The Shaping of Narrative in Polybius 9783110330298, 9783110330014

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Nikos Miltsios The Shaping of Narrative in Polybius

Trends in Classics – Supplementary Volumes

Edited by Franco Montanari and Antonios Rengakos Scientific Committee Alberto Bernabé · Margarethe Billerbeck Claude Calame · Philip R. Hardie · Stephen J. Harrison Stephen Hinds · Richard Hunter · Christina Kraus Giuseppe Mastromarco · Gregory Nagy Theodore D. Papanghelis · Giusto Picone Kurt Raaflaub · Bernhard Zimmermann

Volume 23

Nikos Miltsios

The Shaping of Narrative in Polybius

DE GRUYTER

ISBN 978-3-11-033001-4 e-ISBN 978-3-11-033029-8 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2013 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ♾ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

For my parents, Penelope and Christos Miltsios

Acknowledgments This book is a revised version of a thesis completed at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki in March of 2010. My first debt is to my supervisor, Antonios Rengakos, for introducing me to this exciting research area, and for his unwavering support over the years. I have benefited greatly from his commitment to my project and his wise counsel. Dimitrios Christidis, Daniel Jacob, Theokritos Kouremenos, Aimilios Mavroudis, Christos Tsagalis and Yannis Tzifopoulos, my thesis examiners, made many thoughtful suggestions that I utilized. I am indebted as well to Vassilis Fyntikoglou, Jonas Grethlein, Poulheria Kyriakou, Stephanos Matthaios, Melina Tamiolaki and Chrysanthe Tsitsiou-Chelidoni for their invaluable encouragement and advice. I also wish to express my sincere appreciation to the Melina Merkouri Foundation, which funded my research with a generous scholarship. Finally, my heartfelt gratitude goes to my friends and family for their love and support, especially to my parents, Penelope and Christos Miltsios, to whom this book is dedicated.

Contents Introduction

1

 . . .. .. ..

6 Well begun is half done 7 The proem (1.1 – 5) 13 The Romans’ first crossing into Sicily (1.6 – 12) Where to begin 13 Rhegium and Messana: The issue of mercenaries 18 21 The intervention of Rome

 . .. ..

30 The narrative of the prokataskeue 30 The First Punic War (1.13 – 63) 32 The theme of naval supremacy Τhe story of Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’ (1.46 – 47) as Mise en 37 Abyme Romans and Carthaginians 39 The Roman Wars against the Illyrians (2.2 – 12) and the Gauls (2.14 – 47 35)

.. .

 Temporal strategies 58 58 . Synchronicity 64 . The interlace structure of book 3 .. Spain and Illyria (3.13 – 34) 65 65 ... The Romans’ strategic error 68 ... Hannibal .. Hannibal’s march on Italy (3.35 – 3.57.1) . Order 74 74 .. Analepses .. Prolepses 79

70

 . . . .

84 Focalization and interpretation The theatre of war 87 The attribution of motives 92 The Carthaginians in Italy (3.69 – 117) 99 106 The Romans in Africa (14.1 – 15.9)

 . ..

The Polybian narrator 115 116 The primary narrator 117 The narrator as writer

X

Contents

.. .. . .

The narrator as historian 120 125 The narrator as critic Polybius as a character 132 140 Narratees

Conclusions Bibliography

147 150

Index Locorum

159

General Index

169

Introduction The study of ancient historiography has undergone significant change over the last few decades. The texts are treated not just as repositories of valuable knowledge and information about the ancient world but as literary creations with their own structure and themes. In the wake of what has become known as the ‘linguistic turn’, recent inquiries have developed new ways of looking at historical narrative. Text-centered readings are not concerned so much with the issues that have traditionally preoccupied scholarship with regard to the ancient historians, such as analyzing their reliability, identifying the sources that they used, and determining the stages that they passed through in the process of preparing their works. They focus, rather, on intratextual dialogue as a method for elucidating the potential meaning of historical narratives and they attempt to understand the ways in which their rhetorical structure is central to their ability to confer intelligibility on past events.¹ This change in the interpretative approach to ancient historiography has not influenced Polybian scholarship as quickly or to the same extent as in the case of Herodotus and Thucydides. In discussing Polybius’ Histories, critics have, for the most part, concentrated on the problems surrounding its composition, the political and methodological views of the author, and its use as a source of information for the history of Rome and her constitution.² Polybius’ narrative artistry and the literary merits of his work have, in contrast, remained on the periphery of research. In fact, only recently have critics begun to recognize the quality of his writing.³ It is telling that so far there has been no book-length narratological analysis of the Histories, while the application of narratology to the works of Herodotus and Thucydides has produced many fruitful results.⁴ Polybius may have

 The literary approach to ancient historiography was greeted with suspicion by scholars who thought that its emphasis on the element of rhetorical construction overlooked the important role played by the ancient historians’ inquiry into the past. Historians like Momigliano 1955 – 92, vii. 49 – 59 and Fornara 1983, 116, 164– 65 defended the scientific character of ancient Greek historiography, promoting the features that link it with its modern counterpart. The response (see, e. g., Wiseman 1979, 1993; Woodman 1983, 1988) was to find arguments in certain ancient historiographical practices (e. g. the composition of speeches, the use of fabricated details and the drawing of motifs and topics from other genres such as epic and drama) that highlight the divide between ancient and modern practitioners of history. For a summary of the debate see Marincola 2001, 3 – 8. See also, more recently, Northwood 2008; Lendon 2009.  For general overviews of scholarship on Polybius see Walbank 2002, 1– 27; Maier 2012a, 3 – 8.  See, e. g., McGing 2010, 10 – 11.  See, e. g., Hornblower 1994; Rood 1998; de Jong 1999; Rengakos 2005; 2006a; 2006b; Grethlein 2009; 2010, 196 – 202, 240 – 54.

2

Introduction

acquired universal reputation as a historian but he has not gained the same recognition or received the same attention as a writer.⁵ The relative lack of scholarly effort in this direction can be attributed to two main reasons. The first and most obvious is the fragmentary character of the Histories. Of its original forty books only the first five survive complete, while for the remaining thirty-five we rely on Byzantine excerpts and the use of the work by later writers. The fragments of these books are often very substantial, but still, with so much of the text missing, it is difficult to fully appreciate the literary art that has created it. The second reason is related to a characteristic feature of Polybius, namely, his unusually overt narratorial presence that can be felt throughout the story due to his frequent commentary on the unfolding events.⁶ This feature of the Polybian narrator, which is much more prominent than in other ancient Greek historians, has directed scholarly interest toward his argumentative passages, with the result that the value of a comprehensive literary analysis of his narrative has been overlooked. And yet, Polybius’ work, in spite of its gaps, exhibits a narrative complexity that would make it a good candidate for an analysis of this kind. His Histories, composed in order to explain Rome’s rise to universal domination, is indeed a prime example of an intricately structured narrative. In his attempt to portray the growing interconnection of political events throughout the Mediterranean area, Polybius uses an annalistic method which consists in treating the events of the various geographical regions in a fixed order. He begins with the events in Italy, and then recounts what happened within the same Olympiad year in Sicily, Spain, Africa, Greece and Macedonia, Asia, and Egypt.⁷ This sequence, which from book 7 onwards constitutes the standard structural framework of the Histories, enables Polybius to describe how the events of the oecumene after Olympiad 140 start to become intermingled and to influence each other, thus promoting the expansion of Roman rule. The impressive diligence with which Polybius weaves together his multiple narrative threads into a coherent whole indicates his interest in issues of structure and narrative form, suggesting that the analysis of his work from a narratological perspective may be an avenue of inquiry worth pursuing. This book is a study of Polybius’ narrative. It examines the Histories as a narrative text, focusing on the various techniques used by Polybius in shaping his historical account. The shape of the narrative is the result of choices that Poly-

 See Foucault 1972, 201 for references to unfavourable assessments of Polybius’ prose.  On the intrusiveness of the Polybian narrator see below, ch. 1 n. 15.  See below, pp. 60 – 64.

Introduction

3

bius made in order to express his understanding of the course of history he recounts and to communicate it to his readers. These choices clearly play an important role in the construction of the meaning of the text. They reveal what is crucial to the historian’s analysis and suggest perspectives to readers, thereby assisting them in their efforts to make sense of the narrated events. In describing the compositional devices that give shape to the narrative, I intend to pay particular attention to the ways in which they contribute to advancing its thematic concerns. My aim is not only to present the Histories as the work of an author who has taken pains to provide us with a carefully structured story, but also to illustrate how interpretations of this story can be enriched by a sensitivity to factors such as chronological displacements and variations of focalization. The methodological approach I adopt in this study draws on the concepts of the narratological models developed by Genette and Bal.⁸ Although originally formulated for fictional literature, these models have also proved very useful in elucidating the sophisticated narratives of ancient historians.⁹ This is hardly surprising, since, as far as form is concerned, the boundaries between ancient historiography and fiction are difficult to delineate. Indeed, ancient historical texts employ discursive modes traditionally regarded as being typical of their epic or novelistic counterparts. The use of focalization is probably the clearest case in point.¹⁰ Unlike their modern colleagues, ancient historians, as a rule, felt free to make use of internal focalization, that is, to enter the minds of their characters in order to reveal their feelings and motives.¹¹ Of course, there is no doubt that their analyses of motivation were sometimes based on information obtained from participants in the events they narrate. But it is equally obvious that, more often than not, they had to infer motives from actions or from what they knew of an individual’s character.¹²

 Genette (1972) 1980; Bal (1985) 1997.  For applications of narratology to ancient historical texts see above, n. 4.  Cohn 1999, 117– 23 observes that internal focalization applies solely to the fictional domain: ‘This category, however, designates only what history cannot be or do: it cannot present past events through the eyes of a historical figure present on the scene, but only through the eyes of the (forever backward-looking) historian-narrator. In this sense we may say that the modal system of historical (and other nonfictional) narration is “defective” when compared to the virtual modalizations of fiction’ (119). Cf. Genette 1991, 65 – 67. Pausch 2011 rightly remarks that ‘[n]ach den von Genette und Cohn verwendeten Kriterien handelt es sich bei der Antiken Historiographie letztlich um fiktionale Literatur’ (10).  Cf. Rengakos 2006b, 185.  See Thompson 1969; Hunter 1973; Schneider 1974, esp. 127– 37; Baragwanath 2008, 3 – 4, 82– 83. On Polybius’ depiction of motivation see below (§4.2).

4

Introduction

This should not lead us to assume that ancient historians regarded their task as a form of fiction making. Statements of autopsy and inquiry are frequently found in their works, serving as one of the most important means of claiming the authority to narrate historical events.¹³ There are also numerous occasions where ancient historians criticize their predecessors for errors of fact.¹⁴ Yet, as White reminds us, history writing includes the processes by which the results of inquiry are organized into an integrated and rhetorically persuasive work.¹⁵ In their efforts to impose coherence and meaning on the events they describe, even the most scrupulous historians engage in various kinds of distortions, omissions and embellishments. The application of narratology to historical texts is therefore valuable in helping us uncover their subtleties. In the course of this book, I shall attempt to show that the insights of narratology can shed light on the mechanisms of Polybian narrative, and in so doing can enhance our appreciation of its sophistication. By looking at details of how Polybius’ narrative is constructed, we are in a better position to understand dimensions of the story that we otherwise might have missed. This study is divided into two sections. The first (Chapters 1 and 2) analyzes the two opening books of the Histories, while the second section (Chapters 3, 4 and 5) explores the organization of narrative time, the focalization techniques used by Polybius in the presentation of his history, and the different types of intervention he makes in the text, together with the way in which he interacts with his narratees. More specifically, Chapter 1 aims to show the architectural merits of the prokataskeue. It describes the intricate structural design of the first book and attempts to illuminate the web of successive external analepses that precedes the narrative of the First Punic War. The discussion then focuses on the ideas that are introduced by Polybius in this part of his work in order to help his readers understand the character of, and the preconditions for, the expansion of Roman rule, contesting the view that Rome’s expansionist drive is played down in the prokataskeue. The next chapter examines the narrative of the First Punic War and of the subsequent wars waged by the Romans against the Illyrians and the Gauls. The analysis takes forward the conclusions of the first chapter and casts further doubt on the contrast that has been suggested to run through

 For a detailed discussion see Marincola 1997, 63 – 85. On Polybius’ use of documents see now Desideri 2007, with earlier bibliography.  E.g. Polyb. 2.62– 63, 12.17– 22; Diod. 13.90.4– 5; Dion. Hal. AR 4.6.7.  White 1973, 1987. White’s analysis played a major role in showing the points of contact that exist between historiography and fiction. A summary of responses to his work is provided by Clark 2004, 98 ff. On postmodernist philosophy of history see also Jenkins 1991; and Munslow 1997.

Introduction

5

the early books of the Histories between the defensive stance of the Romans and the aggressive behaviour of their opponents. The focus of study in Chapter 3 is Polybius’ handling of narrative time and, in particular, his use of synchronicity and anachronies. Synchronicity is of interest as an organizing principle of the work’s structure and also on account of its application (and the differences in the interpretation of events that this entails) in individual narrative segments. The examination of the anachronies employed in the text concentrates on the ways in which they affect readers’ interpretation and promote their understanding of the story. Chapter 4 deals with focalization as a means of recording both visual impressions and mental processes, and highlights the role it plays in the presentation of battles and the characters’ motives for acting. Finally, Chapter 5 attempts to draw some conclusions about the image that the primary narrator cultivates for himself, for the character Polybius and for his audience by analyzing his interventions in the text, his homodiegetic narration, and the contact he establishes with his narratees.

1 Well begun is half done ‘Well begun is half done’ declares a famous adage, and many Greek historians would probably be in entire agreement.¹ At least this is the impression one gets from the well elaborated and lengthy prefatory accounts that precede the narrative proper of their works. In fact, the whole of Herodotus’ first book has been considered to form an introduction.² And while Thucydides’ readers also have to wait until the second book before the narrative begins to provide them with information about his main subject matter, the readers of Polybius’ Histories need to wait even longer since its introductory part extends over two books (about two hundred pages in the Teubner text). The space devoted to the prokataskeue may seem somewhat excessive yet it is in direct proportion to the overall length of the work, which runs to a total of forty books, and, as I shall attempt to show in this chapter, it is used to introduce certain ideas that are essential to Polybius’ interpretation of the character of Roman expansion.

 For the proverb see Walbank 1957, 562– 63. That Polybius shares this view can be seen very clearly in 5.32.1– 5, where he develops the statement further by claiming that to make a good beginning is to achieve not only half of an enterprise but almost all of it (for it is not possible to begin an enterprise without first thinking about what direction it should take and where it will end (3 – 4)), and he advises his fellow historians to attach the appropriate importance to the beginnings of their works: ‘For the ancients, saying that the beginning is half of the whole, advised that in all matters the greatest care should be taken to make a good beginning. And although this dictum is thought to be exaggerated, in my own opinion it falls short of the truth. One may indeed confidently affirm that the beginning is not merely half of the whole, but reaches as far as the end. For how is it possible to begin a thing well without having present in one’s mind the completion of one’s project, and without knowing its scope, its relation to other things, and the object for which one undertakes it? And again how is it possible to sum up events properly without referring to their beginnings, and understanding whence, how, and why the final situation was brought about? So we should think that beginnings do not only reach half way, but reach to the end, and both writers and readers of a general history should pay the greatest attention to them. And this I shall endeavour to do’.  Fornara 1971, 17– 19, who believes that the first book was written last, thinks that it sums up Herodotus’ ‘philosophy of history’. In an enlightening discussion of the starting points of the Herodotean work, Lateiner 1989, 35 – 43 also claims that the first book should be understood as introductory, although, as he maintains, material that is essential to an understanding of the Persian Wars is provided up until the Ionian Revolt in the fifth book, where the narrative of the conflict between the Greeks and the barbarians begins.

1.1 The proem (1.1 – 5)

7

1.1 The proem (1.1 – 5) In the preface to the prokataskeue, Polybius deviates from the regular practice of the ‘fathers’ of historiography, who begin their works by announcing their subject matter and identity, and he chooses instead to begin with a discussion about the genre he is cultivating.³ Thus, in his very first statement he says that it might have been necessary to praise history in order to urge his readers to turn to the study of historical works had previous historians not already exhausted the subject (1.1.1– 2).⁴ This is, however, a praeteritio that should not be taken literally, not only because Polybius, despite his initial reservations, finally states (even without saying so directly as ultimately he gets his fellow historians to declare it) the benefits that can be obtained from the study of history, but also because such laudatory opinions recur with great frequency in the main part of the Histories. ⁵ Here two reasons for studying history are emphasized: one is that a knowledge of history is the best way to prepare for a life of political action, and therefore concerns a specific public (statesmen or anyone aspiring to become involved in politics); the other, which is perhaps of greater importance as it holds true for all readers, is that remembering the misfortunes suffered by others teaches us to endure the vicissitudes of fate with fortitude (1.1.2). Polybius then justifies the exclusion of such a discussion from his preface by arguing that it befits no one, and least of all himself (ἥκιστα δ᾽ ἡμῖν), to repeat what has already been said by others (1.1.3). His commitment to the pursuit of originality is unmistakable, for he admits that he would never have assumed his present undertaking had certain others dealt with it before him (1.4.2) and he urges historians to concern themselves with the narration of contemporary events, ‘because there is always some novelty in them which demands novel treatment’ (9.2.2– 4). Aspiring historians, he maintains, have no choice but to turn to contemporary history, unless they prefer to labour in vain by merely repeating what has been transmitted by others and to deceive their readers by

 The proem consists of three sections: 1.1, which includes a general discussion of the didactic value of history; 1.2.3 – 6, which emphasizes the uniqueness of the subject of the work, and 3.7– 5.5, which introduces readers to the first two books. Walbank 1957 ad loc. makes a different division (into two parts: 1.1– 3.6 and 3.7– 5.5).  The didactic value of history is a commonplace in ancient Greek literature. See, e. g., Thuc. 1.22, 2.48.3; Isoc. Ad Nic. 35, Arch. 59; Arist. Rhet. 1368a29.  The usefulness of history is praised in a variety of different ways by Polybius, sometimes in relation to the audience he is addressing (statesmen (e. g. 3.7.5 – 6; 7.11.2) and military men (e. g. 11.8)) and at other times independently (e. g. 5.75.6; 12.25g.2).

8

1 Well begun is half done

passing off other people’s words as their own, ‘a most disgraceful proceeding’ (ὃ πάντων ἐστὶν αἴσχιστον, 9.2.2). It appears, however, that what lies behind Polybius’ pretentious refusal to eulogize history is not his concern for originality versus plagiarism; nor can his attitude be interpreted as a display of modesty, as is usually the case when writers stress their inability to capture the greatness of their subject in words in order to gain the favour of their audience. It is, rather, Polybius’ interest in promoting his work and attracting readers’ attention that shapes his stance at this point. Polybius justifies his refusal to praise history on the ground that the events he is going to describe are so incredible that they are themselves capable of stimulating anyone to study them (1.1.4). He thus suggests that he does not need to praise history in order to attract readers since he will in any case win them over with the importance of his subject matter. Making claims about the importance of one’s work is surely commonplace among Greek historians, but it is meaningless unless one can prove them, and this is why Polybius deploys three different arguments in order to do so. He argues, first of all, that his main theme–the global expansion of Roman rule–represents a unique phenomenon (πρότερον οὐχ εὑρίσκεται γεγονός, 1.1.5 – 6), because never before in history had all the nations of the world come under the rule of a single one, and within a period of less than fifty-three years at that (1.1.5). Accordingly, he wonders whether, among his readers, there can be anyone so lazy or absorbed in some other activities (ἐκπαθὴς πρός τι τῶν ἄλλων θεαμάτων ἢ μαθημάτων) as to remain uninterested to such events or regard those activities as more important than their study (1.1.6). Of course, if the narration of the Romans’ achievements is so appealing in itself, it attracts attention for yet another reason: it was natural to expect that the readers of the Histories, most of whom were Greeks who had had first-hand experience of the eastward advance of the Romans (with the occupation of the Hellenistic kingdoms, the dissolution of the Leagues and the subjugation and annexation of their territories), would show a keen interest in anything related to the new power, whether it were an investigation of the factors that contributed to the realization of its imperialistic plans of world domination or the narration of its military operations.⁶ Building upon his fellow historians’ well-known practice of promoting their subject by comparing it with those of their predecessors,⁷ Polybius goes on to introduce his next argument by claiming that the unique spectacle offered by his narrative becomes even more conspicuous when the Roman conquests are con-

 On Polybius’ readership see below (§5.3).  For this tendency in Greek historiography see Marincola 1997, 34– 43.

1.1 The proem (1.1 – 5)

9

trasted with the attainments of the dynasties that have been dealt with by past historians (1.2.1). Thus, the Romans are compared with the Persians, the Lacedaemonians and the Macedonians in two respects–the limits of their geographical expansion and the duration of their dominion–and are shown to be superior in both: The Persians for a certain period possessed a great rule and dominion, but so often as they ventured to overstep the boundaries of Asia they imperilled not only the security of this empire, but their own existence. The Lacedaemonians, after having for many years disputed the hegemony of Greece, at length attained it but to hold it uncontested for scarce twelve years. The Macedonian rule in Europe extended but from the Adriatic region to the Danube, which would appear a quite insignificant portion of the continent. Subsequently, by overthrowing the Persian empire they became supreme in Asia also. But though their empire was now regarded as the greatest geographically and politically that had ever existed, they left the larger part of the inhabited world as yet outside it. For they never even made a single attempt to dispute possession of Sicily, Sardinia, or Libya, and the most warlike nations of Western Europe were, to speak the simple truth, unknown to them. But the Romans have subjected to their rule not portions, but nearly the whole of the world and possess an empire which is not only immeasurably greater than any which preceded it, but need not fear rivalry in the future (1.2.2– 8).

The mention of the Persians and Lacedaemonians calls to mind the historical works of Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, while behind the reference to the Macedonians one might well recognize Theopompus,⁸ who–unlike the other three–is also criticized in the main part of the work.⁹ Through making historical comparisons, then, Polybius endeavours to draw a historiographical conclusion, namely that just as the achievements of the Romans are superior to those of the empires that preceded them, so too is his treatise superior to the narratives that recorded the achievements of those empires.¹⁰

 Polybius’ argument may also be felt to allude to Demetrius of Phalerum, who, in his treatise on Fortune, some one hundred and fifty years before the final dissolution of the Macedonian monarchy, warned the Macedonians of the transience of human prosperity. Polybius cites the passage in 29.21.3 – 6, immediately after his account of Perseus’ defeat, and he remarks that he was impressed by the prophetic power of his words (ταῦτα μὲν οὖν Δημήτριος ὡσανεὶ θείῳ τινὶ στόματι περὶ τοῦ μέλλοντος ἀποπεφοίβακεν, ‘Surely Demetrius, as if by the mouth of some god, uttered those prophetic words’, 29.21.7), since in his own time, as an eye-witness himself, he saw Demetrius’ prophecy prove true and history repeat itself as the Macedonian kingdom passed into the hands of the Romans. For more on this see Walbank 1979 ad loc.  Especially in 8.7– 11.7, for the way in which he presented Philip II and his decision to write a person-centred history, and elsewhere (cf. 12.25f; 16.12). On the criticism of Theopompus see Meister 1975, 56 – 65.  On the theme of translatio imperii see the discussion and bibliography in Muccioli 2005.

10

1 Well begun is half done

The third and final argument is the most original, and so the most effective, yet before he expounds it, and in order to make it more convincing, Polybius mentions the 140th Olympiad (220 – 216) as being the official starting point of his history and explains why he has chosen it. It was during this period that three major conflicts had broken out almost simultaneously: in Greece, the socalled Social War, or War of the Allies, in which the Achaeans had sided with Philip V against the Aetolians; in the East, the conflict between Antiochus III and Ptolemy IV over Coele-Syria; and in Italy and Libya the war between Rome and Carthage. Up until that time the military campaigns that had taken place around the world had not been connected with, or influenced by, each other either in terms of their aims or results (1.3.1– 3). Since then, however, the events in Italy and Libya had started to become interwoven (συμπλέκεσθαι) with those in Asia and Greece (1.3.4), with the result that affairs in different countries had all become causally interdependent and interconnected on a global level. In a word, since then history had started to become an ‘organic whole’ (σωματοειδής). As Polybius remarks in 1.4.1, the distinctiveness of his work lies in that it embodies and reflects this unique historical development and confluence: ‘For what gives my work its peculiar quality, and what is most remarkable in the present age, is this. Fortune has guided almost all the affairs of the world in one direction and has forced them to incline towards one and the same end; a historian should likewise bring before his readers under one synoptical view the operations by which she has accomplished her general purpose’.¹¹ New historical developments, of course, need to be dealt with in a special way. Technically and thematically, historical monographs are considered to be inadequate and unsuitable for the task of recording the gradual unification of the oecumene and do not contribute to the investigation of the causes and origins of this process (1.4.3). For this reason, historians who insist on dealing with local wars and occasional incidents, either because they are indifferent to ‘the finest and most beneficent of the performances of Fortune’ (κάλλιστον ἅμα κὠφελιμώτατον ἐπιτήδευμα τῆς τύχης, 1.4.4) or because they think this is the way to understand universal history, are severely criticized by Polybius. In 1.4.6 they are compared to people who imagine that they have succeeded in forming an overall view of the world by visiting a number of individual cities one after the other or observing pictures of them. Polybius does not reject the

 Cf. Walbank 1972, 68: ‘Tyche and Polybius are shown as being in a sense complementary to each other: each is a creative artist in the relevant field, the one producing the unified oecumene, the other its counterpart in the unified work of history–σωματοειδῆ. In this way Polybius gives a new meaning to universal history, in so far as he identifies it with the history of his own time and no other’.

1.1 The proem (1.1 – 5)

11

possibility that some idea of a whole may be gained from viewing its parts but the acquisition of a solid knowledge is a completely different matter and requires one to compare and collate the individual elements of world history (1.4.9 – 11). This necessity is also suggested by the comparison of the writers of historical monographs with someone who fancies he can gain a proper idea of the beauty of a living organism from seeing different parts of it scattered in different places (1.4.7– 8): ‘For could anyone put the creature together on the spot, restoring its form and the comeliness of life, and then show it to the same man, I think he would quickly avow that he was formerly very far away from the truth and more like one in a dream’.¹² Given the particularity of the era and the inability of monographs to satisfy the methodological demands of universal history, the decision to place individual events together in a unified composition to show their interconnectedness and organic unity cannot be left to the discretion of the historian; it is, rather, an imperative need, especially because none of Polybius’ contemporaries has undertaken such a task (1.4.2). Here, then, Polybius extols both the subject matter of his work and the type of history he chooses. As he claims, history becomes more effective and lucid when it is organized as a harmonious combination of the most important elements of a particular period at a global level, and not as a limited and exclusive focus on occasional and individual incidents.¹³ Now the interweaving of events (συμπλοκή) is a process that has a specific beginning and a specific end, which is reached when the purpose it serves has been fulfilled. This is probably why Polybius, when he decided to narrate the events between 167 and 145 (which occupy the last ten books), noted that, for him, it was like beginning a new work (3.4.13).¹⁴ Taking into account that the συμπλοκή is a distinctive characteristic of the particular era he himself

 The comparison of a well-arranged discourse to a living organism is not unknown in Greek thought. Cf. Plato Phaedr. 264c, Phileb. 64b, Pol. 277b; Arist. Poet. 1450b34– 6, 1459a20.  Cf. 3.32.10: ‘I consider that my history differs to its advantage as much from the works on particular episodes as learning does from hearing’. Writers of historical monographs are also severely criticized in the main part of the work. Specifically, it is argued that the more limited the scope of a historical work is, the more its author runs the risk of mentioning superfluous details and thereby attributing too much importance to superficial matters (τὰ μικρὰ μεγάλα ποιεῖν, 7.7.6). For the advantages of universal history compared with monographs cf. 1.4.2; 3.1.4; 8.2; 9.44; 29.12. Polybius recognizes Ephorus as his only predecessor in the field of writing universal history, since in 5.33.2 he extols him as ‘the first and only writer who really undertook a general history’. Still, as Walbank (1975) 1985, 313 noted, this remark should not be allowed to create the misconception that, in terms of form and method, Polybius’ history is similar to that of Ephorus, who merely gathered together a large number of separate histories in a single work.  Discussion in Pédech 1964, 508 and Walbank (1975) 1985, 324.

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deals with, it is easy to gain the impression that Polybius seeks to contrast his work, which reflects this unique procedure, not only with previous historical works, just as his predecessors did, but also with future ones. Interpreted against this background, his assumption that Rome will not fear for rivalry in the future (1.2.7– 8) may well be considered equally applicable to his work itself, its value thus being judged in terms of its subject matter, the deeds of its protagonists and the particularity of the historical period that it records. The space occupied by the discussion of the importance of the text’s subject, in relation to the overall length of the proem, indicates Polybius’ desire to win his readers’ confidence and to reassure them that it is well worth making the effort to read the forty books of the Histories. It also points to the forcefulness with which Polybius intervenes in the text to discuss and justify his authorial choices (perhaps in the hope of defending himself against possible attacks), as well as to provide the necessary explanations (e. g., when his views of certain characters appear to be contradictory, or when a long digression disturbs the narrative cohesion).¹⁵ As this tendency of the narrator is combined with an unusually strict–by the standards of ancient Greek historiography–editorial control over the historical material,¹⁶ one might reasonably expect the proem to include, if not a detailed presentation of the contents such as the one that exists in the so-called ‘second preface’ in the third book, at least a brief outline of the most important events that will make up the narrative material in the Histories. This, nevertheless, is postponed for the present because the narrator is more concerned to provide a justification for the addition of the introductory books that precede the main part of the work. He explicitly states that he designed the two books of the prokataskeue with the needs of his readers in mind; if they had had an adequate knowledge of the earlier history of the relations between Rome and Carthage, it would probably not have been necessary to mention it (1.3.7). Since, however, most Greeks (τοῖς πολλοῖς τῶν Ἑλλήνων) are ignorant of these matters, he thought it advisable to write the first and second book as an introduction so that it would be clear that the Romans conceived of and realized the plan of universal dominion on a solid basis (1.3.10). Indeed, in the first book the narrative begins with the Romans’ crossing into Sicily, which is placed within the 129th Olympiad (264– 260), both because the history thereby continues where Timaeus’ work left off ¹⁷ and also because it was at this point that the Romans crossed by sea from Italy for the first time (1.5.1– 2). As for  64,  

On the Polybian narrator and the different forms his interventions take see Rood 2004, 147– esp. 149 – 57; see also below (§5.1). Cf. Rood 2004, 151– 52. On Timaeus see Brown 1958; Pearson 1987; Baron 2012.

1.2 The Romans’ first crossing into Sicily (1.6 – 12)

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the presentation of the work’s contents, this is moved to a more suitable position, in the preface to the third book, which also serves as a general introduction to the main part of the narrative.

1.2 The Romans’ first crossing into Sicily (1.6 – 12) 1.2.1 Where to begin Τhe addition of the preliminary section obviously raises the question of when the narrative proper actually begins, there being two different answers to it, depending on whether the events described in the prokataskeue are considered to be an inseparable part of the story or external analepses.¹⁸ Strikingly, both answers are provided by Polybius himself. To begin with, given that the 140th Olympiad (220 – 216) is referred to as the official starting point of the Histories (Ἄρξει δὲ τῆς πραγματείας ἡμῖν τῶν μὲν χρόνων ὀλυμπιὰς ἑκατοστή τε καὶ τετταρακοστή, ‘The date from which I propose to begin my history is the 140th Olympiad’, 1.3.1), it is plausible, on the basis of this statement, to assume that the first two books mark not the beginning of the history proper but the start of a long external analepsis. In closing his account of the Romans’ first crossing into Sicily, Polybius does in fact characterize this section as a type of analepsis (ἀναδραμόντες ἔτι τοῖς χρόνοις, 1.12.6),¹⁹ and tells his readers not to be surprised if the narrative goes backwards in time in order to present the earlier history of the most important nations (ἐάν που προσανατρέχωμεν τοῖς χρόνοις, 1.12.8), for such an action is vital to provide a clear understanding of the subsequent events. That the third book marks the official beginning of the work is also indicated in another two cases, on both occasions in connection with the historical event that is being dealt with–the Second Punic War, which Polybius announces as ἀρχὴν τῆς ἑαυτῶν συντάξεως in the first case (2.37.3) and as ἀρχὴν τῆς αὑτῶν ὑποθέσεως in the second (3.5.9). The distinction between the introductory books and the narrative proper of Polybius’ work can be further highlighted by comparing their speeds. For the narrative pace in the preliminary section, though not maintained at the same rhythm in both books, is at any rate apparently faster than the speed at which

 On the distinction between external and internal analepses/prolepses see below, ch. 3 n. 32.  It has been observed that ancient scholarship employs terms that are similar to those used by modern narratologists for textual analysis. For discussion and examples see Nünlist 2009, 63 – 83.

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events are recounted in the main part of his work.²⁰ Polybius explains that his policy with regard to the arrangement of his material in the main narrative is to assign two books to each Olympiad, so that, as a rule, each book deals with the events occurring within a two-year period.²¹ Yet this narrative rhythm is not constant; indeed, it could be said that it remains steady only in a few cases since of the nineteen Olympiads covered by the work (if the introductory part is excluded) only seven follow this model, whereas usually, depending on the importance of the events and the amount of the available material, the rhythm may either decrease or increase. So, it is not untypical of a book to correspond to one year only, as do, for example, books 14 and 15, tracing developments in the years 204/3 and 203/2, that is, the climax and end of the Second Punic War, or books 20 (192/1) and 29 (169/8), also narrating conflicts of vital significance (against Antiochus III and Perseus, respectively). Conversely, when the events are less momentous or far-reaching in their influence, the speed may increase to the extent that a single book contains an entire Olympiad, as happens with book 19 (Olympiad 146), book 22 (Olympiad 148), book 25 (Olympiad 150), book 26 (Olympiad 151) and books 30 – 33 (Olympiads 153 – 156). However, the rhythm of the first two books is even faster. The First Punic War (which lasted twenty-three years) is covered in seventy-two pages in the Teubner text and the Libyan War (which lasted three years and four months) in another thirtytwo, while the events narrated in the second book (extending over a period of about eighteen years) are covered in eighty-eight pages. The summary form of the preliminary section, then, may reasonably lead to its being regarded as an external analepsis rather than as an integral part of the story proper.  Polybius repeatedly stresses that the events in the introductory books will be presented in a concise manner (see, e. g., 1.65.5 – 6 (about the Libyan War): ‘For several reasons I think it worth my while to dwell on this war, and, according to the plan I stated at the outset, to give a summary and brief (ἐπὶ κεφαλαίου δὲ καὶ διὰ βραχέων) narrative of it’; 2.1.4 (about the Romans’ wars against the Illyrians and the Gauls): ‘I will now attempt to give a summary view, according to my original project (κεφαλαιωδῶς ἑκάστων ἐπιψαύοντες κατὰ τὴν ἐξ ἀρχῆς πρόθεσιν), of the events immediately following’; 2.14.1 (about the earlier history of the Gauls): ‘I think it will be of use to give some account of these peoples, which must be indeed but a summary one (κεφαλαιώδη), in order not to depart from the original plan of this work as defined in the preface’). All three cases indicate Polybius’ desire to adhere faithfully to his original plan (τὴν ἐξ ἀρχῆς πρόθεσιν), which foresaw that the events in the two introductory books, unlike those in the main part of the Histories, which receive detailed narrative coverage (2.37.3: τῆς ἀποδεικτικῆς ἱστορίας ἀρχώμεθα; 3.1.3: μετ᾽ ἀποδείξεως ἐξαγγέλλειν), would simply be set out in brief (see esp. 1.13.6 – 7: ‘Now to recount all these events in detail is neither incumbent on me nor would it be useful to my readers; for it is not my purpose to write their history but to mention them summarily (μνησθῆναι δὲ κεφαλαιωδῶς) as introductory to the events which are my real theme’).  9.1.1; 14.1a.5.

1.2 The Romans’ first crossing into Sicily (1.6 – 12)

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On the other hand, the Romans’ crossing into Sicily is treated not only as the beginning of the first book (Ὑποθησόμεθα δὲ ταύτης ἀρχὴν τῆς βύβλου τὴν πρώτην διάβασιν ἐξ Ἰταλίας Ῥωμαίων, ‘I shall adopt as the starting point of this book the first occasion on which the Romans crossed the sea from Italy’, 1.5.1), but also as the most suitable beginning for the entire work (οἰκειοτάτην κρίναντες ἀρχὴν εἶναι τῆς ὅλης προθέσεως, ‘an event which I take to be the most natural starting point of this whole work’, 1.12.6). Similarly, in the brief summary of contents provided in the epilogue (39.8), Polybius refers to the beginning of the third book as a fresh start rather than as an official starting point (πάλιν ἀπὸ τούτων τῶν καιρῶν ἀρξάμενοι, 39.8.6). The two beginnings are further justified by the fact that both conform with the genre convention, which requires that a historian should pick up the thread of the narrative at the point where one of his predecessors left off,²² since the Romans’ crossing into Sicily coincides with the ending of Timaeus’ history (1.5.1; 39.8.4), while the military conflicts with which the narrative proper begins after the first two books form the direct continuation of the last events described in the history of Aratus of Sicyon (1.3.2). Besides, even the terms prokataskeue and kataskeue, which may be thought to indicate–to the extent that they refer, respectively, to the introduction and the main part of the work–that the story proper begins with the third book, cannot be relied upon to do this since they are not used consistently: the latter term is employed indiscriminately, sometimes to refer to the main part of the work (‘I must, before entering on the main portion of my work (πρὸ τῆς κατασκευῆς), touch briefly on the state of the principal and best known nations and countries of the world’, 2.37.5) and sometimes to the introductory part (‘Contemporary with this the so-called Cleomenic war was proceeding in Greece, and with this war I wind up my Introduction as a whole (τὴν καταστροφὴν ἐποιησάμεθα τῆς ὅλης κατασκευῆς) and my second book’, 1.13.5). The problem of defining the start of the story becomes more complex once it is realized that the same vagueness concerns not only the beginning of the main part of the work but also the prokataskeue itself. Here too, although an event

 Thucydides’ continuators include Xenophon (Hell. 1.1), Cratippus (Dion. Hal. De Thuc. 16) and Theopompus (Polyb. 8.11.3). Xenophon (Hell. 7.5.27) presumes that some later historian will assume the duty of continuing his history from the point where he left off, while Polybius in turn, who continues the works of Aratus (1.3.2– 3; 4.2.1) and Timaeus (1.5.1; 39.8.4), also has his own continuators: Posidonius (FGrH 87 T 1: ἱστορία ἡ μετὰ Πολύβιον) and Strabo (FGrH 91 T 2: τὰ μετὰ Πολύβιον). The same practice also occurs in Roman historiography where, for example, Sallust continues Sisenna and Ammianus Tacitus. Detailed discussion in Canfora (1971) 1999, 61– 91 and Marincola 1997, 237– 57; see also ibid., 289 – 91 for genealogical tables of Greek and Roman continuators.

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lying within the 129th Olympiad (264 – 260) is chosen as the starting point (the Romans’ first military expedition in Sicily), the narrative goes back a long way in time with an analepsis recounting the Romans’ earlier history and the reason for their crossing over to the island. Again, both the newly selected starting point (Rome’s capture by the Gauls) and the previously selected one (the Romans’ crossing into Sicily) satisfy the requirements set by Polybius for the beginning of a historical work, i. e. that it should be agreed upon and recognized by all: the first is determined on the basis of events familiar to the Greeks of mainland Greece (the sea-fight at Aegospotami, the battle at Leuctra and the Peace of Antalcidas) as well as to those of southern Italy (the victory of Dionysius the Elder at the Elleporus); while the second continuing the history of Timaeus. This time, however, Polybius, being well aware how difficult, if not impossible, it would be to discern the beginning of his work because of the repeated analepses, promises that he will present these events ‘without comment’ (ψιλῶς): ‘for if I were to seek the cause of the cause and so on, my whole work would have no clear starting point and principal’ (1.5.3.). Polybius’ uncertainty in establishing a clear beginning for his narrative may well be taken as reflecting the lack of steadiness of the foreign policy of Rome during the early stages of her expansion, as displayed at the outbreak of the First Punic War, most conspicuously in the debate over Messana, contrasting with the unwaveringly confident narratorial control we find marking Rome’s physical control of subsequent events. Be that as it may, the large number of external analepses in the introductory part of the prokataskeue is certainly the most direct proof of Polybius’ concern with beginnings, allowing him to start his history with an event that cannot be disputed (1.5.5). It also enables him to thematize the ideas he will employ to interpret the unique event that forms the central focus of his history, the expansion of Roman rule. Thus, the Gauls’ capture of Rome (387) is selected as his new starting point because it assists him in his attempt to highlight certain qualities of the Romans that paved the way for their future accomplishments, such as the vigilance they display in the face of difficult circumstances and their ability to overcome even the most terrible adversities. As a matter of fact, Polybius seems to confirm this by acknowledging that his purpose in making the survey of earlier Roman history was to show how the Romans, despite having almost lost their own country, warded off the danger and, once they had become masters of Italy, began to plan expeditions beyond its borders (1.12.7). At that time, in the general havoc, with the Gauls under Brennus having captured all of Rome itself except for the Capitol, the Romans did not resign themselves to their fate but escaped ruin–we are not given details, at least at this point, but are merely told that, once they had signed a treaty, they once again beyond all expectation (ἀνελπίστως, 1.6.3) became masters of their own

1.2 The Romans’ first crossing into Sicily (1.6 – 12)

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country–and their recovery was so impressive that they not only consolidated their rule but went on to extend it over almost the whole of Italy.²³ Another theme introduced here to explain Rome’s rise to world dominion is the experience and battle-worthiness of her army. The Romans through their bravery and their fortune in war (διά τε τὴν ἀνδρείαν καὶ τὴν ἐν ταῖς μάχαις ἐπιτυχίαν, 1.6.4)²⁴ emerged victorious from an endless series of conflicts. Thus having gained considerable experience in the art of war (ἀθληταὶ γεγονότες ἀληθινοὶ τῶν κατὰ τὸν πόλεμον ἔργων, 1.6.6), they repulsed Pyrrhus, driving him out of Italy for good.²⁵ The succinct narration of these conflicts serves to replicate the Romans’ unrestrained progress: their wars against the Etruscans, Celts and Samnites are all mentioned together in a single sentence, and before the end of the chapter their power appears to have spread over the whole of Italy (γενόμενοι δὲ παραδόξως ἁπάντων ἐγκρατεῖς καὶ ποιησάμενοι τοὺς τὴν Ἰταλίαν οἰκοῦντας ὑφ᾽ αὑτοὺς πλὴν Κελτῶν, 1.6.8). Polybius, then, at the very beginning of his narrative, in recounting the Romans’ early accomplishments in Italy, reveals the various means by which they acquired their empire and at the same time gives his readers some sense of what to expect. Themes like those above, which are repeated and further developed in the work, promote the coherence of the narrative by highlighting links and firm connections between its different segments. They also convey the work’s key ideas, reiterating them and helping readers assimilate them. Next, I will focus my attention on the section that traces the capture of Rhegium and Messana (1.7– 12.5). Since a number of the work’s main ideas are introduced in this section, such as the perils faced by a state relying on mercenaries and not on its own  This is essentially a paralipsis since Polybius prefers to temporarily gloss over the reason for which the Celts were forced to withdraw so that he can reveal it at a later, more suitable point (2.18.3). See the relevant discussion below, pp. 50 – 51.  Cf., however, 1.63.9 – 64.1, where Polybius categorically states that the Romans’ success was not due to fortune but to the fighting experience they had gained through facing all kinds of danger (‘This confirms the assertion I ventured to make at the outset that the progress of the Romans was not due to chance and was not involuntary, as some among the Greeks choose to think, but that by schooling themselves in such vast and perilous enterprises it was perfectly natural that they not only gained the courage to aim at universal dominion, but executed their purpose’), with the remarks of Walbank 1957 ad loc. On Polybius’ concept of fortune cf. Pédech 1964, 331– 54; Walbank 1972, 60 – 65; Roveri 1982; Hau 2011.  Cf. 2.20.9 – 10: ἐξ ὧν πρός τε Πύρρον ἀθληταὶ τέλειοι γεγονότες τῶν κατὰ πόλεμον ἔργων συγκατέστησαν, ‘owing to this, when they met Pyrrhus they had become perfectly trained athletes in war’. Polybius very frequently likens the warring sides to athletes (e. g. runners (16.28.9), boxers (1.57; 27.9.2; 39.1.8) or wrestlers (29.8.5, 8.9; 38.18.8 – 9)). The relevant passages are gathered together in Wunderer 1909, 55 – 60 and de Foucault 1972, 229, 331. For further discussion and bibliography see Davidson 1991, 14– 16.

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strengths, and the priority that self-interest takes over morality in the exercise of political power, its analysis provides a very good opportunity to demonstrate how these recurrent themes work in practice. More specifically, I will show how the theme of the mercenaries’ lawless activities serves to mark both the beginning and end of the narrative proper in the first book, bringing it full circle, and how this same section introduces some further elements that are of interest to Polybius in his effort to explain to his readers the character and preconditions of Roman expansion.

1.2.2 Rhegium and Messana: The issue of mercenaries The capture of Rhegium and Messana is the first extensive narrative section in the work. Messana had been seized by Agathocles’ dismissed mercenaries, Italians from Campania known as Mamertini, who coveted the area’s beauty and wealth. The Mamertines found imitators in a Roman-Campanian force in Rhegium, who had been invited in by the city’s own inhabitants. In both cases the invaders are portrayed as treating the local residents in a cruel manner. In relating the events in question, Polybius creates a complex narrative involving several characters: apart from the Mamertines and the Roman mercenaries, an active part in the action is also played by the Syracusans, who are irked by the presence of the Campanians and seek to drive them out, and the Romans who intervene both in Rhegium and Messana. And yet, the only figure that stands out in the description of these events is Hiero, the tyrant of Syracuse who also plays a role at the beginning of the First Punic War.²⁶ Meanwhile, Hiero’s dealings with his compatriots give way to an analepsis, which provides information on his past actions. Thus, we see him successfully confronting issues threatening social cohesion in Syracuse and thereby gaining a reputation for being intelligent and magnanimous (1.8.3 – 9.2). Even though the analeptic character of this information would normally oblige the narrator to

 Hiero makes a treaty with the Romans and provides them with important provisions, thus strengthening them in their fight against the Carthaginians (cf. 1.16.4– 17.1 and 1.18.11, where it is mentioned that the Romans would have raised the siege of Agrigentum if they had not had Hiero on their side). Yet, as I suggest in what follows, another function of the digression on Hiero is to enable Polybius to thematize a basic idea of the narrative which holds that the recruitment of mercenaries usually promises nothing but problems and perils for those who trust them. This theme reaches a climax in the concluding narrative section of book 1 with the account of the socalled Truceless or Mercenary War (66 – 88). Thus, the analepsis is significant both thematically and structurally.

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keep it brief, he is in no hurry and focuses on an incident that stresses Hiero’s leadership qualities. He specifically describes the way in which the Syracusan leader dealt with the rebellious tendencies of certain disgruntled mercenaries in his army, and, in particular, the trap that he set for them. In a battle against the Mamertines, Hiero carefully kept back his cavalry and infantry, consisting of citizens, and placed the mercenaries in the front line, though not, as one would expect, in order to attack the enemy with the rest of his army from a different direction but in order to abandon them so that they would be wiped out by their rivals, as did indeed happen (1.9.4). Polybius’ approval of this tactic does not so much corroborate his image as a pragmatic thinker as confirm his denunciation of mercenaries in general.²⁷ His stance towards Hiero should be considered in conjunction with the negative role that mercenaries appear to play in the Histories as a whole and in the first book in particular. The reasons for which Polybius thematizes the problem of mercenaries so emphatically can be better understood if one bears in the mind the fact that in his day the recruitment of mercenaries was a very widespread practice²⁸ and that one of his purposes in writing history was to offer practical advice to young men who were interested in pursuing a career as a military officer.²⁹ It is noteworthy that his views on this subject, whenever it recurs in the narrative,³⁰ seem to be in perfect accord with the attitude he adopts in the first book. Mercenaries are repeatedly shown to have certain characteristics in common with barbarians, features that are more like those of wild beasts than civilized men, such as brutality, ferocity, greed, and ignorant savagery.³¹ They thus constitute a rude, untamed force, one that is not only useful in battle but also capable of wreaking havoc, and this is why military commanders should avoid depending on their assistance when planning their campaigns. The structure of the opening section has been carefully designed. The Hiero episode, though it begins analeptically, concludes by bringing the situation at Messana back to the fore; it thus eases the transition between the analeptic digression and the main story, enabling Polybius to pick up the thread of his nar-

 Cf. Eckstein 1995, 90 – 91.  For a detailed discussion of Polybius’ depiction of the role of the mercenaries at this period see Eckstein 1985, 125 – 29, where also more literature.  That Polybius, among others, addresses aspiring commanders is clear from many passages: cf., e. g., 9.12– 20; 11.8.1– 3. On Polybius as a military writer see Marsden 1974, 269 – 301.  Cf., e. g., 5.30.1; 13.6.3 – 4; 15.25.11; 16.37.5 – 7; 34.14.2– 3.  Cf, e. g., 1.67.4– 7; 1.81.5 – 11.

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ration from where he had left off.³² But its main contribution on the level of narrative structure concerns the overall architecture of the first book and lies in the way it serves as a taste of things to come. Indeed, both at the beginning (1.7– 12) and the end (1.66 – 88) of the first book we follow stories in which mercenaries are involved. The atrocities committed against the inhabitants of Messana by the Mamertines may be considered as replicating in miniature the gruesome deeds of the Carthaginians’ mercenaries in the so-called Truceless War. Like Hiero, the Carthaginians experience problems with the mercenaries they recruit in order to cover their needs in the First Punic War. Unlike Hiero, however, the Carthaginians, who are weary of war, do not manage to prevent the revolt of their mercenaries. So the situation spins out of control, divisions deepen and spark off a new and fiercer war, during which various barbaric acts are committed by both sides. Despite the different turn taken by events, readers can discern the analogies linking the end of the first book with its beginning. The outcome of these adventures is comparable, too, as in the last story the revolt, for all the major problems it causes, is eventually suppressed and the Carthaginians’ grip on power is restored. These similarities in theme show the balanced and symmetrical relationship existing between the outset and the end of the narrative in the first book. The book’s structural design could be described as a circle whose circumference is formed by stories that revolve around the issue of the problems caused by the employment of mercenaries, and at whose centre lies the great adventure that led to the conflict between the Romans and the Carthaginians. The opening and concluding narrative segments in the first book mark the boundaries of this adventure, after which Rome starts to envisage the prospect of expanding her rule over the entire Mediterranean world.³³ The opening episode serves as a prologue to this adventure by introducing us to the Romans through their double intervention, while the concluding episode serves as an epilogue by turning our attention to their great rivals, the Carthaginians, who are hard hit by their defeat in the First Punic War, though not irremediably so, since even before the first book has ended, we see them emerge victorious from an even tougher

 Walbank 1957, 55: ‘The Syracusan attack of 8.2 is not to be distinguished from the situation in 10.1’.  It cannot be said with certainty exactly when the Romans embraced the ambition to rule the world (τῆς τῶν ὅλων ἐπιβολῆς, 3.2.6). The prevailing view is that this occurred at a very early date, most likely after the First Punic War. See, e. g., Walbank 1972, 161, and cf. 1.3.6 – 7; 9.10.11; 15.9.5; and 15.10.2. See, however, the objections of Derow 1979, 2– 4, who argued that this plan, regardless of when it was conceived, was only put into effect after the Romans’ victory in the Hannibalic War.

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ordeal. Thus, the narrative of the first book also prepares us for what is to follow in the main part of the Histories: opposite Rome stands an equally powerful and unyielding adversary, Carthage. The theme of the dangers inherent in the recruitment of mercenaries lends a useful sense of unity and cohesion to the first part of the prokataskeue, despite the diversity of its subject matter and the eventfulness of its plot. It also helps Polybius interpret both the result of the First Punic War and the final outcome of the conflict between the two rivals by highlighting a profound weakness in the Carthaginian military. The opposing sides in this conflict are shown to be approximately equal in power. Their most important difference lies in that the Carthaginians, unlike the Romans, employ mercenary forces and do not rely entirely on their own strengths. Polybius’ comparison of the two states in his presentation of the Roman constitution makes this very clear (6.52.4– 5): ‘… the troops they employ are foreign and mercenary, whereas those of the Romans are natives of the soil and citizens (ἐγχωρίοις καὶ πολιτικαῖς). So that in this respect also we must pronounce the political system of Rome to be superior to that of Carthage, the Carthaginians continuing to depend for the maintenance of their freedom on the courage of a mercenary force but the Romans on their own valour and on the aid of their allies’.

