The Struggle for Identity. Greeks and their Past in the First Century BCE 351509671X, 9783515096713

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The Struggle for Identity Edited by Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

The Struggle for Identity Greeks and their Past in the First Century BCE Edited by Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

Franz Steiner Verlag

Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG) Umschlagabbildung: „Turm der Winde“ (Horologium) in Athen aus: James Stuart and Nicholas Revett, The Antiquities of Athens (1762)

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2011 Druck: Hubert & Co., Göttingen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-09671-3

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Contents Acknowledgments



List of Contributors



List of Illustrations



Introduction: Approaching Greek Identity Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater



Greek Classicism Albrecht Dihle



Writing Roman History – Shaping Greek Identity: The Ideology of Historiography in Dionysius of Halicarnassus Nicolas Wiater



The Style of the Past: Dionysius of Halicarnassus in Context Matthew Fox



Impacts of Writing in Rome: Greek Authors and Their Roman Environment in the First Century  Thomas Hidber



Latin, Attic, and Other Greek Dialects: Criteria of ἑλληνισμός in Grammatical Treatises of the First Century  Beate Hintzen



Augustus chlamydatus. Greek Identity and the bios Kaisaros by Nicolaus of Damascus Dennis Pausch



Principate and System Glenn W. Most



Men from Mytilene Ewen Bowie



Greek Poets and Roman Patrons in the Late Republic and Early Empire Tim Whitmarsh



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

Contents

Who Cared about Greek Identity? Athens in the First Century  Barbara E. Borg



The Image of Athens in Diodorus Siculus Thomas A. Schmitz



Paideia and the Function of Homeric Quotations in Chariton’s Callirhoe Manuel Baumbach



Bibliography



Index



Passages Discussed



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Acknowledgments This volume is the result of an international conference on ‘The Struggle for Greek Identity’, held at Bonn University in October . Our first thanks are due to all those who attended this conference, both as speakers and as discussants: it was an unusually stimulating and convivial meeting, and we can only hope that some of the excitement and inspiration we felt during the days of the conference will be visible in this volume. We wish to thank all contributors for the wonderful collaboration and the patience with which they have read several versions of this volume in the making. Our thanks are due to the ‘Universitätsclub Bonn’ for the hospitality it provided at the conference and to the many helpers in our department who worked hard in the wings for the conference; Ingeburg Kohl, Birthe Paich-Knebel, Anna SchäferLoosen, Anna Tagliabue, Rainer Johannes, and Matthias Schmitz have all been immensely supportive. The staff at Steiner Verlag has been helpful at all stages of the production of this book: Katharina Stüdemann was as excited about the project as we are ourselves; Harald Schmitt has been of invaluable help with questions of typesetting. For this too, we want to express our gratitude. For the production of the book, we used the free software ConTEXt; our thanks are due to Hans Hagen and Taco Hoekwater for this wonderful system and for their patience in helping with technical problems. Neither the conference nor the publication of this book would have been possible without substantial grants from the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft (DFG). We are profoundly grateful for this generous support. This volume was somewhat longer in the making than we had wished and expected. For a number of years, both editors were engrossed in the highly entertaining task of reforming university programs (and then re-reforming the reformed programs). Our contributors have tolerated these delays with patience and good cheers. We are happy that this rather long journey has now reached its destination. Bonn/Urbana-Champaign, July 

TAS and NW

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List of Contributors M B is Professor of Classics at Bochum University. His fields of research are the Ancient Greek Novel, Second Sophistic literature, Hellenistic poetry, and the history of reception. He is the author of Lukian in Deutschland. Eine forschungs- und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Analyse vom Humanismus bis zur Gegenwart (), and the co-editor of Labored in Papyrus Leaves: Perspectives on an Epigram Collection Attributed to Posidippus (), Quintus Smyrnaeus: Transforming Homer in Second Sophistic Epic () and Archaic and Classical Greek Epigram (). B E. B is Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Exeter. She has published widely on Greek and Roman art and archaeology and edited a volume on Paideia: The world of the Second Sophistic (de Gruyter ) including a chapter on ‘Glamorous Intellectuals: Portraits of Pepaideumenoi in the Second and Third Centuries AD’. E B was Praelector in Classics at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, from  to , and successively University Lecturer, Reader and Professor of Classical Languages and Literature in the University of Oxford. He is now an Emeritus Fellow of Corpus Christi College. He has published articles on early Greek elegiac, iambic and lyric poetry; on Aristophanes; on Hellenistic poetry; and on many aspects of Greek literature and culture from the first century  to the third century , including the Greek novels. He recently edited (jointly with Jaś Elsner) a collection of papers on Philostratus (CUP ), and is currently completing a commentary on Longus, Daphnis and Chloe for CUP. A D is professor emeritus of Classics. He has held professorships at the universities of Göttingen, Cologne, and Heidelberg, and has been a visiting professor at Cambridge (Engl.), Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, Berkeley, Perugia, Sydney, and Durban. He holds honorary doctorates from several universities and has received prestigious awards such as the order ‘Pour le Mérite’. His numerous publications treat almost all aspects of classical literature and philosophy from the Homeric epics to late antiquity. M F has been Professor of Classics at Glasgow since . He has written two books which try to reshape thinking on historiography in Rome: Roman Historical Myths (Oxford, ) and Cicero’s Philosophy of History (Oxford, ). He has also published on gender, reception, and ancient dialogue. T H is currently Head of Academic Programme Development in the University of Zürich. He taught Greek and Latin at the Universities of Berne (–

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

List of Contributors

) and Göttingen (–). He is author of Das klassizistische Manifest des Dionys von Halikarnass (Teubner ) and of Herodians Darstellung der Kaisergeschichte nach Marc Aurel (Basel ) and has published articles on Greek historiography in Imperial Times. B H teaches Latin and Greek language and literature at Bonn University and is president of the German Neolatin Society (DNG). Her main areas of interest are Hellenistic poetry, poetics and rhetoric, and the reception of classical literature in the Early Modern Age. G W. M has taught at the Universities of Yale, Princeton, Michigan, Siena, Innsbruck, and Heidelberg. Since  he has been Professor of Greek Philology at the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa, since  he has been a visiting Professor on the Committee on Social Thought at the University of Chicago; recently he has also become an external scientific member of the Max Planck Institute for the History of Science in Berlin. He has published numerous books and articles on ancient and modern literature and philosophy, the history and methodology of Classical studies, comparative literature, cultural studies, the history of religion, literary theory, and the history of art. Most recently he has co-edited a one-volume companion to the Classical tradition, and is currently preparing a co-edited four-volume Loeb edition of the Presocratics, co-revising an English translation of the Greek tragedies, and co-editing and -translating the ancient and medieval commentaries to Hesiod’s Theogony. D P was a member of the DFG funded research area ‘memory cultures’ from  to  and during this time finished his PhD on Biographie und Bildungskultur. Personendarstellungen bei Plinius dem Jüngeren, Gellius und Sueton (de Gruyter, Berlin ). Since then he has been teaching Latin and Greek at Gießen University and has published articles and collected volumes mainly on ancient biography and historiography as well as on Augustan poetry. With the aid of a research stay in Edinburgh as Feodor-Lynen Fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt-Foundation he has finished his habilitation in . His second book on Livius und der Leser. Narrative Techniken in ab urbe condita has been awarded the Bruno SnellPrize of the Mommsen-Gesellschaft and will be published by Beck (Munich) as part of the Zetemata series in . T A. S teaches Greek language and literature at Bonn University and is one of the founding members of the Bonn Centre for the Classical Tradition. His main areas of interest are imperial Greek literature, literary theory and its application to classical literature, and the reception of classics. T W is Fellow and Tutor in Greek at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. His most recent book is Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel: Returning

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List of Contributors



Romance (Cambridge University Press, ). He is currently working on a project on Greek and near eastern fiction for Oxford University Press (New York), which will be followed by a book called Battling the Gods: the Struggle against Religion in Ancient Greece and Rome (Faber and Faber / Knopf). N W has taught at Bonn University from –. In – he held a Feodor-Lynen Postdoctoral Scholarship of the Alexander von HumboldtFoundation and was Oldfather Visiting Scholar at the University of Illinois, UrbanaChampaign. Since  he is a Lecturer in Classics at the University of St Andrews. He is author of The Ideology of Classicism. Language, History, and Identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (de Gruyter, Berlin ) and has published articles and book chapters on Greek historiography and intellectual culture of the late Hellenistic and early Imperial Period. His current major project is a book on conceptions of violence in Homeric epic and early Greek poetry.

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List of Illustrations Book cover:

James Stuart and Nicholas Revett, The Antiquities of Athens (= Stuart and Revett []), vol. , London , ch. III pl. I.

Fig. , p. :

adapted after Michael C. Hoff, ‘Laceratae Athenae: Sulla’s siege of Athens in /  and its aftermath’, in Michael C. Hoff (ed.), The Romanization of Athens. Proceedings of an international Conference held at Lincoln, Nebraska (April ), Oxford  (= Hoff []), fig. .

Fig. , p. : adapted after Michael C. Hoff, ‘The Politics and Architecture of the Athenian Imperial Cult’, in Duncan Fishwick and Alastair Small (eds.), Subject and Ruler, the Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity: Papers Presented at a Conference Held in the University of Alberta on April –, , to Celebrate the th Anniversary of Duncan Fishwick, Ann Arbor, MI  (= Hoff []),  fig. . Fig. , p :

after Michael C. Hoff, ‘The Politics and Architecture of the Athenian Imperial Cult’, in Duncan Fishwick and Alastair Small (eds.), Subject and Ruler, the Cult of the Ruling Power in Classical Antiquity: Papers Presented at a Conference Held in the University of Alberta on April –, , to Celebrate the th Anniversary of Duncan Fishwick, Ann Arbor, MI  (= Hoff []),  fig. .

Fig. , p. : James Stuart and Nicholas Revett, The Antiquities of Athens (= Stuart and Revett []), vol. , London , ch. III pl. III.

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Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

Introduction: Approaching Greek Identity . Who Cared about Greek Identity? Barbara Borg entitles her contribution to this volume ‘Who Cared about Greek Identity?’ In a similar vein, a few years ago, Simon Goldhill []¹ raised the question ‘Who Needs Greek?’ In a provocative manner, these questions address a central issue: is it more than a mannerism when we speak of a ‘struggle’ about Greek identity? Who were the people who cared, sometimes passionately, about their identity? What did it mean to be Greek in the first century ? What were the intellectual processes by which these Greeks constructed, negotiated, debated, and problematized their individual and collective identities in the Augustan Empire? How can we recover the echoes and traces of these processes in the material, historical, and literary monuments that have been transmitted to us? These are some of the questions which the contributions in this volume pursue. Before we start to take a closer look at these various struggles and negotiations, we will attempt to explain the broader scholarly context into which this volume belongs. Greek culture under the Roman Empire, in its various forms, has been one of the most prominent areas of our discipline during the last two decades. For a long time, until well into the twentieth century, a number of intellectual, aesthetic, and political prejudices had relegated Greek literature, philosophy, science, architecture, art, and religion of the imperial period to the garbage heap of history. Their new prominence began in the s, with the publication of various ground-breaking studies.² Susan Alcock’s  book Graecia Capta [] took a fresh look at the material evidence and discovered clear signs of an economic and intellectual recovery of mainland Greece during the early principate. Maud Gleason’s  discussion of the self-fashioning of Greek orators [] analysed their, as Goldhill [] put it, ‘biographical fictions’, in which claims to political and intellectual leadership are intermingled with complex negotiations of masculinity and in which the boundaries between physical appearance and rhetorical self-presentation are increasingly blurred. Simon Swain’s [] magisterial Hellenism and Empire, published in , is a comprehensive analysis of Greek literary culture in the Roman empire, with extensive discussions of its most important representatives. One year later, Thomas  Numbers within brackets, both in the main text and in footnotes, refer to the numbered bibliography, below p. .  The following list is not meant to be exhaustive; it provides just a few signposts for readers who may be unfamiliar with the impressive amount of work published in this area.

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

Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

Schmitz employed Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of habitus and social distinction in his Bildung und Macht [], which studies the role of education for both the rhetorical self-presentation and the actual political careers of the social and political elite in the Eastern half of the Roman Empire. Peter von Möllendorff ’s analysis of the playful treatment of παιδεία in Lucian’s True Histories (Ἀληθῆ Διηγήματα) [] examines the interrelation of education and fiction and the teasing construction of literary personae in Lucian’s (literally) fantastic work.³ Tim Whitmarsh’s influential account of the Politics of Imitation [] explores the self-fashioning of Greek authors under the Roman Empire. Apart from these book-length studies, collections such as Susan Walker’s and Alan Cameron’s The Greek Renaissance in the Roman Empire [], Simon Goldhill’s Being Greek under Rome [], Erik Nils Ostenfeld’s Greek Romans and Roman Greeks [], Barbara Borg’s Paideia. The World of the Second Sophistic [], or, most recently, Tim Whitmarsh’s Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial World [] demonstrate the persisting scholarly interest in the subject of Greek identity under Roman rule. It is obvious, then, that modern scholars regard the question of Greek identity under Roman rule an important and fascinating subject. However, most of these works focus on the ‘Second Sophistic’, the period comprising the second through fourth centuries . The question of Greek identity has only rarely been explored for Greek literature produced at the beginning of the Roman Empire. When we look at scholarly work on such texts as the Historical Library (Βιβλιοθήκη) of Diodorus Siculus, the critical essays and Early Roman History (Antiquitates Romanae) of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, the Geography of Strabo of Amaseia, or the numerous epigrams written by Greek intellectuals and collected in the Anthologia Palatina, we realize that scholarly attention is focussed on topics such as the question of Diodorus’ sources or the value of Dionysius’ Antiquitates for a historical reconstruction of the early centuries of Roman history. Dionysius’ critical essays are still primarily of interest to historians of linguistics or of rhetoric, and Nicolaus of Damascus’ fascinating biography of Augustus is most vividly discussed under the aspect of its exact generic classification, its value for our understanding of ancient biography, and its precise date. These texts have not yet been examined in the light of recent interest for Greek identity under Roman rule. Yet it can be argued that these first decades of the Roman Empire are a pivotal period for the emergence of Greek selfdefinition in this new political world. It is only recently that signs of a change have become visible. With the publication of Kenneth Sacks’ important study of Diodorus and the First Century [], scholars have started to approach the Library not merely as a repository of lost sources but as a work that deserves being discussed in its own right. Instead of exploring which authors Diodorus compiled, scholars now begin to focus on the cultural criteria that influenced his decision to include particular passages and on the interpretation of past and present resulting from it.⁴ Similarly, with the work  Cf. Goldhill’s chapter on Lucian in [].

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Introduction



of Daniela Dueck [] and Sarah Pothecary [], scholarship has now begun to appreciate Strabo’s Geography as an attempt to create an ‘imaginary geography’ which defined the position of Rome, geographical as well as ideological, in relation to other peoples and their cultural and political tradition.⁵ Thomas Hidber’s study of Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ ‘Classicist Manifesto’ [], the preface to On the Ancient Orators, a series of critical essays on the style and lives of the exemplary classical authors, has laid the foundations for an appreciation of Dionysius’ classicism as a system of thought rather than a phenomenon of purely linguistic interest.⁶ Furthermore, Dionysius’ historical work, the Antiquitates Romanae, an early Roman history covering the period from the foundation of Rome to the beginnings of the First Punic War, is now discussed as a document of Greek cultural identity rather than a mine for works of (now lost) Hellenistic and Roman historians.⁷ However, Diodorus, Strabo, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus are just the most prominent authors of the first century . One reason for this prominence is the fact that substantial parts of their works have been preserved; the corpus of transmitted texts is so large that many more studies along these lines are to be expected.⁸ Moreover, the first century teemed with Greek intellectuals who were prominent and influential men in their time but whose names are now known only to a small group of specialists: Metrodorus of Scepsis, a historian at the court of Mithradates, was nicknamed ‘hater of the Romans’;⁹ his works as well as those of other pro-Mithradatic, anti-Roman authors were still circulating in Augustan Rome, as were Sibylline Oracles that prophesied the rise of a saviour from the East who would put an abrupt and violent end to Roman domination.¹⁰ Furthermore, orators and politicians of Asia Minor, called the ‘Asiarchs’ by Strabo,¹¹ who represented an allegedly ‘Asianist’ rhetoric and are the targets of Dionysius’ spiteful attack in his ‘Classicist Manifesto’, had been a major factor in Roman foreign policy since Republican times.¹²  See Schmitz’ and Most’s chapters in this volume; cf. Wiater [] and [], with further literature.  On the conception of the Roman empire, its boundaries, and its position within the oikumene, i.e. the ‘imaginary geography’ characteristic of Augustan Rome see Nicolet []; cf. Clarke [] and the contributions in Foresti et al. [].  Cf. Porter []; Wiater [] and []. For a recent and sophisticated study of Dionysius’ system of thought from a linguistic point of view, see de Jonge [].  See Fox [], [], and []; Delcourt []; Gabba [].  Daniel Hogg, for example, has submitted a PhD dissertation on the speeches in Dionysius’ Antiquitates Romanae under the supervision of Christopher Pelling, and Wiebke Wagner is working on the role of religion in the Antiquitates with David Engels at the University of Brussels.  FGrH II B  T a (= Plin. HN .).  Other Mithradatic historiographers include Heracleides of Magnesia, Teucer of Cyzicus, and Hypsicrates of Amisus, see Rizzo []; Gabba [], esp. –; cf. Fromentin [] xxix–xxx; Gabba [] has a balanced overview of opposition to Roman rule in Greek historiography, see esp. – on the third Sibylline Oracle and  on Mithradatic historiography.  Strab. .., C, – Radt.  Pythodorus of Tralles, for example, a close friend of Pompey’s, had been involved in the Roman Civil War, and his property was confiscated and sold by Caesar (Strab. .., C, – Radt). His

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

Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

These examples show that many, if not most of these scholars, historians, and orators were far from leading an obscure and inconspicuous life. They were involved in Roman foreign politics or played a role in Roman culture as a sort of ‘public intellectuals’ such as Timagenes of Alexandria (FGrH II A ), who became a local celebrity and was supported by Asinius Pollio after publicly burning his account of Augustus’ achievements after a major fall-out with the princeps, who had been his benefactor; he too was notorious for his hatred of the Romans.¹³ Prominent and influential Romans (such as Asinius Pollio) obviously thought that supporting Timagenes contributed to their own reputation, and Timagenes himself must have been conscious that he represented an intellectual capital so much in demand by the Romans that it allowed him to offend the princeps in public. To a greater or lesser degree, the same holds true for the numerous grammarians, scholars, and poets who were active in the first century , many of whom lived in Rome:¹⁴ the works of all of them reveal a deep concern with defining ‘the Roman’, and Roman power in particular, its role in the world, and their own position as well as that of their cultural and political heritage in relation to it. The first century , then, is a fascinating and variegated chapter of Greek intellectual history that is rich in highly educated and ambitious Greek scholars and writers whose works are essential to our understanding of Greek cultural identity in the late Hellenistic and early Imperial time and of the Greek Renaissance which flourished during the second and third centuries . The aim of the present collection is to contribute to the ongoing discussion of Greek identity under Roman rule by bringing to the fore this period of Greek intellectual culture which has somewhat been overshadowed by scholars’ concentration on the Second Sophistic. Thus on the one hand, the following chapters aim to offer novel perspectives on the works of the better-known authors such as Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Diodorus Siculus, and Strabo of Amaseia, on the way they conceived of themselves as Greek men of letters, how they saw the Romans, and how they defined their role in the Roman Empire. On the other hand, there are essays on authors who are less known or whose works were so far of interest only to a small group of specialists such as the contemporary Menodorus, also of Tralles, was put to death by Domitius Ahenobarbus because he held him responsible for a revolt of the fleet (ibid. C, –), while Hybreas of Mylasa (Strab. ..) apparently supported both Octavian and Marc Antony and had to flee when Q. Atius Labienus came to Asia on a diplomatic mission in  . Theophanes of Mytilene is also worth mentioning. He was a friend of Pompey and his historiographer and accompanied him on the military campaign against Mithradates. In  , he was awarded Roman citizenship and received divine honours after his death in Mytilene because the city had regained political independence through his influence. On Metrodorus and Theophanes see Pédech []; on Theophanes see Bowie’s contribution in this volume, p. –.  On Timagenes’ strife with the princeps see FGrH  T  (= Sen. de ira ..–); FGrH  T  (= Sen. ep. .) for his hatred of the Romans.  The most important Greek scholars, historians, rhetors, poets, philosophers, and grammarians active in Rome in the second half of the first century  are now conveniently accessible in the appendix to Hidber’s chapter in this volume; see further Dihle and Hintzen (this volume); there is a good overview of Greek scholars in Augustan Rome in Dueck [] –.

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Introduction

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grammarians and rhetoricians, Nicolaus of Damascus, and those Greeks from Asia Minor who combined a successful political career with literary activity and wrote epigrams which addressed their relationship with their Roman patrons. Some of these works are discussed here for the first time under the aspect of Greek cultural identity, and these discussions allow us to locate the works of Dionysius, Strabo, and Diodorus within a larger social-cultural framework. It is our hope that the new perspectives on the works of better-known authors and the insights into the works of their lesser-known contemporaries will make this volume useful to scholars working on Greek literature and culture of the late Hellenistic and Imperial Roman periods. At the same time, the great variety of authors and genres discussed will make it a helpful point of reference for those interested in a first overview of the diversity of early Imperial Greek culture. Thus, we hope, this collection will help create an awareness of the extraordinary and fascinating variety of Greek literature and intellectual culture in the first century ; moreover, as the first large-scale study of Greek identity in this period, it will also provide the Greek perspective that will complement the growing number of studies on Roman cultural identity in the same period.¹⁵ Finally, we believe that scholars working on the Second Sophistic will find the contributions to this volume valuable because they contribute to our knowledge of the development of many of the constituents of the Greek intellectual and literary culture of the second through the fourth centuries .

. A ‘Struggle’ for Identity? Some Theoretical Considerations Before proceeding to a summary and discussion of the subjects and authors addressed in the various chapters of this volume, we will make some clarifying remarks on two interrelated and equally difficult concepts that are crucial to this collection. In this section, we will try to explain in what sense we speak of a ‘struggle’ for identity and what we mean by ‘identity’. The following considerations do not, however, represent a general theoretical framework to which all authors of the papers in this collection would necessarily subscribe. Rather, they are an attempt to find an approach to identity that is valid for most of the essays collected here, a definition of ‘identity’ that integrates the different approaches to Greek literature while taking into account the specific problems related to inquiries of the construction(s) of identity in the ancient world. Although Greek reaction to Roman power, as the example of Timagenes’ autodafé demonstrates, could occasionally take on rather extreme forms, it would be difficult to point to struggles between Greeks and Romans in the sense that the latter actively sought to foist a certain world view and complex of values upon the former. On the contrary, the Greeks in Roman Athens, as Barbara Borg points out,  See, e.g., Wallace-Hadrill [], [], and []; Woolf []; Habinek [].

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proved to be ready to incorporate Roman elements into the public display of their self-image. In social life, however, a ‘struggle’ need not necessarily involve a physical confrontation or a visible attempt of one party to subjugate another. Rather, the term ‘struggle’ is used here in the sense of Pierre Bourdieu’s conception of social life as a ‘struggle over representations [of reality], in the sense of mental images but also of social demonstrations whose aim it is to manipulate mental images’. As such, these ‘symbolical struggles’ over different conceptions of identity are less a matter of objectively measurable and perceivable physical struggles than of acts of perception and appreciation, of cognition and recognition, in which agents invest their interests and their presuppositions, and of objectified representations in things (emblems, flags, badges, etc.) or acts, self-interested strategies of symbolic manipulation which aim at determining the (mental) representation that other people may form of these properties and their bearers.¹⁶

‘Struggles over ethnic or regional identity’ – a list to which cultural identity could be added – Bourdieu continues, are a particular case of the different struggles over classifications, struggles over the monopoly of the power to make people see and believe, to get them to know and recognise, to impose the legitimate definition of the divisions of the social world and, thereby, to make and unmake groups. What is at stake here is the power of imposing a vision of the social world through principles of division which, when they are imposed on a whole group, establish meaning and a consensus about meaning, and in particular about the identity and unity of the group, which creates the reality of the unity and the identity of the group.¹⁷

Bourdieu’s approach to identity as inextricably connected with the organization of social life in communities which seek to establish and maintain their particular vision of the world against competing conceptions of other groups receives further support from the findings of Social Identity Theory. These suggest that the life of each human being is constituted by several co-existing sub-groups each of which provides us with a specific outlook on the world or Weltanschauung. Shibutani therefore speaks of ‘compartmentalized lives, shifting from one perspective to another as they participate in a succession of transactions that are not necessarily related. In each social world they [human beings] play somewhat different roles, and they manifest a different facet of their personality.’¹⁸ Not only are these ‘sub-groups’, or ‘social worlds’, extremely variegated and include ‘the underworld, ethnic minorities, the social elite, or isolated religious cults’ as well as ‘networks of interrelated voluntary associations – the world of medicine,  Bourdieu [] –.  [] . Later ([] ), Bourdieu speaks of ‘the specific logic of the social world, that “reality” which is the site of a permanent struggle to “define” reality’.  Shibutani [] ; for the term Weltanschauung see ibid. .

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

the world of organized labor, the world of steel industry, or the world of opera’ and ‘loosely connected universes of special interest – the world of sports, the world of the stamp collector, or the world of women’s fashion’.¹⁹ The Weltanschauung which underlies their members’ feeling of communion also depends on the distinction from outlooks on the world provided by other groups. However, the existence of the boundaries separating different communities defies any ‘ “objective” assessment: it is a matter of feeling, a matter which resides in the minds of the members themselves’.²⁰ Therefore, ‘boundaries perceived by some may be utterly imperceptible to others’:²¹ communities, and the communality on which they rest, are mental constructs, they ‘exist in the minds of [their] members, and should not be confused with geographic or sociographic assertions of “fact” ’.²² Social Identity Theory thus complements Bourdieu’s theoretical approach by providing a more precise idea of how this ‘struggle’ is realized in everyday life. It is in this sense of an ongoing negotiation between different outlooks on the world provided by the various social groups in which human life is organized, that we speak of a ‘struggle for identity’. The crucial role of these ‘compartments’ of social life for humans’ ‘understanding and experiencing of their social identity, the social world and their place in it’²³ also raises some fundamental issues regarding scholarly attempts to study identity. When discussing ‘identity’, Greek or otherwise, we have to remember that our sources allow us access only to a fraction of the self-image of a person and that the people whose self-image we are able to explore are representative only of a small fraction of ancient society. The consequences of the latter point are well-known: studies of ‘Greek identity’ are limited to the self-presentation of the members of the male elite.²⁴ The former point, however, requires some additional comment. Social Identity Theory draws attention both to the complexity of the concept of ‘identity’ and the concomitant difficulties inherent in any attempt to give a comprehensive description of another’s ‘identity’. The very term ‘identity’ implies the idea of a person’s ‘sameness’, some sort of unity integrating all the different facets of a personality and her or his activities into one coherent concept. Yet, such a holistic conception of ‘identity’ is challenged by the fact that our lives as social beings are constituted by

     

Shibutani [] –. Cohen [] –. Cohen [] . Cohen [] . Davies and Harré [] , quoting Frazer [] . For the Second Sophistic see esp. Schmitz []; Gleason [].

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a number of different, sometimes even contradictory roles which vary along with the social contexts in which we are moving.²⁵ This is why the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur []  suggested to distinguish the usage of ‘identity as sameness’ from ‘identity as self’. Knowledge of the self, Ricoeur argues, is a person’s interpretation of his or her self chiefly mediated by narrative: ‘this mediation borrows from history as much as fiction making the life story a fictive history or […] an historical fiction’ (). From this point of view, a person’s image of his or her character as a coherent entity and as based on an uninterrupted, continuous development, in Ricoeur’s terms, of ‘identity-as-permanence’ (), can itself be seen as a function of this narrative of the self: ‘the narrative constructs the durable character of an individual, which one can call his or her narrative identity’ (). These observations have an important consequence for discussions of identity: when speaking of ‘identity’, we must be aware that we can only ever get access to one particular facet of the personalities of the people in question, namely the way in which they represented themselves to others (and, potentially, how they saw themselves) in a particular social context at a specific time. If understood as the construction of a narrative aiming to integrate different aspects of our lives, identity is necessarily a flexible construct which undergoes changes as the social, political, and cultural circumstances of our lives change. These constant changes to the stories about and of our lives, which we tell to ourselves and to others, however, are bound to go largely unnoticed as one of the primary functions of these stories is, precisely, to create continuity and the sense of a stable self that has remained essentially the ‘same’ over the years. Consequently, in order to understand a person’s identity one would have to monitor the changes undergone by his or her narrative of the self, the re-formulations of his or her life-story. Only the sum total of all these different versions of the self, each one represented by a snap-shot, as it were, taken at individual stages of the person’s life, could then provide an approximation of this person’s ‘identity’. Scholars of antiquity do not have such a constant, comprehensive access to the minds of the people they study: in most, almost all cases, we are limited to one of those ‘snap-shots’, in certain cases to a few, if we are lucky. This limitation is important to keep in mind when reading a volume on ‘cultural identity’ in the ancient world: the title should not give rise to the illusion that a comprehensive understanding of the identity of any of the authors discussed here can be achieved. What we can achieve, however, are glimpses into their self-definition in a specific social role (as historians, grammarians, clients, literary critics, etc.) at a specific time and under specific sociocultural circumstances.

 On the potential ‘incongruent and conflicting definitions’ arising from this plurality of perspectives see Shibutani []. He notes, however, that ‘most reference groups of a given person are mutually sustaining’, or that, if they are not, inconsistencies usually go unnoticed if they ‘occur in dissociated contexts’. It is only when people are ‘caught in situations in which conflicting demands are made upon them’ that they become ‘acutely aware of differences in outlook’ ().

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This is further complicated by the specific situation faced by scholars of classical antiquity, namely that most of our sources are works of literature or were written for publication. This means that our sources are by definition public documents and the Greeks who wrote them address their recipients as authors. What sounds like a truism is, in fact, a crucial difference between historians discussing the cultural identity of Greek intellectuals in Rome as compared to, for example, a sociologist studying the self-definition of Greek intellectuals living in st-century London. Ancient writings are not private documents which can help us understand how their authors actually ‘felt’ and what they ‘really thought’ about themselves and their lives and activities as Greeks in Rome; how they perceived their absence from their home countries; whether, and if so, to what extent, they were integrated into Roman society; and how they perceived their contemporaries’ view of them. Instead, our insights into Greek identity are limited to the image as public personae they wanted to convey to their recipients, i.e. as authors and, more specifically, as intellectuals who deliberately engaged in public discourse through their writings. Therefore, the only facet of these Greeks’ identity which we are able to study is the way in which they wanted their recipients to perceive them as intellectuals. Yet, given the crucial role of an author’s work for his or her ‘self-fashioning’, the fact that it is impossible for us to achieve a full psychological profile, as it were, of the Greek authors is not necessarily a disadvantage.²⁶ In fact, as Stephen Greenblatt has argued, the image which a speaker creates for his or her audience, his or her public image, is not an entirely artificial construction and cannot (and need not) strictly be separated from his or her self-definition. Greenblatt helps us appreciate the importance of texts as a primary means of establishing and representing ‘a distinctive personality, a characteristic address to the world, a consistent mode of perceiving and behaving’ ([] ). This concept of authorial ‘self-fashioning’ should not be confused with an attempt to return to a positivistic, biographical reading of texts. Rather, in accordance with the conception of human life as an ensemble of different coexisting social roles coordinated and combined by the individual to form a coherent story, texts can be viewed as one of several means of a person’s social interaction alongside, for example, his or her clothing, gestures, and other ways of verbal and non-verbal communication.²⁷

 For the term ‘self-fashioning’ see the title of Greenblatt’s  study [].  Cf. Goffman’s [] conception of social life as a ‘performance’ and Bourdieu’s [] notion of the habitus, i.e. a person’s style of life, his or her use of language, clothing, gestures, and taste, all of which combined represent how an individual sees him- or herself and wishes to be seen by others. Bourdieu, too, stresses the interdependence of a person’s perception of the outside world and his/her perception of him-/herself and his/her role within it, see Bourdieu [] –, esp. : ‘inevitably inscribed within the dispositions of the habitus is the whole structure of the system of conditions, as it presents itself in the experience of a life-condition occupying a particular position within that structure’, and  (on the ‘classificatory system’ as ‘the product of the internalization of the structure of social space, in the form in which it impinges through the experience of a particular position in space’.

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Such a combination of Social Identity Theory and Greenblatt’s conception of authorial ‘self-fashioning’ provides a helpful approach to ancient literature in particular. As members of the educated elite, all authors had had a thorough rhetorical education and were aware of (spoken or written) language as a means of self-presentation through the creation of ἦθος (ēthos).²⁸ While Aristotle regarded the speakers’ ἦθος merely as a functional element of the speech and an instrument to gain the audience’s trust,²⁹ already Isocrates and later intellectuals such as Cicero, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Quintilian blurred the distinction between a speaker’s words and his actual character:³⁰ ‘[t]here is not generally in classical thought such a sharp distinction, as is now commonly made, between a person’s moral character and a person’s public behavior […]. Character for the classical Greeks and Romans is not generally regarded as separable from public image or public behavior. Individuals are what they are partly in relation to society.’³¹ Yet, the creation of ēthos should not be imagined as a straightforward, one-sided process in which the speaker foists his persona upon the hearer. The speaker hopes, of course, that the recipients will accept the image of himself which he proposes to them, and it is designed for that purpose. On the recipients’ side, however, the speaker’s self-image is an invitation to share a certain perspective on a situation described (or constructed) in the text, an invitation which the addressee can accept or reject. Accepting this offer often means accepting the interpretation of reality offered by the speaker. By means of the ēthos an addresser offers himself as a model of a certain behaviour or stance towards a given set of events. The identification with the speaker thus plays an important role in a text’s potential to exert influence on the extratextual world by influencing the self-image and world view of its public. As a result, we have to redefine the purpose of hermeneutics which, as Ricoeur argues convincingly, is ‘no longer […] the search for another person and his psychological intentions that hide behind the text […]’; rather, ‘to interpret is to explicate a sort of being-in-the-world unfolded in front of the text.’³² The image which an author creates of himself in and through the text is an important element of the interpretative process engendered by the text and crucial to a text’s opening up ‘new possibilities of being-in-the-world […] within everyday reality’.³³  On ἦθος in ancient rhetoric see the still useful overview in Sattler []; Fantham []; Gill []; Carey []. For a more detailed discussion of ἦθος and ‘self-fashioning’ see Wiater [] –.  See Arist. Rhet. a–, esp. –.  The most famous expression of this idea is probably Quintilian’s uir bonus dicendi peritus, on which see, e.g., Morgan [], esp. – and []; cf. Brinton []. On Isocrates’ conception of language and civic identity see Too []; on Isocrates’ influence on Dionysius’ notion of classical language and identity see Hidber [] –; Wiater [] –.  Brinton [] .  Ricoeur [] .  Ricoeur [] . On the same page, Ricoeur calls fiction ‘the privileged path to the redescription of reality’. Similarly, Iser [] conceives of fictional literature as a crossing of the boundaries of text and extratextual world. There is no need, however, to limit this model of a text’s influence on the outside world to fictional literature.

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Such a conception of the interaction of text and extratextual world and the role of the author’s self-representation in it need not be limited to speeches, although the concept of ēthos is originally a rhetorical one.³⁴ Dionysius of Halicarnassus, for example, is very explicit about the purpose of his historical work as a direct reflection of his character (ψυχή),³⁵ and there is no reason not to suppose likewise for the authors of the other texts discussed in this volume.³⁶ The works of all of them are here discussed as attempts to propose interpretations of the world, especially of the Romans, their culture and power, and their relation to the Greeks. By seeking to convince his readers that his version of ‘being Greek under Rome’³⁷ is the most convincing one, each author is creating, in Bourdieu’s sense, a community ‘by imposing on it common principles of vision and division, and thus a unique vision of its identity and an identical vision of its unity’,³⁸ while creating a role for himself in this social world by way of his authorial self-fashioning. The ‘struggle’ for identity should therefore also be read as a reference to the fact that the Greek authors discussed here are offering alternative, sometimes competing conceptions of the Graeco-Roman world, each of which, in turn, provides the foundations for their self-image as intellectuals. These theoretical considerations in mind, we will now turn to an overview of the contributions in this volume. The following section is designed as an interpretive discussion, rather than a series of abstracts of the individual chapters. No mere summary would do justice to the rich and complex arguments presented in each of them, and each chapter deserves to be read in its own right. Moreover, we felt that the best way to realize the full potential of the essays collected here would be to read them and discuss their results alongside each other. We will therefore briefly characterise each of the contributions and then point out areas in which different chapters overlap, discuss observations which we thought were particularly interesting, and add some observations of our own. In so doing, we seek to identify key elements of Greek cultural identity in the first century  and present a broad picture, based on an analytical reading of the chapters, in which the major cultural, historical, and material factors that influenced Greek self-fashioning will emerge.

. Greek Cultural Identity in the First Century : A Synthetic Approach Albrecht Dihle, the keynote speaker at the conference of which this volume is the result, provides an impressive overview of Greek intellectual culture in Augustan  On the authorial self-fashioning of orators in the Second Sophistic see Gleason []; Whitmarsh []; Schmitz [].  Ant. Rom. .., on which see Wiater’s contribution in this volume.  The importance of self-representation and ēthos for the interpretation of ancient technical literature is now stressed by Fögen [], esp. –.  We are borrowing this phrase from Goldhill [].  Bourdieu [] .

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Rome and is therefore an appropriate point to start this volume. Dihle singles out the origins and development of Atticism as one of its most significant elements. In an attempt to relate the ‘social condition of the Greeks in general and in particular of those in Rome’ to their desire ‘to enhance the inherent classicism of their literary tradition and develop a programme of radical Atticism’,³⁹ he concludes that Augustus was most likely not responsible for this development given that there is evidence for Roman Atticism  years before the beginning of the principate. Instead, Dihle stresses the fact that ‘all the accomplishments of Greek civilisation to be identified and looked for in the Roman society of the first century  had, in fact, deep roots in the past, in the glorious time of classical Athens. The idea that a return to these golden days could initiate a rebirth of the Greek world was by no means far-fetched.’⁴⁰ Dihle mentions several topics which recur in the other contributions and can therefore be regarded as being of constant relevance to Greek self-fashioning in the first century . The role of the Greek past in the Roman present is one of the most prominent among them, as is the related question of how to define ‘the Romans’, given that these leaders of the world were so deeply immersed in Greek culture and education. The dominant models under which modern scholars analyse Graeco-Roman cultural exchange view the Greeks as those who give, and the Romans as those who receive and adopt. In general terms, this assumption is certainly correct. The Romans themselves were aware that they were and aways had been drawing heavily on Greek culture, just as the Greeks were aware that they were providing what the Romans wanted. Many of the contributions in this volume suggest, however, that Graeco-Roman interaction was a much more complex and many-faceted process. In fact, as Nicolas Wiater points out, ‘Greek’ and ‘Roman’ themselves were not fixed, well-defined entities but were largely a matter of negotiation between two different poles: Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ discussion of historical writing shows that he was aware that ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ identity depended largely on the narrative one invented for oneself, or which was invented by others, and thus, ultimately, on how convincing this narrative was. His Antiquitates Romanae is a case in point. The purpose of Dionysius’ historical narrative is to prove that the Romans were actually Greeks, ethnically as well as ethically. Moreover, Dionysius’ historical work also shows that the question of what the Romans were (Greeks? Barbarians? something in between? something entirely different?) was just as important to the Greeks as their own identity: in fact, Dionysius’ definition of Augustan Rome as the new Athens and his own role as the mediator between this present and the classical Greek cultural capital, in short, his entire world view, hinges on his definition of the Romans as Greeks.

 Dihle p. .  Dihle, p. .

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This flexibility of the categories ‘Greek’ and ‘Roman’ presented a problem above all to Roman intellectuals who were aware of Rome’s extensive cultural debt to the Greeks and were deeply worried that the boundaries between Greek and Roman might be blurred. To borrow (and abuse) Harold Bloom’s famous expression, one could even speak of a veritable ‘anxiety of influence’⁴¹ of which the introduction to Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations (.–) is perhaps the most famous expression. Cicero here attempts clearly to distinguish between Roman institutions which were adopted from the Greeks (and improved by the Romans) and genuinely, ‘natural’ (natura) Roman qualities (such as the military and the ancestral virtues) which distinguished the Romans from the Greeks as well as from all other peoples (neque cum Graecia neque ulla cum gente sunt conferenda). The explicit mention of the Greeks, among other things, shows that Cicero was primarily concerned with establishing clear-cut and immovable (note the stress on nature) boundaries between Greeks and Romans. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, by contrast, represents the other side of this same process: he emphasizes the complete and inescapable Greekness of the Romans and specifically includes the very ancestral virtues which Cicero was keen on claiming for his own people.⁴² This suggests that there was a at least one ‘struggle for identity’ going on in the first century , a struggle that was carried out between Greeks and Romans over whether there were any genuinely Roman qualities that distinguished the two peoples and, if that premise was accepted, whether these had priority over the overwhelming Greek influence on Roman cultural identity. Wiater’s discussion of Dionysius’ conception of past and present is complemented by Matthew Fox’ examination of the interplay of language and time in Dionysius’ thought and its larger intellectual context, in particular Polybius, Stoicism, and Ciceronian philosophy. As Fox demonstrates, for Dionysius the notion of time is inextricably bound up with his conception of classical language and literature. In the idea of a reproduction of the classical style, the boundaries between past and present are blurred; ‘the past itself ceases to be reinterpreted: it has one function: that of providing models for the statesmen of the future. In the same way the present also ceases to evolve.’⁴³ While Wiater points out the importance of Dionysius’ interpretation of the Romans to his self-image as a classicist critic, Fox emphasizes the similarity in focus between ‘Dionysius’ recreation of early Rome and his sifting of the canonical orators for tips on stylistic improvement […]. They are both ways of looking at the past for a form of inspiration in the present, rather than for any recognition of the difference between historical and contemporary culture.’⁴⁴ Fox demonstrates that it is illuminating to consider Dionysius’ ‘ahistorical’ approach to history against the background of other models of historical development  See Bloom [].  For a full discussion see Wiater [] –, .  Fox p. ; on Dionysius’ classicist model of history see also Hidber (this volume) p.  and cf. Wiater [] –.  Fox p. .

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which would have been available to him, namely Polybius’ explanation of Roman power in terms of providential tychē and the related vision of history along the lines of ‘Stoic doctrines of providence and predictability’.⁴⁵ Yet, it might have been Cicero’s skeptical attitude towards such interpretations of historical development, which was paired with an acute interest in stylistic analysis and its historical implications, Fox argues, that might have made Cicero a ‘sympathetic model’ for Dionysius.⁴⁶ Fox’ suggestion that Cicero’s attitude towards language and history might have influenced Dionysius points to another important aspect of Graeco-Roman cultural exchange that is not considered very often. Given that Greek intellectuals were highly connected with the Roman nobility, can we really exclude that outstanding Roman intellectuals such as Cicero might have influenced the development of Greek thought? The question is a notoriously difficult one because our sources do not allow us to pinpoint any direct connections between Dionysius and Cicero. Bowersock, for example, suggested that Dionysius’ association with the Tuberones might have brought him into contact with Strabo and other Greek and Roman acquaintances of theirs. Through these channels he might also have become familiar with Cicero’s ideas.⁴⁷ Furthermore, we know that Dionysius’ colleague (maybe even friend) Caecilius of Caleacte wrote a comparison (σύγκρισις) of Demosthenes and Cicero,⁴⁸ which at the very least suggests a certain familiarity with Cicero’s life and writing in Dionysius’ intellectual environment. Although answers to this question must needs remain speculative, the question itself remains worth asking, if only to remind us that the cultural interaction of Greeks and Romans was probably not a one-way track. Thomas Hidber’s contribution to this volume can be read alongside Fox’ discussion of a possible Ciceronian influence on Dionysius. Reexamining the interest of Greek intellectuals of the first century  in the Romans, with special emphasis on Dionysius’ classicism, Hidber concludes that ‘it seems fair to assume that interaction between Greek teachers and Roman students accelerated and inspired the rise of classicism’ and that the most plausible source of inspiration for Dionysius’ conception of philosophos rhētorikē was Cicero’s oratorical theory and practice.⁴⁹ Hidber’s discussion not only complements Dihle’s investigation of Graeco-Roman intellectual culture and the origins of Atticism; he also provides a fascinating overview of the astonishing number of Greek men of letters in Rome and illuminates Rome’s role as a ‘new Athens’ in the ‘imaginary geography’ of the Greeks. Another crucial element of Greek cultural identity in the first century  (as in all other periods of Greek history) is language. On the one hand, this concerns     

Fox p. . Fox p. . Bowersock [] –, , . Ofenloch IX; see Hidber (this volume) p. . Hidber p. .

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the Greek language; Dionysius’ classicism is clear evidence of interest in questions of language. The classical language, as Fox points out, encapsulates the essence of being classical Greek; it is the medium through which past and present are merged into one ahistorical continuum and through which classical Greek identity is both acquired and enacted.⁵⁰ While Hidber, Fox, and Wiater look at the, so to speak, ideological side of Dionysius’ notion of classical language, Beate Hintzen explores the complex linguistic side of the debate. She retraces the development of the idea of a pure Attic dialect and the criteria by which scholars from Alexandrian times on sought to define what ‘correct’ Attic (ἑλληνισμός) was. Along with Dihle’s enquiry into the origins of Atticism, Hintzen thus illuminates the historical background of the Greeks’ attitude towards their language in the first century  and enables us to address this crucial aspect of Greek identity within a broader cultural-historical context. In so doing, she also disentangles the complex Hellenistic discourse about Greek grammar, syntax, and vocabulary bound up with names such as Philoxenus, Tyrannion, Tryphon, Asclepiades, and others, thus making this invaluable source of information accessible to non-specialists in the field of the history of ancient linguistics.⁵¹ On the other hand, as Hintzen points out, the Latin language, too, was an object of study of Greek grammarians such as Tyrannion and Philoxenus. Both of them actually claimed that Latin was a Greek dialect, a fact which Philoxenus explained by affirming that the Romans were originally Aeolian colonists. It is hardly coincidental, Hintzen argues, that such statements are made by intellectuals who had been living in Rome for a long time, and she compares Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ claim, discussed in greater detail by Fox and Wiater, that the Romans were of Greek descent and genuinely Greek character. It is fascinating to see how these grammarians conceived an interpretation of ‘the Romans’ based only on the study of the most basic elements of language. In many ways their linguistic theory complements Dionysius’ more comprehensive approach to the classical Greek language (and culture in general) as deeply connected with Roman identity. These examples show in an impressive way in how many fields the Romans influenced the direction of Greek thought and stimulated the Greeks to conceive of different ways to look at their language, their heritage, and themselves. After all, a genuinely classical author such as Isocrates would have found it difficult to accept the idea that Latin is a Greek dialect and that Roman power and classical Athenian culture are intimately related. At the very least, then, these examples clearly demonstrate that the Greeks’ notorious idealisation of their classical heritage and the concomitant commitment to preserving it as a timeless entity should not blind us to the fact that the Romans exerted a profound influence on the development of Greek thought and the construction of Greek cultural identity.  On language and identity in Dionysius see also the discussion in Wiater [] –.  For a historical-linguistic discussion of Dionysius’ classicism see now also de Jonge’s comprehensive study [].

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

Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

Besides the Roman language, their ethnic origins, and their character, there is at least one more element of the Roman empire which invariably fascinated the Greeks: Augustus, the princeps, himself, was the subject of debate not only among his Roman contemporaries. Nowhere is Greek fascination with the ‘phenomenon Augustus’ more evident than in the Life of Augustus by Nicolaus of Damascus, discussed by Dennis Pausch. Pausch warns us against excluding a Roman readership for Nicolaus’ work; the fact that the work presented an account of the emperor’s life in proper Greek might have made it especially attractive for Roman intellectuals, Pausch suggests. Nicolaus’ approach to Augustus, a Roman individual, actually turns out to be quite similar to the way in which Dionysius approached the Romans as a people. Like Dionysius, Nicolaus stresses Augustus’ moral and intellectual education, thus placing the discourse about the value and importance of παιδεία at the very heart of Roman power. As Pausch stresses, ‘it is remarkable that Nicolaus does not explain the admiration of Octavian’s contemporaries by reference to his noble descent or political influence but rather by pointing to his achievements at school and in the palaestra.’⁵² This emphasis on the future princeps’ παιδεία distinguishes Nicolaus’ account of Augustus’ life from all other surviving texts of a similar content and probably even constitutes a novelty within the traditional conception of ancient biography. Combining elements of peripatetic biographical writing with characteristics of ἀγωγήliterature such as Xenophon’s Cyropedia, Nicolaus invited his readers to compare Augustus with dynastic founders such as Cyrus, Attalus, and, most importantly, Alexander. Augustus was thus ‘ “hellenised” and “inscribed” into the long-established categories of Greek history and literature.’⁵³ In so doing, Nicolaus attributes Augustus’ political success and, by implication, Roman domination of almost the entire inhabited world, to Augustus’ Greek ethical and intellectual education rather than – as, no doubt, many a Roman reader would have explained it – to the princeps’ ancestors or his adoption by Caesar. While Nicolaus deals with Augustus in a self-conscious, intellectual way, Glenn W. Most has detected a far more profound influence of the princeps on both the Greek and Roman intellectual culture of his time. Both the Augustan principate and ancient scholarship of this period, Most argues, ‘were informed by a powerful tendency towards systematization’, that is, by ‘the co-presence and interrelation of three kinds of procedures, all of which can appear to varying degrees in different cases but none of which seems to be entirely absent’ from most of the works of Greek and Roman intellectuals active under Augustus.⁵⁴ These three procedures are, first, ‘encyclopedic universalism’, i.e., the attempt of scholars ‘to create as exhaustive and rule-governed as possible an organization of the elements within’ their respective  Pausch p. .  Pausch p. .  Most p. .

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fields of knowledge; second, ‘ “compilation,” an emphasis upon the collection, organization, presentation, and sometimes correction of previous knowledge’;⁵⁵ and, third, ‘a tendency towards claiming that the scholarly enterprise possesses genuinely philosophical underpinnings or can be programmatically integrated within a larger philosophical undertaking’, which Most calls ‘pseudo-philosophization’.⁵⁶ Taken together, these characteristics constitute an ‘Augustan mode in ancient scholarship’.⁵⁷ Reading the works of Diodorus, Strabo, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, and Nicolaus of Damascus alongside Vitruvius’ treatise On Architecture, Virgil’s and Horace’s poems, and Augustus’ Res Gestae, Most creates a synthesis of the variegated literary and scholarly culture in Augustan Rome – a synthesis which can fruitfully be read alongside the same effort undertaken by Hidber, Dihle, and Hintzen for the rhetoricians and grammarians of the same period. In so doing, he enables the reader to detect, in Foucault’s words, ‘regularities’ in the ‘simultaneity’ of these diversified cultural artifacts, ‘assignable positions in a common space, a reciprocal functioning, linked and hierarchized transformations’.⁵⁸ Most thus allows us to perceive the ‘Age of Augustus’ as a system of interrelated discourses. Should we, as Most suggests, explain this emphasis on the ordering and preservation of the knowledge of the past, as opposed to an urge for innovation, as, at least partly, due to a certain fatigue, the desire to concentrate on the status quo after decades of turmoil, unrest, and civil war? Whether we accept such an explanation or not, the question behind it is certainly an important one: can we tie the development of certain tendencies in scholarship to the political climate of a given period? Alternatively, the very existence of the Romans and their interference with the Greek world could be adduced as a possible explanation for the Greeks’ concentration on their cultural heritage. Such an explanation would work in a twofold way, depending on whether Greek intellectuals perceived the Romans as a threat to their identity or as a chance – although in most cases we would most likely have to assume a considerable overlap between these two attitudes towards the Romans. In the preface to his Antiquitates Romanae, Dionysius argues against ‘certain Greeks’ who claim that the Romans owed their world-embracing power not to any nobility of descent or cultural superiority but simply to ‘Fortune [who] freely bestow[s] on the basest of barbarians the blessings of the Greeks’.⁵⁹ It is evident that for these Greeks the rise of the Romans represented a loss of status and undermined their self-image as the only rightful rulers of the oikumenē. These Greeks, according to Dionysius’ account, stressed the discrepancy between Roman power and education: the Romans, they state, lack all the moral and political values on which Greek superiority and world-leadership were based in classical times. The only explanation which allows them both to maintain the conviction that Greek (or, rather, Athenian)     

Most p. . Most p. . Most p. . Foucault [] . See Wiater’s discussion of this passage below, p. , and in [] , –, .

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Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

education entitles to political power and to explain the rise of the Romans is the recourse to the irrational force of Fortune (τύχη) which has temporarily severed the otherwise sound ties between merit and success. For Greeks such as these, canonization and preservation of their cultural, moral, and political heritage was essential because it enabled them to maintain the claim to superiority even under Roman domination and to wait for the day when the reign of Fortune, and, with it, of the Romans, would be over and they would claim their right to leadership with renewed force. Authors such as Dionysius and Nicolaus, by contrast, adopted a different strategy to address the Greeks’ loss and the Romans’ gain of power. To them, too, the emphasis on the classical Greek heritage was of central importance: instead of referring to this heritage in order to maintain the divide between Greeks and Romans, they made use of it in order to link Greek culture with Roman power. Drawing on the Romans’ overwhelming interest in Greek education in virtually all areas of their lives (and, probably, conscious of the ‘anxiety of influence’ which this caused to prominent members of the Roman upper-class), they stressed the Romans’ Greek education as the crucial element of their political success. This does not imply, however, that they regarded the Romans as Greek in the same way as they defined themselves as Greeks. Rather, defining the Romans as descendants of Greek colonists whose Greek background enabled them to succeed in their new home-country, they made it very clear to the Romans that they had to work hard on preserving this heritage in the midst of barbarian nations lest they succumb to barbarization and thus lose their current status of superiority.⁶⁰ Παιδεία was important to these Greeks because it allowed them to inscribe the Romans into an interpretive framework in which ‘the Greek’ was the only standard that counted. Ewen Bowie, Barbara Borg, and Tim Whitmarsh provide us with fascinating concrete examples of the ways in which Greek intellectuals and upper-class Romans interacted and profited from each other. Bowie and Whitmarsh explore Roman patronage through Greek epigram, a genre whose social and political implications still receive relatively little attention from scholars. Their contributions show what a valuable source of information epigrams are for understanding Greek cultural identity. On the one hand, this is due to the fact that we have unusually rich information on the lives and careers of these poets. On the other, these epigrams are presented as gifts to the poets’ Roman patrons; hence, the idea of an exchange whose purpose it is, at least at first sight, to celebrate the achievements of these Romans, the Romans in general, and Roman power in particular, figures prominently among the subjects addressed by them. As mentioned above, it is erroneous to picture Greek intellectuals as ‘obscure existences’ (as Schwartz []  once put it with regard to Dionysius of Halicarnassus) who lived on the margins of Roman society. Poets such as Potamon and

 See Wiater (this volume) and [] –.

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Crinagoras, both from Mytilene, are impressive examples of the remarkable material benefits which Greek learning procured. Reviewing the evidence for their lives, Bowie points out the importance of both of them in contemporary Roman as well as local Mytilenean politics. Potamon and Crinagoras led successful embassies on Mytilene’s behalf to Roman dynasts (sometimes together, as in   to Caesar and again in –  to Augustus) and received splendid honours in their hometown for their services: a statue-base testifies to the erection of honorific statues of Pompey, Theophanes, and Potamon; the latter also enjoyed privileged seating (προεδρία) in the theatre, and Crinagoras’ poems associate him with such members of the imperial family as Antonia (Minor?), Ti. Claudius Nero, and Germanicus. This picture is complemented by a look at the no less impressive career of Theophanes, also from Mytilene, who is probably best known for his historical work about Pompey’s military campaigns against Mithradates. As the ‘Commander-in-chief, Engineers’ (praefectus fabrum), Theophanes sucessfully negotiated the consolation of the Rhodians after they had lost their fleet, and his importance as an advisor to Pompey can be deduced from the fact that Cicero frequently mentions him in the years between  and  . In his home-town, Theophanes held the position of chief magistrate (πρυτανίς) and was honoured with statues for securing the political independence (libertas) of Mytilene, for which he also received divine honours after his death. Potamon’s and Crinagoras’ poems, however, always present the prominent Romans and their empire within a firmly Greek framework. Crinagoras’ address to Antonia, possibly the daughter of Antonius and Octavia,⁶¹ for example, inscribes the Roman celebrity into the tradition of Greek sympotic poetry, thus creating a collage of Greek tradition and Roman present strongly evocative of the anti-historicism of Dionysius’ rhetorical vision of Augustan Rome discussed by Fox. And the poem in which Crinagoras addresses his voyage to Italy (probably in – ) creates an imaginary map in which the route to Italy leads the poet via the Odyssean landscape of ‘ancient Scheria’. As Bowie points out, this gives the impression ‘that poet and reader belong to a shared world of Greek culture’,⁶² and, we may add, that Italy itself, both as a geographical and a symbolical location, can be approached only within this framework. At any rate, these poems fashion Crinagoras as ‘an author whose world is decisively Greek’ – despite his close connections with members of the highest class of Roman society.⁶³ It is not surprising, then, that the practical side of these poems, the relationship between poet and patron, is a topic constantly addressed by the poets. Crinagoras, Bowie argues, deliberately reduces the Romans to their educated elite and thus imagines a world in which only two classes of people are of relevance, namely Greek intellectuals and the (thoroughly Greek-educated) Roman upper class: Crinagoras’  Bowie p. .  Bowie p. .  Bowie p. .

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world is ‘a predominantly Hellenic one, a world in which Roman power bulks large, but in which that power is mediated by a small group of Greek-speaking Roman addressees whom it may or may not be appropriate to call “patrons” ’.⁶⁴ Tim Whitmarsh also explores the Greeks’ attitude towards their Roman patrons and shows the manifold nuances in which it could be articulated. He points to the ‘tense reciprocities’ inherent in the patron’s ‘economic and political control over the poet’ and the poet’s ‘power to confer glory, to immortalise, to inscribe his subject into an immemorial tradition of heroic verse’.⁶⁵ This question of a ‘cultural division of labour’ between practical Romans and cultural Greeks, between war and poetry,⁶⁶ seems to have played a crucial role in Greek self-definition, as is suggested by its recurrence in several other chapters in this volume,⁶⁷ and it is fascinating to compare the different ways in which this issue was addressed by the Greeks. As Borg (following Lamberton []) reminds us, this ‘division of labour’ was originally a Roman concept.⁶⁸ After realising, Borg argues, that political independence and freedom could not be established, the Greek upper-class in Athens whole-heartedly subscribed to this Roman definition of Greekness along exclusively cultural terms and ‘exploited it to their benefit’ by ‘advertis[ing] this identity through their material culture’.⁶⁹ In so doing, the Athenians made sure that their ‘foreign admirers […] made expensive as well as expansive donations.’⁷⁰ Dionysius of Halicarnassus, by contrast, sought to re-politicise the classical heritage by defining it as an essential element of Roman power: as in classical times, political superiority and cultural excellence are inseparable, the latter providing the basis of the former; it is only the centre of this power which has shifted from Athens to Rome.⁷¹ Bowie’s, Borg’s, and Whitmarsh’s contributions offer us insights into the material conditions of Greek intellectuals under the later Roman republic and the early principate; they show how these conditions influenced the way in which they represented themselves to their Roman patrons, Greek readers, and, ultimately, to themselves. Adopting Bourdieu’s conception of gift-exchange as a ‘dissimulated challenge’, Whitmarsh explores the ‘complex mixture of acceptance of and resistance to the transactional nature of patronal relationships, where economic and political dependency is weighed against the cultural prestige that Greek poetry can offer’.⁷² Poets such as Crinagoras, Antipater, and Philip, he points out, ‘were deeply

    

   

Bowie p. –. Whitmarsh p. . Whitmarsh p. . See the contributions of Borg, Schmitz, and Wiater. Cf. Borg p.  below, with the discussion in Lamberton [], esp. –, who speaks of the ‘first Romanization of Athens’, quoting Anchises’ excudent alii… (Virg. Aen. .–) as its most famous expression. Borg p. . Borg p. . Wiater p. ; cf. the discussion in Fox and Hidber (both in this volume). Whitmarsh p. .

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implicated in the Roman project’ because of the benefits, ‘personally and in terms of civic reconstruction’, which these relationships offered them.⁷³ This explains why the poems do not show any overt political hostility. Nevertheless, the poets playfully use the poetic mechanisms of the bestowal of praise in order to introduce ulterior layers of meaning into their works which create ‘ironic distance, play, and at times even a form of resistance’.⁷⁴ When Diodorus of Sardis, for example, compares Nero’s return to Rome with Neoptolemus’ leaving Scyrus to fight at Troy, there is an unmistakable subtext of the efforts of a ‘lesser son’ to bear comparison with his outstanding father’s achievements, and Diodorus’ metonymic description of Rome as the ‘city of Remus’ has an ominous ring to it as it conjures up Rome’s recent sufferings in the times of civil strife.⁷⁵ Similarly, Antipater uses the poetic technique of ‘fusing Roman subtext into Greek mythic memory’⁷⁶ to evoke Achilles’ words to Lycaon, spoken immediately before he will slay him, in a poem which accompanies Antipater’s gift to Piso, a Macedonian hat.⁷⁷ Read against our knowledge of the Second Sophistic, it is surprising that Rome, Italy, and the Roman Empire are so strongly present not only in the epigrams but also in the works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Nicolaus of Damascus, Strabo, and the grammarians and rhetoricians, while Athens plays a relatively small role. This raises the question, addressed by Thomas Schmitz and Manuel Baumbach, whether, and if yes, to what extent, we can trace the characteristics of Greek self-fashioning during the Second Sophistic back to the intellectual discourse of the first century . Focussing on Diodorus’ Library, Schmitz explores whether we can already grasp tendencies in Diodorus’ work which will be constitutive of Greek intellectual culture  years later, in the Second Sophistic, namely . the canonization of the Attic dialect as the only acceptable form of expression for a member of the educated elite (πεπαιδευμένος); . the reduction of Athenian history to a few key events of the classical past, especially the Greek victories in the Persian Wars and the controversy over the rise of Philip of Macedon; and . the concomitant creation of ‘icons of “Greekdom” ’⁷⁸ (Athens, Sparta, Homer and tragedy, Themistocles, Demosthenes, and Plato, to name only the most important ones) which were merged into an idealized image of the classical past in which, all historical inaccuracies notwithstanding, ‘the greatest politicians, orators, and philosophers […] rubbed shoulders’ in Athens which, in turn, was imagined as ‘a quasi-mythical place, an impressive scene on which heroes like

     

Whitmarsh p. . Whitmarsh p. . See the full discussion in Whitmarsh p. –. Whitmarsh p. . Whitmarsh p. –. Schmitz p. .

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

Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

Solon, Aristophanes, Socrates, and Themistocles all live[d] together in a freefloating, timeless universe’.⁷⁹ Diodorus, Schmitz shows, ‘sits uneasily between two periods: he is neither part of this great classical past nor one of the writers whose veneration for this classical past makes us feel at home in their work because we share their judgments’.⁸⁰ In some passages, Diodorus’ language and style reveal a preference for the same aesthetic principles that were favoured by the Atticism of the Second Sophistic, but he does not systematically implement them. Furthermore, Diodorus emphasizes the historical importance of Athens and Sparta, and there is a tendency toward an anti-historicist idealization of the past, a tendency also found in other works discussed in this volume. But his mentioning Isocrates, Plato, and Aristotle alongside authors such as Anaximenes, Aristippus, and Antisthenes (..), who never became part of the canon of the ‘icons of “Greekdom” ’ suggests that this process of canonization had already begun but was not yet finished. This assumption receives further support from the fact that he ranks relatively unimportant battles higher than the Athenian victories in the Persian Wars (..–, .), which would have appeared blasphemous to a Greek of the Second Sophistic.⁸¹ Similarly, for Diodorus, Demosthenes is just one Athenian politician among others, while he was to be regarded as ‘possibly the greatest of all cultural heroes’  years later.⁸² It is illustrative to compare Diodorus’ image of the classical past, and the role he ascribes to Demosthenes and Athens and Sparta in particular, with the attitude towards the same period underlying the classicism of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. In terms of a process of canonization of ‘the classical past’ which paves the way for the radical Atticism of the Second Sophistic, we can note a remarkable development. Obviously, Dionysius, who combines the roles of historiographer and teacher of rhetoric, regards classical language and style as the key to the classical past and offers a systematic training programme that will allow his students to learn how to write and speak classical Greek and thus, literally, become classical.⁸³ However, Dionysius’ linguistic theories operate on the level of style and with abstract aesthetic qualities which genuinely classical style is supposed to possess. This distinguishes his classicism from the Atticism of the Second Sophistic which is much more concerned with specific grammatical and lexical characteristics of classical language.⁸⁴ Like Diodorus, Dionysius, as Anouk Delcourt [] – has demonstrated, privileges Athens and Sparta over all other Greek cities in the Antiquitates Romanae      

Schmitz p. . Schmitz p. . Schmitz p. . Schmitz p. . See the discussion above. Hence the grammatical handbooks and Atticist dictionaries typical of this period on which see Schmitz [], esp. –; Swain [], esp. –. The Atticist lexicon attributed to Caecilius of Caleacte might suggest that specific lexical considerations played a greater role in Caecilius’ definition of classical language and style than in Dionysius’, but the scarcity of the sources does not allow any certainty.

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(although he attributes an equally outstanding role to Arcadia). Unlike Diodorus, however, Dionysius has an unconditional admiration for the Greek victories in the Persian Wars,⁸⁵ and he is equally willing unconditionally to accept the Isocratean conception of Athenian civic identity, presenting the Athenians as the representatives of a well-defined set of moral and political virtues, namely freedom (ἐλευθερία), justice (δικαιοσύνη), moderation (σωφροσύνη), piety (εὐσέβεια), and concord (ὁμόνοια).⁸⁶ This either suggests that the process of canonization of the classical past had made considerable progress in the roughly  years that separated Diodorus from Dionysius or that such idealization was more advanced in rhetorical discourse than it was in historiography. Furthermore, there is a remarkable difference in the way both authors assess the position of Demosthenes in the classical past. While Diodorus, as mentioned above, does not pay any special attention to him, Dionysius regards him as the most outstanding example of classical style.⁸⁷ Now, it is true that Diodorus and Dionysius are referring to different aspects of Demosthenes’ personality: Diodorus is writing political history in which he does not regard Demosthenes as a particularly significant factor, while Dionysius is primarily concerned with Demosthenes’ undeniable influence on the development of Greek literary style. Yet, as pointed out above, rhetoric has a distinctly political dimension for Dionysius and he does not, in fact, strictly separate these spheres.⁸⁸ It is tempting to speculate that Demosthenes’ esteem as a brilliant (political) orator influenced later authors’ image of Demosthenes as an outstanding political leader in general and thus contributed to his reputation as ‘possibly the greatest of all cultural heroes’. Despite these tendencies which anticipate elements of the Greek culture of the Second Sophistic, there is one notable difference between the world views of Greek intellectuals in this period and the first century . Whereas the image of the Greek past in the Second Sophistic was strongly focused on an imaginary, anti-historicist conception of the city of Athens as the symbol of Greekness, the role of Athens in the writings of the Greeks in the first century  is of a striking marginality. This is all the more remarkable if one compares the attitude of contemporary Roman writers to the former centre of classical Greek culture and power which, in fact, strongly resembles the image of classical Athens in the Second Sophistic as a ‘quasimythical place’. The famous opening paragraphs of Cicero’s De finibus is a case  This becomes particularly evident when we look at his criticism of Thucydides, see Wiater (this volume) p. –; for a more detailed discussion see Wiater [] –.  See Wiater p. – and [] –.  In the First Letter to Ammaeus, for example, Dionysius says that Demosthenes ‘surpassed all his predecessors and contemporaries, and left his successors with no scope for improvement’ (Amm. I ., transl. Usher []).  Also in the First Letter to Ammaeus Dionysius stresses that Aristotle wrote his rhetorical treatises when ‘Demosthenes was already at the height of his career as a politician, and had delivered his most celebrated speeches, forensic and deliberative, and was admired throughout Greece for oratorical brilliance’ (Amm. I ., transl. Usher []); on the political implications of language in Dionysius see further Fox (this volume) and Wiater [] –, –.

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Thomas A. Schmitz and Nicolas Wiater

in point. Here Cicero describes how he and his interlocutors, his brother Quintus, Marcus Piso, T. Pomponius Atticus, and Cicero’s cousin Lucius, visit the Academy. The location conjures up the mental image of the great Athenian philosophers who debated there and eventually results in a discussion of Athens as a ‘landscape of memory’ populated by the great thinkers and statesmen of the past (the speakers name, among others, Plato, Epicurus, Sophocles, Pericles, Pythagoras, Demosthenes, and Aeschines), irrespective of their actual historical life time (de fin. .–).⁸⁹ In the Greek authors of the same period, by contrast, the image of the classical past is not (yet) consistently associated with Athens as its physical location. While there is a tendency in Diodorus, as Schmitz demonstrates, to turn Athens into such a symbolical place of Greek education, the main focus of his Library is Rome: it is the expansion of Roman power, he stresses at the beginning of his work (..–), that has rendered possible the very conception of a project of universal learning such as the Library because the Roman empire has created the unity of mankind which such a universal project presupposes. Moreover, only in Rome could such an enterprise have been realized because of the resources of knowledge assembled in this city.⁹⁰ Diodorus’ image of the past mirrors this overwhelming importance of Rome. He makes the Roman empire of his time the apogee of his historical narrative by placing C. Iulius Caesar in a line with Alexander the Great and thus defining him as the latest representative of a long tradition of divinized beneficial rulers of the world.⁹¹ The central role of Rome and the Romans in both Dionysius’ critical and historical works has already been mentioned above. In the preface to his Antiquitates Romanae Dionysius even makes a statement that would probably have shocked educated readers  years later. Discussing the unprecedented greatness of the Roman empire (both in terms of spatial extension and temporal duration), he claims that neither the Athenian nor the Spartan empire stand comparison with any of the great empires of past and present because Ἀθηναῖοι μέν γε αὐτῆς μόνον ἦρξαν τῆς παραλίου δυεῖν δέοντα ἑβδομήκοντα ἔτη καὶ οὐδὲ ταύτης ἁπάσης, ἀλλὰ τῆς ἐντὸς Εὐξείνου τε πόντου καὶ τοῦ Παμφυλίου πελάγους, ὅτε μάλιστα ἐθαλασσοκράτουν. Λακεδαιμόνιοι δὲ Πελοποννήσου καὶ τῆς ἄλλης κρατοῦντες Ἑλλάδος ἕως Μακεδονίας τὴν ἀρχὴν προὐβίβασαν, ἐπαύσθησαν δὲ ὑπὸ Θηβαίων οὐδὲ ὅλα τριάκοντα ἔτη τὴν ἀρχὴν κατασχόντες.  With Clarke [] , one could speak of a ‘semanticization’ of space, a concept referring to the process by which space is endowed with meaning. Clarke describes it as space and time linked by ‘emplotment’ or narrative; see in general Tilley [], esp. –, and the introductory chapters in Clarke []. The concept itself goes back to the French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs, especially his study of the ‘Legendary Topography of the Gospels in the Holy Land’ (Halbwachs []), who first pointed out the importance of monuments as carriers of meaning and constituents of collective memory. Halbwachs’ concept provides the basis for Pierre Nora’s large-scale project on lieux de mémoire.  For a detailed discussion of the association of Roman power and Diodorus’ historical project and method see Wiater [].  See Wiater [].

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the Athenians ruled only the sea coast, during the space of sixty-eight years, nor did their sway extend even over all that, but only to the part between the Euxine and the Pamphylian seas, when their naval supremacy was at its height. The Lacedaemonians, when masters of the Peloponnesus and the rest of Greece, advanced their rule as far as Macedonia, but were checked by the Thebans before they had held it quite thirty years. (Ant. Rom. .., transl. Cary [])

It is in keeping with this marginal role of Athens in world politics in his historical work that Dionysius never places any particular emphasis on Athens as a geographical entity in the rhetorical essays either. Athens is, of course, mentioned in the biographical sketches preceding most of the essays on individual orators as the place where the great men of the past were born and lived. But there is no idealization of Athens herself, nor is the city turned into a symbol of Greekness. Rather, the classical values, aesthetic, political, and moral, are represented first and foremost by the language and writings of the classical authors: in Dionysius, ‘the classical past’ is, in fact, an abstract, placeless entity that exists in and is preserved through language. One might argue that such a geographically unmarked conception of Greekness was especially attractive to Greeks such as Dionysius, who were born at the margins of the classical Greek world (he may never even have been to mainland Greece) and now lived and worked in Rome, a city which not few of their Greek contemporaries regarded as barbarian (see above) but which in many ways seemed to offer the best options for a life as an intellectual. For Diodorus and Dionysius there was no doubt that Rome was the centre of the world, politically and culturally. A similar emphasis on Rome is found in Strabo and the epigrammatic poets, although there is a noticeable tension between Rome and the flourishing culture in Asia Minor, which seems to represent an alternative centre on the imaginary map of the Roman empire created by their works.⁹² The world mapped out in Strabo and the epigrams is not a static one. It is a dynamic world in constant motion, caused by the extension of Roman power to the very boundaries of the world which requires the Roman leaders and their Greek associates to travel constantly.

 See Dueck [] – on Strabo’s tendency to emphasise Greek cultural superiority by counterbalancing his description of the spread of Roman power with a ‘ “mapping” of the “world of letters” ’ and the privileged position he ascribed to the Greek world within the Roman empire ([] ); cf. ibid. : ‘Although Rome is presented as the leading political and cultural power in the world, Strabo is aware of the existence of other powers at the outskirts of the empire which are not entirely subjected to the Romans’. See further Whitmarsh’s [] – remark on the relation between local and supralocal perspectives of identity in the Roman empire: ‘Especially in a vast but linked empire, local identity will […] always be staged for the benefit of outsiders, or at the very least filtered by the (real or imagined) views of onlookers. […] what we should emphasise [...] is not the dominance of either local culture or the Roman hub, but the significance of the act of transition, or translation, between the two. It is the conjectured, mediated aspect of identity that is most striking.’

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This fascination with the Roman empire as a spatial superlative is particularly evident in Crinagoras , discussed by Whitmarsh, which mentions Armenia, Germany, the Araxes, and the Rhine side by side within three distichs.⁹³ As Whitmarsh points out, the poem thus evokes ‘the idea of an empire on which the sun never sets’,⁹⁴ which, as mentioned above, also fascinated Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Moreover, the proximity of the names of these distant places in the poem might be taken as the expression of an idea which was equally fascinating to Greeks (and Romans), namely however distant those places were, all of them were now part of the same empire. The enormous impression which the extension of Roman power made on the Greeks’ (and Romans’) perception of distance and proximity is illustrated by a programmatic passage in the preface to Diodorus’ Library. There he relates his project, ‘to record the events of the entire known world, that have been consigned to memory, as though they were those of a single city’,⁹⁵ with the expansion of Roman power to the farthest corners (πέρατα) of the oikumenē (.., ..).⁹⁶ The epigrams, however, do in fact introduce Athens into the world as a third factor which provides the transition between East and West, Asia Minor and Rome, and which illustrates the dialectics of distance and proximity addressed by their poems with a backdrop of a seemingly timeless stability. In Anth. Pal. ., for example, Crinagoras invites Marcellus, whose life style is, significantly, characterized as ‘sedentary’ and who is said to have ‘neither sailed the sea nor trodden roads ashore’, to make just one visit to Athens in order to be initiated into the mysteries of Demeter.⁹⁷ Like Anth. Pal. ., another poem of Crinagoras addressed to Marcellus, which mentions Theseus and Marathon, this poem stresses the antiquity of Athens: the cultural memories represented by the city and the ancient rites performed in her link Athens with the very beginnings of human civilization and appear to render her immune to the motions affecting the rest of the world. It is significant, however, that the poems almost seem to advertise the antiquity of Athens and her special status in the world that results from it as an attraction for Roman travelers: Athens is worth a trip, even for Romans such as Marcellus who seem to prefer to stay in the centre of Roman power despite the wealth of exciting places which the spread of this same Roman power would now enable them to visit. The poems thus seem to foster the same nostalgic, almost touristic interest of their Roman patrons in Athens which is also exemplified by the introductory chapters of Cicero’s De finibus. The image of Athens evoked in the poems seems to be the idea  See the discussion of Whitmarsh p. –; on the fascination with the interrelation of space and politics as a general characteristic of early imperial Roman culture see Nicolet [] and cf. Dueck [] – on the the strong interest in distance and geographical locations characteristic of both Greek and Latin authors active under Augustus.  Whitmarsh p. .  Εἰ γάρ τις τὰς εἰς μνήμην παραδεδομένας τοῦ σύμπαντος κόσμου πράξεις, ὥσπερ τινὸς μιᾶς πόλεως […] ἀναγράψαι, transl. Wiater.  For a similar connection of the spread of Roman power and the advancement of knowledge in Strabo see Dueck [] .  See Bowie’s discussion below, p. –.

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of Athens as an open-air museum of Greek cultural achievements which appealed to upper-class Romans. Crinagoras’ poem thus seems to adopt a Roman view on Athens and invites his readers to share it: it is almost as though Athens’ special status as the privileged representative of the great Greek achievements of the past was, at least partially, due to the new, Roman context of which she was now a part, and the outside perspective on Greece and Greek history which resulted from this.⁹⁸ There was probably not one specific reason why the idealization of classical Greekness characteristic of the late Hellenistic and early Imperial period was associated with Athens as its exclusive locality in later centuries. But it is not unreasonable to suppose that the strong and almost nostalgic interest of Roman intellectuals in Athens as the locale of the roots of their own cultural identity might have encouraged the Greeks to (re)claim Athens as a symbol of Greekness for themselves.⁹⁹ It is illustrative to read Manuel Baumbach’s discussion of Chariton’s novel Callirhoe, the last chapter in this volume, against the background of this discussion of the role of space and movement in the Greek authors’ approach to Roman power. The ideas of space and traveling play a key role in Callirhoe, too, but the imaginary geography created by the narrative is very different from the systems of spatial organisation we have considered so far. Callirhoe, Baumbach argues, belongs into the same period as the other authors discussed in this volume,¹⁰⁰ but since the plot is set in the classical past, Rome herself does not play any role in it. Nevertheless, the novel employs these poetics of space to address issues that are also crucial to the other authors discussed in this collection. To begin with, in Callirhoe, too, there is an obvious fascination with spatial extension and the liminal regions of the oikumenē. Whereas the epigrams, for example, describe a journey from Asia Minor to Italy, Chariton sends his protagonists on a journey from Sicily (yet another centre of Greek culture and learning outside of Greece and Athens) eastwards via Asia to Babylon. As Baumbach points out, the narration of a journey from the Greek into the non-Greek parts of the world suggests that there is more at stake here than mere entertainment. Rather, the novel employs the interaction of Greeks and non-Greeks resulting from the travels to invite the reader to address the love story in terms of a cultural discourse on Greek identity. One particularly interesting aspect of this discourse is the way in which the novel organises the journey as the characters’

 This is consistent with Whitmarsh’s [] remark, quoted above, that ‘in a vast but linked empire, local identity will […] always be staged for the benefit of outsiders, or at the very least filtered by the (real or imagined) views of onlookers.’  At any rate, the concurrent Roman interest in classical Greece was a factor in Greek cultural identity in the Second Sophistic, as Connolly [] – points out: ‘the second factor [apart from Atticism] complicating imperial Greek educational discourse is the disquieting awareness that the “search for classical Greece” that imperial classicism represents was not undertaken by Greeks alone.’  For the dating of Callirhoe between   and   see Baumbach p. .

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quest for identity: Chariton does not, Baumbach demonstrates, ‘construct Greekness in relation to a uniform “classical” Greek past’.¹⁰¹ Rather, in the first part of the novel, Greeks are portrayed as engaged in an (unsuccessful) search for their cultural identity, and it is only in the second part of the story, when the characters are confronted with their non-Greek counterparts far from home, that a much more unifying conception of Greekness emerges. The novel thus constructs the consolidation of the characters’ awareness of their Greekness and the reunification of the lovers Chaereas and Callirhoe as parallel processes.¹⁰² This figurative journey towards Greekness, and the striking idea that physical distance from the centre(s) of Greekness is a necessary precondition for an awareness of Greek identity, not only recalls the ‘rhetoric of otherness’, the notion of a categorical difference between Greeks and ‘the Other’, which lay at the heart of the development of classical Greek identity after the Persian Wars. It also evokes the above discussion of the consequences of the Roman empire: that Greece was now part of a new whole. This invited both Roman and Greeks to adopt a novel, outside perspective on it and on the cultural values it represented. This raises once more the question of the influence of Rome on the development of Greek cultural identity in the late Hellenistic and Imperial Roman period. At any rate, Baumbach argues, the question of the role of Greek education (παιδεία), another core topic addressed by all chapters in this book, in this development of Greek self-awareness is a crucial element of the plot. Baumbach discusses the different ways in which quotations from Homer’s poems are employed in the novel and demonstrates how Chariton presents his readers with characters who do have the knowledge of the canonical texts expected from members of the educated elite (πεπαιδευμένος), but employ this knowledge in a shockingly incompetent manner. Thus the novel turns education itself, and the way in which it is addressed in contemporary discourse, into a literary subject and invites readers to reflect on their own education and its role as the basis of their self-definition in everyday human interaction.

. Concluding Remarks: Struggles for Identity Greeks did not have to fight for their identity and the rights to express it. But the contributions collected in this volume clearly show that ‘identity’, Greek and Roman, was a controversial topic in the first century . Whoever addressed the question of what ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ was, could choose among several competing interpretive frameworks, each of which offered different definitions of the Greeks and Romans, their role in history, and their interrelation.

 Baumbach p. .  Baumbach p. –.

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Some of these interpretations were compatible, others mutually exclusive: Romans could be defined as either Greeks or barbarians, they could be regarded as ‘patrons’ who used their power to exchange material benefits and social prestige for cultural capital, or as second-rank Greeks whose power was owed to and depended on the preservation of classical Greek cultural, moral, and political values. Greeks could also adopt one of the Roman solutions to the Greek-or-Roman controversy and accept the ‘division of labour’ which claimed the practical spheres of life, in particular war, politics, and the exertion of power, for the Romans and assigned the sphere of culture and fine arts to the Greeks. The Athenian authorities in the first century  seem to have preferred this option, and so did the authors of Greek epigrams from Asia Minor. The latter, however, employed their cultural competence to introduce subversive irony and distance into their poems and made sure their overt sacrifice of claims to power to their Roman patrons was handsomely rewarded with a leading role in local politics at home. Whichever of these interpretive models one adopted, the chapters in this volume show us a Greek world in the first century  in which fascination with and attraction to the Romans were mixed with resentment towards Roman dominance and concerns that the Roman empire might strip the classical past of its meaningfulness by turning Greece into one of many Roman provinces, or that the Romans might claim the classical Greek past as their own. The Greeks’ Roman contemporaries, on the other hand, were well aware of the overwhelming influence of Greek culture on their own and reacted to this anxiety of influence by defining ‘naturally’ Roman qualities which, they claimed, were responsible for their superiority; they often backed up this attempt by asserting that the Greeks of their time could not match the achievements of their great ancestors and therefore had lost both the ability and the right to preserve their cultural heritage: only the Romans could make productive use of the Greek accomplishments of the past by adopting and adapting them to a new political and cultural framework.¹⁰³ The first century  can thus be characterized as a period in which the boundaries between ‘Greek’ and ‘Roman’ were very much debated and in which ‘Greek’ identity depended as much on the question of what the Romans were as ‘Roman’ identity depended on how the Greeks were defined. Thus, in addition to the competition of different definitions of Greek identity, we can certainly speak of a struggle between Greek and Roman intellectuals over the boundaries between Greek and Roman and over the extent to which Greek culture was granted a formative influence on Roman identity. By comparison, the situation in the Second Sophistic appears much more consolidated. Moreover, it might even be possible to detect a struggle for the right to be the exclusive representative of Greekness in the Roman world, or, more accurately, a competition between Greek intellectuals working in Rome and those from other  For the Romans’ negative view of their Greek contemporaries see, e.g., Cic. Ad Qu. fr. ..–, ; Flacc. .–, ; cf. Woolf [], esp. –; Syme [].

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areas of the Mediterranean, especially Asia Minor. This point is related to the semanticization of space and the ‘imaginary map’ of the Roman empire created by many different works in this period. As mentioned above, Strabo and the authors of epigrams seem to have been concerned with underlining the importance of Asia Minor and establishing the Eastern part of the Empire as a sort of alternative centre to Rome. In so doing, they inscribed Rome into a triangle with Asia Minor, where the representatives of Greek culture embark on their journey to Rome, and Athens, which represents the commodity offered by the Greek poets in exchange for material and social benefits and which, as such, connects (quite literally) the Western and the Eastern part of the Empire. It is attractive to read Dionysius’ struggle against Asianism as an attempt to oppose the political and cultural influence exerted by Greek intellectuals from Asia Minor upon their Roman patrons, which he may have perceived as a threat to his own self-image as the privileged representative of classical Greek language and culture in Rome.¹⁰⁴ Dionysius describes the fight between classical and Asianist rhetoric not only as a fight for political power, he also endows it with a spatial dimension by portraying it as a movement from Rome, the new centre of classical rhetoric and culture, eastwards towards the corrupted cities of Asia Minor which will be forced by Rome to submit to the ‘ancient and indigenous Attic Muse’ (ἡ μὲν Ἀττικὴ μοῦσα καὶ ἀρχαία καὶ αὐτόχθων, Orat. Vett. ., transl. Usher []).¹⁰⁵ Dionysius’ fight against Asianism can thus also be seen as an expression of a struggle between different groups of Greek intellectuals for the monopoly on the classical heritage and the exclusive right to ‘sell’ it to the Romans. Greek intellectual culture of the first century  is important because it occupies a central place at the intersection of crucial social and historical changes in the ancient world. It connects the late Hellenistic and the Imperial period. In many ways the works discussed here reflect an awareness of the end of turmoil and unrest and the beginning of new, better times: in their tendency towards encyclopedism and the attempt to create an archive that would preserve everything worth knowing in the new period, in their fascination with the expansion of an empire in which the sun never sets and with Rome’s role within this heterogeneous world which did not seem to have any precedent in history, in their attempt to secure a key role for their classical heritage in the new world order by stressing its importance to the Roman rulers of the world, and, last but not least, in their desire to obtain their share of material and social benefits which had now become accessible. Furthermore, the way Greek authors defined themselves and their activities in the first century  is important for our understanding of the cultural identity of the Romans of that same period because it allows us to approach Cicero’s, Horace’s, and Virgil’s attitude(s) towards the Greeks and their influence on the Romans within a larger cultural-historical perspective. This provides us with novel insights into  Cf. Wiater [] –, –.  See the full discussion in Wiater [] –.

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the complex and multi-faceted nature of the cultural exchange between Greeks and Romans at that time. In particular, we now appreciate better how closely Greeks and Romans were interconnected, culturally, socially, and intellectually, and what a crucial role the Romans played in Greek cultural self-fashioning. Finally, the first century is our gateway to the Second Sophistic: much of what recent research has identified as essential elements of Greek culture of this period is present, to a greater or lesser extent, already  years earlier, but it also makes us aware of some striking differences which deserve to be explored further. We hope that the following essays will stimulate further research not only on the literature of the first century  but also on the development that eventually resulted in the world view and self-fashioning of the Greek intellectuals of the second through the fourth centuries . There is a lot of ground to cover between Rome, Athens, and the eastern boundaries of the empire.

