifts and good entertainment in return (284–286), as would have been just (θέμις, 286). See below on Antalcidas and Artaxerxes II. In the same way, when someone is addressed with ξεῖνε in Herodotus, does it mean ‘my guest’ / ‘my host’, ‘my guest-friend’ or ‘foreigner’/‘visitor’/‘friend’? Herman 1987: 8. Herman 1987: 12.

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namely “the non-Greek partners seem to have shown as profound an understanding of this pattern as the Greek”. Unlike proxeny, the institution of xenia was not exclusively Greek.18 This all implies that we trust our exclusively Greek sources and their interpretation of personal relationships. A degree of interpretatio Graeca cannot be excluded.19 It is, however, striking to see how Greek authors could themselves show that the practice was universal. In his well-known account of the meeting between Agesilaus and Pharnabazus (Hell. 4.1.34), Xenophon insists that xenia existed among the Persians as well as among the Greeks, when he has the Spartan king saying to the Persian satrap: οἶμαι μέν σε, ὦ Φαρνάβαζε, εἰδέναι ὅτι καὶ ἐν ταῖς Ἑλληνικαῖς πόλεσι ξένοι ἀλλήλοις γίγνονται ἄνθρωποι. I think you know that also in the Greek cities, men become guest-friends with one another.

This suggests that Greek and Persian practices were the same. Agesilaus assumes that Pharnabazus knows this, since as a satrap in Western Asia Minor, he has connections with different cities. Indeed, this awareness is what makes the meeting possible. It was organised by Apollophanes of Cyzicus, who was both the guest-friend of Pharnabazus and of Agesilaus (4.1.29), and thus involved in a Greek-Persian and a Greek-Greek relationship of xenia.20 To be sure, Xenophon expresses a Greek point of view here, but he did have an unusual degree of knowledge relating to Near-Eastern practices, and himself belonged to a network of personal relationships.21 He had arrived in Asia Minor thanks to his xenia relationship with the Boeotian Proxenos, who was himself a xenos of Cyrus.22 In the same way, Herodotus, who was well aware of the differences between the customs of different peoples, clearly alludes to xenia as a universal practice that was not exclusive to the Greeks.23 A number of Greek-Persian xenoi are mentioned in the sources.24 For example, Phanes of Halicarnassus is said to have been the xenos of Cambyses. He advised the King to send envoys to the Arabians in order to march through their country without trouble on his way to Egypt (Hdt. 3.7).25 We do not know anything about the circum-

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

See Lenfant 2016. On interpretatio Graeca as a process of cultural translation extending to institutions and practices, see Colin/Huck/Vanséveren 2015. ῏Ην δέ τις Ἀπολλοφάνης Κυζικηνός, ὃς καὶ Φαρναβάζῳ ἐτύγχανεν ἐκ παλαιοῦ ξένος ὢν καὶ Ἀγησιλάῳ κατ᾽ ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον ἐξενώθη. On Xenophon’s knowledge and representations of the Persian Empire, see Lenfant 2011b: 405– 420 with bibliography. Proxenos as a xenos of Xenophon: Xen. Anab. 3.1.4; of Cyrus: 1.1.11. For Herodotus’ allusions to xenoi, see Herman 1987: 168, 198. See Herman 1987: 167–175 (Appendix A); Mitchell 1997: 131; Ruberto 2009: 25–42. Ruberto 2009: 31–33.

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stances in which this relationship was initiated. A second example is that of Demaratus, a Spartan King who took refuge at the Persian court around 491 BC. Xerxes calls him his xenos when he has to defend him as a benevolent advisor against accusations levelled by the King’s brother (Hdt. 7.237). In both cases, one can imagine that the King hosted the man concerned, declared him his xenos, and gave him a gift: there is no reciprocity at this stage – but one may guess that the King was expecting from his guest-friends a counter-gift at some stage, probably in the form of political or military service, thus adapting xenia to the power imbalance. More equal xenia relationships are attested with Persians other than the King, especially with commandants and satraps of Asia Minor. For instance, Cyrus the Younger had several xenoi in European Greece (in Thessaly, Boeotia, and in the Peloponnese), and he gave them money so that they might hire and command mercenaries for their own needs first, then for his.26 Clearchus explains to his soldiers that if Cyrus had need of him, he would have to give him aid “in return (anti-) for the benefits [he] had received from him”.27 In that case, the xenia relationship is not unlike a form of clientelism. But it was not always so: some of the ties between Greek and Persian xenoi seem to align more closely with mutual friendship-relations. (1) We do not know much about the relationship between the Spartan Antalcidas and the Persian Ariobarzanes, who in 387 BC were said to be guest-friends “from long ago”.28 (2) Menon the Thessalian, commander of mercenaries in Cyrus the Younger’s expedition (Xen. Anab. 2.6.28), was a guest-friend of the Persian Ariaeus (Anab. 2.1.5), who himself commanded troops in the service of Cyrus and joined him when he went over to the King after the Battle of Cunaxa (2.1.5; 2.2.1); he thus followed his xenos, with whom he seems to have been intimate (2.6.28).29 (3) In 395 BC, the Greek Apollophanes of Cyzicus had been the guest-friend of the Persian satrap Pharnabazus “for a long time” (ἐκ παλαιοῦ, Xen. Hell. 4.1.29).30 He has also “recently” (κατ᾽ ἐκεῖνον τὸν χρόνον) become the xenos of Agesilaus, admittedly another Greek, but what is interesting is that the two relationships are described in the same manner, irrespective of ethnicity. Apollophanes tries to help his two xenoi 26 27 28 29

30

Xen. Anab. 1.1.10–11 (Aristippus the Thessalian, Proxenus the Boeotian, Sophaenetus the Stymphalian, Socrates the Achaean) and 1.3.3 (Clearchus the Spartan). Ἐπειδὴ δὲ Κῦρος ἐκάλει, λαβὼν ὑμᾶς ἐπορευόμην, ἵνα εἴ τι δέοιτο ὠφελοίην αὐτὸν ἀνθ᾽ ὧν εὖ ἔπαθον ὑπ᾽ ἐκείνου (Xen. Anab. 1.3.4). Xen. Hell. 5.1.28. Could the close friendship between Ariaeus and Menon explain the fact that the latter was the only one among the captured Greek generals not immediately executed? This hypothesis implies that Ariaeus had some influence over the King, which may seem doubtful, yet no one can explain why Menon was treated differently. Plato’s description of Menon as “hereditary guest-friend (patrikos xenos) of the Great King” (Pl. Men. 78c-d), taken by Ruberto 2009: 39–42 at face value, is rather puzzling as Xenophon never refers to it in the Anabasis. See above, note 20.

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by organising a meeting between them. Here, one glimpses a potential diplomatic role of xenia as Apollophanes hopes to favour the conclusion of a friendship-agreement (philia) between Pharnabazus and Agesilaus (29), though the attempt fails (38). In any case, this would be a low level of diplomacy, since what is at stake is not the conclusion of a (political) treaty, but rather a local (military) agreement between two generals. (4) Last example of a balanced xenia relationship: the case of Agesilaus and the son of Pharnabazus (Xen. Hell. 4.1.39). This instance is well-known, as it is the most explicit account of the ritual of the conclusion of a xenia relationship from the Classical period: both men pronounce the performative statement (“I make you my guest-friend”, “I accept it”) and exchange gifts. The relationship is strictly private, established on an equal and reciprocal basis, and the duty of solidarity is exemplified by a later event: when the son of Pharnabazus went into exile, Agesilaus welcomed him and “looked after him in every way” (4.1.40). Greeks and Persians could undeniably be xenoi, but in none of the above cases do they appear as diplomatic operators. So what about diplomatic negotiators? Could xenia play a role in establishing a link between such men, thus making dialogue easier and more successful? 3. Greek ambassadors as xenoi of the King? When diplomatic dialogue occured between monarchs, xenia may, as a personal relationship, have been helpful for strengthening an agreement and fostering further contacts. In this way, in the 520s, the Greek tyrant Polycrates concluded a personal agreement of hospitality (xeiniē) with the Egyptian ruler Amasis (Hdt. 3.39.2).31 The known diplomatic contacts between Persians and Greeks concern, on one hand, the Great King (or a satrap who represented him) and, on the other, cities that were no longer under the rule of one man.32 When the latter received an envoy from the Persians, they gathered in an assembly or a council. The Greek diplomatic agents who entered into a personal relationship with a satrap or the King himself were not the decision-makers, but rather ambassadors sent by their city with precise objectives. That is the reason

31 32

Cf. Intrieri 2010: 128, with other examples. Intrieri 2010: 129 mentions cases of xeiniē between ‘oriental’ rulers and Greek cities, but it seems idiosyncratic to Herodotus’ terminology, is used in just a few cases where tyrants sometimes ruled the cities concerned (Intrieri mentions the xeiniē between the king of Lydia Alyattes and the city of Miletus, but in fact Miletus was then ruled by the tyrant Thrasybulus [Hdt. 1.22.4]) and the only cases of xeiniē between a Persian king and a Greek city are between Xerxes and the citizens of two cities (Acanthos and Abdera) who received him on his way to or from Athens (Hdt. 7.116; 8.120). As rightly noted by Intrieri, one may suspect here the attempt of translating into Greek a notion that shared with xenia the idea of reciprocal obligations, but not the parity that was one of its distinctive features. See also Ruberto 2009: 35–38.

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why, concerning the role of xenia in diplomatic relations between Greeks and Persians, we may ask whether Greek ambassadors were xenoi of the King. Three cases seem to suggest this was indeed the case, but closer examination will show that these cases are inconclusive, each for different reasons. 1) The first is that of Antalcidas and King Artaxerxes II. The Spartan was sent several times on an embassy to the King, especially before the conclusion of the King’s Peace in 387/6 BC. Speaking of the Spartan’s sojourn at the Persian court, Plutarch describes how he was exquisitely treated by the King, who sent him a wreath of flowers dipped in the costliest ointment and “made of him his xenos” (Plut. Artax. 22.6: ξένον ἐποιεῖτο). Here it should be recalled that xenos has several meanings. In fact, some scholars do interpret this as an allusion to the beginning of a xenia relationship.33 However, as I have argued elsewhere, there are reasons to believe we should understand xenos here as ‘guest’ rather than ‘guest-friend’ (especially the fact that the verb is in the imperfect, which indicates an ongoing action and cannot refer to the initial act of creating a xenia relationship). In other words, we should read: the King “treated Antalcidas as a guest”.34 2) A second case is that of the Theban Ismenias, the one who died in 382 BC during the civil war in Thebes, where he counted among the adversaries of Sparta.35 He was one of the richest men of Thebes at the beginning of the fourth century, one of the most influent, and – as I have demonstrated elsewhere – was sent as an ambassador to the Persian King in the 390s.36 We cannot be sure if this is linked, but when the Persians sent Timocrates of Rhodes (c. 397–395 BC) with money to visit influential citizens of the big cities of European Greece to raise a coalition against Sparta, he visited Ismenias in Thebes. The third element to consider are the charges brought against Ismenias when he was tried in 382 BC. His city was in a state of civil war. Spartans and their supporters in Thebes decided to get rid of Ismenias, because he had led an anti-Spartan faction in the city and contributed to the beginning of war against Sparta. During the trial, he was charged with causing “all the upheaval throughout Greece” (alluding to his opposition to Sparta), with receiving “some of the money sent by the King”

33 34

35 36

Herman 1987: 174 includes the pair Antalcidas/Artaxerxes in his final Appendix A listing “xenoi, idioxenoi and doryxenoi”. Mitchell 1997: 127 develops the idea. Lenfant 2011a: 341 and Lenfant 2017: 53, 57–58, where I put forward arguments for interpreting ξένον ποιεῖσθαι as an equivalent of ξενίζειν. A parallel case for such honours bestowed by the King on a Greek is provided by the case of Entimus of Gortyn who, according to Athenaeus (2.48d), “was invited to the family meal” (ἐπὶ τὸ συγγενικὸν ἄριστον ἐκαλεῖτο). I analysed this case in Lenfant 2011a and provide here only a summary. Cf. Plut. Artax. 22.8 and Ael. VH 1.21. These two passages do not give any indication of the context. In the past, they have been connected with another Ismenias, for whom there is no established relationship with the Persians. It is however more likely that they concern an older Ismenias, about whom we are speaking here. The latter is not to be confused with the more recent Ismenias, who went on an embassy with Pelopidas to Thessaly in 368 BC, but not to the Persian court in 367 (contrary to common opinion; note that Xen. Hell. 7.1.33 only mentions Pelopidas as a Theban ambassador on that occasion). Cf. Lenfant 2011a.

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(that is to say, Timocrates’ money), and with “having taken the side of the barbarian (βαρβαρίζειν)” by having attacked Sparta when it was in the King’s interests (the attack led Sparta to withdraw from Asia Minor). But Ismenias is also accused of “having become the guest-friend (xenos) of the Persian with the goal of harming Greece” (ξένος τῷ Πέρσῃ ἐπ΄ οὐδενὶ ἀγαθῷ τῆς Ἑλλάδος γεγενημένος εἴη, Xen. Hell. 5.2.35). Here, the meaning of xenos is clear and refers to an established relationship, even if it may also allude to the hospitality enjoyed by Ismenias as an ambassador to the Persian court. Can we conclude that a xenia relationship was established between Ismenias and the Great King? If so, this could help explain why Ismenias’ grandson Thessaliscos was sent as an ambassador to the King in 333 BC.37 Conversely, it could be that the allegation simply aimed at smearing Ismenias’ character in order to support his condemnation.38 It was not rare to accuse someone of being xenos of a monarch when that monarch was in a position to bribe him.39 The context makes the present case too dubious to permit unequivocal statements. 3) A third case worth considering is that of the Athenians Pyrilampes and Demos. Pyrilampes went on embassy to the Persian King (Plat. Charm. 158a) probably in the 440s, and returned to Athens with peacocks (Plut. Per. 13.15; cf. Ar. Ach. 62), presumably a diplomatic gift. In 390 BC, his son Demos had a gold phiale, which he received from the King and presented to his fellow citizens as a token (symbolon) through which he could obtain a great amount of goods when arriving in Asia (Lys. 19.25–26).40 The phiale clearly had a double value, its material value as an object, but also a symbolic value. The phiale made it possible to hope for further benefits and favours, greater than its intrinsic material worth.41 It appears as the token of a privileged relationship, a promise of royal help, and a sign identifying Demos as connected to the King and worthy of the attention of the latter’s subordinates.42

37 38 39

40 41 42

Lenfant 2011a: 333. This is perhaps the reason why Herman considers this relationship to be dubious. (It is labelled NX in his Appendix A, because “the existence of xenia is an accusation or insinuation which cannot be verified”: Herman 1987: 166, 170.) Demosthenes reproaches Aeschines for being the xenos of Philip (Dem. 19.259). Conversely, someone could be praised for having refused to become the xenos of a powerful king (Xenophon praises Agesilaus for having declined the invitation of Artaxerxes II: Xen. Ages. 8.3–4; cf. Plut. Ages. 23.10). However, Xenophon also values xenia with a local ruler or a satrap when it is profitable to the city (Xen. Ages. 2.27: Mausolus gives money to Sparta because of his xenia with Agesilaus; Hell. 5.1.28: Ariobarzanes, xenos of Antalcidas, provides the latter with ships for his military actions in the Hellespont). Lysias 19.25–26: ἔλαβε μὲν σύμβολον παρὰ βασιλέως τοῦ μεγάλου φιάλην χρυσῆν […] πολλῶν γὰρ ἀγαθῶν καὶ ἄλλων χρημάτων εὐπορήσειν διὰ τὸ σύμβολον ἐν πάσῃ τῇ ἠπείρῳ. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989: 134. How could Demos’ phiale be identified as coming from the King (by both his fellow citizen Aristophanes as well as by the people of Asia who were supposed to help him)? The most likely solution is that the name of the King was engraved on it. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989: 142, note 14 gives several examples of objects with the name of the King (Xerxes or Artaxerxes) inscribed, and con-

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Some scholars have interpreted this as demonstrative of a xenia relationship between Demos and the King, presumably inherited from an earlier such relationship between Demos’ father Pyrilampes and the King he visited.43 There are similarities between this connection and xenia. First, the word symbolon is sometimes used to designate a sign of recognition that can be shown to one’s xenos to get favours from him.44 (In Euripides’ Medea [613], Jason promises to his wife that he will send symbola to his xenoi to make her welcome.) Secondly, the personal link between Pyrilampes and the King seems to have been transmitted from father to son (on the Greek side) and from the King (presumably Artaxerxes I) to his successor and grandson Artaxerxes II. Thirdly, the two Greeks possess gifts offered by the Persians, among which the phiale could be seen as a way of reactivating the link. These analogies are, however, only partial. The word symbolon could have metaphorical uses unrelated to a xenia relationship.45 Demos’ case also presents differences with a xenia relationship, inasmuch as the two parties do not enjoy the same status, do not exchange gifts (as a general rule, we do not know of any gift offered by Greek ambassadors to the King46) and there is no visible reciprocity (ambassadors did not offer to receive the King in their homes), unless we assume the King expected favours.47 Under these conditions, there are two possibilities. Either the relationship between Pyrilampes/Demos and the Persian King was an adapted version of xenia (without the formal ritual, the equality of status, and the exchange of gifts),48 or the gifts offered to Pyrilampes and Demos reflected rather a more general royal practice. Herman rightly states that “the Persian court reserved and publicised a special use of objects […] the bestowal of which conferred some of the privileges of being in the king’s favour”, and he refers to the vases that bear the name of Xerxes or Artaxerxes. In that case, the gifts made to ambassadors could simply be gifts that demonstrate the favour of the King.49 This would be consistent with the fact that they are never called xenia, “hospitality gifts”, but rather dôra, a more general term (even if that word could also be used for hospitality gifts).50 We also cannot be sure that the relationship between Pyrilampes/

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50

vincingly argues that these were gifts offered or intended to be offered by the King. See also Herman 1987: 66–67. Vickers 1984: 50; Herman 1987: 65; Bivar 1999: 382–383. Miller 1997: 114 more cautiously states: “Lysias’ description of the King’s gift to Demos as a symbolon suggests that an Athenian viewed such connections in the context of formal xenia (Lys. 19.25)”. Bivar 1999: 382 considers it as a possible sign of a “pact of mutual hospitality (xenia)”. Gauthier 197: 65–66, followed by Herman 1987: 63. Cf. Lenfant 2017: 44–45. See above on Demaratus and Xerxes. Bivar 1999: 381 suggests services like hospitality and help for Persian visitors to Athens. Lenfant 2017: 55–57. Herman 1987: 65–66. Lenfant 2017: 57.

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Demos and the King was interpreted by the Greeks themselves as a xenia (the sparse sources use neither the word xenia nor xenos). The diplomatic role of such a xenia relationship would be far from certain. One can assume that Pyrilampes’ action had satisfied the King (who offered him peacocks) as well as his fellow citizens (who did not upbraid him either officially or socially).51 But what about his son Demos? First, we do not know the circumstances in which he received the gold phiale. Some have posited an embassy, but this is not certain.52 We know, for example, that the King had offered gold phialai to Entimus of Gortyn, a Cretan who, for unknown reasons in an unknown context, went to the King, stayed at the court for a long time and was honoured there with copious royal gifts (Athen. 2.48f). There is nothing to suggest that Entimus was an ambassador (Athenaeus compares him to Themistocles). As for Demos’ phiale, we cannot exclude the possibility either that it was a gift offered to Pyrilampes and then inherited by his son, a gift which Demos claimed to have from the King (without mentioning that he received it indirectly). Secondly, when Demos leaves Athens for Cyprus in 390 BC, it is not as an ambassador sent to the King and on a diplomatic mission, but rather as a trierarch sent on a military mission to help Evagoras of Salamis, who was practically at war with the King (Lys. 19.25). Even assuming that Demos was a kind of xenos of the King, no properly diplomatic role is known to have been adopted by this Athenian. 4. Conclusion Several modern historians have suggested that some Greek ambassadors became xenoi or proxenoi of the King. The likely reasons were that (1) these Greeks were hosted by the King, who treated them as guests (xenizein), and such circumstances could favour the establishment of a xenia relationship;53 (2) these Greeks received gifts from the King; (3) some ambassadors were descended from a previous envoy to the King; and (4) on the Persian side, monarchy favoured personal relationships. These features do not suffice to qualify ambassadors as xenoi of the King. Despite the diffusion of xenia on both sides of the Aegean Sea, despite the fact that Persian decisions were taken by one man alone (as could be the case also in the Homeric world or indeed any monarchy) and despite the absence of proxenoi to facilitate connections, xenia still played a fairly modest role. It seems that it could help at the preliminary stage

51 52 53

Dicaeopolis’ exclamation in Aristophanes’ Acharnians (62–63) could be an expression of exasperation, but the way peacocks were exhibited also betrays their popularity and social prestige. See Miller 1997: 111 who, however, wisely does not date the embassy. As she observes (note 13), some have proposed the embassy of Epilycus (424 BC), but “he would be very young”, others that of Conon in 395/4 (but that was not a real, official embassy from Athens). See above on the case of Glaucus and Diomedes’ grandfathers.

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and at a local level, such as when Apollophanes of Cyzicus put Agesilaus and Pharnabazus in contact, top-ranked subordinates who acted as generals discussing the next target of their campaign, that is to say, at a military rather than a political level. Given their institutional or contractual aspects, proxenia and xenia were probably unsuited to the unbalanced power ratio and political differences between Greek cities and the Persian Empire, at least when it came to relations with the King himself. The latter considered himself – and indeed he was – far more powerful than any Greek polis. When cities offered gifts to him, moreover, this was a sign of submission, so that cities not submitted to the King would not have been tempted to offer gifts.54 Nevertheless, in the absence of xenia, personal relationships do seem to have played their part in Greek-Persian diplomacy.55 As a general rule, monarchy favoured recourse to personal relations, which was the norm when both parties were monarchs. In the Near East prior to the Achaemenid Empire,56 rulers used the metaphor of brotherhood for diplomatic ties established via an oath, which they renewed by exchanging gifts and transmitted from father to son.57 Some features of Greek embassies to the King might suggest that Greek cities were aware of this and assumed that the King was sensitive to this personal dimension. In fact, several scholars have highlighted the double phenomenon of iteration and hereditary ‘transmission’ of the role of ambassador to Persia.58 Some envoys, like Callias or Antalcidas, were repeatedly sent to the court, and in several cases an ambassador sent to Persia appears to be the descendant of an earlier one. An example of this is Thessaliscos of Thebes, sent to the King at the time of Alexander’s invasion, who was the grandson of Ismenias, who had been an ambassador to Persia.59 To this we can add another aspect, namely the tendency to send to the King a small delegation either reduced to a single man (especially the case for Sparta and Thebes) or just a few (as was the case for Athens, with pairs of ambassadors like Epicrates and Phormisius [c. 393 BC] or Leon and Timagoras [367 BC]).60 Athens was anxious to promote reciprocal control among her ambassadors, and the democratic regime assumed that diverse functions were held by several agents, but the Athenians were convinced that the King wanted to speak with only a few men. For example, when Alcibiades wanted to persuade his fellow citizens to give up democracy in favour of oli-

54 55 56 57 58 59 60

See Lenfant 2017: 42–49. See Mitchell 1997: 111–133 (although I do not agree with all her analyses). The main sources are diplomatic records of Egypt (Amarna letters) and the Hittite Empire (treatises and letters from the royal archives), as well as the royal archives of Mari (second millennium BC). For a wider overview of the sources, see Charpin 2019: 21–45. Munn-Rankin 1956: 76–84 (“‘Brotherhood’ was employed between sovereign rulers and between vassal and overlord, perhaps when the former was not fully subject”); Tadmor 1990: 18–21; Intrieri 2010: 138–139; Podany 2010; Charpin 2019. Hofstetter 1972: 98–100; Miller 1997: 113–114. Lenfant 2016. RE Suppl. XIII (1973) s. v. Presbeia (D. Kienast): 538; Mosley 1973: 51, 57, pace Miller 1997: 112.

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garchy, he argued that this was wished by the King, who wanted to deal with just a few men.61 Of course, this was a pretext to favour a revolution in Athens, but it is significant that it seemed a credible argument. At first sight, the choice of the ambassadors and of a small delegation suggest that Greek cities tried to personalise their relationships with the King in order to meet his expectations. And yet, the tendency to use the same ambassadors for the same destinations may also be observed in diplomatic relations between Greek cities (the Athenian Cimon was sent at least three times on an embassy to Sparta and the Lacedaemonian Endios was four times ambassador in Athens),62 and the same holds for the transmission of the speciality within the same family (both Callias, the grand-father and the grand-son, were ambassadors to Sparta). By contrast, a low number of ambassadors (or sending just one ambassador) seems specific to embassies sent to Persia.63 Even if xenia played a minor role, personal relationships certainly influenced diplomacy, sometimes with the King directly (Antalcidas and Artaxerxes II), but more often at a modest level, such as that of the negotiations preceding an agreement (Alcibiades and Tissaphernes) or when ensuring an agreement’s application (Lysander and Cyrus). That said, good interpersonal harmony at the subordinate level does not seem to have been the most important condition of diplomatic success. In 412 BC, the relationship between Tissaphernes and Alcibiades was of much less importance than the King’s own interests, which finally led to the conclusion of agreements with Sparta. Bibliography Badian 1993 = Badian, E., “The Peace of Callias”, in Id., From Plataea to Potidaea. Studies in the History and Historiography of the Pentecontaetia, Baltimore 1993: 1–72. Benveniste 1969 = Benveniste, E., Le vocabulaire des institutions indo-européennes. 1. Économie, parenté, société, Paris 1969. Bivar 1999 = Bivar, A. D. H., “ΣΥΜΒΟΛΟΝ. A noteworthy use for a Persian Gold phiale”, in Tsetskhladze, G. R. (ed.), Ancient Greeks West and East, Leiden/Boston (MA)/Köln 1999: 379–384. Charpin 2019 = Charpin, D., “Tu es de mon sang”. Les alliances dans le Proche-Orient ancien, Paris 2019. 61

62 63

Thuc. 8.48.1–2: τῷ τε Ἀλκιβιάδῃ διαβάντες τινὲς ἐκ τῆς Σάμου ἐς λόγους ἦλθον, καὶ ὑποτείνοντος αὐτοῦ Τισσαφέρνην μὲν πρῶτον, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ βασιλέα φίλον ποιήσειν, εἰ μὴ δημοκρατοῖντο (οὕτω γὰρ ἂν πιστεῦσαι μᾶλλον βασιλέα), πολλὰς ἐλπίδας εἶχον αὐτοί θ᾽ ἑαυτοῖς οἱ δυνατώτατοι τῶν πολιτῶν τὰ πράγματα, οἵπερ καὶ ταλαιπωροῦνται μάλιστα, ἐς ἑαυτοὺς περιποιήσειν καὶ τῶν πολεμίων ἐπικρατήσειν. ἔς τε τὴν Σάμον ἐλθόντες ξυνίστασάν τε τῶν ἀνθρώπων τοὺς ἐπιτηδείους ἐς ξυνωμοσίαν καὶ ἐς τοὺς πολλοὺς φανερῶς ἔλεγον ὅτι βασιλεὺς σφίσι φίλος ἔσοιτο καὶ χρήματα παρέξοι Ἀλκιβιάδου τε κατελθόντος καὶ μὴ δημοκρατουμένων. Cimon of Athens was sent three times to Sparta (in 480/79, 457, 454/3 or 451/0 BC). The Lacedemonian Endios was sent four times to Athens (in 420, 410, 408/7 and 394 BC). The number of envoys is variable, but generally higher than one or two. Cf. Mosley 1973: ch. 9–10; RE Suppl. XIII (1973), s. v. Presbeia (D. Kienast): 537–539.

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Colin/Huck/Vanséveren 2015 = Colin, F. / Huck, O. / Vanséveren, S. (ed.), Interpretatio. Traduire l’altérité culturelle dans les civilisations de l’Antiquité, Paris 2015. Finley 2002 = Finley, M., The World of Odysseus, revised 2nd ed. by S. Hornblower (1st ed. 1954), London 2002. Gauthier 1972 = Gauthier, P., Symbola. Les étrangers et la justice dans les cités grecques, Nancy 1972. Herman 1987 = Herman, G., Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City, Cambridge 1987. Hofstetter 1972 = Hofstetter, J., “Zu den griechischen Gesandschaften nach Persien”, in Walser, G. (ed.), Beiträge zur Achämenidengeschichte, Wiesbaden 1972: 94–107. Intrieri 2010 = Intrieri, M., “Philoi kai xeinoi. Sui rapporti fra tiranni e basileis in Erodoto”, in Caccamo Caltabiano, M. / Raccuia, C. / Santagati, E. (ed.), Tyrannis, basileia, imperium: forme, prassi e simboli del potere politico nel mondo greco e romano, Messina 2010: 123–142. Lenfant 2011a = Lenfant, D., “Isménias et les ambassadeurs de Thèbes à la cour perse”, Ktèma 36 (2011): 331–347. Lenfant 2011b = Lenfant, D. (ed.), Les Perses vus par les Grecs. Lire les sources classiques sur l’empire achéménide, Paris 2011. Lenfant 2016 = Lenfant, D., “Le rôle de la proxénie dans les relations diplomatiques entre Grecs et Perses”, Ktèma 41 (2016): 277–290. Lenfant 2017 = Lenfant, D., “Liens personnels, pots-de-vin ou protocole ? Les dons du roi de Perse aux ambassadeurs grecs”, in Cuniberti, G. (ed.), Dono, controdono e corruzione. Ricerche storiche e dialogo interdisciplinare, Alessandria 2017: 41–69. Mack 2015 = Mack, W., Proxeny and Polis: Institutional Networks in the Ancient Greek World, Oxford 2015. Miller 1997 = Miller, M. C., Athens and Persia in the fifth century BC. A Study in Cultural Receptivity, Cambridge 1997. Mitchell 1997 = Mitchell, L. G., Greeks Bearing Gifts. The Public Use of Private Relationships in the Greek world, 435–323 BC, Cambridge 1997. Munn-Rankin 1956 = Munn-Rankin, J. M., “Diplomacy in Western Asia in the early second millennium B. C.”, Iraq 18 (1956): 68–110. Mosley 1973 = Mosley, D. J., Envoys and Diplomacy in Ancient Greece, Wiesbaden 1973. Podany 2010 = Podany, A. H., Brotherhood of Kings. How International Relations Shaped the Ancient Near East, Oxford/New York City (NY) 2010. Ruberto 2009 = Ruberto, A., Il Gran Re e i Greci. Un dialogo possibile, Todi 2009. Sancisi-Weerdenburg 1989 = Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H., “Gifts in the Persian Empire”, in Briant, P. / Herrenschmidt, C. (ed.), Le tribut dans l’empire perse, Paris 1989: 129–146. Scheid-Tissinier 1994 = Scheid-Tissinier, E., Les usages du don chez Homère. Vocabulaire et pratiques, Nancy 1994. Tadmor 1990 = Tadmor, H., “Alleanza e dipendenza nell’antica Mesopotamia e in Israele: terminologia e prassi”, in Canfora, L. / Liverani, M. / Zaccagnini, C. (ed.), I trattati nel mondo antico. Forma ideologia funzione, Rome 1990: 17–36. Vickers 1984 = Vickers, M., “Demus’ gold phiale (Lysias 19.25)”, AJAH 9/1 (1984): 48–53.

Diplomatic mercenaries Treaties, truces and transactions in Xenophon’s Anabasis Christopher J. Tuplin Anabasis is often thought of as a book about war. But the army fights on fewer days than it talks, and much of the talk is diplomatic.1 Moreover it is a work full of deceit, making it a suitable object for a volume about good faith; and its concern with both Greek-Greek and Greek-barbarian interactions raises the possibility of inter-cultural misunderstanding or ethnographically interesting cultural differences. It is a data set plainly worth consideration. It is, of course, a somewhat unusual data set by the standards that generally apply in the present volume, for (although war and peace is what is often at issue, if sometimes in strange ways) one of the parties to diplomacy is characteristically an army of mercenaries, not a properly constituted polity. But this oddity is more than compensated by the richness and deliberately crafted variety of the material and by its capacity (at least some of the time) to get us quite close to the discursive and performative aspects of a number of more or less manipulative negotiations. Unusual situations can give rise to strategies that have their analogues in more traditional inter-state diplomacy but are less likely to be reported by our surviving sources on such diplomacy, because they offer a less granular view of events. Anabasis is, for sure, a highly artificial literary representation of the exceptional experiences of the Ten Thousand and the people who came into contact with them, but everyone involved faced issues of trust over and over again and, inevitably, they drew on the customary (and overlapping) tools of political and diplomatic interaction to deal with them – or to attempt to do so: for, however good the tools, human nature means that success is apt to be elusive. If we wish to get a better sense of how Greeks (and others) confronted the shaping of good faith (and indeed of what that it might mean to speak in such terms and what are the contexts in 1

See Tuplin 2014. In Frederick Forsyth’s The Negotiator (chapter 7) the title-character relaxes while waiting for hostage-takers to make contact by reading Anabasis. Another character speaks of it as a book about “military tactics”, but the choice of reading matter is perhaps more subtle than that.

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which such terms are not appropriate), the world of Anabasis – geographically extensive and yet socially and psychologically rather enclosed – is an excellent laboratory in which to do some of the work. 1. Establishing the data set First, then, how big a data set is it? How many diplomatic episodes are there? The word diplomacy tends to be associated with interstate negotiations through ambassadors aimed at producing treaties: events explicitly involving σπονδαί or alliance or πρέσβεις therefore clearly count. The question is what to make of events that are not like that, but which do involve non-violent intercourse and/or the (re-)establishment of a clearly defined relationship. My answer in general is that we count them, and in drawing up the data set I have been generous. By way of gloss, I make three remarks. (1) Negotiations entirely within a political unit are in principle excluded. But there are few significant salient examples. The off-stage discussion of Tissaphernes and the King in II would count as one, but the negotiation of Cyrus and Parysatis with the King (2) does not, since Cyrus and Tissaphernes are figured as being at war (1.1.8) and Parysatis’ aim is to finish the war to her younger son’s advantage: the ending of war is, of course, a classic diplomatic context.2 Items involving Orontas (14–16) and Ariaeus (22) concern rebels who are eo ipso not currently part of the same political unit as the figure they are negotiating with.3 I count the post-Zab army as a political unit: Xenophon’s calming of the Byzantium émeute (7.1.18–31) is internal to the army and not a piece of diplomacy. But prevention of a near battle at Charmande between two elements of Cyrus’ army (13) is a diplomatic event, albeit a unique one: at that stage the individual generals’ groups are separate employees of a foreign potentate, and prevention of fighting is another classic object of diplomacy. (2) I regard the offer of ξένια by a city or tribe (33, 34, 37, 38, 45, 46) as a species of diplomatic activity.4 (a) It is intended to establish friendly relations: that is clear from the Tibarenian case (37), where their acceptance means the Greeks travel through

2

3

4

By contrast Parysatis’ success in securing Cyrus’ release from an accusation of plotting (1.1.3) does not qualify. Nor do Cyrus’ promises to the Milesian exiles (1.2.2); and any diplomatic episodes that exemplified his success in making people more friendly to him than to the King (1.1.5) are not now recoverable – or are embraced in the generic observation about his treaty-making in 1.9.7–10 (7). Numbers in bold type refer to items in the list on p. 122. Strictly speaking only the second Orontas-Cyrus item (16) is called a rebellion. But, while use of ἀποστάς at 1.6.7 marks this episode (in which Orontas sided with the Mysians) as an aggravated affront to Cyrus, compared with the first when Orontas claimed to be acting on the King’s orders, from Cyrus’ perspective Orontas was always his ὑπήκοος (1.6.6) and the settlement in 15 was certainly the settlement of a war (ἐπολέμησεν […] προσπολεμῶν […] πολέμου παύσασθαι). The components of ξένια are oxen, wine, barley (33, 45), the same plus sheep (46), or oxen (34).

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friendly land, and the Colchian one (34), where the Trapezuntines broker the deal to protect friendly Colchians, as well as from what happened at Cotyora (38), where the gesture is not initially made and there were other signs of hostility, e. g. closing the gates and not providing ἀγορά. (b) It is two-sided: the offer is a response to the presence of the army and a means of defusing the threat that it represents; and the gesture can be refused as is clear from the Tibarenian case (37) and from Heraclea (47), where some thought the gesture inadequate, and further (fruitless) negotiation was attempted. (c) The offer of ξένια can be the consequence of diplomatic engagement: that is clear from the Colchian case (34), and applies at Sinope too, where the city’s offer of ξένια (45) is preceded by the negotiations at Cotyora (38, 39). (d) The offer of ξένια can be followed by other diplomatic arrangements: the Trapezuntines not only broker a deal with the Colchians but have a wider deal in which Greeks are directed to attack the Trapezuntines’ enemies (34: cf. 5.2.1, 5.5.13). (3) Mercenary employment is prima facie an economic contract, not a diplomatic outcome. But in Anabasis the contract is often between people of different ethnicity and/or political affiliation, which gives an allure of interstate negotiation. Moreover it would seem strange to conduct an analysis of diplomacy in the text that excluded the elaborate narrative of the Greeks’ dealings with Seuthes in VII on the ground that it was only a mercenary contract – and, once that is conceded, other such cases enter the data set for consistency. The result is a list of 70 items (p. 122). My aim in this chapter is to provide an initial analysis of this data set. Some of the episodes are rather complex, being composed of multiple elements. In this respect 9, 51, 59 stand out: they count as single episodes because each works towards a single eventual diplomatic outcome. By contrast an episode such as 18 involves a rich narrative, but deals with a single diplomatic process with a specific (if intentionally temporary) outcome, from which the next stages in working to an agreement with the King, 20 and 21, are distinct. A similar principle applies to 62–64 (Seuthes and the Thracians) and to 38–40 (Sinope and the army), though in the latter case the third stage is only implicitly present, and there is still a fourth stage to come in 45. There are other instances in which episodes listed separately in the data set (whether textually adjacent or otherwise) are in effect parts of a single story.5 The longest episodes, 67 and 70, achieve that status because of the lengthy speeches of self-defence by Xenophon that dominate them: the diplomatic process as such is not intrinsically complicated. Quite a few episodes occupy no more than a single section of text – a few lines or even just a few words. Some are rather too generic, implicit or

5

E. g. 7, 8; 27, 28; 35, 36; 46, 47; 54, 55, 59, 65–70. 53 and 55 can also be put in this category. The unravelling of the deal in 53 is symbolised by Anaxibius’ demand that the army leave Byzantium, first made at 7.1.7 and eventually fulfilled in 55, after intermediate discussions (7.1.11–14) are swept aside by the soldiers’ riotous occupation of the city (7.1.15–30).

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lacking in detail to allow much analytical purchase.6 Even so, there are some sixty items susceptible of comment. 2. Patterns in the data set Diplomatic events occur throughout the text. But some more or less artificial patterns can be detected. In Book I all the items involve Cyrus as a principal party, intermediary (13) or victim (14). In Book II the King is always a principal party (but never personally involved), the one exception being the alliance against him between Ariaeus and the Greeks (19).7 Book III only contains back references to earlier items, an imaginary negotiation between the King and the Mysians (25), an insincere approach by Mithradates (26), and a decision to fight πόλεμον ἀκήρυκτον (3.3.6) – i. e. no new real diplomacy at all, and indeed a rejection of diplomacy. In Books IV–VII the Greeks are normally one of the principal parties:8 for, wherever they go, they in principle either fight the people they encounter or do a deal to avoid doing so. There are two qualifications to enter to that generalisation. (1) In some cases they neither fight nor negotiate. Provisions are taken from Scythenian villages (4.7.18) but nothing is said about how this is possible. Nothing is said about the Chalybians in 5.5.1, save that they are subject to the Mossynoecans (tantamount to saying they are friendly, since the adjoining Mossynoecans are). The case of the Armenian villages (30) is marginal: amidst a lengthy narrative of apparently peaceful intercourse an arrangement is made about the provision of a guide which is more than usually presented as the result of threats rather than negotiation.9 (Marginal in a different fashion is 65, which might also be regarded as a strategy discussion rather than a negotiation about the future development of Seuthes’ deal with the mercenaries.)

6 7 8

9

Generic: 17. Implicit: 10, 11, 31. Lacking detail: 1, 34, 40, 60, 61. Although 23 is a one-to-one meeting and although Tissaphernes utters some ambivalent remarks (2.5.23), he is nonetheless acting as the King’s agent (cf. βασιλεῖ: 16). It is only not so in IV–VII in 52, 56, 60, 61, 62–64, 66, 69–70, i. e. 24 % of the episodes in those books. The proportion is similar in II–III (22, 25: 22 %), but much higher in I (2, 7–8, 14–16, 17: 41 %). Across Anabasis only 16 % involve no Greeks of any sort as principal parties (2, 7–8, 14, 15–16, 22, 25, 62–64). 4.5.27. It is almost a private deal between Xenophon and the village-chief, who is effectively his prisoner. (For the wholly undiplomatic persuasion of a prisoner to act as guide cf. 4.1.23–24.) The unilateral change of terms at 4.6.1 is another sign that the Greeks are entirely in charge. 64 is a further case in which the threat posed by one party’s preponderant power trumps everything (Seuthes had threatened mass destruction in 62, and carries out prisoner-executions in 7.4.6), though the formality of negotiation is less hidden. The demands for surrender in 18 and 24 are also unhidden diplomatic assertions of preponderant power, albeit unsuccessful ones.

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(2) The situation in Book VII is different again. The Greeks do a deal with Seuthes (59) in order to avoid conflict or other entanglement with the Spartans (i. e. they negotiate with a third party to avoid fighting the people immediately in front of them) – and then, ironically, eventually do a deal with the Spartans (66–70). And Book VII also offers occasional examples in which the army is not a principal party – Pharnabazus and Anaxibius (52) or Aristarchus (56), a passing embassy from Parium to Medocus (60) and some otherwise unspecified embassies to Seuthes from Greek cities (61), the negotiations of Seuthes and the Mountain Thracians (62–66) and the negotiations of Seuthes with Polynicus and Charminus (67, 70). But in all of these except 60 and 61 the Greek army is a significant element, and in the final item of the book we find Xenophon acting as an emissary of the Spartans to Seuthes.10 Above all, one can say that most of VII is framed in terms of the Greeks-Seuthes relationship – and the three-way Greeks-Seuthes-Sparta dynamic literally frames the book’s start and finish. 3. Types of diplomatic situation Diplomacy in Anabasis is essentially about war and peace. In one scenario, one of the principal parties encounters an enemy and seeks to avoid fighting: the casus belli consists in that party being in or threatening someone’s land. Simple cases of this are Tiribazus’ σπονδαί with the army for safe passage and non-destructive food-gathering (29) or the army’s deal with the Macronians (32). But quite a lot of versions are odd in one way or another. The Carduchians are odd because the Greeks would like to negotiate from the outset (4.1.8) but do not get the chance; negotiation only happens after fighting – and, when successful, is only to gather the dead (27–28). The Tibarenians are odd because initially the Greeks do not seek to avoid conflict (37).11 The Armenian villages episode is odd because the element of negotiation as distinct from threat of force is rather attenuated (30). The Bithynians’ exploratory approaches are odd because predicated on a false belief that the Greeks are about to found a city (50).12 The second round of Anaxibius’ negotiations is odd given the background of

10 11

12

He also plays an intermediary role in 63 and 64. This is not their normal attitude, though they refuse Persian demands for surrender (18, 24) and, more pertinently, the Bithynians’ approaches (50). The reason is admitted with disarming honesty: the generals wanted a chance of booty – a distinctive feature of V–VII as a whole. The formulation of the question to the Eastern Mossynoecans in 35 (“Will we be going through friendly or hostile territory?”) perhaps suggests the Greeks do not really care if they have to fight. All initial diplomatic contacts are in a degree exploratory. I use the term here in particular since ἐρωτῶντες ὅ τι δέοι ποιοῦντας φίλους puts the negotiating ball unusually firmly in the other party’s court. One might compare/contrast 14, where Orontas assumes that, if the King gets a letter protesting former φιλία and πίστις and offering 1000 cavalry, he will accept Orontas’ overture. Elsewhere episodes in Cyr. 2.4.1–8 and Hell. 6.1.2–18 might also be called exploratory.

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the near-seizure of Byzantium (55). Alliance stories (Ariaeus, Mossynoeci) are odd because they are not about averting war but managing it better (19, 36). The three-way Trapezus-Colchians-Greeks deal is odd because it is about managing relations with third parties (34). The Cleander episode (51) is odd because the threat of war is in a territory still to be reached: Sparta is not the hegemonic power at Calpes Limen.13 And the encounter with the Cilician ruler is odd because of a certain narrative vagueness (7–8). Epyaxa arrives and gives Cyrus money and (allegedly) sex, but the narrator does not explicitly comment on her purpose. We merely guess that she is buttering Cyrus up. Later it turns out that Syennesis has removed the military block at the Cilician Gates (1.2.21) and we assume that this is consequence of Epyaxa’s démarche. Then the Menon incident and sacking of Tarsus wrecks the mood (1.2.25–26), so Syennesis refuses to meet Cyrus until Epyaxa exerts her influence (again) and πίστεις are provided, and the final negotiation is (apparently) rescuing an existing deal from failure. Another scenario is that fighting already exists and the point of diplomacy is to stop it: the fighting may be in the shape of, or prompted by, looting (16, 44, 48, 50, 68–69) or it may be in other forms: Cyrus and Tissaphernes disputing control of Asiatic Greek cities (2), Orontas holding the Sardis acropolis (15), Cyrus’ mercenaries trapped in the King’s land (II passim), the mountain Thracians resisting subjection by Seuthes (62–64), a near riot at Charmande (13), the tension and occasional violence between Cotyora and the Greeks (38). There are other scenarios, of course: ambassadors reporting on events elsewhere (42, 43), management of an arrangement that is turning toxic (23), termination of mutiny (9), termination of a state of rebellion (14, 22), terms for continuing a campaign (12, 65), a deal for joining a campaign (26), making an army or ethnic group go somewhere else (25, 41, 52, 53, 55, 56, 58, 68, 69), provision of a guide (30, 31; and cf. 21) or boats (39, 48) or military funding (7–8) or food (21, 29), hiring of mercenaries (1, 3–6, 10, 53, 55, 58, 59, 66–67, 70), acquisition of non-mercenary allies (10, 19, 36) or political friends (60), the maintenance of a local status quo (34), imposition of (political) slavery (64),14 recovery of bodies (27–28, 42, 43; cf. 49),15 acceptance of ξένια from non-Greeks (34, 37), rescue of an army-member from quasi-judicial punishment (51), a blunt demand for money (47). But none of these other topics is much or at all removed from war and peace: it is symptomatic that Cleanor misrepresents the limited practical deal with the King (21) as a ‘same-friends-and-enemies’ treaty. Xenophon’s 13 14 15

It is also odd in view of the quasi-judicial nature of the meetings. This and the preceding two items involve potentially long-lasting arrangements: normally in Anabasis the diplomatic focus is short-term – not ongoing coexistence between two entities but managing a temporary relation between a passing entity and a fixed one. Two battles end with erection of a τρόπαιον (4.6.26, 6.5.32), which precludes asking for the return of bodies. There is an indirect diplomatic spin-off of the second of these battles in 50 (the approach by πολέμιοι near Calpes Limen). The issue of body-disposal arises in 6.5.4–6 in a non-diplomatic context.

