The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens 0192599119, 9780192599117

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OXFORD CLASSICAL MONOGRAPHS Published under the supervision of a Committee of the Faculty of Classics in the University of Oxford

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The aim of the Oxford Classical Monographs series (which replaces the Oxford Classical and Philosophical Monographs) is to publish books based on the best theses on Greek and Latin literature, ancient history, and ancient philosophy examined by the Faculty Board of Classics.

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The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens

G U Y WE S T W O O D

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Guy Westwood 2020 The moral rights of the author have been asserted First Edition published in 2020 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2019950339 ISBN 978–0–19–885703–7 Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A. Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

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Acknowledgements The doctoral thesis on which this book is based was written in 2009–13 under the supervision first of Gunther Martin and then of Chris Pelling. Gunther accepted me as a supervisee, and when he moved to a new post in 2010 (after which he kindly continued to read material), Chris took over and has remained a constant source of hugely valuable advice and general wisdom. I am very grateful to both of them for the criticisms, guidance, and encouragement they offered and continue to offer. The resulting thesis was examined by Chris Carey and Simon Hornblower in 2014, and I would like to extend my warm thanks to them and to Mike Edwards, and also to my advisers for the Press, Lisa Kallet and Alfonso Moreno, for their very helpful comments on the thesis version and on the resulting book version. Other readers of this material have included the Faculty-appointed assessors who read parts of the developing thesis for the official progression stages of the DPhil degree, Luke Pitcher and Tim Rood, and also Tobias Reinhardt (as overall supervisor of the MSt degree whose dissertation element, revised twice over, now appears as Chapter 3). I am very glad to be able to thank them all here. My thanks also go to Mirko Canevaro, Andrew Lintott, William Mack, Peter Rhodes, Richard Rutherford, Pietro Vannicelli, and the late George Cawkwell, who have all either willingly discussed aspects of Greek history and culture with me or read and commented on articles spinning off from the thesis and book, or both. Some of them have also kindly shared unpublished or forthcoming material (as have Jon Hesk, Hugo Koning, and Kathryn Tempest). Audiences in Cambridge, Durham, Edinburgh, Exeter, London, and Oxford have heard papers on the themes and/or subject matter of the thesis and book, and I record here my thanks to those who asked questions or offered comments on those occasions. The thesis version—written at Merton College, Oxford, with the support of a Domus Scholarship—was completed during a Stipendiary Lectureship at Magdalen College, and the work of conversion to a monograph was carried out during my tenure, first, of the Leventis Research Fellowship in Ancient Greek at Merton College (2013–17) (for election to which post, my thanks to the A. G. Leventis Foundation and to the college), then of a year’s Teaching Fellowship at the University of Birmingham, and, most recently, of a year’s Departmental Lectureship in the Classics Faculty and at St Hugh’s College, Oxford.

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Acknowledgements

In all these places I have been fortunate to work alongside supportive and good-humoured Classics colleagues, and I would like to record special thanks here to Andrew Bayliss, Felix Budelmann, Philip Burton, John Eidinow, Maeve McHugh, Hannah Mitchell, Gideon Nisbet, Jonathan Prag, Alberto Rigolio, Tim Rood (again), and Gareth Sears—and above all to Rhiannon Ash, as generous and humane a senior colleague as I could have wished for during my time as a Merton tutor. Henriette van der Blom, Armand D’Angour, John Davie, Peta Fowler, Adrian Kelly, and Rosalind Thomas have all provided (and continue to provide) guidance of different kinds, some of them from my earliest days as a student. Rosalind also read two chapters of the thesis version, while Adrian lent me a working laptop when my own failed abruptly at a key point in the summer of 2012. I am most grateful to them all. Many other colleagues beyond Classics have sustained me with their company and insights along the way, and the regular denizens of the Merton SCR deserve particular collective recognition here. I have also been extremely fortunate in my students at Magdalen, at Merton, in Birmingham, at St Hugh’s, and also at Jesus (where I began my teaching) and other colleges—they have kept me on my toes and often sparked new lines of inquiry. Finally, it is a pleasure to be able to make special mention of some friends whose company has added immensely to the experience of working on the thesis, or writing the book, or teaching, or all of them: Linda Briggs, Aneurin Ellis-Evans, Katie Low, Tom Phillips (for several years now an unfailingly stimulating discussion partner on many topics), and Antony Smith. Little of what follows would have been possible, though, without the love and ongoing support of my parents, and I dedicate this book to them as a sign of my deep gratitude.

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Contents List of Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations

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Introduction: Polyeuctus Imagines a Statue

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1. The Orators and the Athenian Past 1.1. The Past in the Physical City 1.2. Fictions 1.3. Why the Past? 1.4. Using the Past 1.5. Approaches 1.6. An Outline of the Historical Context 1.7. Texts 1.7.1. Revision and Dissemination 1.7.2. Authenticity and Authorship

2. Demosthenes’ Early Career: Against Leptines and Other Speeches 2.1. Introduction and Overview 2.2. Democracy in Danger? 2.3. Symbolic History 2.4. Conclusion 3. Demosthenes’ Assembly Speeches 3.1. Introduction and Overview 3.2. Applying the Past 3.2.1. The Past, Rightly Applied 3.2.2. Applying the Right Past

3.3. Three Key Techniques 3.3.1. The Continuum in Peril? 3.3.2. Athens by Others 3.3.3. The Uniqueness of Athens

3.4. Modelling Demosthenes 3.5. Conclusion 4. Against Meidias and Against Timarchus 4.1. Introduction and Overview 4.2. Demosthenes: Against Meidias 4.2.1. Demosthenes’ Approach 4.2.2. Meidias and Alcibiades 4.2.3. Summary

9 9 26 32 38 59 64 74 74 78 81 81 92 105 124 131 131 140 140 148 153 153 159 165 169 176 179 179 183 183 185 195

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4.3. Aeschines: Against Timarchus 4.3.1. Aeschines’ Parallel Athens 4.3.2. Casting, Ēthos, and Anticipation

4.4. Conclusion 5. The Embassy Trial 5.1. Introduction, Overview, and Text 5.2. Demosthenes and the Prosecution 5.2.1. Aeschines and Solon 5.2.2. Aeschines as Envoy: The Timagoras Parallel

5.3. Aeschines and the Defence 5.3.1. Confronting Demosthenes 5.3.2. Aeschines at Pella (2.25–33 and 113–18) 5.3.3. Aeschines’ Fifth Century (2.172–7)

5.4. Conclusion 6. The Crown Trial 6.1. Introduction, Overview, and Text 6.2. Darkest Hours, Finest Hours: Aeschines, Solon, Demosthenes 6.3. Aeschines Transfigured: The Epilogos of Against Ctesiphon and the Climax of On the Crown 6.4. Aeschines’ Monuments and Demosthenes’ Epilogos 6.5. Conclusion Conclusion: Athens Transfigured Bibliography Index Locorum General Index

197 197 201 217 223 223 233 233 239 249 249 261 265 271 275 275 287 301 311 324 329 341 379 401

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List of Editions, Translations, and Abbreviations EDITIONS For the orators, and except where otherwise stated, I use Dilts (1997) for Aeschines; Dilts and Murphy (2018) for Andocides and Antiphon; Dilts (2002), (2005), (2008), and (2009) for Demosthenes’ speeches and Clavaud (1974b) and (1987) for his Prooemia, Letters, and fragments; Conomis (1975) for Dinarchus; Jensen (1917) for Hyperides 1–6 (designated by abbreviated speech titles) and Horváth (2014) for Against Diondas; Thalheim (1903) for Isaeus; Mathieu and Brémond (1929–62) for Isocrates; Conomis (1970) for Lycurgus; Carey (2007) for Lysias. Entirely fragmentary orators are quoted from the citing source in each case; these fragments follow Sauppe’s numbering (1850). I also use Dilts (1992) for the scholia to Aeschines and Dilts (1983–6) for the scholia to Demosthenes; Kassel/Austin (below) for all comic fragments; Stuart Jones rev. Powell (1942) for Thucydides; Ziegler (1960–98) (and his paragraph numbering) for Plutarch’s Lives; and Behr’s numbering (1981–6) for Aelius Aristides. Editions of other authors quoted are given briefly in the notes where necessary (and see the list of abbreviations below).

TRANSLATIONS All translations of the orators are (unless otherwise indicated) taken from the relevant volume(s) of the University of Texas Press’s Oratory of Classical Greece series, i.e. primarily Carey (2000) for Aeschines; Gagarin and MacDowell (1998) for Antiphon and Andocides; Trevett (2011) for Demosthenes 1–17; Yunis (2005) for Demosthenes 18–19; Harris (2008) for Demosthenes 20–2; Harris (2018) for Demosthenes 23–6; Bers (2003) for Demosthenes 50–9; Worthington (2006) for Demosthenes 60–1, the Prooemia, and the Letters; Worthington, Cooper, and Harris (2001) for Dinarchus, Hyperides, and Lycurgus; Mirhady and Too (2000) and Papillon (2004) for Isocrates. I register any significant deviations from these in the footnotes. UK spellings are silently introduced. Translations of oratorical fragments not included in the Texas

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series, and where another translation is not given, are by me. I also standardly use Hammond and Rhodes (2009) for Thucydides, Perrin (1914–26) for Plutarch’s Lives, Kennedy (2007) for Aristotle’s Rhetoric, and Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) for the nonPlutarchan biographical material. Sources for translated passages from other authors are given briefly in the notes where necessary; remaining translations are by me.

ABBREVIATIONS Author and work abbreviations follow familiar standards, except that (with Cawkwell [1978] as my precedent) I abbreviate Aeschines to A. to match the standard (e.g. LSJ9) abbreviation for Demosthenes (D.). Other standard abbreviations follow: BNJ and BNJ2 FGrHist IG K-A LGPN II LIMC LSJ9 PA PAA SEG Syll3

I. Worthington (ed.) (2007–), Brill’s New Jacoby, Leiden [i.e. Brill Online]. F. Jacoby et al. (eds.) (1923–), Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, Berlin and Leiden. Inscriptiones Graecae (various eds.) (1873–), Berlin. R. Kassel and C. Austin (eds.) (1983–), Poetae Comici Graeci, Berlin and New York. M. J. Osborne and S. G. Byrne (eds.) (1994), A Lexicon of Greek Personal Names: Volume II: Attica, Oxford (various eds.) (1981–2009), Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, Zürich, Munich, and Düsseldorf. H. G. Liddell, R. Scott, H. S. Jones, and R. McKenzie (eds.) (1940), A Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn, Oxford. J. Kirchner (1901–3), Prosopographia Attica, Berlin. J. S. Traill (1994–2012), Persons of Ancient Athens, Toronto. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum (various eds.) (1923–), Leiden, Alphen, and Amsterdam. W. Dittenberger (ed.), F. Hiller von Gaertringen (rev. ed.) (1915–24), Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 3rd edn, Leipzig.

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Introduction Polyeuctus Imagines a Statue

What pose is he going to have, then? . . . Will he be holding his shield out in front? But he threw it away in the battle at Chaeronea! Or will he be holding the stern-post of a ship? . . . What sort of ship? His father’s, perhaps? Or [will he be holding] a book with his denunciations and his impeachments written in it? Or, by Zeus, will he be standing praying to the gods, he a man who hates the city and has prayed for the opposite outcome to all of you? Or [will he be standing] serving our enemies? (Polyeuctus fr. 1, from Against (Cephisodotus on?) the Honours for Demades)¹

When Polyeuctus of Sphettus, a leading anti-Macedonian politician and ally of Demosthenes,² delivered these words (or something like them) to an Athenian law-court audience in 336 or 335 ,³ he was doing more than just challenging a proposal to award a public statue to a leading pro-Macedonian⁴ rival—he was trying to deny that rival, ¹ Sources: Apsines Rhet. 10.6 Patillon (the text I translate here); [Long.] Inv. pp. 544.21–545.11 Walz vol. 9 (Sauppe’s text). Translation: based on Dmitriev’s in Demades BNJ 227 T 95 (and see commentary). ² For Polyeuctus of Sphettus (PA 11950; PAA 778280 and 778285) and the prosecution in 336 or 335 : Hansen (1974) 39 (no. 31); Oikonomides (1991); Brun (2000) 80–2; Demades BNJ 227 (Dmitriev) ad TT 30, 91, 95. Demosthenes refers to Polyeuctus with notable warmth in the Third Philippic, of 341 , as a recent fellow envoy (9.72: Πολύευκτος ὁ βέλτιστος ἐκεινοσὶ, ‘that excellent man Polyeuctus over there’); see also [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 846cd for collaboration between them in 323. Plutarch’s Phocion mocks Polyeuctus for his obesity and obvious physical discomfort while giving a pro-war Assembly speech on a hot day: Phoc. 9.9; cf. Anaxandrides, Tereus fr. 46 (i.e. a possible double entendre on καταφαγὼν). ³ All dates in this book are  unless stated or obvious. ⁴ Brun (2013a) questions the distinction between ‘pro-Macedonian’ and ‘antiMacedonian’ politicians in 330s Athens, but the term has utility for denoting attitudes, The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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Demades,⁵ a place in history. The erecting of a bronze portrait statue for someone in the Athenian Agora in the later fourth century not only gave his potential encomiasts an important thing to talk about,⁶ but also meant that he would join an elite company of Athenian political and military leaders and Athenian and non-Athenian civic benefactors and would, like them, occupy a prominent position in a space which functioned as an active gallery of the city’s memory: as Aeschines was to point out to another law-court audience a few years later, ‘the memorials of all your noble deeds are set up in the Agora’ (ἁπάντων γὰρ ὑμῖν τῶν καλῶν ἔργων τὰ ὑπομνήματα ἐν τῇ ἀγορᾷ ἀνάκειται: 3.186). If the proposed honorific decree for Demades survived Polyeuctus’ challenge, a statue of Demades would join not only those of illustrious Athenians of recent decades, like the generals Conon and Chabrias, but also the much earlier statue pair of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, by this stage remembered not only as ‘tyrannicides’ as such but also (inaccurately) as foundational figures for the democracy itself.⁷ Our hypothetical future viewer would be able to pass easily from admiring Demades’ statue to contemplating, for example, the paintings of great Athenian victories in the Stoa Poikile (Painted Stoa) nearby,⁸ or the stone ‘Eion’ Herms erected near the Stoa Basileios (Royal Stoa) to commemorate Delian League victories against Persia in northern Greece in the 470s under Cimon’s leadership.⁹ For Athenian orators, talking about the city’s past was already a political business, but Polyeuctus was speaking in an Athens which had been under Macedonian control since the defeat of the Theban-Athenian alliance by Philip II at Chaeronea in 338, and at a time when Athens’s

not just actions (or lack of them), as Brun himself hints (90); and it is relevant for a study of rhetorical strategies that the orators themselves represent the political landscape this way: see Chapter 6.1 n. 30. ⁵ Demades and his oratory: Brun (2000); Cooper (2000) 226–9; (2009); BNJ 227 (Dmitriev); Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 37–40; Dmitriev (2016). ⁶ As Aristotle says, using Harmodius and Aristogeiton as his example: Rhet. 1368a17–18. ⁷ Their statues: Taylor (1991) 13–21; Krumeich (1997) 57–9; Keesling (2003) 172–5; (2017) 23–8; Shapiro (2012) 161–2; Biard (2017) 257–61; in detail Brunnsåker (1971); Fehr (1984); Azoulay (2017). Foundational for democracy: Pownall (2013) 340–4 for summary; Chapter 1.1 n. 45. ⁸ Stoa Poikile: collected literary sources: Wycherley (1957) 31–45. On its artistic programme and financing: Chapter 6.4 n. 139. ⁹ On which, see Jacoby (1945) 185–211; Osborne (1985) 58–64; Shapiro (2012) 162–7; Arrington (2015) 196–8; Efstathiou (2016) 112–15; Biard (2017) 271–3. A. 3.183–5 for quotation; cf. D. 20.112. Robertson (1999) identifies the ‘Stoa of the Herms’ with the Stoa Basileios.

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leading statesman, Lycurgus, was pioneering a widespread cultural revival which explicitly addressed Athens’s loss of international clout by celebrating its fifth-century height, especially as expressed in the Periclean building programme.¹⁰ Defining both the elements and the overall shape of a desirable Athenian past, and projecting acceptable versions of that past for public consumption, mattered perhaps more than ever. So, in being awarded an Agora statue, Demades was about to become a legitimized part of the city’s illustrious story—the same story that Polyeuctus’ audience wanted to be told in the 330s and which the orator himself, as a likely associate of Lycurgus, wanted to tell them as well. If Polyeuctus’ challenge failed (as it clearly did,¹¹ incidentally, despite the probable support of Lycurgus himself¹²), Demades would also become part of the common fund of great Athenian figures and great Athenian achievements available for public speakers to draw on to persuade their audiences. This is exactly what Polyeuctus himself was attempting to do in court here: in imagining how Demades’ statue might look, he was harnessing audience knowledge of the other honorific statues already in situ not far away from the court itself, perhaps especially that of Chabrias, whose statue (at his own request) depicted him in the pose in which he and his troops had confronted Agesilaus’ Spartans in Boeotia in 378/7.¹³ Equally, Polyeuctus’ suggestion that Demades might be depicted holding onto a ship’s sternpost could ironically recall the celebrated death of Cyn(a)egeirus, Aeschylus’ brother, at the battle of Marathon while gripping onto a Persian ship’s sternpost—a moment well known to Polyeuctus’ audience because it was featured in Polygnotus’ painting of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile.¹⁴ Evoking an example of heroic self-sacrifice made in ¹⁰ ‘Lycurgan Athens’: Mitchel (1970); Will (1983) 77–100; Schwenk (1985); Faraguna (1992) (with [2011]); Parker (1996) 243–4; Habicht (1997) 22–30; Hintzen-Bohlen (1997); Mikalson (1998) 11–45; Brun (2003a); (2003b); (2005); Humphreys (2004); Liddel (2007) 94–108, especially 101–2 for caution about attributing too much to Lycurgus himself; Engels (2008); Lambert (2010) (= [2018] 115–31); (2011) (= [2018] 93–111); (2012b) (= [2018] 132–53); Azoulay and Ismard (2011); Hesk (2012) 208, 214–15; Hanink (2014), e.g. 7–8 on using the term ‘Lycurgan’. ¹¹ Din. 1.101. ¹² If Against Cephisodotus on the Honours for Demades (Lyc. IX) is from the same trial: see Burtt (1954) 152–3; Conomis (1961) 126–8; Hansen (1974) 39 (no. 31); Brun (2000) 81; BNJ 227 (Dmitriev) ad TT 30, 95. ¹³ D.S. 15.32.5; Nep. Cha. 1 (the manoeuvre); D.S. 15.33.4 (Chabrias’ request), with Stylianou (1998) 297–301; Chabrias’ statue: Arist. Rhet. 1411b6–10; Keesling (2017) 130 (giving further references). ¹⁴ Hdt. 6.114 (ἄφλαστα in this case). Pausanias does not mention Cyn(a)egeirus specifically in his account of the Marathon painting (1.15.3), but see Plin. NH 35.37 and Lucian JTr. 32 (and Pelling [2013] 23–6; Hornblower and Pelling [2017] 255–6). For Cyn(a)-

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the act of helping to save Attica from barbarian invasion would serve as a neat contrast with Demades’ alleged desertion when he and his fellow Athenians confronted the Macedonian advance at Chaeronea;¹⁵ Demosthenes and others were busy remaking the battle in this period by conceiving it in terms of the great Persian Wars victories.¹⁶ (Further deflation follows with Polyeuctus’ mocking and presumably class-based reference to Demades’ father.¹⁷) As we will see further in Chapters 2 and 6, orators tend to conceptualize the award of civic honours as an expression of the city’s core sense of itself, and so we find legal disputes about them attracting an especially high volume of examples and illustrations drawn from the Athenian past: for example, we find Lycurgus comparing Demades’ achievements unfavourably with those of Pericles in Against Cephisodotus on the Honours for Demades, a speech probably given in support of Polyeuctus in this very trial, as noted above. The comparison is simultaneously pitched to reflect well on Lycurgus himself,¹⁸ mentioning as it does Pericles’ building of the Odeon, Propylaea, and Hecatompedon (i.e. Parthenon, here)—clear parallels for Lycurgus’ own great public works, which Hyperides was later to imagine posterity remarking on in terms similar to those used by Lycurgus here.¹⁹ Rival speakers in cases like this are found offering rival conceptions of the city’s past and its significance for the present case—contesting, for example, how the award under dispute should be interpreted within the grand sweep of the city’s lifetime and traditions and how far it can be thought of as consistent with the city’s interests now. This book is about precisely this kind of dynamic. In it, I explore how fourth-century Athenian politicians made use of versions of the past, especially Athens’s own past, in their public speeches. I argue that they did this to construct and sustain their own political identity and authority in public—to demonstrate that they had the skill, knowledge, experience, and total civic commitment to recommend beneficial policies for the Athenian dēmos and to represent the city successfully abroad. I also examine how some speakers (at least) exploited it frequently, as a egeirus’ popularity in the later declamation tradition: Reader (1996); Favreau (2003); Guast (2017) 92–4. ¹⁵ A topos: see Worthington (1992) 147–8 for references to Demosthenes’ alleged desertion in A. 3 and Din. 1; Christ (2006) 134–41; Cook (2012) 232–42. ¹⁶ See Chapter 6.1. ¹⁷ Davies (1971) 99–100; Brun (2000) 46–8. ¹⁸ Lycurgus as an astute self-promoter: Liddel (2007) 101–2. ¹⁹ Lyc. Against Cephisodotus on the Honours for Demades (IX) fr. 2; Hyp. For the Sons of Lycurgus (XXXI) fr. 118: ‘he [built] the theatre, the Odeon, and the dockyards’ (ᾠκοδόμησε τὸ θέατρον, τὸ ᾠδεῖον, τὰ νεώρια). On these: Hintzen-Bohlen (1997) 14–15, 21–31; Hanink (2014) 95–103. Periclean building: Shear (2016).

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versatile way of staging and mediating competition with rivals (and their policies). On the basis of readings of individual surviving speeches from the law courts and Assembly in Chapters 2–6, I show how orators’ different treatments of the past respond to the totalities of the rhetorical needs and situations—and of the overall strategies—of individual speeches and speakers. I also show that historical examples and illustrations not only provide support for a given argument or series of arguments but also can (and, in skilled hands, frequently do) serve to inflect and enhance those arguments by complementing and extending their ethical dimensions and therefore their emotive potential for audiences. In other words, they can seek to transform audience interpretations of the stakes of the trial or debate in front of them by deepening (and manipulating) their perspectives on it, and representing it as a clash of core Athenian values as well as (or, sometimes, even rather than) policies, personalities, or legal interpretations. Having just used the word ‘historical’ to describe this type of content, I should add here that in what follows (except where a stricter meaning will be obvious) I will be using the word in a loose sense to supply a convenient adjective for ‘the past’: so, when speaking of an orator’s historical material or content, I will usually mean the elements of a given speech which the orator has shaped in such a way as to communicate a particular representation or set of representations of the past.²⁰ I will also mostly be concentrating on instances where the past is explicitly featured in an exemplary or illustrative capacity. This involves some slightly arbitrary drawing of lines: for example, although an orator’s narrative of his opponent’s career (or his own) to date qualifies as a persuasive use of the past, I tend to discuss such narratives only if the speaker’s strategy also involves setting his opponent’s activities (or his own) in broader historical perspective as well as in broader civic perspective.²¹ In the early sections of Chapter 1, I look at some key features of the presence of the past and the ways it was mediated in classical Athens (Chapter 1.1 and 1.2), at how Athenian orators go about using the past, at the specific material (and the types of ‘past’) they use, and at other relevant issues, such as the approaches taken to the use of formal historical examples—paradeigmata, or ‘paradigms’—in fourth-century rhetorical theory (Chapter 1.3 and 1.4). These discussions (and those ²⁰ This working definition draws on Nora (1989) 8. ²¹ Recent work on oratorical narrative and characterization: Edwards (2004); (2007); Spatharas (2011a); de Bakker (2012); (2017); Kremmydas (2013); (2016); Worman (2017); Edwards and Spatharas (2019).

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that follow) function as groundwork for the case studies in Chapters 2–6, but also seek to offer a holistic—and therefore deliberately extended— sense of the characteristics and patterns we see in orators’ usage across the board (especially as represented in surviving law-court and Assembly speeches). In Chapter 1.3, for example, I examine what it might have been about the Athenian past that made it desirable for politicians to use at all, and to use in this way: to help build compelling, lively arguments to communicate with a variety of audiences in a variety of venues, and to challenge the parallel constructions of rivals. I round Chapter 1.4 off with some preliminary comments on the characteristics of two orators’ usage in particular: Demosthenes (384–322) and Aeschines (c.390–at least 330²²), political contemporaries and, from 346 onwards, bitter rivals. Chapters 2–6 focus exclusively on them because they offer the best possible view of how front-line politicians could use the past to represent themselves and to compete with one another. Demosthenes is alone in having public trial speeches survive under his name from the 350s,²³ written for delivery by clients as well as by him (see Chapter 2), and is one of only two clearly identifiable orators to have surviving Assembly speeches associated with him (discussed in Chapter 3), giving us the chance to compare and contrast the way historical material could be framed for audiences across the two most important oratorical venues. Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ approaches to deploying the past in prosecutions focused on civic morality occupy Chapter 4. Most importantly, we have speeches from two major trials—the Embassy trial of 343 and the Crown trial of 330—in which Demosthenes and Aeschines were key players on opposite sides, and I discuss these in Chapters 5 and 6. My preliminary comments on Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ usage in Chapter 1.4 follow the earlier sections rather than preceding them in order to foreground the point that these two orators are, at one level, simply representatives of a much more general phenomenon, although immediate posterity was to recall Demosthenes as a particularly skilled rhetorical user of the past (as we will see in the Conclusion). Many Athenian orators deployed the past in agonistic ways or to present themselves and their proposals more effectively, as Demosthenes does. If Demosthenes and Aeschines are distinctive in how they deploy the past—and we have to be careful of evidential bias here—it may be in the inventiveness of their usage (Aeschines’ particularly) and the extent of their investment in its potential for rhetorical framing of political rivalry ²² Aeschines’ birthdate: E. M. Harris (1995) 32–3 with n. 44; Carey (2000) 9. We know nothing about his death. ²³ Unless we count Isocrates: but see Chapter 1.5.

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(e.g. targeting specific details of each other’s handling of the past in trials years apart, as we will see) rather than in usage alone. Their interest in deploying the past has hardly gone unnoticed, and in Chapter 1.5 I outline some important scholarly approaches taken to my topic to date, and indicate where this book belongs in relation to them.²⁴ In Chapter 1.6, I give a concise and selective overview of Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ careers and political environment to set the scene for my case studies of their individual speeches (or groups of speeches) in Chapters 2–6. Finally, as my central focus in this book is on the relationship between the rhetorical strategies in each speech (or set of speeches) and the uses of the past we find there, I give working views in Chapter 1.7 on what the texts we have represent, how they were disseminated, and (in some cases) who wrote them. The persuasive use of the past by orators in the fourth-century Athenian Assembly and law courts was made possible by the willingness of both speakers and audience to entertain certain assumptions about their communicative relationship (especially as regarded the competence of audience members to interpret orators’ references to the past). Accordingly, as a way into the topic, I will use a passage of the law-court speech On the Mysteries, delivered in his own defence in 400 or 399 by the politician and aristocrat Andocides,²⁵ to illustrate two of what seem to me to be the most important of these assumptions: first (Chapter 1.1), that audience members would be able to engage with historical illustrations based on figures, events, and phenomena which were part of the visible cityscape as well as recalled in other ways; and, second (Chapter 1.2), that for the purposes of orators’ past-based strategies, members of the present audience could be conceived as interchangeable with other audiences at other trials and other debates, sometimes at dramatic temporal removes from the one currently under way.

²⁴ I broached this book’s concerns in Westwood (2018a). ²⁵ Andocides: MacDowell (1962) 1–6, 15–23; Edwards (1995) 1–6 (and 11–26 on Andoc. 1); Missiou (1992) 15–25; Gagarin and MacDowell (1998) 95–8; Usher (1999) 42–53.

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1 The Orators and the Athenian Past 1.1. THE PAST IN THE PHYSICAL CITY The setting of Andocides’ narrative (1, On the Mysteries, 37–8) is the year 415, just before the departure of the Sicilian expedition, and at the height of the public alarm over the mysterious mutilation in the course of one night of a large number of the city centre’s stone Herms¹—an event central to the prosecution’s case against Andocides.² Encouraged by the city’s troubles, Diocleides made an announcement to the Council, claiming that he knew the men who mutilated the Herms and that there were about three hundred of them. He said he saw the deed and happened to be there. Please pay close attention, gentlemen, and recollect whether I’m telling the truth, and tell one another about it; for the statements were made in your presence, and you’re my witnesses of them. [38] He said he had a slave at Laurium and had to collect a payment. He got up early, mistaking the time, and started walking; there was a full moon. When he was passing the gateway of Dionysus, he saw a large number of people coming down from the Odeum into the orchestra, and being frightened of them, he went into the shadow and sat down between a pillar and the stone on which the bronze general stands [τῆς στήλης ἐφ’ ᾗ ὁ στρατηγός ἐστιν ὁ χαλκοῦς]. He saw people, about three hundred in number, standing in groups of fifteen or twenty men, and seeing their faces in the light of the moon he recognized most of them.

As we have seen already with Polyeuctus and Demades in the 330s, public statues were of the first importance in the Athenian commemorative ¹ Andoc. 1 passim; Thuc. 6.27–9, with Hornblower (2008) 367–81; Todd (2004); and Osborne (1985) 64–7 and Quinn (2007) 84–95 for Herms and democracy. ² Diocleides’ account as mediated by Andocides (1.38–42) and his exposure of it as false: MacDowell (1962) 88–92; Dover in Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover (1970) 274–6; Furley (1996) 61–4, 121–8; Pelling (2000) 29–39; Todd (2004) 93–7; Rubel (2014) 171–2.

The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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landscape: the most visible and personalized available means of marking the city’s recognition of an individual benefactor’s services (and of inspiring others); indeed, in 330 Lycurgus (tendentiously) went so far as to represent the awarding of Agora statues to great generals and tyrannicides, rather than victorious athletes, as a peculiarly Athenian prioritization (1.51) (neatly excluding Demades).³ Our understanding is that there were no bronze statues awarded by the dēmos to individual benefactors between the tyrannicides and Conon (in 393). So who is Andocides’ bronze general? And why is he not named? A brief look at this (ultimately unsolvable) problem will serve both as an illustration of the kind of audience knowledge orators could rely on when shaping their historical material and as a springboard to considering the place of statuary, in particular, in the orators’ conception of the civic past. The theatre of Dionysus eventually had two bronze statues of generals in it: of the early fifth-century leaders Miltiades and Themistocles, each close to a main entrance (and therefore close to Diocleides’ alleged hiding place).⁴ But the source for these statues, the scholiast to Aelius Aristides, is very late, so Bieber’s identification of our general as Themistocles cannot be secure.⁵ Importantly, Andocides’ very failure to the name the general makes it unlikely. In this book, orators’ (especially Demosthenes’) enthusiasm for citing and contesting Themistocles will emerge prominently: he and the evacuation of Athens, and the prelude to and engagement at Salamis in 480, were basic indices of civic pride with which orators constantly expected their audiences to identify.⁶ As essential resorts for historical illustration in the fourth century (and well beyond, as Aelius Aristides demonstrates), they are paralleled only by Miltiades and by the Athenians’ (and Plataeans’) defeat of the Persians at Marathon in 490;⁷ if you want to praise the Athenians, says Aristotle, talk about Marathon and Salamis.⁸ Various inscribed decrees of doubtful authenticity emerged in this period, two of which purported to be the ³ Domingo Gygax (2016) 124–31. ⁴ Ael. Arist. 3 (On the Four) 154, with Σ (pp. 535–6 Dindorf vol. III) implying the location mentioned; Krumeich (1997) 86–7; Domingo Gygax (2016) 165–7. Representations of Themistocles: Krumeich (1997) 71–89; of Miltiades: Gauer (1968) 128–32, 139–40; Krumeich (1997) 85–6, 93–109. ⁵ Krumeich (1997) 86–7, 148–50 against Bieber (1954) 282–4; also Keesling (2017) 171–2. ⁶ Themistocles and Salamis in oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 155–61, 166–77; Carey (2013a) 126 n. 7. ⁷ Miltiades and Marathon in oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 149–55, 169–77; Carey (2013a) 126 n. 7; Efstathiou (2013); Volonaki (2013); Xanthaki-Karamanou (2013). Afterlife and commemoration: Ferrario (2014) 25–41; Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 1–7. ⁸ Arist. Rhet. 1396a12–13; cf. Pindar P. 1.75–7.

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decree of Themistocles proposing the evacuation and the decree of Miltiades initiating the Marathon campaign, attesting an acutely pastconscious cultural climate.⁹ Marathon was if anything even more susceptible to proud recollection than Salamis (as the repeated appearances of it in fifth-century comedy make clear¹⁰) because the Athenians quickly started to tell themselves that they fought alone there.¹¹ Other versions remained current in the later fourth century, though: in the 340s, in a major excursus on the Plataeans in his Against Neaera ([D.] 59.94–106), Apollodorus reminds his audience of the Plataeans’ presence in Polygnotus’ painting of Marathon in the Stoa Poikile, where we know Miltiades could also be seen.¹² Marathon and Salamis were, therefore, much discussed, making it unlikely that a statue of Themistocles or Miltiades could fail to be identified, especially if it stood in a prominent place like an entrance to the theatre. This prompts the conclusion that the general was neither Miltiades nor Themistocles, and that Andocides himself was not sure who he was and did not expect the audience to know either.¹³ Given that in 415 Conon’s award was still over twenty years away, the bronze general must have been a private votive,¹⁴ and even these may have been few in number at this point.¹⁵ Krumeich raises the attractive possibility of a mythical general.¹⁶ Without an indication of the statue’s age, it is hard to get further, but I have dwelt on this instance because it serves as a bracing caveat for this whole inquiry: there is much that we are never going to know about the bases of knowledge and experience Athenian audiences could or would typically draw on to interpret the versions of the past orators confronted them with. ⁹ Both mentioned at D. 19.303 (with MacDowell [2000a] 337–8); Arist. Rhet. 1411a10–11 for a metaphorical use. ‘False decrees’: Habicht (1961); Robertson (1982); Davies (1996); Rhodes (2011) 25; Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 444–9 (no. 88); Steinbock (2013a) 94; Efstathiou (2013) 186–7; and cf. the Theban decree in Din. 1.25. ¹⁰ e.g. Ar. Holkades fr. 429; Knights 1331–4; Wasps 711; Lys. 285, 318; Hermippus fr. 75. See Carey (2013a); Papadodima (2013) 148–53. Art also focused on Marathon at Salamis’ expense: Arafat (2013) 81–2. ¹¹ Already in Hdt. 9.27.5; Thuc. 1.73.4; Lys. 2.20, 23; Pl. Mx. 240c–241c. For discussion: e.g. Walters (1981b); Pelling (2013) 26–7. The Plataeans’ presence is already attested in Hdt. 6.108.1 (with Hornblower and Pelling [2017] 237–40). ¹² Cf. Paus. 1.15.3. It may be significant that Apollodorus states (needs to state?) which of the depicted combatants they are, implying some audience members would have been stumped by the lack of name labels on the painting: cf. A. 3.186 (Miltiades) and Chapter 6.4. Apollodorus’ use of the past in the Plataea excursus: Trevett (1990); Carey (1992) 132–40; Kapparis (1999) 375–98; Pelling (2000) 61–81; Steinbock (2013a) 126–42. ¹³ No labels on statues yet: Keesling (2003) 192. ¹⁴ D. 13.21, 20.70, and 23.196 only point to there being no state-commissioned statues of Themistocles and Miltiades: cf. MacDowell (1962) 89; Oliver (2007) 190. ¹⁵ Keesling (2003) 195; (2017) 129. ¹⁶ Krumeich (1997) 149–50.

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Some sources of audience knowledge and awareness are straightforward to identify.¹⁷ Public contexts like the Assembly, courts, public funerals,¹⁸ and festival occasions offered ways for Athenians to learn more about their past, as did public hearsay and other predictable sources of general knowledge: military service at particularly interesting times and in particularly interesting places; intellectual milieu, if relevant, or educational background; familiarity with literature; and so on. Importantly, orators figure their discussion of the past more often as an exercise in dialogue with audience experience—a shared civic enterprise—than as a didactic scenario with the orator as teacher (though some examples are set up this way: e.g. the extended discussion of five Athenian law courts in Demosthenes’ Against Aristocrates).¹⁹ Instead, oral tradition is frequently invoked as civic common ground. We only get occasional glimpses, though, of the type of oral transmission which perhaps mattered most because of its personal, intimate character: recollections and knowledge-sharing by older relatives and friends, the sort of casual but formative education that even Aristophanes’ Lysistrata says she has received from her own older male relatives (Lys. 1125–7). This is clearly a notion couched in a comic context,²⁰ but it still underlines the familiarity of this mode of learning for male Athenians. One valuable instance, as we will see in more detail in Chapters 5 and 6, is Aeschines’ (no doubt ‘creative’) use, in two of his speeches, of the memories of his very elderly father Atrometus: for example, he describes Athens’s military and political troubles at the end of the fifth century as ‘well-known family stories I have heard often’ (οἰκεῖά μοι καὶ συνήθη τὰ τῆς πόλεως ἀτυχήματα . . . τοῖς ὠσὶν ἀκούειν: 2.78).²¹ The example indicates that family traditions could confer a powerful sense of ownership of aspects of the past,²² prompting questions about how popular understandings of particular figures and events might intersect with the versions generated within the great aristocratic genē like the Eteobutads, Lycurgus’ ¹⁷ See Livingstone (2017) 40–60 in general on conduits of learning in Athens. ¹⁸ Important especially for the female relatives and children of the dead: Shear (2013) 519–24. For the ceremonial context: Clairmont (1983) 1.7–28; Ferrario (2014) 42–4, 174–6; Arrington (2015) 33–54, 108–13. ¹⁹ D. 23.64–79: Euthycles explicitly says the audience are going to learn from the experience (μαθήσεσθε: 64), and he only appeals to jurors’ general knowledge once (67). The orator’s didactic authority: Nouhaud (1982) 110–11; Clarke (2008) 249, 274–86, 300–3. For caution: Rutherford (1994) 60; Canevaro (2019) 145. ²⁰ And preceded (1124) by a line from Euripides’ Wise Melanippe (fr. 482 Kannicht): Henderson (2012) 157. ²¹ For one reading of what Aeschines is doing: Steinbock (2013b), discussed in Chapters 1.5 and 5.3.1. ²² On this aspect: Thomas (1989) 95–154.

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family, or the Ceryces, Callias’ family. One well-to-do litigant, in court in the 340s, produces a highly laudatory version of Cleon (his mother’s first husband’s father) which contrasts strongly with Thucydides’ and Aristophanes’ portrayals in the later fifth century and also with the more contemporary (but equally disobliging) Aristotelian one in the Athenian Constitution.²³ Features of the cityscape complemented these more informal sources of knowledge and experience. Andocides’ bronze general, whoever he was, was clearly a well-known landmark, and so points in the same direction as our evidence as a whole: to the importance of statues as essential carriers of civic memory (as seen in the Introduction), as much for Athens as for Greek cities generally.²⁴ In this, they joined public buildings, paintings and other public art, inscriptions²⁵ (and the painted reliefs to be found especially on inscribed treaties and honorary decrees²⁶), trophies, burial sites,²⁷ the specifics of cult, the programme of the ephēbeia (at least by the Lycurgan period),²⁸ and other features of life in the civic centre and beyond.²⁹ In On the Crown, justifying his view that resistance to Philip had been Athens’s only possible course, Demosthenes imagines the lived experience of Athenian democratic citizenship acting as an immersive, holistic daily reminder of the city’s glorious past, effectively crystallizing into a metropolitan unity what would have been the diverse experiences of a large population scattered across Attica: ‘no one would have dared assert’ he says, that Philip should aspire to rule Greece, ‘or that you—Athenians!—who every day behold reminders of the valour of your forebears [τῆς τῶν προγόνων ἀρετῆς ὑπομνήματα] in all manner of speeches and monuments [ἐν πᾶσι καὶ λόγοις καὶ θεωρήμασι], would be so cowardly as to surrender your freedom to Philip

²³ D. 40.25; Thuc., e.g., 3.36–40; 4.21–2, 27–8, 39 (victory at Pylos); 5.7, 16; Ar. Knights and Wasps; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 28.3. ²⁴ Statues and Athenian civic memory: Shear (2011) 274–85 (and [2007a] 107–13); Ma (2013) 10. Artistic aspects: Krumeich (1997) 51–150, 207–12; Keesling (2003) 165–98; Dillon (2006) 99–113. Honorific aspects: Oliver (2007); Ma (2013) 103–7, 123–4. Both angles: Biard (2017); Keesling (2017). ²⁵ Note the σκοπεῖν τῷ βουλομένῳ clause (‘for anyone to look at who wishes to’): e.g. Liddel (2007) 81–2. In general: Meyer (2013) 473–91. ²⁶ Lawton (1995) 5–10, 13–16, 27–8; Domingo Gygax (2016) 221–2; Biard (2017) 146–9. ²⁷ Especially the Dēmosion Sēma (public cemetery): Clairmont (1983) 1.29–45; Arrington (2015) 55–90. ²⁸ The ephēbeia and the past: Parker (1996) 253–5; Mikalson (1998) 41–2; Humphreys (2004) 88–92; Liddel (2007) 290–3; Steinbock (2011). ²⁹ Hölscher (1998); Shear (2007a); (2011); Ma (2009); Lambert (2010) (= [2018] 115–31); Osborne (2011) 36–8; Shapiro (2012); Steinbock (2013a) 48–99. Survey of the scholarly climate: Alcock (2002) 15–32; Osborne (2011) 25–8.

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voluntarily’ (18.68). This imaginative crystallization is, in fact, part of a characteristic career-long Demosthenic strategy, but it also participates in a much wider set of cultural assumptions about the activeness of the Athenians’ relationship with their past.³⁰ Citizen audiences were certainly exposed to a wide range of these forms of memorialization, to differing extents and in differing combinations, and inevitably processed them with differing levels of contextual sensitivity, attentiveness, and interpretative acumen, as well as differing levels of enthusiasm (indeed the question of the relevance to the case at hand of the historical material being offered by opponents is something we will see orators play on³¹). Audience members would clearly also apply various levels and types of everyday—and indeed local— background knowledge to the interpretation of what they saw and heard: Osborne’s imaginative sketch of the differing impressions that might be made on demesmen of Rhamnus and Thoricus respectively on assessing the built environment of the big city for the first time is worth invoking here.³² Orators were also addressing listeners across a wide age range (on which, more in Chapter 1.2).³³ So the keynote of Athenian audience members’ experience and understanding of their past would have been variety between individuals:³⁴ by and large, orators were not addressing audiences with uniform, monolithic, or completely fixed notions about particular aspects of their city’s history. This was one reason why historical examples could prove so valuable for orators’ persuasive manoeuvres in the first place, and why historical material could be developed in creative ways (e.g. applying familiar topoi to unfamiliar situations, adjusting the usual cast of characters, putting twists in canonical storylines, etc.). That is not to say that there were not popular, dominant, or indeed ‘official’ (or quasi-official) versions or interpretations of some elements,³⁵ and these entailed audience expectations which orators had to take into ³⁰ Loraux (1986), e.g. 98–131; Milns (1995) 5; Clarke (2008) 280–4; Goldhill (2012) 349; and cf. Lysias’ Olympic Oration 6; D. 15.35; 18.95 (as well as 18.68); in general Shear (2011) (e.g. 101–2: models for bouleutai; cf. [2007a] 103–4; [2007b] 151–3) and Steinbock (2013a) 84–5. ³¹ See especially Isoc. 15.62; but also D. 18.209, 314–20 (Chapter 6.4). ³² Osborne (2011) 36–8. ³³ For the lower age limits on Assembly attendance and jury service: Hansen (1999) 88–90; Kremmydas (2016) 50–1. ³⁴ Individual and collective memory: Alcock (2002) 15–16; Wolpert (2002) xiv–xv; Ma (2009); Grethlein (2010) 2; Shear (2011) 6–12; (2013) 513–15; Steinbock (2013a) 8–13; Arrington (2015) 13–18; Canevaro (2019) 137. ³⁵ For example the tyrannicides: Thuc. 6.54.1 (though Thucydides does not insist elsewhere in the passage on the uniformity of the Athenians’ understandings, identifying

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account. Although challenging (or qualifying) popular understandings to various extents was an option, orators probably did have less obvious scope for innovative or risky versions of extremely well-known or ‘hallowed’ material, for example items susceptible to clustering with others (like the Persian Wars victories), especially when influenced by particular familiar civic contexts (see further below, Chapter 1.4, on the funeral oration). This clustering (or ‘telescoping’³⁶)—typical of social memory, especially when the events in question occupy cognate positions to one another in relation to the community’s core identity—applies notably to events or event sequences which had an especially profound negative citywide impact. A key example is the sequence which includes the oligarchic coup of the Four Hundred in 411, the Athenian defeat at Aegospotami and the fall of Athens in 404, and the subsequent oligarchic regime of the Thirty. The orators frequently fuse these events together and recall them as a period of acute collective distress, reflecting the dominant note in other forms of popular discourse about the oligarchic regimes: determination never to allow a recurrence of this period of civic rupture.³⁷ Some innovation would have been possible for the orator in the telling of these events (e.g. A. 2.76–8), but they could not (for example) have been spun positively; this could only have been done by contrast, e.g. with the democratic restoration and amnesty of 403.³⁸ The existence of commonly accepted versions of certain aspects of Athens’s past would mean that it would be all the more impressive if an orator did manage to make compelling or inventive use of them. One example, mentioned by Aristotle, is the strategy employed by the famous general Iphicrates when in court (perhaps in 371, but probably c.389³⁹) to vindicate his right to high honours in the face of an attack by a namesake descendant of the tyrannicide Harmodius, a cornerstone figure for civic memory: in his speech (presumably a synēgoria for the

oral tradition as their source: 6.53.3; 60.1; see Hornblower [2008] 441–2 on the uneasy fit between 6.53.3 and 54.1; also Domingo Gygax [2016] 163–5). ³⁶ Thomas (1989) 221–6. ³⁷ On the 411–03 period, including in oratory: Lévy (1976); Nouhaud (1982) 282–5 and 301–16; Wolpert (2002); Loraux (2002); Wohl (2010) 201–42; Shear (2011); Lambert (2012b) 257–9, 261 (a ‘psychological hurdle’) (= [2018] 136–7, 139); Steinbock (2013a) 291–300; Teegarden (2014) 15–53; Siron (2017); also the essays in Ktèma 42 (2017), especially Bearzot (2017). Aeschines and Demosthenes tend to be good at keeping the Four Hundred and Thirty separate: D. 22.52; 20.11–12, 42, 48; 24.57–8, 90, 164; 19.196; D. 40.32; A. 1.39, 173; 2.77–8, 147, 176 (both); 3.187, 191, 235. Other relevant moments in Aeschines and Demosthenes: A. 3.195, 208; D. 19.280; 20.59–60; 24.135. Aegospotami recalled euphemistically: Lévy (1976) 40–7; Nouhaud (1982) 280–2; Bearzot (2017) 42. ³⁸ Siron (2017) 107. ³⁹ Domingo Gygax (2016) 196–7.

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defence), Iphicrates contended that he, Iphicrates, was the true heir of Harmodius and Aristogeiton (‘my deeds, at any rate, are more akin to those of Harmodius and Aristogeiton than yours are’).⁴⁰ In doing so, he was not only catering to his audience’s shared understanding of the tyrannicides (i.e., above all, their heroism), but also identifying that heroism as a democratic commodity, open to any citizen of great merit to claim, thus counteracting the self-validating deployment of his famous ancestor that Harmodius the prosecutor probably undertook in his own speech (Iphicrates’ counterattack may have included the crushing line: ‘my family begins with me; yours ends with you’: Lys. XX fr. 45 = Plut. Mor. 187b). Iphicrates’ privileging of merit over genealogy involves, then, a predictable assertion of the tyrannicides’ cultural centrality, but also a less predictable (and therefore stimulating) claim about how precisely they are relevant to the case at hand. But sometimes the material itself would work in the orator’s favour, offering gaps in, and areas of tension between, familiar (and sometimes competing) collective interpretations of key figures, events, and features of the cityscape for him to exploit. Adroit handling of the past over the course of a given speech therefore became a balancing act for the orator: to involve the whole audience, but also to appeal to as many subsets of it as feasible, and to alienate as few listeners as possible in the process. They either had to make good rhetorical use of the differences between listeners (and the fact that they would process examples in different ways) or (more often) had to assume a commonality of awareness that was in fact limited or illusory, sometimes via specific techniques (see Chapter 1.2). To sketch the relationship between the kind of historical content invoked by orators and the features of the cityscape that could help shape audiences’ basic awareness of that content, I will continue to concentrate for now on just one important facet: the memorialization of historical individuals, especially via statues. Most of the Athenian individuals chosen by Demosthenes and Aeschines (and other orators) for repeated reference are notable figures whom audience members would be able to link either to a particular statue or other representation (whether state-commissioned or not) in a prominent (usually urban) location or to a famous building or other

⁴⁰ Arist. Rhet. 1398a20–2 = Lys. XX fr. 44 (cf. fr. 46). Translation: Kennedy (2007) 176, adjusted. Carey (2007) 336–41 gathers the evidence for this speech; I repeat some in n. 208. The date: Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 136–8. Is. 5.46–7 features a similar kind of argument against another descendant of Harmodius.

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structure, or both; as we have seen already, references sometimes include a mention of the statue itself.⁴¹ Orators capitalize simultaneously on audience members’ awareness of (some of) these features of the physical cityscape and on the range of understandings they would have of them. Even if we assume that the city centre had no statues of Miltiades and Themistocles at all in the fourth century (as the statues that Pausanias saw in the prytaneion might have arrived later, like those in the theatre),⁴² Miltiades had his depiction on Polygnotus’ Marathon painting in the Stoa Poikile, while Themistocles’ city walls (and his tomb, mentioned in comedy) guaranteed a physical marker of his prestige, transcending the troubled end of his career.⁴³ Solon and Dracon could be tied to their laws, on public display in the Agora (e.g. D. 23.31).⁴⁴ Physical links—via Agora statues again—may also help to explain orators’ frequent use of Harmodius and Aristogeiton (and consequently the Peisistratids),⁴⁵ and the frequent grouping of three famous generals recently deceased when Demosthenes was beginning his public career—Chabrias,⁴⁶ Timotheus,⁴⁷ and Iphicrates⁴⁸—as well

⁴¹ Two possible exceptions here are Alcibiades and Aristides, recalled reasonably often in oratory (Nouhaud [1982] 292–7 for Alcibiades) but, as far as we know, linked neither to contemporary statues nor to prominent buildings. One link in Aristides’ case may have been the ongoing honours for his descendants (D. Ep. 3.19–20); in Alcibiades’, Aglaophon’s painting of his Nemea victory near the Propylaea (Paus. 1.22.6–7; Plut. Alc. 16.7); cf. Krumeich (1997) 131–4. Aristides in oratory: A. 1.25; 2.23; 3.181, 257; [Andoc.] 4.11–12; D. 3.21, 26; 13.29; 23.209; Dinarchus 1.37; [D.] 26.6. ⁴² Paus. 1.18.3 (with Krumeich [1997] 85–6; Domingo Gygax [2016] 165–6; Keesling [2017] 172). In the same category is Themistocles’ image in the temple of Artemis Aristoboule: Plut. Them. 22.3; Domingo Gygax (2016) 166–7; Biard (2017) 54–6; Keesling (2017) 172–4. ⁴³ Miltiades: A. 3.186; Themistocles’ tomb: Platon fr. 199; Paus. 1.1.2; his end: Thuc. 1.135–8. ⁴⁴ Regardless of how often people read them: Carey (2013b) 30–1. Paus. 1.16.1 mentions an Agora statue of Solon, but this is unlikely to have been there before 346/5 at least (cf. A. 1.25). The other sources ([D.] 26.23 and Aelian VH 8.16) are unreliable. On Solon and Dracon in oratory: Thomas (1994); Mossé (2004); Carey (2015). ⁴⁵ Statues (Agora: erected c.477): Paus. 1.8.5 (and Introduction n. 7). Harmodius and Aristogeiton in oratory: A. 1.132, 140; D. 19.280; 20.18, 29, 70, 127, 128, 159–60; 21.170; Din. 1.63; Hyp. Epit. 39; Phil. 2–3; Is. 5.46; Lys. XX frr. 41a–9. Peisistratids: Andoc. 1.106; 2.26; D. 21.144; [D.] 12.17; [D.] 17.3; Lyc. 1.61; X–XI fr. 6. ⁴⁶ Statue (Agora: voted 376): A. 3.243; Arist. Rhet. 1411b7; Nep. Cha. 1; D.S. 15.33.4; and Introduction n. 13. ⁴⁷ Statues (Agora: voted 375): A. 3.243; Paus. 1.3.2; Nep. Tim. 2.3; (Acropolis): Paus. 1.24.3. ⁴⁸ Statues (Agora: voted c.389 or 371/0): A. 3.243; Σ ad D. 21.62 (200 Dilts); (Acropolis): Paus. 1.24.7. See Gauthier (1985) 177–80 and Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 136–7 for the date.

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as the occasional addition to their number of (or separate reference to) Conon.⁴⁹ Orators frequently involve the Athenian built environment more broadly,⁵⁰ referring to the Propylaea and Parthenon (which audiences on the Pnyx and presumably in some court venues could see),⁵¹ to the Stoa Poikile, and to a handful of other prominent structures, including the ship sheds (neōsoikoi) and city walls.⁵² They also harness audience awareness of important stelai bearing inscribed laws and decrees,⁵³ like the one which recorded the honours voted to those who returned from Phyle in 403 to expel the oligarchy of the Thirty and restore the democracy (IG II² 10).⁵⁴ These might complement the ‘historic’ decrees and other documents that audiences are conceived of as knowing well because they were read out so often (for example, the Theban decree to allow the democratic exiles to pass through to Attica in 403).⁵⁵ In some cases, audience awareness of inscribed decrees and laws would be explicit and active. Adult male citizens would have been especially familiar with the Agora stele recording the decree of Demophantus, originally passed after the fall of the Four Hundred, because (either just

⁴⁹ Statues (Agora: voted 393, along with Euagoras): D. 20.70; Isoc. 9.57; Paus. 1.3.2; Nep. Tim. 2.3 (Acropolis): Paus. 1.24.3. On this statue group, especially on Conon’s as a turning point: Gauer (1968) 118–24; Gauthier (1985) 102–3; Krumeich (1997) 207–9; Shear (2007a) 105–12; (2011) 280–5; Domingo Gygax (2016), 125–6, 192–9; Biard (2017) 69–74; and Lewis and Stroud (1979) for Euagoras in particular and Keesling (2017) 133–5 for Conon and Timotheus’ Acropolis statues. This group of four in oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 333–41. ⁵⁰ Hobden (2007a) 497–8, 500–1; Liddel (2007) 156–8; Steinbock (2013a) 84–94; also Fredal (2006). Parallels in Ciceronian Rome: e.g. Vasaly (1993) 40–87, especially 81–7. ⁵¹ Parthenon: D. 22.13, 76; 24.184; Lyc. IX fr. 2; Propylaea: A. 2.74, 105; D. 13.28; 22.13, 76; 24.184; cf. also Dem. Phal. fr. 137 Stork/van Ophuijsen/Dorandi. Sight lines: Harpocration Π 101 (Προπύλαια ταῦτα): ὁρωμένων τῶν προπυλαίων ἀπὸ τῆς Πνυκός (‘as the Propylaea can be seen from the Pnyx’); Fredal (2006) 121–4; Steinbock (2013b) 80 and n. 64. ⁵² Stoa Poikile: A. 3.186; D. 13.28; 22.76; 24.184; [59.94]; Metroön: A. 2.89, 92, 135; 3.187; D. [25.98]; Din. VI fr. 11; Lyc. 1.66; II fr. 1; ship sheds/docks: Andoc. 3.7; D. 13.28; 22.76; 24.184; Din. 2.13; Hyp. XXXI fr. 118; Lyc. 1.150; walls (city and Long): Andoc. 3.5; D. 20.68, 72, 73–4; Din. 1.37; Lyc. 1.150. ⁵³ In various locations (for which, see Liddel [2003]), including (in the case of one copy of the Law of Eucrates of 337/6) very visibly at the Pnyx: Richardson (2003). ⁵⁴ See Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 20–7 (no. 4). On the democratic restoration of 403 (and the amnesty) in oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 311–16; Hobden (2007b). Further on the inscription: Chapter 6.4 n. 148. ⁵⁵ Din. 1.25: τὸ πολλάκις ἀνεγνωσμένον παρ’ ὑμῖν . . . ψήφισμα (‘the decree so many times read out to you’); for discussion: Worthington (1992) 171–2; Steinbock (2013a) 212–14. On fake ‘historic’ decrees, see n. 9; and cf. Keesling (2017) 158 on Callias’ Agora statue and his Peace.

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between 410 and 404⁵⁶ or—more likely—in later decades too) they had all had to swear annually the oath it prescribed: to award honours commensurate to those awarded to Harmodius and Aristogeiton to anyone who suffered while trying to depose tyrants in the city.⁵⁷ Other less prominent individuals (both mythical and historical) may even have been remembered (and so featured by orators) predominantly or precisely because they had a statue or famous stele associated with them: this seems to apply to some of the more shadowy of the Eponymous Heroes⁵⁸ and possibly helps explain Aeschines’ one-off use of the fifth-century general Tolmides in On the Embassy.⁵⁹ Importantly, this group probably includes the frequently deployed but (at least to us) historically obscure Persian agent Arthmius of Zelea—the stele condemning him for bringing Persian bribes to Greece was in a prominent location, next to the great statue of Athene on the Acropolis.⁶⁰ The recycling of the example of Arthmius in extant speeches serves as a good example of another basic dynamic we need to bear in mind in all of this: that frequent reference to certain figures by orators will in itself have enhanced those figures’ profiles and led other speakers to feature them too, whether competitively or not.⁶¹ In some cases, the lack of a highly visible personal portrait may help to explain orators’ relative lack of interest in figures we might expect to be mentioned more often, even if they could be linked to other physical markers. Cimon perhaps belongs in this category: oratorical references to him usually involve his more famous father Miltiades in some way, and Cimon’s association (whatever its nature) with structures like the Stoa Poikile and Theseion may have subsumed his personal identity.⁶² ⁵⁶ On the view of Liddel (2007) 129, 231, following Ostwald; if so, we can still envisage popular memory of that collective swearing filtering down through the early decades of the fourth century. ⁵⁷ Demophantus’ stele in oratory: Andoc. 1.95–102; D. 20.159; Lyc. 1.124–7. Discussions: Shear (2007a) 98–101; (2007b); (2011) 72–111 passim; (2012) 286–90; Canevaro and Harris (2012) 119–25; McGlew (2012); Harris (2013–14); Teegarden (2014) 15–53, especially 36–7 on the swearing process; Sommerstein (2014). ⁵⁸ Eponymous Heroes in oratory: see especially D. 60.27–31. Note Demosthenes’ shortage of things to say about Antiochus (31) (and Kron [1976] 190–3; Kearns [1989] 149). On remembering one’s tribal (and age-class) heroes: Steinbock (2011). ⁵⁹ Tolmides’ statue: Paus. 1.27.5 (and Krumeich [1997] 109–11); solitary appearance: A. 2.75; Nouhaud (1986); Steinbock (2013b) 84–7. ⁶⁰ D. 19.272. Arthmius in oratory: D. 9.41–6; 19.271–2; A. 3.258; Din. 2.22–6. Contrast [D.] 59.76 where the stele was not well known. For scholarly discussions of Arthmius: Chapter 3.2.2 n. 69. ⁶¹ See Chapters 3.2.2, 5.3.1, and 6.3. ⁶² Cimon in oratory: [Andoc.] 4.33; D. 13.29; 23.205. Confusions with Miltiades: Andoc. 3.3 and A. 2.172 (unless the issue there is scribal). On forgetting Cimon: Pearson (1941)

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The same may be true of Pericles, not invisible in surviving speeches but a less popular resort than his great buildings—Pausanias reports a statue (probably the one by Cresilas) on the Acropolis, but this was a private votive, and perhaps less familiar than the Agora statues of Conon and the others.⁶³ This explanation may work for Cleisthenes too—it might have been hard to associate him with anything in the central cityscape, and in oratorical texts he only appears in the work of the orator most likely to have a detailed grasp of Athenian history and least likely to be interested in making it accessible: Isocrates.⁶⁴ Given that statues acted as vivid visual cues for recalling notable individuals and details about them, we find them becoming especially malleable forms of memorialization for orators’ purposes, as we saw in the case of Polyeuctus and Demades: the award of a statue did not necessarily efface popular awareness of an individual’s demerits or failings or fix any particular interpretation of him—if anything, it seems to have made him even more susceptible to contestation, both in life and in death. Orators were correspondingly keener to fashion definitive versions. Writing for his client Euthycles in Against Aristocrates (353/2), Demosthenes points out that even though the Athenians granted the recently deceased Iphicrates ‘the honour of a bronze statue and the right to dine in the prytaneion and other rewards and honours, which were the source of his good fortune’, he still turned his back on his city to serve his Thracian in-laws (23.130).⁶⁵ Aristotle’s Rhetoric mentions an outstanding persuasive deployment of a statue in the famous Oropus trials of 366/5,⁶⁶ where Callistratus—Athens’s most brilliant contemporary orator⁶⁷—and Chabrias were prosecuted for their involvement in Athens’s loss of Oropus to Thebes: Chabrias’ synēgoros Lycoleon made an impassioned gesture to the general’s nearby bronze counterpart in the Agora, asking the jurors to imagine the statue—the most

226–7; Nouhaud (1982) 219–21; Thomas (1989) 203–5. Connections with the Stoa Poikile: Chapter 6.4 n. 139. Theseion: Arrington (2015) 198–201. ⁶³ Pericles’ statue: Paus. 1.25.1, 28.2; IG I³ 884 and Plin. NH 34.74; further, Gauer (1968) 141–3; Krumeich (1997) 114–25; Keesling (2003) 193–5; (2017) 128–9; Domingo Gygax (2016) 167; Biard (2017) 59–60. Pericles in oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 221–3. ⁶⁴ Cleisthenes in oratory: Isoc. 7.16; 15.232, (306); 16.26. His mnēma: Paus. 1.29.6. On the absence or forgetting of Cleisthenes: Anderson (2007); Flaig (2011); Pownall (2013) 344–50. ⁶⁵ For this aspect of Iphicrates’ behaviour: Sears (2013) 118–36, 273–87. ⁶⁶ The Oropus trials: Sealey (1956) 195–7; (1993) 85–8; Hansen (1975) 92–3 (no. 83); MacDowell (1990) 284. ⁶⁷ Callistratus’ brilliance: A. 2.124; D. 19.297; Nepos Epam. 6.1; Gellius NA 3.13; Sealey (1956) is still key.

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visible symbol of Chabrias’ services to the city—begging on its subject’s behalf (an especially neat strategy if, as our sources suggest, Chabrias’ statue depicted him on one knee).⁶⁸ In his prosecution of Leocrates in 330, Lycurgus sought to mobilize jury hostility against the defendant by casting him as a traitor to his own father’s statue in the temple of Zeus Soter in the Piraeus (1.136–7).⁶⁹ Finally, as we will see in more detail in Chapters 4 and 5, Aeschines apparently imitated a statue of Solon from the agora at Salamis when delivering Against Timarchus in 346/5 (1.25), and this proved too dynamic for Demosthenes to resist contesting, even as late as the next major court battle between them two years later. Aeschines’ manoeuvre must have been calculated to appeal precisely to the suppressed animation that public statuary of great men of the past would have presented, especially given that such statues could be thought to evoke their subject’s ethical stances.⁷⁰ Both factors made them ripe for oratorical deployment. Lycurgus plays with the idea that Leocrates’ dead father might judge him sternly from beyond the grave, and the physical conductor for this is the statue, talked about by a hypothetical onlooker as though it too could be outraged by Leocrates’ shameful behaviour.⁷¹ All three ‘moving statues’ recall Polyeuctus’ efforts to target Demades in the Introduction. Statues, therefore, encouraged imaginative deployment of their subjects in orators’ arguments, but other forms of memorialization of great individuals could permit contradictory conceptions of their subjects too, as we will see. The list of great past Athenians whose greatness is never qualified or questioned in extant fourth-century oratory is short: arguably limited to two, Solon and Aristides,⁷² beyond the tyrannicides. Few figures—whether as remembered in the physical cityscape or as discussed in social exchanges more broadly—can have been susceptible ⁶⁸ Arist. Rhet. 1411b6–10. Lycoleon is otherwise unknown. On the statue: Introduction n. 13. Modern scholarship has tended to dismiss the sources’ emphasis on a kneeling pose, but it would account for the depth of the base: Keesling (2017) 130. ⁶⁹ Cf. Lyc. 1.17; special Lycurgan relevance of Zeus Soter: Mikalson (1998) 38–9; Liddel (2007) 99, 157, 213, 301–2. A Roman parallel would be Cicero’s shaming of Lentulus Sura in 63 using his grandfather’s seal image: Cic. Cat. 3.10. ⁷⁰ Dillon (2006) 61–2; Ma (2009) 249–50; Chaniotis (2017); cf. Livingstone (2017) 46 (‘ideological energy’); and note, e.g., Keesling (2017) 21 for the ‘attacking pose’ of the statue of Conon at Caunus (also Biard [2017] 71, 188–9). ⁷¹ Lyc. 1.136. For prosōpopoiia/eidōlopoiia-type manoeuvres in Athenian oratory: Westwood (2017a); also Clarke (2008) 281–2 and O’Connell (2017) 163–7 (on Andoc. 1). In Rome: Dufallo (2007) 36–52; Steel (2013) 151–9. ⁷² Socrates in Plato’s Gorgias—savage to four of the accepted greats (Themistocles, Miltiades, Cimon, and Pericles: Grg. 515c–519a)—still lauds Aristides (526ab). Solon’s role is circumscribed once (D. 24.211; contrast e.g. A. 3.108, 257), but he is never criticized.

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to only one reading. Only a very skilled orator, sure of his ability to make his illustration rhetorically (and perhaps factually) watertight, would risk alienating his audience by treating negatively, or exposing to contestation, a culturally valued figure who was not already contestable. Miltiades’ and Themistocles’ problematic career ends, for example, meant that even they could be spun negatively as individuals—an area of cultural sensitivity ready-made for orators to contest.⁷³ In particular, we find both of them spun positively and negatively in discussions of the appropriateness of civic honours, especially in treatments of the issue of proper communal recognition of communal success which reflect contemporary anxieties about the proliferation of such honours: the battle of Marathon conceived of as a dēmos victory rather than that of any particular general, for example.⁷⁴ An orator’s depiction of Miltiades asking the Assembly for individual honours could not only help to make a particular point in context but serve the additional strategic purpose of making it harder for an opponent to use Miltiades positively later in the dispute in question (as we will see in Chapter 6.4). One way to assess how far orators were really working with audience’s general knowledge is to make a rough-and-ready comparison with the range of historical figures (loosely conceived) who typically appear in another civic performance genre—comedy—either as characters or by reference. This comparison is intended only as a scan for points of contact between two genres which project the same basically inclusionary attitude to the knowledge of the audience; the results will be influenced by the fragmentary nature of the comic corpus beyond Aristophanes and Menander. Restricting ourselves to figures who appear (a) more than once and (b) in more than one author yields quite a close alignment with oratory: the group of dead politicians Eupolis chose to resurrect in his 410s comedy Demes (Solon, Aristides, Miltiades, Pericles) already points to this,⁷⁵ and these four all appeared either in person or by reference in other comedies too (even if we omit references to Pericles in or soon after his lifetime).⁷⁶ Meanwhile, the tyrant Hippias is referred to ⁷³ D. 23.205 for Themistocles (and ‘Cimon’ may mean ‘Miltiades’ here: Witte [1995] 39–40); A. 3.186 for Miltiades (as well as, for what it is worth, [D.] 26.6). See also Pl. Grg. 515e–516a and 516de on their career ends; also n. 62. ⁷⁴ D. 23.196–201; D. 13.21–5; cf. A. 3.181–90, 243; Gauthier (1985) 120–8. ⁷⁵ Eupolis’ choices: Braun (2000); Storey (2003) 131–3; Telò (2007) 67–72, 80–6, 95–105. ⁷⁶ Solon: e.g. (a range) Cratinus, Cheirones fr. 246; Ar. Clouds 1187; Alexis, Lebēs fr. 131; Philemon, Adelphoi fr. 3; Aristides: Ar. Knights 1325; Men. Aspis 230; Miltiades: Ar. Knights 1325; Eupolis, Poleis fr. 233 (?); Pericles well beyond his death: Ar. Peace 605–11 (in a way that recalls his role at Ach. 530–4); Platon fr. 207.

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a few times in comedies from the decades after his death, as far as Lysistrata of 411 (a play which takes a broader thematic interest in harking back to events at the margins of, or just beyond the reach of, direct popular memory).⁷⁷ Solon (and Dracon), Aristides, and Pericles are still mentioned in fourth-century comedy after Aristophanes,⁷⁸ as are Harmodius and Aristogeiton, via the famous skolia about them.⁷⁹ In addition, the comic poet Philiscus and the tragic poet Moschion both wrote plays called Themistocles, extending a thread of reference to him which runs through the later fifth-century comic poets too.⁸⁰ Miltiades, on the other hand, does not appear in our comic evidence again after Demes, and his son Cimon’s final appearance is also in the 410s—in Lysistrata,⁸¹ juxtaposed with his Spartan opposite number Pericleidas (1137–44) in a pair of misleading paradeigmata. Applying the same criteria to Athenian landmarks (and not counting known scene-settings, a tiny sample set) yields only two results: the Propylaea (two appearances,⁸² not counting the scene set there in Lysistrata) and the Eponymous Heroes statue group in the Agora (no surviving appearance after the fifth century).⁸³ But the fact that this is also true of references to Marathon and Salamis,⁸⁴ highly celebrated events in the fourth century as in the fifth, probably reflects the changing nature and priorities of comedy as well as the paucity of our evidence more than anything. The fact that on one of the occasions when the iconic Propylaea is mentioned at all (by the third-century Phoenicides), it appears as a humorous odd one out in a list of Attic delicacies, makes the point neatly. Nonetheless, as far as historical individuals go, the broad picture in comedy mirrors the broad picture in oratory, admittedly (as far as we can see) with a smaller cast size, though that again may be a function of our evidence.

⁷⁷ Hippias: Ar. Knights 449 (via his wife); Wasps 502; Lys. 616–25, 1149–56. Lysistrata’s historical engagement: Henderson (2012) 156–9. ⁷⁸ See n. 76. Dracon: Xenarchus, Pentathlos fr. 4. ⁷⁹ Harmodius and Aristogeiton: Antiphanes, Agroikoi fr. 3; Diplasioi fr. 85. For the skolia: conveniently Budelmann (2018) 56, 265–71. ⁸⁰ Later fifth-century comic poets on Themistocles: Telecleides, Prytaneis fr. 25 (?); Ar. Knights 83–4, 810–19, 884–6; Eupolis, Demes fr. 126; Platon fr. 199 (his tomb). ⁸¹ Cimon up to this point: Cratinus, Archilochoi fr. 1; Panoptai fr. 160 (?); Eupolis, Poleis fr. 221. ⁸² Ar. Knights 1326; Phoenicides, Misoumenē fr. 2. ⁸³ Eponymous Heroes up to this point: Ar. Banqueters fr. 240; Heroes fr. 325a; Gēras fr. 135; perhaps Crates, Heroes. ⁸⁴ Marathon and Salamis: see n. 10 for Marathon; Salamis up to this point: Ar. Ach. 214 (obliquely); Knights 781–5; Frogs 697–8 (?).

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Although I have focused on individuals rather than events or broader phenomena so far, it still makes sense to hypothesize that many of the orators’ examples work by drawing explicitly on material that audience members will know something about and by shaping it in ways which will be acceptable to a majority of those present and which will also, simultaneously, showcase the orator’s creativity and authoritative mediation of that material. It is worth saying now that this entailed risks. Many orators were members of the elite; a considerable number of them had had expensive educations and could draw on advanced knowledge bases.⁸⁵ Deploying that education to good effect for the task of public persuasion involved, as Ober’s fundamental work on mass–elite relations shows, a kind of systematic (and largely performative) camouflage: orators sought to avoid projecting to their audiences an image of superior learning,⁸⁶ even if their social superiority might have been quite patent in other ways. The use of extended or complex historical examples, whatever the persuasive dividends of the exercise, was therefore a potential danger zone: presenting versions of the past which smacked of research (or could be represented as such) risked attracting accusations of sophistic training, membership of sophistic circles, or indeed just ‘being a sophist’— accusations we see Demosthenes and Aeschines frequently launching at each other,⁸⁷ and which even focus at one point on a ‘clever paradeigma’ that Aeschines has used.⁸⁸ Instances of the ‘sophist’ trope often (but not always⁸⁹) connote deviousness or dishonesty, unscrupulousness, arrogance, split loyalties, and lack of sympathy with the democracy. The risk might be particularly great for the small but distinguished category of speakers who were also professional historians and might want to put their historical expertise to use in addressing mass audiences (although they perhaps evolved separate strategies to do so, a possibility I will return to). To forestall this kind of attack, orators typically assert the comfortably democratic origins of the material they put to use, for example by pointing out that their audience know more about the topic than they ⁸⁵ Ober (1989) 182–7. Demosthenes’ education: MacDowell (2009) 18–22. Aeschines’ traditional education: E. M. Harris (1995) 28 with 185, nn. 29–30; possibly no rhetorical training initially: Philodemus, Rhet. II p. 97, F VIII; p. 219, Col. XIV.23–30 Sudhaus. Knowledge of Thucydides is likely for Demosthenes (Chapter 2.3 n. 99) and very likely for Apollodorus in view of Against Neaera’s detailed Plataea excursus: n. 12. ⁸⁶ For the cultural concern about the sources of the orators’ knowledge and ‘sophistic’ behaviour: Ober (1989) 170–4, 177–91, extending Pearson (1941) 213, 217–21; Ober and Strauss (1990) 250–2; Hesk (2000) 209–15. ⁸⁷ Hesk (1999); (2000) 231–41. ⁸⁸ See D. 18.228 with Uccello (2011) 8–9. ⁸⁹ Isocrates provides counterexamples, e.g. 15.313 (where Solon is one).

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do, that the topic is current in general hearsay, and so on.⁹⁰ A common complement to this is the appeal to ‘universal knowledge’ (e.g. ‘(of course) you all know X’), made by orators in a wide variety of cases.⁹¹ In some of those cases, it is very hard to imagine that a citizen audience would not know what they are being asked to recall; in others, conversely, it seems unlikely that they would.⁹² The aim of the technique is to create community—to leave no listener out, and to gratify those who did not know with the pleasant impression that you assumed they would—a ploy Aristotle highlights in the Rhetoric (1408a32–6).⁹³ It should be noted that our evidence for how orators’ ‘suspicious’ displays of knowledge were perceived comes from the taunts of adversaries; whether audiences actually cared how orators knew what they claimed to know, or whether audiences (unwittingly or otherwise) connived with orators in the shared assumption that this mattered, remains unclear (and perhaps varied from audience to audience—and indeed speaker to speaker—depending on other factors). What does at least seem clear is that though orators sometimes excuse themselves before, during, or after a (suspiciously?) extended, intricate, or recherché passage of historical argumentation, volume or intensity of reference as such tends to be criticized only rarely; it is the specific figurations of detail themselves that opponents contest.⁹⁴ The balance orators had to strike between appealing to a general audience knowledge base while seeking to make a distinctive impression on that audience with their treatment of what was often (in various forms) familiar material—a task which might involve risks—indicates a dynamic not unlike tragic poets’ reshaping of mythical plots: the aim in both cases is victory in a competition, and in both cases that competition might be with previous efforts by fellow practitioners as much as with the efforts of current rivals (a part of the dynamic that comedy shares too). It is notable that orators take fewer risks with their historical material—and, correspondingly, more standardized versions occur—where the immediate competitive need is taken out of the equation and the orator’s primary brief is to do an impressive standalone job, as is the case in a very specific context, that of the funeral

⁹⁰ e.g. D. 24.154; 4.24; 3.21; 19.65. ⁹¹ Canevaro (2019) 151–6. ⁹² I give some examples, drawn purely from what the phrase ἴστε γὰρ δήπου τοῦτο (‘of course you all know this’) can cover. Knowledge likely: D. 19.247; 20.26; 24.91; less so (at least in the terms stated): D. 20.31; 21.132; 23.118. Pearson (1941) 212–19 gives a range. ⁹³ Not that they would be likely to admit it: Pelling (2000) 29. ⁹⁴ See Canevaro (2019) 138–41. D. 19.303 (cf. 11) is an interesting mixed case.

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oration (epitaphios logos).⁹⁵ I will say more in Chapter 1.4 about the forms that treatment of historical material takes across oratorical venues, oratorical genres,⁹⁶ and the behaviour of individual speakers, but, having broached the issue of the specific devices orators commonly use to gratify audiences and bind them together, I want to take us back briefly in the next section to Andocides’ On the Mysteries to illustrate another important technique that orators can mobilize to present two types of inherently contestable material: (1) historical events and persons which many audience members will know something about but which are too remote in time for them to be able to recall directly; and (2) (as in our passage of On the Mysteries) more recent events to which the great majority of the current audience had at best secondhand access.

1.2. FICTIONS [Diocleides] said he saw the deed and happened to be there. Please pay close attention, gentlemen, and recollect whether I’m telling the truth, and tell one another about it; for the statements were made in your presence [ἐν ὑμῖν γὰρ ἦσαν οἱ λόγοι], and you’re my witnesses of them [καί μοι ὑμεῖς τούτων μάρτυρές ἐστε]. (Andocides 1, On the Mysteries, 37)

Andocides’ trial is happening some fifteen years after the events described here, so the composition of the two audiences had no chance of being anything like the same—the literal overlap (if any), as Pelling and others have pointed out, would be very small,⁹⁷ especially after the impact on the adult male Athenian citizen population of eleven years of war and the mass killings and displacement associated with two oligarchic regimes. Indeed, Andocides does seem to allow here that the audiences are not literally the same (‘tell one another about it’ [διδάσκειν ἀλλήλους]; cf. 1.46: ‘those of you who were present should recall what happened and tell the others about it’ [τοὺς ἄλλους διδάσκετε]), but then appears to contradict that with what immediately follows (ἐν ὑμῖν γὰρ ἦσαν οἱ λόγοι). Both assumptions are ‘true’, though, in the sense that ⁹⁵ There is often some sense of competition with predecessors, but it is usually briefly stated: Thuc. 2.35.1–2; Lys. 2.2; D. 60.1; Hesk (2013) 60–5; Shear (2013) 529–30. ⁹⁶ I shall use the term ‘oratorical genre’ in loosely accepted ways in what follows, i.e. not tethered to any ancient or modern categorization. ⁹⁷ MacDowell (1962) 88; Pelling (2000) 30; Todd (2004) 94.

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audiences at trials (and indeed the Assembly) could be, and in oratory often are, conceptualized as mapping virtually seamlessly onto one another across time (and sometimes across venues, as across the Boule and law court here) according to need; and we also frequently find such audiences treated indiscriminately as subsets of the whole dēmos or indeed simply as the dēmos.⁹⁸ The audience to Diocleides’ account in 415 was therefore in these senses just as much ‘you’ as Andocides’ live listening audience of jury and bystanders now, in 400 or 399.⁹⁹ Like Andocides here, orators do not try to maintain consistency: different identifications of the audience being appealed to can occur side by side. For example, Demosthenes felt able to ‘remind’ the audience of On the Crown in 330 of how they (i.e. ‘you’) had marched out (ἐξήλθετε: 96) to Haliartus in Boeotia sixty-five years earlier in 395.¹⁰⁰ Clearly, again, this would have been literally true only of a tiny minority of those now present,¹⁰¹ as indeed Demosthenes acknowledges immediately when he refers to the Haliartus expedition as the initiative ‘of the Athenians of that time’ (τῶν τότε Ἀθηναίων: 96). His default expectation, therefore, seems to be that no Haliartus veterans will be present. But his ‘you marched out’ has two sorts of symbolic meaning here. As we will see further in Chapter 6, On the Crown is a speech powered by Demosthenes’ intent to account for the policies that had led to disastrous defeat at Chaeronea eight years earlier. In asking his audience to ‘recall’ the expedition to Haliartus, made at a time when Athens’s fortunes were at a low ebb during Sparta’s period of hegemony, he is encouraging the (probably quite sizeable) subset of his audience who had marched through Boeotia to take part in the Chaeronea campaign in 338 to think of their own (ultimately unsuccessful) endeavour, made at a similar time of existential threat to Athens, as part of an unbreakable continuum of Athenian prowess across the decades. At the same time, the assumption that no Haliartus veterans will be present serves to confer a venerable place in the national legacy on any very elderly members of his audience who were in fact of military age in 395: they blend with a huge and illustrious category, ‘the ancestors’ (progonoi), whose praiseworthiness is almost always assumed and rarely

⁹⁸ Pelling (2000) 30–1 (and cf. 67 on ‘history’); Wolpert (2002) 91; Hesk (2012) 215–16. On defining the dēmos generally: Hansen e.g. (1978); (2010); Ober (1996) 107–22; Blanshard (2004) 36–42. ⁹⁹ On the management of time in Andoc. 1: Wohl (2010) 206–17. ¹⁰⁰ A dangerous mission (Lys. 16.13), though the Athenians were not involved in the end (X. Hell. 3.5.22; D.S. 14.81.2); Hunt (2010) 67. ¹⁰¹ Crichton (1991–3) 62–70, 75–9.

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qualified.¹⁰² Another subset of Demosthenes’ audience would have been too young in 395 to be sent out to Haliartus (or not yet born) and yet too old to have fought at Chaeronea—but the orator very soon includes something for this group too, in recalling the deeds of the generation of Athenians who assisted Sparta against Thebes in 369, nearly forty years earlier, by marching out to block the Theban return from the Peloponnese (ταῦτα [i.e. 395] ἐποίουν οἱ ὑμέτεροι πρόγονοι, ταῦθ’ [i.e. 369] ὑμεῖς οἱ πρεσβύτεροι, ‘that is how your ancestors acted, and that is how you older men acted’: 98).¹⁰³ The final touch in this sequence is to mention the Athenian expedition to throw the Thebans out of Euboea in 357—on which, Demosthenes reminds them, he served as a volunteer syntrierarch (99; cf. 21.161). He too, and those of his generation and older, are part of the great tradition which embraces—and, in Demosthenes’ conception, imposes responsibilities on—all those present in court (just as in the Assembly: Haliartus and Euboea are connected in First Philippic 17 too). A similar unifying effect is produced when, in referring to other events of the 390s in Against Leptines, Demosthenes happily professes his personal reliance on the memories of ‘the older men among you’ (παρ’ ὑμῶν τῶν πρεσβυτέρων αὐτὸς ἀκήκοα: 20.52) moments before implying that all the audience were admitted into Corinth after the defeat on the Nemea River (ὑμῖν: 53), then that only some of them were (ὑμῶν τῶν τότε στρατευσαμένων, ‘those of you serving in the army at the time’: 53), and then that all of them were again (ὑμᾶς: 53). Demosthenes’ use of events from 369 in On the Crown as a pivot point of distinction between the progonoi (a grand abstract) and the presbuteroi (real people in his audience) is interesting. Assmann’s estimation that around this very point (forty years or so) ancient societies’ recollection of events tends to pass from the realm of ‘communicative’ memory, where things are relatively fixed by direct personal transmission, to ‘cultural’ or ‘collective’ memory,¹⁰⁴ more often characterized by standardized or ‘official’ versions, accords neatly with Demosthenes’ choice here and with the range of items that Demosthenes and Aeschines ask their audiences to recall, and how.¹⁰⁵ Often this is simply a case of ¹⁰² See further Chapter 5.3.1. ¹⁰³ X. Hell. 6.5.33–52; D.S. 15.63.2; Buckler (1980) 88–9. Callistratus’ role in persuading the Athenians to undertake the expedition ([D.] 59.27) may have appealed to Demosthenes (cf. Plut. Dem. 5.1–5). ¹⁰⁴ Assmann (2011) 36–7, 195. ¹⁰⁵ Within forty years (some audience members’ memory solicited): e.g. D. 8.74; 18.99, 168; 20.77 (oddly using πρεσβύτατοι); 21.64; 24.138; A. 2.64, 150. Mixed: D. 4.3. Recollection by hearsay beyond forty years: e.g. D. 19.65 (on which, see Steinbock [2013a] 331–6),

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appealing to the older subset of the audience with a formulation like presbuteroi, but the topos of the ‘identical audience’ tends to involve rhetorical stretching, even if quite recent events are being referred to,¹⁰⁶ and it is interesting to see four different levels of audience memory (of 395, 369, 357, and 338) being invoked side by side in the example from On the Crown 98. Appearances of the topos vary widely in subtlety (and it is not universal; sometimes orators are required by their arguments to distinguish between present and past audiences: e.g. Din. 1.52). Later in On the Crown Demosthenes features a much more direct example: after recalling how the Athenians encamped on Salamis after their evacuation of Athens in 480 stoned Cyrsilus, a citizen who proposed surrender to Xerxes, he adds ‘and your (ὑμέτεραι) wives stoned his wife’ (204). In a part of the speech where Demosthenes is directly comparing the Chaeronea campaign with Athens’s experience in the Persian Wars (cf. 208) in order to argue that his own (failed) policy was the only one consistent with Athens’s core historical identity, this use of the ‘identical audience’ topos forges a direct spiritual connection between his present audience and their Persian Wars-era ancestors, and in doing so expresses quiet confidence that, like the evacuation to Salamis, their present reduced condition as enforced allies of a hegemonic Macedonia may be only a temporary one. A neat implied parallel, which comes just before this example, between Cyrsilus and Aeschines on the one hand and Themistocles and Demosthenes on the other (204) is one of several self-castings in the speeches from the Crown trial (as we will see in Chapter 6.3): Demosthenes is communicating not only that (like Themistocles: τὸν . . . ταῦτα συμβουλεύσαντα) he advised the right course in 338, even if it led to defeat, but also that (like Themistocles) he is ready to lead them again to a better outcome when the opportunity arrives.¹⁰⁷ The suspensions of literal truth which the ‘identical audience’ topos involves tend to be accepted without difficulty by both orator and audience across venues. So does the apparent absurdity inherent in, for example, orators’ serial attribution to Solon of more recent laws we know (and more importantly, some people in the audience would know) he

273; 20.47; 22.13, 52; 24.154. Blur round and just beyond the forty-year mark (when ‘knowledge’ rather than direct memory is sometimes solicited): D. 19.264 (36–9 years); 22.15 (c.50 years); and cf. 15.22 (c.50 years); 19.276 (50 years; ‘in your lifetime’). Centred on the speaker: D. 4.17, 24. See further Milns (1995) 4. ¹⁰⁶ Various types of stretching: D. 5.10; 21.2; 24.7; cf. 159; many in A. 1 (e.g. 52, 93, 116); 2.12, 84; 3.166. ¹⁰⁷ See Chapter 6.3.

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could not have been responsible for and also of laws which even the documents presented in the case in question might well reveal he could not have been.¹⁰⁸ Attributing a law to Solon simply acts as a convenient cultural shorthand to designate the seriousness of that law. Both of these topoi—as well as the ‘universal knowledge’ topos, mentioned earlier—are part of the ideological and cultural furniture of mass communication contexts in fourth-century Athens. All three must surely have struck some audience members as hackneyed and disingenuous, but among our sources (which are often eloquent on aspects of oratorical behaviour which audiences either did or should object to) the only one criticized is the ‘universal knowledge’ topos, targeted both by Aristotle, who says that orators use it to excess (κατακόρως), and loosely (and cynically) by Mantitheus, the speaker of Demosthenes’ Against Boeotus II.¹⁰⁹ All three are different types of ‘fiction’ (in the sense pursued by Ober¹¹⁰) or ‘metonymy’ (in Wohl’s more recent formulation¹¹¹), and were sustained in Athenian public discourse not only as deformations typical of social memory but also because orators (and audiences) found them actively useful: as we have seen, they could unite audiences divided by age, status, and a host of other variables in ways mutually satisfactory to speaker and listeners. In the Andocides passage above, therefore, the jury—none of whom may have been on the Boule in 415—are being treated as a valid cross section of the democratic community precisely in order to encourage them to refocus their general memories of the Herms affair in 415 (if they were in Athens then) creatively as recollections of a much more specific and privileged kind: of exciting personal contact with Diocleides’ account as presented to the Boule. Like Demosthenes’ accounts of Athenian heroics in the 390s, this engages the jurors in a compelling, direct, and positive manner. As with the ‘universal knowledge’ topos, nobody is left out; each juror gains the satisfaction of being thought to possess knowledge, experience, and a stake in a small corner of civic memory which in this case he would be very unlikely to possess. Goodwill therefore accrues to the

¹⁰⁸ Certainly D. 20.93–4 (Aristophon would remember that nomothetai were a post-403/ 2 creation); possibly Andoc. 1.95 (see Canevaro and Harris [2012] 124–5). More on ‘laws of Solon’: Hansen (1989); Rhodes (1993) 60–4; (2006); (2011) 26; Thomas (1994); Witte (1995) 44–9 (Demosthenes’ attitude); Mossé (2004); Bouchet (2008) 282–8; Leão and Rhodes (2015) 8, and 151–81 for ‘laws of Solon’ from the orators and related texts. ¹⁰⁹ Arist. Rhet. 1408a33–4; D. 40.53–4: for comment: Hesk (2000), 227–31; Canevaro (2019) 152. I point to Mantitheus’ cynicism because he uses a version of the topos himself a moment later (54: πάντων ὑμῶν εἰδότων). ¹¹⁰ Ober (1989) 147, 152–5, 174–7, 181, 190–1, 306–9; also Pelling (2000) 28–9. ¹¹¹ Wohl (2010) 181–97.

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orator and, as long as his argument is not obviously execrable, so does a level of trust to which he may well not be entitled.¹¹² In some oratorical domains, this set of fictions is even culturally sanctioned as well as culturally habitual: the idea of fundamentally interchangeable audiences, expressing Athens’s core identity immutably across generations, is a key part of Loraux’s influential model of the social function of the epitaphios logos: there, creating a sense of communal belonging was essential to the orator’s task and an integral unifying part of the burial ceremony as a whole,¹¹³ and was typically expressed partly by mediating a familiar sequence of episodes (mainly mythical in our terms) illustrating Athenian prowess (e.g. the defeat of the Amazons; the sheltering of Heracles’ children; the burial of the dead Argive leaders after the expedition of the Seven against Thebes; and so on).¹¹⁴ The epitaphios logos and other public oratorical genres must have started to influence one another from an early stage, and we will later see several examples of passages of law-court oratory which draw upon and refashion the conventional modes of the epitaphios logos for the context at hand. Strictly speaking, the epitaphios logos was one of only two Athenian oratorical genres—the other being diplomatic oratory— where the presentation of historical examples and illustrations (including mythical examples) seems to have been expected and virtually essential;¹¹⁵ the two genres sometimes use the same examples, and other Greeks were perfectly capable of using the familiar Athenian epitaphios logos topoi in diplomatic encounters with them, as Xenophon’s Procles of Phlius indicates, appealing to an Athenian audience to help Sparta in 370/69 with the ‘burial of the Argives’ and ‘children of Heracles’ examples; Harpalus could have used them when in Athens as a suppliant in 324 as well.¹¹⁶ It is worthwhile to remember, though, that some extant Assembly speeches— and many extant speeches from trials on private issues—include little or no historical material, and nothing obliged the Assembly or law-court orator to use it. What I now move to examine in more detail is why we do see orators integrating often quite substantial arguments and illustrations based on the past into Assembly and law-court speeches, and then, in Chapter 1.4, what forms that integration takes. ¹¹² For the psychology here: Kahneman (2011) 138–40. ¹¹³ Loraux (1986), e.g. 118–30, 270–84, 328–35; Shear (2013). ¹¹⁴ On the importance of this sequence in orators’ use of tragedy: Hanink (2013), especially 302–8 on the Seven. ¹¹⁵ Myth in the epitaphios logos: Ziolkowski (1981) 74–99; Loraux (1986), especially 53–8, 65–9, 132–55; Frangeskou (1999) 319–23; Gotteland (2001); Gehrke (2001) 301–2; Hesk (2013) 55–6. ¹¹⁶ Procles: X. Hell. 6.5.46–7; see n. 161 for discussion. Harpalus: Gottesman (2015) 186–94.

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The Orators and the Athenian Past 1.3. WHY THE PAST?

The persuasive oral use of the past (whether mythical or historical) was, of course, nothing new for fourth-century Athenians, nor would they have thought of it as confined to oratory. Homeric characters use paradeigmata with varying levels of skill: examples from the Iliad such as Diomedes’ Lycurgus, Phoenix’s Meleager, and Achilles’ Niobe all serve to characterize those who use them, to reflect meaningfully on the situation in the main narrative, and (often) to point to future events or possible outcomes.¹¹⁷ Comedy’s audiences were used to hearing about the past, as we saw, while characters in tragedy often explore and/or attempt to diagnose the impact of the past on the present: for example, Aeschylus’ Darius briefly catalogues Persia’s largely impeccable line of past rulers in order to highlight the extent of Xerxes’ folly (Persians 765–83, of 472),¹¹⁸ while in Euripides’ Hippolytus (of 428) Phaedra assumes that she is suffering as part of a chain of family misfortune which began with her mother and sister (337–43)—and the examples could be multiplied.¹¹⁹ In prose contemporary with the orators, works as disparate as Aristotle’s Politics and Aeneas Tacticus’ Poliorcetica have attracted recent attention for their selection and presentation of historical examples;¹²⁰ Plato’s mythical illustrations, a rather different proposition, have long been an object of close study.¹²¹ Beyond oratory, though, the natural resort when looking for persuasive historical or mythical examples must obviously be historiography itself: Herodotus’,¹²² Thucydides’,¹²³ and Xenophon’s¹²⁴ speakers are ¹¹⁷ On Homeric paradeigmata: Willcock (1964); Lang (1983); Held (1987); Livingstone (2011) 125–9. ¹¹⁸ Mardus (see Garvie [2009] 300–1, 304) is the exception (Pers. 774–5). ¹¹⁹ See, e.g., Nicolai (2003–5) and (2011) on Euripides’ paradeigmata (giving a full list: 117 n. 30). ¹²⁰ Aristotle: Lintott (2018); Aeneas: Pretzler (2018). ¹²¹ Recently Partenie (2009); Collobert, Destrée, and Gonzalez (2012). ¹²² e.g. Socle(e)s’ extended paradeigma series (5.92); see Hornblower (2013) 246–67 (comparing Thuc. 3.53–67). ¹²³ e.g. the Plataeans’ plea to the Spartans (3.53–9) (with Grethlein [2012]; Pavlou [2017]) and the matching historical examples at Delium (4.92.6–7; 4.95.3). The Spartans’ violence against history in razing Plataea and executing the surviving Plataeans is bitterly criticized by Isocrates (12.92–4). ¹²⁴ e.g. Callias’ much-discussed use of Triptolemus, Heracles, and the Dioscuri at Sparta in 372/1 (Hell. 6.3.6) (see Dillery [1995] 243 and n. 10 for criticism, but cf. Gray [1989] 126–7, Schepens [2001] 91–3, and in detail Tuplin [1993] 105–8 and Rubinstein [2016] 101–5); also the Spartan envoys in Athens in 370/69, the Athenians who respond (Hell. 6.5.33–6), and Procles there (see further n. 161); Buckler (1982) 192–6 discusses the problems with Xenophon’s version.

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enthusiastic users of past-based illustrations and argumentation of various kinds, with Herodotus’ debate between the Tegeans and Athenians about the right to be stationed on one of the wings before Plataea in Book 9 nicely capturing both the conventionality of such argumentation within the diplomatic field and the diminishing operational relevance of the treasured traditions of second-order states in a world which was rapidly becoming the Athenians’ world—and a world built partly on the foundation myth of the city’s (lone?) victory at Marathon, something Herodotus uses a neat echo of his own proem to underline here.¹²⁵ This passage has also recently been used to open a discussion of what sorts of past-based material Athenian audiences enjoyed hearing most,¹²⁶ an issue to which I will return in the next section. In an environment where other literary genres, including other public performance genres, made frequent use of the past and showed characters doing so too, were there specific motivations that led orators in the same direction? I used the word ‘enjoyed’ deliberately a moment ago. It seems likely that Athenian orators engaged in the persuasive use of the past in large part because the mass audiences they needed to persuade typically enjoyed hearing about it (or at least liked to conceptualize themselves as doing so),¹²⁷ and also found historical material easy and natural to connect with emotionally, especially if it related to Athens itself. The orators themselves clearly have a stake in telling us this when they do so,¹²⁸ but we find clear evidence of it in other sources too. Writing his Philippic History in and around the 340s, at the time when Demosthenes and Aeschines were making the large-scale (and long-range) competitive uses of the past I discuss in Chapters 4–6, Theopompus fastens on some of Athens’s versions of its favourite historical examples as a systematic geopolitical con by a whole polis: he rubbishes their versions of the Oath of Plataea, Greek treaties with Persia (perhaps including the Peace of Callias), the battle of Marathon, and in fact ‘everything else Athens makes false claims [about] and misleads the Greeks [with]’ (ἀλαζονεύεται καὶ παρακρούεται τοὺς Ἕλληνας: FGrHist 115 F 153; cf. 154).¹²⁹ The context (Theopompus is heading towards his coverage of the Assembly debate about peace with Philip in 346 in Books 26–7) makes it likely that

¹²⁵ Hdt. 9.26–8, with 9.27.4–5 recalling 1.5.3: Flower and Marincola (2002) 156. ¹²⁶ Grethlein (2014) 327–8; also (2010) 173–86. ¹²⁷ See D. 23.64 for the pleasure-giving capacities of stories about Athens’s great past, echoed by ps.-Arist. Problems XVIII (916b26–35) (first or second century ). ¹²⁸ Key passages are D. 14.1 and 15.35: see Chapter 3.2.1. ¹²⁹ Commentary on F 153: BNJ 115 (Morison); Grethlein (2014) 335–6; Davies (2016) 97, 104–5. Theopompus’ hostility is echoed by Plut. Mor. 814c and Lucian Rh. Pr. 18.

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he is thinking not only of diplomatic deployments and dubious inscribed documents but also of politicians’ use of these examples in front of appreciative audiences in mass performance contexts—and his remarks echo Isocrates’ in On the Peace (set in 355) (8.41).¹³⁰ Meanwhile, the Sausage Seller’s praise of Demos in Aristophanes’ Knights (of 424) specifically focuses on popular memory of Marathon: ‘you, who crossed swords with the Medes at Marathon to defend your country, who by your victory gave us the occasion to strike off so many grandiloquent phrases [ἡμῖν μεγάλως ἐγγλωττοτυπεῖν παρέδωκας]’ (781–2).¹³¹ Aristophanes’ lavish compound ἐγγλωττοτυπεῖν here captures precisely the civic pride that irked Theopompus decades later, but also, perhaps, the enthusiasm with which the Athenians approached the very task of finding apt ways of talking about their glorious past itself. The comic context also matters: the Sausage Seller is trying to flatter Demos here, and the latter will be rejuvenated at the end of the play in an ironic sequence which heralds no new dawn but more politics as usual (i.e. the Sausage Seller may well be an even worse leader than the rejected Paphlagon = Cleon), but the coup de théâtre in which Demos is revealed to the audience dwelling in ‘the old Athens, the marvellous and oft-hymned’ (ταῖς ἀρχαίαισιν Ἀθήναις ταῖς θαυμασταῖς καὶ πολυύμνοις: 1327–8) still testifies to a vein of nostalgia which Athenian audience members would have been able to acknowledge even as they appreciated the humour. Well-chosen examples could motivate audiences to direct action as well as simply giving them pleasure. To give an example where the audience included no Athenians: as we will see in Chapter 6.2, Aeschines recalls (in Against Ctesiphon) the explosive effect he produced nine years earlier when, as a delegate to the Amphictyonic Council at Delphi, he drew his audience’s attention to the illegal cultivation of Apollo’s nearby sacred plain by the Amphissaeans (3.118–21); his demand that they be punished involved him invoking the outbreak of the First Sacred War and calling for the recitation of the curse laid on the plain after the alliance’s destruction of the offending Cirrhaeans in that (probably fictitious¹³²) conflict (3.119; cf. 112). In his reply in On the

¹³⁰ Would [an outsider] not think we were raving mad, seeing that we pride ourselves on the deeds of our ancestors and think it right to praise the city for what they did in the past [φιλοτιμούμεθα μὲν ἐπὶ τοῖς τῶν προγόνων ἔργοις καὶ τὴν πόλιν ἐκ τῶν τότε πραχθέντων ἐγκωμιάζειν ἀξιοῦμεν], but then we do nothing like what they did, but quite the opposite? ¹³¹ Translation: Sommerstein (1981) here and below. He is echoed by Isocrates in the Panegyricus (c.380) (4.158). ¹³² Chapter 6.2 n. 64.

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Crown, Demosthenes spins this as a totally irresponsible use of rhetoric by Aeschines in front of an audience who were not used to clever speeches (18.149), but it neatly demonstrates that in the right performance context, history really could be power. The potential historical material had to move audiences made it susceptible to use by orators as a convenient vehicle for other types of material too, supporting individual points or arguments and acting as a loose ethical structuring device for disparate material throughout the course of a lengthy trial speech. Audiences would be encouraged by the reappearance of the historical example (or, sometimes, historical theme) in question to intuitively connect the argument currently being made with the one being made when that example or theme appeared previously. For example, Demosthenes sustains the unity of the legal and ethical case in Against Timocrates partly by repeated allusions to the threat (and past reality) of oligarchic activity in Athens (Chapter 2.2). There is probably a mnemonic aspect to this strategy, and ring composition— widespread in oratory—might be a good parallel.¹³³ An important feature to note is that this can give historical material (like literary quotation) an impact disproportionate to its strict airtime within the economy of a given speech. An even modestly developed example from the past carries with it not only historical but also cultural and ethical associations (different, but not prohibitively different, for each Athenian listener), which means that it can function as a kind of template: loose social understandings are already present (and taken for granted), and the orator can play on these to sum up key elements of his case at once. Retaining creative and effective control of the mediation of this material brought challenges as well as opportunities. From the point of view of the orator himself, historical examples and illustrations required highquality rhetorical framing in order to secure their desired effect, and personal experience would clearly bring advantages here. High-quality framing could in turn attract the kind of contesting of the orator’s examples (and his selection and handling of them) by opponents and rivals that we have seen already and which would apply to many other aspects specifically of a trial context: rival interpretations of the actions of the accused, his character, the laws that mattered for the case, and so on. Because of their potential to bond with other types of material and to interest audiences via details, narratives, and appeals to their knowledge, historical examples both invited development into, or incorporation into, ¹³³ Worthington (1991a); (1992) 27–39; (1994); (1996) (ring composition indicating a careful written version: cf. Tuplin [1998] 311 on D. 14 and 15); Wooten (2010) 3–12. But, consistently with its oral background, its functions must be mnemonic in oratory too: cf. for Homer Lohmann (1970); Nimis (1999); more generally Douglas (2007).

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set pieces (sometimes extended and thus high in visibility, as with Aeschines’ account of his speech at Delphi) and in turn attracted attempts to refute or upstage them. One key adversarial dynamic we will explore in Chapters 4–6 (with reference to Demosthenes and Aeschines) is the tendency of litigants to fasten on the parts of each other’s speeches—and performances more broadly (either in the present trial, as relevant, or in a previous one)—which had been set up specifically to strike the audience as memorable (and/or had been enjoyed by them). Although some speculation is involved for us in spotting these, our possession of both Aeschines’ and Demosthenes’ rival speeches in the Embassy and Crown trials, revised products though these are, allows us to study at least some of those reactions in detail. Historical material has an important place in this ‘tall poppy’ dynamic. Inventive versions as well as elaborated ones would be a draw for rivals. For example, Lycurgus in Against Leocrates takes the opportunity to head off a parallel between the Athenian evacuation before Salamis in 480 and Leocrates’ departure from Athens, which (he says) Leocrates’ supporters have already been promoting (68). The parallel may sound strained as Lycurgus (no doubt tendentiously) presents it, but he was clearly sufficiently anxious about its possible traction with the jury to wish to undermine it before it emerged again in the trial. Extravagant theatrical effects seem to have attracted particular attention from opponents, though Athenian orators seem distinctly less partial to these effects than Roman orators.¹³⁴ A key example here, discussed in Chapters 4.3.2 and 5.2.1, is Aeschines’ imitation of a statue of Solon in the trial of Timarchus in 346/5, mentioned briefly in Chapter 1.1. Aeschines’ manoeuvre counted as a particularly brazen self-association with a great figure from Athens’s past, and in his prosecution of Aeschines in 343 we find Demosthenes going to significant lengths to damage Aeschines’ credibility in the present by retrospectively demolishing that ambitious deployment of Solon. We will see that speakers (especially in public trials) thought the risks of contestation worth running in the pursuit of a meaningful, emotive, and memorable set piece because the task of responding to a rival’s challenge, and fighting to retain ‘possession’ of their chosen versions of aspects of the past, would in fact allow them to stage their own authority and credibility as public operators even more overtly—because under pressure—than when evolving the contestable version in the first place. We will also see

¹³⁴ See n. 71; also Hall (2014) for the manifold performative possibilities of the Roman court.

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that authoritative, knowledgeable (but, as we saw above, not too knowledgeable), and imaginative deployment of historical material had the potential not only to support an orator’s arguments but to act as a positive influence on audience members’ perceptions of him as an intelligent, credible, authoritative operator, a good citizen, and a good democrat—and (in Chapter 3) of his policy as the right policy. In both Assembly and law court, to attack an opponent’s command of the correct use and handling of Athens’s past is to attack his claim to positive recognition on all those desirable counts—at once. As Herodotus’ Tegeans and Athenians showed, contestation of historical material and the use of it could take place well beyond the Assembly and law courts, and I shall say a little more about orators’ framing of the past in diplomatic contexts (sadly very poorly served by the surviving evidence) in the next section. I want to close this one with a parallel from another realm (intellectual competition) to usher in my discussion of historical examples’ place in rhetorical theory and also to keep us aware that the stakes felt to be active in the contest over the good and correct use of the past in practical oratory were just as active in its scholastic counterpart—perhaps not accidentally the very world where some orators would receive the educations mentioned earlier. In the Panegyricus (c.380), Isocrates makes clear that dextrous and compelling handling of the past was a natural thing for orators to want to undertake (‘[to] set out old issues in a new way and speak in a traditional way about things that have happened recently’: 4.8).¹³⁵ He says (4.9) that ‘what happened in the past is available to all of us, but it is the mark of a wise person to use these events at an appropriate time, conceive fitting arguments about each of them, and set them out in good style’. One of the ways in which Speusippus, Plato’s nephew and successor as head of the Academy, chose to articulate his own criticism of Isocrates was precisely an attack on his command of history and myth. His Letter to Philip (probably of c.343/2¹³⁶) recommends to Philip the work of the historian Antipater of Magnesia, discussing the fruits of his research— including proofs, substantiated by mythical examples,¹³⁷ of Philip’s right to rule in Macedonia—while pouring entertaining scorn on Isocrates’ inability to talk about the past effectively despite his advanced age (4). Furthermore, Speusippus targets the very passage of the Panegyricus just quoted, ironically describing Isocrates as ‘he who professes to teach ¹³⁵ Uses of this passage: Marincola (1997) 276–7; Clarke (2008) 245–9, 297; Grethlein (2010) 139. ¹³⁶ Date: Natoli (2004) 64–6 (translation used here). ¹³⁷ See Natoli (2004) 66–77 on these.

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others how to present events of the distant past in new ways and recent events in an old fashion’ (ὁ τὰ παλαιὰ καινῶς καὶ τὰ καινὰ παλαιῶς ἐπαγγελλόμενος διδάσκειν λέγειν: 9).¹³⁸ For Speusippus, demolishing the credibility and authority Isocrates would have derived from impressive treatment of his historical examples was just as important as disputing the details of those examples themselves, something a written letter gave him more space to do than was available to political orators in a public trial context¹³⁹—like Demosthenes’ closely contemporary prosecution of Aeschines in the Embassy trial, where each litigant made the use and command of what was important about the Athenian past integral to his case. Both Aristotle’s Rhetoric (1403a6–10) and the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum (attributed to Anaximenes, and I endorse this here for convenience¹⁴⁰) give advice on how to rebut opponents’ examples (RA 36.33; cf. 8.10) which corresponds well to Speusippus’ principal objection: that Isocrates has simply picked bad comparisons for Philip’s success (Letter 9–10). Beginning with the theoretical material, I now turn to consider further the forms we find orators’ presentation of the past taking, what material they used, where, and why, and then offer some coordinates to situate Demosthenes and Aeschines within this picture.

1.4. USING THE PAST Most oratorical deployments of the past either implicitly or explicitly help the orator prove or support a point by analogy or illustration. The basic unit for Aristotle in the Rhetoric is typically the paradeigma, or ‘example’,¹⁴¹ which he says will be ‘better known’ to the audience (γνωριμώτερον) than what is being discussed (Rhet. 1357b29–30),¹⁴² an assumption the orators tend to share (resolving some awkward cases by applying the ‘universal knowledge’ topos). Aristotle divides paradeigmata into factual, ‘real’ past events (πράγματα προγενομένα) (1393a32–b4), which would include most historical and mythical examples, and fictional ones (παραβολή—‘made-up comparison’—and ¹³⁸ Natoli (2004) 140; note the lexical similarity with A. 1.117. ¹³⁹ Essential here is Natoli (2004) 84–90. ¹⁴⁰ For the issues: Chiron (2007) 101–4. ¹⁴¹ Jost (1935) 19–21; Natali (1989); Uccello (2011). ¹⁴² For paradeigmata as ‘things [the audience] know’; cf. Rhet. 1377a6; Top. 157a14–15. The translation ‘more distinguished’ (Natoli [2004] 144–5) is possible for γνωριμώτερον. Orators sometimes use this terminology when introducing paradeigmata: e.g. D. 22.13; 23.102; 15.29.

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λόγοι—‘fables’ or ‘stories’ here) (1393b4–1394a1). Further on, he gives advice about how to use them (making clear elsewhere that some orators do so more than others: 1356b22–3¹⁴³). For him, the best persuasive function of paradeigmata is testimonial (ὡς μαρτυρίοις), backing up the enthymemes;¹⁴⁴ they should only be used independently when enthymemes are not available (1394a9–16). Both the factual and the fictive types of paradeigma are said to be best suited to symbouleutic/deliberative oratory (the oratory of the Assembly and, for many of its functions, the Boule); enthymemes are said to be more suited to law-court oratory.¹⁴⁵ How do we apply this to what we see in our texts?¹⁴⁶ There are various problems, some of them perhaps the result of Aristotle’s apparently limited exposure to the live contexts of Athenian mass oratory:¹⁴⁷ (1) Aristotle’s chosen example of a factual comparison—proposition, two brief examples, application (1393a32–b4)—is very terse. It is a fairly good loose match with the kind of brief historical example we do tend to see in Demosthenic Assembly speeches, but there are a number of important counterexamples even there.¹⁴⁸ It is admittedly easier to see how Aristotle’s earlier, generic example of a paradeigma—the acquisition of bodyguards as a sign of tyrannical intent (1357b30–6)—could be extended. (2) There is no sign of the epideictic genre. (3) While Aristotle is technically right that law-court oratory is typically articulated more by enthymemes than by paradeigmata, this still risks giving a skewed picture of orators’ compositional practice—some law-court speeches, like Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates, make substantial and visible use of paradeigmata. (4) Aristotle does not account for the effect that the content of historical examples can have on the material around them and

¹⁴³ ‘Some orators are paradigmatic, some enthymematic.’ ¹⁴⁴ Arist. Rhet. 1394a11, apparently contradicted at 1402b13–14, where enthymemes are stated to come from the four koinai pisteis (thus including paradeigma), rather than standing in parallel (Kennedy [2007] 190 n. 209). ¹⁴⁵ Arist. Rhet. 1394a6–7; cf. 1368a29–33; 1418a1–2. ¹⁴⁶ See also Trevett (1996a) 376–9. ¹⁴⁷ Trevett (1996a), suggesting oral tradition (374) as a source for many of Aristotle’s unattributed quotations from orators (contra Perlman [1961] 153–4; Steinbock [2013a] 35). But anyone could watch a trial as an informal bystander (see Lanni [1997]); and cf. A. 3.224 for non-Athenians watching Assembly meetings, at least by 330. ¹⁴⁸ An outstanding one is D. 8.73–5 (Chapter 3.4).

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The Orators and the Athenian Past on the wider arguments being presented in a given speech; for him, they do their job and the orator moves on.

(5) There are clear limitations for our purposes in the fact that the Rhetoric was compiled first and foremost as a theoretical treatment and only secondarily as a set of usable precepts. Aristotle offers only a limited idea of how an orator might use the example he gives (with no named source¹⁴⁹), about Greek preparations against Persia, or—whether in performance or in the content of the speech itself—how he might personalize such a popular topic or mediate it authoritatively. This is relevant to us because it was precisely what the early-career Demosthenes, treating this very issue, did in On the Symmories in 354/3 (14.12). Although Aristotle does use examples from real speeches throughout the Rhetoric (especially at 1411ab), including some historical examples the orators also use,¹⁵⁰ accurate reflection of oratory as actually practised in Athenian venues is only an incidental part of the work’s remit. Accordingly, the Rhetoric is of limited help for the present study, a conclusion underlined by the likelihood that none of our orators was reading it: even when it was in its early stages of composition Aeschines, Demosthenes, Hyperides, and Lycurgus had all already passed the point where they would need access to such a work (except for intellectual interest).¹⁵¹ This is also true of the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, dated between c.340 and 300,¹⁵² but this work’s more practical orientation makes it a more promising source, and worth taking seriously as evidence of what wouldbe orators might have used in the later fourth century. Anaximenes, treating present and past paradeigmata together (8.14), characterizes them as proofs deployed to support defective probability arguments (8.1) or (in court) weak statements of the facts (36.8); as flexible according to argumentative need, especially in cases where expected or unexpected outcomes need to be argued for (8.3–9); and—importantly for us—as things that can be contested with opponents (8.10, 14; 36.33). In the case of speeches to the dēmos, they must be relevant to the audience in time or in place (32.3, though cf. 32.5). All these directions correspond to types of usage we see in oratorical texts. The Rhetorica also ¹⁴⁹ Trevett (1996a) 371–5. ¹⁵⁰ Collected by Jost (1935) 192 n. 4. ¹⁵¹ The composition debate: Rapp (2002) 1.178–93, 314–19; Chiron (2011) 241–3. For the possibility that the work was being added to as late as 322 or later, maybe much later: Lord (1986) 140–5, 157–9; Primavesi (2007); McAdon (2006a); (2006b) 410–14, 418–21; and, with reference to Rhet. 2.23–4 (1397a7–1402a28), Westwood (2019). ¹⁵² Date: Chiron (2007) 101–4; (2011).

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intriguingly features (8.6–8) a set of examples very similar to those which Demosthenes uses to round up the argumentation of Against Leptines, his first extant appearance in a public trial (20.161–2): Anaximenes may be making use of a text of Demosthenes’ speech, or both could reflect a handbook source (this was, as far as we know, Demosthenes’ first personal outing as a litigant in a major public trial, so handbook use is not out of the question in this case), or this could have been a more familiar sequence of examples than it looks.¹⁵³ If orators were not using Aristotle’s Rhetoric or Anaximenes’ Rhetorica, what were they using? Guidance about how to use the past could clearly have come from handbooks lost to us: all the above orators may have used such resources when learning, but the evidence for when handbooks started to be used is notoriously scrappy.¹⁵⁴ Demosthenes and Hyperides, who both started off as logographers, are possibly most likely to have encountered them, when writing speeches for private cases. Demosthenes’ long-running dispute over his inheritance may be especially relevant: what look temptingly like debts to the logographer Isaeus (traditionally his teacher) may be reflections of shared handbook usage.¹⁵⁵ Interests in precept and example are certainly well attested for the later-career Demosthenes in the form of his extant collection of symbouleutic prooimia, usually thought genuine.¹⁵⁶ But oratorical texts themselves may be the best guide to how expertise in the use of the past was honed and what form it took, because observation of the practice of political seniors must have played a crucial role in developing this aspect of early-career orators’ practice as well as others. Studying the conduct of senior politicians would teach the next generation about the expectations of the audience (not least regarding Athens’s past and how it should be handled) and where the potential was for creative manipulation of those expectations as well as satisfaction of them. It would teach them how best to make their own usage powerful and relevant, and how to combat rival usages. Finally, it would ¹⁵³ Anaximenes’ mention of Timoleon’s expedition to Sicily (of 344) seems to ‘update’ Demosthenes’ list. ¹⁵⁴ Kennedy (1963) 54–62. ¹⁵⁵ Handbook usage by Demosthenes: Plut. Dem. 5.7; [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 844c. Private speeches may have been the place where handbooks played the most important role: Eusebius (Praep. Ev. 10.3.17 Mras) draws our attention to five Attic speeches in which Porphyry identified verbatim (αὐτοῖς ὀνόμασιν) or virtually verbatim (σχεδὸν διὰ τῶν αὐτῶν) borrowing, and all are from private cases. The set includes the famous threefold nearly verbatim repetition of a paragraph on slave torture (Isoc. 17.53–4, Is. 8.12, and D. 30.37); Ferrucci (2005) 161–3; Griffith-Williams (2013) 118–19. ¹⁵⁶ Clavaud (1974b) 5–55; Yunis (1996) 247–57; Worthington (2006) 57 and n. 5; Pasini (2007); Gotteland (2016).

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make them aware of what the familiar stock of material was, how to add to it, and what forms it might typically take. We can now move to consider what forms it does take, at least in our surviving evidence. In practice, both historical and mythical appeals are very flexible in form and content, ranging from swift mentions of an event and/or person to create a particularized effect, to excursuses pursued for many paragraphs, or themes pursued throughout the course of (often lengthy and complex) trial speeches, between speeches, and—critically—between litigants. Although I focus on historical illustrations proper in this book, cognate material for trial speeches includes poetic quotations (especially from Euripides, Homer, Hesiod, and Solon), laws, and other documents introduced in the cases concerned. Aeschines and Demosthenes use poetry vigorously against each other and were not alone in this: at the end of the fifth century the radical democrat Cleophon targeted his most implacable ideological opponent, Critias, by quoting Critias’ ancestor Solon’s elegiac verses at him.¹⁵⁷ How this material was processed and arranged depended to a large extent on the individual speaker’s preferences, his estimation of present rhetorical need, and what might work well with the audience he would have to face—orators had to be flexible. There is considerable variety both in what we see chosen and in how we see it presented, even if we compare law-court speeches composed as part of similar—or the same—types of legal action. Certain types of offence encouraged orators to select certain relevant examples, as we saw with trials about public honours earlier (and will see again) or with the example of Timagoras, the ‘bad’ envoy, for a trial about misconduct on an embassy. This made them easier for an orator to predict; but that in turn meant that devising imaginative ways of framing them, or else taking steps to anticipate them, would strengthen his own appeal. There does not seem to have been an Athenian oratorical venue where historical material (properly managed) was actively unwelcome. Although speeches written for private cases tend to make very little use of historical material,¹⁵⁸ the example of the reference to Cleon by his daughter-in-law’s son (Chapter 1.1) demonstrates that the option was open, e.g. in order to boost the credibility and status of the litigant.¹⁵⁹ ¹⁵⁷ Arist. Rhet. 1375b31–4; cf. Pl. Critias 113b; Pinto (2013) 86; Critias’ own possible use of Solon: Steiner (2014) paragraphs 31–2. ¹⁵⁸ Most of those in the private speeches of the Demosthenic corpus (whether authentic or not) are given by Thomas (1989) 108–23; others are D. 40.32, 46 (Thirty-related), D. 57.18 (the Decelean War), [D.] 58.37 (a decree of Thucydides), [D.] 58.62 (wistfulness for better times), and references to Solon (D. 36.27; [D.] 42.1; [D.] 43.62, 67; [D.] 48.56; D. 57.31–2) and Dracon ([D.] 47.71). ¹⁵⁹ As Thomas (1989) 132–8 shows for [D.] 58.

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However, the conventions in play in different venues do tend to exercise a check at least on the scale of oratorical treatments of the past: succinctness will have been at a premium in the Assembly, which means that the extended historical illustrations we see developed in some trial speeches would normally have been out of place, though historically inflected argument can still sometimes assume a major role, as we will see in Demosthenes’ Third Olynthiac. A special case was diplomatic oratory, where surviving fragments and historiographical representations point to a genre powered by skilful and selective presentation of the historical and mythical pasts of the states involved. Standardized or ‘official’ versions are easier to canvass here, as with the epitaphios logos, because (again, as with the epitaphios logos, and passages influenced by it in other speeches) the same examples could be used in clusters when making claims to particular territory or when recounting the positive or negative flashpoints of relations between two states or the positive or negative aspects of those states’ respective past records.¹⁶⁰ The mythical examples Xenophon’s Procles uses to persuade the Athenians to support Sparta in 370/69 are the same ones that Isocrates uses to demonstrate Athens’s generosity in Panegyricus 54–5, for example.¹⁶¹ The Macedonian envoys at Thebes in 339 could recite all the harm the Athenians had ever done to Thebes, while Demosthenes in 324 (?) could recite all Thebes’ services to Greece.¹⁶² We will see a loose repertory of examples of comparatively recent Athenian help to, and harm by, Thebes, Sparta, and the Euboean cities recur throughout the chapters.¹⁶³ But this kind of material would still have to be carefully and interestingly shaped, packaged, and delivered—as it is by Procles¹⁶⁴—in order to persuade appropriately in contexts where dicanic, symbouleutic, and epideictic priorities and characteristics would blend, depending on the nature of the diplomacy in hand. Hyperides’ Delian Oration was delivered in 343 to the Amphictyonic Council in support of the Athenian claim to control of Delos, which means that this speech’s techniques probably had more common ground with those used in public trials than those used in other venues.¹⁶⁵ Across the regular speech genres— ¹⁶⁰ See, e.g., Callistratus versus Epaminondas in Arcadia in 366: Nep. Epam. 6.1–3; Plut. Mor. 193cd, 810f (using Orestes, Alcmaeon, and Oedipus). ¹⁶¹ Procles’ appeal and its examples: Buckler (1982) 194–5; Gray (1989) 113–18 (at 115); Tuplin (1993) 112 with n. 34 for more parallels; Baragwanath (2012) 322–9; Pontier (2013) 178–82. ¹⁶² D. 18.213 and Plut. Dem. 9.1–2 respectively; see the Conclusion. ¹⁶³ See especially Chapter 3.3.3. ¹⁶⁴ Gray (1989) 115; Steinbock (2013a) 200–1. ¹⁶⁵ Hyperides’ speech: D. 18.134–6; Hyp. Delian Oration (XIII) frr. 67–75; [Plut.] Vit. Hyp. 850a. Context and interpretation: Engels (1989) 74–80; Constantakopoulou (2016)

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presumably as informed by cross-fertilization with what went on in the hybrid diplomatic sphere—mythical material, when it appears, tends to be featured at greater length even than quite distant non-mythical material (more on that distinction shortly). Unlike other genres, as far as we can tell—but explicably, given that it involved elite politicians representing the dēmos in places where the dēmos could not monitor their representatives’ behaviour—diplomatic oratory also lent itself to summary later, in other venues. Demosthenes says that when Aeschines got home from his embassy to Arcadia in 348/7, he recounted ‘the long, wonderful speeches’ (τοὺς καλοὺς ἐκείνους καὶ μακροὺς λόγους: 19.11; cf. 303) that he said (ἔφη) he had given against Philip in front of the Ten Thousand at Megalopolis. The passage is heavy with irony—the ἔφη keeps things at one remove from the truth and suggests that Aeschines might have been embellishing to impress the Athenians listening to his report. Demosthenes later depicts Aeschines offering the Assembly a summary (τὰ κεφάλαια)¹⁶⁶ of another long speech (19.20). We also see direct examples of such summaries both in Assembly speeches (e.g. Demosthenes’ Second Philippic 19–25) and in law-court speeches (e.g. Aeschines’ On the Embassy 25–33); speeches made by examinees at euthynai may have been another obvious context. These summaries suited orators too: they could gain additional credit from presenting themselves as having represented the dēmos effectively in challenging international contexts, and (as we will see in more detail in Chapters 5 and 6) Aeschines makes particular capital out of this both when defending himself in On the Embassy and when attacking Ctesiphon and Demosthenes in Against Ctesiphon. In On the Embassy, Aeschines begins his account of the case for Athenian ownership of Amphipolis—founded by Athens in the 430s, long independent, and now under Philip’s control¹⁶⁷—that he made in front of Philip at Pella three years earlier by referring (2.25) to a more systematic report he says he gave in the Assembly directly after the embassy’s return, describing the version the trial audience are about to hear as a summary (διὰ κεφαλαίων).¹⁶⁸ He later rounds this off by saying: ‘these were themes that it was appropriate [ἥρμοττε] to narrate at that point and that were dealt with in as much detail as possible; on this occasion, however, I suppose I must cut short my account [νυνὶ δὲ ἴσως 128–32. This may be the source of Hyperides’ reputation for ‘superb flexibility in narrating myths copiously [μυθολογῆσαι κεχυμένως]’ ([Long.] Subl. 34.2). ¹⁶⁶ For this term: Hanink (2013) 292. ¹⁶⁷ Amphipolis’ history and ownership: Squillace (2011) 111–15. ¹⁶⁸ For more on this passage: Chapter 5.3.2.

