Thucydides Between History and Literature 311029768X, 9783110297683

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Thucydides Between History and Literature

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

Volume 17

De Gruyter

Thucydides Between History and Literature Edited by

Antonis Tsakmakis Melina Tamiolaki

De Gruyter

ISBN 978-3-11-029768-3 e-ISBN 978-3-11-029775-1 ISSN 1868-4785 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. 쑔 2013 Walter de Gruyter GmbH, Berlin/Boston Logo: Christopher Schneider, Laufen Printing: Hubert & Co. GmbH & Co. KG, Göttingen ⬁ Printed on acid-free paper Printed in Germany www.degruyter.com

Contents Antonis Tsakmakis / Melina Tamiolaki Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

IX

I. Ideas of History Kurt A. Raaflaub Kte¯ma es aiei: Thucydides’ Concept of “Learning through History” and Its Realization in His Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

3

Mathieu de Bakker Character Judgements in the Histories: their Function and Distribution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

23

Melina Tamiolaki Ascribing Motivation in Thucydides. Between Historical Research and Literary Representation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

41

Paul Demont The Causes of the Athenian Plague and Thucydides . . . . . . . .

73

II. Representations of Time and Space Jonas Grethlein The Presence of the Past in Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

91

Tim Rood The Cylon Conspiracy: Thucydides and the Uses of the Past

119

Roberto Nicolai Jat’ 5hmg ja· jat± p|keir. From Catalogues to Archaeology . .

139

Marek We˛cowski In the Shadow of Pericles: Athens’ Samian Victory and the Organisation of the Pentekontaetia in Thucydides . . . . . . . . .

153

VI

Contents

Vassiliki Pothou Transformation of Landscapes in Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

167

III. Thucydides and Politics Sarah Brown Ferrario “Reading” Athens: Foreign Perceptions of the Political Roles of Athenian Leaders in Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

181

Suzanne Sad Thucydides and the Masses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

199

Panos Christodoulou Thucydides’ Pericles. Between Historical Reality and Literary Representation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

225

IV. Aspects of the Narrative June Allison The Balance of Power and Compositional Balance: Thucydides Book 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

257

Paula Debnar Blurring the Boundaries of Speech: Thucydides and Indirect Discourse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

271

Anna A. Lamari Making Meaning: Cross-references and their Interpretation in Thucydides’ Sicilian Narrative . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

287

Hans-Peter Stahl The Dot on the ‘i’: Thucydidean Epilogues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

309

Nikos Miltsios The Narrative Legacy of Thucydides: Polybius, Book I . . . . .

329

Contents

VII

V. The Language of Thucydides Pierre Pontier The litotes of Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

353

Rutger J. Allan History as Presence. Time, Tense and Narrative Modes in Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

371

Antonis Tsakmakis / Charalambos Themistokleous Textual Structure and Modality in Thucydides’ Military Exhortations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

391

Maria Pavlou Attributive Discourse in the Speeches in Thucydides . . . . . . . .

409

Jonathan J. Price Difficult Statements in Thucydides . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

435

Daniel P. Tompkins The Language of Pericles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

447

List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

465

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

471

Index nominum et rerum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

505

Index locorum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

519

Introduction Thucydides might have been surprised or annoyed if his contemporaries called him a “historian”. He is, however, responsible for the meaning Aristotle and Polybius (among others) gave to the term “history”, although he avoided using it altogether; he did not want his readers to confuse what he was doing with herodotean historie¯. Inversely, he coined the term we use today for all historians before him, that is logographoi, even though it is not clear whom he had exactly in mind when he used this composite oxymoron (which modifies Herodotus’ logopoios, used for Herodotus’ own predecessor Hecataeus); many believe that it was mainly Herodotus whom Thucydides had in mind, but it is Herodotus alone who escaped the fortune of becoming a logographos, not so much because he was the “father of history”, but rather because he was seen as the father of the term “history”. Thucydides did not write historie¯, and he was not writing logoi. The general from Halimous, who in other instances is creative with language and keen on his nominal constructions, contents himself by announcing that he “has composed in written form the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians”, (xynegrapse ton polemon, 1.1.1). The result of Thucydides’ work is “the war” – the war in written form. The work we read “is” the war; in other instances the account about individual events is ergon. Thucydides lets us know that he transformed experience into text. He transformed a long war he had lived from the very first beginning till the end to the written account we read, to the voice we hear talking to us. If “literary termini technici and intellectual categories of differentiation… were not developed in the Greek world until the second half of the 4th century B.C. (in the Peripatos) or even until the age of Hellenistic scholarship (in Alexandreia or Pergamon)”1, only the subtle study of each author’s text can reveal his own understanding of what he envisaged to do, and how he worked towards its realization. Such questions have been the subject of a Conference on “Thucydides’ techniques. Be1

Engels 1998, 57.

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Introduction

tween Historical Research and Literary Representation”, held in Alimos/Athens in April 2010 generously sponsored by the modern demos of the historian, the Municipality of Alimos. “Techniques” was privileged over “methods” in order to shift attention from the mind to the process of xyngraphe¯ (both in its broader sense, as the outcome of a research project, and in the narrower sense of the construction of a text). How does a war become a text? More specifically, how did Thucydides proceed in order to investigate the course of events and shape them as an elaborate narrative? How did he convince future generations that he was a “historian”, if not “the” historian? Are there specific techniques, strategies, practices that can explain how Thucydides’ “written composition of the war” both renovated a pre-existing literary tradition and influenced subsequent developments, despite evident discontinuities and dissonances? Kurt Raaflaub goes after an old question, the utility of Thucydides’ history, an idea which proved attractive for most historians of antiquity and became a topos in their works. His analysis seeks “patterns” in the presentation of events – their existence brings Thucydides closer to Herodotus (another one: “ranking the significance of similar events, paying less attention to less important instances, and reserving the most dramatic elaboration for the most important one”). He argues that Thucydides’ coherent account indicates and presupposes knowledge of the outcome of the war. Moreover, this knowledge is a shaping factor of the account, and the key for demonstrating that the past can be useful and significant – for present and future audiences. He pays attention on the dialectic between the specific in Thucydides’ work – exempla which invite direct imitation or avoidance and thus concern primarily moral attitudes and behavioral principles – and the general – patterns which invite critical thinking and analysis and deal primarily with political issues. The shift from herodotean historie¯ to Thucydides’ monograph on a single historical set of events eliminate the number of the persons involved in the narrative; in compensation, it makes them more prominent in the text. Mathieu de Bakker focuses on the authorial comments and narrative devices employed to introduce and evaluate the role of each figure in the work. He observes that Thucydides is sensible for the character of his heroes, preparing the peripatetic interest in ethos as a moving force of action and an object worth of study. Introducing a person and discussing his character is a way of both suggesting its im-

Introduction

XI

portance in the political scenery (military success is less decisive in this respect) and announcing critical historical turns. Special attention is paid to Book Eight: “underlying the stasis narrative in Book eight is his desire to highlight how the war led to political fragmentation in Athens, a process that, owing to external conditions, could only be halted by grave individual and collective sacrifices”. The exceptional treatment of Antiphon is interpreted as resulting from Thucydides’ strong personal view. Melina Tamiolaki offers a reassessment of the well-known topic of motivation in Thucydides. She detects certain patterns in the presentation of motivation which distinguish Thucydides from Herodotus and shows how motives described in the speeches can be confirmed or undermined by the narrative of the historian. Motivation has also a political dimension, which can be observed in the reading of each other’s motives by the protagonists of the Peloponnesian War. Although Thucydides did not offer a guide or a programmatic statement as to how to study motivation, his work suggests that motives should be seen as an integral part of the historical process. Paul Demont shows that authorial statements and the narrative concerning the pest include echoes of other treatments of similar topics evoked by them. He argues that Thucydides enhances the interpretation that the plague was transmitted by contagion and uses this explanation to implicitly refute his contemporaries’ claim that Pericles was to be held responsible for the fatal calamity that befell Athens and influenced decisively the course of the war. Discussion of the past is revealing for both Thucydides’ relationship with his predecessors and the recurring patterns that appear in his work. Jonas Grethlein studies two minor episodes in Thucydides’ history (Phormio’s two naval victories and the capture of Mytilene) and analyses the devices with which Thucydides “restores presentness to the past”: tense, internal focalization, speeches and “sideshadowing”. These devices help the reader re-experience the events described; they enhance the enargeia of the narrative and contribute to the openness of the past. Thucydides’ history has also, however, a teleological aspect, which can be observed in proleptic passages, such as the praise of Pericles (2.65). Grethlein further underlines the importance of enargeia in Thucydides by comparing his history with Plutarch’s Lives: “While in Thucydides an experiential narrative enmeshes us in the past, Plutarchan enargeia brings past virtues to us”.

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Introduction

Tim Rood compares the Herodotean and Thucydidean version of the Kylon-episode and shows that correct understanding of the Herodotean version is a prerequisite for a correct understanding of Thucydides’ account. Furthermore, he proposes a contrastive reading of the episode with the first five chapters of Herodotus. Thucydides’ account recalls Herodotean elements and challenges Herodotean models. Rood also sees in Kylon a parallel to Alcibiades, who, like Kylon, threatens the existence of the political order in Athens. Roberto Nicolai examines the way Thucydides introduces his readers to the historical prerequisites by both organizing the necessary information about the past in a coherent way and using the appropriate literary forms. The genealogies of these forms are found in the Homeric catalogue of the ships and in Herodotus. From the focus on a comprehensive overview of the past, we move with Marek We˛cowski to a single instance of past history, the account of the Samian revolt in Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia. This is the last episode of the Pentakontaetia and receives a longer treatment, if compared with the sketchy account of most of the events described in this part of Thucydides’ history. We˛cowski explains this by analysing the Periclean ideology of the “growth of the Athenian empire”, as this is attested in Pericles’ Funeral Oration and in other sources of the 5th century BCE. He argues that “Thucydides followed Pericles and his ideology in ascribing the beginning of the ‘imperial pinnacle’ to the results of the Samian war…”. Whereas the organization of historical time and the coordination of events have been the subject of extensive study, the importance of space and its representations have been treated less extensively. Vassiliki Pothou discusses human interaction with the landscape, focussing on transformations of landscape (such as fortifications, burning of woods, redirection of the flow of a river etc.) and their implications. Thucydides’ history shows an awareness of the importance of landscape in war: “in many war-situations warriors would not adapt the landscape to their military purposes, but, rather, they were forced to adapt themselves to the landscape”. Thucydides’ history has long been considered a guide for political thought. Topics such as the role of the leaders and the masses in the democracy, the historian’s judgments on the constitutions and the image of Pericles continue to attract scholarly attention.

Introduction

XIII

Sarah Brown Ferrario explores how Athens was perceived by her enemies, namely Sparta and Corinth. Whereas the Spartans apprehended and tried to exploit the role played by individual leaders in the Athenian democracy, the Corinthians appear to have a limited view of this role. Thucydides’ knowledge of the political situation, however, is higher than that of his protagonists, and this lends greater authority to his narrative. Suzanne Saïd studies Thucydides’ views on the masses and the Athenian democracy. After reviewing the vocabulary related with the masses, Saïd observes that Thucydides’ use of it is neutral, whereas the orators in his history have recourse to a more marked terminology. This leads her to a reconsideration of the traditional approach which labels Thucydides as anti-democrat. Saïd concludes that for Thucydides, a regime was good, when it took into account the interests of the polis and its citizens. Panos Christodoulou offers a contextualized reading of Thucydides’ image of Pericles. He argues that Thucydides, by highlighting Pericles’ leadership qualities, such as his avoidance of stasis and his concern for the interests of the city, reacted to his contemporaries who criticized him, as well as to those who had written treatises on constitutions. He remarks that the historian’s presentation of Pericles oscillated “between historical research and observation of the Athenian general’s personality and a theoretical, literary representation of the figure of the eminent statesman”. The next section is devoted to specific aspects of Thucydides’ narrative. June Allison offers a close reading of three sections of Thucydides’ Book 1 (the Archaeology, the Pentekontaetia and the second speech of the Corinthians) and shows that in these sections Thucydides aimed at creating an antithetical balance between Athens and Sparta. Paula Debnar studies the role of indirect discourse in the assembly in Book 4, in which the Athenians must decide how to respond to the stalled operations in Pylos. Thucydides seems to exploit in part Homeric models in his presentation of indirect discourse. Debnar argues that indirect discourse has the ability to blur boundaries “not just between thought and speech, but also between discourse and narrative, as well as between Thucydides’ judgments and those of historical agents…”. Anna Lamari focuses on intra-textual associations of passages (crossreferences) in the Sicilian narrative. She detects three categories of crossreferences (progressive cross-references, those providing diverse focali-

XIV

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zation and encirclement cross-references) and shows that these narrative devices “work as mechanisms that add emphasis to events of crucial importance, as catalysts that boost the writer’s objectivity, or finally as filters that confirm or annul information”. Hans-Peter Stahl studies Thucydidean epilogues, that is statements which close narrative sections. These epilogues include “a contraryto-fact statement, ‘almost’ and ‘as if’ situations, epilogic dialogues, last minute rescues, devastating losses”. Stahl shows that Thucydidean closures tend to give greater emphasis to the side of the defeated and thus reinforce the idea of the futility and sadness of the war. Mikos Miltsios studies the (cumulative) evidence which suggests Polybius’ familiarity with Thucydides. He argues that apart from verbal echoes and passages that express parallel views (which however are limited to very few, characteristic Thucydidean statements which may have been widely known and cannot prove immediate knowledge), especially the introductory books provide abundant material to sustain this view, both in respect of their structural design and in themes which are central to the argumentation. The last section of this volume comprises essays which focus on the language of Thucydides. It has long been remarked that litotes is a stylistic feature which is favoured by Thucydides and Pindar, two authors who show an inclination for sophisticated style. Pierre Pontier challenges traditional approaches that considered litotes as an ornament of style and proves that its use has an impact on the creation of meaning. Litotes can suggest the presence of an idea in the mind of the person or an idea which is refuted, it can support emphasis – sometimes combined with authorial intervention –, or work in parallel with irony. Maria Pavlou provides a detailed study of the various modes of the narrative setting of the speeches, analysing typological elements in the preambles and postscripts. Through them Thucydides “steers the reader to approach a logos from a specific point of view, and draws his attention to a particular aspect thereof”. Rutger Allan applies the linguistic concept of “narrative mode” in Thucydides’ narrative. He distinguishes four categories (the displaced and immediate diegetic modes, the descriptive mode and the discursive mode) and argues that “each of the narrative modes… is associated with a particular narratorial persona…: Thucydides the Chronicler, Thucydides the Eye-witness, Thucydides the Painter and Thucydides the Writer-Analyst”.

Introduction

XV

Antonis Tsakmakis and Charalambos Themistokleous contribute to the discussion about stylistic differentiation of Thucydidean speeches. They argue that apart from verbal and thematic parallels, stylistic parallels are also employed by Thucydides to link individual speeches together and suggest a contrastive reading. The paper focuses on the use of modality and exemplifies the use of patterns in the speech of Archidamus in 2.11. Jonathan Price also argues in favour of a close study of style and content. Difficult statements are shown to reflect complex ideas, “troubled psychological states, or conflicting rhetorical demands on the speakers: they represent how confused or uncomfortable speakers may really have sounded”. In a similar vein, Daniel Tompkins argues that “different characters in Thucydides not only think differently, but that characters’ discursive choices reflect different styles of thought”. Tompkins studies the stylistic differentiation in Pericles’ speeches: Pericles’ syntax and diction serve to underline his intellectual capacities. The editors thank Antonios Rengakos for his collaboration in the Organizing Committee of the Conference and for the publication of the proceedings as a Supplementary Volume of Trends in Classics. We would also like to thank Maria Pavlou and Sofia Tamiolaki for their help with the preparation of the indexes. Antonis Tsakmakis, Nicosia 2012 Melina Tamiolaki, Heraklion 2012

I. Ideas of History

Kte¯ma es aiei: Thucydides’ Concept of “Learning through History” and Its Realization in His Work* Kurt A. Raaflaub In an essay about the beginnings of Chinese historiography, Stephen Durrant mentions in the mid-Warring States Period (453 – 221 bce) a shift toward more rational ways to regard human events, a shift congruent with the rise of Confucianism. After all, among those things Confucius supposedly “did not discuss” were “the strange” and “spirits” (Analects 7.21). Such a shift makes the past central to understanding the present and empowers those who preserve and can properly read that past. In Analects Confucius twice describes himself as someone who “is fond of antiquity” (7.1, 7.20) and elsewhere says “One who understands the present by reviewing antiquity is worthy to be a teacher” (2.11). Confucius thus becomes the inspiration of those who would turn to the past and encourages future followers to use the past as a key to understanding and discussing their contemporary political world.1

Knowledge of the past thus is crucial for understanding and educating the present. The description of past events serves the same purpose. In ancient China this idea is embedded in an ideology that generally views past experiences and persons (ancestors) with immense respect and considers them the measure for present behavior. On the other hand, Durrant concludes, in China “history became too important”. Among other problems, history’s function “as a source of exemplars and precedents” was pushed to an extreme; in David Schaberg’s *

1

I wish to express my sincere gratitude to the Mayor and the Deputy-Mayor of the Demos of Halimous, to all donors who provided the funding, to the Organizing Committee, and to all members of the staff. Their collaboration made the Fourth International Symposium on Thucydides a most pleasant and productive experience for all participants. This essay represents a much elaborated version of one previously published in Greek by the Demos of Halimous. I thank Deborah Boedeker and Jonas Grethlein for helpful comments and suggestions. Durrant 2013.

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Kurt A. Raaflaub

words, history “was reduced to evidence”. One constantly needs to keep in mind that “early Chinese historical writing was an important part of a dominant ideology of power and control”.2 Here lies a major difference to early Greek historiography: at least before the Hellenistic period it firmly remained a private endeavor, and even later “official” histories in the service of kings or emperors were exceptions. Yet the Greeks too venerated their ancestors and generally looked to the past for guidance and illumination. For example, they long sought to realize a just social and political order by restoring an ancestral “good order” (eunomia) that was believed to have been lost. But Greek worldviews and political thought did not remain static; they were dynamic and soon permitted the anticipation of ideals that were to be realized through reforms based on communal legislation. As a result, there emerged not only complex constitutions but also designs of ideal states, conceived abstractly on the drawing board and culminating in Plato’s Republic and Laws and Aristotle’s Politics. 3 Even so, the Greeks continued in various important ways to look to the past to derive lessons for the present or to stimulate thinking about it. Homer’s epics already illustrate this impressively.4 Tragedy, slightly predating historiography, is particularly interesting in this respect. Many of the extant plays reflect the poets’ conscious efforts to confront problems that were “in the air” at the time and thus to provoke the audiences to think about these problems. The plays’ subject matter was, with very few exceptions, chosen from a limited range of myths. These were well known to everybody and, as is typical of myth, malleable; hence they could be adapted for present purposes. Past and present were here dialectically connected: stories about the past were used to instruct the present but in order to serve this purpose these stories needed to be elaborated, reshaped, and reinterpreted on the basis of present experiences and needs.5 The early historians followed suit – for their own good reasons. In his famous method chapter Thucydides offers a remarkable definition of the purpose of his History: it is not fashioned primarily to please and entertain; rather, it is intended to be an “everlasting possession”, a kte¯ma es 2 3 4 5

Ibid., with reference to Schaberg 1999, 16. On eunomia, see Meier 1970, 15 – 25; Ostwald 1969, 62 – 95. On constitutional thought, Raaflaub forthcoming. On epic, see below at n. 46. See, e. g., Meier 1993; Saïd 1998; Boedeker and Raaflaub 2005.

Kte¯ma es aiei: Thucydides’ Concept of “Learning through History”

5

aiei (1.22.4).6 History can be judged to be rather useful (o¯phelima) because it enables those “who want to perceive precisely what happened”, and thus to understand the past, to cope better with “events of this kind and similar ones (toiauta kai paraple¯sia) that may be expected to happen in the future”. Knowledge of the past thus improves a person’s ability to deal with the future. Why? Because similar phenomena (not identical ones) are likely to recur. History thus does not repeat itself precisely (in identical events) but in patterns (similar events). Familiarity with such patterns helps us recognize them when they recur – as the historian says explicitly in the context of the plague (2.48) – and be prepared to cope with them. In this sense, history (knowledge of the past) is useful, and because of that it is an everlasting possession: its usefulness is not limited to a specific time, place, or context, but is universal. This is a tall claim, particularly if we think of history as a kaleidoscope of an infinite variety of events, actions, and actors. It raises several questions. First, why and how is history capable of serving this purpose? What exactly can be learned from history? Second, why is it important or even necessary to emphasize this? And where does this idea come from? Third, how does the historian realize this idea in his own work? What does he want future generations to learn from it? And fourth, what consequences does this idea have both for the writing of history and for our understanding and use of such history? I do not think that such questions are simple, the answers obvious. I am aware that a huge weight of scholarly and not least theoretical discussion and constant redefinition of approaches (to historiography in general and Thucydides in particular) looms over this topic.7 I deliberately push this aside for the moment, trying to reach basic understandings. At any rate, what I am tackling is too big for a brief chapter. I will thus limit myself here to laying the conceptual groundwork, essentially presenting an outline with a few examples and case studies that can be expanded later, and I will have to paint in broad strokes. To begin with, two conditions are necessary to realize Thucydides’ claim. The historian must be able to recognize patterns in history and use them to sort and organize the multitude of historical phenomena. In this he resembles a physician, ethnographer, or political scientist. 6 7

This statement has been discussed frequently; see recently Grethlein 2010a, 268 – 79. Kallet 2006 pursues it in a different direction. Recently on Thucydides’ method: Rood 2006. Recently summarized concisely by Carolyn Dewald (2005, 1 – 22, 193 – 203).

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Kurt A. Raaflaub

As Rosalind Thomas has shown, the fifth-century historians interacted competitively with doctors, geographers, and sophists – Thucydides certainly no less than Herodotus: we need only think of his use of medical and other theories to see him drawing from a pool of shared ideas that were discussed intensely at the time, in and outside of Athens.8 The second condition is that there must be something that guarantees, beyond the existence of patterns, their recurrence. The infinite variety of history, even grouped into patterns, must contain elements that are constant and force these patterns to repeat themselves, at least in similar forms. In Herodotean terms (1.5.4, 207.2), there must be factors that make history run not in a straight line, evolving ever further, but in waves or circles, and thus to become, if not cyclical, at least somewhat repetitive. In Thucydidean terms, as Pierre Vidal-Naquet suggests, phenomena do not repeat themselves in historical but in logical time.9 Such factors might be found within the actors who make history happen, and/or in the framework in which these actors act such as communities and their constitutions; competition, war, and empire; material conditions and resources; and ideas or ideologies. Thucydides acknowledges the importance of the factors constituting this framework throughout his narrative. The element he emphasizes in the passage that postulates the value of history as kte¯ma es aiei is the most basic, to anthro¯pinon, human nature or the human condition.10 Because this human element remains identical or stable, as the historian points out several times, people will react in similar ways to similar experiences.11 Here again the historian’s task is similar to that of the physician or anthropologist: he collects, categorizes, and analyzes human behavior in certain conditions, or human reactions to certain challenges, and can thus anticipate them. This is what imbues history with a certain predictive quality and didactic potential. The historian assumes the function of a teacher: he explicates to his readers what history itself teaches the attentive observers – and this can assist them in mastering future challenges.12 Polybius makes all this even more explicit: humankind “possesses 8 9 10 11 12

Thomas 2000, 2006a, 2006b; see also Finley 1942, ch. 2; Ober 2006. Vidal-Naquet 1986, 46; Hornblower 1991, 61. Hornblower 1991, 61 with ref. to Stahl 1966, 33; see Reinhold 1985. 1.84.4; 3.82.2; see de Ste. Croix 1972, 29 for further passages and discussion. On Thucydides and his readers, see Yunis 2003. Hornblower 1991, 60 – 61 rightly does not exclude the possibility of oral recitations “of the more highly-wrought bits”. But the issues discussed here concern not oral presentations

Kte¯ma es aiei: Thucydides’ Concept of “Learning through History”

7

no better guide to conduct than the knowledge of the past”. All historians claim “that the study of history is at once an education in the truest sense and a training for a political career” (1.1.1 – 2).13 Scholars have debated whether in Thucydides such lessons from history serve purely intellectual or also practical or pragmatic purposes.14 I do not see why they cannot do both, especially since, as Carolyn Dewald emphasizes, “Thucydides does not believe in the usefulness or even in the possibility of a political knowledge divorced from the exercise of personal and civic ambition”.15 In order to achieve this purpose, though, Thucydides the historian needs to emphasize in his presentation what is repeatable in history, the patterns that emerge from his analysis and that he recognizes as crucial. The historian’s insight and interpretation thus become decisive. They shape his presentation: through narrative and speeches, he highlights the patterns whose knowledge makes history useful, a possession for ever.16 He presents such patterns in two ways: through analytical or rhetorical set pieces (most conspicuously the plague in Athens and stasis in Corcyra for the former, the Mytilenian and Sicilian debates and the Melian Dialogue for the latter) but also through continuing analysis that runs through a sequence of episodes and reveals underlying currents and developments.17 The set pieces have drawn much attention; patterns have been mentioned frequently but, to my knowledge, not been analyzed systematically.18 As I have tried to show elsewhere, we find the same emphasis on patterns and the same means of presenting and analyzing them, and for the same reasons, also in Herodotus, although he essentially applies this principle without defining it as a principle or discussing it in so many words.19

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

of individual “pieces” but the entire work. “Audience” thus means “readers” throughout this chapter. See also, e. g., 3.12; 3.31 – 32; 12.25a; for comments, Walbank 1957, 6 – 9; Sacks 1981, ch. 4; Eckstein 1995, 16 – 27. For the former Gomme HCT I, 149 – 50; Hornblower 1991, 61; for the latter, de Ste. Croix 1972, 29 – 33 (with further bibliog.). See also below at n. 37. Dewald 1985, 56. On the interaction of narrative and speeches, see now Morrison 2006a. Set pieces (in the sequence mentioned): 2.47 – 54; 3.82 – 84; 3.36 – 50; 6.8 – 26; 5.84 – 116. On continuing analysis, see below. See, e. g., Connor 1984, 242 – 46. Analytical and rhetorical set pieces, respectively: 1.96 – 100 (Deioces and the “tyrannical template”: Dewald 2003); 3.80 – 82 (the “constitutional debate”); 7.5 – 18 (the debate at Xerxes’ court: Raaflaub 2002a); repeated patterns:

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Typical behavior, prompted by the human condition, applies to both individuals and communities. Of course, Pericles, Cleon, Nicias, or Alcibiades have different characters, and the historian portrays them accordingly.20 But, I suggest, with only little exaggeration, in their capacity as Athenian leaders they ultimately have the same goals and pursue the same policies of Athenian security and greatness – even if they advocate different priorities and strategies to achieve these goals. Communities too have their own distinctive traits. Spartan and Athenian policies are shaped by their diametrically opposed collective characters (as portrayed by the Corinthians in 1.70 – 71). But, as Athenian ambassadors point out in Sparta (1.76) and Melos (5.105), faced with similar opportunities or challenges, both poleis will act in similar ways.21 This dynamic tension between specific character and typical behavior or reaction, between specific circumstances and human condition, I suggest, is one of Thucydides’ most productive insights. In letting the human condition trigger among individuals and collectives, despite their different characters, similar actions and reactions, the other factors, the framework mentioned above, become crucial – most importantly community and constitution (politeia), power, empire, competition, conflict, and war (dynamis and kratos; arche¯, he¯gemonia, or tyrannis; ago¯n, stasis, and polemos), resources and profits (chre¯mata and o¯pheleia), and ideas or ideologies, most conspicuously among these liberty and slavery (eleutheria and douleia). Lisa Kallet has demonstrated the importance of resources as conditions for power in Thucydides’ thought; contrasting constitutions (oligarchy and democracy, whether real or pretended), as we know from Hartmut Leppin and others, not only set the hegemonial powers on opposite tracks but also trigger competition and stasis (illuminated by Jonathan Price) in many poleis, and determine choices and policies; power over others by hegemony or imperial rule, gained or maintained by war, forms the main line of the story, discussed by many; and, as Melina Tamiolaki teaches us in her recent book, freedom vs. slavery in their varying meanings serve as an ideologe. g., eastern autocracy (Lateiner 1989, ch. 8) or Persian imperialism (below at n. 58). On patterning in Herodotus, see Immerwahr 1966; Lateiner 1989, 165 – 67. On Herodotus’s self-presentation and his reflection on his methods, see, e. g., relevant chs. in Boedeker 1987; Lateiner 1989; Christ 1994. 20 Westlake 1968; Gribble 2006 (with bibliog.). 21 The Athenian ambassadors in Sparta here emphasize something that could hardly be known at the time: Thucydides anticipates a recurring pattern; see below at nn. 25 ff.

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ical battleground and provide the historian with interpretive tools.22 These factors (and some others, though hardly religion) 23 determine Thucydides’ questions and analysis and set the parameters within which the patterns he observes and highlights develop, based on the common element of the human condition. This scheme plays on different levels, however, that are influenced variously by these factors. Within poleis, leaders and groups pursue the same goals but disagree on the methods or strategies to achieve them. In the Mytilenian Debate, Cleon and Diodotus both want to maintain Athenian control over the allies but disagree on whether to achieve this by severity of threats and punishment or by generosity and leniency. In Corcyra, both “democrats” and “oligarchs” fight with the same methods for the same goal (political domination) but present themselves with contrasting ideologies. In Sparta, Archidamus and Sthenelaidas agree on the need to fight a war against the Athenians but differ on when and how to fight this war. In Athens, Nicias and Alcibiades, fundamentally different personalities with different styles and methods of leadership, both advocate the greatness and glory of their city but differ vastly on the means by which to meet these lofty goals. Similarly, on a higher level, Sparta and Athens could not be more different – in their collective character, in their constitution and way of life (politeia), and in their ideological orientation (to say it pointedly, freedom from tyranny vs. freedom through tyranny) – but ultimately they aim at the same goal: domination, rule over all others. Leaders in both poleis can rise above personal ambition and achieve close to ideal leadership (Brasidas and Pericles) or succumb to personal ambition and self-aggrandizement (Pausanias and Themistocles or Alcibiades).24 Yet an examination of Thucydides’ History along the lines I am proposing here is handicapped in two ways. One is that the historian did not complete his work and we do not know his interpretation of the final stages of the war. The other is that he lived beyond the end of the war and used his knowledge of the final phases and the outcome to illuminate some of its earlier phases. To give just one example, the 22 Finances: Kallet 1993, 2001; constitutions: Leppin 1998; cf. Pope 1988; Raaflaub 2006; stasis: Price 2001; power etc.: e. g., Pouncey 1980; Rengakos 1984; Allison 1989; Hunt 2006; Tritle 2006; democracy and power: Raaflaub 1994; liberty, slavery: Tamiolaki 2010; cf. Raaflaub 2004, chs. 4 – 5. 23 Hornblower 1992; Furley 2006. 24 On individuals in Thucydides, see n. 20 above.

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primacy of self-interest in Sparta’s policies even at the expense of its allies, a will to dominate that would culminate in imperial ambition, emerged in the period of the Peace of Nicias, as Thucydides shows (5.17 ff.), and even more starkly in the Ionian War, as we know from Xenophon’s Hellenika. 25 Yet Thucydides lets the allies – especially Corinth, Sparta’s persistent critic – express strong doubts about Sparta’s commitment to their shared interests already before the beginning of the war. They have to push their he¯gemo¯n finally to take action and they blame Sparta for tolerating out of selfishness the enslavement not only of the Athenian but also its own allies (esp. 1.69.1 – 2, 1.120.1). Moreover, Athenian ambassadors claim not only in 416 at Melos (5.105) but also much earlier, in 432 at Sparta (1.75 – 76; cf. 1.144.2), that Sparta, if faced by the same challenges, would have acted towards its allies in the same way as Athens had. One wonders, though, whether at such an early stage the Athenians could really have stated this credibly and as confidently as they do in Thucydides. Before the war, and in its beginning, Sparta’s reputation must have differed from that of Athens – otherwise its “battle cry of freedom” could not have resonated so strongly throughout the Greek world (2.8). The historian’s effort to expose this as a propagandistic ploy right from the start obviously draws heavily on hindsight.26 Having experienced Sparta’s “dark side” and seen “the liberator” develop into an imperial power that ruled as oppressively as Athens had done, if not even more so, he probably could not but interpret tensions during the Peace of Nicias and even during the events leading up to the war from this late perspective: the basis of his judgement of history quite naturally was the time of his writing and revising his work.27 Yet Thucydides was an adult in 432, and he claims to have begun taking notes or even sketching his account right at the beginning of the war (1.1.1). Hence what he writes about allied criticism of Sparta in 432 either corresponds to what he observed at the time or, if I am right that this is unlikely, to deliberate rewriting under the impression of later developments. If so, the emphasis he thereby placed on Sparta’s imperial and tyrannical potential at an early time, when this was hardly justified, served an important interpretive 25 On the Peace of Nicias, see recently Lendon 2010, 323 – 67. On the formation of Sparta’s empire: Cartledge 1987; Thommen 2003, chs. 10 – 12. 26 On Sparta’s use and abuse of liberty in its propaganda, see Raaflaub 2004, 193 – 202. 27 I thank Deborah Boedeker for reminding me not to underestimate this aspect.

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purpose. It alerted his readers that the curve in Sparta’s development, triggered by an “imperial impulse” (which was still far in the future but known to them as well as himself), was going to be similar to that pursued earlier by Athens (and fully witnessed long before the war by all Greeks). Hints at this development in negotiations before the war thus serve as “pointers” precisely to the fact that Athens’ transformation from he¯gemo¯n to polis tyrannos was not unique but corresponded to a historical pattern.28 This view finds support in yet an earlier reference to an alliance affected by the leader’s power politics. In the Archaeology, sketching aspects of earlier Greek history to prove that no war has ever come even close to the dimension and significance of the war he is going to describe, Thucydides talks about the Trojan War. He explains that Agamemnon exploited primarily his greater power, based not least on his superior fleet, and the fear it engendered in others, to forge the alliance that was to fight Troy (1.9). The emphasis he places here on the concepts of “power” and “fear” (which generally play such a crucial role in his historical interpretation) not only looks at the Trojan War from a new and unusual perspective but right at the beginning of the work makes the reader aware of constellations and factors that will prove important later on.29 Returning to Thucydides’ early equation of Athens’ and Sparta’s “imperial impulses”, we find the same kind of anticipation, and for a similar purpose, in Herodotus’s pointed juxtaposition of Sparta and Athens as Greece’s leading powers already at the time of the Lydian king Croesus in the mid-sixth century (1.56.2). Yet the historian’s subsequent narrative (1.59 ff.) leaves no doubt that at that time Athens was still vastly inferior to Sparta and its rise to power was a consequence, much later, only of its liberation from tyranny, its transformation by Cleisthenes’ reforms, its victories over Sparta, Thebes, and Chalcis in 506 (5.78), and its role in the Persian Wars (e. g., 8.3). I suggest that Herodotus wanted his audience to realize and keep in mind that what he was describing in his Histories was not only an event of greatest historical importance in itself but also the prelude to and cause of the rivalry of these two Greek superpowers whose fight for supremacy would bring so much misery to Greece in his and their own life time 28 For a more detailed discussion of this particular pattern, see Raaflaub 2011. 29 Kallet 2001, 112 – 14; see also Vidal-Naquet 1986, 46.

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(6.98).30 This interpretation receives support from other passages that clearly allude to the later power struggle for supremacy in Greece.31 My point is precisely that Thucydides draws on hindsight, his knowledge of the outcome, to interpret and shape the history that produced this outcome – even if, as Jonas Grethlein shows, he then consciously presents this history as open-ended.32 His intention here is to draw out patterns of the type I have in mind. Again to give just one example, Athens’ defeat is attributed early on (in 2.65), and explicitly from hindsight, to the self-centered competition of ambitious leaders who fail to match the exalted example set by Pericles, the perfect democratic leader. Similarly, it is from the perspective of the democracy’s loss of the war that the skillfully crafted sequence of increasingly flawed decision-making in the assembly receives its poignancy: from orderly, rational decisions under Pericles to a bad decision (reversed just in time) concerning Mytilene, to an emotional and crazy decision about the command at Pylos that surprisingly turns out well (even if the Athenians, tempted by pleonexia, squander peace opportunities they would have accepted earlier on), and finally to a decision with far-reaching consequences, about the intervention in Sicily, that is made under the influence of passion (ero¯s), greed (pleonexia), and boundless ambition, and that leads to disaster.33 In the pattern appearing in this sequence the Athenian collective character asserts itself ever more detrimentally. The portrait of the citizen-community Pericles offers in the Funeral Oration, already challenged by the brutal impact of the plague, reveals itself as an idealized construct. Willing victims of the competition among self-serving and unscrupulous demagogues, the Athenians succumb to polypragmosyne¯ and pleonexia. Irrational decisions and mass hysteria increasingly push reason and moderation to the side. The de¯mos, fickle and prone to overreacting anyway (2.65.2 – 4), yields responsibility for decisions to the politicians and ultimately proves to be incapable not only of governing an empire (as Cleon claims) but of governing at all (3.37). The paradox30 On parallels between Sparta’s and Athens’ rise to power, see Raaflaub 1988, 213 n.73. 31 E.g. 7.162.1 with a quote from Pericles’ much later Funeral Oration (perhaps in the war against Samos in 440/39): Munson 2001, 218 – 19; van Wees 2002, 341 – 42; Grethlein 2006b, 498 – 501. 32 Grethlein 2009, 164 – 171. 33 For details (also in the next paragraph) and bibliog., see Raaflaub 2006, 198 – 209.

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ical conclusion is that democracy functions well when it is only nominal (logo¯i), when the ruling de¯mos in fact (ergo¯i) yields rule to a dominant leader (pro¯tos ane¯r) who is motivated by responsibility, not lust for power (2.65.8 – 9). Democracy needs strong leadership to pursue sound and consistent policies and keep the people in check but, because of its obsessive concern with equality, it does not tolerate strong leadership. Pericles succeeds in reconciling this contradiction because he is totally incorruptible and a master in handling the fickle de¯mos (ibid.) and (as other sources tell us) because he keeps a low profile and acts as if he were an equal among equals (Plut. Per. 7). Nicias, although also incorruptible, responsible, and free from lust for power (Thuc. 6.9), fails to master the de¯mos’s emotions. Alcibiades, although capable of controlling the demos (8.86.5), fails and proves divisive precisely because he loves ostentation and refuses to accept democratic egalitarianism (6.15 – 16). Obvious lessons are to be drawn here about the qualities needed for successful leadership in democracy and the conditions under which democracy can succeed at all. But Thucydides’ picture here is overdrawn, too schematic in black and white, omitting the grey tones. The initial portraits of both Pericles and democracy are idealized, those of later leaders and democracy’s failures too starkly negative, especially in their condensation into a few crucial episodes and their focus on a few essential aspects.34 But patterning requires strong colors, sharp lines and contrasts, and simplification. If space permitted, it would be possible to pull out such patterns in other central aspects of Thucydides’ interpretation of history, most especially in his analysis of war versus peace or empire and imperialism versus liberty.35 Let me turn at least briefly to the other questions I raised at the beginning. Why was patterning useful, even necessary? On the one hand, “the underlying assumption of regular patterns was a means to overcome the arbitrariness of chance, which was perceived as a threatening force”.36 On the other hand, as said before, it helped tie together and organize the historical material along specific lines, it created focus, and thus enabled the historian to convey meaning. In other words, it facilitated the historian’s didactic function. I do not doubt that this func34 Ibid. (as in n. 33). 35 For a brief discussion of war and peace, see Raaflaub 2007 and, more generally, 2009; imperialism and liberty: de Romilly 1963; Tamiolaki 2010. 36 Grethlein 2006b, 502.