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vision of a diplomatic desert in the post-Cerasus environment (5.7.26–30) not only constructs the (autonomous) army as a necessarily diplomatic entity but makes negotiation about war and peace its typical business; the period of πόλεμος ἀκήρυκτος in the weeks after the Zab reflects this indirectly as well (3.3.5).16 None of this is strange in a story about an army, or indeed in the context of ancient diplomacy in general. At the same time it bears stress that comparatively few episodes end in the sort of neatly balanced formulae of mutual obligation that are familiar in more ordinary historiography, that (viewing things in those terms) we encounter some oddities (19, 44, with notes 70–71) – and that Cleanor’s assimilation of 21 to a banal treaty-type is a misrepresentation. Deal making in Anabasis is pragmatic and closely tied to specific and (cf. note 14) often temporary circumstances. 4. Success and failure Diplomacy is not always conducted in good faith,17 and it is certainly not always successful. In fact, well under a half of the episodes (around 38 %) succeed in producing precisely the new situation that the negotiators intended;18 and over a quarter end in complete failure,19 whether because of explicit rejection (for which some explanation is normally provided),20 misconception of the situation (50), the aborting of negotiations in mid-flow (by treacherous attack, murder, riot or sheer mistrust)21 or the voiding of a provisional agreement by subsequent developments: that happens in 30 (where the guide absconds, abandoning his hostage) and 62 (where the Thracians only partially respond to Seuthes’ demands), but a more entertaining example is the way in which the plot of Timasion and Thorax to get the army out of northern Anatolia unravels (41): it is a pleasant irony that, after Xenophon has got in trouble because of

16 17

18 19 20

21

See below at page 107, note 54. Bad faith with good outcome: at Tarsus (9) Clearchus manipulates the process to produce diplomatic action and so contributes to a resolution of the problem. (But the resolution still involves bad faith on Cyrus’ part.) Undisclosed motives: Cyrus hiring Proxenus with a lie about Pisidians (5), the Gymnias ἄρχων concealing a wish to use the army to settle local scores (31). Bad faith of those who do not really want a resolution: Tissaphernes (23), Mithradates (26), Carduchians (27), Mountain Thracians (63), Anaxibius (perhaps: 53), Aristarchus (58). 1, 3–8, 10, 11, 12, 22, 28, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 44, 45, 59, 64, 65, 66, 70. 2, 14, 24, 26, 27, 30, 35, 41, 42, 43, 47, 49, 50, 54, 55, 58, 62, 68–69. Artaxerxes is happy for the Tissaphernes-Cyrus war to continue (2); Ariaeus’ statements are incoherent (24), those of Mithradates mendacious (26); the eastern Mossynoecans believe the terrain makes them impregnable (35); threatening the Heracleotes (47) and demanding hostages from Thracians (49) did not work; other agendas made Xenophon unwilling (54) or unable (57) to accept Seuthes’ initial approaches; Medosades’ complaint to Xenophon was ill-judged (68–69). Attack: 27, 63. Riot: 43. (See also above p. 97, note 5). Murder: 42. Mistrust: 24, 26, 58; and in 14 the letter-carrier’s mistrust of Orontas aborts the latter’s attempt to negotiate with the King.

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private communication with the gods, Timasion and Thorax engage in some secular private conversation – and shoot themselves in the foot. This leaves some 30 % of cases where success is not entirely straightforward. Sometimes the outcome is not a breakdown in relations but is also not what the initiating party was intending: that is the case in the first two rounds of negotiations between the King and the Greeks after Cunaxa (18, 20), where Clearchus twice succeeds in wresting the diplomatic initiative from the King by an unexpected response, and occasionally elsewhere.22 Sometimes the relationship of outcome to negotiation is opaque. In 55, the army’s departure from Byzantium (the outcome Anaxibius wants) occurs because of a combination of Anaxibius’ rather vague promises and Coeratadas’ offer of employment in the Thracian Delta (7.1.33–34). As the narrative has it, Coeratadas’ intervention is an entirely unrelated (and short-lived) development. Many readers must wonder whether it was actually engineered by Anaxibius, but one cannot immediately see why Xenophon would have suppressed the fact or even the suspicion. Sometimes success is only partial: for example, the Tarsus mutiny arose from a suspicion that the army was being led against the King, but that suspicion remained when the mutiny was over, with the problem papered over by more money and a new fable convenue (1.3.21). And sometimes the successful outcome is more or less transient either because of instability of personnel – the army’s friendly accommodation with Cleander (51) has no impact on their relationship with other representatives of the Spartan state – or because one of the parties breaks the agreement. We see that with Orontas (twice: 15–16) and Ariaeus (contrast 19 with 22 and 24), though the most famous Persian example is the deal between Artaxerxes and the Greeks (18, 20–21, 23) which collapsed at the River Zab. But Greeks break deals too. That is true both of Anaxibius (53) – or so the soldiers thought23 – and of the army: a demand for money wrecks friendly relations with the city of Heraclea (47), and much earlier a safe-passage deal with Tiribazus is broken by soldiers who set fire to some houses out of sheer bloody-mindedness (29: 4.4.14), though the narrative (it has to be said) does not foreground the breach as much as it might. Much more clearly highlighted is the breakdown of the deal with the Armenian village-chief (30: 4.6.3–4), in which Chirisophus’ behaviour provoked the only quarrel

22

23

In 4, Aristippus gets a good deal more than he asked for. In 67 and 69, the immediate consequences are not exactly what the Spartans wanted: in the former, in particular, the simple offer of employment is sidelined by attacks on Xenophon and the issue of back-pay. (In 51 one cannot tell what Cleander’s original intentions were before the émeute about booty.) Before they were murdered, the Colchian emissaries in 42 had already missed their target as the Greeks had left Cerasus, though the Cerasuntians assured them that Clearetus’ attack was οὐκ ἀπὸ κοινοῦ (which is what the Greek generals would have told them). Anaxibius’ offer (7.1.3–4) is relatively general and the army’s consideration and acceptance is not narrated. How large a deviation 7.1.13 represented in his view is hard to say. But the émeute in Babylon reflects belief among the soldiers that they had been cheated.

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between him and Xenophon.24 Only twice – the mission of Parium to King Medocus accidentally visible at Seuthes’ dinner party (60) and the embassies of unnamed cities to Seuthes (61) – do we have absolutely no idea of the outcome.25 5. The conduct of diplomacy: personnel Although 65 % of the data set involves cases in which at least one of the principal parties is a specific individual, only 26 % are cases in which such an individual negotiates personally with the other party (and only 9 % have two individual principals speaking directly to one another).26 Moreover 59 % of the data set consists of episodes in which the army (which as a matter of course operates through representatives)27 is one of the principal parties. So the presence of intermediaries for one or both sides is presupposed in the huge majority of episodes (88 %). Because the story contains some powerful individuals who are autonomously diplomatically active (notably Cyrus and Seuthes – but not Artaxerxes, who fights at Cunaxa but remains off-stage in subsequent negotiations), there can be a temptation to fall into thinking of other figures who are prominent in the narrative – e. g. the Spartan officers of VI–VII or Tissaphernes in II or indeed Xenophon at various points – as belonging in the same category. But this is not the case and Xenophon’s text never suggests otherwise – indeed, it is punctiliously careful to avoid any such suggestion, even when the real principal party is remote from the action, as is particularly the case with Sparta in VI–VII. (And this is not a casual fact: Spartan officers matter diplomatically because – indeed almost only because – they are agents of an imperial power, and Xenophon wishes us to be quite clear about that.28) It is rare for the intermediaries involved in a particular episode to be entirely unidentified,29 and, where both sides are using intermediaries, both groups

24 25

26 27 28 29

The friendliness of the village-chief (4.5.29, 34–36) and the conviviality of the Armenians’ (enforced) hospitality is perhaps stressed to point up the eventual bad outcome (4.6.2–3). The outcome is not explicit in e. g. 24, 50, but is clear from subsequent developments. In 60, there are two unknowns: for we also do not know whether Heraclides’ attempt to get them to negotiate with Seuthes rather than Medocus succeeded. Heraclides’ interference in diplomacy recurs in 65–66. 3, 4, 8, 13, 15, 16. Negotiators only rarely appear before the whole army: 20, 38, 39, 44, 59 (7.3.7–14), 67. (In 42 the Colchians intended πρὸς τὸ κοινὸν τὸ ἡμέτερον […] ἐλθεῖν.) But even if they make the relevant decision, their participation is facilitated by representatives. It is something that Pharnabazus understands: 7.2.7. This occurs when cities offer ξένια (33, 45, 46) and elsewhere (5, 6, 10, 11, 48, 49, 52, 56, 64), normally when parties communicate by messenger or letter. There are two notable exceptions. In 64, Seuthes negotiates with “the Thynians”, so at least one party is properly identified, but in 49, undifferentiated Thracians negotiate with undifferentiated Arcadians, a situation without parallel in Anabasis. The fact that the Arcadians are schismatics perhaps makes Xenophon anonymise them.

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are identified nearly 40 % of the time – not necessarily by name, of course, but at least categorically.30 Overall, identified intermediaries occur in 72 % of episodes. Sometime intermediaries shuttle between the principals, sometimes they make a single trip from one side to the other.31 Identified intermediaries come in quite various forms: high rank Persians (2, 13, 18, 20–22, 23, 24, 26),32 Cilicians (7) or Thracians (54, 57–58, 68–69),33 Spartan overseas officials,34 generals or generals and captains,35 specially selected representatives (sometimes called πρέσβεις),36 heralds (who tend to get called πρέσβεις as well)37 – note incidentally that the army never sends emissaries who are described as heralds38 – or other parties whose identity is appropriate to the situation in hand: interpreters,39 phrourarchs (1), released prisoners (62),40 Cyrus’ moth-

30

31

32 33 34 35 36

37

38 39 40

There is still a tendency for group-intermediaries (see e. g. notes 35–37; see also Tuplin 2014: 88) to be undifferentiated, i. e. for no specific spokesman/men to be identified. 36 is interesting: the Mossynoecan side is represented by ἄρχοντες (5.4.4) and their view is expressed by plural speakers at 5.4.10; but at 5.4.8 ὁ ἄρχων τῶν Μοσσυνοίκων replies to Xenophon’s remarks. In 43, οἱ Κερασούντιοι stands for “emissaries from Cerasus” in a way without precise parallel. (Even the items in note 29 are slightly different.) That the episode appears in the character Xenophon’s narrative to the army, not the author Xenophon’s narrative to the reader, may make a difference. Shuttling: 9, 12, 20, 21, 51 (unusual as the group changes in composition part-way through), 53 (assuming an implicit army assembly-meeting), 58 (aborted shuttle), 59. (59 is unusual: emissaries go from the army to Seuthes, back to the army – and then take the army to met Seuthes.) Single visit: 1, 7, 18, 22, 24, 35, 38, 39, 41, 42, 44, 47, 54, 55, 57, 65, 70. Medosades pictures himself as an intermediary of Seuthes in 68–69, perhaps not entirely truthfully. The case of Parysatis (2) is a rather unusual one. All the same individual, Medosades, who is said to be a habitual ambassador for Seuthes: 7.2.23. 51, 53, 55, 58, 66. Generals 12, 18, 21, 24, 26, 29, 31?, 32, 36, 37, 43, 44, 65. Generals and captains 19, 53, 58. Army emissaries Clearchus and ἐπιτήδειοι (collectively αἱρετοί) to Cyrus at Tarsus (9: 1.3.19–20), Agasias and ὁ ἀφαιρεθείς (plus generals) visit Cleander (51: 6.6.19), Dracontius and other ἐπιτήδειοι (plus generals, captains) visit Cleander (51: 6.6.30), the army’s πρέσβεις (Callimachus, Ariston, Samolas) go to Sinope (39: 5.6.14), the army’s πρέσβεις (Lycon, Callimachus, Agasias) to Heraclea (47: 6.2.7), Hieronymus, Eurylochus and Philesius (untitled) to Anaxibius (55: 7.1.32), Xenophon, Polycrates [captain] and trusted delegates of each general to Seuthes (59: 7.2.17), Xenophon as emissary of the Spartans along with ἐπιτήδειοι to Seuthes (70: 7.7.20). Other emissaries 38–39 (πρέσβεις: Hecatonymus and others), 44 (Paphlagonian πρέσβεις), 54, 57 (Medosades is retrospectively an ambassador: 7.7.6; cf. note 33). Negotiations with Sinope (38–39) are unusual in that divisions emerge among the Sinopean ambassadors. (Clearchus tries, but fails, to achieve that with Phalinus: 18.) 18 (Phalinus: also πρεσβεύοντα in 2.1.18), 20 (also ἄγγελοι; and πρέσβεις in 3.1.28), 42 (5.7.2, 30; also πρέσβεις: 5.7.19, 30). The Colchians in 42 are specifically γεραίτεροι, presumably to increase the pathos of their fate. In 24 Ariaeus, Artaozus, Mithradates, Tissaphernes’ brother and 300 armed Persians arrive to “announce” (ἀπαγγέλειν) the demand to surrender. Ἀκήρυκτος πόλεμος (3.3.5) is about not receiving heralds from the other party. Timesitheus in 35 is a free-standing intermediary, in 36 a linguistic adjunct to the Greek generals. See note 80 for other interpreters. Cf. Cyr. 3.2.12, 5.4.24.

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er (2), merchants (41), a proxenοs (35), professional ambassadors,41 Mossynoecan ἄρχοντες (36), relatives of the other principal party (22), elderly and so theoretically respected Colchians (42), a Greek military expert (18), Xenophon (63, 70),42 and (in a famous passage) a Macronian peltast (32).43 The inclusion of the Spartan Dracontius among the emissaries to Cleander (51) makes sense, and one wonders whether the presence of two of the older generals among those sent to patch things up with Anaxibius (55) was prompted by a belief that Spartans respected old age. Lycon led complaints about alleged Heracleote meanness, so was obviously among those sent to pursue the matter in Heraclea (47).44 Xenophon is occasionally sole intermediary for the army because of the tactical situation (27),45 perception of him as a wouldbe colony-founder (50) or (perhaps) Seuthes’ preference for dealing with an Athenian (54, 57: cf. 7.2.31). In 9, the emergence of an emissary is unusually the subject of a lengthy narrative in its own right, recounting Clearchus’ expert manipulation of his fellow-Greeks; and in 65 a (failed) attempt is made to exclude a particular negotiator (Xenophon).46 It is also possible to make bad choices: Orontas was wrong to think he could trust the man he chose to take a message to the King (14). Where religious closure-rituals are involved (see below: p. 108–109) we see a small change of personnel between negotiation and closure in 21: the three Persians mentioned in 2.3.17 are absent in 2.3.28. We cannot prove any such thing in 19 (where only the closure-ritual team is clearly identified), 32 (where the “Greeks” who give a spearblade may or may not be just the generals who had negotiated) or 36 (where the Greek side in the closure ritual is unidentified), and the question does not arise in 15–16, which just involve principals. Nothing certain can be said about the σπονδαί in 20, 28, 29, 64. In 59, more people get invited to Seuthes’ dinner (a secular closure-ritual) than engaged in the initial negotiations, but that perhaps matches the fact that the whole army had witnessed the final negotiation as well as marking Seuthes’ special generosity (itself a species of diplomatic gambit). Intermediaries are never neutrals – there are no true arbitrations in Anabasis, though the intervention of Proxenus and Cyrus at Charmande (13) and the Cleander episode (50) have something of that character – but lack of neutrality comes in a vari-

41 42 43 44 45 46

Medosades: cf. note 33. Hecatonymus in 38–39 is an expert speaker (5.5.7: δεινὸς νομιζόμενος εἶναι λέγειν) and proxenos of the Paphlagonian king (5.6.11) and has surely been an ambassador before. See below p. 119–120. In these cases Xenophon formally acts as representative of Thracians (63) and Spartans (70) and not, as elsewhere, of the army. In 70, we get an unusual emissary speech which is framed as friendly advice to Seuthes plus a request that Seuthes restore Xenophon’s standing with the army. In this last case in particular the specific identity of the intermediary-interpreter may have a large impact on the Macronians’ willingness to make a deal. No particular explanation is available for the choice of Callimachus, Ariston and Samolas in 40. Something similar perhaps applies to the duo of Xenophon and Chirisophus in 28 and 30. He is also not invited to pre-negotiation ξένια in 7.6.3.

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ety of forms: Trapezus’ action for the Colchians reflects the wider agenda of relations with the local non-Greek population (34),47 Hecatonymus is accused of protecting Paphlagonian interests (39), Parysatis is biased towards her son Cyrus (2), Epyaxa represents her husband (7), Tissaphernes professes to be on the side of the Greeks (21), and Clearchus both colludes with Cyrus (9) and tries to seduce Phalinus into the Greek camp (18).48 Medosades claims to act as Seuthes’ emissary in 7.7.1–19 (68–69), but one might doubt this since he is largely preoccupied with protecting his own property. The deployment of Epyaxa and Tissaphernes deserves note. Syennesis had reason to honour Cyrus (and so sent his wife to him), but did Artaxerxes have to dignify the Greeks with the attention of Tissaphernes and other high-rank Persians? As a western satrap, Tissaphernes was a suitable person to talk to Greeks, but were there no lower-profile and less provocative candidates? Or should we take seriously Tissaphernes’ claim to be involved because he wished the Greeks well? 6. The conduct of diplomacy: methods How do the principals or their intermediaries conduct negotiations? Words are in principle indispensable for the negotiation of specifics (quite apart from words inherent in formulaic or ritual aspects). The narrative sometimes operates entirely in indirect speech (rather over a third of cases),49 sometimes in a mixture of direct and indirect speech (under a quarter),50 and occasionally almost entirely in direct speech, albeit in differing ways: it is a long way from Cyrus’ punchy remarks at Charmande (13) via the dialogic Phalinus scene (18) to the huge speech of Xenophon in 70.51 It is perhaps initially surprising that there are cases in which there is no actual report of verbal negotiation. Some are perhaps not too odd. The Ariaeus-Greeks alliance (19) is inherent in the situation: when the Greeks join him after Cunaxa they have explicitly chosen war with the King, so they definitely need allies. Formulaic reference to ξένια

47 48

49 50 51

It is not quite clear whether in 43 the Cerasuntians explicitly act for the Colchians, but in any event their motive is presumably outrage that elderly Colchians have been murdered in their city. Embassy stories are a historiographical category – dramatic but non-violent confrontation (war by another means, appropriate to an essentially war-oriented genre and already encountered in epic) – so Clearchus’ appeal to Phalinus to imagine how the story of his embassy will be told (2.1.17) is a nice literary touch. (The designation of a herald [2.1.7] as πρεσβεύοντα [2.1.18] is part of the game.) 2,3,4,5,6,12 (Menon addresses his own troops in direct speech), 14, 16, 22, 27–28, 29, 30, 35, 42, 43, 47, 49, 50, 52, 55, 57, 58, 62–63. 9, 20, 21, 24, 26, 36, 41 (an odd case: Timasion quotes an imaginary speech by Xenophon), 51, 59, 64, 65, 66, 68. In 53 the initial deal is reported in indirect speech (7.1.3–4) but the follow-up discussion aborted by a riot (7.1.11–15) involves direct speech. Other examples: 23 (lengthy speeches plus dialogue), 38 (lengthy formal speeches), 54 (brief), 67 (lengthy speech), 68 (moderate-length speeches), 69 (mostly dialogue).

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(above p. 96–97) trades on the reader’s understanding of the concept. The almost total suppression of what Orontas and Cyrus said to one another reflects the fact that all that matters is that he reneged: the episodes are in a narrative within the narrative whose interest is solely in Orontas’ failure to keep agreements (15–16). But other cases are perhaps slightly stranger: the account of Corylas’ deal with the Greeks (44) is entirely taken up with the pre-negotiation dinner party and there is no real explanation of the Greeks’ acceptance of his approach; and the lack of overt explanation of Epyaxa’s visit to Cyrus (there being no allusion to what she actually said) is tantalising (7). But communication can also be (partly) non-verbal or ritualised. Non-verbal communication comes in various forms: e. g. delaying tactics (a notable feature of the negotiations between the King and the Greeks in II, and one used by both sides: 18, 20–21), the manipulated impact of the army’s collective physical presence (7, 20, 59)52 or other physical actions, e. g. the acrobatic dancing that so impresses the Paphlagonians (44), Proxenus and Cyrus standing between combatants at Charmande (13), Menon’s negotiating gambit of crossing the Euphrates ahead of a collective response to Cyrus’ new proposal (12: 1.4.13),53 the Heracleotes’ evacuation of their χώρα in response to Greek threats (47: 6.4.8). Ariaeus’ silent withdrawal in preference to further bandying of words with the Greeks (24) perhaps belongs in the same category (it is unique in Anabasis as a means of terminating a negotiation),54 as does Medosades bringing the emissary from Medocus to his meeting with Xenophon as a means of exerting pressure, a gambit that backfires rather badly (68). The effect of the whole Medosades episode (68–69) is to make possible a further direct approach to Seuthes after the awkwardness that has arisen from the Spartans taking over the army. One might wonder whether the Greeks had deliberately targeted Medosades’ villages with this in mind – war (or at least looting) as diplomacy by other means. In the case of ritual communication one may distinguish rituals of process (which relate to the initiation or conduct of negotiations) from rituals of closure (which seek to ensure the stability of an agreement by provision of guarantees). In the first category one might note the use of heralds (if that term is meant to affirm a ritually protected status), formal supplication (if that is a legitimate inference from a unique use of ἱκετεύομαι: 6455), negotiation-enabling πίστεις (Cyrus to Syennesis: 8), pre-negotiation toasts and δεξιαί as a sign of good intentions (59: 7.2.23, 7.3.1), the

52 53 54 55

And cf. 2.4.26 in a non-diplomatic context. The issue appears in Cyr.2.4.1–6, where an orderly army is more diplomatically impressive than fine clothing. Both putting pressure on the other army groups and manipulating his future relationship with Cyrus under any circumstances. Mithradates’ approach (26) is followed separately by the diplomatic silence of ἀκήρυκτος πόλεμος. Supplication occurs in diplomatic contexts in Cyr. 4.6.8, 5.2.7 and Hell. 6.3.1, though here too it need not be a formal ritual.

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sending of symbolic δεξιαί (22), pre- or post-negotiation gifts56 and pre- or post-negotiation entertainment.57 It is conceivable that the statement that the Trapezuntines “received” (ἐδέξαντο) the Greeks alludes to some sort of formal process,58 but the ξένια that they and others give are best regarded as the outcome of a process rather than a ritual of its conduct (they are explicitly so in the case of Cotyora),59 and the same goes for some other gifts: the money given by Cyrus to Clearchus (allegedly for no specified purpose – which it is very hard to believe), that given to Cyrus by Epyaxa and Syennesis, and even the symbolic gifts given to Syennesis – that Syennesis gets symbols in return for hard cash is part of the uneven deal. (Epyaxa’s alleged sexual favours in 7, on the other hand, are perhaps best seen as a mode of communication.) As for the second category (concluding rituals of trust-establishment), post-negotiation entertainment might also be included here (it is certainly a reinforcement of good relations) – though gifts given to Seuthes at his dinner party are part of the etiquette of Thracian rule, not specific to deal-making (insofar as there is a distinction) – but the principal items are the exchange of so-called πιστά (a generic term embracing more specific forms but sometimes used without further identification), the pouring of libations (assuming that is entailed by use of the words σπονδαί or σπένδεσθαι),60 the exchange of oaths or calling on gods as witnesses, the exchange of δεξιαί, the exchange of spears, and the special ritual of sacrifice and dipping of weapons in blood that marks the Greeks’ alliance with Ariaeus (19).61 Perhaps coincidentally neither 56 57 58 59

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30 (horses: bilateral), 44 (horses and clothing: unilateral), 60 (the Parians carried gifts for Medocus and his wife). 23 (σύνδειπνον ἐποιήσατο), 38 (ἐξένιζον) 44 εὐωχία with entertainments), 59 (elaborate dinner and entertainment narrative), 66 (ξένια, ξενίζειν). One might add Epyaxa (7) to examples of entertainment, though whether pre- or post-negotiation is unclear, given the vague narrative. Sinopean ambassadors promise ξενίοις […] δεξόμεθα (5.5.24); when they get there we read just that Sinopeans send ξένια. In cases like 37 and 38 they do, of course, draw a line under a situation and, being performative, inevitably have a ritual character. In 59 when X. says νομιοῦμεν ξενίζεσθαι (7.3.8) he is assimilating the situation to ξένια receipt – and conceivably making a joke (for the reader if not for Seuthes) about acceptance as ξένοι (i. e. mercenaries). Ξένια occur in Cyr. 3.1.42 and 5.4.14 (both times without other closure rituals). They are absent in Hellenica. Σπονδαί coexist with closure-rituals in 21. Whether this implies that closure rituals also happen in 20, 28, 29, 64 is hard to say: but σπονδαί are a closure-ritual in themselves. Πιστά 36: undefined (πιστὰ δόντες καὶ λαβόντες) in making an alliance. 19: πιστά = oath ceremony (2.2.10, 3.2.5), again for an alliance. 16: unidentified; might contextually include/be δεξιαί. 21: πιστά apparently include oaths and δεξιαί. 32: exchanged spears are πιστά, and πιστά also describes whole ceremony of spear exchange and calling gods to witness. 64: the Thracians request unspecified πιστά in return for surrendering to Seuthes. (See also Cyr. 3.2.23, 4.2.7–8,13, 7.2.44 [πίστιν], 7.4.3; Hell. 2.4.25, 3.2.19, 3.5.1, 6.1.18, 7.1.42, 7.3.8; in 5.4.2 they are exchanged between conspirators and in 6.5.28 between Spartans and helots. Πιστά = oaths in Cyr. 4.2.7 + 5.1.22, are grammatically marked as an oath in 4.2.8, and are surely oaths in 3.2.23. But they are formally separate in Cyr. 7.4.3.) Libation-pouring 20 (σπονδαί), 21 (σπονδαί retrospectively), 29 (ἐσπείσαντο), 59 (σπείσεσθαι). Σπονδαί are envisaged but not completed in 27, 49, 63. The idea appears frequently in Hellenica in treaty-contexts, but never in Cyropaedia: the only libations are associated with sacrifices or dinner

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of the alliance deals in Anabasis is associated with or labelled as σπονδαί (19, 36). The giving of hostages is also, of course, intended to ensure that the agreement is kept, but it is best seen as one of the terms of an agreement rather than a ritual of closure: its efficacy depends on bluntly secular considerations, not on the power of the gods or (as with δεξιαί) social psychology.62 (It also, as it happens, plays a fairly limited role in Anabasis.63) 7. Observations on the data set Establishment and examination of the data set prompts a number of broader observations. A central subject of Anabasis is the changing character and cohesion of the mercenary army. An almost complete picture of that subject can be formed just through diplomatic events, with the moments of tension, schism and unity mapped by negotiations with various parties at Tarsus (9), Thapsacus (12), Cunaxa (18–21), Cotyora (38–44), Calpes Limen (49–51), Byzantium (53,55), Perinthus (58–59) and Selymbria (66–70). Anabasis is a story of managing one’s relations with other people as much as one of fighting them – a story of diplomacy as much as of warfare. There are two particularly large narratives of deal-making, those involving the Greeks and the King in II and the Greeks and Seuthes in VII. I have already stressed the framing of VII in terms of deal-making (the amount of military narrative is modest).

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(2.3.1, 3.3.40, 4.1.6, 6.4.1, 7.1.1). Oaths 19 (alliance) and 21. (See also Cyr.7.4.3, Hell. 1.3.11–12, 3.4.6, 5.1.32, 6.3.19, 7.1.39–40, 7.4.10–11.) Invoking gods as witnesses 32, the only certain case. See also Cyr. 4.6.10, 8.5.27, Hell. 3.4.4, and below p. 115. Δεξιαί 15 and 21, where they are exchanged by both parties: δεξιαί are also mentioned retrospectively in the second case. (See also Cyr. 3.2.14, 4.2.19, 4.6.10, 6.1.48. There are no examples in Hellenica.) Spear-related ritual acts 19 (dipping weapons in mixed animal blood) and 32 (exchange of spears). Religious closure rituals are not mentioned very often – nor indeed are secular entertainment ones (only 23, 38, 59, 66). Perhaps this is not particularly surprising: comparatively few diplomatic processes lead to heavyweight deals and/or are narrated in process-rich detail (cf. p. 100 and note 14). For general remarks on rituals in inter-state treaties see Sommerstein/Bayliss 2012: 151–160; Scharff in this volume. Amputation of the right hand as a symbol of broken faith (1.10.1) is, of course, a sign of the power of the social psychology: see Mari 2014. More generally on δεξιαί cf. Torrance 2014: 144–147, Mari 2012; 2015b; 2018. In 49, the Arcadians presumably wanted safe-conduct back to Calpes Limen and would have returned the hostages when they got there. What did they offer the Thracians in return? Some Arcadians had acquired booty and prisoners; did those on the hill still have them? If so (there were sheep and cattle on the hill after the Arcadians withdrew: 6.3.22), presumably they would have needed to return them. But would not prisoners have done as hostages? Other examples: 25, 30, 63–64. In 28 a prisoner is traded for the right to collect bodies, which is slightly different. But perhaps any local guide is by definition a hostage. See also Cyr. 4.2.7,12 (where Cyrus makes a point of not accepting them when they are offered – but later actually retains one: 4.2.17), Hell. 3.1.20, 3.2.19, 6.1.18.

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Something similar is true of II, literally framed by the King demanding the Greeks’ surrender, first through Phalinus (18) and then through Ariaeus (24), and almost wholly dominated by the making and unravelling of a formal deal between the two parties – the three stages of the deal with the King (18, 20–21) corresponding both to the pattern of two rejections and then acceptance of a Seuthes-deal (54–55, 59) and to the tripartite narrative staging of the making that deal in 7.2.16–7.3.48. II and VII are certainly the most richly diplomatic books – VII being distinguished by there being a larger number of principal parties in play: as a diplomatic narrative it is more complex. In both cases the principal deal turns toxic, albeit in varying degrees. Xenophon avoids narration of precisely similar diplomatic circumstances, just as he avoids narration of precisely similar military events. The episodes occur in distinct circumstances (even if the issue of war and peace is omnipresent) and the only potentially formulaic elements are the offering of ξένια (see p. 96–97) and the use of words such as πιστά, δεξιαί or σπονδαί marking closure rituals (note 61) – which do not, however, occur very often. The actual narratives are barely repetitive at all. I cannot demonstrate that in extenso within the confines of this essay, but the description of the data set will have conveyed some flavour of the point. In addition I will just remark exempli causa (a) that the tripartite structure in II and VII is allied with events that are as different as they could be, (b) that the Paphlagonian embassy (44), in which actual negotiation is entirely elided, and the Clearchus-Tissaphernes meeting (23) or the visit of the Sinopean embassy (38–39), which consist of little else, are at opposite ends of a spectrum that is well populated, albeit (outside II and VII) with a bias towards the former, and (c) that the Cleander episode (51) has the unique formal peculiarity of mixing judicial and diplomatic processes. It is unique in another way too, because it involves the Greeks’ complete surrender – something achieved neither by the King in II nor by the Thracians who seem to have the whip hand over Arcadian schismatics in VI until the arrival of other Greeks drives them away (49). Non-Greek hostility limits the circumstances in which negotiation can be done. The Macronians are the only native people in IV with whom Greeks do a safe-passage deal – perhaps precisely because uniquely they have a Macronian go-between (32). In V–VI they make deals with West Mossynoecans (36), Tibareni (37) and Paphlagonians (44): but in the first case they again have a go-between and in the other two the initiative comes from the other side. And perhaps that was true of the negotiations that underlay the Gymnias ἄρχων’s provision of a guide back in Book IV (31). Meanwhile there is an initial tacit assumption that there is no casus belli when the army enters Greek territory: arrival at Trapezus is quite low key; and it comes as a surprise when an equally low key arrival at Cotyora (5.5.3) is followed by a narrative that reveals the city’s hostility (5.5.7–25). In the long term in IV–VI relations with Greeks generates more diplomatic activity than those with non-Greeks. Yet it is the Mossynoecan negotiation (36) that provides the unique case of that most Greek of things, viz. engagement with other people’s factional politics. (There was στάσις in Byzantium, but this never inter-

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acts with the primary narrative, though there is a fear that it might: 7.1.39.) And, rather piquantly, this quasi-Greek quality occurs in relation to the most barbarian people the army encountered (5.4.34). Another piquancy, incidentally, is that Xenophon’s final big speech (7.7.20–47) is not only the longest emissary speech in the entire work but is delivered as an emissary of the Spartans, not in his own right. There are some interesting silences or near-silences. For example:64 (1) It is never mooted that the army owed compensation to the Colchians for Clearetus’ unauthorised attack or for the murder of their emissaries at Cerasus (42–43). (2) Careful prior attention to the details of proposed terms before they are agreed and a deal is made is rare: Clearchus asks whether proposed σπονδαί apply to all or only some Greeks (20: 2.3.7) and Xenophon asks Seuthes how far they will go from the sea (59: 7.3.12): but that is about it.65 Cleander’s process of considering the Greeks’ arguments in 51 is unnarrated. (3) The negotiations with the King for a Greek safe-conduct to Ionia (20– 21) contain no reference to the implications for their ally Ariaeus (19). The Greeks later complain that Ariaeus abandoned them, but arguably they abandoned him: it was a reasonable thing to do, but it was also reasonable for Ariaeus to make his peace with the King if he could. (4) When the army reaches Chrysopolis (6.6.38) there is no talk of ξένια. Is it just that booty-selling takes narrative precedence? Or is it a reflex of Chrysopolis not being a properly independent entity both as a mere town in Chalcedonian territory and as somewhere firmly within the Spartan sphere? There are no ξένια from Byzantium either. (5) In the Armenian villages narrative there is discussion with a village-chief, entertainment (vividly described) as well as gift-giving and a promise of recompense for assistance, but we are not really presented with a diplomatic negotiation: the Armenians simply have to manage an unwished-for situation (military occupation) as best they can and with very little room for manoeuvre.66 Some observations can be made about the central question of the establishment of trust. Various factors in a situation can encourage trust – especially issues around the identity of participants or history of relations67 – or lead in the other direction: Aris64

65 66

67

Is it surprising that there are no details about Cyrus’ employment of Abrocomas’ ex-mercenaries (10)? Perhaps not: we have had a lot about mercenary employment at Tarsus, and it is parallel to the inattention to the Sparta-Cyrus (11) deal in the very same passage. (For some, of course, the latter phenomenon has an apologetic character not applicable to Abrocomas’ mercenaries.) This is distinct from a situation in which counter-terms are proposed (9, 12) or refusal of terms leads to an alternative offer (18). The terms at 4.6.1 are not quite those that Xenophon promised at 4.5.28, which said nothing about a hostage. See also notes 9 and 24. The colourful jollity of the narrative half-masks a harsher story. For a more extreme example of the phenomenon see 7.4.6–11, where the paidikos logos about Episthenes and a young Thracian plays out against a background of prisoner slaughter. Identity of principal party Cyrus’ ξένος relationship with other party: 4–6. Cyrus’ reputation for trustworthiness (17) or generosity (12: 1.4.13, 16). Tissaphernes’ putative goodwill to the Greeks: 20 (2.3.18). Orontas’ erstwhile πίστις and φιλία (14). Seuthes’ recognition of the good history of

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tarchus exudes untrustworthiness (58). A particularly sustained discussion of reasons for trust in a specific situation occurs in the meeting between Clearchus and Tissaphernes (23) – which is not encouraging (but, in literary terms, entirely to be expected). Xenophon’s final speech (in 70) is also from one perspective a prolonged plea for trust, and one about which one is clearly meant to feel more sympathetic. Meanwhile, right at the start of the book an attentive reader may worry about a tension between generic praise of Cyrus’ trustworthiness in deal-making (17) and the deceptions involved in assembling his army (5–6) and getting it through the Tarsus mutiny (9). Is making a deal on a false premise acceptable, so long as one keeps to the overt agreement? Or is it an inconcinnity that shows that no leader is perfect and/or that trust is a very slippery quality? In Cyropaedia, Cyrus is presumably thought to be justified in asking Indian ambassadors to pretend to negotiate with the enemy coalition so they can spy on their military arrangements (6.2.2–3, 9–11). But perhaps that is not a perfectly similar case. Adusius’ trickery in 7.4.3–7 involves no actual mendacity and certainly is not. Sometimes display of trust can be surprising. When approached by Tiribazus, the Greeks make a safe-conduct deal (29), despite the earlier decision to wage ἀκήρυκτος πόλεμος (3.3.5). It is as though passage through Carduchia has sealed them off from real enemy territory or as though enemy territory is only wherever Tissaphernes is: Tiribazus is an outsider to the earlier story in Anabasis (although other sources say he was at Cunaxa) and therefore unaffected.68 Yet ironically they are soon back in a situation resembling Book III – a Persian army shadowing them, encampment in villages and fighting on hill-tops: but this time it is the Greeks who have broken the agreement. So far as ritualised trust-establishment goes, one notes that the King’s deal with the Greeks (21) is exceptionally strongly marked with closure trust-rituals (explicit reference on one occasion to all of πιστά, oaths, δεξιαί and σπονδαί is unique in Anabasis) and Ariaeus’ alliance with the Greeks (19) is marked by an exceptional closure trust-ritual (sacrifice of specified victims and spears dipped in blood).69 In both cases this is doubtless because things will end badly.70 Another unusual item is Orontas’ appearance at the altar of Artemis in his second deal with Cyrus (16). Has he sought

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Odrysian-Athenian relations (59: 7.2.31). Identity of intermediary Mithradates as πιστός of Cyrus (26), an argument that Ariaeus (once Κύρῳ πιστότατος) does not try to use. The presence of a fellow-Spartan (51) or a fellow-Macronian (32) or a proxenos (35–36) or relatives (2, 7, 22) or a full set of authoritative negotiators (59: 7.2.30, producing a πιστοτέραν πρᾶξιν). See also above p. 105 on Dracontius (51) and older generals (55) in negotiating with Spartans. Of course, the peculiar travails of the march through Carduchia and the crossing of the Centrites may have made the Greeks more inclined to respond positively to an offer of negotiation. These cases are exceptional across the corpus, as neither Cyropaedia nor Hellenica offers any parallels. The common sacrifice in Cyr. 8.5.24 is not analogous to 19 and of unspecified nature. A curious feature of the latter event is that both sides swear not to betray one another and to be allies, and the Persians additionally swear to lead the Greeks home ἀδόλως. In explicitly referring to betrayal (not a feature of normal anti-deceit clauses: cf. Sommerstein/Bayliss 2012: 199–201) and putting an extra onus on Ariaeus, the narrative is preparing for Ariaeus’ switch of sides.

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sanctuary in order to conduct the negotiation? Or was there a special trust-enhancing sacrifice there? Either way, this was another deal that ended badly. Trust-enhancing rituals are by no means always present. They can be absent because what is involved is a non-official and/or private deal (41, 52, 56) or a surrender in which one party is powerless (51) or perhaps because such rituals are formulaically implicit: that may be the case with ξένια-offerings. (If so, these are the only type of ritually marked deal that the army makes with other Greeks: there are no σπονδαί, πιστά or oaths in such cases. But see further below, p. 114.) The failure to use σπονδαί of the second (successful) Carduchian-Greek deal (28), when it was present in the first (abortive) one is perhaps a narrative oversight. In the case of Syennesis (8) there were pre-meeting πίστεις and the royal gifts he receives afterwards perhaps function as earnests of good faith on Cyrus’ side anyway, and in the case of Corylas (44) the narrative is exceptionally heavily slanted towards pre-negotiation features: it is the creation of trust before the negotiations that is the narrative focus here, and all we get at the end is a formal repetition of, and agreement to, the precise terms offered by Corylas in the first place: μήτε ἀδικεῖν μήτε ἀδικεῖσθαι. The phrase is more redolent of moral philosophy than treaty-making,71 which confers on the outcome a solemnity that more mundane terminology would lack. Consequently there is a rather engaging contrast between that fact and the unphilosophical danced entertainments that so please the Paphlagonian ambassadors. In the Introduction to this volume, Francesco Mari and Christian Wendt have spoken of operational good faith as a peaceful communications space between polities and something that exists primarily as performance: Anabasis 6.1.6–13 provides a rather literal reflection of such a perception. But the clearest significant pattern in the incidence of formal closure-rituals is that they are absent in mercenary employment contexts.72 The only apparent deviation is one retrospective reference (by Spartans: 7.1.17) to the Seuthes-Greeks deal (59) as involving ὅρκοι being sworn to the Greeks and three retrospective classifications of it as a συμμαχία (7.3.35, 7.6.27, 7.7.25). But Xenophon makes no mention of oaths in his complaint about Seuthes’ breach of trust in 7.7.20–44 (see especially 24–26 on how Seuthes needs to be trustworthy and how the Greeks trusted him) – which is surely more au71

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A particularly close parallel occurs in Glaucon’s exposition of the character and origin of justice in Pl. Rep. 2.359a: it is hard to get away with being unjust, so men decide it is better συνθέσθαι ἀλλήλοις μήτ᾽ ἀδικεῖν μήτ᾽ ἀδικεῖσθαι; this is the start of law-making, but, if wrongdoing were practically possible, any true man (359b, ὡς ἀληθῶς ἄνδρα) would be mad ever συνθέσθαι τὸ μήτε ἀδικεῖν μήτε ἀδικεῖσθαι. (Oddly, urged to abandon diplomacy and seize Babylon, Xenophon is told to “become a man”: 7.1.21.) To find the formula in a real political context one must look to App. BC 5.3.28: seeking to prevent war with L. Antonius, Octavian protests that he has no quarrel with his brother Marcus – μαρτύρομαι μηδὲν ἀδικεῖν Ἀντώνιον μηδὲ ἀδικεῖσθαι πρὸς Ἀντωνίου – and urges the Senate and equites to work for reconciliation (συναλλάξαι) with Lucius. The contrast with the wrongs Octavian suffered from Lucius affects the choice of phrasing, but the overtone of moral philosophy is not inappropriate given his high-minded insistence on wanting to avoid the horrors of civil war. 3–6, 9, 12, 13, 53, 55, 59, 66, 67, 70.

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thoritative than what the Spartans have to say on the subject – and all the references to συμμαχία are cases of rhetorical persuasive redefinition. Earlier (7.6.23) Xenophon says that some might claim that the army should have got ἐνέχυρα (guarantees) to ensure that Seuthes could not deceive it even if he wanted to. Xenophon’s answer is that the Greeks were in too weak a position to demand any such thing. It is not clear what would have constituted ἐνέχυρα, though avoidance of the word πιστά suggests a distinct closure ritual or something in the actual agreement. In any case, one may feel that those saying there should have been ἐνέχυρα were calling for something that was not normal. It does appear, therefore, that mercenary-hiring is a diplomatically distinct entity, and worth including in the data set precisely to enable that conclusion to emerge. But this does not help with the problem raised earlier about Cyrus’ deceptions, because he was supposedly reliable in promise making (not just in σπονδαί and other formal deals), and promises are what he makes to the mercenaries. In 1.7.5, the reliability of such promises is actually questioned. Cyrus’ answer is (a) to avoid outrage at the suggestion, (b) to talk about size of the empire and his ability (when victorious) to give limitless gifts, and (c) to make more promises to individual visitors. What he does not do is swear any oaths on the subject.73 Finally, is there anything different about diplomacy between different categories (especially ethnic categories) of party? I have already remarked that there are no religious closure-rituals (πιστά, oaths, δεξιαί, σπονδαί) in deals between Greeks and Greeks. But how significant is this? How many potentially pertinent examples are there? If one excludes formally reported ξένια-donations, mercenary employment (67), which lacks such markers with any parties (p. 114),74 and a failure to do a deal (47), one is left with the Arcadians’ negotiations with Heraclea (48) and the army’s negotiations with Sinope (38, 39, 40) and with a series of Spartan officers (51, 53, 55, 58). The Sinope negotiations lead (first) to the provision of ξένια by Cotyora (i. e. a distinct sort of ritual outcome) and then to the provision of sufficient boats to transport the army from Cotyora, which is not the sort of deal that naturally attracts religious closure-rituals – and is, in any case, effectively unnarrated. The same applies to the Arcadians’ acquisition of boats from Heraclea. The Spartan items are discussed below, but the message is that, in different ways from the Sinopeans and from one another, they do not attempt to make the relevant sort of binding agreements with the Greeks. The absence of religious closure-rituals is not to do with their being Greeks, but with their being officers of an imperial power with complicated agendas. Of the closure-rituals involving Greeks and non-Greeks, that in the Ariaeus-Greek alliance attracts special attention. If the sacrificial animals really included a wolf we 73 74

His reputation for generosity (mentioned by Menon in 1.4.15; and cf. 1.9.17) is pertinent. And he fulfils a promise (to Silanus) immediately afterwards in the narrative (1.7.18). Since Cyrus is not bound to his mercenaries by oaths, he is in no position to suggest at Charmande that two separate groups swear oaths or do any other rituals to mark the end of the stand-off (13).