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ἀνάγκη συντέμνειν τοὺς λόγους]’ (2.31). This corroborates the idea that diplomatic speeches (and summaries of them to the Assembly on one’s return) would typically allow for more development of examples from the past than trials; but it also allows Aeschines to signal that he has chosen his material carefully now,¹⁶⁹ with relevance to the present court case in mind,¹⁷⁰ and so, by implication, he also did a professional and assured job at Pella too—a bid, then, to get credit from the present audience for that. He still manages to communicate (with that slightly crestfallen ἴσως) the suggestion that he could say more now if the context were right, but that he is too realistic and too committed to his audience to indulge himself. Why was the context wrong? The three-year gap— and with it the fading relevance of what he said at Pella in 346 at a time (343) when the peace which that embassy had led to was starting to unravel—may be playing a role.¹⁷¹ But the key reason for reining himself in here seems to be that the content of his speech to Philip involved the mythical examples which were diplomatic oratory’s stock-in-trade (specifically, the mythical foundation of Ennea Hodoi—now Amphipolis— by Theseus’ son Acamas: 31)¹⁷² but less appropriate for a court. Indeed Aeschines then (31) signposts a swift imminent move from mythical time (τοῖς ἀρχαίοις μύθοις, ‘ancient myths’) to comparatively recent historical time (ἐφ᾽ ἡμῶν γεγενημένα, ‘events in our own time’), beginning with the peace congress at Sparta in 371. How far is this actually a distinction between what we would regard as ‘mythical’ and ‘historical’ examples, though, and how meaningful and widespread in oratorical practice was that distinction? Where present, differences in oratorical treatment of ‘myth’ and ‘history’ seem to come down more to the contextual requirements of venue and genre than to rationale as such: scale aside, speakers tend to shape historical and mythical examples in basically similar ways (and most mythical examples would belong with the historical ones under ‘real events’ in Aristotle’s schema in the Rhetoric; cf. 1394a2–8). For example, although Demosthenes/Euthycles makes a distinction between ‘old stories handed down in myth’ (παραδεδομένα καὶ μυθώδη) about the Areopagus and ones ‘we ourselves have witnessed’ (ὧν αὐτοὶ μάρτυρές ἐσμεν) ¹⁶⁹ Careful management of such material: Isoc. 4.73–4. ¹⁷⁰ Relevance in court: Yunis (1988); Lanni (2005); Wohl (2010) 106–12; Gagarin (2012), qualifying Rhodes (2004). ¹⁷¹ Hence Demosthenes’ omission of a major diplomatic speech at D. 18.214. ¹⁷² Cf. Isoc. 6.24–5 for this kind of self-arrest. Acamas: Perlman (1961) 161–2; Kearns (1989) 88–9, 143–4; Gotteland (2001) 60, 341–2. Antipater of Magnesia, mentioned in Chapter 1.3 above, had a pro-Macedonian version of all this: Speusippus, Letter 5–8; Natoli (2004) 68–77; Squillace (2011) 112–13.

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in Against Aristocrates 65, he still assumes they can be treated in the same way for the purposes of illustration (ὡσπερεὶ δείγματος). In this tendency at least to treat history and myth in parallel (and, more often, simply to run them together), the orators share the well-known general (though not universal) disinclination in classical Greek writers to make strong distinctions between the mythical and historical past, and also reflect the broad operational range of the word muthos itself.¹⁷³ Athens’s own history tends to be represented (and constructed) as basically continuous since its foundation, both by public speakers and by historians—a feature which applies, for example, to most funeral orations. Demosthenes draws a line in his Funeral Oration (of 338/7) between ‘deeds which are regarded as myths’ (εἰς μύθους ἀνενηνεγμένων ἔργων) and ones which ‘are closer to us in time and so have not yet become household stories or been raised to heroic stature’ (τῷ δ’ ὑπογυώτερ’ εἶναι τοῖς χρόνοις οὔπω μεμυθολόγηται, οὐδ’ εἰς τὴν ἡρωϊκὴν ἐπανῆκται τάξιν) (60.9), but this is more to structure his discussion than anything else, because (as in Against Aristocrates) he does not imply that there is going to be anything fundamentally different about his actual treatment of the more recent as opposed to the more distant examples, or the assumptions behind that treatment.¹⁷⁴ Demosthenes’ basic distinction here—between examples from the distant past (mythical or otherwise) and the recent past—is one that orators tend to foreground more often than they do distinctions between myth and history as such, as a recent survey by Grethlein confirms; so, especially given the range of the word muthos, this is probably the safest way of reading Aeschines’ distinction at On the Embassy 31 as well: as a contrast primarily between the distant (ἀρχαίοις μύθοις) and the recent past tout court. Orators also sometimes at least project the notion that audiences prefer to hear more recent examples.¹⁷⁵ This tendency reflects ¹⁷³ In oratory, there is a functional sense: a muthos as something (usually a story) that one tells (e.g. D. 18.149); and a classificatory sense: a muthos as something that is less verifiable or less true in some way than other types of telling (sometimes logoi) (e.g. Isoc. 9.66: muthoi vs. alētheia). But many instances seem to blend these or operate with both senses simultaneously (e.g. Isoc. 4.158). Discussions, pivoted on oratory, include: Perlman (1961) 158–62; Finley (1975a); Nouhaud (1982) 12–20; the contributors to Luraghi (2001), especially Gehrke (2001) 296–306 (and in general [2010]); Gotteland (2001) 89–102; Natoli (2004) 66–8; Clarke (2008) 264–72; Steinbock (2013a) 26–8. ¹⁷⁴ Demosthenes 60: Worthington (2006) 21–5; Clavaud (1974a) 9–38; Herrman (2008); MacDowell (2009) 372–7. ¹⁷⁵ Grethlein (2014) 328–36; cf. (2010) 143–4. Examples include Isoc. 6.21, 42; D. 19.276; Lyc. 1.62; A. 3.53. The assumption also appears in D. Ep. 3.21–2. For discussion: Jost (1935) 163–6; Clarke (2008) 282–3; also Natoli (2004) 85–6, 144–5 on Speusippus, Letter 10, where the latter criticizes Isocrates’ practice on this (jabbing at Isoc. 1.9, 9.77, and 5.113).

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Anaximenes’ prescription that paradeigmata should be close to the audience in time (RA 32.3), but however much orators might apologize for (or otherwise seek to justify) the inclusion of material tied to more remote periods, it seems significant that they still include it anyway.¹⁷⁶ Anaximenes does after all say that examples (at least for speeches to the dēmos) must be close to the audience in time or in place (χρόνῳ ἢ τόπῳ),¹⁷⁷ and many of the more distant examples orators use, historical and mythical, are set in Athens: the use of domestic rather than external examples is in fact something else that orators figure as desirable,¹⁷⁸ sometimes framing external examples with the same kind of apology or self-justification that we see in the case of temporally distant ones.¹⁷⁹ In summary, audiences may have found more recent examples preferable and/or more persuasive.¹⁸⁰ Orators certainly perform the assumption that they do, and (as we will see) it is certainly true (and important) that recent—sometimes even very recent—historical material can be so shaped as to play much the same role as examples relating to a more distant period (as with the heroizing treatment Demosthenes gives Chabrias in Against Leptines—see Chapter 2.3). So any line between rhetorically shaped historical material and ‘simple’ narrated ‘past events’ from a few years ago is necessarily a fine one at times, and neither Aristotle nor Anaximenes seems interested in drawing one.¹⁸¹ All this said, the passages of Theopompus and Aristophanes in Chapter 1.3 above (even if exaggerated), and several oratorical instances,¹⁸² do point to an appetite for more distant examples too, even beyond their ‘natural’ homes in the epitaphios logos and in the conduct (and discussion) of diplomacy. An outstanding figure in this regard is Lycurgus in Against Leocrates (330).¹⁸³ He includes a very large section (basically 1.68–134) of remoter

¹⁷⁶ Either justifying it in advance (e.g. Lyc. 1.95; D. 22.13) or even after performing reluctance to go ahead (e.g. Isoc. 3.26—with the implication that his audience are the ones who want it); or else before apologizing or half-apologizing for it afterwards and moving on briskly (e.g. D. 22.15; Isoc. 6.21). ¹⁷⁷ There is an interesting reflection of this prescription in D.S. 13.22.4 (which also recalls D. 22.13–15 loosely). ¹⁷⁸ e.g. Isoc. 5.113; 6.42; 9.77; 20.10; D. 3.23; 13.21; 19.269. ¹⁷⁹ See especially A. 1.180–2 (at both ends of the example) and Lyc. 1.128–30, at 128 (a blasé justification; he does not even bother with one at 1.98); also Isoc. 20.10. ¹⁸⁰ Thucydides projects a similar assumption: Nicolai (2001) 282–5. ¹⁸¹ Just προγενομένα in Aristotle (Rhet. 1393a29); just γεγενημέναι in Anaximenes (RA 8.1). ¹⁸² See, e.g., Isoc. 2.48–9 and 4.158–9, as well as Lycurgus below. ¹⁸³ Parker (1996) 251–3; Liddel (2007) 145–8; Steinbock (2011); Hesk (2012) 210–18; Grethlein (2014) 340–4; Hanink (2014) 25–59. Lycurgus’ tendency is noted by Hermogenes (Id. 403 Rabe). It may be reflected in his fragments too: the appearance of Micon and

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material, and a good deal of poetic quotation, and carefully justifies his use of it at key stages—for example, when introducing a story about a young Sicilian piously saving his father from an eruption of Etna, he justifies narrating something ‘more like a muthos’ (μυθωδέστερόν: 1.95; cf. Demosthenes’ μυθώδη in 23.65)—because ‘it will be suitable for all you younger men to hear now’ (ἁρμόσει καὶ νῦν ἅπασι τοῖς νεωτέροις ἀκοῦσαι—with ἁρμόσει (‘it will be suitable’) perhaps, as with Aeschines’ ἥρμοττε in On the Embassy 31, carrying a sense of contextual appropriateness). Individual episodes within this catalogue are typically rounded off by comparing the heroism of their protagonists straightforwardly with Leocrates’ turpitude;¹⁸⁴ Lycurgus seems to be paying lip service to conventions about relevance in court.¹⁸⁵ But this often mythical material—stories of Codrus, of Praxithea’s surrender of her daughter for sacrifice (supported by extended quotation from Euripides’ Erechtheus),¹⁸⁶ of Tyrtaeus (with extended quotation from his poetry), and so on—still takes up over a third of his whole speech. Why? Lycurgus’ decision to include this lengthy sequence—which an orator of his experience would not have done if it had any chance of going down badly with his audience¹⁸⁷—may be good evidence that contemporary audiences did tend to enjoy distant examples. Likewise, listeners may have found Lycurgus’ justifications for including such episodes (or some of them) sufficiently cogent, or his insistence on doing so reasonable. But two other special factors must be relevant too. In the Introduction we saw how Athens’s subordination to Macedonia in the 330s brought with it an increased attention to civic manifestations of Athens’s glorious past, which seems to find expression in increasingly ambitious uses of that past by orators (though, as we will see, this was something that was probably already happening steadily anyway).¹⁸⁸ Demosthenes’ emphasis in On the Crown on his own symbolic public works in the year of Chaeronea and later, especially his work on the city walls,¹⁸⁹ is

Polygnotus in On the Priestess (Lyc. VI frr. 3, 17) might point to a deployment of the Stoa Poikile paintings (Conomis [1961] 110–12). As Hall (2006) 367–8 notes, Against Menesaechmus (Lyc. XIV) apparently involved a story about Abaris, Apollo, and the plague among the Hyperboreans (cf. Hdt. 4.36), perhaps excused by its Delian connections (5a–b; cf. Conomis [1961] 145–6). ¹⁸⁴ See, e.g., Lyc. 1.97, 101, 110, 115; but we do find this in Aeschines and Demosthenes as well (in A. 1—e.g. 11, 20, 26–7; and in D. 24—e.g. 38, 44, 46, and especially 106). ¹⁸⁵ See n. 170. ¹⁸⁶ Discussion: Hanink (2013) 299–302; (2014) 31–9; Volonaki (2017). ¹⁸⁷ Canevaro (2019) 145–6. ¹⁸⁸ Parallel developments for poetry: Hanink (2014); Efstathiou (2016) 122–3. ¹⁸⁹ Will (1983) 20–6; Sealey (1993) 199 and D. 18.111–19; cf. A. 3.25–31.

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part of this climate too: it is shaped by him in such a way as to instantiate his constantly stated fidelity to Athens’s past.¹⁹⁰ This was a strategy Aeschines expected him to adopt and which we see him anticipate accordingly.¹⁹¹ Lycurgus, as we saw, was himself central to this cultural turn.¹⁹² Accordingly, it makes sense to see the volume of his illustrative material in Against Leocrates as expressive not only of his personal preferences (and/or habits) and wider strategic goals but also of the cultural atmosphere he was promoting and his place within it. He had some power to shape the discourse,¹⁹³ and also some scope to pose as a valid and particularly expert and appropriate patron—and rhetorical user—of aspects of the Athenian past; and he made shrewd use of it to bolster his public credibility further.¹⁹⁴ This was grounded in professional expertise: his fragments support the wider evidence we have of his close attention to the revival and foundation of cults, but also a wider personal appetite for expatiating on distant and mythical material; and he could rely on some specific sacral authority as hereditary priest of Poseidon Erechtheus.¹⁹⁵ All this did not make him impregnable, though. Diodorus gives us a snapshot of a neat example of precisely the kind of past-based contestation examined in this book in his account of the aftermath of Alexander’s brutal suppression of the Theban revolt, and destruction of that city, in 335—it was followed up by a demand (ultimately rescinded) that Athens surrender its leading anti-Macedonian politicians, including Demosthenes, Lycurgus, and Polyeuctus. In the Assembly debate in Athens, Phocion argued that these orators ‘should remember the daughters of Leos and Hyacinthus and gladly endure death so that their country would suffer no irremediable disaster, and he inveighed against the faint-heartedness and cowardice of those who would not lay down their lives for their city’ (D.S. 17.15.2).¹⁹⁶ This was particularly appropriate for Lycurgus, given that the Hyacinthidae ¹⁹⁰ D. 18.113, 248, 299; cf. 311. ¹⁹¹ Negative view: A. 3.14–17, 23–7; cf. 84. Positive view: Lyc. 1.43–5, 150 (obliquely); especially 138 (less so). ¹⁹² On Lycurgan past-connectivity: Introduction n. 10. ¹⁹³ A key interest of Azoulay and Ismard (2011) and of Hanink (2014). ¹⁹⁴ Azoulay (2009) 166–80; (2011) 192–204, 211–16; Lambert (2010) (= [2018] 118–31); Steinbock (2011). ¹⁹⁵ In the fragments: see, e.g., VI On the Priestess; VII On the Priesthood; XIII On the Oracles. Lycurgus and cults: Parker (1996) 242–55; Humphreys (2004); Lambert (2010) 228–33 (= [2018] 118–24) and (2011) 185–7 (= [2018] 105–6). Religious aspects to the building programme: Hintzen-Bohlen (1997) 119–26. ¹⁹⁶ Translation: Welles (1963) 159. Plutarch’s version is more favourable to Phocion: Phoc. 17.2–3.

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were part of the mythology of the foundation of the Erechtheum,¹⁹⁷ so exactly the kind of historical material Lycurgus would have been confident of being able to deploy more authoritatively than anyone else.¹⁹⁸ Although Lycurgus was one of several politicians in the earmarked group, he was the most important of them, which suggests that Phocion was aiming this strategy at him, and consequently that particular politicians could sometimes be identified with particular historical material as well as particular characteristic strategies. We will examine how far we can take this in more detail shortly. At a minimum, what Phocion’s attack route shows is that although Lycurgus’ professional expertise was clearly an asset to his rhetorical strategy vis-à-vis the presentation of the past in Against Leocrates—supporting the idea that audience members might have taken his stated motivations for his grand excursus seriously—his familiar versions and his strategic deployment of them were just as open to challenge, given the right context, as anyone else’s. Consistent individual strategies in the use of the past seem to have been possible, and could be distinctive. A significant orator of the 390s, Philepsius of Lamptrae,¹⁹⁹ is mocked in Aristophanes’ Wealth for telling muthoi—‘in the middle of his Assembly speeches’ (ἐπὶ τῷ μεταξὺ τῶν δημηγοριῶν), adds Harpocration.²⁰⁰ This is probably slightly exaggerated by the comic context (and Harpocration gives no source for his extra detail), but the description is tantalizing if correct, and worth pondering: our evidence for Assembly speeches is almost entirely Demosthenic and probably does not give an accurate idea of the range of possibilities in that setting. Demosthenes’ apparent general lack of interest in mythical examples may be relevant, for instance,²⁰¹ and relevant even if Philepsius’ muthoi were in fact stories or fables rather than myths as such, as seems likely.²⁰² Aristotle describes fables (logoi) as suited to demegoric contexts (Rhet. 1394a2), and telling entertaining stories certainly seems to have happened in court,²⁰³ so is unlikely to have been out of the question in

¹⁹⁷ Kearns (1989) 201–2; Calame (2011); Sourvinou-Inwood (2011) 24–134. ¹⁹⁸ See, e.g., Lyc. Against Lycophron (X/XI fr. 10). ¹⁹⁹ Philepsius (PA 14256; PAA 924750): D. 24.134 with Σ (270 Dilts). ²⁰⁰ Ar. Wealth 176: Φιλέψιος δ’ οὐχ ἕνεκα σοῦ μύθους λέγει; (‘isn’t it for your sake [i.e. Wealth’s] that Philepsius tells stories?’) (tr. Sommerstein) and Σ 177 (adding ἱστορίας) and 177a (with Sommerstein [2001] 148) attesting audience enjoyment (so also Jost [1935] 20 n. 1); Harpocration Φ 16 (Φιλέψιος); see also Platon fr. 238. ²⁰¹ Jost (1935) 167–8. ²⁰² Major (2002) 552; Dillon (1987) 170–1. ²⁰³ Ar. Wasps 566 with Biles and Olson (2015) 263. More serious law-court fables: Lyc. 1.95–7; quite close: D. 24.139–41, 212; A. 1.180–1.

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the Assembly. Demosthenes, in fact, gets close to the language of fable in the Second Philippic (in his account of a speech he gave to the Messenians),²⁰⁴ and Plutarch has him telling one in the debate on Alexander’s demand for the orators.²⁰⁵ We also have a good, if less reliable anecdote about Demades using one in Assembly speeches (though he asks permission first).²⁰⁶ At the same time, Philepsius’ behaviour does sound extreme, and Platon seems to have picked up on his odd appearance and gift of the gab (τερατώδης καὶ λάλος [fr. 238]). This was a package certainly likely to attract comic poets’ attention, and a sign that Philepsius had found an effective set of ways to mark himself out—perhaps as homely and downto-earth, or as an eccentric but charismatic raconteur. Comedy offers particularly good support for the idea that attracting distinctive designations, however unflattering, was good—it meant people knew who you were.²⁰⁷ Other sources concur on rhetorical distinctiveness too: for example, Aristotle quotes Iphicrates’ bons mots several times in the Rhetoric, and these and other sources allow us to reconstruct with reasonable confidence a keynote of the famous general’s political self-characterization: as a crisp, straight talker and self-made man.²⁰⁸ ²⁰⁴ D. 6.25; cf. Stesichorus’ fable of the bridled horse: Arist. Rhet. 1393b8–22 (especially 18–21); also cf. closely John F. Kennedy’s image: newly free states should remember that ‘in the past, those who foolishly sought power by riding the back of the tiger ended up inside’ (Inaugural Address, 20 January 1961; this gained the first wave of applause in the speech). ²⁰⁵ Plut. Dem. 23.4–5: ‘the story of how the sheep surrendered their dogs to the wolves’. ²⁰⁶ Demades fr. XXII de Falco = Aesop 63 Hausrath/Hunger; cf. closely Demosthenes’ famous fable about the ‘ass’s shadow’, which probably derives from D. 5.25: Weil (1912) 212. Some versions set this one in the Assembly, others in court: Clavaud (1987) 132–3; Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 243–4. ²⁰⁷ A shared topos of oratory and comedy: e.g. Cleophon ‘the Lyre-maker’ (e.g. Andoc. 1.146; A. 2.76) to compare with, e.g., Callimedon ‘the Crayfish/Lobster’ (e.g. Plut. Phoc. 27.9) or Hegesippus ‘Topknot’ (krōbylos) (e.g. A. 3.118). Compare modern UK politics: veteran Labour MP Dennis Skinner is ‘the Beast of Bolsover’ (thanks to journalist Frank Johnson); veteran Conservative peer Lord Tebbit is ‘the Chingford Skinhead’ (thanks to Labour’s Denis Healey); cf., loosely, Demosthenes’ ‘Battalus of Paeania’ and ‘Oenomaus of Cothocidae’ to refer to himself and Aeschines (D. 18.180); also cf. Ar. Wasps 895. Marking oneself out can, of course, take other forms too: for example, Skinner habitually occupied the same prominent seat in the House of Commons, while Demosthenes also habitually occupied the same location on the Pnyx, at least on ‘Pnyx III’ in the 320s: Hyp. Dem. 9 with Whitehead (2000) 392–4 and Richardson (2003) 333 n. 4. ²⁰⁸ Xenophon notes Iphicrates’ good sense and/or self-assurance (Hell. 6.2.39, though cf. 6.3.51). Iphicrates’ blunt, confident oratory: e.g. D. Pro. 49/[50].2–3; Arist. Rhet. 1365a28–9; 1367b17–18; 1397b30–4; 1398a4–7, 17–22; 1405a19–21; 1411b1–4; Plut. Mor. 186f–187b; Ael. Arist. 28 (Concerning a Remark in Passing) 84–7. See n. 40 on the defence speech against Harmodius in particular. Aristotle’s interest in Iphicrates is intriguing (he uses him as an example simply of a person in his discussion of maxims: οἷον ποῖός τις Ἰφικράτης, Rhet. 1394a22–3; cf. the famous use of Alcibiades at Poetics 1451b11). Dionysius’ (qualified)

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Other orators may also have resorted to non-mainstream strategies to make the best use of their expertise or to mark themselves out. A case in point might be one of Lycurgus’ colleagues in enacting the Athenian cultural revival: the Atthidographer Phanodemus, crowned best orator in the Boule in 343/2 (IG II³ 1, 306.4–7).²⁰⁹ I noted earlier that orators who were also professional historians like Phanodemus (and Androtion; see Chapter 2) might have been just as obliged to play down the extent of their knowledge in public contexts as other orators were, but Phanodemus’ special recognition by his fellow bouleutai may indicate that, like Lycurgus later, he made a virtue of a possible liability and packaged his special knowledge in such a way as to make himself stand out without causing unease: perhaps he argued that he was putting his knowledge at the service of the dēmos, much as a religious figure might. If so, the key to the success of Phanodemus’ presentation strategy would, as we have seen, have been judging the appropriateness of his illustrations correctly: not over-using the remoter past in contexts where it was not suitable, for example. The question of individual strategies leads us on to a related issue raised by the example of Phocion’s attack on Lycurgus and the other anti-Macedonians. How far should we typically think of particular orators as associable with particular historical material and particular ways of mediating it? And, relatedly, in an environment where we see orators drawing on roughly the same pool of historical material (which individual memories and family traditions could inflect in interesting ways), how far was distinctive presentation even an option, beyond a few possible outliers like Philepsius and (perhaps) Phanodemus? The widespread assumption in our evidence that the cultivation of political distinctiveness (or at least individuality) was both desirable and possible for classical Athenian politicians should cover the orator’s attitude to and relationship with the past—including the perceived quality of his management of historical material. The whole practice of oratorical competition over versions of the past and the acceptable presentation of them is predicated on this. But because orators were free to use the past in a wide variety of ways, and did so, the salient

praise for his oratory: Lysias 12. Near encomium of his achievements: D.S. 15.44. See Davies (1971) 248–9 and Bianco (1997) for background. ²⁰⁹ On Phanodemus (FGrHist 325), see also IG II³ 1, 348; 349; 355 (named with Lycurgus); 360; Syll³ 296 with Humphreys (2004) 95–7; Parker (1996) 247; Liddel (2007) 252–3; Harding (2008) 8 (and 229 s.v. ‘Phanodemos’); BNJ 325 (Jones); in detail Jacoby (1954) 171–4 (plus commentary); Humphreys (2004), especially 102–4; Brun (2013b); Thomas (2019) 330–40.

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aspects that would shape audience perception of an individual orator’s distinctiveness in this area must have been as much to do with performance (e.g. tone, gesture, vocabulary)²¹⁰ as with any special attraction he may have had (or have been perceived to have) to certain types of content (e.g. ancient, recent, non-Athenian) and characteristic ways he may have had of narrating his illustrations (e.g. especially tersely or especially extensively or ecphrastically). Characteristic styles of narration, in turn, might involve characteristic forms of creative imagining: several orators use passages of enargeia which encourage audiences to ‘imagine that they see’ a particular thing happening,²¹¹ but Aeschines stands out (in our evidence, anyway) for his elaborate application of it to his historical material. Furthermore, when orators contest each other’s versions of the past, they concentrate much more frequently on the fact that their opponent (s) used them in particular ways, on particular occasions, and in particular contexts than they do on any attraction their opponent had to particular content. Though some orators clearly did have material they liked using, as we will see, their opponents’ choices as to what to criticize invite us to be cautious about identifying particular material as distinctive to particular politicians or groups. It is safer to posit that certain groups might have become associated with particular figurations of certain material: for example, as we have briefly seen already (and see further Chapter 6), we have enough by anti-Macedonian politicians to hypothesize that this loose group responded to the fallout from Chaeronea by framing the issue of that defeat in similar ways (e.g. remaking it as a kind of victory like Marathon); but this does not mean that using the example of Marathon itself was limited to, or distinctive to, the antiMacedonians. Individual orators, on the other hand, tend to be very interested in proclaiming their own distinctiveness in using the past authoritatively, relevantly, correctly, and with an eye to the dignity of Athens and/or the dēmos—and also in debunking their rivals’ usage as the opposite of all these. An impressively shaped illustration generated by an orator’s opponent(s) could be attacked, or upstaged, or else taken over and repurposed. A viable comparison for what we see here might be with the

²¹⁰ Athenian oratorical performance: O’Connell (2017); Papaioannou et al. (2017); Serafim (2017). ²¹¹ Orators’ use of enargeia, especially this technique: Hobden (2007a); Webb (2009); O’Connell (2017) 121–68, especially 164–7; Spatharas (2017a); Westwood (2017a); Mader (2018) 198–205. See Chapters 2.3 and 6.3. Roman parallels: Vasaly (1993) 88–130.

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contestatory poetics of comedy:²¹² Aristophanes and Eupolis keenly assert their own distinctiveness (often couching it in terms of novelty or originality),²¹³ and buttress their claims partly by accusing rivals of stealing their material.²¹⁴ The next play is sometimes treated explicitly as an opportunity to hit back,²¹⁵ just as we will find with Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ contestation of each other’s usage of the past over their sequence of encounters in court in Chapters 4–6. This basic dynamic is not peculiar to comedy or oratory: more or less overt self-recommendation by, and/or competition between, practitioners—often on the basis of superior creativity or at least superior craft—occurs across a wide range of genres (e.g. epinician and other lyric; historiography; even tragedy²¹⁶); but comedy seems the obvious analogue to point to here, given that, as with oratory, it involved challenging a known opponent in front of a large audience of fellow citizens. One aspect of the orator’s relationship with the past and his command of it stands out as both inviting and frequently attracting a special order of challenge and contestation, and that is the question of his resemblance (perceived or self-cultivated) to specific political figures (whether of the recent or more distant past) in terms of policy and/or oratorical style, character, visual presentation, and so on (more on this in Chapter 3.1). This can take the form of direct, intentional self-modelling, usually undeclared by the orator but undertaken with enough contextual signposting to hint at the resemblance to audiences, or it can be something fabricated by opponents to discredit him. Whoever is responsible for these identifications, they are usually aimed at producing a special effect in context rather than forming part of a consistent pattern of political self-identification (though we see examples of both). Rivals are usually the ones responsible: Athenian speakers, like modern politicians, are happy to identify an opponent as the political ‘heir to’ another, or to claim that that opponent is imitating a particular historical politician, preferably one with a compromised record. Aeschines tries to discredit Demosthenes in Against Ctesiphon by describing him as ‘imitating the politics of Cleophon’ some sixty years earlier, a claim backed up with a ²¹² Storey (2003) 278–303; Sidwell (2009); Bakola (2010) 65–79; Biles (2011); Wright (2012) 31–69. ²¹³ See, e.g., Ar. Knights 507–50; Clouds 545–62; cf. Eupolis, Baptai fr. 89; Biles (2011) 167–210 on the Clouds parabasis; Wright (2012) 70–102 on novelty. ²¹⁴ e.g. Ar. Clouds 551–9; Sidwell (2009), especially 24–6 on this passage; cf. Wright (2012), especially 90–8. ²¹⁵ As, e.g., with Baptai fr. 89: see Storey (2003) 294–6; Wright (2012) 91–2; more generally: Sidwell (2009) (especially 48–52 on Baptai fr. 89) (with caution). ²¹⁶ Metatextual irony: Rutherford (2012) 357–64; more broadly Torrance (2013).

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compelling visual image (3.150). If an orator does come close to casting himself overtly in the mould of a particular historical individual (whether in a bid to claim that figure’s moral authority, assert the similarity of his own virtues or aspirations, or assert political heirship), this tends to be the signal for particularly vigorous opposition: Aeschines’ imitation of a statue of Solon on Salamis in Against Timarchus of 346/5, mentioned in Chapter 1.1 and 1.3, is a prime example; Demosthenes goes to particular lengths in On the False Embassy of 343 to make sure Aeschines could not co-opt the authority of Solon again in the present trial. It is noteworthy that Aeschines does not mention Solon—at all—in his subsequent defence speech: remarkable, in fact, given that Solon appears by name in nearly all of our other fully extant speeches for Athenian public trials. Demosthenes’ demolition seems to have worked (a reasonable inference, as there would be no reason for Aeschines to remove references to Solon later). What was it about this manoeuvre that could make it attract such fierce resistance? An answer could relate to two norms: (1) the default cultural assumption in contemporary Athens that imitation of ancestral virtues (or at least the virtues of some ancestors) was a good thing to practise; and (2) the widespread familiarity of the idea of casting one politician in terms of another: comedy takes it as a given, and it serves as a structuring device in intellectual writing on politics (for example in the Aristotelian Athenian Constitution, where prominent fifth-century politicians take over from one another seamlessly as leading figures of particular factions: Ath. Pol. 23–8). Accordingly, if someone tried to cast himself in terms of an illustrious past politician, that could signify that he was laying symbolic claim to a privileged personal relationship with (or privileged personal access to) a common democratic resource (point 1) and also trying to predispose the judgment of his peers (and posterity) about him by symbolically adding himself to a sequence of illustrious predecessors (point 2). Orators typically assume that the great examples are there for anyone to use and discuss, provided he can do so appropriately (a qualification on which Isocrates laid particular stress: Chapter 1.3). This looks like a key difference between classical Athens and republican Rome, where we are quite rightly used to thinking of politicians having no difficulty in freely adopting certain historical models as personal exempla while simultaneously asserting the communal relevance of others (and indeed sometimes the same ones).²¹⁷ In both societies,

²¹⁷ See, in particular, van der Blom (2010).

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though, politicians were under pressure to individualize themselves among a crowd of competitors, and even in Athens overtly presenting oneself in terms of an illustrious political forebear, as long as the comparison was not obviously absurd, could offer a ready-made template for vivid self-recommendation. Some confident orators might take the risk of challenge from rivals and of possible alienation of some audience members,²¹⁸ but in most cases, we should assume that if they chose to imitate anyone at all, orators would typically imitate those whose political activity was recent enough that the self-association could be registered.²¹⁹ Moreover, the earlier case of Alcibiades the Younger, who reportedly imitated his famous father’s habits²²⁰ as well as using him as a historical example and model (at least in a defence speech written for him by Isocrates), despite the prosecution’s attempt to use his father against him,²²¹ may indicate that imitation of political figures from one’s own family might not attract the kind of difficulties we have looked at here, or not to the same extent. Aristocratic orators’ preparedness to talk about imitating their own ancestors in law-court speeches suggests that they expected their hearers to understand this impulse and to allow for it at least to some degree, especially if it was made in the context of recalling those ancestors’ services to the state (e.g. Andoc. 1.141; cf. 148). Now that some typical ways of presenting and contesting the past in fourth-century Athens have been introduced, I now briefly identify some noticeable tendencies in Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ usage (as far as we can trace them) to set the scene for Chapters 2–6. Both orators are generally careful to identify or at least intimate what the sources of their material are, and their speeches supply good examples of the communicative ‘fictions’ we looked at in Chapter 1.1 and 1.2. Although both do sometimes embark on more or less discrete passages of historical illustration (like Apollodorus’ excursuses in Against Neaera on the duties of the Basilinna and on the Plataeans: [D.] 59.74–9, 94–106), they mainly use smaller-scale equivalents throughout their extant trial speeches. Neither Demosthenes (as previously noted) nor Aeschines seems particularly keen on what we would categorize as mythical material; other orators (not just Lycurgus and

²¹⁸ See the reverse version at D. 18.316–19: Chapter 6.4. ²¹⁹ Policy-based imitation of Eubulus (and possibly Pericles) can be posited for Lycurgus: Hintzen-Bohlen (1997); Lewis (1997) 212–29; Oliver (2011); Csapo and Wilson (2014) 393–424; see Introduction. ²²⁰ Archippus fr. 48; Plut. Alc. 1.8; see Gribble (1999) 71–3; Vickers (2015) 4, 27 with n. 47. ²²¹ Isoc. 16 passim vs Lys. 14 (especially 16–19, 23–40). On these speeches: Gribble (1999) 90–148.

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Hyperides) may have used it more often.²²² Beyond his Funeral Oration,²²³ a special case, and beyond poetic quotation (only used to strike back at Aeschines),²²⁴ Demosthenes only uses myth in Against Aristocrates, and then succinctly (23.65–6, 74).²²⁵ Aeschines’ disinclination is less marked;²²⁶ he makes notably imaginative uses of examples which float (again, from our perspective) in a half-mythical, half-historical space, as we will see particularly in Against Timarchus. He uses poetic quotation and reference to poetry more freely than Demosthenes too;²²⁷ as we have seen, he was also clearly conversant with the use of myth in diplomacy (2.31). Both orators show themselves fully alive to the structuring or unifying potential of chains of historical material linked by content or theme, and in this they differ from what we can observe of the usage of Hyperides and in particular that of the logographer Dinarchus, who shows little interest in consistently exploiting the ethical potential of what are often in themselves quite well-chosen examples—some of which may even take their cue from Aeschinean usage.²²⁸ Although Aeschines’ basic conception of the past usually relies on chronological sequence—reaching back to particular points in time for examples—the most distinctive feature of his historical usage is his occasional creation of trial-specific set-piece sequences which depart from this standard model and which envisage past situation and present trial as happening at the same time and sometimes even in the same space, or nearby—a kind of fantasy alternative Athens. This ‘past’ situation is sometimes given a small but sufficient set of characters in whose roles the key figures in the present trial can easily be cast by the jurors, either at Aeschines’ explicit direction or as prompted by the overall logic of his discussion. Although other surviving orators sometimes encourage the jurors to imagine others pleading alongside them,²²⁹ showing that this sort of technique cannot be peculiar to Aeschines, none goes as far with it, or visualizes historical characters as the co-pleaders in the same ²²² Beyond these orators, see, e.g., Andoc. 1.129; [Andoc.] 4.22; Din. 1.87. Both Lyc. VI On the Priestess (fr. 6) and Din. XX Diadikasia of the Phalerians (fr. 2) featured Alope, mother of the Eponymous Hero Hippotho(o)n (D. 60.31): Kron (1976) 177–80; Kearns (1989) 146; Polignac (2011) 109–10. ²²³ D. 60.4–8, 10, 27–31. ²²⁴ D. 19.243, 246–7 (and cf. 18.180). ²²⁵ Hermogenes praises Demosthenes’ succinctness here: Id. 330 Rabe. ²²⁶ Beyond A. 2.31: 3.185, 231 (both linked to poetry; see note 227); note the borderline case of the ‘Place of the Horse and the Girl’ (1.182; Chapter 4.3.2). ²²⁷ A. 1.128–9, 141–54. 1.133 and 3.231 refer to poetry (as does the humorous 3.100). 3.185 is a quotation, but a mixed case. ²²⁸ Din. 1.38 seems to rework A. 3.138–9 (for other aspects: e.g. Worthington [1992] 15 n. 6, 24). Dinarchus’ derivativeness: Nouhaud (1982) 364. ²²⁹ e.g. D. 20.165 (abstracts); D. 21.188 (laws); [D.] 59.115 (laws).

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way, as he does—something that probably reflects a former trained actor’s inclination to conceive of situations in theatrical ways.²³⁰ Allied with his frequent use of visualization techniques, Aeschines’ usage puts before the jurors powerful and engaging micro-dramas which bring the past to life and which explicitly engage its emotive potential. Demosthenes only really gets close to this in one instance in our extant speeches, a passage which (I argue in Chapter 6) explicitly seeks to upstage one of Aeschines’ own. His conception of the past is typically more sequential, and that in itself is important. His overall use of historical examples in his Assembly speeches is (with some exceptions) quite restrained—Andocides’ On the Peace (if authentic) shows that much more could be done.²³¹ However, that usage is rigorously tied to Demosthenes’ consistently articulated strategy of self-presentation as the only politician capable of putting the Athenians in touch with their core historical values, buttressing his claim to authority in this domain by constantly asserting his talent for accurate prediction of events.²³² Unlike Aeschines’, his claim to special expertise in the interpretation of the past is constantly foregrounded rather than simply implied, and across venues, not just in his Assembly speeches. Demosthenes’ Athenian past—clearly not uniquely to him, but certainly consistently within his speeches—bears notable symbolic weight. In both his Assembly and his law-court speeches (including, interestingly, trial speeches written for clients), he typically conceptualizes it as a continuum of positive values (as we saw with the Haliartus example in Chapter 1.2), and adopts as a repeated standard the validity of appeal to that continuum, as defined (and undertaken) by him; at each point, his rhetorical framing of the continuum involves setting his present audience (and himself) within it. This often reflects well on him and badly on them, but the notion of the continuum itself—of Athens’s immanent character²³³—guarantees the positive underlying message that his audience are capable of doing better if they will only resolve to; meanwhile, Demosthenes projects an idea of himself as the same loyal adviser and agent across time, just as Athens’s character itself is unchanging. ²³⁰ Aeschines’ acting background: Kindstrand (1982) 19–20, 93–5; E. M. Harris (1995) 30–1; Easterling (1999) 156–62; Duncan (2006) 58–89; Hall (2006) 372–3; Webb (2009) 146; Serafim (2017) 82–4; Westwood (2017a) 59. ²³¹ Andoc. 3.3–9, 28–31, 37–40; Missiou (1992) 58–67 on 3.3–9; Grethlein (2010) 129–35. A forgery: Harris (2000); Canevaro (2019) 140 n. 20. ²³² For Demosthenes’ overall strategy: Mader (2007a); (2007b); (2018); Yunis (2000); and Chapter 3. ²³³ Cf. Loraux’s notion of the eternality of the democratic city in the epitaphios logos: (1986) 118–71.

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One of Chapter 3’s conclusions will be the perhaps unsurprising one that Demosthenes made increasingly ambitious and sophisticated rhetorical use of the past to characterize his statesmanship as his career went on (and as the stakes rose);²³⁴ in Chapter 6 we will see that come to its natural conclusion in his bid in On the Crown to join the very roll of great Athenian leaders he had drawn on in one form or another to articulate his vision. Before giving a brief outline of his career and Aeschines’, though, I situate my treatment, as outlined so far, in its scholarly context.

1.5. APPROACHES This study aims to contribute—obliquely—to the current surge in interest in how classical Athenians remembered and processed their past by examining how individual politicians presented it for their own ends, drawing creatively on a common pool of examples and vigorously contesting each other’s handling of them. This means that it shares many assumptions with the valuable recent work of Shear and Steinbock on the mechanics of Athenian social memory,²³⁵ but diverges from them in focusing less on those mechanics themselves (which I have aimed to give a sense of in Chapter 1 so far) and more on what it meant for individual orators to develop historical material for communication to mass audiences in particular contexts, and so how the strategic behaviour at issue contributed to each man’s overall profile as an effective public communicator. It is in a sense about people—the orators—first and processes second, and confronts radical but tenacious misconceptions like Mathieu’s that examples and illustrations are ‘thrown in’ by speakers ‘almost at random’.²³⁶ What the following chapters indicate is that while some instances might clearly answer something like Mathieu’s description—orators approached the task of engaging with the past with a variety of levels of skill and commitment, as we have seen—other examples are shaped in such a way as to play a vital role in the articulation of individual speeches’ core arguments and broader messages. This does not, then, mean a return to those older approaches which concentrated narrowly on formal rhetorical aspects or on the reliability ²³⁴ So reflecting the progression traced holistically by Kremmydas (2016) 50–68. ²³⁵ Shear (2011); (2013); Steinbock (2013a). On Greek remembering more generally, key works include Foxhall, Gehrke, and Luraghi (2010); Luraghi (2001) (especially Gehrke [2001]); Marincola, Llewellyn-Jones, and Maciver (2012); Thomas (1989); Grethlein (2010). ²³⁶ Mathieu (1914) 185 (‘jetés presque au hasard dans les discours’).

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status of the historical examples themselves.²³⁷ Jost’s still frequently cited 1935 dissertation concentrated on what each orator contributes to ‘the theory’ of the historical example, looking for underlying rationales in each case;²³⁸ meanwhile, the idea that the orators’ examples were the unedifying result of ignorance or carelessness had a similarly long ascendancy, drawing an Olympian obiter dictum from Jacoby.²³⁹ Both types of view stemmed from an overly austere and overly prescriptive application of the logical role outlined for paradeigmata by Aristotle (Chapter 1.4). But analysing historical examples as rhetoric need not be such a prescriptive exercise, as two article-length treatments by Pearson (1941) and Perlman (1961) began to show—both started to move the discussion away from whether or why the orators get things wrong or not and towards why they spin those things in the way that they do, a focus shared with this book. Pearson’s article anticipated Ober in treating the audience–speaker communication function of the examples as paramount, while Perlman isolated the importance of personal oratorical spin in historical references (even if his argument that ‘political propaganda’ was the motivation works for only some of the evidence). A rather different and more holistic line was taken in the standard modern monograph-length treatment of the subject, by Nouhaud (1982). Nouhaud does not concentrate on how individual historical illustrations work in their speech contexts; instead, he typically categorizes them thematically or according to the event or person treated, and the assumption that historical accuracy is the default meaningful standard for our assessment of orators’ use of the past still lingers in his work. He is less interested in what a reference to (e.g.) the Peace of Callias might mean for (e.g.) Demosthenes in a particular rhetorical context regardless of the reference’s accuracy (as far as that can be traced), which makes it hard for the reader to get a sense of examples’ core persuasive functions;²⁴⁰ but Nouhaud did trace these in a brief 1986 article (on Aeschines’ use of Tolmides), and such concerns are exactly the focus of the present work. ²³⁷ Against these tendencies (rightly): Shear (2011) 4–7; Steinbock (2013a) 38–9; (2013b) 73–4; Canevaro (2019), especially 136. ²³⁸ Jost (1935); see, e.g., 162 (final paragraph) for a telling juxtaposition revealing his priorities; or 247 (second paragraph) for the idea of Demosthenes ‘at the culmination of a [theoretical] development’. ²³⁹ Jacoby (1954) 95: ‘even leaving out of consideration the truly astonishing ignorance of most of the Attic orators and the little use they made of the history of their city’ (also in Canevaro [2019] 136). In a similar vein: Finley (1975a) 30; (1975b) 57–8; cf. Rutherford (1994) 60; Hunt (2010) 8. Carefully contextualized: Rhodes (1993) 62; Demosthenes’ ‘reasonable accuracy’: Milns (1995) 40. ²⁴⁰ Witte (1995) has an avowedly historical focus (6), with relatively limited comment on Demosthenes’ persuasive techniques as such.

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Since then, the implications for orators’ public profiles generated by how they chose to handle the past in front of popular audiences have come to be recognized, and the topic has been pursued (from different angles) in important articles by Azoulay, Steinbock, and Hesk (as well as in Steinbock’s 2013 monograph). The first of these, Azoulay (2009), argues cogently that Lycurgus’ deployment of aspects of civic history helped both to enable and to determine the character of his policy of cultural renewal after Chaeronea (as we have already seen). Steinbock’s 2013 book (2013a), grounding itself in a comprehensive extended portrait of how social remembering in (mainly) fourth-century Athens worked and proceeding to four case studies of how Athenian memory constructed flashpoints in the city’s relationship with Thebes, shares aims with the present book, but Steinbock does not engage in extended comment on the strategies of particular speeches and only engages in limited holistic comment on the persuasive contexts of the individual strategic moves he examines. He is not categorically uninterested in the orators as individuals, but his focus is on the audience, on what they would get from the different uses to which historical material could be put, and on the role of orators as transmitters and moulders of aspects of Athenian memory.²⁴¹ Steinbock’s 2013 article (2013b) goes further. There he suggests that Aeschines’ presentation of the past in On the Embassy (of 343) indicates how in the original debate about peace with Philip in 346, Aeschines had utilized a source alternative to the civic ‘master narrative’—that source being those ‘family stories’ he had been told by his father and uncle (2.78)—as a means of underpinning a distinctive strategy aimed at rebutting the present purveyors of the city’s ‘master narrative’, including Demosthenes.²⁴² Although (as we will see in Chapter 5.3.1) Steinbock’s view gives insufficient weight to the fact that this speech of 343 has its own trial context (and the material confronted by Demosthenes as prosecutor) to confront—and should therefore be regarded as no more accurate a witness to what happened in 346 than Demosthenes’ own prosecution speech in this trial²⁴³—his willingness to see historical material as a medium for orators’ self-presentation strategies is stimulating and helpful. I put more emphasis than he does on the flexibility of the choices orators could and did make: although Aeschines’ readiness to identify some aspects of the Athenian past as models for avoidance rather than emulation does stand out in our evidence, in a sense it is ²⁴¹ Steinbock (2013a) 36–43, 94–9, 354–5; (2013b) 69–75. ²⁴² Steinbock (2013b); cf. also Steinbock (2013a) 149–54. ²⁴³ For these problems: Cawkwell (1960); E. M. Harris (1995) 7–16 and 57–101; Buckler (2000) 151–2; Efstathiou (2004).

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only a creative, more pronounced version of the contesting of the relevance of historical material for the discussion at hand that we see elsewhere. In Chapter 1.1, for example, we saw Iphicrates claim a better right to represent Harmodius than the tyrannicide’s namesake descendant by privileging shared heroism over shared blood. This was a daring strategy given that both these elements would be essential to how Athenians thought about Harmodius: the hereditary sitēsis conferred on his senior descendant was an apparently culturally sacrosanct privilege.²⁴⁴ In a similar way, Aeschines in On the Embassy 75–7 emphasizes that in the debate he was careful to praise earlier Athenian achievements (e.g. Marathon, Salamis etc.) before tracing the missteps that led to the takeover of Athenian policy by bad leaders at the end of the Peloponnesian War. Whether Aeschines is giving an accurate impression of what he said in 346 or not,²⁴⁵ both his behaviour here and that of Iphicrates, in their different ways, testify to an expectation that orators could sustain a careful balance between catering to their audience’s default understandings and qualifying them: Steinbock’s reading seems to me to set up too hard a distinction between the two. We are therefore perhaps dealing less with a handful of plucky ‘challenges to the Athenian master narrative’ than constant inflections of it by orators, tied to the rhetorical circumstances and objectives of each speech. As noted in Chapter 1.1 and 1.4, the notion of a civic ‘master narrative’ governing the discourse works better for those oratorical genres where standardized or ‘official’ versions cluster, above all the epitaphios logos²⁴⁶—Hesk has recently explored the effects created by Hyperides when the latter chose to do something (apparently) different (though perhaps not radically different) with his.²⁴⁷ Steinbock’s assumption that orators in all public contexts had, as a rule, simply to cater to audience expectations²⁴⁸—hence Aeschines’ singularity, in his view—risks obfuscating the extent to which speakers also had to excite, surprise, and engage their audiences to mark themselves out. It is possible to see a certain level of ‘ideological monotony’ (to borrow Morstein-Marx’s phrase²⁴⁹) in Athenian public discourse, but that does not oblige us at the same time to see its mediation or mediators as ²⁴⁴ Even Leptines’ law about such privileges left the descendants of Harmodius and Aristogeiton well alone: see, e.g., D. 20.18, 29, 127–30, 160; Kremmydas (2012) 218–20; Canevaro (2016) 220–1. ²⁴⁵ Canevaro (2019) 141–2 diagnoses A. 2.75–7 as a bid to efface a ‘dangerous and problematic’ strategy (his n. 24)—but I am not sure this is right: see Chapter 5.3.1. ²⁴⁶ Steinbock (2013a) 49–58; though see Shear (2013) for qualification. ²⁴⁷ Hesk (2013) 52–5. ²⁴⁸ Steinbock (2013a) 40–3, 94–6; (2013b) 74–5. ²⁴⁹ Morstein-Marx (2004) 230–40 (on republican Rome).

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sustaining it in a monotonous way. As indicated earlier, it must be true that standardized versions did cluster in certain parts of the Athenian mnemonic landscape and that orators would have trouble formulating inventive versions of them, but Steinbock’s Athens may still end up seeming a slightly dull or predictable place to have been an audience member, and that seems intuitively unlikely. Finally, Hesk’s brief discussion of court clashes between Aeschines and Demosthenes in a 2012 volume chapter makes, in concise but effective fashion, the point that the past was up for grabs, relied on oratorical processing, and was susceptible to contestation as well as distortion by orators with specifically persuasive ends in view. I build on that in this book—especially on the prime importance of the rhetorical weight given to the notion of the ‘right’ use of the past, valuably broached by Clarke (2008)²⁵⁰—but I will also be concerned to show how we can trace such manoeuvres when we are unable confidently to reconstruct the arguments that opposing speakers made. Here I am thinking particularly of Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches, where the non-naming of political opponents hinders precise identification of particular policies with other likely figures, making it harder to see what Demosthenes might be contesting.²⁵¹ Likely moves towards the formation of a literary corpus (see Chapter 1.7.1) pose a further obstacle to straightforward fitting of this group of texts to their purported performance situations. Accordingly, I will be focusing in Chapter 3 more upon the self-image that Demosthenes is using the past to construct, and how this develops, than upon how his chosen examples might play in the debate concerned. I have selected Demosthenes and Aeschines as case-study orators, but their contemporaries—Lycurgus, Hyperides, Apollodorus, and Dinarchus, as well as those who survive only in fragments—will be drawn upon for comparison, as will other orators to a lesser extent (like Andocides and Lysias). Some readers may miss more reference to Isocrates. I have chosen to relegate him to a comparative role alongside Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ other contemporaries because his speeches do not usually constitute direct evidence for the way that the past could be used in the Assembly and in public trials.²⁵² Although his logographic speeches, like Lysias’, do make use of the past, only one of them (20, Against Lochites) is plausibly intended for live presentation in a public trial,²⁵³ though another (16, On the Team of Horses) makes clear that the ²⁵⁰ Clarke (2008) 258–61. ²⁵¹ On this non-naming: Chapter 1.7.1. ²⁵² A similar rationale to Liddel (2007) 87 and Pownall (2013) 339, 350–2 (though with different emphases). ²⁵³ Though see Mirhady and Too (2000) 123.

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prosecution has raised public issues, so the defendant, Alcibiades the Younger, will address those too (16.1–3). Meanwhile, while some of Isocrates’ non-logographic speeches assume live mass-communication contexts, they do so only fictively.²⁵⁴ While Demosthenes and Aeschines had to develop their historical material to suit the overall economy of strictly timed public trial speeches and succinct Assembly speeches—and probably had to represent that economy credibly when producing written versions (see Chapter 1.7.1)—Isocrates’ main concern when shaping paradigmatic material in his fictive equivalents was to produce content which would develop his students’ skills in critical analysis and persuasive argumentation more broadly.²⁵⁵ This does not seem to have brought with it an obligation to represent, or an interest in representing, the communicative economy (or indeed other key contextual aspects) of the major performance venues closely or consistently. The next section now sketches the outline of the material this book covers, tied to a brief overview of the political climate and historical circumstances in which Aeschines and Demosthenes were undertaking the strategic manoeuvres I analyse.

1.6. AN OUTLINE OF THE HISTORICAL CONTEXT Plutarch (Dem. 5) has a famous image of Demosthenes discovering his vocation as a political orator while watching Callistratus defend himself—probably in the Oropus trials of 366/5 where Lycoleon made his deft use of Chabrias’ statue. That the 18-year-old Demosthenes was inspired by Callistratus is entirely plausible; he is never cited other than respectfully in Demosthenes’ extant speeches.²⁵⁶ At any rate, the great orator fell prey to an eisangelia prosecution c.361 and went into voluntary exile; when caught on an (illegal) return to Athens c.355, he was executed.²⁵⁷ This was just at the time when Demosthenes was beginning his own political career. He was nearing 30 and had plenty of useful background already.²⁵⁸ He had served twice as trierarch (in 364/3 and ²⁵⁴ E.g. Isoc. 8.2. So against Steinbock (2013a) 37 n. 168, and with, e.g., Milns (1995) 3; Hunt (2010) 271–2; see also Clarke (2008) 301–3. ²⁵⁵ As Blank (2014) has demonstrated for Isocrates’ use of the example of Sparta. ²⁵⁶ D. 18.219; 19.297; 24.135. ²⁵⁷ Exile: Hyp. Eux. 1–2; [D.] 50.46–52; death: Lyc. 1.93. ²⁵⁸ Demosthenes’ life and activities before 355/4: Sealey (1993) 96–101; Badian (2000); MacDowell (2009) 14–22, 30–58, 133–6 (on D. 51); Will (2013) 21–39; Worthington (2013) 9–41; Brun (2015) 75–99; Samotta (2018).

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360/59) and once as syntrierarch (357),²⁵⁹ had established a career as a logographer, and already had over a decade’s first-hand experience of what could work in front of a citizen jury: although he had failed to recoup much of his sizeable inheritance from his guardians and their associates, he had won a sequence of court cases against them by 361/0 (initiated in 366 when he came of age) and because of their social standing (Onetor was one of the richest men in Athens, and had been one of Isocrates’ star pupils²⁶⁰) this will have marked Demosthenes out as someone to watch. It is also entirely plausible to suggest that these trials not only gave Demosthenes a thorough grounding in law-court oratory but conduced to a lifelong tendency to see opposition in terms of conspiracies of the influential.²⁶¹ Although we have to bear in mind the likely conventionality of this kind of characterization, his Boule speech On the Trierarchic Crown (of 360/59) already shows signs of exactly this kind of thinking, and this finds a close echo in Against Aristocrates;²⁶² it also courses through his later Assembly speeches, from 344 onwards, in his attacks on those Athenian politicians he accuses of working in Philip’s interests. The Athenian political scene seems to have had particular room for new voices in the mid-350s. As we will see in Chapter 2, this is reflected in the tone and interests of Demosthenes’ early speeches: 22 (Against Androtion) (355/4) and 24 (Against Timocrates) (354/3 or 353/2) written for one Diodorus; 23 (Against Aristocrates) (353/2 or 352/1), written for one Euthycles; and especially 20 (Against Leptines) (355/4), written for personal delivery.²⁶³ It is also reflected in some of the earlier Assembly speeches examined in Chapter 3. In both venues, we can see Demosthenes developing a vigorous ‘outsider rhetoric’ which persists right through to the point in the mid-to-late 340s where he could no longer plausibly be seen as a political outsider. He and his political generation, who would become some of the senior figures of the late 340s through to the mid-320s and in some cases beyond, were in fact rising at a time of fracture and upheaval in the political front line, as we will see further in Chapter 2. Athens needed stability in view of its dismal performance in a brief and draining war with some of its League members (the ‘Social War’, 357–355), and as Demosthenes arrived on the political scene, that stability was being provided by the economically conservative consensus

²⁵⁹ The three trierarchies: D. 28.17 (and D. 21.80, with Harris [2008] 114–15 n. 132); A. 3.51–2 (with Σ 112 Dilts); D. 21.161; 18.99. ²⁶⁰ Isoc. 15.93; Davies (1971) 423. ²⁶¹ Lape (2018) 103 also suggests this briefly. ²⁶² For these echoes: Chapter 2.1 and n. 26. ²⁶³ For summaries, dates, and other details: Chapter 2.1.

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politics piloted by Eubulus (and probably also by the more elusive Diophantus).²⁶⁴ Nobody appears to have had compelling alternatives to offer, but Eubulus did have one source of apparently quite consistent personal opposition in the form of Aristophon, the only front-line survivor from the preceding political generation.²⁶⁵ Aristophon was still very prominent in the later 350s; he lasted until at least 340/39 and died aged nearly 100 sometime between then and 330; in a trial in the 330–24 period Hyperides says Aristophon had become ‘extremely powerful in the state’, presumably referring to an earlier period.²⁶⁶ His prominence certainly extended as far as the debate on peace with Philip in 346,²⁶⁷ where he apparently spoke as one of the peace’s key opponents (in at least his early-to-mid eighties)—a marked policy divergence from Eubulus, who spoke in favour.²⁶⁸ Aristophon also did not hold back from criticizing Eubulus’ policies when prosecuting Eubulus’ associates (see, e.g., D. 19.290–1, referring to an incident some time before 343). It was Aristophon who—in concert with the rising general Chares,²⁶⁹ whose career must have profited from the sudden death of Chabrias in a naval engagement at Chios early in the Social War—had upended current political alignments by prosecuting Athens’s other two leading generals, Iphicrates and Timotheus, in 356/5 after perceived military failure against the allies at Embata in Ionia. These were apparently the trials of the decade.²⁷⁰ Timotheus was convicted (with a hundred-talent fine he could not pay) and Iphicrates acquitted, but neither man’s credit ever recovered; both withdrew from public life (Timotheus to exile in Chalcis). Demosthenes’ political generation—conceived as such by him when looking back on his career in 323²⁷¹—seem to have moved in to fill the gap, joining some other slightly older figures like Phocion, praised (by Polyeuctus, no less) as a superb plain-style orator,²⁷² but

²⁶⁴ Eubulus: Cawkwell (1963b); considered briefly, with Diophantus: Gallo (2018a) 353–5. ²⁶⁵ Aristophon and his influence: Oost (1977); Whitehead (1986); Sinclair (1988) 162; Fisher (2001) 202–3; Harding (2006) 196–7; Gallo (2018a) 356–7. ²⁶⁶ Hyp. Eux. 28 (ὃς ἰσχυρότατος ἐν τῇ πολιτείᾳ γεγένηται) with Whitehead (2000) 232–3; on his lifespan, see further Chapter 5.2.2 n. 88. ²⁶⁷ And probably until at least 341: D. 8.30; 18.75. ²⁶⁸ Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 166; Eubulus: D. 19.291. ²⁶⁹ On Chares’ life and career: Moysey (1985) and (1987); Salmond (1996); Bianco (2002). ²⁷⁰ For detail on the Embata trials (including the possible 354/3 date for Timotheus’ trial): Chapter 2.1 n. 43. ²⁷¹ D. Ep. 3.31, including Chares, Lycurgus, and Nausicles in a mainly antiMacedonian list. ²⁷² Plut. Mor. 803e (Phocion’s conciseness); Phoc. 5.6–9; Dem. 10.3–4 (clarifying which Polyeuctus said this); Tritle (1988) 11, 22–3; Cooper (2009) 313–17.

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better known as a general, frequently re-elected;²⁷³ and Charidemus, the indirect target of Demosthenes’ client in Against Aristocrates, later aligned with the anti-Macedonian interest.²⁷⁴ Demosthenes’ own generation included Hegesippus,²⁷⁵ Polyeuctus, Lycurgus, Aeschines, and Hyperides, most of them somewhat older than Demosthenes himself. Their political stances were disparate, and their early activity and alignments are infamously hard to trace. There is no good pre-347/6 evidence that Demosthenes had serious differences with, or special links with, either Eubulus or Aristophon, for example. Hegesippus, Hyperides, and Demosthenes himself seem to have been the earliest to gain prominence, Hyperides with a major prosecution of Aristophon as early as 362, but the real extent to which Demosthenes made use of his personal and contextual advantages is unclear. His early Assembly speeches—14, On the Symmories (354/3); 16, For the Megalopolitans (353/2); 13, On Organization (353/2, if authentic; see Chapter 1.7.2); 4, First Philippic (351); and 15, On the Liberty of the Rhodians (c.350) did not succeed in changing anything, though Demosthenes was able to point later to correct estimations he had made in some of these cases. The most significant of these speeches for later developments must be the First Philippic (351). This followed two headline events in 353/2 and 352/1— later recalled by Demosthenes himself as the critical year—which made Demosthenes (and surely many others) realize that Philip was a threat to more than purely Athens’s interests in the north Aegean.²⁷⁶ First was his crushing defeat of the Phocians on the Crocus Plain in spring or summer 352,²⁷⁷ which meant that he could capitalize on the newly compliant position of Thessaly as a strategic corridor into central and southern Greece.²⁷⁸ This was quickly tested at Thermopylae, where Philip was successfully opposed by an Athenian expedition commanded by Aeschines’ age-mate Nausicles. Philip’s clever burnishing of his reputation among the other Greeks in the aftermath of Crocus Plain will perhaps have been just as alarming as the result of the battle itself. The second flashpoint was Philip’s role in besieging Heraion Teichos, a key Thracian stronghold near the Chersonese and the Athenian grain route, ²⁷³ Phocion’s career: Gehrke (1976); Bearzot (1985); Tritle (1988); Engels (2007). ²⁷⁴ Charidemus’ career: Bianco (2014) and Harris (2018) 17 n. 2 for references. ²⁷⁵ Davies (1971) 209; (2011) 19–20; Fisher (2001) 188–9, 203–4; Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 36–7; Gallo (2018a) 357–8; in detail: (2018b). ²⁷⁶ The critical year: D. 9.25; also Trevett (2011) 70. ²⁷⁷ Date: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 723; Ellis (1994) 743–6; Lane Fox (1997) 185; Ryder (2000) 48–9. ²⁷⁸ Philip and Thessaly: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 267–81, 285–95; Buckler (1989) 78–81.

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from late 352 into the following year—broadcasting the threat both to the predominantly Athenian-controlled Chersonese and to the independence of Cersobleptes, the young king of the part of Odrysian Thrace not yet under Philip’s control.²⁷⁹ The First Philippic was intended as a wake-up call for Demosthenes’ fellow Athenians—who had delayed sending an expedition after the news of the siege of Heraion Teichos, only sending one much later (D. 3.4–5)—though On the Liberty of the Rhodians shows that Philip was not the only thing on the international stage that Demosthenes found worrying even c.350 (15.24).²⁸⁰ In confronting Philip’s geopolitical ambitions, Demosthenes had (famously) found ‘his’ issue: his advocacy of the cause of the Chalcidic League in 349/8 (1–3, the First, Second, and Third Olynthiacs) eventually succeeded in securing an expedition under Charidemus to help Olynthus against Philip (who had captured all the other League cities), but the move came too late. Athens’s humiliation when involving itself in regional politics in Euboea in 348—an intervention Demosthenes had been one of the few to argue against, as he was keen to remind an Assembly audience in 346/5 (5.5)—fortunately at least led to a refocusing of priorities in favour of galvanizing efforts to contain Philip. These efforts were initially piloted by Eubulus,²⁸¹ and involved Aeschines in his first recorded political activity, his embassy to Arcadia in 348/7 to address the Ten Thousand (D. 19.11, 303). But they attracted little interest. Demosthenes was by now among those who thought some understanding with Philip was preferable;²⁸² he successfully defended Philocrates when the latter was prosecuted in 348/7 for proposing that the Athenians welcome peace overtures that Philip was making (A. 2.12–14; 3.62). Philocrates (who gave his name to the ensuing Peace) eventually led an eleven-man Athenian and allied embassy to Pella in early 346. Demosthenes—currently gaining valuable experience and visibility as a member of the Boule for 347/6 (A. 3.62)—was on it, as was Aeschines. What happened over the next few months forms the subject matter not only of the speeches from the Embassy trial of 343—Demosthenes’ prosecution of Aeschines for misconduct while in Pella (19, On the False

²⁷⁹ Dating and significance of Heraion Teichos: Ellis and Milns (1970) 11–12, 66; Sealey (1993) 124; Lane Fox (1997) 195–9 (preferring November 351); Worthington (2013) 114–17. ²⁸⁰ Sealey (1993) 125. ²⁸¹ D. 19.304; cf. 292. ²⁸² Rhodes (2009a) 23 sees Demosthenes’ policy shift as only tactical, i.e. to engineer a situation where Philip would show his true colours.

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Embassy) and Aeschines’ defence (2, On the Embassy), my twin focus in Chapter 5—but also of the later Crown trial of 330.²⁸³ In outline, the envoys secured acceptable terms from Philip and reported them to the dēmos, which led to a special two-day Assembly debate on 18 and 19 Elaphebolion, soon after the Great Dionysia. Relations between Demosthenes and Eubulus, who was now advocating peace, were apparently tense:²⁸⁴ Demosthenes had recently prosecuted, or was soon to prosecute, Eubulus’ ally Meidias for hybris—for outraging him publicly at the Dionysia of 348 (I examine Demosthenes 21, Against Meidias, in Chapter 4.2). But both Eubulus and Demosthenes, along with Aeschines and Philocrates, probably ended up on the same side in (perhaps reluctantly) recommending peace with Philip (some of them may have taken longer to get to that point than others). Opponents (Hegesippus, probably Aristophon) seem to have pointed to the way that the Peace as framed excluded the Phocians, exposing them to harsh punishments as the defeated party in the Third Sacred War with Thebes (which Philip’s intervention now concluded), and also Cersobleptes, the only regional power player in the north who had even a modest chance of helping Philip’s enemies contain him. Both had sent representatives to Athens. Arguments based on the Athenian past loomed large in the Assembly debate on 18 and 19 Elaphebolion, as both Demosthenes and Aeschines testify. Significantly for our topic, Aristophon may have attacked Philip’s failure to acknowledge Athens’s claim to Amphipolis; this probably involved historical argument on his part, as Theopompus hints in his version of Aristophon’s speech (FGrHist 115 F 166). Eubulus’ pragmatic argument that failure to make peace now would mean war—and so levying the eisphora tax,²⁸⁵ launching the fleet, and other measures—is represented by Demosthenes retrospectively as irresponsible scaremongering (19.291), but seems to have helped convince the Assembly, who voted for Peace in the form proposed by Philocrates, for the swearing of the relevant oaths, and for the appointment of a second Athenian embassy (with the same membership as the first) to travel to receive the oaths from Philip. Soon after, Demosthenes maintained his reluctant support for the decision in 5, On the Peace (346/5). By that time Philip had already taken steps to reduce Cersobleptes to vassal status and to start demolishing the cities of Phocis, dispersing the population into small villages and causing acute hardship in the process (visualized by Demosthenes in 19.65). Soon after swearing the oaths, Philip had also ²⁸³ For succinctness, I omit bibliography here and direct the reader to Chapters 5 and 6. ²⁸⁴ D. 21.205–7, with MacDowell (1990) 409–12. ²⁸⁵ Hansen (1999) 112–15; Liddel (2007) 274–6.

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taken Thermopylae from the Phocians who surrendered it, causing a brief period of panic at Athens despite the fact that he was not in breach of the Peace by so acting. It was a sign of things to come. Demosthenes soon acted to extricate himself from his involvement in making the Peace. Presumably he was genuinely concerned that Philip would keep expanding his influence, but he may also have been motivated by spotting a political opportunity. As he had publicly admitted, the Peace was clearly unsatisfactory; it was therefore unlikely to last; it had serious opponents, who could be organized into an interest group;²⁸⁶ Aristophon, the obvious candidate to lead it, was in at least his mideighties and could drop out of the picture at any time; and there was a role there to be played by someone of enterprise (Hegesippus, though clearly an effective popular orator, was probably too uncompromising to be a suitable leader on his own).²⁸⁷ Early moves by Demosthenes to indict Aeschines for embassy misconduct were frustrated when the latter launched a counter-prosecution against Demosthenes’ political ally Timarchus for prostitution over a long period. Aeschines secured a conviction (with something like Aeschines 1, Against Timarchus, which I examine in Chapter 4.3) and Timarchus left politics. But when Demosthenes’ prosecution of Aeschines came to court in 343, Athenian attitudes to the Peace had soured—Hyperides had successfully prosecuted Philocrates, who had left Athens; Hegesippus, recently sent to Macedonia to revise the terms in Athens’s favour, had failed to achieve anything (D. 19.331)—and Aeschines apparently only escaped conviction by a small margin (thirty votes: Plut. Dem. 15.5).²⁸⁸ The support of a trio of very distinguished synēgoroi (Phocion, Eubulus, and Nausicles: A. 2.184) may have been decisive. Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches now become increasingly singleminded, focusing on Philip’s alleged failure to abide by the Peace, on the supposed internal threat from his covert supporters in Athens (like Aeschines), and on supporting Athenian attempts under Diopeithes to destabilize Philip’s position in eastern Thrace close to the Atheniancontrolled Chersonese and the sea lanes critical to Athens’s grain supply. I will discuss Demosthenes’ deft use of the past in some of these speeches— 6, Second Philippic (344); 8, On the Chersonese (341); 9, Third Philippic

²⁸⁶ This had happened by early 341: see D. 8.30 and 9.72 for pointers to a loose antiMacedonian group in which Demosthenes was now prominent (as opposed to the more formalized factional groupings in [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 844f and elsewhere); see also A. 3.82. ²⁸⁷ See A. 1.64 for a possible source of tension in Hegesippus’ relationship with Aristophon; Fisher (2001) 202–4. ²⁸⁸ More on all this in Chapter 5.1.

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(341); and 10, Fourth Philippic (341)—in Chapter 3. He and his political allies proceeded to gain widespread support for their stance, passing key measures for putting Athens on a full war footing. War itself quickly followed, in 340, either shortly before or shortly after Philip seized most of the Athenian grain fleet in the Hellespont.²⁸⁹ Along with his associates, Demosthenes acted tirelessly throughout the 343/2–339 period to secure key alliances with Byzantium, with the Euboean cities (whose Philip-backed regimes were ejected by Athenian expeditions in 341), and finally—after Philip had moved to occupy key strongpoints in central Phocis—with Thebes, in the autumn of 339. There had been serious tension between the two states a matter of months earlier (see Chapter 6.2)—reflected in the likelihood that the Thebans’ position remained in doubt for a while, as Hyperides suggests²⁹⁰—and so Demosthenes looked back on this piece of statesmanship as his greatest achievement (cf. Din. 1.12), expressing this most memorably in On the Crown eight years later (in the most famous passage in his whole corpus: 18.169–79). But the defeat of the alliance at Chaeronea in 338, the coming of Macedonian hegemony, and Philip’s incorporation of Athens into his League of Corinth, were terminal both for Demosthenes’ policy and for his brief period at Athens’s helm. The second half of Demosthenes’ public career, from 338 to 322, is much less well documented than the first half.²⁹¹ His efforts first to put Athens on a war footing and reinforce the city’s defensive capability to face possible siege by Philip (obviated in the end by negotiations), and then to undertake necessary civic improvements in the wake of Chaeronea, were recognized by two publicly voted crowns.²⁹² The dēmos decision to elect him to give the funeral oration in 338/7 (60, Funeral Oration) is probably as significant as Demosthenes later made it out to be (18.285–8)—only his predictable opponents blamed him for what had happened. As we have seen, the anti-Macedonians, including Demosthenes, had to face frequent attacks in court during this period (cf. D. 18.249–50), a good example of which has emerged recently in the form of significant parts of Hyperides’ (Defence) Against Diondas (from 334).²⁹³ Demosthenes did attract criticism later for helping to keep Athens out of the Theban revolt of 335 and Sparta’s uprising against the Macedonians in 331/0, and the law

²⁸⁹ Sealey (1993) 187–9 (before); Worthington (2013) 228–33 (after); Kralli (2017) 76 n. 21 for a useful synopsis of views on dating the outbreak of war. ²⁹⁰ Guth (2014) with (especially) Hyp. Dion. 1. 137r 6–7. Demosthenes may even have had to go back to Thebes a second time: A. 3.150–1. ²⁹¹ See, especially, Worthington (2000). ²⁹² See Chapter 6.1. ²⁹³ Chapter 6.1 n. 26.

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of Eucrates (of 337/6)—forbidding the Areopagus to convene in the event of takeover by a tyrant or by anti-democrats—seems to have been aimed at him.²⁹⁴ Chapter 6 focuses on the Crown trial of 330, where a prosecution launched by Aeschines in 336 against Ctesiphon, who had proposed another crown for Demosthenes, was reopened after suspension. Demosthenes delivered a defence speech as synēgoros for Ctesiphon (18, On the Crown) in response to Aeschines’ prosecution speech (3, Against Ctesiphon), and won the case, taking the opportunity to undertake an extended justification of his career to date to respond to the fact that this was what Aeschines was really attacking (3.205). Aeschines supposedly failed to secure even a fifth of the jury’s votes— our last piece of evidence for his public activity. Plutarch may be right that he left Athens to teach rhetoric in Rhodes and Ionia.²⁹⁵ Demosthenes’ (and Aeschines’) other activity in this period—the period of Lycurgus’ primacy in Athenian domestic politics—must be glimpsed from diverse sources with other priorities; even Plutarch offers little. The same is true of the early 320s, as we have no surviving speech by Demosthenes beyond 330. For much of this period, and despite his rhetorical choices about how to frame his career (i.e. as one of unswerving resistance to Macedonia) in On the Crown, Demosthenes must have been a pragmatic supporter of the status quo. Indeed, his decision to choose the self-portrayal he does in On the Crown makes even more sense if he was actually better known by 330 for advocating consensus positions (and was thus losing his political distinctiveness). In 324, the year of Lycurgus’ death, we find Demosthenes going to Olympia to discuss the implications of Alexander’s Exiles Decree with Nicanor, who was to promulgate it there; he supported Athenian acceptance of Alexander’s divine honours (Hyp. Dem. 31; Din. 1.94); and he was one of those who advised against welcoming Harpalus, Alexander’s absconding treasurer, when the latter offered Athens copious funds to foment a revolt against Alexander.²⁹⁶ The money was eventually taken and stored on the Acropolis for safekeeping, but when the cache was later opened, a sizeable amount was found to have gone. In the most humiliating moment of his political career, Demosthenes was implicated when the

²⁹⁴ Wallace (1989) 179–84; Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 388–93 (no. 79); Teegarden (2014) 85–112. ²⁹⁵ Plut. Dem. 24.2–3. ²⁹⁶ Harpalus affair and trials: Will (1983) 113–27; Engels (1989) 298–312; Worthington (1992) 41–77; (2000) 102–7; (2013) 313–24; MacDowell (2009) 409–14; Brun (2015) 253–86; Gottesman (2015) (n. 1 for further references); Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 229–31.

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Areopagus Council’s inquiry into the theft identified him as one of those who had taken money. Inquiry turned into a block of public trials (of at least eight politicians²⁹⁷) from which four speeches survive in full or in substantial part: three speeches written by Dinarchus for one of the official accusers, including a speech for Demosthenes’ trial (1, Against Demosthenes), and part of another speech for Demosthenes’ trial by none other than Demosthenes’ own long-time ally Hyperides, one of the state-appointed accusers (but initially perhaps a suspect himself ) (Against Demosthenes).²⁹⁸ There must have been tension in their relationship over the preceding few years, as Hyperides had apparently never worked actively for the maintaining of the (fragile) status quo in the way that Demosthenes had, especially in 324/3 itself (he could no doubt be represented as ‘drifting to the centre’ on the Macedonian issue as a whole). A political stitch-up here cannot be ruled out, not least because the other public figures successfully convicted on the issue were Demades, Athens’s leading pro-Macedonian politician, and Philocles, whose trajectory on the issue seems to have been the same as Demosthenes’ (Polyeuctus, also accused,²⁹⁹ was apparently acquitted). Rather than face a large fine, Demosthenes withdrew into self-imposed exile in the territory of Troezen, where he wrote the Letters attributed to him (or the four which seem likely to be authentic).³⁰⁰ I will leave him there for now, with the settings for all his surviving public speeches accounted for. Whether these texts were in something like the form familiar to us (even without taking textual transmission into account) is another matter. Demosthenes’ time in Troezen—some of it apparently spent in or near the sanctuary of Poseidon on Calauria,³⁰¹ where he was to return later—will have been an ideal period for thinking, writing, and perhaps developing projects aimed at career justification. How far we can use our texts of Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ speeches for the purposes of this book is the subject of the final section.

²⁹⁷ Summaries: Worthington (1992) 54–5; Whitehead (2000) 380–1. ²⁹⁸ Hyperides initially a suspect: Timocles, Delos fr. 4.7 with Apostolakis (2019) 39–40. ²⁹⁹ Din. 1.100, with Worthington (1992) 55 n. 77 and 270–1 (and 56 and n. 67 for likely acquittal). ³⁰⁰ On the Letters: Goldstein (1968); Clavaud (1987) 3–68; Worthington (2006) 99–134; Westwood (2016); and the Conclusion. ³⁰¹ As D. Ep. 2.20 makes clear (and cf. Paus. 1.8.2–3); Plut. Dem. 26.5 stresses Troezen (and Aegina); Calauria is introduced later, in 322 (29.1).

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1.7.1. Revision and Dissemination Unless Demosthenes and Aeschines’ public speeches were composed as free retrospective versions of what they had said in court or in the Assembly—which is just possible—then we must be dealing with versions arising from revised or unrevised pre-trial or pre-debate drafts, disseminated for the consumption of a reading audience, whether immediately afterwards or at a future date, and whether by Demosthenes and Aeschines themselves or not. Positing the making of drafts certainly makes sense in itself:³⁰² the Plutarchan tradition of Demosthenes as an avid preparer finds a root in Demosthenes’ own admission in Against Meidias (191–2) of how much he has rehearsed what he is going to say,³⁰³ as well as in Aeschines’ cruel joke at his opponent’s expense when recounting his flop in front of Philip at Pella (A. 2.35), when Demosthenes ‘lost his place in his notes’ (τῶν γεγραμμένων διεσφάλη)—the idea being that he had to memorize drafts and could not perform spontaneously. In the former actor Aeschines’ version, Philip (rather suspiciously) compares Demosthenes’ predicament specifically with an actor’s stage fright (ὥσπερ ἐν τοῖς θεάτροις).³⁰⁴ Aeschines is intent on giving his trial audience an image of a politician who cannot (like good citizens) give useful advice or perform the task of envoy with honest spontaneity, but constantly plays a role—and plays it badly. The assumption of some revision of drafts—by both orators, not just the assiduous self-scripter Demosthenes—is a necessity in the case of the speeches from the Crown trial, which show strong signs of it, and a likelihood in the case of the speeches from the Embassy trial, especially Aeschines’ On the Embassy, and it is likely that this revision was done by the orators themselves, perhaps reactively (and perhaps, if so, even in multiple stages).³⁰⁵ (I discuss these issues further in Chapters 5.1 and 6.1.) Tuplin (1998) has also argued that someone—presumably Demosthenes himself—made efforts to form at least some of the Assembly speeches into an internally coherent literary corpus. Demosthenes might have done this as career apologia and/or monumentalization either in the

³⁰² Drafts of Assembly speeches: Hansen (1984); Trevett (1996b) 437–41. ³⁰³ Plut. Dem. 8.3–6; [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 848c. ³⁰⁴ Guth (2015) 339–40. ³⁰⁵ Paulsen (1999) 431–46; MacDowell (2000a) 22–30; Yunis (2001) 26–7; Dover (1968) 168–70; Hubbard (2008) 193–200.

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wake of Chaeronea,³⁰⁶ at a time when he was under repeated attack in the courts, or else later—possibly (as I hinted in Chapter 1.6) after his conviction in the Harpalus affair had dealt a severe blow to his political integrity.³⁰⁷ It is interesting that we have, and indeed hear of, no text of a Demosthenic Assembly speech from beyond the end of his career-defining struggle with Philip. But, even so, we have no guarantee that Demosthenes released such a collection, even if he was the one who shaped it.³⁰⁸ While I think it possible that he disseminated some of his public speeches in his lifetime,³⁰⁹ the major piece of evidence (from Plutarch’s Demosthenes) which has sometimes been thought to support this idea cannot safely do so,³¹⁰ and we should take seriously the likelihood that at least the Assembly corpus was circulated (and perhaps even shaped via some judicious editing) after Demosthenes’ death, perhaps by Demochares, the orator’s nephew and natural ‘literary executor’ and certainly the most committed guardian of his political and oratorical legacy.³¹¹ That legacy was one which a collection like this could serve to showcase at a time when meaningful Athenian autonomy, as championed by Demosthenes, was a thing of the past. At any rate, the identity of the envisaged audience must have exercised control over how much, and what kind of, revision Demosthenes and Aeschines did (if we think at a minimum of the Crown and Embassy trial speeches for a moment). This is the most important consideration for us here, because we want to know whether we can treat these speeches as reflective of real law-court (and Assembly) dynamics. We have no evidence that either Demosthenes or Aeschines would want to release products which did not represent what was plausible for the venues concerned. One type of dissemination of speeches we can be

³⁰⁶ Cf. Cicero’s ‘consular speeches’ (Att. 2.1.3), probably aimed at sustaining personal authority in 60 (a low time for him), and explicitly inspired by Demosthenes’ Philippics: Cape (2002) 115–20; Dyck (2008) 10–12; Bishop (2019) 191–3. ³⁰⁷ His consistency attacked in the Harpalus trials: Din. 1.7–9, 31–6, 61–3, 99–104; Hyp. Dem. 20–2. ³⁰⁸ Trevett (1996b) 426–30. ³⁰⁹ See, e.g., Kennedy (1963) 206; Hansen (1984) 60–8; Milns (2000) 207–9. ³¹⁰ This is Plut. Dem. 11.4 (Aesion); see Westwood (2017b); Canfora (2018) 435–6; Trevett (2018) 428. ³¹¹ Demochares and Demosthenes’ influence on him: Culasso Gastaldi (1984) 127–57; Marasco (1984); Asmonti (2004); Cooper (2000) 235–7; (2009) 318–21; Bayliss (2011) 107–9; BNJ 75 (Dmitriev); Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 269–75 (notes); Sing (2017) 114–17; Canevaro (2018) 73–9. Possible editorial role: Canfora (2018) 436–7; Martin (2018) 463–4; with the Letters: Goldstein (1968) 24–5. See Conclusion.

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confident was happening—logographers giving copies of their speeches to potential clients—would lose its point if things were otherwise.³¹² While both Aeschines and Demosthenes must have been tempted, while revising (if revising), to update their material to reflect what they had managed to do in the delivery context or felt would improve their texts now, both may equally have felt constrained not to revise their drafts radically beyond what had actually happened in performance: the envisaged readership could well have overlapped substantially with those who had actually attended the trial or debate concerned. This point would only break down if we were to assume an envisaged readership who were not interested in reading speeches which responded reasonably closely to their real delivery context, but were instead interested purely in the ideas (the ‘pamphlet’ theory³¹³), or in crafted eloquence per se (whether for immediate consumption or for posterity).³¹⁴ Isocrates’ students would certainly qualify among hypothetical immediate consumers under such conditions, because most of the speeches Isocrates produced partly for their benefit were not intended for the real contexts they purport to reflect; Demosthenes might possibly have been targeting this type of audience too. But I do not think they were his primary audience if so. Let alone other types of reader, there were other types of learner in mid-fourth-century Athens too. Aeschines refers in Against Timarchus (346/5) to a group of young ‘students’ (τινὲς τῶν μαθητῶν) of Demosthenes who are in the trial audience as the orator’s intellectual acolytes (1.173; cf. 117), and whom Demosthenes will amuse later ‘in the company of his young men’ (ἐν τῇ τῶν μειρακίων διατριβῇ: 1.175; cf. διατριβὴν, also 175) by bragging about how he misled the jury.³¹⁵ Aeschines is no doubt exaggerating the master–pupil relationship to sustain the parallel he is making between Demosthenes and his

³¹² Logographic circulation: Dover (1968) 152–74; Usher (1976); possible circulation of Assembly speeches: Hansen (1984) 60–8; Edwards (2000); Milns (2000) 207–9; Hunt (2010) 271–4. ³¹³ Any ‘pamphlets’ that were produced must have been primarily for the benefit of readers outside Athens, as anyone in Athens wishing to understand (e.g.) Demosthenes’ political ideas could go to the Assembly (even non-Athenians, at least by 330: A. 3.224). Any readers beyond Athens might want to understand Demosthenes’ performance context, in any case, and prefer to see ‘realistic’-looking speeches. The ‘pamphlet’ theory: Adams (1912); Martin (2009) 11; Hunt (2010) 271–2. ³¹⁴ Worthington (1991a) 64–5. ³¹⁵ For the ‘intellectual’ use of διατριβή here, i.e. ‘school’ (supported by Σ 353 Dilts): Fisher (2001) 275; cf. Isoc. 12.17 and Speusippus, Letter 1 with Natoli (2004) 111–12. At 1.172, Aeschines refers to a ‘list’ (κατάλογος) of Demosthenes’ success stories; see the Conclusion on Demosthenes’ ‘pupil’ Cineas.

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‘students’ and Socrates (whom he calls ‘the sophist’)³¹⁶ and Critias. But his point must have a kernel of truth: it is interesting that when (in On the False Embassy of 343) Demosthenes refers to this part of Aeschines’ prosecution and gives quite a close paraphrase of A. 1.173–5 (at D. 19.242), he omits any mention of the ‘students’ (whom Aeschines then brings up again in passing—but unmistakably—at 2.156). So while Demosthenes was almost certainly not teaching rhetoric in the sense that (for example) Isocrates was, it does make sense to think of a loose group of young learners—aspiring politicians—‘shadowing’ Demosthenes’ public activities to get experience. Such learners would make a plausible readership for any dissemination of texts that Demosthenes wanted to do (as well as for his prooimia collection). They would want to read (or hear) material which reflected what was possible in real trials (and real debates): this would be the point of studying the practice of Demosthenes, who was now a significant politician, rather than (or, possibly, as well as) training with a professional rhetorician. This might have mattered particularly in the case of Assembly speeches because some of these young men might not yet have been old enough to attend it (Aeschines calls them μειράκια, 175). The limited (and late) evidence for Aeschines’ teaching methods in the school on Rhodes that he supposedly founded after leaving Athens also suggests that these involved learners listening to ‘real’ speeches, furnishing a possible context for Aeschines’ speech revision.³¹⁷ We should, therefore, assume that most of Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ speeches are either modestly revised or unrevised versions of what they drafted before a trial or debate, and can be used by us to explore the rhetorical dynamics of their live delivery contexts. In the case of the trial speeches, it makes sense to allow that the orators removed some awkward material (or material which had not worked in performance) and added some new material. Meanwhile, Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches do not obviously include anything that he could not have delivered in that context. His near failure to name his opponents—odd from our perspective—is true of all four surviving non-Demosthenic Assembly speeches too;³¹⁸ but Assembly orators certainly did name one another in performance, as the reports of Assembly discussions embedded

³¹⁶ For Socrates as ‘sophist’ here: Fisher (2001) 319–20; Edmunds (2006); cf. Lysias ‘the sophist’ in [D.] 59.21 (with Kapparis [1999] 211). ³¹⁷ Kindstrand (1982) 75–84 for the school; Carey (2005) 94–5 on why Aeschines might disseminate. ³¹⁸ The exception: Aristomedes in D. 10.70–4, for whom, see Harding (2006) 201–6. For the convention: Adams (1912) 15; Trevett (1996b) 432; Tuplin (1998) 302–3.

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in other speech texts make clear, though there may have been more restraint in this setting than in law-court contexts, which were necessarily more personalized.³¹⁹ In my view, the non-naming phenomenon is simply a further indication that our texts originate in drafts,³²⁰ made at a point when the orator could not be sure which other speakers he would be engaging with when making the policy pitch reflected in a given speech. He could supply names as necessary in performance, and other responses to previous speakers too—the important thing when drafting must have been to work out the detail of the argument.³²¹ However much or little we think Demosthenes may have revised his Assembly speeches in general, there may not have been much motivation to add at the revision stage the names of those he had engaged with on the day. For example, the young learners I have posited as a part of Demosthenes’ subsequent readership did not need them—while they will have wanted to study how the arguments were made in context, that did not mean they needed to see every aspect of that context reflected. In view of Tuplin’s case about corpus formation, some doubt over the precision of these speeches’ (especially the Assembly speeches’) evocation of their context must persist. One caveat that needs to be raised for this study is that the general likelihood of revision opens up the possibility that some of the historical material I discuss here was not part of the live performed version of a given speech. Therefore, in the analysis of historical material in the following chapters, I keep its likely effect on subsequent readers in view as well as its likely impact on a live audience.

1.7.2. Authenticity and Authorship I am happy to accept the authenticity of Aeschines’ three speeches and (limiting myself to the public part of the corpus, the focus of this book) of Demosthenes 1–6, 8–9,³²² 14–16, and 18–24. Brief working views on the remaining items follow.³²³

³¹⁹ Assembly exchanges could get very personal: see, e.g., D. 21.13; A. 1.110–11; D. 19.46 (and compare 6.29–30, clearly referring to the same event—an example of the restraint I posit in the main text, and used well for sinister effect here); D. 18.143; Plut. Phoc. 9.8–9. ³²⁰ So with Trevett (1996b), especially 436–41; (2018) 425. ³²¹ Plut. Dem. 8.1–2 mentions Demosthenes’ preoccupation with analysing the essence of arguments; remarks about his preparation and drafting immediately follow (8.3–6). ³²² On the issue of the longer and shorter versions of D. 9: Chapter 3.1 n. 9. ³²³ Hunt (2010) 274–5 and Trevett (2018) 419–22 offer valuable summaries.

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I reject the authenticity of [D.] 25 and 26 (Against Aristogeiton I and II) and think it very unlikely that they were intended for a practical context, whatever their date.³²⁴ I do not consider them in this book. I also reject (as most do) the authenticity of [D.] 7 (On Halonnesus), 11 (Reply to Philip’s Letter), and 17 (On the Treaty with Alexander). Although happy to follow other scholars in provisionally accepting Hegesippus’ authorship of [D.] 7 on the (informed, but correctly informed?) testimony of Libanius, I regard this identification as probable but not certain.³²⁵ I am content to see [D.] 17 (whoever wrote it) as a genuine product of its professed setting, like [D.] 7.³²⁶ I am agnostic on whether or not Philip sent [D.] 12 (Philip’s Letter). I support the authenticity of Demosthenes 10 (Fourth Philippic);³²⁷ counterarguments have often been predicated on the assumption that Demosthenes would not repeat material, and this assumption is probably mistaken.³²⁸ Other arguments against the speech’s authenticity are not convincing. Demosthenes 13 (On Organization), by contrast, is an especially difficult case.³²⁹ Although I have accepted its authenticity (and analysed one of its more singular historical illustrations) elsewhere,³³⁰ the sheer number of other Demosthenic speeches with which it shares material still makes me uncomfortable. It is difficult to explain this and simultaneously uphold the speech’s authenticity unless we posit that the speech was a favourite with its author and that he was happy to plunder it repeatedly over the following decade—which might in turn point to its never having been delivered. Authenticity has recently come under

³²⁴ Inauthentic, therefore, both in authorship and in occasion, applying Todd’s useful distinction: (1990) 166–7; (2007) 30. Harris (2018) 193–236 makes many points against authenticity. [D.] 25 has advocates: e.g. MacDowell (2009) 310–13; Martin (2009) 10–11, 182–202; O’Connell (2017) 179. ³²⁵ See, e.g., Davies (2011) 13–16. It certainly seems to be by someone on Hegesippus’ embassy ([D.] 7.2). ³²⁶ Discussions and dating: Cawkwell (1961); Culasso Gastaldi (1984) 159–83; Will (1983) 67–70; Herrman (2009b) 180–4; Hunt (2010) 275; Hitchings (2017) in detail (preferring late 334–late 333). ³²⁷ Against authenticity: Pearson (1976) 155–7; Milns (1987). Supporting authenticity: Worthington (1991b); (2013) 224–8; Sealey (1993) 232–3; Tuplin (1998) 291–2. MacDowell (2009) 354–5 and Hunt (2010) 274–5 are uncertain. Dionysius accepts it and dates to 341/0 (Amm. 1.10). ³²⁸ See D. 24.159 (with Trevett [1994] 186 n. 17); Din. 1.14–17 is reused at Din. 3.17. ³²⁹ D. 13: no mention in D.H. Against authenticity: Sealey (1993) 235–7; Radicke (1995) 34 n. 122; Milns (2000) 205; Badian (2000) 44 n. 70; Sing (2017). Supporting authenticity: Trevett (1994); (2011) 224–5; Lane Fox (1997) 191–5. Balance: Cawkwell (1963b) 48 with n. 9; (1969b) 328–9; Aidonis (1995) 27–32; Usher (1999) 215–17; MacDowell (2009) 223–9; Worthington (2013) 130–2; Canevaro (2019) 147 n. 36. ³³⁰ Westwood (2017c); (2018b) 352 and n. 23.

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thoughtful attack from Sing (2017). This is not the place to assess his arguments in detail, but until they are satisfactorily countered, I am content to use this speech only for comparison (when discussing the Third Olynthiac and Against Aristocrates, with which it shares material) and in footnotes, and I do mention a particularly distinctive passage of it in the Conclusion.

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2 Demosthenes’ Early Career Against Leptines and Other Speeches

2.1. INTRODUCTION AND OVERVIEW I begin by examining the way historical material is shaped and communicated in Demosthenes’ four early law-court speeches. These are all part of prosecutions, and were all delivered within the period 355/4–353/2. I concentrate particularly on Against (the Law of) Leptines (355/4),¹ which was delivered by Demosthenes himself, but I consider it against the backdrop of three other speeches, all written for clients: Against Androtion (355/4)² and Against Timocrates (354/3 or 353/2),³ both written for Diodorus, and Against Aristocrates (353/2 or 352/1),⁴ written for Euthycles.⁵ Both these clients are known only from these speeches, which means that plotting any other relationship they had with Demosthenes is a speculative exercise—I mention Euthycles’ case later in this section. Although neither client says much about himself, enough comes through in the rhetorical framings of issues which Demosthenes writes

¹ Date: D.H. Amm. 1.4; Harris (2008) 17; Kremmydas (2012) 33–4; Canevaro (2016) 8–11. ² Date: D.H. Amm. 1.4; Harris (2008) 168, with n. 11 for references. ³ Date: D.H. Amm. 1.4 gives 353/2; Harris (2018) 109–10, with n. 9 for references. ⁴ Date: D.H. Amm. 1.4 gives 352/1; Harris (2018) 20, with n. 13 for references; on balance I tend to agree with Lane Fox (1997) 185–6, 202–3 (whose dating is endorsed by Roisman [2006] 99, 166–7) that the references to Philip in Against Aristocrates are more consistent with a pre-Crocus Plain context. ⁵ Named as the speaker by Dionysius (Amm. 1.4); see also Σ ad A. 3.52 (113 Dilts); Lib. hyp. 1; anon. hyp. 2; see Martin (2009) 119–22 for a detailed treatment. Demosthenes is unlikely to be the speaker (pace Sealey [1993] 131), because he could not credibly disclaim political connections by 353/2. The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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for them to generate a sense of how they wanted their public profiles to be perceived by audiences, and we will see that historical material plays a significant role in articulating those, especially in the second halves of Against Timocrates and Against Aristocrates. Against Leptines is a different matter: past-based argumentation is an indispensable part of this speech, mediating basic elements of the prosecution’s case and seeking to draw Demosthenes’ opponents into a clash about the fundamentals of Athens’s character as a city (ēthos: e.g. 20.64) and what the civic past should mean in the present. The speech, therefore, serves as an invaluable opportunity both to assess Demosthenes’ command of the strategic potential of the Athenian past at an early stage of his career and to examine how a dynamic, confident, and (largely) unified set of visions of it, and a polemical conception of their relevance to the present, could be articulated—and possible avenues of contestation anticipated—in a situation where we lack any speeches from the opposing side. Against Leptines⁶ belongs squarely within the atmosphere of public discussion of how best to recover financially from the recently concluded Social War.⁷ The prosecution identifies as inexpedient a law proposed by the politician Leptines in 356 to remove honorific exemptions (ateleiai) from liturgical duty from all those so honoured apart from the senior descendants of Harmodius and Aristogeiton;⁸ the idea was to get more of Athens’s wealthiest men contributing, though the subtext of Demosthenes’ biased account in the speech seems to be that Leptines was targeting a subset of honorands who were not generally felt to deserve the ateleiai. We should certainly proceed from the assumption that Leptines’ law was a reasonable response to the climate of retrenchment and rationalization associated with Eubulus: it was apparently fully enacted (though the confusing language Demosthenes uses to talk about its status in the speech does make complete certainty difficult).⁹ Leptines faced some attacks on his law, though, including by one Bathippus, who died before his case could come to court: Demosthenes speaks now as second synēgoros to Bathippus’ son, Apsephion; the first synēgoros was

⁶ Discussions of the case, the issue, and the speech (D. 20): Sandys (1890) xviii–xxxiii; Usher (1999) 192–8; Harris (2008) 15–21; MacDowell (2009) 156–67; Canevaro (2009) 117–33; (2016), especially 8–11, 33–100; Kremmydas (2012), especially 45–58; Worthington (2013) 80–3. ⁷ For interpretations of political factions at the time: Burke (2002) 177–9; Canevaro (2009) 123–33; (2016) 37–46; Kremmydas (2012) 39–42. ⁸ Honours for the tyrannicides and their descendants: Introduction n. 7. Summary on ateleiai, including comment on Against Leptines: Engen (2010) 187–92. ⁹ Kremmydas (2012) 2; Canevaro (2016) 180–1; though see Calabi Limentani (1982).

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an otherwise unknown Phormion.¹⁰ The procedure the prosecution were using was the graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai (i.e. aimed at a law identified by the prosecution as unsuitable).¹¹ This was focused (given the time lapse¹² and very probable implementation of the law in the meantime) on the law itself rather than on Leptines personally; and it was an obligatory part of this that the prosecution should propose an alternative law.¹³ Demosthenes emphasizes very strongly (with a public pledge: 20.100, 137) that he and Phormion will do just that, and see it through. Why was Demosthenes involved at all?¹⁴ The speech’s opening words give his reasons: because he sees the law as damaging to the state (20.1), and because it disadvantages the young son of Chabrias, Ctesippus, the hereditary recipient of the ateleia awarded to his famous father (εἶτα καὶ τοῦ παιδὸς εἵνεκα τοῦ Χαβρίου). Scholars usually play down a personal connection between Demosthenes and the family of Chabrias, and it is admittedly hard to be confident about one if we discount ‘evidence’ like Dinarchus’ later claim that Demosthenes’ involvement in what he calls a ‘defence of Ctesippus’ (λέγοντος ὑπὲρ Κτησίππου, 1.111) was driven by money (μισθοῦ), and Plutarch’s much later story that Demosthenes was wooing Chabrias’ widow (Dem. 15.3). More important, though—as we will see in detail in Chapter 2.3—is the symbolic importance of Chabrias, and his great achievements, for Demosthenes’ case. Demosthenes’ core argument in Against Leptines is that the law (which debarred future conferral of ateleiai as well as rescinding most of the grants previously made) threatens to ruin Athens’s reputation on the international stage and is false to Athens’s historical identity in privileging momentary practical exigencies over the consistent enacting of behaviour intrinsic to the city’s character. Although not free of consideration of practical implications—for example, the possible impact on Athens’s grain supply of upsetting Leucon, ruler of the Bosporan Kingdom, by removing his ateleia, or the possible impact on future benefaction—the speech concentrates mainly on the broader task of exploring symbolic implications: what removing these awards will say to others about Athens and its present ¹⁰ Phormion: D. 20.2, 51, 100, 159. The focus of his speech has proved hard to pin down beyond this: Kremmydas (2012) 42–3; Canevaro (2016) 281–2, 422–3. Hermogenes had a go: Meth. 24 Rabe. ¹¹ For this procedure: Hansen (1999) 212; Kremmydas (2012) 45–53; Canevaro (2016) 12–32. ¹² D. 20.144; Arg. 2 ad D. 20 3–4 Weil; cf. D. 23.92. ¹³ On this: MacDowell (2009) 159–61; Kremmydas (2012) 45–50 (and cf. 24–33); Canevaro (2016) 356–7, 399. ¹⁴ Canevaro (2016) 64–70.

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idea of itself. In doing so, it offers a vigorous ideological challenge to the post-Social War consensus (backed up by the alternative law).¹⁵ Against Leptines also sees Demosthenes developing his strategic deployment of the Athenian past as a continuum of excellence with its own internal logic: a logic Leptines’ law endangers. Demosthenes also channels similar arguments through his clients in the other three speeches considered here. In each case, the symbolic use of the past is brought into more explicit association with topoi of antiestablishment rhetoric familiar both from oratory and from comedy to help mediate a claim to be seen as a valid critic of the current political line-up.¹⁶ Against Androtion¹⁷ was delivered by Diodorus as synēgoros to Euctemon in a graphē paranomōn prosecution (i.e. aimed a decree identified as unlawful or unconstitutional by the prosecution).¹⁸ This sought to derail the veteran politician Androtion’s attempt to crown the outgoing Boule as well as to damage his personal credit with accusations of past prostitution. Against Timocrates¹⁹ was delivered by Diodorus as principal prosecutor in a graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai prosecution of the experienced politician Timocrates for a proposed law which relaxed the treatment of public debtors, allowing them to nominate three sureties and avoid prison (unless the debt were not paid back by the ninth prytany). In both these speeches, Demosthenes writes Diodorus wide-ranging indictments of the political class which go significantly further than he does himself in Against Leptines but which also openly cast the alleged criminality of Androtion and Timocrates in terms of historical events and traditional Athenian standards of behaviour. Meanwhile, in Against Aristocrates,²⁰ another graphē paranomōn prosecution aimed at scotching Aristocrates’ proposal that the dēmos grant special recognition to the former mercenary general, now Athenian citizen, Charidemus (i.e. that anyone who killed him should be liable to arrest and/or surrendered to Athenian justice on pain of sanctions), Demosthenes offers (via Euthycles) a rhetorical navigation through the familiar ¹⁵ For a reading of the speech on these lines: Canevaro (2009) 136–7. ¹⁶ For a study of these topoi: Carey (2016). ¹⁷ Discussions of the case, the issues, and the speech (D. 22): Usher (1999) 198–201; Rowe (2000); Harris (2008) 167–70; MacDowell (2009) 167–81; Worthington (2013) 71–8. ¹⁸ On the graphē paranomōn procedure, see the detailed summary in Hansen (1999) 205–12. ¹⁹ Discussions of the case, the issues, and the speech (D. 24): Usher (1999) 201–4; Roisman (2006) 103–14; MacDowell (2009) 181–96; Wohl (2010) 292–300, 309–16; Worthington (2013) 103–5; Harris (2018) 108–17. ²⁰ Discussions of the case, the issues, and the speech (D. 23): Papillon (1998); Usher (1999) 204–9; Roisman (2006) 96–103; MacDowell (2009) 196–206; Worthington (2013) 110–14; Harris (2018) 17–28.

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honours discourse which has much in common—in reverse—with what happens in Against Leptines and in some of Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches. We do not need to assume that Demosthenes, Diodorus, and Euthycles formed (or were part of) a political group in their own right (or the same group).²¹ An independent personal connection between Demosthenes and Euthycles seems possible,²² as both served as trierarchs in the north-east Aegean (both probably in 360/59), and it is likely that both were subsequently involved somehow in the successful prosecution of the compromised commanding general Cephisodotus (who was spared execution by a mere three votes at the penalty assessment stage: 23.167);²³ indeed, the two of them could have been age-mates.²⁴ Aeschines claims later that Demosthenes ‘turned prosecutor’ on Cephisodotus, who was a family friend (3.51–2); that may be exaggerated,²⁵ but the family friendship may be real: the speaker of Demosthenes’ On the Trierarchic Crown (of 360/59) certainly speaks of having the support of a Cephisodotus (51.1). That speech has very similar criticisms of the political establishment (51.19–21) to those we find in Against Aristocrates (146–7), and was probably delivered by Demosthenes himself or by a client (perhaps Euthycles?)—and this is not the only passage which connects the two speeches.²⁶ Further than that we cannot go. The important point is that what Demosthenes is doing is allowing his clients to frame their arguments in terms which enhance the ethical complexion of their cases— using the past to show how their conception of the right way of doing things (honouring generals, treating the laws responsibly, etc.) is itself the right one—and, if relevant, burnishing the personal image they would present to the dēmos as gathered as jury and informal audience for the trial in hand. This does suggest that Diodorus and Euthycles, like Demosthenes, were youngish men intent on a political career, and while I think that assumption is correct in Diodorus’ case (whereas Euthycles explicitly disclaims political connections: 23.5²⁷), it is not particularly safe: Demosthenes is, as we will see, clearer about his own ambitions in

²¹ As Jaeger did: (1938) 100, 233. ²² Papillon (1998) 202; Badian (2000) 24–5. ²³ For this Cephisodotus’ identity: Harding (1994) 114–16. ²⁴ Age-mates supporting one another in litigation: e.g. Nausicles supporting Aeschines (A. 2.184); Rubinstein (2000) 149, 168–9. ²⁵ Demosthenes could have been called as a prosecution witness (plausible given his service as trierarch): Schaefer (1885–7) 1.453 n. 5; Davies (1971) 135–6; Badian (2000) 18; MacDowell (2009) 134. Euthycles’ own involvement is clearer: D. 23.5. ²⁶ See also D. 51.9 and 23.130. Libanius assigned D. 51 to Apollodorus, but modern scholars have not followed him: Bers (2003) 39. ²⁷ See Martin (2009) 120–1.

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Against Leptines than Diodorus is about his. The crucial thematic unifier among the four speeches is the commitment to exposing the decree or law being proposed (or sustained) as a reflection of a political consensus which is not a benign consensus and which is holding Athens back—and to demonstrating that this is something which affects private citizens like Euthycles as much as those closely involved in politics. This consensus is, of course, itself partly a rhetorical construct—in Against Leptines, for example, Demosthenes rarely makes the link explicit between his opponents and the wider political line-up imagined as pernicious for Athens, and then only in passing. Eubulus, principal architect of the consensus, in fact comes out of the speech positively, as does Diophantus.²⁸ What Demosthenes does undertake, for rhetorical reasons, is a welding of his opponents—the four syndikoi (official advocates) appointed to join Leptines in defending his law²⁹—into a singleminded whole. But that does not mean that we should follow him. Aristophon, Leodamas, Cephisodotus of Cerameis (not the failed general), and Deinias were a distinguished but probably a politically disparate group united by the need to support measures designed to relieve Athens’s economic problems, rather than the faction ranged round Aristophon found in older scholarship.³⁰ Attempts to place Androtion and Timocrates politically have put too much weight on the flimsy evidence for Androtion’s training with Isocrates,³¹ and while Androtion’s exaction of arrears of eisphora—one of the things Demosthenes/Diodorus uses historical parallels to criticize in Against Androtion and Against Timocrates—might have been part of the same sociopolitical atmosphere as Leptines’ law,³² any easy connection is undermined by the likelihood that Leptines himself was one of Androtion’s targets (D. 22.60).³³ Aristocrates and his political alignment, meanwhile, are an enigma, not addressed in the course of Demosthenes’/Euthycles’ ²⁸ D. 20.137–8, where Demosthenes contrasts their decision not to pursue the personal enemies they have among the questionable ateleia-holders with the meaner (alleged) behaviour of the syndikoi. The existence of known enmities between, e.g., Eubulus and Aristophon need not lead us into a factional reading of the trial itself (pace Jaeger [1938] 55–67; Sealey [1955a] 78–80). ²⁹ Leptines, the syndikoi, and their careers: Canevaro (2009) 119–23; (2016) 34–6; Kremmydas (2012) 36–8. ³⁰ See n. 28; also Rubinstein (2000) 172 (and cf. the mix of prosecutors in the Harpalus trials: Worthington [1992] 53); Martin (2009) 240–2; Canevaro (2009) 123–34; (2016) 37–46; Kremmydas (2012) 40–2. ³¹ Rowe (2000) and (2002) depend on this, but see Harding (1994) 17–19. ³² Harris (2018) 109, with n. 8. ³³ Sealey (1993) 113; Harris (2008) 191 n. 88; Kremmydas (2012) 38; Canevaro (2016) 33, 38.

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speech. The confused picture is a salutary reminder of key aspects of Athenian factional politics: each political actor had to negotiate competing obligations (like Demosthenes his family friendship with Cephisodotus the general); factions could be short-lived or hold for years; they could be based on policy stances or on personalities, or both; and specific purposes (like litigation—or indeed service on a panel of syndikoi, as in the trial on Leptines’ law) could sometimes pull in completely different directions individual politicians who were otherwise quite closely associated, producing peculiar ad hoc alignments.³⁴ A relevant common element shared by Leptines and the four syndikoi and by Diodorus’ two opponents is their experience, and that must be what made the past an appropriate battleground for Demosthenes when planning his strategies for the four trials under consideration. All the opponents in question could be expected to have a well-honed knowledge of the city’s past and to be able to marshal it effectively in their speeches. How some of them might typically do so might have been a matter of common knowledge. Androtion wrote several historical works, including an Atthis.³⁵ Aristophon was living history (as we shall see again in Chapter 5), an elder statesman honoured for his services to the democracy as long ago as 403 (D. 20.148), which means that his political existence had spanned most of the very events that Against Leptines draws on for persuasive effect; Demosthenes would have to package them effectively. Cephisodotus of Cerameis and Leodamas were, according to Demosthenes and Aeschines respectively (as well as Aristotle), very skilled speakers.³⁶ Successful deployment of the past against these adversaries—and successful anticipation and refutation of their versions of it—would have an especially high impact on how the orator in question was perceived by the viewing public. Demosthenes’ investment in his historical material in Against Leptines—something apparently shared with his shadowy fellow synēgoros Phormion (cf. 20.51, 159)— therefore looks strongly like a strategy designed explicitly to address one ³⁴ See, e.g., D. 19.291. Such differences could be managed courteously: cf. Hyp. Eux. 12 (Lycurgus on the other side, but spoken well of by Hyperides nonetheless), with Whitehead (2000) 196–7. ³⁵ Androtion: FGrHist 324; Jacoby (1954) 85–106 (plus commentary); Moscati Castelnuovo (1980); Harding (1994); (2008) 7; BNJ 324 (Jones); Thomas (2019) 341–5. ³⁶ At least three, and possibly four, out of the five members of the defence team appear in Aristotle’s Rhetoric (Leptines: 1411a5–6; Leodamas: 1364a19–23; Aristophon: 1398a4–7; and quite possibly Cephisodotus, if he is the right one: 1411a6–11, 23–4, 28–9). Leodamas, as the (son or) grandson of Phaeax and nephew (?) of another Leodamas (Davies [1971] 521–4) was oratorical royalty. On Phaeax’s oratory: Piccirilli (1995) 8–11; Vanotti (1995) 121–8; for Leodamas’ own skills, A. 3.139; and Arist. Rhet. 1400a32–6 and Lys. 26.13–14 for ‘uncle’ Leodamas (?), though Traill in PAA (605085) thinks the two might be identical.

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of the syndikoi’s key advantages (experience), while the welding of them into a consensus seeks to counteract any credibility the diversity of their policy positions (and therefore their representativeness as a body) might bring them. For Demosthenes, what matters is that they can be associated in the jurors’ minds with the defective grasp of Athens’s true character which he represents Leptines’ law as exposing in those who framed it—and that he, by contrast, can represent himself and his fellow prosecutors as fully in touch with it and as reliable mediators of it. One such anticipation is Demosthenes’ prediction (112) that Leptines will claim that past Athenians did not ask for special honours, but were content with commemoration ‘in the Herms area’ (ἐν τοῖς Ἑρμαῖς); he calls this a procheiros logos, a ‘handy’ or ‘readily available’ argument, and says that Leptines might quote ‘the inscription/epigram’ on the Herms (καὶ ἴσως τοῦθ’ ὑμῖν ἀναγνώσεται τὸ ἐπίγραμμα). This is something we find Aeschines doing in Against Ctesiphon in 330, in another graphē paranomōn prosecution with civic honours as the point at issue; he quotes all three inscribed epigrams (3.183–5). These Herms, the Eion Herms (mentioned in the Introduction) were probably a popular resort for orators,³⁷ and as a result possibly harder to make original or exciting: if Demosthenes did have reason to think Leptines would use this illustration, his anticipation of it now would mean that Leptines would either have to abandon it or have to work a lot harder to make his usage compelling; this could, however, be a ‘false’ anticipation aimed at promoting the same impression: that Leptines’ banal historical usage meant he was not properly committed to his argument. If Leptines did plan to use the illustration, it was presumably as part of a strategy of valorizing the accomplishments of Athenians who did not get bronze statues, i.e. before 393—when Conon was awarded the first state-commissioned bronze statue since the tyrannicides (20.70).³⁸ This is the way Aeschines uses it in Against Ctesiphon (3.183–5), and there is a similar passage in Against Aristocrates (see Chapter 2.3). Demosthenes is clearly aware that this mode of deployment is likely, because he observes that different times bring different honorific practices (20.114) and later makes an unusual division between the laws his

³⁷ Introduction n. 9, and here Kremmydas (2012) 282; Canevaro (2016) 374–5. I push here against Jacoby’s argument ([1945] 195–202) that Leptines manipulated the Herm epigrams to suit his case in the original proposal of the law on ateleiai; hence Aeschines’ later citation in Against Ctesiphon: Chapter 6.4. The issue of the absence of the honorands’ names could probably be pulled different ways according to oratorical need, as with the Marathon painting Aeschines describes next (see Hobden [2007a] 496). ³⁸ Shear (2007a) 107–9; (2011) 275–80; Domingo Gygax (2016), 125–6, 192–6.

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audience’s ‘early ancestors’ (οἱ πρῶτοι τῶν προγόνων: 118) followed and the laws under which the ateleiai now targeted by Leptines’ law were granted. He, therefore, also has a (not particularly close³⁹) counterexample ready: the honorific grant made to Lysimachus (Aristides’ son), by ‘decree of Alcibiades’ (whether the familiar one or an earlier family member) (115).⁴⁰ Lysimachus might well have been a figure unfamiliar to Demosthenes’ audience, and it is interesting that he has lost his association here with his father, Aristides—presumably the reason for the honours in the first place. That might be a sign of Demosthenic ignorance, but it is more likely that he is suppressing the connection with Aristides here to make his example feel more interesting—i.e. not like a run-of-the-mill procheiros logos; the tying-in of the familiar and edgy name of Alcibiades at the same time ensures that the example does not feel recherché, while the mention of his decree ties the grants down to a dēmos-approved document—probably one of the infamous fourthcentury forgeries. Demosthenes then follows the example up with an expression of hope that the city will soon be in a position to make other grants of that kind again, though it may not be at present (νῦν δ’ εὐπορήσει, 115). This is a very good nutshell example of Demosthenes’ main strategy in Against Leptines: using historical material to interpret— and to expose as insufficiently attentive to Athens’s core identity—the thinking behind the current economic and political consensus. The consensus-bashing we see here does not rule out a specific political or factional affiliation for Demosthenes at this point—he probably did have patrons of some sort. He almost certainly had personal biases. One of two lengthy encomiastic passages in Against Leptines is devoted to the now dead Chabrias (75–87), and this, combined with Demosthenes’ upfront declaration of sponsorship of the cause of Ctesippus (whether in the state’s interests or because of a personal connection), must have struck audiences as implying a genuine regard for Chabrias. If we want to see such a genuine regard, then Demosthenes’ other speeches (where Chabrias is never mentioned negatively, and often positively) certainly bear it out: in Against Aristocrates, for example, Demosthenes/Euthycles seems to go out of his way to exonerate Chabrias for failing to resolve the situation in the north-east Aegean on succeeding Cephisodotus in the command there (23.171–2). This means that when Demosthenes criticizes Leodamas—quite bitingly—for ³⁹ Gauthier (1985) 94 n. 49. ⁴⁰ Davies (1971) 51–2 (showing that this must be a forgery; endorsed by Harris [2008] 57 n. 153); Kremmydas (2012) 385–8; Canevaro (2016) 376–7; Domingo Gygax (2016) 177–8.

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his record of hounding Chabrias in the courts (20.146–7), that criticism might well be intended to stick at a political level.⁴¹ Demosthenes’ specific target here is Leodamas’ opposition to an award to Chabrias which included ateleia (probably after his victory at Naxos in 376), but the audience would also have in their minds the Oropus trials of 366/5, where Leodamas had been one of Chabrias’ and Callistratus’ accusers (using reverse arguments in each of the two trials, according to Aristotle: Rhet. 1364a21–3). As we saw in Chapter 1.6, the Oropus trials are likely to have had a formative effect on the 17- or 18-year-old Demosthenes, and although both distinguished defendants were acquitted, Leodamas’ persistence may have stuck in Demosthenes’ mind, to go no further than that; that of one of the other prosecutors, Philostratus, certainly did.⁴² The difficulties involved in trying to find political relationships for Demosthenes beyond even this kind of (ultimately unverifiable) individual sense of affinity, though, can be demonstrated by how he negotiates the fallout from the recent Embata trials—i.e. by saying nothing, at least directly—about the trials themselves.⁴³ A nakedly political affair, these trials had seen Aristophon and Chares damage irreparably the political credit of a group cemented by marriage (at least since 362, probably earlier): Timotheus, Iphicrates, and Iphicrates’ son Menestheus (married to Timotheus’ daughter).⁴⁴ Though Menestheus returned to public life later,⁴⁵ the two older men—two of Athens’s foremost recent leaders— were gone for good. Demosthenes’ near failure to mention them may have seemed political, as may his decision to devote Against Leptines’ other lengthy encomiastic passage to Timotheus’ father Conon (67–74). Conon would connote Timotheus for a popular audience—for example, their dēmos-voted statues stood side by side in the Agora and are regularly

⁴¹ Leodamas vs Chabrias: Bearzot (1990) 96–7; MacDowell (2009) 157–8 (tentatively); Kremmydas (2012) 38, 425–7; Canevaro (2016) 409–11. ⁴² See D. 21.64, where Demosthenes uses the formulation ‘we all know’ (πάντες ἴσμεν): very rare for him. ⁴³ Embata trials and dating: Sealey (1955a) 74; Hansen (1975) 101–2 (356/5 date; see also Worthington [1992] 154; Harris [2008] 67 n. 179; and Kremmydas [2012] 37); also Harris (1989b) 271 and n. 27; Bianco (1997) 202–7. A 354/3 date for Timotheus’ trial is preferred by Cawkwell (1962b) 45–9; Sealey (1993) 112; and Harding (2008) 151. Readers who prefer a 354/3 date will wish to adjust the comments that follow to reflect a situation where Timotheus’ group was under threat after the delivery of Chares’ letter (D.S. 16.21.4— Diodorus supports a 356/5 date) rather than already ruined. ⁴⁴ The marriage: [D.] 49.66: Harris (1988a) 51 (date: 370/69–367/6) vs, e.g., Davies (1971) 250–1, 509 (date: 362). For the collapse of this group: Sinclair (1988) 168–9. ⁴⁵ Later activity: [D.] 17.20 (stratēgos); trierarchies: IG II² 1622.199, 723, and 731–2; 1623.47–8: see Davies (1971) 250–1.

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mentioned together in our sources.⁴⁶ Significantly perhaps—as we shall see in Chapter 2.3—the only actual appearance by Timotheus and Iphicrates (84–5) is embedded in the encomium of Chabrias. It is apparently neutral in tone,⁴⁷ and is overtly given the status of an aside: Demosthenes aligns the two generals with Chabrias in their capacity as recipients of honours while he waits for the clerk to find the copy of the decree of Chabrias’ honours which will be read soon after (86).⁴⁸ There are similarities with how he writes Iphicrates into Against Aristocrates two years later as a fallen hero (23.129–33), seemingly constructed to stand comparison with Themistocles, as we will see. In all these decisions, Demosthenes seems to be resisting placement within any factional matrices resulting from the post-Embata fallout. The past he wants to be defined by is the past defined by the individuals he does discuss, Conon and Chabrias: and he covers Chabrias’ career right from its early successes in the early 380s, such that Chabrias can function as a representative of Athens’s glorious past, available for paradigmatic usage, as much as a well-remembered figure who had died—possibly rather ingloriously—in the harbour at Chios as recently as 356. The encomia (as well as other features in Against Leptines), therefore, indirectly profess a sort of spiritual allegiance to these ‘better’ Athenian leaders which transcends the current political map, and underpins Demosthenes’ overall vision of a present-day Athens which has lost its way (as, on his logic, the acceptance of Leptines’ law demonstrates), where there are no more heroes,⁴⁹ and where (again, on his logic) Leptines’ law will see to it that no more can emerge. However, Demosthenes’ use of the past—and valorization of correct attitudes to the past, as we will see—works as an important proxy for self-recommendation (there is little or no overt self-recommendation in the speech), and that in turn advertises a personal commitment to changing the situation: to putting the Athenians back in touch with the wider significance and resonance of the decisions they make. We find similar (but less developed) constructions in the three speeches for clients: although historical content only plays a major role in the second halves of Against ⁴⁶ See Chapter 1.1 n. 49. ⁴⁷ The point here is that if Chabrias had asked the dēmos to honour any subordinates of his as Timotheus and Iphicrates did, they would have done so (and indeed a shady subordinate of Chabrias does show up at a safe distance from this passage: 20.133). We might be led by the view of such subordinates taken at D. 23.202–3 to see a negative reflection on Timotheus and Iphicrates here, but Strabax and Polystratus at least seem to have been intimately connected with Athenian success: Arist. Rhet. 1399b2; D. 4.24. ⁴⁸ For strategic use of this kind of interval: D. 21.108–13. ⁴⁹ Cf. D.S. 16.85.7.

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Timocrates and Against Aristocrates, it is an optional extra in neither: in Against Timocrates, the main historical examples grow naturally out of the discussion of the laws, while in Against Aristocrates they play a key role in making one of this carefully constructed speech’s three guiding arguments,⁵⁰ i.e. that honouring Charidemus in this way is not in Athens’s interests (cf. 23.18). I now move to show how Demosthenes’ structured featuring of themes of past resistance to tyranny and anti-democratic elements helps shape his assault on the case to be mounted by the defence syndikoi in Against Leptines and the defendants in the other 350s trials. All are represented as anti-Athenian and to a greater or lesser degree threatening, while Demosthenes, by effacing his own personality and mobilizing the city’s reputation to act as proxy for him, proclaims impeccable democratic credentials and motivations. In Chapter 2.3, I examine in more detail how the encomia of Conon and Chabrias and allusions to other politicians enable Demosthenes subtly to articulate his own political ambitions—to take a stand against the prevailing political orthodoxy he implies that the syndikoi represent. By deploying his examples authoritatively and coherently, he lays claim to the kind of privileged position that they enjoy—and (perhaps) misuse. Fundamentally, he does so only by implication—his claim to notice is founded not on points of personality but on his compelling picture of how Athens could be.

2.2. DEMOCRACY IN DANGER? Before Demosthenes spoke against Leptines’ law, Phormion did. Two relevant aspects of his speech are referred to by Demosthenes: that he went through (διεξελήλυθε) examples of past Athenian benefactors who had helped at times of serious crisis (τηλικούτων καὶ τοιούτων καιρῶν) (20.51),⁵¹ and that he said at least something about the Demophantus stele (159).⁵² Demosthenes links his own discussion of crises with Phormion’s (κἀγὼ νῦν εἴρηκα, ‘and that I have just discussed’: 51), which means that it must be right to posit shared themes here, and a team ⁵⁰ Signalled as such at 23.18, praised by Hermogenes, Id. 236–7 Rabe as an example of eukrineia; Papillon (1998) 27–30, 78–80. ⁵¹ This need not, as Kremmydas (2012) 42 suggests, refer to Social War benefactions; the phrasing is quite general. ⁵² On this stele and oath: Chapter 1.1 n. 57, with Kremmydas (2012) 445–6 and Canevaro (2016) 422–3 on its usage by Phormion here.