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tion also had a practical application and immediate purpose. Scholars have suggested this in Herodotus’s case – for example, warning the Athenians (or any power with imperial aspirations) or providing orientation to an age that increasingly suffered from rapid change and serious challenges to values and traditions.37 The pattern ( just discussed) concerning democracy and democratic leadership gives one example of what this immediate purpose might have been in Thucydides’ case but in my present context this is of secondary importance because here I am concerned primarily with this function as such. To remain with Herodotus for a moment, I need to emphasize that, although lessons can and should be drawn from patterns, they are not quite the same as the “models to be imitated or avoided” offered in the kind of “exemplary history” that Livy emphasizes in his preface.38 This difference requires more thorough investigation than I can offer it here, but in a preliminary way I would suggest that exempla invite direct imitation or avoidance and thus concern primarily moral attitudes and behavioral principles, while patterns invite critical thinking and analysis and deal primarily with political issues. Furthermore, in my view, what Herodotus does is not only an issue of “Herodotus pointing morals for his contemporary world” (which he certainly does) but also an issue of conveying political insight. Nor does it simply concern an either – or: “the present affecting the audience’s reading of the past” or “the text pointing morals from the past to affect attitudes of the present”. Rather, similar to tragedy (mentioned above), the relationship between past and present seems to me truly interactive especially on the political level: the historian’s thinking about present experiences or problems influences the way he shapes his presentation of past events in order to make the crucial issues recognizable to his present audiences or readers, to stimulate their thinking and make them critically aware. The historian does not present the lessons to be learned on a silver platter: the reader has to draw them out himself. At any rate, this kind of didactic purpose does not seem to me incompatible with Herodotus’s insight, pointed out by several scholars, that real knowledge and understanding are difficult to gain and true wisdom is elusive.39 Even if the wise advi37 Warning: Moles 1996; see also Stadter 1992. Orientation: Meier 1973, 1987. 38 Livy, pref. 9 – 10; Chaplin 2000; for general discussion, see Grethlein 2006a, 32 – 40, esp. 34. 39 See, with quotes and references, Pelling 2006a, esp. 141 – 42 with n.4, 146, 172 – 73; for a detailed analysis of the differences between Herodotus and Thu-

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sors are mostly unsuccessful they still have to try; if Herodotus identifies himself to some extent with these advisors, as I think he does, he has to convey his insights and hope that somebody somewhere will listen and understand.40 In Thucydides there are no sages and advisors, only intelligent, rational, and articulate politicians.41 Still, Thucydides too considers the didactic function of history highly important. Why, then, did both historians feel so strongly that history needed to be made meaningful to present audiences? The explanation, I suggest, lies in the fact that in the time of Herodotus and Thucydides the past was not interesting in and of itself. To say it pointedly, the Greeks had no museums (not even in the sense of “programmatic display” of pieces of art as the Romans did in the time of Augustus) and did not teach in their schools history as a separate subject; in other words, their culture did not comprise a widespread, broad, and comprehensive interest in history as such. 42 I am aware that this statement seems to collide head-on with a different view, that the Greeks were “in the grip of the past”, and with the fact that virtually every genre of Greek literature included, in one way or other, considerations of the past.43 Yet, I think, the two views do not really contradict each other. It is certainly true that the past was of concern to many and for any number of reasons but such reasons were usually connected with specific groups or situations. The past – whether historical or mythical, which is essentially a modern distinc-

40 41 42

43

cydides in assessing “the relation between practical knowledge and action”, see Dewald 1985. Raaflaub 2002b, 178. Dewald 1985. On the “programmatic display” in the Temple of Concord, see Kellum 1990. Greek sanctuaries, of course, were crowded with votive offerings, and the attached inscriptions usually informed visitors of the donor and the occasion of the gift. Herodotus (see, e. g., Flower 1991) and Pausanias, among others, inform us of what could be learned from these about historical events. For the votive inscriptions on the Athenian Acropolis, see Raubitschek 1949. On the “Lindian Chronicle”, inscribed in 99 bce, that preserves a record of the votives to Athena Lindia on Rhodes, see Higbie 2003. See also, esp. on Olympia, Kreutz 2004. The difference is that such collections of “exhibits” in sanctuaries were the result not of a conscious intention to commemorate the past or convey a coherent political or historical message; rather, they were the accidental result of the generosity of the deity’s worshippers. Interest in their historical significance followed upon the development of interest in history. Grethlein 2010a, 2 – 3, with reference to van Groningen 1953 and other useful references.

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tion44 – drew interest mostly because it was sensational, etiological, or particularly meaningful to specific people (a person, family, group of citizens or settlers, polis, or ethnic community), not least in creating or confirming identities, or because it provided a set of familiar stories that could be adapted and exploited for various purposes.45 Already the epic poets knew this, weaving into their dramatic narrative of past events references to an even earlier past or dramatizing in that narrative concerns that were important to their audiences and communities; tragedians adapted and elaborated primarily well-known mythical themes to work through issues that agitated their public.46 I am far from claiming, of course, that this didactic and political function of Greek poetry is the only or even the most important aspect. True works of art have multiple layers and meanings; but the one I am emphasizing here is essential to understanding what the early historians did. It explains not least why they focused on the history and politics of great wars and why it was natural to them to emphasize the immediate relevance to their audiences of the history they were describing. Poets had long been not only entertainers but also teachers and voices of communal conscience and concern. They also provided the model for how something important could be conveyed through specific interpretation of the past. To sum up, the past was remembered if and as long as it remained relevant, usually to specific audiences. Memories that had no such function faded away; the past that lost its meaning for the present was forgotten or radically reshaped. The memory of even important events was sooner or later superseded by that of later ones. Curiosity was perhaps stimulated more by foreign places or peoples than by past events. All this posed serious challenges especially for the first historians who created a new genre – the prose history of important past events, whether 44 In Herodotus (1.5) we find a different distinction: between a past that is verifiable through personal inquiry and a past that is not because it is too far removed in time; see also 3.122 and, e. g., Hunter 1982, chs. 2 – 3; Vidal-Naquet 1986, 45; Lateiner 1989, 63 – 67; Calame 1996; Marincola 1997, 117 – 27. 45 For discussion of “cultural memory”, see, e. g., Assmann 1997; Assmann and Hölscher 1988; more generally, e. g., Vansina 1985; von Ungern-Sternberg and Reinau 1988; Thomas 1989. 46 Epic uses of the past: Kullmann 1999; Grethlein 2006a; political thought in epic and other archaic poetry: Raaflaub 2000; Hammer 2002; for “historical awareness” in the period when the epics “crystallized”, Patzek 1992. Tragedy and the polis: above n. 5.

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distant or recent, as “a multi-subjective, contingency-oriented account” – and had to establish its legitimacy. Although they found a distant predecessor in epic and imitated some of its features, they essentially entered uncharted territory and had to figure out not only how to organize their material and present their narrative but also how to capture the attention of their audiences and readers.47 It is not surprising, therefore, that Herodotus and Thucydides, despite differences in age, approach, methodology, style and views, share many specific characteristics and features.48 One might object that neither the Persian nor the Peloponnesian War were in danger of being forgotten because both had a decisive influence on further developments in Greece, deeply affecting the history and identity of the participants. Yet the memory of these wars was necessarily fractured, differing greatly among those involved: different events were remembered and even main events were remembered differently from one polis to the other; the scope of universally accepted elements was minimal, essentially limited to the bare outline of the main facts. For the Persian Wars, where enough, even if scattered, evidence survives, David Yates demonstrates this impressively.49 For the Peloponnesian War, where local evidence is much more scarce, a detailed investigation has not been undertaken but the results could hardly be very different. In contrast to such local memories, Herodotus described the Persian Wars and their prehistory not from an individual and partisan but from a general and panhellenic (and, at least to some extent, also a Persian and even human) perspective. In this he resumed the panhellenic and even “pan-human” outlook of the Iliad that suppressed local preferences and specificities and treated the Trojans with equal sympathy, as “nonGreek Greeks”. Still, he had to choose from among contrasting local traditions and sometimes contradict prevailing or popular views.50 By his time, Greece, always composed of numerous “micro-states” that 47 Historians and Homer: Strasburger 1972; Hartog 2000; Boedeker 2002; Marincola 2006; Pelling 2006b; see also Fornara 1983, 31; Lendle 1992, 3 – 5. On the origins of Greek historiography: Meier 1973, 1987; Boedeker 1998; Darbo-Peschanski 2007; of historiography more generally: Assmann and Müller 2005. Historiography as a new genre: e. g., Dewald 1985, 47; Lateiner 1989, ch.1, both with references. Quote: Meier 1987, 44. 48 See below, at nn. 59 – 61. 49 Yates 2009. 50 Lateiner 1989, 84 – 90 lists the evidence; contradicting popular views: 7.139.

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were fiercely competing with each other, was more deeply fragmented than ever: ethnic, cultural, and political differences were emphasized in new, often absolute, and destructive ways. The panhellenic audience Herodotus was addressing was thus not a given: he had to create it. Nor could he expect automatic and general interest in his Histories: he had to stimulate that too by emphasizing aspects that were important not to individual poleis or specific groups of poleis but to all of them. Patterning focuses precisely on issues of universal significance; this made it essential to Herodotus. Thucydides too writes from an independent position, describing “the war of the Lacedaemonians and Athenians, as they fought against each other” (1.1.1), and he emphasizes that his exile gave him “rather exceptional facilities for looking into things” and enabled him to see “what was being done on both sides, no less on that of the Peloponnesians” (5.26.5) – even if for practical reasons his focus rests much more on Athens than Sparta.51 He too obviously wants his work to be of interest not only to the Athenians but “to all who want to know precisely” what happened (1.22.4). Herodotus thus emphasizes at the beginning of his Histories his purpose to keep “human achievements” from being forgotten over time and “great and wondrous deeds” by Greeks and non-Greeks from losing their glory (kleos) – an obvious allusion to the “imperishable glory” (kleos aphthiton) promised by the epic singer – especially, of course, the greatest and most wondrous of all deeds, the war between Greeks and Persians (pref.) that culminated in the campaign of Xerxes who led the greatest army ever assembled against Greece (7.20). The author’s effort to justify this enterprise through the greatness and significance of the subject matter is obvious. It is repeated by Thucydides who claims that he believed from the beginning that the war he witnessed “was going to be a great war and more worth writing about than any of those which had taken place in the past” (1.1.1), and then goes on to demonstrate elaborately that this was indeed the greatest war ever (1.1 – 19). As we saw, Thucydides combines this claim with another, to write a work that will be useful forever (a goal that Herodotus tries to realize without saying it explicitly).52 And Thucydides too lets Pericles extol the value of great 51 On the secrecy surrounding Spartan affairs: Th. 2.39.1; 5.68.2; on Thucydides and Sparta: Cartledge 1996; Cartledge and Debnar 2006; Raaflaub 2006, 216 – 20. On the importance of an outsider’s perspective for early historiography, see Boedeker 1998. “Micro-states”: Davies 1997. 52 See next paragraph and above at n. 19.

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achievements that will result in ever-remembered glory of both individuals and communities (doxa aieimne¯stos, 2.64.5).53 Moreover, the notion of kte¯ma es aiei, as Gregory Crane points out, is in itself related to Homer’s kleos aphthiton: “Thucydides replaces Homer as true giver of undying fame”. Grethlein takes this a step further: “Whereas poetic works define their own eternity via their objects, Thucydides claims eternity in relation to his readers. Fame has been replaced with usefulness”.54 History thus combines the preservation of the memory of great deeds and particularly the greatest deeds ever (great wars) with the demonstration of their significance und usefulness for present and future audiences.55 Recent scholarship has placed both Herodotus and Thucydides firmly in the didactic and competitive intellectual environment of their time.56 Herodotus’s case is instructive: for example, he imposes on the farthest-reaching conquests of all Persian kings (from Cyrus to Xerxes) and even the Lydian king Croesus before the Persians a common pattern that could not but resonate in his contemporaries’ minds. Using elaboration and even invention, he shapes the past (here the failures of excessive imperialism in Persian history) in a way that enables it to carry meaning for the present (here the problem of excessive imperialism on the part of Greek poleis and the dangers it posed).57 He thus, as suggested above, in fact (and without saying it) makes his audiences critically aware: a condition for their ability to cope better with the present or future.58 All this differs greatly from our modern premises in dealing with history. Hence it is difficult to grasp fully what consequences this has for our understanding and use of ancient historiography and history. I have suggested elsewhere that if we fully accept what we have been learning about Herodotus’s “professional principles” we lose a great deal of what we thought was past history while gaining a deeper understanding of the conditions and mentalities prevailing in his time. In Herodotus’s case, this concerns especially the history of the more distant 53 54 55 56 57

See also Hdt. 6.109.3 with Th. 2.41.4, 64.3. Crane 1996, 215; Grethlein 2010a, 214. On “rescuing the remarkable from oblivion”, see Dewald 2007, 91 – 94. See above at n. 8. Raaflaub 1987, 2002a. See also Strasburger 1955; Fornara 1971; Hunter 1982, 176 – 225. On invention and its significance for Herodotus’s interpretation of history, see Fornara 1971, 35 – 36; Raaflaub 2010b, 199 – 200. 58 See above at n. 19.

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past.59 Thucydides’ subject matter is more contemporary, and he establishes and applies principles that seem to us to represent a progression from Herodotus and make us feel more confident in his “professionalism” as a historian. But it is precisely in his explicit efforts to make history useful for all times that he faced the same challenges as Herodotus did: his need to elaborate, to emphasize interpretation, and thus to manipulate history was no less urgent. Developing the “useful potential” in history, Thucydides penetrates as deeply as it takes to isolate the patterns we have been looking at. He certainly does this in the analyses he offers through the speeches. Whether he also shapes his narrative accordingly is likely but difficult to prove.60 For he informs us of his methodological principles but does hardly ever allow us to observe him at work: his narrative is smooth but dense and complex, presenting the results of his analysis and reconstruction of the events but not the process by which he arrived at his interpretation. Moreover, Thucydides is driven by a strong desire to unmask political propaganda (on Sparta’s as well as Athens’ side) and to de-ideologize history.61 In this effort too, “strong interpretation” is difficult to avoid. I see a challenge for future work on his History precisely in systematically tracing and exposing his efforts at patterning, as I have outlined them here. Herodotus and Thucydides were contemporaries, despite their age difference. They drew from the same pool of ideas and theories that pervaded intellectual discussions in the second half of the fifth century, and reacted to the same events. As others have shown before and do so in the present volume, Thucydides also reacted to Herodotus.62 The differences between the two authors are enormous in so many respects but still, the more I look at them side by side, the more I am struck by specific analogies in their dealings with the huge challenges posed by the task of composing major historical works – as if they had discussed them in the agora over a cup of wine. Patterning is only one of these. Ranking the significance of similar events, paying less attention to less important instances, and reserving the most dramatic elaboration for the most important one, is another.63 And there are more. 59 60 61 62

Raaflaub 2010b, 203. See now Greenwood 2006. Raaflaub 2004, ch. 5. See, e. g., Hornblower 1996, 19 – 38; Rood 1999b; Rogkotis 2006; Rengakos 2006a, 2006c. 63 Thus in Herodotus the Persian expedition resulting in the defeat at Marathon, despite its importance to Athens, receives scant treatment compared to Xerxes’

Kte¯ma es aiei: Thucydides’ Concept of “Learning through History”

21

Attempts were made in recent decades to replace Thucydides’ traditional image as a truthful reporter with that of an artful or even deceitful reporter.64 Artful, yes, because most ancient historians saw themselves no less as dramatic artists than as scholars; deceitful, no, because the principles directing his art were different from ours and he did not know the criteria by which some modern historians judge and condemn him; truthful, yes, because he aimed at truth in the sense of accuracy and full understanding, passionately and despite all difficulties, but his purpose went beyond that: to convey a deeper truth that uncovered in the past those meanings and lessons that made it useful to the present and future: truly “a possession for ever”.65

expedition (Raaflaub 2010a), in Thucydides the first Sicilian expedition of 427 – 424 compared to that of 415 – 413, although the former was far from insignificant (Raaflaub 2002a, 29 – 33). 64 Hunter 1973; Badian 1993b. 65 In the effort of uncovering a deeper truth, Tacitus is Thucydides’ closest successor: Raaflaub 2010b, 190 – 94; on Tacitus in more detail: Raaflaub 2008.

Character Judgements in the Histories: their Function and Distribution* Mathieu de Bakker Authorial judgements of individual characters are amongst the tools that Thucydides employs to explain and evaluate the course of events that he describes in explicit terms. His presentation of individuals is, however, influenced by his inclination to subjugate the role of the individual for the benefit of wider causal patterns.1 This aspect characterises his narrative throughout, as we can see in the Archaeology (1.1 – 21), where Thucydides avoids the individual and describes the development of the Hellenic world in generic, abstract terms.2 Equally, in battle-scenes, Thucydides tends to concentrate on the collective, as his narrative of the nightbattle at the Epipolae near Syracuse exemplifies (7.42 – 44): he focuses on the movements of the hoplites and describes their increasing confusion, fear and panic without highlighting acts of individual excellence. Thucydides’ preference for wider causal patterns over the individual ties in with Aristotle’s argument in his Poetics that a tragedy may lack Ghor but certainly needs pq÷nir to be successful.3 If we follow the painting analogy that Aristotle uses to illustrate this statement,4 Thucydides should be admired more for his abilities as a designer than as a painter as he has left us a clearly and coherently designed picture in which his choice of colours serves the larger whole. Indeed, Thucydides’ comments on individuals are usually confined to aspects of their characters that influence the course of events as described in the narrative. Thus he mentions Brasidas’ pqa|tgr (“gentleness”, 4.108.3) when it stimu*

1 2 3 4

I thank the participants of the 4th International Symposium on Thucydides for their valuable observations on an earlier version of this paper and Nina King for her English correction. Translations of Thucydides are from the Penguin Classics edition. Gribble 2006, 439 – 441. For patterns in general as an important tool of the method of the ancient historians, see also Raaflaub (this volume). Cf. Kallet-Marx 1993, 33 – 5. 5ti %meu l³m pq\neyr oqj #m c]moito tqac\d_a, %meu d³ Ah_m c]moit( %m (Arist. Po. 1450a). Id. 1450a-b.

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lates cities in the north of the Aegean to revolt against Athens. In a similar way he refers to Alcibiades’ me|tgr (“youthfulness”, 5.43.2) to anticipate its use as an argument in the Athenian debate on the Sicilian expedition (6.12.2; 6.17.1). Here the traits of an individual are at stake in an antilogy that illuminates the increasing exacerbation within Athenian politics. For aspects and consequences of Alcibiades’ youthfulness in the private sphere, however, we have to turn to other sources like Plato’s Symposium (212c3 ff.) or Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades. A second tendency that is observed in Thucydides’ characterisation of individuals is the uneven distribution of explicit character judgements as they increase in the second half of his work and especially in the unfinished last book.5 Thucydides’ reluctance to judge characters earlier in his work stands in contrast to the overt, authoritative way of evaluating the prominent Athenian oligarchs of the 411 revolution, Antiphon, Phrynichus and Theramenes (8.68) and the qualification of Hyperbolus as “a rascal” (lowhgq¹m %mhqypom, 8.73.3). In doing so he denies him the more laudatory predicate !m^q that he tends to use when he introduces other individuals.6 The question is why Thucydides so freely commented on these four individuals while their impact on the course of the war in Greece seems relatively unimportant. Why does Hyperbolus merit explicit comments? Why are they lacking in the cases of prominent generals like Phormio or Demosthenes who play such a crucial role in the events that Thucydides narrates? In his book on individuals in Thucydides, Westlake (1968) explained the increase in character judgements from a development in the author’s general outlook and interests in the part of his work that succeeded his second preface (5.26).7 This approach was rejected by scholars like Pouncey and Connor who suggested that compositional concerns played a role, especially in the qualifications of the oligarchs in the final book. Connor has noted that this part of the narrative stresses the disintegration of the polis, a theme that gradually surfaces in the course of the Histories. According to Connor, Thucydides introduces his readers to a “large and brilliant” cast of characters while none of

5 6 7

See Westlake 1968, 13 – 15. 1.139.4 (Pericles); 4.21.3 (Cleon); 5.43.2 (Alcibiades); 6.72.2 (Hermocrates); 8.68.1 (Antiphon); 8.68.4 (Theramenes). See Westlake 1968, 13 – 15.

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them serves as a centre of focus:8 “Individuals appear with momentary prominence and then swiftly disappear in disfavor, obscurity, or death”.9 This paper will address the distribution of Thucydides’ character judgements in the course of his work against the backdrop of Connor’s evaluation of Book 8. It will be argued that although the Athenian oligarchs may only be of fleeting prominence, their character judgements carry a wider significance. In advance of this, however, a discussion is needed of the judgements as a generic feature of Thucydides’ work. This will demonstrate that in spite of the prevailing concerns of his design, Thucydides’ choice of colours adds a vivid touch.

1. Thucydides’ explicit character judgements There are fifteen individuals on whose characters and abilities Thucydides issues an explicit verdict. In the cases of Cleon, Brasidas and Phrynichus, two separate judgements are found and in the case of Pericles and Nicias even three, yielding a total of twenty-two.10 These include the verdicts on three individuals that lived before the Peloponnesian War, Themistocles, Theseus and the Pisistratids and the “focalised” judgements where the narrator describes the impression that an individual’s character makes upon others.11 To the latter group belong the comments on Archidamus who “had a reputation for both intelligence and moderation” (1.79.2), Phrynichus who displayed intelligence and capability (8.27.5; 8.68.3) and Brasidas on whose qualities Thucydides explicitly comments in the midst of a narrative that describes how his reputation affected the course of events:

8 Connor 1984, 214. 9 Id., 215. Compare Pouncey 1980, 143. The increased prominence of individuals is part of “the final stage of a planned recession to the ground of human nature in the human individual”. Cf. Rood 1998, 252 and Gribble 2006, 443 – 444. 10 Archidamus (1.79.2); Pericles (1.127.3; 1.139.4; 2.65.8); Themistocles (1.138.2 – 3); Theseus (2.15.2); Cleon (3.36.3; 4.21.3); Brasidas (4.81.1 – 3; 4.84.2); Nicias (5.16; 7.50.4; 7.86.5); Alcibiades (6.15.2 – 4); Athenagoras (6.35.2); the Pisistratids (6.54.5); Hermocrates (6.72.2); Phrynichus (8.27.5; 8.68.3); Antiphon (8.68.1); Theramenes (8.68.4); Hyperbolus (8.73.3). Westlake 1968, 5 – 19 omits some of these. 11 Westlake 1968, 6 – 7 excludes some of these, but not Phrynichus.

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… 2aut¹m paqasw½m d_jaiom ja· l]tqiom 1r t±r p|keir !p]stgse t± pokk\… … it was his upright and moderate conduct towards the cities which caused most of them to revolt (4.81.2)

This “focalised” verdict allows Thucydides to draw a link between Brasidas’ abilities and their effects upon the outcome of the war: it was the excellent reputation of Brasidas that created a pro-Spartan feeling amongst many Athenian allies. In a similar way the “focalised” judgements of Archidamus and Phrynichus explain why they succeeded in persuading their audience to adopt their policies. The explicit judgements can be divided into instances of those that consist of a single clause only and those with more in-depth reflections. The former are the majority and are found in the cases of Archidamus, Theseus, Cleon (twice), Athenagoras, the Pisistratids, Hermocrates, Phrynichus (twice), Antiphon, Theramenes and Hyperbolus.12 The single clause judgements build upon the characterising methods of Homer and Herodotus who usually qualify their characters with single epithets and abstain from more in-depth reflections in their own voices, leaving it to the narratees to judge and evaluate a character on the basis of his words and deeds. Within this group, three individuals are evaluated negatively. Cleon and his Syracusan counterpart Athenagoras are portrayed as demagogues with much influence on their assemblies (4.21.3; 6.35.2). In Cleon’s case, Thucydides also mentions his “violent” (biai|tator) nature (3.36.6) which explains his proposals to kill the male inhabitants of Lesbos and Scione after their revolts (3.37 – 40 resp. 4.122.6).13 The “rascal” Hyperbolus (8.73.3), as we saw above, measures up to Thersites’ standards, which explains why he was ostracised in Athens. The other individuals on whom Thucydides comments in single clause judgements receive positive qualifications. These consist of variations on the generic themes of “intelligence” (n}mesir) and “excellence”

12 In the cases of Pericles (1.139.4) and Nicias (5.16.1) single clause observations on character are found in advance of more elaborate analyses. 13 Compare 5.16 where Thucydides describes Cleon’s misgivings about making peace as it would bring to light his crimes and endanger his position in Athenian politics.

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27

(!qet^),14 one of which he usually replaces by a more specific trait like moderation (syvqos}mg), as in the case of Archidamus (1.79.2), military experience and manly courage, as in the case of Hermocrates (6.72.2), trustworthiness, as in the case of Phrynichus (8.68.3) and political and oratorical abilities, as in the cases of Antiphon and Theramenes (8.68.1; 4). Before his maiden speech, Pericles is characterised as a man “most capable of speaking and acting” (k]ceim te ja· pq\sseim dumat~tator, 1.139.4) and thereby embodies the heroic ideal familiar of Homer’s Iliad where Phoenix describes his aim to teach Achilles so that he becomes able in words and deeds.15 A new feature of Thucydides’ work in comparison to Homer and Herodotus are his five more in-depth reflections upon individual characters. They too are built upon the themes of “intelligence” and “excellence” but are more elaborate and complex and the traits mentioned are usually more specific. Thus he describes Pericles as “incorruptible” (!dyq|tator, 2.65.8) – an important asset to his solid reputation as a general that enabled him to convince the Athenians of the advantages of his strategy. In the same vein, the historian mentions Nicias’ superstition (7.50.4) to explain why he refused to leave Syracuse despite the desperate situation of the Athenian army. Brasidas is praised as a Spartan for his capacities as a speaker (4.84.2), along with his reputation of energetic perseverance at home and elsewhere (dqast^qiom, 4.81.1). In Themistocles’ and Pericles’ cases the author mentions their adequate judgements and visionary foresight.16 Thucydides’ most ambiguous judgement concerns Alcibiades whose managerial capacities he recommends but whose extravagant private life causes fear and offence amongst his fellow-citizens (6.15.2 – 4).17 This brief overview of Thucydides’ judgements on character and ability raises the question of relevance. Why does he use these judgements and why in these particular cases? 14 Intelligence: Archidamus (1.79.2), Theseus (2.15.2), the Pisistratids (6.54.5), Hermocrates (6.72.2), and Phrynichus (8.27.5). Excellence: the Pisistratids (6.54.6) and Antiphon (8.68.1). 15 See Hornblower 1991, ad loc. for the reference to Iliad 9.443 and further literature. 16 Themistocles: jq\tistor cm~lym ja· t_m lekk|mtym… %qistor eQjast^r ; pqoe~qa l\kista (1.138.3); Pericles: 1cm~shg B pq|moia aqtoO ; dumat¹r ¥m… t0 cm~l, (2.65.6; 8). 17 jq\tista diah]mti t± toO pok]lou ; vobgh]mter… oR pokko· t¹ l]cehor t/r… jat± t¹ 2autoO s_la paqamol_ar (6.15.4).

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An answer to the first question may be found in the verdict on Themistocles at the end of the digression about his fate after the Persian wars (1.135 – 138). In this digression, Thucydides adopts a Herodotean fashion of narrating and in doing so pays respect to his predecessor, rounding off the latter’s narrative about the Athenian protagonist of the Persian Wars.18 In the verdict itself, however, he raises the language to a higher level of complexity: Om c±q b Helistojk/r bebai|tata dµ v}seyr Qsw»m dgk~sar ja· diaveq|mtyr ti 1r aqt¹ l÷kkom 2t]qou %nior haul\sai· …

Themistocles was a man who showed an unmistakable natural genius; in this respect he was quite exceptional, and beyond all deserves our admiration. (1.138.3)

As we know from the proem of Herodotus’ Histories, the great and the admirable merit a place within a historiographical work. With his character judgements, Thucydides lives up to this generic feature. This is evident by the ample use of superlatives and other expressions such as litotes19 that stress the individual’s excellence, as we see illustrated in bebai|tata and diaveq|mtyr ti 1r aqt¹ l÷kkom 2t]qou above. An individual of this eminence deserved to be eternalised for his excellence and Thucydides uses language to underline his laudatory purpose adding no fewer than six superlatives in the subsequent evaluation of Themistocles’ abilities.20 The superlatives are reminiscent of Herodotus’ style and superlative expressions like pq_tor t_m Ble?r Udlem (“the first of 18 Cf. Hornblower 1991, ad 1.128 – 135, with ample references to scholarship about this passage. 19 After the superlative, litotes is the second most used stylistic device in Thucydides’ judgements of character. It is used to underline Brasidas’ capacities as a speaker (4.84.2), Hermocrates’ intelligence (6.72.2), Phrynichus’ intelligence (8.27.5), Antiphon’s excellence (8.68.1) and Theramenes’ capacities as a politician (8.68.4). See further on litotes Pontier (this volume). 20 Other superlatives in Themistocles’ judgement: diû 1kaw_stgr bouk/r jq\tistor cm~lym ja· t_m lekk|mtym 1p· pke?stom toO cemgsol]mou %qistor eQjast^r· … pqoe~qa l\kista… jq\tistor dµ oxtor aqtoswedi\feim t± d]omta 1c]meto. Superlatives are also found in the verdicts on Pericles (1.127.3 dumat~tator ; 1.139.4 pq_tor, dumat~tator ; 2.65.8 !dyq|tator), Cleon (3.36.6 biai|tator, paq± pok}… piham~tator ; 4.21.3 piham~tator), Brasidas (4.81.1 pke_stou %niom), Alcibiades (6.15.4 t¹ l]cehor t/r… paqamol_ar… ja· t/r diamo_ar, jq\tista), Athenagoras (6.35.2 piham~tator), Nicias (7.86.5 Fjista), Antiphon (8.68.1 – 2 jq\tistor 1mhulgh/mai… ja· $ cmo_g eQpe?m… %qista… !pokocgs\lemor), Phrynichus (8.68.3 veqeccu~tator).

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whom we know”21) a formula matched by Thucydides in his compassionate verdict on Nicias: Fjista dµ %nior £m t_m ce 1p( 1loO :kk^mym 1r toOto dustuw_ar !vij]shai.

a man who, of all the Hellenes in my time, least deserved to come to so miserable and end, … (7.86.5)

Eternalising the great and the admirable, however, does not suffice as an explanation of Thucydides’ selection of individuals that he subjects to a verdict. A likely – though ultimately not demonstrable – reason behind this selection may have been Thucydides’ wish to position himself in the tumultuous debate in Athens after the war about the responsibility for the course of the events. Traces of this debate can be found in Lysias’ and Andocides’ speeches and given the fact that Thucydides did not avoid polemics on other subjects,22 his character judgements may have been triggered by contemporary debate about the role of prominent Athenian politicians during the Peloponnesian War. Once more the Themistocles judgement provides us with a clue. Although Thucydides pays an indirect tribute to his predecessor Herodotus by adopting his style and narrative habits in the preceding digression, he takes distance from the latter’s evaluation of Themistocles as a cunning and demanding schemer who subjected Athenian allies to extortion to enlarge his private fortune.23 None of this is found in Thucydides’ judgement which shows sympathy for Themistocles as the architect of the Athenian empire and the precursor of Periclean nautical politics. Thus his verdict on Themistocles can be read as a corrective note placed in the margin of his predecessor’s work and it compares to the positive judgement of the Pisistratids (6.54.5) which he uses to correct the Athenian vox populi that wrongly represented the facts about Athenian tyranny. Thucydides’ ambition to persuade could also be the reason for his selection of individuals on whose characters he comments. This would explain why generals like Phormio and Demosthenes are not included. These are capable men who fulfilled their duties outstandingly during the war. But as they were first and foremost skilled military 21 On this formula in Herodotus see Shimron 1973. 22 Cf. 1.20 and 1.97.2, where he targets Hellanicus. 23 On Herodotus’ characterisation of Themistocles see Blösel 2004 and De Bakker 2007, 106 – 113.

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commanders, their imprint on the political history of these years was less obvious than those of prominent politicians like the oligarchs, whose records remained controversial after the war and on whom the Athenian opinions were split. Thucydides writes his explicit judgements in particular with an eye to an individual’s political merits and talents and, with the exception of Hermocrates (6.72.2), no other individual is praised explicitly for his military capacities. Whereas contemporary polemical debate may explain the selection of individuals, the judgements also play a role within the internal structure of the historical narrative. The Thucydidean narrator usually remains covert,24 which makes the passages where he voices his opinion all the more remarkable and worth taking into account. Whereas Thucydides elsewhere uses the techniques of Homer and Herodotus in characterising his individuals through their deeds and words, in these cases he adds poignancy and steers his narratees into an interpretative direction, as he presents them with an authorial framework with which to evaluate an individual’s performance. To explain the function of the judgements in the larger structure of Thucydides’ work and to shed light on the individuals of Book 8 and the question of uneven distribution, first a discussion is needed of the timing of the judgements in relation to the careers of the individuals that are judged.

2. The timing of Thucydides’ character judgements The most likely places to insert character judgements are the introduction and the exit of the character. In the former case, the author presents a framework within which the subsequent actions and words of the character can be measured. In the latter case, the judgement may serve as a farewell or, in the case of the deceased, an epitaph of the narrator to a prominent character on whose abilities he wishes to pause. In the Histories, however, the timing is more varied. This is exemplified by Thucydides’ judgement of Hermocrates which he inserts at the end of the first summer of the Sicilian War: !mµq ja· 1r tükka n}mesim oqdem¹r keip|lemor ja· jat± t¹m p|kelom 1lpeiq_ô te Rjam¹r cem|lemor ja· !mdqe_ô 1pivam^r

24 Cf. Rood 2004b.

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He was in every way a remarkably intelligent man, and in the war had not only shown the qualities that come from experience but also won a name for his personal courage. (6.72.2)

This is not the first time that Hermocrates is mentioned in the narrative. He is introduced in Thucydides’ fourth Book as a key figure in creating peace in Sicily when its security is under threat from the Athenian naval campaign in 424 BCE (4.59 – 64).25 In fact, this Sicilian “aside” consists largely of Hermocrates’ speech that convinces his fellow Sicilians to bury the hatchet. We meet him again as a speaker in the Syracusan assembly (6.33 – 34), where his warning against the Athenians is countered by Athenagoras. Thucydides’ explicit recommendation of Hermocrates’ abilities is found, however, when his role is most crucial just after the first battle between Syracusans and Athenians, when he tries to raise the spirits of the Syracusans who have just been outclassed (6.72.2 – 5). As Hunter has argued, the contents of this speech are closely entwined with the surrounding narrative, since Hermocrates explains the defeat from a lack of skills rather than a lack of courage and thereby confirms the narrator’s interpretation of the events (6.69.1).26 Hermocrates points out that the organisation of the Syracusan army with its many commanders may have brought them harm (l]ca d³ bk\xai… tµm pokuaqw_am, 6.72.4) and advises them to entrust the military command to a smaller number of experienced generals whose task it is to arm and train the hoplites so that they become more experienced. These generals, he adds, should have special authorities, so that they will not be hindered by constitutional obligations in organising the defence of the city and can act and negotiate with more discretion (6.72.5). This time, Hermocrates does not meet any resistance in the assembly and the Syracusans adopt the piece of advice in its entirety. The timing of Thucydides’ verdict on Hermocrates is understandable when we look at the context. As Westlake has observed, Thucydides “has chosen to do so at the point where all the qualities to which he refers began to show themselves most prominently”.27 This could be re25 For Hermocrates in Thucydides’ narrative see also Westlake 1958. 26 Hunter 1973, 149 – 153. She compares Hermocrates’ role to that of Phormio in Book 2. The interplay between the explicit judgement and the subsequent narrative can be seen as a variation on the erga-logoi combinations that she recognises in Thucydides’ work. 27 Westlake 1968, 10.

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formulated in stronger terms: Thucydides recommends Hermocrates’ abilities where they are the ultimate cause behind a crucial event which contributes to Athenian defeat in Sicily. Hermocrates’ timely foresight concerning the Athenian attack on Sicily and his behaviour in the war have already brought to light his intelligence, experience and courage. Backed up by his increase in prestige, he is now able to convince his fellow citizens that they can defeat the Athenians if they train their intelligence in war, gain experience (5lpeiqoi, 6.72.4) and rely on their courage (!mdqe_ar l³m sv_sim rpaqwo}sgr, 6.72.4). Thus he persuades them to act in the spirit of his own character, to “Hermocratize” themselves, and indeed the Syracusans hold on and win the war because they add increasing experience – an important theme in Book 728 – to the courage they already possess. Thucydides, it appears, has placed his tribute to the Syracusan general at the most effective spot in his narrative: its reverberations and explanatory value cannot be missed. Had he chosen to position this passage in the Sicilian aside of Book 4 when he introduced Hermocrates, the explanatory dimension would have been lacking. A look at the timing of the character judgements in relation to the careers of the individuals in the narrative (table 1) reveals a varied picture which indicates that Thucydides sought to place them where he felt they were most effective. Eight character judgements are found when an individual makes his first appearance in the narrative. Apart from the individuals in Book 8, this happens in the cases of Archidamus, Cleon and Athenagoras, whose subsequent speeches can be measured off against their characters. Pericles’ case is more complicated: the introduction is interrupted by the digressions on the Cylon-affair, Pausanias and Themistocles (1.126.2 – 138), so that his second, “heroic”, character judgement (1.139.4, see above) closely follows the lengthy verdict on Themistocles’ abilities (1.138.3). Thus the resemblances between the two statesmen become unmistakeable and the powerful words and actions of Pericles cannot be separated from the foresight and improvising talents of his predecessor. At the other end of the scale there is Nicias whose character is not praised until after his death, when Thucydides, as we saw above, tells us that he was one that least deserved to die in such a pitiful way, “because of his way of life, which he conducted wholly in accordance with high 28 Cf. de Romilly 2009, 359 – 366.

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Table 1. The timing of Thucydides’ character judgements when the indivi- somewhere in-between dual is introduced introduction and exit of individual Archidamus

1.79.2

Pericles

1.127.3; 1.139.4

at exit of individual 2.65.8

Themistocles

1.138.3

Theseus

2.15.2

Cleon

3.36.6

a)

4.21.3

Brasidas

4.81.1 – 3; 4.84.2

Alcibiades

6.15.2 – 4

Athenagoras

6.35.2

Pisistratids

6.54.5a)

Hermocrates

6.72.2

Nicias

5.16.1

Phrynichus

8.27.5

Antiphon

8.68.1

Theramenes

8.68.4

Hyperbolus

8.73.3a)

7.50.4; 7.86.5

8.68.4

a)

In the cases of Theseus, the Pisistratids and Hyperbolus the individuals are not mentioned elsewhere in the narrative.

standards” (di± tµm p÷sam 1r !qetµm memolisl]mgm 1pit^deusim, 7.86.5).29 This judgement is placed as an epitaph and creates a pause in the narrative of Athens’ greatest defeat emphasising the dire consequences that the decisions of the Athenian d/lor had on one of its ablest generals who had to fight a battle against his will but did so to the best of his ability under excruciating circumstances. Nicias died because he refused to compromise his standards, living up to a heroic ideal similar to the one 29 I follow the interpretation of Dover, HCT III, ad loc. He takes p÷sam and memolisl]mgm with !qet^m.

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that sealed Hector’s fate in the Iliad which he expresses to Andromache in the following words: oqd] le hul¹r %mycem, 1pe· l\hom 5llemai 1shk¹r aQe· ja· pq~toisi let± Tq~essi l\weshai

nor would my heart allow me [to fight more cautiously] as I trained myself to be always brave-hearted and fight in the front ranks amongst the Trojans. (Hom. Il. 6.444 – 445; my translation)

Like Hector, Nicias has acted in accordance with his own !qet^ which has brought him great successes but also his downfall. In doing so, both heroes deserve praise and sympathy in spite of the fact that they should have made other choices at various times.30 The explanatory value of Thucydides’ judgements is most clearly illustrated by the cases of Alcibiades and Pericles, whose characters and abilities are explicitly brought into connection with the history of Athens and its people. The two passages (2.65 and 6.15) can be said to function as a “signpost” within the narrative. Thucydides uses them to give guidance to an understanding of the cause of Athenian defeat. In 2.65 Thucydides explains how Pericles kept the Athenians at bay and by his specific capacities as a politician urged them to follow his naval strategy. After his death, Thucydides explains, his successors failed to continue this policy and sought to enlarge the Athenian empire for the purpose of enhancing their prestige and capital. In this passage Thucydides mentions the private ambitions and quarrels of rivalrous Athenian politicians whose behaviour cost the Athenians dear: oq pq|teqom 1m]dosam C aqto· 1m sv_si jat± t±r Qd_ar diavoq±r peqipes|mter 1sv\kgsam.