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have (at least from a Greek perspective) a vivid cultural oddity. But the wolf appears only in some MSS and their reading provokes scepticism,75 and the other three animals are paralleled in a Greek environment.76 The dipping of spear-blades in blood is a little more unusual: Aeschylus Septem 43–48 (where the Seven make a compact to capture Thebes or die in the attempt) provides a parallel, but apparently a unique one, while a partial reminiscence in Herodotus 4.70 takes us to a Scythian setting. Burkert (1985: 251) cites Aeschylus and the present text to justify a claim that dipping of hands in blood was a standard Greek feature of oath-related sacrifices, but one may wonder if it is adequate evidence. Still, the action recalls the more general and better attested principle that an oath’s efficacy increases if one swears it while touching the sacrifice or the altar or standing close to the victim, so one could regard it both here and in Aeschylus as a legitimate and not fundamentally outlandish extension of that principle to a highly military context:77 and some have actually detected a Spartan or Peloponnesian background.78 Elsewhere, the spear exchange with Macronians (32) and Thracian-style toast-drinking (59) are not particularly exotic. In the Macronian deal the parties also call on the gods as witnesses but do not swear oaths (32): is that an intentional distinction and one that has anything to do with Macronian behaviour-patterns? Probably not: it is just a variant on oath-swearing that draws more explicit attention to what the swearing of an oath actually does.79 In short, it is not obvious (in Anabasis) that Greeks and non-Greeks look for different sorts of trust-ensuring rituals. Explicit negotiation through interpreters is comparatively rare (eight episodes in seven contexts).80 Interpreters must have been more commonly relevant, but I cannot

75 76 77

78 79

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For a recent rejection of the wolf see Panaino (in press). Others feel that a scribal addition of the wolf has no obvious motif and so defend it as a sort of lectio difficilior. One wonders where the parties found a wolf so conveniently in the fraught circumstances and small time-frame in question. Texts: the closest to the present context is a peace-treaty in Plut. Pyrrh. 6. Archaeological find (Thasos): Blondé et al. 2005: 476–479. (In that case there is dismemberment, which is not mentioned here, though it can be appropriate to oath contexts.) Sacrifice: Hdt. 6.68, Antiph. 5.12, Aeschin. 1.114, Lycurg. 20, Isae. 7.16, Ap. Rhod. 2. 719, Syll.3 921 = IG II2 1237. Altar: Andoc. 1.126. Close to victims: Dem. 23.68 (στὰς ἐπὶ τῶν τομίων). See Konstantinidou 2014: 22. Placing shields over sacrificial victims in the Oath of Plataea (RO 88: 46–47) is perhaps comparable. That the blood is touched with a spear (not just the hand) is a variant giving extra magical power (Bachvarova 2007: 183). See Sommerstein/Bayliss 2012: 25. The parody of the Septem passage in Ar. Lys. 185–190 indicates that, at least in detail, it was memorably unusual. The trope recurs in Cyr. 4.6.10 (Cyrus and Gobryas), 8.5.27 (Cyrus and the Persians). There too, there are no oaths. But there is nothing in the ethnographic framework of Cyropaedia that makes these episodes special. In Hell. 3.4.4, after his sacrifices at Aulis have been destroyed by the Boeotians, Agesilaus leaves, “calling the gods to witness” (3.4.4): it is not clear whether this is an oath to take revenge or just a request to the gods to see to the matter on his behalf. 21, 24, 27, 29, 30, 32, 35–36. In 24, I assume that the Greek interpreter, who is present (2.5.35) but not said to take part, in fact did so, there being no evidence that Ariaeus was a Greek-speaker (contrast Seuthes: see below). Timesitheus, the Mossynoecan proxenοs in Trapezus, is said to act as interpreter in 36, but not in 35, though he acted as the army’s emissary in that case and clearly

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see any obviously interesting to pattern to the silences – unless the absence of deals with Chalybians, Taochians and others is due to inability to talk to them. There is never any hint that linguistic misunderstanding could be relevant: and with an interpreter it is apparently possible to make a very satisfactory deal with very barbarian people. This is most strikingly exemplified by the alliance with the West Mossynoecans (36: see p. 110–111). Nor are there any other examples of genuine cultural misunderstanding. The Bithynians’ approach in 50 is predicated on a misconception (about the founding of a city), but that is a quite different matter. One’s initial suspicion that Xenophon might have made a diplomatic faux pas by ‘giving’ the army to Seuthes81 – a piece of Greek dinner party rhetoric that could mean something different to Thracian ears and problematise the deal that has just been made – is not realised in the narrative, at least not explicitly. There is some insistence on special inducements being offered to Xenophon (land, castles, marriage-links: 7.2.25, 38; 7.3.19; 7.5.8; 7.6.42): should that be called a local culturally specific version of the preferential status of generals in all mercenary contracts? Or is it simply a distinct strand of bribery? Is the distinction even meaningful? But, in any case, the issue of Xenophon misunderstanding the import of the offers never arises. Does trust work differently with different parties? The aborting of negotiations mid-process by treacherous attack is the behaviour of Carduchians (27) and Thracians (63), i. e. warlike barbarians. But both Greeks and non-Greeks can appear untrustworthy. Tissaphernes is presented as more spectacularly (and lethally) untrustworthy than anyone else; but a discriminating reader may be uneasy about consistent representation of his action as straightforward oath-breaking because of unresolved questions about Greek oath-breaking: the aborting of negotiations at the end of II (2.5.42), when the Persians discuss Xenophon’s challenge to clarify Clearchus’ alleged breach of trust for some time and then just go away (an unparalleled scene in Anabasis), means that the issue is quite visibly left up in the air, even if the implicit thrust is that the Persians were in the wrong. Is the climate of suspicion that lies behind all of this a function of the parties being Greek and Persian rather than e. g. Greek and Greek? It is hard to tell, as there is no Greek-Greek situation in Anabasis with which to compare it. But one may be disposed to doubt it.82

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did so because he could interpret. The case of Seuthes is tricky. Xenophon uses an interpreter to communicate with Seuthes’ guards (7.2.19). Seuthes uses an interpreter to take a personal message to Xenophon (7.6.43) and had one with him when following a debate in the Greek army (7.6.8). But he also understood Greek quite well (ibid.) and, although an interpreter was probably present in 59, 65, 66 and 70, conduct of negotiations was evidently not dependent on him, so I do not include these items in the list above. Xenophon ‘gives’ an army to Seuthes as a group of people who want to be his friends and will work hard and endure danger on his behalf so that he will get lots of possessions: 7.3.30–31. Of course, not everyone subscribes to the general perception of Tissaphernes as uncomplicatedly morally beyond the pale: see e. g. Danzig 2007; Mari 2015a.

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The army’s relations with the Spartans in VI and the first part of VII never produce a theoretically stable deal in the first place, so there can certainly be no simple story there about the deterioration of ritually underpinned trust. The story is in fact mixed. After adjudicating the conflict between Dexippus and the army in the latter’s favour, Cleander is keen for a longer-term friendly relationship as their commander but thwarted by bad omens (51). Polynicus and Charminus are also painted in fairly favourable colours and, if they threaten Medosades (7.7.17), it is along lines suggested by Xenophon. Xenophon clearly decides to trust them, despite the claims of Abrozelmis and others in 7.6.43–44 about their bad intentions. (He reaches his decision by sacrifice, the result of which is that he should stay with army and accept any risk that Polynicus and Charminus may represent. He is effectively rewarded by their defence of him in 67. See below p. 121.) Nonetheless they are last seen incurring blame in connection with the selling of booty (7.7.56): the blame is unexplained, but there were presumably those who considered that their interests had been sold short. The army’s dealings of Anaxibius and Aristarchus are skewed by the influence of Pharnabazus (52, 56) and are accordingly rocky throughout. Aristarchus sells army-members into slavery (7.2.6), makes a blunt threat (7.2.13), is accused of planning to hand Xenophon over to the Persian satrap, and never conducts a real negotiation with the army.83 Anaxibius’ actual manner is not (as reported) quite so unpleasant either in their first negotiations (53: both the original meeting in 7.1.3–4 and the follow-up at 7.1.11–14) or after the Byzantium émeute, when he is presumably genuinely worried about whether Xenophon has really put a lid on the situation, just as Xenophon is genuinely worried about Anaxibius’ reaction (55). But he had threatened to sell army-members and advised Aristarchus to do so (only Cleander is untainted by such an idea: 7.2.6), the soldiers thought he reneged on the deal made at Chrysopolis and, as we have seen (above p. 102), the circumstances in which they were eventually got out of Byzantium are opaque and not perhaps positively indicative of his good faith. He is certainly capable of being treacherous towards Pharnabazus, and the fact that this only arises when Pharnabazus is treacherous towards him (7.2.8–9) does not make things much better. On the whole, then, a message of ethnically determined differential trustworthiness is not conspicuously present in Anabasis: Tissaphernes may have been a treacherous murderer and Ariaeus may have sought (prudently?) to re-enter the King’s good books at the Cyreans’ expense, but it was not Tiribazus that broke the σπονδαί in Armenia. And, if the soldiers found dealing with (some) Spartans tricky, it was they who provoked the Heracleotes to batten down the hatches. For good, bad and indifferent rea-

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He starts by issuing orders and threats (7.3.12–13), goes through the motions of setting up a negotiation but suspends the meeting because Xenophon does not come (7.2.14, 16), and is ignored when he tries again because the army has now done a deal with Seuthes.

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sons anyone can fall short in the matter of good faith and the existence of processes for shaping good faith makes little difference.84 8. Conclusion If Anabasis is a story of diplomacy, is it a paradigmatic one? Anabasis is among other things a mirror of leadership, albeit one with an uneven surface, so that some of the images are rather beautiful and others are more or less distorted. Is diplomacy simply an undifferentiated part of the range of non-military tasks with which a leader has to engage? Or is Xenophon consciously making diplomacy a special category? Anabasis certainly shows that leaders must do diplomacy – though the richness of the data set reflects a story-line of unusual geographical and geopolitical scope and variety – but is there more to it than that? I am frankly not sure – or even sure how (in the absence of blatant evidence) one might decide. The unrepetitiveness of diplomatic incidents (above p. 109–110) matches that of military ones. There is an inclination to regard the latter as a reflection of the author’s paradigmatic interests: if one wants to display the general’s solution to tactical problems, it is good to get the maximum number of distinct case-studies into the text. Perhaps the same applies to diplomatic manoeuvres. Or perhaps in both cases one should remember that there is also a more basic imperative to seek variation: the author does not want his text to be dull. (A similar imperative is at work in the variety of military and diplomatic episodes in Cyropaedia.) In any event, paradigmatic intent in diplomacy-stories does not guarantee their categorical distinction from leadership stories of other types. A political or military leader has to be able to assess situations, form rational views about how to deal with them, and communicate those views to other people – in particular to the people upon whom execution of a response to the situation will depend. That model fits diplomatic as well as other contexts. The crucial difference with diplomacy is that it is outward-facing: one is manipulating outsiders, not one’s own followers. Anabasis shows this being done successfully, unsuccessfully and various things in between. But does it show it being done in a manner that is more than contingently distinct from the manipulation of insiders? The answer is not obviously in the affirmative. Xenophon’s speech to Seuthes in 70 (in which he is negotiating for the Spartans) is not an entirely different sort of thing from his speech to the soldiers in 5.7.5–33 (in which he is a beleaguered leader defending his actions): and both are about trust and making things right in the future. The praise of Cyrus’ trustworthiness in treaties, deals and promises (17) certainly thematises an aspect of diplomacy. But it thematises the moral underpinning rather

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A similar conclusion is reached by Torrance 2012: 312–320.

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than the process – or at best suggests that a reputation for moral probity can contribute to process. Since moral probity is a mark of the Xenophontic leader in general, one might well say that diplomacy is merely an example of the larger category. I find nothing that serves as direct authorial thematization of the conduct of diplomacy. There are examples of what may be meant to be clever negotiating. The emissaries at Tarsus (who include Clearchus) apparently defer mentioning a pay rise until late in the proceedings, so it can become the clincher in negotiations that are already making progress because Cyrus has come up with a new (if still untruthful) explanation of his campaign (9). Later Clearchus himself twice wrong-foots the Persians after Cunaxa. First, he tempts Phalinus into revealing an alternative message from the King – not the initial demand for surrender but an invitation to decide between truce and war (18).85 Then, after having chosen war and prompted another Persian diplomatic approach, he deflects that approach into the offer of σπονδαί to enable the acquisition of provisions (20).86 We remember that during the Tarsus mutiny he was in secret contact with Cyrus while pretending publicly to be taking a stand against him and that, even earlier, he is represented as able to get 10,000 darics out of Cyrus without saying what they were for (3): tantalisingly Xenophon says the arguments by which that remarkable result was achieved have been written down “elsewhere” – but they do not survive. Perhaps Clearchus really was a clever (if sometimes unscrupulous) negotiator. But, if so, it is not thematised in the obituary notice: he was a good leader to have ἐν τοῖς δεινοῖς (2.6.11), but any special diplomatic aspect to that quality remains unmentioned. And it is not impossible that after Cunaxa (at least) the King was playing him as much he was playing the King. Tissaphernes certainly played him, fatally, on the banks of the Zab. Clearchus had enjoyed some luck – there was explicitly an element of chance in the way that the decision in favour of war brought the King to negotiate a treaty (2.2.13) – and eventually it ran out because he encountered someone who was more clever or more unscrupulous or just because it generally does. But, in any case, in the comparatively few cases in Anabasis in which we see negotiators arguing their position in detail, they largely do so in predictable fashions (this is as true of Xenophon as anyone else), and it is not at all obvious that a diplomatic λόγος is very different from a forensic or symbouleutic one. There is also little sign of ‘diplomacy’ in the sense of the elegant veiling of hard politics in emollient words. I am not sure that the first speech of the supposed “clever speaker” Hecatonymus of Sinope really counts: the threat in 5.5.12 is fairly blunt, and is seen as such both by Xenophon (22) and by his fellow-ambassadors (24). His attempt to make amends at the start of his second speech (if that is what it is) plays more as self-regarding platitude than suave diplomacy. No figure in Anabasis exemplifies what one might call the normal city-state 85 86

It is hard to know whether Phalinus had this alternative offer as a fall-back position all along. With a touch of rhetorical provocation in his initial response to the approach about σπονδαί: “Tell him, then, that there will have to be a battle […]” (2.3.5).

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diplomat more than Hecatonymus (the Spartan officials are military men from a not entirely normal state), but the element of caricature in his representation is directed at the orator, not specifically the diplomat. I suspect, then, that there is a fairly seamless continuity between inward- and outward-facing persuasive rhetoric in Anabasis. Elsewhere in the Xenophontic corpus, diplomacy is not the object of much interest in the Socratica or the Scripta Minora,87 but it figures, of course, in Hellenica and in Cyropaedia. About Hellenica there is no space here to comment in detail. The text contains nearly 120 episodes of negotiation and some of them are the object of significant or even substantial development: the reader will certainly understand (a) that such negotiation is an important part of what determines the developing story of Greek interactions, (b) that particular cases can serve as an instructive window on past and present political relations, and (c) that a number of different ways of negotiating style are on display. There is also a high degree of disjunction between those who are prominent as negotiators and those who are prominent as military leaders. This last point does not apply in Cyropaedia, where only one episode of any substantive interest does not involve Cyrus personally:88 Cyrus is a leader who believes diplomacy is an important functional alternative to war-making (8.1.11) but he never despatches ambassadors (πρέσβεις), only heralds and messengers, and believes in doing his own negotiating. The different general mise-en-scène means that the types of diplomatic negotiation only overlap partially with Anabasis and a higher proportion (of a much smaller data set)89 have outcomes that involve formal closure-rituals (though it is still under 50 %), but the mirror of leadership shows a variety of images of talking and fighting that add up to a single portrait and in that respect it resembles Anabasis much more than Hellenica, though the effect is even more highly focused. All of Xenophon’s work deals at least inter alia in paradigmatic instruction, but the constraints of real world events produce a more disaggregated result in Hellenica than elsewhere: there can be no ‘hero’ figure that runs through the entire text (not even Agesilaus) and the disjunction between orator-politicians and military leaders was a feature of most fourth-century Greek states. But in the present context there is a further point to be

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There are general references to alliances in Mem. 2.6.27, 3.4.9. The reformed tyrant should seek allies (Hier. 11.4), while the unreformed one fights a war with his own subjects in which there can be no trustworthy σπονδαί (2.11). Athens’ mission in Poroi is to reconcile (συναλλάττειν) the Greeks, making them ὁμογνώμονάς τε καὶ συνόρκους καὶ συμμάχους and dedicated to defending Delphi against anyone exploiting a post-Phocian vacuum – a statement that in συνόρκους uses a word otherwise unattested in Greek apart from Didymus Caecus In Genesim 174.3. There are a few relevant passages in the bits of Agesilaus that do not overlap directly with Hellenica (1.12, 3.3–5, 4.6, 7.7, 8.3). 7.4.3–7, where Adusius tricks the Carian factions into making peace with one another. There are only 21 episodes (arguably 19 if one counts the Indian story as one episode: 2.4.1–8, 3.2.27–3.3.1, 6.2.1) in a much longer book.

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made. The non-military set-pieces in Hellenica are primarily diplomatic or quasi-judicial. There are no extended reports of debates within a city-state assembly that do not involve foreign emissaries or defendants – and one of the latter group (Euphron’s killers: 7.3.7–11) are also foreigners.90 If we wish to assess the degree of contrast between inward- and outward-facing persuasive rhetoric, Hellenica has less to offer than Anabasis (where there are army-assemblies) or Cyropaedia (where Cyrus does a great deal of talking to smaller and larger groups of fellow-Persians). At least by default it does little to compromise the apparent seamless continuity between the two in Cyropaedia and Anabasis.91 In short: if one wished to be bluntly (indeed undiplomatically) provocative, one might end by saying that, for Xenophon anyway, diplomacy did not really exist. But that blunt conclusion can be mitigated by two further observations. First, the set of case-studies provided by Anabasis is accidental and artificial: accidental because produced by a particular and rather unusual set of events, artificial because (as will have been apparent) subject to literary manipulation.92 But in broad terms this does not differentiate Anabasis from other Greek historiography and, since the subject matter is largely defined by war and peace, the data set is certainly just as much worth the attention of students of ancient diplomacy as that provided by Herodotus, Thucydides, Polybius and the rest – including Xenophon’s own Hellenica. Indeed, the unusual variety of the material and its extension beyond the simple categories of formal alliance- or peace-making gives it a capital interest. Second, whether or not diplomacy is a categorically distinct aspect of leadership, there is one important difference. The leader who has absorbed the lessons of Anabasis about tactical response to particular military situations can hope to produce a clear-cut result on the battlefield and one that stands whatever may happen subsequently. But, when it comes to diplomatic situations, the message of Anabasis is that success is more elusive and that big successes can turn into big failures. You know where you are with swords, spears and the shedding of human blood, but men do not always mean what they say (or go on meaning what they say: it is not just a matter of negotiations that are in bad faith from the outset) and processes designed to counter this tendency do not necessarily do so: episodes in which closure is exceptionally strongly marked by ritual underpinning are ones that end badly (above p. 112–113). Faced with the need to decide whether to accept nomination as overall commander of the army, Xenophon resorts to rational reflection and omen-sacrifice (6.1.21–33). Faced with the need to decide whether Polynicus and Charminus are to be trusted, Xenophon limits himself 90 91 92

2.4.40–42, a speech of Thrasybulus addressed to former civil war opponents in the assembly, has something of the character of an address to a foreign audience. Nothing in the reception of speech-making in Xenophon notes a distinctively diplomatic element in Anabasis (or elsewhere): that is, it does not seem inclined to perceive diplomacy as categorically distinct (Tuplin 2014: 69–79) That is implicit in much of what precedes. But see e. g. p. 98–99, 101–102, 106–107, 109–114, note 3, 24, 29, 30, 48, 59, 64, 66, 70 for some more specific alerts to the point.

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to omen-sacrifice (7.6.44). The more a man rehearses the reasons why he should be trusted, the more worried you should be. Only the gods know: you had better remember to ask them and hope they are prepared to give you a clear answer. Table 1 Diplomatic episodes in Anabasis 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

Cyrus, new hirings: 1.1.6 Cyrus (Parysatis), King: 1.1.8 Cyrus, Clearchus: 1.1.9 Cyrus, Aristippus: 1.1.10 Cyrus, Proxenus: 1.1.11 Cyrus, Sophaenetus & Socrates: 1.1.11 Cyrus, Syennesis (Epyaxa) (1): 1.2.12–18 Cyrus, Syennesis (2): 1.2.26–27 Cyrus, Greeks (1): Tarsus: 1.3.1–21 Cyrus, Abrocomas’ mercenaries: 1.4.3 Cyrus, Spartans: 1.4.3 Cyrus, Greeks (2): Thapsacus: 1.4.11–16 Clearchus, Menon: 1.5.14–17 Orontes, King: 1.6.3 Cyrus, Orontas (1) 1.6.6 Cyrus, Orontas (2): 1.6.7 Cyrus, undefined other parties: 1.9.7–10 King, Greeks (1) 2.1.7–23 Ariaeus, Greeks (1): 2.2.8–9 King, Greeks (2): 2.3.1–10 King, Greeks (3): 2.3.17–29 King, Ariaeus: 2.4.1–2 King (Tissaphernes), Greeks (Clearchus): 2.5.1–27 King (Ariaeus), Greeks (2): 2.5.34–42 King, Mysians: 3.2.24 (imaginary event) King (Mithradates), Greeks: 3.3.1–4 Carduchi, Greeks (1): 4.2.18–29 Carduchi, Greeks (2): 4.2.22–23 Tiribazus, Greeks: 4.4.5–6 Armenians, Greeks: 4.5.24–4.6.1 Gymnias arkhon, Greeks: 4.7.19 Macronians, Greeks: 4.8.4–7 Trapezus, Greeks: 4.8.23 Colchians (Trapezus), Greeks (2): 4.8.24. And cf. 5.2.1; 5.5.13 Mossynoeci, Greeks (1): 5.4.25 Mossynoeci, Greeks (2): 5.4.3–11

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

Tibareni, Greeks: 5.5.2–3 Sinope, Greeks (1): 5.5.7–25 Sinope, Greeks (2): 5.6.1–14 Sinope, Greeks (3): 5.6.14 + 6.1.14 Timasion & Thorax, Sinope & Heraclea: 5.6.19–26 42. Colchians, Greeks: 5.7.17–19 43. Cerasuntians, Greeks: 5.7.20–25 44. Corylas, Greeks: 6.1.1–14 45. Sinope, Greeks (4): 6.1.15 46. Heraclea, Greeks (1): 6.2.3 47. Heraclea, Greeks (2): 6.2.4–8 48. Heraclea, Arcadians: 6.2.17 49. Thracians, Arcadians: 6.3.8–9 50. Bithynians, Greeks: 6.6.4 51. Spartans (Cleander), Greeks: 6.6.5–37 52. Pharnabazus, Spartans (Anaxibius): 7.1.2; 7.2.4, 7 53. Spartans (Anaxibius), Greeks (1): 7.1.3–4,7 54. Seuthes, Greeks (1): 7.1.5 55. Spartans (Anaxibius), Greeks (2): 7.1.31–34 56. Pharnabazus, Spartans (Aristarchus): 7.2.7,12 57. Seuthes, Greeks (2): 7.2.10 58. Spartans (Aristarchus), Greeks: 7.2.12–16; 7.3.2–3 59. Seuthes, Greeks (3): 7.2.16–7.3.48 60. Parium, Medocus: 7.3.16–18 61. Seuthes, unidentified cities: 7.3.21 62. Thracians, Seuthes (1): 7.4.5 63. Thracians, Seuthes (2): 7.4.12–14 64. Thracians, Seuthes (3): 7.4.22–24 65. Seuthes, Greeks (4): 7.5.9–12 66. Seuthes, Spartans (Polynicus, Charminus): 7.6.1–7 67. Spartans (Polynicus, Charminus), Greeks: 7.6.8–44 68. Seuthes (Medosades), Greeks (Xenophon): 7.7.1–14 69. Seuthes (Medosades), Spartans (Polynicus, Charminus): 7.7.15–19 70. Seuthes, Spartans (Xenophon): 7.7.20–57

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Bibliography Bachvarova 2007 = Bachvarova, M. R., “Oath and allusion in Alcaeus fr. 129”, in Sommerstein, A. H. / Fletcher, J. (ed.), Horkos: The Oath in Greek Society, Bristol 2007: 179–188. Blondé et al. 2005 = Blondé, F. / Muller, A. / Mullier, D / Poplin, F., “Un rituel d’engagement à Thasos: archéologie et textes”, Kernos 18 (2005): 476–479. Burkert 1985 = Burkert, W., Greek Religion, Oxford 1985. Danzig 2007 = Danzig, G., “Xenophon’s wicked Persian or What’s wrong with Tissaphernes? Xenophon’s views on lying and breaking oaths”, in Tuplin, C. J. (ed.), Persian Responses. Political and Cultural Interaction with(in) the Persian Empire, Swansea 2007: 27–50. Konstantinidou 2014 = Konstantinidou, K., “Oath and curse”, in Sommerstein/ Torrance 2014: 6–47. Mari 2012 = Mari, F., “La destra del Re”, Sileno 38 (2012): 181–202. Mari 2014 = Mari, F., “La main infidèle. Le Grand Roi et la mutilation de Cyrus le Jeune”, in Allély, A. (ed.), Corps au supplice et violences de guerre à l’Antiquité, Bordeaux 2014: 79–93. Mari 2015a = Mari, F., “The exchange of symbolic guarantees between Clearchus and Tissaphernes”, in Brückmann G. C. / Deichl, F. et al. (ed.), Cultural Contacts and Cultural Identity, Munich 2015: 45–52. Mari 2015b = Mari, F., “Gage de confiance, signe d’autorité : le cas des dexiai achéménides”, in Laboratoire junior ERAMA (ed.), Les mises en scène de l’autorité dans les Mondes Anciens, Nancy 2015: 49–62. Mari 2018 = Mari, F., “Les sens de la poignée de main en Grèce ancienne du VIIIe au Ve siècle avant J.-C.”, Ktèma 43 (2018): 105–131. Panaino (in press) = Panaino, A., “When Greeks and Persians swore together. About Xenophon’s Anabasis II, 2, 8–9”, in press. Sommerstein/Bayliss 2012 = Sommerstein, A. H. / Bayliss, A. J., Oath and State in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2012. Sommerstein/Torrance 2014 = Sommerstein, A. H. / Torrance, I. C., Oaths and Swearing in Ancient Greece, Berlin/Boston (MA) 2014. Torrance 2012 = Torrance, I. C., “Oaths and ‘the barbarian’”, in Sommerstein/Bayliss 2012: 307–322. Torrance 2014 = Torrance, I. C., “Ways to give oaths extra sanctity”, in Sommerstein/ Torrance 2014: 132–155. Tuplin 2014 = Tuplin, C. J., “Le salut par la parole. Les discours dans l’Anabase de Xénophon”, in Pontier, P. (ed.), Xénophon et la rhétorique, Paris 2014: 69–120.

Artaxerxes’ letter to the Spartans in Book 4 of Thucydides Edith Foster 1. Introduction This paper interrogates the diplomatic language of a letter from the Persian King Artaxerxes to the Spartans. This letter and its bearer, the Persian Artaphernes, were captured by the Athenians in 424 BC; Thucydides records what he thought was its main content in Book 4, chapter 50 of his History. I argue that Thucydides’ account shows Artaxerxes’ sophisticated management of the bases for future good faith negotiations with the Spartans. Moreover, I argue against the (relatively slight) past scholarship on this letter that it must be seen, first and foremost, as a diplomatic performance, so that Artaxerxes’ words should not be treated as a straightforward record of fact.1 The first part of this chapter outlines the historical background of Artaxerxes’ letter. It begins by briefly reviewing Spartan-Persian and Athenian-Persian relations up to 424. It concludes by suggesting that Artaxerxes’ relatively profitable relationship with Athens, combined with Sparta’s diplomatic and especially military failures during the Archidamian War may have been important reasons for Persia’s lack of support for Sparta during the early part of the war: Sparta’s most spectacular military failures occurred in 425 and were the immediate context for Artaxerxes’ letter. Turning in the second part of the chapter to the letter itself, we examine the style of Thucydides’ report: Thucydides’ decision to summarise Artaxerxes’ words in indirect discourse does not compromise its value as a record of diplomatic communication. 1

Artaxerxes’ letter goes unmentioned in synoptic studies of Thucydides, such as Connor 1984 or Stahl 2003. Gomme 1956, Rhodes 1998, and Hornblower 1996 ad loc. take Artaxerxes’ words as a report of Spartan behaviour and suggest that the Spartan indecisiveness Artaxerxes reports is due to the Spartans’ unwillingness to cede the Greek cities of Asia Minor (cf. Brunt 1965 and for a different view of the matter, the argument below). They do not press the matter further, although Hornblower calls the letter “diplomatic”. Book 4, chapter 50 is often mentioned mainly in respect to the problem of dating the Athenian mission to Artaxerxes of 4.50.3; cf. e. g. Hunt 2017: 127, who refers back to Hornblower 1996. Hyland 2017: 41 summarises, but does not analyse, Thucydides’ report, other than to notice that it contains “no specific commitment to Sparta”.

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Finally, the chapter parses the King’s language, as Thucydides summarised it, in order to show how it creates operational good faith for his future relations with Sparta.2 It is furthermore argued that the Persian emissary Artaphernes was an important adjunct to the words of the letter, since Artaphernes’ presence carried its own unwritten diplomatic message. To conclude, the chapter places the letter in the context of Thucydides’ account of the war and its unfolding. 2. The historical context of Artaxerxes’ letter (I): Sparta, Athens, and Artaxerxes When the Peloponnesian War began, the Spartans and their allies expected that ravaging Attic land for a few years would bring a relatively painless victory (1.121.4, 4.85.2, 5.14.3, 7.28.3).3 Their confidence in success notwithstanding, according to Thucydides they also planned to seek help from the Persian King and other non-Greek powers (1.82.1, 2.7.1–2); in addition, they asked their Greek allies in Italy and Sicily for money and ships, with the aim of building up a navy of 500 ships (2.7.2).4 The Spartans’ publicly announced decision to seek Persian support is characteristic of Greek-Persian interaction in Thucydides. All Greek embassies to Persia in Thucydides seek money and/or military support from the ancient enemy, and while Greek-Persian negotiations in Books 6 through 8 are conducted through satraps,5 in Books 1 through 4 requests for support are directed to the King himself. Thus, in Book 1, Thucydides relates that after the Persian Wars the Spartan king Pausanias and the Athenian general Themistocles wrote to Xerxes and Artaxerxes, respectively, for support.6 In Book 2, both Athens and Sparta again send embassies directly to the King (2.67).7 Book 3 mentions no embassies to Persia, and Book 4 contains the embassy in question here.8 To whom were the Spartans and Athenians appealing during the first years of the Peloponnesian War? For Themistocles and Thucydides, the Great King was Artaxerxes, son of Xerxes: by the time the Peloponnesian War began in 431, he had been on

2 3 4 5 6 7 8

For a definition of ‘operational good faith’ see the Introduction to this volume, page 18. Unless otherwise specified, citations are from the text of Thucydides. Kelly 1982 offers a careful appreciation of this apparently high number; see esp. 31–36. On the Persians in Book 8 of Thucydides, see especially Munson 2012. Thucydides records letters from Pausanias to Xerxes (1.128.7), Xerxes to Pausanias (1.129.3), and Themistocles to Xerxes (1.137.4). Athens’ embassies of this period were parodied in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, which was produced in 425, one year before the Athenians captured the royal letter that is the subject of this paper (cf. 61–133, 646–651). Thucydides mentions only state level contacts between Persia and the Greeks. For connections between on a more personal level, see Lenfant in this volume.

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the throne for about 23 years.9 He continued to reign during the first six years of the war and died in 424, sometime after sending off Artaphernes and the letter to the Spartans; with Artaxerxes’ death begins the so-called ‘Persian Gap’ in Thucydides, a feature of Thucydides’ narrative to which I will refer in the conclusion.10 As other Athenian writings of this period also reveal, Artaxerxes’ enormous wealth and extensive realm were fixtures of the Athenian imagination.11 For Thucydides, Persia is simply the one great power: it is not just that the King was uniquely able to gift individuals with provinces and cities, as we see, for instance, with Themistocles (1.138.5), but in a statement that I have not seen mentioned in the bibliography on this topic, Thucydides’ Pericles makes it clear that in his mind the Persian King was the one person who could potentially be thought able to stand between Athens and immortality: except, Pericles claims, not even he can stop Athens (2.62.2).12 In the typical Thucydidean mode, a few chapters after Pericles’ statement Thucydides tells us that Persian money was an important factor in Sparta’s victory over Athens in the war (2.65.12). Thucydides thus saw what Pericles died too early to see: in the end the Spartans received Persian support and won the Peloponnesian war. But it took nearly twenty years for them to get this support, which was forthcoming only in 412, after the Athenians had been defeated in Sicily. At first glance, it seems puzzling that the Spartans required two decades to convince Artaxerxes to support them against Athens: during this period Athens was continuously absorbing the tribute moneys of the Asia Minor coast, which would otherwise have flowed to the satraps and the King (8.5.5). Moreover, in the early period of Artaxerxes’ reign the Athenians had been persistently aggressive; in particular, they had supported a long-lasting Egyptian revolt against Persia. Ultimately, Artaxerxes’ forces prevailed in Egypt (1.110), but the Athenians had subsequently contested for Cyprus, with partial success (1.112.2). Then, however, in about 449, Athens and Persia seem to have negotiated a peace, the so-called ‘Peace of Callias’;13 whether or not a formal treaty was signed, it seems clear that the competi-

9 10 11

12 13

This calculation follows the dating of Artaxerxes’ reign argued, convincingly to me, in Gertoux 2018; should this argument not be accepted, the alternative is to posit that Artaxerxes became ruler about ten years earlier. On the ‘Persian Gap’, see especially Wiesehöfer 2006, with literature. Cf. e. g. Aristophanes’ Acharnians, cited in note 7, and Plato’s Alcibiades 1: 120e–123e. As has often been mentioned, especially in relation to Acharnians, Herodotus’ portrayal of the Persian kings supplied a rich background for these depictions of Persian wealth. On the Greeks’ association of the Persians with wealth and luxury (and the complexities of this association), cf. Tuplin 1997: 172–178. καὶ οὐκ ἔστιν ὅστις τῇ ὑπαρχούσῃ παρασκευῇ τοῦ ναυτικοῦ πλέοντας ὑμᾶς οὔτε βασιλεὺς οὔτε ἄλλο οὐδὲν ἔθνος τῶν ἐν τῷ παρόντι κωλύσει (2.62.2). Cf. Lewis 1977: 50–51; Wiesehöfer 2006: 659. Hyland 2017: 16–18 examines the arguments for and against the conclusion of a formal peace treaty between Athens and Persia in 449.

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tion between Athens and Persia lessened to some extent in the period that followed.14 John Hyland has made a strong argument that this period of relative détente was in Artaxerxes’ economic and political interest: Persian profits from taxing Aegean trade with Athens, once that region was under Athenian control, together with the savings from not having to raise navies, amounted to more income than the Ionian tribute Persia had lost to Athens.15 Furthermore, “the ideology of Persian power encouraged Artaxerxes to view Athenian embassies as evidence of submission, the war’s end as an imposition of order, and [Athenian] restraint in Ionia as a voluntary grant rather than a forced concession”.16 Hyland thus suggests that Artaxerxes was likely able to advertise the fact that Athens was negotiating (rather than attacking) as proof that Persia had restored its influence over the region. Artaxerxes therefore stood to profit in both money and reputation from his relations with the Athenians, regardless of their incurably restive character.17 If these arguments are valid or even partly valid, Sparta would have to offer the Persians something similar or greater than Athens in order to capture the King’s support, and this was impossible during the Archidamian War and for some time after. 3. The historical context of Artaxerxes’ letter (II): Spartan failures during the Archidamian War Sparta’s military fate in the Archidamian War, as the first ten years of the Peloponnesian War are called, was dramatically summarised by A. W. Gomme in his Commentary on Thucydides as “a series of miserable failures and but one success, the inglorious victory over Plataia!”.18 As we saw, Sparta had placed confidence in the power of ravaging Attica, but repeated invasions of Attica between 431 and 425 had made little difference and all major naval encounters with Athens had ended in defeat, resulting in the loss of nearly all ships available to Sparta by 424.19 In particular, in 425 Athens defeated and took prisoner Spartiate hoplites on the island of Sphacteria, at the same time confiscating much of the Spartan navy (4.3–41). Further invasions of Attica were now out of

14 15 16 17

18 19

Together with the extensive treatment in Hyland 2017, see Rung 2008: 31–34. Hyland 2018: 20–30. This would not, of course, prevent Athens’ presence from being a serious irritant to the satraps on the spot; cf. 8.5–6. Hyland 2018: 31. Eddy 1973 outlines Athenian-Persian skirmishing in this period, arguing that relations between Athens and Persia were more like a cold war. However, if Artaxerxes could nevertheless profit from taxing trade and from claiming that he had brought this border area under relative control, as compared with earlier periods, it will not matter whether we characterise the period as a ‘cold war’ or a ‘balance of power’, as does Rung 2008: 32. HCT, III: 459. The classic studies of Sparta’s failure during the Archidamian War are Brunt 1965 and Kelly 1982.

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the question, since the Athenians decreed that they would kill their Spartan prisoners if Sparta invaded again (4.41.1). Although drastically lacking in options once the men were captured, the Spartans had maintained their proud stance as leaders of the Greeks: they sent an embassy to the Athenians which represented Sparta as a greater power humbled by a lesser one (4.18.1) and offered “peace and alliance” (4.19.1) in return for the men the Athenians had captured, since they thought that the Athenians would eagerly accept this offer (4.21.1). This tone-deaf overture (the Athenians were hardly likely to give up the fruits of their victory in return for a friendship they could not trust to last any longer than Sparta’s interest in it)20 failed entirely, and the Athenians sealed their refusals with further victories against Sparta and her allies,21 leaving the Spartans utterly demoralized and unable to formulate a strategy for continuing the war (4.55). Thus, in 424, the year in which the Athenians captured Artaxerxes’ letter, the Spartans had little or nothing to offer him; in particular, they had no record of military or diplomatic success inside or outside of greater Greece to show that his money would be well spent if he backed Sparta against Athens.22 The failure of Sparta’s Persian diplomacy in the early years of the Peloponnesian War is therefore explicable, in particular as Thucydides shows that there were difficulties in addition to Sparta’s disastrous record: Thucydides’ slight references to Sparta’s attempts to connect with Persia during the first years of the war emphasise the difficulty of reaching the King, sometimes because of Athenian vigilance and sometimes because of Sparta’s lack of self-confidence.23 He shows that the Spartans sent an embassy to Persia in 430, but that the Athenians captured and killed the Spartan ambassadors before they could leave the Greek mainland (2.67); that the Spartan admiral Alcidas was too frightened of Athenian sea power to seek Persian support in Ionia after Sparta’s unsuccessful attempts to support the failed rebellion of Lesbos in 427 (3.31.1), and that now, in 424, the Athenians have captured a Persian ambassador to Sparta: the letter he bears shows that some Spartan ambassadors had evaded Athens and reached the King; however, Artaxerxes had apparently found their embassies inexplicable. Thucydides’ account of the Athenian capture of Artaxerxes’ letter is therefore brought forward in the context of the failure of Spartan military and diplomatic efforts during the Archidamian War. How does Thucydides represent this letter?

20 21 22 23

For the unreliability of philia between cities in Thucydides, see Wilson 1989. Cf. the losses of Methana (4.45.2), Cythera (4.53–54), and Thyrea (4.56.2–57). Persia’s lack of support in this period is mirrored by the inaction of the Greek west. Thucydides offers no evidence that the Sicilians sent even a single ship during this period, much less the hundreds of ships Sparta was aiming for. This lack of confidence may also be related to even earlier failures of diplomacy in Greece. Book 1 of Thucydides emphasises at length Sparta’s unsuccessful effort to compel Athens to an agreement before the Archidamian War; Book 2 shows Sparta’s failed negotiations at Plataea.

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4. The style of Thucydides’ record of Artaxerxes’ letter to the Spartans In Book 1, Thucydides renders the letters from Pausanias to Xerxes, from Xerxes to Pausanias, and from Themistocles to Artaxerxes in direct discourse; the many Ionicisms, together with other stylistic features of these letters, have led scholars to suspect that his sources were Ionian reports that included records of these letters.24 In contrast, in Book 4 Thucydides summarises the main contents of Artaxerxes’ letter in indirect discourse. This does not mean that Thucydides’ representation of the letter has less value for interpreting the King’s diplomatic strategies. In fact, Thucydides often uses indirect discourse to characterise speakers and their situations. In this regard, it may be useful to review a few examples of Thucydides’ employment of indirect discourse. When, at the beginning of Book 4, the Athenian general Demosthenes tries to convince his co-commanders Sophocles and Eurymedon to fortify a coastal position at Pylos in the south-western Peloponnese, Thucydides records their sarcastic response in indirect discourse: they said that “there were many barren promontories in the Peloponnese, if he wanted to cost the city money” (4.3.3). Some chapters later, the Athenians at Pylos are in trouble. Thucydides composes the demagogue Cleon’s vilification of the general Nicias in indirect discourse: Cleon says to the Assembly at Athens that “if the generals were men, they would have sailed to Pylos and captured the [Spartans] on the island, and that he himself, if he were in office, would have done this” (4.27.5). Later, when Demosthenes and Cleon have come to a standstill on the island of Sphacteria because they cannot dislodge the Spartans from the fort they have occupied, the words of an unnamed Messenian captain, who chastises the Athenian generals to their faces, are recorded in indirect discourse. The Messenian tells them “that they are fighting in vain” (4.36.1) and offers his superior plan. Sophocles and Eurymedon are competing with Demosthenes for the city’s resources; Cleon strikes what he wrongly thinks will be a solid blow against Nicias; the Messenian captain is more confident than we might expect. Each of these statements in indirect discourse offers a brief snapshot of the speaker’s focus at a turning point in the narrative; likewise, Thucydides’ brief summary of Artaxerxes’ letter offers a snapshot of Artaxerxes’ royal diplomacy. In Thucydides, indirect discourse can be a versatile tool for offering precisely shaped statements that illuminate a speaker’s aims.25

24

25

Cf. Blösel 2012. Like the letters between the generals and the King in Book 1, Nicias’ letter to the Athenians at 7.11–15 is rendered in direct discourse. The letter of Pedaritus to Astyochus (8.33.3) and the traitorous correspondence of Phrynichus, Astyochus, and Alcibiades (8.50.1–51.1) are rendered in indirect discourse. Cf. Foster 2012.

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5. Thucydides 4.50: Artaxerxes’ letter Book 4, chapter 50, is organised in a simple and logical way. The first sentence records the Athenians’ capture of the Persian emissary Artaphernes, who was probably a member of the Persian nobility,26 the second sentence reports the contents of the letter he was carrying, and the third sentence records that the Athenians afterward sent Artaphernes and their own embassy back to Persia, but that by this time Artaxerxes had died. Τοῦ δ᾽ ἐπιγιγνομένου χειμῶνος Ἀριστείδης ὁ Ἀρχίππου, εἷς τῶν ἀργυρολόγων νεῶν Ἀθηναίων στρατηγός, αἳ ἐξεπέμφθησαν πρὸς τοὺς ξυμμάχους, Ἀρταφέρνην ἄνδρα Πέρσην παρὰ βασιλέως πορευόμενον ἐς Λακεδαίμονα ξυλλαμβάνει ἐν Ἠιόνι τῇ ἐπὶ Στρυμόνι. Καὶ αὐτοῦ κομισθέντος οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι τὰς μὲν ἐπιστολὰς μεταγραψάμενοι ἐκ τῶν Ἀσσυρίων γραμμάτων ἀνέγνωσαν, ἐν αἷς πολλῶν ἄλλων γεγραμμένων κεφάλαιον ἦν πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους, οὐ γιγνώσκειν ὅτι βούλονται· πολλῶν γὰρ ἐλθόντων πρέσβεων οὐδένα ταὐτὰ λέγειν· εἰ οὖν τι βούλονται σαφὲς λέγειν, πέμψαι μετὰ τοῦ Πέρσου ἄνδρας ὡς αὐτόν. Τὸν δὲ Ἀρταφέρνην ὕστερον οἱ Ἀθηναῖοι ἀποστέλλουσι τριήρει ἐς Ἔφεσον καὶ πρέσβεις ἅμα· οἳ πυθόμενοι αὐτόθι βασιλέα Ἀρταξέρξην τὸν Ξέρξου νεωστὶ τεθνηκότα (κατὰ γὰρ τοῦτον τὸν χρόνον ἐτελεύτησεν) ἐπ᾽ οἴκου ἀνεχώρησαν. (Thuc. 4.50.1)

I would like to focus on the second sentence, which begins by showing that the Athenians translated the captured letter from what Thucydides, following Herodotus, calls “Assyrian letters” (Hdt. 4.87.1).27 Thucydides goes on to say that many other things had been written in the letter (πολλῶν ἄλλων γεγραμμένων), and that he will summarise the chief point that was addressed to the Spartans, the κεφάλαιον πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους.28 Unsurprisingly, given that the Athenians frequently captured emissaries between Sparta and Persia, the κεφάλαιον contains no concrete plan or offer.29 Instead, the King

26 27 28

29

Cf. Lewis 1977: 2–3. The language to which they were referring was almost certainly Aramaic, the language of Persian royal scribes. Cf. Greenspahn 2003: 5–7; Lewis 1977: 2–3, with note 3; CT ad loc., correcting HCT. I reject an emendation accepted by Alberti 1992, who changes the text from πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους, οὐ γιγνώσκειν ὅτι βούλονται (‘[addressed] to the Spartans, that he did not understand what they wanted’) to τοὺς Λακεδαιμονίους κτλ (‘that the King did not understand what the Spartans wanted’); the emendation is offered because it is felt that an article is necessary. However, parallel passages (cf. e. g. 3.37.1) show that the article is in fact not necessary here, and if we accept the emendation, we are positing that Artaxerxes wrote to the Spartans ‘that he did not understand what the Spartans want’, as if he were writing to them about a third party who were also called Spartans. Contrast, for instance, the letter instituting the ‘King’s Peace’ of 386, recorded at Xen. Hell. 5.1.31: since this letter was directed to all the Greek cities, there was no fear of capture and the King’s instructions are fully explained. Cf. the analysis in Baragwanath 2018: 43–46; Rung 2008: 39–40. In the situation we are discussing here, Artaphernes will have known more than the letter states.

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has written to the Spartans that he does not understand what they want, since none of their many ambassadors say the same things; if the Spartans want to say “something clear”, he is willing to entertain further ambassadors, whom they should send back with Artaphernes. As with our other examples of Thucydides’ employment of indirect discourse, this statement reflects the King’s personality and strategies: all Greek embassies want the same thing, so that Artaxerxes certainly does know what the Spartans want. However, instead of saying that he will not now give them money for the war, he says “that he does not know what they want, because each successive Spartan emissary represents a different policy”.30 This message represents a stroke of diplomatic genius, since Artaxerxes’ words have the effect of disburdening both the Spartans and himself from any previous negotiations, while at the same time maintaining a diplomatic relation. By implying that he requires the Spartans only to refine and communicate a single policy that he can comprehend, he both protects the secrecy of previous embassies and creates a context in which the Spartans experience no disadvantages: whatever promises or requests they have made, whatever plans they have suggested, these have not been understood and can be left behind. Sparta’s relationship with Persia can begin anew, and in fact, Artaxerxes has sent with his letter a noble Persian, Artaphernes, who can clarify with the Spartans what might best be said, as a sign of the continuing good faith between the two parties. In this way, Artaxerxes simultaneously frees both sides of the previous negotiations and opens the way for a renewal of contact. For Artaxerxes, this is a win-win situation: he can defer support, but not lose his connection with Sparta. His strategy deploys diplomatic conventions understood by all: he does not make requirements beyond clarity, an obvious pre-condition of a reliable agreement. Thus, Artaxerxes blames the Spartans’ past performance of diplomacy, but does not suggest that they are in any way disqualified from further negotiations.31 On the contrary, he places responsibility for the success of the negotiations with Sparta: if they and Artaphernes can return to him with a clear policy, negotiations can resume.32

30 31 32

Munson 2012: 256–258 notes another irony in Thucydides’ presentation: whereas the Spartans usually tell others that their speeches or diplomacy are inexplicable and too wordy, the King here writes this to the Spartans. On the stages of diplomatic performance, see this volume’s Introduction, p. 18–19. This requirement may have a further historical background: Artaxerxes had twenty years previously sent to Sparta a high-ranking envoy with money, instead of just a letter: during the Egyptian revolt in the later 450’s he had sent Megabazus to the Spartans in an attempt to persuade them to attack Attica so as to draw the Athenians away from Egypt. Megabazus had expended money, but the Spartans did not attack, so that he left rather than spend more of the King’s money in vain (1.109.2–3); cf. Rung 2008: 31.