1.2.3 The intervention of Rome Although a considerable period elapsed between the coup at Messana (288) and that at Rhegium (280),³⁴ the two events are introduced in the narrative as occurring one after another. Polybius’ wording (παρὰ πόδας, 1.7.5) might be justified as contributing to the dramatic impact of his narration.³⁵ Nonetheless, it also indicates his intention to draw parallels between these two incidents in order to encourage a deeper understanding of their relationship through their juxtaposition. For this reason, Polybius makes sure to emphasize at the outset of his account that the two situations are comparable (Ἴδιον γάρ τι συνέβη καὶ παραπλήσιον ἑκατέραις ταῖς περὶ τὸν πορθμὸν ἐκτισμέναις πόλεσιν, ‘For very much the same fortune had befallen the two cities on the Straits’, 1.7.1). Indeed, the fortunes of Rhegium and Messana are shown to be connected to each other in many different ways. First of all, both of them are seized by men who covet their natural beauty and wealth (1.7.2, 7.8). Next, in both cases the cap-

 For the dates cf. Walbank 1957, 52; and Hoyos 1998, 37; 2011, 137– 38.  Thus Hoyos 2011, 138.

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ture of the city is accomplished by treacherous and deceitful means, since those who take over Messana enter purportedly as friends (1.7.3), while those who occupy Rhegium do so at the request of the local residents in order to repulse the threat of raids by Pyrrhus, who was then crossing over to Italy, and the Carthaginians (1.7.6). Moreover, in both cases the Campanians play a role in the planning and realization of the venture. The mercenaries that seize Messana originate from Campania, as does Decius, the leader of the Roman-Campanian force invading Rhegium (1.7.7). We are also told that Decius’ men draw the inspiration for their plan to take over Rhegium from the Mamertines and cooperate with them in its implementation (1.7.8). And when they finally complete their mission they treat the people of Rhegium just as cruelly as the Mamertines treated the Messanians. We hear specifically of the inhabitants of both cities’ misfortunes, including imprisonments, massacres and expulsions (1.7.3, 7.8).³⁶ Yet, along with the similarities, there seems to be a decisive difference in the way the Romans respond to these two situations. Angered though they are at the treacherous seizure of Rhegium, they are unable to take any action so long as they are occupied with a series of wars in Italy (1.7.9). But as soon as they settle their affairs, they turn their arms against their rebellious soldiers and lay siege to the town. Despite the fierce defence offered by Decius’ men, they finally manage to reduce Rhegium and restore it to the survivors of its former residents (1.7.13). The mutineers are punished in an exemplary fashion: those who are captured alive are sent back to Rome and there they are condemned to death by order of the Roman people (1.7.12). The reduction of Rhegium precipitates another crisis. For the Mamertines, deprived of the useful alliance of the Romans at Rhegium, cannot hold out against Hiero. Thus, after being shattered at the Longanus, they send an embassy to Rome with an appeal for help against the Syracusans which eventually succeeds (1.10 – 11). The Romans’ decision to furnish aid to

 Yet, in 2.56.7– 10 Polybius launches an extended attack on Phylarchus for having presented the pillage of Mantinea by Antigonus Doson, Aratus and the Achaeans in 223 in a manner befitting a tragic poet rather than a historian. Specifically, he argues that Phylarchus merely sought to give his readers some passing amusement by unfolding a number of heartrending scenes before their eyes (2.56.8: ἀεὶ πρὸ ὀφθαλμῶν τιθέναι τὰ δεινά). It is worth mentioning that this criticism, combined with a fragment from the third-century historian Duris of Samos (FGrH 76 F 1) and a passage in Diodorus (20.43.7) possibly drawn from Duris (see, e. g., Kebric 1977, 40), formed the theoretical basis for the arguments, and to a large extent the conjectures, of the critics who supported the existence of a school of ‘tragic history’ in the Hellenistic era. For discussion and scholarship see Meister 1975, 109 – 26; Sacks 1981, 144– 70; and Fornara 1983, 124– 34; see also the remarks of Gray 1987, 467– 86. For other instances of Polybius’ succumbing to sensational writing see Walbank 1972, 39 – 40; McGing 2010, 72– 73.

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the Mamertines stands in surprising contrast to their preceding harsh punishment of the coup-makers at Rhegium. The account of these events is notable for its chronological compression.³⁷ Its six chapters cover a period of approximately 23 years. And the elasticity of its time-terms (e. g. ‘very soon’ (παρὰ πόδας, 1.7.5); ‘not long before’ (χρόνοις οὐ πολλοῖς πρότερον, 1.8.3)) enhances the obscurity stemming from its summary form. Polybius’ vagueness about chronology may be attributed to his interest in causality.³⁸ It has also been thought to conceal Rome’s delayed response to the coup at Rhegium.³⁹ But rather than suggesting a quick reaction on the part of the Romans, Polybius stresses instead the obstacles they had to overcome before they could turn their attention to Rhegium (1.7.9). Although this may be taken as providing some justification for their delay, it seems understated compared with the way Dionysius of Halicarnassus presents (in a noticeably proRoman vein) the rapidity of the Roman intervention in the version of the same incident he reports in his Roman Antiquities: ‘The senate, upon learning from those who had escaped destruction the calamity that had befallen the Rhegians, did not delay for even a moment (οὐδὲ τὸν ἐλάχιστον ἀναμείνασα χρόνον), but sent out the general in the city at the head of another army which had just been enrolled’ (20.5.1) (trans. E. Cary). Polybius’ version, unlike Dionysius’, does not present an untarnished image of the Romans. It has been suggested that its emphasis on Campanian crimes is intended to exonerate Rome from her responsibility for the behaviour of her Campanian soldiers at Rhegium.⁴⁰ But Polybius does not emphasize that the mutineers were Campanians, as he constantly refers to them as Romans (1.6.8: … τοὺς τότε κατέχοντας τὸ Ῥήγιον Ῥωμαίους; 1.8.1: … συνεχρῶντο τῇ τῶν Ῥωμαίων συμμαχίᾳ τῶν τὸ Ῥήγιον κατασχόντων).⁴¹ Besides, his revelation of the selfish

 See Champion 2004, 106: ‘There is a great deal of chronological compression here’; Hoyos 2011, 138: ‘The major problem with his account is compression to the edge of obscureness’.  See Petzold 1969, 139 – 49.  Cf. Champion 2004, 106: ‘Rome’s tardy response at Rhegium is camouflaged by the rapidity of Polybius’s narrative’ and 107: ‘Of vital importance for Polybius’s representation of Roman collective group character is the fact that his narrative glosses over the time lag between the Campanians’ seizure of Rhegium and Rome’s punitive action against them. His narrative suggests swift Roman retribution against transgressors of justice; the historical interval, of course, compromises any such picture’.  Champion 2004, 107: ‘Polybius rather emphasizes Campanian enormities at Rhegium and Messana, thereby relieving Rome of any responsibility for the excesses of Campanian troops in its service’.  Cf. 1.10.4: ‘For they had just inflicted on their own fellow-citizens (τοὺς ἰδίους πολίτας) the highest penalty for their treachery to the people of Rhegium …’. If Polybius had wanted to

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motives of the Romans in punishing their soldiers undermines the positive impression created by their reduction of Rhegium and lays bare their self-seeking priorities. It thus sets forth the notion of Rome as a strong, highly ambitious state concerned not so much with the preservation of law and order as with advancing its own interests. Indeed, so far from being moved by their commitment to any noble idea of justice, the Romans are shown to act merely out of their desire to regain the trust of their allies (1.7.12– 13). Hints at the self-interestedness of Roman foreign policy are also felt in the presentation of the debate over the Mamertines’ appeal for aid. The prospect of approving it caused understandable uncertainty in the Senate. Helping the Mamertines would be embarrassing for the Romans, especially in the light of their recent harsh punishment of their Campanian mercenaries. Yet, there was a common perception among them, Polybius says, that if the Carthaginians managed to conquer Messana–something that would no doubt happen if the Mamertines received no aid–they would very soon control the whole of Sicily turning it into a stepping stone to Italy (1.10.7– 9).⁴² Carthage, who was already a power to be reckoned with, if it added Sicily to its dominion over the other islands and its possessions in Spain, might be expected to constitute a greater threat. The Romans, then, found themselves faced with the dilemma of either taking action to assist those who were as culpable as the Rhegium’s occupiers or to stand by and allow the Carthaginians to cross into Sicily and take it over. Again, their initial indecision is resolved on a pragmatic basis: The commons (οἱ δὲ πολλοί), however, worn out as they were by the recent wars and in need of any and every kind of restorative, listened readily to the military commanders, who, besides giving the reasons above stated for the general advantageousness of the war (περὶ τοῦ κοινῇ συμφέρειν τὸν πόλεμον), pointed out the great benefit in the way of plunder which each and every one would evidently derive from it (καὶ κατ᾽ ἰδίαν ἑκάστοις ὠφελείας προδήλους καὶ μεγάλας). They were therefore in favour of sending help (1.11.2– 3).

exempt Rome from her share of responsibility for the appalling behaviour of her mercenaries at Rhegium, he probably would have emphasized their Campanian origin and refrained from calling them Romans, as did Dionysius of Halicarnassus in his account of the same events in his Roman Antiquities (20.4– 5). But the only hint of the mercenaries’ Campanian origin that we have in the Polybian text is that their leader Decius was Campanian (1.7.8).  This scenario has been considered extremely unlikely. Cf., e. g., Gelzer 1933, 151; and Hoyos 2011, 140: ‘a garrison in Messana probably under a thousand strong could hardly be viewed as evidence of an imperialistic design on Italy’. Indeed, as I argue below (§4.2), the Romans here seem to do no more than to project their own way of thinking onto their adversaries. For a full discussion of the debate at Rome see Hoyos 1985, 47– 66.

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Interestingly, their desire for profit is presented as a motivational force potent enough to override all other concerns, including those related to the impact the apparent inconsistency in their decision making may have on their allies. In claiming that οἱ πολλοί eventually favoured the appeal, Polybius created ample scope for scholarly disagreement. Several attempts have been made to elucidate whether the phrase is used to denote ‘the many’ voting in a popular assembly or a majority in the Senate. Their results are almost equally divided between the two options.⁴³ Champion argues that the imprecision of Polybius’ language obscures the identity of those involved in the ratification of the aid, thus leaving the ‘ultimate responsibility for the first Roman crossing overseas indeterminate’.⁴⁴ It, moreover, serves to uphold the ‘image of the Senate at the outbreak of the war as a monolithic block exercising temperance and restraint, goaded into action only by the threat of external aggression’ (109). However, it is clear that the responsibility for this decision, regardless of whether it was taken by the Senate or a popular assembly, is shown to rest with the Romans. Besides, we cannot possibly know to what extent this ambiguity was actually intended by Polybius or even perceived as such by his contemporary readers. The notion that the account of these events stresses Carthaginian aggression in order to present Rome’s decision as an act of ‘defensive imperialism’ is also questionable. The threat from the enlargement of Punic territorial possessions is focalized through the Romans. Polybius nowhere explicitly refers to Punic expansionist designs to Italy, nor does he recount any event which could have impelled the Romans to take actions for their own defence.⁴⁵ Instead, his depiction of the growth of the Romans’ ambitions after the fall of Agrigentum draws attention to their adopting the same sort of behaviour they attribute to their opponents: When the news of what had occurred at Agrigentum reached the Roman Senate, in their joy and elation they no longer confined themselves to their original designs and were no longer

 The background to this debate is recounted by Walbank 2002, 22. The problem, originally posed by Develin 1973, 121– 22, was discussed in the proceedings of two seminars organized by Professor Calderone in the University of Messina in 1976 and 1981. After initially disagreeing, the participants eventually supported Calderone’s view that the phrase refers to a majority in the Senate. This view was also endorsed by Eckstein 1980, 175 – 90; 1987, 315 – 17, 335 – 40. On the other hand, objections were raised by Hoyos 1984, 88 – 93, who argued that the phrase refers to a popular assembly. His objections were shared by Rich 1993, 56, 62 and Walbank 2002, 22.  Champion 2004, 109  Cf. Harris 1979, 187: ‘However Carthage took no overt action against Rome before the Roman war-decision, and, more significantly, appears not to have raided the Italian coast until the Romans had already laid siege to the main Carthaginian base in Sicily, Agrigentum’.

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satisfied with having saved the Mamertines and with what they had gained in the war itself, but, hoping that it would be possible to drive the Carthaginians entirely out of the island and that if this were done their own power would be much augmented, they directed their attention to this project and to plans that would serve their purpose (1.20.1– 3).

The rapidity with which the Romans are seen to redefine their aims leaves the impression that their earlier reading of Carthage’s expansionist motives was in fact affected by their own way of thinking. Considering the expectations developed so far, the behaviour of the Romans after their initial success is barely surprising. Their acquisitiveness has already been hinted at in the account of the several wars they waged in Italy (1.6.6 – 8). Their decision to undertake these wars in order to extend their rule over the rest of Italy was explicitly related to their conviction that they were fighting not for foreign but rather their own lands (Ῥωμαῖοι … ἐπὶ τὰ λοιπὰ μέρη τῆς Ἰταλίας ὥρμησαν, οὐχ ὡς ὑπὲρ ὀθνείων, ἐπὶ δὲ τὸ πλεῖον ὡς ὑπὲρ ἰδίων ἤδη καὶ καθηκόντων σφίσι πολεμήσοντες, 1.6.6).⁴⁶ The stark juxtaposition of the Rhegium and Messana episodes has drawn readers further into assessing the self-seeking character of the motives governing Roman behaviour. Polybius’ foregrounding of the similarities of these two stories has the effect of making their differences stand out more conspicuously. It thus encourages readers to reflect upon what differentiates the development of the crisis of Messana from that of Rhegium, and more specifically upon the way in which the pursuit of self-interest determines in each case the course of the events as well as the Romans’ reaction. So far from relieving Rome from any moral responsibility, Polybius does not hesitate to forcefully emphasize the more shady aspects of her foreign policy. The narration of these events is significant, even programmatic, in attuning readers’ minds to the sort of motives affecting the behaviour of the Romans in the later stages of the work. Indeed, allured by the prospect of gain, they are seen on several occasions to flout, or turn a blind eye to, justice. In the conflict between the Carthaginians and Massanissa, for example, they side with the latter not because they believe his cause to be just but because they consider it to be in their best interest (αἰεὶ συνέβαινε τοὺς Καρχηδονίους ἐλαττοῦσθαι παρὰ τοῖς Ῥωμαίοις, οὐ τοῖς δικαίοις, ἀλλὰ τῷ πεπεῖσθαι τοὺς κρίνοντας συμφέρειν σφίσι τὴν τοιαύτην γνώμην, 31.21.6 – 7). On the same grounds they reject Demetrius’ just request to return to his kingdom and homeland because the presence of the young and weak Antiochus V on the Syrian throne better serves their interests (οὐ διὰ τὸ

 Therefore, here, I disagree with Champion 2004, 106: ‘In Polybius’s account, Roman wars against Latins, Etruscans, Celts, Samnites and Pyrrhus were defensive struggles for survival that hardened the Romans into great warriors’.

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μὴ λέγειν τὰ δίκαια τὸν Δημήτριον ἔκρινεν τὴν ἀρχὴν τῷ παιδὶ συνδιαφυλάττειν, ἀλλὰ διὰ τὸ συμφέρειν τοῖς σφετέροις πράγμασιν, 31.11.11– 12). Surely, it may be objected that the uncertainty they display in the debate over the Mamertines’ appeal is an indication that their foreign policy at this stage does not present the same degree of amorality that it does later. But it is clear that the crucial issue for the Romans here is not the morality of their decision but the impact it will have on their allies, especially after the sensitivity they displayed in the case of Rhegium: ‘For they had just inflicted on their own fellow-citizens the highest penalty for their treachery to the people of Rhegium, and now to try to help the Mamertines, who had been guilty of like offence not only at Messana but at Rhegium also, was a piece of injustice very difficult to excuse’ (1.10.4– 5).⁴⁷ The Romans’ concern about the effects that their actions might have on their image can be discerned elsewhere too. As already noticed, it lies behind their decision to put to death those of their mercenaries who were responsible for the seizure of Rhegium (1.7.12– 13). It can also be detected in the specious way in which they justify their decision to proclaim war against the Dalmatians, concealing their true motives (32.13). Nowhere, however, is the importance that the Romans attach to their public relations propaganda clearer to see than on the eve of the Third Punic War. Although they had wanted for a long time to embark on this war, they dawdled precisely because they were looking out for a suitable opportunity and a decent pretext to justify them in the eyes of the world (καιρὸν ἐζήτουν ἐπιτήδειον καὶ πρόφασιν εὐσχήμονα πρὸς τοὺς ἐκτός, 36.2.2).⁴⁸ Indeed, as earlier in the debate over Messana, foreign opinion was such an important factor in the making of this decision, that they were divided over the matter and almost ended up not going to war (διὸ καὶ τότε περὶ τῆς τῶν ἐκτὸς διαλήψεως πρὸς ἀλλήλους διαφερόμενοι παρ’ ὀλίγον ἀπέστησαν τοῦ πολέμου, 36.2.4). The account of Rome’s intervention in Rhegium and Messana, then, sets the scene for readers’ understanding of the factors playing a part in the shaping of her foreign policy. Indeed, from the outset of his narrative Polybius raises doubts  Champion 2004, 107 insists on the moral dimension of the dilemma, thus overlooking this point: ‘Yet apparently the questionable morality of Roman aid to the Mamertines prevented the senators from reaching a final decision on the matter’. Harris 1979, 113 correctly points out the role the individual and collective self-interest of the Romans played in their ultimate decision to respond positively to the Mamertines’ appeal: ‘he (sc. Polybius) pays attention to the Roman nervousness about the power of Carthage, but he attributes more importance in the actual decision (made by the people, he says) to the collective and individual benefits that the Romans could expect from helping the Mamertines’.  On this point see Petzold 1969, 45 – 46; Walbank 1979 ad loc. For Polybius’ view of the role of pretexts in the shaping of foreign policy see Baronowski 2011, 73 – 77.

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in his readers’ minds as to her true priorities. And not only does he not conceal the clash between the aspiring superpower’s actual behaviour and its desire to be seen as a state founded upon ethical principles and values, but he takes pains to highlight it. Polybius, of course, was obviously familiar with the idea that any state seeking to expand its power has to obey the dictates of self-interest,⁴⁹ even when these conflict with the code of justice and force it to compromise on its moral principles. Whether he approved of, or at least had a lenient attitude towards, this state of affairs is a question worth asking, but it will not be discussed here. What needs to be underlined is that in the Histories Rome does not appear to develop her expansionist designs after a particular turningpoint in her history,⁵⁰ but from a very early stage she is seen as being set on pursuing a self-interested and acquisitive policy. *** To sum up, readers, however careful they are, are likely to find it difficult to comprehend the intricate architecture of the section that runs from the end of the preface up to the beginning of the First Punic War. Even locating the exact starting point of the narrative, on account of the successive analepses, is not an easy matter. It is clear, though, that the effort put into reading these pages eventually pays off. In this section are set forth several themes and patterns that prove extremely effective in their capacity to help readers understand the reasons for the expansion of Roman rule. Some of these patterns, such as the value of relying on one’s own strength and the dangers inherent in employing mercenaries, are used to link the beginning of the first book with its end; yet others, such as the Romans’ vigilance in the face of adverse conditions, or the priority self-interest takes over morality in their foreign policy making, recur throughout the work. All of them, however, through the reader’s progressive familiarization with the ideas they convey, make the account more convincing and also raise certain ex-

 Cf. Walbank 1972, 165.  Modern historians usually locate it in the new balance of power that emerged in the East as a result of the treaty of alliance contracted between Philip V of Macedon and Antiochus III of the Seleucid Empire. This hypothesis was first put forward by Holleaux 1921 (see also Griffith 1935, 1– 6; Walbank 1940, 127– 28; Stier 1952, 101– 4; Albert 1980, 104– 6; Chamoux 2002, 114) and more recently revived by Eckstein 2008, esp. 129 – 50. A contrary view was expressed by Harris 1979, who believed that the Romans from the outset were pursuing an expansionist policy in keeping with their belligerent and aggressive character. The historians influenced by Harris’ view include North 1981; Rowland 1983; Rawson 1986; Mandell 1989, 1991; Derow 1989, 1991, 2003; Raaflaub 1996; Rosenstein 1999, 193 – 205; and Cambell 2002, 167– 69. The historicity of the pact was challenged by Magie 1939, 32– 44; Errington 1971, 336 – 54; Habicht 1982, 146; Warrior 1996, 16 – 17.

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pectations which, when they are finally realized, lend the narrative, even in its present fragmentary form, a sense of fulfillment and completeness.

2 The narrative of the prokataskeue The main part of the prokataskeue (1.13 – 2.71) recounts three basic stages in the consolidation and expansion of Roman rule: the wars Rome waged against the Carthaginians, the Illyrians and the Gauls. During the First Punic War the Romans constructed their navy, with which they fought worthily against the Carthaginians, who were masters at sea, and defeated them in their natural element. The examination of the beginnings of Roman naval activity provides Polybius with an opportunity to reiterate and develop further the ideas that he thematized in the introductory part of the prokataskeue. The endurance and vigilance of the Romans are most clearly shown through their ability to deal with adversities at sea. At the same time, Polybius’ even-handed presentation of the warring sides and the comparisons he draws between them cast doubt on the view that in the first few books of his work there is a contrast between the ways in which the Romans and their opponents are presented. The final section of this chapter, which focuses on the account of the conflicts between the Romans and the Gauls, aims to question this view further. In particular, it makes clear that Polybius, far from exploiting the barbaric nature of the Gauls in order to play down the aggressiveness of the Romans, actually highlights the expansionist designs of the latter against the former and does not hesitate to point to Rome’s share of responsibility for the events that occur.

2.1 The First Punic War (1.13 – 63) In opening his account of the First Punic War, Polybius advertises it in a series of imposing phrases. It would be difficult, he claims, to mention any war that lasted so long or involved such large-scale preparations, so many sustained efforts, so many battles and so many sudden reversals of fortune (1.13.11).¹ The magnification of the subject matter is a common practice among ancient historians, and this is certainly not the only occasion in which Polybius draws readers’ attention to the uniqueness of the events he is dealing with. We have already noticed this tactic in the preface to the prokataskeue, which is precisely intended to emphasize the importance of the Histories. Polybius makes claims about the greatness of his subject elsewhere too. For example, at the end of his account of the First

 On the origins and progress of the First Punic War see Harris 1979, 63 – 64, 108, 113 – 14, 182– 90; Caven 1980, 5 – 66; Scullard 1989; Lazenby 1996; Hoyos 1998, 1– 115; and Goldsworthy 2000, 65 – 140.

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Punic War, he repeats his opening assertion using a string of superlatives (πόλεμος ὧν ἡμεῖς ἴσμεν ἀκοῇ μαθόντες πολυχρονιώτατος καὶ συνεχέστατος καὶ μέγιστος, ‘the longest, most unintermittent, and greatest war we know of’, 1.63.4), and reinforces it by claiming that one only had to compare the quantity of ships that were employed at that time with the fleets of Antigonus, Ptolemy or Demetrius, or with the type of ships used in the Persian and Peloponnesian Wars, in order to understand the difference in the sizes of the forces (1.63.7– 8).² The narrative of the Truceless War, i. e. the mercenaries’ revolt against the Carthaginians, also ends with expressions of amplification (πόλεμον, ὧν ἡμεῖς ἴσμεν ἀκοῇ μαθόντες, πολύ τι τοὺς ἄλλους ὠμότητι καὶ παρανομίᾳ διενηνοχότα, ‘it far excelled all wars we know of in cruelty and defiance of principle’, 1.88.7). And the importance of the Romans’ war against the Gauls, which is related in the second book, is expressed in a similar way (κατὰ μὲν τὴν ἀπόνοιαν καὶ τόλμαν τῶν ἀγωνιζομένων ἀνδρῶν, ἔτι δὲ κατὰ τὰς μάχας καὶ τὸ πλῆθος τῶν ἐν αὐταῖς ἀπολλυμένων καὶ παραταττομένων οὐδενὸς καταδεέστερος τῶν ἱστορημένων, ‘a war which, if we look to the desperation and daring of the combatants and the numbers who took part and perished in the battles, is second to no war in history’, 2.35.2). These claims about the greatness of the deeds recall the way Herodotus and Thucydides attempt to draw their readers’ attention to the events they relate. Both of them emphasize the superiority of their subject matter, particularly in comparison with that of their predecessors, and they try to demonstrate it by using superlatives to describe the importance, duration and magnitude (of the conflicts and even of the disasters).³ As we have seen, Polybius also conforms to this tradition, yet at the same time he manages to recast it. Τhis is because he uses the expressions employed by previous historians to exalt their overall subject in relation to the events set out in his two introductory books, thereby placing even greater emphasis on the uniqueness of the events that he treats from the third book onwards, i. e. in the main part of his work.⁴ The account of the First Punic War lives up to the importance of the events that it records. It is indeed an engaging account, one that is capable, through its action-packed plot, of attracting readers’ attention. The events are narrated at a fairly quick pace, with individual episodes following each other in almost con-

 Here too, as in the preface (1.2), we observe Polybius drawing historiographical conclusions through making historical comparisons.  On the development of amplification and its relation to epideictic see Buchheit 1960, 15 – 26. For an illuminating analysis of the types of magnification used by Herodotus and Thucydides see Marincola 1997, 32– 43.  Cf. Rood 2007, 169.

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stant succession and authorial interventions–by the standards of Polybius–kept at a fairly low level.⁵ It is, in other words, an account that displays all the characteristics of an adventure story, namely a great deal of action, constant upsets, and unexpected twists. It is also interesting because some of Polybius’ ideas on the Roman character merely hinted at in the previous narrative meet and merge with the central theme that runs through it, the adventures of the Romans at sea up until the time they acquire a significant naval capacity and are able to defeat their adversaries as a result of it. This theme and its function in the narrative of the First Punic War will be dealt with in the next section.

2.1.1 The theme of naval supremacy That thalassocracy constitutes an excellent source of hegemonic power and material prosperity, and is consequently a fundamental precondition for any state seeking to extend the limits of its power, is an idea that occurs as early as Thucydides, who appears to have been the first to teach it to his readers.⁶ In his Archaeology, the brief review of the distant Greek past which precedes his account of the Peloponnesian War, he closes the presentation of the greatest naval forces in Greek history noting that ‘those who applied their energies to the sea obtained a great accession of strength by the increase of their revenues and the extension of their dominion’ (1.15.1) (trans. B. Jowett). The narrative of the first book highlights the difference between Sparta, who possesses well-trained fighting forces that are dominant on land, and Athens, who, thanks to her navy, has the upper hand at sea and is therefore (owing to the benefits it reaps thereof) more likely to win. This difference between the two adversaries is prominent in Thucydides’ narrative and acts as a sign that gives readers a (misleading) indication of the final outcome.⁷ Thus, obviously, a certain amount of tension is created between the historian’s intimations of what is to come and readers’ retrospective knowledge of what actually happened, yet this discrepancy, as Connor has argued,  On the extremely overt narratorial style of Polybius see below (§5.1).  For an outline of the history of the idea of thalassocracy in greek thought see Momigliano 1942, 53 – 64; 1944, 1– 7.  Cf. Connor 1984: ‘The attitude in Archaeology … deemphasizes land power and stresses the significance of dominating the sea … But at least the modern reader will not miss the thrust of Thucydides’ argument: the early history of Greece shows the importance of naval and financial power. It point to Athens, not to Sparta … Indeed, if Archaeology were our only evidence, we might conclude that Athens should win the war with Sparta … The reader begins the account of the war’s origin with an unanswered question in the back of his mind: What goes wrong? How does Athens fail?’ (33 – 34).

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forms part of the rhetoric of the text and the intellectual challenge Thucydides addresses to his readers.⁸ The theme of naval supremacy also proves to be of crucial importance in the narrative of the First Punic War. Polybius conveys this message to his readers very clearly and at a very early stage when, after the first few engagements between the two opponents and the indisputable successes of the Romans, he maintains that the war was essentially evenly balanced precisely because the Carthaginians were dominant at sea (1.20.6)–an idea that is repeated later, this time in embedded or secondary focalization (1.20.7).⁹ On the same grounds, towards the end of the narrative it is emphasized that a decisive conclusion to the war could only be achieved through a naval conflict, and this realization is twice presented via secondary focalization (1.59.3 – 4, 59.11)–i. e. as a thought expressed by the characters (again the Romans)–and on a third occasion it is suggested by the narrator himself, who proleptically hastens to confirm the reliability of the Romans’ calculations (1.59.5). Polybius uses the technique of multiple focalization to increase the special significance of the message that he wishes to communicate, since it enables him to illuminate it from a number of different perspectives. The employment of this type of focalization, together with the narratorial statement that the account of the First Punic War takes up so much room in the Histories because it allows one to trace the beginnings of Roman naval activity (1.20.8), indicates the importance that Polybius attaches to the theme of thalassocracy both for the organization of his narrative and its reception by his readers. It would be no exaggeration to say that the joints in the account of the First Punic War are essentially constructed with material relating to the Romans’ adventures at sea. Gradually, from the beginning to the end, we follow the impressive attempts of the Romans to tame the sea in order to neutralize the advantage held by the Carthaginians, and when this finally happens it marks the end of the war. Fortune, at the beginning at least, appears to favour them. At the naval Battle of Mylae, in their first confrontation at sea, they succeed in routing their adversaries, and in their natural element at that, although this particular sea battle, because of the devices used by the Romans to grapple the enemy ships, was actually more like a land battle (παραπλήσιον γὰρ πεζομαχίας συνέβαινε τὸν κίνδυνον ἀποτελεῖσθαι, 1.23.6).¹⁰ Yet, although it was achieved in this manner, this highly unexpected success at sea redoubled their enthusiasm for the war (Οἱ δὲ Ῥωμαῖοι παραδόξως ἀντιπεποιημένοι τῆς κατὰ θάλατταν ἐλπίδος, διπλασίως ἐπερ Connor 1984, 32– 36. See, however, the reservations of Rood 1998, 22.  The narrative here is focalized through the Romans. On the use of the term focalization see below, pp. 86 – 87.  For other examples of this topos see Pelling 1988, 283.

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ρώσθησαν ταῖς ὁρμαῖς πρὸς τὸν πόλεμον, 1.24.1). Subsequent events are just as favourable for the Romans. The outcome of the naval battle at Tyndaris is evenly balanced (1.25.5) and once again they emerge as victors in the naval battle at Ecnomus (1.28.12– 13). Soon, however, their efforts at sea become a painful undertaking since, apart from their own inexperience, they also have to contend with the skill of the Carthaginians. Just as the Spartans and the Athenians in Thucydides are renowned for their fighting capabilities on land and at sea, respectively, so too in Polybius, at first, the two adversaries stand out for similar qualities: the Romans for the effectiveness of their land forces and the Carthaginians, who are characterized as undisputed masters of the sea (1.20.5, 20.12– 13), for their naval supremacy, which lies in the special construction of their ships and the experience of their crews. Indeed, thanks to their experience, as well as the speed and manoeuvrability of their ships, the Carthaginians soon prove their technical superiority over the Romans, who are sorely tried both by their rivals’ assaults in the naval battle at Drepana (1.51.3 – 12) and also the series of natural disasters they suffer after their victory at Ecnomus. In 255 their fleet, which has set out from Italy with the aim of transferring all the Romans left in Libya to Sicily, runs into such a violent storm near Cape Pachynus on its return journey that it is almost totally destroyed. In order to emphasize the magnitude of the storm, Polybius states how difficult it would be to give a full description (ὥστε μηδ᾽ ἂν εἰπεῖν ἀξίως δύνασθαι διὰ τὴν ὑπερβολὴν τοῦ συμβάντος, 1.37.1). Instead, he prefers to mention the number of ships affected–only 80 out of the 364 Roman ships survived–and he observes that never before in history has there been a naval tragedy of such proportions (ταύτης δὲ μείζω περιπέτειαν ἐν ἑνὶ καιρῷ κατὰ θάλατταν οὐδ᾽ ἱστορῆσθαι συμβέβηκεν, 1.37.3). Two years later, in 253, while sailing from Panormus to Italy, once again they run into a terrible storm and, as a result, this time lose over 150 ships (1.39.6). Yet the cycle of adversity plaguing the Romans does not even end with this second wrecking of their fleet. In 249 they suffer yet another naval catastrophe, when their fleet is sunk near Camarina and is ingloriously destroyed for the third time (1.54.8).¹¹ So the Romans are at war with the Carthaginians, yet at the same time they are at war with the sea. But while in most cases in which the Romans confront other human forces they manage to succeed (σπανίως ἀποτυγχάνουσι, 1.37.8 – 9), when they have to contend with the sea and the natural elements, often the outcome is disastrous, precisely because of their passionate and impetuous nature:

 On Rome’s use of sea power at this period see Thiel 1954; cf. Rankov 1996.

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The Romans, to speak generally, rely on force in all their enterprises, and think it is incumbent on them to carry out their projects is spite of all, and that nothing is impossible when they have once decided on it. They owe their success in many cases to this spirit, but sometimes they conspicuously fail by reason of it and especially at sea. For on land they are attacking men and the works of man and are usually successful, as there they are employing force against forces of the same nature, although even here they have in some rare instances failed. But when they come to encounter the sea and the atmosphere and choose to fight them by force they meet with signal defeats. It was so on this occasion and on many others, and it will always continue to be so, until they correct this fault of daring and violence which makes them think they can sail and travel where they will at no matter what season (1.37.7– 10).

Polybius’ description of the Roman temperament reminds the way in which the national characteristics of the Athenians are portrayed in the Thucydidean Tetralogy (1.68 ff.).¹² The Romans resemble the Athenians especially in their bold, venturesome spirit, their resourcefulness, and their pursuit of ambitions and adventure activities. Like the Athenians, they are forceful, self-confident and energetic. And their readiness to accomplish their goals at all costs (καὶ τὸ προτεθὲν οἰόμενοι δεῖν κατ᾽ ἀνάγκην ἐπιτελεῖν καὶ μηδὲν ἀδύνατον εἶναι σφίσι τῶν ἅπαξ δοξάντων, 1.37.7) recalls the Athenians’ daring and swiftness in conception and execution of plans (καὶ ἐπινοῆσαι ὀξεῖς καὶ ἐπιτελέσαι ἔργῳ ἃ ἂν γνῶσιν, 1.70.2) that sometimes exceed their capabilities (καὶ παρὰ δύναμιν τολμηταί, 1.70.3). However, whereas in Thucydides the description of the Athenians is effected through the voice of the Corinthians, i. e. as a form of secondary focalization embedded in direct speech, in Polybius the primary narrator interrupts the account in order to insert his comments, which, as they conclude with the remark that they will continue to be borne out in practice so long as the Romans do not change their mentality, assume a prophetic and, in a way, diachronic quality. Paradoxically, what makes the Romans vulnerable is the same trait of their character that so often secures them victory. Thanks to their impetuosity and boldness, they very often manage to escape impending disaster and, what is more, transform it into brilliant success. Nowhere is this virtue more vividly brought out than in the Romans’ naval adventures. Their decision to construct ships in order to bring about an end to the conflict, at a time when they fail to possess

 A comparative analysis of Thucydides and Polybius, despite the contrary view of Pédech 1969, xli – xlii, who did not discern any Thucydidean influence on Polybius, would be very interesting. To my knowledge, however, this topic has until recently received relatively little scholarly attention. For references see Rengakos 2011, 414 with n. 71. Several points of contact between the two writers are discussed in Rood 2012. See also Longley 2012. In Miltsios 2013 I attempt a comparative examination of their introductory books.

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not only the necessary experience but also any suitable ships (1.20.12– 14) to serve as a model for the new fleet (they eventually use for this purpose a Carthaginian vessel they happen to capture (1.20.15 – 16)),¹³ is presented as a proof of their bravery (ἐξ ὧν καὶ μάλιστα συνίδοι τις ἂν τὸ μεγαλόψυχον καὶ παράβολον τῆς Ῥωμαίων αἱρέσεως, 1.20.11). Likewise, when in the shipwreck of 255 they lose almost the whole of their fleet, they do not abandon their aim, despite the discontent caused by the news when it reaches Rome (1.38.5), but recover and within the space of three months manage to build 200 new ships–a stupendous and incredible feat for the time (ὅπερ οὐδὲ πιστεῦσαι ῥᾴδιον, 1.38.6). Therefore, interestingly, Polybius’ presentation of the theme of naval supremacy links the account of the First Punic War not only with Thucydides’ Archaeology (intertextuality) but also with the opening narrative section of the prokataskeue (intratextuality), where, as we have seen, the bravery and daring of the Romans are strongly highlighted, along with their ability to overcome the most harsh adversities.¹⁴ Indeed, the more adventures the Romans have, the more losses they sustain, and the more sorely tried they are by fate, the more obstinate they become and the harder they struggle to achieve their aims. When, in 243/242, having become exhausted by the long war and their previous failures, they decide to fight against the Carthaginians once again at sea, without possessing a fleet or the financial means to acquire one, the funds which the by now empty state treasury cannot grant them are provided by the patriotism and generosity of the wealthier citizens of Rome. They undertake to finance the construction of a completely new Roman fleet and, at their own expense, have a fleet of 200 quinquiremes built (1.59.4– 8)–and they are vindicated by their decision. One single battle, the naval battle at Aegusa, finally determines both the outcome of the war and the victor (1.61.5 – 8), thereby satisfying the expectation that had been cultivated since the beginning of the account that the final chapter of the confrontation between the Romans and the Carthaginians would be written at sea. The theme of naval supremacy is intended to serve as a cornerstone in the plot of the first book of the Histories, and the reason for this is not far to seek: the account of the beginnings of Roman naval activity, apart from the copious information that it provides on this issue, can also be perceived as an attempt on the part of Polybius to explain the phenomenon that he himself advertises in the preface to the prokataskeue as a central theme in the work, the expansion of Roman rule to the entire Mediterranean world (1.1.5). Of all the enterprises un The belief that the Romans displayed a special ability to improve themselves by learning from their opponents was commonly held in Greek and Latin literature of the Hellenistic and Imperial periods. For more on this subject see Walbank 1957 ad loc.  For further details see above, pp. 16 – 17.

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dertaken in the First Punic War, those at sea are certainly the most suitable in this respect as they show the endurance and alertness of the Romans in the face of hardship and portray the traits of their character that played a decisive role in the realization of this unique achievement.

2.1.2 Τhe story of Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’ (1.46 – 47) as Mise en Abyme The foregoing has, I hope, made it clear what purposes the description of the Romans’ naval activity serves in the account of the First Punic War. However, Polybius’ analysis of this theme is of particular interest for yet another reason: it is worth tracing the way in which the Romans finally manage to offset their opponents’ advantage, with the result that their final endeavour at sea, unlike their previous ones, is crowned with success. In what follows I shall attempt to demonstrate that Polybius’ account of this event reflects and reproduces in miniature the overall evolution of Roman naval operations. Half-way through the war, while the Carthaginians are striving to find a channel of communication with their compatriots who are being besieged by the Romans at Lilybaeum in Sicily, the solution to the problem is provided by a skilful seaman from Carthage itself. In 1.46.4– 47.10 we watch Hannibal the so-called ‘Rhodian’ plan and, with the aid of his superbly constructed ship, succeed in breaking the Roman blockade and entering Lilybaeum in triumph, and then return to Carthage, thus providing his country’s government with valuable information and his besieged compatriots with a boost in morale. The Romans, who are amazed by the daring and skill of the ‘Rhodian’, find themselves at an extreme disadvantage since, although they deploy their ten fastest ships, he slips between them and passes them as if they were rooted to the spot (οἷον ἑστῶτα παραδραμὼν τὰ σκάφη τῶν ὑπεναντίων, 1.46.10). Their next efforts to obstruct him, such as their attempt to block the mouth of the harbour with earth (1.47.4), prove equally unsuccessful. Because the narration of Hannibal’s episode is iterative (καὶ τὸ λοιπὸν ἤδη πλεονάκις ποιῶν ταὐτὸ τοῦτο μεγάλην χρείαν παρείχετο, ‘After this he several times performed the same feat and was of great service’, 1.46.13), we do not learn all the details of his activities. We are only informed of what transpires between him and the Romans on the first and last occasions that they confront him. The episode ends with Hannibal falling into the ambush the Romans have set for him (1.47.9 – 10). However, knowing Polybius’ regular tactic of justifying

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his narratorial choices,¹⁵ we realize that he closes it in a somewhat sudden, if not unusual, manner, that is to say, without providing any clarification of the reasons why this episode receives such extensive narrative coverage, or of the role or function it serves in the account of the First Punic War–all he does is to remark that the ship which fell into the Romans’ hands was of superior build (τῆς νεὼς εὖ κατεσκευασμένης, 1.47.10). Later, towards the end of the First Punic War (1.59), when the Romans, following the series of disasters inflicted on their navy, decide to pay for the construction of a completely new fleet out of their own private funds and in this way put an end to the war, we learn that the 200 new quinquiremes are constructed on the basis of the design of the captured ship (τῷ δὲ τοιούτῳ τρόπῳ ταχέως ἑτοιμασθέντων διακοσίων πλοίων πεντηρικῶν, ὧν ἐποιήσαντο τὴν ναυπηγίαν πρὸς [παράδειγμα] τὴν τοῦ Ῥοδίου ναῦν, 1.59.8). This piece of information, which has a retrospective effect as it brings back to the fore the episode involving Hannibal, is disclosed only at the point where it is most relevant. It is a familiar narrative device to withhold certain crucial details from the discussion of a topic with an important bearing on the storyline so that they can be conveyed on a later occasion, at a more opportune moment.¹⁶ If Polybius, while recounting the way in which the ‘Rhodian’’s ship fell into the hands of the Romans, had mentioned that this ship would later serve as the model for the construction of a fleet that would secure Rome supremacy at sea and consequent victory in the First Punic War, we would clearly have a typical case of prolepsis. Although, of course, this is not the case, yet I believe that Hannibal’s episode has a proleptic orientation, which becomes apparent to readers only retrospectively. The reference to the ‘Rhodian’’s ship and its superior build functions as a ‘seed’: by this term–which, for understandable reasons, is most frequently used in detective novels, where it is conventional for an apparently unimportant piece of information to later reveal, in a highly decisive manner, the perpetrator of the crime–narratologists mean any detail whose importance to the outcome of the story is revealed not at the moment it is presented but retrospectively and through the subsequent development of the plot.¹⁷ A pro-

 On this aspect of Polybius’ narrative technique see Marincola 1997, 10 – 11; 2001, 125; cf. also Rood 2004, 149 – 50.  For a discussion of this device and of similar examples in Thucydides see Rengakos 2006a, 287– 88, where also more literature.  ‘Seed’ is an English translation of the term ‘amorce’ that was used by Genette (1972) 1980, 76 – 77 to denote the literary device in question. On the use of the term cf. de Jong 1999, 243 and Nünlist 2009, 68 with n. 15, who also presents two examples from the Homeric scholia which show that the term σπέρμα (‘seed’) was employed with the same meaning by ancient critics too.

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leptic interpretation of Hannibal’s story is, indeed, very likely. And it is made all the more attractive by the fact that this particular episode seems to reflect and reproduce all of the Romans’ naval adventures during the First Punic War. As we have seen, when the Romans attempt to challenge Hannibal’s skill and the agility of his vessel, being the inexperienced seamen that they are, they fail and are humiliated. In the end, however, thanks to their persistence and resourcefulness, they manage to acquire this agile vessel and lay the foundations of their future triumph upon its design. This is exactly what happens in their naval adventures as a whole. In a similar way, the sea, once a devastating threat, eventually becomes a benevolent force and a basic precondition of world domination when they decide to reconstruct their navy on the basis of the ‘Rhodian’’s ship and, this time better prepared, to fight the Carthaginians at Aegusa. Paradoxically, Hannibal’s vessel, which humiliates the Romans and aids their adversaries, becomes the instrument which secures them victory. It is, perhaps, no accident that the Hannibal episode lies roughly in the middle of the account of the First Punic War. Being a reflection of all the Romans’ efforts to gain supremacy at sea, it functions as a mise en abyme,¹⁸ that is, a narrative which reproduces the main story in miniature by mirroring the Romans’ past failures and also preparing readers for their future triumph.

2.1.3 Romans and Carthaginians Episodes like that of Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’, which highlight the activity of a particular character, are rare in the prokataskeue. Those that do exist concern not so much military commanders or consuls (although the latter are usually mentioned whenever they assume power) as ordinary people that intervene in the action and decisively influence the course it takes. A striking case is that of the Lacedaemonian Xanthippus, whose advice to the Carthaginian generals boosts the fighting spirit of their men (1.32.8, 33.2– 4) just after they have sustained two successive defeats (1.28 ff.) and helps them to win a great victory (1.34). The episode of Xanthippus, with its well-planned insertion at this point in the narrative, presents the Carthaginians as gaining a clear advantage over their rivals, thus creating a twist in the plot which, though temporary, arouses

 Despite criticisms and revisions (see, e. g., Ron 1987, 421– 22), Dällenbach’s Le Récit spéculaire 1977 is still the definitive work on the theory of the mise en abyme and the basis for subsequent discussion. Dällenbach (1977) 1989, 8 defines the mise en abyme in its broadest sense as ‘any aspect enclosed within a work that shows a similarity with the work that contains it’.

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the reader’s interest. It also provides Polybius with an opportunity, in concluding the story, to teach his readers that sometimes the advice of just one man is sufficient to alter the course of history (1.35.4– 5). The structure of Xanthippus’ story follows a pattern according to which events are presented in such a way that the anticipated unfolding of the plot is altered drastically by the ‘decisive intervention’ of a certain character.¹⁹ Yet, the Xanthippus episode represents only an exception for the prokataskeue. For here there are few stories relating to individual characters, and even fewer relating to eminent figures. This does not hold true for the main part of the work, in which great leading figures do appear, most of which, like Hannibal, Scipio and Aemilius Paulus, inspire great admiration in the reader. In the prokataskeue, nevertheless, which aims to familiarize the reader with the protagonists of the narrative, attention is focused mainly on highlighting the characteristics of their collective identity and not so much on providing character sketches of individual figures.²⁰ A basic principle in Polybius’ presentation of the Romans is that it acquires its full meaning when it is compared with his presentation of the Carthaginians. Accordingly, the qualities that characterize the Romans should be interpreted in conjunction with those that characterize their adversaries. Extensive space is indeed devoted to the presentation of the Carthaginians and the reason for this is clear. If the account of the Romans’ naval activity is a suitable way of highlighting their boldness, persistence and firm adherence to the purposes they set themselves, another way is to reveal the abilities of their opponents. The worthiness of the defeated lends splendour to the triumph of the victor. Besides, as in this particular case there is no irreversible victory, but the roles of victor and defeated alternate during the course of the narrative (the conflict between the two rivals escalates in the Second and Third Punic Wars, with disastrous consequences for both sides), Polybius has yet another good reason to show that the Carthaginians do not lack the virtues that enable the Romans to gain the upper hand: to make his readers feel that it is worth reading the main part of his work in order to follow the attempts made by these worthy opponents to prevail over each other. The enthusiasm of the Carthaginians for the war, to begin with, is presented as being on a par with the Romans’ impetuosity. Indeed, frequent mention is made of the bravery and boldness that the Carthaginians show in repulsing

 On this see Gribble 2006, 450 – 51.  In the first book of Thucydides, too, as Connor 1984, 24 observed, the emphasis is more on presenting historical facts and their evolution and less on highlighting individual figures and achievements.

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the enemy threat (e. g. 1.23.3, 32.7, 33.5, 40.3),²¹ as well as the zeal with which they prepare their troops for battle (1.17.3, 26.8, 38.1). Notably, this mood does not appear to desert them, even when the balance tilts in favour of the other side. Thus, when they discuss the peace proposals of Marcus Atilius Regulus, having meanwhile been defeated both on land and at sea (and despite the fact that the territorial integrity of their country is threatened by Numidian raids and the plundering forays of the Romans), they refuse to accept the extremely humiliating terms of the treaties and decide to continue the war: ‘The attitude of the Carthaginian Senate on hearing the Roman general’s proposal was, although they had almost abandoned all hope of safety, yet one of such manly dignity that rather than submit to anything ignoble or unworthy of their past they were willing to suffer anything and to face every exertion and every extremity’ (1.31.8). When, later, they learn of the outcome of the naval battle at Aegusa, once again the zeal they show for fighting remains undiminished: ‘Even on hearing of this unexpected defeat the Carthaginians, had they let themselves be guided by passion and ambition, would readily have continued the war, but when it came to a matter of cool calculation they were quite at a loss’ (1.62.1). The great length of the conflict is another undeniable testament to the equal worth of the two opposing sides engaged in it. Polybius uses two similes to convey this message more efficiently. In the first (1.57.1– 7) he compares the combatants with two evenly-matched boxers who, while fighting in the ring, exchange such a constant hail of blows that neither the spectators nor even they themselves can keep count of them.²² In an analogous manner, in the conflict between the Romans and the Carthaginians neither side can prevail over the other and end the war precisely because the forces on both sides are evenly matched (αἵ τε γὰρ δυνάμεις ἀμφοτέρων ἦσαν ἐφάμιλλοι, 1.57.6). The second simile expresses even more vividly the state in which the opponents come to find themselves: ‘We may compare the spirit displayed by both states to that of game cocks engaged in a death-struggle. For we often see that when these birds have lost the use of their wings from exhaustion, their courage remains as high as ever and they continue to strike blow upon blow, until closing involuntarily they get a deadly hold of each other, and as soon as this happens one or other of the two will soon fall dead’ (1.58.7– 9).²³ However, it is not only the similes, images or comments of Polybius that highlight the equality of the two opponents. The pace at which their successes

 Other examples (all from book 1): 45.11, 49.11, 50.11, 58.3.  See above, ch. 1 n. 25.  On the metaphor see Walbank 1957 ad loc.

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follow their failures also confirms it. The twists in the plot are so frequent and so sudden that it is not at all easy to determine, before learning of the final outcome, which of the two sides stands the greatest chance of winning. The Romans prevail at Agrigentum (1.19.9 – 15), the Carthaginians at Lipara (1.21.7– 8); the Romans win in the subsequent naval battle at Mylae (1.23.10 – 24.1), while the Carthaginians are victorious at Thermae (1.24.4). The Romans are victorious again in Sardinia (1.24.6), while the conflict off Tyndaris proves to be evenly matched (1.25.5). Later, although the Romans begin auspiciously with a double victory, one at the naval battle at Ecnomus (1.28.13 – 14) and the other at the battle of Adys (1.30.9 – 15), they are struck by the string of naval disasters mentioned above (1.39.6, 51.11– 12, 54.8). Yet, they recover rapidly and their victory over the Carthaginians at the naval battle of Aegusa marks the end of the war (1.61.5 – 8). We find, therefore, that the victories and defeats of the two rivals alternate in such a way as to produce, if not an absolutely symmetrical pattern, at least a steady pace and an even sequence. Polybius exploits this pattern in order to orchestrate a narrative whose structure reflects the equal strength of the two warring sides. He thus enables readers to follow these events sometimes from the standpoint of the Romans and at other times from that of their opponents. Indeed, the focus does not remain constantly fixed on the Romans, as one might expect it would in the case of the work’s main protagonists; on the contrary, it is constantly shifted, with the result that in some sections of the narrative the action is filtered through the Romans (1.16 – 17.1, 20 – 21.5, 39.7– 15, 52.4– 8) and in others through the Carthaginians (1.24.3 – 6, 30.1– 8, 36.1– 3, 46.1– 7, 62.1– 6). These shifts reach a climax and become more rapid, when the development of a battle is described (1.34.1– 2, 45.11),²⁴ or when the same event is interpreted in a similar or even diametrically opposite manner by the warring sides (1.25.5). In this way, the two opponents are ranked on the same level in terms of the changes in focalization, a fact that promotes the sense of their being evenly matched, since with regard to their almost equal allocation of narrative space, neither appears to have a significant advantage over the other. Given Polybius’ tendency to draw comparisons and seek analogies,²⁵ it is no surprise that the even-handed presentation of the Romans and Carthaginians should lead him to observe similarities between the two in areas that exceed the narrow sphere of their military performances. Already in the first phase of

 Cf. Marincola 2001, 126 with n. 60.  On Polybius’ comparative method in general see Pédech 1964, 405 – 31 and, particularly from the standpoint of comparing the Romans with the Achaeans, Petzold 1969, 34– 90.