They did not surrender before they had destroyed themselves by their own internal conflicts. (2.65.12)

An important word in Thucydides’ signpost system is Udior, which he repeats in this chapter to stress the individual interests in Athens that prevailed over the collective in the years that followed Pericles’ death. The contrast between the interests of the individual and the collective recurs in the judgement of Alcibiades (6.15), whose excellent handling of the collective interests of Athens is undermined by the offence he 30 I owe this nice observation to Maurits de Leeuw.

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causes in his private life. As a consequence, the interests of the city are harmed, a fact which Thucydides formulates in terms that recall his Book 2 analysis of Athens after Pericles’ death: … dglos_ô jq\tista diah]mti t± toO pok]lou Qd_ô 6jastoi to?r 1pitgde}lasim aqtoO !whesh]mter, ja· %kkoir 1pitq]xamter, oq di± lajqoO 5svgkam tµm p|kim. Although in a public capacity his conduct of the war was excellent, his way of life made him objectionable to everyone as a person; thus they entrusted their affairs to other hands, and before long ruined the city. (6.15.4)

This statement highlights the increasing lack of balance between the interests of the individual and the collective in the Athenian state.31 Thucydides has chosen to place his judgement in the middle of the Athenian debate about the Sicilian expedition, in which the proper relation between individual and the collective itself is at stake. Nicias argues that a person who displays foresight on behalf of his private life and goods would also guide his city to safety and success (6.9.2) whereas in Alcibiades’ case, this collective success emanates from his own private splendour and legitimates his special position (6.16). Thus the two forceful authorial judgements that Thucydides inserts to commemorate Pericles’ death and the decision to sail to Sicily serve as signposts to steer his narratees into an interpretative direction that explains the outcome of the war as the result of the gradual disintegration of Athens due to the private interest of her prominent citizens. The character judgements of the Athenian oligarchs in Book 8 may indicate the next step in this process of fragmentation.

3. The character judgements in Book 8 The narrative of Book 8 makes a complex, chaotic and at times confusing impression. Thucydides’ concern in shaping this part of his work is to stress the growing fragmentation within the Hellenic world where the various warring parties had come under pressure from political rival-

31 This statement to my mind applies to Alcibiades’ performances both in the Sicilian episode and afterwards during the Ionian War. Pace Dover, HCT III, ad loc.

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ry caused by ambitious individuals who acted without consent or consultation of their people.32 The first incidents of this kind are related to Sparta (8.5 – 6) where Thucydides mentions the strong position of the Spartan king Agis who decides unilaterally which Athenian allies he will support first in their revolt although the Spartans are negotiating a different agreement. Later on Thucydides tells about Alcibiades’ Spartan intrigues which fuel the ambitions of Endius to forestall Agis in creating a profitable alliance with the Persian king (8.12). The Spartan general Astyochus meets with the distrust of his colleague Pedaritus who sends a letter to Sparta to discredit him (8.38 – 39). Indeed, he is later told to have acted for the purpose of personal profit (8.50.3) when he betrays Phrynichus’ warnings to Alcibiades. Ultimately he narrowly escapes being stoned by his soldiers who blame him for not being paid (8.83; cf. 8.73) and leaves the stage when he is replaced by Mindarus (8.85). Other individuals that reach prominent but controversial positions in this part of the History are the Syracusan Hermocrates, who fights alongside the Peloponnesians until he is exiled by the Syracusans and replaced by other generals (8.85). On the Persian side, Thucydides mentions the rivalry between the satraps Tissaphernes and Pharnabazus, each envying for prestige as they seek to conclude an alliance with Sparta on behalf of their king, thereby weakening the Peloponnesian position within the Aegean. The most detailed story, however, of political turmoil is that of the Athenian oligarchic revolution in 411 BCE. More than elsewhere in the narrative Thucydides focuses on the individual oligarchs, as exemplified by his description of the fates of the hard-liners Pisander and Aristarchus after losing their support in the city (8.97). It is a story about individual people caught in a complex web of conflicting interests who often misunderstand or suspect one another. Of the three Athenians whose political intelligence Thucydides praises explicitly in his judgements of chapter 8.68, Phrynichus and Theramenes play a deeply ambivalent role in the narrative of the events. Phrynichus initially resembles a wise advisor, as he speaks against Alcibiades’ proposal to overthrow democracy and install oligarchies in Athens and its subject states. Thucydides confirms his correct foresight explicitly (fpeq ja· Gm, 8.48.4) and later on describes the failure of Athenian policy at Thasos which, although forced into an oligarchy, still 32 Cf. Connor 1984, 210 – 230 and Rood 1998, 251 – 284.

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wants to free itself from the Athenian empire (8.64). Of the same Phrynichus, however, Thucydides tells us that he is willing to betray his army to the Spartans so that it can be destroyed (8.50.5). His motives are personal as his life is in danger after a plot against Alcibiades has been brought to light by the Spartans. Once in Athens he joins the oligarchic revolution – in spite of his earlier advice – a regime that does not hesitate to kill and imprison its opponents at will (8.70.2). Equally ambiguous is the role of Theramenes, on whose political abilities Thucydides comments in the same chapter as his judgements on Antiphon and Phrynichus (8.68.4). Almost ironically, however, Theramenes is implicated in the death of Phrynichus when the oligarchs have divided into moderates and hardliners (8.92).33 The narrative of the killing in this chapter resembles that of Harmodius and Aristogeiton (6.54 – 59) in its emphasis on the individual. Thucydides presents a detailed description of the killing and the subsequent fate of the murderers. The ambivalent, shifting behaviour that Thucydides ascribes to Phrynichus and Theramenes is also found in Alcibiades’ case. Alcibiades re-enacts the role of Aristagoras of Miletus at the time of the Ionian Revolt against Persia since he lies to the Athenians about his influence upon the Persians satraps (8.81). In the same context, Thucydides praises him for saving the Athenian empire, when he persuades the angry democrats at Samos not to give up their strategic position and cancel their planned departure to Athens to overthrow the oligarchy (8.86.4). The narrative of Book 8 shows that the course of the war becomes increasingly dependent on the choices and whims of individuals who look for resources to survive in an increasingly fragmented Hellenic world. Thus it ties in with Thucydides’ overall explanatory framework which he outlined in the proleptic chapter on Pericles’ death and its aftermath (2.65). Here, Thucydides thrice mentions Athenian discord following upon Pericles’ death. At first, he refers to “personal intrigues” among the Athenian leaders (t±r Qd_ar diabok±r, 2.65.11) and admits that they played an important role in the course of the Sicilian expedition. Next, he refers to the stasis in Athens that followed upon the Athenian defeat (2.65.12). Finally, he mentions the private conflicts to which the state fell victim (Udiai diavoqa_, 2.65.12, see above). To my mind, Thucydides’ growing focus on the individual, the Udior and his interests, is reflected in the uneven distribution of character 33 t|te dµ oqdem¹r cecemgl]mou !p( aqtoO meyt]qou… b Hgqal]mgr Edg hqas}teqom (8.92.2).

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judgements in his work as he adds them in this part of this work to individuals that are relatively minor in comparison to those in previous episodes. Thucydides comments on Antiphon, Phrynichus, Theramenes (8.68) and Hyperbolus (8.73), not because he considers them equal to earlier prominent individuals who made a similar impact on the course of events, but because he wished to underline the increasing importance of multiple, rivalling individuals in this period of the war. In the case of Antiphon, Phrynichus and Theramenes, the recommendations of their abilities as politicians may have been meant to have a similar effect as the praise of Nicias had after his tragic death in Sicily. In times of peace they would have grown into powerful and talented statesmen, from whose intelligence and insight the city would have profited. The stressful times of war and stasis, however, and the increasingly erratic behaviour of the Athenian d/lor under the stresses of the war had made this impossible. The only option left for these talented individuals was to look for alliances within and outside their city that would guarantee their survival. Uniting Athens in Periclean style against its common enemy was no longer an option and they had to adapt themselves to the circumstances. In the passage about stasis in Corcyra (3.82 – 84) Thucydides announces this development in abstract terms: 1m l³m c±q eQq^m, ja· !caho?r pq\clasim aV te p|keir ja· oR Qdi_tai !le_mour t±r cm~lar 5wousi di± t¹ lµ 1r !jous_our !m\cjar p_pteim· b d³ p|kelor rvek½m tµm eqpoq_am toO jah( Bl]qam b_aior did\sjakor ja· pq¹r t± paq|mta t±r aqc±r t_m pokk_m bloio?.

In times of peace and prosperity cities and individuals alike follow higher standards, because they are not forced into a situation where they have to do what they do not want to do. But war is a stern teacher; in depriving them of the power of easily satisfying their daily wants, it brings most people’s minds down to the level of their actual circumstances. (3.82.2)

The relation of this passage with the events described in Book 8 illustrate the coherence of Thucydides’ overall structure34 and proves, to my mind, that underlying the stasis narrative in Book 8 is his desire to highlight how the war led to political fragmentation in Athens, a

34 See for an elaborate analysis of the ties between Books 3 and 8 and between the staseis in Corcyra and Athens Rawlings 1981, 207 – 215. For an overview of different viewpoints compare Hornblower 1991, ad 3.82 – 83; 3.84 – 85. For an integral analysis of Thucydides’ description of stasis see Price 2001.

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process that, owing to external conditions, could only be halted by grave individual and collective sacrifices. A final thought should be spent on Antiphon who receives Thucydides’ most positive verdict after Themistocles, Hermocrates and Pericles, although his appearances in the remaining part of the narrative are limited to just one occasion. As Thucydides’ work was left unfinished, he may have envisaged a larger role for Antiphon in the parts that were left unwritten. This does not seem likely, however, given Thucydides’ indication that Antiphon played a spin-doctor’s role behind the scenes while he avoided as best he could a more visible role in the political arena (8.68.1) and in this sense behaved differently from Phrynichus and Theramenes. Moreover, if we agree with the analysis of Westlake, Thucydides did not sympathise with Antiphon’s political views.35 Why, then, did Thucydides praise his character in such generous terms? Possibly, intellectual affinities played a role. Thucydides recommends Antiphon’s great intellect which was feared by many (8.68.1) and ends his judgement with a reference to his famous oratorical performance after the war when he was charged by a democratic court. In a similar way to his last words on Nicias, he uses the Herodotean formula “the best up to my time”, indicative of personal admiration: aqt¹r … %qista va_metai t_m l]wqi 1loO rp³q aqt_m to}tym aQtiahe_r, ¢r nucjat]stgse, ham\tou d_jgm !pokocgs\lemor.

Antiphon was himself on trial for his life, charged with having helped to set up this government, his speech in his own defence seems to have been the best one ever made up to my time. (8.68.2)

If Thucydides sympathised with Antiphon because of intellectual or oratorical affinities, although he rejected his political viewpoints, his judgement may be compared to Tacitus’ analysis of the oratorical talents of emperor Tiberius (Annals 13.3) whose ambiguity and careful choice of phrasing match his own style.36 If this interpretation is correct, Antiphon’s judgement is exceptional as it is the only case in which Thucydides does not subject his private view of an individual to an overall concern for his larger narrative design.

35 Westlake 1968, 11 – 12. 36 Tiberius artem quoque callebat qua verba expenderet, tum validus sensibus aut consulto ambiguus (Tac. Ann. 13.3).

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4. Conclusion Thucydides’ sparse use of character judgements makes them an effective tool to steer his narratees into certain interpretative directions. This is made evident by their careful timing in relation to the careers of the individuals that are judged. Their distribution allows Thucydides to highlight major developments in the course of the Peloponnesian War and enables him to signal their underlying motivation. If this viewpoint is accepted, the verdicts in Book 8 must be included in this explanatory scheme and should not be seen as the result of changes in outlook and method as Westlake believed. In Aristotelian terms, it is not that Thucydides, at the end of his narrative, sacrificed his pq÷nir to Ghor and made the design vanish behind a layer of different colours but that he remained faithful to his overall analysis and made Ghor a more prominent subject of study when its impact on history was increasingly felt.

Ascribing Motivation in Thucydides. Between Historical Research and Literary Representation* Melina Tamiolaki 1. Introduction Motivation ancient and modern The study of motivation in the ancient writers has been met with enthusiasm by modern scholarship;1 yet this investigation entails to some inevitable extent the risk of anachronism. The risk is twofold. Firstly, in terms of vocabulary: according to the Oxford Dictionary, motivation is defined as “the incentive to action”; in ancient Greek, however, there is no exact equivalent for “motivation”,2 although Greek literature abounds in terms relevant with feelings or thoughts that lead to specific actions. Furthermore, the existence of terms in Greek, such as aUtiom, aQt_a or the Thucydidean terms pq|vasir, pq|swgla, suggests that there may be a subtle distinction between cause and motive: the motive tends to have a more dynamic sense and leads to action in a specific situation, whereas the cause appears more immanent (in the sense that it is not necessarily linked with a concrete initiative, individual or collective) and can usually produce farther reaching effects.3 Secondly, in terms of historical method or of how it is conceived today, again a discrepancy can be observed between ancient and modern *

1 2 3

I thank Paula Debnar, Paul Demont, Kurt Raaflaub and Marek We˛cowski for their useful comments and suggestions. Translations of Thucydides are from Lattimore 1998, sometimes adapted. It has to be noted, however, that no translation can render exactly the complexity of motivation statements in Thucydides. Cf. Flower 2009. One could perhaps search an exact equivalent in the Aristotelian expression jimoOm aUtiom (De generatione animalium, 786b25 – 28), but the context is totally different. Cf. for example, the use of the word (t¹) aUtiom by Thucydides (1.11.1: lack of money [!wqglat_a] causes expeditions, 3.82.5: !qwµ B di± pkeomen¸am ja· vikotil¸am causes stasis, 3.93.5: earthquake causes tsunami)

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treatment of motivation: ancient texts abound in indications of the motives of an action, whereas modern historians usually refrain from this practice, which is considered too speculative and therefore could undermine the ideal of positivist history. To illustrate this, it suffices to look at the way one and the same event is presented by an ancient and by a modern historian. For example, Thucydides writes about Nicias’ death: !kk± t_m Suqajos¸ym tim´r, ¢r 1k´ceto, oR l³m de¸samter, fti pq¹r aqt¹m 1jejoimokºcgmto, lµ basamifºlemor di± t¹ toioOto taqawµm sv¸sim 1m eqpqac¸ô poi¶s,, %kkoi d´, ja· oqw Fjista oR Joq¸mhioi, lµ wq¶lasi dµ pe¸sar tim²r, fti pko¼sior Gm, !podqø ja· awhir sv¸si me¾teqºm ti !p’ aqtoO c´mgtai, pe¸samter to»r null²wour !p´jteimam aqtºm.4

But since some of the Syracusans had been in communication with him, they were afraid, it is said, that if questioned under torture on such grounds he would confound them in the midst of their success, while others, especially the Corinthians, were afraid that by bribing people, since he was indeed wealthy, he would escape, and there would be trouble for him once again, and they persuaded their allies and put him to death.

C.G. Starr describes the same event as follows: “Nicias and the other Athenian leaders were executed”.5 These remarks constitute a necessary preliminary for the present study, since they are respectively linked with two misconceptions concerning motivation, and more specifically, motivation in Thucydides, the author for whom this topic has aroused a more intense scholarly interest.6 The first is related to the terms that should be included in a study of motivation. The above distinction between cause and motive being left aside, the tendency appears to be the inclusion of every cause or motive.7 This tendency, however, may yield confusing results, since the nature of all motives is not the same, so a sort of categorization/delimitation seems a priori necessary. The second misconception concerns the 4 5 6

7

Th. 7.86.5. Starr 1976. Baragwanath 2008 recently dealt with motivation in Herodotus, but it seems that this author sets less controversial questions. It is not by chance that the existence or extent of Herodotean conjecture is not discussed systematically by Baragwanath, and justifiably so, since Herodotus is not considered to have serious pretensions to scientific history. E.g. Smith 1940 analyzes the economic motive in Thucydides by using passages where the word aUtiom occurs. Thompson 1969 also includes aUtiom-passages in his analysis. More alarmingly, Schneider 1974, by far the most systematic treatment of Thucydidean motivation, has a chapter on “Zufall und Notwendigkeit” (95 – 110). But are chance and necessity motives stricto sensu?

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question that haunts Thucydidean scholarship on motivation and is summarized in the subtitle of this paper: did Thucydides have specific information about the motives or feelings of his protagonists or was he based merely on conjecture? Does he mention the motives of his protagonists, because (or when) he is certain about them, or does he use them as a literary device? That this line of argument is apologetic is proved by the comments of the main Thucydidean critics who have dealt with motivation. Schneider concludes his important study as follows: “Wenn Thukydides aus den Handlungen auf das Denken der Handelnden geschlossen und darin keinen Widerspruch zu seinem Prinzip einer genauen, wahrheitsgetreuen, ‘objektiven’ Darstellung gesehen hat…”.8 And similarly does Westlake: “A more general conclusion to be drawn from the outcome of this investigation is that Thucydides was neither dishonest nor guilty of indulging in mere guesswork”.9 Although these scholars adopt fundamentally divergent approaches concerning Thucydidean motivation, the first insisting on its literary function, the second on its (at least limited) historicity, they both agree in rushing to underline the scientific/objective character of Thucydidean history. But what about Thucydides himself ? Does he really need such an apology? It would be worth examining whether the text of Thucydides contains elements that could guide us to understand how he dealt with motives and, subsequently, could elicit and legitimize an apologetic interpretative line. We need thus to turn to the famous methodological chapter. Thucydides on motivation: a methodological lacuna? Ja· fsa l³m kºc\ eWpom 6jastoi C l´kkomter pokel¶seim C 1m aqt` Edg emter, wakep¹m tµm !jq¸beiam aqtµm t_m kewh´mtym dialmglomeOsai Gm 1lo¸ te ¨m aqt¹r Ejousa ja· to?r %kkoh´m pohem 1lo· !pacc´kkousim7 ¢r d’ #m 1dºjoum 1lo· 6jastoi peq· t_m aQe· paqºmtym t± d´omta l²kist’ eQpe?m, 1wol´m\ fti 1cc¼tata t/r nulp²sgr cm¾lgr t_m !kgh_r kewh´mtym, ovtyr eUqgtai. t± d’ 5qca t_m pqawh´mtym 1m t` pok´l\ oqj 1j toO paqatuwºmtor pumhamºlemor An¸ysa cq²veim, oqd’ ¢r 1lo· 1dºjei, !kk’ oXr te aqt¹r paq/m ja· paq± t_m %kkym fsom dumat¹m !jqibe¸ô peq· 2j²stou 1pe-

8 9

Schneider 1974, 155 (my italics) Westlake 1989a, 220 (my italics). On the contrary, Hornblower 1991, 171, more realistically, does not display such a concern: “we should always be wary when Thucydides gives a statement about motive”. See also Hunter 1982, for the idea of a manipulative Thucydides.

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nekh¾m. 1pipºmyr d³ grq¸sjeto, diºti oR paqºmter to?r 5qcoir 2j²stoir oq taqt± peq· t_m aqt_m 5kecom, !kk’ ¢r 2jat´qym tir eqmo¸ar C lm¶lgr 5woi.10

Insofar as these facts involve what the various participants said both before and during the actual conflict, recalling the exact words was difficult for me regarding speeches I heard myself and for my informants about speeches made elsewhere, in the way I thought each would have said what was especially required in the given situation, I have stated accordingly, with the closest possible fidelity on my part to the overall sense of what was actually said. About the actions of the war, however, I considered it my responsibility to write neither as I learned from the chance informant nor according to my own opinion, but after examining what I witnessed myself and what I learned from others, with the utmost possible accuracy in each case. Finding out the facts involved great effort, because eye-witnesses did not report the same specific events in the same way, but according to individual partisanship or ability to remember.

In this chapter, as it has already been noted by critics,11 the historian establishes a distinction between the way he dealt with the deeds of the war, and the way he treated the speeches of its protagonists: he implies that his research concerning the deeds of the war was stricter, whereas he allows for a greater subjectivity with regards to the composition of the speeches. This chapter, however, creates some ambiguity as to how Thucydides treated motives, since there is no explicit reference to them. The ambiguity is clearly reflected in the contrasting ways motivation has been studied by modern scholars. According to Schneider, Thucydides applied on his research of motivation the same standards he used for the reconstruction of speeches.12 Westlake, on the other hand, believes that Thucydides’ criteria when ascribing motivation were the same as those used in his main narrative.13

10 Th. 1.22.1 – 4. 11 Cf. Marincola 1989, Tsakmakis 1998. 12 Schneider 1974, 137 – 154, offers a detailed analysis of the methodological chapter and concludes that the expression nulp\sgr cm~lgrrefers to the speakers’ thoughts, therefore Thucydides proceeds to an ideal reconstruction (idealtypische Konstruktion) of his protagonists’ thoughts; there is thus an analogy between his method on speeches and his method on motives. This interpretation is attractive, but it does not take sufficiently into consideration the fact that motives are present both in the speeches and in the narrative, whereas Thucydides, in his methodological chapter, uses the expression nulp\sgr cm~lgr only for the speeches. 13 Westlake 1989a, 219: “Both for narrative and for reference to motives or feelings the crucial factor was the availability of reliable evidence”.

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In fact, we practically have no certain (that is Thucydidean) guide about how we should study motives. Given that motives are present both in the main narrative and in the speeches, it would perhaps be convenient to contend that Thucydides applied two distinct methods concerning motivation and, therefore, intended us to draw a distinction between motivation in the narrative and motivation in the speeches. But certain questions still remain open: did Thucydides really ask for the motives of his protagonists or did he ask information only about the facts and then supplied the motives himself ? If he asked about motives, did he receive true statements about them? Would it be possible that Thucydides did not believe all statements about motives and tried to find the truth about them? In trying to find the truth about them, was he always right in his conjectures? There is probably no satisfactory answer to these questions: either Thucydides did not consider it important to make a programmatic statement about motives or he should be charged with a methodological lacuna concerning his treatment of them. We will return to these questions at the end of this investigation. For the moment, it is important to determine which motives will be included in our research and, more importantly, which parts of Thucydides’ History will be examined. Following the distinction mentioned above between cause and motive, this investigation will not include passages where the words aUtiom or aQt_a occur;14 it will focus instead on motives which refer to feelings or thoughts and which lead to specific actions: these may be expressed by a participle (e. g. mol_fym, bq_m, oQ|lemor, etc), by a prepositional expression or a dative (di± vik_am or 5whei) or by a whole sentence (independent or subordinate, starting with 1peid^, fti, ¢r, Vma… etc). Furthermore, the principle of this study is that only a comprehensive approach to motivation can lead to more solid results about this topic and the issues relevant to it. Given this framework, unlike most critics,15 I will not exclude speeches from this

14 For an exception, see however, infra, n. 57. 15 Scholars who have studied motivation have excluded speeches from their investigation with arguments which are far from satisfactory. Schneider 1974, 28 – 29, rejects the inclusion of speeches on the grounds of their great divergence from the main narrative: e. g. the motive of justice appears abundantly in the speeches, but is seldom evoked by the historian himself. But it is precisely this divergence that deserves a further exploration. On the other hand, Westlake 1989a, 202, excludes both speeches and the excursuses on the distant past, on

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investigation, because it is precisely their interrelation with the main narrative that is important:16 for example, it would be worth exploring whether a motive mentioned in the speech is confirmed or rejected by the narrative. Thucydidean digressions will also be taken into consideration, though with less emphasis, since the presence of motivation in them may point to overarching patterns of the Thucydidean construction of motivation. Finally, I will not establish a distinction between individual and collective motivation, since Thucydides invariably uses the same techniques for both. In the analysis that follows, I present selected examples17 of the main Thucydidean techniques concerning the construction of motivation independently of the question of their historicity. This question may be partly answered during the course of this analysis, but, in my opinion, is worth being addressed more fully after an overview of Thucydidean motivation having been put forth. The study is divided into three parts: the first part focuses on some un-Herodotean techniques of ascribing motivation and attempts to answer the question whether Thucydides was aware of the difficulties and risks involved in describing motives. I then turn, in the second part, to the way Thucydides interweaves motives in the speeches and motives in the main narrative. Finally, in the third part, I examine an issue which has broader implications for Thucydides’ History: the reading of each other’s motives, a practice to which Thucydides’ characters often resort in their effort to predict the future and plan their actions.

the grounds of greater uncertainty about motives in those parts of Thucydides’ History. 16 See on this, among others, Hornblower 1987, chapter “Speeches”, Stahl 2003, 177: “only the combination of speech and course of events can give us the full impact of Thucydides’ judgment- or of his condemnation”, Morrison 2006a, Nicolai 2011. 17 This study cannot aim at exhaustiveness, since Thucydides’ History abounds in descriptions of motivation, but I hope to present the most important techniques and patterns Thucydides uses for the construction of motivation.

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2. Techniques of ascribing motivation: the un-Herodotean Thucydides Double or multiple motives The description of feelings, aims and hidden thoughts is also a Herodotean trait which can be traced back to Homer.18 In her study on participial motivation in Thucydides, M. Lang observes that Thucydides is influenced by the Herodotean techniques of ascribing motivation, which he further elaborates.19 This may be true for the omnipresence of thoughts and feelings in Thucydides, as well as for his use of participial motivation, but a closer examination of Thucydidean techniques could rather point to a conscious differentiation from his predecessor. First of all, Thucydides (with the exception of one passage20) refrains from giving alternative motives, which is a standard Herodotean practice.21 Moreover, he often presents double or multiple motives for an action, a technique which seems, however, to have a more important function in his work than in Herodotus; this can be confirmed at first sight by its much higher frequency in his History 22 and by the multiple forms it can take: combination of two intellectual motives,23 combination of intellectual and emotional motives,24 combination of two emotional mo18 Cf. Baragwanath 2008, 35 – 54. 19 Lang 1995, 54 – 56. 20 Th. 5.65.3 – 4: b d´, eUte ja· di± t¹ 1pibºgla eUte ja· aqt` %kko ti C jat± t¹ aqt¹ dºnam 1na¸vmgr, p²kim t¹ stq²teula jat± t²wor pq·m nulle?nai !p/cem. Rood 2006, 249, sees a Herodotean touch in this passage. 21 See for the function of this practice in Herodotus, Baragwanath 2008, 66, 89, 129, who stresses the open character of Herodotus’s Histories, which allow multiple interpretations. 22 See the statistics in Lang 1995, 56. 23 Pericles (2.22: bq_m, piste}ym, 2.59: bq_m, 1bo}keto), Phormion (2.83.3: bouk|lemor, oqj %m oQ|lemor), Athenians (3.86: pqov\sei bouk|lemoi, pq|peiq\m te poio}lemoi), Demosthenes (4.37: cmo}r, bouk|lemor), Pagondas (4.91: bouk|lemor, mol_fym), Cleon (5.10.3: oq bouk|lemor ja· oQ|lemor), Nicias (6.8.4: mol_fym, 1bo}keto), Hermocrates (7.73: rpomo^sar ja· mol_sar), Astyochos (8.40: oq diamoo}lemor ja· mol_sar), Alcibiades (8.47: mol_fym, eQd~r, 8.88: eQd½r ja· bouk|lemor). Cf. Schneider 1974, 39 – 68, who concludes that the reason for which Thucydides gives these motives is to provide the reader with an intelligible and vivid narration. 24 Corcyreans (1.51.5: 1vob^hgsam, 5peita d³ 5cmysam), Athenians (1.56: rpotop^samter, de_samter, 57.6: aQsh|lemoi ja· bouk|lemoi, dedi|ter), Spartans (1.95.7: vobo}lemoi ja· mol_fomter), Demosthenes (3.102.2: pqoaish|lemor ja· de_sar), Cleon (4.28.2: oQ|lemor, cmo»r, dedi~r ja· oqj %m oQ|lemor), Brasidas

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tives.25 It is obvious that Thucydides is trying to read human minds – and he certainly enjoys it: he presents his protagonists as human brains at work and implies at the same time that his own research is largely based on an attempt to understand mental processes.26 But does he realize the difficulty of this task? In order to answer this question, it would be worth comparing a Herodotean passage of motivation with a Thucydidean one. Herodotus explains the expedition of Croesus against Cyrus as follows: 1stqate¼eto d³ b Jqo?sor 1p· tµm Jappadoj¸gm t_mde eVmeja% ja· c/r Rl´q\ pqosjt¶sashai pq¹r tµm 2yutoO lo?qam boukºlemor, ja· l²kista t` wqgstgq¸\ p¸sumor 1¾m% ja· te¸sashai h´kym rp³q )stu²ceor JOqom.27 Thucydides gives the following motives for the stasis at Megara: cmºmter d³ oR toO d¶lou pqost²tai oq dumat¹m t¹m d/lom 1sºlemom rp¹ t_m jaj_m let± sv_m jaqteqe?m, poioOmtai kºcour de¸samter pq¹r to»r t_m )hgma¸ym stqatgco¼r, Zppojq²tg te t¹m )q¸vqomor ja· Dglosh´mg t¹m )kjish´mour, boukºlemoi 1mdoOmai tµm pºkim ja· mol¸fomter 1k²ssy sv¸si t¹m j¸mdumom C to»r 1jpesºmtar rp¹ sv_m jatekhe?m.28

The democratic leaders, knowing that the people would not be capable of standing firm with them in these difficulties, were frightened into making approaches to the Athenian generals, Hippokrates son of Ariphron and Demosthenes son of Alkisthenes, and were willing to betray the city because they considered this a lesser danger to themselves than the return of those they had driven out.

In Herodotus, the feelings or thoughts are linked paratactically and the impression is conveyed that they are all of equal importance or at least that Herodotus does not wish to establish a hierarchy among them. In Thucydides, on the contrary, the complex syntactic structure (the verb is framed by multiple participles of motivation) reflects the difficulty of the thought reconstruction and may further suggest that a hierarchization of these feelings is difficult to achieve. Indeed, it is not by chance that this passage has aroused a scholarly controversy and led to divergent reconstructions about motives.29

25 26 27 28 29

(4.70: ¢r Õsheto, de_sar, oQ|lemor, 5.8: dedi~r, mol_fym), Phrynichos (8.50: cmo»r, de_sar). Th. 8.54 (b d/lor… de_sar ja· ûla 1pekp_fym…). Stahl 2003, 175, 180 – 181, speaks of intellectual history of the war. Cf. Rood 1998, 61 – 82, for the importance of perceptions in Thucydides. Hdt. 1.73.1 – 2. Th. 4.66.2 – 3. See Losada 1969.

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Moreover, Thucydides often uses a peculiar hierarchization, which consists in presenting the most important (deeper) motive second. For example, he describes the Athenians’ initiative towards the Potidaeans as follows: t_m c±q Joqimh¸ym pqassºmtym fpyr tilyq¶somtai aqto¼r, rpotop¶samter tµm 5whqam aqt_m oR )hgma?oi Poteide²tar, oT oQjoOsim 1p· t` Qshl` t/r Pakk¶mgr, Joqimh¸ym !po¸jour, 2aut_m d³ null²wour vºqou rpoteke?r, 1j´keuom t¹ 1r Pakk¶mgm te?wor jaheke?m ja· bl¶qour doOmai, to¼r te 1pidgliouqco»r 1jp´lpeim ja· t¹ koip¹m lµ d´weshai otr jat± 5tor 6jastom Joq¸mhioi 5pelpom, de¸samter lµ !post_sim rpº te Peqd¸jjou peihºlemoi ja· Joqimh¸ym, to¼r te %kkour to»r 1p· Hqõjgr numapost¶sysi null²wour.30

While the Corinthians were thinking of ways to get revenge, the Athenians, since they suspected Corinthian hostility, ordered the Potidaians, who inhabit the isthmus of Pallene and were Corinthian colonists but tributary Athenian allies, to pull down their fortifications toward Pellene and send hostages to Athens, also to expel their Corinthian magistrates and in the future not to accept those sent out annually, acting out of fear that the Potidaians might revolt under the influence of Perdikkas and the Corinthians and draw the other allies in the Thracian area into the revolt.

Similarly, he explains the decision of the Corinthians to help Epidamnos as follows: Joq¸mhioi d³ jat² te t¹ d¸jaiom rped´namto tµm tilyq¸am, mol¸fomter oqw Hssom 2aut_m eWmai tµm !poij¸am C Jeqjuqa¸ym, ûla d³ ja· l¸sei t_m Jeqjuqa¸ym, fti aqt_m paqgl´koum emter %poijoi…31

And the Corinthians promised the requested help, partly as a duty, since they thought the colony was as much theirs as the Corcyreans’, but partly also out of hatred for the Corcyreans because they were colonists of theirs who slighted them…

And he gives the following explanation for the attitude of Lacedaemonians towards Brasidas: oR d³ Kajedailºmioi t± l³m ja· vhºm\ !p¹ t_m pq¾tym !mdq_m oqw rpgq´tgsam aqt`, t± d³ ja· boukºlemoi l÷kkom to¼r te %mdqar to»r 1j t/r m¶sou jol¸sashai ja· t¹m pºkelom jatakOsai…32

But the Lacedaemonians did not support him, partly because of the envy of the leading men, partly because they wanted to get the men back from the island and end the war. 30 Th. 1.56.2 – 1.57.1. 31 Th. 1.25.3. 32 Th. 4.108.7.

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In all these passages, there is an asymmetry concerning double motives, since the second motive appears more performative: it could stand alone as an explanation, whereas this is not exactly the case with the first motive, which would be rather insufficient. That Thucydides often presents double motives can be evidence of his concern for exhaustiveness. That he often states the deeper motive second suggests not only that he wishes to present the stages of a mental process, but also that he tends to categorize motives from the most certain (first perception, more proclaimed) to the most uncertain (deeper perception, least avowed). In this way, while he presents his protagonists as human brains at work, he displays at the same time an awareness of the difficulties involved in the reconstruction of motives. This awareness can be further highlighted by the examination of another technique, the use of which proves that Thucydides indeed strove to discard the impression that his reconstructions of motives might be arbitrary. Detailed motivation and Thucydidean confirmation Thucydides often gives a detailed motivation about an action and then adds a clarification about it. This clarification usually33 comes at the end of the narrative unit and functions as a recapitulating comment by the historian. The pragmatic and sober character of this authorial comment creates a contrast with the presentation of motives described before and functions as a confirmation of them. In this way, Thucydides not only minimizes a possible suspicion of the reader about the validity of these 33 It should also be noted that parenthetic clarifications about motives abound in Thucydides’ History. See, for an example, Th. 7.42.3 – 4, where the clarification is given parenthetically: b d³ Dglosh´mgr Qd½m ¢r eWwe t± pq²clata ja· mol¸sar oqw oXºm te eWmai diatq¸beim oqd³ pahe?m fpeq b Mij¸ar 5pahem (!vijºlemor c±q t¹ pq_tom b Mij¸ar vobeqºr, ¢r oqj eqh»r pqos´jeito ta?r Suqajo¼sair, !kk’ 1m Jat²m, diewe¸lafem% rpeq¾vhg te ja· 5vhasem aqt¹m 1j t/r Pekopomm¶sou stqatiø b C¼kippor !vijºlemor, Dm oqd4 #m let´pelxam oR Suqajºsioi% eQ 1je?mor eqh»r 1p´jeito7 Rjamo· c±q aqto· oQºlemoi eWmai ûla t’ #m 5lahom Fssour emter ja· !poteteiwisl´moi #m Gsam, ¦ste lgd4 eQ let´pelxam 5ti blo¸yr #m aqto»r ¡veke?m)% taOta owm !masjop_m b Dglosh´mgr, ja· cicm¾sjym fti ja· aqt¹r 1m t` paqºmti t0 pq¾t, Bl´qô l²kista deimºtatºr 1sti to?r 1mamt¸oir, 1bo¼keto fti t²wor !powq¶sashai t0 paqo¼s, toO stqate¼lator 1jpk¶nei. Cf. Schneider 1974, 52 – 56 (and n. 106) and esp. p. 54: “…die Parenthese sich liest, als interveniere der Geschichtsschreiber in den Gedankengang des Handelnden”. Indeed, this is the literary effect of parenthetic statements. But Thucydides’ aim is not purely literary: it seems as if he does not want to leave any doubts about the correctness of his historical explanation.

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motives, but also suggests that the last, pragmatic fact he is mentioning legitimizes him to make claims about motives. We will explore this technique by analyzing three characteristic examples: the motives of the Lacedaemonians for accusing Pericles at the beginning of the war, the motives of the Plataeans for resisting the Thebans and the motives of the Athenians for killing the Lacedaemonian ambassadors on their way to Persia. Thucydides describes as follows the motives of the Lacedaemonians for accusing Pericles of the Alcmeonid curse at the outset of the war: toOto dµ t¹ %cor oR Kajedailºmioi 1j´keuom 1ka¼meim d/hem to?r heo?r pq_tom tilyqoOmter, eQdºter d³ Peqijk´a t¹m Namh¸ppou pqosewºlemom aqt` jat± tµm lgt´qa ja· mol¸fomter 1jpesºmtor aqtoO Nøom #m sv¸si pqowyqe?m t± !p¹ t_m )hgma¸ym. oq l´mtoi tosoOtom Ekpifom pahe?m #m aqt¹m toOto fsom diabokµm oUseim aqt` pq¹r tµm pºkim ¢r ja· di± tµm 1je¸mou nulvoq±m t¹ l´qor 5stai b pºkelor. £m c±q dumat¾tator t_m jah’ 2aut¹m ja· %cym tµm pokite¸am AmamtioOto p²mta to?r Kajedailom¸oir, ja· oqj eUa rpe¸jeim, !kk’ 1r t¹m pºkelom ¦qla to»r )hgma¸our.34

This was the curse that the Lacedaemonians commanded them to drive out, in the first place acting like honouring the gods, but knowing that Perikles son of Xanthippos was connected with it through his mother and thinking that if he were exiled they would make easier headway with the Athenians. They did not anticipate so much that he would undergo this, however, as that they would prejudice him in the eyes of the citizens, inasmuch as war would come partly on account of his unfortunate accusation. Being the ablest man of his time and the leader of the state, he opposed the Lacedaemonians in everything and would not allow the Athenians to make concessions but was always urging them on to the war.

The last phrase is certainly the most important part of this section: it echoes 1.139.4 and 2.65.8 and is linked with Thucydides’ overall view on Pericles. In order to better illustrate the importance of this comment, we can imagine it at the beginning of the section. Thucydides could have written: “Pericles was very influential, so the Laecedaemonians wanted to get rid of him… because they knew… and they hoped…”. In this way, however, the emphasis of the section would be placed on the motives of the Lacedaemonians. On the contrary, by placing the pragmatic comment about Pericles at the end, Thucydides suggests that the central focus of this section is Pericles’ portrait 34 Th. 1.127.2 – 3. On this episode, see also Rood (this volume, 119 – 138). Cf. also a similar pragmatic comment about Alcibiades after a detailed description of motives (Th. 6.15).

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and personality and renders at the same time more justifiable the Lacedeamonians’ feelings towards him (or better: his conjectures about them). Thucydides’ account of the siege of the Plataeans by the Thebans also abounds in descriptions of motives: oR d³ Pkatai/r ¢r Õshomto 5mdom te emtar to»r Hgba¸our ja· 1napima¸yr jateikgll´mgm tµm pºkim, jatade¸samter ja· mol¸samter pokk` pke¸our 1sekgkuh´mai (oq c±q 2¾qym 1m t0 mujt¸) pq¹r n¼lbasim 1w¾qgsam ja· to»r kºcour den²lemoi Bs¼wafom, %kkyr te ja· 1peidµ 1r oqd´ma oqd³m 1meyt´qifom. pq²ssomter d´ pyr taOta jatemºgsam oq pokko»r to»r Hgba¸our emtar ja· 1mºlisam 1pih´lemoi Nôd¸yr jqat¶seim7 t` c±q pk¶hei t_m Pkatai_m oq boukol´m\ Gm t_m )hgma¸ym !v¸stashai.35

When the Plataians realized that the Thebans were inside and the city had been taken over in an instant, filled with fear and thinking that a much larger number had entered (since they couldn’t see them in the night), they came to an agreement and accepted the proposals without opposition, especially since the Thebans, for their part, had committed no violence against anyone. But at a certain point in their negotiations, they discovered that the Thebans were not numerous and felt that if they attacked they could easily overpower them; because it was not the wish of the majority of Plataians to defect from Athens.