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strategy, i.e. members of teams of litigants using similar (or complementary, and perhaps cross-referenced) material, pitched in different ways.⁵³ This is a trial-specific version of the kind of behaviour I canvassed in Chapter 1.4 for the anti-Macedonians in public contexts after Chaeronea (see further Chapter 6). The theme of the possibility of a resurgence of anti-democratic government is essential to Against Leptines and the two Diodorus speeches. It allows Demosthenes and Diodorus to fashion themselves as impeccably democratic, with a reassuring commitment to fundamental aspects of the city’s democratic history and character; and it allows them to signpost either overtly (in the Diodorus speeches) or by implication (in Against Leptines) a link between their opponents and the sinister and (according to them) never quite quelled forces of anti-democracy. This involves the activation of memories and traditions connected with the Peisistratids (and Harmodius and Aristogeiton’s murder of Hipparchus), the Four Hundred (and their deposition, memorialized in the Demophantus stele), and the Thirty (toppled by the men of Phyle/Piraeus), and the sustained association of these well-known caucuses of civic memory with other arguments. This strategy is particularly visible in Against Leptines, where Demosthenes constantly reminds us of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, encouraging the sense that the relevance of these two chronologically distant figures stands outside time—and this despite the fact that the tyrannicides’ senior descendants would escape the ban on ateleiai proposed by Leptines. In his encomium of Conon, Demosthenes dwells on the element that links the tyrannicides with Conon: that he was the first man awarded a bronze statue by the city since their time (70). Much as he and other orators frequently do when characterizing the intention of Solon or legislators in general, Demosthenes creatively reconstructs the intentions of the voting dēmos of the late 390s (including, presumably, a portion of the over-sixties in his present audience): ‘they thought that by destroying the power of the Spartans he had put an end to a great tyranny’ (ἡγοῦντο γὰρ οὐ μικρὰν τυραννίδα καὶ τοῦτον τὴν Λακεδαιμονίων ἀρχὴν καταλύσαντα πεπαυκέναι, 70).⁵⁴ There may be something of the terms of the Demophantus stele here, and what may seem a slightly forced parallel is reinforced by the fact that Isocrates frames Conon’s achievement in a

⁵³ As does Kremmydas (2012) 283; cf. MacDowell (2009) 158–9. On team strategies in public trials: Rubinstein (2000), especially 131–84; (2016) 89–90. ⁵⁴ Conon’s honours (393): Lewis and Stroud (1979) 186–7; Gauthier (1985) 96–7; Krumeich (1997) 207–9; Shear (2007a) 110; (2011) 275–80; Domingo Gygax (2016) 192–6.

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similar way in his Euagoras (9.56–7).⁵⁵ Demosthenes and Isocrates may even be reflecting the wording of an inscription: Demosthenes moves straight to the reading of decrees honouring Conon (70). Associating tyranny suppression of any kind with Conon, therefore, brings that concern to prominence in a way that perpetuates the sense Demosthenes is developing by this point in Against Leptines that tyranny, or oligarchy, could come to Athens again, and that his opponents—and certainly the wider political class with which they are associable—display just the kind of traits that should put the trial audience on their guard. The antidemocratic potential of the syndikoi in the Leptines trial is communicated through the wider ‘revelation’ by Demosthenes of quite how much his opponents agree on: he and Phormion, by contrast, assume the character of staunch democrats in control of the facts, able to spot where all this could lead from their grasp of precedents in the very Athenian past which they interpret the law of Leptines as effacing. In Demosthenes’ vision, therefore, the possibility for oligarchy or tyranny to emerge in Athens is a historical constant, as much of a constant as the continuum of Athenian glory and high reputation which is basic to the speech’s argument. Most of the appearances by Harmodius and Aristogeiton and by the Thirty and Four Hundred are brief, but (as we will see) typically set in contexts which enhance their visibility. This chain of anti-democratic references is set up at 11–12 and concluded at 157–62, just before the epilogos. These—the beginning and end points—are the most developed passages in the sequence, but it is the frequency of the intervening brief reminders (18, 29, 42, 48, 70, 127) and the choice of moments at which Demosthenes introduces them, which matter most. Furthermore, these specific historical examples are supported by Demosthenes’ numerous broader references to oligarchy and tyranny, for example his lengthy anticipation of an appeal he has heard that the defence will make (τις ἀπήγγελλέ μοι, 105) to the more retentive honorific practices of Sparta and Thebes (105–11). Although we do find Aeschines (1.180–1) and Lycurgus (1.105–9, 128–9) using Spartan practices as positive examples in law-court speeches (and justifying their decision carefully), neither of these instances comes from a trial about civic honours, and both belong in discussions of good laws as guarantors of good citizen behaviour (like Demosthenes’/Diodorus’ own paradigmatic use of the laws of Epizephyrian Locri in Against Timocrates: 24.139–41).⁵⁶ By claiming that the defence team are going to use such examples to talk about Athenian honours—bestowed by the dēmos,

⁵⁵ See also Shear (2011) 277–80.

⁵⁶ Wohl (2010) 309–16.

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so non-negotiably particular to democratic Athens—Demosthenes seeks to cast them in a dubious and troubling light, and this applies whether this is a false anticipation or not.⁵⁷ His sustained use of historical material related to anti-democratic activity therefore reflects a characteristic of prosecution speeches across the surviving corpus: setting the terms in which the defence should respond. Demosthenes’ practice here constitutes a challenge to Leptines and the syndikoi to defend the law in a way which reflects total commitment to the democracy on their part—something whose historical parameters his own speech will already have established in a comprehensive (and, as far as possible, incontestable) way. The chain of anti-democratic ‘moments’ begins at 11–12 with a detailed reminder of how the restored democracy of 403 decided that the polis—not just the ‘men of the city’ who had supported the oligarchs—would repay the Spartan loan which had propped up the regime of the Thirty.⁵⁸ Demosthenes uses this as evidence of Athens’s naturally generous and high-minded ēthos—one of the speech’s keynotes—but that is not the only work the illustration is doing. The link to Sparta may prepare listeners for the anticipation of the defence argument about honours in Sparta and Thebes (105–11)—something the Conon encomium was to do as well (68–70, 73–4), especially in its correlation of defeating Sparta and putting down tyranny (70). The possibility that Demosthenes’ references to Sparta are part of the chain of images which connote anti-democratic (or at the very least undemocratic) behaviour and thinking—a chain sustained at 51–4 and 59–61, and in the Chabrias encomium (76–7), as well as in the instances mentioned here—is reinforced if our Leptines is the Leptines Aristotle depicts recommending aid to Sparta (‘one of Greece’s eyes’) in a context which must be 371 or soon after.⁵⁹ The identification is certainly likely. Cephisodotus of Cerameis may have had links with Sparta too,⁶⁰ if he is the Cephisodotus who served on the 372/1 embassy before Leuctra;⁶¹

⁵⁷ Fisher (1994) 365–6 sees it as genuine. ⁵⁸ With further references: Hesk (2000) 42 n. 76; Harris (2008) 25 n. 35; Kremmydas (2012) 202–7; Carawan (2013) 78, 275; Canevaro (2016) 204–9. ⁵⁹ Arist. Rhet. 1411a4–6: Fisher (1994) 365 n. 61 (and Steinbock [2013a] 322 n. 141 for other appearances of the image). If they are identical, Demosthenes’ claim not to know much about our Leptines (20.14) is simply evasive. ⁶⁰ Mosley (1973) 44 gives examples of envoys chosen because of their goodwill towards, or links with, the state in question (see n. 63 for Autocles as a possible counterexample; cf. Demosthenes’ membership of the embassies to Pella in 346). ⁶¹ X. Hell. 6.3.2; for the identification problem: Harding (1994) 114–16. Xenophon gives no qualifier, and Aristotle in his various references to Cephisodotus (see n. 36) seems to

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this, again, seems a likely commission for this clearly distinguished orator (150, οὐδενὸς ἧττον . . . τῶν λεγόντων δεινὸς εἰπεῖν, ‘inferior to no one when it comes to eloquence’). It is worth adding here that the Theban example, by contrast, is new when it appears in the anticipation passage, but that may have special relevance too: in 330, Aeschines was able to remember pro-Theban attitudes as a noteworthy part of the political profile of Leodamas and Aristophon, implying that those attitudes were of long standing (3.139). Although Athenian politicians’ attitudes towards other cities could change,⁶² and the membership of embassies could reflect a mix of external sympathies as well as political persuasions,⁶³ there is no reason to think that Leptines was not still pro-Spartan in 355/4—a time of relative cordiality in relations between the two states⁶⁴—or that the pro-Thebans among the syndikoi were not at this point pro-Theban. Leptines may even have liked to use examples of successful Spartan and Athenian dealings, and the return of the loan in 403 could certainly be spun that way (11–12), as showing Athenian readiness to cooperate with Sparta even in the toughest of times. Anticipation (and usurpation) of the material the defence are likely to use is a key feature of Against Leptines, as we are already seeing, and a structurally key juncture like 11–12 may have seemed an advantageous place to do it. The Spartan loan example is an uncomfortable start to the chain of antidemocratic ‘moments’: in isolation, its content proclaims order, an end to stasis, partly achieved by the honourable use of public resources (the main issue in the speech as a whole). The subsequent anti-democratic assume a single eminent orator, good at forceful imagery; so he is probably the Cephisodotus who speaks pragmatically at Hell. 7.1.12–14. ⁶² Callistratus moved from an anti-Spartan to an anti-Theban stance (Bers [2003] 162 n. 45 on [D.] 59.27; cf. Buckler [1982] 195–6) and is not in Aeschines’ list of pro-Theban Athenian statesmen at A. 3.138–9. Trevett (1999) tracks Demosthenes’ changing attitude to Thebes (partly dependent on varying rhetorical needs in different contexts). D. 20.109 places Against Leptines solidly in his early, hostile period, though: Trevett (1999) 190. ⁶³ Mosley (1973) 45, giving numerous examples; Xenophon’s speakers on the 372/1 embassy to Sparta (Hell. 6.3) capture a spread of stances: Callias (who was proxenos: 5.4.22; 6.3.4) is almost ‘professionally’ pro-Spartan (6.3.4–6); Autocles is hostile or at least critical (6.3.7–9); Callistratus (6.3.10–17) seems even-handed (see Dillery [1995] 244–9). But the three speeches’ messages are compatible: Tuplin (1993) 103–10; Schepens (2001) 90–6; Rubinstein (2016) 100–10. Interesting for the political composition of the group are (1) that Callistratus plays a role (whether elected or not) in spite of his personal enmity with fellow envoy Melanopus (Arist. Rhet. 1374b25–7; Anaxandrides, Protesilaus fr. 41; Plut. Dem. 13.3) and (2) that Autocles (and Aristophon too, if present: see Hell. 6.3.2 and Tuplin [1977] 52–3) may come from a pro-Theban direction, i.e. not from the same one as Callias: see, e.g., Bearzot (2004) 86, but cf. Buckler (1982) 182–3 with n. 4; note also Sealey (1956) 193. ⁶⁴ Fisher (1994) 355–6.

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‘moments’ will complicate that, piquing the audience and reminding them of the ease with which civic discord emerges. I now look at another of those ‘moments’ and then show how 157–62 function as an elegant and hardhitting conclusion: if the jurors have not picked up the succession of hints by now, the final passage is calculated to leave them in no doubt, moments before the end of the speech. The way that Demosthenes contextualizes his account of the benefactions of Epicerdes of Cyrene (41–7)⁶⁵ offers a good example of the effects created by the unexpected appearance of oligarchic forces in the argument. Epicerdes received one ateleia grant for his kindness to Athenian prisoners in Sicily in the aftermath of the disaster there in 413 (42),⁶⁶ but received another one later: ‘he contributed a talent on his own initiative when he saw that the people were short of money during the war a little before the Thirty came to power’ (ὁρῶν ἐν τῷ πολέμῳ {πρὸ τῶν τριάκοντα μικρὸν} σπανίζοντα τὸν δῆμον χρημάτων, τάλαντον ἔδωκεν αὐτὸς ἐπαγγειλάμενος). If we accept the presence of πρὸ τῶν τριάκοντα μικρὸν in the text, as most do,⁶⁷ a sinister reverse parallel with the current situation in 355/4 appears. In both cases, Athens is in financial difficulties, and is aided by altruistic benefactors—and in the 404 case is then overtaken by oligarchs. What about now? Given that at 11–12 Demosthenes had not emphasized the city’s poverty at the time when the dēmos repaid the Thirty’s Spartan loan, a new context where that poverty is stressed stands a good chance of signalling something to jurors in a similarly straitened 355/4 Athens who are considering the question of how to reward benefactions like Epicerdes’. Demosthenes had a choice of temporal descriptors, and chose to relate the dearth directly to the regime of the Thirty that followed—and it is also perhaps not irrelevant that he has just mentioned the disaster in Sicily, something which helped create the conditions for the earlier oligarchic coup of the Four Hundred. The argument that then follows— emphasizing how wrong it would be for Epicerdes’ altruism and goodwill to be repaid now in the annulling of his awards, whether or not he actually makes use of them (44)—is capped by comparing his case with that of those who overthrew the Four Hundred and Thirty (perhaps the

⁶⁵ On Epicerdes: Meritt (1970); MacDowell (2004); Kremmydas (2012) 264–77; Canevaro (2016) 265–81. ⁶⁶ The form of this benefaction is unclear: see Harris (2008) 35 n. 72; Kremmydas (2012) 267–70; and Canevaro (2016) 270–1 for discussion. ⁶⁷ Kremmydas (2012) 271 and Canevaro (2016) 270–1 both accept it, following Meritt (1970) 114 and Sandys (1890) 44 against Weil (1883) 35. Dilts (2005) 126 applies braces. There is a good parallel at Lys. 7.4.

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kairoi dealt with in Phormion’s speech: 51): ‘one could apply the same argument to the men who overthrew the Four Hundred [περὶ τῶν τοὺς τετρακοσίους καταλυσάντων] and to the men who proved their worth when the democrats were in exile’ (48). There is no special reason why these historical events should be raised as parallels other than that Demosthenes intends them to contribute to the pattern he is placing before the jurors’ eyes—a mapping onto the present and an encouragement to his listeners to recognize the similarities between that present and the context of oligarchic behaviour in the past. We are given no reason to imagine that he is actually predicting a real imminent oligarchic coup on the part of Leptines and the syndikoi or others like them, but he is speculating about how political paternalism can easily slide into danger for the democracy, using the associations with its antitypes as a creative way for the jurors to contemplate the trial’s (and its litigants’) broader significance, and so be moved to question the right of the current political line-up (some of whom will have been implicated in the policies that led to the Social War and to defeat in it) to set the parameters for what might constitute Athens’s best interests and real priorities. This is all the more effectively achieved by the way that Epicerdes is set up. Probably not an especially familiar figure (cf. 41)—though some listeners would have seen the decree inscribed for him, with its partly surviving relief ⁶⁸—he is broadly susceptible to Demosthenes’ creativity. He is made to act as a shadowy analogue for Athens, accompanying the city in its darkest times (παρὼν τῷ τῆς πόλεως ἀτυχήματι . . . παρὰ τοὺς μεγίστους καιροὺς: 43–4); but now, divorced physically from the picture (probably in retirement in Cyrene⁶⁹), his exemplary presence can function as a way of reminding Demosthenes’ audience of what the value set of an ideal Athens would comprise, and how far what Leptines and the others are sustaining departs from that. Themes of loyalty and betrayal, voluntary and compulsory action, and a resourceful grasp of the right moment to act stand out in the example— Epicerdes, of course, displayed the positives (45: τὴν προθυμίαν καὶ τὸ αὐτὸν ἐπαγγειλάμενον ποιεῖν, ‘his loyalty [and] his willingness to act on his own initiative’), and the surviving stele itself (IG I³ 125, of 405/4) echoes them.⁷⁰ ⁶⁸ Lawton (1995) 87 and Plate 6. Even if the Thirty destroyed the stele (possible if the proposer of either the decree or the rider were opponents of theirs), reinscription after 403 must be a likelihood given Epicerdes’ service. ⁶⁹ MacDowell (2004) 132; or deceased: Kremmydas (2012) 265, 273; cf. Canevaro (2016) 273–4. ⁷⁰ On the close links between speech and stele: West (1995), especially 241; Canevaro (2016) 267–8.

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The cumulative impression to which the sequence of anti-democratic ‘moments’ contributes is mainly fostered, though, by the repeated appearances of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, via the exception that Leptines has decided to make for their senior descendants (18, 29, 70, 127, 128, 159, 160).⁷¹ At 127, in the context of another refutation of an argument he claims his opponents will make (125–30) about the scope of the tyrannicides’ descendants’ exemption⁷²—Demosthenes has the clerk quote from the stele decreeing the honours in question. This not only invites the audience to concentrate more closely on the sequence of references itself but may also serve to direct their attention to the possibility that Leptines has only excepted Harmodius’ and Aristogeiton’s descendants to pay lip service to Athenian tradition—in other words, he does not really understand Athens’s past (just as he may not understand Solon’s laws: 102), but has excepted the heirs of these cornerstones of Athenian identity⁷³ because he wants to minimize the possible backlash from a dēmos who do understand their past and regard it more highly than he does. In fact, all the tyrannicides’ appearances (except in 70, in the comparison with Conon) are embedded either in citations of the part of Leptines’ law that excepts their descendants from the ban on ateleiai or in close paraphrases of it, allowing the jurors to sense the tension between Demosthenes’ clear sympathy with the retention of all ateleiai as he cites the relevant clause and the implied grudgingness on Leptines’ part in allowing these particular ateleiai to be retained, something which in turn points strongly to his wrongheaded priorities. 157–62 bring that tension to a head, referring back to other key moments in the sequence. Earlier parts of the speech had maintained a relatively respectful tone—Demosthenes had ostentatiously avoided criticizing Leptines personally at 14 (though his restraint has certainly gone by 102–3)—but here he launches a direct attack on Leptines’ motives, which he glosses as a combination of personal spite and competitiveness: qualities which he had identified separately earlier on as well (142, 144).⁷⁴ The most interesting thing about his framing of them together here is that he then moves straight to an illustration using the Areopagus and Dracon’s homicide law (157–8): The law is shameful and wrong, men of Athens! It has a spiteful and divisive air about it [ὅμοιος φθόνῳ τινὶ καὶ φιλονικίᾳ] and—I spare you the rest. Such ⁷¹ On the embeddedness of the tyrannicides in popular memory and culture: Introduction n. 7 plus McGlew (1993) 150–6; (2012); Raaflaub (2003) 63–9; Ober (2003) 216–22. ⁷² On the rather involved argument here: Kremmydas (2012) 396–402 and Canevaro (2016) 386–93. ⁷³ See, e.g., 20.76 and A. 1.140. ⁷⁴ See Gallet (1990) for phthonos in the speech.

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are the motives that seem to guide its author. And such are not the kind of qualities that you should emulate! Nor should you appear to harbour thoughts that are beneath your dignity. Think now, by Zeus, what would all men most pray to avoid? What is the most serious aim in all our laws? To prevent men from killing each other. The Council of the Areopagus has been assigned to act as the special guardian of this task. [158] In the laws on this subject, Draco[n] makes the act of taking another person’s life the object of fear and terror. He writes . . .

The sudden and unmotivated access into the argument of the Areopagus’ role in homicide trials and Dracon’s law on the subject already prompts the jurors to wonder where the argument is going next (what has a law about exemptions from ateleiai to do with Athenians killing one another?)—but Demosthenes then raises the oratorical stakes by reminding the audience of how Phormion had referred to the Demophantus stele (159): we are now dealing explicitly with the kind of killing that would accompany a takeover of the polis by anti-democratic forces: tyrannical actions and tyrannicide are back on the table. Superficially trading purely in an analogy, Demosthenes is now trying to impress on the jurors the symbolic threat represented by Leptines’ law: up to now, they have been almost exclusively reminded of Harmodius and Aristogeiton in the context of the exception made for their ateleiai in Leptines’ ban, but now Demosthenes swings that round (159) in reminding them of how the tyrannicides feature on the Demophantus stele, ‘where this oath has been inscribed: “If anything happens to someone defending the democracy, the same rewards are to be given to him as were given to Harmodius and Aristogeiton” ’, and making a clear link between the terms of the oath and the threat which Leptines’ law poses. The result is that when Demosthenes cites Leptines’ exception for the tyrannicides again for the final time (160), it sounds hollow, and only serves to underline that although Leptines may not think he is a threat himself, his cultural illiteracy—specifically, his failure to discern how things have worked throughout Athenian history—means that he could be. Demosthenes is now moving to reflect—in overtly philosophical terms (162)⁷⁵—on how the future can bring tyranny when the victims least expect it, and he does so in such a way that Leptines and his syndikoi, or the wider interests in which they operate, may easily be cast as the

⁷⁵ διὸ δεῖ μετριάζειν ἐν ταῖς εὐπραξίαις καὶ προορωμένους τὸ μέλλον φαίνεσθαι (‘for that reason one should practise moderation in times of prosperity and show one is looking ahead to the future’).

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unforeseen enemy. Essential to this is that Leptines cannot necessarily see this himself: Demosthenes uses him to voice a smug objection to the idea that tyranny could ever come to Athens again (ὅτι νὴ Δία πόρρω τοῦ τι τοιοῦτον ἐλπίζειν νῦν ἐσμέν, ‘By Zeus, we are now far from expecting anything like that’: 161); and this serves as a very effective way of summing up an argument that Demosthenes has been using the historical material to make throughout: that threats to democracy do simply emerge in the natural order of things. Their human vehicles will always see them as something different (i.e. what starts out as confidence about the right way to govern soon turns to corruption and oppression⁷⁶), but they all reflect a spirit out of step with the timeless values Demosthenes has been arguing Athens possesses, one manifestation of which is the city’s just rewards to its benefactors. This out-of-step spirit Leptines does demonstrably possess (he argues), so logically the other fears can follow. Demosthenes does something very similar at 49–50, where he sets up and answers an objection that modern Athens is hardly in need of the kind of aid given by those who overthrew the Four Hundred and the Thirty (49)—an objection presumably given particular (unspoken) force by the fact that one of the syndikoi, Aristophon, had been among those who brought down the Thirty (and, we find out later, active in rewarding those who helped at that time: 149) and so ought to know better.⁷⁷ Demosthenes pre-empts authoritative versions of particular events that his opponents might present later in the trial by instead tracing general patterns and explaining the emergence of anti-democratic forces as historical process— as part of the continuum. His responses to the implied objections that such fears are irrelevant now are, respectively, a rather loaded recommendation to hope that the objector may be right, accompanied by a prayer (49: ταῦτα μὲν εὐχέσθω τοῖς θεοῖς, κἀγὼ συνεύχομαι, ‘let him say a prayer to the gods, and I will join him’) and an even more tantalizing wish that his fears be far from reality (161: εἴημέν γ’ [i.e. πόρρω], ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ‘I wish we were [far], men of Athens’)—but followed by a string of examples of how history works out in unexpected ways (Sparta’s misery after Leuctra, Dionysius I’s rise to power in Syracuse, and Dion’s recent deposition of Dionysius II there: 161–2).⁷⁸

⁷⁶ The idea is important for the beginning of the Thirty’s rule, across a range of texts: [Pl.] Ep. VII (324d); X. Hell. 2.3.12; D.S. 14.4.2; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 35.3; see also Rhodes (2011) 20. ⁷⁷ Aristophon’s actions in 403: Oost (1977) 240; Whitehead (1986) 314; Harding (2006) 196. ⁷⁸ The same string that we saw Anaximenes using earlier (with an update): Chapter 1.4 and n. 153.

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This all takes a certain amount of responsibility away from his opponents as individuals—Leptines’ law poses symbolic danger, but these particular politicians are not necessarily the source of the next real coup—but it also alerts his audience to the forces at work. What has changed between 49 and 161 is that Demosthenes has made considerable efforts to establish his own (impersonal) authority over how the past should be interpreted, and that has consisted in an important sense of grounding his command of the overall picture of the Athenian past: seeing the patterns in the deep continuum, following them, pointing them out—a mode of self-representation critical to his later Assembly oratory and beyond. When anticipating the possible defence argument about which liturgies the tyrannicides’ descendants were actually exempt from (125–30), Demosthenes relies not only on his quotation of the decree that awarded those honours but also on a holistic reading derived from popular knowledge, claiming authority from ‘all the time that has passed before this’ (πᾶς ὁ πρὸ τοῦ χρόνος γεγονώς, 130)—in which, he says, nobody else has shown any sign of thinking that the tyrannicides’ descendants were liable for the festival liturgies. Like the Epicerdes he had fashioned earlier, then—watching and able to help when Athens needed him—Demosthenes casts himself as an adept time traveller with the ability to apply that insight effectively to the present. The business of referring to the threat of oligarchy was in itself welltrodden ground for orators; as noted in Chapter 1.1, they sometimes fuse (and/or confuse) the two oligarchic regimes of 411 and 404/3.⁷⁹ What helps to distinguish Demosthenes’ series of references as a deliberate strategy is the similarity with his depiction of Diodorus’ opponents in Against Androtion and Against Timocrates. Although the ēthos he writes for Diodorus is consistently more forthright and impatient than the one he had written for himself in Against Leptines,⁸⁰ similarities emerge in the foregrounding of anti-democratic behaviour as a useful and necessary way of contemplating the opposition. The most noticeable is the cumulative structure. In Against Leptines, repeated appearances of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, reinforced by references to the late fifthcentury oligarchic regimes, foster a climate of attentiveness to potential links to the present situation. Against Androtion casts Androtion’s ⁷⁹ For confusion, see, e.g., Lyc. 1.124–7 on when Demophantus’ decree was passed, and D. 24.154 and A. 3.191 on when ‘the oligarchs’ shut down graphē paranomōn procedures (i.e. the Four Hundred: Thuc. 8.67.2; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 29.4). ⁸⁰ Diodorus’ ēthos: Blass (1893) 262–4; Jaeger (1938) 60; Usher (1999) 200; MacDowell (2009) 180–1. Diodorus as an experienced speaker: Pearson (1975) 218–19.

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activities as collector of arrears of eisphora in explicitly anti-democratic terms, having him make invasions of people’s homes and developing a parallel with the activities of the Thirty which reflects negatively on him—Demosthenes claims that not even the Thirty invaded people’s homes, though they did arrest them in the Agora (22.52). We know they did more, especially to metics;⁸¹ probably Demosthenes is bending this on purpose, and the fact that Androtion is worse because he is conducting public business in a democracy (ἐν δημοκρατίᾳ πολιτευόμενος; cf. 24.76) helps remind us that the kind of relative restraint governing (most of) Against Leptines is not applicable here.⁸² Androtion’s house invasions in 52—prompting some honest citizens to flee over the rooftops (53), a pathetic image—fit into a pattern where he is depicted constantly invading spaces where he does not belong (on which, more in Chapter 2.3; 50, 52, 56, 68, reversed at 77, and cf. 24.126, 145, etc.), inhibiting citizens’ integrity both physically and in action (making arrests and threats). Although Against Timocrates does not continue the pattern so consistently (focusing on it mainly in the rerun of material from Against Androtion at 24.160 onwards), the same hints are offered about the ‘real’ import of Timocrates’ legislation; comparison of Timocrates with the Thirty’s Critias (24.90) is only the most direct.⁸³ The speech also goes even further than Against Androtion in its use of Solon to construct a view of Timocrates and his allies as a sinister cabal who legislate for their own purposes.⁸⁴ Similarly, Against Aristocrates overtly develops a historical parallel (141: γεγονός τι πρᾶγμα) between Thersagoras and Execestus, men from Lampsacus who killed the despotic mercenary leader Philiscus in the late 360s,⁸⁵ and the Athenian tyrannicides: Thersagoras and Execestus ‘shared our attitudes towards tyrants [παραπλήσια τοῖς παρ’ ἡμῖν γνόντες περὶ τῶν τυράννων] and killed Philiscus, an act of justice, with the intention of liberating their country’ (142). Although Harmodius and Aristogeiton are not named, these must be the figures Demosthenes/Euthycles intends the audience to have in mind, as he goes on (143) to refer to how the Athenians have a reputation for ‘setting up bronze statues of men who do such things and granting them the greatest honours’—the basis of a stinging comparison with the current proposal ⁸¹ X. Hell. 2.3.21; D.S. 14.5.5–7; and above all Lys. 12.6–23; see also Whitehead (1977) 154–9; Krentz (1982) 80–2; Wolpert (2002) 18, with n. 53. ⁸² On the language of disgust here: Fisher (2017) 113. ⁸³ Critias elsewhere in oratory: A. 1.173; [D.] 58.66–7; Lyc. 1.113; Lys. 12.43. Here: Siron (2017) 108–9. On Critias’ cultural impact: Bultrighini (1999); Németh (2006); Yvonneau (2018). ⁸⁴ On the use of Solon in this speech: Wohl (2010) 295–300; Carey (2015) 123. ⁸⁵ Philiscus is a textbook tyrant: cf. Hdt 3.80.5.

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about Charidemus, for whom Philiscus stands in the parallel and whom similar patriots in some Greek state might wish to kill if he behaved in the same way, though they would be liable to arrest under Aristocrates’ decree if it should survive Euthycles’ challenge. This in turn exposes the decree as a serious symbolic threat to the democratic order. While antidemocracy-related illustrations are fairly isolated in Against Aristocrates, though, Against Timocrates invests more heavily in them: the speech’s anti-cabal rhetoric also features abstract and vivid conceptualizing of the emergence of oligarchy/tyranny⁸⁶ which looks like the speculation that we saw in Against Leptines 49–50 and 160–2. What suggests a close link between the two speeches’ conceptions (composed within two years of each other) is the theme of constant vigilance, and imagery of natural generation—the idea that a move towards oligarchy will become a surge unless action is taken. The image of tyranny as a growing thing, corrupting and autonomous, is familiar from tragedy and elsewhere;⁸⁷ in Against Timocrates, Demosthenes completes an argument about how oligarchic rule begins (154) with precisely the same kind of staged objection that we saw in Against Leptines 49 and 161—that fears about the overthrow of democracy are irrelevant in modern Athens (‘someone might object that the situations then and now are not similar’, 154). He imagines anti-democratic thinking as a seed (σπέρμα) that will lie hidden until the time is right for it to appear (ἐκφύοι).⁸⁸ This relates directly to his continuum-based presentation of the Athenian past—that anti-democratic forces will appear in the natural course of things; hence the need for vigilance and quick suppression when the signs are discerned. As we saw in Against Leptines, Demosthenes figures these periodic emergences as always unexpected when they come; and he goes a step further in making this point in a nightmare scenario in Against Timocrates (206–9), writing Diodorus a version which invites the jurors not to examine the historical process objectively but to participate actively—to be there at one of those moments when oligarchy begins to erupt (206, 208):⁸⁹ The best way to understand [Timocrates’] aims in plotting to write the law and how far opposed they are to the established constitution is to bear in mind that when people attack the democracy and attempt to start a

⁸⁶ The two often merge in oratory; cf. Mitchell (2006) 182–5. ⁸⁷ Brock (2013) 164 and n. 175. ⁸⁸ See Chapter 2.4; also cf. D. 18.159 (evils sprouting from a seed) with Usher (1993) 228, and the famous ‘crop’ (φορά) of traitors: 18.61, reversing A. 3.234. ⁸⁹ See [Long.] Subl. 15.9. For other Demosthenic ‘nightmare scenarios’: D. 19.231 and 21.209–10.

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revolution [καταλύοντες τὸν δῆμον πράγμασιν ἐγχειρῶσι νεωτέροις], they do this first of all: they release those who lawfully are undergoing this punishment for some crime. . . . [208] Look, now, imagine that right now you should hear shouting in front of the court [καὶ μὴν εἰ αὐτίκα δὴ μάλα κραυγὴν ἀκούσαιτε πρὸς τῷ δικαστηρίῳ], and someone should say that the prison has been opened and prisoners are escaping. There would be no one so old or so disaffected that he would not rush to help as much as he could.

Earlier in Against Timocrates (154) we had heard about the revoking of graphai paranomōn as a warning sign preceding fifth-century oligarchic takeover. Here, though, the emphasis is on suddenness: nobody has told the jurors this is going to happen. What Demosthenes is playing with is the tension arising from the fact that these selfsame jurors have not yet decided to accept the case against Timocrates as a whole, and so have not yet validated Diodorus as a counsellor. He is shown to be all the more necessary in consequence, as someone able to read the signs in advance: a classic function of the good statesman,⁹⁰ and complementary to the good statesman’s constant presence at the city’s side in all its travails (as we saw with Demosthenes’ example of the non-Athenian benefactor Epicerdes in Against Leptines). The idea that anti-democrats do things in the wrong order—here, undoing the past by reversing previous dicastic verdicts which have put these prisoners in jail at all (ἔλυσαν τοὺς πρότερον νόμῳ δι’ ἁμαρτίαν τινὰ ταύτην ὑπέχοντας τὴν δίκην, ‘they released those who lawfully are undergoing this punishment for some crime’: 206), and showing a disordered temporal awareness (and so a failure to understand the past as Demosthenes/Diodorus shows he can), is a constant in the four 350s speeches, challenging the defence in each case to come up with conceptions of Athens’s past and historical identity which conform to the standards he has laid out—a process he has problematized in advance. I now move to examine further how Demosthenes goes about that.

2.3. SYMBOLIC HISTORY As we saw in the previous section, even Against Leptines turns personal as it goes on: Demosthenes identifies Leptines as targeting individuals he dislikes (142) and in doing so raises serious questions about the integrity and statesmanlike objectivity of the consensus politics he depicts ⁹⁰ Foresight and the statesman: Mader (2007b); see Chapter 3.

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Leptines and the syndikoi as representing. I began by outlining how far we might think of Demosthenes recommending himself for public notice in this speech. So far, though, I have looked at more general ways of characterizing the wrongheadedness of, and potential peril arising from, Leptines’ alleged attitude to the civic past. Now I turn to the specific means by which Demosthenes figures his opponents as false to recent Athenian history and therefore (so his logic goes) unsuitable as managers of the city’s affairs or as its representatives. Fundamental to his approach is the virtual heroizing of Chabrias, turning him into a paradigmatic figure fit to rival the fifth-century greats who the opposition might cite—something that extending his career coverage back to 388 (20.76) facilitates. Lycoleon’s dramatic use of Chabrias’ statue in 366/5 suggests that such heroizing manoeuvres were possible even in Chabrias’ lifetime,⁹¹ but his death in 356 will clearly have allowed Demosthenes more opportunities for creativity. These Demosthenes takes, assimilating Chabrias to the broader fulfilment of one of the speech’s core rhetorical aims: to design a heroic and consistently glorious Athens to confront the pragmatic but spiritually destitute—and, as we saw in Chapters 2.1 and 2.2, overly (dangerously?) presentist—attitudes which he attributes to the syndikoi and other members of the political class. Their failure to satisfy Demosthenes’ standards is construed as an infallible indicator of the prosecution’s rightness. As we saw in Chapter 2.1, Demosthenes makes his twin stance clear from the proem: this is a synēgoria motivated both by civic concern and by the ignominy that would attach to depriving Chabrias’ son, specifically, of the ateleia (1).⁹² What nuances Demosthenes’ approach importantly is that he impersonalizes his own credentials and channels them through his astute and authoritative command of historical material. One key method worth recalling before we continue is his appeal to the knowledge of older jurors, a familiar mode of speaker–audience interaction (as we saw in Chapter 1.2) and quite prominent in this speech.⁹³ The audience can see that Demosthenes is only about 30; to avoid resentment⁹⁴ or problems of credibility, he glosses much of his pre-360s material as learnt from the wider society, while being careful to introduce nothing that will interfere with his central picture of uninterruptedly successful Athenian negotiation of problems through the centuries

⁹¹ See Chapter 1.1. ⁹² The prioritization on show here must be aimed at allaying suspicions that the personal element is more important to Demosthenes’ synēgoria than the public element: Rubinstein (2000) 138–40; Kremmydas (2012) 177–8; Canevaro (2016) 179–80. ⁹³ D. 20.52, 68, 77. ⁹⁴ Kremmydas (2012) 285.

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(even oligarchic coups).⁹⁵ As we saw in Chapter 1.2, the Corinthian exiles honoured by Athens are revealed to have opened the city gates after the defeat at the River Nemea in 394 to none other than the jurors themselves, supposedly (ἀνέῳξαν τὰς πύλας ὑμῖν, ‘opened their gates for you’: 53),⁹⁶ and by implication to have been honoured by them too. Jurors of all ages are therefore implicated in an act of generosity which will have involved few of them at best. Conon’s greatness, too, is defined by calling on very elderly jurors, his age-mates (ὡς ὑμῶν τινῶν ἔστιν ἀκοῦσαι τῶν κατὰ τὴν αὐτὴν ἡλικίαν ὄντων, ‘as some of you from his generation can testify’: 68). There would probably have been a handful present, enough to lend some literal backing to Demosthenes’ approach—but it is interesting that what he asks this group to remember (Conon’s victory at Cnidus) in fact only takes us back as far as 394/3 (and the award of Conon’s statue, incidentally)—a date within the competence of everyone present in their mid-fifties or older. This exaggerated initial age marker furthers Demosthenes’ aim of heading off any argument from Leptines and the syndikoi that the pre-394 Athenians exceeded those of more recent times in glorious achievement. It may also be designed to undermine Aristophon’s authority in advance: Demosthenes actually works towards 394 from a starting point in the return of the dēmos in 403 (‘after the return of the democrats from the Piraeus’: 68), in which Aristophon was involved, thereby assuring the audience that—as Conon’s age-mates by proxy—they know their history without needing Aristophon to tell them. In fact, when Demosthenes begins his encomium of Chabrias, he qualifies the account he is about to present with a similar move (ἴστε μὲν οὖν ἴσως, καὶ ἄνευ τοῦ παρ’ ἐμοῦ λόγου, ‘perhaps you realize even without me telling you’: 75)—he suggests then that any of his audience could come up with a similar account if asked to. Effectively, this serves as a challenge to them to disagree with any aspect of what will follow, and a challenge to Leptines and the syndikoi, especially Leodamas, whose enmity against Chabrias Demosthenes was to pick up on at 146–7. It is certainly possible to read the encomium as a political vindication of Chabrias specifically aimed at Leodamas,⁹⁷ as well as a co-opting of the

⁹⁵ Thomas (1989) 221–37, especially 231–6. ⁹⁶ Compare the union of mercenaries and citizens in the First Philippic (4.24) (with Wooten [2008] 83–4). ⁹⁷ I suggested above (Chapter 2.1) that if we trust Plutarch’s report that Callistratus’ selfdefence in the Oropus trials inspired Demosthenes (Dem. 5.1–5), then a positive view of Callistratus’ fellow defendant Chabrias makes sense too. It is interesting that in Against

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jurors to a version of past civic excellence which both valorizes the achievements of recent decades as parallels to the canonical early fifth-century victories and circumvents the doldrums of the immediate past—the Social War—highlighting only Chabrias’ death, which may have been the result of (perhaps uncharacteristically) overconfident miscalculation on Chabrias’ part, but, if so, is certainly recast as heroic by Demosthenes (82).⁹⁸ The encomium is more generally rich in explicitly heroizing manoeuvres and expressions, and we can consider it alongside the Conon encomium which precedes it. The two encomia—and the implied assimilation of Chabrias to Conon, a figure of the previous generation—allow Demosthenes to address two concerns at once: articulating polis renown and calibrating political polemic. The very fact that the political and military giants of the last three or four decades have now all disappeared from the scene, three of them suddenly and recently, and that in Leodamas and Aristophon Demosthenes is facing two distinguished syndikoi who either tried to bring them down or succeeded, encourages the engaging of historical illustration as an instrument of covert polemic. Given Demosthenes’ stylistic and broader intellectual debt to Thucydides,⁹⁹ it may be that there is an echo here of the latter’s famous snapshot of post-Periclean squabbling between inferior politicians all out for themselves (2.65.10);¹⁰⁰ certainly the statement that no Athenian was orphaned by the activities of Chabrias (οὐδενὸς πώποθ’ υἱὸς ὀρφανὸς δι’ ἐκεῖνον ἐγένετο, 82) recalls the Periclean deathbed claim recorded by Plutarch that no living Athenian ever put on mourning because of him,¹⁰¹ and the theme of the subject’s asphaleia recurs in both cases (Chabrias was—at least normally—ἀσφαλέστατος, 82).¹⁰² Thucydides may be lurking in the two encomia more generally: he may be the source for Demosthenes’ account of Themistocles’ crafty treatment of the Spartans while getting the new Timocrates, within two years of Callistratus’ execution, Demosthenes is praising his civicminded restraint (24.134) in the context of even more fulsome praise of Callistratus’ uncle Agyrrhius. Indeed policy-based and rhetorical emulation of Agyrrhius by Demosthenes has itself been canvassed: Moreno (2007) 256–7. ⁹⁸ Chabrias’ death: Plut. Phoc. 6.2; D.S. 16.7.3–4; Nep. Cha. 4; see also Bearzot (1990). ⁹⁹ Thucydides: Blass (1893) 19–20; Canfora (1992) 11–25; Hernández Muñoz (1994) 139–54; Yunis (1996) 240–1, 256–7, 269–77; Mader (2007a) 155–65; Gotteland (2010); Brun (2015) 87–9. ¹⁰⁰ This had a rich fourth-century afterlife: Isoc. 8.124–8; 15.230–6; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 28. Thucydides in the fourth century: Hornblower (1995); Fromentin and Gotteland (2015) 19–20; and in Apollodorus’ Against Neaera: see Chapter 1.1 n. 12. ¹⁰¹ Plut. Per. 38.4 with Stadter (1989) 345; see also Kremmydas (2012) 331. ¹⁰² Thuc. 2.65.5 and Plut. Per. 18.1 (see Stadter [1989] 210 for parallels in the work). D. 20.82 may hide a good deal: see Bearzot (1990) 98–108.

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city walls completed at speed (Thuc. 1.90–2),¹⁰³ though this is very carefully marked as a version the jurors will ‘probably’ or ‘perhaps’ know (πάντες ἴσως ἀκηκόατε, ‘I suppose all of you have heard’: 73). Again, the important point is that Demosthenes is making the jurors complicit in his version, whether many or all of them know what he is claiming they know, or not. He uses that complicity to align the Conon and Chabrias encomia. Just as his appeal to the jurors’ knowledge in the case of Conon did not require them to remember quite as much as first appeared, so in 77 he appeals to the eldest (οἱ πρεσβύτατοι) of them to recall events from 388 (the Cyprus expedition) down to Chabrias’ victory at Naxos in 376—all well within the competence of audience members around 50 and older (καὶ τούτων πάντων ὑμῶν τινὲς οἱ πρεσβύτατοι μάρτυρές εἰσί μοι, ‘the oldest men among you are my witnesses for these events’). Demosthenes seeks to ground a definitive version of someone recently deceased (and whom everyone present would remember in different ways) by treating Chabrias in the same way as Conon, a figure round whom ‘official’ versions had now coalesced forty years on from his post-Cnidus zenith (cf. 69), and asserts the superiority of his own account by allowing the possibility that it might fall short of individuals’ opinions (76), a familiar epideictic topos.¹⁰⁴ If Demosthenes’ Chabrias in some sense recalled Pericles to an audience (via traditions about the latter’s leadership), then that might match the parallel with Themistocles which Demosthenes sets up for Conon (73–4): that Conon’s rebuilding of the Long Walls (with Persian aid after Cnidus) was a finer achievement than Themistocles’ wall-building in 479/8 (κάλλιον Κόνωνα τὰ τείχη στῆσαι Θεμιστοκλέους, 74) because Conon did it after defeating the Spartans rather than with the help of deception, like Themistocles (ὁ μὲν γὰρ λαθών, ὁ δὲ νικήσας).¹⁰⁵ Furthermore, Themistocles’ personal greatness is delimited by Demosthenes to a time period: he is said to be ‘the most famous person among all his contemporaries’ (ὁ τῶν καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ἁπάντων ἀνδρῶν ἐνδοξότατος: 73) leaving room for Conon to be identified as greater on balance (74).¹⁰⁶

¹⁰³ On Thuc. 1.90–2: Blösel (2012) 216–23. ¹⁰⁴ See Kremmydas (2012) 322–3 for parallels. ¹⁰⁵ As Kremmydas (2012) 318 points out, though, the parallel is hardly a fair one: in 479/8 Athens and Sparta were allies, and in 394 they were at war. Conon’s rebuilding: Asmonti (2015) 163 for references; already under way in 395/4: Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 46 (no. 9). ¹⁰⁶ Both Demosthenes and Isocrates present Conon and Themistocles similarly: Witte (1995) 65–8.

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When the orators do qualify the merits of the early fifth-century greats, it tends to be when discussing how their careers ended in failure, so Demosthenes’ manoeuvre—qualifying one of Themistocles’ greatest achievements—must have struck his audience as daring and possibly distasteful.¹⁰⁷ Demosthenes shows awareness of the potential problems, framing his judgement with a careful preface: ‘in my opinion—by Zeus, may none of you, men of Athens, feel envy [φθόνῳ] when he hears what I am about to say, but just see whether it is true’ (74). This clearly seeks to mollify the jurors, but the wider strategic goal is also clear: to support the anticipation of the possible defence argument that older Athenian honorific practices were better than contemporary ones. It is fundamental to Demosthenes’ deployment of Chabrias and Conon—built up as exemplars of the glorious Athenian continuum, aimed at challenging Leptines and the syndikoi—that both in a sense resemble Athens, and more particularly Athenian history itself.¹⁰⁸ Conon’s career—as virtual tyrannicide in putting down Sparta (70), rebuilding the walls (68), ensuring a classic power balance with Sparta reminiscent of the Persian Wars era (68), and spreading democracy in the Aegean (68)—encapsulates Athens’s imperial highlights. What clinches the metaphorical as well as substantive character of this list of exploits is the first of them, the virtual tyranny represented by the Spartan empire. In comparing Conon with Harmodius and Aristogeiton, as we saw earlier, Demosthenes makes it possible to offer him for consideration as a kind of foundation figure (πρώτου is positioned emphatically: 70), and his bronze statue as much the focus of a new era of Athenian democratic renown as the earlier portraits of the two tyrannicides. The award of a statue is thus figured as the highest possible honour, and Demosthenes is not interested (as he claims his opponents will be) in the objection that Leptines’ law is not removing awards other than ateleiai: for him, the Athenian honours ‘package’ is a symbolic unity. Mentioning Conon’s statue would recall those of Chabrias, Iphicrates, and Timotheus which stood near it:¹⁰⁹ the first bitterly opposed by Leodamas (cf. 146), even if unsuccessfully; the second and third representing

¹⁰⁷ Themistocles is identified as Athens’s practical benefactor par excellence in Aristophanes’ Knights (811–19, comically reversed at 884–6), and thus the least suitable figure possible for Paphlagon to claim to surpass (as he does at 811–12); this may even reflect a comparison Cleon actually made: Sommerstein (1981) 187. ¹⁰⁸ This recalls Blösel’s (2001); (2004) view of Herodotus’ Themistocles (see also Baragwanath [2008] 316–17). ¹⁰⁹ Chapter 1.1 n. 49.

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men hounded out of public life by Aristophon.¹¹⁰ This implicit contrast between the glory of their award from the dēmos and the ignominious end of their careers is only ever implicit, and channelled through Chabrias, but, in context, the low-key single appearances of both Iphicrates and Timotheus (84)—neutral in tone, as mentioned earlier—make a quiet bid to put it to the audience that the implied enthusiasm of the syndikoi for the law of Leptines (they must have been elected to their role because they were known to approve of it) is not a matter of altruistic policy but an attempt to diminish the status of rivals, generated by personal enmity (cf. 20.137, 142 again). Assuming for a moment that the 356/5 date for Timotheus’ career-ruining trial is correct, there could even be a reference to that conviction in the midst of Chabrias’ encomium in the comment that had Chabrias fallen short in any way, ‘these men [οὗτοι] would [have] indict[ed] him for treason [περὶ προδοσίας]’ (79). Aristophon’s necessary inclusion among οὗτοι may conjure the spectre of his and Chares’ recent eisangelia prosecution (περὶ προδοσίας) of Iphicrates—and Timotheus and Menestheus were probably tried under the same procedure.¹¹¹ Comparison with the roughly contemporary Against Aristocrates supports the idea that this is part of a wider design to keep the political memory alive not only of the dead Chabrias but also of the disgraced Timotheus and Iphicrates on the basis of their outstanding contributions to the sustaining of Athenian renown. Because of the placement of their statues, audiences were clearly used to hearing about the three together: Aeschines mentions them as a trio in Against Ctesiphon (where they are contrasted with the undeserving Demosthenes) and Dinarchus adds Conon too in Against Demosthenes of 323.¹¹² In Against Aristocrates, though, in a context where he is having to write Euthycles the opposite argument from his own in Against Leptines, Demosthenes cites the trio of generals as examples of how victories have come to be spoken of as the victories of particular individuals rather than of the dēmos, and the counterexamples are Miltiades/Marathon and Themistocles/Salamis (23.198).¹¹³ Importantly, though, no criticism of the three individuals themselves (or their victories) is implied, only of how many Athenians have begun to view those victories (νῦν δ’, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, πολλοὶ τοῦτο λέγουσιν . . . , ‘but as it is now, men of Athens, many say . . . ’). The presentation of Iphicrates in Against Aristocrates (23.129–36), invited by Demosthenes/Euthycles’ coverage of the damage done to ¹¹⁰ Or soon to be: n. 43. ¹¹¹ See Hansen (1975) 100–2 (nos. 100–2). ¹¹² A. 3.243; Din. 1.75. ¹¹³ If On Organization is authentic, it is probably roughly contemporary with Against Aristocrates (i.e. 353/2 or 352/1), and Demosthenes uses the same illustration there: 13.22.

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Athens’s credit by Charidemus in the north Aegean, may also contribute to such a design. The presentation has largely been seen as negative,¹¹⁴ and clearly Iphicrates’ actions do not reflect well on him, but there is more here than condemnation for his service with his marriage connection,¹¹⁵ Cotys of Thrace. Again, the pivot of Demosthenes’/Euthycles’ version is Iphicrates’ bronze statue, along with other honours (χαλκῆς εἰκόνος . . . καὶ σιτήσεως ἐν πρυτανείῳ καὶ δωρεῶν καὶ τιμῶν ἄλλων, 130),¹¹⁶ which makes that service all the more striking. One interesting point is the use of εὐδαίμων (‘fortunate’, ‘happy’) to describe Iphicrates as recipient of these honours. The word is used rarely by Demosthenes of specific living people, and there may be a tragic echo here, particularly as Iphicrates is described as narrowly avoiding extreme misery after his service with Cotys, due to the Athenian people’s restraint (οὐδὲν ἂν αὐτὸν ἐκώλυεν ἀθλιώτατον ἀνθρώπων ἁπάντων εἶναι, ‘nothing would have prevented him from being the most wretched man in the world’: 130).¹¹⁷ Demosthenes’/Euthycles’ main emphasis is on the reversal in Iphicrates’ good fortune, on Cotys’ failure to reward Iphicrates adequately, on Iphicrates’ subsequent (Themistocles- or Alcibiadeslike, and again faintly tragic) wandering (132)¹¹⁸—Themistocles himself will appear (exiled) at 205—and on Cotys’ cruelty in leading Iphicrates to reject his enviable position in Athens (136).¹¹⁹ It is not, therefore, on the perfidy of Iphicrates’ own side-switching, which in fact is treated objectively and quite neutrally. Demosthenes’ attention to sustaining the credit of the Embata trial victims in their capacity as great, paradigmatic Athenians partakes directly in his rhetorical foregrounding in all four speeches of the symbolic meaning of actions in the present as considered against the backdrop of the Athenian past (something which in turn makes itself felt through reference to symbolic individuals, monuments, behaviour, and so on). This had been central to his argumentation in Against Leptines; I now look at some more of its appearances in the other speeches.

¹¹⁴ Kallet (1983) 250–2; Heskel (1997) 89–94; Sears (2013) 134–6. Harris (1989b) 268–9 is more positive. ¹¹⁵ Sears (2013) 126–9. ¹¹⁶ Gauthier (1985) 97–9. ¹¹⁷ A good reference point is Eur. Antigone fr. 157 Kannicht (cf. Frogs 1182, 1187), though both he and Collard and Cropp (2008) 160 prefer εὐτυχὴς there (Wilson [2007] 2.189 prefers εὐτυχὴς and Dover [1993] 336 εὐδαίμων for Frogs 1182). There is a resemblance to the young Demosthenes’ portrayal of his position in On the Trierarchic Crown of 360/59 (D. 51.9; see n. 26). Broader engagement by Demosthenes with Frogs seems possible too: Hanink (2014) 146–51. ¹¹⁸ For the more positive reality: Heskel (1997) 93–4. ¹¹⁹ As Harris (1989b) 268 agrees.

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The final sequence of Against Androtion (22.69–78)—where Demosthenes/Diodorus critiques Androtion’s actions in an overtly historical perspective—is best understood as a loop back to a paradeigmata-based argument early in the speech (12–15) about the instrumental role played by the availability of triremes in securing Athenian success at key moments: first the evacuation to, and victory at, Salamis in 480—won, Diodorus says, by ‘the men who built the Propylaea and the Parthenon’ (οἱ τὰ προπύλαια καὶ τὸν Παρθενῶνα οἰκοδομήσαντες ἐκεῖνοι: 13), landmarks which will recur together in the final sequence (76)—then the 357 Euboea expedition (14); then the problems that followed from lack of triremes, illustrated by the Athenian defeat at Aegospotami in 405 (15) and Spartan and Athenian military action over Corcyra in the mid-370s (15). The medley of periods seems intentional, part of the communication of Diodorus’ brusque, no-nonsense ēthos; he flags them with a variety of abrupt shifts (καὶ παλαιὰ καὶ καινά, ‘both from the past and from recent events’: 13; ἀλλ’ ἐκεῖνα μὲν ἀρχαῖα καὶ παλαιά. ἀλλ’ ἃ πάντες ἑοράκατε . . . , ‘these events are ancient and long past. As for events that you have all seen . . . ’: 14; καὶ τί δεῖ τὰ παλαιὰ λέγειν; ‘yet why do I need to discuss ancient history?’: 15). He is also open about the fact that he is choosing illustrations which will be well known to the audience (13: μάλιστα ἀκοῦσαι γνώριμα), something he makes a point of stressing as part of each example (13: ἴστε δήπου τοῦτο ἀκοῇ, ‘you certainly know this from hearing about it’; 14: ἴσθ’, ‘you know’; 15: τῶν γὰρ ἀρχαίων ἕν, ὃ πάντες ἐμοῦ μᾶλλον ἐπίστασθε, ὑπομνήσω, ‘I will remind you of one incident from the distant past that you all know better than I do’). It also accords with Demosthenes’ construction of the Athenian past as a continuum from which examples may be drawn which resemble one another, because, whereas Athens’s substance is unchanging, the factors affecting the city’s success—the accidentals—form patterns which can be traced along that continuum. There are defeats (which do not have to be mentioned), but defeats from which Athens always recovers and which are always explicable in terms of accidental factors: poor generalship, economics, and so on. Building on this, the final sequence (69–78)—which Demosthenes and Diodorus clearly thought had been successful enough in performance to rerun very closely when Diodorus was principal accuser in Against Timocrates (176–86)¹²⁰—contrasts the glorious continuum of Athenian civic history with what Demosthenes/Diodorus represents as an act of cultural criminality on the part of Androtion: melting down honorific

¹²⁰ This rerun of arguments is quite open: D. 24.159.

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crowns awarded to the Athenian dēmos by grateful allies.¹²¹ Androtion’s motives, as Demosthenes/Diodorus presents them, are entirely practical— he persuaded the Assembly (70) that the crowns were deteriorating and losing leaves. Demosthenes’/Diodorus’ strategy, therefore, is to show that Androtion’s activity demonstrated a lack of understanding of the crowns’ symbolic value: Diodorus makes fun of Androtion’s explanation—‘as if they fell off violets or roses, [and were] not made of gold’ (ὥσπερ ἴων ἢ ῥόδων ὄντας, ἀλλ’ οὐ χρυσίου, 70).¹²² Androtion, given his professional historical expertise, would have been well able to defend his decision in historical terms in his defence speech (as well as in any synēgoria he presumably offered to Timocrates in the later trial); he might (both in the Assembly and in the trial) have spun the loss of leaves as an unwelcome metaphor for the diminution of Athenian influence or as part of an argument that some of those who had awarded those crowns had not in fact stayed friendly to Athens. Better then (he might have argued) to reflect the city’s renown in some lasting form, as he had done in ordering the recasting of the crowns as processional vessels (pompeia)—a procedure which had already happened several times by 355/4 and would again, under Eubulus’ and, later, Lycurgus’ direction.¹²³ In emphasizing the symbolic, commemorative value of the crowns and playing down the significance of the processional vessels, then, Demosthenes/Diodorus seeks to force Androtion to engage with the issues on the prosecution’s terms, a strategy presumably enabled at all by some level of public unease with the practice (Androtion did have to justify his measure to an Assembly audience, after all), which was carefully regulated (at least by Lycurgus’ time).¹²⁴ Demosthenes/Diodorus focuses on the crowns’ inscriptions¹²⁵ as inspirational to the Athenians who view them (presumably at festival times¹²⁶) and, by implication, impressive to non-Athenians who might contemplate them (73: ἃ ζῆλον πολὺν εἶχεν καὶ φιλοτιμίαν ὑμῖν)—perhaps visiting citizens of the states and groups who dedicated them; and, in a passage of enargeia, he invites the jurors to ‘see’ the inscriptions (72: ὁρᾶν)—‘all see’ (ἅπαντας ὁρᾶν) and the following words here being ¹²¹ For the historical context of the awards of crowns: Rutishauser (2014), especially 70–2 on D. 22. Androtion possibly recommended more than one such melting: D. Harris (1995) 32–3; Lewis (1954) 43. Harris (2008) 167–8 prefers a single melting. ¹²² This could happen, though: see IG II² 1377.22–4, with D. Harris (1995) 33. ¹²³ D. Harris (1995) 29–36. ¹²⁴ The regulations: D. Harris (1995) 34–6. ¹²⁵ See Richardson (2015) 367–8 n. 9 on the inscriptions’ placement relative to the crowns. ¹²⁶ Rutishauser (2014) 72. Audience familiarity with, or at least awareness of, them: Richardson (2015) 351–4, 356–7; assumed by Keim (2016) 17.

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emphasized by a sudden break into anapaestic rhythm.¹²⁷ The specific choices of crowns whose inscriptions Demosthenes has Diodorus recite may be important: the crown offered by the Euboeans (72) inevitably connotes Timotheus’ victory,¹²⁸ and it is followed by the one commemorating Conon’s victory at Cnidus (72).¹²⁹ When the passage is repeated in Against Timocrates, within two years of Against Androtion and Against Leptines, Demosthenes has inserted ‘Chabrias from the naval battle at Naxos’ into the list as well (Χαβρίας ἀπὸ τῆς ἐν Νάξῳ ναυμαχίας, 24.180).¹³⁰ The crowns sequence(s) can be read as responding to Demosthenes’ 350s speeches’ conception of the recently deceased generals as a group fit to rival the likes of Themistocles. It would, therefore, communicate the view that Athens does not have to settle for a future on the uninspiring terms promoted by the current drivers of policy: part of the contrast between Demosthenes’/Diodorus’ view of the crowns and Androtion’s recasting of them as processional vessels might be to pitch a vision of an ambitious, outward-looking, internationally responsible Athens against a more inward-looking satisfaction of domestic needs— especially true if, as Rutishauser suggests,¹³¹ these particular crowns were the first to be awarded to Athens by any poleis, though we might expect Demosthenes to exploit the emotive potential of that aspect, if so. This kind of strategy reflects the specific valorization of the symbolic, and with it the international perspective, which we saw in Demosthenes’ arguments about the removal of ateleiai in Against Leptines (Against Androtion’s contemporary)—damaging Athens’s credit in the wider world. In Against Leptines, the point had been about the damage done to the city’s ēthos by securing a negligible increase in the number of those available to perform liturgies (20.21–3). In Against Androtion, the focus is not on how the communities who awarded the crowns might view the melting if they got to hear about it,¹³² but on what the melting says about Athens’s (and its political class’s) own priorities. The theme of personal means is brought into the equation too to articulate the symbolic argument more clearly. Conveniently sidestepping the communal use to

¹²⁷ On Demosthenic prose rhythm, still an underexplored topic: Blass (1893) 105–12, 124–36; Batschelet-Massini (1980); McCabe (1981); Wooten (2008) 178 s.v. ‘rhythmical effects’. ¹²⁸ Even if, as Lewis (1954) 45, 47 argued (and see Rutishauser [2014] 70 n. 8 for more subscribers to Lewis’s 360s date for Androtion’s activities), that was not in fact the liberation of the Euboeans that the crown recalled. ¹²⁹ Rutishauser (2014) 75–6, with nn. 36–7. ¹³⁰ Lewis (1954) 45; Rutishauser (2014) 76. ¹³¹ Rutishauser (2014) 78. ¹³² They might typically view these crowns as transactional and their significance as located primarily in the fact that they were given: Rutishauser (2014) 78.

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which the new processional vessels would be put (surely an avenue of approach unintentionally left clear for Androtion to use in his defence, though the Against Timocrates rerun may push against that), Demosthenes/Diodorus contrasts the excellence (ἀρετή) expressed in the crowns with the wealth (πλοῦτος) the bowls and other utensils represent (75). Against Androtion’s new vessels (‘two little jars, or even three or four gold ones, each weighing a few pounds’, ἀμφορίσκοι δύο οὐδὲ χρυσίδες τέτταρες ἢ τρεῖς, ἄγουσα ἑκάστη μνᾶν: 22.77; 24.184), therefore, rhetorically parallel—and almost act as metaphor for¹³³—Against Leptines’ liturgists: like the vessels that were formerly crowns, Against Leptines’ ateleia-holders when obliged to perform liturgies are transformed from entities whose worth consisted in spiritual rather than material value into entities purely materially valuable; and the petty material value of what is gained is contrasted starkly with the spiritual value of what is lost.¹³⁴ That the two speeches share conceptions of this key issue may be corroborated by reminiscences at the level of phrasing. In Against Leptines, Athenian ancestral behaviour is summed up in the idea of giving up vast wealth to pursue honourable ambition (πάνθ’ ὑπὲρ φιλοτιμίας ἀνήλωσαν, 10); this, like the sentence that follows, is very closely paralleled in Against Androtion (ἅπανθ’ ὑπὲρ φιλοτιμίας ἀνήλωσεν, 76; and therefore also in Against Timocrates 184). Even if the illustration was simply a topos—and the fact that all three appearances of it are preceded by τεκμήριον δέ (‘here is a proof ’) could, but does not have to, suggest as much—the point still stands that Demosthenes, composing the first two speeches at roughly the same time, is articulating a unified conception of how the past should be brought into the discussion of present-day issues, and using it to subvert and challenge—via a symbolic route—the practical bias of policies proposed by Athens’s current leaders, like Androtion. We do not need to assume that Diodorus was a specific political ally of Demosthenes to accept that he would see this as a valid approach that his logographer had taken to winning him his case. It is also possible that the crowns sequence subtly brings up the key theme of anti-democratic behaviour. Philochorus tells us that some of the Athenian state processional vessels in use at this date were

¹³³ On the orators’ use of conceptual metaphors for political/civic behaviour—another underexplored topic relative to its importance, and relevant to much of this book—see Filonik (2017) on Lyc. 1. ¹³⁴ See Keim (2016) 17–19 on the ‘two economies’ (18) here. The thinking also appears in On Organization 13.10—if genuine (Chapter 1.7.2 n. 329), its date is probably 353/2, so it fits neatly as part of this expressive pattern.

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made from the melted-down property of the convicted Thirty and their adherents.¹³⁵ If Demosthenes/Diodorus could rely on some audience knowledge of the history of the city’s pompeia—perhaps something that might be mentioned in other public contexts—then he may well be trying to sustain the connection of Androtion with oligarchy which had included the latter’s invasions of citizens’ houses in pursuit of arrears of eisphora earlier in the speech (52–3). In stamping his name on the ceremonial vessels (i.e. the recast crowns) (‘Ἀνδροτίωνος ἐπιμελουμένου’ . . . ἐπιγέγραπται: 73), Androtion ‘creeps into the sacred space where the person himself is denied entry’,¹³⁶ and inserts himself into a group which, before his intervention, had symbolized the community’s resolution of enmity from the troubled period of the Thirty. Androtion would, in effect, be carrying out a hideous reversal of the earlier recasting. When this sequence appears in Against Timocrates, it in fact follows up an earlier link traced between oligarchic behaviour and illicit access to sacred treasure: Androtion’s fellow envoy Glaucetes, another of those who will supposedly benefit if Timocrates’ law is passed, is accused by Diodorus (24.128–9) not only of being among those who deserted to the Spartans at Decelea in the later stages of the Peloponnesian War (possibly just slander, but possibly not¹³⁷), but also of stealing valuable objects while Treasurer of Athene: ‘the trophies [τἀριστεῖα] that the city had taken from the barbarians, the throne with silver feet, and the sword of Mardonius [τὸν ἀκινάκην τὸν Μαρδονίου], which weighed three hundred darics’ (129).¹³⁸ The definite article is doing important work here: like Androtion with the crowns, Glaucetes has allegedly carried out an effacement of Athens’s cultural legacy on a comprehensive scale—in this case taking for himself (another oligarchic and tyrannical trope, of course) ornate physical reminders of the decisive Greek victory at Plataea, part of a caucus of familiar and hallowed memory along with Marathon, Salamis, and Artemisium;¹³⁹ these objects were only to be drawn upon for their material value in time of great need (e.g. Thuc. ¹³⁵ Philochorus FGrHist 328 F 181; Jacoby (1954) 550–1; Lewis (1954) 43–9 (redating D. 22 to 357); Walbank (1982) 96; D. Harris (1995) 29; Fornara and Yates (2007); Kindt (2009) 223–5, 239–44; BNJ 328 (Jones) ad F 181. ¹³⁶ Martin (2009) 130. ¹³⁷ See Harris (2018) 164 n. 208. Glaucetes is probably of Androtion’s and Melanopus’ generation—i.e. senior—and could in any case have been taken to Decelea as a child by an oligarchic relative. ¹³⁸ See Harris (2018) 165 n. 211 for further references; add Higbie (2003) 36–7 and 44–5, with 123–4, for an akinakēs (belonging to Datis?) in two parts of the ‘Lindian Chronicle’. There may have been several ‘akinakai of Mardonius’ across time (or indeed simultaneously): see Paus. 1.27.1 for one in the Erechtheum in his day. ¹³⁹ Oratorical references to Plataea: Nouhaud (1982) 162–4.

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2.13.4, where Pericles lists them as part of Athens’s resources). Already established as a worse-intentioned legislator than Critias (90), Timocrates is accordingly represented as someone who aids and abets people who have a long history of commitment to diminishing Athens and its democratic identity. The idea that Androtion’s anti-democratic potential is being played on further in the crowns sequence is supported by Demosthenes’/Diodorus’ suggestion that Androtion might move a decree to melt the ceremonial vessels down again when the mood takes him, a clear pointer to oligarchic wilfulness, especially given the ironic use of δοκέω (ὅταν σοι δοκῇ, 76).¹⁴⁰ Again, Demosthenes is using oligarchy to think aloud with. As with Leptines, there is much about the characterization of Androtion generally that invalidates the idea that he poses a direct threat to the democratic order, but Demosthenes’ strategy is to invest his actions with sufficient similarity to the Thirty’s to force audience reflection on these as preparation for the general condemnation of them at the end of both speeches where the sequence appears. Oligarchic lack of concern for proper order and process—which may, subtly, relate to Demosthenes’ global strategy of identifying his opponents as unable to construe the past properly—appears repeatedly in the speeches under review. We saw examples earlier in the hypothetical release of prisoners by Timocrates (24.206–9) and in the staged objections to Demosthenes’ doubts about the stability of democracy in the near future (20.49, 161; 24.154). Such errors are not presented necessarily as the product of malice, but of Demosthenes’ opponents’ flawed perception—just as good a reason to distrust their measures, because they are not founded in a robust appreciation of the past: this is clear (for example) in his image of Androtion as simply unable to comprehend that the Athenians of the fifth century surrendered their wealth ‘for honour’ (ὑπὲρ φιλοτιμίας: 22.76; 24.184)—‘he did not understand that the people have never been eager to acquire wealth but rather to acquire fame above everything else’. Demosthenes also mobilizes this notion of flawed perception when the act of legislation itself is in point, and not only because arguments in all four speeches hang on his opponents’ alleged failure to follow proper procedure; it also dovetails with general criticism of how their actions have failed properly to reflect on the past: how revoking previous generations’ decisions, or passing a law which legislates for past and future in

¹⁴⁰ Cf. Thuc. 8.53.3 (Peisander and the constitution; see Hornblower [2008] 914–15 on its striking placement) and 8.67.3 (ὁπόταν αὐτοῖς δοκῇ).

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the same way, must in themselves be bad things (20.47, 160). Solon is the past figure most frequently drawn into such arguments, as in the other orators.¹⁴¹ As in Aeschines’ speeches too (as we will see), and like Epicerdes earlier and like Demosthenes himself in Against Leptines (by implication), Solon can move effortlessly through the continuum to be invoked in a wide variety of situations. His thought processes are often imaginatively reconstructed, sometimes at length (e.g. on how he supposedly saw people like Androtion coming and legislated about prostitution accordingly: 22.30–2). However, this is not accompanied by any implied special relationship between Demosthenes/Diodorus/Euthycles and Solon and his laws, which is important when (for example) Demosthenes comes to attack Leptines and the syndikoi in Against Leptines: to suggest that a senior public figure like Leptines either has not read the laws of Solon or does not understand them (ἢ οὐκ ἀνεγνωκέναι τοὺς Σόλωνος νόμους ἢ οὐ συνιέναι, 102) is, despite the qualification Demosthenes puts in here,¹⁴² actually to insult Leptines deeply: it strikes right to the heart of his citizenhood (every citizen was meant to know the city’s laws), his competence to participate in public affairs, and (potentially) his basic intelligence.¹⁴³ Both Leptines and Timocrates are set up as explicitly anti-Solonian (or at least un-Solonian) legislators, while Demosthenes’ criticisms, on the other hand, are never presented as anything other than those that any good citizen would make. Both Against Leptines and Against Timocrates end with comparisons between the actions of the opponent and the debasing of coinage (20.167; cf. 24.212–14), but whereas this is brief in Against Leptines, it is fashioned by Demosthenes as a fully fledged parable in Against Timocrates. Beginning with praise of Solon’s and Dracon’s laws (211), and focusing strictly on Solon’s stature as a legislator (or—a step further—an actual litigant) rather than his profile(s) as poet, politician, or philosopher (as he and others do elsewhere), Demosthenes/Diodorus says (212): Well, now, I wish also to discuss the following statement that is attributed to Solon when he was prosecuting a man for an inexpedient law [κατηγοροῦντα νόμον τινὸς οὐκ ἐπιτήδειον θέντος]. It is said that he told the judges after finishing the rest of his speech [ἐπειδὴ τἄλλα κατηγόρησεν] that there is a law in virtually all cities that if someone counterfeits money, the penalty is death.

¹⁴¹ See, especially, Carey (2015) (also Chapter 1.1 n. 44). ¹⁴² οὐδὲν γὰρ φλαῦρον ἐρῶ σε (‘I am not about to disparage you’). φλαῦρον perhaps means ‘trivial’ here, though. ¹⁴³ For different diagnoses of the tone: Sandys (1890) 82; Rubinstein (2000) 138–9; Kremmydas (2012) 367; Canevaro (2016) 359.

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Solon’s dictum turns out to be a neat metaphorical parallel between coin (nomisma) as private individual’s currency and the laws (nomoi) as the city’s currency (nomisma) (213),¹⁴⁴ and Diodorus goes on to recommend the penalty of death for Timocrates on this (entirely symbolic) basis (214). The graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai procedure was instituted in the fourth century, but it would have been such a staple feature of lawcourt activity for most of the lives of those listening that Demosthenes/ Diodorus could probably get away with that part of the parallel; but the implied personal alignment between Diodorus and Solon here is pursued right down to the detail that Solon made his coinage-based parallel after making the rest of his accusation—just like Diodorus, who is right on the point of embarking on the epilogos of Against Timocrates (215–18). Solon himself is therefore pressed into the service of the prosecution case, and in an ambitious way that seems to invite contestation. To round off the last two sections, I now look succinctly at the main past-based strategy in the most prominent cluster of historical examples in Against Aristocrates (in 23.196–214), parts of which we will find reflected (and deployed differently) in Demosthenes’ Third Olynthiac in Chapter 3.3.1. The scholiast calls this section the parekbasis (the ‘digression’),¹⁴⁵ but it acts more as a summation via historical examples of Demosthenes’/Euthycles’ arguments for Charidemus’ lack of desert throughout the third part of Euthycles’ neatly tripartite argument; it is also designed to arouse the jurors’ hostility against Charidemus (and Aristocrates) as preparation for the epilogos, which immediately follows it (215–20). Where in Against Leptines Demosthenes had supported the retention of ateleiai for the relatively few ‘bad apples’ (e.g. subordinates of Chabrias at 20.131–3) for the sake of the truly deserving (e.g. the dead Chabrias himself: 133), the argument he writes for Euthycles in Against Aristocrates requires him to identify systemic problems with contemporary Athenian honorific practice more broadly (i.e. that this is not just about one undeserving individual, but several such people honoured in recent years as subordinates of leading figures). The two speeches do share two assumptions: that cheapening honours by extending them too far is against Athens’s interests; and that once the honours have been conferred, there is typically no going back (because they will become paradeigmata themselves—part of the civic ēthos, and part of Athens’s reputation). But the parekbasis of Against Aristocrates goes well beyond the requirement to identify Charidemus as undeserving, and launches a full-scale ideological critique of contemporary

¹⁴⁴ Keim (2016) 13–14.

¹⁴⁵ Σ ad D. 23.196 (104 Dilts); Papillon (1998) 38–9.

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practice reminiscent of the kind of argumentation that Demosthenes claims will come from Leptines and the syndikoi in Against Leptines. We can certainly interpret the reverse argumentation here in Against Aristocrates as a reflection of situational need (and perhaps of the stance of Euthycles himself, who would become identified with these views by delivering them)—but what is especially instructive is that by 349/8, in the Third Olynthiac, Demosthenes himself was making use of reworked versions of some of this material for his own use to attack what he represents there as perverse and self-indulgent civic priorities in the face of the growing threat from Philip. (This reuse of material written by Demosthenes for a client is in itself not surprising: Against Aristocrates also shares content with his contemporary Assembly speech For the Megalopolitans.¹⁴⁶) While it becomes hard to trace Demosthenes’ own attitudes to honorific practices—Against Leptines is, after all, arguing a case as much as Against Aristocrates is, so it is unnecessary to hypothesize a U-turn between the two speeches in his real views, whatever those were—what survives the change of rhetorical context between these two trials is how and why Demosthenes uses the past to mediate the prosecution case. The parekbasis of Against Aristocrates echoes Against Leptines’ emphasis on the symbolic value of past and present. Where Against Leptines had pushed the virtues of relatively recent honorands like Conon and Chabrias, Against Aristocrates is less hagiographic: while Chabrias’ actual achievements (and those of Iphicrates and Timotheus too) are not diminished, only set in context, the honours given to them by the dēmos are figured as excessive and the audience is held responsible (198; cf. 204). The symbolism of honour by one’s fellow citizens (without rewards) is given pride of place, via the examples of Miltiades and Themistocles (196), who were not given bronze statues (‘in the eyes of reasonable men with an eye on the truth [σώφροσιν ἀνθρώποις καὶ πρὸς ἀλήθειαν βουλομένοις σκοπεῖν], to be chosen first [κεκρίσθαι πρῶτον] among honest and respectable men [καλῶν κἀγαθῶν ἀνδρῶν] is a much greater honour than a bronze statue’: 197). Lycurgus was to use a related argument in 336 or 335 when opposing honours for Demades (i.e. the great Pericles only got an olive crown, so Demades can hardly expect a bronze statue and sitēsis), as was Aeschines in 330 ¹⁴⁶ Compare D. 23.102 and 16.4–5 on the ‘balance of power’ principle and especially the three identical historical examples at 6.14 and 23.191. Audiences would be unlikely to spot these overlaps, especially in these cases, given that Demosthenes glosses the ‘balance of power’ principle as ‘an example well known to all of you’ (23.102); this seems plausible and may apply to the trio in 23.191 and 6.14 as well. See Hunt (2010) 168–80.

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in Against Ctesiphon.¹⁴⁷ Demosthenes gives no rhetorical space here to something like Against Leptines’ balanced observation that honorific practices change over time (20.114)—instead, Against Aristocrates constructs a familiar version of the continuum where the politicians have become too powerful (209) and this has had a knock-on effect on the dēmos’ attitude to, and discernment in, awarding honours (210). The politicians who are singled out as most to blame for the downturn in civic confidence about how to manage honours appropriately are those (like Aristocrates) who propose those honours (201), and an important symbolic vehicle of Euthycles’ criticism of them is the claim that the new private houses being built for members of the political elite have got larger than the public buildings, as the political class enrich themselves at the expense of the dēmos (‘some have bought up more land than all of you in the court possess’: 208).¹⁴⁸ The existing metaphorical relationship (also pursued in comedy) between the oikos and the polis¹⁴⁹ is deepened by the historical dimension, allowing Demosthenes to give his contrast between past and present practice greater ethical significance. This sequence is reworked in the Third Olynthiac, but a key feature of the version given to Euthycles here is that although he talks of the political class in terms reminiscent of the Diodorus speeches (‘not only has this reward of the city [i.e. citizenship] but all awards have been dragged through the mud and become worthless [φαύλη γέγονεν] because of the depravity of the cursed and godforsaken politicians ready to propose decrees like this [διὰ τὴν τῶν καταράτων καὶ θεοῖς ἐχθρῶν ῥητόρων, τῶν τὰ τοιαῦτα γραφόντων ἑτοίμως, πονηρίαν]’: 201), he does not point to any obvious way out of the situation. As a voice from outside politics, he can castigate his audience in an attempt to shame them into rejecting the proposal for Charidemus’ award, but is not obliged to propose an alternative (or propose himself as an alternative, as we see Demosthenes doing by implication) in order to convince; in the Third Olynthiac, an Assembly speech, Demosthenes has to. Other parts of Against Aristocrates—notably the comprehensive guide offered the jurors by Demosthenes/Euthycles to the homicide courts whose traditions Aristocrates has supposedly overridden (23.65–79)— envisage the continuum of the Athenian past as one where the city’s core values do not change: the same model that Demosthenes operates with

¹⁴⁷ See the Introduction and Chapter 6.4. For the historical realities of the award of honorific gold and olive crowns to individuals: Domingo Gygax (2016) 182–9. ¹⁴⁸ On this kind of criticism (and its instantiations in later Demosthenes): Cecchet (2015) 157–62. ¹⁴⁹ Hutchinson (2011); Brock (2013) 25–42.

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in Against Leptines and the Diodorus speeches. Although periodically threatened by those who either do not understand those values (like Aristocrates) or mean them harm (like Charidemus)—both of which possibilities can mean, and have sometimes meant, danger to the democracy—the ‘true Athens’ always wins. Likewise, throughout, we see non-Athenians changing—Cotys careering around drunkenly, treating Iphicrates (and thus, metaphorically, Athens’s reputation) in a shoddy way (114); Philip reneging on his ancestral friendship with Athens (111); Charidemus betraying Athens multiple times; Python of Aenus throwing Athens’s award of citizenship back in the city’s face by siding with Philip (127)—but Athens itself does not change. The historical example of Philocrates son of Ephialtes (116–17),¹⁵⁰ who refused (perhaps sometime in the 390s or 380s) to accept any pledges of trust from the Spartans because they would never stop wanting to harm Athens—a piece of hard-nosed diplomacy which Demosthenes/Euthycles endorses—also involves the idea of Athens locked in an eternity of mutual distance with its traditional rivals, where circumstances may change (or persist for a time), but the fundamentals of the relationships never can.¹⁵¹ On the face of it, the parekbasis seems to strike a different note from this other material and to envisage corporate decline as inevitable— surely an Athens changing, and for the worse—but although Euthycles has no direct political solution to propose, Demosthenes still writes him some of the optimism he was to bring to bear himself when reworking the parekbasis material for personal use in the Third Olynthiac: the framing of the whole in terms of potential imitation of good past models by an audience with changed priorities (196: ‘if you see that their conduct is better than ours, it is good for you to imitate them [μιμήσασθαι]’). Although the tone of the parekbasis is gloomy—Euthycles ends it with a dramatic moment of lament (210)—no obstacle is mentioned that will prevent the audience from recovering the situation if they choose to. If they take Euthycles’/Demosthenes’ advice, then—and by implication follow him in voting to condemn Aristocrates—Athens’s continuum of glory will be safe, and sustained. Poor collective judgement—not least in allowing a certain group of politicians to predominate (210), and not punishing them systematically enough (206)—and not anything

¹⁵⁰ For a discussion of Philocrates (otherwise mentioned for certain only at X. Hell. 4.8.24): Westwood (2018b). ¹⁵¹ Philocrates’ conception of Athenian security as relying on the inability of Sparta to harm Athens recalls closely For the Megalopolitans (16.5), where Athenian security relies on the balance of power between Thebes and Sparta (see n. 146).

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existential, will be at fault; this is (or might be) a phase, but it need not be a rot. Furthermore, the parekbasis in places envisages an ideal dēmos for Euthycles’ audience to aspire to be: more self-reliant and vigilant, with no illusions about the human frailty even of their most heroic leaders, as even Themistocles and Cimon were punished when they behaved wrongly (205), with Cimon—just like Cephisodotus the general earlier (167)—avoiding execution by a mere three votes. Like Against Leptines, Against Aristocrates is predicated on a historically illiterate defence team—historically illiterate, that is, in the terms Demosthenes/Euthycles lays out. Aristocrates’ overriding of numerous laws, themselves articles of Athenian tradition, his contempt for the traditions of the ancient homicide courts, and his subscription to a culturally damaging attitude towards the award of honours testify to his lack of understanding of the significance of the Athenian past for the city’s contemporary character, life, and reputation. Both in the earlier parts of the speech and in the parekbasis, then, the historical argumentation is still overtly led by the idea of a continuum of Athenian values from which illustrations can be drawn and by a mode of reference which privileges the symbolic value of aspects of Athenian tradition equally with any practical value they may have, and so addresses itself to the symbolic character of the defendants’ behaviour in the present. It also puts historical illustrations to use to articulate fears about the democracy’s fragility, like the other speeches under review. The fact that Demosthenes was prepared to write this kind of argumentation for clients as well as for himself shows that ‘symbolic’ and continuum-led readings of the past were not peculiar to him, but it does show his commitment to harnessing them as a mode of adversarial engagement with trial opponents, even when he himself would not reap the benefit that would come from pitching such illustrations compellingly and successfully.

2.4. CONCLUSION Despite their different targets, the different issues at stake, and (sometimes) inverse approaches to the material to address the case at hand, Against Leptines and the logographic speeches roughly contemporary with them deploy the Athenian past in similar ways and to very similar ends. All these speeches project discontent with the current state of Athenian politics, and while it is tempting to interpret this as the discontent of a particular group of youngish politicians on the way up, our inability to conclude anything definite about Diodorus or much that is firm about Euthycles (apart from the likelihood that he was not

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involved in front-line politics: 23.5) makes that hard to sustain. What is certain is that in all four speeches we see the speakers openly lose patience at specific points with the political status quo, partaking in what must have been anti-establishment topoi as they do so. The vitriol is perhaps most direct in Against Androtion, where Diodorus says: ‘if . . . you get rid of the usual gang of orators [τῶν ἐθάδων καὶ συνεστηκότων ῥητόρων], you will see everything work as it should [πάνθ’ ἃ προσήκει γιγνόμενα], men of Athens’ (22.37) and in Against Timocrates, where he adopts a specifically historical perspective to encourage the jury to punish ‘these beasts’ (the politicians) who in trying to pass their own damaging laws are ‘abolishing the laws of Solon, which your ancestors enacted and which have passed the test of time’ (24.142). But Euthycles takes a not dissimilar tone in the proem of Against Aristocrates (‘I am not one of those people who pester you [τῶν ἐνοχλούντων ὑμᾶς], nor am I one of those politicians who enjoy your confidence [πιστευομένων παρ’ ὑμῖν]’, 23.4; ‘many men are afraid to address you; they may not be talented speakers, but they are still better men [βελτίοσι δ’ ἀνθρώποις] than those who are’, 23.5), as well as in the outstandingly disgruntled passage just mentioned (201–6); and, as we saw earlier, Demosthenes is hardly entirely temperate with Leptines and the syndikoi. The critical point for us is that Demosthenes’ clients also express their discontent via the (largely symbolically based) historical argumentation which Demosthenes is writing for them (or for himself in Against Leptines); he is fashioning the material in such a way as to make his opponents’ defective understanding of the past a compelling and multifunctional metaphor for their defective understanding of Athens’s priorities and interests in the present. That already implies that these opponents are the problem—that Leptines and the syndikoi, and Androtion, Timocrates, and Aristocrates are all among the ‘gang of orators’ who need to be jettisoned if Athens is to prosper. That is possible, but it is not a connection that all the speeches plot. When writing for Diodorus, certainly, Demosthenes was writing for someone with real enmity against his target—Androtion had apparently accused Diodorus of killing his own father (22.2; 24.7). If so, this was personal, unfinished business. So it is unsurprising that in Against Androtion the ‘usual gang of orators’ (22.37) are identified explicitly with Androtion and a small group of cronies in the Boule (36), though the ‘usual gang’ must logically refer to a larger group at the Assembly level (as a Boule faction would naturally disintegrate at the end of the bouleutic year without the need for intervention of the kind Diodorus is advocating). Against Androtion and Against Timocrates, therefore, conceive of Androtion’s and Timocrates’ alleged disrespect for, and lack of understanding of, Athenian tradition as a constituent element in their

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wider alleged villainy. Against Aristocrates construes the issue more objectively.¹⁵² Euthycles mentions no personal difficulty with Aristocrates; the problem is that Aristocrates’ proposal favours an undeserving individual, a conclusion reached partly from Euthycles’ own previous experience of Charidemus as Athens’s enemy when serving as a trierarch in 360/59, so he has to speak up now as he says he did then (23.5). Accordingly, Demosthenes/Euthycles is engaging Aristocrates on the right attitude to the past specifically to undermine the case for extending a signal honour to Charidemus in the present. Aristocrates is not directly placed among the self-enriching politicians lambasted at 201—and easily could have been. As we saw earlier, Demosthenes largely treads carefully in Against Leptines, criticizing the defective view of the past which he claims Leptines and the syndikoi will advocate in order to defend a bad law. There are also conciliatory manoeuvres, though, pivoted on historic civic honours, in Demosthenes’ individual addresses to the syndikoi close to the end of the speech. Though Cephisodotus is criticized for using his oratorical skill in a bad cause (20.150) and Leodamas is attacked for the relentlessness of his hostility to Chabrias (146–7), Demosthenes is complimentary to Deinias, identifying him as someone who could reasonably ask for honours from the city rather than having to be implicated in taking away other people’s (151). This is an invitation to join the distinguished list of honorands Demosthenes has named, and by implication the great continuum of Athenian achievement.¹⁵³ Aristophon, meanwhile, is specifically reminded of the place that he already has in that continuum in the form of an ateleia grant he received (148) and in his proposal that the city repay a loan by Gelarchus to the men of the Piraeus in 403, the time when Aristophon was there, among those restoring the democracy (149). In accusing Aristophon of inconsistency, Demosthenes performs a desire to shame him into embracing his own legacy, and also asserts control of the right way to conceive of the narrative of civic history, a domain where Aristophon would have natural control—and (in a neat twist) control not just of the civic narrative, but of Aristophon’s own personal past as well—something even more neatly achieved by invoking a set of historical circumstances Demosthenes himself had featured in the Spartan loan to the Thirty in 404 at the beginning of the speech (11–12).¹⁵⁴ ¹⁵² See Usher (1999) 205 on the ‘high-minded impersonality’ of the D. 23 proem. ¹⁵³ Demosthenes might, after all, be naming them in the order in which they were elected as syndikoi—he can afford some leniency to the man at the bottom of the list. ¹⁵⁴ On ring composition in the speech: Kremmydas (2012) 54–6.

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Conciliatory manoeuvres are in turn far from the whole story, though, as we saw earlier—for example, in how Demosthenes filters his polemical engagement with (what he represents as) his opponents’ grasp of the past through his use of more recent and more contestable examples of Athenian excellence like Chabrias in the same way that he uses ‘accepted’ paradigmatic individuals like Themistocles. The speech’s historical argumentation dwells on a nexus of key concepts relevant to Athenian citizenship, identity, civic obligation, and civic values, and is articulated via continual, unsettling reminders: of the ēthos Athens shows in how it treats benefactors, and how delicate that is, and easy to rupture; of the essential need to recognize opportunities and act on them, as previous Athenians and their benefactors did; and of the fragility of the political order itself. Using rhetorical strategies that bind his age-diverse audience together, Demosthenes spins threads of thematically related examples which promote particular understandings of all these, particularly the last. As in the other speeches under review here, he invites the jurors to discern the patterns with him, read between them, and so reckon for themselves that allowing representatives of the current political establishment to secure an acquittal in the current trial will bring the threat of the overturning of democracy—always ready to rear its head once again, on Demosthenes’ conception of the continuum of the Athenian past—a step closer, even if his opponents may not be among the perpetrators. The epilogos of Against Leptines makes this more explicit than it has been in the speech up to this point. While still refusing to make a direct link between his specific opponents and the shadowy forces they represent, he embarks on an ambitious passage of abstract semi-enargeia, widening the audience beyond the jurors to the casual audience also viewing the proceedings, and indeed the whole citizen body (165–7): None of those attending the trial nor anyone else is unaware [ἀγνοεῖ] that although Leptines is our opponent in court, in the mind of each of you seated here, generosity is set against [ἀντιτάττεται¹⁵⁵] envy, justice against evil, and noble sentiments against the worst. [166] If you are influenced by the better of these, if you follow our advice when voting [κατὰ ταὔθ’ ἡμῖν θέμενοι τὴν ψῆφον], you will appear to have come to the right decision and to have voted what is best for the city. And if any occasion should ever arise, you will not be short of men willing to court danger to protect you [οὐκ ἀπορήσετε τῶν ἐθελησόντων ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν κινδυνεύειν]. All these matters, I think, demand your keen interest and attention so that you will not be

¹⁵⁵ See Brock (2013) 161–2 for oratorical uses of military imagery, especially by Demosthenes. Aeschines uses ἀντιπαρατεταγμένους in the similar sequence he creates at A. 3.257–8: see Chapter 6.3.

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compelled to make a mistake. Many, many times, men of Athens, you have not been instructed as to what is the right decision but have been misled by shouting, intimidation, and lack of scruples on the part of orators [τῶν λεγόντων]. Do not let this happen to you today: it is beneath your dignity. [167] Instead, make the right decision.

The abstractions that he imagines in the jurors’ minds and the broadbrush comment in 166 about what orators (λέγοντες) in general are (supposedly) like keep the direct heat off Leptines and the syndikoi while simultaneously keeping them in the frame as the most immediately obvious referents of the claims being made. Subtly, but (in context) unmistakably (with the nudge to cast a vote for ‘us’: κατὰ ταὔθ’ ἡμῖν θέμενοι τὴν ψῆφον), Demosthenes is bringing to a logical conclusion the self-recommendation which his historical argumentation has been fostering by proxy throughout the speech: he is one of the people who are ‘willing to court danger to protect’ them, should the fears he has been filtering through his visions of the past in the speech ever be realized. A bid is being made here for recognition as a fresh voice in Athenian politics, and an ambition is being expressed, if not to supplant the current political establishment (as Against Androtion would have it), then at least to be allowed the kind of prominence that will enable him to hold its members to account. The final few sentences, moments later, make the link clear: he rounds off this attack on ‘orators’ by encouraging the jurors not to let orators who make ‘the entire city counterfeit and unreliable’ (ὅλην τὴν πόλιν κίβδηλον καὶ ἄπιστον: 167) get away with it— and in using ἄπιστον makes a daring but fleeting (and isolated) direct link with his specific arguments against Leptines and the syndikoi—so the jurors are now in no doubt who he really means. Just in case they had not noticed the link, he closes with a very artful manoeuvre: οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅ τι δεῖ πλείω λέγειν· οἶμαι γὰρ ὑμᾶς οὐδὲν ἀγνοεῖν τῶν εἰρημένων (‘I do not know what more I should say; I think that you understand everything I have said’: 167). This is a formula—but one which we otherwise find only in private speeches and, interestingly, only in speeches by Demosthenes and his reputed teacher Isaeus, and speeches written for clients at that¹⁵⁶—so not directly associable by a mass audience with either of these two men. By deploying a characteristic of private cases in a public trial, though, Demosthenes—known hitherto mainly as a logographer like Isaeus—is, nonetheless, asserting his arrival on the political scene (this was also the year of his first known Assembly speech), or, as Aeschines was to put it later, his leap from the

¹⁵⁶ D. 36.62; 38.28; 54.44; cf. Is. 7.45; 8.46 (and used in mid-speech in 11.36).

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law courts to the bēma (3.173). Demosthenes’ coded meaning in the critique of the politicians in (and just before) the epilogos becomes clearer with a more literal translation of the closing line, giving full weight to ἀγνοεῖν, which he had just used (165, above) to introduce his image of the showdown in the jurors’ minds between the prosecution’s rightness and the defence’s wrongness: ‘I do not think you are unaware of any of the things that I have said.’ We can now see that he could be referring as much to the things that he had just said, darkly—i.e. inviting the jurors to discern his subdued criticism of his political seniors—as to his speech as a whole. Against Leptines can, therefore, count as just as determined a bid for political recognition as Against Androtion, if significantly more circumspect; and composed with a speaker in mind who (unlike Diodorus) has not yet made powerful enemies among the active politicians, or at least has not yet taken them on in public settings.¹⁵⁷ Demosthenes’ team seem to have won the case against the law of Leptines.¹⁵⁸ Speculation about why ancient court cases were won or lost is always hazardous without more detail than we have here, but the sheer presence as well as the skilful shaping of historical material in Demosthenes’ argument (and, as far as we can tell, in Phormion’s too) makes it reasonable to assume that the jurors found it a compelling part of what they heard. If Demosthenes’ team did not win their case in 355/4, other litigants of whom we know nothing apparently did succeed in repealing the law during the next eight years: one of the items of Assembly business on 8 Elaphebolion 346, as arrangements were made for the great two-day debate and vote on peace with Philip ten days later, was a decree (moved by none other than Androtion, and supplemented by Timocrates’ son¹⁵⁹) to crown Spartocus, Paerisades, and Apollonius, the sons of the recently deceased Leucon of the Bosporan Kingdom, for their services in guaranteeing the same support for the Athenian grain supply as their father had; the implication is that Leucon’s honours, including his ateleia, are being extended to his sons too.¹⁶⁰ (Indeed, Demosthenes was to make a

¹⁵⁷ For the old feud with Meidias and Thrasylochus: e.g. MacDowell (1990) 1–4, 293–302; Harris (2008) 75–6. ¹⁵⁸ D.C. 31.128; Harris (2008) 20–1 with nn. 15 and 17; Kremmydas (2012) 55–60 vs Sealey (1993) 127; Canevaro (2016) 98–100. ¹⁵⁹ Polyeuctus of Crioa (PA 11946; PAA 778225). Timocrates and Polyeuctus were to resurface among Demosthenes’ opponents later: D. 21.139. ¹⁶⁰ For text, translation, and discussion: Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 318–25 (no. 64); Engen (2010) 290–1; on the extension of ateleia as implied here: Harris (2008) 20–1 n. 17; Kremmydas (2012) 59–60.

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point later in his career, c.327, of proposing honours for Paerisades and his sons.¹⁶¹) By early 346—whatever had happened to Diodorus and the professedly apolitical Euthycles—Demosthenes had made the breakthrough into the ranks of politicians which Against Leptines indicates he desired. He was currently serving on the Boule and had just served on the preliminary embassy to Philip about peace. Demosthenes was already known for his eloquence by this point (A. 2.34, if reliable), but speaking in the Boule and performing on the embassy—probably nowhere near as dismally as Aeschines was to suggest later (2.35)—must have given his career its lift-off. In Chapter 3 we will see how the historical argumentation he had used to articulate both personal and vicarious responses to the post-Social War political order—founded on a conception of Athens’s priorities as unchanging, and of himself as best placed to interpret those priorities correctly and profitably in the city’s interests— functions as part of his Assembly strategies. We will also see how the template he had developed to counter rivals he identified as having erroneous or warped conceptions of Athens’s traditional priorities changes shape to accommodate his new concentration on an antagonist all the more dangerous because of the accurate understanding of Athens’s past which Demosthenes figures him as having: Philip.

¹⁶¹ Din. 1.43; Engen (2010) 307–9.

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3 Demosthenes’ Assembly Speeches 3.1. INTRODUCTION AND OVERVIEW Against Leptines shows Demosthenes already using the past to do politics. I now turn to examine his Assembly speeches, which cover a period of some fourteen years from 354/3—and his first extant Assembly speech, On the Symmories, soon after Against Leptines itself—down to 341 (Fourth Philippic). It makes sense to consider these thirteen¹ speeches as a set, in partial deviation from the chronological progression of the chapter sequence, because our evidence—admittedly dominated by Demosthenes—indicates that the Assembly context typically exercised a decisive role in orators’ shaping of historical material. This becomes clearer if we consider the difference in scale between law-court and Assembly contexts, which deserves to be registered despite the manifold and important similarities between these venues. The young orator used to the courts will initially have found the dynamics of the Assembly a daunting prospect, requiring a different mode of public presentation.² Mass political gatherings of the dēmos will have felt like mass juries to some extent, but mass juries writ very large, and probably with a corresponding increase in noise levels.³ The Assembly typically met on the Pnyx, which, when full in the mid-fourth century, accommodated somewhere between 6,500 and 14,800 Assembly attendees (i.e. ‘Pnyx II’), such that (although evidence is lacking) higher potential audience figures ought to be canvassed than for major trials:

¹ Including D. 1–6, 8–10, and 13–16. As mentioned above (Chapter 1.7.2), I relegate D. 13 to a comparative role; no point made in the present chapter suffers if the speech is not genuine. ² Self-presentation in this environment: Kremmydas (2016) 44–9. ³ Assembly thorubos: Thomas (2011), especially 175–80; also Tacon (2001). law-court thorubos: Bers (1985); Hall (2006) 363–6.

The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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Hansen suggests 6,000,⁴ itself the largest size we know of for a jury (i.e. involving the empanelling of an entire year’s cohort).⁵ ‘Pnyx III’ in the late fourth century then approximately doubled capacity.⁶ Work on the physicality of the Pnyx has emphasized how commanding a presence an orator needed to sustain if he was to hold the attention of a gathering of that size in a far from acoustically perfect space.⁷ Relatively focused and pointed expressions of opinion must have predominated, to ensure the efficient transaction of public business—a setting, then, where terse speakers like Phocion will have thrived.⁸ Assemblies called for specific purposes—for example the two-day discussion of peace with Philip on 18 and 19 Elaphebolion 346—may have allowed for lengthier contributions, but it is hard to know (and hard to know how many of the speeches we have should fall into that category), not least because more people might have wanted or needed to speak on such occasions, including, in the 346 case, envoys from the other states involved. It is also reasonable to think that at least some of the Demosthenic Assembly speech texts we have may have been revised somewhat for dissemination, though probably not in a way which put them beyond what was plausible for the Assembly context (see Chapter 1.7.1): Demosthenes may have prepared more in draft than he intended to deliver,⁹ but presumably, when disseminating, neither he nor any posthumous disseminator would have been content to circulate a version so much longer or more complex that readers would lose the sense of an authentic contribution to a real debate.¹⁰ It may also be important that the longest speeches by far (D. 8–10) fall in the late 340s, the time of Demosthenes’ greatest prominence; their relative length may reflect the fact that this was when audiences were prepared to hear him out most.¹¹

⁴ Hansen (1976a) 121–30 notes a quorum of 6,000 for some decisions, importantly grants of citizenship, and so supports the archaeological estimate of 6,500 maximum for ‘Pnyx II’ (131); so Thompson (1982) 139 and Todd (1990) 172; Stanton (1996) 17–20 estimates 14,800. Hansen (1996) 28, 31 maintains c.6,000 as both a maximum and a regular figure, again based on the quorum (and enforced by the ekklēsiastikon [29–33]). ⁵ See MacDowell (1962) 77 and Blanshard (2004) 33–4 with Andoc. 1.17. ⁶ Liddel (2007) 247 gathers references. On its date: Richardson (2003). ⁷ Johnstone (1996) 116–27 (mainly for ‘Pnyx I’), followed by Fredal (2006) 124–9; cf. Thompson (1996) vi. ⁸ See Chapter 1.6, n. 272. ⁹ As the longer and shorter extant versions of the Third Philippic may indicate: see Wooten (2008) 167–73, with caution from Trevett (2011) 154–5. ¹⁰ See Tuplin’s (1998) arguments for wide-ranging revision (and Chapter 1.7.1). Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches as drafts issued later: Trevett (1996b). ¹¹ Furthermore, it is at the beginning of his career that he expresses concern about how long he is speaking for (14.41), though clearly topoi about seniority are in play here too.

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Historical material follows suit: in a compressed context, the leisurely unfolding of the kind of rich passage we see in Against Leptines was going to be much less suitable, and Demosthenes’ texts suggest that it normally occupied a relatively limited amount of formal airtime in Assembly speeches. This is supported by three of the four extant non-Demosthenic Assembly speeches which seem likeliest to be genuine fifth- or fourthcentury products: Andocides’ On His Return (Andoc. 2),¹² the pseudoDemosthenic On Halonnesus ([D.] 7),¹³ and the pseudo-Demosthenic On the Treaty with Alexander ([D.] 17).¹⁴ Apart from details of Andocides’ activities over the previous fifteen years, On His Return confines itself to one brief, well-chosen historical example (2.26): the loyalty to the state of Andocides’ great-grandfather Leogoras, made just before closing, in a bid to help demonstrate Andocides’ own loyalty and leave it in the jurors’ minds.¹⁵ On Halonnesus makes similarly sparing (and notably inaccurate) use of historical material: there are vague, brief references to a time when Macedonia was tributary to Athens (i.e. never)¹⁶ (12) and to ‘earlier decrees’ by which Athens claimed possession of Amphipolis (24), and the speaker cites, with little elaboration (and like a law),¹⁷ an inscription to demonstrate Athenian possession of part of the Chersonese (39–40). On the Treaty with Alexander opens with an alarming image of the Peisistratid tyrants returning to rule Athens (3) to make relevant to the audience the alleged impact of Alexander’s restoration of tyrants to power in Messene,¹⁸ but the speech’s historical appeals are otherwise vague (e.g. 30). The exception to all these is Andocides 3, On the Peace with Sparta (dated to 392/1 if genuine, a disputed issue).¹⁹ This speech opens with a lengthy historical section (3.3–9), later (apparently) closely reworked by Aeschines in On the Embassy (unless the two are using a common

¹² Date and discussions of Andoc. 2: Missiou (1992) 25–49 (26 n. 35 for dating); Gagarin and MacDowell (1998) 141–2; Usher (1999) 43–4. ¹³ Date and discussions of [D.] 7: D.H. Amm. 1.10 (to 343/2); Weil (1912) 239–44; Tomassetti Gusmano (1950) 3–7; Davies (2011) 13–15; Trevett (2011) 113–16. ¹⁴ Date and discussions of [D.] 17: Chapter 1.7.2 n. 326. ¹⁵ Pownall (2013) 345. ¹⁶ A distortion of the two states’ symbola relationship: Harrison (1960); Gauthier (1972) 170–1, 191–2 n. 46, 204–5; also Tomassetti Gusmano (1950) 18. Demosthenes is guilty of it too: 3.24. ¹⁷ Davies (2011) 14 notes the author’s lawyerly quality. ¹⁸ Neon and Thrasylochus, sons of Philiades/Philiadas: see D. 18.295 with Wankel (1976) 2.1252–3; also Trevett (2011) 291 n. 20 and Culasso Gastaldi (1984) 37–8. ¹⁹ Andoc. 3: date: Gagarin and MacDowell (1998) 148–9. Harris (2000) doubts authenticity; in favour of it, see Grethlein (2010) 128–9 n. 9 and 126–44 on the speech in general; also Missiou (1992) 56 n. 1 asserting authenticity; Usher (1999) 49–52.

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source), and has more later. Personal choice and unknown aspects of context may explain the detail here, but another possibility is that there was more room for historical material in Assembly speeches on diplomatic questions in general but specifically ones arising from embassies: in the Second Philippic of 344, for example, Demosthenes goes into some detail (6.20–5) about what he had said to the Messenians and Argives, and that also entails sequences of examples of Philip’s behaviour in the relatively recent past, for instance his gift of Anthemus to the Olynthians in 356, ‘to which all the former kings of Macedonia had laid claim’ (6.20).²⁰ As we saw earlier, Aristotle named symbouleutic oratory as the most appropriate place for paradeigmata,²¹ and a large proportion of surviving Assembly speeches bear this out; Athenian decision-making was about the proper consideration of past Athenian decisions, applied to present circumstances. The city’s past is treated as an inalienable frame for its present situation and possible conduct. In his Assembly speeches, accordingly, Demosthenes typically uses succinct historical examples to build concentrated, carefully connected images of good statesmanship which reflect positively on their creator and his allies, and cast doubt on the competence and/or motives of opponents—a binary model which hardens as Philip’s (alleged²²) breaches of the Peace multiply, Athenian provocation intensifies, and war approaches (i.e. in On the Chersonese onwards). As with the 350s court speeches, these images reinforce other rhetorical elements, helping to foster specific ethical environments in each speech—and, as we will see, this is especially notable in the speeches like the Third Olynthiac and the Third Philippic, where Demosthenes commits explicitly to greater development of his exemplary material. Right from On the Symmories onwards, the past serves to articulate the symbolic dimensions of Demosthenes’ policy recommendations, a function analogous to what we saw happening in Against Leptines. In the Assembly speeches, as in the 350s law-court speeches, we find Demosthenes frequently manipulating the audience’s sense of themselves as part of a continuum of Athenian values—and of their recognition of themselves as having the easy potential to be in some way assimilated, or assimilable, to other past Assembly audiences who made the decisions

²⁰ Amyntas III had entrusted Anthemus to the Olynthians in 383 and had to fight to get it back: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 173–8. Demosthenes’ framing here supplies a very convincing echo of the language of live diplomacy: see parallels in, e.g., ‘the King recognized it as yours’: D. 19.253. ²¹ Arist. Rhet. 1368a29–31 (cf. 1394a2–8); see Chapter 1.4. ²² See Bayliss in Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 280–90 for a balanced discussion.

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which are relevant to the issue at hand (the idea of the ‘identical audience’ from Chapter 1.2). Alongside the question of whether or not the present audience can measure up to past Athenian audiences who sustained the continuum (or transcend others who risked wrecking it), Demosthenes raises an even more important question—whether or not he himself can effectively play the role of the confident and reliable symboulos;²³ and, specifically, the kind of symboulos able to join the historical parade of great symbouloi who helped Athens sustain its great traditional identity (the ‘identical symboulos’, then, in a sense). In a context where a host of politicians were competing for public attention, self-construction became of the first importance, and this is what we see Demosthenes using his historical material to implement. In trials, orators were constrained by the additional requirements of an official role (prosecutor, defendant, synēgoros); in the Assembly, they had to focus relentlessly on the development of a compelling personal characterization and on the creation of personal authority. One of the many ways we will see Demosthenes going about that is in constantly addressing and foregrounding the rightness and credibility of his version of events, based not only on how recent events have turned out but also on his calculation based on historical examples. In Demosthenes’ conception, both in the Assembly speeches and in On the Crown, the true statesman is above all the man who is able to predict events accurately and to deal with their outcome effectively and reliably. His overt valorization of these qualities is one of several features that have led some scholars to argue plausibly for significant Thucydidean influence on Demosthenes’ thinking,²⁴ something recognized in antiquity.²⁵ In turn, other scholars have taken their cue from the few shared characteristics mentioned by Plutarch (Dem. 9.2–3)²⁶ and discerned specific self-fashioning along Periclean lines by Demosthenes in (some of) the Assembly speeches. This warrants extended comment here not least because the question of orators’ imitation of previous politicians bears heavily on the broader issue of self-presentation in the Assembly; the idea of actually imitating the people you praise is raised several times ²³ For this theme: Yunis (1996) 237–77 (especially 272–3) (the first important study); Mader (2004) 63–7; (2007a); (2007b). ²⁴ See Gotteland (2010), e.g. 38–41; also Hornblower (1995) 52; Yunis (1996) 268–77; Mader (2003) 64–8. For Apollodorus’ contemporary use of Thucydides (very likely): Chapter 1.1 n. 12. ²⁵ See D.H. Thuc. 52–5; Pom. Gem. 3. ²⁶ For example, a preference for addressing the Assembly only on his own terms: cf. Dem. 8.3.

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by orators. This has a ‘flat’ sense—i.e. imitation as consisting in trying to be a good statesman like those past figures (e.g. D. 3.21)—but also carries with it the possibility of oratorical imitation in the round. This could be motivated by the desire to capture a winning oratorical and selfcharacterizing formula, but it could also evoke a desirable past where the orator(s) in question had been in his heyday, express personal commitment to the memory or legacy of that figure himself (as in the cases of Demochares’ imitation of Demosthenes and the younger Alcibiades’ imitation of his father²⁷), or even point to adherence to particular shared policy positions—or (potentially) all of these. While it is reasonable enough to think that Demosthenes might have wanted to develop some of the oratorical characteristics of Thucydides’ Pericles, though—because they clearly worked—imitation of the ‘real’ Pericles is a different matter.²⁸ Given the meagre state of our knowledge, it is hard to know how traditions about the oratorical habits of individual speakers from nearly a century earlier might have percolated through to a Demosthenes beginning a public career in the mid-350s, or to his audiences. Aristotle does quote Pericles a few times in the Rhetoric,²⁹ so we can at least be confident that some of his best lines were known (at least in intellectual circles, to which Demosthenes probably had some access). We would have to posit (relying on Plutarch for help) that retired public figures like Eunomus, who had heard Pericles, were able to inform Demosthenes at an earlier stage, or that Demosthenes learnt these things from people who had talked to them.³⁰ But if Demosthenes was serious about Periclean self-fashioning, we would expect to see him using Pericles as an example more often (the single instance is in Third Olynthiac 21, and even then Pericles is one of a group of four, two of them—Nicias and the general Demosthenes—given prominence in Thucydides).³¹ Unless the figure being imitated by an orator were currently active or within recent popular memory, audience members would probably need ²⁷ Chapter 1.4 and 1.7.1, and the Conclusion. ²⁸ See Mader (2007a); he consciously does not separate Thucydides’ Pericles from any abstract historical Pericles, or differentiate him from whatever image of Pericles Demosthenes might have built up from a combination of Thucydides and other traditions (155). ²⁹ Arist. Rhet. 1365a31–3 (cf. 1411a2–4); 1407a2–6; 1411a15–16; 1419a2–5. ³⁰ Eunomus of Thria: Plut. Dem. 6.5 (probably the same man as in Lys. 19.19, 23 and Isoc. 15.93; see also Lintott [2013] 52). Biographical topoi are in play here too, though (see, e.g., Fairweather [1974] 261–3): similar very old men tell Pericles that he sounds like Peisistratus as well as looking like him (Per. 7.1), while Plutarch’s note that Demosthenes tended to speak only at intervals, like Pericles (Dem. 9.2) links up conveniently with Per. 7.7. ³¹ Relative lack of interest in Pericles in fourth-century oratory: Nouhaud (1982) 221–3; also Stadter (1989) lxxxi and Hansen (1989) 77 n. 34.

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a very noticeable cue to register any imitation (for example, a direct reference, like Aeschines’ to Solon when—probably³²—imitating him in Against Timarchus); and Pericles had been dead for over seven decades when Demosthenes began his public career in the mid-350s. While we know that Demosthenes’ contemporaries did use Pericles as an example (and possibly as a political model in Lycurgus’ case),³³ we have no evidence that anybody imitated him oratorically (or that people noticed if they did). It is unclear what audiences would have to work with in processing such an imitation anyway: it might simply pass if the orator did it compellingly, but equally it might have to satisfy popular traditions current in the fourth century about Pericles’ oratorical style (a period where our viewpoint depends on elite sources like Plato and Isocrates— and on extrapolating from the fifth century). Aspects of his oratorical persona could have been ingrained by repetition by other orators and in other contexts, but specific distinctive details (like Aristotle’s one-liners) were probably more likely to stick this way than an overall oratorical package. To recognize holistic imitation of (e.g.) Pericles by (e.g.) Demosthenes, audiences are still likely to have needed overt cues. Rivals even use them when accusing their targets of adopting the policy stances of past politicians: as mentioned in Chapter 1.4 above, Aeschines accuses Demosthenes of imitating (ἀπομιμούμενος) Cleophon’s extreme no-surrender politics at the end of the Peloponnesian War, manufacturing the necessary visual cue as he does so.³⁴ The focus is on policy and not on oratorical style, though the latter might be connoted too.³⁵ In the case of Demosthenes’ Pericles, though, we get no such cues, unless (1) these cues were gestural/visual and/or have not made it into our texts (which is possible, but assumes a more attentive audience and livelier popular traditions about historical figures’ oratorical styles than our evidence can support) or (2) the cues were ideas-based, i.e. what look like caucuses of political/ideological topoi to us—resistance to popular pressure, readiness to dispense unpalatable advice,³⁶ emphasis on the consistency of one’s position, and so on—were more specifically identifiable with Pericles (or perhaps a Periclean tradition, mediated by other practitioners in between) than we might assume. But this seems unlikely,

³² See Chapter 4.3.2. ³³ See Introduction and Chapter 6.4. ³⁴ A. 3.150, strongly recalling another image of Cleophon he paints at 2.76. ³⁵ There is overlap in the manic performance styles attributed to each by Aeschines (though these do partake in topoi of demagogic performance: cf. Isoc. 5.129): see Chapter 5.3.1 n. 127; also Demetrius at Plut. Dem. 9.3–4. ³⁶ This is a broader cultural topos, though: Dover (1974) 30.

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and, once again, Demosthenes’ domination of the evidence skews the picture. A more natural assumption is that the topoi associated with Thucydides’ Pericles could all also be found, separately or together, in the oratorical behaviour of several major politicians of the couple of generations prior to Demosthenes (and not necessarily as a Periclean inheritance as such). I do not want to rule out the possibility that Demosthenes was undertaking Periclean self-fashioning—it is not incompatible with what I suggest here—but, if so, his design must have remained a largely private project (whether it came from reading Thucydides or digestion of other, presumably mainly oral sources). Demosthenes would be cultivating Periclean characteristics because he knew his Thucydides and/or had paid attention to his sources and so knew of the success of Pericles’ approach. It seems more likely to me, though, that he undertook active (but less thoroughgoing) imitation of a broader range of politicians, just as he uses a wide range of such individuals in his examples in speeches (and different individuals at different times and in different contexts). He likes citing the chameleonic figure of Themistocles,³⁷ for example, which may (or may not) point to emulation; Thucydides’ famous obituary for him is an essential statement of the place of accurate foresight in the skill set of the good statesman,³⁸ a conceit which looms large in Demosthenes’ strategy both here and later in his career (see, e.g., 18.246). One obvious candidate for direct imitation by Demosthenes, though, is Callistratus, given the pivotal role he has in Plutarch’s version of Demosthenes’ decision to become a political orator, and (more importantly perhaps) the positive treatment he receives in Demosthenes’ speeches themselves, including first place in a roll call of great past Athenian orators in On the Crown (18.219).³⁹ How (e.g.) Demosthenes’ imitation of (e.g.) Callistratus might have worked in practice itself is hard to define, but if imitating a major recent politician (in Callistratus’ case, one whose late-career disgrace had presumably not entirely effaced the memory of his earlier distinction), Demosthenes might well have been able to give the audience visual or oral/verbal cues to appreciate his strategy which were within their competence as citizens who had heard and seen the other politician in action as well. In this chapter I examine a sequence of interrelated aspects of Demosthenes’ handling of the past in the Assembly speeches, aiming both to ³⁷ Citations: D. 20.73–4; 23.196–8, 205, 207; 19.303 (decree); 18.204; note also Clarke (2008) 254. ³⁸ Thuc. 1.138.3: Hornblower (1991) 222–3; Blösel (2012) 223–36; Rhodes (2014) 274–5. ³⁹ Positive treatment: Chapter 1.6 n. 256; also Brun (2015) 91–2.

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discuss what I see as integral features of his continuum-based conception of that past and to analyse his deployment of those features to represent himself as an authoritative symboulos figure. In the process, I also seek to trace how and how far his practice develops across the 354/3–341 period. First, in Chapter 3.2, I look at a series of typical moments over the whole corpus to demonstrate the central place of the notion of the correct use of the past—the recent past as much as the distant past—in Demosthenes’ presentational strategy, with particular focus on his rhetorical valorization of accurate foresight as a defining quality of the good statesman. As we have seen, the strategy will not have been distinctive to him, or necessarily an inheritance from (e.g.) Pericles or Themistocles. It is telling that Demosthenes’ opponents target his ‘foresight discourse’ not by attacking his strategic emphasis on his successful predictions as such, but instead by foregrounding his alleged failure to predict other events correctly or the unlikelihood of his predictions coming true.⁴⁰ This indicates that generating rhetorical capital from correct personal predictions was something other Assembly orators did too but which our evidence prevents us from seeing clearly. Next, I emphasize the decisive role played by context in Demosthenes’ choice and management of his examples by discussing an instance where he revises an earlier choice of paradigmatic material to address what he perceives as an advanced level of crisis in Athens’s relationship with Philip. In Chapter 3.3, I examine three techniques Demosthenes uses to present his historical material in nuanced ways: first, his framing of the Athenian national character (often typified by Demosthenes as unchanging) as fractured, atrophied, or in danger—but with a qualifying vein of optimism, admitting the possibility that things can still change;⁴¹ second, his stimulating displacement onto non-Athenian figures of the thoughtful consideration of the Athenian past; and third, his deployment of traditional notions of Athenian exceptionalism—particularly as a champion of the oppressed—as a way of combating the historical examples being offered by other speakers. This focus on the rightness of his own interpretative vision as opposed to those of his competitors comes to the fore in Chapter 3.4, where I look at Demosthenes’ use of his own oratorical mediation of historical examples as a way of challenging antidemocratic forces in order to set the scene for a distinctive moment in ⁴⁰ Demosthenes’ wrong predictions and ‘ignorance of the future’: A. 2.37, 39; 3.99, 131 (cf. 2.138), 160; cf. 223; making promises that he does not fulfil: A. 2.21; 3.100; Din. 1.91; making promises unlikely to be fulfilled: A. 1.173–4; 2.41; presenting as facts things that never happened: A. 2.153. Obliquely: A. 2.177. ⁴¹ Witte (1995) 108–13, conversely, argues for Isocrates-style straight criticism.

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On the Chersonese (of 341), where he brings his own projected mastery of his historical models to natural fulfilment by casting himself (but without saying he is doing so) in the role of one of the most talented Athenian leaders of the previous generation: Timotheus. As we will see, this ‘flashback’ functions as a vivid intertwined realization of Demosthenes’ two core strategies in these speeches: of dispensing challenging (and often unpalatable) advice while confiding that the present grim situation is not irrecoverable, that he has some solutions for the audience’s problems, and that the fulfilment is in their own hands. Historical material in the Assembly speeches, as elsewhere, is in a sense not really about the past as such; it is fashioned by Demosthenes (as no doubt by others) as a means of contemplating, by analogy and by persuasive extrapolation, the problems of the present and the possibilities of the future—and in Demosthenes’ hands particularly becomes a means of specific self-recommendation too.

3.2. APPLYING THE PAST

3.2.1. The Past, Rightly Applied On the Symmories (354/3)⁴² soberly argues for restraint and quiet preparedness in the context of a build-up of tension with Persia directly following the Social War. Its proem engages precisely our topic, how to praise the ancestors in an Assembly context: for Demosthenes, his opponents offer a ‘pleasurable theme’ (λόγον . . . κεχαρισμένον: 1) but little more, not giving the ancestors their due.⁴³ He quickly turns to the nature of his own contribution, brief and very straightforward (αὐτὸς δὲ πειράσομαι τὸν τρόπον εἰπεῖν ὃν ἄν μοι δοκεῖτε μάλιστα δύνασθαι παρασκευάσασθαι, ‘I, by contrast, will seek to explain how I think you can best prepare yourselves’: 2). An initial reading might therefore suggest that the relatively young Demosthenes (only 30 at this point) has decided to mark himself out by casting doubt on the argumentative force and/or relevance of appeals to the ancestors. But that would be a risky strategy, and in fact the way the speech proceeds clarifies that the problem lies not with the encomiastic ⁴² Date and discussions of D. 14: D.H. Amm. 1.4 for the 354/3 date; Sealey (1993) 128–9; Aidonis (1995) 161–313; Lane Fox (1997) 177–81; Usher (1999) 209–11; Karvounis (2002) 71–116; MacDowell (2009) 142–7; Worthington (2013) 84–9. ⁴³ See Jost (1935) 188 n. 1 for parallels for the use of κεχαρισμένον here.

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content but with the encomiasts themselves, Demosthenes’ opponents. Gradually, Demosthenes feeds historical material back into the speech, starting with an all but stated appeal to the memory of Athens’s pivotal (and, here, exceptional) role in repelling the Persians in 490 and 480 (6). At 12 we hear how any envoys sent to warn other Greek states of the Persian threat will ultimately only be ‘telling stories’ (ῥαψῳδήσουσιν) and will not convince their audiences—the stories, of course, being none other than reminders of Athenian prowess in 490 and 480, Athens’s stock-in-trade in diplomatic contexts, as we have already noticed.⁴⁴ By 29, events from the Persian Wars are under discussion openly. The double message to be taken from the speech as a whole, then—and this is underlined by the epilogos (τὰ δ’ ἔργα ἡμῶν ὅπως ἄξια τῶν προγόνων ἔσται σκοπεῖν, μὴ τοὺς ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος λόγους: 41⁴⁵)—is that only one person in the Assembly is really qualified to voice and interpret appeals to the past: Demosthenes himself.⁴⁶ Without his counsel and special direction, the fine-sounding ‘themes’ go awry, failing to honour their targets or make any impact on their hearers, and getting in the way of the preparation the Athenians need to be undertaking. On the Symmories—like Against Leptines in Chapter 2—is, therefore, already concerned with the rhetorical potential of the Athenian past’s purely symbolic qualities. It not only assumes implicitly that the right kind of praise of the ancestors is an accepted part of high-quality Assembly oratory, but also suggests (8; cf. 24) that Demosthenes, who claims to value deeds over words, is its only reliable interpreter. The natural result of the airy talk of other speakers might well be an overplaying of Athens’s geopolitical hand, ‘crying wolf ’ at a threat not yet proven to be real; the stance Demosthenes proposes is by contrast realistic, recognizing the relevance of the Persian Wars as a possible model but restrained about applying it to a present situation where much is as yet unclear. According to him, his stance worked: three years later, in On the Liberty of the Rhodians (351/0?),⁴⁷ he was to treat On the Symmories as a personal success (15.6), and—fundamentally—one ⁴⁴ See Chapter 1.3. ⁴⁵ ‘You should consider how our actions, not the speeches from this platform, may be worthy of our ancestors.’ ⁴⁶ This is echoed at the end of On the Liberty of the Rhodians (15.35), and the echo is coopted by Tuplin (1998) 312 in his argument for a literary arrangement of the two speeches (a credible argument in itself, given that Demosthenes overtly links the two speeches: 6–7). ⁴⁷ Date and discussions of D. 15: D.H. Amm. 1.4, giving this date; Sealey (1993) 133–4; Radicke (1995) (33–44 on the date); Lane Fox (1997) 187–91 (preferring early 352); Usher (1999) 213–15; Karvounis (2002) 175–221; MacDowell (2009) 218–23; Trevett (2011) 257–61 (favouring 353/2); Worthington (2013) 123–6.

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achieved as the first speaker and virtually single-handedly (παρελθὼν πρῶτος ἐγὼ παρῄνεσα, οἶμαι δὲ μόνος ἢ δεύτερος εἰπεῖν, ‘I came forward and was the first to advise you—I think that I spoke alone, or perhaps there was one other’: 6).⁴⁸ Although this rhetoric of uniqueness can be paralleled elsewhere,⁴⁹ and although it seems unlikely that Demosthenes was actually the first speaker in the debate of which On the Symmories represents part—its opening paragraphs themselves seem to point a different way—it is still a visible step in the formation of a back catalogue of past personal successes which begin to legitimize a personal presentation strategy based on the cogency of appeals to the past (distant and recent); these are seen to be authorized by the correct estimations made by Demosthenes on issues in the recent past. It is a strategy which we will see reaching its climax in Chapter 6 and the Conclusion, in Demosthenes’ full-scale identification of his own past with the city’s past itself in On the Crown and the Letters. Around the time of On the Liberty of the Rhodians, we also see Demosthenes building his authority in the First Philippic⁵⁰—whose proem advertises that he has, ambitiously, broken through the traditional order of speakers (1)—by construing his policy differences with his opponents explicitly (though, of course, not exclusively) on the basis of their defective historical perspective. Narratives of Philip’s recent strides earlier in the speech (4–5, 34–5) seek to project a careful comprehension of the recent past which springs from Demosthenes’ superior analytical powers, which means that when he occasionally figures himself as involved in a more general Athenian lack of a concrete solution to the Philip question (e.g. 48), we understand this move as simply intended to highlight the distance between his own stance (fight Philip now or we’ll be fighting him in Attica) and those of his opponents (50); he has also previously condemned previous efforts on the part of politicians and dēmos alike as operating ‘behind’ the course of events (39–40). In doing so he strikes at his political seniors, framing his attack in terms of their lack of capacity for statesmanlike foresight. He does not openly claim ⁴⁸ It is not clear that he actually succeeded in persuading them: cf. Wooten (2008) 9 and (2010) 4–6. ⁴⁹ Isoc. 9.78; and see, for an ironic version, D. 19.302 (recalling 19.10 and 113). ⁵⁰ Date and discussions of D. 4: Rowe (1968); Usher (1999) 217–20; Badian (2000) 33–7; Karvounis (2002) 223–60 (223–32 on dating); Mader (2003); Wooten (2008) 3–18; MacDowell (2009) 210–18; Trevett (2011) 68–71; Worthington (2013) 118–22. The dating question is one of the most fraught in the corpus: Dionysius (Amm. 1.4, 10) splits the speech in two and gives 352/1 and 347/6; most modern scholars keep it as a unit and go for 352/1 or 351/0: see, in addition, Sealey (1955b) 81–9; (1993) 132–3; Cawkwell (1962a) 122–7; Ellis (1966); Lane Fox (1997) 195–9.