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the war the two adversaries are closely linked since they are shown to think and act in the same way, such as when they decide to be more cautious–the Carthaginians in their attacks and the Romans in their foraging for food (Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα συνέβη τοὺς μὲν Καρχηδονίους εὐλαβέστερον διακεῖσθαι πρὸς τὰς ἐπιθέσεις, τοὺς δὲ Ῥωμαίους φυλακτικώτερον χρῆσθαι ταῖς προνομαῖς, 1.18.1)–or when both of them comprehend the impact that the transfer of the theatre of operations to Libya would have on the course of the war: ‘The plan of the Romans was to sail to Libya and deflect the war to that country, so that the Carthaginians might find no longer Sicily but themselves and their own territory in danger. The Carthaginians were resolved on just the opposite course, for, aware as they were that Africa is easily accessible, and that all the people in the country would be easily subdued by anyone who had once invaded it, they were unable to allow this’ (1.26.1– 2). Later, the satisfaction the Romans feel on their victory at Panormus, thanks to which they succeed in making up for their previous setbacks, is matched by the joy that the Carthaginians feel on seeing Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’ break the Roman blockade and land reinforcements at Lilybaeum. Just as the Romans’ gratification derives not so much from the outcome of the battle as from the confidence they gain from capturing the elephants and neutralizing this great advantage of their rivals (Τοῦ δὲ προτερήματος τούτου προσπεσόντος εἰς τὴν Ῥώμην, περιχαρεῖς ἦσαν οὐχ οὕτως ἐπὶ τῷ τοὺς πολεμίους ἠλαττῶσθαι τῶν θηρίων ἐστερημένους, ὡς ἐπὶ τῷ τοὺς ἰδίους τεθαρρηκέναι τῶν ἐλεφάντων κεκρατηκότας, 1.41.1), so, too, the Carthaginians’ delight springs not so much from the aid that arrives as from their awareness of the Romans’ inability to prevent Hannibal’s vessel from entering the harbour (οἱ δ᾽ ἐν τῇ πόλει πάντες οὐχ οὕτως ἦσαν ἐπὶ τῇ τῆς βοηθείας παρουσίᾳ περιχαρεῖς, καίπερ μεγάλην ἐλπίδα καὶ χεῖρα προσειληφότες, ὡς ἐπὶ τῷ μὴ τετολμηκέναι τοὺς Ῥωμαίους κωλῦσαι τὸν ἐπίπλουν τῶν Καρχηδονίων, 1.44.7). It is clear to see that in both cases the manner in which their way of thinking is expressed is common. Of course, stylistic similarities should not be viewed apart from the repertory of expressive means used by the repetitive Polybian narrator.²⁶ Yet, considering the emphasis placed on presenting the Ro-

 The way in which the emotional states of the two warring rivals are expressed in this case calls to mind the device de Jong (1987) 2004, 61 ff. has called ‘presentation through negation’. This is a device that aims to promote interaction between the narrator and his narratees. Here, specifically, it is as if Polybius is addressing his readers and telling them: ‘the Romans were pleased with the way events turned out, but not so much, as you may probably think (and is, for that matter, plausibly expected), because they defeated the Carthaginians, as because they captured their elephants. Similarly, the Carthaginians were also pleased, though not so much for the reason that one (therefore you the reader) would probably expect, namely because they

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mans and Carthaginians in an even-handed manner, it seems reasonable to suggest that these expressions may be selected and employed intentionally so that comparisons are drawn between the two rivals through this way as well. Similarly, if we compare the harsh criticisms that Polybius makes of the leaders of the Carthaginians (1.31.1, 32.2) and the Romans (1.37.1– 6), we will again find noticeable points of contact between them. The leaders of the two opponents are castigated for the miscalculations through which they exposed their men to mortal dangers. The recklessness of the leaders, as a root cause of the disasters suffered by their armies, is stated in an almost identical manner in both cases. The Carthaginians, ‘having thus been twice defeated, shortly before at sea and now on land, in both cases owing to no lack of bravery in their troops, but owing to the incompetence of their commanders (οὐ διὰ τὴν τῶν πολλῶν ἀνανδρίαν, ἀλλὰ διὰ τὴν τῶν ἡγουμένων ἀβουλίαν), had now fallen into a thoroughly difficult position’ (1.31.1). This was obviously because the locations which the commanders selected for engaging in battle were most unsuitable for the elephants and the cavalry, with the result that their troops, without the aid of those forces that in other circumstances would have been able to secure them victory, suffered defeat (αὐτοὺς δ’ ὑφ’ αὑτῶν ἡττᾶσθαι διὰ τὴν ἀπειρίαν τῶν ἡγουμένων, 1.32.2). As far as the Romans are concerned, in a similar way the cause of their naval wreck off Camarina is attributed not so much to fortune as to their leaders (ἧς τὴν αἰτίαν οὐχ οὕτως εἰς τὴν τύχην ὡς εἰς τοὺς ἡγεμόνας ἐπανοιστέον, 1.37.3).²⁷ Because of their overconfidence they paid no heed to the warnings of experienced mariners and kept along the southern exposed coast until they ran into a storm that almost completely destroyed their fleet. In

managed to obtain essential supplies, but because they realized that the Roman blockade of Lilybaeum was not impenetrable’. Of course, it should not escape our attention that in both cases Polybius is making use of a variation of the ‘presentation through negation’ technique. He does not reject one interpretation in favour of another but simply states that the first (and more expected) one is not so valid as the other (οὐχ οὕτως … ὡς). In this way he keeps both interpretations at the fore while, at the same time, promoting that which is not so obvious at the first reading. Thus, Polybius’ message to his readers in the passages in question could be decoded as follows: such was the anxiety of the Romans about the elephants (and, similarly, the anxiety of the Carthaginians about the blockade) that the satisfaction they experienced in managing to overcome it eclipsed even the joy of their overall success. For the ‘presentation through negation’ technique in historiography and, especially, in Thucydides see Hornblower 1994, 152– 58.  Cf. above, n. 26. In addition to an indirect apostrophization, the statement ‘Fortune was not so much to blame as the commanders themselves’ may contain a veiled criticism of certain historical accounts that presented the mass shipwreck at Camarina as the result of bad luck and not poor seamanship. For the use of the ‘presentation through negation’ technique as a vehicle of polemic in historiography see Hornblower 1994, 156.

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their ignorance, ‘they exposed themselves to this great disaster, and were obliged to acknowledge their lack of judgment’ (τότε τὴν αὑτῶν ἀβουλίαν ἔγνωσαν, 1.37.6). These striking correspondences in theme and language reinforce the connection between the warring sides. Time and again, therefore, interest is focused not on portraying contrasts between the Romans and the Carthaginians but on establishing parallels between them. The investigation of the parallels drawn between the opponents would not be complete if we failed to mention that the Romans and Carthaginians are also linked to each other in the narrative through the vigilance and endurance they display in the face of adversity. And, if, of all the disasters that beset the Romans, the most terrible are those at sea, in the Carthaginians’ case the most intractable problems are created by the mercenaries they themselves recruit in order to meet the needs of the war. As essential to the Carthaginians’ success as naval activity is to the Romans, the mercenaries are rarely shown to fulfill the aim for which they have been chosen. They, more often than not, prove to be cowardly warriors and unreliable allies. Besides, many times, on account of their tendency to betray their allies, they end up leading the men who trust them to disaster. During the siege of Lilybaeum some of the most prominent leaders of the mercenaries are said to enter into an agreement with the Roman consul to surrender the town and all the Carthaginians in it. Indeed, the latter ‘very narrowly escaped a complete disaster’ (παρὰ μικρὸν ἦλθον ἀπολέσαι τὰ πράγματα, 1.43.7) as a result of their mercenaries’ treachery. The ‘Beinahe’ of this episode, which–reminding the well-known epic counterfactuals–hints at what would have happened if the treason had not been discovered in time, shows the gravity of the problem caused by the mercenaries.²⁸ However, the ‘decisive intervention’ by the Achaean Alexon (1.43.2) as well as the measures taken by the Carthaginian general when he is informed of the betrayal (1.43.3 – 4) avert the danger and upset the mercenaries’ plans. A more painful experience is that to which the Carthaginians are subjected by their mercenaries during the so-called Libyan or Truceless War, following the end of their conflict with Rome. The narrative of the Truceless War, which occupies the closing section of the first book (65 – 88), is prefaced in a (by now) familiar manner. Again, emphasis is placed on drawing parallels and creating links between the Romans and the Carthaginians (ἴδιόν τι καὶ παραπλήσιον ἀμφο-

 On Homeric counterfactuals see de Jong (1987) 2004, 68 – 81 (‘if not’-situations); Lang 1989; and Nesselrath 1992, ch. 1, esp. pp. 8 – 9, extending de Jong’s analysis (‘Beinahe’-Episoden); see also Morrison 1992. On counterfactuals in Thucydides see Flory 1988, comparing them with counterfactual statements in Homer; and Dover 1988. For a thorough discussion of the use of counterfactuals in Polybius see now Maier 2012a, 103 – 40.

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τέροις συνέβη παθεῖν, 1.65.1). Both of them find themselves having to deal with revolts on the part of their allies and, despite being worn out by the trials of the earlier ordeal, are compelled to open up new fronts, the Romans against the Faliscans and the Carthaginians against their mercenaries. Unlike the Romans, however, who quickly resolve this difficult situation to their own advantage (1.65.2), the Carthaginians do not manage to maintain control. The revolt thus turns into a cruel war (1.65.3 – 4), during which many atrocities are committed. Referring to the slaughter of thirty illustrious Carthaginians and the crucifixion of their general Hannibal on the cross which the Carthaginians themselves had used a little earlier to hang Spendius, the leader of the rebels, Polybius comments: ‘Thus did Fortune, as if it were her design to compare them, give both the belligerents in turn cause and opportunity for inflicting on each other the cruellest punishments’ (1.86.7).²⁹ Nevertheless, it is the mercenaries who outdo their adversaries in terms of atrocities. They represent a barbaric, almost primitive society, one that lies at a far remove from the rules and standards of civilized human behaviour. Their savagery is clearly expressed in the violation of agreements and oaths (1.68.8 – 10, 70.5 – 6) and their inability to communicate (1.67.3 – 12), in the ingratitude with which they treat even their benefactors, such as the Carthaginian general Gesco, whom they do not hesitate to torture and kill, despite the fact that they had themselves chosen him as mediator owing to his integrity (1.68.13, 80.8, 80.12), and–in its most extreme manifestation–in the form of cannibalism (1.84.9, 85.1). Polybius describes the dreadful state they had fallen into in the darkest colours (1.81.5 – 9): ‘No one looking at this would have any hesitation in saying that not only do men’s bodies and certain of the ulcers and tumours afflicting them become so to speak savage and brutalized and quite incurable, but that this is true in a much higher degree of their souls … Similarly such malignant lividities and pudrit ulcers often grow in the human soul, that no beast becomes at the end more wicked or cruel than man. In the case of men in such a state, if we treat the disease by pardon and kindness, they think we are scheming to betray them or deceive them, and become more mistrustful and hostile to their would-be benefactors, but if, on the contrary, we attempt to cure the evil by retaliation they work up their passions to outrival ours, until there is nothing so abominable or so atrocious that they will not consent to do it, imagining all the while that they are displaying a fine courage. Thus at the end they are utterly

 On the nature of the forces involved in the Libyan War, its progress and its presentation by Polybius see Hoyos 2007.

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brutalized and no longer can be called human beings’.³⁰ Any man that does not receive the right education from an early age is prone to display such behaviour and may fall prey to it (1.81.10). The narrative of this revolt reiterates the dangers of relying on mercenaries. In stressing the difficulties the Carthaginians have in suppressing the revolt, it may seem to destroy the balance of power created by the preceding account of the First Punic War.³¹ However, the Carthaginians’ success in defeating the mercenaries is impressive if one considers the problems they have to resolve. Not only do they have no time to recover, as they were expecting to do after the war with Rome, but their hopes are thwarted as they become embroiled in a still more formidable war (μείζονος γὰρ ἐνίστατο πολέμου καταρχὴ καὶ φοβερωτέρου, 1.71.4), at the very moment when they find themselves without sufficient supplies, ships or resources for constructing a navy, and without any allies to aid them since everyone has sided with their adversaries (1.70.9 – 71.7). Worse still, what is at stake in this new war is no longer the expansion of their rule but the defence of the territorial integrity of their homeland itself (1.71.5, 73.7). By showing the Carthaginians emerging victorious from such an ordeal, Polybius brings out their endurance and conveys the message that their conflict against Rome has only just begun. Thus, although the unsavory mercenaries are punished, the book does not close on an optimistic note. The gloomy dissection of human nature that is prompted by the crimes committed during the Truceless War casts a dark shadow over what is to follow.

2.2 The Roman Wars against the Illyrians (2.2 – 12) and the Gauls (2.14 – 35) The importance of the account of the First Illyrian War to forming a clear and lucid understanding of the Histories and the nature of the expansion of Roman rule is underlined from the outset by Polybius when he advises his readers to pay careful attention to the events he is going to relate and not to view them with indifference (ἅπερ οὐ παρέργως, ἀλλὰ μετ᾽ ἐπιστάσεως θεωρητέον τοῖς βουλομένοις ἀληθινῶς τήν τε πρόθεσιν τὴν ἡμετέραν συνθεάσασθαι καὶ τὴν

 For a discussion of the metaphor and of parallels see Walbank 1957 ad loc.  Cf. McGing 2010, 45 – 46: ‘Although evenly fought, the First Punic War did highlight a fundamental weakness in the Carthaginian military–their reliance on mercenaries. And the severe difficulty they had in suppressing the revolt of their mercenaries was far from an impressive display of power’.

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αὔξησιν καὶ κατασκευὴν τῆς Ῥωμαίων δυναστείας, 2.2.2).³² The Illyrians are first introduced through their conflict with the Aetolians over the latter’s siege of Medion. The presence of the Aetolians at the beginning of the second book is justified: it reinforces the connection between its first and last sections. Just as in the first book the beginning and end of the narrative are devoted to the presentation of the Romans and the Carthaginians, respectively, so too in the second book two other opponents, the Aetolians and the Achaeans, mark the boundaries of the narrative, the Aetolians by occupying the first section and the Achaeans the last. Thus, here too, just as in the first book, the beginning and ending of the narrative are deliberately placed opposite each other so that readers can draw comparisons this time not between the Carthaginians and the Romans but between the two Greek antagonists. The first narrative episode in the second book, the siege of Medion by the Aetolians (2.2– 4), clearly holds, both because of its inclusion at this point and also, more importantly, because of its content, a symbolic position not only in the main part of the prokataskeue but also in the Polybian narrative as a whole. This is because this episode introduces a theme that is central throughout the Histories, the divergence that often exists between the characters’ expectations and reality.³³ The Aetolians besiege the Medionians in order to force them to join their league. Their tactic stands in direct contrast to Achaean political behaviour, to which Polybius approvingly refers when, at the beginning of his review of the earlier history of the Achaean League, he argues that its political ideas found many willing supporters among the Peloponnesians, while many others were persuaded to adopt them by argument (πολλοὺς δὲ πειθοῖ καὶ λόγῳ προσηγάγετο, 2.38.7). Indeed, even those who at first opposed its

 Some scholars (e. g. Colin 1905, 24, 29, 49 and Derow 2003, 51– 53) believe that this war was important to Polybius in that it brought the Romans into contact with the Greeks (2.12), while others (e. g. Walbank (1975) 1985, 314 and Eckstein 2008, 32) think that its significance lies in the fact that it constituted a first step towards the new, wider interconnection (συμπλοκή) of political-military events. Of course, these two views are not mutually exclusive.  This idea was deeply embedded in Greek thought and enjoyed wide currency in ancient Greek literature. Stahl (1966) 2003 sees in the discrepancy between the planning of operations and their realization a basic component of the tragic element in Thucydides. Grethlein 2006, 180 – 204 deals with the theme of frustrated expectations in Homer both at the level of the story and of its reception by the reader. I discuss Polybius’ treatment of this theme in Miltsios 2009, 481– 506.

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ideas later changed their minds and embraced them after becoming more familiar with them (2.38.8 – 9).³⁴ The Aetolians, on the other hand, attempt to impose their policy on the Medionians by force (καὶ περιστρατοπεδεύσαντες αὐτῶν τὴν πόλιν, κατὰ τὸ συνεχὲς ἐπολιόρκουν, πᾶσαν βίαν προσφέροντες καὶ μηχανήν, 2.2.7). The case of Medion shows not only their barbaric conduct but also their lack of judgement. They take it for granted that they will succeed and are shown to engage in a totally premature discussion about how they will deal with future developments. They waver and disagree when the outgoing general insists that he should have control over the allocation of the booty and the privilege of inscribing his name on the shields set aside as votive offerings, instead of the general that would be elected in the forthcoming elections (2.2.8 – 9). So it is decided that both the old and the new generals should distribute the booty together and have their names inscribed on the shields (2.2.11). However, at the crucial moment the intervention of the Illyrians, who arrive at Medion as mercenaries of Demetrius II to free the city from the blockade, wholly upsets their plans (2.3.1– 3). Relieved at their unexpected salvation, the Medionians, in order to ridicule their opponents, decide to have their shields inscribed with the message that they were won from the Aetolian general and the candidates for his office (2.4.1– 2). The irony is not lost on Polybius: ‘It seemed as if what had befallen this people was designed by Fortune to display her might to men in general. For in so brief a space of time she put it in their power to do to the enemy the very thing which they thought the enemy were just on the point of doing to themselves’ (2.4.3 – 4). In a similarly ironic vein, Polybius chooses not to name the Aetolian general who was so anxious about his posthumous reputation, as if he does not wish to grant him that which was denied him by fortune and circumstance. The message emerging from the Aetolians’ misfortune is clear. The only thing that justifies Polubius’ decision to state it is his tendency to be explicit and didactic: ‘The unlooked-for calamity of the Aetolians was a lesson to mankind never to discuss the future as if it were the present, or to have any confident hope about things that may still turn out quite otherwise. We are but men, and should in every matter assign its share to the unexpected, this being especially true of war’ (2.4.5).³⁵

 Historical evidence, however, does not fully bear out the idealized picture of the Achaean League portrayed by Polybius. See, e. g., the objections of Champion 2004, 127– 29, where also more literature.  This is a commonplace in Greek literature. For more examples see Walbank 1957 ad loc.

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After their victory at Medion the Illyrians achieve another success by seizing Phoenice in Epirus (2.5.3 – 8) and begin to indulge freely in piracy. Their piratic raids bring about the diplomatic intervention of Rome. Their queen, Teuta, rejects the Roman ambassadors’ ultimatum (2.8.6 – 13) and Rome replies by dispatching a force of 20,000 infantry, 2,000 cavalry and 200 ships. The size of the expeditionary force is disproportionate to its aim.³⁶ The next year Teuta is obliged to sign a treaty that entails the dismemberment of her kingdom (2.12.3). By routing the Illyrians, Polybius says, the Romans averted a danger that threatened all the Greeks (οὐ γάρ τισιν, ἀλλὰ πᾶσι, τότε κοινοὺς ἐχθροὺς εἶναι συνέβαινε τοὺς Ἰλλυριούς, 2.12.6). In comparison with the rapid execution of the Illyrian War, the conflicts of the Romans with the Gauls prove to be a difficult, though useful, experience. Polybius, repeating the comment he made in the first book (1.6.6 – 7), declares that thanks to these conflicts the Romans were prepared both militarily and psychologically to deal with Pyrrhus and then later Carthage (2.20.8 – 10), in the sense that it was impossible for them to see anything more terrible than what they had already experienced. The account of the Gallic Wars begins analeptically by presenting the history of the Gauls and their conflict with the Romans from its very beginning, when Brennus had captured Rome (390), and then, in a series of chronological leaps, returns to the point where the narrative had been interrupted in order to conclude with the crushing defeat of 222/1. But although it goes back to events that have been mentioned earlier (1.6.2– 3), this review of the earlier history of the Gauls does not function as a repetitive but a completing analepsis, for it adds some important information to the narrative.³⁷ It is only now that we learn that the sudden retreat of the Gauls, which had earlier been depicted as an unexpected event (ἀνελπίστως, 1.6.3), has a specific explanation. When the whole of Rome, with the exception of the Capitol, was occupied by the Gauls, the Veneti invaded their territory and forced them to make peace with the Romans so that they could return to their homeland to confront the crisis (2.18.3). The retreat, then, was due to a diversion. The phenomenon of paralipsis, that is, the temporary suppression of certain details that are essential to the subsequent development of the plot, is usually viewed as a means of generating surprise through their revelation at a crucial and more appropriate moment in the narrative.³⁸ However, in this particular case, this interpretation does not suffice; it should be combined with a careful

 Cf. Harris 1979, 195.  On the technique of completing analepsis see de Jong 2007, 6.  Cf. de Jong 2007, 6.

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assessment of the thematic aspects emphasized in both passages. In 2.18 – 20 Polybius seeks to present the earlier history of the Gauls, and therefore the conflict with the Veneti is fully incorporated at this point, whereas in 1.6.2– 3 the focus of interest is immediately centred on the Romans and their ability to emerge victorious in the face of the most terrible adversities. Hence, while in the first case the detail about the Veneti helps to shape the whole, in the latter it would probably succeed in undermining the purpose of the narrative. Thus, Polybius prefers temporarily to suppress the fact that the Romans escaped disaster at the last moment thanks to a twist of fate and not their own abilities; removing it from the Romans’ history, he sees fit to state it later, in a different context, when there is no risk of marring the image of his protagonists he has cultivated so diligently. It has been argued that the accounts of the First Illyrian War and the Gallic Wars highlight the contrast between the defensive and more passive attitude of the Romans and the aggressive, barbaric behaviour of their opponents. The Gauls, to be sure, display many of the characteristics typically associated with ignorant savagery. They inhabit and represent a primitive, uncivilized world that is hostile to scientific and technological progress (οὔτ’ ἐπιστήμης ἄλλης οὔτε τέχνης παρ’ αὐτοῖς τὸ παράπαν γινωσκομένης, 2.17.10). We also read of looting and pillaging (2.17.3, 18.1), of their warlike spirit, which is motivated by greed (2.19.1– 5, 22.2– 6), of their flagrant violation of inviolable codes of practice (2.19.9 – 10), and the uselessness of talk in the face of their wild and unbridled passions (2.21.2, 35.2– 4). The Gauls are barbarians and Polybius states this fact plainly (2.7.12, 15.8 – 9, 35.6).³⁹ As for the Illyrians, although they are not explicitly called ‘barbarians’ like the Gauls, they too are shown to indulge in predatory raids and piracy–i. e. in activities suggesting a primitive stage of social and cultural development. Indeed, their raids are characterized as being unjust (2.8.2) and unlawful (2.11.6). We find, then, that Polybius is quite explicit in his criticism of the Illyrians and the Gauls. But how clear is his intention to contrast the behaviour of the Romans with that of their adversaries in order to play down or camouflage their aggressiveness? It has been argued that here two passages are especially relevant. The first is to be found in 2.11.5 – 6, where Polybius mentions the fact that the Corcyreans, believing that only the Romans were capable of saving them from future raids by the Illyrians, surrendered the Illyrian garrison to them and entrusted themselves to their protection (σφᾶς ὁμοθυμαδὸν ἔδωκαν παρακληθέντες

 For Polybius’ attitude towards the Gauls see Eckstein 1995, 119 – 24, 142, 273, 287; Williams 2001, passim, esp. 79 – 99.

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εἰς τὴν τῶν Ῥωμαίων πίστιν, μίαν ταύτην ὑπολαβόντες ἀσφάλειαν αὑτοῖς ὑπάρχειν εἰς τὸν μέλλοντα χρόνον πρὸς τὴν Ἰλλυριῶν παρανομίαν). Champion points out that in this passage a very bold contrast is drawn between the Roman fides and the lawless behaviour of the Illyrians.⁴⁰ This interpretation implies that the term πίστις is employed here as a mark of Roman benevolence and trustworthiness, thereby denoting the confidence the Romans could inspire in their allies. But the phrase ἔδωκαν σφᾶς εἰς τὴν τῶν Ῥωμαίων πίστιν merely refers to the political act of deditio. ⁴¹ It states, in other words, that the Corcyreans committed themselves to the Romans’ protection so that they could deal with the Illyrian raids more effectively.⁴² Later we also hear of others who entered into Rome’s fides for the same or similar reasons (the Apollonians: ὁμοίως καὶ τούτων ἀποδεξαμένων καὶ δόντων ἑαυτοὺς εἰς τὴν ἐπιτροπήν, 2.11.8; the Epidamnians: Ῥωμαῖοι δὲ καὶ τοὺς Ἐπιδαμνίους παραλαβόντες εἰς τὴν πίστιν, 2.11.10); and the Issaeans: προσεδέξαντο καὶ τοὺς Ἰσσαίους εἰς τὴν ἑαυτῶν πίστιν, 2.11.12). Such alliances with the Romans could be of a voluntary nature, in which case they were dictated by the weak member’s desire and need for protection. Still, they could also be imposed by the dominant member, who sought in this way to consolidate and expand its power. In 2.31.9 – 10 it is mentioned that it was by way of a crushing defeat that the Roman consuls Q. Fulvius Flaccus and T. Manlius Torquatus compelled the Boii to place themselves in Roman fides (τοὺς μὲν Βοίους ἐξ ἐφόδου καταπληξάμενοι συνηνάγκασαν εἰς τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἑαυτοὺς δοῦναι πίστιν). Now, the pressure in such cases is not always exerted from without. Every form of dependence brings with it the stigma of compulsion, whether it be directly imposed or due to the fear of the weaker party, which prefers to position itself on the same side as and not opposite the powerful one. When we read in 2.11.11

 Champion 2004, 113: ‘In this passage the contrast between Roman fides and Illyrian lawlessness could hardly be made more explicitly (11.5 – 6: Ῥωμαίων πίστιν … Ἰλλυριῶν παρανομίαν)’.  On deditio generally see Calderone 1964; Dahlheim 1968, 5 – 109; Freyburger 1982; Nörr 1989; Ziegler 1991.  Polybius clarifies the proper meaning of Roman fides as a result of its misinterpretation by the Aetolians (20.9.10 – 12): ‘The Aetolians, after some further observations about the actual situation, decided to refer the whole matter to Glabrio, committing themselves “to the faith” of the Romans, not knowing the exact meaning of the phrase, but deceived by the word “faith” as if they would thus obtain more complete pardon. But with the Romans to commit oneself to the faith of a victor is equivalent to surrendering at discretion’. Polybius’ view on the subject is more consistent than has generally been allowed. For criticism see, e. g., Gruen 1982, 50 – 68; Ferrary 1988, 72– 81. But, as it becomes evident from Polybius’ care to inform his readers of the precise meaning of Roman fides, the episode in question is presented here as being the norm rather than the exception. Cf. 36.4.1– 3 and 36.9.13 for the terms of the surrender of Carthage in 146.

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that the Ardiaei, with the Roman army already advancing through their homeland, send envoys to begin negotiating surrender terms (ἐπιτρέποντες τὰ καθ’ αὑτούς), and that the Romans accept them as ‘friends’ (δεξάμενοι τούτους εἰς τὴν φιλίαν), it is not difficult to understand what kind of amicitia is implied.⁴³ If we were dealing with an alliance between partners of equal strength and standing, we would be justified in speaking of trust and reciprocity. In this case, however, we have two unequal sides, one that is in a position to give orders and another that is obliged to obey them. This reading, which is reinforced by the etymological link between the noun πίστις and the verb πείθομαι (which, apart from to trust, also means to obey), harmonizes well with the view held by Derow, who made the following comment on this issue: ‘It should by now be clear that what the Romans sought, on Polybius’ account, was to be obeyed by everyone with whom they dealt, and that they were prepared to threaten and even to go to war to ensure this obedience’.⁴⁴ Yet Derow believed that this aspect of Roman foreign policy manifested itself for the first time during the Second Macedonian War for it was then that the Romans conceived of their plan to extend their rule over the whole world. But as we remarked above (p. 28), Polybius highlights the expansionist designs of the aspiring world-ruler at a much earlier point in his narrative. It should be noted, however, that our view does not differ from that of Derow with regard to the broadening scope of Roman expansionism: there is no doubt that, given their repeated successes in the military sphere, the Romans gradually redefine the aims they have set themselves, and from a certain point onwards strive to achieve universal dominion, and not merely to subjugate individual nations. The difficulty with Derow’s interpretation lies in its assumption that the shift in the overall goal of Roman foreign policy entails a certain change in the way it is exercised. But if the scope of Roman imperialism does indeed alter after the Second Macedonian War, this does not necessarily mean that the character of this imperialism alters as well. What does change in the course of time is the number and diversity of the nations that the Romans come into contact with. Whether they are facing the Carthaginians and the Illyrian tribes or the remotest Ptolemaic and Seleucid kingdoms, the Romans usually behave in the same way and are shown to pursue a cold and acquisitive policy. It therefore emerges that, when Polybius recounts that the Corcyreans offered themselves to Roman fides in order to be able to deal with the Illyrian raids, he is not contrasting the Romans’ trustworthiness with the lawless behaviour

 On amicitia in Roman international relations see Badian 1958; Burton 2011.  Derow 1979, 6.

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of their opponents, nor is he referring to an alliance on equal terms, but rather he is implying a relationship of dependence. The second passage which has been thought to reveal Polybius’ intention to draw a strong contrast between the Romans and their barbaric adversaries occurs in 2.35.2– 10. In concluding his presentation of the conflicts of the Gauls with the Romans, Polybius justifies his decision to include it in his historical work by arguing that the events he has described might help the Greeks to gain self-confidence and therefore avoid being terrified by sudden barbarian raids (2.35.6). He supports this view by emphasizing the great contribution made at this direction by the historians who recorded the repulsion of the Persian invasion of Greece and the invasion of Delphi by the Gauls (2.35.7). It has been argued that Polybius is seeking here to present the Romans as ‘the civilized element’ by aligning their victory over the barbaric Gauls with the triumph of the Greeks over the Persians.⁴⁵ Yet it is telling that at this point the emphasis is placed not on the distinction between Greeks and barbarians but on Polybius’ attempt to set himself up as the successor to the historians who have dealt with their conflicts. Even when Polybius attributes the defeat of the Gauls to their inability to act rationally (διὰ τὸ μὴ τὸ πλεῖον, ἀλλὰ συλλήβδην ἅπαν τὸ γινόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν Γαλατῶν θυμῷ μᾶλλον ἢ λογισμῷ βραβεύεσθαι, ‘not most steps but every single step that the Gauls took being commended to them rather by the heat of passion than by cool calculation’, 2.35.3), he does not seem to relate their behaviour with their barbarity.⁴⁶ As I shall argue in chapter 4, Polybius

 Walbank 1957, 213: ‘… the Romans are clearly the civilized element repelling barbarism, not barbarians themselves’; cf. Champion 2004, 177: ‘The Romans, as possessors of Hellenic logismos, triumphed over the irrational impulse of the barbarian Gauls. Here Polybius aligns the Roman victory over the Gauls with the fifth-century Greek resistance against Persia and the Greek repulse of the Gauls from Delphi in 279’.  In 2.21.2– 3, too, the impetuosity of the Gauls is not attributed to their barbaric nature but to their youthfulness (ἐπεγένοντο δὲ νέοι, θυμοῦ μὲν ἀλογίστου πλήρεις, ἄπειροι δὲ κἀόρατοι παντὸς κακοῦ). Likewise, the criticism Polybius levels at the Celts who served as mercenaries for the Carthaginians, Romans and Epirotes does not seem to concern their barbarity but their temperament. These people were outcasts from their own homeland as they had not hesitated to betray their own relatives (οἵ γε τὴν μὲν ἀρχὴν ἐξέπεσον ἐκ τῆς ἰδίας, συνδραμόντων ἐπ᾽ αὐτοὺς τῶν ὁμοεθνῶν διὰ τὸ παρασπονδῆσαι τοὺς αὑτῶν οἰκείους καὶ συγγενεῖς, 2.7.6). Not even their own compatriots could tolerate their behaviour, which was so repulsive that they were unable to return to their homeland. In the same fashion, the actions of the Illyrian queen Teuta are not attributed to her barbarity but to her female nature (χρωμένη δὲ λογισμοῖς γυναικείοις, 2.4.8; γυναικοθύμως κἀλογίστως, 2.8.12). Consequently, even if we accept the assumption that certain collective characteristics are brought together in the person of Teuta (see Champion 2004, 112– 14), these are not connected with her Illyrian nationality but with her sex. On Polybius’ (basi-

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generally draws a distinction between the victors and the vanquished on the basis of how effectively they think. While the victors stand out for their ability to make a correct assessment of the situation and predict their adversaries’ next moves, the vanquished are depicted as being absorbed in themselves and their passions. And indeed, in several cases the Romans are shown to behave more recklessly than their opponents (§4.3). The scepticism regarding the contrast that some critics believe is stressed in the first few books of the Histories between the model of trustworthiness and lawfulness represented by the Romans and the negative image projected of their adversaries is reinforced by the emphasis that is placed on the Roman expansionist plans in northern Italy. Although Polybius mentions many instances of lawless behaviour on the part of the Gauls (2.18 – 21), he perceives the war of 225 – 222 as stemming also from Roman pressure. C. Flaminius’ legislation, which distributed ager Gallicus among the landless Roman citizens, is identified as its cause (αἰτίαν δὲ καὶ τοῦ μετὰ ταῦτα πολέμου συστάντος αὐτοῖς πρὸς τοὺς προειρημένους, 2.21.8). The Roman decision to drive the Senones out of their territory naturally causes the other Gallic tribes nervousness. The Boii, seeing what their neighbours have suffered, fear that they might suffer the same fate themselves (μὴ πάθωσι τὸ παραπλήσιον, 2.20.1). They are well aware that the Romans are not waging this war in order to subjugate them but in order to achieve ‘their total expulsion and extermination’ (οὐχ ὑπὲρ ἡγεμονίας ἔτι καὶ δυναστείας Ῥωμαίους τὸν πρὸς αὐτοὺς ποιήσασθαι πόλεμον, ἀλλ᾽ ὑπὲρ ὁλοσχεροῦς ἐξαναστάσεως καὶ καταφθορᾶς, 2.21.9). The shift in focalization (from primary to secondary) enables the Polybian narrator to draw a more vivid and convincing picture of the impact that the Romans’ expulsion of the Senones has on their fellow Gauls. The focalization is changed in a similar way in 2.23.12– 13, except that here it is not the perceptions of Rome’s enemies that are recorded but those of her allies. The same sense of insecurity also prevails in this camp. The allies are in such a state of fear and agitation that they believe the war is not being fought in order to secure Roman rule but in order to protect their own homeland: καταπεπληγμένοι γὰρ οἱ τὴν Ἰταλίαν οἰκοῦντες τὴν τῶν Γαλατῶν ἔφοδον οὐκέτι Ῥωμαίοις ἡγοῦντο συμμαχεῖν οὐδὲ περὶ τῆς τούτων ἡγεμονίας γίνεσθαι τὸν πόλεμον, ἀλλὰ περὶ σφῶν ἐνόμιζον ἕκαστοι καὶ τῆς ἰδίας πόλεως καὶ χώρας ἐπιφέρεσθαι τὸν κίνδυνον. for the inhabitants of Italy, terror-struck by the invasion of the Gauls, no longer thought of themselves as the allies of Rome or regarded this war as undertaken to establish Roman

cally) negative attitude towards women see Eckstein 2005, 150 – 7, with more literature. On misogyny in ancient Greek culture see the relevant chapters in Slater 1968 and Pomeroy 1975.

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supremacy, but every man considered that the peril was descending on himself and his own city and country.

As Polybius’ train of thought is penetrated by the worries of Rome’s allies, an overlapping of perspectives is created. By multiplying the number of channels that he uses in order to convey his messages, Polybius succeeds in projecting them more emphatically. Interestingly, although it is the Gauls who are renowned for their greed, the prospect of profit is also a significant motivating factor for the Romans (τὰ δ’ ὑπὸ τῆς τοῦ λυσιτελοῦς ἐλπίδος ἀγόμενοι διπλασίως παρωξύνοντο πρὸς τὸν κίνδυνον, ‘but at the same time the prospect of winning such spoils made them twice as keen for the fight’, 2.29.9). And in contrast to the Gauls, who at a critical juncture manage to think clearly and restrain their passions (2.26.4– 7), the Romans do not appear in the least inclined to curb their acquisitive and expansionist policy. Their victory at Telamon generates hopes of expelling the Gauls entirely from the Po valley (κατελπίσαντες Ῥωμαῖοι δυνήσεσθαι τοὺς Κελτοὺς ἐκ τῶν τόπων τῶν περὶ τὸν Πάδον ὁλοσχερῶς ἐκβαλεῖν, 2.31.8).⁴⁷ Earlier the Romans’ plans were presented from their rivals’ standpoint. Now that they are focalized from their own perspective, we realize that the Gauls’ fears were not unfounded. It is no accident that the Romans refuse to grant a truce, even though the Gauls promise to do whatever they are asked in order to obtain one (2.34). The richness of the plains that the Gauls inhabited could not have failed to attract the attention of their adversaries, who at this period were seeking to consolidate their rule and increase their sphere of influence. *** As the foregoing discussion has shown, the books of the prokataskeue play a major role in helping readers comprehend the character and preconditions of the expansion of Roman rule. The narrative of the Romans’ adventures at sea, with its analysis of the qualities that enable them to overcome the adversities they face there, foreshadows the ways in which they fulfill their plan of world domination. What is more, no attempt is made to conceal their expansionist intentions or their share of responsibility for the events that take place. In the account of the First Punic War the emphasis is placed not on the differences between the warring sides but on their similarities. And the barbaric character of the Romans’ rivals in the First Illyrian War and the Gallic Wars does not become

 Cf. 1.17.3 for the same pattern: the capture of Agrigentum, as noted above (pp. 25 – 26), makes them envisage the total expulsion of the Carthaginians from Sicily.

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a vehicle for playing down Roman aggressiveness. On the contrary, from their intervention at Rhegium and Messana to their conflicts with the Gauls, the Romans appear set on pursuing a policy aimed at satisfying their own interests. This pattern is surely a highly flexible one, partly because the factors which are responsible for the increase in the Romans’ influence vary considerably (ranging from battle-readiness and endurance of adversities on the one hand to diplomatic manoeuvres on the other), and partly because the imposition of their rule assumes very different forms (such as the subjugation of allies and the complete expulsion of opponents). Overall, it is a pattern that serves both as a potent tool to promote narrative coherence, by tying together disparate threads and motifs, and as a basis for contextualizing events within the broader sphere of human behaviour and action.

3 Temporal strategies Narrative operates by combining two temporalities: that of the narrated story and that of the discourse.¹ The interplay between the two makes possible all the temporal distortions utilized by narrators in order to invest the events in their stories with meaning and to distribute emphases in accordance with the effects they are seeking to produce. For this reason, the temporal organization of a text can play a significant role in revealing the concerns and techniques of its narrator. In the following I shall argue that Polybius’ handling of time not only reflects his priorities in shaping his history, but also serves to deepen the reader’s understanding. I shall first explore the ways in which synchronicity permeates the macrostructure of the Histories (3.1) and then focus on book 3 in order to illustrate how its interlace structure is functional to its meaning (3.2). Finally, I shall conclude my analysis by looking at the different categories into which the anachronies in the Histories fall (3.3).

3.1 Synchronicity The problem of how to convey in a narrative simultaneous courses of events, which has so preoccupied modern literary theory,² was also a keen concern of ancient writers. Thus Diodorus, in a well-known passage, remarks: ταύτῃ δ᾽ ἄν τις καὶ τὴν ἱστορίαν καταμέμψαιτο, θεωρῶν ἐπὶ μὲν τοῦ βίου πολλὰς καὶ διαφόρους πράξεις συντελουμένας κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν καιρόν, τοῖς δ᾽ ἀναγράφουσιν ἀναγκαῖον ὑπάρχον τὸ μεσολαβεῖν τὴν διήγησιν καὶ τοῖς ἅμα συντελουμένοις μερίζειν τοὺς χρόνους παρὰ φύσιν, ὥστε τὴν μὲν ἀλήθειαν τῶν πεπραγμένων τὸ πάθος ἔχειν, τὴν δ᾽ ἀναγραφὴν ἐστερημένην τῆς ὁμοίας ἐξουσίας μιμεῖσθαι μὲν τὰ γεγενημένα, πολὺ δὲ λείπεσθαι τῆς ἀληθοῦς διαθέσεως (20.43.7). At this point one might censure the art of history, when he observes that in life many different actions are consummated at the same time, but that it is necessary for those who record them to interrupt the narrative and to parcel out different times to simultaneous events contrary to nature, with the result that, although the actual experience of the events contains the truth, yet the written record, deprived of such power, while presenting copies of the events, falls far short of arranging them as they really were (trans. R. M. Geer).

Diodorus comments on the artificiality of breaking up simultaneous groups of events into sequential scenes. He thus touches on a subject which, as research

 Cf. Genette (1972) 1980, 35; Chatman 1978, 62– 63; Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 2002, 44– 45.  See, e. g., Vogt (1972) 1998, 133 – 52; Schramke 1974, 131– 38; Bisanz 1976; Grubacic 1981.

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has shown, is as old as Homer.³ Attempts to convey the simultaneity of two or more actions run up against the restrictions imposed by the linear form of narrative. Both oral and written narratives unfold sequentially, and so, even if one relates simultaneous events, one must establish a linear order in which to place them.⁴ However, there are certain methods that enable writers to give their readers the impression that they are in a position to keep track of and narrate a host of simultaneous events. One such method is the regression in the narrated time, in which the narrator describes an action A from beginning to end, and then goes on to describe another action B, having previously emphasized (e. g. with expressions of time that denote simultaneity) that action B unfolds at the same time as action A. Another method is the so-called ‘interlace technique’, where the narrator follows two or more simultaneous actions alternately, switching regularly between them.⁵ The rapid alternation of scenes manages to convey the simultaneity of the parallel actions more vividly. Moreover, it permits the narrator to interrupt the description at crucial moments and, by leaving plot threads hanging, to heighten the narratees’ interest in their continuation. It is, therefore, no accident that this technique has come to predominate both in the modern novel and the cinema. Of course, it goes without saying that the more narrative threads there are to synchronize, the greater are the compositional skills that a narrator has to display in applying these techniques. Polybius’ Histories, which stands out not for its chronological scope but the breadth of its geographical coverage, in the course of thirty-seven books–if the two books of the introductory part and the external analepses and prolepses are excluded–traces a multitude of historical events that occurred in various parts of the world within a period of seventyfive years (between 220 and 146). Given that many of these events unfolded at the same time, their simultaneity obviously had to be emphasized. From the moment, however, that Polybius chose to divide up his history into Olympiad years, he had to relate events that had occurred in Europe, Africa and Asia in the same year, even if these events had not occurred exactly at the same time. The organization of such a vast body of historical material obviously required dexterous handling and excellent architectural skill. To achieve this, Polybius made use of both of the above described synchronization techniques.

 Zielinski 1899 – 1901. For recent discussions of the problem of presenting concurrent actions in the Homeric epics see esp. Patzer 1990; Rengakos 1995; Nünlist 1998. Cf. also Scodel 2008.  Cf. Rengakos 1995, 2 ff.  De Jong 2001, 589 f.

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Just how integral to Polybius’ work synchronicity is becomes immediately apparent when one looks at its structural arrangement. Thus, in the two books of the prokataskeue, the narrative deals first with the events of Roman history down to 220 (1.6 – 2.36), such as the conflict with the Carthaginians over Sicily and the wars waged against the Illyrians and the Gauls, and then (from 2.39 onwards) goes back in time in order to present the developments that took place in Greece during the same period. This practice continues to be applied in the next three books, as, in the third book, the narrative traces the events of the Second Punic War that fall within the 140th Olympiad, and then goes on, in the fourth and fifth books, to cover the same timespan once again (220 – 216) by presenting the Social War in Greece, the Fourth Syrian War for Coele-Syria, and various other wars like that of Rhodes against Byzantium and the attack by Mithridates of Pontus on Sinope, which took place at the same time as Hannibal crossed into Italy and conducted operations there.⁶ Synchronicity permeates also the rest of the Histories, where Polybius adopts an annalistic method of presentation, with the events of each Olympiad year treated by geographical regions. Strikingly enough, the sequence of regions in the text seems deliberately designed to chart Rome’s progress towards world domination. Polybius always begins with the events in Italy, continues with the developments in Sicily, Spain, and Carthage, thus moving to the areas that were the focus of Rome’s attention in the First and Second Punic Wars, and concludes with the events that took place during the same Olympiad year in Greece, Asia and Egypt, reflecting Rome’s eastward expansion. This sequence is repeated in the same fashion for all the years covered by the Histories from the seventh book onwards. The structure of the narrative, with its systematic adherence to this fixed pattern, reproduces the steadfastness and decisiveness displayed by the aspiring world ruler in its progress towards the realization of its aim. Indeed, Polybius is reluctant to diverge from this ‘regular course’ (εἰθισμένη τάξις) of his narrative. It is noteworthy, for example, that when, in recounting Ariarathes’ departure from Italy and restoration in power to Cappadocia, he passes directly from the affairs of Italy to those of Asia not only does he state the fact explicitly but he hastens to justify this divergence by claiming that it is necessary in order to avoid an interruption to the logical development of the plot (32.11.2– 5): ‘Now having given this brief account of the restoration of Ariarathes, I shall resume that regular course of my narrative which I follow

 In order to highlight the simultaneity of the events in books 3, 4 and 5, Polybius introduces nine synchronisms into the last two of these (4.27.1– 28.1, 37.1– 7, 66.7– 67.1; 5.1.1– 4, 29.5 – 8, 101.3, 105.3, 108.9 – 10, 109.4– 6). For a full discussion see Walbank (1975) 1985, 298 – 312.

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throughout the whole of this work. For in the present instance, passing over the affairs of Greece (ὑπερβάντες τὰ κατὰ τὴν Ἑλλάδα), I appended those Asiatic affairs which relate to Cappadocia, as I found no justifiable means of separating the departure of Ariarathes from Italy from his return to power. I will, therefore, now go back to the events that happened in Greece at the same date’. Equally rare are the cases in which Polybius abandons the annalistic method and recounts in the narrative of the same year events that unfolded over the course of a number of years. Book 14, for example, included a lengthy section of narrative that traced the whole of Ptolemy IV’s reign after his reconquest of Coele-Syria.⁷ At 14.12.4– 5 Polybius notes that this deviation from his normal system stems from the fact that Ptolemy during this particular period became involved in a war ‘which, apart from the mutual savagery and lawlessness of the combatants, contained nothing worthy of note, no pitched battle, no sea-fight, no siege.’ And he adds, ‘It, therefore, struck me that my narrative would be easier both for me to write and for my readers to follow if I performed this part of my task not by merely alluding every year to small events not worth serious attention, but by giving once for all a life-like picture so to speak of this king’s character’. A similar statement is made at 32.11.6 – 7, where Polybius announces his intention to recount the relations between Oropus and Athens as a whole, ‘partly recurring to the past and partly anticipating the future … For when the whole seems scarcely worth close attention what chance is there of any student really making it an object of study when it is told disjointedly under different dates?’.⁸ In the preceding examples, Polybius explicitly links the divergence from his established practice with the quality of the historical material he is recording. It may of course seem odd that he speaks so degradingly of the material that he himself has selected to include in his work. But his main concern here is to justify the deviation from his conventional method of organizing his material and not to underscore the importance of particular episodes. Yet, this stance ultimately enables Polybius to promote his narrative, since by claiming that a small portion of his material does not warrant a coverage on a year-by-year basis he highlights the great historical value of the episodes that are presented according to his usual method of ordering events. Such authorial comments are highly indicative of the self-consciousness of the Polybian narrator, who, openly

 See Walbank 1972, 112– 13.  Walbank 1979 ad loc. remarks: ‘Somewhat inconsistently P. rejects the argument advanced here in xxxviii 5.3 – 4, where he defends his normal procedure against the Ephorean treatment κατὰ γένος’. It is clear, nevertheless, that in 32.11.6 – 7 the method of switching from theatre to theatre is not rejected as being totally unsuitable for historiography but only when the events described are of little importance or not particularly worth studying.

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declaring his presence, refers to his activity as writer to an extent, and in a manner, unprecedented in ancient Greek historiography. Polybius does not just take care to point out any deviations he makes from the method he normally uses for organizing his material, he also mentions a particular drawback that stems from its implementation. The division of the events of each Olympiad year under various regions sometimes compels him to narrate the end of a sequence of events before what preceded. When, for example, he recounts the sending of Rhodian ambassadors to Rome in the late winter or early spring of 170/69, he mentions that their appeal to the Senate has already been related (28.16.10 – 11): ‘As regards this matter it serves some purpose to remind my readers frequently, as I indeed attempt to do, that I am often compelled to report the interviews and proceedings of embassies before announcing the circumstances of their appointment and dispatch. For as, in narrating in their proper order the events of each year, I attempt to comprise under a separate heading the events that happened in each country in that year, it is evident that this must sometimes occur in my work’. The same point is made in 15.25.19, where Polybius reminds his readers that the negotiations between Ptolemy, the son of Sosibius, and the king of Macedonia, Philip V, in 203/2 were mentioned before Ptolemy’s departure from Alexandria precisely because the Greek events precede the affairs of Egypt in the order in which he deals with his material. No other relevant examples occur in the extant part of the work.⁹ Judging, however, by Polybius’ statement that he was frequently (πολλάκις, 28.16.10) obliged to broach the issue, it may be safely inferred that the phenomenon was much more common than what the fragmentary textual tradition allows us to think.¹⁰ Nonetheless, this problem notwithstanding, Polybius does not seem to have any doubts regarding the correctness of his decision to present his material by systematically switching from theatre to theatre. Indeed, he even attempts to preempt certain objections that might be raised against the effectiveness of his method: I am not unaware that some people will find fault with this work on the ground that my narrative of events is imperfect and disconnected. For example, after undertaking to give an account of the siege of Carthage I leave that in suspense and interrupting myself pass to the affairs of Greece, and next to those of Macedonia, Syria and other countries, while students desire continuous narrative and long to learn the issue of the matter I first set

 As Maas 1949, 443 – 46 convincingly demonstrated, 15.24a, which refers to the same problem, should stand immediately after 15.25.19. Contra, Abel 1967, 81– 84. For a defense of Maas’ view see Walbank 1972, 111 n. 75.  For more on this point see Walbank (1975) 1985, 320 – 21.

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my hand to; for thus, they say, those who desire to follow me with attention are both more deeply interested in the story and derive greater benefit from it (38.5.1– 3).

Polybius clearly and categorically spells out his position in anticipation of the impending objections: ἐμοὶ δ᾽ οὐχ οὕτως δοκεῖ, τὸ δ᾽ ἐναντίον, ‘My opinion is just the reverse of this’, 38.5.4. In his work, he claims, he chooses to follow the example of Nature, which constantly exposes men to an infinite number of external stimuli. Just as the senses (he specifically mentions hearing, taste and vision) suffer when subjected to monotony and respond joyfully to variety, so is the mind rested by variations in the stimuli it receives (38.5.9). According to Polybius (38.6.1– 3), the necessity for change had been well understood by ‘the most thoughtful of ancient writers’, who took care to introduce all kinds of digressions in their narratives, although they did so in an unsystematic and unorganized way (ἀτάκτως). In contrast, the method that he himself applies, consisting as it does in alternating scenes in a particular order (τεταγμένως), turns variatio into a structural principle of the narrative, without affecting the cohesion of the text or its reception by the reader (38.6.3 – 6).¹¹ No small part of what makes this method of narration useful to Polybius is its effectiveness in presenting simultaneous actions. It might not entirely solve the problem but it does create the impression of an omnipresent narrator who is able to relate events that happen broadly at the same time in different parts of the world. And it has the further advantage of enabling Polybius to convey the process of συμπλοκή, that interweaving of geopolitical affairs throughout the Mediterranean region which ultimately led to its domination by Rome.¹² Polybius explicitly links the method he normally uses for organizing his work with the phenomenon of συμπλοκή in 4.28. What he specifically says is that he chose to present Hannibal’s activities in Spain and the Social War in Greece separately (καὶ τὴν ἐξήγησιν περὶ αὐτῶν ἐκρίναμεν ποιήσασθαι κατ᾽ ἰδίαν, 4.28.3) on the grounds that these events were not interrelated in any way, but if they had  It is usually thought that the historians targeted by Polybius at this point are Ephorus and Theopompus, the former because of his decision to arrange his material κατὰ γένος and the latter because of the way in which he inserted digressions into his narrative (see, e. g., Meister 1975, 63 – 65, 77– 80). Yet the fact that the target is not specified, combined with the way in which the argument is phrased (38.6.1: ‘some of them employing digressions dealing with myth or story and others digressions on matters of fact’; 38.6.3: ‘So that you will find that all historians have resorted to this device’), clearly indicates that even if Polybius, when writing these lines, had Ephorus and Theopompus in mind, as seems likely from the examples he lists in 38.6.2– 4, he was not seeking to castigate these two historians in particular but certain quite widespread authorial practices.  Cf. Walbank (1975) 1985, 319 – 24.