Again, in this section, the crucial information is given at the end. Although it can be considered as a description of a motive (that is the will of the Plataeans not to abandon the Athenian alliance), the presence of c±q and the recapitulative character of this comment indicate its specific function. In a way similar to the previous passage, Thucydides lays the emphasis on this will of the Plataeans and thus renders justifiable the description of motives he has presented before. Our third example comes from a section which is famous for the way Thucydides tries to correct Herodotus. It describes a failed attempt of an embassy to Persia, constituted by a Corinthian, Aristeus, and some Lacedaemonians. The Athenians caught the people of this embassy and killed them. Thucydides describes the Athenians’ motives as follows: !vijol´mym d³ aqt_m de¸samter oR )hgma?oi t¹m )qist´a lµ awhir sv÷r 5ti pke¸y jajouqc0 diavuc¾m, fti ja· pq¹ to¼tym t± t/r Poteida¸ar ja· t_m 1p· Hqõjgr p²mta 1va¸meto pq²nar, !jq¸tour ja· boukol´mour 5stim $ eQpe?m aqhgleq¹m !p´jteimam p²mtar ja· 1r v²qacca 1s´bakom, dijaioOmter to?r aqto?r !l¼meshai oXspeq ja· oR Kajedailºmioi rp/qnam, to»r 1lpºqour otr 5kabom )hgma¸ym ja· t_m null²wym 1m bkj²si peq· Pekopºmmgsom

35 Th. 2.3.1.

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pk´omtar !pojte¸mamter ja· 1r v²qaccar 1sbakºmter. p²mtar c±q dµ jat’ !qw±r toO pok´lou Kajedailºmioi fsour k²boiem 1m t0 hak²ss, ¢r pokel¸our di´vheiqom% ja· to»r let± )hgma¸ym nulpokeloOmtar ja· to»r lgd³ leh’ 2t´qym.36

After they arrived, the Athenians, fearing that Aristeus would escape and do them still more harm, since it was obvious that he had previously been responsible for everything concerning Potidaia and the Thracian area, put them all to death that same day, although they had had no trial and had things they wished to say, and threw them into a pit, with the justification that they were defending themselves by the same methods that the Lacedaemonians had initiated when they put to death Athenian and allied traders that they caught sailing around the Peloponnesos in merchant ships and threw them into pits. For at the beginning of the war the Lacedaemonians had indeed killed as enemies all whom they caught at sea, both those allied with the Athenians and those belonging to neither side.

Westlake observes about this event that Thucydides had talked with Aristeus himself, which explains why he gives an exaggerated picture of Athenian fears of him.37 But the section is more complex: actually, the two motives, the fear about Aristeas’ actions and the motive of justice seem contradictory and create further questions: which motive is the most important? Would the fear of Aristeas not be a sufficient motive for the Athenians to kill the Lacedaemonian ambassadors? Probably yes. Then why does Thucydides add the comment about retributive justice? Again, the final comment by the historian can be illuminating. It is obvious from this comment that Thucydides wishes to lay emphasis on the second motive, which he further stresses with a clarification (c±q statement) about the Lacedaemonians’ actions.38 These examples are important because statements about motives are combined with (and clarified by) statements about facts. Thucydides’ habit to confirm statements about motives by adding a statement about a fact suggests that he is aware of the risk of presenting motives. By using this technique, he favors an explanation, while at the same time he elegantly conceals the limitations of his authority. The next technique will illuminate an opposite tendency: Thucydides’ overt emphasis on his authority and his confidence about the historical explanation he wishes to promote. 36 Th. 2.67.4. See, for the correction of Herodotus, Hornblower 1991, ad loc. 37 Westlake 1969, 78, n. 9. 38 Hornblower 1991, ad loc., is right here, when he speaks of “Athenian self-justification”.

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Repetitions of motivation Repetitions in Thucydides have usually been interpreted in two ways: either they are considered as signs of incompleteness or they are thought to have a specific literary function.39 If we turn to repetitions of motivation, we can observe that, unless they certainly point at different strata of composition40 or constitute a climax in a narrative unit,41 they are linked with larger themes of Thucydides’ History and serve to promote a concrete historical explanation; in sum, they enhance Thucydides’ authority.42 The following examples can further illuminate this technique: a. Repetition of the Athenians’ ignorance about the murder of the Theban prisoners by the Plateans as a motive for their sending help to the Plateans: oq c±q Acc´khg aqto?r fti tehmgjºter eWem. ûla c±q t0 1sºd\ cicmol´m, t_m Hgba¸ym b pq_tor %ccekor 1n-ei, b d³ de¼teqor %qti memijgl´mym te ja· numeikgll´mym7 ja· t_m vsteqom oqd³m Õdesam. ovty dµ oqj eQdºter oR )hgma?oi 1p´stekkom7 b d³ j/qun !vijºlemor gxqe to»r %mdqar dievhaql´mour.43

39 See, for example, the famous repetition 4.4.1 and 4.41.3 and the divergent approaches by Gomme, ad loc. and Rhodes 1998, ad loc. Cf. also de Romilly 1988, 35 – 42, for the importance of verbal echoes in Thucydides. 40 Perhaps only the repetition of the motive of Spartan help to Aegina (Th. 2.27.2 and 4.56.2) could be more certainly considered as a sign of incompleteness (see Gomme, ad loc. and Hornblower 1991/6, ad loc.), but even here, the fact that Thucydides even unconsciously repeats these motives is itself telling. 41 See, for example, Th. 4.122.5 and 4.123.5 (Thucydides stresses twice the wrath of the Athenians due to the loss of their allies), and Th. 5.50.3 – 4: flyr d³ oR Ike?oi dediºter lµ b¸ô h¼sysi, n»m fpkoir t_m meyt´qym vukajµm eWwom7 Gkhom d³ aqto?r ja· )qce?oi ja· Lamtim/r% w¸kioi 2jat´qym, ja· )hgma¸ym Rpp/r% oT 1m *qp¸m, rp´lemom tµm 2oqt¶m. d´or d’ 1c´meto t0 pamgc¼qei l´ca lµ n»m fpkoir 5khysim oR Kajedailºmioi, %kkyr te ja· 1peidµ ja· K¸war b )qjesik²ou Kajedailºmior 1m t` !c_mi rp¹ t_m Nabdo¼wym pkgc±r 5kabem, fti mij_mtor toO 2autoO fe¼cour ja· !majgquwh´mtor Boiyt_m dglos¸ou jat± tµm oqj 1nous¸am t/r !cym¸seyr pqoekh½m 1r t¹m !c_ma !m´dgse t¹m Bm¸owom, boukºlemor dgk_sai fti 2autoO Gm t¹ ûqla7 ¦ste pokk` dµ l÷kkom 1pevºbgmto p²mter ja· 1dºjei ti m´om 5seshai. Thucydides stresses three times the fear expe-

rienced by the Eleans in the episode about Lichas. It is to be noted that the episode opens and ends with this fear in a form of ring composition. For the importance of fear in Thucydides, see de Romilly 1956a. Cf. Huart 1968, 337 – 346. 42 On Thucydides’ authority, see generally Rood 2006. 43 Th. 2.6.3.

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It had not been reported to them that these had been killed, for the first messenger had gone out right at the time the Theban entry had occurred, the second just after they had been defeated and captured, and they knew nothing of later events. So the Athenians sent their instructions without full knowledge; when the herald arrived, he found that the men had been killed.

Gomme’s surprise about this passage is certainly justified: “Why did not Thucydides add ‘and later the third message arrived with the news of the execution’?”.44 It is clear that Thucydides wishes to underline Athenian ignorance and it may also be possible that in rushing to do so, he repeats similar phrases, thus producing a somewhat confused account. This account is obviously linked with the image of Athens; despite dismissal of apologetic interpretations, this line of argument could be valid for this passage45. b. Repetition of the influence the Messenians of Naupactus exerted on Demosthenes, as a motive for his actions and plans: Dglosh´mgr d4 !mape¸hetai jat± t¹m wqºmom toOtom rp¹ Lessgm¸ym ¢r jak¹m aqt` stqati÷r tosa¼tgr numeikecl´mgr AQtyko?r 1pih´shai… b d³ t_m Lessgm¸ym w²qiti peishe·r… b d³ to¼toir te peishe·r…46

But Demosthenes at this point had been won over by the Messenians to the excellent prospects, with such a large force gathered under him, for attacking the Aitolians… Demosthenes was persuaded out of gratitude to the Messenians… But since he was persuaded by them…

It is hard to escape the conclusion here that Thucydides had a specific reason to stress the Messenians’ role near Demosthenes. It has certainly to do with Thucydides’ view of Demosthenes (success/failure of his plans),47 but should also be linked with the general political role Thucydides ascribes to the Messenians of Naupactus throughout his History. 48

44 Gomme, ad loc. 45 Schneider, 1974, 86 – 87, stresses Thucydides’ interest in illusion and ignorance (Irrtum und Unwissenheit), and Stahl 2003, 68 – 72, quite similarly, integrates the episode to the larger theme of a failed plan and dismisses the interpretation based on an Athenian apology as “an isolated case”. See, however, Hornblower 1994b, for the narrative techniques used by Thucydides to minimize Athenian aggressiveness. Cf. also Badian 1993, chapter 1, who somewhat exaggerates the apologetic perspective of Thucydides’ History (especially Book 1). 46 Th. 3.94.3, 3.95.1, 3.97.1. For these events, see Luraghi 2008, 188 – 190. 47 Stahl 2003, 129 – 131.

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c. Repetition of the Spartan fear about the helots’ revolt as a motive for their cautious policy: oR d³ Kajedailºmioi !lahe?r emter 1m t` pq·m wqºm\ k,ste¸ar ja· toO toio¼tou pok´lou, t_m te ERk¾tym aqtoloko¼mtym ja· vobo¼lemoi lµ ja· 1p· lajqºteqom sv¸si ti meyteqish0 t_m jat± tµm w¾qam, oq Nôd¸yr 5veqom… ja· t± %kka 1m vukaj0 pokk0 Gsam, vobo¼lemoi lµ sv¸si me¾teqºm ti c´mgtai t_m peq· tµm jat²stasim.49

The Lacedaemonians, both because they had no previous experience of plundering and warfare of this sort and because, since the helots were deserting, they feared they would have some more extensive uprising throughout the territory, found this unbearable… they were in general in a very protective position, fearing some kind of revolution in the established order.

Thucydides had a special interest in the Spartan politeia, all the more since it was not easy for him to collect information about it.50 His emphasis on Spartan fear of the helots suggests that this is one of the basic elements of the Spartan politeia he is (or wants to show) certain about. d. Repetition of the Acanthians’ fear about their grain as a motive for their following Brasidas: flyr d³ di± toO jaqpoO t¹ d´or 5ti 5ny emtor peish³m t¹ pk/hor rp¹ toO Bqas¸dou d´nasha¸ te aqt¹m lºmom ja· !jo¼samtar bouke¼sashai, d´wetai… di² te t¹ 1pacyc± eQpe?m t¹m Bqas¸dam ja· peq· toO jaqpoO vºb\ 5cmysam oR pke¸our !v¸stashai )hgma¸ym.51

Nevertheless, when the common people were persuaded by Brasidas – on account of their fear for the fruit that was still outside the city – to let him in before deciding, he was admitted… they decided by majority to revolt from Athens, partly because of what was appealing in Brasidas’ speech, partly out of fear for their fruit.

Although Thucydides’ narrative provides elements of a kind of heroization of Brasidas,52 it also contains indications which undermine his cam48 In Tamiolaki 2010, chapter II.2, I argue that Thucydides minimizes the servile past of the Messenians of Naupactus, a fact that allows him to focus with more ease on their political role as Athenian allies. 49 Th. 4.41.3, 4.55.1. 50 Th. 5.68.2 (t¹ jqupt|m). 51 Th. 4.84.2, 4.88.1. Cf. also, another repetition, not verbal, but in meaning (Th. 4.108.5): ja· toO Bqas¸dou 1vokj± ja· oq t± emta k´comtor. 52 See the detailed treatment by Hornblower 1996, 38 – 61, who analyzes the epic elements in Brasidas’ presentation.

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paign of liberation. The best proof of this is that the motive of freedom is never mentioned for the people who followed Brasidas, although it plays a crucial role in Brasidas’ argumentation and rhetoric.53 The fact that the historian stresses twice the Acanthians’ fear about the grain also points at this direction. The examination of these techniques shows that Thucydides was aware of the difficulties involved in reconstructing motives, but his primary interest was not so much to provide an accurate account of people’s thoughts, but rather to promote a specific historical explanation linked with it. Motives are thus inseparable from Thucydides’ historiographical priorities. The next two sections of this study also deal with these priorities.

3. Motivation in the speeches versus motivation in the narrative The joint examination of motivation in the speeches and in the narrative reveals a more sophisticated aspect of the Thucydidean technique of ascribing motivation: Thucydides’ narrative either confirms or corrects the motives present in the speeches. This examination is highly instructive, since it allows readers to understand Thucydides’ view on important events.54 A first example is provided by Diodotos and his analysis of hope and desire as motives of every daring act: F te 1kp·r ja· b 5qyr 1p· pamt¸, b l³m Bco¼lemor, B d’ 1vepol´mg, ja· b l³m tµm 1piboukµm 1jvqomt¸fym, B d³ tµm eqpoq¸am t/r t¼wgr rpotihe?sa, pke?sta bk²ptousi, ja· emta !vam/ jqe¸ssy 1st· t_m bqyl´mym deim_m. ja· B t¼wg 1p’ aqto?r oqd³m 5kassom nulb²kketai 1r t¹ 1pa¸qeim755

And in every case, hope and desire – the one leading while the other follows, the one thinking up the scheme while the other holds out the full assistance of fortune – do the greatest damage, and, although invisible, they have power over perils that can be seen. On top of these, fortune contributes no less incitement. 53 Cf. on this topic, in more detail, Tamiolaki 2010, chapter II.1 (with previous bibliography). 54 For the connotations of the distinction between speech and narrative in the Homeric epics, see the illuminating discussion by Griffith 1986. 55 Th. 3.45.5 – 6.

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Perhaps it would be wrong to surmise on moral or personal grounds (because of bias against Cleon) that Diodotos is Thucydides’ mouthpiece, but the idea of the destructive force of hope is indeed a Thucydidean idea. Thucydides, in his own words, comments the Athenian allies’ hopes of liberation as follows: t¹ d³ pk´om bouk¶sei jq¸momter !save? C pqomo¸ô !svake?, eQyhºter oR %mhqypoi ox l³m 1pihuloOsim 1kp¸di !peqisj´pt\ didºmai.56

Their decisions were based more on vague wishes than on secure foresight, following the human habit of entrusting desires to heedless hopes.

The combination of desire (ox l³m 1pihuloOsim) with hope (1kp¸di) evokes Diodotos’ description. Moreover, Thucydides comments as follows about the Athenians’ decision to punish their generals for not managing to conquer Sicily (!) in 424 BCE.: ovty t0 [te] paqo¼s, eqtuw¸ô wq¾lemoi An¸oum sv¸si lgd³m 1mamtioOshai, !kk± ja· t± dumat± 1m Us\ ja· t± !poq¾teqa lec²k, te blo¸yr ja· 1mdeest´qô paqasjeu0 jateqc²feshai. aQt¸a d’ Gm B paq± kºcom t_m pkeºmym eqpqac¸a aqto?r rpotihe?sa Qsw»m t/r 1kp¸dor.57

So extreme, in the midst of their current good fortune, was their conviction that nothing would stand in their way, that they would accomplish the practicable and the more problematic alike, whether with a great force or a weaker one. The cause was their extraordinary success in most respects, lending strength to their hopes.

Apart from the common reference to chance and desire, a verbal echo of the Diodotean eqpoq¸am t/r t¼wgr rpotihe?sa can be observed in the Thucydidean rpotihe?sa Qsw»m t/r 1kp¸dor. And of course, the connotations of the word 5qyr for the Sicilian expedition58 become now all the more obvious. Equally interesting are the occurrences, in which Thucydides’ narrative proves that a thought or feeling stated in a speech is false, misleading or idealized. The funeral oration can be a proper field for this investigation, given its idealized character. It would be interesting to examine Pericles’ analysis of the motives of those who fought. This analysis is largely based on their disposition towards wealth. According to Pericles, 56 Th. 4.108.4. 57 Th. 4.65.4. Here Thucydides uses the word aQt_a. But this passage could be included in a study of motivation, because it describes a psychological process; the word aQt_a is used, because this psychological process is an aspect of the human nature as a whole, so it has broader implications. 58 Th. 6.24.2.

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neither the poor went to war, with the hope that they would gain more through it, nor the rich tried to avoid it, thinking that they would thus secure their possessions. This topic is raised twice in the speech; the second time the statement is somewhat qualified, the emphasis being placed on the rich : a) t_mde d³ oute pko¼tou tir tµm 5ti !pºkausim pqotil¶sar 1lakaj¸shg oute pem¸ar 1kp¸di, ¢r j#m 5ti diavuc½m aqtµm pkout¶seiem, !mabokµm toO deimoO 1poi¶sato… None of these men turned coward from preferring the further enjoyment of wealth, nor did any, from the poor man’s hope that he might still escape poverty and grow rich, contrive a way to postpone the danger. b) oq c±q oR jajopqacoOmter dijaiºteqom !veido?em #m toO b¸ou, oXr 1kp·r oqj 5stim !cahoO, !kk’ oXr B 1mamt¸a letabokµ 1m t` f/m 5ti jimdume¼etai ja· 1m oXr l²kista lec²ka t± diav´qomta, Em ti pta¸sysim.59 For failures, men bereft of good expectations, have no more reason to be unstinting of their lives than those for whom reversal is always a threat as long as they live, and in whose sight the most important things are at stake if they come to grief.

These phrases create a stark contrast with the Thucydidean narrative following Pericles’ last speech. This narrative focuses again both in the rich and in the poor and explains precisely why both the poor and the rich were dissatisfied by the continuation of the war. The reason is their concern about their possessions: oR d³ dglos¸ô l³m to?r kºcoir !mepe¸homto ja· oute pq¹r to»r Kajedailom¸our 5ti 5pelpom 5r te t¹m pºkelom l÷kkom ¦qlgmto, Qd¸ô d³ to?r pah¶lasim 1kupoOmto, b l³m d/lor fti !p’ 1kassºmym bql¾lemor 1st´qgto ja· to¼tym, oR d³ dumato· jak± jt¶lata jat± tµm w¾qam oQjodol¸air te ja· pokutek´si jatasjeua?r !pokykejºter…60

On a public basis they were won over by his words, and they no longer made approaches to the Lacedaemonians and were more actively committed to the war, but on a personal basis they were distressed by their suffering – the common people because they had owned less to begin with and had been stripped of even that, the leading men because they had lost fine possessions in the country with houses and expensive furnishings…

And what about the motives of the Sicilian expedition? Thucydides describes them in much detail several times, but let us focus on wealth:

59 Th. 2.42.4, 2.43.5 – 6. 60 Th. 2.65.1.

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b d³ pok»r flikor ja· stqati¾tgr 5m te t` paqºmti !qc¼qiom oUseim ja· pqosjt¶seshai d¼malim fhem !¸diom lishovoq±m rp²qneim.61

The masses and the soldiers were confident of earning money for now and acquiring dominion that would provide unending service for pay.

The parallel examination of these passages invites readers to wonder which of the two descriptions is more accurate and, subsequently, to establish a distinction between pragmatic and idealistic motives. Besides Pericles, whose description refers to the Athenians as a whole, and who could thus be charged with a deliberate idealization of the Athenians’ motives (or even a limited knowledge of them), Thucydides’ narrative also shows at times that his speakers are not absolutely sincere when they describe their motives. A characteristic example is Nicias. In the speech he delivers before the Athenians and in which he tries to persuade them about the risks of the Sicilian expedition, he states: ja¸toi 5cyce ja· til_lai 1j toO toio¼tou ja· Hssom 2t´qym peq· t` 1lautoO s¾lati aqqyd_, mol¸fym blo¸yr !cah¹m pok¸tgm eWmai dr #m ja· toO s¾latºr ti ja· t/r oqs¸ar pqomo/tai7 l²kista c±q #m b toioOtor ja· t± t/r pºkeyr di’ 2aut¹m bo¼koito aqhoOshai.62

And yet I myself derive honor from such actions and am less fearful than most about my own person, although I think that he who takes his property into account is just as good a citizen; this is exactly such a man who would wish for his own sake that the affairs of his city prosper as well.

Thucydides, however, has previously described in detail Nicias’ motives for desiring peace and these motives are primarily individualistic: Mij¸ar l³m boukºlemor, 1m è !pahµr Gm ja· AnioOto, dias¾sashai tµm eqtuw¸am, ja· 5r te t¹ aqt¸ja pºmym pepaOshai ja· aqt¹r ja· to»r pok¸tar paOsai ja· t` l´kkomti wqºm\ jatakipe?m emola ¢r oqd³m sv¶kar tµm pºkim diec´meto.63

Nikias wished to safeguard his good fortune where he had been undamaged and held in honor, and to end his own labors and put an end to those of his fellow-citizens immediately and leave to posterity the claim that throughout his life he had never brought harm to the state.

61 Th. 6.24.3. 62 Th. 6.9.2. 63 Th. 5.16.2.

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Thucydides’ authorial description thus implies that when Nicias is saying that he is honoured by the war and is not afraid about his life, he is presenting at least half of the truth. Finally, another noteworthy Thucydidean technique is the double presence of motivation, both in the Thucydidean introduction of the speech and in the introduction presented by the orator himself. Not all speeches contain detailed introductory remarks about the speakers’ motives. The presence of these motives may thus be a pointer of the great significance the historian attributes to these speeches. For example, the historian introduces the Athenian ambassadors’ intentions before their speech at Sparta as follows: t_m d³ )hgma¸ym 5tuwe c±q pqesbe¸a pqºteqom 1m t0 Kajeda¸lomi peq· %kkym paqoOsa, ja· ¢r Õshomto t_m kºcym, 5donem aqto?r paqitgt´a 1r to»r Kajedailom¸our eWmai, t_m l³m 1cjkgl²tym p´qi lgd³m !pokocgsol´mour ¨m aR pºkeir 1mej²koum, dgk_sai d³ peq· toO pamt¹r ¢r oq taw´yr aqto?r boukeut´om eUg, !kk’ 1m pk´omi sjept´om. ja· ûla tµm svet´qam pºkim 1bo¼komto sgl/mai fsg eUg d¼malim, ja· rpºlmgsim poi¶sashai to?r te pqesbut´qoir ¨m Õdesam ja· to?r meyt´qoir 1n¶cgsim ¨m %peiqoi Gsam, mol¸fomter l÷kkom #m aqto»r 1j t_m kºcym pq¹r t¹ Bsuw²feim tqap´shai C pq¹r t¹ pokele?m.64

It so happened that Athenian representatives were already present in Lacedaemon on other business, and when they heard the speeches they decided to come before the Lacedaemonian assembly, not to make any defense against the charges brought against the city but to show that the whole case was not one for them to decide quickly but to consider over a longer period. At the same time, they wanted to reveal how great the power of their city was and to give the elder listeners a reminder of things they knew and the younger ones an account of things they were ignorant about, expecting that they would be led in the direction of peace rather than war by their words.

The speech of the Athenian ambassadors starts with verbal echoes of the motives Thucydides has already presented in his introduction: J l³m pq´sbeusir Bl_m oqj 1r !mtikoc¸am to?r rlet´qoir null²woir 1c´meto, !kk± peq· ¨m B pºkir 5pelxem7 aQshamºlemoi d³ jataboµm oqj ak¸cgm owsam Bl_m paq¶kholem oq to?r 1cjk¶lasi t_m pºkeym !mteqoOmter (oq c±q paq± dijasta?r rl?m oute Bl_m oute to¼tym oR kºcoi #m c¸cmoimto), !kk’ fpyr lµ Nôd¸yr peq· lec²kym pqacl²tym to?r null²woir peihºlemoi we?qom bouke¼sgshe, ja· ûla boukºlemoi peq· toO pamt¹r kºcou toO 1r Bl÷r jahest_tor

64 Th. 1.72.1 – 2.

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dgk_sai ¢r oute !peijºtyr 5wolem $ jejt¶leha, F te pºkir Bl_m !n¸a kºcou 1st¸m.65

Our mission was not intended for debating your allies but for the business on which our city sent us. Yet since we are aware of considerable outcry against us, we have come before you, not with a reply to charges made by the cities, since we would not be addressing you as either our judges or theirs, but to keep you from lightly allowing your allies to influence adversely your planning about important matters, and at the same time because we wish to show that it is not unreasonable for us to have what we have acquired, and that our city is one deserving consideration.

The same goes for Pericles’ last speech. In this case, Thucydides presents in detail not only the speaker’s motives, but also the feelings of the Athenian demos towards Pericles, which prompted Pericles to deliver this speech: Let± d³ tµm deut´qam 1sbokµm t_m Pekopommgs¸ym oR )hgma?oi% ¢r F te c/ aqt_m 1t´tlgto t¹ de¼teqom ja· B mºsor 1p´jeito ûla ja· b pºkelor, Akko¸ymto t±r cm¾lar, ja· t¹m l³m Peqijk´a 1m aQt¸ô eWwom ¢r pe¸samta sv÷r pokele?m ja· di’ 1je?mom ta?r nulvoqa?r peqipeptyjºter, pq¹r d³ to»r Kajedailom¸our ¦qlgmto nucwyqe?m7 ja· pq´sbeir tim±r p´lxamter ¢r aqto»r %pqajtoi 1c´momto. pamtawºhem te t0 cm¾l, %poqoi jahestgjºter 1m´jeimto t` Peqijke?. b d³ bq_m aqto»r pq¹r t± paqºmta wakepa¸momtar ja· p²mta poioOmtar ûpeq aqt¹r Ekpife, n¼kkocom poi¶sar (5ti d’ 1stqat¶cei) 1bo¼keto haqsOma¸ te ja· !pacac½m t¹ aqcifºlemom t/r cm¾lgr pq¹r t¹ Api¾teqom ja· !de´steqom jatast/sai766

After the second Peloponnesian invasion, the Athenians, since their land had been ravaged for the second time and in addition the plague had afflicted them along with the war, had undergone a change in their attitude and they blamed Perikles as the one who persuaded them to war, and they had fallen into misfortunes because of him, and they were eager to reach terms with the Lacedaemonians. They sent ambassadors to them but without results. And with their minds reduced to despair on every count, they railed against Perikles. Seeing them insensed at the situation and in every way acting just as he expected, he called an assembly (since he was still general), wishing to encourage them and make them calmed by ridding their minds of anger.

Pericles’ speech contains repetitions of the main elements of the Thucydidean introduction: Ja· pqosdewol´m\ loi t± t/r aqc/r rl_m 5r le cec´mgtai (aQsh²molai c±q t±r aQt¸ar) ja· 1jjkgs¸am to¼tou 6meja num¶cacom, fpyr rpolm¶sy ja· l´lxylai eU ti lµ aqh_r C 1lo· wakepa¸mete C ta?r nulvoqa?r eUjete… rle?r d³

65 Th. 1.73.1. 66 Th. 2.59.1 – 3.

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letab²kkete… d rl?m pq¹r to?r %kkoir oqw Fjista ja· jat± tµm mºsom cec´mgtai… T¹m d³ pºmom t¹m jat± t¹m pºkelom…67

Your anger at me has come with my full expectations, since I am aware of the reasons, and I have therefore called an assembly, to give you some reminders and condemn whatever may be misguided in either your anger against me or your surrender to your misfortunes… it is you who have shifted…this has happened to you, especially, in addition to other reasons, on account of the plague…and the sufferings of the war…

These similarities have been considered as unreliable evidence of motivation, which deserves to be discarded.68 This interpretation, however, fails to grasp the overall effect of this presentation on the narrative and on the way it is received by the reader. By presenting in advance the speakers’ motives and by repeating these motives in the speech that follows immediately afterwards, the historian shows a conjunction between the speakers’ thoughts and their actual speech and thus underlines the fact that these motives were not hidden. This can be further confirmed by an opposite example, a case of hidden motives. Thucydides writes that the real motive (!kghest\tg pq|vasir) of the war was the growth of the Athenian power, which prompted the fear of the Spartans and thus made it necessary for them to enter the war. He makes it clear that this motive was the least avowed in speeches: tµm l³m c±q !kghest²tgm pqºvasim, !vamest²tgm d³ kºc\, to»r )hgma¸our BcoOlai lec²kour cicmol´mour ja· vºbom paq´womtar to?r Kajedailom¸oir !macj²sai 1r t¹ pokele?m.69

For I consider the truest cause the one least openly expressed, that increasing Athenian greatness and the resulting fear among the Lacedaemonians made going to war inevitable.

The expression !vamest²tgm d³ kºc\ has aroused scholarly interest, given that the motive of fear appears indeed in the Corcyreans’ speech.70 But what Thucydides probably means here is that it does not appear in the Spartan speeches,71 since the passage about the real cause of the war refers to the Spartans. Indeed, in the speeches of Archidamos and Sthe67 68 69 70

Th. 2.60.1 – 2.62.1. See Westlake 1989a, 210. Th. 1.23.5 – 6. Th. 1.33.3. See, Hornblower 1991, 66, who concludes that “‘unavowed’ would then be an aggressive way of saying that most people did not realize the truth”, an attractive, but perhaps unnecessary suggestion. 71 In 1.86.5 Sthenelaidas refers to the growth of the Athenian power which indeeds echoes 1.23.5, but does not imply a connection with fear.

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nelaidas, no mention of fear is attested. And yet, Thucydides’ account closes as follows: 1xgv¸samto d³ oR Kajedailºmioi t±r spomd±r kek¼shai ja· pokelgt´a eWmai oq tosoOtom t_m null²wym peish´mter to?r kºcoir fsom vobo¼lemoi to»r )hgma¸our lµ 1p· le?fom dumgh_sim, bq_mter aqto?r t± pokk± t/r :kk²dor rpowe¸qia Edg emta.72

The Lacedaemonians voted that the treaty had been broken and that they must go to war not so much because they were persuaded by the arguments of their allies as because they feared further increase in the power of the Athenians, seeing the greater part of Hellas already under their control.

Oddly, Thucydides’ closing remark, although it follows the Spartan speeches, does not provide a comment about them. The historian reports instead that the Spartans voted for war, not so because they were persuaded by the allies’ speeches (as if the Spartan speeches had not taken place!), but rather because they were afraid of the increasing Athenian power. Does Thucydides wish to cancel in a way the Spartan speeches? No. On the contrary, unlike the previous passages here analyzed, he wishes to show the disjunction between what speakers said and what they actually thought or felt; in this way, he supplies further confirmation of his view that the cause of the war, the fear of the Athenian power, was the least avowed. These passages show that a separation of speeches from the main narrative could be simplistic.What is important is not so much whether Thucydides had specific information about the motives he states, but how he interweaves speech and narrative to highlight, qualify or correct descriptions of motives.

4. Reading each other’s motives Hermocrates states: t¹m c±q 1whq¹m oqw ¨m dqø lºmom, !kk± ja· t/r diamo¸ar pqoal¼meshai wq¶.73

We must forestall not only what the enemy does but his intentions as well.

This phrase could be the motto of the study of motivation in Thucydides, since his History abounds in attempts of his protagonists to read 72 Th. 1.88.1. 73 Th. 6.38.4.

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each other’s motives. The success or failure of these readings is linked not only with the qualities of these persons as leaders, but also with the broader theme of prediction in Thucydides. This reading appears legitimate not only for Thucydides’ characters, but also for Thucydides himself. Archidamos tries to read the Athenians’ motives on the grounds that all people think in roughly the same way: mol¸feim d³ t²r te diamo¸ar t_m p´kar paqapkgs¸our eWmai.74 In a similar vein, when the Spartans ask for peace, they appeal to the possibility of human error, which is common to all people: oute dum²leyr 1mde¸ô 1p²holem aqt¹ oute le¸fomor pqoscemol´mgr rbq¸samter, !p¹ d³ t_m aQe· rpaqwºmtym cm¾l, svak´mter, 1m è p÷si t¹ aqt¹ blo¸yr rp²qwei.75 Furthermore, Nicias decides to write a letter to the Athenians, because he thinks that he knows their nature: ja· ûla t±r v¼seir 1pist²lemor rl_m, boukol´mym l³m t± Fdista !jo¼eim% aQtiyl´mym d³ vsteqom% Em ti rl?m !p4 aqt_m lµ blo?om 1jb0.76 And Thucydides himself, to cite only one example, explains Nicias’ last exhortations and thoughts on the basis of what people do in case of great danger: b d³ Mij¸ar rp¹ t_m paqºmtym 1jpepkgcl´mor ja· bq_m oXor b j¸mdumor ja· ¢r 1cc»r Edg [Gm]% 1peidµ ja· fsom oqj 5lekkom !m²ceshai% ja· mol¸sar% fpeq p²swousim 1m to?r lec²koir !c_si, p²mta te 5qc\ 5ti sv¸sim 1mde÷ eWmai ja· kºc\ aqto?r oupy Rjam± eQq/shai.77 Nevertheless, that this reading is legitimate does not mean that it is always successful. Thucydides’ narrative shows on the contrary that an absolutely correct reading is rare and that unpredictable factors may occur that undermine even a correct reading. The success and failure of predictions have been analyzed by scholars.78 What needs further to be emphasized is that Thucydides’ narrative also shows the limited importance of reading motivation and thus questions even the meaning of it. The episode about Archidamos’ and Pericles’ mutual readings of motivation at the outset of the war could reinforce this interpretation. Archidamos, in trying to read the Athenians’ motives and predict their reactions, decides to invade Attica, because he surmises, based on probability (eQj¹r) and on what all people do, that the Athenians will resist: 74 75 76 77 78

Th. 1.84.3. Th. 4.18.2 – 3. Th. 7.14.4. Th. 7.69.2. See de Romilly 1988, 139 – 149, a brilliant analysis of an example of a successful prediction, in the case of Phormion. Cf. Edmunds 1975, 97 – 99; Grethlein (this volume, 94 – 103).

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ovtyr eQj¹r )hgma¸our vqom¶lati l¶te t0 c0 doukeOsai l¶te ¦speq !pe¸qour jatapkac/mai t` pok´l\… !kk’ ftam 1m t0 c0 bq_sim Bl÷r d,oOmt²r te ja· t!je¸mym vhe¸qomtar. p÷si c±q 1m to?r ellasi ja· 1m t` paqaut¸ja bq÷m p²swomt²r ti %gher aqcµ pqosp¸ptei.79

So unlikely is it that the Athenians, in their pride, will either enslave themselves to their land or, like novices, be panick-stricken by the war… when they see us in their land plundering it and destroying their possessions. For anger comes over men on seeing all of a sudden, before their eyes, that they are suffering something unaccustomed.

Indeed, the Athenian people prove that Archidamos’ reading is correct; and the repetition of the word eQjºr in this passage is telling: 1peidµ d³ peq· )waqm±r eWdom t¹m stqat¹m 2n¶jomta stad¸our t/r pºkeyr !p´womta% oqj´ti !maswet¹m 1poioOmto, !kk’ aqto?r, ¢r eQjºr, c/r telmol´mgr 1m t` 1lvame?, d oupy 2oq²jesam oV ce me¾teqoi, oqd’ oR pqesb¼teqoi pkµm t± Lgdij², deim¹m 1va¸meto ja· 1dºjei to?r te %kkoir ja· l²kista t0 meºtgti 1peni´mai ja· lµ peqioq÷m.80

But when they saw the army around Acharnai within sixty stades from the city, they no longer found it bearable, and when their land was being ravaged in full view, something the younger men had never seen before, nor the older ones except during the Persian Wars, it was naturally a terrible sight for them, and many, especially the yourn men, thought they should go out to attack instead of looking on.

But there is a factor that Archidamos has not taken sufficiently into consideration, that is, Pericles’ exceptional leadership, who finally prevents his people from going to war: Peqijk/r d³ bq_m l³m aqto»r pq¹r t¹ paq¹m wakepa¸momtar ja· oq t± %qista vqomoOmtar, piste¼ym d³ aqh_r cicm¾sjeim peq· toO lµ 1peni´mai, 1jjkgs¸am te oqj 1po¸ei aqt_m oqd³ n¼kkocom oqd´ma, toO lµ aqc0 ti l÷kkom C cm¾l, numekhºmtar 1nalaqte?m, t¶m te pºkim 1v¼kasse ja· di’ Bsuw¸ar l²kista fsom 1d¼mato eWwem.81

Perikles, since he saw that they were angry over the situation and not using their best judgment, and since he was confident that he was right about not going out, did not call them into an assembly or military meeting, lest they make mistakes by coming together in a passionate rather than reasonable state, but kep the city under guard and as calm as he could.

Ironically, however, Pericles had misread Archidamos’ motives and assumed that he would not ravage Attica: 79 Th. 1.81.4, 2.11.7. 80 Th. 2.21.2 – 3. 81 Th. 2.22.1 – 2.

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Peqijk/r b Namh¸ppou stqatgc¹r £m )hgma¸ym d´jator aqtºr, ¢r 5cmy tµm 1sbokµm 1sol´mgm, rpotop¶sar, fti )qw¸dalor aqt` n´mor £m 1t¼cwame, lµ pokk²jir C aqt¹r Qd¸ô boukºlemor waq¸feshai to»r !cqo»r aqtoO paqak¸p, ja· lµ d,¾s,, C ja· Kajedailom¸ym jekeus²mtym 1p· diabok0 t0 2autoO c´mgtai toOto, ¦speq ja· t± %cg 1ka¼meim pqoe?pom 6meja 1je¸mou, pqogcºqeue to?r )hgma¸oir 1m t0 1jjkgs¸ô fti )qw¸dalor l´m oR n´mor eUg% oq l´mtoi 1p· jaj` ce t/r pºkeyr c´moito, to»r d³ !cqo»r to»r 2autoO ja· oQj¸ar Cm %qa lµ d,¾sysim oR pok´lioi ¦speq ja· t± t_m %kkym, !v¸gsim aqt± dglºsia eWmai ja· lgdel¸am oR rpox¸am jat± taOta c¸cmeshai.82

Perikles son of Xanthippos and one of the ten Athenian generals, since he realized that the invasion was coming, suspecting the possibility that Archidamos, who happened to be his xenos, would spare his land and not plunder it because he personally wished to do him a favor, or that this would be done on the orders of the Lacedaemonians to discredit him ( just as they had commanded that the curse be driven out on account of him), proclaimed to the assembly that Archidamos was his xenos, yet the intention had certainly not been to harm the city, and that he would give up his own fields and buildings to become public, in case the enemy did not burn them like all the others; let there be no suspicion against him on that account.

There are various lessons to be gained from this narrative. Firstly, Archidamos’ plan is not entirely successful, not so much because his reading, on the basis of human nature/intellect, is wrong, but rather because the exceptionality of Pericles’ leadership goes beyond this reading. Thucydides thus shows that reading motivation on the basis of human nature is not always a certain guide. Secondly, Pericles misreads Archidamos’ motives and assumes that he will not ravage Attica. But this misreading proves irrelevant, since it does not seriously affect the course of events. In this way, Thucydides suggests that reading motivation is subject to a great fluidity and thus points at its limited importance. The same fluidity can also be observed, if we examine another aspect of reading motivation, that of the demagogues. Thucydides shows that part of the demagogic attitude consists in presenting distorted motives of antagonist speakers. It is not by chance that Cleon and Athenagoras, the two demagogues par excellence in Thucydides’ History, both accuse Diodotos and Hermocrates respectively of being motivated by base motives. Cleon states: haul²fy d³ ja· fstir 5stai b !mteq_m ja· !ni¾sym !pova¸meim t±r l³m Lutikgma¸ym !dij¸ar Bl?m ¡vek¸lour ousar, t±r d’ Blet´qar nulvoq±r to?r null²woir bk²bar jahistal´mar. ja· d/kom fti C t` k´ceim piste¼sar t¹

82 Th. 2.13.2.

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p²mu dojoOm !mtapov/mai ¢r oqj 5cmystai !cym¸sait’ %m, C j´qdei 1paiqºlemor t¹ eqpqep³r toO kºcou 1jpom¶sar paq²ceim peiq²setai.83

I wonder also who will be the one to speak to the contrary and claim to reveal that the crimes of the Mytileneans are beneficial to us, whereas our misfortunes have done harm to the allies. It is clear that either he will be striving, out of confidence in his speaking, to demonstrate that what was absolutely decided was not resolved after all, or else he is motivated by profit when he fashions his attractive speech and attemps to misleading.