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special personal brilliance in this domain yet, though, nor does he in the three Olynthiacs (of 349/8),⁵¹ but he does make his policy divergence from other politicians clear in terms of their failure to see the logic of Philip’s past behaviour (let alone anticipate it) or to see that it presents a new kind of threat (cf. 4.40–3) which the conventional paradigms cannot adequately confront; simultaneously, he expresses his own superior diagnostic command of that pattern of behaviour. In the Olynthiacs, rather than openly claim advanced skills in foresight for himself, he instead hints at them by communicating a deeper and broader hinterland of understanding about the forces that have shaped Greek history in recent decades, for example early in the First Olynthiac (5). Putting himself and the audience in the position of another threatened state (the Olynthians, in this case)—a move he was to develop elsewhere, as we will see—he uses that temporary imposed (and, of course, entirely rhetorically constructed) frame as a means of interpreting what Philip’s actions ultimately mean for the Athenians too, underlining the seriousness of the situation rhythmically by opening with an iambic trimeter (δῆλον . . . ὅτι) followed by a choliamb (νῦν . . . χώρας):⁵² δῆλον γάρ ἐστι τοῖς Ὀλυνθίοις ὅτι νῦν οὐ περὶ δόξης οὐδ’ ὑπὲρ μέρους χώρας πολεμοῦσιν, ἀλλ’ ἀναστάσεως καὶ ἀνδραποδισμοῦ τῆς πατρίδος, καὶ ἴσασιν ἅ τ’ Ἀμφιπολιτῶν ἐποίησε τοὺς παραδόντας αὐτῷ τὴν πόλιν καὶ Πυδναίων τοὺς ὑποδεξαμένους· καὶ ὅλως ἄπιστον, οἶμαι, ταῖς πολιτείαις ἡ τυραννίς, ἄλλως τε κἂν ὅμορον χώραν ἔχωσι. For the Olynthians now see clearly that they are fighting not for glory or over the division of land but to prevent the destruction and enslavement of their country, and they know how he treated those Amphipolitans who handed their city over to him, and those Pydnans who let him into their city. Free states, I believe, have no trust in tyranny, especially if they share a common border with it.

Typical reasoning from the recent past—standard in Demosthenic Assembly oratory as in deliberative oratory more broadly—is nuanced here by the parallel Demosthenes is constructing between the two citizen bodies concerned: imagined Olynthians and ‘live’ Athenian listeners. Instead of citing the likely fate of the Olynthians, who (it may be assumed, from νῦν) did not confront Philip at the crucial (early) moment, just as Demosthenes’ audience are presently failing to, he shifts ⁵¹ Dates and discussions of D. 1–3 (including of the order of the speeches): D.H. Amm. 1.4, giving 349/8 (and the order 2-3-1); Sealey (1955b) 92–6; (1993) 138–9; Lane Fox (1997) 196–7; Tuplin (1998) 276–91; Usher (1999) 220–6; Karvounis (2002) 287–352; MacDowell (2009) 229–39; Trevett (2011) 27–31, 41–3, 53–6; Worthington (2013) 132–44. ⁵² Sandys (1897) 130.

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the assumed temporal situation beyond the (as yet putative) fall of Olynthus to Philip’s summary treatment of the traitors who opened Amphipolis and Pydna to him in 357. Whatever the historical accuracy of this,⁵³ Demosthenes’ conjuring of a vision of the Athenians facing the same situation acquires depth from his contrast between the recent past—the fall of Amphipolis and Pydna—and the distant past when wars about glory and territory were the norm. Mentioning wars ὑπὲρ μέρους χώρας recalls the relationship between Olynthus and Philip’s father Amyntas III in the 380s: weakened by an Illyrian invasion in 383, Amyntas entrusted a large amount of land to Olynthus and then had to fight to get it back later. Before Spartan help turned the tide, he was struggling even to defend his heartland.⁵⁴ Demosthenes’ mention of the issue of the common border may also evoke those earlier stages of the relationship. If so, his allusion was likely to be within the competence of Athenian audience members because of Amyntas’ adoption of the great Iphicrates (something also mentioned by Aeschines) and good relations with Athens in the 370s.⁵⁵ The message is, therefore, twofold: that Philip and modern Macedonia are not like his father and his father’s Macedonia, and that Athens cannot rely on its traditional methods of confrontation. Demosthenes here makes a bid to pilot that strategy by showing his control of historical patterns, and looking beyond the present situation to the likely outcome⁵⁶—not only the fall of Olynthus (also by treachery in the end, as Demosthenes had predicted⁵⁷) but the fall of Athens if the Athenians do not do things differently. There is also another warning. As we will see again later, his rivals’ defective grasp of the patterns of the past is construed by Demosthenes as incompetence or worse on their part, so this reminder of the dismal end of those who surrendered Amphipolis and Pydna to Philip functions to discourage Demosthenes’ rivals from playing those roles, even symbolically, and by implication involves the audience in keeping a close watch on them. ⁵³ Demosthenes may be right (see Σ ad D. 1.5 [40a and 41a Dilts] for Philip’s execution of the traitors in both cities, and D. 20.63 for treachery at Pydna [προδόντας]), but his use of παραδόντας and ὑποδεξαμένους here leaves room for a variety of possible scenarios (including, e.g., surrender after intense siege), and Diodorus does not mention treachery in either case (16.8.2–3). ⁵⁴ X. Hell. 5.2.12–13; Hammond and Griffith (1979) 173–8 for the sequence of events. ⁵⁵ Hammond and Griffith (1979) 178–9, with A. 2.28 for the adoption. ⁵⁶ Demosthenes diagnosing what others cannot see: Mader (2018). ⁵⁷ Euthycrates and Lasthenes become paradigmatic Demosthenic villains: D. 8.40; 19.265–7, 342; Lasthenes alone: D. 9.66; 18.48 (with Wankel’s note: [1976] 1.335–7); also D.S. 16.53.2. Euthycrates alone (as Hyperides’ opponent at Delos): Hyperides’ Against Demades (XIV) fr. 76 (with Mack [2015] 73, 93 on this case).

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As noted earlier, Demosthenes’ service on the two embassies to Pella and on the Boule in 347/6 brought him to public attention;⁵⁸ On the Peace (346/5)⁵⁹ accordingly testifies to an advanced level of confidence in self-promotion. By this point, Demosthenes was already backtracking from his involvement in making the Peace of Philocrates and (if Aeschines’ later attacks are anything to go by) will have had to devise strategies to confront accusations of inconsistency: emphasizing his superior foresight therefore became a means of asserting the opposite. Basing his case on pragmatism in order not to alienate the Peace’s opponents,⁶⁰ Demosthenes spends nearly a third of On the Peace (4–10, especially 9–10) pointing out how his predictions have been proved right by events in the recent past. He was right (he claims) about the Euboean expedition of 348, something he claims to have been the ‘first, indeed the only one’ (πρῶτος καὶ μόνος: 5) to come forward and oppose (‘and I was virtually torn apart’: καὶ μόνον οὐ διεσπάσθην);⁶¹ he was also right about the ulterior ambitions of the actor-negotiator Neoptolemus (6–8); and, most importantly, he was right about the falsity of rumours that Philip would protect the Phocians and humble the Thebans once he had got through Thermopylae at the time of the making of the Peace itself (9–10). As in his overt connection of On the Liberty of the Rhodians with On the Symmories (‘my present speech follows on from [ἀκόλουθος] what I said on that occasion’, 15.7), Demosthenes couches his authority in an overt prefacing of his current advice ‘by reminding [you] of a few of the things I said then’ (μικρὰ τῶν πρότερόν ποτε ῥηθέντων ὑπ’ ἐμοῦ μνημονεύσαντας: 5.4), something which (as in the First Philippic) he affects to be unwilling to do for fear of being seen as self-regarding or being found tedious (φορτικὸν καὶ ἐπαχθὲς: 4), but claims he must do; and this manoeuvre ties into his self-presentation as a rare politician who will do what he thinks has to be done for the common good, however much it offends people. It is a necessary corollary that his opponents do the opposite (5: ‘you all realized that the men who had then persuaded you of that course of action were worthless and that what I had said was best [τὰ βέλτιστ’ εἰρηκότ’ ἐμέ]’).

⁵⁸ Sealey (1993) 163–6. ⁵⁹ Date and discussions of D. 5: D.H. Amm. 1.10 (346/5); Sealey (1993) 157–8; Usher (1999) 230–2; MacDowell (2009) 326–8; Trevett (2011) 88–91; Worthington (2013) 183–7. ⁶⁰ Aristophon’s opposition: Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 166, with Harding (2006) 196–7. On Hegesippus’ consistency in foreign policy outlook with Aristophon: Davies (2011) 15–16. ⁶¹ Probably misleading: Harris (2008) 77. More ‘first and only’ rhetoric: D. 18.173; Ep. 2.10.

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On the Peace, therefore, seeks to manufacture the image of a consistent policy stance on Demosthenes’ part by constructing accurate control over the past and future as a metaphor for broader political reliability and rightness, on a zero-sum, binary model which involves not only Demosthenes’ talent but others’ deficiency. Foresight becomes something for rival politicians to be judged explicitly upon (as in the Second Philippic of 344: ‘listen briefly to the reasons why I expect the opposite result . . . so that you may be persuaded by me, if you think that I show better foresight [ἐὰν μὲν ἐγὼ δοκῶ βέλτιον προορᾶν]; but if you think that those who confidently put their trust in [Philip] show more foresight, you may side with them’: 6). This becomes particularly clear in On the Peace 11–12, where Demosthenes’ own talent for foresight is explicitly linked for the first time to his wider credentials for a civic leadership role: the fact that he has been ‘more successful than others in predicting the future in all these matters’ (11) he puts down to luck (itself an attractive quality in a politician) but also to disinterestedness and incorruptibility, such that ‘our advantage is revealed to me directly from the facts themselves’ (12: ὀρθὸν οὖν, ὅ τι ἄν ποτ’ ἀπ’ αὐτῶν ὑπάρχῃ τῶν πραγμάτων, τὸ συμφέρον φαίνεταί μοι). His decision to spend nearly half of this short speech talking about himself marks it almost as a manifesto: our first extant Assembly speech since 348, it assumes that Demosthenes is now one of the politicians whose conduct is being actively scrutinized and evaluated by the dēmos. Mastery over the correct understanding of the past both as a deep and as an immediate context for decision-making and accurate forecasting, therefore, now equates, in Demosthenes’ conception, to a right to a political place and a political voice. Finally, we see this pursued and developed in the Third Philippic (of 341).⁶² At 47–52, Demosthenes openly criticizes other (confected or real) speakers’ command of the significance of the temporal context within which present-day Athens belongs: their defective choice of historical examples itself is what is at issue, and the continuum of the Athenian past becomes a vital domain for Demosthenes to control. Building on the Olynthiacs’ warnings about the fundamental change in the nature of the enemy, requiring new and special engagement on the Athenians’ part if they are to defeat him, he attributes to his opponents a ‘naive’ (εὐήθης: 47) argument which counters Demosthenes’ own understanding of the threat posed by Philip and seeks to locate him in the continuum (specifically by comparing him unfavourably with Sparta in its heyday: 47). ⁶² Date and discussions of D. 9: D.H. Amm. 1.10, giving 342/1; Sealey (1955b) 101–4; (1993) 181–5, 233–5; Usher (1999) 239–41; Wooten (2008) 137–66; MacDowell (2009) 349–54; Worthington (2013) 220–4.

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Demosthenes’ point in this part of the speech is that the threat Philip poses is novel—though the Persian Wars parallels are the best ones, not even they will perhaps quite do—and to make it he dovetails a point about the general change in international affairs over the decades in question (which looks like his argument in Against Leptines about the natural shift in honorific practices: 20.118) with a tendentious version of his opponents’ claims about Sparta which privileges the idea that Athens was never seized during Sparta’s period of hegemony (ἀνηρπάσθη: 47) and is therefore transparently calculated to leave his opponents looking clueless. To assert the superior validity of his own historical grasp, he goes into some detail about historical Spartan fighting methods (48–9), specifically the custom of a citizen army invading enemy territory in summer, laying the land waste for four or five months, and then retiring (48). Perhaps the opposing speakers are to be conceptualized like the historical Spartans (who fought ‘like good citizens’ [πολιτικῶς], openly and without corruption playing any role: 48) and, by implication, the Athenians they faced: the same word is applied both to his opponents’ criticism and to the strategic character of the conflict between Athens and Sparta (εὐήθειαν: 51). Depicting his opponents as stuck in the past along with those methods of military engagement, Demosthenes reassesses which temporal coordinates are relevant, in order to recommend his own version as more reliable because it accepts the uniqueness of Philip and recognizes the recent military revolution (47):⁶³ it looks more realistic. To muddle his opponents’ thinking for them further, he places his ‘good citizen’ Spartans in a recognizably Peloponnesian War-era setting, whereas the Spartan dominance he has his opponents referring to clearly relates to a separate period, at the earliest after 404.⁶⁴ At the same time, the origin of his own knowledge about the Spartans’ historical invasion habits is covered by an eminently democratic ἀκούω, ‘I hear’ (48)—interesting because an understanding derived from a reading of Thucydides could well be lurking here:⁶⁵ Demosthenes’ comment on Philip’s lack of concern for the division between summers and winters (50) may reflect this core structuring device in Thucydides. The Third Philippic marks the high point of the rhetoric of crisis in Demosthenes’ extant Assembly speeches, and makes the equation between correct evaluation of the place of current events within the ⁶³ D’Angour (2011) 177, 223. ⁶⁴ Possibly after the King’s Peace of 386: Trevett (2011) 169 n. 59. ⁶⁵ See Gotteland (2010) 39 n. 20.

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broad sweep of Athens’s past and the right to guide policy more clearly than any previous speech. It makes sense to construe this as reflecting Demosthenes’ increasing dexterity in handling the possibilities for constructing personal authority out of historical argument, but that is not the whole story: the needs of individual speeches and speech contexts exercise a decisive role over what material he uses and where he places the emphases within a given passage or thread of passages. The importance of context—in this case the escalation of the threat posed by Philip, or of Demosthenes’ perception of that threat—also applies to the management of historical material itself, as we now turn to see.

3.2.2. Applying the Right Past The First Philippic professes confidence that an Athenian citizen force still has the potential to stop Philip in his tracks; the Third Philippic, some ten years on, relies on that as a premise (5) but begins by asserting that things could not be any worse than they are for Athens even if the worst possible measures had been proposed (1). The absence in the First Philippic of anything like the grimly shrewd assessment of Philip’s devastating uniqueness and novelty that informs the Third Philippic (as we just saw) and to a lesser extent the Olynthiacs works itself out in exactly the kind of examples which we just saw Demosthenes discredit when feeding them through his opponents (9.47–52). In the First Philippic, old-style pitched battle against the Spartans (3, 17, 24) involving citizen hoplites or (24) a combination of hoplites and mercenaries (led by such worthies as Iphicrates and Chabrias) is represented as precisely the kind of behaviour the present-day Athenians should be emulating, in line with the First Philippic’s focus on the need for citizen rather than mercenary service. Correspondingly, we get nothing here of the victory of Iphicrates with his mercenaries at Lechaeum in 390, featured by Demosthenes elsewhere as a signal Athenian success on a par with Chabrias’ victory over the Spartans off Naxos (and by Iphicrates himself in his defence synēgoria against Harmodius, in a memorable metaphor, as a ‘stele as high as heaven . . . bearing witness to my glory’).⁶⁶ Demosthenes is also cursory here on Chabrias and Iphicrates themselves and stresses the effort and not the heroics, though he does celebrate the pooled effort of citizens and mercenaries (καὶ αὐτοὺς ὑμᾶς ⁶⁶ Iphicrates’ victory over the Spartan mora at Lechaeum: X. Hell. 4.5.11–18; D. S. 14.91.2; and in the orators, e.g. D. 23.198 (and 13.22); A. 3.243. In his own words: Lys. XX fr. 47 (στήλη οὐρανομήκης . . . μαρτυροῦσα τὴν ἀρετὴν). On the battle and its implications: Sekunda and Burliga (2014).

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συστρατεύεσθαι, ‘and you yourselves joined in the campaign’: 24), once again asserting the popular origins of his knowledge with ἀκούω. He also carefully ties all the engagements he mentions to popular memory: the aggression of the Spartans at the height of their power—which, like his opponents in the Third Philippic, he stresses that Athens overcame—is something audience members will ‘know from others or remember themselves’ (καὶ παρ’ ἄλλων ἀκούουσι καὶ τοῖς εἰδόσιν αὐτοῖς ἀναμιμνῃσκομένοις: 3), while (as we saw with On the Crown in Chapter 1.2) a cross section of listeners is explicitly appealed to (at 17) by recalling Haliartus (some forty-five years ago, in 395), Timotheus’ expedition to Euboea (in 357), and the successful stalling of Philip at Thermopylae recently, in 352. The Third Philippic’s message is that none of these paradigms can work. Athens is confronting a much more powerful and dangerous Philip, and therefore Demosthenes displaces the parallels he had used himself in 351/0. The convenient match between them and the opponents’ default model in Third Philippic 47 suggests strongly that those opponents are being saddled with more naive, or simplified, or at least tendentious versions of whatever arguments they were in fact making: a familiar way of combating the careful historical constructions of others. The Third Philippic supports its challenge to these readings by foregrounding the kind of privileging of the symbolic qualities of the past that we saw in Against Leptines: both as hermeneutic tools for the present situation themselves but as something for Demosthenes to be judged by (20: ἵνα, εἰ μὲν ὀρθῶς λογίζομαι, μετάσχητε τῶν λογισμῶν καὶ πρόνοιάν τινα ὑμῶν γ’ αὐτῶν, ‘in order that, if my assessment is correct, you may share it and take precautions for yourselves at least’). Third Philippic 21–46—a third of the speech—offers a disquisition (for which Demosthenes offers no direct apology) on the course of Greek interstate history since the beginning of the Athenian hegemony in 480/79 (23). The question posed is: why have the Athenians and other Greeks failed to check Philip’s rise? He finds an answer in an unquantifiable but nevertheless (he claims) identifiable intellectual and spiritual lassitude, the product of the admission of impure and corrupting factors—bribery above all—into interstate politics (36): ἦν τι τότ’, ἦν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ἐν ταῖς τῶν πολλῶν διανοίαις, ὃ νῦν οὐκ ἔστιν, ὃ καὶ τοῦ Περσῶν ἐκράτησε πλούτου καὶ ἐλευθέραν ἦγε τὴν Ἑλλάδα καὶ οὔτε ναυμαχίας οὔτε πεζῆς μάχης οὐδεμιᾶς ἡττᾶτο, νῦν δ’ ἀπολωλὸς ἅπαντα λελύμανται καὶ ἄνω καὶ κάτω πεποίηκε πάντα τὰ πράγματα. There was something then, there really was, men of Athens, in the spirit of the people, which is now absent, which overcame the wealth of Persia and led Greece to freedom, and was undefeated in battle on sea and

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land—but now it has been lost, ruining everything and turning everything upside down.

The juxtaposition of wealth and freedom (πλούτου vs ἐλευθέραν) expresses a traditional antithetical relationship between material wealth and symbolic poverty (or, more tendentiously, grubby reality and sacred ideals) which we saw Demosthenes putting to use in the 350s law-court speeches and which we also find, for example, in the Herodotean and wider Ionian ‘hard and soft nations’ duality.⁶⁷ His willingness to pursue the same ideas as a rhetorical frame across law-court and Assembly contexts invites the question whether similar rhetoric in Aeschines’, Hyperides’, or Lycurgus’ surviving law-court speeches might point to similar arguments in the Assembly context, but none of them shows anything like the systematic interest in this kind of symbolism that Demosthenes does; this in turn encourages the notion that here we may have what audiences might have seen as a characteristically Demosthenic way of arguing, even if not one distinctive to him. Here, he contrasts the way that symbolic poverty—now gone (ἀπολωλὸς)— used to translate into continual military victory with the reverse current situation where Athens has all the resources it needs (including the Athenians themselves, whose dianoia (‘attitude’) is in question, not their essence) but corruption makes them worthless (ἄχρηστα, ἄπρακτα, ἀνόνητα: 40). Demosthenes uses for that satiety the same word— ἀφθονία—that he had used recently for the superfluity of produce in Athens’s markets in On the Chersonese 67 when building a similar contrast,⁶⁸ and also describes the way Athens’s spiritual advantages have been lost in terms of marketplace selling (ἅπανθ’ ὥσπερ ἐξ ἀγορᾶς ἐκπέπραται ταῦτα, ‘all these things are exported as if from the marketplace’: 39). The example that encapsulates this encouragement of the audience to think of their past in symbolic terms may, in turn, count as one audiences might have identified as typically Demosthenic, as he had also used it at some length in a major trial context—in On the False Embassy—two years earlier (19.269–72), and Aeschines’ imaginative use of it in 330 in Against Ctesiphon (3.258), when facing Demosthenes, in turn looks like an anticipation (with a view to ground seizure) of some of his rival’s favourite material, as we shall see in Chapter 6. It is the early

⁶⁷ See Thomas (2000) 103–14. ⁶⁸ D. 8.67: ὑμεῖς δ’ ἔρημοι καὶ ταπεινοί, τῇ τῶν ὠνίων ἀφθονίᾳ λαμπροί, ‘you are abandoned and brought low, glorying in the abundant goods for sale in the marketplace’; this is echoed in D. 10.69, picking up on 10.49–50.

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fifth-century Athenian condemnation of Arthmius of Zelea, a Persian agent (and in Aeschines’ version the Athenian proxenos at Zelea), for bringing bribe money to the Peloponnese (41–6).⁶⁹ Demosthenes shows relatively modest concern about the bribery of politicians as a subject before about 350,⁷⁰ but, as we saw with the On the Peace in Chapter 3.2.1 above, the issue of his own incorruptibility, pitched against his opponents’ more doubtful profiles in this area, interlocks easily with his view of past-based argumentation as revelatory of the quality of the politician using it, and reinforces it. From the Second Philippic onwards, and especially in the recent On the Chersonese and in the Third Philippic itself, Demosthenes’ self-marking from his opponents (like Aeschines, prosecuted by him for this, but acquitted, in 343) had given the idea of a fully bought-up fifth column of pro-Philip Athenian politicians significant rhetorical space. Here, the venality of Demosthenes’ political opponents is a well-calculated illustration of his point about the erosion of the collective dianoia (36), something which he engages specifically in the Arthmius illustration, putting in question the nature of the Athenian thinking behind the condemnation (λογίζεσθε δὴ πρὸς θεῶν, τίς ἦν ποθ’ ἡ διάνοια τῶν Ἀθηναίων τῶν τότε ταῦτα ποιούντων, ἢ τί τὸ ἀξίωμα: 43).⁷¹ In the Third Philippic’s schema, then, the threat posed by Philip can no longer be explained with reference to any historical wars with Sparta, but can only be convincingly paralleled by recalling pre-Peace of Callias relations with Persia, including the Persian Wars themselves;⁷² for Arthmius, read any of the go-betweens used, allegedly, to liaise with politicians in the various cities approached by Philip.⁷³ There is no other plausible diagnostic toolkit available, and the labelling of Philip as non-Greek recommends it further (9.31: not even a ‘decent’ barbarian). That is why Demosthenes must talk about the absence of early fifth-century dianoia—because he no longer feels he can talk relevantly about whatever spirit it was that made the Athenians march out on previous occasions (as in First Philippic 3 and 17). By exploiting divisions among the Greeks with the aid of bribes, Philip has ⁶⁹ Arthmius beyond D. 9.41–6 and A. 3.258: D. 19.270–2; Din. 2.24–6; see also Colin (1933); Wallace (1970) 200–2; Meiggs (1972) 508–12; Nouhaud (1982) 239–42; Famerie (1992); Yatromanolaki (1997) 117–69. Afterlife: Plut. Them. 6.4, Ael. Arist. 1.369, 3.334–6, 650–1. ⁷⁰ Milns (2000) 211. ⁷¹ ‘Consider, by the gods, what was the purpose and resolve of the Athenians of that time in taking this action.’ ⁷² Jaeger (1938) 173–4. ⁷³ For those who allegedly took bribes, see D. 18.48, 295; and compare the mission of Timocrates of Rhodes (dated to c.395) in X. Hell. 3.5.1–2 for the same catalogue structure.

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gone beyond the level where he can be safely assimilated to models of intra-Hellenic conflict. When Demosthenes mentions a Macedonian landing at Marathon in the First Philippic (34)—a speech where he was still focused on Hellenic rather than Persian Wars parallels, as we saw earlier—he puts relatively little weight on this; that would have been unthinkable in the Third Philippic. Arthmius’ apparent failure to convince the Peloponnesians he approached—and Athens’s condemnation of him—communicates the city’s successful sustaining of its continuum of values when under threat. The prominence of this illustration puts the Third Philippic squarely among those speeches which function by envisaging the continuum breaking down if the Athenians do not act as Demosthenes advises— something we will now move to examine. The presence of some optimism is crucial to communicating Demosthenes’ authoritative control and responsible handling of his examples: he has to recommend a way out. Although the Athenians have lost the dianoia that allowed them to overcome Persia’s wealth (36–7), then—and wealth as expressed not only in bribes but in military expenditure and funding for combatants in past intra-Hellenic wars—they still have huge resources (40, 70) which they can make up their minds to use wisely and also to help the other Greeks by rousing them with diplomatic activity; as in the case of Arthmius, Demosthenes refers explicitly to Athens’s former but still existing ἀξίωμα (‘dignity’) (73: ταῦτ’ ἐστὶν πόλεως ἀξίωμα ἐχούσης ἡλίκον ὑμῖν ὑπάρχει; cf. 43 quoted above). In terms of Demosthenes’ own usage, we have now got to a stage where the parallels which we saw him mark as inappropriate for use by Athenian envoys in 354/3 in On the Symmories—Marathon, Salamis, and so on (the subjects of Athenian rhapsōdia: 14.12)—will be precisely the ones that are relevant to confront this existential threat. His use of these analogues was far from peculiar to him by 341. As early as 348/7, when on his mission to rouse the Arcadians against Philip, Aeschines was apparently using the decrees of Miltiades (of 490) and Themistocles (of 480) (whatever the authenticity of the texts he was using⁷⁴) in his speeches to the Ten Thousand (D. 19.303; cf. 311) and in his Assembly summary later (cf. 19.11).⁷⁵ His citation of the ephebes’ oath in the shrine of Aglaurus (also 19.303)⁷⁶ may have been prompted by a need to show ⁷⁴ See Chapter 1.1 n. 9; also Johansson (2001) 74. ⁷⁵ Aeschines’ Assembly speeches in 19.303 are very likely to be the same as his Assembly summaries of his Arcadian speeches in 19.11, given the very similar vocabulary Demosthenes uses (καλοὺς λόγους ἐκείνους; cf. καλοὺς ἐκείνους καὶ μακροὺς λόγους). ⁷⁶ Summary: Bayliss in Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 13–22.

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that this time the Athenians meant business (cf. 305)—no rhapsōdia here. Equally, the references to the Persian Wars made by those speaking against peace with Philip in Elaphebolion 346 may well have been specific uses of the Persian Wars frame for Philip rather than generic citation of ancestral glory.⁷⁷ However, Demosthenes’ stress on these as the only possible analogues, or on the importance of finding the right models to confront Philip, may have been more singular. In this speech, it is crucial to his strategy to articulate rational control of these correct models—the ability to read the signs and draw appropriate parallels which he had advertised in On the Peace (e.g. 11–12)—and in doing so to project consistency in his argumentative approach but also readiness to revise his choice of material when circumstances change, and a superior level of reflection and engagement to that of his self-interested rivals.

3.3. THREE KEY TECHNIQUES

3.3.1. The Continuum in Peril? Central to Demosthenes’ vision of the threat of Philip is the danger he can be thought to pose to the changelessness and perpetual validity of the Athenian ēthos—the city’s immanent character and continuum of behaviour.⁷⁸ This is partly because Demosthenes is also frequently concerned to portray an Athens ill-fitted to deal with that kind of threat— an Athens where the continuum is in danger anyway because of the self-interest of its leading citizens (more or less identifiable with Demosthenes’ opponents), and the deleterious effect their attitude to their role is having on the behaviour of the wider dēmos. Authoritative and convincing formulation of past-based arguments on this theme—whose populist tone marks it out as an earlier-career strategy, before selfcharacterization as a political outsider ceased to be open to him—allows Demosthenes to play with audience fears of the ramifications of any decline in civic excellence; this was an acute tactic in a state where citizens were regularly assured of their unchanging and unchangeable

⁷⁷ e.g. D. 19.16: trophies (i.e. Marathon) and sea battles (i.e. Salamis); A. 2.74: Salamis and the tombs (i.e. at Marathon and Plataea) and trophies (i.e. at Marathon). See further Chapter 5. ⁷⁸ See, e.g., Gotteland (2004) 111–15; cf. Grethlein (2010) 113–17 and Steinbock (2013a) 264–5 on the epitaphios logos, where this idea is essential.

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virtue in the epitaphios logos.⁷⁹ Sometimes he portrays the value system as under threat purely for the period of the debate in question, with the outcome a decider of whether those values will be upheld or will deteriorate further; sometimes a bleaker situation is sketched where an atrophy of the traditional values is already under way, and where the dēmos, guided by a wise symboulos like Demosthenes, must act to put things right. Defective civic priorities become a locus for attention early on in the sequence of Assembly speeches, and although it is perhaps wrong to think of Demosthenes as opposed to the Theoric Fund as such,⁸⁰ his criticism of the uses made of surplus revenues (eventually channelled exclusively into the Military Fund in 339/8 on Demosthenes’ own proposal⁸¹), and of the Military Fund itself for non-military purposes, is very open at points and is most likely to be aimed at the same politicians— Eubulus and his associates—who were best known for control of the Theoric Fund itself.⁸² The symbolic damage done by the overprivileging of what Demosthenes represents as inessential goals recalls the argumentation of Against Leptines, not least in the orator’s focus (as in the Third Philippic) on the habits of mind these deficiencies expose and on the contrast between visible material prosperity and symbolic spiritual health—the first only welcome in Demosthenes’ schema if the second is secure. As we have seen, this duality is often where Demosthenes focuses his historical material, and I now succinctly discuss an outstanding instance: Third Olynthiac 21–32 (of 349/8). Echoing and apparently revising a similar and even more extended passage in On Organization (21–36) (probably of 353/2, if genuine⁸³) which also strongly recalls part of the parekbasis of Against Aristocrates,⁸⁴

⁷⁹ Ziolkowski (1981) 100–29; Loraux (1986) 132–45, 328–38; Frangeskou (1999) 319–20. ⁸⁰ On the Theoric Fund, its law, and Demosthenes’ rhetoric: Hansen (1976b); (1999) 263–4; Sealey (1993) 256–8; Harris (1996); Mader (2005); Dmitriev (2016–17). ⁸¹ Philochorus FGrHist 328 F 56a: Sealey (1993) 196; Worthington (2013) 236. ⁸² The scholia name Eubulus as the target: see Σ ad D. 3.28 (132b Dilts) and ad 3.29 (136, 138, 139a–c, 140 Dilts). Eubulus and the Theoric Fund: Cawkwell (1963b) 53–65. For nonDemosthenic criticism of Eubulus: Theopompus FGrHist 115 FF 99 and 100 (with Flower [1994] 72–3, 125–7). List of relevant scholia given by Harris (1996) 69 n. 23, and cf. A. 3.25–6 (with Knox [1976] 79–81) and Din. 1.96 (with Worthington [1992] 266–8, pointing out how Eubulus is serving as a historical example so soon after his death). Note also D. 19.291 (Eubulus forecasting the commuting of the Theoric Fund to military uses if peace is not made): see Chapters 3.4 and 5.2.1. ⁸³ See Chapter 1.7.2. ⁸⁴ Especially 23.196–200, 207–10: see Chapter 2.3. The parallels are studied in detail by Grundt (1939) 12–32; they feed into the arguments for the authenticity or otherwise of On Organization.

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this sequence examines the achievements to which the dēmos were led by the politicians of the Persian Wars-to-Peloponnesian War era (starting with Aristides and ending with Pericles), first abroad (24), then at home (25–6), and then compares them with the pathetic record of the contemporary political elite, first abroad (27–8), then at home (29). Demosthenes then sums up the damage (30–2), circling back to 21 and attributing the problem—in sentiments strongly reminiscent of Thucydides, Plato’s Gorgias, and Aristophanes’ Wasps (though not necessarily directly indebted to any of them)—to the fact that the leaders do not lead, but take their cues from a dēmos whom they then prevent from enjoying their prosperity fully and whose spirit they sap by encouraging them to pay more attention to material comfort than to the enterprise and realization of potential which characterized the fifth century. In terms of Demosthenes’ strategy, we are invited to see an elite who have lost their awareness of their place in the Athenian continuum and of their obligations to those they lead. Demosthenes, by contrast, pushes his own credentials by exposing the critical problems with what he represents as his political seniors’ and adversaries’ world view, displaying the kind of detailed (but not too detailed) knowledge which will convince an audience of his authoritative grasp of the patterns concerned, and— fundamentally—propose a solution in a way that, for example, the apolitical Euthycles in Against Aristocrates was not obliged to. A keynote is the undemocratic behaviour of the political establishment (as a group, as we are still in the period where Demosthenes could plausibly claim not to be at the political centre himself). The contrast between material and symbolic wealth is communicated perhaps most vividly by one of the images shared with Against Aristocrates: of the contemporary elite as keen on extravagant housebuilding (ἔνιοι δὲ τὰς ἰδίας οἰκίας τῶν δημοσίων οἰκοδομημάτων σεμνοτέρας εἰσὶ κατεσκευασμένοι, ‘some have built houses that are grander than our public buildings’: 3.29);⁸⁵ σεμνοτέρας points back to an earlier description of the house of Aristides or Miltiades as τῆς τοῦ γείτονος οὐδὲν σεμνοτέραν οὖσαν (‘no grander than . . . its neighbour’: 26).⁸⁶ Demosthenes ⁸⁵ On Organization goes one better: οἱ μὲν τῶν δημοσίων οἰκοδομημάτων σεμνοτέρας τὰς ἰδίας οἰκίας κατεσκευάκασιν, οὐ μόνον τῶν πολλῶν ὑπερηφανωτέρας (‘some . . . have made their houses not only more extravagant than most others but also grander than public buildings’: 30). ὑπερήφανος is normally used of arrogant people (e.g. Thphr. Char. 24), tying down the conceit here of houses as extensions of their builders/owners. A similar image is used to underline Meidias’ arrogance: D. 21.158. ⁸⁶ Themistocles and Cimon replace Miltiades in On Organization’s version (13.29), probably attracted in by the reuse of Against Aristocrates (where these two appear together at 23.205). Cimon is more plausible an inclusion than [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 27.3 might suggest,

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is picking up here on wider Athenian cultural understandings that houses can evoke their owners and can easily function as metaphors for the state itself;⁸⁷ Lysias’ Against Epicrates, from around 390,⁸⁸ makes more generalized versions of the claims made here, including about the grand houses (οἰκίας μεγάλας οἰκοῦσι: 10) and about the politicians’ self-launching from poverty to wealth at the expense of the dēmos (ἐκ πενήτων πλούσιοι γεγόνασιν: 9, 11; cf. D. 3.29–30),⁸⁹ who simply accept the situation. But part of the point in Demosthenes is that this personal nest-feathering is matched by laughable civic improvements: τὰς ἐπάλξεις ἃς κονιῶμεν, καὶ τὰς ὁδοὺς ἃς ἐπισκευάζομεν, καὶ κρήνας, καὶ λήρους (‘the battlements we plaster, the roads we repair, the fountains, and similar rubbish’: 29). These are important to his binary model because they privilege surface over essence (literally, in the case of the battlements), an analogy for the bad wealth/good poverty contrast. Appeal to popular knowledge is expected to highlight the fact that very few of Demosthenes’ audience will know where Aristides’ or Miltiades’ houses even were (εἴ τις ἄρα οἶδεν ὑμῶν ὁποία ποτ’ ἐστίν, ‘if any of you knows which is [the house]’: 26), so modest and ‘democratic’ are they (σφόδρα ἐν τῷ τῆς πολιτείας ἤθει μένοντες, ‘so true to the nature of their constitution’: 25). Hostile references to the size of contemporary politicians’ houses are hard for us to process without knowing what (e.g.) Eubulus’ house was like, but we do at least know that two of the previous political generation, Chabrias and Timotheus, had large ones,⁹⁰ which does no harm to what Demosthenes is clearly setting up as a broad-brush picture in any case. Alongside this, Demosthenes does everything he can to emphasize his own democratic credentials. That partly consists in allowing that the audience may know as much as he does—all from general hearsay (ἀκούω, ὥσπερ ἴσως καὶ ὑμεῖς, ‘I have heard, as perhaps you have too’: 21) about the fifth-century politicians he then names—but puts that admission to further work as well, immediately pointing out that these past great men (τοὺς ἐπὶ τῶν προγόνων ἡμῶν λέγοντας) are the very ones ‘who all the speakers praise, but do not imitate at all’ (οὓς ἐπαινοῦσι μὲν οἱ as his wealth was clearly in land outside the urban centre: Plut. Cim. 10.1–2 and Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 89; cf. F 135 and Connor (1968) 30–8. ⁸⁷ Oratorical examples: Andoc. 1.146 (on his family house as losing dignity when occupied by Cleophon); also A. 3.209, Din. 1.69, and Hyp. Dem. 17 on Demosthenes’ house in the Piraeus, seen as a liminal location appropriate to a slippery character. ⁸⁸ On the discourse of wealth in the speech: Cecchet (2015) 145–8. ⁸⁹ Other Demosthenic uses of this topos: e.g. D. 24.124; 8.66; 10.68; Pro. 53.3; cf. also 23.208. ⁹⁰ Chabrias: Hyp. Against Pasicles (XLIII) fr. 137 (with a possible second: [D.] 59.33–4). Timotheus: Ar. Wealth 180, with Sommerstein (2001) 149.

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παριόντες ἅπαντες, μιμοῦνται δ’ οὐ πάνυ: 21). He therefore constructs a complicity of accurate knowledge between himself and his audience: the regular speakers are excluded, and shortly linked by implication with the politicians who ruin the city by pandering to dēmos desires (22). This also sustains the idea of the continuum, suggesting that Demosthenes and his audience are on the right wavelength to restore Athens’s circumstances, but the other orators are not. Asserting that he is working from hearsay—and with an account which is known to his audience (23: γνώριμος ὑμῖν ὁ λόγος) then covers him for a survey of Athens at its imperial height (24: ‘they [i.e. our ancestors] . . . ruled the Greeks as willing subjects for forty-five years, carried up more than ten thousand talents to the Acropolis, and had the king who possesses this land as their subject’). Much of the survey is couched in quite general terms, but citing two numbers, albeit quite ‘round’ ones, injects a sense that the orator is on top of his material but keen not to bore his listeners. Audiences would have been in a good position to judge whether or not Demosthenes’ version carried conviction because this kind of survey was not distinctive to him—another is given by Andocides in On the Peace, in the passage reworked by Aeschines in On the Embassy⁹¹—and Demosthenes’ reference to it as a logos gnōrimos makes clear that he knows that too. The core strategic aim is to offer a glimpse of the continuum in its ideal state—the ‘great good fortune’ (μεγάλην . . . εὐδαιμονίαν) enjoyed by Aristides and the others for attending properly to their obligations to the other Greeks, to the gods, and to the democracy (26)—and to identify Demosthenes with the safeguarding of this ideal or (even better) its restoration as a reality. Where the parallel passage of On Organization had overtly fought shy of identifying the leading politicians as responsible for the dēmos’ neglect of their duties (30)—a junior Demosthenes taking care not to offend potential patrons—the Third Olynthiac embraces the inflammatory purport of the passage, and the same historical material does different and more politically radical work in its new context:⁹² the struggle with the establishment is now specifically about Demosthenes’ own claim to be involved in the directing of public affairs; hence the identification of specific fifth-century models who can serve as his proxies: Aristides, Nicias, Pericles, and Demosthenes the general (21: τὸν ὁμώνυμον ἐμαυτῷ, ‘my namesake’). It is a curious group with a noticeably Thucydidean flavour, but Demosthenes son of Alcisthenes is not known for much political activity and the sole sense we get of his oratory is from

⁹¹ Chapter 5.3.3.

⁹² See Karvounis (2002) 340–3 on the criticism here.

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Thucydides (and not much at that).⁹³ A further problem is that both his profile in Thucydides and that of Nicias (despite the latter’s individual merit: Thuc. 7.86.5) are overshadowed by the historian’s famous blanket judgement on Pericles’ successors (2.65.10–13), exactly the kind of distinction that Demosthenes is in fact making here between the fifth-century greats and his inferior contemporaries. What is certainly the case is that Demosthenes feels confident in using these figures to self-recommend, and that this is clearly his purpose is shown by his reference to the earlier Demosthenes, made in terms of the one addressing the Assembly now (‘my namesake’). Perhaps Demosthenes even intends there to be audience conjecture about a genealogical link between them, which would count as a further form of validation.⁹⁴ Importantly, this group of statesmen is not presented as Demosthenes’ own choice—they are the examples his rivals praise but fail to imitate, which means they are waiting to be rescued by Demosthenes himself, and their true value captured and unlocked. The Third Olynthiac’s radicalism works itself out in other ways beyond Demosthenes’ assertive approach to his historical material, for example in his call for the repeal of laws allowing the disbursement of military funds as theoric payments to those not on active service (10–11)—a repeal which, he argues, should be undertaken by those who proposed this damaging legislation in the first place (12). This is as close to a direct criticism of Eubulus as appears to be viable under the naming conventions which seem to apply in the Assembly speech texts we have,⁹⁵ and serves as a parallel for the later historically framed attack on his civic improvements (29). Although no direct attack is mounted on the Theoric Fund itself, these were dangerous waters for a junior politician: either shortly before or shortly after the Third Olynthiac Apollodorus was condemned in a graphē paranomōn case for even broaching the idea of circumscribing the fund ([D.] 59.4–8).⁹⁶ Also important here is the balance Demosthenes strikes between making an

⁹³ Thuc. 4.10 (his speech at Pylos in 425); see Hornblower (1996) 162–4 and Westlake (1968) 97–121, 261–76 (especially 109 on the speech) for further comment. For hints of political activity: Roisman (1993) 23, 34–5, 51; Donarelli (1997) 30–1. ⁹⁴ Genealogical linkage as a validator of quality in Greek thought: e.g. the outstanding Thuc. 3.7.1, where the Acarnanians insist on Phormion being succeeded by a son or relative of his; cf. the Acarnanian Phormion, grandson of Phormion, honoured with his brother Carphinas after Chaeronea in IG II³ 1, 316: Rhodes and Osborne (2003) 380–5 (no. 77); Lambert (2010) 234–5 (= [2018] 126–7); (2012b) 261–2 (= [2018] 140–1). ⁹⁵ See further Chapter 1.7.1. ⁹⁶ Probably before the Olynthiacs: Cawkwell (1963b) 60; Hansen (1976b) 239; Kapparis (1999) 174–8. After: Dmitriev (2016–17) 85.

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individual impression (which he is clearly keen to do: 10) and asserting his impersonality: he knows what he is going to say might get him into trouble (21), but nonetheless claims that the well-being of the state should be prioritized by any right-minded citizen (δικαίου πολίτου). By linking himself with the fifth-century statesmen—appropriating models he claims his opponents only pay lip service to—he recommends the comprehensiveness of his own perspective on the city’s situation. The final third of the Third Olynthiac articulates, via Demosthenes’ emphasis on symbolism and his reading of the patterns of the past, the timeless legitimacy of the priorities he is asking his audience to privilege: the rejection of material comfort (and its advocates) in favour of a personal commitment to service and therefore to a role in sustaining Athens’s true identity.

3.3.2. Athens by Others In the Third Olynthiac, we saw the continuum under threat from those whose job it was to sustain it—Athens’s leading politicians—but clearly Philip (for example) counts as an external enemy bent (in Demosthenes’ schema) on destroying the continuum too. Demosthenes’ Assembly oratory thrives on the unexpected, at the level of content as much as at the level of style,⁹⁷ and in some speeches that takes the form of finding focalizers for his historical material. So, in the main examples of this displacement effect, Philip and the Persian King(s) find themselves pressed into service as communicators of Demosthenes’ argument, and in Philip’s case this serves as an explicit way of impressing upon the audience that others are in command of the landscape of the Athenian continuum and are capable of using it against them—all the more reason to have a symboulos like Demosthenes who is capable not only of discerning the patterns themselves but also of spotting the conclusions that external powers will want to draw from them. For example, early in the First Philippic (5), after establishing his own credibility with his comparison with fifth-century Spartan invasion habits (3–4), Demosthenes comments that Philip knew well (εἶδεν . . . καλῶς) that he could easily take Athenian possessions overseas, given the city’s apathetic attitude to maintaining them. This may build an impression of authority in more than one sense, as it could imply a sophisticated information ⁹⁷ Favouring hyperbaton, anacoluthon, and hysteron proteron, all disruptive devices which force new juxtapositions and emphases within sentences: Ronnet (1951) 41–62; Usher (1993) 23–5; Wooten (2008) 13–16, 55–6.

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network on Demosthenes’ part.⁹⁸ In any case, affecting to be able to gauge the thoughts of another individual (including one dead, absent, or imaginary) is not, of course, a device limited to Demosthenes or to oratory—what I am arguing here is that Demosthenes combines this with historical examples to reinforce the idea of the continuum (by imagining non-Athenians as using its parameters) and consequently the necessity that it be preserved by following Demosthenes’ advice. On the Symmories—appropriately, given its engagement with the issue of possible war with Persia—makes constant use, especially in its later stages, of Persian Wars themes and imagery. The Theban reaction to Athenian arming, for example, is conceived in terms of a likely Theban desire to atone for their medizing (34).⁹⁹ The Thebans’ use of a lion as their monument after Chaeronea, participating in the commemorative rhetoric established by the Spartans’ use of a lion at Thermopylae,¹⁰⁰ both lends some credibility to Demosthenes’ angle here in 354/3 and serves as a useful reminder that the Athenians will not have been the only people who would naturally conceive the threat of Philip in terms of the Persian Wars—Demosthenes was probably able to capitalize on this when arguing for alliance at Thebes in 339.¹⁰¹ He may already have had contact with Theban opinion whether or not he was already proxenos at this point in 354/3,¹⁰² lending his words some weight with an audience if so. But what catches attention here (in a move reminiscent of the epitaphios logos¹⁰³) is Demosthenes’ casting of the Persian King himself as considering the Persian Wars—and specifically the experiences of his own ancestors when faced with the Athenians’ ancestors—as a paradigmatic basis for (in)action (29): ⁹⁸ He freely admits to having an informant at Philip’s court in the Second Olynthiac (17), and does not name him. If challenged with ‘undemocratic’ failure to reveal such information, Demosthenes could cite the danger to the individuals concerned from what Philip’s supporters in Athens could relay to him (especially given his treatment of Xenocleides: D. 19.331 with MacDowell [2000a] 349); cf. Thuc. 7.49.4 (assumptions that Nicias has privileged knowledge) with Hornblower (2008) 639. ⁹⁹ See Steinbock (2013a) 152–3 for discussion. Something similar slips out at A. 3.151. ¹⁰⁰ Ma (2008) 85–6. ¹⁰¹ Some Thebans were already keen to excuse it in 427, in Thuc. 3.62.1–4, 64.1, 65.1; and there is a more blasé approach from Pelopidas in 367, at least according to (a hostile) Xenophon (Hell. 7.1.34): Buckler (1980) 153–4; Bearzot (2011) 23–4. ¹⁰² Trevett (1999) 185–6 (first evidence is 343) and 190. With the relatively mild view taken here at 14.33–4 contrast 20.109, though—only a year earlier. Potential proxenoi as often possessing xenia ties with the city in question already: Herman (1987) 137–42; and on proxenoi’s associability with the honouring city: Mack (2015) 114–18. ¹⁰³ Cf. Lys. 2.22–3, with Grethlein (2010) 120–1. The idea that ‘the same madness [παράνοιαν] may overtake him as once overtook his ancestors’ (14.39) also parallels Lys. 2.60 (τῆς τῶν προγόνων διανοίας).

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οἶδε μέν γε διακοσίαις τριήρεσιν, ὧν ἑκατὸν παρεσχόμεθ’ ἡμεῖς, τοὺς προγόνους αὐτοῦ χιλίας ἀπολέσαντας ναῦς, ἀκούσεται δὲ τριακοσίας αὐτοὺς ἡμᾶς νῦν παρεσκευασμένους τριήρεις· ὥστε μὴ κομιδῇ, μηδ’ εἰ πάνυ μαίνοιτο, νομίσαι ῥᾴδιόν τι τὸ τὴν ἡμετέραν πόλιν ἐχθρὰν ποιήσασθαι. He knows that with two hundred triremes, of which we provided one hundred, our ancestors destroyed one thousand of his ships, and he will hear that we ourselves now have three hundred triremes prepared.¹⁰⁴ So he would not think it at all a light matter, even if he were utterly mad, to make our city his enemy.

This passage usually attracts attention as an example of the orators’ propensity to historical error or manipulation.¹⁰⁵ Demosthenes seems to be talking about Salamis, and Herodotus’ figures for allied ship numbers there (180 Athenian ships, 366 or 378 or 380 in total) are thought to be more accurate, not least because they are backed up by Aeschylus (and, in a round way, by figures Demosthenes gives in On the Crown).¹⁰⁶ It is also unclear what relationship the ‘thousand ships’ figure has with the traditional 1,207 of the initial Persian line-up.¹⁰⁷ This kind of consideration misses the point, though; the ‘two hundred’ ships could be a carry-over from the battle(s) of the Eurymedon, which did involve two hundred Delian League triremes,¹⁰⁸ or else a textual error.¹⁰⁹ More interesting is how the orator chooses to express the temporal relationship between the present-day actors and their historical counterparts: he stresses the Athenians’ continuity, using the ‘identical audience’ topos: ¹⁰⁴ I have lightly adapted Trevett (2011) 253 in this sentence to capture the Greek a bit more closely. Trevett is followed by Steinbock (2013a) 150–1 n. 166, and Vince (1930) 399 takes the sentence the same way; but Weil (1912) 23, followed by Croiset (1955) 13, interprets the syntax differently: τοὺς προγόνους αὐτοῦ should mean the King’s ancestors, so: ‘He knows that thanks to two hundred ships, of which we provided one hundred, his ancestors lost a thousand of theirs’. This would yield a nice match with 30 (οἱ Μαραθῶνι τῶν προγόνων αὐτοῦ), and mean that Demosthenes is aiming for a contrast, and privileging the Athenian continuum in a different way: while the Athenians have not changed (only got stronger, if anything) between 480 and 354/3, the Persians have got through several generations (and Kings) in the same period. ¹⁰⁵ Nouhaud (1982) 186–90. ¹⁰⁶ Hdt. 8.44 (180 Athenian ships); 8.48 (378 ships; itemized total [8.43–8] gives 366 ships), 8.82 (380 ships). 300 (or 310) ships (Aesch. Pers. 338–40) of which the Athenians provided 200: D. 18.238. Hyp. Dion. 13. 145v 12–17 gives 220/360 in total, but he is interested in Artemisium too: see Horváth (2009) 211–14; (2014) 46–50; with rejoinder by Rhodes (2009b) 226–8; Herrman (2009b) 179; and also Walters (1981a) on Thuc. 1.74.1. Both Hyperides and Demosthenes are working with a comparison with Chaeronea: see Chapter 6.1. ¹⁰⁷ This total: Aesch. Pers. 341–3 (but cf. Garvie [2009] 175–6, favouring 1,000); cf. Hdt. 7.184.1: for the problems here: Bowie (2007) 154. ¹⁰⁸ Thuc. 1.100.1 (with Gomme [1945] 286–9); D.S. 11.61; Plut. Cim. 12–13; Meiggs (1972) 74–82. ¹⁰⁹ Aidonis (1995) 352–3.

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‘we’—the Assembly audience themselves (ἡμεῖς)—provided a hundred of the triremes, and ‘we’ would be providing the triremes again. Meanwhile the same King—an idea that relates neatly to the wider Greek use of basileus to designate any Persian King, the one in charge at a particular time—might lose ships again as ‘he’ did before.¹¹⁰ As in Against Aristocrates, Demosthenes openly invokes a key aspect of the continuum: the idea that Athens’s relationships with its traditional opponents are fixed— any Persian aggression will, in a sense, be a rerun, but a rerun the Athenians are even better placed to deal with than they were in 480. However, Demosthenes simultaneously needs to reassure his audience that none of this is likely to happen, and so the precise alignment between the continuum of the Athenian dēmos’ history and the Persian continuum is not maintained in the next section (30). The parallel with 480 is kept well in view by emphasis on the self-sufficiency of the land of Attica compared with the transitory nature of the King’s wealth (ὁ μέν γε χρυσίον, ὥς φασιν, ἄγει πολύ. τοῦτο δ’ ἐὰν διαδῷ ζητήσει: 30),¹¹¹ reminiscent of passages of Aeschylus’ Persians;¹¹² there are also allusions to other important elements of the Persian invasion tradition—the draining of Macedonian and Thracian rivers by the advancing army, for example (καὶ γὰρ τὰς κρήνας καὶ τὰ φρέατα ἐπιλείπειν πέφυκεν, ‘for fountains and wells must fail’, 30; cf. Hdt. 7.127). But in this section the distinction between the present King and his ancestors is clear-cut: he is brought close to those who came to Marathon on Datis’ expedition, only to be ripped away from them by the overwhelming fact that many of them died there at the hands of the Athenians (ὑπὲρ ἧς ὡς μὲν τοὺς ἐπιόντας ἐκείνων ἀμυνούμεθα, οἱ Μαραθῶνι τῶν προγόνων αὐτοῦ μάλιστ’ ἂν εἰδεῖεν, ‘we will defend [our land] against invaders, as those of his ancestors who were at Marathon would best know’).¹¹³ This distinction is also sustained when Demosthenes returns to the King’s own thoughts at 39–40, just before the epilogos: the King is conceptualized as well aware of how Athens profited from its successes against Persia in 490 and 480 (39), and Demosthenes lays special stress on that awareness and the King’s commitment to integrating it in his planning (‘he knows . . . he sees . . . he knows . . . and so the news that he

¹¹⁰ Contrast Isoc. 5.99–105 for a scholastic breakdown of Persian Kings. ¹¹¹ ‘He is bringing much gold, they say. But if he distributes this, he will have to seek more.’ ¹¹² Attic self-sufficiency: e.g. Darius at Pers. 792 and the Chorus at 238 (with Garvie [2009] 137 and 307, comparing Hdt. 7.49.1 and Aesch. Th. 585–6); also Hall (1996) 128 (with remarkable note). ¹¹³ Cf. Aesch. Pers. 244, 474–5, with Garvie (2009) 216.

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will receive will be both familiar to him and credible’: 40). The shift in historical perspective between 29 and 30 (underlining that just before he closes) therefore furthers the double aim of assuring the audience that (like their ancestors, or rather the earlier versions of themselves) they will be more than equal to any Persian aggression, but also that such an eventuality is unlikely because the King is just as mindful of the significance—and, specifically, the significance for the Athenian continuum—of Athens’s Persian Wars victories as Demosthenes’ audience are themselves. A similar but more developed manoeuvre puts Philip’s understanding of the past¹¹⁴ in focus in the Second Philippic of 344¹¹⁵ (11–12): For he finds, I think, and hears [εὑρίσκει γάρ, οἶμαι, καὶ ἀκούει]¹¹⁶ that your ancestors [τοὺς . . . ὑμετέρους προγόνους], when they had the chance to rule [ἄρχειν] the rest of Greece on condition that they obey the King, not only rejected this proposal, when Alexander, the ancestor of these people [ὁ τούτων πρόγονος], came as a herald [κῆρυξ] on this matter, but chose to abandon their land and endured suffering anything at all, and subsequently did things that everyone longs to tell but no one has been able to recount worthily, which is why I too will omit them [διόπερ κἀγὼ παραλείψω], and rightly so—for their deeds are greater than anyone could do justice to in words—whereas the Thebans’ ancestors [προγόνους] campaigned with the foreigner, and the Argives did not resist. He knows [οἶδεν], therefore . . .

Fundamental to Demosthenes’ vision here is that Philip is taking an interest in Greek history, trying to understand it and sense weak points to exploit (an analogue to his military manoeuvres).¹¹⁷ This is meant to unsettle the audience: Philip can be privy to their comprehension of their past, increasing the need for them to act swiftly to oppose him. The two most important characterizations are those of the Macedonians and of ¹¹⁴ ‘Philip’ uses historical examples with assurance in [D.] 12 (Philip’s Letter), accusing the Athenians of not sticking to their traditions (e.g. 3–4: the case of Anthemocritus [with use of πυνθάνομαι]; 6–7: resisting the Peisistratids in the Persian Wars period) and marshalling diplomatic arguments against them about ownership of Amphipolis (20–3) which do look like reverse versions of the arguments that Athenian envoys might use (cf. A. 2.26–33). Speusippus’ Letter to Philip recommends Antipater of Magnesia to Philip as a historical consultant, and he will have had others. On [D.] 12 itself: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 714–16; MacDowell (2009) 363–6; Trevett (2011) 211–14; Worthington (2013) 230–1. ¹¹⁵ Date and discussions of D. 6: D.H. Amm. 1.10, giving 344/3; Sealey (1993) 171–2; Usher (1999) 232–4; Wooten (2008) 123–36; MacDowell (2009) 329–33; and on this passage: Carey (2005) 88–9. ¹¹⁶ I have lightly adapted Trevett (2011) 105 here to reflect the Greek more closely. ¹¹⁷ Mader (2018) 196–7 discusses this passage’s rhetoric. Philip’s thought processes are translated into lively speech at 19.320 and 324: Guth (2015) 345–7.

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the Athenians: the first, Philip’s own ancestry, little better than craven servants of the barbarian (Alexander as a king willingly demoted to a mere κῆρυξ); the second, an assertion of the rightness of Athenian denial of the opportunity to rule (ἄρχειν), a piece of breathtaking selection, given the fifth-century empire, but validated by the very specific context in which it is presented and echoed in other speeches, as we will see shortly. Demosthenes avoids any complex focalization, however; what Philip knows is exactly what his audience know, something which is meant to give them confidence that they can defeat him—especially if they are guided by someone even better at seeing historical patterns than Philip. Building optimism into this part of the speech (6–12) is important; ten years on from On the Symmories, Demosthenes is more prepared to challenge his hearers, give them more of the picture, and make the threat clear. But as in On the Symmories, he frames part of his appeal in the rejection of a more idealized approach to historical material—he is going to leave out elements which ‘everyone longs to tell but no one has been able to recount worthily’ (the narrative of the Athenian evacuation to Salamis) and concentrate on what (he claims) Philip thinks is important. The strategy of reassurance only works via the creation of the assumption that Philip acts on historical precedent at all, and this is something Demosthenes leaves no room for the audience to question in 11–12. But Philip was a realist. He had long since come up against a set of issues which clearly attracted particularly heavy paradeigma-based argumentation from Athenian speakers—ownership of Amphipolis¹¹⁸—and had probably realized that Athenians like Aeschines (cf. A. 2.25–33) were best dealt with by catering strategically to their cultural conviction that the Greek world continued to revolve around them. Demosthenes knew this by 344; he had been to Pella. Although he is prepared to admit, then, that Philip is part of a revolution in Greek geopolitics (cf., e.g., 9.47, on the novelty of the military threat from Philip), Demosthenes cannot afford to admit outright to this audience that there are people to whom the treasured Athenian examples mean little—who entertain them, perhaps seem swayed by them, but will eventually act without reference to them. He therefore weaves an elaborate positive fiction of careful engagement with the Athenian past by Philip; but the parallel between the Persian Wars and the current situation, and Macedonia’s continuing detachment from the cause of Greek freedom, simultaneously ¹¹⁸ Philip and Amphipolis: Badian (1995) 95–7; Hammond and Griffith (1979) 230–54; cf. also Aristophon’s speech in the 346 Peace debate in Theopompus (FGrHist 115 F 166) with (pertinently) Shrimpton (1991) 84–5.

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allows the more troubling inference to be drawn. Demosthenes’ own refusal on this occasion to expatiate on the details of the struggle in 480—carefully employing as his reason the topos that nobody can do so successfully¹¹⁹—may also help to introduce a sense of unease: in 11 we leave the Athenians of the 480 parallel after their rejection of Alexander’s message,¹²⁰ and while they are mid-evacuation, ‘suffering anything at all’ (παθεῖν ὁτιοῦν ὑπομείναντας) (partly a euphemistic reference to the Persian destruction of Athens¹²¹), and although we know the end is victory at Salamis, and thus glorious, we do not actually know what form its presentday equivalent will take, and it may, as in 480, require huge sacrifice. By stimulating this thought, Demosthenes sustains a careful balance between communicating optimism and, via the ambiguities, fostering the realization that nothing about the situation or the task in hand is going to be straightforward—but that someone who can see the pattern (and see Philip seeing the pattern) is going to be their best hope for securing a positive outcome and sustaining the continuum.

3.3.3. The Uniqueness of Athens Basic to the public discourse of Athenian identity is the city’s exceptionalism. As we have seen, epitaphioi logoi—a quintessentially Athenian phenomenon, says Demosthenes (20.141)—reminded citizens annually of the peculiar dignity conferred by (for example) their autochthonous status.¹²² Demosthenes rarely refers to Athenian autochthony as such, but (like other orators) often assumes natural Athenian superiority to citizens of other Greek states: Rhodians (15.16); Argives (15.23); Messenians and other Peloponnesians (6.27—where the contrast is explicitly framed in terms of relative intelligence). In Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches, arguments which involve this assumption often focus on a core obligation the Athenians’ uniqueness brings with it: to help the other Greeks against oppression, for example by active or potential imperial powers both Greek and non-Greek (e.g. 9.73)—even when ¹¹⁹ An epitaphic topos: Ziolkowski (1981) 130–2; Frangeskou (1999) 318. ¹²⁰ Cf. Hdt. 8.140–4, well after the battle of Salamis (and there is nothing here about Athens ruling Greece if it submits). Demosthenes might be working with a different tradition, or twisting the details to fit. ¹²¹ Serially glossed over by orators: Nouhaud (1982) 135–64, especially 157–60 (on the image of the evacuation: see, e.g., Lyc. 1.68–74); Thomas (1989) 221–6. ¹²² Athenian autochthony in oratory: Lys. 2.17–19; D. 60.4–5; Pl. Mx. 237bc; Hyp. Epit. 7; Loraux (1986) 148–50; (1993) 37–71. Across genres: Rosivach (1987); Shapiro (1998); Clarke (2008) 269–71; Blok (2009); Pelling (2009).

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this means helping Greek states which have done the Athenians wrong (e.g. 14.6). In this, Demosthenes is also reflecting an important topos found in the epitaphios logos.¹²³ For practical Assembly oratory, though, a major stumbling block lay in the way of straightforward deployment of the topos, namely the fact of the fifth-century empire. Depending on the arguments they are trying to make, some of Demosthenes’ speeches avoid dealing with it by emphasizing Athenian rejection of opportunities to rule (and profit from it). The Second Olynthiac is one of these (2.24), and another is the Second Philippic (6.11–12: where the Persians offer the Athenians that chance in 480 and they turn it down, as we just saw). In other speeches, Demosthenes simply accepts the reality: the Third Philippic is an example where he packages the admission by balancing historical rationalization with confidence in his present audience (24). The Athenians attracted the collective anger of the other Greeks for treating their subject allies immoderately (οὐ μετρίως)—but which Athenians? Demosthenes does not categorically absolve his audience from blame— he uses the identical audience topos, and says ὑμῖν—but quickly adds ‘or rather the Athenians of the time’ (μᾶλλον δὲ τοῖς τότ’ οὖσιν Ἀθηναίοις), so he simultaneously gets credit for presenting unpalatable ‘facts’ about Athenian history while expressing confidence that his audience will not get it wrong again like their forebears, and any troubling sense of a break in the continuum is glossed over by the provision of a wider context: the Spartans fall into the same trap (24–5). So the audience are carefully buffered from one implication (that the Athenians are naturally imperialistic) but made very aware of another (that they personally were not responsible for the fifth-century empire, and can act now as becomes Athenians). On the Chersonese (also of 341)¹²⁴ embeds these concerns in a context where Philip’s mortal hostility to democracies is being stressed. In that context, treating Athens’s own history of domination carefully was essential. So Demosthenes makes an even bolder claim (42):¹²⁵

¹²³ Athenians as champions of the oppressed: Lys. 2.11–16, 22; D. 60.8; Pl. Mx. 239b; Gotteland (2001) (especially 168–98 on the children of Heracles); Hunt (2010) 177–80; Steinbock (2013a) 174–89; Christ (2012) 118–76; Tzanetou (2012); Gottesman (2015) 186–94. ¹²⁴ Date and discussions of D. 8: D.H. Amm. 1.10 (giving 342/1); Sealey (1955b) 103–10; (1993) 180, 232–3; Usher (1999) 237–9; MacDowell (2009) 346–9; Trevett (2011) 129–32; Worthington (2013) 216–20. ¹²⁵ The moments in On the Chersonese that I mention here—8.42, 49, and 60—are all replayed in the Fourth Philippic as 10.14, 25, and 62.

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ἐστὲ γὰρ ὑμεῖς οὐκ αὐτοὶ πλεονεκτῆσαι καὶ κατασχεῖν ἀρχὴν εὖ πεφυκότες, ἀλλ’ ἕτερον λαβεῖν κωλῦσαι καὶ ἔχοντ’ ἀφελέσθαι δεινοί, καὶ ὅλως ἐνοχλῆσαι τοῖς ἄρχειν βουλομένοις καὶ πάντας ἀνθρώπους εἰς ἐλευθερίαν ἀφελέσθαι ἕτοιμοι. You are not yourselves well suited to acquire or possess an empire. Rather, you are good at preventing another from getting one, and at taking one away from somebody who has got hold of it, and at generally obstructing those who wish to rule, and at bringing all people to freedom.¹²⁶

At one level, Demosthenes is pandering to patriotic self-delusion: plenty of Athenians in his audience would buy this picture gladly while being well aware of its glaring inaccuracy (or, more charitably, its privileging of Athens’s record in recent decades over its previous profile). At another level, he satisfies those who can only view ἐστὲ . . . πεφυκότες ironically by leading the sentence from a vague fifth-century past to an appealing present which seems to embrace the whole Athenian continuum. Finishing the sentence on ἕτοιμοι encourages a sense that the audience are as ready to act to protect the freedoms of others as any Athenians have ever been—and that it is the continuum, rather than any part of it, that is relevant to future Athenian behaviour. Athens’s changelessness consists partly in its consistent antinomy with Philip’s despotism: like the Athens–Sparta relationship envisaged in Against Aristocrates,¹²⁷ the Athens–Philip relationship is never going to involve anything other than self-aggrandizement on Philip’s part (πλεονεκτῆσαι here); in the First Philippic, too, he was described (like Thucydides’ Athenians under Cleon’s influence) as always ‘grasping for more’.¹²⁸ In On the Chersonese’s near chronological neighbour, the Third Philippic, Athens’s and Sparta’s periods of empire are construed as mistakes, and in any case venial because the imperial powers in question were Greek (9.30). This is all a serious advance on Third Olynthiac 24, where it was understood that Athenian archē was archē from the beginning, but that the Greeks never minded (for forty-five years, anyway). In the Third Philippic and On the Chersonese, then, approaches are taken which acknowledge the fifth-century empire while denying its special relevance as a hermeneutic for Athens in 341, facing Philip. In the present crisis, the relevant hermeneutic is the Athenian continuum, not any particular point along it. That is why Demosthenes can freely admit ¹²⁶ Translation: Trevett (2011) 142, with some alterations. ¹²⁷ Chapter 2.3. ¹²⁸ D. 4.42: τοῦ πλείονος ὀρεγόμενος; cf. Thuc. 4.21.2: τοῦ δὲ πλέονος ὠρέγοντο (itself echoing 4.17.4). Pleonexia and the Athenians elsewhere in Thucydides: see especially 4.61.5 (Hermocrates); also in the Corcyra passage (3.82.1; 3.84.1) (reflecting on Athens); and cf. Diodotus (3.45.4); in other sources: Lévy (1976) 152–5.

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later in On the Chersonese (60) that ruling others is just something the Athenians are used to doing (ἄρχειν γὰρ εἰώθατε). Within the frame of the continuum, there is no inconsistency: the Athenians may not be natural rulers, but they have ruled, and so are accustomed to it—it is just another reason why Philip (a despot, prepared for archē by nature¹²⁹) wants to destroy them. Athenian archē is construed simply as a manifestation of how the Athenian value system worked itself out in a particular set of historical circumstances—it is the value system itself that has independent validity, its own sovereign moral compass, and Demosthenes aims to secure credibility from making that clear. In On the Chersonese, this picture explicitly involves the obligation to champion the oppressed (49), and a notable example of Demosthenes’ deployment of this familiar topos for competitive purposes comes in For the Megalopolitans of 353/2.¹³⁰ In 11–15, Demosthenes confronts two arguments, by sets of opponents who may or may not be separate, and uses the logic and values of the Athenian continuum to do so. An Athenian alliance with the Arcadians should not upset Sparta, he suggests (in response to the first group¹³¹), because of the good turns the Athenians did the Spartans when supporting them against Thebes in 370 and 362 (13), while the second group’s objection, that allying with the Arcadians would prove the Athenians unreliable, is addressed in a sequence of historical examples also used in the contemporary Against Aristocrates.¹³² In For the Megalopolitans, these explicitly valorize Athens’s innate consistency (14–15): I do not think that anyone would deny that when our city rescued the Spartans, and before that the Thebans, and most recently the Euboeans, it always had one and the same purpose in doing so. [15] What was that purpose? It was to save those who were being wronged [τοὺς ἀδικουμένους σῴζειν]. Since that is the case, it would not be we who are changing course [μεταβαλλόμενοι] but those who are unwilling to abide by what is just. And it will be clear that although the course of affairs is always being altered by those who seek to get more for themselves [φανήσεται τὰ πράγματα ἀεὶ διὰ

¹²⁹ For Philip’s ‘desire to rule’, see D. 6.17, replayed at 10.12. ¹³⁰ Date and discussions of D. 16: D.H. Amm. 1.4, giving 353/2; Ingenkamp (1972); Sealey (1993) 129–30; Lane Fox (1997) 181–3; Usher (1999) 211–13; Karvounis (2002) 125–73; MacDowell (2009) 207–10; Trevett (2011) 274–6; Worthington (2013) 101–3. ¹³¹ The first group’s arguments—that the Athenians will need Spartan help if they want to get Oropus back from the Thebans—are echoed strongly in Anax. RA 1.22–3. ¹³² D. 23.191; see Chapter 2.3. They also recur in different forms in D. 19.75 (a more realist take: the interventions were in Athens’s interests) and 18.98–100 (much more heroizing).

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τοὺς πλεονεκτεῖν βουλομένους μεταβαλλόμενα], our city does not change [οὐχ ἡ πόλις ἡμῶν].

Although the identities of Demosthenes’ opponents are untraceable, he clearly has specific politicians in mind for the first group (11–12), because his strategy to counteract their advice consists in demonstrating how their argument risks inconsistency—and consequently puts them at odds with the Athenian continuum—because they were the very speakers who rejected the Arcadian appeal to Athens in 370 to join them against Sparta.¹³³ The second group are apparently using historical examples to make the case that Athens should avoid appearing unreliable, so here we see Demosthenes respond in kind, putting the city’s actions in broader perspective. To do so, he goes back as far as the liberation of the Theban Cadmea from the Spartans in 379/8 but also involves the familiar recent Euboean expedition of 357, in the process communicating the idea that it is this broader view which does more credit to Athens’s basic character—as the unchanging city, its eternal values as reliable as is the probability that its enemies will typically seek their own gain (pleonexia once more). Demosthenes’ readiness to mount objections which are based on simplified and totalizing patterns testifies not only to Athenian audiences’ enthusiasm for patriotic motifs but also to his own shrewd awareness—at a relatively early stage in his career—of how to use that to his advantage—a point underlined by his decision to end For the Megalopolitans with nothing other than a plea not to abandon the weak to the strong (32), a compelling echo of his earlier idea.

3.4. MODELLING DEMOSTHENES For the Megalopolitans offers us an image of Demosthenes disputing fairly politely with fellow politicians the right examples, or right view of Athens’s past, to apply to the situation at hand. In this final section, I examine some further instances where Demosthenes makes rhetorical use of the evidence of his own consistency, intertwined with historical material, before moving to consider a rare moment in On the Chersonese, near the height of his career, where he instantiates his commitment to, and displays his command of, historical material in the most vivid way possible: performing the role of a great Athenian leader of the recent past, Timotheus, imagined in the act of proposing his famous expedition to liberate the Euboeans from the Thebans in 357. ¹³³ Described briefly at D.S. 15.62.3.

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Between For the Megalopolitans and On the Liberty of the Rhodians (351/0?), Philip made his expansionist intentions clear with his crushing of the Phocians on the Crocus Plain and ultimately abortive siege of Heraion Teichos in Thrace. According to Demosthenes, some Athenians, perhaps buoyed up by their stand against Philip at Thermopylae and/or by the belief that Philip was not interested in further moves south, were still not particularly worried (15.24), though this may be a straw man argument.¹³⁴ What On the Liberty of the Rhodians—a speech proposing Athenian intervention to support the Rhodian democrats against the oligarchs—does raise for the first time in Demosthenes’ extant Assembly corpus is the spectre of Athenian politicians who are ideologically opposed to the democracy (33): those who desert the constitutional position handed down to them by their ancestors [τοὺς τὴν ὑπὸ τῶν προγόνων τάξιν ἐν τῇ πολιτείᾳ παραδεδομένην λείποντας], and whose political conduct is oligarchic [καὶ πολιτευομένους ὀλιγαρχικῶς], should be deprived of the civic right to offer you advice . . . it is those whom you know to have committed themselves to the enemies of our city in whom you put the greatest trust.

Athens functions as a Rhodes in posse, and again Demosthenes capitalizes on the creation of hypotheticals: just as the issue now is what will happen to the Rhodian government, with the situation hanging in the balance, just so the character of the Athenian political elite is scrutinized with the possibility in view that if oligarchy flourishes in Rhodes, then it can (and will) anywhere. Demosthenes was to follow this up with the warnings for Athens inherent in the likely fate of Olynthus in the Olynthiacs,¹³⁵ and in the Third Philippic in the recent nightmare situation of 342 (9.59–62) where the citizens of Oreus, under the influence of their anti-democratic and pro-Philip politicians, reject a champion of their freedom, Euphraeus—who functions as tragic code for Demosthenes— and the city duly falls to the Macedonians; Euphraeus resorts to suicide, ‘thereby demonstrating that he had resisted Philip, acting with justice and honesty, on behalf of his fellow citizens’.¹³⁶ Unlike Euphraeus, though, Demosthenes is not alone (72) and, in achieving what he has by 341, has already transcended Euphraeus; it is up to his audience to transcend the citizens of Oreus.

¹³⁴ It cannot be decisive for the dating question, for which, see n. 47. ¹³⁵ e.g. D. 1.12, 15, 25–7; 3.1, 8–9. ¹³⁶ For a similar scenario, see the fictive D. 19.231 (cf. 259). On the Euphraeus episode: Mader (2007a) 173–6 and in detail Westwood (forthcoming).

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In On the Liberty of the Rhodians, Demosthenes confronts these sinister anti-democratic forces among the Athenian political elite by relying on a combination of his past performance—in On the Symmories, as we saw earlier, and referenced here in the speech he calls its ‘sequel’ (ἀκόλουθος) (15.7)—and careful handling of new historical material. He relies on a cautious optimism which privileges the Athenians’ own natural response, properly channelled (1), over the distortions with which the pseudo-oligarchs making policy will try to influence them. In citing his counsel of impressive preparedness in On the Symmories, he explicitly contrasts himself with those making more excessive—but wrong-headed—suggestions which may well force circumstances to an issue Athens is still badly equipped to face (5; cf. his line in On the Peace). Presenting his rivals as prone to logical fallacies allows him to stand out by demonstrating his control of the wider significance of those circumstances in the broader sweep—the super-logic—of Athenian history. He does that with an oligarchy-themed example: spirited Argive resistance to demands to hand over Athenian democratic exiles in 404/3 (22),¹³⁷ qualified by the point that it befits Athens much more, with her tradition of maintaining the freedoms of others, to act in the same way towards Rhodes in more internationally favourable circumstances. He reinforces this parallel by twisting it slightly to involve not only the Spartans, whose dominance at the time is stressed (γῆς καὶ θαλάττης ἄρχοντας, ‘ruling on land and sea’: 22), but also the contemporaneous Persians and the internal unrest fomented by the expedition of Cyrus the Younger and the Ten Thousand under Clearchus (24). By extending the parallel’s terms, he effects a temporal connection between the Persia of the late 400s (which is not strictly under debate) and the present late 350s (which is). The high level of overt dexterity here means that it is not surprising that he has to gloss the detail of this whole section as simply his application of common knowledge (ἀκούω δ’ ἐγὼ πολλάκις ἐνταυθὶ παρ’ ὑμῖν τινῶν λεγόντων, ‘I often hear it said here in the Assembly’: 22). As before, there is a sense that when others have cited these events in previous speeches, they have not fitted them to the proper context, while Demosthenes claims to be doing just that (as well as practising deft selection with an abundance of material: ἐγὼ μόνων Ἀργείων ἐν τῷ παρόντι μνησθήσομαι βραχύ τι, ‘I shall confine myself to reminding you briefly about the Argives’). Despite promising a ‘brief ’ (βραχύ) excursus, he works with it and expands it to include the Persian material over three ¹³⁷ On this Argive resistance: Radicke (1995) 131 and Karvounis (2002) 203–4. Compare the role of Argos in tragedy as a place where Athenian problems can be safely staged: Said (1993) 188–9; Tzanetou (2012) 13–16; also still Dover (1957).

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long paragraphs—extending it to serve his purposes, but getting the credit for showing awareness that such references ought to be succinct.¹³⁸ Similar deployment of the past with the direct end in view of opposing a sinister political cabal—a strident self-definition against ill-intentioned competitors—can be found in On the Peace, as we saw briefly earlier. Demosthenes sets against his opponents’ unnatural and undeserved popularity (in his version) the practical outcome of his previous counsel (the three things he was right about, for example the failure of the Euboean expedition, for opposing which he was ‘virtually torn apart’ [μόνον οὐ διεσπάσθην: 5]). By the Second Philippic, the stakes have increased: Demosthenes’ dissociation of himself from the Peace of Philocrates and firm denunciation of its other proponents in all but name (30) has become essential to his self-representation. He now belongs in his own category, that of the insider (given his own role in making the Peace) who saw how corrupt the inside was, was blessed with the foresight to see what was coming (τὸ γὰρ πρᾶγμ’ ὁρῶ προβαῖνον, ‘for I see trouble coming’: 33), and got out. The other makers of the Peace are assaulted at length, and to the exclusion of the kind of anti-establishment point-scoring we saw earlier in Demosthenes’ career. Demosthenes cannot do that now; he is one of them. But he can still self-style as the only one ready to speak out in Athens, where dialogue ought to be the norm and must be preserved at all costs (ἕως οὖν ἔτι . . . κατακούομεν ἀλλήλων, ‘while . . . we are still listening to each other’: 35). This is fundamental to his general self-casting, as the person who will ‘tell . . . the truth frankly, by the gods, concealing nothing’ (ἐγὼ νὴ τοὺς θεοὺς τἀληθῆ μετὰ παρρησίας ἐρῶ πρὸς ὑμᾶς καὶ οὐκ ἀποκρύψομαι: 31).¹³⁹ For that task, his own past as a statesman is as relevant as his harnessing of the collective past, but the implication is that these are now inseparable. This is the strategic context for On the Chersonese, another speech where Athens’s enemies are within as well as without (e.g. 8.52, 61) and where Demosthenes’ particular set of qualities is recommended as the only answer. At 8.73–5—another passage which Demosthenes introduces with the claim that he will not hold back (οὐκ ἀποκρύψομαι)— this self-recommendation arrives by an eye-catching route: In the past I have heard it said that I always say what is best [λέγω μὲν ἀεὶ τὰ βέλτιστα] but that I produce nothing but words, whereas what the city needs is deeds and action. I shall tell you frankly my attitude towards these

¹³⁸ For the habitual understandings about this: Chapter 1.4. ¹³⁹ For the formulation οὐκ ἀποκρύψομαι, often used as a marker of this sort of profession of the ‘truth’ of the matter, cf. D. 24.1, 104, 200; (13.10); 19.3.

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complaints: I think that the only action that is required of one who advises you is to say what is for the best [εἰπεῖν τὰ βέλτιστα], and I think that I can easily show that this is the case. [74] You doubtless know [ἴστε γὰρ δήπου] that the famous Timotheus [Τιμόθεός . . . ἐκεῖνος] once made a speech before you saying that you should assist and go to the rescue of the Euboeans when the Thebans were trying to enslave them, and that he said something like this [εἶπεν οὕτω πως]: ‘Tell me, when you have the Thebans on an island, are you deliberating about how to treat them or what to do? Will you not fill the sea, men of Athens, with triremes? [οὐκ ἐμπλήσετε τὴν θάλατταν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, τριήρων;] Will you not leap to your feet and proceed to Piraeus? Will you not launch your ships? [οὐ καθέλξετε τὰς ναῦς;]’ [75] Timotheus spoke these words, and you acted, but the success arose from these two things together: his words and your action. If he had given the best possible advice [εἰ δ’ ὁ μὲν εἶπεν ὡς οἷόν τε τὰ ἄριστα], as he did, but you had remained idle and paid no attention, would any of the things that then benefited the city have happened? They could not have. So too with what I say: you should seek action from yourselves, but the best advice from the man who steps up to speak [παρὰ τοῦ παριόντος].¹⁴⁰

The passage stands out in the extant Assembly speeches because of the general rarity of direct speech in this corpus at all, but particularly among its historical examples—it is reasonable to think that this kind of overt ‘re-enactment’ of a historical figure was relatively rare across the board,¹⁴¹ so Demosthenes is making a statement with it. Active gestural and/or vocal imitation of Timotheus cannot be ruled out, but is hardly required for the comparison to work, because Demosthenes supplies immediate verbal cues; more general evocation (whether tonal or otherwise) is probably more likely. The passage is also given prominence by being placed just before the epilogos (76–7), moments before Demosthenes closes, like Andocides’ example of his great-grandfather in On His Return 26 (Chapter 3.1). Demosthenes introduces it with a familiar formulation—positing universal knowledge—and that is not unreasonable in this case, because the expedition led by Timotheus to Euboea was only sixteen years in the past,¹⁴² and well within the competence of a majority of Demosthenes’ audience, many of whom will have served on it themselves or had relatives who did. Above all, though, it evokes a better world—before the dismal end of the Social War, and when Athens could

¹⁴⁰ Dilts’s text and Trevett’s translation here are both sensible navigations through a corrupt area: see the apparatus at Dilts (2002) 99; also Sandys (1900) 188–9 for discussion. ¹⁴¹ See Westwood (2017a), mainly on law-court speeches. ¹⁴² The expedition of 357 and its success: D. 1.8; 4.17; 21.174; A. 3.85; D.S. 16.7.2; Cawkwell (1962b) 34–40; Brunt (1969) 247–8.

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still make things happen—and a world the Athenians must recapture if they are to beat Philip. It is perhaps a better political world too. Timotheus’ training with Isocrates—featured in a famous set piece in Isocrates’ Antidosis of 354/3¹⁴³—should not lead us simply to assume that Demosthenes’ attitude towards him would have been negative; in his speeches, Timotheus functions as just as valid an exemplar of traditional Athenian martial prowess as Iphicrates or Chabrias.¹⁴⁴ Moreover, as mentioned earlier in Chapters 1.2 and 1.6, Demosthenes served as a syntrierarch under Timotheus’ command on this expedition himself, so had more reason than most to recall the quality of Timotheus’ leadership on that occasion; and his appeals to his 357 syntrierarchy—and to the success of the expedition itself—on other occasions¹⁴⁵ make it likely that an audience would apply knowledge of that aspect of his biography to his use of this paradeigma now. The illustration, therefore, functions as a compelling model for Demosthenes’ own contribution, the link being made clear by ‘so too with what I say’ (οὕτω τοίνυν καὶ περὶ ὧν ἂν ἐγὼ λέγω: 75)¹⁴⁶ and also by the way that one of Demosthenes’ core themes in this speech—what counts as the ‘best advice’—both introduces and closes the paradeigma (where it must refer to Demosthenes), but is also something attributed to Timotheus himself within it. Political polemic should certainly not be ruled out: as we saw in Chapter 2.1, Timotheus’ career ended in the ignominy of the Embata trials, under the accusation of astuter political operators with less star quality, and Demosthenes’ image of himself both in On the Chersonese and in the Third Philippic (e.g. in the Euphraeus mirror passage) as embattled by Philip’s fifth column in the Athenian political elite may function as a loose parallel. Demosthenes’ recall of one of Timotheus’ greatest leadership moments here therefore functions as protreptic for the audience not to reject Demosthenes’ advice—highly tendentious, given that Timotheus’ words led to success (stunning success, in fact, within thirty days: A. 3.85); but it also sends the message that Demosthenes’ words can do so too if the audience will vote to enact them; optimism is consequently very much the keynote despite the

¹⁴³ Isoc. 15.101–39, with Too (2008) 144–62. ¹⁴⁴ Chapter 1.1 n. 49. ¹⁴⁵ His syntrierarchy: D. 21.161 (in 346); 18.99 (in 330). Appeals to the expedition: Chapter 1.2. ¹⁴⁶ The point is scarcely less clear (though it makes Demosthenes sound more modest: Sandys [1900] 188) if we reject Dilts’s emendation and restore the manuscripts’ νῦν καὶ περὶ ὧν ἂν ὁ δεῖνα εἴπῃ (‘now, and with what someone else may say’)—Demosthenes himself would still be the obvious— because the immediate—focus.

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critical situation. It is surely important too that in making the distinction between Timotheus’ words and the dēmos’ actions, he foregrounds Timotheus’ profile as orator—his command of the expedition is suppressed briefly to make the association with Demosthenes (who appears never to have had military ambitions beyond his trierarchic service) as natural as possible.¹⁴⁷ However, the evocation of a time when the Athenians stayed true to their values and acted in accordance with them and Demosthenes’ overt self-association with a major exponent of those values in the not too distant past are not the only work the parallel is doing: the content— liberating the Euboeans—also has striking contemporary relevance. In On the Chersonese itself (e.g. 18, 36, 59) but especially the Third Philippic shortly afterwards (e.g. 57–68), Demosthenes calls attention to the proPhilip regimes currently in power in Eretria and Oreus, and it was he who would eventually propose the decree that launched the expeditions to throw them out; these had the intended success in the summer of 341.¹⁴⁸ Not only this, but two other points on the continuum may well be evoked in Timotheus’ words in his inset speech (74). Arguably, Timotheus just comes out with a string of patriotic topoi here,¹⁴⁹ and part of the point may be that Demosthenes’ own advice, though ‘the best advice’ like Timotheus’, is altogether more nuanced, eloquent, and tied to the specific situation; the emphasis, then, is probably less on capturing Timotheus accurately and more on the gist (εἶπεν οὕτω πως: 74). But the little speech’s inclusion of the double image of the Athenians proceeding to the Piraeus and launching triremes evokes the rhetoric with which Eubulus had silenced the hawks who tried to scupper the peace negotiations with Philip in Elaphebolion 346, at least in Demosthenes’ own version in On the False Embassy: ‘you terrified the citizens by declaring that . . . they would have to go straight to Piraeus’ (19.291); Demosthenes here restores that motif to a positive, optimistic context. Furthermore, the abstraction of Euboea as an island that the Athenians must act to save (i.e. bring back within their sphere of influence)—an expedition not popular with everyone—may even recall Solon’s exhortation to the Athenians to retake Salamis, an episode

¹⁴⁷ Cf. Dugan (2005) for Cicero’s self-referential construction of the ideal statesman as an orator (and a Demosthenic one at that); also van der Blom (2010) 225–37. ¹⁴⁸ D. 18.79; Philochorus FGrHist 328 FF 159, 161; Charax FGrHist 103 F 19; Σ ad A. 3.85 (184 Dilts; cf. 222 Dilts, i.e. ad A. 3.103). See, for synthesis, Sealey (1993) 261–2 and Teegarden (2014) 58–9. ¹⁴⁹ This kind of hectoring tone—a positive here—can be flipped to a negative in other contexts, e.g. D. 21.116.

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given prominence by Demosthenes in the Embassy trial two years before On the Chersonese (19.252), as we shall see again in Chapter 5.2.1. Despite looking like a straightforward re-enactment of a single moment in the not too distant past, then, the Timotheus illustration embodies the idea of the Athenian continuum: it evokes at least two and possibly three separate but interlinked historical moments when the Athenians acted like themselves, and looks forward to a fourth in the present/near future. In creating this multi-referential illustration, and casting himself as Timotheus in an ambitious move—but one which expresses the confidence of a politician now of the front rank— Demosthenes provides a compelling example of his ability to articulate patterns in the city’s past, to argue from them, and to use them as a means of representing his own credentials by proxy. Although On the Chersonese paints a darker picture of Athens’s situation than any previous Assembly speech, Demosthenes presents the task before his audience as straightforward if only they will accept it—and on his terms.

3.5. CONCLUSION The past—the city’s and his own—is therefore critical to Demosthenes’ project in the Assembly speeches. By associating the two, and by offering readings of events in Athens’s past which specifically engage the question of their place within the continuum of Athenian values and which are simultaneously calculated to reflect well on their mediator, Demosthenes’ self-recommendation becomes progressively more confident and ambitious over the course of the 354/3–341 period, as indeed we might expect. More importantly, perhaps, he evolves a strategy which equates the proper and authoritative command of historical detail and patterns—and the ability to put it to compelling uses in the cause of sustaining Athenian identity—with good statesmanship itself. There is no room for multiple models of political excellence in this run of speeches: a politician whose understanding of the resonance of his policy within the broad sweep of Athenian history, and of its symbolic meanings within the Athenian value set Demosthenes has defined, ends up categorized in the orator’s schema as (at the very least) wrong, possibly incompetent too, and (mainly later in the sequence) possibly dangerous. Demosthenes, with his superior (demonstrated) foresight and projected ability to integrate his forecasts into the historical continuum itself, fashions himself as the ideal unchanging statesman for the unchanging

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city; essential to this is the notion that while the historical examples he chooses for persuasive purposes may change (as we saw in Chapter 3.2), the purpose behind them and the vision they sustain cannot. This in turn is made analogous for the eternality of other core features of Athenian behaviour in Demosthenes’ conception: the city’s congenital hostility to autocracies throughout time, for example, or (in For the Megalopolitans) the priority it places in every relevant situation of the interests of the weak over the interests of the strong, while not recalling past injuries by those who now need to be rescued. In our terms, of course, the vision promoted by Demosthenes is frequently historically illiterate and irresponsible—the argument in For the Megalopolitans 11–15 (Chapter 3.3.3) is a good example. But the strategy works as rhetoric (and apparently frequently did work in practice) because it locks cannily into the Athenians’ treasured ideals and their ideas about themselves. Audience uneasiness can easily be generated, for example, by introducing the thought that some (e.g. Philip—or politicians in Athens itself) might not care about those ideals and ideas. The strategy itself is also consistent in its aims and direction, though deployed in different forms (and to different degrees) across a wide range of Demosthenic Assembly speeches. Whether other orators were so committed to integrating the past into their self-presentation strategies and framings of policy stances beyond diplomatic contexts is a question the paucity of our evidence does not allow us to answer, but what we can say is that Demosthenes’ commitment to it as a means of confronting opponents spans Assembly and law-court venues, helping to construct a consistent self-characterization across public contexts and promoting Demosthenes’ self-image as an indispensable figure in the lived Athenian landscape—as someone whose clinical understanding of the past has the potential to yield successes which can themselves sustain the Athenians’ endemic reputation for success and the moral integrity of the city’s ēthos. Demosthenes’ self-identification with the life and character of the city itself is something I will explore further in Chapter 6 and the Conclusion. I now move to analyse the mid-career Demosthenes’ uses of the past for competitive purposes in Chapter 4, comparing them with those of Aeschines in Against Timarchus and examining the opportunities, limits, and perils—the attracting of rivals’ attention—involved in the strategy of self-casting we have just seen instanced in the case of Demosthenes and Timotheus. This passage of On the Chersonese— which does stand out—may even have attracted attention itself: in the Harpalus trials of 323, Dinarchus’ client in Against Demosthenes pours scorn on the validity of a comparison someone might make between Demosthenes and Timotheus, listing some great achievements of the

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latter (13–16); and although he does not claim that Demosthenes promoted such a comparison himself (and surely would have included this if it was something Demosthenes did do), it could have been something Demosthenes’ supporters promoted, perhaps in response to what he had said in On the Chersonese.¹⁵⁰ Alternatively, Dinarchus could be responding to that passage directly if a text was circulating by this point;¹⁵¹ it is, at any rate, interesting that he couches the comparison specifically in terms of how Timotheus (and Conon) ‘acted worthily of the city and the ancestors in your interests’ (ἄξια καὶ τῆς πόλεως καὶ τῶν προγόνων ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν πράξαντας: 16), which sounds plausibly like an attack on the self-casting’s place within Demosthenes’ past-based strategy as a whole. By 323, Demosthenes had not only proposed the expeditions to the Euboean cities in 341, and alliances with Byzantium, Thebes, and other states in 340 and 339, but had served as envoy to argue the case and negotiate an alliance at Thebes in 339 himself—something Dinarchus targets particularly here because Demosthenes was proud of it (1.12, 16: σεμνύνεται).¹⁵² Demosthenes could, therefore, be claimed to have transcended the distinction between word and action which he makes at On the Chersonese 73–5, and indeed his service as both speaker and doer is something he was to dwell on himself in On the Crown, claiming rather implausibly that none of Athens’s other great politicians had done both (18.219). I now move to analyse the conflicts with Meidias and Aeschines which conditioned aspects of his subsequent self-presentation in the Embassy and Crown trials, and which gave him opportunities to apply and hone the strategies we have seen him developing for Assembly use across the period.

¹⁵⁰ Dinarchus replays it in Against Philocles, for the same set of trials, but without the same emphasis on direct comparison, perhaps appropriate only to Demosthenes’ case (3.17–18). ¹⁵¹ See, for the issues, Chapter 1.7.1. ¹⁵² And tried to shape the way it was remembered: Guth (2014).

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4 Against Meidias and Against Timarchus 4.1. INTRODUCTION AND OVERVIEW In Chapters 4 and 5, I examine Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ four surviving speeches from public trials in the 340s. In Chapter 5, I focus exclusively on Demosthenes’ prosecution of Aeschines for misconduct as an envoy and Aeschines’ defence (the Embassy trial of 343). Historical usage in that trial is strenuously competitive in character, and it is the main purpose of Chapter 4 to set the Embassy trial in its strategic context. This involves considering two major recent prosecution speeches, one by each orator: Demosthenes’ Against Meidias (representing a prosecution which came to court in 347/6)¹ and Aeschines’ Against Timarchus (of 346/5).² Both are about personal behaviour inappropriate for a good citizen and a good politician. Demosthenes is prosecuting a wealthy political senior of his, Meidias, for hybris³—specifically for punching ¹ Dating and discussions of D. 21: Sealey (1955b) 96–101 (late 347 date); Erbse (1956) (150 for a late 347 date); Harris (1989a); (2008) 75–87 (79 for a 346 date); MacDowell (1990) (10 with n. 4 for an early 347/6 date); (2009) 245–53; Wilson (1991); Usher (1999) 226–30; Hendren (2015); Spatharas (2017a). The view that the speech was not delivered is based on flawed evidence (A. 3.52, pace Plutarch: Dem. 12.3–6; also [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 844d). Discussions include Erbse (1956), especially 150–1; Harris (1989a) 117–29; (2008) 84–6; MacDowell (1990) 23–8; Ober (1994) 90–2. Against delivery: Sealey (1955b) 96–7; Dover (1968) 172–4; Wilson (1991) 165; Cohen (1995) 99–101. Dionysius incorrectly dates to 349/8 (Amm. 1.4), the year of the injury itself, but expresses no doubt about the speech’s delivery. Material in the speech which looks better in a 349/8 context might reflect early preparation of his case by Demosthenes soon after the injury happened: Dionysius’ dating and phrasing suggest as much. ² Date and discussions of A. 1: Dover (1978) 19–109; Harris (1985); Wankel (1988); Winkler (1990) 56–9; Lane Fox (1994) 143–51; Hubbard (1998) 62–8; Ford (1999); Sissa (1999) 153–68; Fisher (2001); Lape (2006); Olding (2007); Bouchet (2008); Wohl (2010) 37–50; O’Connell (2017) 74–9; Spatharas (2017b). ³ On the concept and its deployment in D. 21: MacDowell (1976); (1990) 18–23; Fisher (1976); (1979); (1990); (1992), especially 44–9; (2017) 115–23; Ober (1994) 89–90, 98–100; Cairns (1996); Martin (2009) 15–48. The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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Demosthenes in the face in front of a large gathering while he was serving as a volunteer tribal chorēgos at the 348 Dionysia.⁴ Aeschines is prosecuting Demosthenes’ older political ally Timarchus, under the obscure action dokimasia rhētorōn,⁵ for historic prostitution, aiming to disqualify him from political activity. Both seem to have resulted in convictions: Timarchus lost his citizenship; Meidias probably had to pay a ‘modest fine’.⁶ In both cases, the litigant whose speech (or a version of it) we possess was up against skilled oratorical practitioners—Demosthenes faced not only Meidias but various of his elite allies, while Aeschines faced Timarchus and Demosthenes himself as synēgoros, as well as an apparently distinguished general (A. 1.132)⁷ and possibly Hegesippus and/or his brother Hegesander (1.69, 71). Persuasive use of the past becomes one of several competitive strategies each orator employs. In Against Meidias, anticipating extensive use by the defence of the recent past in the form of Meidias’ public career, Demosthenes marshals not only alternative versions of that career but (as we saw with the Assembly speeches) positive versions of his own and—as I examine in this chapter—an extended set-piece paradeigma which the speech’s other historical material sets in an ethical context sourced from a wide range of periods, including a number of more or less well-known civic incidents in recent decades. Meanwhile, Against Timarchus sees Aeschines taking a different line: combating with a plurality of historical and mythical material a defence case he anticipates will feature it in quantity too. Both speeches provide valuable background for how Demosthenes and Aeschines conduct their own fight over the past in the Embassy trial itself (and beyond), but they can serve to contextualize that later trial in another sense too: Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy shows signs of a compositional layer from 346 itself, when Timarchus and Demosthenes mounted the original legal attack on Aeschines at his euthyna(i)—the attack whose processing was delayed by Aeschines’ counter-indictment of Timarchus.⁸ ‘Layered composition’ in general serves as a useful concept when considering Against Meidias and On the False Embassy,⁹ ⁴ On the type of action used against Meidias, an issue which does not affect my discussion: Harris (1989a) 129–35; (2008) 79–82; MacDowell (1990) 13–23; Rowe (1994). ⁵ Fisher (2001) 5–6, 157–9. ⁶ Timarchus: D. 19.257, 284; Meidias: A. 3.52 is not good evidence; modest fine: Harris (1989a) 135. ⁷ Aeschines’ mockery here: Fisher (2001) 274; also Weil (1984) 315–17. ⁸ For the details: Efstathiou (2008) 126–30. ⁹ For the possibility of (multi)layered composition in Against Aristocrates too: Lewis (1997) 247–8, citing Brunt (unpublished); developed by Lane Fox (1997) 184–7.

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because Demosthenes (whether in pre-trial drafting or in post-trial revision) seems not to have been painstaking in removing temporal inconcinnities.¹⁰ Sometimes a point will be made which fits the original temporal context of the dispute or indictment better than the delivery context itself.¹¹ Demosthenes could have been careless when revising or have (reasonably) felt that nobody would notice these brief moments; relatedly, though, he could have felt that these moments would help build the atmosphere of the original dispute more effectively, stimulating audience members or readers to imagine themselves back at the point where the present situation became a situation at all—a compositional counterpart for moments like Against Meidias 77, where Demosthenes narrates the dispute from (what he claims to be) the beginning. So far, we have only looked in detail at one law-court speech which Demosthenes delivered himself, Against Leptines; examination of Against Meidias and Against Timarchus will allow us to compare what we saw there with contexts where our speaker has, or claims to have, a history of enmity with at least one of the opposing litigants. This chapter, therefore, looks back as well as forward, and that is appropriate for Against Meidias in the sense that this speech marks a pivot point in a vital aspect of Demosthenes’ self-presentation and selfindividualization: his framing of his ‘outsider’ status. Basic to Against Meidias is the idea that Demosthenes stands outside the category of the super-rich represented by Meidias and his supporters and synēgoroi, despite being unable to deny—indeed, despite having to admit—his own wealth: the key becomes his claim to have devoted his resources almost entirely to the dēmos (e.g. 21.189), whereas Meidias’ civic benefactions are seen to be vitiated by a much greater level of personal selfindulgence, pointing to a spirit out of step with the democracy.¹² But, as we have seen already, Demosthenes was now a bouleutēs and in 346 served on the embassies to Philip; this was the year he ‘launched’ as a recognizable member of the political front line.¹³ After this point, Demosthenes’ Assembly and law-court speeches dispense with the earlier disavowals of membership of the political elite and concentrate on the image of him as an outsider purely in terms of political standpoint and identity (i.e. outside the dominant group of politicians) which he had

¹⁰ Dover (1968) 172–4; MacDowell (1990) 23–8; (2000a) 23–6. ¹¹ For examples, see Sealey (1955b) 96–101; Dover (1968) 172–4. ¹² On the rhetoric of inactive (Meidias’) vs active (Demosthenes’) wealth in D. 21: Cecchet (2015) 198–208. ¹³ The political context of the Meidias trial: Giugnoli (1975); Cawkwell (1978) 91–8; Sealey (1993) 143–4.

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been developing as part of his broader-brush ‘outsider rhetoric’ arguably as early as On the Trierarchic Crown, before even entering politics. Aeschines’ Against Timarchus, then, was delivered against the post-346 Demosthenes, or, in terms of the Assembly speeches’ chronology, the Demosthenes of somewhere between On the Peace and the Second Philippic, moving to dissociate himself from the Peace of Philocrates (a characterization Aeschines accepts, giving himself a leading role in it by contrast: 1.174). Against Timarchus, therefore, points us forward. It has a seminal place, though one no doubt further underlined by the bias of our evidence, in what becomes a notoriously vigorous competitive relationship between our two orators. Above all, it serves as a constant reference point for Demosthenes in On the False Embassy, delivered about three years later but, as just noted, reflective (in the form we have it) of a longer genesis which embraces the period of the Timarchus trial. It must also be right to think of Demosthenes’ strategic approach in 343 as conditioned by his service with Aeschines on two embassies in 346—two opportunities to observe Aeschines’ rhetorical skill—and by Aeschines’ successful conviction of Timarchus despite never having been principal prosecutor in a public case before (A. 1.1).¹⁴ Although the dependence of both speeches on strategies of anticipation may simply reflect a norm for prosecutions, it certainly seems reasonable to think that On the False Embassy may be intended by Demosthenes as an argumentative mirror for Against Timarchus;¹⁵ the Timarchus trial hovers over the later trial from the start (see, e.g., D. 19.2, and cf. 120) and emerges openly, and at length, in the later stages of Demosthenes’ speech (19.241–57, 283–7). I therefore spend particular time in this chapter on the past-based strategies which Demosthenes would contest, but also on other material in Against Timarchus that his own speech would reframe in historical terms for strategic use in the new context. Plotting political or strategic connections between the Meidias and Timarchus trials themselves can only go a certain distance: Meidias and Aeschines seem to have developed a political friendship at some point (maybe out of shared antipathy to Demosthenes), but all we really know about this is that in 330, in the Crown trial, Aeschines thought it worthwhile to refer to the now dead Meidias in warm terms (3.115),

¹⁴ E. M. Harris (1995) 102, 155; Rubinstein (2000) 239 n. 8; Fisher (2001) 120–1. He could well have served as a synēgoros and achieved visibility that way, but we know of no instance definitely prior to 346/5: his support for Aristophon against Philonicus (D. 19.290–1) is undatable, but probably recent: see Rubinstein (2000) 168 n. 27. ¹⁵ Carey (2000) 19.

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and to give a distorted (perhaps a very seriously distorted) account of the outcome of the Meidias prosecution to discredit Demosthenes at that stage (3.52; cf. 212).¹⁶ There is no strong sense that the Meidias trial necessarily had precise influence on Aeschines’ choices in Against Timarchus the following year in the way that Against Timarchus may have had on Demosthenes’ Embassy prosecution. The principal theme of Against Timarchus—illegitimate and morally bankrupt public self-presentation and conduct linked to private immorality—meant its points and techniques lent themselves to easy refashioning by Demosthenes to characterize Aeschines’ misconduct in On the False Embassy (compare, e.g., κατηγορῶν ἐκείνους τοὺς λόγους εἶπεν οἳ κατ’ αὐτοῦ νῦν ὑπάρχουσιν; ‘the arguments he used in that prosecution are now valid against him’, 241). All three speeches, especially the two treated side by side in this chapter, rely a good deal on putative validation by the jurors’ general knowledge of the defendant. However, difference in procedure lays down formal gaps between them, especially between Against Meidias and the other two, and I recognize this by treating Against Meidias and Against Timarchus in separate consecutive sections (Chapter 4.2 and 4.3). But juxtaposing the two treatments still has value for our topic in that it gives us the chance to trace—in two speeches united by their status as prosecutions in cases where public morality is in point—the similarities and differences in how these orators typically handle the past, offering an especially vivid picture of Aeschines’ much greater appetite than Demosthenes’ for creating and peopling historically based or historically informed scenarios which function as fantasy parallels with what is going on in the trial; Demosthenes’ Athenian past in Against Meidias largely operates squarely with the continuum model we traced in previous chapters (when it is not treating the generalized recent past as a source of cases thematically relevant to his points which he typically claims the jurors will know something about). The clash with Aeschines, though, seems to have stimulated his creativity, as we will see in Chapter 5.

4.2. DEMOSTHENES: AGAINST MEIDIAS

4.2.1. Demosthenes’ Approach One respect in which Against Meidias differs from Against Timarchus is in the range and scale of its author’s deployment of the past. In Against ¹⁶ Knox (1976) 194–7; Harris (1989a) 118, 129–36; (1995) 38; (2008) 84–5.

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Timarchus much depends, as we will see, on Aeschines’ self-presentation as a moderate and disinterested citizen trying to right civic wrongs (which recalls the professed motivations of Demosthenes and his clients in the 350s speeches). But in Against Meidias Demosthenes makes no secret of the personal element, expatiating on his alleged long-time quarrel with Meidias, openly comparing Meidias’ public actions (at the age of 50) unfavourably with his own (in his late thirties) (21.154),¹⁷ and presenting this and the civic desirability of a conviction as interlocking and complementary. In Aeschines’ case, any personal enmity towards Timarchus is suppressed in favour of exploration of the wider civic purport of the accused’s behaviour. Consequently, where Aeschines takes an interest in making Timarchus’ private past—his bios—probative at the level of civic history, tying Timarchus’ activities to past events and well-known landmarks, Demosthenes gives Meidias’ private past a citywide dimension much less consistently, and does not dwell for long on his opponent’s public achievements. This serves to highlight Meidias’ undemocratic credentials,¹⁸ intimating that his public activities have made relatively little impression, and that he is known (or primarily ought to be known) to the audience as ostentatious, arrogant, and interested in masking unhealthy quietism with occasional forays into practical politics which involved a good deal of shouting and plenty of office-holding but little positive achievement. Rationalization of this strategy yields the likelihood that it was hard for Demosthenes to target Meidias on public grounds.¹⁹ The result is that the civic past is only relatively rarely deployed as ethical proof, but I will spend this section discussing a prominent exception: the extended passage where Alcibiades is set up as a foil for Meidias, and where the comparison is pursued to the continuous detriment of the latter (21.143–50). One of the most developed historical illustrations in the whole Demosthenic corpus, it sits at the centre of the ethical plea and crystallizes its goals and interests.²⁰ In line with the 350s speeches, Demosthenes negotiates a link in this passage between Meidias and a fifth-century paradigm of aristocratic behaviour who could safely reflect both Athenian honour and reputation at the highest level and the ¹⁷ For the age problem: MacDowell (1990) 369–71 vs Harris (2008) 141–2 n. 224. ¹⁸ Meidias as a sort of ‘tragic tyrant’: Pearson (1976) 105–111, qualified by MacDowell (1990) 31; Wilson (1991) 182–6; Usher (1999) 228; Tempest (2007) 35; Hendren (2015) (in detail). ¹⁹ For Meidias’ public service: Tritle (1992); his career: Davies (1971) 385–7; MacDowell (1990) 11–12; Engels (2006) 608. ²⁰ The speech’s structure: Weil (1883) 96–103; King (1901) 3–12; Goodwin (1906) 127–8; Erbse (1956) 137–9; MacDowell (1990) 28–30.

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civic consequences of excessive independence in the democratic polis,²¹ but also between Alcibiades’ potential tyrannical credentials and the dangers of big-man domination of a democratic society more generally.²² Demosthenes even places Harmodius and Aristogeiton in this thematic context (21.169–70): even they would not have been allowed to dominate the city, and indeed they stopped others from doing so. In making this sort of link—and in an echo of his strategy with the syndikoi in Against Leptines—Demosthenes forges a thematic connection between Meidias and the very prominent (too prominent?) Eubulus (205–7), who is about to act as synēgoros for Meidias, along with a number of other well-known rich men (208–18). This latter passage openly stages the possibility of anti-democratic danger from this group, hypothesizing a takeover of the state (209) along the lines Demosthenes had explored via Diodorus in Against Timocrates, and couched in similar, highly direct terms. The Alcibiades episode, therefore, continues to pervade the thematic texture of Demosthenes’ attack on Meidias and his supporters long after Alcibiades himself is mentioned for the last time. I begin by looking at some key comparators.

4.2.2. Meidias and Alcibiades We saw in Chapter 3.4 that person-to-person examples like this one tend to work by revealing attitudes of mind and action in the comparand, (often) implying commitment to certain values, which can then persuasively ‘decode’ those of the subject for the audience; the key example was Demosthenes’ fashioning of Timotheus specifically to reflect well on himself. Here, the contrast between Alcibiades, the flawed hero, and Meidias, the contemptible would-be, foregrounds the theme of violent assault central to the whole speech. Meidias’ physical assault on Demosthenes is made to stand for the assault on Athenian democracy by its enemies, a thematic component which animates the pre-epilogos discussion of the kind of people who will support Meidias (205–18). In a technique familiar from the Diodorus speeches, the assault in the theatre—only recalled visually, in an oblique way, at 21.72, and not in the earlier narration²³—is repeatedly re-enacted in the jurors’ minds

²¹ Cf. importantly Themistocles and Cimon at 23.205 (and cf. Bauman [1990] 22–31). ²² Alcibiades and tyranny: Seager (1967); Gribble (1999) 118–43; generally: Ober (1989) 197–8; 265; Hendren (2015) 33–7. ²³ On 21.72: MacDowell (1990) 290; Wilson (1991) 176–7.

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each time it is referenced.²⁴ The re-enactments stretch back in time, too. When the fifth-century Alcibiades strikes his fellow chorēgos Taureas in the face (147), the ‘assault’ imagery already connotes the hybris that goes with Alcibiades’ wealth, lineage, and impulsive and spirited character— but these have positive sides too,²⁵ and his significant accomplishments for Athens function to keep Meidias out of direct comparison.²⁶ The contrast is also mounted on the basis of birth and wealth. At the end of the passage Demosthenes indulges in humorous demolition of his opponent’s claim to noble birth like Alcibiades’ (148–50), and it is a constant concern of his here and throughout to show that all Meidias does with his wealth is misapply it.²⁷ That misapplication, in turn, stands easily for Meidias’ practical and ethical dereliction of his (liturgical and wider) duty as an elite citizen; this is a defective Alcibiades who cannot excel where Alcibiades excelled. As the scholiast comments, the comparison should more accurately be called a sustained juxtaposition (parathesis);²⁸ Demosthenes himself disclaims any direct link between his parallel subjects (καὶ οὐκ ἀπεικάσαι δήπου Μειδίαν Ἀλκιβιάδῃ βουλόμενος τούτου μέμνημαι τοῦ λόγου (οὐχ οὕτως εἴμ’ ἄφρων οὐδ’ ἀπόπληκτος ἐγώ), ‘I have not mentioned this story because I want to compare Meidias to Alcibiades—I am not that foolish or deranged’: 143). By unfolding Alcibiades’ career and showing how Meidias fails to measure up at each stage, Demosthenes points not only to his opponent’s hypocrisy, arrogance, and greed, but also to the deeply destabilizing implications of his behaviour for the prosperous democratic community at large, a community which (as in the Assembly speeches from this period) he makes a concentrated bid to embody and to champion himself.²⁹ Demosthenes’ image of Meidias as self-regarding and self-interested may also invite the audience to view him as someone who neither knows nor cares where he belongs in the economy of Athens’s traditional identity (a democratic identity). Certainly, if so, Alcibiades is a strong choice as a paradigmatic individual. In this passage, his lineage alone is

²⁴ As we saw in Against Androtion and Against Timocrates, the chief villain’s transgressive penetration of the Agora and of citizens’ houses is constantly replayed: D. 22.50, 52, 56, 68, and stylishly reversed at 22.77; cf. 24.126, 145, etc. Meidias, too, is keen on invading houses: 21.78–80, 116. ²⁵ Athenian doublethink about the elite: Ober (1989), e.g. 199–202 on liturgies; (1994); Wilson (1991) 180–6; Cohen (1995) 90–101. ²⁶ Wilson (1991) 182: ‘Alkibiades is thus virtually cited for praise.’ ²⁷ Meidias may not even have been so very rich: Davies (1971) 386. ²⁸ Σ ad 21.148 (515 Dilts); see also Jost (1935) 183 and Tritle (1992) 490. ²⁹ Wilson (1991) 187; Ober (1994) 100–4; Meidias’ disgust-worthy vices: Fisher (2017) 121–2.

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seen to guarantee that he did have such awareness: Demosthenes puts him (144) at the heart of the great continuum as an Alcmaeonid (but on his father’s side, not his mother’s; Demosthenes errs here, as on several other points in the passage).³⁰ Alcibiades is thus a descendant of those who helped throw out the Peisistratids and pave the way for democracy (again, in Demosthenes’ version).³¹ But Demosthenes’ notion of a Meidias disengaged from Athenian values and cultural priorities is clearly a fiction; we know he had a serious public career,³² and that made him a more than substantial oratorical opponent for Demosthenes here. Like the syndikoi in the trial of Leptines’ law, Meidias would have been well able to deploy historical examples on his own behalf, so the potential of the Alcibiades passage as a form of anticipation—specifically, of attempts Meidias might make to compare himself with any of Athens’s great benefactors—must be considered, especially given that Against Meidias makes substantial use of other types of anticipation. It is important, then, to take seriously Gribble’s intriguing suggestion that Demosthenes might have chosen Alcibiades specifically as an example in order to prevent Meidias from doing so—his own spin would be an obstruction that Meidias would have to confront and refute if he still wanted to feature him.³³ This would follow up, for example, an earlier anticipatory sequence (36–41) where Demosthenes’ selection of examples of people who were assaulted as he was, but did not prosecute, is clearly designed to seize Meidias’ (advertised) position in advance. Meidias was apparently going around trying to find such people (36); by representing himself as having appropriate parallels ready while his opponent flails around looking for material he can twist to his advantage, Demosthenes aims to capture sovereignty over the task of accurate reference to past cases. Because of his son’s self-construction in his father’s image as well as their own inherent visibility, aspects of Alcibiades’ profile might have been more familiar to audiences than those of some of his prominent contemporaries (Nicias, for example, despite his highly visible liturgical activity).³⁴ Audiences would also expect him to be cited as a problematic figure; every appearance by Alcibiades in fourth-century oratory ³⁰ For summary of these: Nouhaud (1982) 292–8; MacDowell (1990) 358–66. Older commentators condemned the parentage error (see, e.g., Weil [1883] 175; Goodwin [1906] 84). It is interesting, though—and may testify to Alcibiades the Younger’s (surely partly selfinterested) success in shaping his father’s legacy—that the parentage described fits him perfectly: Isoc. 16.25–8; Thomas (1989) 144–6; MacDowell (1990) 358. ³¹ For the problems: MacDowell (1990) 359–60. ³² See n. 19. ³³ Gribble (1999) 143 n. 191. ³⁴ See Chapter 1.4. Oral traditions about Alcibiades: Thomas (1989) 144–54. Nicias’ liturgies and other expenditure: Domingo Gygax (2016) 151–5.

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acknowledges both sides of his behaviour (even Isocrates 16 by implication).³⁵ An account of Alcibiades that concentrated on, say, his Olympic victories (145) and military reputation (145) without mentioning the vicissitudes of his loyalty to Athens (146), his role in the affair of the Herms (and/or Mysteries) (147)—events now serially fused by orators, reflecting the connection seen by many from an early stage³⁶—and the negative aspects of his wealth and self-esteem (147) would be incomplete, but Meidias could have navigated through the material much as Demosthenes does, but with a positive spin. So Demosthenes’ Alcibiades passage establishes cogent versions of a range of aspects of civic behaviour, marking ethical boundaries beyond which Meidias falls and which Meidias in his own speech would find it difficult to shift. As we have seen elsewhere, Demosthenes makes overtly metaphorical use of the past to frame points about the relationship between personal morality and social behaviour and other areas of civic life where he needs to tie down unstated shared assumptions in his audience. These points would be much harder to articulate interestingly if put straightforwardly (‘it is the good citizen’s part to do X and not Y’, etc.). Instead, a good historical example, authoritatively shaped and discussed in the round, allows him to establish his versions at standards against which Meidias can be judged—and therefore gives himself free rein to show how parodic, and how dangerous, is Meidias’ conduct in polis society. Alongside the parallel between physical assault and anti-democratic behaviour comes Demosthenes’ continuing need to stress his own demotic character. This emerges in the speech at a very early stage: where Solon or a nameless legislator (νομοθέτης) would normally be cited as the originator of the festival laws (8–12), Demosthenes cites them as expressions of his audience’s own attitudes (11–12: ἐποιήσατε . . . ᾤεσθε . . . ἀπεδώκατε . . . ὑμεῖς . . . ἐπέσχετε; cf. 10: τῶν ³⁵ These are A. 2.9, 168; Andoc. [4 passim]; D. 20.115; 21.143–50; Isoc. 5.58–61; 11.5; 16 passim; Lys. 14, 15 passim; 19.52. ³⁶ See Andoc. 1.11 and Thuc. 6.28–9 for Alcibiades’ involvement in the affair of the Mysteries. Harris (2008) 139 n. 216 sees Demosthenes foregrounding the Herms to bring Alcibiades’ crime into better alignment with Meidias’. That may be right, but some (for their own ends) were publicly linking the two right from the start, as Thucydides shows— this then took hold as a general view (6.28.1–2; cf. 53.1, 60–1); so then cf. Lys. 14.42. On the two events’ association, see Graf (2000); Todd (2004) 87–8; Hornblower (2008) 367–72; Rubel (2014) 74–98, especially 95–7 on Alcibiades. Furley (1996) 41–8 makes the case for dissociation. Some of the same people were certainly implicated in both: Osborne and Rhodes (2017) 436–7, 439 (no. 172), C 79, 84, for Euphiletus (?) and Pherecles, denounced ‘on both matters’ (περὶ ἀμφότερα); also Lewis (1997) 170 and Dover in Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover (1970) 284–6.

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ἄλλων ὑμῶν εὐλάβεια)—an impression which would only be momentarily interrupted by the names of the proposers when the laws were read by the clerk (and those proposers might not have been well known anyway). Demosthenes’ strenuous appeals to his audience as a subset of the dēmos in this speech stem partly from his need to emphasize the Assembly’s approval of his action against Meidias’ injury at the probolē stage, but also from his need to sustain here the personal ēthos familiar from the Assembly speeches—as someone who always acts in the dēmos’ interests. Demosthenes’ choice of—and introduction of—this paradeigma help him with these various overall aims: Alcibiades is a sensational, wellknown, and entertaining character to hear about (whether or not that frisson is produced by how he problematizes the dēmos’ attitude to great men³⁷). He is also very careful to indicate how he knows about Alcibiades: by orthodox channels of oral tradition (λέγεται, 143, 144; λέγουσιν, 147; φασιν, 144, 145, 147), not by any exclusive source, written or oral, available to him as a member of any educated elite.³⁸ Similarly, the contextualizing of Alcibiades at the high point of the Athenian empire is pitched at an impressive level of vagueness that will cause no problems for any listener (ἐν τῇ πόλει κατὰ τὴν παλαιὰν ἐκείνην εὐδαιμονίαν, ‘that period of prosperity that the city once enjoyed a long time ago’, 143). This advances the idea of the continuum: Demosthenes is communicating not only that Alcibiades’ values and behaviour had a particular impact at a particular time, but also that they fundamentally made sense, and continue to make sense, in the context of the democracy in a way that Meidias’ do not and could never have done. Again, the passage’s primary function is demarcation: assuming Meidias’ hybristic tendencies, and then constructing a framework of possible extenuating circumstances which cannot apply in Meidias’ case. It is key to the juxtaposition that this hybris is shown by Meidias all the time (cf. 1³⁹) but by Alcibiades only at crucial moments, counterbalancing his good services and bringing punishment from the dēmos. Stridently demotic—and optimistic, indeed statesmanlike—in tone, Demosthenes announces that the purpose of the juxtaposition is ‘so that you know, men of Athens, and understand that there is not, nor

³⁷ As argued by Gribble (1999), e.g. 118–27, 190–3, 277–80. ³⁸ This passage sees the highest concentration of these terms in all Demosthenes; if he did get some of his knowledge from Thucydides (Chapters 2.3 n. 99 and 3.1 n. 24), he is working very hard to conceal it here. ³⁹ The prosecution case itself is figured right from the start as a counteroffensive; cf. Tempest (2007) 23.

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will there be anything, not family [γένος], not wealth, not power, that you, the majority [τοῖς πολλοῖς ὑμῶν], ought to tolerate if insolence is added to it [ἂν ὕβρις προσῇ]’ (143). It is interesting that the services then recounted fall neatly under these headings. The one whose import should be clarified is genos. Simple aristocratic birth is argued not to be enough; it profited Alcibiades because it was so intimately bound up with the liberation of the dēmos from oppression, and his ancestors’ personal expenditure to that effect at Delphi, in Demosthenes’ version (144); but Alcibiades performed great deeds of his own too (145–6). Meidias’ birth, however, is available for ridicule (148–50) and outright denunciation (μηδένα μηδαμόθεν, 148)—without any names.⁴⁰ In assimilating the concept of genos to its argumentative context—i.e. how far it can extenuate (or at least explain) hybris—Demosthenes has actually extended the argument’s reach: achievement and contribution to the glory of Athens are made to function as the standard for nobility,⁴¹ and no evidence is presented to give us the impression that Meidias’ forebears were anything other than non-achieving, like him. The force of Demosthenes’ relative lack of emphasis on Alcibiades’ famous ‘aiming at tyranny’ is that Meidias looks like an even paler version of the great man; all he does is surround himself in an unsystematic fashion with the paraphernalia of tyranny,⁴² rather than ‘aiming’ at it. So Alcibiades, Demosthenes, and the citizens are all brought onto the same side as those who value achievement as the standard of nobility, in a manner reminiscent of the (autochthony-led) ‘nobility of the dēmos’ constantly emphasized in epitaphioi logoi.⁴³ Consequently, the association into which Alcibiades’ lineage is drawn turns out not to be with the aristocratic but not notably illustrious birth ⁴⁰ The brevity and absence of names in 21.149–50 means that there is little of the mock grandeur of the otherwise comparable Andoc. 1.124–9 (cf. MacDowell [1990] 365). ⁴¹ It might be tempting to see a ‘rhetoric of the new nobility’ here, focused on merit; cf. Iphicrates’ challenge to Harmodius (Chapter 1.1). Iphicrates’ choice of the name Menestheus for his son (even if it was a family name—e.g. if Iphicrates was related to the family of Phylomache in [D.] 43 who used it) was probably not accidental: for other ideas Davies (1971) 81; Sears (2013) 118. ⁴² D. 21.158: Meidias has a huge house (τοσαύτην ὥστε πᾶσιν ἐπισκοτεῖν τοῖς ἐν τῷ τόπῳ, ‘so large that it casts a shadow over all his neighbours’) and his wife’s conveyance is drawn by Sicyonian horses (ἐπὶ τοῦ λευκοῦ ζεύγους τοῦ ἐκ Σικυῶνος). Sicyon would connote tyranny (Hdt. 6.126–31, especially 6.126.1), especially with the recent mention of the Alcmaeonids, connected by marriage with the famous tyrant Cleisthenes: for the rhetoric here: King (1901) 83 with Σ ad 21.158 (539 Dilts) (i.e. the Sicyonian tyrants drove white horses); Thomas (1989) 268–70; Spatharas (2017a) 215–21. For the tyrannical trope: Wilson (1991) 183–4; Tempest (2007) 31–3; Hendren (2015), especially 27–9 on D. 21.158. ⁴³ This trope in funeral orations: e.g. D. 60.4–5; Hyp. Epit. 7. Loraux (1986) 145–53, 210–17; Rosivach (1987) 302–5; Frangeskou (1999) 319–20; Herrman (2009a) 73.