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Albrecht Dihle

Greek Classicism¹ Classicism was the dominant factor of the imperial civilization, both on the Greek and Roman side. Classicism teaches a society to look for real or supposed values in a specific period of their past. Thus classicism is different from the general authority of the ancestors, as in most societies of the archaic type, in particular among the Romans. They usually chose, in nearly all important situations of private and public life, their exempla from the old days. Moribus antiquis res stat Romana virisque. Classicism does not contradict such an attitude. Only the period of reference has been narrowed down. We follow the Romans calling the authors of that period classical, by a term taken from state administration. Roman classicism appeared, rather suddenly, at the beginning of the imperial period. In the Greek world the rise of classicism took a considerable time. From the first century  onwards, however, classicism pervaded nearly all branches of the bilingual civilisation of the empire, and so we want to look for its beginnings. The most notable and enduring tendency within the classicist movement of the Greek world seems to me the Atticism² in literature and language. Originally a programme of prose style – which, after all, belonged to the core of higher education – it applied both to the compositio verborum, including the ornaments of style, and the dilectus verborum, the vocabulary, including its morphology. It found its way into primary education, thus leading to the deep split between spoken and written Greek, between Kathareuousa and Dimotiki, which persists even up to now. According to that programme, only prosaists of the fifth and fourth centuries should be used as models of refined style and pure Greek. This caused, as we all know, the loss of nearly the whole treasure of Hellenistic literature. The extent to which the written language was taken back to the condition of previous centuries can be seen, for instance, from the history of the optative. Its use had nearly disappeared during the preceding centuries, but was constantly increasing from the first century  onwards, even in private and other non-literary documents – though understandably not always according to the standards of the classical period.³ The full-fledged atticistic programme can be found, for the first time, in Dionysius’ of Halicarnassus short treatise On the Ancient Orators, the introduction to the  Albrecht Dihle gave the keynote lecture at the conference. The editors wish to express their gratitude for his readyness to come to Bonn and deliver a most inspiring and thought-provoking talk. We have encouraged him to preserve the oral character of his contribution.  Dihle []; Dihle []; Flashar [].  Anlauf [].

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detailed description and analysis of the style of the foremost Attic orators. In this context,⁴ Dionysius passes very harsh judgments on all the prosaists of the time after Alexander. He blames the teachers of rhetoric in Asia Minor for that corrupted prose style and praises the return to the examples of the old Attic oratory. The change of literary taste has already taken place, in his view, because of the beneficent rule of the Roman emperor. As a young man, Dionysius came to the capital shortly after the battle of Actium and was to live there for the rest of his life. He was acquainted with another atticist, the Sicilian Caecilius of Caleacte. Caecilius⁵ wrote, apart from many works on prose style, the first of the many Greek/Attic dictionaries. They told you, for instance, that you had to write σκοπέω instead of σκέπτομαι, the current word in contemporary Greek. Caecilius regarded Lysias as the best stylist of the Athenian orators, whereas Dionysius preferred Demosthenes. There were, most probably, other Greek Atticists in the last two decades of the first century . But the information available is too scanty to verify Dionysius’ statement that Atticism had already been on its way early in his lifetime. We do know, in fact, only of Latin Atticists in the middle of the same century. Cicero’s treatise De oratore was finished in   and does not contain any hint to an Atticistic movement, although it duly recommends the great Athenian orators, above all Demosthenes, as examples of style. But in  , Cicero directed two other treatises, Brutus and Orator, against a group of Latin rhetoricians who called themselves Attici. They regarded Lysias as their foremost model and condemned Cicero’s style as exuberant and pompous in the manner of the Asiatic teachers who had trained many Roman politicians.⁶ The words atticus and asiaticus to denote two different characters of prose composition and the part played by Demosthenes and Lysias in the same context occur for the first time in Rome between  and  . Although this refers to Latin prose, it is a fair guess that the controversy, initiated by a new programme of prose style, originated among the Greeks. Its immediate transfer to the Latin side, where the term atticus in such a context had been unknown previously, is by no means surprising. Latin rhetoric developed under Greek influence, as nearly all successful Roman orators had been trained by Greek teachers, and the Latin theory of speech and oratory simply copied the Greek one. Now, if such a transfer of the programme of atticising prose took place, it could refer, in Latin, exclusively to the compositio verborum. The Greeks had their great prosaists - Lysias, Demosthenes, and the other orators, Plato, Thucydides, and so forth, and the comedy, too, could provide genuine Attic words and idioms. Moreover, that literary heritage had been thoroughly collected, analysed and commented on by generations of distinguished scholars. I only mention Aristophanes’ of Byzantium and Istros’ collections of rare Attic words.⁷ So even Attic idioms that were no longer  Dion. Hal., Orat. Vett. –; Lys. .  Caec. Cal. fr.  p. – Ofenloch; cf. Alpers []  on the Greek/Attic lexicon of Irenaeus.  Dihle [].

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understood in the Greek world between Sicily, Asia Minor, and Egypt could easily be spotted and explained. Just the opposite was true of the Latin side. Cicero complained about the total absence of exemplary and generally acknowledged texts to show what the correct and pure Latin language should be like. Cicero’s vocabulary and style became authoritative only a few years after his death which is attested to, for the first time, by the Elder Seneca.⁸ In Cicero’s lifetime, criteria to determine pure Latin were difficult to find. In his little work About the Grammarians, Suetonius reports on quite a number of scholars who were active in the late second and first centuries in Rome. Most of them were Greeks and taught Greek and Latin grammar alike. Suetonius adds that these early grammarians usually taught rhetoric as well.⁹ This combination does not occur very frequently in the Greek world. But it fits in with the situation of Latin prose composition, when Caesar wrote De analogia and Varro De lingua Latina and Sisenna tried to regulate his usage according to the principle of analogy.¹⁰ Different from the condition in Greece, the question of the correct Latin usage could be answered only with the aid of grammar and the theory of language. The Stoics, among others, had to offer criteria. Cicero himself tells us that he was aware of the social rule according to which intimate knowledge of grammatical technicalities was incompatible with senatorial dignity.¹¹ Nevertheless, he went into those details, in order to defend his art against the Atticistic modernisers, since they argued at that level. The rise of Atticism needs an explanation, but also the fact that it is attested to, for the first time, in Latin literature, though most probably originating from Greek  FGrHist  F  (Istros); Latte and Erbse [] – (Aristophanes of Byzanzium).  Cic. Brut. ; Sen. Rhet., contr.  praef. –; . praef. .  Suet. De gramm. . The programme of Aristodemus of Nysa, the teacher of Strabo (..), seems to have been exceptional according to Greek – not Roman – teaching methods, as it combined grammar and rhetoric.  Sisenna advocated analogy instead of usage to choose the right words and went as far as to write senati instead of senatus, apparently because of more existing analogies of that form of inflexion. Caesar, on the other hand, taught to avoid any unusual word (De analog. fr. , ,  Klotz) – in spite of his being an analogist like the grammarian Staterius (or Staberius) Eros (cf. Dihle []). Cf. the discussion of analogy in Hintzen’s contribution to this volume  In his early work on rhetoric Cicero shunned grammar as part of the training of the orator: loqui Latine is simply a precondition of dicere Latine (De orat. .–). The orator has to be familiar with philosophy and ius civile, but not with any kind of specialised learning which contradict senatorial dignity (De orat. ., ; ., , , a.o.). However, he acknowledges the elegantia sermonis of earlier orators such as Q. Lutatius Catulus and Rutilius Rufus without mentioning their Stoic affiliation.This is likely to have influenced their style, since the Stoic system comprised both rhetoric and grammar as parts of dialectic (Diogenes Laertius . from Diogenes of Babylon), and the first influence of a theory upon the dilectus verborum seems to have come from Stoic philosophy (Dihle [] n. ). Cicero called, in a different context, Stoic rhetoric an ars obmutescendi (De fin. .). But the Latin Atticists such as Brutus, Calvus, and, later, Messala Corvinus and Asinius Pollio took their argument from grammatical theory, since earlier Latin literature could not provide exemplary texts at the time. So Cicero had to “descend” to that level in his polemics against them - which he did in the Orator (–).

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sources. First of all, one has to keep in mind that writings of the great Athenian orators, historians, and philosophers were deeply admired as unsurpassed examples of literary skill throughout the Hellenistic period, regardless of changing modes of style. Hegesias of Magnesia, the foremost author of the corrupted “Asiatic” style in the view of Atticists and others, regarded himself as an imitator of Lysias,¹² the most austere among the Attic orators. This and a few examples of Hellenistic declamation which have come down to us illustrate how little resembles a copy its original in an artistic practice dominated by its very own stylistic principles.¹³ The same can be seen from Hellenistic copies of classical sculptures. There is another witness to confirm the unbroken authority of classical Athenian prose literature throughout the Hellenistic period, though without leading to the imitation of every detail of style and language.¹⁴ I am speaking of Demetrius and his treatise On Style. The book betrays its author’s Peripatetic sympathies. Some details of its language and content indicate that it was written before the middle of the first century . The author follows a doctrine of four χαρακτῆρες of style, very much like his contemporary Philodemus. The doctrine recalls a passage in Isocrates’ Panathenaicus and was replaced, already in the first century , by the well-known system of only three χαρακτῆρες. Demetrius explicitly says that κακόζηλος, later on the coined but derogatory term of the Asian style, is a common word and no technical term. There are no traces of a programmatic Atticism in that treatise, but Demetrius is very fond of ancient literature in general. His favourite among the orators is Demosthenes, but he also quotes Herodotus and Xenophon – the latter shunned by orthodox Atticists – and many poets. He knows the pragmaties of Aristotle, rediscovered not long ago, and quotes Plato extensively. Moreover, Demetrius prefers Attic among the Greek dialects which he seems to regard, along with the Homeric language, as standard Greek.¹⁵ To sum up, the prestige of Athenian literature and language throughout the Hellenistic period is sufficiently attested. The Athenian dialect had become not only the standard language of prose literature in the fourth century, even for medical treatises as in the case of Diocles of Carystus.¹⁶ It was widely used also in trade and diplomacy which accounts for the strong Attic influence on the Hellenistic Koine. But it was an innovation that the Atticists prescribed the use of pure Attic for all sorts of prose literature. In so doing, they followed the custom of poetry where every genre had its specific and artificial dialect. Prose literature, on the other hand, had usually been in a closer contact with common usage. So the Atticism of the first century but enhanced the prestige of Attic literature, never really impaired in post-classical time, and reinforced an existing classicistic undercurrent.  Cic. Or. –; Brut. ; Dion. Hal., Comp. .. Cf. Phot. bibl.  a  Agatharchides on the style of Hegesias.  Jander [].  Dihle [] on Demetrius and his date.  On the role of the Attic dialect as the standard of pure Greek cf. Hintzen in this volume.  Jaeger [].

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The same, however, happened in a different field as well. Philosophy shared with rhetoric the highest position in the post-classical system of education and had a notable influence upon the private and public life of Greek society. Philosophical studies and teaching methods underwent a remarkable change in the first century  which shaped the character of philosophy during the following centuries. Hellenistic philosophical doctrines had developed and frequently changed because of the intense competition between and even controversies within the various schools. Such polemics normally originated from problems or contradictions discovered in the systematically arranged doctrines.They always had to be discussed with fresh arguments without impairing the authority of the founding fathers. The Platonists even restricted themselves to scepticism and criticism of every fixed doctrine on the basis of a Socratic interpretation of Plato. The situation changed when the pragmaties of Aristotle, unknown for more than two centuries, were rediscovered early in the first century. These scholarly writings required a good deal of exegetic work and became the new basis of Peripatetic philosophy. At nearly the same time, the Platonist Antiochus of Ascalon, Cicero’s teacher at Athens in  , left the sceptical line of his predecessors and designed a coherent doctrine on the basis of Plato’s dialogues, but with the aid of Stoic and Peripatetic concepts. From that time onwards, editing, studying, and interpreting the books of the founding fathers became the heart of philosophical studies for centuries to come. Quod erat philosophia philologia facta est – in the words of Seneca.¹⁷ This change began in the schools of Plato and Aristotle, but affected others as well, as can be seen from the growing general interest in doxography or the Stoic school of Epictetus. Moreover, the controversies of the preceding centuries had philosophers led to realise that methods and details in the teachings of competitors might fit in with one’s own doctrine or become useful as tools of its interpretation. This happened occasionally already in the second century , for instance in the case of Panaetius. So the differences between the schools gradually lost their importance. That Plato and Aristotle, and even the Stoics had been teaching basically the same became a widespread opinion. Only the Epicureans largely remained outside this consensus, although their school survived. But the alleged atheism of Epicurus contradicted the changed religious feelings in the Greco-Roman society, increasingly shared by the philosophers. The turn taken by Greek philosophy in the course of the first century  seems to me comparable with the rise of Atticism. In both cases, the return to the great figures of a glorious past was supposed to renew intellectual activities. Philosophers

 Philosophy/ Philology; Sen. ep. , –. Interpreting texts as the most important chapter of philosophical instruction and research Epict. diss. ..; Porph. vit. Plot. . Plotinus regarded everything in his philosophy as an interpretation of Plato’s dialogues (enn. ...). Cf. Hadot [] = Hadot [] –; Hadot [].

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did not as radically defame their colleagues of the time after Alexander as did the Atticists. But the authority of the “ancients”, Plato and Aristotle, began to overshadow everything. This enhanced authority extended beyond philosophy and literature. In the chapters on India in Strabo’s geography, written in the time of Augustus, the author rejects some pieces of information from the Parthian history of Apollodorus of Artemita. Strabo argues that they diverge from what is said by the historians of Alexander’s campaign and the report of Megasthenes. Apollodorus wrote around  , when his city belonged to the Parthian empire which maintained relations with India. After all, the situation in India had changed completely  years after Megasthenes’ embassy. But no one should alter or supplement, in the view of Strabo, what classical authors had reported about that country. This rule was generally observed in literary – not in scientific – texts. It has been strictly kept, for instance, in Arrianus’ book on India. Curiously enough, Strabo uses the work of Apollodorus as a reliable source in the section on Central Asia. There were no classical authors available for this region.¹⁸ We have seen, so far, early examples of the classicism which was to pervade the whole fabric of the imperial civilisation right from the beginning. Atticism, again, can lead us a step farther to the understanding of its presuppositions. Latin Atticism becomes visible between  and  , that is to say earlier than the Greek one, though most probably inspired from the Greek side. To understand that curious fact, we have to keep in mind that Rome had become, from the late second century onwards, one of the most important – perhaps even the most important – centre of Greek intellectual life. True, philosophy still flourished at Athens, scholarship at Alexandria and Pergamon, rhetoric in Rhodes and Asia Minor – in spite of the decay of the Greek world, initiated by the Roman invasion. But there was no place in the first century where so many Greek intellectuals were active at the same time and in such different fields as philosophy, scholarship, historiography, and rhetoric.¹⁹ Most of them had been taken to the capital as prisoners of war. But they found their place as teachers, scholars, or philosophical advisers in the families of the Roman aristocracy. Many were released and continued their activities as freedmen, that is to say Roman citizens. This is the typical career of the two dozens of Greek grammarians enumerated by Suetonius. They were teaching Greek grammar which included the reading of literature and introduced the study of Latin grammar. The case of Alexander Polyhistor²⁰ may illustrate that condition. He belonged to the great number of prisoners who were taken to Rome by Sulla during the Mithradatic Wars. He was bought by a member of the Lentuli branch of the gens Cornelia and released by his owner. He lived in Rome as a renowned scholar and teacher and wrote innumerable books on history, ethnography, and grammatical questions. Many of the fragments of his  Apollodorus of Artemita ap. Strab. .. and ..; cf. Dihle [] –.  Cf. Hidber in this volume.  Alex. Polyhist. FGrHist .

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production come from his work On the Jews. lt is extensively quoted by Christian authors and shows Alexander’s detailed knowledge of the biblical and parabiblical tradition. Apparently, not only the political and economic importance of Rome, but also her intellectual atmosphere attracted Greek philosophers, scholars, and even poets. They dwelled there temporarily as the famous Posidonius or permanently as Philo of Larissa, the predecessor of Antiochus in the presidency of the Platonic academy. These and other Greeks in similar positions maintained close relations with Roman aristocrats, very much like Polybius and Panaetius in the second century. Theophanes of Mytilene²¹ was not only the historian of Pompey’s campaigns but also his friend and counsellor. Posidonius politely refused Cicero’s offer to write his history. Apparently, he did not want to get involved in the Roman network of patronage and tried to keep his independence. But he subscribed to the ideas of leading Roman politicians, though fully aware of the social tensions that resulted from the growing wealth of the propertied classes following the Roman expansion. The percentage of Greek inhabitants of the capital must have been substantial, yet more important was the Greek influence upon the Roman aristocracy. Rome had always been under Greek influence. Its only code of laws had been created according to Greek models, and Roman literature started with a translation of the Odyssey. A Stoic philosopher from South Italy inspired the reform of the Gracchi. So the Roman conquest of the Greek East during the second and first centuries created a strange situation. Their superiority on the battlefield and in diplomatic cunning led the Romans to a widespread contempt of the Graeculi. On the other hand, Greek influence upon Roman intellectual life, arts, and education was constantly increasing. Many Romans became bilingual, and distinguished representatives of Greek civilisation were respectfully treated. Pompey sent his lictors away before visiting Posidonius in his house on the isle of Rhodes.²² Intruding and gradually penetrating the Greek world, the Romans had to deal mainly with kings whose territories included more or less autonomous cities as economic and cultural centres and governed mostly by the local aristocracy. This educated class of landed proprietors cherished the memory of the old days of independent poleis, so deeply embedded in Greek cultural and literary tradition. In some cases, for instance in Rhodes, the traditional independence of a city had even survived. That is why the relationship between city and ruler remained precarious, in spite of their depending on each other. The king had to rely on the cities’ economic potential and recruited his functionaries from their inhabitants. The cities, on the other side, relied for their protection on the ruler and his army at the cost of their independence. The Roman republic, at that time, was governed by a number of influential and wealthy families of inherited reputation. They shunned, in spite of many quarrels among each other, monarchic rule altogether. That is why the Romans could  On Theophanes, see Bowie’s contribution in this volume at p. .  Plin. nat. hist. ..; Cic. ad Att. ...

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find sympathisers in the Greek population, if any, mainly among the urban aristocrats. Athens, for instance, was loyal to the Romans under such a regime, when the Mithradatic Wars began. But a revolution, instigated also by the resentment against the propertied class, installed a democratic and anti-Roman government. Athens took the side of the Pontic king, the alleged liberator from Roman domination, and Sulla’s troops besieged, occupied, and mercilessly plundered the city. The same combination of antiRoman feelings and social resentment had already led to the rebellion at Pergamon shortly after  . Posidonius,²³ whose description of the Athenian episode has been preserved, harshly criticised and even ridiculed that revolution. Under such conditions, the Romans were eager to strengthen the traditional feelings of the urban upper class and repeatedly proclaimed a so-called liberation of the Greek cities, for the first time already in  .²⁴ We may fairly guess that the majority of Greek intellectuals who were living in Rome during the first century did not cherish too many anti-Roman feelings. Their erudition rested on the attachment to the Greek past and the pride of ancient Greek civilisation, including the political system of the polis. The Roman republic, admired already by Polybius because of its constitution and now ruling a vast empire, was still governed in a similar way. Many of the Greeks who had come to Rome as prisoners of war apparently found a decent social position as clients of one of the big families. They earned a good deal of respectability because of their cultural superiority rather than as representatives of contemporary Greece. For the same reason, they were joined by voluntary newcomers from the Greek World. It seems to be possible, that Atticism, underlining the incomparable value of classical Athenian language and literature, originated in their circle. Suetonius was interested, as we heard, in the beginnings of Latin grammatical studies. So of the Greek grammarians and rhetoricians who were teaching at Rome he mentioned only those who had been active both in Greek and Latin. But there were others who restricted themselves, comparable with the Greek philosophers, to Greek language and literature. A very interesting scholar who has been living and teaching at Rome in the middle of the first century , perhaps a bit earlier, does not appear in Suetonius’ list for that very reason.

 Posidonius fr.  Edelstein/Kidd. Both democratic tradition and memories of Hellenistic kingship became virulent in anti-Roman feelings of the lower classes in the Greek world. These emerged mainly for economic reasons, particularly during the Mithradatic Wars.  The famous proclamation of T. Quinctius Flamininus ( ) which announced the freedom of all Greek cities (Polyb. ..) also appealed to the Greek upper class. Their traditionel feelings could hardly accept Hellenistic kingship. So Rome became the protector of a classical Greek tradition. Cf. Pfeilschifter [].

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This man, by the name of Philoxenus,²⁵ came from Alexandria, published books on metre and the exegesis of Homer, and collected and commented on rare words taken from Greek dialects. He regarded Latin as a Greek dialect. Moreover, he put forward a theory of the origin of language. Contrary to the Stoic idea that language began with the naming of objects, Philoxenus held that monosyllabic utterances denoting fundamental activities were the first elements of language. So language, he believed, started with verbs rather than nouns. He also taught that criteria of the right usage have to be looked for always within a given dialect, not outside its vocabulary. But the standard of common Greek usage is to be taken either from Homer or Attic prose. However, even famous and generally admired authors sometimes make a mistake. In such cases the principle of analogy provides an additional criterium. Philoxenus rejected, for instance, the form γεραίτερος, widely used in classical Attic literature, and preferred γεραιότερος as complying with the morphological system. ln Philoxenus’ fragments we find the typical items of the theory of Latin and Greek Atticism: the norm presented by the pure Attic usage, the problem of the criteria of correct language apart from the authority of classical authors, and the principle of analogy embraced by some of the Latin Atticists too. We find the same set of basic questions in Quintilian’s Institutio, when Latin classicism had already found its model in the prose of Cicero.²⁶ There may have been other Greek grammarians in Rome who did not extend their studies to Latin. Anyway, what we know of Philoxenus fits in very well with the rise of Atticism at this very place. The Atticistic programme, as we have mentioned, covered style and vocabulary alike. It was designed for the use of rhetoric in the sense of literary prose, and demanded a detailed knowledge of ancient literature. These works were not only available, but had also been treated extensively by professional philologists for a long time. The authors of Greek / Attic dictionaries such as Caecilius and his followers could use Aristophanes’ or Istros’ books on the Attic dialect. Philoxenus came from Alexandria, represented the scholarly tradition of that city, and the Attic dialect was a subject of his studies. So he could have contributed substantially to the rise of Greek Atticism in Rome, even without being a rhetorician himself. Could the social condition of the Greeks in general and in particular of those in Rome perhaps have motivated them to enhance the inherent classicism of their literary tradition and develop a programme of radical Atticism? Apparently, Dionysius of Halicarnassus found some kind of an Atticistic atmosphere when he arrived at Rome in the twenties of the first century . He attributed the new style to the new imperial order, so enthusiastically and understandably welcomed in the  Philoxenus did not treat rhetoric, but as a grammarian he was an Atticist. He regarded the Homeric language as standard Greek, but believed Homer’s origin to be Athens. He also believed that the principle of analogy, applied within a given dialect, provided an additional criterium of the right choice of words. Theodoridis []. On Philoxenus and his grammatical theories see further Hintzen in this volume.  Quint. inst. ...

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Greek world. But the new order could not possibly have inspired this intensified classicism. It is first attested to on the Latin side, at least twenty years before the rise of Octavian. So if the programme was transferred from Greek to Latin, it must have been initiated among Greek men of letters before the middle of the century. The Greek East was in a deplorable state at the beginning of the Augustan era. Roman intrusion into that world which started during the last years of the third century caused an endless chain of wars with changing alliances of Rome with Greek cities, kingdoms, and confederations. Even the last and bloody acts of the Roman civil war were performed, like many preceding battles, on Greek soil and at the cost of Greek welfare. The Roman warlords had exploited mercilessly Greek resources, including manpower, for nearly two centuries. The Greek world, with the sole exception of Egypt, was not only impoverished and depopulated, but also deeply demoralised. Having been but objects of Roman politics and warfare without being able to counterbalance Roman superiority, they were terribly humiliated and reduced to the status of despicable Graeculi not only in the eyes of their Roman masters. The situation of the Greeks in Rome was different. They did not live in despair, and many of them enjoyed a respectable status in Roman society. But they must have been fully aware of what was going on in the East. However, many Romans – poets, artists, scholars, teachers of rhetoric, and, above all, influential members of the upper class – were eager to get their share in the achievements of Greek civilisation. So literature, philosophy, rhetoric, and scholarship remained a solid basis of Greek self-esteem, above all in the city of Rome.²⁷ Yet all the accomplishments of Greek civilisation to be identified and looked for in the Roman society of the first century  had, in fact, deep roots in the past, in the glorious time of classical Athens. The idea that a return to these golden days could initiate a rebirth of the Greek world was by no means far-fetched. We are inclined to overrate the negative consequences when the past dominates over literature, language, and even a whole civilisation, as proclaimed, with lasting success, by the Atticists. Such negative results undoubtedly existed and were noted by authors such as Epictetus or Lucian. Galen even opposed the Atticistic standard as a prerequisite of higher education,²⁸ and usually scientists and scholars did not stick to classical Attic in their writings. On the other hand, the solid framework of rules of language and style as an element of general education could well preserve, in the given situation, the literary and even cultural continuity. The Atticistic turn accounts for the amazing stability and creativity of Greek literature down to the Byzantine period. The history of classical Latin offers analogous phenomena. The church adopted the Atticistic language,  Verg. Aen. .–; Hor. epist. ...  Not only moralists such as Epictetus, satirists like Lucian, and grammarians who realised the problematic repristination of language in such works as the Antiatticista (Latte and Erbse []), but even Galen, the exemplary intellectual of the time, doubted the value of the perfect use of Atticist language and style as the basic criterium of an educated human being (De ord. libr. su. ).

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though enlarged by the biblical vocabulary, which was also different from spoken Greek. In the Byzantine period only texts in classical metres were understood as poetry, although they could be identified as verses only from the written text.²⁹ The flourishing rhythmical poetry of the time, secular or ecclesiastical, was classified as prose. All this greatly contributed to maintaining the cultural continuity during the period of Turkish rule. Another result of the intensified classicism in the imperial period directly refers to political life and social order. The great philosophers of the fourth century had restricted their political doctrines to the polis of the Greek type. Only there, they believed, human nature could reach its perfect condition, only in the community of free citizens. No kingdoms or empires, with their monarchs and underlings, seemed worth studying. This opinion resulted from historical experience in the archaic and classical periods and became embedded in the cultural tradition and its conception of the difference between Greeks and Barbarians. We have mentioned that this attitude could cause some problems in the relationship between ruler and city in the Hellenistic kingdoms as well as the Roman empire.³⁰ The emperors mostly tried to handle the problem as carefully as possible and acknowledged urban autonomy at least officially. The cities had their own administration, run by elected officials, their own laws, and calendar, they signed treaties with other cities, and communicated with the ruler through embassies. To range the ruler among the gods of the city, by the way, did not impair the autonomy of the community. Many cities were founded by kings and emperors to become centres of economic activity, so important for the development of the territory and for the finances of the empire. Above all, they attracted the native population as strongholds of Greek and Latin civilisation which spread all over the countries. All these cities, the old and the new ones, gave a right of citizenship to the free inhabitants. So the model of the Greek city basically survived, though in different ways, even in the Latin West, although the citizenship in coloniae and municipia referred to the city of Rome. But Roman citizenship could also be given to Greek individuals and communities alike, in addition to local citizenship. It became a privilege without any share in self-administration. Political or social identity, however, rested exclusively upon citizenship. The relationship between ruler and subject was never understood as political, because it did not refer to any community. It was based on mutual loyalty. That is why Augustus insisted, in  , to receive the oath of allegiance from the population of Italy and, later, from the Greeks in the East. Greek words derived from polis – up to now the domineering part in our political vocabulary – never refer to the service in the army or administration of a ruler. They are used exclusively in the context of municipal self-administration, for instance in Plutarch’s treatise on the problem of whether an old man should embark on politics.  Iohannes Damascenus composed κανόνες, ἰαμβικοί τε καὶ καταλογάδην (Suda ι  Adler).  Dihle [].

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Albrecht Dihle

We are tempted to underrate the social importance of that political activity because of the overwhelming power of the Roman emperor and the efficiency of his central government. The landpropertied class that practically monopolised municipal self-administration was prone to overrate it. This resulted not only from vanity, patriotism, or the striving to promote the glory and welfare of one’s home-city, which is so well documented for many of these provincial aristocrats, above all the newcomers among them. It betrays, likewise, the classicistic temper of the imperial period which had pervaded the system of education. These men had been trained by their teachers to compose a speech of Themistocles persuading his compatriotes to evacuate Athens in   and similar declamations on subjects taken from classical literature. No wonder that they felt like successors of Pericles, or Aristides, when they were serving as elected officials in their home-city. Perhaps they forgot sometimes the difference between tolerated autonomy of a city in the Roman empire and suzerainty of a classical Greek polis. Procedures, ceremonies, and titles remained the same or at least similar. A strange method to show the alleged continuity of the city’s political existence can be seen in a number of inscriptions from Asia Minor. These official documents are written in the local dialect which was, at that time, no longer spoken and hardly mastered by the authors of the texts. Dio Chrysostom reminded the municipal dignitaries of the difference between ancient and modern times. He added that the superior power of the emperor, the efficiency and lawfulness of his administration, and the peace secured by his army were of incomparable value for everybody and the cities in particular.³¹ So their administrators should acknowledge their position and be loyal, above all, to the emperor. Plutarch and Aelius Aristides argued in the same way. Tacitus, though a partisan of republican, especially senatorial tradition, had to admit the inevitability of monarchic rule.³² The Greeks acclaimed the peace and legal order of the empire already at the time of Augustus as the beginning of a bright future. In general, they were not disappointed during the following period. The Greek part of the population increased their political and economic importance continuously during the first and second centuries because of their demographic and intellectual potential. In the early second century , they took the lead, which they never lost, in philosophy and scholarship, also in poetry and prose literature. There the Romans had been far more creative since the second half of the first century . So the Greeks had no reason to shun the classicism which they had intensified, presumably as an  Dio. Prus. or. .; Plut. pol. praec. ..  Tac. hist. .. According to Aristides’ panegyric, Roman rule combines all the advantages of classical polis and empire, in that it assembles all mankind and turns their educated part into an all-embracing civilised citizenship. The empire creates peace, freedom and welfare, equality, and even true democracy under the strictly lawful rule of the Emperor (, , –,  a.o.). This is, of course, grossly exaggerated, but reflects to some extent the feelings of the educated class who adhered to the tradition of the classical city and were, at the same time, loyal subjects of the emperor. Cf. Klein [].

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antidote, in the time of decay and demoralisation. The Romans, too, established their own classicism accordingly. Revolutionary changes did not occur in the social and intellectual life of the first and second centuries which could have caused the demand for a new orientation. Later on, even the Christians adopted the classicistic tradition which the Greco-Roman civilisation had absorbed so successfully and which accounted for its stability. Greek and Roman classicism of the imperial centuries had, of course, different periods of reference. The Greeks attributed to their classical period both the literary and the socio-political ideal. The two aspects were chronologically separated on the Latin side. Republican virtue, very much stressed in Augustan propaganda, had been notable above all in the heroic times of the Punic wars. On the other hand, Roman literary and poetic art had its peak undoubtedly at the time of Cicero, Virgil, and Horace. However, already before the canonisation of that period Sallust tried to imitate the style and language of the Elder Cato, the paragon of Roman virtue. Cicero did not contest this reputation but, though a friend of Archaic Latin poetry, he spoke of Cato’s orationes horridulae.³³ Sallust undoubtedly initiated Roman archaism for political and moral rather than literary purposes. The line was followed, for the same reason, by the great artist Tacitus in memory and defence of the vanished glory of the senatorial tradition. Another motif to surpass traditional classicism and look for archaic models came from the antiquarian interest, widespread throughout the imperial period. The scholar, the philologos, was supposed to be a philarchaios who searched for testimonies to the old days in language, literature, cults, and political institutions, as pointed out by Seneca.³⁴ Moreover, the beginning tourism led the public to ancient temples and statues. This caused, in the second century, even a literary fashion. Earlier already medical writers returned to the Ionic dialect of the Hippocratic tradition,³⁵ and Arrianus who used normal, that is to say Atticistic, Greek in his historical writings preferred Herodotean Ionic in his description of India. In general, archaism did not last very long and did not really affect the canonised vocabulary of prose literature, Atticistic or Ciceronian, respectively. The same is true of authors who resumed some features of the Asiatic style, severely criticised by the early Atticists, but now a leftover of past times. This can be seen, for instance, from the writings of Seneca or Himerius

 Cic. Or. ; Brut. f. The beginnings of Roman archaism are extensively discussed by Lebek [].  Sen. ep. . on how differently rhetoricians, philologists (scholars), and philosophers read the same philosophical text. Porphyry did not approve of the philological activity of the Platonist Longinus, though not as harshly as Epicurus or Bion of Borysthenes. The superior rank of philosophy, the ars vitae, had never been contested since, as the philologist’s concern is always the past (Porph. vit. Plot. ).  Some late treatises of the Corpus Hippocraticum were written again in the Ionian dialect of the time of the school of Cnidus and Hippocrates of Cos. Diocles of Carystus had initiated the use of Attic in medical literature in the fourth century .

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in the fourth century .³⁶ Elementary education already had imbued every author with the standardised vocabulary. So these late examples of Asianism could not impair the main element of literary classicism, and the same holds true for those Byzantine authors who indulged in stylistic extravagance. The ostentatious use of rare Attic words, although sometimes ridiculed, remained the method to prove one’s erudition. I hope you will approve of my attempt at uncovering the roots of classicism as the domineering factor in the Greco-Roman civilisation of the imperial epoch. It should be supplemented by examining the visual arts of the same time which offers convincing parallels. But I do not know enough of that subject, and time is over now anyway.  Philostratus (vit. soph. ) narrates the story of the unfortunate sophist Philiscus who fell in disgrace with the emperor Caracalla: his style was colloquial rather than forensic, but his vocabulary pure Attic.

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Nicolas Wiater

Writing Roman History – Shaping Greek Identity: The Ideology of Historiography in Dionysius of Halicarnassus . Introduction It is a well-established fact that Dionysius did not aim to provide an (in the modern sense) objectively verifiable account of early Roman history. Rather, Dionysius presented his readers with a deliberately Greek interpretation of Roman history, and the various ways in which he (re-)wrote Roman history along Greek lines have recently been explored in a series of excellent studies.¹ Dionysius’ attempt to create such a distinctly Greek image of the Romans suggests that the Antiquitates is a fruitful object of study for an investigation of Greek identity under Roman rule. For in Dionysius’ time the question of what ‘being Greek’ meant was bound up with defining what and who the Romans were, what role they played in relation to the Greeks, both their cultural and political heritage and their present situation, and what their position was in the world at large.² It will be the purpose of this paper to explore how Dionysius addresses, and answers, these questions. Before discussing Dionysius’ historical work itself, we will have to consider his general assessment of historiography and its role for the creation of cultural identity. In order to do so, I will, in the first section of this chapter, turn to Dionysius’ critical writings, in particular to his criticism of Thucydides in the Letter to Pompeius (Pomp.) and On Thucydides (Thuc.).³ Dionysius, I will demonstrate, views writing and reading history as an ideologically charged act: for the author, the historical work is a testimony of his cultural identity; for the readers, it is a means of assuring themselves of their cultural identity because it allows them to connect emotionally and thus identify with the political and cultural tradition of their ancestors. Thus historiography establishes what I suggest to call an ‘imagined community’,⁴ between  The most comprehensive treatment is now Delcourt []; for an in-depth discussion of Dionysius’ conception of historiography see the works of Matthew Fox [], [], [], and his chapter in this volume; cf. further Sacks [] and [].  For a similar assessment see Fox (this volume), esp. p. .  The most up-to-date discussion of Dionysius’ critical writings from a linguistic perspective is now de Jonge []; Hidber [] remains essential. For a discussion of Dionysius’ classicist criticism and his historical works from the point of view of cultural identity see Wiater [].  I adopt this concept from Anderson []. Anderson’s subject are nation-states which he defines as ‘imagined political communit[ies]’. These communities are imagined ‘because the members of

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author, reader, and the historical actors, a community, that is, which is not based on personal acquaintance of its members but on their shared emotional attitude towards a set of moral, cultural, and political ideas and values. Through the mediation of the historiographer, the readers are thus invited to inscribe themselves into a historical continuum providing the framework from within which they interpret the past and present, their interrelation, and their own role in it. The discussion of Dionysius’ theoretical assessment of historical writing will provide the background against which I will then discuss his own historical work, the Antiquitates. Given the importance for the creation of Greek identity which he ascribes to historiography, it can be safely assumed that Dionysius expected his contemporaries to read his account of early Roman history, and a favourable one at that, as a statement on his own self-image as a Greek intellectual in Augustan Rome. The questions which will be addressed in the second part of this paper are therefore: how does Dionysius’ work negotiate ‘the Greek’ and ‘the Roman’, the two poles between which life in Augustan Rome was situated? What position does he invite both his Greek and Roman readers to take within these dialectics?⁵ Finally, what conclusions can we draw from the Antiquitates with regard to Dionysius’ own conception of identity?

. The Pleasure of the Past: Historiography and the Creation of ‘Classical’ Identity In the detailed synkrisis of Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ Histories in the Letter to Pompeius Dionysius defines the choice of a subject that pleases the readers (ὑπόθεσιν ἐκλέξασθαι καλὴν καὶ κεχαρισμένην τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις, Pomp. .) as the historiographer’s first and virtually most important task (πρῶτόν τε καὶ σχεδὸν ἀναγκαιότατον ἔργον ἁπάντων ἐστὶ τοῖς γράφουσιν πάσας ἱστορίας, ibid.).⁶ Dionysius even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion’ ().  The question of Dionysius’ addressees has been widely debated. While it is impossible to determine who actually read the Antiquitates, there is no doubt that Dionysius did envisage present and future Roman statesmen as forming a substantial part of his readership. At .., defining his addressees, Dionysius lists ‘those who occupy themselves with πολιτικοὶ λόγοι’ (οἱ περὶ τοὺς πολιτικοὺς διατρίβοντες λόγους) alongside ‘those who are devoted to philosophical speculations’ (οἱ περὶ τὴν φιλόσοφον ἐσπουδακότες θεωρίαν), and ‘any who may desire mere undisturbed entertainment in their reading of history’ (εἴ τισιν ἀοχλήτου δεήσει διαγωγῆς ἐν ἱστορικοῖς ἀναγνώσμασιν); on this passage see Fromentin []. I do not, however, agree with Luraghi [], esp. –, that these Roman recipients constituted Dionysius’ primary audience. It is more convincing that the Antiquitates was addressed to both Roman and Greek readers alike, cf. Delcourt [] : ‘Potentially, the Roman Antiquities addresses the educated man, independent of his nationality or social status’ (‘[p]otentiellement, les Antiquités s’adressent donc à l’homme cultivé, quelle que soit sa nationalité ou son statut social’) with Fox [] , who points out that ‘Dionysius’ refutation is clearly intended for a Greek readership’; see further Hidber []  n. ; Schultze [], esp. –; Bowersock [] .

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thus establishes the bond between the readers, (the content of the) text, and the historiographer as the constitutive criterion of historiography as a genre (πάσας ἱστορίας). Contrary to our modern view, Dionysius does not regard historical events as such, i.e., only because they have happened, as valuable and worthy of being recorded. Dionysius’ approach to historical writing is oriented towards the present rather than the past: it is not the factual value of a narrative that is relevant to him but the emotional reaction which it provokes. For Dionysius the access to the past is primarily an emotional one that is based on the readers’ interaction with the text and their experience of the past through reading.⁷ Dionysius’ subsequent statements reveal that the criteria by which he judges the subjects of Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ works as ‘pleasant’ and ‘unpleasant’, respectively, are closely related to his conception of Greek cultural identity, both his own and that of the recipients he envisages for the classical works. Herodotus’ work engenders pleasure because he wrote ‘a general history of the affairs of the Greek and the barbarian world “in order that the memory of men’s actions may not be erased by the passage of time, nor the achievements […]” ’⁸ (κοινὴν Ἑλληνικῶν τε καὶ βαρβαρικῶν πράξεων […] ἱστορίαν, ὡς μήτε τὰ γενόμενα ἐξ ἀνθρώπων 〈ἐξίτηλα γένηται〉 μήτε ἔργα, Pomp. .). In stark contrast, Thucydides πόλεμον ἕνα γράφει, καὶ τοῦτον οὔτε καλὸν οὔτε εὐτυχῆ, ὃς μάλιστα μὲν ὤφειλε μὴ γενέσθαι, εἰ δὲ μὴ, σιωπῇ καὶ λήθῃ παραδοθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν ἐπιγινομένων ἠγνοῆσθαι. […] πόλεις τε γὰρ δι’ αὐτὸν ἐξημερωθῆναί φησι πολλὰς Ἑλληνίδας, τὰς μὲν ὑπὸ βαρβάρων, τὰς δ’ ὑπὸ σφῶν αὐτῶν, καὶ φυγάδας καὶ φθόρους ἀνθρώπων ὅσους οὔπω πρότερον γενέσθαι, σεισμούς τε καὶ αὐχμοὺς καὶ νόσους καὶ ἄλλας πολλὰς συμφοράς.

writes of a single war, and one which was neither glorious or fortunate, but which had best never happened at all or, failing that, should have been consigned to silence and oblivion and ignored by later generations. […] he says that many Greek cities were laid waste because of the war, partly by barbarians and partly by one another, while there were more expulsions or massacres of whole populations than ever before, and more earthquakes, droughts, plagues and other disasters of many kinds occurred than ever before. (Pomp. .–)

Dionysius’ comment on Thucydides’ preface is not only a fascinating document of how he read Thucydides’ work and, by implication, how he imagined other Greek readers to respond to it; it also demonstrates that he regards the reader’s Greekness as the determining factor of this emotional response: ‘readers of the Introduction’, Dionysius states, ‘feel repugnance towards the subject, for it is about the affairs of Greece that they are about to hear’ (ὥστε τοὺς ἀναγνόντας τὸ προοίμιον ἠλλοτριῶσθαι πρὸς τὴν ὑπόθεσιν, Ἑλληνικῶν μέλλοντας ἀκούειν, Pomp. .). Greek readers are  For a detailed discussion of Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides see Wiater [] –; on Dionysius’ ideas of writing history, especially in comparison with Lucian, see Fox [].  Cf. Porter []  and the literature cited there in n. .  Translations of Dionysius’ critical essays are taken from Usher [], the Greek text is from Aujac’s Budé edition [].

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literally ‘alienated’ (ἠλλοτριῶσθαι) by Thucydides’ work because the sufferings he describes are those of Greeks. Dionysius, and the Greek reader he envisages, expect historiography to enable them to establish an intimate connection with tradition by establishing an emotional bond with the (classical) past through the process of reading. Reading historiography is therefore categorically different from the reception of other kinds of texts, and the pleasure which Dionysius expects historical works to engender is far more than a simple delectare. Rather, reading historiography, as Dionysius defines it, is an ideologically charged act through which Greek readers assure themselves of their self-definition and of the historical foundations on which it is based. The specific aesthetics of historical literature and the constitution and preservation of Greek identity, of a feeling of belonging to a tradition reaching back to classical times, are directly interrelated. From Dionysius’ discussion of the historiographer’s second most important task, the choice of a suitable start and end of the narrative,⁹ we can deduce what he regarded as the constitutive elements of this Greekness. Again, Herodotus is judged as far superior to Thucydides: ἄρχεταί τε ἀφ’ ἧς αἰτίας ἤρξαντο πρῶτον κακῶς ποιεῖν τοὺς Ἕλληνας οἱ βάρβαροι, καὶ προελθὼν εἰς τὴν 〈τῶν〉 βαρβάρων κόλασιν καὶ τιμωρίαν λήγει. ὁ δὲ Θουκυδίδης ἀρχὴν ἐποιήσατο ἀφ’ ἧς ἤρξατο κακῶς πράττειν τὸ Ἑλληνικόν. […] τὰ δ’ ἐν τέλει πλείονος ἁμαρτίας πλήρη· καίπερ γὰρ λέγων ὅτι παντὶ τῷ πολέμῳ παρεγένετο, καὶ πάντα δηλώσειν ὑποσχόμενος, εἰς τὴν ναυμαχίαν τελευτᾷ τὴν περὶ Κυνὸς σῆμα γεγενημένην Ἀθηναίων καὶ Πελοποννησίων, ἣ συνέβη κατὰ ἔτος εἰκοστὸν καὶ δεύτερον.

He [Herodotus] begins with the reasons why the barbarians injured the Greeks in the first place, and proceeds until he has described the punishment and the retribution which befell them: at which point he ends. But Thucydides made his beginning at the point where Greek affairs started to decline. […] The concluding portion of his narrative is dominated by an even more serious fault. Although he states that he was an eye-witness of the whole war, and has promised to describe everything that occurred, yet he ends with the sea-battle which took place off Cynossema between the Athenians and the Peloponnesians in the twenty-second year of the war. (Pomp. .–)

The first sentence presents what could be called a cursory summary of Herodotus’ Histories. As such, it is indicative of which elements of Herodotus’ narrative Dionysius found most important and which, consequently, he regarded as responsible for the readers’ pleasure in Herodotus’ account and constitutive of their self-definition as Greeks:¹⁰ the central element of Dionysius’ conception of Greek cultural identity appears to be a pattern of cultural explanation which had been popular in Greek literature ever since the Persian Wars, the idea of the collective opposition of Greeks and the Barbarian Other. This pattern, which has been called the Hellene-Barbarian  Pomp. .: Δεύτερόν ἐστι τῆς ἱστορικῆς πραγματείας ἔργον γνῶναι πόθεν τε ἄρξασθαι καὶ μέχρι ποῦ προελθεῖν δεῖ; cf. Fox [] ; on Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides cf. id. [] –.  Notice μάλιστα τοῖς ἀκούουσι κεχαρισμένην, Pomp. . (quoted below).

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antithesis,¹¹ depicted the Barbarians as the aggressors trying to subjugate the Greeks who fought for and defended freedom and justice, punished the Barbarians, and thus legitimated their superior position in the οἰκουμένη. Thucydides, by contrast, is portrayed by Dionysius as an ‘Anti-Herodotus’: whereas Herodotus’ narrative began with wrongs inflicted onto the Greeks by the Barbarians (κακῶς ποιεῖν), Thucydides deliberately (notice the emphatic ἀρχὴν ἐποιήσατο) began his account with the very moment when the Greek world as a whole (τὸ Ἑλληνικόν) started to suffer (κακῶς πράττειν) not only from the Barbarians but even, and primarily, at the hands of the Greeks themselves. This implies an inversion of the roles assigned to Greeks and Barbarians in Herodotus: by depicting the Greeks as aggressors, Thucydides puts them on a par with the Barbarians and portrays them, in Dionysius’ view, as alienated from their own identity.¹² Moreover, while Herodotus ended with a glorious demonstration of Greek superiority, Thucydides intentionally (καίπερ γὰρ λέγων ὅτι παντὶ τῷ πολέμῳ παρεγένετο) chose an unsuitable end by breaking off his narrative with the battle off Kynossema in  .¹³ This fact is of such importance to Dionysius because by choosing a different end Thucydides could have contextualized the events of the Peloponnesian War differently and thus have produced a far more positive account of the war itself and, above all, the Athenians’ role in it: καὶ ἄρξασθαί γ’ ἔδει τῆς διηγήσεως μὴ ἀπὸ τῶν Κερκυραικῶν, ἀλλ’ ἀπὸ τῶν κρατίστων τῆς πατρίδος ἔργων ἃ μετὰ τὸν Περσικὸν πόλεμον εὐθὺς ἔπραξεν […], διελθόντα δὲ ταῦτα μετὰ πολλῆς εὐνοίας ὡς ἄνδρα φιλόπολιν, ἔπειτ’ ἐπενεγκεῖν ὅτι τούτων φθόνῳ καὶ δέει προελθόντες Λακεδαιμόνιοι προφάσεις ὑποθέντες ἑτέρας ἦλθον ἐπὶ τὸν πόλεμον […]. τὰ δ’ ἐν τέλει πλείονος ἁμαρτίας πλήρη […]. κρεῖττον δὲ ἦν διεξελθόντα πάντα τελευτὴν ποιήσασθαι τῆς ἱστορίας τὴν θαυμασιωτάτην καὶ μάλιστα τοῖς ἀκούουσι κεχαρισμένην, τὴν κάθοδον τῶν φυγάδων τῶν ἀπὸ Φυλῆς, ἀφ’ ἧς ἡ πόλις ἀρξαμένη τὴν ἐλευθερίαν ἐκομίσατο.

He might have begun his narrative not with the events at Corcyra, but with his country’s splendid achievements immediately after the Persian War […]. After he had described these events with all the good will of a patriot, he might then have added that it was through a growing feeling of envy and fear that the Lacedaemonians came to engage in the war, although they alleged motives of a different kind. […] The concluding portion of  See, e.g., Diller []; on the importance of the ‘Hellene-Barbarian antithesis’ in Dionysius’ classicism see Hidber [], esp. –; Wiater [] –, –, –, –, –; cf. the discussion below.  This key aspect of Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides is explicitly expressed in a passage from his discussion of the Melian Dialogue in Thuc. .: ‘These would have been suitable words for barbarian kings to address to the Greeks, but no Athenian should have spoken thus to Greeks whom they had liberated from the Persians, saying that right is a matter of reciprocity between equals, whereas force is exerted by the strong against the weak’ (βασιλεῦσι […] βαρβάροις ταῦτα πρὸς Ἕλληνας ἥρμοττε λέγειν· Ἀθηναίοις δὲ πρὸς τοὺς ῞Ελληνας, οὓς ἠλευθέρωσαν ἀπὸ τῶν Μήδων, οὐκ ἦν προσήκοντα εἰρῆσθαι, ὅτι τὰ δίκαια τοῖς ἴσοις ἐστὶ πρὸς ἀλλήλους, τὰ δὲ βίαια τοῖς ἰσχυροῖς πρὸς τοὺς ἀσθενεῖς). With its emphasis on δικαιοσύνη and ἐλευθερία, the passage is also illustrative of Dionysius’ image of the classical Athenians’ character and the quality of their actions, see Wiater [] –.  Cf. Aujac [] . n. .

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his narrative is dominated by an even more serious fault. […] It would have been better, after describing all the events of the war, to end his history with a climax, and one that was most remarkable and especially gratifying to his audience, the return of the exiles from Phyle, which marked the beginning of the city’s recovery of freedom. (Pomp. .–)

Dionysius uses his criticism to correct Thucydides’ version of the events by rewriting the structure of Thucydides’ account along the lines of the basic structure of Herodotus’ work.¹⁴ Like Herodotus, who began his historical account with the poignant announcement that he will describe the great deeds of Barbarians and Greeks (with the Greeks ultimately being in the superior position), Thucydides should have pointed out the great achievements of the Athenians immediately after the Persian Wars. This, Dionysius stresses, would even have been his ‘patriotic’ duty (ὡς ἄνδρα φιλόπολιν, in the quotation above). Furthermore, just as Herodotus had clearly assigned the responsibility for the Greeks’ sufferings to the Barbarians, Thucydides should have portrayed the Lacedaemonians as the guilty party, rather than blaming his own people, the Athenians, for it. Finally, Herodotus’ account ended with the Greeks reestablishing perhaps the most distinctive constituent of their self-definition, freedom (ἐλευθερία).¹⁵ In the same way, Thucydides should have ended his account with the return of the fugitives from Phyle which Dionysius regards as the reestablishment of freedom in Athens. In short: Thucydides should have modelled his account of the Peloponnesian War on Herodotus’ account of the Persian Wars, with the Lacedaemonians playing the role corresponding to that of the Persians in Herodotus and the Athenians being the defenders of truly Greek values (such as ἐλευθερία and δικαιοσύνη) and identity. In so doing, Thucydides would have directly continued Herodotus’ historical account (ἀπὸ τῶν κρατίστων τῆς πατρίδος ἔργων ἃ μετὰ τὸν Περσικὸν πόλεμον εὐθὺς ἔπραξεν, emphasis added), thus creating a historia perpetua from the defense of Greek freedom in the Persian Wars down to the reestablishment of freedom as the basis of classical Athenian democracy. This would have resulted in an ideologically coherent image of classical Athens in classical historiography which, in turn, would have enabled a Greek reader to identify with his classical forebears and to enjoy the Histories.

 The phrase ‘most remarkable and especially gratifying to his audience’ (τελευτὴν [...] τῆς ἱστορίας τὴν θαυμασιωτάτην καὶ μάλιστα τοῖς ἀκούουσι κεχαρισμένην), with which Dionysius describes the alternative end Thucydides could (and should) have chosen for his account, recalls his chacterisation of Herodotus’ choice of topic as ‘a noble subject which will please [the] readers’ (καλὴν καὶ κεχαρισμένην τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις) at Pomp. ., thus inviting the reader to read the design of Thucydides’ work against Herodotus’.  On the notion of freedom in Greece, its development, and its importance for the self-definition of the Greeks and the Athenians in particular see Raaflaub [], esp. –, and cf. my remarks below in section  (with further references).

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It is important to note that Dionysius does not contest the truth of the events reported by Thucydides; he does not accuse Thucydides of lying or inventing events that make the Athenians appear in a bad light. Dionysius is concerned exclusively with the presentation of the material and the meaning which is thus assigned to the events.¹⁶ He conceives of the past as a functional element of the present, a repertoire of events which the people in the present have the right, even the duty, to process according to their needs.¹⁷ This processing takes place in writing history, by virtue of the author’s selection of events, their arrangement, and the interpretation of the past that results from this. Writing history, therefore, does not simply mean recording the past but creating it:¹⁸ it is the historiographer who is in control of which events are remembered and how, and which are passed over in silence and, thus, will never be part of the collective memory of later generations.¹⁹ This crucial role of the author suggests that Dionysius views the author’s cultural identity, the design of the work, and its effect on the readers and their self-image as closely interrelated. Since every image of the past is the result of the way in which the author has processed the material, i.e., of the author’s conscious choices, and since the readers are aware of this fact, every piece of historical writing can be read as a personal statement on the author’s cultural identity. The focus thus changes from the past itself to the dialogue with the author which the historical text engenders: reading historical narratives is primarily about the virtual interaction with the historiographer, rather than the acquisition of knowledge about the past. The author is the mediator who enables the readers to identify with the past and their classical ancestors by identifying with him (συνηδομένη and συναλγοῦσα in the following quotation). Dionysius calls this property of the historical text, which enables such a process of triangular identification, διάθεσις: ἡ μὲν Ἡροδότου διάθεσις ἐν ἅπασιν ἐπιεικὴς καὶ τοῖς μὲν ἀγαθοῖς συνηδομένη τοῖς δὲ κακοῖς συναλγοῦσα. Ἡ δὲ Θουκυδίδου διάθεσις αὐθέκαστός τις καὶ πικρὰ καὶ τῇ πατρίδι τῆς φυγῆς μνησικαοῦσα· τὰ μὲν γὰρ ἁμαρτήματα ἐπεξέρχεται καὶ μάλα ἀκριβῶς, τῶν δὲ κατὰ νοῦν κεχωρηκότων 〈ἢ〉 καθάπαξ οὐ μέμνηται, ἢ ὥσπερ ἠναγκασμένος.

The attitude of Herodotus is fair throughout, showing pleasure in the good and distress at the bad. That of Thucydides, on the other hand, is outspoken and harsh, revealing the grudge which he felt against his native city for his exile. He recites a catalogue of her mistakes, going into them in minute detail; but when things go according to plan he either does not mention them at all, or only like a man under constraint. (Pomp. .)  Cf. Fox [] : ‘Dionysius lays emphasis on the ordering of material within a historical text as a basis for the meaning which the events described convey’; id. [] .  Cf. Fox (this volume) p. , who speaks of the past as ‘a resource [...] to inspire a better quality of political life in the future’.  Fox (this volume, p. ) stresses the ‘strong basis in text’ of ‘Dionysius’ interest in the past’.  This is evident from Dionysius’ remark about Thucydides’ choice of topic at Pomp. . (quoted above): Thucydides, he says there, described a war ‘which had best never happened at all or, failing that, should have been consigned to silence and oblivion and ignored by later generations’ (ὅς [the Peloponnesian War] μάλιστα μὲν ὤφειλε μὴ γενέσθαι, εἰ δὲ μή, σιωπῇ καὶ λήθῃ παραδοθεὶς ὑπὸ τῶν ἐπιγινομένων ἠγνοῆσθαι).

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It is clear from the last sentence of this passage that the author’s διάθεσις does not manifest itself in explicit positive or negative comments of the author but depends on the very properties of the text, the author’s selection and organization of his material and the way this positions the readers emotionally both towards the events narrated and the author himself. This is confirmed by Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides’ start and end points which was discussed above: had Thucydides simply chosen a different beginning and end for his account, he would have created an entirely different picture of himself and the classical Athenians. It is in this light that we should read Dionysius’ criticism of the numerous idiosyncrasies, in terms of style, language, and arrangement of material,²⁰ which he sees as characteristic of Thucydides’ work. More than once, these bring Thucydides’ work to the brink of being unintelligible, a situation to which Dionysius repeatedly refers with the term δυσπαρακολούθητος.²¹ Significantly, Dionysius sees these idiosyncrasies, and their negative aesthetic consequences, as related to Thucydides’ refusal to follow traditional modes of historical narrative (including Herodotus) and to his attempt to create an entirely new kind of historical writing instead: τούτοις [sc. τοῖς τε πρεσβυτέροις Θουκυδίδου συγγραφεῦσι καὶ τοῖς κατὰ τοὺς αὐτοὺς ἀκμάσασιν ἐκείνῳ χρόνους²²] Θουκυδίδης οὔτ’ ἐφ’ ἑνὸς ἐβουλήθη τόπου καθιδρῦσαι τὴν ἱστορίαν, ὡς οἱ περὶ τὸν Ἑλλάνικον ἐποίησαν, οὔτε τὰς ἐξ ἁπάσης χώρας Ἕλλησι καὶ βαρβάροις ἐπιτελεσθείσας πράξεις εἰς μίαν ἱστορίαν συναγαγεῖν, μιμησάμενος Ἡρόδοτον […].

Thucydides came after these historians, but he did not wish to confine his history to a single locality, as Hellanicus and his imitators had done, nor to follow Herodotus and bring together into a single history the deeds accomplished by Greeks and barbarians all over the world. (Thuc. .)

Dionysius’ discussion of the errors of Thucydides’ historical work shows how closely collective and individual identity, literary production, and literary tradition are interrelated in his conception of historiography.²³ This passage is particularly interesting when read alongside Dionysius’ criticism that Thucydides should have followed  Apart from Thucydides’ unsuitable choice of topic and arrangement of material, which were discussed above, Dionysius criticizes, e.g., Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenian envoy in the Melian Dialogue (Thuc. –); the cursory treatment of positive Athenian actions such as the embassy to the Spartans in   which, he claims, makes the Athenians’ efforts appear as ‘minor [...] and of no importance’ (ὡς περὶ μικρῶν καὶ ἀδόξων πραγμάτων ταῦτα εἴρηκε, Thuc. .); his ordering the events by seasons (Thuc. .), and, most prominently, his style in the speeches: if the Athenians, Dionysius asserts, had really spoken like this, communication would have become impossible and both Athenian civic and private life would have broken down (Thuc. .–); cf. Wiater [] –, –, –.  See, e.g., Thuc. . (cf. ibid. .–, –), ., .; Amm. I. . (bis); cf. Pomp. ..  Cf. Thuc. ..  Cf. Fox [] – on the interrelation of ‘writing, life, written history, actual historical events, subject matter and historical account’ in Dionysius’ theory of historiography (the quotation at ).

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the general structure of Herodotus’ narrative.²⁴ Thucydides’ refusal to insert himself into the historical tradition (μιμησάμενος, in the preceding quotation) and his claim to absolute originality thus appear as a further manifestation of his refusal to identify with the achievements and values of his fellow citizens which would have allowed the recipients to share this feeling of belonging. For Dionysius does not take issue with the fact that Thucydides attempted to distinguish himself from his predecessors.²⁵ The problem is rather that Thucydides refused to follow any model at all and, instead, made his own refusal to identify with his fellow Athenians the sole standard of his representation of the events. This negative attitude is thus directly reflected in the style and design of his work and has its counterpart in the repulsion it causes the Greek reader: ὅπερ Ἕλληνα ὄντα καὶ Ἀθηναῖον οὐκ ἔδει ποιεῖν (καὶ ταῦτα οὐ τῶν ἀπερριμμένων ὄντα, ἀλλ’ ὧν ἐν πρώτοις ἦγον Ἀθηναῖοι στρατηγιῶν τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων τιμῶν ἀξιοῦντες) καὶ οὕτω γε φθονερῶς, ὥστε καὶ τῇ πόλει τῇ ἑαυτοῦ τὰς φανερὰς αἰτίας τοῦ πολέμου περιάπτειν, ἑτέραις ἔχοντα πολλαῖς ἀφορμαῖς περιάψαι τὰς αἰτίας.

This [starting his narrative with the beginnings of Greek suffering] should not have been done by a Greek and an Athenian, especially an Athenian who was not one of the outcasts, but one whom his fellow citizens counted among their foremost men in appointing to commands and other offices of state. And such is his malice, that he actually attributes the overt causes of the war to his own city, though he could have attributed them to many other sources. (Pomp. .)

Just as the readers’ response to historiography is based on their self-image as Greeks, writing historiography is here described as an expression of the historiographer’s cultural and civic identity: it would have been Thucydides’ patriotic duty as ‘a Greek and an Athenian’ to ensure that subsequent generations would have a favourable image of his fellow citizens and their actions. Benedict Anderson’s conception of ‘imagined community’²⁶ provides a helpful tool to describe the interrelation of historiographer, text, reader, and historical subject envisaged by Dionysius. Through the act of reading, author and reader enter a communion based on their shared attitude toward the values, actions, and achievements of the historical actors. The purpose of historiography, especially of the classical past, is not simply to record past events. It is supposed actively to involve the reader in the past so as to make him identify with the values and achievements of the historical actors and feel like a representative of this classical tradition in the present. The act of reading historiography thus constitutes a process of the creation and perpetuation of classical Greek cultural identity by way of creating a feeling of communion with the classical Athenians and thus a sense of continuity between present and past.

 See above, p. –.  Cf. Thuc. .  See above, p.  n. .

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. Legitimating Roman Power – Shaping Greek Identity? The Project of Dionysius’ Antiquitates Romanae The discussion of Dionysius’ conception of historical writing in his critical works raises some interesting questions about Dionysius’ own historical work, the Antiquitates Romanae. Against the background of the crucial role in creating and maintaining Greek cultural identity, Dionysius’ historical work appears to be inherently paradoxical. On the one hand, Dionysius’ work is written in Greek and therefore seems to suggest a primarily, albeit by no means exclusively, Greek readership; moreover, the fact that the Antiquitates is written by one of the leading exponents of Greek classicism suggests that it is meant as an example of the reborn classical Greek language and, hence, as a supreme piece of genuinely Greek literature. On the other hand, Dionysius sets out to present a detailed account of early Roman history, and one which proposes to justify Roman hegemony, at that. The previous discussion has revealed how conscious Dionysius is of the role of (historical) literature as an expression of the author’s identity. It therefore seems safe to assume that the apparent paradoxicality of Dionysius’ own historical work can, and should, be read as a comment on Dionysius’ conception of identity as a Greek intellectual in Augustan Rome. In this section, I will offer some suggestions as to how reading Dionysius’ historical project against his theory of historiography contributes to our understanding of his cultural identity and, going hand-in-hand with this, his conceptions of Greek and Roman identity in general. The most fruitful passage for this investigation is the preface, in which Dionysius explains his historical project and defines his role as author; it will therefore be the focus of the following discussion.²⁷ That Dionysius regards the question of writing and identity as crucial also for his own historical project results clearly from the fact that he addresses this issue at the very beginning of the preface. Dionysius first points out that historiographers’ two main tasks are ‘first of all, to make choice of noble and lofty subjects and such as will be of great utility to their readers, and then, with great care and pains, to provide themselves with the proper equipment for the treatment of their subject’,²⁸ thus relating his historical work to a crucial point of his theoretical discussion of historiography.²⁹ Dionysius then distinguishes two groups of historiographers: on the one hand, ‘those who base historical works upon deeds inglorious or evil or

 For a detailed analysis of the preface under the aspect of the relation of truth and rhetoric in historiography see Fox []; cf. further Schultze []; Delcourt [].  Πρῶτον μὲν ὑποθέσεις προαιρεῖσθαι καλὰς καὶ μεγαλοπρεπεῖς καὶ πολλὴν ὠφέλειαν τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις φερούσας, ἔπειτα παρασκευάζεσθαι τὰς ἐπιτηδείους εἰς τὴν ἀναγραφὴν τῆς ὑποθέσεως ἀφορμὰς μετὰ πολλῆς ἐπιμελείας τε καὶ φιλοπονίας (..). The Antiquitates is cited from Jacoby’s Teubneriana, translations are from Cary [].  See the discussion of Pomp. . above, p. .

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unworthy of serious study’³⁰ and, therefore, leave their readers with the impression ‘that they themselves admired lives which were of a piece with the writings they published, since it is a just and general opinion that a man’s words are the images of his mind.’³¹ On the other hand, authors who did choose a suitable topic but compiled their works in a light-hearted and careless manner from bad sources.³² In so doing they ruined their excellent material through a faulty presentation and, for that reason, do not merit their recipients’ approval either.³³ Dionysius views the author, (the design of) his work, and his subject matter as a unity which renders the memory of the author inseparable from the memory of the past he describes: by providing the historical events that deserve it with an appropriate representation in the collective memory (μνήμη) of posterity, the historiographer inscribes himself and his literary achievement into this ‘memory community’³⁴ created by his work (μνημεῖα τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ψυχῆς τοῖς ἐπιγιγνομένοις καταλιπεῖν, ..). Again, the readers play the crucial role in this process, as it is in their minds that the historiographer aims to create the combined memory of the past and himself. This is implemented and preserved by way of the reading experience and the resulting positive influence of the historical narrative upon the recipients’ characters and, thus, their lives in general (ὑποθέσεις προαιρεῖσθαι καλὰς καὶ μεγαλοπρεπεῖς καὶ πολλὴν ὠφέλειαν τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις φερούσας, in the above quotation). The historiographer’s writing an account of the past and the recipients’ reading it and shaping their own lives in accordance with it thus turn out to be complementary ways of implementing the past in the present. Stating that the topic he has chosen is ‘noble, lofty and such as will be of great utility to his readers’,³⁵ Dionysius not only recalls his general statement at .., that the historiographer’s main task is to select ὑποθέσεις [...] καλὰς καὶ μεγαλοπρεπεῖς καὶ πολλὴν ὠφέλειαν τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις φερούσας, and defines early Roman history as a subject worthy of memory. In keeping with the principle that ‘a man’s words are the images of his mind’, he also makes it clear that he regards his narrative of this subject as an appropriate, even favourable, representation of his, a Greek’s, character (ψυχή). Moreover, according

 Οἱ μὲν γὰρ ὑπὲρ ἀδόξων πραγμάτων ἢ πονηρῶν ἢ μηδεμιᾶς σπουδῆς ἀξίων ἱστορικὰς καταβαλόμενοι πραγματείας (..).  Ὅτι τοιούτους ἐζήλωσαν αὐτοὶ βίους, οἵας ἐξέδωκαν τὰς γραφάς· ἐπιεικῶς γὰρ ἅπαντες νομίζουσι εἰκόνας εἶναι τῆς ἑκάστου ψυχῆς τοὺς λόγους (ibid). On the principle ‘The style is the man’, common in ancient rhetoric, see, e.g., Hidber [] – n. , and his comm. on . (–); Dominik []; Michel [].  Οἱ δὲ προαιρούμενοι μὲν τὰς κρατίστας ὑποθέσεις, εἰκῆ δὲ καὶ ῥᾳθύμως αὐτὰς συντιθέντες ἐκ τῶν ἐπιτυχόντων ἀκουσμάτων (..).  Οὐ γὰρ ἀξιοῦμεν αὐτοσχεδίους οὐδὲ ῥᾳθύμους εἶναι τὰς περί τε πόλεων ἐνδόξων καὶ ἀνδρῶν ἐν δυναστείᾳ γεγονότων ἀναγραφομένας ἱστορίας (ibid.).  I adopt this expression from Burke [] .  Τὴν μὲν οὖν ὑπόθεσιν ὅτι καλὴν εἴληφα καὶ μεγαλοπρεπῆ καὶ πολλοῖς ὠφέλιμον οὐ μακρῶν οἶμαι δεήσειν λόγων (.., transl. mine).

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to Dionysius’ conception of the interaction of historical author and reader as outlined in the previous section, the nobility and greatness of the historical subject, by testifying to the nobility of the author’s character, also invite the readers to identify with the values of the author along with those of the historical actors. Thus, the reading process shapes the characters of the readers by engendering in them the desire to adopt and implement in their own lives the moral and political principles represented by Dionysius and the early Romans alike. Moreover, Dionysius’ phrasing evokes his discussion of Herodotus in his critical writings in which, as seen above, he presents the Histories as the paradigm of a ὑπόθεσις καλὴ καὶ κεχαρισμένη τοῖς ἀναγνωσομένοις (Pomp. .). And Dionysius’ description of historical works as monuments (μνημεῖα) of the authors’ character elaborates on the idea, prominently expressed in the preface to Herodotus’ work and praised by Dionysius at Pomp. ., that the purpose of the Histories is to prevent ‘that the memory of men’s actions [...] be erased by the passage of time’.³⁶ Dionysius, however, takes this notion one step further by including the historiographer himself into the collective memory created by his narrative.³⁷ By way of these intertextual references, Dionysius implicitly inserts his early Roman history into the very tradition of classical historiography and aligns it with the work of its first and most exemplary representative, Herodotus. From the following passage we can infer that Dionysius’ claim that his early Roman history continued the tradition of classical historiography and testified to his Greek identity, must have been a provocation to many of his Greek contemporaries who had a radically different perception of the Romans’ position in the world and their relation to the Greeks , namely that ἀνεστίους μέν τινας καὶ πλάνητας καὶ βαρβάρους καὶ οὐδὲ τούτους ἐλευθέρους οἰκιστὰς εὐχομένης [sc. τῆς Ῥώμης], οὐ δι’ εὐσέβειαν δὲ καὶ δικαιοσύνην καὶ τὴν ἄλλην ἀρετὴν ἐπὶ τὴν ἁπάντων ἡγεμονίαν σὺν χρόνῳ παρελθούσης, ἀλλὰ δι’ αὐτοματισμόν τινα καὶ τύχην ἄδικον εἰκῆ δωρουμένην τὰ μέγιστα τῶν ἀγαθῶν τοῖς ἀνεπιτηδειοτάτοις· καὶ οἵ γε κακοηθέστεροι κατηγορεῖν εἰώθασι τῆς τύχης κατὰ τὸ φανερὸν ὡς βαρβάρων τοῖς πονηροτάτοις τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ποριζομένης ἀγαθά.

professing openly that various vagabonds without house or home and barbarians, and even those not free men, are her founders, she [Rome] in the course of time arrived at world domination, and this not through reverence for the gods and justice and every other virtue, but through some chance and the injustice of Fortune which inconsiderately showers her greatest favours upon the most undeserving. And indeed the more malicious are wont to rail openly at Fortune for freely bestowing on the basest of barbarians the blessings of the Greeks.³⁸ (..)

In order to appreciate the force of Dionysius’ claims, we have to be aware of the implications of the negative image of the Romans Dionysius here ascribes to ‘some’  See above, p. .  Cf. Immerwahr [].  Cary’s translation modified. Cary prints Sauppe’s emendation εὑρομένης instead of εὐχομένης, which is transmitted in the manuscripts and accepted by Jacoby.

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of his Greek contemporaries. All of the negative characteristics ascribed to the Romans represent the opposite of key elements of an image of classical Greek identity which had been developed, disseminated, and passed on from generation to generation ever since the Persian Wars in various genres³⁹ such as epigrams, elegy,⁴⁰ historiography,⁴¹ tragedy,⁴² and, of course, oratorical works, among which Isocrates’ panhellenic discourses⁴³ and the Athenian Funeral Oration (ἐπιτάφιοι λόγοι)⁴⁴ occupy a particularly important place.⁴⁵ These texts became the carriers of a set of constituents of a Greek self-image which was based on the opposition to the Barbarian Other, a process which François Hartog has called the ‘Rhetoric of Otherness’.⁴⁶ One key element of this classical Athenian self-definition was the idea of autochthony (αὐτοχθονία),⁴⁷ i.e., the conviction that only those who were born Athenians were the heirs to a cultural and political tradition ultimately reaching back to Athena herself and mythical kings like Erichthonius and Theseus who were believed to have given the Athenians their superior moral and political institutions.⁴⁸ These, in turn, were thought to have been preserved ever since by the particular Athenian education (νόμοι and πολιτεία)⁴⁹ and thus handed down from mythical  For a general overview see Kierdorf []; Nohaud [].  See, e.g., Boedeker [] and ead. [] on Simonides’ elegy on the soldiers fallen at Plataeae; Wiater [] on Simonides’ elegy on the soldiers who died at Thermopylae (both with further literature).  First and foremost Herodotus and the image of barbarians in his Histories, on which see, e.g., Hartog []; Laurot []; Cartledge []; Evans [].  See Hall [].  On Isocrates see, e.g., Too []; Kennedy []; Perlman [] and []; Buchner []; Bringmann [].  On ἐπιτάφιοι λόγοι see Loraux []; Wilke []; Rosivach []; Walters []; Jacoby []; von Loewenclau []; Welwei []; Carter [].  Non-literary media such as statues and paintings, e.g., the famous depiction of the battle of Marathon in the Stoa Poikilē, played an equally important role in the shaping of Greek collective identity.  Thus the title of ch.  of Hartog []. It is important to note that in these texts in general, and in the Funeral Oration and Isocrates’ speeches in particular, Athenian identity is usually identified with Greekness itself. At Isoc. ., for example, the war against Athens is presented as a war against Greekness. Similarly, the Persians figure as the archetypal paradigm of ‘the Barbarian’.  On autochthony see, e.g., Wilke [], esp. –; Rosivach []; Parker []; Loraux [] –; cf. Hidber []  on . and  on ..  To this superiority the Athenians ascribed their military and political successes in both historical and mythical times the memory of which was preserved in the catalogues of Athenian victories in the Funeral Oration and Isocrates’ panhellenic discourses. These included, for example, the help the Athenians granted to the Heraclidae and the Seven against Thebes, their victories over the Amazons and in the Trojan War, and, most important, the victories over the Persians. Cf., e.g., Isoc. .–, esp. ; .–; see Jost [] –; for the ἐπιτάφιοι λόγοι see Loraux [], esp. –, and her chapter ‘The Athenian History of Athens’. However, as Loraux ibid. – has shown, the Funeral Orations usually avoid referring to the Trojan War and concentrate on the Athenian achievements against the Amazons and the Persians which were ascribed to the πρόγονοι’s preservation of traditional (autochthonous) Athenian values, see, e.g., Lys. .– (Amazons); – (Persian War); Hyp. Epit. –.

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times directly to the Athenians of the fifth century ,⁵⁰ who were then presented by Isocrates and the other orators as supreme examples of moral and political behaviour to their fellow citizens: the πρόγονοι embodied a standard set of moral values which were regarded as the distinctive characteristics of Greek identity such as ἐλευθερία (‘freedom’), δικαιοσύνη (‘justice’), εὐσέβεια (‘reverence for the gods’), ἀνδρεία (‘manly courage’), and σωφροσύνη (a ‘sound mind’).⁵¹ For the present discussion it is particularly important to note that these superior qualities of character (cf. ἡ χρησίμη ἐπὶ πᾶσι καὶ πάντας δυναμένη ὠφελεῖν εὐψυχία, Isoc. .) were reserved exclusively to those who had been born and raised as Athenians (τοῖς καλῶς γεγονόσι καὶ τεθραμμένοις καὶ πεπαιδευμένοις, ibid.): only those in whose veins flowed Greek blood and who were brought up in the ‘genuinely Greek’ environment provided by Athens and her πολιτεία were able and worthy to preserve this genuinely Greek identity and, hence, entitled to political and cultural leadership.⁵² It is this ‘ideology’ of classical Greek identity which lies behind the reproaches against the Romans which Dionysius summarizes in the above quotation, an ideology which is manifest not only in individual works but represented by the canon of the classical Greek literary tradition as a whole.⁵³ On the basis of this classical Greek self-image the Romans are literally defined as Anti-Greeks insofar as they lack every single characteristic of genuine Greekness: the description of the Romans  Cf. Loraux [] . The most prominent expression of this idea is Isocrates’ conception of the rhetoric of civic identity, on which see now Too [].  Cf., e.g., Isoc. .: ἐνέμειναν τοῖς ἤθεσιν, οἷς εἶχον διὰ τὸ πολιτεύεσθαι καλῶς.  For an overview of the ἀρεταί ascribed to the ancestors in Isocrates see Jost [] –. The qualities of the πρόγονοι listed there are commonly ascribed to the idealized ancestors, especially in the Funeral Oration, see, e.g., Dem. ., , ; Lys. .–, –, , , ; Pl. Menex. c, d. Freedom in particular was associated with Athens’ democratic political system, see Raaflaub [] –.  This is perhaps best illustrated by the famous passage from Isocrates’ Panegyricus (.): ‘And so far has our city distanced the rest of mankind in thought and in speech that her pupils have become the teachers of the rest of the world; and she has brought it about that the name “Hellenes” suggests no longer a race but an intelligence, and that the title “Hellenes” is applied rather to those who share our culture than to those who share a common blood’ (τοσοῦτον δ’ ἀπολέλοιπεν ἡ πόλις ἡμῶν περὶ τὸ φρονεῖν καὶ λέγειν τοὺς ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους, ὥσθ’ οἱ ταύτης μαθηταὶ τῶν ἄλλων διδάσκαλοι γεγόνασι καὶ τὸ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ὄνομα πεποίηκε μηκέτι τοῦ γένους, ἀλλὰ τῆς διανοίας δοκεῖν τεκμήριον εἶναι καὶ μᾶλλον Ἕλληνας καλεῖσθαι τοὺς τῆς παιδεύσεως τῆς ἡμετέρας ἢ τοὺς τῆς κοινῆς φύσεως μετέχοντας, transl. Norlin []) As Most []  has pointed out, this statement should not be misunderstood in the sense that anyone could now become Greek simply by adopting Athenian culture and values. Quite to the contrary, Isocrates intended to claim that ‘in order to be a true Greek it was not enough to be born Greek and have Greek blood in one’s veins, but rather that only those Greeks were true Greeks who shared the Athenian education Isocrates was willing to sell them.’  Hence, I am not convinced that such opinions about the Romans can be attributed to one specific Greek historical tradition (cf. the list of various attempts in Fox []  with n. ). Rather, Dionysius is summarizing here the core elements of the classical Greek self-image; cf. Fox [] : ‘Dionysius’ account of anti-Roman histories is a revelation of Greek resentment of Roman rule, and its incorporation in certain historical ideas.’

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as ἀνέστιοι καὶ πλάνητες sets them in poignant opposition to the notion of Athenian autochthony, and expressions such as οὐδὲ […] ἐλεύθεροι, οὐ δι’ εὐσέβειαν καὶ δικαιοσύνην καὶ τὴν ἄλλην ἀρετήν emphasize that the political and moral values of the Romans are the exact opposite of those of the paradigmatic representatives of Greek identity, the classical Athenians. Since these values and their acquisition in a Greek course of education are the basis of the legitimation of the Athenians’ claim to leadership, this characterisation of the Romans as Anti-Greeks implies a serious conflict regarding Rome’s dominant position in the world: whereas Athenian leadership had been legitimated by the Athenians’ ‘monopolistic’ tradition of moral and political superiority, Rome’s dominance, in the view of the Greeks cited by Dionysius, is conspicuous by the lack not simply of a cultural and political tradition comparable to that of the classical Athenians but of any political and cultural tradition at all. Hence for ‘some’ of Dionysius’ Greek contemporaries, there is an obvious discrepancy between Rome’s lack of tradition and her unprecedented leading role in the present on the one hand, and Athens’ superior tradition and her present lack of power on the other:⁵⁴ ὅτι δ’ οὐκ ἄνευ λογισμοῦ καὶ προνοίας ἔμφρονος ἐπὶ τὰ παλαιὰ τῶν ἱστορουμένων περὶ αὐτῆς ἐτραπόμην […] ὀλίγα βούλομαι προειπεῖν, ἵνα μή τινες ἐπιτιμήσωσί μοι τῶν πρὸς ἅπαντα φιλαιτίων, οὐδέν πω τῶν μελλόντων δηλοῦσθαι προακηκοότες, ὅτι τῆς ἀοιδίμου γενομένης καθ’ ἡμᾶς πόλεως ἀδόξους καὶ πάνυ ταπεινὰς τὰς πρώτας ἀφορμὰς λαβούσης καὶ οὐκ ἀξίας ἰστορικῆς ἀναγραφῆς, οὐ πολλαῖς δὲ γενεαῖς πρότερον εἰς ἐπιφάνειαν καὶ δόξαν ἀφιγμένης […] ἐξόν μοι τῶν ἐνδόξων τινὰ λαβεῖν αὐτῆς ὑποθέσεων, ἐπὶ τὴν οὐδὲν ἔχουσαν ἐπιφανὲς ἀρχαιολογίαν ἀπέκλινα.

But before I proceed, I desire to show in a few words that it is not without design and mature premeditation that I have turned to the early part of Rome’s history […] to forestall the censure of those who, fond of finding fault with everything and not as yet having heard of any of the matters which I am about to make known, may blame me because, in spite of the fact that this city, grown so famous in our days, had very humble and inglorious beginnings, unworthy of historical record, and that it was but a few generations ago […] that she arrived at distinction and glory, nevertheless, when I was at liberty to choose one of the famous periods in her history for my theme, I turned aside to one so barren of distinction as her antiquarian lore. (..)

For these Greeks, the present is a total reversal of the classical world view: instead of a long tradition of cultural and political excellence, the basis of Rome’s political leadership is unjust (ἄδικος) Fortune who has ‘freely bestow[ed] on the basest of barbarians the blessings of the Greeks’ (τῆς τύχης […] βαρβάρων τοῖς πονηροτάτοις τὰ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ποριζομένης ἀγαθά, ..). Like their classical ancestors, they shape their world view along the lines of the Hellene-Barbarian antithesis and define the current political situation as a renewal of the paradigmatic conflict between Greeks and barbarians of the fifth century, the Persian Wars, but with one decisive difference:  Cf. further .–.

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in the first century  the barbarians are the Romans who have succeeded in defeating the Greeks with the help of Fortune, thus taking over the role of the Persians in classical times. The present situation is thus defined as anti-classical, and hence incompatible with genuine Greek identity, an inversion of the correct, classical, world order. We can now appreciate what implications Dionysius’ historical project must have had in the eyes of many of his Greek contemporaries and how it might have reflected on their perception of his character: the Antiquitates Romanae attempts nothing less than providing the (allegedly) barbarian Rome with that cultural and political tradition which she needs to legitimise her superiority. Dionysius thus undertakes to substitute the discrepancy between tradition and power, between Rome’s past and her present, on which the other Greeks’ interpretation of the Romans is based, with a continuity of past and present:⁵⁵ Dionysius’ scope, to render Rome’s beginnings ‘worthy of history’ (ἄξιαι ἱστορικῆς ἀναγραφῆς, .. above) is tantamount to acknowledging that Rome’s role in the present is the equivalent to that of Athens in the classical past.⁵⁶ The provocative paradoxicality of this project is further underscored by Dionysius’ intimation that his narrative continues the historiographical tradition of Herodotus, whose work and the bipolar world view it represents he praises as the paradigm of classical historiography in his critical writings.⁵⁷ In stark contrast to the assumption that Dionysius chose his subject because it lacked any actuality and therefore was suited best to satisfy his purely rhetorical interests,⁵⁸ we can see now that writing an early Roman history that depicts the Romans as Greeks was an ideologically and politically charged act which many a Greek reader would have regarded as an attack on the foundations of (classical) Greek identity. Writing the Antiquitates Romanae thus also implies the claim to challenge and re-write the conceptions of identity of Dionysius’ Greek contemporaries in so far as they are based on the opposition between ‘the genuinely Greek’ and a ‘Roman-Barbarian Other’.⁵⁹ Re-writing the Roman past would have severe  Cf. Delcourt’s statement that Dionysius aimed at establishing a Roman historia perpetua by supplying the Romans with a Greek ‘permanence identitaire’ ([] –; –, the quotation at ).  On Rome as the ‘new Athens’ see Hidber [] –; Hidber argues convincingly that Dionysius’ conception of Rome as the new Athens by far surpasses earlier positive attitudes towards Rome which are detectable in Greek historiography since the third century  ([] –).  See the previous section.  See, e.g., Schwartz [] : ‘The very choice of the subject, which is so far remote from the present, shows that the work [the Antiquitates] belongs to rhetorical historiography in the narrow sense of the word, in which rhetorical technique is not simply one instrument of artistic design among others; on the contrary, the historical subject is but the material used to exercise and demonstrate that technique […]. Basically, the only purpose of Dionysius’ historical work is to provide a paradigm of classicism’ (‘Schon die Wahl des von der Gegenwart weit abliegenden Themas zeigt, dass das Werk der in speziellem Sinne rhetorischen Geschichtsschreibung angehört, derjenigen nämlich, welcher die Redekunst nicht blos als ein Kunstmittel neben anderen gilt, sondern umgekehrt der historische Stoff nichts weiter ist als ein Objekt, an welchem diese Kunst gezeigt und dokumentiert wird […]. D. will im Grunde in seinem Geschichtswerke ein παράδειγμα des Classicismus liefern’).

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consequences for the world view of those Greeks, an essential element of whose selfimage was the categorical difference between themselves and the Romans. I have argued in the previous section that Dionysius privileges the (textual) representation of the past over the past itself: it is the accounts of the past through which the past is rendered meaningful to the present and preserved.⁶⁰ This central role of historical narratives for the people in the present, for their view of the past and of themselves, also lies behind Dionysius’ justification of his historical project. The anti-Roman world view of the ‘some’ Greeks is erroneous, he argues, because it is based on erroneous narratives of the Roman past. It is not the past itself but its representation which lies at the heart of the conflict between Greeks and Romans because no reliable account of early Roman history is available in Greek.⁶¹ This line of argument recalls a central point of Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides whom Dionysius blames for misrepresenting the classical Athenians and their achievements because of his bias against his fellow citizens.⁶² As pointed out above, Dionysius regards the historiographer as the mediating instance between past and present: it is he who ultimately controls which elements of the past will be remembered in the present and in what way, by selecting events and presenting them in a certain manner. In the same way, Dionysius argues that so far Roman history has been described only by historians whose selection and presentation of material did not provide an accurate representation of their subject. Thus he transfers the conflict between Greeks and Romans from historical reality to historical imagination, a move underlined by his describing the Greeks’ opinions as πεπλανημένας (see following quotation), which poignantly picks up the same Greeks’ characterisation of the Romans as πλάνητας (..) and turns it onto them:⁶³ it is not the Romans who are vagabonds, but the Greeks’ mistaken ideas about them. Consequently, the process of alienation between Greeks and Romans can be reversed if early Roman history is written by a historiographer whose competence corresponds to the importance and greatness of the task (cf. ἀξιολόγου συγρραφέως, ..). The conciliation of the allegedly ethnic and cultural differences between Greeks and Romans requires a competent interpreter of Roman history and culture. It is this role of mediator between Greek and Roman identities which Dionysius claims for himself, and which is demonstrated by the Antiquitates and their interpretation of the Romans:  Cf. Fox (this volume, p. ), who speaks of the Antiquitates as a ‘radical project’ which aimed ‘at changing the perceptions both of Romans and of themselves’.  See above, p. .  ‘And it is a fact that all those Romans who bestowed upon their country so great a dominion are unkown to the Greeks for want of a competent historian. For no accurate history of the Romans written in the Greek language has hitherto appeared, but only very brief and summary epitomes’ (οἱ δὲ σύμπαντες οἱ τοσοῦτο περιθέντες αὐτῇ δυναστείας μέγεθος ἀγνοοῦνται πρὸς Ἑλλήνων, οὐ τυχόντες ἀξιολόγου συγγραφέως· οὐδεμία γὰρ ἀκριβὴς ἐξελήλυθε περὶ αὐτῶν Ἑλληνὶς ἱστορία μέχρι τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνων, ὅτι μὴ κεφαλαιώδεις ἐπιτομαὶ πάνυ βραχεῖαι, ..).  See above, p. .  See above, p. .