Athenagoras also accuses Hermocrates in the same way, without naming him of course: To»r l³m )hgma¸our fstir lµ bo¼ketai ovty jaj_r vqom/sai ja· rpoweiq¸our Bl?m cem´shai 1mh²de 1khºmtar, C deikºr 1stim C t0 pºkei oqj eumour7 to»r d³ !cc´kkomtar t± toiaOta ja· peqivºbour rl÷r poioOmtar t/r l³m tºklgr oq haul²fy, t/r d³ !numes¸ar, eQ lµ oUomtai 5mdgkoi eWmai. oR c±q dediºter Qd¸ô ti bo¼komtai tµm pºkim 1r 5jpkgnim jahist²mai, fpyr t` joim` vºb\ t¹m sv´teqom 1pgkuc²fymtai.84

Anyone who would not wish for the Athenians to be this senseless and put themselves in our hands by coming here is either a coward or no friend of his country; as for those who are reporting such things and throwing you into a panic, I am less amazed at their audacity than their stupidity if they think they are not obvious. It is because they have their own reasons for fear that they want to put the city into a state of panic, so that they can use the general alarm to disguise their own concern.

Thucydides does not present Diodotos and Hermocrates responding to these accusations, but the fact that he introduces Cleon and Athenagoras in the same, quite depreciating way85 creates serious doubts about the validity of their words.86 83 Th. 3.38.1 – 3. 84 Th. 6.36.2. 85 Th. 3.36.4: £m ja· 1r t± %kka biaiºtator t_m pokit_m t` te d¶l\ paq± pok» 1m t` tºte piham¾tator, paqekh½m awhir 5kece toi²de, Th. 6.35.2: d¶lou te pqost²tgr Gm ja· 1m t` paqºmti piham¾tator to?r pokko?r. 86 Nicias also attributes to Alcibiades base motives (Th. 6.12.2): eU t´ tir %qweim %slemor aRqehe·r paqaime? rl?m 1jpke?m% t¹ 2autoO lºmom sjop_m, %kkyr te ja· me¾teqor £m 5ti 1r t¹ %qweim, fpyr haulash0 l³m !p¹ t/r Rppotqov¸ar, di± d³ pokut´keiam ja· ¡vekgh0 ti 1j t/r !qw/r, lgd³ to¼t\ 1lpaq²swgte t` t/r pºkeyr jimd¼m\ Qd¸ô 1kkalpq¼meshai% mol¸sate d³ to»r toio¼tour t± l³m dglºsia !dije?m, t± d³ Udia !makoOm. But the case of Alcibiades is more compli-

cated. Thucydides himself qualifies Nicias’ statement, since he acknowledges the element of slander (diab|kyr) in Nicias’ words and moreover, explains Alcibiades’ attitude on the grounds of his great influence on the people

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In sum, the abundance of reading motivation in Thucydides’ History is not analogous with the success or even the importance of these readings. Obviously, Thucydides suggests that exceptional leaders should be able to read the enemies’ motives correctly. But his History shows at the same time that these readings can at times be deliberately exaggerated or are underscored by unpredictable factors, facts which finally prove that their importance is necessarily limited.

5. Conclusion: towards a historicization of motives We can now return to the issue set at the beginning of this investigation, that is whether Thucydides had precise information about motives or based his presentation of them merely on conjecture. Thompson concedes that Thucydides makes guesses about all motives in his History. 87 Schneider concludes that Thucydides inferred motives from ensuing action,88 whereas Westlake insists on factors such as “private conversation, confidential information”, that could justify Thucydides’ certainty for the motives of certain of his protagonists.89 It is true that some statements in Thucydides may be misleading: for example, the occasional use of k]cetai or doje? loi concerning motives may imply that in all other cases, he is confident about the motives he provides.90 Moreover, in the eighth Book, Thucydides uses the expression !p¹ t_m poioul]mym Gm eQj\sai,91 which could be considered a statement of method. But these indications are vague and unsystematic and do not point to a coherent treatment of motives. Thucydides gives descriptions of motives even in the Archaeology,92 with the same certainty, and of course, it (Th. 6.15.2 – 3): 1m/ce d³ pqohulºtata tµm stqate¸am )kjibi²dgr b Jkeim¸ou, boukºlemor t` te Mij¸ô 1mamtioOshai% £m ja· 1r tükka di²voqor t± pokitij± ja· fti aqtoO diabºkyr 1lm¶shg, ja· l²kista stqatgc/sa¸ te 1pihul_m ja· 1kp¸fym Sijek¸am te di’ aqtoO ja· Jaqwgdºma k¶xeshai ja· t± Udia ûla eqtuw¶sar wq¶las¸ te ja· dºn, ¡vek¶seim. £m c±q 1m !ni¾lati rp¹ t_m !st_m, ta?r 1pihul¸air le¸fosim C jat± tµm rp²qwousam oqs¸am 1wq/to 5r te t±r Rppotqov¸ar ja· t±r %kkar dap²mar7 Furthermore, Alcibiades himself, unlike Diodotos 87 88 89 90 91 92

and Hermocrates, replies to Nicias’ accusations and names him (6.16.3 – 4, 6). Thompson 1969, 163 – 164. Schneider 1974, 132 – 133. Westlake 1989a, 205, 210. Westlake 1989a, 202. Th. 8.64.5. Th. 1.2.2, 1.8.3, 1.9, 1.9.3.

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would not be consistent to interpret this confidence as deriving from precise information. The only certain conclusion to be drawn from a rigorous analysis of these statements is that k]cetai-statements about motives suggest that Thucydides admits transmitting information about them and that doje? loi-statements indicate an acknowledgement of conjecture from the historian’s part. Similarly, we can be sure that Thucydides inferred motives from ensuing action only in the cases he uses expressions, such as fpeq pqosed]womto, fpeq 1bo}komto, ja· 1c]meto ovtyr, fpeq ja· 1c]meto, fpeq ja· Gm93. In all other cases, we cannot be sure either that Thucydides really asked about motives or that he received information about them or that he made conjectures. We are thus left with a great uncertainty concerning motives. This uncertainty can however be fruitful and can answer at least to a limited extent certain questions. The above analysis has shown that Thucydides was aware of the risks involved in presenting motives, so it seems that the reconstruction of motives was indeed an issue for him. But what is more important is that he did not intend to present it as an issue for his readers. Thucydides was not interested in feelings and motives per se, but considered them as an integral part of the historical process. Motives are inextricably interwoven with the historical explanation he wishes to present and this concept underlies all the techniques described above. To go one step further, it would not be exaggerated to maintain that even the distinction between fact and motive is a modern distinction, which is blurred in Thucydides’ work. For example, when he writes that the people from Camarina 1pepºmhesam toiºmde and goes on describing not a calamity, as a modern reader would expect, but the state of their minds which explains their decision to help the Athenians, this means that for him feelings and thoughts are facts.94 In another important passage, which is the only occurrence where Thucy-

93 Th. 2.90.2, 2.90.4, 5.45.3, 5.46.4, 8.39.3, 8.48, 8.72.2. 94 Th. 6.88.1 – 2: oR d³ Jalaqima?oi 1pepºmhesam toiºmde. to?r l³m )hgma¸oir ewmoi Gsam, pkµm jah’ fsom [eQ] tµm Sijek¸am åomto aqto»r douk¾seshai, to?r d³ Suqajos¸oir aQe· jat± t¹ floqom di²voqoi7 dediºter d’ oqw Hssom to»r Suqajos¸our 1cc»r emtar lµ ja· %meu sv_m peqic´mymtai, tº te pq_tom aqto?r to»r ak¸cour Rpp´ar 5pelxam ja· t¹ koip¹m 1dºjei aqto?r rpouqce?m l³m to?r Suqajos¸oir l÷kkom 5qc\% ¢r #m d¼mymtai letqi¾tata% 1m d³ t` paqºmti, Vma lgd³ to?r )hgma¸oir 5kassom doj_si me?lai% 1peidµ ja· 1pijqat´steqoi t0 l²w, 1c´momto% kºc\ !pojq¸mashai Usa !lvot´qoir.

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dides uses the emphatic verb oWda,95 he describes again a psychological situation, in the form of a reflection on the destruction of Ambracia: p²hor c±q toOto liø pºkei :kkgm¸di 1m Usair Bl´qair l´cistom dµ t_m jat± t¹m pºkelom tºmde 1c´meto. ja· !qihl¹m oqj 5cqaxa t_m !pohamºmtym, diºti %pistom t¹ pk/hor k´cetai !pok´shai ¢r pq¹r t¹ l´cehor t/r pºkeyr. )lpqaj¸am l´mtoi oWda fti, eQ 1bouk¶hgsam )jaqm÷mer ja· )lv¸kowoi )hgma¸oir ja· Dglosh´mei peihºlemoi 1neke?m, aqtoboe· #m eXkom7 mOm d’ 5deisam lµ oR )hgma?oi 5womter aqtµm wakep¾teqoi sv¸si p²qoijoi §sim.96

For this was certainly the greatest disaster in this war for a single Hellenic city within so few days. I have left the number of the dead unrecorded because the total reported was unbelievable in proportion to the city’s size. I know, however, that if the Akarnanians and the Amphilochians had been willing to destroy Ambracia, as Demosthenes and the Athenians urged, they would have taken it without resistance; but now they feared that if the Athenians occupied it they would be more troublesome as their neighbors.

And in another occasion, Thucydides seems to be more certain about a psychological situation (in this case, absence of fear) than about a fact (the presence of wind): ja· !vijºlemoi mujt¹r ja· jahekj¼samter 1j t/r Misa¸ar t±r maOr 5pkeom 1p· l³m t¹m Peiqai÷ oqj´ti, ¦speq diemooOmto, jatade¸samter t¹m j¸mdumom (ja¸ tir ja· %melor aqto»r k´cetai jykOsai).97

Arriving at night and launching the ships they sailed, no longer against the Peiraeus as had been intended, since they feared the danger (and it is also said that there was a wind preventing them).

From this perspective, it would be legitimate to conclude that his emphasis on motives does not perform either a purely historical or a purely literary function, but rather aims at their historicization: Thucydides’s narrative shows that motives are part of the historical process and this must be his most important contribution concerning the treatment of this topic. A more demanding reader could now ask: what if Thucydides lived and completed his work? Would he have provided a theory of motives? Perhaps, but this hypothesis may be unnecessary. The work, as it stands, can be revealing. Actually, a tension can be observed between Thucydides’ concern about crystal clarity (t¹ sav]r) and his detailed descrip95 This passage recalls Herodotus. Not only for the emphatic use of oWda (Hdt. 1.5), but also for the “if statement”, which evokes Hdt. 7.139. 96 Th. 3.113.6. 97 Th. 2.93.4.

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tions of motives. This tension becomes all the more obvious, if we take into consideration the great frequency of passages in which the hidden (!vam]r) is dismissed as uncertain and unreliable.98 It is possible then that Thucydides intended his readers to realize that the tension between the hidden and the obvious is also itself an integral part of the historical process and thus deliberately left us wondering about how he dealt with motives.

98 Th. 1.42, 1.91.3, 2.42.3, 4.62.3, 4.63.1, 3.45.5, 5.103.2, 5.113.1, 6.9.3, 7.75.4.

The Causes of the Athenian Plague and Thucydides* Paul Demont Thucydides’ “Plague of Athens” is a very old topic, as well as a rather old topic of mine.1 Some of the conclusions I have reached about Thucydides’ narrative in Book 2 and the relationship of Th. 2.50.1 – 2, specifically, to the Hippocratic definition of plague have, by now, been acknowledged.2 In this article, I briefly return to these conclusions, before trying to address more controversial issues again: Thucydides’ so-called refusal to explain the plague, the meaning of 1.23 and, finally, the question of Pericles’ responsibility. In Thucydides’ narrative “the disease” (as he most often says) is first mentioned in a preliminary announcement intended to highlight the tremendous importance of the war, where he calls it “the pestilential disease” (B koil¾dgr mºsor, 1.23.3). Then, of course, it is described at length in the history of the second year of the war (2.47.3 – 54) in a passage that has been excerpted and read separately many times. The passage is divided into two main parts: a medical description, and the description of its dreadful moral consequences. Afterwards, Thucydides also tells his readers that “the disease was wreaking havoc among the Athenians, both in their fleet and in the city” (B mºsor 5m te t0 stqatiø to»r ’Ahgma¸our 5¦heiqe ja· 1m t0 pºkei, 2.57.1), and, as a matter of fact, Hagnon’s expedition to Chalcidice brought “the disease” even to the soldiers who were already there, and, in his own fleet, Hagnon lost “in about forty days 1050 out of a total of 4000 hoplites” (2.58.3). We can therefore trust the historian when, in the third Book, he says that the Athenians were exhausted by “the disease” (3.3.1). He later mentions an upsurge of “the disease” (3.87.1 – 2), and we are told that the first outburst lasted two years (i. e. 430 – 429 BCE), the second * 1 2

I express my warmest thanks to Brooke Holmes (Princeton) and Alain Jumeau (Paris-Sorbonne) for their generous help in improving my English. Demont 1983, 1990, 1996, 2009b. About “Thucydides on the plague”, also see Craik 2001 (with further bibliography). Cf. Jouanna 1988, 109 n. 4; Fantasia 2003, 441; Thomas 2006b, 92 – 108 (cf. 102 – 103).

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one, one year (426), and that on the whole “no fewer than 4400 [serving Athenian]3 hoplites and 300 knights died”. These figures necessarily imply that a far larger number of adult male Athenians were killed by the plague. “The disease” is again mentioned twice later (“a great disease”, Nicias says at 6.12.1; 26.2). What was this loimo¯de¯s nosos ? Here I will not address the question of the true nature of the disease, from the point of view of contemporary medicine:4 I only try to understand what a loimos was in the cultural context of the time. Of course, until the end of the 19th century, plagues were not only bubonic plagues (a disease which does not seem to have existed in classical Greece), but also, more generally, severe epidemic diseases. As Littré, for example, points out in his great dictionary: “Il [i.e. la peste] se dit en général de graves maladies contagieuses ou épidémiques”.5 This is also the meaning of loimos in Greek. It was known that sometimes people and even animals and crops could be afflicted with horrible diseases at the same time. The Iliad, Hesiod, Herodotus, and Sophocles’ Œdipus the King all emphasize the human responsibility in these diseases, which were often understood in terms of divine retribution for offenses against either gods or men.6 On occasion, the mechanism of these retributions was also identified: even without the explicit action of a god, a kind of corruption appears when one infringes on common laws and standards of moral behaviour, and this corruption is passed from one person to another through contagion. In other words, this miasma, which has been so well described by Robert Parker,7 arises from corruption, and spreads corruption. A considerable number of oracles, real or fictitious, use this narrative: when men do not respect the laws governing moral and religious behaviour, a loimos falls on them, their animals and their land. But Thucydides does not enter into the explanation of the disease that anyone in this period could give: that is, he does not give the traditional religious explanation of it. He is a man of his time, insofar as he keeps the link between anomia and loimos, but he offers a revised, rational version of the relationship between the two. More specifically, his narrative reverses the normal causal sequence: 3 4 5 6 7

Hornblower’s words (2003, 494, quoting M.H. Hansen). See Leven 1991, 137 – 144, who concludes: “Es ist indes deutlich geworden, daß keine der Hypothesen eine hinreichende Übereinstimmung mit dem Quellenzeugnis aufweist”. Littré 1883, 1083. Demont 1983, 343 – 344. Parker 2001.

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the disease that he describes is not what happens after a state of anomia – a consequence, for example, of miasmata coming from not burying the dead properly – but it is, rather, the cause of a state of anomia, especially in the realm of burial.8 Thucydides also does not want to give the medical explanation of the disease that may be found in the Hippocratic texts. There is a very surprising paragraph which explains why. Indeed the character of the disease proved such that it baffles description, the violence of the attack being in each case too great for human nature to endure, while in one way in particular it showed plainly that it was different from any of the familiar diseases: the birds, namely, and the fourfooted animals, which usually feed upon human bodies, either would not now come near them, though many lay unburied, or died if they tasted of them. The evidence for this is that birds of this kind became noticeably scarce, and they were no longer to be seen either about the bodies or anywhere else; while the dogs gave a still better opportunity to observe what happened, because they live with man (2.50.1 – 2, transl. Charles Forster Smith, Loeb Classical Library).

Here Thucydides develops a rational, and surprising, argument in order to prove the difference from “any of the familiar diseases”: contagion even affected animals, especially birds and dogs9. This runs counter to the description of plagues in the Hippocratic treatise Breaths (c. 6). A plague, as the doctor says there, is a puqet|r, a “fever”, that is p÷si joim|r (or pok}joimor), “common to all” (or “very common”), and not peculiar to somebody, or to a group of people. The reason for this common disease is clear: it is the air, which is common to all. The air is infected by miasmata, and these miasmata corrupt everyone at the same time. This kind of explanation is plainly a rationalization of the religious explanation of pestilences. Then the doctor imagines an objection: But perhaps someone will say, “Why then do such diseases attack, not all animals, but only one species of them?” I would reply that it is because one body differs from another, one air from another. For all species of animals do not find the same things either well or ill-adapted to themselves, but some things are beneficial to some things and other things to others, and the same is true of things harmful. So whenever the air has been infect8 9

Further references and arguments in Demont 1983 and 1990, Horstmanshoff 1992. Of course the moral consequences of severe pestilences have been a reality in many societies and many different contexts. Leven 1991, 136 – 137 stresses “Thukydides’ dunkle Ausdrucksweise”: “offensichtlich beobachtete man, daß Hunde nach Leichenfraß verendeten, aber bei den Vögeln war Thukydides selbst unsicher”.

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ed with such pollutions as are hostile to the human race, then men fall sick, but when the air has become ill-adapted to some other species of animals, then these fall sick (Breaths, c. 6, Littré VI 96 – 98, Jouanna 109 – 110, transl. Jones, Loeb Classical Library).

The assumption behind the objection is that for his audience, presumably an educated one, the loimos was a purely human illness. This is exactly the kind of problem that Thucydides has in mind when stressing the unusual strength of the Athenian Plague. He wants to show that, “since it can be proved that this Plague had, in modern terms, passed from one species to another, it was indeed beyond ordinary human understanding”. I am here quoting Rosalind Thomas’ summary and analysis of my conclusions.10 This plague went “beyond the categories and abilities of current medical thought”. Thucydides’ picture of an illness that falls upon animals and men alike, could, in fact, be “consistent with the vision of plague in epic and tragedy”, but he uses “the scrupulous language and proof of current ‘scientific’ debate”. At the same time, Thomas says, Thucydides does “medical research in his own right”. He outlines the reality of contagion,11 which was unrecognized by the Hippocratic writers, without using either the religious explanation, according to which miasmata arise from criminal acts, or the Hippocratic, rationalized concept of miasma as a corruption of the air. What is, then, the cause of the Athenian Plague for Thucydides? Is there indeed in his work any explanation for it? In his main narrative of Book 2, he seems to leave the answer to the “personal opinion” of his reader, without expressing any judgment upon it, as if it were impossible to reach any expert conclusion: Now any one, whether physician or layman, may, each according to his personal opinion, speak about its probable origin and state the causes which, in his view, were sufficient to have produced so great a departure from normal conditions (kec´ty l³m owm peq· aqtoO ¢r 6jastor cicm¾sjei ja· Qatq¹r ja· Qdi¾tgr, !¦’ ftou eQj¹r Gm cem´shai aqtº, ja· t±r aQt¸ar ûstimar mol¸fei tosa¼tgr letabok/r Rjam±r eWmai d¼malim 1r t¹ letast/sai swe?m); but I shall describe its actual course… (2.48.3, transl. Charles Forster

Smith, Loeb Classical Library).

Thucydides’ reticence builds a marked contrast to the explanations he is proud to give of the war itself, as a result of his own inquiry. The im10 Demont 1983 and Thomas 2006b, 102 – 103. 11 And also “what modern medicine would call acquired immunity” (Thomas, ibid.).

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possibility of identifying the illness and the historian’s decision not to speculate about its nature explain why the causes of the plague are very often left aside by commentators. But does Thucydides’ statement mean that in his work he really does not wish to express anywhere any idea about the “origin” (!¦’ ftou) and about “the causes” (t±r aQt¸ar) of the disease? What Thucydides grants to any reader is, I think, if we try to translate this difficult sentence as it is, is to posit the causes that in his view are sufficient for impulsing such a great upheaval (tosa¼tgr letabok/r).12 The fact that “no pestilence of such extent nor any scourge so destructive of human lives is on record anywhere” (2.47.3) suggests that it is impossible to find an explanation equal to this terrible blow on the Athenians. But as a matter of fact Thucydides himself, just before this statement, does quote opinions about the origin of the pestilence, coming from Ethiopia “it is said”, “and then descending into Egypt and Libya, and […] over the greater part of the King’s territory: then it suddenly fell upon the city of Athens, and first of all upon the Peiraeus” (Eqnato d³ t¹ l³m pq_tom, ¢r k´cetai, 1n AQhiop¸ar t/r rp³q AQc¼ptou, 5peita d³ ja· 1r AUcuptom ja· Kib¼gm jat´bg ja· 1r tµm basik´yr c/m tµm pokk¶m. 1r d³ tµm ’Ahgma¸ym pºkim 1napima¸yr 1s´pese, ja· t¹ pq_tom 1m t` Peiqaie? Fxato t_m !mhq¾pym, 2.48.1 – 2). Moreover, there is no suggestion whatever that these opinions are wrong. The problem is that they do not explain why Athens was so “suddenly” and so fiercely attacked. Of course another alleged explanation that Thucydides also mentions (when the plague first attacked the Peiraeus, “people said that the Peloponnesians had put poison in their cisterns”, 2.48.2) is manifestly wrong, because the disease afterwards “reached the upper city, and from that time the mortality became much greater”. Thucydides here mentions only the Peloponnesians. It is worth noting that it was not only the Peloponnesians who were accused by some people: Pericles was also accused of being responsible by the Athenian mob, although, in Thucydides, the latter accusation is known only by means of a sentence in Pericles’ last speech to the Athenians: Do not be led astray by such citizens as these [i.e. men who would like that Athens withdraws from its empire because of their quietness (!pqaclo12 “Acute diseases” are described by Hippocratic physicians as great “changes” in the human condition: this word does not surprise in this context (see e. g. the Hippocratic treatise Acute diseases XXVIff., p. 47 ff. Joly). Cf. Demont 1983, 351 – 352, with further references.

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s¼m,)]13, nor persist in your anger with me… even though, beyond all our expectations, this disease (B mºsor Fde) has fallen upon us – the only thing

which has happened that has transcended our foresight. I am well aware that your displeasure with me has been aggravated by it; but there is no justice in that, unless you mean to give me also the credit whenever any unexpected good fortune falls to your lot. But the right course is to bear with resignation the afflictions sent by heaven (t² te dailºmia) and with fortitude the hardships that comes from the enemy (2.64.1 – 2, transl. Charles Forster Smith slightly modified).

So Thucydides knows as well that Pericles was held responsible for the plague by the people in Athens, and has Pericles describe the plague as something coming from heaven. But he mentions neither this alleged responsibility nor this explanation in his narrative. He is nevertheless aware of an unexpected consequence of the Periclean strategy – the fact that it increased the strength of the disease: In addition to the trouble under which they already laboured, the Athenians suffered hardship owing to the crowding into the city of the people from the country districts; and this affected the new arrivals especially. For since no houses were available for them and they had to live in huts that were stifling in the hot season, they perished in wild disorder (1m jak¼bair pmicgqa?r ¦qô 5tour diaityl´mym b ¦hºqor 1c¸cmeto oqdem· jºsl\, 2.52.1 – 2, transl. Charles Forster Smith).

Anyway, Pericles’ words and Thucydides’ statement show that the question of the causes of the plague did have very important political implications, and that both knew it. I will return to these at the end of my paper. At this point, Thucydides’ position seems unclear. But there are further difficulties. There is a problem in Thucydides’ narrative, connected, as we shall see, with the origin and nature of the plague, namely the difference between his statement in Book 1 and his description in Book 2. In 1.23, as Simon Hornblower writes, the historian “was prepared to range the Great Plague along with eclipses of the sun, earthquakes and so on, as portentous things which ‘accompanied’ the war”. Never had so many cities been taken and left desolate, some by the Barbarians, and others by Hellenes themselves warring against one another; while several, after their capture, underwent a change of inhabitants. Never had so many human beings been exiled, or so much human blood been shed, whether in the course of the war itself, or as the result of civil dissensions. And so the stories of former times, handed down by oral tradition, but very 13 Cf. Fantasia 2003, 470 – 473 and generally Demont, 2009a, 191 – 252.

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rarely confirmed by fact, ceased to be incredible: about earthquakes, for instance, for they prevailed over a very large part of the earth and were likewise of the greatest violence; eclipses of the sun, which occurred at more frequent intervals than we find recorded of all former times; great droughts also in some quarters with resultant famines; and lastly – the disaster which wrought most harm to Hellas and destroyed a considerable part of the people – the noisome pestilence. For all those disasters fell upon them simultaneously with the war (1.23.2 – 3, transl. Charles Forster Smith).

But we do not read anything like this in the narrative of the second Book: there the plague is not associated at all with earthquakes, eclipses, droughts and famines. Hornblower’s way of getting rid of the problem is perhaps too quick: “We should remember that there was more than one Thucydides”, i. e. in his preliminary chapter Thucydides is supposed to be “rhetorically-minded”; in order to enhance his subject, he would have used traditional devices without really accepting their validity.14 Gomme and others have noticed that, among the natural evils which are listed there, only earthquakes and eclipses appear in the subsequent narrative, but not droughts15 and famines, as if Thucydides only meant, by listing them together with the plague, “that popular opinion put all these things together as inevitable accompaniments of a human disaster”.16 But Herodotus, the only other historian of the time whose works are preserved, and the one whom Thucydides has just implicitly criticized, did not use these so-called rhetorical devices. And Thucydides has just expressis verbis written that he wanted his reader to judge “from the actual facts” and nothing else (1.21.2). And there is no question of rhetoric in Book 3, when earthquakes and tsunamis are indeed associated with an upsurge of the plague (3.87 – 89). Furthermore, the meaning of 1.23.3 is also problematic per se. The Greek text of the last sentence is printed in Jones’ and also in Smith’s editions as it is in the manuscripts: aqwlo¸ te 5sti paq’ oXr lec²koi ja· !p’ aqt_m ja· kilo· ja· B oqw Fjista bk²xasa ja· l´qor ti ¦he¸qasa B koil¾dgr mºsor. It is clear that the punctuation after “famines” is added by trans-

lators in order to separate “famines” and “pestilence”. This has already been done by many others, including Thomas Hobbes: “Great droughts in some places, the consequence of which was famine; and what made 14 Hornblower 2003, 317. 15 Inter alios Bothe 1848 ad loc. would have liked to think it meant “aestus” (cf. 2.52, 7.87), but cf. inter alios Poppo 1866: “tamen non sunt aestus, sed siccitates”. 16 Gomme 1959, 151.

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not the least ravage, but did its share of destruction, the noisome pestilence”. There are no comments on this point in Gomme and Hornblower, except that Gomme, evidently adopting this kind of translation, notes: “aqwlo¸… ja· kilo_: Thucydides does not relate any instances of these in the course of his history”.17 Johannes Classen, who also edits the text without any punctuation but seems to understand it in the same way, only note: “auch hierzu ist oqj %pistor jat´stg zu ergänzen”.18 Such a translation, however, is by no means the only one possible. Everyone knows the famous association between famine and pestilence which occurs in Hesiod and in Herodotus, in order to describe a dreadful retribution sent by the gods to men (WD 243, kil¹m bloO ja· koilºm and Herodotus, 7.171, kilºm te ja· koil¹m cem´shai ja· aqto?si ja· to?si pqob²toisi). Let us quote only Hesiod: Often even a whole city suffers because of an evil man who sins and devises wicked deeds. Upon them, Cronus’ son brings forth woe from the sky, famine together with pestilence, and the people die away; the women do not give birth, and the households are diminished by the plans of Olympian Zeus. And at another time Cronus’ son destroys their broad army or their wall, or he takes vengeance upon their ships on the sea (WD 240 – 247, transl. Glenn Most, Loeb Classical Library).

The traditional character of the connection between famines and pestilences is evident throughout Antiquity. A search through the TLG gives 262 occurrences of it! This connection, which in Greek is sustained by the similarity between the two words,19 is not at all specific to Greek culture, and is not at all necessarily an archaic way of thinking: it is indeed well documented in the reality of many societies.20 I cannot help 17 Ibid. 18 Classen/Steup 1966, 83. 19 Cf. de Lamberterie 2005, 137 – 148; Jouanna 2006, 197 – 219 and Poivre 2008. J. Jouanna rightly observes that limos may mean individual hunger in archaic poetry, and that famine could of course occur without pestilence and pestilence without famine, but in my opinion he goes too far when he stresses “l’indépendance de ces deux calamités” even in these Hesiodic verses (2006, 200). 20 “A cette époque [the end of the XVIIth century in France], comme à la campagne et comme aux siècles passés, [les crises démographiques] trouvent leur origine dans une disette ou une épidémie (que l’on nomme alors justement ‘mortalité’). Les deux se combinent aisément. Le manque de céréales (elles fournissent pendant cette période au bas mot les deux tiers des calories journalières), leur renchérissement et dans les cas extrêmes leur disparition du marché provoquent une sous-alimentation chronique qui s’ajoute à des déséquilibres latents; la maladie rencontre alors un terrain idéal pour se propager. Inversement, la

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thinking that, when Thucydides mentions famines and then the plague, he refers to this association, although with a “volonté de renouveler la formule traditionnelle” (with a wish to renew the traditional way of thinking).21 The variatio, typical of his style, which leads him to speak of “the pestilential disease” rather than of the plague, is meant, in my opinion, not to express a refusal of the traditional association, but to explain it by a natural cause.22 Furthermore, he amplifies the second term, by placing it at the end of a long gradatio that is constructed in such a way that the two most dreadful evils of the war, human evil (stasis) and natural evil (loimos) are correlated, as they are indeed later in his narrative (the description of the anomia due to pestilence being echoed in the description of the dreadful disappearance of all moral standards due to civil war in 3.82).23 Note that in Hesiod, it seems that Zeus chooses between famine and pestilence on the one hand, and war on the other hand. The Peloponnesian War goes a step further: it brings together war and pestilence. That is why I think that we have to translate the text in this way: “Great droughts also in some quarters with resultant famines and – what wrought most harm to Hellas and destroyed a considerable part of the people, the noisome pestilence”. Of course I am not the first one to choose this translation, which is for example suggested by a scholiast in the Laurentianus 69.2 (sgle¸ysai fti !p¹ t_m aqwl_m kil¹r ja· koilºr, “Understand that from the droughts come famine and plague”).24 If we accept this way of understanding the text, then Thucy-

21 22

23 24

contagion déclenche une fuite des plus aisés et une désorganisation au moins partielle de l’approvisionnement urbain… Le complexe disette-épidémie suffit à faire comprendre ces flambées de mortalité en raison d’une prophylaxie encore trop sommaire et d’une nourriture onéreuse, trop centrée sur des céréales à rendements très instables. Il rend compte aussi de la baisse des conceptions, soit par stérilité passagère (aménorrhée de famine), soit par restriction volontaire” (Neveux 1981, 37 – 38). Jouanna 2006, 207. Connor 1984, 31 n. 30 suggests, in my opinion unconvincingly, that this “unusual and seemingly pleonastic expression” means “a plague that resembles a divine affliction”, because nosos “is itself a sufficient and appropriate word for the plague, and the “more unusual” loimos is “often used when there is some suggestion of divine intervention”. His translation “droughts, some great, some causing famines, and that which caused not the least harm and no insignificant destruction, the apocalyptic plague” seems far-fetched and does not translate ja· !p’ aqt_m. On this connection, cf. the apt remarks of Connor 1984, 99 – 105. “Manus c1” in Hude 1927, 26 (not the scribe’s hand, but “an old one” vs. another hand, “multo recentior”, p. III). Cf. also e. g. Bloomfield 1829, 56 n. 8:

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dides, even if he does not mention the origin of the plague again, is, in his subsequent narrative, consistent with his earlier remarks: he does quote the three groups of evils, earthquakes, eclipses, and, of course, the plague. And then, although he uses the traditional association between famines and plagues, he dissociates the plague from any divine origin, and relates it to a natural cause, namely the droughts “in some places”. Two elements prevent scholars from accepting this reading of the text: the passage from Book 2 which I have just quoted about the historian’s refusal to explain the pestilence and the fact that, at the end of his description of the plague, Thucydides criticizes the interpretation of an oracle about plague or famine. In their distress they recalled, as was natural, the following verse which their older men said had long ago been uttered: “A Dorian war shall come and pestilence with it”.25 A dispute arose, however, among the people, come contending that the word used in the verse by the ancients was not koilºr, “pestilence”, but kilºr, “famine”, and the view prevailed at this time that “pestilence” was the original word; and quite naturally, for men’s recollections conformed to their sufferings. But if ever another Dorian war should visit them after the present war, and a famine happen to come with it, they would probably, I fancy, recite the verse in that way (2.54.1 – 3, transl. Charles Forster Smith).

About this controversial verse, the point is, as William D. Furley put it, that “‘the divine message’ here is negotiable; it may have relative, not absolute, truth”.26 Note that Thucydides does indeed negotiate with oracles in his narrative, not only, explicitly, with respect to a Delphic injunction about the Pelargikon (2.17.1), but also, implicitly, in a more general way, when the Athenian plague is given as the cause of big offenses and anomia (especially about burying) rather than their consequence, as it is very often the case in oracles relating unpunished offenses to a plague. In any case, the discussion about the oracle does not preclude, in my opinion, the use of the traditional connection between famine and pestilence, if it can be shown that the association is consis-

“Now drought naturally leads to famine, which as naturally breeds pestilence. The connection, indeed, between kil|r and koil|r was almost proverbial. So in Matth. 24.7: ja· 5somtai kilo· ja· koilo_. 25 This oracle (a parallel of which may be Iliad 1.61, quoted in a scholion) has been seminal for Albert Camus’s La Peste (cf. Demont 1996 and 2009b). 26 Furley 2006, 419.

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tent with other aspects of the Thucydidean narrative, as I believe it can be. Jacques Jouanna, who is in favour of the usual translation of 1.23, has made some very apt comments regarding Thucydides’ way of thinking both here and in 3.87 – 89: Thucydides, he says, noted “a kind of coherence in a world not wholly dominated by chance, but where human violence, diseases and natural violence are not without connections” (my translation).27 This is perfectly right: I would add only that diseases are not a third class of evils, distinct from natural violence, but are inserted by Thucydides among the characteristics of natural violence.28 And I think that it is possible to go a little further.29 One can indeed link plague and the other natural evils, if one recalls what the historian says about the origin of the disease at the beginning of his main narrative in Book 2. Ethiopia and Egypt are not, in my opinion, mentioned by chance. Everyone knows the explanation that Herodotus gives of the flooding of the Nile (2.24 – 25), and I would like to mention only one point: his stress on evaporation in winter, because of the position of the sun, implies a link between these countries and droughts, especially in winter. Furthermore, Strabo writes about oppressive heat in Egypt that “so much muddy vapour rising, the air becomes unhealthy and starts pestilential diseases” (17.1,7: boqboq¾dour owm !ma¦eqol´mgr tosa¼tgr Qjl²dor, mos¾dgr b !µq 6kjetai ja· koilij_m jat²qwei pah_m), and, quoting Poseidonius’ remarks about Ethiopia, which is not watered by rain: “and therefore pestilences often ensue because of droughts” (17.3.10: di¹ pokk²jir koilij± 1lp¸pteim rp¹ aqwl_m). As a matter of fact, it is a communis opinio that plagues (which are above all characterized by a strong fever, or, as Thucydides says of the Athenian plague, “inter27 Jouanna 2006, 209. 28 In a rather surprising way, at the end of his paper, Jouanna 2006, 217 – 218 omits the pestilence when he summarises Thucydides’ way of thought: “Son rationalisme ne se confond pas avec le nôtre, car il semble avoir observé une convergence entre des calamités qui, pour nous, sont indépendantes les unes des autres, guerre, séismes, sécheresses et eclipses” (“His rationality is not ours, for he seems to have observed convergences between evils which, for us, are independant, war, earthquakes, droughts, and eclipses”, my translation). 29 Contra Leven 1991, 153 n. 173, who does not discuss at all the syntax of 1.23 (“Die Neu-interpretation der Passage durch Demont, S. 349 f., wonach Thukydides ‘Pest’ und Hungersnot auf die Hitzewellen zurückgeführt habe, ist unsinnig!”).

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nally… such a heat that the patients could not bear to have on them the lightest coverings or linen sheets etc.”, 2.49.5) may come from very hot air which becomes pestilential through vapours from lakes and swamps. Doctors from different schools, Galen also says, think that “in regenarmen Zeiten… epidemische Krankheiten und Seuchen aufträten” (“In times of droughts… then epidemic diseases and pestilences appear”, In Hipp. Epid. VI, CMG V, 10, 2, 2, p. 243). Another text by Galen in which he combines this explanation with others is especially useful, because it refers to Thucydides:30 In pestilential situations breath is the main cause… [Fever] most often comes from inspiring surrounding air which is polluted by corrupted exhalations. And the beginning of the corruption may be a number of corpses which have not been burnt, as it happens during wars, or exhalations from swamps and lakes in summer; sometimes it is a disproportionate heat of the surrounding air, for example during the Athenian plague, as Thucydides says: “since they had to live in huts that were stifling in the hot season, they perished in wild disorder”. And the beginning of pestilential fever comes from the fact that in the body humours are inclining towards putrefaction due to bad diet. And perhaps came along from Ethiopia some corrupted miasmas upon those people whose bodies were ready to be harmed by them, miasmas that were going to cause fever (¢r t± pokk± d³ 1j t/r !mapmo/r %qwetai toO p´qin !´qor rp¹ sgpedom¾dour !mahuli²seyr liamh´mtor. B d³ !qwµ t/r sgpedºmor Etoi pk/hºr ti mejq_m 1sti lµ jauh´mtym, ¢r 1m pok´loir eUyhe sulp¸pteim7 C 1j tekl²tym tim_m, C kilm_m !mahuli²seir ¦qô h´qour7 5sti d’ fte jat²qwei l³m %letqor heqlas¸a toO peqi´womtor, ¢r 1p· toO jatakabºmtor )hgma¸our koiloO, jah² ¦gsim b Houjud¸dgr7 !kk’ 1m jak¼bair pmicgqa?r ¦qô h´qour diaityl´mym b ¦hºqor jat± t¹ s_la 1c¸meto. t` d’ eWmai to»r 1m t` s¾lati wulo»r 1j lowhgq÷r dia¸tgr 1pitgde¸our eQr s/xim !qwµ toO koil¾dour c¸metai puqetoO. t²wa d³ ja· jat± t¹ sumew³r 1n AQhiop¸ar 1qN¼g tim± sgpedom¾dg li²slata to?r 1pitgde¸yr 5wousi s¾lata bkab/mai pq¹r aqt_m, aUtia puqetoO cemgsºlema, De differentiis febrium 7.290 Kühn).

As Jacques Jouanna aptly remarks, Galen overinterprets three elements in Thucydides’ narrative: the alleged origin of the pestilence, the consequence of Pericles’ strategy, and the diet the Athenians had to follow during the war. But Galen also shows in passing, like Strabo, that the mention of Ethiopia and Egypt may have had a meaning in accordance with 1.23. If we consider all these texts, together with the evidence about the connection between famine and pestilence, I think we should accept that Thucydides, in Book 1, says that from droughts (“in some 30 Cf. the very useful analysis by Jouanna 2001, 20 – 22.