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The scholarship has offered a variety of speculations about the causes of Sparta’s allegedly incoherent embassies. Taking Artaxerxes’ words a face value, as if he were reporting Spartan behaviour accurately to the Spartans, scholars have argued that Sparta’s alleged incoherence at Susa was caused by internal divisions or by a reluctance openly to associate with the King, or also by a reluctance to cede to the Persians the cities of the Asia Minor seaboard, in the case that Sparta, with the King’s help, won the war.33 These speculations do not take into account that Artaxerxes’ aim is diplomatic, namely to maintain his relationship with Sparta while withholding monetary support. Perhaps the Spartans were not incoherent at all, but rather clear and to the point: Artaxerxes’ words, which neither blame nor remember their previous negotiations, would nevertheless be welcome at Sparta, since they offer the disaster-stricken Spartans an opportunity to put their previous requests and promises away, whatever they were, and start again.34 Artaxerxes rescues Spartan-Persian interactions through focussing on the code of diplomatic conventions and by insisting that one of these conventions (i. e., clarity in one’s requests) be upheld. By insisting on the proper performance of diplomacy, he creates the possibility of its continuation. Understanding that it is necessary to wait for a moment of Spartan strength before negotiations can succeed, or because he is in fact happy with the status quo, which allows him to continue to enjoy the fruits of Athens’ business in the Aegean, Artaxerxes leaves it to the Spartans to decide upon a response. 6. Conclusion: The place of Artaxerxes’ letter in the structure of Thucydides’ History If Artaxerxes was profiting from the Athenians’ restless energy and knew about Sparta’s recent defeats, why was he negotiating with Sparta at all? I suggest that the experienced monarch knew that the fortunes of war could change quite quickly and thus was making room for the Spartans to come back to him whenever they could prove themselves useful.35 Thus, his letter was conciliatory and allowed the Spartans to hope that a future embassy could succeed, particularly since he had also sent Artaphernes. Although they received neither the letter nor the emissary, it is impossible to imagine that the Spartans did not hear about them, and in fact, Sparta’s relations with Persia will serve them well when the time comes: Artaxerxes now dies, but the satraps of his successor, Darius II, come calling as soon as Athens has failed in Sicily.36

33 34 35 36

Cf. Kagan 1974: 257–258, and note 1. On the variety and malleability of diplomatic performances between Greeks and Persians, see Tuplin in this volume. Cf. the agreements eventually reached with Persia at 8.18, 8.37, and 8.58. Cf. 8.5–6.

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The placement of this letter in the narrative of Sparta’s lowest period in the war thus foreshadows Sparta’s future success; a glance at its position in the structure of Thucydides’ text is helpful for understanding its larger import, and perhaps also for describing the ‘Persian Gap’. Artaxerxes’ letter suggests that Spartan ambassadors at Susa were contradicting each other, and perhaps they were. Whether or not, the Spartans were lucky not to have formed a Persian alliance, with its necessary concessions to Persia, at this stage of the war. They still needed the high-flown rhetoric of Greek Freedom, and indeed, Brasidas, Sparta’s most successful ambassador, uses this rhetoric to good effect in detaching Athens’ disaffected allies during the following years.37 That the Athenians, on the other hand, should have taken Artaxerxes’ words at face value, as showing yet more evidence of Spartan bumbling, seems quite likely; modern interpreters should beware of falling into a similar simple-mindedness. At this moment in the war, Athenian success was in stark contrast to Sparta’s string of losses: in 425/24 the Athenians never lose and become entirely over-confident (4.65.3–4). The King’s letter could only have increased this ill-fated hubris: the public revelation of Sparta’s apparently confused and ineffective secret negotiations with Persia seems to be the icing on the cake of Athenian success. And yet, the Spartans will recover, partly because they were unable to negotiate a Persian deal, and therefore did not compromise their self-advertised role as liberators. At the same time, Athenian over-confidence will lead to Sicily and turn out to be a fatal flaw. Thucydides’ disinterest in events that do not reflect these psychological developments and reversals at Athens and Sparta is perhaps partly responsible for the fact that the ‘Persian Gap’ begins here: Thucydides says nothing of a treaty evidently struck between Athens and Artaxerxes’ successor, Darius II,38 and little of any other Spartan or Athenian dealings with Persia until Book 8.39 Instead, Sparta’s war with her allies in Book 5 and Athens’ expedition to Sicily in Books 6 and 7 take centre stage.40 Once the Athenians lose in Sicily, however, the satraps of Asia Minor quickly arrive and compete with one another to support Sparta (8.5.5): their sudden appearance is all the more striking for the absence of recorded Spartan-Persian interactions in the previous books. Further heightening the drama of this moment is the fact that the Athenians themselves seem to have forgotten that the Persians were potential enemies: the reader knows from 2.65 that Persian money will help Sparta to win the war, but as the 37 38 39 40

Cf. e. g. Brasidas’ successful speech at Acanthus (4. 84–88), which was reused on several subsequent occasions. On this treaty, see Rung 2008: 35. Rhodes 1998: ad loc. argues that the absence of this treaty was “… one of Thucydides’ most serious omissions”. Thucydides had also not mentioned the probable ‘Peace of Callias’ of the early 440s. But see the reference to Pharnaces at 5.1.1. On a different level of the text, there is no ‘Persian Gap’, since the paradigm offered by the Persian Wars becomes most active in Books 6 and 7; cf. especially Rood 1999: 146–152.

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Athenians embark upon their expedition to Sicily it is as if the Persians do not exist: in all of his warnings about undertaking the Sicilian expedition Nicias does not once mention the Persians, who run to Sparta’s door as soon as Athens has lost. Because of the ‘Persian Gap’, both the Athenians and the reader forget about the Persians until it is too late. A glance at the structure of the History has cast light on how Thucydides’ record of Artaxerxes’ letter is a ‘seed’ of Sparta’s future success and Athens’ future doom. Artaxerxes’ embassy finds a strategic place in the narrative, helping to fill out the picture of Sparta’s period of failure just before the tide turns, showing a moment that probably inspired Athenian over-confidence and setting the stage for Persia’s dramatic reappearance in Book 8. At the same time, the account gives the reader a glimpse of Artaxerxes, as Thucydides imagined him: this was a King who expected the reversals of war and who was well able to use diplomatic language in his own interests. Bibliography Alberti 1992 = Alberti, I. B., Thucydides Historiae, Vol. 2., Rome 1992. Baragwanath 2018 = Baragwanath, E., “Emotions, Perceptions, Visual Images: Conceptualizing the Past in Xenophon’s Hellenica”, in Fink, S. / Rollinger, R. (ed.), Conceptualizing Past, Present and Future, Münster 2018: 32–57. Blösel 2012 = Blösel, W., “Thucydides on Themistocles: A Herodotean Narrator?”, in Foster, E. / Lateiner, D. (ed.), Thucydides and Herodotus, Oxford 2012: 215–240. Brunt 1965 = Brunt, P., “Spartan Policy and Strategy in the Archidamian War”, Phoenix 19/4 (1965): 255–280. Connor 1984 = Connor, W. R., Thucydides, Princeton (NJ) 1984. Eddy 1984 = Eddy, S., “The Cold War Between Athens and Persia, ca. 448–412 B. C.”, CP 68/4 (1973): 241–258. Foster 2012 = Foster, E., “Recent Scholarship on Direct and Indirect Discourse in the Ancient Historians”, Histos 6 (2012): 329–342. Gertoux 2018 = Gertoux, G., “Dating the Reigns of Xerxes and Artaxerxes”, Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 40 (2018): 179–206. Grant 1965 = Grant, J., “A Note on the Tone of Greek Diplomacy”, CQ 15/2 (1965): 261–265. Greenspahn 2003 = Greenspahn, F. E., An Introduction to Aramaic, Atlanta 2003. Hunt 2017 = Hunt, P., “Thucydides on the First Ten Years of War (Archidamian War)” in Balot, R. / Forsdyke, S. / Foster, E. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Thucydides, Oxford 2017: 125–144. Hyland 2018 = Hyland, J., Persian Interventions: The Achaemenid Empire, Athens, and Sparta, 450–386 BCE, Baltimore (MD) 2018. Kagan 1974 = Kagan, D., The Archidamian War, Ithaca (NY) 1974. Kelly 1982 = Kelly, T., “Thucydides and Spartan Strategy in the Archidamian War”, AHR 87/1 (1982): 25–54. Lewis 1977 = Lewis, D. M., Sparta and Persia, Leiden 1977. Munson 2012 = Munson, R., “Persians in Thucydides”, in Foster, E. / Lateiner, D. (ed.), Thucydides and Herodotus, Oxford 2012: 241–277.

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Rhodes 1998 = Rhodes, P. J., Thucydides History 4.1–5.24, Wiltshire 1998. Rood 1999 = Rood, T., “Thucydides’ Persian Wars”, in Kraus, C. S. (ed.) The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, Leiden 1999: 148–175. Rung 2008 = Rung, E., “War, peace, and diplomacy in Graeco-Persian relations from the sixth to the fourth centuries BC”, in De Souza, Ph. / France, J. (ed.), War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, Cambridge 2008: 28–50. Stahl 2003 = Stahl, H.-P., Thucydides: Man’s Place in History, Swansea 2003. Tuplin 1997 = Tuplin, C. J., “Medism and its Causes”, Transeuphratène 13 (1997): 156–185. Wiesehöfer 2006 = Wiesehöfer, J., “‘… keeping the two sides equal’: Thucydides, the Persians, and the Peloponnesian War”, in Rengakos, A. / Tsakmakis, A. (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Thucydides, Leiden 2006: 657–667. Wilson 1989 = Wilson, J. R., “Shifting and Permanent ‘Philia’ in Thucydides”, G&R 36/2 (1989): 147–151.

From king to King Persian royal ideology and Macedonian propaganda in the exchange of letters between Darius III and Alexander (Arr. Anab. 2.14) Francesco Mari Only a few weeks had elapsed following Darius III’s defeat at Issus when a letter from the Persian King reached Alexander, in early 332 BC.1 Many sources (including Diodorus, Justin, Curtius Rufus, Plutarch, and Arrian) relate this event, which is the first of a series of either two or three diplomatic contacts per litteras between the Achaemenid monarch and Alexander.2 The accounts diverge on several crucial issues, however, such as the amount of the ransom offered to Alexander in exchange for freeing Darius’s family, the extent of territorial concessions granted by the King in exchange for peace, or the precise moments and places in which the letters reached the Macedonian camp. Scholars have not been able to reach a consensus about the exact course of events, which is blurred by both contemporary propaganda and the simplification to which some of the sources are inclined.3

1 2

3

For the dating, see Sisti 2004: 437. Contra Radet 1925: 186; Briant 2002: 832, who both date the letter to late 333. The main evidence for these contacts comes from: Diod. 17.39.1; 17.54.1–6; Curt. 4.1.7–14; 4.5.1–9; 4.11; Arr. Anab. 2.14; 2.25.1–3; Plut. Alex. 29.7 f.; Just. Epit. 11.12. Other sources (Plut. Mor. 180b; It. Alex. 39–40; 43–44; FGrHist. 151 F1 § 5; Val. Max. 6.4. ext. 3; Zonar. ann. 4.10) all rely on those accounts and do not present much interest for the historical reconstruction. The question of the diplomatic negotiations between Darius and Alexander has generated a flood of publications. See in particular Hansen 1880; Radet 1925; Radet 1939; Kaiser 1956; Griffith 1968; Hamilton 1969: 76–77; Mikrojannakis 1970; Wirth 1971: 145–147; Schachermeyr 1973: 223–226; Levi 1977: 235–239; Goukowsky 1976: 194–195, 208–209; Atkinson 1980: 271, 277–278, 320–321, 395–396; Bosworth 1980: 227–232, 256; Lane Fox 1981: 184, 236; Will 1986: 75; Bernhardt 1988; Green 1991: 240–241; Sisti 1994; Zahrnt 1994; Bloedow 1995; Baynham 1998: 150–155; Seibert 2001; Briant 2002: 832–840; Sisti 2004: 437 f., 456 f.; Briant 2015: 550.

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In this paper, I will examine the first letter that Darius sent to Alexander and the response that he received. The aim is to shed light on how monarchic ideology could have influenced the diplomatic discussion, including its outcomes. My main focus will be on the accounts of Diodorus, Curtius Rufus and, above all, Arrian, the author who provides us with the most extensive narrative. 1. The two versions of Darius’s letter to Alexander and the Great King’s self-representation In the second book of his Anabasis of Alexander (mid-2nd c. AD),4 Arrian writes: Ἔτι δὲ ἐν Μαράθῳ Ἀλεξάνδρου ὄντος ἀφίκοντο παρὰ Δαρείου πρέσβεις, ἐπιστολήν τε κομίζοντες Δαρείου καὶ αὐτοὶ ἀπὸ γλώσσης δεησόμενοι ἀφεῖναι Δαρείῳ τὴν μητέρα καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τοὺς παῖδας. Ἐδήλου δὲ ἡ ἐπιστολή, ὅτι Φιλίππῳ τε πρὸς Ἀρτοξέρξην φιλία καὶ ξυμμαχία ἐγένετο καὶ, ἐπειδὴ Ἀρσῆς ὁ υἱὸς Ἀρτοξέρξου ἐβασίλευσεν, ὅτι Φίλιππος ἀδικίας πρῶτος ἐς βασιλέα Ἀρσῆν ἦρξεν οὐδὲν ἄχαρι ἐκ Περσῶν παθών. Ἐξ οὗ δὲ αὐτὸς βασιλεύει Περσῶν, οὔτε πέμψαι τινὰ Ἀλέξανδρον παρ᾿αὐτὸν ἐς βεβαίωσιν τῆς πάλαι οὔσης φιλίας τε καὶ ξυμμαχίας, διαβῆναί τε ξὺν στρατιᾷ ἐς τὴν Ἀσίαν καὶ πολλὰ κακὰ ἐργάσασθαι Πέρσας. Tούτου ἕνεκα καταβῆναι αὐτὸς τῇ χώρᾳ ἀμυνῶν καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν τὴν πατρῴαν ἀνασώσων. Tὴν μὲν δὴ μάχην ὡς θεῶν τῳ ἔδοξεν οὕτω κριθῆναι, αὐτὸς δὲ βασιλεὺς παρὰ βασιλέως γυναῖκά τε τὴν αὑτοῦ αἰτεῖν καὶ μητέρα καὶ παῖδας τοὺς ἁλόντας, καὶ φιλίαν ἐθέλειν ποιήσασθαι πρὸς Ἀλέξανδρον καὶ ξύμμαχος εἶναι Ἀλεξάνδρῳ· καὶ ὑπὲρ τούτων πέμπειν ἠξίου Ἀλέξανδρον παρ᾿ αὑτὸν ξὺν Μενίσκῳ τε καὶ Ἀρσίμᾳ τοῖς ἀγγέλοις τοῖς ἐκ Περσῶν ἥκουσι τοὺς τὰ πιστὰ ληψομένους τε καὶ ὑπὲρ Ἀλεξάνδρου δώσοντας. While Alexander was still at Marathus, envoys arrived who brought a letter from Darius and who were instructed to appeal personally to Alexander to release Darius’ mother, wife, and children. The letter declared that a friendship and an alliance had existed between Philip and Artaxerxes, but when Arses, Artaxerxes’ son, became King, Philip had set about injuring him, though the Persians had done Philip no harm. And since Darius’ accession Alexander had sent no one to his court to confirm their past friendship and alliance, but had crossed with an army into Asia and done the Persians great harm. Accordingly, Darius had journeyed down in person to defend his country and rescue the empire he had inherited. Their battle’s outcome had doubtless accorded with the will of some god, and as a king he was now asking a king for his wife, mother, and captured children, and was also ready to form a friendship and an alliance with Alexander. To this end, Darius recommended that

4

On Arrian and the Anabasis of Alexander, see RE II: 1230 f. (E. Schwartz); Stadter 1967; Stadter 1980; Bosworth 1980: 1–7; Tonnet 1988; Sisti 2004: I–LXV; Burliga 2013.

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Alexander send men back with Meniscus and Arsimes, the envoys who had come from Persia, so that these men could exchange pledges with him as Alexander’s representatives.5

The letter that Arrian summarises in this passage is striking. Darius’s tone and attitude are unusual – indeed unprecedented – for an Achaemenid king. In effect, Darius III is the first (known) Persian ruler to acknowledge limits on his universal power and the existence of lands outside of his theoretical rule.6 Darius offers friendship and an alliance to Alexander (φιλίαν ἐθέλειν ποιήσασθαι πρὸς Ἀλέξανδρον καὶ ξύμμαχος εἶναι Ἀλεξάνδρῳ) and – most importantly, since one does not imply the other – he recognises the Macedonian as a diplomatic interlocutor of equal standing. In his words, he speaks βασιλεὺς παρὰ βασιλέως, from king to king. Unsurprisingly, this passage of Arrian’s Anabasis has raised scholarly eyebrows.7 To be sure, at the time the letter is supposed to have reached Alexander, Darius had suffered a major defeat and had withdrawn his troops beyond the river Euphrates. Moreover, as mentioned in the letter itself, Alexander had captured the royal family (including Darius’s mother, wife, and children). And yet, as Pierre Briant has stressed, Darius was not in a particularly bad military position, even following his defeat in the Battle of Issus. He still had the impressive human and economic resources of the inner Empire at his disposal and, according to the sources, had started to gather a massive army in Babylon, from where he planned to lead a counter-attack. He could have cut the Macedonians off by recapturing part of Anatolia, where Alexander had not organised any stable form of government.8 One can, therefore, question the need for the Great King to make concessions to Alexander, and in fact Darius makes none: Arrian does not mention the King offering either a ransom or part of the Empire’s land in exchange for his family. This picture is complicated by the other evidence for the episode. Well before Arrian, Curtius Rufus (mid 1st c. AD)9 had recorded a very different version of Darius’s letter: 5 6 7

8 9

Arr. Anab. 2.14.1–3. Here and below, I reproduce the translation of P. Mensch in Romm 2010, with slight modifications. See e. g. Briant 2002: 177–179. Cf. Radet 1925: 188; Briant 2002: 838; Llewellyn Jones 2013: 77. But see below, p. 152–153. Griffith 1968: 41–42 treats Darius’ letter as a fake (see below, p. 150); cf. Kaiser 1956: 53–56; Hamilton 1973: 70; and Bosworth 1980: 232, who claims that “Darius’ letter is both weak in argument and does not contain the type of argument the Great King might have used”; Zahrnt 1994: 68 follows Griffith, and Sisti 1994: 215 holds most of the content of the letters to be anecdotal; Briant 2002: 840 maintains that the letter is a piece of genuine Macedonian propaganda. Contra Bernhardt 1988; Bloedow 1995: 97. Briant 2002: 831–835. Cf. also Müller 2019: 113: “Die traditionelle Ansicht, die Schlacht sei der Wendepunkt im Persienkrieg für beide Seiten und Kleinasien gesichert gewesen, ist zu relativieren. Noch war nichts entschieden. Dareios gab die Sache nicht verloren”. Curtius’ date is the most debated subject in the scholarship regarding that historian. We lack any definite testimony about his life and the preface of his work is lost. Based on the few hints that we can extract from Curtius’ History of Alexander, most scholars have dated the work to either the

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Castra movit ad urbem Marathon. Ibi illi litterae a Dareo redduntur, quibus ut superbe scriptis vehementer offensus est: praecipue eum movit, quod Dareus sibi regis titulum nec eundem Alexandri nomini adscripserat. Postulabat autem magis quam petebat, ut accepta pecunia, quantamcumque tota Macedonia caperet, matrem sibi et coniugem liberosque restitueret: de regno aequo, si vellet, Marte contenderet. Si saniora consilia tandem pati potuisset, ut contentus patrio cederet alieni imperii finibus, socius amicusque esset. In ea se fidem et dare paratum et accipere. Alexander went on to the city of Marathus. There a letter from Darius was delivered to him by which he was exceedingly offended because of its arrogant tone; it angered him especially that Darius had added the title of King to his own name and had not given the same title to Alexander. Moreover, Darius demanded, rather than asked, that having accepted a sum of money great enough to fill all Macedonia, Alexander should restore to him his mother and his wife and children; as to the sovereignty, he might fight for it, if he so desired, on equal terms. If he could at last listen to more wholesome advice, he would be content with his native kingdom, withdraw from lands ruled by another, and be his friend and ally. To the acceptance of such conditions he was ready to give and to receive a pledge.10

In many respects, the letter we read about here is the opposite of what we read in Arrian’s Anabasis. Darius behaves here as one would expect of a Persian King. Not only does he assert his superiority by advising Alexander to withdraw and by challenging him to fight again, but he also does not acknowledge Alexander as a peer. Darius’s denial of Alexander’s kingship, Curtius insists, would have caused great offence to the young Macedonian. Darius also offers a spectacularly high ransom for his mother, wife, and children (pecunia, quantamcumque tota Macedonia caperet). But this unrealistic offer is not the sole reason to doubt Curtius’s version of the letter. It is impossible to overlook, for instance, that while refusing to recognise Alexander’s title of king, Darius does acknowledge that he is the ruler of Macedonia, and is even willing to concede an alliance upon condition of Alexander’s withdrawal there.11 To sum up, discrepancies between Arrian’s and Curtius’s versions of the letter can be split into three parts. On the one hand, there are (a) the tangible concessions offered by Darius in return for a peace treaty and alliance, and (b) the arguments and recriminations that he puts forward in support of his offer. On the other hand, there is (c) the question of Darius’s self-representation: Curtius presents the requests of an arrogant Great King, sole sovereign in the world who practically orders Alexander to accept an impressive ransom in return for the royal hostages. Arrian’s letter, on the other hand, shows a Great King interested in a diplomatic solution to the war and explicitly open for a dialogue between kings. In the second part of this paper, I will concentrate spe-

10 11

time of Claudius (e. g. Hamilton 1988: 445–456; Atkinson/Yardley 2009: 2–9) or the time of Vespasian (e. g. Fugmann 1995: 233–243; Baynham 1998: 201–219). Curt. 4.1.7–10. Here and below, transl. by J. C. Rolfe (Loeb). See Bloedow 1995: 97.

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cifically on this last topic and its ideological implications, including the impact on the course of diplomatic negotiations between Persia and Macedonia. Before approaching this delicate question, however, it is necessary to deepen the analysis of the two versions of Darius’s letter in order to better assess the reliability of our sources. This can be done by framing them within the context of the repeated diplomatic contact between Darius and Alexander in the years 332–331 BC, and by comparing this with the third major piece of evidence about the exchange of letters, namely the testimony of Diodorus. This will require us temporarily to leave the rhetoric and ideological aspects of Darius’s letter to one side, and focus on the terms of peace proposed by the Great King, as well as Alexander’s reply to those propositions. 2. The pen of Alexander: between forged letters and official replies The differences between Arrian’s and Curtius’s versions of Darius’s letter point to the existence of two mutually exclusive traditions about the diplomatic contact that took place shortly after the Battle of Issus. We shall review more details concerning the possible origin of such traditions, which historians have struggled to reconcile. To take just two examples, John Atkinson has given more credit to the evidence provided by Curtius, theorising that the title of ‘king’ for Alexander was erased from the letter by a sedulous bureaucrat without Darius’s consent.12 The outraged reaction of Alexander and his final threat would thus be due to a misunderstanding and would not constitute, as Peter Green has argued, “a monumental, if calculated, piece of bluff ”.13 Barring the emergence of new evidence, the reason why definitive solutions are out of scholars’ reach lies in a puzzling claim made by Diodorus of Sicily, in the 17th book of his Historical Library, which is also our earliest source for the diplomatic exchange (1st c. BC). Diodorus claims that Alexander decided to alter the text of Darius’s letter before any of his companions and generals could read it. The purported aim was to prevent the latter from suggesting that Alexander accept any of the Great King’s offers:14 Δαρεῖος δὲ διανύσας εἰς Βαβυλῶνα καὶ τοὺς ἀπὸ τῆς ἐν Ἰσσῷ μάχης διασωζομένους ἀναλαβὼν οὐκ ἔπεσε τῷ φρονήματι, καίπερ μεγάλῃ περιπεπτωκὼς συμφορᾷ, ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον ἔγραψεν ἀνθρωπίνως φέρειν τὴν εὐτυχίαν καὶ τοὺς αἰχμαλώτους ἀλλάξασθαι χρημάτων πλῆθος λαβόντα· προσετίθει δὲ καὶ τῆς Ἀσίας τὴν ἐντὸς Ἅλυος χώραν καὶ πόλεις συγχωρήσειν, ἐὰν βουληθῇ γενέσθαι φίλος. Ὁ δ᾿Ἀλέξανδρος συναγαγὼν τοὺς φίλους καὶ τὴν μὲν ἀληθινὴν ἐπιστολὴν ἀποκρυψάμενος, ἑτέραν δὲ γράψας ῥέπουσαν πρὸς τὸ ἑαυτῷ συμφέρον προσήνεγκε τοῖς συνέδροις καὶ τοὺς πρέσβεις ἀπράκτους ἐξαπέστειλεν.

12 13 14

Atkinson 1980: 271. Green 1991: 241. Cf. below, p. 151 (note 38).

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Darius hurried to Babylon and gathered together the survivors of the battle at Issus. He was not crushed in spirit in spite of the tremendous setback he had received, but wrote to Alexander advising him to bear his success as one who was only human and to release the captives in return for a large ransom. He added that he would yield to Alexander the territory and cities of Asia west of the Halys River if he would sign a treaty of friendship with him. Alexander summoned his friends to a council and concealed the real letter. Forging another more in accord with his interests he introduced it to his advisers and sent the envoys away empty handed.15

Diodorus’s claim is as interesting as it is impossible to verify, not least because he skims over Alexander’s reply to Darius. We have, nonetheless, both the offer of a ransom for the prisoners (τοὺς αἰχμαλώτους ἀλλάξασθαι χρημάτων πλῆθος λαβόντα)16 and an offer of the whole of Anatolia (τῆς Ἀσίας τὴν ἐντὸς Ἅλυος χώραν καὶ πόλεις) upon conclusion of a friendship treaty. The territorial offer is found in Diodorus alone, who also fails to mention the second letter that both Curtius and Arrian date to some months after the first, during or just after the Macedonian siege of Tyre (late 332 BC). The two later authors locate an offer of land by Darius in that second letter.17 It is likely that Diodorus has summarised two distinct events that the other historians’ sources related at length.18 This may also explain why Diodorus omitted mention of Alexander’s written reaction to the letter that he had allegedly forged.19 To find evidence of Alexander’s reply, we must again turn to Curtius and Arrian, who both reproduce the letter’s text at length. Although not identical, in this case the two letters are remarkably similar. To be sure, some themes are more developed in Arrian, whereas Curtius insists on others. In most cases, however, points found in Curtius can be matched with Arrian’s text, as I have tried to show in the comparison on p. 145–146, where parallel portions of the translations are underlined in the same, distinctive way. The original texts run as follows: Curt. 4.1.10–14: ‘Rex Alexander Dareo S. Cuius nomen sumpsisti, Dareus Graecos, qui oram Hellesponti tenent, coloniasque Graecorum Ionias omni clade vastavit, cum magno deinde ex-

15 16 17 18 19

Diod. 17.39, transl. by B. Welles (Loeb). Cf. Just. Epit. 9.12.1: Darius writes from Babylon and asks to pay a ransom for his family. Later in Book 17 (§ 54.2), Diodorus gives the figure of 20,000 talents for this ransom offer. Curt. 4.5.1 and Arr. Anab. 2.25.1. Plut. Alex. 27.9 only mentions one letter, that would have reached Alexander in Tyre, but he dates the facts to 331 BC (cf. below, p. 149, note 33). For a full comparison of the sources on the episode, see below, p. 148. Judging by Diodorus’ formulation (τούς πρέσβεις ἀπράκτους ἐξαπέστειλεν), one could almost infer that Alexander did not reply to the King at all. I judge this possibility fairly unlikely. If two different exchanges have been compressed into one, Darius’ second letter is better understood as a reaction to Alexander’s reply to the first; moreover, Welles’s translation of the Greek word ἀπράκτους as ‘empty handed’ is potentially misleading, as the term simply means ‘without having obtained anything’.

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ercitu mare traiecit inlato Macedoniae et Graeciae bello. Rursus Xerxes gentis eiusdem ad oppugnandos nos cum in manium barbarorum copiis venit: qui navali proelio victus Mardonium tamen reliquit in Graecia, ut absens quoque popularetur urbes, agros ureret. Philippum vero, parentem meum, quis ignorat ab iis interfectum esse, quos ingentis pecuniae spe sollicitaverant vestri? Inpia enim bella suscipitis et, cum habeatis arma, licemini hostium capita, sicut tu proxime talentis mille, tanti exercitus rex, percussorem in me emere voluisti. Repello igitur bellum, non infero. Et di quoque pro meliore stant causa: magnam partem Asiae in dicionem redegi meam, te ipsum acie vici. Quem etsi nihil a me inpetrare oportebat, utpote qui ne belli quidem in me iura servaveris, tamen, si veneris supplex, et matrem et coniugem et liberos sine pretio recepturum esse promitto. Et vincere et consulere victis scio. Quodsi te committere nobis times, dabimus fidem inpune venturum. De cetero, cum mihi scribes, memento non solum regi te, sed etiam tuo scribere.’ Ad hanc perferendam Thersippus est missus. Arr. Anab. 2.14.4–9: Πρὸς ταῦτα ἀντιγράφει Ἀλέξανδρος καὶ ξυμπέμπει τοῖς παρὰ Δαρείου ἐλθοῦσι Θέρσιππον, παραγγείλας τὴν ἐπιστολὴν δοῦναι Δαρείῳ, αὐτὸν δὲ μὴ διαλέγεσθαι ὑπὲρ μηδενός. Ἡ δὲ ἐπιστολὴ ἡ Ἀλεξάνδρου ἔχει ὧδε· “Οἱ ὑμέτεροι πρόγονοι ἐλθόντες εἰς Μακεδονίαν καὶ εἰς τὴν ἄλλην Ἑλλάδα κακῶς ἐποίησαν ἡμᾶς οὐδὲν προηδικημένοι· ἐγὼ δὲ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἡγεμὼν κατασταθεὶς καὶ τιμωρήσασθαι βουλόμενος Πέρσας διέβην ἐς τὴν Ἀσίαν, ὑπαρξάντων ὑμῶν. Kαὶ γὰρ Περινθίοις ἐβοηθήσατε, οἳ τὸν ἐμὸν πατέρα ἠδίκουν, καὶ εἰς Θρᾴκην, ἧς ἡμεῖς ἤρχομεν, δύναμιν ἔπεμψεν Ὦχος. Τοῦ δὲ πατρὸς ἀποθανόντος ὑπὸ τῶν ἐπιβουλευσάντων, οὓς ὑμεῖς συνετάξατε, ὡς αὐτοὶ ἐν ταῖς ἐπιστολαῖς πρὸς ἅπαντας ἐκομπάσατε, καὶ Ἀρσῆν ἀποκτείναντός σου μετὰ Βαγώου, καὶ τὴν ἀρχὴν κατασχόντος οὐ δικαίως οὐδὲ κατὰ τὸν Περσῶν νόμον, ἀλλὰ ἀδικοῦντος Πέρσας, καὶ ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας γράμματα οὐκ ἐπιτήδεια διαπέμποντος, ὅπως πρός με πολεμῶσι, καὶ χρήματα ἀποστέλλοντος πρὸς Λακεδαιμονίους καὶ ἄλλους τινὰς τῶν Ἑλλήνων, καὶ τῶν μὲν ἄλλων πόλεων οὐδεμιᾶς δεχομένης, Λακεδαιμονίων δὲ λαβόντων, καὶ τῶν παρὰ σοῦ πεμφθέντων τοὺς ἐμοὺς φίλους διαφθειράντων καὶ τὴν εἰρήνην, ἣν τοῖς Ἕλλησι κατεσκεύασα, διαλύειν ἐπιχειρούντων, ἐστράτευσα ἐπὶ σὲ ὑπάρξαντος σοῦ τῆς ἔχθρας. Ἐπεὶ δὲ μάχῃ νενίκηκα πρότερον μὲν τοὺς σοὺς στρατηγοὺς καὶ σατράπας, νῦν δὲ σὲ καὶ τὴν μετὰ σοῦ δύναμιν, καὶ τὴν χώραν ἔχω τῶν θεῶν μοι δόντων, ὅσοι τῶν μετὰ σοῦ παραταξαμένων μὴ ἐν τῇ μάχῃ ἀπέθανον, ἀλλὰ παρ᾿ἐμὲ κατέφυγον, τούτων ἐπιμέλομαι καὶ οὐκ ἄκοντες παρ᾿ἐμοί εἰσιν, ἀλλὰ αὐτοὶ ἑκόντες ξυστρατεύονται μετ᾿ἐμοῦ. Ὡς οὖν ἐμοῦ τῆς Ἀσίας ἁπάσης κυρίου ὄντος ἧκε πρὸς ἐμέ. Εἰ δὲ φοβῇ μὴ ἐλθὼν πάθῃς τι ἐξ ἐμοῦ ἄχαρι, πέμπε τινὰς τῶν φίλων τὰ πιστὰ ληψομένους. Ἐλθὼν δὲ πρός με τὴν μητέρα καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τοὺς παῖδας καὶ εἰ ἄλλο τι θέλεις αἴτει καὶ λάμβανε. Ὅ τι γὰρ ἂν πείθῃς ἐμὲ ἔσται σοι. Καὶ τοῦ λοιποῦ ὅταν πέμπῃς παρ᾿ἐμέ, ὡς πρὸς βασιλέα τῆς Ἀσίας πέμπε, μηδὲ [ἃ] ἐξ ἴσου ἐπίστελλε, ἀλλ᾿ὡς κυρίῳ ὄντι πάντων τῶν σῶν φράζε εἴ του δέῃ· εἰ δὲ μή, ἐγὼ βουλεύσομαι περὶ σοῦ ὡς ἀδικοῦντος”.

Curtius and Arrian seem to have relied on a common source for Alexander’s letter to Darius, the text of which they adapted partially to their own style and aims. Arrian’s explicit historiographical programme turns out to be useful for identifying the source. At the beginning of the Anabasis of Alexander (praef. 1–3), Arrian claims that his main

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sources are Ptolemy (FGrHist. 138) and Aristobulos (FGrHist. 139).20 However, scholars agree that Aristobulos is not the best candidate here: “the striking similarities between Arr. 2.14.4–9 and Curt. 4.1.10–14 suggest that, since there is no evidence that Curtius used Aristobulos, both drew on Ptolemy for the first letter; presumably then for the second as well”.21 Although Arrian is convinced that Ptolemy is a reliable and objective witness because he took part in Alexander’s campaigns and was himself a king (praef. 2: Ἐμοὶ Πτολεμαῖός τε καὶ Ἀριστόβουλος πιστότεροι ἔδοξαν ἐς τὴν ἀφήγησιν […] Πτολεμαῖος δὲ πρὸς τῷ ξυστρατεῦσαι ὅτι καὶ αὐτῷ βασιλεῖ ὄντι αἰσχρότερον ἢ τῳ ἄλλῳ ψεύσασθαι ἦν), we must acknowledge that this letter is a masterpiece of Macedonian propaganda. In particular, although it is addressed to the Great King, it seems to have been composed with a Greek audience in mind. This is why scholars tend to see Callisthenes’s hand in the original text of the letter, and it is from Callisthenes (FGrHist. 124) that Ptolemy is likely to have taken it. However, the propagandistic character of the text also points to a wide diffusion shortly after the events.22 The letter probably became part of the collection(s) of Alexander’s correspondence, which began to form early in the third century and where other historians may have found it.23 Compared with Arrian, it is worth noting that, in Curtius’ account, Alexander excludes some relevant issues from his letter. In particular, there is no mention of the unjust way in which Darius seized the throne, there is no mention of the Persian troops having pledged fidelity to Alexander, and there is no mention of Alexander’s role as the hegemon of the Greeks. Moreover, in the final lines, Curtius returns to the title of king

20

21

22 23

On Ptolemy, see RE XXIII 2: 2467–2484 (G. Wirth); cf. Pédech 1984: 215–329; Sisti 2004: xxvi–xxviii. On Aristobulos, see RE II 1: 911–918 (E. Schwartz), and cf. Pédech 1984: 331– 405; Sisti 2004: xxix. On Arrian’s choice of Ptolemy and Aristobulos as his main sources, see Sisti 2004: xxxii–xxxvii, and cf. Bosworth 1980: 16: “The narrative core of Arrian’s history is generally agreed to be Ptolemy, but it remains controversial to which degree Aristobulus is used as a control source”; and 22: “It is a reasonable assumption that Ptolemy’s work was ignored and largely unknown in antiquity. It was Arrian’s service to exhume his work”. Hamilton 1969: 77, who continues: “The resemblances between Plutarch [Alex. 27.9] and Arrian are best explained by supposing direct use of Callisthenes by Plutarch, and indirect use (through Ptolemy) by Arrian”; cf. Bosworth 1980: 232: “The original source for the exchange may well be Callisthenes”. For further arguments in favour of Ptolemy as Arrian’s source, see Schachermeyr 1973: 508 (notes 125 and 127); Pearson 1955: 450. Cf. ex. Bosworth 1980: 233; Sisti 2004: 437; Seibert 2001. On Callisthenes, see RE X 2: 1674– 1707 (F. Jacoby) and the useful synthesis in Sisti 2004: xxii–xxiv. On Callisthenes as a source for Ptolemy and, ultimately, Arrian, cf. Devine 1994. “Fictitious letters of Alexander are known to have been in circulation in later Hellenistic times; and we may suppose that later authors (but not Arrian), when they quote from letters, are generally quoting from published collections. It appears that several separate collections were current.” (Pearson 1955: 454). The existence of these collections is witnessed by some fictitious letters found in papyrus texts dating from the 1st c. BC to the 2nd c. AD (on the whole question, see Pearson 1955: 443–454); among ancient authors, Plutarch seems to have made the largest use of these collections, referring to “Alexander in his letters” more than thirty times. Cf. Griffith 1968: 33; Atkinson 1980: 278; Romm 2010: 80.

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denied to Alexander (cum mihi scribes, memento non solum regi te, sed etiam tuo scribere). In respect to this last point, Arrian offers one of the most elegant pieces of rhetoric found in his work, when he has Alexander explicitly prevent Darius from ever again addressing him “from king to king”, thus denying him the royal title (καὶ τοῦ λοιποῦ ὅταν πέμπῃς παρ᾿ἐμέ, ὡς πρὸς βασιλέα τῆς Ἀσίας πέμπε, μηδὲ [ἃ] ἐξ ἴσου ἐπίστελλε, ἀλλ᾿ὡς κυρίῳ ὄντι πάντων τῶν σῶν φράζε εἴ του δέῃ). In Arrian, we witness a gradual exchange of roles: Alexander obtains the Great King’s tiara, which Darius himself temporarily set aside in his attempt to open a diplomatic dialogue, and portrays himself as the master of all Darius’s possessions. To explain the differences between Curtius’s and Arrian’s versions of what we have assumed to be the same letter (derived from Ptolemy), we may reasonably assume that these stem from an attempt to harmonise the text with the original letter from Darius. A message from the Great King precedes Alexander’s response in both the historians’ accounts, and yet unlike for Alexander’s letter, the original Persian message can hardly derive from the same tradition in Curtius and Arrian. Based on similarities between Darius’s letters in Curtius and in Diodorus, we should posit that whereas Arrian took both Alexander’s and Darius’s letters from Ptolemy, Curtius and Diodorus accepted the version of another, independent tradition for the Great King’s letter. Curt. 4.1.10–14

Arr. Anab. 2.14.4–9

‘King Alexander to Darius, greeting. Darius, whose name you have assumed, brought devastation on the Greeks who dwell on the shore of the Hellespont, and on the Ionian colonies of the Greeks, with every possible disaster, then he crossed the sea with a great army and made war upon Macedonia and Greece. Again, Xerxes, of the same race, came to attack us with hordes of savage barbarians; although defeated in a sea-fight, he nevertheless left Mardonius in Greece, in order that even in his absence he might lay waste our cities and burn our fields.a As to my father Philip, who does not know that he was killed by those whom your countrymen had tempted with the hope of a vast sum of money? Impious, in fact, are the wars you wage, and although you have arms, you bid for the lives of your enemies, just as lately you, the king of so great an army, for a thousand talents wished to hire an assassin to slay me.b Therefore

Alexander wrote a reply and sent Thersippus along with Darius’ envoys, having instructed him to give Darius the letter but not to discuss its content. Alexander’s letter ran as follows: ‘Your ancestors came to Macedonia and the rest of Greece and did us great harm, though you had suffered no harm before then;a I, having been made leader of the Greeks and wishing to take revenge on the Persians, made the crossing into Asia, but it was you who began the quarrel. For you went in aid to the Perinthians, who had wronged my father, and Ochus sent a force to Thrace, over which we held sway. When my father died at the hand of conspirators whom you had organized – as you yourself boasted in letters to one and all –b and you killed Arses with Bagoas’ help, and usurped the throne, violating Persian law and

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it is a war of defence that I am waging, not of offence.c And the gods also favour the better cause; I have reduced a great part of Asia into my power, I have defeated you yourself in battle.d Although there is nothing that you have a right to expect from me, inasmuch as in dealing with me you have not even observed the laws of war, yet, if you will come to me as a suppliant, I promise that you shall recover without ransom your mother and your wife and your children. I know both how to conquer and how to treat the conquered. But if you fear to trust yourself to me, I will pledge my word that you may come without danger.e For the future, when you write to me, remember that you are writing, not only to a king, but also to your king.’f Thersippus was sent to deliver this letter.

a b c d e f

Pretext: past Persian attacks against Greece. Allegations surrounding Philip II’s murder. The war is an act of revenge and a form of defence. Alexander’s right to rule has been won on the field. Darius should surrender to Alexander. Alexander speaks as the new king of Asia.

harming Persian interests, and sent the Greeks unfriendly letters about me, inciting them to war against me, and sent money to the Spartans and some of the other Greeks (which no other city accepted but the Spartans), and sent your agents to destroy my friends and try to destroy the peace that I had arranged for the Greeks – when you did all this, I marched against you, as you had begun hostilities.c Now that I have prevailed in battle – over your generals and satraps earlier, and now over you and your own forces – and the gods have given me possession of the country,d I am also responsible for all the men who fought on your side, survived the battle, and fled to me, and who remain with me not unwillingly, but have joined my campaign voluntarily. So regard me as master of all of Asia and come into my presence; if you fear you may suffer some harm at my hands, send me some of your friends to receive pledges. Approach me and ask for your mother, wife, children, and anything else you like, and receive them; anything you persuade me to give will be yours.e And in future, whenever you send word to me, address yourself to me as the king of Asia and not as an equal, and let me know, as the master of all that was yours, if you have need of anything.f Otherwise, I shall make plans to deal with you as a wrongdoer.’

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Other source (Vulgate)

Diodorus Curtius Rufus

Callisthenes

Ptolemy

Arrian

Fig. 1: Possible sources for the first exchange of letters between Darius and Alexander

Because of its emergence in the accounts of Diodorus, Justin, Curtius, and Plutarch, the second tradition is often called the Vulgate. Many scholars believe that it derives from the work of Clitarchus (FGrHist. 137).24 Son of the historian Dinon of Colophon, Clitarchus wrote a History of Alexander in twelve books, of which we possess just a few fragments despite the great success the work enjoyed in antiquity.25 Moreover, the exact date of composition for Clitarchus’s text has long been debated, even if chances are high that it preceded Ptolemy.26 Although often accused of inaccuracies and sensationalism, Clitarchus was famous by the time of Diodorus, and it is in Clitarchus’s work that Curtius might have found the story of Alexander’s angry reaction to Darius’s letter. It is tempting to conclude that the Roman historian combined an arrogant letter of Darius found in Clitarchus with Callisthenes’s version of Alexander’s letter, and that he adjusted the latter to make it fit the former. Only slight modifications would have been needed.27 To sum up, with regard to Alexander’s response to Darius, we seem to stand on safer ground when we say that, at least in general, the text we read in both Curtius and Arrian corresponds to the one included in the archives of Alexander’s expedition and diffused by Macedonian propaganda (possibly the work of Callisthenes). Moreover, because we possess two versions of it, we have been able to sketch a plausible picture of the historiographical tradition around the episode, which we may now use to further develop the ideas presented in Section 1.

24 25 26 27

On the Vulgate, see Hammond 1983. On its relationship with Arrian and the tradition that he followed, see Bosworth 1976. On Clitarchus, see RE XI 1: 622–654 (F. Jacoby); Prandi 1996; Sisti 2004: xxx–xxxi. On Clitarchus as the son of Dinon of Colophon, see Lenfant 2009: 52–53. See recently Baynham 2003: 10–11; Zambrini 2007: 20; Prandi 2012. Contra e. g. Parker 2009; Chugg 2015: 576. The debate has been turning around P.Oxy LXXI, 4808, the reading of which is difficult. On this testimonium, see Chrysanthou 2015. See e. g. Atkinson 1980: 272–273 on the question of the form of address: “Curtius, it is true, differs from Arrian in the prominence that he gives to the form of the heading to Darius’ letter […]. Curtius appears to have used the point to aid in the characterisation of Darius and Alexander. […] It is unlikely that Alexander styled himself king (basileus) in addressing Darius, for he generally used his name alone. Curtius is here elaborating the story that Alexander resented Darius’ denial to him of the royal title”. It is possible that Clitarchus made modifications himself, but absent the text of Alexander’s letter in Diodorus as a comparison, we cannot be sure.

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3. Two letters for one fake If Diodorus had transmitted any text from Darius’s letter, we would have more information about the Vulgate’s treatment of the whole episode. As we have seen, however, Diodorus abridges this first exchange of letters, pointing out only that the letter from the Great King which Alexander brought to the attention of his friends and generals had been fabricated to mislead them.28 Later in his work, Diodorus reports another diplomatic offer that Alexander received from Darius, after his return from Egypt, but before the crossing of the Tigris (331 BC: Diod. 17.54.2). Arrian and his sources know nothing about this new Persian message. Instead, Arrian speaks of a renewal of peace propositions by Darius in 332, when Alexander was in Phoenicia (Anab. 2.25.1). Unmentioned by Diodorus, this correspondence is cited by Curtius, who also knew about the King’s final letter of 331 before the Battle of Gaugamela (Curt. 4.11.5–6). To provide a clearer picture, it might be useful to refer to the comparative table below, which I have borrowed and adapted from a paper by Rainer Bernhardt.29 Diodorus probably merged into a single exchange of letters material that other historians, drawing on the Vulgate, report as two separate episodes. I deem it quite unlikely that Diodorus found this simplification in Clitarchus, for the latter probably relied on an early version of the collection of Alexander’s letters.30 That collection almost certainly contained not one, but many letters from Darius to Alexander, including possible fakes.31 Territorial offers vary from none to all the lands beyond the river Halys or all the lands beyond the river Euphrates. Clitarchus might simply have selected the letters that he could arrange by ascending offer and assigned them to the major military episodes of those years: Issus, Tyre, Gaugamela. (This approach has not been uncommon also among modern scholars, whose interpretation of the sources often proceeds from an analysis of Darius’s territorial offers.)32 To be sure, the three peace offers attested by the Vulgate all might, though do not need to, be historically true. Judging by Arrian’s testimony, Ptolemy might not know of any peace offer to have reached Alexander before the Battle of Gaugamela. Diodorus, unlike Arrian or his source, chooses to record the overtures made before Gaugamela, 28 29 30 31

32

See above, p. 141. Bernhardt 1988: 183. Cf. above, p. 144. So Pearson 1955: 444: “Imaginary letters of famous men were composed either as literary recreation or rhetorical exercise by numerous people in ancient times, and it is normal routine to be sceptical about letters attributed to historical characters. […] [I]t is recognized that in any collection genuine letters may be mingled with the spurious”. E. g. Zahrnt 1994; Sisti 1994: 212: “Appare evidente che – oltre alla cifra del riscatto – una variante era costituita anche dalle concessioni territoriali: 1) fino all’Halys e al Tauro; 2) fino all’Eufrate. L’esistenza di questa variante nella della seconda e conclusiva ambasceria ha probabilmente provocato una duplicazione dell’episodio in una parte della vulgata: così le ambascerie da due diventano tre”.