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Ταύτας δὴ τὰς πεπλανημένας […] ὑπολήψεις ἐξελέσθαι τῆς διανοίας τῶν πολλῶν προαιρούμενος καὶ ἀντικατασκευάσαι τὰς ἀληθεῖς, περὶ μὲν τῶν οἰκισάντων τὴν πόλιν, οἵτινες ἦσαν καὶ κατὰ τίνας ἕκαστοι καιροὺς συνῆλθον καὶ τίσι τύχαις χρησάμενοι τὰς πατρίους οἰκήσεις ἐξέλιπον, ἐν τάυτῃ δηλώσω τῇ γραφῇ, δι’ ἧς Ἕλληνάς τε αὐτοὺς ὄντας ἐπιδείξειν ὑπισχνοῦμαι καὶ οὐκ ἐκ τῶν ἐλαχίστων ἢ φαυλοτάτων ἐθνῶν συνεληλυθότας. περὶ δὲ τῶν πράξεων, ἃς μετὰ τὸν οἰκισμὸν εὐθέως ἀπεδείξαντο, καὶ περὶ τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων, ἐξ ὧν εἰς τοσαύτην ἡγεμονίαν προῆλθον οἱ μετ’ αὐτοὺς, ἀπὸ τῆς μετὰ ταύτην ἀρξάμενος ἀναγραφῆς ἀφηγήσομαι […], ἵνα τοῖς γε μαθοῦσι τὴν ἀλήθειαν ἃ προσήκει περὶ τῆς πόλεως τῆσδε παραστῇ φρονεῖν […].

In order, therefore, to remove these erroneous impressions […] from the minds of the many and to substitute true ones in their room, I shall in this Book show who the founders of the city were, at what periods the various groups came together and through what turns of fortune they left their native countries. By this means I engage to prove that they were Greeks and came together from nations not the smallest nor the least considerable. And beginning with the next Book I shall tell of the deeds they performed immediately after their founding of the city and of the customs and institutions by virtue of which their descendants advanced to so great a dominion […] to the end that I may instil in the minds of those who shall then be informed of the truth the fitting conception of this city […]. (..–)

More than a regular historical work, the image of the past presented by the Antiquitates (with all its consequences for the present) is thus defined as the alternative conception of mentality which his Greek contemporaries are supposed to adopt toward the Romans and which will, quite literally, replace their previous attitude (ἀντικατασκευάσαι; ταύτας δὴ τὰς πεπλανημένας […] ὑπολήψεις ἐξελέσθαι τῆς διανοίας τῶν πολλῶν in the above quotation).⁶⁴ The very process of reading is of particular importance for this (re-)shaping of Greek collective identity.⁶⁵ Frequently Dionysius emphasizes that his account will follow exactly the temporal development of Rome from the very beginnings.⁶⁶ This is so important because Dionysius’ work aims to show that Rome’s present state of power and superiority is the result of a consequential development which both begins with and is determined by her fundamentally Greek origins.⁶⁷ Dionysius thus establishes a close interrelation between Rome’s historical development and the time which his readers need to read through his work. The very structure of the Antiquitates encodes the historical development of early Rome into a reading experience which permits readers to re-enact early Roman history in their historical  The frequent references to learning and similar expressions, which describe the primary scope of Dionysius’ work, also belong into this context, e.g., τοῖς μαθοῦσι (..); ἃ προσήκει φρονεῖν (ibid.); μαθοῦσί γε παρὰ τῆς ἱστορίας (..). Cf. Fox [] , .  Cf. Fox (this volume), esp. p. , on the importance of Dionysius’ role as key to understanding his historical project as well as the interrelation of his historical and critical works.  Cf., e.g., περὶ δὲ τῶν πράξεων, ἃς μετὰ τὸν οἰκισμὸν εὐθέως ἀπεδείξαντο, καὶ περὶ τῶν ἐπιτηδευμάτων, ἐξ ὧν εἰς τοσαύτην ἡγεμονίαν προῆλθον οἱ μετ’ αὐτοὺς, ἀπὸ τῆς μετὰ ταύτην ἀρξάμενος ἀναγραφῆς ἀφηγήσομαι (emphases added) in the passage quoted above.  This point cannot be argued in detail here; see Wiater [] –, and cf. the subsequent discussion.

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imagination by way of the reading process and, in so doing, to witness the evolution of Rome’s Greek tradition and her rise to power resulting from it. This is why Dionysius so strongly emphasizes the crucial role of historical continuity ‘from the very beginnings’ (εὐθὺς ἐξ ἀρχῆς) in his historical account.⁶⁸ Representing this continuity, his work transfers temporal development into literary structure: εἰ γάρ τις ἐπιστήσας τὴν διάνοιαν ἐπὶ τὰς παραδεδομένας ἐκ τοῦ παρεληλυθότος χρόνου πόλεων τε καὶ ἐθνῶν ἡγεμονίας […] μακρῷ δή τινι τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἡγεμονίαν ἁπάσας ὑπερβεβλημένην ὄψεται τὰς πρὸ αὐτῆς μνημονευομένας οὐ μόνον κατὰ τὸ μέγεθος τῆς ἀρχῆς καὶ κατὰ τὸ κάλλος τῶν πράξεων, ἃς οὔπω κεκόσμηκε λόγος οὐδεὶς ἀξίως, ἀλλὰ καὶ κατὰ τὸ μῆκος τοῦ περιειληφότος αὐτὴν χρόνου μέχρι τῆς καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἡλικίας.⁶⁹

For if anyone turns his attention to the successive supremacies both of cities and of nations, as accounts of them have been handed down from times past […], he will find that the supremacy of the Romans has far surpassed all those that are recorded from earlier times, not only in the extent of its dominion and in the splendour of its achievements – which no account has as yet worthily celebrated – but also in the length of time during which it has endured down to our day. (..)

These passages are particularly illustrative of how Dionysius conceives of the interrelation of formal properties of his account (in particular its length), the reading experience it creates, and, hence, the effect it is supposed to have upon the minds (τὴν διάνοιαν) of the readers. As pointed out above, in contrast to the ‘some’ Greeks, who maintain that there is a discrepancy between Rome’s historical tradition and her present state of superiority,⁷⁰ Dionysius claims that this discrepancy is rather between Rome’s tradition and its representation. Since the available narratives of Rome’s early history are ‘very brief and summary epitomes’ (κεφαλαιώδεις ἐπιτομαὶ πάνυ βραχεῖαι, ..), they correspond in no way to the length and importance of this tradition. The brevity and summary character of these accounts mislead the reader to infer that this period is of minor importance. The very length of the Antiquitates, by contrast, is meant to represent the length and importance of the early Roman past.⁷¹ Consequently, the first erroneous assumption which Dionysius sets out to correct is the problem of the origin of the Roman people. The first book of the Antiquitates aims to demonstrate that the Romans’ ancestors were actually Greeks forced to leave Greece by various ‘turns of fortune’ (.., quoted above, p. ). Not only does this provide the Romans with an acceptable, namely Greek origin. It also  See, e.g., .., .., ..; cf. above, n. .  Cf. οὐδεμία γὰρ ἀκριβὴς ἐξελήλυθε περὶ αὐτῶν ἱστορία μέχρι τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνων […], .. (quoted above).  See above, p. .  This is in keeping with Dionysius’ discussion of the length and elaboration of a subject as means to convey the importance of an event (or lack thereof) to the readers, the ἐξεργασία; see Pomp. .–; Thuc. .–; ; cf. my remarks in n. , above. Ἐξεργασία thus also belongs to the larger subject of διάθεσις which was discussed above, p. –; for a more detailed discussion see Wiater [] –, –.

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explains their presence in Italy and the foundation of Rome herself as the result of an archetypal Greek activity, the colonization of a foreign country whenever the native land could no longer provide sufficient space and food.⁷² The importance of the ethnic origins of the Romans is emphasized by the fact that Dionysius devotes an entire book to the question which, furthermore, was probably first published as a separate study.⁷³ This is understandable if considered against the background of the key role of ethnic origins, in particular the notion of autochthony, for the classical Athenians’ self-image.⁷⁴ Dionysius then complements this ethnic definition of the Romans as Greeks with an ethical one. Not only the Romans’ origins but also their character was deeply and genuinely Greek even by the ‘classical’ standards outlined above: μαθοῦσί γε δὴ παρὰ τῆς ἱστορίας, ὅτι μυρίας ἤνεγκεν ἀνδρῶν ἀρετὰς εὐθὺς ἐξ ἀρχῆς μετὰ τὸν οἰκισμόν, ὧν οὔτ’ εὐσεβεστέρους οὔτε δικαιοτέρους οὔτε σωφροσύνῃ πλείονι παρὰ πάντα τὸν βίον χρησαμένους οὐδέ γε τὰ πολέμια κρείττους ἀγωνιστὰς οὐδεμία πόλις ἤνεγκεν οὔτε Ἑλλὰς οὔτε βάρβαρος […].

[The readers] shall […] learn from my history that Rome from the very beginning, immediately after its founding, produced infinite examples of virtue in men whose superiors, whether for piety or for justice or for life-long self-control or for warlike valour, no city, either Greek or barbarian, has ever produced.⁷⁵ (..)

One by one, Dionysius addresses and refutes his fellow Greeks’ arguments against the Romans’ right to power (.. above), ascribing to the latter the core moral and political values (ἀρεταί) of the classical Athenians’ self-image: εὐσέβεια, δικαιοσύνη, σωφροσύνη, and ‘warlike valour’ (οὔτ’ εὐσεβεστέρους οὔτε δικαιοτέρους οὔτε σωφροσύνῃ πλείονι παρὰ πάντα τὸν βίον χρησαμένους οὐδέ γε τὰ πολέμια κρείττους ἀγωνιστάς). The provocative claim of the Antiquitates is thus that the Romans, far

from being responsible for the downfall of the Greek cultural, moral, and political tradition, have continued and even surpassed the achievements of their Greek πρόγονοι.⁷⁶ It is the other part of Dionysius’ œuvre which testifies to and, indeed, relies on the idea of the Romans’ Greekness and their leading role in the preservation of  When relating that the Romans’ ancestors were Greeks led to Italy by Oenotrus, son of Lycaon (..), Dionysius explicitly refers to Italy as ἀποικία (..); by settling there and driving away the native barbarian (!) population, these Greeks, Dionysius emphasizes, followed ‘the customary manner of habitation in use among the ancients’ (ὅσπερ ἦν τοῖς παλαιοῖς τρόπος οἰκήσεως συνήθης, ..).  This can be inferred from ..; on the publication of the Antiquitates see the discussion in Fromentin [] xxvi–xxvii.  See above, p. .  Again, the expression μυρίας ἤνεγκεν ἀνδρῶν ἀρετὰς εὐθὺς ἐξ ἀρχῆς μετὰ τὸν οἰκισμὸν in the above quotation (my italics) emphasizes the idea of historical continuity and the correlation of the Romans’ Greek origins and their Greek qualities of character.  For the most detailed discussion of the idea, central to Dionysius’ interpretation of Roman history, that the Romans surpassed their Greek models see Delcourt []; cf. Hidber [].

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classical Greek culture. In his ‘classicist manifesto’,⁷⁷ the preface to his collection of critical essays On the Ancient Orators, Dionysius identifies Augustan Rome and her power as responsible for the rebirth of classical Greek language and identity: αἰτία δ’ οἶμαι καὶ ἀρχὴ τῆς τοσαύτης μεταβολῆς ἐγένετο ἡ πάντων κρατοῦσα Ῥώμη πρὸς ἑαυτὴν ἀναγκάζουσα τὰς ὅλας πόλεις ἀποβλέπειν καὶ ταύτης δὲ αὐτῆς οἱ δυναστεύοντες κατ’ ἀρετὴν καὶ ἀπὸ τοῦ κρατίστου τὰ κοινὰ διοικοῦντες, εὐπαίδευτοι πάνυ καὶ γενναῖοι τὰς κρίσεις γενόμενοι, ὑφ’ ὧν κοσμούμενον τό τε φρόνιμον τῆς πόλεως μέρος ἔτι μᾶλλον ἐπιδέδωκεν καὶ τὸ ἀνόητον ἠνάγκασται νοῦν ἔχειν. τοιγάρτοι πολλαὶ μὲν ἱστορίαι σπουδῆς ἄξιαι γράφονται τοῖς νῦν, πολλοὶ δὲ λόγοι πολιτικοὶ χαρίεντες ἐκφέρονται φιλόσοφοί τε συντάξεις οὐ μὰ Δία εὐκαταφρόνητοι ἄλλαι τε πολλαὶ καὶ καλαὶ πραγματεῖαι καὶ Ῥωμαίοις καὶ Ἕλλησιν εὖ μάλα διεσπουδασμέναι προεληλύθασί τε καὶ προελεύσονται κατὰ τὸ εἰκός. Καὶ οὐκ ἂν θαυμάσαιμι τηλικαύτης μεταβολῆς ἐν τούτῳ τῷ βραχεῖ χρόνῳ γεγενημένης, εἰ μηκέτι χωρήσει προσωτέρω μιᾶς γενεᾶς ὁ ζῆλος ἐκεῖνος τῶν ἀνοήτων λόγων [...].

I think that the cause and origin of this great revolution [i.e., the reinstalment of classical Greek language (πολιτικοὶ λόγοι/φιλόσοφος ῥητορική) as the only standard of literary production] has been the conquest of the world by Rome, who has thus forced every city to focus its entire attention upon her. Her leaders are chosen by merit, and administer the state according to the highest principles. They are thoroughly cultured and in the highest degree discerning, so that under their ordering influence the sensible section of the population has increased its power and the foolish have been compelled to behave rationally. This state of affairs has led to the publication of many worthwhile works of history by contemporary writers, and the publication of many elegant political tracts and many by no means negligible philosophical treatises; and a host of other fine works, the products of well-directed industry, have proceeded from the pens of both Greeks and Romans, and will probably continue to do so. And since this great revolution has taken place in so short a time, I should not be surprised if that craze for a silly style of oratory fails to survive another single generation [...].⁷⁸ (Orat. Vett. .–)

The Antiquitates thus provides the historical foundations to Dionysius’ interpretation of his own time, Augustan Rome, as the continuation of classical Athens and of the Romans (and their power) as representatives of classical Greek identity. At the same time, both parts of Dionysius’ œuvre taken together offer an interpretation of past and present in which Roman power is conditional on genuinely Greek moral and political values: the Romans would never have achieved such a state of superiority had they not from the very beginnings of their history consciously and extensively modelled their lives upon the Greeks, and it is only because of these Greek institutions and values that Roman power is not only justified but also preserved in the present as well as the future: τοῖς δ’ ἀπ’ ἐκείνων τῶν ἰσοθέων ἀνδρῶν νῦν τε οὖσι καὶ ὕστερον ἐσομένοις [sc. συμβήσεται] μὴ τὸν ἥδιστόν τε καὶ ῥᾷστον αἱρεῖσθαι τῶν βίων, ἀλλὰ τὸν εὐγενέστατον καὶ φιλοτιμότατον,

 For this term see the title of Hidber’s [] study.  Usher’s [] translation modified. On the interrelation of classical language and classical identity in Dionysius’ system of thought see Wiater [] –; Porter []; on the connection of classical language and political power see Wiater [] –.

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ἐνθυμουμένους ὅτι τοὺς εἰληφότας καλὰς τὰς πρώτας ἐκ τοῦ γένους ἀφορμὰς μέγα ἐφ’ ἑαυτοῖς προσήκει φρονεῖν καὶ μηδὲν ἀνάξιον ἐπιτηδεύειν τῶν προγόνων.

And again, both the present and future descendants of those godlike men will choose, not the pleasantest and easiest of lives, but rather the noblest and most ambitious, when they consider that all who are sprung from an illustrious origin ought to set a high value on themselves and indulge in no pursuit unworthy of their ancestors. (..)

In this passage, Roman and Greek identity have become virtually indistinguishable: if the Romans want to preserve their present state of affluence and superiority, they have to make the greatest effort possible to live up to the standards set by their ancestors (maiores).⁷⁹ However, this indistinguishability applies only to the Roman side: Dionysius leaves no doubt that the superior standards set by these Roman ancestors are thoroughly Greek. The underlying message of this passage is, therefore, that present and future generations of Romans alike, just as their ancestors, have to keep striving to become as Greek as possible if they want to stay Roman. Otherwise, Dionysius intimates, they would incur the same risk as all colonies, barbarization,⁸⁰ and lose their exemplary status: Ῥωμαῖοι δὲ φωνὴν μὲν οὔτ’ ἄκρως βάρβαρον οὔτ’ ἀπηρτισμένως Ἑλλάδα φθέγγονται, μικτὴν δέ τινα ἐξ ἀμφοῖν, ἧς ἐστιν ἡ πλείων Αἰολίς, τοῦτο μόνον ἀπολαύσαντες ἐκ τῶν πολλῶν ἐπιμιξιῶν, τὸ μὴ πᾶσι τοῖς φθόγγοις ὀρθοεπεῖν, τὰ δὲ ἄλλα, ὁπόσα γένους Ἑλληνικοῦ μηνύματ’ ἐστὶν ὡς οὐχ ἕτεροί τινες τῶν ἀποικησάντων διασώζοντες, οὐ νῦν πρῶτον ἀρξάμενοι πρὸς φιλίαν ζῆν, ἡνίκα τὴν τύχην πολλὴν καὶ ἀγαθὴν ῥέουσαν διδάσκαλον ἔχουσι τῶν καλῶν οὐδ’ ἀφ’ οὗ πρῶτον ὠρέχθησαν τῆς διαποντίου τὴν Καρχηδονίων καὶ Μακεδόνων ἀρχὴν καταλύσαντες, ἀλλ’ ἐκ παντὸς οὗ συνῳκίσθησαν χρόνου βίον Ἕλληνα ζῶντες καὶ οὐδὲν ἐκπρεπέστερον ἐπιτηδεύοντες πρὸς ἀρετὴν νῦν ἢ πρότερον.

The language spoken by the Romans is neither utterly barbarous nor absolutely Greek, but a mixture, as it were, of both, the greater part of which is Aeolic; and the only disadvantage they have experienced from their intermingling with these various nations is that they do not pronounce all their sounds properly. But all other indications of a Greek origin they preserve beyond any other colonists. For it is not merely recently, since they have enjoyed the full tide of good fortune to instruct them in the amenities of life, that they have begun to live humanely; nor is it merely since they first aimed at the conquest of countries lying beyond the sea, after conquering the Carthaginian and Macedonian empires, but rather from the time when they first joined in founding the city, that they have lived like Greeks; and they do not attempt anything more illustrious in the pursuit of virtue now than formerly. (..)

What at first sight looks like an unconditional compliment to the Romans is, in fact, a very ambiguous statement.⁸¹ Especially the reference to the Romans’ language, which has already been barbarized to a certain degree,⁸² shows that the Romans,  Cf. Bowersock [] ; Luraghi [] .  On barbarization see Bowersock [].  This ambiguity has not been sufficiently appreciated by modern commentators who tend to read the Antiquitates as an unconditionally positive, almost panegyric account of Rome’s grandeur, see, e.g., Fromentin []  n. ; cf. Delcourt [].

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although originally stemming from Greeks, are a people constantly on the brink of losing their identity and becoming ‘barbarians’. And they have only managed to avoid this fate because ‘from the time when they first joined in founding the city, [...] they have lived like Greeks; and they do not attempt anything more illustrious in the pursuit of virtue now than formerly’. As much as this passage implies a positive view of the Romans, it also implies a warning to Dionysius’ Roman readers: Rome’s greatness will last only as long as the Romans actively continue (ἐπιτηδεύοντες, in the above quotation) the tradition of their Hellenized ancestors.⁸³ Dionysius inscribes his historical work in the ubiquitous process of Hellenization, the Romans’ adapting and adopting elements of the (classical) Greek political and cultural tradition. He projects this behavioural pattern back onto early Roman history and, thus, makes the Romans’ ‘Greekness’ the key to their identity and, more importantly, to their political as well as cultural achievements. As a result, he, a Greek, claims a key role for his historical and critical œuvre, and the educational function (historia magistra vitae) associated with them, in the preservation of the Romans’ Greekness on which, in turn, the preservation of their current state of power relies. In so doing, Dionysius is exploiting the ambiguity that went hand-in-hand with Hellenization: Roman intellectuals were well aware that the overwhelming Greek influence on their own cultural identity, as much as they appreciated it, also represented a risk to their ‘Romanness’ by blurring the boundaries between Greek and Roman. As Wallace-Hadrill []  has succinctly put it, ‘for every example of Roman absorption you can produce a counter-example of Roman resistance and independence’. Horace’s famous claim that ‘captured Greece captured her uncultivated conqueror’ (Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, Epist. .., transl. mine) is an expression of the Romans’ ambivalent feelings about their relationship with the Greeks; so are the poignant opposition of a genuinely Roman ancestral tradition of morals and character (natura) to the tradition of learning from and improving on Greek models (litterae) at the beginning of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations (Tusc. .–) and the ‘power struggle’ over the priority of Latin over Greek in official contexts.⁸⁴ Being Greek or Roman was not a clear-cut and stable definition of what ‘one actually was’ but a matter of ongoing negotiation which often, and especially

 On Greek authors’ attitudes towards Latin and their definitions of the status of Latin in relation to Greek cf. Hintzen’s contribution to this volume.  For a more detailed discussion see Wiater [] – (with further literature); on the much-discussed subject of Roman Hellenization see, e.g., Wallace-Hadrill [], [], and []; Woolf [].  On the ‘power struggle over linguistic usage’ in which ‘the Romans saw themselves engaged’ see Wallace-Hadrill [] (the quotation at ); cf. the discussion of Dionysius’ classicism within the context of Hellenization in Wiater [] –, –.

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on the Roman part, required careful attention not to let ‘being Roman’ become a subcategory of ‘being Greek’.⁸⁵ Dionysius contributes to these ongoing negotiations of Greek and Roman identity by making a case for the priority of the Greek element. The preceding considerations suggest that not all Roman readers would have perceived such an image of themselves as unambiguously positive, let alone as an overt attempt at flattery, such as Dionysius is often accused of. As far as Greek recipients are concerned, Dionysius’ Hellenized Romans can be seen as an attempt to allow them to identify similarities between themselves and the Romans and to view themselves as part of an imagined community consisting of Greeks and Romans of past and present alike.⁸⁶ At the same time, however, Dionysius reminds his Greek recipients to be conscious of the essential importance of their cultural and political heritage to the Romans’ power. From this point of view, the Antiquitates can be read as a work seeking to engender a new confidence in its Greek recipients. For Dionysius leaves no doubt that the Romans have always had, and will always need, access to the achievements of (classical) Greek culture and, therefore, that they depend on Greek intellectuals like him and his readers to provide this service. By assigning to himself and his Greek recipients a crucial role in the preservation of Roman identity, Dionysius by implication also opposes the Romans’ perception of their Greek contemporaries. Part of the Romans’ attempt to define their role in relation to the Greeks was a very negative image of the Greeks of the present whom they viewed as unworthy of the achievements of their classical ancestors. To name only one prominent example, Cicero, while praising the cultural accomplishments (humanitas, Q Fr. ..) of the Greeks of old (vetere Graecia, ..–), strongly discourages his brother from socializing with his Greek contemporaries since most of them did not live up to the high standards set by their forebears.⁸⁷ As Woolf []  put it, summing up the gist of this attitude: ‘the Greeks may have invented civilization, but now they have lost it.’ This negative image of the Greeks allowed the Romans to assign themselves a superior position with regard to the Greek tradition. Now it was they who were entitled to select elements of the classical Greek heritage and to adapt them to their own needs. The Romans could thus view themselves as being in full control of the Greek elements of their identity rather than as being subjected to an unescapable

 Wallace-Hadrill [] has forcefully argued that ‘codeswitching’, i.e., the Romans’ ability to either act ‘Greek’ or ‘Roman’ in the appropriate contexts, was the defining characteristic of Roman identity (–); cf. Goldhill’s [] important discussion of the difficulties inherent in negotiating Greek, Roman (and Syrian) identities as they are playfully addressed in Lucian’s works, esp. : ‘There is a scale of “being Greek”: some are more Greek than others.’ It is the same idea that underlies Dionysius’ approach to his Roman contemporaries and their past.  On historiography creating an imagined community among the author, the readers, and the historical actors see above, p. .  On this and other passages of similar content see Woolf [] –.

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and overpowering Greek influence.⁸⁸ Against this background, Dionysius’ forceful assertion that he is in control of the access to the classical Greek legacy and his selfpresentation as a self-conscious mediator between Greek culture and Roman power in the present reads like an attempt to re-strengthen the role of the Greeks in the contemporary discourse of education and power and to invite his Greek readers to see themselves as playing an important, even essential role in the Roman empire. At the same time, though, Dionysius’ re-consideration of the Greeks’ role for the Romans’ identity is bound up with a re-definition of the Romans’ relation to (classical) Greek political and cultural values. The overt purpose of Dionysius’ historical work is to initiate a process of learning, and he emphasizes the necessity and importance of this process by stressing repeatedly that the image of the past which his Antiquitates presents is truthful and reliable.⁸⁹ Eventually, this process will modify the self-image of his Greek recipients to the effect that it defies a simple definition of the Romans as the ‘Barbarian Other’ along the lines of the classical Hellene-Barbarian antithesis.⁹⁰ From this point of view, writing (and reading) the Antiquitates is also a means of shaping Greek identity and of conceiving a world view in which the Romans are a crucial factor in the preservation of the Greek political and cultural tradition: the fact that the Romans’ identity has been shaped so deeply by the Greek tradition is now to be acknowledged by his Greek contemporaries and to shape their self-image accordingly. In so doing, Dionysius does, indeed, propose a novel conception of Greekness which acknowledges the Romans’ political superiority by stressing the dependency of this superiority on Greek cultural and political values. This, however, does not result, as has recently been suggested, in a ‘profound ethnical, cultural, and political unity’ of Greeks and Romans.⁹¹ On the contrary, Dionysius is negotiating the role of Greek and Roman elements for the self-image of both his Greek and Roman recipients: he does not dispute the Romans’ power nor their right to rule, yet expects them to acknowledge the fundamental role of the Greek element of their identity for it; Greek readers, on the other hand, are invited to see themselves as providing this indispensable ingredient of Roman superiority, while acknowledging that the

 Again, the preface to the first book of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations is an excellent illustration of this position, most prominently Cicero’s programmatic statement that ‘it has always been my strong opinion that all the things our people invented on their own, they invented better than the Greeks, and whatever they adopted from the Greeks, they improved – if, that is, they had decided that it was worth the effort’ (meum semper iudicium fuit omnia nostros aut invenisse per se sapientius quam Graecos aut accepta ab illis fecisse meliora, quae quidem digna statuissent, in quibus elaborarent, emphasis added, transl. mine).  Ἀλήθεια and similar expressions are frequent in Dionysius’ preface, see, e.g., .., .., cf. ..; ...  On the strong presence of the idea of ‘learning’ in Dionysius’ conception of historiography see the discussion above, p. – with n. .  Thus Delcourt []  (‘la profonde unité ethnique, culturelle et politique des deux peuples’); cf. ibid. .

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Romans are an important part of the preservation of their heritage and that ‘being Greek’ and ‘being Roman’ ultimately rest on the same foundations. Towards the end of his preface Dionysius presents himself as a representative of this novel conception of a Greek intellectual who allows for the Romans’ place in his image of the world and his self-image while preserving the sense of superiority of his Greek heritage. The passage reminds us again of the importance of a historiographer’s work as an expression of his identity (τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ διάνοιαν; παιδείαν): ἐμοὶ δὲ, ὃς οὐχὶ κολακείας χάριν ἐπὶ ταύτην ἀπέκλινα τὴν πραγματείαν, ἀλλὰ τῆς ἀληθείας καὶ τοῦ δικαίου προνοούμενος, ὧν δεῖ στοχάζεσθαι πᾶσαν ἱστορίαν, πρῶτον μὲν ἐπιδείξασθαι τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ διάνοιαν, ὅτι χρηστὴ πρὸς ἅπαντας ἐστὶ τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς καὶ φιλοθεώρους τῶν καλῶν ἔργων καὶ μεγάλων· ἔπειτα χαριστηρίους ἀμοιβάς, ἃς ἐμοὶ δύναμις ἦν, ἀποδοῦναι τῇ πόλει, παδείας τε μεμνημένῳ καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἀγαθῶν ὅσων ἀπέλαυσα διατρίψας ἐν αὐτῇ.

And I, who have not turned aside to this work for the sake of flattery, but out of a regard for truth and justice, which ought to be the aim of every history, shall have an opportunity, in the first place, of expressing my gratitude of goodwill toward all good men and toward all who take pleasure in the contemplation of great and noble deeds; and, in the second place, of making the most grateful return that I may to the city in remembrance of the education and other blessings I have enjoyed during my residence in it. (..)

That Dionysius thanks Rome for the education (παιδείας) he obtained from her is remarkable.⁹² In so doing, he presents himself as having gone through the same process of learning and re-thinking Greek and Roman identities which his work is designed to bring about in his recipients. The Antiquitates is a particularly suitable gift in return for this ‘education’ in that it both testifies to Dionysius’ own process of learning and is itself a piece of scholarly writing and research (τῆς ἀληθείας [...] προνοούμενος), the product of Dionysius’ παιδεία. However, Dionysius’ expression of gratitude to Rome for the received education might have an additional implication which I would at least like to suggest before concluding this paper. In thanking Rome for the education and other benefits, Dionysius seems to be alluding to a stock theme of Isocrates’ panhellenic speeches and the Attic Funeral Oration which describes Athens in the interrelated terms of both mother and educator of her citizens.⁹³ This results in what Loraux has called a ‘circular relationship’⁹⁴ between polis and citizens: by forming the characters of her citizens according to the values of her constitution (πολιτεία), Athens turns  The use of the ideologically charged term παιδεία in this context distinguishes Dionysius’ statement from, e.g., Diodorus’ rather general expression of gratitude for the library resources at Rome which enabled him to compile his world history (..–). Cf. Hidber’s (this volume) discussion of Cicero’s potential influence on Dionysius’ ideas.  E.g., Plat. Menex. c–; e-c, esp. πολιτεία [...] τροφὴ ἀνθρώπων, c, and passim; Dem. .– (καὶ γεγενῆσθαι καλῶς καὶ πεπαιδεῦσθαι σωφρόνως καὶ βεβιωκέναι φιλοτίμως, .); Lys. .–; cf. Hyp. . –. See Loraux [] –, and  on the interrelation of the notions of παιδεία and autochthony in the Funeral Oration.  Loraux [] .

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them into carriers of her ancestral moral and political tradition so that they, in turn, ensure the preservation and perpetuation of this tradition. In the above passage, Dionysius is defining his relationship with Rome along the same lines: he repays her for the education she provided by perpetuating a truthful and positive image of Rome and the political and moral values which distinguish both her constitution and the character of her citizens.⁹⁵ This statement further underscores the idea, crucial to Dionysius’ interpretation of Augustan Rome, that Rome is the, as it were, classical Athens of the first century .⁹⁶ It is fruitful to read this idea against Barbara Borg’s (this volume) observations on the position taken by Athens in Dionysius’ times with regard to her classical heritage. As Borg suggests, the Athenians came to abandon ‘political and civic concepts of freedom, honour, and prosperity’ and accepted ‘the Roman definition of Greekness which focussed on cultural accomplishments, art, learnedness, rhetoric, literature and philosophy’.⁹⁷ Dionysius’ definition of Rome as the new Athens and of Roman politics and power as being intertwined with, if not dependent on, classical Greek education can then be seen as an attempt to oppose such a reduction of the classical heritage to its cultural side. Unlike his Athenian contemporaries, he does not succumb to what was an ultimately Roman construction of Greek identity and, as such, an attempt of Roman intellectuals to reduce the significance of Greek achievements for Roman identity; Dionysius claims nothing less than that Athens has lost her former status as the paradigm of Greek political and cultural superiority and that this status has now – not the least thanks to him – been transferred to Rome and its thriving Greek intellectual community. By associating Greek παιδεία and Roman power, Dionysius re-emphasizes the strong political implications of the classical heritage.⁹⁸ Furthermore, this intimates that the full potential of this heritage can be and has been realized only in the world-encompassing power of the new center of the world while the power of Athens is just as enervated as the image  Cf. Fox (this volume) p. : ‘The story of Rome’s πολιτεία, not the character or ethnic origin of the inhabitants themselves, is the material for history.’  See above, p. .  Borg p. ; cf. Whitmarsh (this volume) p. –. Lamberton [] – quotes the famous passage from Virgil’s Aeneid (.–) as the most prominent example of this, as he calls it, ‘first Romanization of Athens’ which located Rome, rather than Athens, at the centre of the (Greek) world. Later, under Hadrian, Lamberton argues, Athens is made the center of the Greek world again, with the emperor’s establishment of the Panhellenion there. This change in perspective and revaluation of the role of Athens Lamberton calls the ‘second Romanization’ of Athens (cf. ), ascribing a central role to Plutarch’s writings in this process: ‘In this Greek world [i.e., the image of the Greek world emerging from Plutarch’s Lives], rethought in terms not of art but of action, Athens stands in a position analogous to that of Rome in the Empire’ (). It should be pointed out, though, that examples of such a limitation on cultural achievements on the part of the Greeks occur as early as in the second century , see Polybius ..– with Most (this volume) p. –. Moreover, as Schmitz shows in his chapter in this volume, Diodorus, too, was ‘under the influence of tendencies that emphasize the “cultural” part of Greek history’ (p. ).  Similarly, Fox (this volume) p.  discusses the ‘challenging blend of the political and the stylistic’ characteristic of Dionysius’ classicism as a form of historicism.

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of the classical heritage which she represents.⁹⁹ Such a programmatic focus on Rome, and concomitant marginalization of Athens, might have been especially appealing to Dionysius who was himself born in a colony and whose Greekness might have been questionable by strict classical standards, to say the least. The alignment with Rome and her power was a chance for Dionysius and other Greek intellectuals from the margins of the Greek world to dissociate genuinely classical Greekness from Athens as the physical and geographical center of Greek identity propagated so forcefully by classical Athenian writers.¹⁰⁰

. Conclusions Calling Dionysius an ‘avantgardist’ of Greek identity would probably be an exaggeration. But the way in which he seeks to integrate classical standards of identity into the political and cultural reality of his time is remarkable. Contrary to a wide-spread opinion, ‘nostalgia’ is not a fitting description at all of Dionysius’ attitude to classical Athens. By contrast, this term is an appropriate description of the world view of those Greeks whose self-image and image of the Romans Dionysius’ Antiquitates is designed to challenge. There is no doubt that Dionysius’ vision of the classical Athenians is idealized. His criticism of Thucydides shows this very well: to him (and many others), Athenians of the fifth and fourth centuries  did represent the moral and political virtues which such authors as Isocrates ascribed to them. Unlike the Greeks he addresses in the preface to his historical work, however, Dionysius has understood and accepted that Athens has lost her leading role in the world, that the Romans have taken over this role, and that this process is irreversible. Instead of lamenting the loss of Athenian power and contesting the legitimacy of Roman

 This view is supported by Dionysius’ comparison of the Athenian and Roman empires at ..: ‘As for the Greek powers, it is not fitting to compare them to those just mentioned [i.e., the empires of the Assyrians, Medes, Persians, and Macedonians], since they gained neither magnitude of empire nor duration of eminence equal to theirs. For the Athenians ruled only the sea coast, during the space of sixty-eight years, nor did they sway extend even over all that, but only to the part between the Euxine and the Pamphylian seas, when their naval supremacy was at its height’ (τὰς γὰρ Ἑλληνικὰς δυνάμεις οὐκ ἄξιον αὐταῖς ἀντιπαρεξετάζειν, οὔτε μέγεθος ἀρχῆς οὔτε χρόνον ἐπιφανείας τοσοῦτον ὅσον ἐκεῖναι λαβούσας. Ἀθηναῖοι μέν γε αὐτῆς μόνον ἦρξαν τῆς παραλίου δυεῖν δέοντα ἑβδομήκοντα ἔτη καὶ οὐδὲ ταύτης ἁπάσης, ἀλλὰ τῆς ἐντὸς Εὐξείνου τε πόντου καὶ τοῦ Παμφυλίου πελάγους, ὅτε μάλιστα ἐθαλασσοκράτουν).  See the discussion above, p. – with n. . Cf. Schmitz’ (this volume, p. ) remarks on the transformation of key figures, literary genres, and places of the classical period, such as Demosthenes, Homer, tragedy, and Athens, into ‘icons of “Greekdom” ’ which allowed ‘every person speaking Greek’ to ‘become a true heir to the glory that was Greece’. As Schmitz points out, this process was essential especially for a multi-ethnic region like the East of the Roman empire because it was ‘the only way to produce a cultural identity’. Along similar lines, I have argued in [] – that Dionysius’ conception of mimesis is designed to enable him and his addressees to overcome the temporal distance between themselves and their classical models.

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rule, Dionysius’ response to the new world order is more pragmatic: he makes productive use of the Roman discourse of Hellenization and the constant negotiation of Greek and Roman identities on the Roman side and turns Roman power into a cornerstone of his Greek world view. In this world view, being Greek does not entail a hostile attitude to the Romans, but it does not require compromising on the heritage of classical cultural, moral, and political values either. The discussion in the first part of this paper has shown that Dionysius regards establishing an emotional link between readers in the present and the historical actors of the past as the most important task of historical writing. By inviting Greek readers to focus on the essential role of Greek elements in Roman identity, the Antiquitates encourages them to identify with the Romans on the basis of these similarities and to acknowledge their part in the preservation of Greek identity even after Greek political hegemony had broken down. From this point of view, Dionysius’ early Roman history attempts to create the same kind of ‘imagined’ community between Greeks and Romans as Herodotus’ Histories establishes between Greek readers and their classical Athenian predecessors. Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides helps to facilitate this transition from Greek to Roman past in Dionysius’ conception of Greek collective identity: Thucydides was a member of the classical Athenian elite himself, but nevertheless his work renders identification with the classical Athenians impossible. How much more likely is it, then, Dionysius seems to ask, that the Greeks’ perception of the Romans and their relationship with the Greeks has been distorted by subjective and unreliable historical accounts? The past is, after all, only as good as its textual representation, and Dionysius’ criticism of Thucydides’ choice of a start and end point of his narrative makes it clear that any set of events can be represented in a positive or negative light, depending on how these events are contextualized. However, this should not cause us to idealize Dionysius as the propagator of an ‘ecumenical’ world view in which Greeks and Romans have reached a new level of ethnic and ethical unity.¹⁰¹ As much as Dionysius portrays the Romans and their achievements in a positive light and credits them with the preservation of Greek values, he does inscribe them into a distinctly Greek framework in which ‘the Roman’ only makes sense when it is seen as part of ‘the Greek’. In Dionysius’ interpretation of the world, there are Hellenized Romans but no Romanized Greeks. The Roman empire under Augustus is based on and disseminates classical Greek language and identity, and it makes sense only as such. Defining Roman power as the vehicle of Greek cultural identity, Dionysius restitutes to classical Greek language and education the political impact it had had in classical times. He re-politicizes Greek identity and, in doing so, is at variance with the practice adopted by the mainland Greeks and, if Barbara Borg is right, even by the Athenians, who accepted that ‘Greek’ was a predicate that applied to culture but was devoid of politics and power. Dionysius’ entire classicist ideology is based  For such a view see Delcourt [], esp. , , –; cf. the discussion in Wiater [] –.

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on this (re-)definition of Rome as the new Athens. Again, this shows that classicism is not nostalgia: Dionysius does not want to turn the clock back to the classical times and re-install Athens as the cultural and political centre of the world – as he acknowledges himself, neither the Athenian nor the Spartan hegemonies can compete with the historically unparalleled extension and duration of the Roman empire. In stark contrast, Dionysius defines the rebirth of classical Greek identity as part of the Roman world and vice versa. He thus ascribes a crucial role in the creation and preservation of Roman identity and power not only to the Greeks of the past but also and most importantly to those of the present, such as himself and the Greeks among his readers: Greek intellectuals like Dionysius are far from being unworthy of their heritage, as some Romans claimed. Quite to the contrary, the Romans depend on them and the access to Greek παιδεία they provide, because the only way to stay Roman is to become Greek. Whether all Romans would have liked such a view of themselves is doubtful at the very least. We probably have to envisage a mixed response: intellectuals, who, like Cicero, were aware of the dangers of Hellenization, would probably have rejected it. Others such as Dionysius’ addressees Q. Aelius Tubero, the dedicatee of On Thucydides, and Metilius Rufus, the addressee of On Literary Composition, might have been more prone to viewing themselves as a little less Roman in order to feel a little more Greek. One of the most fascinating aspects of Dionysius’ theoretical discussion of historical writing is the importance he ascribes to historical works as a means of expressing the author’s identity, and he expected his readers, be they Greek or Roman, to view the Antiquitates as such, too. His historical work represents him as an intellectual who has full control not only over the Greek cultural heritage but also the Roman past. He self-consciously defines himself as operating on the interface of Greek and Roman, the ‘inbetween space’ of culture, to adopt an expression of Homi Bhabha,¹⁰² without having forfeited his Greekness. Like many others,¹⁰³ Dionysius preferred to live and work in Rome rather than Athens or anywhere else in the Mediterranean. In his case, however, this choice is particularly significant because he presents himself in his theoretical writings as the only competent teacher of classical Greek language and identity.¹⁰⁴ His living and working in Rome thus also amounts to a statement that the centre of Greekness has shifted from Athens to Rome and that Greek identity can succeed fully only when it avails itself of the rich material Roman resources, resources which Athens had lost a long time ago, if she had ever had them at all. Presenting himself as having undergone a process of re-learning about Greek and Roman, Dionysius invites his Greek readers to allow the Antiquitates to engender the same process in themselves, as the future of Greek identity lies, at least to a certain extent, in the Romans’ Greekness. Hence, as much  Cf. Bhabha [] .  See Dihle’s and Hidber’s contributions to this volume.  See Wiater [] –.

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as we might refuse to call Dionysius an ‘avantgardist’, and maybe justly so, this term seems to describe best the image of himself which he designed his works to convey.

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Matthew Fox

The Style of the Past: Dionysius of Halicarnassus in Context The past is never a separate realm, and historiography, particularly in antiquity, is the genre in which anxieties about identity are most energetically explored.¹ The two best preserved historians from the late first century , in their different conceptions of what history demands of a Greek historian, give a contrasting vision of the political concerns of the period. Diodorus Siculus aimed to explode the boundaries of Greek history and integrate it into a universal context stretching back to prehistory, and to blur the distinctions between myth and history, human and divine. His work was the most systematic version yet of what several earlier historians had also attempted: relativizing a narrow idea of Greek nationhood against a background that may at times have appeared Panhellenic, but which was frequently, from Herodotus on, a global one.² Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ Roman Antiquities works in another direction. Narrowly focussed upon the single polis that was Rome, he dismantled the polarity between Roman and Greek, made Roman history into Greek history, and thereby, tried to provide Greeks with a sense of participation in that history, even, perhaps, ownership, and encouraged Romans to continue to be worthy of their Greek ancestors.³ Both approaches make clear what was at stake: the boundaries between communities, and the different genealogies available for understanding the place of the reader within the great events of the past.⁴ This paper focuses on Dionysius. Beyond the kinds of study that can be undertaken for any historian, of their political ambitions, cultural context, or relationship to genre or predecessors, Dionysius’ career as a rhetorician makes possible a different kind of

 For an elegant exposition of the balance between memorialization and function-driven historical thought in later Greek historiography, see Kuhn-Chen [] –.  On the ‘universalizing tendency’ see Alonso-Núñez []; Clarke []. On Diodorus’ conception of Greekness see further Schmitz’ chapter in this volume; cf. Most’s remarks on systematization and compilation in Diodorus (this volume, p. ). Polybius is probably the most significant forerunner for both. On his politics, see Champion []. Marincola [] carefully dismantles any notions that may persist that ancient historiography had binding generic standards as to its scope or approach. See too Pelling []. Champion [] – presents careful evidence for caution about Panhellenism in historical traditions.  Delcourt [] , – explores this double perspective in Dionysius’ work. Like most earlier interpreters, however, she gives more weight to a Greek response to Dionysius’ elaboration of Greco-Roman identity; cf. Wiater (this volume), esp. p. –, for a discussion of the different ways in which Greek and Roman recipients might have read the Antiquitates; Gabba [] .  Posidonius and Strabo add a further dimension: Clarke [].

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analysis. In the combination of his literary-critical and historical interests, Dionysius represents a unique opportunity to explore one of the fundamental processes of historiography: the intersection between language and time. The nexus of ideas that I shall explore here concern style, and its relationship to conceptions of history. Style, in Dionysius’ thought, appears to have a fundamentally ahistorical, even anti-historical quality. Dionysius strove to elaborate an artificial and conservative style, through which he paved the way for the creation of a standard Atticizing form of prose. His programme depended upon a particular attitude to the past. This story is the conventional one of all narratives of the Second Sophistic. Indeed, it is fundamental both to Dionysius’ accounts of the rhetorical canon, as well as to Droysen’s definition of Hellenistic: that the Golden Age of Greek literature was long over, essentially terminated by the advent of the Macedonian empire.⁵ It was Dionysius’ quest to preserve the best of this lost heritage in such a way that, even though the reality of Greek political life under Rome signified complete rupture from the conditions of the free poleis, Greeks could continue to communicate in a language that enabled them to maintain contact with the values and style of that bygone age, to imagine themselves, while under Roman rule, as the heirs of Lysias and Demosthenes. In the process, they would disconnect themselves from the excessive rhetoric that characterized the intervening period of Greek culture. The political discourse which Atticism aimed to produce was thus a kind of living museum:⁶ Hellenic (let us call it) culture was preserved, and, in theory, statesmen were trained in a form of oratory that gave them a sense of identification with an idealized Classical past.⁷ From this point on, the Greek relationship with the past could be characterized as one that combines discontinuity with continuity. The value and relevance of the classical past remains constant, and is guaranteed by the establishment of a standard set of stylistic and linguistic norms for literary Greek. But the past itself ceases to be reinterpreted. It has one function: that of providing models for the statesmen of the future. In the same way the present also ceases to evolve. Ideological momentum takes the form of revival and repetition. Dionysius’ readers and successors are living, we generally suppose, in a fundamentally conservative world, in which their sense of political identity was grounded in history, and where they aspired to talk and write like the great statesmen of a culture that no longer existed. This analysis is not, I think, a straw target, and the thrust of this paper will not be to knock it down, so much as to change the emphasis. I shall argue that the analysis works well enough if we consider Greece in a vacuum, but that it works less well if we bring Rome into the picture. I shall also suggest that when we do bring  Most clearly expressed in the preface to On the Ancient Orators. See Hidber []. This rupture became firmly established and is also characteristic of the Second Sophistic historical perspective: Bowie [] esp. –; –. For a survey of modern approaches, see Whitmarsh [] –.  On linguistic criteria of Atticism in Hellenistic scholarship see Hintzen’s contribution to this volume.  Gabba [] –; and in more detail, Swain [] –, esp. –.

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Rome in, the dynamic quality of Dionysius’ thought emerges more clearly, and in particular, his concern for a continued evolution of Greek culture. The presence of Rome within Greek conceptions of the past means, in fact, that we must question the fundamental conservative quality of this picture of Greece. Dionysius’ recreation of early Rome is a radical project, rather than a conservative one. It aims at changing Greek perceptions both of Romans and of themselves.⁸ It does so not by rewriting the familiar past of Classical Greece; but thinking more fluidly about the distinction between Greek and Roman, we can see that it makes Rome into a part of Greek history, and in the process challenges Greeks to rethink their own past. What is the relationship between this radical agenda, and the perceived conservatism of Dionysius’ stylistic classicism, in which Dionysius seems to seek refuge from a sense of potential disempowerment in the present through the revival of a backwardlooking language? It is the contention of this paper that we can reconcile these conflicting impulses if we think of Dionysius’ efforts both as an historian and a critic as being focussed not so much in the past, as on the future. The ahistorical quality of Dionysius’ Attic revival diminishes if it is understood as a reforming polemic directed towards the future. Furthermore, I shall suggest that in contrast to some other ways of thinking about the past that were available to him, Dionysius is actually quite interested in the notion of historical specificity. He can be sensitive to the idea of historical uniqueness, and this sensitivity can be squared more easily with his stylistic concerns if we bear in mind that his frame of reference is not so much the recreation of the past, as the demonstration of the potential of revival for the forging of a more effective political identity in time to come.⁹ So I shall look in more detail at two particular contexts (historiographical tradition; the influence of Stoicism), in order to define the anti-historical quality of Dionysius’ thought with more precision. To begin with, I shall present the case that in Dionysius we find consistent evidence that the difference between the past and present is constantly occluded. In the interests of creating a vision of Greece based upon the idealization of Classical models, but at the same time making that vision one in which political discourse can continue in the present, and for the future, Dionysius presents a version of literary style which obscures any notion of historical development or change. Dionysius’ vision of Hellenic identity is expressed through his quest for a refined Classicizing style, in which both he and his students can reproduce the values of an idealized past, without concern about the actual historical circumstances which produced the inspiring models upon which Dionysius is drawing. Whether it is the Greece of Homer, or that of Isocrates, the quest for an effective political discourse has little respect for historical context, and what emerges is a thoroughly literary form of Greek identity based upon a dynamic of representation

 Cf. Wiater (this volume), esp. p. .  Cf. Wiater’s chapter in this volume.

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and imitation.¹⁰ The great deeds of Greek history cannot readily be distinguished from the literary accounts in which we read about them, and in looking to the past for models, the concern of Dionysius and his readers is to grasp fully the application of those great deeds for the present day. It is not an exaggeration to say that, in this way of thinking, the past is not really the past at all; history loses its diachronic quality, and if it retains any distinctness from the present, then this does not imply any particular discrimination between different periods in the past.¹¹ In general, this picture is already well understood in existing scholarship, but it is often conceived of, in the case of Dionysius in particular, as being the product of a particular conception of rhetoric in shaping ideas of Greek culture. The teaching of rhetoric is thought to determine Dionysius’ approach to history (one where style is the highest goal), and it is this rhetorical context, later nourishing the writers of the Second Sophistic, which is responsible for his rather idiosyncratic conception of what history can contribute to the present. My aim here, therefore, is to tackle directly this ahistorical quality, and to think about other ways of dealing with the past that were available to Greeks in this period. Rather than being contingent on an interest in rhetoric per se, Dionysius’ approach to the past can be harmonized with other areas of thought, in particular with philosophy, which manifested, in its quest for forms of definition which defied historical specificity, a similar desire to prevent historical circumstance from interfering with the needs of a particular form of argument. If the ahistoricity of Dionysius’ approach was in fact typical of a wider context of ways of thinking about history, or ideas-in-history, we must then look at the question of why we might regard Dionysius as atypical, or why this anti-historical context has not received more direct attention. The answer lies, I shall suggest, in the cultural exchange between Greece and Rome, in particular, in our own attitude towards that exchange. I shall be looking at Cicero for support for the idea that, in contrast to Greece, Rome in this period had a more historicist way of approaching its past.¹² It is because that historicism is more closely related to modern expectations both of rhetoric and historical discourse, that we have successfully neglected the evidence which points to a widespread anti-historicism in Greek identity in this period, and why the appeal to a rhetorical culture has seemed a sufficient explanation of Dionysius’ lack of interest in historical specificity. In that light, we can perhaps give greater weight to those moments where his writings do display an interest in historical specificity, or where they clarify the relationship between stylistic reform  As Whitmarsh [] makes clear (dealing with the literature of the Second Sophistic), the conception of imitation, elaborated in part by Dionysius himself, is indeed highly dynamic. See esp. –. On the linguistic/historical mimesis of Dionysius, Hidber [] –; Delcourt [] –. Cf. Schmitz’ (this volume, p. ) remarks on the transformation of figures, literary genres, and places of the classical past into ‘icons of “Greekdom” ’.  Swain []  ‘Actual past events are not especially important’; cf. Hidber (this volume) p. , on the classicist conception of history.  For a discussion of Cicero’s possible influence on Dionysius’ conception of classicism see Hidber (this volume) p. –.

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and political renewal. I shall end by suggesting that, although he does display an anti-historicism that is typical of his age, Dionysius also has a rather clearer agenda about how Greek identity can move forward, which can be read as a response to concrete historical circumstance.

. Anti-historicism… As is well known, in Dionysius’ depiction of early Rome, the founding fathers of the city demonstrate, in their classicizing rhetoric, the virtues of a polished form of πολιτικὸς λόγος (political discourse) of the same type as the one that Dionysius searches for in his readings of his rhetorical models. The set speeches in which Roman kings and statesmen hold forth in a regurgitation of reminiscences of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Demosthenes are the most obvious examples: they show that the early Romans are in effect models of accomplished rhetorical performance and the humane exercise of political power.¹³ They make the political processes of early Rome into demonstrations of the Greekness of Rome’s earliest political processes, so that early Rome itself, both in terms of the way in which Dionysius narrates it, and in terms of the way in which its protagonists conduct themselves, becomes an historical example. Dionysius concludes the first book of Roman Antiquities by distinguishing between the Greek style of life that the Romans have followed (βίον Ἕλληνα ζῶντες) and their πολιτεία (political system). His account of the latter will make up his historical narrative; the proofs of Greek identity in the first book lead him to conclude that the Greek βίος (way of life) has been a constant feature of Roman identity, corresponding to the ethnic and linguistic makeup of Rome’s inhabitants. Historical change, therefore, in this regard does not require further elaboration. The story of Rome’s πολιτεία, not the character or ethnic origin of the inhabitants themselves, is the material for history.¹⁴ That Dionysius’ Romans thus disport themselves like Classical Greeks is not an oversight, so much as the result of a particular historical analysis, albeit one that is predicated upon a (to us) rather implausible thesis, and one that largely refutes any interest in historical change or development. The process of providing models can work just as well in an historical narrative as it can in the more direct description of what makes good public discourse in his works of literary criticism. The latter give the theory of what Dionysius regards as a workable Attic style; the former actually give him the opportunity to demonstrate what is, on the basis of those theories, stylistically possible (although speeches make up rather less of Dionysius’ narrative than one might think, especially for the early books; nevertheless, simply to narrate in good Attic has a similar effect). The main ramification of the style of set speeches in Roman Antiquities is that the civic life of  Fox [].  Ant. Rom. ..

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Rome is turned into something that expresses closely Dionysius’ idealization of the political life of classical Athens. The assimilation of Rome to Athens, in fulfilment of a programme for describing how best to produce a classicizing style that unites the best elements of the canonical models of Attic oratory, does not so much make Rome look like a parody of Athens, but rather takes the reader into a fundamentally ahistorical world, where history demonstrates some absolute standard of moral, political, and discursive excellence detached from a concrete sense of circumstance. Dionysius’ Romans look, speak, and behave like Greeks, but they do not do so in a way that responds either particularly closely to a sense of what it was actually like to live either in Italy in the seventh century, or Greece in the fifth. In the process of historical idealization, the inhabitants of archaic Rome are the product of a process of historical bricolage: composite creatures from a range of historical contexts, dislocated, and deriving an identity only from their supposed effect upon their readers: readers who are susceptible to the depiction of Rome as a superior Greek polis.¹⁵ In this manner Dionysius’ recreation of early Rome and his sifting of the canonical orators for tips on stylistic improvement are similar in their focus. They are both ways of looking at the past for a form of inspiration in the present, rather than for any recognition of the difference between historical and contemporary culture. History is not something that works to highlight the difference of the present from the past and to give readers an insight into the conditions in which ancestors or moral models actually lived: it is a resource which can be drawn upon to inspire a better quality of political life in the future.¹⁶ That that inspiration is historical in origin is entirely central, but history here does not act as a limitation upon the freedom of Dionysius’ readers to follow those models exactly. Dionysius’ literary criticism is characterized by a clear sense that no existing author demonstrates perfection. The essays on individual writers are characterized not just by an interest in imitation, but also by the techniques required to avoid shortcomings. Insofar as an idealization of classical prose exists in the critical works, it is an idealization of the authors’ ability to create at a certain moment a particularly powerful effect. In this respect, it is crucial that Dionysius’ interest in the past has such a strong basis in text.¹⁷ This focus on text has a double-edged quality. On the one hand, it reinforces the sense when reading the Antiquities that history is simply a collection of texts to be worked over in the production of a new historical account: the frequent citation of sources does allow Dionysius to weigh up different versions of the same event, and to come to his own conclusion about what is most probable. In that sense, the process of sifting and comparing of versions has a critical quality to it that  On Rome as the ‘new Athens’ in Dionysius’ thought see Wiater (this volume); cf. Hidber, Dihle, and Hintzen (this volume) on the influence of Greek learning and the role of Greek scholars in Augustan Rome.  Cf. Wiater’s discussion of the past as a ‘repertoire of events’ in Dionysius’ thought (this volume, p. ), cf. id. [] –.  Cf. the discussion in Wiater (this volume), p. .

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presupposes some kind of discoverable truth about history that (originally at least) resided outside the textual record. But the more overpowering impression of such comparisons is that Dionysius’ researches are limited not just by the textual nature of his sources. Dionysius’ comparisons of different accounts are aimed at finding out what the best way of representing archaic Rome is; but what is best is defined not in terms of any delving into the actual reality of the past, looking behind the sources, but rather, in finding its ability to demonstrate the validity of universal precepts about the way the world works. The death of Tullus Hostilius is a neat example (Ant. Rom. .). Tullus dies in a house fire, his wife and children perishing with him. The first explanation offered for the fire, on the authority of some sources (οἱ μέν …) is that it was divine revenge for the neglect of certain native sacrifices and the introduction of other, foreign ones. Most writers, however, (οἱ δὲ πλείους …) attribute the death to Ancus Marcius, whose sense of the imminent eclipse of the lineage of Numa leads him to enter Tullus’ house in a storm, murder the inhabitants and fire it. Dionysius weighs up the probability of the two versions, and decides, against that majority view, that on the basis of the probable relationship between the realms of the human and divine, it was more likely that Tullus’ demise was occasioned by divine displeasure, than that the gods would have allowed favourable omens to have accompanied the election of a murderer (Ancus) to the position of monarch. History here follows constant laws of probability, not in accordance with any clear sense of the character of particular historical periods. The majority of Dionysius’ sources clearly presented a monarchy beset by familial feuds, and perhaps found that vision of archaic Rome more plausible than Dionysius’ more rationally organized one. The production of Dionysius’ own history is a consistent statement of the applicability of such laws to the early period of Rome’s history. We are dealing here with a fundamentally anti-historicist approach to the past, but it is one in which, importantly, Dionysius’ clear pretensions to be a responsible historian are not compromised. He presents both sides of the argument, and in giving his own view, does not feel the need to obscure the problems presented by his sources. . … and Historicism The situation in his critical writings looks at first sight rather different. Dionysius’ account of the revival of the fortunes of rhetoric at Rome presupposes a clear sense of the epochal divisions of historical time. These distinctions present a challenging blend of the political and the stylistic, that is, I think, indicative of the way in which Dionysius conceives of history generally. The prologue to the essays on the ancient orators is the place where this blend is most clearly expressed. The rebirth of rhetoric is linked closely to the particular conditions in which Greeks find themselves, in the benign shadow of Rome, and likewise, the decline of rhetoric into Asianic squalor was the manifestation of particular historical forces (On the Ancient Orators,

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preface).¹⁸ The quest to link forms of rhetorical discourse to particular kinds of political organization can usefully be described as a form of historicism.¹⁹ The clearest manifestation of such a trend at Rome is Tacitus’ Dialogus, which presents a more specific account of the grounding of rhetorical styles in material conditions. There is a danger of extrapolating from the less specific presentation in earlier accounts (such of those of Dionysius or Cicero) to conclude that this is in itself a recognizable topic in literary history of which Tacitus is just the most refined form. So the details of Dionysius’ presentation are worth careful examination (as are those of Cicero, which I will touch on later). A central feature of the introduction to the essays on ancient orators is Dionysius’ focus on time. Πολλὴν χάριν ἦν εἰδέναι τῷ καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνῳ δίκαιον, ὦ κράτιστε Ἀμμαῖε, καὶ ἄλλων μέν τινων ἐπιτηδευμάτων ἕνεκα νῦν κάλλιον ἀσκουμένων ἢ πρότερον, οὐχ ἥκιστα δὲ τῆς περὶ τοὺς πολιτικοὺς λόγους ἐπιμελείας οὐ μικρὰν ἐπίδοσιν πεποιημένης ἐπὶ τὰ κρείττω.

It is right, most honourable Ammaeus, to render thanks to our own time: all kinds of practices are now being performed better than before, and most importantly, much greater attention has been paid towards improving the standard of political discourse. (Orat. Vett. ...)

In this opening sentence, Dionysius takes an idiom that is probably Attic in flavour (χάριν εἰδέναι, see LSJ) and varies it by making Time into an object of gratitude; immediately afterwards he distinguishes between the practices of the present day, and those of an earlier one (νῦν as opposed to πρότερον). He then explains that in times prior to their own (ἐν γὰρ δὴ τοῖς πρὸ ἡμῶν χρόνοις) the ancient philosophical rhetoric had been trampled into the mud, supplanted in its rightful place by the shameless, exploitative, and thoroughly non-philosophical rhetoric, which, like a harlot in charge of an oikos, treats the rightful wife literally like shit (σκυβαλίζουσα). The over-heated rhetoric of this section is highly entertaining. The personification of Asianist rhetoric, to which Dionysius’ own style here is coming dangerously close, as a rampaging female invader from some part of Turkey not terribly far from Halicarnassus (Mysia, Caria, or Phrygia), dispossessing the ancient indigenous Attic muse and turning the value-system of the entire world on its head, is particularly striking for its vision of female power as a trope to comment on the character of an overwhelmingly male sphere. Dionysius’ evident veneration for the female muse needs to be qualified by the clarity with which she herself is an entirely passive creature, both as a victim of the Asianic whore, but also in her restoration to her rightful position through the right-thinking actions of the new breed of public figures who have now, thanks to Rome’s influence, driven her rival out of all but a few particularly recalcitrant Asian cities (Orat. Vett. ..–; .).  See Gabba [] –; Hidber []; Swain [] –.  Cf. Wiater (this volume, p. ), who argues that Dionysius attempts to ‘repoliticize’ the Greek cultural heritage by associating it with Roman power.

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As I have said, Time is the motif that gives a focus to this diatribe. §  begins by exploring the power of time to preserve a rightful order, taking a maxim of Pindar’s (ἀνδρῶν δικαίων Χρόνος σωτὴρ ἄριστος; ‘Time is the best preserver of just men’, fr. ) and pointing to the developments of the present era (ὁ καθ’ ἡμᾶς χρόνος) as proof. The exact process of causation is unimportant, but he gives three possibilities: either divine guidance, or a natural cycle, or human tendency towards collective behaviour. From one of these, Time itself has acted to restore philosophical rhetoric to its former glory, and only gradually does Dionysius introduce an element of human agency, allowing praise both for the present time, and for those men who share its love of wisdom (καὶ τοὺς συμφιλοσοφοῦντας ἀνθρώπους). Even when he eventually gets to the most important part of his argument, that Rome is herself responsible for this benign return to proper rhetorical values, he maintains this sense that the forces of history are impersonal, personifying Rome herself as taking on the same kind of world-uniting position which he had attributed earlier to Asianic rhetoric, and only briefly referring to the positive influence of the powerful at Rome. As if to reinforce the central role that Time has played in his argument, he moves from this general evaluation of the state of rhetoric in his own day to the specific announcement of his programme for the following work by echoing the words with which the treatise began. He will, at this point in the preface, now cease (ἀφήσω) his expressions of his gratitude to Time for bringing about this positive change, and instead explain the purpose of the present treatise: the analysis of good rhetorical models from the old days. He even casts an ironic light upon the function of time in his own argument: he will not indulge in any attempt to predict the future upon the basis of the past, a form of argument available to any arbitrary individual (..). This would seem to demarcate this discourse quite clearly from the one we find in the Antiquities. It is precisely the predictability from human behaviour on the basis of consistent rules that enables Dionysius to decide on the appropriate characterization of Rome. Here, however, such a sense of historical continuity is explicitly denied: the historical causes of the return of philosophical rhetoric are quite specific, and although underlying this revival there may well be some kind of universal order, whatever form it takes is insignificant compared to the concrete facts of rhetoric’s rebirth and the contribution of Rome to this happy state of affairs. The consistent emphasis upon Time is, however, not just an opportunity for Dionysius to elaborate his discourse of decline and renewal; it is integral to the function of the treatise as a whole, since it explains why this is a treatise dealing specifically with ancient orators (οἱ ἀρχαῖοι), a focus which makes this work itself into a weapon in the battle against Asianism. A further distinction is made between the two generations of orators; Lysias, Isocrates, Isaeus; then Demosthenes, Aeschines, Hyperides. This is an added nicety to an historical analysis which already has a degree of specificity: decline after Alexander, almost total demise in the life-time of Dionysius, remarkably swift change of fortune thanks to Rome’s lead. We find ourselves, evidently, in a discourse in which concrete political conditions are linked closely to the fortunes of a particular style of political expression, exactly the opposite

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situation from in the Antiquitates, where the characterization of political discourse implements a priori decisions about what the character of the culture must have been. Dionysius displays a consistent historicism in this preface, and rhetorical trends follow specific historical conditions. Defining the universal laws which have produced the current rhetorical and cultural climate is an area which is not worth exploring in detail, he says, but (and here we arrive at the central resolution of what appears to be a contradiction) in spite of his explicit refusal to predict the future on the basis of the past, the function of his writing is to forge a timeless standard of rhetoric, one that will permanently enshrine Atticism as the standard of public expression, building upon his diligent work in stylistic analysis. The essays on the orators are works of practical purpose, and that purpose is to defeat the processes of historical change that have in fact given Dionysius this opportunity. Would-be orators are, as regards the past, trapped into a particular relationship, but they are invited, in reading the detailed dissections of the canon, to escape from time, and to consolidate the new era by achieving an unprecedented level of detailed knowledge about how the best can be gleaned from a close reading of the classical authors. Dionysius’ refusal to predict the future on the basis of the past is an important limitation to the anti-historicist aspects of his thought; in spite of the impersonal forces which have shaped the evolution of rhetoric, the future is an area of opportunity, and readers require not nebulous predictions from their instructor, but rather, practical methodological assistance to enable them to make the most of the resources that the canon offers them. . Formalism v. Historicism In the preface, therefore, there is a tension between historicism and formalism, between an interest in linking rhetoric, and thereby the standard of political discourse, to particular circumstances, and the mission to escape historical circumstance, and make rhetoric itself into the driving force of politics. Dionysius seems to be suggesting that rhetoric itself will provide a stability and sense of national identity of which, in earlier periods, it was the expression. So rhetoric takes on almost a causal role, and instead of being the mirror of historical circumstances, becomes the driving force. The present thus acquires a timeless quality, just as the new classicizing style that Dionysius promotes has a synchronic quality, one that will enable its values to endure. If we think of this rhetoric as a purely formal matter, however, we misunderstand Dionysius: rhetoric here is the medium through which effective government is exercised, and we should not overlook Dionysius’ sense of the urgency of political renewal. The approach that Dionysius adopts in his critical works is remarkably consistent in its methodology. He focuses clearly upon providing those who have already a good knowledge of the writer (see On Demosthenes .) with a means for discriminating

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between what they should imitate and what avoid, and for giving them, in the form of a reiterated application of his three-styles theory, a framework for applying to their own rhetorical requirements whatever aspects of their model’s work they particularly admire, and to do so in the appropriate context. As is particularly clear in his discussion of Thucydides, this sense of appropriateness can have an historical dimension: the Melian dialogue, of course, being to Dionysius a distortion both of language and of historical fact.²⁰ The sense of appropriateness often takes account of the particular context of the speech, and sometimes of more general ideas about the proper way to represent Hellenic identity (particularly in the cases of Isocrates and Demosthenes). But more often, what is praiseworthy or successful in a particular piece of writing is the effect that it has upon Dionysius. His critical method is to train his readers in the matter of stylistic taste, and he does so both on the large scale, discussing matters of emotional response, and in a more detailed manner, descending to the level of individual words and sentences. So, for example, comparing Isocrates and Demosthenes, he writes: Whenever I read a speech of Isocrates, whether it be forensic, political (or epideictic), I become serious and feel a great tranquillity of mind, like those listening to libationmusic played on reed-pipes or to Dorian or enharmonic melodies. But when I pick up one of Demosthenes’ speeches, I am transported: I am led hither and thither, feeling one emotion after another – disbelief, anguish, terror, contempt, hatred, pity, goodwill, anger, envy – every emotion in turn that can sway the human mind. (On Demosthenes ., trans. Usher)

At the other end of the scale we have the passages in Thucydides, where Dionysius sanitizes Thucydides’ style, or the Comp., where Dionysius reproduces particularly effective extracts from a range of authors, and rewrites them changing the word order, demonstrating thereby the loss of the effectiveness of the original sentence. Such instruction provides readers with the techniques required to be able to produce their own effective utterances. The original material on which they are drawing is a form of inspiration, and it is an intrinsic part of Dionysius’ educational method. But it does not depend in any real sense upon exploring the historical quality of the texts discussed. Nevertheless, there is evidence that Dionysius was aware of the challenges presented by using historical material for rhetorical instruction. At one particularly useful moment (On Demosthenes .), he states quite clearly that the effect of Demosthenes’ speech upon his readers at the time is bound to be quite different from the process of reading that speech today, under different historical conditions.²¹

 On Thucydides –. See Fox [] –.  The passage is briefly discussed by Swain [] ; for a more detailed discussion see Wiater [] –.

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For if we, who are so far removed in time and unaffected by the events, are so carried away and overpowered that we follow wherever the speech leads us, how must the Athenians and the rest of the Greeks have been excited at the time by the orator addressing them on live and personal issues, using all his prestige to display his own feelings and to bare his soul, and adding beauty and colour to every word with the appropriate delivery, of which art he was, as everyone agrees, the most brilliant exponent […]. If then, the spirit with which Demosthenes’ pages are still imbued after so many years possesses so much power and moves his readers in this way, surely to hear him delivering his speeches at the time must have been an extraordinary and overwhelming experience. (On Demosthenes , trans. Usher)

The shift from oral rhetorical performance to written classical text can clearly be observed here. Dionysius is frank, however, that it is the style of Demosthenes that still moves us; we no longer care or really understand the political circumstances of the speech. What is amenable to imitation and recreation is the technical matter of style. Like Demosthenes’ delivery, which is not reproduced in the written text, the political circumstances are different, and the whole speech in that sense a captive to history. Nevertheless, there are lessons to be learnt, and the would-be orator can still aspire to produce his own compelling style on the basis of analytical reading. The central point is that this is a form of classicism that recognises the essential difference between Classical Greece and the present, but which, nevertheless, is proposing an imitative encounter with the Classical in order to provide the renewal necessary to enable Dionysius’ readers to function as effective orators in the future. Somewhat earlier in On Demosthenes (§ ), while substantiating his claim that Demosthenes was influenced by Thucydides in his love of innovative stylistic turns, Dionysius makes an interesting comparison between the work of the historian and the work of the orator. Both writers are equally good, he says, at the employment of an elaborate style that diverges from normal usage.²² The difference between them lies in their responses to circumstance and to the degree in which they put this style to use. Thucydides lacks proper stewardship of the style (ἀταμιεύτως) and allows himself to be governed by it, rather than exercising control. Demosthenes, by contrast, is governed by the requirements of the case he is arguing, and as such, never loses touch with clarity (the first requirement of forensic λόγος). Thucydides is said to be aiming to produce a discourse (λέξις) that is merely a show-piece or even a museum piece: ὁ δὲ ῥήτωρ τοῦ τε ἀρκοῦντος στοχάζεται καὶ τοὺς καιροὺς συμμετρεῖται οὐκ εἰς ἀνάθημα καὶ κτῆμα κα〈τασκευάζων〉 τὴν λέξιν μόνον ὥσπερ ὁ συγγραφεύς

(Dem. .). Demosthenes manages to achieve both the clarity necessary for his work, while at the same time, acquiring a reputation for being impressively clever, δεινός. A similar contrast is drawn later on between Demosthenes and Plato. Plato’s style is like a ‘country spot full of flowers, which affords a congenial resting-place and  The pairing of Thucydides and Demosthenes may appear strange, but Dionysius is consistent. At On Lysias , for example, they are together contrasted to Lysias for the relative obscurity as regards narration.

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passing delectation to the traveller; whereas that of Demosthenes is like a field of rich and fertile land, which yields freely both the necessities of life and the extra luxuries that men enjoy’ (ἀνθηρῷ χωρίῳ καταγωγὰς ἡδείας ἔχοντι καὶ τέρψεις ἐφημέρους, τὴν δὲ Δημοσθένους διάλεκτον εὐκάρπῳ καὶ παμφόρῳ γῇ καὶ οὔτε τῶν ἀναγκαίων εἰς βίον οὔτε τῶν περιττῶν εἰς τέρψιν σπανιζούσῃ, Dem. ., trans. Usher). In both these

comparisons, Dionysius is clearly targeting his stylistic criticism at the political ambitions of his readers. The practical utility of the πολιτικὸς λόγος is what saves stylistic elaboration from simply becoming (as it can be for Thucydides) an end in itself. It is the productivity of those Demosthenic acres that matters. Ambitions to obtain a reputation for stylistic brilliance are perfectly acceptable, but Thucydides crosses the line because his writings are not bound to particular circumstance, and he is therefore in a position to give his stylistic exploration free rein. In the process, however, he sacrifices accessibility and clarity.²³ The ἀνάθημα καὶ κτῆμα (show-piece or possession) clearly alludes to the notorious κτῆμα ἐς αἰεὶ (possession for always) of Thucydides ..²⁴ The idea that history provides a kind of stylistic offering or possession is thus double-edged: readers looking for rhetorical models that are generative, where imitation can lead to effective developments in one’s own style, are likely to be misled by Thucydides. On the other hand, Demosthenes’ stylistic devices may be so closely linked to their context that only the effect of the style remains; the significance, the connotations, the effect of the rhetoric on its audience, are lost. They are limited in their resonance because of the very specificity that makes them so effective in the first place. So Dionysius is dwelling, in these different passages, upon a paradox, one that centres upon the dialectic between temporality and timelessness. The same dialectic infuses all Dionysius’ reflections on language: the creation of a new style will depend both upon the ability to reproduce the virtues of ancient authors, and to adopt a more timeless set of stylistic and moral criteria which will enable their faults to be avoided. His entire educational (or, indeed, critical) method lies in unlocking the potential of historic models using a method of analysis and selection that is unencumbered by the kinds of constraints under which the original authors were working.

 In this same passage of On Lysias, however, Demosthenes is said, like Thucydides, to have produced some narratives that required commentary in order to become clear.  Dionysius’ discussion of Thucydides .. at Thuc.  makes clear the emphasis of his interpretation, and it is consistent between the two works. His use of ἀνάθημα at On Demosthenes  responds to his gloss on Thucydides’ picture of history as being a ἱέρεια, a high priestess (Thuc. , although there are textual problems with that particular word). The context of his discussion suggests that he interprets the depositing of an historical work in the temple as an effective metaphor for the removal of that work from the temporal constraints that give rise to envy. On the different possible connotations of κτῆμα see Moles []; Bakker [] –; Greenwood [] –.

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. Polybius, Stoicism, and Historical Cycles So there are competing impulses at work in Dionysius’ thought. It is helpful, therefore, to try to explore how the context in which he was working might help us understand this struggle. One possible way to explaining Dionysius’ consistent assimilation of early Roman history to a rather uniform set of moral beliefs which often have little contact with either the historiographical tradition as he represents it, or with any attempt to reconstruct the distant past with any kind of historical uniqueness, is to consider the powerful influence of Stoic ideas of historical cycle and recurrence, and their popularity in Rome in this period. One influence conventionally appealed to is Posidonius. Although his remains make it hard to perceive this with any exactitude, it is certainly possible that he had a role to play in developing a distinctly Stoic way of considering Roman history.²⁵ A more easily visible influence on Dionysius (as on Diodorus Siculus, whose Stoicism is a great deal more evident), is Polybius. He was able to incorporate a Stoic vision of historical and constitutional cycles into a plausible account of Rome’s history because of his determined focus on the recent past.²⁶ It would be stretching the argument to claim that, had Polybius devoted himself to early history, he would have produced an early Rome no less ahistorical than Dionysius’. But this leap is worth taking, since it brings us to a more graspable idea: that of the relationship between a critical historical method and a vision of history as falling into different epochs. By ending his history at the point where Polybius begins, Dionysius is committing himself to extending Polybius’ view of the providential rise of Rome back to the earliest period. But the extension is more than simply the inclusion of a larger amount of historical material, and a different sense of what historical method is capable of achieving. Polybius was fastidious in his insistence upon the historian as the only source of reliable information, and placed, thereby, severe limitations both upon the scope of the historian’s possible knowledge, and upon the readers’ access to a great range of material that lay beyond the historian’s powers of verification. Nevertheless, his history has to follow a plan, and that plan depends upon a framework of universal values that enables Rome’s history to be seen not just in its unique specificity.²⁷ Following Thucydides, Polybius sees history as useful because of its repeatability. Particular historical events can have an educative value because they represent patterns that can recur. Thucydides sets the example here, and Polybius shares his predecessor’s belief that history is useful because it will repeat itself. For both historians, particular historical events have a value  On Posidonius’ conceptions of history, most accessible is Clarke [] –. For Dionysius’ use of Posidonius see Mora [] –, and index entries; for his influence on Diodorus Siculus, Canfora [].  Polybius’ particularism, and his notion of pragmatic history, make such a clear-cut statement of Stoic character rather problematic. But there are clearly moral patterns to his narratives: see Eckstein [] –, –; and these overlap with Stoic views: Erskine [] , –, –, .  So Eckstein []; Walbank [] –, –.

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because they represent patterns that can recur. The stasis in Corcyra, for example, is interpreted by Thucydides as demonstrating a law of human behaviour that is likely to resonate with future readers who will recognise the same pattern in events of their own time. Polybius goes rather further. Rome’s rise in the Mediterranean is a manifestation not just of anthropological truths, but of metaphysical ones, and events in the human realm are determined not by men themselves, but by the cosmic order. Writing history is no longer just a matter of deciphering the rules that govern human action. We can grasp here the full impact of Thucydides’ ‘sophistic’ context: man is the measure, rather than universal laws that govern him. By the second century, this anthropocentric turn had been supplanted by any number of competing versions of metaphysical transcendentalism. For Polybius, the Stoic system offered the most compelling model for combining Thucydides’ idea of the constancy of human nature with a set of theories that were capable of taking a wider view: events on a global and cosmic scale, within which the specific moments of human activity could be integrated. The cycle of constitutions, in particular, gives Polybius the opportunity to weave together Rome’s history with a sense of the order of the universe, while still linking his theoretical insights into the concrete analysis of the way in which he could see, from his own observation, that Rome functioned.²⁸ The mixed constitution was there in action, could be seen working, and was therefore evidence of a kind which Polybius could admit, because amenable to direct description and evaluation by the historian. At the same time, it was a conveniently diachronic institution; its evolution could be charted, and links made between its origins and its current incarnation. Polybius’ extreme rigour in insisting on the qualifications and skill of the historian, and the direct pragmatic purpose of history as a tool for existing and future statesmen did not prevent him, therefore, in aligning his historical analysis with a transcendental system of global, even cosmic scope. A more cogent statement of this discourse than is to be found in the remains of Polybius can be read in Cicero’s De republica, where Cicero suggests that it was the combination of Polybius’ historical work, and Panaetius’ philosophy, that provided the most rational basis for understanding the necessity of committing yourself to public life, as well as the potential to reinforce that message by a sense that in so doing, you would be acting in accordance with a providential cosmic order.²⁹ You could be certain, therefore, in dedicating yourself to politics, that in a moral or philosophical sense you were doing the right thing.³⁰ Polybius certainly has a heavily moralistic streak, and this comes across to a large extent as a polemic against those Greeks who cannot accept their place within the Roman world order. However,

 In addition to those passages cited in the previous note, see Walbank [] – on how Polybius integrated anacyclosis into his account of Rome.  See Erskine [] –.  Cicero, Rep. ..

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Dionysius’ approach to this same anti-Roman polemic is rather different, and, rather surprisingly, takes a more historicist approach to the problem than Polybius. Polybius’ interest in a transcendent historical system does not excite the same ridicule from modern historians as the blatant rationalization of prehistory in the work of both Dionysius and Diodorus. That is partly because he focuses primarily on recounting recent history, and partly (although this is something he shares with Dionysius) because he generally allows ethical or universalizing reflections to emerge through the narrative, rather than announcing them with particular emphasis as guiding principles. So although it can be argued that a universalizing, proto-Stoic system underlies his justification of Roman rule, this does not result in the naïve reduction of all historical events to one kind of event. He is saved from such a fate by his avoidance of early Roman history, and the consequent necessity of inflecting that history with a teleology that corresponds to his theoretical interests. Dionysius, however, takes up that very challenge. Paradoxical though it may seem, Polybius’ quest to show that Rome represents the truths of a universal philosophical system may be less of a response to concrete historical events than Dionysius’ insistence that the origins of Rome provide a prehistory to a form of timeless Hellenism. In spite of his repudiation of early history, if we compare the historians’ respective premises, Polybius turns out to be less of a historicist in outlook than Dionysius. Dionysius’ response to Polybius is to focus firmly upon the question of national identity. His answer to the polemic against Rome’s rise is to claim not that Rome’s rise was in accordance with universal laws, but rather, that the polemic itself is based upon a misunderstanding: Romans are actually Greeks, so their hegemony becomes another opportunity to celebrate the achievements of Hellenic civilization. The shift between Polybius’ response to anti-Roman polemic, and Dionysius’ is of considerable significance to any understanding of Greece’s relationship to Rome. Both historians are attempting to explain and justify Rome’s rule to a Greek readership, and both do this by integrating the story of Rome into a version of Greek history which did not itself require any polemic justification. For Polybius, that version centred on providential Tyche. For Dionysius, it was the vision of the Classical polis, and the idea that, in spite of the evident demise of Greek culture, there is a form of political discourse which can be thought of as Greek, and which could be found, in a particularly stable form, in the history of Rome. We can only speculate which of these competing frameworks commanded wider consensus, or whether one was more likely to convince at the end of the second century, one a few generations later. At the end of his first book, Dionysius rather revealingly drops the word tyche into his analysis of Rome’s Hellenic identity; it is not simply since their fortune has been so evidently on the rise, or since the victory over the Macedonian and Carthaginian rule that the Romans have been civilized.³¹ This is direct challenge to Polybius: instead of Rome’s greatness being the result of a growth in power propelled  Ant. Rom. ...

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by good fortune, it is the identity of Romans themselves that is at the root of Rome’s success. And that identity is, as he is at this point stressing, one that has, in spite of the passage of time and the admixture of non-Greek elements, persisted a lot more durably than in some other comparable cultures.³² Dionysius’ own position is fairly evident, although we need to be wary, when summarizing, of attributing to him crass idealizations both of early Rome, and of Classical Greece; neither are in fact idealized, and neither beyond unfavourable criticism. The important point is to make readers aware of the potential of both to generate a successful discourse in the future. In this context, there is a clear relationship between the cultural values of Augustan Rome and those of the ideal Greek polis. That relationship is represented by the Roman interest in Attic models of oratory, and, in the Antiquities, by the reasonable and rational manner in which all kinds of events from Rome’s early history are narrated. Only in his opening chapters, and at the end of the first book, does Dionysius devote much space to the politics of his representation, his attempt to reconcile Greeks to Roman rule.³³ Once his narrative gets going, he does not reinforce this polemic, although he does at points stress that there are institutions at Rome (such as patronage and the organization of religion) where Rome has succeeded in finding a better way than the more mainstream Greeks.³⁴ For the most part, he just gets on with the story, and the sense of an historian continuing to work in a methodical way emerges not from continuous returns to his opening polemic, but in the insistence upon using a variety of different sources, and comparing different versions of the same event. So Roman history in effect just takes its course, and the sense that this is a Greek city, and that Greeks can find a new accommodation with Rome by reading this account, is not a point to which Dionysius gives much explicit emphasis. Except, of course, that a central component in bringing the early Romans to life as the descendants of Greek colonizers is the manner in which they compose their orations. The strongest strand in the criticisms of Dionysius that bedevilled his reputation in the twentieth century was the attempt by the historian to use the occasions offered by critical moments in Rome’s history as the springboard to put into practice the stylistic analyses that are explored in his theoretical writings. All Greek historians, of course, used set speeches in their histories, Polybius included. Dionysius’ theoretical writings, as we have seen, demonstrate that he was fully aware of the conceptual problems that the passage of time brought to the reading of rhetorical texts. We need not suspect that Dionysius is doing anything intrinsically different here from his predecessors; he is, in effect, providing the rhetorician’s response to Thucydides’ call to the requirements of the occasion. Rather than rehearse the conventional arguments here, it is worth thinking instead about what Dionysius’ Roman readers would have made of this practice, and how they would have looked  Cf. the discussion of this passage in Wiater’s chapter in this volume.  Ant. Rom. .; .–  Patronage: .–; religion: .–.

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upon the depiction of their founding fathers as models of accomplished political rhetoric. Cicero was particularly interested in this subject, and in both De oratore and Brutus speculates, in a rather inconclusive manner, about how far rhetorical accomplishment was likely to have been a feature of early Rome.³⁵ One of his favourite examples is the first Brutus, who emerges vividly in Dionysius’ narrative as the accomplished statesman, persuading both his colleagues and in particular the assembly, of the necessity to depose the monarch and establish a mixed constitution (Ant. Rom. .–; –;–). But Cicero seems rather reluctant to credit Brutus with such rhetorical expertise. Instead, in De oratore , he makes him into the focus of competing versions of the rhetorical potential of early Rome. Scaevola suggests, repudiating Crassus’ attempts to make rhetoric into an ancient Roman art, that Brutus’ expulsion of the kings was effected not by his tongue, but by his mind. When he treats the same topic again in Brutus, Cicero is more directly sceptical about the possibility that rhetorical accomplishment of any kind can be reliably attributed to the early generations of the city. Cicero’s concern, of course, is motivated precisely by the clear sense of cultural difference between Rome and Greece that Dionysius is seeking to elide; the discussion of the rhetoric of early Rome is part of a much wider contrast between Rome and Greece, which underpins the entirety of De oratore. Cicero’s historicism is in fact rather pessimistic. Particularly in Brutus, Cicero fixates upon the limited manner in which rhetoric has taken hold in Rome, and even in De oratore, a large part of the impact of the historical setting of the dialogue is to construct Crassus and Antonius as rhetorical pioneers at the start of the first century. As well as their rhetorical skill, it is also their engagement with Greek literature that is noteworthy. Cicero, there is little doubt, would have regarded Dionysius’ conflation of the protagonists of early Rome with the great orators of Greece as an historical absurdity. Dionysius, however, has devoted a considerable portion of his first book to establishing a linguistic relationship between Greek and Latin, and although Cicero would probably have regarded any such scheme as faintly absurd, it seems likely that Dionysius’ investigations were motivated not by a desire to occlude historical difference, but rather to investigate the specific conditions of early Rome using as reliable a form of linguistic analysis as was available to him. If the result of regarding Latin as a dialect of Greek is to prepare the ground for the assimilation of early Rome to Classical Greece, the impulses that motivated that analysis are determinedly historicist.³⁶ . Cicero on Stoicism and History If we are looking for reasons why Dionysius takes an approach to Rome which is motivated by a sense of linguistic continuity, as well as a faith in the findings of  De oratore .; Brutus ..  For the larger linguistic context of Dionysius’ discussion of Latin see Hintzen (this volume).