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quarters”, may be in Ethiopia) came famines and pestilences, and that, in Book 2, he adds that even if this origin is known by hearsay, that does not explain why the disease fell upon Athens alone so harshly. There is of course also a second explanation of the disease given by Thucydides: contagion, and contagion without any religious dimension. This explanation is twice implicit in the text. He writes that the greatest mortality rate was among physicians “because they were most exposed” (2.47.4), and, as we saw, that Hagnon’s expedition to Chalcidice brought “the disease” even to the soldiers who already were there (2.58.3). And it is explicit in 2.51, about which I have already expressed my view. On the whole, the subtext which makes the whole narrative coherent would be: a disease characterized by a very strong fever, originating in the hot countries of Ethiopia and Egypt, came via contagion or some other means31 to Athens, where it spread by contagion with a violence which Thucydides cannot explain, even if he recognizes that the Periclean strategy did increase its impact. So let us return to the question of Pericles’ responsibility again.32 Plutarch explains it in his Lives of Pericles and Nicias. The war, Plutarch says, picking up the very word which Pericles had used in his last speech, and taking it with a religious meaning, would have been speedily finished, as Pericles thought, “had not a terrible visitation from heaven (ti dailºmiom) thwarted human calculation” (Per. 34.2, transl. Bernadotte Perrin, Loeb Classical Library). And he goes on (34. 3 – 4): As it was, in the first place, a pestilential destruction fell upon them and devoured clean the prime of their youth and power. It weakened them in body and in spirit and made them altogether wild against Pericles, so that, for all the world as the mad will attack a physician or a father, so they, in the delirium of the plague, attempted to do him harm, persuaded thereto by his enemies. These urged that the plague was caused by the crowding of the rustic multitudes together into the city, where, in the summer season, many were huddled together in small dwellings and stifling barracks, and compelled to lead a stay-at-home and inactive life instead of being in the pure and open air of heaven as they were wont. They said that Pericles was responsible for this, Pericles who, because of the war, had poured the rabble from the country into the walled city and gave that mass of men no employment whatever, but suffered them, thus penned 31 For Lucretius 6.1097 et 1119 ff. the “morbidus aer” went through the sky from these countries to Athens. 32 Cf. Allison 1983, 14 – 23.

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up like cattle, to fill one another full of corruption and provided them with no change or respite (Per. 34. 3 – 4, transl. Bernadotte Perrin, Loeb).

We find the same kind of narrative in Nicias’ Life: And for the plague Pericles incurred the most blame, because he shut up the throng from the country in the city on account of war, and the plague was the result of their change of abode and their unwonted manner of living (1j t/r letabok/r t_m tºpym ja· dia¸tgr !¶hour cemol´mou). For all these things Nicias was free from blame (Nic. 6.3).

Diodorus, and then also, probably, Ephorus, give similar explanations: As for the Athenians, they could not venture to meet them in a pitched battle, and being confined as they were within the walls, found themselves involved in an emergency caused by a plague (1m´pesom eQr koilijµm peq¸stasim); for since a vast multitude of people of every description has streamed together into the city, there was good reason for their falling victim to diseases as they did, because of the cramped quarters, breathing air which has become polluted (12.45.2, transl. C.H. Oldfather, Loeb Classical Library).

There are in these explanations elements, and sometimes quotations, from Thucydides 2.52, but of course the main point comes from Pericles’ enemies. The mixture of miasmatic and dietetic causality is the product of subsequent theoretical elaboration such as that found in Galen, but may go back to the fifth century in several respects. The pollution of the air is well known in the Hippocratic Book On Breaths, which explains “epidemic fever” by the fact that “all men inhale the same air”, and that “the air has been infected with such pollutions as are hostile to the human race” (6, p. 235 Jones, Loeb). As for the dietetical explanation, we read in Herodotus’ narrative of the Persians’ retreat to Asia a description of collective diseases that arise from a quick and swift change in the diet of an army (after a plague coming from a famine, 8.115 – 117).33 Given that a disease is a “change”, a “departure from usual conditions”, the Hippocratic writers (Acute diseases 35), as well as Herodotus (2.77) and Thucydides himself (6.87.1), may have understood its origin to be another departure from normal conditions, such as the crowding in the city. How then did Thucydides manage to suppress, before 2.64, any suggestion that Pericles could be held for responsible for the plague? On a conceptual level, if the disease did come from Ethiopia along with droughts and famine, if it did spread by contagion even upon an33 Cf. Demont 1988.

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imals and upon the far away expedition to Potidaia, then of course the conclusion must be that Pericles cannot be accused. Narratological choices also reinforce this conclusion. It has often been noted that the description of the plague is in sharp contrast with the Funeral Oration which Pericles pronounced at the end of the first year of the war, immediately before the plague. There is no doubt that Thucydides was very much impressed by this tragic reversal: Pericles’ and Athens’ most beautiful achievement and most awful disaster. And several inverted echoes of the Funeral Oration have been seen in the plague narrative and analyzed by scholars.34 But the insertion of the Funeral Oration in his work may also have had another purpose: it severs any relationship between the description of the evacuation of the countryside (2.14.1) and the beginnings of the plague. As a matter of fact, contrary to the narratives in Diodorus and Plutarch, the evacuation is described without any suggestion of the consequences that were to affect the health of the countrymen – their suffering is only moral; and the description of the plague does not begin with any mention of the evacuation. It was not, in my opinion, a way of hiding reality: if his notes on contagion, and contagion even to animals, are right, Thucydides was right to choose this way of writing (and he did acknowledge the fact that the evacuation worsened the disease). Let me add a last suggestion. In his famous first sentence, Thucydides writes that he chose to write his History “at the very outset of the war, in the belief that it would be great and noteworthy above all the wars that had gone before”. The explanation he adds is that Athens and Sparta were at their height, and that the whole Hellenic world took sides with one state or the other. But in 1.23 we learn that the pestilence was also for him one of the best proofs of the magnitude of the war. I would imagine that this sudden and unexpected reversal of human calculations, at the very beginning of the war, and the effects it had (and did not have) on the war, would have been a strong motivation for his historical work.

34 Cf. Fantasia 2003, 426 – 428.

II. Representations of Time and Space

The Presence of the Past in Thucydides Jonas Grethlein 1. From meaning to presence Connor was not the first to tackle “narrative discourse” in Thucydides, nor have historians such as Kagan ceased to build their accounts of the Peloponnesian War on his work, but, by and large, in the last decades interest has shifted from Thucydides historicus to Thucydides narrator.1 Hornblower, Rood and others have demonstrated how Thucydides subtly creates historical meaning through narrative presentation.2 The recent interest in Thucydides as artful narrator has been inspired at least partly by Hayden White’s Metahistory. In comparing the works of modern historians and philosophers of history with one another, White made a strong case for the role of emplotment in historiography. Despite the historians’ self-fashioning as objective, their works heavily draw on the means of narrative and, as White provocatively proclaimed, cannot be sharply distinguished from fiction. The focus on the “content of the form” has proven particularly fruitful for the polished narratives of ancient historians. The new approach led to a re-assessment especially of Thucydides who had been hailed as the founding father of critical historiography. Driven by the general attacks levelled against the linguistic turn, however, the theory of history has moved beyond Metahistory. Concepts such as presence, experience and materiality, given short shrift by scholars trained in deconstruction, are now being revived as a means of escaping the prison of language.3 Three examples may illustrate this shift in the theory of history: Ankersmit, formerly one of the best known advocates of tropology, has made a volte-face and now argues that histor1 2 3

Cf. Connor 1985; Kagan 2003. For an early study of Thucydides as artful narrator, see Cornford 1907. Hornblower 1994b; Rood 1998. See, e. g., Gumbrecht 2004 on presence; Jay 2005 on experience; Miller 2006 on materiality.

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ical experience precedes linguistic presentation of the past.4 A similar “New Romanticism” can be discovered in the works of Gumbrecht, who homes in on the presence of the past and foregrounds our sensual experience of it.5 Most recently, Runia has made a case for envisaging our relation to the past not so much in the “trope” of metaphor, as done by White and his disciples, as in the form of metonymy.6 Opposition to the linguistic turn has prompted the scholars just mentioned to contrast experience and presence with narrative and presentation. This, I have argued in a History & Theory article, does not do justice to the capacity of narrative to convey experiences.7 Narrative is of course posterior to, and transforms, experience, just as experience cannot fully be represented in narrative; and yet narrative is nonetheless an important medium for experience. In particular its sequential character not only allows narrative to represent experience, but also gives the reception of narrative the form of an experience. We can, with some important qualifications, re-experience the past through narrative. While my approach focuses on the potential of narrative, it is very different from the interest in narrative emplotment triggered by White’s Metahistory. I am not interested in the construction of historical meaning, but in narrative’s capacity to make the past present. This ultimately re-introduces the notion of reference that has been banished by poststructuralist theoreticians.8 Thucydides is a strong case in point for the “re-presentation” of the past in narrative. Plutarch, for example, notes: “Thucydides is always striving for this vividness in his writing, since it is his desire to make the reader a spectator, as it were, and to instil in readers the emotions of amazement and consternation felt by witnesses”. (De glor. Ath. 347a). Recent scholarship has focused on Thucydides’ deployment of narrative means for his interpretation of the past, but the experiential character of his account has not gone unnoticed.9 Thucydides serves for example as a cornerstone of Dunn’s argument that the end of the 5th century saw a “present shock”; that, in other words, political turmoil 4 5 6 7 8 9

Ankersmit 2005. Gumbrecht 1997. Runia 2006. Grethlein 2010b. In Grethlein 2010b, 327 – 329, I suggest the concept of a secondary reference. Besides the works discussed above, see also Kitto 1966, 298 – 9; Connor 1985; Greenwood 2006, 19 – 41; Grethlein 2009, 164 – 171; 2010a, 248 – 252. On enargeia in Greek historiography in general, cf. Walker 1993.

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and cultural change brought about an intense focus on the present.10 In his interpretation of the Corcyrean conflict, Morrison distinguishes three points that “create a particular type of experience for the reader”:11 multiple perspective, authorial reticence and episodic structure. In the terms of narratology, Thucydides’ orchestration of focalisation, voice and time lets the reader re-experience the past as if it were present: The employment of various viewpoints makes the narrative vivid. Only rarely does the authorial voice intervene and remind the reader of its mediating function. Most important, perhaps, is the temporal organisation of the narrative, which reports the events of the various theatres of war season by season.12 Thucydides does not capitalize on the advantage of hindsight and tends to avoid prolepses; thus the reader is by and large limited to the perspective of the historical agents.13 Of course, the backwards gaze of historiography separates the historical agents from Thucydides and his readers. What is still future for the former is already past for the latter. That being said, Thucydides’ account illustrates how far a historian can go in abandoning the advantage of hindsight and making the past present through narrative. In this paper, I will explore further devices with which Thucydides restores presentness to the past. More specifically, I will shift the focus from the shiny pearls of Thucydides narrative, which, only too understandably, dominate in studies of his vividness, to less prominent passages. Instead of discussing obviously mimetic passages such as the final battle in the harbour of Syracuse, I will tackle two minor episodes, Phormion’s two naval victories in 2.83 – 92 (part 2) and the capture of Mytilene in 3.25 – 34 (part 3) in order to explore the experiential quality in less noteworthy parts of the narrative. My findings will be qualified by a look at un-experiential features and traces of teleological design (part 4). A brief comparison with Plutarch will finally illustrate that the experiential quality of Thucydides’ narrative is nuanced differently from the ancient concept of enargeia (part 5).

10 11 12 13

Dunn 2007, 111 – 150. Morrison 1999, 94. On the temporal organization of Thucydides’ account, see Dewald 2005. See, however, the qualification in section 4.

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2. Phormion’s double victory (2.83 – 92) My first example is Thucydides’ report of the first two major sea battles between the Athenians and Spartans. In the first encounter, which takes place in the gulf of Acarnia, Phormion and 20 Athenian ships defeat a Peloponnesian fleet of 47 ships under Cnemon, transporting troops to Acarnania (2.83 – 84). Thucydides begins his account with Phormion’s plan: to wait for the off-shore wind, which will confuse the enemy; then to attack (2.84.1 – 2). The battle proceeds in accordance with Phormion’s plan: the wind throws the Peloponnesian ships into disarray, making them easy prey for the Athenians (2.84.3 – 4). After the battle, Cnemon and advisors arriving from Sparta collect further ships from their allies, bringing the fleet to 77 ships, whereas 20 ships sent from Athens linger in Crete and come too late for the second battle, off Naupactus (2.85 – 6). Thucydides first gives us the speeches addressed to the soldiers before this encounter (2.87 – 9) and continues by reporting the Spartan stratagem, namely to sail toward Naupactus and to force Phormion to follow them into the bay (2.90.1 – 2). And indeed, this strategy permits the Spartans to battle the Athenians in the narrows. Only eleven Athenian ships escape to Naupactus, the rest are captured by the Spartans (2.90.3 – 91.2). Then the tables are turned most unexpectedly. The last of the Athenian ships headed to Naupactus sails around a merchant vessel and attacks and sinks the first of the pursuing ships. The ensuing confusion in the Spartan fleet prompts the Athenians to sail quickly back and rout their enemies. Thus, 20 Athenian ships defeat a Spartan fleet of 77 (2.91.3 – 92). In the following, I would like to discuss several devices which contribute to the experiential quality of this narrative: graphic description, tense, internal focalisation, speeches and composition. Graphic description and tense Central to ancient as well as modern discussions of Thucydides’ enargeia are passages with a strong graphic quality.14 In the chapters on Phormion’s two sea battles, the description of the first battle illustrates this device of making the past present (2.84.3): ¢r d³ t| te pmeOla jat-ei ja· aR m/er 1m ak_c\ Edg owsai rp’ !lvot]qym, toO te !m]lou t_m te pko_ym, ûla pqosjeil]mym 1taq\ssomto,

14 See Plut. De glor. Ath. 347a quoted above; in modern scholarship, see Connor 1985; Walker 1993, 355 – 356.

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ja· maOr te mg· pqos]pipte ja· to?r jomto?r dieyhoOmto, bo0 te wq~lemoi ja· pq¹r !kk^kour !mtivukaj0 te ja· koidoq_ô oqd³m jat^jouom oute t_m paqaccekkol]mym oute t_m jekeust_m, ja· t±r j~par !d}matoi emter 1m jk}dymi !mav]qeim %mhqypoi %peiqoi to?r jubeqm^tair !peihest]qar t±r maOr paqe?wom, t|te dµ jat± t¹m jaiq¹m toOtom sgla_mei, ja· oR )hgma?oi pqospes|mter pq_tom l³m jatad}ousi t_m stqatgc_dym me_m l_am, 5peita d³ ja· t±r %kkar Ø wyq^seiam di]vheiqom, ja· jat]stgsam 1r !kjµm l³m lgd]ma tq]peshai aqt_m rp¹ t/r taqaw/r, ve}ceim d³ 1r P\tqar ja· D}lgm t/r )wa@ar.

And when the wind blew down and the ships, already in a small space, were disordered by both together, the wind and the boats; and ship collided with ship, and they were pushed apart with poles; and the crews, shouting and fending one another off with abuse, listened neither to orders nor their officers and, in their inexperience unable to lift their oars in the ocean swell, made the ships less responsive to the helmsmen; it was then, at that moment, that Phormion gave the signal; and falling upon the enemy, the Athenians first sank one of the generals’ ships and then destroyed the others wherever they went, and brought it about that none turned to resist in the confusion, but they fled to Patrai and Dyme in Achaia.15

While the battle itself is briefly summarized, the confusion created among the Peloponnesian ships by the wind is described in detail. Their attempts to push the ships apart with poles, the inability of the rowers to move their oars in the waves, and the noise that makes it impossible to pass on orders lend the passage much vividness. The disorder of the ships is stylistically mimicked through the long sentence with its menandering participles and parentheses. The tenses of the verbs may contribute to the enargeia of the passage: the confusion of the Peloponnesians is described in the imperfect tense and present participles (italics). The choice of this tense can be explained in various ways: it could be used to indicate the circumstances of the action, the attack, or it could express the durative and iterative aspect of the manoeuvres. Another aspect may also come into play. In a paper on tenses in Thucydides, Bakker argues that tenses may have significance in addition to temporal reference, namely to signal the relative distance of the events narrated.16 In this scheme, aorist forms foreground mediation by a narrator distant from the events narrated, whereas imperfect forms place an account in the past, in the time of the events. If we follow this argument, the dominance of the imperfect tense in the pas15 This as well as the following translations of Thucydides is based on Lattimore 1998. 16 Bakker 1997.

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sage quoted above would also serve to present the events “as if they are seen on the spot”.17 While the confusion of the ships is reported in the imperfect tense, Phormion’s signal and the Athenians’ attack are narrated in the present tense (underlined). This closely conforms to Rutger Allan’s argument that Thucydides uses the historical present in order to underline turning points in the action through “epistemic immediacy”.18 In our passage, the imperfect brings the reader close to the scene and the historical present endows the turning point with additional immediacy and emphasis. Together, the two tenses reinforce the graphic quality of the description and let the reader follow the battle as if it was unfolding right before her eyes. Internal focalisation Another important mimetic device in Thucydides’ narrative is internal focalisation. Focalisation lets the reader envisage the past as present by reporting the events from the perspective of the agents.19 Despite its etymology, focalisation is not limited to seeing, but embraces all senses as well as intellectual activities and emotional response.20 Its prominence in Thucydides’ narrative style is nicely illustrated by his account of the manoeuvres leading up to the first sea battle (2.83.2 – 3): b c±q Voql_ym paqapk]omtar aqto»r 5ny toO j|kpou 1t^qei, bouk|lemor 1m t0 eqquwyq_ô 1pih]shai. oR d³ Joq_mhioi ja· oR n}llawoi 5pkeom l³m oqw ¢r 1p· maulaw_ô, !kk± stqatiytij~teqom paqesjeuasl]moi 1r tµm )jaqmam_am ja· oqj #m oQ|lemoi pq¹r 2pt± ja· tessaq\jomta maOr t±r svet]qar tokl/-

17 Bakker 1997a, 18. 18 Allan 2011a. 19 The prominence of perception (in narratological terminology focalisation) in Thucydides has been tackled from different perspectives: Montgomery 1965, 45 – 95, de Romilly 1956b and Schneider 1974 explore the function of reasoning and intentions; Hunter 1973 argues that Thucydides derives the characters’ purposes from the facts in order to question his objectivity; Westlake 1989a, 201 – 223, on the other hand, tries to show that “personal motives, aims and feelings” are often based on “information obtained directly from the individual to whom motives or feelings are ascribed or from one or more close associates believed to be trustworthy” (201); Lang 1995 surveys the expression of motivation by participles; Rood 1998, 61 – 82 gives a narratological analysis showing that “Thucydides’ focus on perceptions helps to explain events” (80); Stahl 2003 emphasizes the disappointment of expectations. See also Tamiolaki (this volume) on motives in Thucydides. 20 Cf. Nelles 1997, ch. 3 on focalisation and senses and Rimmon-Kenan 1983.

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sai to»r )hgma_our eUjosi ta?r 2aut_m maulaw_am poi^sashai· 1peidµ l]mtoi !mtipaqapk]omt\r te 2~qym aqto}r, paq± c/m sv_m jolifol]mym, ja· 1j Patq_m t/r )wa@ar pq¹r tµm !mtip]qar Epeiqom diab\kkomter 1p’ )jaqmam_ar jate?dom to»r )hgma_our !p¹ t/r Wakj_dor ja· toO Eq^mou potaloO pqospk]omtar sv_si ja· oqj 5kahom mujt¹r !voqlis\lemoi, ovty dµ !macj\fomtai maulawe?m jat± l]som t¹m poqhl|m.

Phormion watched for them to sail along the coast and out of the gulf, since he wanted to attack on the open sea. The Corinthians and their allies were not sailing toward Acarnania prepared for a sea battle but were equipped more as transports and did not believe that the Athenians, with their twenty ships, would dare to fight a sea battle against fortyseven; yet when they observed them [i.e. the Athenians] sailing along the opposite coast while they were close to land themselves and, as they were crossing from Patrai in Achaia toward Acarnania on the opposite mainland, saw the Athenians sailing toward them from Chalkis and the Evenus river, and they [i.e. the Corinthians] did not elude them [i.e. the Athenians] by setting sail at night, they were now indeed forced to fight a sea battle in the middle of the gulf.

Thucydides reports not so much the movements themselves, but rather concentrates on the characters’ perceptions, expectations and motives: while Phormion wants to (bouk|lemor) attack on the open sea, the Corinthians are not prepared for a battle (oqw ¢r 1p· maulaw_ô) and assume (oqj… oQ|lemoi) that the Athenians will not dare to approach their superior force. The following movements are focalised by the Corinthians: they see (2~qym) the Athenians sail along the opposite coast and observe (jate?dom) the Athenians approaching them when they try to cross the sea. “And they [i.e. the Corinthians] did not elude them [i.e. the Athenians] by setting sail at night” returns the focalisation to the Athenians, subtly interweaving it with the plan of the Corinthians: while 5kahom mujt¹r !voqlis\lemoi implies the plan of the Corinthians, the negation expresses the Athenians’ noting it. There are several cases in which the two stances of focalisation are superimposed. In 2.89.4 and 6, for example, Phormion argues that the Peloponnesians are full of fear, and later, in 2.90.2, the Peloponnesians they take into account what the Athenians will think: 1p· d’ aqt` eUjosim 5tanam t±r %qista pkeo}sar, fpyr, eQ %qa mol_sar 1p· tµm Ma}pajtom aqto»r pke?m b Voql_ym ja· aqt¹r 1pibogh_m ta}t, paqapk]oi, lµ diav}coiem pk]omta t¹m 1p_pkoum sv_m oR )hgma?oi 5ny toO 2aut_m j]qyr, !kk’ axtai aR m/er peqijk-seiam.

On this wing they stationed their twenty best sailers, so that now, if Phormio thought they were sailing against Naupactus and sailed along the coast in that direction himself to defend it, the Athenians would not escape their

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attack beyond the reach of their wing, but these ships would close in on them.

Here, one character focalises the focalisation of another. The doubling forcefully pulls the reader into the world of the action as it is experienced by the historical agents. In the introductory remarks, I pointed out that the chronological progression of the story and the avoidance of anachrony are crucial to the experiential quality of Thucydides’ historiography. The account of the Naupactus battle furnishes an analepsis that interrupts the chronological order but nonetheless serves to re-create the presentness of the past. Thucydides announces that Phormion wanted to encourage his men and adds (2.88.2): pq|teqom l³m c±q aQe· aqto?r 5kece ja· pqopaqesje}afe t±r cm~lar ¢r oqd³m aqto?r pk/hor me_m tosoOtom, Cm 1pipk],, fti oqw rpolemet]om 1st_, ja· oR stqati_tai 1j pokkoO 1m sv_sim aqto?r tµm !n_ysim ta}tgm eQk^vesam, lgd]ma ewkom )hgma?oi emter Pekopommgs_ym me_m rpowyqe?m.

In the past he always told them and conditioned them to think, that for them no naval force was so large that they could not withstand its attacks, and the crews had long since accepted this assessment among themselves, that as Athenians they did not give way before any horde of Peloponnesian ships.

Of course, this flashback does not follow the course of events, but it evokes the horizon of the soldiers who heard Phormion’s encouraging words with his earlier comments in mind. The anachrony, which at first sight seems to interrupt the mimesis, is internally focalised and helps to present the action from the perspective of the agents. By reporting what took place indirectly and employing the focalisation of the characters, Thucydides gives his readers the feeling of witnessing the events as they unfold. Speeches In speeches, Thucydides not only adopts the perspective of the protagonists but also lets them speak in their own words.21 In an article on “frontières du récit”, Genette reconsiders Plato’s juxtaposition of direct speech (mimesis) with narrative (diegesis): “Platon opposait mimesis à die21 Scholarship on speeches in Thucydides has focused on the issue of their authenticity, e. g. Hornblower 1987, 45 – 72, and on their relation with the narrative, see besides de Romilly 1956b and Hunter 1973 also Morrison 2006a. See also the articles in Stadter 1973.

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gesis comme une imitation parfaite à une imitation imparfaite; mais l’imitation parfaite n’est plus une imitation, c’est la chose même”.22 The direct presentation of utterances seems to give unmediated access to the past; in temporal terms, it makes narrated and narrative time converge. Speeches are thereby highly conducive to making narrative experiential. In the passage under consideration here, the speeches of the Spartan generals and of Phormion reveal how they assessed their present situation and what they conjectured about the future in the light of what had just happened: the Spartan generals attempt to dispel their men’s fears by explaining away their previous defeat and highlighting their superiority. They adduce deficient preparation, bad luck and inexperience as the reasons for the defeat and invoke the courage and superior size of their fleet as factors that render them superior to the Athenians (2.87). As commentators have not failed to notice, Phormion’s address to his men closely corresponds to the speech of the Spartan generals.23 He tries to free the Athenians from their fear of the mighty Spartan fleet, which, he points out, only shows the fear of the Spartans, who refuse to meet them on equal terms. The Spartans are by no means more courageous than the Athenians, who moreover can rely on their superior naval experience. The very fact that the Athenians dare to confront them with a much smaller force will increase their fear. Phormion then lays out his strategy: he intends to avoid fighting in the narrows; he prefers the open sea, where the Athenians can cash in on their technical superiority. After emphasizing the importance of order and silence, Phormion finally calls attention to what is at stake: victorious, they can discourage further Spartan expeditions at sea, but, in the event of defeat, they will jeopardize Athens’ naval supremacy (2.89). While not directly advancing the plot, these speeches evoke the temporal horizon of the historical agents and make the readers perceive the past through their lens; more specifically, they align the readers with the soldiers listening to the generals. Speeches and focalisation also buttress the mimetic appeal of the narrative in other respects: Thucydides uses them to convey much information, not by his narratorial voice but at the level of the action. Speeches thus contribute to Thucydides’ authorial reticence. His description of the first battle, for example, is very short; the narrative can focus on the confusion of the Peloponnesians, because the Athenian 22 Genette 1966, 156. 23 Luschnat 1942, 26 – 7; de Romilly 1956b, 140 – 143.

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strategy has already been laid out in the reflections attributed to Phormion.24 The account of the second battle is more complex, but again important pieces of information are introduced at the level of the action. This comes to the fore in Gomme’s comments on the tactical considerations found in Phormion’s speech: “All this explanation of the advantages of open waters to the Athenians seems out of place in an address immediately before a battle to well-trained sailors; it is Thucydides rather, reminding the reader”.25 The Spartans’ speech, on the other hand, is limited to an evaluation of the first battle and encouragement for the imminent encounter, but the reader also learns their strategy, which Thucydides, with great narrative economy, reports directly before the battle (2.90.1 – 2). The focalisation lends presentness to the account, which at the same time is given dramatic force by the late revelation of the strategy that will determine the first part of the battle. By having the historical agents focalise and voice important pieces of information, Thucydides reduces the visibility of his narratorial mediation and gives the reader the impression that she is following the events as experienced by the historical agents. Speeches embed in the action not only factual information but also interpretive elements. Noting the close correspondence of the speeches of the Spartans and Phormion, de Romilly states: “Phormion a donc ruiné, dans son ensemble, l’argumentation péloponnésienne”.26 Phormion’s speech reveals that the points on which the Peloponnesians build their confidence, their numerical superiority and their courage, are irrelevant: the fact that the Peloponnesians dare to confront the Athenians only with such a great fleet indicates their fear. In addition, courage is linked to experience, with which the Athenians easily surpass the Spartans at sea.27 Comparison of the two speeches with one another and with the following narrative sheds light on the action. The Athenians’ swift turn from flight to attack illustrates the courage and experience that Phormion foregrounds in his pre-battle address.28 Seen from this perspective, the speeches allow Thucydides to evaluate the action 24 25 26 27

Cf. Luschnat 1942, 26; de Romilly 1956b, 145. Gomme, HCT II, ad 2.89.9. De Romilly 1956b, 141. See also Hornblower 1991, ad 2.87.4: “In fact, as we are surely meant to recall, Pericles at 40.3 had claimed for Athens precisely the combination of thought and action which the Peloponnesian commanders here insinuate that she lacks”. 28 De Romilly 1956b, 143 – 4; Hunter 1973, 53 – 55, who uses Phormion as evidence for her thesis that Thucydides tends to derive purposes from facts.

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without having to insert his narratorial voice – the evaluation is presented diegetically. Another example for this is Phormion’s comment in 2.89.10: b d³ !c½m l]car rl?m, C jatakOsai Pekopommgs_ym tµm 1kp_da toO mautijoO C 1ccut]qy jatast/sai )hgma_oir t¹m v|bom peq· t/r hak\ssgr.

We are in a great contest, either to end the Peloponnesians’ hopes for their navy or to bring closer to the Athenians their fear for the sea.

Thucydides refrains from narratorial intrusion, but lets Phormion make a remark about the importance of the battle. This interpretation adds an interesting facet to our understanding of speeches. It is widely agreed that Thucydides uses speeches to integrate general reflections into his narrative. Just think of the Plataean and Mytilenean debates: besides discussing specific situations, these speeches shed light on the conflict between justice and expediency in interstate relationships. Luschnat and de Romilly have shown that also in the Naupactus narrative the speeches extend the significance of the scene beyond the specific events involved, in the words of the latter: “Elles partent de l’immédiat pour s’élever, dans le domaine des idées, au niveau des grands discours politiques”.29 At the same time, while transcending their contexts, these and other speeches contribute to the experiential character of the narrative, as we have just seen: the form of oratio recta collapses the difference between narrated and narrative time. Speeches also serve to integrate factual information, evaluation and deeper reflection into the level of the action, permitting Thucydides to keep a low profile as narrator. His authorial reticence, foregrounding the action, not only makes the narrative dramatic but also slyly lends authority to it, as the judgment seems to emerge from the events themselves. Composition A last point that enhances the mimetic dimension of Thucydides’ account is the selection of narrative elements and their composition. While de Romilly and Hunter have explored the close correspondence between Phormion’s plans and the course of events, Stahl has rightly drawn attention to the role of the unexpected in the second battle.30 The quickness and h\qsor with which eleven Athenian ships rout a 29 De Romilly 1956b, 150; cf. Luschnat 1942, 31. 30 De Romilly 1956b, 143 – 4; Hunter 1973, 53 – 55; Stahl 2003, 87 – 91.

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fleet of 77 may illustrate, as de Romilly and Hunter suggest,31 the experience and courage of which Phormion boasts in his speech, but it is only the fortuitous appearance of a merchant vessel that allows the Athenians to apply them: 5tuwe d³ bkj±r bqloOsa let]yqor (2.91.3: “A merchant ship happened to be anchored in the open water”). The role of the unexpected is emphasized by the composition of the battle narrative, notably by the parallels to the first battle.32 As in the first battle, where Thucydides begins by focalising the reasoning of Phormion, he now informs us of the strategy of the Spartans: in both scenes, the subsequent narrative confirms his reasoning. A detail underscores the parallel: the signal that launches the Spartan attack echoes the signal for which the Athenians waited in the first battle (2.90.4 ~ 2.84.3). The parallel presentation leads the reader to expect that everything will again go according to plan: just as Phormion’s plan had enabled the Athenians to overcome the Spartans in the first battle, analogously this time, the Spartans will emerge victorious. The narrative thereby re-creates for the reader the surprise that overtakes the Spartans and leads to the reversal of the battle: cemol]mou to}tou !pqosdoj^tou te ja· paq± k|com (2.91.4: “as a consequence of this unexpected and unlikely event”). Thus, Thucydides not only refrains from foreshadowing the subsequent course of the action but also arranges his narrative so that it conveys some of the experience of the historical agents. To sum up: The account of Phormion’s double victory illustrates several means by which Thucydides makes the past present. Graphic passages, tense, internal focalisation, speeches and narrative composition all contribute to the mimetic power of Thucydides’ narrative. Of course, Thucydides writes in hindsight, and readers with some knowledge of the Peloponnesian War will remember the outcome of the sea battles. Nonetheless, the narrative compels the reader to witness the events as if they were just unfolding. History is always written in retrospect, but Thucydides enlists numerous narrative techniques to restore presentness to the past.

31 De Romilly 1956b, 147 on quickness; Hunter 1973, 54 on h\qsor. 32 A comparison of the two battles is already suggested at the level of the action when Phormion appeals to his men (2.89.9): !l}mesh] te to}sde !n_yr t_m pqoeiqcasl]mym.

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3. The Capitulation of Mytilene (3.25 – 35) The second episode I would like to discuss in order to highlight the experiential quality of the History of the Peloponnesian War is the account of the capitulation of Mytilene. When the Athenians notice that Mytilene is trying to free Lesbos from their rule and to break free from the AtticDelic League, they start besieging the city. A Spartan messenger, Salaithus, promises the help of 40 Peloponnesian ships as well as a Spartan invasion of Attica and thereby encourages the Mytileneans to continue to endure the siege (3.25).33 However, while a Spartan army ravages Attica, the Mytileneans wait in vain for reinforcements from Sparta and finally capitulate (3.26 – 8). In the meanwhile, the 40 Peloponnesian ships, under the command of Alcidas, arrive at Icarus and Myconus (3.29). In a brief direct speech, an Eleian named Teutiaplus suggests that the Spartans sail as fast as possible to Mytilene and take the Athenian corps by surprise (3.30). Alcidas rejects this proposal, as well as one made by some Ionians and Lesbians, reported in indirect speech, to sail to Ionia and to compel its cities to defect from the Athenians. Instead, Alcidas hurries back to the Peloponnese, pursued by the Athenian general Paches and his fleet (3.31 – 33.1). When Paches fails to catch Alcidas, he captures the Colophonian city Notion, afflicted by stasis. He expels the Arcadian and Persian forces that had supported the dominant party and restores the exiles (3.33.2 – 34). On arrival in Mytilene, Paches arrests the Spartan Salaithus and sends him together with the leaders of the conspiracy to Athens (3.35). The episode of the capitulation of Mytilene precedes one of the most read passages in Thucydides, the Mytilenean Debate, and illustrates devices of making the past present seen in the account of Phormion’s sea battles, as well as some new ones. In my discussion, I will briefly touch upon internal focalisation and composition together with narrative time and then explore narratorial manipulation of time, “sideshadowing” and indirect evaluation. Internal focalisation Since the episode of Phormion’s naval successes has already provided us with ample material to illustrate focalisation as a mimetic device, I will limit myself to one example here. In 3.33, Thucydides notes that Alcidas quickly fled from Ephesus and adds (3.31): 33 On the narrative subtlety of this passage, see Rood 2006, 225 – 6.

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¥vhg c±q rp¹ t/r Sakalim_ar ja· Paq\kou 5ti peq· Jk\qom bql_m (aR d’ !p’ )hgm_m 5tuwom pk]ousai), ja· dedi½r tµm d_ynim 5pkei di± toO pek\cour ¢r c0 2jo}sior oq sw^sym %kk, C Pekopomm^s\.34

For he had been spotted by the Salaminia and Paralus while he was still anchored off Clarus; they happened to be sailing from Athens. Fearing pursuit, Alcidas sailed across the open sea with no intention of putting in anywhere but the Peloponnesus.

Here we have another example of a double focalisation: Alcidas notes that he has been seen by the Athenians. In the next paragraph, Thucydides turns to the Athenian side: Paches receives many warnings that the Peloponnesian fleet might attack the Ionian cities. One warning is singled out (3.33.2): … aqt\ccekoi d’ aqt¹m QdoOsai 1m t0 Jk\q\ F te P\qakor ja· B Sakalim_a 5vqasam. … and the Paralus and the Salaminia on their own evidence reported seeing Alcidas at Clarus.

It is striking that Thucydides, well known for his narrative economy, mentions the same fact twice within a single chapter, first through the eyes of the Peloponnesians, who quickly sail away when they notice they have been seen by the Athenians, then adopting the perspective of Paches, for whom the sighting of Alcidas in Clarus indicates the danger of an attack against unfortified Ionia. The repetition illustrates the prominence that Thucydides assigns to the perception of historical agents. Rather than concentrate on bald historical facts, Thucydides describes them as experienced by historical agents to make the reader view the past from their perspective, as if it were still present. Composition and narrative time In my interpretation of the battle at Naupactus, I argued that the repetition of the pattern of the first battle serves to re-create for the readers the surprise that caught the Peloponnesians and led to their defeat; the capitulation of Mytilene is narrated to similar effect. In chapter 25, Thucydides reports how Salaithus sneaks into Mytilene and discourages the citizens from capitulating. He announces that Sparta is about to invade Attica and will send 40 ships. In the following chapter, Thucydides turns away from the events in Mytilene to the invasion of Attica, which, he 34 On c\q as marking the focalisation of a character in Thucydides, see Hornblower 1994b, 134.

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points out, “was the most severe for the Athenians, after the second one” (3.26.3). Underscored by verbal echoes (3.26.1: 1s]bakom ~ 3.25.1: 1sbok^), this statement raises the expectation that the Spartans are keeping their promises and that Mytilene will continue its resistance. The first sentence of chapter 27 thus comes rather as a surprise (3.27.1): OR d³ Lutikgma?oi 1m to}t\, ¢r aV te m/er aqto?r oqw Hjom !p¹ t/r Pekopomm^sou !kk± 1mewq|mifom ja· b s?tor 1pekeko_pei, !macj\fomtai nulba_meim pq¹r to»r )hgma_our di± t\de.

Meanwhile, the Mytileneans, since the ships did not arrive from the Peloponnesus but wasted time, and their food had run out as well, were forced to come to terms with the Athenians in the following way.

Only after Thucydides has narrated at length how and on what terms the Mytileneans capitulate, he reports what happened to the 40 Peloponnesian ships (3.29.1): OR d’ 1m ta?r tessaq\jomta maus· Pekopomm^sioi, otr 5dei 1m t\wei paqacem]shai, pk]omter peq_ te aqtµm tµm Pekop|mmgsom 1mdi]tqixam ja· jat± t¹m %kkom pkoOm swoka?oi jolish]mter to»r l³m 1j t/r p|keyr )hgma_our kamh\mousi, pq·m dµ t0 D^k\ 5swom, pqosle_namter d’ !p’ aqt/r t0 Yj\q\ ja· Luj|m\ pumh\momtai pq_tom fti B Lutik^mg 2\kyjem.35

The Peloponnesians in the forty ships, who were supposed to arrive quickly, wasted time even while sailing along the Peloponnesus and were leisurely in making the rest of their voyage, unnoticed by the Athenians in the city as they proceeded until they put in at Delus, and on reaching Icarus and Myconus from there they first learned that Mytilene had been captured.

Together with the focus on the Attic theatre of war, where the Spartans fulfil their promises, the postponement of the information about the 40 Peloponnesian ships makes the capitulation of Mytilene unexpected. The delay of the fleet is imitated by the narrative delay in describing it;36 narrative time mimics narrated time and thereby re-creates the presentness of the past.

35 The two previous references to the ships are focalised by the Peloponnesians (3.26.4). Cf. Rood 1998, 118. 36 Cf. Rood 1998, 118.

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Our episode features further playing with narrative time worth mentioning, for instance the account of the capture of Notion (3.34.3):37 b d³ pqojakes\lemor 1r k|cour Zpp_am t_m 1m t` diateiw_slati )qj\dym %qwomta, ¦ste, Cm lgd³m !q]sjom k]c,, p\kim aqt¹m jatast^seim 1r t¹ te?wor s_m ja· rci÷, b l³m 1n/khe paq’ aqt|m, b d’ 1je?mom l³m 1m vukaj0 !d]sl\ eWwem, aqt¹r d³ pqosbak½m t` teiw_slati 1napima_yr ja· oq pqosdewol]mym aRqe?, to}r te )qj\dar ja· t_m baqb\qym fsoi 1m/sam diavhe_qei· ja· t¹m Zpp_am vsteqom 1sacac½m ¦speq 1spe_sato, 1peidµ 5mdom Gm, nukkalb\mei ja· jatatone}ei.

He invited Hippias, the leader of the Arcadians in the fort, to a parley on the understanding that he would let him return safe and sound if he rejected his proposal; he then put him under guard, although not in chains, made a sudden attack on the fort and captured it by surprise, and he killed the Arcadians and all the barbarians inside; Hippias he brought in later, just as he had pledged, and, when he was inside, arrested him and killed him with a bowshot.

In the discussion of the sea battles at Naupactus, I have identified a tendency in Thucydides to lay out the reasoning and plans of historical agents before their actions. Here, on the contrary, Thucydides limits his account to the skeleton of bare facts. His narrative thereby mirrors the suddenness of the action (1napima_yr) and makes it as unexpected for the readers as it was for the partisans in Notion (oq pqosdewol]mym). Thucydides’ narrative technique serves again to convey the experience of the characters, here of the victims of a ruse. In the episode of Paches’ trick, the narrative speed imitates the speed of the action; the following passage, on the other hand, creates a contrast between narrative and narrated time. When Salaithus and the Mytilenean conspirators arrive in Athens, the demos is so enraged that he decides to have not only them but all Mytileneans killed (3.36.3): p]lpousim owm tqi^qg ¢r P\wgta %ccekom t_m dedocl]mym, jat± t\wor jeke}omter diawq^sashai Lutikgma_our.