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been interconnected, he would have traced the developments on the various fronts alternately (περὶ τούτων ἂν ἡμᾶς ἐναλλὰξ ἔδει καὶ κατὰ παράθεσιν τοῖς Ἰβηρικοῖς πεποιῆσθαι τὴν ἐξήγησιν, 4.28.2), just as he does in the bulk of his work (4.28.4– 5). Besides serving as a means to properly represent the growing συμπλοκή of events, Polybius’ arrangement of his material contributes to the realization of the didactic purpose of his history. This is stressed in 3.32.1– 5, where Polybius compares his narrative with separate monographs in terms of their usefulness and didactic value. It is easier, he claims, to study his universal history, whose forty books appear to be interwoven continuously (καθυπερανεὶ κατὰ μίτον ἐξυφασμένας, 3.32.2), than to read individual historical monographs, which are as numerous as the different views they record (διὰ τὸ τοὺς πλείστους μὴ ταὐτὰ περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν γράφειν, 3.32.4). Furthermore, monographs deal with issues in isolation, without taking into account or concerning themselves with ‘those contemporary events (τὰς καταλλήλους τῶν πράξεων παραλείπειν)¹³ by a comparative review and estimation of which we can assign its true value to everything much more surely than by judging from particulars’. The comparative approach employed in world history, by contrast, suggests links between the recounted events, which in turn promote the central themes of the narrative, enabling readers to draw lessons from the recurrent patterns produced. This could only have been of benefit to Polybius, who sought in the main part of his work to help readers gain a concrete idea of the way in which events that were widely separated in space were interconnected and directed towards the same aim. But, of course, the lessons that readers are called upon to draw from the juxtaposition and correlation of the recounted events do not concern only the specific contexts dealt with in the narrative. History, with its representation of situations and reactions that are likely to be repeated, points to wider categories for analyzing human nature. In this respect, synchronicity helps to contextualize events into meaningful patterns that familiarize readers with the fundamental principles by which human behaviour is governed.

3.2 The interlace structure of book 3 So far I have described how synchronicity permeates, and becomes an organic part of, the macrostructure of the Histories, and have pointed out its suitability

 Κατάλληλος is frequently used in the sense of ‘contemporary’; see, e. g., 3.5.6, 32.5; 4.66.10; 5.31.5; 14.12.1; 15.24a; 28.26.11; 39.8.6.

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for conveying the process of the universal συμπλοκή as well as for allowing the narrator to accomplish his didactic goals. However, in order to gain a full understanding of this phenomenon, it is equally important to investigate the role it serves in short and medium-length narrative sections. For this purpose I have selected book 3, which, as it relates the parallel activities of the Romans and the Carthaginians in the Second Punic War, provides a particularly fitting opportunity to look at how the narrative technique of interlace works.

3.2.1 Spain and Illyria (3.13 – 34) 3.2.1.1 The Romans’ strategic error The plot of the third book revolves around two central thematic axes, one of which concerns Hannibal’s deeds and the other the reactions of the Romans. It also ramifies further into minor branches that are directly connected with the main branches and form various points of contact with them. Thus, from 3.15.1 to 3.20.1 the narrative focuses alternately on the activities of Hannibal, who within a short space of time consolidated his control in Spain, and those of Demetrius of Pharos, who at the same time was robbing and pillaging the Illyrian subjects of Rome.¹⁴ These events, moreover, are connected not only as a result of their contemporaneity, which Polybius takes care to emphasize by using appropriate time adjuncts (συνέβαινε γὰρ κατ᾽ ἐκείνους τοὺς καιρούς, ‘it so happened that at that time’, 3.16.2; κατὰ δὲ τοὺς αὐτοὺς καιρούς, ‘while this was taking place’, 3.18.1), but also through another common denominator: both prompted the intervention of Rome. However, while, in the case of Demetrius of Pharos, the Romans decided to remove him from power and thus restore the status quo in Illyria, in the case of Hannibal, their intervention was initially aimed at resolving the situation by diplomatic means. When the Roman envoys arrived in Spain, they asked the victorious Carthaginian army commander to stay away from Saguntum as it was under Roman protection and to observe the terms of the treaty that had been contracted in Hasdrubal’s time (3.15.4– 6). Nonetheless, Hannibal refused to alter his stance. On the contrary, he showed himself to be uncompromising and reluctant to defuse the tension–indeed, he even invented excuses to stoke it up further (3.15.7– 11).

 3.6.12: τὰς ὑπὸ Ῥωμαίους ταττομένας. The nature of early Roman relations on the Adriatic coast is a highly controversial issue. For detailed discussion and an overview of the secondary literature see Eckstein 2008, 42– 58.

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It has been widely argued that Polybius presents the reception of the Roman envoys at New Carthage in such a way as to portray Hannibal as the person principally responsible for the war that soon ensued.¹⁵ The episode, however, merely develops the theme of Hamilcar’s anger against the Romans (3.9.6 – 12). It is telling that the responsibility attributed to Hannibal in this case concerns his inability to curb the hostility he inherited from his father (3.15.6 – 7: πάλαι δὲ παρωρμημένος πρὸς τὴν κατὰ Ῥωμαίων ἔχθραν). His fierce rage prevents him from articulating the true reasons for his dissatisfaction with the Romans (3.15.9 – 11). It must also be noted that Polybius provides some excuses for his behaviour. Hannibal was, he says, young and intoxicated with success (νέος μὲν ὤν, πλήρης δὲ πολεμικῆς ὁρμῆς, ἐπιτυχὴς δ᾽ ἐν ταῖς ἐπιβολαῖς, 3.15.6). And, above all, his dissatisfaction was fully in keeping with, and expressed, the sentiments of the Carthaginians as a whole, who had every reason to feel aggrieved with the Romans over their seizure of Sardinia and the tribute that had been unjustly imposed upon them after the end of the First Punic War (3.10 – 11).¹⁶ This contrast between Hannibal, whose reckless behaviour creates the impression (ἐδόκει) that justice is now less in his favour, and the Romans, who are shown, on the other hand, to have perpetrated a real injustice on the Carthaginians (ἀδίκως παρ᾽ αὐτῶν ἔλαβον, 3.15.10), not only does not conceal the issue of Roman responsibility but poses it in an emphatic manner.¹⁷ Although the Romans were far from satisfied with Hannibal’s stance, they nevertheless thought it was better to concentrate first on the Illyrian crisis and neutralize the threat posed by Demetrius (3.16.4). Thus, in the spring of 219 they dispatched a large expedition, commanded by both consuls of the year, to the Adriatic coast. However, they had no doubts, particularly after the cold reception given to their envoys in Spain (3.15), that their dispute with the Carthaginians would be settled through force of arms. Indeed, they foresaw that the war in which they were about to become embroiled would be a very difficult one and that it would last a long time (μέγας ἔσται καὶ πολυχρόνιος, 3.16.1), even if they believed that at least they would not have to wage it in Italy but in Spain (οὐ μὴν ἐν Ἰταλίᾳ γε πολεμήσειν ἤλπισαν, ἀλλ᾽ ἐν Ἰβηρίᾳ, 3.15.13), far

 See, e. g., Walbank 1957, 321– 22.  More recent interpretations of this episode also do not recognize the mitigating factors that the narrator takes care to provide for Hannibal. Eckstein 1995, 144 characteristically remarks: ‘Obviously, Polybius’s assessment of Hannibal’s behaviour in this crucial passage–which sets in train the war that will be Polybius’s primary topic for the next twelve volumes–is a highly negative one’. Cf. Champion 2004, 118.  Cf. Baronowski 2011, 75.

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away from their homeland (μακρὰν ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκείας, 3.16.1), using Saguntum as a base of operations (3.15.13). The reason why Polybius presents the Romans’ plans in such great detail is because they proved groundless and were utterly overturned (διεψεύσθησαν δὲ τοῖς λογισμοῖς, 3.16.5). Instead of their surprising Hannibal, as they had reckoned would happen after the end of the campaign in Illyria, he forestalled them by capturing Saguntum (κατετάχησε γὰρ αὐτοὺς Ἀννίβας, ἐξελὼν τὴν Ζακανθαίων πόλιν, 3.16.5 – 6). The juxtaposition of the activities of the rivals, which is achieved through the familiar combination of the particles μέν and δέ (… Ῥωμαῖοι μὲν ὑπὸ τὴν ὡραίαν Λεύκιον τὸν Αἰμίλιον ἐξαπέστειλαν μετὰ δυνάμεως ἐπὶ τὰς κατὰ τὴν Ἰλλυρίδα πράξεις κατὰ τὸ πρῶτον ἔτος τῆς ἑκατοστῆς καὶ τετταρακοστῆς ὀλυμπιάδος. Ἀννίβας δὲ μετὰ τῆς δυνάμεως ἀναζεύξας ἐκ τῆς Καινῆς πόλεως προῆγε, ποιούμενος τὴν πορείαν ἐπὶ τὴν Ζάκανθαν, ‘the Romans dispatched a force under Lucius Aemilius just before summer in the first year of the 140th Olympiad to operate in Illyria. Hannibal at the same time quitted New Carthage with his army and advanced towards Saguntum’, 3.16.7– 17.2), underscores further the strategic error committed by the Romans in sailing for Illyria and leaving the field open to Hannibal.¹⁸ The Romans’ improvidence stands out more distinctly when it is contrasted with the clear-sightedness of their adversaries. Indeed, whatever the Romans failed to foresee in respect of Saguntum’s importance was recognized in good time by the Carthaginians. The use of internal focalization enables us to gain access to Hannibal’s reasoning. He thought that the capture of the city would deprive the Romans of a military base in Spain, that it would serve to terrorize all the Iberian tribes and thus grant him the luxury of beginning the war without leaving any foes of note in his rear, and that it would provide him with abundant supplies for his campaign and enough booty to make his troops willing to fight and secure the support of the Carthaginians back home (3.17.4– 8). The deliberate parallelism drawn here is unmistakable. Both sides try to predict their next moves, the difference being that Hannibal’s plans are crowned with success, while those of the Romans utterly fail to correspond to actuality. This difference is underlined by verbal similarities (διεψεύσθησαν δὲ τοῖς λογισμοῖς, 3.16.5; ταῦτα δὲ πράξας οὐ διεψεύσθη τοῖς λογισμοῖς, οὐδ᾽ ἀπέτυχε τῆς ἐξ ἀρχῆς προθέσεως, 3.17.11). The emphasis on the error of the Romans suggests the idea that events might have taken a different turn if they had directed their attention towards

 On Rome’s relations with Saguntum see Hoyos 1998, 175 – 95, where also more literature, to which add Barceló 2004, 90 – 93, 101– 15; and Serrati 2006, 130 – 34.

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Spain.¹⁹ Now, however, they had to face the consequences of their error. The last thing that Polybius mentions about the reversal of the Romans’ expectations is also the most painful: the war did not take place in Spain, as they had calculated, but close to Rome itself and throughout the whole of Italy (καὶ παρὰ τοῦτο συνέβη τὸν πόλεμον οὐκ ἐν Ἰβηρίᾳ, πρὸς αὐτῇ δὲ τῇ Ῥώμῃ καὶ κατὰ πᾶσαν γενέσθαι τὴν Ἰταλίαν, 3.16.6).

3.2.1.2 Hannibal The account of Hannibal’s activities in Spain is clearly written with the aim of focusing attention on his personality and military capabilities. Any attempt to find references in this section to the collective behaviour of the Carthaginians would be in vain; the emphasis is laid on Hannibal’s character. His vigilance and efficiency stand out as soon as he assumes his duties, when he lays siege to Althaea, the best fortified city of the Olcades. Polybius notes that the news of the city’s fall so terrified the Olcades that they decided to surrender to their opponents without a fight (3.13.5 – 7). The description of the siege of Saguntum (3.17.4– 11) is recounted in the same vein. As we have seen above, the benefits that the capture of the city would reap for the Carthaginians are stated from Hannibal’s perspective. Moreover, by depicting him as throwing himself into battle and setting an example to his soldiers, Polybius makes it clear that it is Hannibal who should be credited with the entire success of the venture. From very early on Hannibal’s prudence also becomes apparent. It enables him, for example, to win an utterly unexpected victory at the Tagus (3.14.4– 6). And it prompts him to create bonds of mutual trust between the inhabitants of Spain and Africa by transferring troops from one to the other (πάνυ δ᾽ ἐμπείρως καὶ φρονίμως ἐκλογιζόμενος, 3.33.8). Quite remarkable, too, is Hannibal’s skill in handling his troops. By means of generous payments, promises and praise, he gains their favour and trust (3.13.8, 17.10). The willingness with which the Carthaginians agree to follow him to Italy is indeed impressive (3.34.9). Once again, however, the emphasis is not so much on the way in which the troops react as on Hannibal’s ability to provoke such a reaction (3.34.7– 9). The aim of the third book obviously differs from that of the previous two. In the latter Polybius was largely concerned to promote the characteristics of the collective identities of the warring nations; here the narrative is deliberately de-

 In a similar way, Thucydides highlights the folly of the Athenians’ decision to concentrate their efforts upon Boeotia while leaving Brasidas to operate freely in northern Greece (4.66 ff.). For discussion and references see Rengakos 2006a, 289 – 90.

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signed to highlight the abilities of a particular individual. Hannibal ‘has’ to attract attention; his prominence is due to the role he is destined to play. He is without doubt the key player in the impending war, the person who will deal successive blows to the Romans and also manage to move the conflict close to Rome and to drive its inhabitants to despair (3.86.6 – 7, 112.6 – 9). In this respect, his success in Spain is meant as a prelude to the subsequent developments in Italy. The fact that Rome does not appear to possess a leader of similar genius at this time is not without significance. The emphatic way in which Hannibal is projected as the incomparable model of a general downplays the role of his Roman counterparts. It is noteworthy that, although both consuls had gone to Illyria, only L. Aemilius Paullus is mentioned, while M. Livius Salinator is entirely omitted from the narrative. This omission has been thought to stem from the stance of the source that Polybius follows or his desire to flatter the family of his patron.²⁰ However, despite the special treatment accorded to Aemilius, he cannot match Hannibal or be projected as a rival worthy of equal respect. And whatever spark of optimism his victorious campaign against Demetrius might have ignited, it is snuffed out straightaway as the celebration of his triumph is immediately followed by the news of the capture of Saguntum (3.19.12– 20.1). The ominous turn that Roman affairs are due to take is certainly prepared for with great assiduity. On the other hand, readers are already well aware what the outcome of the Second Punic War will be. However much the Romans suffer as a result of the Carthaginian invasion, they will emerge victorious from the ensuing conflict. At one level, therefore, the alternating presentation of the activities of the two adversaries in Illyria and Spain serves as an indirect criticism of the Romans for having devoted their whole energy to Illyria and also as a gloomy prelude to future events, conveying the impression that the impending war is going to be a terrible and mournful one for them.²¹ But at another level it acts as a sign of their final victory. Indeed, the way in which they are shown to respond to the revolt in Illyria suggests that they still possess those virtues that secured to them victory when they fought against the Carthaginians for the first time over control of Sicily. In the light of the outcome of the Second Punic War, the contrast that is produced by the interweaving of the two narrative threads can be regarded as being ironic. Yet, its irony does not lie so much in the eventual frustration of Hannibal’s plans, as in what it reveals about man’s inability to escape his fate,  Cf. Bung 1950, 191– 92; Walbank 1957, 327.  For a different interpretation cf. Walbank 1957, 327, 332, who sees in the presentation of the Romans’ campaign against Demetrius in Illyria an intentional, albeit unsuccessful, attempt on the historian’s part to justify them for their inactivity over Saguntum.

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even when he appears at first glance to act with prudence and foresight.²² Despite his obvious and undoubted abilities, Hannibal will follow a path to destruction. In contrast, the false calculations of the Romans will not prevent them from emerging victorious from this ordeal as well. The constant switching of the narrative between the expedition of the Romans in Illyria and Hannibal’s activities in Spain, it emerges, forms such a complex web of inner relationships between these two narrative strands that their contemporaneity represents only the external manifestation of their connection.

3.2.2 Hannibal’s march on Italy (3.35 – 3.57.1) The account of Hannibal’s march from New Carthage to the plains of the Po exploits the interlace technique to its full potential. The two narrative threads, that dealing with the Carthaginians under Hannibal and that dealing with the Romans under P. Cornelius Scipio, every now and then interrupt each other until they become interlocked when both opponents reach Italy. This time not only is the simultaneity of the two sets of actions emphasized but the point where they converge is also determined (3.57.1): Ἡμεῖς δ᾽ ἐπειδὴ καὶ τὴν διήγησιν καὶ τοὺς ἡγεμόνας ἀμφοτέρων καὶ τὸν πόλεμον εἰς Ἰταλίαν ἠγάγομεν, πρὸ τοῦ τῶν ἀγώνων ἄρξασθαι βραχέα βουλόμεθα περὶ τῶν ἁρμοζόντων τῇ πραγματείᾳ διελθεῖν, ‘Now that I have brought my narrative and the war and the two generals into Italy, I desire, before entering upon the struggle, to say a few words on what I think proper to my method in this work’. It would be difficult not to notice the satisfaction that is indirectly yet clearly expressed by Polybius at the successful synchronization of the two narrative threads: his highly conspicuous presence at the beginning of the phrase as the subject of ἠγάγομεν shows that he wishes to be credited with this success.²³ Thanks to his compositional virtues, which ena-

 At 9.9.3 Polybius explicitly attributes Hannibal’s failure to capture Rome to the fickleness of fortune (διὰ τὰς ἐκ ταὐτομάτου περιπετείας). Elsewhere, too, he claims that even the bestconceived plans can fail. Cf., e. g., 8.21.10; 9.12.9 – 10. See further the discussion in Maier 2012a, 281– 84.  The transgression of the boundaries between, or the violation of the hierarchy of, the level of the narrator and the level of the characters that occurs with the intrusion of the former into the universe of the latter is called metalepsis. While in postmodern fiction this device is usually considered to disrupt the mimetic illusion (cf., e. g., McHale 1978; Wagner 2002), de Jong 2009, 87– 115 has convincingly shown that in early Greek literature it tends to increase the authority of the narrator and the realism of his narrative. By drawing attention to his authority to make his characters do what they do (τοὺς ἡγεμόνας … εἰς Ἰταλίαν ἠγάγομεν), Polybius creates an effect that interestingly lies somewhere between these two possibilities.

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bled him to calculate the duration of the two sets of actions and to arrange them in such a way as to make them unfold in parallel, it was possible for the threads of narrative to become synchronized and to converge. Polybius’ skill in handling the technique of interlace is equally observable in the variations in the amount of narrative space allocated to the two rivals. As they approach each other, the size of the passages that focus on their actions decreases.²⁴ It is telling that shortly before the two threads converge (3.57.1) no more than half a paragraph is devoted to the activity of the Carthaginians (3.56.1– 5) and another half to that of the Romans (3.56.5 – 6), while the account of Hannibal’s passage of the Alps (3.50 – 55) covers eight pages in the Teubner text. From 3.60.1 onwards the two narrative threads continue to be suspended and interwoven, except that now the convergences, because of the successive battles, become more frequent. Here too, as in the foregoing section, the closer the adversaries draw to each other, the more quickly does the narrative shifts between them. And just before a battle is about to take place (and therefore a convergence of the narrative threads), the alternation of scenes is particularly rapid. From 3.66.9 to 3.72.13, for instance, Polybius switches the focus of his narration from the Roman to the Carthaginian side and vice versa no less than sixteen times, until the rivals meet at the river Trebia and the conflict begins (3.73.1): ἤδη δὲ σύνεγγυς ὄντων ἀλλήλοις, συνεπλέκησαν οἱ προκείμενοι τῶν δυνάμεων εὔζωνοι, ‘when they were nearly at close quarters, the light-armed troops in the van of each army began the combat’. The interlace technique enables Polybius not only to chart the movements of the two opponents, but also to engage the reader in the narrative and to create suspense. This is achieved through the use of suspenseful scene endings and the insertion of authorial comments that make the reader all the more eager to hear the continuation of the action. Thus, the episode of Hannibal’s departure for Italy concludes with a reference to the effectiveness of his army (ἔχων οὐχ οὕτως πολλὴν δύναμιν ὡς χρησίμην καὶ γεγυμνασμένην διαφερόντως ἐκ τῆς συνεχείας τῶν κατὰ τὴν Ἰβηρίαν ἀγώνων, ‘having now an army not so strong in number as serviceable and highly trained owing to the unbroken series of wars in Spain’, 3.35.8). This piece of information, combined with the opposite picture projected of the Roman soldiers as being untrained and inexperienced in battle (ἀνασκήτοις καὶ νεοσυλλόγοις, 3.70.10), attracts the reader’s interest to the development of the plot by foreshadowing the future successes of the Carthaginians in Italy. In a similar vein, the presentation of the places through which Hannibal

 Siegman 1987, 135 ff. demonstrates how this technique is exploited in the Odyssey. For more examples of its use in historiography see Rengakos 2006b, 188 – 190.

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had to pass in order to reach the plains of the Po is rounded off with the remark that, although he had already covered almost half of the distance, in terms of difficulties most of the march still lay before him (τούτων δὴ τῶν τόπων κατὰ μὲν τὸ μῆκος ἤδη σχεδὸν τοὺς ἡμίσεις διεληλύθει, κατὰ δὲ τὴν δυσχέρειαν τὸ πλέον αὐτῷ μέρος ἀπελείπετο τῆς πορείας, 3.39.12).²⁵ Polybius, then, has the episode ending in a cliff-hanger to ensure that readers continue in order to discover what these difficulties will be and how it will be possible to avert them. In this manner, he draws readers in and compels them, while they are following one course of action, to think about the other. Another indication of Polybius’ skillful handling of the interlace technique is that the narrative threads frequently alternate in such a way that the events described are not merely juxtaposed but literally interwoven. To achieve this effect, Polybius uses a form of masked transition between scenes, whereby the movements of the characters and the dissemination of news from one side to the other enable him to abandon the narrative thread he is following and turn to another parallel theatre of action. An example that clearly shows how this camouflaged transition functions can be encountered in 3.45, where Polybius narrates the Romans’ engagement against the Numidians sent by Hannibal on a reconnaissance mission. Readers already know about this spying mission as in 3.44.3 – 4 it was mentioned that the news of the Romans’ arrival at the Rhone prompted Hannibal to select 500 Numidian horsemen and dispatch them to observe the enemy. They also know that a similar action has been taken by the Romans, who, disturbed at the speed of the Carthaginians’ advance, have sent 300 horsemen to gather information (3.41.8 – 9). The next part of the narrative, however, is not immediately revealed, for these minor threads are abandoned for a while and attention is focused on Hannibal’s deeds. What happened to the

 A similar expediency is served by the phrases at 3.50.1 (‘After a ten days’ march of eight hundred stades along the bank of the Isère, Hannibal began the ascent of the Alps and now found himself involved in very great difficulties (συνέβη μεγίστοις αὐτὸν περιπεσεῖν κινδύνοις)’) and at 3.52.2 (‘For the following days he conducted the army in safety up to a certain point, but on the fourth day he was again placed in great danger (εἰς κινδύνους παρεγένετο μεγάλους)’), which, however, lie at the beginning of their respective scenes. In this way, they turn readers’ attention to what comes immediately next in the narrative, while at the same time showcasing the genius of the Carthaginian general, whose foresight proves to be redemptive for his troops (cf. 3.50.5 – 51.12 and 3.53.1– 3, where the ‘Beinahe’ of the situation described lends even greater emphasis to his astuteness: ‘On this occasion Hannibal’s whole army would have been utterly destroyed, had he not still been a little apprehensive and foreseeing such a contingency placed the pack-train and cavalry at the head of the column and the heavy infantry in the rear. As the latter now acted as a covering force, the disaster was less serious, the infantry meeting the brunt of the attack’).

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spies is thus described at a later point. In fact, we hear about it at the same time as Hannibal does. We learn specifically that the Numidian horsemen met the Romans near the Carthaginian camp, where they clashed with them, and that the Romans won and pursued them (3.45.2– 3). After having surveyed the enemy’s camp, the Romans withdrew and rode off in order to report to Scipio the Carthaginians’ arrival (3.45.3 – 4). At this point Polybius takes advantage of the departure of Scipio’s spies to move with them to the Roman camp. Thus the scene changes again, and the chapter closes with Scipio’s reaction when he is informed about the situation (3.45.4). The alternation of scenes that is accomplished by the dissemination of news often serves to highlight the swiftness and efficiency of the opponents. This is most clearly evident in certain cases where one side is shown to be amazed at the progress of the other. When, for example, Scipio learns of Hannibal’s arrival at the Rhone, he is at first incredulous (ἀπιστῶν διὰ τὸ τάχος τῆς παρουσίας, 3.41.8). Later on, the news that Scipio has crossed the Po and is already in Italy causes Hannibal, who did not expect it, wonder and surprise (ἐθαύμαζε καὶ κατεπέπληκτο τὴν ὅλην ἐπιβολὴν καὶ τὴν πρᾶξιν τοῦ στρατηγοῦ, 3.61.4– 5). A similar thing happens to Scipio (τὸ δὲ παραπλήσιον συνέβαινε πάσχειν καὶ τὸν Πόπλιον, 3.61.5), who reckoned that his rival would not dare to cross the Alps and that he would perish with his entire army if he finally attempted it. So when he hears that Hannibal has not only survived but is also besieging towns in Italy, he is stunned by the boldness of his adversary (κατεπέπληκτο τὴν τόλμαν καὶ τὸ παράβολον τἀνδρός, 3.61.6 – 7). The citizens of Rome react in the same way when this piece of news–and with it the narrative–is taken to Rome itself (τὸ δ᾽ αὐτὸ συνέβαινεν καὶ τοῖς ἐν τῇ Ῥώμῃ πεπονθέναι περὶ τῶν προσπιπτόντων, 3.61.7– 8). As they have only recently heard of the capture of Saguntum, the news that Hannibal is already on Italian soil seems incredible and comes as a great shock to them (3.61.9).²⁶ *** The interweaving of theatres of action is a powerful tool in Polybius’ arsenal of narrative techniques. Its repeated use places us as readers in the position of contemporary spectators, who learn of developments at the same time as the historical agents. In this respect, it helps to convey a sense of lived experience and allows us to understand the psychological effect of the narrated events to the characters. But the alternation of narrative threads is not only a structural device

 Cf. Grethlein 2010, 248 – 52, elaborating on the ways in which Thucydides enables his readers to experience the plot from the perspective of the characters.

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merely employed for the sake of its emotive power but also a feature of crucial importance to Polybius’ desire to confer intelligibility upon the course of history he relates. By putting together actions which happen at broadly the same time in such a way as to invite comparison, Polybius points to recurring patterns of human behaviour and suggests parallels, which in turn encourage readers to draw their own conclusions.

3.3 Order Synchronicity is certainly a fruitful avenue for the study of time in a narrative, though it is not the only one. Probably the most important parameter in the chronological organization of a text, and that which has attracted the attention of narratologists more than any other,²⁷ is order, i. e. the relationship between the chronological sequence of events in the story and their arrangement in the narrative. The differences between the temporal order of the narrative and the story are called anachronies, and they are of two types, analepses (or flashbacks) and prolepses (or flashforwards).

3.3.1 Analepses Analepses are the commonest form of discordance between the order of time in the story and of that in the narrative. Even texts that at first sight appear to adopt an order that accords with the natural or logical sequence of events are not entirely devoid of analepses. Although principally organized in annalistic form, the Polybian narrative presents an abundance of analepses that vary in terms of their scope, extent and functional role. In what follows I shall attempt to categorize the analeptic material in the Histories and to analyze the contexts in which it is introduced.²⁸ To begin with, a large number of analepses are intended to provide readers with background information on the recounted events. This category includes the accounts that are incorporated in the narrative to familiarize readers with the earlier history of the nations that play a prominent role in the main part of the Histories (Romans: 1.6 – 12.4 and, if the prokataskeue is viewed as an exter-

 See, e. g., Genette (1972) 1980, 33 – 85; Bal (1985) 1997, 80 – 98.  My presentation of the forms and functions of the anachronies in the Histories owes a good deal to the analysis in Rood 2007, 176 – 81.

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nal analepsis, 1.16 – 65.3; Carthaginians: 1.65.3 – 88.8; Achaeans and Macedonians: 2.37.7– 70; Ptolemies: 5.31.8 – 39; Seleucids: 5.40.4– 57.8). Interestingly, Polybius himself characterizes these preliminary narrative sections as ‘regressions’ (e. g. 5.31.8: βραχὺ προσαναδραμόντες; 5.40.4: ἀναδραμόντες ἐπὶ τὴν παράληψιν τῆς Ἀντιόχου δυναστείας) and explicitly stresses that without them the events described in his work cannot be understood (3.10.2– 3): ὧν χωρὶς οὐχ οἷόν τ᾽ ἦν συμπεριενεχθῆναι δεόντως οὔτε τοῖς νῦν λεγομένοις οὔτε τοῖς μετὰ ταῦτα ῥηθησομένοις ὑφ᾽ ἡμῶν, ‘about this I have spoken in the preceding books, without a perusal of which it is impossible to follow properly what I am now saying and what I am about to say’.²⁹ To the same category belong the analepses that serve to interpret characters’ reactions and behaviour. Concerned as they are with emphasizing causality, these analepses hardly interrupt the main storyline, are usually brief, not that elaborate, and of indeterminate scope. Thus, Polybius explains the willingness with which the Acarnanians sided with Philip V by merely mentioning the fact that in the past they had suffered greatly at the hands of the Aetolians (πολλὰ γὰρ καὶ δεινὰ πεπονθότες ἐν τοῖς ἀνώτερον χρόνοις ὑπ᾽ Αἰτωλῶν, 5.6.1). In a similarly succinct way, he notes that Molon, the satrap of Media who revolted against Antiochus III, distrusted the populations of Susiana and Babylonia, ‘as his conquest of these provinces was so recent and sudden’ (διὰ τὸ προσφάτως καὶ παραδόξως αὐτῶν ἐγκρατὴς γεγονέναι, 5.52.4). Occasionally, however, these explanatory analepses occupy extensive space in the narrative and interrupt its progression. A characteristic example occurs when Polybius seeks to justify the tough stance adopted by Antigonus Doson and Aratus towards the Mantineans during the destruction of their city in the Cleomenic War (2.57– 58). An analeptic account extending over several pages aims at informing the reader of the reasons for this toughness. The narrative is taken back to a point four years before Antigonus’ arrival in the Peloponnese, when Aratus captured Mantinea–it is perhaps worth noting that in this case Polybius determines the exact scope of the analepsis (ἔτει τετάρτῳ πρότερον τῆς Ἀντιγόνου παρουσίας, 2.57.2). The conquerors, we are told, behaved with exemplary magnanimity towards the Mantineans. Aratus himself guaranteed their safety so long as they agreed to become members of the Achaean League (2.57.5). The Mantineans not only accepted his proposal but also asked for a garrison to be appointed to their city as they feared the hostile designs of the Aetolians and Lacedaemonians as well as the dangers from internal disputes (2.58.2). In the end, however, civil war was not averted. The Mantineans, after calling in

 Cf. 5.32.4– 5.

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the Lacedaemonians, surrendered the city to them and, in order to offer them guarantees for their change of allegiance, slaughtered the Achaean garrison (2.58.4). Their act of treachery is described by Polybius in the darkest colours (cf., e. g., 2.58.4– 5: οὗ μεῖζον παρασπόνδημα καὶ δεινότερον οὐδ᾽ εἰπεῖν εὐμαρές, ‘it is not easy to name any greater or more atrocious act of treachery than this’; 2.58.7– 8: τὸ μέγιστον ἀσέβημα κατὰ προαίρεσιν ἐπετέλεσαν, ‘[the Mantineans] deliberately committed the most heinous of crimes’). There can be little doubt that Polybius’ pro-Achaean stance played a role in his decision to include this analeptic material and give it so much space in the narrative.³⁰ On the other hand, we must bear in mind that the account of the Mantineans’ unreliable behaviour forms part of the attack against Phylarchus for the way in which he had presented the Cleomenic War, and so the attention to detail and accuracy of dating may well be due to Polybius’ intention to reinforce the reliability of his own version compared with that of his fellow historian. Analepses are especially common in Polybius’ polemic.³¹ These are usually internal homodiegetic (such as the one relating to the destruction of Mantinea by Aratus I have just discussed) and contest other accounts of the same events recorded by earlier historians.³² Nevertheless, polemic passages also include a certain number of external heterodiegetic analepses, which are separate from the main story and serve only to substantiate Polybius’ arguments. This is the case in 8.10, where Polybius seeks to expose the accusations that Theopompus had made against Philip II and his companions as groundless by looking back to their achievements. In book 12, too, which is entirely devoted to polemic, external heterodiegetic analepses become a means of showing the inadequacy of Callisthenes and Ephorus in describing battles (12.17– 22, 25f). There are also occasions where Polybius presents analeptic material in order to propose more suitable subjects for narration to his fellow historians. Something of this kind happens, for example, at 7.7.8, where Polybius, having first expressed his annoyance with the writers who chose to present the deeds of Hieronymus in a manner befitting tragic poets rather than historians, turns readers’ attention to two other Syracusan rules, Hiero and Gelo, whose stories, he argues, would have been more instructive and worth telling (τοῖς φιληκόοις ἡδίων οὗτος καὶ τοῖς φιλομα-

 Cf. Rood’s 2007, 165 – 81 emphasis on how Polybius’ pro-Achaean bias manifests itself in his handling of time.  On the polemic waged by Polybius against his fellow historians see below (§5.1.3).  Analepses and prolepses can be internal or external, depending on whether they fall within the time span of the main narrative; and homo- or heterodiegetic, depending on whether they carry information about the same characters, sequences of events or storylines that have been the concern of the preceding narrative, or about some other characters or events.

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θοῦσι τῷ παντὶ χρησιμώτερος),³³ and goes on to demonstrate his claim by making two short flashbacks to their reigns (7.8).³⁴ The didactic aspect of Polybius’ use of analepses is most prominent when it comes to discussing the issues raised in the narrative. Indeed, many analepses seem to be motivated by Polybius’ desire to instruct readers or convert them to his own point of view. Although these sections are mostly argumentative, they do also often have a narrative component. When, for example, at 9.12– 22 he describes some fundamental prerequisites for effective military leadership, Polybius seeks to corroborate his views with a series of analepses that refer to four commanders who failed through an inadequate knowledge of astronomy and geometry (Aratus at Cynaetha (9.17); Cleomenes at Megalopolis (9.18.1– 4); Philip V at Melitaea (9.18.5 – 9), Nicias at Syracuse (9.19.1– 4)). Similarly, at 8.35 Polybius warns against being foolishly credulous, adducing as examples the Spartan king Archidamus and the Theban Pelopidas, who fell into the hands of the enemy as a result of carelessness. And at 9.23 he incorporates analeptic material drawn from the earlier histories of the Sicilians, Athenians, Spartans and Macedonians to underline the influence of bad advisors on the formation of the policies of city-states and kings. Polybius’ tendency to use analepses as demonstrative and didactic means is based on his belief that the knowledge gained from the study of history helps one to better understand the present and avoid the same mistakes others have made.³⁵ In the examples mentioned above, Polybius makes the lessons to be extracted more explicit and accessible to readers by stringing together similar past events. But analepses may also be used to draw contrasts, as happens, for instance, in 5.9 – 10.8, where Philip V’s sacrilege at Thermum is contrasted with the restrained behaviour displayed by three of his predecessors (Antigonus at

 Sacks 1981, 163 maintains that Polybius is not totally opposed to sensational writing on the grounds that he describes Hiero’s accession to the throne as παραδοξότατον (7.8.3). Yet this is not to say, as Sacks does, that Polybius considers Hiero as a suitable candidate ‘for recounting paradoxologia’. In relating Hiero’s life (7.8.1– 8), Polybius constructs a narrative that is devoid of absurd overtones–indeed, he explicitly claims that fortune had no share in his success. Hiero, Polybius asserts in 7.8.1– 2, acquired the rule by his own merit, ‘having found ready provided for him by fortune neither wealth, fame, nor anything else’ (οὐ πλοῦτον, οὐ δόξαν, οὐχ ἕτερον οὐδὲν ἐκ τῆς τύχης ἕτοιμον παραλαβών). The superlative παραδοξότατον, therefore, far from denoting the kind of sensational writing Polybius castigates in 7.7, is clearly used in the sense of ‘the most remarkable’ to characterize the fact that Hiero made himself king unaided.  Cf. 15.34– 35, where Polybius complains about sensational accounts of Agathocles’ downfall and tries to show that the Sicilians Agathocles and Dionysius would have been better subjects for historical treatment through the use of analepses referring to their achievements.  1.1.2; 1.35.6 – 10. On this topic see Sacks 1981, 189 – 93; but cf., more recently, Maier 2012b.

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Sparta, Philip II at Athens and Alexander at Thebes and in Persia). Sometimes such contrasts are aimed at highlighting the historical dimension of the events described. For example, at 38.2, Polybius magnifies the misfortunes that befell the Greeks in 146 by comparing them to other disasters suffered in the past by various Greek city-states (the sack of Athens by the Persians, the destruction of Thebes by Alexander etc.).³⁶ Of course, there are also analepses that are used by Polybius without further hermeneutic or ideological consequences. This category generally consists of heterodiegetic analepses that do not serve as any kind of contrast or analogy with the main plotline, such as the short digressions that provide readers with mythological information about the places mentioned in the text. Thus, with regard to Hieron in the Pontus, Polybius notes that it is the area ‘where they say that Jason on his voyage back from Colchis first sacrificed to the twelve gods’ (4.39.6). Similarly, he informs readers that Bosphorus is the place ‘where legend says that Io first found a footing after crossing’ (4.43.6 – 7).³⁷ Analepses of this kind, which seem equivalent to modern footnotes or endnotes and are introduced to enrich readers’ encyclopedic knowledge, can be found in both earlier historiography (e. g. Thucydides 4.25.4) and geographical texts (e. g. Ps.-Scylax 98; Paus. 4.31.4– 5). As for actorial analepsis, many arguments in speeches incorporate allusions to the past. Like the primary narrator, therefore, the characters in the Histories frequently recall past events in order to persuade their audience. In the speech he delivers at Sparta in 210, for example, the Acarnanian ambassador Lyciscus tries to prevent the Lacedaemonians from joining the Aetolians in an alliance with Rome first by likening the Roman threat to a cloud appearing from the West and gradually spreading over the whole country (9.37.10)³⁸ and then by focusing on three didactic incidents from their history. Thus, he reminds them of the reply their forebears had given the Persians when they had asked for ‘earth and water’ (9.38.2), the sacrifice they had made at Thermopylae (9.38.3 – 4) and their decision to punish the Thebans for their stance during the Persian invasion (9.39.5). Since they refer to a past which lies outside the boundaries of the main story, Lyciscus’ analepses are of the external type. However, there are also actorial analepses that look back to what has already been recounted. Intriguingly, sometimes the interpretation of events by the participants differs significantly from the way in which they have been presented. By

 For a detailed discussion of such uses of analepses see Grethlein and Krebs 2012, 6 – 8.  On Polybius’ use of mythical elements see Walbank (1993) 2002, 179 – 80.  For the metaphor cf. 5.104.10; 38.16.3.

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far the most remarkable examples of this sort are to be found in the narrative of the first few years of the Second Punic War in book 3. There the Romans are shown to construct their own versions of events in order to dismiss the significance of the Carthaginians’ successes (3.64.4– 9, 68.9, 75.1). The inconsistencies between their claims and the narrator’s account indicate their erroneous assessments of events–and in doing so foreshadow, or at least imply an increased probability of, further setbacks.³⁹

3.3.2 Prolepses Prolepses are the second kind of device used to alter the chronological order of the story in a narrative text. We can distinguish between explicit prolepses, which clearly announce what is going to follow, and implicit prolepses, which simply give readers an idea of the turn that future events will take.⁴⁰ In the case of implicit prolepses, we may think of embedded narratives that contain hints at the subsequent development of the plot, seeds (the function of which becomes apparent later), and motifs, typical scenes, or patterns, which acquire their proleptic significance progressively as they become increasingly familiar (foreshadowing by convention).⁴¹ The following discussion explores the ways in which Polybius employs prolepsis, both in its explicit and implicit form, to engage readers in the narrative and play with their expectations. Explicit narratorial prolepsis in the Histories can have a structuring function when it highlights connections between different parts of the text. This is most evident in comments used by Polybius to show that he intends to revisit and explain something at a later point in the work. Strictly speaking, such cross-references are not prolepses, since they look forward not to events but to the future of the act of narration itself. Yet they, too, prepare the narratees for the further development of the plot. When Polybius recounts the impious deeds committed by Philip V at Thermum, for example, he promises that at the right moment he will mention something which will make it clear that the king’s improper behaviour was due to the advice given him by Demetrius of Pharos and not Aratus (5.12.5 – 8).⁴²

 Cf. Davidson 1991, 13 – 14; Wiater 2010, 83 – 95.  For the distinction cf. Genette (1972) 1980, 75; Bal (1985) 1997, 97.  De Jong 1999, 242– 44 discusses various forms of implicit prolepsis.  The right moment arrives at 7.13.4– 14.3, where Polybius assesses the characters of the two men on the basis of the advice they give the king on the attitude he should adopt towards the Messenians. It is worth noting that, before presenting his evidence, Polybius reminds readers of

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Some prolepses are meant to arouse expectations about the future course of events and thus induce the narratees to keep reading. At 24.10.8, for instance, Polybius creates an atmosphere of foreboding by pointing out that Callicrates was unaware that he had been the architect of great evils for all Greece, and in particular for the Achaeans (μεγάλων κακῶν ἀρχηγὸς γέγονε πᾶσι μὲν τοῖς Ἕλλησι, μάλιστα δὲ τοῖς Ἀχαιοῖς).⁴³ Elsewhere, similar hints are furnished in regard to the fate of individual characters. These proleptic remarks frequently have a moral tone, for example when they look forward to the punishment of characters for the actions they have performed. A good illustration of this can be found at 15.20, where Polybius, in discussing the decision by Philip V and Antiochus III to exploit the accession of the young Ptolemy V to the throne of Egypt in order to conquer his dominions, refers to the subsequent subjugation of their kingdoms by Rome as a just retribution for their conduct. His remark that fortune soon allowed these two kings to suffer a fate similar to that which they themselves had been planning to inflict on Ptolemy (15.20.6 – 8) expresses some sense of satisfaction at their well-deserved punishment, making readers eager to hear more details. A special case in the authorial announcements of upcoming events concerns the future of Rome. Already in the preface to the prokataskeue Polybius reveals the end result of his work by looking ahead to Rome’s dominion over almost the whole known world (1.1.5). Similarly in book 3, while he is still setting out the causes of the Second Punic War, and before he presents the way in which it broke out, Polybius alludes to Rome’s victory, mentioning the fact that, after his defeat, Hannibal took refuge at the court of Antiochus (3.11). The proleptic reference to Rome’s ultimate victory in the Second Punic War recurs in a more striking way at the end of book 3, when the Romans, having been defeated at Cannae, are worried about the territorial integrity of their own homeland:

the promise he made at 5.12.5 – 8, thus rendering the connection between the two passages very apparent (7.13.2– 5): ‘Now that actual facts have confirmed a statement I made in my fifth book, which was there a mere unsupported pronouncement, I wish to recall it to the memory of those who have followed this history, so as to leave none of my statements without proof or disputable (ἀμφισβητουμένην καταλιπεῖν). When in describing the Aetolian war I reached that part of my narrative in which I said that Philip was too savage in his destruction of the porticoes and other votive offerings at Thermus, and that we should not owing to his youth at the time lay the blame so much on the king himself as on the friends he associated with, I then stated that Aratus’ conduct throughout his life vindicated him from the suspicion of having acted so wickedly, but that such conduct savoured of Demetrius of Pharos. I then promised to make this clear from what I would afterwards relate, and I reserved the proof of the above assertion for this occasion’.  For the (almost) proverbial phrase ἀρχὴ κακῶν cf. 11.5.9; 18.39.1; 22.18.1; 23.10.1.

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The Romans on their part owing to this defeat at once abandoned all hope of retaining their supremacy in Italy, and were in the greatest fear (ἐν μεγάλοις φόβοις) about their own safety and that of Rome, expecting Hannibal every moment to appear … Yet the Senate neglected no means in its power, but exhorted and encouraged the populace, strengthened the defences of the city, and deliberated on the situation with manly coolness. And subsequent events made this manifest. For though the Romans were now incontestably beaten and their military reputation shattered, yet by the peculiar virtues of their constitution (τῇ τοῦ πολιτεύματος ἰδιότητι) and by wise counsel they not only recovered their supremacy in Italy and afterwards defeated the Carthaginians, but in a few years made themselves masters of the whole world (3.118.5 – 9).

By choosing one of the most critical moments in the history of the Romans to mention their victory in the Second Punic War and the future establishment of their world rule, Polybius makes their achievements all the more remarkable. At the same time, he excites readers’ curiosity about how things will develop until they reach their known outcome. Indeed, it is impossible to overlook the tension between the authorial prolepses at the beginning and end of the third book and everything that happens in between, with the Carthaginians scoring one success over the other (e. g. at the Trebia, Lake Trasimene, and Cannae). It is a discrepancy that makes readers wonder, and desire to learn, how the Romans will manage to reverse the unfavourable situation and emerge victorious from their ordeal.⁴⁴ Polybius’ remark that the capacities of their constitution, combined with the correct decisions they made from this point onwards, enabled the Romans to recover from Cannae and achieve what seemed impossible at that particular moment directs readers’ attention towards the forthcoming developments in the Second Punic War and towards the sixth book, which presents the Roman constitution and highlights the advantages that the Roman state derives from it. It seems that the special character of the historical material dealt with in the sixth book, as well as its digressive nature, prompted Polybius to emphasize both its suitability for inclusion in the Histories and its interpretative value. It is, however, impressive that this book, which is intended to illustrate how the Roman constitution contributes to Rome’s endurance and success, contains a proleptic statement about the superpower’s future which does not concern its triumph but its decline. As Polybius explicitly notes in his discussion of the cyclic theory of constitutions, a change for the worse will definitely take place at some

 As Duckworth 1933 has long ago shown, when the outcome of a story is known, there may be still uncertainty regarding the manner of fulfillment. Moreover, readers of historical works are not necessarily informed of all the details. Cf. de Jong 1999, 244– 45; Miltsios 2009, 484.

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point and the Roman constitution will not avoid the natural decay that follows a peak of development (6.9.12– 14). The decline of Rome is also foreshadowed in an actorial prolepsis uttered by P. Scipio Aemilianus. It is to be found in the famous episode that presents Scipio weeping at the sight of burning Carthage: Scipio, when he looked upon the city as it was utterly perishing and in the last throes of its complete destruction, is said to have shed tears and wept openly for his enemies. After being wrapped in thought for long, and realizing that all cities, nations, and authorities must, like men, meet their doom; that this happened to Ilium, once a prosperous city, to the empires of Assyria, Media, and Persia, the greatest of their time, and to Macedonia itself, the brilliance of which was so recent, either deliberately or the verses escaping him, he said: ‘A day will come when sacred Troy shall perish, and Priam and his people shall be slain’. And when Polybius speaking with freedom to him, for he was his teacher, asked him what he meant by the words, they say that without any attempt at concealment he named his own country, for which he feared when he reflected on the fate of all things human (38.22.1– 3).

The narrator’s placement of the prediction of Rome’s decline after her brilliant success enhances further its emotive power, as does his decision, by means of the character Polybius’ question, to present it through the mouth of Scipio. By making Scipio himself explain what he has said, and thus avoiding the need to resort to an explanation of his own, Polybius reinforces the credibility of his reporting and lends the prediction, which is expressed by a victorious Roman general, greater impact. A particularly intriguing form of prolepsis is the record of characters’ plans and projects. Time and again Polybius’ characters are shown to plan for the future and optimistically speculate about the fulfillment of their goals. It is a recurring pattern in the narrative, however, that such actorial prolepses tend to be disastrously erroneous.⁴⁵ Thus, Antiochus III forces a naval engagement at Myonessus, in the hope of preventing the Roman army from crossing into Asia, only to meet with a heavy defeat (21.11.13). Similarly, but perhaps more strikingly, Achaeus draws up ambitious plans for the future, totally oblivious to the plot against him and to his approaching end (8.17.10 – 11). In such cases, the unwarranted confidence of the characters in their plans and their ability to execute them acts as a sign of their impending downfall. Yet it is important to bear in mind that the foreshadowing is vague. It merely indicates a direction that the ac-

 For a discussion of this pattern see Miltsios 2009, esp. 485 – 98. See also Grethlein 2010, 196 – 202 on the various ways in which Herodotus’ use of anachronies throws into relief the tension between expectation and experience.

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tion might take, without eliminating or diminishing the uncertainty that may exist over the exact development of the plot. *** It can be concluded that anachronies are one of the most powerful means by which Polybius manipulates readers’ responses. The disruption of the story’s chronological order guides and deepens readers’ understanding by endowing the described events with new meanings which either confirm or negate their previous assumptions. References to past and future events also contribute to the cohesion of the Polybian work by highlighting links and interconnections between the various episodes that form it. They thus shed light from different perspectives on issues of central importance to Polybius’ analysis. Of course, it goes without saying that the promotion of such issues is a major concern for the Polybian narrator, who does not hesitate to make his own presence felt in order to forcefully comment on them. In the foregoing discussion, however, I have tried to show that the presentation of events often proves more eloquent than the remarkably extrovert narrator who makes it. All in all, the temporal displacements used in the Polybian narrative are consistent with, and related to, its thematic concerns. They serve to articulate important recurring themes and enable readers, through the confrontation of past and future, to transcend the incidental nature of events so that they can understand the wider patterns shaping human behaviour.

4 Focalization and interpretation In presenting the impact of the destruction of Carthage on Greece, Polybius records four different views. There were those who approved of the Romans’ conduct, claiming that they had acted with prudence and realism (φρονίμως καὶ πραγματικῶς βουλεύσασθαι, 36.9.3 – 4), to the advantage of their own rule. Eliminating a formidable enemy that had already posed a frequent threat and that could easily cause problems again in the future showed their prudence and far-sightedness (νοῦν ἐχόντων εἶναι καὶ μακρὰν βλεπόντων ἀνθρώπων, 36.9.4). Others disagreed with this opinion. In the ruthlessness of the Romans they perceived a divergence from the principles and mentality (προαίρεσιν) that had characterized their foreign policy. Previously, they had fought their rivals only for as long as was necessary to convince them of the need to accept Roman rule and carry out their orders (36.9.6 – 7). Now, however, as had been shown firstly in the case of Perseus and the Macedonian dynasty, and later in their decision regarding the Carthaginians, who had been willing to satisfy all their demands, the Romans had not stopped until they had exterminated their opponents (36.9.7– 8). Their lust for power was likened to the ambitions of the Athenians and Lacedaemonians, and it was argued that they would suffer the same fate (ἥξειν δ᾽ ἐπὶ ταὐτὸ τέλος ἐκ τῶν προφαινομένων, 36.9.5).¹ Yet others dwelt not so much on the Romans’ decision to destroy Carthage as on the means they used to accomplish their objective. They maintained that the Romans, in spite of their traditional disapproval of the use of deceit and trickery in war, had on this occasion not hesitated to resort to dishonourable practices in the course of their negotiations with the Carthaginians, until they had driven them to despair and left them no alternative (36.9.10 – 11). In their view, this conduct was more befitting to a tyrant and could only be described as a violation of the treaties (36.9.11). The response to this, as was expressed by those who took the side of the Romans, pointed to the Carthaginians’ share of blame and claimed that in effect it was they, and not the Romans, who had broken the treaty (36.9.16). Once they had chosen to place themselves in the hands of the Romans through a formal act of deditio, they should have carried out their orders (36.9.13).