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archaeology, and a speculative form of prehistoric anthropology, we need to bear in mind what other approaches were available at the time, and, more particularly, what inspired him to adopt an approach so different from Polybius’. Cicero is again a useful source here. In particular, in his ambivalent attitude towards Stoicism, Cicero provides us with important material that can explain how, in spite of the attractions of a Stoic vision of history, readers of the early Empire might have found more plausible a view of historical relationships that was, as Dionysius’ is, overtly political in its character. The best evidence (to my mind) comes from a surprising source, Cicero’s De divinatione. In that very late work, Cicero essentially offers up two alternative ways of looking at the world, hinging upon the degree of predictability of events.³⁷ Divination is the ability to predict the future on the basis of signs which follow a particular pattern: in the essay, these include dreams, omens, and the whole paraphernalia of state prediction: auspices and augury. Cicero’s treatise is divided neatly into two halves: in book , the speaker is Quintus Cicero, who puts forward a persuasive case, drawing upon Stoic philosophers, that whatever the difficulty of explaining the causes, there is no doubt that events do follow predictable patterns, and that history follows a certain course. At one particularly powerful moment, Quintus refers to the oracle at Delphi, and claims that to deny the validity of its predictions would be to distort the entire course of history.³⁸ As I say, it is essentially the Stoic philosophers who provide Quintus with his main arguments.³⁹ But proof of that argument comes from a wide range of literary and historical anecdotes, both recent and ancient, all demonstrating that history follows some kind of coherent pattern. Book , with Cicero himself as the speaker, takes an entirely different view, one of radical scepticism, in which many of the same historical anecdotes have their significance reversed, and in which the historical order emerges as no order at all, and divination the expression not of the rational pattern of the universe, but rather of its utter randomness. There are hot controversies about what Cicero is attempting in this work, with which I will not engage here.⁴⁰ What is important, however, is to see how far a perspective derived from his training in the largely sceptical Academy could take Cicero from any naïve faith in Stoic doctrines of providence and predictability. Dionysius’ Rome was probably more heavily imbued with Epicureanism than Stoicism, but that apart, Dionysius’ own philosophical affiliations are not very evident. It seems unlikely that he possessed the requisite love of doctrine to become attached to any particular school. His detailed engagement with Plato’s literary style (for which he has a lot of praise) does not suggest that he was involved in any particular branch of the Platonic tradition: Plato is a stylistic rather than a philosophical genius. He singles out Chrysippus as a particular example of bad philosophical prose (Comp.    

I treat the work more fully in Fox [] –. id quod negari non potest nisi omnem historiam perverterimus […] (Div. .). Div. .–. Krostenko []; Harris []; Fox [] –.

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.) but in such a manner as to make clear that Chrysippus is just the tip of the iceberg, the bulk of which is the large quantity of poorly written philosophy that is of no use to the thoroughgoing Atticist. His philosophical preferences, therefore, are likely to be determined in part by the readability of the authors, and in part by his veneration for a version of philosophy that he labels political. He himself, he tells us, wrote a work on political philosophy, in which, by his own admission, his polemic against those hostile to that philosophy reached a level it did not attain in any other of his critical works.⁴¹ That work itself did not survive, but it seems reasonable to assume that the political philosophy that Dionysius promulgated was of a pragmatic, non-speculative kind, of such a sort that would give a context to his designation of Isocrates as the main practitioner of philosophical rhetoric. Any experience of the classical philosophical schools in his own education, in the period following the effective collapse of the Academy in internal dissension which centred around the popularity of Stoicism, is unlikely to have led Dionysius to find in Stoicism a particularly compelling source of historical explanation. There is more that could be said about the relationship between Cicero’s scepticism, and the picture of an Isocratean form of rhetoric at Rome which, particularly in De oratore, he seems to want to promulgate, and which would make him a clear forerunner of Dionysius.⁴² Cicero’s historical scepticism, and his interest in stylistic analysis, may have made him a sympathetic model for Dionysius; at the very least, Cicero suggests that an open mind in relation to the historical contexts of rhetoric would not be a new idea to Dionysius’ readers, and that we should be aware of the potential in Dionysius’ writings to be interpreted not as naïve, but as more knowing engagements with these themes. These are necessarily, given the state of the evidence, rather inconclusive speculations, but they do suggest, for example, that for Dionysius, Polybius’ lack of stylistic accomplishment was no less unsympathetic than his methodology.⁴³ Polybius’ rigorous pragmatism, coupled with a sense that history operates in accordance with forces that transcend human activity, are countered in Dionysius’ history with an insistence upon the rhetorical excellence of individuals, and the capacity of the past to provide not just the factual information necessary for successful leadership, but also the discursive and moral qualities which the excellence of early Rome and its leaders display, in his rendition of them. Instead of a universal system regulating history, Dionysius’ vision of Rome is predicated upon an analysis of Roman national identity, one that he grounds most thoroughly in the ethnographic and linguistic researches of his opening book. He shares with Cicero a scepticism about metaphysical systems as a tool of historical analysis, coupled with a clear sense of the instructive potential of the past, particularly when used as an impetus for a renewed political discourse in the present.  Thuc. ..  On Cicero’s potential influence on Dionysius see Hidber (this volume).  Polybius is one of a number of historians whose works no one could possible get through to the end, Comp. .

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. Conclusion The key to understanding the relationship between Dionysius’ work as a critic and his work as an historian is to focus, I believe, on his mission as an educator, and upon his essentially non-philosophical, or (more accurately) anti-transcendentalist approach to Roman history: it is this which forms the centre of his sense of the style of the past, both in terms of rhetorical expression, and in terms of national identity. It may be true that in his zeal to create an enduring stylistic model for an Attic revival, Dionysius provides a means for political discourse in Greek to escape from history. In the same way, the message that Rome’s history has for Greeks is static, in spite of the enormous chronological sweep of his narrative: the germs of Rome’s greatness are there at the start, as he tells us in his preface.⁴⁴ But at the same time there are moments in both his critical writings where his awareness of historical difference emerges clearly. By making the Greek roots of Roman identity into a cornerstone of history, Dionysius emerges as more historicist in his orientation than Polybius (or Diodorus), with his quest for patterns of historical causation that transcend particular circumstances. Perhaps as well as Polybius, Dionysius is also taking on Panaetius and Posidonius, who may have been more widely read at the time. Certainly the gods do play a role in his narrative (as his account of the death of Tullus demonstrates), but the educational effect of his history comes not in the insistence upon the glory of Rome’s trajectory so much as in the presentation of so much material in support of his central thesis, and thereby, so much material which allows Greek readers to identify with the figures of Rome’s distant past.⁴⁵ This politically productive identification is what the critical essays and the history share: both look towards the inspirational effect upon the reader. In the essays, the critical technique is itself the focus. In the history, the critical technique is aimed at reinforcing the central theses of Dionysius’ account; but in a manner that is not dissimilar to the work of the essays, Dionysius does not conceal his working. He cites variant sources at great length before putting forward his own vision. He certainly has strong ideas about how the Romans behaved and spoke, the style of the past in which Romans are Greeks, but he also allows the voices of his sources plenty of space, in the same way that his analyses of the orators includes excessively long quotations, as well as sometimes an improved version of those passages. Readers are left with a curious image of style: it is one in which Dionysius’ role as educator and scholar is never occluded. He shows us how he would like us to speak, and how he would like us to imagine the early Romans, and he has no qualms about using the latter as illustrations of the former. But he does so in a manner that is, in comparison with the more idealizing forms of historiography represented by the  Ant. Rom. ..–.  On Dionysius’ readership and the different effect his interpretation of the Roman past might have had on Greek and Roman readers, respectively, see Wiater’s chapter in this volume, esp. n.  and p. –.

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Stoic tradition, rather more pragmatic and, I would suggest, more responsive to changing historical contexts than he is usually given credit for.

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Impacts of Writing in Rome: Greek Authors and Their Roman Environment in the First Century  Graecia capta ferum victorem cepti et artes Intulit agresti Latio (Hor. epist. ..–) With these famous words the Augustan poet embraced Greece and Greek culture as the power that civilised bellicose and rural Rome¹ – as a poet, therefore, Horace was naturally eager to see his name added to the canon of the Greek lyric poets.² Indeed, in Augustan times, this division of the world and of spheres of responsibility, as it were, was readily accepted by many members of the Greek and Roman elites alike. Since the third century young Roman aristocrats had travelled to the famous philosophical and rhetorical schools of Greece, and Greek scholars in turn had been brought to Rome as enslaved prisoners of war in order to teach the Roman youth and to advise and entertain their patrons. From the middle of the first century  and particularly after the battle of Actium – after the conquest of the last remaining hellenistic kingdom, that is – Greek intellectuals arrived in Rome in rapidly growing numbers, and most of them now came on their own decision and often to their personal benefit. While this influx of intellectual and cultural manpower gave a boost to the development of Latin Roman literature and culture by encouraging and enhancing creative imitation and emulation of Greek models,³ many Greek scholars liked the idea of being teachers of those who had conquered the world.⁴ This tremendous impact of Greek culture and learning on the development of its Roman counterparts, however, should not lead us to the assumption that this contact worked in one way only. Indeed it was inevitable that Greek intellectuals living in the city of Rome, dealing with Roman themes and Roman questions and almost always having quite close personal relationships with, on the whole, well educated Roman aristocrats, took notice – in one way or other – of Roman cultural achievements, of the Latin language, and even of Roman literature. To be sure, the results of this growing Greek interest in ‘Roman things’ become most evident much later, in the ‘long’ fourth century, beginning somewhen in the third and reaching into the first half of the fifth century: a time when more and more members of the local Greek elites abandoned their cities, fled the increasing pressure of taxation    

Cf. Whitmarsh [] – for further implications of this passage. Hor. Carm. ... Cf. e.g. Döpp []. This phenomenon is explored by Whitmarsh [] – for the period of the ‘Second Sophistic’.

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and other financial burdens and sought a career in the imperial administration and thus headed for the West; a time also when Roman law, Roman historiography, and Latin grammar had largely become fields of Greek scholarly activity; a time finally when important pieces of Latin literature were written by Greeks such as Claudius Claudianus or Ammianus Marcellinus.⁵ But for now I should like to look at the time and the place that were crucial for those later developments – the city of Rome in the second half of the first century  and the Augustan period.

Augustan Rome, a New Alexandria Since the second century, Greek intellectuals had become more and more aware of the growing power in their Western neighbourhood. Some of them like Polybius tried to analyse the reasons for the military successes of the Romans and, thus, took a new interest in Roman history and politics. And as the Roman conquest of the Eastern world proceeded, more and more Greek men of letters were brought to Rome as prisoners of war, where many of them won great respectability (and often freedom) as teachers and advisers of the families of the Senatorial and Equestrian elite. At that time it is only rarely that Greek scholars such as the poet Archias or the Stoic Posidonius voluntarily came to Rome.⁶ This began to change by the middle of the first century and particularly after Octavian’s sweeping victory at Actium. It is certainly not a coincidence that right after the establishment of peace, Greek scholars such as Dionysius of Halicarnassus began to arrive in Rome in great numbers. The reasons for this are not far to seek. After Antony’s and Alexandria’s defeat and the triumph of Western Rome there were few doubts where the unquestioned centre of power would be for a long time to come. Much of mainland Greece but also many cities in Asia Minor, such as Halicarnassus, were desperate after long wars.⁷ And to Egypt the defeat at Actium was a blow even if Alexandria remained a wealthy city. Rome, on the other hand, was now the indisputed centre of the Mediterranean world, where Greek intellectuals could seek and find patronage and possibilites to earn their living as teachers and advisers, and to get privileges or rewards for their families and their native cities – and they did quite successfully so.⁸ As a consequence, ever more Greek intellectuals followed the example of their successful compatriots. This situation is highlighted by a short remark by Strabo indicating that for information on the history of Tarsos or Alexandria you would better ask in Rome, as that city was full of scholars from Tarsos and Alexandria.⁹ It would be fair to say that almost all Greek scholars and authors of importance     

Cf. the survey in Hidber [] and Gärtner [] –. Cf. Hidber [] –. Cf. Gabba [] . Cf. the introduction in Dueck []. Strab. Geogr. ...

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at that time sooner or later came to Rome for a shorter – or often – longer period of study and writing. As can be seen from the (still very incomplete) list in the appendix, scholars and writers of all genres and of all fields of literary activity were attracted to Rome alike. This is particularly true for historians (dealing with the by now seemingly absolute superpower), rhetors and grammarians (who would teach young Roman aristocrats), or poets who were welcome to entertain or flatter their Roman patrons. By the end of the first century  no Greek city could compete any more with Rome for being the cultural and intellectual centre of the Graeco-Roman world. Until a few decades ago, it was generally assumed that those Greek intellectuals and teachers in the far West kept strict inner distance to their Roman patrons whom they cordially disliked or even despised for their lack of education and Greekness – and therefore spent every spare minute in the expatriot community, where they fled the sad Roman reality by cultivating the sweet memories of the great Greek past. There is, however, very little evidence for any sort of such inner emigration refusing to face up reality as a mass phenomenon. On the contrary, what we can see, is close interaction between Greek teachers and Roman students in an atmosphere that must have resembled a hothouse for literary and cultural creativity. The Romans profited in numerous ways from their renowned Greek teachers, and Augustan culture was given a crucial boost by this input of manpower, creativity, expertise, and paideia that allowed for producing the well-known stunning results. But what for the Greeks? ‘So far as the Greeks of our period were concerned, there was indeed just one culture: that culture was Greek and Greek only’, says Simon Swain [] . However, it was inevitable that also the Greeks were in some way or other affected or even inspired by their Roman environment.

. Learning Teachers: Profiting from Roman paideia In the preface to his Antiquitates Romanae Dionysius expresses his gratitude to Rome for the paideia and the other goods he received from his host city.¹⁰ Similarly, Diodorus Siculus commends the ideal surrounding and conditions he found for his historiographical work in the city of Rome.¹¹ Of course, this is also a nod towards the Roman patrons who provided the leisure and the resources needed for scholarly activity and allowed for a decent living. However, that ist not the whole story. Strabo, for example, points to the progress the knowledge of geography has made through the Roman conquests which are explicitly compared to those made by Alexander the Great.¹² Another way of acknowledging Roman paideia was the learning of Latin. Dionysius emphasizes that he learnt Latin in order to be able to  Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. ...  Diod. Sic. ...  Strab. Geogr. ..

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read the Latin historians he needed to consult before writing his own history of early Rome.¹³ Similarly, Diodorus claims that he had a good knowledge of Latin and, therefore, also could draw on Latin sources.¹⁴ It is reasonable to assume that also other historians and scholars such as Posidonius, Panaetius, Strabo of Amasia or Nicolaus of Damascus were at least able to read Latin scholarly works.¹⁵ And this holds true for most Greek historians of Rome in the whole imperial period, too.¹⁶ In fact, it is amazing and often underestimated to what extent from the Augustan period onward Roman historiography became – with a few exceptions such as Tacitus – an almost predominantly Greek genre.¹⁷ Latin, however, was not only learnt for the purpose of getting access to the works by Roman historians and antiquarians, but the language became also the subject of study in itself. In his treaty De grammaticis, Suetonius mentions more than twenty Greek grammarians who taught in Rome.¹⁸ Some of them not only taught Greek but Latin as well. Philoxenus of Alexandria and Tyrannion (the elder) wrote treatises on the Latin language, which they both regarded as a Greek dialect.¹⁹ L. Cestius of Smyrna, a Greek rhetor who taught also Latin rhetoric, went one step further, as he also declaimed in Latin, as we know from Seneca the Elder.²⁰ In fact, in later imperial times we find quite a few Greek rhetors teaching Latin rhetoric – and that, of course, implies quite an advanced knowledge of Roman literature as well.

. Where the Bell Tolls: Rome and the Fateful Hour of Greek Literature The impact which the rise of classicism in the second half of the first century had on the further development of Greek literature, can hardly be over-estimated. In what follows I should like to look at the implications of the fact that this important turn took place in Rome. The most clear-cut conceptualization of early classicism can be found in Dionysius’ famous manifesto-like preface to his critical treatises On the Ancient Orators.²¹ The following three elements can be singled out as forming the core of that concept:

        

Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. ... Diod. Sic. ... Cf. Dueck []. Cf. Dubuisson []. Cf. Hidber []. Cf. Dihle (this volume). Cf. Hintzen (this volume). Sen. Suas. .. Dion. Hal. Orat. Vett.; cf. Gelzer []; Hidber [].

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. A three-step historical scheme, labelled ‘klassizistischer Dreischritt’ by Thomas Gelzer.²² . A comprehensive concept of ideal paideia, strongly influenced by Isocrates. . Eclectic mimesis as the classicist (and allegedly Demosthenic) method of literary production. A three-step historical model is constitutive for all appearances of classicism. In the conception proposed by Dionysius, the history of rhetoric and literature is structured as follows: The great ‘Attic’ classical past (ending with the death of Alexander the Great) was followed by an ‘Asianist’ period of sad decline before finally the renaissance of ‘the old and sound rhetoric’ brilliantly sets in thanks to Rome and its educated elite in the present. Even if, for obvious reasons, Actium and Octavian are not mentioned, it seems fair to assume that Octavian’s victory and the establishment of peace are implied as the symbolic date (corresponding to the death of Alexander the Great) marking the change to the better.²³ The second aspect crucial to Dionysius’ classicist programme is his comprehensive conception of paideia. The rhetoric whose revival in the present Dionysius celebrates, is labelled politikoi logoi (‘political speeches’) and philosophos rhetorike (‘philosophical rhetoric’). These terms clearly refer to Isocrates’ model of rhetoric conceived as a comprehensive system of paideia designed to teach eu legein (‘speaking well’) and eu prattein (‘acting well’) alike; a rhetoric, that allows for good statesmanship and political practice. The third constitutive characteristic of Dionysius’ conception is the method of classicist writing and composing he proposes: eclectic mimesis. This is absolutely central for Dionysius’ understanding of literary production and has further important ramifications: . It is possible for well trained students of rhetoric to compete with the great models of the past and even improve on them by creatively combining the best aspects of several excellent models.²⁴ . Writing literature and composing speeches according to the standards of Attic rhetorike is not about simply copying or imitating a given model, but requires sovereign and sound judgements of not only the virtues but also of the flaws of the ancient writers and orators. . Demosthenes is by far the most outstanding of the ancient orators not least because he was himself the champion of eclectic mimesis as he took over and cleverly combined in new ways elements not only from different orators, but also from writers of other genres such as Thucydides and even from poets.²⁵  Gelzer in the discussion of Preisshofen [] .  This symbolic date would also coincide with the decisive date in Dionysius’ own life, i.e. his coming to Rome.  Cf. Hidber [] –.  Dion. Hal. De Dem. .; ; .. Dionysius also praises Isocrates for having combined Lysias’ ‘purity and accuracy’ with Gorgias’ and Thucydides’ ‘sublimity’ and ‘elegance of language’; cf. De Dem. .–. Cf. Hidber [] –.

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Dionysius’ conception of classicism is explicitly aimed at teaching students who are expected to write and compose themselves. His critical writings are the first, as he observes himself, which are systematically directed by this point of view: ‘what should be taken from each and what must be avoided.’²⁶ The classicist turn, to be sure, had had a long prehistory. Hellenistic philologists in Pergamon and Alexandria had paved the way in many respects by collecting, editing, and commenting what they regarded to be the most important works by the authors of the fifth and fourth centuries. And already in the Hellenistic period the outstanding quality of those texts was unquestioned. But what was new in the classicist turn was the attribution of a normative value to those authors and texts and the conceptualization in a production-oriented theory of mimesis. How did this turn, then, come about – why at that time, in the second half of the first century, and why in Rome? It seems tempting to see the rise of classicism as a consequence of Greek rhetors and scholars embracing the role of teachers and advisers of the Romans – of those who had conquered the world, that is. Clearly, from the perspective of proud Greek men of letters the Romans had to be taught the very best Greek culture and literature had to offer: the unquestioned superiority of the ‘classic’ authors legitimated the Greek intellectuals’ role as teachers of the Romans, and, thus, was not only a source of Greek self-esteem and of eminent ‘symbolic capital’ but also allowed for obligating the Roman elite for ‘Greek values’. But all this first required a definition of what the best of Greek culture and literature was. Conceptualization and institutionalization of teaching almost invevitably leads to some sort of canonization. But this process was not one way either: also from a Roman point of view there was clearly an interest to get an education in rhetoric and letters that was based on the best of what the great Greek authors had produced. As we can see from Dionysius’ treatises, his Roman dedicatees and students were often those who asked questions on whom and how to imitate and emulate.²⁷ Some of the treatises by Dionysius’ contemporary and acquaintance Caecilius of Caleacte seem to have been written and published with a similar aim of answering Roman questions concerning the best Greek orators.²⁸ If it seems fair to assume that interaction between Greek teachers and Roman students accelerated and inspired the rise of classicism, what about Dionysius’ sources of inspiration? When we look at Dionysius’ comprehensive conception of classicism as outlined above, the idea that Dionysius was dependent on the Roman orators Calvus and Brutus, who dubbed themselves Attici, and who labelled Cicero Asianus, but themselves had a very narrow stylistic focus, which, in addition, seems not to have been embedded in a broader conception of paideia, does not seem very likely,  Dion. Hal. Orat. Vett. ..  Cf. e.g. Dion. Hal. De Thuc. –; .–; ; Amm. ..; Pomp. Gem. .; .–; on Dionysius’ dedicatees Q. Aelius Tubero, Metilius Rufus, Cn. Pompeius Geminus, Ammaeus, and Demetrius cf. Hidber [] –. Both Tubero and Rufus were members of the senatorial elite, whereas the other addressees are not known otherwise.  This seems to be particularly the case for the lost Synkrisis of Demosthenes and Cicero (IX Ofenloch).

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even though it seems probable that the symbolic terminology of ‘Attic’ vs. ‘Asianic’ was taken over from that Roman dispute, in which it seems to have occured for the first time.²⁹ But there is, of course, another paramount Roman figure, whose theory and practice of oratory in many ways preceded Dionysius’ own conception of philosophos rhetorike: Cicero. First of all, Cicero was himself very much inspired by the Isocratean model of paideia: the ideal orator, whose picture he draws in De oratore, is modelled on Isocratean faciendi dicendique sapientia.³⁰ In his answers to the Attici, Cicero rejects the idea that Attice dicere could be realized by the imitation of just one of the ancient orators (Lysias, the champion of Calvus und Brutus) and just one genus (the genus tenue); Attice dicere would rather imply to combine the best aspects and characteristics of all the eminent ancient models. This clearly refers to some sort of eclectic mimesis as it is later conceptualized in Dionysius’ treatises. Finally, Cicero’s champion as a political orator was the same Demosthenes Dionysius preferred to all others.³¹ In fact, Demosthenes was so much his champion in this respect, that he fashioned himself as the new, the Roman Demosthenes.³² No doubt, Ciceronian conceit plays a certain role here. But it is also clear that nobody would have questioned Cicero’s absolute superiority as Rome’s leading orator – at least after his death. Canonization was swift – and it was in the form of the Roman Demosthenes, as indeed he himself had suggested – the influential orator-politician, who in his speeches and writings stylistically drew on a variety of supreme ancient Greek sources and thus produced an œuvre unparalleled in the history of Roman oratory. What Demosthenes had achieved as a Greek, Cicero accomplished as a Roman orator. Interestingly, the first testimony of this soon canonic paralleling view is Greek: The Synkrisis of Demosthenes and Cicero (unfortunately lost) by Caecilius of Caleacte who lived in Rome at Dionysius’ time.³³ As we know from Plutarch, however, this was a comparison of all aspects of oratory and style, a reflex of which we perhaps still see in the treatise On the Sublime³⁴ transmitted under the name of Longinus. In his Parallel Lives Plutarch later himself juxtaposed the lives of Demosthenes and Cicero – as the lives of the greatest Greek and Roman orators.³⁵ It seems not unlikely that his Roman students and patrons had asked Caecilius for his opinion and that such a comparison was somehow commissioned. True or not, the fact that Caecilius wrote this treaty in itself shows that Greek teachers in Rome were not unaware of the Roman literary production of the time. To be sure, Cicero’s name is never mentioned by Dionysius. This, however, should not be taken as a sign of lacking awareness, since Dionysius’ literary criticism strictly sticks to the ‘classic’ authors of the fifth and fourth centuries . Clearly, important roots       

Cf. Gelzer [] –. Cf. e.g. Cic. De orat. .; .–; .; .. Cf. Dugan []. Cf. e.g. Cic. Att. ..; Orat. ; Brut. ; ; cf. also Stroh []. Nr. IX Ofenloch. Plut. Dem. ; Ps.-Long. De subl. .–; cf. Zabulis []; Innes []. Also cf. Quint. Inst. Or. ..–.

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of the classicist turn, as mentioned above, were Greek.³⁶ But what about Dionysius’ conception of comprehensive (‘Isocratean’) rhetorical paideia and its implied ideal of (‘Demosthenic’) eclectic mimesis? Which other orator in the first century, Greek or Roman, could have served as source of inspiration of what such a comprehensive rhetorical paideia could mean and to what stunning results the following of the ‘Demosthenic’ model could lead? It seems impossible that the students in Rome, for whom Dionysius wrote and who often had their own literary ambitions, would not have thought of Cicero when reading Dionysius’ treatises. When Dionysius claims in his manifesto that many worthwhile and charming ‘political speeches’ and ‘philosophical treatises’ had ‘been published by Greeks and Romans alike’,³⁷ there is perhaps more to it than just a gesture towards his Roman patrons. There is no reason not to take this as a reference to the stimulating atmosphere of Augustan Rome and to the legacy of the man and figure – the outstanding orator – who might have at least partly inspired his own conception of rhetorike paideia.

. Appendix: Some Greek Authors Writing in Rome in the Second Half of the First Century 

Historians, Antiquarians and Scholars Alexander Polyhistor from Miletus (a captive of Cornelius Lentulus in the Mithradatic War, freed under Sulla, Roman citizen , teacher of C. Iulius Hyginus, died ca. ); Diodorus Siculus (came to Rome after ); Dionysius of Halicarnassus (at least  years from /); Nicolaus of Damascus (embassies before Augustus in  and  ); Strabo of Amasia (three or four longer sojourns between  and his death); Theophanes of Mytilene (adviser and historiographer of Pompey; became a Roman citizen); Theopompus of Cnidos (mythographer, friend of Caesar’s; visited Cicero in Tusculum in ); Timagenes (a captive of Gabinius in , freed by Faustus Sulla, founder of a school of rhetoric).

Rhetors Apollodorus of Pergamon (–; head of a school of rhetoric in Rome, taught Octavian); Aristodemus of Nysa (head of schools of rhetoric in Nysa and Rhodes, taught Pompey’s sons in Rome); Caecilius of Caleacte (rhetor and historian; contemporary and acquaintance of Dionysius of Halicarnassus); Lucius Cestius Pius  Cf. Gelzer [] –; Hidber [] –.  Orat. Vett. ..

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of Smyrna (teacher of Latin rhetoric in Rome; contemporary of Seneca the Elder); Heliodorus (Hor. Sat. ..–: rhetor comes Heliodorus, Graecorum longe doctissimus); Hermagoras (student of Theodorus, lived and worked in Augustan and Tiberian Rome); Potamon of Mytilene (member of embassies in , , and ; remained in Rome as a teacher of rhetoric, wrote poems in honour of Brutus and Caesar); Theodorus of Gadara (taught Tiberius in Rome around ).

Poets Antipater of Thessalonica (cliens of Lucius Calpurnius Piso; poet and rhetor in Augustan Rome); Crinagoras of Mytilene (spent a long time in Rome, member of the circle around Octavia, Augustus’ sister), Diodorus of Sardis (poet and historian; wrote laudatory epigrams on Tiberius and Drusus; friend of Strabo’s); Parthenius of Nicaea (captive of Cinna in the Third Mithradatic War, later freed).

Philosophers Athenodorus Cordylion of Tarsus (Stoic, house philosopher of Cato the Younger in the sixties); Nestor of Tarsus (taught Marcellus); Philodemus of Gadara (friend of the Pisones, adressed among others the poets Varius Rufus, Virgil, and Horace, died ca. ).

Grammarians Asclepiades of Myrlea in Bithynia (longer sojourns in Rome and Spain, author of grammatical and antiquarian treatises); Didymus the Younger of Alexandria (grammarian, working in Rome in the first century ; perhaps identical with Didymus Claudius, who studied and wrote on the Latin language); Philoxenus of Alexandria (studied and taught Greek and Latin grammar in Rome; first century ); Tyrannion (the younger) (came to Rome as a prisoner, owed his freedom to Cicero’s wife; wrote on the connexion between the Greek and Latin languages).

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Beate Hintzen

Latin, Attic, and other Greek Dialects: Criteria of ἑλληνισμός in Grammatical Treatises of the First Century ¹ The English language is the lingua franca in large parts of the modern world, French had this function in the nineteenth century, and Latin was the medium of international communication in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But the first language that was spoken throughout the whole Mediterranean, the so-called οἰκουμένη of that time, was Greek. The Greek language slowly lost its leading position in the West in favour of Latin during the first century .² This translatio from Greek to Latin was sometimes referred to as a model for the translatio from Latin to the vernacular languages in the Renaissance.³ But there is an important difference. The supremacy of Latin was based on the systems of education only. Latin was the language of the church, the monks, and  I felt rather uneasy about not writing in my mother tongue about languages and cultural identity. So I was very happy to find out about the sophisticated grammarians who welcomed the Romans in the family of the Greeks (see below). If Latin is Greek and if we all are heirs to the ancients, English is German and vice versa, and it does not matter which language we use, as long as we observe the rules of analogy provided by the grammarians. Thus I hope that Sonja Schönauer and Anna Tagliabue, who kindly agreed to correct my English, have eliminated all violations of analogy. Many thanks go to both of them for their effort. All remaining mistakes are, of course, my own. Moreover, this contribution benefited greatly from papers given at the conference about ‘Language – Text – Literature: Archetypes, Concepts, and Contents of Ancient Scholarship and Grammar’, organised by Stephanos Matthaios and Antonios Rengakos in Thessaloniki, December – , which I had the opportunity to attend. Concerning the present context, I learned mainly from the papers by Frédéric Lambert (‘La syntaxe avant la syntaxe: usages du terme de σύνταξις chez les grammairiens grecs avant Apollonios Dyscole’) and Filippomaria Pontani (‘Ex Homeri Grammatica’) and, above all, Eleanor Dickey who discussed a topic similar to mine from a different angle in her paper about ‘Pre-Atticist Criteria of Linguistic Correctness’. All translations of ancient texts are mine unless otherwise indicated.  Cf. Kaimio [] –, on the fate of the Greek communities in Southern Italy and Sicily and the latinisation of these areas until the Imperial Age. The latinisation of Sicily was completed rather late in the Imperial Age, after Augustus had established six Roman colonies on the island (cf. Kaimio [] ). Thus Cicero’s statement in his speech Pro Archia poeta held in  , that ‘Greek writings are read by almost all nations, Latin ones however are contained by really close limits’ (: Graeca leguntur in omnibus fere gentibus, Latina suis finibus sane exiguis continentur), may be more than just a rhetorical hyperbole in favour of his client Archias’ Greek poems.  Cf. Medici [] – (proemio –); Bembo []  (..–),  (.), – (),  (..–.). Carlo Sigonio, however, used the same model of translatio to argue for the preservation of Latin as the written language and the language of science in his  treatise De Latinae linguae usu retinendo (cf. de Santis [] – and ). Cf. Czapla [] on the relationship between Latin and the vernacular languages in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

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scholars, it was not anyone’s mother tongue in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But when the Romans and their language conquered the Western Mediterranean, this process had its origin in the political, i.e., the military and economic, power of the Roman republic. When Caesar died in  , large parts of Europe, in addition to some regions of Africa and Asia, were under Roman government: the Italian peninsula, the large islands of Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica, Spain, Gaul up to the Rhine, and Greece. The last Greek-speaking country was made a part of the Roman Empire when Octavian conquered Alexandria in  . In a similar way, the supremacy of French was promoted by the power of the Second Empire and that of English favoured by the power of the United States after World War II. But it has to be explained why the European countries conquered by the Romans were latinised (today, Romance languages are spoken there) while Greece was not.⁴ Whereas the French language spread a culture of high standard and with a long tradition, Rome was a young nation which was still developing its own cultural identity in the third and second centuries . It is well known that the first Roman poet Livius Andronicus was Greek by birth. He presumably came to Rome as a slave after the capture of Tarentum in  , and his first literary work was a Latin translation of the Greek Odyssey in Saturnian verses. Equally well known is Horace’s dictum of the defeated Greeks who conquered their uncivilized Roman victors (Hor. Epist. ..–: Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit). Although the production of Latin poetry (epic poems, tragedies, comedies, and vers satire) increased in the following years, the first Roman historian, the nobleman and senator Quintus Fabius Pictor, wrote in Greek, and so did others in the second century. The destruction of Corinth marks the point from which on the Roman historians began to write in Latin. With the exception of Cato the Elder, who was the only one strictly to oppose his Greek-writing contemporaries in earlier times, it was not until the first century, in the time of Caesar and Cicero, that the Romans really began to emancipate themselves from the Greeks in the field of literature, and Cicero in particular was involved in this development. Again and again he asserted that Latin had the power to overcome Greek: Et quoniam saepe diximus, et quidem cum aliqua querela non Graecorum modo, sed eorum etiam, qui se Graecos magis quam nostros haberi volunt, nos non modo non vinci a Graecis verborum copia, sed esse in ea etiam superiores, elaborandum est ut hoc non in nostris solum artibus, sed etiam in illorum ipsorum adsequamur. Since we have often claimed (with some protest it is true not only from the Greeks but also from those who would rather be considered Greek than of our country) that we are

 Cf. Bowersock [] : ‘Ultimately, the natives did not absorb the colonists’ Latin. It was the colonists who absorbed the natives’ Greek.’ Cf. Levick [] –, on the decline of Latin in the Roman colonies of southern Asia minor, especially during the first three centuries , as shown by epigraphic and numismatic evidence.

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not only not inferior to the Greeks in wealth of language but even surpass them in this, we must make the effort to overtake them in their accomplishments as well as our own. (fin. ., transl. Wright [] ; cf. ibid. .)

Furthermore, Cicero demonstrated by which means the number of Latin expressions could be increased (de or. .; fin. .). In particular, he contributed considerably to the development of a philosophical terminology and published philosophical writings in a most elaborate language. Of course, these works are not products of his own philosophical thinking; for the most part, they are compilations of Greek philosophy. But this fact concerns our context only insofar as Cicero wanted to substitute the Greek works by those written in Latin (div. .; orat. ; Tusc. .).⁵ Thus he promoted both a concept of bilingualism, i.e., the ability to read and write Latin and Greek alike, and compilation as a concept of writing: at the beginning of de officiis (.–), dedicated to his son Marcus, he does not refer to his own work as a translation (sequimur […] non ut interpretes). Rather, he defines his method of writing as ‘drawing from their [sc. the Greeks’] sources as much as we feel inclined and in the way we see fit’ (e fontibus eorum iudicio arbitrioque nostro quantum quoque modo videbitur hauriemus). And in de finibus (.) Cicero speaks not only of the choices which he has to make, but also of the arrangement and disposition of the material: ‘we consider what is said by those whom we appreciate and add our opinion and disposition of writing’ (tuemur ea quae dicta sunt ab iis, quos probamus, eisque nostrum iudicium et nostrum scribendi ordinem adiungimus). Cicero’s manner of working in philosophy thus somehow resembles the way in which Diodorus Siculus, Cicero’s Greek contemporary, wrote his universal history, as it has been described by Nicolas Wiater.⁶ Perhaps compilation was generally a widespread method of writing in late Hellenistic times. Primarily, however, his father’s summary of what Greek philosophers thought about duties would advance Marcus Cicero filius’ Latin style (.: orationem autem Latinam efficies profecto legendis nostris pleniorem). Nevertheless, the Romans’ attitude to the Greek language seems ambiguous. Latin was, of course, the official language in the originally Greek-speaking as well as the other provinces, but the Romans obviously did not pursue a policy against the Greek language and used to talk to the representatives of these provinces in Greek.⁷ When the victorious Octavian marched into Alexandria, he spoke to the people and ‘the speech in which he proclaimed to them his pardon he delivered  Cf. Fögen’s comprehensive study [] –, on Cicero’s attitude to the Latin language and his own role in the development of a Latin prose style, both as he assessed it himself and as it was seen by his contemporaries as well as later writers. Cicero certainly wanted to justify his own philosophical writings. Quintilian, however, who was not obliged to any such justification, claimed that Greek was superior (Fögen [] –), as did, in principle, Aulus Gellius (Fögen [] –) and several authors in late antiquity (Augustine, Jerome, Boethius; Jerome [ep. ], by contrast, said that it was always difficult to translate from one language into another) (Fögen [] –).  Cf. Wiater []; cf. Most’s contribution in this volume, esp. p. .  Cf. Adrados [] –.

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in Greek, so that they might understand him’⁸ (Dio Cass. ..: καὶ τόν γε λόγον δι’ οὗ συνέγνω σφίσιν, ἑλληνιστί, ὅπως συνῶσιν αὐτοῦ εἶπε). Octavian, however, never achieved proficiency in this language (Suet. Aug. .) despite the residence of several pedagogues of Greek origin in the imperial household in the following decade.⁹ Sueton remarks that Augustus wrote whatever he had to say in Latin and then had it translated (Suet. Aug. .: nam et si quid res exigeret, Latine formabat vertendumque alii dabat). This tells us that at times it was necessary for the Roman emperor to speak Greek. The fact that Cicero spoke Greek in front of the senate of Syracuse out of politeness, however, had been heavily attacked by the praetor some forty years earlier.¹⁰ On the other hand, Cicero blamed Verres for his inability even to understand a Greek epigram which was inscribed on the base of a sculpture of the famous poetess Sappho which Verres had had carried away. Therefore he did not realize that the epigram on the remaining base now testified to his robbery.¹¹ Cicero also reproaches Caecilius for his low education in order to show that he is not the right person to bring the action against Verres. One criterion for Caecilius’ alleged lack of refinement is that he learned Greek not at Athens but in Sicily where the Doric dialect was spoken.¹² Even if we concede that Cicero’s speeches might be polemic in some respect, this last attack seems to show that as early as  , when he held his speech against Caecilius, there existed for Cicero an opposition between Atticism and Doricism and other dialects in language and literature. Hence there is another analogy between the Renaissance and the first century, at least the first century in Rome: the quarrel about what was the correct Latin and Greek, respectively, the form of Latin and Greek which should be learned. After turning from scholastic Latin to classical literary Latin in the fifteenth century, scholars debated heatedly which author(s) should be selected as the standard for good Latin.

 Transl. Cary [].  Cf. Bowersock [] , .  Verr. ..: Ille [sc. praetor] enimvero negat et ait indignum facinus esse quod ego in senatu Graeco verba fecissem; quod quidem apud Graecos Graece locutus essem, id fieri nullo modo posse (‘Indeed, he refused and said that it was a dishonourable deed that I spoke in a Greek senate, but that it was unaccaptable that I spoke Greek before Greeks’).  Verr. ..: Nam cum ipsa [sc. Sappho, i.e., imago Sapphus] fuit egregie facta, tum epigramma Graecum pernobile incisum est in basi, quod iste eruditus homo et Graeculus, qui haec subtiliter iudicat, qui solus intellegit, si unam litteram Graecam scisset, certe non (App. Peterson: non codd. del. Gratinoni, Nohl, Luterbacher: una Herelius, edd. [Cl. Rev. , ]) sustulisset. Nunc enim quod scriptum est inani basi declarat quid fuerit, et id ablatum indicat (‘As this Sappho is an exquisite work of art, a very well known epigram is graved in the base. If this well educated man and disciple of the Greeks, who is a subtle expert and competent alone in this field, knew one Greek word, certainly he would not have taken it away. For now what is written on the empty base declares what has been there and indicates that it has been removed’).  Div. Caec. : […] si litteras Graecas Athenis non Lilybaei, Latinas Romae, non in Sicilia didicisses […] (‘[…] if you had learned Greek at Athens, not in Lilybaeum, Latin at Rome, not in Sicily […]’).

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The debate was quickly reduced to the question of whether any other authors besides Cicero could serve as models. Although this debate has therefore been called a debate on Ciceronianism, it has been regarded as the sequel of Atticism,¹³ i.e., of the controversy about good Greek and about which authors were to be chosen as models of good Greek prose style. This Atticist controversy took place in the first two centuries , in particular.¹⁴ Francisco Adrados []  has argued that Atticism, which was directed against the κοινή, originated during the reigns of Augustus and Tiberius, the fact notwithstanding that Aristophanes of Byzantium had already written about words which should be avoided. Whereas Adrados []  thought the reason of this literary movement to be the Greeks’ longing to achieve a cultural level higher than that of the Romans and thus to accomplish a symbol of their identity, Versteegh [] –,  spoke in broader terms of a process determined by the social development of Hellenistic society and a stylistic fashion found in the works of prestigious writers. This linguistic Atticism was preceded by a rhetorical Atticism in the first century  which reached its climax in the works of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Dionysius claimed that the outcome of the reconstitution of the ἀρχαία καὶ φιλόσοφος ῥητορική, the Ἀττικὴ μοῦσα (orat. vett. ..), was the power of Rome which compelled all people to virtue and thus gave rise to a complete concept of education based on the imitation of the authors of the good old times, i.e., the fifth and fourth centuries.¹⁵ The rhetorical Atticism, however, which was already flourishing when Dionysius came to Rome, was not uniform, as we can deduce from Cicero’s description of several types of Attici in his Brutus written in   (–). Certain Roman Atticists seem to have mingled an ideal of style based on a very small selection of Attic orators with the linguistic norm of the purity of language which demanded that only those forms of words should be used which were in accordance with the grammatical principle of analogy.¹⁶ The doctrine of analogy in the formation of Greek words was maintained in the first century  by two grammarians, in particular, namely Philoxenus and Tryphon. Both came from Alexandria, and Philoxenus, the younger of the two, who probably was an older contemporary of Varro (– ) and lived in Rome for some time, communicated the theory of analogy to the Romans as well as the awareness that the Attic forms of words ought to be the linguistic norm. At any rate, this is Albrecht Dihle’s view,¹⁷ who has demonstrated Philoxenus of Alexandria’ classicist, i.e., Atticistic attitude by pointing out that Philoxenus called     

Cf. Seidel [] . Cf., e.g., Schmitz [] with further literature. Cf. Hidber [] –. Cf. Dihle [] . Cf. Dihle [] –; for a different view cf. Wisse [], who claims that Atticism, i.e., rhetorical classicism, was shaped by Romans, first by Calvus between  and  , then by his successors, who were opposed by Cicero in , but spread by a Graeco-Roman network and finally emerged as a Greek phenomenon in Dionysius’ works in about  .

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the incorrect use of μή instead of οὐ an ἀλαβανδιακὸς σολοικισμός (alabandic or asiatic violation of syntax, fr.  Theodorides). This statement Dihle has interpreted as a reproach directed against the flawed language use of the rhetors from Asia minor (Hierocles and Menecles came from the city Alabanda in Caria) and hence as evidence of the amalgamation of rhetorical and linguistic Atticism. Furthermore, Dihle has referred to Philoxenus’ rejection of the Ionic comparative ending -έστερος for adjectivs of the second declension in favour of the Attic – as he said – ending -ότερος. Dihle [] – has also argued that the Attic dialect was the norm for the grammarians’ explanation of the Homeric epics already in early Hellenistic times;¹⁸ that Homer is regarded as an Athenian in the scholia (schol. a/d Β ; schol. a Ν , attributed to Aristonicus, a grammarian of the first century ; schol. t Ν ) and his writings as Attic literature;¹⁹ and that already early Hellenistic scholars such as Istros, Eratosthenes, and Aristophanes were engaged in disputes about λέξις and dialects. In so doing, Dihle has drawn a direct link between the works of the early Hellenictic scholars and the grammarians of the first century  and the linguistic Atticism of the first and second centuries . Dihle’s assumption of a linguistic Atticism in the first century  receives support from Dirk Schenkeveld’s attempt to reconstruct Asclepiades’ theory of good Greek. Asclepiades of Myrlea was a Greek grammarian who flourished at about the same time as Philoxenus.²⁰ Apparently, he attacked Dionysius Thrax for defining grammar as an ἐμπειρία (Sext. Emp. Math. .) and stressed the technical nature of grammar. As Elmar Siebenborn has pointed out,²¹ this attack is explained by a loss of prestige of the term ἐμπειρία. The method indicated by this term required an autopsy of a poet’s language use from the results of which rules were to be deduced. This method was developed in analogy to that of the so-called empirical physicians. Later on, however, the term lost its reputation in favour of the term τέχνη under the influence of certain philosophical schools, especially the Stoa and Peripatos. The grammarians tended to claim the technical nature of grammar and stressed its theoretical basis consisting in the systematic organisation of terms and rules. Schenkeveld [] – bases his reconstruction on Asclepiades’ definition of grammar quoted by Sextus and on the latter’s attack against the grammarians (Math. ). He points out, first, that Sextus blames the grammarians for neglecting the language use common among educated Greeks ([κοινὴ] συνήθεια) as a criterion for good Greek (ἑλληνισμός) – an argument evidently based on ἐμπειρία, not τέχνη – and for applying only the – technical – criteria of analogy (ἀναλογία) and etymology (ἐτυμολογία) without explaining how etymology was supposed to help to identify good Greek, and, second, that Sextus mentions neither literary authority (παράδοσις)  Cf. Dihle []  with n. ; cf. also Friedländer []  with n. .  Cf. Dihle [] . Cf. Filippomaria Pontani (see above n.  p. ) on the interrelation of Homer as the primary example of Greek culture and myth and the modern standard of Greek language and on the construction of Greek identity on the basis of Homer’s writings.  Cf. Suda α ; Wentzel [] .  Cf. Siebenborn [] –.

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nor dialect (διάλεκτος) as further criteria. On the other hand, Schenkeveld []  argues: ‘The starting point, the model on which all varieties of the languages of communication are based is the Attic dialect. This appears from the number of times the Attic dialect, an Attic form or word are compared to (one from) another dialect.’ Indeed, whenever Sextus mentions (words from) different dialects, he mentions the Attic dialect or word first. But, one might argue, this order was chosen by Sextus, who he was influenced by the unquestioned Atticism of his own time, but not by Asclepiades. Dihle []  not only claimed that Philoxenus practised linguistic Atticism but also admitted that the grammarian’s main criterion for correctness of speech was analogy. Perhaps we have to be more careful when opposing Atticism and analogy. For analogy is mainly a morphological feature whereas Atticism concerns both lexis (use of Attic vocabulary) and morphology (use of Attic forms of words). Moreover, Attic forms of words are very often in accordance with analogy; in these cases Atticism and analogy go hand in hand. This union of Atticism and analogy conforms to the linguistic Atticism described by Versteegh [] –:²² the leading role of the Attic dialect from the fifth century onwards due to the political power of Athens, above all in the spoken language and the spreading κοινή, in particular, which made Attic the standard Greek spoken and written by educated people in Hellenistic times with the exception of some elements and vocabulary that were neither analogous nor typically Attic. Therefore, in the following pages I will give a survey of the works of Greek grammarians of the first century . Its purpose is to show that the concepts of etymology and analogy were the main criteria in the grammarians’ theories, namely in those of Philoxenus and Tryphon; that these criteria primarily concerned morphology; and that, for certain reasons, the grammarians were not interested at all in establishing one dialect only as the norm of good Greek. In addition to those already named, Asclepiades, Philoxenus and Tryphon, we know the following grammarians to have been active in the first century : Aristonicus of Alexandria, Didymus of Alexandria called Chalkenteros or Bibliolathas, Tyrannion (the elder) of Amisos and Tyrannion (the younger) or Diocles.²³ Asclepiades of Myrlea, Philoxenus, and Tyrannion had their ἀκμή around the middle of the century, Aristonicus of Alexandria, Didymus, Tryphon, and Diocles in its second half, thus still being Augustus’ contemporaries.²⁴  Cf. Adrados [] , who points out that in the fourth century , when Athens lost her political power (defeats by the Spartan in  and by the Macedonians in ), the Attic dialect did not lose the leading position it had achieved when Athens was at the height of her power. The development started during the period of prosperity, continued after the defeat, the Attic dialect thus superseding the others. One reason for this was, Adrados argues, that the Macedonian court adopted the Attic dialect already in the fifth century .  In the following I will always refer to Tyrannion the younger as Diocles.

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Beate Hintzen

According to the division of Asclepiades’ grammar as it is presented by Sextus Empiricus (Math. .–, –, –), their concept of grammar included a basic education in reading and writing, the so-called γραμματιστική (from γράμματα, ‘letters’), and what we would call the study of literature and linguistics, the so-called γραμματική (from γράμματα, ‘texts’). Since the former was neither their object of investigation nor is it ours, I will concentrate on their notion of γραμματική. Asclepiades further subdivided the γραμματική into three parts (–, –), the τεχνικόν, the ἱστορικόν, and the ἰδιαίτερον (or ἐξηγητικόν or γραμματικόν) μέρος.²⁵ The last two refer to literary works and comprise explanations of the contents (πρόσωπα οἱονεὶ θεῖα, ἀνθρώπινα, ἡρωικά, τόποι, πλάσματα καὶ μῦθοι) and language of the texts as well as textual criticism (ἐξήγησις τῶν ἀσαφῶς λεγομένων, κρίσις τῶν ὑγιῶν καὶ μὴ ὑγιῶν, τὸ διορίζειν τὰ γνήσια καὶ τὰ νόθα); the τεχνικὸν μέρος refers to linguistic studies (as such it is comparable to our modern terms ‘grammar’ and ‘lexis’) and deals with the elements (στοιχεῖα), the orthography, and the correct use of the parts of speech (τῶν τοῦ λόγου μερῶν ὀρθογραφία τε καὶ ἑλληνισμός) and related matters (τὰ ἀκόλουθα). Most of the scholars were engaged in both literary and linguistic studies; Tryphon was the only one who dealt with linguistics only. It is remarkable that their literary studies mainly consisted in critical and exegetical writings on the works of poets, primarily Homer,²⁶ to a lesser extent other archaic (Aristonicus, Didymus, Tyrannion), classical (Didymus), and Hellenistic (Asclepiades (?), Didymus, Tyrannion) poets.²⁷ The authors often follow Aristarchus’ tradition, but Crates’ influence can  Cf. for the dates Suda α ; Theodoridis [] –; Haas [] –; Strab. ..; Suda δ ; Harding [] ; Suda τ ; Theodorides ibid.; cf.Pfaffel [] on the connection between the Roman Varro and the Greeks Philoxenus and Tryphon.  Cf. Müller [] – and Heinicke [] – for reconstructions of Asclepiades’ grammatica tripertita; cf. Usener [] and Ax [] on Tyrannion’s grammatica quadripertita.  Writings on Homer’s epics: Aristonicus: Περὶ τῶν σημείων τῶν τῆς Ἰλιάδος καὶ Ὀδυσσείας (cf. Suda α ); Asclepiades: περὶ τῆς Νεστορίδος (Ath. .a–b), ὑπομνήματα Ἰλιάδος, ὑπομνήματα Ὀδυσσείας (Etym. Magn. .; .; Ammon. Diff.  Nickau = – Valkenaer); Didymus: Περὶ τῆς Ἀρισταρχείου διορθώσεως Ἰλιάδος, Ὀδυσσείας (fr. . Schmidt), ὑπομνήματα εἰς Ἰλιάδα (fr. . Schmidt), ὑπομνήματα εἰς Ὀδύσσειαν (fr. . Schmidt); Philoxenus: περὶ σημείων τῶν ἐν τῇ Ἰλιάδι (fr. f. Theodorides), περὶ γλωσσῶν εʹ (cf. Suda φ ), περὶ τῶν παρ’ Ὁμήρῳ γλωσσῶν (cf. Suda φ ); ὑπόμνημα εἰς τὴν Ὀδύσσειαν (fr. – Theodoridis); Tyrannion: Περὶ τῆς Ὁμηρικῆς προσῳδίας (fr. – Haas); Diocles (?): Διόρθωσις Ὁμηρική (fr. – Haas).  Archaic authors: Alcman: Aristonicus (?) (POxy  = PMG ; cf. Turner [] ); Tyrannion (fr.  Haas); Bacchylides: Didymus: ὑπόμνημα Βακχυλίδου ἐπινικίων (fr. . Schmidt); Hesiodus: Aristonicus: Περὶ τῶν σημείων τῶν ἐν τῇ Θεογονίᾳ Ἡσιόδου (cf. Suda α ), Didymus: ὑπόμνημα εἰς Ἡσίοδον (fr. . Schmidt); Pindarus: Aristonicus ? (Schol. Pind. Ol. .c, .a, .a; Nem.  insc. b, .); Didymus: ὑπόμνημα εἰς Πίνδαρον (fr. . Schmidt); classical authors: Aeschylus: Didymus: ὑπόμνημα εἰς Αἰσχύλον (?) (fr. . Schmidt); Sophokles: Didymus: ὑπόμνημα εἰς Σοφοκλέα (fr. . Schmidt); Euripides: Didymus: ὑπόμνημα εἰς Εὐριπίδην (fr. . Schmidt); Aristophanes: ὑπομνήματα εἰς Ἀριστοφάνην (fr. . Schmidt); Eupolis: Didymus: ὑπομνήματα εἰς Εὔπολιν (fr. . Schmidt); Cratinus: Didymus: ὑπομνήματα εἰς Κρατῖνον (fr. . Schmidt); Hellenistic authors: Aratus: Asclepiades (?) (Schol. Arat. , cf. Müller , ); Menander: ὑπομνήματα εἰς Μένανδρον (fr. . Schmidt); Nicander: Tyrannion (fr.  Haas); Theocritus: Asclepiades (?) (schol. Theocr. .d, c; .a; ./e, /b, /a Wendel, cf. Müller [] –)

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also be detected.²⁸ Didymus was the only one also to write commentaries on prose authors, namely on the Attic orators.²⁹ This is surprising insofar as the definitions of grammar of both Dionysius Thrax and Asclepiades list the works of prose authors as objects of the grammarian’s investigation alongside works of poetry.³⁰ The grammarians seem to have been very conservative in this regard and observed the sharp line dividing Greek grammar and rhetoric.³¹ They continued to do what their predecessors had done and avoided investigating works written in prose which was the domain of the rhetors, as can be seen clearly from Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ numerous writings. Moreover, in most cases Didymus did not deal with the language of the orators, especially Demosthenes, but provided biographical notes on the author,³² and explained names, the meaning of difficult words, a peculiar expression,³³ a metaphorical phrase,³⁴ a proverb,³⁵ and similar phenomena as can be seen from the fragments collected by Schmidt. The mostly historical character of Didymus’ remarks on Demosthenes, which have been preserved on papyrus, was discussed at length long ago as well as recently by Harding.³⁶ There are, however, three more passages in this work where Didymus explains a word by etymology.³⁷ He criticises Demosthenes’ accentuation φαρμακός and postulates φαρμᾶκος against common usage (fr. .– Schmidt); he discusses the statement that the word ὀρρωδεῖν is too vulgar to be Demosthenic without expressing agreement or disagreement (in D. .–); and he corrects Aeschines’ Παιανιεῖς to Παιανεῖς and Κραυαλλίδαι to Κραυγαλλίδαι (fr. . Schmidt) and rectifies Hyperides’ incorrect explanation of Zeus’ surname and his inappropriate use of Πυθαεία (fr. .a, b Schmidt). Didymus exclusively cites writers of Hellenistic times as authorities: Xenagoras (fr. . Schmidt), Nicander (fr. . Schmidt), Menander (fr. .a;  Schmidt), the last one being the only one from Attica. In the course of his explanations, he quotes Homer (D. col. .–; .–), Aeschylus (D. col. .–), Sophocles (D. col. .–), Aristophanes (D. col. .–.–), Callimachus, (D. col. –), and the Atthidographer Demon (D.  Aristonicus for instance explained the critical signs of Aristarchus, wheras Asclepiades’ periegesis of Turgetania (which localised Odysseus’ journeys in Spain) and his allegorical explication of Nestor’s cup show Pergamenian influence.  Didymus about Attic orators: ὑπομνήματα εἰς Αἰσχίνην (fr. . Schmidt), Δημοσθένην (fr. . Schmidt), ὑπόμνημα εἰς Δείναρχον (?) (fr. . Schmidt), Ἰσαῖον (fr. . Schmidt), Ἰσοκράτην (?) (fr. . Schmidt), Ὑπερείδην (fr. . Schmidt).  Dionysius: γραμματική ἐστιν ἐμπειρία ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πλεῖστον τῶν παρὰ ποιηταῖς τε καὶ συγγραφεῦσι λεγομένων (Sext. Math. .); Asclepiades: γραμματική ἐστι τέχνη τῶν παρὰ ποιηταῖς τε καὶ συγγραφεῦσι λεγομένων (Sext. Math. .).  Cf. Dihle [] .  Cf. Didymus fr. . Schmidt.  Cf. Didymus fr. .a, b, b, c, d,d, g, h, i, i, k, l, m; , a; ;  Schmidt.  Cf. Didymus fr. .a, e Schmidt.  Cf. Didymus .a Schmidt.  Cf., for example, Leo []; Lossau [] –, –; Harding [] –.  Cf. D. col. .–; .–.; .–.

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Beate Hintzen

.–.). Demon is the only one whom we can suppose to have written Attic prose, but Didymus quotes him to refer to a historical event in order to illuminate a proverb. Consequently, the scholia on the orators show few signs of his influence because later on interest in rhetorical terms and technique outweighed interest in this kind of history and philology.³⁸ Unfortunately, as is well known, only fragments of the grammarians’ works have survived, and the only two grammars of that time, the grammar attributed to Dionysius Thrax and the τέχνη γραμματική attributed to Tryphon, are spurious or at least dubious; moreover, they are not grammars in the modern sense of the word although Tryphon’s τέχνη γραμματική comes much closer to our concept of a grammar than Dionysius’.³⁹ This renders it rather difficult to reconstruct the history of the Greek grammar of the Hellenistic age. Nevertheless, in the last decades Ax [], Matthaios [], Schenkeveld [], Siebenborn [], and others have made successful attempts to do so by additionally taking into account certain fragments from grammatical monographs on orthography, individual parts of speech, and so on. But since the two grammars with their definitions of the parts of speech and the classification of words do not contribute to our investigation of the critera for good Greek, it might be safe not to consider them and leave the question of their authenticity undiscussed here. We find Didymus to be the only one to write dictionaries. There are fifty fragments from a λέξις κωμική (fr. . Schmidt), twelve from a λέξις τραγική (fr. . Schmidt), two from a διεφθορυῖα λεξις (fr. . Schmidt; as Schmidt has pointed out, the title suggests that this work represented a list of words that had lost their original pronunciation, mostly due to corruption of the sound of individual letters,⁴⁰ but both fragments give a [metaphorical] meaning of a word), one from an ἀπορουμένη λέξις of originally at least seven books (fr. . Schmidt; about words of dubious meaning), and one from a τροπικὴ λέξις (fr. . Schmidt; the fragment differentiates between the literal meaning of ἀγαθοεργοί used by the Ἀττικοί and its metaphorical meaning used by the Λακεδαιμόνιοι). Lists of words that are to be preferred or to be avoided have not been found. Thus there is no evidence for a lexical Atticism. Numerous monographs have been written about parts of speech, but most of them have been lost. We possess no more than three fragments from Tyrannion’s μερισμὸς τῶν τοῦ λόγου μερῶν⁴¹ which give his definition of grammar, his differentiation between nomen proprium, nomen appellativum, and participle, and his denomination of the pronouns; we know no more than the title of a very specialized investigation περὶ ἀσυντάκτων ὀνομάτων βιβλία ςʹ by Aristonicus;⁴² the only work we can ascribe    

Cf. Harding [] . Cf. Ax []  on the incompatibility of ancient and modern terms of grammar. Cf. Schmidt [] –. Cf. Haas []  for the title.

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with certainty to Didymus is a treatise περὶ παθῶν, from which three fragments remain; not much more than a hundred small pieces from Tryphon’s twenty-five grammatical writings which we know by title have been preserved. However, a remarkable number of Philoxenus’ writings on parts of speech, formation of words, and Hellenism have been preserved. I will therefore concentrate on Philoxenus and Tryphon. It was their great merit to develop an etymology in the modern sense of the word. Of course, Stoic philosophers, too, had used etymology to explain the meaning of words a long time before that. They assumed that Greek words were composed through addition and explained, for example, κνώσσειν (‘to slumber’) as κενοῦν τοῦ ὄσσειν (‘to empty of viewing’). This method as well as their primary interest in semantics conforms to their philosophical idea that in the beginning, there was a perfect world and a perfect language; the sound of words of this perfect language was a perfect expression of their meaning, but this correspondence has been changed, or rather corrupted, in the course of time by the loss, addition, and change of letters. Stoic etymology therefore aimed at recovering the original words of the ideal state of the world. The grammarians, above all Philoxenus, assumed that radicals of verbs could be detected through analysis of derivatives and represented the basis of most parts of the language. Therefore, they postulated the root κνῶ (‘I lie’) to explain κνώσσειν.⁴³ In accordance with the Stoics, they believed that words by and by undergo πάθη and change their form.⁴⁴ This kind of etymology aims at developing rules for the composition of the correct forms of words and at explaining forms that prima facie are composed neither according to these rules nor to analogy. Philoxenus also used etymology to reveal the correct meaning of μοχλός, a word already known to Homer (fr.  Theodorides). The poet uses the noun in the sense of “bar, lever” which corresponds to the meaning of the verb μοχλεύω, “to heave or wrench by a lever” (Il. .; Od. .; .–, ). But in Philoxenus’ time (ἡ νῦν χρῆσις, συνήθεια), μοχλός meant “bolt”, which Homer calls ἐπιβλής (Il. .) or ὀχεύς (Il. .; al.). Although connections between the Greeks Philoxenus and Tryphon and the Roman Varro cannot be proven, some of Varro’s etymologies are similar to those of the two Greeks so that it is at least possible that Varro met Philoxenus at Rome.⁴⁵ Discussing the meaning of μοχλός, Philoxenus praises Homer, whom he quotes more often than any other writer: οὕτως οἶδε τὴν ἐτυμολογίαν ὁ ποιητής, ‘In such a  Cf. Suda α ; according to Cohn [] , this work dealt with nouns containing unallowed combinations of letters.  Cf. Etym. Gud. .–; Etym. Magn. ..–; Reitzenstein [] –; cf. Sluiter [] – on Stoic etymology and its relation to their philosophy.  Cf. Siebenborn [] –; examples of those πάθη: Tryphon, fr. .– Velsen = –. For example (fr. . Velsen = ), Tryphon explains λιμός (‘hunger’) as λείψις τῶν ἐπιτηδείων (‘lack of food’), deriving it from λείπω and stating that the sound of the word was affected by its meaning, ‘lack’, which caused the original diphthong to be reduced to the single vowel ι. Cf. Wackernagel [] –; Sluiter [] , no. , for a discussion of this fragment.  Cf. Pfaffel [].

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Beate Hintzen

way the poet knew the etymology’. If we assume that our sources give essentially the same examples as Philoxenus,⁴⁶ he quoted almost exclusively poets, including the Attic tragedians Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. There are a few quotations from Plato and Xenophon and only two from an Attic orator, namely Hyperides. Among the Attic writers it is the exponent of old comedy, Aristophanes, whom he names most frequently. Philoxenus also wrote about dialects, though not about the Attic dialect but περὶ τῆς τῶν Συρακουσίων διαλέκτου, περὶ τῆς Λακώνων διαλέκτου, περὶ Ἰάδος διαλέκτου, and περὶ τῆς τῶν Ῥωμαίων διαλέκτου. Some fragments from περὶ Ἰάδος διαλέκτου (fr. – Theodoridis) and περὶ τῆς τῶν Ῥωμαίων διαλέκτου (fr. – Theodor-

idis) have been preserved. Furthermore, we have some of Philoxenus’ remarks about Attic, Doric, and Ionic words, forms of words, and so on from other writings. Since some of the statements on the language use of certain authors overlap with the discussion of dialects, I will investigate authors and dialects together. It is certainly, at least in part, due to the sources (mostly Orion and the Etymologica) that the bulk of the fragments⁴⁷ deals with semantic questions: where dialects are concerned, words that are Attic, Doric, and Ionic, or epic/poetic, are explained by etymology;⁴⁸ where authors are cited by name, Philoxenus either notes the use of a word, or a peculiar meaning of a word (often including an etymological explanation), a name, or the use of one word in place of another, or he explains particular phrases.⁴⁹ All these instances are enumerated without judgment. Philoxenus mostly

 In some cases several quotations from different sources regarding the same issue provide the same examples. We can therefore be somewhat confident that these examples were borrowed from Philoxenus. The same can be said about the other grammarians.  In the following notes, the asterisk indicates those fragments whose attribution to a certain work is tentative; two asterisks mark dubious fragments according to Theodoridis’ edition.  Attic: * (ἀποφράδες); Doric: * (θῶσθαι); Ionic or epic/poetic:  (ἦτορ),  (ἱστία),  (κορυφή),  (κόσμος),  (κρόσαι),  (λάλλαι [conjecture in Theoc. . on the basis of this explication]),  (λαλῶ),  (μείς),  (μήν),  (μιαρός),  (οἰήιον),  (ὀρρωδῶ with the example of Her. ..),  (τόξον), * (κόρυς),  (λόχμη), * (ὄρχαμος),  (ὀτρηρός), * (τρήρων), * (φώρ),  (εὐηγεσίη).  Aeschylus: * (fr.  Radt: νεοκρᾶτας), * (fr.  Radt: νεοκρᾶτες), * (Ag. –: γάγγαμον),  (fr.  Radt: στέμβω); Sophocles:  (OT : θοάζειν),  (fr.  Radt: ναρόν),  (fr.  Radt: φυτάλμιος),  (Ant. : ἁρμός),  (fr.  Radt: Πολύϊδος); Euripides:  (Andr. : λάσκω); Aristophanes: * (Av. : διαφρῶ), * (Ach. : θωράξομαι),  (Eq. ; fr.  Kassel/Austin: κατακναίω = διαφθείρω; Eccl. : κνῦμα = τὸ ξύειν),  (Eq. : νέω = νήχω), * (Pax : αἴρω = προσφέρειν [σιτία]), * (Δαιταλῆς, test. III Kassel/Austin: δαιταλεύς), * (Eq. : κοάλεμος = μωρός), * (Eq. : ὀρταλίζειν = ῥίπτειν), * (Pax : δοῖδυξ = ἁλοτρίβανος), * (Av. : ἔρεβος = τὸ ὑπὸ γῆς ἐστεγασμένον),  (Πολύϊδος, test. III Kassel/Austin: Πολύϊδος, see above), * (Eq. : σκαρδαμύσσειν = κίνειν καὶ μύειν τὰ βλέφαρα), ** (Ach. : ἀχάνη = σκεῦος); Xenophon:  (An. ..; ..: πασάμενος instead of κτησάμενος); Platon:  (Resp. a together with Hom. Od. .: explanation of Σαρδόνιος γέλως).

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describes the phenomena and identifies the dialects or authors such as with Attic τ for σ or Ionic η for α,⁵⁰ but also in case of spelling, prosody, and word formation. In a few cases he expresses explicit criticism or praise. The Ionians and the Attics are each blamed once. These are the references from περὶ συγκριτικῶν and the ῥηματικόν mentioned by Dihle: Philoxenus calls those comparatives and superlatives to adjectives of the second declension which are formed by -έστερος/-έστατος ‘a poetical creation in the manner of the Ionians’ (ποιητικὰ […] κατ’ ἔθος Ἰώνων γενόμενα; frr. , ; cf. ,  Theodoridis); he used a stronger expression when discussing Attics who formed comparatives and superlatives in -ίστερος/-ίστατος or -αίτερος/-αίτατος to adjectives ending in -ής: ἥμαρτον ‘they made a mistake’ (fr. .; cf. fr.  Theodoridis). Here, he blames the Attic authors Aristophanes (Ach. ; Plut. –; Thesm. ; fr. . Kassel/Austin), Plato the comedian (fr.  Kassel/Austin), Xenophon (Hell. ..; Vect. .) and Plato the philosopher (Chrm. a, Plt. c; Resp. c). His assertion that the Ionic is a mistake is based exclusively on Aeschylus (fr. . Radt), whom we, too, regard as an Attic author; by contrast, he quotes the same poet (Sept. ) alongside Callimachus (fr.  Pfeiffer), whom we do not regard as an Attic author at all, in order to illustrate his rule of how to form the comparative and superlative of adjectives with comparatives ending in -ων (fr.  Theodoridis) correctly and according to analogy. He praises the Dorians, however, because they use the ἐτυμώτερον term Μῶσα in place of Μοῦσα (fr. *.): he derives Μῶσα from Doric μῶ/μῶμαι, meaning ζητῶ, and, therefore, translates the word as ‘inventor of all knowledge’ (fr. *.–: παντὸς εὑρέτις μαθήματος). Some nouns derived from Doric and Ionic forms of verbs might also be worth pointing out: ἀπρίξ, from Doric πρίξω instead of πρίζω or πρίσω (fr. *); θρίξ, from Doric θερίξω instead of θερίζω (fr. *); δάξ, from Ionic δάξω instead of δάκνω (fr. *.–). Μέλεος is explained through recurrence to the Ionic forms ἠλεός or μήλεος (fr. ): Ionic ἠλεός and μήλεος stem from λῶ, θέλω, ‘to want’, then η was shortened to ε, and thus μήλεος became μέλεος, the word meaning ‘not wanted’ because nobody wants the superfluous. Here the Ionic and Doric forms  Attic τ instead of σ: , *, * (διττᾶν, τῶ, τήμερον instead of δισσᾶν, σῶ, σήμερον); Ionic η instead of α: , , * (ἠλακάτη, γενέθρη, ἠλασκάζω instead of ἀλακάτη, γενέθρα, ἀλασκάζω); Attic spelling and prosody: * (οὖς instead of ὦς), * (βαύνος instead of βαυνός),  (ἐτός instead of ἐτῶς) (?); Ionic forms of words:  (ἀμεπέως, ἀψευδέως instead of ἀμεπῶς, ἀψευδῶς),  (ὀχθήσας instead of ἀχθήσας),  (nominative of the second declension formed after a genitive of the third declension: τρίβαξ, τρίβακος, ὁ τρίβακος)(?); Aeolic spelling and forms of words:  (no dual in the aeolic dialect); , , ; * (ἄεισι, ἀέντες, ἄητον, ἄη explained as . pl. pres., participle, dual [against ], . sg. impf., respectively, of ἄημι/ἄω),  (ἄλιππα instead of ἄλιμμα from ἀλείφω),  (explication of εἰήν as inf. of εἴω instead of εἴειν),  (μάγιρος instead of μάγειρος),  (τέρσεσθαι explained as fut. of θέρσω). Sophocles is cited as evidence for the use of the participle of μῶσθαι (: Trach. ), Euripides for the use of the superlative τλημονέστατος (: Med. ), καθαπτός derived from καθάπτω (: Hypsip. fr.  Kannicht), κλώψ, derived from κλέπτω (: Alc. ), Aristophanes for the prosody ἀμυγδαλῆ with circumflex in the sense of ‘almond-tree’ as well as of ‘almond’ (: fr.  Kassel/Austin).

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were the only ones that offered Philoxenus an opportunity to apply his etymological reasoning.⁵¹ To sum up, I do not think that this evidence allows for the conclusion that Philoxenus preferred any dialect, author, or time because of its exemplary standard of Greek. The only yardstick of his judgement is analogy. The fact that he regards Homer, if any writer, as the superior authority is explained by the poet’s age: no poet comes closer to the original state of language, before the words underwent the πάθη. A similar picture emerges from the few fragments from Tryphon’s works. Just like Philoxenus, he wrote about dialects, and he did not write about the Attic dialect either but περὶ πλεονασμοῦ τοῦ ἐν τῇ Αἰολίδι διαλέκτῳ βιβλία ζ, περὶ τῶν παρ’ Ὁμήρῳ διαλέκτων καὶ Σιμωνίδῃ καὶ Πινδάρῳ καὶ Ἀλκμᾶνι καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις λυρικοῖς, περὶ τῆς Ἑλλήνων διαλέκτου καὶ Ἀργείων καὶ Ἱμεραίων καὶ Ῥηγίνων καὶ Δωριέων καὶ Συρακουσίων. The titles are all we know of these three treatises, but we do have some pieces of a work inscribed περὶ Ἀττικῆς προσῳδίας (fr. .– Velsen = –).

Since most of these fragments are transmitted in Ammonius’ De adfinium vocabulorum differentia (fr. ., , , , ,  Velsen = , , , , , ), we often find couples of words that are distinguished in the Attic dialect through their προσῳδίαι. Although this difference in prosody is accepted for Ionic and Doric μισητή/μισήτη (fr. . Velsen = ), it is rejected on the grounds of analogy in favour of barytonesis for τρόχος/τροχός (fr. . Velsen = , against Euripides’ usage [Alopa fr.  Kannicht; Med. ]) and in favour of oxytonesis for πονηρός/πόνηρος and μοχθηρός/μόχθηρος (fr. . Velsen = ). Tryphon argues in favour of psilosis of the second syllable in ταῶς with reference to analogous words in the Attic and Ionic dialects against the Athenians’ usage, especially Aristophanes’ usage (Av. , , : ταὧς), in περὶ πνευμάτων (fr. . Velsen = ); he blames the Attics for not forming the plural of ἔγχελυς according to the rules of analogy anymore in περὶ τῆς ἐν κλίσεσιν ἀναλογίας (fr. . Velsen = ); and he favours ἐχθές as ἐντελέστερον and ἀναλογώτερον over Attic χθές in περὶ ἐπιρρημάτων (fr. . Velsen = ). Tryphon is fond of quoting poets, just like Philoxenus. In addition to Euripides and Aristophanes, he quotes Menander twice in these fragments (fr. : Men. fr. ,  Kassel/Austin). Last, but not least, we have to consider those treatises that deal specifically with good Greek, namely περὶ ὀρθογραφίας and περὶ ἑλληνισμοῦ. Unfortunately, only two fragments from works περὶ ὀρθογραφίας are left, one by Tryphon and one by Tyrannion, and four fragments of works περὶ ἑλληνισμοῦ, two by Philoxenus and  Cf. Siebenborn []  on this function of διάλεκτος; Wackernagel’s assumption [] –, however, that Tryphon was the inventor of dialect as a criterion of Hellenism (although he is not mentioned by Sextus who names only Aristophanes of Byzantium, Aristarchus, Crates, Dionysius Thrax, and Asclepiades of Myrlea, cf. Siebenborn [] ) relies on his assumption that Tryphon lived earlier than Philoxenus (and Didymus); but see p.  above with n.  for an earlier date of Philoxenus’ life.

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two by Tryphon. Again, we find etymology taking priority over contemporary and literary language use. Tryphon postulates that κνώσσος be spelled with two σ without giving any reasons (fr. . Velsen = ) and Tyrannion prefers σκῶπες, which we find in Theocritus (.), to κῶπες on the grounds of etymology, explaining σκίοπες as ἐν σκιᾷ ἔχοντες τὴν ὄπα (fr.  Haas). All passages from περὶ ἑλληνισμοῦ deal with the meaning of words and thus aim to prevent ἀκυρολογία (the use of a semantically inproper word), the other two possible flaws in language use being βαρβαρισμός (an error concerning a single word, especially employing an incorrect form) and σολοικισμός (an error concerning an entire syntactic construction):⁵² Philoxenus explains ἀκόλαστος as someone not having received κόλασις (in the sense of παιδεία). He explains κερούειν as deriving from τοῖς κέρασι παίειν and κρούειν as a syncope of κερούειν (fr. – Theodoridis). Tryphon (fr. .– Velsen = –) distinguishes δίσκος from σόλος, referring to Homer (Il. .; Od. ., ) and Pindar (Isthm. .), and χλαῖνα from χλανίς, citing Xenophon and Homer (Od. .–) (the reference to Xenophon is either Tryphon’s mistake or Ammonius’ who quotes Tryphon at Diff.  Nickau). The grammarians’ limitation to individual words is not surprising, since, as Ineke Sluiter []  has pointed out,⁵³ ancient linguistic thought in general was essentially semantically oriented. Furthermore, from the facts that Sextus (a) makes but a few remarks on σολοικισμός (Math. .–), (b) discusses correct Greek in individual words and forms, and (c) says almost nothing about correct syntax, scholars have concluded that the treatises on Hellenism were primarily concerned with morphology or, according to Siebenborn, inflections.⁵⁴ If we really want to know what scholars of the first century  thought about correct Greek syntax, we have to consult the works of the rhetor Dionysius who discusses numerous instances of faulty syntax in Thucydides but excuses them as ‘combinations of figures that verge upon solecism’ (Thuc. ed. Aujac, .: τῶν σχηματισμῶν πλοκὰς σολοικοφανεῖς).⁵⁵ Maybe the line separating morphology and syntax also separates Greek grammarians and rhetors.⁵⁶ Indeed, the fact that Varro  Cf. anonym. de impropriis, p.  Nickau, for the definition of ἀκυρολογία; cf. Sext. Emp. Math. . for the definitions of βαρβαρισμός and σολοικισμός; cf. Schenkeveld [] .  Cf. Varro (Ling. .), who calls etymology (unde sint verba) and semantics (περὶ σημαινομένων / cur sint verba) the two naturae of each word.  Cf. Siebenborn [] –; Schenkeveld [] ; it might be helpful to recall Philoxenus fr.  Theodoridis, where he blames the alabandic solecism (see above p. , but cf. Swiggers and Wouters [] on the ‘surrepticious syntax’ (‘syntaxe subreptice’) in the extant fragments of the works of Graeco-Roman grammarians and Matthaios [] on Tryphon’s rudimental reflection on syntax). Questioning the previously accepted opinion, Matthaios convincingly demonstrates that Tryphon did not develop a theory of syntax and in all probability did not write a treatise περὶ συντάξεως.  Transl. Usher []; cf. Schenkeveld [] .  Cf. Swiggers and Wouters [] –, who regard the fact that syntax was the domain of dialecticians and rhetors as one reason among several for the absence of syntax from grammatical writings.

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dealt with syntax (coniunctio) in some of the lost books of his De lingua Latina (cf. Ling. .), the usual thing to do for a Roman grammarian,⁵⁷ has led Alfred Gudemann []  to the conclusion that there must have existed Greek sources before Varro. Yet, there is no need to assume that such books were written by grammarians: Varro could use the writings of the rhetoricians. Although we have to take it for granted that the grammarians aimed to demonstrate the technical character of grammar and promote their concept of etymology and analogy, several of them, I think, might have aimed at something else; and in this respect we might even be able to detect an area of agreement between grammarians and rhetors, or, more precisely, between the grammarians Philoxenus and Tyrannion and the rhetor Dionysius. At any rate, I find it hard to believe that it is a mere coincidence that those two grammarians who (just like Dionysius) lived in Rome for a considerable time, declare Latin to be a Greek dialect (Philoxenus, fr. – Theodoridis, esp. fr. .: […] ὥσπερ οἱ Ῥωμαῖοι ἄποικοι ὄντες τῶν Αἰολέων ‘[…] as the Romans are colonists of the Aeolians’, Tyrannion, fr.  Haas: Περὶ τῆς Ῥωμαϊκῆς διαλέκτου ὅτι ἐστὶν ἐκ τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς κοὐκ αὐθιγενὴς ἡ Ῥωμαϊκὴ διάλεκτος [‘On the Roman dialect, that it stems from the Greek and is not native’]) and that Dionysius claims that the Romans were Greeks by descent (Ant. Rom. ..: περὶ μὲν τῶν οἰκισάντων τὴν πόλιν, οἵτινες ἦσαν καὶ κατὰ τίνας ἕκαστοι καιροὺς συνῆλθον καὶ τίσι τύχαις χρησάμενοι τὰς πατρίους οἰκήσεις ἐξέλιπον, ἐν ταύτῃ δηλώσω τῇ γραφῇ, δι’ ἧς Ἕλληνάς τε αὐτοὺς ὄντας ἐπιδείξειν ὑπισχνοῦμαι καὶ οὐκ ἐκ τῶν ἐλαχίστων ἢ φαυλοτάτων ἐθνῶν συνεληλυθότας).⁵⁸ The Roman Varro, in stark contrast, believes that many Latin

words stemmed from Greek ones (Ling. passim, esp. .), even though some of them do not but simply derive from the same root, and explains these derivations by referring to Euander who was an Arcadian from Greece (Ling. .). It therefore seems to me that the grammarians found a sophisticated way to make it easy for the Romans to accept their view and not to oppose the Greek language: they declared Latin to be Greek, gave up the ideal of one single dialect as the ultimate norm for correct language use, and established analytical ones instead. This procedure is similar to Dionysius’ who integrated the Romans into his concept of rhetorical and moral education through imitation of the Attic authors of the good old days. Dionysius invited the Romans to believe that they were not only Greeks but even better Greeks and reconciled the Greeks with the fact that they were ruled by the Romans by convincing them that the Romans’ political power was founded on their Greekness.⁵⁹ This way, neither of the two nations had to feel inferior to the other, except regarding the luck on the battlefield.  Cf. Dihle [] .  ‘I shall in this book show who the founders of the city were, at what periods the various groups came together, and through what turns of fortune they left their countries. By this means I engage to prove that they were Greeks and came together from nations not the smallest nor the least considerable’, transl. Cary [].  Cf. Hidber [] –.

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Thus to some extent, Philoxenus and Tyrannion, who came to Rome prior to Dionysius, prepared the ground for the latter. However, Cicero’s attempt to substitute the Greek philosophical writings with Latin ones succeded in that it led to the loss of works of Hellenistic philosophy, but failed in the attempt to substitute all of them. Philosophers of earlier times, especially of the classical period, continued to be read and handed down. Philoxenus and Tryphon only seem to mark a point in which all Greek dialects, including the Roman one, were in balance. Shortly afterwards, the scales were tipped in favour of the Attic dialect and, possibly not least as a result of Dionysius’ concept of education, the authors of the classical period. Two more points concerning the relationship between Greek and Latin and the establishment of the concept of analogy might be worth mentioning from the point of view of a language teacher in the present: perhaps the stay at Rome helped to develop the concept, because direct comparison with another language makes it easier to detect rules and analogies (I had never reflected on the German subjunctive until I had to explain how to translate correctly Latin reported speech into German); maybe some grammarians wished to make access to the Greek language easier for foreigners. As I know from experience, students always ask for rules, and rules as simple as possible, but not for idioms or even examples of literary use.⁶⁰  Consequently, Dickey (see above n.  p. ) takes into account that the evolution of non-elite Greek in the imperial period involved extensive regularisation; that analogy supported uneducated usage better than educated one; and that the resistance of the educated to this development may have been one reason for Atticism eventually overpowering analogy.

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Dennis Pausch

Augustus chlamydatus. Greek Identity and the bios Kaisaros by Nicolaus of Damascus¹ In  the exhibition ‘Egypt – Greece – Rome. Rejection and Contact’ was hosted by the Städel Museum of Frankfurt, where the multifaceted contacts between these different ancient cultures were shown. Naturally, the focus was laid on the first century . However, since it was an archaeological exhibition and thus primarily interested in the material remains of that age, it did not mention a certain politician and author who perhaps like no other embodies the numerous opportunities for cultural contact at the beginning of the Common Era. I am referring to none other than Nicolaus who was born into one of the leading families of Damascus with possibly Macedonian roots² in  ³ – the year in which Syria became a Roman province. He first appeared as the tutor of Cleopatra’s and Marc Antony’s children⁴ in Egypt, then made a brilliant career as a political adviser concerned with diplomatic issues at the court of Herod the Great⁵ in Judaea, and finally lived in Rome⁶ for a longer period. Perhaps he also died in Rome at an unknown date. In addition to this wide range of activities, Nicolaus found time to compose a voluminous literary work of which only fragments have survived.⁷ According to the available sources, his philosophical writings alone, arising from his life-long immersion in the doctrines of the Peripatetic school,⁸ must have formed an impressive œuvre.⁹ This is all the more true of his Histories, which offered their readers a  I would like to thank my colleagues in Gießen, especially Vera Binder, Ulrike Egelhaaf-Gaiser, Helmut Krasser and Peter von Möllendorff, for their various support during the development of this argument as well as the participants of the symposion in Bonn for the discussion of the paper. Moreover, I am indebted to Tina Jehrke, Anna Oeste and Glenn Patten, who have spent quite a lot of time to make my English understandable.  An indication of an at least partially Greek ancestry could be seen in the names of his parents, Antipater and Stratonike (cf. FGrHist  F – and also PIR² A ), but it could also be a fairly common sign of acculturation among the indigenous population (cf. Laqueur [] –; Wacholder [] –, and Yarrow [] –; –).  Cf. FGrHist  F  § .  Cf. FGrHist  T  and also Wacholder [] –, and Yarrow [] –.  Cf. Wacholder [] –; Sonnabend [] ; Malitz [] –; Günther [] –, and Yarrow [] –.  Cf. FGrHist  F . On his knowledge of Latin cf. Toher [] .  For a review of his different works as part of the ‘systematization’ typical for the Augustan era see Most (in this volume).  Cf. in particular FGrHist  F .  Cf. Wacholder [] –, and Meister [] .

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Dennis Pausch

synchronistic survey of the history of the ancient world up to the death of Herod the Great in  .¹⁰ The few remaining fragments are either concerned with the history of Mesopotamia and early Greece¹¹ or focus on Nicolaus’ own epoch. Flavius Josephus was the first who accused him of presenting a tendentious view of contemporary history and of presenting his patron Herod in the most favourable light.¹² This accusation has since been established as a definitive truth in the scholarly literature. The historiographical main work was accompanied by two minor writings: a) Nicolaus’ autobiography of which also only excerpts remain and in which he apparently presented his own life shaped by the principles of the Aristotelian ethics¹³ and b) the work we will examine in more detail: his portrayal of the first Roman emperor, generally known as the ‘Life of Augustus’.¹⁴ This designation, however, turns out to be problematic in a number of respects, as it will be my first proposition that this text is not so much a biography in the classical sense as a literary genre specifically designed by Nicolaus for his actual purpose, drawing on at least two different Greek traditions. This is closely related to my second point. The predominant view on this text is that it simply translates an image dictated by Rome for the Greek-speaking half of the Empire and is therefore to be considered as a work of propaganda. Against this, I will argue that it is an independent conception of the Roman emperor in Greek clothing which skilfully combines a number of diverse interests. However, before I will turn to the question of literary genre in section  and, building on that, continue with the possible functions of the work in section , I would like to shed some light on Nicolaus’ shadowy existence as a biographical writer by presenting the available material and also to give a brief outline of the current research status.

. Introduction: Nicolaus of Damascus and His So-Called ‘Life of Augustus’ As is the case with Nicolaus’ other writings, the source situation for the ‘Life of Augustus’ is difficult, since our knowledge of the text is solely based on a collection of excerpts commissioned by Constantinus VII Porphyrogennetos and compiled in Byzantium between  and  . Its inclusion in the Constantinian collection is in itself a great stroke of luck, considering the fact that from the more than  years between its composition and its collection by Constantine not a single testimony

 Cf. FGrHist  F– and also Toher []; Toher [] and Alonso-Núñez [].  These are excerpts made like those of his Augustus-biography in Byzantium in the th century .  Cf. Ios. ant. Iud. .– (= FGrHist  T ).  Cf. FGrHist  F – and also Wacholder [] –, and Affortunati and Scardigli [].  Cf. Toher [] : ‘Few discussions of the βίος Καίσαρος analyse the likely nature of the work. Most scholars have taken for granted that it is, simply, a “biography” of Augustus.’