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of Meidias but the indisputably ‘noble’ common ancestry of the citizens: οἱ κατ’ ἐκεῖνον ὑμέτεροι πρόγονοι (‘your ancestors in his time’: 146; cf. 143: κατ’ ἐκεῖνον has a sense of quiet recognition that Alcibiades defined his times).⁴⁴ Demosthenes reinforces the point when he aligns Alcibiades and the citizens who were his contemporaries with their present-day descendants (the jurors) and ranges them against Meidias (148: τοιούτων ἀνδρῶν οὖσιν ἀπογόνοις; ‘you who are descendants of men like this’). The continuity of the citizens’ expression of their core values is given particular emphasis. The audience are being placed in the continuum as well as Alcibiades, and Demosthenes too by proxy— Demosthenes uses ἀπόγονος on only two other occasions in the extant corpus, and each time the genealogical link is clearly literal.⁴⁵ Our individual jurors are being encouraged with more than usual precision to think of their own personal forebears and relate them (and thus themselves) to the collective condemnation of Alcibiades by his peers for attempting to conduct himself at his own pleasure, transgressing civic norms and (like Meidias at 150) putting himself above the law. The Alcibiades passage also confronts Meidias’ connections by evoking not only tyranny but also anti-democratic thinking in general, reworking the ‘cabal’ rhetoric Demosthenes had deployed in the 350s speeches: he envisages those super-rich who may serve as Meidias’ synēgoroi lording it over the dēmos and arrogantly suppressing their criticism (153, looking ahead to 209–10; and cf. Against Timocrates 206–9).⁴⁶ In our passage, the dēmos’ refusal to take Alcibiades’ good services into account when he behaved with hybris (146) recalls two examples in Against Aristocrates 205: Themistocles (μεῖζον αὑτῶν ἀξιοῦντα φρονεῖν, ‘holding too high an opinion of himself ’) and Cimon, who (τὴν πάτριον μετεκίνησε πολιτείαν ἐφ’ ἑαυτοῦ, ‘altered the ancestral constitution for his own benefit’).⁴⁷ It is very interesting, though, that at no point in the passage is Alcibiades connected with anti-democratic activity specifically, except by implication when fighting against Athens (like Iphicrates in Against Aristocrates 129–32). Meidias, however, is surrounded with a sequence of elements of anti-democratic behaviour throughout the speech, one being his troubling attitude to oral communication. Meidias’ public performances are—in contrast with Alcibiades’ brilliant oratory

⁴⁴ Cf. the usages at 19.251 (on which MacDowell [2000a] 309 is too literalist) and 18.95 (and cf. 20.73 for a similar idea differently phrased). ⁴⁵ [D.] 43.76 and D. Ep. 3.19. ⁴⁶ Meidias as part of an oppressive wealthy group: Cecchet (2015) 205–6. ⁴⁷ For the apparent confusion of Cimon and Miltiades here (cf. A. 2.172 and Andoc. 3.3): Nouhaud (1982) 219–20, 230; Witte (1995) 39–40.

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(145: λέγειν . . . πάντων . . . δεινότατος)—described as disastrous both in their expression and in their outcome (148);⁴⁸ his speechmaking and spending are also where his civic contribution ends; Alcibiades risked his life for the city (145). Meanwhile, Meidias’ private conversations consist of slandering people (148). Even more alarmingly, though, he has allegedly rehearsed his arguments for the present trial in front of a small (and thus inevitably sinister) group of people (ἰδίᾳ πρός τινας: 25): the disjunction between public and private sharing of opinion tropically marks the oligarchic man,⁴⁹ and Demosthenes himself makes a point later in the speech of explaining the reasons for his own known habit of preparing speeches carefully (191–2). He construes it partly in terms of respect for the audience and the trial process (191), thus marking himself as instinctively democratic, and someone ready to uphold civic values against a Meidias whose perversion of straightforward democratic communication points to his willingness to pervert other norms as well. The Alcibiades passage itself is in a sense just as much about Demosthenes as it is about Meidias: one of its functions is to prepare the ground for the ringing endorsement the orator is going to give later to his own public activities as opposed to Meidias’ behaviour (189–90). Although Demosthenes does not attempt any self-casting manoeuvres here, his drafting of Alcibiades onto a ‘team’ consisting otherwise of himself and the jurors (and all good Athenians) works as a way of validating the discourse he fosters throughout the speech about the right way to treat politicians currently in power, and although this discourse is sustained by much more than the speech’s dynamics of historical reference, it is worth broader comment here because it demonstrates the extent to which Demosthenes was prepared to apply to a law-court environment, and to a dispute involving some major politicians like Eubulus, the selfcharacterizations he was using the past more ambitiously to tie down in his early 340s Assembly speeches in confronting some of the same people. The trial was a chance to burnish his reputation, to reinforce his current or recent bouleutic service and embassy service, and so the projection of a consistent and sustained individual ēthos was just as important as in the Assembly. Against Meidias fuses the terms Demosthenes used to describe responsible political activity (and its opposite) in the 350s court speeches with the familiar terms used to describe them in the Assembly speeches: using ⁴⁸ ‘in his public speeches he has never had anything useful to say [κοινῇ μὲν οὐδὲν πώποτ’ εἶπεν ἀγαθόν]’. ⁴⁹ Cf. A. 1.175 and Thphr. Char. 26.3.

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an argument also found at 153 to define the good liturgist, he offers the following definition of a rhētōr, a term Meidias is trying to use against him: ‘if being a rhētōr means giving advice about what he thinks are your interests only as long as he does it without annoying or browbeating [ἐνοχλεῖν] you in any way, I would not avoid or deny this label’ (189; cf. 19.206). As in Against Aristocrates 4, the bad type of rhētōr badgers people (ἐνοχλούντων), and as in the Assembly speeches the good (and, crucially, independent-minded) rhētōr serves as the straightforward counsellor in the dēmos’ interests—the self-characterization to which Demosthenes is always coming back.⁵⁰ Although the remit of Demosthenes’ self-casting as an outsider has narrowed since, a striking point is that the bad rhētores have not changed at all; they are still interested in getting rich off the back of the dēmos (ἐξ ὑμῶν πεπλουτηκότας: 189), as they had been in Against Timocrates (ἐκ πενήτων πλούσιοι ἀπὸ τῆς πόλεως γιγνόμενοι, ‘rising from poverty to wealth at public expense’: 124) and the Third Olynthiac (ἐκ πτωχῶν πλούσιοι γεγόνασιν, ‘were beggars and are now rich’: 29).⁵¹ He is also interested here in constructing his potential as a solitary, truth-telling, independent voice—the theme so important to On the Peace (which would soon follow) and to the Assembly speeches in general (ἔτι τοίνυν οὐδὲ εἷς ἐστιν ὅστις ἐμοὶ τῶν λεγόντων συναγωνίζεται, ‘not even one of the men who speak in public is taking my side in this trial’: 21.190).⁵² This also echoes the language of the Against Aristocrates proem, where Demosthenes conceives Euthycles’ task—to cut through the operational apathy and personal passive hostility of the dominant group—as a project that must be undertaken by him and the jurors as colleagues (συναγωνίσησθέ μοι: 4); and in flagging Demosthenes’ own solitariness as prosecutor, it recalls his co-opting of Alcibiades and the jurors to his own side earlier on—a strong sign that only one side in this trial shares their interests and values (i.e. not the elite politicians ‘lining up’ alongside Meidias [συνεξεταζομένους]: 190, echoing 127). Finally, Demosthenes also uses 189–90 to assert the integrity of his own conduct in politics, and does so in a way that strongly echoes public honorific language⁵³—the terms of the later award of his own (third) crown, for example⁵⁴—‘I have never in your presence made any proposal as a favour

⁵⁰ Important pre-347/6 instances of this: D. 16.1–3; 4.1, 51; 3.21; cf. 13.12–13 if genuine. It is also strongly exemplified later in 346 (in On the Peace 4–10). ⁵¹ See Fisher (2017) 115–23 on the use of the language of disgust to support this characterization; Cecchet (2015) 157–63 (especially 162–3) on this rhetoric. ⁵² Wilson (1991) 174–5 (with nn. 46–7); Ober (1994) 100–1. ⁵³ Harris (2008) 156 n. 280. ⁵⁴ Cook (2009) 34, with n. 12.

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to them. I have resolved on my own both to speak and to do what I think is in your interests’ (οὐδὲ γὰρ αὐτὸς οὐδενὸς ἕνεκα τούτων οὐδὲν ἐν ὑμῖν πώποτ’ εἶπον, ἀλλ’ ἁπλῶς κατ’ ἐμαυτὸν ἔγνων καὶ λέγειν καὶ πράττειν ὅ τι ἂν συμφέρειν ὑμῖν ἡγῶμαι: 190); cf. 18.57: πράττοντα καὶ λέγοντα τὰ βέλτιστά με τῷ δήμῳ διατελεῖν (‘I always acted and spoke in the best interests of the people’). He therefore assumes the guise of a great statesman being awarded signal honours for his present conduct. This is not only striking in itself but subtly encourages the jurors to follow the idea through to its logical conclusion, and allow him to play the kind of role where he could potentially receive such honours. The terms of Demosthenes’ self-advertisement, then, are forecast in the Alcibiades passage rather than featured in it, but he nonetheless includes in it moments where an audience member mentally mapping Alcibiades’ situation onto Meidias’ would naturally feed Demosthenes himself into the scenario being outlined: notably, his position as chorēgos when struck in the face by Meidias offers apparently easy identification with Alcibiades’ equivalent treatment of his rival chorēgos Taureas, Andocides’ father’s cousin (147), sometime in the 420s or earlier 410s.⁵⁵ But even here (as in the two cases that immediately follow, of Alcibiades’ imprisonment of Agatharchus the painter,⁵⁶ and his supposed involvement in the mutilation of the Herms),⁵⁷ Demosthenes uses that to emphasize a contrast rather than a similarity: he points out that his own misfortune is fundamentally far worse: in Taureas’ case, the festival law had not been passed (he claims: 147) and the affair was between chorēgoi—a scenario which picks up on Demosthenes’ earlier example of how Iphicrates did not assault or undermine his enemy Diocles when the latter was rival chorēgos to Iphicrates’ brother Teisias (62–3). By underlining the difference, he seeks to evade the possible construction of his own dispute with Meidias as the kind of elite wrangling manifested in the other case.⁵⁸ Demosthenes is fashioning himself as one of the dēmos, on the side of the jurors.

⁵⁵ cf. [Andoc.] 4.20–1 and Plut. Alc. 16.5. On Taureas, the date, and the episode: Davies (1971) 29; MacDowell (1990) 362; Cobetto Ghiggia (1995) 218–21; Gazzano (1999) 97–102. ⁵⁶ Cf. [Andoc.] 4.17–18 and Plut. Alc. 16.5 and Σ ad 21.147 (506 Dilts). See also MacDowell (1990) 362–3; Cobetto Ghiggia (1995) 213–17; Gazzano (1999) 85–96. ⁵⁷ For discussion of Demosthenes’ relatively light handling of the Herms affair: MacDowell (1990) 363–4. It was already possible to make comic reference to the Hermocopidae in 411: Ar. Lys. 1093–4; cf. the much earlier (c.470–460) Lausanne pelikē showing a satyr smashing a herm (LIMC 5, ‘Hermes’ no. 179). The Herm mutilators may have stuck in popular memory due to their stele in the Agora (in the Eleusinium): Lewis (1997) 159; Osborne and Rhodes (2017) 438. ⁵⁸ Wilson (1991) 170; Cohen (1991) 161; (1995) 95–6; Ober (1994) 93–4.

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The point about the non-existence of the festival laws in the earlier case ties both incidents back to the legal plea, the main unifier in Demosthenes’ case:⁵⁹ he has chosen to take this injury to the courts so as not to perpetuate the quarrel further in the manner of aristocratic feuds, and he constantly draws attention to this decision. Part of the point of transporting Alcibiades’ context to the Athenian ‘golden age’ (143)—even with the appearance of temporal indicators marking the end of the Peloponnesian War (145–6)—is to make more convincing, and starker, the gulf between how things (can conveniently be thought to have) operated then (i.e. aristocratic disputes breaking into the public arena), and how they do now (i.e. the fiction that everyone submits to the laws).⁶⁰ Separating and arguing different social norms for the two periods—as he did in Against Leptines (114)—enables Demosthenes to plot all the more cogently the lack of connection between the bad outcome for Taureas (whose honour Alcibiades successfully fractured) and the hypothetical outcome of the present case. With the help of more recent examples later on (175–83), he encourages the sense that the social paradigm has now shifted for good, that this sort of conduct—outrages at festival times—is now policed by specific substantive law, and that he can therefore expect a positive result, as it is in the hands of fellow impeccable law-abiding democrats like the jurors. As with his self-identification in the Assembly speeches, therefore, Demosthenes stakes a claim to represent not only ordinary citizens, but the whole contemporary civic body and its constitutional features, and his implied confidence in the rule of law and the good sense of the jurors functions as an optimistic vision of the continuum of Athenian values functioning better than in the troubled decades at the end of the fifth century.

4.2.3. Summary In a speech where it is so important to Demosthenes’ agenda to allow public and private spheres to speak to one another, not as much is done as we might expect with the possibilities of co-opting personal political careers as civic history under another name; that was to follow with the ⁵⁹ On the festival laws and their relative chronology, see 21.8–12 with MacDowell (1990) 226–36. ⁶⁰ A familiar parallel is the setting of Solon’s lawgiving alongside modern legislators who are caught out in their nefarious practices by the all-encompassing nature of the modern law code (e.g. Timocrates in D. 24.106).

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Embassy trial. The Euboea expedition of 348 was perhaps too recent to function as an opportunity to set both litigants within a broader context of historic Athenian achievement or dilatoriness: it would have been too easy for audience members, with the episode (and its ignominious end) fresh in their minds, to come up with objections to how Demosthenes was using it. Hints of Demosthenes’ principled (and ultimately wellfounded) stance over Olynthus in 349/8 frequently emerge, but seem (in this law-court rather than Assembly context) to take second place to assertions of his committed understanding of his public role as elite citizen and, in 348, chorēgos. Equally, beyond politics proper, any broader implications of the popular gossip about Demosthenes’ alleged involvement in the murder of Meidias’ ally Nicodemus are not really developed (102–7);⁶¹ indeed, this is not figured by Demosthenes as an anticipation of something Meidias would even talk about. One possible explanation for all this is that Demosthenes was wary of making his career or Meidias’ serve as quasi-civic historical illustrations when the nature of the action required the focus to be on the specific injury. But that does not properly account for the lavish scale of the Alcibiades passage (or for the various other moments which add weight to their particular contexts, like the appearance of Harmodius and Aristogeiton at 170). The Alcibiades juxtaposition allows Demosthenes to problematize a range of positive versions of aspects of elite behaviour (generous liturgical practice, etc.) which might be offered by the defendant and his rich synēgoroi (and his hetaireia of witnesses: 139).⁶² This is a kind of anticipation similar to the forecasting of responses in Against Leptines (e.g. Demosthenes’ warning against Deinias’ likely recitation of his liturgical record: 20.151). Sustaining a sense of Alcibiades’ prowess amid all his transgressions taints and belittles Meidias as both public and private actor, and aims to show his connections with the rich and powerful for what they really are: links not based on anyone’s recognition of his merits. The ‘cabal’ rhetoric of the 350s—here aimed with vigour at the defence team and especially Eubulus—is combined with targeted historical material which engages with aspects of Meidias’ ēthos, or likely

⁶¹ For this episode, see A. 1.171–2 and 2.148, with MacDowell (1990) 9–10, 328–33, and 339–40; Fisher (2001) 316–17; Martin (2009) 37–48. ⁶² This naturally completely obscures Demosthenes’ own support base, which may include the examples of ‘good’ trierarchs on the Euboea expedition (21.165). For Euctemon son of Aesion’s possible links to Demosthenes via his father: Westwood (2017b) 320 and n. 20. The name Euctemon is so common (and deme-diverse: LGPN II 176; cf. MacDowell [1990] 384) that this man cannot be connected safely with Diodorus’ co-litigant in D. 22 and 24.

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ēthos, and so points us ahead to the notable and complex dynamics on show in the Embassy and Crown trials (and beyond), where Demosthenes’ own idealized ēthos emerges with increasing clarity. By the time Demosthenes’ dramatization of individual careers as civic history in the law court—the movement we saw in the Assembly speeches—reached an advanced stage in the Embassy trial, he had a model to reflect on, in the form of Aeschines’ Against Timarchus, which explicitly considered Timarchus’ activities up against, and inseparable from, a parallel Athens (like the one familiar from Demosthenes) with an unchanging value system and paradigmatic elements against which to judge contemporary issues. But Aeschines’ past in this speech also displays an ‘un-Demosthenic’ resistance to anchoring in chronological context, with enhanced possibilities for the orator himself to appear in his created world by proxy. Although Demosthenes’ historical usage in the mid-340s could have been influenced by any number of things, I have already suggested that orators’ strategies when confronting specific rivals might have been inflected by the strategies deployed on both sides on the most recent occasion when the same two orators had clashed. As his extended reference to the Timarchus trial in On the False Embassy suggests, Demosthenes’ first defeat by Aeschines may have had a decisive effect on how he chose to fashion his own prosecution of Aeschines when that came up in 343, and strategic approaches to the handling of the past offer an important way to consider this. I now move to examine Against Timarchus.

4.3. AESCHINES: AGAINST TIMARCHUS

4.3.1. Aeschines’ Parallel Athens The aim of Against Timarchus is absolutely transparent: to drive the defendant out of political life. That is inherent in the procedure employed (the dokimasia rhētorōn), and we have encountered no case under any type of action so far where this goal is foregrounded so clearly.⁶³ To achieve it, Aeschines needed an ēthos which figured his prosecution as coming from a ‘typical’ citizen, like the jurors, confronting Timarchus’ flawed public conduct and deficient personal standards— aspects which are (as in Aeschines’ other extant prosecution, Against Ctesiphon) assimilated to one another as far as possible. His response to ⁶³ Lane Fox (1994) 149–51; Fisher (2001) 40, 157–60.

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that need involves sustained self-presentation as a moderate (metrios) individual,⁶⁴ a key part of which is the ‘rhetoric of anti-rhetoric’ explored by Hesk—the disingenuous procedure by which a skilled orator will portray himself as the target of skilled orators (as with Diodorus when confronting Androtion).⁶⁵ Timarchus,⁶⁶ Demosthenes, ‘the general’ (A. 1.132), Hegesander, and Hegesippus were, after all, considerable opponents (and some of them either already or on the way to being political allies of one another), and Aeschines was apparently on his own on the prosecution side. Investing in historical argumentation offered Aeschines an economical way of commenting on the kind of society where someone like Timarchus could flourish while staying away from current political topics: his prosecution valorizes relevance over the contemporary issues connected with the Peace and Philip which he claims Demosthenes—now viewable as one of the Peace’s critics (174)—will try to bring in (166–76). Aeschines therefore strikes a balance between characterizing himself as a citizen of exemplary disinterestedness and goodwill and as Aeschines son of Atrometus of Cothocidae, the recent (and proud) co-maker of the Peace of Philocrates (174). His choice and management of historical examples is therefore geared specifically to ensuring that his broader political sense and democratic commitment are advertised and validated—but largely, as we shall see, by proxy. The present situation—the dispute between Aeschines and Demosthenes in the aftermath of the Peace—is assimilated firmly to the wider question of Athenian public morals, and thus to the problem of Timarchus’ personal moral fitness to operate in that context. Aeschines’ treatment of historical material repeatedly polarizes the prosecution and the defence (all of them: 193–5), staging the triumph of virtue both personal and civic over defective personal morality and the skewed commitment to the proper functioning of the civic order which is seen to accompany it (as we also see later, in Against Ctesiphon). Much of the material Aeschines treats as ethical proof is recent or indeed contemporary, as in Against Meidias—and that is dictated by his lack of serious evidence and consequent insistence on the knowledge of Timarchus’ public conduct that the audience supposedly have.⁶⁷ However, as in Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches, the historical material Aeschines features is sustained by thematic connections between parts of the speech whose structural similarities encourage audience members to feed the

⁶⁴ See A. 1.1, 3, 39. ⁶⁵ Hesk (1999); (2000), especially 202–41; cf. Wooten (1988). ⁶⁶ For his career: Fisher (2001) 20–3. ⁶⁷ e.g. A. 1.65, 70, 93, 116.

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conclusions they came to about the material in its earlier form into its later outings too. As mentioned briefly in Chapter 1.4, this partly relies on Aeschines’ weaponizing of the function of historical material as parallel to the present. In a typical example of Demosthenes’ fictive Athens (as fashioned, for example, in Against Leptines or the Third Olynthiac), the actions of those involved in the present debate or trial are assessed by their place (and, often, awareness of their place) in a continuum of behaviour which also tends to assume a chronological progression to the present point (which may even sometimes be better than some periods in the past, as we saw in Against Meidias). But the images of the past Aeschines creates in Against Timarchus construct to a greater or lesser degree a neighbouring, alternative Athens—Athens in a different dimension, where only Aeschines’ rules apply and to which others have access only by his agency. At one striking point (180–1), as we will see, Aeschines leads the audience next door into a fantasy Sparta for a set piece which itself reflects on the trial and on the fictive Athens he has been fashioning up to that point. These parallel versions of Athens tend (again, to a greater or lesser degree) to be imagined outside chronological constraints; their points of contact with the ‘real’ present are specific aspects which Aeschines picks out as in some way essential and therefore, in the present trial, probative. In the most developed cases, each emphasized aspect of the post-Peace world is given a specific analogue in the conjured world, peopled by and furnished with historical exemplars of apparently equal availability, where there are (as in Demosthenes’ generally more linear conception) incontrovertible benchmarks of civic behaviour. Some sort of relationship with the techniques of comedy (e.g. the parallel-Athens fantasies of Old Comedy) may be relevant here,⁶⁸ and Aeschines, as a former tragic actor, may have been particularly receptive to them. As we have seen, theatrical manoeuvres are drawn on to a very noticeable extent to mediate both his historical material and his broader strategies,⁶⁹ with a distinctive role for enargeia and associated techniques, especially in Against Ctesiphon but also here in Against Timarchus. The whole point of the fantasy scenarios, though, is that they also look very familiar. Like Demosthenes in Against Meidias, Aeschines is interested first and foremost in examples which can function to close off the defence’s strategic possibilities, both general and specific. Rather than ⁶⁸ See, e.g., Ruffell (2011) 29–53. ⁶⁹ On Aeschines’ theatricality see especially Duncan (2006) 59–83; for more: Chapter 1.4 n. 230.

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placing the outcome of the trial in the context of Athenian achievement to date, though, Aeschines openly announces a much more particular aim: to boost civic morality by securing a conviction (foreshadowed in a second partitio: 117). Drawing definite moral contrasts in the fantasy scenarios allows him to project those onto the ‘real’ trial scenario and, again like Demosthenes in Against Meidias, simultaneously stake out credible positions on historical Athenian standards of behaviour—and plausible parameters for the discussion of them—which Timarchus, Demosthenes, and the others must either operate with, supplant, or engage with; the vivid and visible character of some of the set pieces in this speech invites contestation, untraceable for us in context given our lack of any of the defence speeches, but dimly visible at one remove in On the False Embassy, as we will see. Furthermore, Aeschines’ mission statement that a successful Against Timarchus will be a ‘new start for civic good order’ (ἀρχὴν εὐκοσμίας: 192) goes beyond mere appropriateness to a dokimasia rhētorōn proceeding and is consistent with a wideranging ambition to debar Demosthenes and his associates from dictating what will count as appropriate past and future comparanda in this case (and he was to refer to it as a genuine lasting victory for moral standards later too: 2.180).⁷⁰ His own (always nameless) self-casting in the parallel-Athens situations he creates, buttressed by his balanced and reasonable ēthos and claim to the very virtues Timarchus lacks, continuously asserts his credibility as the only valid interpreter of the past involved in the case. I now move to examine this in detail as part of a discussion of Aeschines’ techniques of anticipation and reversal. I argue that Aeschines builds, by his specific references to individuals acting in vivid situations or making particular pronouncements, a totality of personal casting which can be contrasted with, and is tactically distinct from, the totality of the continuum of values more familiar from Demosthenes, where the orator normally stands at the point the process has reached, and in order to look forward looks back for models. Aeschines imagines himself moving freely among his models, comparatively disconnected from temporal and contextual constraints. Aeschines, in fact, becomes an actor playing several roles, all broadly interchangeable and all authoritative, and pivoting in some instances on the figure of Solon.⁷¹

⁷⁰ On the connection between reflections of contemporary cultural conservatism like this and Aeschines’ language of disgust: Spatharas (2017b) 127, 135–9, building on Fisher (2001) 62–7 (and see 352). ⁷¹ Aeschines’ use of Solon in the speech: Ford (1999) 242–5; Fisher (2001) 126–7; Bouchet (2008) 282–6; Wohl (2010) 45–6; Carey (2015) 117–19; (2017) 268–9, 271–2, 279–81; Westwood (2017a) 71–3.

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This addresses Aeschines’ (very democratic) conundrum about being seen and staying hidden at the same time: as a mouthpiece (in some cases literally) he can encourage the sense of self-identification with his material and with the moral authority of his characters without seeming to arrogate superior qualities to himself. This conjuring of interchangeable images of ideal democratic behaviour is a strategy particularly well calibrated to a dokimasia rhētorōn trial, where models of the good rhētōr are obviously going to be relevant, and Aeschines modifies it in his two later speeches in order to tackle Demosthenic usage head-on. In Against Timarchus, though, it functions as an economical way of forging a community of democratic sympathy and virtue to oppose the carefully selected outsiders, Timarchus and his synēgoroi, calling in unanswerable authorities as virtual synēgoroi for a lone prosecutor whose overall strategy revolves around claiming only moderate abilities and ambitions.

4.3.2. Casting, Ēthos, and Anticipation Anticipation strategies in Against Timarchus take various forms, and to give a sense of the stakes I start with one closely analogous to Aeschines’ use of historical material: his discussions of the poetry he claims his rivals will use (132–54)—featuring (at 149–50) passages from Iliad 23 and 18 which Aeschines may well have doctored to suit his argument.⁷² These begin as a way of combating ‘the general’ on the defence team, who, Aeschines claims, will try to argue Timarchus’ innocence first by using Harmodius and Aristogeiton’s relationship (132) and then that of Achilles and Patroclus in the Iliad. Part of the point of the anticipation is to detoxify Harmodius and Aristogeiton as paradigms, freeing them in advance from the elitist construction ‘the general’ is bound to put on them: Aeschines dissociates them from Achilles and Patroclus, treating the two pairs separately (140 and then 141–50);⁷³ and in 140, in fact, he explicitly shuts off the need for further comment on the tyrannicides either by him or by the other side and simply moves on to define where the Homeric heroes are to be situated and how they are to be used—and so detoxifies them too. ⁷² These passages have been well-discussed: Ford (1999) 249–56; Carey (2000) 73 nn. 153–4; Dué (2001); Fisher (2001) 268–70, 286–96; Olding (2007); Efstathiou (2016) 96–112. Poetry and history treated together: Ober (1989) 177–82; Ober and Strauss (1990) 250–8; Ford (1999) 236. ⁷³ On the strategy here: Lape (2006) 149–51; cf. A. 3.228 and Hall (2006) 373 on the defusing ‘pre-emptive strike’. For other interpretations: Dover (1978) 40–2; Fisher (2001) 276–8, 285.

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Aeschines is correspondingly very careful to present his subsequent series of quotations from Homer and Euripides, and discussions of them (142–50 and 151–4), as pre-emptive manoeuvres: he implies that ‘the general’’s foray into the poets is going to be a risky or possibly excessive or self-indulgent move (‘he will not shrink, they tell me, even from using the poems of Homer or the names of heroes [οὐδὲ τῶν Ὁμήρου ποιημάτων οὐδὲ τῶν ὀνομάτων τῶν ἡρωικῶν], but will sing the praises of the friendship of Achilles and Patroclus, based on love, they say’: 133), and turns this into an opportunity to get the jurors on his side by representing his anticipations as a cultural fightback—and reclamation of the poets—by ‘ordinary people’ (like him and the jurors) against the defence’s intellectual snobbery (141).⁷⁴ This also serves partly to excuse (or at least draw attention away from) his earlier (if brief) use of ‘Homer’, Hesiod, and Euripides (128–9) to illustrate the character of the goddess Phēmē (Report), who is responsible, according to Aeschines, for the citizens’ widespread knowledge of Timarchus’ sexual adventures. Our evidence prevents us from seeing whether or not the defence team in the Timarchus trial ended up turning Aeschines’ poetry back on him or not, or whether they moved to recapture Harmodius and Aristogeiton as usable paradigms. Demosthenes’ quotation of poetry in On the False Embassy certainly works in explicit reaction to Aeschines’ in Against Timarchus; it belongs in the part of his speech where the Timarchus trial is discussed at length, and (as well as quoting one of Creon’s speeches from Sophocles’ Antigone and large sections from Solon, as we will see) Demosthenes anchors two of his responses to specific lines quoted by Aeschines: from Euripides’ Phoenix (D. 19.245 on A. 1.152) and from Hesiod’s Works and Days (D. 19.243 on A. 1.129)—to which Aeschines would then equally directly respond in On the Embassy, adding some more Hesiod later (A. 2.144, 158). Like set-piece use of the past (and indeed more so), quoting poetry was a high-visibility strategy, and perhaps one of the highest-visibility strategies possible in Aeschines’

⁷⁴ But since you speak of Achilles and Patroclus and of Homer and other poets, as though the jurors are men without education [ἀνηκόων παιδείας], and represent yourselves as impressive figures whose erudition allows you to look down on the people [ὑπερφρονοῦντες ἱστορίᾳ τὸν δῆμον], to show you that we have already acquired a little knowledge and learning [καὶ ἡμεῖς τι ἤδη ἠκούσαμεν καὶ ἐμάθομεν], we, too, shall say something on the subject (141). Given the centrality of Homer to education at all levels (see, e.g., Ford [1999] 231–7), this is clearly a strain—and part of a strategy: Canevaro (2019) 150.

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case—his superb speaking voice (a constant worry for Demosthenes)⁷⁵ had secured him two earlier careers as different sorts of professional reciter (first as an actor, then as a clerk), and this would give his recitation of this poetry weight and authority. By delivering some of his chosen verses himself and leaving others for the clerk to deliver, Aeschines seeks to avoid being seen as a show-off, and alienating his audience,⁷⁶ while simultaneously attracting the attention necessary to invite the very contestation from the defence that the rest of his strategy is preparing to undercut. Aeschines’ anticipation of his opponents’ use of poetry trades in specifics, acting on knowledge he claims to have received about the defence team’s strategies (132). What I want to focus on now is the series of overt self-castings that Aeschines designs on his own initiative, not just giving his own version of specific examples that the defence ‘will’ offer, but rather making a bid to occupy and define the ideological territory in advance, much as with Demosthenes’ Alcibiades passage. What this type of anticipation and the more specific type have in common is a shying-away (except in one significant case, as we will see) from tight temporal definition; the poetic material, for example, floats freely at two levels: the mythical settings and its continuous availability, since its time of composition, for use in contexts like this. Aeschines’ past Athens is at once very blurred and enlivened by dramatic set pieces free of chronological framing, fashioned in such a way as to make the ethical contrast as clear as possible between Aeschines and his manufactured proxies, on the one hand, and, on the other, Timarchus, Demosthenes, the other synēgoroi, and the proxies who play them in a number of Aeschines’ imaginary encounters. Aeschines’ moral and structural glue early in the speech—and first in a chain of authority figures with whom Aeschines can make a bid to be associated by his audience—is the figure of ‘the legislator’ (νομοθέτης), who can successfully cover the whole sweep of the democratic past.⁷⁷

⁷⁵ Gotteland (2006); Serafim (2017) 84–7. ⁷⁶ The clerk delivers: 148 (Achilles’ promise to the dead Patroclus: Il. 18.333–5); 149 (Patroclus to Achilles: cf. Il. 23.77–91; forecast by Aeschines himself at 147); 150 (Thetis to Achilles: Il. 18.95–9). Aeschines himself delivers: 128–9 (Homer, Euripides, and Hesiod on Phēmē); 144 (Achilles on his promise to Menoetius, Il. 18.324–9); probably 151–2 (Euripides’ Stheneboea fr. 661.24–5 and Phoenix fr. 812 Kannicht), as there is no direction to the clerk (unless a gesture would be enough by this point). For discussion: Olding (2007) 160–3. There were practical concerns too—Aeschines would need to rest his voice periodically (cf. Pearson [1976] 173), and it is the trio in the middle that he leaves to the clerk. ⁷⁷ On this figure: Mossé (2004); Nouhaud (1982) 58–9; Hansen (1989); Thomas (1994); Worthington (1994) 111–12; Johnstone (1999) 25–33.

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Aeschines capitalizes upon the previously noted cultural shorthand which by the fourth century attributed laws of various dates—even very recent ones—to Solon.⁷⁸ As in other speech contexts, ‘the legislator’ starts off as Solon, but very soon floats free of that specific identification, to become an anonymous figure who is there specifically to confront Timarchus repeatedly (11, 18, 20, 25). This happens even before the comparison between Solon’s and Timarchus’ public deportment at 25–6, where Solon is merely following the precepts of ‘the legislator’, whether this is meant to be Solon himself or someone else. Indeed, right from the start (6), Solon is only the most emphasized of a group: ‘that ancient legislator Solon, and Draco[n], and the other legislators of that period’ (ὁ Σόλων ἐκεῖνος, ὁ παλαιὸς νομοθέτης, καὶ ὁ Δράκων καὶ οἱ κατὰ τοὺς χρόνους ἐκείνους νομοθέται).⁷⁹ Even so, Solon is the one who sticks in the background throughout the speech—when Aeschines, in the epilogos, declares his mission to make a ‘new start for civic good order (eukosmia)’ (1.192) in putatively securing Timarchus’ conviction, Solon’s traditional place as the maker of the laws on eukosmia (which Aeschines had himself explored: 1.9–32) must be the intended comparand. Aeschines also secures the tenacity of the image of the legislator throughout the speech by an especially dynamic form of self-association in the early stages. Persuasive decoding of someone’s intentions—and getting credit from being able to tell the audience what that someone is going to do next—is a regular feature of extant oratory (and other genres) and something we looked at in Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches; in law-court speeches, the focus is often on a lawgiver or legislator figure and what he meant by establishing a certain law (and the foundation of cult attracts similar persuasive formulations).⁸⁰ The Rhetorica ad Alexandrum in fact encourages all this: ‘when it serves our purpose we must introduce the legislator himself and his law and any case of analogy to the written law’ (RA 1.17–19; cf. the more delimited 15.6). However, Aeschines’ manipulation of the figure of the legislator for his own purposes goes beyond anything we see elsewhere (even in the law-heavy Against Timocrates). He not only makes very frequent claims about what the legislator was thinking when passing a certain

⁷⁸ See Chapter 1.2. ⁷⁹ Though see the wry note by Thomas (1994) 123. ⁸⁰ In Demosthenes’ own law-court speeches, see, e.g., D. 22.11, 25–6; 23.25–31, 51–2; 19.239; 21.11, 45–6; 18.6–7; elsewhere (and beyond Against Timarchus), e.g. A. 3.20–1, 33; Lys. 1.31; Is. 2.13. Intentions of the founder of a cult: e.g. Alexis fr. 269.4–6 with Arnott (1996) 755–6.

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law (e.g. 9, 11, 17, 24, 27),⁸¹ but effectively co-opts him as a personal shadow. Aeschines and the legislator move along together in lockstep: having announced that he will ‘use the same order [τρόπον] in [his] speech which the lawgiver uses in the laws’ (8), Aeschines ties each stage of his discussion of these laws to a fictionalized progression on the part of the legislator—who probably had no particular τρόπος at all, because these laws would have been from different periods;⁸² the structuring principle is the citizen’s move from childhood to adulthood, but this order is Aeschines’ choice. Accordingly, at 1.22, when Aeschines moves from one set of laws to another, the audience is told that ‘having finished with the previous laws, the legislator turned his attention [ἀπαλλαγεὶς γὰρ τῶν νόμων τούτων ἐσκέψατο]’ to others; equally, when Aeschines wants to condemn Timarchus’ eye-catching Assembly delivery style (‘just the other day, [he] threw off his robe and cavorted like a pancratiast in the Assembly, stripped, in such a vile and shameful physical condition on account of drunkenness and other abuses that decent men covered their faces’: 26), the legislator is imagined as having seen Timarchus coming and legislated accordingly (‘with this in mind [ἃ συνιδὼν], the lawgiver explicitly declared who should address the people’: 27). In 32, the legislator’s conceiving of the dokimasia rhētorōn as a natural outcome of the rest of the sequence is very neatly capped by Aeschines’ self-representation at the end of the process: ‘it is under this law that I have now come before you’. Having established the intimate connection between the legislator and himself, Aeschines is then able to deploy it throughout the speech, as we will see shortly in a threefold example—each time, structural similarities encourage the audience to apply their earlier conclusions (and their earlier emotional attitude) to the new context. Aeschines uses a loose assemblage of accepted past greats to illustrate his contention that earlier speakers performed in a much more restrained and statesmanlike way than people like Timarchus (‘those public speakers of old [οἱ ἀρχαῖοι ἐκεῖνοι ῥήτορες], Pericles and Themistocles and Aristides . . . were so decent [σώφρονες] that in their day this habit that we all practise nowadays [ὃ νυνὶ πάντες ἐν ἔθει πράττομεν], of speaking with the hand outside the clothing, was considered something brash, and they avoided doing it’: 25). The politicians are placed with just as much chronological vagueness as the legislator(s), allowing Aeschines to establish a comprehensive, broad-brush moral standard with which

⁸¹ Thomas (1994), especially 132–3; Bouchet (2008) 272–86. ⁸² Carey (2000) 31 n. 26; cf. Fisher (2001) 127–8.

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he must be associated by default (but not too closely: he admits with πάντες . . . πράττομεν that he is not perfect himself ), and with which he can associate all those who can safely be imagined as law-abiding— everyone listening to him, in fact, apart from Timarchus and his synēgoroi. But he reinforces it by specific and daring role play—daring enough that Demosthenes thought it worth reacting to in 343. I now look at the persuasive function of the comparison in which that fits (and Demosthenes’ response to it); this will be considered again in Chapter 5.2.1 from the Demosthenic angle. Aeschines cites a statue of Solon in the agora on Salamis (25–7) as iconic of old-time restraint in oratorical performance,⁸³ keeping the hands modestly covered—the strongest possible contrast with Timarchus’ disgusting public histrionics (26).⁸⁴ But, as we saw in Chapter 1.1 and 1.3, in Aeschines’ hands the statue moves, doing precisely what Aeschines claims Solon always did in front of the dēmos—to all intents and purposes he is there (ἀνάκειται ὁ Σόλων ἐντὸς τὴν χεῖρα ἔχων, ‘Solon stands [in the Salaminian agora] with his hand inside his robe’: 25). In appealing to public knowledge of the Salaminian statue (εὖ γὰρ οἶδ’ ὅτι πάντες ἐκπεπλεύκατε εἰς Σαλαμῖνα καὶ τεθεωρήκατε τὴν Σόλωνος εἰκόνα, ‘I am certain that you have all sailed to Salamis and have viewed the statue of Solon’: 25), Aeschines places his listeners in a direct chronological relationship with Solon’s own audience, irrespective of whether or not he is right to suggest that a majority of them will have seen the statue.⁸⁵ What is most important, though, is that when Aeschines’ audience look up, they are meant to see Solon as physically acted by Aeschines: τοῦτο δ’ ἔστιν, ὦ ἄνδρες Ἀθηναῖοι, ὑπόμνημα καὶ μίμημα τοῦ Σόλωνος σχήματος, ὃν τρόπον ἔχων αὐτὸς διελέγετο τῷ δήμῳ τῶν Ἀθηναίων (‘This, men of Athens, is a representation and a reminder of the posture that Solon in person used to adopt when he spoke to the Athenian people’: 25). This must be the moment when, as Demosthenes was to point out in 343, Aeschines imitated the precise posture of the statue of Solon (τοῦτο μὲν τοίνυν εἶπεν τοῖς δικασταῖς καὶ ἐμιμήσατο, ‘that is what Aeschines told the jurors, and he imitated the stance’: D. 19.252),

⁸³ For discussion of this example (a popular one): Zanker (1995) 45–9; Hesk (2012) 223–4; Carey (2015) 118; (2017) 279–81; Biard (2017) 132–3; Keesling (2017) 158–62; O’Connell (2017) 76; Westwood (2017a) 71–3. ⁸⁴ On the disgust factor here: Spatharas (2017b) 134–5. ⁸⁵ Fisher (2001) 151 assumes that this is perfectly possible, and it is (in fact, Aeschines mentions a Salamis ferry at 3.158, suggesting frequent traffic), but given the more than usually cavalier use to which the ‘universal knowledge’ topos is put in Against Timarchus (cf. Webb [2009] 135–6), I would prefer to be a bit sceptical.

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and Aeschines’ τοῦτο should be taken as an unmissable pointer to that.⁸⁶ This is another instance of Aeschines’ strategic concern to foreground how far his case rests on visual proof and popular knowledge rather than documents and formal witnesses;⁸⁷ but it also communicates to the audience his versatility (he can modify his behaviour to fit in with popular expectations), his presentational skill, and a reassuring traditional commitment to ancestral standards. That the audience found the combination compelling is underlined not only by the fact that Demosthenes felt the need to respond at all, but that he did so at some three years’ remove and in intricate detail (19.251–7). In On the False Embassy 251–4 he supplies evidence for the recent date of the Solon statue and uses that a means of invalidating what he represents as Aeschines’ point.⁸⁸ But this is misleading: Aeschines was making symbolic use of the statue—as an example of the timeless validity of the values portrayed and his own claim to embody them—and had said nothing about its age (though a statue from Solon’s own time would clearly have made his argument stronger). In attacking this way, Demosthenes fractures Aeschines’ binary opposition between a blurred, desirable past and the trial clash in the present in order to demonstrate how ironically short of Solon’s standards Aeschines actually comes. By tying Solon down to a historical period, and with notable precision (ἀπὸ Σόλωνος δὲ ὁμοῦ διακόσια ἐστὶν ἔτη καὶ τετταράκοντα εἰς τὸν νυνὶ παρόντα χρόνον, ‘Solon lived about two hundred and forty years ago’: 251)⁸⁹—and by claiming that Aeschines’ argument rested on chronology at all— Demosthenes seeks retrospectively to remove his rival’s ‘right’ to play Solon (and, prospectively, play him again in his defence speech in the current trial). This undercuts Aeschines’ bid to align himself with Solon didactically and morally—a bid that had involved adopting the persuasive figure of the monolithic and eternal legislator: so Demosthenes further suggests that the statue commemorates Solon as a performer of elegiac verse, not

⁸⁶ As it is, e.g., by Carey (2017) 280. Arguably, Demosthenes could claim in 343 that Aeschines had ‘performed’ Solon when he had not in fact done so (only assumed a similar, restrained physical stance) because he could rely not only on a differently composed jury but perhaps also on a popular perception that this was the kind of thing the former actor Aeschines might do—but the τοῦτο seems critical. ⁸⁷ See, e.g., Weil (1984) 312. ⁸⁸ D. 19.251; Hesk (2012) 223–4. ⁸⁹ MacDowell (2000a) 309. Compare Demosthenes’ painstaking accuracy about fifthcentury periods in the Assembly speeches: e.g. 3.24 (cf. 13.26); 9.23, 25. His numbers are often correct.

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simply a counsellor of the dēmos,⁹⁰ again delimiting (again in retrospect—but with a forward look to what Aeschines might do in his defence now, in the Embassy trial) the multivalent character and probative potential of Aeschines’ Solon. Demosthenes homes in on those points that could now (in 343) be represented as ones where Aeschines had aimed to score on particularly questionable grounds or had made particularly grandiose pronouncements: the attack on Timarchus itself, which is turned into a source of irony given the dubious behaviour of Aeschines’ own relatives (but not dwelt on: 287); the turning of poetic quotations back on their original (re)citer (243–5); and Aeschines’ dignified forecasts about moral improvement (285; cf. A. 1.192). As we saw earlier in this section, Demosthenes’ attack can be considered a tribute to the persuasive enterprise of Aeschines’ Solon illustration; it was an area where he particularly felt he needed to refute and surpass his rival—even three years on—and anticipate any new outing in the present. I shall return to it in the next chapter. In Against Timarchus, Aeschines’ ‘legislator’ topos and his Solon comparison at 25–7 fit into a careful structure which relies to an unusual degree on the appearance of similar arguments in disparate framing contexts, shaped by loose ring composition.⁹¹ This allows Aeschines to advance the speech’s guiding notion that a man’s personal and public life both can and should interpret one another; it also allows him to interconnect, and therefore reinforce, the ideological substance of his historical illustrations, and to construct a coherent picture of ideal civic behaviour which can serve not only to reflect badly on his opponents but also to close off any attempts they might make to conjure up a civic environment where (their version of ) Timarchus’ behaviour counts as acceptable. I now look at a set of three scenarios, evenly spaced throughout the speech, where Aeschines uses the same template for fundamentally the same persuasive purposes, and where the clear patterning serves as a signpost for audience members. At 30–2, in dealing with the third and fourth terms of the provisions for dokimasia rhētorōn—the two charges he spends most time on: prostitution and squandering of one’s inheritance—Aeschines continues to prefer abstracts, as he had in the speech’s initial legal section, though it is obvious that Timarchus and the other synēgoroi (especially Demosthenes) are being referred to. As usual, he provides a notional map of the legislator’s intention: ⁹⁰ On this and other issues connected with the statue: Fisher (2001) 151–2, with further bibliography. ⁹¹ Fisher (2001) 325–6.

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and the legislator could not conceive that the same individual could be worthless in private life and useful to the public good [ἰδίᾳ μὲν . . . πονηρόν, δημοσίᾳ δὲ χρηστόν], nor did he believe that a public speaker should come to the platform fully prepared in his words and not in his life [τῶν λόγων ἐπιμεληθέντα πρότερον, ἀλλ’ οὐ τοῦ βίου]. [31] He believed that statements from a good and decent man [ἀνδρὸς καλοῦ καὶ ἀγαθοῦ], even when expressed in a (very) clumsy or simple way [κἂν πάνυ κακῶς καὶ ἁπλῶς ῥηθῇ], would be of advantage to the hearers, while those from an unprincipled man who had treated his own body with contempt [παρὰ δὲ ἀνθρώπου βδελυροῦ καὶ καταγελάστως μὲν κεχρημένου τῷ ἑαυτοῦ σώματι] and disgracefully squandered his ancestral property [αἰσχρῶς δὲ τὴν πατρῴαν οὐσίαν κατεδηδοκότος] would not benefit the hearers even when expressed with great eloquence [οὐδ’ ἂν εὖ πάνυ λεχθῇ]. [32] These, then, are the men he bars from the platform; these are the ones he forbids to address the people.

The choice of these two particular headings of the dokimasia rhētorōn procedure explicitly signal Timarchus, but also Demosthenes—later in the speech Aeschines distorts Demosthenes’ difficulties with his guardians (170) and calls his sexual morality into question (e.g. 131),⁹² while the mention of a speaker ‘fully prepared in his words’ (τῶν λόγων ἐπιμεληθέντα πρότερον: 30) seems to look forward to his later criticism of Demosthenes for devising Timarchus’ speech for him (94)—a passage which Aeschines skilfully places immediately after this scenario’s second outing (92–3), just at the point where the audience will be waiting for the remaining elements of this first outing to be represented. By drawing a contrast in 30–2 between the impact on civic affairs of the man who speaks eloquently but lives reprehensibly and that of the man who may not be so accomplished a speaker but who speaks altruistically and from a life of virtue, a simple and essential disjunction is being made between personal morality and public speech.⁹³ Aeschines must be casting himself as the virtuous speaker; the idea of his (potentially) speaking only πάνυ κακῶς καὶ ἁπλῶς is yet another daring piece of Aeschinean subterfuge (or false modesty). In practical terms, though, it would be transparent to Aeschines’ audience that Timarchus had made plenty of sound oratorical contributions (or at least not obviously compromised ones) over a period of twenty or more years, irrespective of the kind of abstract distinction Aeschines is making. Indeed, the defence may have used the argument that Timarchus had not been held to account in this way before during

⁹² Demosthenes’ sexuality as an attack route here: Hubbard (1998) 66–7; Fisher (2001) 271–4. ⁹³ A traditional disjunction too: see, e.g., Achilles’ formulation in Hom. Il. 9.312–13.

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his long career (Demosthenes certainly does at 19.286).⁹⁴ Aeschines had to anticipate this kind of objection, and the chain set up at 30–2, pivoted on the incontrovertibility of the ‘legislator’, serves that need by—at this stage indirectly—encouraging the audience to cast the litigants in the various roles he has advertised as available in the scenario. Some sixty paragraphs later, near the midpoint of the speech, we find the same argument, but this time divorced from the context of legal exegesis where it began, and so from channelling through the ‘legislator’; here Aeschines himself takes over. Following an outing of the welliterated excuse for his lack of proof from witnesses (90), all in a context where the jurors’ own knowledge is being praised as the best kind of proof in itself (89), Aeschines picks the Areopagus as a paradeigma (92–3), unimpeachably supported by his own experience as a viewer (τεθεώρηκα): Now take as an example [παραδείγματι] the Council of the Areopagus, the most exact body in the city. I have often at meetings of that council seen [τεθεώρηκα] men who spoke (very) well [εὖ πάνυ] and provided witnesses convicted; and before now I know of some men who spoke very badly [κακῶς πάνυ] and had no witnesses for their case [πρᾶγμα ἀμάρτυρον ἔχοντας] but succeeded. For they vote not just in response to the speech nor to the witnesses but on what they themselves know and have investigated [ἐξ ὧν αὐτοὶ συνίσασι καὶ ἐξητάκασι]. And so that body continues to enjoy respect [εὐδοκιμοῦν] in the city. [93] Now, men of Athens, you, too, should judge this case in the same way.

To create the analogy, Aeschines is expertly going over old ground in a different form: this is a second edition of, and an advance on, the abstract scenario of the guilty silver-tongued speaker versus the blameless verbal incompetent from 30–2 (with the uses of πάνυ and κακῶς, as at 31, even offering an explicit link)—a frame to guide the audience to a particular understanding of what is going on in Timarchus’ trial. In fact the incompetent but virtuous speaker is now even more closely identified with Aeschines as prosecutor because of the addition of an extra element, the witnesses: this picks up explicitly on 90–1, where Aeschines had admitted his lack of formal witnesses. But Aeschines also goes a step further here, using this passage, and the ancient eminence of the Areopagus (already established, albeit in a slightly more humorous context, at 81–5), as a way of communicating his control of the past, in this case the shared past of the community as expressed through the jurors’ knowledge of Timarchus’ life. Directly after this passage (93) he will ⁹⁴ See with MacDowell (2000a) 329.

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equate the jurors’ knowledge of Timarchus’ past activities with the truth (ἀπόδοτε οὖν τὴν ψῆφον τῷ πλείονι χρόνῳ καὶ τῇ ἀληθείᾳ) and with the eminence of the Areopagus’ procedures (καὶ οἷς αὐτοὶ σύνιστε⁹⁵—cf. ἐξ ὧν αὐτοὶ συνίσασι, above)—and will describe the defence arguments in the present as made ‘in order to deceive you’ (τῆς ὑμετέρας ἀπάτης ἕνεκα). This shared past, given the course of the speech, now includes the narrative of Athenian legislation as much as it does Timarchus’ career; all are set by Aeschines in an authority-vested parallel present, where authority is conferred not only on the speaker but on the dēmos too. The paradox is that the past is still felt in the present both at the level of the specific argument here and of the speech’s progress; Aeschines’ selfrepresentation as the default authoritative voice here both poses and resolves the paradox—he can slip easily between the reality and the paradigmatic fiction. The effect is that this argument—aired earlier in the speech, but now re-enacted in a new and different context—has independent pistis value to add, carried over from the first edition. But in 30–2 there had been an emphasis on Timarchus’ carefully prepared defence as well as on his (or his defence team’s) eloquent speech: where is it? It now comes immediately in 94, as Aeschines begins his attack on Demosthenes—not even named here (in line with the abstract scenario at 30–2, in fact) but referred to in his essentials: as ‘a speechwriter, the one who has devised his defence’ (λογογράφος γέ τις . . . , ὁ μηχανώμενος αὐτῷ τὴν ἀπολογίαν). What Aeschines appeals to, then, is the original manifestation of this argument, quietly operating with new definitions of past and present and sustaining his own disingenuous self-identification with the virtuous incapable rhētōr. In the sequence of paradigmatic illustrations before the epilogos, this scenario appears in its final and most dramatic iteration (180–1). Both previous occurrences are carefully integrated into what becomes a memorable set piece, all the more striking because it is ostensibly set in Sparta, not Athens, something for which Aeschines issues a conventionalsounding excuse before starting and a quasi-apology after finishing (180 and 182).⁹⁶ Here, a member of the Spartan Gerousia (τις τῶν γερόντων, 180), on whose high standards of personal morality particular stress is laid (καθιστᾶσι δ’ αὐτοὺς ἐκ τῶν ἐκ παιδὸς εἰς γῆρας σωφρόνων, ‘they form [this group] from men whose lives have been decent from childhood to old age’: 180; ὁ γέρων ὁ ἐκ παιδὸς σεσωφρονηκὼς, ‘[the] old ⁹⁵ ‘Cast your vote, then, in favour of the longer period, the truth . . . and your own knowledge.’ ⁹⁶ Cf. in particular here Lyc. 1.128 (Sparta as a well-governed city; in turn, cf. D. 24.139 on Epizephyrian Locri, with Wohl [2010] 310) and Fisher (1994) 367–70.

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man who had lived a decent life since childhood’: 181), stops a vote in the Spartan Assembly on the ground that the speaker is morally unfit to be making the proposal (ἀνδρὸς βεβιωκότος μὲν αἰσχρῶς, λέγειν δ’ εἰς ὑπερβολὴν δυνατοῦ, ‘a man whose life had been disgraceful but who was a superlatively able speaker’: 180). He then directs another man to make the same proposal instead: he is ‘not a gifted speaker but a man who had won glory in war and was outstanding in justice and selfdiscipline’ (ἄνδρα λέγειν μὲν οὐκ εὐφυᾶ, τὰ δὲ κατὰ πόλεμον λαμπρὸν καὶ πρὸς δικαιοσύνην καὶ ἐγκράτειαν διαφέροντα: 181). So far, it is easy to see the same pattern emerging: it is also straightforward to see the original speaker as a hybrid of Timarchus and Demosthenes—Aeschines casually mentions them at the end of the story as people the old Spartan would disapprove of (181)—and the virtuous inept speaker again as the desired reflection of a disingenuous Aeschines, and that is all correct.⁹⁷ But, with his usual acumen for creating highly theatrical situations, Aeschines has combined different thematic elements that have been exercising him throughout the speech. The scenario must be a total fabrication to play up the elements Aeschines wishes to, and again the setting is carefully bleached of any temporal markers beyond the fact that it must be imagined as prior to Epaminondas’ invasion of Laconia in 370/69. The old man’s notion of Sparta as currently inviolate (ἀπόρθητον: 180)—but not for long if they use advisers like the ‘bad’ speaker—could, as Fisher suggests, be an attempt to minimize the potential awkwardness of using a Spartan example by setting it in the remote past.⁹⁸ But it could also be an attempt to create verisimilitude,⁹⁹ in the sense that the role the inviolateness of Spartan soil played in that city’s mindset was well known to the Athenians.¹⁰⁰ Also important for our reading is the Assembly setting. Aeschines seems to abstract the situation from the political by playing down the importance of giving different opinions (the morally bad speaker was still giving the advice that prevailed)—we never hear what the opposing arguments were, or even what the issue at stake was. But he simultaneously uses that freedom from reference to precise issues or events to evoke multiple ones: not only the abstract Assembly envisaged in 30–2 and the (admittedly bouleutic) meetings of the Areopagus in 92–3, but also the Assembly meeting where the people had laughed at the Council of the Areopagus earlier in the speech (81–5) (on which more in a ⁹⁷ Fisher (1994) 375, especially n. 86; (2001) 328. ⁹⁸ Fisher (1994) 373. ⁹⁹ Fisher (2001) 329. ¹⁰⁰ See, e.g., Lys. 33.7; Din. 1.73; D.S. 15.65.1; and especially Antiphanes, Cithara-Player fr. 115; cf. also Iphicrates in Lys. XX fr. 42 = Ael. Arist. 28.85.

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moment) and—just possibly—the Assembly meeting(s) which lurk as the elephant in the room in this trial: the two-day Assembly discussions on peace with Philip in Elaphebolion 346. The link here would be the substitution that the Spartan γέρων insists on: both the good and the bad speaker are envisaged on the same side, as Aeschines and Demosthenes were in the peace debate (despite Demosthenes’ later attempts to portray himself as one of its opponents right from the start). Aeschines carefully imports the frames he had used in the previous editions of this scenario at 30–2 (the ‘legislator’) and 92–3 (the Areopagus).¹⁰¹ The γέρων in the Spartan Assembly in 180–1 can stand for three individuals or groups: for the ‘legislator’ (30–2), for the Areopagus (92–3), as he represents a roughly equivalent institution,¹⁰² and, finally, for Aeschines, who correspondingly ‘plays’ the Spartan γέρων as well as the virtuous inept speaker. Not for nothing does Aeschines play up his age in this speech (cf. 49), and not just to finesse that of Timarchus;¹⁰³ embassy service will have enhanced his claim to γέρων status.¹⁰⁴ This is, in fact, almost the final step in his two-way association with Solon, under way at 25–7. It is hardly surprising that Solon reappears immediately after the Sparta passage, in a matching pair of Athenian paradigms about the oversight of personal morality (183), which clinches the fit between the Spartan γέρων and Aeschines. While the virtuous second speaker, with his reputation for military excellence (τὰ δὲ κατὰ πόλεμον λαμπρὸν), justice, and self-control (δικαιοσύνην καὶ ἐγκράτειαν), seems ostensibly a better fit for Aeschines—he had been decorated only two years earlier in the Euboea campaign,¹⁰⁵ has established his sense of justice partly via the selfassociation with Solon and the ‘legislator’, and has also emphasized his self-control in anticipation of attacks on it (1.1, 3)—there is no obvious reason why he should not have two roles in the theatrical space he has created; indeed, if we consider the virtuous man and the γέρων as twin embodiments of those who behave virtuously in the city, there is no difficulty with this at all (especially if we reflect that the

¹⁰¹ Fisher (2001) 328 notes the link with 30–2 but not the one with 92–3. ¹⁰² Isoc. 12.153–4 and Wallace (1989) 172–3; Fisher (1994) 374, 376–7. ¹⁰³ The age question: Lewis (1958); Harris (1988b); Lane Fox (1994) 136–8; Fisher (2001) 10–12. ¹⁰⁴ Embassy activity as usually the province of senior figures: Mosley (1973) 46; cf. Plut. Per. 17.2 (twenty men over 50 in the Congress Decree); also IG I³ 61.16–17 (with Osborne and Rhodes [2017] 293 [no. 150]), though age limits themselves are rare: Stadter (1989) 207. ¹⁰⁵ Aeschines’ war record: A. 2.167–71; Lane Fox (1994) 141–2; Fisher (2001) 13–14; Christ (2006) 133–4.

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virtuous man is the kind of person likely to become a γέρων in course of time himself ). Aeschines has also fostered the sense that the ideal ‘legislator’, who can fairly be imagined to have lived by his own ‘code’ as expounded at 6–36, has followed us through the speech in the composite persona presented by the orator himself, such that we now have a repeat image of Solon’s modest statue (25: ὃν τρόπον ἔχων αὐτὸς διελέγετο τῷ δήμῳ, ‘the posture that [Solon] used to adopt in person when he spoke to the [Athenian] people’), as the Spartan γέρων offers advice to ‘his own’ citizens (παρῄνεσε τοῖς ἑαυτοῦ πολίταις: 181). Meanwhile, Aeschines’ ‘membership’ of the Gerousia here by proxy re-enacts his viewing of the Areopagus in 92–3, privileging the past above the present (also done in the implied irrelevance of the policy under discussion: 181) and implicitly appealing to his hearers’ knowledge of the past life of the first speaker. Earlier moments in Against Timarchus support this. Another memorable episode—Aeschines’ depiction of the Assembly meeting at which he laid his charge against Timarchus (81–5)—is carefully aligned with the other scenes.¹⁰⁶ On the face of it, it is a bad fit. This Assembly meeting is recent; indeed, it differs from the other moments in being chronologically fixable. But that is precisely Aeschines’ point. The grave Areopagite Autolycus is laughed at by an audience unable to stop themselves finding double entendre references to Timarchus’ sexual exploits in the report Autolycus is presenting about Timarchus’ Pnyx proposals (82–4);¹⁰⁷ Pyrrhander, one of the architects of the Second Athenian League in 378/7 and imagined here as an embodiment of the strictness of an earlier period,¹⁰⁸ is booed off the platform when he rebukes the dēmos for laughing in the presence of the Areopagus (84). Aeschines is accordingly able to depict a chronologically fixable Athens in crisis, in need of precisely the kind of moral reform he will recommend (192) in the jurors’ condemnation of Timarchus—and which he initiated by announcing his dokimasia rhētorōn action in that very Assembly meeting, intervening like the Spartan γέρων or his virtuous second speaker when natural candidates for those roles had failed. Aeschines keeps himself out of this scene altogether despite his implied ¹⁰⁶ As Fisher (1994) 372–5 shows. ¹⁰⁷ Autolycus: Fisher (2001) 219. ¹⁰⁸ Pyrrhander of Anaphlystus: see A. 3.139 (of 330: ὃς ἔτι καὶ νῦν ζῇ, ‘who is still alive even now’—presumably the very last survivor of a particular political generation; for this ‘wistful’ formulation [cf. A. 3.113 and Din. 1.38]: Thomas [2019] 408). Summary by Fisher (2001) 221 (surely misinterpreting ἐπιτιμήσων). Diplomatic record: IG II² 41.20 (envoy to Byzantium); IG II² 43.76–7 (envoy to Thebes with Thrasybulus of Collytus, also mentioned at A. 3.139); IG II² 44.7 (negotiating alliance with Chalcis) (with Kirchner’s n. 3 to Syll³ 148). So he was over 60 in 346/5, and probably a good deal older.

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presence and subsequent action (81), which serves to focus attention not on his past achievements but on his moral mission in the present (192). This meeting is happening in the real Athens, rather than the parallel, fictive Athens which is explored in the Sparta illustration and which animates much of Aeschines’ historical scheme in this speech, and in constructing this Assembly scene to resemble other, more remote and less fixable moments where the issue of private versus public morality is dramatized, Aeschines stresses the permeability and signposts the relevance of his parallel Athens to the present trial in straightforward and prescriptive terms. Timarchus, Demosthenes, and the other synēgoroi are left with a whole normative approach to civic morality to qualify if they dare. This norm is emphasized rigorously even in minor illustrations: in one of the Athenian examples introduced to balance the Spartan Assembly story, the imprisonment by an Athenian father of his wayward daughter in the same small building as a horse, on the basis that it would eventually kill her (182), we are apparently meant to take a largely positive view of the father’s action. And the way Aeschines handles this no doubt traditional tale offers another sidelight on his general strategy: popular knowledge of the place where it happened (‘the place of the Horse and the Girl’) is appealed to (182) and thus democratized; Aristotle’s version names the father as an aristocratic or royal Hippomenes, but Aeschines democratizes him too: he is like any citizen father (εἷς τῶν πολιτῶν, ‘one of the citizens’).¹⁰⁹ Civic morality is in fact what links Aeschines’ chain of authoritarian—and authoritative—examples together: Harmodius and Aristogeiton’s actions as ‘benefactors of the city’ (τοὺς τῆς πόλεως . . . εὐεργέτας: 140) were a response to a ‘decent and lawful’ impulse (σώφρων καὶ ἔννομος). The elite version of ‘the general’, concentrating on the civic good done by their relationship rather than by their own sense of duty (132), is therefore stymied in advance.¹¹⁰ The Spartan example seems to go a step further towards a specifically democratic morality: the scene happens in the Spartan Assembly (180) rather than in a meeting of the Gerousia, to which the elderly authority figure in Aeschines’ double role play certainly belongs. It sounds remarkably like home, in fact; and, given that parallelizing manoeuvre, the fact that Aeschines’ jurors would be well aware that Laconia had suffered invasion by Epaminondas after Leuctra over thirty years earlier may be designed by Aeschines as part of his wider moral wake-up call: the γέρων fears that Sparta will not long remain ἀπόρθητον, but for the 346/5 ¹⁰⁹ The ‘Horse and Girl’ story: Arist. fr. 611.1, p. 371.8–12 Rose; Ghiron-Bistagne (1985); Edmunds (1999); Fisher (2001) 331–4. ¹¹⁰ Lape (2006) 151, as against Fisher (2001) 277.

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audience, the era of Spartan territorial security is already long gone.¹¹¹ Aeschines’ message (as at other points in the speech) is that if we do not act now, we will be dealing with a crisis—precisely what he suggests later, in fact (192). And if there is a dim reflection of the debate over peace with Philip here, then we can see another message too: that if Hegesippus— now likely to be one of Timarchus’ synēgoroi—and the other opponents of peace had prevailed in that debate, then Athens would now be facing open war with Philip and perhaps the danger to its own territory that the γέρων foresees for Sparta. Demosthenes’ images of war in Attica as the end result of not resisting Philip will not have been peculiar to him, and the Athenians’ panicked reaction to his taking of Thermopylae a matter of months earlier (D. 19.86, 125; cf. A. 2.139) may also be something Aeschines is subtly recalling to his audience here. Finally, the Areopagus illustration is carefully brought into line with democratic norms at 92–3 (Aeschines has been there personally; the Areopagites act just as he is encouraging the impeccably democratic jurors now to act), and when we see the Areopagites at 81–5, they are explicitly fulfilling one of their present-day democratic roles: offering (or trying to offer) moral steerage to the Assembly.¹¹² This is yet another angle of attack from the opposition that Aeschines is closing off in advance: the charge of using insufficiently demotic examples. Given that some of the key concepts Aeschines treats as unproblematic in the speech (e.g. eukosmia and sōphrosynē) are precarious ones in a democratic context,¹¹³ one important function of the chain of authority figures must be to standardize and mediate safely the common ethic they proclaim, and to force Timarchus and his synēgoroi to resort to less coherent (and unnecessary, and anyway compromised) definitions of what Aeschines has already abundantly highlighted and stabilized.¹¹⁴ The effect produced is powerful and consistent: Aeschines, the jurors, and all good citizens past and present are drawn into alliance to confront a defence team who will have to exercise significant creativity of their own if they are to evade the persuasive set of cultural parameters that Aeschines has already outlined to his advantage and constructed as a system that no good Athenian would challenge.

¹¹¹ Buckler (1980) 70–90. ¹¹² Wallace (1989) 120–1. ¹¹³ Athenian eukosmia (1.22, 34, 183, 192); cf. Solon fr. 4.32 West² (interestingly, given that Demosthenes’ response to Aeschines’ Solon imitation uses this poem: 19.255); [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 44.3; Isoc. 7.37–9, 50–1; but cf. Thuc. 1.84.3 (Archidamus on eukosmia and sōphrosynē as Spartan virtues). On the shadings of sōphrosynē: Whitehead (1993) 70–2; Witte (1995) 50–6. ¹¹⁴ Cook (2012) 225–7.

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4.4. CONCLUSION Aeschines’ overt self-identification with Philocrates and his Peace (174) reveals that he is operating in an Athens where the results of that Peace are already being contested. He may represent the prosecution of Timarchus (and the content of this speech) as the spontaneous action of a responsible citizen, but it is as much about personal image refurbishment as Against Meidias was for Demosthenes. The way that Aeschines handles the historical material here allows him to associate himself with a gallery of supremely authoritative ‘virtue figures’, some of them convincing-sounding but notional, allowing him to dictate the main moral parameters well in advance, and by multiple proxy. This co-opting of ‘fellow actors’ from past to present in the drama of discrediting Timarchus, Demosthenes, and the others is a technique he was to perfect and stage outright in a moment of near transfiguration in the epilogos of Against Ctesiphon, as we will see in Chapter 6.3; here, it is one of many successful elements in a concentrated and vivid evocation of past and pseudo-past situations which Demosthenes was to attempt to combat by imitation in On the False Embassy. The co-opting assembles a fellowship of individuals devoted to the maintaining of good—and, importantly, democratic or at the very least democratically tinged—civic order and moral behaviour. Aeschines tacks himself onto this sequence, seeking association by default, as their actormanager. But, with one exception, each scene is featured explicitly in an ahistorical vacuum, which means that the validity of the moral clout each key figure possesses can rely even more heavily on how culturally fundamental it can be perceived to be—the continuum of Athenian values does not necessarily need to be plotted out, although the legal sequence (6–36) hangs together in a sustained fashion thanks to the helpfully anonymous construct of the ‘legislator’. Variety of presentation in key respects (straightforwardness of identification with Aeschines; physical location; source of likely knowledge) maintains audience interest and engagement. The point of the fellowship, then, is to stand closely aligned to confront Timarchus, Demosthenes, and their allies. It helps to fulfil an aim—gluing Demosthenes and Timarchus together—which is also furthered in a complex of links with tyranny and despotic thinking in general,¹¹⁵ reinforced by the identification of Demosthenes with the worst kind of sophistic activity (170–6) and by a direct association of his alleged involvement in the murder of Nicodemus with his wider

¹¹⁵ Meulder (1989).

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desire to suppress free democratic discourse (172).¹¹⁶ This was all possibly necessary, as it had been for Demosthenes with the syndikoi in Against Leptines; there is little evidence of political alignment between Demosthenes and Timarchus before their common bouleutic service in 347/6.¹¹⁷ These general lines of attack fit naturally with the historical material and help deny the defence much ambit when trying to define Athenian democratic norms and values, as they would have to in some form in a dokimasia rhētorōn case. They must accept Aeschines’ set of definitions or risk fitting precisely the negative categories that he has forecast they will, which would lead to rejection by the jurors. What I have sought to do in this chapter is to take the most prominent sequences of historical argumentation in Against Meidias and Against Timarchus and use them as case studies of how the two orators manipulate this element to communicate the essence of their ethical pleas against, and to anticipate contestation by, the defence. In Against Meidias, the Alcibiades illustration is in fact the only such extended passage in a speech where the priority is explaining the specific injury in terms that balance the public and private; in Against Timarchus, Aeschines is able explicitly to draw on specific civic paradigms. The procedure— chosen by him—invites it, and in addition to the prosecutor’s inbuilt opportunity to defuse defence arguments in advance, he had a clear performative advantage: his actor’s training and talent for compelling delivery. This probably also gave him an enhanced perception of the rhetorical possibilities for more or less overt role play, and storytelling, in his speeches, and enabled him to apply that to his historical arguments. The two halves of the chapter, then, have sought to clarify the roles of choice and context in the deployment of historical material, and how the two orators handle their tasks differently, relying on differing ways of conceptualizing the Athenian past they draw on. I now move, in Chapter 5, to examine Demosthenes’ recognition of Aeschines’ success and the influence it seems to have had on his practice the next time the two of them encountered each other head-on, in the Embassy trial. As a way of moving from one chapter to the other, though, I want to close by considering a slightly strange fact: that in their Embassy speeches neither Demosthenes nor Aeschines says anything at all about any of the defence speeches in Timarchus’ trial, though they both say plenty

¹¹⁶ Aeschines is possibly reacting here to Demosthenes’ attempt in Against Meidias to represent the Nicodemus-Aristarchus story as simply the result of Meidias’ malicious gossip (D. 21.104–7). ¹¹⁷ E. M. Harris (1995) 96.

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about Aeschines’ prosecution.¹¹⁸ This is intriguing, and worth looking at with a focus on what Demosthenes might have said there. In particular, why do we see so much contesting of Aeschines’ poetic and historical material from the Timarchus trial now, in On the False Embassy? Granted that he might want to stage it again later in some form because it was ‘good’ material, did Demosthenes not (also) contest all this at the time, when it was fresh and contestation of it could have immediate persuasive impact? One common-sense answer would be that the refutations that we see in On the False Embassy are indeed versions of refutations Demosthenes had used in Timarchus’ trial itself, worked up with the context of the new trial in mind. Such reworking of ‘good’ material is plausible—for one thing, Demosthenes was facing a largely (if not entirely) different jury, who would know what he had said in Timarchus’ trial largely (if not entirely) by hearsay and therefore probably not in much detail. In any case, though, there were opportunities for orators to use different (probably pinpointed, or soundbite-like) versions of similar strategies aimed at particular rivals in public between trials that involved them (e.g. in other trials, anakriseis, etc., or in informal public contexts), as well as within those trials. It was something which kept personal enmities current, and was clearly (for example) crucial in the spreading of the insults, nicknames, and personal anecdotes also used in trials. This phenomenon is worth bearing in mind generally for Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ contestation of historical material between the Embassy and Crown trials as well as between the Timarchus and Embassy trials, because it might help explain why illustrative material used by a rival years ago could still be felt to be worth targeting—because parts of it were familiar from other exchanges in the interim¹¹⁹—and it also helps explain individual tactical features of the speeches like the ‘I hear he is going to do X’ formulation. So audiences might not really have been troubled by the reappearance of material they had heard bits of, in different forms, before. That said, we might still expect Aeschines (in On the Embassy, once the two faced each other in court again) to

¹¹⁸ In fact the only direct way to extract such detail would be to posit that the anticipations of defence arguments in Against Timarchus are partly or wholly the result of post-trial revision. This, of course, cannot be ruled out, but even then there would be no way of telling how much (or which) content entered the speech at that later point. ¹¹⁹ A comic parallel would be the way that Aristophanes was able to parody Euripides’ Telephus (of 438) twenty-seven years later in Thesmophoriazusae: lines and scenes from it had been parodied (including by him, in Acharnians) in the interim. See Olson (2002) liv–lxi; Austin and Olson (2004) lvi–lviii.

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criticize Demosthenes for rehashing old material for his prosecution.¹²⁰ Instead, though, when responding to one of Demosthenes’ own responses (about Phēmē: A. 2.144), he treats it as though it is quite new, and when looking at Demosthenes’ responses as a set (19.241–57)—a lengthy, stylish, and intricate passage, only really suitable for delivery in a formal trial speech—it is hard to shake off the impression that this is the first time Demosthenes has produced this material in this amount of detail. If this hunch is correct, it requires us to assume that Demosthenes only really took up the task of contesting Aeschines’ poetic and historical material from Against Timarchus in the Embassy trial, and that his strategy when actually defending Timarchus looked quite different (and even less traceable). Why did he leave this material out? I think there are two competitive possibilities. The first, which I favour and which seems the most common-sense, is that ‘the general’ responded to Aeschines’ poetic versions (as he had been the one targeted by Aeschines’ anticipations), which meant Demosthenes did not have to (whether he had planned to or not); so he took the opportunity to do so in the Embassy trial. This would imply that Demosthenes was late in the sequence of synēgoroi, but his known skill makes it likely that the team might give him the strategically crucial job of rounding up. If Demosthenes was the final speaker, another possibility opens up: that he simply did not get as long to speak as he had planned, so had to cut material— perhaps the other synēgoroi (of whom Aeschines does identify several) just went on too long,¹²¹ using up more of the defence ‘water’ than the team had planned that they would.¹²² So he used it in the Embassy trial instead. Finally, there is a more radical possibility altogether: that Timarchus admitted the charges, accepted the penalty of atimia, and declared an intention to go into exile during the trial, so that the synēgoroi never got to perform:¹²³ so Demosthenes had no chance to ¹²⁰ Though it might have been something everyone did, which would make criticism here less likely. ¹²¹ There is also the possibility that (contrary to Aeschines’ expectations) Demosthenes was not one of Timarchus’ synēgoroi (cf. Eubulus’ supposed behaviour in the trials of Hegesileos and Thrasybulus: D. 19.290). This would have to have been for good reasons beyond Demosthenes’ control (e.g. at Timarchus’ own wish) in order for him to be prepared to refer to Timarchus’ conviction in the terms he does in On the False Embassy 241–57 and 283–7; otherwise, he risked looking seriously hypocritical there. ¹²² For the issues surrounding the amount of time/‘water’ available: Chapter 5.1. ¹²³ An obvious objection is that we would expect this surprising outcome to be mentioned; but it would explain why Demosthenes’ defence speech was apparently never circulated. The story that Timarchus committed suicide in shame after the trial might also be a faint echo if so (Σ 17b Dilts; unlikely, but cf. Paches’ dramatic suicide at his trial or euthyna(i) in 427 or 426: Plut. Arist. 26.5; Nic. 6.1).

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refute Aeschines’ poetic and historical material in detail as he does in On the False Embassy (and, as noted earlier in this section, refutation in this kind of detail would be hard to accommodate to any public context other than the next direct clash between them). So—again—he took the opportunity of doing so in their next court clash, in 343—to which I now turn.

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5 The Embassy Trial 5.1. INTRODUCTION, OVERVIEW, AND TEXT Apparently taking advantage of the worsening public mood over the Peace of Philocrates by 343—Hegesippus’ embassy to Philip earlier in the year had failed to achieve the revision of the Peace’s terms that it set out to¹—Demosthenes finally brought his action against Aeschines for misconduct on the second embassy to Philip (of 346).² This followed Hyperides’ successful eisangelia prosecution of Philocrates (who went into exile) earlier in the year. Demosthenes’ contention, above all, was that Aeschines had been bribed—along with Philocrates, Phrynon, and possibly other members of the embassy—to further Philip’s interests in Athens. He represents this as not only a case of betrayal of Athens’s interests, which the envoys were meant to embody, but also betrayal of public confidence in Aeschines as a former robust opponent of Philip who (he says) spoke against peace on the terms proposed by Philocrates on the first day of the Assembly debate (e.g. D. 19.14) but turned into a vigorous supporter of them on the second day and showed himself dismissive of Athens’s historical identity in the process (e.g. 19.15–16). In his own defence, Aeschines makes enterprising rhetorical use of the sequence of events in the first embassy, which Demosthenes had largely referred to in a general way, and gives a different version of the Peace debate which stresses pragmatic considerations and Demosthenes’ own role among those supporting the Peace; he also exposes Demosthenes’ lack of evidence for the bribery accusation. Aeschines’ near conviction in

¹ D. 19.331; see Cawkwell (1963a) 133–4 and Hammond and Griffith (1979) 489–95 for the context. ² Demosthenes’ timing: E. M. Harris (1995) 116; MacDowell (2000a) 21 (though he does point to D. 19.258); Yunis (2005) 117.

The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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spite of support from very distinguished synēgoroi—we are told he was acquitted by thirty votes,³ a small margin in this case—is a testament to Demosthenes’ skilful deployment of the wider atmosphere to underpin a prosecution where he had very little evidence to offer.⁴ The principal speeches from both sides in the trial—represented to us in the form of Demosthenes 19 (On the False Embassy)⁵ and Aeschines 2 (On the Embassy)⁶—offer a rare chance, otherwise available only in the later Crown trial, to examine the dynamic patterns of exploitation, contestation, and appropriation involved in these two orators’ handling of the past. Using the speeches as historical evidence is a famously hazardous business, not only because of the huge number of contradictions between them but also because of the different versions of the events of 346 which both orators tried to spin in the Crown trial thirteen years later. However, my concern here is their use of these tendentious versions to persuade the jurors. In Chapter 5.2, I trace Demosthenes’ significant investment in two major topics developed to reflect badly on Aeschines’ character: first, his use of poetry and the past against Timarchus; and, second, a sustained parallel with the ‘bad’ Athenian envoy figure Timagoras, executed for embassy misconduct in Persia in 367. The effect of both lines of attack is qualified when Aeschines largely avoids responding to either: he does not engage with the Timagoras parallel at all, and mentions the trial of Timarchus only twice (2.144, 180)—the second time to assert his pride in having achieved something so resonant for wider civic moral standards. In Chapter 5.3, I move to confront the issue which both orators place at the heart of the competitive treatment of the past in this trial: the correct use of the past itself. I argue that Aeschines succeeds in challenging (e.g. in 2.74–8) Demosthenes’ aspersions on his respect for and competence to assess and use the Athenian past (as revealed, according to Demosthenes, in Aeschines’ arguments on the second day of the Peace debate). I then extend this to look succinctly at two important passages where Aeschines elaborates historical material well beyond what was

³ Plut. Dem. 15.5, where Plutarch doubts that the Embassy speeches were ever delivered because they are not referred to in the Crown trial speeches: see Pearson (1976) 177 and n. 28 for references; also Lintott (2013) 62. ⁴ Reliable contextual summaries: Carey (2000) 88–90; MacDowell (2000a) 1–22; Yunis (2005) 114–18. ⁵ Date and discussions of D. 19: D.H. Amm. 1.10 (dating to 343/2); Sealey (1993) 175–6; Frazier (1994); E. M. Harris (1995) 116–18; Usher (1999) 234–7; MacDowell (2000a), especially 22–30; (2009) 333–42; Efstathiou (2004). ⁶ Discussions of A. 2: E. M. Harris (1995) 117–18; Usher (1999) 284–7; Efstathiou (2004).

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necessary for rebutting Demosthenes’ charges, combining the strategy of shaping parallels that we saw in Against Timarchus with more continuum-based deployment of the past: first, the two accounts of his speeches made before Philip at Pella on the two embassies there in early 346 (2.25–33 and 113–18); and, second, the excursus (2.172–7) in which he gives an account of fifth-century Athenian history intended to reflect badly on Demosthenes and his allies. I begin, though, by considering an issue relevant to the whole chapter (and the next one): what our speech texts from these trials represent. The texts we have from the Embassy trial are basically more or less revised reflections of what each orator drafted before it.⁷ Aeschines has probably subsequently revised his draft more than Demosthenes has his—On the False Embassy includes moments of anachronism which Demosthenes has clearly not edited out,⁸ and which may also (separately) reflect ‘layered’ composition going back to the original 346 context.⁹ It was probably normal that disseminated defence speeches would deviate further from any draft version than prosecution speeches, because the defendant and any defence synēgoroi wanting to disseminate would probably have made more changes in performance (to respond to what the prosecution came up with) and would want to reflect them; this is certainly true of On the Crown, as we will see, and is clear in On the Embassy right from the start (A. 2.4, responding to D. 19.196–8). More intractable is the question of how far our texts reflect what was actually delivered on the day. MacDowell, making the case that our text of Demosthenes’ speech is essentially a pre-trial draft,¹⁰ argued that it is simply too long to have been delivered within the time available to the prosecutor, and, identifying a ‘more miscellaneous’ quality in the second part of the speech, he suggested that Demosthenes ‘regarded 1–178 as the essential part of his oration’ and then ‘planned to add as much material from 179–343 as he had time for, but . . . regarded this part of his draft as inessential and did not expect to find time for all of it’.¹¹ If MacDowell is right about this,¹² then there are significant implications for our understanding of the speech’s structure and strategy as a reflection of the ⁷ I largely follow MacDowell (2000a) 25–6 on this, though see Hubbard (2008) 197–200 for some key points. ⁸ Though how far he will have been concerned to do so is unclear: see Chapter 1.7.1. For these moments, see MacDowell (2000a) 24. ⁹ For this idea, see Chapter 4.1. ¹⁰ MacDowell (2000a) 22–7. ¹¹ MacDowell (2000a) 22–4; cf. 28; he is supported by Usher (1999) 236. ¹² He is supported by Frazier (1994) 414 (who, nonetheless, shows [423–8, 437] how well composed 19.179–314 is); Worthington (2003) 369; and Hubbard (2008) 195. Buckler (2000) 150 is even-handed.

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performed version, and so his view warrants discussion. It should be pointed out now, though, that subsequent readers might not be troubled by a speech text longer than its trial original;¹³ for example, if Demosthenes disseminated this ex-draft version of On the False Embassy in his lifetime, and for young learners (as I suggested in Chapter 1.7.1), he could easily advise them that it would be too long for a real law-court context but still otherwise reflected closely the figurations of detail and modes of argument required for a compelling performance in that setting (the main reason his material rather than someone else’s would be in demand from such learners in the first place). MacDowell’s view of the likely time available for either side in the Embassy trial (132 minutes)¹⁴ is based on a problematic piece of core evidence:¹⁵ a surviving water clock, found in the Agora and belonging to the tribe Antiochis; it has been tested for the rate at which it releases water.¹⁶ But it can only be an approximate guide to timing in the law courts because it does not seem to be for regular law-court use and cannot tell us whether water was typically released at the same rate from law-court water clocks (in the 340s or at any other time; its own date is c.400).¹⁷ More valuable, though, is what Aeschines says in On the Embassy itself about the timing of this trial (2.126): ‘what remains of the day [τὸ λοιπὸν μέρος] is enough to [carry out slave torture], since this is a measured day and my trial is set at eleven amphoras’.¹⁸ It looks like ¹³ For possible readers in this case: MacDowell (2000a) 23–4; (2000b) 567. ¹⁴ This might be 144 (i.e. four amphoreis’ worth) depending on how we reconcile A. 3.197 (where Aeschines says the day is divided into three parts for prosecution, defence, and timēsis) with possible reconstructions of the fragmentary text of [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 67.4, i.e. how Ath. Pol.’s eleven amphoreis (themselves the result of a restoration based on A. 2.126) are distributed between prosecution, defence, and the voting (and/or timēsis). Aeschines does not say three ‘equal’ parts, after all. For the serious problems here: Rhodes (1981) 726–7; (2017) 432–4. Given these uncertainties, we cannot be confident that ‘eleven amphoreis’ was any kind of standard just because it was the case in the Embassy trial. MacDowell (1985) 525 sidesteps these difficulties (as well as lumping A. 2.126 and 3.197 together; see instead Worthington [1989] 205 and [2003] 365–6). ¹⁵ See also MacDowell (1985) and (2000b) 557–8, as well as (2000a) 22–4 and (2009) 334. Worthington (1989), (1991a) 57, and (2003) must be right that some trials could take up more than one day, but I agree with him (in Worthington [2003] 366) that the Embassy trial was not one of them. ¹⁶ Young (1939). ¹⁷ As MacDowell himself admits (23); see also Young (1939) 282–4; Rhodes (1981) 720 and (2017) 431–2; Worthington (1989) 205; Lang in Boegehold et al. (1995) 77; and Carey (2000) 136 n. 160. ¹⁸ On the measured (or ‘divided’) day (διαμεμετρημένη ἡμέρα): MacDowell (2000a) 22–3; (2000b) 564–5; Carey (2000) 136 n. 160; Worthington (2003) 365–6; X. Hell. 1.7.23; A. 2.126; 3.197; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 67.3–5, with Rhodes (1981) 722–8; (2017) 433. Demosthenes’ use of the term at 19.120 when talking about Timarchus’ trial does not tell us

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Aeschines feels he has plenty of time at his disposal, though this might well be simply a rhetorical flourish to project confidence (the same may go for Demosthenes at 19.57)—or because he can anticipate cutting some of his planned material later in the unlikely event that the challenge is taken up. But how much time did Aeschines actually have? It may, in fact, be productive to ask not why Demosthenes’ speech (at 343 paragraphs, or rather 338) is long, but why Aeschines’ (at 184 paragraphs) is shorter—with the complicating possibility always in mind that Aeschines’ performed speech may also have been shorter than the text we have (which has probably been more systematically revised and polished than Demosthenes’, as previously noted). On MacDowell’s view, at least three more speeches need to be accommodated within the 132 minutes allocated to the defence: the three speeches by Aeschines’ synēgoroi, Eubulus, Phocion, and Nausicles (2.184; and the text implies there may have been a large number of others too [τοὺς ἄλλους ἅπαντας], though that may be Aeschines using the term synēgoros loosely, as he does at 2.142).¹⁹ Phocion’s reputation for terse expression might help the MacDowell view here—Aeschines even envisages it as a possibility that Phocion might give his synēgoria in the middle of his own speech (2.170). But taking account of our extant texts of synēgoriai across the oratorical corpus presents a different picture: by the crude measure of paragraph numbers, even the shortest synēgoria-type speech we have from a public trial (Din. 3) is still 22 paragraphs long (Din. 2 is 28)—and both Din. 2 and Din. 3 are from the Harpalus trials, a special case: one where there were ten prosecutors— though probably not all ten will have spoken at length.²⁰ As a very rough indicator, because we clearly do not know their length relative to other speeches given on the same side (and they could also have been added to at the revision stage), other synēgoriai that survive in textual form look much longer: Against Androtion, also from an agōn timētos, has 77 paragraphs; Against Leptines, from another agōn timētos,²¹ has 167 (and then the defence had five speakers who needed to have their say); and the speech by Phormion before Demosthenes’ own seems to have gone into reasonable depth on the topics it discussed (20.51: διεξελήλυθε; cf. 159). anything about the length of Aeschines’ speech: the point Demosthenes is making is about Aeschines’ level of court experience. ¹⁹ On Aeschines’ synēgoroi here: Rubinstein (2000) 168–9; also Lane Fox (1994) 141–2. ²⁰ For this probably safe assumption, see Worthington (1989) 206; (1991a) 57; (1992) 285; (2003) 367–9; cf. Whitehead (2000) 362. ²¹ Kremmydas (2012) 47.

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So we do not necessarily have to see all three of Aeschines’ synēgoroi as just giving sober and brief character references. Eubulus would have wanted not only to support Aeschines but also to respond to Demosthenes’ criticism of him (19.289–301) if that section made it into the performance (and it does seem to have: A. 2.8).²² In fact, it makes much more sense to assume that three senior public figures anxious to maintain the Peace would do everything they could to ensure the acquittal of one of that Peace’s most prominent negotiators. Nausicles had apparently been on the two main embassies himself (A. 2.18),²³ and was therefore in a position to provide expert (and reliable) testimony on the main charge, supported by his broader credibility as the Athenian general who stopped Philip at Thermopylae in 352; if he was at all susceptible to an allegation of having ‘changed his allegiance’ like Aeschines, Demosthenes would have attacked him for it—but he is not mentioned anywhere in On the False Embassy. The upshot, then, is that we should be prepared to accept the possibility that both sides in the Embassy trial had more time available to them than MacDowell’s view would accommodate.²⁴ There are other looser considerations too. I agree with MacDowell that in places the second half of On the False Embassy does appear to lack structure,²⁵ but this is a somewhat subjective criterion; other Demosthenic law-court speeches whose deliverability in their current form has never been questioned sometimes lack smooth transitions between topics.²⁶ While the signs of design that there are in the second half of On the False Embassy could be attributed to Demosthenes’ (relatively modest amount of) revision—an idea MacDowell himself was disinclined to support²⁷— this is not a necessary assumption: for example, Demosthenes advertises at 19.200 that he is coming up to his section on Timarchus’ trial, but ‘not yet’ (μήπω);²⁸ this instance suggests that if he delivered 19.200, he was planning to deliver the main counterattack on Aeschines’ use of poetry in the Timarchus trial, at 19.241–57 (or some of it) too—and he seems to ²² Eubulus plays a vital role in Aeschines’ acquittal in [Plut.] Vit. Aeschin. 840c, for what it is worth; see Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 182–3. On ‘establishment’ support for Aeschines in this trial: E. M. Harris (1995) 37–40, 118; Sawada (1996) 68. ²³ Though see MacDowell (2000a) 4, 356. ²⁴ We should not ignore Keil’s calculations of the length of trials on a ‘measured day’, which yield good time for a prosecution speech as long as D. 19: see Rhodes (1981) 721 and also Lang in Boegehold et al. (1995) 77–8. ²⁵ MacDowell (2000a) 28. ²⁶ See, e.g., Sandys (1890) 10 on D. 20’s clunky use of τοίνυν (‘and so’); many of the speech’s sections do not connect very smoothly (see, e.g., 104 to 105; 130 to 131; 145 to 146) and the same is true in D. 24 (e.g. 121 to 122; 138 to 139; 209 to 210). ²⁷ MacDowell (2000a) 26. ²⁸ Cf. the similar A. 2.170.

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have delivered at least some of this (cf. A. 2.144). Most importantly for what follows, though, we cannot be sure which parts of 179–343 Demosthenes would have regarded as priorities. Unless we hypothesize that Aeschines’ speech depends on sight of a text of On the False Embassy, then we have to assume that his responses to Demosthenes in On the Embassy reflect things Demosthenes did actually get to say in the trial. Identifying clear responses to specific passages of Demosthenes involves some subjectivity: for example, it seems to me (though I cannot prove it) that Aeschines’ assertions of his intelligent and sympathetic grasp of Athenian history at 2.74–8 and 172–7 are (as we will see) extended passages calibrated specifically to respond to Demosthenes’ similarly extended and vitriolic—and memorable—attack on this aspect at 19.307–13 (deep in the ‘miscellaneous’ part of the speech) rather than just the briefer mention at 19.15–16. That said, there are plenty of responses which I would see as less contestable, and even these represent a substantial range of the second half of the speech, implying that Demosthenes did get to deliver most of what we see there.²⁹ A less likely alternative which applies to some of these cases is that Demosthenes added in some fake ‘anticipations’ after the trial, but these ‘anticipations’ typically look like plausible good predictions.³⁰ Two seem notably accurate,³¹ but both can be put down to correct information received by Demosthenes before the trial (perhaps on the basis of things Aeschines was going around saying in other contexts³²). Demosthenes sometimes anticipates things that we do not see Aeschines follow up on in On the Embassy, just as Aeschines sometimes mentions things Demosthenes said which we do not see in On the False Embassy—these suggest some editing by both orators and/or some exaggeration by Aeschines.³³ But even with these cases accounted for, I see no good reason to assume that the delivery versions of these two speeches differed substantially either in form or in content from what we see here, and I am confident

²⁹ D. 19. 189–91 (cf. A. 2.22); 193–5 (cf. 2.156); 196–8 (cf. 2.4, 153, 157); 237–8 (cf. 2.149–51); 242–3 (cf. 2.156); 243–4 (cf. 2.144); 253–4 (cf. 2.52); 287 (cf. 2.150–1); 332–5 (cf. 2.70–3). In addition, 2.8–10 seems to involve the second half generally (Phrynon does not appear in the first half, nor does most of the material on Philocrates and Eubulus). There are clearly clusters here, but this is true of Aeschines’ responses to the first half of D. 19 as well. ³⁰ Looser ones: D. 19.88–9 cf. A. 2.172–7; 19.147 cf. 2.70–3; 19.234–5 cf. 2.45–6, 111, 121 (cf. D. 19.188). ³¹ These are D. 19.182 (cf. A. 2.178) and 332 (cf. 2.70–3). ³² See Chapter 4.4. ³³ See, for examples and discussion, Dover (1968) 168–9; Buckler (2000) 150; Carey (2000) 93–4; MacDowell (2000a) 24–6; (2009) 334.

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that our texts allow us to make a meaningful study of the rhetorical strategies in play in the trial. In the Embassy speeches, not only is the recent past frequently considered against the backdrop of the longer past, but both Demosthenes and Aeschines frequently use techniques to handle it which are similar to those they use to treat the more distant past (as Demosthenes was also to do in the Third Philippic with the example of Euphraeus of Oreus; his parable-like treatment helps give that paradeigma a timeless quality, transcending its actual recentness). This feels appropriate, as a kind of civic history is under discussion: the embassies of 346 played a critical role in shaping Athens’s present situation in 343, and both orators duly seek to reap the credibility that impressive handling of the impact of 346 on the present confers, and also do so with historical models for what happened well to the fore, as we will see. Demosthenes’ treatment of the (recent) prosecution of Timarchus in On the False Embassy structurally resembles his treatment of a more distant paradeigma, that of the ‘bad envoy’ Timagoras, executed twenty-four years earlier in 367. Brief references, clear in what they point to but omitting Timarchus’ name, and placed progressively closer together (19.2, 120, 200, 233, 240), add up to a full-scale counterattack on the poetic and historical material Aeschines had used against Timarchus in 346/5 (19.241–57).³⁴ Precise attack may have been made easier for Demosthenes by access to a text of Against Timarchus, if Aeschines circulated one between 346/5 and 343—some of Demosthenes’ reminiscences of what Aeschines said there are quite precise (within 19.241–57, e.g. 242–3, responding to A. 1.173–5), and the looseness of others could be a result of malicious garbling or of the need not to appear to have used a written text, or could refer to points made by Aeschines in his speech at the timēsis stage. We know of no other court clash between the two orators in between these two trials, and so On the False Embassy becomes a platform for Demosthenes to vindicate Timarchus and, from the point of view of strategic use of the past, to destroy Aeschines’ claim to use it convincingly. We looked in Chapter 4.3.2 at Demosthenes’ virtuoso demolition of Aeschines’ claim in Against Timarchus to assume (almost literally) the mantle of Solon (1.25–7)—in the present chapter I consider that as part of On the False Embassy’s strategies more broadly: the initiating by Demosthenes of a struggle with the Aeschines of 346/5 (close to the context of his own original move to prosecute), as well as the Aeschines of 343, for the right to be considered the responsible and authoritative

³⁴ Compare the way Timagoras is built up to: Chapter 5.2.2.

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user of historical argumentation; this is part of a general claim to the right to control the narrative of how Athens’s negotiations with Philip had unfolded up to (and including) early 346. We see especially concentrated appropriation and redirection of Aeschines’ arguments in two sections of Demosthenes’ speech (283–6 as well as 241–57)—a strategy aimed at undermining Aeschines’ imminent self-defence with the tools he had used to demolish the defence of Timarchus in 346/5 (cf. 19.241). The strategy backfired to an extent. Demosthenes’ mistake was perhaps to assume Timarchus’ trial would feature in this one—if Aeschines had circulated a text of his speech (which Demosthenes had had sight of), then that would be a sign of Aeschines’ pride in his success, which Demosthenes could seek to puncture. But although Aeschines is proud of it (2.180: τὴν τῆς σωφροσύνης παράκλησιν διὰ τῆς περὶ Τίμαρχον κρίσεως ἀειμνήστως παρακέκληκα, ‘I have issued a call for chastity that will never be forgotten through my prosecution of Timarchus’), he does not respond to Demosthenes’ demolition of his poetic and historical material. Instead, he offers his own version of what counts as relevant background to their dispute. Just as Demosthenes seeks to embed Timarchus’ trial into the city’s collective experience, Aeschines does the same with his two narratives of what he said at Pella on the two embassies (2.25–33 and 113–18), allowing the historical material there to ground the (recent) embassies as part of a tradition of transformative Athenian diplomacy, to act as a means of assessment for current events, and simultaneously to act as a vehicle for the displaying of Aeschines’ own virtues. Both these narratives (like the two historical narratives at 2.74–8 and 172–7) are lengthy; but Aeschines is almost certainly playing shrewdly to what Athenian audiences might like to hear. Audience members would not have direct information about what had happened on these embassies except through formal reports to the Assembly and Boule and through hearsay, inflected by comments in other venues by those involved;³⁵ so to be given the illusion of access to Philip’s court itself, as well as to earlier events such as Eurydice’s appeal to Iphicrates (28; nested as a historical appeal within Aeschines’ account), would enthuse them if well told (as they are) and redound to Aeschines’ credibility and authority as a good public communicator and representative of the city.³⁶ The actual self-quotation is also framed by apology to avoid criticism; as we have already seen, self-quotation is fairly normal when diplomatic ³⁵ As we saw in Chapter 1.4. ³⁶ Importance of good narratives (including metanarratives) in court: Spatharas (2011a) 99–101.

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contexts are in point, and in any case the classical Athenian tolerance threshold for self-praise (properly packaged) was quite high.³⁷ Opponents might attack it if it could serve wider purposes, though, so it was worth glossing in advance if it was coming: Demosthenes carefully excuses himself in advance in the proem of On the Crown for the glowing version of his record that he has to give, for example (18.3–4; cf. 258, 321). Demosthenes remains wedded in On the False Embassy to the framing of historical material in terms of the unchanging continuum of Athenian values: the past, distant and recent, has an overarching moral function, serving to lay down democratic operating principles which Aeschines has (allegedly) repeatedly transgressed in his covert service to Philip. It therefore becomes an interpretative device to ‘decode’ Aeschines’ behaviour: Demosthenes chooses to focus on the role of the envoy itself, and past envoys to a comparably autocratic foreign power (Persia) are summoned up for comparison (Timagoras) and contrast (Callias, Epicrates). Aeschines diminishes the effect of this strategy by simply sidestepping the lot in On the Embassy. But Demosthenes’ strategic misstep is to offer a more totalizing version of his usual approach, and this is best seen in his angry denunciation of Aeschines for his alleged rejection of all the usual patriotic historical models (especially Marathon and Salamis) in the debate on the Peace (19.16 and 307–13; cf. 303). This offers Aeschines a straightforward route of contestation, and (as we have already seen in brief) enables him to offer a thoughtful and compelling analysis of Athenian successes and mistakes in the fifth century (2.74–8; cf., later, 172–7). Critically, it is also a convincingly detailed response to Demosthenes’ generalizations, and gains further strategic point from combining a watered-down version of his Against Timarchus ‘parallel Athens’ strategy with an investment in explicitly teleological thinking along the lines normally developed by Demosthenes himself for his visions of the Athenian continuum. Effectively, in responding as he does, Aeschines replays his version of the Peace debate by representing Demosthenes in this trial as like one of the opponents of peace in 346 who (according to him) used historical examples in an unselective and irresponsible way then, and risked setting Athens on a ruinous course—something which is itself integrated by Aeschines into his historical sequence via the example of Cleophon’s hopeless bellicosity in the face of Athenian defeat in 404. However, beyond this—and in line with the needs of a defence speech on a major public charge, where

³⁷ Spatharas (2011b) 209–17, with 215–16 on D. 18.3–4 (cf. Pernot [1998] 102–4).

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execution was a real possibility, as Demosthenes is only too keen to remind him—Aeschines largely avoids the multifaceted role play that supports the strategy in Against Timarchus in order to focus on one figure: himself, and his career to date.

5.2. DEMOSTHENES AND THE PROSECUTION

5.2.1. Aeschines and Solon As we saw in Chapter 4.3.2, Aeschines had invested significantly in his Solon illustration in Against Timarchus (25–7), making it key to his selfcharacterization as a just and moderate man.³⁸ By staging (and performing) Solon’s statue as culmination to a series of points about civic eukosmia attributable to (mainly) Solon (or a ‘legislator’), Aeschines had tied his speech’s relatively homogeneous vision of ‘traditional Athenian behaviour’ to the ultimate choice for a venerable ancestor figure in order to enhance his own credibility in court, recommending himself as a positive contrast to the sordid private past and ēthos he gives Timarchus. Demosthenes tears this impressive scene apart, using the testimony of the Salaminians themselves (19.251) to expose the statue as less than fifty years old,³⁹ so no reliable indicator of how Solon actually performed (a notably exact 240 years ago)⁴⁰—not that that had really been Aeschines’ point. In an atmosphere of doubt over Solon’s ‘real’ comportment, then, Demosthenes leaves Aeschines’ imitation open for characterization as empty, arrogant, and over-theatrical, much like Aeschines himself in On the False Embassy as a whole.⁴¹ Neglecting the possibility that Aeschines has moved on since 346/5, Demosthenes engages in a strategy which involves selectively exploiting areas of potential ambiguity in Against Timarchus which Aeschines’ own strategic concerns there had helped to mark out as high-visibility—exactly the game at which Aeschines plays Demosthenes in On the Embassy on the subject of the responsible use of the past.

³⁸ Hesk (2012) 223–4. ³⁹ Possible circumstances of its commissioning: Biard (2017) 131. ⁴⁰ A relatively rare instance of one orator correcting another on a fact: Nouhaud (1982) 111 n. 323; 176 n. 142; cf. Rhodes (1993) 62 n. 37 and Biard (2017) 132. ⁴¹ Demosthenes’ targeting of Aeschines’ theatricality in this section: Worman (2017) 437–9.

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Part of Demosthenes’ reversal strategy involves dragging Aeschines’ Solon into the present, to illuminate Aeschines’ behaviour on the first embassy of 346 by contrast, to extend the logic of the Solon reversal itself, and to make the denial of Aeschines’ right to cite the ancestors even more forcible. Mentioning the statue of Solon on Salamis instantly connoted Solon’s famous poetic exhortation to the Athenians to recover the island (19.252).⁴² Demosthenes points out here that Aeschines had—and threw away—the chance to imitate the really important things about Solon: his mind and purpose (τὴν ψυχὴν . . . καὶ τὴν διάνοιαν). As Aeschines had done nothing much with the historical Salamis connection as such, this becomes Demosthenes’ attack route to substantiate his claim, and for Solon’s successful recovery of Salamis he substitutes Aeschines’ failure (so he alleges) to do anything while at Pella to enable Athens to recover an equally iconic location: Amphipolis. Control of this highly strategically situated city was regarded by many Athenians as integral to their historical identity as a pre-eminent Aegean power, and it was currently in Philip’s hands after he took it in 357 and did not cede it to Athens as he apparently said he would.⁴³ Demosthenes’ claim that Aeschines failed to recover it is a construction which Aeschines confronts in On the Embassy, in his account of what he said to Philip on the first embassy (25–33); Amphipolis features prominently in this. Demosthenes uses Amphipolis as a means of sustaining the contrast between Aeschines and Solon throughout On the False Embassy, keeping himself carefully in view as ‘the alternative’, and thus aligned with ‘the real’ Solon. The relevance of the strategy becomes clear if we accept that Hegesippus’ embassy earlier in 343 probably raised it. It may even have been one of the issues which led to that embassy’s failure, as neither side would have been prepared to give ground on it: Hegesippus for ideological reasons, Philip because it was now of vital strategic importance to him. Demosthenes’ claim that Solon’s intervention came at a time when Athenian enthusiasm for recovering Salamis had turned to deadly resentment against anyone proposing to do anything about it (θάνατον ζημίαν ψηφισαμένων, ἄν τις εἴπῃ κομίζεσθαι: 252) helps his parallel, because it reflects the febrile, knee-jerk atmosphere of the Peace debate in 346 as communicated by all our sources for it (all of them rhetorical or rhetorically influenced, admittedly). In a loose sense, it echoes the polarization of Assembly attitudes common to those sources (probably ⁴² On Solon, Salamis, and the elegy Salamis (frr. 1–3 West²), see Plut. Sol. 8.1–3 and, e.g., Mülke (2002) 73–88; Irwin (2005) 134–46; (2006) 40–4; Noussia (2006) 135–8; NoussiaFantuzzi (2010) 203–16. ⁴³ de Ste. Croix (1963); Hammond and Griffith (1979) 236–42.

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misleadingly): in Theopompus’ version, Aristophon’s prioritizing of Amphipolis’ recovery as a primary patriotic objective serves to mark him out as an extreme opponent of any peace.⁴⁴ In a more specific sense, the parallel mirrors Demosthenes’ version later in On the False Embassy of Eubulus’ intervention in the debate, which (as we saw in Chapter 3.4) had been a forceful warning that failure to accept Philocrates’ proposals would simply mean the Athenians would need to jump to making immediate war preparations on a large scale (19.291)—part of that being the need to commute the Theoric Fund to military use, something it had still been politically risky to propose in 346.⁴⁵ From Demosthenes’ point of view, a robust representation to Philip about Amphipolis would have been easy; in the version here, Salamis is only ‘in revolt’ (ἀφεστηκυίας: 252) and not part of a wider geopolitical dispute with Megara, as in other sources. Aeschines’ failure to deliver strongly on this (supposedly) therefore helps foster a dichotomy between an Aeschines who masks treachery with measured, impressive oratory and a Solon whose integrity and patriotism obliged him to make a courageous move to save Salamis (and Athenian honour) at very high personal risk. Demosthenes pointedly does not associate himself with Solon here, except by implying that he would have taken the same view. He supports all this with a distinctive version of the envoys’ performances on the first embassy to Pella and their subsequent report in Athens which stresses Aeschines’ failure to push the Amphipolis agenda. Vindicating the Athenian claim to that city was probably not a central part of the envoys’ brief,⁴⁶ but it was, as noted earlier in this section, an emotive element which will certainly have featured in some way and which both orators would certainly want to reassure an Athenian audience that they had raised with Philip: Demosthenes indeed refers to it as the reason they were there at all (253). Both would want to claim to have said something about it, so Demosthenes claims here that Aeschines reported to the ⁴⁴ Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 166: ἐνθυμεῖσθε δ’ ὡς πάντων ἂν ποιήσαιμεν ἀνανδρότατον, εἰ τὴν εἰρήνην δεξαίμεθα παραχωρήσαντες Ἀμφιπόλεως, μεγίστην μὲν πόλιν τῶν Ἑλληνίδων οἰκοῦντες, πλείστους δὲ συμμάχους ἔχοντες, τριακοσίας δὲ τριήρεις κεκτημένοι καὶ σχεδὸν τετρακοσίων ταλάντων προσόδους λαμβάνοντες. Consider how we would be doing the most cowardly thing of all, if we were to accept the peace and let Amphipolis go, we who live in the biggest Greek city, who have the most allies, who have three hundred ships and take nearly four hundred talents in revenue. ⁴⁵ See Chapter 3.3.1. ⁴⁶ Yunis (2005) 189 n. 226; but cf. Adams (1919) 186–7 n. 1 and E. M. Harris (1995) 58–9.

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Assembly that he had said nothing about Amphipolis in Macedonia in order to give Demosthenes a chance to do so (253). This version is, of course, strongly at odds with Aeschines’ own account in On the Embassy (especially of his own speech at Pella, 2.25–33, but also of the report to the Assembly later, especially 43, 48, 52). As usual, identifying who is closer to the truth is a difficult proposition.⁴⁷ From the point of view of the strategic use of the past, though, Demosthenes’ alignment of the ancient and contemporary cases, contrasting Aeschines’ alleged conduct with Solon’s, serves as a transparent reflection on key themes in the prosecution: Aeschines’ corruption, self-delusion, and superficiality. A great achievement like Solon’s move to regain Salamis (252) is set against Aeschines’ filibustering to avoid a result adverse to Philip, now his paymaster (254); Solon’s action was selfless and motivated by the natural desire of the good citizen to put community health before personal convenience (τὸν ἴδιον κίνδυνον ὑποθεὶς, ‘personally assum [ing] the risk’: 252), while Aeschines’ was self-interested (consistently with 254); and Solon’s dignified oratorical habitus was at one with his political behaviour, whereas Aeschines’ corruption means he can only imitate the outward form (like the actor he is) and not the virtue within (255). The persuasive authority that accrues to Demosthenes from his criticisms is then activated by his famous quotation of some Solonian elegiac verses about the well-ordered state (from the so-called Eunomia poem: 255; fr. 4 West²). These offer numerous opportunities for pertinent reflections, and in most cases it is easy to see their applicability: everyone will be able to understand the relevance of χρήμασι πειθόμενοι, ‘obedient to money’ (line 6), to the conduct of bad envoys.⁴⁸ Demosthenes needs to mount his own rival Solonian model, but to avoid self-association with Solon (and so to stay as far away from Aeschines’ physical imitation in the Timarchus trial as possible) he makes a point of asking the court ⁴⁷ See E. M. Harris (1995) 58–60; MacDowell (2000a) 4–5, 310–11. There are particular problems with Demosthenes’ version, though (19.253–4). He says that Aeschines did not speak about Amphipolis in Macedonia, which (unless A. 2.25–33 is complete fabrication) could only be correct for the second embassy, not the first—but he is setting all this in the context of the Assembly report on the first embassy. 19.254 has further problems anyway, no doubt smoothed by verbal emphasis in performance: although Demosthenes puts the stress on ἐβούλετο (i.e. Aeschines had been bribed, so did not ‘want’ to talk about it), that sentence’s surface meaning is consistent with A. 2.52: Aeschines did speak about Amphipolis, too comprehensively for Demosthenes to have much to add. ⁴⁸ It is unclear how much of the long poem in our texts (42 lines) was read out. Rowe (1972) argued that the last 16 lines were included (followed by Steinbock [2013a] 79 n. 172); MacDowell (2000a) 312 and Pinto (2013) 93 disagree. On the Eunomia poem: e.g. Mülke (2002) 88–159; Irwin (2005) 83–197; (2006) 63–72; Blaise (2006); Stehle (2006) 82–9; Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 217–65.

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clerk to read out the verses. Neither Aeschines nor Demosthenes is categorically averse to reciting their poetic quotations personally,⁴⁹ but to subvert Aeschines’ self-association with Solon Demosthenes chooses to target the volume of personal recitation Aeschines had undertaken in the Timarchus trial.⁵⁰ So here Demosthenes reinforces λέγε δή μοι λαβὼν καὶ τὰ τοῦ Σόλωνος ἐλεγεῖα ταυτί (‘please take Solon’s elegiac verses and read them’: 254) with an emphatic λέγε σύ (‘you! Read’: 255), prefaced by some barbed comments about Aeschines’ fondness for exercising his voice (φωνασκήσας). Demosthenes is communicating his desire for the ‘lessons’ offered by the Solonian verses to come through to the jury undistorted by the stamp of personal performance—especially the corrupt, superficial kind of performance Aeschines offers. Having the clerk, a neutral third party, read these famous verses means that Solon is reasserted as the common property of the dēmos (itself a response to Aeschines’ claim in Against Timarchus that his opponents were treating poetry as an elite commodity: 1.141) and that the community of oratory, audience, and clerk are drawn onto the same side, confronting Aeschines. This performative frame, then, offers an immediate cast to the Solonian verses favourable to Demosthenes’ purposes. As he does so, Demosthenes also targets what he claims as a non-vocal form of bogus performance on Aeschines’ part: his apparent dressing up as Solon, who traditionally wore a cap (to represent himself as a herald, madman, invalid, or something else⁵¹) while inciting the people to retake Salamis (κἂν πιλίδιον λαβὼν περὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν περινοστῇς καὶ ἐμοὶ λοιδορῇ, ‘even if you put a cap on your head and go about abusing me’: 255). Demosthenes may be suggesting that Aeschines wore his cap at the time of the Timarchus trial (the obvious context where he ‘abused’ Demosthenes—λοιδορῇ: 255), but this is not clear; MacDowell suggests that Aeschines did so to emphasize the illness which had prevented him going on the third embassy shortly before.⁵² If it was illness that required the cap, that illness could possibly have been the head ulcer for which Aeschines apparently sought divine help at Epidaurus, if an epigram in

⁴⁹ Personal recitation or reading: A. 1.128–9, 144; 2.158; 3.135, 184–5; D. 19.243–5. Clerk reading: A. 1.148–50; 3.190; D. 19.247, 255 (plus the manteiai at D. 19.297 and A. 3.112); 18.267, 289. Unclear: A. 1.151–2. ⁵⁰ On personal recitation vs clerk’s reading, see in particular Olding (2007), with Azoulay (2009) 166–70 for comparison with Lyc. 1. ⁵¹ See Plut. Sol. 8.1–2. Some recent rationalizations: Paulsen (1999) 248–9; MacDowell (2000a) 311; Irwin (2005) 134–42; Juhász (2008); Steiner (2014) paragraphs 17–18; Carey (2017) 280 n. 30; O’Connell (2017) 207 n. 95; Westwood (2017a) 72–3, followed here. ⁵² On this, see D. 19.124–6 vs A. 2.94–5; E. M. Harris (1995) 167–8; MacDowell (2000a) 311.

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the Palatine Anthology composed by ‘Aeschines the rhētōr’ is by him.⁵³ Whether Aeschines indeed used the cap strategically to play up the Solonian impression is also unclear, but in order for Demosthenes’ insinuation that he did so (which is reinforced by λαβὼν: 255) to work, all that was required was for audience members to remember Aeschines wearing a cap in public contexts at some point in the last few years (indeed, he might have been still wearing it now in 343: the present tenses of 255 suggest so). In any case, Demosthenes’ comic⁵⁴ deflation even of the notion of ‘Solon-playing’ on Aeschines’ part here serves as a further attack on his self-identification with Solon in 1.25–7, and a further frame for the ‘lessons’ directly available in the Solon quotation. By being careful to close the frame with further reference to the Timarchus trial at 257, Demosthenes completes the union of Aeschines’ corrupt performance as envoy with his morally bankrupt prosecution of Timarchus. Using the trial of Timarchus as a frame for his demolition and reconstitution of Aeschines’ use of the past for self-construction in the Solon illustration has allowed Demosthenes to attach to the 241–57 passage a number of the key features of his attack as a whole; and he has brought himself (and by implication his audience) into tacit but clear alignment with the value system of the Solonian elegiac verses, whose lasting relevance for guiding Athenian moral behaviour he thereby asserts—a neat rebuttal for Aeschines’ lengthy use of the eukosmia laws at the beginning of Against Timarchus. Another Demosthenic response to Aeschines’ self-presentation in Against Timarchus hinges specifically on good statesmanship and is worth brief comment here with Chapter 3’s focus on the discourse of foresight in mind. Important to the second of his discussions of the Timarchus trial (19.283–7) is Aeschines’ opportunism. The motif of the visit to Macedonia as the turning point at which Aeschines revealed his true moral turpitude (ἕως εἰς Μακεδονίαν ἐλθὼν ἑαυτὸν ἐμίσθωσεν: 286) functions as a smokescreen to hide the swift mutual political realignments that followed the unsatisfactory outcome of the Peace (and so the circumstances leading up to the trial of Timarchus in the first place). The way Demosthenes conceptualizes that is important for highlighting ⁵³ AP 6.330. The fact that Aeschines tells us he wrote poetry (1.135–6) is suggestive but not decisive either way. This epigram may be represented by the Epidaurian inscription IG IV², 1 255—see references in Westwood (2017a) 72 n. 57—but add Bajnok (2014), who concludes that the inscription does not bear this epigram, but is prepared to accept the epigram’s own authenticity (24). ⁵⁴ The colloquialisms nearby support the idea of a comic tone: λογάρια δύστηνα (255) (cf. Ar. [dub.] fr. 950; Theognetus fr. 1; various later philosophical uses in dismissive or contemptuous contexts: e.g. Zeno at D.L. 7.20) and περινοστῇς (cf. Ar. Peace 762; Thesm. 796; Wealth 121, 494; also Aesop Fab. 269.10 Hausrath/Hunger).

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how he and Aeschines differ: he argues that Aeschines’ intention in prosecuting was not to better the moral standards of the youth (οὐ μὰ Δί’ οὐχὶ τῶν ὑμετέρων παίδων, ὅπως ἔσονται σώφρονες, προορῶν: 285) (a laudable aim linked to the good of the state) but simply to ruin Timarchus (a cynical aim linked to personal politics). The use of προορῶν (‘looking out’, ‘looking ahead’) here is crucial. This is part of a whole chain of symbouleutic thinking and expressions throughout the speech—and, more often than not, Demosthenes’ own foresight, the foresight of the able and responsible politician, is set against the oversight and inertia of the dēmos (cf. the similar παροράω, περιοράω).⁵⁵ Demosthenes now seems to condemn Aeschines not just because of his arrogation to himself of the foresight and care proper to the good statesman—precisely the opposite, in Demosthenes’ terms, of the qualities Aeschines has actually exhibited in public life—but also, once again, because of his attempts to play Solon. The idea of a legislator ‘looking ahead’ was fundamental to Aeschines’ conception of ‘the legislator’/Solon’s regulations for eukosmia in the early part of Against Timarchus—so Demosthenes punctures that here, contrasting Aeschines’ ‘fake-Solonian’ desire to better the youth with Demosthenes’ ‘genuine’ desire to better the politicians (285). Both here and in the responses to Aeschines’ use of the figure of Solon himself, the programme of Against Timarchus has been shown up as petty and false, reflecting only on the bad character of its originator. Demosthenes, on the other hand, makes a bid to invest his own speech with real public significance and to characterize himself as a man of vision. Whereas Aeschines’ prosecution was a perversion of objectively noble motives, Demosthenes portrays himself as a statesman with consistently and genuinely noble intentions.

5.2.2. Aeschines as Envoy: The Timagoras Parallel Demosthenes’ ‘corrupt envoy’ parallels for Aeschines offer outstanding examples of his relatively straightforward mode of application of models from the past to suit the present case.⁵⁶ Callias⁵⁷ (273–5) and Epicrates⁵⁸ ⁵⁵ The audience: e.g. D. 19.84, 153 (hypothetical), 271; Demosthenes’ foresight: 19.223, 230 (and here, 285); what they should be doing or should have done: 19.64, 304. ⁵⁶ On these parallels: Nouhaud (1982) 234–8 (especially 237 n. 373 on Callias); Buckler (2000) 152–4. ⁵⁷ Sources on Callias ‘Lakkoploutos’ (PA 7825; PAA 554480; Davies [1971] 258–62) and his Peace(s) are collected by MacDowell (2000a) 320–1; add Piccirilli (1989) and Marginesu (2016) 48–50. ⁵⁸ For Epicrates (PA 4859; PAA 393945): Bruce (1967) 56–7; Davies (1971) 181; Buckler (2000) 153; MacDowell (2000a) 322–4; Harding (2006) 174–5.

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(277–80) (one case in the more distant past, one case ‘during the lifetime of you who are here today’: ἐφ’ ὑμῶν τουτωνὶ τῶν ἔτι ζώντων ἀνθρώπων: 276⁵⁹) are made to bear out the topos we have seen elsewhere that the dēmos were right to condemn even major benefactors when they put their own interests ahead of those of Athens.⁶⁰ In both these cases, Demosthenes makes the charge of bribe-taking central, to align them as smoothly as possible with Aeschines—but in neither case does it seem to have been what led to their condemnation. In Epicrates’ case, his condemnation came after a different mission: his embassy to Sparta in 392/1 with Andocides (which yielded the latter’s On the Peace) and others, and not after his Persian embassy with Phormisius in c.393.⁶¹ However, the likelihood that his embassy to Persia was the more memorable of the two,⁶² and that the embassy to Sparta at least involved the freedom of the Greeks in Asia as one of the topics for discussion might well have been enough to allow popular memory to confuse them.⁶³ Callias’ fine of fifty talents for bribe-taking is a complete blank beyond Demosthenes;⁶⁴ the orator may be relying on an apparently much betterknown aspect of Callias’ diplomatic profile—his Peace (τὴν ὑπὸ πάντων θρυλουμένην εἰρήνην, ‘the peace treaty still talked about by all’: 273)—to be sure of audience acceptance.⁶⁵ This is transparently a version for this trial—the advertised move through time (276), from Callias in the midfifth century to Epicrates in the 390s, demands the natural culmination in Aeschines in the present. Aeschines should pay as the others did: the moral pressure, intensified by this progression, is hard to miss (‘you are the offspring of that illustrious generation [ὑμεῖς ἐκείνων τῶν ἀνδρῶν ὄντες], and some of you still with us actually belong to it [οἱ δὲ καὶ τινὲς αὐτῶν ἔτι ζῶντες]. The facts are before you’: 280). I want, though, to concentrate on a different figure (and different persuasive manoeuvre), the most consistently employed paradigmatic

⁵⁹ Cobet called the last four words an absurdum additamentum, but this is typical Demosthenic pleonasm (see MacDowell [2000a] 322) and links up with the resumption of this theme in similar wording at 19.280. ⁶⁰ Cf. D. 23.205; Din. 1.14–17; Lyc. 1.93. ⁶¹ Athenaeus 6.251ab gets this right; see Hofstetter (1978) 57–8 and 152–3 for this embassy. On Epicrates’ Spartan embassy and the envoys’ subsequent flight into exile, anticipating condemnation, see Philochorus FGrHist 328 F 149a, with Harding (2006) 168–77 and BNJ (Jones); also Perlman (1976) 230–1 and MacDowell (2000a) 322–3. For a very different view: Harris (2000) 499–500. ⁶² See n. 71. ⁶³ On the issue: Harding (2006) 169; on the possible confusion: Perlman (1976) 231. ⁶⁴ Perlman (1976) 230; MacDowell (2000a) 321–2. ⁶⁵ See also Keesling (2017) 158.