From king to King

Diodorus

332 BC Late 333/Early 332 BC Unspecified place – Friendship and alliance; – A “very high” ransom (20,000 silver talents); – Border on the river Halys.

Curtius Rufus Marathos – Friendship and alliance; – A ransom.

Tyre (after the siege) – Border on the river Halys; – His daughter Statira.

Arrian

Tyre (during the siege) – Friendship and alliance; – Ransom of 10,000 talents; – Border on the river Euphrates; – His daughter.

Marathos – Friendship and alliance.

Plutarch

Justin

Unspecified place – A ransom.

Unspecified place – A part of the empire; – His daughter.

149 331 BC (before Gaugamela) – Friendship; – Ransom of 30,000 silver talents; – Border on the river Euphrates; – “His other daughter”; – Adoption as a son and shared rule of the whole empire. – Ransom of 30,000 talents; – Border on the river Euphrates; – His daughter; – His son Ochus as a hostage.

– Ransom of 10,000 talents; – Border on the river Euphrates; – One of his daughters. – Ransom of 30,000 talents; – Border on the river Euphrates; – “The other daughter”.

but fails to mention the message sent to Alexander at Tyre, while assigning its content to the letter that Darius supposedly sent after his defeat at Issus (Diodorus remains silent on the exact place where this message reached Alexander, who might have been anywhere between Marathus and Tyre).33 This is why it is not unreasonable to believe 33

Combining Diodorus’ evidence with the fact that Plutarch mentions only one offer, which from the point of view of its content corresponds to the second mentioned by Arrian (Anab. 2.25.1) but which would have reached Alexander in 331 BC while he was in Tyre (cf. above, p. 142, note 17), several scholars have proposed Tyre as the place for Diodorus’ ‘third’ offer, so as to match the testimony of Diodorus and Plutarch not only chronologically, but also geographically (see Goukowsky 1976: 209; Levi 1977: 238; Bosworth 1980: 256, who aligns with Radet 1925 in preferring Curtius’ tradition of the three offers and claims that “to dismiss the vulgate tradition, internally consistent and a logical progression of offers, involves intricate hypotheses of invention for dramatic effect.

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that the dismissal of Darius’s first, ‘less arrogant’ letter depends either on the personal judgement of Diodorus or on an independent tradition to which he had access. In fact, Diodorus’s conclusions about the various letters sent by Darius to Alexander (whether they were known to him through the work of Clitarchus, the collection of Alexander’s letters, or both along with other sources) might not have differed much from those reached by Guy Griffith in an article from 1968. Griffith analysed the letter of Darius attested by Arrian in parallel with Alexander’s response to it, and claimed that the two documents do not match because Alexander does not react to all the points that Darius has made. According to Griffith, this failure to react to all of Darius’s points is difficult to believe, especially in the case of the alliance between Artaxerxes III and Alexander’s father Philip II. Such an alliance would have constituted a point too delicate for the Macedonian king not to address (and arguably refute) explicitly. It threatened the very image that Alexander – and Philip before him – had been casting of Macedonia, namely the only power able to unify the Greeks and allow them to take revenge on their historical enemy. A response to that point, Griffith argues, would have been mandatory and since there is no trace of it, Darius’s letter must be a fake,34 in which the Great King’s case has been invented solely to allow Alexander the most effective riposte.35 Diodorus’s reasoning need not have been the same as Griffith’s. However, if Diodorus too had doubts about the compatibility of Darius’s letter (as represented by Arrian) with Alexander’s reply, he might have identified it as the one forged by Alexander and included in the official history of the Macedonian campaign composed by Callisthenes. This may have led Diodorus to accept the text of another letter of Darius’s (the one that he summarises and that partially matches Curtius’s testimony) as the only message sent by Darius between the Battle of Issus and the fall of Tyre, thus treating one of the first two of the three diplomatic contacts attested by the Vulgate as a duplication.36

34

35

36

To dismiss Arrian’s version we need only suppose some confusion in the sources. Possibly Arrian found a note in Ptolemy about offers from Darius at Tyre, cross-referred to Aristobulos for details, and found them in the wrong stay in Tyre (i. e. Ptolemy and Aristobulos referred to different embassies)”; Sisti 1994: 213 [who favours the existence of two historical offers, 214: “In Curzio Rufo le ambascerie diventano tre. […] Mi sembra chiaro che la seconda e la terza ambasceria di Curzio corrispondono alla seconda di Diodoro”], and 2004: 456). Cf. Briant 2002: 837 f. Griffith 1968, passim, e. g. 47: “The question may be put, If the genuine letter of Darius contained the ‘friendship and alliance’ charge, why does Alexander’s contain no allusion to it? A strange omission, surely (and no less strange if both letters are thought of as unauthentic, the work of a literary composer)”. Cf. Hamilton 1973: 70; Green 1991: 240, and see also Bosworth 1980: 232: “The original source for the exchange may well be Callisthenes, who could easily have transformed Darius’ ransom offer and plea for peace into a grand debate, starring Alexander as champion of the Greeks and rightful king of Asia. The whole correspondence reads better as contemporary propaganda than as authentic extract from the archives”. Griffith 1968: 37–38.

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So much for the theories on Diodorus’s interpretation. If we accept these views and treat Arrian’s/Ptolemy’s letter from Darius as a forgery, we need to “take it […] that Alexander’s interest here lay in producing a letter of Darius which invited ‘No’ as the answer to a question whether a negotiated peace was possible and desirable”.37 Alexander would therefore have concealed a letter that contained tangible offers (a high ransom for the royal family and possibly establishing a border along the river Halys) lest his friends and generals be tempted to accept these.38 And he would have forged a new text, maybe conciliatory in tone yet lacking any appreciable concession made by Darius in return for peace. Moreover, we would need to follow Griffith in believing that, once Alexander had secured the allegiance of his hetairoi (allegedly outraged by the fake letter), he sent back to the Persian camp an answer to Darius’s genuine letter. Together with Darius’s fictitious letter, this reply would thus have become part of the official archive of the expedition, providing the basis for Callisthenes’s History and hence for Ptolemy’s account of these events.39 In my opinion, this is too much to accept.40 If, on the one hand, I deem it likely that Diodorus merged the two letter exchanges of Marathus and Tyre, I am, on the other hand, much less inclined to concede that the letter we read in Arrian is fake. To my eyes, there are at least two reasons for scepticism. First, assuming as most scholars do, that Arrian drew his evidence for both letters from Ptolemy, and through him from the official propagandistic history of the Macedonian campaign written by Callisthenes, it is unclear why, if Alexander or Callisthenes had realised that Alexander’s reply to Darius’s genuine letter did not match the fake letter they were preparing to publish, they should not also have forged a more plausible reply. Second, Griffith’s strongest argument for identifying Arrian’s letter from Darius as the forged one, that is, the uncomfortable mention of a past alliance between Macedonia and Persia, could be used to argue precisely the opposite. Why would Alexander have evoked a scenario as dangerous as a former alliance between his father and the Great King of Persia in a letter that he was allegedly “forging to be more in accord with his own interests”,41 and that he intended to publish as part of his own propaganda?

37 38

39 40 41

Griffith 1968: 44. That this risk was real is shown by the famous anecdote of Parmenio, which follows the last offer by Darius in all our sources except Just. Epit. “L’episodio di Parmenione, che divenne poi un luogo comune dell’esercitazione retorica, rientra nella lunga serie di opposizioni Alessandro-Parmenione ed è probabilmente di origine callistenica.” (Sisti 1994: 210 [note 4]; cf. Hamilton 1969: 77; Atkinson 1980: 398. On Parmenio’s representation by the historians of Alexander, see Bearzot 1987). This tradition encapsulates and preserves the wish to place a limit on Alexander’s campaign toward the East expressed by the old Macedonian aristocracy. Cf. above, p. 144 (notes 21 and 22). As Bosworth 1980: 228–229 says, “[Griffith’s] argument raises more problems than it solves”. Diod. 17.39: ἑτέραν δὲ γράψας ῥέπουσαν πρὸς τὸ ἑαυτῷ συμφέρον.

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Admittedly, the problem of the number of diplomatic contacts between Darius and Alexander before Gaugamela and of whether there actually was both a genuine and a fake version of the Great King’s first letter cannot be resolved on the basis of the available evidence. Nonetheless, notwithstanding their thematic discrepancies and the attitude shown by Darius who, as I have highlighted above, disappoints all expectations that modern scholars have of a Persian King, the questions that I have just raised suggest that the two letters in Arrian’s Anabasis might be the closest to the originals. Although starting from considerations different to my own, Rainer Bernhardt has convincingly argued in favour of this hypothesis.42 4. The changing ideological boundaries of the Achaemenid Empire If Arrian’s version of Darius’s letter is genuine, then we ought to accept that, despite its tone, it is not particularly conciliatory. The lack of any concrete offer in exchange for peace or for the liberation of the royal family can be explained by the strategic assets still under Darius’s control after the Battle of Issus, which meant the King still had a good chance of winning the war.43 It remains to explain Darius’s reasons for the unconventional presentation of his own authority as Great King, which constituted the starting point of my discussion. The relevance of diplomatic etiquette for our understanding of ancient interstate relations is here particularly clear. If we accept the most common views on Persian royal ideology, this yielding of Darius before Alexander, albeit rhetorical, takes on a crucial role. Because it concerns fundamental tenets of the Achaemenid universal monarchy, Darius’s choices regarding the way he addresses Alexander can hardly be treated as a mere matter of form. Persian evidence on royal ideology points to a universalistic conception of the monarchy. The Great King, thanks to his role of privileged interpreter of Ahura Mazda’s justice on the Earth, had the task of protecting truth and order by fighting against liars and wrongdoers.44 The universal nature of this mission implies no limits, and the Achaemenid conception of monarchy thus blurred the distinction between the fron-

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Bernhardt 1988. Cf. above, p. 139. See Darius I’s great inscription in Behistun (for the text, see Kent 1953). Lecoq 1997: 83–96 dedicates a chapter to this important text (the relative bibliography can be found at p. 286). Cf. e. g. Orsi 1988: 142: “[Il Re è] mediatore fra i sudditi e la divinità Ahuramazda, che è essenzialmente giustizia. Non potrebbe esercitare il suo potere, non sarebbe re, se non fosse giusto: in quanto capace di azioni giuste e in quanto capace di far rispettare la giustizia. Ma è una giustizia che va al di là del singolo atto di rendere giustizia a chi abbia subito un torto; è giustizia dall’ampiezza cosmica, perché coinvolge il concetto di ordine e di armonia del cosmo, una giustizia che si manifesta nel ben ordinato procedere delle cose”. See also Rollinger 2017. On the relationship between Achaemenid religion and imperial ideology, see Lincoln 2012.

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tiers of its empire and those of the known world.45 It is in line with this philosophy, for instance, that shortly before the beginning of the Persian Wars, many Greek cities were required to give earth and water to the King as a pledge of submission.46 Ideologically speaking, the Persian King was merely demanding acknowledgement of a submission that already existed. That said, provided they showed submission (like the Macedonian kingdom did during the Persian Wars),47 the Great King, the King of kings, could tolerate the existence of kings ‘lesser’ than himself. This is the most widely accepted interpretation of Darius III’s ancestors’ ideological principles. In our case, however, the Great King seems to betray these principles and to address ‘a colleague’, whom he offers friendship and an alliance. Was rescuing the royal family important enough to cause Darius to flex in the remarkable way that Arrian narrates? As we have seen, a simple evaluation of the strategic assets from which Darius could still benefit after Issus provides us with good grounds for doubt. Provided that we remain true to our working hypothesis and do not deem this conciliatory move as further evidence that the letter was produced in the Macedonian, rather than the Persian camp, then it is the ideological framework itself that must be reconsidered. The available sources represent the main issue, since scholars tend to reconstruct the framework based on documents that are much older than the reign of Darius III.48 By 45

46 47 48

On the Achaemenid monarchic ideology in general, see e. g. Briant 2002: 204–254; Llewellyn Jones 2013: 23–24 (with bibliography); on its universal character, cf. in particular Briant 2002: 179: “[Ancient evidence (see below, note 48) attests for the recognition of the homology between the ‘frontiers’ of the Empire and the edges of the known world. W]hat Darius calls the land (būmi) – what the Greeks call arkhē ‘[territorial] dominion’ and what we ourselves call the Empire – is notionally merged with the frontiers of the known world: the Empire represents the totality of lands and peoples. […] This concept does not imply that the Great Kings were unaware of the countries located outside of the jurisdiction of their territorial dominion. The attempted circumnavigation of Africa attributed to the Persian Sataspes by Herodotus suggests that they were fully aware of them (IV.43). But here we are in the realm of appearances, whose logic requires that the unconquered countries be considered not to belong to the inhabited world (oikoumenē); they are relegated to nonexistence, beyond the ‘parched lands’ and the ‘Bitter River’”. Cf. also Tuplin 2017: 4–5; Rollinger 2017: 213–215; Degen 2019: 61–67 and, on the idea of a universal empire in antiquity, Cresci & Gazzano 2018. On earth and water in general, see Kuhrt 1988; Nenci 2001. On its meaning, see Rung 2015. See Hdt. 6.44, and cf. Briant 2002: 145. Essentially a) epigraphic lists of lands, most of which are from Darius I, cf. Briant 2002: 177: “[More than a statistical inventory of the economic resources of the Empire], the different versions of the Susa inscriptions (DSz; DSf; [DSaa]) […] are amenable to what might be called ‘images of the world,’ by means of which the Great Kings, especially Darius, intended to impose the idea of the unbounded nature of their authority over territories and populations”; b) iconographic monumental evidence (see the e. g. examples in Brosius 2005 and cf. Root 1979) c) evidence for royal titles: “Darius I appears as ‘King in this great earth far and wide’ (DNa). But here it is but one element among several: ‘king of the multitude, only master of the multitude, I am Darius the Great King, King of Kings, King of countries containing all kinds of men’ (DNa); he is also ‘King of many countries’ (DPe)” (Briant 2002: 178; cf. Llewellyn Jones 2013: 23 f. and 77); and d) Greek literary evidence, such as Xen. Anab. 1.7.6: Ἀκούσας ταῦτα ἔλεξεν ὁ Κῦρος· ἀλλ᾽ἔστι μὲν ἡμῖν, ὦ ἄνδρες, ἀρχὴ πατρῴα πρὸς μὲν μεσημβρίαν μέχρι οὗ διὰ καῦμα οὐ δύνανται οἰκεῖν ἄνθρωποι, πρὸς

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comparing evidence dating back to the years of Cyrus the Great († c. 530 BC), Darius (522–486 BC), and Xerxes (486–465 BC), we also learn that the ‘classic’ Achaemenid monarchic ideology, as attested by inscriptions and reliefs, is the result of an evolution and the product of a specific political phase of the Persian Empire.49 Why should we take for granted that such an ideology remained unaltered when the political circumstances were changing again, only because we lack evidence as solid as that for earlier centuries?50 The Achaemenid Empire’s way of interacting with its borders suggests that its monarchic propaganda had indeed changed, at least partially. There are grounds to believe that the focus of the Great Kings shifted from a strategy of boundless territorial expansion to one of preserving what they already held. Around the end of the fifth century, the glorious campaigns that had led the Empire to stretch from the Danube to the Indus and from beyond the Iaxartes to the border with the Nubian sands were but faint memories. Further expansion attempts – such as Darius I’s expedition against Scythia (Hdt. 4.1.83–143) or the memorable, seven-day long crossing of the Hellespont by the impressive army with which Xerxes planned to conquer Greece (Hdt. 7.55–56) – had also slipped from the agenda of the Achaemenid monarchs. The Persian kings faced other challenges. Internal revolts across the Empire, from Anatolia to Judah and the many Egyptian rebellions, not to mention the so-called Great Satraps’ Revolt of the years 360 BC, demanded serious efforts.51 And yet, these were minor setbacks compared to the failed rebellion of Cyrus the Younger (401 BC). Cyrus’s military threat to

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δὲ ἄρκτον μέχρι οὗ διὰ χειμῶνα· τὰ δ᾽ἐν μέσῳ τούτων πάντα σατραπεύουσιν οἱ τοῦ ἐμοῦ ἀδελφοῦ φίλοι (“Upon hearing these words Cyrus said: ‘Well, gentlemen, my father’s realm extends toward the south to a region where men cannot dwell by reason of the heat, and to the north to a region where they cannot dwell by reason of the cold; and all that lies between these limits my brother’s friends rule as satraps’”) or FGrHist. 690 (Dinon) F 23b = Plut. Alex. 36.4: Δείνων δέ φησι καὶ ὕδωρ ἀπό τε τοῦ Νείλου καὶ τοῦ Ἴστρου μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων μεταπεμπομένους εἰς τὴν γάζαν ἀποτίθεσθαι τοὺς βασιλεῖς, οἷον ἐκβεβαιουμένους τὸ μέγεθος τῆς ἀρχῆς καὶ τὸ κυριεύειν ἁπάντων (“Dinon says that the Persian kings had water fetched from the Nile and the Danube, which they laid up in their treasuries as a sort of testimony of the greatness of their power and universal empire”). On this fragment, cf. Lenfant 2009: 210. For a good example of these changes, see Brosius 2005 on the theme of Achaemenid monarchs as war leaders. See also Tuplin 2017: 50 who notices that “royal texts and monuments (especially post-Behistun) take an extreme line in suppressing active warfare”. I owe these reflections to a conversation with Christopher Tuplin. A non-exhaustive list of internal revolts from the Persian Wars onwards includes: the Egyptian revolt suppressed by Xerxes in 484 BC, followed by a short uprising in Babylon (see Briant 2002: 525, who notes that “the troubles in Egypt and Babylonia indicate that Darius’ imperial policy had discovered its natural limits”); the Egyptian revolt of c. 464–454 BC (Briant 2002: 573 f.); possibly an uprising in Judah as attested by LXX, 2 Esd. 4.7–24 (Briant 2002: 591); the rebellion of the satrap of Sardis, Pissuthnes, against king Darius II in 420–415 BC (Briant 2002: 591); the new, long-lasting revolt in Egypt which began in 404 BC and was suppressed by Artaxerxes III in 343/2 BC; Cyrus the Younger’s rebellion (Briant 2002: 615 f.); the war against Evagoras of Cyprus, who sought complete independence from the Achaemenid Empire (387/6–383/1 BC, see Briant 2002: 652 f.); the Great Satrap’s Revolt starting with Datames’ rebellion in 370/69 BC

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the reign of his brother Artaxerxes II was accompanied by an especially intense propagandistic effort.52 Although aimed specifically at diminishing Artaxerxes, this propaganda is likely also to have undermined the cultural strength of royal ideology within the Empire.53 Some years later, Evagoras of Salamis overcame resistance to achieve recognition of his regal status, in 375 BC. The Persian king recognised him as a vassal superior to satraps, whom he considered to be his slaves (at least from a Greek perspective).54 Diod. 15.8.2–3: Ὁ δὲ Τιρίβαζος τῶν ὅλων ἔχων τὴν ἡγεμονίαν ἔφησε συγχωρῆσαι τὴν σύλλυσιν, ἐὰν Εὐαγόρας ἐκχωρήσῃ πασῶν τῶν κατὰ τὴν Κύπρον πόλεων, αὐτῆς δὲ μόνης τῆς Σαλαμῖνος βασιλεύων τελῇ τῷ Περσῶν βασιλεῖ κατ᾽ἐνιαυτὸν φόρον ὡρισμένον καὶ ποιῇ τὸ προσταττόμενον ὡς δοῦλος δεσπότῃ. Ὁ δ᾽Εὐαγόρας, καίπερ βαρείας οὔσης τῆς αἱρέσεως, τὰ μὲν ἄλλα πάντα συνεχώρει, τὸ δ᾽ὡς δοῦλον δεσπότῃ ποιεῖν τὸ προσταττόμενον ἀντέλεγεν, ἔφη δὲ αὑτὸν ὡς βασιλέα βασιλεῖ δεῖν ὑποτετάχθαι. Tiribazus, who held the supreme command, agreed to a settlement upon the conditions that Evagoras should withdraw from all the cities of Cyprus, that as king of Salamis alone he should pay the Persian King a fixed annual tribute, and that he should obey orders as slave to master. Although these were hard terms, Evagoras agreed to them all except that he refused to obey orders as slave to master, saying that he should be subject as king to king. Diod. 15.9.2: Ὁ μὲν οὖν Εὐαγόρας παραδόξως ἐξωσιοῦτο τὴν ἅλωσιν, καὶ συνέθετο τὴν εἰρήνην, ὥστε βασιλεύειν τῆς Σαλαμῖνος καὶ τὸν ὡρισμένον διδόναι φόρον κατ᾽ἐνιαυτὸν καὶ ὑπακούειν ὡς βασιλεὺς βασιλεῖ προστάττοντι. Evagoras, then, was surprisingly able to dispel the menace of capture, and agreed to peace on the conditions that he should be king of Salamis, pay the fixed tribute annually, and obey as a king the orders of the King.

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and suppressed ten years later in 359 BC (Briant 2002: 656–659); an uprising in Phoenicia in 351 BC, which sparked another rebellion in Egypt (Briant 2002: 683). For Cyrus the Younger’s propaganda as filtered in the Greek sources, see above all ch. 9 of Book 1 of Xenophon’s Anabasis; cf. also Xen. Anab. 1.1.5, Oec. 4.22, Cyr. 8.8; Plut. Art. 6.4; Diod. 14.19.4. See also Mari 2014: 88–91. Greek authors themselves may have emphasized the trope of Achaemenid decadence based on this propaganda. See Briant 2002: 516–518; Lenfant 2011. The systematic diminishment of Artaxerxes II and his reign is especially apparent in Xen. Cyr. 8.8. Δοῦλος (‘slave’) is the word by which most Greek authors define the Persians, as subjects of the Great King. Sometimes this word also translates the Persian concept of bandakā, which was used for the King’s close collaborators (cf. e. g. DB §§ 25, 26, 29 et al.): see Ruberto 2009: 12–14. On Evagoras of Salamis, see recently Asmonti 2013. Because they formally considered all diplomatic partners as subjects, one might suspect that Great Kings made friendships rather than official alliances (see below, note 57).

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This evidence suggests that, by the last quarter of the fourth century, the universal character of the Achaemenid monarchic ideology could have grown weak enough that a pragmatic offer, such as that made by Darius III to Alexander in Arrian’s version of the letter, might no longer be surprising. Moreover, as the case of Evagoras illustrates, to address Alexander from King to king (βασιλεὺς παρὰ βασιλέως) “does not imply formal equality. Evagoras was recognised as superior to a satrap, […] but the title of ‘king’ did not detract from his vassal status”.55 Seen in this light, two further elements of the text fit with Darius’s still favourable strategic situation after Issus, making the whole letter all the more credible: 1) Darius does not make any tangible concession to Alexander (no ransom, no land). To some, Arrian’s record of the letter received by Alexander at Marathus has appeared as “an initial stage, in which Darius made preliminary overtures, designed to lead to more serious negotiations”56 in the presence of Alexander’s envoys (viz. the Thersippus who was instructed to pass the letter to the Great King [Arr. Anab. 2.14.4, see above, p. 143 and 146]). 2) Darius makes the offer that Griffith had found so disturbing. He offers Alexander the opportunity to become his friend and ally. In fact, Darius wishes to renew an old relationship since – as he argues – an alliance between Persia and Macedonia had already been concluded during the reign of Alexander’s father, Philip. An entire paper could be written on that earlier alliance, the existence of which is recorded by Arrian alone. For our purposes, however, I will limit myself to pointing out that while friendly relations between Persia and Greek cities in the years to which Darius must be referring are attested in the sources,57 we do not know of any formal alliance in which the King took an active role. Some scholars have found an alliance between the Macedonians and the Persians quite plausible. Arnaldo Momigliano, for example, dates it to 344/3 BC, that is before the Persian campaign against Egypt and after Athens and Sparta had refused to support that military effort.58 For my part, I find it difficult to give credit to an alliance sealed in 344 and surely broken de facto by 340, when the Great King sent a force to support the Perinthians in their fight against Philip II.59 That said, contacts (if not friendship) are conceivable. On this ground, we are entitled to interpret Darius’s mention of an alliance as a propagandistic exaggera55 56 57 58 59

Bosworth 1980: 230. Bloedow 1995: 94. Cf. Wirth 1971: 144–148. E. g. Diod. 16.44.1, cf. Philoch. [FGrHist. 328] F 157. Momigliano 1987: 138–139 (note 1). Contra Cawkwell 1963: 127–129, who dates the peace to 351/0 BC. Cf. Bosworth 1980: 229–230; Zahrnt 1994: 68–69. Contra Bloedow 1995, who points out that “[the fact that no other source so much as hints at a formal alliance between Philip and Artaxerxes III, as Bosworth reminds,] is not by itself a compelling argument” (p. 96, note 22). Sisti 2004: 436 does not take a clear position on the issue.

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tion intended as an attack on the image of Alexander. We must not necessarily believe that this allegation appeared for the first time in the letter; it may well constitute an already circulating rumour that Darius exploited. It is Alexander himself, in his reply, who provides information about the Persian propagandistic efforts: the King “boasted in letters to one and all” (Arr. Anab. 2.14.5: αὐτοὶ ἐν ταῖς ἐπιστολαῖς πρὸς ἅπαντας ἐκομπάσατε).60 To arouse the mistrust of the Greeks towards Alexander, and break the front of his enemies, Darius did not need facts. Suggestions and rumours sufficed. An alliance between Macedonia and Persia had been the stuff of Greek nightmares until a few years before. Compare what Demosthenes says in his First Philippic (351 BC): Ἡμῶν δ᾽οἱ μὲν περιιόντες μετὰ Λακεδαιμονίων φασὶ Φίλιππον πράττειν τὴν Θηβαίων κατάλυσιν καὶ τὰς πολιτείας διασπᾶν, οἱ δ᾽ὡς πρέσβεις πέπομφεν ὡς βασιλέα, οἱ δ᾽ἐν Ἰλλυριοῖς πόλεις τειχίζειν, οἱ δὲ λόγους πλάττοντες ἕκαστος περιερχόμεθα. Some of us spread the rumour that Philip is negotiating with the Lacedaemonians for the overthrow of Thebes and the dissolution of the free states, others that he has sent an embassy to the Great King, others that he is besieging towns in Illyria; in short, each of us circulates his own piece of fiction.61

In light of these considerations, Darius’s letter in Arrian may appear pragmatic, but no longer comes across as conciliatory. It can, therefore, be genuine. For our interpretation to hold, however, it remains to continue the cross-comparison with Alexander’s reply, and to show how the two texts are compatible. We have seen that Alexander’s letter clearly constitutes a piece of Macedonian propaganda addressed to a Greek audience. This letter too, therefore, like the Persian one, was probably made public. We must then address Griffith’s main concern, namely the lack of any explicit mention in Alexander’s reply of the past alliance between Persia and Macedonia evoked by Darius. I wonder if the choice not to comment explicitly on this topic has misled scholars into believing that it is not addressed at all in Alexander’s response. In fact, a reaction to the King’s claims about the alliance can be read between the lines. I invite the reader to refer once again to the translation of Arr. Anab. 2.14.4–9 provided on p. 145–146. The non-underlined portions of text in non-italicised script contain the arguments that find no equivalent in Alexander’s letter in Curtius. Most of these can be read in connection to Darius’s references to past alliances. They may not respond to the Great King’s exact words, but they do address the implications of them.

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Cf. also ibid.: Ὑπὲρ ἐμοῦ πρὸς τοὺς Ἕλληνας γράμματα οὐκ ἐπιτήδεια διαπέμποντος, ὅπως πρός με πολεμῶσι (“You sent the Greeks unfriendly letters about me, inciting them to war against me”). Dem. 4.48. Transl. by J. H. Vince (Loeb).

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“You sent your agents to destroy […] the peace that I had arranged for the Greeks.” Alexander strongly reaffirms the unity of his front, despite Persian efforts to disperse it: how could he let a separate peace between Macedonia and Persia disturb such unity? b) “You sent the Greeks unfriendly letters about me, inciting them to war against me, and sent money to the Spartans and some of the other Greeks.” Alexander also claims that breaking the enemy front has been Darius’s aim, for he has sent messages (and money) around Greece to turn the Greek cities against Macedonia. By publicly suggesting the existence of a Persian-Macedonian alliance, he might pursue the same objective. c) “For you went in aid to the Perinthians, who had wronged my father, and Ochus sent a force to Thrace, over which we held sway.” Alexander accuses the Persians of having helped the Perinthians and invaded Macedonian land (in 340 BC, as we have seen). How could an alliance exist in light of such hostility? a)

If not directly, the theme of the alliance is addressed and the grounds for its existence substantially weakened. The choice not to mention the alliance explicitly is likely rhetorical. Sometimes silence is the best form of dissent. 5. A Macedonian King of kings? The Greeks came into contact with strands of the shifting Persian monarchic ideology and developed their own concepts of it. Modern historians find these ideas reflected in the works of ancient authors. I would like to conclude this piece by suggesting that Greek preconceptions of Persian monarchy may have impacted on Macedonian diplomatic propaganda. Let us consider the sections of Arrian’s Alexander letter highlighted above in italics. The first section contains a tradition we find also in Strabo (15.3.24) and Plutarch (Alex. 18). It states that Darius was not the rightful heir to the Persian throne, perhaps not even an Achaemenid. This is a piece of genuine Macedonian propaganda that may or may not be built on Persian foundations.62 This attempt to weaken the Persian king’s position prepares us for the claim that Alexander makes at the end of his letter, when he denies the royal title to Darius and demands himself to be addressed as the king of Asia. The second passage is more interesting, for it contains claims that look like an elaboration of Persian ideology. It is stated that instead of returning to their king’s army after the Battle of Issus, many soldiers deserted to seek Alexander’s protection. These claims

62

See Kaiser 1956: 42–43; Schachermeyr 1973: 225; Bloedow 1995: 105.

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are quite similar to those diffused by Cyrus the Younger during the preparation of his campaign against Artaxerxes II. For Cyrus as well as for Alexander, the war was waged with propaganda before being fought with phalanges and cavalry. The argument about the deserters was included by Xenophon in his apology of the rebel Persian prince: Παρὰ μὲν Κύρου δούλου ὄντος οὐδεὶς ἀπῄει πρὸς βασιλέα· […] παρὰ δὲ βασιλέυς πολλοὶ πρὸς Κῦρον ἀπῆλθον, ἐπειδὴ πολέμιοι ἀλλήλοις ἐγένοντο, καὶ οὗτοι μέντοι οἱ μάλιστα ὑπ᾽αὐτοῦ ἀγαπώμενοι, νομίζοντες παρὰ Κύρῳ ὄντες ἀγαθοὶ ἀξιωτέρας ἂν τιμῆς τυγχάνειν ἢ παρὰ βασιλεῖ. Although Cyrus was a slave, no one deserted him to join the King […]; on the other hand, many went over from the King to Cyrus after the two had become enemies (these being, moreover, the men who especially possessed self-respect), because they thought that if they were deserving, they would gain a worthier reward with Cyrus than with the King.63

As quoted by Xenophon, this rhetorical motif is surely Persian, as the reason adduced for the desertions indicates. Honouring subjects and henchmen by means of appropriate rewards is one of the ideological characteristics of the Persian King, as attested by Darius I’s epigraphic propaganda: “The man who is cooperative, according to his cooperation thus I reward him” (DNb, 8c). By presenting himself as better able to reward worthy men, thus securing their fidelity, Cyrus could escape his status of δοῦλος/ bandakā64 and claim the position atop the Persian social pyramid, where his brother (whose place he desired to take) stood. A simple way of explaining the thematic similarities between Xenophon’s passage and Arrian’s letter consists in positing that Arrian had this literary model in mind while re-working the text. But Arrian was not the only one to have read the Anabasis. Alexander and his hetairoi had certainly studied Cyrus’s expedition too, in preparation for their own campaign.65 After all – as Isocrates recognised in the Panegyricus (§ 145) – it was the enterprise of the Ten Thousand that had proven the vulnerability of the Persian Empire. ῾Ο γοῦν μέγας Ἀλέξανδρος οὐκ ἂν ἐγένετο μέγας, εἰ μὴ Ξενοφῶν.66 Xenophon’s detailed account of that expedition represented a guide too precious to be neglected. It would not be surprising, then, if the idea of insisting on desertions from the Great King’s army in a letter destined to be made public had come to Alexander (or to Cal-

63 64 65

66

Xen. Anab. 1.9.29. Cf. Oec. 4.18 and Ctes. (FGrHist. 688) F16 § 63. See above, note 54. See Manfredi 1984 on Alexander’s knowledge of Xenophon’s Anabasis. For the many parallels between the pairings Artaxerxes II–Cyrus the Younger and Darius III–Alexander as oppositions of “an upper king and a lower king […] who considers himself worthy of being king and who has every intention of ascending to meet the king and to strip him of supreme power”, see Briant 2015: 255–258 (for the quoted passage: p. 255). “Alexander would not have been great if not for Xenophon.” (Eunap. VS, Introd. 453.)

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listhenes?) thanks to an effective Persian argument that had already been used against Artaxerxes II, and that the Macedonian knew about thanks to Xenophon. Alexander concludes his letter by demanding that Darius recognise his superiority. Otherwise he will make plans to deal with the Persian as a wrongdoer (βουλεύσομαι περὶ σοῦ ὡς ἀδικοῦντος). That his claim over the Great King’s tiara exploited Persian arguments is not unlikely. Lying behind the issue of denying the King his title, we might also see, in this reply to Darius, a subtle attempt to undermine the enemy’s image, here relying on the enemy’s own ideological toolbox.67 In fact, as we have just seen, in his desire to reach an agreement and rescue his family and (possibly) in line with some recent developments in Achaemenid foreign politics, Darius had adopted a different, more pragmatic attitude towards Alexander. This is where the entanglement in diplomacy between form and substance, ideology and Realpolitik becomes especially apparent. The universal conception of monarchy left little space for agreements with another king, so Darius set it aside, at least partially, and opened the negotiations speaking βασιλεὺς παρὰ βασιλέως. But unlike some of his hetairoi, Alexander did not wish to negotiate. On the contrary, his interest lay in striking still harder at the crack he had already opened up in the Empire, so as to make the whole structure collapse. Accordingly, in his reply to Darius’s propositions, he put an end to the question by himself adopting the traditional, ideological attitude of a Great King who does not allow for any peer, thus shutting down any room for negotiation that Darius might have created. Alexander’s breach of diplomatic protocol (a protocol that Darius had observed even if that meant disregarding the traditional attitude of a Persian monarch) proceeds from, and affirms beyond any doubt, the Macedonian’s wish to redefine his status within the relationship with his rival. Whether this is based on an assessment of (presumed) Macedonian superiority on the ground or rather on Alexander’s self-confidence (some time later, after all, Alexander’s propaganda would see him comparing his own kingship to the sun),68 diplomatic etiquette is held to be, and exploited as, a pliable instrument, able to be shaped in order to highlight the new terms of the relationship. In conclusion, the Persian universal ideology of monarchy had an impact on the concrete outcome of the diplomatic exchange between the Persians and the Macedonians after the Battle of Issus. By this stage, this ideology might not, however, have been exclusively Persian and in any case was not deployed in favour of Persian interests, but rather against them.

67 68

Cf. Degen 2019: 79–82. Diod. 17.54.5: “Then he told the envoys that the earth could not preserve its plan and order if there were two suns nor could the inhabited world remain calm and free from war so long as two kings shared the rule”. Diodorus places these claims just after the exchange of letters that he dates to 331: scholars have thus proposed to link them to Alexander’s visit to the oracle at Siwah, from which he would have emerged “tout imprégné de la théologie solaire” (Radet 1925: 201–202). Cf. also Plut. Mor. 180c and Just. Epit. 11.12.15.

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Bibliography Asmonti 2013 = Asmonti, L. A., “Evagoras of Salamis (Cyprus)”, in Bagnall, R. S. et al. (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History, vol. V. (Ec – Ge), Malden (MA) 2013, p. 2585–2586. Atkinson/Yardley 2009 = Atkinson, J. E. / Yardley, J. C., Curtius Rufus. Histories of Alexander the Great. Book 10, Oxford 2009. Atkinson 1980 = Atkinson, J. E., A Commentary on Q. Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni, Books 3 and 4, Amsterdam/Uithoorn 1980. Baynham 1998 = Baynham, E., Alexander the Great: The Unique History of Quintus Curtius, Ann Arbor (MI) 1998. Baynham 2003 = Baynham, E., “The ancient evidence for Alexander the Great”, in Roisman, J. (ed.), Brill’s Companion to Alexander the Great, Leiden/Boston (MA) 2003: 3–29. Bearzot 1987 = Bearzot, C., “La tradizione su Parmenione negli storici di Alessandro”, Aevum 61 (1987): 89–104. Bernhardt 1988 = Bernhardt, R., “Zu den Verhandlungen zwischen Dareios und Alexander nach der Schlacht bei Issos”, Chiron 18 (1988): 181–198. Bloedow 1995 = Bloedow, E. F., “Diplomatic negotiations between Darius and Alexander. Historical implications of the first phase at Marathus in Phoenicia in 333/332 B. C.”, AHB 9 (3/4) (1995): 93–110. Bosworth 1976 = Bosworth, A. B., “Arrian and the Alexander Vulgate”, in van Berchem, D. / Badian, E. (ed.), Alexandre le Grand: image et réalité. Sept exposés suivis de discussions (Vandœuvres-Genève, 25–30 août 1975) (“Entretiens de la fondation Hardt” 22), Geneva 1976: 1–33. Bosworth 1980 = Bosworth, A. B., A Historical Commentary on Arrian’s History of Alexander, vol. I: Books I–III, Oxford 1980. Briant 2002 = Briant, P., From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire, Winona Lake (IN) (1st Fr. ed. Paris 1996). Briant 2015 = Briant, P., Darius in the Shadow of Alexander, Cambridge (MA) 2005 (1st Fr. ed. Paris 2003). Brosius 2005 = Brosius, M., “Pax persica: Königliche Ideologie und Kriegführung im Achämenidenreich”, in Meißner, B. / Schmitt, O. / Sommer, M. (ed.), Krieg–Gesellschaft–Institutionen. Beiträge zu einer vergleichenden Kriegsgeschichte, Berlin 2005: 135–161. Burliga 2013 = Burliga, B., Arrian’s Anabasis: An Intellectual and Cultural Story, Gdańsk 2013. Cawkwell 1963 = Cawkwell, G. L., “Demosthenes’ policy after the peace of Philocrates I”, QC 13/1 (1963): 120–138. Chrysanthou 2015 = Chrysanthou, C. S., “P.Oxy. LXXI 4808: Bios, character, and literary criticisms”, ZPE 193 (2015): 25–38. Chugg 2015 = Chugg, A. M., Concerning Alexander the Great: A Reconstruction of Cleitarchus, 2015, URL: https://www.academia.edu/14348008/Concerning_Alexander_the_Great_A_Recon struction_of_Cleitarchus (last consulted on 27/02/2020). Cresci/Gazzano 2018 = Cresci, L. R. / Gazzano, F. (ed.), De imperiis. L’idea di impero universale e la successione degli imperi nell’antichità, Rome 2018. Degen 2019 = Degen J., “Alexander III., Dareios I. und das speererworbene Land (Diod. 17, 17, 2)”, Journal of Ancient Near Eastern History 6/1 (2019): 53–95. Devine 1994 = Devine, A. M., “Alexander’s propaganda machine: Callisthenes as the ultimate source for Arrian, Anabasis 1–3”, in Worthington, I. (ed.), Ventures into Greek History, Oxford 1994: 89–102.

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Fugmann 1995 = Fugmann, J., “Zum Problem der Datierung der Historiae Alexandri Magni des Curtius Rufus”, Hermes 123/2 (1995): 233–243. Goukowsky 1976 = Goukowsky, P., Diodore de Sicile. Bibliothèque Historique, livre XVII, Paris 1976. Green 1991 = Green, P., Alexander of Macedon, 356–323 B. C. A Historical Biography, 2nd augmented ed., Berkeley (CA)/Los Angeles (CA)/Oxford 1991 (1st ed. 1974). Griffith 1968 = Griffith, G. T., “The letter of Darius at Arrian 2.14”, PCPS 14 (1968): 33–48. Hamilton 1969 = Hamilton, J. R., Plutarch. Alexander. A Commentary, Oxford 1969. Hamilton 1973 = Hamilton, J. R., Alexander the Great, London 1973. Hamilton 1988 = Hamilton, J. R., “The date of Quintus Curtius Rufus”, Historia 37 (1988): 445– 456. Hammond 1983 = Hammond, N. G. L., Three Historians of Alexander the Great: The So-Called Vulgate Authors, Diodorus, Justin, and Curtius, Cambridge 1983. Hansen 1880 = Hansen, R., 1880, “Über die Echtheit der Briefe Alexander des Grossen”, Philologus 39 (1880): 276–284. Kaiser 1956 = Kaiser, W. B., Der Brief Alexanders des Großen an Dareios nach der Schlacht bei Issos, Dissertation: Mainz 1956. Kent 1953 = Kent, R. G., Old Persian Grammar, Texts, Lexicon, New Haven (CT) 1953 (1st ed. 1950). Kuhrt 1988 = Kuhrt, A. “Earth and water”, in Kuhrt, A. / Sancisi-Weerdenburg, H. (ed.), Achaemenid History III: Method and Theory, Leiden 1988: 87–99. Lane Fox 1981 = Lane Fox R., Alessandro Magno, Turin 1981 (1st En. ed. London 1973). Lecoq 1997 = Lecoq, P., Les Inscriptions de la Perse achéménide, Paris 1997. Lenfant 2001 = Lenfant, D., “La ‘décadence’ du Grand Roi et les ambitions de Cyrus le Jeune: aux sources perses d’un mythe occidental?”, REG 114 (2001): 407–436. Lenfant 2009 = Lenfant, D., Les Histoires perses de Dinon et d’Héraclide. Fragments édités, traduits et commentés, Paris 2009. Levi 1977 = Levi, M. A., Introduzione ad Alessandro Magno, Milano 1977. Lincoln 2012 = Lincoln, B., “Happiness for Mankind”. Achaemenian Religion and the Imperial Project (“Acta Iranica” 53), Leuven/Paris/Walpole (MA) 2012. Llewellyn Jones 2013 = Llewellyn Jones, L., King and Court in Ancient Persia 559 to 331 BCE, Edinburgh 2013. Manfredi 1984 = Manfredi, V., “Alessandro e Senofonte”, in Sordi, M. (ed.), Alessandro Magno tra storia e mito, Milan 1984: 15–21. Mari 2014 = Mari, F., “La main infidèle. Le Grand Roi et la mutilation de Cyrus le Jeune”, in Allély, A. (ed.), Corps au supplice et violences de guerre dans l’Antiquité, Bordeaux 2014: 79–94. Mikrojannakis 1970 = Mikrojannakis, E., “The diplomatic contacts between Alexander III and Darius III”, in V. Laourdas, V. / Makaronas, C. (ed.), Archaia Makedonia. Proceedings of the International Symposia on Ancient Macedonia, vol. 1, Thessaloniki 1970: 103–108. Momigliano 1987 = Momigliano, A., Filippo il Macedone: saggio sulla storia greca del IV secolo a. C., ristampa anastatica con correzioni, Milan 1987 (1st ed. Florence 1934). Müller 2019 = Müller, S., Alexander der Große. Eroberung – Politik – Rezeption, Stuttgart 2019. Nenci 2001 = Nenci, G., “La formula della richiesta della terra e dell’acqua nel lessico diplomatico achemenide”, in Angeli Bertinelli, M. G. / Piccirilli, L. (ed.), Linguaggio e terminologia diplomatica dall’antico Oriente all’Impero Bizantino, Rome 2001: 31–42. Orsi 1988 = Orsi, D. P., “La rappresentazione del sovrano nella Vita di Artaserse plutarchea”, AncSoc 19 (1988): 149–159.

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Parker 2009 = Parker, V., “Source-critical reflections on Cleitarchus’ work”, in Wheatley, P. / Hannah, R. (ed.), Alexander and His Successors: Essay from the Antipodes, Claremont (CA) 2009: 28–55. Pearson 1955 = Pearson, L., “The diary and letters of Alexander the Great”, Historia 3 (1955): 429–455. Pédech 1984 = Pédech, P., Historiens compagnons d’Alexandre: Callisthène, Onésicrite, Néarque, Ptolémée, Aristobule, Paris 1984. Prandi 1996 = Prandi, L., Fortuna e realtà dell’opera di Clitarco, Stuttgart 1996. Prandi 2012 = Prandi, L., “New evidence for the dating of Cleitarchus (POxy LXXI. 4808)?”, Histos 6 (2012): 15–26. Radet 1925 = Radet, G., “Notes sur l’histoire d’Alexandre. IV: Les négociations entre Darius et Alexandre après la bataille d’Issus”, REA 27/3 (1925): 183–208. Radet 1939 = Radet, G., “Alexandre en Syrie. Les offres de paix que lui fit Darius”, in Cumont, F. et al. (ed.), Mélanges syriens offerts à R. Dussaud, vol. I, Paris 1939: 235–248. Rollinger 2017 = Rollinger, R. “Monarchische Herrschaft am Beispiel des teispidischachaimenidischen Großreichs”, in Rebenich, S. (ed.), Monarchische Herrschaft im Altertum, Berlin/Boston (MA), 2017: 189–216. Romm 2010 = Romm, J. (ed.), The Landmark Arrian. The Campaigns of Alexander. Anabasis Alexandrou, a New Translation by Pamela Mensch, with Maps, Annotations, Appendices, and Encyclopedic Index. Edited by J. Romm, with an introduction by Paul Cartledge, New York City (NY) 2010. Root 1979 = Root, M. C., King and Kingship in Achaemenid Art, Leiden 1979. Ruberto 2009 = Ruberto, A., Il Gran Re e i Greci. Un dialogo possibile, Todi 2009. Rung 2015 = Rung, E., “The language of the Achaemenid imperial diplomacy towards the Greeks: the meaning of earth and water”, Klio 97 (2015): 503–515. Schachermeyr 1973 = Schachermeyr, F., Alexander der Grosse. Das Problem seiner Persönlichkeit und seines Wirkens, Wien 1973. Seibert 2001 = Seibert, J., “Der Streit und die Kriegsschuld zwischen Alexander d. Gr. und Dareios III: ein überflüssiger Disput?”, in Geus, K. / Zimmermann, K. (ed.), Punica – Lybica – Ptolemaica. Festschrift für Werner Huß, zum 65. Geburtstag dargebracht von Schülern, Freunden und Kollegen, Leuven/Paris/Sterling (VA) 2001: 121–140. Sisti 1994 = Sisti, F., “Le proposte di pace di Dario ad Alessandro: fra aneddoto e verità storica”, RCCM, 36 (1/2) (1994): 209–215. Sisti 2004 = Sisti, F., Arriano. Anabasi di Alessandro, vol. I: libri I–III, Milan 2004 (1st ed. 2001). Stadter 1967 = Stadter, P. A., “Flavius Arrianus: the new Xenophon”, GRBS 8, (1967): 155–161. Stadter 1980 = Stadter, P. A., Arrian of Nicomedia, Chapel Hill (NC) 1980. Tonnet 1988 = Tonnet, H., Recherches sur Arrien: sa personnalité et ses écrits atticistes, vol. 1–2, Amsterdam 1988. Tuplin 2017 = Tuplin, C., 2017, “War and peace in Achaemenid imperial ideology”, Electrum 24 (2017): 31–54. Will 1986 = Will, W., Alexander der Große, Stuttgart/Berlin/Cologne/Mainz 1986. Wirth 1971 = Wirth, G., “Dareios und Alexander”, Chiron 1 (1971): 133–152. Zahrnt 1994 = Zahrnt, M., “Die Frage der Grenze bei den Verhandlungen zwischen Dareios und Alexander”, in Olshausen, E. / Sonnabend, H. (ed.), Stuttgarter Kolloquium zur Historischen Geographie des Altertums, 4, 1990, Amsterdam 1994: 67–82. Zambrini 2007 = Zambrini, A., “The historians of Alexander the Great”, in Marincola, J. (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, Oxford/Malden (MA) 2007: 210–220.