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of its reception has survived. Moreover, from comparing these excerpts with documents that have survived independently it becomes obvious that the quality of the excerpts is generally very high and therefore it certainly can be assumed that, while they may be slightly abbreviated in places, they are nevertheless faithful copies of their respective originals.¹⁵ The problem of the Byzantine collection, however, is its arrangement not according to authors but rather in  thematic sections of which unfortunately only four have survived.¹⁶ Of these four only two, the section on virtues and vices (περὶ ἀρετῆς καὶ κακίας) and the one on conspiracies (περὶ ἐπιβουλῶν κατὰ βασιλέων γεγονυιῶν), contain excerpts from Nicolaus’ work. This may explain the enormous difficulties modern scholars are faced with in trying to determine the structure and scope of the work as accurately as possible [see Appendix ‘Structure of the Work’, p. ]. It is relatively certain that on the one hand Nicolaus treated Octavian’s youth and education (§§ –, included in the section περὶ ἀρετῆς καὶ κακίας) and that on the other hand he intensively dealt with the circumstances of Caesar’s assassination (§§ –, included in the section on conspiracies against rulers).¹⁷ The preserved text ends with Octavian’s departure for Campania, where he intended to mobilize Caesar’s veterans for the impending civil war. Whether Nicolaus described Augustus’ entire life up to his death or chose a different, equally meaningful point to end the biography is controversially discussed among scholars, especially because it is closely linked to the discussion about the date of its composition.¹⁸ Since the first sentences of the proem describe Octavian’s reign as being already established and consolidated, it can be assumed that at the very least the successful outcome of the civil war in   and probably his acceptance of the title of Augustus in   were depicted:¹⁹ ὅτι εἰς τιμῆς ἀξίωσιν τοῦτον οὕτω [sc. σεβαστὸν]²⁰ προσεῖπον οἱ ἄνθρωποι ναοῖς τε καὶ θυσίαις γεραίρουσιν, ἀνά τε νήσους καὶ ἠπείρους διῃρημένοι καὶ κατὰ πόλεις καὶ ἔθνη τό τε μέγεθος αὐτοῦ τῆς ἀρετῆς καὶ τὴν εἰς σφᾶς εὐεργεσίαν ἀμειβόμενοι. δυνάμεως γὰρ καὶ

 Cf. Malitz [] –, but also Bellemore [] xviii, on the problems dealing with the survival of the Constantinian excerpts.  Cf. Büttner-Wobst [] in general and esp. .  It has variously been assumed that either the excursus on Caesar’s assassination (§§ –; cf. Leo [] , and also Toher [] –) or the entire section dealing with the events of the years  and   (§§ –; cf. Bellemore [] esp. xviii–xx) was not a part of the work on Augustus, and that it instead was taken by Constantine’s scribes from the Histories of Nicolaus. This view, however, has not been broadly supported among scholars.  A different position is taken only by Richard Laqueur in his RE article, who assumes that even Nicolaus’ original account never went beyond the year   (cf. Laqueur [] –; for a contrasting view cf. e.g. Toher [] –).  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. . Unless otherwise stated, all translations follow Bellemore [].  But see Laqueur [] , on the commonly accepted addition of σεβαστὸν in the first sentence: ‘Die Frage, welcher Zuruf im besonderen gemeint ist, läßt sich wohl nicht beantworten. Aus der engen Verbindung, in der er mit den Tempeln und Opfern steht, folgt jedoch, daß wir uns in sakraler Sphäre bewegen müssen. Man mag an θεὸς σωτήρ oder dergleichen denken.’

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Dennis Pausch

φρονήσεως εἰς τὰ πρῶτα ἀνελθὼν οὗτος ὁ ἀνὴρ πλείστων μὲν ἦρξεν ἀνθρώπων τῶν διὰ μνήμης μακροτάτους τε ὅρους ἐποιήσατο τῆς ῾Ρωμαίων δυναστείας εἴς τε τὸ βεβαιότατον οὐ τὰ φῦλα μόνον καὶ ῾Ελλήνων καὶ βαρβάρων, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτὰς τὰς διανοίας κατεστήσατο τὸ μὲν πρῶτον σὺν ὅπλοις, μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα καὶ ἄνευ ὅπλων ἐθελουσίους τε προσαγόμενος διὰ τὸ μᾶλλόν τι ἔνδηλος γίνεσθαι τῇ φιλανθρωπίᾳ ἔπεισεν ἑαυτοῦ ἀκροᾶσθαι.

That: in such a way they addressed this man because they thought him worthy of honour, and mankind worships him with temples and offerings, spread out as men are over islands and continents and throughout cities and according to races. They receive in exchange the great benefit of his goodness and his beneficence. When this man reached the pinnacle of power and prudence, he ruled over more men than is recorded in living memory and brought it about that the boundaries of Roman dominion were very extensive, and he not only confined and settled as securely as possible the tribes of Greeks and barbarians, but also won their compliance; in the first instance by force, but subsequently without arms. He won over their assent because, since he was rather clearly a philanthropist, he persuaded them to submit to him. (Nic. Dam. vita Caes. )

Apart from that, however, we have no further clues that could help us to gain a more precise date of composition.²¹ Essentially, there are two contrasting opinions. One rests on the formulations in the second part of the proem suggesting the description of an entire life²² and on the ancient custom of refusing to write biographies of living persons. This would mean that it was written in the years following Augustus’ death in  .²³ The other argues for an early dating between  and  ²⁴ and refers to Augustus’ autobiography,²⁵ which covers the years until   and was probably written only a little later.²⁶ This latter argument not only claims that Nicolaus used the content of Augustus’ autobiography for his own work, but also that he had an analogously propagandistic intention. If this second assumption is correct, it provides an additional argument for the early dating, because the new ruler’s need for literary praise must have been particularly strong in the phase immediately following the establishment of the Principate. Both positions seem to be convincing but they are ultimately based on two premises that are not easily compatible with the reading I would like to propose of  For attempts to use the reference to Augustus’ policies in Germania (Nic. Dam. vita Caes. ) to date the work cf. the survey in Toher [] –. These efforts ultimately failed because they led to contradictory results.  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. : καὐτὸς δ’ ἀφηγήσομαι τὰ πεπραγμένα, ἐξ ὧν οἷόν τε γνῶναι σύμπασι τὴν ἀλήθειαν. πρότερον δ’ αὐτοῦ τό τε γένος διέξειμι καὶ τὴν φύσιν τούς τε γεννητάς, ἀφ’ ὧν ἦν, τήν 〈τ’〉 ἐκ νηπίου τροφήν τε καὶ παίδευσιν, ᾗ χρησάμενος τοσόσδε ἐγένετο (‘I, on my part, shall speak of his accomplishments, so that from these the true story may be generally known. First of all, I shall go into details of his family, in as far as are concerned his line of descent and the ancestors from whom he descended, and I shall describe his nurturing from childhood and the education, which he fully utilized to become such a great man.’); and e.g. Steidle [] .  Cf. Asbach []; Laqueur [] –; Steidle [] –; Toher [] –, and Toher [].  Cf. Jacoby [] – (commentary on FGrHist  F –); Wacholder [] –; Scardigli []; Bellemore [] xxi–xxii, and Malitz [] –.  Cf. the compilation of fragments in Malcovati [], and also Blumenthal [] and Lewis [] –.  Cf. Suet. Aug. , Misch [] , and Sonnabend [] .

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Nicolaus’ so-called ‘Life of Augustus’, as in my view this text is neither a biography in the classical sense nor a work of propaganda in the modern sense.²⁷ Especially the assumption that Nicolaus simply translates the characterisation of the new ruler, which was created in Rome (partly by Augustus himself, partly by his contemporaries) for the Greek-speaking part of the Empire,²⁸ must be discussed, since it is by no means certain that Nicolaus wrote solely for Greek readers, and that Roman readers would only have read the Latin translation of the same events. This assumption is based on the concept of ‘national literature’ for the first century  that is long since considered to be inappropriate by modern research: perhaps the reason why Nicolaus’ work was read in Rome was precisely because it was a wellcomposed literary work written in proper Greek.²⁹ But even if Nicolaus may indeed have primarily addressed a Greek-speaking audience in the East,³⁰ nothing can be said against the assumption that he also considered people to be his recipients in the Western parts of the Roman empire.

. Searching for a Form: βίος or ἀγωγή? At first the literary traditions should be considered that could have been associated with Nicolaus’ text by ancient readers. Given the fragmentary survival of the text, this aspect gains special significance, because we can draw some conclusions from genre attributions concerning the length, structure, style and descriptive technique of the work as well as the author’s intentions in composing it. In this case it is more difficult to find a definite answer not only because of the poor condition of the work but also because of the relatively broad field of biographical literature in ancient times. The fact that there is no evidence for the term βιογραφία, which is quite commonly used nowadays, before the sixth century ³¹ and that in the entire time  On the inherent difficulty of the term propaganda in ancient societies cf. Weber and Zimmermann [].  Cf. e.g. von Gutschmid [] : ‘[…] Nikolaos’ Buch […] gab wohl nicht mehr als eine kürzende, rhetorisch zustutzende Bearbeitung [sc. of Augustus’ autobiography] für die Provinzialen in griechischer Sprache, gewiss in höherem Auftrage, entweder des Herodes, oder auf einen Wink des Augustus. […] Es war gut berechnet, und Nikolaos hat dem, dem er schmeichelt, einen wirklich guten Dienst durch das elende Buch erwiesen.’  An impressive illustration of the widespread use of the Greek language in Late Republican Rome is provided by Nicolaus himself in his account of Caesar’s assassination, when he has an agitated Casca calling for his brother in Greek (Nic. Dam. vita Caes. ): καὶ ὃς τὸν ἀδελφὸν βοᾷ Ἐλλάδι γλώττῃ ὑπὸ θορύβου (‘[…] and, in the confusion, Casca shouted in Greek to his brother […]’).  This is suggested by his explanations of typical Roman terms for his readers; cf. e.g. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. : ἡ γὰρ ζ λεγεὼν καὶ ἡ ὀγδόη η· - οὕτω γὰρ τὴν σύνταξιν καλοῦσι Ῥωμαῖοι (‘The seventh and the eighth legions – this is what the Romans call their divisions’); Yarrow []  (with more examples).  The term is first documented in a fragment preserved by Photius from On the Life of the Philosopher Isidore, which was written by the Neoplatonist philosopher Damascius in the first half of the th

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Dennis Pausch

until this date the title βίος τινός, which was frequently but by no means always used, meant only a loose set of traditions, already suggests that there was no clearcut definition of the genre in antiquity.³² Thus the authors possessed a greater freedom to compose their works than they had in case of the established genres. The colourful production of biography in antiquity, both in terms of form and content, shows that this freedom was abundantly applied.³³ And yet, a single type of biography in the stricter sense emerged from the multitude of available forms, which has many common features with other kinds of biographical literature, but which would nevertheless have been perceived as a distinctive form of its own.³⁴ Regarding the development of this biography in the more narrow sense, philosophy and its interest in human behaviour as the realisation of ethical principles played a crucial role.³⁵ Especially the Aristotelian school with its more empirical stance attached great importance to the depiction of individual lives. It must be assumed that Nicolaus had an awareness of the so-called peripatetic biography, whose rich production during the Hellenistic period is virtually lost nowadays,³⁶ because he left behind a voluminous philosophical œuvre in the Aristotelian tradition, and because he was often characterised as ὁ περιπατητικός in later testimonials.³⁷ This would be the case even if we did not know that he deliberately placed his autobiography in this particular literary context and considered the depiction of his life as the practical application of Aristotelian ethics.³⁸ Does this, however, mean that his ‘Life of Augustus’ has also to be taken as a peripatetic biography? Because of Aristotle’s conviction that there is a strong and reciprocal connection between the traits and actions of human beings, it was of great importance to the peripatetic biography to relate the ἤθη or rather the ἀρεταί of human beings



 



  

century . The manner in which it is used, however, suggests that it was an established term at the time: cf. Phot. Bibl. . = Frg.  Zintzen and also Phot. Bibl. .. There is nothing better to illustrate this than the long-standing controversy among scholars about the origin of the genre (cf. the surveys of current research in Sonnabend [] –, and Pausch [] –). Cf. e.g. Momigliano [] –, and Sonnabend [] –. The spectrum of recent attempts to define the genre ranges from the cautious remark ‘Jedenfalls gibt es seit dem . Jh. v. Chr. eine kohärente, wenn auch variable Gattung des bíos’ (Görgemanns [] ) to the warning that ‘one should not think of a single ‘biographic genre’ with acknowledged conventions, but rather of a complicated picture of overlapping traditions, embracing works of varying form, style, length, and truthfulness’ (Pelling [] –). The term biographic, a more comprehensive concept introduced by modern philologists (cf. e.g. Scheuer []), has also been adopted by some classical scholars (cf. e.g. Swain []). This also takes into account the definition of Albrecht Dihle, who only uses the term biography ‘wenn das Leben eines Menschen als Ganzes ins Auge gefaßt, in seinem Ablauf, wenn auch nicht notwendigerweise mit allen bekannten Details, dargestellt und als Verwirklichung eines moralisch bewerteten Charakters interpretiert wird, welcher der Erfahrung des Lesers kommensurabel ist’ (Dihle [] –, cf. id. []). The best survey of the often problematic findings is still offered by Momigliano [] –, but see also the discussion by Fortenbaugh []. Cf. e.g. FgrHist T . and . On Nicolaus’ autobiography see above, p. .

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constantly to their concrete πράξεις.³⁹ Thus it can be deduced with regard to the structure of such a description that each life was described in its entirety and in a roughly chronological order, resulting in the type of structure we know from Plutarch’s biographies.⁴⁰ It is possible that Nicolaus’ ‘Life of Augustus’ was structured in this way,⁴¹ but there is no compelling evidence in the extant passages or in the disposition provided at the end of the proem suggesting such a structure. It implies rather a roughly chronologically but primarily thematically oriented structure for the rest of the biography in the manner of Suetonius.⁴² The disproportionately high attention paid to the time before the assumption of power in the disposition would also need to be explained in the context of the structure of peripatetic biography. The greatest difficulty of such a classification is that as long as there is no definitive proof that Nicolaus’ work gives a complete picture of Augustus’ life, it does not even live up to the most elementary definition of a biography in the narrow sense that was offered by Arnaldo Momigliano []  as the ‘account of the life of a man from birth to death.’ On the contrary, there is a danger of a circular argument saying that because we assume it was a biography in that very narrow sense, it must have treated the death of Augustus by definition. Nevertheless, many biographical genres were available within the rich literary spectrum of antiquity that did not necessarily include the end of the protagonist’s life. Whereas for readers of antiquity the first hint of such an alternative tradition may have been a paratextual one, i.e. the title, modern readers are at a disadvantage insofar as the title of Nicolaus’ work has been passed on in a number of variations: while the Suda gives τοῦ † βίου Καίσαρος ἀγωγή⁴³ in a probably corrupt passage, the Constantinian scribes entitled it περὶ πρώτης Καίσαρος ἀγωγῆς⁴⁴ at first, but later βίος Καίσαρος.⁴⁵ The solution proposed by Carl Müller draws on Nicolaus’ autobiography (περὶ τοῦ ἰδίου βίου καὶ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ἀγωγῆς) as a parallel text and plausibly reconstructs an analogous dual title of the text on Augustus, which could have been something like περὶ τοῦ βίου Καίσαρος καὶ τῆς ἀγωγῆς.⁴⁶ Whether or not one is inclined to accept Müller’s suggestion, it hardly can be doubted that the title chosen by Nicolaus must have contained the term ἀγωγή, since that is clearly the lectio difficilior compared with βίος.⁴⁷      

  

Cf. Dihle [] –. Cf. Leo [] –, but also the most important exceptions in Steidle [] –. Cf. esp. Nic. Dam. vita Caes.  and also Toher [] –. Cf. Steidle [] –, and against this Leo [] –. Cf. FGrHist T . Essentially, two suggestions for emendation are under discussion: νέου (cf. von Gutschmid [] ) and Σεβαστοῦ (cf. Daub [] –). Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes.  (FGrHist F ). However, πρώτης is the solution suggested by Büttner-Wobst [] for the transmitted abbreviation α τ σ; other suggestions are discussed in Bellemore [] xx–xxi. Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes.  (FGrHist F ). On the general unreliability of the subscriptiones in the Constantinian excerpts cf. Büttner-Wobst [] –. Cf. Müller [] .. Cf. e.g. Malitz [] , but also against this Steidle []  n. .

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Nicolaus thus followed the tradition of the biographical genre that began with Xenophon’s Κύρου παιδεία⁴⁸ and continued in the Hellenistic period with a series of works of which we only know the titles,⁴⁹ e.g. πῶς Ἀλέξανδρος ἤχθη by Onesicritus of Astypaleia (/–/ ), a member of Alexander’s expedition,⁵⁰ further Ἀλεξάνδρου ἀγωγή by Marsyas of Pella, a contemporary of the Macedonian king,⁵¹ and περὶ τῆς Ἀττάλου παιδείας, written by an otherwise unknown Lysimachus about the founder of the Attalid empire.⁵² The authors most likely described events occurring during their own lifetime, and each of them deemed his respective protagonists to be especially remarkable. One common feature of these works, collectively known as ἀγωγαί, is the focus on the early years of the portrayed persons, who are usually kings or men in similar positions of power, and the programmatic emphasis on education as the basis of later deeds and achievements.⁵³ The death, however, can be described, but there is by no means an urgent need to do so. Not only does the reconstructed title relate to the Cyropedia; the proem that is set before Nicolaus’ work does so as well. Unfortunately, since Xenophon’s work is the only one of the group still extant, statements on how representative these common features are can only be made in a very limited way. It is remarkable, however, that both authors begin their works by describing at length the extent of the conquests and the significance of the reign of their protagonists.⁵⁴ Having emphasised the relevance of the theme and aroused the reader’s interest in that way, they go on to announce that they will examine in detail the protagonist’s youth and education because this early phase of his life holds the key to understanding his extraordinary achievements. In the case of Cyrus Xenophon uses the following formulation:⁵⁵ ἡμεῖς μὲν δὴ ὡς ἄξιον ὄντα θαυμάζεσθαι τοῦτον τὸν ἄνδρα ἐσκεψάμεθα τίς ποτ’ ὢν γενεὰν καὶ ποίαν τινὰ φύσιν ἔχων καὶ ποίᾳ τινὶ παιδευθεὶς παιδείᾳ τοσοῦτον διήνεγκεν εἰς τὸ ἄρχειν ἀνθρώπων. ὅσα οὖν καὶ ἐπυθόμεθα καὶ ᾐσθῆσθαι δοκοῦμεν περὶ αὐτοῦ, ταῦτα πειρασόμεθα διηγήσασθαι.

Believing this man to be deserving of all admiration, we have therefore investigated who he was in his origin, what natural endowments he possessed, and what sort of education he had enjoyed, that he so greatly excelled in governing men. Accordingly, what we have found out or think we know concerning him we shall now endeavour to present.

Furthermore, parallels can be assumed regarding the structure of the remaining part: according to Xenophon, the development of the protagonist’s character has ended together with the account of the future king’s education at the end of Book I.      

Cf. Laqueur [] –. Cf. e.g. Malitz [] . Cf. FGrHist , but also Toher [] –, who argues against a biographical character of the work. Cf. FGrHist  and Toher [] –, who reckons that it consisted of five books. Cf. FGrHist  and Toher [] , who assumes at least two books. Cf. Jacoby []  (commentary on FGrHist  F. –): ‘ἀγωγή kommt überall sowohl als “erziehung” […] wie als “lebensführung” (nicht als “leben”, das die fakten betont) vor […]’.  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes.  and Xen. Cyr. ..–...  Xen. Cyr. .. (trans. Walter Miller, London ); cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. .

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The following seven books merely serve to illustrate the practical application of the qualities he acquired earlier. Likewise, it can be plausibly shown that in Nicolaus’ depiction of Augustus’ further life, proving the value of the ἀρεταί described in the first part plays a decisive role, even though the deplorable state of preservation permits only a cursory verification [see Appendix].⁵⁶ At least Octavian’s conciliatory behaviour towards the inhabitants of Apollonia (§§ –) can be taken as the realisation of the qualities ascribed to him in the first part, such as modesty and courtesy (§§ –). The same may be said of his abilities of self-restraint (esp. §§  and ), which were particularly praised, and his later efforts to find an amicable solution with Marc Antony despite all provocation (§§ –) in the first instance.⁵⁷ Apart from these common features, the two proems show a significant difference: while Xenophon mentions three items of almost equal importance in his disposition (a slight hierarchy is indicated only by the ascending number of syllables) – τίς ποτ’ ὢν γενεὰν καὶ ποίαν τινὰ φύσιν ἔχων καὶ ποίᾳ τινὶ παιδευθεὶς παιδείᾳ –,⁵⁸ Nicolaus stresses Octavian’s moral and intellectual education, which, being mentioned last and therefore emphasised, clearly illustrates Nicolaus’ opinion that it was the παίδευσις, ᾗ χρησάμενος τοσόσδε ἐγένετο.⁵⁹ The following passage may give an idea of the importance Nicolaus ascribes to the description of young Octavian’s education, and how closely it is modelled on Greek ideas:⁶⁰ initially – as indeed on several occasions later on – Octavian is presented as an orator who is already very successful as a young man.⁶¹ Apparently, this aspect means so much to Nicolaus that he predates Octavian’s first performance in public, a laudatio funebris for his grandmother, by three years.⁶² It is followed by a description of the good relationship between Octavian and his stepfather L. Marcius Philippus, whose ancestors, he claims, defeated Philip V, the last Macedonian king.⁶³ This remark is all the more interesting because in historical terms it is  The question of where to end the first part, dealing with Octavian’s youth and education, within the text as a whole has been controversial. It has been argued that it should end with Octavian accepting the toga virilis in §  (cf. Leo [] , and Jacoby []  [commentary on FGrHist ]), but also with his acceptance of the adoption in §  (cf. Steidle [] –). The most plausible approach in terms of form and content suggests §  as the end of the first part (cf. Toher [] ).  Cf. also Dihle [] –.  Xen. Cyr. ...  Nic. Dam. vita Caes.  and cf. e.g. Steidle [] –.  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. –.  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. : ὅτι Καῖσαρ περὶ ἐννέα ἔτη μάλιστα γεγονὼς θαῦμά τε οὐ μικρὸν παρέσχε ῾Ρωμαίοις, φύσεως ἀκρότητα δηλώσας ἐν τοιᾷδε ἡλικίᾳ· καὶ τοῖς ἀνδράσι πολὺς ἐγγίνεται θόρυβος ἐν πολλῷ ὁμίλῳ δημηγοροῦντι (‘That: when Caesar was about the age of nine he proved himself quite a wonder to the Romans, revealing the excellence of his character at such a tender age. There was a great applause offered by the men listening to him give the funeral speech’); and esp.  and .  Cf. Suet. Aug. .: duodecimum annum agens aviam Iuliam pro contione laudavit; Malitz [] ; but see also Bellemore [] –, who argues that Constantine’s scribes made a mistake here when excerpting the text.  Nic. Dam. vita Caes. .

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a broad exaggeration of the role his stepfather’s ancestors played in the conquest of Macedonia, which may depend on a wrong explanation of the cognomen Philippus,⁶⁴ which is documented for the gens Marcia since the early third century . And yet, it could be supposed to be more than an inadvertence, as it provides an opportunity for Nicolaus to create an ‘associative genealogy’ linking Octavian with Alexander the Great, whose conquests may already have served as a benchmark for Octavian’s own achievements in the proem.⁶⁵ Having presented this piece of family history, Nicolaus turns to the young Octavian’s superiority, which was honoured by contemporaries, and describes it in detail,⁶⁶ referring to a topos that was probably very popular in the Greek ἀγωγήliterature.⁶⁷ Above all, it is remarkable that Nicolaus does not explain the admiration of Octavian’s contemporaries by reference to his noble descent or political influence but rather by pointing to his achievements at school and in the palaestra:⁶⁸ ἤσκει γὰρ καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν τοῖς καλλίστοις ἐπιτηδεύμασι καὶ τὸ σῶμα ταῖς γενναίαις καὶ πολεμικαῖς μελέταις καὶ τῶν διδασκόντων θᾶττον αὐτὸς τὴν μάθησιν ἐπὶ τῶν ἔργων ἀπεδείκνυτο, ὥστε ἀπὸ τοῦδε καὶ ἐν τῇ πατρίδι πολὺν ζῆλον ἐνέγκασθαι.

For he trained his mind by very keen exercises and his body by high-minded and waroriented drills. He revealed his aptitude for learning these tasks quicker than those teaching him, so that from his talent he also won much praise in his fatherland. (Nic. Dam. vita Caes. )

Thus Nicolaus’ intention to highlight the role played in the development of an outstanding personality by an education that was based on the educational programme of the Greek gymnasium becomes particularly clear.⁶⁹ This impression is reinforced when we take a look at other texts about Augustus that have survived. In these his achievements at school are often described as positive but not as particularly exceptional, and they are certainly not presented as the source of his social esteem.⁷⁰ Such a strong emphasis on the protagonist’s literary and philosophical education as opposed to a pragmatic and above all a political and military education – as it can be plausibly shown for Nicolaus’ work – was probably not a regular feature of    

Cf. Malitz [] . Cf. esp. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. . Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. . Cf. e.g. Xen. Cyr. .. and .. and also Hdt. . and Toher [] –, who mentions additional points of contact such as his modest behaviour (cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. –); fast learning (cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. ); attractive appearance (cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. ; ; ), and his commitment to his friends (cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. ; –).  While Xenophon stresses Cyrus’ skills to learn fast (cf. esp. Xen. Cyr. .,), this aspect does not have a comparable significance in the whole work.  On the typical Roman elements in the depiction of Augustus’ youth cf. Toher [] –, but see Laqueur [] –, who sees Octavian’s entire education as typically ‘altrömisch’.  Cf. Suet. Aug. .; .; Vell. Paterc. ..–; Cass. Dio ..–. An interesting parallel is offered by Nepos’ Life of Atticus. Nepos also dwells on the heightened esteem his protagonist enjoyed among his fellows because of his excellent skills at school, but the context clearly shows the compensatory nature of these successes in light of Atticus’ renunciation of a political career (cf. Nep. Att. .–).

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earlier ἀγωγή-literature. At least this is suggested by the more traditional picture of a young prince’s education that is presented in the Cyropedia and that relies to a high degree on Persian and probably also Spartan examples.⁷¹ An explanation for the importance Nicolaus gives to moral and intellectual education can, of course, be found in the author’s own philosopical interests. Rather than discussing Nicolaus’ personal preferences, however, it may be more profitable to consider the reactions Nicolaus tried to elicit from his readers with such a portrayal of Augustus. We will return to this question in the next section, which deals with the function of Nicolaus’ work. At this stage, we can draw a conclusion about the literary tradition in which Nicolaus would have placed his portrayal of Augustus. Regarding its content, we have already noted the combination of the strong emphasis on youth and education in the tradition of ἀγωγή-literature and the depiction of a life as the expression of ethical convictions typical of peripatetic biography. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume a combination of two different conventions also with regard to the structure of Nicolaus’ work. Such an experiment in genre conventions, which combines a detailed account of the protagonist’s youth and education with an independent description of his further life that goes beyond the illustration of specific character traits, would also fit precisely the title reconstructed by Carl Müller by means of textual criticism: περὶ τοῦ βίου Καίσαρος καὶ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ἀγωγῆς. If we locate Nicolaus’ work within the broad field of biographical literature in this way, we can also infer that it did not necessarily finish with the death of Augustus; rather, the description could have ended at any point in the protagonist’s life. This invalidates an important argument of those who argue for a date of the work after the death of the first princeps. However, the specific form chosen by Nicolaus also calls into question the arguments of those who propose a date between  and   for its composition and point to a close interrelation of Nicolaus’ work and Augustus’ autobiography De vita sua. Despite the deplorable state of the preservation of the two works, which prevents any solid proof, this assumption of a direct dependence has a long tradition among scholars because it is linked to the hope of source criticism to reconstruct the almost entirely lost De vita sua of Augustus from Nicolaus’ fragments.⁷² The Latin autobiography, however, was developed in the highly competitive context of the Roman nobility and therefore reveals a number of very specific features. Thus the differences between these two genres – particularly in the attitude of the speaker – would seem to exclude a priori the possibility of a close relationship between the two works.⁷³ As we have seen so far, the innovative character of Nicolaus’ work  Cf. Mueller-Goldingen [] –.  Cf. esp. Jacoby [] – (commentary on FGrHist  F –); Dobesch []  and passim; Laqueur [] –; Bellemore [] xxii–xxv; Kober [] –, and Malitz [] –.  Cf. Toher [], –, esp. : ‘The evidence does not allow for categorical statements, but it does seem to indicate that there would have been little if any relationship between the two works. The Greek biographical and encomiastic tradition and ancient autobiographical writing were two

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is even a more persuasive argument against the assumption that Nicolaus’ work followed closely that of the first princeps in either form or content.

. Searching for a Function: Propaganda or Acculturation? In formal terms as well as in terms of literary history, our work could have been composed at any time between the end of the civil war and Nicolaus’ death, whose date is unknown.⁷⁴ Arguing for an early date, scholars often refer to the observation that the need for pro-Augustean propaganda was greatest immediately following the civil war and that this fact established its Sitz im Leben, i.e., its setting in life.⁷⁵ Nevertheless, even the question of the propagandist function of the text needs to be asked anew if we assume that Nicolaus did not intend to compose a Greek translation of Augustus’ De vita sua but an independent work of his own. By attempting to reappraise Nicolaus’ portrait of Augustus, I do not want to imply that Nicolaus did not participate in the publicistic debate dealing with the death of Caesar and the rise of Octavian in any way. But this aspect represents his intended message only partly. The fact that this perspective has often dominated the assessment of the whole work and has led to occasionally harsh verdicts⁷⁶ is largely due to the privileged position the excursus on Caesar’s assassination (§§ –) has always occupied in scholarly research.⁷⁷ The intensive study of this section is doubtlessly justified because of its historical significance, but it has perhaps obstructed the view that the excursus is not even representative for those parts of the work that have survived, let alone those which are missing. For if we were to imagine Nicolaus as some kind of client of the first princeps who was commissioned to produce a version of the events presenting Augustus in a favourable light, would there not have been more suitable and well-established options available in Rome for such a form of political propaganda? A brief look at a politician from the late Republic, who is keen on improving his reputation by way of literature, should provide some insight into the genres that would suit this purpose: because Cicero wanted his achievements to be put in a positive light by his contemporaries and by posterity, he wished for a depiction of his res gestae on the









separate types of literature’; for the specific autobiographical traditions in Rome see Pausch [], Scholz [], and Riggsby []. It is possible that the work was composed following one of Nicolaus’ diplomatic missions to Rome (cf. von Gutschmid [] –, who argues that for this reason the work was written in  ), but ultimately this must remain a speculation as well. Cf. Malitz [] esp. –: ‘Die Abfassung der Biographie in der Zeit um  v. Chr. […] gibt Nikolaos’ Werk einen verständlichen “Sitz im Leben” ’; for a more detailed discussion of this position see above, p. –. Cf. e.g. Hohl [] esp. –: ‘Der Literat aus Damaskos konnte der östlichen Leserwelt getrost seine dressierten Enten vorführen; kein römischer Zeitgenosse, der als Berichterstatter ernst genommen sein wollte, hätte derartiges wagen dürfen […].’ Cf. e.g. Blumenthal [], Dobesch [], and Kober [] esp. –.

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one hand as an historical work and on the other as an epic, which is a particularly prestigious genre. Finally, the latter wish was perforce fulfilled by Cicero himself.⁷⁸ Compared to the genres that have been part of the repertoire of aristocratic representation at least since the second century , biography as we know it played no key role in the literary commemoration of important politicians until the middle of the first century .⁷⁹ Apart from some individual cases like the autobiography of Sulla, which was continued after his death by his freedman Cornelius Epicadus,⁸⁰ the first examples were written in the late Republic. Even then, the predominant genre was the biographical compendium belonging to the tradition of the Alexandrian works περὶ ἐνδόξων ἀνδρῶν, usually called de viris illustribus, and designed either to present several representatives of a ‘profession’ or of a certain field or to compare them. By contrast, reports about biographical monographs suiting commemorative purposes much better are limited to only a handful of cases and may in a way be seen as developments of the Sullan model: we know a description of Pompeius’ life by a writer called L. Voltacilius Pitholaus,⁸¹ a work on Cicero by Tiro,⁸² and a Latin biography of Augustus by a writer called Iulius Marathus.⁸³ Since all three authors, however, were freedmen of the people they described, it would have been obvious that their work had been commissioned, which would have made it difficult to read it in an unprejudiced way. At least it is not surprising that almost no trace of reception of these three works has survived. Provided that Nicolaus – being commissioned or not – intended to create a panegyric description of the deeds of the first princeps, his choice of the biographical genre in the broadest sense was by no means predetermined by this intention. Since Nicolaus had – apart from a number of early attempts in the dramatic field – never worked as a poet,⁸⁴ a historical work focussing on contemporary issues would have been the most obvious option. The historical genre was also the literary concept he had used for Herod the Great.⁸⁵ For his portrait of Augustus, however, he did not use a pre-existing genre: instead, he preferred to follow closely the ἀγωγή-literature on the one hand and peripatetic biography on the other and chose two types of literature that were well-established in the Greek-speaking East since the classical  He had approached Posidonius (cf. Cic. Att. ..) and L. Lucceius (cf. Cic. fam. .) with the request to honour his political activites in an historical work, whereas Archias, whom he had defended, and Thyillus, otherwise only known as an epigrammarian, had been asked to compose an epic (cf. Cic. Arch.  and Att. ..). On Cicero’s struggle for literary immortality also see Kurczyk [], esp. –.  The argument of Geiger [], however, that no biography of a politically important person was composed during the whole of antiquity before Cornelius Nepos, has been rejected for good reason (cf. e.g. Tuplin []).  Cf. Plut. Sulla . and Suet. gramm. .  Cf. Suet. gramm. . On the inconsistent tradition of the names in the manuscripts (L. or M’., Voltacilius or Otacilius, and Pitholaus or Pilutus) cf. Kaster [] ad loc.  Cf. Ascon.  Clark and also Momigliano [] .  Cf. Suet. Aug. . and . and also Sonnabend [] –.  He mentions the composition of tragedies and comedies in his autobiography (cf. FGrHist .).  On his Histories and their tendency see above, p. .

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period. As he obviously made a very deliberate decision to combine two literary traditions, this signal to his audience should be given more consideration in the discussion about Nicolaus’ intention for his writings on Augustus. Now the question arises of what Nicolaus tried to tell his readers by presenting the Roman Augustus in such an innovative way that probably even his contemporaries needed to interpret it in order to understand it. By evoking the specific tradition of this genre he creates an intertextual link between his protagonist and the earlier ἀγωγαί-depictions, placing Augustus next to the dynastic founders Cyrus and Attalus as well as Alexander the Great, who was the subject of not only one but multiple works of this genre. On the one hand this comparison can be understood as a subtle propaganda stratagem, which presented the first princeps in a positive light⁸⁶ and also offered a historical justification for the establishment of the new monarchy.⁸⁷ On the other hand Augustus was ‘hellenised’ and ‘inscribed’ into the long-established categories of Greek history and literature: he might have held an outstanding position among his contemporaries, but the long historical memory of Greek culture makes it possible for Augustus to become categorised and placed in a line with comparable figures. Similarly, an ambiguity can be assumed for the recourse to peripatetic biography: the detailed description of Octavian’s accomplishments at school and of his profound education can be understood as a promotion of the Roman princeps directed at Greek audiences. Additionally, however, we find the same tendency here to present the new ruler of the ancient world in the light of Greek culture: he did not grow up to become a brilliant personality influenced by his ancestors or his adoption by Caesar, as might have been the case according to the Roman view, but by virtue of an ethical and intellectual education developed in Greece and exported into almost the entire oikoumene in the shape of the Hellenistic gymnasium. Thus, Augustus received a ‘Greek’ identity by way of an academic acculturation in quite

 For an interpretation of Xenophon’s Cyropedia as the description of an ideal ruler cf. Cic. Q. fr. ..: Cyrus ille a Xenophonte non ad historiae fidem scriptus est, sed ad effigiem iusti imperii; cuius summa gravitas ab illo philosopho cum singulari comitate coniungitur: quos quidem libros non sine causa noster ille Africanus de manibus ponere non solebat; nullum est enim praetermissum in iis officium diligentis et moderati imperii (‘such one was Cyrus as described by Xenophon, not according to historical truth but as pattern of a just ruler; in him that philosopher created a matchless blend of firmness and courtesy. With good reason our Scipio Africanus used to keep that book always in his hands. It overlooks no aspect of a conscientious and gentle ruler’s duty’ [trans. D.R. Shackleton Bailey, London ]).  For a reading of the Cyropedia as a work promoting monarchy cf. Gell. ..: […] quod Xenophon inclito illi operi Platonos, quod de optimo statu reipublicae civitatisque administrandae scriptum est, lectis ex eo duobus fere libris, qui primi in volgus exierant, opposuit contra conscripsitque diversum regiae administrationis genus, quod παιδείας Κύρου inscriptum est (‘[…] that Xenophon in opposition to that celebrated work of Plato, which he wrote on the best form of constitution and of governing a city-state, having barely read the two books of Plato’s work which were first made public, proposed a different mode of government (to wit, a monarchy) in the work entitled παιδείας Κύρου or The Education of Cyrus’ [trans. John C. Rolfe, London ]).

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the same way large sections of the indigenous upper classes in the territories of the Diadochi – perhaps even Nicolaus’ own family – did. If we consider this ‘inscription’ of the new Roman ruler into the historical and cultural traditions of Greece as a major concern of Nicolaus’ writings on Augustus, we understand the pride with which he describes his own achievements in the proem: περὶ δὴ τούτου τοῦ ἀνδρὸς φρονήσεώς τε καὶ ἀρετῆς ἰσχὺν δεῖξαι, ὁπόσον δύναται, τὰ μὲν ἐκ τῆς πολιτείας, ἥντινα ἐν τῇ πατρίδι ἐπολιτεύσατο, τὰ 〈δὲ〉 κατὰ στρατηγίας μεγάλων πολέμων ἐγχωρίων τε καὶ ἀλλοεθνῶν, ἀγώνισμα μὲν ἀνθρώποις πρόκειται λέγειν καὶ γράφειν, ὡς ἂν εὐδοκιμεῖν ἐν καλοῖς ἔργοις. καὐτὸς δ’ ἀφηγήσομαι τὰ πεπραγμένα, ἐξ ὧν οἷόν τε γνῶναι σύμπασι τὴν ἀλήθειαν. πρότερον δ’ αὐτοῦ τό τε γένος διέξειμι καὶ τὴν φύσιν τούς τε γεννητάς, ἀφ’ ὧν ἦν, τήν 〈τ’〉 ἐκ νηπίου τροφήν τε καὶ παίδευσιν, ᾗ χρησάμενος τοσόσδε ἐγένετο.

Writers find it a struggle to recount and record properly (attempting to distinguish themselves by fine essays) the strength of this man’s prudence and goodness, using it to show, as far as possible, both the political affairs which he undertook at home and the achievements he attained while commanding during the great civil and foreign wars. I, on my part, shall speak of his accomplishments, so that from these the true story may be generally known. First of all, I shall go into details of his family, in as far as are concerned his line of descent and the ancestors from whom he descended, and I shall describe his nurturing from childhood and the education, which he fully utilized to become such a great man. (Nic. Dam. vita Caes. )

Nicolaus is able to make good his self-formulated claims on the stylistic level to a certain extent; indeed, his most ardent critics have not entirely been able to withhold their admiration for his linguistic form and the dramatic narrative technique, as far as it can be gleaned from the fragments.⁸⁸ More interesting, however, is a different interpretation implied by the no doubt carefully chosen term ἀγώνισμα.⁸⁹ Both modern and contemporary recipients will be reminded of a different proem, in which Thucydides distinguishes his own concept of πραγματικὴ ἱστορία, which was intended to be of lasting benefit, from the historical works of his predecessors – particularly those of Herodotus whom he does not mention by name – who overemphasised rhetorical brilliance and momentary success from his point of view: καὶ ἐς μὲν ἀκρόασιν ἴσως τὸ μὴ μυθῶδες αὐτῶν ἀτερπέστερον φανεῖται· ὅσοι δὲ βουλήσονται τῶν τε γενομένων τὸ σαφὲς σκοπεῖν καὶ τῶν μελλόντων ποτὲ αὖθις κατὰ τὸ ἀνθρώπινον τοιούτων καὶ παραπλησίων ἔσεσθαι, ὠφέλιμα κρίνειν αὐτὰ ἀρκούντως ἕξει. κτῆμά τε ἐς αἰεὶ μᾶλλον ἢ ἀγώνισμα ἐς τὸ παραχρῆμα ἀκούειν ξύγκειται.

The absence of romance in my history will, I fear, detract somewhat from its interest; but if it be judged useful by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must  Cf. e.g. Dobesch [] –.  Cf. Yarrow []  n. : ‘However, we may accept the possibility that Nicolaus meant ἀγώνισμα in a formal sense, as we have testimony of such contests in the provinces […].’

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resemble if it does not reflect it, I shall be content. In fine, I have written my work, not as an essay which is to win the applause of the moment, but as a possession for all time. (Thuc. .., trans. Richard Crawley)

The fact that Nicolaus chose the formulations rejected by Thucydides would seem to suggest that he felt more indebted to the so-called ‘dramatic’ historiography,⁹⁰ which had developed from Herodotus’ work in early Hellenism.⁹¹ And indeed some passages of his historical work, but also of his portrayal of Augustus can be seen in this tradition: above all Caesar’s assassination comes to mind, whose description is characterised in a extremely detailed and highly emotional manner.⁹² But more important than a precise definition of Nicolaus’ historiographical position seems to be the fact that he evokes, simply by his choice of the word ἀγώνισμα, a central controversy of the Classical period, clearly stating that he wishes to be seen as part of a literary tradition which reaches back to the most prosperous period of Athens. By stressing the cultural and historical heritage of Greece and recalling it to his readers’ minds, Nicolaus creates a position for himself that puts his own literary achievements on a par with the deeds of his protagonist.

. Conclusion: Nicolaus’ Augustus as an interpretatio Graeca of the First Roman Emperor Nicolaus’ of Damascus work on Augustus has come down to us only in a highly fragmented state, in the so-called Constantinian excerpts. Until now, efforts to reconstruct the text were based above all on comparisons with the autobiography of the first princeps or – since much of this work has also been lost – with Suetonius’ Life of Augustus. Due to this perspective, and a focus on the digression on Caesar’s assassination, which may be extremely relevant in historical terms but is hardly representative of the work as a whole, the author’s intentions have largely been described in terms of panegyric and propaganda. However, if we do not classify Nicolaus’ work as an example of Roman imperial biography, a genre which did not emerge until some time afterwards, and situate it instead within the context of literary genres that had been established in Greek culture at least since Classical times, we gain a different view of the characteristics and the functions of the work. Literary traditions such as the ἀγωγή-descriptions, which developed from Xenophon’s Cyropedia, or the philosophically-motivated descriptions of a vita as an ethical example might have defined the horizon of  For a conciliatory interpretation cf. Toher [] –.  The development of a more ‘tragic’ or ‘pathetic’ kind of historiography has been interpreted as a reaction to the changed political situation of the Hellenistic monarchies (cf. e.g. Fornara [] –). For a discussion of emotions in historiography, which exceeds the classifications in different ‘schools’, see Marincola [].  Cf. Nic. Dam. vita Caes. – and Toher [] –.

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expectations of the contemporary Greek- as well as Latin-speaking audience to a far greater extent than the biographical genre which was arising during that time in Rome. In this context, the hybrid form chosen by Nicolaus for a work probably entitled περὶ τοῦ βίου Καίσαρος καὶ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ἀγωγῆς seems particularly appropriate in order to give a positive impression of the new ruler of the world and the establishment of his monarchy. At the same time, it qualifies this fact by evoking the long memory of Greek history and by explaining the development of the princeps’ personality as a result of Greek culture. The strategy of explaining a phenomenon by classifying it according to one’s own system of values reminds us of the process of interpretatio Graeca. Whereas this process had a religious origin, it had already helped earlier generations compare their own cultures with foreign ones.⁹³ Nicolaus’ knowledge of the literary tradition of Greece allowed his protagonist’s acculturation to exceed by far the degree of self-Hellenisation that was common among Roman aristocrats and accepted by their fellows: to his readers Nicolaus’ Augustus must have appeared as a Roman in Greek clothing or, in other words, an Augustus chlamydatus.⁹⁴ Thus the manner in which Nicolaus portrayed the first Roman emperor cannot be seen as a mere ‘translation’ of Augustus’ own self-portrayal, such as can be found in his autobiography and in the res gestae divi Augusti, which were distributed throughout the Empire. It would rather seem to be a contrast to this traditionally Roman way of representation. And yet, given that Nicolaus probably approved of the new monarchy in principle, the relationship between the two types must have been complementary, rather than contrastive, despite all the differences in the way of presentation and cultural contextualisation. Even though a more critical stance of the Greek ‘intellectual’ Nicolaus towards the Roman ‘politician’ Augustus would have been more in tune with modern ideals, it must be noted that Nicolaus’ competence in the traditions of Greek culture and history allowed him to take an attitude towards his subject that differs clearly from that of a hired panegyrist. The fact that in his work his own literary achievements are placed side by side with the political and military deeds of his protagonist illustrates his self-confidence as a successful orator, author, and diplomat as well as the prestige generally derived from a participation in the cultural heritage of Greece.⁹⁵ The significance given to literary education in this context prepared the ground for a development which was to lead to an enormous increase in the appreciation of this specific form of παιδεία in the further course of the Imperial period. During the  Cf. e.g. Dihle [], esp. –. For the interpretation of Roman history in terms of Greek identity in the historical work of Dionysius of Halicarnassus see Wiater (this volume).  On the problems resulting from an exaggeration of the role played by Greek culture in the late Republic cf. e.g. Vogt-Spira [] and Zetzel [].  On the independent status of the ‘intellectual’ in this period cf. Yarrow [], esp. : ‘While on the face of it, his situation was little different from that of any other member of the elite, his learning in fact gave him an identity beyond his citizenship. […] The intellectual had the potential to be a highly effective political animal.’

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‘Second Sophistic’ in particular, it was to come to dominate the debate dealing with the conception of Greek identity under Roman rule.⁹⁶

 Amongst the rich scholarly literature on this question cf. esp. Swain []; Schmitz []; Huskinson []; Goldhill []; Whitmarsh [].

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. Appendix ‘Structure of the Work’ §§ –

[FGrHist –]

Proem

[missing]

or severely abridged⁹⁷

e.g. additional ancestors, omina at his birth

§§ –

[FGrHist –]

Youth and education of Octavian⁹⁸

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Youth up to his assumption of the toga virilis

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Relationship with Caesar during the Civil War

[missing]

extent unknown⁹⁹

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

[missing]

Positive qualities: modesty, courteousness, self-restraint Events from October  to March  

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Octavian’s reaction to the news of Caesar’s murder

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Octavian learns of Caesar’s death in Apollonia and decides to return to Italy

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Arrival in Italy, account of the events in Rome

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Octavian decides to accept the adoption

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Excursus: the assassination of Caesar

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Motives of the conspirators

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Omina of the assassination itself

 Cf. Jacoby [] – (comm. on FGrHist ) and Toher [] –.  On this structure cf. Toher [] . But against this also Leo [] , and Jacoby []  (comm. on FGrHist ), who have the account of his youth end with § , and Steidle [] -, for whom this section stretches as far as § .  Cf. Toher [] .

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 §§ –

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[FGrHist ]

[missing]

Meaning and consequences of the murder Events from April to July in  

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Beginning of the confrontation with Marc Antony

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Supremacy of Marc Antony, isolation of Octavian

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Soldiers force Marc Antony to seek reconciliation

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Marc Antony’s breach of promise and intriguing

§§ –

[FGrHist ]

Octavian departs for Campania

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Glenn W. Most

Principate and System¹ In a celebrated passage of Book  of his Histories (.–), Polybius interrupts his account of Hannibal’s invasion of Italy in order to provide room for a series of fundamental reflections about the relation between his work as a historian on the one hand and the world he recounts, as it has been transformed by the growth of Roman power, on the other.² Polybius has taken great pains to lend this passage extraordinary prominence – it comes immediately after his spectacular account of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps (..–.) and just before the Punic incursion into the Po Valley and the Battle of Trebia (.–), with the conventional (and no doubt largely fictitious) speeches addressed to their troops by the rival generals Hannibal and Scipio (.–). The reader’s tension, kindled by the arrival of the enemy within the Italian peninsula, is magnified by the postponement of the longawaited military encounter; indeed, Polybius’ remark that the participants too were eager for the conflict, .., can easily be interpreted as his projection onto them of the excitement he wishes to stimulate in his readers. Before the two generals go on to reveal publicly what is at stake in this encounter between two civilizations competing to rule the whole world, Polybius inserts his own reflections on how the ultimate outcome of that war has transformed his own work as a historian – almost as though, in order fully to comprehend the political stakes of the historical struggle, we must first already be brought to understand the intellectual stakes involved in its scholarly analysis. Polybius begins by explaining that the reason he has omitted various topics, which readers might think germane to his account of Africa and Spain and which many other authors had treated controversially and at length, was because he did not want to interrupt his narrative (which is precisely what he is now doing) and because he wanted to consider them fully at the right occasion. He then goes on to discuss the difficulties that earlier historians had faced in trying to report the extremities of the known world: 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. But in our own  I have chosen largely to maintain the oral structure and style of the original presentation and have supplied this article with only the most basic bibliographical references. For the sake of convenience I quote from the Loeb translations of the authors when possible.  The commentary on this passage in Walbank [] .– is concise but very useful. See now McGing [], especially –.

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times since, owing to Alexander’s empire in Asia and that of the Romans in other parts of the world, nearly all regions have become approachable by sea or land, since our men of action in Greece are relieved from the aspirations of a military or political career and have therefore ample means for inquiry and study, we ought to be able to arrive at a better knowledge and something more like the truth about lands which were formerly little known. (..–)

Polybius’ analysis of the relations between Roman power and his Greek science is compressed and allusive, but it is clear that he is in effect distinguishing between two possible models for conceiving such relations. On the one hand, the expansive scope of the Roman empire, like that of Alexander’s earlier one, provides the later historian with an opportunity to enlarge the range of his own account more accurately and more easily than his predecessors could possibly have done: the farthest extremes of the inhabited world have now been opened up to military power, economic exploitation, diplomatic exchange, and above all scientific knowledge, so that whereas earlier historians could only report on such remote matters erroneously on the basis of imagination or hearsay, modern ones can provide a true account by using their own autopsy or reliable witnesses. On this view, the objects and ambitions of historians have always remained the same, and Roman political power has finally enabled them to be fulfilled: the universal scope of the object (Roman political dominion) corresponds to, permits, and legitimates the universal scope of the scholarly treatment of that object (Polybius’ histories). On the other hand, Roman dominion over Greece has also had the further consequence that Greek men of vigour and imagination no longer have an opportunity to invest their energy in politics or warfare, since the Romans have assumed a monopoly over these domains. Deprived of an opportunity to engage in careers of the bios praktikos that had always been a primary goal of Greek culture, ambitious Greek men now find that they have no other outlet for their aspirations than a form of bios theōrētikos in which they commit themselves to analyzing the reasons and recounting the steps by which the Romans have achieved dominion over everyone, including themselves. Can we be entirely certain that Polybius’ generosity with regard to his predecessors’ mistakes is not in part due to his compassionate recognition that he himself is no less at the mercy of larger political constraints than they were, or that part of the implicit purpose of his analysis of the causes of Roman success is to understand better the causes of Greek failure? Polybius invokes two possible relations between power and scholarship, which we might term ‘justificatory scope’ on the one hand and ‘enforced leisure’ on the other. Given the complexities in the relations between these two domains in the ancient world, no less than in the modern one, it is not difficult to think of many other possible types of relation between the two as well. For example, we might add patronage, which provides a well-established and well-documented way in which the ambitions of an ancient politician could provide short-term opportunities or longterm careers for scholars who were willing to link explicitly or implicitly their own

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work to his political or cultural goals; or again, we might think of the concentration of research resources which political success could bring together, for example in the form of libraries, archives, museums, or administrative records, thereby drawing scholars to single institutions or linked groups of institutions by making it more convenient, productive, and simply fun for them to do their research together with their colleagues in a single place; or finally we might even consider subversive science, in which the historian or other scholar deploys his erudition and analysis in the hope not of supporting the political system to which he is beholden but rather of attempting to put it into question – though the example of Aulus Cremutius Cordus (Tac. Ann. .–) should be enough to suggest the risks to which such an enterprise was necessarily exposed and may help explain why antiquity seems to furnish so very few examples of it. It is as easy to imagine other possible such relations as it would evidently be a hopeless enterprise to try to establish a systematic and exhaustive classification of all their possible types. In this article, instead, I would like to suggest yet another form that the relation between science and power was capable of assuming in antiquity, by considering the deep structural relationships that, I would argue, obtained between the forms of ancient scholarship which were typical in one specific period, that which we have come to call the Augustan principate, and the political transformations which were characteristic of that same period. My hypothesis is that both of these very limited domains of ancient Greco-Roman culture were informed by a powerful tendency towards systematization, of a sort of which, to be sure, we can find elements and analogues in a number of other periods of ancient culture as well, but perhaps not with the same degree of prominence, concentration, and interrelation. When I use the term systematization here I have in mind the co-presence and interrelation of three kinds of procedures, all of which can appear to varying degrees in different cases but none of which seems to be entirely absent from most of the examples considered here. The first is a logical procedure, which we might call ‘encyclopaedic universalism’, which carefully delimits the scope of the field of knowledge in question while at the same time expanding it as broadly as possible and which attempts to establish an exhaustive classification of the elements within this field according to the simplest possible set of principles, but allowing as great as possible a variety of detail. Whether what is at stake is history, geography, philology, architecture, or some other discipline, the scholar claims for his field an extremely broad range yet contains it within carefully defined borders, and tries to create as exhaustive and rule-governed as possible an organization of the elements within it. The second is a compositional procedure, ‘compilation’, an emphasis upon the collection, organization, presentation, and sometimes correction of previous knowledge regarded as authoritative even if fallible, rather than upon the discovery of new knowledge. To make entirely new discoveries based upon personal experience and autopsy does not seem to be the great ambition of the authors of this period, but rather to find views of the great authorities on the subject from the distant past – usually from the period before the death of Alexander – and to gather, excerpt, collate,

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and present these views in as clear and attractive a form as possible. And the third is a rhetorical procedure, ‘pseudo-philosophization’, a tendency towards claiming that the scholarly enterprise possesses genuinely philosophical underpinnings or can be programmatically integrated within a larger philosophical undertaking. I call this last procedure ‘pseudo-philosophical’ to suggest that the claim of these authors to a lofty philosophical dignity is often not the reflection of what we enlightened moderns would consider rigorous theoretical reflection at the level that ancient philosophy at its best regularly attains but is instead a kind of advertising veneer laid upon the surface of their works, usually at the beginnings, a lure designed to attract general readers who suppose that philosophy is something very serious and immensely important, something their associates will admire and envy them for seeming to know about, but who do not necessarily have a very clear idea of just what philosophy really is. To be sure, the history of science is marked by a number of movements towards systematization of the branches of knowledge, both internally and with regard to one another – in post-classical periods one thinks for example of Aquinas’ system of philosophy, of Leibniz’ characteristica universalis, or of Kant’s epoch-making discussion of the Architektonik der reinen Vernunft in his Kritik der reinen Vernunft (II. Transzendentale Methodenlehre. . Hauptstück, A –, B –). And of course there were at least to a certain extent precedents for this systematic impulse in earlier periods, beginning with Aristotle and his school and continuing with the Stoa and then through the great period of Hellenistic scholarship; and as Elizabeth Rawson [] has shown, the period of the late Roman Republic was also one in which remarkably wide-ranging and productive scholars like Varro and Alexander Polyhistor already flourished, so we should be cautious about limiting the beginning of this tendency too strictly to the time of Augustus. By the same token, just as some of the political institutions associated with Augustus continued for centuries after his death, we can find links between power and knowledge of the sort I am suggesting here, at least to a certain extent, throughout the Imperial period. Nonetheless, the concentration and variety of disciplines in which these three tendencies are found in the Augustan period, apparently for the first time to this degree, and the remarkably intense degree of diffusion and prominence of these three procedures at this time, remain noteworthy, and my suggestion is that, taken together, they go to make up a recognizable Augustan mode in ancient scholarship. Perhaps the evidence may even be taken to suggest that ancient scholars might have been able to see in the gradual formalization of the Roman Empire not just an objective facilitation with regard to the material conditions of their scientific research but also a paradigm for their conceptual organization of their world which helped them locate their own place satisfactorily within it. My hypothesis can be regarded as the intersection between two recent lines of research, one more closely connected to analysis of the particular circumstances of the Augustan principate, the other deriving more generally from the history of science, especially of ancient science. The former represents an attempt to move beyond the

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specifics of political history of the Augustan period in order to try to identify upon their basis the general cultural and social forces active in this period and responsible in some way both for the extraordinarily unlikely but successful institution of Augustus as princeps and for the remarkable masterpieces of literary and visual art characteristic of this period. This line of research goes back for example to the study of Glen Bowersock [] on Augustus and the Greek world, and more recently has been associated especially with the work of Karl Galinsky, who contributed an important synthesis more than a decade ago []³ and has more recently edited a Cambridge companion to the Augustan period []; another important collection of essays, of a more theoretically pronounced New Historical orientation, was edited some years ago by Thomas Habinek and Alessandro Schiesaro [].⁴ These important studies have indeed opened the way to a reconsideration of the Augustan period in terms not only of specifically political events and ideology but also of broader cultural and ideological patterns and social dynamics; while they have paid some attention to the forms of scholarship that flourished during this period, they have, conveniently for me, tended to focus instead upon political issues and works of imaginative literature (as well as Livy). The more general line of research deriving from the history of science investigates the complicity between forms of the production and diffusion of scientific knowledge and structures of political power. Michel Foucault has been a particularly influential, if idiosyncratic, representative of this scholarly tendency; partly in his wake, most of the important research that has been done along these lines has been focussed on science between the eighteenth and twentieth centuries, but there have also been some very interesting studies applying these kinds of questions to ancient science, including Geoffrey Lloyd [] and [] on early Greek science and several very recent studies of the relations between the elder Pliny’s naturalis historia and the ideology of the Roman Empire.⁵ If Pliny can be thought in some way to have been endeavouring to encapsulate as much as possible of the vast contents of the Roman Empire conceptually within the generous bounds of his encyclopaedia of the natural world, then it is worth asking to what extent he can be seen as continuing older tendencies which achieved a first significant climax in the Age of Augustus. Taking our cue from our opening discussion of Polybius, let us begin with the historians of the Augustan period; these scholars seem especially to have cultivated the genre of universal history, which had flourished from Ephorus through the Hellenistic period but achieved a final flowering, in pagan literature, during this very period and was not revived again until centuries later and from a very different

 See also the important earlier synthesis, emphasizing the interrelation between political ideology and the visual arts, by Zanker [].  See also for example Raaflaub and Toher [] and now Wallace-Hadrill []. Important studies on classicism in various aspects of Augustan culture are to be found in Flashar [].  Carey []; Murphy []. For a related approach to Seneca, see Gauly [].

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perspective, by such Christian authors as Eusebius, Augustine, and Orosius.⁶ One of the most remarkable and characteristic historians of this period is Nicolaus of Damascus.⁷ His most important work was the Historiai, a universal history in  books (FGrHist  F –), the most ambitious attempt of this sort since Ephorus composed his own work of the same title three hundred years earlier, in the midfourth century (FGrHist  F –). The difference between Nicolaus’ conception and Ephorus’ is indicated not only by their relative sizes (Ephorus managed to squeeze all that he considered worth remembering of world history into only  books), but above all by the fact that Ephorus began his account with the conquest of the Peloponnesus by the Heraclids, thereby indicating that for him the history of the world began (and, we may say, also ended) with the history of Greece. Against any such provincialism, Nicolaus began his first two books with the history of the Assyrian, Babylonian, and Median Empires (FGrHist  F –); the history of Greece until the Trojan War did not come until Book  (FGrHist  F –); the following books alternate the histories of Lydia and of the various parts of Greece, with a digression on the early history of Syria and Palestine (FGrHist  F –, the Heraclids do not appear until Book ); Book , the last about which we have a fairly clear picture by reason of the Constantinian excerpts, continued the history of the Greek tyrants and of Lydian military campaigns, told of the rise of Persia and may also have included the origins of Rome (FGrHist  F –). As far as we can tell, Nicolaus relied throughout his work upon a few older authoritative historians belonging (more or less) to the fifth and fourth centuries as sources rather than upon the numerous more recent and accurate ones: Ctesias for Assyria and Media, Xanthus for Lydia, Hellanicus and Ephorus for Greece. Another treatise based on systematic compilation was his Ἠθῶν συναγωγή, a collection of the strange laws and customs of both foreign and Greek peoples, which was arranged geographically, beginning with Italy and then moving eastwards to the Greek peninsula and Asia Minor and ending in Libya. Nicolaus regarded himself as a loyal Aristotelian, and another work of his was On Aristotle’s Philosophy, a systematic summary and paraphrase of much of Aristotle’s philosophy in  books which has been partially preserved in Syriac translation: Book  summarized the Physics, Books  and  the Metaphysics, Book  De caelo, Book  De generatione et corruptione, Book  the zoological writings, Book  De anima. Throughout, Nicolaus stays as close as possible to the text of Aristotle (as he understands it), putting his energy at the service of his master rather than innovating deliberately in any way. He claims that there was nothing at all that Aristotle had not known, and that he had only been hindered by the limitation of his mortal lifetime from writing it all down; Nicolaus defines his own purpose as that of simply appending  See on these issues in ancient historiography the essays collected in Kraus [], especially Clarke []; and now those in Liddel and Fear [].  The basic study of Nicolaus remains Wacholder []. See now also the study of Dennis Pausch in the present volume, which focuses on Nicolaus’ biography of Octavian.

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to his paraphrase of Aristotle some further material which had been added by Theophrastus and other Peripatetics.⁸ A last work of interest in the present context is Nicolaus’ panegyric biography of Augustus, which began with an account of the whole world’s veneration of his virtues, including his wisdom and philanthropy, and its gratitude for the benefits he had conferred, most notably peace and protection of both the Greek and barbarian ways of life (FGrHist  F ), and went on to speak of his youth and early years (these are the parts best preserved in the Constantinian excerpts) in terms adapted from Aristotelian ethical analysis.⁹ About many aspects of Nicolaus’ historical writings we can only make guesses because of their fragmentary preservation. But two other Greek historians of the Augustan period are better transmitted, Diodorus Siculus and Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Diodorus’ Βιβλιοθήκη was a universal history in  books (of which only  survive completely) which began with mythological times and went down to the beginning of Julius Caesar’s Gallic War in / ; he himself seems to have been active from about –  and may be regarded as a slightly earlier precursor of the more properly Augustan historians considered here.¹⁰ Although he devotes particular attention to Greece and Sicily, his programmatic claim is that he is writing a history of the whole world, and indeed he prefixes Books –, covering the geography and peoples of the East (Egypt and India), to Books –, comprising those of Greece. He conceives the world as an ordered system whose parts are all interconnected: as he says of universal historians like himself in his opening pages, it has been the aspiration of these writers to marshal all men, who although united one to another by their kinship, are yet separated by space and time, into one and the same orderly body. And such historians have therein shown themselves to be, as it were, ministers of Divine Providence. For just as Providence, having brought the orderly arrangement of the visible stars and the natures of men together into one common relationship, continually directs their courses through all eternity, apportioning to each that which falls to it by the direction of fate, so likewise the historians, in recording the common affairs of the inhabited world as though they were those of a single state, have made of their treatises a single reckoning of past events and a common clearing-house of knowledge concerning them. (..–, cf. ..–)

As is well known, in the preserved parts of his work Diodorus sought to bring order into the extraordinarily confused mass of world history by submitting it to a rigorously annalistic ordering principle: he synchronizes the Olympian, Athenian archon, and Roman consular years and divides his narrative into segments classified, not always correctly, in terms of these units of time (it is possible, but uncertain, that later sections may have been organized in terms of episodes). Like other contemporary Augustan historians, Diodorus tends to rely whenever possible not upon recent and more accurate witnesses but rather upon a few celebrated older historians, mostly of  Wacholder [] .  See Dennis Pausch’s contribution to this volume.  See Sacks []; and Corsaro [] and []; cf. Schmitz (this volume).

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the fourth century: Hecataeus for Egypt, Megasthenes for India, Agatharchides of the second century for the Arabian Gulf, Ephorus for Greek history of the Classical period, Timaeus for Sicily, Cleitarchus for Alexander the Great. This may after all be why he gave the title Βιβλιοθήκη to his work: for it represented the fruit not so much of his original researches, Historiai, as rather of the compilation of authoritative older works to be found in libraries; Diodorus’ collection is derived from a library, replaces a library for its users, and is indeed itself a kind of library. His compilation makes available to readers throughout the Greek-speaking parts of the Empire historical works which could otherwise be consulted only in large cultural centers like Rome, Athens, and Alexandria. In the introduction, Diodorus praises Rome for its supremacy, which has made it possible to gather together into a single city all the materials he needed for the exhausting and exhaustive studies he conducted over a period of  years (..–). And of course his decision to conclude his history with Caesar’s conquest of Britain makes clear his view that universal history comes to an appropriate culmination in the establishment of Roman dominion over the world. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, by contrast, devoted the  books of his Roman Antiquities not to world history but to the origins and early history of Rome alone, from its mythic beginnings down to the First Punic War (where Polybius’ account, with which Dionysius presumably does not wish to compete, begins).¹¹ But he justifies this choice by demonstrating the superiority of the Romans’ supremacy by means of a detailed comparison with the empires of the Medes, Persians, and Macedonians in terms of geographical extent, duration, and splendour of achievement (..–.). On an opposing front, he defends his decision to study the humble origins of this world power, against those who would prefer to linger upon its present grandeur, by arguing that in origin Rome was a Greek city and therefore has all the cultural virtues which the Greeks like to ascribe above all to themselves: And beginning with the next Book I shall tell of the deeds they performed immediately after their founding of the city and of the customs and institutions by virtue of which their descendants advanced to so great dominion; and, so far as I am able, I shall omit nothing worthy of being recorded in history, to the end that I may instill in the minds of those who shall then be informed of the truth the fitting conception of this city, – unless they have already assumed an utterly violent and hostile attitude toward it, – and also that they may neither feel indignation at their present subjection, which is grounded on reason (for by an universal law of Nature, which time cannot destroy, it is ordained that superiors shall ever govern their inferiors), nor rail at Fortune for having wantonly bestowed upon an undeserving city a supremacy so great and already of so long continuance, particularly when they shall have learned from my history that Rome from the very beginning, immediately after its founding, produced infinite examples of virtue in men whose superiors, whether for piety or for justice or for life-long selfcontrol or for warlike valor, no city, either Greek or barbarian, has ever produced. (..–)

 See especially Gabba []; see Wiater’s (this volume) discussion of the Antiquitates.

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Dionysius asserts that his arrival in Rome coincided with Augustus’ ending of the civil wars around  , just about when Diodorus published his own history (..), and he conceives his work as an expression of gratitude to the city for the education and the other benefits he received from it (..). Appropriately, he names as sources only Romans, both oral accounts from people he has known and the most authoritative Roman Republican historians, mostly of the second century (.); but he abandons the annalistic method of arrangement typical of the Republican historians (and also of Diodorus, who may be his implicit target) as being too boring for the reader, and instead prides himself on combining into a single work every kind of account, rhetorical, philosophical, and narrative (ἐξ ἁπάσης ἰδέας μικτὸν ἐναγωνίου τε καὶ θεωρητικῆς 〈καὶ διηγηματικῆς〉¹²), so that it will be of interest to all readers, those interested in public debate, those in political philosophy, and those in the pure account of events (..). In this way Dionysius manages to universalize the importance of this single city, demonstrating that it is central both historically and morally to world history and that it can be portrayed in such a way that readers of all kinds will find in it food for reflection and instruction. We may summarize the tendencies of these historians of the Augustan period by pointing to the universality of their scope, the basic clarity of their over-all arrangement, and their reliance upon a few older authorities of classic status. World history is focused upon Rome; it is Rome that provides a unity to the history of the world and thereby makes this a single subject; it is Rome’s dominion that makes world history possible, whether by providing resources or knowledge or a model of systematic interrelation. Even if these historians restrict themselves to furnishing the account of a single people, that people can only be the Romans, and they are in no doubt that the world historical importance of the supremacy achieved by the Romans means that their history is of universal significance. A Roman author, to be sure, can limit himself to Roman history, as Livy does; but it is characteristic that even he is quickly supplemented by Pompeius Trogus’ Historiae Philippicae, which provides all the external history which Livy (and others like him) had left out: the ancient Near East and Greece (Books –), Macedonia (Books –), the Hellenistic kingdoms before their defeat by Rome (Books –), Parthian history to   (Books –), the regal period of Rome and Spanish and Gallic history until Augustus’ Spanish Wars (Books –). The legitimation of the historian’s enterprise in terms of the magnitude of his object is of course a familiar topos of ancient historiography that goes back to Herodotus (.) and Thucydides (.–), and indeed to Homer (Il. .–, Od. ., , ); but under the principate of Augustus that legitimation takes on a particularly topical coloring. Strabo too wrote a compilatory universal history, the Ὑπομνήματα ἱστορικά in  books that preceded and continued the events recounted by Polybius and that concluded with the end of the civil wars; but that work has been lost, and Strabo’s  καὶ διηγηματικῆς is a conjectural supplement by the Loeb editor Earnest Cary for the apparently lacunose text; the editor of the Teubner edition, Karl Jacoby, prints Stephanus’ 〈καὶ ἡδείας〉.

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fame is derived instead from his compilatory universal Geography in  books.¹³ Strabo is convinced that geography is a philosophically serious discipline which comprises almost all forms of practical and theoretical knowledge and utility within its encyclopaedic purview: as he writes near the beginning of his treatise, And so, too, the utility of geography – and its utility is manifold, not only as regards the activities of statesmen and commanders but also as regards knowledge both of the heavens and of things on land and sea, animals, plants, fruits, and everything else to be seen in various regions – the utility of geography, I say, presupposes in the geographer the same philosopher, the man who busies himself with the investigation of the art of life, that is, of happiness. (..)

Correspondingly, in the first books he insists repeatedly (and at rather tiresome length) on the importance to geography of such properly philosophical disciplines as astronomy and physics, geometry and mathematics – despite his own undeniable deficiencies in these more technical sciences. Like Polybius, Strabo sees in the expansion of the borders of the Roman Empire an opportunity to enlarge and correct scientific knowledge of the more remote parts of the world (..); and yet the debt of his scholarly enterprise to the political parameters of Empire is not exhausted by the issue of the mere quantitative extent of his object. His readership is able to surpass the narrow limitations of the citizens of a single place to encompass now those of the whole world (..); and he repeatedly praises Rome for having not only extended the boundaries of its Empire but for having brought into a single administrative structure and inter-communication with one another regions of the world that had earlier been separated and ignorant of one another. Thus in Book : The Romans, too, took over many nations that were naturally savage owing to the regions they inhabited, because those regions were either rocky or without harbors or cold or for some other reason ill-suited to habitation by many, and thus not only brought into communication with each other peoples who had been isolated, but also taught the more savage how to live under forms of government. (..)

And Book  concludes with a stirring panegyric to Augustus and Tiberius as the culmination of the long civilizing mission of the Roman people (..). Yet for all his praise of the latest Romans, in his use of his scholarly predecessors Strabo is a thorough-going Classicist. As has been demonstrated especially by Albrecht Dihle [], Strabo makes use whenever he can of only a few older authorities, usually of the fourth century, whom he prefers systematically to later witnesses of the second or first century; he tends to cite more recent geographers only when they provide information about matters concerning which the older authorities said nothing. He claims indeed to have traveled extensively – yet he does not hesitate to admit his methodological preference of the ears over the eyes, i.e. of what he has  See Dueck [], especially – on geography, politics, and empire, and the survey of Greek scholars in Augustan Rome at –, and the essays collected in Dueck et al. [].

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read in authorities or learned from hearsay over what he can determine by his own autopsy (..–). Another scholarly discipline that, perhaps surprisingly for modern tastes, was very closely allied with geography and ancient history in the ancient world was mythography, the systematic compilation of tales of the gods and heroes from older sources, usually poetic. Alan Cameron’s [] important recent study has cast helpful light upon the degree to which this field flourished in the Augustan period and about its general tendencies and the individual characteristics of some of its exponents. Authors like Parthenius, Conon, and Hyginus constructed handbooks in which they gathered, according to one classification or another (love-stories, metamorphoses, etc.), remarkable stories from the most authoritative poets, most often of the archaic or Hellenistic periods. Significantly, it was a standard feature of such handbooks that they ostentatiously indicated the sources of the stories they contained – it was not enough to derive the tales from ancient authorities, the derivation had to be prominently indicated as well, for evidently it mattered to the readers of such works not only to know the contents of the particular stories but also to be assured that they went back to authoritative, ancient sources of which they had heard but which they could not easily consult (and whom they could now name-drop effectively). Whether the broadly similar paradoxographers are to be assigned to exactly the same period or not is unclear; in any case they too follow the same generally systematizing tendencies.¹⁴ Didymus, the greatest literary scholar of the Augustan period, is credited with a Ξένη Ἱστορία, about which almost nothing is known; its title is likely to refer simply to everything non-Greek, thereby supplementing Greek history with its foreign counterpart, but Cameron has suggested that it is to be understood instead as meaning Strange History and that the book was a compilation of bizarre stories, perhaps something mid-way between historiography and paradoxography. Didymus is celebrated in any case as being the most productive and influential philologist of the period. But it is well known that his importance resides not in the novelty and originality of his own work but rather in its compilatory character: it is largely through the channel of his variorum collections that the erudite traditions of the great philologists of the Alexandrian school had to flow if they were to have any chance of reaching posterity. Where we can actually see him at work, as in a papyrus fragment of his commentary on Demosthenes’ Philippics, the purely compilatory nature of his scholarly activity is no less evident than its sometimes astonishing errors.¹⁵ No doubt if more of his work were directly available rather than having to be inferred from the scholia to such authors as Pindar, Euripides, and Aristophanes, we would find ample evidence for this peculiar mixture of systematization, compilation, and classicism.

 They are edited in Westermann [] and in Giannini [].  The text is conveniently presented and well discussed in Harding []. See especially West [].

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And the same is likely to be true of other, even shadowier philologists of the Augustan period, like Tryphon and Caecilius, who constructed on analogical principles systematic lexica of authoritative usage based upon standard authors. Besides philology, the other most important kind of scholarly labor practiced upon linguistic artifacts in antiquity is that represented by the rhetoricians; fortunately, a number of the works have survived that were written by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, whom we have already encountered as a historian of Roman antiquities but who was also the most significant author of rhetorical treatises of the Augustan period.¹⁶ It is evident that the same tendencies found in his historical writing recur in his rhetorical works as well. Here too we have a panegyric of Rome, which has single-handedly reversed the temporary triumph of a meretricious Hellenistic rhetoric and returned to the healthy domestic tranquility of the sober Classical rhetoric characteristic of the great fourth century Greek prose authors (The Ancient Orators .–). And we have a thoroughly Classicizing approach to these authors: the subject I have chosen for my discourse is one of general interest and great potential benefit to mankind. It is this. Who are the most important of the ancient orators and historians? What manner of life and style of writing did they adopt? Which characteristics of each of them should we imitate, and which should we avoid? (The Ancient Orators .–)

His treatment aims at unlocking all the mysteries of their many beauties, and teaching us how to avoid their occasional errors, by a sustained attention even to the tiniest niceties of their style, and he does not hesitate to include within his purview even the most basic elements of a systematic treatment of language and meter – indeed, at one point Dionysius feels obliged to refute an imaginary skeptic who cannot bring himself to believe that the great authors had really paid any heed at all to the kinds of trivial details upon which Dionysius is expatiating at such length, and he does so by pointing out the importance of method and practice in all kinds of work and for all kinds of people (On Literary Composition .–).¹⁷ One more technical handbook of the Augustan age must be considered in this context, as it is one of the most influential, remarkable, and, in some ways, peculiar. This is the treatise on architecture in  books by Vitruvius,¹⁸ who programmatically declares at its opening that in these volumes he has expounded all the methods of the ‘discipline’ of architecture (his voluminibus aperui omnes disciplinae rationes . Preface ); elsewhere he refers to the matter of his treatise as the ‘system and methods of architecture’ (corpus architecturae rationesque eius, . Preface). It turns out that this system involves not only much that might well be considered specifically germane to architecture, but also history, the natural sciences, medicine, and especially broad segments of philosophy, including astronomy, mathematics, music,  See Hidber [] and now especially de Jonge [].  Cf. Dem. .–.  See McEwen [] and Novara [].

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and even metaphysics. And yet, strikingly, these disciplines, varied as they are, are thought by Vitruvius to all be integral parts of a single inter-connected systematic science: But perhaps it will seem wonderful to inexperienced persons that human nature can master and hold in recollection so large a number of subjects. When, however, it is perceived that all studies are related to one another and have points of contact, they will easily believe it can happen. For a general education is put together like one body from its members. So those who from tender years are trained in various studies recognise the same characters in all the arts and see the intercommunication of all disciplines, and by that circumstance more easily acquire general information. (..)

But the programmatic claim for systematic integration sometimes seems to work in Vitruvius, if at all, only as a rhetorical ambition, not as a substantive achievement: the parts of his work retain a considerable degree of heterogeneity and often seem to lack any real organic cohesion. Is it really necessary, to know the materials out of which bricks for buildings are made, to be supplied in . with a lengthy doxography on the first principles recognised by the Greek philosophers beginning with Thales? Does the reader of Book , which treats of other kinds of civic buildings besides temples, really need a potted introduction to Pythagorean geometry (. Preface) and to Aristoxenus’ theory of harmony (.)? Must the student of city-planning, who arguably needs to know something about water-supplies, really need to be told as well about Thales’ doctrine that water is the principle of all things, followed by Heraclitus on fire, the priests of the Magi on water and fire, and Euripides on air and earth (. Preface)? And here too we find the same Classicizing tendencies we have seen in Vitruvius’ scientific contemporaries. Book  begins with high praise for the ancients, who have entrusted to writing so much knowledge and information for their descendants, and with a vigorous attack against those who plagiarize their works without acknowledging the sources of their thefts (. Preface –) – another possibility, that modern authors might make important new discoveries on their own, simply does not seem even to have occurred to him. Vitruvius himself, in contrast, locates his own novelty precisely in his systematic collection of the best materials of his predecessors: But this encyclopaedia, your Highness, is not presented under my own name with the suppression of my authorities, nor have I set out to gain approbation by vituperating any man’s ideas. For I owe great gratitude to all those who with an ocean of intellectual services which they gathered from all time, each in his department provided stores from which we, like those who draw water from a spring and use it for their own purposes, have gained the means of writing with more eloquence and readiness; and trusting in such authorities we venture to put together a new manual of architecture. (. Preface )

And then he goes on to provide a lengthy list of numerous authorities and sources that he claims to have used (cf. also e.g. ..).

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

Glenn W. Most

In all these technical domains we find, to be sure in varying degrees and with different emphases, precisely the same tendencies towards systematic classification, towards encyclopaedic scope, towards the compilation of sources, towards a veneration of the ancients, towards a superficial but persistently proclaimed philosophization. This general impulse towards systematization would be remarkable enough if it were limited to the various domains of scholarship that we have touched upon so far; but it becomes even more remarkable when we notice its prominence in the Latin poetry of the Augustan period as well.¹⁹ Virgil, for example, systematically moves in the course of his career backwards historically one after the other through the models provided by all three varieties of Greek hexametric poetry, from Theocritus’ Hellenistic pastorals through Hesiod’s archaic didactic back to Homer’s foundational heroic epic. At the end of Virgil’s career, Latin has filled out the whole category of dactylic hexameter with masterpieces of its own. Ovid, again, puts together his own versions of established Greek and Roman myths by stringing them together, along a temporal axis of Metamorphoses reaching from the origin of the world to his own days, or along the calendar of the Roman year in the Fasti.²⁰ It would obviously be absurd to reduce simplistically Ovid’s joyously creative poetic artifices to mere mythological compendia or compilatory handbooks (though this is in fact exactly how later centuries often read them); and yet it would be no less mistaken to fail to recognise that they have grown out of a contemporary culture of systematic mythographical treatises which they presuppose, exploit, develop – and satirize. So too, Horace’s Carmina seems to provide a very ample compendium of most of the basic meters of Greek lyric poetry (and of some of its most popular genres and famous tags), and his Ars Poetica, for all its apparent superficial variety, follows a systematic outline – indeed, its odd emphasis upon how to write a satyr play (not, one might think, an urgent priority in contemporary Latin literature) seems designed to fill a generic gap in the current production of Latin poetry which would not even have been visible to any but the most highly systematized observer. Thus what is involved is clearly not only a matter of technical scholarship in the narrow sense but also of the whole literary culture of Augustan Rome. What is more, we find precisely the same tendencies not only in these various scholarly, scientific, and literary domains, but in Augustus’ Res Gestae as well.²¹ The princeps’ self-representative inscription leaves to his fellow-citizens as a testament a striking image of the extraordinary degree to which Rome and its Empire had become in his time, and in part through his agency, a well-organized systematic body. For example, in chapter  he points to the census and the three lustra of the Roman population he performed, in which almost five million Roman citizens were registered; and in chapters  and  he lists the many buildings which he constructed  Cf. Whitmarsh’s (this volume, p. –) discussion of ‘the close association between imperial and poetic order’ in Greek epigram (the quotation at p. ).  On this latter see in the present connection especially Feeney [].  Edited most recently in Cooley [].

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or renovated, an unmistakable demonstration, according to Ovid as well, of the grand new form which the contemporary city had taken on. At the same time, these same Res Gestae take pains to link that newly splendid city with the very farthest limits of the known world: chapter  begins, ‘I extended the territory of all those provinces of the Roman people on whose borders lay peoples not subject to our government’, and from there until chapter  follows a long list of the military conquests, expeditions, diplomatic treatises, colonies, and suppliants that had brought all the peoples of the οἰκουμένη or inhabited world into the sphere of the dominion of Rome. To be sure, we are speaking now only about the systematic quality of a specific literary document, the Res Gestae, and not about the nature of Augustus’ rule itself, which he certainly acquired and exercised in a very opportunistic, ad hoc, and unsystematic manner. But it is no wonder that modern historians tend to speak of an ‘Augustan revolution’. And yet it should not be forgotten that if there was some form of revolution, Augustus took great pains to make sure that it was a revolution disguised as continuity. A great part of his success was due to his ability to conceal innovation within the mask of a preservation of older customs or of a return to their re-establishment after they had fallen into disuse. So too in his Res Gestae, he writes, ‘I would not accept any office inconsistent with the custom of our ancestors’ (.), and a few lines later, ‘By new laws passed on my proposal I brought back into use many exemplary practices of our ancestors which were disappearing in our time …’ (.). How seriously are we to take these evident traces of scholarly or literary systematization? To any attempt to attribute much weight to them, it might be objected that what is involved is for the most part not really the substance of systematicity, but only a profession or claim to it: after all, most of my quotations from scholars were derived from the prefaces of works that as wholes were often quite heterogeneous, and Augustus’ Res Gestae is a piece of political propaganda, not a detached historical analysis. And yet the very claim to this form of systematization is itself significant, whether or not that claim was fully realized in practice: evidently such claims form an important part of the ideology of the period in very different cultural domains, and this fact still requires some kind of explanation. Again, it might be objected that what we see as this tendency is in fact an optical illusion, a mirage produced by the relatively good preservation of works produced in this period as compared with the almost total loss of Hellenistic authors who, if transmitted, might perhaps have shown the same or similar tendencies. Of course, it cannot be excluded that the later prestige of the Augustan age or the systematizing classicism of these exponents has influenced the transmission of such works in a way that distorts to some extent our view of its relation to earlier periods; but as long as we do not set an unrealistically sharp break between Augustan literary culture and those of earlier times, but instead see in these Augustan authors a particularly striking expression and concentration of tendencies already found to a lesser degree in earlier periods, I do not think that we need worry overmuch about this second objection.

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Glenn W. Most

If, then, we are to take these traces seriously, how can they be explained? Let us recall our opening discussion of the relations between power and science and notice that Augustus himself portrayed his political achievements in the same systematic, Classicizing light as did so many of his scholarly contemporaries. Should we try to establish some kind of conceptual relation between systematization in science and systematization in politics during the Augustan age? Let us begin by excluding as highly improbable two extreme hypotheses. Might on the one hand this be a simple causal nexus moving from politics to science? Might Augustus or his ministers have simply imposed this model on contemporary scholarship? Hardly likely: why should they have bothered? Did they not have more pressing concerns than to ensure that a discussion of brick-making was preceded by a Presocratic doxography? On the other hand, might the causal link operate just as simply, but in the other direction, from the scholars to the princeps? Might they have consciously intended to curry favour with those in power by hypocritically imitating in their own works the dominant political ideology? Once again, not at all likely: for nowhere does any of them say this explicitly (yet we would expect them to have done so, if this had been their intention and they had wanted that intention to be recognised and rewarded), and we must not presume that the innovatively systematic character of the principate as Augustus commemorates it was as clear to contemporaries as it seems to us. It is not obvious what explanatory mechanism we can invoke to explain causally these striking tendencies. The term ‘homology’ may well be applied to these tendencies as they are expressed both in Augustus’ political discourse and in Augustan scientific discourse; but ‘homology’ does not name a cause but only points out a similarity: it cannot solve our problem but at best only specifies it. Instead, we may be able to arrive at nothing more satisfactory as an explanatory model than a general taste of the times that seems to have favoured the systematic, often compilatory style both in political texts and in scientific ones and that conditioned both Augustus’ representation of his success (so that he was careful to disguise innovation as restoration) and the various grand scholarly projects we have considered (which privileged systematic classification and encyclopaedic compilation over theoretical innovation and empirical discovery). No doubt Greek scholars in Rome must have found themselves in a different world from their predecessors in Alexandria: Alexandria, after all, had always been only one option that had to measure itself at least against Pergamum, but in Augustan Rome there was only one city with one empire with a single princeps, and alert contemporary scientists may not have had much difficulty in recognizing that henceforth universal systematization was the only game in town. This may help explain, in part at least, the prominence of these tendencies among Greek scholars of the time; but it will not help much with Vitruvius, or with Augustus himself, unless we presume that Greek scholarship became a model for them to imitate too (and then this will itself require further explanation). Modern scholars who speak of this period often attribute to it an ‘Aufbruchsstimmung’, a mood of optimism and readiness to start out anew; yet it is not clear why

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such a mood should have become so firmly directed to the past, or so resolutely systematic, as Augustan culture seems to have been. Something more must have been involved, something it is easier to point to than to demonstrate. Perhaps part of the explanation is to be found not so much in a ‘Zeitgeist’ as rather in a temporary fashion – or rather, a case of general fatigue. After generations of bloodshed and turmoil, it is understandable that many people could have become quite distrustful of bold new individual claims – after all, nova res is Latin for a political revolution – and might well have preferred a careful, balanced synthesis of older authorities, sanctioned by their remoteness from current strife. The same taste that welcomed, or at least accepted, the Augustan innovation precisely because of the self-delusion that this was not really an innovation after all but a return to an older, established tranquility, might well have sought, in history, in geography, in architecture, in other fields of scholarship and poetry, to gather together the best of the past and to bring it into large-scale synthetic compilations. If we consider the later course of Roman political history on the one hand and the later course of ancient science and scholarship on the other, it is hard to resist the temptation of concluding that the urge towards systematization may have achieved durable results of considerable value in the realm of empire, but had very negative consequences in the realm of scholarship.

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Ewen Bowie

Men from Mytilene Like the narrator constructed by Longus in the shortest of our novels, I have gone to Lesbos hoping to track one sort of game but have encountered another. I had hoped to find in the career or writings of Theophanes son of Hieroetas, Potamon son of Lesbonax or Crinagoras son of Callippus some intimations of the consciousness of Greek identity of which we find so many cases from the late first century  onwards, and to be able to mount some comparison between their cases and some later ones. It was perhaps too optimistic an expectation. Both our knowledge of the careers of the Mytileneans and that of second and third century sophists (mostly based on Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists, though often supplemented by epigraphy, occasionally by other literary texts) remains too bitty, and the bits from each group are rarely from matching spheres. Admittedly we know enough about Herodes Atticus and Antonius Polemo of Laodicea and Smyrna, but each, in his way, is an almost unique figure; so too is the second-century sophist from whom we have by far the largest corpus of writings, Aelius Aristides. From none do we have a selection of epigrammatic poetry as extensive as that of Crinagoras, and the real individuals behind the later first- and early second-century selections of epigrams that do survive, those of Rufinus and Strato, are so far inaccessible. Overall, systematic comparison with second-century Greek eminences seems unattainable. But though that game cannot be usefully hunted, the phenomenon to which I draw attention briefly in my conclusion, the use of Aeolic dialect in inscriptions of Mytilene, adds a dimension to our understanding of my Mytileneans’ Hellenism for which (again) it is hard to find an exact parallel in second or third century  cases.