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‘code’ for Aeschines: Timagoras.⁶⁶ Sent to the Persian court with a similarly otherwise unknown Leon as his principal⁶⁷ co-envoy in 367, Timagoras proceeded to get too close to King Artaxerxes and/or the Theban and allied envoys also present (led by Pelopidas). Their embassy over, Timagoras was loaded with gifts by Artaxerxes (including eighty cows to supply him with milk, complete with cowherds and an expensive bed complete with a team of professional bedmakers) and on the embassy’s return home to Athens was prosecuted by Leon for embassy misconduct, condemned, and executed—supplying a reasonably close procedural mirror for the present trial (Demosthenes makes it a closer one by not dwelling on what the procedure was), and possibly an ideal outcome Demosthenes might like to secure. Our external sources are reticent on the exact misconduct involved or alleged: in Xenophon (the exception to this), Leon claims that Timagoras had refused to share quarters with him and had cooperated throughout with Pelopidas (7.1.38), indicating that Timagoras’ apparent betrayal of Athens’s interests was the key here.⁶⁸ Xenophon’s version is likely to be right, though Leon’s actual motivation could well have been purely political and/or personal as much as principled and/or patriotic.⁶⁹ How important the gifts (which other sources stress) were either in Leon’s charge or in Timagoras’ conviction is unclear—we need to be wary of giving too much weight to comic models of selfenrichment by presumptuous envoys to Persia—the opening of Aristophanes’ Acharnians (of 425)⁷⁰ and jokes at Epicrates’ and Phormisius’ expense in Platon’s Envoys (of the late 390s?)⁷¹ are ⁶⁶ Sources on Timagoras (PA 13595; PAA 883250) and Leon (PA 9101; PAA 605450), beyond D. 19, are X. Hell. 7.1.33–8; Plut. Pel. 30.9–13 and Art. 22.9–12; Athenaeus 2.48de, 6.251b, 6.253f. Treatments: Mosley (1968); (1972); Perlman (1976) 228–9; Hofstetter (1978) 114–15 and 182–4; Tuplin (1993) 153 and n. 24; MacDowell (2000a) 221; Hagemajer Allen (2003) 199–201; Binder (2008) 294–9, 305–6; Bearzot (2011). ⁶⁷ There seem to be other Athenians present (X. Hell. 7.1.37), unless Leon’s statement there is apostrophic. ⁶⁸ X. Hell. 7.1.38. Plut. Pel. 30.9–13 does not mention Leon’s charge but attributes Timagoras’ conviction to dēmos anger that the Thebans had prevailed with the King. Plut. Art. 22.12 gives Timagoras’ taking of bribes/gifts (δωροδοκία) as the reason, and the three passages of Athenaeus give Timagoras’ proskynēsis. Demosthenes provides no light on this at 19.191. On the three main sources: Bearzot (2011) 25–6, 29–30, 31, 33–6. ⁶⁹ Bearzot (2011) 33–6 argues (with the aid of the Suda Τ 591 Adler) that Leon and Timagoras represented (respectively) the pro-Spartan and pro-Theban Athenian factions. ⁷⁰ Ar. Ach. 61–141, with Olson (2002) 88–117 and Mash (2017). ⁷¹ Platon, Envoys fr. 127 with Dover (1950); Mosley (1968) 159–60; Storey (2011) 3.150–3. In Plut. Pel. 30.12—where Epicrates ‘the shieldbearer’ must be Epicrates the envoy (cf. Platon, Envoys fr. 130 = ‘beard-bearer’?)—the dēmos simply laugh at the gifts, which in turn probably echoes the comic reception of Epicrates’ and Phormisius’ embassy.

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good examples.⁷² This is exactly the kind of association which Demosthenes is trying to play up, however—and probably drawing on popular memory of the stories which surrounded Timagoras’ conviction to do so. As I show later in this section—and similarly to Aeschines’ parallel scenarios in Against Timarchus—Demosthenes so structures his thematic material that each reference to Timagoras attracts a number of the key ethical accusations against Aeschines, which allows him to refer constantly to them and increase their persuasive force and value by that continual reference—part of the framework of repetition basic to the speech’s overall structure. As with Callias and Epicrates, we will see how Demosthenes makes strenuous efforts to make the Timagoras parallel match Aeschines. A brief reference to Timagoras at 19.31 sets up the sequence: no returning embassy was ever denied entertainment in the prytaneion after its report to the Boule, Demosthenes claims, not even that of Timagoras ‘whom the people condemned to death’. He goes on to play up his own role in denying his fellow envoys to Philip this courtesy in 346, claiming that it was thanks to his foresight (προοράω again) that this corrupt embassy was so treated (ἀλλ’ εὐθὺς κατηγόρουν καὶ προεώρων τὰ μέλλοντα, ‘I made my accusations straightaway and foresaw what was to come’: 31). As usual, Demosthenes emphasizes his ability to see consequences, a contrast with Aeschines’ lack of a share in this fundamental property of the good statesman. But he takes suspicious delight in the fact that his opponents will not be able to counter the evidence of the witness and probouleuma that he has just been able to quote (32), and draws inordinate attention to this fact;⁷³ he also demands that his audience recollect the occasion with him (ἀναμνήσθητε παρ’ ὑμῖν αὐτοῖς: 33). It is very tempting to suggest that there might have been some good procedural reason why this embassy at this point would not have been entitled to entertainment in the prytaneion in any case, and that Demosthenes has finessed the order in which events took place on the envoys’ return.⁷⁴ Another plausible solution, proposed by Cawkwell,⁷⁵ Epicrates is attacked for compulsive venality in Lys. 27.3–6; see also Hell. Oxy. 7.2 (and in Chapter 5.3.3). ⁷² For more on the topos: Mosley (1968) 160 with references; Hagemajer Allen (2003) 201–3. ⁷³ ‘If this man says otherwise, let him show where and provide proof, and I will step down. But he cannot.’ ⁷⁴ For this kind of finessing or strategic vagueness, see, e.g., Badian and Heskel (1987) 268–71 on A. 2.12–18 or Efstathiou (2004) 400 on A. 2.74–8—but examples abound in both orators. ⁷⁵ Cawkwell (1962c) 454–8; MacDowell (2000a) 15, accepts Demosthenes’ interpretation.

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is that there was another meeting of the Boule (at which the envoys were honoured) between the envoys’ Boule report and their Assembly report, so that the probouleuma was not read out in the Assembly because it had been superseded.⁷⁶ Either way, Demosthenes capitalizes on the ambiguity to help introduce the Timagoras parallel in a way which marks Aeschines’ behaviour as worse.⁷⁷ The twenty-three or twenty-four years that have elapsed since the execution of Timagoras in 367/6 help Demosthenes, allowing his presentation some elasticity. ὡς λέγεται (‘according to reports’) is used at 137 to fill out the details of the story.⁷⁸ Elsewhere in Demosthenes, (ὡς) λέγεται and its cognates are only used once with reference to a point later than 403 (when not referring to the present or last year or so, that is).⁷⁹ Demosthenes seems to be parking the Timagoras affair just at the limits of direct popular memory rather than squarely within them (where it belongs), so that it can do more work for him. Although it was likely to have been memorable in itself because the sensational quality of the gifts (even by the standards of the topos) must have attracted the attention of comic poets, it was probably moveable because (unlike the much talked of Peace of Callias, easily accommodated to the period of Delian League pre-eminence: 273) no major diplomatic achievement emerged from it which would allow it to cluster easily with other memorable events. Accordingly, it was probably also quite malleable; some of its details allow an easy fit with the Aeschines/Amphipolis situation, but others Demosthenes apparently has to bend. Part of the tradition about Timagoras, as reflected in Xenophon and Plutarch’s Artaxerxes, stressed the secrecy of Timagoras’ relations with the King: in the Artaxerxes, the King is particularly pleased with Timagoras because he writes to him personally (a species of communication that can be construed as anti-democratic in context, as with Aeschines’ supposed letter written with Philip).⁸⁰ Meanwhile, Leon’s allegation in Xenophon that Timagoras refused to share quarters with him and

⁷⁶ Doubts also hover, for me, as for Cawkwell (1962c) 456, over Demosthenes’ accusation of his fellow envoys itself (18). Although Demosthenes claims that his accusation dissuaded the Boule from conferring the usual reward, how far he actually voiced that is far from clear, and not something to which the witness and quoted probouleuma necessarily had anything to add. ⁷⁷ For the ‘not even X’ topos, see, e.g., D. 24.90. ⁷⁸ Cf. Heskel (1997) 108. ⁷⁹ The exception is D. 13.22 (though the speech may not be genuine: Chapter 1.7.2). Referring to events earlier than 403: D. 20.11, 73; 21.143, 144, 147; 24.140–1, 212. ⁸⁰ Plut. Art. 22.9: γραμματίδιον ἀπόρρητον (‘secret letter’); cf. D. 19.174–5 and A. 2.124–5 on Aeschines’ secret letter. Anti-democratic: Steiner (1994) 142–66.

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fraternized with Pelopidas closely resembles the state of affairs Demosthenes describes on the second embassy to Pella, where Aeschines builds up a similar covert one-to-one relationship with Philip (αὐτὸς δὲ ἰδίᾳ πάντα τὸν χρόνον ἐντυγχάνων οὐδ’ ὁτιοῦν ἐπαύσατο Φιλίππῳ, ‘he never stopped for a moment talking to Philip in private’: 175). If we can assume that Xenophon is right that Leon’s charge was integral to Timagoras’ condemnation, Demosthenes’ stress on the commensality theme in On the False Embassy as a whole makes particular sense; certainly it is a theme that Aeschines feels the need to respond to, offering his slaves for torture to demonstrate that he had never made any nocturnal departures from the quarters he shared in Macedonia with Aglaocreon and Iatrocles, who then testify for him (2.126–7).⁸¹ Timagoras’ anti-democratic secret communication with the King, if part of the tradition Demosthenes is drawing on at 137 when he describes how the King gave Timagoras forty talents (on the basis of promises Timagoras had made)—a detail itself clearly shaped to suit his allegations against Aeschines better—fits well within the developing theme of Aeschines’ (and presumably also at least Philocrates’) oligarchic leanings. Demosthenes has them tell Philip (in decidedly sophisticsounding language⁸²) that ‘democracy . . . is the most erratic and capricious thing there is, like a wind that swirls on the sea, moving wherever chance takes it’ (ὁ μὲν δῆμός ἐστιν ἀσταθμητότατον πρᾶγμα τῶν πάντων καὶ ἀσυνθετώτατον, ὥσπερ ἐν θαλάττῃ πνεῦμα ἀκατάστατον, ὡς ἂν τύχῃ κινούμενος: 136).⁸³ This might be a nasty reversal of the Solonian image—relevant, therefore, to targeting Aeschines—of the state as even and calm (δικαιοτάτη), like the sea, until dissension or revolution

⁸¹ On the theme in D. 19 see Hobden (2009). Aeschines’ responses are clever and various: e.g. A. 2.22, 39, 42–3. ⁸² ἀσύνθετος in particular appears to be specifically intellectual: see, e.g., Pl. Phaedo 78c; Theaet. 205c; Pol. 288e; Arist. Pol. 1252a19; for the medical connections of ἀκατάστατος see LSJ ⁹. ⁸³ It is essential to note (with, e.g., Brock’s mention [2013] 159 and n. 126, and against Clarke [2008] 286) that this is not Demosthenes’ own stated view. MacDowell ([2000a] 29, 260) seems to think that ἃ καὶ πρότερόν ποτ’ εἶπον ἐγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἐν τῷ δήμῳ καὶ τούτων οὐδεὶς ἀντεῖπεν (‘which I, in fact, once told you about in the Assembly without a protest from any of them’) means Demosthenes used this language in the Assembly and that Aeschines and company did not object. A stronger suggestion might be that Demosthenes claimed that this was his opponents’ view (as Yunis translates here) and that they did not object to his characterization. This makes them look smug and sinister, a very familiar portrayal. The similar collocation of Aeschines’ alleged anti–democratic views and the ‘wave’ image at 19.314 then looks completely natural and in keeping (otherwise it does not: MacDowell [2000a] 260 again)—as does Aeschines’ rejection of anti–democratic sympathies (A. 2.171).

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(winds) ruffle it (fr. 12.2 West²).⁸⁴ Equally, one of the ways in which Timagoras ‘sells out’ to Persia in Xenophon’s account is in his warm seconding of a speech by Pelopidas at Susa which inverted a long series of classic Athenian liberty-related paradeigmata to reflect well on the early fifth-century medizing Thebans (συνεμαρτύρει δ’ αὐτῷ ταῦτα πάντα ὡς ἀληθῆ λέγοι ὁ Ἀθηναῖος Τιμαγόρας: Hell. 7.1.35). If this were part of the tradition stemming from Leon’s charge about Timagoras’ collaboration, it would certainly bolster Demosthenes’ portrayal of Aeschines as contemptuous of the Athenian past, which is central to Demosthenes’ strategy as a whole. These are examples of how the cogency of Demosthenes’ comparandum might have been assisted by some details which stand a plausible chance of being a traditional part of the Timagoras story, even if they are not the ones Demosthenes chooses to emphasize here. Others he manipulates to make a seamless connection between the present and past cases. He is quite open about how the relationships between Philip and Aeschines and the Persian King and Timagoras match one another (134–7), but it is the use of Amphipolis (137) that really ties the parallel down and therefore intersects with some of Demosthenes’ other material. Personal image refurbishment is part of the aim here; it is worth keeping in mind that Demosthenes, Aeschines, and their fellow envoys came back with no pledge from Philip to restore Amphipolis to Athens. This might well have been seen by hardliners (like Hegesippus⁸⁵) as a stab in the back:⁸⁶ in Theopompus’ version of the Peace debate, Aristophon sees the giving up of Amphipolis as ‘unjust’ (παρὰ τὸ δίκαιον) and a national disgrace.⁸⁷ Aristophon’s view mattered— though elderly,⁸⁸ he embodied recent Athenian history, was still highly ⁸⁴ See, especially, Noussia-Fantuzzi (2010) 319–22 and Blaise (2011). Solon favours elemental and, especially, wind/waves imagery: fr. 13.17–20, 43–5; tyranny as a hailstorm in fr. 9.1 (cf. strongly D. 9.33); Brock (2013) 88. ⁸⁵ See Σ ad D. 19.72 (173 Dilts) for his role in the debate, but cf. Efstathiou (2004) 396 n. 21 for caution. ⁸⁶ The surge of anti-Philip sentiment in the political class depicted by Aeschines at 2.74 is probably illusory as stated; Aeschines is trying to emphasize the impressiveness of his success under such circumstances. For the ‘massed gang of opponents’ topos, see A. 2.178; 3.7; D. 18.322; and further in Chapter 5.3.3. ⁸⁷ See n. 44 for a partial translation; further, e.g., Steinbock (2013b) 78. Harding (2006) 197 doubts that Theopompus had access to, or the inclination to reproduce, Aristophon’s real speech; but Aristophon is presented arguing in the terms attributed to the anti-Peace spokesmen by Demosthenes (19.15–16) and Aeschines (A. 2.74), and is unlikely to have been picked at random by the historian. So his case may be well represented here. ⁸⁸ Aristophon’s lifespan (he was somewhere between his early to mid-eighties and early to mid-nineties in 346): A. 3.139 (dead by 330); age at death: Σ ad A. 1.64 (145 Dilts); Davies (1971) 65; Whitehead (2000) 232–3; Harding (2006) 196.

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influential and active (and remained so at least for a few years), and could command a lot of support.⁸⁹ Aeschines’ version in On the Embassy (74) of the ‘hawks’’ past-based arguments in the Peace debate certainly suggests that these were calculated to appeal to the Assembly audience’s emotions in a potentially decisive way, and therefore required creative tactics for the proponents of the Peace to subvert (whether those tactics were the ones Aeschines represents himself here as having used in the debate itself is another matter). Aeschines’ speech—and Eubulus’ very direct intervention (D. 19.291)—may even have been required to stop the debate swinging Aristophon’s way.⁹⁰ Importantly, Amphipolis was still a hot topic in 343, as we saw in Chapter 5.2.1 above and as On Halonnesus 23–9 reveals, so Demosthenes had to present himself in On the False Embassy as someone who cared about Amphipolis and had done in 346 as well— hence the focus on Amphipolis in making the link between the Timagoras case and Aeschines’ here. What Demosthenes stresses (137) is the King’s change of front after hearing of Timagoras’ execution from envoys who succeeded him⁹¹—he promises to recognize Athens’s claim to Amphipolis. By bringing this in here, Demosthenes makes it a means of manufacturing a resemblance between the 360s example and the negotiations with Philip of 346, and therefore his disputed version of what Aeschines said (or did not say) about Amphipolis then. Strands of accusation important to On the False Embassy as a whole are well represented in 134–7: like Timagoras at Susa, Aeschines has connived with Philip against Athenian interests; he has discharged the duty laid on him by a democratic state by engaging in crooked one-to-one exchanges with Philip (cf. 19.175–6 and 128); and, like Timagoras, he has taken money and favours for his perfidious actions (e.g. 110). Most importantly for the connecting role of Amphipolis, though, Demosthenes argues that Philip, like the Persian King, will change his mind and work with the Athenians if he sees the modern-day heirs of Timagoras punished (ταὐτὸ τοίνυν τοῦτ’ ἄν ἐποίησε Φίλιππος, εἴ τινα τούτων εἶδε δίκην δόντα, καὶ νῦν, ἄν ἴδῃ, ποιήσει: 138), a symbouleutic-type conceit which puts pressure on the audience to make it happen. Amphipolis continues to serve as a persuasive link between the two cases: the King’s sanction of Athenian ownership of Amphipolis reappears in the midst of the Solon example at 253, a passage already ⁸⁹ Chapter 1.6 nn. 265–6. ⁹⁰ If so, Eubulus’ personal rivalry with Aristophon was surely a motivating factor too: he could not allow this long-time rival to prevail. For their rivalry, see D. 20.137; 21.218; 18.162; Sealey (1955a); Cawkwell (1963b) 49; Whitehead (1986) 316. ⁹¹ See Heskel (1997) 108 for this ‘second’ embassy of 367/6.

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focused on the appropriateness of historical parallels. The events of 367/6, 346, and 343 are thus tightly symbolically connected, to cast Aeschines’ anti-values as fundamental to the Athenians being kept from regaining their lost city—not just now, in the 340s, but throughout the recent past. Demosthenes’ attack essentializes Aeschines’ traits, turning him into a stereotyped historical phenomenon (‘the bribe-taking envoy’) and denying the validity of any more nuanced attempt to understand his personal motivations. This kind of essentialized thinking is directly challenged by Aeschines later (2.172–7; see Chapter 5.3.3). The third appearance of Timagoras (in 188–91)—as target of Leon’s prosecution in a sequence of historical examples of office holders accused by their associates (191)—widens the attack and continues the Demosthenic project of self-recommendation by contrast, answering a hypothetical complaint by Aeschines that Demosthenes is attacking a fellow envoy (188). Here the themes of blighted commensality, and of the perverted embassy as symbolic of its members’ wider ill will towards the city’s health, come into their own as a means of ethical proof aimed at shaping Aeschines negatively. The passage presents the envoys as sordid parodies of prytaneis (190), united in vice and too far gone in corruption to follow precedent in casting that corruption out. Demosthenes assumes that purgative role. Following on from his strenuous self-casting as the accuser from the beginning (188; cf. 31–3), he sits behind his chosen examples—Leon, Conon, and (interestingly) Eubulus—as each, in a different department of civic life, counteracts his colleagues’ wrongdoing. Each is well suited to Demosthenes’ purposes. Leon functions very easily as code for him, clearly.⁹² Referring positively to Conon is a dependable resort in oratory, as we saw with Against Leptines,⁹³ but Adeimantus, associate of Alcibiades and stratēgos in the critical year 405/4, is the key here: he is easily associable with Aeschines because he allegedly fraternized with Sparta, escaping execution after Aegospotami as a result,⁹⁴ though Conon’s accusation must have been about something else (even if Adeimantus’ alleged treachery would ⁹² Xenophon’s characterization of Leon may preserve a fair picture of a tradition of him as an outspoken, honest operator who makes the King sit up and think: Hell. 7.1.37; Bearzot (2011) 24. Leon is here described as Timagoras’ co-envoy ‘for four years’ (τέτταρ’ ἔτη: 191), but the text may be wrong: Mosley (1968); MacDowell (2000a) 284–5. One alternative possibility is that Leon and Timagoras went on other embassies together in the years before the 367/6 mission to Persia. ⁹³ Nouhaud (1982) 333–8; Milns (1995) 17; and Chapter 2.3. ⁹⁴ On Adeimantus: Lévy (1976) 35–7; Sommerstein (1996) 297–8 on his appearance at Frogs 1512; MacDowell (2000a) 285; and Kapellos (2009), especially 273–4 on D. 19.191. Sources for his relationship with Sparta: X. Hell. 2.1.30–2; Lys. 14.38; Paus. 4.17.3.

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no doubt loom in the background of any trial he faced).⁹⁵ We know nothing of Eubulus’ accusation of Tharrhex and Smicythus, with whom he had messed (συσσεσιτηκώς: 191), perhaps in some military office or on military service, but also perhaps while they were serving as magistrates, maybe prytaneis (the sitēsis referred to would then be the regular provision made for such magistrates in the tholos).⁹⁶ This would bring out the paradigmatic frame of the ‘parody prytaneis’ well, and keep the application of this neat triad broad (συμπεπρεσβευκὼς . . . συσσεσιτηκώς . . . συστρατηγήσας): domestic, military, and diplomatic service would, therefore, all be represented. Again, the perversion of commensality, of the shared diligent execution of a democratic duty, is the main point against Aeschines—Demosthenes constructs his own protest as legitimate and motivated by a desire to highlight that perversion: he did not turn his back on his messmates; they turned their back on the city.⁹⁷ So susceptible does Demosthenes make the Timagoras parallel to his wider purposes that he appears to allude to it even in the epilogos.⁹⁸ Here, the audience are encouraged to think that Philip will change his conduct towards them (τὸν τρόπον μεταθήσεται: 341) if they convict Aeschines, a notion figured in terms of a shift of Philip’s attitude towards democracy and against those who had shown oligarchic sympathies, e.g. at 136–7. This is a clear look back to Demosthenes’ juxtaposition of the Persian King, and his concession of Amphipolis after the execution of Timagoras, with the possible change of front Philip might adopt in the current case (137–8), and it is invested by Demosthenes with a symbouleutic tone which plots him very clearly in the democratic-oligarchic spectrum: this is a case of a desired sea change in right Athenian decision-making, and nothing to do with Philip, with whom there is (cf. 135, 138) chance of a peace beneficial to Athens if the right people are listened to in future. In choosing to recall previous occurrences of the Timagoras parallel a few moments before closing, Demosthenes leaves an impression that if his audience respond to the lessons that that parallel has been offering throughout, both in terms of the ethical case against Aeschines (underlined by the recurrence of the paradigmatic Olynthian traitors Euthycrates and Lasthenes from 265, at 342) and in terms of the symbouleutic, motivational case for Demosthenes’ advice, they will start to make the gains they deserve. The optimism and vision which we have come to associate with Demosthenes in the Assembly speeches, and which recur ⁹⁵ Sommerstein (1996) 297–8. ⁹⁶ Rhodes (1972) 16, 32. ⁹⁷ Hobden (2009) 79, 84–5; cf. MacDowell (2000a) 285. ⁹⁸ Noted but not pursued by MacDowell (2000a) 354.

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strongly in On the Crown, are clearly signposted here. This final allusion to the Timagoras example, drawing on its predecessors, enables Demosthenes to leave the audience with a powerful sense of the binary model of good democratic behaviour versus corrupt self-interest that he has been pursuing throughout—one dependent on the capacity of the orator to mediate it successfully. The orator’s handling of the past is once again made metaphorical for his wider capacity for good statesmanship, and I now turn to explore that via Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ explicit struggle over it in their accounts of what happened in the Peace debate in Elaphebolion 346.

5.3. AESCHINES AND THE DEFENCE

5.3.1. Confronting Demosthenes The Embassy speeches stage an explicit contest over the right way to use the Athenian past, and over who is best placed to do that. In On the False Embassy, we see Demosthenes develop his negative characterization of Aeschines partly by taking historical awareness and sensitivity to Athens’s traditions as metaphors (and prerequisites) for good statesmanship; in On the Embassy, we see Aeschines confronting that by contesting Demosthenes’ own handling—its accuracy and relevance, and the purity of its guiding motivations—and advancing his own. Looking back, he contextualizes his use of the past in the Peace debate by representing it as the true picture that the city needed to be offered at that particular moment (2.74), and, looking to the present, he seeks to offer convincing support for his claim both to acquittal now and to be considered a credible source of well-informed advice in the future. I now look at these dynamics in detail. Contrary to what Aeschines says in On the Embassy, there must have been speeches in the Assembly on 19 Elaphebolion as well as on the previous day; he happily reveals in Against Ctesiphon in 330 what it would have been inconvenient for him to admit in 343.⁹⁹ This is what Demosthenes says about Aeschines’ speech (19.15–16): ἀναστὰς ἐδημηγόρει καὶ συνηγόρει ἐκείνῳ πολλῶν ἀξίους, ὦ Ζεῦ καὶ πάντες θεοί, θανάτων λόγους, [16] ὡς οὔτε τῶν προγόνων ὑμᾶς μεμνῆσθαι δέοι οὔτε ⁹⁹ A. 3.63–4, 71, compared with A. 2.64–9. See E. M. Harris (1995) 145–6; Buckler (2000) 149; MacDowell (2000a) 7.

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τῶν τὰ τρόπαια καὶ τὰς ναυμαχίας λεγόντων ἀνέχεσθαι, νόμον τε θήσειν καὶ γράψειν μηδενὶ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὑμᾶς βοηθεῖν, ὃς ἂν μὴ πρότερος βεβοηθηκὼς ὑμῖν ᾖ. καὶ ταῦθ’ ὁ σχέτλιος καὶ ἀναιδὴς οὗτος ἐτόλμα λέγειν ἐφεστηκότων τῶν πρέσβεων καὶ ἀκουόντων, οὓς ἀπὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων μετεπέμψασθε ὑπὸ τούτου πεισθέντες, ὅτ’ οὔπω πεπρακὼς αὑτὸν ἦν. [Aeschines] rose, addressed the Assembly, and supported [Philocrates] with a speech that, O Zeus and all the gods, merits death many times over. [16] He said you should not recall your ancestors or put up with talk of trophies and sea battles but should enact and inscribe a law forbidding you from aiding any Greeks who had not previously aided you. And this shameless wretch uttered those words while the envoys from all over Greece, whom you had summoned at his insistence before he sold himself, were standing right there and listening.

This passage is echoed in a more extended section close to the epilogos (307–13), where Demosthenes repeats the ‘no ancestors-no trophies-no assistance to the Greeks’ triad twice (307, 311), adding both times that Aeschines also called for the other Greeks not to be included in the Athenian deliberations (an element which echoes ἐφεστηκότων τῶν πρέσβεων καὶ ἀκουόντων in 16). Twice in this later section of the speech the historic victories Aeschines happily mentioned before his change of front are either specified as Marathon and Salamis (τὸν Μαραθῶνα, τὴν Σαλαμῖνα: 311) or referred to via the decrees of Miltiades and Themistocles (303) which Aeschines quoted first at Megalopolis and then in the Athenian Assembly, as we saw in Chapter 3.2.2. In a move which bears out Theopompus’ attack on the Athenians’ obsession with (deceptive versions of ) these battles,¹⁰⁰ Marathon and Salamis are identified by Demosthenes as victories which are celebrated as transformative for freedom across the Greek world, even by Athens’s enemies (312–13). As for Aeschines’ dismissal of them on 19 Elaphebolion: ‘never in your presence have more shameful words ever been spoken than those’ (312). This (or something like it) is what Aeschines has to confront in On the Embassy—he says as much at 2.63, reflecting Demosthenes’ criticisms very accurately. First, he reacts strongly to the idea that there were envoys from other Greek states present at the time; but, as Ryder has shown,¹⁰¹ the passage in which he does so (2.57–62) shows stunning legerdemain with detail and makes Demosthenes’ version preferable, even if he may be exaggerating in implying that all the other delegates were there with the inclusive τῶν accompanying πρέσβεων (19.16). Then (2.63) Aeschines claims there were no speeches on 19 Elaphebolion—more ¹⁰⁰ Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 153: see Chapter 1.3. ¹⁰¹ Ryder (1977) 220–2; also Cawkwell (1960) 435–8.

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misrepresentation. At 74–8, though, he embarks on a more sophisticated mode of confrontation altogether, shifting the paradigm about how the past should be deployed. Aeschines explains to the trial audience in 343 that he did tell the Peace debate audience to imitate the ancestors’ achievements (Plataea, Salamis, Marathon, Artemisium, and the expedition of Tolmides: 74–5), but not everything they did: in particular, to avoid the mistakes made at the time of the Sicilian Expedition and at the end of the Peloponnesian War (76). This critical use of history projects an authoritative and statesmanlike understanding of the best paradigms for Athens, and—as noted earlier in this section—the passage’s most effective feature is its confrontation of Demosthenes’ largely loose and unspecified vision in On the False Embassy of how ancestral behaviour might be imitated. It compartmentalizes Demosthenes’ continuum and gives the sense that Aeschines’ knowledge is comprehensive but that his control of it is proportionate—the level of detail is not excessive. It seems reasonable to think that Demosthenes is taking the opportunity in On the False Embassy to challenge in a court environment a creative take on the use of the past by Aeschines that had been integrated into a pragmatic case for peace. But On the Embassy 74–8 is geared to the trial audience in 343 and to respond to Demosthenes’ prosecution speech—it therefore needs to provide a detailed and compelling reading of the past to address Demosthenes’ charges of dismissive, malicious simplification (οὔτε τῶν προγόνων ὑμᾶς μεμνῆσθαι δέοι οὔτε τῶν τὰ τρόπαια καὶ τὰς ναυμαχίας λεγόντων ἀνέχεσθαι). What did Aeschines actually say in 346? At that point, his targets were the opponents of peace of any kind: Hegesippus, probably Aristophon, perhaps Hyperides,¹⁰² no doubt others.¹⁰³ (It is hard to identify with certainty any speakers who proposed ‘peace, but not this sort of peace’, beyond Aeschines himself on 18 Elaphebolion in Demosthenes’ version [19.14], and possibly Demosthenes himself.) Aeschines depicts his opponents (misleadingly) as ‘the public speakers acting in unison’ (οἱ συντεταγμένοι ῥήτορες) and claims that they ‘made no attempt to offer measures for the city’s rescue but urged you to look to the Propylaea of the Acropolis [ἀποβλέπειν δὲ εἰς τὰ προπύλαια τῆς ἀκροπόλεως] and remember the naval battle against the Persians at Salamis [τῆς ἐν Σαλαμῖνι πρὸς τὸν Πέρσην ναυμαχίας ¹⁰² See Engels (1989) 70–4 and Whitehead (2000) 5, 235 on this part of Hyperides’ earlier career. His prosecution of Aristophon in 362 should not cause us particular alarm, given the time gap. ¹⁰³ Cawkwell (1960) 437; Efstathiou (2004) 396–7; 399–400; Harding (2006) 196–7. Other candidates would include Diopeithes and Chares: cf. 8.30.

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μεμνῆσθαι] and the tombs and trophies of our ancestors [τῶν τάφων τῶν προγόνων καὶ τῶν τροπαίων]’ (74). Effectively, Aeschines’ criticism of these speakers is the same as Demosthenes’ criticism (of no doubt some of the same speakers, in fact) at the beginning of On the Symmories a decade or so earlier: praising the ancestors is all very well, but imitating them actively is the key (14.1). Aeschines’ position probably simplifies the hawks’ arguments, as does Theopompus’ version of Aristophon’s speech, which echoes the generalizing version of the past put forward by Demosthenes in 19.15–16 and 307–313: as we saw in Chapter 3.2.2, the hawks were probably using Salamis and Marathon because those Persian Wars victories had become the default frames for understanding how Philip might be dealt with—not just because those battles happened to be fundamental articles of civic pride. Aeschines’ claim that he made a pragmatic argument, then, is almost certainly right, but whether it was the only pragmatic argument being made in the debate—and whether it was the one he presents here—is much less clear. Demosthenes’ formulation ‘forbidding you from aiding any Greeks who had not previously aided you’ (μηδενὶ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὑμᾶς βοηθεῖν, ὃς ἂν μὴ πρότερος βεβοηθηκὼς ὑμῖν ᾖ: 16) also does a good job of concealing whatever Aeschines actually advised. This could be a distortive cover for the role both Aeschines and Demosthenes had in excluding the Phocians from the Peace.¹⁰⁴ Demosthenes’ repeated emphasis on the plight of the Phocians in On the False Embassy can certainly be read as a reflection of his awareness that he did not in fact do more to help them. If the ‘Greeks who had not formerly aided the Athenians’ are the Phocians, that would help explain the level of Demosthenes’ indignation: he would be drawing on the tradition that the Phocians had aided the Athenians in 404 in opposing the Thebans when the latter wanted to destroy Athens.¹⁰⁵ Misrepresenting Aeschines’ view here would make a neat contribution to the impression of historical illiteracy on his part that Demosthenes is fostering; he, by contrast, is able to tap into the tradition of Athenian help for those in trouble which we saw in Chapter 3.3.3 as part of Assembly rhetoric’s cross-fertilization with the epitaphios logos genre. One way Aeschines hits back in On the Embassy, in fact, is by construing his own change of policy (cf. also 79) as a simple analogue for, and example of, Athens’s fluctuating relationship with other Greek peoples they had aided at some time; and to do so he uses as examples of changing self-interest—and largely in reverse—the familiar examples

¹⁰⁴ Cawkwell (1960) 433–5; E. M. Harris (1995) 146; Efstathiou (2004) 392–3 n. 18. ¹⁰⁵ See n. 109.

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that we saw Demosthenes use to demonstrate Athenian altruism in For the Megalopolitans: Sparta, Thebes, and the Euboeans (A. 2.164; cf. D. 16.14–15¹⁰⁶). Aeschines’ hard-headed take on a clearly well-used cluster of examples—using them to prove something crushingly realistic—is a good encapsulation of the whole strategy of 2.74–8. Aeschines is very unlikely to have dismissed the ancestors outright in the Peace debate, though; that is equally Demosthenes’ trial version. In the debate in 346, Aeschines would have been well aware that this would be lethal for his argument in front of a dēmos audience proud of their past.¹⁰⁷ As we saw in Chapter 1.4, older paradeigmata may be flagged as such and then qualified by more recent ones, but the flat rejection of their validity is rare, and very unlikely in a diplomacy-focused Assembly context. The political self-interest behind Demosthenes’ own strategy in On the False Embassy also deserves a closer look. He had not been among those opposing the Peace in the debate, so his deployment now of something like those opponents’ point of view then to attack Aeschines must be interpreted as part of his calculated post factum self-dissociation from involvement with the Peace—and as either an overture to new political allies or a reflection of a new solidarity with them. Hegesippus’ and Demosthenes’ collaboration in the Timarchus trial makes it likely that Demosthenes’ self-dissociation was fairly quickly accepted¹⁰⁸—and the two were certainly allies by 341 (D. 9.72)—but clearly it was worth Demosthenes’ while to find half-convincing ways to pretend that he had been one of them all along. Subscribing to patriotic versions of the past was a good way to demonstrate the requisite ideological kinship. His failure in 19.16 to mention anything the opponents of the Peace might have been saying about the Phocians might be important to these manoeuvres: as noted earlier in this section, Demosthenes could not afford to call attention to the fact that he had not necessarily been among those calling for the Phocians’ inclusion; again, his reference to the Phocian vote to save Athens in 404 (19.65) is a calculated version for this trial, skilfully placed directly after an absorbing passage of pathetic enargeia describing the desolation of Phocis (see further Chapter 6.1). ¹⁰⁶ Aeschines’ ‘Eretria’ here matches Demosthenes’ ‘Euboeans’ if we take the 348 Athenian expedition—which had happened by 343, but not when For the Megalopolitans was delivered in 353/2—into account as well as the successful one under Timotheus in 357. Compare 3.85, where Aeschines denies that the Euboeans deserved Athenian help either in 357 or in 348. ¹⁰⁷ As Canevaro points out: (2019) 141–2 and n. 24 there. ¹⁰⁸ This may be buttressed by Demosthenes’ forecast that Aeschines is likely to attack Hegesippus (19.72, 74). Note also D. 19.331(his regret at the failure of Hegesippus’ embassy) and A. 3.82 (Demosthenes as cooperating with the ‘enemies of public peace’ by 343).

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The fact that Demosthenes invokes an apparently impeccable oral source—the entire audience (ὑμῶν ἔγωγ’ ἀκούω πάντων: 65)—as his source for the Phocian vote story may betray awareness that his version was not in fact canonical (perhaps a point at issue in the Peace debate itself ); other sources have the Spartans, not the Phocians, intervening to save the Athenians on this occasion.¹⁰⁹ Aeschines’ detailed reaction to all this in On the Embassy (74–8) is a well-calibrated and multifaceted response to the rhetorical situation he faces. Broadly, he reverses the charge of bribe-taking, highlighting the consistency of his conduct in order to counter Demosthenes’ main point: his mysterious deviation from a previously unexceptionable policy (e.g. 14, 311). This sets up an obvious contrast with Demosthenes’ selfdissociation from the Peace, which Aeschines underlines by explaining openly—and pragmatically—why he changed his mind about peace (A. 2.79): Athenian diplomatic appeals to other states were getting nowhere (something Demosthenes himself admits later: 18.20). Aeschines’ stated decision rationalizes politics as being about managing change, something he also emphasizes eloquently later in the speech (165), and something jurors could accept if it was properly packaged (though whether it would persuade them to rescue Aeschines in the current climate of mounting hostility to the Peace was another matter). His assertion of his ability and his right to produce a convincing alternative account is also importantly framed by his declaration of pride in his achievements (οὔτ’ αἰσχύνομαι ἐπ’ αὐτοῖς, ἀλλὰ καὶ φιλοτιμοῦμαι: 69). As well as rebutting Demosthenes’ claims in 19.15–16 and 307–13, though—that selling out to Philip destroyed Aeschines’ ability to use history correctly (307; 311) and that good users of the past are never corrupted (308)—Aeschines is also able to capitalize on Demosthenes’ generalizations about the desirable past. Just before giving the examples of Callias and Epicrates, and just after a discussion of the condemnation of Arthmius of Zelea (269–72),¹¹⁰ Demosthenes’ ambition to put as much distance as possible between Aeschines’ attitude to the past as voiced in (Demosthenes’ version of) the Peace debate and the ideal model of Athenian public engagement with it leads him to a generalization which lays him open to counter-challenge. He suggests that the Athenians ‘would do well to imitate [their] ancestors ¹⁰⁹ Sources: see MacDowell (2000a) 235–6; Steinbock (2013a) 281–91, 319–23. In Isoc. 14.31–2, for example, the Thebans are the only ones to vote for Athens’s destruction, and in X. Hell. 2.2.19–20 it is the Spartans who save Athens, on the basis of its role in the Persian Wars (2.2.20). ¹¹⁰ Arthmius: Chapter 3.2.2 n. 69.

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not just in one respect but in everything they did’ (οὐ καθ’ ἕν τι μόνον τοὺς προγόνους μιμουμένους ὀρθῶς ἂν ποιεῖν, ἀλλὰ καὶ κατὰ πάντα ὅσα ἔπραττον ἐφεξῆς: 273). This fits with the model recommended at 19.15–16, because in invoking battles, tombs, and trophies there and the punishment of corrupt envoys here, Demosthenes was addressing the immanent dēmos of the continuum, who always act the same way. Even the most confirmed traditionalist in the audience might have thought this too broad or too facile. Aeschines, therefore, uses 2.74–8 to indicate not only the breadth and sophistication of his historical understanding, but also the oral (and thus eminently democratic) origins of his knowledge: the tales told him by his father Atrometus (77–8, 147), one of those who restored the dēmos in 403 (συγκατήγαγε δὲ τὸν δῆμον: 78). As we saw in Chapter 1.5, Steinbock has examined Aeschines’ strategy here as a bid to undermine the Athenian ‘master narrative’ as purveyed by his opponents in 346.¹¹¹ But (as noted in Chapter 1.5) this interpretation takes insufficient account of the present trial context—Aeschines is giving a persuasive rather than an accurate account of what he said in the Peace debate—and of the dynamic of contestation. In 2.74–8, Aeschines is responding first and foremost to Demosthenes now, not the ‘master narrative’ articulated in 346. He is making a counterbid against the overly universalizing (and, it could be argued, opportunistic) political stance Demosthenes is mediating through the use of the past in this trial (as well as in 346), and offering a carefully nuanced appreciation of different historical decisions by the dēmos to fit his own picture of how he conducted himself as a careful, responsible, and statesmanlike presence in the Peace debate and the negotiations that led to it. Via his counterattack, Demosthenes emerges as the articulator of a staid, unrealistic, and even dishonest conception of the past, ill-fitted for engagement with a shrewd, modern political operator like Philip or with the circumstances Athens actually faces. In order to demolish Demosthenes’ position, Aeschines makes strategic capital from Demosthenes’ own decision in On the False Embassy to take the line expressed by the Peace’s opponents in the debate, and bundles them all together. Aeschines’ pragmatic run-up to his historical section (70–4) plots the context in which Athens was making the decision, paves the way for the examples of ancestral good judgement that he will discuss, and so leads in ¹¹¹ Defined by Steinbock elsewhere as ‘the prevalent version of the Athenian past’: (2013a) 20–1. But we should keep in mind the flexibility of the orators’ treatment of the constituent elements of that prevalent version, and the importance of rhetorical situations to how they were mediated and perceived. The concept may work best for the epitaphios logos: see Chapter 1.1.

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with a hard-headed contrast with the emotive appeals being made by the Peace’s opponents (e.g. ἀποβλέπειν δὲ εἰς τὰ προπύλαια τῆς ἀκροπόλεως, ‘to look to the Propylaea of the Acropolis’: 74). ἀποβλέπειν is particularly relevant here because the Pnyx was a prime location from which a speaker could gesture to the Propylaea itself.¹¹² That meant it directly connoted Athenian glory and national identity—as Aeschines, elsewhere in the speech, has Epaminondas realizing too (2.105)—because of the fifthcentury imperial context of its construction, which was funded in its principal stage by tribute.¹¹³ Demosthenes’ version of the hawks’ examples does not mention the Propylaea, and once again Aeschines has chosen this structure for good reasons. First, orators could clearly rely on a popular perception that the empire itself and the cultural achievements of Periclean Athens were made possible by beating the Persians (D. 14.40)—so Aeschines can assimilate the example to his combating of the frames being used by others to address the Philip problem (and simplified by Aeschines himself). Second, it is precisely the period of the empire, and its proponents, whose mistakes—the result of overreaching pride encouraging unwise decision-making (ἀβουλίαν: 76, 77)—Aeschines criticizes: the Sicilian expedition while Decelea was fortified (not wholly accurate, but perhaps the reinforcing expedition is meant),¹¹⁴ and the resistance to peace advocated vigorously by Cleophon despite Spartan willingness to make terms (76).¹¹⁵ Aeschines has finessed the latter to make the parallel with Philip’s peace overtures stronger; Sparta offered Athens good terms earlier, but not after Aegospotami.¹¹⁶ The Propylaea, therefore, becomes (appropriately enough) a portal into an organized Athenian past fully under Aeschines’ control, where imitation of the ancestors is directed to sensible goals which address the situation at hand.¹¹⁷ At the same time, Aeschines recaptures for his own use the canonical pre-imperial examples his opponents had cited then and Demosthenes is citing now (75)—he needed to reassure the jurors of his respect for these. At the end of the canonical sequence (Plataea, Salamis, Marathon, Artemisium) sits his skewed coverage of Tolmides’ generalship in 456/5: the famous periplous of the Peloponnese and burning of the Spartan docks ¹¹² See Chapter 1.1 n. 51. ¹¹³ See Paulsen (1999) 345; for the use of tribute in the construction of the Propylaea: IG I³ 462–6; Meiggs and Lewis (1988) 165–6 (no. 60); Giovannini (1990); Shear (2016) 300–27; Osborne and Rhodes (2017) 263. ¹¹⁴ Thuc. 7.20. Incredulity about this decision is also found in Isoc. 8.84. ¹¹⁵ For complication of this tradition: Natalicchio (1990). ¹¹⁶ Carey (2000) 119 n. 103. ¹¹⁷ See Isoc. 8.37 for a similar kind of division of ancestors who ought to be imitated (with different chronological lines drawn).

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at Gytheum (Thuc. 1.108.5) become a land campaign (this presumably accords with how people now remembered it). But this puts the paradeigma at risk, given that we are told Tolmides died at the battle of Coronea in 447 after exhibiting just the kind of proto-imperial impetuosity that Aeschines is busy condemning¹¹⁸—we have to assume that this was not within the competence of Aeschines’ audience (and/or that it says more about the thematic interests of the reporting source, Plutarch). Tolmides’ (mid-fifth-century) statue pairing with his seer Theaenetus on the Acropolis might well have encouraged a rather different view: of the commander’s respect for the divine (e.g. in the matter of omens for battle).¹¹⁹ Nouhaud rightly sees the reference as an overcompensation for those Demosthenic criticisms of Aeschines’ attitude to the past in On the False Embassy—hence, partly the error (due also to Aeschines’ misunderstanding).¹²⁰ Steinbock makes a good case for classing Tolmides with the heroes,¹²¹ but I would prefer to see Aeschines, who is on the point of crossing into the passage featuring the ‘unwise’, imperial-era examples, setting Tolmides up as a transitional figure—transitions are important to his ‘fifth-century excursus’ later in the speech (2.172–7), and the two passages have much in common (as we will see). Even if we assume Aeschines knew nothing of Tolmides’ impetuosity at Coronea, the fictive march through the Peloponnese—which evokes Epaminondas’ invasions of the Peloponnese from 370 onwards¹²² and is linked to the first of these by the common element of assault on the docks at Gytheum¹²³—is problematic in its evocation not of Athenian valour in defence of Greece (as in the other four cases) but of the spectre of Greeks killing Greeks— something which the worst phase of imperialistic ambition is about to take further. The sense is, then, that Aeschines could just about countenance Tolmides’ heroics, but that the tide was already turning—he wants his audience to make a similar judgement. If he had wanted to make a simpler point, he could have chosen a less problematic example: the victories on the Eurymedon, for instance.¹²⁴

¹¹⁸ At least in Plutarch’s version: Plut. Per. 18.2–3. ¹¹⁹ Pausanias features the two statues (1.27.5) and was told about Tolmides’ death in battle. For date and presentation: Krumeich (1997) 110–11; von den Hoff (2008) 112; Keesling (2017) 265–6 n. 30. ¹²⁰ Nouhaud (1986) 346. ¹²¹ Steinbock (2013b) 84–7; also Hesk (2012) 225. ¹²² Carey (2000) 119 n. 100. ¹²³ X. Hell. 6.5.32; Xenophon does not say that Epaminondas succeeded in destroying the docks. ¹²⁴ Used by Lycurgus in Against Leocrates (1.72). Internecine warfare avoided in art: Boedeker (1998) 193.

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Imperial pride, then, is Aeschines’ chosen keynote, and specifically its dark side:¹²⁵ errors and unseasonable appetite for conquest (ἄκαιρον φιλονικίαν: 75).¹²⁶ Aeschines recommends in its place an alternative sort of pride: pride in prudent deliberation, which includes his own pride in his role in the peace-making process (as at 69: φιλοτιμοῦμαι). Meanwhile, the wrong sort of pride is carefully linked with the patriotic overtones of the Peace’s opponents—and, most importantly, Demosthenes in the present, as Aeschines has decided to accept for his own purposes Demosthenes’ current self-identification with that group, as we have already seen. In the ‘imperial pride’ part of his sequence (75–6), Aeschines therefore capitalizes on a straight fit (or what can be represented as one) between his opponents then and now, and casts Demosthenes in the role of a carefully selected representative of the very fifth-century politicians whose actions Aeschines has criticized: the recalcitrant Cleophon (76), Athens’s leading popular politician at the end of the Peloponnesian War. Cleophon’s violence on the bēma, ‘threatening to take a dagger [μαχαίρᾳ] and cut the throat of anyone who mentioned peace’ (76)—and this at a time when Athens, in Aeschines’ version, still has a Spartan peace offer on the table—recalls Aeschines’ broader characterization of Demosthenes’ hyperactive performance style and outrageous language in On the Embassy as a whole;¹²⁷ and Demosthenes’ popular designation as ‘the sword-maker’ (μαχαιροποιός), derived from one of the businesses his father had owned, may be helping Aeschines’ casting here.¹²⁸ Further, the suggestion that Cleophon got himself on the deme rolls only by corrupt activity (παρεγγραφεὶς αἰσχρῶς πολίτης: 76)—he is targeted for his Thracian origins in comedy¹²⁹—dovetails with Aeschines’

¹²⁵ Aeschines is not interested in another familiar facet of that dark side—abuse of the allies—here: imperial phoros is seen as a good thing at 2.175. ¹²⁶ The qualifying ἄκαιρον shows that Aeschines recognizes φιλονικία as open to possible positive gloss: cf., e.g., X. Cyr. 7.1.18, 8.2.26; Ages. 2.8—i.e. that it was acceptable for Athens to be competitive per se (and constructively)—but this was a period when things went too far. ¹²⁷ Hyperactive and histrionic Demosthenes in A. 2.36–7, 40–2, 49, 51, 85, 157, with Gotteland (2006). For Cleophon here: Nouhaud (1982) 123–4, 290–2; and cf. [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 34.1 (where Cleophon is drunk and wearing a breastplate). His Cleophon may also recall Hegesippus, also hyperactive (A. 1.71); for his violent language, see possibly [D.] 7.45. ¹²⁸ See n. 130. ¹²⁹ See Ar. Frogs 679–85, 1532–3 (cf. 1504) and Platon, Cleophon fr. 61. For Cleophon elsewhere in comedy: Ar. Thesm. 805; on Platon’s Cleophon, defeated by Frogs in 405: Sommerstein (2000) 443–4; Storey (2011) 3.114–19. Cleophon is also possibly behind the demagogue in Eupolis, Demes fr. 99.23–34: Storey (2000) 183–4; (2003) 155–60 (preferring Alcibiades).

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taunts about Demosthenes’ ‘Scythian’ origins and his later outrage at Demosthenes’ ‘ingratitude’ to Aeschines’ father-in-law Philodemus, who sponsored his entry on those rolls (2.150). Like other popular politicians in the fifth and fourth centuries, both Cleophon and Demosthenes attracted mockery for their families’ sources of wealth.¹³⁰ Aeschines certainly warmed to the potential of the match: Demosthenes is cast as Cleophon directly in Against Ctesiphon (3.150), violence being emphasized again. While Cleophon certainly divided people¹³¹ and could be thought to bear out the topos of the worsening quality of the political class after Pericles’ death,¹³² other views were possible: Cleophon’s democratic credentials, at least, were watertight—he took them with him to the grave under the Thirty.¹³³ By rejecting Cleophon, and indeed Athens after Tolmides and before 404 (2.77), Aeschines carefully distinguishes himself as sympathetic to Athens’s ‘true’ glory days but also capable of discrimination: in control of the past, and able to deploy it in a focused way informed by context against those who misapply it by (in Demosthenes’ case, at least) accommodating everything to a model which cannot address situational specifics. Unlike in the fully developed parallel scenarios of Against Timarchus, Aeschines does not cast himself in any role in the historical sequence at 74–8 (just as he chooses not to summon up illustrations based on good envoys to head off the Timagoras parallel). The nearest he gets is the implication that Cleophon’s rejection of peace in 405/4 ruined Athens, while his own advocacy of peace in 346 averted war. Instead, he construes his role entirely as that of accurate and honest narrator, and even does that partly by proxy, naming as his source his father Atrometus, present in court at the age of 94 (78; 147).¹³⁴ As noted earlier in this section, the most important thing about Atrometus, according to Aeschines, is that he helped restore the democracy in 403; this is stated twice, the second time at 147 (συγκατάγειν δὲ τὸν ¹³⁰ Cleophon ‘the lyre-maker’: see also Andoc. 1.146 and [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 28.3; for Demosthenes ‘the sword-maker’: Plut. Dem. 4.1. ¹³¹ Cf. Lys. 30.12–13. ¹³² See, especially, Isoc. 8.75 (and 13) and [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 28.3–4 as good follow-ups to Thuc. 2.65. Historical assessments of Cleophon: Mathieu (1914) 196–7; Baldwin (1974); Nouhaud (1982) 123–4, 290–2. ¹³³ Cleophon as victim of the Thirty: Lys. 30.10, 12; 13.12; X. Hell. 1.7.35; Roisman (2006) 83–4 and n. 37. Lysias alone has three different images of him: as an honest democrat (13.7–8, 12; and cf. Todd [1996] 118–19); as rather more vocal (30.10); even as an elder statesman figure (19.48). ¹³⁴ Steinbock (2013b) 81–98; cf. Thomas (1989) 139–44, and Grethlein (2010) 131 on Andocides’ use of family traditions of political conduct (see also Chapter 3.1). In both cases, the crucial detail is that the relatives identified were good servants of the polis.

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δῆμον), where Aeschines even (desperately?) signposts his own repetition of it: ὥσπερ καὶ ὀλίγῳ πρότερον εἶπον (‘as I mentioned a little earlier’). If Aristophon was one of the politicians Aeschines was targeting here and in 346 (though he interestingly avoids mentioning him if so),¹³⁵ Atrometus looks like an ideal counterweight figure, comparable (indeed possibly even senior) in age (σχεδὸν πρεσβύτατος τῶν πολιτῶν, ‘almost the oldest of the citizens’: 147),¹³⁶ in involvement with the restoration of the democracy,¹³⁷ and also therefore in authority to represent the past correctly. The main point here, though, is to prove Aeschines’ own emotional connection with the past and with the city’s highs and lows from a young age (they are ‘well-known family stories [οἰκεῖά μοι καὶ συνήθη] I have heard often’: 78); Demosthenes’ own capacity for accurate discussion of the past is at the same time presented as invalidated by his ‘Scythian’ origins (ἐκ τῶν νομάδων Σκυθῶν . . . ὢν γένος: 78). Fending off Demosthenes’ criticisms, then, gives Aeschines a prime opportunity to stress his own regard for the Athenian past, and to give a practical demonstration of his understanding of—and hermeneutic skill in—contesting historical illustration to articulate political rivalry more generally. To challenge the critique of his behaviour that Demosthenes had channelled through an identification of appropriate regard for the past with honest statesmanship as a whole, Aeschines carefully sets out the conception of the past that forms his ideological base and plots its differences from the platform Demosthenes now shares with the hawks of the Peace debate. But there are distinctive passages of historical material in On the Embassy which function to answer Demosthenes’ criticisms and to do more. These are Aeschines’ reports of his own speeches at Pella and the presentations of the past embedded in them (2.25–33, 113–18) and his use of an extended reading of fifth-century Athenian history to defend the making of peace (172–7). Their ¹³⁵ Other signs (apart from Theopompus’ version of the Peace debate) include A. 2.70–3 (an attack on Chares, who had worked closely with Aristophon in the Embata trials); A. 2.106, 141, 143 (attacks on Demosthenes’ pro-Theban sympathies—which Aristophon shared: A. 3.139—and his proxenia). We need to be cautious, though: Aeschines could be linked with Aristophon when his early career was being discussed: D. 18.162; he also helped Aristophon prosecute Philonicus sometime before 343: D. 19.291. Demosthenes seems to have viewed Chares positively by 343, perhaps because of his stance towards Macedonia: D. 19.332–3; 8.30; Ep. 3.31. ¹³⁶ Authority attached to ‘being the oldest’: Lys. 23.5. Aeschines could, of course, be lying about Atrometus’ age; he lies about ages elsewhere (1.49), as does Demosthenes (21.154). For Aristophon’s age, see Chapters 1.6 and 5.2.2 n. 88. ¹³⁷ For Aristophon’s role in this: Oost (1977) 240 and Whitehead (1986) 314, with D. 20.148–9.

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importance is testified to by a compositional aspect: Aeschines carefully situates his two images of the ‘gang of opponents’ at the start of one sequence of historical material (74) and the end of another (178)—his picture of the past is thus under attack structurally as well as thematically. The two moments are carefully linked: in 178, Aeschines maps those who ruined Athens in 404 onto the Peace’s opponents (plus Demosthenes) even more openly than he had in 76. I now turn to examine the Pella speeches and the ‘fifth-century excursus’ more closely.

5.3.2. Aeschines at Pella (2.25–33 and 113–18) While we can never know precisely what happened at Pella either on the first or on the second embassy, Aeschines claims to have the support of some fellow envoys for his account of the first (2.44, 46)—though we should be wary of Aeschines’ habit of exploiting the gap between his presentation of what a witness’s statement will mean and what the witness actually turns out to be proving. Two of the other envoys, Dercylus and Iatrocles, apparently support both orators’ versions at different points of their respective speeches.¹³⁸ But in both accounts of the embassies Aeschines has multiple priorities. Implicit in giving a ‘true’ account of the embassies here is the creation of authority, and not just the authority of the experienced envoy, but the didactic authority of the skilled user of historical detail. As suggested above,¹³⁹ the account of the first embassy (25–33) is meant to encourage the audience to take pride in Aeschines’ virtuoso assertion of Athenian claims to Amphipolis: Philip is a passive recipient of instruction (and criticism: 30, 33) in Aeschines’ account, and Aeschines’ description of the king’s later reply is clearly intended to suggest that he was moved and impressed by Aeschines’ lecture and his critique of his behaviour (‘he devoted the most time to my statements’: 38)—though it is worth noting that Aeschines records no reaction for the later speech (113–18), contenting himself with a brief summary (118). Central here, as with the account of how he spoke about the past on 19 Elaphebolion 346, is what Aeschines can gain by the retelling, rather the reality of the situation itself—especially ¹³⁸ Dercylus: D. 19.175–7 (as eyewitness of Aeschines’ nocturnal escapades); A. 2.155 (Aristophanes of Olynthus’ claim to have been offered a bribe); Iatrocles: D. 19.176–7 (with other envoys, including Dercylus, to testify that Aeschines stayed behind for a day and a night with Philip); 197–8 (Olynthian lady episode; not asked to testify explicitly); A. 2.126 (to testify that Aeschines did not leave their shared quarters). ¹³⁹ See Chapters 1.4 and 5.1.

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because (as we saw in Chapter 5.2.2) that was partly a story of failure: the envoys failed to secure any pledge about Amphipolis from Philip. I focus here mainly on Aeschines’ first account (25–33), which offers more on this topic. Selection is crucial to the persuasive impact of both accounts. While promising to keep the first to a summary (25: διὰ κεφαλαίων), Aeschines emphasizes how complete the original was in what it sought to cover and argue (26: οὐδὲν παραλείπων, ‘I left out nothing’, when enumerating Athens’s services to Amyntas III). The second account is also aimed at providing a whole in the sense that it is designed to supply essential points which Demosthenes allegedly failed to make (114). The selectivity that accompanies this striving for wholeness, though, has both a performative and an argumentative function: it both accomplishes its own plan of enhancing Aeschines’ credibility independently (the performative function) and responds to Demosthenes’ criticisms earlier in the trial about Aeschines’ use of the past in 346 (the argumentative function). A good example of the argumentative function would be Aeschines’ calculated allusion to the presence of other Greek envoys listening to Demosthenes’ embarrassingly ill-judged speech at Pella on the second embassy (112)—which neatly subverts the context of shocked Greek envoys who Demosthenes presented as listening to Aeschines in the Peace debate in Athens in On the False Embassy (19.16), presumably amazed that an Athenian could be so false to his city’s traditions of supporting weaker states. Aeschines also invokes the topos of ‘all the Greeks watching’ Athens’s actions¹⁴⁰ and picks up on the very large audience he claims for the Embassy trial itself (5). Simultaneously with his presentation of well-chosen, well-informed cases made to Philip, we also find Aeschines responding strategically to Demosthenes in the way we saw him do in 2.74–8, encouraging the idea that Demosthenes’ more totalizing conception of the Athenian past suited (and suits) the situational need less well than Aeschines’ exact application of relevant models. In these two speech accounts and in the ‘fifth-century excursus’, though, Aeschines seeks to establish his credentials as someone who could have engaged in the totalizing interpretation, had he wished to—and, therefore, as someone with a competitive command of the 340s’ place within Athenian history as a whole. His selectivity, therefore, implies a broad knowledge to draw from. The parading of detail that he does parade (especially in the second account: he tells his audience that he enumerated the whole list of twelve Amphictyonic

¹⁴⁰ Cf. Arist. Rhet. 1384b32–5 (Cydias speaking).

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peoples to Philip, as well as covering the foundation of the sanctuary and the oaths and curse pronounced at that time, which he says he read out and which he also summarizes at some length here: 114–16) assures listeners that his own engagement with the past is not piecemeal, not just pragmatic, and not just dependent on what his father and distinguished uncle (78) told him, but comes from a genuine and broad field of choice. The jurors might also have warmed to the idea that one of their own had made a successful bid to Philip to be considered one of ‘those who undertake to give instruction about our traditions’ (τοῖς περὶ τῶν πατρίων ἐγχειροῦσι διδάσκειν: 114) and so worth the king’s close attention.¹⁴¹ The strategy looks questionable—we might think Aeschines risked boring or patronizing the jurors or Philip—but, once again, we should keep our own tolerance thresholds in mind: virtually all the surviving orators freely state the obvious and at times explain in basic terms aspects of civic life and history which must have been common knowledge, and though Aeschines does this with cultural knowledge more prominently than other orators (as far as our evidence allows us to judge), his performance career would have given him a shrewd appreciation of what audiences reared on catalogue poetry and catalogue-heavy poetry liked to hear from orators when the context (e.g. a diplomatic context) invited it. Aeschines’ obvious relish in the recollection strongly indicates that he is expecting this rather clunking mode of exhibiting a deeper hinterland to go down well with his present audience. Crucially, it is not generalized: it supports the case being made to Philip. That is also true of the first account: as we saw in Chapter 1.4, Aeschines carefully marks the most relevant details for his present audience—with recent historical time privileged above mythical time for them (‘what I shall report is the evidence I provided not from ancient myths but from events in our own time [οὐκ ἐν τοῖς ἀρχαίοις μύθοις, ἀλλ’ ἐφ’ ἡμῶν γεγενημένα]’: 31), but with the impression clearly communicated that at the time he was able to go into much greater detail about the history of Amphipolis (31)—an effective double response to Demosthenes’ claim in On the False Embassy 253–4 that Aeschines did not care about Amphipolis’ cultural importance, only about lining his own pockets. Aeschines may also be responding to Demosthenes’ jibe about his long-windedness when summarizing his Arcadian mission (19.11, 303—he may well have wanted to signal to the Assembly his success ¹⁴¹ His use of the Amphictyonic oath to retrospectively endorse Philip’s punishment of the Phocians is well chosen and would have gone down well in the original delivery context, for example: Bayliss in Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 188 n. 7.

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against a major Arcadian politician, Hieronymus, who was supporting Philip).¹⁴² Certainly, Demosthenes’ version of the Arcadian embassy is something he moves to refute in this speech (A. 2.79). So the tantalizing suggestion that he has a complete hand to show in the right circumstances—i.e. not the present—not only addresses context, but also characterizes the balance between focused illustration and the long view which is privileged in Demosthenes’ conception but (in Aeschines’ view) generalized beyond relevant applicability. Deft selection—and a lengthy contextualizing build-up consisting of a string of genitive absolute phrases (26–7)—means that the first speech pivots on a creative tableau, with some embedded direct speech: the appeal by Eurydice, Philip’s mother, to Iphicrates to intervene against the pretender Pausanias. Both the young Philip and his brother, the future Perdiccas III, are depicted as present and employed for pathetic effect (28).¹⁴³ Although Aeschines claims to be relying on ‘the account of all present’ (28: ὥς γε δὴ λέγουσιν οἱ παρόντες πάντες), this passage is creative in more than just execution: Philip was, in fact, a hostage in Thebes at the time;¹⁴⁴ the (in fact) late-teenage Perdiccas would probably have resisted being put in Iphicrates’ arms;¹⁴⁵ Aeschines moves on to mention the murderous regent Ptolemy of Alorus (29) without making any connection with Eurydice (whom Ptolemy may even have married);¹⁴⁶ and he suppresses the fact that while Iphicrates may have ejected Pausanias (ἐξήλασε Παυσανίαν ἐκ Μακεδονίας: 29), he (like Aeschines himself, metaphorically) did not succeed in retaking Amphipolis, the desideratum lurking behind the whole story despite Aeschines’ attempt to show that it was not Iphicrates’ purpose in the north (28).¹⁴⁷ Although the idea of the infant future king on Iphicrates’ lap could have played well before Philip, providing him with a direct link to a past paragon of the military prowess he valued highly himself, as well as with an entirely positive image of his mother, the sheer number of errors might have made him think of Aeschines as revealing ignorance (and lack of mastery ¹⁴² D. 19.11. Hieronymus and his fellow Maenalian Eucampidas were two of the founders of Megalopolis (Paus. 8.27.2) and therefore senior figures by 348/7. Hieronymus was vehemently pro-Macedonian (Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 230). Both end up in Demosthenes’ list of traitors (D. 18.295) and in Polybius’ defence of these ‘traitors’’ astute and responsible statesmanship (18.14.1–14); for the Peloponnesian angle on Philip: Kralli (2017) 51–7; Shipley (2018) 97–105. ¹⁴³ On this sequence and its problems, both chronological and factual: Carney (2018) 30–1; (2019) 38–9, 64–75. ¹⁴⁴ Hammond and Griffith (1979) 184 n. 3; Bers (1997) 167 n. 78; Carey (2000) 104 n. 50. ¹⁴⁵ Paulsen (1999) 318–19; Carney (2018) 30. ¹⁴⁶ Carney (2019) 61–4 (strictly only a possibility). ¹⁴⁷ Historians’ doubts: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 184.

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of his brief ) rather than sketching a scenario meant to persuade and using some mutually convenient untruths to do it. Whether the errors are a result of Aeschines’ manipulation or not, then, this summary should be thought of as basically tailored to his Athenian listeners of 343. The shaping of the passage itself also engages with the emphasis placed on recovery of Amphipolis by the opponents of the Peace (and Demosthenes now), fashioning a memorable image to articulate a convincing realist take on Athenian claims to that city (i.e. that the Athenians will only be able to assert their right to Amphipolis if the Macedonians—Eurydice in this case—feel they are getting something significant out of it). But the variation on a supplication scene here is important too:¹⁴⁸ an embodiment of Macedonia is shown pleading with the very embodiment of earlier fourth-century Athenian enterprise himself,¹⁴⁹ advocating mutually beneficial relations between the two states (28). Aeschines does not make any moves to cast himself in the role of Iphicrates, as he might have done if this were part of Against Timarchus, but instead focuses on demonstrating the comprehensiveness of his understanding of the historical context in which his own appeal to Philip was made—further filled out by his shrewd protreptic to Philip not to emulate Ptolemy of Alorus (or Perdiccas, who was hostile to the Athenian claim to Amphipolis: 29)—but instead his father Amyntas III (33), who Aeschines claims always got on well with Athens (26, 28), and also Philip’s own adoptive brother, none other than Iphicrates himself (28). Whether or not these two accounts were a success with the trial audience—the second of them gives too little away about what was really important on the second embassy, which might have aroused some suspicion—they play a significant role in Aeschines’ overall ‘rewriting’ of the events of the 346 embassies for popular consumption in 343. They do, however, remain tied to Aeschines’ need to give plausible accounts of specific arguments in a specific context. With his excursus about fifthcentury Athens, he was able to sketch meaningful parallels with the present in a more ambitious way.

5.3.3. Aeschines’ Fifth Century (2.172–7) Aeschines’ ‘fifth-century excursus’ starts after Salamis (172) and works its way down—via fifth-century peace agreements and their rupturing ¹⁴⁸ On children involved in supplication scenes of this type: Naiden (2006) 98–100. ¹⁴⁹ A mere reference to ‘serving with Iphicrates’ (μετὰ Ἰφικράτους συνεστρατευμένος) allows Aeschines to demonstrate his brother Philochares’ good military record: A. 2.149.

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in the Peloponnesian War and the conflicts that preceded it—to the democratic restoration in 403 (176). It then presents the next six decades en bloc as a continuous sequence of peacemakers disrupted by warmongers—a pattern which persists in the present (177). This notoriously error-strewn passage has normally been thought to reflect Aeschines’ use of a very similar—and similarly error-strewn—passage in Andocides’ On the Peace (3.3–12),¹⁵⁰ set in the 392/1 context of the Athenian negotiations at Sparta that included Epicrates and ended with the ex-envoys fleeing into exile before condemnation by the dēmos on the proposal of Callistratus.¹⁵¹ Harris (2000) has argued that the speech is a later product by a reader of Aeschines, and he is certainly right to point out that if Andocides is the author, his garbling of so many major events from his own lifetime (and, just as importantly, that of his audience) is alarming;¹⁵² it points to a far higher tolerance level for basic historical error on the part of an Athenian Assembly audience (in this case) than any other surviving oratorical text gives us the right to presume. The points I make below might be felt to have greater force if Harris’ view is correct, but at the same time the adaptation by Aeschines to the 346 and 343 situations of someone else’s vision of developments in the 478–403 period clearly counts as a creative exercise in shaping historical material for rhetorical purposes as well. I therefore accept that the identity of the person who came up with this sequence in this rough form must remain uncertain, though a source beyond Andocides, Aeschines, and Harris’s putative forger could be canvassed: Demosthenes includes passages which cover part of this period in a similar dense, bullet-point style and with some of the same eye-catching details,¹⁵³ pointing to the possible existence of familiar clusters of the relevant items (and familiar modes of treating them) not only in general use but perhaps also in rhetorical teaching—this would explain the specific inflections in each of the versions we have. The topoi in 177— the 403–343 period—recall Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 7.2, where the dēmos

¹⁵⁰ Paulsen (1999) 409–10 (‘eine Kopie’); Buckler (2000) 152–4 (though he presses too far for comfort the idea that Demosthenes and Aeschines would have seen 392/1 as a clear map for 346; see Harding [2006] 176). ¹⁵¹ On the 392/1 embassy and its aftermath: Chapter 5.2.2. ¹⁵² Harris (2000) 496–7. I also find it surprising that if Aeschines had this speech available to him, he did not use it now as a contextual aid to challenge (and recapture) Demosthenes’ usage of Epicrates (i.e. Andocides’ fellow envoy) in the prosecution (19.277–80)—the envoys could be represented as unjustly condemned for a laudable desire for peace. That said, he may have been aware of the tradition of Epicrates as a warmonger, reflected in Hell. Oxy. 7.2. ¹⁵³ See, e.g., D. 3.24 and 13.26–7 (if genuine).

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are goaded into opposing Sparta in the mid-390s by Epicrates, Cephalus, and their associates (παροξυνόντων; cf. Aeschines’ συνταραχθέντες [172]), who have not only taken Persian gold¹⁵⁴ but are said to want to involve the city in war (any war) anyway so as to make more money. In this, they resemble Aeschines’ warmongers who avoid service themselves but get themselves appointed to potentially money-making offices (ἐξετασταὶ δὲ καὶ ἀποστολεῖς γιγνόμενοι, ‘g[e]t themselves made army auditors and naval inspectors’: 177);¹⁵⁵ this echo opens up other possibilities for influence on Aeschines’ version. I confine myself here, though, to commenting on how Aeschines deploys this detail to challenge—and surpass—the historical constructions put forward by the people he reaches chronologically at 177 (a paragraph with no parallel in Andocides’ speech): Demosthenes and the Peace’s opponents. The ‘fifth-century excursus’ represents a very clear counter-offer to Demosthenes’ even more than usually totalizing vision of the Athenian past in On the False Embassy (i.e. where the ancestors should be praised wholesale, and ancient victories should be enough to send Athens to war against those who threaten its interests). Like Aeschines’ version of what he ‘actually’ said in 346 (at 2.74–8), it compartmentalizes what Demosthenes can be represented as treating as homogeneous, and does so in a way which strikes at exactly the people whose grasp and responsible use of the past Aeschines is also questioning. The thesis is that at each stage of the last century or so, there have been people like Demosthenes and the hawks with whom he is now in sympathy who have wrecked a wholly advantageous domestic situation (172: συνταραχθέντες, ‘stirred up’; 173: παρεμπεσόντων, ‘invaded’; 175: πεισθέντες ‘persuaded [to go to war]’; 176: ἐκ τῆς τῶν ῥητόρων ἁψιμαχίας, ‘thanks to the bellicosity of the public speakers’) (referencing, respectively, 460 and the outbreak of the ‘First Peloponnesian War’; war with Aegina in 458; the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War in 431; and the resistance to peace—surely a reference to Cleophon again—in 405/4). Aeschines’ basic technique here recalls Demosthenes’ linked images of Androtion in Against Androtion and Against Timocrates, and Aeschines’ own picture of Timarchus much more recently—where the negative figure or figures burst repeatedly onto the public scene throughout the speech in question, replaying iconic moments of transgression and oppression, causing setbacks—but the compressed sequence of intrusions in 172–7 gives the section greater impact. ¹⁵⁴ This directly conflicts with X. Hell. 3.5.2 (no Athenians took any gold): Rung (2004) 421, doubting Xenophon. ¹⁵⁵ For Epicrates’ fraud accusation in the office of syllogeus, cf. Lys. 27 and Bruce (1967) 56.

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What we get, then, is Aeschines making a strategic union of a particular kind of continuum-based thinking with the casting that he did in Against Timarchus: but, as in 74–8, his enemies are cast as the perpetual disturbers of the peace, while Aeschines himself stays out of the picture—he does not do anything to associate himself specifically with the sequence of individual peacemakers he does mention: Cimon (172),¹⁵⁶ Andocides the Elder (174),¹⁵⁷ and Nicias (175). Instead he seems to represent—very successfully—the Athenian continuum itself, operating as it should: the Athenians naturally flourish, springing up like a plant (ἀναφύντος: 177), after setbacks and when left to themselves in all the segments of time Aeschines covers, and achieve remarkable things: for example, during the Peace of Nicias: we deposited 7,000 talents on the Acropolis, thanks to this peace, and we acquired no less than 300¹⁵⁸ seaworthy and fully equipped triremes, our annual income in tribute was over 1,200 talents, we held the Chersonese and Naxos and Euboea, and we sent out our largest number of colonies in those years (175).

Aeschines is projecting the sense that as an ex-envoy in favour of the Peace in 346 he was simply trying to be part of that tradition, and that he sticks by those values today in defending his role. (The sort of peace he was defending is left quietly out of account—a good example of both orators’ failure to recall any middle ground in 346.) By associating himself with the core traditional fortunes and excellence of Athens, Aeschines tantalizes the jurors with a vision of an idealized past—Athens as it could have been had it not been for people like his opponents. In the process, he makes their periodic peace-wrecking efforts, and those of their earlier avatars, metaphorical of their failure to construe the past properly when they use it to advocate exactly the warmongering goals Aeschines is highlighting. They do not, in fact, understand what Athens is ‘really’ like. Aeschines also flags Demosthenes’ own disconnect from the Athenian dēmos’ real interests (peace and prosperity) in another way just before this passage (171): he claims that his opponent’s lack of understanding of the past comes from the fact that his ancestors are not the same as ¹⁵⁶ See Harris (2000) 503 n. 9 on the worrying manuscript reading here and in Andoc. 3.3: Μιλτιάδην τὸν Κίμωνος (‘Miltiades son of Cimon’). Confusion of Miltiades and Cimon was happening early, though: D. 23.305 has no textual problem and still apparently merges Cimon’s record with his father’s: Chapters 1.1 nn. 62 and 73, and 4.2.2 n. 47. ¹⁵⁷ His appearance here is probably the clearest point in favour of the orthodox view that Aeschines is simply using On the Peace (cf. Andoc. 3.6). ¹⁵⁸ Carey (2000) 155 n. 239 for this figure.

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everyone else’s—he does not have any (οὐ γὰρ εἰσίν). This connects the ‘fifth-century excursus’ neatly with the end of the 2.74–8 sequence, where Aeschines had used Demosthenes’ ‘Scythian’ origins to discredit him in a similar way. Consequently, when we get onto 178, and the warmongers of the present day, the thread of association through the sequence between peace and the stability of democracy (172, 173, 174, 176) (and war and its upending: 176, 177) places the eloquent Demosthenes firmly among those who ‘support the name of democracy not with their conduct but with flattering words; they are trying to destroy the peace that keeps democracy safe’. For Aeschines’ Demosthenes, the oratorical past is a political construct, something to move people against their better natures; for Aeschines himself (and true statesmen) it is a source of good counsel—things to learn and profit from, and imitate. To make this strategy work, the liberties taken are legion. The causes of each conflict are barely given a glance. Athenian setbacks unhelpful to the main dynamic are suppressed.¹⁵⁹ The 403–343 period (177) is carefully shorn of specifics. The responsible parties at each stage are of no interest, and there are notable casualties of the binary model, like Pericles.¹⁶⁰ What matters for Aeschines’ rhetoric is that these shadowy individuals by whom the Athenians were ‘persuaded’ (cf. πεισθέντες: 175, 177), these ‘speakers’ (cf. ῥητόρων: 176), are—like the forces of antidemocracy in Demosthenes’ conception—themselves part of the continuum and need to be perpetually challenged by people like Aeschines. These people, in fact, are one and the same as ‘the gang’ of his opponents—those who have ‘formed ranks and come against’ Aeschines now, as he tells us immediately after this passage (178: ἐπ’ ἐμὲ συστραφέντες ἥκουσι)—and who attacked his stance back in 346 (74: οἱ συντεταγμένοι ῥήτορες). Aeschines also uses the theme of illegitimacy as a means of binding: Demosthenes had no ancestors in 171, so when we see in 173 that those who have invaded the state in the early 450s are ‘individuals who had neither free birth nor moral restraint’ (οὐκ ἐλευθέρων ἀνθρώπων καὶ τοῖς τρόποις οὐ μετρίων), we can see where this process might end up; in 177–8, there is a strong verbal link back to Aeschines’ casting of Demosthenes as Cleophon earlier (ἄνθρωποι παρέγγραπτοι γεγενημένοι πολῖται, ‘persons who had had themselves fraudulently enrolled as citizens’; cf. 76: παρεγγραφεὶς αἰσχρῶς πολίτης).

¹⁵⁹ Principally the disaster in Egypt, which ought to belong in 2.173. ¹⁶⁰ He must be included among the warmongers (Megara reference: 175) despite Aeschines’ stated respect for him as a statesman elsewhere (1.25), but this clearly simplifies his record.

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The following familiar elements also appear: endless warmongering; the encouragement of empty fears in peacetime (ἐν μὲν εἰρήνῃ τὰ δεινὰ τῷ λόγῳ προορώμενοι)—a Demosthenic speciality from his detractors’ point of view, especially before 348, and there is perhaps a dig too here at Demosthenes’ carefully nurtured discourse of foresight; avoidance of real fighting (as compared with Aeschines’ survey of his own exemplary military record moments earlier, at 168–70); and, finally, a kind of fatherhood which jeopardizes the integrity of the citizen body (παιδοποιούμενοι δὲ ἐξ ἑταιρῶν, ‘fathering children on their mistresses/comrades’: 177)—and the primary referent here must be Demosthenes himself, as Aeschines has taken great pleasure earlier in the speech in accusing his opponent of fathering children by letting his friend Cnosion sleep with his wife (149; cf. 3.77).¹⁶¹ This allusion links well with Aeschines’ swipe at Demosthenes’ own birth earlier—a case of formally illegitimate activity breeding further illegitimate activity of a more sordid and humiliating variety. The excursus, then, brings to logical fruition what Aeschines had begun at 2.74–8, where he had ‘explained’ what he had meant about the fifth-century ancestors in the Assembly in 346—and, as there, he still privileges the pre-Pentecontaetia period as the time of Athens’s unblemished greatness (172; cf. 75). But it extends the earlier passage’s remit to deconstruct Aeschines’ opponents’ conception (in 346) and Demosthenes’ conception (in his prosecution speech) of the cardinal characteristics of Athenian history. It creates a parallel Athenian past comparable to the fully fledged scenarios of Against Timarchus in the sense that it involves proxies for Demosthenes at every stage, and confronts Demosthenic usage head on in that it paints an alternative continuum from which the vital lessons are to be drawn. At the same time, it combines with 2.74–8 to offer a coherent, realist understanding of the deliberative situation in Elaphebolion 346 and a probably misleading idea of how a proper understanding of the past informed Aeschines’ stance. His realization of both aims—rebuttal and substitution—makes a powerful bid, close to the end of his defence speech, to expose the weaknesses in Demosthenes’ construction and offer a cogent alternative ¹⁶¹ Commentators have tended to assume ἑταιρῶν here points to females (e.g. Carey [2000] 156 [adapted here]; Adams [1919] 295; Paulsen [1999] 414), but the genitive plural obscures whether males or females are meant. There may be a reference lurking here to the comic ridicule of Aristophon for using his mistress, the hetaira Choregis, to breach his own citizenship law of 403/2 (i.e. which enforced that of Pericles): Athenaeus 13.577c. Jokes (especially on lurid subjects) could/can stick to politicians for years, and be refuelled by callbacks in comedy, so we should not rule it out simply because it originated decades earlier than 343.

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model. What he does not give his audience—crucially—is a sense of the parallels that should be informing their decision-making now, as the Peace deteriorates.

5.4. CONCLUSION The Embassy trial was probably the highest-stakes and most politicized law-court confrontation Demosthenes and Aeschines (certainly Aeschines) had had to face in their careers to date. The reflection that we are dealing with the outflow of a situation where the two had been allies (even if relatively briefly—it is hard to know) gives the right sense of the keenness with which we therefore see each orator marshalling the most formidable intellectual and presentational forces he can against the other. Both see the public control and management of the Athenian past as a serious stake in that struggle, and not simply because a past event and past policies are under review. Both work from that necessary constraint—but they aim to produce compelling and dominant readings of the civic inheritance for their audiences. Recent events, and the characters of the two opponents themselves, inform and inflect that task. I therefore began this chapter by considering how some of Demosthenes’ specific engagements with the Timarchus trial and with the selected historical envoys fit in his overall strategy, and then moved to look at aspects of his historical argumentation that Aeschines does respond to, challenging them or appropriating them for his own purposes. I then moved to examine Aeschines’ own separate historical contributions—to which, of course, Demosthenes could not reply. Remarkably, given the time gap, both orators were prepared to contest these aspects of self-presentation in similar ways—and ways directly responsive to the strategies of the Embassy trial—in the Crown trial, thirteen years later, as we will see in Chapter 6. The Embassy trial put in direct conflict two skilled users of the past, each of whom was aware of how his opponent might use the past but could not be sure exactly how he would. Demosthenes anticipated being able to turn Aeschines’ poetic and historical material in the Timarchus trial back at him, but Aeschines did not have to respond, and so simply reasserts the rightness of that prosecution (2.180). In his self-fashioning as one of the Peace’s opponents, Demosthenes also identifies himself with their historical argumentation from the Assembly debate, which plays right into Aeschines’ hands and enables him to evolve a double strategy which reflects constantly on the present (while avoiding selfcasting in the sequences developed) but works itself out in an analytical,

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professedly realist approach (as we saw in both 74–8 and 172–7). This approach valorizes Aeschines’ own authority as a good statesman able to make the right selections from a wide range of possible historical examples to inform Athenian decision-making in a particular context, just as he is keen to tell his audience that he had been able to do when representing Athens at Pella (25–33 and 113–18). One of Demosthenes’ criticisms in On the False Embassy had been that Aeschines’ view of Athenian tradition in the Peace debate was smallminded, not only belittling past Athenian prowess but also suggesting that Athens should only reciprocate favours already done (μηδενὶ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὑμᾶς βοηθεῖν, ὃς ἂν μὴ πρότερος βεβοηθηκὼς ὑμῖν ᾖ: 16), strangling future enterprise. Aeschines does not really respond to this charge directly, and in this case (where some symbouleutic counter to Demosthenes’ charges was necessary) that is significant: it points to a failure to propose an alternative. He also has little to offer in terms of parallels to inform future Athenian activity, beyond maintaining the Peace. Part of historical material’s appeal is, as we have seen, emotive; and Aeschines’ clever, realist distinctions in 2.74–8 and fears about the disruption of the present peace by the eternal ‘gang’ of warmongering ‘wreckers’ could only make his audience feel that they had no agency— not an inspiring message, even if Aeschines was prepared to recommend emulation of the familiar Persian Wars paradeigmata (75; something he does not really follow up on). In explaining, through the medium of the situation in 405/4 and the parallel with Cleophon, that making peace with Philip would mean avoiding a war Athens would not be able to fight (οὐ δυνάμενοι: 76), Aeschines was offering his 343 audience little hope at a time when many Athenians (listening to Demosthenes’ Assembly speeches, for example) may have felt that military action against Philip, with the proper level of organization and establishment of alliances, was not only possible for Athens but desirable in view of continuing Macedonian encroachments; these are stressed by Demosthenes in On the False Embassy (e.g. 294–5 on Philip’s recent attempt to support a takeover by Ptoeodorus and Perilas in democratic Megara; cf. 87, 204). In this respect, Demosthenes’ speech has its eye on the present and future situation more shrewdly than Aeschines’—a forward-facing, symbouleutic quality where Aeschines’ speech lacks it. In an Athens increasingly eyeing Philip with distrust, Aeschines’ deployment of the past to counsel maintaining the status quo might well have sounded like defeatism, regardless of what he had actually said about the ancestors three years earlier. The jurors might see Aeschines’ back-constructions as fair enough in themselves, but they did not want to have it suggested to them that they could not win a war against Philip. Though the orator’s use of

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the past is clearly only one possible window through which to view an Athenian trial, it seems fair—at least from this angle, and without any other helpful evidence on the matter—to assume that while Aeschines’ acquittal may have been a matter of Demosthenes’ failure to make the specific bribery charge stick, the narrowness of the acquittal was partly a result of Aeschines’ inability to provide a more convincing way forward for his audience to complement the cold, sobering look back he does supply. We will see him undercut his own virtuoso past-based constructions and performative manoeuvres with a similar failure to address the big picture in the Crown trial in Chapter 6, to which I now turn.

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6 The Crown Trial 6.1. INTRODUCTION, OVERVIEW, AND TEXT And so what unimaginable or unexpected event has not occurred in our time? We have not lived a normal human life but were born to be a source of marvellous stories for future generations. Is it not the case that the King of Persia, the man who dug through Mount Athos, who yoked the Hellespont . . . now struggles not to be lord of others but already to save his life?¹ . . . And Thebes, Thebes, our neighbour city, has been snatched from the middle of Greece in a single day . . . And the poor Spartans, . . . who once claimed to be leaders of Greece, are about to be sent to Alexander as hostages . . . to suffer, both individually and as a country, whatever he chooses, and to have their fate decided by the mercy of a victor they have wronged. (A. 3.132–3)

Many Athenians in 330 may have felt the same as Aeschines, here halfway through Against Ctesiphon in the Crown trial that year.² Greek geopolitics had undergone a radical transformation between the Embassy trial and the present. Athens had finally gone to war with Philip in 340, and Demosthenes, who had emerged as Athens’s leading antiMacedonian voice, had implemented vital reforms to the trierarchy and later to the distribution of funds to underpin the war effort.³ Philip

¹ Aeschines figuratively assumes one continuous Persian King; cf. Chapter 3.3.2. ² Discussions of Aeschines’ and Demosthenes’ Crown trial speeches (A. 3 and D. 18) (often considered together): Harris (1994) 141–8; (2017); Usher (1999) 270–6, 287–93; Cook (2009); MacDowell (2009) 382–97; Gagarin (2012) 297–307; Worthington (2013) 294–306. On the legacy of the speeches: Plut. Dem. 24.2–3; Pernot (2006) 177–238 (on On the Crown 208 alone); Martino (1998a) and (1998b) on Against Ctesiphon. For the date of On the Crown: D.H. Amm. 1.12 (dating to 330/29). ³ Demosthenes’ measures: Sealey (1993) 189; Worthington (2013) 235–6 and Chapter 1.6. The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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gained an excuse to penetrate central and southern Greece when he was invited to resolve the Amphictyonic League’s war with Amphissa. In his defence of Ctesiphon, On the Crown, Demosthenes blames Aeschines for precipitating this, when, as I mentioned in Chapter 1.3, the latter gave an inflammatory speech while at the League Council at Delphi in autumn 340 or spring 339.⁴ Once Amphissa was subdued, Philip used this opportunity as a stepping stone to further his efforts against the Athenian alliance, and moved south through Phocis, taking Elatea in autumn 339 and causing alarm at Athens—the topic of On the Crown’s most admired passage (18.169–73).⁵ Demosthenes’ efforts forged an alliance with Thebes, ensuring that the army which faced Philip in August 338 at Chaeronea was at least numerically a match for his. Superior military capability secured a Macedonian victory. Philip did not get to enjoy it, or his new League of Corinth, for long; his assassination in autumn 336 brought Alexander to the throne, the Thebans to revolt, and Alexander to destroy their city in 335.⁶ A few years later Alexander’s prolonged absence in Asia led the Spartans to challenge the Macedonian hegemony, but after some early success the revolt ended with Agis III’s death in battle at Megalopolis in 331/0.⁷ Athens stayed out of both uprisings when the possibility (and allegedly the money) was there for them to join in, a decision which left Demosthenes—whatever stance he actually took on each revolt⁸—open to the ‘what ifs’ of the critics who had forced him to become a frequent presence in the law courts throughout the decade, particularly in the immediate aftermath of Chaeronea. This was the context in which Aeschines revived a prosecution of Ctesiphon, originally launched in 336, for proposing a crown for Demosthenes on the basis that he ‘consistently speaks and acts in the best interests of the people’ (ὅτι διατελεῖ καὶ λέγων καὶ πράττων τὰ ἄριστα τῷ δήμῳ) (3.49) and for procedural irregularities in the proposal.⁹ This was one of three such crowning proposals made within four years of one ⁴ On the dating question: Londey (1990) 240–1; I stick to 340/39 to cover both possibilities. ⁵ For ancient admiration: e.g. [Long.] Subl. 10.7; Hermogenes Id. 291, 316, 320 Rabe. See also Wankel (1976) 2.846–8; Usher (1993) 230–1. ⁶ Outflow of Philip’s assassination: Sealey (1993) 202–12; Worthington (2000); (2013) 267–72 (assassination); 272–93 (aftermath down to 330). ⁷ Kralli (2017) 68–75 for a summary of this war. ⁸ D.S. 17.8.5–6 claims that he assisted the Thebans in a private capacity and persuaded the Athenians to support them publicly, but this support did not materialize. Aeschines stresses Demosthenes’ failure to help the Thebans despite having access to Persian money: 3.156–7, 239–40. So do his prosecutors in the Harpalus trials: Din. 1.10, 18–21; Hyp. Dem. 17. ⁹ For Ctesiphon’s proposal and its formulation: Harris (1994) 140–8; (2017); Cook (2009) 31–4.

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another: the others, made by Aristonicus in 340 and by Hyperides and Demomeles in 338, had both been successful.¹⁰ Demosthenes had followed up his efforts on Athens’s behalf before Chaeronea with service after it as a wall commissioner (teichopoios) and in other capacities, some voluntary.¹¹ Given the lengthy delay between the launching of the prosecution and the trial,¹² some debate has hovered over whether Aeschines revived the action voluntarily in 330,¹³ or whether Demosthenes somehow forced him to.¹⁴ Ctesiphon’s needs and interests are clearly critical but cannot be traced.¹⁵ Certainly, this was a time when antiMacedonians in Athens were bringing to trial individuals who could be represented as ‘abandoning’ the city—Lycurgus’ prosecution of Leocrates belongs to this year¹⁶—but, on the whole, voluntary revival on Aeschines’ part seems most likely, seizing the opportunity of the failure of the Spartan revolt. Demosthenes frequently frames the reopening of the case as Aeschines’ choice, and points out (probably rather speciously) that anti-Macedonians are currently being brought to trial in other cities (18.197), while the closest Aeschines comes to claiming he has been forced to revive the action is shadowy comment about the dominance of ‘a few’ in the city.¹⁷ This barb is presumably aimed at Lycurgus and his associates (probably Hyperides) as well as Demosthenes, though with some exaggeration if so, because Demades and Phocion, whose profiles indicate consistent middle-ground standpoints or indeed friendship with Macedonia, were very prominent in these years too.¹⁸ That said,

¹⁰ See D. 18.83, 222–3. ¹¹ Demosthenes’ record: Domingo Gygax (2016) 205–6, 208–11. ¹² E. M. Harris (1995) 140–1; Sawada (1996) 60–1; MacDowell (2009) 383. Comparison with the delay of the Diondas case: Horváth (2009) 197–211. ¹³ Aeschines as reviver: Cawkwell (1969a) 167, 180; Wankel (1976) 1.24; Knox (1976) vi–xii; E. M. Harris (1995) 141–2, 173–4; Worthington (2000) 96–7; Yunis (2001) 10–11; (2005) 27; Todd (2009) 162–3. ¹⁴ Demosthenes as reviver: Burke (1977) 334–40; Sawada (1996) 60–71; Martin (2009) 86–7. ¹⁵ Aeschines needs to portray Ctesiphon largely as Demosthenes’ stooge, but cannot help admitting that he was a serious public figure: A. 3.242. ¹⁶ Although it did fail—just: A. 3.252 with Sullivan (2002b) and Bianchi (2002) for different interpretations. ¹⁷ See, e.g., A. 3.3, 5, 234. ¹⁸ Increased political importance of Lycurgus, Demades, and Hyperides in the mid to late 330s and early 320s: Sealey (1993) 208–12; Wirth (1999); Worthington (2000) 100–2; (2010); De Martinis (2012), especially 39–48. Lycurgus’ ascendancy: Introduction n. 10 and here in particular e.g. Faraguna (1992) 195–209; Sawada (1996) 74–82; Azoulay (2009). Demades: Brun (2000), modified by Demont (2011) 41–2 in light of Against Diondas; but see Brun’s rejoinder (2013a). Hyperides: Engels (1989) 94–209. Phocion in these years: Gehrke (1976) 60–77; Bearzot (1985) 135–65; Tritle (1988) 113–18.

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the influence of Lycurgus’ civic agenda in this period meant that Demosthenes was now probably able to enjoy the advantages of ‘establishment’ backing that Aeschines had had in the Embassy trial. It is natural to want to draw the Crown trial into comparison with that earlier trial, but the differences are just as important and need emphasizing. Apart from the fundamental shifts in the political and international context—which had a direct impact on Demosthenes’ ability to mount a convincing defence strategy, because of his greatly increased visibility—the stakes were not the same. Demosthenes faced no danger if Ctesiphon was convicted; and if Aeschines felt the context was right in 330 to at least dent Demosthenes’ standing (perhaps all he was after), he will not have anticipated the life-changing consequences of failing to get one-fifth of the votes—which, we are told,¹⁹ is what happened. While not exactly a ‘competition in oratory’ (ῥητόρων ἀγῶνα)—Demosthenes’ claim about Aeschines’ view of the trial (18.226)—the clash between the two here looks less like a product of the white heat of an evolving political situation (as the Embassy trial does), and more like a battle between different conceptions of the recent Athenian past and its relationship with the ‘long’ past. Related here is the fact that the two trials represent different types of legal action. As we saw in Chapter 2, graphē paranomōn cases (like this one) and graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai trials lend themselves to the competitive discussion of Athens’s core values as reflected in the behaviour of the litigants involved and (as we saw there) those are partly conceived in the symbolic terms which Demosthenes makes essential to his readings and articulation of the past again here. The Crown trial offers the outstanding example of this in the oratorical corpus, not least because both Aeschines and Demosthenes develop strategies which to differing extents respond to, and build upon, their competitive discussion of the past in the Embassy speeches as well as finding ways to reflect creatively the realities of the present. Both orators regarded Demosthenes’ career as the main element in the case—i.e. whether he ‘consistently speaks and acts in the best interests of the people’, as Ctesiphon’s proposed decree had claimed—and their strategies reflect this: both integrate Demosthenes’ career (and Aeschines’ own behaviour) into the broader discussion of Athens’s core identity and traditional values. As they had done in the Embassy trial (though to differing extents and in different ways), both orators accept a continuum-based model for their historical material—but Demosthenes

¹⁹ The outcome: Plut. Dem. 24.2–3.

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masterfully extends his to situate himself at the point it has reached, poised to keep guiding Athens into a positive future informed by the great past—the kind of message many Athenian audience members will have wanted as they entered their eighth year under Macedonian hegemony, some of them perhaps starting to wonder whether their city’s story was over.²⁰ To bind together Athens’s past, present, and future, Demosthenes emphasizes three mutually supporting themes: the unchanging quality of his own loyalty and leadership; the intertwining of the dēmos’ decisions from 340 onwards with his own actions; and the consistent influence exerted upon his making of policy in those years by his knowledge and awareness of Athens’s true identity and true values, combined with the astute grasp of the pattern of events appropriate to the good statesman (his core Assembly self-characterization, as we saw in Chapter 3).²¹ For example, he repeats that he knew (συνῄδειν: 66) that Athens had always struggled ‘for the first prize’ (περὶ πρωτείων) among the Greek states, a distinctive metaphor with four appearances in On the Crown,²² which is rich in metaphor (and simile)²³ and in athletic imagery generally. For the first time (in any thoroughgoing way), he communicates a strong sense of personal commitment to the Athenian past as a guide for his actions, rather than purely acknowledging the abstract value of the past as something the statesman needs to be able to draw on effectively—and to control— in order to articulate the best policy in the Assembly and to combat rivals successfully in public trials. Why this emphasis on personal commitment? It may have been a natural reaction to his recent responsibilities at the helm of policy; it dovetails with a pronounced chain of images of standing at one’s post (taxis) in the speech,²⁴ perhaps fostered partly as a reaction to the charge of desertion from Chaeronea. Demosthenes may also have found striking Aeschines’ assertion of his own personal commitment to the knowledge of the past gained at home in On the Embassy (2.78), and planned to take account of this when evolving his own strategy next time they encountered each other in court.²⁵ But a critical factor might well have been the changed environment in which historical argumentation was being ²⁰ See, e.g., Yunis (2000) 102–4; (2001) 12–17. ²¹ The ‘Periclean’ ēthos has often been detected in D. 18: Yunis (1996) 268–77; (2001) 204; Mader (2007a) 160, 176–7 on D. 18.169–79 in particular. ²² D. 18.66, 203, 209, 321; cf. earlier usages in D. 3.27 and 10.74. ²³ See Ronnet (1951) 176, 181; Wooten (1979) 326–7; Usher (1999) 276; Yunis (2001) 19. ²⁴ Brock (2013) 161–2; Filonik (2017) 231–7 for similar language in Lyc. 1. ²⁵ The lengthy time gap is no obstacle to that point because both Against Ctesiphon and On the Crown frequently engage with the Embassy speeches in various ways.

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developed by Demosthenes in the first place. In Chapter 5, we saw Aeschines and Demosthenes reacting in the Embassy trial to the priorities and characterizations of the Timarchus trial; the ways that the past was mediated for the new ‘round’ of combat explicitly responded to how the same two combatants had shaped this strategic material previously. That is still true in the Crown trial, but with a new complicating element: group rhetoric. The numerous strategic (and even some phrasal) similarities between On the Crown, Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates, and the recently discovered portion of Hyperides’ (Defence) Against Diondas,²⁶ of 334²⁷ have rightly been interpreted as good evidence for oratorical collaboration between prominent members of the anti-Macedonian group²⁸ at the level of evolution of similar discursive strategies to face similar public challenges (and to take the fight beyond their group).²⁹ Hyperides, Lycurgus, and Demosthenes at least (and probably others too) were under constant challenge in the years after Chaeronea for their policies: Diondas alone attacked all three of them repeatedly, and Hyperides also makes clear that they could be conceived of rhetorically in 334 as an ‘anti-Philip’ political group confronting a ‘pro-Philip’ group.³⁰ Demosthenes refers bitterly to his own hounding by malicious prosecutors (18.249–50, 285, 322), turning his successful resistance to them into proof of his heroism;³¹ and this is a picture confirmed by Hyperides, who claims that Diondas has already laid more than fifteen indictments against Demosthenes (as well as three against Hyperides himself in a single day) (Dion. 9. 144v 20–2).³² Alexander’s demand for the

²⁶ On the ‘New Hyperides’: Carey et al. (2008); the essays in BICS 52 (2009); Edwards (2010); Demont (2011); Horváth (2014). We already knew of Diondas himself from 18.222 and 249, and of his attack on Hyperides from [Plut.] Vit. Hyp. 848f; cf. Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 10.3.14–15 Mras (with Todd [2009] 163–4; Horváth [2009] in detail: 200–1 n. 56). But note (with Demont [2011] 29–30) that this speech might not be from the trial we knew about from the pseudo-Plutarchan Life. ²⁷ For this date: Horváth (2009) 187–97; (2014) 10–23; Rhodes (2009b) 223–6. ²⁸ An appellation which Brun (2013a) would contest—but see Introduction n. 4. ²⁹ See Burke (1977) 335–40 and Engels (1989) 118–36, now buttressed by Hyp. Dion.—see Todd (2009); Herrman (2009b) 179; Horváth (2009) 201; (2014) 165–76 for the similarities between Hyp. Dion. and D. 18; Demont (2011) 39–40; De Martinis (2012) 57–9. An interesting example is the strong structural resemblance between D. 18.265 and part of Polyeuctus’ attack on Demades in 336 or 335 (see Introduction) (especially fr. 2 Sauppe). ³⁰ Attacks: Hyp. Dion. 9. 145r–144v 15–22. Groupings: lines 10–11 (τῶ[ν] ὑπὲρ Φιλίππου πολιτευομένων, ‘those with pro-Philip policies’) and 13–14 (τοῖς δὲ τἀναντία ἐκείνῳ πολιτευομένοις, ‘those politically opposed to him’). ³¹ Yunis (2000) 106, 111, 114–15 (link to collective heroism; and cf. Demont [2011] 44–5 on Hyperides’ Thermopylae); also Jaeger (1938) 195. Limits: Rowe (1966) 404. ³² Also more broadly, Hyp. Dion. 9–10. 145r–144v 9–28; Plut. Dem. 21.1–2; Horváth (2009) 198–200; (2014) 137–40.

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anti-Macedonian orators in 335 (which he was talked out of by Demades) testifies to the existence of such a group too, and although different sources give different lists of those demanded, the names of Lycurgus, Demosthenes, and Polyeuctus are always there; Hyperides tends to be included too.³³ For what it is worth, Arrian refers to them specifically as ‘the group of Demosthenes and Lycurgus’ (τοὺς ἀμφὶ Δημοσθένην καὶ Λυκοῦργον). This constant hounding in court seems to have meant constant honing of similar strategies that would work against this kind of opposition. A prominent example is these orators’ shared characterizations of the defeat at Chaeronea itself. All construe it as the product of fortune (τύχη) and not of Athenian failure,³⁴ though in the short term Lycurgus did also secure the conviction of one of the Athenian generals, Lysicles,³⁵ who was condemned to death. The idea was not new (Aeschines uses it in a very similar way when summarizing the fate of the Phocians in On the Embassy 118), but the shared, emphatic application of it to Chaeronea was, and it is reflected in the instituting or revival of the Athenian cult of Good Fortune at this time, a development associable with Lycurgus.³⁶ In a similar vein, a short list of pro-Macedonian ‘traitors’ in Hyperides’ Against Diondas strongly resembles Demosthenes’ famous long list in On the Crown.³⁷ Above all, all three orators—in the speeches I have mentioned, but also in Demosthenes’ Funeral Oration—also resort to similarly fashioned Persian Wars parallels (especially with Marathon³⁸

³³ Main sources for the eight to eleven rhētores: D.S. 17.15.1–5 (ten); Arrian, Anab. 1.10.3–4 (nine); Plut. Dem. 23.4, 23.6 (eight; he does not include Hyperides); Suda Α 2704 Adler (eleven). ³⁴ Anti-Macedonian ‘fortune’ rhetoric: D. 18.193–4, 207, 271, 300; also D. 60.19–21; Lyc. 1.48; Hyp. Dion. 3–4. 137v 2–7; 18. 176v 2; for comment: Todd (2009) 169–71 (and 165 n. 17). ³⁵ Lycurgus’ accusations: D.S. 16.88.1–2 (calling him an ‘extremely bitter accuser’, πικρότατος . . . κατήγορος); cf. D. 21.64 on Philostratus); [Plut.] Vit. Lyc. 843d. Religious aspects to Lycurgus’ prosecutions of Lysicles and Autolycus: Martin (2009) 156–65; Mikalson (1998) 25. Diodorus (supplying Lyc. XII fr. 1) features the ‘thousand (citizen) deaths’ (χιλίων . . . πολιτῶν τετελευτηκότων) on Lysicles’ watch (cf. strongly D. 18.263–4, on Aeschines’ indifference to Athenian losses). ³⁶ See Lyc. V fr. 6 (On His Administration); Parker (1996) 231–2, 243; Mikalson (1998) 38, 45, 62–3. Perhaps Lycurgus listed this among his achievements there: Conomis (1961) 103–4. On one of the key inscriptions, IG II² 1195(+): Tracy (1994); Humphreys (2004) 66, 105–6 n. 66, 119. ³⁷ Hyp. Dion. 21. 173r 28–175r 8; cf. D. 18.295–6 with Todd (2009) 173–4. ³⁸ Marathon is a good fit for Chaeronea in some ways (e.g. as a land battle), but not in others (apart from the fact of defeat, Chaeronea involved several other states; Marathon traditionally did not, or at most the Plataeans). Marathon as fought alone: e.g. Hyp. Dion. 13. 144r 18: μόνοι; cf. Lys. 2.20; Pl. Mx. 240c (practically); D. 60.10; Nouhaud (1982) 149–50; Walters (1981b).

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and Thermopylae³⁹) for the purpose of heroizing Chaeronea and setting it in a favourable ‘long’ context (that context being Lycurgus’ particular focus).⁴⁰ None deny the physical defeat (hence Hyperides’ use of Thermopylae), but all emphasize the spiritual victory. This is a logical extension of the likely discourse of the Peace of Philocrates’ opponents in 346 which identified Persian Wars parallels as the only ones suitable for application to Philip (as we saw in Chapters 3 and 5). A good example is Hyperides’ and Demosthenes’ shared use of the image of the Athenian contribution to the fleet at Salamis as a parallel for the two-thirds Athenian contribution to the alliance with Thebes in 339/8, something Aeschines criticizes.⁴¹ In an environment where aspects of Demosthenes’ historical argumentation were not just his own any more, then, the need for marking his personal distinctiveness in this regard was much greater; and this partly explains the lengths to which On the Crown goes to mark Demosthenes out as totally distinctive—a statesman of surpassing, singular vision and the only man in a position to save Athens in 339/8 (i.e. not one of a powerful team)—and also the only man qualified to sustain the continuum of Athenian values both now and in the future with the unique command he has of the obligations Athens’s reputation imposes on its citizens.⁴² In the Crown trial, therefore, Demosthenes had a significant discursive advantage over Aeschines in being able to draw compositionally on the shared court expertise of a dominant group who were constantly being held to account (or being blamed for what had happened). This complemented Demosthenes’ wider contextual advantage as someone who really did have a long list of major diplomatic and official achievements to his credit, despite his relative inactivity in the mid to late 330s,⁴³ and he is able to make significant use of his former self—the heroic Demosthenes of 339/8—as a model in On the Crown. Aeschines does little in Against Ctesiphon to anticipate the counter-accusation that he had little political activity, let alone achievement, to mention from the last

³⁹ On Hyperides’ choice of Thermopylae at Dion. 19. 176v 13–18, where Aegospotami had been ‘a sort of perversion of Salamis’, see Todd (2009) 170–1. Lycurgus’ Persian Wars examples: see Lyc. 1.42, 68–74, 80–2, 104, 108–9. One of the last set is Thermopylae (1.108–9). ⁴⁰ Herrman (2009b) 176–8; Demont (2011) 44–5. ⁴¹ Hyp. Dion. 12–13. 145v 7–17 and D. 18.238, against A. 3.145–6. Lycurgus’ reference to the battle of Delium in his prosecution of Lysicles was presumably part of a Chaeronea contrast: Lyc. XII fr. 3; Conomis (1961) 138. ⁴² On this theme: Yunis (2000). ⁴³ Demosthenes’ inactivity: Cawkwell (1969a) 173–80; Sealey (1993) 208; Sawada (1996) 67; Worthington (2000); (2013) 285–93; Herrman (2009b) 176–7.

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decade⁴⁴—or that he could have spoken earlier if he had objected to any of the decisions he now criticizes.⁴⁵ This shortfall is reflected in the strategic use Aeschines makes of his historical material: Against Ctesiphon’s strategic reach is circumscribed by its attachment to the characterizations and priorities of the Embassy trial—not surprising, given that 343 probably represented the height of Aeschines’ influence.⁴⁶ However, the speech offers striking individual figurations of the past of very high dramatic quality—to the extent that Demosthenes does counteract them vigorously in On the Crown. Although, as mentioned earlier in this section, both orators are prepared to adopt a broadly continuum-based model of thinking about the past, both also punctuate this with impressive self-casting in situations from the distant and recent past: Demosthenes shows his attentiveness to Aeschines’ earlier practice. In two places—his Delphi episode and his epilogos—Aeschines repeats his successful scenario-building from Against Timarchus and sets different types of parallel situation before the jurors’ eyes. In his Delphi episode, for example, Aeschines once again models himself as Solon, adopting the same position as Solon had (as he represents it) in an Amphictyonic Council meeting at Delphi and even including a distorted Demosthenes figure as an uncouth opponent, in this Athens-away-from-Athens. In the Crown trial, in fact, enargeia plays a crucial role in the articulating of historical material as well as non-historical, and, in one prominent case, across a thirteen-year gap since the Embassy trial: when describing the recent horrors of the destruction of Thebes in 335 (3.156–7), Aeschines is—as the firstcentury AD rhetorician Aelius Theon noticed⁴⁷—clearly imitating, and (we can add) attempting to surpass, Demosthenes’ portrait of the destitute condition of the Phocians in 343 in On the False Embassy (19.65). Demosthenes applies the same ‘scene-stealing’ or ‘upstaging’ technique to Aeschines’ historically informed set pieces, the Delphi episode and the epilogos, countering their rhetorical effect in On the Crown with

⁴⁴ Aeschines’ inactivity: Cawkwell (1969a) 166; Burke (1977) 334; E. M. Harris (1995) 138; Sawada (1996) 67–8. Episodes from the pre-Chaeronea period (apart from his service at Delphi) include his attempt to defend the alleged Macedonian agent Antiphon (D. 18.132–4) and his deselection from the 343 Delian embassy (134–5). See Cawkwell (1969a) 173–80 and Worthington (2000) 96–100 on the significance of each orator’s privileging of different periods. ⁴⁵ The famous ‘argument used 72 times’: Σ ad D. 18.14 (48 Dilts); Donnelly (1935). ⁴⁶ As noted also by E. M. Harris (1995) 42; cf. the caution of Todd (2009) 165. ⁴⁷ Theon Progymnasmata 63.3–13 Patillon; O’Connell (2017) 131–6 (with scepticism about Theon’s judgement at 222 n. 40); see also Demosthenes fr. I.A.II.2. See Lyc. 1.40 for another similar passage.

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sequences which resemble them structurally and so aim to cancel out the effect Aeschines’ originals had on the jurors, articulating core aspects of Demosthenes’ self-presentation as they do so. It is unfortunately impossible, though, to be certain that the dynamics traceable from the texts were also the dynamics of performance in the actual trial—and I now make some comments about how issues of revision and dissemination apply to the Crown trial speeches.⁴⁸ Like the Embassy speeches, Against Ctesiphon and On the Crown must ultimately derive from drafts or notes Aeschines and Demosthenes produced before the trial. But these are also two texts in dialogue. On the Crown in particular shows every sign of being aware of Against Ctesiphon in something like its present form. A comparison of Aeschines’ anticipations and other points and Demosthenes’ responses to them ends up accounting for significantly more of each speech’s content than is the case with the Embassy speeches; this makes it hard to identify parts of Against Ctesiphon that MacDowell might have seen as optional content (Chapter 5.1). This could be bad news for recovering something of the ‘live’ versions: it could mean that we are dealing with a situation where the two orators revised reactively, possibly in multiple stages.⁴⁹ The tradition that Aeschines went to found a school of rhetoric in Rhodes after his defeat in the Crown trial is not necessarily any help even if true:⁵⁰ the Rhodian context might relieve Aeschines of the need to represent what was possible in the Athenian law-court environment accurately (i.e. a chance for more revision than usual); equally, the distance might reduce the opportunities for reactive revision (especially if Demosthenes did not disseminate On the Crown in his lifetime, or not beyond a tight circle).⁵¹ But the close fit between the points made in the two speeches could be good news: it could mean that we have only a relatively lightly revised Against Ctesiphon (with some new anticipations of original points made by Demosthenes,⁵² and cutting of points that had not worked) and an On the Crown which incorporates reasonably accurately the rebuttals Demosthenes made in performance (with, perhaps, ⁴⁸ For more: Chapters 1.7 and 5.1. ⁴⁹ Yunis (2001) 27 and n. 89 is prepared to countenance this. ⁵⁰ For the tradition: Kindstrand (1982) 175–84; E. M. Harris (1995) 148; Yunis (2001) 12. ⁵¹ It may be significant that both versions of the famous anecdote about Aeschines’ reading of Against Ctesiphon to his audience on Rhodes imply that they do not already know On the Crown: [Plut.] Vit. Aeschin. 840de and Cic. de Orat. 3.213. For his motivation in disseminating: Carey (2005) 94–5. ⁵² Aeschines’ unanswered anticipations (e.g. 3.228, the Sirens) are not a problem because he may have felt, when revising, that they still worked rhetorically: Dover (1968) 170 (against Yunis [2001] 27 n. 88).

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some new material based on things Aeschines had said in other recent contexts, e.g. the anakrisis, another trial,⁵³ and so on). Demosthenes would be creating a posterity version, but a posterity version which, again, looked similar enough to what he had delivered not to alarm someone who had been there, and also retained the dimensions of a speech that might plausibly be delivered in an Athenian graphē paranomōn trial. Many would accept this rough picture, and I adopt it here. Certainly some revision on both orators’ parts is an unavoidable assumption,⁵⁴ but there are only three places where what Demosthenes says corresponds with great precision to anticipations we also see Aeschines make. Commentators are united, surely rightly, in seeing the first, the image of the bad doctor (A. 3.225–7 vs D. 18.243) as an insertion by Aeschines at the post-trial stage.⁵⁵ Second, and more interesting, is Aeschines’ forecast of an illustration Demosthenes ‘will’ use involving the chronologically disparate champion boxers, Philammon and Glaucus (3.189). Demosthenes duly does use it, and in precisely the manner forecast (18.318–19), but does not mention Aeschines’ anticipation as such.⁵⁶ The third moment is a contesting by Demosthenes (18.251) of Aeschines’ use of the incorruptible early fourth-century statesman Cephalus (3.194)—a distinguished pro-Theban whom Demosthenes would want to recapture for himself⁵⁷—and the fact that this is an explicit response to Aeschines (φησιν, ‘he says’) matters.⁵⁸ Key to interpreting these last two is that neither Aeschines’ anticipation of Demosthenes’ boxers nor Demosthenes’ response to Aeschines’ Cephalus fits very well in its context. The boxers parallel breaks up Aeschines’ extended ‘men of Phyle’ example (3.187–92) and—even though it is thematically well situated—disrupts the flow, and Aeschines admits this as he resumes (ἵνα δὲ μὴ ἀποπλανῶ ὑμᾶς ἀπὸ τῆς ὑποθέσεως, ‘but I do not want to distract you from my theme; so . . . ’: 190; cf. 176). In a similar way, Demosthenes’ response on Cephalus fits its context thematically (attacks on Demosthenes in the law courts: 18.248–50), but it is ⁵³ See, e.g., Usher (1993) 253 on A. 3.225–7. Some parallels from the Embassy trial would be A. 2.6, 10, 86, 124. ⁵⁴ As by, e.g., Yunis (2001) 26–7; Hubbard (2008) 194–5; Worman (2008) 264–5 n. 170; and cf. on the Embassy trial MacDowell (2000a) 23–8; (2009) 382. ⁵⁵ Weil (1883) 533; Richardson (1889) 27; Goodwin (1901) 170; Wankel (1976) 2.1070; Yunis (2001) 243–4; Hubbard (2008) 194. ⁵⁶ Loose parallels in the Embassy trial are D. 19.182 vs A. 2.178 and D. 19.332 vs A. 2.70–3 (again, no direct response by the defendant in either). The Philammon/Glaucus example is much more specific. ⁵⁷ Cephalus decreed Athenian aid for the Theban exiles’ return in 379/8 (Din. 1.39). ⁵⁸ The key Embassy trial parallel is D. 19.192–8 vs A. 2.4, 153–8, where Aeschines, the defendant, must be the (principal) reviser.

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neither introduced properly nor linked to what follows. Even allowing for the fact that these examples come from parts of their respective speeches where a looser structure prevails, it seems highly likely that these are post-trial additions by Aeschines and Demosthenes respectively.⁵⁹ But neither is really a problem. Demosthenes could have combated Aeschines’ Cephalus illustration on the day—it would be very easy to rebut swiftly in performance, and then to include in the revised text,⁶⁰ and would serve Demosthenes’ wider aim of contesting Aeschines’ historical usage. Meanwhile, Aeschines, when revising, might have felt that his (well-integrated) Cephalus example still worked well as rhetoric. None of these instances has a destabilizing effect on our basic confidence in these speeches as reflections of the majority of what Demosthenes and Aeschines delivered or planned to deliver. It is much more significant that Aeschines did not go so far as to excise or modify purple passages which are, as we shall see, seriously subverted by Demosthenes.⁶¹ Therefore, with appropriate caution, I shall proceed to use these texts as meaningful guides to both orators’ strategies. In Chapters 6.2, 6.3, and 6.4, I examine the following aspects, all reflecting on both Against Ctesiphon and On the Crown. First, in Chapter 6.2, I analyse Aeschines’ bold attempt to portray his intervention at Delphi in 340/39 as a Solonian defence of Athenian honour, aligning himself with the moral and didactic authority of the great legislator (3.107–24), and at the two ways Demosthenes confronts this. Second, in Chapter 6.3, I look at Aeschines’ epilogos (3.257–60), where, by a daring transfiguration effect, he summons up a remarkable line-up of great historical Athenians to help him accuse Demosthenes. Demosthenes’ main response is to build the very powerful ‘paradoxical’ argument (τι παράδοξον; 18.199–208). This contends that even if the Athenians had known the outcome of Chaeronea, Demosthenes’ policy was still the right policy, the only one consistent with Athenian greatness—and culminates in an oath sworn on the dead of the Persian Wars. The really relevant models for a post-Chaeronea Athens, ⁵⁹ So Simcox and Simcox (1872) 95 and Richardson (1889) 27 (boxers); Goodwin (1901) 176, 222; Wankel (1976) 2.1101–2, 1137–8; Usher (1993) 275 (boxers). ⁶⁰ The image of the metaphorical walls represented by the alliances Demosthenes forged (A. 3.84; cf. D. 18.299–300) might qualify here. But Demosthenes uses this differently from Aeschines’ forecast, and, as Wankel (1976) 2.1271–2 comments, each could have come up with his version independently; Demosthenes likes metaphors to do with walling (cf. 19.84) and is likely to have featured them in other contexts. So this case is not really a direct parallel for the others (and we do not need to assume an Aeschinean post-trial addition: Yunis [2001] 276). ⁶¹ Like A. 3.260, savaged at D. 18.127–8, or 3.259, comprehensively upstaged at 18.208.

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Demosthenes argues, are those who sacrificed themselves in that context—an expression of his idea of a continuum of Athenian prowess which recent models (like Demosthenes himself, who commemorated the dead of Chaeronea in his Funeral Oration) can embody or reflect just as validly as the greats of the past. This is also pursued in Chapter 6.4, where I discuss Against Ctesiphon 177–92, a sequence of paradigmatic material focused on the fifth century (as represented in Agora monuments) and designed to reflect badly on Demosthenes, and the ways Demosthenes challenges this in On the Crown, especially at 18.319, the moment where he emerges at the fountainhead of his own continuum. Demosthenes’ responses do tend to have multiple references, though: for example, this summative defence of his political primacy in the early 330s as he comes to the end of the speech is fashioned in such a way as to reflect both on Aeschines’ fifth-century examples and on his epilogos.

6.2. DARKEST HOURS, FINEST HOURS: AESCHINES, SOLON, DEMOSTHENES We saw in Chapter 4 that Aeschines was able to construct an affinity with Solon (and the cognate figure of the ‘legislator’) to help legitimize his prosecution and ground his personal authority. In On the Embassy Solon was conspicuous by his absence, which points to his greater suitability for use in prosecutions and/or quite possibly to the success of Demosthenes’ attack in On the False Embassy on Aeschines’ earlier deployment of him. But in Against Ctesiphon, with the need to find ways to confront the political weight which Demosthenes could now bring to bear, Aeschines reanimates Solon’s potential for both general and specific bolstering of authority-based arguments, featuring him in four separate and significant places fairly evenly distributed through the speech (3.2, 108, 174–6, 257–9). In all four cases, Aeschines makes sure to extend Solon’s cultural significance beyond simple legislation: in 3.2 he is a political legislator who encourages eukosmia in the Assembly; in 108 he is ‘a man both skilled in legislation and versed in poetry and philosophy’ (ἀνδρὸς καὶ νομοθετῆσαι δυνατοῦ καὶ περὶ ποίησιν καὶ φιλοσοφίαν διατετριφότος); in 175 his role as ‘the ancient legislator’ (ὁ παλαιὸς νομοθέτης) addresses civic courage and cowardice; and in 257—an instance I discuss in Chapter 6.3—he is the man ‘who equipped the democracy with the most noble laws, a philosopher and a worthy legislator’ (τὸν καλλίστοις νόμοις κοσμήσαντα τὴν δημοκρατίαν, ἄνδρα φιλόσοφον καὶ νομοθέτην ἀγαθόν).

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The Solon who fosters eukosmia and the Solon who condemns cowardice are both fairly straightforward: they are both means of packaging cultural norms more vividly to reflect badly on Demosthenes, whose involvement in the general retreat at Chaeronea Aeschines represents as desertion;⁶² the audience might also be reminded of Aeschines’ own solid military record, as paraded in On the Embassy (2.167–71) and appealed to again in Against Ctesiphon in his (apparently) eyewitness account of the Euboea campaign of 348 (3.86–8). But the passage where Aeschines’ self-casting as Solon seems particularly committed comes in the Delphi episode (107–24). Here Aeschines, like Solon, specializes in both words and deeds, unlike Demosthenes, cast throughout Against Ctesiphon as a vain talker whose only achievements are negative (e.g. 3.92, 166–7). This is a key strand for Aeschines’ development of his own ēthos in general in this speech, and even though he has reached the chronological point in his narrative of Demosthenes’ misdeeds where he could talk about his opponent’s alliance with Byzantium, he spends the time on a vivid and engaging set piece to sum up the contrast by more symbolic means. Furthermore, Aeschines needed to convince his audience of the value of his own activity between 343 and Chaeronea, and assert that his service at Delphi was a glorious vindication of Athenian honour rather than the disgraceful betrayal, with calamitous consequences, that Demosthenes would outline in On the Crown (18.140–59). To set the scene for Aeschines’ self-casting and Demosthenes’ responses,⁶³ a breakdown of Aeschines’ Delphi episode (and its consequences) is in order. It begins by recounting his version of the outbreak of the (unhistorical?⁶⁴) First Sacred War in the 590s (over aggression shown to the sanctuary by the neighbouring Crisaeans, or Cirrhaeans,⁶⁵ and Cragalidae), the Amphictyonic League’s armed resistance (in response to an oracle), and the dedication of the nearby Sacred Plain to Apollo, with a ban on cultivation of it: he quotes the original oracle and the oath and curse connected with the ban, sworn after the war was over (109–12; he had done something similar with the Amphictyonic foundation oath and curse in On the Embassy in his version of his speech to ⁶² Introduction n. 15. ⁶³ These are read as conspiracy narratives by Roisman (2006) 133–45. ⁶⁴ Robertson (1978); Lehmann (1980); Tausend (1992) 34–47; Davies (1994); Sánchez (2001) 58–81; ancient sources in Rhodes (2012) 52–3; Londey (2015), with more references. Further on the ‘memory’ of Cirrha’s destruction: Steinbock (2013a) 301–9. ⁶⁵ For the nomenclature issue: Robertson (1978) 40–8; also Lerat (1949) 621–32; Sánchez (2001) 71; Rousset (2002) 32–3 (and 183–205 on the plain itself—also Daverio Rocchi [1988]).