 This sentence can be interpreted in two ways: either that the Romans will lose their power (Hoffmann 1960, 311 ff.) or that they will end up behaving like tyrants (Walbank 1979, 665). I think that the first interpretation is more likely to be correct. As we have seen (above, p. 82), proleptic references to the end of Rome are found also elsewhere in the Histories. Besides, the comparison with Athens and Sparta shows that Rome had already been equated with them.

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The recording of four different opinions about the same event is in itself an interesting moment in the work of any ancient Greek historian:² the fact that Polybius presents them here without taking sides makes it more intriguing. It is hardly surprising, therefore, that the passage has sparked off a lively debate between the critics who have sought to decipher his own views on the issue. Petzold, for example, has maintained that Polybius shares the criticism of the Romans, and has based his interpretation on passages in which the historian advises the powerful to preserve their dominion by the same means that they used to acquire it and not to be too harsh on the vanquished.³ Walbank, on the other hand, invoking biographical data (the historian accompanied Scipio Aemilianus on his mission and contributed to its success in a practical way) and textual characteristics, such as the way in which the four viewpoints are arranged (the pro-Roman arguments are placed at the beginning and end of the discussion) and the amount of space they take up (more space is devoted to the proRoman statements than to the anti-Roman ones), has suggested that Polybius approved of Rome’s policy towards Carthage.⁴ It appears, however, that what concerns Polybius here is not to develop his own perspective, in order to persuade his readers to adopt it, but to record the divergence of opinion that the destruction of Carthage caused in Greece, in order to encourage them to think about the matter. It is indeed noteworthy that he does not comment on the four viewpoints but allows readers to draw their own conclusions from the arguments deployed by the different sides.⁵ Thus, the passage in question may be used as a starting point for investigating

 In the Herodotean narrative there are over 125 occasions in which alternative versions are recorded. Thucydides, on the other hand, even when he includes alternative versions, usually prefers the one he thinks to be the likeliest (see, e. g., 8.87, where the possible motives behind Tissaphernes’ conduct are set out). The technique is so closely connected with Herodotus that the only passage in Thucydides where the typical disjunctive εἴτε … εἴτε occurs (5.65.3) has been characterized as being Herodotean in style (cf. Rood 1998, 106 n. 100; Hornblower 2004, 300). On Herodotus’ alternative versions generally cf. Flory 1987, 47– 79; and Lateiner 1989, 76 – 90, including a list. The narrative functions of alternative accounts in Herodotus are explored by Lang 1984, 73 – 79 and Gray 2003. On Herodotus’ presentation of alternative motivations see Baragwanath 2008, 122 – 59.  Petzold 1969, 62– 63.  Walbank (1974) 1985, 286 – 88; (1977) 1985, 338 – 40. Interpretations that lie between these two extremes have also been proposed. Ferrary 1988, 327– 43, followed by Baronowski 2011, 102– 6, has argued that Polybius accepted the arguments favouring Rome but expressed reservations by including the moral ones. Cf. Gabba 1977, 71– 73; Musti 1978, 54– 57.  Champion 2004, 196 rightly notes that: ‘It is in the very nature of the passage that there can never be a final answer to the question of what these Greek sentiments surrounding the Third Romano-Carthaginian War reveal about Polybius’s own opinions’.

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the ways in which focalization may promote the expression of diverse opinion in the Histories, a text in which the narrator’s authority (such as is manifested in his didacticism) and the intensity of his voice seem at first glance to exclude such a possibility. As writers who frequently had to base themselves on conflicting evidence in order to reconstruct events, Polybius and his fellow historians were aware of the relativity of perceptions as well as of their crucial importance in historical analysis and interpretation. Providing access to the expectations and fears of the historical agents promotes the reader’s understanding of the choices that they make. Perceptions matter not only because they reflect reality but mainly because of the ways they drive it by exerting their influence over the course of events. One’s ability to understand reality and other people’s mindsets indeed determines the way in which one acts and one’s consequent success or failure. In the Histories, war is often thematized as a clash of contrasting assessments: the victor is the one who manages to grasp the situation and predict his rival’s next moves more quickly and effectively. The technique through which the characters’ mental processes are presented to readers is that of internal or embedded focalization. The term ‘focalization’, which was introduced by Genette in order to replace the earlier models which confused the categories of voice and point of view, precisely foregrounds the distinction between the narrator’s voice and the information that is conveyed from the perspective from which the narrator projects the narrative.⁶ Genette further distinguished three basic types of focalization, each corresponding to a selection of narrative information: a) zero focalization, in which the narrator mentions more than any of the characters knows (as, for example, in the case of the omniscient narrator); b) external focalization, in which the narrator says less than what the characters know (a popular technique in detective novels, where the narrator does not reveal everything s/he knows from the outset and the characters play out the drama before us without ever fully letting us into their thoughts and ideas; c) internal focalization, where the narrator says only what a given character knows. Internal focalization can be fixed, multiple and variable, depending on whether the narrative perspective is determined by the viewpoint of a single character, the viewpoints of several characters on the same event, or the viewpoints of several characters in succession.

 See Genette (1972) 1980, 203 – 6. See also id., (1983) 1988 and Bal (1985) 1997 on the debate about the utility of expanding the theory to include a category of the ‘focalized’ and levels or degrees of focalization. For discussion and criticism of Bal’s concept of focalization see Nelles 1990 and, within classics, Rood 1998, 294– 96. On post-Genettean focalization theory see O’Neill 1992; Jahn 1996; Phelan 2001; Prince 2001; Shen 2001.

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Every single statement in a text falls into one of the above categories, but the type of focalization may not necessarily remain steady throughout the whole narrative. Polybius adopts a flexible framework that consists in the systematic alternation between zero and the various modes of internal focalization. There are, moreover, frequent momentary changes in focalization in the text, either when the narrator provides more information than is authorized by the ruling code of focalization in a certain narrative section (paralepsis) or when he gives less (paralipsis). Next, I shall examine focalization as a means of recording both visual impressions and rational processes. I shall begin by investigating its usefulness in military descriptions, where the breadth of vision of each of the opposing sides is shown to determine the outcome of its ventures (4.1). I shall also explore the mental facet of focalization as a technique that permits access to the characters’ consciousness in order to reveal their motives (4.2). Finally, I shall attempt to illustrate the ways focalization is employed to create suspense as well as to record the variations in role between victor and vanquished that occur during the Second Punic War (4.3, 4.4).

4.1 The theatre of war Military operations (battles, sieges etc.) provide apt material for exploring the focalizing techniques employed in their presentation. Their outcome depends to a large extent on the ability of the leaders to forestall their opponents’ plans and next moves as well as to control the expectations of their men. Davidson, in a pioneering article on the role of the ‘gaze’ in Polybius, suggested that the characters’ perceptions of themselves and their rivals influence drastically the result of the battles they fight.⁷ If they believe that they are superior to their rivals, they can defeat them more easily. And if they manage to persuade their adversaries themselves of their inferiority their chances of prevailing are even greater. In the Histories war is analyzed in psychological terms. Defeat is not catastrophic unless it is regarded as such and creates a feeling of defeatism that leads to a string of new defeats.⁸ Conversely, the importance of victory lies not only in the material benefits that it brings but also in the effects it can have on the morale of the victor. Victory paves the way for further successes. Davidson certainly identified a key characteristic of the Polybian narrative. However, war is decided not only on the level of impressions. Success stems

 Davidson 1991, 10 – 24.  Cf. Davidson 1991, 21: ‘Defeat is not so much a strategic or material affair as a state of mind’.

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also from the effectiveness of the military manoeuvres that are carried out on the battlefield and therefore requires sharpened powers of observation. What the rivals can or cannot see shapes the result of the conflict. Fully aware of the role of sight in establishing military superiority, the characters try to gain a visual advantage over the enemy either by occupying positions that will give them a better overall view of the battlefield or by keeping their movements hidden from others’ scrutinizing gazes. Often a character’s failure is shown to spring merely from his inability to see and, by extension, to comprehend what is happening around him. In the narrative of the capture of Sardis by the army of Antiochus III in 7.15 – 18, the triumph of Lagoras, who undertakes the enterprise, is presented as the result of his gaining the upper hand in the battle of perceptions and his ability to define his men’s field of view and that of his foes. The episode begins with the presentation of the military operations that were taking place during the siege: ‘Round Sardis there was a constant succession of skirmishes and battles both by night and day, the soldiers devising against each other every species of ambush, counter-ambush, and attack’ (7.15.1). The iterative narration of the unsuccessful attempts by Antiochus’ soldiers to capture the city has the effect of lending even greater emphasis to Lagoras’ impending success. The event of central interest–the conquest of Sardis–is thus made to outshine everything that had happened before. Lagoras differs from his colleagues in that, unlike them, he is not daunted by the general perception of Sardis’ impregnability: instead of regarding it as an obstacle, he tries to turn it to his own advantage (7.15.4– 6). Thanks to his experience of war, he knows that fortified cities fall most easily as a result of a lack of vigilance on the part of their inhabitants, who, in their complacency, place all their hopes in their natural or artificial fortifications (7.15.2). For the same reason these purportedly impregnable cities are usually captured ‘at their very strongest points where the enemy are supposed to regard attack as hopeless’ (συμβαίνει τὰς ἁλώσεις γίνεσθαι κατὰ τοὺς ὀχυρωτάτους τόπους καὶ δοκοῦντας ὑπὸ τῶν ἐναντίων ἀπηλπίσθαι, 7.15.3 – 4).⁹ The impression (δόξα) that Sardis’ inhabitants have of its fortifications is by no means mistaken. Lagoras shares it too, although, unlike them, he can also perceive the dangers that it conceals for the city’s defence. His superiority is shown to lie precisely in his capacity to comprehend and exploit the way in which things appear to others. It is not coincidental that Lagoras’ thinking is de-

 For more examples of cities seized despite or rather because of their alleged impregnability see McGing 2010, 103 – 4.

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scribed with two participles and an infinitive whose original meaning was related to sight as a source of stimuli: συνεωρακώς (7.15.2), θεωρῶν (7.15.4) and θεωρῆσαι (7.15.8). The choice of these words reflects the decisive role that sight plays in this episode. If the conception of the plan requires insight, its realization calls for keen powers of observation. Thus, from 7.15.6 to 7.15.10 the narrative concentrates on Lagoras’ gaze–the participle συνθεωρήσας (7.15.6, 15.9) is used in its original sense–as it scans the walls and the guards in order to find the vulnerable point that will allow him to enter the city. It is, indeed, a highly precipitous place (τοῦ τόπου κρημνώδους ὑπάρχοντος διαφερόντως, 7.15.8).¹⁰ Just as the invaders’ careful observation of the city is crucial to the success of the venture, so too is the concealment of their movements from the gaze of the defenders. Before putting his plan into action, Lagoras takes all the necessary precautions in order to escape detection. As a suitable time for the invasion he chooses a moonless night just before daybreak (ἐτήρουν νύκτα τὸ περὶ τὴν ἑωθινὴν μέρος ἔχουσαν ἀσέληνον, 7.16.3 – 4). The signal for the attack is given to the invaders as soon as the moon disappears behind the clouds (ἅμα τῷ κρυφθῆναι τὴν σελήνην, 7.17.1), and their main concern, when they approach the cliffs with their scaling ladders, is to take cover beneath a rock. Lagoras’ manoeuvres prove to be effective. Nobody from either of the two camps is able to suspect (as they cannot see) what is going on (τὸ μὲν πρῶτον ἀνύποπτον ἦν πᾶσι τὸ γενόμενον, 7.17.2). However, once the invaders begin to ascend the cliff-face, they are in full view of their colleagues who watch them with excitement and joy. The narrative stresses the contrast between the soldiers of Antiochus, who can now see their comrades’ feat (τοῖς δ᾽ ἐκ τοῦ στρατοπέδου σύνοπτος ἦν ἡ τόλμα τῶν ἀναβαινόντων καὶ παραβαλλομένων, 7.17.4– 5), and Achaeus, who, cooped up with his men, is unaware of what is taking place because the rock obstructs his view (τοῖς μὲν ἐκ τῆς πόλεως καὶ τοῖς περὶ τὸν Ἀχαιὸν ἐκ τῆς ἄκρας ἀδήλους εἶναι τοὺς προσβαίνοντας διὰ τῆς προπεπτωκυίας ἐπὶ τὸν κρημνὸν ὀφρύος, 7.17.4). Achaeus, even when he observes the enemy camp, having been disturbed by the unusual amount of activity in it, looks in the wrong direction as the cover that the rock provides to Lagoras’ party prevents him

 The very same thing happens in the capture of Sardis by Cyrus, recounted by Herodotus in 1.84. The similarities between the two episodes are especially striking. Like Antiochus, Cyrus also tries to seize the city. A Mardian soldier extricates him from his difficulties by entering the city through the only point that was not guarded because of its defensive strength (κατὰ τοῦτο τῆς ἀκροπόλιος τῇ οὐδεὶς ἐτέτακτο φύλακος· οὐ γὰρ ἦν δεινὸν κατὰ τοῦτο μὴ ἁλῷ κοτε· ἀπότομός τε γάρ ἐστι ταύτῃ ἡ ἀκρόπολις καὶ ἄμαχος, 1.84.3). This might have been the same point that Lagoras found. For more on this see Walbank 1967, 63.

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from seeing the approaching threat, and so he cannot realize what is happening (7.17.7– 8). The ability to observe one’s enemy is undoubtedly an advantage in battle, so long as one is in a position where one can survey the most important points of the terrain. The strategy employed by Lagoras both deprives Achaeus of this ability and also defines the breadth of his allies’ field of vision so as to render them spectators of his endeavour. The whole scene is narrated in such a way that Lagoras and his men, who climb up the wall in the knowledge that they are being watched, can be compared to actors who put on a play for the army, while Antiochus’ soldiers, who from outside the city watch their comrades’ attempt full of anxiety and expectation, act like spectators of a play (7.17.5 – 6). In keeping with the quasi-theatrical presentation of the episode, the invaders are shown to occupy the theatre of Sardis, where they wait for reinforcements from the rest of the army (οἱ μὲν περὶ τὸν Θεόδοτον καὶ Λαγόραν ἔμενον ἐπὶ τῶν κατὰ τὸ θέατρον τόπων, νουνεχῶς καὶ πραγματικῶς ἐφεδρεύοντες τοῖς ὅλοις, 7.18.8).¹¹ Just how misleading, and therefore catastrophic, the partial view of an army by its commander can be during a conflict becomes particularly evident in the narrative of the battle waged at Cynoscephalae (197) between Philip V and T. Quinctius Flamininus (18.19 – 27). The reader is already alerted to the key role that sight will play in the ensuing battle by the depiction of its preliminaries, which revolves precisely around the inability of the armies to see each other (τῆς δ᾽ ἑκατέρων πορείας μεταξὺ κειμένων ὄχθων ὑψηλῶν, οὔθ᾽ οἱ Ῥωμαῖοι συνεώρων τοὺς Μακεδόνας, ποῖ ποιοῦνται τὴν πορείαν, οὔθ᾽ οἱ Μακεδόνες τοὺς Ῥωμαίους, 18.20.4– 5). For two days the opponents, separated by the hills, are ignorant of each other’s movements (ἀγνοοῦντες ἀμφότεροι τὰς ἀλλήλων παρεμβολάς, 18.20.5 – 6; ἀκμὴν ἀγνοοῦντες ἀλλήλους, 18.20.6 – 7). Visibility is further restricted on the third day because of fog, which prevents the soldiers from seeing even those who are quite close to them (ὥστε διὰ τὸν ἐφεστῶτα ζόφον μηδὲ τοὺς ἐν ποσὶ δύνασθαι βλέπειν, 18.20.7). Paradoxically, not only does the lack of visibility  War is also portrayed in theatrical terms at 3.91.10, where the Carthaginians are shown to stage a display of power and to manipulate sight in order to persuade the inhabitants of Italy that they had acquired control over the countryside: ‘The Carthaginians, then, by quartering themselves in this plain made of it a kind of theatre (ὥσπερ εἰς θέατρον), in which they were sure to create a deep impression on all by their unexpected appearance, giving a spectacular exhibition of the timidity of their enemy (ἐκθεατριεῖν δὲ τοὺς πολεμίους φυγομαχοῦντας) and themselves demonstrating indisputably that they were in command of the country’. On war as a public show of power in Polybius see Davidson 1991, 14– 18. Compare Greenwood’s illuminating account on the ‘theatre of war’ in Thucydides 2006, 19 – 41 on how ‘the historical participants themselves viewed the events in which they were involved as a quasi-theatrical arena in which the visual was an all-important factor’ (23).

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not avert the clash, but it also triggers it off when the Romans sent by Flamininus to reconnoitre the area run into the Macedonian reserve διὰ τὸ δύσοπτον τῆς ἡμέρας (18.21.3). Despite the foggy weather, the two scout forces begin to skirmish and, when reinforcements arrive, the fighting quickly turns into a general engagement. By now the mist has cleared (τῆς ὀμίχλης ἤδη διαφαινούσης, 18.22.2), but the two generals do not take advantage of the restoration of visibility in the same way. Flamininus surveys the whole of his army (18.22.7, 23.1), while also taking care to observe the situation prevailing on the enemy’s side (18.25.5). This enables him to get a rapid and complete grasp of the problem caused by the disintegration of his left flank, which cannot withstand the pressure of the phalanx, and to solve it by attacking with his powerful right the Macedonian left which, owing to the uneven ground, is in marching order and not in battle formation (18.25.7). Philip, by contrast, who has preferred to delegate command of the left wing to Nicanor and to retain control only of the right, fails to notice his opponent’s skilful manoeuvre. Going by the achievements of his own wing, he is strongly convinced that he is gaining an overall victory (τεκμαιρόμενος ἐκ τοῦ καθ᾽ αὑτὸν μέρους ἐπέπειστο τελέως νικᾶν, 18.26.6 – 7). In his ignorance, he cannot forestall the attack on the rear of the Macedonian phalanx charged by twenty maniples of legionaries. Only when he sees his soldiers suddenly throw down their weapons (συνθεασάμενος ἄφνω ῥιπτοῦντας τὰ ὅπλα τοὺς Μακεδόνας, 18.26.7)–ἄφνω reflects Philip’s perspective and not that of the narrator or the reader, who can see the reason for the Macedonians’ reaction–and briefly withdraws from the battle in order to gain an overall picture of the situation does he realize what has actually happened (συνεθεώρει τὰ ὅλα, 18.26.7– 8). As earlier in the capture of Sardis, the discrepancy in perspective between the rivals proves to be decisive for the outcome of their conflict, except that in this case the field of view of the defeated is not restricted by his adversary’s tactics but by his own personal choices. Internal focalization, when defined in strictly perceptual terms, concerns the presentation of a character’s visual impressions. The descriptions of military operations, in which sight plays such a decisive role, enable the narrator not only to record the visual stimuli experienced by the rivals (and thus to apply internal focalization in its narrow sense) but also to depict their emotions and expectations, thus covering all the facets that have come to be included in this category.¹² The interdependence of these factors is self-evident. The emotions of the

 For an analysis expanding the concept of focalization beyond the purely visual to include all

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characters are thoroughly relevant to what they notice; and, conversely, the way they observe things is influenced by their emotional perspective. This intricate link between visual perceptions and emotional or thought processes is clearly reflected in the ambivalence of the terms that are used to convey the perspectives of the participants in the episodes discussed above: συνεωρακώς (7.15.2), θεωρῆσαι (7.15.8), ἀνύποπτον (7.17.2), συνεθεώρει (18.26.8). In these terms the original meaning (relating to sight) is extended to denote the mental process accompanying the visual stimulus. This aspect of internal focalization as a means of providing access to a character’s mindset will be explored in the following section.¹³

4.2 The attribution of motives Ascriptions of motivation play a crucial role in the ancient historians’ research into cause and explanation. Depicting what goes on in their characters’ minds is central to their desire to reveal the reasons behind the actions. Especially for Polybius, who firmly believes in the ability of the individual to determine the course of historical events, the importance of articulating people’s thoughts is decisive.¹⁴ He thus frequently tries to deduce motives and shows a concern to draw the reader’s attention to his characters’ plans and expectations. But his presentation of motivation generates a complex web of narrative possibilities that extend far beyond the explanatory function of conferring intelligibility to the individual deeds he recounts. It usually ties into the text’s wider patterns aspects of thinking see Rimmon-Kenan (1983) 2002, 80 – 82, adapting the four planes of point of view discussed by Uspensky (1970) 1973.  On the connection between sight and insight see also 3.105.1, where the Romans, having turned their attention to their comrades who are fighting the Carthaginians on the adjacent hill, fail to detect Hannibal’s ambush: ‘The day was just dawning, and the minds and eyes of all (ταῖς τε διανοίαις καὶ τοῖς ὄμμασι) were engrossed in the battle on the hill, so that no one suspected (ἀνύποπτος ἦν) that the ambuscade had been posted’.  Episodes such as those involving Xanthippus (εἷς γὰρ ἄνθρωπος καὶ μία γνώμη τὰ μὲν ἀήττητα πλήθη καὶ πραγματικὰ δοκοῦντ᾽ εἶναι καθεῖλεν, ‘For one man and one brain laid low that host which seemed so invincible and efficient’, 1.35.5), Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’ (1.46), and Archimedes (μία ψυχὴ τῆς ἁπάσης ἐστὶ πολυχειρίας ἐν ἐνίοις καιροῖς ἀνυστικωτέρα, ‘in some cases the genius of one man accomplishes much more than any number of hands’, 8.3.3; εἷς ἀνὴρ καὶ μία ψυχὴ δεόντως ἡρμοσμένη πρὸς ἔνια τῶν πραγμάτων μέγα τι χρῆμα φαίνεται γίνεσθαι καὶ θαυμάσιον, ‘Such a great and marvellous thing does the genius of one man show itself to be when properly applied to certain matters’, 8.7.7) show the importance Polybius attaches to the individual’s ability to play a decisive role in shaping the course of events. On the role of the individual as a driving force of history see Pédech 1964, 204– 54; see also Labuske 1977.

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of behaviour or themes, and thus serves to promote narrative coherence as well as the reader’s understanding of the underlying human factors at work. Presenting the motives behind his characters’ actions unavoidably raises the thorny question of Polybius’ sources. How could he have known what moved a particular character at a given moment of time? Conveying the characters’ thoughts and feelings creates more problems with regard to their authenticity than (the already tricky task of) recounting their actions or speeches. It is safer to narrate how past individuals handled events than to illustrate the manner in which they perceived them. It is no surprise, then, that the frequency with which characters’ thoughts are presented in ancient historiography provides thοse who call attention to its differences from the modern practice of history writing with a further argument to support their claims.¹⁵ It is often held that the main recourse of the ancient historians in attributing motives to their agents was personal conjecture.¹⁶ Of course, they would have invented or deduced motives on the basis of their knowledge of what actually happened (inferred motivation)¹⁷ or their views of the character of the historical participants (character evidence).¹⁸ One should bear in mind, nevertheless, the value that ancient historians placed in the oral examination of eyewitnesses as an important methodological tool; they certainly would not have failed to use any evidence they had at their disposal.¹⁹ To be sure, none of the above practices is devoid of limitations. Even if it is possible to examine the agents, which is not always the case, questions arise as to their sincerity, for one cannot rule out the possibility that they are lying. Besides, reasoning ex eventu is no less precarious. The same result might have been produced in several different ways. In fact, it could be said that the more smoothly the conception of a plan blends in with its execution, the more likely it is that the narrator invented it afterwards. Finally, making inferences about motives from what it is known of an individual’s character presupposes a congruence between the individual’s character and its various manifestations. How-

 See above, Introduction n. 1.  Cf. Lloyd 1975, 162– 63; Müller 1981, 307– 11; Thomas 2000, 168 – 90; Baragwanath 2008, 3 – 4, 82– 83.  This topic has been studied mainly in Thucydides on account of the frequent convergence that is observed between the characters’ thoughts and intentions and the resulting action. See especially Thompson 1969; Hunter 1973; Schneider 1974. Stahl (1966) 2003, on the other hand, has drawn attention to those cases in which the final outcome runs counter to the characters’ calculations.  Pearson 1947.  See, e.g, Westlake 1989; Hornblower 1987, 81; Rood 1998, 49.

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ever, the human personality is way more intricate and complex than this practice generally allows. Polybius frequently draws his readers’ attention to the complexity of human behaviour.²⁰ And yet, despite its diverse character, he does not abandon his attempt to comprehend the fundamental principles that govern it. The choices of his characters, like state policies, are usually dictated by certain rules. The presentation of motives, then, does not serve only to help interpret events but also to contextualize them on the basis of the operation of these rules. Here one might justifiably detect a tension between Polybius’ belief in the diversity of human nature and his intention to render it comprehensible and, to some degree, predictable by subjecting it to certain given models of behaviour. This contradiction can be partly overcome if one takes into account the fact that the diversity of human reactions is interpreted by Polybius as being a result of the influence of external factors.²¹

 Usually because of the contradictions that he detects in the nature of both individuals (e. g. Aratus (αἱ τῶν ἀνθρώπων φύσεις οὐ μόνον τοῖς σώμασιν ἔχουσί τι πολυειδές, ἔτι δὲ μᾶλλον ταῖς ψυχαῖς, ‘So true is it that there is something multiform in the nature not only of men’s bodies, but of their minds’, 4.8.7), Agathocles (9.23.2), Cleomenes (9.23.3) and Hannibal, in whose case he warns the reader that his nature cannot be easily understood from his actions in Italy (ὥστε καὶ λίαν … δυσθεώρητον εἶναι τὴν τοῦ προειρημένου φύσιν, 9.24.2– 3)) and entire communities (9.23.6 – 7). On Polybius’ views on human nature see Longley 2012.  External factors such as friends and the complexity of facts (ποτὲ μὲν διὰ τὰς τῶν φίλων παραθέσεις, ποτὲ δὲ διὰ τὰς τῶν πραγμάτων ποκιλίας, 9.22.10). The counsels of friends can influence the behaviour not only of individuals like Hannibal (9.26.1) but of whole cities (τὸ δ᾽ αὐτὸ καὶ διὰ τὰς τῶν φίλων παραθέσεις εἴωθε συμβαίνειν οὐ μόνον ἡγεμόσι καὶ δυνάσταις καὶ βασιλεῦσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ πόλεσιν, ‘And a like effect is usually produced by the suggestions of friends not only on generals, princes, and kings but on cities’, 9.23.5). Polybius invokes these factors so as to explain the contradictions that he detects in human nature, and which he himself finds hard to comprehend (e. g. 9.23.4: καίτοι γ᾽ οὐκ εἰκὸς ἦν περὶ τὰς αὐτὰς φύσεις τὰς ἐναντιωτάτας διαθέσεις ὑπάρχειν, ‘Now we can hardly suppose that dispositions so diametrically opposite existed in the same natures’). In spite of the generalizations it contains about human nature, Thucydides’ model also leaves some room for the influence of external factors. On this see Hornblower 1987, 76 – 77: ‘The generalisations in narrative about human nature or the human condition … imply that although human behaviour changes according to changes in attendant circumstances, the “nature of men” can be made the basis for predictions. The assumption behind all this is that the people are rational and act according to their own interests–a Socratic view–so that outsiders can infer motive from action’; see also the remarks of Schneider 1974, 121: ‘Die Fähigkeit zur Voraussicht beruht auf dem Wissen, dass der Geist der Menschen abhängig ist von den Bedingungen der äusseren Welt. Wenn dies Prinzip allgemein gilt, dann lässt sich aus ihm auch der Satz begründen, dass gleiche oder ähnliche Verhältnisse gleiche oder ähnliche Verhaltensweisen zur Folge haben’.

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The interpretation of motive ascriptions independently of the wider patterns of behaviour they reflect can be misleading. It has been argued, for example, that the scenario that motivates the Romans to accept the Mamertines’ appeal, i. e. the assumption that the Carthaginians, if they gained control of Messana, would soon conquer the whole of Sicily and then threaten Italy itself (1.10.5 – 9), derives from Fabius Pictor and Roman propaganda.²² But this escalation of Carthaginian ambitions fits an emerging pattern in which success boosts the morale of the victors and leads them to redefine their aims and envisage the possibility of further conquests.²³ The Romans themselves are often shown to react in this manner. As we have seen earlier (pp. 25 – 26), after their initial success at Agrigentum they begin to plan the complete expulsion of the Carthaginians from Sicily (1.20.2– 3). And their victory off Tyndaris feeds their ambitions to such a degree, that they organize their fleet with the prospect of transferring the theatre of war from Sicily to Africa (1.25.5 – 26.1). The mechanism that is set into motion in these cases is clear. The characters’ successes influence the outcome of their subsequent ventures by reinforcing the positive image they have of themselves and their own capabilities. This reaction is so plausible that the participants themselves predict it and expect their rivals to show it. Thus, the Carthaginians, after their defeat at Ecnomus, believe that the Romans will have gained so much self-confidence from their recent success that they will launch an attack to Carthage itself (1.29.4). On the same grounds, the ambassadors sent by Aratus to Antigonus to inform him of the Aetolians’ alliance with Cleomenes point to the dangers this holds for the Macedonian dynasty too.²⁴ If the Aetolians defeat the Achaeans, they will not be content with their gains (2.49.2). Their greed would not even be satisfied by the conquest of the whole of Greece (τήν τε γὰρ Αἰτωλῶν πλεονεξίαν οὐχ οἷον τοῖς Πελοποννησίων ὅροις εὐδοκῆσαί ποτ᾽ ἂν περιληφθεῖσαν, ἀλλ᾽ οὐδὲ τοῖς τῆς Ἑλλάδος, 2.49.3 – 4). As for Cleomenes, he may at present have only control of the Peloponnese in his sights, yet once he acquires it, he will strive to rule over all of the Greeks (2.49.4– 5). The fears expressed by Agelaus to Philip V and his allies at the Naupactus conference regarding the expansionist designs of the Romans and Carthaginians are of a similar kind. Whichever of the two opponents wins, they will not remain contented with their rule over Italy and Sicily but will redefine and broaden their goals (5.104.3 – 4). In this light, then, the way in which the Romans

 Cf. Gelzer 1933, 151; Harris 1979, 186.  On this pattern, and generally on what follows, cf. Davidson 1991, 22– 23.  On the negotiations between Antigonus Doson and Aratus see Bickerman 1943; and Gruen 1972. On the political crisis caused in Achaea by the war with Cleomenes see Urban 1979, 117– 201.

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are shown to anticipate the extension of Punic aims in 1.10.5 – 9 is so familiar in the Histories that makes it hard to believe that this passage does not reflect Polybius’ views but the biases of his sources. The ability to diagnose the motives of one’s opponent is an unquestionable advantage in war: success depends in large part on how good the opposing sides are at doing this. Nevertheless, certain characters, such as the Romans in 1.10.5 – 9, in their attempt to predict their rivals’ next moves, judge them on the basis of their own beliefs, and so they ascribe modes of behaviour to them of which they themselves are guilty. It is instructive to see how the dark motives they attribute to them often reflect the negative aspects of their own mindset. In a speech delivered at Sparta, the Aetolians’ envoy Chlaeneas strives to turn his audience against the Macedonians in an external analepsis recounting the events in the reign of Philip II. So intense was the Macedonians’ hatred of the Lacedaemonians at that time, he maintains, that they deprived them of their lands in order to distribute them to other cities in the surrounding region, and they did not hesitate to favour all other parties in a scandalous way, so long as they harmed the Lacedaemonians (9.28.7– 8).²⁵ The answer to this charge is given in the speech by Lyciscus, the ambassador of the Acarnanians, in which he explains that Philip intervened against his own will and only because his friends and allies in the Peloponnese asked him to do so, and that, instead of exploiting their passionate desire to destroy the Lacedaemonians, he forced the opposing sides to solve their differences by reaching a solution that would be of benefit to all (9.33.11– 12). However, the argument of the Aetolians is also undermined in a more subtle way. Their interpretation of Philip’s motivation recalls the way in which Polybius used focalization to present from Aratus’ viewpoint–which he himself shared²⁶–the Aetolian motives on the eve of the Cleomenic War. In 2.46.3 – 4 we were told that their hatred led them to tolerate Cleomenes’ seizure of Tegea, Mantinea, and Orchomenus, provided that they could turn him into a potent enemy of the Achaeans. The Aetolians, therefore, are portrayed in 9.28.7– 8 as attributing to Philip a passionate hatred that matches their own and a tactic they themselves know and are the first to apply. The common syntactic structure of the two passages (ἐφ᾽ ᾧ μόνον ὑμᾶς κακῶς ποιεῖν, 9.28.8; ἐφ᾽ ᾧ μόνον ἰδεῖν ἀξιόχρεων γενόμενον ἀνταγωνιστὴν Κλεομένη τοῖς Ἀχαιοῖς, 2.46.3 – 4) allows Polybius to emphasize the connection between them even more forcefully.

 Cf. 18.14.7, where Polybius approves these territorial changes.  See 2.56.2: Ἀράτῳ προῃρημένοις κατακολουθεῖν περὶ τῶν Κλεομενικῶν, ‘I have chosen to rely on Aratus’ narrative on the history of the Cleomenic war’.

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The same pattern can be found in the account of Apelles’ conspiracy against Philip V and Aratus (4.84– 5.28).²⁷ Polybius’ presentation is largely concerned with the theme of court intrigue. Apelles, who has acquired substantial power as the king’s guardian, regards Aratus, who also enjoys a great influence with Philip, as an obstacle to his plans and tries to supplant him by slandering him. Exploiting the failure in the negotiations with the Eleans, he accuses Aratus of being insincere as well as of deliberately sabotaging the agreement that Philip so eagerly tried to accomplish (4.84.7– 8). When, however, the plot is revealed, Apelles is shown to do precisely what he accused Aratus of doing–namely, to form a conspiracy to upset Philip’s plans. He himself would go to Chalcis and try to cut off military supplies, while his accomplices, Megaleas and Leontius, were to stay close to Philip and hamper his efforts (5.2.8 – 9). The conspirators’ strategy is crowned with success in the case of the siege of Palus in Cephallenia (5.3 – 4). In spite of its thorough planning, the venture fails when Leontius prevents the soldiers who have scaled the wall from capturing the city, even though they could have easily defeated the enemy (5.5.12). The detail in which the advantages of the island’s position are described–they are presented through the king’s perspective in 5.3.7– 10 and summarized by the narrator in 5.4.1–highlights the strategic significance of the goal that cannot be accomplished because of the actions of the conspirators. Leontius attempts to check Philip’s advance on two further occasions (5.5.10 – 11, 7.4– 6), though without achieving similar success. The recurring references to the conspiracy remind readers of the reason why Macedonian officers undermine their king’s operations with such zeal.²⁸ As for the motives that lie behind the decision of the three men to conspire against the king, these are expressly stated on two occasions: on the first from Apelles’ perspective at the time the agreement is made–to be precise, mention

 Polybius’ partisan narrative of these events has been regarded as the result of the biases of his sources. Walbank 1957, 536 maintained that he reproduced the Achaean version of events, while Errington 1967 believed that he accepted the version in which Philip himself attempted to justify the harshness of the punishment that he imposed on his courtiers after the discovery of their conspiracy. Yet, Herman 1997 noted that if Polybius really did adopt Philip’s version, he did not do it uncritically or because it was the only source he had, but because, on account of his antipathy towards the courtiers, he agreed with the way in which they were presented: ‘Polybius was too good a historian slavishly to accept an account just because there was no other. He must have been predisposed to accept Philip’s version of the affair, and I believe that it is possible to show why’ (220).  E.g. 5.4.10: τηροῦντες τὰ πρὸς τὸν Ἀπελλῆν συγκείμενα; 5.5.5: οἱ δὲ περὶ τὸν Λεόντιον, τηροῦντες τὴν αὑτῶν ὑπόθεσιν; 5.7.3: καὶ τηροῦντες τὴν ἑαυτῶν πρόθεσιν; 5.14.11– 12: ὡς ἂν διατεταγμένοι μὲν πρὸς τὸν Ἀπελλῆν πάσαις ἐμποδιεῖν ταῖς ἐπιβολαῖς αὐτοῦ.

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is made of the annoyance he feels at being sidelined and at being unable to control Philip (5.2.8)–and on the second from the joint perspective of Apelles and Leontius when the turn taken by events appears to frustrate their original expectations (5.16.9 – 10). On the second occasion light is shed not only on their plan but also on the way in which Aratus was involved in it. They were trying to terrorize him so that by isolating Philip they would be able to satisfy their own interests (5.16.10). Their desire to achieve this aim is opposed by Aratus himself, who succeeds not only in rebutting their charges against him (4.85 – 86) but also in reducing their influence over Philip (5.5.8 – 11, 7.4– 5). Judging by the result, it can be said that the conspirators make a correct assessment of the dangers that Aratus’ presence at Philip’s side pose to their plans (4.82.3). Yet the tactic they follow in order to neutralize these dangers merely brings them face to face with them much sooner by causing Aratus to appear more trustworthy in the king’s eyes. Their assessment, then, functions as a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy: they prompt what they want to avoid by taking the measures they devise to prevent it. The same pattern is also developed in the episode recounting the end of Leontius. When he is arrested, his men beg the king not to put him in trial in their absence. Their action so enrages Philip that he has Leontius executed earlier than he intended (θᾶττον ἢ προέθετο διὰ τὴν τῶν πελταστῶν φιλοτιμίαν ἐπανείλετο, 5.27.8).²⁹ Ascriptions of motives that feed into the text’s wider patterns of behaviour are significant in familiarizing readers with the sorts of reactions they should be expecting to encounter elsewhere in the narrative. The furtherance of self-interest as a driving force, for example, is a pervasive theme in the Histories. Individual characters like the Iberian Abilyx, who betrays the Carthaginians’ trust in order to gain the favour of the more powerful Romans (3.98 – 99), and indeed entire nations are shown to act on the basis of their interests. Such is the attraction exerted by the perspective of self-interest that the participants themselves invoke it in order to elicit from others the desired response and to persuade them to a certain course of action. Thus, the Roman envoys in Sicily try to convince the tyrant Hieronymus to remain faithful to the treaty that had been made with Rome with the argument that such an action would not only be equitable but also ‘the best thing for himself’ (καὶ συμφέρον αὐτῷ μάλιστ᾽ ἐκείνῳ, 7.3.4). Similarly, Hannibal persuades the Numidian Tychaeus to help him by pointing out the benefits

 This pattern also occurs in Herodotus–a notable example is that of Croesus, who causes the death of his son Atys by entrusting Adrastus with his protection (1.34– 45)–and in Thucydides. For discussion and literature see Rood 1998, 81– 82.

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that he would gain if the Carthaginians won and the dangers he would face if the opposite happened (15.3.5 – 7). And yet there are also cases where emotion prevails over reason. Anger can drive one to act recklessly. The disastrous Syrian-Aetolian War, for example, which results in the dissolution of the Aetolian League, is caused by the fierce anger of the Aetolians, who believe that they were not adequately rewarded by the Romans for their support against Philip in the Second Macedonian War (3.7.2).³⁰ Teuta finalizes the break in her relation with Rome and precipitates the First Illyrian War when she orders her men to kill the Roman ambassador who has dared to answer her back (2.8.12). And Philip has Aratus poisoned when he expresses his disapproval of the way he has handled the Messene affair, thus depriving himself of his invaluable services (8.12.2– 3). Compared with behaviours that are motivated by self-seeking interests, the characters’ emotional reactions are more difficult to predict. The previous examples show how excessive, greatly out of proportion to the incidents that triggered them, and self-destructive in the long term these reactions can be.

4.3 The Carthaginians in Italy (3.69 – 117) The interpretation of motives does not serve only to reveal the causes that lie behind the events described and the laws governing human behaviour, but it is also used in order to create a climate of suspense. By stating his characters’ motives, Polybius, almost reflexively, invites the reader to continue reading in order to find out whether their expectations are finally realized or thwarted.³¹ As he himself observes in 14.1a.3, ‘everyone naturally … still always longs to know the end’ (φύσει γὰρ πάντες ἄνθρωποι … ἑκάστων τὸ τέλος ἱμείρουσι μαθεῖν). Even when the events recounted are known, suspense is not lost but only transformed and, instead of being understood as a sense of uncertainty over the eventual outcome of a narrative situation (suspense of uncertainty), it is experienced as a sense of uncertainty over the way in which this outcome will be achieved (suspense of anticipation).³² In the Polybian narrative, the historical agents are frequently portrayed as indulging in false expectations about their ventures. The greater the gap between their aspirations and the actual reality, the more anxiously will the reader expect this to be bridged.  For the view that the Aetolian complaints against the Romans were considered by Polybius to be justified see Sacks 1975, 93 – 94; Derow 1979, 11– 12. But see Eckstein 1995, 212– 13.  Cf. Pelling 2009, 517.  Cf. above, ch. 3 n. 44.

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In the narrative section recounting Hannibal’s deeds in Italy (3.69 – 117), the Romans’ defeats are presented as stemming from their mistaken perceptions of themselves and their ability to face the challenges posed by their rivals. The Romans are shown to be certain of victory. The numerical superiority of their legions and their sporadic successes lead them to forget their defeats (at the Ticinus (3.65), the Trebia (3.73), and Lake Trasimene (3.84)) and recover confidence in their powers. Thus, despite their previous defeat at the Ticinus (the cause of which they attribute to the incompetence of their general and the Gauls’ defection), they are convinced that their presence alone will suffice to secure them victory (ἐξ ἐπιφανείας ἐδόξαζον κριθήσεσθαι τὴν μάχην, 3.68.12– 13; ὡς ἐξ ἐπιφανείας κριθησομένων τῶν ὅλων, 3.72.2). Even after their third successive defeat at Lake Trasimene, they are ready to embrace the optimism nurtured by M. Minucius Rufus (μεγάλας ἐλπίδας ἔχων ὑπὲρ τοῦ μέλλοντος, 3.102.8) and to elect him dictator, believing that he will bring about a quick end to the war (πεπεισμένοι ταχέως αὐτὸν τέλος ἐπιθήσειν τοῖς πράγμασι, 3.103.4). Nowhere, however, does the discrepancy between their expectations and reality become more apparent than in the optimism with which they face the impending conflict between C. Flaminius and Hannibal in Etruria. Indeed, the Roman consul raises such confident hopes in the people that his men are followed by a greater number of rabble expecting to profit from pillaging (ὡς προδήλου τῆς νίκης αὐτοῖς ὑπαρχούσης· τηλικοῦτον γὰρ προενεβεβλήκει κατελπισμὸν τοῖς ὄχλοις ὥστε πλείους εἶναι τῶν τὰ ὅπλα φερόντων τοὺς ἐκτὸς παρεπομένους τῆς ὠφελείας χάριν, 3.82.8). Polybius’ observation after the description of the battle that Hannibal has acquired so much booty that his men cannot carry it provides readers with an ironic slant on the delusion of the Romans over their expected gains, which are eventually reaped by their adversaries (3.86.10). The sense of imminent doom generated by the Romans’ self-confidence and expectations is further heightened by the reckless way in which their leaders are seen to take risks in battle.³³ This pattern is repeated in an almost identical way three times. The first occurs in the account of the events that lead to the Romans’ defeat at the Trebia. An isolated success for Ti. Sempronius Longus in a skirmish near Hannibal’s camp (3.69.12– 14) fills him with the desire to fight a decisive battle as soon as possible (μετεωρισθεὶς καὶ περιχαρὴς γενόμενος ἐπὶ τῷ προτερήματι φιλοτίμως εἶχε πρὸς τὸ τὴν ταχίστην κρῖναι τὰ ὅλα, 3.70.1– 2). P. Cornelius Scipio’s injury enables him to deal with the situation as he himself sees fit, yet, in order to obtain his opinion on the matter, he discusses it with him. Being unable to

 Cf. Wiater 2010, esp. 83 – 95, arguing that Polybius’ portrayal of the reckless behaviour of these Romans highlights the dangers posed by the influence of rhetoric to leadership.

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play an active part, Scipio assumes the role of the wise adviser and vainly endeavours to check the impulses of Sempronius.³⁴ He warns him that the present situation favours their enemies and he asks him not to launch any attacks until the winter has passed. In this way their newly-recruited legions, who will in the meantime receive training, will be in better fighting condition, the Celts, due to their fickleness, will not remain loyal to the Carthaginians,³⁵ and he himself will have time to recover enough to be able to contribute to the common effort (3.70.4– 6). Scipio’s arguments are sound.³⁶ Hannibal’s desire to hasten the clash with the Romans for the very same reasons (which are this time mentioned from the perspective of the Carthaginians) drastically proves their correctness (ὁ δ᾽ Ἀννίβας παραπλησίους ἔχων ἐπινοίας Ποπλίῳ περὶ τῶν ἐνεστώτων κατὰ τοὐναντίον ἔσπευδε συμβαλεῖν τοῖς πολεμίοις, 3.70.9 – 10). Polybius makes it clear that Sempronius’ unwillingness to be persuaded by Scipio’s warnings and to curb his impulsiveness is not due to his inability to understand their seriousness but to his ambition and his unfounded self-confidence (ᾔδει μὲν ἕκαστα τούτων ἀληθινῶς λεγόμενα καὶ δεόντως, ὑπὸ δὲ τῆς φιλοδοξίας ἐλαυνόμενος καὶ καταπιστεύων τοῖς πράγμασι παραλόγως, 3.70.7). He is anxious to fight, before Scipio can play a part and before they are replaced by new consuls, so that he can take all the credit for the victory (3.70.7). Hannibal is well aware of his opponent’s frame of mind and prepares accordingly (3.70.12). By explicitly mentioning that Sempronius is bound to fail because he bases his strategy not on actual circumstances but on what he personally stands to gain (οὐ τὸν τῶν πραγμάτων καιρὸν ἐκλεγόμενος ἀλλὰ τὸν ἴδιον ἔμελλε τοῦ δέοντος σφαλήσεσθαι, 3.70.8 – 9), Polybius confirms the fallacy of his expectations and arouses the reader’s interest in their impending frustration.

 On the motif of the ‘wise adviser’ see Bischoff 1932; Lattimore 1939; Pelling 1991.  The treacherous behaviour and fickleness of the Celts is a commonplace in the Histories. Cf. 2.32.8; 3.49.2, 52.3, 78.2; see also the analysis of the term ἀθεσία by Walbank 1957, 208.  Given the imminent replacement of the two consuls, Walbank 1957, 404 notes that Scipio’s argument that he will lend assistance after he has recovered from his injury cannot stand up historically and he attributes Polybius’ negative presentation of Sempronius to the intention of his sources to elevate Scipio at the expense of his fellow consul: ‘P., however, following a proScipionic tradition, makes Sempronius by contrast ambitious, full of false confidence, and jealous of both his colleague and his successors’. But the emphasis here is not so much on Scipio’s prudence as it is on Sempronius’ reckless behaviour and inability to grasp the reality of the situation, so that the outcome of his conflict with Hannibal at the Trebia can be interpreted in this light (3.73 – 74). The same pattern is repeated on another two occasions with Flaminius (3.77– 82) and Minucius (3.87– 94) in order to interpret the course taken by the events in Etruria and Apulia.

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The second instance occurs in the presentation of the mindset and behaviour of the newly-elected consul C. Flaminius before the battle of Trasimene (3.77– 82). His impetuosity recalls that of Sempronius. He is so convinced of the prospect of victory that his sole concern is to launch into battle regardless of time and place (οὐ καιρόν, οὐ τόπον προορώμενος, μόνον δὲ σπεύδων συμπεσεῖν τοῖς πολεμίοις, ὡς προδήλου τῆς νίκης αὐτοῖς ὑπαρχούσης, 3.82.7– 8). His anger at the destruction of the countryside leads him to disregard the warnings of the Roman officers who in this case assume the role of the wise adviser, trying to persuade him to guard against his rival’s superior cavalry and to wait for his fellow consul so that they can fight with all the legions under their command (3.82.4). Again, Polybius makes use of internal focalization in order to convey Flaminius’ thoughts and to show that his motives are no less egocentric than those of Sempronius, except that in this case he presents them from his rival’s perspective. Hannibal is informed of the disparity between the consul’s false idea of his own abilities (καταπεπιστευκέναι τοῖς σφετέροις πράγμασιν, 3.80.3 – 4) and the harsh reality of his inadequacies (πρὸς ἀληθινῶν δὲ καὶ πολεμικῶν πραγμάτων χειρισμὸν οὐκ εὐφυῆ, 3.80.3), and is accurate in anticipating his reaction (συνελογίζετο, 3.80.4; ὑπελάμβανε, 3.80.5). Only now does it become evident that Flaminius is horrified not so much by the actual destruction that is taking place as by the prospect of being derided by his soldiers if he proves incapable of preventing it (3.80.4). We also hear that he too, like Sempronius (3.70.7), is willing to fight Hannibal before his fellow consul returns so that he can claim the victory for himself (3.80.4– 5). Hannibal’s knowledge of human nature indeed enables him to draw correct conclusions about Flaminius’ mentality and behaviour. Polybius confirms his findings (πάντα δ᾽ ἐμφρόνως ἐλογίζετο ταῦτα καὶ πραγματικῶς, ‘all this reasoning on his part was very wise and sound’, 3.80.5), and goes on to clarify the strategic importance of knowing the weaknesses of one’s opponent: For there is no denying that he who thinks that there is anything more essential to a general than the knowledge of his opponent’s principles and character, is both ignorant and foolish. For as in combats between man and man and rank and rank, he who means to conquer must observe how best to attain his aim, and what naked or unprotected part of the enemy is visible, so he who is in command must try to see in the enemy’s general not what part of his body is exposed, but what are the weak spots that can be discovered in his mind. For there are many men, who owing to indolence and general inactivity, bring to utter ruin not only the welfare of the state but their private fortunes as well; while there are many others so fond of wine that they cannot even go to sleep without fuddling themselves with drink; and some, owing to their abandonment to venery and the consequent derangement of their minds, have not only ruined their countries and their fortunes but brought their lives to a shameful end. But cowardice and stupidity are vices which, disgraceful as they are in private to those who have them, are when found in a general the greatest of public calamities.

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For not only do they render his army inefficient but often expose those who confide in him to the greatest perils. Rashness on the other hand on his part and undue boldness and blind anger, as well as vaingloriousness and conceit, are easy to be taken advantage of by his enemy and are most dangerous to his friends; for such a general is the easy victim of all manner of plots, ambushes, and cheatery. Therefore the leader who will soonest gain a decisive victory, is he who is able to perceive the faults of others, and to choose that manner and means of attacking the enemy which will take full advantage of the weaknesses of their commander. For just as a ship if deprived of its pilot will fall with its whole crew into the hands of the enemy, so the general who is his opponent’s master in strategy and reasoning may often capture his whole army (3.81).³⁷

The above discussion is occasioned by Hannibal’s penetrating assessment of Flaminius’ intentions (3.80.5); in effect, however, it provides an overall picture of the unfavourable situation in which the Romans find themselves during the first stage of the Carthaginian army’s invasion of Italy, up until the battle of Cannae (3.69 – 117). Their constant defeats are due not only to their generals’ shortcomings but also to Hannibal’s ability to detect and exploit them.³⁸ The concluding statement that Hannibal was not mistaken in his calculations and predictions regarding his rival’s future moves (ἃ δὴ καὶ τότε προϊδόμενος καὶ συλλογισάμενος Ἀννίβας περὶ τοῦ τῶν ἐναντίων ἡγεμόνος οὐ διεσφάλη τῆς ἐπιβολῆς, 3.81.12) restores the connection with the narrative flow that was broken by the digression and heightens the sense of imminent disaster created by Flaminius’ excessive self-confidence. After the utter rout of the Romans in Etruria (3.84), the familiar pattern is developed for a third time in the case of M. Minucius Rufus (3.87.9 – 94, 100 – 105). His impetuosity is already apparent at the beginning of his career when, as second-in-command to the dictator Q. Fabius Maximus, he decries the latter as cowardly and contrasts his unwillingness to engage in battle with his own eagerness to venture upon a decisive engagement (τὸν μὲν Φάβιον κατελάλει πρὸς πάντας, ὡς ἀγεννῶς χρώμενον τοῖς πράγμασιν καὶ νωθρῶς, αὐτὸς δὲ πρόθυμος ἦν παραβάλλεσθαι καὶ διακινδυνεύειν, 3.90.6). Polybius, however, affords some indication of what is to come in order to defend Fabius: whereas at first he was criticized and regarded as a coward who lacked the courage to fight, in the course of time he compelled everyone to admit that nobody else could have dealt with the situation with such discretion and prudence (3.89.3 – 4). The proleptic mention of Fabius’ foresight highlights by contrast Minucius’ imprudence and incapacity to comprehend how inferior the Romans were to their rivals at that partic-

 The metaphor of the ungovernable ship occurs also in 10.33.5; cf. 6.44.3 – 8, where the people of Athens are likened to ἀδεσπότοις σκάφεσι.  Cf. Maier 2012a, 62.