. Theophanes I begin with the literary production of Theophanes. We do indeed know of a historical work of Theophanes devoted to Pompey’s Mithradatic campaign, but the seven fragments in Jacoby give only glimpses of what it was like: a campaign narrative with predictable coverage assigned to geography¹ and natural history,² items which caught the attention of Strabo, who cites them. Laqueur’s [] view that Strabo’s eleventh and twelfth books draw extensively on Theophanes is not universally accepted, but did receive the imprint of Syme’s approval in Anatolica Syme [].  FGrH F, F, F, cf. F.  FGrH F.

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Ewen Bowie

Plutarch, with different interests, cites the work for the story that in Mithradates’ Armenian fortress New Castle (Καινὸν Φρούριον) was found a speech (λόγος) of Rutilius Rufus inciting the massacre of Romans in Asia – a claim that Plutarch vigorously dismisses, suggesting that the nasty Theophanes hated the upright Rutilius Rufus and wanted to expose a man who had attacked Pompey’s father Gn. Pompeius Strabo in his own historical work.³ Other remarks of Plutarch about Theophanes’ clearly important role in history demonstrate that Plutarch had formed a distinctly unfavourable opinion of him: e.g. one in the Life of Pompey taking for granted his turpitude (μοχθηρία),⁴ and another in the Life of Cicero quoting a bon mot of Cicero against Theophanes when he was praefectus fabrum (Commander-in-chief, Engineers) and had been praised for his effective consolation of the Rhodians for having lost their fleet: “ἡλίκον” εἶπεν “ἀγαθόν ἐστι Γραικὸν ἔχειν ἔπαρχον” (‘How great an advantage’, he said, ‘to have a Greek Commander’).⁵ Cicero’s frequent references to Theophanes between   and   establish how important an adviser to Pompey he was seen to be, and also show that Cicero thought he could score points when writing to Atticus by referring to him as Graecus (Greek: ad Atticum .., July ) and Mytilenaeus (Mytilenean: ad Atticum .., December ). On the one hand, then, our testimony is so scanty that it could well be that in the work of Theophanes now lost to us there were passages about Greek cities in Pontus or about the campaigns of Alexander that showed pride in Greek cultural identity of the sort we might encounter at a later period. But nothing points clearly that way. Of course it would be unwise to use Plutarch’s failure to cite Theophanes in his Alexander as evidence that Theophanes had nothing to say about Alexander; but it may be revealing that the one detail about Theophanes’ treatment of a hero cult that has survived the hazards of transmission concerns not a Greek oecist or the like but a local hero (ἥρως ἐγχώριος) at Heracleia, Titias, who was said in one version of the legend to be the oldest of the children of the Cimmerian Mariandynus.⁶ Moreover we might guess from Cicero’s barbs that Theophanes might not have wanted to flaunt his Greekness when moving in Roman society. It was a different matter that after his death Strabo could describe him as ‘the most distinguished of all Greeks’, πάντων Ἑλλήνων ἐπιφανέστατον:⁷ as Strabo goes on to say, Theophanes’ son Pompeius Macer was at the time of his writing one of the closest of the amici of Tiberius Caesar. It has been suggested that this son, possibly described as Μάρκος Πομπήιος by Strabo (unless one emends to Μάκρος Πομπήιος), was not natural but adoptive, and was indeed the son of an Italian immigrant to provincia Asia.⁸ If this is correct, it shows Theophanes as more concerned for the succession of his line than for his Greekness. Whether correct or incorrect, the line certainly prospered:      

Pomp. . (= FGrH F). Pomp. . (=FGrH  Tc). Cic. . (= FGrH  Tc). FGrH F = Schol. Ap. Rhod. .. .. = FGrH  T. PIR² P  (Wachtel).

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the son was a procurator of Asia for Augustus (Strabo ibid.), the grandson praetor in the year  ⁹ and prominent enough to have to commit suicide in   (Tacitus ann. ..); eventually there is a consul suffect in   whose nomenclature M. Pompeius Macrinus Neos Theophanes revived memories of Strabo’s Theophanes, πάντων Ἑλλήνων ἐπιφανέστατον. When we review Theophanes’ career in Mytilene itself it seems that there he succeeded in blending a Greek and a Roman identity. We now know from a recently published honorific inscription in Mytilene that he held the eponymous magistracy of πρύτανις (here in the hyper-Aeolic spelling πρώτανις), argued persuasively by its editors necessarily to fall before / .¹⁰ His political skills may have been important in commending him to Pompey,¹¹ whom he accompanied on his campaigns and may have advised on his settlement in the East to a degree we cannot judge. We cannot tell precisely when Pompey got him Roman citizenship, or whether it preceded or coincided with Pompey’s visit to Mytilene at the end of his campaign, arguably in  .¹² His achievement in reconciling Pompey to the Mytileneans and in securing their libertas,¹³ despite their earlier resistance to Rome and their surrender of M.’ Aquillius to Mithradates, earned him further honorific statues in his lifetime and divine honours after his death, thought to have fallen no later than  . One of the statue-bases, also still in Mytilene, describes him as Γναίωι Πομπηίωι Ἱεροίτα υἱῶι Θεοφάνηι σωτῆρι καὶ εὐεργέται (‘Gnaeus Pompeius, son of Hieroitas, Theophanes, saviour and benefactor’, Gn.).¹⁴ After his death he sheds his Roman citizenship and is honoured, alongside Pompey himself and Potamon, son of Lesbonax, as [Θεῶι Δ]ίι Ἐλευθερίωι φιλοπάτριδι Θεοφανῆι τῶι σωτῆρι καὶ εὐεργέται καὶ κτίσται δευτέρωι τᾶς πατρίδος (‘To the god Zeus the giver of freedom, lover of his country, Theophanes, saviour and benefactor and second founder of his country’).¹⁵ A portrait bust that was identified two decades ago as of Theophanes¹⁶ projects a tough, perhaps self-interested realist of the stamp some have argued Theophanes to be;¹⁷ its stylistic features link it with both Greek and Roman traditions.

. Potamon This is an appropriate point to turn to Potamon son of Lesbonax. In some ways he is more elusive because his writings, unlike those of Theophanes and Crinagoras, seem almost entirely to have disappeared: Plutarch in his Life of Alexander . quotes a         

Tacitus ann. ... Anastasiadis and Souris [] . Cf. Strabo .. and the arguments of Anastasiadis and Souris [] , citing earlier discussions. Seager [] . Velleius .. = FGrH  Tb. IG .  = IGR . = Syll.³ . This inscription is now in the British Museum, IBM  = IG .  = IGR . = Syll.³ . Salzmann []. E.g. Crawford [] –; for qualifications see Ferrary [] .

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Ewen Bowie

story about Alexander founding a city and naming it after his dog Peritas that the writer Sotion heard from Potamon of Lesbos – more likely an anecdote about his declamatory career than a fragment of a history.¹⁸ His career is not unlike that of Theophanes and Crinagoras: successful embassies on Mytilene’s behalf to Roman dynasts and corresponding honours in Mytilene, one of these being the large statuebase already mentioned which once supported honorific statues of Pompey, Theophanes and Potamon, erected after Theophanes’ death.¹⁹ Another impressive mark of honour is the large marble seat, presumably from the theatre, which was reserved for Potamon and offers a concrete instantiation of the προεδρία, privileged seating, he must at some point have been granted: it is inscribed Ποτάμωνος Λεσβώνακτος προεδρία, ‘The privileged seat of Potamon son of Lesbonax.’²⁰ Potamon is the only one of the three men to have achieved an entry in the Suda (Π ): this claims that he practised as a sophist in Rome under Tiberius, and that on an occasion of his return to Mytilene the emperor equipped him with papers securing safe passage.²¹ An embassy already in  , suggesting birth no later than c.  , and sophistic activity still pursued under Tiberius requires a remarkably long life, but since the Lucianic Μακρόβιοι (Men with Long Lives)  has him living to the age of  it may be right to follow Stegemann [] in RE and Weissenberger [] in Der Neue Pauly in accepting that all these data belong to the same man. A small modification would suppose that the Suda date for his sophistic activity should rather relate to his death. A more radical revision would start from the observation that the Suda also puts Potamon’s philosopher father Lesbonax under Augustus,²² and would propose that a sophist under Tiberius might in fact be the grandson of the Caesarian and Augustan envoy. This purely conjectural proposal has destabilising consequences: the writings ascribed by the Suda may not after all be those of the Caesarian and Augustan envoy. It is with this caveat in mind that I turn to these writings, while accepting provisionally the fable convenue.

 FGrH F: there is more on this dog in Pollux ..  IBM  = IG .  = IGR . = Syll.³ : statues honouring Potamon are attested by the bases. IG . , ,  and  and IG  Suppl  and .  IG .  (Mytilene Museum no. ).  Suda Π : Ποτάμων, Μιτυληναῖος, υἱὸς Λεσβώνακτος, ῥήτωρ. ἐσοφίστευσεν ἐν Ῥώμῃ ἐπὶ Καίσαρος Τιβερίου. καί ποτε αὐτοῦ ἐς τὴν πατρίδα ἐπανιόντος, ὁ βασιλεὺς ἐφοδιάζει τοιοῖσδε γράμμασι· Ποτάμωνα Λεσβώνακτος εἴ τις ἀδικεῖν τολμήσοι, σκεψάσθω, εἴ μοι δυνήσεται πολεμεῖν. ἔγραψε περὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου τοῦ Μακεδόνος, Ὅρους Σαμίων, Βρούτου ἐγκώμιον, Καίσαρος ἐγκώμιον, Περὶ τελείου ῥήτορος (‘Potamon of Mytilene the son of Lesbonax, orator. He taught rhetoric and declaimed in Rome in the reign of Tiberius Caesar, and on one occasion when he was returning to his own country the emperor equipped him for his journey with the following document: “If anybody should dare to harm Potamon son of Lesbonax, let him consider whether he will be able to conduct a war against me.” He wrote On Alexander of Macedon, Annals of Samos, An Encomium of Brutus, An Encomium of Caesar, On the Perfect Orator’).  Suda Λ : Λεσβῶναξ, Μιτυληναῖος, φιλόσοφος, γεγονὼς ἐπὶ Αὐγούστου, πατὴρ Ποτάμωνος τοῦ φιλοσόφου. ἔγραψε πλεῖστα φιλόσοφα (‘Lesbonax, a philosopher in the reign of Augustus, father of Potamon, the philosopher. He wrote numerous philosophical works’).

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Men from Mytilene



The Suda list is as follows: ἔγραψε περὶ Ἀλεξάνδρου τοῦ Μακεδόνος, Ὅρους Σαμίων, Βρούτου ἐγκώμιον, Καίσαρος ἐγκώμιον, Περὶ τελείου ῥήτορος (‘He wrote On Alexander of Macedon, Annals of Samos, An encomium of Brutus, An encomium of Caesar, On the Perfect Orator’).This is interestingly different in character from the single work attested for Theophanes, a probably adulatory account of Pompey’s campaigns. The work on rhetoric supports the Suda’s initial description of him as a ῥήτωρ (‘orator’) and coheres with a career some of which involved teaching and declamation. Such a career is also supported by the elder Seneca, attesting a treatment of the already well-worn theme of the  Spartans at Thermopylae but from an unusual angle, denying that they ever for a minute contemplated retreat.²³ The two encomia, of Brutus and of Caesar, were presumably epideictic in origin, whether or not they were originally a pair: at the very least the former indicates a readiness to take a stance independent from the regime of Caesar and of Caesar Augustus divi filius. It is also hard to see how it could not have touched in some way on issues of libertas / ἐλευθερία (‘freedom’). The work on Alexander, on the other hand, is more likely, given the περί (‘about…’) form of its title, to be historical than declamatory. It is tempting to suppose that Potamon might have expected it to be read alongside the work of his older political rival Theophanes on Pompey, and if so it can only have put the latter in perspective: Potamon might even be among the levissimi ex Graecis whom Livy criticises for exaggerated claims concerning Alexander.²⁴ There remains the Ὧροι Σαμίων, Annals of Samos. The form of the title is one found as early as Charon of Lampsacus’ early fifth-century Ὧροι Λαμψακήνων (Annals of Lampsacus).²⁵ It presumably set out some or all of the pre-Roman history of Samos. It is perhaps surprising that Potamon chose to write up Samos rather than Mytilene. One might guess at a friendship with a prominent Samian of his own class to whom the work might be dedicated, or it may have been something put together by Potamon for presentation to Augustus during one of the winters he spent on Samos, –  or – .²⁶ But like his choice of a work on Alexander it points to a greater sense of Greek cultural identity than that detected in Theophanes.²⁷ We may speculate whether this greater sense was fostered by immersion in epideictic rhetoric where themes from glorious moments in Greek history were already a standard part of the repertoire, but it is not a speculation to which an answer can be offered.

   

Suasoriae .. Livy ... Athenaeus  ,  – = FGrH  F and . More cautiously Stegemann [] : ‘Was P. veranlasste, die andere ihm von Suidas zugeschriebene historische Schrift ὧροι Σαμίων zu schreiben, ist unbekannt.’  Potamon is noticed as a forerunner of the Second Sophistic by Anderson [] .

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

Ewen Bowie

. Crinagoras Finally I turn to Crinagoras, fellow-legate of Potamon to Caesar in   and   and again legate to Augustus in Spain in – .²⁸ Potamon was the senior ambassador on both embassies to Caesar, and on the second of these Crinagoras son of Callippus is named seventh out of eight, whereas a man who must have been his relation, Phaenias son of Phaenias son of Callippus, is listed second to Potamon. On accepted chronologies Crinagoras will have been in his s in  , and will have lived until at least  : this is based on the identification of the Selene who has just died in Anth. Pal. . with Cleopatra Selene who died not earlier than  ;²⁹ and of the campaign of a Germanicus in Anth. Pal. . with that of Germanicus in  .³⁰ The arguments are both complex and fragile, but may provisionally be accepted. Of the  epigrams of Crinagoras that have been transmitted via the Garland of Philip the only wholly securely dated poem is Anth. Pal. ., celebrating the first cutting of Marcellus’ beard when he returned from the Cantabrian war in  , aged .³¹ That and other poems seem to attest Crinagoras’ success in attracting the attention of members of the domus Caesaris: an Antonia,³² a Nero – i.e. Ti. Claudius Nero, in a poem probably dated to  ,³³ and (as mentioned above) Germanicus. There is much in Crinagoras’ encomia of his addressees that modern taste dismisses as flattery, and it cannot be denied that praise, a traditional component of sympotic exchange,³⁴ is lavished without stint. But it is not my concern here to pass a verdict on that praise. What I want to ask is how far Crinagoras presents himself as a poet who just happens to be writing in Greek, and how far he makes moves that might be seen as emphasising his Greek identity. Not a few epigrams can be interpreted in this latter way. Τὸν σκοπὸν Εὐβοίης ἁλικύμονος ᾖσεν Ἀριστὼ Ναύπλιον· ἐκ μολπῆς δ’ ὁ θρασὺς ἐφλεγόμην, ὁ ψεύστης δ’ ὑπὸ νύκτα Καφηρείης ἀπὸ πέτρης πυρσὸς ἐμὴν μετέβη δυσμόρου ἐς κραδίην.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras ii –. Aristo sang of Nauplius, watchman of sea-girt Euboea; and I, the rash lover, was inflamed by her song. That faithless flame by night from the rock of Caphereus passed into my unhappy heart. (transl. Gow-Page)

 On Crinagoras cf. Whitmarsh (this volume), p. . My discussion here shares much with my examination of Crinagoras in the context of other Greek epigrammatic poets from the Garland of Philip, Bowie [] –: it seemed important to discuss Crinagoras in that as well as in his Mytilenean context.  Gow and Page [] vol. ii – on Anth. Pal. . = their Crinagoras xviii –.  Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxvi –.  Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras x –.  Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras vii –, see below.  Anth. Plan.  = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxviii –.  See Bowie [].

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Men from Mytilene



The song being sung by Aristo that arouses the poet’s passion for her is about Nauplius, the father of Palamedes, in revenge for whose death he caused the shipwreck of Achaeans returning from Troy. This is, admittedly, not a strong case: the theme was popular for song and pantomime in the early empire,³⁵ and in Crinagoras’ poem it may be no more than Greek mythological wallpaper. Βύβλων ἡ γλυκερὴ λυρικῶν ἐν τεύχεϊ τῷδε πεντὰς ἀμιμήτων ἔργα φέρει Χαρίτων. † Ἀνακρέοντος, πρέσβυς ἃς ὁ Τήιος ἔγραψεν ἢ παρ’ οἶνον ἢ σὺν Ἱμέροις· † δῶρον δ’ εἰς ἱερὴν Ἀντωνίῃ ἥκομεν ἠῶ κάλλευς καὶ πραπίδων ἔξοχ’ ἐνεγκαμένῃ.

Anth. Pal . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras vii –. The delightful quintet of lyric books inside this case brings works of inimitable charm, Anacreon’s, which that pleasant old man from Teos wrote in his cups or with the Passions’ help. We come to her holy day, a gift for Antonia, winner of beauty’s and wisdom’s highest prize. (transl. Gow-Page)

The poet presents an Antonia, perhaps Antonia Minor,³⁶ daughter of the triumvir Antonius and Octavia, with an edition of Anacreon in five Books on some special occasion εἰς ἱερὴν … ἥκομεν ἠῶ. ‘Roman ladies in this period would read Anacreon.’³⁷ That may be – or they might want a copy to be used by a slave who would sing to them. But the choice of a canonical Greek poet, in what may well be the standard Alexandrian edition,³⁸ both aligns Crinagoras with earlier sympotic poets and gives him a place in a respected Greek tradition. The switch from elegiacs into iambic trimeters in lines –, which seems certain even though our text of these lines is corrupt, shows both Crinagoras’ virtuosity and his awareness that Anacreon composed in iambic as well as in melic metres. Λαμπάδα, τὴν κούροις ἱερὴν ἔριν, ὠκὺς ἐνέγκας, οἷα Προμηθείης μνῆμα πυρικλοπίης, νίκης κλεινὸν ἄεθλον ἔτ’ ἐκ χερὸς ἔμπυρον Ἑρμῇ θῆκ’ ἐν ὁμωνυμίῃ παῖς πατρὸς Ἀντιφάνης.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras viii –. Antiphanes, son of a like-named father, having swiftly borne the torch, object of the boys’ ritual race, memorial of Prometheus’ fire-theft, dedicated to Hermes the glorious prize of victory still alight in his hands. (transl. Gow-Page)

 See Gow and Page [] ad loc.  For the identification, and discussion of possible occasions, see Gow and Page [] ii .  Gow and Page [] ii , defending the probability that the name of the poet Anacreon (rather than Alcman or Ibycus, for whom -book editions are known) stood in the corrupt third line.  Fragments are quoted from Books One, Two and Three, but none from a book with a higher number. That is far from proving that the standard Alexandrian edition was in three books, and one in which Anacreon’s poetry was distributed between five books, just like those of Alcman and Ibycus, is quite probable.

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

Ewen Bowie

The poem purports to accompany a dedication by Antiphanes son of Antiphanes of a torch won in a torch-race in a festival in honour of Prometheus. Although, as Gow-Page note, torch-races were not unique to Athens, their association with Prometheus is undoubtedly Athenian. The occasion may of course be a real one, and the epigram may have been composed for inscription, but the inclusion of this poem in a collection of Crinagoras’ epigrams (perhaps a collection in the first instance made by himself) associated them with a major festival in a city, that, despite the devastations of the previous century, remained of prime cultural importance in the Greek world. Καλλιμάχου τὸ τορευτὸν ἔπος τόδε· δὴ γὰρ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ ὡνὴρ τοὺς Μουσέων πάντας ἔσεισε κάλους. ἀείδει δ’ Ἑκάλης τε φιλοξείνοιο καλιὴν καὶ Θησεῖ Μαραθὼν οὓς ἐπέθηκε πόνους. τοῦ σοὶ καὶ νεαρὸν χειρῶν σθένος εἴη ἀρέσθαι, Μάρκελλε, κλεινοῦ τ’ αἶνον ἴσον βιότου.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xi –. This chiselled poem is by Callimachus; the man shook the Muses’ sail-reefs all loose above it. He sings of the hut of hospitable Hecale, and what labours Marathon set for Theseus. May it be granted you to attain his hands’ youthful strength, Marcellus, and equal fame for a life of glory. (transl. Gow-Page)

Again the focus is Attic: the six-liner is for a gift to Marcellus of a copy of Callimachus’ Hecale, bringing into a single couplet the eponym of the Attic deme, Hecale, the name of the greatest Attic hero, Theseus, and the historically evocative toponym Marathon. The ephebic Theseus is held up as an exemplar for the ephebic Marcellus, and the chiselled dactylic verse, τορευτὸν ἔπος, of Callimachus is hinted to be a model for that of Crinagoras himself. Crinagoras’ chiselling includes a Homeric lengthening of the epsilon at the end of Μάρκελλε before the mute + liquid at the beginning of κλεινοῦ – as Gow-Page note, ‘highly abnormal.’³⁹ The emphasis on Hecale’s warm hospitality may prompt reflections on the relations between Crinagoras and Marcellus: are these a mirror-image reversal, with the ageing Crinagoras (now perhaps approaching ) enjoying the luxury of the young Marcellus’ house in Rome, or does he expect the young Marcellus to visit his own modest abode, as Philodemus of Gadara had earlier invited his patron Piso?⁴⁰ Εἰ καί σοι ἑδραῖος ἀεὶ βίος οὐδὲ θάλασσαν ἔπλως χερσαίας τ’ οὐκ ἐπάτησας ὁδούς, ἔμπης Κεκροπίης ἐπιβήμεναι, ὄφρ’ ἂν ἐκείνας Δήμητρος μεγάλης νύκτας ἴδῃς ἱερῶν, τῶν ἄπο κἀν ζωοῖσιν ἀκηδέα, κεὖτ’ ἂν ἵκηαι ἐς πλεόνων, ἕξεις θυμὸν ἐλαφρότερον.  Gow and Page [] ii .  Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Philodemus xxiii –. The term καλιήν in Crinagoras line  stands close to καλιάδα in Philodemus’ opening line.

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Men from Mytilene



Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxxv –. Though your life is always sedentary, and you have neither sailed the sea nor trodden roads ashore, still, set foot in Attica to see those nights of Demeter’s great mysteries. Thence you shall get a heart that is care-free among the living and less heavy when you go to join the majority. (transl. Gow-Page)

This third Athenian poem takes the form of an encouragement to a stay-at-home to visit Attica in order to be initiated in the mysteries of Demeter. Like the previous two, it exalts Athens, emphasising its antiquity and that of the mysteries by using the name Κεκροπίης (line ).⁴¹ Τυρσηνῆς κελάδημα διαπρύσιον σάλπιγγος πολλάκι Πισαίων στρηνὲς ὑπὲρ πεδίων φθεγξαμένης ὁ πρὶν μὲν ἔχει χρόνος ἐν δυσὶ νίκαις· εἰ δὲ σὺ καὶ τρισσοὺς ἤγαγες εἰς στεφάνους ἀστοὺς Μιλήτου, Δημόσθενες, οὔ ποτε κώδων χάλκεος ἤχησεν πλειοτέρῳ στόματι.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xiii –. Former times could often tell of the Etruscan trumpeter’s piercing clangour sounding shrill over Pisa’s plains for twofold victory; but when you, Demosthenes, brought Miletus’ citizens to a threefold crowning, never was brazen bell that rang with louder voice. (transl. Gow-Page)

Prima facie, and perhaps indeed for the first-time reader at the time of its compositon, this is simply an epigram commemorating a triple victory by a citizen of Miletus, Demosthenes, in the trumpet competition at Olympia. Cichorius’ idea that this man is the same as the lover of Julia mentioned by Macrobius⁴² is a very long shot, and as we can now see from LGPN [] the name was much more widely borne than Cichorius can have known. Whether or not that identification is right, Crinagoras may be assumed to have had some link with his Demosthenes that occasioned the poem, which does not have the form of a dedicatory epigram. But again we must ask about the reasons for its inclusion in a collection, and reflect on whether the closural reference to a ‘fuller voice’ in a poem about a man with the name Demosthenes must not also evoke the great Athenian politician who was the palmary example of the grand style of oratory, a man from the ‘former times’ adduced for other purposes in line . Δείλαιοι, τί κεναῖσιν ἀλώμεθα θαρσήσαντες ἐλπίσιν, ἀτηροῦ ληθόμενοι θανάτου;  Backed-up, perhaps, by the Hesiodic abjuration of sailing in lines – (cf. esp Hesiod, Works & Days : οὔτε τι ναυτιλίης σεσοφισμένος οὔτε τι νηῶν. | οὐ γάρ πώ ποτε νηὶ γ’ ἐπέπλων εὐρέα πόντον: ‘neither in any degree skilled in sailing, nor in any degree in ships. For never yet have I sailed over the broad sea’), and by the rare Homeric infinitive ἐπιβήμεναι in line , noted by Gow and Page [] ii . For the Eleusinian mysteries as emblematic of Greek culture cf. Chariton ...  Macrobius Sat. ..; cf. PIR² D.

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

Ewen Bowie

ἦν ὅδε καὶ μύθοισι καὶ ἤθεσι πάντα Σέλευκος ἄρτιος, ἀλλ’ ἥβης βαιὸν ἐπαυρόμενος ὑστατίοις ἐν Ἴβηρσι, τόσον δίχα τηλόθι Λέσβου κεῖται ἀμετρήτων ξεῖνος ἐπ’ αἰγιαλῶν.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xvi –. Poor fools, why do we wander thus heartened by empty hopes, forgetful of ruinous death? Here was Seleucus, perfect in all his words and ways; yet, enjoying youth’s prime, but a brief season, among the outermost Iberians he lies, sundered so far from Lesbos, a stranger on untrodden shores. (transl. Gow-Page)

This poem unusually foregrounds Crinagoras’ πατρίς Lesbos. The epitaphic six-liner draws pathos from the death of the perfect young Seleucus in furthest Spain. He may be one of the envoys of / , as seemed likely to Gow-Page in the light of his articulacy and virtue (ἤθεσι πάντα Σέλευκος […] ἄρτιος), despite the poem’s stress on his youth. Perhaps he may simply have accompanied the envoys as an aide or a research assistant. Whoever he is, or indeed whether or not he was a real person, Crinagoras works hard to bring out the sadness of the death of an ephebic young Greek in a distant land⁴³ that has only been brought into Greek horizons by Roman conquest. Πλοῦς μοι ἐπ’ Ἰταλίην ἐντύνεται· ἐς γὰρ ἑταίρους στέλλομαι, ὧν ἤδη δηρὸν ἄπειμι χρόνον. διφέω δ’ ἡγητῆρα ‘περίπλοον’, ὅς μ’ ἐπὶ νήσους Κυκλάδας ἀρχαίην τ’ ἄξει ἐπὶ Σχερίην· σύν τί μοι ἀλλά, Μένιππε, λάβευ, φίλος, ἵστορα κύκλον γράψας, ὦ πάσης ἴδρι γεωγραφίης.

Anth. Pal . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxxii –. I am getting ready to sail to Italy. I am going to join my friends, from whom I have been away for so long a time, and I am looking for a circumnavigator-guide to the island Cyclades and ancient Scheria. Now, Menippus, give me a little help, my friend, writing me a scholarly Tour, my expert in all geography. (transl. Gow-Page)

The poem seems to be a request to the distinguished geographer Menippus of Pergamon, otherwise known as the writer of a Three-book Περίπλους τῆς ἐντὸς θαλάσσης (Guide to the Mediterranean Sea) to provide Crinagoras with a custom-built guide for his voyage from Mytilene to Italy (presumably following the route Corinth-Corcyra-Brundisium). As Gow-Page note, the reference to friends in Italy whom he has long not seen better fits the embassy of  or   than that of  .⁴⁴ Here ἀρχαίη Σχερίη (‘ancient Scheria’), the island of the Phaeacians traditionally identified with Corcyra,⁴⁵ follows closely upon the Cyclades in a way that is geographically  The pathetic trope begins with Agamemnon’s threat concerning Chryseis in Homer Iliad .–: πρίν μιν καὶ γῆρας ἔπεισιν | ἡμετέρῳ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ ἐν Ἄργεϊ τηλόθι πάτρης (‘before that shall old age overtake her | in my house, in Argos, far from her native land’).  Gow and Page [] ii .  Cf. the specification of Corcyra as Phaeacian in Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxxi – at .

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curious but intelligible given the way the latter were emblematic of Aegean, Deloscentred culture.⁴⁶ Crinagoras relates himself both to a Greek cultural background and to his “friends” (hinted, perhaps, to be important) in Rome. Σπήλυγγες Νυμφῶν εὐπίδακες, αἱ τόσον ὕδωρ εἴβουσαι σκολιοῦ τοῦδε κατὰ πρεόνος, Πανός τ’ ἠχήεσσα πιτυστέπτοιο καλιή, τὴν ὑπὸ Βασσαίης ποσσὶ λέλογχε πέτρης, ἱερά τ’ ἀγρευταῖσι γερανδρύου ἀρκεύθοιο πρέμνα λιθηλογέες θ’ Ἑρμέω ἱδρύσιες, αὐταί θ’ ἱλήκοιτε καὶ εὐθήροιο δέχοισθε Σωσάνδρου ταχινῆς σκῦλ’ ἐλαφοσσοΐης.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xliii –. Caves of the Nymphs, many-fountained, slow-pouring all your waters down this winding headland; echoing cabin of pine-crowned Pan, his home under the foot of Bassae’s crags; stumps of aged juniper, sacred to hunters; stone-heaped seats of Hermes, - be gracious, and accept from this lucky huntsman, Sosander, the spoils of his swift stag-chasing. (transl. Gow-Page).

Unlike Anth. Pal . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xliv, in which a drowning (or drowned) sailor praises the pastoral life without any specific reference to location, this poem builds up a landscape that is progressively revealed to be specifically Arcadian by references to Pan (line ), Bassae (line ) and (given these former names) Hermes (line ). Its cult of Pan is thus not, like that later imagined by Longus, one located in the countryside near Mytilene, but is firmly attached to the Arcadia where Pan is located by myth,⁴⁷ by Herodotus,⁴⁸ and by some Hellenistic predecessors of Crinagoran epigram. The deictic τοῦδε (this) in line  creates the impression that the poem actually accompanied a dedication of Sosander there in Arcadia, whether or not it really did. Δράμασιν ἐν πολλοῖσι διέπρεπες, ὅσσα Μένανδρος ἔγραφεν ἢ Μουσέων σὺν μιῇ ἢ Χαρίτων.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xlix –. You excelled in the many dramas that Menander wrote with one of the Muses’ or the Graces’ help. (transl. Gow-Page)

Crinagoras formulates his praise of an actor in terms of his success in playing Menandrian roles. That is not unusual: we may compare a closely contemporary epigram cited by Gow-Page,⁴⁹ the later praise of Menander by Aelian in epigrams from what appears to be his villa on the edge of Rome,⁵⁰ and the mosaics portraying plays of Menander from Mytilene. But all these cases reinforce rather than undermine     

One may compare, two centuries later, Aelius Aristides .– Keil. E.g. Homeric Hymn to Pan () –. .–. GVI  from Athens. Discussed in Bowie [].

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

Ewen Bowie

the impression given by Crinagoras’ poem, that poet and reader belong to a shared world of Greek culture. What the reader can construct from these poems, then, is an author whose world is decisively Greek, a frame of reference brought out by exploitation of geography, of myth and of history, both literary and political. That these exploitations are rather more than ‘wallpaper’ is demonstrated, I think, by his emotional outburst on Corinth. Crinagoras gives the impression of being profoundly unhappy at the resettlement of the city of the Bacchiadae by Italian libertini under the lex Iulia of  , something he may have become aware of on his journey to Italy in  or  ,⁵¹ envisaged by Anth. Pal . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxxii (discussed above). Οἵους ἀνθ’ οἵων οἰκήτορας, ὦ ἐλεεινή, εὕραο· φεῦ μεγάλης Ἑλλάδος ἀμμορίης· αὐτίκα καὶ †γαίη† χθαμαλωτέρη εἴθε, Κόρινθε, κεῖσθαι καὶ Λιβυκῆς ψάμμου ἐρημοτέρη, ἢ τοίοις διὰ πᾶσα παλιμπρήτοισι δοθεῖσα θλίβειν ἀρχαίων ὀστέα Βακχιαδῶν.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxxvii – O pitiable, what dwellers have you found for yourself, and in what others’ place? Woe for the misery of great Hellas! O Corinth, I would have you lie more prostrate than 〈 〉, more deserted than the sands of Libya, rather than be surrendered whole to such shopsoiled slaves, and vex the bones of the ancient Bacchiads. (transl. Gow-Page)

What, then, of the poem comparing a heroic Roman legionary with icons of Greek history? Ὀθρυάδην, Σπάρτης τὸ μέγα κλέος, ἢ Κυνέγειρον ναύμαχον ἢ πάντων ἔργα κάλει πολέμων· Ἄρεος αἰχμητὴς Ἰταλὸς παρὰ χεύμασι Ῥήνου κλινθεὶς ἐκ πολλῶν ἡμιθανὴς βελέων αἰετὸν ἁρπασθέντα φίλου στρατοῦ ὡς ἴδ’ ὑπ’ ἐχθροῖς, αὖτις ἀρηιφάτων ἄνθορεν ἐκ νεκύων· κτείνας δ’, ὅς σφ’ ἐκόμιζεν, ἑοῖς ἀνεσώσατο ταγοῖς, μοῦνος ἀήττητον δεξάμενος θάνατον.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxi –. Call Othryadas to witness, Sparta’s great glory, or Cynegirus the sea-fighter, or the great deeds of any war: an Italian spearman of Ares lay by the Rhine’s streams half-dead from many missiles; but when he saw the eagle snatched from his dear legion in the enemy’s power, he leapt up once more from the bodies of the battle-slain, killed the man who was carrying it off, and returned it safe to his commanders. He alone got death without defeat. (transl. Gow-Page, adapted)

 So Cichorius [] castigated by Gow and Page [] ii  n..

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The sixth-century  Argive-Spartan conflict in the Thyreatis⁵² and early fifthcentury battle of Marathon, allusively introduced by naming their protagonists Othryadas and Cynegirus, are set alongside the achievement of an Italian soldier who saved an eagle by the Nile or Rhine despite being on the point of death from his wounds. There are two textual problems. First, should the river at the end of line  be the Nile or the Rhine? Both the Palatinus and its second hand offer Νείλου; the Planudean offers Ῥήνου, also a variant offered by the corrector of the Palatinus. Despite Gow-Page’s lectio difficilior argument I find it hard to believe that Νείλου is the correct reading: as Gow-Page note,⁵³ it is ‘not at all probable that a legionary Eagle was ever in danger of capture in Egypt in this period.’ So I would accept the reading Ῥήνου, ‘of the Rhine’: and perhaps indeed I owed it the generous hosts of the conference to introduce the waters of the Rhine. It does not make too much difference for the issue addressed here. With Ῥήνου two incidents from the classical Greek world, celebrated in Greek literature since Herodotus, are presented as exempla for an incident involving an Italian αἰχμητής (which sounds like a heroising Homeric term) set spatially as well as temporally outside the classical Greek world: with Νείλου that neat opposition is diluted, since the Nile was very much part of the sixth-, fifth- and fourth-century Greek universe. A more important textual problem arises at the beginning of line . The Palatinus, its corrector and the Planudeus all wrote Ἄρεος αἰχμητής, ‘spearman of Ares.’ The Roman nomen Ἄρριος (Arrius) was proposed by Scaliger and accepted by Jacobs, Stadmüller, and Gow-Page, whom I cite: αἰχμητὴς Ἰταλός is enough to represent ‘a Roman soldier’: the addition of Ἄρεος is

redundant, and it is extremely improbable that the hero of this exploit was left anonymous. The virtues of the emendation are not to be outweighed by the mere fact that the phrase Ἄρεος αἰχμητῆρες occurs in Nonnus D. ., though it was held to protect Ἄρεος in Crinagoras by Hecker, Dübner, Rubensohn, Paton, Walz, and Beckby.

Why does it matter? With Ἄρεος the surviving epigrams of Crinagoras – and of course it may have been different in those that did not survive – certainly recognise and indeed celebrate Roman power,⁵⁴ but as far as the naming of non-Greeks goes that power is embodied only in people who are members of the domus Augusta or seem likely to belong to associated strata of Roman society.⁵⁵ If we read Ἄρριος this soldier, whether real or fictional, becomes the only ‘ordinary’ Roman in Crinagoras’ world. I would prefer to leave that world a predominantly Hellenic one, a world in  Hdt. ., a subject already treated by the Meleager poet Chaeremon in Anth. Pal. . and  = Gow and Page [] Chaeremon i and ii.  Gow and Page [] ii .  Note especially Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] xxvi – and Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] xxvii –.  Proclus in Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] iii – is not certainly in this category, but could well be.

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

Ewen Bowie

which Roman power bulks large, but in which that power is mediated by a small group of Greek-speaking Roman addressees whom it may or may not be appropriate to call ‘patrons.’ The issue of ‘patronage’ is also raised by two poems which are sometimes picked out as extremes of flattery,⁵⁶ that on the nanny-goat whose milk was so rich and abundant that Caesar (Augustus) had her travel with him on his ship, provoking the poet to speculate that she too might be divinised, and the parrot who escaped from its cage into the wild and taught other birds to say ‘Hail Caesar!’⁵⁷ Αἶγά με τὴν εὔθηλον, ὅσων ἐκένωσεν ἀμολγεὺς οὔθατα πασάων πουλυγαλακτοτάτην, γευσάμενος μελιηδὲς ἐπεί τ’ ἐφράσσατο πῖαρ Καῖσαρ, κἠν νηυσὶν σύμπλοον εἰργάσατο. ἥξω δ’ αὐτίκα που καὶ ἐς ἀστέρας· ᾧ γὰρ ἐπέσχον μαζὸν ἐμόν, μείων οὐδ’ ὅσον Αἰγιόχου.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxiii. –. I am the milch-goat, milkiest of all whose udders the dairy-pail ever drained; and Caesar, when he had tasted and marked my richness, sweet as honey, made me his fellow-voyager even on board. Soon I shall reach even to the stars; for the man to whom I gave my breast is not the least inferior to the Aegis-bearer. (transl. Gow-Page) Ψιττακὸς ὁ βροτόγηρυς ἀφεὶς λυγοτευχέα κύρτον ἤλυθεν ἐς δρυμοὺς ἀνθοφυεῖ πτέρυγι· αἰεὶ δ’ ἐκμελετῶν ἀσπάσμασι Καίσαρα κλεινὸν οὐδ’ ἀν’ ὄρη λήθην ἤγαγεν οὐνόματος· ἔδραμε δ’ ὠκυδίδακτος ἅπας οἰωνὸς ἐρίζων, τίς φθῆναι δύναται δαίμονι “χαῖρ’” ἐνέπειν. Ὀρφεὺς θῆρας ἔπεισεν ἐν οὔρεσι· ναὶ δὲ σέ, Καῖσαρ, νῦν ἀκέλευστος ἅπας ὄρνις ἀνακρέκεται.

Anth. Pal. . = Gow and Page [] Crinagoras xxiv. –. Man’s mimic, the parrot, left its wicker-work cage and went to the woods on flowery wings, and ever practising for its greetings the glorious name of Caesar, forgot it not even among the hills. So all the birds, quickly taught, came running in rivalry, who should be first to say “Greetings” to he god. Orpheus made beasts obey him on the hills; to you, Caesar, every bird tunes up unbidden. (transl. Gow-Page)

I doubt if it is right to see these poems as a product of time-serving flattery. Both poems belong in a tradition of poems on pet animals (exemplified, as it happens, by some inscribed epitaphs from Lesbos) and the play of the poem on the goat with the possibility of divinisation recalls the Callimachean Lock of Berenice, probably as well known to some readers in Augustan Rome as its Catullan translation. The leading men of Greco-Roman society who received divine honours – and these included Crinagoras’ contemporary Theophanes as well as Caesar Augustus – did not always regard the procedure with utter seriousness. We may recall a century  E.g. Albiani [].  On the epigram on the parrot cf. Whitmarsh (this volume), p. .

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later Vespasian’s alleged dying remark Vae! Ut puto, deus fio (‘Alas! I think I am becoming a god’).

. Conclusions The three men from Mytilene stand in different relations to Greek tradition and Greek identity. The oldest, Theophanes, offers little or no sign of attaching great importance to his Greek identity. Potamon, if the writings listed in the Suda do indeed belong to the ambassador of ,  and / , kept his eyes much more firmly on the Greek world, even if he may have spent some years teaching in Rome. His activity as a rhetor may indeed have encouraged this focus. For Crinagoras it was not rhetoric, but perhaps the poetic tradition in which he placed himself that prompted his awareness of Greek traditions and recurrent use of them in his epigrams. It should be noted finally, however, that in both Potamon and Crinagoras what we find is a regionally unmarked Hellenism: Potamon writes about Samos not, it seems, about Lesbos; to Antonia Crinagoras presents Anacreon’s poetry which was ‘full of Polycrates’, again taking readers to Teos, Samos or Athens, not to Lesbos;⁵⁸ and Crinagoras’ poetry only once mentions Lesbos, never his city Mytilene, never (in what survives) Terpander, Arion, Alcaeus, Sappho, Hellanicus, or Theophrastus. Unlike the wannabe-Lesbian Julia Balbilla in  ⁵⁹ he makes no attempt to colour his elegiac couplets by the use of Lesbian forms, and if he ever composed in Aeolic metres these poems have been lost. So too with Potamon, there is nothing in the surviving titles to suggest the use of anything other than Greek somewhere on the spectrum between Atticism and the koine. This should be set against an epigraphically well-documented background of regular and widespread use of Aeolic in many Mytilenean public inscriptions, including those which honoured Theophanes, Potamon and Crinagoras.⁶⁰ The governing elite of the πόλις of Mytilene, like many in the region, was apparently very keen to retain its Aeolic linguistic marker of cultural identity. But when its great men went out into the world they became Hellenes rather than Mytileneans.  An exception, of course, is constituted by PMG fr. , where the singer laments that a girl from ‘well-founded Lesbos’ does not reciprocate his sexual interest in her (and may be more interested in another girl). It does not seem very likely that this presentation of Lesbos was what Crinagoras expected Antonia especially to notice in her boxed set of Anacreon.  On Balbilla see briefly Bowie [], more fully Brennan [].  See the excellent documentation and discussion of Hodot [] – with maps pages –.

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Tim Whitmarsh

Greek Poets and Roman Patrons in the Late Republic and Early Empire . Poetry and Patronage This chapter explores a body of literature that has received remarkably little attention from scholars on relations between Greece and Rome. The Garland (στέφανος) compiled by Philip of Thessalonica at some point after the accession of Gaius and before the death of Nero was originally an alphabetic anthology of epigrams from the mid-first century , which was later disaggregated into the Greek Anthology. This collection – although now a spectral reconstruction, in many places speculative, of modern scholarship – is our ultimate source for epigrams by such notable figures as Antipater, Bassus, Crinagoras, Euenus, Philodemus and Philip himself. These poems are on a variety of topics, as one would expect from an epigrammatic florilegium. What interest me in this chapter are the poems addressed to Roman patrons, or dealing (directly or allusively) with patronage.¹ Whereas Latin patronal literature has been widely studied, there has been very little discussion of the extant Greek authors who were enmeshed in Roman patronage, at least before the second century .² The patronage of Greek poets by Roman patrons was widespread from the late Republic onwards. A Roman perspective on this phenomenon can be glimpsed in Cicero’s Pro Archia, which was delivered (or a form of it was) before a court in 

 Edition, English translation and commentary: Gow and Page [], from which all texts are cited, and to which the numeration of poems refers. Translations are mine, but I acknowledge a debt to Gow and Page. The Garland and Rome: Cichorius [] –; Bowersock [], index s.v. Crinagoras, Antipater of Thessalonica, Diodorus of Sardis et al. The relationship between the Garland and the Greek Anthology has been much discussed: see in particular Gow and Page [] .xi–xxviii, Cameron [], esp. –, and [] –, –; Höschele [] – offers a brief but helpful discussion in the wider context of ancient epigram collections. The Garland is itself dedicated to a patron, Camillus (Philip . = Anth. Pal. ..), probably either L. Arruntius Camillus Scribonianus or M. Furius Camillus (Gow and Page [] .xlix).  See esp. Gold [] and [], the latter also dealing with earlier Greece; Hardie [], White [], Bowditch [], and Nauta []. On Trajanic and Hadrianic patronage of Greek literati see Fein []. Weber [] offers a solid account of patronage in Hellenistic courts. Greek poetry of the empire has not had the same attention that prose has: for some recent forays see Bowie [], [], []; Nisbet []; Whitmarsh [], Whitmarsh []; Höschele []; Baumbach and Bär [].

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.³ In this speech, Cicero not only defends the claim of Archias, his client, to Roman citizenship, he also provides a robust declaration of the complementarity between Greek literature and the Roman hegemonic system. Greek poets, he avers, satisfy the Roman ‘lust for glory’ (amor gloriae), which – he stage-confesses – is in his case ‘excessively intense’ (nimis acri, ). The Greek language, he argues, is the ideal medium for transmitting this glory to the world, since ‘Greek literature is read in nearly every nation, but Latin only within its own boundaries – and those, we must admit, are narrow’ (). In its capacity for mass communication, Greek poetry can be harnessed to the Roman imperial project: ‘we ought to desire that wherever the missiles from our hands have entered, our glory and fame (gloriamque famamque) should also penetrate’ (). Conquest and literary commemoration are imagined as parallel processes, each invading and dominating foreign states. Cicero’s portrait of Greek patronal poetry is not, of course, evidence for a calcified pan-Roman ideology. It is both deeply self-serving and idiosyncratic, aiming as it does to legitimate his own self-promotion as a distinctive unifier of traditional Roman virtues with Greek intellectual qualities (what he calls elsewhere in this speech natura and doctrina, ). Cicero strives hard throughout to celebrate his own achievement in bridging cultural traditions, while also defending himself against any accusation that he has diluted his Romanness. What is more, it offers what is (unsurprisingly) a one-sidedly Roman perspective. But it does point to a number of themes that we shall find recurring in the poems themselves: principally, the idea that patronal poetry is a form of exchange between the poet and the patron, the cultural division of labour between practical Roman and Greek, and the assumption that the primary function of poetry is to bestow charisma on a patron. What it does not concede, however, is that there are two parties involved in the exchange. In Cicero’s model, Greek literature holds up a mirror to the hegemonic will of the Roman. In practice, of course, language is never like that; especially literary discourse, which is always kinked by genre, resonance, intertextuality, and the ambivalence that inheres in all figurality. One aim of this chapter is to restore the voice of the Greek partner in the dialogue. We cannot, of course, expect this voice to be direct and unmediated, the empire writing back: patronal literature is always deeply implicated in the structures of dominance that it serves. What we will find, however, is that these texts are witty, mobile, proud, and surprising, always keen to escape any categorisation as ‘mere’ clientage. These qualities, while in no sense subverting the patronal relationship, encourage ironic distance, play, and at time even a form of resistance.

 Recent discussion at Dugan [] –, who emphasises Cicero’s presentation of the persona of Archias as interdependent with his own, and his preoccupation with self-memorialisation through poetry. See also Gold [] – on Cicero and Archias.

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. Doers of Deeds and Singers of Words This sense of the cultural division of labour that we saw in Cicero’s Pro Archia, between Roman doers and Greek praisers,⁴ is a central theme in the poetry itself. Let us begin with Antipater of Thessalonica (not to be confused with Antipater of Sidon, who is represented in the earlier Garland of Meleager).⁵ Antipater’s patron was Lucius Calpurnius Piso (whom he simply called ‘Piso’), the general whose victorious campaigns in Thrace between  and   earned him a triumph; his father (Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesonius) was the patron of Philodemus of Gadara, son-in-law of Caesar, recipient of Cicero’s In Pisonem, and probably owner of the ‘villa of the papyri’ at Herculaneum. Piso was himself a poet (at a stretch even the author of a poem attributed to ‘Piso’ in the Greek Anthology, .), and possibly the dedicatee (along with his sons) of Horace’s Ars Poetica. Despite the patron’s own literary credentials, Antipater commemorates him not as a poet but entirely as a man of action. In what looks like a programmatic poem, Antipater appeals for patronage to Piso, the unnamed conqueror of the Bessi (in  ): Σοί με, Θρηικίης σκυληφόρε, Θεσσαλονίκη μήτηρ ἡ πάσης πέμψε Μακηδονίης· ἀείδω δ’ ὑπὸ σοὶ δεδμημένον Ἄρεα Βεσσῶν, ὅσσ’ ἐδάην πολέμου, πάντ’ ἀναλεξάμενος. ἀλλά μοι ὡς θεὸς ἔσσο κατήκοος, εὐχομένου δέ κλῦθι. τίς ἐς Μούσας οὔατος ἀσχολίη;

To you, bearer of the spoils of Thrace, Thessalonica, mother of all Macedonia, has sent me. I sing of Bessian Ares subdued beneath you, I who have assembled all that I have learned of this war. But pay heed to me, like a god, and listen To my prayer. How can the ear lack the leisure for the Muses? (Antipater  = Anth. Pal. .)

The division between doers and singers is marked. The text opens (in Greek) with two juxtaposed pronouns, ‘you’ and ‘me’, signalling the binary division that the entire poem vies to define. Antipater, on the one hand, identifies himself as a singer (ἀείδω, ), who accesses news of military campaigns through Alexandrian techniques of learning (ἐδάην) and careful assemblage (πάντ’ ἀναλεξάμενος) rather than autopsy. Indeed, there is a sense of conflation between poet and poem, as though Antipater were himself constituted by his words: the ‘me’ of the first couplet is, by epigrammatic convention, the poetic gift couriered to Piso, and at the same time the  Cf. the discussions of Borg (p. ), Wiater (p. ), and Schmitz (p. ) in this volume.  Although the tradition does in fact confuse the two: see Argentieri [], who confirms the attribution to Antipater of Thessalonica for each of the poems discussed in this chapter. Cichorius [] – discusses the historical circumstances of our Antipater.

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poetic ‘I’, the poet’s persona under definition. The recipient, by contrast, is associated exclusively with action: the ‘lack of leisure’ (ἀσχολίη) in the final line translates the Latin negotium, ‘business’, the negation of the cultured otium privileged by the Roman neoterics. This division between war and poetry, between Roman patron and Greek client, has implications for the power status of both. The opening line (‘Thessalonica has sent me to you’) presents the poem/poet as strikingly disempowered, the object both grammatical and ideological of others’ decision-making. A subtle undertone assimilates him to a civic ambassador pleading for clemency, or even a captive sent to Rome.⁶ In the course of the poem, however, the degree of agency ascribed to the poet changes. In the middle couplet, he is the subject of the self-reflexive verb ‘I sing’: the poem enacts its own performance. In the final two lines, the tone changes again (the transition is marked by ἀλλά, ‘but’) and becomes more assertive. Two imperatives (ἔσσο, κλῦθι) suggest a more commanding, authoritative figure; indeed, the requests to ‘pay heed’ and ‘listen’ could be taken – although we shall have to qualify this presently – as a command to submit (‘listening’ and ‘obeying’ are often linked in Greek).⁷ The transition at line  is not just one of tone: we are also moving from the sphere of war (embodied in the god Ares, ) where Piso is dominant, to that of poetry (overseen by the Muses, ). From one perspective, then, the poem enacts a movement from war to poetry, and from a world where the poet is submissive to one where he is in control. This movement is accompanied by a transition from talk of distant lands to a friendly intimacy, suggested by the appeal to leisure, and to the ‘ear’. Yet the poem is not just a rite de passage for the returning Piso, a vademecum for his reintegration into the world of civilised society. Generically speaking, the final couplet identifies itself as ‘prayer’. The structure of the penultimate sentence (ἀλλὰ … κλῦθι), indeed, is formulaically prayer-like.⁸ As the poet makes his request for patronage, for a literary hearing, he also asks his addressee to imitate mimetically the role of a god in a prayer, to act ‘like a god’. At one level, the ascription of this status to Piso continues the heroisation of his military exploits (Homeric warriors are said to be ἰσόθεος, ‘godlike’; we shall return to the epic context below).⁹ But there is more to it than just idealising flattery: the prayer formula actively casts the relationship between poet and patron in terms analogous to that between supplicant and deity (a parallel that has its roots in Hellenistic encomium).¹⁰ Similes are always provocations: how, the poem asks us to speculate, is the mortal-immortal hierarchy ‘like’ the poet-patron  For this practice see Millar [] .  LSJ s.v. κατήκοος II; κλύω II.  Cf. e.g. Sappho . for ἄλλα + imperative in a prayer context. Antipater adopts a similar tactic at .–: ἵλαος ἀλλὰ δέχοιτο καὶ αἰνήσειεν ἀοιδόν, | Ζεὺς μέγας ὡς …  The line-ending formula ἰσόθεος φώς occurs  times in the Iliad (., . etc).  See esp. Theocr. .–, with Hunter [] – and [] –. ‘ “Likeness” and analogy, difference and similarity, are central to the progress of the proem and of the poem as a whole: How is Philadelphus “like” Zeus? How is his birth like Apollo’s?’ ([] ).

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one? And – conversely – in what respects are the two unlike? For it is an obvious but important point that Piso was not a god: he received no cult in the Greek East, nor (by this date) would one expect anyone other than the emperor to. The ‘likeness’ must have its limits. Note that the reference in the final sentence to the divine Muses picks up the earlier (albeit metonymic) allusion to Ares: it is as if the poet steps back from deifying Piso by reminding us of the existence of ‘real’ gods. With its subtle shifts of dynamics, Antipater’s poem explores the tense reciprocities that exist between poet and patron.¹¹ The patron exerts economic and political control over the poet, but the poet (as Pro Archia reminds us) has a power of his own, the power to confer glory, to immortalise, to inscribe his subject into an immemorial tradition of heroic verse. Reciprocity is doubly imaged in this poem, in terms of both gift-giving (the poem/poet is ‘sent’ to Piso) and prayer (always imagined as an appeal for a quid pro quo in Greek thought): the poem is engaged in a seemingly unresolved quest after the right model to capture the precise form that this reciprocity takes.

. Bestowing Fame Let us consider in more detail the poet’s side of the bargain, the immortal fame that he confers. The commemorative function is only implicit in Antipater , but it is widespread elsewhere in the genre, for example in the poetry of Crinagoras of Mytilene (which we shall treat in more detail presently).¹² Crinagoras was an important figure of mediation between his local city, honoured as one of the ambassadors to Julius Caesar in an inscription from the fortress wall of Mytilene (IG .), dated to – . He can later be found on an embassy to Augustus in  (IGRR .), perhaps in Spanish Tarragona.¹³ His epigrams contain a number of celebrations of the gens Iulia: of Marcellus, of Antonia, and of the rulers themselves. Crinagoras pays particular attention to commemoration. In his best-known poem, that of the parrot who proclaims ‘hail Caesar!’, he calls Augustus ‘famous’ (κλεινός), and suggests the immortality of his name (.–);¹⁴ elsewhere, fame (κλέος) is said to follow him everywhere on his travels (.–). At one level, κλέος serves as a translation of laus and gloria, the terms that are, as we have seen, central to Cicero’s conception of the role of patronal poetry in cultivating and enhancing the charisma of the competitive aristocrat. But within the Greek poetic tradition, they  Bowditch [] excellently explores the representation of and resistance to reciprocity in Horace’s patronal poetry.  Edition, English translation and commentary: Gow and Page []. On what is known of him and his context see Cichorius [] – and [] –, and more briefly Bowersock [] –; also Braund [] and Bowie (this volume) p. –.  As is sometimes deduced on the basis of IGRR ., which Cichorius []  first identified as referring to the same embassy; see however the reservations of Millar []  n. .  Cf. the discussion of this poem in Bowie (this volume) p. , and also below, p. –.

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have a wider function too, not only marking social distinction but also anchoring the subject in a heroic tradition stretching back to Homer and Hesiod. This last point is crucial. Patronal poetry in this period is often engaged in a project of fusing Roman subject into Greek mythic memory.¹⁵ Poetic commemoration is thus an act not only of recording, but also of syncrisis: like a Plutarchan parallel life, it compares, and perhaps implicitly contrasts, the Roman subject with the Greek precedent. Sometimes, similes make this process explicit: an excellent example comes a little later, in the second century . Pancrates’ poem on the hunt of Hadrian and Antinous compares the lion’s attack upon the pair to ‘Typhoeus of yore, confronting Zeus the slayer of giants’.¹⁶ The comparison both buttresses the widespread association in Greek literature of Hadrian with cosmic rule¹⁷ and, at the same time, draws to the surface the latent parable for mortal kingship in the Hesiodic depiction of Zeus’ coming to power. This double effect is achieved under the sign of κλέος, ‘fame’, and also of quasi-divinisation: depending on which supplement we adopt (the papyrus is damaged at this point), Hadrian is described as ‘the famous god’ (θεοῦ κλυτοῦ) or Antinous as ‘god-famed’ (θεοκλύτου).¹⁸ The process of commemoration is thus directly linked to inscription into the theogonic tradition. Hadrian and Antinous are godlike at numerous levels: because they are gods (both received cult; Antinous is also the ‘son of the slayer of Argus [Hermes]’, line ),¹⁹ because the act of commemorating the hunt gives them godlike lustre, and because they are being explicitly assimilated to the Hesiodic Zeus. This kind of commemoration by analogisation is found in the Garland too. Let us turn to an epigram by one of the Diodoroi (probably Diodorus of Sardis). This poem compares one of the Neros – probably Tiberius, the future emperor, at some point in the late s ²⁰ – to Neoptolemus: Αἰγιβότου Σκύροιο λιπὼν πέδον Ἴλιον ἔπλω οἷος Ἀχιλλείδης πρόσθε μενεπτόλεμος, τοῖος ἐν Αἰνεάδῃσι Νέρων ἀγὸς ἄστυ Ῥέμοιο  Cf. the similar process of inscribing the Romans into an ideal classical world carried out in Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ Antiquitates, on which see Fox and Wiater in this volume.  Οἷα γιγαντολέταο Διὸς πάρος ἄντα Τυφωεύς, POxy . (= Page []) –, and (a much better text) Heitsch [] .–). Cf. also lines –, where Antinous’ horse is said to be swifter than the horses of Adrastus (Il. .–).  See e.g. Whitmarsh [] –.  Θ[εοῦ] κλυτοῦ Ἀντι[νόου τε Hunt; θ[εο]κ̣λ̣ύτου Ἀντι[νόοιο, Heitsch. I have translated θεοκλύτου as ‘god-famed’, i.e. whose fame goes up to the heavens (cf. e.g. Od. .; cf. e.g. θεοφίλητος = ‘beloved of the gods’). LSJ however cites only two appearances of the word: ‘invoking a god’ (Aesch. Th. ) and (a slightly better fit for our passage, but still not exact) ‘listened to by God’ (Jos. Ant. ..). But the search for lexical precision is ultimately misguided: if θεοκλύτου is the right reading, it associates Antinous with both fame and divinity.  In line  (legible only in Heitsch’s edition) one of the pair, probably Hadrian, is again called ‘god’ (θεοῦ).  Cichorius [] – argues for  , on Tiberius’ return from Armenian campaigns; Gow and Page []  argue that a  year-old does not have ‘the down still fresh on his chin’, so opt for his first military experience, in Spain in  .

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νεῖται ἐπ’ ὠκυρόην Θύμβριν ἀμειψάμενος, κοῦρος ἔτ’ ἀρτιγένειον ἔχων χνόον. ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν ἔγχει θῦεν, ὁ δ’ ἀμφοτέροις, καὶ δορὶ καὶ σοφίῃ.

As in the past Achilles’ son, steadfast in war, left the land of goat-pasturing Scyros and sailed to Ilium, so among the sons of Aeneas does the leader Nero move to the city of Remus, returning to the swift-flowing Tiber, a boy with the down still fresh upon his chin. The first was vigorous with the spear, this one with both the spear and wisdom. (Diodorus  = Anth. Pal. .)

Once again, the intertextual simile brings to the fore the process of role-playing, as the Nero in question is analogised with Neoptolemus (identified only allusively, and perhaps hinted at by the paronomastic μενεπτόλεμος), in the context of a poem that contains markedly Ionic dialect and epic diction.²¹ The process of parallelism is enacted through syntax and colometry: the second line begins ‘As in the past Achilles’ son’, responded to in the third line by ‘so among the sons of Aeneas did the leader Nero…’. This analogy also sets in parallel the two cultural temporalities, ‘in the past’ and ‘among the sons of Aeneas’, thus directly associating Rome with political and military currency, and Greece with a distant mythical world. We shall return to this poem presently.

. Cosmos and Basileia Another encomiastic strategy is the alignment of artistic, political, and cosmic order (a well-known feature of Roman poetry and material culture of the Augustan era).²² We have already briefly considered Pancrates’ poem on the hunt of Hadrian and Antinous, with its Hesiodically inflected, elemental conflict between the lion/ Typhoeus and Antinous/Zeus. In the more controlled, contained world of epigram, the submission of the natural world occurs in more managed contexts: particularly significant is the space of the Roman arena, as a circumscribed site of confrontation between imperial power and the natural order (as it would later be in Martial’s De spectaculis). This is the setting for an anonymous epigram, belonging to the subgenre of epigrams on animals who willingly submit to a higher power.²³ The ‘Nasamonian extremities (ἐσχατίαι) of Libya’, we are told, are freed from ‘beasts’ (θηρῶν), which have been trapped and forced to confront spearmen by ‘the boy Caesar’.²⁴ The  μενεπτόλεμος: Hom. Il. ., , ., etc.; ὠκυρόην, cf. Ap. Rh. Arg. ., ; ἔγχει θῦεν, cf. Hom. Il. ., ., .. Diodorus perhaps looks for precedent for the analogisation of Neoptolemos to Pindar, Nemean , for Sogenes of Aegina, victor in the boys’ pentathlon (see also Paean ).  See most conveniently Nicolet [].  Weinreich [] –, in whose view this theme originates in accounts of holy men with power over animals.

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taming of the geographically marginal (note ἐσχατίαι) space of Libya recalls Pindar’s fourth and (particularly) ninth Pythian odes, and sets the Caesar in question in a line of culture heroes including Heracles and Theseus: ‘the mountain ridges, where once wild beasts reposed, are now cultivated by men’ (). The confrontation between the gladiators and the beasts in the arena is synecdochic of the wider dominance of human over nature, and of emperor over empire. Another poem, perhaps set not in the arena but nevertheless in Rome, brings out these themes even more explicitly. The fourth of the epigrams attributed to Philip (the compiler of the Garland) tells of the ‘phalanx-fighting, immense-tusked elephant’, who ‘no longer turreted and irresistible rushes into war’; instead he has submitted to the yoke and pulls the chariot of ‘heavenly (οὐρανίου) Caesar’.²⁵ This ouranios here may be taken to allude to post-mortem deification or more loosely to the divinity of the living emperor;²⁶ but either way it connotes the cosmic power of the emperor, in contrast to the monstrous polemical force of the elephant. The poem finishes with a couplet that is worth exploring: ἔγνω δ’ εἰρήνης καὶ θὴρ χάριν· ὄργανα ῥίψας Ἄρεος εὐνομίης ἀντανάγει πατέρα.

Even a beast has acknowledged his gratitude for peace; he has cast off the instruments of Ares, and raises up instead the father of law and order. (–)

This couplet thickens out the contrast between polemic disorder and ‘peace’ (which for Romans of course means ‘pacification’, the rendering submissive of hostile territory) by introducing the civic virtue of ‘law and order’ (εὐνομίη) – perhaps an allusion, direct or indirect, to the ‘imperial virtue’ of ‘justice’ (iustitia), inscribed on the shield presented by the Senate to Augustus in  or  , and in due course associated particularly with Tiberius.²⁷ What is particularly interesting for our purposes, however, is the acknowledgment of gratitude (χάρις), which subtly recycles the language of gift exchange. The elephant, symbol of brutish provincial resistance now rendered compliant by orderly domination, can thus also be seen as a disguised figure for the poet, reciprocating for the gift of empire. This hints at a complex provincial psychology inhabited by the poetic narrator too, a psychology that mixes admiration for the imperial project with traces of residual aggression. We might also see the poem, with its narrative of ordered war substituting for brutish militarism, as a metageneric commentary on epigram as epic translated. In this light, the εὐνομίη of the final line might mean, as well as ‘law and order’, ‘the art of  Anonymous  = Anth. Pal. .. Cichorius [] – attributes the poem to Antipater of Thessalonica and identifies ‘the boy-Caesar’ as Gaius; Gow and Page [] . are rightly circumspect (and Argentieri [] does not even mention it).  Philip  = Anth. Pal. .. The theme of the elephant’s submission to Caesar is paralleled at Mart. De spect. ; see Weinreich [] – on the pius elephas theme.  Respectively, Cichorius [] ; Gow and Page [] ..  Wallace-Hadrill [] rightly cautions against any talk of ‘canons’ of virtues, at least as early as the Augustan period. See ibid.  on the distinctive association between Tiberius and iustitia.

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good poetry’ (νόμος also means ‘tune’ and, in later Greek, ‘poetic composition’).²⁸ If Philip’s epigram is indeed committed to an aesthetic of εὐνομίη, however, that ‘order’ (both poetic and political) remains predicated on the suppression of a disorder that is implicitly acknowledged. The resonance between imperial conquest of the world and the poetic articulation of that conquest is widespread in the epigrams of this era.²⁹ Rome is the ‘mistress of all the cosmos’ (Bassus . = Anth. Pal. ..); Caesar is ‘great joy to the western and eastern limits [of the world]’ (Thallus . = Anth. Pal. ..); the empire is ‘bounded by the Ocean on all sides’ (Antipater . = Anth. Pal. ..); imperial commanders have subdued distant peoples such as Parthians (Antipater ibid.), Celts (Crinagoras  = Anth. Pal. .), Germans and Armenians (Crinagoras  = Anth. Pl. ), and the inhabitants of the Pyrenees (Crinagoras  = Anth. Pal. .); Germans offer no threat (Crinagoras  = Anth. Pal. .). This sense of balanced control, of imperial equipoise between East and West, is replicated in the epigrammatic form itself. Particularly significant in this connection is Crinagoras : Ἀντολίαι, δύσιες κόσμου μέτρα· καὶ τὰ Νέρωνος ἔργα δι’ ἀμφοτέρων ἵκετο γῆς περάτων. Ἥλιος Ἀρμενίην ἀνιὼν ὑπὸ χερσὶ δαμεῖσαν κείνου, Γερμανίην δ’ εἶδε κατερχόμενος. δισσὸν ἀειδέσθω πολέμου κράτος· οἶδεν Ἀράξης καὶ Ῥῆνος δούλοις ἔθνεσι πινόμενοι.

Risings and settings are the measures of the cosmos, and Nero’s deeds too have passed through both boundaries of the earth. The sun as it rises has seen Armenia’s defeat under his hands, and as it sets Germany’s. Let his twofold victory in war be sung; the Araxes knows of it And the Rhine, both drunk by peoples now enslaved. (Crinagoras .– = Anth. Pl. .–)

Here we have political space and cosmic space as coterminous, marked by major military defeats: the closest equivalent we could get (given ancient conceptions of meteorology) to the idea of an empire on which the sun never sets. What is particularly notable, however, is once again the close association between imperial and poetic order. The rising and the setting of the sun constitute the ‘measures’ of the cosmos: the word metra can also refers to poetic metres. In this connection, it is no accident that the sun’s ‘rising’ (ἀνιών) appears in , and ‘descending’ (κατερχόμενος) in the following line. Crinagoras is surely invoking the association in ancient metrics between hexameters and ‘rising’, and between pentameters and ‘falling’.³⁰  LSJ s.v. II. Strikingly similar themes recur in Philip  = Anth. Pal. .: ‘The gratitude (χάρις) for Caesar’s law and order (εὐνομίης) is excellent: he has taught the enemy’s arms to nurture the fruits of peace (εἰρήνης) instead.’  Cf. Most’s discussion (this volume) of homologies between the Augustan political system and Augustan literature.

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The doubleness that pervades the poem (note ‘both’ boundaries in line , and the ‘twofold victory’ in line ) is allied also to the metrical form of the couplet. In general, then, the metrical form of these short epigrams is allied to the imperial project, as the compressed articulation of a world now subdued and ordered.

. Dona ferentes … But if these poems are gifts to Roman patrons, they are not straightforward ones. Let us return to Diodorus , and consider what it is like actually to read this. Αἰγιβότου Σκύροιο λιπὼν πέδον Ἴλιον ἔπλω οἷος Ἀχιλλείδης πρόσθε μενεπτόλεμος, τοῖος ἐν Αἰνεάδῃσι Νέρων ἀγὸς ἄστυ Ῥέμοιο νεῖται ἐπ’ ὠκυρόην Θύμβριν ἀμειψάμενος, κοῦρος ἔτ’ ἀρτιγένειον ἔχων χνόον. ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν ἔγχει θῦεν, ὁ δ’ ἀμφοτέροις, καὶ δορὶ καὶ σοφίῃ.

As in the past Achilles’ son, steadfast in war, left the land of goat-pasturing Scyros and sailed to Ilium, so among the sons of Aeneas does the leader Nero move to the city of Remus, returning to the swift-flowing Tiber, a boy with the down still fresh upon his chin. The first was vigorous with the spear, this one with both the spear and wisdom. (Diodorus  = Anth. Pal. .)

The syntax is convoluted and initially baffling. The first line stands outside the οἷος clause to which it properly belongs, misleading the first-time reader. Lines – also take some disentangling: we struggle to construe Rome and the Tiber as the object of νεῖται and ἀμειψάμενος respectively (as Gow and Page insist, with reason, that we should).³¹ We could take this syntactic complexity as a sign of ineptness; but in the context of a poem that is playing with shifting roles, it is surely preferable to see this as a deliberate shimmering, a resistance to neat and tidy mapping of one identity onto another. Such disconcerting transpositions also occur at the narrative level. It is strange indeed to compare Neoptolemus as he goes out to war with Nero as he returns to Rome. This potential hint of aggression towards Rome is underlined by the traditional association of the city with Troy (invoked by other epigrams in the Garland).³² In what sense is Nero’s relationship with Rome analogous with Neoptolemus’ with Troy? There is also a frisson in the assimilation of Tiberius to Neoptolemus – the lesser son of an egregious father – particularly in the light of his later adoption by  Cf. e.g Ov. Am. .. (sex mihi surgat opus numeris, in quinque residat), with McKeown [] . for further (Ovidian) parallels.  Gow and Page [] ..  Bassus  = Anth. Pal. .; Euenus  = Anth. Pal. .. The earlier history of this association is traced by Erskine [], with emphasis on the variety of its diplomatic uses.

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Augustus in  . As the first four books of Tacitus’ Annals make clear, the question of how Augustus’ successor could match his adoptive father was urgent and problematic. These issues could not have had the same resonance in the s , but if the poem postdates the death of Marcellus (one of the prime candidates to succeed Augustus) in  then issues of succession may well have been in the air. Equally inauspicious for Nero is the fact that Neoptolemus was murdered (at Delphi) on his return to Greece. Also troubling is the implicit commentary on paternal relationships. Neoptolemus had a father he could never match. And again, what are we to do with the odd (and unparalleled in earlier Greek literature) reference to ‘the city of Remus’? To allude to the victim of the founder’s act of fratricide invokes “Rome”’s history of civil strife, in a manner that could never be neutral (particularly in the aftermath of the civil wars).³³ These uncertainties persist to the end, to the contrast between Neoptolemus and Nero on the grounds that the latter bestrides ‘both’ (ἀμφοτέροις) spheres, warfare and culture. ‘Both’ refers to the dyad that, as we have seen repeatedly, organises the division of cultural labour between intellectual Greeks and pragmatic Romans. Of course, the prima facie point of the disjunction between Neoptolemos and Nero is to flatter the latter for excelling in the arts too (which is to say, implicitly, that praise is conditional on commissioning Diodorus as a client). But again matters are not straightforward. Following Gow and Page I have translated the verb θύειν as ‘to be vigorous’, but this is in fact rather too weak: the word really means ‘rage’ or ‘seethe’. What does it mean, then, to say that Nero ‘seethed with wisdom’? The attempt to match up neatly ‘both’ sides of the cultural division of labour, the military and the poetic, results in a palpable grinding of gears.³⁴ So far from an altruistic gift to Roman patrons, Diodorus’ poem seems to be grudging and barbed. What do we do with these little troubling hints that seem to disrupt the smooth surface of the client’s praise? There are different models that we can adopt. The first would be to see these hints as merely the products of overzealous modern critical practice. According to Elroy Bundy, discussing Pindar and Bacchylides, ‘there is no passage […] that is not in its primary intent enkomiastic – that is, designed to enhance the glory of a particular patron’.³⁵ This approach, assuming a context that forbids any meaning other than the laudatory, has survived into more recent ‘optimistic’ readings of imperial Latin poetry.³⁶ The second model, by contrast, emphasises the subversive power of poetry to deconstruct its surface-level meaning, through ‘figured speech’.³⁷ The problem with both of these approaches is that they assume that the poem has a final meaning, whether praise or critique, and that that  As Horace’s seventh Epode testifies (immerentis fluxit in terram Remi | sacer nepotibus cruor, –).  We might also recall that there is another verb θύειν meaning ‘to slaughter’, which supplies even more troubling resonances.  Bundy [] ..  E.g. Galinsky [], []. A more sophisticated approach is described by Morgan [], esp. –.  E.g. Ahl [], Bartsch [], Newlands []. For a recent example relating to imperial Greek literature see Pernot [].

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meaning ultimately defeats any alternatives. How we determine priority rests upon which features, textual or contextual, we choose to privilege, and thus becomes an exercise primarily in critical self-definition.³⁸ On the other hand, it is clearly unsatisfactory to content oneself with infinite ambiguity. It is better, I think, to see the poem’s multiple meanings in terms of the psychological and social complexity of gift-giving. ‘Every exchange’, writes Bourdieu, ‘contains a more or less dissimulated challenge.’³⁹ Gift-giving is a cultural technology, an attempt to impose power, or at least to limit the other’s, by defining the nature of the relationship. This goes all the more for a gift that is freighted with cultural self-definition, a present from (in effect) Greek culture to Roman power. This poetry cannot afford to give away too much: while praising, it needs to reserve some critical distance, some bite. Let us emphasise, moreover, that patronal poetry (as Cicero reminds us) is not simply a private gift, but the public performance of private gift-giving. In other words, the negotiation of status is triangulated between three parties: poet, patron, and public. In this complex, multilateral relationship, the poet must guard against too close an identification with the patron, against giving him exactly what he wants, or might be perceived to want. Greeks of the Roman era knew exactly what to call that phenomenon: κολακεία or (rather weakly) ‘flattery’, the repressed other that haunts the entire discourse of patronal exchange.⁴⁰ Κολακεία is a gauchely precipitous, undisguised form of reciprocity, a relationship of exchange that embarrassingly denudes the steepling power hierarchies. The ambiguities of reciprocities, indeed, are worked out in a series of poems by Antipater. Poems – (in Gow and Page’s edition)⁴¹ dramatise a series of episodes of gift-giving to Piso: a Macedonian hat ‘from long ago’ (πάροιθε), which ‘once’ (ποτέ) routed the Persians; a sword that once belonged to Alexander the Great; a helmet from one ‘Pylaemenes’;⁴² a set of bowls; and a candle. The first three work by constructing analogies between Greek past (πάροιθε, ποτέ) and Roman present, a technique we have already considered. Gifts that once belonged to others serve as temporal nodes, connecting the two: a device found already in Homer (Achilles, for example, has his spear from Chiron via his own father), but here heavily mediated through the Hellenistic epigram tradition.⁴³ In  and , the gifts construct Piso as a new Alexander the Great, an identification that – while risky – is productive in the context, since Antipater elsewhere self-identifies as Macedonian poet (his hometown of Thessalonica is the ‘mother of all Macedonia’, . = Anth. Pal. .). Macedonian gifts function as emblems of the Macedonian poet’s identity as a giver,     

See the comments of Kennedy []. Bourdieu [] . Sources in Whitmarsh []. Anth. Pal. ., ., ., ., .. I prefer the Homeric Paphlagonian (Il. .) to the Galatian prince (Cichorius [] ; Gow and Page [] .).  Hom. Il. .–; compare Posidippus’ Lithica , ,  for gems formerly of famous owners.

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and thus as a token of the reciprocal bonds between poet and patron. But as in so many articulations of the patronal relationship, Antipater avoids straightforward encomium. In poem , the Macedonian hat appeals to Piso ‘but, friend, accept me’ (ἀλλὰ φίλος δέξαι με, ), a phrase that is clearly a displacement of the poet’s appeal for patronage. It is also, however, an allusion to Achilles’ words to Lycaon: ‘but, friend, you too must die’ (ἀλλὰ φίλος θάνε καὶ σύ, Hom. Il. .), rendered unmistakeable by the distinctive form of the vocative φίλος. The poem thus points to an intertextual palimpsest, in which a Greek warrior ironically accepts a bond of friendship before slaying his Trojan supplicant. Given the coding of ‘Troy’ as ‘Rome’ in the poetry of this era noted above, it is hard not to see this allusion as anything other than disruptive of the encomiastic project. This act of gift-giving contains, precisely as Bourdieu would have it, ‘a dissimulated challenge’. Antipater  offers the fullest exploration of the politics of exchange: Ἀρκεῖ τέττιγας μεθύσαι δρόσος· ἀλλὰ πιόντες ἀείδειν κύκνων εἰσὶ γεγωνότεροι. ὣς καὶ ἀοιδὸς ἀνὴρ ξενίων χάριν ἀνταποδοῦναι ὕμνους εὐέρκταις οἶδε παθὼν ὀλίγα. τοὔνεκά σοι πρώτως μὲν ἀμείβομεν· ἢν δ’ ἐθέλωσιν Μοῖραι, πολλάκι μοι κείσεαι ἐν σελίσιν.

Dew suffices to inebriate cicadas, but drinkers sing louder than swans. Just so a singer knows how to give his benefactors in return songs, reciprocating for guest-gifts, though he himself has received little. So this is our first exchange; but if the Muses wish it, you will often lie in my pages. (Antipater  = Anth. Pal. .)

The language of friendship and gift-giving, reciprocity and euergetism is unmissable. The allusion to drinking in the first two lines, moreover, may suggest a sympotic context. This is a traditional context for patronal poetry (going back at least to Pindar and Bacchylides, and arguably already implied in Homer’s Demodocus),⁴⁴ and (it seems) also for the performance of epigram, since Hellenistic times.⁴⁵ The particular significance, for our purposes, is that the symposium appears to permit a certain latitude for playful mockery.⁴⁶ Our poem gently teases its addressee for his stinginess: in return for the ‘little’ that the poet has received, the patron gets but a single, short poem; if he gives more, he will get more. In the metonymic economy of the symposium, generosity is measured in liquid terms: the poet asks for copious wine instead of dew. There is a hint of reverse Alexandrianism here too: in aspiring to turn from a dew-drinking cicada into a roaring drunk, Antipater playfully renounces Callimachean principles of subtlety and refinement in favour  Carey [] –.  So Cameron [] – argues, in robust fashion.  Cameron [] –.

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of material gain.⁴⁷ The poem thus unveils itself as a cheeky commentary on the compromise of aesthetic principles that the patronal structure necessitates.

. Conclusion There is, unsurprisingly, relatively little in this body of epigrams that could be taken as critique of Rome or Romans. The closest we get are a series of poems on the delapidation or devastation of Greek cities – poems that, one would imagine, were composed without patronal commission. Antipater seems to have specialised in these: he focused particularly on Delos ( = Anth. Pal. .;  = Anth. Pal. .;  = Anth. Pal. .), which had been ravaged during the Mithradatic Wars. The poems attach no blame to Rome, and indeed most of the depredations were by Mithradates’ forces (in  ) and pirates (in  );⁴⁸ but even so, the contrast between prosperous past and miserable present in this island, the former hub of Athenian power in the face of a foreign foe, offers itself as paradigmatic of the wider decline of Greece’s standing in the world. More directly critical of Rome is Crinagoras  (= Anth. Pal. .), on the plight of Corinth (sacked by Mummius in   and refounded by Julius Caesar as a colonia in ): ‘Alas the great misery of Hellas!’ (), the poet laments, in view of the ‘resold slaves’ now living among the bones of the Bacchiads. The emphasis is, however, primarily on decline and the affront to tradition: horror at Roman brutality, though certainly implicit, has to be inferred. Yet this is more melancholy reflection than arrant anti-imperialism. Any quest for a literature of resistance among the epigrammatists of our era is, indeed, clearly misguided. Figures like Antipater, Crinagoras, and Philip were deeply implicated in the Roman project. There is no evidence for outright political hostility; nor, indeed, would we expect any, in that they were benefiting both personally and in terms of civic reconstruction from Roman patronage in the aftermath of the Mithradatic disasters. What we do see, however, is the complex mixture of acceptance of and resistance to the transactional nature of the patronal relationship, where economic and political dependency is weighed against the cultural prestige that Greek poetry can offer. In such a situation, the academic cliché that power is to be negotiated seems more resonant. I think it is likely that the ambivalent mixture of acceptance and distantiation that this poetry manifests reflects what we would now call a colonial  Call. Aet. fr. .– on dew-drinking cicadas, with Crane [] on the Tithonus allusion in the closing lines; and fr.  for the dislike of heavy drinking ‘in the Thracian style’ (–). For explicit anti-Callimacheanism in the Garland (focusing on pedantry) see Philip  (Anth. Pal. .) and Antiphanes  (Anth. Pal. .), which would no doubt have been juxtaposed in the original collection (Cameron [] ).  Compare also poem  = Anth. Pal. . on the sorry state of Amphipolis, another place captured during the Mithradatic wars. Alpheus  = Anth. Pal. . offers a rejoinder to Antipater, praising Delos.

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situation: it springs, no doubt, from the ‘self-division’ that accommodation to imperial overlords demands, which can lead to a ‘massive psychoexistential complex.’⁴⁹ Yet at the same time we should be wary of assuming that such conflictedness signals a dysfunction in the patronal system. We are once again in the realm of speculation, but it is not implausible that patrons actively want a certain amount of salt in their poetry: after all, patronal, at least in the poetic sphere, depends for its respectability on the fiction of a friendly exchange between equals who are entitled to say and do as they please. Let me finish, however, with surely the most famous poem in the collection, the epigram by Crinagoras (or perhaps Philip: the attributions are split) on the flattering parrot:⁵⁰ Ψιττακὸς ὁ βροτόγηρυς ἀφεὶς λυγοτευχέα κύρτον ἤλυθεν ἐς δρυμοὺς ἀνθοφυεῖ πτέρυγι· αἰεὶ δ’ ἐκμελετῶν ἀσπάσμασι Καίσαρα κλεινὸν οὐδ’ ἀν’ ὄρη λήθην ἤγαγεν οὐνόματος· ἔδραμε δ’ ὠκυδίδακτος ἅπας οἰωνὸς ἐρίζων, τίς φθῆναι δύναται δαίμονι “χαῖρ’” ἐνέπειν. Ὀρφεὺς θῆρας ἔπεισεν ἐν οὔρεσιν, ἐς σὲ δέ, Καῖσαρ, νῦν ἀκέλευστος ἅπας ὄρνις ἀνακρέκεται.

The parrot, that bird with human voice, left its wicker cage and went to the woods on its florid wing. Always it practised for its greetings the famous name of Caesar, and forgot it not even in the hills. Every other bird, learning quickly, ran in competition to see which could be the first to say ‘Hail!’ to the deity. Orpheus persuaded the beasts in the mountains; but your name, Caesar, every bird now squawks unbidden. (Crinagoras  = Anth. Pal. .)

The poem’s fame rests primarily upon its status as the earliest exemplar of what became a topos of imperial literature.⁵¹ For our purposes, it is most interesting as an allegory of patronage.⁵² For a start, the poem itself participates in an encomium of Caesar: it is a version of the pancosmic submission theme, which we met in Philip’s poem on the elephant: Caesar’s magnitude is such that the natural order becomes docile, even humanised (‘with human voice’, line ). But the parrot is, much more obviously than the elephant, a figure for specifically poetic clientage.⁵³  Fanon [] , .  For a discussion of the same epigram from a different angle see Bowie (this volume) p. .  In particular Mart. . and Stat. Silv. . (esp. –); also Plin. NH ... Weinreich () – discusses the various sources, including the intriguing complex of stories, presumably earlier than Crinagoras in origin, relating to Hanno or ‘Psapho the Libyan’.  On the patronal themes in Statius’ parrot poem see Dietrich [] – and Newlands [], esp. : ‘Statius’ Silvae represent the poet’s attempts to work within the Roman system of patronage and yet to make praise meaningful. They are the product of a voice that is divided, aware of the attractions of power […] and also critically distant from them.’

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Tim Whitmarsh

Crinagoras thus offers a Romanised version of the Hellenistic birdcage of the Muses, the ‘competition’ (line ) now no longer for philological accuracy (as it is in Timon’s famous squib, SH ) but for adulation. The reference to ‘greetings’ (line ) further grounds this poem in the hurly-burly of Roman patronage: the clamouring poets are assimilated to the jostling bustle of low-class clients at the morning salutatio of a patron.⁵⁴ Against this patronal backdrop, the poem bolsters the fiction of voluntarism, that the client really wants to praise the patron:⁵⁵ the parrot after all, is now freed from the cage, but still wants to sing of Caesar; and in fact, the wild birds do so too, ‘unbidden’, implicitly without the persuasion that Orpheus needed to apply. But this portrait of a world of willing poetic submission to the imperial order is subverted by the poem’s very bathos: the poets in question are imaged as subhumans, parroting words with phonetic rather than semantic content. The final word (in the Greek) is ‘squawk’: as so often in the Greek tradition, the assimilation of humans to birds devalues the status of their speech.⁵⁶ The poem thus ironically detaches itself from the very genre in which it participates, a perfect embodiment of the conflicted approach to the poetic gift dramatised in the patronal poetry of the late Republic and early Empire.  For the well-known metapoesis of the parrot, see Ov. Am. ., with e.g. Boyd [] and Myers []; and Statius ., with Dietrich [], Myers [], and Newlands [] –. James [] discusses both poems together, with more on ancient psittacology.  A point brought out clearly in the Latin versions: imperatores salutat (Plin. NH ..); salutator regum (Stat. Silv. ..).  On this point esp. Bowditch [] – on Horace and the ‘ideology of voluntarism that the poet exposes as the false consciousness of patronage’, and which ‘becomes a defining component of the more egalitarian amicitia (‘friendship’, in this case) that replaces the patronal relationship’ (at ).  See e.g. Ar. Lys. , with Henderson []  ad loc.

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Barbara E. Borg

Who Cared about Greek Identity? Athens in the First Century ¹ Ethnic identities have been very much at the centre of scholarly research in recent years – and, looking at our own world, this hardly comes as a surprise. In Classics, the issue informed research especially on the so-called Second Sophistic. Many of the characteristics of Greek literature of the second century , especially its interest in the Greeks’ great past and its anachronistic, artificial language, have been interpreted as an ostentatious expression of Greek identity boosting morale in a world dominated by Romans.² For quite some time, this phenomenon was regarded as primarily a literary one. More recently, however, attention has been drawn to the fact that this reference to the Greek past of the Classical age in both form and content, was not restricted to literature and oratory but rather informed the habitus of the elite in general, and had an impact on almost all fields of life, from burial customs to decoration of houses and public buildings. Cities referred to their foundation myths not only in eulogies but also in their coin images and in relief decoration of porticoes, arches, and temples. Athenian citizens styled themselves not necessarily according to common Roman fashion but according to the hairstyles of their great intellectual heroes from the classical age, and decorated their sarcophagi with the battle of Marathon.³ It is an obvious step to try and trace these strategies back to their beginnings, and ask whether these ostentatious expressions of Hellenisms were prompted by the establishment of Roman rule in the first century  – possibly in a ‘struggle for Greek identity’⁴ under the threat of overpowering Roman presence.