Don’t mention the war Escalating effects during the conflict between Perseus and Rome before the Third Macedonian War Felix K. Maier

1. A (still) puzzling escalation The Third Macedonian War (171–168 BC) is one of the best attested episodes in all Roman history. There is excellent coverage of the events in Polybius, Livy, Diodorus, Plutarch and Appian. Non-literary sources also provide insight into official statements. Yet despite, or perhaps rather because of the abundance of evidence, we are confronted with a set of unanswered questions connected to the outbreak of the conflict. It seems as if the more information we glean about Rome and Macedonia’s road to war, the more inscrutable the affair becomes. It is difficult to understand or explain the decisions taken by the politicians involved. Although Roman-Macedonian relations had been complicated since the reign of Philip V, serious tensions between Perseus and Rome arose suddenly in 174 BC – according to Livy and Polybius – and the relationship worsened. This is the point where things get tricky, particularly with respect to Livy’s and Polybius’ accounts of the events. Livy blames two accusations in particular, uttered by the Numidian king Massinissa in 173 BC and later by Eumenes the king of Pergamum, that Perseus would plot with Carthage against Rome and that the Macedonian king would pose a serious threat to Roman interests. Livy then reports that “war with Perseus was to be expected” and that some senators assumed the war “would begin at any moment”.1 This escalation is surprising, as Perseus had already been denounced to Rome by third parties on multiple occasions, but relations between the two seem not to have suffered and were stable.2

1 2

Livy 42.2.3, 42.10.11: imminente Persei bello; 42.20.1: in suspensa civitate ad expectationem novi belli, 42.19.3: in expectatione senatus esset bello etsi non indicto. Cf. Briscoe 2012: 16.

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Why did Rome suddenly embark on war and why did it not prefer a diplomatic approach? This question becomes crucial in light of two pieces of evidence: firstly, Rome was already engaged in other theatres of war and it was not clear, at this stage, that military conflict with Perseus would be over in just three years. Indeed, the conflict seemed destined to be arduous and drawn out.3 Secondly, none of the charges that made Perseus responsible for triggering the conflict, which are preserved in a Roman inscription, violated the peace treaty renewed by the Romans and Perseus in 179 BC.4 The same is true for the accusations brought forward by Massinissa, Eumenes and the Roman envoy Q. Marcius Philippus.5 Polybius saw this clearly and concluded that the Roman charges against Perseus were mere pretexts (προφάσεις), not real causes for war.6 There is also a remarkable contrast between Rome’s determination, assumed by Livy, to make a sudden pre-emptive strike against Perseus and Rome’s seemingly idle and passive behaviour.7 The consuls of 172 BC had not been assigned Macedonia (although they very much wished this), but rather were assigned Liguria.8 In addition, we do not come across any specific mention of Roman preparations for war. Instead, and in contrast to his previous remarks, Livy laconically states: “The Macedonian war was put off for a year”.9 Lastly, Rome’s initial military actions were hastily launched and lacked thorough or long-term preparations.10 As for Polybius, his account also contains discrepancies that have puzzled scholars. In Polybius’ view, Perseus wanted to fulfil his father’s wish of war against Rome, taking up Philip’s preparations for military conflict and gathering resources for a potential clash.11 On the other hand, Perseus’ behaviour from the start of his reign cannot be described as one of warmongering.12 How can we explain his attempt to ease the tensions in 172, when he asked Marcius Philippus to send another embassy to Rome to preserve peace?13 Furthermore, why should Perseus, who enjoyed local military superiority at that time, have given the Romans time to catch up, considering their poor preparations 3 4

5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Burton 2017: 123 sets out how unresolved matters in Spain and Liguria would have discouraged the Romans from rushing into another conflict. RDGE 40 = Syll.3 643; Bousquet 1981. Errington 1971: 208; Harris 1979: 228; Gruen 1984: 409; Waterfield 2014: 175. All agree that the official accusations made by Rome were not sufficient to start a war. Other incidents, such as the alleged murder of Eumenes (Livy 42.15–16) and the poisoning of leading Romans (Livy 42.17.3–9), could have been brought forward by the Romans as causes, but they did not appear in the official document. Cf. Livy 42.12–13, 42.40. Polyb. 22.18.6–8. Livy 42.2.1–2. Livy 42.10.11. Even if Livy explains this decision with internal politics, it is odd that the senate had not considered Perseus to be a pressing matter. Livy 42.18.2, 42.18.6: Macedonicum bellum in annum dilatum esset. Cf. Eckstein 2010: 242. Polyb. 22.18.6. See e. g. Errington 1971: 208; Harris 1979: 228; Gruen 1984: 409; Waterfield 2014: 173. Livy 42.41.1–43.4. One might consider this a bluff. However, delaying the war would not have im-

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for war?14 And lastly, how does Perseus’ supposed agenda of avenging his father fit with his offer of peace to the Romans after having won the first battle (Callinicus) of the war?15 Livy’s and Polybius’ descriptions of both Perseus’ and the Romans’ behaviour, intentions and actions appear contradictory. Although Livy and Polybius characterise Perseus as a warmonger and Rome – from 173 onwards – as determined to wage war, their narratives reveal that both parties were in fact reluctant to engage in open conflict. And there were many reasons, political, social, but above all economic, for peace. It would also be simplistic to state that Perseus, because of his plan to expand Macedonian power and influence in Greece, attracted Roman suspicion and that this resulted in war. Other mighty rulers, such as Ptolemy VI or Antiochus IV, also pursued expansionist policies without provoking a serious crisis leading to military conflict.16 All this evidence prompts questions on two levels, one concerning the coherence of Polybius’ and Livy’s accounts and the other concerning the decision-making of the historical protagonists. (1) Are both historiographical accounts fundamentally flawed? Must we leave aside Polybius and Livy more often than we would like to admit, and reconstruct the road to war using a more ‘rational’ and coherent approach? (2) Why did the Romans and Perseus fail to come to terms? Why did they not use all available diplomatic means to avoid war if there were clear signs that military conflict was not the preferred outcome for either side? In this paper, I would like to address these issues. I will re-analyse passages in Livy and Polybius. I will argue that contradictions in both texts can be explained and are useful, because they reflect misperceptions on both sides, which led to an escalation of the conflict between Rome and Macedonia. To support my argument, I will apply cognitive models from modern behavioural decision theory to explain the paradoxical behaviour of some actors and the ‘irrational’ dynamics that triggered the war.17

14

15 16 17

proved Perseus’ position; rather, it would have provided Rome with the necessary time to complete preparations. Cf. Eckstein 2010: 243. Perseus, by the beginning of the war, had an army of around 43,000 men with which he could easily have overrun Greece in 172. Yet he waited, although he must have been aware that he was in a strong position. Adding the fact that almost every allegation against him was either false or highly doubtful, it becomes clear that Perseus neither wanted the war nor was he willing to take a reckless gamble. See Polyb. 22.18.10, Livy 42.62. Perseus offered peace and was even willing to pay a significant indemnity. See Lampela 1998: 148–195; Eckstein 2010: 241. Similar approaches have been made by Eckstein 2010: 242–243, who analyses the asymmetric constellation between Rome and her enemies as well as the consequences of this, and Raditsa 1972, who concludes that the zero-sum games created by Roman hegemony rendered every independent act hostile to Rome.

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It should be clear, however, that I do not consider the effects of misperception as the only factors that pulled Perseus and Rome into war. Other aspects played an essential role: ambition for glory among Roman senators, the prospect of loot, and strategic considerations.18 My paper does not seek to rate these various parameters in terms of their relevance, but merely focusses – in line with the overarching theme of this volume – on factors other than structural or economic considerations. I would like to show how actions on both sides might have been misinterpreted, to what extent such misperceptions influenced decision-making, why broken lines of communication between Macedonia and Rome led to false impressions and misunderstandings on both sides, and which hidden biases played a role in the escalation of the conflict. In short, how both parties failed to establish good faith. I will not, therefore, be examining a case of successful interaction between two parties in conflict, but rather a failure of diplomacy. In this way, I hope to shed light on the topic of ‘Shaping Good Faith’ from a different angle, contributing to our understanding of successful diplomatic interaction in the Greek World by means of a counter-example. 2. Macedonian-Roman relations until 174 BC – (no) prelude to war When Perseus assumed the Macedonian throne in 179 BC, relations with Rome were a pressing matter.19 His father, Philip V, had been a fierce enemy of the Romans since the Second Punic War (218–202 BC). The Second Macedonian War (200–197 BC) led to an overall Roman victory, but Philip remained a restless ruler whose actions required constant surveillance by the Romans. Nevertheless, it seems that Philip adapted well to the new situation and took a pragmatic approach. Since he knew that there was no way to drive the Romans out of Greece, he collaborated with them, thus securing the stability of his empire.20 As he was clearly aware that he could not expand into the territories surrounding Macedonia, he turned to rebuilding his defeated empire by restoring financial and economic resources, and raising manpower.21 Some operations, for instance an expansion into Thrace, were considered secret preparations for war against Rome by ancient writers such as Polybius and Plutarch.22 But this is not likely. It seems rather as if these actions were viewed by Philip as the only possibility left for expanding 18 19

20 21 22

I will return to these factors in the conclusion. In this section, I can only touch upon aspects of Macedonian-Roman relations. For a thorough treatment of this complex and challenging topic, see Meloni 1953; Mendels 1978; Gruen 1984; Errington 1986: 172–196; Hammond 1988; Hammond 1989; Eckstein 2010; Burton 2017: 56–78; Grainger 2017: 212–228 as well as Briscoe 2012 with comments on the relevant chapters in Livy, and Walbank 1979 with respect to Polybius’ Histories. Polyb. 18.33.7, 25.3.9–10. Cf. Eckstein 2010: 240. Livy 39.24.1–4, Plut. Aem. 8.4–5. Cf. Hammond 1988: 460; Grainger 2017: 214. Polyb. 22.18.10–11.

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his empire without provoking Roman suspicion.23 Philip may have sought to rebuild the power of his empire and ensure its political authority and independence for the future by balancing Rome’s growing influence in the region.24 Such an interpretation of his actions does not match with the opinion of many of Philip’s contemporaries. Most of them believed – understandably from their perspective – that Philip was planning to attack other Greek states and exploring how far he could go before Rome would intervene.25 His enemies, most of all Eumenes II, repeatedly complained about the Macedonian king to the senate. But despite these allegations and the potential for mistrust, Philip remained a loyal amicus to the Roman empire throughout the last years of his reign.26 Following his death in 179, Philip’s son Perseus immediately renewed his father’s amicitia with the Romans. The ambiguous past of his father, Perseus’ plot against Demetrius, the execution of Philip’s chosen successor Antigonus, and Perseus’ soaring popularity in Greece might have incentivised Rome to step in and arrange matters according to their wishes, removing a troublesome ruler and a potential threat before it was too late.27 But the Romans recognised Perseus as king of Macedonia,28 even if they did not wholly trust him.29 It is as if Rome wanted to give the king a chance, waiting to see if he was, perhaps, not as dangerous as his actions suggested.30

23 24 25 26

27

28 29 30

This does not exclude the possibility that Philip wanted to test his limits, but his actions are insufficient to suggest any coherent preparation for war. See Burton 2017: 71. Particularly the events in 191/190 prompted tensions (siege of Lamia, Livy 36.25.5–8, and Philip’s defeat of the Aetolians and Athamanians without the help of the Romans, Polyb. 21.25.3–7, Livy 38.1.1–3.6). Cf. Gruen 1984: 399–402. Philip supported the Romans and their allies with logistics during the war against Sparta (195 BC) and during the conflicts with Antiochus III and the Aetolian League, see Livy 34.26.10, 36.8.6, 37.39.12, 37.7.11–15, App. Mac. 9.5, Zonar. 9.20. When the Aetolians asked Philip to join their cause against the Romans, the Macedonian king refrained (Livy 35.12.1; see also Livy 39.28.6). Perseus’ stepbrother Demetrius had been handed to the Romans as a hostage in the aftermath of the Second Macedonian War (Polyb. 18.39.5, Livy 34.52.9). Later, Demetrius became an important diplomat for Philip in Rome (Polyb. 23.1–2, Livy 39.46–47) and it appears that the senate would have favoured him as a future king in Macedonia (Polyb. 23.3.7–9). These allegations prompted Perseus to plot against his stepbrother, which led to Demetrius’ death: cf. Livy 40.8.23 and see Walbank 1938; Meloni 1953: 32–45; Gruen 1974; Hammond 1989: 361–362; Waterfield 2014: 163–164; Burton 2017: 48–53. For Antigonus, see Livy 40.58; for Perseus’ popularity, see Polyb. 25.3.1–3; Mendels 1978: 55–59. Polyb. 25.3.1, RDGE 40.15, Livy 40.58.9, 41.19.6, 42.25.4, 42.40.4, 42.41.9–11, 44.16.5, App. Mac. 11.5–6, Zonar. 9.22.2. Cf. Grainger 2017: 214. Diod. Sic. 29.30 hints at the fact that the Romans were aware that Perseus was planning a war. Cf. Meloni 1953: 70–72. Cf. Eckstein 2010: 240: “At the beginning of his reign the Patres were not hostile to him”; see also Hammond 1988: 492–493, 601–610.

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In the subsequent years, Perseus redoubled his efforts to establish good relations with other political or religious entities in Greece.31 He also undertook military campaigns, but none of these seems to have aroused Roman suspicion, as Perseus did not violate any neutral or Roman interests. In 177, when Perseus was blamed both by a Dardanian and a Thessalian embassy for having interfered in the conflict between the Dardanians and the Bastarnae, a Roman embassy was sent to Greece to investigate.32 When it returned in 175, the envoys reported that a war was going on, but they did not mention Perseus.33 To an embassy sent by Perseus to Rome, protesting against the Dardanian and Thessalian allegations, the Romans replied that they would not blame Perseus nor absolve him. “They only ordered a warning”, Livy says, “to be given that he must be careful to hold sacred the treaty that he could regard as existing between him and Rome”.34 If Livy’s account is reliable here, Rome’s response implies two things: first, they did not wish to take sides in this issue. Second, they wanted Perseus to know that Rome was watching, though they seem not have exploited the incident to gain political leverage for future actions against the Macedonian king. The Romans either did not consider this necessary, as they did not plan to take action against Perseus in the near future.35 Or on the contrary, they did not want to provoke Perseus, providing him with arguments at home that might allow him to build an anti-Roman coalition. Both possibilities, although they imply different intentions, have one thing in common: they suggest that Rome – until 175 – did not want to go to war with Perseus. Rome indeed appears to have avoided scenarios that might have triggered a war. This approach held for a further two years. 3. The perilous effect of misperception between 174 and 172 BC The question remains as to why Rome suddenly took complaints about Perseus by third parties so seriously, developing what has been described as a sort of “paranoia”.36 To answer this question, I will look at potential effects of misperception on both sides

31 32 33 34 35 36

See Polyb. 25.3.1, and in particular: Rhodes: Polyb. 25.4.7–10; Amphictyones of Delphi: Syll.3 636.5–6; Odrysians: Livy 42.29.12; the famous march through Greece: Livy 41.22.4–8; Boeotia: Livy 42.12.5–6; Byzantium: Livy 42.13.8, 42.40.6 with Eckstein 2010: 240. Polyb. 25.6.2–6 Which, as Burton 2017: 62 rightly says, suggests that it was a tacit acknowledgement that the Macedonian king had no part in the conflict (cf. Errington 1971: 204). Livy 41.19.6: senatus nec liberauvit eius culpae regem neque arguit; moneri eum tantum modo iussit, ut etiam atque etiam curaret ut sanctum habere foedus quod ei cum Romanis esset, videri posset. This behaviour chimes with the fact that Rome had shown little interest in Macedonia since 188; besides renewing amicitia in 179, no Roman embassy went to Macedonia between 183 and 173 (see Eckstein 2010: 240). See Harris 1979: 227–233. Although there was an increase of complaints over a short period from 174 onwards, accusations against Perseus had already started to be brought forward from the time of his accession to the throne (see Eckstein 2010: 240).

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and draw upon concepts of modern behavioural decision theory, which can help illuminate further fatal dynamics on the road to war between Perseus and Rome. Misperception is not new in this historical context, but my paper aims at analysing it more closely than before, allowing us to view the escalation of the conflict from a fresh perspective. 3.1 Massinissa Although Rome had monitored Perseus closely since the start of his reign and although Perseus might have attracted Roman suspicion after 179, mutual relations remained stable and not affected by serious incidents until 174. Livy sees that year as a turning point and the beginning of the escalation.37 How did Livy come to this conclusion when neither Perseus nor Rome took immediate measures to start the war? And why did Massinissa’s accusation against Perseus have such an impact in Rome, attracting Roman suspicion against the king of Macedonia even though such denouncements were – at first glance – nothing new?38 One might assume that Livy was confused, yet his assessment (which is admittedly blurred by his retrospective viewpoint) does offer insight into what was happening in secret. According to Livy, Massinissa informed the Romans that embassies from Perseus and Carthage had secretly met.39 This rumour exploits Roman anxieties about a possible coalition, referring to the pincer attack from the Second Punic War between Hannibal and Philip II, and thus makes clear that the Numidian king was attempting to divert Roman attention to the East.40 The Romans saw through Massinissa, however, and did not seize on his report as a pretext for war. Nevertheless, Massinissa’s skilful recalling of a delicate and sensitive episode from the past did cause the Romans to send envoys to Greece to investigate.41 We might understand what was going on from Livy’s description, even if the historian does not tell us explicitly. Livy’s description of Massinissa’s speech and the subsequent loss of Roman trust in Perseus hints at an effect that modern political scientists call the ‘conjunctive fallacy’. When making decisions under uncertainty, people – both private individuals and politicians – often judge the conjunction of two scenarios as more representative than either of the scenarios alone.42 For example, if presented with a scenario A “a complete suspension of diplomatic relations between the USA and the 37 38 39 40 41 42

See above, note 1. See Grainger 2017: 214. Livy 41.22.1–3. There is no proof for such a meeting and Masinissa is likely to have fabricated it. See Grainger 2017: 214. Cf. Burton 2017: 65. Livy 44.22.1–2. Cf. Grainger 2017: 214: “The combination of the two [sc. Carthage and Macedon] could still be a Roman nightmare”. The probability of the conjunction of two scenarios (A and B) cannot be higher than the prob-

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Soviet Union, sometime in 1983” and B “a Russian invasion of Poland and a complete suspension of diplomatic relations between the USA and the Soviet Union, sometime in 1983”, subjects tend to deem the combination of two events as more probable than either scenario occurring alone.43 This paradox appears not only in laboratory tests, but can also be seen in historical situations.44 The impulse to create a story from disparate pieces of information is so strong that it can overrule logical implications. Massinissa’s story might have had a greater impact than earlier accusations against Perseus because it confronted the Romans with a good story, setting up a combined threat by alleging that Perseus planned to form a coalition with Carthage.45 Massinissa’s suggestion was effective because some senators judged the conjunction of A (Perseus making preparations for war) and B (Perseus allying with Carthage) as more likely than either of those scenarios alone. This is in line with what Livy describes directly afterwards. The envoys that Rome had sent to Greece returned the following year and told the senate that they were unable to speak with Perseus because he had refused them an audience. They highlighted that Perseus was evidently preparing for war and would soon take up arms.46 At least the first accusation, that Perseus refused to meet the Romans, seems doubtful.47 Why the envoys mentioned it is unclear.48 It is unlikely that Perseus refused to receive the Romans. Perhaps the envoys themselves failed to arrange a meeting, but needed to come up with something substantial for their audience back in Rome. Replicating the ‘good story’ they thus told the senate that they considered it obvious what most senators were prone to believe – that Perseus was making arrangements for war and on the verge of taking up arms. The entire passage in Livy is invented.49 It might have found its way into Livy’s narrative either because the envoys were influenced by enemies of Perseus in Greece, or perhaps they merely wanted to confirm what some Roman senators already assumed Perseus was doing. This might have been a further consequence of the conjunction fallacy: humans not only favour possibilities that form a plausible story. They also tend

43 44 45 46 47 48

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ability of either of the two scenarios, as the conjunction is a subset of the probability of each. See Bar-Hillel; Neter 1993; McDermott 2001. See Kahneman/Tversky 1983. See Jervis 2017: xxxiv. Briscoe 2012: 16 expresses the communis opinio by saying: “It is most unlikely that Perseus was forming an alliance with Carthage … for anti-Roman purposes.” Livy 42.2.1–2: facile tamen apparuisse sibi bellum parari nec ultra ad arma ire dilaturum. Cf. Gruen 1984: 407; Grainger 2017: 215. Since we know of only one other, previous Roman envoy of this sort to Perseus (Polyb. 26.6.2, Livy 41.19.4–5), the king could not have been tired of Rome’s accusations. Again, the fact that Rome was engaged in other theatres of war at that time (Spain, Liguria) and given that a third conflict was possible due to severe tensions between Ptolemy VI and Antiochus IV, makes it unlikely that Rome was merely searching for a reason to commence a bellum iustum (see also below, note 96). Briscoe 2012: 16.

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to dismiss more complicated alternatives.50 This helps to reduce the at times overwhelming complexity of decision-making, but also makes leaders indifferent to other explanations. In this case, Perseus’ actions might have had an explanation other than concealing war preparations from the Romans, but the envoys and some Roman senators assumed behaviour which, in their view, was representative of the Macedonian king. They did not care to look more deeply into the matter and consider an equally likely, alternative scenario, though one that was more complex. This phenomenon, known in behavioural decision theory as ‘preference over preference’, plays a key role in increasing tensions in a crisis scenario. It occurs when a decision-maker is presented with several options (use of force, containment, diplomatic solution, doing nothing, etc.). In most cases, the decision-maker will be influenced by his or her a priori preference for one of the options, dismissing evidence that speaks for the others.51 This sort of behaviour can also explain why Livy comments – as if he was drawing a conclusion from the failed encounter between Perseus and the Roman envoys – that “a Macedonian war was to be expected”.52 Fatal misperception is also apparent when Livy adds that some Romans were convinced Perseus would soon start a war.53 In reality, Perseus did not start a war until the Romans had launched their own operations. Livy’s narrative presents neither a logical nor a coherent reason for why war should have been expected at that time, nor can Livy draw upon other evidence to support this view. The only explanation for Livy’s statement seems to be that it reflects contemporary preferences and prejudices held by certain Roman senators. 3.2 Eumenes A further step in the escalation, according to Livy, was king Eumenes’ speech to the senate the following year. Early in 172, he spoke before the senate, bringing up the topic of Perseus’ supposed preparations for war.54 Eumenes, who had a keen interest in this matter,55 vehemently denounced Perseus: the king of Macedonia was in his prime 50 51 52 53 54

55

See McDermott 2001: 11. See Mintz/Geva/Redd 1997. Livy 42.2.5: cum bellum Macedonicum in expectatione esset. Livy 42.2.2. Livy 42.11–42.14.1. He may have been urged by other Greek states to do this after Perseus and his army had marched to Delphi in 175. That had heightened fear and suspicion, although Perseus had sent letters to all the peoples along his route asking them to make peace with him (Livy 41.22.4–8). Perseus had not done any damage to property, but his actions had – according to Livy – been interpreted as a threat (see also Polyb. 22.18.4). Perseus was Eumenes’ neighbour in Thrace. There were some family bonds that made Perseus an enemy: he had married the daughter of Seleukos IV, and King Prusias II of Bithynia was the husband of Perseus’ sister Apama (Polyb. 25.4.8, Livy 42.12.3–4).

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and had a healthy mind, possessed abundant resources, commanded a large army and wielded significant authority.56 Eumenes added actions that he considered to be violations of good faith with Rome.57 At the end of the speech, the king of Pergamum blamed the Romans for being too passive and turning a blind eye to Perseus.58 Eumenes’ speech had an ambivalent effect on his audience. Although some of the senators blamed Eumenes for warmongering, most seem to have been impressed.59 The famous inscription set up by the Romans in 171/170 to justify war with Macedonia, frames verbatim accusations levelled against Perseus as they appear in Livy.60 Why then, aside from the factors that have already been analysed with respect to Massinissa’s speech and the embassy of 173, did Eumenes’ words have such an effect on Rome? There may have been a connection to what another Roman embassy, which had been sent to Aetolia to settle civil strife,61 experienced in Greece: although M. Claudius Marcellus, the leader of that embassy, requested that both factions end the conflict, they did not comply. This turned out to be a serious blow to Roman authority in the region. Whereas Marcellus’ colleagues managed to solve a debt crisis in Thessaly and Perrhaebia, his own influence over the Aetolian representatives was limited. Marcellus was forced to acknowledge that Rome had lost control over the region.62 Against the backdrop of Marcellus’ experiences in Aetolia, Livy’s description of Eumenes’ speech is revealing. Taking into account Marcellus’ experiences and combining this evidence with what Eumenes emphasised in front of the Romans, we can reconstruct another fatal effect during the escalation, which may have intensified Rome’s fear of Perseus and which – in Livy’s words – caused the senators to favour war. To uncover potential biases, I refer to the concept of prospect theory.63 Focusing on aspects other than traditional expected-utility approaches in individual decision-making, prospect 56 57 58 59 60

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Livy 42.11.6–9. Livy 42.13.5–10. Among these violations of good faith were Perseus’ plot against Demetrius, his attack on the Thracian chief Abrupolis, the oppression of Dolopia, his coalition with Boeotia, his march to Delphi, his alliance with the barbarian Bastarnae, and his threatening of Pergamum. Livy 42.13.11–12. Livy 42.14.1 says that the senate was “moved” by Eumenes’ speech (haec oratio movit patres conscriptos), while Appian says that the senate accused Eumenes of warmongering: see App. Mac. 11.3 and cf. Gruen 1984: 409. Cf. RDGE 40.6–17; Hammond 1988: 501; Goukowsky 2001: 146; Burton 2017: 80. This evidence demonstrates that Livy took great care when reconstructing Eumenes’ accusations in 172 and that he did not only produce a speech according to ta deonta, but also according to what was actually said. Livy 41.25.1–4. Livy 42.2.2, cf. Burton 2017: 71: “The principals of the warring factions could no longer be restrained by Roman authority”. On the other embassy, see Livy 42.5.7–10. In 1979, Kahneman and Tversky formulated and established prospect theory, mainly regarding decisions in economic scenarios: see Kahneman/Tversky 1979, Brummer/Oppermann 2014: 139–156. Prospect theory has been frequently and fruitfully applied to historical contexts by politicians and scholars of modern history, e. g. Richardson 1992; McDermott 1998; Haas 2001; Taliaferro 2004; Mintz 2010: 149–169.

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theory helps when the conflict behaviour of historical agents in a crisis scenario appears implausible and irrational. It analyses risk-aversion and risk-acceptance, and thus brings out biases and influencing factors that are often overlooked, such as irrational considerations or paradoxical dynamics in human assessments of specific situations.64 Prospect theory also proves to be effective when tackling questions connected to diplomatic interaction and erroneous human judgment in historical contexts, as is the case for the outbreak of the Third Macedonian War.65 The Romans, as the dominant power in the Mediterranean, were interested in maintaining their position. They considered the status quo as a condition to be defended at all costs. This is where prospect theory might help us better understand the situation between Rome and Perseus. Kahneman and Tversky have shown that, when making decisions, people tend to compare possible outcomes to a fixed reference point, considering some outcomes as gains and others as losses.66 Kahneman and Tversky concluded that people are risk-averse with respect to gains, but simultaneously risk-acceptant with respect to losses.67 The choice between alternatives is influenced by framing, that is by how people either view or are presented with their assets. It turns out that people will accept higher risks when a choice is framed in a way that avoids losses, and will resort to less risky actions if they have the prospect of making gains. In addition, loss aversion triggers a further irrational behaviour: people tend to accept higher risks if they are confronted with losses than if they are able to make gains.68 This phenomenon has serious implications in political contexts and is reinforced by other effects. If leaders – either an individual or a group – are likely to defend the perceived status quo at all costs, and if they prefer taking high risks instead of suffering a small, but certain loss, it is likely that a conflict will escalate when leaders expect to suffer significant losses should they not fight. Perceptual biases come into play and boost the fatal dynamic: when leaders perceive the opponent as more hostile than they

64 65

66 67 68

Cf. Levy 1997 and 2000. Prospect theory thus considers the context of a situation, and includes the protagonist’s dealing with framing, uncertainty, accountability, escalation and commitment, sunk costs, and momentum (see Mintz 1997). Nevertheless, prospect theory has also attracted criticism, especially for its origins in experimental psychology. It has been argued that generalising conclusions based on experimental tests lack external validity (Levy 1997; Jervis 1992: 188 is more optimistic). However, this objection can be fairly refuted based on passages from ancient authors: Ober/Perry 2014 have shown how prospect theory applies to human beings living in the fifth century BC; see also Thuc. 4.59.2 with Maier (forthcoming). See Levy 1997: 89–90. This evidence is based on the fact that people are more affected by losses than by gains, which encourages them to avoid losses or undo a loss at any cost. E. g. the loss of $1000 pains us more than gaining $1000 pleases us. Cf. Jervis 1992: 192.

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actually are – as was the case with Rome and Perseus – they will believe that they will suffer losses unless they resort to strong and aggressive action.69 Regarding the conflict between Perseus and Rome, such dynamics seemed to have been triggered in the build-up to the Third Macedonian War. Rome was being influenced by third parties who framed the situation as a loss for the imperium Romanum, thus changing the status quo for the Romans. We see this strategy in Eumenes’ speech.70 There, the king piles up accusations which – aside from the allegations suggesting Perseus was significantly changing the balance of power in the East – imply that Perseus had already started the war by expelling the Roman friend and ally Abroupolis, thereby causing trouble in other regions (namely Thessaly and Perrhaebia). Eumenes concludes by emphasising that Greece had been handed over to Perseus, suggesting that the king of Macedonia may shortly invade Italy.71 At this point, Eumenes reframes the status quo as if the Romans had already suffered losses, leaving it to the interpretation of his audience whether that meant a loss of prestige, strategic dominance, or territory. The Romans were thus presented with a scenario of loss, although they had, in fact, not lost any of the things mentioned by Eumenes.72 As Livy makes clear, the king of Pergamum succeeded in convincing and manipulating Roman senators who did not rely on the status quo, but rather on their aspirations as a reference point. Influenced by the other effects of misperception analysed above, these senators believed that accepting the present circumstances would entail a loss either of prestige or political control over Greece. They dismissed evidence that could have cast doubt on Eumenes’ intentions and the accuracy of his report.73 Marcellus’ experiences in Aetolia, combined with the stirring up of Roman anxieties (the scenario of a sustained loss of power and prestige in Greece) encouraged the perception of a significant setback. Eumenes’ speech in Livy makes clear that some Roman senators were more concerned with Rome’s status in the Greek world, relative to the prestige and reputation it gained in the region from 200 BC onwards, than with Rome’s current position relative to other regional powers. Roman senators did not use the actual status quo, but rather their aspirations as the reference point for their decision-making, thus convincing themselves to restore former prestige and power as soon

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Jervis 1992: 192. One might object that we should not completely rely on the exact wording of Eumenes’ speech in Livy. On the other hand, this speech reflects other passages in Livy and Polybius and can therefore be taken as representative of a general discourse applied by third parties to denounce Perseus in Rome. Livy 42.13.5–10, finishing in pro certo habet neminem sibi, antequam in Italiam traiecerit, armatum occursurum. Cf. Burton 2017: 67–68. They did not even challenge the vague confirmation of Perseus’ preparations for war, which was presented to them by the envoys sent to Greece immediately after Eumenes’ speech.

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as possible. This idea, and the cognitive bias that resulted from it, caused Rome to fall victim to the risk-seeking effect, as prospect theory explains. Rome was willing to risk conflict even though war entailed higher risks than settling the matter via diplomacy.74 Finally, Eumenes’ speech also may have given rise to the ‘certainty effect’. People tend to attach greater value to the complete elimination of risk than to the reduction of risk by a comparable amount.75 Since the king of Pergamum framed his advice to the Romans as if war against Perseus would eliminate a looming threat (instead of facing a still powerful Perseus if they resolved the crisis by diplomatic means), some Romans may have been swayed to prefer war as a solution for a problem that had existed for quite some time. Eumenes’ propositions would have been welcomed by Romans already receptive to such ideas.76 It is unsurprising that the Macedonian envoy Harpalus, who was allowed to speak after Eumenes, failed to allay Rome’s concerns. It would have taken Harpalus a long time to disprove Eumenes’ detailed and numerous accusations.77 When Livy says that the Macedonian envoy showed excessive arrogance (ferocia nimia), stating that Perseus had done nothing hostile, this opinion may reflect how some senators misperceived Harpalus’ response, taking his reply as a direct threat.78 But what else should Harpalus have said if he wanted to maintain Perseus’ status as an independent ruler and not a mere puppet of the Romans?79 4. More misperception on both sides These serious incidents and misperceptions increased the tension between Perseus and Rome. It is not possible to determine the extent to which the senate was influenced by the complaints made by third parties, nor how much some senators helped provoke the war. But all these issues, combined with contradictory agendas and misunderstandings, point at a growing suspicion and mistrust between Perseus and the Roman senators, who had not previously been enthusiastic about war against Perseus.

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This does not rule out the possibility that there were other motives, for example financial. But there must be an inclination to accept risks even if high gains are possible. Cf. Kahneman/Tversky 1979: 265; and the historical implications in Levy 1997: 91. See e. g. Cic. Prov. cons. 30–35, where Cicero praises Caesar for having ended the problems in Gaul. Cf. Grainger 2017: 218. Livy 42.14.2–4. Harpalus’ additional remark that war would be an unpredictable matter (Martem communem esse et euentum incertum belli) is a topos. His further allusion that Perseus would defend himself if the Romans sought a casus belli, certainly had a tactical purpose. It aimed at discrediting the opinion that Perseus would meet every Roman demand. Since Perseus had acquiesced to every Roman request previously, Harpalus wanted to avoid the impression that Perseus would do whatever the Romans wanted. Cf. Gruen 1984: “The senate had every reason to expect that he would bow to bullying”.

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In the final section below, I would like to show how and why, from 174 BC onwards, hawks on both sides (but particularly Roman) had an easy job of convincing other senators or Perseus that their opponent was a dangerous player who was preparing for war.80 4.1 Perseus When M. Claudius Marcellus (who had been dispatched to Greece to solve problems with the Aetolian league), held a speech at the assembly in Achaea in 173, Livy says that he described the Roman attitude toward Perseus as one of “hate” (odium).81 This public statement may have been Marcellus’ way of asserting Roman support for other Greek states, yet it is symptomatic that, again, his message was not delivered during a meeting with Perseus, but rather while speaking to a third party. It thus certainly had a perilous effect on relations as Perseus learned about a possible Roman attitude towards him from hearsay rather than through direct dialogue. The impact this speech must have had on Perseus and his advisers is clear. After Eumenes’ speech, Harpalus swiftly returned to Macedonia to report back to Perseus, who surely considered Rome’s behaviour as a pretext for war.82 In Livy’s account, Harpalus informs Perseus that it was plain the Romans would soon attack.83 Livy’s wording is interesting as it closely resembles what the Roman envoys had reported to the senate about “obvious war preparations” conducted by Perseus.84 Livy’s text thus brings out the reciprocal effect of misperception on both sides, with the tensions gaining momentum as both opponents observed significant hostility on the part of the other. Livy certainly had other aims in mind when writing his account, but it seems as if the fatal dynamics of the conflict spiral found their way into his text. Perseus must have been worried about Rome’s intentions following Eumenes’ speech, naturally interpreting Roman ‘noise’ as a sign of plans for war, thus further escalating tensions. Rome’s behaviour seriously undermined Perseus’ agenda of maintaining his status as an independent power. Perseus – and Rome – fell into the trap known in political science as the ‘ultimatum game’: a powerful state A offers a less powerful state B a solution that B views as only a portion of the intended and desired outcome (e. g. B not being able to compete with A and forced to accept terms imposed on it). Although the solution is still better than the alternative – B rejecting the offer, with both parties failing to get what they want and the assets remaining contested –

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Cf. Grainger 2017: 215. Livy 42.6.2: insigne adversus Persea odium Romanorum fecit. Cf. Grainger 2017: 216. Livy 42.15.1: bellum Romanos […] ut facile appareret, non dilaturos. Livy 42.2.1: facile tamen apparuisse sibi, bellum parari, nec ultra ad arma ire dilaturum.

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and although rational models would suggest that B should take the offer and walk away with at least a small share instead of gaining nothing, in most instances, B will reject the offer.85 As in the ‘ultimatum game’, Perseus was influenced by Rome’s escalation of the conflict after 173 and by the threats and coercion directed at him. There are clear indications that he felt humiliated by how the Roman envoys treated him.86 Fearing that he would suffer a blow to his prestige and to the status of Antigonid Macedonia if he complied with the terms demanded by Rome, Perseus rejected these even though they represented his best option. Perseus did not want war, but he also did not want to accept the Roman terms at all costs. This, in turn, heightened Roman concerns and distrust as Rome was not used to, and perhaps did not want to understand, Perseus’ opposition. Again, escalation of the conflict was inevitable as both parties stumbled toward war because of mutual misunderstandings rather than overt displays of military force.87 When Perseus and Rome met for the first time, it was too late. In 172, while an embassy led by Q. Marcius Philippus was in Greece securing support for a coalition against Perseus, the king of Macedonia contacted the Romans and arranged a meeting in the Vale of Tempe in eastern Thessaly. Although Perseus was able to defend himself against Philippus’ list of accusations, thereby making a serious attempt to resolve the conflict, Rome did not seize this opportunity to de-escalate. Instead, Philippus deceived Perseus by offering the prospect of peace even though he had already made up his mind for war.88 4.2 The Romans A further element of misperception connected to the influence of hawkish actors may have played an important role. Conflict models suggest that a spiral of escalation is triggered if state A believes that a warm and accommodating behaviour in negotiations could be treated by the opponents B as a sign of weakness. To avoid such an impression, A might behave more harshly than needed to change the mind of B. This can

85 86 87 88

This phenomenon has been observed both in historical settings and across a wide range of modern situations and cultures: see Gross Stein 2013: 381–382. E. g. Rome demanded hostages from Perseus before agreeing to talk with him in 172. The reason was not security concerns; Rome simply did not want to start the negotiations “on equal terms” (ne quaquam ex dignitate pari, Livy 42.39.7). This does not rule out the possibility that some senators in Rome were keen for war and provoked such misunderstandings. Livy 42.41.1–43.4. Cf. Gruen 1984: 413; Briscoe 2012: 287–288; Burton 2017: 72 who contrasts Perseus’ honest attempt to make peace with Philippus’ plan to buy time as the Roman preparations for war were not yet complete.

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mislead B to assume that A has hostile intentions and, in turn, make B more alert and perhaps even aggressive towards A.89 Such an increase in mutual mistrust could have aggravated the situation in the months after 172. In a passage concerning negotiations between Rome and the Rhodians in 169, Polybius reports that when both Roman consuls treated Rhodian envoys kindly and with favour, there was a group of hawks in Rhodes who immediately concluded that the Romans were in trouble, for otherwise they would not have been so amiable.90 Rome was doubtless aware of the reactions their behaviour – harsh or warm – might provoke. Some senators may have advised treating Perseus with threats and coercion to avoid giving the impression that Rome was weak. The aforementioned effects of misperception may have been amplified by a significant change in diplomatic interaction described by Livy. When reporting the debate in the senate shortly after the return of Q. Marcius Philippus, Livy mentions that the younger senators approved of Philippus’ trick of deceiving Perseus by holding out hopes for peace. They considered this a smart and clever move. Some older senators, however, criticised Philippus for having deceived Perseus during the negotiations.91 They recommended open dialogue and preferred dealing with Perseus frankly.92 These elderly senators are likely to have witnessed the wars against Philip V and Antiochus III, events in which Rome approached its enemies in an honest and direct manner.93 Such behaviour might have helped avoid the fatal developments from 174 onwards particularly, as Polybius states, because Greek states could deal with Rome “more or less on a basis of equality” in those early days.94 But these times had passed and the older senators were outnumbered. The episode shows that Livy – who draws upon Polybian material here – considered the winter 172/171 as the start of a new political chapter and the dawn of a new generation, one that preferred covert manoeuvres and the adoption of a harsher tone, both of which escalated the conflict. 5. Conclusion I have sought to address two issues: firstly, Livy’s and Polybius’ apparently contradictory reports on the escalating conflict between Rome and Macedonia at the beginning of the Third Macedonian War and, secondly, the seemingly inexplicable and obscure behaviour of both parties.

89 90 91 92 93 94

All mechanisms and types of spiral escalation can be found in Jervis 2017. Polyb. 28.17.12. Livy 42.47.4. Livy 42.47.4–8. Eckstein 2010: 243. Polyb. 24.10.9.

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By adapting theoretical approaches borrowed from behavioural decision theory, I have shown that the two questions are linked. ‘Illogical’ discrepancies between certain passages in Livy and Polybius reflect the precarious dynamics of hearsay-diplomacy, the failure of establishing direct communication, and the effects of misperception. In an atmosphere shaped by uncertainty and distrust, de-escalating behaviour often gets rejected because of biases and impulses that overemphasise the supposedly hostile actions and intentions of an enemy. As Roman embassies from 174 onwards made no effort to open up direct dialogue with Perseus, mutual distrust was able to grow rapidly, as both the Romans and Perseus received their information from third parties (who often had an interest in promoting conflict). The usual de-escalation process failed, as both parties missed the tipping point. Suddenly, each considered the other as being ahead in preparation for war and made haste to catch up. Ironically, all of this happened simultaneously. When Perseus made a final attempt at diplomacy after the war had already started and even after he had defeated the Romans in battle, the point of no return had already been reached. Taking into account what Polybius and Livy say, it seems rather as if Perseus never intended to play the role of a bystander and as if he might have tried to find out how far he could go without Roman intervention. He did not wish to provoke a war, however, but rather wanted to ride on the edge of conflict, fulfilling his aim of securing as much power as possible in the Greek world. His ambition and determination were, however, misunderstood by the Romans and exploited by his Greek rivals as well as hawks in Rome. Other circumstances do, to be sure, need to be taken into account when analysing the triggering factors for the war. The desire of Roman senators to gain glory abroad may have played a critical role.95 Some scholars add that Rome wanted to avoid opening up a flank that could have reduced their strategic options in the parallel crisis between Antiochus IV and Ptolemy VI, therefore trying to resolve the matter with Perseus once and for all with a swift strike.96 But there is also strong evidence against this theory: although Rome appears to have succumbed hastily to Massinissa’s and Eumenes’ accusations, one should also take note of Roman efforts to pursue a diplomatic solution, using threats and coercion.97 Similarly, Perseus clearly favoured diplomacy. His peace offering to the Romans after he had won the first battle in the war shows that he was not interested in an extended conflict. But his efforts to retain as much independence as possible under Roman 95 96 97

These factors also had an impact and certainly contributed to the war, but my goal has been to focus on the possible misperceptions that led to accidental and unintentional consequences and therefore to the outbreak of conflict. Harris 1979: 230; Eckstein 2010: 241; Grainger 2010: 288; Burton 2017: 104–108; compare Livy 42.19.6–8. Gruen 1984: 417 emphasises this and concludes that “the senate had every reason to expect that he [Perseus] would bow to bullying”.

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supremacy made him an easy target for his enemies, both in the East and in Rome. The consul of 171 BC, Licinius Crassus, urged for a massive levy to deal with “the most powerful king”,98 which suggests Rome expected a long and difficult war. On top of that, the repercussions of the exhausting wars in Spain and Liguria prior to the conflict with Perseus were still being felt. War with Perseus, combined with a lack of clarity regarding the situation between Antiochus and Ptolemy, was not considered the best option by all Roman senators.99 When looking back at the Third Macedonian War, Polybius dismissed as pretexts the supposedly real causes brought forward before the outbreak of the war. For him, Perseus inherited a war from his father and did everything he could to carry out the will of Philip.100 Polybius’ analysis of a complex situation is shaped by his attitude towards Philip.101 Perseus was, in fact, able to resist the pressure to wage war against Rome. But he could not compete with the accusations laid against him. Although both sides preferred other options to war, they could not establish good faith. Rome and Macedonia ended up in a military conflict as Rome listened too closely to what Perseus’ enemies had to say and Perseus was confronted with what Rome had told third parties. Perhaps there were simply too many people talking too much about war. The Third Macedonian War is, above all, a story of failed diplomacy.

Bibliography Bar-Hillel/Neter 1993 = Bar-Hillel, M. / Neter, E, “How alike is it versus how likely is it. A disjunction fallacy in probability judgements”, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 65 (1993): 1119–1131. Bousquet 1981 = Bousquet, J., “Le roi Persée et les Romains”, BCH 105 (1981): 407–416. Briscoe 2012 = Briscoe, J., A Commentary on Livy. Books 41 to 45, Oxford 2012. Brummer/Oppermann 2014 = Brummer, K. / Oppermann, K., Außenpolitikanalyse, München 2014. Burton 2017 = Burton, P. J., Rome and the Third Macedonian War, Cambridge 2017.

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Livy 42.33.5. These words may have been a strategy to secure for himself an army that could provide Crassus with a glorious victory over Perseus. However, his claim must have been plausible to his audience, which granted him a massive army in the expectation that the war would be “great and terrible”. See Lendon 2005: 193. 99 In 172, the senate refused to assign Macedonia as a province to C. Popilius Laenas who himself had refused to discuss the massacre committed by his brother Marcus in Liguria the previous year (Livy 42.10.8–12). Such incidents show that the senate was divided. 100 Polyb. 22.18.10. 101 Cf. Eckstein 2010: 239. Most scholars reject Polybius’ explanation: see Burton 2017: 92. Perhaps Polybius was unable to blame either Perseus or Rome for having started a war, so he heaped all accusations on Philip (see also Harris 1979: 227–228).