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ular moment (3.89.5 – 8).³⁹ Hence, when, after Fabius’ return to Rome, Minucius takes over, readers can envisage what dangers this temporary change of leadership holds for the Roman army. Minucius’ elevation enables him to provoke the conflict that he desires. He ignores the warning given by Fabius, who asks him to curb his aggressiveness towards the enemy and to ensure that the Romans suffer no harm themselves (3.94.9 – 10). Even as Fabius speaks, he pays no attention to what he says and seeks only to risk an engagement (ὧν οὐδὲ μικρὸν ἐν νῷ τιθέμενος Μάρκος ἔτι λέγοντος αὐτοῦ ταῦτα πρὸς τῷ παραβάλλεσθαι καὶ τῷ διακινδυνεύειν ὅλος καὶ πᾶς ἦν, 3.94.10). Two consecutive successes in skirmishes boost his hopes for the future (μεγάλας ἐλπίδας ἔχων ὑπὲρ τοῦ μέλλοντος, 3.102.8 – 9), which are shared by his compatriots, who decide to elect him dictator as well (3.103.1– 4). Public favour doubles his desire to risk all and attack the enemy (… διπλασίως παρωρμήθη πρὸς τὸ παραβάλλεσθαι καὶ κατατολμᾶν τῶν πολεμίων, 3.103.5 – 6). Thus, when Fabius returns and realizes that Minucius is puffed up with pride, inclined to oppose him in all things and wholly bent on fighting (3.103.7), he proposes dividing the legions between them, with each of them commanding his own respective part of the Roman army in his own way (3.103.7– 8). Minucius’ joyful acceptance of this proposal (τοῦ δὲ καὶ λίαν ἀσμένως δεξαμένου τὸν μερισμόν, 3.103.8) reinforces the suspenseful feeling that his expectations are likely to be soon overturned. As earlier at the Trebia and at Trasimene, Hannibal outdoes the Roman generals because he is in a better position to notice and understand what is going on in their camps. From the information he receives from prisoners and also from the developments that he himself observes (τὰ μὲν ἀκούων τῶν ἁλισκομένων αἰχμαλώτων, τὰ δὲ θεωρῶν ἐκ τῶν πραττομένων, 3.104.1), he gains a correct understanding of the rivalry between the two commanders and the ambition of Minucius (ᾔδει τήν τε τῶν ἡγεμόνων πρὸς ἀλλήλους φιλοτιμίαν καὶ τὴν ὁρμὴν καὶ τὴν φιλοδοξίαν τοῦ Μάρκου, 3.104.1– 2). Thus, the ambush that he springs on the Romans turns Minucius’ aggressiveness against him (3.104.2– 105.2). Very quickly the initial skirmish between the light-armed troops on both sides becomes a general engagement that threatens the Roman army as a whole (3.105.4– 5). At the last moment, Fabius, who is following the situation and is afraid that all might be lost (θεωρῶν τὸ γινόμενον καὶ διαγωνιάσας μὴ σφαλῶσι τοῖς ὅλοις, 3.105.5), hastens to intervene and manages to prevent the worst.

 Cf. Polybius’ next remark, which has a similar effect (3.89.4): ταχὺ δὲ καὶ τὰ πράγματα προσεμαρτύρησε τοῖς λογισμοῖς αὐτοῦ, ‘Very soon indeed facts testified to the wisdom of his conduct’.

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This unanticipated turn of events surprises readers, who, judging from what happened to Sempronius and Flaminius, expect the Romans to suffer a similar misfortune. Polybius, however, had created another expectation when, at the outset of his account, he had observed that Fabius would compel his critics to recognize his worth (3.89.3). The fulfillment of this second expectation in the reference to the way in which the Romans regard Fabius after the events–they attribute their salvation to his cautiousness, clearly understand the difference between the vanity and presumptuousness of a soldier and the prudence of a general (τί διαφέρει στρατιωτικῆς προπετείας καὶ κενοδοξίας στρατηγικὴ πρόνοια καὶ λογισμὸς ἑστὼς καὶ νουνεχής, 3.105.9), and henceforth pay attention to his orders (3.105.10 – 11)–covers the paralipsis created by the earlier vague comment on Fabius and links the end of the narrative to its beginning. The pattern that connects the leaders’ impetuosity with failure in battle is also repeated in this episode: ‘… all was lost (ἀπόλωλε τὰ ὅλα) by the rashness of Minucius’, says Polybius from the perspective of those who had fought in the battle (3.105.8). In this case, however, the presence of Fabius, who manages to save both camps through his own farsightedness, puts an end to the similarity and alters the result. *** We conclude, therefore, that in the battles waged between the Carthaginians and Romans in Italy the superiority of the former is attributed to the ability of Hannibal to gain insight into the plans and actions of his rivals and to exploit their weaknesses to his own advantage, while the inferiority of the latter is viewed as stemming in large part from the recklessness of their leaders. Time and again, Polybius shows victory in war to be contingent upon the agents’ capacity for correct reasoning and judgement. The Roman leaders’ eagerness for battle, impatience and impetuosity prove to be bad counsellors precisely because they prevent them from dealing with the situation rationally, with the result that they suffer one defeat after another. Like the visual stimuli that the combatants receive, their rational processes are also critical in shaping battle outcomes and constructing successful courses of action. This relationship between intellectual and physical control is reflected in the variations in focalization. As has already become clear, internal focalization is not used in the same way to present the inner processes of the characters who succeed in their plans and those who fail. Ιn the case of the victors focalization serves to highlight their ability to gauge situations correctly and predict their adversaries’ next moves, while in the case of the vanquished it is used with the aim of conveying the discrepancy between their views of the situation and reality. The characters that are defeated are shown to be so absorbed in their ambitions

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and the distorted image they have of their abilities that they cannot properly assess the circumstances and the possibility of failure.

4.4 The Romans in Africa (14.1 – 15.9) It is worth comparing the account of the first few operations of the Second Punic War with the narrative section that deals with its end. This extends over two books (14.1– 15.9), despite the fact that it covers a two-year period, since the importance of the events it contains caused Polybius, as he himself states, to deviate from his normal practice in order to devote to them the space that they merit (14.1a.5). The situation presented in both accounts is quite similar, except that at the end of the war the roles of its protagonists are reversed. The Romans under P. Cornelius Scipio have shifted the centre of operations away from Italy to Africa. Hannibal is still in Italy, but he cannot threaten his rivals in the same way and to the same extent that he did in the first few years after his arrival in their homeland.⁴⁰ As a result, those who are depicted as would-be conquerors now are the Romans, while the Carthaginians find themselves in the difficult position of fighting, not in order to conquer foreign territories, but in order to defend their own country. Faced with the perils posed by his stay in Africa, Scipio must use all his skill and ability to ensure the survival of his soldiers and to increase their chances of success. Like Hannibal in Italy, he concerns himself with learning about the movements and intentions of his rivals (14.1.2– 5). The information that the Roman envoys bring about the makeshift construction of the enemy camps of the Carthaginians under Hasdrubal and the Numidians under Syphax allows him to devise the plan (τὴν κατασκευήν, 14.1.8) of setting fire to their huts in order to neutralize his adversaries’ main advantage, namely their numerical superiority (14.1.5 – 6). Again, internal focalization is extensively employed to convey the thoughts of the historical agents. The narrative records the various phases of the line of reasoning that Scipio follows between the conception and exe-

 This is made clear in the account presented by the Romans before the Carthaginian Senate (15.1.10 – 12): ‘It seemed almost evident that they ventured to act thus relying on Hannibal and the forces with him. In this confidence they were most ill-advised; for everyone knew quite well that for the last two years Hannibal and his troops, after abandoning every part of Italy, had fled to the Lacinian promontory, and that, shut in there and almost besieged, they only just succeeded in saving themselves and leaving for Africa’.

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cution of his plan.⁴¹ It also presents the efforts he makes to deceive his adversaries and conceal his real intentions. More specifically, while he cannot bear even listening to Syphax’s conciliatory proposals, he makes him believe that his plan is not entirely impossible so that, under the pretext of conducting negotiations, he can send envoys more frequently to spy on the enemy camps (χάριν τοῦ τὰς προσόδους καὶ τὰς εἰσόδους … ἐξερευνῆσαι καὶ κατοπτεῦσαι, 14.1.13). When, later on, he is organizing his assault, he takes care to give his opponents the impression that the preparations are being made to lay siege to Utica (14.2.4). And, so as not to raise suspicions, he tries to appear outwardly unconcerned, although he is in fact carefully preparing for the attack (14.2.9). The precautions which Scipio takes to ensure the success of the venture are familiar to readers. His ruse of disguising soldiers as slaves and sending them into the Numidian camp with the envoys in order to spy on Syphax (14.1.13) recalls the disguises that Hannibal assumed in Italy when he feared for his life (3.78.1– 4), while his decision to reveal his intentions only to his most trusted friends (14.3.5) accords perfectly with the way in which Polybius believes the general should act.⁴² Scipio strives not only to prevent the disclosure of his purpose, but also to avoid being criticized for breaching the truce. At the last moment, and while the Carthaginians have accepted the prospect of coming to terms (14.2.10), he informs Syphax that the negotiations cannot succeed, purportedly because the members of his council disagree with him (14.2.11). As soon as he learns of this diplomatic manoeuvre, Syphax realizes that his hopes for peace were premature (διὰ τὸ προκατηλπικέναι, 14.3.1). Earlier he had shown complete confidence in Scipio’s words and had neither wondered nor questioned what his intentions were. It is noteworthy that the technique of internal focalization is used in his case to record not his thought processes but his emotions. After his first contact with the Roman envoys, he casts aside his hesitations and applies himself with even greater zeal to advancing his plan (συνέβη

 E.g. 14.1.5: ὢν δὲ περὶ πολλὰ τῇ διανοίᾳ; 14.2.1: τῷ δὲ Σκιπίωνι πάντα διηρεύνητο πρὸς τὴν προειρημένην ἐπιβολήν; 14.3.7: συνέκρινε καὶ διηρεύνα τὰ λεγόμενα; 14.4.4– 5: ἦν δ᾽ αὐτῷ συλλελογισμένον … οὗτος μὲν τοιαύτας ἔχων ἐπινοίας.  He provides a detailed exposition of his views on this subject in 9.13.1– 5: ‘Therefore in such enterprises commanders must be careful about every detail. The first and foremost requisite is to keep silence, and never either from joy if some unexpected hope shall present itself, or from fear, or from familiarity with or affection for certain persons, to reveal one’s design to anyone unconcerned in it, but to communicate it only to those without whom it cannot be put in execution, and even to these not earlier than when the need of their services renders it imperative. And we must keep not only our tongues tied but even more so our minds. For many who have kept their own counsel have revealed their projects either by the expression of their faces or by their actions’.

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τὸν Σόφακα κουφισθέντα πολλαπλασίως ἐπιρρωσθῆναι πρὸς τὴν ἐπιπλοκήν, 14.1.11– 12). He is so utterly absorbed in this that he fails even to provide for the protection of his soldiers (14.2.8 – 9). Thus, when he obtains a positive reply from the Carthaginians, he conveys it to the Romans with great joy (περιχαρὴς ὤν, 14.2.10). The way in which Polybius shows how Syphax is being manipulated by Scipio is remarkable. The latter, despite having already decided to launch his attack, sends ambassadors to Syphax πυνθανόμενος, ἐὰν συγχωρῇ τοῖς παρακαλουμένοις, εἰ καὶ τοῖς Καρχηδονίοις ἔσται ταῦτα κατὰ νοῦν καὶ μὴ πάλιν ἐκεῖνοι φήσουσι βουλεύσεσθαι περὶ τῶν συγχωρουμένων. ἅμα δὲ τούτοις προσενετείλατο τοῖς πρεσβευταῖς μὴ πρότερον ὡς αὑτὸν ἀπιέναι πρὶν ἢ λαβεῖν ἀπόκρισιν ὑπὲρ τούτων. ὧν ἀφικομένων διακούσας ὁ Νομὰς ἐπείσθη διότι πρὸς τὸ συντελεῖν ἐστι τὰς διαλύσεις ὁ Σκιπίων, ἔκ τε τοῦ φάναι τοὺς πρέσβεις μὴ πρότερον ἀπαλλαγήσεσθαι πρὶν ἢ λαβεῖν παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ τὰς ἀποκρίσεις, ἔκ τε τοῦ διευλαβεῖσθαι τὴν τῶν Καρχηδονίων συγκατάθεσιν (14.2.5 – 8). to inquire, on the supposition that the proposed terms met with his own approval, if they would also be agreeable to the Carthaginians and if they could be trusted not to say again that they would further consider before accepting what he was ready to concede. He also instructed his envoys not to return to him before receiving an answer to this question. When they arrived and Syphax had received the message, he felt convinced that Scipio was determined to conclude the treaty, both because the envoys had told him they would not return without an answer and because of the anxiety shown to make sure of the consent of the Carthaginians.

The almost verbatim repetition of Scipio’s instructions may seem monotonous and crude but it serves to indicate the persuasive power of his arguments and their influence on the recipient. Paradoxically, on the one occasion that internal focalization is not used to convey Syphax’s emotions but his line of reasoning, it merely succeeds in throwing his irresolution into greater relief: his thoughts are not his own but those of his adversary. Up until the moment that Syphax learns of the failure of the peace process, we never hear him question Scipio’s sincerity. Yet even when he realizes the situation and hastens to devise a plan to deal with it with Hasdrubal’s help, he has no idea what is going to follow (πλεῖστον ἀπέχοντες ταῖς ἐννοίαις καὶ ταῖς ἐπιβολαῖς τοῦ μέλλοντος, 14.3.2– 3). In effect, once again Scipio’s rivals are not thinking. They are gripped only by impetuous impulses and the desire to provoke an open battle (πολλή τις ἦν αὐτῶν ὁρμὴ καὶ προθυμία, 14.3.3), and fail to take action to protect their men and even to consider the possibility that they might come to harm. Their impetuosity recalls the similar behaviour of the Roman leaders at the beginning of the Second Punic War and portends their demise. Their desire to engage in open battle, in contrast with Scipio’s organization of an ambush, further reinforces the impression created at the end of the war of a reversal of the

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Romans’ and Carthaginians’ roles (since in Italy it was Hannibal who had resorted to ambushes and trickery in order to combat the numerical superiority of his opponents⁴³). Like the Roman leaders in Italy, the Carthaginians are shown to be defeated because they are absorbed in their plans and pay no heed to their adversaries’ movements. One might object that the misjudgments of the Carthaginians and their allies are not due to their indifference but to Scipio’s actions, through which he succeeds in deceiving them. Yet the narrative does not mention any attempts on their part to learn about or guess their adversaries’ reactions and what is happening in their camp. On the contrary, it records their inability not only to make a correct assessment of the situation but also to think clearly. On the only occasion that we can listen in to their thoughts, we find, as we have seen, that they adopt the opponent’s line of reasoning. Even when their camps are set on fire, they do not grasp that it is an ambush and believe the fire to be an accident.⁴⁴ Thus, unsuspectingly (ἀνυπονοήτως, 14.4.9), they are destroyed by the flames and their adversaries without even realizing what is happening to them or what they are doing (οὔθ᾽ ὃ πάσχουσιν οὔθ᾽ ὃ ποιοῦσι γινώσκοντες διεφθείροντο, 14.4.10). The disorderly and spasmodic nature of their reactions contrasts sharply with the behaviour of the Romans, who, following Scipio’s instructions, move in accordance with an organized plan and manage to compensate for their restricted visibility with their perspicacity and daring (καθ᾽ ὅσον ἐμποδίζει καὶ κωλύει τὰ τῆς ὁράσεως τὸ σκότος, κατὰ τοσοῦτον δεῖ συνεκπληροῦν τῇ διανοίᾳ καὶ τῇ τόλμῃ τὰς νυκτερινὰς ἐπιβολάς, 14.4.3). Only when the fire has spread to the Carthaginian camp, to the point where escape becomes difficult, do Hasdrubal and his men comprehend that it is not an accident, as they thought (οὐκ αὐτομάτως, καθάπερ ὑπέλαβον, 14.5.5), but an act of arson. The enterprise is thus crowned with success. In closing his presentation of it, Polybius describes it as ‘the most splendid and most adventurous’ of Scipio’s exploits (14.5.15). Nevertheless, despite this approbation, there is much that is objectionable in the means employed to achieve such an end.⁴⁵ The argument that ambushes, the concealment of one’s real intentions, and duplicity are not unacceptable methods in armed conflicts may be no different from the view we hold

 See, e. g., 3.83; 3.93 – 94.  Cf. 14.4.8: ‘Absolutely none of the Numidians had any suspicion of the actual fact, not even Syphax, but they all supposed that the camp had caught fire by accident’, 14.5.1: ‘Meanwhile the Carthaginians, when they saw the strength of the fire and the volume of flame that rose to the sky, thinking that the Numidian camp had caught fire by accident, rushed some of them to give assistance …’.  See Eckstein 1995, 86 – 87.

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of war today (and which, to at least a certain extent, was also held by the ancient Greeks), yet it did not permit the Romans to feel comfortable with the attitude held by Scipio in this case.⁴⁶ And considering his declared disgust of victories obtained by treachery and deceit (13.3), it is likely that Polybius felt the same way. Although he recognizes the fact that deceit in war had by his time become standard practice (in 13.3.6 he comments that ‘at the present they say it is a sign of poor generalship to do anything openly in war’), he does not approve of it (13.3.1). Indeed, he recalls the time when men did not want to beat their adversaries by deceitful means because they did not regard any victory in war as glorious or secure unless it was achieved in open battle (13.3.3 – 4), and for this reason they made sure they gave advance notice of the time and place at which a battle was to be fought (13.3.5 – 6). He also finds that some traces of the old-fashioned concept of war still linger among the Romans (13.3.7). Scholars have noted the contradiction between the abovementioned remarks and the way in which Polybius approves of Scipio’s triumph over Hasdrubal and Syphax, and have tried to dispel it. His laudatory tone has been taken to reflect the enthusiasm felt by Massanissa, who was an adviser and associate of Scipio and probably Polybius’ informant on this episode.⁴⁷ But as we have already remarked, such hypotheses may involve certain risks. The simplicity with which they often claim that Polybius adopts the views of his sources does not do justice to his historical method and his skill as a writer, especially when his choices appear, as here, to reiterate themes set forth elsewhere in the text. Indeed, the image that is projected of Scipio at the battle of the Camps is in keeping with the way in which his personality is portrayed by the narrator in book 10. The description of his exploits as a young man is intended precisely to highlight his clarity of thought and ability to manipulate others in order to achieve his aims–those features of his character that help him deal with the problem of his adversary’s considerable numerical superiority during his stay in Africa. Retrospectively reading the comments that praise the achievements of his youth (his election to the office of aedile (10.4– 5) and the siege of New Carthage (10.6 – 20)), one gains the impression that they also describe his later behaviour in the most precise manner. In announcing his intention to narrate the general’s early accomplishments, Polybius, as a matter of fact, comments that it will become apparent from his account that all of Scipio’s actions were based on calculation and foresight and succeeded in fulfilling his expectations

 According to Livy’s account (30.4.8), the peace negotiations fell through at the last moment because of Syphax. See Scullard 1970, 121.  For references see Walbank 1967, 430.

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(ὅτι δ᾽ ἕκαστα μετὰ λογισμοῦ καὶ προνοίας ἔπραττε, καὶ διότι πάντα κατὰ λόγον ἐξέβαινε τὰ τέλη τῶν πράξεων αὐτῷ, δῆλον ἔσται διὰ τῶν λέγεσθαι μελλόντων, 10.2.13). It is hardly surprising, therefore, that here, too, Scipio’s intellectual virtues are presented in a very systematic way. His achievements, as is repeatedly emphasized, were not due to luck or divine inspiration but to his sagacity and foresight.⁴⁸ The parallels between 10.2– 20 and 14.2– 5 are telling. Scipio’s ability to devise plans that surprise his enemies, which, as we have seen, proves so effective at the battle of the Camps, is particularly on show in the account of the siege of New Carthage. Again, the failure of his rivals to notice what is going on and thus to anticipate his manoeuvre across the lagoon (… οὐδέποτε δ᾽ ἂν ἐλπισάντων ἐγγίσαι τῷ τείχει τοὺς πολεμίους κατὰ τὸν τῆς λίμνης τόπον … οὐ δυναμένων οὔτ᾽ ἀκούειν οὔτε συνορᾶν τῶν δεόντων οὐδέν, 10.14.14– 15) stands in stark contrast with the thoroughness with which Scipio scrutinizes their deeds and the geostrategic location of the city (πυνθανόμενος ἐπιμελῶς, 10.7.1; πυνθανόμενος … ηὕρισκε, 10.7.4; ἐπυνθάνετο, 10.7.5; πυνθανόμενος … ἐξητάκει, 10.8.1; ἀκούων, 10.8.2; ἐξητάκει, 10.8.7). His careful gathering of information is the tactic that will enable him to conceive of and organize his plan of burning the Numidian and Carthaginian camps (14.1– 2.1). The manner in which he conceals his intention to lay the siege and only announces it to his most trustworthy friends (10.6.8, 9.1) also hints at the similar behaviour he later displays while preparing the night attack (14.3.5). Finally, his capacity to persuade his troops by tailoring his arguments to their psychology (10.11.8) is observable in his successful manipulation of Syphax (14.1 ff.).⁴⁹ The identical way in which Scipio is shown to act at the beginning and at the height of his career weakens the assumption that Polybius’ laudatory tone in his account of the battle of the Camps reflects the influence of his sources. The portrayal of Scipio’s activities in Africa accords well with the opinion that the historian had formed of him from his earlier achievements. It is thus clear that Scipio  Cf. 10.5.8: ‘… attribute to the gods and to fortune the causes of what is accomplished by shrewdness and with calculation and foresight’; 10.6.12: ‘There was nothing in all this that was not due to most close calculation (ἐκλογισμῶν τῶν ἀκριβεστάτων)’; 10.7.3 – 4: ‘… relying not on chance but on inference from the facts (συλλογισμοῖς)’; 10.9.2– 3: ‘Although authors agree that he made these calculations, yet when they come to the accomplishment of his plan, they attribute for some unknown reason the success not to the man and his foresight (τὴν τούτου πρόνοιαν), but to the gods and to chance’.  Compare how he persuades his mother to allow him to run for the aedileship (10.4– 5). Cf. Polybius’ remark at 10.14.10 – 11: καὶ γὰρ ἦν εὖ πεφυκώς, εἰ καὶ πρὸς ἄλλο τι, πρὸς τὸ θάρσος ἐμβαλεῖν καὶ συμπαθεῖς ποιῆσαι τοὺς παρακαλουμένους, ‘He indeed possessed a particular talent for inspiring confidence and sympathy in his troops when he called upon them’.

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earns Polybius’ approval for the remarkable strategic and intellectual abilities that enable him to conceive of and execute his daring plan. As for the complete lack of any ethical appraisal of the event, there is, I believe, no need to invoke the historian’s relationship with Scipio’s family in order to explain it. Polybius probably believed that the impasse in which the Romans had found themselves in Africa had forced their commander to summon up all his abilities and resources to overcome it. At any rate, the fact that he did not gloss over the ‘darker’ aspects of Scipio’s enterprise shows that he treated his material in a fair manner and did not try, like the historians who attributed to Syphax the failure of the peace process,⁵⁰ to distort it. As is usually the case with success in war,⁵¹ Scipio’s victory paves the way for another triumph at the battle of the Great Plains (14.8). The Carthaginians, disheartened by the two successive defeats, begin to realize that the situation grows increasingly dire. As earlier in Italy, the narrative shifts from the battle scenes to the city of the defeated side in order to present the reactions of its inhabitants on hearing the sad news: The Carthaginians, now that the prospect of success in their original design had been reversed (παλιντρόπου τῆς ἐλπίδος αὐτοῖς ἀποβαινούσης πρὸς τὰς ἐξ ἀρχῆς ἐπιβολάς), were deeply dejected. For they had hoped to shut in the Romans on the cape adjacent to Utica, which they made their winter quarters, besieging them by land with their armies and by sea with their navy and had made all preparations for this purpose; so that now when by a strange and unexpected disaster they had not only been obliged to abandon to the enemy the command of the open country but expected that at any moment they themselves and their city would be in imminent peril (τὸν περὶ σφῶν αὐτῶν καὶ τῆς πατρίδος ὅσον οὐκ ἤδη προσδοκᾶν κίνδυνον), they became thoroughly dismayed (ἐκπλαγεῖς) and faint-hearted (περίφοβοι) (14.6.6 – 9). In Carthage itself the disorder had been serious enough previously, but now the city was still more deeply disturbed (ἔτι μείζω τότε συνέβαινε γίνεσθαι τὴν ταραχήν), and it seemed that after this second heavy blow they had lost all confidence in themselves (14.9.6 – 7).

The feelings of anxiety and disappointment that the Carthaginians experience when their hopes are dashed recall the similar mental state of the Romans on the eve of the battle of Cannae: When the news reached Rome that the armies were encamped opposite each other and that engagements between the outposts occurred every day, there was the utmost excitement and fear in the city (ὀρθὴ καὶ περίφοβος ἦν ἡ πόλις), as most people dreaded the result

 See Eckstein 1995, 87.  Cf. above, pp. 95 – 96.

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owing to their frequent previous reverses, and foresaw and anticipated in imagination the consequences of total defeat (3.112.7– 8).

We see, then, that the story of the would-be victors who become the victims of their numerically inferior opponents and find themselves in the unfavourable position of being besieged in their own country is repeated at the end of the Second Punic War. The thematic and verbal similarities connecting the two accounts suggest that each is intended to shed light on the other. The link between the beginning and the end of the war is brought out more clearly in the episode in which Hannibal converses with Scipio (15.6.4– 8). The historicity of their meeting has been disputed.⁵² Its functional role, however, is obvious. The Carthaginian general introduces himself to his adversary: I, then, am that Hannibal who after the battle of Cannae became master of almost the whole of Italy, who not long afterwards advanced even up to Rome, and encamping at forty stades from the walls deliberated with myself how I should treat you and your native soil. And now here am I in Africa on the point of negotiating with you, a Roman, for the safety of myself and my country (15.7.3 – 5).

At first sight Hannibal’s clarifications do not appear to be necessary. Yet they remind readers of what they have read in book 3 and enable them to link the end of the war with its beginning so that they can understand the reversal that has taken place and the fickleness of fortune. The same lesson applies to Scipio as well. Like Hannibal at the beginning of his career (ὁ δ᾽ Ἀννίβας, ἅτε νέος μὲν ὤν, πλήρης δὲ πολεμικῆς ὁρμῆς, ἐπιτυχὴς δ᾽ ἐν ταῖς ἐπιβολαῖς, 3.15.6 – 7), he, too, is still young and has not experienced any failures or radical reversals of fortune (διὰ τὸ νέον εἶναι κομιδῇ καὶ διὰ τὸ πάντα σοι κατὰ λόγον κεχωρηκέναι καὶ τὰ κατὰ τὴν Ἰβηρίαν καὶ τὰ κατὰ τὴν Λιβύην καὶ μηδέπω μέχρι γε τοῦ νῦν εἰς τὴν τῆς τύχης ἐμπεπτωκέναι παλιρρύμην, 15.7.1). Experience, on the other hand, has taught Hannibal to be modest (15.7.5). In order to save his homeland, however, he has to confront a rival who possesses the dynamism that was the hallmark of his conduct in the early years of the war. Foresight, intelligence, leadership skills and the ability to persuade their audiences by telling them what they want to hear (i. e. what Scipio does with Syphax and Hannibal with the Celts when, in order to win them over to his side, he tells them that he has not come to Italy in order to fight them but the Romans for their sake (3.77.4), so that he can help them regain their freedom and recover their cities, while in reality his actions are motivated by his hate for the Romans

 For discussion and references see Walbank 1967, 451.

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(3.86.11)) are qualities that indeed characterize both leaders.⁵³ When they clash at Zama, Hannibal is defeated, although he deals prudently with the situation and does everything he can to win (15.16.5). There are times–says Polybius in an attempt to provide an explanation for the outcome of the battle–when fortune thwarts the enterprises of great men (15.16.4), and there are others again when even a brave man may meet someone better than himself (15.16.6). Thus, in his final comment, Polybius, instead of allowing the outcome of the conflict between Hannibal and Scipio to be interpreted on the basis of their conduct before and during the battle, questions the possibility of applying such an interpretation in this case precisely because of the similarity between the capabilities of the two men. *** To sum up the foregoing discussion, we can conclude that focalization plays a vital role in conferring shape and intelligibility on the recounted events. As a means of facilitating access to the consciousness of the characters, it enables Polybius to communicate not only what happened but also the background of ideas and motives that inspired a particular course of action. Equally decisive is its usefulness in his battle accounts. Polybius uses internal focalization both to demonstrate how the visual stimuli that the adversaries receive determine the outcome of the conflict between them and to present their inner processes. However, there is an important difference in the way the mental processes of the victors and the defeated are conveyed. In the case of the victors internal focalization is used to highlight their perspicacity and their ability to predict their rivals’ next moves, while in the case of the defeated it serves to reveal how their self-absorbed behaviour prevents them from acknowledging the dangers threatening them. The role that focalization plays in the presentation of the battles is so pervasive that whenever their outcome cannot be interpreted with its assistance it is attributed to the influence of external and imponderable factors.

 Cf. Eckstein 1995, 174. On the several parallels between Polybius’ portrayals of Hannibal, Scipio and Philopoemen see Pédech 1964, 218 – 20, who points out that all three are presented as distinguished by their rational powers. Cf. also Foulon 1993, 336 with n. 12, suggesting that Polybius seeks to establish a parallel between Hannibal and Scipio. Polybius’ strong emphasis on their exceptional rationality, I would argue, is not so much due to his desire to parallelize them as to his usual manner of explaining defeat and victory in war.

5 The Polybian narrator Like any act of communication, narration presupposes a subject (the narrator), a message and someone to whom the message is addressed (the narratee). The narrator is charged with transmitting the message, acting as an intermediary between the author and the audience. For most narratologists, the narrator’s presence is a necessary condition for characterizing a text as narrative.¹ It is a widespread poetological axiom that the narrator is constructed by the author, and cannot automatically be equated with him or her, even when they appear to share the same identity.² This bipartite schema is often complicated by the postulation of the implied author, that is, the ideal picture of the author which the reader constructs on the basis of the text taken as a whole.³ The response to this, as has, I think, convincingly been expressed by Genette, is that there is no reason why the responsibilities and competencies of the real author should be transferred to a third agent.⁴ Since every narrative text has a narrator who recounts the story, what varies is the extent to which this narrator makes his or her presence felt. Thus, some narrators manifest themselves more overtly throughout the text, for example, by commenting on the events they relate, by showing awareness that they are presenting a story, or by explicitly reflecting on their role as narrators. Others behave more covertly, remain in the background, and narrate the story with a minimum amount of mediation.⁵ However, even if the narrator’s presence is covert, it can still be detected by certain signs, such as changes in focalization, anachronies, variations in rhythm, similes, suggestive juxtapositions etc. The indirect indications of the presence of the Polybian narrator and the control he exerts over the transmission of the story have been dealt with in the preceding chapters. I shall now proceed to look at Polybius’ overt comments on the plot, the charac-

 Cf, e. g., Stanzel (1979) 1982, 15; Genette (1983) 1988, 14; Bal (1985) 1997, 16.  Friedemann 1910, 21– 22; Genette (1972) 1980, 213 – 14; Stanzel (1979) 1982, 25 – 28.  On the usefulness of the concept see, e. g., Booth (1961) 1983; Chatman 1978; 1990; RimmonKenan 1983 (2002); and Phelan 2005. Cf. also the observation of Scodel 2005: ‘Often, a primary narrator is for practical purposes identical with the implied author, so that the discussion of the narrator suffices. But where the primary narrator is unreliable, the reader must construct a hypothetical source of accurate meaning, and I suspect that most of us would prefer not to identify that construct with the historical author, since we can watch ourselves as readers in the act of creating it’. Booth 2005 offers an illuminating account of his motivations for coining the term.  Genette (1983) 1988, 139 – 40. Cf. Bal (1985) 1997, 18. For a detailed overview of the reception of the implied author concept see Kindt and Müller 2006, 63 – 120.  On the distinction between overt and covert narration see Chatman 1978, 196 ff.

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ters, the structure of his narrative and the narrative process itself in order to find out how these narratorial interventions contribute to shaping the special character of the text he has produced.

5.1 The primary narrator The Polybian narrator appears already in the preface of the first book, where he exposes the benefits of history and the merits of his subject matter (1.1.5).⁶ Throughout the text, his presence is equally conspicuous, since in numerous instances he interrupts the narrative to explain his authorial choices, offer his point of view, or stress the importance of the narrated events. The abundance of narratorial interjections is indeed a prominent feature of Polybius’ Histories and much greater than in other historians of the ancient world.⁷ It would be no exaggeration to say that the internal pace of the work is controlled by the alternation between sections of narrative that recount events and sections that comment on them. These narratorial comments, which may either be added to the end of a narrative segment as an ἐπιμετρῶν λόγος (e. g. 8.35 – 36 (on man’s inability to avoid destruction even when he takes appropriate measures to do so)) or interjected into the narrative (e. g. 4.20 – 21 (on the educational value of music) and 5.9.7– 12.4 (on the clemency that should be displayed by a leader)), generally employ a rhetoric of authority and control.⁸ They are often used to create an image of an honest narrator, one trustworthy enough to guarantee the reliability of what he recounts. They may also serve to guide the narratees’ understanding by communicating to them the narrator’s perception of events and persuading them to adopt it, as well as by drawing their attention to the themes he attempts to highlight. In what follows I shall examine the various types of narratorial intervention in the text and categorize them according to the partially overlapping manifestations of the Polybian narrator as a) writer, b) historian, and c) critic.

 See above (§1.1).  On Polybius’ obtrusiveness cf. Marincola 2001, 125; and McGing 2010, 19 ff. For a thorough presentation of Polybius’ narratorial persona see Ibendorff 1930 and, most recently, Rood 2004, 149 – 57.  Rood 2004, 152 notes that Polybius’ concern for narratorial control parallels his concern for the maintenance of social order.

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5.1.1 The narrator as writer Polybius’ presence as writer is primarily evident in the strict editorial control he exerts over his narrative. At the beginning of each book he usually refers to the events recounted in the previous one (e. g. 4.1.1– 3: ‘In the preceding book after pointing out the causes of the second war between Rome and Carthage, I described the invasion of Italy by Hannibal, and the engagements which took place between the belligerents up to the battle on the river Aufidus at the town of Cannae’). He also often mentions in advance the events he intends to deal with and, when he has finished presenting them, he recapitulates them, thus showing that he has fulfilled his task (cf. 5.30.8: ‘Now that I have arrived at a place that is suitable both chronologically and historically, I will shift the scene to Asia, and turning to the doings there during this same Olympiad will again confine my narrative to that field’; and 5.111.9 – 10: ‘I choose this date for interrupting my narrative, having now described what took place in Asia and Greece during the 140th Olympiad’). The same practice is also applied at the macroscopic level. In 1.13 and 3.2– 3 detailed presentations are given of the contents of the introductory books and the main part of the work, respectively. In closing the second book, Polybius refers once again to the themes that concerned him in the prokataskeue (2.71.7– 10), while at the end of the work he presents the overall plan that he followed in writing his Histories,⁹ and then concludes by declaring that he has fulfilled his promise to narrate and explain the unprecedented phenomenon of Roman success: And I, now I have reached the end of my whole work, wish, after recalling to my readers the initial scheme that I laid before them as the foundation of the work, to give a summary of the whole subject matter, establishing both in general and in particular the connection between the beginning and the end. I explained therefore at the beginning that I would commence my introductory books from the point where Timaeus left off, and after a cursory view of events in Italy, Sicily, and Africa–this author having dealt only with these parts in his history–upon reaching the time when Hannibal was entrusted with the Carthaginian forces, when Philip, son of Demetrius, succeeded to the throne of Macedon, when Cleomenes of Sparta was exiled from Greece and when Antiochus inherited the throne of Syria and Ptolemy Philopator that of Egypt, I undertook to make a fresh beginning from this date, i. e. the 139th Olympiad, and henceforth to deal with the general history of the whole world, classing it under Olympiads, dividing those into years and taking a comparative view of the succession of events until the capture of Carthage, the battle of the

 He nevertheless omits to mention the Achaean prokataskeue. See Walbank (1977) 1985, 326 – 29, with earlier bibliography, for a detailed analysis of the various interpretations that have been offered of this omission, and of the way in which it has been exploited in the discussion about the date of the work’s composition.

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Achaeans and Romans at the Isthmus and the consequent settlement of Greece. As I said, students by this treatment will attain the best and most salutary result, which is to know how and by what system of polity the whole world was subjected to the single rule of Rome–an event without any parallel in the past. Now that I have accomplished all this, nothing remains for me but to indicate the dates included in the history, to give a list of the number of books and an index of the whole work (39.3 – 8).

By showing how all of his programmatic statements are realized, the Polybian narrator seeks to present an image of himself as a well-organized and reliable writer who can win his readers’ confidence in the seriousness of his purpose. Given the vast scope of Polybius’ Histories, it is no wonder that the insertion of digressions and cross-references into the text is subject to the same rigorous narratorial control. Polybius usually concludes his digressions by stating that he is picking up the thread of the narrative at the point where he left it (e. g. 2.36.1: ‘This digression has led us away (ἀπὸ γὰρ τούτων παρεξέβημεν τῆς ἐξηγήσεως) from the affairs of Spain, where Hasdrubal, after governing the country for eight years, was assassinated at night …’; 5.33.8: ‘… I will now return to the subject I proposed to deal with (ἐπὶ δὲ τὴν ἀρχὴν ἐπάνειμι τῆς ἐμαυτοῦ προθέσεως)’). Accuracy is also achieved through expressions that refer either to the book immediately before (e. g. 4.37.4– 5: ‘As I narrated in the previous book …’) or that immediately after (e. g. 5.111.10: ‘In the following book, after a brief recapitulation of my introductory narrative, I will proceed according to my promise to treat of the Roman Constitution’) or to any other book by stating its number (e. g. 7.13.2: ‘Now that actual facts have confirmed a statement I made in my fifth book (κατὰ τὴν πέμπτην βύβλον) … I wish to recall it to the memory of those who have followed this history, so as to leave none of my statements without proof or disputable’). Polybius’ activity as writer concerns not only the ordering of the narrative, but also the maintenance of communication with his audience. Thus, to begin with, in numerous and often lengthy comments scattered through the work, Polybius seeks to explain and defend his authorial choices (e. g. 1.13.6 – 9: ‘Now to recount all these events in detail is neither incumbent on me nor would it be useful to my readers; for it is not my purpose to write their history but to mention them summarily as introductory to the events which are my real theme. I shall therefore attempt by such summary treatment of them in their proper order to fit in the end of the Introduction to the beginning of the actual History. Thus there will be no break in the narrative (συνεχοῦς γινομένης τῆς διηγήσεως) and it will be seen that I have been justified in touching on events which have been previously narrated by others, while this arrangement will render the approach to what follows intelligible and easy for students’). Such remarks usually occur in narratorial interventions aiming to communicate the reasons that

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prompted the insertion of digressions (e. g. 27.10.5: ‘I have been led to speak of this matter at such length lest anyone, in ignorance of what is inherent in human nature, may unjustly reproach the Greeks with ingratitude for being in this state of mind at the time’). The more extensive a digression (and the more critical the point at which it interrupts the narrative), the greater is the need for an explanation of the role it serves. Polybius already prepares the way for the sixth book, the whole of which is a digression on the Roman constitution, in the last paragraph of the third one (3.118.8 – 12). There he maintains that the Romans’ ability to recover after their defeat at Cannae, to the extent that they would subsequently be able to pursue a goal of world domination, was due to their specific type of constitution (τῇ τοῦ πολιτεύματος ἰδιότητι), and he announces his intention, when a suitable opportunity comes, to exemplify the principles that govern it. When he finally begins to expand this theme in the sixth book, he explains not only his decision to include it in his work but also his choice to insert it at this particular point in the narrative: the constitution’s beneficial influence on the stability of the Roman state is brought out more clearly, he argues, when it is presented at the most perilous moment in its history, that is, after the defeat at Cannae (6.2.4– 7).¹⁰ Polybius’ interaction with his audience is also evident in the openness with which he discusses the difficulties and dilemmas he faced in the composition of his narrative. He admits, for instance, that, when he set out to write about the negotiations between Perseus and Eumenes, he was at a loss as to how to proceed: For to write in detail and with precision about matters which the kings managed between themselves and secretly, seemed to me to be open to criticism and exceedingly hazardous; but to pass over in complete silence matters which seem to have had more practical effect than any others in the war, matters which enable us to detect the causes of much that was afterwards difficult to explain, appeared to me to be decidedly indicative of indolence and entire lack of enterprise. However, I persuaded myself to state in a summary fashion my own opinion and the indications and probabilities which led me to form this opinion, living as I did at the time and having been more impressed by everything that happened than anyone else (29.5).¹¹

 On Polybius’ sixth book, his views on the Roman constitution, and the theory of anakyklosis see Nicolet 1974, 209 – 65; Petzold 1977, 253 – 90; Trompf 1979, 4– 115; Alonso-Nuñez 1986, 17– 22; Podes 1991, 382– 90; and Canfora 1993, 19 – 27.  Cf. the similar discussions at 3.32 (about the length of the work); at 9.1– 2 (about its politicomilitary focus); and at 36.1 (about the speeches).

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Interestingly, for all that it destroys the illusion of his omniscience, Polybius’ acknowledgment of his own limitations strengthens his authority rather than undermines it. By pointing out the complexities of his task and the difficulties he encountered in certain cases, he wins the sympathy and understanding of his readers as well as their confidence in his handling of the bulk of his work. Finally, an important aspect of the communication between the narrator and his narratees resides in the numerous comments that help them make sense of what might otherwise have remained vague or incomprehensible (e. g. 7.15.6: ‘Observing that the wall along the so-called Saw–which connects the citadel with the town–was unguarded, he began to entertain schemes and hopes of availing himself of this’). Such helpful statements may concern the narrator’s own words (e. g. 6.56.7– 8: ‘I believe that it is the very thing which among other peoples is an object of reproach, I mean superstition, which maintains the cohesion of the Roman State’) or those uttered by the characters (e. g. 7.12.2– 4: ‘Demetrius said on the spur of the moment: “If you have the mind of a diviner, it bids you withdraw at once, but if you have the mind of a vigorous king it tells you to keep it, so that you may not after losing this opportunity seek in vain for another more favourable one. For it is only by holding both his horns that you can keep the ox under,” meaning (αἰνιττόμενος) by the horns Mount Ithome and the Acrocorinthus and by the ox the Peloponnese’). More often, however, they serve to account for the various individual and collective behaviours recorded in the narrative (e. g. 3.112.9: ‘For in seasons of danger the Romans are much given to propitiating both gods and men, and there is nothing at such times in rites of the kind that they regard as unbecoming or beneath their dignity’).

5.1.2 The narrator as historian Polybius explicitly refers to his role as a historian in the comments with which he seeks to reinforce the reliability of his narrative. At 3.33.17– 18, for example, he mentions that he based his account of Hannibal’s preparations in Spain on information gleaned from an inscription that the Carthaginian general himself had ordered to be carved: No one need be surprised at the accuracy of the information I give here about Hannibal’s arrangements in Spain, an accuracy which even the actual organizer of the details would have some difficulty in attaining, and I need not be condemned off-hand under the idea that I am acting like those authors who try to make their misstatements plausible. The fact is that I found on the Lacinian promontory a bronze tablet on which Hannibal himself had made out these lists during the time he was in Italy, and thinking this an absolutely first-rate authority, decided to follow the document.

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According to Polybius, then, the fact that a historical account is detailed does not necessarily mean that it is reliable. It should be substantiated by external evidence; otherwise the emphasis on detail might merely indicate the author’s intention to tell lies in a convincing way. In the same vein, when he provides a detailed exposition of the contents of the first treaty that was made between the Romans and the Carthaginians, Polybius hastens to underline the pains he took to translate it (3.22.3 – 4): ‘I give below as accurate a rendering as I can of this treaty, but the ancient Roman language differs so much from the modern that it can only be partially made out, and that after much application, by the most intelligent men’. He thus reassures his readers about the source of his information: he has not based his account on what he has heard or what he can remember but on what he has read in the text of the treaty.¹² Polybius also brings his personal autopsy into play in order to deal with geographical matters and to correct the errors which he has located in the works of other historians. His criticism of the Rhodian historian Zeno for displaying ignorance of the geography of the Peloponnese is quite famous (16.16 – 17). Polybius’ geographical knowledge, however, is not confined to facts about his homeland. Having travelled extensively, he is in a position to talk about the geography of many different areas. At 3.59.7– 9 he states that the main reason he undertook all these perilous journeys was his desire to communicate to his readers all the knowledge that he would derive from them: ‘… I underwent the perils of journeys through Africa, Spain and Gaul, and of voyages on the seas that lie on the farther side of these countries, mostly for this very purpose of correcting the errors of former writers and making those parts of the world also known to the Greeks’. Geographical digressions occur frequently in the Histories. Polybius devotes a whole book (34) to geographical issues. At 4.38 – 45, in dealing with the war between the Byzantines and the Rhodians, he makes detailed reference to the hydrography of the Pontus and the Bosphorus. And before commencing his description of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps, he announces in a disarming aside that he can discuss the subject with confidence because he himself has been to these areas and crossed the Alps (3.48.12): ‘On these points I can speak with some confidence as I have inquired about the circumstances from men present on the occasion and have personally inspected the country and made the passage of the Alps to learn for myself and see’. And yet, notwithstanding the importance which he attaches to geographical knowledge, he shows great tolerance

 For an analysis of the contents of the treaties and bibliography relevant to the discussion of their authenticity see Walbank 1957, 337– 56.

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of the geographical errors committed by earlier historians, who had neither the means nor the possibilities that he and his contemporaries enjoyed under Roman rule (3.59.1– 3): ‘As, therefore, it was almost impossible in old times to give a true account of the regions I speak of, we should not find fault with the writers for their omissions or mistakes, but should praise and admire them, considering the times they lived in, for having ascertained something on the subject and advanced our knowledge’.¹³ For ancient Greek historians autopsy was of unquestionable value. Polybius claims, quoting (or paraphrasing) Ephorus,¹⁴ that ‘if we could be personally present at all transactions such knowledge would be far superior to any other’ (12.27.7– 8). Since, nevertheless, this is not feasible (παρεῖναι δὲ τὸν αὐτὸν ἐν πλείοσι τόποις κατὰ τὸν αὐτὸν καιρὸν ἀδύνατον, 12.4c.4), ‘the only thing left for an historian is to inquire from as many people as possible, to believe those worthy of belief (τοῖς ἀξίοις πίστεως) and to be an adequate critic (κριτὴν … μὴ κακόν) of the reports that reach him’ (12.4c.5). His belief in the value of inquiry as a guiding principle for historical research is evident when he states that a major reason why he began the main part of his work after 220 was so that he could gather information about the events he wanted to describe from people who had experienced them (παρὰ τῶν ἑωρακότων ἀκηκοέναι, 4.2.3). It is not surprising, therefore, that he strictly criticizes Timaeus for neglecting to fulfill this most crucial duty of the historian (τὸ περὶ τὰς ἀνακρίσεις μέρος ἐπισέσυρται παρ᾽ αὐτῷ τελέως· ὅπερ ἐστὶ κυριώτατον τῆς ἱστορίας, 12.4c.3 – 4). In his desire to defend the reliability of his account, Polybius often claims to have access to oral informants, even though he does not always reveal their identity. In most cases, the vagueness of his references to his sources is due to their large number, such as when he maintains that he learned of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps ‘from men present on the occasion’ (παρ᾽ αὐτῶν ἱστορηκέναι τῶν παρατετευχότων τοῖς καιροῖς, 3.48.12), or that he heard about his greed from his compatriots themselves (ταύτην δὲ τὴν ἱστορίαν ἐγὼ παρέλαβον μὲν καὶ παρ᾽ αὐτῶν Καρχηδονίων, 9.25.2– 4). Obviously, Polybius had no reason to mention the names of all the people he asked about these matters. When the information comes from an eminent source, though, he gives the name of the person who provided it, but he does not do this systematically. At 9.25.5 – 6, for instance,

 Owing to the great difficulties that such an undertaking entailed, Polybius was particularly suspicious and critical of Pytheas of Massalia’s claim to have travelled throughout the whole of northern Europe (34.5.2– 9). For this criticism and the rivalry that presumably engendered it see Walbank 1972, 126 – 27.  Schepens 1970, 174– 75 takes the words as Ephorus’ own. See, however, Sacks 1981, 52 n. 68; and Marincola 1997, 70 n. 34.

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where he presents an example confirming what the Carthaginians had told him about Hannibal, he states that he heard it from Massanissa. At 29.8.10, on the other hand, while he reveals that he learned the details about Perseus’ failure to reach an understanding with Eumenes from certain friends of the former, he opts to preserve their anonymity. Despite its obvious value, however, the investigation of eyewitnesses does not always produce reliable conclusions, especially with regard to military operations. In order for them to be effective, examinations of this kind should be carried out by historians with experience in military affairs: For how is it possible to examine a person properly about a battle, a siege, or a sea-fight, or to understand the details of his narrative, if one has no clear ideas about these matters? For the inquirer contributes to the narrative as much as his informant, since the suggestions of the person who follows the narrative guide the memory of the narrator to each incident, and these are matters in which a man of no experience is neither competent to question those who were present at an action, nor when present himself to understand what is going on, but even if present he is in a sense not present (12.28a.8 – 10).

No other ancient historian discussed the process of investigating eyewitnesses with greater insight than Polybius. For Thucydides, who likewise warned his audience about the complexities involved in the undertaking, the problem lay mainly in the prejudices and faulty memories of the informants (ἐπιπόνως δὲ ηὑρίσκετο, διότι οἱ παρόντες τοῖς ἔργοις ἑκάστοις οὐ ταὐτὰ περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ἔλεγον, ἀλλ᾽ ὡς ἑκατέρων τις εὐνοίας ἢ μνήμης ἔχοι, 1.22.3 – 4). Polybius, on the other hand, highlights the vital role played by the inquirer in giving shape to the oral reports.¹⁵ In his view, historians should be sufficiently acquainted with the kinds of events about which they investigate so as to interview their informants effectively. Even on-the-spot inspection cannot prevent them from forming a mistaken view of what happened when they lack the experience to know where to focus their gaze. Polybius’ emphasis on the process of oral inquiry is indicative of the degree of his engagement with methodological issues. Similar observations recur in the text of the Histories with remarkable frequency: on the distinction between the causes, pretexts and beginnings of wars (3.6 – 7); on the role of geographical information (3.36); on the priority that should be given to truth as opposed to providing amusement (2.56.10 – 13); on the composition of speeches (12.25i.5 – 9); on

 Cf. Marincola 1997, 73 – 74.

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the exercise of criticism (16.20.7).¹⁶ These methodological observations, whether occasioned by Polybius’ polemic against his fellow historians (e. g. at 3.6 – 7, where the distinction between causes, pretexts and beginnings derives from the confusion over the causes and beginnings of the Hannibalic War that he detects in the works of other writers dealing with the subject) or generated by his desire to justify various potentially objectionable choices that he makes (such as when he explains the apparently contradictory opinions he expresses of certain characters),¹⁷ are intended to reinforce the reliability of his narrative by showing that it conforms to the fundamental principles of historiography. Finally, Polybius calls attention to his role as a historian in the comments he makes defending the literary tradition he represents. In terms of the beneficial influence it can have on its readers, history, he argues, surpasses both drama and philosophy. The purpose of the dramatic poet is to provide spectators with transitory pleasure, while that of the historian is to provide readers with something of lasting benefit (2.56.10 – 11). Moreover, the poet is not interested in seeking the truth but rather only in ensuring that his words sound true and convincing; in history, by contrast, the ascertainment of truth is the main goal (2.56.12). As for philosophical discourse, apart from the fact that, due to its complexity, it is addressed only to a small audience (6.52), it frequently deals with strange and paradoxical themes, the discussion of which can offer young men no practical benefit (12.25c). Polybius also presents the advantages of the type of history he himself cultivates over those offered by the works currently in vogue in Hellenistic historiography. Compared with narrow monographs, universal history is a more suitable means of conveying the complexity of the historical developments occurring in his day.¹⁸ In addition, in order to fulfill its aim, history should refer to political and military deeds (πραγματική) and not to talk that is more like the common gossip of a barber’s shop (3.20.5) or to repulsive and distressing situations of the kind frequently encountered in the works of historians who seek to impress their readers with devices employed by playwrights in tragedy (e. g. 2.56; 7.7.1– 2).