 I am grateful to the organisers, Nicolas Wiater and Thomas Schmitz, for their invitation to the conference at which this paper was first presented, and to all participants for their comments. I am also grateful to the Department of Classics and Ancient History at Durham and to Michael Scott for his invitation to the Laurence Seminar  at Cambridge, and the opportunity to present another version of this paper there. Thomas Corsten kindly discussed with me some of the inscriptions mentioned below. Philip Kiernan helped with the correction of my English style and provided helpful comments on some passages of the text. Ioannis Mylonopoulos and Lynette Mitchell are especially acknowledged for their careful and critical reading of an earlier version of this paper. All errors and other deficits remain entirely my responsibility.  The bibliography on the subject is vast. Among the most important monographs and edited volumes are Bowersock []; Flinterman []; Swain []; Schmitz []; Goldhill []; Whitmarsh []; Konstan and Saïd []; the present volume, each with further bibliography.  E.g. contributions in Borg []; Cordovana and Galli [].  The connection between developments in the early imperial period and the second sophistic has been made by Walker [] , and Alcock [] .

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In this paper, I pursue this question by focussing on Athens, since the ‘Greek East’ was anything but a coherent entity with a unanimous reaction to Roman invasion and rule, and can hardly be reviewed in a single paper.⁵ Athens may be expected to provide the most clear-cut example of a city struggling for its Greek identity – and of winning this struggle. For most of the first century , Athens either took sides against Roman domination altogether – for example, when she joined forces with Mithradates –, or opposed individual Roman leaders for various reasons. Her resistance against Sulla ended only after a long siege and the sack of the city. She supported Pompey against Caesar and, after Caesar’s assassination, set up statues of his murderers next to the Tyrannicides in the Agora, the quintessential symbol of Athenian freedom (Dio Cassius ..). Later, before the battle of Actium, the ‘specialists in the engineering of portents,’ as Daniel Geagan has aptly called them, arranged several bad omens against Marc Antony, expressing the dislike of this relatively popular Roman by at least one major group of Athenian citizens, though officially the city was on his side rather than on Octavian’s. After the latter’s victory, on his visit in  , a statue of Athena on the Acropolis turned round to face west towards Rome spitting blood, much to the anger of the new ruler.⁶ All this resistance has been interpreted as a struggle against Roman domination and, arguably, for Greek – or indeed Athenian⁷ identity. On the other hand, no general hostility towards the Romans has ever been recorded at Athens, quite differently from Ephesus, for instance, where the reception of Mithradates of Pontos was accompanied by a massacre of all the Romans and Italians the mob could get hold of.⁸ During the first century , many Athenians even named their sons after Romans, as they used to do after Hellenistic kings. Romans were admitted to the ephebate from around   and from   even held public offices.⁹ Individual acts of resistance such as those mentioned above, were directed not against the Romans as a whole, but against individuals and their politics, and often formed part of an internal struggle for power among the elite.¹⁰ During the civil wars, Athens managed to be on the losing side almost throughout, but was spared the most drastic consequences repeatedly. Appian (BC  So far, surprisingly little research has been done in this field from an archaeological perspective. For important general observations on changes in Roman Greece see Alcock []. Several works on Augustan Athens are quoted below. Historical studies of the period are more frequent, see for example Bowersock []; Bernhardt []; Geagan []; Böhme [], each with bibliography.  Hoff []; Geagan [].  The Greek identity at stake here was first and foremost a specifically Athenian one. During the Mithradatic Wars, however, Athens took a leading role in the Greek resistance against Rome. Since the fourth century , Athenian orators modelled their idea of a common Greek identity on their ideal of (superior) Athenian citizenship, and the Romans seem to have shared the view of Athens’ special status among Greek cities (if for different reasons), so that the wider concept of Greekness may well have resonated in their self-conception. Cf. Saïd [].  App. Mithr. –; cf. Rogers [] –. Other cities in Asia Minor joined in the massacre: Magie [] – with n. .  Habicht []; Errington [].  Geagan []; cf. Bowersock []; Bowersock [].

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.) famously reports Caesar’s remark to the Athenian suppliants after Pharsalos in  : ‘How often will the glory of your ancestors save you from self-destruction?’ The same admiration for Athens’ great past is generally seen to lie behind Sulla’s order not to destroy Athens altogether after his siege and final victory, as well as behind several benefits the city received. Pompey and Caesar donated  talents each to rebuild the city, Marc Antony took residence in Athens and even married Athena when he was in charge of the eastern Mediterranean, and Octavian decided to make Athens the eastern centre of his restoration programme.¹¹ From this perspective, Greek, or Athenian identity was appreciated by the Romans rather than threatened, so that there would not appear to be any immediate need to struggle for its recognition. But then again, the lack of a special need to struggle would not necessarily deter the Athenians from supporting their claim to a great heritage by material means either. It thus is still worth asking whether and how the Athenians actively played this card of their glorious past to achieve their aims with the Romans, a question touching also upon the deeper issue of Roman expectations and Athenian self-perception. Public buildings and their decoration would arguably be the most noticeable expression of Athenian identity provided it was the city’s intention to advertise it publicly. Moreover, the Athenians had a long tradition of using these means to express their identity and, in fact, claim to superiority. The practice dates back to the formative period of the polis when the Acropolis and Agora were first adorned with monumental buildings.¹² It is this area, therefore, that I am going to explore. To start with, it must be pointed out that there was very little public building activity for most of the first century  until the Augustan age – and the reason for this is fairly pragmatic: The economic situation was tense and funds were extremely limited.¹³ Although Sulla ordered that Athens should not be destroyed completely, his victory in   was the second greatest disaster to hit the city after the Persian Wars. Athens was thoroughly despoiled and archaeology has shown that major parts of the Agora and adjacent areas, the Pompeion, the south slope of the Acropolis and even the Erechtheion were severely damaged or even demolished (fig. ).¹⁴ Large parts of Piraeus were equally destroyed. To be sure, Pompey donated  Talents for restorations (Plut. Pomp. .–), but that was only  years later. Much of Caesar’s donation of an equal sum in /  was probably confiscated soon after when Athens supported his hapless enemy Pompey with three ships in spite of  On this see below. For a general overview of Athens’ urban history during the late Republic and Augustan Age see Hoff [] –; Böhme [] –; Baldassarri [] –.  The bibliography on this topic is vast. For a convenient overview see e.g. Hurwit []; Hurwit []; Schneider and Höcker []; Camp [].  For a summary of the following see Hoff [] –; Böhme [] –; von Freeden [] –; still fundamental is Day []. The assumption that Athens had to sell Salamis in order to cope with the situation after the sack is still repeated in recent publications although refuted on good grounds by Habicht [].  Hoff []; for the destruction of the Pompeion see Hoepfner [] –.

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Fig.  The Athenian Agora with buildings (black) and areas (shaded) of archaeologically attested destruction by the sack of  .

this generous gift.¹⁵ What is more, though Athens was saved more severe retribution for her unfortunate political choices, she had to pay in cash and kind to support the Roman generals and their armies and was punished more than once by economic sanctions for her disobedience. Verres robbed the Parthenon of much of its gold (Cic. Verr. ..), L. Calpurnius Piso victimized the city as well (Cic. Pis. .), and in  Q. Fufius Calenus devastated the Attic countryside, which was an essential source of income (Cass. Dio ..–). Even Marc Antony, who favoured Athens and restored a number of islands to her, exacted at least one million drachmas from the Athenians on the occasion of his marriage to Athena.¹⁶ On the old Agora, the civic offices seem to have been restored, though on a very modest scale and only to

 For the amount cf. Cic. Att. ... The date of the donation is disputed; for the most likely date of / and extraction of large sums of money from Greek cities which supported Pompey after Pharsalos cf. Cass. Dio ..– and Hoff [] –; Hoff [] –, –; Baldassarri [] , –.  Seneca, Suas. . (with a larger amount); Cass. Dio ..; cf. Hoff [] –; for a summary of these events see Hoff []; Böhme [] –.

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a functional state.¹⁷ The overall appearance of the city centre was marred by large ruined areas, and according to the archaeological evidence, many of the ruins on the Agora lay exposed for many decades until they were finally restored or torn down and re-used in new buildings of the Augustan and later periods (fig. ).

Fig.  The Athenian Agora in the early first century  with areas of Augustan building activities (shaded dark grey) and graded areas (shaded light grey).

For instance, fragments of the Doric frieze from the South-Stoa were still available to be re-used for the Roman Market that was finished in the last decade ,¹⁸ and the ruins of the Pompeion were left untouched, vulnerable to plundering for building material for centuries until a new building was erected  years later.¹⁹ The ruins of houses south of the Stoa of Attalos next to the Panathenaic Way to the Acropolis that were burnt down by Sulla’s army lay untouched until, again in connection with  Exact dates for pre-Augustan repairs and building activities are difficult to establish. There is evidence for restoration of the kitchen and repair of the Tholos after the sack and before the addition of a porch, probably in the Augustan period: Thompson [] –, . The peribolos of the monument of the Eponymous Heroes was repaired shortly after the sack: Shear [] . The newly built offices leaning on the west end of the Middle Stoa have been dated before the Odeion by Thompson [] , but may in fact be later than the Southwest Temple (and the Odeion) because they partly obstruct the view on the temple: Dinsmoor [] .  Hoff [], esp. –; on this and other re-used material in the walls of the Roman Agora, some of which might have come from other Athenian buildings destroyed during the sack, see Hoff [] –, .  Hoepfner [] –.

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the building of the Roman Market, the ground was at least levelled and graded, but it took another century until Pantainos built his library over them.²⁰ Thus, it may come as no surprise that the Athenians did not erect new public monuments boasting their Greek identity. Funds must have been extremely limited. Yet, building activities did not cease completely, and it is interesting to see what the Athenians did build when they happened to find the necessary funds.²¹ After the sack of the city and dismantling of the city walls, their re-erection must have been a priority and doubtless a major task and financial commitment. It proved to be worth the effort when Calenus failed to seize the city in  (Cass. Dio ..). It is not known exactly what Pompey’s  talents donated in   were spent on. There are indications that most of the donation was used for the rebuilding of the Piraeus, especially the Deigma, its commercial centre, certainly in order to reinstate the infrastructure for trade and commerce through which the tense economic situation could be improved.²² Similarly, Caesar’s donation of /  was explicitly dedicated to the erection of a market in the centre of Athens. Since it was not Caesar who took the initiative but the Athenians, who approached the dictator with an embassy led by Herodes of Marathon – an early ancestor of the sophist – it can be assumed that it was their idea to spend the money in this way²³ rather than on removing the waste left by the Sullan destruction in the old Agora and rebuilding its administrative centre, or on the restoration of its major temples. The famous Erechtheion, for example, the temple of Athena Polias, was much in need of repair, but was left in ruins for another  years until it was finally renovated about the same time when the temple for Roma and Augustus was built.²⁴ The relatively early repair and embellishment of the Asklepieion on the south slope of the Acropolis in / and /  was a private initiative financed by two Athenian priests of Asklepios.²⁵

 Shear [].  I shall limit my overview to those building activities that are likely to have been initiated by Athenians. On building activities by foreigners see Hoff [] – (building of inner Propylaea at Eleusis started by Appius Claudius Pulcher and finished by his nephew; re-building of Odeion of Pericles by Ariobarzanes Philopator of Cappadocia).  Plut. Pomp. .–, and IG II² , , mentioning, in a fragmentary line, a ‘Magnus’ as builder of the Deigma. Cf. Culley [] –; Hoff []  with n. ; Hoff [] .  The idea may have been especially appealing to Caesar, as by donating a market in the centre of town, he could hope to outdo Pompey’s new Deigma at Piraeus: Hoff [] –. It has been suggested that the influx of merchants from Delos after its sack in   may have contributed to the decision to build a market (Hoff [] –; Baldassarri [] ). If this is true, it was still the Athenians who twice sent ambassadors from their most influential old families to ask for the funds and therefore must have regarded the project as their own priority as well.  A geison block from the Erechtheion was found in the foundations of the Monopteros (Dörpfeld [] ), and the details of the latter’s architectural decoration are copied after those of the Erechtheion, presumably by the same workshop that repaired the classical temple: Binder []; Whittaker [] .  Baldassarri [] –.

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After Augustus’ final reconciliation with the Athenians in  , another embassy headed by Eukles of Marathon again asked for funds for the Roman Market, which was eventually finished and dedicated around   (fig. ).²⁶

Fig. 

The Roman Market (A), the Horologium (B), the Arcaded Building (C), and the Latrine (D).

What is more, the new market, a marble-paved square court surrounded by Ionic porticoes on all four sides and with one Ionic and one Doric entrance gate, looked unlike anything that had been built in Athens before.²⁷ Though the assumption that it was modelled on Caesar’s Kaisareia in Alexandria and Antioch has been rejected on good grounds,²⁸ the building clearly did not continue any local tradition but must have appeared as a new and unusual addition, with an equestrian statue of L. Caesar dedicated by the Demos as the central acroterion of the western entrance gate reminiscent of Roman honorific arches.²⁹ On the Agora, major building activities also started only under Augustus’ reign, but even restorations were used to introduce major changes. For instance, when the Tholos was renewed, it obtained a propylon facing the agora. Two annex rooms were  Hoff []; Hoff [], who argues for   as the most likely year for the embassy and donation. For the date of its completion see Hoff [] ; cf. Baldassarri [] –, who seems to be unaware of Hoff [].  Shear [] .  Tuchelt [].  Hoff [] – is certainly right in tracing the peristyle-court type of market back to Hellenistic commercial agorai. But these would have been a novelty at Athens as well, and Hoff further suggests that it may have been a Roman preference to close these agorai on all four sides. Cf. Baldassarri [] –. On the gate see Hoff [].

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added to the Stoa of Zeus, and should the general assumption be correct that they served for the imperial cult, the change would almost be ironic (or cynical) since the stoa was dedicated to Zeus Eleutherios, Zeus the Liberator.³⁰ New buildings were added as well, aiming at a new glory and definitely transforming the site considerably (fig. , p. ). Most conspicuously, much of the open space was now used for the Odeion of Agrippa, a building designed primarily for musical and other performances. Quite differently from the Odeion of Pericles on the south slope of the Acropolis, it was a massive covered theatre for , spectators, which had its closest architectural parallels in the Odeion of Pompeii and covered theatres of Southern Italy.³¹ Another large building, the Temple of Ares, was placed in the open space south of the Altar of the Twelve Gods, and its altar was located at the point where the axes of temple and Odeion met. The temple is of fifth-century  date,³² and had been transplanted to the Agora from its original location in Attica. It is usually assumed that the temple originally stood at Acharnai, for which a sanctuary of Ares and Athena Areia is attested by inscriptions.³³ But no remains of the temple’s foundations have been found there, and the earliest reference to the Acharnian cult only dates from the later fourth century .³⁴ Following his more recent discoveries at Pallene, Manolis Korres proposed that it was the temple of Athena Pallenis that was transferred to the Agora.³⁵ Its foundations of appropriate size are still well preserved on site but not even fragments of the rest of its architecture have been found, suggesting that it has been systematically removed at some point, most likely to the Athenian Agora. Provided that the identification is correct, the temple would even have changed its patron deity, from Athena Pallenis to Ares, though the fact that a statue of Athena stood beside the one of Ares, in the temple on the Agora (Paus. ..), may indicate that Athena’s cult was moved to the Agora as well, if only as a subordinate one. Nonetheless, the cult of Ares could still have been transferred to Athens from Acharnai, especially since the altar in front of the temple is a re-located item from the fourth century.³⁶ Its date would fit the date of the stele mentioning the erection at Acharnai of an altar that had to be ‘built’, requiring not a stone mason  Tholos: Thompson [] with fig. ; Camp [] –; Schäfer [] ; Stoa Basileios: Thompson []; Walker []  with fig.   Thompson []; Meinel [] – for typological comparisons; Baldassarri [] –. Baldassarri also argues ([] –) that the location of the Odeion within the agora was influenced by the location of temples in the imperial fora at Rome. If this is right, the planning for the Temple of Ares would need to be later and would also have counteracted this idea.  Dinsmoor []; more recently on temple and altar: Baldassarri [] – with full bibliography.  Travlos [] .  Travlos [] ; cf. Robert [] – for the texts; more recently Hartswick [] – with bibliography in n. .  Korres []; followed by Goette []  n.  and Alcock [] . Still without any knowledge of the temple at Pallene, Hartswick [] – had already cast serious doubt on the proposed origin of the Ares Temple from Acharnai, stressing, among other things, that evidence is not only lacking for a temple of Ares at Acharnai but in fact for any temple of Ares from the fifth century.  Hartswick [] ; Alcock [] ; Baldassarri [] –, who is still unaware of Korres’ findings at Pallene.

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or sculptor, but an architect (line ), thus referring to the same type as the one in the Agora.³⁷ This idea is supported by the omission of the Ares cult in Pausanias’ list of cults at Acharnai (Paus. ..)³⁸ and possibly by another inscription from the site gratefully acknowledging Ares and Augustus.³⁹ Two other newly added temples in the Southeast and Southwest corners of the Agora re-used only parts of older sanctuaries. The details of their reconstruction are still being debated since no part of their elevation has been found in an undisturbed context. However, both were Roman type podium temples, elevated above ground by a platform with stairs and access at the front only and a comparatively deep front porch.⁴⁰ Architectural members of a Doric temple emerged from a tower of the PostHerulian Wall immediately southwest of the Library of Pantainos.⁴¹ Four Doric columns clearly originate from a fifth-century  building at Thorikos, which may have been a temple for Demeter and Kore.⁴² Some wall blocks of local Thorikos marble could either come from the same building as the columns, or from the neighbouring Temple of Dionysus.⁴³ However, while an anta capital and one epistyle backer block were custom-made in the Roman period, the majority of entablature blocks originate from a number of different buildings.⁴⁴ Several epistyle blocks and backers and perhaps also two metopes are taken from one building made of Pentelic marble, seven triglyphs derive from at least four different buildings from the Classical to the Late Hellenistic periods made of either Pentelic or Island marble. With the triglyphs displaying a variety of different styles and proportions, the assemblage must have resulted in a somewhat odd aesthetic appearance. This eclecticism could at least partly be traced back to the fact that the temple (?) at Thorikos had never been completed. The fluting of the columns was only executed at the bottom and top, as was commonly done before the columns were erected, and had to be finished by the Roman builders once the columns were in place.  Cf. n.  p.  above. In fact, the inscription refers to at least two altars which were being built, probably one for Ares and one for Athena Areia, so that the re-location of one of them would not necessarily have rendered the sanctuary defunct altogether.  Baldassarri [] –.  On IG II²  see Robert [] ; there is no indication in the text for a “rescue operation” as suggested by Hartswick [] ; cf. Baldassarri [] – n. .  Marc Waelkens [] has argued that the podium temple would not originate in Italy but in Hellenistic Pergamum. This idea was rejected on good grounds by Pohl [] – and Rumscheid [].  Dinsmoor [].  On the identification of the columns see Dinsmoor [] –. The character of the Thorikos building is disputed. For its interpretation as a temple for Demeter and Kore, based primarily on a border stone reading ὅρος τεμένους τοῖν Θεοῖν from its vicinity, see Osanna [] with further bibliography.  Dinsmoor []  thinks that the building never had a cella and attributes the wall blocks to the Temple of Dionysus. Osanna []  maintains that the inner part of the building was never excavated so that there would be no reason to assume that it did not have a cella; ditto Baldassarri [] – n. .  Dinsmoor [] –, .

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The unfinished surface of the one surviving capital at Thorikos suggests that an entablature was never installed there.⁴⁵ Assuming, with the majority of scholars, that the architectural members from Thorikos were used in the Southeast Temple near the tower, four more columns would have been needed to complete the façade. They could have been taken from yet another location, or have been custom-made in the Roman Period. Scholars have also assumed that the cult of Demeter and Kore had travelled with the four columns from Thorikos to the new location near the old City Eleusinion, a view which may or may not be supported by a passage in Pausanias (depending on its interpretation) and by fragments of a classical statue of Demeter type.⁴⁶ Another series of columns and other architectural members, this time of Ionic style and deriving from the Temple of Athena at Sounion, was found in the wall adjacent to the tower and as stray finds in late fills between this wall and the Southeast Temple. This series is usually thought to have been re-used for the Southwest Temple, opening up the possibility that not only the building material but also the cult were transferred to the Agora from Sounion.⁴⁷ All of these assumptions and inferences, however, have been seriously challenged by Dinsmoor, first and foremost from an architectural point of view. He pointed out that the recovered remains of the original Ionic building belong to at least eight columns, of which only six could be accommodated on the foundations of the Southwest Temple.⁴⁸ In the case of the Doric temple, it would be difficult to explain why the architects did not bring eight columns from Thorikos straight away if they intended to re-locate the cult together with (part of) the architecture. Reversing the traditional allocation of the Doric and Ionic series, however, resolves these contradictions and results in a far more satisfactory design. The Doric temple would no longer need any additional columns and the Southeast temple, which had such a prominent position on the Panathenaic way, would have received a coherent façade pleasing to the eye of the passer-by.⁴⁹ Dinsmoor’s reconstructions thus suggest a far more organised approach to their task on the part of the ancient architects, and more attention to aesthetic aspects of their work as well.⁵⁰ By implication, the  Dinsmoor []  nn. –.  The argument is presented most fully by Osanna [] passim, esp.  (with further bibliography). On the statue see Harrison [] –; cf. Paus. ...  This view was argued most extensively by Osanna [], esp. –, .  Dinsmoor [] , –; his reconstruction is accepted by Baldassarri [] –.  Dinsmoor [] – with further detail of how well the Ionic members and their measures would fit the size of the temple. For a reconstruction of the Doric members in the Southeast Temple see Dinsmoor [] –.  The difference between the rather make-shift construction of the Southwest Temple and the more pleasing construction of the Southeast Temple may well reflect, among other things, a difference in date. The mason’s marks on the two temples are markedly different from one another as well (Dinsmoor []  n. ). It is usually assumed that the Southwest Temple is of about the same date as the Odeion of Agrippa because of its topographic relation to it whereas the Southeast Temple would be dated to the first century . Dinsmoor [] –, has pointed out that the pottery collected from the foundations and packing of the latter is not conclusive and has suggested a

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question of cult would be open again,⁵¹ and the re-use of building material would appear to result primarily from pragmatic considerations. The new Northeast temple was erected in the old sanctuary of Aphrodite Ourania.⁵² In this case, the cult was an old one but the temple entirely modern. It was facing the Agora rather than in the traditional eastern direction, and thus completely changed the layout of the sanctuary by turning it around ˚. Moreover, it was again a Roman style temple, of greater width than depth with steps at the front only. No re-used material was employed in the superstructure. The Ionic elements of the pronaos were newly carved with highest craftsmanship, imitating the north porch of the Erechtheion in its proportions, and the east porch’s architectural decoration.⁵³ date after the paving of the Panathenaic Way in the first half of the second century because the euthynteria course lies approximately on the same level as the paving. This argument does not, however, seem to be conclusive either, since the euthynteria lies . cm below the paving, not above as one would expect. Moreover, the practice of transferring temples and re-using entire temple fronts seems to be a feature of the early imperial period and is unattested so far for the Hadrianic period.  Osanna’s suggestion of an Athena cult in the Southwest Temple loses any support it might have had when the Ionic series was re-used in the Southeast Temple (Osanna [], esp. –, ). But even had it been re-used in the Southwest Temple, it would remain unclear why the cult should have moved to this temple rather than to the other site(s) at which the rest of the Athena Temple was re-used. Thompson and Wycherley [] –, followed by the majority of scholars, suggest a connection with the imperial cult though the nearby statue base for Livia on which this assumption is largely based was not found in situ and is of later date than the temple. The possibility that the Southeast Temple was dedicated to Demeter and Kore cannot be excluded. The fragmented statue of late fifth century  date (Harrison [] –) must have been brought to the Agora from elsewhere, and though there is no way to prove this, it may have been brought from Thorikos. With its head inserted, however, it could also have been re-used for an imperial portrait, and it is not even clear that it stood on the monumental base in the Southwest Temple. As often, Pausanias (..) is of little help here; cf. the different conclusions arrived at by Osanna [] –, Dinsmoor [] –, and Baldassarri [] –, who considers a transfer of the cult of Athena Sounias to the Southeast Temple (). As stated above, however, there is no need to assume that the cult must have travelled with this part of the temple, cf. n.  p.  below.  Osanna has challenged this identification and suggested that the temple was for Hermes Agoraios while the one for Aphrodite Ourania was on the north slope of Kolonos Agoraios (Osanna []; id. []). He is followed by Baldassarri [] – who points out that the archaeological evidence from the fill around the archaic altar is indeed far from being conclusive. At the alternative site of the sanctuary of Aphrodite Ourania, there is hardly anything among the archaeological remains that would support its attribution to the goddess (admitted by Baldassarri [] –). Moreover, the date range of these remains – from the second century  to the Sullan destruction – is incompatible with the antiquity of her cult. Since the fill within the archaic altar was contaminated, the few pig bones found in it cannot be held against its old attribution (Reese [] on the faunal remains). Pausanias (..) mentions a ἱερόν and statue of Aphrodite but a herm only of Hermes (..). Though his disregard of Roman buildings is well known, it is hard to imagine that Pausanias would have ignored the magnificent temple completely had it been the one of Hermes Agoraios. His acknowledgement of the existence of the temple by using the term ἱερόν and commenting on the image of the goddess by Phidias would fit the situation better. Still, any debate based on Pausanias is notoriously difficult. For my argument, it is much less important to which of the two deities the sanctuary was dedicated than the fact that the cult site was a very old one.  Shear [].

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It is not easy to establish who was responsible for these building activities, except for the Odeion of Agrippa, but there can be no doubt that all these major innovations in the Agora were not just the result of a general economic recovery in the Augustan era, but were initiated and financed by Romans or, perhaps, imperial freedmen. This is clear for the three Roman-style temples from comparison with better documented parallels, and it is highly likely that the re-location of the Ares Temple and its altar equally had a Roman patron because of its position in relation to the Odeion and the choice of cult.⁵⁴ Thus, the renovation and embellishment of Athens’ Old Agora very much seems to have been a Roman project. Shear and others have argued that filling up major parts of the open space of the Agora used for public assemblies and political activities of the free polis in earlier centuries would be ‘as clear a statement of the new order in the world as can be made through the medium of architecture. A conquered city had little need for democratic assemblies and a subject citizen little voice in the determination of his destiny.’⁵⁵ However, it may be questioned to what extent the Agora had been used for political assemblies after the establishment of the meeting place on the Pnyx, and Hans-Joachim Schalles has pointed out that the face of the Agora had long ago started to change. Among other things, the Middle Stoa cut off a large portion at its southern edge in the second quarter of the second century, and the Attalos Stoa even built over the former law courts and cut off at least part of the commercial market. Both buildings had a major impact on the ways the old Agora could be used and would have been perceived. Further changes under Augustus would therefore not necessarily be regarded as an imperialist act, but could appear as a continuation of an already existing trend.⁵⁶ Equally, the introduction of the imperial cult, so often seen as an indication of Romanisation,⁵⁷ was a continuation from Hellenistic ruler cult and from hero cult for prominent individuals,⁵⁸ though on a larger scale and in a more systematic way. Traditional cults in the Agora were continued and each of the new temples made some kind of reference to the physical appearances of traditional Greek temples. Based on these continuations and links to the past, scholars have also related the first-century building activities to Augustus’ programme of religious renewal and restoration of old temples and shrines at Rome. They have assumed a similar programme for the Greek East (including Athens) and some have suggested a further link with a famous edict on the restoration of sanctuaries and temene of gods and  See below, p.  n. .  Shear [], quote on ; Hoff [] – for a similar view.  Schalles []. Mario Torelli [] makes a similar point and even argues that the complex of Middle- and South-Stoa had been a gymnasium. The Odeion would thus appear as a continuation of Hellenistic developments. Unfortunately, due to the lack of evidence, this identification is far from being conclusive.  E.g. Shear [] ; Hoff [] .  On the roots of the imperial cult in the East see Habicht []; Price []; Gradel []; on hero cult see Hughes []. Roma received a cult at Athens – as at other places – from the early second century : Mellor [] –; Hoff [] .

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heroes in and around Athens (IG II² ).⁵⁹ It is certainly true that the end result of what happened at Athens involved the reinforcement of the Agora’s religious character and the firm establishment of the imperial cult,⁶⁰ and so far the process could be compared with the strengthening of the religious quality of the fora in Rome. Both programmes included strong references to Augustus, but it is worth looking at details. At Rome, Augustus had the sacred sites rebuilt (or newly built) not in the old Romano-Etruscan style but in new material – marble – and in a style that combined both Greek and Roman ideas.⁶¹ His programme was not so much one of conservation, but of restoration and renewal. By introducing highly innovative means he created a contemporary kind of splendour intended to honour and revive tradition by adapting it to the present era. This is quite similar to what happened at Athens, if on a much more modest scale. The new buildings were built and oriented according to Roman ideas. They were placed in pre-defined axial systems or directed towards the main lines of traffic, and the temples had podia and front access only, thus changing the overall appearance of the site considerably. Even the use of spolia and re-location of (parts of) classical buildings did not result from a desire to preserve the past and its architectural achievements, but was rather due to convenience and cost-efficiency.⁶² Of course, it would have been easy to achieve an appearance more faithful to the original monuments and to use the reclaimed material to produce traditional temple types rather than Roman podium temples. That funds made all the difference when it came to the decision of either re-using existing building material or else building a temple from scratch can be demonstrated most clearly by a comparison between the Temple of Aphrodite Ourania and the Southwest Temple. Both are Roman type temples with some reference to traditional Greek architecture, but here similarities end. While the builders of the Temple of Aphrodite deliberately chose one of the most admired classical temples as their model, not copying it slavishly but imitating its design and spirit with greatest skills, the builders of the Southwest Temple assembled material from a minimum of six different buildings  Shear [] –; Zanker [] ; Osanna [] ; Böhme [] , –; Walker [] –, ; Schäfer [] –; Alcock [] –.  On the large number of dedications to Augustus on the two agorai see Benjamin and Raubitschek []. On (potential) cult sites cf. Trummer [] –; Böhme [] –; Hoff []. The common assumption that many if not most of the new buildings or annex rooms on the Agora were connected with the imperial cult or even were realised in order to accommodate it, has been shown by Spawforth [] to rest mostly on assumptions rather than evidence.  Zanker []; Favro [].  This is contrary to the most common assumption that the re-use of architectural members from classical temples was originally meant as an act of preservation and antiquarianism, but is in agreement with the Agora excavators’ interpretation throughout. Pragmatic reasons are generally accepted in the case of the Roman Market (cf. n.  p.  above). It seems to me that there is a marked difference between the re-use of parts of buildings as building material in completely different settings and the re-use and change of patron of entire buildings and monuments, which would remain largely unaltered. The Attalid monument in front of the Propylaia re-used for Agrippa or the annexation of shrines like the Metroon of Olympia to the imperial cult are examples of the latter.

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from the Classical down to the Hellenistic period. The temple (?) at Thorikos just happens to be the only one we can still identify as a source of that material but there is no indication that its unfinished columns were chosen for any other reason than their easy availability. The Temple of Aphrodite pays homage to a very old goddess and her cult at its original site⁶³ by introducing an entirely new layout of the sanctuary and a foreign temple type. The perfect imitation of the Erechtheion’s architectural decoration appears like a quote from Homer in an otherwise Roman piece of literature. The Southwest Temple introduces both a new cult and a new temple type. If anyone still viewed the result with some romantic feelings, these must have been rather vague and clearly a side-effect rather than the primary intention.⁶⁴ The Temple of Ares and its altar are another case again. The cult is not only new to the Agora, but also refers to a god traditionally worshipped outside of cities, if at all. Its establishment in the Agora was neither a rescue action saving a cult from decay in an otherwise deserted countryside, nor did it respond to any local Athenian needs. The choice of divinity was rather due to a Roman desire for an equivalent to the temple of Mars Ultor in Rome, which was a novelty there as well. It was closely connected with Augustus and the imperial family, as it was at Athens where Caius Caesar was worshipped as the New Ares.⁶⁵ The Temple and altar not only took up a lot of space – the temple was slightly larger than the Hephaisteion overlooking it – but were also located in a prominent position between the Altar of the Twelve Gods and the Odeion. The Altar was placed where the axes of Temple and Odeion meet, thus linking the two buildings topographically. To this extent, the sanctuary of Ares is probably the most Roman and potentially most offensive addition to the old Agora. It may be exactly this notion that explains best why a fifth-century temple and a fourth-century altar were considered suitable. It is not impossible that both re-locations included the transfer of the original cults connected with these buildings as well,⁶⁶ but it seems obvious that the temple was not moved as a result of the re-location of its own cult, but in order to provide another cult, that of Ares, with an appropriate temple. The choice had the advantage of both being relatively economical and masking the radical novelties of the cult establishment. The same is true for the altar. It is highly likely that it was indeed moved with its cult, but again the reason was not primarily to save an old cult from neglect⁶⁷ but to render it more acceptable, and to legitimise the establishment of an  The patron of the building project may still have chosen the sanctuary of Aphrodite for refurbishment because of the importance of Venus to the Romans and the imperial family (Rosenzweig [] –).  The Southeast Temple is somewhere in between the two cases just described. As a Roman type temple, it again self-consciously introduces a foreign element but the Ionic architectural members were well chosen to create a satisfactory whole with strong and possibly even deliberate reference to the architecture of the Classical age.  Cf. Bowersock [] –; Schäfer [] – with bibliography; Spawforth [] –, who points out that, contrary to common assumption, according to epigraphic evidence the temple was not dedicated to the imperial cult but to Ares alone.  Cf. nn. –, p.  above.

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Ares cult in the centre of Athens by reference to its antiquity. The re-use of building material and even the re-location of entire buildings and altars did not result from an interest in the despoiled sanctuaries and buildings themselves; it was not an act of deliberate preservation. Rather, it combined two advantages, of cost-efficiency, and of providing a reference to the past. So far, the strategies employed during the Roman building activities in the Agora very much resemble those at Rome, and even more so than scholars would usually allow. One major difference, however, is the impact that these building activities had on the countryside. In the Athenian chora, the Roman activities caused considerable destruction. The Romans not only transferred building material from unfinished buildings, like the one at Thorikos, or salvaged material from already ruined buildings, like the material from the South Stoa that was re-used in the Roman Agora,⁶⁸ but they also trans-located perfectly functional and intact temples like that of Ares.⁶⁹ The countryside was not entirely deserted, and concern for sanctuaries in the chora is clearly documented elsewhere.⁷⁰ At Sounion, fragments of a Roman statue of Athena demonstrate that the sanctuary was still in use in the Roman period, and the construction of large cisterns at the north flank of the Poseidon Temple only make sense if the roof feeding them was still intact.⁷¹ Already in  , when Q. Fulvius Flaccus wanted a marble roof for his new Temple of Fortuna Equestris in Rome, he removed tiles from the Temple of Juno Lacinia at Bruttium. To be sure, he had to return the tiles after an intervention by the Senate,⁷² and one would not expect such an act to be officially sanctioned at Athens either. But when the original cult could be accommodated elsewhere – as it probably was in the case of Sounion,⁷³ Pallene, and Acharnai – the situation looked different. After all, the re-location not only of people but also of sanctuaries for reasons of  The continued occupation of Acharnai is attested by both Paus. .. and the inscription mentioned above (n.  p. ) honouring Ares and Augustus at Acharnai.  Hoff [] –, , who also describes a large number of architectural members from dozens of different buildings re-used in the Roman Market. This and the existence of further, un-attributable material found in various places in the Agora and the late walls (Thompson [] –; Thompson and Wycherley [] ) suggest the idea that a proper depot of re-claimed building material may have existed. This material could have derived as much from buildings in the chora as from those in the Agora which have been destroyed during the Sullan sack.  Dinsmoor []. The same was probably true for the Temple of Athena at Sounion. Its members re-used in the Athenian Agora were well preserved, and since nothing is left on site it is highly likely that the rest of the temple was taken to yet another site to be re-used: Dinsmoor []; Goette []  n. ; on Sounion see Salliora-Oikonomakou [].  Cf. Alcock [], esp. .  For a discussion and fuller presentation of the evidence cf. Goette [] –, who further challenges a suggestion made by Dinsmoor [], that the sima of the Ares Temple was taken from the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion. On the statue Despinis []. For a balanced account of the rural sacred landscape of Greece and Attica see Alcock [] –; for a different view Lohmann [].  Livy ..–; cf. Dinsmoor [] .  The Athena cult of Sounion was probably moved to the Temple of Poseidon, which Pausanias (..) must have seen and identified not entirely incorrectly as the temple of Athena Sounias: Goette [] –, –.

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Barbara E. Borg

political convenience is well attested at other places like Patrai or Nikopolis,⁷⁴ and even Augustus did not always shy away from violating the property of sanctuaries.⁷⁵ The edict IG II² , on the other hand, suggests a rather different context. First, it is worth noting that its primary or possibly only concern was not about the physical restoration, repair or embellishment of shrines and other structures, but about their return to their original purpose and into the property of their legitimate owners.⁷⁶ Sanctuaries that had been desecrated should be cleansed by expiatory sacrifices and their leasing to private individuals properly organised. The intention of this large measure was twofold, it was an act of piety and it secured an income for the state as well as for the sanctuaries. Secondly, the edict concerns existing sanctuaries and cults at their original place. There is no indication whatsoever of either re-location or any other building activity. Thirdly, the majority of sanctuaries mentioned are located in the Athenian chora (ca. ), in Piraeus (ca. ), and on Salamis (ca. ), and only  in the city of Athens. Moreover, the cults all have particular relevance for a local identity, like a number of hero cults, a shrine founded by Themistocles before the battle of Salamis (line ), various shrines for the most Athenian of heroes Theseus (line ), or a precinct of Athena at Lamptrai, the ‘so-called Dorykleion’ (line ). Not a single ‘major’ sanctuary or temple is mentioned. All three aspects contrast markedly with the Roman building activities described above. If the edict was part of a wider Augustan restoration programme,⁷⁷ this  Alcock [] – identifies the centralisation of cults as a general feature of the Roman period. The same point is made by Osanna [] (esp. ) who explicitly compares the activities at Athens with those at Patrai, where, in an enforced synoikismos, not only people but also rural sanctuaries were re-located into the city. This seems to go too far. His suggestion of an Augustan programme of re-locating entire cults with their architecture from the Athenian chora to the centre of Athens faces major problems concerning, among other things, his attribution of the Southwest and Southeast Temple. Yet, the potential transfer of the altar and cult of Zeus Agoraios from the Pnyx to the Agora (Baldassarri [] –) and the transfer of cults to Athens from its chora as a side effect or necessary consequence of different primary goals would still fit the general trend. On Patrai see Osanna []; Lafond []; Pirenne-Delforge []; on Nikopolis Isager [] and esp. Houby-Nielsen [].  E.g. in the sanctuary of Athana Alea at Tegea: Paus. ..–, who also states that Augustus was not the first to behave like this. See Dignas [] – with further evidence; Alcock [] –.  While historians have often treated the edict as a ‘Pachturkunde’, archaeologists usually take it as a document referring to the repair of sanctuaries (e.g. von Freeden [] – with n. ). Von Freeden believes that the term used most often, ἀποκαθίστημι, means both repair and return to original function and owner. This does not seem to be covered by the text. The only mentioning of any repairs (ἐπισκευή) appears in the text before the list of locations concerned begins, in line  with reference to Eleusis. The meaning of this passage is entirely obscure; cf. Culley [] . The votive statues of King Attalos mentioned in line  were certainly not to be leased (von Freeden [] ) but would not necessarily have been repaired either. They could have been restored to the sanctuary – e.g. after having been taken away to adorn a different, possibly even private place. Or else they might have been re-used for a different individual – like the colossal statues of Eumenes II and Attalos II re-named after Marc Antony (Plut. Antony .) – and the original inscription was then restored. In any case, since they are not part of the list, the sense of the passage is as unclear as the preceding one on Eleusis. We should not exclude though that repair may at times have been involved as well in the decree’s implementation. On the edict see Culley []; von Freeden [] –, –; Dignas [] –, each with bibliography.

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programme would indeed have been highly contradictory in itself. Admittedly, the view that the edict and its measures were somehow related to Augustus is not entirely unsupported. In an inscription from Kyme in Asia Minor of  ,⁷⁸ the governor of Asia orders that a Temple of Dionysus should be restored to its proper owner. He refers explicitly to a ruling by the consuls Augustus and Agrippa that any public or sacred property appropriated or bought by private persons should be returned, and that such appropriation should be prevented in the future. The ruling is copied above the governor’s letter and called a iussum Augusti, probably because it was initiated by the emperor. It is obvious that edict IG II²  would be in accordance with this iussum but far from certain that they were in fact connected in any way. From the Kyme inscription, it is not clear whether the ruling referred to a district only, the entire province of Asia, or all provinces.⁷⁹ Moreover, the restoration of sanctuaries and their properties to their rightful owners after their seizure is attested in earlier periods.⁸⁰ The date of edict IG II²  is not entirely clear. It is now generally agreed that it must belong to some time between the Sullan sack and the end of Augustus’ reign.⁸¹ A date as early as possible within this range is suggested by the use of the old-fashioned acrophonic numbering system for the description of the result of the vote about the programme (line ) and by the mentioning of the office of ταμίας τῆς ἱερᾶς διατάχεως, the latest attested occurrence of which elsewhere is a single case from  .⁸² A terminus post quem is suggested by line  of the decree referring to the so-called Tower of the Winds, a monumental water clock near the Roman Market.⁸³ This horologium is mentioned by Vitruvius (de arch. ..) and Varro (de re rustica ..) dating the building before  and   respectively. For mainly economic reasons, the late s or s, i.e. after Pompey’s donation and before Pharsalus, are the most likely period of its construction by the famous Andronicus of Kyrrhos, especially since it was not a private donation but state funded.⁸⁴ It is doubtful whether the water clock could have been built and appropriated by some     

  

This view is expressed by e.g. Culley [] –; Böhme [] . IKyme, no.  (Merkelbach); cf. the most recent discussion of the inscription by Dignas [] –. See the discussion in Dignas []  with n. . Culley [] X-XIV; Corsaro []; Nenci and Thür []; on the danger of sacred property being appropriated by privates or even the polis see Dignas []. The later date proposed by Shear [] – rests on the assumption that Salamis was not in the possession of Athens until restored to it by Iulius Nicanor in the Claudian period; Habicht [] demonstrated, however, that Salamis belonged to Athens all the time during the first century . For a list of scholars’ suggestions cf. Dignas []  with n. . Habicht [], who tentatively suggests /  for the decree. Von Freeden []. On the building’s identification and the ancient sources von Freeden [] –. Von Freeden [] – dates the building between / and /, a date consistent with his date for the decree. Baldassarri []  n.  believes that Varro must have seen the ‘Tower’ on his visit in –. However, as Robinson [] – had pointed out already, Varro paid another visit to Greece in , and there is no need to assume that he has actually seen the Horologium at all. Most scholars date the Tower to the middle of the first century, cf. Robinson [] and von Hesberg [] – with valid methodological criticism of von Freeden and good stylistic parallels from the first century.

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private individual within this same short period,⁸⁵ so a date shortly after Actium seems more likely for the decree. But it is still not clear whether or not the edict should be dated before or after  , the date of the iussum Augusti. In any case, for our purposes it suffices to note that nothing in the decree provides a hint at Augustus or any empire-wide programme of restoration.⁸⁶ In the Kyme inscription, not only is the iussum mentioned in the governor’s letter but the full ruling is quoted above it.⁸⁷ In another inscription from Messene, the repair of temples and other public buildings funded through private donations collected by the secretary of the synhedrion is explicitly called an obligation towards the Roman people and the emperor.⁸⁸ In IG II² , however, no mention was made of the emperor or any other Roman.⁸⁹ The programme was approved by vote in the people’s assembly – with the vast majority of  against  – and the four most important state officials were involved in its implementation.⁹⁰ Two inscriptions were to be set up recording the decree, one on the Acropolis at the temple of Athena Polias and one in the sanctuary of Zeus Soter and Athena Soteira in Piraeus,⁹¹ linking the initiative further to the polis and its traditional main cults and deities. By contrast, at Kyme the city is urged to record the temple’s restoration in an inscription reading ‘Imperator, Caesar, son of the deified Iulius, Augustus restored it’,⁹² and at Messene the inscription recording the fundraising was to be set up παρὰ τὸ Σεβάστειον (line ). What links the three documents is a previous state of general disorder, when powerful private individuals encroached upon the land and other property of sanctuaries and the polis, and the decision to deal with this problem.⁹³ The newly established order after the end of the civil wars may well have provided the background for, and encouraged all these measures. What sets the Athenian decree off from the other documents is the fact that the Athenians felt entirely capable of reversing the deplorable situation and solving the problems  There is no mentioning of any repairs in line  and the explicit statement that the water clock was for the people may further support the view that there was an issue of ownership rather than of the state of preservation. The usual argument requires a span of time between the building and the decree on the assumption that the former must first have fallen into disrepair before it would need any refurbishment.  Dignas [] –.  Lines –, –.  Lines – and –; SEG , ; Migeotte [].  The inscription is very fragmentary but this fact still seems clear enough from the passages preserved; cf. Dignas [] .  Culley [] XVI.  Line ; Culley [] –. IG II²  has been found in a Turkish dry wall on the Acropolis: Culley [] IX.  Lines – and in the lost part of the Greek translation; Dignas [] .  Sanctuaries were always at risk of having their funds encroached upon by individuals or even the city administration. The situation appears to have been particularly bad, however, during the upheavals of the first century , when cities were forced to sell sacred property in order to pay their tribute to the Romans or powerful individuals, including the publicani, would feel free to appropriate sacred land. For details see Dignas [] passim.

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themselves. They felt no obligation to refer to any imperial ruling – even if one should have been given at the time. To conclude, if there was any major activity related to more traditional ideas of what Athenian identity was all about, it was the restoration programme documented in IG II² , focussing on ancient local cults and their customary organisation for the economic benefit of their owners. The program was initiated, approved, and carried out by the Athenian demos and its highest officials. The list of places selected for restoration reveals an entirely local interest. Revenue from the lease of sacred property usually seems to have secured sufficient funds for the upkeep of cult activities, so that the choice of cults for the restoration programme testifies to the continued interest in these local cults.⁹⁴ A similar interest is apparent in the few cases of non-sacred sites listed, for example the Old Bouleuterion (line ), a palaestra, or the Horologium (both line ). Like the sanctuaries, they were regarded as πάτρια νόμιμα and as such they were treated in the same way. It is hard to tell whether and to what extent the programme boosted Athenian identity, but there is no indication that it was intended to impress the Romans. Moreover, with its primary concern for economic issues, it fits well into the general trend in Athenian building policy as outlined above. In a period when not Athenian identity as Greeks and as the leading people of culture was threatened, but their material well-being and even survival, they first opted for the restoration of their infrastructure as needed for trade and commerce rather than for the restoration of their more symbolic treasures. It is no coincidence that the Athenians left the repair of the Erechtheion until the second last decade  when they decided to appease and honour Augustus (and Roma) with a small temple on the Acropolis nearby.⁹⁵ The only instance at which the Athenians did boast about their achievements during the period in question was when they hired the famous Macedonian engineer Andronicus of Kyrrhos to build their Water Clock (fig. ).⁹⁶ The Horologium was an impressive document of engineering skills and technical superiority, but without much practical function.⁹⁷ Thus, in the rare case when the Athenians decided to splash out on a predominantly symbolic monument, they chose to boast of their scientific achievements and technical skills. The restoration and embellishment of more traditionally symbolic and conspicuous spaces like the Agora was left to the Romans, who interpreted this task in their

 Cf. Dignas [], where the interest in the cults themselves is somewhat underrated.  On the monopteros for Roma and Augustus see Snijder []; on its potential ideology and connection with the Mars Ultor temple on the Roman Capitoline see Schäfer []; for a different view see Whittaker []; Baldassarri [] –; for its date and connection with the imperial cult in general see also Hoff []. The Capitoline monopteros, however, may have been decreed by the Roman senate only after Augustus’ return in   and possibly was never built: Spannagel [] –.  Cf. n.  at p. .  Kienast [].

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Fig. 

The Horologium near the Roman market.

own way.⁹⁸ Their building activities, intended to restore and beautify one of the most central and, at the same time, most desperately ruined public spaces in Athens, paid honour to the city’s great past exactly by changing its physical appearance and character completely,⁹⁹ and by referring to the past only through occasional ‘quotes’  In this study, I have passed over the minor repairs and adornment of buildings at the west side of the Agora, which are of a very modest kind. They may well have been carried out by the Athenians themselves. For most of these, exact dates are notoriously difficult to establish and often it is even unknown what their superstructures would have looked like. For a convenient list with bibliography see Schäfer [] –; Baldassarri [] –. In any case, they would not change the overall trends in which I am interested here.  Schäfer’s final assessment of the Augustan Agora seems somewhat contradictory. On the one hand, he acknowledges that the project was not historicizing and backward looking ([]  following Hölscher) but on the other hand he agrees with Shear in calling the Agora a museum assembling

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from classical buildings. This was what happened again when Hadrian made the city the centre of his new Panhellenion and initiated a second round of major public building. The large complex next to the Roman Agora contained lecture halls and two libraries and was modelled on the Roman imperial fora, resembling the Templum Pacis in particular.¹⁰⁰ The Olympieion originally was a building project started by the Peisistratid tyrants and left unfinished after the introduction of democracy. It was completed by Hadrian with a huge effort, and turned into a gigantic centre for the imperial cult, again using tradition to license innovation and upgrade the present.¹⁰¹ We have no direct evidence for the local population’s reaction to either the early imperial or the Hadrianic building activities, and the decision making processes involved in these activities would merit further investigation by historians and epigraphists. As mentioned above, it was not at all new that foreign admirers of Athens made expensive as well as expansive donations that transformed the city considerably. There is no indication that the Athenians objected to the drastic changes caused by the donations of Hellenistic kings, and I cannot see any reason to believe that they did in the case of the Roman ones. The Romans were well in line with the Hellenistic kings in that their interest in the preservation of Athens’ achievements was mainly directed at philosophy, poetry, literature, and oratory. In their building activities, they paid homage to the great city by providing Athens with a modern and up-to-date outlook showing, at times, little respect for the institutions of the democratic city.¹⁰² But the Hellenistic kings focussed on profane buildings of practical use – much like the Athenians did themselves during the first century  when they had the chance to do so.¹⁰³ In contrast, the Romans provided tradition with an almost anachronistic sacred aura by focussing their building activities on temples. But they were also keen to provide an adequate space at an appropriate location for the much admired ‘intellectual’ activities and performances, which they considered to be the lasting Athenian achievements and worth emulating and rehearsing. From the last decades of the first century  onwards, the Agora was

  



monuments and buildings of Athens’ great past ([] ; cf. Alcock []  for a similar view). The discontinuities are acknowledged and stressed by Osanna [] . Baldassarri’s conclusions, though detailed and balanced, presuppose ‘un programma politico-propagandistico propugnato dal princeps e dal suo entourage’ (; cf. Hoff [] ). I hope to have shown that the building activities in the Augustan period are too incoherent to support the assumption of such an organised and consistent agenda (Alcock []  for a similar view). Shear [] –. On the archaeology of the Panhellenion project cf. Willers []. In the case of the Stoa of Attalos, the law courts overbuilt by it seem to have gone out of use before, so that the Athenians themselves no longer felt any need for them; cf. Townsend [], esp. –. This was quite different from the Lycurgan programme at the end of the fourth century  which was restorative in essence rather than innovative: Hintzen-Bohlen []; Knell []. For the relatively small percentage of temples among the donations of Hellenistic benefactors see Bringmann and von Steuben [].

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dominated by the Odeion,¹⁰⁴ and the temples surrounded it almost like a chorus. In the long run, the most sincere legacy of this was that the Greeks themselves changed their idea of what their identity was all about, moving away from political and civic concepts of freedom, honour, and prosperity, and accepting the Roman definition of Greekness which focussed on cultural accomplishments, art, learnedness, rhetoric, literature, and philosophy.¹⁰⁵ Only after realising that political independence and freedom were no longer an option, the Greeks seem to have wholeheartedly accepted the new definition of Greekness and exploited it to their benefit. The fact that, at a later stage, they even advertised this identity through their material culture may be a particularly strong indication of this change. Athens had seen herself as the centre of and model for Hellenism since the fourth century¹⁰⁶ and was certainly perceived as such by many Romans, including Augustus and Hadrian.¹⁰⁷ As a whole, she had a lot to gain from this strategy.  This interpretation would not necessarily contradict a suggestion first put forward by Böhme who reminds us that the Odeion on the south slope of the Acropolis is usually related to Pericles, but, according to Vitruvius (..), was erected by Themistocles after his victory at Salamis. Böhme interprets Agrippa’s Odeion as another victory monument after Actium; cf. Schäfer [] –.  Suzanne Saïd comes to the same conclusion in her study of Greek rhetoric: Saïd []; cf. the discussions in Whitmarsh (p. –), Wiater (p. ), and Schmitz (p. ) (this volume).  Saïd [].  Lamberton [].

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Thomas A. Schmitz

The Image of Athens in Diodorus Siculus There’s no denying it: Diodorus Siculus has a bad press. In a contribution published  years ago, François Chamoux (who edited Diodorus for the Collection Budé) called him an ‘unloved historian’ [], and there is still no sign that classicists are finding more love for his work. It would be all too easy to quote a couple of devastating judgments and angry remarks about him. And it is indeed difficult to like a historian who is careless enough, e.g., to have the Athenian general Chabrias first be assassinated in Abdera, in   (..), and then die gloriously in a battle off the island of Chios in   (..). Diodorus is certainly not a first-rate historian; his account lacks both penetrating critical acumen and factual reliability. Furthermore, Diodorus does not make up for his blunders and inaccuracies by providing readers a brilliant and compelling narrative or a rhetorical masterpiece; in fact, judgments about his style are even more negative than those about his qualities as a historian.¹ It is not surprising, then, that for a long period of Diodorean scholarship, Quellenforschung was the only game in town, and it has been argued that Diodorus’ only value lies in the fact that he was too inept to alter his sources.² Analysing Diodorus’ sources is indeed an important part of coming to grips with his text; if we look at the Library as a work of historiography, we need to know where Diodorus received the information he transmits. But this is not the only interesting thing we can say about his work. Recent contributions, most notably the studies by K. S. Sacks,³ have demonstrated that Diodorus may have been a compiler, yet in selecting, arranging, commenting, and rewriting his sources, he followed his own ideology. Even where his Library is based on a single source, as is the case for a number of books, Diodorus had to select and compress the material he found, and this very act of choosing what to include and what to omit was controlled by the author’s ideological bias. Of course, Diodorus most likely was not conscious of this bias, which was in turn controlled by the cultural outlook of his own time and surroundings. Hence, Sacks has shown one possible way to go beyond Quellenforschung when we look at Diodorus’ Library.

 For an example, see Stylianou [] –.  See F. Bizière’s comment [] : ‘Diodore nous apparaît, encore une fois, comme un compilateur qui modifie fort peu ses sources, ce qui, d’ailleurs, fait son utilité, sinon son mérite’; V. J. Gray [] rightly cautions against this approach.  See items Sacks []–[] in the list of references.

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

Thomas A. Schmitz

This paper will not attempt to rescue Diodorus’ reputation as a historical source or as a writer of prose. Instead, when I reread Diodorus’ Library for this paper, I had one simple question in mind: how can we position Diodorus in the history of Greek prose writing? What can we say about his aims and ideology, about the way in which he looked at the world in general and at the development of Greek culture in particular? And above all: if we accept that imperial Greek literature is markedly different from Hellenistic literature, where is Diodorus’ place in this continuum? The analytical tool which I propose to use in order to answer these questions, at least in part, is the place classical Athens occupies in Diodorus’ Historical Library. As is known, Diodorus sets himself the lofty aim ‘to describe the events of the entire known world that have been consigned to memory as though they were those of a single city’.⁴ For someone looking at historical developments from such a universal perspective, Athens becomes just one Greek city among many others; a city with an immense cultural background, it is true, and with an interesting political history, but by no means comparable to the really big players, above all the Roman Empire.⁵ For the classizing outlook of the second and third centuries , on the other hand, Athens played a much more central role: it is a symbolic place, a ‘semanticized’ space which embodies the great classical past and is thus a defining ‘site of memory’.⁶ Members of the educated elite (πεπαιδευμένοι) regarded the period of Greek history roughly between the battle of Marathon ( ) and the death of Alexander the Great ( ) as the great classical age of Greek culture and the point of reference for defining ‘Greekness’, and Athens as the symbolic focus of this glorious heritage: not only was the city one of the most important political and military powers during these years; not only was the poetry and prose written in Athens during this period of particular quality and exerted an overwhelming influence; because of the linguistic movement of ‘Atticism’, all educated Ἕλληνες had to read and reread Athenian authors, and Athens became something of an intellectual home to all πεπαιδευμένοι, even if they lived far away from Greece and had never actually seen the city.⁷ Hadrian’s Panhellenion had its seat in Athens; this was a highly visible expression of this function of Athens as the religious, symbolic and cultural centre of the Greek world.⁸  ..: τὰς εἰς μνήμην παραδεδομένας τοῦ σύμπαντος κόσμου πράξεις, ὥσπερ τινὸς μιᾶς πόλεως […] ἀναγράψαι; cf. .., about earlier universal historians: οἱ […] τὰς κοινὰς τῆς οἰκουμένης πράξεις καθάπερ μιᾶς πόλεως ἀναγράψαντες; for the implications of these passages in terms of geographical imagination, see above, p. . On the universal aspect of Diodorus’ Library and its aims, see the illuminating analysis in Clarke’s article [], Corsaro [] and [], Wiater [] and [], and Most in this volume, p. .  For an example of this attitude, see the way Polybius gives short shrift to Athens at ..–.  For the concepts of semanticized space and lieux de mémoire, see the Introduction, above p.  with footnote .  This development may have been fostered, at least in part, by Roman interest in Athens as a symbol of Greek culture (and tourist attraction); see above, p. .  For the Panhellenion and its role in second-century politics and culture, see Spawforth and Walker [] and [], Jones [], Spawforth [], and Romeo [].

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The Image of Athens in Diodorus Siculus



From the beginning of the second century  on, we have an abundance of Greek texts which demonstrate the ways in which this historical model was produced and developed. It was not so much historiography itself which was paramount in this development, but texts in many other genres of (mainly) prose literature: texts around this still enigmatic and ill defined movement of the Second Sophistic such as a number of declamations and orations by Dio Chrysostom, Polemo, Herodes Atticus, and Aelius Aristides as well as the anecdotal account of the movement by Philostratus; rhetorical handbooks and treatises; the entertaining parodies and satirical pieces of Lucian; the Greek novels; Pausanias’s description of Greece, and of course hundreds of inscriptions all over the Roman Empire, to name but a few. What emerges from these texts is a relatively homogeneous picture of a golden age of Greek culture, with Athens as the centre of a cultural identity attractive and available to all those who saw themselves as Greeks. The texts we have from the late Hellenistic era and the first decades of the imperial period seem to be less interested in the great past and in Athens. Dionysius of Halicarnassus defines and propagates his own brand of classicism, but it seems rooted in language and literature, above all, and is not as easy to pinpoint in terms of a symbolic centre.⁹ Diodorus is one of the few Greek authors of the Augustan period whose works survive, and one of the very few who give an extended, coherent account of classical Greek history. If we succeed in teasing out at least some aspects of his view of Greek culture and its historical development, Diodorus, because of this intermediate position between the Hellenistic world and the Greek renaissance of the imperial period, would fill a real gap in our knowledge of what Greeks thought about their past. So my question will be: is our impression of such a break correct, or can we detect traces in his Library that prepare us for the classicizing outlook of the Second Sophistic? Hence, what I suggest to do in this contribution is taking a closer look at the place these classical and panhellenic values occupy in Diodorus’ Library. I will propose to compare his point of view to examples of the full-blown classicizing outlook of the second and third centuries. In so doing, I want to distinguish areas where later developments are at least hinted at in Diodorus’ writings from fields where his view of history seems very remote indeed from later writers. I will not be concerned with Diodorus’ ‘sources’ in this paper. Obviously, Quellenforschung is important for an author like him, and as everybody working in this field, I am deeply grateful to the work of scholars such as Eduard Schwartz, Richard Laqueur, or Felix Jacoby. But I would also insist that every compilation is a new creation in its own right¹⁰ and that we must take Diodorus seriously as evidence of the historiographical discourse of his time. As Philip Stadter []  has rightly reminded us, ‘Diodorus’ history too is a prism, altering the material it transmits’.  For Dionysius’ classicism, see Fox’s contribution in this volume, Gelzer [], Hidber [], and Wiater [].  For compilation as a fundamental principle of the ‘encyclopaedic universalism’ characteristic of the age of Augustus, see Most’s contribution in this volume at p. .

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

Thomas A. Schmitz

We begin by taking a look at Diodorus’ language. Modern commentators are unanimous in criticizing him for his use of a bland, monotonous style, a typical example of the somewhat boring Hellenistic Greek. This observation is certainly true. His use of numerous participles, pale compound verbs, and repetitious vocabulary makes his Library not very enjoyable to read. Nevertheless, we can observe that Diodorus paid close attention to questions of literary style. In the elaborate preface to the entire work, Diodorus celebrates the power of speech: συμβάλλεται δ’ αὕτη καὶ πρὸς λόγου δύναμιν, οὗ κάλλιον ἕτερον οὐκ ἄν τις ῥᾳδίως εὕροι. τούτῳ γὰρ οἱ μὲν Ἕλληνες τῶν βαρβάρων, οἱ δὲ πεπαιδευμένοι τῶν ἀπαιδεύτων προέχουσι, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις διὰ μόνου τούτου δυνατόν ἐστιν ἕνα τῶν πολλῶν περιγενέσθαι· καθόλου δὲ φαίνεται πᾶν τὸ προτεθὲν τοιοῦτον ὁποῖον ἂν ἡ τοῦ λέγοντος δύναμις παραστήσῃ, καὶ τοὺς ἀγαθοὺς ἄνδρας ἀξίους λόγου προσαγορεύομεν, ὡς τοῦτο τὸ πρωτεῖον τῆς ἀρετῆς περιπεποιημένους.

History also contributes to the power of speech, and a nobler thing than that may not easily be found. For it is this that makes the Greeks superior to the barbarians, and the educated to the uneducated, and, furthermore, it is by means of speech alone that man is able to gain ascendancy over the many; and, in general, the impression made by every measure that is proposed corresponds to the power of the speaker who presents it, and we describe great and good men as ‘worthy of speech’, as though therein they had won the highest prize of excellence.¹¹ (..–)

This hymnical praise of the power of speech is reminiscent of a number of classical precedents, e.g., a famous passage in Isocrates’s speech Nicocles (.–). Diodorus thus seems prepared to pay close attention to matters of language and style, and we can find a few passages in the work itself where this attention is visible. In book , Diodorus describes the famous embassy which the Leontinians sent to Athens in   and reproaches Gorgias for his style: πρῶτος γὰρ ἐχρήσατο τοῖς τῆς λέξεως σχηματισμοῖς περιττοτέροις καὶ τῇ φιλοτεχνίᾳ διαφέρουσιν, ἀντιθέτοις καὶ ἰσοκώλοις καὶ παρίσοις καὶ ὁμοιοτελεύτοις καί τισιν ἑτέροις τοιούτοις, ἃ τότε μὲν διὰ τὸ ξένον τῆς κατασκευῆς ἀποδοχῆς ἠξιοῦτο, νῦν δὲ περιεργίαν ἔχειν δοκεῖ καὶ φαίνεται καταγέλαστα πλεονάκις καὶ κατακόρως τιθέμενα.

[Gorgias] was the first to use the rather unusual and carefully devised structures of speech, such as antithesis, sentences with equal members or balanced clauses or similar endings, and the like, all of which at that time was enthusiastically received because the device was exotic, but is now looked upon as labored and to be ridiculed when employed too frequently and tediously. (..)

At a first glance, Diodorus’ condemnation of Gorgias’s language could be seen as a step towards Atticist purism; Dionysius of Halicarnassus is equally unimpressed with Gorgias’ excessive use of rhetorical figures.¹² There is an element of progress  All translations are from Oldfather’s Loeb edition.  Thuc.  = Thuc. idiom.  εὕροι δ’ ἄν τις οὐκ ὀλίγα τῶν θεατρικῶν σχημάτων κείμενα παρ’ αὐτῷ, τὰς παρισώσεις λέγω καὶ παρομοιώσεις καὶ παρονομασίας καὶ ἀντιθέσεις, ἐν αἷς ἐπλεόνασε Γοργίας ὁ Λεοντῖνος […]. ‘The ostentatious figures of speech are also to be found in this work in no

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

in Diodorus’ description which sounds familiar: the opposition between the admiration for Gorgias’ figures then (τότε μέν) and the disdain into which they have fallen now (νῦν δέ) is reminiscent of Dionysius’ classicism, which also proclaims that contemporary taste has overcome the vulgarity of Asianism.¹³ However, there is a decisive difference: unlike Dionysius, Diodorus does not blame any decadent intermediate period for this rhetorical decadence; he simply states that we are ‘now’ above such puerilities. Nevertheless, such passages are rare in Diodorus’ work. Occasionally, his style will rise to rhetorical heights which would blend into any sophistic declamation of the second century . To quote just two examples: the description of the battle of Pylos (..–) elaborates on one of Diodorus’ favourite topoi, the strange reversals of fortune, and uses a number of paradoxical antitheses that would not be out of place in the declamations of, e.g., Polemo; the hymnic praise of the men who fought and died at Thermopylae (.) sounds like a showpiece coming directly out of the rhetorical classroom. But such passages are exceptions in the Library; in general, the language and style of his writing show that Diodorus is not (yet) an example for the all-pervading Atticism of the second and third centuries , but I would suggest that he was not as careless and monotonous a writer as some critics claim. Another striking aspect of classicism during the Second Sophistic is rigorous canonization. In all areas of cultural and historical knowledge, there was a pretty clear distinction between what was considered first-rate and part of the cultural baggage of every educated man and what was non-canonical and could safely be ignored.¹⁴ Moreover, there was a marked tendency to reduce the classical past to this select number of great cultural and historical heroes. One striking aspect of this tendency can be observed in a number of historical blunders or inaccuracies. As I have tried to show elsewhere,¹⁵ writers and public were quite prepared to accept such inaccuracies and mistakes for the sake of a consistent, harmonious image of the classical period. Two examples will suffice: Polemo, in his declamations for the aftermath of the battle of Marathon, lets his speakers allude to the custom of the funerary oration (which was established at least a decade or so after  ) and emphasize the importance of the poet Aeschylus (whose first victory in the tragic competition is posterior to Marathon). Lucian, in his dialogue Anacharsis, has Solon explain the institution of political comedy to the Scythian Anacharsis, although this literary genre emerged several decades after Solon’s death. These are not merely historical blunders, but features significant for Lucian’s and the Second small number – I mean those parallelisms in length and sound, word-play and antithesis, which were excessively used by Gorgias of Leontini […].’ [transl. Stephen Usher]. Cf. Lys. , Isaeus , or Dem. .  For Dionysius’s classicism, see above, note .  On the establishment of this classicizing canon, especially the canon of the ten orators, see Smith [], Worthington [], and O’Sullivan [].  See my book on the Second Sophistic, Schmitz [], esp. –, and my contribution Schmitz [].

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

Thomas A. Schmitz

Sophistic’s view of classical Athens: for authors of this period (and apparently, for their audiences as well), Athens becomes a quasi-mythical place, an impressive scene on which heroes like Solon, Aristophanes, Socrates, and Themistocles all live together in a freefloating, timeless universe. Similar tendencies can be discovered in Diodorus. In book , Diodorus provides a brief summary of the great advances in all kinds of cultural areas during the Pentekontaetia, the period of  years between the end of the Persian wars and the beginning of the Peloponnesian war. In this account, Diodorus gives a list of writers and philosophers who were active during this period: ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τὰ κατὰ τὴν παιδείαν ἐπὶ πολὺ προέβη, καὶ φιλοσοφία προετιμήθη καὶ ῥητορικὴ παρὰ πᾶσι μὲν Ἕλλησι, μάλιστα δὲ Ἀθηναίοις. φιλόσοφοι μὲν γὰρ οἱ περὶ τὸν Σωκράτη καὶ Πλάτωνα καὶ Ἀριστοτέλην, ῥήτορες δὲ Περικλῆς καὶ Ἰσοκράτης καὶ οἱ τούτου μαθηταί·

And there was likewise great advance in education, and philosophy and oratory had a high place of honour among all Greeks, and especially the Athenians. For the philosophers were Socrates and Plato and Aristotle, and the orators were Pericles and Isocrates and his pupils. (..)

Like the cases in Polemon and Lucian mentioned above, this is of course an embarrassing blunder (and we have seen that Diodorus is liable to commit such atrocious mistakes): Plato and Isocrates were born during the last years of this period and can hardly be said to have been active during it; Aristotle was born several decades after the end of the Pentekontaetia. Yet what is more important than another proof of Diodorus’ unreliability as a historian: this mistake is quite understandable, almost unavoidable for someone who has an instinctive, vivid picture of what Athens looked like (or should have looked like) on its apex. For this classicizing outlook, it was quite obvious that the greatest politicians, orators, and philosophers must have been contemperaneous, that all these great cultural heroes rubbed elbows in this mythical city of Athens. And it is certainly no coincidence that all the names mentioned here made it into the canon of the Second Sophistic: the very fact that Diodorus could commit this mistake seems to suggest that these men were so present to his mind, embodied the very essence of classical Athens to such an extent, that he could not imagine the famous Pentekontaetia without them. Furthermore, it is wortwhile to emphasize that the very fact that Diodorus thought it important and necessary to include such a list in his account of the fifty years is highly significant. Usually, Diodorus’ historical writing has an irritating tendency to concentrate on wars and battles. This marked departure from his usual practice seems to suggest that he was already under the influence of tendencies that emphasize the ‘cultural’ part of Greek history.¹⁶ This is confirmed by the fact that we find a number of similar lists throughout his work. In book , after relating the events of the year  , Diodorus somewhat surprisingly inserts a list of men who were ‘memorable for their culture’ (κατὰ παιδείαν):  Cf. Borg (p. ), Whitmarsh (p. –), and Wiater (p. ) in this volume.

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

ὑπῆρξαν δὲ κατὰ τούτους τοὺς χρόνους ἄνδρες κατὰ παιδείαν ἄξιοι μνήμης Ἰσοκράτης τε ὁ ῥήτωρ καὶ οἱ τούτου γενόμενοι μαθηταὶ καὶ Ἀριστοτέλης ὁ φιλόσοφος, ἔτι δὲ Ἀναξιμένης ὁ Λαμψακηνὸς καὶ Πλάτων ὁ Ἀθηναῖος, ἔτι δὲ τῶν Πυθαγορικῶν φιλοσόφων οἱ τελευταῖοι, Ξενοφῶν τε ὁ τὰς ἱστορίας συγγραψάμενος ἐσχατογήρως ὤν· μέμνηται γὰρ τῆς Ἐπαμεινώνδου τελευτῆς μετ’ ὀλίγον χρόνον γεγενημένης· Ἀρίστιππός τε καὶ Ἀντισθένης, πρὸς δὲ τούτοις Αἰσχίνης ὁ Σφήττιος ὁ Σωκρατικός.

In this period there were men memorable for their culture, Isocrates the orator and those who became his pupils, Aristotle the philosopher, and besides these Anaximenes of Lampsacus, Plato of Athens, the last of the Pythagorean philosophers, and Xenophon who composed his histories in extreme old age, for he mentions the death of Epaminondas which occurred a few years later. Then there were Aristippus and Antisthenes, and Aeschines of Sphetta, the Socratic. (..)

This list emphasizes philosophers. It mentions Isocrates, Plato, and Aristotle whom we have already seen in the list closing the account of the Pentekontaetia in book ; in addition, we find Anaximenes the rhetorician, Aristippus, Antisthenes, and Aeschines the Socratic. This is remarkable for unlike Xenophon, who is also mentioned, these men never quite made it into the later canon. Hence, this list is a good illustration for the kind of comparison I propose between Diodorus and the fullblown classicism of the second century: it could of course be argued that Diodorus copied it word for word from his source (which, in this case, is probably Ephorus). But a writer for whom the classicist outlook has become a matter of course, would have hesitated about including figures such as Anaximenes and Aeschines – to him, these were relatively obscure names, not on a par with the great cultural heroes such as Plato and Isocrates. Moreover, even though this is a relatively weak argument as being e silentio, I think it is safe to say that no author from the Second Sophistic would have neglected to include the one orator who was probably the greatest of all cultural heroes, Demosthenes. Diodorus appears not to have had such qualms, and I suggest this may be a hint that in his time, the process of canonization was not yet finished. This becomes even clearer in the case of a third list which is included in book , after the account of the events of the year  : ἤκμασαν δὲ κατὰ τοῦτον τὸν ἐνιαυτὸν οἱ ἐπισημότατοι διθυραμβοποιοί, Φιλόξενος Κυθήριος, Τιμόθεος Μιλήσιος, Τελέστης Σελινούντιος, Πολύειδος, ὃς καὶ ζωγραφικῆς καὶ μουσικῆς εἶχεν ἐμπειρίαν.

And in this year [ ] the most distinguished composers of dithyrambic were in their prime, Philoxenus of Cythera, Timotheus of Miletus, Telestus of Selinus, and Polyeidus, who was also expert in the arts of painting and music. (..)

Again, such generalizations may be dangerous, yet I am reasonably confident that the composers of dithyrambs mentioned here would not have been considered worthy of note in the second century  because lyric poetry was not part of the classicist cultural canon. Hence, we seem justified in assuming that had Diodorus written (or compiled) his Library one century later than he actually did, he would not

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

Thomas A. Schmitz

have included these names. My tentative conclusion, then, would be: the inclusion of these cultural details and some of the choices Diodorus makes reveal traces of classicism, but this classicism is not very marked yet, it appears to be curiously unpolished. If we now turn to hard historical facts, we see immediately that Diodorus’ plan of writing a universal history is in itself opposed to the classicizing outlook of later centuries.¹⁷ For Greeks of the imperial era, it was just obvious that certain parts of history are so much more important than others; it was obvious that certain geographical and chronological areas could safely be ignored. Of course, the most striking consequence of this view was that in many writers of the second century , the Roman Empire just does not seem to exist; it is not mentioned at all. It goes without saying that this is not the case for Diodorus: his Library gives a universal account of Greek and Roman history; for reasons of patriotism, he is also very much interested in the history of Sicily. It could be argued that his careful balance of these various parts is in itself already an unclassical feature of his Library. This impression is bolstered when we look at the way in which Diodorus highlights various aspects of Greek history. From the classicist point of view, there were two summits of Greek history that eclipsed everything else, viz. the Persian Wars and Athen’s fight against Philip. In both cases, Athens played the most important role. Diodorus gives appropriate prominence to the Persian wars. Unfortunately, the part of his work which treated the battle of Marathon is lost, but book  narrates in detail the battles against Xerxes and the miracle by which Greece escaped enslavement. After the lavish praise bestowed on the men who fought and died at Thermopylae, it is somewhat surprising to see that on two occasions, Diodorus writes that other (relatively unimportant) battles were greater than the battles of the Persian wars. οἱ δὲ Ἀθηναῖοι συμμάχων ὄντες ἔρημοι καὶ τὰς ναῦς ὁρῶντες ἀχρήστους γεγενημένας, ταύτας μὲν ἐνέπρησαν, ὅπως μὴ τοῖς πολεμίοις ὑποχείριοι γενηθῶσιν, αὐτοὶ δὲ οὐ καταπλαγέντες τὴν δεινότητα τῆς περιστάσεως παρεκάλουν ἀλλήλους μηδὲν ἀνάξιον πρᾶξαι τῶν προκατειργασμένων ἀγώνων. διόπερ ταῖς ἀρεταῖς ὑπερβαλλόμενοι τοὺς ἐν Θερμοπύλαις ὑπὲρ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀποθανόντας, ἑτοίμως εἶχον διαγωνίζεσθαι πρὸς τοὺς πολεμίους.

The Athenians, being now without allies and seeing that their ships had become useless, set fire to them to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy, and then themselves, undismayed at the alarming plight they were in, fell to exhorting one another to do nothing unworthy of the fights they had won in the past. Consequently, with a display of deeds of valour surpassing in heroism the men who perished in Thermopylae in defense of Greece, they stood ready to fight it out with the enemy. (..–) Δοκεῖ δ’ ἡ παράταξις αὕτη μηδεμιᾶς ἀπολείπεσθαι τῶν ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν χρόνοις γεγενημένων παρατάξεων τοῖς Ἀθηναίοις· ἥ τε γὰρ ἐν Μαραθῶνι γενομένη νίκη καὶ τὸ περὶ Πλαταιὰς κατὰ Περσῶν προτέρημα καὶ τἄλλα τὰ περιβόητα τῶν Ἀθηναίων ἔργα δοκεῖ μηδὲν προέχειν τῆς μάχης ἧς ἐνίκησε Μυρωνίδης τοὺς Βοιωτούς.

 On Diodorus’ universal history, see above, note .

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

In my opinion this action was in no way inferior to any of the battles fought by the Athenians in former times; for neither the victory at Marathon nor the success over the Persians at Plataea nor the other renowned exploits of the Athenians seem in any way to surpass the victory which Myronides won over the Boeotians. (..)

In both cases, the comparison with the Persian Wars seems inappropriate even by today’s historiographical standards; for a Greek of the classicizing period, it would appear blasphemous: in ., the Athenians do not fight at all but conclude a truce with the Persians; in ., Myronides’ victory over the Boeotians does not mark any important historical event. Again, we see that Diodorus does not (yet) fully share the classicizing outlook of later writers. This becomes even more obvious in book , which narrates Philip’s rise and death. This was an important period for writers of the Second Sophistic. The most revered and admired of all Attic orators were active in this period, and they were engaged in pleading for or against Philip. Hence, for the Second Sophistic, this is a predominantly Athenian topic; Philip is seen almost exclusively from an Athenian perspective. In Diodorus, on the other hand, Athens is all but neglected in his account of Philip’s rise. The first time the city is mentioned at all is in . when Diodorus narrates Philip’s capture of Elateia and the ensuing panic in Athens. What we see here is quite interesting: on the one hand, Diodorus does not accord any special place to Athens, and hence, Demosthenes plays almost no role in his account; for Diodorus, he is just one among a number of Athenian politicians. This would be impossible within the classicist framework of the second century  where Demosthenes is possibly the greatest of all cultural heroes. On the other hand, Diodorus’ description of the events in Athens after the battle of Elateia closely follows the famous narrative in Demosthenes’s On the Crown (.–).¹⁸ As always with Diodorus, it is difficult or impossible to decide whether he was using this most famous speech of antiquity directly or whether he is quoting it secondhand;¹⁹ if this is indeed the case, we may also wonder if he was aware that he was following Demosthenes’ text. Whatever may be the case, the passage shows no clear signs that Diodorus was using it as an intertextual marker, that his readers were expected to decode it as an allusion to a well-known text. We can thus conclude that not only is Demosthenes’ place in Diodorus’ historical narrative very different from what it would have been a century or so later, not even the text of his greatest speech is awarded any special status. Demosthenes’ greatest political opponent, the orator Aeschines, is not mentioned at all in book . This is again significant, but here, our conclusion will remain ambivalent: On the one hand, Athenian domestic politics, especially the oratorical battles between Demosthenes and Aeschines, play an important part in the culture of the Second Sophistic because they provided so many opportunities for declamations. On the other hand, imperial authors had a very peculiar  On this narrative and its reception in antiquity, see Wankel [] .–.  On Diodorus’ use of Demosthenes, see Schwartz [] – = Schwartz [] –.

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understanding of the functioning of Athenian democracy; tyrants are constantly waiting in the wings, the popular assembly is spellbound by overwhelming speeches of overpowering rhetoricians, and these cultural heroes again and again save the day with their powerful words. Diodorus is not interested in domestic politics, as his silence about Aeschines shows. Yet when he refers to discussions in the assembly, his picture curiously resembles what Donald Russell [] has so aptly called ‘Sophistopolis’. A passage which makes this abundantly clear can be found in book : when Themistocles conceives his plan to make Piraeus into the Athenian harbor, he is at first reluctant to tell the Athenian people about it, and is promptly suspected of preparing tyranny. διόπερ τῆς βουλῆς πυθομένης τὰ κατὰ μέρος, καὶ κρινάσης λέγειν αὐτὸν τὰ συμφέροντα τῇ πόλει καὶ δυνατά, τὸ λοιπὸν ἤδη συγχωρήσαντος τοῦ δήμου μετὰ τῆς βουλῆς ἔλαβε τὴν ἐξουσίαν πράττειν ὅτι βούλεται. ἕκαστος δ’ ἐκ τῆς ἐκκλησίας ἐχωρίζετο θαυμάζων μὲν τὴν ἀρετὴν τἀνδρός, μετέωρος δ’ ὢν καὶ καραδοκῶν τὸ τέλος τῆς ἐπιβολῆς.

Consequently, when the Council learned all the details and decided that what he said was for the advantage of the state and was feasible, the people, without more ado, agreed with the Council, and Themistocles received authority to do whatever he wished. And every man departed from the Assembly in admiration of the high character of the man, being also elated in spirit and expectant of the outcome of the plan. (..)

After Themistocles has disclosed his plan to the council, there is no further debate; everybody agrees wholeheartedly and walks home ‘in admiration of the high character of the man’. Themistocles is one of the uncontested cultural heroes of classicizing historiography, so it is inconceivable that his proposal should be subject to discussion. Another indicator of his special status can be found later in book : when Themistocles is exiled from Athens, the narrator himself intervenes to express his astonishment at this turn of events and to rebuke the Athenians for their fickleness. εἰ δέ τις χωρὶς φθόνου τήν τε φύσιν τἀνδρὸς καὶ τὰς πράξεις ἐξετάζοι μετ’ ἀκριβείας, εὑρήσει πάντων ὧν μνημονεύομεν ἀμφοτέροις τοῖς εἰρημένοις πεπρωτευκότα. διὸ καὶ θαυμάσειεν ἄν τις εἰκότως, εἰ στερῆσαι σφᾶς αὐτοὺς ἀνδρὸς τοιούτου τὴν φύσιν ἠθέλησαν.

But if any man, putting envy aside, will estimate closely not only the man’s natural gifts but also his achievements, he will find that on both counts Themistocles holds first place among all of whom we have record. Therefore one may well be amazed that the Athenians were willing to rid themselves of a man of such genius. (..)

With this expression of admiration for one of the great classical heroes, Diodorus is close in spirit to Plutarch’s Lives. Like Plutarch, he emphasizes the moral value of his writings (e.g., ..) and presents his protagonists as villains or role models.²⁰ This is certainly one of the classicizing features of the Library. So far, we have seen that Diodorus presents a curious amalgam of elements which are far removed from the classicizing world of the second century and evince  For Diodorus’ Library as a ‘moral’ text and for possible political implications, cf. Wiater [].

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

that the process of canonization and classification was not yet complete at the time of his writing, and elements where we can sense that developments had set in which would later contribute to the view of the past which was predominant in the Second Sophistic. We have examined Diodorus’ relation to classicisim in the areas of style and of his Geschichtsbild. We will now turn to a third area, which will concern the creation of Greek identity, of ‘Greekness’. Of course, this concept is intimately connected to the topics we have just discussed: cultural features such as the common language of Atticism and a historical tradition which was modified in a way which allowed it to be claimed as a ‘heritage’ by many different people were, in the multi-ethnic East of the Roman Empire, the only way to produce a cultural identity. Hence, a particular brand of Greek history and Greek culture had to be invented: Athens and Sparta, Homer and tragedy, Demosthenes and Plato all became icons of ‘Greekdom’ by being taken out of their historical, social, or political contexts. By acquiring education in these fields, every person speaking Greek could become a true heir to the glory that was Greece. It should be evident that this process was closely intertwined with the creation of the classical canon: a rigorous selection ensured that this tradition would be attractive and accessible to people from many backgrounds, provided they have the leisure, economic means, and interest to acquire the necessary skills. As we have already seen, the Persian Wars were one decisive historical moment for the definition of Greekness. Diodorus is candid about the fact that a number of Greek states chose to be neutral, tried to remain outside of the danger so they could choose the winning side, or even fought with the Persians. Nevertheless, he shares the view, which was to become canonical and which represents the Persian Wars as a Greek fight for freedom and sees Athens and Sparta as the natural leaders of all Greeks. This becomes evident, e.g., in his account of Greek cities and tribes who fought on the Persian side. Χρήσιμον δὲ διορίσαι τῶν Ἑλλήνων τοὺς τὰ τῶν βαρβάρων ἑλομένους, ἵνα τυγχάνοντες ὀνείδους ἀποτρέπωσι ταῖς βλασφημίαις τοὺς προδότας γενησομένους τῆς κοινῆς ἐλευθερίας.

And now it will be useful to distinguish those Greeks who chose the side of the barbarians, in order that, incurring our censure here, their example may, by the obloquy visited upon them, deter for the future any who may become traitors to the common freedom. (..)

Again, we note the strong expression of the moral aim of the Library. Diodorus’ denunciation of these Greek cities as ‘traitors to common freedom’ follows classical precedents;²¹ at the same time, it conforms to the definition of Greek identity that was common in the Second Sophistic. Similar observations could be made, e.g., about Diodorus’ eulogy of the Spartans who ‘gladly offered up their own lives for the common salvation of all Greeks’ (..: τὸν ἑαυτῶν […] βίον προθύμως ἐπέδωκαν  See, e.g., Isocrates . (on the Thebans) ἁπάσης τῆς Ἑλλάδος προδόται καταστάντες ‘they became traitors of Greece as a whole’; cf. Isocrates .; Demosthenes ..

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εἰς τὴν κοινὴν τῶν Ἑλλήνων σωτηρίαν). Of course, this had been the continuous

tradition since the fourth century , so it cannot be used as an argument for new developments in Diodorus’ time. What may be more significant is the heavy emphasis Diodorus places on the special role of Sparta and Athens. When he describes the Greek capture of the Persian camp at Plataea as a competition between the ‘foremost peoples of Greece’, (..: ἡμιλλῶντο γὰρ πρὸς ἀλλήλους οἱ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἡγούμενοι Λακεδαιμόνιοι καὶ Ἀθηναῖοι), this expression can be paralleled with a similar formulation in Aelius Aristides (.: ὅτι τοίνυν οὐδὲ χείρους ἐγένοντο ἐκ τούτων Ἀθηναῖοι τὰ κατ’ ἤπειρον ἔδειξε μὲν ἡ Πλαταιᾶσι μάχη, ἐν ᾗ μόνους Λακεδαιμονίους ἐφαμίλλους ἔσχον ‘that the Athenians were not getting any worse when it

came to fighting land-battles is shown by the battle at Plataia, where they had only the Lacedaemonians for rivals’). On the other hand, for Diodorus, the Persian Wars were just one item in a long list of events in his universal history. One small detail is very revealing in this regard: the city of Plataea was destroyed twice,   by the Peloponnesians (.), and   by the Thebans (..). No writer of the second or third centuries  would have missed this opportunity for a long and tough diatribe against those who destroyed and enslaved the very city where all Greeks had won their freedom.²² When, e.g., we look at Pausanias’ account of Plataea (.–), it is clear that for him, Plataea is interesting because this is the place where this noble fight was fought; the name of the city is coextensive with the great battle. The first monument he mentions within the city itself are ‘the tombs of those who fought against the Persians’ (.. τάφοι τῶν πρὸς Μήδους μαχεσαμένων). For Diodorus, on the other hand, this connection is less instinctive; he can think of other, equally interesting facts about Plataea. For him, Greek history has not yet been reduced to these few classical moments. There is another aspect of his Panhellenic ideology which strikes me as being decidedly unclassical, Diodorus’ choice of Philip of Macedon as his Panhellenic hero.²³ The following text is just one out of many examples where this could be demonstrated. ἐπεθύμει γὰρ τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀποδειχθῆναι στρατηγὸς αὐτοκράτωρ καὶ τὸν πρὸς Πέρσας ἐξενεγκεῖν πόλεμον· ὅπερ καὶ συνέβη γενέσθαι.