Accordingly, they sent a trireme to Paches reporting their decision and instructed him to put an end to the Mytileneans without delay.

No matter whether we take jat± t\wor with the predicate p]lpousim or with the infinitive diawq^sashai, or even with the participle jeke}omter, 37 On the displacement of the preceding information about the stasis in Notion which took place in 430 BCE and would therefore belong to Book 2, see Hornblower 1994b, 143.

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the hurry of the Athenians, the speed of the narrated time, contrasts with the deceleration of narrative time effected by the ensuing Mytilenean Debate that extends over 15 chapters. While the preceding account summarizes the events, the reproduction of direct speech in the Mytilenean Debate draws out narrative so that it comes to equal narrated time. This stretching of narrative time throws into relief not only the haste of the first decision, but also the speed necessary to save the Mytilineans in narrated time. Parallel to the discussion of the Athenians, the ship with its lethal mission is on its way to Lesbos: “The longer the debate lasts, the slimmer becomes the chance of salvation for the Mytileneans. There can be no doubt that the historian is conscious of the dramatic element that these speeches… lend to the narrative.”38 The Mytilenean Debate thus creates suspense, just as the entire episode can be viewed as a narrative “Beinahe”. Nearly all the Mytileneans were killed; only “since by luck there was no opposing wind, and the first ship was sailing without urgency for its horrible business (1p· pq÷cla !kk|jotom)” (3.49.4),39 the second boat arrived in time to prevent the execution of all Mytilenean men ordered by the first boat: “Mytilene’s danger came this close” (3.49.4).40 Through the modulation of narrative time, Thucydides re-creates for the readers the suspense that the historical agents must have felt. “Sideshadowing” I have elsewhere argued that such “Beinahe”-episodes in Thucydides serve as “sideshadowing” devices.41 “Sideshadowing” goes against the teleological tendency inherent in retrospective narrative, alerts the reader to other possible historical outcomes and thereby drives home the openness of the past when it was still present. The effect of “sideshadowing” is also prominent in the account preceding the Mytilenean Debate. The brief speech of the Elean Teutiaplus has vexed many scholars. Why, it has been asked, does Thucydides include a speech irrelevant to the action? 42 After all, Teutiaplus fails to convince Alcidas of his plan 38 Stahl 2003, 108. See also Schwinge 2008, 55 – 6 on narrative and narrated time in this passage. 39 On the question of who focalises the evaluation !kk|jotom, see Hornblower 1994b, 135. 40 Cf. the parallel phrase in 7.2 and Hornblower 1994b, 158; Stahl 2003, 109. 41 Cf. Grethlein 2010a, 250 – 1. 42 Cf. Rawlings 1981, 190, who calls it “the strangest speech in all of Thucydides”. It may also be added that such ineffective speeches do not square

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to sail to Mytilene. It is, to use a term coined by Prince, a “disnarrated” element, i. e. a narrative of something that did not take place.43 However, the very fact that Teutiaplus’ suggestion is not realized establishes its narrative significance, which goes beyond making the readers familiar with the thoughts of historical agents: In pointing “to the road not taken”44, the speech serves as a “sideshadowing” device. It calls our attention to another possible course of events. In hindsight, we know that Alcidas will quickly return to the Peloponnese upon learning of the capture of Mytilene, but the speech illustrates the openness of the situation when it still was present – the Peloponnesians could also have sailed to Mytilene and, who knows, have captured it… This demonstration of the openness of the past is reinforced by the proposition of the Ionian and Mytilenean refugees to sail to Ionia and prompt the defection of the Athenian allies (3.31.1). Although presented only in indirect speech, the “sideshadowing” of this option is developed further than the possibility of a surprise attack on Mytilene. The plan and the potential gain are presented in great detail: the refugees point out that such an enterprise, welcome to the Ionians, would be likely to succeed and would have grave consequences for Athens: it would lose its “greatest source of revenue”45 and would have to shoulder further expenses if it attempted a counterattack. Even the Persian satrap Pissouthnes could be persuaded to join them. The effectiveness of an attack on Ionia is also confirmed by the subsequent narrative. In 3.32.3, Thucydides mentions that Alcidas has caught Chians and others, who, not counting on the possibility of Spartan ships in Ionia, had come to the beach. This incident illustrates the unexpectedness of a Peloponwith Hunter’s thesis that Thucydides tends to derive purposes from actions. On the effectiveness of speeches in Thucydides in general, see Hornblower 1987, 67 – 69, who also discusses the historicity of Teutiaplus’ speech (53 – 4 with n. 31). 43 Prince 1988. 44 Lateiner 1975, 180. See also Stahl 2003, 107, who speaks of a “missed opportunity”, but confuses Teutiaplus’ and the refugees’ suggestion when he claims that the narrative proves his plan right. In 3.32.3 it is Chians who do not expect the appearance of Peloponnesians and the fears in 3.33.2 are triggered by the lack of fortifications in Ionia. Of course, both points could be transferred to Mytilene which, however, was held by Athenian troops. Thus, they seem to support the plan to attack Ionia, on which see below. 45 Kallet-Marx 1993, 139 – 143 argues that this claim does not necessarily contradict the low entries in the Athenian tribute lists for Ionia, as pq|sodor also includes revenues other than this tribute.

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nesian intervention in Ionia just as the focalisation of the events through Paches underscores its potential to damage the Athenian empire (3.33.2): T` d³ P\wgti ja· to?r )hgma_oir Gkhe l³m ja· !p¹ t/r 9quhqa_ar !ccek_a, !vijme?to d³ ja· pamtaw|hem· !teiw_stou c±q ousgr t/r Yym_ar l]ca t¹ d]or 1c]meto lµ paqapk]omter oR Pekopomm^sioi, eQ ja· ¤r lµ diemooOmto l]meim, poqh_sim ûla pqosp_ptomter t±r p|keir.

The news reached Paches and the Athenians from Erythrai and then came in from every source: since Ionia was unfortified, there was growing fear that even if the Peloponnesians did not plan to stay, on that account they would fall on the cities and plunder them as they sailed along the coast.

Finally, Paches’ relief that he did not catch Alcidas corroborates the calculation of the expenses the Athenians would have incurred, had they decided to go against a Peloponnesian force in Ionia (3.33.3: 1v|qlgsim paqaswe?m ~ 3.31.1: 1voql_si). Indirect evaluation In my discussion of Phormion’s naval successes, I touched upon the indirect evaluation that emerges from the correspondences of speeches with one another and with the narrative. The case of Alcidas furnishes a nice example of indirect evaluation through narrative. As we have seen, the potential of the plan to destabilize Ionia that emerges from Thucydides’ account exposes the opportunities missed under the command of Alcidas. A minor episode also shows the Spartan general in a less positive light: Alcidas kills the majority of his Ionian prisoners of war and stops only when an embassy of Chians alerts him that thus “he would convert few enemies to friends but make many more friends into enemies” (3.32.2). Moreover, Alcidas’ speedy flight stands in marked contrast to the slowness with which he had come to the aid of Mytilene.46 His hesitant and fearful mode of operation is also thrown into relief by Paches’ capture of Notion. Certainly, the ruse employed by Paches is rather questionable – he promises to send the leader of the Arcadians, Hippias, back “safe and sound” after their negotiations, but then detains him in his camp, attacks and conquers the city and finally 46 3.31.2: fti t\wista t0 Pekopomm^s\ p\kim pqosle?nai ; 3.33.1: 5pkei jat± t\wor ja· vucµm 1poie?to ~ 3.29.1: oR d’ 1m ta?r tessaq\jomta maus· Pekopomm^sioi, otr 5dei 1m t\wei paqacem]shai, pk]omter peq_ te aqtµm tµm Pekop|mmgsom 1mdi]tqixam ja· jat± t¹m %kkom pkoOm swoka?oi jolish]mter… Cf. KalletMarx 1993, 139.

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shoots him with an arrow after leading him back into the city – but nonetheless the narrative emphasis on the suddenness of the manoeuvre, as demonstrated above, establishes an effective contrast to Alcidas’ slowness. The reflection on speedy actions in Teutiaplus’ speech lifts the issue to a general level (3.30.4): ja· lµ !pojm^sylem t¹m j_mdumom, mol_samter oqj %kko ti eWmai t¹ jem¹m toO pok]lou C t¹ toioOtom, d eU tir stqatgc¹r 5m te art` vuk\ssoito ja· to?r pokel_oir 1moq_m 1piweiqo_g, pke?st’ #m aqho?to.

We must not shrink from the danger but understand that, if there is any universal factor in war, it is what I have described; if a general guards against it in his ranks and attacks when he observes it among the enemy, he will have the greatest success.

Again, Thucydides avoids interrupting the course of events with his narratorial voice but nonetheless manages to convey an evaluation by embedding it in his account of the events. As Hornblower on 3.31.2 puts it: “Certainly Th(ucydides) in these [chapters] brilliantly manages to censure Alkidas without open authorial censoriousness”.47 Such implicit censoriousness is very effective: the evaluation seems to emerge from the events themselves and to be objective just as the narrator’s reticence reinforces the experiential quality of the account.

4. Teleology and Authorial Presence Let me briefly summarize and qualify my findings before I add some caveats. Neither the first two sea-battles nor the capture of Mytilene is among the narrative jewels admired for their mimetic quality by ancient and modern critics alike. And yet, both episodes illustrate the means by which Thucydides restores presentness to the past throughout his narrative: time, focalisation, voice, composition and description. The chronological account permits Thucydides to align the reader’s 47 For a somewhat exaggerated emphasis on the negative portrayal of Alcidas, see Rawlings 1981, 192, who sees him as a foil for Alcibiades in Book 7 in accordance with his thesis that “Thucydides carefully measured the revolts of Lesbos in 427 and of Chios in 412 against one another, that he contrasted the Athenians’ ability to deal with the first revolt with their inability to handle the second, and that he wanted in particular to emphasize the improved effectiveness of the Lacedaemonian response to the second revolt caused by the leadership of Alcibiades”. (181).

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with the characters’ experiences. Besides chronological order, the temporal category of speed can contribute to the mimetic power of narrative. Manipulation of the relationship between narrated and narrative time can make an account mimic the events narrated, as, for example, when a rapid-fire report expresses the suddenness of an action. Focalisation helps to put the readers in the shoes of the historical agents and lets them see the events unfold through their eyes. A similar effect is achieved by the large number of speeches in which the historical agents voice their views themselves. Another aspect of voice is the narratorial reticence of Thucydides. As we have seen, evaluations and deeper reflections are often mediated diegetically and therefore seem to derive from the events themselves. Together with the three basic narratological categories of time, focalisation and voice, composition can increase the experiential appeal of an account, for example through the “sideshadowing” of “Beinahe”-episodes which alerts the reader to the possibility of alternative developments. Thucydides also uses the non-narrative form of description48 to make his account graphic, a technique discussed as enargeia already by ancient critics. From time to time, Thucydides interrupts the flow of the narrative to reflect. A prominent example of this is the appraisal of Pericles whose brilliance is thrown into relief through a comparison with his successors (2.65.10 – 13). oR d³ vsteqom Usoi l÷kkom aqto· pq¹r !kk^kour emter ja· aqec|lemoi toO pq_tor 6jastor c_cmeshai 1tq\pomto jah’ Bdom±r t` d^l\ ja· t± pq\clata 1mdid|mai. 1n ¨m %kka te pokk\, ¢r 1m lec\k, p|kei ja· !qwµm 1wo}s,, Blaqt^hg ja· b 1r Sijek_am pkoOr, dr oq tosoOtom cm~lgr "l\qtgla Gm pq¹r otr 1p0sam, fsom oR 1jp]lxamter oq t± pq|svoqa to?r oQwol]moir 1picicm~sjomter, !kk± jat± t±r Qd_ar diabok±r peq· t/r toO d^lou pqostas_ar t\ te 1m t` stqatop]d\ !lbk}teqa 1po_oum ja· t± peq· tµm p|kim pq_tom 1m !kk^koir 1taq\whgsam. svak]mter d³ 1m Sijek_ô %kk, te paqasjeu0 ja· toO mautijoO t` pk]omi loq_\ ja· jat± tµm p|kim Edg 1m st\sei emter flyr † tq_a † l³m 5tg !mte?wom to?r te pq|teqom rp\qwousi pokel_oir ja· to?r !p¹ Sijek_ar let’ aqt_m, ja· t_m null\wym 5ti to?r pk]osim !vestgj|si, J}q\ te vsteqom basik]yr paid· pqoscemol]m\, dr paqe?we wq^lata Pekopommgs_oir 1r t¹ mautij|m, ja· oq pq|teqom 1m]dosam C aqto· 1m sv_si jat± t±r Qd_ar diavoq±r peqipes|mter 1sv\kgsam. tosoOtom t` Peqijke? 1peq_sseuse t|te !v’ ¨m aqt¹r pqo]cmy ja· p\mu #m Nôd_yr peqicem]shai tµm p|kim Pekopommgs_ym aqt_m t` pok]l\.

48 On description as an alternative medium of representation to narrative, see Wolf/Bernhardt 2007.

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Those who came later, by contrast, since they were more on an equal level with one another and each was striving to become first, even resorted to handing over affairs to the people’s pleasure. As a result, many mistakes were made, since a great city ruling an empire was involved, especially the expedition to Sicily, which was a mistake not so much of judgment about those they were attacking as because the senders did not subsequently make decisions advantageous for the participants, but by engaging in personal attacks over the leading position among the common people they both reduced the vigour of the armed forces and for the first time fell into confusion in the administration of the city. And after they had failed in Sicily, not only with their other forces but also with the larger part of the fleet, and now had a revolutionary situation in the city, they nevertheless still held out for three years against both their previous enemies and those from Sicily along with them, and moreover the majority of their allies, who had revolted, and later against Cyrus the king’s son in addition, who furnished the Peloponnesians with money for their fleet, and they did not give in until, coming to grief through individual disputes, they brought about their own overthrow. So great at the time was the abundance of resources at Pericles’ disposal, through which he foresaw that the city would very easily prevail in the war over the Peloponnesians alone.

The evaluation of Pericles not only flashes the presence of the narrator, it also embeds in the account of the beginning of the Peloponnesian War a foreshadowing of its end. Thucydides is very reticent with prolepses49 and, claiming that he “began his work as soon as the war broke out” (!qn\lemor eqh»r jahistal]mou, 1.1), tries to convey the impression that he wrote parallel to the events.50 And yet, the praise for Pericles unveils the teleological design of The History of the Peloponnesian War. The text, as we have it, breaks off mid-sentence in 411 BCE, but the second prologue in 5.26 leaves no doubt that the capitulation of Athens in 404/3 BCE forms the telos of the narrative. Thucydides narrates the conflict between Athens and Sparta from the vantage-point of the former’s capitulation. Since modern historians have more or less adopted this view of the Peloponnesian War, this may seem natural to us, but ancient testimonies illustrate other possible takes: Fourth-century orators distinguish between several wars (Andoc. 3.3 – 9; 29 – 31; Aeschin. 2.173 – 6) and Dionysius of Halicarnassus suggests envisaging the Peloponnesian War from the vantage-point of the return of the exiles (Pomp. 3.10). Thucydides’ choice of 404/3 BCE as telos has an impact on his account: His critique of Athenian orators, for instance, de49 For further prolepses in Thucydides, see Dunn 2007, 116. 50 Hornblower 1991, ad loc. nicely elicits the tension in Thucydides’ claim: “Th. sat down to record a set of events which were still in the future”.

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rives its fierceness from being causally linked to Athens’ defeat. Even an author who foregrounds experience to such a degree as Thucydides cannot evade the spell of hindsight. That being said, the teleological design of Thucydides’ narrative is well-hidden. The two episodes I have discussed, for example, do not contain prolepses that alert the reader to the impact of retrospect. They do feature, however, examples of authorial intrusion that go against narrative mimesis. Thucydides’ authorial reticence is remarkable, but from time to time he flashes his presence.51 Let me give one obvious and one less obvious example: After narrating Salaithus’ arrival in Mytilene, Thucydides writes (3.25.2): f te weil½m 1teke}ta oxtor, ja· t]taqtom 5tor t` pok]l\ 1teke}ta t`de dm Houjud_dgr num]cqaxem.

And the winter ended, also the fourth year of the war which Thucydides recorded.

Here and in other passages, reference to the author pointedly highlights his presence in the narrative. While the general reticence enhances the mimetic appeal of the narrative, such intrusions assert Thucydides’ authority over his text.52 The mediating presence of the author is marked more subtly, but is nonetheless visible in 2.86.5: ja· 1p· l³m 4n C 2pt± Bl]qar !mh~qloum !kk^koir leket_mt]r te ja· paqasjeuaf|lemoi tµm maulaw_am, cm~lgm 5womter oR l³m lµ 1jpke?m 5ny t_m U_ym 1r tµm eqquwyq_am, vobo}lemoi t¹ pq|teqom p\hor, oR d³ lµ 1spke?m 1r t± stem\, mol_fomter pq¹r 1je_mym eWmai tµm 1m ak_c\ maulaw_am.

And for six or seven days they remained at anchor across from each other, practicing and preparing for a sea battle, one side resolved not to sail outside the two Rhions into open water, for fear of the earlier disaster; the other side, not to sail into the narrows, thinking that in a limited space the battle would be in the enemy’s favor.

The “or” (E) reveals the author’s uncertainty about a minor fact – the exact number of days the fleets faced each other – but this alerts the reader to the fact that we access the past only through the author’s reconstruction.53 Passages like this unveil the presence of a narrator who,

51 This is emphasized by Rood 2006. 52 Cf. Gribble 1998, 43. 53 Cf. Hornblower 1994b, 151, who emphasizes that such hedges are very rare in Thucydides.

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however, has crafted a narrative that by and large seems to follow the events themselves.

5. The presence of the past in Thucydides and Plutarch In de gloria Atheniensium, Plutarch praises the enargeia of Thucydides’ narrative, highlighting the visual quality and emotional grip that give the reader the sense of witnessing the events while they are unfolding. Plutarch himself receives good press for the enargeia of his Lives. Russell, for example, hails him as “one of the most evocative reconstructors of the past” and even claims: “Few writers (perhaps only Livy among the ancients, and in a much more limited way) display such zest as Plutarch for the colourfulness of history and the excitement of action and adventure”.54 The parallel praise makes it tempting to compare the vividness in both authors. This comparison can only be sketched in broad outline here, but it will help throw into relief the experiential quality of Thucydides’ narrative. To start with some obvious points: in the Lives speeches are less frequent and tend to be much shorter than in the History of the Peloponnesian War. Volumnia’s supplication of her son in the Coriolanus is as long as it gets. Focalisation is certainly an arrow in Plutarch’s narratorial quiver, but he uses it less extensively than Thucydides. Likewise, counterfactuals and “Beinahe-episodes” are less prominent. Plutarch’s voice is strongly present not only in the proems and the concluding synkriseis, but throughout the narrative which is punctuated by frequent narratorial intrusions. At the same time, it is not difficult to find in the Lives the graphic quality that Plutarch extols in Thucydides. Take for example the taming of Bucephalus in the Alexander (6), which not only illustrates the enargeia of the Lives, but also lets us grasp a crucial difference between Plutarch and Thucydides:55 After sketching the background, namely Philip’s annoyance at the failure of all attempts to break the immensely expensive horse, Plutarch reports a brief dialogue between son and father, in which Alexander bets the price of the horse that he will be able to tame him (6.1 – 4). He succeeds (6.5 – 7) and impresses the spectators including his father who, Plutarch says at the end, is reported to 54 Russell 1995, 76, 81. 55 On the scene, see Frazier 1992, 4496 – 9; Stadter 1996, 291 – 6. For the various traditions on Bucephalus, see Anderson 1930.

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have said: “My son, seek thee out a kingdom equal to thyself; Macedonia has not room for thee”. (§ pa?… f^tei seaut` basike_am Usgm· Lajedom_a c\q sû oq wyqe?; 6.8). The scenery itself is very vague,56 but nonetheless “the story is vividly told, as if by an eyewitness, and sticks in the imagination”.57 In addition to the direct speech in which the dialogue between father and son is rendered, the detailed description of the taming endows the scene with enargeia. Plutarch uses a long string of compound verbs, some of them rare, whose prefixes create a strong spatial deixis: Alexander runs to the horse (pqosdqal~m), takes up the reins (paqakab~m) and turns the horse towards the sun (1p]stqexe), since he has noticed that Bucephalus is disturbed by his shadow falling in front of him (sji±m pqop_ptousam, 6.5). Alexander then trots besides Bucephalus (paqajakp\sar) and caresses him, literally, “rubs down” (jatax^sar), before he throws away his mantle (!poqq_xar) and mounts the horse, literally, “encircles” him (peqi]bg, 6.6). Drawing the reins both on the left and the right side (peqikab~m)58, Alexander holds in Bucephalus (pqosam]steikem, 6.7). The detailed spatial deixis, meticulously charting every movement of Alexander, makes the scene highly graphic – while reading Plutarch’s description, it is hard not to see Alexander and Bucephalus before one’s inner eye. Adverbs – eqh}r, lijq\, Bsuw0, !svak_r, Edg (6.5 – 7) – temporally nuance the single steps just as the sequence, told in the aorist, receives temporal depth from imperfect forms and present and perfect participles: Alexander “saw (2~qa) that he [i.e. Bucephalus] was filled (pkgqo}lemom) with courage and spirit” (6.6) and later he “saw (2~qa) that the horse was free of rebelliousness (!veij|ta tµm !peik^m) and impatient (aqc_mta) for the course” (6.7). While Alexander carefully watches Bucephalus, he is observed by Philip and the others of whom some at least have failed to tame the horse. The spectators form an internal audience that brings the reader close to the scene. They first laugh about the bet (6.5), are then silent and finally break out in war-cries (6.8). Plutarch does not interrupt the account of the taming and reports their silence only subsequently.59 56 Cf. Frazier 1992, 4497. 57 Stadter 1996, 292. 58 On this meaning of peqikalb\meim, see Ziegler 1935, 369 – 70, who defends the transmitted form against the various conjecture. 59 Cf. Frazier 1992, 4499.

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This is not only a highly appropriate way of rendering the silence that contributes nothing to the taming, but also makes the reactions of the spectators frame the scene just as they surrounded the place where Alexander mounts Bucephalus. The temporal ordering thus mirrors the spatial lay-out of the scene. The breaking of Bucephalus is placed prominently at the beginning of the biography and interpreters have been quick to ascribe to it deeper significance than merely reporting an incident from Alexander’s youth. The anecdote establishes major features of Alexander’s character, notably his wit, ambition and brashness.60 Furthermore, Philip’s dictum with which Plutarch closes the scene directly alerts the reader to Alexander’s later conquests: Alexander will subjugate entire countries just as he tamed Bucephalus.61 Two minor points may buttress this interpretation that aligns the taming with the later military conquest: Alexander leads Bucephalus toward the sun which is associated with the East where he will make his conquests. Moreover, in Philip’s dictum it is natural to refer seaut` to Usgm, as Perrin does in the Loeb translation quoted above: Alexander ought to seek a kingdom equal to himself. At the same time, the sentence can be construed differently if we correlate seaut` with the preceding f^tei. In this case, the kingdom would be equal to the horse and the prefiguration of the conquests in the taming explicit.62 The anecdote of the taming of Bucephalus is highly graphic, but at the same time does not generate narrative suspense. We are not left wondering what will happen next; instead, Plutarch sketches a picture of Alexander that goes beyond his comportment in a particular situation. In taking an incident out of the flux of time and making it metaphorically encapsulate later events, the vignette freezes the sequence of time and spatializes history: important traits of Alexander are revealed in the close-up of a scene. This is emblematic of Plutarch’s tendency to break the flux of time into episodes the significance of which goes beyond the moment. Vagueness of time, downplaying of temporal links and explicit thematic ordering give the Lives, despite their chronological

60 Cf. Stadter 1996, 292. 61 Cf. Beck 2007, 398. 62 Another interpretation takes Bucephalus as the “equine counterpart of Alexander”: Anderson 1930; Stadter 1996, 293 – 4.

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frame, an episodic character.63 This is not a failure on the part of Plutarch, but reflects his focus on character and morals. Instead of trying to evoke the temporal horizon of the past, Plutarch aspires to the level of moral values that in his eyes is timeless. For him, detailed description is not a means of restoring presentness to the past, but to make anecdotes memorable and thereby drive home moral points. Plutarch’s vividness throws into relief the experiential quality of Thucydides’ writing. There are also vignettes in the History of the Peloponnesian War, but its mimesis rests rather on a sequential account that makes the reader follow the action from the perspective of the characters. While Plutarch tends to string together closed episodes, Thucydides is at pains to restore the temporal horizon of the past. He thereby strives to align the reading experience with the experience of the historical agents, enabling the readers to re-experience the past as if it were still present. The difference can be grasped in Plutarch’s own words. In the prologue to the Aemilius and Timoleon, he elaborates on the didactic function of his Lives that extends to himself (1.2 – 3), “… trying in the mirror of history to adorn life somehow and adjust it to the virtues of those men. For the result is like nothing other than daily living and associating together, when I receive and welcome each subject of my history in turn as my guest…”: Thucydides, as Plutarch perceptively puts it, makes us witnesses of past events. He, on the other hand, makes the heroes of the past visit us. Thucydides and Plutarch both strive for a close encounter with the past, but in different directions: While in Thucydides an experiental narrative enmeshes us in the past, Plutarchan enargeia brings past virtues to us. This illustrates that the experiential quality on which I have elaborated is differently nuanced from the enargeia discussed by ancient critics.64 The most salient aspect of enargeia is the visual quality of narrative that transforms the listener or reader into a spectator.65 The Anonymus Seguerianus, for instance, defines enargeia as ‘k|cor rpû exim %cym t¹ dgko}lemom’ (The art of political speech 96). Graphic descriptions prompt 63 The prominence of non-chronological ordering in the Lives has been emphasized by Weizsäcker 1931. See also Russell 1973, 102 – 3; 115 – 16; Stadter 1989, xxxv-vii. 64 On ancient discussions of enargeia, see Zanker 1981; Manieri 1998; Otto 2009; Webb 2009. 65 Cf. Zanker 1981, 309 – 10; Manieri 1998, 106, 123 with n. 404. On the other hand, Demetrius, On style 216 and Quintilian Inst. 9.2.41 illustrate that the aspect of time is not entirely absent from ancient discussions of enargeia.

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the reader to visualize a scene and can thereby enhance the mimesis of a narrative. At the same time, the longer descriptions are, the more they interrupt the sequence of the narrative which is crucial to the reader’s re-experiencing the past. There is thus some tension between the temporal aspect of narrative’s experiential quality and the visual appeal foregrounded in the concept of enargeia. While The History of the Peloponnesian War features only a limited number of graphic vignettes, the two episodes discussed in this article illustrate the experiential quality throughout its narrative.

The Cylon Conspiracy: Thucydides and the Uses of the Past Tim Rood Modern historians of Athens are at once confronted by the gloomy fact that “the first clearly attested event in Athenian history” is Cylon’s attempt to become tyrant of Athens in (perhaps) 636 or 632 BCE – and yet “the detail, already controversial before Herodotus’ birth, is by now irrecoverable”.1 Among ancient literary critics, however, Cylon did achieve a certain fame for the way his attempted coup was presented in the histories of Herodotus and Thucydides. Thucydides’ account, in particular, was renowned as the place where (in a scholiast’s phrase) “the lion laughed”.2 Modern scholars have preferred to apply the term “Herodotean” to Thucydides’ Cylon narrative together with the accounts of Pausanias and Themistocles that follow it.3 Yet easy recourse to the term “Herodotean” has the paradoxical effect of “buttressing the opposition”4 between Herodotus and Thucydides – as if labelling an apparently abnormal section “Herodotean” is enough to excuse the abnormality and stop further questioning. The danger of this approach is especially apparent when Thucydides’ “Herodotean” manner is held to show that a section was written “early” or even for a different context altogether.5 The aim of this paper is to try to understand not just 1 2

3 4 5

Andrewes 1982, 368 – 9, 370; cf. Thomas 1989, 288; Osborne 1996, 215 – 16. Scholiast ad loc., repeated by Romanus Sophista 3 (p. 2. ll. 17 – 18 Camphausen) and by John Sikeliotes 6.504 Walz, who also noted the account’s “gracefulness”, explaining that it was “very clear” and not at all like the historian’s usual “gravity”; Patterson 1993 extends the saying to the Cylon, Pausanias, and Themistocles retrospects (1.126 – 38) as a whole. Aelius Theon, a rhetorician of the first century CE, in a pedagogic text (Prog. ii. 66 Spengel), ranked both Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ tales of Cylon as among “the finest examples of narrative”. E.g. Pothou 2009, 122. Harrison 1997, 186. Early: Westlake 1969b. Different context: Canfora 1982, arguing that Thucydides first planned to write a sequel to Herodotus which would have included digressions on the past, and that 1.126 – 38 is a remnant of this original plan adapted to a new role. My attempt to explain unusual elements of the Cylon

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why the lion laughed – why Thucydides adopted the literary style that was so much admired in antiquity – but also how the lion’s laughter fits Thucydides’ broader vision of his historical project. While I will review how scholars have looked for signs of family propaganda and historiographical polemic in Thucydides’ Cylon excursus, my main concern (building on the work of scholars such as Tsakmakis and Crane) will be to integrate the “Herodotean” Thucydides into an argument about the spatial and temporal dynamics of the History as a whole.6 It will be helpful to start by setting out the two versions of the story in full.

1. The two accounts Herodotus introduces the story of Cylon in the context of a power struggle in Athens after the overthrow of the Peisistratid tyranny. The two rivals were Isagoras and the Alcmeonid Cleisthenes. After Cleisthenes’ political reforms won over the common people, Isagoras looked to Cleomenes, King of Sparta, for help. At Isagoras’ bidding, Cleomenes instructed the Athenians to banish Cleisthenes and some others “on the grounds that they were under a curse” (5.70.2).7 Herodotus pauses to explain “how the accursed Athenians came to get their name” (5.71.1): There was an Athenian, Cylon, an Olympic victor, who grew his hair long with a view to tyranny. He made himself the leader of a band of young men his own age and tried to seize the Acropolis. When this attempt failed, he and his men took refuge as suppliants at the base of the statue of Athena. The presidents of the naucraries, who constituted the governing body of Athens in those days, persuaded them to leave with assurances that, whatever punishment they faced, they would not be put to death. The Alcmeonids were accused of murdering them, however. All this happened before the time of Peisistratus. (5.71.1 – 2)

Cleomenes’ request was successful in the short term, as Cleisthenes left Athens. But he was not successful in pushing through any further changes: the Athenian council resisted an attempt to dissolve it, and Cleomenes soon left under a truce.

6 7

narrative in terms of temporal and spatial patterning could also be extended in various ways to the Pausanias and Themistocles retrospects, but there is no space for that here. Tsakmakis 1995, 101 – 56; Crane 1996. Translations from Herodotus are (at times adapted) from Waterfield 1998.

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Thucydides introduces the story of Cylon in the run-up to the Peloponnesian War. After the Peloponnesians have voted for war, the Spartans first send embassies to Athens and “made charges, in order to have as good a reason as possible for going to war if the Athenians paid no attention” (1.126.1).8 In the first of these embassies, they “ordered the Athenians to drive out the curse of the goddess” – which, as Thucydides goes on to explain, “was of the following sort” (1.126.2): Cylon was an Olympic victor, an Athenian of former times, both well-born and influential. He was married to the daughter of Theagenes, a Megarian who was tyrant of Megara at that time. When Cylon was consulting the oracle at Delphi, the god responded that he should seize the acropolis of Athens during the greatest festival of Zeus. Cylon acquired an armed force from Theagenes and won over his friends, and when the Olympic festival was taking place in the Peloponnese he seized the acropolis with a view to tyranny, thinking that this was the greatest festival of Zeus and also rather appropriate to him as a victor at the Olympic games. Whether the greatest festival meant was in Athens or somewhere else (for the Athenians also have the Diasia, which is called the greatest festival of Zeus Meilichios and is outside the city, where they sacrifice as an entire people, many not with ordinary victims, but with local offerings), he did not consider further and the oracle did not reveal, but, supposing his was the right interpretation, he made the attempt. When the Athenians found out, they came from the countryside to resist in full force, took up settled positions, and besieged them. But as time passed, the Athenians were fatigued by the blockade and most departed, leaving it to the nine archons to keep watch and have sole authority to settle the matter as they judged best (at that time the nine archons handled most political duties). The group besieged with Cylon became weak through lack of food and water. Now Cylon and his brother escaped, but the others, since they were suffering and some even dying of famine, sat on the altar on the acropolis. When the Athenians entrusted with the guard saw them dying in the sanctuary, they raised them up on the understanding that they would do them no harm, led them away, and put them to death; on the way, they killed some who seated themselves in the sanctuary of the revered goddesses. And for this they were pronounced accursed and offenders against the goddess, they and their descendants. So the Athenians expelled these accursed men, and Cleomenes the Spartans, along with Athenian dissidents, also drove them out later and when they expelled the living also dug up the bones of the dead and cast them out. Nevertheless, they came back later, and their family is still in the city (1.126.3 – 12).

8

Translations from Thucydides are (at times adapted) from Lattimore 1998.

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Thucydides proceeds to explain that Pericles was the real object of the Spartans’ diplomatic move. But, as that final sentence intimates, it was not to be successful.

2. Correction and propaganda? Modern scholars have tended to look beyond the purely literary perspective of the ancient rhetoricians. Most commonly, they have pointed to the fact that Thucydides differs from Herodotus over several factual details: the identity of the magistrates in charge at Athens at the time of the attempted coup (the presidents of the naucraries in Herodotus, the nine archons in Thucydides); the initial result of Cylon’s attempt (Herodotus mentions only its failure, while Thucydides claims he was initially successful and then subjected to a long siege); and the question of whether Cylon himself survived the coup (he is killed in Herodotus, while in Thucydides he escapes with his brothers). These differences have led scholars to suppose that Thucydides was writing to correct Herodotus;9 Jameson even proposed an analogy with the tyrannicide excursus, where Thucydides set out to correct mistaken views on the final years of the Peisistratid tyranny.10 The proposed analogy between the Cylon and tyrannicide excursuses is misleading. In the tyrannicide excursus, Thucydides employs the techniques of reasoning about the past through probability and through material remains that he also uses in the Archaeology (1.2 – 19) and in some of his other discussions of the past (e. g. 2.15, on early settlement patterns in Attica; 2.29, on alleged links between the mythical Thracian Tereus and the modern Thracian Teres). In the Cylon narrative, by contrast, Thucydides offers no proof that Cylon and his brother escaped or against the importance that Herodotus attaches to “the presidents of the naucraries”; the one piece of material evidence that he might have been able to cite – the statue of Cylon that Pausanias reports he saw (1.28.1) – has been used by modern scholars as a sign that Herodotus was correct 9 E.g. Jacoby 1949, 186 – 7; Williams 1951, 53; Ridley 1981, 27; Andrewes 1982, 369; Thomas 1989, 277. Some scholars attempt to reconcile the accounts on some details, explaining that Herodotus was referring only to a temporary period of control, while the archons were away (Lambert 1986, 109), or that “the presidents acted at the behest of the chief executive, the nine archons” ( Jordan 1970, 174). 10 Jameson 1965, 171.

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to say that Cylon was killed at the time of the coup.11 He uses none of the rhetoric of intellectual display found in the tyrannicide excursus. The general tone of Thucydides’ account does not suggest that correcting Herodotus was one of his main purposes. The main detail that he adds to Herodotus’ account – Cylon’s consultation, and misinterpretation, of the Delphic oracle – is a folktale. Thucydides’ story in itself has much more of a storytelling air than Herodotus’. There is in any case a much broader problem in explaining Thucydides’ account entirely in terms of another account that happens to survive: presumably Cylon’s conspiracy was also covered in Hellanicus’ Atthis, but we have no fragments from that account to compare with Thucydides’ version.12 Scholars who have maintained that Thucydides set out to correct Herodotus have generally suggested that he was not motivated purely by a concern for factual accuracy. They see the account of Cylon as “a propaganda piece”13 written to defend the Alcmeonids from the charge (expressed by Herodotus) that they were responsible for the sacrilegious murder of Cylon and his followers. The reason Thucydides has been seen as writing to defend the Alcmeonid family from the charge of sacrilege is that he mentions the magistrates in charge at the time when Cylon’s supporters were killed (“the nine archons”), but not that the Alcmeonid Megacles was (according to later sources14) chief archon at the time of the coup. And proof that the omission of Megacles was “intentional” has been seen in the “break” in Thucydides’ account between his talk of the “nine archons” to his talk of the (single) “family”

11 See Jameson 1965, 171; Thomas 1989, 275 – 6. The basis for this view is the pattern of statues being set up as expiations (cf. the statue of Pausanias ordained at 1.134.4 (with Frazer 1898, ii. 348): mention of Cylon’s statue would thus have bound the Cylon and Pausanias narratives). Some (e. g. Wright 1892, 41 n. 2) think the statue is later than Thucydides; for a survey of views, see Robertson 2010, 145 – 6. 12 Pearson 1939, 221 – 2, discussing the lack of surviving sixth-century fragments of Hellanicus, begs the question when he remarks that “even Thucydides has no remarks to make about Hellanicus’ account of the sixth century, contenting himself with correcting some inaccuracies of Herodotus”; if we did not have Herodotus’ work, we would not know that Thucydides was (perhaps) correcting him. 13 Ridley 1981, 27. 14 Heraclid. Pol. 1.4, Plut. Sol. 12.1 – 2, probably drawing on the Aristotelian Ath.Pol. ( Jacoby 1949, 366 n. 77), the papyrus of which unfortunately starts just after Cylon.

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(which he does not even directly name) that was subjected to the curse.15 Thucydides’ alleged motivation for writing the account would be weakened if Herodotus’ account was itself defending (or at least not attacking) the Alcmeonids. Herodotus’ account can in fact easily be read as more pro-Alcmeonid than Thucydides’:16 like Thucydides, he offers a name for the magistrates in charge at Athens; but unlike Thucydides, he explicitly contrasts these magistrates with the Alcmeonids, the family held responsible for the murder. Even stronger arguments can be brought against the view that either Herodotus or Thucydides was expressly defending the Alcmeonids. Ironically, it is perhaps the influence of Thucydides’ account that has caused Herodotus’ to be misread. It is Thucydides who says that it was the family of the magistrates in charge of Athens that was called accursed. It is only in the light of this account that Herodotus can be taken to be diminishing Alcmeonid guilt on the grounds that he “says the safe conduct was given not by the Archon Megacles but by the Presidents of the Naucraroi”.17 Herodotus in fact “contrast[s] the promise of safety with the eventual murder, rather than the naucraric presidents and the Alcmaeonids… Without preconceptions, one could even read in this a deliberate contrast between the rightful acts of the presidents and the sacrilegious murder by the Alcmaeonids”.18

Indeed, this deliberate contrast is strengthened by the juxtaposition of pkµm ham\tou (“not be put to death”) at the end of one sentence and vomeOsai (“murdering”) at the start of the next. The misreading of Herodotus has encouraged the misreading of Thucydides. Thucydides’ account is clear: he “explicitly blames the archons, describes how the accursed were exiled and explains how Perikles was related to them”.19 Megacles is not mentioned because “the im-

15 Jacoby 1949, 187 – 8. Cf. e. g. Rhodes 2006, 527. 16 Jameson 1965, 171. 17 Wade-Gery 1933, 22. Note the special pleading: there is no such negative-positive contrast in Herodotus. 18 Thomas 1989, 278. 19 Thomas 1989, 276 n. 117; cf. Wade-Gery 1933, 22. For another approach to the Alcmeonid issue, see Lang 1967, 247, suggesting that “Alkmaionid permission for the escape of Kylon and his brother was a subtle means of countering a popular belief that the murder for which the Alkmaionids were popularly held responsible was motivated by family feuding or personal rivalry between the

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portant thing in the story… is the family taint, not the guilt of the original offender”.20 The move from the “nine archons” to the single family is not a defence of the Alcmeonids. At most, it is an exposure of the fact that the Cylonian curse was used selectively, against the descendants of one of nine archons. It is wrong to mistake Thucydidean cynicism about the manipulation of religion for defence of the Alcmeonids.21

3. Complaint and Counter-Complaint A different Herodotean aspect can be seen in the justification for and form of Thucydides’ account: a Spartan appeal to the Athenians to drive out the curse of the goddess followed by an explanation of the origins of the curse.22 I would like to go further and propose that Thucydides’ account of the subsequent embassies between Athens and Sparta evokes one section of Herodotus in particular – his description in the proem of how (at least in the view of some “learned Persians”) a series of abductions and counter-abductions culminated in the Trojan War. The account attributed to the Persians is structured as follows (Hdt. 1.1 – 4): A – Asian seizure of Io: “a number of women came down to the shore, including the king’s daughter, whose name was Io… Io and some others were abducted” (1.1.4). B – Greek seizure of Europa: “some Greeks landed at Tyre and abducted the king’s daughter Europa” (1.2.1). B – Greek seizure of Medea: “They sailed… to the Phasis River… and abducted the king’s daughter Medea. The king of Colchis sent a herald to Greece to ask for compensation for the abduction and to demand his daughter back, but the Greeks replied that they had not paid compensation for the abduction of Io the Argive, and so they not pay compensation themselves” (1.2.2 – 3). two families”. But there is no mention of Alcmeonid permission in Thucydides. 20 Wright 1892, 34 n. 1; cf. Cadoux 1948, 91. 21 For further evidence of the use of the curse, see the ostraca against Megacles son of Hippocrates (Brenne 2002, 104). Jacoby 1949, 187, suggests that it was used internally against Pericles during the 440s BCE. See also the allusion at Ar. Knights 445 – 6, taken by Rogers 1910 ad loc. as evidence that Cleon may have taunted Pericles as accursed. 22 Cf. Moles 2010, 19, who sees the “constant narrative regressiveness” in Book 1 as Herodotean.