 Cf. 3.47.6; 8.8.5 – 9; 10.21.8; 12.7.6, 12.3; 34.4; 38.4– 5 (on the pursuit of truth and impartiality); 12.25a.3 – 5, 25b.1; 36.1.7 (on speeches); 1.14.8; 6.11.7– 9; 12.14.4– 5 (on the exercise of criticism).  Cf. his observation in 1.14.7– 8 (‘We should therefore not shrink from accusing our friends or praising our enemies; nor need we be shy of sometimes praising and sometimes blaming the same people, since it is neither possible that men in the actual business of life should always be in the right, nor is it probable that they should be always mistaken’) with the way in which he justifies the contradictory image he presents of Aratus in 4.8.  On the superior merits of universal history see above, pp. 10 – 11 with n. 13.

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5.1.3 The narrator as critic In the foregoing analysis of Polybius’ remarks on historiography, we crossed into the realm of his critical activity. This was inevitable since his observations on the requirements for the proper writing of history are often accompanied by, and directly associated with, the criticisms he makes of historians that fail to meet these requirements. The use of polemic against other writers is indeed one of the most distinctive features of Polybius’ work. In the following I shall discuss the remarks that express his assessments of his fellow historians, and also the way in which his criticisms help further to reinforce the image that he wishes to project of himself.¹⁹ Polybius’ comments on other historians are frequently intended to correct factual errors that he has detected in their works. At 2.61– 62, for example, he censures Phylarchus for baselessly estimating the value of the spoils taken by the Lacedaemonians from Megalopolis at 6,000 talents when the total amount could not have been more than 300. His most famous criticisms, however, concern major issues of methodology: the use of the sensational and the dramatic (e. g. 2.17.6, 56.6 – 10); the importance of explaining the causes behind the events (e. g. 2.56.13 – 16); the superiority of universal history over monographs (e. g. 3.32; 7.7.6); the battle descriptions (e. g. 12.17– 22); the composition of speeches (e. g. 12.25a, 25i-26b); the necessity of political experience (e. g. 12.25f.1– 6); the partiality of historians (e. g. 16.14– 15); and the insertion of digressions (e. g. 38.6). Unlike many of his predecessors, Polybius usually names his object of criticism, but not always. Thus, when he censures the tendency of contemporary writers of monographs to embellish their accounts with tragic and paradoxical elements, he refers in a general way to the historians of Hannibal (3.47.6 – 48), Hieronymus (7.7.1– 2), Scipio (10.2.5 – 6) and Agathocles (15.34– 36) without naming them. It has been claimed that Polybius avoids criticizing by name those historians who deal with the same period as he does so as not to contribute to the wider circulation of their works by calling attention to their existence.²⁰ But in terms of numbers, of the historians that he attacks by name, eight are mentioned in connection with the period between 264 and 146 (Philinus and Fabius Pictor, Phylarchus, Chaereas, Sosylus, Zeno, Antisthenes and A. Postumius Albinus) and five with that before 264 (Timaeus, Ephorus, Xenophon, Callisthenes and Theopompus). In those cases where he makes general reference to the various  There is an extensive bibliography on Polybius’ polemic. See Walbank (1962) 1985, 262– 79; Lehmann 1974, 147– 200; Schepens 1974; 1975; 1990; Meister 1975; Boncquet 1982– 3; Vercruysse 1990; Marincola 1997, 229 – 33; Schepens and Bollansée 2005.  Walbank (1962) 1985, 262.

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practices of contemporary writers, usually of historical monographs, it seems that he detects certain common features in the way they handle their material and thus groups them together, without feeling the need to specify the object of his criticism. It is not unlikely, too, that Polybius chooses which historians to criticize by name and which not on the basis of their reputation. Indeed, his criticisms are often addressed to historians whom he describes as enjoying the reputation of being reliable authorities in their fields (e. g. Fabius and Philinus (1.14.1); Phylarchus (2.56.1)). The extent to which a writer’s reputation could prompt Polybius to include that writer as a prominent, high-profile target in his polemic can best be seen in Timaeus’ case.²¹ The historian from Tauromenium in Sicily had earned the acceptance and trust of a large readership. Polybius himself mentions that his admirers were so dazzled by his work (τοὺς μὲν πολλοὺς καταπέπληκται τοῖς λόγοις, 12.26d.1) that they would fiercely and obstinately dispute with anyone who attempted to point out his inaccuracies (δυσέριδες γίνονται καὶ φιλόνεικοι καὶ δυσμετάθετοι, 12.26d.4). He also wonders how a writer with so many shortcomings could be regarded as a leading exponent of his genre (οὐκ οἶδ᾽ ὅπως ἐκφέρεται δόξαν ὡς ἕλκων τὴν τοῦ συγγραφέως προστασίαν, 12.28.6) and he expresses the hope that his remarks will be able to change the views of even those who are very favourably disposed towards Timaeus (ἵνα δὲ καὶ τοὺς φιλοτιμότερον διακειμένους μεταπείσωμεν, 12.25a.3) and who thoughtlessly believe what he says (12.23.8).²² Even if Polybius’ criticism of Timaeus actually springs from his intention to push him aside in order to set himself up as the first historian of Rome,²³ the fact is that he takes considerable care to hide such a self-serving agenda. His polemic is centered on Timaeus’ methodological failings. He criticizes him for his tendency to fill his narrative with paradoxical and marvelous descriptions (12.24.5), for his deliberate mendacity (12.25k.1), for his excessive fault-finding (12 passim), for the way in which he composes his speeches (12.25a.3 ff.), for being biased (12.26b.4) and for his decision to draw his material from books and not from  The assessment of the motives behind Polybius’ polemic against Timaeus is a controversial and thorny issue. Some scholars (e. g. Walbank (1962) 1985, 276 – 78; 1972, 48 – 55; Meister 1985, 49 – 63) attribute the cause to envious rivalry, while others (e. g. Levi 1963, 195 – 202; Sacks 1981, 66 – 78) to Polybius’ different approach to history writing. Lehmann 1974, 159 characterizes the criticism on Timaeus as: ‘ein Problem eigener Art, dessen Lösung weder allein im persönlichemotionalen Bereich literarischer Eifersucht und Geltungstriebes, noch ausschliesslich in den Motivationen einer rein sachlichen, methodisch-kritischen Kontroverse zu finden sein dürfte’.  On Timaeus’ reputation and influence see Momigliano 1959, 529 – 56; Meister 1989 – 90, 55 – 65.  Thus Walbank (1962) 1985, 276.

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his own on-the-spot inspections or the inquiry of eyewitnesses (12.25d-28a). In other words, he portrays him as embodying all those practices that should be avoided by historians aspiring to produce works that will be of benefit to their readers. He thus makes it clear that his harsh condemnation of Timaeus stems primarily from a fundamental disagreement as to how history should be written. Polybius also comments on the vehemence and acrimony with which Timaeus himself launched his own attacks. He mentions some of the writers who had had the misfortune of being targeted by him (such as Theopompus (12.4a.2), Ephorus (12.4a.3) Aristotle (12.7– 8) and Callisthenes (12.12b)), and, indeed, not so much for their work as for their personal faults. In his view, Timaeus as a critic is often carried away by his own malevolence (ἐπεσκοτημένος ὑπὸ τῆς ἰδίας πικρίας, 12.15.10) and outsteps all bounds of propriety (τοῦ καθήκοντος παρεκβαίνει, 12.7.1); he dwells on the defects of others and exaggerates them, while passing over their virtues in silence (12.15.10 – 11). And he expresses his opinions in such an authoritative manner that he creates the impression that all other historians write while asleep and that he is the only one to subject his material to critical scrutiny (ὥστε δοκεῖν τοὺς ἄλλους συγγραφέας ἅπαντας συγκεκοιμῆσθαι τοῖς πράγμασι … αὐτὸν δὲ μόνον ἐξητακέναι τὴν ἀκρίβειαν καὶ διευκρινηκέναι τὰς ἐν ἑκάστοις ἱστορίας, 12.26d.3). So Polybius indicates that in Timaeus’ hands polemic degenerated into mere cavilling. His remarks, besides serving to show ‘that the man in the dock deserves the treatment he is getting’,²⁴ are also a reminder of the proper aims of criticism. Engaging in polemic against predecessors was an exceptionally widespread practice in Greek literature. Its theoretical justification lay in the rationale of ‘negative examples’, according to which the proper way to do things could be more effectively taught by showing what ought to be avoided.²⁵ However, its wide distribution was due to the opportunity it offered writers to talk about their own contributions in a covert manner.²⁶ Yet, like any form of self-praise, even of an indirect kind, polemic may become distasteful. Polybius points out that it is easier to find faults in others than to be irreproachable in one’s own behaviour and that, at the end of the day, it is usually those who tend to overcriticize others that are most prone to error (… καὶ σχεδὸν ὡς ἔπος εἰπεῖν ἴδοι τις ἂν τοὺς προχειρότατα τοῖς πέλας ἐπιτιμῶντας πλεῖστα περὶ τὸν ἴδιον βίον ἁμαρτάνοντας, 12.25c.5).

 Marincola 1997, 232.  Lucian devotes the entire first section of How to Write History (7– 32) to discussing the faults to be avoided when writing history. Cf. also Plut. Demetr. 1.5 – 6 with Duff 1999, 46 – 47.  On polemic’s origins and uses see Marincola 1997, 218 – 24.

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Thus, in order to avoid giving further cause for censure concerning the tone of their polemic, historians, according to Polybius, would do well to adhere to certain principles.²⁷ When evaluating the work of others, they should restrain their passionate and impetuous emotions. They should consider not so much what their rivals deserve to hear as what is proper for themselves to say (οὐ τί τοῖς ἐχθροῖς ἀκούειν ἁρμόζει, τοῦτο πρῶτον ἡγητέον, ἀλλὰ τί λέγειν ἡμῖν πρέπει, τοῦτ᾽ ἀναγκαιότατον λογιστέον, 12.14.4– 5). Polybius points out that even in the case of Timaeus, whose aggressive attitude would have justified harsher criticism, he preferred to display moderation and not to mention any details that would have made his fellow historian a hateful figure (12.15.12). As far as the purpose of historical criticism is concerned, he sets equally high standards. At 16.20.6 he announces that criticism should be meant for general benefit (χάριν τῆς κοινῆς ὠφελείας), and he advises his readers not to look upon the mistakes of others as personal triumphs (καλὸν εἶναι τὸ μὴ τὰς τῶν πέλας ἁμαρτίας ἴδια προτερήματα νομίζειν). This statement, which serves to explain his decision to write to Zeno in person about his errors (16.20.5 – 7),²⁸ is probably the most theoretical of his pronouncements on the proper manner of criticism. In effect, for most ancient Greek historians, including Polybius, the use of polemic constituted an important means of self-definition.²⁹ Exposing the errors of other writers represents only one aspect of Polybius’ activity as critic. Another aspect manifests itself in the numerous comments through which he intervenes in the text to assess the deeds of the characters. The main function of these comments is to guide the narratees’ interpretation of events.³⁰ But at the same time, they corroborate the narrator’s authority by characterizing him as a morally integrated person whose voice many of his readers would welcome as their own. His comments may refer to individuals (e. g. to Teuta (2.4.8); Aratus (4.8.1– 6); Apelles (4.87.10 – 11); Hermeias (5.49.3 – 5); Philip V (7.11.8 – 12); Hannibal (9.9.1– 5); Scopas (13.2– 3); Agathocles (15.34.6); L. Aemilius Paullus (18.35.1– 5); Charops (32.5.7– 9); Prusias (36.15.1– 3); Diaeus and Critolaus (38.10.8)) or to ethnic and social groups (such as mercenaries (1.67.5 – 6); the Celts (2.19.3 – 4); the Carthaginians (6.56.1– 5); the Aetolians (13.1.1– 3); the Cretans (24.3; 28.14.1– 2); young people (31.25.4– 5); the Romans (31.26.9 – 10)). In both cases behaviour is assessed on the basis of the same criteria. Fighting ability and braveness, moral integrity, uprightness, the defence of honour

 On this topic see Boncquet 1982– 3, 277– 91.  See Walbank 1972, 55 for a summary of different interpretations of this action.  See Marincola 1997, 218 – 36.  On Polybius’ didactic stance cf. Ibendorff 1930, 24 (‘schulmeisterliches Temperament’); and Marincola 2001, 125 (‘… the teacher is never far from the scene’).

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and dignity, the execution of duty and scorn of illicit gain–all earn Polybius’ praise and approval at both the individual and collective levels. On the other hand, cowardice, baseness, dishonesty, greed, profiteering, inability to bridle one’s passions, and lack of self-restraint and self-discipline are the most common defects against which he lifts his voice. Generally, he inveighs against those whose lawless and irrational behaviour risks throwing society into disorder and chaos, while he praises those who can preserve social order through their learning and the strength of their reasoning. The responsibility of imposing order is primarily assigned to the adult male members of the political elite. These are expected to restrain and control all forces of anarchy, whether they be uncivilized barbarians and ignorant mercenaries or unruly young men and their wildly passionate women.³¹ Given the abundance of evaluative observations in his work, it comes as no surprise that Polybius explicitly discusses the problems that historians have to deal with in apportioning praise and blame. Historians, he maintains, are not bound by the social rule which holds that a noble man should love his friends and his country (1.14.4). If necessary, they should lay blame on their friends and praise their enemies in the highest terms (1.14.5). The only criterion they should apply in making a moral assessment of their characters is their deeds. They should, therefore, distance themselves emotionally from the figures they are commenting upon and formulate judgments based on their actual conduct (ἀποστάντας οὖν τῶν πραττόντων αὐτοῖς τοῖς πραττομένοις ἐφαρμοστέον τὰς πρεπούσας ἀποφάσεις καὶ διαλήψεις ἐν τοῖς ὑπομνήμασιν, 1.14.8 – 9). The same goes for the criticism of persons in power. Polybius discerns a tendency among authors when making remarks about kings either to bestow excessive praise in order to flatter them (8.8.6 – 7) or to be unjustly harsh in their criticism in order to appear objective (8.11.2). In his view, kings ought to be judged in the same way as everybody else, that is, according to their actions (8.8.8). He does, however, admit that this is easier said than done because in many cases men are forced by circumstances to give way, with the result that they do not record what they observe (ἀλλ᾽ ἴσως τοῦτ᾽ εἰπεῖν μὲν εὐμαρές, πρᾶξαι δὲ καὶ λίαν δυσχερὲς διὰ τὸ πολλὰς καὶ ποικίλας εἶναι διαθέσεις καὶ περιστάσεις, αἷς εἴκοντες ἄνθρωποι κατὰ τὸν βίον οὔτε λέγειν οὔτε γράφειν δύνανται τὸ φαινόμενον, 8.8.8 – 9). Besides, another difficulty with the evaluation of kings is that their decisions are often not a result of their own political choices because of the interventions of their advisers (4.24.1– 2).

 For a detailed discussion of these issues see Eckstein 1995, 118 – 60.

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Problems may also arise due to the complexity of human character. Polybius accounts for the apparently contradictory opinions he expresses of Aratus by saying that human nature is so multifaceted that people behave in different ways and can be less or more effective even in the same or similar situations: So true is it that there is something multiform (πολυειδές) in the nature not only of men’s bodies, but of their minds, so that not merely in pursuits of a different class the same man has a talent for some and none for others, but often in the case of such pursuits as are similar the same man may be most intelligent and most dull, or most audacious and most cowardly. Nor is this a paradox, but a fact familiar to careful observers. For instance some men are most bold in facing the charge of savage beasts in the chase but are poltroons when they meet an armed enemy, and again in war itself some are expert and efficient in a single combat, but inefficient when in a body and when standing in the ranks (4.8.7– 10).

Therefore, he concludes, readers should not be surprised at, or doubt, what he says whenever he makes divergent assessments of the things accomplished by the same characters in analogous undertakings (ταῦτα μὲν εἰρήσθω μοι χάριν τοῦ μὴ διαπιστεῖν τοὺς ἀναγινώσκοντας τοῖς λεγομένοις, ἐάν που περὶ τῶν αὐτῶν ἀνδρῶν ἐναντίας ἀποφάσεις ποιώμεθα περὶ τὰ παραπλήσια τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων, 4.8.12). True historians should not hesitate to blame or praise the same person; what is important, of course, is that they should substantiate their judgments (10.21.8). Despite all his good intentions, however, Polybius does not always succeed in remaining objective and impartial. Often his political biases can be easily detected in his judgments. Perhaps the most remarkable example concerns his partisan treatment of the Achaean League and its allies. The Achaeans stand out for their integrity and justice (2.39.10). As far as the organization of their League is concerned, they offer its new members the equality and freedom of speech (ἰσηγορίαν καὶ παρρησίαν) that they themselves enjoy (2.42.3). In the wars they wage against their adversaries they prefer to be independent and to save themselves by relying on their own strengths (2.47.2– 3). When they are compelled by circumstances to ask for help, they take care to select honorable and reliable allies (2.47.5). Again, when they themselves assist others, they do not do so with the intention of acquiring personal gain but rather in return for their aid all they demand is the common freedom and unity (κοινὴν ὁμόνοιαν) of the Peloponnesians (2.42.5 – 6).³² The great devotion that Polybius shows to the Achaeans is matched by the remorselessness of his attacks against their traditional rivals. The character of the Aetolians is indeed portrayed in the blackest colours. In sharp contrast to  See above, ch. 2 n. 34.

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the Achaeans, they are by nature unjust and greedy (διὰ τὴν ἔμφυτον ἀδικίαν καὶ πλεονεξίαν, 2.45.1). They have grown accustomed to living off the backs of others (εἰθισμένοι μὲν ζῆν ἀπὸ τῶν πέλας, 4.3.1) and, since they need great wealth to satisfy their natural ostentation (διὰ τὴν ἔμφυτον ἀλαζονείαν, 4.3.1), they lead ravenous and bestial lives (ἀεὶ πλεονεκτικὸν καὶ θηριώδη ζῶσι βίον, 4.3.1– 2), regarding no one as a friend and everyone as an enemy (4.3.2). At the prospect of gain, they have no hesitation in plundering even cities that are on friendly terms with them (18.5.2– 3). Their insatiable greed cannot be contained by the boundaries of Greece, let alone those of the Peloponnese (2.49.3 – 4). Yet if there is anything greater than their greed, it is their hatred of the Achaeans. This induced them to allow Cleomenes to annex the cities of Tegea, Mantinea, and Orchomenus, ‘which were not only allies of the Aetolians, but at the time members of their league’, so that he would become a more powerful enemy of the Achaeans (2.46.2– 4).³³ What is most striking about Polybius’ evaluative remarks is the forcefulness with which he makes them. At 2.56 – 58, for example, he seeks to vindicate the Achaeans for their brutality against the Mantineans in 223. The conclusion he draws is that the Mantineans were themselves responsible for their sufferings since through their sacrilegious treatment of the Achaeans they had violated the common laws of war (2.58.7). They, therefore, deserved a worse fate than the one they actually met (οὐκοῦν ὁλοσχερεστέρας τινὸς καὶ μείζονος τυχεῖν ἦσαν ἄξιοι τιμωρίας, 2.58.10 – 11), for all that they endured was the loss of their property and freedom (πλὴν τοῦ διαρπαγῆναι τοὺς βίους καὶ πραθῆναι τοὺς ἐλευθέρους, 2.58.12). Similarly, although Aristomachus of Argos deserved for his betrayal toward his Achaean benefactors to be led around the Peloponnese and tortured as a public spectacle until dead, ‘all the harm he suffered was to be drowned in the sea (οὐδενὸς ἔτυχε δεινοῦ πλὴν τοῦ καταποντισθῆναι) by the officers in command at Cenchreae’ (2.60.8). So Polybius can become very harsh while making his point. Political action and participation in public affairs may well be indispensable qualifications for a conscientious historian, yet they are perhaps not the most suitable means for promoting objectivity. Polybius is well aware of the danger:

 Cf., however, Larsen 1966, 51– 55 for the relations of these cities with Aetolia. Interestingly, as part of his argument that the Aetolian League was under no obligation to help these cities, Larsen notes that their seizure constituted a more serious threat to Achaean than to Aetolian interests (55), but this only reinforces Polybius’ interpretation of the Aetolian motivation. On Polybius’ views of the Aetolians see Mendels 1984– 86; Lehmann 1989 – 90; and Champion 2007.

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Now I would admit that authors should have a partiality (ῥοπάς) for their own country but they should not make statements about it that are contrary to facts. Surely the mistakes of which we writers are guilty and which it is difficult for us, being but human, to avoid are quite sufficient; but if we make deliberate misstatements in the interest of our country or of friends or for favour, what difference is there between us and those who gain their living by their pens? For just as the latter, weighing everything by the standard of profit, make their works unreliable, so politicians, biased by their dislikes and affections, often achieve the same result. Therefore I would add that readers should carefully look out for this fault and authors themselves be on their guard against it (16.14.6 – 10).

It appears, however, that the historian who hastens to warn his peers not to get carried away by their rivalries and sympathies as politicians do–and who generally convinces readers of the sincerity of his intentions–does not always manage to avoid running into this particular stumbling-block.

5.2 Polybius as a character So far I have dealt with Polybius’ presence in the Histories as narrator. I have examined the functions that he serves and attempted to demonstrate that one of the principal peculiarities of his work lies in the directness and remarkable frequency with which his comments are inserted into the narrative. However, Polybius also appears as a character in his work, for he had been a participant in many of the narrated events. In fact, he mentions that his main reason for extending the Histories from its original limits was his personal involvement in those events (3.4.13). It remains, then, to present the homodiegetic and the autodiegetic sections of narrative that occur in the work in order to gain some insight into the way Polybius approaches the writing of his own deeds. Unlike the primary narrator, the character Polybius only appears in the later stages of the work.³⁴ His presence in the text was presumably more prevalent in the last few books, which were largely centered around the events in which he and his patron Scipio Aemilianus participated.³⁵ The account of the origins of their friendship (31.23.7– 24) obviously serves as an intimation of their later, joint action recounted in the last five books: ‘[A]fter this mutual explanation’, we are informed at the end of the scene, ‘the young man (sc. Scipio) never left his (sc. Polybius’) side, and preferred his society to anything else’ (31.24.12). It is probably because of the more personal orientation of the final sec-

 E.g. 24.6.3 – 7; 28.7.8 – 13, 12– 13; 29.23 – 25; 31.11– 15, 23.3 – 24; 32.3.14.  See Walbank (1977) 1985, 328 – 43.

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tion of his work that Polybius claims that he began to narrate the events it contains ‘as if starting on a fresh work’ (οἷον ἀρχὴν ποιησάμενος ἄλλην, 3.4.13). Be that as it may, the impact of this authorial choice on the reception of the work does not leave Polybius unconcerned, as is evident from his lengthy comments on the formal aspects of his self-presentation as a character: It should cause no surprise if at times I use my proper name in speaking of myself (τῷ κυρίῳ … ὀνόματι), and elsewhere use general expressions such ‘after I had said this’ or again, ‘and when I agreed to this’. For as I was personally much involved in the events I am now about to chronicle, I am compelled to change the phrases when alluding to myself, so that I may neither offend by the frequent repetition of my name, nor again by constantly saying ‘when I’ or ‘for me’ fall unintentionally into an ill-mannered habit of speech. What I wish is by using these modes of expression alternately and in their proper place to avoid as far as possible the offence that lies in speaking constantly about oneself (τὸ λίαν ἐπαχθὲς τῆς περὶ αὑτῶν λαλιᾶς), as such personal references are naturally unwelcome, but are often necessary when the matter cannot be stated clearly without them. Luckily I have been assisted in this matter by the fortuitous fact that no one as far as I know, up to the time in which I live at least, has received from his parents the same proper name as my own (36.12).

Polybius does not adopt this procedure for referring to himself merely for the sake of stylistic variation. His choice clearly stems from his awareness of the difficulties inherent in speaking about oneself in a historical work.³⁶ Thus, by alternating between the third person (the usual literary convention in history writing) and the first person singular or plural (a practice typical of memoirs) when referring to himself, he attempts to moderate the irritation that might be created by the emphasis laid on the presentation of his own actions in the last few books of his work.³⁷ Polybius’ concern about the way in which his autodiegetic narrative will be received is doubtless due not only to the abundance of his self-references but also to their tone. Already in the earliest appearances in the text of Polybius as a character and his father Lycortas it is possible to observe that they are given an especially favoured treatment. The Achaean decision to send an embassy to Ptolemy V is probably mentioned only because the two men were chosen to participate in it (24.6). In fact, the embassy never left Achaea since Ptolemy died before it could fulfill its goal (24.6.7). The remark that Polybius had not reached the legal age for acting as an envoy (24.6.5) also seems to be meant as an allusion to his worth, even if the reason for his choice is explicitly stated as being his father’s successful involvement in an earlier mission which renewed the alliance

 On this point see Marincola 1997, 175 – 79.  Cf. Marincola 1997, 189 – 92; Rood 2004, 154– 55.

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between Ptolemy V and the Achaeans.³⁸ Lycortas’ participation in that mission and the benefits it afforded to the Achaeans are referred to three times in all (22.3.6, 9.2– 3; 24.6.3 – 5). Admittedly, the use of repeating narration, apart from its main aim of highlighting the role that was entrusted to Lycortas by the Achaean League, also serves to provide the reader with details that are not made known in the first reference to the mission (22.3.6). What ultimately stands out, however, is the way in which the narrator shapes his narrative (here on the basis of the category of frequency) in order to lay greater emphasis on the ideas he wishes to promote. Polybius’ skills are more clearly on display in the account of the restoration of certain Achaean honours to the Attalid king Eumenes II (28.7). Despite the indecision of the assembly, and unlike Eumenes’ critics, who were driven by base motives such as personal grievances and resentment (28.7.5), Polybius managed to please the Achaeans with his speech (28.7.14) and to persuade them to vote in favour of restoring all honours to Eumenes–except those that were too extravagant–by proving that the decision to revoke them had been unjust and illegal (28.7.10 – 11). Polybius’ ability to influence his audience was also made evident when his compatriots were divided over how to respond to the appeal of Ptolemy VI and his brother Ptolemy VIII for the dispatch of military aid to Egypt (29.24.9). The fact that his political rivals were compelled to resort to pretexts (29.24.5 – 6) and stratagems (29.25.1– 2) to achieve their aims highlights by contrast his persuasive power. The praise of Polybius is accompanied by a more apologetic tone in 28.12– 13. The episode is of particular importance because it concerns the relationship between Polybius and Rome and, as we hear in 28.13.14, led to an accusation against him being brought before Ap. Claudius Centho. Polybius’ account begins by presenting the Achaeans’ decision to offer full military support to the Romans in their invasion of Macedonia during the summer of 169 and thereby silence any suspicions as to their loyalty to Rome (28.12.1– 2). The plan provided for a number of envoys (Polybius and others who are not named (καὶ κατέστησαν πρεσβευτὰς παραχρῆμα Πολύβιον καὶ ἄλλους, 28.12.4)) to be sent ahead to Q. Marcius Philippus to inform him of the Achaean decision and, in the event of the consul accepting their offer, to receive orders (28.12.3 – 4). Polybius was to remain with the consul to help procure supplies for the Roman army, while his fellow envoys would return to inform the Achaeans of the decisions that had been taken (28.12.4– 6).

 On Polybius’ rise to the leading ranks of the Achaean League see Eckstein 1992, 387– 406.

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Polybius carried out his mission with great success. He informed Marcius of the Achaeans’ favourable disposition and offer, whilst making sure to remind him of the way in which, during the war against Perseus, the Achaean League had eagerly done whatever the Romans had asked of it (28.13.4). Marcius was gratified by the Achaeans’ offer, although he relieved them of the trouble and expense of fighting because the situation did not yet call for the assistance of allies (28.13.5 – 6).³⁹ So the other envoys returned to the Peloponnese, whereas Polybius, in accordance with the original plan, stayed behind to help Marcius (28.13.6). The latter, on learning that Ap. Claudius Centho was asking the Achaeans to send him 5,000 men to Epirus, ordered Polybius to see to it that the request was not granted (28.13.7– 8). When Polybius returned to Achaea, he thought it expedient not to reveal Marcius’ wish, although he could not oppose Centho’s request without providing a pretext (28.13.10 – 11). He thus invoked the Roman decree which stipulated that such requests of Roman commanders could only be ratified by decisions of the Senate (28.13.11– 12). In this way, he succeeded in getting the matter referred to Marcius, who finally relieved the Achaeans of the obligation (28.13.13). Polybius’ stance in this matter strengthened the hand of those who wished to denounce him to Centho (28.13.14). The presentation of the events, however, is meant to indicate that by doing what he did he tried to abide by the consul’s wish and not to oppose Centho. Again, the repeating narration of the meeting between Polybius and Marcius (28.13.7– 8, 13.10; 29.24.2– 3, 24.7– 8) helps to ensure that the message is driven home. The most extensive surviving episode that presents the deeds of Polybius as a character concerns the role he played in the escape from Rome of Demetrius I, the future Seleucid king, who was being kept as a hostage for the behaviour of his father, Seleucus IV (31.11– 14). Outwardly, the narrative revolves around the

 Lehmann 1967, 203 – 4 thinks that Polybius delayed meeting Marcius on purpose until there was no need for the Achaeans to carry out their promises. In a similar vein, McGing 2010, 136 notes that Marcius does not appear to have been particularly impressed by the Achaean offer. But Polybius attributes the cause for the delay to the military operations, which were keeping Marcius occupied (τὴν μὲν ἔντευξιν ὑπερέθεντο διὰ τοὺς περιεστῶτας καιρούς, 28.13.2). He also claims that Marcius was highly gratified by the offer (τὴν μὲν προαίρεσιν ἀποδεχομένου τὴν Ἀχαιῶν μεγαλωστί, 28.13.5). Indeed, given that the Roman invasion was in progress and that the decisive battle of the war had not yet been fought (cf. 29.23.11), it seems to me rather unlikely that Polybius believed that a temporary delay in initiating diplomatic contacts could exempt the Achaeans from fulfilling their promises. That Marcius’ response was unexpected, even surprising, to Polybius himself is clearly shown by the way he comments on it (28.13.8): ‘It is difficult to say whether he acted thus out of regard for the Achaeans, or from the wish to keep Appius idle’.

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fate of Demetrius, yet essentially it is Polybius who pulls the strings of the action. Indeed, the emphasis lies not so much on the fact of the escape itself as on Polybius’ efforts to organize it. His contribution to both the conception and the realization of the plan is repeatedly stressed. Not only did he suggest the idea of escape to Demetrius (31.11.5 – 6), but he helped execute it by finding the most suitable person to assist in the operation (31.12.8 – 13). Even when he was sick and confined to bed, he was completely aware of what was happening as Menyllus, the friend he had introduced to Demetrius to assist him, kept him informed of all their movements (εἰδέναι δὲ πάντα τὰ πραττόμενα, 31.13.7– 8). And at a crucial moment he intervened to prevent the breakdown of the plan with a coded message urging Demetrius to set out on his journey (31.13.8 – 14). The narrator seeks to emphasize that the Senate’s policy toward Demetrius was unjust (παρὰ τὸ δίκαιον, 31.2.1). He provides three focalizations of this point, each illuminating it from a slightly different angle. It is interesting to note that these focalizations are made to reflect the specific concerns and personality of the characters whose perspective they represent. Demetrius is thus shown to defend his rights before the Senate, maintaining that he has a better claim to the Seleucid throne than the son of Antiochus (καθήκειν γὰρ αὑτῷ μᾶλλον, 31.2.4). Apollonius, whom the narrator characterizes as young and innocent (ἄκακος ὢν καὶ κομιδῇ νέος, 31.11.7), later encourages Demetrius to approach the Senate once more, on grounds of the obvious irrationality of the situation: the moment the Romans unjustly (ἀλόγως) deprived him of his kingdom by entrusting it to the son of Antiochus IV, Antiochus V, they should at least have set him free. For it was totally unreasonable (ἄτοπον γὰρ εἶναι τελέως) that Demetrius should be kept as a hostage for Antiochus’ son (31.11.7– 8). Yet the Romans, says the (more incredulous and acquainted with their self-seeking priorities) narrator, decided to help Antiochus V gain power not because Demetrius’ cause was unjust but because such an action served their own interests (οὐ διὰ τὸ μὴ λέγειν τὰ δίκαια τὸν Δημήτριον ἔκρινεν τὴν ἀρχὴν τῷ παιδὶ συνδιαφυλάττειν, ἀλλὰ διὰ τὸ συμφέρειν τοῖς σφετέροις πράγμασιν, 31.11.11– 12).⁴⁰ The emphasis on the justness of Demetrius’ claims helps the reader sympathize with him. At the same time, it jus-

 The reason behind their decision is mentioned in greater detail in 31.2.7: ‘The senate acted thus, in my opinion, because they were suspicious of a king in the prime of life like Demetrius and thought that the youth and incapacity of the boy who had succeeded to the throne would serve their purpose better (συμφέρειν τοῖς σφετέροις πράγμασι)’. On Polybius’ awareness of the self-interested character of Roman foreign policy see above (§1.2.3).

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tifies Polybius’ decision to assist him in his attempt to escape against the will of the Senate.⁴¹ In order to sustain the reader’s interest in the story, the narrator complicates the plot and delays its resolution. Thus, while Demetrius appears initially to accept Polybius’ hint to rely on his own strengths (ἀλλ᾽ ἐν ἑαυτῷ τὰς ἐλπίδας ἔχειν, 31.11.5) to escape from Rome, he afterwards, influenced by Apollonius, changes his mind and decides to make another appeal to the Senate (31.11.6 – 9). This sudden about-turn in the development of the plot may be brief–since the narrator makes it clear that Demetrius’ appeal was not granted (31.11.10 – 12)–yet it succeeds in abruptly and effectively arousing the reader’s curiosity about how the story is going to unfold. Demetrius’ retrospective recognition of the soundness of Polybius’ advice (Πλὴν ὅ γε Δημήτριος μάτην ἐξᾴσας τὸ κύκνειον καὶ γνοὺς ὅτι καλῶς αὐτῷ συνεβούλευεν ὁ Πολύβιος μὴ δὶς πρὸς τὸν αὐτὸν λίθον πταίειν …, 31.12.1– 2) serves both to highlight the foresight of the latter and to set the narrative back on its expected course. However, from this point onwards the rhythm of the narrative slows down even more noticeably as between the conception of the escape plan and its execution the following events intervene: Demetrius’ meeting with Diodorus, who informs him of the current situation in Syria (31.12.2– 6); his meeting with Polybius’ friend Menyllus, who undertakes to secure a ship for the escape and to arrange all the technical details (31.12.9 – 13); Diodorus’ return to Syria in order to learn of the developments there (31.13.1– 2); the announcement of the plan to Apollonius’ brothers (31.13.2– 3); the banquet on the eve of the escape, which almost proves disastrous, and which is probably mentioned because of the role Polybius plays in assisting Demetrius to avoid being carried away by his passion for drink (31.13.4– 14); the instructions given by Demetrius and his friends to their servants in order to cover their tracks (31.14.2); and Menyllus’ agreement with the crew of the ship that was to take Demetrius away (31.14.8 – 13). Paradoxically, the scene of the escape itself is not presented. In 31.15.1– 7 it is merely stated that the plan was so well organized that during the whole of the next day no one in Rome realized what had happened and it was not until the fourth day after the escape that the truth was suspected. When the Senate finally met to consider the matter, Demetrius had already passed the Straits of Messana (31.15.7– 8). The Patres decided not to pursue him, partly because they understood that he was already a long distance away

 It is usually thought that Polybius acted in this case with the support of certain circles in the Senate. Cf. Pédech 1964, 525 n. 59; Briscoe 1969, 60 – 61; Doria 1978, 127; Walbank 1979, 478; and Reiter 1988, 144– 45. See, however, Gruen 1984, 2.664– 65; Eckstein 1995, 12.

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and partly because they foresaw that they would be unable to hinder him even if they tried (31.15.8 – 9). Polybius’ presentation invites one to ponder what might have happened if the Senate had made a different decision, thereby heightening the already intense suspense and ensuring the reader’s interest is maintained until the end. No other episodes of similar length presenting the actions of Polybius as a character have survived in the last five books. Yet, despite their fragmentary nature, it is quite permissible to assume that they were largely concerned with Polybius.⁴² Many pages were undoubtedly devoted to recounting the events in which he was personally involved between 151 and 146. He travelled with Scipio Aemilianus to Spain and Africa, where he met and interviewed the Numidian ruler Massanissa, and crossed the Alps in Hannibal’s footsteps on his way back to Italy. After being repatriated in 150, he went out again and joined Scipio in his campaign in Africa. Even in its fragmentary form, it is evident that Polybius’ treatment of these events is intended to present Scipio in the most favourable light. His decision to risk his life fighting in Spain instead of campaigning in Macedonia in order to settle the disputes that had arisen there is applauded as a remarkable act of courage (35.4). Scipio’s bravery stands out more clearly as it is contrasted with the cowardice of the young Romans who, alarmed at the reports of the Celtiberians’ valour, invented shameful excuses so as to avoid being recruited into the army (35.4.6 – 7). His willingness helped to extricate the Senate from this difficult situation by setting an example to others (35.4.14). Scipio is also praised in the well known episode that concludes the account of the Third Punic War, although this time not so much for his bravery as for his prudence (38.21– 22).⁴³ As he watched Carthage burning with Polybius at his side, he confided to him his fear that Rome might one day suffer a similar disaster (38.21.1– 2). Commenting upon his words, the narrator remarks that it would be difficult for anyone to make a more realistic or sensible observation (38.21.2– 3). To consider a possible reversal of fortune, he explains, while one is at the height of one’s success and one’s enemy is at its lowest ebb, is the mark of a complete human being and a man worthy to be remembered (ἀνδρός ἐστι μεγάλου καὶ τελείου καὶ συλλήβδην ἀξίου μνήμης, 38.21.3). For the narrator, therefore, Scipio represents the ideal reader of his Histories, one who has fully absorbed the lesson that can be drawn from its study, i. e. that life is a constant

 See Walbank (1977) 1985, 341– 43; Marincola 1997, 192.  On this episode cf. above, p. 82.

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cycle of success and failure and that one should be able to face both situations with dignity.⁴⁴ The praise of Scipio not only expresses appreciation and respect for the man who honoured Polybius with his friendship and supported him throughout his stay in Rome, but also highlights the important role that Polybius played in the formation of the character of this great Roman. On hearing of Scipio’s readiness to engage in active service (35.4), readers might well recall the scene in 31.22 – 24, in which Scipio asked Polybius to be his mentor so as to help him prove worthy of his family and ancestors. Polybius accepted Scipio’s proposal with great eagerness (31.24.5 – 8): ‘I myself would be delighted (ἡδέως) to do all in my power to help you to speak and act in a way worthy of your ancestors … But as regards what you say now troubles you I don’t think you could find anyone more efficient than myself to forward your effort and help you (δοκῶ μηδένα συναγωνιστὴν καὶ συνεργὸν ἄλλον εὑρεῖν ἂν ἡμῶν ἐπιτηδειότερον)’. Polybius’ assistance was indeed valuable. Scipio soon succeeded in receiving public recognition for his prudence (31.25 ff.), but he was somewhat lacking in courage (31.29.1). By instilling in him his love of hunting (προσλαβὼν τὸν τοῦ Πολυβίου πρὸς τοῦτο τὸ μέρος ἐνθουσιασμόν, 31.29.8), Polybius helped him to distinguish himself in this sphere as well (ἐξεφέρετο τὴν ἐπ᾽ ἀνδρείᾳ δόξαν πάνδημον, 31.29.11). While Polybius was in the company of Scipio at Carthage, relations between Rome and the Achaean League deteriorated palpably and led to a war between them, which ended in a quick victory for the Romans (38.18.9 – 12).⁴⁵ When he returned to Achaea, Polybius used his influence to act as a mediator between the Romans and his subjugated compatriots. The incident involving the restoration of the statues of Achaeus, Aratus and Philopoemen following his own recommendation indicates the confidence with which Polybius could speak to the Romans (39.3). The ten senatorial commissioners who arrived in Greece after the destruction of Corinth entrusted him with the task of visiting the cities that had been lately conquered in order to regulate certain aspects of the new settlement (39.5.2). In this way he helped people become acquainted with the constitution imposed upon them and adjust to the new situation (ὃ δὴ καὶ μετά τινα χρόνον ἐποίησε πρὸς λόγον τοὺς ἀνθρώπους στέρξαι τὴν δεδομένην πολιτείαν, 39.5.3). Furthermore, through the laws that he himself drafted he contributed to restoring normality and order in Greek society (39.5.5). His efforts were recognized by his compatriots (39.5.4). Shortly before the end of the  The mutability and fickleness of human fortune are thematized with great frequency in the Histories. See, e. g., 2.4.3 (the events at Medion); 8.21.11 (the capture of Achaeus); 23.12.4– 6 (the death of Philopoemen); 29.20.1– 4 (the downfall of Perseus); 38.20.1– 2 (the case of Hasdrubal).  On the complicated politics of the period see Gruen 1976, 46 – 69.

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work, Polybius mentions another trip he made to Rome, the results of which, as he characteristically states, crowned his previous political activity (39.8.1).

5.3 Narratees The counterpart of the narrator, the figure to whom s/he tells the story, is the narratee. The narrative as an act of communication always includes an appeal to an audience, even in the case of narrators who do not address anyone in particular. The narratee, then, is an integral part of the narrative process, and stands by definition on the same level as the narrator. Thus, primary narrators have primary narratees, secondary narrators have secondary narratees, and so on.⁴⁶ In what follows I shall analyze the various direct and indirect forms that the interaction between narrator and narratee assumes in the Histories in order to draw some conclusions about the manner in which Polybius envisages and defines the audience he is addressing.⁴⁷ The presence of the primary narratees, like that of the Polybian narrator, is quite visible and overt. The narrator takes pains to give the impression that he constantly has his narratees in mind. Indeed, frequently, in rounding off the subjects that he deals with, he announces that he chose to present them for the benefit of his narratees. This is especially the case when he attempts to justify the length of a discussion. When, for example, he explains the reason why he considered it expedient to insert in his narrative an analysis of the distinction between the causes, pretexts and beginnings of wars, he remarks (3.7.4– 5): ‘In speaking at such length on this matter (τὴν ἐπὶ πλεῖον διαστολὴν πεποίημαι περὶ τούτων), my object has not been to censure previous writers (οὐχ ἕνεκα τῆς τῶν συγγραφέων ἐπιτιμήσεως), but to rectify the ideas of students (χάριν δὲ τῆς τῶν φιλομαθούντων ἐπανορθώσεως)’. In the same vein, at 30.9.20 – 21 he states that he has dwelt on the reckless deeds of Polyaratus and Deinon so that anyone in a similar situation might learn how to handle it: ‘If I am asked why I have dealt at length with the case of Polyaratus and Deinon, it was not in order to exult over their misfortunes, which would be indeed outrageous, but that I might by clearly exhibiting their lack of wisdom render such as find themselves placed by circumstance in a similar situation better prepared to act advisedly and wisely’.

 See Genette (1972) 1980, 259 – 62; Prince (1973) 1980, 7– 25.  On Polybius’ readership see Walbank 1972, 3 – 6; Mohm 1977, 121– 229; Champion 2004, 96 – 98 and passim; Rood 2004, 157– 60; Maier 2012a, 277– 80.

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The most striking case of an appeal to the narratees is to be found at 16.20.8 – 9, where Polybius, in commenting upon his dispatch of a letter to the Rhodian historian Zeno in order to point out (not in a critical spirit but for the sake of historical truth) his errors concerning the geography of the Peloponnese, asks his contemporary and future readers to treat him in the same way:⁴⁸ ὃ δὴ κἂν ἐγὼ παρακαλέσαιμι περὶ αὑτοῦ (τοὺς) καθ᾽ ἡμᾶς καὶ τοὺς ἐπιγινομένους, ἐὰν μὲν κατὰ πρόθεσιν εὑρισκώμεθά που κατὰ τὴν πραγματείαν διαψευδόμενοι καὶ παρορῶντες τὴν ἀλήθειαν, ἀπαραιτήτως ἐπιτιμᾶν, ἐὰν δὲ κατ᾽ ἄγνοιαν, συγγνώμην ἔχειν, καὶ μάλιστα πάντων ἡμῖν διὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς συντάξεως καὶ διὰ τὴν καθόλου περιβολὴν τῶν πραγμάτων. And I too will beg both my contemporaries and future generations in pronouncing on my work, if they ever find me making misstatements or neglecting the truth intentionally to censure me relentlessly, but if I merely err owing to ignorance to pardon me, especially in view of the magnitude of the work and its comprehensive treatment of events.

The narrator’s communication with the narratees is not always so direct. Their presence, nonetheless, is suggested in many different ways. The interventions made by the narrator in connection with his authorial function (see above, pp. 117– 120), whether they relate to the organization and structuring of the text or to the recording of his authorial choices and clarification of dark and abstruse points, show the systematic way in which he maintains communication with his narratees. Polybius usually avoids the apostrophe to the narratee, possibly regarding it as unsuitable for the official, solemn style of historiography. In the extant text there are two cases in which he addresses the narratee directly, in the form of the well-known ‘indefinite second-person’ device. In the first one, prompted by the savagery of the Carthaginians’ mercenaries during the Libyan War, he warns the narratee about the mentality of ignorant and fickle men in general (1.81.8 – 9): ‘In the case of men in such a state, if we treat the disease by pardon and kindness (οἷς ἐὰν μὲν συγγνώμην τινὰ προσάγῃς καὶ φιλανθρωπίαν), they think we are scheming to betray them or deceive them, and become more mistrustful and hostile to their would-be benefactors, but, if, on the contrary, we attempt to cure the evil by retaliation (ἐὰν δ᾽ ἀντιτιμωρῇ) they work up their passions to outrival ours … ’. In the second case, he tries to explain to the narratee how much easier it is to approach Byzantium than Calchedon (4.44.2– 3): ‘… but nevertheless it is not easy to reach Calchedon by sea, if one wishes, while to Byzantium the current carries one whether one wishes or not (κἂν μὴ βούλῃ), as I just said’.

 See above, n. 28.

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Generally, however, Polybius adopts (as the most appropriate for his work) an impersonal mode of expression. He often uses impersonal verbs and forms such as ἡγητέον (e. g. 1.35.9; 2.38.9; 3.6.14; 6.2.9), νομιστέον (e. g. 1.62.6; 2.40.2; 3.10.6; 4.41.3; 18.13.5), (οὐ) χρή (1.12.8, 83.4; 2.61.8; 3.64.5; 15.35.1), and (οὐ) δεῖ (1.14.4, 72.7; 9.32.5; 15.36.3; 27.20.1). Especially noteworthy is the phrase οὐ χρή (or δεῖ) θαυμάζειν–it occurs a total of seven times in the text (1.12.8; 3.33.17, 57.6; 9.32.5; 36.8.6, 12.1; 38.4.1)–which he uses in order to explain his authorial choices (as happens, for example, at 36.12.1– 2, where he refers to his decision to alternate between first- and third-person forms when narrating his own actions: ‘It should cause no surprise if at times I use my proper name in speaking of myself, and elsewhere use general expressions such as “after I had said this” or again, “and when I agreed to this”’). Frequently, too, Polybius introduces an anonymous interlocutor with whom the narratee can identify. The views attributed to the anonymous interlocutor are usually refuted in favour of those held by the narrator. At 2.58.9 – 11, for instance, the ‘anonymous interlocutor’ device is used to provide a temporary answer (which later proves insufficient) to the question of what punishment should be meted out to the Mantineans for their deceitful behaviour towards the Achaeans: ‘What should we consider to be an adequate punishment for them? Someone might perhaps say (τυχὸν ἴσως εἴποι τις ἄν) that now when they were crushed by armed force they should have been sold into slavery with their wives and children’. The ‘anonymous interlocutor’ device may also serve as a vehicle for presenting views that the narrator himself espouses and wishes to communicate to his narratees. A good example of this can be seen at 5.12.5, where Polybius, in his attempt to explain the impious actions of Philip V at Thermum, turns the narratees’ attention to the influence the young king’s entourage exerted upon him: ‘Possibly indeed we should not attach the whole blame to Philip for what happened (Ἴσως μὲν οὖν οὐκ ἄν τις αὐτῷ Φιλίππῳ τῶν τότε γενομένων πᾶσαν ἐπιφέροι τὴν αἰτίαν), taking his extreme youth into consideration, but rather attribute it to the friends who associated and co-operated with him, among whom were Aratus and Demetrius of Pharos’. The ‘anonymous interlocutor’ device is, therefore, particularly effective in creating a semblance of dialogue which enables the narrator to formulate and develop his arguments in a distanced yet direct manner.⁴⁹ Another method of promoting contact with the narratees is the ‘anonymous witness’ device, which is usually employed to help them visualize geographic information (e. g. 4.44.6 – 7: ‘For those sailing (ἄν τε γὰρ … τρέχῃ τις) with a south

 For examples from other authors see the index of de Jong, Nünlist, and Bowie 2004.

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wind from the Hellespont, or from the Pontus to the Hellespont with the Etesian winds, find the course from Byzantium along the European coast to the commencement of the narrows at Sestus and Abydus a straight and easy one, and so is the return voyage to Byzantium’; 5.24.3 – 4: ‘For there is at the entrance of the narrow passage I described above, as one approaches (ὅταν … ἐγγίζῃ τις) Lacedaemon coming from Tegea or from any part of the interior, a certain site distant at the most two stades from the town and lying close to the river’). Τhe ‘anonymous witness’ device effectively overturns the impression of staticness which may prevail in such cases and draws readers further into the narrative.⁵⁰ The contact between narrator and narratee is also maintained in other ways, the most important of which are as follows: a) Explanatory clauses that seem to answer questions that the narratees might have (e. g. in 1.16.7– 8, where Polybius explains the readiness with which the Roman generals accepted Hiero’s offers of peace and friendship as a result of their concern to secure provisions: ‘for since the Carthaginians commanded the sea (θαλαττοκρατούντων γὰρ τῶν Καρχηδονίων) they were apprehensive lest they should be cut off on all sides from the necessities of life, in view of the fact that the armies which had previously crossed to Sicily had run very short of provisions’). b) Rhetorical questions that are intended to arouse the narratees’ interest or to persuade them to embrace the narrator’s point of view (e. g. in 4.27.2– 3, where Polybius criticizes the Aetolians’ decision to elect Scopas as their general: ‘… instead of punishing any of the guilty persons, to honour by electing to their chief offices the directors of these proceedings seems to me the very height of villainy; for how can we characterize otherwise such base conduct?’).⁵¹ c) The ‘presentation through negation’ device, which is used to anticipate and contradict the narratees’ expectations (such as, for example, in 4.67.2– 3, where the narrator reveals the reason for which the newly elected Aetolian general, Dorimachus, invaded the highlands of Epirus: ‘for the measures he took were all not so much meant to secure booty for himself as to inflict damage on the Epirots’).⁵² d) Similes and metaphors which serve to make familiar to the narratees what otherwise might be difficult for them to conceive (e. g. in 1.58.7– 9, where the fighting spirit of the Romans and the Carthaginians before the end of  For a discussion of this device see de Jong 2009, 110.  Rood 2004, 151 remarks that ‘[h]ere the question suggests some uneasiness about offering, within a historical work, judgments in a heightened manner more redolent of the law courts’.  On ‘presentation through negation’ see above, ch. 2 nn. 26, 27.