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Philip on the second embassy to Pella: 2.115).⁶⁶ He then explains how he invoked that historical parallel in a League Council meeting at Delphi during his service as one of the Athenian pylagoroi (i.e. one of the subordinate delegates, not the hieromnēmōn, the lead delegate) in 340/39. He stresses that the parallel was not an abstruse one, as the oracle, curse, and oaths are ‘publicly inscribed to this day’ (ἀναγεγραμμένων ἔτι καὶ νῦν: 113).⁶⁷ The context for his use of it was a debate prompted by the delegates from Amphissa (allied to Thebes) who were proposing a fifty-talent fine for Athens for dedicating gilded shields commemorating the Persian Wars in the new (and not yet consecrated) temple with inscribed captions referring to victory over the medizing Thebans as well as the Persians (116).⁶⁸ Aeschines represents his intervention as made on the authority of the Athenian hieromnēmōn (who was ill—as was Meidias, who was there as one of the other Athenian pylagoroi), but also as badly timed, because the other pylagoroi had withdrawn from that session. Specifically, his intervention emerges as a spur-of-the-moment (but patriotic, and almost inspired) response to a violent attack on Athens by one of the Amphissaean delegates. In return, an extremely angry Aeschines (118) pointed out that the Amphissaeans were cultivating the Sacred Plain in defiance of the ban and demanded League action, reciting the relevant oracle, oath, and curse as he did so (118–21; cf. 110–12). For his Athenian audience in 330, Aeschines represents the ban as well known and fully operational, but the League must have turned a blind eye to Amphissaean cultivation of the plain for some time—the main route up to Delphi from the port of Cirrha (controlled by the Amphissaeans) led through it; and though Aeschines includes the port itself in the ban (114), it is easy to see from an economic point of view why Delphi might not have enforced it too stringently in practice. Aeschines also claims that Demosthenes was in the pay of the Amphissaeans, which he represents as profits from the illegally cultivated Sacred Plain (114). Presumably after some debate—though Aeschines depicts the response as immediate and entirely positive, and Demosthenes buys his version because it allows him to make Aeschines look like an eloquent charlatan who uses history irresponsibly (18.149)—the Council agreed to

⁶⁶ On both these Amphictyonic oaths: Lefèvre (1998) 147–51 (and 352–4, responding to Sánchez [1997]); Sánchez (2001) 159–61; Bayliss in Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 187–8. Aeschines does not talk about the war with Crisa/Cirrha at all in On the Embassy, though: Robertson (1978) 53–4; Londey (2015) 226. ⁶⁷ Mari (2013) 140–1 for comment. ⁶⁸ Or a rededication of Persian Wars-era shields: Carey (2000) 203 n. 128.

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send a party down to the plain the following day (3.122), which Aeschines claims destroyed the Amphissaean installations and the port of Cirrha (123). A swift military response from Amphissa—which caught the Amphictyonic party as they returned to Delphi—led to a stalemate period; the League Council at its next meeting (at Thermopylae, earlier than usual: 126) voted for war against the Amphissaeans. Aeschines claims the Athenians were not represented because Demosthenes had persuaded them only to ‘go to Thermopylae and Delphi at the times appointed by our ancestors’ (πορεύεσθαι εἰς Πύλας καὶ εἰς Δελφοὺς ἐν τοῖς τεταγμένοις χρόνοις ὑπὸ τῶν προγόνων: 126)—framed by Aeschines as a cynical and obstructive use of historical precedent. Amphictyonic military success, led by the Council chairman Cottyphus,⁶⁹ followed, but the Amphissaeans did not pay the fine imposed on them and eventually the League Council called in Philip (128–9). A key feature of Aeschines’ account here—included to anticipate Demosthenes’ accusation that the events he instigated gave Philip his excuse to enter central Greece (3.128–9)—is his insistence that Philip was far away until the point where the Council called him in— a point Aeschines, perhaps significantly, does not give any clear chronological coordinates (129). To boost his account’s credibility, Aeschines not only pours his considerable aptitude for dramatic ecphrastic narrative into the Delphi episode,⁷⁰ but (fundamentally for us) casts himself in the same role that he claims Solon played in the 590s: persuading the Amphictyons, assembled at Delphi and busy investigating (as in 340/39) an alleged infraction by the Athenians (116, contra D. 18.150), to avenge themselves on the current cultivators of the Sacred Plain (‘on the motion of Solon the Athenian [Σόλωνος εἰπόντος Ἀθηναίου τὴν γνώμην], a man both skilled in legislation and versed in poetry and philosophy’: 108). The destruction of Crisa/Cirrha, whatever its historicity, seems to have been tenacious in Athenian popular memory,⁷¹ so Aeschines would have found a receptive audience for his parallel, which represents a significant development of the scenario-building of Against Timarchus, because ⁶⁹ Aeschines has to portray Cottyphus as just the man in the relevant office (ὁ τὰς γνώμας ἐπιψηφίζων, ‘whose duty it was to put proposals to the vote’: 124) to anticipate the insinuation that, as a Thessalian, he used his influence to involve his ally Philip as soon as possible. Demosthenes is, in fact, neutral about Cottyphus (18.151, pace the scholiast [266 Dilts]). For the roles of this long-standing Thessalian hieromnēmōn and his colleague Colosimmus: Hammond and Griffith (1979) 586–8; Londey (1990) 256–7; Sánchez (2001) 239–43. ⁷⁰ Positive assessments of the passage’s quality: Philostratus VS 1.18; Londey (1990) 248; Usher (1999) 290–1. ⁷¹ Steinbock (2013a) 301–19, 353.

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here Aeschines maps his contribution at Delphi onto a particular historical moment (and one which contemporary Athenians would have regarded as such: see, e.g., Isoc. 14.31) rather than a generalized one like the image of Solon comporting himself modestly on the bēma (1.25–6).⁷² Here, the scenario involves a double overlap—Solon’s contribution maps onto Aeschines’ intervention, which maps onto Aeschines’ situation confronting Demosthenes now. There are a number of potentially destabilizing elements involved in Aeschines’ treatment, which he either confronts or accommodates (perhaps not always consciously). First, he has to present what was done under his own direction as simultaneously a local scrap which got out of hand (rather than a war which helped lead directly to Chaeronea) and a significant moment for the showcasing of Athenian piety and general renown.⁷³ Involved in this is the obstacle that while Solon’s targets were the Cirrhaeans and Cragalidae (γένη παρανομώτατα, ‘[extremely] lawless peoples’)⁷⁴—grand-sounding but (beyond the lawlessness) probably just as mysterious to Aeschines’ audience as they are to us—Aeschines’ own adversaries in 340/39 were the perfectly wellknown Amphissaeans, inhabitants of a significant polis fully linked up to the current alliance systems prevailing in central Greece (116).⁷⁵ Therefore, Aeschines does his best to connect the two, calling the Amphissaeans ἄνδρες παρανομώτατοι (‘extremely lawless men’: 113). Second, although Plutarch (Solon 11) attests to Solon as the prime mover in the case of the First Sacred War (Σόλωνι τὴν γνώμην ἀνατιθείς: 11.1) on the authority of Aristotle’s list of Pythian victors, it is clear from what he says next only that the records at Delphi give Alcmaeon as general, not that they also speak of Solon as initiator. The only other source is Aeschines himself.⁷⁶ Pausanias’ version in fact casts Solon as a clever adviser, only hired after the decision to go to war has already been taken.⁷⁷ So we ⁷² It is Demosthenes, not Aeschines, who explores the Salaminian connections there: D. 19.251–5. ⁷³ Sánchez (2001) 227–43. ⁷⁴ There is something of a ‘Cities of the Plain’ quality to this phrase in apposition (cf. Genesis 18.20), and something of the Old Testament prophet about Aeschines. Robertson (1978) 38–9 chooses his words well: ‘the great city [cf. Babylon?: Revelation 14.8] of Crisa appears nowhere but as the exemplary target and victim of this crusade [the ‘First Sacred War’]’. ⁷⁵ Londey (1990) 242, 246 n. 44, 257–8. ⁷⁶ Both sources are deployed by Plutarch (Sol. 11.2) against the otherwise unknown Euanthes, mediated by Hermippus. See Bollansée (1999a) 198–201, with references (and on the dubious status of the Δελφῶν ὑπομνήματα: 199 n. 43; also Robertson [1978] 60–3); Bollansée (1999b) 109, 111–12; Davies (1994) 198. ⁷⁷ Paus. 10.37.6–7.

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cannot be sure that Aeschines’ version of Solon’s action here was a mainstream one; he may be manipulating to suit his argument. Even if it was mainstream,⁷⁸ Aeschines still had another difficulty to surmount: the fact that both in the 590s and in 340/39, Athens was just one of a number of players among the Amphictyons; Aeschines knew (cf. 2.172–6) that the era of Athenian primacy in Greece fell within the action of the fifth century. Therefore, in order to present Solon within the frame of an unassailable, ‘golden age’ Athens and also reflect the diffuse international reality of 340/ 39, he casts himself as bridging the gap, offering a stimulating image of a present-day Athenian statesman attempting to recapture a fictive ancient pre-eminence among the Amphictyons (108). Athens’s (and probably Solon’s) earlier role, and Aeschines’ present role, are therefore finessed together. As well as emphasizing the continuance to the present of the curse, oath, and oracle from the 590s (ἔτι καὶ νῦν, ‘to this day’: 113), Aeschines further strengthens the links between the earlier context and 340/39 by making Solon look as Aeschinean as possible without making the parallel explicit. Like Aeschines (cf. 1.135), he composes poetry (3.108), and his reputation for philosophia (also 108) fits Aeschines well in a speech where he makes much of his own paideia and points to other people’s lack of it.⁷⁹ The Amphissaean antagonist in the session of hieromnēmones at Delphi is one such individual (ἄνθρωπος⁸⁰ ἀσελγέστατος καὶ ὡς ἐμοὶ ἐφαίνετο οὐδεμιᾶς παιδείας μετεσχηκώς, ἴσως δὲ καὶ δαιμονίου τινὸς ἐξαμαρτάνειν προαγομένου, ‘a thoroughly gross individual and, it seemed to me, a man with no education; perhaps, too, he was led into error by some superhuman force’: 117).⁸¹ He is built up to resemble Demosthenes, a connection Aeschines makes even easier for himself with his claim that Demosthenes was in the pay of the Amphissaeans (113, 125). The Amphissaean is pro-Theban, like his countrymen (113) and like Demosthenes. Like Demosthenes throughout Against Ctesiphon, he is uncultured (οὐδεμιᾶς παιδείας μετεσχηκώς). He is rude and abrasive, like Demosthenes and Ctesiphon (ἀναβοήσας, ‘crying out’: 117; cf. 2.106, 3.202). Finally, in a particularly neat twist, Aeschines even has this ersatz Demosthenes badmouth Demosthenes’ real-life political ally, Hegesippus ‘Crobylus’ (118). But a careful touch of distance is preserved too.

⁷⁸ Most agree that it was: e.g. Robertson (1978) 66–8, 73; Bollansée (1999a) 198–9. ⁷⁹ See A. 3.130, 241, 260. ⁸⁰ Cf. the use of ἀνήρ at S. Aj. 1142, 1150, with Finglass (2011) 459–60 (noting parallels with fable). ⁸¹ Presumably their hieromnēmōn Callicron, if this is the autumn 340 meeting: Lerat (1952) 2.52 n. 1; Londey (1990) 244 (table); Lefèvre (1998) 79.

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Elsewhere in Against Ctesiphon (and also in Dinarchus’ Against Demosthenes), Demosthenes is spoken of as a malevolent spirit;⁸² but here, unlike Demosthenes, the Amphissaean is potentially led on by one (προαγομένου: 117), rather than embodying it as Demosthenes does.⁸³ As in Against Timarchus, Aeschines’ other actors remain grounded in reality—the orator only gives himself the flexibility to move between the present trial, Delphi in 340/39, and Delphi in the 590s. Despite the problems with the Solon example, then, Aeschines aims to offer a convincing map between distant and recent past which buttresses his claim to have represented Athens authoritatively and honestly in 340/39. Among other things, it foregrounds his dextrous spontaneous use of a historically informed example, an indispensable faculty for an expert representative of Athens’s interests abroad: according to him, ‘it occurred to me [ἐπῆλθε δ’ οὖν μοι ἐπὶ τὴν γνώμην] that I should speak of the Amphissaean impiety against the consecrated land’ (118). Demosthenes has two tactical answers: a direct refutation of Aeschines’ version of what happened at Delphi (18.140–59) and a comprehensive symbolic upstaging of the dramatic effects he had sought to conjure. First, he contests Aeschines’ version in almost every detail, while sticking broadly to his narrative of events.⁸⁴ He denounces Aeschines as the hireling of Philip, dismisses his speech as ‘fine-sounding arguments together with stories’ (λόγους εὐπροσώπους καὶ μύθους: 149), and claims that Aeschines only managed to persuade the Amphictyons because they were ‘men unused to rhetoric’ (ἀπείρους λόγων: 149), something Aeschines himself comes near to hinting.⁸⁵ Further, the warlike Amphictyonic excursion Aeschines describes is reduced to a survey (περιελθεῖν: 150) which ends in a farcical near slaughter (151). Importantly, Demosthenes also denies that there was any Amphissaean legal move against Athens, and that Aeschines spoke unprovoked (150). Aeschines is further undermined by Demosthenes’ playing on various ⁸² Daimōn and alitērios language: A. 3.115, 157; cf. 131; and Din. 1.30–3, 77; cf. Demosthenes as a δυστυχία, a ‘jinx’ (D. Ep. 4.1). ⁸³ The Amphissaean’s double stimulus (personal ignorance and possibly divine influence) loosely recalls Hdt. 9.5.2 (εἴτε δὴ δεδεγμένος χρήματα παρὰ Μαρδονίου, εἴτε καὶ ταῦτά οἱ ἑάνδανε, ‘either because he had been bribed by Mardonius, or because he actually approved of the proposals’) on the stoning of Lycides on Salamis (see Chapter 6.3); and in a different way X. Hell. 6.4.3 (the Spartan assembly rejecting Prothous’ advice: ἤδη γάρ, ὡς ἔοικε, τὸ δαιμόνιον ἦγεν, ‘it seems the divine power already led them on’); cf. also Thymoetes at V. Aen. 2.34. ⁸⁴ Lerat (1952) 2.51 (and 51–4 for the course of the war as a whole). ⁸⁵ A. 3.122: κραυγὴ πολλὴ καὶ θόρυβος ἦν τῶν Ἀμφικτυόνων (‘there was a great deal of shouting and uproar among the Amphictyons’); though Aeschines may be exaggerating.

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elements of Aeschines’ story (18.140–4): he seems to mock the grandeur of Aeschines’ recital of the curse, pronouncing one against himself if he fails to expose Aeschines (141–2) and almost casts himself—responding negatively to Aeschines’ report in the Assembly after the Delphi episode—as an unsuccessful version of Aeschines at Delphi, his loud objection shouted down by a claque (συγκαθήμενοι) under Aeschines’ direction (143). He does not dignify Aeschines’ self-association with Solon with a response; and by building on Aeschines’ admission of his own intemperateness in entering a meeting where only hieromnēmones were still present (3.117),⁸⁶ he exposes his opponent as an international liability. So far, though, so negative; Demosthenes has offered the jury nothing positive to substitute for the strong impression Aeschines must have made, especially if his acting talent is taken into account. Demosthenes’ perhaps more meaningful response is to upstage the dramatic totality of the passage, as we will now see. It is essential to Demosthenes’ continuum-based historical usage in On the Crown that models from the recent past are just as valid as analogues for the present as models from the distant past (like Solon)—in fact, if they involve Demosthenes himself, even more valid. His response (beginning at 18.169) involves constructing a performance of his own, in the Assembly after the news of the fall of Elatea (in autumn 339) had reached Athens, as a decisive counter to Aeschines’ own set piece, developing points of contact with it only to project a much more positive image of Athens’s (and especially his own) activities over the previous decade. It falls only a few paragraphs after the end of his discussion of the outflow of the Delphi affair (at 159) and stylistically serves as a bracing variation from the straightforward explanation of how Philip faced and exploited a divided Thebes and Athens (160–3, 168) and the reading of associated documents (164–7)⁸⁷ that immediately precede it. Demosthenes’ achievement here—making his 339 self act as model for his ēthos now—serves as a microcosm of his successful approach in devising presentational strategies in On the Crown as a whole: maintaining a balance between emphasis on his star-quality statesmanship and assertion of his status as one of a whole body of citizens who could easily have done what he did—and, unlike Aeschines, had the virtue to— but did not.

⁸⁶ Probably slightly disingenuous: Aeschines was familiar with Amphictyonic contexts (cf. A. 2.114–17) and would have been known to Cottyphus, the chairman of the Council, from his previous visit there in 346, also during Cottyphus’ term as hieromnēmōn: A. 2.142. ⁸⁷ All sadly spurious: Yunis (2001) 29–31; Canevaro (2013) 304–10.

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In the Delphi episode, Aeschines is only interested in reminding the jurors how impressively he represented their interests in a context pregnant with historical symbolism (not least the alleged cause of the dispute: the gilded shields commemorating the Persian Wars: 3.116). His technique recalls the two extended speech reports in On the Embassy, especially the second of these, where he parades his expertise on matters Amphictyonic (2.114–17), as he does here, but it remains self-orientated: Aeschines fails to articulate clearly why the audience should care in 330, and, similarly, how he has protected or advanced their interests since 340/39 is left undisclosed. Demosthenes’ own ‘moment’ of 339, however—the Elatea passage—captures the premium Demosthenes places, throughout On the Crown, on demonstrating the relevance of his illustrative material by using it to remind his audience of his own continued work in their interest: what Ctesiphon’s proposal stated, in fact. Comparing the two—Aeschines associating himself with Solon, Demosthenes foregrounding his earlier performance—offers a good illustration of the divergence between the two orators’ expectations and priorities in their historical usage. As we will see in Chapters 6.3 and 6.4, Aeschines’ strategic decisions not only remain rooted in 343 (as witness, for example, his echoing of his ‘Amphictyonic League’ passage from On the Embassy), but also involve the expectation that Demosthenes would bring on figures like Miltiades and Themistocles—not only because Demosthenes liked to cite them (he did, and would cite Themistocles later in On the Crown) but because it was through the medium of examples like the Persian Wars battles that the anti-Macedonians were choosing to commemorate Chaeronea. Demosthenes’ Elatea passage, however, recognizes that what his audience needs is to be reassured of their place within a continuum made explicitly relevant to their recent experiences. Replaying his own role at a critical moment where both he and the dēmos can be represented as showing themselves at their best achieves that. Its content—the message arriving as evening falls on the Agora, the prytaneis alerted, security measures taken, a wakeful city full of disturbance; then the packed Assembly meeting at dawn, the herald greeted with silence from all the politicians, and finally Demosthenes stepping forward to counsel alliance with Thebes—raises the stakes by an almost paradoxical admission that it was even more instrumental in bringing Athens into direct collision with Philip than Aeschines’ performance at Delphi itself.⁸⁸

⁸⁸ For a close reading of the passage’s ecphrastic qualities: Serafim (2015) 99–105.

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Demosthenes’ upstaging of Aeschines comes from several directions. In his inset speech to the Amphictyons at Delphi, Aeschines is able to capitalize on a sweeping theatrical gesture (ὁρᾶτ’, ‘you see’: 3.119), indicating how the whole relevant terrain, the Sacred Plain, can be surveyed by his audience as they sit in session (εὐσύνοπτον,⁸⁹ ‘can easily be seen’: 3.118). Aeschines, therefore, mediates that sight both to them and to the jurors in the Crown trial (the most important audience, of course; they would not know, or would not immediately remember, that the Sacred Plain cannot, in fact, be seen from the temple or sanctuary area [ἱερῷ] at Delphi).⁹⁰ Meanwhile, Demosthenes in the Assembly in the Elatea passage is seen to need no such gesture. When he comes forward, he is the only thing to look at, because nobody else has moved (18.170, 173). His solitary figure rises to the bēma amid the language of epiphany (ἐφάνην τοίνυν οὗτος ἐν ἐκείνῃ τῇ ἡμέρᾳ ἐγὼ καὶ παρελθὼν εἶπον εἰς ὑμᾶς, ‘The one who emerged as the right man on that day was I. I stepped forward and addressed you’: 18.173).⁹¹ This has prompted comparisons with Thucydides’ lone and dignified Pericles,⁹² but one key difference in Demosthenes’ presentation of his own appeal is that despite his action he is only doing what anyone else—any other regular speaker, at least—could have done (and what everyone present could reasonably have wished to do); this contrasts with the dominant position of which Thucydides’ Pericles is presented as fully conscious.⁹³ The tone and pacing of the two passages are also clearly contrastable: Aeschines, even on his own account, bursts into an environment where he does not officially belong, as the other pylagoroi have withdrawn (προθυμότερόν πως εἰσεληλυθότος εἰς τὸ συνέδριον; ‘having entered the council chamber perhaps rather impatiently’) (3.117), whereas Demosthenes portrays himself as calmly judging the moment perfectly, and having the right statesmanlike credentials at the right time: that moment [ἐκεῖνος ὁ καιρὸς] and that day called for a man who not only was devoted [εὔνουν] and wealthy but had also followed events from the ⁸⁹ A word with strong intellectual connotations: Isoc. 15.172; Arist. Po. 1451a4; Pol. 1323b7, 1327a1–2; Rhet. 1409a37; 1414a12; also Purves (2010), especially 24–45. ⁹⁰ ὑπόκειται γὰρ τὸ Κιρραῖον πεδίον τῷ ἱερῷ καὶ ἔστιν εὐσύνοπτον; ‘for the plain of Cirrha lies below the temple and can easily be seen’ (3.118). The plain might have been visible, or nearly visible, from the meeting place Aeschines is describing (he only refers to the συνέδριον [117, 122], without specifying its location more precisely or clarifying whether or not it could be referred to as a ἱερόν itself). His account is certainly ‘more graphic than correct’: Frazer (1898) 5.396–7 (with much more). ⁹¹ Slater (1988). ⁹² Yunis (2001) 204. ⁹³ Pericles’ assertion of what he stands for: Thuc. 2.60.5; 2.61.2 (with a tantalizing link between the latter’s ἐξίσταμαι and Demosthenes’ usage at 18.319).

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beginning [παρηκολουθηκότα τοῖς πράγμασιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς] and figured out correctly [συλλελογισμένον ὀρθῶς] what Philip was aiming at and what his intentions were in taking the action he did. (18.172)

Demosthenes’ self-portrayal is epiphanic, but it also builds on moments in earlier speeches where he had presented himself as the right man at the right time, for example in Against Meidias, where he had volunteered to serve as tribal chorēgos to resolve a dispute between the archon and the tribal overseers (21.13), and in On the False Embassy, where he accused his fellow envoys in a Boule meeting (19.18). Two other sensory aspects also become meaningful in the Elatea passage: where Aeschines had been provoked to speak by anger with the Amphissaean (3.118: οὕτω παρωξύνθην ὡς οὐδεπώποτ’ ἐν τῷ ἐμαυτοῦ βίῳ, ‘I was enraged to a degree I had never experienced before in my life’), Demosthenes is shown responding to a higher summons altogether (καλούσης δὲ τῆς {κοινῆς} πατρίδος {φωνῆς} τὸν ἐροῦνθ’ ὑπὲρ σωτηρίας, ‘and the {common voice of the} country was calling for a speaker to save it’: 18.170)—a much more arresting and moving image. On top of that, Demosthenes turns the herald in his narrative into the natural conduit for that common voice (18.170);⁹⁴ by contrast, Aeschines’ Amphictyonic herald had (mainly in indirect speech, apart from a reminder of the curse) required the presence of all the delegates the following day at an appointed spot, but Aeschines had not given him a more meaningful symbolic role (3.122). The turning of day into night and night into day plays a key dramatic role in Demosthenes’ conception too, noteworthy because darkness is something Demosthenes likes to associate with Aeschines and his services to Philip.⁹⁵ The Elatea passage begins as, symbolically given Philip’s advance, darkness falls (ἑσπέρα μὲν γὰρ ἦν: 169), and the still active Agora tradesmen are turned out by the prytaneis (τούς τ’ ἐκ τῶν σκηνῶν τῶν κατὰ τὴν ἀγορὰν ἐξεῖργον); the Assembly then meets at daybreak (ἅμα τῇ ἡμέρᾳ: 169), while the night of turmoil in the city in between (θορύβου πλήρης ἦν ἡ πόλις) recalls Xenophon’s panic-stricken Athens on receiving the news of Aegospotami in 405 (Hell. 2.2.3); Demosthenes may be seeking to evoke not only traditions about that event, but also the

⁹⁴ ἣν γὰρ ὁ κῆρυξ κατὰ τοὺς νόμους φωνὴν ἀφίησι, ταύτην κοινὴν τῆς πατρίδος δίκαιόν ἐστιν ἡγεῖσθαι (‘for the voice of the herald lawfully discharging his task is rightly considered the common voice of the country’). ⁹⁵ Light and darkness: cf. in On the Crown the darkness that prevents the audience from seeing Aeschines’ treachery (18.159); cf. 19.226 (responded to by Aeschines at 2.125–6).

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personal memories of any over-eighties among his listeners.⁹⁶ The atmosphere evoked by a few telling details crisply told seems deliberately to recall, and makes a significant advance on, the matter-of-fact daybreak meeting of the delegates with their spades and picks in Aeschines (τῇ δὲ ὑστεραίᾳ ἥκομεν ἕωθεν εἰς τὸν προειρημένον τόπον, ‘next day, we went to the appointed place at dawn’: 3.123), while, in order for the terrain to be seen by the hieromnēmones (3.118), this session must be happening during the day (and finishes late in it: ἤδη δὲ πόρρω τῆς ἡμέρας ὄντος)—bereft of dramatic possibilities. Demosthenes is soon obeyed by a calm and united dēmos (συνεπαινεσάντων δὲ πάντων, ‘everyone approved’: 18.179), who move straight to carry out his measured, straightforward instructions, which are based on what is actually happening, carefully correct any misapprehensions (174), and show the way forward. This contrasts strongly with the angry and precipitate reaction of Aeschines’ Amphictyons (3.122) to an impassioned outburst which appeals to emotive events in the distant past but (as Aeschines does not deny) without a clear sense of where it will all lead. Demosthenes, meanwhile, as in On the Crown more generally, advises his audience not to spend too much time worrying about the familiar negative paradigms of Athenian relations with Thebes (which is what he says Philip wants: 176), and indeed, later, it is the Macedonian envoys in the Theban Assembly who think some capital is to be gained from cataloguing instances of Athenian hostility to Thebes (213), bearing out Demosthenes’ prediction.⁹⁷ But the most important point of contrast between the two episodes is that Demosthenes’ intervention was successful (after the brief period when it was not known whether or not Thebes would accept) up to Chaeronea (τοῦτο τὸ ψήφισμα τὸν τότε τῇ πόλει περιστάντα κίνδυνον παρελθεῖν ἐποίησεν ὥσπερ νέφος, ‘this decree caused the danger then encompassing the city to pass by like a cloud’: 188). In Demosthenes’ conception, it was successful beyond that too, because it represented Athens staying true to its traditional identity. Aeschines’ intervention, however, after a brief enthusiastic uptake, ⁹⁶ The parallel is tonal rather than lexical, but compare the Assembly held the morning after (X. Hell. 2.2.4), as in Demosthenes; cf. Steinbock (2013a) 291–5. Memories: a good modern analogue (as I write in 2019) for 405/4 could be the 1940–1 Blitz. Apart from the similar chronological distance, the essential shared element is the singular widespread distress both produced—the kind of distress remembered by the very youngest: cf., especially on children, Gardiner (2010) 193–9; postwar mythologized memory of the Blitz: Calder (1991); Connelly (2004) 128–56. ⁹⁷ See Steinbock (2013a) 268–70 for the examples Demosthenes might have used to counter this; and cf. Plut. Dem. 9.1 for Demosthenes’ historical knowledge about Thebes (also the Conclusion); cf. A. 2.117.

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came unstuck both the next day (D. 18.151; A. 3.123) and in the longer term. Demosthenes uses a version of the ‘argument used seventy-two times’ to conclude here: while he was doing all this (covered in a striking climax at 179),⁹⁸ Aeschines did nothing (σὺ μέν γε οὐδὲν οὐδαμοῦ χρήσιμος ἦσθα, ‘you never did anything useful on any occasion’: 180). The decision to finish the passage with a jibe at Aeschines’ acting career gains particular point if we continue to consider the Elatea sequence as an upstaging of Aeschines’ Delphi sequence: Demosthenes’ scene, reinforced as it is by the realities of Demosthenes’ past service, has made a competitive bid to usurp the effects Aeschines was aiming for. Critical here is Demosthenes’ appeal to the collective, as is his identification of his actions with theirs: Aeschines’ Delphi passage had primarily been about himself—as a guardian of Athens’s reputation, to be sure, just as Demosthenes is here—but pivoted on his own performance and not its consequences. The Demosthenic passage, ‘rewriting’ that of Aeschines and ‘doing it better’, denies as it does so the validity of the self-alignment Aeschines had made with the distant past in the form of the First Sacred War frame and Solon, and so subverts his approach more generally. Doubts may linger over whether Demosthenes could carry out such a precise upstaging manoeuvre in performance, i.e. so soon after Aeschines delivered his original. Post-trial revision is clearly a possibility (to make the fit smoother, if nothing else). Indeed previous interpreters may have shied away from connecting Aeschines’ Delphi passage with Demosthenes’ Elatea passage precisely because they did not want to have to countenance the possibility that Demosthenes’ remarkable sequence only came into being at the revision stage. But we should also be confident that very experienced law-court speakers like Demosthenes— who, after all, had had plenty of recent practice in defending his record (Chapter 6.1)—had developed to a high degree the ability to isolate, during the live unfolding of the prosecution case itself, the points which he could capitalize on artistically. This kind of intense focus on the defendant’s part—to see what he could rebut and how—was necessary in any case. Furthermore, knowing that the trial was going to involve his record, Demosthenes may have envisaged himself finding room somewhere for an imagining of his heroic Assembly performance in 339 anyway, and now Aeschines obligingly gave him a context for ⁹⁸ οὐκ εἶπον μὲν ταῦτα, οὐκ ἔγραψα δέ, οὐδ’ ἔγραψα μέν, οὐκ ἐπρέσβευσα δέ, οὐδ’ ἐπρέσβευσα μέν, οὐκ ἔπεισα δὲ Θηβαίους (‘I did not deliver the speech without moving a proposal, nor did I move a proposal without serving as envoy, nor did I serve as envoy without winning over the Thebans’): Demetr. Eloc. 270 (and Usher [1993] 234 for other references).

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deploying it as a competitive response. Either way, when Demosthenes saw Aeschines taking pride in, and putting himself and his patriotic credentials centre stage in, the virtuosic Delphi passage, he must have known that this was something he could profitably challenge in kind, and upset, wrecking Aeschines’ credibility and asserting his own. The Elatea narrative is not the only place where Aeschines’ claim to a modern-day Solonian authority is undermined; Demosthenes also directly counteracts Aeschines’ early reference to him (A. 3.2, on speakers’ eukosmia) in his own proem (18.6–7)⁹⁹ by shifting the context from the Assembly to the law court, and using that to suggest that the kind of agebased precedence endorsed by Aeschines has no relevance to the present trial. Aeschines may think the first (and eldest) Assembly speaker should have priority (3.2), but trials by their very nature, and by the implicit direction of the dicastic oath,¹⁰⁰ require the jurors to listen to the defence just as closely as to the prosecution (D. 18.7). Demosthenes rejects Aeschines’ ideal procedure (which was probably never formally observed anyway, and unlikely to have been Solonian if it was), and in his own proem offers his own characterization of Solon. His Solon ‘was well disposed to you and favoured democracy’ (εὔνους . . . ὑμῖν καὶ δημοτικός: 18.6)—like Demosthenes, who stresses his eunoia (goodwill) towards his fellow citizens constantly in On the Crown.¹⁰¹ This is also helped along by Demosthenes’ exploration of Solon’s activities in the confident psychologizing terms Aeschines had used in one of his later Solon sections— the familiar claim to know what Solon was thinking when he passed a given measure (ᾤετο, ‘he believed’: 18.6; cf. A. 3.175). Most importantly, though, Demosthenes reassigns to himself the qualities of Aeschines’ ideal first Assembly speaker (A. 3.2), when he comes to portray his own epiphanic Assembly appearance the morning after the news from Elatea: like Aeschines’ speaker, Demosthenes comes forward quietly (3.2; cf. 18.173), without a movement from anyone else (οὐδὲν μᾶλλον ἀνίστατ’ οὐδείς: 170) and speaks above all from practical experience (3.2: ἐξ ἐμπειρίας; 18.172: παρηκολουθηκότα τοῖς πράγμασιν ἐξ ἀρχῆς, ‘followed events from the beginning’). This image is filled out by Demosthenes to

⁹⁹ As spotted also by Richardson (1889) 35: Demosthenes provides a match for A. 3.2 ‘so that [Solon] might not appear to belong to Aeschines as a patron saint’. ¹⁰⁰ Summary: Sommerstein in Sommerstein and Bayliss (2013) 69–80, especially 74 there. ¹⁰¹ Demosthenes’ eunoia towards the people, and hope for reciprocal eunoia: e.g. 18.1–5, 8, 10, 110, 173, 199, 276, 281, 286, 321, 322; also Hernández Muñoz (1989); Whitehead (1993) 52–4; Cook (2009) 36–43; Sanders (2016), 168–75. Note, e.g., Aeschines’ eunoia towards the people in On the Embassy, though: 2.118.

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ground its relevance to the present case, eclipsing the abstract, nostalgic vision Aeschines had conjured in his proem. Demosthenes’ challenge to Aeschines, then, comes at numerous points and not always explicitly. What he pushes in each of the cases examined is his own distinctive portfolio as a director of public policy, along with its counter-image: Aeschines as a spent force, both already superseded at the level of events (and their quarrel) and ready to be superseded in the predominantly rhetorical battle Aeschines apparently thinks they are fighting (18.226). However, the fact that Aeschines is essentially extending the strategic patterns of the Embassy trial and Against Timarchus (sometimes even recycling material from the latter¹⁰²) does not necessarily mean that he is short of ideas;¹⁰³ I now move to discuss his shaping of his epilogos and how I see Demosthenes reacting.

6.3. AESCHINES TRANSFIGURED: THE EPILOGOS OF AGAINST CTESIPHON AND THE CLIMAX OF ON THE CROWN As we have seen, Aeschines often encourages his audiences to imagine that they see (e.g. νομίσαθ’ ὁρᾶν) something other than the law court and the present trial taking place. This is especially prevalent in Against Ctesiphon, unsurprisingly, as the whole prosecution involves leading the audience to a view of Demosthenes’ behaviour completely other than the one they may presently have (see, e.g., 3.58–60). This enargeiarelated technique, sometimes referred to as diatypōsis, has attracted plenty of recent interest from those working on theatricality in oratory and on the kinship between oratory and drama,¹⁰⁴ and (as noted above) Aeschines’ proclivity towards it has been plausibly explained as an expression of the heightened sense he would have of its possibilities, as a former actor.¹⁰⁵ It is not distinctive to him—as we will see—but his epilogos represents a creative and compelling instantiation of its

¹⁰² For example, the shape of his proem, where he outlines the ‘three constitution-types’, as he had done in Against Timarchus: 3.6–7; cf. 1.4–6. ¹⁰³ E. M. Harris (1995) 142. ¹⁰⁴ See Hernández Muñoz (2006); Hobden (2007a); Webb (2009); O’Connell (2017) 124–31; Westwood (2017a). In general on this kinship: Ober (1989) 152–5; Duncan (2006) 58–89; Hall (2006). ¹⁰⁵ See Chapter 1.4 n. 230.

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possibilities for presenting historical material which attracts serious contestation from Demosthenes. A good example of the way the technique helps conjure historical atmospheres in Against Ctesiphon is the passage where Aeschines laments the election of Demosthenes as funeral orator for 338/7 (and so for the dead of Chaeronea) (3.152–6), which acts as a lead-in to his similarly vivid vision of the suffering of the Thebans (introduced by νομίσαθ’ ὁρᾶν, ‘imagine that you can see’: 157). Seeking to demonstrate the inappropriateness of the appointment, Aeschines asks the jurors to suspend belief for a moment and imagine (γένεσθε δή μοι μικρὸν χρόνον τὴν διανοίαν) they are in the theatre and imagine that they see (νομίσαθ’ ὁρᾶν) the herald proclaiming Demosthenes’ crown (153).¹⁰⁶ Scenariobuilding as elsewhere, he suspends the moment in between three settings at once: first, an idealized fifth-century context ‘when the city was better governed and had better champions’ (ὅτ’ εὐνομεῖτο μᾶλλον ἡ πόλις καὶ βελτίοσι προστάταις ἐχρῆτο: 154) and where the war orphans were paraded before being given their armour at public expense;¹⁰⁷ second, the 338/7 context of Demosthenes’ appointment to deliver the funeral oration; and, third, a hypothetical Dionysia festival envisaged for the future (154), where Demosthenes will be crowned if Aeschines’ prosecution fails. Although it is good to have a passage where the mutuality of theatre and law court is made explicit, Aeschines’ manoeuvre is only made possible by the fact that the idea of proclaiming the crown in the theatre is one of the procedural irregularities he is targeting in Ctesiphon’s proposal (A. 3.32–48; cf. D. 18.120–2). This allows the neat map between the theatre in its capacity as the place where the presentation of orphans had taken place¹⁰⁸ and the present situation, permitting Aeschines to imagine the Athenians erecting ‘a trophy to their own defeat in the orchestra of the theatre of Dionysus’ (τρόπαιον . . . ἀφ’ ὑμῶν αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ τοῦ Διονύσου ὀρχήστρᾳ: 156) by allowing Demosthenes to be crowned there.¹⁰⁹ It also allows him (in a move we will see extended in the next section) to cut Demosthenes off from self-alignment with the fifth ¹⁰⁶ On this section and Demosthenes’ response: Hanink (2014) 114–22. ¹⁰⁷ See [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 42.4 and, importantly, Dillery (2002), especially 467–8. ¹⁰⁸ For which (as well as Isoc. 8.82–3 and Lys. fr. 129), see, especially, Goldhill (1987) 63–8; cf. Rhodes (2003) 111–12, making a point similar to mine in a different connection. ¹⁰⁹ This loosely reflects Lycurgus’ prosecution of the unfortunate Lysicles (XII fr. 1), blamed for the fact that ‘a trophy was erected to mark the defeat of the city’ (τροπαίου δὲ κατὰ τῆς πόλεως ἑστηκότος), and whom Lycurgus later in the same sentence imagines entering the Agora despite having become ‘a reminder of our country’s shame and reproach’ (ὑπόμνημα γεγονὼς αἰσχύνης καὶ ὀνείδους τῇ πατρίδι).

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century or with Athenian military heroism more generally. This works both at a non-specific level—in the anticipation of Demosthenes’ drawing in his defence speech upon the anti-Macedonian group’s heroic past models for Chaeronea—and also perhaps at a specific one. In introducing the thought that Demosthenes has ‘orphaned’ a substantial section of the city’s youth by his policies (τὸν τῆς ὀρφανίας τοῖς παισὶν αἴτιον, ‘the man responsible for the children’s orphan state’: 155), making him the least appropriate person possible to receive the award Ctesiphon has proposed, Aeschines may be anticipating—and barring off the route to— any personal paradigmatic use that Demosthenes might plausibly want to make later of Pericles (famous for never causing orphans) or Chabrias, who Demosthenes himself had described in similar terms in Against Leptines (20.82).¹¹⁰ This sequence, the envisaging of the plight of the Thebans (illustrating a moment from the recent past), the earlier Delphi episode, and other moments throughout the speech forge a chain of moments of enargeia which draw the jurors into a series of heightened fictive or quasi-fictive environments which serve explicitly competitive purposes. They culminate in the epilogos (257–60), where Aeschines imagines not just Solon but also Aristides as his own synēgoroi (and transfigured personal proxies) to face down Demosthenes and apparently other synēgoroi who are envisaged (257).¹¹¹ He asks the jurors to imagine them standing on the bēma when Demosthenes and the other synēgoroi are standing there (257), but his language makes clear that they might also imagine them on the bēma now too, standing where he is standing as he speaks (ὑπολαμβάνετε ὁρᾶν ἐπὶ τοῦ βήματος, οὗ νῦν ἑστηκὼς ἐγὼ λέγω)—the jurors are to keep them in mind as Ctesiphon speaks too and deploy them when Demosthenes gets up to speak. They will still be there when Aeschines himself cannot be. Simultaneously, Themistocles and the dead (τοὺς τελευτήσαντας) of Marathon and Plataea lurk in the background, about to groan (στενάξειν) at the idea of Ctesiphon’s acquittal (and with it the validation of Demosthenes’ record) (259).¹¹² Solon and Aristides are imagined talking over what Ctesiphon’s synēgoroi are going to say: Solon is the restrained Solon from the proem (3.2) and ¹¹⁰ For both, see Chapter 2.3. ¹¹¹ See in brief on this sequence Webb (2009) 144–5; O’Connell (2017) 170; Westwood (2017a) 61–6. ¹¹² Especially vivid, as Clarke (2008) 261 notes; for oratorical parallels, see, e.g., D. 23.210; Lys. 12.100; and Andoc. 1.148. A relevant contemporary parallel (and signalled as such by Hobden [2007a] 500) may well be the epilogos of Lycurgus’ Against Leocrates (1.150), where the Attic countryside and cityscape (including the tombs) are imagined begging the jurors to convict.

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from Against Timarchus (1.25–6), begging the jurors σωφρόνως, ὡς προσῆκον αὐτῷ (‘in the restrained manner that befits him’) to prioritize the laws and the dicastic oath over Demosthenes’ speeches (257), while Aristides cites the condemnation of Arthmius of Zelea (258), who merely distributed money, as a reason for the jurors not to allow the allegedly medizing Demosthenes—who took it—to be crowned. The arraying of impeccable traditional forces against the defence can be found elsewhere: in Against Leptines, we saw Demosthenes ask the jurors to imagine that trial as a contest between abstract virtues and vices (20.165), while in Against Meidias (21.188) and in Against Neaera ([D.] 59.115) the laws are set up as proxy synēgoroi who the jurors are to imagine pleading for a conviction alongside Demosthenes and Apollodorus respectively.¹¹³ While Aeschines himself had conceptualized the laws as synēgoroi earlier in Against Ctesiphon (37), his epilogos goes further than all these instances in importing imagined historical figures into the law court, which (at least in extant oratory) is rare and so may have felt distinctive. It is certainly strikingly and impressively handled; hence Demosthenes’ contestation. The epilogos acts as a decisive bid by Aeschines for recognition as the only authoritative user of historical illustrations in this trial. His own self-alignment with Solon is picked up again from the Delphi episode (108) and from his other appearances in the speech, while Aristides is an exemplar Aeschines had used against Timarchus (along with Solon) (1.25) and had used against Demosthenes both in the Embassy trial (2.23) and earlier in Against Ctesiphon (3.181)—and one instantly identifiable with standards of justice (cf. 181: ὁ δίκαιος ἐπικαλούμενος, ‘known as “the just” ’), here as in comedy and elsewhere.¹¹⁴ Here Aeschines fills out the characterization, mentioning the dowries provided at public expense for Aristides’ daughters on his death (258)¹¹⁵—perhaps a sharp reminder of the disgust Aeschines invited the jurors to feel at Demosthenes’ failure to mourn his own dead daughter properly ¹¹³ [D.] 59.115: ‘do not suppose it is I, Apollodorus, who am speaking [ἡγεῖσθε δὲ μήτ’ ἐμὲ τὸν λέγοντα {εἶναι Ἀπολλόδωρον}] . . . but imagine that the laws are actually in litigation with Neaera here over the things she has done’; see Wohl (2010) 40 for the comparison with Aeschines. This echoes Clytemnestra’s unsettling claim to embody the daimōn of the oikos in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon (1497–1504). ¹¹⁴ For Aristides as representative of justice in comedy, see, especially, Eupolis, Demes and Storey (2003) 129–31 and (2011) 2.97; restored as the speaker in the dialogue on Pap. Cair. 43227 (fr. 99); ‘justice’ in lines 80, 91, 119; also Braun (2000) 194–5 and Telò (2007) 469–71, 491, 532–3. Elsewhere: Ar. Knights 1325 and even Men. Aspis fr. 230 (as a byword for honesty). As noted in Chapter 1.1, he is also the only good past statesman in Plato’s Gorgias (Grg. 526ab); and cf. Plut. Arist. 6–7. ¹¹⁵ The dowries: Domingo Gygax (2016) 177–8.

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(3.77–8). But, crucially, Aeschines also has Aristides use Arthmius as an embedded paradeigma of his own, a very rare move indeed and one which brings Aristides even more vividly into the present—a statesman citing examples in front of a popular audience, just as Aeschines is, and, above all, using a paradeigma which Demosthenes himself had used at length against Aeschines in the Embassy trial (19.271–2) (as well as in the Third Philippic: Chapter 3.2.2). Aeschines’ image captures control of both exemplary figures and—as we saw with Meidias and Alcibiades (and more indirectly just now, with Pericles and Chabrias)—guarantees that they will be more difficult to use should Demosthenes want to integrate them into his own arguments: both evoke the era of the Persian Wars and the early progress of the Delian League, exactly the kind of paradigmatic territory where Demosthenes might wish to manoeuvre to defend his own record. Foregrounding Demosthenes’ taking of money from Persia which he then failed to use in the interests of the Greek states whose revolts have now failed is a major concern of the second half of Against Ctesiphon,¹¹⁶ and having Aristides introduce Aeschines’ final illustration of that theme, and in this dramatic context, seeks to guarantee its staying power in the jurors’ minds and to head off Demosthenic use of examples drawn from Athens’s battles against Persia (on which, more in Chapter 6.4). The coherence of the series of figures in Aeschines’ epilogos, then, offers a perfect range of antitypes to Demosthenes, featuring law and the foundations of the jury courts (Solon, here ‘a worthy legislator’, νομοθέτην ἀγαθόν), justice and the Delian League (Aristides), and, beyond the immediate envisaged ‘ghostly synēgoroi’ and so in a slightly subsidiary role, Athenian heroism in the Persian Wars (Themistocles and the dead of the Persian Wars) (258). Demosthenes is left out in the cold with Arthmius, with no viable place in this cosmos of Athenian achievement as ‘correctly’ understood and interpreted by Aeschines. Although he moves to counter his opponents’ likely usage, though, Aeschines does not do enough to anticipate the fact that Demosthenes would defend his political record on the basis of full acceptance rather than nuanced denial¹¹⁷—this could be seen as another failure to move significantly beyond the strategic confines of the Embassy trial. Demosthenes’ response, therefore, makes strategic use of precisely that shortcoming. Although he leaves Aristides and Arthmius (and Pericles and Chabrias) to Aeschines, we saw him move to recapture Solon early in

¹¹⁶ A. 3.156, 173, 209, and obliquely 164. ¹¹⁷ Strategic embracing of record: Yunis (2000) 104; (2001) 14.

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On the Crown (18.6–7),¹¹⁸ and it is significant that the attributes emphasized are Solon’s closeness to the dēmos (δημοτικός) and his eunoia (εὔνους)—both of which Demosthenes makes central to his own characterization in the speech. In calling Solon δημοτικός, Demosthenes may also be pointing wryly to the act of recapture itself: asserting the right of any citizen to make illustrative use of the great legislator. The motivation to wrest from Aeschines an exemplary figure on whom he had concentrated at highly visible points in his prosecution seems clear here, and Demosthenes follows it up by recapturing other figures from Aeschines’ treatment to emphasize his own role in saving Athens’s reputation (which required great sacrifice) and his success in keeping the conflict away from the physical city in 338: he, Lycurgus, and Hyperides (in Against Diondas) use a very similar phrase to emphasize how Philip and his army were kept at a ‘safe’ distance, ‘on the borders of Boeotia’ (ἐπὶ τῶν ὁρίων τῆς Βοιωτίας: Hyp. Dion. 16. 173v 20; ἐπὶ τοῖς Βοιωτῶν ὁρίοις: D. 18.230; ἐπὶ τοῖς ὁρίοις τῆς Βοιωτίας: Lyc. 1.47).¹¹⁹ The models Demosthenes chooses respond to these twin emphases on sacrifice and defending the city at a distance, and are those Aeschines had given a secondary role—those who fought at Marathon and Plataea, and the leadership of Themistocles—with the addition of elements Aeschines had not mentioned: the Athenians who evacuated to Salamis, and those who fought there and at Artemisium. These were elements Hyperides also thought important, because he features the same four battles consecutively in a passage of Against Diondas (13. 145v–144r 12–31). Demosthenes gives his version in On the Crown 199–211, the paradoxon argument—the part of the speech where he explains why the Athenians were right to fight Philip, and (in the case of a thousand of them) to die in that struggle. After framing the evacuation to Salamis under Themistocles’ leadership, contrasted with the stoning of Cyrsilus (203–5), as expressive of endemic Athenian will to surpass all others in renown (ἀλλ’ ἀγωνιζομένη περὶ πρωτείων καὶ τιμῆς καὶ δόξης κινδυνεύουσα πάντα τὸν αἰῶνα διατετέλεκε, ‘in every age, despite the danger, the city constantly fought for the first prize in honour and glory’: 203)—and also as expressive of their enthusiasm for praising most the ancestors who were most committed to that goal (204)—Demosthenes moves to the crowning moment of the paradoxon argument, a famous oath (208): [206] Were it my intention to argue that I moved you to aspire to the standards of your forebears [ἄξια τῶν προγόνων φρονεῖν], everyone would ¹¹⁸ Cook (2009) 42.

¹¹⁹ Carey et al. (2008) 17; Horváth (2014) 149.

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chastise me with good reason. But in fact I am showing that such principles are your own [ὑμετέρας τὰς τοιαύτας προαιρέσεις],¹²⁰ and I have been demonstrating that the city aspired to those standards even before my time [καὶ πρὸ ἐμοῦ τοῦτ’ εἶχεν τὸ φρόνημα ἡ πόλις]; I do claim, however, to have been of service in bringing about particular achievements. [207] This man, on the other hand, denounces the whole enterprise and urges you to despise me for putting the city in terrible danger, and though he yearns to deprive me of an honour for the present, he is trying to steal from you the praises of all future time. For if you convict Ctesiphon because my policy was not the best one, you will make it appear that you were wrong, not that subsequent events befell you by fortune’s cruelty [τῇ τῆς τύχης ἀγνωμοσύνῃ]. [208] But you were not wrong, no, you were not, Athenians, to take on danger for the sake of freedom and safety of all [τὸν ὑπὲρ τῆς ἁπάντων ἐλευθερίας καὶ σωτηρίας κίνδυνον ἀράμενοι]—I swear by your forefathers who led the fight at Marathon [μὰ τοὺς Μαραθῶνι προκινδυνεύσαντας¹²¹ τῶν προγόνων], by those who stood in the ranks at Plataea [καὶ τοὺς ἐν Πλαταιαῖς παραταξαμένους], by those who fought aboard ship at Salamis and Artemisium [καὶ τοὺς ἐν Σαλαμῖνι ναυμαχήσαντας καὶ τοὺς ἐπ’ Ἀρτεμισίῳ], and by the many other brave men who lie in the public tombs [ἐν τοῖς δημοσίοις μνήμασιν κειμένους], all of whom the city buried, deeming them all equally worthy of the same honour, Aeschines, not just those among them who were successful or victorious. Rightly so, for they all performed the task required of brave men, and they each met with the fortune conferred on them by god [τῇ τύχῃ δ’, ἣν ὁ δαίμων ἔνειμεν ἑκάστοις].

In Aeschines’ epilogos, Themistocles and the dead of the Persian Wars had supported the theme of medizing broached by Aristides’ embedded deployment of Arthmius. Demosthenes’ achievement, in answering, is to take advantage of Aeschines’ missed opportunities and put these people centre stage in his version. Demosthenes is, in fact, not just responding to Aeschines’ epilogos here: his oath recalls Aeschines’ much more conventional oath ‘by the Olympian gods’ (μὰ τοὺς θεοὺς τοὺς Ὀλυμπίους) and its accompanying claim (3.182) that it would be inappropriate to mention Demosthenes on the same day as Themistocles, Miltiades, Aristides, and the men who restored the democracy from Phyle in 403. We shall look at the relevant passage (3.177–92) in Chapter 6.4; the key point here is that Demosthenes uses the paradoxon argument to reverse both the

¹²⁰ I substitute the translation of Usher (1993) 121 for the ‘But . . . own’ phrase, a little closer to the Greek than Yunis here. ¹²¹ Echoing the way Thucydides’ Athenian envoys at Sparta express it in 1.73.4: προκινδυνεῦσαι.

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claims Aeschines had used those figures to make in 3.182 about the relationship between the dēmos, its leaders, and the honours awarded to them and the more dramatic self-identification with Solon and Aristides that he had carried out in his epilogos. As it leads up to the oath, Demosthenes’ reversal promotes the idea that the realization of core Athenian values in the struggle against Philip is a shared enterprise (18.206). That means that, in contrast to Aeschines’ explicit self-association with Solon and Aristides as paradigms of law and justice, Demosthenes in the paradoxon argument avoids that kind of transfiguring manoeuvre (and the accusation of ‘showing off ’ that might go with it). This is a key example of his reliance upon a theorized continuum of Athenian greatness of which he and his audience are the latest instantiation, and his union of past achievement with the future praise his audience will receive makes that clear (207: τὰ δ’ εἰς ἅπαντα τὸν λοιπὸν χρόνον ἐγκώμια ὑμῶν) and also hints at Demosthenes’ own ongoing commitment to helping them realize their identity and potential. Just as important is the personal engagement with those standards that he shows here: he knows (203) that Athens has always contended for ‘the first prize in honour and glory’ (περὶ πρωτείων καὶ τιμῆς καὶ δόξης), an aspiration which long predates him (ἐκ παντὸς τοῦ χρόνου, ‘in every age’; cf. 206: καὶ πρὸ ἐμοῦ, ‘even before my time’). He had also made this clear much earlier in the speech in the same phrasing, but at that earlier point, ἐκ παντὸς τοῦ χρόνου is differently placed in its sentence so that it conjures an image of a Demosthenes who—like the city itself—has been attentive to Athens’s intrinsic ambition for high renown his entire life: ὃς συνῄδειν μὲν ἐκ παντὸς τοῦ χρόνου μέχρι τῆς ἡμέρας ἀφ’ ἧς αὐτὸς ἐπὶ τὸ βῆμα ἀνέβην, ἀεὶ περὶ πρωτείων καὶ τιμῆς καὶ δόξης ἀγωνιζομένην τὴν πατρίδα (‘during all my time until the day I myself stepped onto the speaker’s platform, I knew that our country always fought for the first prize in honour and glory’: 66). This responds not only to Aeschines’ redeployment of his father Atrometus as his source in Against Ctesiphon (3.191–2; cf. 2.78), but to the task of fashioning credible historical illustration more broadly: Demosthenes is assuring the audience that he lives this past as much as they do. To solidify his self-connection with the fortunes of the city and the dēmos—a constant in On the Crown—Demosthenes therefore avoids self-association with any of the groups of combatants he conjures up in the oath at 208 (all of them groups rather than figures, we note), so that all of them may remain accessible for emulation by his hearers. Rather than use them to reflect himself, he immortalizes them: oaths introduced by μά, normally used for gods and heroes, have that elevating effect

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(outside comedy, where the effect tends to be the reverse),¹²² and this moment has precisely the effect of asserting the eternal relevance of the sacrifices made by Athenian citizens in the Persian Wars, and counteracting Aeschines’ attempts to close off those parallels. As the author of On the Sublime notes,¹²³ and in line with the anti-Macedonian shared framing of the battle, it also has the effect of classifying Chaeronea as a victory and not a defeat. It is especially notable that Demosthenes shifts the emphasis of Aeschines’ original: where Aeschines’ ‘men who died at Marathon and Plataea’ are very definitely dead (258: τελευτήσαντας), Demosthenes leads into his oath while they are still alive—captured in their acts of heroism (προκινδυνεύσαντας . . . παραταξαμένους . . . ναυυνεύσαντας . . . παραταξαμένους . . . ναυμαχήσαντας: 208).¹²⁴ Only after featuring those fighting each battle does he turn to the calm, peaceful image of them lying in the public tombs (rather than fearsomely unquiet like those in Aeschines’ tombs: 259). In a passage heavily influenced by the epitaphios logos, Demosthenes is as keen as speakers in that genre to assert the undying quality of Athenian courage and its continued relevance to all listening, in a future Aeschines did not talk about. Beyond the oath, though, there is a piece of self-casting in the paradoxon argument: as a latter-day Themistocles (‘Themistocles, who proposed [the evacuation], they elected general, while Cyrsilus, who advised submission, they stoned to death, and not only him, but your wives did the same to his wife’: 204). As we saw in Chapter 3, Demosthenes likes to use Themistocles,¹²⁵ who embodies the qualities of foresight and intelligence which Demosthenes is portraying in On the Crown as qualities he has shown throughout his entire political career;¹²⁶ and there are clear ¹²² This has been noticed since antiquity, e.g. in [Long.] Subl. 16.2; further references in Wankel (1976) 2.959–61 and Usher (1993) 242; on the norm: Aubriot-Sévin (1991). For the afterlife of Demosthenes’ oath: Pernot (2006) 177–238. For Demosthenes’ use of an overthe-top, multipart ‘μά’ invocation in the Assembly, see Plut. Dem. 9.4 (= Dem. Phal. fr. 135A Stork/van Ophuijsen/Dorandi; cf. 135B), apparently mocked in comedy by Antiphanes (fr. 288) and Timocles (fr. 41) (as found in [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 845d—a possible conflation of Plut. Dem. 9.4 and 9.5)—and perhaps even by Anaxilas (in fr. 8, from Euandria). But comic metrical oaths have a long ancestry (see, e.g., Ar. Birds 194 and its Σ). For another μά invocation also quoted by [Longinus]—an oath sworn by a character who is probably Miltiades, in Eupolis’ Demes (fr. 106)—see n. 141 and main text in Chapter 6.4 there. ¹²³ [Long.] Subl. 16.4: ‘the oath is carefully designed to suit the feelings of defeated men, so that the Athenians should no longer regard Chaeronea as a disaster’ (tr. Russell). ¹²⁴ [Long.] Subl. 16.4 also makes the acute point that Demosthenes’ omission of the outcomes in these cases helps the assimilation of Chaeronea to them. ¹²⁵ See D. 13.21–2, 29 (if genuine); 20.73–4; 18.204; 19.303 (via his decree); 23.196–8, 205, 207. ¹²⁶ Demosthenes’ use of Themistocles: see Chapter 3.2.

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overlaps here. Demosthenes saved the physical city by showing the same qualities as Themistocles, and the former’s land resistance against a ‘barbarian’ aggressor matches the latter’s naval resistance off Salamis. Both could be thought of as responsible for losses: Themistocles for the destruction of the symbolic core of the physical city and those of its people who refused to evacuate; Demosthenes for the dead of Chaeronea. Both, however, could be seen as saving the spiritual Athens, defined by liberty and principled resistance to autocracy (cf. 205) as well as by the survival of the majority. Accordingly, Cyrsilus clearly must stand for Aeschines in some sense. Herodotus’ and Lycurgus’ versions of the stoning suggest that Demosthenes may have dislocated it chronologically to suit the Chaeronea parallel better (unless he is relying on a different tradition);¹²⁷ his stoning episode is made to seem to happen before the evacuation, just as Aeschines’ advice can loosely be seen to have been symbolically rejected in the Athenian decision to resist Philip (should he threaten Thebes) before the expedition to Chaeronea. Demosthenes was not the only anti-Macedonian using the 480 evacuation model in 330 as a way of conceptualizing the city as the sum of its people, and not dependent on location: the idea is powerfully expressed by Lycurgus in Against Leocrates (‘they did not desert the city but only moved [it] from one place to another [τὸν τόπον μετήλλαξαν] as part of their brilliant plan to confront the danger’: 1.69), anticipating a defence claim (as we saw in Chapter 1.3) that the evacuation of Salamis proves that leaving the city, as Leocrates did after Chaeronea, is not in itself a criminal act (1.68)—or so Lycurgus says, no doubt simplifying their case for rhetorical convenience. He also includes the stoning of the Cyrsilus figure, whom he cannot even bring himself to name: he is just ‘the man who was put to death on Salamis’ (1.122). In a climate where political allies were using similar arguments, then, Demosthenes’ brief association with Themistocles at 204 helps to sustain the sense of Demosthenes’ own record as uniquely transformative—and its rhetorical context also guarantees the impression that Demosthenes actually went one better than Themistocles: his proposal to ally with Thebes in 339 was decisive both for the survival of the physical city and for the survival of Athens’s core identity. As before, then, the Demosthenes who acted in 339 is recommended as the most compelling model for the Demosthenes being targeted in ¹²⁷ In Hdt. 9.5, Lycides is stoned well after the battle of Salamis, not before; Lyc. 1.122–3 sets his stoning on Salamis, but whether before or after the battle itself is unclear. D. 18.204 may belong in a tradition which emphasizes Salamis at Plataea’s expense: Flower and Marincola (2002) 107.

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Aeschines’ indictment of Ctesiphon, and the audience then the most compelling model for the audience now. Aeschines’ epilogos fails not because of any lack of technical proficiency, but because it does not engage with the civic collective in the way that Demosthenes repeatedly does. Demosthenes’ oath at 208 and the context it belongs in acknowledge the immense sacrifice in the Chaeronea campaign and expertly plot its genealogy in a series of iconic fifth-century clashes which Aeschines had not done enough to complicate beyond rescue and refashioning by the defence. Demosthenes recasts Marathon and Plataea not simply as iconic moments in the repulse of barbarian aggression (as they had been in Against Ctesiphon) but also as symbolic instantiations of Athenian civic ideology. Both Aeschines’ assault on Demosthenes’ record and Demosthenes’ rebuttal assume a martial quality: Aeschines’ Solon and Aristides are ‘ranged’ against the defence team (ἀντιπαρατεταγμένους: 3.257), and this choice of words is echoed by Demosthenes’ fighters at Plataea (παραταξαμένους: 18.208).¹²⁸ For Demosthenes, then, this is a clash of warring conceptions not only of the place Chaeronea should now occupy in the Athenian civic consciousness but also of the validity of examples (including analogies for Chaeronea itself) as wielded by himself or Aeschines. Aeschines may have Solon and Aristides on his side, but Demosthenes can point to the thousands of dead citizens who have ever fought for Athens (καὶ πολλοὺς ἑτέρους τοὺς ἐν τοῖς δημοσίοις μνήμασι κειμένους ἀγαθοὺς ἄνδρας, ‘the many other brave men who lie in the public tombs’: 208)—just as valid and meaningful a part of the city’s legacy as any quantity of ‘great men’. That willingness to supply his hinterland with the whole sweep of events from the city’s history (not just the Persian Wars, but the various wars of the fourth century which had direct meaning for his listeners), allied to his delicate casting of Chaeronea as a victory more than a defeat, works as a natural parallel for Demosthenes’ self-identification with every member of his audience.

6.4. AESCHINES’ MONUMENTS AND DEMOSTHENES’ EPILOGOS Aeschines’ other major set piece involving historical examples—a long series of them—is his passage on public honours for leaders at 3.177–92.¹²⁹ This he carefully grounds in popular knowledge, using a ¹²⁸ Cf. Meidias’ friends: Chapter 4.2.2. ¹²⁹ Also treated by Hobden (2007a); Webb (2009) 138–47; and Hesk (2012) 220–3.

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variation of the enargeia-based technique we saw earlier at the end of the sequence to take the jurors on a mental¹³⁰ tour round key structures in the Agora (the Eion Herms, the Stoa Poikile, and the Metroön: 183–7), sketching why his audience should care about these everyday landmarks charged with symbolic meaning (in a manner Demosthenes was to echo at On the Crown 65–6). Aeschines’ reason for ‘stopping off ’ at the Metroön—familiar to him from his former life as clerk to the Boule—is to discuss a decree housed there: the rewards bestowed on the men of Phyle, the restorers of the democracy in 403; and this is where he takes the opportunity to renew the appeal he had made in On the Embassy to the knowledge imparted to him by his (now deceased) father Atrometus (3.191–2). Up to a point, Aeschines is clearly drawing on examples which were well used in the context of law-court discussions of honours (especially as part of graphē paranomōn and graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai cases): we saw in Chapter 2.1 Demosthenes’ anticipation in Against Leptines of the defence’s use of the Eion Herms to justify the removal of grants of ateleia, and the material brought to bear by Demosthenes/ Euthycles in Against Aristocrates (including Themistocles and Miltiades) to cast the award to Charidemus as an example of the lack of discrimination shown by the dēmos in contemporary honorific practice. This is a wider point Aeschines is also using the case of Demosthenes to make (177–8). But the sequence, as we will see, exhibits the same kind of technical proficiency as Aeschines’ epilogos: he selects the material well and focuses tactically upon shaping authoritative-sounding versions of fifth-century paradeigmata Demosthenes might use to frame Chaeronea: the Eion Herms and, particularly, a problematic Miltiades (usually problematic, as he is in Against Aristocrates, but nonetheless a figure Demosthenes might well want to use, given the contemporary anti-Macedonian use of Marathon as a map for Chaeronea). However, Demosthenes feels safe in simply dismissing the relevance of Aeschines’ discussion (18.209–10), not answering it until just before the end of On the Crown (314–20) and then not in any of its detail, but by a similar kind of rhetorical substitution to the instances we looked at in Chapters 6.2 and 6.3. Why? The question exposes the same strategic deficiency in Aeschines’ treatment that we saw in Chapter 6.3. When talking about the cheapening of honours in Against Aristocrates (see Chapter 2.3), Euthycles—not

¹³⁰ We are probably within the Heliaea, unroofed but perhaps with no obvious view out; hence the technique: Boegehold et al. (1995) 93, 150–2.

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a regular politician—had not been obliged to sound positive: his brief had been to show that Aristocrates’ decree to honour Charidemus was illegal, not in Athens’s interests, and inappropriate for such an undeserving individual (23.18). In order to undercut Demosthenes’ advantages, Aeschines had to offer more than this in Against Ctesiphon: above all, an optimistic vision—buttressed by examples—of how the dēmos might prosper if they reform their honorific practices. In fact, he offers the opposite. At no point in his surviving public corpus, not even in the logographic speeches and not even in Against Aristocrates, does Demosthenes claim that former times produced intrinsically better men than now—in Against Aristocrates, for example, it was about standards of behaviour, which Euthycles offers them the chance to change (κἂν μὲν ἴδητ’ ἐκείνους ἄμεινον ὑμῶν, καλὸν τὸ μιμήσασθαι, ‘if you see that their conduct is better than yours, it is good for you to imitate them’: 196). But Aeschines suggests here an essential decline in quality in the kind of man that Athens produces, and although his primary referents here must be the kind of people who receive awards, his phrasing would inevitably make the audience consider themselves debased versions of their ancestors too: τότε μὲν διαφέροντες, νυνὶ δὲ πολλῷ καταδεέστεροι (‘then they were outstanding, now they are far inferior’: 178); although καταδεέστεροι (‘more lacking’, ‘weaker’, ‘inferior’) can denote situationally imposed as well as intrinsic inferiority, it is normally used in the latter sense by the orators; Isocrates in particular often uses it in φύσις- and δόξα-related contexts.¹³¹ Aeschines maintains a separation between that fifth-century dēmos and the present one throughout the passage: the use of καταδεέστεροι at 178 is reinforced at 179 by a characterization of contemporary Athenians as χείρους (also ‘inferior’) compared with their illustrious forebears. And where in Against Aristocrates Euthycles had portrayed the dēmos as sharing the blame for the glut of inappropriate awards with the politicians who propose them (D. 23.201), Aeschines makes the dēmos solely responsible. This is bleak—potentially resentment-inducing—and gives the audience nothing to aspire to. Demosthenes’ Assembly rhetoric (as we saw in Chapter 3) typically gives the audience—even as it criticizes them—some hope that a more concerted effort on their behalf (i.e. listening to Demosthenes) will yield better results.¹³² In the Third Philippic, for

¹³¹ Intrinsic inferiority: A. 1.140, 177; 3.231; Hyp. Eux. 26; Lyc. 1.48; Isoc. 2.7; 3.5, 18; 5.14, 18; 9.11, 12, 13, 41; 12.137; 13.15; 15.178, 191, 253. Situationally imposed inferiority: A. 2.51; D. Ep. 2.20; Isoc. 6.67; 7.8, 32; 10.12; 14.4; 15.149. Less clear: D. 27.2; [D.] 48.55; Isoc. 5.84, 149; 12.37. ¹³² See, e.g., D. 2.1–2; 8.77; 9.4–5; also 13.13 (if genuine).

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example, he offsets bleak moments like his observation that the spirit which once resisted Persia has gone (9.36: νῦν οὐκ ἔστιν) with a powerfully optimistic epilogos (9.70 onwards). So by making this an issue of the fundamental capacity of the Athenian citizen body rather than of performance and achievement, Aeschines introduces an unnecessary note of pessimism which he does not compensate for in the examples that follow. Related to this is Aeschines’ failure to connect his proof that the ancestors gave honours only to a few people with the argument that Demosthenes does not deserve one: nothing in 3.177–92 proves why, if the Athenians were suddenly to resume the practice of honouring only a few, Demosthenes would not make the list. Where Aeschines fails to plot this connection, Demosthenes does so; and both his responses—the dismissive one at 18.209–10 and the pre-epilogos round-up at 18.314–20—seek to explain why he not only makes that list but can claim to head it. One explanation for Aeschines’ miscalculation in 177–92 might be that he became too engrossed in the task of detailed anticipation and lost control of the big picture. One very careful anticipation of this sort is the example of Miltiades (181, 186), where Aeschines seems deliberately to have avoided more straightforward (or even fruitful) options. The victor of Marathon was a potentially troublesome example—he was well known to embody tension between democratic and aristocratic values, and memories of him had become complicated by the political ramifications of the memorialization of Marathon as a hoplite victory and Salamis as a wider dēmos victory in the fifth century;¹³³ he starts to be confused with his son Cimon alarmingly quickly.¹³⁴ Demosthenes was, however, perfectly capable of fashioning him as iconic of a wider dēmos victory if he wanted to, and so Aeschines engages in a strategy of anticipation which seeks to render Miltiades unusable: not by stressing his downsides (which would not fit with his overall argument and risked alienating his audience: 3.186 shows that if the average Athenian knew anything about Miltiades, it was that he won the battle of Marathon), but rather by pulling him in opposite directions. There were much simpler and clearer options available. Casting Miltiades outright as the ultimate successful anti-Demosthenes might have

¹³³ Memories of Miltiades: Hdt. 6.104.2; Nouhaud (1982) 169–77; Bauman (1990) 16–22; Vanotti (1991). For the ‘battle of the battles’, Pelling (1997) 9–12 and Konstantinopoulos (2013) 67–8; for the artistic angle Arafat (2013); also n. 141 and main text there. The battles are even ranked in perceived descending order of importance in Pl. Mx. 240c–241c (i.e. Marathon, then Salamis and Artemisium, then Plataea). ¹³⁴ Chapter 5.3.3, n. 156, with more pointers.

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worked, with an accent on Demosthenes’ ‘desertion’ from what could have been a victory (Aeschines could have usurped the antiMacedonians’ ‘fortune’ rhetoric here; cf. 2.118). That is, in fact, how Aeschines initially looks as if he is going to use Miltiades (181), but the phrasing yields an important dissonant impression: In your opinion, who was the better man, Themistocles, who served as general [ὁ στρατηγήσας] when you defeated [ἐνικᾶτε] the Persians in the battle of Salamis, or Demosthenes, who recently deserted his post [ὁ νυνὶ τὴν τάξιν λιπών]? Was Miltiades, who won the battle of Marathon against the barbarians [ὁ τὴν ἐν Μαραθῶνι μάχην τοὺς βαρβάρους νικήσας], or this man? Or, again, the men who brought back the people from exile from Phyle? And Aristides, known as ‘the just’, whose nickname is quite different from Demosthenes’?

As we have seen, audiences would be used to hearing this group of heroes cited in the context of honorific grants, and Against Aristocrates (23.196–8) (and On Organization [13.21–2] if genuine) suggests that a typical way of emphasizing the appropriateness of the modest honours they received (and the wrongness of the current practice) was to contrast them with a fourth-century group—Chabrias, Iphicrates, and Timotheus, the recipients of statues, who the speaker in each case claims were becoming personally identified with having won certain battles (a bad thing because of the failure to acknowledge the dēmos). But, in fact, Aeschines saves that fourth-century group for later (243), also to reflect negatively on Demosthenes, and that seems to allow him to do something quite subtle with the fifth-century group in 181. When mentioning Themistocles there, Aeschines stressed that the dēmos were responsible for the victory (ἐνικᾶτε), while the men of Phyle (already a dēmos subgroup—no names until 187) also ‘brought back the people’ (οἱ . . . τὸν δῆμον καταγαγόντες). But in Miltiades’ case, the dēmos is nowhere to be seen: Miltiades was the victor (ὁ . . . νικήσας). This is distinctive because the whole point of Aeschines’ subsequent discussion of the Eion Herms (inscribed without the generals’ names: 183–5),¹³⁵ of Marathon (186), and of the olive crowns voted for the men of Phyle (187–8, 190–2) is that these are by their very nature dēmos

¹³⁵ Plutarch has the dēmos allowing Cimon to dedicate these: Cim. 7.4 (his choice: Clairmont [1983] 1.152). Blamire (1989) 113–14 prefers Aeschines’ interpretation, but (1) Aeschines could be suppressing Cimon to make his point better; (2) (just as likely) the association between Cimon and the Herms might have been weak by 330; or (3) it might have become normal and natural to interpret the monument as Aeschines does, and so he is following a tradition: cf. D. 20.112 and Chapter 2.1.

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victories (in itself an anachronistic interpretation, most likely¹³⁶). The description of Miltiades as ὁ . . . νικήσας could just be loose phrasing— Against Aristocrates has ‘Themistocles who won [τὸν . . . νικήσαντα] the naval victory at Salamis’ alongside ‘Miltiades who commanded [τὸν ἡγούμενον] at Marathon’ (D. 23.196)—but moments later there Euthycles explains precisely that those battles did not just belong to the general concerned, paving the way for the contrast with the way the achievements of Chabrias and the others are referred to now (198).¹³⁷ Aeschines is not preparing for any such contrast, which leaves Miltiades as a lone victor awkwardly sandwiched between major instances of dēmos success. What Aeschines may be doing instead is preparing the audience’s minds for the staging of a problematic Miltiades further on, at 186. Here the audience are asked to proceed to the Stoa Poikile ‘in [their] imagination’ (προέλθετε δὴ τῇ διανοίᾳ: 186): Well then, what is there relevant to my theme in that building? There is a painting of the battle of Marathon. Who then was the general? When asked this question, you will all answer ‘Miltiades’, but it is not inscribed there. How is this? Didn’t he ask for this reward? He did ask, but the people did not give it [ᾔτησεν, ἀλλ’ ὁ δῆμος οὐκ ἔδωκεν]. Instead of mention by name, they allowed him to be painted at the front, urging on the soldiers [παρακαλοῦντι τοὺς στρατιώτας].

Aeschines may be working with a tradition where Miltiades did ask, in person, to be named on the painting. It cannot be correct historically, because the date of the Marathon painting rules out a direct request of this kind by Miltiades, who died in the early 480s,¹³⁸ but it could reflect a tradition of a request by Cimon that his father be posthumously honoured in this way, depending on whether or not we read the Stoa’s conception as primarily ‘Cimonian’, or ‘demotic’, or something in between.¹³⁹ A tradition that Miltiades did ask for some personal honour was clearly tenacious: Plutarch has him claiming an olive crown in the Assembly, only to be told by the war hero Sophanes of Decelea (in an intervention from the floor of the Assembly: ἐκ μέσου τῆς ἐκκλησίας ἀναστὰς) that he could make that request if and when he defeated the

¹³⁶ Domingo Gygax (2016) 176. ¹³⁷ The same sequence is found at D. 13.21–2. ¹³⁸ For this problem: Carey (2000) 228 n. 213. ¹³⁹ Castriota (1992) 76–89; De Angelis (1996); Fiorini in Cruciani and Fiorini (1998) 19–76; Stansbury O’Donnell (2005); Arafat (2013) 86–8; Hornblower and Pelling (2017) 4–5. With special reference to our passage and Miltiades: Krumeich (1996); (1997) 55–6; Domingo Gygax (2016) 169–70.

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enemy on his own.¹⁴⁰ That Miltiades could be thought of as regarding the battle of Marathon as in some sense ‘his’ victory may well be reflected in comedy too: in Eupolis’ Demes fr. 106 (of the 410s), where the poet famously reworks an oath Euripides’ Medea swears by Hecate (in Medea 395–7) and has one of his characters (probably Miltiades, who we know appeared in Demes) swear ‘by my battle at Marathon’ (μὰ τὴν Μαραθῶνι τὴν ἐμὴν μάχην).¹⁴¹ Aeschines’ handling therefore invokes two familiar oratorical argumentative topoi: the idea of the celebrated leader who later spoiled himself (and was rightly punished by the dēmos);¹⁴² and the contrast between the target’s arrogant anticipation of high honours and the acceptance of modest rewards by great former recipients. Miltiades tends to appear positively in instantiations of this argument, as one of those great former recipients content with little,¹⁴³ so in order to make Miltiades too problematic for Demosthenes to make the effort to recapture, it looks as though Aeschines is rejecting both that positive version and the negative version Plutarch reflects,¹⁴⁴ where Miltiades’ request was denied and no award was apparently substituted for it. If Aeschines and his audience were aware of the ‘rejected request’ tradition in the form featured by Plutarch (i.e. the olive crown),¹⁴⁵ then it would have been possible for Aeschines to steer a middle course, composing a more ambiguous version of the ‘modest rewards’ argument which still stressed that Miltiades had asked for his olive crown (and not got it) and then contrasting that with the dēmos’ apparent willingness to give Demosthenes a gold one now. This would interestingly nuance a well-used argument which had been staged in a very similar context—a highprofile graphē paranomōn prosecution of a secondary figure for proposing honours for a major statesman—only five years earlier, and by the anti-Macedonians. This was Lycurgus’ use of Pericles in Against Cephisodotus on the Honours for Demades (IX fr. 2), probably a synēgoria in support of Polyeuctus’ attack on those honours, as we saw in the ¹⁴⁰ Plut. Cim. 8.1–2, with Blamire (1989) 114–15 and Domingo Gygax (2016) 169, who plausibly posits a fourth-century origin for Plutarch’s account. Sophanes: Hdt. 6.92.3; 9.73–5; Paus. 1.29.4–5. ¹⁴¹ On this moment in Eupolis (mediated to us by [Long.] Subl. 16.3, who is comparing it with Demosthenes’ oath at 18.208), see Storey (2003) 136 with n. 29 (i.e. speaker could be the dēmos); Telò (2007) 106–10, 257–61 (= fr. 8 Telò). This kind of ‘ownership tradition’ may be reflected in Apsines Rhet. 10.7 too. ¹⁴² As, e.g., in D. 23.205 (Themistocles, Cimon); Din. 1.14–16 (Timotheus); Lyc. 1.93 (Callistratus). ¹⁴³ See D. 23.196; 3.26. ¹⁴⁴ Plutarch does not see Sophanes’ intervention as perfect, however (οὐκ εὐγνώμονα: 8.1). ¹⁴⁵ With Vanotti (1991) 16.

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Introduction and briefly in Chapter 2.3.¹⁴⁶ Although some more context for the fragment would be helpful, Lycurgus’ point seems clear: Pericles, despite the string of glorious achievements to his credit, was still only awarded an olive crown (θαλλοῦ στεφάνῳ ἐστεφανώθη);¹⁴⁷ a bronze statue and sitēsis for Demades, therefore, goes well beyond what he deserves, given his lesser record. Aeschines avoids drawing Miltiades into this kind of argument, though, instead featuring it (in the same form as Lycurgus’ Pericles parallel) in the section on the men of Phyle which immediately follows (3.187): they receive olive rather than gold crowns (θαλλοῦ στεφάνῳ . . . ἀλλ’ οὐ χρυσῷ).¹⁴⁸ Instead, he concentrates on foregrounding Miltiades’ ambivalence, not underplaying his great achievements, but leaving his request for special honours hanging there for his audience as a lasting question mark. Having Miltiades gain some recognition—not getting the inscription he wanted, but receiving the arguably higher honour of a prominent depiction in the painting—neatly articulates the domestication of this aristocratic general to the will of the dēmos, as does the nature of his depiction itself: performing his responsibilities to the collective (‘urging on the soldiers’) rather than engaging in solo heroics. It means that the Miltiades who emerges from Aeschines’ treatment has had his usual identifying features undercut: not the victor at Marathon, but a rallier of others who were victorious; and someone whose tone-deafness to collective honorific procedures the dēmos themselves had to confront. Aeschines does (in Hobden’s terms) recommend a particular reading of Miltiades:¹⁴⁹ first and foremost, a reading that denies the straightforward construction of a positive parallel with him by Demosthenes. On the Crown, in fact, does end up avoiding Miltiades entirely, along with

¹⁴⁶ See Conomis (1961) 126–8. Lycurgus and Demades did collaborate sometimes, though: Brun (2000) 79–80, 139–42; Lambert (2008) 58–9 n. 20 (= [2012a] 342 n. 20); see Plut. Dem. 8.7 for Assembly collaboration between Demosthenes and Demades. ¹⁴⁷ Lyc. IX fr. 2: Περικλῆς δὲ ὁ Σάμον καὶ Εὔβοιαν καὶ Αἴγιναν ἑλών, καὶ τὰ Προπύλαια καὶ τὸ Ὠιδεῖον καὶ τὸ Ἑκατόμπεδον οἰκοδομήσας, καὶ μύρια τάλαντα ἀργυρίου εἰς τὴν ἀκρόπολιν ἀνενεγκών, θαλλοῦ στεφάνῳ ἐστεφανώθη (‘Pericles, after capturing Samos and Euboea and Aegina, building the Propylaea, the Odeion and the Hekatompedon, and depositing ten thousand talents of silver on the Acropolis, was crowned with an olive wreath’). Historicity: Domingo Gygax (2016) 178–9. ¹⁴⁸ The honours for the men of Phyle: Shear (2007a) 106–7; (2011) 287–94; Steinbock (2013a) 237–45. Archinus’ decree: SEG 48.45 with Raubitschek (1941) and Taylor (2002) 390–6 (vs Krentz [1982] 83–90); also Steinbock (2013a) 239 (supporting Taylor, but see SEG 52.86). Thrasybulus’ decree: IG II² 10 (see Rhodes and Osborne [2003] 24–5 [no. 4] for a list of sources; Steinbock [2013a] 241–5). ¹⁴⁹ Hobden (2007a) 495–6, 500; echoed by Webb (2009) 141.

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those other potentially useful paradigmatic characters Aeschines had complicated: Aristides and Arthmius.¹⁵⁰ Aeschines’ rather diffuse strategic handling of the ‘men of Phyle’ (181, 187–8, and 190–2) might also help bear out the sense that he is expending a notable amount of effort on complicating heroic historical examples in advance. One problematic impression he creates comes in his parallel between the returning democrats and the city’s climactic eclipse at Chaeronea, in a retreat involving the men of Phyle’s ultimate antitype, Demosthenes. The parallel is never quite spelt out, but all the elements are present. The men of Phyle are contrasted explicitly with ‘those who deserted their post at Chaeronea’ (187: ὅσοι τὴν τάξιν ἔλιπον ἐν Χαιρωνείᾳ)—an obvious reference to Demosthenes (who has been absent since 182), but in its plural phrasing perhaps needlessly inclusive of all who had been involved in the retreat and were now on the jury or in the wider audience—perhaps Aeschines was able to make it clearer in performance (by tone or gesture or both) that he only really meant Demosthenes. Aeschines then seems to start to set up a different contrast at 188, where he introduces the idea that Ctesiphon’s decree ‘erases the reward for the men who restored the democracy’ (ἐξαλείφεται ἡ τῶν καταγαγόντων τὸν δῆμον δωρεά). Although ‘erasure’ as such could connote democratic procedures,¹⁵¹ its connotations are frequently oligarchic,¹⁵² and Aeschines’ ‘recollection’ (again, via his father Atrometus¹⁵³) at 191 that the removal of the graphē paranomōn procedure—i.e. the present action—was one of the early acts of the oligarchs (the Four Hundred in this case, though Aeschines fuses them with the Thirty here¹⁵⁴) after getting into power (τηνικαῦτα ὁ δῆμος κατελύθη, ‘it was when . . . the democracy was overthrown’) may now lead listeners to expect a link between Demosthenes and oligarchy, consistent with Aeschines’ idea elsewhere in the speech that ‘a few’ are currently dominating Athenian ¹⁵⁰ And possibly Pericles and Chabrias: Chapter 6.3. ¹⁵¹ As, e.g., with Demophilus’ deme ballots (A. 1.77, 86) or Nicomachus’ revision of the law code (for which, see, e.g., Todd [1996]). ¹⁵² See Krentz (1982) 60–2; Shear (2011) 172–7; X. Hell. 2.3.51–2 (of Theramenes being ‘erased’ from the roll); a possible allusion in Lys. 1.48; and Lys. 30 for the post-403 politics of ‘erasure’ generally (especially 30.2, 5, linked up with 9–16 [Nicomachus as covert oligarch]; see Todd [1996] 115–20). On the Thirty’s removal of laws: [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 35.2; Shear (2011) 166–87. ¹⁵³ Whose contribution here feels like a topos: see D. 24.154; and cf. [D.] 58.34. ¹⁵⁴ Thuc. 8.67.2; [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 29.4; but cf. Rhodes (1981) 378; (2010) 71; Hobden (2007b) 166; also Hansen (1974) 55. See also Hobden (2007a) 492–4, 498–9 on how all this might link up with Aeschines’ proem. On the fusion of the Four Hundred and the Thirty: Chapters 1.1 and 2.2.

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politics.¹⁵⁵ The idea would be there that Ctesiphon and Demosthenes would very much like the graphē paranomōn action removed, for obvious reasons. But Aeschines does little to follow this up. He is also notably—tactlessly—negative about the habits of present-day juries (191–3) without providing a sense or expressing confidence that his own jury can and will behave differently; compare the bleak tone we saw in 3.178 on the intrinsic decline in the quality of Athenians in general. Finally, in envisaging (at 195) the two leaders of the democratic restoration, Archinus and Thrasybulus, locked in a court battle over Thrasybulus’ proposed extension of the citizenship (a graphē paranomōn again), Aeschines is clearly attempting to set up a parallel for his own prosecution, but it is clearly not a very close parallel:¹⁵⁶ the democratic restoration would now align with the post-Chaeronea fallout (or its direct aftermath, to align two journeys home from Boeotia?), clearly not very close at all. Importantly (and whether accurately or not) Aeschines presents Archinus and Thrasybulus as friends (194), a curious way to frame a parallel between himself and Demosthenes. Further unnecessary complication of this example string comes (195) when the jurors imagined by Aeschines convict Thrasybulus on the basis that his illegal proposal is tantamount to leading them back into the exile he himself led them out of,¹⁵⁷ but the civic divisions alluded to here might not strike the Crown trial’s jury as a very accurate parallel for their own post-Chaeronea experience. The sense of community which Aeschines had failed to foster—perhaps partly, as I have suggested, due to an overconcern with the fine detail of his strategy—is precisely the one Demosthenes devotes On the Crown to recapturing. Demosthenes’ first response (18.209–10) pounces on Aeschines’ failure to articulate the link more clearly in Against Ctesiphon 177–92 between developing his examples’ capabilities as anticipations and showing how they discredit Demosthenes specifically. He therefore redeploys against Aeschines the terms he had used himself (D. 19.16) to describe Aeschines’ dismissal of the arguments used by the opponents of the Peace in Elaphebolion 346, in order to mark Aeschines’ examples in Against Ctesiphon as simply irrelevant: ‘you discoursed on victory

¹⁵⁵ See Chapter 6.1. ¹⁵⁶ For Archinus’ indictment of Thrasybulus: [Arist.] Ath. Pol. 40.2 and [Plut.] Vit. Lys. 835f–6a; also Hobden (2007b) 167. Archinus probably did not suggest that Thrasybulus’ proposal revealed oligarchic tendencies (Hansen [1974] 59; Wolpert [2002] 43–5); it was popular enough for a version of it to be enacted in 401/0 (IG II² 10: n. 148). ¹⁵⁷ For a similar image: Lys. 34.2.

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monuments, battles, and great deeds of long ago. But which of them is pertinent to the case at issue right now?’ (209: τρόπαια καὶ μάχας καὶ παλαιὰ ἔργα ἔλεγες, ὧν τίνος προσεδεῖτο ὁ παρὼν ἀγὼν οὑτοσί;). Led by the characteristic modes of argument anti-Macedonians were deploying in the wake of Chaeronea, Aeschines had assumed that anticipating them in this trial would cause trouble for Demosthenes, but Demosthenes’ table-turning involves showing how things have gone beyond the terms of 343, and how Demosthenes has transcended his rival’s power to pin him (or his command of the past) down. The reference to the requirements of ‘the trial now’ (ὁ παρὼν ἀγὼν) gets to the bottom of Demosthenes’ reactive strategy, which conceives of the continuum of Athenian renown issuing into the present in the form of the version of Chaeronea and its aftermath which he, Demosthenes, asserts his right to control as the one who enabled it all. Answering Aeschines’ encouragement to the jury to imagine themselves as ‘umpires in a contest in political excellence’ at 3.180 (ἀγωνοθέτας πολιτικῆς ἀρετῆς), he relegates Aeschines to the realm of the theatrical, the fantastical (ὦ τριταγωνιστά: 209), while he himself is the one who belongs in the cognate worlds of physical exertion and high politics (ἐμὲ δέ . . . τὸν περὶ τῶν πρωτείων σύμβουλον τῇ πόλει, ‘I, the city’s adviser in pursuit of the first prize’).¹⁵⁸ Consequently he can recommend—as Aeschines had—that the jurors judge public attitudes or principles (τὰς δὲ κοινὰς προαιρέσεις) by looking to the standards of their forebears (εἰς τὰ τῶν προγόνων ἀξιώματα ἀποβλέποντας: 210) without acknowledging any hypocrisy in doing so, because his ēthos has now been curated in such a way as to look entirely distinct from Aeschines’. Demosthenes confides that when Aeschines talked about the past, it meant nothing, partly because it was Aeschines and partly because it was irrelevant, essentially addressing a rhetorical situation thirteen years in the past. His own usage, on the other hand, is framed as the usage that will take proper account of how far the city has travelled in those thirteen years (and what it needs now) and yet still be able to plot good connections with the all-important προγόνων ἀξιώματα as well, as its proponent ‘always’ has. Demosthenes’ second response (314–20) rids the stage of virtually all parallels, all historical specifics except the Demosthenes of the war with Philip—Demosthenes is again recommended as the only valid available

¹⁵⁸ πρωτεῖα: Chapter 6.1 and 6.3, with Wankel (1976) 1.396 for parallels; cf. D. 3.27 and 10.74 as well. Related is the use of ἐφαμίλλου (‘up for competition’) with eunoia at 18.320: Cook (2009) 47–50.

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model for Demosthenes, and this time this is foregrounded and unmissable. The Philammon and Glaucus parallel (a contemporary boxer compared with one of long ago: 319), focusing on Aeschines’ lack of understanding of how things have changed, in itself reflects Demosthenes’ strategy (so well that Aeschines apparently could not resist inserting a fake anticipation later: Chapter 6.1). Just as Aeschines fails to grasp that it is perfectly valid not to allow a comparison of individuals of different eras,¹⁵⁹ so he has also failed to understand that his old criticisms can no longer work. Demosthenes’ argument in 314–20 succeeds where Aeschines’ string of parallels had not hit home because it corresponds to the audience’s real, relatively recent,¹⁶⁰ lived experience, and that experience did involve Demosthenes making speeches, decrees, and laws, going on embassies, and so on—and being seen to do so (ἐγὼ κράτιστα λέγων ἐφαινόμην, καὶ τοῖς ἐμοῖς καὶ ψηφίσμασι καὶ νόμοις καὶ πρεσβείαις ἅπαντα διῳκεῖτο, ‘I was recognized as offering the best advice . . . , and everything was handled through my decrees, laws, and diplomacy’: 320; cf. 179)—even if his claim that no other politician had ever been as active must be hyperbolic (219). Importantly, Demosthenes also demonstrates how far Aeschines skews the valuable practice of historical reference, wresting the theory back; and again he does so by showing how the whole point of the ancestors’ glory is that it continues now, expressed day by day in the laudable behaviour of talented and deserving individuals like Demosthenes (316). Another key element in the counter-attack is the implication that Aeschines’ usage is derivative and predictable. This is anchored when, in a passage which may respond adversarially to Aeschines’ fifthcentury excursus in On the Embassy—which operates with a similar idea that certain historical phenomena (warmongers, there) recur at intervals throughout Athenian history—Demosthenes compares Aeschines’ habits with those of all the sykophantai who harassed the great men throughout Athenian history: ἡ μὲν ἐμὴ πολιτεία καὶ προαίρεσις . . . ταῖς τῶν τότ’ ἐπαινουμένων ἀνδρῶν ὁμοία καὶ ταὐτὰ βουλομένη φανήσεται, ἡ δὲ σὴ ταῖς τῶν τοὺς τοιούτους τότε συκοφαντούντων (‘my policies and decisions . . . resemble those made by the eminent citizens of the past and have the same goals as did theirs, but yours resemble those made by

¹⁵⁹ See Hanink (2014) 183–7 for direct comparison with Astydamas ‘II’’s concern in his proposed victory epigram in 340 that he can never compete with the ‘classics’ (using the language of athletic contest: παράμιλλος). ¹⁶⁰ Memories of his activity in 340–38 might have faded by 330; On the Crown is designed to revive them. Demosthenes in the 330s: Chapter 1.6, with Lambert (2001) (= [2012a] 249–72) for another perspective.

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the sykophantai of the past who attacked [them]’: 317). So Demosthenes makes a neat alliance of concepts: the sykophantēs is nothing without the great man because without him he has nothing to attack (διασύροντες: 317). In a similar way, Aeschines is set up as powerless to attempt using the past without Demosthenes’ own usage to respond to; the only strategies he can muster react rather than initiate, and never look ahead, as Demosthenes has always done. This tells less than the whole story about Aeschines’ creativity in On the Embassy—which Demosthenes would rather forget—but the possible echo of 2.172–7 in 18.317 may show that it is in his mind nonetheless. Demosthenes’ response to Aeschines’ maximized view of the field of comparanda for his activity is to claim that such comparanda are not only limited in number, but in fact do not exist (οὐδένα ἐξίσταμαι, ‘I yield to no one’¹⁶¹ or ‘I shun no contest’¹⁶²: 319). The principal meaning here is, of course, ‘no one out of Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ own contemporaries’; the historical figures are left out of account. But the swelling pride of Demosthenes’ refusal to cede place to anyone at all—not directly qualified (πρὸς ὅντινα βούλει τῶν ἁπάντων: 319)— must implicitly extend the remit. Earlier on he had claimed a rank separate from that occupied by other great fourth-century politicians like Callistratus and Aristophon, because unlike them (he claims) he had moved proposals, taken action, and gone on embassies (219–20; cf. 179)—something that he himself had shown that even Timotheus had not done (8.75; Chapter 3.4). This suggests that only the heroes of the fifth century would do as comparanda—if (and only if) they were relevant to the situation now. By ensuring that his primary personal model is himself, Demosthenes transcends more objective illustrations (i.e. 3.177–92) and puts on show for his audience not only a visceral personal connection with his material but also a consistent rationale for why they should endorse it. Aeschines’ love of the archives (cf. 3.75, 187) has perhaps caught up with him: Demosthenes is prepared to follow him in accepting the surpassing greatness of the contributions of the great men of the past (316: τὰς τῶν πρότερον εὐεργεσίας, οὔσας ὑπερμεγέθεις), but at the same time evinces the kind of optimism about the virtues and capacities of the mere mortals of the present which Aeschines had signally failed to.

¹⁶¹ Yunis (2005) 112; see (2001) 286 for support for this translation (discussing the manuscript readings οὐδένα and οὐδενὶ—also Dilts [2002] 317). ¹⁶² Usher (1993) 163, 275 (‘Demosthenes, at his most combative here’).

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While the Crown trial saw Aeschines fail to do enough to get beyond the strategic priorities of the Embassy trial, it also saw Demosthenes take advantage of his greatly increased profile to sell a past (and a future) to his audience which both took account of and accounted for the historical resonance of the heroism they had shown in resisting Philip eight years earlier. To secure Ctesiphon’s conviction, Aeschines had to invest more in active (and optimistic) symbouleutic reflection on the current situation, rather than on the vague and negative commentary we see in Against Ctesiphon. In Demosthenes, he was dealing with an opponent whose position directly after Chaeronea had been securer than it is in either orator’s interests to admit; but Demosthenes’ election to act as Athens’s symbolic intermediary with its dead in the funeral oration of 338/7 (D. 18.285–8) makes that security particularly clear, reflecting public confidence in his ability to bridge past and present effectively and to represent them to a popular audience in a way which honoured the genre’s freedom from complication by contemporary political angles. It speaks highly of Demosthenes’ own versatility, and of the wider esteem in which he was held, that people felt he could sustain that task without somehow taking the opportunity to defend his own record. Apart (arguably) from its use of the ‘defeat due to fortune’ motif,¹⁶³ the surviving Funeral Oration does steer notably clear of defensive or other selfvalidating manoeuvres. In treating Demosthenes’ own actions in 339 and 338 as a piece of Athenian history and as a valid model for recall in the present, On the Crown invites the audience in, allowing them a way of seeing how their actions form part of a pattern; and in stressing how much of his recent career has been the dēmos’ experience too, and how much of it they themselves have approved, Demosthenes is able to attribute to them both infallible intentions and impeccable aspirations, on the understanding that this is what the Athenian dēmos has always been like. This is a more attractive prospect than Aeschines’ despairing multitude misled by the wiles of its leading men in both Assembly (e.g. 3.141–2) and court (e.g. 3.192). Indeed part of the force of the paradoxon argument comes from the message that in resisting Philip the Athenians were spontaneously (and finally) making decisions natural to and worthy of their reputation—finding their proper attitudes or principles (προαιρέσεις) ¹⁶³ Fortune motif: D. 60.19, 20, 21, 35. Other funeral orations do not use τύχη in this sense: see Thuc. 2.42.4; Lys. 2.10 (twice), 79; Pl. Mx. 243c; but it is used of the Spartan victory in 404: see Isoc. 15.128, Lévy (1976) 40–7 (linking with Chaeronea), and Bearzot (2017) 42.

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(206; cf. 210 quoted in Chapter 6.4 above); and this is an idea to which Demosthenes returns in the closing moments of the speech: it is the good citizen’s task τὴν τοῦ γενναίου καὶ τοῦ πρωτείου τῇ πόλει προαίρεσιν διαφυλάττειν (‘[to guard] the city’s aspirations to nobility and supremacy when the opportunity arises’: 321; cf. 317).¹⁶⁴ He therefore gets closer to them than Aeschines does, claiming to understand their needs and contending—by mentioning that the relatives of the dead chose to hold the collective funeral meal at his house—that they know they are his sole concern (288).¹⁶⁵ It is a somewhat patriarchal self-casting, but Demosthenes reduces the sense of asymmetry¹⁶⁶ by stressing that he is just one of them (γένει μὲν γὰρ ἕκαστος ἑκάστῳ μᾶλλον οἰκεῖος ἦν ἐμοῦ, κοινῇ δὲ πᾶσιν οὐδεὶς ἐγγυτέρω, ‘though each of them had a closer familial tie to his own dead kinsmen than I, no one had a closer public bond to all the dead’: 288),¹⁶⁷ just as it happened to be him who stepped up—alone—the morning after the news from Elatea.¹⁶⁸ This is a speech as much about Demosthenes’ own past, then, as the dēmos’—and one concerned to intertwine the two, stressing the fundamental ways in which neither party has changed in their commitment to civic ideals. Demosthenes goes out of his way to valorize the importance of the dēmos as actor alongside (if anything, beyond) the achievements of particular great men—another manoeuvre which effectively scotches Aeschines’ approach. On the Crown also does not confine itself to Demosthenes’ recent past: despite saying he will leave the period before the mid-350s out of account (18.18), he goes right back (in 18.98–100) to an act of public service in his early career, as voluntary syntrierarch in 357; he mentions this as part of a comprehensive edition of the set of largely fourth-century examples for aiding other states (featuring the ¹⁶⁴ Yunis (2000) 114–15; (2001) 16–17; also Hyp. Dion. 3. 136v 25–137v 5 (and note his mention of Demosthenes’ προαίρεσις towards resistance: line 6). For Demosthenes’ use of προαίρεσις: Allen (2006); Merker (2016) 209–41, especially 229–30. For πρωτείου: nn. 22 and 158. ¹⁶⁵ Yunis (2001) 269. ¹⁶⁶ Asymmetry in speaker–audience relations: Ober (1989), e.g. 165–77 and 182–91 on the potential for alienation; cf. for Rome, e.g., Hölkeskamp (1995) 242–6, 248–50; (2013); Morstein-Marx (2004) 246–58 and especially 257. ¹⁶⁷ There is a strong non-verbal echo here of Oedipus’ speech to the afflicted people of Thebes in Sophocles (OT 59–64), noted by Wankel (1976) 2.1230–1 and Usher (1993) 268. Given the relevance of ‘Theban plight’ to the background of the Crown trial (cf. A. 3.133, 156–7), and given that Demosthenes was happy to quote a sizeable section of Sophocles’ Antigone elsewhere (19.247), I see a dual allusion to Thebes’ fall in 335 and the disaster (for both cities) at Chaeronea (cf. 18.288: παθόντων ἃ μήποτ’ ὤφελον, ‘when they suffered what I wish they never had’). ¹⁶⁸ Rowe (1966) 404 for Demosthenes’ self-casting as the city’s servant (18.62, 173, 211, 300); also Dyck (1985) 42.

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Euboeans, Thebans, and Spartans) that we saw him and Aeschines use elsewhere;¹⁶⁹ the version now may respond to Aeschines’ own brief featuring of the 357 expedition in Against Ctesiphon (85). In mentioning his personal service, Demosthenes sets down a summary (and unambiguously affirmative) statement on the issue of whether or not it was (and is) right for Athens to help other Greeks without counting the cost—followed up when, in proposing the alliance in 339, he advises his fellow Athenians not to think of the harm Thebes has done Athens in the past (176). Demosthenes’ position on this remains broadly consistent throughout his public corpus; Aeschines is much more ambivalent: at one point in Against Ctesiphon he actually mocks what he represents as Demosthenes’ undiscriminating approach to sustaining Athens’s reputation for altruism (3.93);¹⁷⁰ it becomes possible to see how Demosthenes was able to claim in 343 that Aeschines had advised the Assembly in 346 not to help states that had not previously helped Athens (19.16). In On the Crown, Demosthenes makes his contribution to Athens’s realization of this core characteristic—and others—a defining part not only of his own record but of the city’s recent record too. Aeschines’ view is sensible enough, and predicated on commonly understood ideas of interstate reciprocity, but Demosthenes’ is calculated to inspire the audience with an empowering sense of the good their city can continue to do in the world, even in 330—and that was what his audience will have wanted to hear. The mainspring of Demosthenes’ assured handling of his historical material in On the Crown is his preparedness to suggest to his audience that the only viable parallels for his achievement are the great men of the early fifth century—and not Aeschines’ version of them, but one carefully curated by Demosthenes himself. He depicts his career (especially in 339 and 338) as a constant exercise of his intellectual gifts and patriotic energy, and so recommends himself effectively as the latest in the series of visionary Athenian leaders, a Themistocles thwarted only by fortune. Aeschines says that Demosthenes had referred to his negotiation of the Theban and Euboean alliances as erecting ‘walls of bronze and adamant’ (χαλκοῖς καὶ ἀδαμαντίνοις τείχεσιν: 3.84) for Attica,¹⁷¹ and Demosthenes does indeed adopt this wall-building metaphor in a different form but to

¹⁶⁹ D. 16.14–15 and A. 2.164. ¹⁷⁰ A. 3.93: ‘leading you on with the assertion that the city must first give aid to any Greeks who asked for it [τοῖς ἀεὶ δεομένοις τῶν Ἑλλήνων] and only later conclude alliances, after bestowing benefits’. ¹⁷¹ There may be some of Aeschines’ usual stylistic criticism of Demosthenes here: cf. the criticism of ‘σιδηροῖς καὶ ἀδαμαντίνοις λόγοις’ at Pl. Grg. 509a1–2, but see Dodds (1959) 341.

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make the same point in On the Crown (18.299–300) (οὐ λίθοις ἐτείχισα τὴν πόλιν οὐδὲ πλίνθοις ἐγώ, ‘it was not with stones and bricks that I fortified the city’: 299). In doing so he echoes Lycurgus’ use (in Against Leocrates 47 earlier in the year) of the idea that the Athenian hoplites at Chaeronea judged their courage as a better defence for Attica than walls of stone. At that point, Lycurgus had been building the ‘highly paradoxical, yet still true’ (παραδοξότατον μὲν . . . ἀληθὲς δέ) contention that the Athenians at Chaeronea ‘died victorious’ (νικῶντες ἀπέθανον: 1.49)—a timely reminder that even Demosthenes’ most spirited passage in On the Crown, the ‘paradoxical argument’ from 199 onwards, should be thought of as an especially virtuosic development of shared (and politicized) figurations of a communal experience, in Lycurgus’ case particularly in language which directly evokes that of the epitaphios logos—especially Demosthenes’ own epitaphios logos in 338/7.¹⁷² The imagery of metaphorical walls forms part of the wider of the spiritual, symbolic, and immanent Athens conjured by Demosthenes throughout the speeches we have examined, but especially in On the Crown. Athens’s past is something that sustains, and is sustained by, its citizens’ readiness to promote its value system—even under Macedonian hegemony. Where Aeschines had offered only nostalgia without answers, Demosthenes looks to the future. On the Crown’s final moments—ἡμῖν δὲ τοῖς λοιποῖς τὴν ταχίστην ἀπαλλαγὴν τῶν ἐπηρτημένων φόβων δότε καὶ σωτηρίαν ἀσφαλῆ (‘grant the rest of us as soon as possible release from the fears that threaten and salvation that endures’: 324)—distantly recall the ‘danger(s) encircling the city’ (τοὺς περιεστηκότας τῇ πόλει κινδύνους: 179; cf. 176; and τὸν τότε τῇ πόλει περιστάντα κίνδυνον: 188) in Demosthenes’ description of Athens’s position before the Theban alliance, earlier in the speech—and the impact of his Assembly decree to dispatch the embassy to Thebes, which dispersed that danger ‘like a cloud’ (ὥσπερ νέφος: 188). The same optimism that we also see in the Assembly speeches therefore quietly assures the jurors that whatever the dangers, they still have a leader in waiting who—should the opportunity arise—is ready to take up his post once more.¹⁷³

¹⁷² Cf. D. 60.19–24. Sullivan (2002a) 122–3; Engels (2008) 139–41. ¹⁷³ For the taxis rhetoric in the speech: Chapter 6.1.

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The opportunity some Athenians had been waiting for came in 323, while Demosthenes sat in voluntary exile on the far side of the Saronic Gulf after the potentially career-ending experience of conviction in the Harpalus trials earlier in the year. Although preparations for revolt— coordinated by Hyperides and others—had been going on for some time,¹ news of Alexander’s death (in Babylon in mid-June) changed everything. Athens and its allies launched an uprising against Macedonia on a massive scale: so began the brief Lamian War.² According to Plutarch, Demosthenes voluntarily took part in Athenian embassies to the Peloponnese, including a clearly memorable intervention in support of Polyeuctus in front of the Arcadian League, and he was rewarded (again, according to Plutarch) with a formal restoration amid a festival atmosphere.³ The early period of the war saw significant land-based successes under the leadership of the Athenian general Leosthenes, who penned the regent Antipater up in Lamia during the winter of 323/2—but at the cost of his own life, a specific loss commemorated (perhaps exceptionally) in Hyperides’ Funeral Oration of 323/2.⁴ The breaking of the siege was followed by a decisive defeat of the allied land forces at Crannon in Thessaly in July/August 322; the allied naval force had already been defeated decisively off Amorgos in May/June. Antipater demanded Athens’s leading anti-Macedonian orators, as Alexander had ¹ D.S. 17.111.1–4; 18.8–9.4; Miller (1982) and Schwenk (1985) 388–92 with IG II³ 1, 375; Engels (1989) 321–31; Couvenhes (2003) 287–93, 299–301; Yardley, Wheatley, and Heckel (2011) 120–3; Worthington (2013) 329. ² Narratives and discussion: Engels (1989) 316–87; Schmitt (1992); Sealey (1993) 215–19; Yardley, Wheatley, and Heckel (2011) 119–34; Bosworth (2003); Worthington (2013) 328–34; Brun (2015) 288–95. ³ Plut. Dem. 27.3–8; [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 846cd (assisting Polyeuctus specifically); Kralli (2017) 22–3. ⁴ See Hyp. Epit. 3, 6–16, 24, 34–9, with Herrman (2009a) 61–2 and Hesk (2013) 52–5. The Rhetoric of the Past in Demosthenes and Aeschines: Oratory, History, and Politics in Classical Athens. Guy Westwood, Oxford University Press (2020). © Guy Westwood. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198857037.001.0001

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in 335, but this time the purpose and intended outcome were clear. Phocion’s attempts at negotiation failed, and Demades proposed and passed the Assembly decree which sentenced Demosthenes, Hyperides, and others to death.⁵ Hyperides was subjected to a variously reported grisly fate on Antipater’s orders after capture in flight. Demosthenes himself fled for asylum to a place he knew from his time in Troezen—the sanctuary of Poseidon on nearby Calauria. It was there that (according to the tradition Plutarch reflects) he took poison when Antipater’s men arrived in the autumn of 322.⁶ Polyeuctus, meanwhile, apparently managed somehow to avoid the purge of his associates, as he is found proposing two grants of citizenship in an inscribed decree (IG II² 350) least problematically dated to 318/7.⁷ Four of Demosthenes’ Letters from the pre-Lamian War period (1–4) are probably genuine⁸ and are an interesting place to begin to draw to a close because they consciously extend the rhetoric of On the Crown,⁹ emphasizing Demosthenes’ own singularity and record of achievement with the goal of securing official restoration from the Assembly (where they were presumably intended to be read by an official after successful lobbying from Demosthenes’ supporters).¹⁰ Just as we saw Demosthenes put the accent on his own uniqueness even when his policies had been pursued in collaboration with a group of leading figures (including Hyperides, Lycurgus, and Polyeuctus)—some (like Lycurgus) with even more significant public profiles than his own in the 330s—he does the same in the Letters, even talking about himself when he is meant to be talking about the recently deceased Lycurgus (Letter 3).¹¹ The Letters seek to impress upon their listeners one of the same narratives about the past that Demosthenes had promoted in On the Crown: that the period of Demosthenes’ leadership had been the time when the Athenian dēmos had been truest to its traditional identity—a desirable time the Letters’ intended audience might symbolically wish to return to by restoring

⁵ Phocion’s negotiation and Demades’ decree: Gehrke (1976) 87–92; Bearzot (1985) 170–83; Tritle (1988) 129–31; Brun (2000) 113–19; (2015) 297–8; Bianchi (2004); Worthington (2013) 334–5; Dmitriev (2016) (see, especially, 947–9). ⁶ Plut. Dem. 29.4–30.6. ⁷ Osborne (1981) 1.105–7 (D 39) and 2.108–11; Bayliss (2011) 99, 113–14 on some other survivors who flourished later. ⁸ Goldstein (1968); Clavaud (1987) 6–7; Worthington (2003); (2006) 100–1. ⁹ Especially the rhetoric of Demosthenes’ eunoia and the reciprocal eunoia he hopes for from Athens: Ep. 1.3; 2.6, 11, 20, 24; 3.27, 37, 44; Chapter 6.2 n. 101 for examples from D. 18. ¹⁰ The situation described in Thuc. 7.10 for Nicias’ letter might be a good parallel. ¹¹ e.g. Ep. 3.35–6.

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Demosthenes.¹² But they also sustain the persuasive impression developed in On the Crown that Demosthenes’ historical usage arises not only from shrewd strategy but from personal affinity, knowledge, and fascination with the world of the Athenian past itself. Plutarch, in fact, has Demosthenes remarking on his restoration in 323/2 that he was making a better return than Alcibiades (Dem. 27.7), but that could reflect the Lives’ habit of casting one great figure in terms of another (especially the subject of one of the other Lives), rather than anything Demosthenes actually said. A more reliable indication that Demosthenes wanted to be thought by his addressees to be actively considering his later career (at least) in terms of historical models comes in 323 in the Second Letter. He had chosen the territory of Troezen for his exile, he says, because he ‘knew’ (ᾔδειν)¹³ that this was a place (like Salamis) where the Athenians of the Persian Wars had gone¹⁴ for refuge (and been welcomed, as Demosthenes has been now), and not because he was eager to go to a city where he might win renown (ἐν ᾗ μέγιστα πράξειν αὐτὸς ἔμελλον) (18). This looks like a conscious self-distancing from the examples of Themistocles and Alcibiades, both of whom had acquired significant status in their new Asian and Spartan contexts respectively.¹⁵ But given that Troezen was a literal Athenian lieu de mémoire in the sense Demosthenes describes,¹⁶ freighted with connections to the very period he had harked back to so much in his historical argumentation, what he says here also sustains a central theme we saw in On the Crown: his self-identification with the city of Athens itself, and his alignment of the continuum of its own values and traditions with his own lifetime. Here in the Second Letter, he communicates the sense that his exile was not actually about him— instead, it was in a sense a symbolic replay of the general evacuation

¹² Westwood (2016), e.g. 77. ¹³ This recalls historiographical instances like that of Chabrias at the battle of Naxos (D.S. 15.35.1), who ‘remembered’ (ἀναμνησθεὶς) Arginusae and stopped to pick up survivors. This looks forced, but may derive from Chabrias’ court clash with Leodamas about his honours (cf. D. 20.146): Stylianou (1998) 309–10. ¹⁴ εἰς ἣν καὶ τοὺς προγόνους ἐλθόντας ᾔδειν ὅθ’ ὁ πρὸς τὸν Πέρσην κατελάμβανεν αὐτοὺς κίνδυνος, ‘where I knew our ancestors had gone when faced by the danger from Persia’. ¹⁵ Alcibiades: Plut. Alc. 23.3–6. Themistocles: Thuc. 1.138.5; Theopompus FGrHist 115 F 87. ¹⁶ Hdt. 8.41.1 and Goldstein (1968) 244–5 and Clavaud (1987) 158–9 on D. Ep. 2.18. Athens solicited help from Troezen in the aftermath of Chaeronea (Lyc. 1.42); for its status then and later: Worthington (2006) 111 n. 38. For Themistocles’ role in the evacuation to Troezen, and the two famous decrees: Whitehead (2000) 342–3; Johansson (2001); Keesling (2017) 174–7. Troezenian involvement must have been better ‘remembered’, however inauthentically, than Steinbock (2013a) 98 suggests. See further n. 19.

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proposed by Themistocles in 480, because it involved the departure of the man best qualified to represent the city to itself. This would clearly participate in the already well-established symbolic corollary of the 480 evacuation that we saw in Chapter 6, that a city is its people, not its physicality;¹⁷ it would also carry the appeal to its addressees to make the second part of the story come true: to recall Demosthenes just as the Athenians of 480 had returned home. The illusion of Demosthenes as a metaphor for the ideal Athens itself could obviously only go so far, though: the Letters also articulate the effect on Demosthenes of the pull of the physical city, with its monuments, cult sites, tombs, and public venues, Demosthenes’ own arena; and the Second Letter itself shortly turns to capture the orator’s longing for the country he could gaze towards each day from Poseidon’s sanctuary (τὴν πατρίδ’ ἐντεῦθεν ἑκάστης ἡμέρας ἀφορῶ: Ep. 2.20).¹⁸ Demosthenes’ use of the Troezen parallel was not in itself distinctive— Hyperides also made use of it when involving some exiled Troezenians in his Against Athenogenes, a speech of 330–324.¹⁹ But Demosthenes’ personalization of it does confirm a point made in Chapter 6: that it would be unsafe for us to assume a monoculture of styles of historical reference among the anti-Macedonian politicians (already probably an over-rigid categorization), even though they did pool oratorical resources. On the Crown, Against Leocrates, and Against Diondas share strategies and involve identical historical illustrations, but there was much else which would have made those illustrations feel distinctive to a particular speaker at a particular moment, so what we need to envisage are individual figurations of the past, developed in individual contexts and confrontations, performed in individual ways, and geared to individual wider purposes. On the Crown offers a prime example: a speech responsive to common mediations of Chaeronea, but built round a specific ambition to gain Demosthenes’ audience’s support for a project to perpetuate the spirit that had made them fight; and this is cast as the culmination of an individual great orator’s career as a litigant, diplomat, and Assembly performer, not as simply another negotiation of the public ¹⁷ See Chapter 6.3, and especially Lyc. 1.69. ¹⁸ Cf. Plut. Dem. 26.5. Possible parallel with Hom. Od. 5.82–4: Westwood (2016) 79. ¹⁹ Hyp. Ath. 31. Date: Whitehead (2000) 266–7. Hyperides attributes to his Athenian audience similar motivations to Demosthenes’ in their care for these exiles: ἀπομνημονεύσαντες τὴν εὐεργεσίαν [τὴ]ν πρὸς τὸν βάρβαρον δι’ ἐτῶν πλει̣ [ό]νω̣ ν̣ [ἢπ̣ ε̣ ]ντήκοντα κ[αὶ] ἑκατόν (‘you remembered, after more than one hundred and fifty years, the kindness that they showed you when facing the barbarian’); he also cites the Troezenians’ own decree accepting the Athenian refugees (33): Habicht (1961) 20–1; Whitehead (2000) 342–3, and n. 16.

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relationship between those who were comfortable with a world run by Macedonia and those who were not. The Second Letter also confirms that Demosthenes could assume in his audience an awareness that being attentive to historical models could shape behaviour, and even points to the possibility of self-fashioning manoeuvres in a way familiar from Roman personal exempla. Although I have intentionally fought shy of identifying these in the extant speeches of Demosthenes and Aeschines (Aeschines’ Solon comes closest, and he only appears in two of Aeschines’ three speeches), they were probably more popular with orators who had a great family member they could claim as a model: as we saw earlier, Alcibiades the Younger is an obvious example, and another is Demochares, Demosthenes’ sister’s son, who followed his uncle into politics.²⁰ Mention of Demochares prompts us to consider how far the use of the past became part of Demosthenes’ legacy. It certainly did so quickly, linked as it was (and as it had been by Demosthenes himself) to his promotion of Athenian independence. Quite apart from his own intriguing professions in the Second Letter and in On the Crown, younger contemporaries saw an enthusiasm for historical models as part of Demosthenes’ profile: Demetrius of Phalerum (via Plutarch) attests the orator’s conscious—if, in Demetrius’ own judgement, unsuccessful— practical imitation of the historical figures he cited for praise.²¹ If the speech On Organization is not genuine but the work of an imitator operating in the early stages of the formation of Demosthenes’ legacy, as has recently been argued,²² then Demosthenes’ self-characterization there (via an imagined objector) as the man who ‘disparages the present situation and praises our ancestors [καὶ διέσυρε τὰ παρόντα, καὶ τοὺς προγόνους ἐπῄνεσεν]’ (13.12) would testify to one reader’s shrewd absorption both of Demosthenes’ own characteristic past-based rhetoric—the language of this passage (though not these phrases) echoes that of Demosthenes’ Timotheus passage in On the Chersonese (8.73; Chapter 3.4)—and of the criticisms of it both contemporary and posthumous.²³ Another moment from Demosthenes’ late career, reported by Plutarch (Dem. 9.1), attests his peculiar ability to combine the detailed ²⁰ Chapter 1.4 and 1.7.1 respectively. ²¹ Plut. Dem. 14.2 (= Dem. Phal. fr. 156 Stork/van Ophuijsen/Dorandi): ἐπαινέσαι μὲν ἦν ἱκανώτατος τὰ τῶν προγόνων καλά, μιμήσασθαι δ’ οὐχ ὁμοίως (‘while he was most capable of praising the virtues of earlier generations, he was not so good at imitating them’); cf. Isoc. 8.41, though; also Cooper (2009) 311–18. ²² Sing (2017) 112–17. ²³ The objector’s comment that Demosthenes inflates his audience’s hopes and puffs them up (μετεωρίσας καὶ φυσήσας: 12) recalls Theopompus’ view of Demosthenes at Thebes: Dem. 18.2 (with Guth [2014] 160–3).

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communication of relevant historical knowledge with powerful and authoritative delivery: his expert demolition, in the context of the Olympic festival (apparently the one in 324),²⁴ of the orator Lamachus’ badmouthing of Thebes and Olynthus in the course of an ‘encomium of Alexander and Philip’. Interrupting Lamachus’ recital, Demosthenes ‘came forward and rehearsed with historical proofs [μεθ’ ἱστορίας καὶ ἀποδείξεως] all the benefits which the peoples of Thebes and Chalcidice had conferred upon Greece, and, on the other hand, all the evils of which the flatterers of the Macedonians had been the cause’. Even if Plutarch’s (unknown) source for this incident is flawed,²⁵ the passage still testifies to a Hellenistic perception that one of Demosthenes’ many oratorical talents was his mastery of the past. The next logical step, then, was for Demosthenes to become a model himself. Right at the beginning of this book, we looked at the potential of public statues to attract and promote creative use by orators of the great civic figures they represented. In 280/79, by decree of Demochares and as sculpted by Polyeuctus (not the politician), Demosthenes joined those figures in bronze in the Agora, in the pose familiar from the statue’s many copies, and was seen there in the company of Callias and Lycurgus by an admiring Pausanias (1.8.2).²⁶ It is hard, because of the paucity of our evidence for Hellenistic oratory,²⁷ to tell how widely Demosthenes was used as an example by the orators of the next few generations in their speeches, but some were already committed to the task of imitating him soon after his death. Demochares certainly modelled himself after his famous uncle both in presentational and in policy terms,²⁸ and was apparently open to some of the same lines of attack.²⁹ His own statue (awarded in 271/0 and situated first in the Agora and later in the prytaneion) apparently depicted him in the cloak and sword he wore when arguing against the surrender of the orators to Antipater

²⁴ MacDowell (2009) 411 n. 11; Lintott (2013) 53–4; Worthington (2013) 313–15. ²⁵ Demosthenes was conducting sensitive business with Nicanor, Alexander’s agent, so will have wanted to avoid trouble: Din. 1.81–2. But 324 may be wrong: see n. 24. Briefer version: [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 845c. ²⁶ Demosthenes’ honours and the statue: Plut. Dem. 30.5; [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 847d; Marasco (1984) 217–21; von den Hoff (2009); Biard (2017) 323–5; Shear (2017); cf. the statue of Lycurgus, voted in 307/6 ([Plut.] Vit. Lyc. 843c; 852e); Lambert (2012b) 263–5 (= [2018] 142–4); also (2018) 290–304. See also Roisman, Worthington, and Waterfield (2015) 206 and 235–6 for the two together. Callias’ statue: Keesling (2017) 157–8. ²⁷ Though note Kremmydas and Tempest (2013). ²⁸ Demosthenes’ influence on Demochares: Chapter 1.7.1. ²⁹ See FGrHist 75 T 9 with Dmitriev ad T 9 in BNJ (cf. Timaeus FGrHist 566 F 35a–b). Attacks on Demosthenes’ oral behaviours: Worman (2008) 241–7, 255–66.

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in 322,³⁰ almost as though defying the parallel Aeschines had made between Demosthenes and Cleophon (A. 2.76, 3.150). Plutarch also offers the interesting case of the Thessalian Cineas, Pyrrhus’ trusted adviser and the only ‘pupil of Demosthenes’ on record (the phrasing is loose: Δημοσθένους δὲ τοῦ ῥήτορος ἀκηκοὼς): he was ‘quite the only public speaker of his day who was thought to remind his hearers, as a statue might, of that great orator’s power and ability’.³¹ Although the description presumably refers to Cineas’ oratorical qualities rather than his self-presentation, some imitation of the master on his part might reasonably be canvassed, if Plutarch is indeed right about Cineas’ intellectual heredity. If he is not, the error would be a telling sign of Demosthenes’ status as a model in the decades after his death, with the implicit assumption perhaps present (whatever Plutarch’s source) that a very able orator of that time ‘must’ have been Demosthenes’ pupil. By late republican Rome, Demosthenes already stood out as the classical Athenian oratorical exemplar, and Cicero’s self-presentation as the Roman Demosthenes involves—as a specific point of contact—the identification of the orator’s life with the life of the state.³² In this book, I have been concerned both to trace the ways in which Demosthenes and Aeschines represent wider Athenian oratorical practice in their persuasive treatment of historical material, and to analyse the figurations of detail which they developed for specific confrontations with one another. But I started by looking at Demosthenes on his own, in his speeches from the 350s. In Chapter 2, I argued that the use of historical material in Against Leptines is part of a wide-ranging assault upon what Demosthenes constructs as an atrophied political consensus, whose self-interested and defective understanding of the Athenian past becomes a cogent reason to reject its support for Leptines’ law. This project demonstrates that Demosthenes already had a sophisticated grasp of what the past could achieve when mobilized in a major public trial, and it is reflected in the speeches for Diodorus and Euthycles. A basic persuasive device in all four speeches is the exploration of the symbolic, rather than material significance of the aspects of the past under discussion—a focus which makes sense in the context of court cases about public honours, but also one which we see Demosthenes

³⁰ For Demochares’ statue: [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 847d–f; his honours: [Plut.] Vit. Dem. 851de and Shear (2012); cf. those for Lycurgus, with Gauthier (1985) 79–92 on the two together. ³¹ Plut. Pyrrh. 14.1. ³² Cicero and Demosthenes: Wooten (1983); Dugan (2005) 309–14; Manuwald (2007) 1.129–38; Bishop (2015); (2019) 173–217; Canfora (2018) 440–2.