For he was ambitious to be designated general of Hellas in supreme command and as such to prosecute the war against the Persians. And this was what actually came to pass. (..)

 See, e.g., the words of the sophist Dionysius of Miletus quoted by Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists ..; : ὦ αὐτομολήσασα πρὸς τοὺς βαρβάρους Βοιωτία. στενάξατε οἱ κατὰ γῆς ἥρωες, ἐγγὺς Πλαταιῶν νενικήμεθα ‘O Boeotia, you have deserted to the barbarians! Wail, you heroes beneath the eart, we have been defeated near Plataea!’  For Diodorus’ favourable judgment on Philip, see Prestianni Giallombardo [].

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

The Image of Athens in Diodorus Siculus

Philip’s role in the stereotypical classicizing account is a different one: he is the successful opponent of Demosthenes; the heroic role of Panhellenic leader against the Persians is reserved for men like Themistocles or Alexander the Great. We will now turn to the ‘cultural’ definition of Greekness. As we have seen, Diodorus includes information about cultural developments in his historical narrative. Furthermore, he refers to the common culture that is at the core of the definition of Greekness. A quotation from Homer’s Odyssey right at the beginning of the Library makes it clear that the author of this work is an educated person; at the same time, this quotation is trivial enough to be immediately recognizable by anybody who would ever pick up this book. διὰ τοῦτο τῶν ἡρώων ὁ πολυπειρότατος μετὰ μεγάλων ἀτυχημάτων πολλῶν ἀνθρώπων ἴδεν ἄστεα καὶ νόον ἔγνω·

This is the reason why the most widely experienced of our heroes suffered great misfortunes before Of many men the cities saw and learned their thoughts. (..)

This use of quotations is typical of writers who emphasize Greekness as common ground between themselves and their audience: the quotation is easily recognizable and will give the reader a feeling of belonging to the same cultural group, of sharing the values (and the knowledge) of the implied author.²⁴ Diodorus emphasizes that the historical figures he describes also demonstrate that they share this common heritage, a trait which appealed to later writers as well. Here are two examples for this feature: ὁ δ’ Ἐπαμεινώνδας πρὸς τοὺς λέγοντας προσέχειν δεῖν τοῖς οἰωνοῖς εἶπεν εἷς οἰωνὸς ἄριστος ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης.

Epaminondas replied to those who told him that he must observe the omens: One only omen is best, to fight for the land that is ours. (..)

With this apt use of a quotation from Homer (Iliad .), Epaminondas proves that he is a true πεπαιδευμένος, a true Greek in the full classicizing sense of word, partaking in Greek culture and capable of using it in an appropriate manner. The next passage claims that it was his classical παιδεία which helped Epaminondas develop his innovative tactics:

 Cf. Baumbach’s contribution in this volume on the function of Homeric quotations in Chariton’s Callirhoe.

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Thomas A. Schmitz

ἐπενόησε δὲ καὶ τὴν τῆς φάλαγγος πυκνότητα καὶ κατασκευήν, μιμησάμενος τὸν ἐν Τροίᾳ τῶν ἡρώων συνασπισμόν […].

Indeed he devised the compact order and the equipment of the phalanx, imitating the close order fighting with overlapping shields of the warriors at Troy […]. (..)

There is a number of similar stories in the Second Sophistic: for people of this period, it was unquestionable that all members of the political and social elite had to be educated, πεπαιδευμένοι, and they projected this expectation back onto the figures of classical Greece themselves. Even Homeric heroes are said to be educated and well-versed in rhetoric.²⁵ Diodorus can be seen to raise similar expectations about Epaminondas: as a great historical hero, he must also be a true Ἕλλην, and to be that, he had to conform to the standards of Diodorus’ time.²⁶ However, as we will see, this intimate connection between cultural values and the historical narrative is not yet fully established in Diodorus’ work. Two contrasting examples will demonstrate this. After the battle of Salamis, the Greeks awarded prizes to the city and the individual who had fought most bravely. The individual award goes to one Ameinias, as is already mentioned by Herodotus (..). The later historiographical tradition confuses this man with Cynegirus, the brother of the poet Aeschylus, who lost his hand when he tried to seize one of the Persian ships; this confusion can be found, e.g., in one of the fictitious letters of Themistocles (), where he is called ‘the son of Euphorio’, or in Aelian’s Historical Miscellany.²⁷ This apparent connection of cultural and historical values must have appealed to Diodorus; he includes the reference to Aeschylus in his account: διὸ καὶ κρίσεως προτεθείσης περὶ τῶν ἀριστείων, χάριτι κατισχύσαντες ἐποίησαν κριθῆναι πόλιν μὲν ἀριστεῦσαι τὴν Αἰγινητῶν, ἄνδρα δὲ Ἀμεινίαν Ἀθηναῖον, τὸν ἀδελφὸν Αἰσχύλου τοῦ ποιητοῦ· οὗτος γὰρ τριηραρχῶν πρῶτος ἐμβολὴν ἔδωκε τῇ ναυαρχίδι τῶν Περσῶν, καὶ ταύτην κατέδυσε καὶ τὸν ναύαρχον διέφθειρε.

When, therefore, a judgement was proposed to determine the prizes to be awarded for valour, through the superior favour they enjoyed they caused the decision to be that […] of men Ameinias of Athens [won the prize], the brother of Aeschylus the poet; for Ameinias, while commanding a trireme, had been the first to ram the flagship of the Persians, sinking it and killing the admiral. (..)

 See Schmitz [] –.  Stylianou []  speculates that Diodorus may have taken this highlighting of Epaminondas’s culture from his source, probably Ephorus; this can be no more than a conjecture, cf. Sacks [].  .: Αἰσχύλος ὁ τραγῳδὸς ἐκρίνετο ἀσεβείας ἐπί τινι δράματι. ἑτοίμων οὖν ὄντων Ἀθηναίων βάλλειν αὐτὸν λίθοις, Ἀμεινίας ὁ νεώτερος ἀδελφὸς διακαλυψάμενος τὸ ἱμάτιον ἔδειξε τὸν πῆχυν ἔρημον τῆς χειρός. ἔτυχε δὲ ἀριστεύων ἐν Σαλαμῖνι ὁ Ἀμεινίας ἀποβεβληκὼς τὴν χεῖρα, καὶ πρῶτος Ἀθηναίων τῶν ἀριστείων ἔτυχεν. Nigel Wilson’s otherwise excellent translation adds to the confusion by replacing ‘Salamis’ with ‘Marathon’: ‘The tragedian Aeschylus was brought to trial on a charge of impiety arising from a play. The Athenians were prepared to stone him, but his younger brother Ameinias rolled back his cloak and displayed the arm which had lost a hand; it happened that Ameinias had performed an exploit at Marathon [sic] which cost him a hand, and he was the first of the Athenians to be decorated for valour’.

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

Let us now look at a counterexample. In .–, Diodorus describes the battle of Delium ( ). For him, this is just a battle which the Athenians lost. For every writer of the Greek Renaissance, however, this not just another battle in the course of the Peloponnesian War; instead, there is an instantaneous association with a cultural hero: it is the famous battle in which Socrates fought and which was described, e.g., by Alcibiades in Plato’s Symposium (e–c).²⁸ I quote just one example out of the numerous passages one could adduce, from Lucian’s True Stories:²⁹ ἠρίστευσε δὲ καὶ Σωκράτης ἐπὶ τῷ δεξιῷ ταχθείς, πολὺ μᾶλλον ἢ ὅτε ζῶν ἐπὶ Δηλίῳ ἐμάχετο.

Socrates, who was stationed on the right wing, was brave, too – far more than when he fought at Delium in his lifetime. (.)

Again, we see that such intuitive connections between historical facts and cultural values are not yet fully established in Diodorus’ account. I want to conclude this overview by referring to a passage that I found especially revealing. In book , Diodorus describes the battle off the Arginusae. The night before the battle takes place, Thrasybulus, the Athenian commander, has a dream:³⁰ τῶν δ’ Ἀθηναίων ὁ στρατηγὸς Θρασύβουλος, ὃς ἦν ἐπὶ τῆς ἡγεμονίας ἐκείνην τὴν ἡμέραν, εἶδε κατὰ τὴν νύκτα τοιαύτην ὄψιν· ἔδοξεν Ἀθήνησι τοῦ θεάτρου πλήθοντος αὐτός τε καὶ τῶν ἄλλων στρατηγῶν ἓξ ὑποκρίνεσθαι τραγῳδίαν Εὐριπίδου Φοινίσσας· τῶν δ’ ἀντιπάλων ὑποκρινομένων τὰς Ἱκέτιδας δόξαι τὴν Καδμείαν νίκην αὐτοῖς περιγενέσθαι, καὶ πάντας ἀποθανεῖν μιμουμένους τὰ πράγματα τῶν ἐπὶ τὰς Θήβας στρατευσάντων.

And in the case of the Athenians Thrasybulus their general, who held the supreme command on that day, saw in the night the following vision. He dreamed that he was in Athens and the theater was crowded, and that he and six of the other generals were playing the Phoenician Women of Euripides, while their competitors were performing the Suppliants; and that it resulted in a ‘Cadmean victory’ for them and they all died, just as did those who waged the campaign against Thebes. (..)

When told about this dream, the seer in the Athenian army does not hesitate: this means unequivocally that all seven generals will die. Of course, Diodorus may have found this detail in his source,³¹ but it is again significant that he found it worthwhile to include it. He obviously thought that this might be of interest to his readers, and he presupposes some general knowledge about the Euripidean plays mentioned here. Again, it is the intimate connection between the historical figures and the great literary heritage of the classical age which makes this story appealing to Diodorus and his readers.    

See Patzer [] and von Möllendorff [] . For more examples, see, e.g., Maximus of Tyre .; Lucian, The Parasite ; Aelius Aristides .. For dreams and other portents in Diodorus, see Hammond []. The anecdote sounds suspiciously similar to what we hear about the emotional and rhetorical features of so-called ‘tragic history’. On such emotional passages in Diodorus, see Stylianou [] –.

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

Thomas A. Schmitz

A passage in Artemidorus’s book on the interpretation of dreams (Onirocritica) provides an apt comment on this story: ἔτι τῶν ὀνείρων τοὺς φιλολογωτέρους οὐδαμῶς οἱ ἰδιῶται τῶν ἀνθρώπων ὁρῶσι (λέγω δὲ τοὺς ἀπαιδεύτους), ἀλλ’ ὅσοι φιλολογοῦσι καὶ ὅσοι μὴ ἀπαίδευτοί εἰσιν. ὅθεν ἄν τις καὶ μάλιστα καταμάθοι ὅτι τῆς ψυχῆς ἔργα εἰσὶν οἱ ὄνειροι καὶ ὅτι οὐχ ὑπό τινος ἔξωθεν γίνονται. τῶν δὲ ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις λεγομένων ἐπῶν ἢ ἰάμβων ἢ ἐπιγραμμάτων ἢ ἄλλων ῥήσεων τὰ μὲν αὐτὰ παρέχει τὴν ἀπόβασιν, ὅσα γε αὐτοτελῆ διάνοιαν περιέχει. […] τὰ δὲ ἐπὶ τὴν ὑπόθεσιν τοῦ ποιήματος ἀναπέμπει τὴν κρίσιν, ὅσα μὴ αὐτοτελῆ διάνοιαν περιέχει. οἷον ἔδοξέ τις λέγειν θεράπαιναν τὰ Εὐριπίδεια ἰαμβεῖα ὄπτα, κάταιθε σάρκας, ἐμπλήσθητί μου. αὕτη ζηλοτυπηθεῖσα ὑπὸ τῆς δεσποίνης μυρία ἔπαθε κακά· ἦν γὰρ εἰκὸς τῇ ὑποθέσει τῇ περὶ Ἀνδρομάχην ἀκόλουθα γενέσθαι αὐτῇ τὰ ἀποτελέσματα.

Lay people (I mean uneducated persons) never see more literary dreams, only people who love literature and are well educated. This could be understood as a sure hint that dreams are products of the soul and are not induced by any external cause. Of hexameters, iambi, epigrams or other passages that are recited in dreams, some disclose the outcome themselves, when they contain a finished meaning. […] Others refer the decision to the poem’s subject matter, when they do not contain a finished meaning. E. g., a slave girl dreamed that she recited the verse by Euripides roast and burn my flesh, eat your fill of me. She aroused her mistress’s jealousy and had to suffer innumerable woes. For it was logical that the fulfillment should be according to the plot concerning Andromacha. (.)

Artemidorus explains that only educated persons are apt to have such φιλολογώτεροι ὄνειροι, an expression which I find it impossible to translate adequately (a literal translation would be ‘more educated dreams’). Before giving general rules as to the interpretation of such dreams and providing examples of them, he makes a very insightful remark: these visions suggest that dreams are not induced by any outside force, but are products of our own soul. Not only is this (almost Freudian) remark entirely to the point,³² it also helps us understand Diodorus’ historiographical methodology: he found such dreams interesting himself, and he presupposed similar interest in his readers; he expected that such a dream would not strike them as bizarre or unusual (as it might modern readers). And it demonstrates that the common cultural heritage influences even the unconscious. The results we have found are contradictory and thus difficult to summarize. We have observed that in a number of areas, Diodorus appears to anticipate developments that will be typical of the classicizing outlook of the Second Sophistic. On the other hand, there are numerous instances where he clearly betrays a vision which is incompatible with the later emphasis on a cultural definition of ‘Greekness’ and with the strict classicizing canonization. There is no clear-cut answer to the question ‘does Diodorus use classical Athens to produce a Greek identity’. It would  On ‘modern’ aspects in Artemidorus’ interpretation of dreams, see Walde [].

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seem that he was aware of the process of canonization which would soon clearly define which areas of language, literature, philosophy, and history were important and required knowledge of every true πεπαιδευμένος and which ones were not. Yet we see that this seems to be an ongoing process at his time and that he still hesitates what to include and what not. We have seen that his attitude to the great figures of Greek history closely resembles that of the classicizing period, but that his choice of such heroes would not have been considered appropriate a century later. His emphasis on the cultural elements in his historical narrative would have appealed to readers of the second century , but the connection between these fields is not yet close and automatic enough. I want to conclude with a speculative remark: I began this paper by pointing out how bad Diodorus’ reputation is in modern scholarship. Eduard Schwartz, in his still fundamental article on Diodorus in RE, gives one interesting reason for his negative judgment: Diodorus’ inclusion of Sicilian history, he writes, is ‘especially tasteless’.³³ Schwartz, like the entire scholarly tradition of the nineteenth century, had inherited a picture of Greek history that was still shaped by classicizing prejudices. Like the classicizing writers of the Second Sophistic, Schwartz was certain that some areas of history are intrinsically more worthwhile than others. Diodorus sits uneasily between two periods: he is neither part of this great classical past nor one of the writers whose veneration for this classical past makes us feel at home in their work because we share their judgments. Maybe this uneasy intermediate position is one of the reasons why Diodorus is such an unloved historian.  ‘Specielle Geschmacklosigkeit’, Schwartz []  = Schwartz [] 

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Manuel Baumbach

Paideia and the Function of Homeric Quotations in Chariton’s Callirhoe . Location Matters: Callirhoe’s Travels and the ‘Classical’ Greek Past Right from the start the Greek novel Callirhoe takes its readers on a multilayered journey: while Callirhoe as text originates in Aphrodisias, where a (fictitious?) Chariton locates himself as the author in an opening sphragis, Callirhoe as narration starts in Syracuse and constantly travels eastwards via Asia Minor (Miletus) to Babylon and finally back to Syracuse.¹ This direction of travelling in which the story will take both its characters and its readers, is mirrored in the first scene, where the suitors of Callirhoe are described as ‘pouring into Syracuse […] not only from Sicily, but from Italy, the continent, and the peoples of the continent’ (..).² The rumour of her beauty spreads east (and inspires suitors from various regions to come to Syracuse), and the beauty herself follows this direction and ‘visits’ the countries and some of the places of her fame. In her footsteps, the reader leaves the Greek speaking world, encounters foreign cultures and is constantly forced to change perspective: we look at Callirhoe and the other Greek characters (i.e., Chaireas and Polycharmus) with foreign eyes and approach foreign places and figures through the Greek perspective of Callirhoe and Chaireas. From this angle, the question arises whether the novel uses this constellation not only to entertain a Greek reading audience by the fictitious journey to foreign countries and a set of (erotic) adventures resulting from it, but also to discuss Greek identity³ in the late first century , to which the novel possibly dates back.⁴  A map of travelling in Callirhoe is given by Alvares []  (map B).  All translations are taken from Goold’s Loeb edition []. Rather than meaning the ‘Balkan peninsula’ (Goold [] , note d), I follow Zimmermann []  in taking ἠπείρου as an Atticism for Asia, cf. also Chariton ...  See Swain [] and Stephens [] with further literature on the topic.  On the dating and relative chronology of the novel, see Petri [] – and Bowie []. In view of both the external evidence (papyri, inscriptions, possible allusions in later authors) and the internal evidence (language, style, and historical evidence of monetary values, architecture and reference to Chinese arrows at ..), the majority of scholars now assume the time of writing to lie between   and  , which would make Callirhoe the earliest extant novel. With Alperowitz [] – we may also observe that the prominent role of Aphrodite in the story harmonises well with the encouragement of the Venus cult by Caesar; due to possible intertextuality with Virgil’s Aeneid, Tilg [] proposes a terminus post quem in  . An early dating (middle of the first century

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Manuel Baumbach

How do Greeks behave in a non-Greek environment, does the journey alter their self-perspective, and is the reader asked or enabled to read this story as a cultural discourse on Greek identity? On the figurative level, the question of Greekness and Greek identity is raised in Chariton’s Callirhoe by the protagonists time and again,⁵ most prominently after the summary of events at the beginning of the fifth book when Callirhoe is reflecting her status as a Greek in an emotional accusation of the goddess Fortune: Envious Fortune, happy to persecute a lone female, you immured me alive in a tomb, releasing me not from pity, but to place me in the clutches of pirates. Theron and the sea between them sent me into exile, and I, the daughter of Hermocrates, was sold into slavery! Then, a thing even harder to bear than being unloved, I aroused a man’s love and so, while Chaereas was still alive, became the wife of another. But even this you now grudge me, for you no longer banish me to Ionia. There the land which you gave me, though foreign, was still Greek, and I had the great consolation of living by the sea. But now you cast me forth from familiar surroundings and I am separated from my home by a whole world. This time you take Miletus from me, as before you took Syracuse. Carried off beyond the Euphrates, I, an islander born, am enclosed in the depths of a barbarian continent where no sea exists. What ship searching for me from Sicily can I now expect? I am torn away even from your tomb, Chaireas. Who is to pour libations for you, dear soul? Henceforth Bactra and Susa are to be my home, and my tomb. I shall cross your stream but once, Euphrates! I fear not so much the length of the journey, but rather that there too someone will think me beautiful. (..–)

Callirhoe reminds us of her Greek origin, her Greek religious customs, and the importance of living in Greek surroundings, which forms the longest part of her lament and stands in a climax after the loss of her husband and the notion of her re-marriage. Being Greek or better: being able to be Greek in a Greek cultural environment is most important for the heroine, who thus wants to (and finally will) return to her hometown. Callirhoe’s words circle around a discussion about Greek identity which can be found in the novel not only in connection with travelling but also with regard to the Greek history, language,⁶ and paideia displayed in the story. With regard to Greek history the plot of the novel is situated in a period of Greek cultural and political power in the late fifth century .⁷ Thus, Greek history is memorized, staged, and updated for the novel’s actual (and future) Greek readership in the late first century ) is proposed by Papanikolaou [] ; on attempts to ascribe a later date to Chariton (first to second century ) see Ruiz-Montero [] – and especially Bowie [] , who proposes a dating between   and  .  See for example .. (Callirhoe on Chaireas as an ἀνὴρ Ἕλλην) or ..- (Chaireas on Greek virtue in battle).  Chariton, like the other Greek novels, shows traces of Atticism (see Papanikolaou [] and Hernandez Lara []), which becomes a characteristic feature of most prose texts in the Second Sophistic displaying Greek paideia.  At the beginning of the story, Callirhoe is said (..) to be the daughter of Hermocrates, who defeated the Athenians in  .

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, which experiences Callirhoe’s struggle for Greek identity as displayed on a fictitious level in a time when the readers themselves were concerned with their own Greek identity under foreign reign, i.e., under Rome. It is interesting, however, that the novel in its first part (books –) does not primarily display a homogeneous Greek identity shaped in cultural encounter or struggle between Greeks and nonGreeks, but the Greeks themselves are presented as constantly in conflict with each other: Hermocrates is introduced as νικήσας Ἀθηναίους (..: ‘who defeated the Athenians’), Athens is no option for the pirates to sail to and sell Callirhoe as ‘they are a talkative lot and fond of litigation’ (..), and Phocas, the servant of Dionysius, is plotting and waging war against Chaireas and his crew in Ionia (..–). Thus, apart from the formal aspect of speaking Greek, Greeks are no unity with common interests, and the historical plot is not used to construct Greekness in relation to a uniform ‘classical’ Greek past as it can be found in many texts of the Second Sophistic with its construction (or invention) of a ‘classical’ Athens.⁸ Rather, the Greeks in Chariton’s Callirhoe are searching for their (cultural) identity in the first part of the novel, but they fail. Callirhoe and Chaireas are separated from each other, enslaved, and lose their home as basis for a happy life as free Greeks. Only in the second part of the novel does this situation change: travelling further east and following Herodotus’ landscape of the Achaemenid Persian empire,⁹ Greeks more and more get in contact (and conflict) with non-Greeks and Greekness is displayed in a much more unifying way. Not only do we watch the formerly weak character Chaireas change into a new Greek hero, defeating the Persian army, but Chaireas achieves his aim by referring to the most famous Greek victory over the Persians from the classical period: in his attempts to form a Greek division for the Egyptian army against the Tyrians in ..–, Chaireas selects  Greeks, reminding his internal and external audience of Leonidas’ battle of Thermopylae: ‘The same number of Greeks once stood up against Xerxes at Thermopylae. The Tyrians, however, are no five million in number, but only a few, and they rely upon impudence and bragging, not upon resolution and prudence. Let them realize the difference between Greeks and Phoenicians’ (..–). The heroic memory of this deed, which travels within literature as a winged word in the poetic memory of the Greeks in form of Simonides’ epigram and/or (for a Roman audience) in Cicero’s translation in Tusculan Disputations .,¹⁰ is the beginning of a reunion not only of Chaireas and Callirhoe within the story but an expression of a changing attitude towards Greeks and Greek cultural identity within and perhaps also outside the story: the Greeks from different places and regions, who are defeated and weak as long as they are separated and struggling with each other (books –), can achieve glorious deeds together in the common memory of their common heroic past (books –). At the end of the novel, not only the two Greek  See Schmitz [].  Cf. Romm [] –.  Cf. Baumbach [].

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

Manuel Baumbach

protagonists are unified and back in Greece, but their individual and public identity has changed: no longer do we hear about the Syracusan Greeks having defeated the Athenians or about their conflict with the Ionian Greeks. Instead, the son of Chaireas and Callirhoe, whom she has left with Dionysius, becomes a prospect for a new military alliance between Syracuse and Ionia (..) and the Greek army of Chaireas, consisting of Spartans, Corinthians, and other Peleponnesian Greeks (..) are granted citizenship in Syracuse by Chaireas and the assembly: ‘As for these three hundred Greeks, my valiant company, I ask you to make them your fellow citizens’ (..). Thus, the new assembly of Syracuse can be taken as a symbol of a new alliance between Greeks which has been constructed by the course of events in close relation to the ‘classical’ past of a Greek history and which is focussing on Sparta and its allies (i.e. Syracuse) rather than on Athens. In this regard, the new assembly represents the intended readership of the novel, to which the Ionian reader from the east (Aphrodisias, Miletus) as well as the Greeks of the Peloponnese and the west (Syracuse) belong. But the assembly also consists of Greeks with different cultural and educational backgrounds, so that the question arises to what extent the novel also discusses Greekness in terms of Greek paideia.

. Education Matters: Readership and paideia in the First Century  As has often been shown with regard to the period of the Second Sophistic, literature can help construct Greek identity in many ways.¹¹ Apart from idealizing certain cultural aspects and historical deeds or creating moral superiority of Greek characters in comparison with non-Greek figures, Greek cultural identity is often displayed by the use of paideia as an expression of elite superiority and a kind of habitus educated Greeks adopted to distinguish themselves from other Greek and Roman inhabitants of the Roman Empire in Imperial times. One therefore wonders to what extent a novel like Chariton’s Callirhoe already in the late first century  shows a similar use of Greek paideia with similar intention. In this context, the travels within the story form a perfect basis for such a literary discourse: as shown above, travels bring about a confrontation between Greeks and non-Greeks as well as other Greeks, which opens up room for displaying paideia, be it as a code amongst pepaideumenoi or as a means of defining oneself in opposition to the uneducated. Furthermore, the novel operates with a diversity of voices and socially distinct characters which can be characterised by the possession or lack of paideia. Thus, a reader of Callirhoe can use his/her own paideia as a key of decoding the discourse on Greek identity as it is displayed on the fictitious level of the story, and thus reflect upon his/her own  See for example the contributions in Goldhill [] and in Borg []. Whitmarsh []  stresses the fact that Greek ‘identity was not a self-evident, recognised “given” but a locus of conflict. Numerous writers venture to delimitate Greekness, but none of these should be taken as per se authoritative: they are all strategic, all self-interested attempts to control a radically elusive concept.’

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Paideia in Chariton’s Callirhoe

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Greek identity. But who read these novels? Did a certain contemporary readership influence the presentation of paideia and Greek identity in Chariton’s Callirhoe? The contemporary or ‘intended reader’ (Wolff) is but one of several concepts of the reader by which modern literary theory seeks to reveal the meaning of fictional texts.¹² In approaching Callirhoe in terms of the contemporary reader, an – in comparison to Wolfgang Iser’s ‘implied reader’ – historically limited perspective is deliberately chosen with regard to a possible cultural discourse on Greek identity conducted in the later first century  about the role of Greek education (paideia) and the use of literary traditions.¹³ Such an approach is opposed both to those theories which seek to identify tendencies of escapism in the Greek novel and to attempts to ascribe to it a mere entertainment value. It is, admittedly, not mistaken to see entertainment value in the novel,¹⁴ but it risks reducing or rendering inconsequent the complex potential of the aesthetics of influence of the novel; further, such attempts must differentiate as to how we should understand ‘entertainment’. An educated reader can and wants to be entertained in a way different from that of a less educated reader. Equally problematic are views which interpret the novel as a reverse image of everyday reality and speak of an escapist ‘longing of the individual […] to avoid his ordinary existence and to find in his novel-reading that which is denied him in real life’, and conclude that ‘in this, ancient love stories undeniably resemble modern paperback novels or even American soap operas.’¹⁵ Here again, the emphasis on one specific potential influence by implication excludes other and perhaps more fundamental possibilities. Both of these approaches, which are primarily associated with the earlier ‘idealising’ love story, assume an intended audience which had very limited literary expectations of the Greek love story. Besides the fact that such a reading public undoubtedly existed and that Chariton could certainly be read as an escapist text or as pure entertainment, it is equally incontestable that readers from all social levels could bring with them such expectations; it would therefore be mistaken to conclude from limited expectations of readers that they were not well-educated.¹⁶ The question is whether these novels merely sought to fulfil the expectations of  See the short account by Iser [] –, including a discussion of Wolff [].  In contrast, Wolfgang Iser’s model of the ‘implied reader’ involves a greater hermeneutical openness: ‘[the implied reader] embodies the totality of the pre-orientations which a fictional text offers its potential readers as conditions of reception’ (Iser [] ).  Cf. Kuch [] : ‘The adventure and love novel in its function on the whole seems to aim at simple entertainment.’  Paulsen [] –.  So, however, Perry [] : ‘The novel appears first on a low and disrespectable level of literature, adapted to the taste and understanding of uncultivated or frivolous-minded people.’ For the contrary view see Kuch [] : ‘Beyond this, even affluent classes and groups obviously inclined to harmless literary escapes in the realm of fiction, just as the desire for adventure was in any case pervasive, and it would be unacceptable without further ado to reduce this desire for experience to certain social classes.’

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

Manuel Baumbach

a ‘superficial’ reading, or whether they possessed a greater potential which was recognised and enjoyed by a more educated audience. At this point, two observations can be made. First, the question of the circulation of novels, which allows inferences about the extent of their reception, can only be answered with considerable reservations, due to the poor transmission of the texts. On the basis of an analysis of a comparatively limited number of papyri of novels from Greco-Roman Egypt, Stephens concludes that there was no popular reception of these texts.¹⁷ Egypt, however, is not necessarily representative of the Greek-speaking world. Moreover, if we were to follow this line of argument, a comparison of novel fragments with fragments of other contemporary authors would suggest that the novels enjoyed a circulation just as limited as, for example, Plutarch, Strabo, or Lucian,¹⁸ and, therefore, that they stood on the same level of readers’ favour as other non-canonical texts and genres of this period.¹⁹ Second, it is highly debated what percentage of the population at this time could actually read. Holzberg assumes a very limited number of readers for the Hellenistic period and the early empire, whom he locates essentially in the upper and middle classes;²⁰ Kuch []  and Stephens []  are of a similar opinion, the latter citing the view of Harris, who estimates that educated and literate citizens represented significantly less than   of the population in the first to third centuries . Further differentiation of readers according to age, gender, or reading habits would appear to be impossible, even if such hypotheses have been formulated. The attempt to identify women as an intended audience, or even as authors of novels writing under pseudonyms,²¹ ignores the texts to the same extent as Perry’s vision of an enthusiastic, youthful audience, which he presents with reference to Chariton: It is probable that Chariton’s romance was well known in the second century after Christ and that it was read by many people, particularly, we may suspect, by young people of both sexes. There is such a thing as juvenile literature even in our own highly sophisticated age; and in ancient times the ideal novel must have catered to that obscure but far-flung  Stephens [] : ‘The conclusion seems to me inescapable that the novels were not popular with the denizens of Greco-Roman Egypt – Christian or otherwise.’  Stephens [] : ‘There are six fragments of Achilles Tatius in total; only four published fragments of Plutarch, although each is from a different work; only two of Strabo, one of Lucian, and none of Libanius.’  Cf. Bowie [] : ‘I am not persuaded, however, that the typical reader envisaged by Chariton or Xenophon (far less by the sophistic novelists) was significantly different from the sort that we assume for the Lives and Moralia of Plutarch, for the historians, or for Lucian […].’  Holzberg [] , who also takes into account the leisure time implied: ‘[…] but so much can be said with certainty, that the number of those who had the ability and who could also afford to read a book merely for amusement was still reasonably small and included principally members of the upper and middle classes.’  Hägg [] – and Holzberg []  argued for women as the intended audience, the latter observing ‘that noteworthy phenomenon that the heroines are often depicted as being more active, more intelligent, and more attractive than their sometimes quite colourless seeming lovers’. For a convincing refutation, see Bowie [] . Very speculative on the oral tradition and restriction of the novel’s reception in single households is West [].

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literary market long before it became adapted in some measure to the taste and outlook of mature or educated minds.²²

By contrast, the above remarks lead to the conclusion that ancient readers of Greek novels belonged predominantly to the upper social classes, that it is to be assumed that their audience consisted equally of men and women, and that the question of the age of readers – which is, in any case, of limited importance for the interpretation of the texts – cannot be determined. At the same time, however, as the example of Chariton also shows, a less well-educated audience cannot be excluded, especially when it is considered that the novel could have been made accessible to an illiterate audience through public readings.²³ This possibility is strengthened by the fact that the text contains a number of summaries of the episodes, which effectively divide it into larger and smaller sections and which could be seen as reminding the reader – or hearer – of what has already been narrated. Such aids suggest an oral presentation of the text in two or more sessions. This aspect is particularly clear at the beginning of the fifth book, where an extensive recapitulation of the first four books occurs (..–). We may therefore assume with reasonable confidence that Chariton was extensively received, which is also reflected in a sense within the novel itself: not only do members of all social classes from the entire Greek-speaking world participate as characters in the action, but the entire city populations of Syracuse, Miletus, and Babylon hear of the events. A striking aspect here is Chariton’s integration of women, who are present both at the trial of Theron and in the citizen assembly in Syracuse when Chaireas and Callirhoe return. While the presence of women in the first assembly still appears to be an exception – ἐκείνην τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἂν ἤγαγον καὶ γυναῖκες (‘this assembly included women as well’, ..) – by the end of the novel, their presence is natural: λόγου δὲ θᾶττον ἐπληρώθη τὸ θέατρον ἀνδρῶν τε καὶ γυναικῶν (‘More quickly than words can tell the theater was filled with men and women’, ..).²⁴ The gradual establishment of women in the Syracusan citizen assembly²⁵ in the course of the narrative either belongs to Chariton’s poetics, which makes a woman the novel’s heroine and thus depicts the positive value of women in a fictional world, or it reflects the already changed social conditions of women in the Imperial age.²⁶ The population depicted within the novel is as heterogeneous and broad as any real population, and this raises the questions of whether and how Chariton  Perry [] ; cf. Bowie [] .  See Hägg [] .  Other sources for the participation of women in citizen assemblies under the empire have been examined by Korenjak [] –, who concluded (): ‘In literary sources, the presence of women in the citizen assembly […] always coincides with abnormal situations in various respects, and constitutes a historiographical topos which is associated with political emergencies or at least generally with exceptional circumstances.’  In the first assembly (..), the participation of women is not yet explicitly mentioned.  See generally Bauman [].

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

Manuel Baumbach

could or wanted to do justice to the diverse expectations of such a public. The pure entertainment value and escapist function do not need to be further considered in this context, as they represent over-arching possibilities for every kind of reader. It is more interesting to examine the traces of specific possibilities of reading which are directed to an educated public – irrespective of its precise localisation.²⁷ Here, the many allusions to and quotations from Greek literature are of central importance, and their significance and function can only be appreciated by a reader who recognises and understands them, as Bowie expressed it: ‘This requires readers who are mature, alert, and well-educated.’²⁸ Furthermore, through the above-mentioned poetological reflection on these genres (..), Chariton’s text also seeks a dialogue with readers²⁹ who, given their knowledge of the tradition, can recognise, analyse, and appreciate his novel genre mix. That which is new and exceptional about the text, the πολλὰ παράδοξα καὶ καινά (‘many strange marvels’, ..) which on the narrative level drive people into the theatre and make them listen to the story, on a meta-level becomes a challenge to educated readers to analyse the unusual composition of the novel in relation to their expectations based on literary conventions. Like authors writing Menippean satire, Chariton encourages the reader to expect that his work functions in terms of defined genres, only to disappoint these expectations. On the one hand, this leads to an education by way of these genres being put in question; yet on the other hand, Chariton necessarily works within this education, in that it is, of course, only within these parameters that his innovation can be recognised. Chariton’s novel situates itself consciously outside of the established genres in order to be able to speak freely about genres and mixed genres.³⁰ One aspect of this generic speaking is the usage of marked (quotations) or unmarked intertextual references to texts from different genres. In this regard, Chariton’s text presents the reader with a particular challenge: unlike many works, whose literary relations are presented in the code of unmarked intertextuality and thus address and require a well-educated readership to decode them, Chariton points out many of the intertextual connections with the Homeric epic by means of quotations.  Cf. Bowie [] : ‘That the educated classes of provincia Asia were indeed foremost among the intended readership of novels in general would certainly conform to what little can be inferred about the readership of Daphnis and Chloe.’ On the function of the numerous literary allusions in Longus and the interaction with an educated readership there see Hunter [].  Bowie [] . This, however, does not exclude the possibility of a successful reception of a more demanding text by a less demanding reader. Thus Manuwald []  observed that even without understanding the intertextual threads woven by means of quotations, ‘the less well educated reader could still enjoy the love story without difficulty’.  The dialogue between text and reader is emphasized at this point by the explicit mention of the reader, τοῖς ἀναγιγνώσκουσιν (..). For other elements of a direct dialogue with the reader see Kuch [] .  The aspect of the novelty of genre and the resulting question of the education of its readership is discussed by Hunter [], who concludes (): ‘The very variety of “the ancient novel” allowed novelists to exploit the expectation of a diverse and complex audience for the novels themselves’.

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In this way, he defines co-texts important for reception and invites the reader to pay particular attention to the explicit literary associations in the process of interpreting his story. This specific kind of intertextual dialogue has led to four observations on the function of the quotations.³¹ . Quotations are seen as having an affirmative purpose: as formal references to model texts upon which the novel depends they indicate to the reader foils with which the text is working in terms of the tradition of genre or motifs. Thus, Müller interprets the quotations from Homer in Chariton as an indication of ‘how he wants to see his novel classified in respect of genre’;³² Manuwald []  is of the opinion that through the ‘incorporation of quotations from historiography’ Chariton wishes his love story ‘to appear as a work of historiography’; Borgogno []  takes the quotations from Menander as proof of a ‘dipendenza di Caritone da Menandro’, and Hirschberger intends to shed more light on the ‘literary background’ of the text and its technique of quotation.³³ . Closely associated with this tendency is the interpretation of the quotations as a means of ennobling his own work, the bold display of his own education (the so-called ostentatious education). Insofar as, in the view of many scholars, legitimation only occurs through an appeal to canonical or ‘classical’ authors, reference is often made to Chariton’s use of the classical authors of the fifth and fourth centuries .³⁴ Yet this kind of analysis fails to account for the auhor’s ‘personal preference’ for Menander and Xenophon, while ignoring his quotations from non-canonical authors.³⁵ . The quotations help to characterise the figures in their emotional, rational, or active behaviour as well as in their paideia. The latter aspect is particularly

 Lists of the quotations can be found in the indices of Blake [] – and Goold [] –. On the role and function of quotations in the Greek novel in general see Fusillo [] –, and in Chariton in particular Borgogno [], Müller [], Manuwald [], Robiano [], Hirschberger [], and Vulgo Gigante [].  Müller [] . Later, he writes ‘he [Chariton] regards his novel as nothing less than an epic narrative in the tradition of the Homeric poems.’  Hirschberger [] : ‘Ziel der folgenden Untersuchung ist es zum einen, den literaturgeschichtlichen Hintergrund aufzuzeigen, aus dem sich eine solche literarische Technik erklärt.’  See Manuwald [] . To a large extent, Chariton’s quotations are from canonical authors, who are chosen for their purity of language and because they are regarded as appropriate representatives of various genres and thus as literary examples. Quintilian, Institutio oratoria ..–, provides a canon of model authors for aspiring orators.  The poetic language suggests a range of allusions and quotations which, due to the loss of these texts in transmission, are no longer recognisable for the modern reader. Cf. also Perry [] : ‘Nor is it only in the Homeric quotations that Chariton employs poetry; his prose is full of reminiscences of the iambic lines of New Comedy and sometimes of Sophocles and Euripides; so that, as Cobet demonstrates, it is often very easy to turn Chariton’s sentences into verse.’

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prominent in the presentation of Dionysius, who makes constant reference to the classical canon and quotes from Homer three times.³⁶ . Finally, the quotations of canonical authors enable Chariton to shorten his own narrative, as he allows the quotations to do part of the narrating for him.³⁷ At the same time, an important function is the expansion of the action to embrace the context of the quotations, which – as in the case of the quotations from Homer – can serve as an aid to interpretation. In this way, Chariton weaves a web of Homeric quotations into his narrative which, in view of their function as pointers, serve to project the action of the novel onto a second, Homeric level and at the same time make the epic an integral element of the meaning of the events described in the novel.³⁸ In all cases, the reader is asked to use his/her paideia to locate the quotations in their original context, which will then help the interpretation of the narrative. But whereas the four approaches mentioned above view the quotations in Chariton mainly as being employed in an affirmative manner, a further aspect cannot be overlooked: the possibility of the inappropriate³⁹ or misunderstood use of quotations in order to depict the characters ex negativo and/or to confuse the reader in the attempt to decode the passage with the help of his/her paideia.⁴⁰ In both cases, such a use of quotations would have a negative effect: on the fictitious level of the characters the manifest claim to education would be questioned by misused or misunderstood quotations, while an educated reader would be tested in his/her ability to interpret every quotation ‘correctly’. As the example of Homeric quotations will demonstrate, this does not mean that a positive and negative use of quotations exclude each other; rather, this complexity is part of Chariton’s strategy.

. Homeric Matters: Characters and paideia in the Fictitious World of the Late Fifth century  Homer is present as a sub-text and employed as such in more than  quotations and verbal echoes,⁴¹ and he is the only author quoted who is also named (..). With two  Cf. Hirschberger [] –.  See Müller []  on the Homeric quotations: ‘The author suspends himself from his principal task – to narrate – and surrenders it, if only for a moment, to the founding father of the epic genre, who speaks in his place.’  Cf. Müller [] .  This does not concern authorial ‘adaptation’ of quotations by changing the names, a technique discussed by Manuwald [] , but rather the quotations in the characters’ speeches, in which no deviations from the Homeric text can be seen.  Thus Manuwald []  on the Homeric quotation in the appearance of Callirhoe at the trial in Babylon (..), which she immediately discounts as an aid to interpretation: ‘The author is obviously only interested in the association with Homer established in this context.’  See also Müller [] , who observes ‘that within one book, the reader encounters a quotation from Homer every two to ten pages’. Around two-thirds of the quotations are taken from the Iliad. A short commentary on each quotation is given by Vulgo Gigante [].

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exceptions,⁴² these are not marked as quotations but are – often through changes of the original word order – fully integrated into Chariton’s text. This produces a double effect. On the one hand, the quotations do not interrupt the harmonious flow of reading, and thus do not disturb the less well-educated reader.⁴³ On the other hand, precisely this anonymous quoting suggests that Chariton aimed at an educated readership whose level of education is put ot the test by reading such a text.⁴⁴ In this case, the technique is not as systematically implemented as in Lucian’s True Stories,⁴⁵ but Chariton also plays an intellectual game between author and reader. The distribution of the quotations among the speakers produces the following picture. Most of the Homeric quotations – like the quotations from other authors – are part of the authorial narrative.⁴⁶ The remaining quotations are given to Dionysius (..; ..; ..), Chaireas’ mother (..), Mithridates (..), Chaireas (..; ..; ..), and Artaxerxes (..). This distribution shows that Homer is cited exclusively by members of the upper social classes; furthermore, with the single exception of Chaireas’ mother, Chariton places all of the quotations in the mouths of men. This situation may be seen as a reflection of a society in which literary education was largely reserved for men; such an explanation is consistent with the fictional time frame of the narrative (late fifth century ),⁴⁷ and receives additional support from the fact that unlike her male counterparts, the female protagonist, Callirhoe, never includes literary quotations in her speeches. At the same time, however, Callirhoe ‘knows’ Homer, as is evident, for example, from her requesting that Dionysius accompany her home by way of an allusion to Alcinous in the Odyssey: ‘You know how we admire Alcinous; we all love him for sending his suppliant back home’ (τὸν Ἀλκίνοον ἀγάμεθα δὴ καὶ πάντες φιλοῦμεν ὅτι εἰς τὴν πατρίδα ἀνέπεμψε τὸν ἱκέτην, ..). However general this allusion may be, Callirhoe’s speech displays a sound rhetorical training: not only does the reader get the impression that she could easily have included a quotation, but Dionysius himself acknowledges her ability: ‘she also has the gift of persuasive speech’ (πρόσεστι δὲ αὐτῇ καὶ ἡ τῶν λόγων πειθώ, ..). If  On these, see Müller [] .  Cf. Manuwald [] : ‘Through the various ways in which the quotations are integrated, the enjoyment of finding them is increased, while at the same time, the seamless transition from his own text to a quotation means […] that the uninformed reader cannot feel disturbed in his understanding of the novel by his ignorance.’  Cf. Manuwald [] , with reference to echoes of historiography in the form of half-sentences, which ‘due to their general content are only recognisable to the literary experienced reader’.  See the programmatic announcement in the proem, ‘that every part of my story contains ironic allusions to old poets, historians, and philosophers […] whom I would also have named, were it not that the reader could identify them for himself’ (Lucian, True Stories I. ; translation by the author).  ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ..; ... On differing calculations of the number of quotations see Manuwald []  n. .  In the archaic and classical periods, literary education of women was limited to and reserved for specific circles (Sappho) and social groups (hetaerae). Only from the Hellenistic period onwards is there evidence for school education for girls; cf. Nilsson []  and Marrou [] .

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we further take into account the Homeric complaint of Chaireas’ mother and the participation of women in public life, no gender-specific difference in education seems to be indicated by the number of quotations alone. Rather, the quotations are used to reflect the level of education of the individual figures.⁴⁸ The first two Homeric quotations occur within the authorial narration and enhance the description of an emotional shock. At .., the narrator comments on Callirhoe’s reaction to the news of her impending marriage with a verse from the Odyssey: ‘At this her knees collapsed and the heart within her’ (τῆς δ’ αὐτοῦ λύτο γούνατα καὶ φίλον ἦτορ, .). The quotation illustrates the situation described in the narrative, and – apart from the original Homeric context – serves to increase both the dramatic tension and the rhetorical character of the passage; although he could have written in prose, Chariton here preferred to express himself in elegant verse. The second authorial quotation (Iliad .–), at .., also illustrates a moment of strong feelings, this time of Chaireas, who receives the report of Callirhoe’s alleged adultery. Combined with the contextual reference to Achilles’ reaction to the news of Patroclus’ death, this also continues the comparison of Chaireas with Achilles present already in the proem:⁴⁹ ὣς φάτο· τὸν δ’ ἄχεος νεφέλη ἐκάλυψε μέλαινα, ἀμφοτέρῃσι δὲ χερσὶν ἑλὼν κόνιν αἰθαλόεσσαν χεύατο κὰκ κεφαλῆς, χαρίεν δ’ ᾔσχυνε πρόσωπον.

At these words a black cloud of grief enveloped him, and with both hands taking sooty dust he poured it down over his head and defiled his beautiful features.

Each of these two Homeric quotations is regarded by the narrator as an appropriate means of illustrating strong feelings. For this purpose, he draws on both the Iliad and Odyssey, and distributes the quotations equally among male and female protagonists, which underlines the author’s supreme command of the Homeric text. The nonauthorial quotations from Homer must be assessed against these two since with them the author has established quantitative parameters: no quotation by a character is longer than that of the author at ...⁵⁰ The first character who takes over the author’s role of inserting quotations into his speeches is Dionysius. In contrast to Chaireas and Callirhoe, he is not only indirectly compared with Homeric figures and feelings by the author but can also  Cf. Hirschberger [], who emphasises the intentional, active usage of paideia on the fictitious level, which helps Dionysius to achieve his aims as well as prevents him from misbehaviour (): ‘Aufgrund seiner παιδεία lehnt er es ab, Kallirhoe zum Beischlaf zu zwingen, was ihm bei einer Sklavin freistünde.’  ..: Χαιρέας γάρ τις ἦν μειράκιον εὔμορφον, πάντων ὑπερέχον, οἷον Ἀχιλλέα καὶ Νιρέα καὶ Ἱππόλυτον καὶ Ἀλκιβιάδην πλάσται καὶ γραφεῖς 〈ἀπο〉δεικνύουσι (‘Now there was a certain youth named Chaireas, whose handsomnes surpassed all; resembling the statues and pictures of Achilles and Nireus and Hippolytus and Alcibiades’).  Most of the quotations consist of only one or two verses; three verses are quoted on only one other occasion, by the Persian king at ...

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draw on Homer directly. In purely formal terms, he stands on the same level as the author himself, which seems to be justified, as Dionysius – again in contrast to the other two protagonists – is presented as being exceptionally well-educated: ‘Dionysius, who outranks all other Ionians in wealth, family, and education’ (Διονύσιον πλούτῳ καὶ γένει καὶ παιδείᾳ τῶν ἄλλων Ἰώνων ὑπερέχοντα, ..).⁵¹ What could be more natural for him than to give a first indication of his education with a Homeric quotation? An opportunity for such a quotation presents itself at his first encounter with Callirhoe in the temple of Aphrodite. Dionysius believes that he has witnessed a divine epiphany and rejects every attempt at a rational explanation of his slave Leonas with beatings and Homeric arguments (..–): θεασάμενος οὖν ὁ Διονύσιος ἀνεβόησεν “ἵλεως εἴης, ὦ Ἀφροδίτη, καὶ ἐπ’ ἀγαθῷ μοι φανείης.” καταπίπτοντα δὲ αὐτὸν ἤδη Λεωνᾶς ὑπέλαβε καὶ “αὕτη” φησὶν “ἐστίν, ὦ δέσποτα, ἡ νεώνητος· μηδὲν ταραχθῇς. καὶ σὺ δέ, ὦ γύναι, πρόσελθε τῷ κυρίῳ.” Καλλιρόη μὲν οὖν πρὸς τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ κυρίου κάτω κύψασα, πηγὴν ἀφῆκε δακρύων ὀψὲ μεταμανθάνουσα τὴν ἐλευθερίαν· ὁ δὲ Διονύσιος πλήξας τὸν Λεωνᾶν “ἀσεβέστατε” εἶπεν, “ὡς ἀνθρώποις διαλέγῃ τοῖς θεοῖς; σὺ ταύτην λέγεις ἀργυρώνητον; δικαίως οὖν οὐχ εὗρες τὸν πιπράσκοντα. οὐκ ἤκουσας οὐδὲ Ὁμήρου διδάσκοντος ἡμᾶς καί τε θεοὶ ξείνοισιν ἐοικότες ἀλλοδαποῖσιν ἀνθρώπων ὕβριν τε καὶ εὐνομίην ἐφορῶσι;”

At the sight of her Dionysius cried, ‘Aphrodite, be gracious to me, and may your presence bless me!’ As he was in the act of kneeling, Leonas caught him and said, ‘Sir, this is the slave just bought. Do not be disturbed. And you, woman, come to meet your master.’ And so Callirhoe bowed her head at the name of ‘master’ and shed a flood of tears, learning at last what it means to lose one’s freedom. But Dionysius struck Leonas and said, ‘You blasphemer, do you talk to gods as you would to men? Have you the nerve to call her a bought slave? No wonder you were unable to find the man who sold her. Have you not even heard what Homer teaches us? Oft in the guise of strangers from distant lands, the gods watch human insolence and righteousness.’

The quotation is perfectly appropriate for an epiphany – except that here, there is no epiphany. In its explanatory and, with regard to the uneducated slave, decidedly didactic function, it is thus rendered redundant: Leonas, Callirhoe, and the reader all recognise the truth, so that Dionysius, in his attempt to make sense of it with the aid of his education,⁵² ‘his’ Homer, not only inevitably fails but makes himself a laughing stock. The apparently justified expectation of frequent epiphanies of

 Similarly, ...  Cf. Vulgo Gigante [] : ‘Anzi il “dotto” signore gli indirizza un aspro rimprovero per mezzo di una citazione testuale di alcuni versi odissiaci autenticandoli col nome di Omero.’

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Aphrodite in Miletus does not change anything:⁵³ unlike Leonas,⁵⁴ Dionysius does not allow himself to be convinced of the opposite by explanations and refuses to change his view even when the supposed goddess herself discloses his error.⁵⁵ The scene becomes a parody of his person and his education. He quotes Homer correctly, but employs him inappropriately, and what should serve as a proof of his education in fact places its value in question. The πεπαιδευμένος (..) Dionysius is discredited through his education, he cannot convince those present, and he can certainly not follow in the footsteps of the author. It appears that he is characterised merely by a training in words rather than by an education in life. This scene disavows Dionysius but not Homer, who continues to be referred to by the narrator and other characters. The next two echoes of Homer (..; ..) are introduced once more by the narrator and are both appropriate to the specific situation and, significantly, pertain to Dionysius. His quotation from Homer is commented on with Homer, and the speaker is disclosed as self-pitying (..)⁵⁶ and unstable (..).⁵⁷ The presentation and deconstruction of Dionysius resembles the aristocratic concept of education, discussed in many texts of the Second Sophistic: at first sight, Dionysius’ self-perception and his view of the world conform completely to the ideal of ἤθους καὶ παιδείας ἕνεκεν,⁵⁸ until his conduct and quotations prove him to be only half-educated and the exact opposite of what he seems to be.⁵⁹ Quotations from Homer are thus employed by Chariton to an affirmative and a negative effect alike, depending on whether the quotation confirms or refutes the intended statement of the narrator. The author can either convey his intentions directly to the reader through authorial citations or conceal them through the selection of quotations put into the mouths of his characters. In either case, the paideia of the reader is challenged to recognise the quoted passages and their contexts and to use them to interpret the shifting dialogue of novel and hypertext. At the same time, the construction of clusters of quotations from a particular author or work in the course of the text broadens the perspective of the reader from a specific, context She is referred to at ..; ...  Leonas’ belief in an epiphany at .. evaporates immediately in face of Theron’s explanation that it is really only the slave Callirhoe (..). It is precisely such an explanation from Leonas which is not accepted by Dionysius (..).  Cf. his reaction after Callirhoe’s words at ..: λαλούσης δὲ αὐτῆς ἡ φωνὴ τῷ Διονυσίῳ θεία τις ἐφάνη (‘As she spoke, her voice sounded to Dionysius like that of a goddess’).  Τούτων ἀκούων δὲ ἔκλαιε προφάσει μὲν Καλλιρόην, τὸ δὲ ἀληθὲς ἑαυτόν (‘On hearing this, Dionysius wept, ostensibly for Callirhoe, actually for himself’); cf. Iliad .–.  Ἄφωνος ἐγένετο, καί τις ἀχλὺς αὐτοῦ κατεχύθη πρὸς τὸ ἀνέλπιστον (‘he could not speak, and a mist spread over his eyes’); cf. Iliad ..  On the educational ideal of the Second Sophistic, see Schmitz [] –; the various qualities of character and attributes of an educated individual are also ascribed to Dionysius: σεμνός (..), καλός (..), πεπαιδευμένος (..), παιδεία (..), ἀρετή (.., ..), as well as good birth (γένει […] ὑπερέχοντα, ..).  Dionysius’ inappropriate display of his knowledge of Homer confirms the picture of the half-educated which the orators of the Second Sophistic warn against because he does not know ‘when he should refrain from exhibiting his education’ (Schmitz [] ).

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related function of individual quotations to a reflection about the general function of quotations and the possibilities and limits of their contextualisation. To take one example: the first citation of Homer at .. immediately confronts the reader with a problem. The given verse has more than one context in Homer and occurs at various places in both the Odyssey (., etc.) and the Iliad (., etc.). Readers familiar with Homer must decide whether any wider context is alluded to in addition to the quotations themselves, particularly in the case of quotations which describe a general emotional condition; moreover, they are asked to decide from which of several possible passages – and contexts – the quotation derives. One can decide in favour of one particular passage, as, for example, the editor Goold does,⁶⁰ or one can leave the question open. In the latter case, given the recurrence of the quotation at .. and .., there is a further possibility for its contextualisation which Chariton offers his readers and which we can define as contextualisation within the novel: an unspecific quotation, chosen intentionally by the author, is repeatedly contextualised anew through retrospective association with specific events or characters, and must be discussed in the light of this usage. The Homeric voice is thus filled with Chariton’s meaning, Chariton appears as the ‘Homeride der Prosa’,⁶¹ and epic poetry becomes the vehicle of prose narration. The exchange with Homer at the level of the characters and the narrative thus becomes a dialogue about Homer and about the possibilities and limitations of his role in the narrated world of Chaireas and Callirhoe and in the narrative structures of Chariton’s novel. This dialogue can only be carried out with educated readers. At the narrative level, Dionysius’ unreflected application of his knowledge of Homer to his non-Homeric present illustrates the problem of an education that does not stand in any relation or cannot be applied to everyday (fictional) realities. A character such as Dionysius, who is constructed like a Homeric hero, fails precisely at the moment when he seeks to act like a Homeric hero and when he attempts to interpret or understand his environment with sole reference to Homer. In this way, Dionysius becomes a tragicomic figure and is brought to his limits due to his Homeric pretentions and thought patterns, just like other characters who appeal to Homer: Chaireas’ mother, who fashions herself as an altera Hecuba with a citation from the Iliad (.–), yet does not realise that Chaireas’ departure is not a question of a Trojan battle and defeat but of a love story (..); Artaxerxes’ vision of Callirhoe as Nausicaa (..) is probably less to be taken as evidence for knowledge of Homer in Babylon, designed to demonstrate the king’s understanding of the poet, than as tragic irony insofar as the king’s comparison unintentionally articulates the impending end of his relationship with Callirhoe, at least in the eyes of an educated readership. To this extent, characters’ quotations from Homer are often associated with false perceptions or hopes,⁶² so that one invariably gets the impression that  Goold []  refers to Odyssey . for the citation at .., while identifying the other two occurrences with Iliad ..  Müller [] .

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these characters, at the moment they are speaking, are living in another world. The reader, whose παιδεία makes him/her feel superior to the πεπαιδευμένοι in the text, recognises this. If Dionysius’ inept appropriation of Homer diminishes his potential as a figure of identification for the reader, however, this does not apply to all characters alike. Of the three protagonists, Callirhoe stands apart from this discourse as her education is nowhere discussed and therefore not questioned. Throughout the novel, she remains a quasi-divine figure, whose potential as a figure of identification remains unaffected by social-cultural criteria. Thanks to the development of his character, Chaireas, on the other hand, gains in profile also with respect to education, as he enters into a quoting competition with Dionysius, which is perceptible only to the reader: Chaireas, too, quotes Homer three times, but starts doing so only after Dionysius has finished with his quotations (..) and then takes over Dionysius’ role of displaying his literary paideia. It is striking that the quotations coincide with Chaireas’ character development, and from book  all authorial quotations from Homer (with the exception of ..) are also applied to him. Chaireas’ transformation from a tragic figure to an epic hero in the course of the story is thus underlined by Homeric quotations. Chaireas’ narration at the end of the novel is an entertaining and exciting adventure and love story for the entire population, yet in terms of its language and narrative technique it is a particular pleasure for an educated audience: Χαιρέαν δὲ κατεῖχε τὸ πλῆθος, ἀκοῦσαι βουλόμενον πάντα τὰ τῆς ἀποδημίας διηγήματα. κἀκεῖνος ἀπὸ τῶν τελευταίων ἤρξατο, λυπεῖν οὐ θέλων [ἐν] τοῖς πρώτοις καὶ σκυθρωποῖς τὸν λαόν. ὁ δὲ δῆμος ἐνεκελεύετο “ἐρωτῶμεν, ἄνωθεν ἄρξαι, πάντα ἡμῖν λέγε, μηδὲν παραλίπῃς.”

But the crowd detained Chaereas, wanting to hear all he had to tell of his adventures abroad. He began with the end, reluctant to distress the audience with the grim events at the beginning. But the people insisted, ‘Start from the beginning, we beg you. tell us everything, leave nothing out.’ (..)

Insofar as Chariton leaves it to his hero to tell the story,⁶³ just as he did earlier through some of the Homeric quotations, he symbolically hands the entire narrative (πάντα τὰ […] διηγήματα) over to Chaireas, but, as the director of the narrative, he stages this transfer at a place where it belongs: the dramatic-heroic story of Chaireas and Callirhoe is performed in the theatre of Syracuse, and thus enters into competition with the two major genres of drama – tragedy and comedy – which are traditionally performed on this stage. Conscious of the potential effect  Similarly, Dionysius’ quotations from Homer at the erection of a memorial for Chaireas not only underline the mistaken assumption that Chaireas is dead, but also result in a contradictory identification: at .., Chaireas cites Patroclus’ words from Iliad ., yet only a few lines later, at .., Chaireas is compared to the dead Achilles (Odyssey .).  On this aspect cf. Chaireas’ first narration of the events at ... Here, there is a parallel to the Odyssey: Chaireas – like Odysseus and Penelope (.–) – narrates his experiences (i.e. those parts of the novel which he has lived through) to Callirhoe after he has recognised her.

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of his story on his audience, Chaireas – now an omniscient narrator – considers changing the sequence of the story, but the audience demands that he ‘start at the beginning’, that is, that he tell the story just as Chariton had told it. This request of the people conforms to the experience of the reader, who can imagine himself amidst the theatre audience and declares his solidarity with it. The audience within the text (which encompasses all social classes, age-groups, and both sexes) thus becomes representative of the external readership but receives the novel in a different way, namely through recitation. The novel can be narrated and experienced in episodes, as can be seen in the plot summaries mentioned above and as is hinted at by Hermocrates when he refers to the familiar part (..) which has already been told at the same place and, partly, by Chaireas himself (..): ‘As for the first part of the story, the people themselves already know that’ (τὰ μὲν οὖν πρῶτα τῶν διηγημάτων ἤδη καὶ ὁ δῆμος ἐπίσταται). Chaireas’ narration of the events of the novel at its end invites the reader to recall the story by hearing or reading it a second time, albeit more briefly. This invitation can be associated with the unusual character of the narrative: besides a naturally exciting subject of the πάθος ἐρωτικόν (..), Chariton offers his recipients above all a novel narrative technique which not only almost syncretistically moulds elements of traditional genres into a new form,⁶⁴ but also seeks to establish a discourse with the educated reader precisely about this mode of presentation. Not only can the reader experience the creative combination of different genres in the novel, he/she can also appreciate the many inter-textual allusions along the way with which Chariton evokes other possible narrative approaches. At the same time, the quotations remind the reader of the rich literary tradition,⁶⁵ yet without granting this tradition a paradigmatic role for the design of the story: none of the texts which are quoted or alluded to provides a key to the interpretation of the structure of Chariton’s story, which is possible only through the interplay of texts from various genres. For this reason, the reader must also distance him-/herself from Dionysius as a πεπαιδευμένος, since knowledge of Homer alone, while sufficient (when employed correctly) for communication between the characters, is not so for the dialogue between text and reader about the creative use of the literary tradition. The numerous quotations from other texts in the classical educational canon pose a continuous challenge to the reader to measure the level of his/her education by the number of quotations he/she can identify; moreover, the πεπαιδευμένος, as the intended reader, will also understand their function as part of the narrative concept of Chariton’s novel. As pars pro toto, every quotation refers to a text in the educational canon which – like

 Cf. also Bakhtin [] : ‘The significance of such genres as the love elegy, the geographical novel, rhetoric, drama, the historiographic genre in the genesis of the Greek romance may be variously assessed, but one cannot deny a very real syncretism of these generic features. The Greek romance utilized and fused together in its structure almost all genres of ancient literature.’  See also Müller [] : ‘[…] the citation is the expression of a literary tradition in which author and audience both share.’

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the quotations themselves – can be used in either an affirmative or a negative fashion to characterise the speaker. And this is precisely how this use of quotations loses its absolute, educational claim. These evocations of the classical literary canon are brief excursions whose function for Chariton’s text is neither specifically ennobling nor constitutive. Rather, they characterise the particular design of a text that displays several means of linking itself to various generic traditions, without, however, belonging to any of them: Callirhoe does not allow itself to be pigeon-holed in any established category. *** It has often been observed that the Greek novels were never included in the literary canon,⁶⁶ but perhaps they were not meant to be. Perhaps they were designed to be a literary form which made it possible to speak about literature and its genres without being part of this tradition. The often recognised openness of the novel for elements of other literary genres would then be a function of a literary discourse consciously employed by the authors to integrate elements of various genres into a homogeneous new whole in order to release concealed literary potential. This form of a selective, in part intuitive or associative, yet no longer quotation-oriented mimesis constitutes a particular challenge for the recipient, as his/her paideia, trained on the classical texts, is suspended in these texts. Cultural and literary knowledge based on the canonical authors is no longer a key for reading and understanding the novel: rather, the novel’s potential meaning is constituted through the mixture of genres, new contextualisations, and fictional digressions, and all of these are employed by the πεπαιδευμένος to create a καινὸν διήγημα (..) in which education itself and the ways it is addressed in contemporary discourse have become a literary theme. In Chariton’s work at least, we find precisely the creative use of the literary tradition and the subtle compositional technique which critics often deny to the earlier love stories.⁶⁷ He does, in fact, belong to those authors of novels who ‘elevate the reading of their novels away from an act of nonconscious reception. They compel their readers to reflect on and evaluate their own ability to read.’⁶⁸  Cf. Bowie [] .  See e.g. Bartsch [] , who speaks of the ‘less sophisticated works of Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus’; Perry [] , who, in spite of his otherwise balanced analysis of Chariton, arrives at the conclusion that ‘[t]he defects in Chariton are mainly those of the species itself. Except for his exaggerations and his partial surrender to the growing conventions, he writes Greek romance as it should be written. […] It is unfair to complain because he is not above his subject; a sentimental story needs to be written by a sentimental author; not by a sophist.’  Pace Bartsch [] –: ‘It clears the path for an intriguing discovery: that the sophisticated novels of Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius differ from the writings of Chariton and Xenophon of Ephesus, and even of Longus, precisely in that they are not content with merely making use of the ‘sense-making ability’ of the reader with regard to the descriptive conventions that we have considered at some length. Rather, these two authors elevate the reading of their novels away from an act of nonconscious reception. They compel their readers to reflect on and evaluate their ability to read […].’

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The question of whether or not the interaction between text and reader always functions in the way the author intended must remain open – with any literary text. Winkler is right to point out that the author decides on the rules and the direction.⁶⁹ Yet precisely by invoking texts outside of his own by means of quotations, Chariton gives up control to a certain extent. He cannot determine whether and how these quotations will be understood: he can only test it for himself as a reader of his own text.  Winkler [] : ‘The author may do what he wants, whatever his imagination may devise. He is not telling us about a life – that we already have – he is telling us a story – that is what we come to hear. The rules are his, the moves are his; if successful, the applause is his.’

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[] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] [] []

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

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[] Wiater, Nicolas: ‘Geschichte als imaginäres Museum. Zum Geschichtsmodell in Diodors Bibliotheke’, WüJbb N.F.  () –. [] Wiater, Nicolas: ‘Geschichtsschreibung und Kompilation. Diodors historiographische Arbeitsmethode und seine Vorstellungen von zeitgemäßer Geschichtsschreibung’, RhM  () –. [] Wiater, Nicolas: ‘Zankapfel Klassiker: Streit und Gelehrtenkontroverse als Konstituenten des griechischen Klassizismus im . Jh. v. Chr. in den Schriften des Dionysius von Halikarnass’, in [] –. [] Wiater, Nicolas: The Ideology of Classicism. Language, History, and Identity in Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte ). de Gruyter: Berlin . [] Wilke, Brigitte: ‘De mortuis nihil nisi bene. Elaborierte Mündlichkeit in den attischen Grabreden’, in [] –. [] Willers, Dietrich: Hadrians panhellenisches Programm: Archäologische Beiträge zur Neugestaltung Athens durch Hadrian. Vereinigung der Freunde Antiker Kunst: Basel . [] Winkler, John J.: Auctor & Actor. A Narratological Reading of Apuleius’ Golden Ass. University of California Press: Berkeley . [] Wisse, Jakob: ‘Greeks, Romans, and the Rise of Atticism’, in [] –. [] Wolff, Erwin: ‘Der intendierte Leser. Überlegungen und Beispiele zur Einführung eines literaturwissenschaftlichen Begriffs’, Poetica  () –. [] Woolf, Greg: ‘Becoming Roman, Staying Greek: Culture, Identity and the Civilizing Process in the Roman East’, PCPS  () –. [] Wooten, Cecil: Cicero’s Philippics and Their Demosthenic Model. The Rhetoric of Crisis. University of North Carolina Press: Chapel Hill . [] Worthington, Ian: ‘The Canon of the Ten Attic Orators’, in [] –. [] Worthington, Ian (editor): Persuasion: Greek Rhetoric in Action. Routledge: London . [] Wright, Maureen R.: Cicero on Stoic Good and Evil. De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum Liber III and Paradoxa Stoicorum, Edited with Introduction, Translation and Commentary. Aris & Phillips: Warminster . [] Yarrow, Liv Mariah: Historiography at the End of the Republic. Provincial Perpectives on Roman Rule. Oxford UP: Oxford . [] Zabulis, Henrikas: ‘Cicerone nel trattato Del sublime’, Ciceroniana  () –. [] Zanker, Paul: Augustus und die Macht der Bilder. Beck: Munich . [] Zetzel, James: ‘Plato with Pillows. Cicero on the Uses of Greek Culture’, in [] –. [] Zimmermann, Franz: ‘Ein verkanntes Wortspiel bei Chariton’, Philologus  () –.

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Index

Academy  acculturation , , ,  Achaeans  Acharnai  Achilles  Achilles Tatius  Acropolis  actor  Aelian ,  Aelius Aristides , , ,  Aeolic ,  Aeschines , , ,  Aeschines Socraticus  Aeschylus , , , ,  Agatharchides of Cnidus  ἀγωγή – Agrippa , , ,  ἀκυρολογία  Alcaeus  Alcibiades  Alcman  Alexander Polyhistor , ,  Alexander the Great , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Alexandria , , , , , , , , ,  Ameinias  Ammaeus ,  Ammianus Marcellinus  Ammonius  Anacreon ,  analogisation s. σύγκρισις  analogy , , , , , , , ,  Anaximenes of Lampsacus  Ancus Marcius  Andronicus of Kyrrhos ,  Antinous ,  Antiochus of Ascalon  Antipater of Sidon  Antipater of Thessalonica , , , , –, – Antiphanes ,  antiquarianism  Antisthenes  anti-historicism , , –, , 

anti-imperialism  Antonia , , , ,  Antonia Minor ,  Antonius, Marcus (grandfather of Marc Antony)  anxiety of influence , ,  Aphrodisias  Aphrodite , –,  Apollodorus of Artemita  Apollodorus of Pergamon  Apollonia  Appian  Appius Claudius Pulcher  Aquillius, M’  Arcadia  archaism  Archias ,  architecture  Ares , , –, , – Ariobarzanes Philopator  Arion  Aristarchus of Samothrace  Aristides  Aristippus  Aristodemus of Nysa ,  Aristonicus of Alexandria , , ,  Aristophanes –, ,  Aristophanes of Byzantium , , ,  Aristotle , , , , , , , , , ,  Aristoxenus  Arrianus  Arrius  Artemidorus  Asclepiades of Myrlea , , – Asia ,  Asia Minor , ,  Asiani  Asianism , , , , –, , ,  Asinius Pollio ,  assimilation  Athenian chora – Athenodorus Cordylion of Tarsus  Athens , , , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , – , 

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

Index

Attalus ,  Attalus II  Attic , , –, –, , , , –, , ,  Attica  Attici , ,  Atticism , , , , , , –, –, , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , ,  Atticism, Roman  Aufbruchsstimmung  Augustan culture , , , – Augustan political culture – Augustine  Augustus , , , , , , , , , – , , , , –, , –, –, –, –, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  authority, literary  autochthony ,  Babylon  Bacchiadae  Bacchylides  barbarism  barbarization ,  Bassae  battle of Actium , , , , ,  battle of Kynossema  battle of Marathon , , , ,  battle of Pharsalus  battle of Plataea  battle of Salamis  battle of Thermopylae , , ,  bilingualism , , ,  Bion of Borysthenes  Boethius  Brutus  Brutus, L. Iunius  Brutus, M. Iunius , , , ,  Byzantium  Caecilius Niger, Q.  Caecilius of Caleacte , , , , –,  Caesar, donation to Athens ,  Caesar , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Caesar, L. 

Calenus  Callimachus , , , ,  Lock of Berenice  Callippus ,  Calvus, C. Licinius Macer , ,  canon , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  canonization , , , , , , , , ,  Cantabrian war  Caracalla  Casca  Cato the Elder ,  Cato the Younger  Catullus  Catulus, Q. Lutatius  Cestius Pius, L.  Chabrias  χαρακτῆρες τῆς λέξεως  charisma ,  Chariton , – Charon of Lampsacus  Chrysippus  Cicero , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, –, , , – , , , , , –, , ,  Brutus  de divinatione  de oratore  Cicero, Quintus  citizenship ,  classicism , , , , , –, , , , , , –, ,  classicism, Greek – Claudius Claudianus  Cleitarchus  Cleopatra  Cleopatra Selene  commemoration , – common usage see κοινή compilation , , , , ,  Conon  Constantinus VII Porphyrogennetos  continuity, cultural –,  Corcyra  Corinth ,  Cornelius Epicadus  Cornelius Nepos  Crassus 

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Index

Crates of Mallus  Cremutius Cordus, Aulus  Crinagoras of Mytilene , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , – Ctesias of Cnidus  Cyclades  cycle of constitutions  Cynegirus , ,  Cyrus the Great ,  Damascius  Damascus  Delos  Delphi  Demeter  Demeter and Kore  Demetrius ,  democracy  democracy, Athenian  Demon of Athens  Demosthenes , , , , , , , , –, , , , , ,  dialect , , , , ,  διάθεσις ,  Didymus Claudius  Didymus of Alexandria –,  Didymus the Younger of Alexandria  διακαιοσύνη  Dio Chrysostom ,  Diocles  Diodorus  Diodorus of Sardis , , , , ,  Diodorus Siculus , , , –, , , , , , , , , –, – Dionysius of Halicarnassus , , , , , –, , , , , , , , –, , , , –, –, , –, , , , , , , –, , ,  Dionysius of Miletus  Dionysius Thrax , ,  Domitius Ahenobarbus  Doric  Droysen, Johann Gustav  Egypt , , ,  Elateia  Eleusinian mysteries  ἐλευθερία , ,  ἐμπειρία 



encomium , ,  encyclopaedic universalism , ,  Epaminondas ,  ephebate  Ephesus  Ephorus –, ,  Epictetus  Epicureanism ,  Epicurus ,  epideictic rhetoric  Eratosthenes of Cyrene  Erechtheion , , , ,  ἦθος ,  Etruscan  Etymologica  etymology , , , , , ,  Euboea  euergetism  Eukles of Marathon  Eumenes II  Euphorio  Euripides , , , , ,  fatigue  Flamininus, T. Quinctius  flattery  formalism  Fortune  freedom  Fulvius Flaccus, Q.  Galen  Garland of Philip  Gellius  geography  Germanicus ,  Gorgias  Graecus  grammar – Greekness  gymnasium  Hadrian , , ,  Hannibal  Hecataeus of Miletus  Hegesias of Magnesia  Hellanicus of Mytilene , ,  Hellene-Barbarian antithesis , , , , ,  hellenisation , , , , , 

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

Index

ἑλληνισμός , , , , 

Hellenistic scholarship  Hellenization , , ,  Heracleia  Heracleides of Magnesia  Heraclitus  Hermagoras  Hermes ,  Hermocrates  Herod the Great , ,  Herodes Atticus , ,  Herodes of Marathon  Herodotus , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  heroisation – Hesiod , , ,  Hierocles of Alabanda  Hieroetas  Himerius  historia perpetua  historians of the Augustan period – historicism , –, , , , ,  historiography  Homer , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , – homology  Horace , , , , , , , , , ,  Horologium, Athens – Hybreas of Mylasa  Hyginus ,  Hyperides , ,  Hypsicrates of Amisus  Iberians  Ibycus  imagined community , , ,  imitation ,  imperial cult , –  interpretatio Graeca  Ionia  Ionic ,  Irenaeus  Isaeus  Isocrates , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Istros , ,  Italian 

Italy , , , , ,  Iulius Marathus  Iulius Nicanor  Jerome  Josephus  Judaea  Julia  Julia Balbilla (wannabe-Lesbian)  Kant, Immanuel  κοινή , ,  Labienus, Q. Atius  Lampsacus  Latin poetry of the Augustan period  Latinisation  Latin, Greek dialect ,  Latin, Greek knowledge of , , , ,  legionary, Roman ,  Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm  Lentulus, Cornelius  Lesbonax , ,  Lesbos , , ,  lex Iulia  λέξις ,  Libanius  lingua franca  Livia  Livius Andronicus  Livy , , ,  Longinus  Longus ,  Lucceius, L.  Lucian , , ,  Lycurgus  Lysias –, ,  Lysimachus  Macrobius  Magi  Marathon , ,  Marc Antony , , , , , , ,  Marcellus , , , ,  Marcius Philippus, L.  Mariandynus  Marsyas of Pella  Maximus of Tyre  Megasthenes ,  melancholy 

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

Index

Melian Dialogue  Menander , , ,  Menecles of Alabanda  Menippean satire  Menippus  Menodorus  Messala Corvinus  Metilius Rufus ,  Metrodorus of Scepsis  Miletus ,  μίμησις , , , , , , , , , –,  Mithradates , ,  Mithradatic Wars , , , , , , ,  mixed constitution ,  morphology  Mummius  Myronides  mythography  Mytilene ,  – nanny-goat  narrative identity  Nauplius ,  Neoptolemus  Nero  Nero, Ti. Claudius ,  Nestor of Tarsus  Nicander  Nicolaus of Damascus , , , , , , , , –, – Nile  Nonnus  norm , , ,  Numa Pompilius  Octavia  Octavian see Augustus οἰκουμένη , , ,  Olympia  Onesicritus of Astypaleia  opposition, anti-Roman  orator  Orion  orthography , ,  Otacilius  Othryadas ,  Ovid , 

παιδεία , , , , , , , , , , ,

–, , , –, , , – παιδεία, Isocrates’ model of  παιδεία, rhetorical  παιδεία, Roman interest in 

Palamedes  pantomime  Pan  Panaetius , , , ,  Pancrates ,  Pantainos ,  paradoxography  parrot ,  Parthenius ,  parts of speech , ,  πάθη ,  patronage , , , , , , , , –, , , – Pausanias , ,  Peloponnesian War, the ,  Pergamon , , ,  Pericles , , , ,  Peripatetics , , ,  Persian Wars , , , , , , , ,  Phaeacians  Phaenias  Pharsalos  Philip II of Macedon , ,  Philip of Thessalonica , , , , –  Philip V of Macedon  Philiscus  Philo of Larissa  Philodemus  Philodemus of Gadara , ,  philology  philosophos rhetorike ,  philosophy  Philostratus , , ,  Philoxenus of Alexandria , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Philoxenus of Cythera  Phyle  Pictor, Quinus Fabius  Pilutus  Pindar , , ,  Pisa  Piso, L. Calpurnius , , –, ,  Piso, L. Calpurnius P. Caesonius 

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

Index

Pitholaus  Pius, L. Cestius (of Smyrna)  Plataea  Plato , , –, , , , , , ,  Plato comicus  Platonism ,  Platonists  Pliny the Elder  Plotinus  Plutarch , , , , , ,  Polemo , ,  politikoi logoi  Pollux  Polybius , , , , –, , , , , , , ,  Polyeidus  Pompeius Geminus, Cn.  Pompeius Macer  Pompeius Macrinus Neos Theophanes, M.  Pompeius Strabo, Gn.  Pompeius Trogus  Pompeius, son of Hieroitas, Theophanes  Pompey , , , , , , , , , ,  Porphyry  Posidonius , , , , , , ,  Potamon , , , , , , , ,  προεδρία  prologue  Prometheus ,  propaganda , , ,  pseudo-philosophization ,  Pylaemenes  Pythagoras ,  Pythodorus of Tralles  quasi-divinisation  Quintilian , , ,  reciprocity , , – rhetor  rhetoric ,  Rhine ,  Rhodians  role-playing ,  Roman  Romanness  Rome , , , , , , , –, , ,

, , –, –, , , , –, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,  Rufinus  Rutilius Rufus ,  Sallust  Samos ,  Sappho  satyr play  Scheria  science  Scipio  Second Sophistic , , , , , , , , , , , –,  Selene  Seleucus  self-fashioning  semanticization of space ,  Seneca the Elder , , , ,  Seneca the Younger  Sextus Empiricus , , ,  Sibylline Oracles  Sicily  Simonides  Sisenna  Social Identity Theory  Socrates ,  solecism ,  Solon  sophist  Sophocles , , ,  Sosander  Sotion  Spain ,  Sparta , ,  Spartans  spearman of Ares  speeches  Stoa  Stoic vision of history  Stoicism , , , – Stoics –, ,  Strabo , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , –, , ,  Strato  Suda , ,  Suetonius , , ,  Sulla , , , , , ,  Sulla, C. Faustus 

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Index

symposium  σύγκρισις , , , – syntax  synthesis  Syracuse , ,  systematization –, , – Tacitus , , , , ,  Tarsos  taste  τέχνη  τέχνη γραμματική   Telestus  temples – Teos ,  Terpander  Teucer of Cyzicus  Thales  Themistocles , , , , , ,  Theocritus ,  Theodorus of Gadara  Theophanes of Mytilene , , , , , , , , ,  Theophrastus ,  Theopompus of Cnidos  Thermopylae  Theseus , ,  Thomas Aquinas  Thrasybulus  Thucydides , , , , , , , , , , , –, , , , , ,  Thyillus  Tiber 



Tiberius , , , , –, ,  Timaeus  Timagenes of Alexandria ,  Timotheus  Tiro  Titias  translatio  Troy , ,  Tryphon of Alexandria , , , , , , , , ,  Tubero, Q. Aelius ,  Tullus  Tullus Hostilius  Tyche  Tyrannion (the elder) , , , , , , , ,  Tyrannion (the younger) = Diocles ,  Varro , , , , , ,  Velleius Paterculus  Verres, C.  Vespasian  Virgil , , , , ,  Vitruvius , –, , ,  Voltacilius  Xanthus the Lydian  Xenagoras  Xenophon , , , , , , , , , , ,  Xenophon of Ephesus  Xerxes 

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Passages Discussed

Cassius Dio ..  Chariton Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe .. ,  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..–  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..–  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..–  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Callirhoe ..  Cicero Arch. ,   Fin. .  Fin. .–  Off. .–  Q Fr. ..–  Q Fr. ..  Q Fr. ..  Tusc. .  Tusc..–  Verr. .. 

Aelian VH .  Anthologia Palatina .  ..  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ,  .  ..  .  . ,  .  ..  .  .  . ,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ,  . ,  Anthologia Planudea .– ,  Artemidorus .  Augustus Res Gestae .  Res Gestae .  Res Gestae   Caecilius of Caleacte Synkrisis of Demosthenes and Cicero 

,

Diodorus Siculus ..–  ..–  ..  ..  ..–  ..  ..  ..  ..–  ..  ..  ..  .. 

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

Passages Discussed

Dionysius of Halicarnassus Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. .. ,  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..–  Ant. Rom. ..–  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. .  Ant. Rom. ..  Ant. Rom. .  Ant. Rom...  Ant. Rom...  Comp. .–  Dem.   Dem.   Dem.   Dem. .  Orat. Vett. praef.  Orat. Vett. .–  Orat. Vett. ..  Orat. Vett. .  Orat. Vett. .–  Orat. Vett. .  Orat. Vett. .–  Pomp. .  Pomp. .  Pomp. .–  Pomp. .  Pomp. .–  Pomp. .  Pomp. .–  Pomp. .  Thuc. idiom.   Thuc. .  Thuc.   Thuc.   Thuc. .  Gellius ..



Horace Epist. ..–

, 

Sat. ..–



Iosephus ant. Iud. .–



Nicolaus of Damascus vita Caes.  ,  vita Caes.  , ,  vita Caes.   vita Caes.   vita Caes.   vita Caes.   FGrHist  F –  FGrHist  F   FGrHist  F   FGrHist  F   Philoxenus of Alexandria frr. ,  Theodoridis  fr. *.–,   fr. – Theodoridis  fr. . Theodoridis  fr. . Theodoridis  Photius Bibl. .  Plutarch Cic. .  Polybius ..– ,  .–  POxy .  Sextus Empiricus Math.  Strabo ..  ..  Suetonius Aug. .  Aug.   Aug. .  Thucydides ..  Tryphon of Alexandria fr. . Velsen =   fr. .– Velsen = – fr. . Velsen =   fr. . Velsen =  



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

Passages Discussed

fr. . Velsen =   fr. . Velsen =   fr.  Haas  fr.. Velsen =   Tyrannion (the elder) fr.  

Vitruvius . Preface   ..  . Preface  . Preface –  . Preface  

Virgil Aen. .–

Xenophon Cyr. ..

, 

, 

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Géza Alföldy

Römische Sozialgeschichte 4., völlig überarbeitete und aktualisierte Auflage 2011

Géza Alföldy Römische Sozialgeschichte 2011. 399 Seiten. Kartoniert. ¤ 21,90 ISBN 978-3-515-09841-0

Die 4. Auflage der Römischen Sozialgeschichte ist eine aktualisierte, auf den doppelten Umfang erweiterte und um einen umfangreichen Anmerkungsapparat sowie um ein Verzeichnis der in den letzten Jahrzehnten erschienenen Fachliteratur bereicherte Neuausgabe der im Jahre 1984 vorgelegten 3. Auflage. Sie ist nach wie vor die einzige zusammenfassende Darstellung der Geschichte der Gesellschaft Roms von den Anfängen bis zur Spätantike. Ihren Gegenstand bilden Fragen wie die Grundlagen für die soziale Gliederung, die einzelnen Schichten und Gruppen der Gesellschaft, ihre Durchlässigkeit, ihre Konflikte, ihre Ideale, ihre Krisen und ihr Selbstverständnis in den einzelnen Epochen. Sie stützt sich auf die Ergebnisse der internationalen Forschung, lässt durchgehend die antiken literarischen und epigraphischen Quellen sprechen und bietet auch Raum für die kritische Diskussion über umstrittene Probleme der römischen Sozialordnung.

Pressestimmen zu vorherigen Auflagen „Diese an den Strukturen einer verfaßten Gesellschaft orientierte, nach Epochen gegliederte, querschnittartige Darstellung ist die einzige ihrer Art zum Thema, souverän gearbeitet, vorzüglich geschrieben.“ ekz-Informationsdienst „Nicht nur dem Studierenden […] sei die Lektüre dieses Buches nachdrücklich empfohlen, sondern auch allen […], die sich mit Fragen der vergleichenden Sozialgeschichte beschäftigen.“ Anzeiger für die Altertumswissenschaft

Géza Alföldy Géza Alföldy, geb. 1935, studierte in Budapest. Nach Professuren in Bonn und Bochum wurde er 1975 an die Universität Heidelberg berufen, wo er bis 2005 lehrte. Franz Steiner Verlag Birkenwaldstr. 44 · D – 70191 Stuttgart Telefon: 0711 / 2582 – 0 · Fax: 0711 / 2582 – 390 E-Mail: [email protected] Internet: www.steiner-verlag.de

Matthias Haake / Michael Jung (Hg.)

Griechische Heiligtümer als Erinnerungsorte Von der Archaik bis in den Hellenismus Griechische Heiligtümer waren multifunktionale Orte, deren Bedeutung weit über den unmittelbar religiösen Bereich hinausreichte. Eine ihrer sozialen Funktionen war die von Erinnerungsorten, an denen politische Gemeinschaften sowohl gemeinsam wie auch in Konkurrenz zueinander Ereignisse der Vergangenheit erinnerten und Geschichtsbilder inszenierten. Dies galt ebenso für überregionale wie auch für lokale Heiligtümer. Dieser Band versammelt die Beiträge eines Münsteraner Kolloquiums, das die Funktionsweise griechischer Heiligtümer als Erinnerungsorte von der archaischen bis zur hellenistischen Zeit untersuchte.

Matthias Haake Matthias Haake / Michael Jung (Hg.) Griechische Heiligtümer als Erinnerungsorte Von der Archaik bis in den Hellenismus 2011. 163 Seiten mit 10 Abbildungen. Kartoniert. ¤ 36,ISBN 978-3-515-09875-5

Matthias Haake, geb. 1975, studierte an der Albert-LudwigsUniversität Freiburg und der Università degli Studi di Perugia. Promotion 2004 an der Westfälischen WilhelmsUniversität Münster. Seine Forschungsschwerpunkte sind insbesondere die Kulturgeschichte des Hellenismus, das ‚lange‘ dritte Jahrhundert n. Chr., Formen der Alleinherrschaft in der Antike sowie die griechische Epigraphik.

Michael Jung Michael Jung, geb. 1976, promovierte 2005 an der Westfälischen Wilhelms-Universität Münster. 2005–2007 Lehramtsreferendariat. Derzeit wirkt er neben seiner Tätigkeit als Lehrer an einem Münsteraner Gymnasium auch als Dozent an der Universität Münster. Seine Interessenschwerpunkte sind das archaische und klassische Griechenland.

Franz Steiner Verlag Birkenwaldstr. 44 · D – 70191 Stuttgart Telefon: 0711 / 2582 – 0 · Fax: 0711 / 2582 – 390 E-Mail: [email protected] Internet: www.steiner-verlag.de