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the First Punic War is highlighted by reference to an extra-textual experience probably shared by Polybius and his readers: ‘We may compare the spirit displayed by both states to that of game cocks engaged in a death-struggle. For we often see that when these birds have lost the use of their wings from exhaustion, their courage remains as high as ever and they continue to strike blow upon blow, until closing involuntarily they get a deadly hold of each other, and as soon as this happens one or other of the two will soon fall dead’). Polybius’ constant awareness of his narratees is, moreover, clearly shown by the various ways he defines their identity. There are occasions, to begin with, where he emphasizes the universal impact of his theme. At 1.1.4– 5 he claims that the events he is about to describe are so interesting that people of all ages will be stimulated to study them: ‘For the very element of unexpectedness in the events I have chosen as my theme will be sufficient to challenge and incite everyone, young and old alike, to peruse my systematic history’. And at 3.4.7– 9 he states his conviction that the Histories will engage the attention of both current and future generations: ‘For it is evident that contemporaries will thus be able to see clearly whether the Roman rule is acceptable or the reverse, and future generations whether their government should be considered to have been worthy of praise and admiration or rather of blame. And indeed it is just in this that the chief usefulness of this work for the present and the future will lie’. Since, however, these remarks come from the first and second prefaces of the Histories respectively, they can plausibly be interpreted as attempts on the part of the narrator to advertise the strong points of the work by highlighting the wide range of readers that it will attract, as well as its timeless value as an everlasting possession. Elsewhere Polybius appears to acknowledge that his target audience will be more narrow than the above triumphant proclamations make out, though the limitations that he poses relate not so much to age or time as to quality. Thus, while at 1.1.5 – 6 he excludes the possibility that anyone could be indifferent to the events presented in his work, at 9.1.2– 5 he admits that he expects to attract only a particular type of reader (‘I am not unaware that my work owing to the uniformity of its composition has a certain severity, and will suit the taste and gain the approval of only one class of reader’), and he justifies his opinion by defining three kinds of history based on the themes they present and the sort of audience to which they appeal: genealogy, which is attractive to the ‘casual reader’ (τὸν φιλήκοον), accounts of colonies and city foundations, which are enjoyed by ‘the curious and lovers of recondite lore’ (τὸν πολυπράγμονα καὶ περιττόν), and affairs of nations and rulers, which appeal to the ‘student of politics’

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(τὸν πολιτικόν). Many of his fellow historians, says Polybius, include all of this heterogeneous material in their works in order to attract large numbers of readers (οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἄλλοι συγγραφεῖς σχεδὸν ἅπαντες, εἰ δὲ μή γ᾽, οἱ πλείους, πᾶσι τοῖς τῆς ἱστορίας μέρεσι χρώμενοι πολλοὺς ἐφέλκονται πρὸς ἔντευξιν τῶν ὑπομνημάτων, 9.1.3 – 4). His own work, in contrast, focusing as it does on political and military matters, is likely to seem boring to most readers (πρὸς ἓν μέν τι γένος, ὡς προεῖπον, οἰκείως ἡρμόσμεθα, τῷ δὲ πλείονι μέρει τῶν ἀκροατῶν ἀψυχαγώγητον παρεσκευάκαμεν τὴν ἀνάγνωσιν, 9.1.5 – 6) and to satisfy only the expectations and preferences of those concerned with or interested in politics.⁵³ The impression that his history is written for a particular audience is further corroborated by the remarks the narrator makes about the type of benefit that one can expect to gain by reading it. At 3.7.4– 7 he declares that his discussion about the distinction between the causes, pretexts and beginnings of wars will prove especially useful to men of action: ‘And of what use is a statesman (τί δ᾽ ἀνδρὸς πραγματικοῦ) who cannot reckon how, why, and whence each event has originated?’. Similarly, at 3.31.5 – 13 he argues that historical knowledge enables one to recognize others’ intentions (ἀληθινῶς ἐμφαίνει τὰς ἑκάστων αἱρέσεις καὶ διαλήψεις), and thereby secure the most reliable allies for oneself and one’s country. And in 7.11.2 he mentions that the change in the behaviour of Philip V offers statesmen an example to avoid: ‘For this seems to me a very striking example for such men of action as wish in however small a measure (τοῖς καὶ κατὰ βραχὺ βουλομένοις τῶν πραγματικῶν ἀνδρῶν) to correct their standard of conduct by the study of history’. Moreover, Polybius takes care to inform readers of the knowledge and qualities that a general should possess (9.12– 20) and of more specialized issues, such as the method of calculating the right length of siege-ladders (9.19) and the system of fire-signalling (10.43 – 47). Polybius’ emphasis on the usefulness of his history to political and military men is not meant to discourage or exclude the general reader who might be interested in topics such as the above. Already in the preface to the first book it is stated that the study of history, apart from providing suitable preparation for political action, also constitutes a valuable lesson about how to endure the vicissitudes of fortune by studying the misfortunes of others (1.1.2). Ordinary readers are welcomed with the same warmth on other occasions as well. The presentation of the treaties between the Romans and Carthaginians in 3.22– 30, for example, appeals both to politicians, who need to be accurately informed about the  Walbank 1990, 262 argues that for Polybius the right sort of pleasure that history can offer basically coincides with the benefit that can be derived from studying it: ‘thus the traditional antithesis between τέρψις and ὠφέλεια is in effect dissolved by the identification of the two’. On the role of pleasure in Polybius’ work cf. also Sacks 1981, 132– 38; d’Huys 1990, 267– 88.

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matter so that they might not stray from the truth in critical debates (3.21.9 – 10), and to the general reader (οἱ φιλομαθοῦντες). And the analysis of the Roman constitution that is provided in the sixth book is aimed not only at statesmen but also at a general audience (τοῖς φιλομαθοῦσι, 3.118.12). That the narrator frequently claims that his narrative will be of benefit to men of action does not reduce the scope of its applicability but rather underscores its importance. In this manner he seeks to enable the value and reliability of his work to be judged in terms of the quality or identity of its target readership.⁵⁴ These specialized narratees serve, furthermore, as figures with whom general readers can identify, flattered to think of themselves as members of Polybius’ elite audience. *** Like their more overt counterpart, the narratees in Polybius’ Histories play a significant role in its interpretation and reception. The nature of the audience envisaged by Polybius contributes largely to the thematic of the narrative by influencing his choice of topics. If his narrative was not addressed to men of action, he could obviously not have included all those details about military command in order to satisfy their expectations and demands. The fact that he does communicate them highlights the benefits that his work can also bring to professional politicians and military commanders. It is evident, therefore, that the way in which the identity of the narratees is constructed in a text is a very effective means of manipulating reader responses. Through the image that he projects of his narratees, Polybius justifies his choice of themes, underlines the importance of his narrative, strengthens its reliability, and guides his readers’ interpretation.

 Cf., e. g., 31.22.8 – 11, where the national identity of a section of the work’s target audience is used to validate the accuracy of the account: ‘If this appears incredible to anyone, I beg him to consider that the present writer is perfectly aware that this work will be perused by Romans above all people (σαφῶς ὁ γράφων ᾔδει μάλιστα Ῥωμαίους ἀναληψομένους εἰς τὰς χεῖρας τὰ βυβλία ταῦτα), containing as it does an account of their most splendid achievements, and that it is impossible either that they should be ignorant of the facts or disposed to pardon any departure from truth. So that no one would willingly expose himself thus to certain disbelief and contempt. And this should be borne in mind through this whole work, whenever I seem to make any startling statements about Romans’. Cf. Walbank 1972, 4; Rood 2004, 160.

Conclusions The narrative artistry of Polybius has received little scholarly attention. Critics have tended to discuss his views on the various political, military, moral, and historiographical issues presented in his work or to use him as a source of valuable information about the historical period that he records. In this study, which draws on narratology’s tools for analyzing texts, I have focused instead on the narrative of the Histories, and have sought to understand the ways in which Polybius shapes and organizes it. This does not mean, however, that I have approached formalistic analysis as an end in itself. The technical aspects of a text are closely related to its thematic concerns, and their examination can be an effective method for uncovering its layers of meaning. Polybius’ use of narrative techniques does not just guide readers’ responses, it also reveals his own purposes and understanding. Polybius opens his work with a series of consecutive analepses looking back to an earlier period of the history of the Romans in order to locate a suitable, widely known and accepted, starting point. As I hope to have shown, these analepses are particularly well integrated with the narrative that follows. Not only do they connect the beginning and the end of the first book, but they also enable Polybius to introduce themes that are crucial to his aim of interpreting Rome’s rise to world domination, such as the resilience of her people in the face of adverse experiences and the self-interested decision making that shapes her policy. In this manner, they serve to promote narrative coherence, while at the same time helping readers get familiarized with some of the main ideas of the text. The narrative of the First Punic War, which occupies the largest part of the first book of the Histories, is impressive both for its sophisticated structure and its ability to arouse reader interest. The focalization does not remain fixed, but it constantly switches back and forth between the Romans and Carthaginians, allowing readers to follow events from both sides. These shifts in focalization succeed in replicating the struggle between the evenly matched opponents for control of Sicily, which thus, interestingly enough, also becomes a struggle for control of the narrative. Polybius’ even-handed treatment of the two warring sides clearly calls into question the view that in the early books of the Histories the Romans stand in polar opposition to their rivals. The account of the Gallic Wars, which concludes the Roman part of the prokataskeue, and which has been thought to especially indicate Polybius’ intention to contrast the behaviour of the Romans with that of their opponents, conveys the same impression. Here, too, as in the opening narrative section of the Histories, Polybius does not seek to present an image of the Romans as flawless. Although he explicitly ascribes to the Gauls characteristics that are typically associated with barbar-

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ism, he does not regard these as the sole cause of the conflicts that take place. Instead, he also points to Rome’s share of responsibility, laying bare the aggressive drive of her foreign policy. Polybius’ compositional skills are especially evident in his handling of time. In the main part of his history, as he enters the period in which the unification of the oecumene begins, Polybius attempts to confront the problem of narrating simultaneous events by adopting an ordering method which consists in the systematic interweaving of theatres of action within the successive Olympiad years. As I have argued, the alternation of narrative threads is employed not merely as a structuring device or for its capacity to convey the simultaneity of events but also as a means of conferring intelligibility and meaning upon the historical material. Polybius’ use of the narrative technique of interlace creates suggestive juxtapositions–as between the actions of the Carthaginians and the Romans in the preliminaries to the Second Punic War–which invite readers to reflect on what they have read and to make their own connections. A similar function is served by the various anachronies appearing in the text. By setting the recounted events in a wider historical context, they, too, invest the action with (new) meaning and suggest parallels which help readers’ understanding of issues central to Polybius’ analysis. Variations of focalization form an integral part of Polybius’ attempt to shape his narrative. Due to its usefulness in conveying both visual impressions and mental processes, focalization plays a crucial role in the narratives of battles in the Histories. Success in war is shown to depend on the ability of the generals involved to manipulate sight in ways that afford them tactical advantages and to gain insight into their opponents’ planning and actions. The characters who win are usually well aware of the significance of understanding the mentality of their opponents. They seek to gather information about the enemy generals so that they can use their weaknesses against them. In contrast, those who fail tend to be so preoccupied with their own personal ambitions that they do not pay sufficient attention to the actions of the enemy and cannot properly assess the gravity of the dangers they face. The frequency with which this distinction recurs in the Histories suggests that Polybius’ presentation of the combatants’ inner processes through focalization should be viewed as a narrative strategy informed by hindsight and consciously employed to explain battle outcomes, and not merely, or even primarily, as the result of his reliance on his sources. Focalization is also of great use when it comes to presenting the motives that lie behind the actions and decisions of the characters in the Histories. Polybius shows an overwhelming interest in exploring the background of thoughts that shaped the recounted events. He constantly tries to reconstruct the characters’ mindset, draws attention to their plans and aspirations, and generally is eager

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to speculate about the causes of their actions. Motivation, however, is not only Polybius’ prime technique for historical interpretation, but also a major aspect of his narrative strategy. The presentation of motives can build up suspense by making readers wonder whether an expectation will be realized and how far a character will succeed in his or her plans. Indeed, Polybius often devotes a great deal of narrative space to detailing the motives of characters who fail so as to expose the futility of their aspirations and to invoke a sense of danger and foreboding. His ascriptions of motivation may, moreover, reflect broader patterns of human behaviour and thus serve to sensitize readers to the sort of motives they should be expecting to encounter elsewhere in the narrative, as well as to deepen their knowledge of the human character and its ways. Perhaps the most distinctive feature of Polybius’ Histories is the frequency of authorial intrusions into the narrative. The Polybian narrator does not speak in the first person only in the prefaces to the individual books. On numerous occasions he interrupts the narrative to defend his authorial choices, comment on the events and the characters, summarize what he has been saying, engage in polemic against other historians, or deal with methodological issues. These metanarrative remarks are usually employed to advance the narrator’s goals and to establish his authority. They bolster readers’ trust in his competence to narrate the story by presenting him as a conscientious and reliable writer who has taken great pains to collect information about his topics and to make sure that the material in his work is well-organized. At the same time, they are the most direct means by which the narrator communicates his perspective on the events of the narrative and maintains contact with the narratees. The dynamic relationship between Polybius and his narratees has its own implications for the construction of his authority. The manner in which he envisages his target audience allows him to justify his choice of themes and to highlight the value of his work. Although Polybius’ narratorial persona is intended, in large part, to address or refute potential objections, its forceful presence has often had the opposite effect, giving rise to much criticism. Scholars have repeatedly emphasized the narrator’s explicit didactic stance and his tendency to express his own point of view. Unlike his great predecessors, Polybius is usually regarded as an author who seeks to guide rather than invite responses and who leaves little room for interpretation on the part of the reader. And yet, his account of Rome’s rise to world domination has inspired some of the most heated debates in the field of ancient history. Despite their great frequency, the narrator’s comments cannot overshadow the complexity and fascination of the narrative. For Polybius, the value of his work resides in its potential to meet the needs of both present and future audiences. The various techniques which he uses to shape his narrative contribute to enabling the Histories’ meaning to remain alive, always open to fresh interpretations.

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Index Locorum Aristotle Poetics 1450b34 – 6 1459a20 Rhetoric 1368a29 Diodorus 20.43.7

11 n. 12 11 n. 12 7 n. 4

22 n. 36, 58

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Antiquitates Romanae 20.4 – 5 24 n. 41 20.5.1 23 De Thucydide 16 15 n. 22 Duris of Samos, FGrH 76 F1 22 n. 36 Herodotus 1.84 1.84.3

89 n. 10 89 n. 10

Isocrates Ad Nicoclem 35 Archidamus 59

7 n. 4

Livy 30.4.8

110 n. 46

Pausanias 4.31.4 – 5

78

Plato Phaedrus 264c Philebus 64b Politicus 277b

7 n. 4

11 n. 12 11 n. 12 11 n. 12

Plutarch Demetrius 1.5 – 6

127 n. 25

Polybius 1.1.1 – 2 1.1.2 1.1.3 1.1.4 1.1.4 – 5 1.1.5 1.1.5 – 6 1.1.6 1.2.1 1.2.2 – 8 1.2.7 – 8 1.3.1 1.3.1 – 3 1.3.2 1.3.4 1.3.7 1.3.10 1.4.1 1.4.2 1.4.3 1.4.4 1.4.7 – 8 1.5.1 1.5.1 – 2 1.5.3 1.5.5 1.6.2 – 3 1.6.3 1.6.4 1.6.6 1.6.6 – 7 1.6.6 – 8 1.6.8 1.7.1 1.7.2 1.7.3 1.7.5 1.7.6 1.7.7

7 7, 77 n. 35, 145 7 8 144 8, 36, 80, 116 8, 144 8 9 9 12 13 10 15 10 12 12 10 7, 11 10 10 11 15 12 16 16 50 – 51 16, 50 17 17, 26 50 26 17, 23 21 21 22 21, 23 22 22

160

1.7.8 1.7.9 1.7.12 1.7.12 – 13 1.7.13 1.8.1 1.8.3 1.8.3 – 9.2 1.9.4 1.10 – 11 1.10.4 1.10.4 – 5 1.10.5 – 9 1.10.7 – 9 1.11.2 – 3 1.12.6 1.12.7 1.12.8 1.13 1.13.5 1.13.6 – 7 1.13.6 – 9 1.13.11 1.14.1 1.14.4 1.14.5 1.14.7 – 8 1.14.8 – 9 1.16 – 17.1 1.16.4 – 17.1 1.16.7 – 8 1.17.3 1.18.1 1.18.11 1.19.9 – 15 1.20 – 21.5 1.20.1 – 3 1.20.2 – 3 1.20.5 1.20.6 1.20.7 1.20.8 1.20.11 1.20.12 – 13 1.20.12 – 14 1.20.15 – 16 1.21.7 – 8

Index Locorum

21 – 22, 24 n. 42 22 – 23 22 24, 27 22 23 23 18 19 22 23 n. 41 27 95 – 96 24 24 13, 15 16 13, 142 117 15 14 n. 20 118 30 126 129, 142 129 124 n. 17 129 42 18 n. 26 143 41 43 18 n. 26 42 42 26 95 34 33 33 33 36 34 36 36 42

1.23.3 1.23.6 1.23.10 – 24.1 1.24.1 1.24.3 – 6 1.24.4 1.24.6 1.25.5 1.25.5 – 26.1 1.26.1 – 2 1.26.8 1.28 ff. 1.28.12 – 13 1.28.13 – 14 1.29.4 1.30.1 – 8 1.30.9 – 15 1.31.1 1.31.8 1.32.2 1.32.7 1.32.8 1.33.2 – 4 1.33.5 1.34 1.34.1 – 2 1.35.4 – 5 1.35.5 1.35.6 – 10 1.35.9 1.36.1 – 3 1.37.1 1.37.1 – 6 1.37.3 1.37.6 1.37.7 1.37.7 – 10 1.37.8 – 9 1.38.1 1.38.5 1.38.6 1.39.6 1.39.7 – 15 1.40.3 1.41.1 1.43.2 1.43.3 – 4

41 33 42 34 42 42 42 34, 42 95 43 41 39 34 42 95 42 42 44 41 44 41 39 39 41 39 42 40 92 n. 14 77 n. 35 142 42 34 44 34, 44 45 35 35 34 41 36 36 34, 42 42 41 43 45 45

Index Locorum

1.43.7 1.44.7 1.45.11 1.46 1.46.1 – 7 1.46.4 – 47.10 1.46.10 1.46.13 1.47.4 1.47.9 – 10 1.47.10 1.51.3 – 12 1.51.11 – 12 1.52.4 – 8 1.54.8 1.57 1.57.1 – 7 1.57.6 1.58.7 – 9 1.59.3 – 4 1.59.4 – 8 1.59.5 1.59.8 1.59.11 1.61.5 – 8 1.62.1 1.62.1 – 6 1.62.6 1.63.4 1.63.7 – 8 1.63.9 – 64.1 1.65.1 1.65.2 1.65.3 – 4 1.65.5 – 6 1.67.3 – 12 1.67.5 – 6 1.68.8 – 10 1.68.13 1.70.5 – 6 1.70.9 – 71.7 1.71.4 1.71.5 1.72.7 1.73.7 1.80.8 1.80.12

45 43 42 92 n. 14 42 37 37 37 37 37 38 34 42 42 34, 42 17 n. 25 41 41 41, 143 33 36 33 38 33 36, 42 41 42 142 31 31 17 n. 24 46 46 46 14 n. 20 46 128 46 46 46 47 47 47 142 47 46 46

1.81.5 – 9 1.81.8 – 9 1.81.10 1.83.4 1.84.9 1.85.1 1.86.7 1.88.7 2.1.4 2.2 – 4 2.2.2 2.2.7 2.2.8 – 9 2.2.11 2.3.1 – 3 2.4 – 5 2.4.1 – 2 2.4.3 2.4.3 – 4 2.4.5 2.4.8 2.5.3 – 8 2.7.6 2.7.12 2.8.2 2.8.6 – 13 2.8.12 2.11.5 – 6 2.11.6 2.11.8 2.11.10 2.11.11 2.11.12 2.12.3 2.12.6 2.14.1 2.15.8 – 9 2.17.3 2.17.6 2.17.10 2.18 – 20 2.18 – 21 2.18.1 2.18.3 2.19.1 – 5 2.19.3 – 4 2.19.9 – 10

46 141 47 142 46 46 46 31 14 n. 20 48 48 49 49 49 49 51 49 139 n. 44 49 49 54 n. 46, 128 50 54 n. 46 51 51 50 54 n. 46, 99 51 51 52 52 52 52 50 50 14 n. 20 51 51 125 51 51 55 51 50 51 128 51

161

162

2.20.1 2.20.8 – 10 2.20.9 – 10 2.21.2 2.21.2 – 3 2.21.8 2.21.9 2.22.2 – 6 2.23.12 – 13 2.26.4 – 7 2.29.9 2.31.8 2.31.9 – 10 2.34 2.35.2 2.35.2 – 4 2.35.2 – 10 2.35.3 2.35.6 2.35.7 2.36.1 2.37.3 2.37.5 2.38.7 2.38.8 – 9 2.38.9 2.39.10 2.40.2 2.42.3 2.42.5 – 6 2.45.1 2.46.2 – 4 2.46.3 – 4 2.47.2 – 3 2.47.5 2.49.2 2.49.3 – 4 2.49.4 – 5 2.56 2.56.1 2.56.2 2.56.6 – 10 2.56.7 – 10 2.56.8 2.56.10 – 11 2.56.10 – 13 2.56.12

Index Locorum

55 50 17 n. 25 51 54 n. 46 55 55 51 55 56 56 56 52 56 31 51 54 54 51, 54 54 118 13, 14 n. 20 15 48 49 142 130 142 130 130 131 131 96 130 130 95 95, 131 95 124 126 96 n. 26 125 22 n. 36 22 n. 36 124 123 124

2.56.13 – 16 2.57.2 2.57.5 2.58.2 2.58.4 2.58.4 – 5 2.58.7 2.58.7 – 8 2.58.9 – 11 2.58.10 – 11 2.58.12 2.60.8 2.61 – 62 2.61.8 2.71.7 – 10 3.1.3 3.1.4 3.2 – 3 3.2.6 3.4.7 – 9 3.4.13 3.5.9 3.6 – 7 3.6.14 3.7.2 3.7.4 – 5 3.7.4 – 7 3.9.6 – 12 3.10 – 11 3.10.2 – 3 3.10.6 3.11 3.13.5 – 7 3.13.8 3.14.4 – 6 3.15 3.15.4 – 6 3.15.6 3.15.6 – 7 3.15.7 – 11 3.15.9 – 11 3.15.10 3.15.13 3.16.1 3.16.2 3.16.4 3.16.5

125 75 75 75 76 76 131 76 142 131 131 131 125 142 117 14 n. 20 11 n. 13 117 20 n. 33 144 11, 132 – 33 13 123 – 24 142 99 140 145 66 66 75 142 80 68 68 68 66 65 66 66, 113 65 66 66 66 – 67 66 – 67 65 66 67

Index Locorum

3.16.5 – 6 3.16.6 3.16.7 – 17.2 3.17.4 – 8 3.17.4 – 11 3.17.10 3.17.11 3.18.1 3.19.12 – 20.1 3.20.5 3.21.9 – 10 3.22.3 – 4 3.31.5 – 13 3.32 3.32.1 – 5 3.32.2 3.32.4 3.32.10 3.33.8 3.33.17 3.33.17 – 18 3.34.7 – 9 3.34.9 3.35.8 3.36 3.39.12 3.41.8 3.41.8 – 9 3.44.3 – 4 3.45 3.45.2 – 3 3.45.3 – 4 3.45.4 3.47.6 – 48 3.48.12 3.50.1 3.50.5 – 51.12 3.52.2 3.53.1 – 3 3.56.1 – 5 3.56.5 – 6 3.57.1 3.57.6 3.59.1 – 3 3.59.7 – 9 3.61.4 – 5 3.61.5

67 68 67 67 68 68 67 65 69 124 146 121 145 119 n. 11, 125 64 64 64 11 n. 13 68 142 120 68 68 71 123 72 73 72 72 72 73 73 73 125 121 – 22 72 n. 25 72 n. 25 72 n. 25 72 n. 25 71 71 70 – 71 142 122 121 73 73

3.61.6 – 7 3.61.7 – 8 3.61.9 3.64.4 – 9 3.64.5 3.68.9 3.68.12 – 13 3.69.12 – 14 3.70.1 – 2 3.70.4 – 6 3.70.7 3.70.8 – 9 3.70.9 – 10 3.70.10 3.70.12 3.72.2 3.73.1 3.75.1 3.77.4 3.78.1 – 4 3.80.3 3.80.3 – 4 3.80.4 3.80.4 – 5 3.80.5 3.81 3.81.12 3.82.4 3.82.7 – 8 3.82.8 3.86.6 – 7 3.86.10 3.86.11 3.89.3 3.89.3 – 4 3.89.4 3.89.5 – 8 3.90.6 3.91.10 3.94.9 – 10 3.94.10 3.102.8 3.102.8 – 9 3.103.1 – 4 3.103.4 3.103.5 – 6 3.103.7

73 73 73 79 142 79 100 100 100 101 101 – 2 101 101 71 101 100 71 79 113 107 102 102 102 102 102 – 3 102 – 3 103 102 102 100 69 100 114 105 103 104 n. 39 104 103 90 n. 11 104 104 100 104 104 100 104 104

163

164

3.103.7 – 8 3.103.8 3.104.1 3.104.1 – 2 3.105.1 3.105.4 – 5 3.105.5 3.105.8 3.105.9 3.105.10 – 11 3.112.6 – 9 3.112.7 – 8 3.112.9 3.118.5 – 9 3.118.8 – 12 3.118.12 4.1.1 – 3 4.2.3 4.3.1 4.3.1 – 2 4.3.2 4.8 4.8.1 – 6 4.8.7 4.8.7 – 10 4.8.12 4.20 – 21 4.24.1 – 2 4.27.2 – 3 4.28.2 4.28.3 4.28.4 – 5 4.37.4 – 5 4.39.6 4.41.3 4.43.6 – 7 4.44.2 – 3 4.44.6 – 7 4.67.2 – 3 4.82.3 4.84.7 – 8 4.85 4.86 4.87.10 – 11 5.2.8 5.2.8 – 9 5.3 – 4

Index Locorum

104 104 104 104 92 n. 13 104 104 105 105 105 69 113 120 81 119 146 117 122 131 131 131 124 n. 17 128 94 n. 20 130 130 116 129 143 64 63 64 118 78 142 78 141 142 143 98 97 98 98 128 98 97 97

5.3.7 – 10 5.4.1 5.4.10 5.5.5 5.5.8 – 11 5.5.10 – 11 5.5.12 5.6.1 5.7.3 5.7.4 – 5 5.7.4 – 6 5.9 – 10.8 5.9.7 – 12.4 5.12.5 5.12.5 – 8 5.14.11 – 12 5.16.9 – 10 5.16.10 5.24.3 – 4 5.27.8 5.30.8 5.31.8 5.32.1 – 5 5.33.2 5.33.8 5.40.4 5.49.3 – 5 5.52.4 5.104.3 – 4 5.111.9 – 10 5.111.10 6.2.4 – 7 6.2.9 6.9.12 – 14 6.44.3 – 8 6.52 6.52.4 – 5 6.56.1 – 5 6.56.7 – 8 7.3.4 7.7 7.7.1 – 2 7.7.6 7.7.8 7.8 7.8.1 – 2 7.8.1 – 8

97 97 97 n. 28 97 n. 28 98 97 97 75 97 n. 28 98 97 77 116 142 79, 80 n. 42 97 n. 28 98 98 143 98 117 75 6 n. 1 11 n. 13 118 75 128 75 95 117 118 119 142 82 103 n. 37 124 21 128 120 98 77 n. 33 124 – 25 125 76 77 77 n. 33 77 n. 33

Index Locorum

7.8.3 7.11.2 7.11.8 – 12 7.12.2 – 4 7.13.2 7.13.2 – 5 7.13.4 – 14.3 7.15.1 7.15.2 7.15.3 – 4 7.15.4 7.15.4 – 6 7.15.6 7.15.8 7.15.9 7.16.3 – 4 7.17.1 7.17.2 7.17.4 7.17.4 – 5 7.17.5 – 6 7.17.7 – 8 7.18.8 8.2 8.3.3 8.7 – 11.7 8.7.7 8.8.6 – 7 8.8.8 8.8.8 – 9 8.9 8.10 8.11.2 8.11.3 8.12.2 – 3 8.17.10 – 11 8.21.10 8.21.11 8.35 8.35 – 36 9.1 – 2 9.1.2 – 5 9.1.3 – 4 9.1.5 – 6 9.2.2 9.2.2 – 4 9.9.1 – 5

77 n. 33 145 128 120 118 80 n. 42 79 n. 42 88 88 – 89, 92 88 89 88 89, 120 89, 92 89 89 89 89, 92 89 89 90 90 90 11 n. 13 92 n. 14 9 n. 9 92 n. 14 129 129 129 17 n. 25 76 129 15 n. 22 99 82 70 n. 22 139 n. 44 77 116 119 n. 11 144 145 145 8 7 128

9.9.3 9.12 – 20 9.12.9 – 10 9.13.1 – 5 9.17 9.18.1 – 4 9.18.5 – 9 9.19.1 – 4 9.22.10 9.23 9.23.2 9.23.3 9.23.4 9.23.5 9.23.6 – 7 9.24.2 – 3 9.25.2 – 4 9.25.5 – 6 9.26.1 9.28.7 – 8 9.28.8 9.32.5 9.33.11 – 12 9.37.10 9.38.2 9.38.3 – 4 9.39.5 9.44 10.2.5 – 6 10.2.13 10.4 – 5 10.5.8 10.6.8 10.6.12 10.7.1 10.7.3 – 4 10.7.4 10.7.5 10.8.1 10.8.2 10.8.7 10.9.1 10.9.2 – 3 10.11.8 10.14.10 – 11 10.14.14 – 15 10.21.8

70 n. 22 19 n. 29 70 n. 22 107 n. 42 77 77 77 77 94 n. 21 77 94 n. 20 94 n. 20 94 n. 21 94 n. 21 94 n. 20 94 n. 20 122 122 94 n. 21 96 96 142 96 78 78 78 78 11 n. 13 125 111 111 n. 49 111 n. 48 111 111 n. 48 111 111 n. 48 111 111 111 111 111 111 111 n. 48 111 111 n. 49 111 130

165

166

10.33.5 11.8.1 – 3 12.4a.2 12.4a.3 12.4c.3 – 4 12.4c.4 12.4c.5 12.7 – 8 12.7.1 12.12b 12.14.4 – 5 12.15.10 12.15.10 – 11 12.15.12 12.17 – 22 12.23.8 12.24.5 12.25a 12.25a.3 12.25a.3 ff. 12.25c 12.25c.5 12.25d-28a 12.25f 12.25f.1 – 6 12.25i-26b 12.25i.5 – 9 12.25k.1 12.26b.4 12.26d.1 12.26d.3 12.26d.4 12.27.7 – 8 12.28.6 12.28a.8 – 10 13.1.1 – 3 13.2 – 3 13.3 13.3.1 13.3.3 – 4 13.3.5 – 6 13.3.6 13.3.7 14.1a.3 14.1a.5 14.1.2 – 5 14.1.5

Index Locorum

103 n. 37 19 n. 29 127 127 122 122 122 127 127 127 128 127 127 128 76, 125 126 126 125 126 126 124 127 127 9 n. 9, 76 125 125 123 126 126 126 127 126 122 126 123 128 128 110 110 110 110 110 110 99 106 106 107 n. 41

14.1.5 – 6 14.1.8 14.1.11 – 12 14.1.13 14.2.1 14.2.4 14.2.5 – 8 14.2.8 – 9 14.2.9 14.2.10 14.2.11 14.3.1 14.3.2 – 3 14.3.3 14.3.5 14.3.7 14.4.3 14.4.4 – 5 14.4.8 14.4.9 14.4.10 14.5.1 14.5.5 14.5.15 14.6.6 – 9 14.9.6 – 7 14.12.4 – 5 15.1.10 – 12 15.3.5 – 7 15.6.4 – 8 15.7.1 15.7.3 – 5 15.7.5 15.16.4 15.16.5 15.16.6 15.20 15.20.6 – 8 15.25.19 15.34 – 36 15.34.6 15.35.1 15.36.3 16.14 – 15 16.14.6 – 10 16.16 – 17 16.20.5 – 7

106 106 108 107 107 n. 41 107 108 108 107 107 – 8 107 107 108 108 107, 111 107 n. 41 109 107 n. 41 109 n. 44 109 109 109 n. 44 109 109 112 112 61 106 n. 40 99 113 113 113 113 114 114 114 80 80 62 125 128 142 142 125 132 121 128

Index Locorum

16.20.6 16.20.7 16.20.8 – 9 16.28.9 18.5.2 – 3 18.13.5 18.14.7 18.20.4 – 5 18.20.5 – 6 18.20.6 – 7 18.20.7 18.21.3 18.22.2 18.22.7 18.23.1 18.25.5 18.25.7 18.26.6 – 7 18.26.7 18.26.7 – 8 18.26.8 18.35.1 – 5 20.9.10 – 12 21.11.13 22.3.6 22.9.2 – 3 23.12.4 – 6 24.3 24.6 24.6.3 – 5 24.6.5 24.6.7 24.10.8 27.9.2 27.10.5 27.20.1 28.7 28.7.5 28.7.10 – 11 28.7.14 28.12.1 – 2 28.12.3 – 4 28.12.4 28.12.4 – 6 28.13.2 28.13.4 28.13.5

128 124 141 17 n. 25 131 142 96 n. 25 90 90 90 90 91 91 91 91 91 91 91 91 91 92 128 52 n. 42 82 134 134 139 n. 44 128 133 134 133 133 80 17 n. 25 119 142 134 134 134 134 134 134 134 134 135 n. 39 135 135 n. 39

28.13.5 – 6 28.13.6 28.13.7 – 8 28.13.8 28.13.10 28.13.10 – 11 28.13.11 – 12 28.13.13 28.13.14 28.14.1 – 2 28.16.10 – 11 29.5 29.8.5 29.8.10 29.12 29.20.1 – 4 29.21.3 – 6 29.21.7 29.23.11 29.24.2 – 3 29.24.5 – 6 29.24.7 – 8 29.24.9 29.25.1 – 2 30.9.20 – 21 31.2.1 31.2.4 31.2.7 31.11.5 31.11.5 – 6 31.11.6 – 9 31.11.7 31.11.7 – 8 31.11.10 – 12 31.11.11 – 12 31.12.1 – 2 31.12.2 – 6 31.12.8 – 13 31.12.9 – 13 31.13.1 – 2 31.13.2 – 3 31.13.4 – 14 31.13.7 – 8 31.13.8 – 14 31.14.2 31.14.8 – 13 31.15.1 – 7

135 135 135 135 n. 39 135 135 135 135 134 – 35 128 62 119 17 n. 25 123 11 n. 13 139 n. 44 9 n. 8 9 n. 8 135 n. 39 135 134 135 134 134 140 136 136 136 n. 40 137 136 137 136 136 137 27, 136 137 137 136 137 137 137 137 136 136 137 137 137

167

168

31.15.7 – 8 31.15.8 – 9 31.21.6 – 7 31.22.8 – 11 31.23.7 – 24 31.24.5 – 8 31.24.12 31.25.4 – 5 31.26.9 – 10 31.29.1 31.29.8 31.29.11 32.5.7 – 9 32.11.2 – 5 32.11.6 – 7 32.13 34.5.2 – 9 35.4 35.4.6 – 7 35.4.14 36.1 36.2.2 36.2.4 36.8.6 36.9.3 – 4 36.9.4 36.9.5 36.9.6 – 7 36.9.7 – 8 36.9.10 – 11 36.9.11 36.9.13 36.9.16 36.12 36.12.1 36.12.1 – 2 36.15.1 – 3 38.2 38.4.1 38.5.1 – 3 38.5.4 38.5.9 38.6 38.6.1 38.6.1 – 3 38.6.2 – 4 38.6.3

Index Locorum

137 138 26 146 n. 54 132 139 132 128 128 139 139 139 128 60 61 27 122 n. 13 138 – 39 138 138 119 n. 11 27 27 142 84 84 84 84 84 84 84 84 84 133 142 142 128 78 142 63 63 63 125 63 n. 11 63 63 n. 11 63 n. 11

38.6.3 – 6 38.10.8 38.18.8 – 9 38.18.9 – 12 38.20.1 – 2 38.21.1 – 2 38.21.2 – 3 38.21.3 38.22.1 – 3 39.1.8 39.3 39.3 – 8 39.5.2 39.5.3 39.5.4 39.5.5 39.8 39.8.1 39.8.4 39.8.6

63 128 17 n. 25 139 139 n. 44 138 138 138 82 17 n. 25 139 117 – 18 139 139 139 139 15 140 15 15

Posidonius, FGrH 87 T1 15 n. 22 Pseudo-Scylax (see GGM I) 98 78 Strabo Historiae, FGrH 91 T2 15 n. 22 Thucydides 1.15.1 1.22 1.22.3 – 4 1.68 ff. 1.70.2 1.70.3 2.48.3 4.25.4 4.66 ff. 5.65.3 8.87

32 7 n. 4 123 35 35 35 7 n. 4 78 68 n. 19 85 n. 2 85 n. 2

Xenophon Hellenica 1.1 7.5.27

15 n. 22 15 n. 22

General Index Abilyx 98 Abydus 143 Acarnanians 75, 96 Achaea 133, 135, 139 Achaean League 48, 75, 130, 134 – 35, 139 Achaeans 48, 75, 80, 95 – 96, 130 – 31, 134 – 35, 142 Achaeus, Achaean eponymous hero 139 Achaeus, Syrian rebel 82, 89 – 90, 139 n. 44 Acilius Glabrio, M. 52 n. 42 Acrocorinth 120 Adrastus 98 n. 29 Adys, battle of 42 Aegospotami, battle of 16 Aegusa, battle of 36, 41 – 42 Aemilius Paullus, L. (cos. 219, 216) 67, 69 Aemilius Paullus, L. (cos. 182, 168) 128 Aetolia 131 n. 33 Aetolian League 99, 131 Aetolians 48 – 49, 75, 78, 95 – 96, 99, 128, 130 – 31, 143 Africa 2, 59, 68, 95, 106, 110 – 13, 117, 121, 138 Agathocles, Alexandrian politician 77 n. 34, 125, 128 Agathocles of Syracuse 77 n. 34, 94 n. 20 Agelaus 95 Agrigentum 25, 42, 95 Alexander the Great 78 Alexandria 62 Alexon 45 Alps 71, 72 n. 25, 73, 121 – 22, 138 Althaea 68 amicitia 53 Ammianus Marcellinus 15 n. 22 analepsis 13, 16, 18, 28, 50, 147 and §3.3.1 passim ‘anonymous interlocutor’ device 142 ‘anonymous witness’ device 142 – 43 Antalcidas, Peace of 16 Antigonus I Monophthalmus 31 Antigonus III Doson 75, 77, 95 Antiochus III the Great 10, 28 n. 50, 75, 80, 82, 88 – 90, 117

Antiochus IV Epiphanes 136 Antiochus V Eupator 26, 136 Antisthenes of Rhodes 125 Apelles 97 – 98, 128 Apollonians 52 Apollonius 136 – 37 Apulia 101 n. 36 Aratus of Sicyon 15 n. 22, 22 n. 36, 75 – 77, 79, 80 n. 42, 94 n. 20, 95 – 99, 124 n. 17, 128, 130, 139, 142 Archidamus 77 Archimedes 92 n. 14 Ardiaei 53 Ariarathes V 60 – 61 Aristomachus of Argos 131 Aristotle 127 Asia 2, 9 – 10, 59 – 60, 82, 117 Assyria 82 Athenians 34 – 35, 68 n. 19, 77, 84 Athens 32, 61, 78, 84 n. 1 Atilius Regulus, M. 41 Atys 98 n. 29 Aufidus, river 117 Babylonia 75 Bal, M. 3 Boeotia 68 n. 19 Boii 52, 55 Bosphorus 78, 121 Brasidas 68 n. 19 Brennus 16, 50 Byzantines 121 Byzantium 60, 141, 143 Calchedon 141 Callicrates 80 Callisthenes 76, 125, 127 Camarina 34, 44 Cannae, battle of 80 – 81, 103, 112 – 13, 119 Cappadocia 60 Carthage 10, 12, 21, 24, 25 n. 45, 26, 27 n. 47, 37, 50, 52 n. 42, 60, 62, 82, 84 – 85, 95, 112, 117, 138 – 39 Carthaginians

170

General Index

– characteristics of 40 – 41 – naval experience 33 – 34 – problems during Mercenary War 20, 45 – 47 – reliance on mercenaries 21, 45 Celtiberians 138 Cephallenia 97 Chalcis 97 Chaereas 125 Champion, C. B. 25, 52 Charops 128 Chlaeneas 96 Claudius Centho, Ap. 134 – 35 Cleomenes III 77, 94 n. 20, 95 – 96, 117, 131 Cleomenic War 75 – 76, 96 Coele-Syria 10, 60 – 61 Corcyreans 51 – 53 Corinth 139 Corinthians 35 Cornelius Scipio, P. 70, 73, 100 – 1 Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P. 106 – 14, 125 Cornelius Scipio Africanus Aemilianus, P. 85, 132, 138 – 39 – predicting Rome’s decline 82 counterfactuals 45 Cratippus 15 n. 22 Cretans 128 Critolaus 128 Croesus 98 n. 29 Cynaetha 77 Cynoscephalae, battle of 90 Cyrus 89 n. 10 Dalmatians 27 Davidson, J. 87 Decius 22, 24 n. 41 deditio in fidem 52 – 53, 84 Deinon 140 Delphi 54 Demetrius I Poliorcetes 31 Demetrius I Soter of Syria 26, 135 – 37 Demetrius II of Macedon 49, 117 Demetrius of Phalerum 9 n. 8 Demetrius of Pharos 65 – 66, 69, 79, 80 n. 42, 120, 142 Derow, P. S. 53 Diaeus 128

Diodorus of Sicily 22 n. 36, 58 Diodorus, tropheus of Demetrius I 137 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 23, 24 n. 41 Dionysius the Elder 16, 77 n. 34 Dorimachus 143 Drepana, battle of 34 Duris of Samos 22 n. 36 Ecnomus, battle of 34, 42, 95 Egypt 2, 60, 62, 80, 117, 134 Eleans 97 Elleporus, battle of 16 Ephorus 63 n. 11, 76, 122, 125, 127 Epidamnians 52 Epirots 143 Epirus 50, 135, 143 Etruria 100, 101 n. 36, 103 Etruscans 17 Eumenes II 119, 123, 134 Fabius Maximus, Q. 103 – 5 Fabius Pictor, Q. 95, 125 – 26 Faliscans 46 Flaminius, C. 55, 100, 101 n. 36, 102 – 3, 105 focalization 3, 25, 33, 35, 42, 55 – 56, 67, 115, 136, 147 – 48 and ch. 4 passim frequency 134 Fulvius Flaccus, Q. 52 Gauls (Celts) – attack on Delphi 54 – capture of Rome 16, 50 – characteristics of 51, 55 – 56, 101 n. 35, 147 – 48 – wars against Rome 50 – 51, 54 – 57, 147 Gelo 76 Genette, G. 3, 86, 115 Gesco 46 Great Plains, battle of 112 Greece 2, 9 – 10, 15 – 16, 32 n. 7, 54, 60 – 63, 68 n. 19, 80, 84 – 85, 95, 117 – 18, 131, 139 Greeks 6 n. 2, 8, 12, 16, 17 n. 24, 48 n. 32, 50, 54, 78, 95, 110, 119, 121

General Index

Hamilcar Barca 66 Hannibal 60, 63, 65 – 67, 80, 92 n. 13, 94 nn. 20 – 21, 98, 100 – 7, 109, 113 – 14, 117, 120 – 23, 125, 128, 138 – crossing the Alps 70 – 73 – leadership qualities 68 – 70 Hannibal, Carthaginian commander in Mercenary War 46 Hannibal the ‘Rhodian’ 37 – 39, 43, 92 n. 14 Hannibalic War, see Punic War, Second Hasdrubal, Carthaginian commander in Spain 65, 118 Hasdrubal, Carthaginian commander in Third Punic War 139 n. 44 Hasdrubal, son of Gisgo 106, 108 – 10 Hellespont 143 Hermeias 128 Herodotus 31, 85 n. 2, 89 n. 10, 98 n. 29 Hiero II of Syracuse 18 – 20, 22, 76, 77 n. 33, 143 Hieronymus of Syracuse 76, 98, 125 historical monographs 10 – 11, 11 n. 13, 64 Homer 59 human nature/character 94, 130, 149 Illyria 65, 67, 69 – 70 Illyrian War, First 50 – 51, 56, 99 Illyrian War, Second 66 – 67 Illyrians 48 – 52 – characteristics of 51 implied author 115 ‘indefinite second-person’ device 141 interlace technique 59 and §3.2 passim intertextuality 36 intratextuality 36 Isère, river 72 n. 25 Issaeans 52 Isthmus 118 Italy 2, 10, 12, 15 – 17, 22, 24 – 26, 34, 55, 60 – 61, 66, 68 – 71, 73, 81, 90 n. 11, 94 n. 20, 95, 99 – 100, 103, 105 – 7, 109, 112 – 13, 117, 120, 138 iterative narration 37, 88 Ithome, Mt. 120 Lacedaemonians 9, 75 – 76, 78, 84, 96, 125 Lacinian promontory 106 n. 40, 120

171

Lagoras 88 – 90 Leontius 97 – 98 Leuctra, battle of 16 Libya 9 – 10, 34, 43 Lilybaeum 37, 43, 45 Lipara 42 Livius Salinator, M. 69 Livy 110 n. 46 Longanus, battle of 22 Lyciscus 78, 96 Lycortas 133 – 34 Macedonia 2, 62, 82, 134, 138 Macedonian War, Second 53, 99 Macedonians 9, 75, 77, 91, 96 Mamertines 18 – 20, 22 – 24, 27, 95 Manlius Torquatus, T. 52 Mantinea 75 – 76, 96, 131 Mantineans 75 – 76, 131, 142 Marcius Philippus, Q. 134 – 35 Massanissa 26, 110, 123, 138 Media 75 Medion 48 – 50, 139 n. 44 Medionians 48 – 49 Megaleas 97 Megalopolis 77, 125 Melitaea 77 Menyllus 136 – 37 mercenaries 18 – 21, 45 – 47, 128 – 29, 141 Mercenary (Libyan, Truceless) War 14, 20, 31, 45 – 47, 141 Messana 16, 18 – 22, 24, 26 – 27, 95, 137 Messene 99 Messenians 79 n. 42 metalepsis 70 n. 23 Minucius Rufus, M. 100, 101 n. 36, 103 – 5 mise en abyme 37, 39 Mithridates II 60 Molon 75 motives – and patterns of behaviour 92 – 93, 95, 149 – ascription of 3, 148 – 49 and §4.2 passim – character readings of ch. 4 passim – role of conjecture in 3, 93 Mylae, battle of 33, 42 Myonessus, battle of 82

172

General Index

narrative patterns 79 – ‘Beinahe’-episodes 45, 72 n. 25 – ‘decisive intervention’ 40, 45 – erroneous expectations 82, 99 – 101, 104, 107 narratology – and history 3 – 4 Naupactus, conference at 95 New Carthage 66 – 67, 110 – 11 Nicanor 91 Nicias 77 Numidians 72, 106, 109 n. 44 Olcades 68 Orchomenus 96, 131 Oropus 61 Pachynus, C. 34 Palus, siege of 97 Panormus 34, 43 paralepsis 87 paralipsis 17 n. 23, 50, 87, 105 Pelopidas 77 Peloponnese 75, 95 – 96, 120 – 21, 131, 135, 141 Peloponnesian War 31 Peloponnesians 48, 130 Perseus 84, 119, 123, 135, 139 n. 44 Persia 78 Persian Wars 31, 54 Persians 78 Petzold, K. E. 85 Philinus of Agrigentum 125 – 26 Philip II 9 n. 9, 76, 78, 96 Philip V 28 n. 50, 62, 75, 77, 79 – 80, 90 – 91, 95, 97 – 99, 117, 128, 142, 145 Philopoemen 114 n. 53, 139 Phoenice 50 Phylarchus 22 n. 36, 76, 125 – 26 Po, river (Padus) 70, 72 – 73 Po valley 56 Polyaratus 140 Polybius – authorial presence of 12, 35, 61 – 62, 83, 149 and ch. 5 passim – communication with narratees 140 – 46, 149

– defining his starting point 13 – 17 – proem 7 – 13 – promoting his work 8 – 12, 30 – 31 – pursuit of originality 7 – 8 – temporal strategies of ch. 3 passim Pontus 78, 121, 143 Posidonius of Apamea 15 n. 22 Postumius Albinus, A. 125 ‘presentation through negation’ device 43 n. 26, 44 n. 27, 143 prolepsis 74, 76 n. 32 and §3.3.2 passim Prusias II 128 Ptolemies 75 Ptolemy I Soter 31 Ptolemy IV Philopator 10, 61, 117 Ptolemy V Epiphanes 80, 133 – 34 Ptolemy VI Philometor 134 Ptolemy VIII Euergetes II (Physcon) 134 Ptolemy, son of Sosibius 62 Punic War, First 4, 14, 16, 18, 20 – 21, 28, 30 – 33, 36 – 39, 47, 56, 60, 66, 144, 147 Punic War, Second 13 – 14, 20 n. 33, 40, 60, 65, 69, 79 – 81, 87, 106, 108, 113, 124, 148 Punic War, Third 27, 40, 138 Pyrrhus 17, 22, 50 Pytheas of Massalia 122 n. 13 Quinctius Flamininus, T. 90 – 91 repeating narration 134 – 35 Rhegium 17 – 18, 21 – 24, 26 – 27 Rhodes 60 Rhodians 121 Rhone, river 72 – 73 rhythm 13 – 14, 115, 137 Romans – and destruction of Carthage 84 – 85 – characteristics of 35 – 37 – constitution 81 – 82, 119, 146 – expansionist designs 26, 53, 55 – 56, 95 – naval activity 32 – 39, 56 – praised by Polybius 9, 17, 36 – self-interested behaviour 24 – 28, 56 – 57, 136, 147 Rome 2, 4, 10, 12, 16 – 17, 20 – 28, 30, 34 n. 11, 36, 38, 45, 47, 50, 52, 55 – 56, 60,

General Index

62 – 63, 65, 67 n. 18, 68 – 69, 70 n. 22, 73, 78, 80 – 82, 84 n. 1, 85, 98 – 99, 104, 112 – 13, 117 – 18, 126, 134 – 35, 137 – 40, 147 – 49 Saguntum 65, 67 – 69 Sallust 15 n. 22 Samnites 17 Sardinia 9, 42, 66 Sardis 88, 89 n. 10, 90 – 91 Scopas 128, 143 seed 38, 79 Seleucids 75 Seleucus IV Philopator 135 Sempronius Longus, Ti. 100 – 2, 105 Senones 55 Sestus 143 Sicilians 77 Sicily 2, 9, 12 – 13, 15 – 16, 24, 25 n. 45, 34, 37, 43, 56 n. 47, 60, 69, 95, 98, 117, 126, 143, 147 Sinope 60 Sisenna 15 n. 22 Social War 10, 60, 63 Sosibius 62 Sosylus of Lacedaemon 125 Spain 2, 24, 60, 63, 65 – 71, 118, 120 – 21, 138 Sparta 32, 78, 84 n. 1, 96, 117 Spartans 34, 77 Spendius 46 Strabo 15 n. 22 Susiana 75 suspense 71, 99, 104, 138, 149 symploke 10 – 12, 48 n. 32, 63 – 65 synchronicity 58 – 60 Syphax 106 – 8, 110 – 13 Syracuse 18, 77 Syria 62, 117, 137 Syrian War, Fourth 60 Syrian War 99

173

Tacitus 15 n. 22 Tagus, battle of 68 Tegea 96, 131, 143 Telamon, battle of 56 Teuta 50, 54 n. 46, 99, 128 thalassocracy 32 – 33 Thebans 78 Thebes 78 Theopompus 9, 15 n. 22, 63 n. 11, 76, 125, 127 Thermae 42 Thermopylae 78 Thermum (Thermus) 77, 79, 80 n. 42, 142 Thucydides 31 – 33, 35, 68 n. 19, 73 n. 26, 85 n. 2, 93 n. 17, 94 n. 21, 98 n. 29, 123 – Archaeology 32, 36 Ticinus, battle of 100 Timaeus of Tauromenium 12, 15 n. 22, 16, 117, 122, 125 – 28 Tissaphernes 85 n. 2 Trasimene, battle of 81, 100, 102, 104 Trebia, battle of 71, 81, 100, 101 n. 36, 104 Tychaeus 98 Tyndaris, battle of 34, 42, 95 universal history Utica 107, 112

11, 64, 124 – 25

Veneti 50 – 51 Walbank, F. W. 85 White, H. 4 wise advisers 101 – 2 Xanthippus 39 – 40, 92 n. 14 Xenophon 15 n. 22, 125 Zama, battle of 114 Zeno of Rhodes 121, 125, 128, 141