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continue to develop into the Assembly speeches and beyond, marking it as typical of his strategic conception of the world of the city’s past. In all these cases, Demosthenes communicates confidence that a correct decision in this case will allow the Athenian continuum of values—and civic society—to function as it should, and Chapter 3 examined how the optimism inherent in this message—now based on audience endorsement of Demosthenes as a trustworthy adviser—carries over to his Assembly speeches from 354 to 341, which testify to Demosthenes’ increasing agility with the past and investment in its persuasive potential over that period. In particular, I examined his self-construction as a far-sighted and impeccably democratic and well-intentioned symboulos figure, partly via frequent reference to a wide range of past models, distant and recent—a self-characterization which reaches its climax in On the Crown with his definition of the good statesman as precisely the person both able and prepared to discern the patterns in events (18.172). Demosthenes’ attentiveness to these models enables him to present himself convincingly as a statesman who demands considerable effort from his hearers but who is also the only person who can help them realize the very potential that Demosthenes’ adversaries—and Philip—would deny them. In Chapter 4, we saw Demosthenes and then Aeschines applying the city’s history to cases where the defendant (Meidias, then Timarchus) had to be judged as both a moral and a political actor. I showed how Demosthenes—under particular pressure to prove the public significance of his accusation—adjusts his practice quite significantly in consequence, using the extended Alcibiades illustration to make the point that Meidias must be judged on his own peculiar combination of bad and undemocratic qualities. Aeschines is similarly keen to particularize the behaviour of Timarchus, and to talk about his personal past. Like Demosthenes, he is interested in recommending himself as a trustworthy paradigm citizen; but unlike Demosthenes (in Against Meidias, anyway) Aeschines co-opts numerous aspects of the cityscape, real and imagined, to help him construct the parameters within which Timarchus should be judged. This overtly political prosecution allowed us to broach the issue of contestation of models in law-court contexts in earnest, and to notice Aeschines’ appetite for creative envisioning of the past, developing his material in immersive and theatrical ways. In Chapters 5 and 6, we saw each orator crafting his material to respond at the level of technique and/or at the level of content to his opponent’s figurations of the past at the previous stage of the encounter. Demosthenes’ On the False Embassy capitalizes on a climate unfavourable to the Peace of Philocrates to make the right, responsible use of the

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past a critical stake in the dispute; but Demosthenes’ decision to dwell on the terms of the Timarchus trial and to adopt an uncritically broad—and predictably inclusive—approach to the past (and one geared partly towards reinventing himself as an opponent of the Peace) left him vulnerable to a deft, multiform defence strategy from Aeschines which involved careful projection of his own discernment in the use of history along with the creation of lively and overtly continuum-based scenarios of a type probably more immediately associable with Demosthenes. In Chapter 6, I sought to show that part of the success of On the Crown lies in Demosthenes’ ability to find ways to capitalize on the strategic error Aeschines had made in assuming that reviving the modes of accusation in the Embassy trial could work in a context where the direction Demosthenes helped take Athens in nearly a decade earlier still apparently commanded broad popular approval (despite the recent failure of Agis III’s revolt). Notably, we saw Demosthenes confronting his rival’s set pieces with a series of set pieces of his own which cover the same thematic ground and act as persuasive usurpations of the originals, seeking to upstage them. At the same time, On the Crown gives the Athenians of 330 a past they can apply to their present without embarrassment, one that imagines them as an inalienable part of an ongoing continuum of Athenian greatness, unchanging just as Demosthenes represents his own fidelity to his fellow citizens’ interests as unchanging. Although On the Crown sees him make the jump to direct and unapologetic alignment of his own career and the city’s own history—reflecting the stage he has reached in that career—his constant emphasis on the city’s eternal sufficiency to overcome problematic circumstances, to thrive, and to save others had been part of his rhetoric for well over twenty years; as he had said in On the Megalopolitans, others’ actions may affect circumstances, but Athens never changes (16.15). This is rarely an unthinking or an unqualified emphasis, or mere crowd-pleasing—On the Crown itself denies the adequacy of simply reciting the virtues of the ancestors. Instead, Demosthenes’ emphasis on Athens’s eternality communicates optimism, showing how proper recognition of one’s place in the continuum (helped by a wise and altruistic orator, of course) can offer solutions to present problems. In a trial apparently all about the past, Aeschines was unable to project a powerful enough competing vision when Demosthenes turned it into a trial about the future as well. Certainty about whether the dynamics I have traced in Demosthenes’ and Aeschines’ usage are representative of their usage as a whole is impossible, but the manoeuvres traceable in our extant speeches certainly feel representative in a broader sense: they reflect the combative and personality-based politics which Athenian cultural

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self-representation as a polis guided more than any other by intelligent and logical argument—a pose encouraged by orators, of course— constantly attempted to efface.³³ In public, the past was a weapon. It helped orators define their political standpoint, debate with others both in Assembly and in courts, and to communicate to their audiences— and contextualize in terms of the city’s values—why their opponents were wrong. At the same time, those audiences stood or sat there as arbiters of orators’ creativity and ambition with their historical material. Individual listeners had their own ideas about the city’s past, but also sets of expectations. Orators had to take account of them, but in order to recommend themselves as inspirational and imaginative public figures who could represent Athens’s interests effectively at home and abroad, manipulating those expectations in stimulating ways could be just as important. Both Demosthenes and Aeschines understood this, and they understood the degree to which their usage had to answer the needs of specific agonistic encounters, even if they were not always able to answer those needs perfectly; rhetorical strategies in speeches of the length and complexity of those we have looked at are necessarily numerous, and mutually connective and supportive at an immense variety of points and levels. Sometimes they would only require a slight mishandling— whether of phrasing, of tone, of gesture, or a lapse of memory in a crucial place—to slip beyond the orator’s control, diminishing his impact or provoking a negative audience reaction. Arguments and illustrations based on the past were, of course, only one of the many compositional elements the orator was juggling when working out how he would approach the issues at hand, but among the types of proof we see they stand out (along with such elements as quoted poetry and specific claims about a defendant’s life) for their ethical multivalence—they could be exploited to evoke a range of responses from audiences who could react emotionally to reminders of their city’s successes and their failures. In other words, they could be used by orators to help tell stories about themselves and the jurors. Orators’ historical illustrations could (and can) put parallel worlds before their audiences: better or worse alternatives to the present, idealized past settings, or episodes from the recent life of the community where key decisions were made which had impact on the debate or trial now.

³³ Rational and intelligent Athenians: e.g. D. 23.109; 3.15; Ep. 3.11, 13; A. 1.178; cf. Hdt. 1.60.3.

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Because of their capacity to reflect whatever situation the orator needed, such examples could be deployed to affect the ethical and evaluative terms in which their audiences viewed the rest of their case and indeed the orators’ own personalities and potential as public operators. Compelling versions of the past, especially as components of, or complements to, other ethical and moral arguments, therefore, had the capacity to transform or, as I have put it in the title of this concluding chapter, to transfigure their audiences’ interpretations of the trial or debate happening in front of them—sometimes literally, for example in the epilogos of Against Ctesiphon, where Aeschines teases his audience with a revenance fantasy, asking them to imagine two cornerstones of the city’s past on the platform where he stands now, challenging his opponents when they present their case. Far from just rolling out hackneyed civic articles of faith in predictable ways, then, both Aeschines and Demosthenes invest significant ingenuity in the shaping of their historical material in their struggle—especially in the mid-340s, with each other—for recognition and success.

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Index Locorum Note: An edition is given in cases where numbering varies substantially between editions and where an edition is not indicated in ‘Editions’ (p. ix). This index should be used in conjunction with the General Index. Aelian Varia Historia 8.16 17 n. 44 Aelius Aristides see Aristides Aelius Theon see Theon Aeschines Against Timarchus (A. 1) 1 182, 198 n. 64, 213 3 198 n. 64, 213 4–6 301 n. 102 6–36 214, 217 6 204 8 205 9–32 204 9 205 11 48 n. 184, 204, 205 17 205 18 204 20 48 n. 184, 204 22 205, 216 n. 113 24 205 25–7 205–8, 213, 230–1, 233–9 25–6 204, 291, 303–4 25 17 n. 41, 17 n. 44, 21, 36, 55, 137, 204, 205–7, 214, 269 n. 160, 304 26–7 48 n. 184 26 205, 206 27 205 30–2 208–11, 212, 213 31 210 32 205 34 216 n. 113 39 15 n. 37, 198 n. 64 49 213, 260 n. 136 52 29 n. 106 64 70 n. 287 65 198 n. 67 69 180 70 198 n. 67 71 180, 258 n. 127 77 319 n. 151 81–5 210, 212, 214–15, 216 81 215 82–4 214

86 319 n. 151 89 210 90 210 92–3 209, 210–11, 212, 213, 214, 216 93 29 n. 106, 198 n. 67, 210–11 94 209, 211 110–11 78 n. 319 113 291 116 29 n. 106, 198 n. 67, 291 117 38 n. 138, 76, 200 128–9 57 n. 227, 202, 203 n. 76, 237 n. 49 129 202 131 209 132–54 201 132 17 n. 45, 180, 198, 201, 203, 215 133 57 n. 227, 202 135–6 238 n. 53 135 292 140 17 n. 45, 99 n. 73, 201, 215, 313 n. 131 141–54 57 n. 227 141–50 201, 202 141 202, 237 144 203 n. 76, 237 n. 49 147 203 n. 76 148–50 237 n. 49 148 203 n. 76 149–50 201 149 203 n. 76 150 203 n. 76 151–4 202 151–2 203 n. 76, 237 n. 49 152 202 166–76 198 170–6 217 170 209 171–2 196 n. 61 172 76, 217–18 173–5 77, 139 n. 40, 230 173 15 n. 37, 76, 103 174 182, 198, 217 175 76, 77, 192 n. 49 177 313 n. 131 178 338 n. 33

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380

Index Locorum

Aeschines (cont.) 180–2 47 n. 179 180–1 50 n. 203, 94, 199, 211–16 180 211, 212, 215 181 212, 214 182 57 n. 226, 211, 215 183 213, 216 n. 113 192 200, 204, 208, 214, 215, 216 193–5 198 On the Embassy (A. 2) 4 225, 229 n. 29, 285 n. 58 5 262 6 285 n. 53 8–10 229 n. 29 8 228 9 188 n. 35 10 285 n. 53 12–18 242 12–14 68 12 29 n. 106 18 228 21 139 n. 40 22 229 n. 29, 244 n. 81 23 17 n. 41, 304 25–33 44–5, 46, 163 n. 114, 164, 225, 231, 234, 236, 260–5, 272 25 44, 262 26–7 264 26 262, 265 28 144 n. 55, 264–5 29 264, 265 30 261 31 45, 46, 48, 57, 263–4 33 261, 265 34 130 35 74, 130 36–7 258 n. 127 37 139 n. 40 38 261 39 139 n. 40, 244 n. 81 40–2 258 n. 127 41 139 n. 40 42–3 244 n. 81 43 236 44 261 45–6 229 n. 30 46 261 48 236 49 258 n. 127 51 258 n. 127, 313 n. 131 52 229 n. 29, 236 57–62 250 63 250–1 64–9 249 n. 99 64 28 n. 105

69 254, 258 70–4 255–6 70–3 229 nn. 29–31, 260 n. 135, 285 n. 56 74–8 224, 229, 231, 232, 242 n. 74, 249–61, 262, 267, 268, 269, 270–1, 272 74–5 251 74 18 n. 51, 153 n. 77, 245 n. 86, 245 n. 87, 246, 249, 251–2, 256, 261, 269 75–7 62 75–6 258 75 19, 256–8, 270, 272 76–8 15 76 51 n. 207, 137, 251, 256, 258–9, 261, 272, 335 77–8 15 n. 37, 255 77 256, 259 78 12, 61, 255, 259–60, 263, 279, 308 79 252, 254, 264 84 29 n. 106 85 258 n. 127 86 285 n. 53 89 18 n. 52 92 18 n. 52 94–5 237 n. 52 105 18 n. 51, 256 106 260 n. 135, 292 111 229 n. 30 112 262 113–18 225, 231, 260–5, 272 114–17 294 n. 86, 295 114–16 262–3 114 262, 263 115 288–9 117 298 n. 97 118 261, 300 n. 101, 315 121 229 n. 30 124–5 243 n. 80 124 20 n. 67, 285 n. 53 125–6 297 n. 95 126–7 244 126 226, 261 n. 138 135 18 n. 52 138 139 n. 40 139 216 141 260 n. 135 142 227, 294 n. 86 143 260 n. 135 144 202, 220, 224, 228–9 147 15 n. 37, 255, 259–60 148 196 n. 61 149–51 229 n. 29 149 265 n. 149, 270

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Index Locorum 150–1 229 n. 29 150 28 n. 105, 259 153–8 285 n. 58 153 139 n. 40, 229 n. 29 155 261 n. 138 156 77, 229 n. 29 157 229 n. 29, 258 n. 127 158 202, 237 n. 49 164 252–3, 326 n. 169 165 254 167–71 213, 288 168–70 270 168 188 n. 35 170 227, 228 n. 28 171 244 n. 83, 268–9 172–7 225, 229, 231, 232, 247, 257, 260, 265–71, 272, 292, 323 172 19 n. 62, 191 n. 47, 265, 267, 268, 269, 270 173 267, 269 174 268, 269 175 258 n. 125, 267, 268, 269 176 15 n. 37, 266, 267, 269 177–8 269–70 177 139 n. 40, 266–7, 268, 269–70 178 229 n. 31, 245 n. 86, 261, 269, 285 n. 56 180 200, 224, 231, 271 184 70, 85 n. 24, 227 Against Ctesiphon (A. 3) 2 287, 300, 303 3 277 n. 17 5 277 n. 17 6–7 301 n. 102 7 245 n. 86 14–17 49 n. 191 20–1 204 n. 80 23–7 49 n. 191 25–31 48 n. 189 25–6 154 n. 82 32–48 302 33 204 n. 80 37 304 49 276–7 51–2 65 n. 259, 85 52 179 n. 1, 180 n. 6, 183 53 46 n. 175 58–60 301 62 68 63–4 249 n. 99 71 249 n. 99 75 323 77–8 304–5 82 70 n. 286, 253 n. 108

381

84 49 n. 191, 286 n. 60, 326–7 85 173 n. 142, 174, 253 n. 106, 326 86–8 288 92 288 93 326 99 139 n. 40 100 57 n. 227, 139 n. 40 107–24 286, 288–300 108 21 n. 72, 287, 290, 292, 304 109–12 288–9 112 34, 237 n. 49 113 214 n. 108, 289, 292 114 289 115 182, 293 n. 82 116 289, 290, 295 117 292, 293, 294, 296 118–21 34–5, 289 118 51 n. 207, 289, 292, 293, 296, 297, 298 119 296 122 289–90, 293 n. 85, 296 n. 90, 297, 298 123 290, 298, 298–9 124 290 n. 69 125 292 126 290 128–9 290 129 290 130 292 n. 79 131 139 n. 40, 293 n. 82 132–3 275 133 325 n. 167 135 237 n. 49 138–9 57 n. 228, 96 n. 62 139 87 n. 36, 96, 214 n. 108, 245 n. 88, 260 n. 135 141–2 324 145–6 282 n. 41 150–1 71 n. 290 150 54–5, 137, 259, 335 151 160 n. 99 152–6 302 153 302 154 302 155 303 156–7 276 n. 8, 283–4, 325 n. 167 156 302–3, 305 n. 116 157 293 n. 82, 302 158 206 n. 85 160 139 n. 40 164 305 n. 116 166–7 288 166 29 n. 106 173 128–9, 305 n. 116 174–6 287

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382

Index Locorum

Aeschines (cont.) 175 287, 300 176 285 177–92 287, 307, 311–23 177–8 312 178 313–14, 320 179 313 180 321 181–90 22 n. 74 181 17 n. 41, 304, 314, 315, 319 182 307–8, 319 183–7 312 183–5 2 n. 9, 88, 315 184–5 237 n. 49 185 57 nn. 226–7 186 2, 11 n. 12, 17 n. 43, 18 n. 52, 22 n. 73, 314, 315–17 187–92 285 187–8 315, 319 187 15 n. 37, 18 n. 52, 315, 318–19, 323 188 319–20 189 285 190–2 315, 319 190 237 n. 49, 285 191–3 320 191–2 308, 312 191 15 n. 37, 102 n. 79, 319–20 192 324 194 285, 320 195 15 n. 37, 320 197 226 n. 14 202 292 205 72 208 15 n. 37 209 156 n. 87, 304 n. 116 212 183 223 139 n. 40 224 39 n. 147, 76 n. 313 225–7 285 228 201 n. 73, 284 n. 52 231 57 nn. 226–7, 313 n. 131 234 104 n. 88, 277 n. 17 235 15 n. 37 239–40 276 n. 8 241 292 n. 79 242 277 n. 15 243 17 nn. 46–8, 22 n. 74, 111 n. 112, 148 n. 66, 315 252 277 n. 16 257–60 286, 303–11 257–9 287 257–8 127 n. 155 257 17 n. 41, 21 n. 72, 287, 303–4, 311

258 19 n. 60, 150, 151 n. 69, 304–5, 309 259 286 n. 61, 303, 309 260 286 n. 61, 292 n. 79 Aeschylus Agamemnon 1497–1504 304 n. 113 Persians 238 162 n. 112 244 162 n. 113 338–40 161 341–3 161 n. 107 474–5 162 n. 113 765–83 32 774–5 32 n. 118 792 162 n. 112 Seven Against Thebes 585–6 162 n. 112 Aesop (Hausrath/Hunger) 63 51 n. 206 269 238 n. 54 Alexis fr. 131 (Lebēs) 22 n. 76 fr. 269 204 n. 80 Anaxandrides fr. 41 (Protesilaus) 96 n. 63 fr. 46 (Tereus) 1 n. 2 Anaxilas fr. 8 (Euandria) 309 n. 122 Anaximenes (?) Rhetorica ad Alexandrum (Fuhrmann) 1.17–19 204 1.22–3 168 n. 131 8.1 40, 47 n. 181 8.3–9 40–1 8.10 38, 40 8.14 40 15.6 204 32.3 40, 47 32.5 40 36.8 40 36.33 38, 40 Andocides On the Mysteries (Andoc. 1) 11 188 n. 36 17 132 n. 5 37–8 9–11, 26–7, 30 38–42 9 n. 2 46 26 95–102 19 n. 57 95 30 n. 108 106 17 n. 45 124–9 190 n. 40

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Index Locorum 129 57 n. 222 141 56 146 51 n. 207, 156 n. 87, 259 n. 130 148 56, 303 n. 112 On His Return (Andoc. 2) 26 17 n. 45, 133, 173 On the Peace (Andoc. 3) 3–12 266 3–9 58 n. 231, 133–4 3 19 n. 62, 191 n. 47, 268 n. 156 5 18 n. 52 6 268 n. 157 7 18 n. 52 28–31 58 n. 231 37–40 58 n. 231 Against Alcibiades ([Andoc.] 4) 11–12 17 n. 41 17–18 194 n. 56 20–1 194 n. 55 22 57 n. 222 33 19 n. 62 Anonymous Hypothesis 2 to D. 20 (Weil) 3–4 83 n. 12 Anthologia Palatina 6.330 238 n. 53 Antiphanes fr. 3 (Agroikoi) 23 n. 79 fr. 85 (Diplasioi) 23 n. 79 fr. 115 (Cithara-Player) 212 n. 100 fr. 288 309 n. 122 Apollodorus (orator) see Demosthenes Apsines (Patillon) Rhetoric 10.6 1 10.7 317 n. 141 Archippus fr. 48 56 n. 220 Aristides, Aelius Panathenaic Oration (Ael. Arist.1) 369 151 n. 69 On the Four (Ael. Arist. 3) 154 10 334–6 151 n. 69 650–1 151 n. 69 Concerning a Remark in Passing (Ael. Arist. 28) 84–7 51 n. 208 85 212 n. 100 Aristophanes Acharnians 61–141 241 n. 70

214 23 n. 84 530–4 22 n. 76 Birds 194 309 n. 122 Clouds 545–62 54 n. 213 551–9 54 n. 214 1187 22 n. 76 Frogs 679–85 258 n. 129 697–8 23 n. 84 1182 112 n. 117 1187 112 n. 117 1504 258 n. 129 1512 247 n. 94 1532–3 258 n. 129 Knights 83–4 23 n. 80 449 23 n. 77 507–50 54 n. 213 781–5 23 n. 84 781–2 34 810–19 23 n. 80, 110 n. 107 884–6 23 n. 80, 110 n. 107 1325 22 n. 76, 304 n. 114 1326 23 n. 82 1327–8 34 1331–4 11 n. 10 Lysistrata 285 11 n. 10 318 11 n. 10 616–25 23 n. 77 1093–4 194 n. 57 1124 12 n. 20 1125–7 12 1137–44 23 1149–56 23 n. 77 Peace 605–11 22 n. 76 762 238 n. 54 Thesmophoriazusae 796 238 n. 54 805 258 n. 129 Wasps 502 23 n. 77 566 50 n. 203 711 11 n. 10 895 51 n. 207 Wealth 121 238 n. 54 176 50 180 156 n. 90 494 238 n. 54 fr. 135 (Gēras) 23 n. 83 fr. 240 (Banqueters) 23 n. 83

383

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384 Aristophanes (cont.) fr. 325a (Heroes) 23 n. 83 fr. 429 (Holkades) 11 n. 10 fr. 950 [dub.] 238 n. 54 Aristotle Poetics 1451a4 296 n. 89 1451b11 51 n. 208 Politics 1252a19 244 n. 82 1323b7 296 n. 89 1327a1–2 296 n. 89 Rhetoric 1356b22–3 39 1357b29–30 38 1357b30–6 39 1364a19–23 87 n. 36, 90 1365a28–9 51 n. 208 1365a31–3 136 n. 29 1367b17–18 51 n. 208 1368a17–18 2 n. 6 1368a29–33 39 n. 145, 134 1374b25–7 96 n. 63 1375b31–4 42 1377a6 38 n. 142 1384b32–5 262 n. 140 1393a29 47 n. 181 1393a32–b4 38 1393b4–1394a1 39 1393b8–22 51 n. 204 1394a2–8 45, 134 1394a2 50 1394a6–7 39 1394a9–16 39 1394a22–3 51 n. 208 1396a12–13 10 1397a7–1402a28 40 n. 151 1397b30–4 51 n. 208 1398a4–7 51 n. 208, 87 n. 36 1398a17–22 51 n. 208, 62 1398a20–2 16 1399b2 91 n. 47 1400a32–6 87 n. 36 1402b13–14 39 n. 144 1403a6–10 38 1405a19–21 51 n. 208 1407a2–6 136 n. 29 1408a32–6 25 1408a33–4 30 1409a37 296 n. 89 1411ab 40 1411a2–4 136 n. 29 1411a4–6 95 n. 59 1411a5–6 87 n. 36 1411a6–11 87 n. 36 1411a10–11 11 n. 9

Index Locorum 1411a15–16 136 n. 29 1411a23–4 87 n. 36 1411a28–9 87 n. 36 1411b1–4 51 n. 208 1411b6–10 3 n. 13, 20–1 1411b7 17 n. 46 1414a12 296 n. 89 1418a1–2 39 n. 145 1419a2–5 136 n. 29 Topics 157a14–15 38 n. 142 Fragments (Rose) 611.1, p. 371.8–12 215 n. 109 [Aristotle] Athenian Constitution 23–8 55 27.3 155 n. 86 28 108 n. 100 28.3–4 259 n. 132 28.3 13, 259 n. 130 29.4 102 n. 79, 319 n. 154 34.1 258 n. 127 35.2 319 n. 152 35.3 101 n. 76 40.2 320 n. 156 42.4 302 n. 107 44.3 216 n. 113 67.3–5 226 n. 18 67.4 226 n. 14 Problems XVIII 916b26–35 33 n. 127 Arrian Anabasis 1.10.3–4 281 n. 33 Athenaeus 2.48de 241 n. 66 6.251ab 240 n. 61 6.251b 241 n. 66 6.253f 241 n. 66 13.577c 270 n. 161 Charax (FGrHist 103) F 19 175 n. 148 Cicero Epistulae ad Atticum 2.1.3 75 n. 306 in Catilinam 3.10 21 n. 69 de Oratore 3.213 284 n. 51 Cratinus fr. 1 (Archilochoi) 23 n. 81 fr. 160 (Panoptai) 23 n. 81 fr. 246 (Cheirones) 22 n. 76

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Index Locorum Demades (BNJ 227 and de Falco) BNJ T 30 1 n. 2, 3 n. 12 BNJ T 91 1 n. 2 BNJ T 95 1 n. 2, 3 n. 12 fr. XXII de Falco 51 n. 206 Demetrius On Style 270 299 n. 98 Demetrius of Phalerum (SOD) fr. 135A 309 n. 122 fr. 135B 309 n. 122 fr. 137 18 n. 51 fr. 156 333 Demochares (FGrHist 75) T 9 334 n. 29 Demosthenes First Olynthiac (D. 1) 5 143–4 8 173 n. 142 12 170 n. 135 15 170 n. 135 25–7 170 n. 135 Second Olynthiac (D. 2) 1–2 313 n. 132 17 160 n. 98 24 166 Third Olynthiac (D. 3) 1 170 n. 135 4–5 68 8–9 170 n. 135 10–12 158 10 159 15 338 n. 33 21–32 154–9 21 17 n. 41, 25 n. 90, 136, 155, 156–9, 193 n. 50 22 157 23 47 n. 178, 157 24 133 n. 16, 155, 157, 167, 207 n. 89, 266 n. 153 25–6 155, 156 26 17 n. 41, 155, 156, 157, 317 n. 143 27–8 155 27 279 n. 22, 321 n. 158 29–30 156 29 155, 156, 158, 193 30–2 155 First Philippic (D. 4) 1 142, 193 n. 50 3 28 n. 105, 148–9, 151, 159 4–5 142, 159 17 28, 29 n. 105, 148–9, 151, 173 n. 142 24 25 n. 90, 29 n. 105, 91 n. 47, 107 n. 96, 148–9 34–5 142

385

34 152 39–40 142 40–3 143 42 167 48 142 50 142 51 193 n. 50 On the Peace (D. 5) 4–10 145, 193 n. 50 4 145 5 68, 145, 172 6–8 145 9–10 145 10 29 n. 106 11–12 146, 153 25 51 n. 206 Second Philippic (D. 6) 6 146 6–12 164 11–12 163–5, 166 14 121 n. 146 17 168 n. 129 19–25 44, 134 20 134 25 51 27 165 29–30 78 n. 319 30 172 31 172 33 172 35 172 On Halonnesus ([D.] 7) 2 79 n. 325 12 133 23–9 246 24 133 39–40 133 45 258 n. 127 On the Chersonese (D. 8) 18 175 30 66 n. 267, 70 n. 286, 251 n. 103, 260 n. 135 36 175 40 144 n. 57 42 166–7 49 166 n. 125, 168 52 172 59 175 60 166 n. 125, 168 61 172 66 156 n. 89 67 150 73–5 39 n. 148, 139–40, 172–6, 177–8 73 333 74 28 n. 105, 175–6 75 174, 323

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386

Index Locorum

Demosthenes (cont.) 76–7 173 77 313 n. 132 Third Philippic (D. 9) 1 148 4–5 313 n. 132 5 148 20 149 21–46 149 23 149, 207 n. 89 24–5 166 25 67, 207 n. 89 30 167 31 151 33 245 n. 84 36–7 149–50, 151, 152, 313–14 39 150 40 150, 152 41–6 19 n. 60, 150–2 43 151, 152 47–52 146–8 47 146–7, 149, 164 48–9 147 48 147 50 147 57–68 175 59–62 170 66 144 n. 57 70 152, 314 72 1 n. 2, 70 n. 286, 170, 253 73 152, 165 Fourth Philippic (D. 10) 12 168 n. 129 14 166 n. 125 25 166 n. 125 49–50 150 n. 68 62 166 n. 125 68 156 n. 89 69 150 n. 68 70–4 77 n. 318 74 279 n. 22, 321 n. 158 Philip’s Letter ([D.] 12) 3–4 163 n. 114 6–7 163 n. 114 17 17 n. 45 20–3 163 n. 114 On Organization (D. 13) 10 116 n. 134, 172 n. 139 12–13 193 n. 50 12 333 13 313 n. 132 21–36 154–9 21–5 22 n. 74 21–2 309 n. 125, 315, 316 n. 137 21 11 n. 14, 47 n. 178

22 111 n. 113, 148 n. 66, 243 n. 79 26–7 266 n. 153 26 207 n. 89 28 18 nn. 51–2 29 17 n. 41, 19 n. 62, 155 n. 86, 309 n. 125 30 155 n. 85, 157 On the Symmories (D. 14) 1 33 n. 128, 140, 252 2 140 6 141, 166 8 141 12 40, 141, 152 24 141 29–30 160–3 29 40, 141, 160–3 30 162–3 33–4 160 39–40 162–3 39 160 n. 103, 162–3 40 162–3, 256 41 132 n. 11, 141 On the Liberty of the Rhodians (D. 15) 1 171 5 171 6–7 141 n. 46 6 141–2 7 145, 171 16 165 22–4 171–2 22 29 n. 105, 171 23 165 24 68, 170, 171 29 38 n. 142 33 170 35 14 n. 30, 33 n. 128, 141 n. 46 For the Megalopolitans (D. 16) 1–3 193 n. 50 4–5 121 n. 146 5 123 11–15 168–9, 177 11–12 169 13 168 14–15 168–9, 252–3, 326 n. 169 15 337 32 169 On the Treaty with Alexander ([D.] 17) 3 17 n. 45, 133 20 90 n. 45 30 133 On the Crown (D. 18) 1–5 300 n. 101 3–4 232 6–7 204 n. 80, 300, 305–6 6 300

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Index Locorum 7 300 8 300 n. 101 10 300 n. 101 18 325 20 254 48 144 n. 57, 151 n. 73 57 194 61 104 n. 88 62 325 n. 168 65–6 312 66 279, 308 68 13–14 75 66 n. 267 79 175 n. 148 83 277 n. 10 95 14 n. 30, 191 n. 44 96–9 27–8 98–100 168 n. 132, 325–6 99 28 n. 105, 65 n. 259, 174 n. 145 110 300 n. 101 111–19 48 n. 189 113 49 n. 190 120–2 302 127–8 286 n. 61 132–4 283 n. 44 134–6 43 n. 165, 283 n. 44 140–59 288, 293–4 140–4 293–4 141–2 294 143 78 n. 319, 294 149 35, 46 n. 173, 289, 293 150 290, 293 151 290 n. 69, 293, 298–9 159 104 n. 88, 294, 297 n. 95 160–3 294 162 246 n. 90, 260 n. 135 164–7 294 168 28 n. 105, 294 169–79 71, 279 n. 21, 294–301 169–73 276 169 294, 297 170 296, 297, 300 172 296–7, 300, 336 173 145 n. 61, 296, 300, 325 n. 168 174 298 176 298, 326, 327 179 298, 299, 320, 323, 327 180 51 n. 207, 57 n. 224, 299 188 298, 327 193–4 281 n. 34 197 277 199–211 306–11 199–208 286–7, 327 199 300 n. 101 203–5 306

387

203 279 n. 22, 306, 308 204 138 n. 37, 306, 309–10 205 310 206–8 306–7 206 308, 324–5 207 281 n. 34, 308 208 275 n. 2, 286 n. 61, 308–9, 311, 317 n. 141 209–10 312, 314, 320–1 209 14 n. 31, 279 n. 22, 320–1 210 321, 324–5 211 325 n. 168 213 43, 298 214 45 219–20 323 219 64 n. 256, 138, 178, 320 222–3 277 n. 10 222 280 n. 26 226 278, 301 228 24 230 306 238 161, 282 n. 41 243 285 246 138 248–50 285–6 248 49 n. 190 249–50 71, 280 249 280 n. 26 251 285 258 232 263–4 281 n. 35 265 280 n. 29 267 237 n. 49 271 281 n. 34 276 300 n. 101 281 300 n. 101 285–8 71, 324–5 285 280 286 300 n. 101 288 325 289 237 n. 49 295–6 281 n. 37 295 133 n. 18, 151 n. 73, 264 n. 142 299–300 286 n. 60, 326–7 299 49 n. 190, 327 300 281 n. 34, 325 n. 168 311 49 n. 190 314–20 14 n. 31, 312, 314, 321–3 316–19 56 n. 218 316 322, 323 317 322–3, 325 318–19 285 319 287, 296 n. 93, 322, 323 320 321 n. 158, 322 321 232, 279 n. 22, 300 n. 101, 325

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388

Index Locorum

Demosthenes (cont.) 322 245 n. 86, 280, 300 n. 101 324 327 On the False Embassy (D. 19) 1–178 225 2 182, 230 3 172 n. 139 10 142 n. 49 11 25 n. 94, 44, 68, 152, 263–4 14 223, 251, 254 15–16 223, 229, 245 n. 87, 249–55 16 153 n. 77, 232, 250, 253, 262, 272, 320–1, 326 18 243 n. 76, 297 20 44 31–3 242–3, 247 46 78 n. 319 57 227 64 239 n. 55 65 25 n. 90, 28 n. 105, 69, 253–4, 283–4 72 253 n. 108 74 253 n. 108 75 168 n. 132 84 239 n. 55, 286 n. 60 86 216 87 272 88–9 229 n. 30 110 246 113 142 n. 49 120 182, 226–7 n. 18, 230 124–6 237 n. 52 125 216 128 246 134–7 245, 246 135 248 136–7 248 136 244–5 137–8 248 137 243–7 138 246, 248 147 229 n. 30 153 239 n. 55 174–5 243 n. 80 175–7 261 n. 138 175–6 246 175 244 176–7 261 n. 138 179–343 225, 229 179–314 225 n. 12 182 229 n. 31, 285 n. 56 188 229 n. 30, 247 188–91 229 n. 29, 247–8 190 247 191 241 n. 68, 247

192–8 285 n. 58 193–5 229 n. 29 196–8 225, 229 n. 29 196 15 n. 37 197–8 261 n. 138 200 228, 230 204 272 206 193 223 239 226 297 n. 95 230 239 231 104 n. 89, 170 n. 136 233 230 234–5 229 n. 30 237–8 229 n. 29 239 204 n. 80 240 230 241–57 182, 220, 228–9, 230, 231, 238 241 183, 231 242–3 229 n. 29, 230 242 77 243–5 208, 237 n. 49 243–4 229 n. 29 243 57 n. 224, 202 245 202 246–7 57 n. 224 247 25 n. 92, 237 n. 49, 325 n. 167 251–7 207–8, 233–9 251–5 207, 291 n. 72 251 191 n. 44, 207, 233 252 175–6, 206, 234–6 253–4 229 n. 29, 236 n. 47, 263 253 134 n. 20, 235–6, 246–7 254 236–7 255 216 n. 113, 236–8, 237 n. 49 257 180 n. 6, 238 258 223 n. 2 259 170 n. 136 264 29 n. 105 265–7 144 n. 57 265 248 269–72 150, 151 n. 69, 254 269 47 n. 178 271–2 19 n. 60, 305 271 239 n. 55 273–5 239–40 273 29 n. 105, 240, 243, 254–5 276 29 n. 105, 46 n. 175, 240 277–80 239–40, 266 n. 152 280 15 n. 37, 17 n. 45, 240 283–7 182, 220 n. 121, 231, 238–9 284 180 n. 6 285 208, 239 286 210, 238 287 208, 229 n. 29

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Index Locorum 289–301 228 290–1 66, 182 n. 14 290 220 n. 121 291 66, 69, 87 n. 34, 154 n. 82, 175, 235, 246, 260 n. 135 292 68 n. 281 294–5 272 297 20 n. 67, 64 n. 256, 237 n. 49 302 142 n. 49 303 11 n. 9, 25 n. 94, 44, 68, 138 n. 37, 152–3, 232, 250, 263–4, 309 n. 125 304 68 n. 281, 239 n. 55 305 153 307–13 229, 232, 250, 252, 254 307 250, 254 308 254 311 152, 250, 254 312–13 250 312 250 314 244 n. 83 320 163 n. 117 324 163 n. 117 331 70, 160 n. 98, 223 n. 1, 253 n. 108 332–5 229 n. 29 332–3 260 n. 135 332 229 n. 31, 285 n. 56 341 248 342 144 n. 57, 248 Against Leptines (D. 20) 1 83, 106 2 83 n. 10 10 116 11–12 15 n. 37, 94, 95–6, 97, 126 11 243 n. 79 14 95 n. 59, 99 18 17 n. 45, 62 n. 244, 94, 99 21–3 115 26 25 n. 92 29 17 n. 45, 62 n. 244, 94, 99 31 25 n. 92 41–7 97–8 41 98 42 15 n. 37, 94, 97 43–5 97, 98 47 29 n. 105, 119 48 15 n. 37, 94, 98 49–50 101–2, 104, 118 51–4 95 51 83 n. 10, 87, 92, 97–8, 227 52–3 28, 107 52 106 n. 93 59–61 15 n. 37, 95 63 144 n. 53 64 82 67–74 90, 95, 106–11

389

68 18 n. 52, 106 n. 93, 107, 110 69 109 70 11 n. 14, 17 n. 45, 18 n. 49, 88, 93–4, 95, 99, 110 72 18 n. 52 73–4 18 n. 52, 109–10, 138 n. 37, 309 n. 125 73 191 n. 44, 243 n. 79 75–87 89, 91, 95, 106–11 75 107 76 99 n. 73, 106, 109 77 28 n. 105, 106 n. 93, 109 79 111 82 108, 303 84–6 91 84 111 93–4 30 n. 108 100 83 102–3 99 102 119 104–5 228 n. 26 105–11 94, 95 105 94 109 96 n. 62, 160 n. 102 112 2 n. 9, 88, 315 n. 135 114 88, 122, 195 115 89, 188 n. 35 118 89, 147 125–30 99, 102 127–30 62 n. 244 127 17 n. 45, 94, 99 128 17 n. 45, 99 130–1 228 n. 26 130 102 131–3 120 133 91 n. 47, 120 137–8 86 137 83, 111, 246 n. 90 141 165 142 99, 105, 111 144 83 n. 12, 99 145–6 228 n. 26 146–7 89–90, 107, 110, 126, 331 n. 13 148–9 260 n. 137 148 87, 126 149 101, 126 150 95–6, 126 151 126, 196 157–62 94, 97, 99–102 157–8 99–100 159–60 17 n. 45 159 19 n. 57, 83 n. 10, 87, 92, 99, 100, 227 160–2 104 160 62 n. 244, 99, 100, 119

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390

Index Locorum

Demosthenes (cont.) 161–2 41, 100–2, 104, 118 165–7 127–9 165 57 n. 229, 129, 304 167 119, 128 Against Meidias (D. 21) 1 189 2 29 n. 105 8–12 188–9, 195 n. 59 10 188–9 11–12 188–9 11 204 n. 80 13 78 n. 319, 297 25 192 36–41 187 36 187 45–6 204 n. 80 62–3 194 64 28 n. 105, 90 n. 42, 281 n. 35 72 185 77 181 78–80 186 n. 24 80 65 n. 259 102–7 196 104–7 218 n. 116 108–13 91 n. 48 116 175 n. 149, 186 n. 24 127 193 132 25 n. 92 139 129 n. 159, 196 143–50 184–96 143 186, 189, 190, 191, 195, 243 n. 79 144 17 n. 45, 187, 189, 190, 243 n. 79 145–6 190, 195 145 188, 189, 191–2 146 188, 191 147 186, 188, 189, 194, 243 n. 79 148–50 186, 190 148 190, 191–2 150 191 153 191, 193 154 184, 260 n. 136 158 155 n. 85, 190 n. 42 161 28, 65 n. 259, 174 n. 145 165 196 n. 62 169–70 185 170 17 n. 45, 196 174 173 n. 142 175–83 195 188 57 n. 229, 304 189–90 192, 193–4 189 181, 193 190 193–4 191–2 74, 192 205–7 69 n. 284, 185

205–18 185 208–18 185 209–10 104 n. 89, 185, 191 218 246 n. 90 Against Androtion (D. 22) 2 125 11 204 n. 80 12–15 47 n. 177, 113 13 18 n. 51, 29 n. 105, 38 n. 142, 47 n. 176, 113 14 113 15 29 n. 105, 47 n. 176, 113 25–6 204 n. 80 30–2 119 36 125 37 125 50 103, 186 n. 24 52–3 15 n. 37, 29 n. 105, 103, 117, 186 n. 24 56 103, 186 n. 24 60 86 68 103, 186 n. 24 69–78 113–18 70 114 72 114–15 73 114, 117 75 116 76 18 nn. 51–2, 113, 116, 118 77 103, 116, 186 n. 24 Against Aristocrates (D. 23) 4 125, 193 5 85, 125, 126 18 92, 312–13 25–31 204 n. 80 31 17 51–2 204 n. 80 64–79 12 64 12 n. 19, 33 n. 127 65–79 122 65–6 57 65 45–6, 48 67 12 n. 19 74 57 92 83 n. 12 102 38 n. 142, 121 n. 146 109 338 n. 33 111 123 114 123 116–17 123 118 25 n. 92 127 123 129–36 111 129–33 91, 191 130 20, 85 n. 26, 112 132 112

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Index Locorum 136 112 141–3 103–4 146–7 85 167 85, 124 171–2 89 191 121 n. 146, 168 n. 132 196–214 120–4 196–201 22 n. 74, 154 n. 84 196–8 138 n. 37, 309 n. 125, 315 196 11 n. 14, 121, 123, 313, 316, 317 n. 143 197 121 198 111, 121, 148 n. 66, 316 201–6 125 201 122, 126, 313 202–3 91 n. 47 205 19 n. 62, 22 n. 73, 112, 124, 138 n. 37, 155 n. 86, 191, 240 n. 60, 268 n. 156, 309 n. 125, 317 n. 142 206 123 207–10 154 n. 84 207 138 n. 37, 309 n. 125 208 122, 156 n. 89 209 17 n. 41, 122 210 122, 123, 303 n. 112 215–20 120 Against Timocrates (D. 24) 1 172 n. 139 7 29 n. 106, 125 38 48 n. 184 44 48 n. 184 46 48 n. 184 57–8 15 n. 37 76 103 90 15 n. 37, 103, 118, 243 n. 77 91 25 n. 92 104 172 n. 139 106 48 n. 184, 195 n. 60 121–2 228 n. 26 124 156 n. 89, 193 126 103, 186 n. 24 128–9 117 134 50, 108 n. 97 135 15 n. 37, 64 n. 256 138–9 228 n. 26 138 28 n. 100 139–41 50 n. 203, 94 139 211 n. 96 140–1 243 n. 79 142 125 145 103, 186 n. 24 154 25 n. 90, 29 n. 105, 102 n. 79, 104, 105, 118, 319 n. 153 159 29 n. 106, 79 n. 328, 113 n. 120 160 103

391

164 15 n. 37 176–86 113–16 180 115 184 18 nn. 51–2, 116, 118 200 172 n. 139 206–9 104–5, 118, 191 209–10 228 n. 26 211 21 n. 72, 119 212–14 119–20 212 50 n. 203, 119–20, 243 n. 79 215–18 120 Against Aristogeiton I ([D.] 25) 98 18 n. 52 Against Aristogeiton II ([D.] 26) 6 17 n. 41, 22 n. 73 23 17 n. 44 Against Aphobus I (D. 27) 2 313 n. 131 Against Aphobus II (D. 28) 17 65 n. 259 Against Onetor I (D. 30) 37 41 n. 155 For Phormion (D. 36) 27 42 n. 158 62 128 n. 156 Against Nausimachus and Xenopeithes (D. 38) 28 128 n. 156 Against Boeotus II (D. 40) 25 13, 42 32 15 n. 37, 42 n. 158 46 42 n. 158 53–4 30 Against Phaenippus ([D.] 42) 1 42 n. 158 Against Macartatus ([D.] 43) 62 42 n. 158 67 42 n. 158 76 191 n. 45 Against Euergus and Mnesibulus ([D.] 47) 71 42 n. 158 Against Olympiodorus ([D.] 48) 55 313 n. 131 56 42 n. 158 Against Timotheus ([D.] 49) 66 90 n. 44 Against Polycles ([D.] 50) 46–52 64 n. 257 On the Trierarchic Crown (D. 51) 1 85 9 85 n. 26, 112 n. 117 19–21 85 Against Conon (D. 54) 44 128 n. 156

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392 Demosthenes (cont.) Against Eubulides (D. 57) 18 42 n. 158 31–2 42 n. 158 Against Theocrines ([D.] 58) 34 319 n. 153 37 42 n. 158 62 42 n. 158 66–7 103 n. 83 Against Neaera ([D.] 59) (Apollodorus) 4–8 158 21 77 n. 316 27 28 n. 103, 96 n. 62 33–4 156 n. 90 74–9 56 76 19 n. 60 94–106 11, 56 94 18 n. 52 115 57 n. 229, 304 Funeral Oration (D. 60) 1 26 n. 95 4–8 57 n. 223 4–5 165 n. 122, 190 n. 43 8 166 n. 123 9 46 10 57 n. 223, 281 n. 38 19–24 327 n. 172 19–21 281 n. 34 19 324 n. 163 20 324 n. 163 21 324 n. 163 27–31 19 n. 58, 57 n. 223 31 19 n. 58, 57 n. 222 35 324 n. 163 Prooemia (D. Pro.) 49/[50].2–3 51 n. 208 53.3 156 n. 89 Letters (D. Ep.) 1.3 330 n. 9 2.6 330 n. 9 2.10 145 n. 61 2.11 330 n. 9 2.18 331–3 2.20 73 n. 301, 313 n. 131, 330 n. 9, 332 2.24 330 n. 9 3.11 338 n. 33 3.13 338 n. 33 3.19–20 17 n. 41 3.19 191 n. 45 3.21–2 46 n. 175 3.27 330 n. 9 3.31 66, 260 n. 135 3.35–6 330 n. 11

Index Locorum 3.37 330 n. 9 3.44 330 n. 9 4.1 293 n. 82 Fragments (D. fr[r].) I.A.II.2 283 n. 47 Dinarchus Against Demosthenes (Din. 1) 7–9 75 n. 307 10 276 n. 8 12 71, 178 13–16 177–8 14–17 79 n. 328, 240 n. 60 14–16 317 n. 142 16 178 18–21 276 n. 8 25 11 n. 9, 18 30–3 293 n. 82 31–6 75 n. 307 37 17 n. 41, 18 n. 52 38 57 n. 228, 214 n. 108 39 285 n. 57 43 129–30 n. 161 61–3 75 n. 307 63 17 n. 45 69 156 n. 87 73 212 n. 100 75 111 n. 112 77 293 n. 82 81–2 334 n. 25 87 57 n. 222 91 139 n. 40 94 72 96 154 n. 82 99–104 75 n. 307 100 73 n. 299 101 3 n. 11 111 83 Against Aristogeiton (Din. 2) 13 18 n. 52 22–6 19 n. 60, 151 n. 69 Against Philocles (Din. 3) 17–18 178 n. 150 17 79 n. 328 Eisangelia Against Pytheas (Din. VI) fr. 11 18 n. 52 Diadikasia of the Phalerians (Din. XX) fr. 2 57 n. 222 Dio Chrysostom 31.128 129 n. 158 Diodorus Siculus 11.61 161 n. 108 13.22.4 47 n. 177 14.4.2 101 n. 76 14.5.5–7 103 n. 81

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Index Locorum 14.81.2 27 n. 100 14.91.2 148 n. 66 15.32.5 3 n. 13 15.33.4 3 n. 13, 17 n. 46 15.35.1 331 n. 13 15.44 52 n. 208 15.62.3 169 n. 133 15.63.2 28 n. 103 15.65.1 212 n. 100 16.7.2 173 n. 142 16.7.3–4 108 n. 98 16.8.2–3 144 n. 53 16.21.4 90 n. 43 16.53.2 144 n. 57 16.85.7 91 n. 49 16.88.1–2 281 n. 35 17.8.5–6 276 n. 8 17.15.1–5 281 n. 33 17.15.2 49–50 17.111.1–4 329 n. 1 18.8–9.4 329 n. 1 Diogenes Laertius 7.20 238 n. 54 Dionysius of Halicarnassus First Letter to Ammaeus 1.4 81 nn. 1–5, 140 n. 42, 141 n. 47, 142–3 nn. 50–1, 179 n. 1 1.10 79 n. 327, 133 n. 13, 142 n. 50, 145 n. 59, 146 n. 62, 163 n. 115, 166 n. 124, 224 n. 5 1.12 275 n. 2 Lysias 12 52 n. 208 Letter to Pompeius Geminus 3 135 n. 25 Thucydides 52–5 135 n. 25 Eupolis fr. 89 (Baptai) 54 n. 213, 54 n. 215 fr. 99 (Demes) 258 n. 129, 304 n. 114 fr. 106 (Demes) 309 n. 122, 317 fr. 126 (Demes) 23 n. 80 fr. 221 (Poleis) 23 n. 81 fr. 233 (Poleis) 22 n. 76 Euripides Hippolytus 337–43 32 Medea 395–7 317 Antigone (Kannicht) fr. 157 112 n. 117 Wise Melanippe (Kannicht) fr. 482 12 n. 20

393

Stheneboea (Kannicht) fr. 661 203 n. 76 Phoenix (Kannicht) fr. 812 203 n. 76 Eusebius Praeparatio Evangelica (Mras) 10.3.14–15 280 n. 26 10.3.17 41 n. 155 Gellius Noctes Atticae 3.13 20 n. 67 Harpocration Π 101 18 n. 51 Φ 16 50 n. 200 Hellenica Oxyrhynchia (McKechnie/Kern) 7.2 242 n. 71, 266–7 Hermippus fr. 75 11 n. 10 Hermogenes On the Method of Forcefulness (Rabe) 24 83 n. 10 On Types of Style (Rabe) 236–7 92 n. 50 291 276 n. 5 316 276 n. 5 320 276 n. 5 330 57 n. 225 403 47 n. 183 Herodotus 1.5.3 33 n. 125 1.60.3 338 n. 33 3.80.5 103 n. 85 4.36 48 n. 183 5.92 32 n. 122 6.92.3 317 n. 140 6.104.2 314 n. 133 6.108.1 11 n. 11 6.114 3 n. 14 6.126–31 190 n. 42 6.126.1 190 n. 42 7.49.1 162 n. 112 7.127 162 7.184.1 161 n. 107 8.41.1 331 n. 16 8.43–8 161 8.44 161 8.48 161 8.82 161 8.140–4 165 n. 120 9.5 310 n. 127 9.5.2 293 n. 83 9.26–8 33

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394

Index Locorum

Herodotus (cont.) 9.27.4–5 33 n. 125 9.27.5 11 n. 11 9.73–5 317 n. 140 Homer Iliad 9.312–13 209 n. 93 18.95–9 203 n. 76 18.324–9 203 n. 76 18.333–5 203 n. 76 23.77–91 203 n. 76 Odyssey 5.82–4 332 n. 18 Hyperides Against Philippides (Hyp. Phil.) 2–3 17 n. 45 Against Athenogenes (Hyp. Ath.) 31 332 33 332 n. 19 For Euxenippus (Hyp. Eux.) 1–2 64 n. 257 12 87 n. 34 26 313 n. 131 28 66 Against Demosthenes (Hyp. Dem.) 9 51 n. 207 17 156 n. 87, 276 n. 8 20–2 75 n. 307 31 72 Funeral Oration (Hyp. Epit.) 3 329 n. 4 6–16 329 n. 4 7 165 n. 122, 190 n. 43 24 329 n. 4 34–9 329 n. 4 39 17 n. 45 Delian Oration (Hyp. XIII) frr. 67–75 43 Against Demades (Hyp. XIV) fr. 76 144 n. 57 For the Sons of Lycurgus (Hyp. XXXI) fr. 118 4, 18 n. 52 Against Pasicles (Hyp. XLIII) fr. 137 156 n. 90 (Defence) Against Diondas (Hyp. Dion.) 1. 137r 6–7 71 n. 290 3. 136v 25–137v 5 325 n. 164 3–4. 137v 2–7 281 n. 34 9–10. 145r–144v 9–28 280 n. 32 9. 145r 10–11 280 n. 30 9. 145r 13–14 280 n. 30 9. 145r–144v 15–22 280 n. 30 9. 144v 20–2 280 12–13. 145v 7–17 282 n. 41 13. 145v–144r 12–31 306

13. 145v 12–17 161 n. 106 13. 144r 18 281 n. 38 16. 173v 20 306 18. 176v 2 281 n. 34 19. 176v 13–18 282 n. 39 21. 173r 28–175r 8 281 n. 37 Inscriptiones Graecae I3 61 213 n. 104 I3 125 98 I3 462–6 256 n. 113 I3 884 20 n. 63 II2 10 18, 318 n. 148, 320 n. 156 II2 41 214 n. 108 2 II 43 214 n. 108 II2 44 214 n. 108 II2 350 330 II2 1195(+) 281 n. 36 II2 1377 114 n. 122 II2 1622 90 n. 45 II2 1623 90 n. 45 II2 1656–7 109 n. 105 II3 1, 298 129 n. 160 II3 1, 306 52 II3 1, 316 158 n. 94 II3 1, 348 52 n. 209 II3 1, 349 52 n. 209 II3 1, 355 52 n. 209 II3 1, 360 52 n. 209 II3 1, 375 329 n. 1 IV2 1, 255 238 n. 53 Isaeus On the Estate of Menecles (Is. 2) 13 204 n. 80 On the Estate of Dicaeogenes (Is. 5) 46 17 n. 45 46–7 16 n. 40 On the Estate of Apollodorus (Is. 7) 45 128 n. 156 On the Estate of Ciron (Is. 8) 12 41 n. 155 46 128 n. 156 On the Estate of Hagnias (Is. 11) 36 128 n. 156 Isocrates To Demonicus (Isoc. 1) 9 46 n. 175 To Nicocles (Isoc. 2) 7 313 n. 131 48–9 47 n. 182 Nicocles (Isoc. 3) 5 313 n. 131 18 313 n. 131 Panegyricus (Isoc. 4) 8–9 37–8

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Index Locorum 54–5 43 73–4 45 n. 169 158–9 47 n. 182 158 34 n. 131, 46 n. 173 Philip (Isoc. 5) 14 313 n. 131 18 313 n. 131 58–61 188 n. 35 84 313 n. 131 99–105 162 n. 110 113 46 n. 175, 47 n. 178 129 137 n. 35 149 313 n. 131 Archidamus (Isoc. 6) 21 46 n. 175, 47 n. 176 24–5 45 n. 172 42 46 n. 175, 47 n. 178 67 313 n. 131 Areopagiticus (Isoc. 7) 8 313 n. 131 16 20 n. 64 32 313 n. 131 37–9 216 n. 113 50–1 216 n. 113 On the Peace (Isoc. 8) 2 64 n. 254 13 259 n. 132 37 256 n. 117 41 34, 333 n. 21 75 259 n. 132 82–3 302 n. 108 84 256 n. 114 124–8 108 n. 100 Euagoras (Isoc. 9) 11 313 n. 131 12 313 n. 131 13 313 n. 131 41 313 n. 131 56–7 18 n. 49, 94 66 46 n. 173 77 46 n. 175, 47 n. 178 78 142 n. 49 Encomium of Helen (Isoc. 10) 12 313 n. 131 Busiris (Isoc. 11) 5 188 n. 35 Panathenaicus (Isoc. 12) 17 76 n. 315 37 313 n. 131 92–4 32 n. 123 137 313 n. 131 153–4 213 n. 102 Against the Sophists (Isoc. 13) 15 313 n. 131 Plataicus (Isoc. 14)

4 313 n. 131 31–2 254 n. 109, 291 Antidosis (Isoc. 15) 62 14 n. 31 93 65 n. 260, 136 n. 30 101–39 174 n. 143 128 324 n. 163 149 313 n. 131 172 296 n. 89 178 313 n. 131 191 313 n. 131 230–6 108 n. 100 232 20 n. 64 253 313 n. 131 306 20 n. 64 313 24 n. 89 On the Team of Horses (Isoc. 16) 1–3 63–4 25–8 187 n. 30 26 20 n. 64 Trapeziticus (Isoc. 17) 53–4 41 n. 155 Against Lochites (Isoc. 20) 10 47 nn. 178–9 [Longinus] On Invention (Walz vol. 9) pp. 544.21–545.11 1 On the Sublime 10.7 276 n. 5 15.9 104 n. 89 16.2 309 n. 122 16.3 317 n. 141 16.4 309 34.2 44 n. 165 Lucian Rhetorum Praeceptor 18 33 n. 129 Zeus Tragoedus 32 3 n. 14 Lycurgus Against Leocrates (Lyc. 1) 17 21 n. 69 40 283 n. 47 42 282 n. 39, 331 n. 16 43–5 49 n. 191 47 306, 327 48 281 n. 34, 313 n. 131 49 327 51 10 61 17 n. 45 62 46 n. 175 66 18 n. 52 68–134 47–9 68–74 165 n. 121, 282 n. 39

395

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396

Index Locorum

Lycurgus (cont.) 68 36, 310 69 310, 332 n. 17 72 257 n. 124 80–2 282 n. 39 93 64 n. 257, 240 n. 60, 317 n. 142 95–7 50 n. 203 95 47 n. 176, 48 97 48 n. 184 98 47 n. 179 101 48 n. 184 104 282 n. 39 105–9 94 108–9 282 n. 39 110 48 n. 184 113 103 n. 83 115 48 n. 184 122–3 310 124–7 19 n. 57, 102 n. 79 128–30 47 n. 179, 94 128 211 n. 96 136–7 21 138 49 n. 191 150 18 n. 52, 49 n. 191, 303 n. 112 Against Aristogeiton (Lyc. II) fr. 1 18 n. 52 On His Administration (Lyc. V) fr. 6 281 n. 36 On the Priestess (Lyc. VI) fr. 3 48 n. 183 fr. 6 57 n. 222 fr. 17 48 n. 183 Against Cephisodotus on the Honours for Demades (Lyc. IX) fr. 2 4, 18 n. 51, 317–18 Eisangelia Against Lycophron (Lyc. X–XI) fr. 6 17 n. 45 fr. 10 50 n. 198 Against Lysicles (Lyc. XII) fr. 1 281 n. 35, 302 n. 109 fr. 3 282 n. 41 Against Menesaechmus (Lyc. XIV) fr. 5a–b 48 n. 183 Lysias On the Murder of Eratosthenes (Lys. 1) 31 204 n. 80 48 319 n. 152 Funeral Oration (Lys. 2) 2 26 n. 95 10 324 n. 163 11–16 166 n. 123 17–19 165 n. 122 20 11 n. 11, 281 n. 38 22–3 160 n. 103 22 166 n. 123

23 11 n. 11 60 160 n. 103 79 324 n. 163 Concerning the Sēkos (Lys. 7) 4 97 n. 67 Against Eratosthenes (Lys. 12) 6–23 103 n. 81 43 103 n. 83 100 303 n. 112 Against Agoratus (Lys. 13) 7–8 259 n. 133 12 259 n. 133 Against Alcibiades I (Lys. 14) 16–19 56 n. 221 23–40 56 n. 221 38 247 n. 94 42 188 n. 36 For Mantitheus (Lys. 16) 13 27 n. 100 On the Property of Aristophanes (Lys. 19) 19 136 n. 30 23 136 n. 30 48 259 n. 133 52 188 n. 35 Against Pancleon (Lys. 23) 5 260 n. 136 Against Euander (Lys. 26) 13–14 87 n. 36 Against Epicrates (Lys. 27) 3–6 242 n. 71 9–11 156 Against Nicomachus (Lys. 30) 2 319 n. 152 5 319 n. 152 9–16 319 n. 152 10 259 n. 133 12–13 259 n. 131 12 259 n. 133 Olympic Oration (Lys. 33) 6 14 n. 30 7 212 n. 100 Preserving the Ancestral Constitution (Lys. 34) 2 320 n. 157 Against Harmodius on the Honours for Iphicrates (Lys. XX) frr. 41a–9 17 n. 45 fr. 42 212 n. 100 fr. 44 15–16, 62 fr. 45 16 fr. 47 148 n. 66 Against Theozotides (Lys. LXIV) fr. 129 302 n. 108 Menander Aspis 230 22 n. 76, 304 n. 114

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Index Locorum Nepos Chabrias 1 3 n. 13, 17 n. 46 4 108 n. 98 Epaminondas 6.1–3 43 6.1 20 n. 67 Timotheus 2.3 17 n. 47, 18 n. 49 Pausanias 1.1.2 17 n. 43 1.3.2 17 n. 47, 18 n. 49 1.8.2–3 73 n. 301, 334 1.8.5 17 n. 45 1.15.3 3 n. 14, 11 n. 12 1.16.1 17 n. 44 1.18.3 17 1.22.6–7 17 n. 41 1.24.3 17 n. 47, 18 n. 49 1.24.7 17 n. 48 1.25.1 20 n. 63 1.27.1 117 n. 138 1.27.5 19 n. 59, 257 n. 119 1.28.2 20 n. 63 1.29.4–5 317 n. 140 1.29.6 20 n. 64 4.17.3 247 n. 94 8.27.2 264 n. 142 10.37.6–7 291 Philemon fr. 3 (Adelphoi) 22 n. 76 Philochorus (FGrHist 328) F 56a 154 n. 81 F 149a 240 n. 61 F 159 175 n. 148 F 161 175 n. 148 F 181 116–17 Philodemus Rhetoric (Sudhaus) p. 97, F VIII 24 n. 85 p. 219, Col. XIV.23–30 24 n. 85 Philostratus Lives of the Sophists 1.18 290 n. 70 Phoenicides fr. 2 (Misoumenē) 23 n. 82 Pindar Olympian 1 75–7 10 n. 8 Plato Critias 113b 42 n. 157 Gorgias 509a1–2 326 n. 171

515c–519a 21 n. 72 515e–516a 22 n. 73 516de 22 n. 73 526ab 21 n. 72, 304 n. 114 Menexenus 237bc 165 n. 122 239b 166 n. 123 240c–241c 11 n. 11, 281 n. 38, 314 n. 133 243c 324 n. 163 Phaedo 78c 244 n. 82 Statesman 288e 244 n. 82 Theaetetus 205c 244 n. 82 [Plato] Seventh Letter 324d 101 n. 76 Platon (Plato Comicus) fr. 61 (Cleophon) 258 n. 129 fr. 127 (Envoys) 241 n. 71 fr. 130 (Envoys) 241 n. 71 fr. 199 17 n. 43, 23 n. 80 fr. 207 22 n. 76 fr. 238 50 n. 200, 51 Pliny the Elder Natural History 34.74 20 n. 63 35.37 3 n. 14 Plutarch Life of Alcibiades 1.8 56 n. 220 16.5 194 nn. 55–6 16.7 17 n. 41 23.3–6 331 n. 15 Life of Aristides 6–7 304 n. 114 26.5 220 n. 123 Life of Artaxerxes 22.9–12 241 n. 66 22.9 243 n. 80 22.12 241 n. 68 Life of Cimon 7.4 315 n. 135 8.1–2 316–17 10.1–2 156 n. 86 12–13 161 n. 108 Life of Demosthenes 4.1 259 n. 130 5.1–5 28 n. 103, 64, 107 n. 97 5.7 41 n. 155 6.5 136 8.1–2 78 n. 321

397

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398

Index Locorum

Plutarch (cont.) 8.3–6 74 n. 303, 78 n. 321 8.3 135 n. 26 8.7 318 n. 146 9.1–2 43 n. 162 9.1 298 n. 97, 333–4 9.2 136 n. 30 9.2–3 135 9.3–4 137 n. 35 9.4 309 n. 122 9.5 309 n. 122 10.3–4 66 n. 272 11.4 75 12.3–6 179 n. 1 13.3 96 n. 63 14.2 333 15.3 83 15.5 70, 224 n. 3 18.2 333 n. 23 21.1–2 280 n. 32 23.4–5 51 24.2–3 72 n. 295, 275 n. 2, 278 n. 19 26.5 73 n. 301, 332 n. 18 27.3–8 329 n. 3 27.7 331 29.1 73 n. 301 29.4–30.6 330 n. 6 30.5 334 n. 26 Life of Nicias 6.1 220 n. 123 Life of Pelopidas 30.9–13 241 n. 66 30.12 241 n. 71 Life of Pericles 7.1 136 n. 30 7.7 136 n. 30 17.2 213 n. 104 18.1 108 n. 102 18.2–3 257 38.4 108 n. 101 Life of Phocion 5.6–9 66 n. 272 6.2 108 n. 98 9.8–9 78 n. 319 9.9 1 n. 2 17.2–3 49 n. 196 Life of Pyrrhus 14.1 335 Life of Solon 8.1–3 234 n. 42, 237 n. 51 11 291 Life of Themistocles 6.4 151 n. 69 22.3 17 n. 42 Moralia 186f–187b 51 n. 208 187b 16

193cd 43 n. 160 803e 66 n. 272 810f 43 n. 160 814c 33 [Plutarch] Life of Aeschines 840c 228 n. 22 840de 284 n. 51 Life of Demosthenes 844c 41 n. 155 844d 179 n. 1 844f 70 n. 286 845c 334 n. 25 845d 309 n. 122 846cd 1 n. 2, 329 n. 3 847d 334 n. 26 847d–f 335 n. 30 848c 74 n. 303 (851de) 335 n. 30 Life of Hyperides 848f 280 n. 26 850a 43 n. 165 Life of Lycurgus 843c 334 n. 26 843d 281 n. 35 (852e) 334 n. 26 Life of Lysias 835f–6a 320 n. 156 Polybius 18.14.1–4 264 n. 142 Polyeuctus of Sphettus fr. 1 1–4 fr. 2 280 n. 29 Rhetorica ad Alexandrum see Anaximenes (?) Scholia to Aelius Aristides (Dindorf vol. III) pp. 535–6 10 Scholia to Aeschines A. 1.64 (145 Dilts) 245 n. 88 A. 1.175 (353 Dilts) 76 n. 315 A. 3.51 (112 Dilts) 65 n. 259 A. 3.52 (113 Dilts) 81 n. 5 A. 3.85 (184 Dilts) 175 n. 148 A. 3.103 (222 Dilts) 175 n. 148 Scholia to Aristophanes (Koster et al.) Wealth 177 50 n. 200 Wealth 177a 50 n. 200 Scholia to Demosthenes D. 1.5 (40a, 41a Dilts) 144 n. 53 D. 3.28 (132b Dilts) 154 n. 82 D. 3.29 (136, 138, 139a–c, 140 Dilts) 154 n. 82

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Index Locorum D. 18.14 (48 Dilts) 283 n. 45 D. 18.151 (266 Dilts) 290 n. 69 D. 19.2 (17b Dilts) 220 n. 123 D. 19.72 (173 Dilts) 245 n. 85 D. 21.62 (200 Dilts) 17 n. 48 D. 21.147 (506 Dilts) 194 n. 56 D. 21.148 (515 Dilts) 186 n. 28 D. 21.158 (539 Dilts) 190 n. 42 D. 23.196 (104 Dilts) 120 n. 145 D. 24.134 (270 Dilts) 50 n. 199 Solon (West2) frr. 1–3 234 fr. 4 216 n. 113, 236–7 fr. 9 245 n. 84 fr. 12 244–5 fr. 13 245 n. 84 Sophocles Ajax 1142 292 n. 80 1150 292 n. 80 Oedipus Tyrannus 59–64 325 n. 167 Speusippus Letter to Philip (Natoli) 1 76 n. 315 4 37–8 5–8 45 9–10 37–8 10 46 n. 175 Suda Τ 591 241 n. 69 Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 48.45 318 n. 148 52.86 318 n. 148 Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum3 148 214 n. 108 296 52 n. 209 Telecleides fr. 25 (Prytaneis) 23 n. 80 Theognetus fr. 1 238 n. 54 Theon (Patillon) Progymnasmata 63.3–13 283 Theophrastus Characters 24 155 n. 85 26.3 192 n. 49 Theopompus (FGrHist 115) F 87 331 n. 15 F 89 156 n. 86 F F99–100 154 n. 82 F 135 156 n. 86

F 153 33–4, 250 F 154 33 F 166 66, 69, 145 n. 60, 164 n. 118, 235 F 230 264 n. 142 Thucydides 1.73.4 11 n. 11, 307 n. 121 1.74.1 161 n. 106 1.84.3 216 n. 113 1.90–2 109 1.100.1 161 n. 108 1.108.5 256–7 1.135–8 17 n. 43 1.138.3 138 n. 38 1.138.5 331 n. 15 2.13.4 117–18 2.35.1–2 26 n. 95 2.42.4 324 n. 163 2.60.5 296 n. 93 2.61.2 296 n. 93 2.65 259 n. 132 2.65.5 108 n. 102 2.65.10–13 108, 158 3.7.1 158 n. 94 3.36–40 13 n. 23 3.45.4 167 n. 128 3.53–9 32 n. 123 3.62.1–4 160 n. 101 3.64.1 160 n. 101 3.65.1 160 n. 101 3.82.1 167 n. 128 3.84.1 167 n. 128 4.10 158 n. 93 4.17.4 167 n. 128 4.21–2 13 n. 23 4.21.2 167 n. 128 4.27–8 13 n. 23 4.39 13 n. 23 4.61.5 167 n. 128 4.92.6–7 32 n. 123 4.95.3 32 n. 123 5.7 13 n. 23 5.16 13 n. 23 6.27–9 9 n. 1 6.28–9 188 n. 36 6.28.1–2 188 n. 36 6.53.1 188 n. 36 6.53.3 15 n. 35 6.54.1 14–15 n.35 6.60–1 188 n. 36 6.60.1 15 n. 35 7.10 330 n. 10 7.20 256 n. 114 7.49.4 160 n. 98 7.86.5 158 8.53.3 118 n. 140

399

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400 Thucydides (cont.) 8.67.2 102 n. 79, 319 n. 154 8.67.3 118 n. 140 Timaeus (FGrHist566) F35a–b 334 n. 29 Timocles fr.4 (Delos/Delios) 73 n. 298 fr.41 309 n. 122 Virgil Aeneid 2.34 293 n. 83 Xenarchus fr.4 (Pentathlos) 23 n. 78 Xenophon Agesilaus 2.8 258 n. 126 Cyropaedia 7.1.18 258 n. 126 8.2.26 258 n. 126 Hellenica 1.7.23 226 n. 18 1.7.35 259 n. 133 2.1.30–2 247 n. 94 2.2.3 297–8 2.2.4 298 n. 96 2.2.19–20 254 n. 109 2.3.12 101 n. 76

Index Locorum 2.3.21 103 n. 81 2.3.51–2 319 n. 152 3.5.1–2 151 n. 73, 267 n. 154 3.5.22 27 n. 100 4.5.11–18 148 n. 66 4.8.24 123 n. 150 5.2.12–13 144 n. 54 5.4.22 96 n. 63 6.2.39 51 n. 208 6.3 96 n. 63 6.3.2 95 n. 61, 96 n. 63 6.3.4–6 96 n. 63 6.3.6 32 n. 124 6.3.7–9 96 n. 63 6.3.10–17 96 n. 63 6.3.51 51 n. 208 6.4.3 293 n. 83 6.5.32 257 n. 123 6.5.33–52 28 n. 103 6.5.33–6 32 n. 124 6.5.46–7 31 7.1.12–14 96 n. 61 7.1.33–8 241 n. 66 7.1.34 160 n. 101 7.1.35 245 7.1.37 241 n. 67, 247 n. 92 7.1.38 241

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General Index Note: This General Index (which is an index primarily of persons, places, works, institutional features, and events) should be used in conjunction with the Index Locorum. Acamas 45 Acarnania, Acarnanians 158 n. 94 Achilles 32, 201–3, 209 n. 93 Acropolis, Athenian 17–18 nn. 47–9, 19, 20, 72, 157, 251, 256, 257, 268, 318 n. 147 Adeimantus 247–8 Aegina, Aeginetans 73 n. 301, 267, 318 n. 47 Aegospotami, battle of (405) 15, 113, 247, 256, 282 n. 39, 297 Aeschines Against Timarchus (A. 1) 21, 55, 57, 70, 76, 137, 177, 179–84, 197–221, 225, 230–9, 242, 259, 265, 268, 270, 283, 290–1, 293, 301, 303–4 On the Embassy (A. 2) 19, 44–6, 48, 61–2, 69, 74, 133–4, 157, 202, 219, 223–73, 279, 281, 287–9, 295, 300 n. 101, 312, 322–3 Against Ctesiphon (A. 3) 34–5, 44, 54–5, 72, 88, 111, 121–2, 150, 197–9, 217, 249, 259, 275–327, 339 as envoy to Arcadia in 348/7 44, 68, 152–3, 250, 263–4 as envoy to Pella in 346 see Philip II family and education 12, 24 n. 85, 255, 259–60, 265 n. 149, 312, 319 and fantasy scenarios 57–8, 183, 199–200, 339 as former actor 57–8, 74, 199, 202–3, 207 n. 86, 218, 236, 263, 294, 299, 301, 321 as former clerk 202–3, 312 military service of 213–14, 270, 288 and the Peace of Philocrates see Peace of Philocrates as pylagoros at Delphi in 340/39 34–6, 276, 283, 286, 288–301, 303–4 and Solon see Solon, and Aeschines voice of 202–3, 237 Aeschylus 3, 32, 161–2, 304 n. 113 Aesion 75 n. 310, 196 n. 62 Agatharchus (painter) 194 age-range, oratorical appeals to 14, 27–30, 47–8, 106–7, 109, 127, 260, 297–8

Agis III 276, 337 Aglaocreon 244 agōn timētos 227 Agora, Athenian monumental features 2, 13–14, 16–21, 23, 194 n. 157, 287, 311–12 space 2, 13–14, 16–21, 103, 186 n. 24, 226, 295, 297, 302 n. 109 statues see statues (honorific), in the Athenian Agora Agyrrhius 108 n. 97 Alcibiades son of Alcibiades 56, 63–4, 136, 187 n. 30, 333 Alcibiades son of Cleinias in Aristotle 51 n. 208 in Demosthenes 89, 112, 184–97, 203, 218, 305, 331, 336 in Eupolis, Demes (possibly) 258 n. 129 memory of 17 n. 41 see also Meidias; tyranny Alexander I of Macedon(ia) 163–5 Alexander III ‘the Great’ of Macedon(ia) 49, 51, 72, 133, 275–6, 280–1, 329–30, 334 amnesty, Athenian (403) 15, 18 n. 54 Amphictyonic League, Amphictyons 34, 43, 262–3, 276, 283, 288–98 Amphipolis, Amphipolitans 44–5, 69, 133, 143–4, 163–4, 234–6, 243, 245–8, 261–5 Amphissa, Amphissaeans 34, 276, 289–93, 297 Amyntas III of Macedon(ia) 134 n. 20, 144, 262, 265 anakrisis 285 Anaximenes (?) see Rhetorica ad Alexandrum Andocides On the Mysteries (Andoc. 1) 7, 9–13, 26–7, 30 On His Return (Andoc. 2) 133, 173 On the Peace (Andoc. 3) 58, 133–4, 157, 240, 266–7 Androtion as historian 52, 87, 114

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402

General Index

Androtion (cont.) as politician and litigant 84–6, 102–3, 113–19, 125–6, 129, 198, 267 see also Demosthenes (D. 22 and 24) Anthemocritus 163 n. 114 Anthemus 134 Antipater (Macedonian) 329–30, 334–5 Antipater of Magnesia 37, 45 n. 172, 163 n. 114 apogonoi 191 Apollo 34, 48 n. 183, 288; see also Delphi; Sacred Plain Apollodorus son of Pasion Against Neaera ([D.] 59) 11, 24 n. 85, 56, 108 n. 100, 304 in general 63, 85 n. 26, 135 n. 24, 158 Apsephion 82 Arcadia, Arcadians 44, 68, 152, 168–9, 263–4, 329; see also Megalopolis; Tegea Archinus 318 n. 148, 320 Areopagus Council 45, 72, 73, 99–100, 210–14, 216 Argos, Argives 31, 134, 163, 165, 171 Aristides 17 n. 41, 21–3, 89, 155–7, 205, 303–11, 315, 319 Aristides, Aelius 10 Aristocrates 104, 120, 122–6; see also Demosthenes (D. 23) Aristogeiton (tyrannicide) see Harmodius Aristonicus 277 Aristophanes Acharnians 241–2 Knights 13, 34, 47, 110 n. 107 Lysistrata 12 Wasps 13, 155 Wealth 50 in general 22, 23, 54, 219 n. 119 Aristophon leadership role 66, 70, 87, 96, 323 long life 30 n. 108, 66, 87, 101, 107, 245, 260 and his mistress Choregis 270 n. 161 in the Peace debate in 346 69, 145 n. 60, 164 n. 118, 235, 245–6, 251–2, 260 prosecuted by Hyperides 67, 251 n. 102 prosecutor 66, 90, 108, 111, 182 n. 14, 260 n. 135 rivalry with Eubulus 66, 86, 182 n. 14, 246 as syndikos in D. 20 86, 101, 107–8, 126 Aristotle on Athenian orators in the Rhetoric 15, 20–1, 39 n. 147, 51, 87, 90, 95, 136–7 on fables (logoi) 50–1 on the ‘Horse and the Girl’ 215

on paradeigmata 38–41, 45, 47, 60, 134 on praising Athens 2 n. 6, 10 on Pythian victors 291 on topoi of oratorical argument 25, 30 [Aristotle], Athenian Constitution 13, 55 Arrian 281 Artaxerxes II 134 n. 20, 241–8 Artaxerxes III 159–63 Artemisium, battle of (480) 117, 161 n. 106, 251, 256, 306–7, 314 n. 133; see also Marathon; Persian Wars; Plataea; Salamis Arthmius of Zelea 19, 150–2, 254, 304–5, 307, 319 Assembly, Athenian environment 26–8, 43, 64, 74–8, 125, 131–4, 158; see also Pnyx speeches by Demosthenes 58, 63–71, 74–8, 102, 121, 131–78, 181–2, 189, 192–7, 244 n. 83, 248–9, 279, 294–301, 309 n. 122, 313–14, 327, 335–6; see also Demosthenes (D. 1–16) speeches by others 1 n. 2, 22, 44–5, 49–51, 69, 114, 129, 131–5, 139, 150, 152–3, 205, 214–16, 235–6, 242–3, 246, 263–4, 287, 294, 300, 316–17, 330; see also Andocides (Andoc. 3); [Demosthenes] ([D.] 7, 17); Peace of Philocrates, Assembly debate on the uses of the past in, in general 31, 37, 39, 43, 63–4, 69, 133–5, 166, 252–3, 266 ateleia(i) 84–102, 105–11, 115–16, 120, 126, 129, 312 Athene 19, 117 Athenian League, Second 65, 214 Athens, Athenians as autochthonous 165, 190 as champions of the oppressed 139, 165–9, 177, 262 as (non-)imperialistic see imperialism, Athenian as intelligent 165, 337–8 as unchanging (a sample) 58, 113, 130, 139, 153–4, 169, 176–7, 197, 232, 255, 279, 308–9, 327, 337 as unique 165–9 atimia 220 Atrometus 12, 255, 259–60, 308, 312, 319 Attica, land of 4, 13, 18, 23, 142, 162, 216, 303 n. 112, 326–7 Autolycus 214, 281 n. 35 ‘balance of power’ principle 110, 121 n. 146, 123 n. 151 Bathippus 82

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General Index bēma (platform) in the Assembly 128–9, 141 n. 45, 209, 214, 258, 291, 296, 308 in court 303, 339 Boeotia, Boeotians 3, 27, 306, 320; see also Chaeronea; Delium; Haliartus; Plataea, Plataeans; Thebes, Thebans Bosporan Kingdom 83, 129 Boule, Athenian as audience and collective 27, 30, 39, 125 conferring and receiving honours 52, 84, 242–3 speeches and reports in 65, 231, 242–3, 297 bouleutēs, bouleutai 14 n. 30, 52, 68, 125, 218; see also Demosthenes, as bouleutēs bribery by Macedonians, of envoys 223, 236, 240, 246, 254, 273 by Macedonians, of politicians 149–52 by Persians, of envoys 241 n. 68, 247 by Persians, of politicians 19, 149–52, 266–7, 276, 293 n. 83, 303–5 Byzantium, Byzantians/ines 71, 178, 214 n. 108, 288 Calauria 73, 330 Callias ‘II’ (fifth century) 18, 232, 239–40, 242, 254, 334; see also Peace of Callias Callias ‘III’ (fourth century) 13, 32 n. 124, 96 n. 63 Callimedon 51 n. 207 Callistratus activities and statesmanship 20, 43 n. 160, 90, 96 nn. 62–3, 266, 317 n. 142, 323 in/and Demosthenes 28 n. 103, 64, 107–8 n. 97, 138, 323 Cephalus 267, 285–6 Cephisodotus (general) 85, 87, 89, 124 Cephisodotus of Cerameis 86, 87, 95–6, 126 Cersobleptes 68, 69 Chabrias death of 66, 108 in Demosthenes and Aeschines 47, 83, 89–92, 95, 105-11, 115, 120–1, 148, 315–16 family of 83, 106; see also Ctesippus house(s) of 156 and Leodamas 89–90, 107–8, 126, 331 n. 13

403

statue 2, 3, 17, 20–1, 64, 106, 110–11 see also Conon; Iphicrates; Naxos, battle of; Timotheus Chaeronea, battle of (338) Acarnanians honoured after 158 n. 94 as an Athenian defeat 27–8, 71, 276, 281, 282 n. 41, 302–3, 319–20 Demades at 1, 4 Demosthenes immediately before 298 Demosthenes after 48–9, 71, 74–5, 276–7, 279–80, 286–8, 320–1, 324–5, 331 n. 16 as a Macedonian victory 2, 4, 71, 276 and the Persian Wars 29, 53, 93, 161 n. 106, 281–2, 295, 302–3, 309–12, 326–7, 332 Theban response to 160 see also Marathon; Salamis; Thermopylae Chalcidic League, Chalcidice 68, 334 Chalcis 66, 214 n. 108; see also Euboea, Euboeans Chares 66, 90, 111, 251 n. 103, 260 n. 135 Charidemus 67–8, 84, 92, 103–4, 111–12, 120, 122–3, 126, 312–13 Chersonese 67–8, 70, 133, 268; see also Demosthenes (D. 8) Chios 66, 91 chorēgos, chorēgia 179–80, 186, 194, 196, 297 Cicero 21 n. 69, 75 n. 306, 175 n. 147, 335 Cimon leadership and reputation 2, 124, 185 n. 21, 191, 268, 315 n. 135, 317 n. 142 and Miltiades 19–20, 22 n. 73, 23, 155–6 n. 86, 191, 268, 314–16 and Stoa Poikile 19–20, 316 see also Miltiades; Plato, Gorgias Cineas 76 n. 315, 335 Cirrha, Cirrhaeans 34, 288–91, 296 n. 90 Cleisthenes (of Athens) 20 Cleisthenes of Sicyon 190 n. 42 Cleon 13, 34, 42, 110 n. 107, 167 Cleophon style and profile 42, 51 n. 207, 156 n. 87, 256, 258–9 used by Aeschines 54–5, 137, 232, 258–9, 267, 269, 272, 335 Cnidus, battle of (394) 107, 109, 115 Cnosion 270 coinage metaphors 119–20, 128 Colosimmus 290 n. 69 comedy dynamics 25, 51, 53–4, 219 n. 119, 309 language of, in Demosthenes 238 and the past 11–12, 17, 22–3, 32, 34, 304

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404

General Index

comedy (cont.) and politicians 50–1, 110, 258, 270 n. 161, 304, 317 and politics 55, 84, 122, 194 n. 57, 199, 241–3 see also Aristophanes; Eupolis; Platon Conon in Demosthenes 90–5, 99, 107–11, 115, 121, 247–8 in Dinarchus 111, 178 statue of 2, 10, 11, 17–18, 20–1, 88, 90–1, 107 and Timotheus 17–18, 90–1, 110–11 victor over Sparta 93, 107, 110, 115 and the walls 108–10 see also Chabrias; Iphicrates; Timotheus Corinth, Corinthians 28, 107 Corinth, League of 71, 276 Coronea, battle of (447) 257 Cottyphus 290, 294 Cotys 112, 123 Council (of Five Hundred) see Boule Cragalidae see Cirrha, Cirrhaeans Crannon, battle of (322) 329 Cresilas (sculptor) 20 Crisa, Crisaeans see Cirrha, Cirrhaeans Critias 42, 76–7, 103, 118 Crocus Plain, battle of the (352) 67, 81 n. 4, 170 crown(s), honorific for Athens 113–18 for Bosporan royals 129 for the Boule 84 from the Boule 52 for Demosthenes 71–2, 193, 275–327 gold versus olive 122 n. 47, 318 for the ‘men of Phyle’ 315, 318 for Miltiades 316–18 for Pericles 121, 318 proclamation of 302–3 see also Aeschines (A. 3); Demosthenes (D. 18) Ctesiphon his decree for Demosthenes 72, 276–8, 295, 302, 319 as defendant in general 44, 276–8, 292, 303–4, 307, 311, 320, 324 see also Aeschines (A. 3); Demosthenes (D. 18) Ctesippus 83, 89 Cyn(a)egeirus 3–4 Cyrsilus 29, 306, 309–10 Darius I 32, 162 n. 112 Datis 117 n. 138, 162

Decelea 42 n. 158, 117, 256, 316 ‘decrees’, false 10–11, 18, 89, 152, 331 n. 16 Deinias 86, 126, 196 Delian League 2, 161, 243, 305 Delium, battle of (424) 32 n. 123, 282 n. 41 Delos, Delians 43–4, 144 n. 57, 283 n. 44 Delphi 34, 36, 190, 276, 283, 286, 288–301, 304; see also Amphictyonic League Demades 1–4, 9–10, 51, 73, 121, 277, 280–1, 317–18, 330; see also Lycurgus (Lyc. IX) Demetrius of Phalerum 137 n. 35, 333 Demochares 75, 136, 333–5 Demomeles 277 Demophantus, stele of 18–19, 92–3, 100, 102 n. 79 Demosthenes (general) 136, 157–8 Demosthenes (orator) Olynthiacs (D. 1, 2, and 3) 68, 143, 146, 148, 158 n. 96, 170 First Olynthiac (D. 1) 143–4 Second Olynthiac (D. 2) 160 n. 98, 166 Third Olynthiac (D. 3) 80, 120–3, 134, 136, 153–9, 167, 193, 199 First Philippic (D. 4) 28, 67–8, 107 n. 96, 142–3, 145, 148–9, 151–2, 159–60, 167 On the Peace (D. 5) 69, 145–6, 151, 153, 171, 172, 182, 193 Second Philippic (D. 6) 44, 51, 134, 146, 151, 163–6, 172, 182 On the Chersonese (D. 8) 70, 134, 139–40, 150, 151, 166–78, 333 Third Philippic (D. 9) 1 n. 2, 70–1, 132 n. 9, 134, 146–53, 154, 166–7, 170, 174–5, 230, 305, 313–14 Fourth Philippic (D. 10) 70–1, 79, 131, 166 n. 125 On Organization (D. 13) 67, 79–80, 111 n. 113, 116 n. 134, 154–7, 315, 333 On the Symmories (D. 14) 40, 67, 131, 140–2, 145, 152, 160–4, 171, 252 On the Liberty of the Rhodians (D. 15) 67–8, 141–2, 145, 170–2 For the Megalopolitans (D. 16) 67, 121, 123 n. 151, 168–70, 177, 252–3 On the Crown (D. 18) 13, 27–9, 48–9, 59, 71–2, 135, 138, 142, 149, 161, 178, 225, 232, 248–9, 275–327, 330–3, 336–7 On the False Embassy (D. 19) 55, 77, 150, 175, 180–3, 197, 202, 207–8, 217–21, 223–73, 283, 287, 297, 336–7 Against Leptines (D. 20) 28, 41, 47, 65, 81–112, 115, 119–30, 131, 133–4, 141, 147, 149, 154, 181, 185, 195–6, 199, 218, 227, 247, 303–4, 312, 335

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General Index Against Meidias (D. 21) 69, 74, 179–200, 217–18, 297, 304, 336 Against Androtion (D. 22) 65, 81–2, 84–7, 102–3, 113–20, 124–5, 186 n. 24, 227, 267 Against Aristocrates (D. 23) 12, 20, 45–6, 57, 65, 67, 80–92, 103–4, 111–12, 120–6, 154–6, 162, 167–8, 180 n. 9, 191–3, 312–13, 315–16 Against Timocrates (D. 24) 35, 65, 81–94, 102–5, 107–8 n. 97, 113–20, 124–6, 185–6, 191, 193, 204, 267 Against Boeotus II (D. 40) 13, 30 On the Trierarchic Crown (D. 51) 65, 85, 112 n. 117, 181–2 Funeral Oration (D. 60) 46, 57, 281–2, 287 Prooemia/Prooimia (D. Pro.) 41, 77 Letters (D. Ep.) 73, 75 n. 311, 142, 330–3 as bouleutēs 68, 130, 145, 181, 192, 218, 297 death 330 ‘desertion’ at Chaeronea in 338 4 n. 15, 279, 288, 314–15, 319 as envoy to Pella in 346 see Philip II as envoy to Thebes in 339 see Thebes, alliance with Athens as evil spirit or jinx 292–3 exile (self-imposed) 73, 329–32 and foresight 58, 105, 135, 138–9, 142–6, 172, 176–7, 238–9, 242, 270, 309 funeral oration, election to give (338/7) 71, 302, 324-5 and the murder of Nicodemus 196, 217–18 ‘nightmare scenarios’ 104–5, 170 at Olympia in 324 72, 333–4 and optimism 123, 139, 152, 164–5, 171, 174–5, 189, 195, 248–9, 313–14, 323–4, 327, 336–7 and ‘outsider’ rhetoric 65, 153, 181–2, 193 and the ‘paradoxical argument’ 286–7, 306–11, 327 and the Peace of Philocrates see Peace of Philocrates performance style of 136–8, 258, 298, 309 n. 122, 333–4 and Pericles see Pericles, as model for Demosthenes private speeches 42, 128 prose rhythm 114–15, 143 as ‘Scythian’ 258–60, 269 and Solon see Solon, in Demosthenes statue of 334 as ‘sword-maker’ 258 as teichopoios 48–9, 277

405

attitude to Thebes 43, 96 n. 62, 160, 260 n. 135, 292, 298–9, 325 n. 167, 333–4 as trierarch or syntrierarch 28, 64–5, 85, 174–5, 325 as unique 141–2, 145, 282, 310, 330 and wall imagery 286 n. 60, 326–7 and writing see speeches, revision of [Demosthenes] On Halonnesus ([D.] 7) 79, 133, 246; see also Hegesippus Philip’s Letter ([D.] 12) 79, 163 n. 114 On the Treaty with Alexander ([D.] 17) 79, 133 Dercylus 261 diatypōsis 301 Dinarchus 57, 63, 73, 83, 111, 177–8, 293 Diocleides 9–10, 26–7, 30 Diocles 194 Diodorus (speaker of D. 22 and 24) 65, 81, 84–7, 93–4, 102–5, 113–25, 129–30, 198, 335; see also Demosthenes (D. 22, 24) Diodorus Siculus 49, 90 n. 43, 144 n. 53, 281 n. 35 Dion 101 Diondas 280; see also Hyperides (Hyp. Dion.) Dionysia festival 69, 180, 302 Dionysius I of Syracuse 101 Dionysius II of Syracuse 101 Diopeithes 70, 251 n. 103 Diophantus 65–6, 86 dockyards, Athenian 4 n. 19, 18 n. 52; see also ship sheds dokimasia (tōn) rhētorōn 180, 197, 200, 201, 205, 208–9, 214, 218 Dracon 17, 23, 42 n. 158, 99–100, 119, 204 eidōlopoiia see prosōpopoiia eisangelia 64, 111, 223 eisphora 69, 86, 103, 117 ekklēsia see Assembly Elatea 276, 294–5, 300, 325; see also Demosthenes (D. 18.169–79) ‘Embata trials’ (356/5?) 66, 90–1, 112, 174, 260 n. 135 Empire, Athenian see imperialism, Athenian enargeia 53, 114, 127, 199, 253, 283, 301, 303, 312 Epaminondas 43 n. 160, 212, 215, 256, 257 ephēbeia, ephebes 13, 152–3 Epicerdes 97–8, 102, 105, 119 Epicrates 156, 232, 239–42, 266–7 Epidaurus, Epidaurians 237–8

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406

General Index

epideictic oratory 39, 43, 109; see also funeral oration(s) epitaphios logos see funeral oration(s) Epizephyrian Locri 94, 211 n. 96 Eponymous Heroes 19, 23 Erechtheum 50, 117 n. 138 Eretria, Eretrians 175, 253 n. 106; see also Euboea, Euboeans Euagoras 18 n. 49 Euboea, Euboeans Athenian relations with 43, 252–3, 268, 318 n. 147, 325–6 and Athens in 357 28, 113, 115, 149, 168–76 and Athens in 348 68, 145, 196, 213, 288 and Athens in 341 71, 175, 178, 326 see also Chalcis; Eretria; Oreus Eubulus and Aeschines 70, 227–8 and Aristophon 66, 86 n. 28, 246 n. 90 and Demosthenes 67, 154, 158, 185, 192, 196, 247–8 in the Peace debate in 346 66, 69, 175, 235, 246 policies 56 n. 219, 65–6, 68–9, 82, 86, 114 refusing to help allies in court 220 n. 121 and the Theoric Fund 154, 158 Eucampidas 264 n. 142 Eucrates, Law of 18 n. 53, 71–2 Euctemon (Diodorus’ associate) 84, 196 n. 62 Euctemon son of Aesion 196 n. 62 eukosmia 204, 216, 233, 238, 239, 287–8, 300 eunoia 300, 306, 321 n. 158, 330 n. 9 Eunomus 136 Euphraeus 170, 174, 230 Eupolis 22–3, 54, 258 n. 129, 304 n. 114, 309 n. 122, 317 Euripides 12 n. 20, 32, 42, 48, 202, 219 n. 119, 317 Eurydice 231, 264–5 Eurymedon River, battle of (460s) 161, 257 Euthycles 12 n. 19, 20, 45, 65, 81, 84–6, 89, 103–4, 111–12, 119–26, 130, 155, 193, 312–13, 316, 335 Euthycrates and Lasthenes 144 n. 57, 248 euthyna(i) 44, 180, 220 n. 123 evacuation of Athens (480) 10–11, 29, 36, 113, 164–5, 306, 309–10, 331–2 Exiles Decree, Alexander’s 72 fable(s) 38–9; 50–1; 292 n. 80; see also muthos, muthoi festival laws 188, 195 festival liturgies 102

fiction(s), oratorical 26–31, 56 ‘First Peloponnesian War’ 267 fortune 281–2, 307, 315, 324, 326 Four Hundred, the (oligarchs) 15, 18, 93–4, 97–8, 101–2, 319; see also oligarchs, oligarchy; Thirty, the funeral oration(s) common topoi 31, 47, 160, 165–6, 190, 252 conception and handling of the past in 25–6, 31, 43, 46, 58 n. 233, 153–4, 309, 327 ‘official’ versions of the past in 15, 25–6, 31, 43, 62–3, 255 n. 111 see also Demosthenes (D. 60); Hyperides (Hyp. Epit.) Gelarchus 126 Gerousia 211, 214, 215 Glaucetes 117 graphē nomon mē epitēdeion theinai 83, 84, 120, 278, 312 graphē paranomōn procedure 84, 88, 158, 278, 285, 312, 317 shut down by oligarchs 102 n. 79, 319–20 Gytheum 256–7 Haliartus expedition (395) 27–8, 58, 149 handbooks, rhetorical 41 Harmodius (tyrannicide) in Aeschines 201–2, 215 in comedy 23 and the Demophantus stele 19 in Demosthenes 93–4, 99–103, 110, 185, 196 in oratory in general 2, 15–17, 62 sitēsis for descendants of 82 statues of 2 see also tyrannicide Harmodius (descendant) 15–16, 62, 148, 190 n. 41 Harpalus 31, 72 ‘Harpalus trials’ 73, 75, 86 n. 30, 177–8, 227, 276 n. 8, 329 Harpocration 18 n. 51, 50 Hecatompedon see Parthenon Hegesander 180, 198 Hegesippus as envoy to Philip in 343 70, 223, 234, 253 n. 108 oratorical activities and style 51 n. 207, 180, 198, 258 n. 127, 292 politics 67, 69–70, 145 n. 60, 216, 245, 251, 253 possible author of [D.] 7 79

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General Index Hellenica Oxyrhynchia 266–7 Heraion Teichos 67–8, 170 Hermocopidae 194 n. 57 Herms destroyed in 415 9, 30, 188, 194 ‘Eion’ Herms 2, 88, 312, 315–16 Herodotus 32–3, 37, 110 n. 108, 161, 310 Hesiod 42, 202, 203 n. 76 Hieronymus 263–4 Hipparchus (tyrant) 93; see also Peisistratids Hippias 22–3; see also Peisistratids Hippomenes 215 Homer, Iliad 32, 35 n. 133, 42, 201–3 house(s) invasion of 103, 117, 186 n. 24 size of 122, 155–6, 190 n. 42 Hyacinthidae, Hyacinthus 49–50 hybris 69, 179–80, 186, 189, 190, 191 Hyperides Against Athenogenes (Hyp. Ath.) 332 Against Demosthenes (Hyp. Dem.) 73 Funeral Oration (Hyp. Epit.) 62, 329 Delian Oration (Hyp. XIII) 43–4, 144 n. 57 (Defence) Against Diondas (Hyp. Dion.) 71, 280–1, 306 and Aristophon 66, 67 as logographer 40–1 on Lycurgus 4, 87 n. 34 as prosecutor 67, 70, 144 n. 57, 223 in politics 67, 73, 251, 276–7, 329–30 as user of the past 56–7, 63, 150, 161 n. 106, 281–2, 306 Iatrocles 244, 261 ‘identical audience’ topos 26–9, 134–5, 161–2, 166 imitation of ancestors 55–6, 123, 135–8, 156, 158, 233–9, 251–6, 269, 313, 333 of historical models 55–6, 123, 135–8, 172–6, 233–9, 333–5 of other orators’ material 217, 283–4 of other politicians 54–6, 135–8, 172–6 of statues’ poses 21, 36, 55, 137, 206–8, 233–9 imperialism, Athenian the empire 110, 157, 164–7, 189, 256–8 non-imperialism claim 166–7 Iphicrates in Aeschines 144, 231, 264–5, 315 in Aristotle 15–16, 51–2 defence against Harmodius 15–16, 51–2, 62, 148, 190 n. 41

407

in Demosthenes 51–2 n. 208, 90–1, 110–12, 121, 123, 144, 148–9, 174, 194, 315 Embata trials 66, 90–1, 110–11 generalship of 51–2 n. 208, 66, 148–9, 264–5 at Lechaeum 148–9, 212 n. 100 in Macedon(ia) 144, 231, 264–5 statue of 17, 20, 110, 112, 121, 315 in Thrace 20, 91, 111–12, 123, 191 see also Chabrias; Conon; Timotheus Isaeus 41, 128 Isocrates on inferiority 313 and the past 20, 32 n. 123, 37–8, 43, 55, 63–4, 93–4, 109 n. 106 on public uses of the past 33–4 as speech-writer 6 n. 23, 24 n. 89, 46 n. 175, 56, 63–4, 187–8 as teacher 64, 65, 76–7, 86, 174 knowledge about the past, Athenian Aeschines’ own 251, 255, 262, 279 appealed to by Aeschines 215, 263, 311–12 Demosthenes’ own 147, 149, 155, 160 n. 98, 189 n. 38, 279, 298 n. 97, 331–4 appealed to by Demosthenes 102, 106, 109, 117, 147, 149, 156–7, 171 as possessed by Demosthenes’ opponents 87 in general 3, 9–38, 52 see also ‘universal knowledge’ topos Laconia 212, 215 Lamachus (orator) 334 Lamian War 329–30 Lampsacus 103 ‘law(s) of Solon’ 29–30 ‘layered composition’ 180–1, 225 legislator (nomothetēs) 93, 118–19, 188, 195 n. 60, 203–14, 217, 233, 239, 286–7, 305–6 Leodamas 86–7, 89–90, 96, 107–8, 110, 126, 331 n. 13 Leogoras (father of Andocides) 133 Leon (envoy in 367) 241–7 Leos 49 Leosthenes 329 Leptines 62 n. 244, 81–102, 105–7, 110–11, 118–19, 121, 125–9, 187, 335; see also Demosthenes (D. 20) Leucon 83, 129 Leuctra, battle of (371) 95, 101, 215 [Longinus], On the Sublime 309

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408

General Index

Lycides 293 n. 83, 310 n. 127 Lycoleon 20–1, 64, 106 Lycurgus Against Leocrates (Lyc. 1) 21, 36, 39, 277, 303 n. 112, 310, 327 Against Cephisodotus (Lyc. IX) 4, 121–2, 317–18 background 12–13 civic programme and leadership 2–4, 13, 72, 114, 277–8, 280–2, 330 as a new Eubulus or Pericles 4, 56 n. 219, 137 external examples used by 94 as litigant 87 n. 34, 281–2, 302 n. 109 part of a political generation 66–7, 330 statue of 334, 335 n. 30 on statues 10 as user of the past 47–50, 52, 56–7, 61, 63, 150, 257 n. 124, 280–2, 306 Lysias 63, 77 n. 316, 156, 259 n. 133 Lysicles 281–2, 302 n. 109 Lysimachus son of Aristides 89 Macedon(ia), Macedonians Athenian embassies to (346) see Peace of Philocrates Athenians opposing 1, 44, 49, 52–3, 66–7, 70–3, 93, 152, 223, 245 n. 86, 260 n. 135, 275–8, 280–2, 295, 303, 309–10, 312, 315, 317, 321, 329–30, 332–3 Athenians supporting 1, 65, 73, 151, 160 n. 98, 174, 223, 277–8, 280–2, 293, 297 Athens under control of 2–3, 29, 48, 71, 279, 327 expansionist manoeuvres of 152, 170, 272 Hieronymus as supporter of 264 n. 142 historic Athenian relations with 133, 163–5, 265 land and territory of 134, 144, 162 Spartan revolt against see Sparta, revolt of at Thebes in 339 43, 298 Theban revolt against see Thebes, revolt of as victors at Chaeronea (338) see Chaeronea, battle of see also Alexander I; Alexander III; Amyntas III; Antipater; Eurydice; Lamian War; Philip II Mantitheus (speaker of D. 40) 30 Marathon, battle of (490) in comedy 23 the dead imagined 303, 306–7, 309, 311 as a dēmos victory 22, 111, 315–16 as fought alone 33, 281 n. 38 as Miltiades’ victory 314–19

as model for Chaeronea see Chaeronea, battle of from (imagined) Persian perspective 162 as model for resisting Philip 152–3, 252 painting in the Stoa Poikile 3–4, 11, 17, 88 n. 37, 316–19 topos of Athenian praise 10–11, 33–4, 62, 117, 232, 250–1, 256 see also Artemisium; Miltiades; Plataea; Salamis; Thermopylae; Persian Wars Mardonius 117, 293 n. 83 ‘master narrative’ 61–2, 255 medizing 160, 245, 289, 304, 307 Megalopolis, Megalopolitans 44, 250, 264 n. 142, 276; see also Demosthenes (D. 16) Megara, Megarians 235, 269 n. 160, 272 Meidias 69, 74, 129 n. 157, 155 n. 85, 178–200, 217–18, 289, 305, 336; see also Demosthenes (D. 21) Melanopus 96 n. 63, 117 n. 137 memory, Athenian dynamics of 9–38 in the physical cityscape 9–26 Menestheus 90, 111, 190 n. 41 mercenaries 84, 103, 107 n. 96, 148 Messene, Messenians 51, 133–4, 165 metics 103 Metroön 18 n. 52, 312 Micon (painter) 147–8 n. 183 Military Fund 154 Miltiades and Cimon 19, 22 n. 73, 23, 155–6 n. 86, 191 n. 47, 268 n. 156, 314–16 cultural profile 22–3 ‘decree of ’ 152, 250 in Eupolis’ Demes 309 n. 122, 317 in honours discourse 121, 155–6, 312, 314–19 statue in the theatre 10–11, 17 in the Stoa Poikile 11 n. 12, 17, 316–18 as victor at Marathon 10–11, 111, 295, 307, 314–19 see also Marathon Moschion 23 muthos, muthoi 46, 48, 50–1; see also myth in oratory Mysteries, parodying of (c. 415) 188; see also Andocides (Andoc. 1) myth in the cityscape 11, 19 in oratory 31–3, 37–8, 42–51, 56–7, 180, 263; see also muthos, muthoi in other genres 25, 32–3, 43, 203

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General Index Nausicles 66 n. 271, 67, 70, 85 n. 24, 227, 228 Naxos, battle of (376) 90, 109, 115, 148, 331 n. 13 Nemea River, battle of (394) 28, 107 Neon and Thrasylochus 133 n. 18 Neoptolemus (actor) 145 Nicanor 72, 334 n. 25 Nicias 136, 157–8, 160 n. 98, 187, 268, 330 n. 10 oath, Amphictyonic 262–3, 288–9, 292 oath, Demosthenes’ (D. 18.208) 286, 306–9, 311, 317 n. 141 oath, dicastic 300, 304 Oath of Plataea 33 Odeon 4, 9 ‘official’ versions 14–15, 25–6, 28, 43, 62–3, 109 oligarchs, oligarchy danger of return of 35, 92–105, 170–1, 244, 248, 319–20 Four Hundred, the see Four Hundred, the legislators as oligarchic 116–20 Thirty, the see Thirty, the see also Alcibiades; Meidias; tyranny Olympia, Olympic festival 72, 188, 334 Olynthus, Olynthians 68, 134, 143–4, 170, 196, 248, 261 n. 138, 334; see also Demosthenes (D. 1, 2, 3) Onetor 65 Oreus, Oreites 170, 175, 230; see also Euboea, Euboeans ‘Oropus trials’ (366/5) 20, 64, 90, 107–8 n. 97, 168 n. 131 Painted Stoa see Stoa Poikile paradeigma(ta) in Aeschines (a sample) 210, 256–7, 272, 305, 312 in Demosthenes (a sample) 113, 174, 180, 189, 230, 312 in literary usage 23, 32–3 in oratorical usage 24, 120, 164, 245, 253 theorized by Aristotle 5, 38–40, 60, 134 theorized in the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 5, 40–1, 46–7 Parthenon 4, 18, 113 Patroclus 201–3 Pausanias (Macedonian pretender) 264 Pausanias (writer) 3 n. 14, 17, 20, 257 n. 119, 291, 334 Peace of Callias (449??) 18 n. 55, 239–40 Peace of Nicias (421) 268

409

Peace of Philocrates, Assembly debate on the (18–19 Elaph. 346) Aeschines in the 61–2, 69, 213, 223–4, 232, 246, 249–62, 268, 271–2 Demosthenes in the 69, 145, 213, 251–3 Eubulus in the; see Eubulus in general 33, 61, 69, 129, 132, 172, 182, 213, 216–17, 223–4, 232–5, 249–62, 268, 271–2 opponents in the 66, 69, 153, 164 n. 118, 172, 175, 182, 216, 223, 232, 234–5, 245–6, 249–61, 265, 267–71, 282, 320 supporters in the 69, 172, 182, 217, 223–4, 228, 235, 246; see Eubulus Peace of Philocrates, as sworn (346) 45, 69–71, 134, 145, 198, 217, 223, 238, 254, 271–2, 336–7 Peisistratids 17, 93, 133, 136 n. 30, 163 n. 114, 187 Pella see Philip II, embassies to Pelopidas 160 n. 101, 241, 244, 245 Peloponnese, Peloponnesians 28, 151–2, 165, 256–7, 264 n. 142, 329 Peloponnesian War beginning and course of 117, 147, 155, 265–6, 267 end of 62, 137, 195, 251, 258, 267 Perdiccas III of Macedon(ia) 264, 265 Pericleidas 23 Pericles Athens in the age of 3, 4, 155, 256 honours for 4, 121–2 memory of 19–20, 21 n. 72, 22–3, 269 as model for Demosthenes 135–9, 157–8, 279 n. 21, 296, 303, 305 as model for others 56 n. 219, 108–9, 138–9, 205–6, 317–18 political successors of 108, 158, 259 in Thucydides 117–18, 135–9 Persia, Persians aiding Athens 109 Delian League victories against 2; see also Cimon; ‘Eion’ Herms; Eurymedon embassies to, earlier Athenian 239–42 embassies to, Greek (367) 224, 232, 239–49 and the Ten Thousand 171 threats from 19, 40, 140–1, 150–2, 159–66, 171–2, 266–7 treaties with 33, 147 n. 64, 151, 240; see also Callias see also Persian Kings; Persian Wars Persian Kings 32, 134 n. 20, 159–63, 241–8, 275 see also Artaxerxes II; Artaxerxes III; Darius I; Xerxes I

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410

General Index

Persian Wars as examples 4, 15, 29, 110, 140–1, 146–7, 149–53, 159–66, 251–2, 256, 272, 281–2, 286–9, 295, 305–11, 313–15, 331 see also Aeschylus; Artemisium; Cyna(e) geirus; Darius I; evacuation of Athens; Marathon; Miltiades; Persian Kings; Plataea; Salamis; Themistocles; Xerxes I Phaeax 87 n. 36 Phanodemus 52 Phēmē 202–3, 220 Philammon and Glaucus (boxers) 285, 322 Philepsius 50–2 Philip II of Macedon(ia) as addressee of Speusippus’ Letter 37–8, 45 n. 172, 163 n. 114 Athenian opponents of see Macedon(ia), Macedonians Athenian supporters of see Macedon(ia), Macedonians early relations with Athens 123, 234 expansion of 44, 67–8, 70–1, 142–3, 170 first Athenian embassy to, and report (346) 44–5, 68–9, 74, 130, 145, 164, 181–2, 223–5, 230–2, 234–6, 245–6, 260–5, 272; see also Aeschines (A. 2); Demosthenes (D. 19) Hegesippus’ embassy to (343) 70, 79 n. 325, 223, 234 murder of 276 outbreak of war with 71, 275–6 relations with Olynthus 68, 134, 143–4 second Athenian embassy to, and report (346) 69, 145, 181–2, 223–5, 230–2, 242–8, 260–3, 272, 288–9, 297; see also Aeschines (A. 2); Demosthenes (D. 19) as threat to Athens and Athenian values 13–14, 146–53, 159–60, 163–8, 170, 177, 282, 296–7, 306, 310, 336 as victor at Chaeronea (338) 2, 71, 276 Philiscus (comic poet) 23 Philiscus (mercenary) 103–4 Philochorus 116–17, 154 n. 81, 175 n. 148, 240 n. 61 Philocles 73, 178 n. 150 Philocrates of Hagnus 68–70, 217, 223, 229 n. 29, 235, 244, 250; see also Peace of Philocrates Philocrates son of Ephialtes 123 Philonicus 182 n. 14, 260 n. 135 Philostratus of Colon(a)e 90, 281 n. 35

Phocion oratory 1 n. 2, 49–50, 52, 66–7, 132 statesmanship 66–7, 277, 330 as synēgoros 70, 227 Phocis, Phocians 67, 69–71, 145, 170, 252–4, 263 n. 141, 276, 281, 283 Phoenicides 23 Phormion (general) 158 n. 94 Phormion (in Against Leptines) 82–3, 87, 92, 94, 98, 100, 129, 227 Phormion and Carphinas (Acarnanians) 158 n. 94 Phormisius 240–2 Phrynon 223, 229 n. 29 Phyle, democrats returning from 18, 93, 285, 307, 312, 315, 318–19 Piraeus 21, 93, 107, 126, 156 n. 87, 173, 175 Plataea, Plataeans battle of (479) 33, 117, 153 n. 77, 251, 256, 303, 306–11, 314 n. 133 destruction of, by Sparta 32 n. 123, 56 at Marathon 10–11, 24 n. 85, 56, 281 n. 38 Oath of see Oath of Plataea see also Artemisium; Marathon; Salamis; Thermopylae; Persian Wars Plato 21 n. 72, 32, 37, 137, 155, 304 n. 114 Platon (comic poet) 17 n. 43, 22 n. 76, 23 n. 80, 50–1, 241–2, 258 n. 129 Plutarch on Artaxerxes II and the Greek envoys 243 on Callistratus and Demosthenes 64, 107 n. 97, 138, 179 n. 1 on Cimon and Miltiades 315 n. 135, 316–17 on Cineas 335 on Demosthenes 51, 72, 74–5, 83, 135–6, 224 n. 3, 329–31, 333–4 on Pericles 108, 135–6, 257 on Phocion 1 n. 2, 49 n. 196 on Solon 291 Pnyx 18, 51 n. 207, 131–2, 214, 256 poetry, quotation from in Aeschines and Demosthenes 42, 57, 201–3, 208, 219–21, 224, 228, 230–1, 237–8, 271 in other orators 42, 48, 338 see also Euripides; Hesiod; Homer; Solon; Sophocles Polyeuctus (sculptor) 334 Polyeuctus of Crioa 129 n. 159 Polyeuctus of Sphettus 1–4, 49, 66–7, 73, 280–1, 317–18, 329–30 Polygnotus (painter) 3, 11, 17, 47–8 n. 183

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General Index pompeia 114, 117 presbuteroi, presbutatoi 28–9, 106, 109, 260 probouleuma 242–3 Procles of Phlius 31–2, 43 progonoi 27–8, 34 n. 130, 88–9, 140–1, 160–3, 170, 178, 191, 249–56, 290, 331 n. 14, 333 Propylaea 4, 17 n. 41, 18, 23, 113, 251, 256, 318 n. 147 prosōpopoiia 21 n. 71 proxenos, proxenia 96 n. 63, 151, 160, 260 n. 135 prytaneion 17, 20, 242, 334 prytaneis 23 n. 80, 247–8, 295, 297 Ptoeodorus and Perilas 272 Ptolemy of Alorus 264–5 publication of speeches see speeches, dissemination Pydna, Pydna(ea)ns 143–4 Pyrrhander 214 Python of Aenus 123 restoration of democracy, Athenian (403) 15, 95, 126, 255, 259–60, 266, 320; see also Phyle; Piraeus rhētōr, rhētores 192–3 Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 38, 40–1, 204 Rhodes, Rhodians 72, 77, 151 n. 73, 165, 170–1, 284; see also Demosthenes (D. 15) ring composition 25, 126 n. 154, 208 Royal Stoa see Stoa Basileios Sacred Plain (near Delphi) 34, 288–91, 296 Sacred War, First 34, 288–92, 299 Sacred War, Third 69 Salamis, Salaminians Solon’s move to retake 175–6, 233–9, 291 n. 72 statue of Solon 21, 55, 206–7, 233–9, 291 n. 72 Salamis, battle of (480) association with Themistocles 111, 309–10, 315–16 as dēmos victory 113, 306–7, 314–16 ship numbers 161–2, 282 as topos of Athenian praise 10–11, 62, 117, 152–3, 165, 232, 250–2, 256 see also Artemisium; Cyrsilus; evacuation of Athens; Lycides; Marathon; Plataea; Thermopylae; Persian Wars ship sheds (neōsoikoi), Athenian 18; see also dockyards, Athenian Sicilian Expedition, Athenian (415–13) 9, 97, 251, 256

411

sitēsis 62, 121–2, 248, 318 Social War (357–55) 65–6, 82, 92 n. 51, 98, 108, 140, 173 Socrates 21 n. 72, 76–7 Solon and Aeschines 21, 36, 55, 137, 200, 203-8, 213–14, 230, 233–9, 283–311, 333 and the cap 237–8 at Delphi 283–301 as democrat 300–1, 305–6 and Demosthenes 36, 99, 103, 118–20, 175–6, 188–9, 207–8, 233–9, 300–1, 305–6 ‘laws of ’ 29–30, 125, 204 as legislator 118–20, 203, 213, 305 memory of 17, 21–3, 42 n. 158 nature imagery 244–5 as philosopher 24 n. 89, 287, 290 as poet 42, 202, 207–8, 216 n. 113, 234–9, 244–5, 287, 290, 292 and retaking Salamis 175–6, 234–9 statue of, in Athens 17 n. 44 statue of, in Salamis 21, 36, 55, 205-8, 214, 233–9 Sophanes 316–17 sophist(s) 24, 76–7, 217, 244 Sophocles 202, 325 n. 167 sōphrosynē 216 Sparta, Spartans in Aeschines 199, 211–16, 275 as Alcibiades’ resort 331 Athenian relations with over time 43, 95–6, 123, 146–7, 151, 166–9, 252–3, 325–6 culture and values 94, 95, 211–16 in Demosthenes 95–7, 109–10, 113, 126, 146–8, 166–9, 240 in hegemony period 27, 93, 95–7, 109–10, 126, 144, 147–9, 166–7, 171, 240, 266–7 in Isocrates 64 n. 255 in the post-Leuctra period 28, 31, 32 n. 124, 43, 95–6, 101, 168–9 in the Peloponnesian War 32 n. 123, 117, 146–7, 159, 247–8, 254, 256, 258, 324 n. 163; see also Peloponnesian War in the Pentecontaetia 23, 108–9, 256–7, 307 n. 121 in the Persian Wars 160; see also Thermopylae in the pre-Leuctra period 3, 32 n. 124, 45, 95–6, 113, 148, 168–9, 215–16 revolt of, against Alexander 71, 275–7 see also Laconia

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412

General Index

speeches in the Assembly see Assembly, speeches authenticity and genuineness 41, 78–80, 132, 133, 266; see also Demosthenes (D. 13) diplomatic, as genre 31, 43–7, 57, 134, 141, 263 duration in public trials 225–8 funeral speeches see funeral oration(s) revision and dissemination of 74–8, 132, 154–5, 180–1, 219 n. 118, 225–30, 284–6, 299–300 Speusippus 37–8, 45 n. 172, 46 n. 175, 76 n. 315, 163 n. 114 statues (honorific) on the Acropolis 16–20, 257 in the Athenian Agora 1–3, 9–10, 13–14, 16–21, 23, 64, 88, 90–1, 93, 103–7, 110–12, 121–2, 315, 318, 334–5 in the Piraeus 21 in the Salaminian agora 21, 36, 55, 206–8, 214, 233–4 in the theatre 10–11, 17 see also Callias; Chabrias; Conon; Demosthenes, statue of; Euagoras; Iphicrates; Lycurgus; Miltiades; Pericles; Solon; Themistocles; Timotheus; Tolmides Stoa Basileios 2 Stoa Poikile 2–3, 11, 17–20, 47–8 n. 183, 312, 316–17 Stratiotic Fund see Military Fund Susa see Persia, embassies to, Greek symbouleutic oratory characteristics in speeches 239, 246, 248, 272, 324 as genre 39, 41, 43, 134 see also Assembly, speeches; Boule, speeches synēgoros, synēgoria Aeschines as 182 n. 14 Androtion as 114 Demosthenes as 72, 82, 106, 180, 220–1, 303–4 Diodorus (D. 22) as 84 in general 135, 225, 227, 317 Meidias supported by elite 181, 185, 191, 196 senior figures as 70, 185, 223–4, 227–8 Timarchus supported by 201, 203, 206, 208, 215–16, 220–1 virtual 201, 303–5 see also Eubulus; Iphicrates; Lycoleon; Phocion; Phormion (in D. 20) syntrierarch(s), syntrierarchy 28, 65, 174, 325

Taureas 186, 194, 195 team strategy 92–3 Tegea, Tegeans 33, 37 Teisias 194 ‘telescoping’ 15 Ten Thousand, the see Arcadia, Arcadians Tharrhex and Smicythus 248 Theaenetus 257 theatre of Dionysus 4 n. 19, 10–11, 17, 185, 302 Thebes, Thebans alliance with Athens (339) 43, 71, 160, 178, 276, 282, 295, 298–9, 310, 326–7 Athenian opponents of 96 n. 62, 241 n. 69 Athenian supporters of 96, 214 n. 108, 241 n. 69, 260 n. 135, 285, 292 at Chaeronea (338) 2, 160, 325 n. 167 culture and society of 94–6 decree for the Athenian exiles (403) 11 n. 9, 18 defeated by Athens in Euboea (357) 28, 169, 173 and Demosthenes see Demosthenes, and Thebes destruction of, by Alexander (335) 49, 275, 283, 302–3, 325 n. 167 liberated with Athenian help (379/8) 168–9, 285 n. 57 medizing of 160, 163, 245, 289 and Oropus 20, 168 n. 131 in the Peloponnese 28, 168 at the Persian court in 367 241 and Philip, before 339 145, 264, 294 relations with Athens, in general 43, 61, 96, 123 n. 151, 252–4, 289, 325–6 revolt of, against Alexander (335) 49, 71, 275–6 Seven against 31 and the Third Sacred War 69 Themistocles in Aeschines 152, 205, 295, 303–5, 307, 315–16 career reversal and death 22, 112, 124, 185 n. 21, 191, 317 n. 142, 331 ‘decree of ’ 10–11, 152, 250 in Demosthenes 29, 91, 108–10, 115, 127, 295, 306–10, 312 in drama 23 house of 155 n. 86 as model for Demosthenes 29, 138–9, 309–10, 326, 331–2 in Plato 21 n. 72 and Salamis 10–11, 111–12, 121, 316

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General Index statue(s) of 10, 17 tomb of 17, 23 n. 80 see also Salamis, battle of Theon, Aelius 283 Theopompus on Athenian leaders 154 n. 82, 155–6 n. 86, 331 n. 15, 333 n. 23 on Athenian topoi 33–4, 47, 250 on Hieronymus 264 n. 142 on the Peace debate in 346 66 n. 268, 69, 145 n. 60, 164 n. 118, 234–5, 245, 252 Theoric Fund 154, 158, 235 Thermopylae as Amphictyonic centre 290 battle of (480) 160, 280 n. 31, 281–2; see also Artemisium; Marathon; Plataea; Salamis; Persian Wars Philip at 67, 69–70, 145, 149, 170, 216, 228 Thersagoras and Execestus 103 Thessaly, Thessalians 67, 290 n. 69, 329, 335 Thirty, the (oligarchs) deposition 18, 93, 97–8, 101 memory of 15, 42 n. 158, 94, 116–17 in power 95, 97, 103, 118, 126, 259, 319–20 see also Critias; Four Hundred, the; oligarchs, oligarchy Thrace, Thracians 20, 67–8, 70, 112, 162, 170, 258 Thrasybulus of Collytus 214 n. 108 Thrasybulus of Steiria 318 n. 148, 320; see also Phyle, democrats returning from Thucydides and Apollodorus 24 n. 85, 135 n. 24 and Demosthenes 24 n. 85, 108–9, 135–8, 147, 155, 157–8, 189 n. 38 on the Herms/Mysteries 188 n. 36 on Pericles 108–9, 135–8, 296 on Pericles’ successors 13, 108–9, 158, 167 speakers in 32–3, 47 n. 180, 307 n. 121 on Themistocles 138 on the tyrannicides 14–15 n. 35 Timagoras 42, 224, 230, 232, 239–49, 259 Timarchus 36, 70, 179–84, 197–221, 224–39, 253, 267, 271, 280, 304, 336; see also Aeschines (A. 1); Demosthenes (D. 19) timēsis 226 n. 14, 230 Timocrates of Crioa 84, 86, 103–5, 114, 117–20, 125, 129, 195 n. 60; see also Demosthenes (D. 24)

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Timocrates of Rhodes 171 n. 73 Timotheus associations with other leaders 17, 90–1, 110–11, 121, 315, 317 n. 142 and the Embata trials 66, 90–1, 110–11, 174–5 as example in Demosthenes 140, 169–78, 185, 323, 333 house of 156 and Isocrates 174 statue of, with others 17–18, 110, 315 victory of, in Euboea 115, 149, 169–76, 253 n. 106 see also Chabrias; Conon; Iphicrates Tolmides 19, 60, 251, 256–7, 259 tombs, public 13, 153 n. 77, 251–2, 255, 303 n. 112, 307–11, 332 trierarch(s), trierarchy Demosthenes as 64–5, 85, 175; see also syntrierarch(y); Demosthenes (D. 51) others as 90 n. 45, 126, 196 n. 62, 275 Troezen, Troezenians 73, 330–2 trophy, trophies 13, 117, 153 n. 77, 250–2, 255, 302 tychē see fortune tyrannicide(s) 10, 14–15 n. 35, 21, 88, 93; see also Harmodius tyranny and Alcibiades 185, 190–1 danger of 39, 92–105, 143, 217 tropes and imagery associated with 117, 190–1, 217, 245 n. 84 see also Harmodius; tyrannicide ‘universal knowledge’ topos 24–5, 30, 38, 173, 206 n. 85 walls, city (of Athens) 17, 18, 108–9; see also Demosthenes, as teichopoios Walls, Long 18 n. 52, 109–10 water (in court) 220, 226–7 Xenophon on bribed Greek politicians 267 n. 154 and Cephisodotus 95–6 n. 61 and envoys’ speeches 31, 32–3, 43, 96 n. 63 on Epaminondas in Laconia 257 n. 123 and the fall of Athens in 404 297–8 on the Greek embassies to Persia in 367 160 n. 101, 241, 243–5, 247 n. 92 and Iphicrates 51 n. 208 Xerxes I 29, 32