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Eckstein 2010 = Eckstein, A., “Macedonia and Rome, 221–146 BC”, in Roisman, J. / Worthington, I. (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Macedonia, Oxford 2010: 225–250. Errington 1971 = Errington, M., The Dawn of Empire. Rome’s Rise to World Power, London 1971. Errington 1986 = Errington, R. M., Geschichte Makedoniens. Von den Anfängen bis zum Untergang des Königreiches, München 1986. Goukowsky 2001 = Goukowsky, P., Appien. Histoire romaine. Vol. 5: Livre IX. Le Livre Illyrien, Fragments du Livre Macedonien, Paris 2001. Grainger 2010 = Grainger, J. D., The Syrian Wars, Leiden 2010. Grainger 2017 = Grainger, J. D., Great power diplomacy in the Hellenistic world, London/New York City (NY) 2017. Gross Stein 2013 = Gross Stein, J., “Threat Perception in International Relations”, in Huddy, L. / Levy, J. S. / Sears, D. (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Political Psychology, Oxford 2013: 364– 394. Gruen 1974 = Gruen, E. S., “The Last Years of Philip V”, GRBS 15 (1974): 221–246. Gruen 1984 = Gruen, E. S., The Hellenistic world and the coming of Rome, Berkeley (CA) 1984. Haas 2001 = Haas, M. L., “Prospect Theory and the Cuban Missile Crisis”, International Studies Quarterly 45 (2001): 241–270. Hammond 1988 = Hammond, N. G. L., “The Reigns of Philip V and Perseus”, in Hammond, N. G. L. / Walbank, F. (ed.), A History of Macedonia, Oxford 1988: 367–570. Hammond 1989 = Hammond, N. G. L., The Macedonian State. The Origins, Institutions and History, Oxford 1989. Harris 1979 = Harris, W. V., War and Imperialism in Republican Rome, 327–70 B. C, Oxford 1979. Jervis1992 = Jervis, R., “Political Implications of Loss Aversion”, International Society of Political Psychology 13 (1992): 187–204. Jervis 2017 = Jervis, R., Perception and Misperception in International Politics, Princeton (NJ) 2017. Kahneman/Tversky 1979 = Kahneman, D. / Tversky, A, “Prospect Theory. An Analysis of Decision under Risk”, Econometrica 47 (1979): 263–291. Kahneman/Tversky 1983 = Kahneman, D. / Tversky, A., “Extension versus Intuitive Reasoning: The Conjunction Fallacy in Probability Judgment”, Psychological Review 90 (1983): 293– 315. Lampela 1998 = Lampela, A., Rome and the Ptolemies of Egypt: the development of their political relations, 273–80 B. C., Helsinki 1998. Lendon 2005 = Lendon, J., Soldiers and Ghosts. A History of Battle in Classical Antiquity, New Haven (CT) 2005. Levy 1997 = Levy, J. S., “Prospect Theory, Rational Choice, and International Relations”, International Relations Quarterly 41 (1997): 87–112. Levy 2000 = Levy, J. S., “Loss Aversion, Framing Effects, and International Conflict”, in Midlarsky, M. (ed.), Handbook of War Studies II, Ann Arbor (MI) 2000: 193–221. Maier (forthcoming) = Maier, F. K., “Frust über Verlust – Julians Entscheidung zum Krieg gegen die Perser 362”, in Grünbart, M. (ed.), Unterstützung bei herrscherlichem Entscheiden: Experten und ihr Wissen in transkultureller und komparativer Perspektive, Münster, forthcoming. McDermott 1998 = McDermott, R., Risk-taking in International Politics. Prospect Theory in American Foreign Policy, Ann Arbor (MI) 1998. McDermott 2001 = McDermott, R., “The psychological ideas of Amos Tversky and their relevance for political science”, Journal of Theoretical Politics 13 (2001): 5–33. Meloni 1953 = Meloni, P., Perseo e al fine della monarchia macedone, Rome 1953.

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Mendels 1978 = Mendels, D., “Perseus and the Socio-Economic Question in Greece (179–172 B. C.). A Study in Roman Propaganda”, AncSoc 9 (1978): 55–73. Mintz 1997 = Mintz, A., “Foreign Policy Decisionmaking: Bridging the Gap Between the Cognitive Psychology and Rational Actor ‘Schools’ ”, in Geva, N. (ed.), Decisionmaking on war and peace. The cognitive-rational debate, Boulder 1997: 1–10. Mintz 2010 = Mintz, A., Understanding Foreign Policy Decision Making, Cambridge 2010. Mintz/Geva/Redd 1997 = Mintz, A. / Geva, N. / Redd, S., “The Effect of Dynamic and Static Choice Sets on Political Decision Making. An Analysis Using the Decision Board Platform”, The American Political Science Review 91 (1997): 553–566. Ober/Perry 2014 = Ober, J. / Perry, T., “Thucydides as a Prospect Theorist”, Polis 31 (2014): 296–232. Raditsa 1972 = Raditsa L., “Bella Macedonica”, ANRW 1 (1972): 564–589. Richardson 1992 = Richardson, L., “Avoiding and Incurring Losses. Decision-Making in the Suez Crisis”, International Journal 47 (1992): 370–401. Taliaferro 2004 = Taliaferro, J. W., Balancing Risks. Great Power Intervention in the Periphery, London 2004. Walbank 1938 = Walbank, F. W., “Philippos Tragoidoumenos. A Polybian Experiment”, JHS 58 (1938): 55–68. Walbank 1979 = Walbank, F. W., A historical commentary on Polybius, vol. 3, Oxford 1979. Waterfield 2014 = Waterfield, R., Taken at the Flood. The Roman Conquest of Greece, Oxford 2014.

Etiquette and ambition Great Roman individuals and the rules of diplomacy Christian Wendt

1. Introduction According to Plutarch, it was in 96 BC that Rome, an habitué of interstate relations, first took up diplomatic contact with Parthia. The relationship was troubled from the outset even if (or rather because) the Romans tried repeatedly to assert their supremacy over the Eastern rival, or at least give the impression that they controlled the political situation. In this paper, I want to deal with three minor but well-known cases of Romano-Parthian diplomacy, deliberately omitting the wars that arguably shaped the relationship more deeply and, to be sure, more spectacularly.1 But some narratives of diplomatic behaviour between the two empires are revealing when it comes to the question of how to express and withdraw good faith, as well as how those moves are influenced by political constellations, particularly in Rome. Diplomacy, from this perspective, is an apt analytical category for shedding light on political developments and is illustrative of the general condition of a society that interacts with others. This is even more true given that, in several cases, we learn more about the course of events during diplomatic interactions than about the actual outcome, results, and either immediate or long-lasting consequences of the encounters.2 The concrete proceedings in diplomatic meetings are not merely minor details, but rather integral to the message that the authors who recount the episodes wanted to convey. This is why an interpretation of the procedural dimensions of diplomacy is illuminating when we aim to understand better the overall historical context of our evidence. 1 2

For an overview, see Ziegler 1964 and now Schlude 2020. For the importance of the battle at Carrhae, see Timpe 1962; Tucci 1992; Traina 2011. Pace Ager 2017: 302, who thinks that the mainly literary character of our evidence leaves us with too little information about the rhetorical and interpersonal circumstances of diplomatic encounters.

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2. The year 96 BC: Sulla’s move During his proconsulate in Cilicia in 96 BC, Lucius Cornelius Sulla was the first Roman to take up official relations with the Parthian Empire. During a visit to Cappadocia that was intended to secure the throne of the loyal client Ariobarzanes, Sulla – as Plutarch records – was fortunate that Orobazos, an envoy of the Parthian king Arsakes (Mithridates II), wanted to meet him on the shores of the river Euphrates and establish philia kai symmachia (the Greek translation of societas et amicitia).3 Sulla used this opportunity to display both his own strength and that of Rome. He prepared three seats for the meeting of the Parthian ambassador Orobazos, Ariobarzanes the (client) king of Cappadocia, and himself. The problem was that Sulla’s seat was located in the centre, while Orobazos and Ariobarzanes were placed on equal footing with each other.4 The move was interpreted as a deliberate diminishment of Orobazos’ status.5 The impression given was that Sulla wanted to signal his authority by humiliating Orobazos, treating the Parthians in the same way he treated clients of the Imperium Romanum.6 In Rome, Sulla was blamed by some for his contempt of etiquette.7 The start of Romano-Parthian relations was poor, laying the seeds for rivalry from the very first encounter.8 The Parthian king is said to have been enraged and had his legate decapitated for accepting a less prestigious seat than that of the Roman.9 If we follow Florus’ and Festus’ account, this did not prevent an agreement from being reached, however, one that could even be referenced when Crassus attacked Parthia (though it is hard to imagine that the good faith expressed in the agreement had not been harmed by then).10

3 4 5 6

7 8 9

10

Plut. Sull. 5.4; see the parallel evidence in Vell. Pat. 2.24.3; Livy, Epit. 70. Plut. Sull. 5.4: τρεῖς δίφρους προθέμενος, τὸν μέν Ἀριοβαρζάνῃ, τὸν δὲ Ὀροβάζῳ, τὸν δὲ αὐτῷ, μέσος ἀμφοῖν καθεζόμενος χρηματίζειν. Plut. Sull. 5.5. The problem that societas et amicitia had become the official expression for a “foreign clientela” (the term is borrowed from the famous treatment by Badian 1958) and that, from a legalistic point of view, Ariobarzanes and the Parthians could both be regarded as socii et amici (at least after the agreement of 96 BC) and therefore treated as equals, is inherent in the account, even if Sulla apparently took the liberty of highlighting the Roman understanding of this relationship via the arrangement of the chairs. Plut. Sull. 5.5: οἱ δὲ ὡς φορτικὸν ᾐτιάσαντο καὶ ἀκαίρως φιλότιμον. But see the important trends in scholarship that emphasise the constructive side of the relationship, most recently Schlude 2020: e. g. 7; Nabel 2017; Schlude/Rubin 2017. Sherwin-White suggests that the Arsacid ruler was furious because Orobazos allowed Sulla to treat him as an equal. Sherwin-White 1984: 219: “Sulla who took his seat between the two as a triad of peers”. This is not convincing since the reported criticism in Rome could only be directed against a distinct humiliation of the partner – the dramaturgy only works if it was clear to the Romans that Sulla had deliberately abased his Parthian counterpart and emphasised Roman supremacy, which was only possible if Sulla was recognisable as the most powerful among the three men. Sonnabend 1986: 160–161 challenges the authenticity of the story. Flor. 1.46.4; Festus Brev. 15.2; Keaveney 1981: 197–198; Hartmann 2015: 308: “Seit dem ersten Treffen […] waren im Grunde die Einflusssphären entlang des Euphrats abgesteckt”. Against the

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Nevertheless, it seems that the message Sulla wanted to send was that the conventions of interstate meetings and the customs for establishing common ground could be invalidated by a Roman with imperium, or at least by an extraordinary individual such as himself.11 It remains unclear how Sulla should have behaved to meet the diplomatic requirements of the situation. Would it have sufficed to place Orobazos and Ariobarzanes on different levels in order to highlight the greater importance of the Parthian? Should Sulla have emphasised the (operational) equality between the ambassador and himself, or did the Parthian king expect Sulla to acknowledge the superiority of the Parthians? These questions go unanswered in the transmitted narrative, but we are told that Sulla’s actions failed to create ‘operational good faith’ between the parties involved.12 Displays and new interpretations of power could trump the need to build or nurture good faith. It becomes apparent from the example above that diplomacy was not fixed or clearly defined. Rather, diplomacy is and was influenced and shaped by the communicative expectations of those involved. If these expectations are not met or are violated, despite mutual awareness of their existence, diplomacy can express more than just a willingness to conclude a treaty or make peaceful contact with another state. The channel of communication that diplomacy creates and exploits is shaped by factors that interact to produce a platform that is more or less comfortable for the parties involved. In addition to (or perhaps rather, as an essential part of) the content of an agreement, an expression of hierarchy, respective status, and personal pre-eminence could be a key component of diplomatic interactions. This implies that diplomacy could be used to transmit secondary messages. On the other hand, minor incidents that, at the time, were probably mere aperçus could later be regarded or remembered as decisive symbolic acts, thus becoming diplomatic realities created and shaped by their public reception.13 That which was remembered as rudeness by Popilius Laenas during the so-called ‘day of Eleusis’ in 168 BC and his circle in the sand was not merely an example of bad behaviour by a Roman bully. From Livy’s account of the incident, we might see the behaviour as symptomatic of Laenas’ personality (“the usual harshness of his tem-

11 12 13

existence of a treaty before 66 BC, see Schlude/Rubin 2017: 66–68. For a synopsis of the problem, see Letzner 2000: 100–103; Ziegler 1964: 22–23. Cf. below, p. 191 and 196. For this heuristic concept, see Introduction, p. 18. Dignas/Winter 2007: 12 point out the relevance of the incident in Plutarch: “Plutarch’s account of the protocol is revealing”. A famous episode in modern German history is chancellor Adenauer stepping on the carpet where the representatives of the Allied Forces were standing during a meeting in Bonn – by no means a decisive move, but a breach of the intended protocol, which was regarded by the general public as a sign of self-regard by the defeated side and thus as a successful plea for a more equal relationship between the young Federal Republic of Germany and the victorious Allies. See e. g. Görtemaker 1999: 106.

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per” / pro cetera asperitate animi).14 However, Livy ascribes only the line drawn around Antiochus’ feet to Laenas’ character. The overall discourtesy of the scene, initiated by the refusal of a handshake, is part of Rome’s need to call an amicus to order and, in doing so, demonstrate that the bond of friendship between Antiochus and Rome was asymmetrical.15 This reflected Rome’s new position as undisputed superpower in the region. Her representatives could move within this new geopolitical framework in whatever way they thought best. Laenas’ temper is encouraged, perhaps even made possible by the assuredness that Rome’s dominance inspires in him. Laenas is not merely uncouth. He embodies a new attitude in Roman politics.16 This makes the ‘day of Eleusis’ more than just an isolated diplomatic lapse. Indeed, the motif of bad treatment as an expression or staging of superiority during diplomatic encounters is not restricted to this episode, where the importance of gestures and protocol are forefront.17 Stories of ‘violated etiquette’ appear repeatedly in accounts of Roman politics, often related to important individuals.18 There is more to the story of the Romano-Parthian negotiations in 96 BC. The overall narrative of Plutarch’s Life of Sulla should be taken into account. The episode of the Euphrates meeting belongs to the story of Sulla’s rise to power, his idiosyncrasies, his rivalry with Marius, his contempt for unwritten rules and his luck. The Parthian episode illustrates how Tyche provided Sulla with opportunities to demonstrate his uniqueness.19 The opportunity to be the first Roman to deal with the Parthians was a test of Sulla’s character. He seized the moment and presented himself as a man who could impose Rome’s will upon the Parthians. Ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῦτο τῆς μεγάλης δοκεῖ Σύλλα τύχης γενέσθαι, τὸ πρώτῳ Ῥωμαίων ἐκείνῳ Πάρθους συμμαχίας καὶ φιλίας δεομένους διὰ λόγων ἐλθεῖν. This also is thought to have been part of Sulla’s great good fortune, that he should be the first Roman with whom the Parthians held conference when they wanted alliance and friendship.20

The story of a supremely gifted citizen striving for glory and fame and watched by a jealous rival (in Sulla’s case, Marius) is a tale of monarchy, and Sulla is shown to be

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Livy 45.12.5. For Polybius’ account of the incident, see Introduction, p. 11–12. See Morgan 1990: 70: “Whatever the intended import of the gesture, it was truly ‘a new sort of diplomacy’”. Despite somewhat unconvincing attempts to relativise the effect it had on Antiochus, Badian 1968: 55–56 treats Sulla’s behaviour as a sign of this new attitude in Roman foreign policy. Lerouge 2007: 47–48 follows Badian in his interpretation. See Aldrete 2017: 149–151. Aldrete 2017: 150, note 4. Plut. Sull. 5.4; Hartmann 2008: 428. Plut. Sull. 5.4.

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suited to the contest for the greatest power and highest rank.21 This leads us to question the degree to which Plutarch’s version of the Parthian exchange is, more than anything else, embedded in a narrative logic of civil strife and civil war. We see this in the introduction to chapter 4 of the biography: Ἡ μὲν οὖν ἔχθρα βραχεῖαν οὕτω καὶ μειρακιώδη λαβοῦσα τὴν πρώτην ὑπόθεσιν καὶ ἀρχήν, εἶτα χωροῦσα δι᾽ αἵματος ἐμφυλίου καὶ στάσεων ἀνηκέστων ἐπὶ τυραννίδα καὶ σύγχυσιν ἁπάντων πραγμάτων […]. So slight and puerile were the first foundations and occasions of that hatred between them, which afterwards led them through civil bloodshed and irreparable discords to tyranny and the confusion of the whole state.22

In the passage that follows, Plutarch references Euripides to highlight ambition (philotimia) as the reason for these developments and the origin of all evils in Rome: Ἀπέδειξε τὸν Εὐριπίδην σοφὸν ἄνδρα καὶ πολιτικῶν ἐπιστήμονα νοσημάτων, διακελευσάμενον φυλάττεσθαι τὴν φιλοτιμίαν ὡς ὀλεθριωτάτην καὶ κακίστην δαίμονα τοῖς χρωμένοις. This proved that Euripides was a wise man, and acquainted with the distempers of civil government, when he exhorted men to beware of ambition as a deity most injurious and fatal to its votaries.23

The treatment of the Parthian ambassador was, in Plutarch’s eyes, nothing more than an illustration of Sulla’s ambition, which itself was the root cause of civil war in Rome. Equally revealing is the fact that Sulla is presented as a man whose unexpected behaviour is characterised by a certain creativity, a form of entrepreneurship that bends the rules where necessary to increase his chances of personal success. Sulla’s panache brings to mind stories of other great men who were said to have acted in unusual or even peculiar ways to achieve their goals, with Julius Caesar’s treatment of his pirate captors as one of the most prominent examples.24 The anecdotal nature of these episodes is clear, yet it is hard to claim that they are meant merely as crowd-pleasers. Instead, these short extracts help tell the story of a powerful individual who is destined to come into conflict with the society of which he is part. His abilities and élan are at once fascinating and dangerous. The motif is a recurring classic, used by Homer for Achilles and Odysseus, by Thucydides and Aristophanes for Alcibiades, and by Plutarch for Al21 22 23 24

Plutarch problematises this in Sull. 5.6, when he has a Chaldaean judge Sulla’s physiognomy and movements and then foretell his unique greatness among men: ὡς ἀναγκαῖον εἴη τοῦτον τὸν ἄνδρα μέγιστον γενέσθαι (“that this man must of necessity become the greatest in the world”). Plut. Sull. 4.4. Plut. Sull. 4.4. The story is told in many contexts, with the most famous versions in Plutarch’s and Suetonius’ Lives of Caesar (Plut. Caes. 1–2 and Suet. Iul. 4).

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exander, to cite just a few examples. Sulla’s character shines through in his dealing with Orobazos, just as Laenas’ character emerged through his treatment of Antiochus. But it is not only their personality that is important: the idea that these men were trying to excel in competition or at least behave in a way that would be received positively in Rome merges the personal dimension with systemic Roman factors. If diplomacy could be used as a vehicle for internal competition in Rome (as foreign policy as a whole could), the symbolic capital it represented, or could generate, was immense. This is why Sulla’s move in 96 BC stands out as a high-risk gamble, subordinating diplomatic etiquette to his own reputation.25 In other words, he chose an act of ‘international’ provocation to strengthen his growing personal influence. Plutarch embeds the episode, which relies on the performative aspect of diplomacy (and the consequent damage to the Romano-Parthian relationship), within a broader portrait of Sulla that is both ambivalent and problematic. Sherwin-White remarks that “some historians have made too much of this incident”.26 However, diplomatic conventions can tell us something about the political motives and the political context of the society involved – or better: about their presentation in the evidence we have. Ancient authors considered the field of diplomacy to be both relevant and illuminating, and found that it fitted well with the overall stories within which the episodes are retold. Even if Plutarch’s source was Sulla’s own lost memoirs, his decision to include the episode is important for the interpretation of the biographer’s narrative as a whole.27 3. The year 65 BC: Pompey’s address After having been granted an imperium extra ordinem via the lex Manilia in 66 BC, which enabled him to pursue the war against Mithridates VI and establish a new order in the Roman East, Pompey took the opportunity not only to restore order, but also place himself at the top of a newly created network of clients devoted to him as well as to Rome (or perhaps to him even more loyally than to Rome).28 His position as the

25

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Keaveney 2005: 32 interprets Sulla’s move as a “calculated insult”, intended to give him a psychological advantage and thus pave the way for a peace treaty that both sides were happy with. This does not lack imagination, but is not based on Plutarch (though see the author’s longer treatment in Keaveney 1981: 196–199). Ziegler 1964: 37 too does not differentiate between Sulla’s personal interests and those of Rome. Sherwin-White 1984: 219. In the same vein, see Hartmann 2008: 428–429: “Plutarch interessiert sich in der Vita aber weniger für die Verhandlungen des Proprätors von Kilikien mit dem Gesandten Orobazos 96 v. Chr. am Euphrat”. See e. g. Hartmann 2008: 432 (note 36); Lerouge 2007: 335: “toute l’anecdote est une pure invention de Sylla”. See Baltrusch 2002: 254–255; Wendt 2008: 28–31.

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new patron of the East was so strong (or at least, is described in our sources as being so strong) that Pompey allegedly took liberties when dealing with the great powers of the Near East. Most of his actions suggest a magnanimous air, though his disrespect for the temple in Jerusalem is also attested.29 Parthia, however, presented a challenge. Pompey is said to have considered a military attack, but was clearly happy with the outcome of the negotiations with Phraates III in 66 BC, in which the Euphrates may have been established as a frontier that neither party should cross.30 Pompey had much organisational work before him and a clash with Parthia was unsuited to his ambitious plans, as Cassius Dio mentions in another context.31 But shortly afterwards, the Roman army under Gabinius disrespected the agreement and launched operations in Parthian territory. Pompey reacted to the Parthian complaint condescendingly, making clear that it was the right of the stronger party to decide which regulations applied.32 In addition, he chose in a letter not to address Phraates as “king of kings”, as was his usual title, a move that Cassius Dio interprets as hybris.33 Whatever Pompey’s motives, we can speculate that he needed to buttress his new role as the dominant figure in the region, and that his correspondence with the Parthian king was influenced by the image Pompey wanted to project to several audiences. The performative aspect of his behaviour, underscoring his position as ruler of the Near East, the true “king of kings” (as he is called by Appian in his account of the year 67 BC), is important in this regard.34 The message was clear: it was for Pompey to decide whether the title “king of kings” was suitable for Phraates III, while even the binding force of a treaty could be overridden if Pompey considered its terms no longer acceptable. Good faith, it seems, was deprived of its mutual character and implicitly defined as subordination to Roman (or Pompeian) good will. The preservation of a relationship of good faith was only possible if one side accepted the supremacy of the other. This meant that the superior power could change and dictate the terms of an agreement after it had been concluded. In other words, it was a sign of good faith to bow before Rome/Pompey. It is telling that these details were important to historiographers and other authors. Dio writes that Pompey regarded it as just that, with all his power, he could dictate

29 30

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Joseph. BJ 1.152–153; Dio Cass. 37.16.4. Ziegler 1964: 28; Linz 2009: 34, with reservations (he accepts the Euphrates as a de facto frontier from the second incident in 65/64 BC); Schlude/Rubin 2017: 64–66. See e. g. Hartmann 2015: 308 for the assumption that the Euphrates frontier existed from the treaty that followed the negotiations between Sulla and Orobazos; similarly Keaveney 1981: 198. For the Parthian interest in a peaceful co-existence, see recently Börm 2019: 101–105. Dio Cass. 37.7.2. Dio Cass. 37.6.1. Dio Cass. 37.6.1: καὶ πρὸς τὴν ἐπίκλησιν αὐτοῦ ὕβρισεν. See Dio Cass. 37.5.3 for Pompey’s haughty behaviour toward the Parthian ambassadors. App. Mith. 94.433.

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the terms of political behaviour. The letter to Phraates was a warning to Pompey’s and Rome’s new subjects, indicating how far they could go and allowing for no illusions of equality.35 The repercussion this had in Rome was perhaps equally welcome to Pompey, given the tensions with the senate. He dealt with the situation on his own terms, unperturbed by any overt senatorial opposition. In this way, the letter to Phraates could also be regarded as a sign of power back in Rome. In his biography of Pompey, Plutarch depicts an ambitious man who overcomes all obstacles to become the first citizen, but then trips and falls because of his stubborn self-importance. Plutarch introduces Pompey’s interactions with the East as motivated by eros and philotimia (we recall Plutarch’s judgment of Sulla and Marius).36 His decision to omit the title “king of kings” in his letter to Phraates followed a cautious calculation that other dependent kings and princes might have been vexed by his use of the title.37 Pompey thus began to regard his actions as beneficia. He did not wish to offend any of his clients, and so had to be aware of the complex network of relations that existed in the region. On the other hand, the story is also part of a tragic narrative in which Pompey, at the height of his career, loses rational control of the situation and the first signs of his downfall become visible. Plutarch himself laments that Pompey did not die soon after the accomplishment of his great deeds in the East and his subsequent magnificent triumph.38 Since all later successes and failures served only to draw Pompey further into the abyss, it would have been better if he had left the stage when fortune still smiled upon him. The model of a tragic peripeteia is clear. The hybris or hamartia that should have been apparent earlier now fall upon the individual. Again, it is philotimia that drives Pompey’s actions. His violation of diplomatic etiquette can be read as a symptom of an erroneous judgment of the circumstances, a mark of the man’s hamartia. Both Plutarch and Dio integrate their account into the context of problematic behaviour and motives that are dominant features of the civil wars. They both link Pompey’s diplomatic actions to his embeddedness in the struggle for power in Rome. How far those actions were dictated by his fate is never made explicit, but it becomes clear that the new mode of politics was an omnipresent factor, making Pompey paradigmatic for the problems associated with building an empire on the basis of personal ambition. Diplomatic etiquette was challenged by ambition, itself identified in our sources as one of the main catalysts for the crisis of the Roman Republic. 35

36 37 38

Dio Cass. 37.5.3 and 37.6.1–2; Hartmann 2008: 430. Ziegler 1964: 36–39 highlights the trend toward Roman imperialism and the ambition of leading men, but ascribes some actions to “Unbekümmertheit” (37), a sort of “mindlessness”, which is exactly the opposite of the idea developed here. Sonnabend 1986: 164 considers the incident not particularly important. Plut. Pomp. 38.1–2: ὑπὸ φιλοτιμίας and αὐτὸν δέ τις ἔρως καὶ ζῆλος εἶχε Συρίαν ἀναλαβεῖν καὶ διὰ τῆς Ἀραβίας ἐπὶ τὴν ἐρυθρὰν ἐλάσαι θάλασσαν. Plut. Pomp. 38.2. Plut. Pomp. 46.1.

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4. The year 2/1 BC: Augustus’ settlements reconsidered Augustus had done much to depict his peace treaty with Phraates IV in 20 BC as an act of subduing the Parthian. From this moment on, Phraates IV experienced the grace of Rome and of its princeps, who had granted him friendship and peace. In the Res Gestae, Augustus portrays the Parthian king as begging for his friendship and that of the Roman people, and emphasises the symbolic value of the fact that Phraates IV sent some of his own children as hostages to the Roman capital, an act that could be interpreted as a gesture of submission.39 It seems that both sides were happy with the outcome of the talks in 20 BC, having secured the status quo, prevented war and settled the Armenian question (at least for a time).40 After the death of Phraates IV in 2 BC, his successor Phraatakes (then Phraates V) threatened to undermine the agreement and treat Armenia as his rightful sphere of influence. Augustus was not happy and, while sending Caius Caesar on a mission to deal with the problem in situ,41 tried to show his opponent that such behaviour was unacceptable. In a letter (probably dated 1 BC), he addressed Phraates V without mentioning his title of king, and claimed that the Parthian should resign.42 In doing so, Augustus intimated a number of things: that Phraates’ kingship was illegitimate (Augustus also used the name “Phraatakes”, the diminutive by which Phraates V was known before he became king), that Parthia’s greatness was contested, and that Rome and its first citizen ruled over the Parthians. What is most striking is that: 1) the incident was worth recording, and we might thus conclude that Augustus wanted others to know that he was dealing with the Parthian situation in the manner of a dominant summus vir, 2) the settlement of 20 BC was important, but the impression of it even more so – a rupture would not be tolerated, and 3) the new Parthian king understood the move and had the insolence to reply in kind to his Roman counterpart. In effect, Phraates V replied in a letter of his own, calling Augustus merely Caesar, omitting the 39

40

41 42

See e. g. Wendt 2008: 174; Rose 2005: 35–44, with a detailed examination of the pictorial representation of these “hostage” princes. Schlude/Rubin 2017: 71–72, among others, recall their real status and fate as privileged guests, but this was not the image the princeps needed to produce – they were treated as favourite clients, but their presence underlined the supremacy of their patron Augustus (see Ziegler 1964: 51–52). A good overview can be found in Nabel 2017: 211–224, who emphasises the close bounds between the Arsacids and the domus principis, as well as the important role the hostages had to play within a staging of peace and harmony. Strothmann 2012 argues that the sending and the reception of the Parthian princes could even be regarded as a new mode of politics between two rulers acknowledging their equal status. See also Wiesehöfer 2009: 95–97. See Nabel 2017: 83–96 for the context of the agreement in 20 BC; Ziegler 1964: 50–51: “modus vivendi” (50); Wiesehöfer 2009: 97 speaks even of a de facto shared domination of the entire world, which is accepted by Nabel 2017: 207: “division of the world between Rome and Parthia as a cooperative venture rooted in mutual respect if not necessarily in goodwill”. This is based on Just. Epit. 41.1.1, who uses the phrase divisio orbis in his Epitome of Trogus. For the ideological context of Caius’ mission and the situation as a whole, see Luther 2010. Dio Cass. 55.10.20.

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titles and honours that had been bestowed on Caius Octavius over the years. Dio calls the tone of the letter “haughty” (hyperphronos).43 The Parthian king exploited the same issues as Augustus had – the problem of Augustus’ legitimacy was well known, and his dependence on his adoption by Caesar for his position were aspects worth recalling for an opponent. The diplomatic wrangle began with well-recognised breaches of protocol and it entered a second stage quickly – both parties expressed doubts about the legitimacy of the other’s status, suggesting that the other man was an usurper. We can suppose each to have recognised the gravity of such a claim. In Dio’s narrative, this emphasises the scale of the conflict and recalls what was at stake for both sides. Again, the fact that this unfriendly epistolary exchange was not regarded as a mere detail by historiographers, but rather as a significant part of the political development, shows just how relevant diplomatic rituals were in narratives about the clash of the two empires.44 This should be true for reality too; in societies where signs, gestures, status and performance were important,45 behaviour in diplomatic interactions was significant, not least for making complex political situations comprehensible to a general public. There are many examples of this kind. They often deal with hubristic attitudes and failed attempts at finding a common basis for fruitful communication. The ambivalence of diplomatic action seems to have been an important factor in the accounts we have, and these often include information about behaviour and etiquette. While a shared practice was generally adopted for interstate relations, these often involved parties who wanted to be represented in a manner commensurate with their significant self-regard. Conflict was probable under such conditions. If Augustus chose words that expressed to Phraates his withdrawal of good faith, we can understand the motives that guided him. The diplomatic arena had to have a winner and, by definition, this winner had to be the Roman princeps. At the end of the Republic in crisis, the last man standing after all bloody civil wars had to ensure that the world and especially his own people knew who ruled the oikoumene. This undoubtedly affected Augustus’ diplomatic behaviour.

43 44

45

Dio Cass. 55.10.20. Linz 2009: 75 note 314, correctly points out (perhaps over-emphasises) that the dismissive behaviour has not sparked much interest in scholarship so far – this is certainly due to the compromise that was found afterwards and the succeeding agreement between Phraates V and Rome in 1/2 AD. The grand diplomatic spectacle on an island in the Euphrates intended to stage friendship and equality between the parties (a sort of ‘operational good faith’), but we should keep in mind that it was the Parthian ruler and ‘only’ Augustus’ grandson Caius who met for the banquets and negotiations. Augustus’ (claimed) pre-eminence was not questioned at this meeting. See Linz 2009: 76–77 for an interpretation of this meeting and the gestures involved. For Rome, see Hölkeskamp 2017: chapters 4 and 5; Flaig 2003; Roller 2006. For the ancient world as a whole, see Naiden/Talbert 2017.

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5. Conclusions There are a few aspects that I would like to underscore in order to shed light on the narrative dimension of the episodes discussed above. This will hopefully illuminate our methodological approach to diplomatic rituals and their value in the ancient world. First, some authors seem to rely on a common discourse regarding incidents of diplomatic misbehaviour. It would be easy to draw a line between Popilius Laenas and his treatment of Antiochos IV at Eleusis, Sulla’s choreography of his meeting with Orobazos on the shores of the Euphrates, Pompey’s refusal to call Phraates III “king of kings” and finally Augustus’ conflict with Phraates V, not to mention Crassus’ attack on Parthia.46 The narrative framework points at the role of individuals in political developments. The accounts of diplomatic encounters serve this literary aim. Several authors pinpoint ambition as the basis for decisions taken by ‘big men’.47 This means that anecdotes about behaviour or misbehaviour will have represented a welcome opportunity not only for fleshing out the story, but also for indicating shifts in Roman politics. Deliberate deviations from presumed etiquette reveal the desire of some actors to redefine interstate relationships, but also to demonstrate their own ability to manoeuvre. Diplomacy was regarded as a flexible tool that could be adapted to create or underscore hierarchies. One of the most famous examples of this is the Melian Dialogue in Thucydides, where the Athenians claim that they are powerful and insightful enough to abandon the old and hypocritical formulae (that they refer to as onomata kala) and free themselves from the diplomatic games that others must play.48 By framing such quarrels in terms of political behaviour, narrators show how etiquette – and even institutional certainties – could be trumped by ambition. Transgressions are a defining part of the overall era of the Roman civil wars, where displays and claims of personal power and supremacy gained importance also in diplomatic contexts. When the sources recall or even construct incidents such as the omission of established titles, this is more than simply a confirmation of the ruler’s good judgment (e. g. Augustus was behaving as one should with barbarians), although some scholars

46 47

48

See Plut. Crass. 14.4 and 16.2 for Crassus’ motives; 16.3 for the lack of a reason for war; 18.1–2 and 22.3 for his diplomatic behavior full of contempt; 33.4 for the resemblance of Crassus’ campaign with a tragedy. This is why Ager 2017: 307 covers only one dimension of the accounts: “neither side was able to defeat the other, yet both had a vested interest in presenting themselves as superior. Sulla, Augustus, and Trajan all sought ways of affirming Roman preeminence through diplomatic messaging”. This is true, but omits the necessity for these men to act as they did due to their specific position in Rome and the struggle for public acceptance. Thuc. 5.89.

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have interpreted the relevant passages in that way.49 The crisis of the Republic and the transformation of the Imperium Romanum are in nuce expressed in these accounts. New ways had to be found to deal with the new concentration of power in the hands of one individual. Rome was able to dictate terms to nearly all her opponents, but did not necessarily know how to handle this. These were challenges with tangible repercussions for diplomatic relations, which represented just one facette of the overall political atmosphere. The princeps and the great patrons had to find novel ways to define and maintain their positions.50 It seems as if new diplomatic measures, such as the refusal to use expected titles, served as test cases for reappraising the binding nature of conventions. If the assertion of supremacy, an affront, even outright invective were expressions of a new understanding of politics, defining new boundaries for what was possible and thinkable, it shows how fluid and flexible the so-called international system was in antiquity – and to a great deal still is today. Even if legal and conventional principles existed, these could be questioned, if the political situation allowed. We cannot assume that the sources who tell these stories would recognise this way of redefining relationships and duties. On the contrary, their emphasis on details that, at first glance, appear ornamental to their narratives, provides us with a perspective that problematises the overall political background. If it is true that diplomatic relations rely on respective autonomy,51 a calculated offence that signals a patron-client-relationship or one of hierarchical asymmetry gains specific relevance. The assumption of a binding and well-functioning web of relations is a Weberian ideal type, at least on the operational level.52 The general rule that diplomacy had to serve the creation of good faith between partners is not valid for all cases and all microsystems. The message communicated to one’s own people, be it subjects or more-or-less free citizens, could be equally important. If it seemed beneficial, a breach of diplomatic etiquette could be personally valuable.53 It seems that some parties attempted to broaden their diplomatic horizon, or rather adapt old formulae to their own needs. This could include abolishing or disrespecting existing formulae. How successful these measures were in the long term is disputable. Sometimes nemesis is included in the narrative framework, when actors who express disrespect for behavioural codes are destined to fall. In Plutarch, Pompey (among others) is a striking example of this dynamic. In Thucydides, the Athenians assumed this role, as 49 50 51 52 53

See e. g. Hartmann 2008: esp. 437–448 for his interpretation of Plutarch. For this problem, see in general Jehne 2016; Baltrusch 2002; Wendt 2008: 105–108, 257–263. Eder 1999; Wendt 2008: 135–138. Ager 2017: 310 highlights the fact that our definition of diplomacy is at times too idealistic to grasp what diplomacy is really about and, embracing a realist tendency, declares: “it is just that diplomacy itself is not quite so polished as we suppose”. See Wiesehöfer 2009: 96: “Dies alles waren Bilder, ideologische Entwürfe, die den eigenen Untertanen als Adressaten voraussetzten; im außenpolitischen Tagesgeschäft halfen sie kaum weiter” (with regard to Augustus).

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do Kambyses or Xerxes in Herodotus. Although it is not valid to claim that the failure of these prominent parties was due solely to their contempt for diplomatic etiquette, that contempt remains a mark of their problematic disposition towards politics as a whole. As such, it becomes an important tool in the literary arsenal that authors could use when constructing their narrative. The staging is essential for creating a complex diplomatic picture. A closer look at the procedural side of diplomatic agreements in antiquity can open up valuable new perspectives for our understanding of the measures taken and the compromises made, as well as new insights into the complexities and characteristics of the system as a whole.54 That the performative aspect of an agreement could be more valuable than its actual content is apparent in another treaty that I will but mention here: Nero’s settlement of the Armenian question at Rhandeia in 63 AD. This was, in fact, nothing more than an acknowledgment of the Parthians’ prerogative to appoint a new king in Armenia.55 And yet, the performance that took place around the treaty and the ceremony of appointing Tiridates as king of Armenia made this relatively mediocre outcome the most successful moment in Nero’s political career. The image of the Armenian king kneeling before him and then, as a rex amicus, being welcomed with all splendour by his patron, provided Nero with invaluable political capital within the framework that a Roman princeps had to respect.56 The image that Nero needed to project to those who would accept him as ruler of the Roman world was one of a benevolent yet near-omnipotent rector orbis terrarum. The spectacle was impressive enough, it seems, to have reached the intended audience. The staging was successful. A diplomatic solution for Armenia was not its main objective. We should assume that diplomatic actions were meant to shape good faith, but precisely whose good faith needed shaping depended on the situation. Bibliography Ager 2017 = Ager, S., “Diplomatic Communication in the Ancient Mediterranean”, in Naiden/ Talbert 2017: 292–310. Aldrete 2017 = Aldrete, G., “Gesture in the Ancient Mediterranean World”, in Naiden/ Talbert 2017: 149–163. Badian 1968 = Badian, E., Roman Imperialism in the Late Republic, Oxford 1968. Badian 1958 = Badian, E., Foreign Clientelae (264–70 BC), Oxford 1958.

54 55 56

Ager 2017: 302: “Symbolic messages, whether verbal or nonverbal, overt or covert, abound in international diplomacy, as they do in communication of any kind. Gesture, tone, expression, all play a role in rhetoric … Actions speak louder than words”. Heil 1997: 120–125. Wendt 2008: 245–246.

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Baltrusch 2008 = Baltrusch, E., Außenpolitik, Bünde und Reichsbildung in der Antike, München 2008. Baltrusch 2002 = Baltrusch, E., “Auf dem Weg zum Prinzipat: Die Entwicklung der republikanischen Herrschaftspolitik von Sulla bis Pompeius (88–62 v. Chr.)”, in Spielvogel, J. (ed.), Res publica reperta. Zur Verfassung und Gesellschaft der römischen Republik und des frühen Prinzipats, Festschrift für Jochen Bleicken zum 75. Geburtstag, Stuttgart 2002: 245–262. Börm 2019 = Börm, H., “Die Grenzen des Großkönigs? Überlegungen zur arsakidisch-sasanidischen Politik gegenüber Rom”, in Schleicher, F. / Hartmann, U. / Stickler, T. (ed.), Iberien zwischen Rom und Iran, Stuttgart 2019: 99–122. Dignas/Winter 2007 = Dignas, B. / Winter, E. (ed.), Rome and Persia in Late Antiquity: Neighbours and Rivals, Cambridge 2007. Eder 1999 = Eder, W., “Außenpolitik”, in Sonnabend, H. (ed.), Mensch und Landschaft in der Antike. Lexikon der historischen Geographie, Stuttgart/Weimar 1999: 46–49. Flaig 2003 = Flaig, E., Ritualisierte Politik. Zeichen, Gesten und Herrschaft im Alten Rom, Göttingen 2003. Görtemaker 1999 = Görtemaker, M., Geschichte der Bundesrepublik Deutschland: von der Gründung bis zur Gegenwart, München 1999. Hartmann 2015 = Hartmann, U., “Herrscher mit geteilten Loyalitäten. Vasallenherrscher und Klientelkönige zwischen Rom und Parthien”, in Baltrusch, E. / Wilker, J. (ed.), Amici – socii – clientes? Abhängige Herrschaft im Imperium Romanum, Berlin 2015: 301–362. Hartmann 2008 = Hartmann, U., “Das Bild der Parther bei Plutarch”, Historia 57/4 (2008): 426–452. Heil 1997 = Heil, M., Die orientalische Außenpolitik des Kaisers Nero, München 1997. Hölkeskamp 2017 = Hölkeskamp, K. J., Libera res publica. Die politische Kultur des antiken Rom – Positionen und Perspektiven, Stuttgart 2017. Jehne 2015 = Jehne, M., “From patronus to pater. The changing role of patronage in the period of transition from Pompey to Augustus”, in Jehne, M. / Pina Polo, F. (ed.), Foreign clientelae in the Roman Empire. A Reconsideration, Stuttgart 2015: 297–319. Keaveney 2005 = Keaveney, A., Sulla, the Last Republican, London/New York City (NY) 2005 (1st ed. London 1982). Keaveney 1981 = Keaveney, A., “Roman Treaties with Parthia circa 95 – circa 64 B. C.”, AJPh 102/2 (1981): 195–212. Lerouge 2007 = Lerouge, C., L’image des Parthes dans le monde gréco-romain. Du début du Ier siècle av. J.-C. jusqu’à la fin du Haut-Empire romain, Stuttgart 2007. Letzner 2000 = Letzner, W., Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Versuch einer Biographie, Münster 2000. Linz 2009 = Linz, O., Studien zur römischen Ostpolitik im Principat, Hamburg 2009. Luther 2010 = Luther, A., “Zum Orientfeldzug des Gaius Caesar”, Gymnasium 117 (2010): 103– 127. Morgan 1990 = Morgan, M. G., “Polybius, Antiochus Epiphanes and the ‘Day of Eleusis’”, Historia 39/1 (1990): 37–76. Nabel 2017 = Nabel, J., The Arsacids of Rome: Royal Hostages and Roman-Parthian Relations in the First Century CE, PhD Cornell University 2017 Naiden/Talbert 2017 = Naiden, F. / Talbert, R. (ed.), Mercury’s Wings: Exploring Modes of Communication in the Ancient World, Oxford 2017. Roller 2006 = Roller, M., Dining Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values, and Status, Princeton (NJ) 2006. Rose 2005 = Rose, C. B., “The Parthians in Augustan Rome”, AJA 109/1 (2005): 21–75.

Schlude 2020 = Schlude, J., Rome, Parthia, and the Politics of Peace: The Origins of War in the Ancient Middle East, London/New York City (NY) 2020. Schlude/Rubin 2017 = Schlude, J. / Rubin, B., “Finding Common Ground: Roman-Parthian Embassies in the Julio-Claudian Period”, in Schlude, J. / Rubin, B. (ed.), Arsacids, Romans and Local Elites: Cross-Cultural Interactions of the Parthian Empire, Oxford 2017: 65–92. Sherwin-White 1984 = Sherwin-White, A. W., Roman Foreign Policy in the East: 168 B. C. to A. D. 1, London 1984. Sonnabend 1986 = Sonnabend, H., Fremdenbild und Politik. Vorstellungen der Römer von Ägypten und dem Partherreich in der späten Republik und frühen Kaiserzeit, Frankfurt/M. 1986. Strothmann 2012 = Strothmann, M., “Feindeskinder an Sohnes statt. Parthische Königssöhne im Haus des Augustus”, in Wick, P. / Zehnder, M. (ed.), The Parthian Empire and its Religion, Gutenberg 2012: 83–102. Timpe 1962 = Timpe, D., “Die Bedeutung der Schlacht von Carrhae”, MusHelv 19/2 (1962): 104– 129. Traina 2011 = Traina, G., Carrhes – Anatomie d’une défaite: quand l’Orient humilia Rome, Paris 2011. Tucci 1992 = Tucci, M., The Battle of Carrhae: The Effects of a Military Disaster on the Roman Empire, MA Diss., Univ. Missouri-Columbia, 1992. Wendt 2008 = Wendt, C., Sine fine. Die Entwicklung der römischen Außenpolitik von der späten Republik bis in den frühen Prinzipat (67 v. Chr. bis 68 n. Chr.), Berlin 2008. Wiesehöfer 2009 = Wiesehöfer, J., “Geteilte Herrschaft. Rom und die Parther”, in Imperium – Konflikt – Mythos, vol. 1, Stuttgart 2009: 91–97. Ziegler 1964 = Ziegler, K.-H., Die Beziehungen zwischen Rom und dem Partherreich, Stuttgart 1964.

Indices Index locorum Aelianus VH 1.21

87 n. 36

Aeschylus Pers. 2

13 n. 11

Sept. 42–48 43–48

33 n. 45 115

Aeschines 1.114 2.21 2.22 2.26–33 Leg. 115

115 n. 77 57 n. 51 57 n. 52 71 n. 129 33 n. 42

Appian B Civ. 5.3.28 Mac. 9.5 11.3 11.5–6 Mith. 94.433 Aristophanes Ach. 61–133 62 62–63 646–651 Lys. 185–190 1248–1262

113 n. 71 169 n. 26 174 n. 59 169 n. 28 191 n. 34

126 n. 7 88 90 n. 51 126 n. 7 115 n. 78 70 n. 126

Andocides 1.126 3.35

115 n. 77 56 n. 45

Antiphon 5.12

Aristotle [Ath. Pol.] 23.5

40 n. 88

115 n. 77

Arrian Anab. praef. 1–3 praef. 2 2 2.14 2.14.1–3 2.14.4

143 144 138 137; 137 n. 2 139 n. 5 156

Apollonius Rhodius Argon. 2.719 3.356–367

115 n. 77 72 n. 135

202 2.14.4–9 2.14.5 2.25.1 2.25.1–3 Athenaeus 2.48d 2.48f

Indices

143; 144; 145; 157 157 142 n. 17; 148; 149 n. 33 137 n. 2 87 n. 34 90

Cicero Prov. cons. 30–35

177 n. 76

Ctesias F 16 § 63

159 n. 63

Curtius Rufus 4.1.7–10 4.1.7–14 4.1.10–14 4.5.1 4.5.1–9 4.11 4.11.5–6

140 n. 10 137 n. 2 142; 144; 145 142 n. 17 137 n. 2 137 n. 2 148

Demosthenes 4.48 19.183 19.259 23.68

157 n. 61 56 n. 46 88 n. 39 115 n. 77

Didymus Caecus In Genesim 174.3 Dio Cassius 37.5.3 37.6.1 37.6.1–2 37.7.2 37.16. 55.10.20

120 n. 87 191 n. 33; 192 n. 35 191 n. 32 and 33 192 n. 35 191 n. 31 4191 n. 29 193 n. 42; 194 n. 43

Diodorus 12.53 14.19.4 15.8.2–3 15.9.2 15.25.4 15.26.1 16.44.1 17 17.39 17.39.1 17.54.1–6 17.54.2 17.54.5 18.4.5 19.68.5–7 29.30 31.2

56 n. 47 155 n. 52 155 155 62 n. 86 63 n. 87 156 n. 57 141 142 n. 15; 151 n. 41 137 n. 2 137 n. 2 142 n. 16; 148 160 n. 68 42 n. 102 41 n. 91 169 n. 29 11 n. 2

Dionysius Halicarnassensis de Thuc. 42 68 n. 116 Eunapius VS Introd. 453 Euripides IT 1450–1468 Med. 613

159 n. 66

43 n. 104 89

Festus Brev. 15.2

186 n. 10

Florus 1.46.4

186 n. 10

Herodotus 1.22.4 1.165.3 3.7 3.30

86 n. 32 40 n. 88 84 13 n. 11

203

Index locorum

3.39 3.39.2 4.1.83–143 4.43 4.70 4.87.1 6.44 6.68 6.86γ 7.55–56 7.116 7.157 7.158.1–3 7.159.1 7.161.3 7.237 8.120 Hippocrates [Ep.] 27 Homer Il. 2.341 3.39–120 3.69 3.76–120 3.77 3.102–110 3.103–104 3.106 3.107 3.110 3.245–249 3.245–323 3.266 3.269–270 3.274 3.276–280 35 n. 62 3.292–294 3.298 3.299–300 4.158 6.212–236 7.348–353

83 n. 10 86 154 153 n. 45 115 131 153 n. 47 115 n. 77 33 n. 42 154 86 n. 32 69 n. 121 69 n. 122 70 n. 123 70 n. 123 85 86 n. 32

71 n. 128

33 n. 41 29 n. 10 30 n. 18 30 n. 13 30 n. 16 30 n. 13 30 n. 12 30 n. 15 34 n. 52 32 n. 37 31 29 n. 10 31 n. 25 31 n. 26 31 n. 27 31 n. 21; 32 n. 32 32 n. 36 32 n. 36 32 n. 34 83 n. 11 31 n. 25

9.432–622 9.485–491 9.524–599 19.258–260 Od. 19.395–396 21.13–40 24 24.271–279 24.283 24.284–286 24.286 Isaeus 7.16

70 n. 124 70 n. 125 70 n. 125 35 n. 62 33 n. 47 83 n. 12 83 n. 14 83 n. 14 83 n. 14 83 n. 14 83 n. 14 115 n. 77

Isocrates Paneg 145 Plat. 14.45–63

68 n. 115

Josephus BJ 1.152–153

191 n. 29

Justin Epit. 9.12.1 11.12 11.12.15 34.3.2 41.1.1

142 n. 15 137 n. 2 160 n. 68 12 n. 8 193 n. 40

Livy 26.24.8–13 33.13 34.26.10 34.52.9 35.12.1 36.8.6 36.25.5–8 37.7.11–15 37.39.12 38.1.1–3.6 39.24.1–4 39.28.6

13 n. 12 13 n. 12 169 n. 26 169 n. 27 169 n. 26 169 n. 26 169 n. 25 169 n. 26 169 n. 26 169 n. 25 168 n. 21 169 n. 26

159

204 39.46–47 40.8.23 40.58 40.58.9 41.19.4–5 41.19.6 41.22.1–3 41.22.4–8 41.25.1–4 42.2.1 42.2.1–2 42.2.2 42.2.3 42.2.5 42.5.7–10 42.6.2 42.6.6–12 42.10.8–12 42.10.1 42.11–42.14.1 42.11.6–9 42.12–13 42.12.3–4 42.12.5–6 42.13.5–10 42.13.8 42.13.11–12 42.14.1 42.14.2–4 42.15–16 42.15.1 42.17.3–9 42.18.2 42.18.6 42.19.3 42.19.6–8 42.20.1 42.25.4 42.29.12 42.33.5 42.39.7

Indices

169 n. 27 169 n. 27 169 n. 27 169 n. 28 172 n. 47 169 n. 28; 170 n. 34 171 n. 39 170 n. 31; 173 n. 54 174 n. 61 178 n. 84 166 n. 7; 172 n. 46; 173 n. 53; 174 n. 62 165 n. 1 173 n. 52 174 n. 62 178 n. 81 11 n. 4 182 n. 99 1165 n. 1; 166 n. 8 173 n. 54 174 n. 56 166 n. 5 173 n. 55 170 n. 31 174 n. 57; 176 n. 71 170 n. 31 174 n. 58 174 n. 59 177 n. 78 166 n. 4 178 n. 83 166 n. 4 166 n. 9 166 n. 9 165 n. 1 181 n. 96 165 n. 1 169 n. 28 170 n. 31 182 n. 98 179 n. 86

42.40 42.40.4 42.40.6 42.41.1–43.4 42.41.9–11 42.47.4 42.47.4–8 42.62 44.16.5 44.22.1–2 45.12 45.12.5 64.44.4 Epit. 70

166 n. 5; 169 n. 28 170 n. 31 166 n. 13; 179 n. 88 169 n. 28 180 n. 91 180 n. 92 167 n. 15 169 n. 28 171 n. 41 11 n. 2 12 n. 7; 188 n. 14 42 n. 102 186 n. 3

Lycurgus 20 79 80

115 n. 77 28 n. 5 28 n. 5

Lysias 19.20 19.25 19.25–26

81 n. 3 89 n. 43; 90 88; 88 n. 40

LXX 2 Esd. 4.7–24

154 n. 51

Nepos Pel. 3

62 n. 86

Philochorus F 157

156 n. 57

Plato Alc. 1 120e–123e Charm. 158a Leg. 948d

127 n. 11 88 28 n. 5

205

Index locorum

Men. 78c–d Phlb. 58a–b Rep. 2.359a 2.359b Plutarch Aem. 8.4–5 Ages. 23.10 Alex. 18 27.9 29.7f. 36.4 Arist. 25.1 Artax. 6.4 22.6 22.8 Caes. 1–2 Crass. 14.4 16.2 16.3 18.1–2 22.3 33.4 It. Alex. 39–40 43–44 Mor. 180b 180c 596 Pel. 7–12 Per. 13.15 Pomp. 38.1–2

85 n. 29 49 113 n. 71 113 n. 71

168 n. 21 88 n. 39 158 142 n. 17; 144 n. 21 137 n. 2 154 n. 48 40 n. 88 155 n. 52 87 87 n. 36 189 n. 24 195 n. 46 195 n. 46 195 n. 46 195 n. 46 195 n. 46 195 n. 46 137 n. 2 137 n. 2 137 n. 2 160 n. 68 62 n. 86 62 n. 86 88 192 n. 36

38.2 46.1 Pyrrh. 6 6.4–5 Sull. 4.4 5.4 5.5 5.6 Polybius 1.1.5 7.9 18.21 18.33.7 18.39.5 20.10.2 20.10. 21.25.3–7 22.18.4 22.18.6 22.18.6–8 22.18.10 22.18.10–11 23.1–2 23.3.7–9 24.10.9 25.3.1 25.3.1–3 25.3.9–10 25.4.7–10 25.4.8 25.6.2–6 26.6.2 28.17.12 29.27.1–8 29 n. 8 29.27.3 29.27.4 29.27.6

192 n. 37 192 n. 38 115 n. 76 27 n. 1 189 n. 22 and 23 186 n. 3 and 4; 188 n. 19 and 20 186 n. 5 and 7 189 n. 21 11 n. 3 30 n. 14 13 n. 12 168 n. 20 169 n. 27 13 613 169 n. 25 173 n. 54 166 n. 11 166 n. 6 167 n. 15; 182 n. 100 168 n. 22 169 n. 27 169 n. 27 180 n. 94 169 n. 28; 170 n. 31 169 n. 27 168 n. 20 170 n. 31 173 n. 55 170 n. 32 172 n. 47 180 n. 90 11 n. 2; 12 n. 6 12 n. 7 12 n. 7

206

Indices

Quintilian Smyrn. 13.378–382

36 n. 62

Strabo 15.3.24

158

Suetonius Iul. 4

189 n. 24

Thucydides 1 1–4 1.25.3–4 1.31–44 1.32.1 1.32.3–4 1.32.5 1.33.3 1.40.4 1.40.5 1.41.2 1.44.1 1.71.7 1.73.4–5 1.78.4 1.82.1 1.109.2–3 1.110 1.112.2 1.121.4 1.128.7 1.129.3 1.137.4 1.138.5 2 2.7.1–2 2.7.2 2.62.2 2.65 2.65.12 2.67 2.71.2–4 2.71.4 2.74.2

126; 129 n. 23; 130; 130 n. 24 126 64 n. 96 63 63 n. 89 63 n. 90 64 n. 91 64 n. 92 64 n. 93 64 n. 94 64 n. 94 64 n. 95 66 n. 106 66 n. 107 35 n. 59 126 132 n. 32 127 127 126 126 n. 6 126 n. 6 126 n. 6 127 126; 129 n. 23 126 126 127; 127 n. 12 134 127 126; 129 68 n. 115 35 n. 59 35 n. 58 and 59

3 3.5.2 3.9–14 3.9.1 3.9.1–3 3.9.2 3.9.3 3.10.1 3.10.2 3.10.3–6 3.10.4 3.11 3.11.2 3.12 3.12.1 3.13.7 3.15 3.16.2 3.20–24 3.31.1 3.37.1 3.52 3.52–68 3.53–59 3.54–59 3.54.3 3.54.4 3.56.4 3.56.5 3.57.2 3.58–59 3.58.4 3.61–67 3.62.3–4 3.68 4 4.3–41 4.3.3 4.18.1 4.19.1 4.19.2 4.21.1 4.27.5 4.36.1 4.41.1

126 59 n. 62 59 n. 63 59 n. 62 59 n. 66 60 n. 72 59 n. 64 59 n. 67 60 n. 72 60 n. 69 60 n. 70 60 n. 72 60 n. 71 60 n. 72 60 n. 72 60 n. 72 60 n. 73 60 n. 75 60 n. 75 68 n. 114 129 131 n. 28 68 n. 114 63 68 n. 114 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 117 68 n. 114; 68 n. 118 69 n. 119 68 n. 114 125; 126; 130 128 130 129 129 42 n. 99 129 130 130 129

207

Index locorum

4.45.2 4.50 4.50.1 4.50.3 4.53–54 4.55 4.56.2–57 4.59.2 4.65.3–4 4.84–88 4.85.2 4.87.2 5.1.1 5.14.3 5.30.1 5.30.1–3 5.30.2 5.36.1 5.47.7 5.56.3 5.89 6 6–8 6.75.4 6.76–88 6.76.1 6.76.4 6.80.3 6.81.2 6.81.4 6.83.1–2 6.85.2 6.85.3 6.87.1 7 7.11–1 7.18.2 7.28.3 8 8.5–6 8.5.5 8.18 8.33.3

129 n. 21 125; 125 n. 1; 131 131 125 n. 1 129 n. 21 129 129 n. 21 175 n. 65 134 134 n. 37 126 35 n. 59 134 n. 39 126 37 n. 70; 38 n. 76 37 n. 69 37 n. 71 36 n. 67 34 n. 53 39 n. 84 and 86 195 n. 48 134 n. 40 126 65 n. 98 63 66 n. 104 65 n. 99 65 n. 100; 66 n. 104 65 n. 101 65 n. 102 66 n. 108 66 n. 104 66 n. 103 66 n. 104 134 n. 40 5130 n. 24 37 n. 73 126 126 n. 5 128 n. 15; 133 n. 36 127; 134 133 n. 35 130 n. 24

8.37 8.48.1–2 8.50.1–51.1 8.58

133n. 35 92 n. 61 130 n. 24 133 n. 35

Valerius Maximus 6.4 ext. 3

137 n. 2

Velleius Paterculus 2.24.3

186 n. 3

Xenophon Ages. 1.13 2.27 8.3–4 Anab. 1 1.1.3 1.1.5 1.1.6 1.1.8 1.1.9 1.1.10 1.1.10–11 1.1.11 1.2.2 1.2.12–18 1.2.21 1.2.25–26 1.2.26–27 1.3.1–21 1.3.3 1.3.4 1.3.19–20 1.3.21 1.4.3 1.4.11–16 1.4.13 1.4.15 1.4.16 1.5.14–17 1.6.3 1.6.6 1.6.7 1.7.5

35 n. 60 88 n. 39 88 n. 39 98; 98 n. 8 96 n. 2 96 n. 2; 155 n. 52 122 96; 122 122 122 85 n. 26 84 n. 22; 122 96 n. 2 122 100 100 122 122 85 n. 26 85 n. 27 104 n. 36 102 122 122 107; 111 n. 67 114 n. 73 111 n. 67 122 122 96 n. 3; 122 96 n. 3; 122 114

208 1.7.6 1.7.18 1.8.28 1.9 1.9.7–10 1.9.17 1.9.29 1.10.1 2 2–3 2.1.5 2.1.7 2.1.7–23 2.1.17 2.1.18 2.2.1 2.2.8–9 2.2.9 2.2.10 2.2.13 2.3.1–10 2.3.5 2.3.7 2.3.17 2.3.17–29 2.3.18 2.3.28 2.4.1–2 2.4.1–8 2.4.26 2.4.40–42 2.5.1–27 2.5.23 2.5.34–42 2.5.35 2.5.42 2.6.11 2.6.28 3 3.1.4 3.1.28 3.2.5 3.2.10 3.2.24

Indices

153 n. 48 114 n. 73 13 n. 11 155 n. 52 96 n. 2;122 114 n. 73 159 n. 63 109 n. 62 98; 100; 103; 109; 110; 116 98 n. 8 85 106 n. 48 122 106 n. 48 104 n. 37; 106 n. 48 85 122 30 n. 14; 40 n. 89 108 n. 61 119 122 119 n. 86 111 105 122 111 n. 67 105 122 120 n. 89 107 n. 52 121 n. 90 122 98 n. 7 122 115 n. 80 116 119 85 98; 112 84 n. 22 104 n. 37 108 n. 61 35 n. 60 122

3.2.27–3.3.1 3.3.1–4 3.3.5 3.3.6 4 4–6 4–7 4.1.8 4.1.23–24 4.2.18–29 4.2.22–23 4.4.5–6 4.4.14 4.5.24–4.6.1 4.5.27 4.5.28 4.5.29 4.5.34–36 4.6.1 4.6.2–3 4.6.3–4 4.6.26 4.7.18 4.7.19 4.8.4–7 4.8.7 4.8.23 4.8.24 5–6 5–7 5.2.1 5.4.3–11 5.4.4 5.4.8 5.4.10 5.4.25 5.4.34 5.5.1 5.5.2–3 5.5.3 5.5.7 5.5.7–25 5.5.12 5.5.13 5.5.24

120 n. 89 122 101; 104 n. 38; 112 98 110 110 98; 98 n. 8 99 98 122 122 122 102 122 98 n. 9 111 n. 66 103 n. 24 103 n. 24 98 n. 9; 111 n. 66 103 n. 24 102 100 n. 15 98 122 122 35 n. 59 122 122 110 99 n. 11 97; 122 122 104 n. 30 104 n. 30 104 n. 30 122 111 98 122 110 105 n. 41 110; 122 119 97; 122 108 n. 58

209

Index locorum

5.6.1–14 5.6.11 5.6.14 5.6.19–26 5.7.2 5.7.5–33 5.7.17–19 5.7.19 5.7.20–25 5.7.26–30 5.7.30 6 6–7 6.1.1–14 6.1.14 6.1.15 6.1.21–33 6.2.1 6.2.3 6.2.4–8 6.2.7 6.2.17 6.3.8–9 6.3.22 6.4.8 6.5.4–6 6.5.32 6.6.4 6.6.5–37 6.6.19 6.6.30 6.6.38 7 7.1.2 7.1.3–4 7.1.3–4.7 7.1.5 7.1.7 7.1.11–14 7.1.11–15 7.1.13 7.1.15–30 7.1.17 7.1.18–3

122 105 n. 41 104 n. 36; 122 122 104 n. 37 118 122 104 n. 37 122 101 104 n. 37 110 103 122 122 122 121 120 n. 89 122 122 104 n. 36 122 122 109 n. 63 107 100 n. 15 100 n. 15 122 122 104 n. 36 104 n. 36 111 97; 99; 109; 110 122 102 n. 23; 106 n. 50; 117 122 122 97 n. 5 97 n. 5; 117 106 n. 51 102 n. 23 97 n. 5 113 196

7.1.21 7.1.31–34 7.1.32 7.1.33–34 7.1.39 7.2.4 7.2.6 7.2.7 7.2.8–9 7.2.10 7.2.12 7.2.12–16 7.2.13 7.2.14 7.2.16 7.2.16–7.3.48 7.2.17 7.2.19 7.2.23 7.2.25 7.2.30 7.2.31 7.2.38 7.3.1 7.3.2–3 7.3.7–11 7.3.7–14 7.3.8 7.3.12 7.3.12–13 7.3.16–18 7.3.19 7.3.21 7.3.30–31 7.3.35 7.4.3–7 7.4.5 7.4.6 7.4.6–11 7.4.12–14 7.4.22–24 7.5.8 7.5.9–12 7.6.1–7 7.6.3 7.6.8

113 n. 71 122 104 n. 36 102 111 122 117 103 n. 28; 122 117 122 122 122 117 117 n. 83 117 n. 83 110; 122 104 n. 36 116 n. 80 104 n. 33; 107 116 112 n. 67 105; 112 n. 67 116 107 122 121 103 n. 27 108 n. 59 111 117 n. 83 122 116 122 116 n. 81 113 112; 120 n. 88 122 98 n. 9 111 n. 66 122 122 116 122 122 105 n. 46 116 n. 80

210 7.6.8–44 7.6.23 7.6.27 7.6.42 7.6.43 7.6.43–44 7.6.44 7.7.1–14 7.7.1–19 7.7.6 7.7.15–19 7.7.17 7.7.20 7.7.20–44 7.7.20–47 7.7.20–57 7.7.24–2 7.7.25 7.7.56 Cyr. 2.3.1 2.4.1–6 2.4.1–8 3.1.42 3.2.12 3.2.14 3.2.23 3.3.40 4.1.6 4.2.7 4.2.7–8.13 4.2.8 4.2.12 4.2.17 4.2.19 4.6.8 4.6.10 5.1.3 5.1.22 5.2.7 5.4.14 5.4.24 6.1.48 6.2.2–3 6.2.9–11

Indices

122 114 113 116 116 n. 80 117 122 122 106 104 n. 36 122 117 104 n. 36 113 111 122 6113 113 117 109 n. 61 107 n. 52 99 n. 12 108 n. 59 104 n. 40 109 n. 61 108 n. 61 109 n. 61 109 n. 61 108 n. 61; 109 n. 63 108 n. 61 108 n. 61 109 n. 63 109 n. 63 109 n. 61 107 n. 55 109 n. 61; 115 n. 79 81 n. 3 108 n. 61 107 n. 55 108 n. 59 104 n. 40 109 n. 61 112 112

6.4.1 7.1.1 7.2.44 7.4.3 8.1.11 8.5.24 8.5.27 8.8 Hell. 1.3.11–12 1.12 2.2.19–20 2.4.25 3.1.20 3.2.19 3.3–5 3.4.4 3.4.6 3.4.11 3.5.1 3.5.8 3.5.8–15 3.5.10 3.5.14 3.5.16 4.1.29 4.1.34 4.1.38 4.1.39 4.1.40 4.6 5.1.28 5.1.31 5.1.32 5.2.33 5.2.35 5.4.2 5.4.2–12 6.1.2–18

109 n. 61 109 n. 61 108 n. 61 108 n. 61; 109 n. 61 120 112 n. 69 109 n. 61; 115 n. 79 155 n. 52 and 53 109 n. 61 120 n. 87 61 n. 80 108 n. 61 109 n. 63 108 n. 61; 109 n. 63 120 n. 87 109 n. 61; 115 n. 79 109 n. 61 35 n. 60 108 n. 61 61 n. 81 60 n. 76; 61 n. 78 61 n. 82; 62 n. 83 62 n. 83 62 n. 84 84; 85; 86 84 86 83 n. 13; 86 86 120 n. 87 85 n. 28; 88 n. 39 131 n. 29 109 n. 61 62 n. 85 62; 88 108 n. 61 62 n. 86 99 n. 12

211

Index analyticus

6.1.18 6.3.1 6.3.6 6.3.19 6.5.28 6.5.34 6.5.43 6.5.46 6.5.48 6.5.49 7.1.33 7.1.34 7.1.39–40 7.1.42 7.3.8 7.4.10–11 7.7 8.3

Hier. 2.11 11.4 Mem. 2.6.27 3.4.9 Oec. 4.18 4.22

108 n. 61; 109 n. 63 107 n. 55 72 n. 134 109 n. 61 108 n. 61 67 n. 109 67 n. 111 67 n. 110 67 n. 110 68 n. 112 87 n. 36 69 n. 120 109 n. 61 108 n. 61 108 n. 61 109 n. 61 120 n. 87 120 n. 87

Zonaras 9.20 9.22.2 ann. 4.10

120 n. 87 120 n. 87 120 n. 87 120 n. 87 159 n. 63 155 n. 52 169 n. 26 169 n. 28 137 n. 2

Index analyticus Abrocomas 111 n. 64; 122 Abrozelmis 117 Achilles 70; 189 Acilius Glabrio 13; 13 n. 13 Adusius 112; 120 n. 88 Aegina 64; 64 n. 94 Aeschines 56; 88 n. 39 Aetolia/Aetolians 13; 13 n. 13; 169 n. 25, 26; 174; 176; 178 Agamemnon 31; 70 Agasias 104 n. 36 Agesilaus 82 n. 7; 84–86; 88 n. 39; 91; 115 n. 79; 120; 120 n. 87 Alcibiades 18 n. 34; 39; 39 n. 84; 81; 91–92; 130 n. 24; 189 Alcidas 129 Alexander III (the Great) 21; 42; 137–160; 137 n. 3; 142 n. 17, 19; 144 n. 23; 147 n. 27; 149 n. 33; 150 n. 35; 151, n. 38; 159 n. 65; 160 n. 68; 189 Alexander V 27 n. 1 Alexandria 11; 22 Alyattes 86 n. 32 Amasis 83 n. 10; 86

ambassadors/presbeis 16; 50–52; 54–61; 55 n. 40, 41; 56, n. 43, 45; 58 n. 57; 63–72; 81–82; 86–87; 87 n. 36; 89; 90–92; 96; 100; 104–105; 104 n. 33, 36; 105 n. 41; 108, n. 58; 112–113; 119–120; 129; 132; 134; 186–187; 189; 191 n. 33 (cf. envoys) Amphipolis 42–43; 42 n. 102; 43 n. 103 Anatolia 20; 101; 139; 142; 154 Anaxibius 97 n. 5; 99; 101 n. 17; 102; 102 n. 23; 104 n. 36; 105; 117; 122 Andocides 56 n. 45 Antalcidas 82 n. 7; 83 n. 14; 85; 87; 88 n. 39; 91–92 Antenor 31; 31 n. 25 Antiochos III 169 n. 26; 180 Antiochos IV 11–12; 12 n. 7; 15; 167; 172 n. 48; 181–182; 188; 188 n. 16; 190; 195 Antipater I 27 n. 1 Antonius, L. 113, 71 Antonius, M. (Mark Antony) 113 n. 71 Apollo 34 Apollophanes of Cyzicus 84–86; 91 Arcadians 103 n. 29; 109 n. 63; 110; 114; 122

212

Indices

Archidamian War see Peloponnesian War Archidamus 68 Ariaios 40; 85; 85 n. 29; 96; 98; 100; 101 n. 20; 102; 104 n. 37; 106–108; 110–112; 111 n. 67; 112 n. 70; 114; 115 n. 80; 117; 122 Ariobarzanes (satrap of Phrygia) 85; 88 n. 39 Ariobarzanes I (client–king of Cappadocia) 186–187; 186 n. 6 Aristarchus 99; 101 n. 17; 117; 122 Aristippus 85 n. 26; 102 n. 22; 122 Ariston 104 n. 36; 105 n. 44 Armenia 98–99; 102; 103 n. 24; 111; 117; 122; 193; 197 Arsakes 186 Artaozus 104 n. 37 Artaphernes 125–127; 131–133; 131 n. 29 Artaxerxes I 21; 89; 125–135; 125 n. 1; 127 n. 9; 128 n. 17; 131, n. 28; 132 n. 32; 134 n. 32 Artaxerxes II 83 n. 14; 87; 88 n. 39, 42; 89; 92; 101 n. 20; 102–103; 106; 154 n. 51; 155; 155 n. 53; 159–160; 159 n. 65 Artaxerxes III 150; 154 n. 51; 156 n. 59 Artemis 42; 42 n. 102; 43 n. 103; 112 Asia Minor 84–85; 88; 125 n. 1; 127; 133–134 Attic orators 57; 57 n. 55 Augustus/Octavian 22; 113 n. 71; 193–195; 193 n. 39; 194 n. 44; 195 n. 47 Autolykos 33; 33 n. 47 Babylon 102; 102, n. 23; 113 n. 71; 139; 142 n. 15; 154 n. 51 Battle of Carrhae 185 n. 1 Battle of Cunaxa 85; 102–103; 106; 109; 112; 119 Battle of Gaugamela 148–149; 152 Battle of Issus 21; 137; 139; 139 n. 8; 141–142; 148–150; 152–153; 156; 158; 160 Battle of Leuctra 67 Battle of Pydna 29 n. 8 Battle of Pylos 37; 37 n. 73; 130 bellum iustum 172 n. 48 Bithynia/Bithynians 99; 99 n. 11; 116; 122; 173 n. 55 Boeotia/Boeotians 63; 84–85; 85 n. 26; 115 n. 79; 170 n. 31; 174 n. 57 Brasidas 134; 134 n. 37 Byzantium 96; 97 n. 5;100; 102; 109–111; 117; 170 n. 31

Callias 72 n. 134; 82; 91–92 (see Peace of Callias) Callimachos 104 n. 36; 105 n. 44 Callisthenes 144; 144 n. 21; 147; 150–151; 160 Calpes Limen 100; 100 n. 15; 109; 109 n. 63 Camarina 63–67 Cambyses 84; 197 Cape Artemisium 68 n. 117; 71 Cappadocia 186 Carduchians 99; 101 n. 17; 112–113; 112 n. 68; 116; 122 Caria 29 n. 8; 41; 41 n. 91 Carthage/Carthaginians 69; 69 n. 122; 165; 171–172 Cerasus 101; 102 n. 22; 104 n. 30; 106 n. 47; 111; 122 Chalybdians 98; 116 Charmande 96; 100; 105–107; 114 n. 74 Charminus 99; 117; 121–122 Chirisophos 102; 105 n. 45 Chrysopolis 111; 117 Cilicia/Cilicians 100; 104; 186 Cimon 92; 92 n. 62 Marcus Claudius Marcellus 174; 178 Cleander 100; 102; 102 n. 22; 104 n. 36; 105; 110–111; 117; 122 Cleanor 100–101 Clearchus 85; 101 n. 17; 102; 104 n. 36; 105–106; 106 n. 48; 108; 110–112; 116; 119; 122 Clearetus 102 n. 22; 111 Cleon 130 clients/clientelism 20; 85; 186; 190–192; 139 n. 39; 196 Coeratadas 102 Colchis/Colchians 97; 100; 102 n. 22; 103 n. 27; 104 n. 37; 105–106; 106 n. 47; 111; 122 Conon 81; 90 n. 52 Corcyra/Corcyreans 34; 63–64 Corinth 37; 38 n. 76; 61 n. 80; 63–64; 66 Corylas 107; 113; 122 Cotyora 97; 100; 108–110; 114 Cyprus 90; 127 Cyreans 117 Cyrus (the Younger) 84–85; 92; 96–98; 96 n. 2, 3; 100; 101 n. 17, 20; 103–108; 104 n. 36; 107 n. 53; 109 n. 63; 111 n. 64,67; 112–114; 114 n. 74; 115 n. 79; 118–122; 154; 155 n. 52; 159 Cyrus (the Great) 154

Index analyticus

Damatar 34 Dardanians 170 Darius I 153 n. 48; 154; 159 Darius II 133–134; 154 n. 51 Darius III 21; 137–153; 137 n. 3; 139 n. 7; 142 n. 19; 147 n. 27; 149 n. 33; 150 n. 34; 151 n. 38; 152 n. 44; 153 n. 48; 154 n. 51; 156–160; 159 n. 65 Day of Eleusis 11–12; 29 n. 8; 187–188; 195 Dea Roma 29 n. 8; deditio in fidem 13 Delian League 41; 42 n. 99; 63 Delphi 33 n. 42; 42 n. 102; 120 n. 87; 170 n. 31; 173 n. 54; 174 n. 57 Demaratus 85; 89 n. 47 Demeter 34; 72 n. 134 Demetrius 169; 169 n. 27; 174 n. 57 Demos 82 n. 7; 88–90; 88 n. 42; 89 n. 43 Demosthenes 57; 130 Dexippus 117 Dionysius of Syracues 81 Dorians 64–65; 71 Dorieus 69; 69 n. 122 Dracontius 104 n. 36; 105; 111 n. 67 Egypt/Egyptians 83–84; 86; 91 n. 56; 127; 132 n. 32; 148; 154; 154 n. 51; 156 embassies 11; 15; 18 n. 35; 57; 59 n. 62; 69–70; 69 n. 121; 70 n. 124; 72 n. 134; 81; 87–88; 87 n. 36; 90–92; 90 n. 52; 99; 103; 106 n. 48; 110; 126; 126 n. 7; 128–129; 131–133; 135; 149 n. 33; 166; 170–171; 174; 179–181 Endios 81; 92; 92 n. 62 Entimus of Gortyn 87 n. 34; 90 envoys 13; 16; 20; 22; 31 n. 24; 37; 50; 52; 55–64; 62 n. 83; 66–72; 68 n. 114, 115; 81–82; 82 n. 5; 84; 86; 90; 92 n. 63; 132 n. 32; 138–139; 142; 145; 156; 160 n. 68; 166; 170–173; 172 n. 47; 176–180; 176 n. 73; 186 (cf. ambassadors) Epicrates 91 Epilycus 90 n. 52 epimachia 64; 64 n. 95 Episthenes 111 n. 66 Epyaxa 100; 106–108; 108, n. 57; 122 Erinyes 35; 35 n. 62; Eumenes II 165–166; 166 n.4 169; 173–174; 173 n. 55; 174 n. 59, 60; 176–178; 176 n. 70, 73; 181

213

Eunomos 81 Euphemus 63; 65–66 Euphrates 107; 139; 148–149; 186; 188; 190 n. 26; 191; 191 n. 30; 194 n. 44; 194–195 Eupolemos 41–43; 41 n. 91–93 Eurylochos 104 n. 36 Eurymedon 130 Evagoras of Salamis 90; 155–156; 154 n. 51; 155 n. 54 foedera iniqua 39 friendship 11–12; 20; 59–60; 65; 68; 68 n. 134; 81–86; 83 n. 14; 85 n. 29; 129; 138–139; 142; 149; 150 n. 34; 153; 156; 188; 193; 194 n. 44; amicitia/philia 12 n. 6;16 n. 26; 17; 17 n. 29; 60 n. 72; 86; 99 n. 12; 111 n. 67; 129 n. 20; 138–139; 169; 170, n. 35; 186; 186 n. 6; 188; 197 Ge 30–31; 42 Gelon 69–70; 69 n. 122; 70 n. 124; 72 Geschichte als Argument 58–59; 58 n. 60 gifts 17 n. 31; 82–86; 83 n. 14; 88–91; 88 n. 42; 89 n. 43; 108; 108 n. 56, 61; 111; 113–114; 127 ‘good faith’ 11–22; 27–28; 28 n. 4, 5; 32–34; 38; 43; 49–50; 55; 58–61; 61 n. 75; 63–64; 66; 70; 72; 81; 95; 101; 113; 117–118; 125–126; 132; 168; 174; 174 n. 57; 182; 185–187; 191; 194; 194 n. 44; 196–197 Gorgias 56 n. 47 Gymnias 110; 122 Halys 142; 148–149; 151 handshake 11–12; 11 n. 5; 18; 188 Hannibal 171 Harpalus 177–178; 177 n. 79 Hecatonymus 104 n. 36; 105 n. 41; 106; 119–120 Hector 30 Helios 30–31; 42 Hellespont 88 n. 39; 145; 154 Heraclea/Heracleotes 97; 97 n. 20; 102; 104 n. 36; 105; 107; 114; 117; 122 heralds 31; 31 n. 24; 104; 104 n. 38; 106 n. 48; 107; 120 Hermocrates 63; 65 Hieronymus 104 n. 36 Homonoia 29 n. 8 hybris 134; 191–192; 194

214

Indices

International Relations (IR) 14–17; 14 n. 17; 20; 43; 51–53; 53 n. 25 ‘Post–Westphalian Perspective’ 14; 51–53; 52 n. 21 Ionia/Ionians 40 n. 88; 64–65; 111; 128–130; 145 Ismenias 87–88; 87 n. 36; 91 Jason 72 n. 135; 89 Julius Caesar 189; 194 King’s Peace 87; 131 n. 29 kinship diplomacy 65; 71–72; 72 n. 135 Leon 91 Leontiades 62 Lesbos/Lesbians 59–60; 60 n. 75; 129 lex Manilia 190 Licinius Crassus, M. 186; 195; 195 n. 46 Licinius Crassus, P. 182; 182 n. 98 Liguria 166; 166 n. 3; 172 n. 48; 182; 182 n. 99 Lycia 29 n. 8; 71 Lycon 104 n. 36; 105 Lysander 92 Lysimachos 27 Macedonia/Macedonians 11; 21; 27 n. 1; 41; 42 n 102; 43; 43 n. 103; 50; 50 n. 7; 57; 71; 137; 139–145; 139 n. 7; 147; 150–151; 151 n. 38; 153; 156–158; 160; 165–182; 168 n. 19; 169 n. 27; 170 n. 33, 35; 182 n. 99 Macedonian Wars Second Macedonian War: 168; 169, n. 27 Third Macedonian War 21; 165–182 Macronians 99; 105; 105 n. 43; 110; 111 n. 67; 115; 122 Marathos 138; 140; 149; 151; 156 Marius 188; 192 Massinissa 165–166; 171–172; 174; 181 Mausolos 88 n. 39 medism 67–69; 68 n. 117 Medocus 99; 103; 103 n. 25; 107; 108 n. 56; 122 Medosades 101 n. 20; 104 n. 31, 33, 36; 105 n. 41; 106–107; 117; 122 Megabazus 132 Meleager 70 Melian Dialogue 195 Menelaos 30

Menestheus 70 Menon 85; 85 n. 29; 100; 106 n. 49; 107; 114 n. 73; 122 mercenaries 41; 41 n. 92; 85; 95–98; 100; 109; 111 n. 64; 113–116; 122 Miletus 86 n. 32 Mithradates/Mithridates 98; 101 n. 17, 20; 104 n. 37; 107 n. 54; 111 n. 67; 122 Mithridates II 186 Mithridates VI 190 Mnemosyne 70–71; 70 n. 126 Mossynoecans 98; 99 n. 11; 100; 101 n. 20; 104 n. 30; 105; 110; 115 n. 80; 116; 122 Mytileneans 59–61; 59 n. 62; 60 n. 70 nemesis 196 Nero 197 ‘New Diplomacy’ 53–54; 53 n. 29 Nicias 130; 130 n. 24; 135 (cf. Peace of Nicias) oaths 17 n. 31; 20; 27–44; 23 n. 1; 28 n. 2, 4, 5, 7; 29 n. 8, 10; 30 n. 14; 31 n. 22; 32 n. 34, 36, 39; 33 n. 46; 34 n. 52, 55; 35 n. 59–62; 37 n. 72; 38 n. 76; 40 n. 88, 89; 41, n. 92; 42 n. 99; 44 n. 107; 51; 51 n. 12; 68; 91; 108; 108 n. 61; 113–116; 113 n. 71; 114, n. 73–74; 115 n. 76, 79 escape clause 38; 38 n. 76 nomimos horkos 34; 34 n. 53 oath deities 28–36; 29 n. 8; 30 n. 14; 31 n. 22; 35 n. 56, 62; 36 n. 63; 42–43 Oath of Plataea 33; 33 n. 42–43; 115 n. 77; “son of the Oath” 33; 33 n. 42, 43 Ochus 145; 149; 158 Odysseus 31; 31 n. 25; 33–34; 34 n. 38; 83 n. 12, 14; 189 Orobazos 186–187; 186 n. 9; 190; 190 n. 26; 191 n. 30; 195 Orontas 96; 96 n. 3; 99 n. 12; 100; 101 n. 21; 102; 105; 107; 111 n. 67; 112; 122 Paphlagonia 104 n. 36; 105 n. 41; 106–107; 110; 113 Paris 30; 30 n. 18 Parium 99; 103; 122 Parmenios 151 n. 38 Parthia 13; 22; 185–197; 186 n. 6, 9; 191 n. 30, 33; 193 n. 39, 40; 194 n. 44

Index analyticus

Parysatis 96; 96 n. 2; 104 n. 32; 106; 122 Pausanias 68; 126; 126 n. 6; 130 Peace of Callias 127; 134 n. 38 Peace of Nicias 37; 39 Peitho 56–57 Pelopidas 69: 87 n. 36 Peloponnes/Peloponnesians 59; 62 n. 134; 66 n. 107–108; 85; 85 n. 26; 115; 130 Peloponnesian League 37; 38 n. 76; 59 Peloponnesian War 37; 64; 71; 81; 125–135; 128 n. 19; 129 n. 23 Pergamum 165; 174; 174 n. 57; 176–177 Pericles 127 Perinthus/Perinthians 109; 145; 156; 158 Perrhaebia 174; 176 Perseus 43 n. 103; 165–174; 166 n. 8, 13; 167 n. 14–15; 169 n. 27, 29; 170 n. 36; 172 n. 45, 47; 173 n. 54–55; 174 n. 57; 176–182; 176 n. 70, 73; 177 n. 79; 179 n. 86, 88; 182 n. 98, 101 ‘Persian Gap’ 127; 127 n. 10; 134–135; 134 n. 40 Persian Wars 63; 65–68; 71; 126; 134 n. 40; 153; 154 n. 51 Phalinus 104 n. 36–37; 106; 106 n. 48; 110; 119; 119 n. 85 Phanes of Halicarnassus 84 Pharnabazus 84–86; 91; 99; 103 n. 28; 117; 122 Philesius 104 n. 36 Philip II 57; 57 n. 52; 71; 150; 156; 171 Philip V 21; 43 n. 103; 165–166; 168–169; 169 n. 23, 25–27; 180; 182; 182 n. 101 Phoenicia/Phoenicians 83; 148; 154 n. 51 Phoenix 70 Phormisius 91 Phraates III 191–192; 195 Phraates IV 193–194 Phraates V 193; 194 n. 44; 195 pistis/fides 13; 13 n. 11, 13; 16 n. 26; 20; 28 n. 5; 99 n. 12; 100; 107; 108 n. 61; 110; 111 n. 67; 112–114 Plataea 68–70; 68 n. 117; 128; 129 n. 23 (cf. Oath of Plataea) Plataean debate 37 n. 73; 67–68; 68 n. 114; 129 n. 23 Polycrates 83 n. 10; 86; 104 n. 36 Polynicus 99; 117; 121–122 Pompey the Great (Cn. Pompeius Magnus) 190–192; 191 n. 33; 196–197

215

Popilius Laenas 11–12; 12, n. 7; 15; 21; 182 n. 99; 187–188; 190; 195 Poseidon 31 n. 22 ‘Pre–Westphalian System’ 53; 53 n. 30 Priam 30–32 Procles 67; 67 n. 110 ‘prospect theory’ 174–175; 174 n. 63; 175 n. 64, 65, 67; 177 Proxenos 84; 84 n. 22; 101 n. 17; 105; 107; 111 n. 67; 122 proxeny 72 n. 134; 81–82; 82 n. 5; 84; 90–91; 105; 105 n. 41; 111 n. 67 Ptolemy VI 167; 172 n. 48; 181–182 ‘Public Dimplomacy’ 20–21; 54–55; 54 n. 32; 57 Second Punic War 168; 171 Pyrilampes 82 n. 7; 88–90 Pyrrhus 27; 27 n. 1 Quintus Marcius Philippus n. 88

166; 179–180; 179

Realpolitik 14;17; 22; 160 Rhandeia 197 Rhodes 170 n. 31; 180 sacrifices 27–32; 28 n. 1; 30 n. 14; 32 n. 34, 36, 39; 40; 40 n. 89; 43; 108; 108 n. 61; 112–115; 112 n. 69; 115 n. 77, 79; 117; 121–122 Samolas 104 n. 36; 105 n. 44 Samos 64; 64 n. 94 Sardis 100; 154 n. 51 Scythia 98; 115; 154 Selymbria 109 Seuthes 97–101; 98 n. 9; 101 n. 20; 103; 103 n. 25, 29; 104 n. 31, 33, 36; 105–111; 105 n. 42; 108 n. 59, 61; 111 n. 67; 113–114; 115 n. 80; 116; 116 n. 81; 117 n. 83; 118; 122 Seven against Thebes 67; 115 Sicily 65–66; 70; 81; 126–127; 129 n. 22; 133–135 Silanus 114 n. 73 Sinope 97; 104 n. 36; 108 n. 58; 110; 114; 119; 122 Sophocles 130 Spain 166 n. 3; 172 n. 48; 182 Sparta/Spartans 21; 37; 37 n. 72; 38 n. 76; 39; 39 n. 85; 42 n. 99; 56 n. 45; 59–62; 59 n. 62; 60

216

Indices

n. 75; 61 n. 80; 66–70; 67 n. 109; 68 n. 114; 72 n. 134; 81–82; 84–85; 87–88; 88 n. 39; 91–92; 92 n. 62; 99–100; 102–105; 102 n. 22; 104 n. 36; 107; 108 n. 61; 111; 111 n. 64, 67; 113–115; 117–118; 120; 122; 125–135; 125 n. 1; 128 n. 19; 129 n. 22; 131 n. 28; 132 n. 30, 32; 146; 156; 158; 169 n. 26 Sphacteria 128; 130 spondai 36 n. 67; 96; 99; 105; 108; 108 n. 60, 61; 109–114; 117; 119; 119 n. 86; 120 n. 87 Statira 149 Sulla 22; 186–190; 186 n. 6, 9; 188 n. 16; 189 n. 21; 190 n. 25; 191 n. 30; 192; 195; 195 n. 47 Syenessis 100; 106–108; 113; 122 symmachia 16 n. 26; 39; 104; 120 n. 87; 139; 186 Syracuse 65 Syrian War 11 Taochians 116 Tarsus 100; 101 n. 17; 102; 104 n. 36; 109; 111 n. 64; 112; 119; 122 Tauropolos 42–43; 42 n. 102 Thapsacus 109; 122 Theangela 41–43; 41 n. 92; 42 n. 100 Thebes/Thebans 37 n. 73; 38 n. 76; 58 n. 60; 60–63; 61 n. 78, 80; 62 n. 83, 86; 67–69; 67 n. 110; 68 n. 114, 117; 87; 87 n. 36; 91; 115; 157 Themistocles 90; 126–127; 126 n. 6; 130 Thermopylae 67; 67 n. 111; 70 Thersippus 143–146; 156 Thessaliscos 87–88; 91 Thessalos 71 Thessaly 85; 85 n. 26; 87 n. 36; 170; 174; 176; 179 Thirty Years Peace 37 Thorax 101–102; 122 Thrace/Thracians 37; 40; 43 n. 103; 97; 99–102; 101 n. 17, 20; 103 n. 29; 104; 105 n. 42; 108; 108 n. 61; 109 n. 63; 110; 111 n. 66; 115–116; 122; 158; 168; 173 n. 55; 174 n. 57

Thrasybulus 86 n. 32; 121 n. 90 Tibareni 96–97; 99; 110; 122 Tigris 148 Timagoras 82 n. 7; 91 Timasion 101–102; 106 n. 50; 122 Timesitheos 104 n. 39; 115 n. 80 Timocrates of Rhodes 87–88 Tiribazus 99; 102; 112; 117; 122 Tiridates 197 Tissaphernes 18 n. 34; 92; 96; 98, n. 7; 100; 101 n. 17, 20; 103; 104 n. 37; 106; 110; 111 n. 67; 112; 116–117; 116 n. 82; 119; 122 Trapezus/Trapezuntines 97; 100; 106; 108; 110; 115 n. 80; 122 treaties 11; 16; 19–20; 27–30; 28 n. 2–3; 29 n. 8; 33–43; 33 n. 40; 34 n. 53; 36 n. 67; 37 n. 73; 38 n. 76; 41 n. 91; 51; 52 n. 21; 64; 86; 95–96; 96 n. 2; 100–101; 108; 108 n. 61; 110; 113; 115 n. 75; 118–119; 127; 127 n. 13; 134; 134 n. 38; 140; 142; 166; 170; 187; 190 n. 25; 191; 191 n. 30; 193–197 (see treaty oaths) treaty oaths 28; 29 n. 8; 31 n. 22; 36–43; 35 n. 62; 36 n. 66; 41 n. 92 Tyre 142; 142 n. 17; 148–151; 149 n. 33 xenia 20; 81–92; 81 n. 3; 84 n. 22, 23; 86 n. 32; 88 n. 38–39; 89 n. 43; 96–97; 96 n. 4; 100; 103 n. 29; 105 n. 46; 106; 108; 108 n. 57, 58, 59; 110–111; 111 n. 67; 113 (cf. proxenia) Xerxes 66; 85; 86 n. 32; 88 n. 42; 89; 89 n. 47; 126; 126 n. 6; 130; 143; 145; 154; 154 n. 51; 197 Zab 96; 101–102; 119 Zeus 30–31; 30 n. 12; 34; 34 n. 52; 35 n. 56; 42; 42 n. 102 Zeus Philios 29 n. 8

The instauration of a bond of good faith between the parties played a crucial role in ancient diplomatic agreements. On the one hand, ancient authors often highlight the multi-faceted character of good faith and the ambiguities that marked many of the ritual practices used to create it. Yet it is precisely this complexity of good faith that paves the road for modern historians to enquire on aspects such as its legal implementation, its effectiveness in creating lasting bonds or its moral implications. Forms of ancient diplomacy were often meaning-

ISBN 978-3-515-12468-3

9 783515 124683

ful, and so were breaches of the diplomatic etiquette. The code of diplomatic communication was an extremely important channel for shaping policy (and good faith) and is therefore a fruitful heuristic tool for analysing interstate encounters in antiquity. The contributions collected in this volume offer a multifaceted, if preliminary, illustration of ancient diplomatic good faith, focusing primarily on Greek, Persian-Achaemenid, and Roman cultures, but also on the Hellenistic kingdoms and the Parthian Empire.

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