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A – Asian seizure of Helen: “Alexander… decided to abduct for himself a wife from Greece. He was absolutely certain that he would get away with it without paying compensation, since they had not paid themselves – and that is how he came to abduct Helen. The Greeks’ initial reaction was to send men to demand Helen’s return and to ask for compensation for her abduction… The others brought up the abduction of Medea and asked whether they expected compensation from others when they paid none and did not return Medea when they asked for her back” (1.3). Escalation – Greek attack on Troy: “So far it had only been a matter of abducting women from one another, but the Greeks were basically responsible for the next step… The Persians claim that whereas they, on the Asian side, did not count the abduction of women as at all important, the Greeks raised a mighty army because of a woman from Lacedaemon, and then invaded Asia and destroyed Priam and his forces” (1.4.1 – 3).

The different episodes are linked through the repetition of key words and phrases –toO basik]or tµm hucat]qa (“the king’s daughter”); the verb "qp\feim (“abduct”) and its cognate noun "qpac^; the noun d_jar with the verbs did|mai and aQt]eim (“pay/ask for compensation”); the verb !pait]eim (“demand back”). A similar structure expressed through the same sort of repetitive language that is found in Herodotus’ proem can be seen in Thucydides’ account of the Spartan demands and the Athenian counter-demands:23 A – Spartan demand about the Cylonian curse: “With the first embassy they sent (pq]sbeir p]lxamter), the Spartans ordered the Athenians to drive out the curse of the goddess… (1j]keuom… t¹ %cor 1ka}meim t/r heoO). This was the curse the Spartans commanded them to drive out (toOto dµ t¹ %cor… 1j]keuom 1ka}meim), in the first place honouring the gods, to be sure, but knowing that Pericles son of Xanthippus was connected with it through his mother and thinking that if he were exiled they would make easier headway with the Athenians” (1.126.2, 1.127.1). B – First Athenian counter-demand: “In retaliation, the Athenians ordered the Spartans to drive out the curse of Taenarum ()mtej]keuom… t¹ !p¹ Taim\qou %cor 1ka}meim)” (1.128.1). B – Second Athenian counter-demand: “They also ordered them to drive out the curse of Bronze-housed goddess… (1j]keuom… t¹ t/r Wakjio_jou %cor 1ka}meim). Since the god had pronounced the curse, the Athenians in retaliation demanded that the Spartans drive it out (!mtep]tanam… 1ka}meim)” (1.128.2, 1.135.1). 23 For a slightly different analysis, see Ellis 1994, 168 (with Figure 1); Ellis sees a much more detailed pattern of ring composition running through 1.126 – 38. The Herodotean resonance also follows on from the Homeric intertexts in Thucydides’ account of the Corcyra episode (analysed by Bowie 1993).

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A – Spartan embassy over Themistocles’ medism: “As for the medism of Pausanias, the Spartans sent an embassy (pq]sbeir p]lxamter) to Athens and accused Themistocles of involvement…” (1.135.2) Escalation – Further Spartan demands: “These were the demands the Spartans made in their first embassy, and these the orders they were given in retaliation, about driving out people under curse (1p]tan\m te ja· !mtejeke}shgsam peq· t_m 1mac_m t/r 1k\seyr); in many later encounters, they ordered (1j]keuom) the Athenians …” (1.139.1).

The first Spartan demand is matched by a similar Athenian demand. The Athenians then take the lead by making a second demand. The sequence is then complicated by a wild-card – the tenuously motivated account of the Spartan embassy that accused Themistocles of medism. Finally the sequence climaxes in the Spartan ultimatum over the Megarian decree – Thucydides’ take on Helen of Troy. Both Herodotus and Thucydides, then, stress a reciprocal pattern of exchange that leads (with a certain amount of diplomatic rowing along the way) to war – though in Herodotus the tit-for-tat structure is a retrogression by the “learned Persians” rather than inherent in the motivation of the characters’ themselves.24 In both authors, moreover, the very simplicity of the like-for-like pattern is treated with some detachment: while Herodotus ironizes the Persians’ imposition of a tit-for-tat structure on the remote past, Thucydides openly exposes the cynical motivation for the initial Spartan demand – a desire to hit at Pericles by reawakening an ancient curse (1.127.1 – 2).

4. Temporal and stylistic distancing Thucydides’ exposure of Spartan cynicism is further reinforced by the style of the Cylon narrative. Thucydides’ opening phrase J}kym Gm )hgma?or !mµq ikulpiom_jgr (1.126.3) evokes Herodotus’ Gm J}kym t_m )hgma_ym !mµq ikulpiom_jgr (5.71.1): both authors employ the classic technique of asyndeton after an introductory word like ¨de or toi|mde, and both begin their accounts with another classic technique – the individual’s name followed or preceded by the imperfect of the verb eWmai. What is more, in the very act of varying Herodotus’ initial word-order, Thucydides archly gestures towards the most famous of 24 I discuss this further in Rood (2010); as with the possible allusion to Herodotus at Ar. Ach. 515 – 29, we might still see Thucydides as encouraging a misreading of Herodotus.

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Herodotean openings – Jqo?sor Gm Kud¹r… (1.6.1). Thucydides’ knowing allusion to that self-consciously simple opening distances the account of Cylon from the surrounding diplomatic entanglements.25 The same story-telling style is on display in Thucydides’ parade of Cylon’s accomplishments. Thucydides introduces Cylon with far greater fullness than he does many of the characters in the main part of his History: he is an “Olympic victor”, “well-born”, “influential”, and “married to the daughter of Theagenes, a Megarian who was tyrant of Megara at that time” (1.126.3).26 Such relatively expansive introductions are common with storytelling formulae of the “Cylon was…” sort. Like the other details about Cylon that Thucydides introduces, they begin to seem less superfluous, and more explanatory, as the tale continues. It is from his father-in-law Theagenes, tyrant of Megara, that Cylon receives help, and his Olympic victory evokes the “pervasive thematic parallelism between the reality of an athlete’s victory and the potential of a tyrant’s power”.27 Cylon is further distanced by Thucydides’ failure to provide any sort of historical context for his attempted coup. While Herodotus had closed his account by dating the conspiracy “before the time of Peisistratus”, Thucydides merely describes Cylon as an Athenian “of former times” (t_m p\kai). It later emerges that Cylon’s seizure of the acropolis took place in an Olympic year, but Thucydides does not state which one: we rely on Eusebius for that information, and given the uncertainty over early Olympiads, some scholars have thought that Herodotus’

25 Romanus Sophista (n. 2) cited Thucydides’ introduction of Cylon and Herodotus’ of Croesus to illustrate the “relaxed style of narrative”; it may be the case (Kahn 1973, 160) that placement of the verb before the name (or before the place in similar “topographic introductions”) gives a “greater existential emphasis” (“there was…” as opposed to “… was”), but Bloch 1944, 248 n. 32, is right to conclude that “Thukydides schwerlich etwas andres als Herodot hat ausdrücken wollen”. For other parallels, cf. e. g. Lys. 1.22; Ogilvie 1965 on Livy 2.33.5, 3.11.6; Dik 1995, 229 – 35, who offers an analysis of such introductions using the terms of Functional Grammar. 26 For the introduction of characters in Thucydides, see also de Bakker (this volume). 27 Nagy 1990, 187; cf. Crane 1996, 121. Aelius Theon, Rhet. Gr. ii. 83 – 4 Spengel, offers a discussion of how much detail about Cylon is appropriate in different types of narration.

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phrase favours an early sixth-century date for Cylon.28 Thus Lévy, who favours dating Cylon’s coup to 597 BCE, argues that it is difficult to refer Herodotus’ “before the time of Peisistratus” to a time seventy years earlier.29 An early dating could still be defended by the gaps in Herodotus’ knowledge of early Athens.30 Reference to the first tyrant of Athens is in any case a reasonable way for Herodotus to date an earlier attempt at tyranny: “oral tradition did not record exact chronology, only a rough sequence of associated events, if that”.31 How much earlier is not to the point. For Thucydides, by contrast, a general quality of pastness is more important than a precise calibration of pastness, and it is this sense of pastness that he evokes by his use of Gm with the vague p\kai.32 The temporal remoteness of Thucydides’ Cylon is further suggested by an implied contrast with the way Herodotus’ Cylon does relate to the context in which he appears. Herodotus tells Cylon’s story when Cleomenes successfully exploits the story of the curse in an attempt to support Isagoras in his factional struggle against Cleisthenes and the Alcmeonids. Here the world of the frame narrative is not so far removed from the world of the embedded story. Cylon had made his attempt with the help of “a band of young men his own age” (2taiqg_gm, 5.71.1 – the only use of this noun in Herodotus); Cleisthenes had won power by banding with the Athenian demos (the cognate verb pqosetaiq_fetai, 5.66.2). Cylon had tried to “seize the acropolis” (jata28 Eusebius: Christesen 2007, 390, gives the text (which includes a mention of Cylon’s attempt at tyranny). Sixth-century: Beloch 1912 – 27, ii. 302 – 9; for objections, see Adcock 1926. 29 Lévy 1978, 516. His date 597 BCE depends partly on the thesis that the Olympic games took place every year at first (see Lenschau 1936, 396 – 410). Compare (and contrast) Macan1895, 215, who writes that “it is possible that he thought of Kylon’s attempt as shortly preceding the more successful stroke of Peisistratus”, but thinks that, if so, he was wrong. 30 Moulinier 1946, 185. 31 Thomas 1989, 288. Dating by reference to associated events is also found in rationalized chronologies of the distant past: Hellanicus dated the trial of Orestes with reference to earlier trials on the Areopagus (FGH 4 F 169); cf. Thucydides’ dating the foundation of Amphipolis by reference to earlier attempts to colonize the site (4.102.2 – 3) and the foundation of Greek cities in Sicily by reference to the foundation of Syracuse (6.3.3, 6.4.3, 6.5.2, 6.5.3). 32 Cf. Rood 2007, 142. Compare the similar effect in Thucydides’ account of earlier Ionian festivals on Delos: Gm d] pote ja· t¹ p\kai…, 3.104.3; also 3.104.6. For similar uses, see e. g. Hdt. 1.5.4, 1.172.2, 2.179, 7.59.2, 8.31; X. Hell. 4.6.1; Lys. 2.4; also Clarke 1999, 255 – 6, on the vagueness of p\kai in Strabo.

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kabe?m tµm !jq|pokim, 5.71.1); when the Athenian council offers resist-

ance, Cleomenes, Isagoras, and his supporters do “seize the acropolis” (jatakalb\mousi tµm !jq|pokim, 5.72.2). We are here remote from the symbolic topography of Thucydides’ Athens, where the acropolis serves as a treasury, as a place for displaying treaties, and as a site that was inhabited in ancient times but is now hallow.33 Its defensive function usurped by the Themistoclean and Long Walls, the acropolis in Thucydides’ account of the Peloponnesian War is never portrayed as a stronghold to be seized by the Spartans or disaffected Athenians. One of Thucydides’ contemporaries, Aristophanes, could even construct a fantasy plot out of women seizing the acropolis with a chorus of generic old men thinking back to the days of Cleomenes.34 This shift in the acropolis’ symbolic value itself reflects the startling rise of the “tyrant city” Athens in the years since Cleomenes’ brief appearance in Athens – not to mention its still more startling growth since the time of Cylon, when a would-be tyrant could turn for help to Megara of all places.35 A similar hint of pastness, I will now argue, is conveyed by one of Thucydides’ major departures from Herodotus – his introduction of an oracle.

5. Cylon’s oracle The oracle Thucydides introduces has generated a considerable amount of scholarly controversy. Much of this controversy derives from a strange role reversal: “it seems strange to have a Herodotean oracle in Thucydides and not in Herodotus”.36 The reason Cylon’s oracle seems Herodotean is that it turns on a confusion between different festivals of Zeus (the Olympia and the Diasia – the biggest festivals in 33 Acropolis as reserve of money: 2.13.3 bis, 2.24.1; as ancient settlement: 2.15.3, 2.15.4, 2.15.6; area below occupied now: 2.17.1 bis; as site for inscriptions: 5.18.10, 5.23.5, 5.47.11, 6.55.1. 34 See Ar. Lys. 176, 179, 263, 481 – 2 for !jq|pokir with the verb jatakalb\meim ; and 273 – 82 for Cleomenes. 35 Cf. Moles 2010, 31, on the link between Cylon’s attempt at tyranny and the “tyrant city” motif in the Corinthian speech at 1.122.3, 1.124.3. Megara is notoriously downplayed in Thucydides’ account of the run-up to the war (except in the Spartans’ ultimatum). 36 Jameson 1965, 168; cf. Parker 2004, 135 – 6: with “a sort of historiographical one-up-man-ship”, Thucydides “‘out-Herodotus-es’ Herodotus, presumably to his grim satisfaction” (as will emerge, I disagree on the grimness).

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Greece and Attica respectively), and Herodotus offers several parallels to this type of riddling oracle, one of which involves a confusion of big and small homonyms.37 Some scholars have taken this “Herodotean” story that is not in Herodotus as evidence of Thucydides’ own beliefs. They have argued that Thucydides’ story implies that Cylon would have succeeded if he had made his attempt on tyranny during the Diasia rather than during the Olympics – and so that Thucydides himself must have believed in the oracle, at one period of his life at least.38 Others have suspected an interpolation for that very reason.39 Another approach is to use the oracle as evidence that Thucydides was rejecting a version that lies behind Herodotus’ version. Jameson has argued that in this hypothetical version Cylon made his attempt not during the Olympic games, but at the Diasia. The main basis for this view is the same section that has led to speculation about Thucydides’ beliefs – the apparently irrelevant details about the Diasia. Jameson also, however, throws in some intriguing linguistic coincidences between Thucydides’ account of Cylon’s attempt and an inscription that gives details about the Diasia: the Athenians gathered en masse (pamdgle_) for the festival and to oppose Cylon’s seizure of the Acropolis, and the Diasia took place at Agrae, while Thucydides presents the Athenians

37 See Hdt. 3.64.4 (Cambyses in Ecbatana); cf. also Plut. Lys. 29.7 – 8 (confusion between hoplite and a stream Hoplites); Pausanias 8.11.10 – 12, who lists stories about Epaminondas, Hannibal, and Sicily the hill in Attica/Sicily the island (for which confusion cf. also Sudas. v. Sikelizein), with the comment that “more such instances might be found”. Cf. e. g. Fontenrose 1978, 59 – 60. See also below on Th. 3.96.1 (Hesiod’s Nemea oracle). 38 Belief: Marinatos 1981; Dover 1988, 71 (earlier). Marinatos argues that the comment that Cylon “did not understand” (jatem|gse) “implies that there was a meaning to be discovered”. But while jatamoe?m followed by a direct object can mean “grasp”, without a direct object it can simply mean “consider” (cf. Croiset 1886 ad loc.). And while Marinatos rightly notes that the verb is used in connection with Alcmeon’s oracle (2.102.6), it there describes Alcmeon’s observing of the silting of the Achelous, not his understanding of the oracle itself. Gommel 1966, 12, by contrast, maintains Thucydides’ rationalism by supposing that the reason Cylon would have stood a better chance had he struck during the Diasia is that most of the citizens would have been outside the city walls. But even though Cylon struck during the Olympic games most of the citizens were outside and he was initially successful. 39 Bravo 2000, 45 – 6 n. 27.

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coming 1j t_m !cq_m (“from the countryside”, but linguistically close to “from Agrae”).40 Both Jameson’s speculation about the two different versions and readings of Thucydides’ beliefs about oracles are open to the same prima facie objection. Thucydides’ account does not read like a serious response to a different version or a serious statement of belief. The oracle’s apparent power is a matter of the logic of storytelling, not of Thucydides’ personal views. And the very prevalence of the story pattern which Thucydides follows – the pattern of mistaking the better known for the less known – also renders implausible the development which Jameson presupposes from a story in which the attempt was made during the greatest festival in Attica to a story in which it was made during the greatest festival in Greece by mistake. The story-telling atmosphere of Thucydides’ account emerges from the style he adopts. Consider first the way he describes his consultation of the oracle: wqyl]m\ d³ t` J}kymi… (1.126.4: “When Cylon was consulting the oracle…”). Beginning a sentence in this way with the sequence “dative participle – d] – proper name” is common in accounts of oracle consultations.41 It is used to particular effect in Thucydides because no explanation of why Cylon was consulting the oracle is given until he acts on the oracle’s advice.42 The suspense is heightened by verbal repetition: “the god responded that he should seize the acropolis of Athens (jatakabe?m tµm )hgma_ym !jq|pokim)… Cylon seized the acropolis (jat]kabe tµm !jq|pokim)” – and now at last we hear why: “with a view to tyranny (¢r 1p· tuqamm_di)”. The scholiast supplies that goal as an explanation of his original consultation, but that is a

40 Jameson 1965, 167 – 2. So too Rhodes 1981, 82; Robertson 2010, 147 – 9. 41 Cf. e. g.: Hdt. 5.92.e.1: )mdqyh]mti d³ ja· lamteuol]m\ Jux]k\ 1c]meto !lvid]niom wqgst^qiom…; (Pherecydes, FGrHist 3 F 10): wqyl]m\ d³ aqt` peq· %qsemor paid¹r 5wqgsem b he¹r 1m Puho?…; (Hellanicus, FGrHist 4 F 25a): lamteuol]m\ 1m Pqi^pyi t/r Vquc_ar t_i ]kyi 5wqgsem b Pqigpgma?or )p|kkym…; (F 26b) lamteuol]m\ d³ Kaol]domti wqgsl¹r 1d|hg…; Apollod. Bibl. 3.12 wqyl]m\ d³ Jatqe? peq· jatastqov/r toO b_ou b he¹r 5vg…; Antoninus Liberalis 1.6: wqyl]m\ d’ :qlow\qei b he¹r !me?kem… 42 It would be in the style of the passage if the participle verb used for Cylon’s consultation at the start of the sentence (wqyl]m\) had been used as the main verb in the previous sentence (e. g. “Cylon went to Delphi to ask about an attempt at a tyranny…”); cf. Hdt. 1.158.1: eQq~tym… 9peiqyt_si d] svi taOta wqgst^qiom 1c]meto… (an example of “naïve repetition”: Russell 1991, 289).

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mere inference from what follows. Oracles could easily give answers that bore little relation to the questions.43 The suspense about Cylon’s motive in consulting the oracle is now replaced by suspense about whether he will be successful. Thucydides creates this suspense by breaking off from the run of action. The first pause is created by a participle clause (“thinking – mol_sar – that this was the greatest festival of Zeus…”) which itself raises the suspicion that Cylon’s thoughts may be mistaken. The reader’s doubts are then intensified by Thucydides’ arch comment that the oracle did not make clear which festival it meant – as if oracles of this sort ever made things clear.44 The otiose details Thucydides proceeds to offer about the Diasia are also part of his narrative game – at one level a marked textual resistance to Cylon’s drive to power, at another a display of the sort of Herodotean ethnographic curiosity that is found in other Thucydidean passages that deal with spatially or temporally distant topics.45 The game continues as Thucydides returns to Cylon. He repeats his thoughts, but with far greater brevity: “supposing his was the right interpretation, he made the attempt (doj_m d³ aqh_r cicm~sjeim 1pewe_qgse t` 5qc\)”.46 This abrupt resumption raises the tempo to prepare for the Athenians’ swift response. But the brief return to Cylon’s thoughts also heightens the irony: Thucydides’ digression on the Diasia has made it quite clear that Cylon has not put in sufficient thought. Thucydides’ discussion of the Diasia skilfully undercuts Cylon’s achievement at the moment of his dramatic initial success. The explicit mention of an alternative interpretation of Cylon’s oracle is evidence 43 The scholiast reads: “about tyranny, clearly, as is shown by the god’s answer”. But cf. e. g. Hdt. 9.33.2 and esp. the motif of the “surprised oikist” (Malkin 1987, 27 – 8; Dougherty 1993, 18). That Thucydides’ phrase 1p· tuqamm_di is itself taken from Herodotus underlines his omission of the Herodotean detail that Cylon “grew his hair long”. 44 oute 1je?mor 5ti jatem|gse t| te lamte?om oqj 1d^kou (“he did not consider further and the oracle did not reveal”): Thucydides replaces the balanced pair of negatives oute… oute (“neither… nor”) with oute… te… oqj (“neither… and… not”). “Where the negative goes closely with a single word, this construction merges into oute… te” (Denniston 1954, 509), but it “gives perhaps a slightly greater emphasis” (Barrett 1964, 216) to the second negative. 45 Contrast Jameson 1965, 172, who sees them as an explanation for non-Athenian readers; Hornblower 1991, 208, who suggests some interpolation. 46 aqh_r cicm~sjeim is also used of Pericles’ perceptions (2.21.1), as Greenwood 2006, 142, notes, suggesting the echo of Cylon may undermine Pericles (though it could as easily point up the contrast).

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neither for Thucydides’ own views about oracles nor for Jameson’s ingenuous hypothesis that there was a story in which Cylon did attempt a coup during the Diasia. Rather, the careful elaboration of this section is part of the storytelling style that, I have suggested, Thucydides thought particularly appropriate for evoking the temporal distance of the attempt. Thucydides’ tour de force account of Cylon’s oracle does not just evoke the past through the storytelling style. The only other individuals to receive oracles in Thucydides’ work are two other figures from the distant past – Alcmeon (2.102.6) and Hesiod (3.96.1). These three individuals also resemble one another in the riddling form of the oracles they receive. After killing his mother, Alcmeon was told to settle on a piece of land that was not land at the time of the matricide; he finally discovered a suitable site when he observed the silting of the river Achelous. Hesiod, on the other hand, received an oracle that he would die in Nemea. He assumed it meant the famous sanctuary of Zeus in the Peloponnese. It turns out that it meant a remote sanctuary named Nemea in Aetolia, where he was murdered by the locals. The riddling form of the oracle is matched in Herodotus, who provides a broad repertoire of examples (including Croesus, who is also evoked, as we have seen, in Thucydides’ introduction of Cylon47). But while Herodotus presents cities too receiving such oracles during the time period covered at the end of his work (e. g. Athens’ “wooden walls” oracle, 7.141 – 2), the oracles Thucydides openly mentions from the Peloponnesian War are more straightforward.48 Thucydides’ “mythodic” depiction of Cylon’s conspiracy as temporally distant stands in tension with his report of the Spartans’ attempt to exploit it in the present. By highlighting the antiquity of the Cylon affair, he makes his subsequent account of the failure of the Spartan attempt to undermine Pericles even more sardonic. It is as if Thucydides, by contrasting the origin of the curse with its later exploitation, is recapturing the popular perception of the event, the feeling of the Athenians when the curse was raised. Thucydides further undermines the Spartans’ revival of an old story by highlighting their intermittent use of the curse through stylistic means – the anaphora of Ekasam l]m… Ekase d] 47 And doubly so if Croesus’ rule is seen as foreshadowing Athens (Moles 2002, 35 – 6). 48 See 1.25.1, 1.118.3, 3.104.1, 5.26.3, 5.32.1; the form of the non-Delphic oracles at 2.8.2, 2.21.3, and 8.1.1 is not certain.

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(1.126.12). This type of anaphora is another stylistic feature found in the Cylon narrative which is rare in Thucydides.49

6. Back to Herodotus Thucydides’ engagement with Herodotus in the Cylon episode serves, then, to mark the remoteness of the curse that the Spartans were invoking and so “warn the reader that, in Thucydides’ view, such anecdotes ought not to be taken seriously by political analysts”.50 It may still be the case, as Harrison has warned, that to call Thucydides’ account “Herodotean” is merely to buttress the opposition between the two historians. But encouraging that sense of separation was perhaps part of Thucydides’ point: the Cylon episode stands out even in the context of his opening Book, and still more so when read against the main Peloponnesian War narrative. Paradoxically, by supplementing Herodotus’ brief account of Cylon with a more anecdotal and “Herodotean” version of his own, Thucydides encourages a view of Herodotus’ work as a whole as anecdotal and digressive. There are a number of further levels at which Thucydides’ engagement with Herodotus in the Cylon episode can be seen to operate. There is a competitive element in Thucydides’ account: it stakes a claim that he can write Herodotean – or “mythodic” – stories as well as, or even better than, Herodotus himself. At the same time, the differences between Thucydides’ story and Herodotus’ are there to show how stories do win through to the “mythodic”51 – and so to point to the impossibility of writing the sort of history about the distant past that Thucydides thinks appropriate for the present. As such, it has the sort of meta-historical function that Grethlein has argued for allusions to the past in Thucydides’ speeches.52 Tsakmakis has also pointedly contrasted this use of the past with the function of the Themistocles excursus, where implied links between Themistocles and Pericles point to a more positive way of learning from the past.53 49 Cf. Denniston 1952, 84 – 6. 50 Wiedemann 1983, 168. 51 This is not to follow the view of Lang 1967 that Herodotus reported the story as it was told in c. 440 BCE and that Thucydides’ additions are accretions since that date (against this, see Thomas 1989, 272 n. 104). 52 Grethlein 2010a, 220 – 40. 53 Tsakmakis 1995, 101 – 56.

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Thucydides’ account of Cylon, then, has it all possible ways – and more besides. For ultimately what is at stake in understanding why the lion laughed in the Cylon excursus is a vision of the relation between past and present that is not circumscribed by the immediate context.

7. Space and Time As Crane in particular has brought out, a number of the unusual elements in the temporally distant Cylon episode appear elsewhere in Thucydides’ work in spatially distant regions as well as in other accounts of the past.54 Firstly, there is the focus on the family (the unnamed accursed c]mor of 1.126.11, 12) and on good birth in particular: the adjective eqcem^r (“well-born”) that is applied to Cylon is a Thucydidean hapax. The importance of good birth is admittedly implicit in references to “kings” and in some patronymics (think how different the texture of the work would have been if Thucydides had used deme or tribe identities). But it is overtly brought out elsewhere only in a speech (3.65.2, on the Plataeans who called in the Thebans), in the Pausanias excursus (1.132.1: %mdqa c]mour te toO basike_ou emta), and in ethnographic accounts of barbarian troops serving in Acarnania (2.80.5: 1j toO !qwijoO c]mour) and of Thracian gift-giving (2.97.3: to?r paqadumaste}ous_ te ja· cemma_oir idqus_m). There is a similar pattern with Thucydides’ treatment of marriage:55 while non-specific marriages are mentioned in relation to inter-state marriage rights (6.6.2, 8.21) and the persistence at Athens of an ancient matrimonial custom (2.15.5), personal marriages such as Cylon’s appear elsewhere in contexts that are distant either in time (1.128.7: Pausanias’ letter to Xerxes, 1.136.3: wife of Admetus, 2.29.3: Tereus and Procne, 6.55.1, 6.59.3: Peisistratids) or in space (2.29.1: Sitalces married to sister of Nymphodorus, 2.101.5 – 6: Perdiccas marries his sister Stratonice to Seuthes, 4.107.3: Brauro wife of the Edonian king Pittacus). Thucydides’ presentation of good breeding and marriage suggests a diachronic shift in the role of the family: the dynastic significance that the family once had in more central parts of Greece is now confined to the margins. This construction of time and space is evi54 Crane 1996, 131 – 2. 55 Cf. Wiedemann 1983, 166 – 7; Crane 1996, 90 (also 96 – 8 for other family links).

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dently in keeping with (though not necessarily designed to support) the Periclean insistence on the priority of the polis. The mapping of space and time in the Cylon episode is openly theorized in the Archaeology. As Thucydides brings out more than once in his account of the development of power in Greece, elements from the early stages of this process survive at the margins of the Greek world (1.5.3 – 6.2, 1.6.6: Thucydides specifies two points in particular – the open carrying of weapons and non-nudity in athletics – but also sees this as a general pattern). Particularly telling for Thucydides’ selective concentration on the dynastic role of family relations are Aristotle’s claims that the same spatio-temporal pattern holds true for the institution of kingship and that the prominence of kingship in early times itself derives from family structures (Pol. 1252b19 – 26). The image of time and space that the Cylon excursus helps to construct does not remain unchallenged as the History progresses. While Thucydides analyses in the Archaeology a process of geographical differentiation, one of the stories he tells about the Peloponnesian War is the breakdown of spatial and temporal divisions.56 The Cylon episode comes to share in the general disturbance portrayed by the History as a whole. Its initial function of marking off the past as past is threatened by a character who, like Cylon, is an Athenian, well-born, and an Olympic victor: Alcibiades.57 For Thucydides, Alcibiades’ promotion of the Sicilian expedition marks Athens’ supreme shift from Periclean policy, and it is no accident that with his appearance Thucydides surrenders some of the self-sufficiency of his own (partly Periclean) historiographical project.58 He moves to a distinctively new and more expansive style of history-writing, ambitious in its narrative articulation, rich with epic, lyric, tragic, and especially Herodotean echoes (themselves en56 For complementary perspectives, cf. Macleod 1983, 125; Price 2001, 358 – 60, 375 – 6; I hope to return to this theme elsewhere. 57 The similarities between Cylon and Alcibiades have often been noted (Palmer 1992, 84; Crane 1996, 129; Rosenbloom 2004, 73; Vickers 2008, 142 – 4; Foster 2010, 127), though not developed along the lines suggested here; Forrest 1995 is still right to note the lack of explicit reference to Cylon in Thucydides’ and Aristophanes’ depictions of the events of 414 – 411 BCE. 58 For the narrator’s stance as Periclean, cf. Rood 2006, 238. The autarky of the (Periclean) Athenian body (2.41.1) is not just subverted by the plague (2.51.3): it is always already subverted by the Herodotean intertextuality (1.32.8, cf. Macleod 1983, 151). So too metahistorically of Thucydides’ own work.

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couraging a re-configuration of the meaning of Herodotus’ work).59 Amidst this upping of the historiographical stakes, the world of the Cylon excursus returns in full blast (though still only implicitly) as Thucydides presents Alcibiades boasting of how his extraordinary achievements at Olympia brought renown to himself and his ancestors (6.16.1 – 2; cf. 5.43.2, 6.89.2 for other references to his forefathers). Memory of the ambitions that sprung from Cylon’s Olympic victory now helps to explain why the Athenians fear Alcibiades’ tyrannical ambitions (6.15.4). So if Alcibiades “more closely than any other figure in the History resembles a tyrant of the archaic period”,60 then the Cylon narrative becomes part not just of Thucydides’ depiction of a distant past, but also of his explanation of how events unfolded in his own present – above all, how relations between the Athenian demos and a potentially great leader came to fail. The meaning of Thucydides’ return to the figure of Cylon does not itself remain static. The simple overlaying of past and present seen in the Cylon/Alcibiades parallelism is soon complicated by the account of the tyrannicides (6.53 – 9). Here, the Athenians’ fear of a return of events from a century earlier is explored and criticized by Thucydides in a narrative full of implicit and explicit reflections on his own methodology. The shift of paradigms from Cylon’s attempt at tyranny to the fall of the Peisistratids mirrors in turn the overall shaping of Thucydides’ explanation of Athens’ failure. It is no longer a matter of the misguided selfinterest of politicians who (like Cylon before them) try to grasp power for themselves. It is now the Athenians at large who mistake a tyrannical display at Olympia for tyrannical ambition within Attica – and show the same brusque disregard for due process that caused the Cylonian curse in the first place.

59 See e. g. Rood 1998, 1999; Harrison 2000. 60 Crane 1996, 108.

Jat’ 5hmg ja· jat± p|keir.

From Catalogues to Archaeology* Roberto Nicolai 1. Vertigo of the Catalogue (of the ships) The Catalogue of the Ships is one of the most studied passages of the epics, both in ancient and in modern times.1 The incredible number of names of places and leaders we find in these lines made them interesting for those who were in search of illustrious ancestors for their home town or family; this interest was at the origins, between the sixth and the fifth century BCE, of antiquarian interpretations of Homer,2 of historical geography, and in a sense, of ancient history (!qwaiokoc_a). The exegetical difficulties originate from the singer’s intention to make his song sound more archaic, using ancient and forgotten place names or inventing them for the occasion, and also from its difficult relationship with the rest of the Iliad: in the Catalogue we find leaders who will have little or no role in the Iliad, so that the Catalogue very soon appeared to be extraneous to the main plot of the poem. I do not wish, however, to discuss again the many problems that have arisen in the age-old history of Homeric studies. I just want to address one question concerning the Catalogue: what is its function in the plot of the monumental poem? The Catalogue’s link with the new start of the war after the temporary plan of desist from the siege of Troy makes us think that its function might be comparable to that of a proem. This does not make me a unitarian: I believe that considering the Homeric poems as a unity is useful and necessary only if we consider the ultimate stage of their history, when they were put into writing and became the monumental poems. As Luigi Enrico Rossi * 1 2

I am grateful to Maria Broggiato for the translation of this paper. Selective bibliography in Kirk 1985, 169; see also Visser 1997. On the logographers as interpreters of Homer, especially on Hecataeus, see Nicolai 2003.

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thought,3 we have to be oralists in order to understand the poems’ origins in an entirely oral society, we need analysis to study the different layers of their composition, and we need an unitarian’s view to study the only really unitarian phase, when the monumental poet gave the poems their current form. The catalogue, the inventory or the list, are the simplest means of transmitting information and are recognizable even if they can take any number of shapes. Umberto Eco, in his recent book Vertigine della lista (The Infinity of Lists), distinguishes between the finite form of the world represented in the shield of Achilles and the undetermined number of items in a list, observing: Atfirst we might think that structure is characteristic of full-grown cultures, who know the world around them, and who have recognized and defined its order; on the contrary, the list would be typical of primitive cultures, who still have an indefinite image of the universe and who simply make catalogues of those features they can name, without trying to recognize a hierarchy among them”.4

The list, however, Eco continues, comes back in the middle ages and is still vital in the modern and postmodern world, “a sign that we surrender to the vertigo of the list for many different reasons”.5 One of these is certainly that the list is an experimental way of expressing in a song or on a page an inexpressible truth, that leaves open infinite possibilities of continuation, or a way of offering an example of it, however incomplete.6 A catalogue is fascinating, because it makes our thoughts wander towards what has not been said, that often has the same semantic value of what has actually been said: names that are mere signifiers, whose signified is in their accumulation.7 The Catalogue of the ships is the first example in western literature of a poetic catalogue with a historical and geographical content, organized along spatial coordinates. The proem to the catalogue makes this function explicit, when it discusses its sources of information and the choice of contents.8 The monumental author wanted to preface to the new beginning of the war an inventory of the Greek and Trojan 3 4 5 6 7 8

See for example Rossi 2001, 104. Eco 2009, 17 f. Eco 2009, 18. On the topos of the impossibility of saying everything see Eco 2009, 49 – 51. On the rhetoric of the list see Eco 2009, 133 – 137. See Accame 1963, Accame 1964, Krischer 1965.

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troops, but this inventory, that has a clearly different origin (Kypria?), has also another function in the Homeric encyclopaedia: it is a summary of the historical and geographical knowledge on the Greek world at the time of the Trojan war. It is of course a poetical summary, not a periplus or a map; it is not a geographical description that derives from observation, but a geography of myth, understood as a traditional narrative, that is developed in epic song. Deriving from an epic narrative, the Catalogue shares with it some characteristics; first of all, the structure in layers: ancient place names appear next to much more recent ones. Another characteristic, typical of the structure of a list, is that additions can be made at will: an epic singer, before authoritative written versions of a song were fixed, could add, delete or change a section of the song. The concept of interpolation is not applicable to epic poetry, with the exception of the last stage of its history. The enumeration of the Greek troops is organized according to peoples and cities. In some cases the name of the people comes first, followed by the name of the leaders and of the cities; the number of the ships comes last.9 This happens with the first contingent, the Boeotian one (2.494 – 510). In other cases the name of the people is missing and the section begins with the names of the cities and of the leaders (the cities of Argolid: 2.559 – 568). A further possibility is that instead of the name of the people there is the name of the area or the island, followed by the names of the cities and leaders: this is the case of Euboea (2.536 – 545). Of course, the sequence of information can change: for example, the name of the leader can appear before that of the island or the people, as happens in the case of Ajax (2.557), Odysseus (2.631) and Tlepolemus (2.653). We find the same categories in the catalogue of the Trojans, where, however, the arrangement based on the people’s name is prevalent. The arrangement is made, therefore, as I mentioned before, according to peoples and cities, to quote Dionysius of Halicarnassus (de Thuc. 5), when he describes the structure of the oldest historical works.10 Now, since we are not aware of the manner of publication of the oldest prose works, we cannot establish whether the surviving titles correspond to autonomous works or sections of works (it might be, in any case, a futile query). For the real publication was not the written, but the oral one: in this latter case it is possible that units that had been written separately could be put together for specific events, or that, on 9 On the structure of the sections of the Catalogue see Kirk 1985, 170 f. 10 See Gozzoli 1970 – 71, Porciani 2001a, 34 f. and Porciani 2001b.

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the contrary, a written unit could be broken up into parts. It is evident that the prior example of the Homeric catalogue can be used only thanks to its structuring principle, since the contents varied widely in quantity and quality. As Dionysius says, the oldest historians did not join together the Rstoq_ai regarding the different peoples and cities: this is not due to the desire of keeping a memory of events recorded in conjectural archives of temples or cities – an anachronism for the sixth and fifth century BCE – but to the traditional structure of the narrative, linked to the political and geographical structure of the Greek world and to the requirements of the different audiences of the various logographers. Only with the Persian wars will the Greeks go beyond the dimension of the city to fight together a common enemy (Th. 1.18.2 joim0). From that moment onwards the history of the Greeks, even if it maintains a local dimension, can be narrated as a single narrative.

2. The epic archaeology: Herodotus 1.1 – 5 As it is usually the case with introductions, Herodotus’ proem and the first chapters of Book 1 were presumably composed last, or at least when the plan of the work in its written form was already advanced. The short proem includes two evident epic motifs, the 5qca lec\ka te ja· hylast\ and the jk]or (!jke÷), that can be compared with those we find in the proems of the two Homeric poems: the “pains thousandfold” Achilles brought to the Achaeans and the many lives of heroes he hurled to the house of Hades (Il. 1.2 – 4); the repetition of pok}r (three times, with the second and third in anaphora) with reference to Odysseus’ wanderings, to the many men he knew and the many sufferings he endured (Od. 1.1 – 4); the reference to the jk]or of the singer, contrasted with the knowledge of the Muses in the proem to the Catologue of the ships (Il. 2.485 f.).11 The proem of Herodotus, however, departs in many aspects from the epic tradition: the name of the author in a prominent position, the definition of the work as Rstoq_gr !p|denir, the attempt to ascertain misdeeds and responsibilities.

11 I have limited myself to the proems. For other references in epic poetry see Asheri 1988, 262.

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After the proem12 Herodotus investigates the origins of the conflict between Greeks and barbarians, developing again an epic model: in the Iliad the singer asks himself who, among the gods, caused the 5qir between Agamemnon and Achilles (Il. 1.8). Herodotus, however, does not assign the responsibility to the gods and proposes “a rationalized and politicized version”.13 Herodotus reports the Persian version, according to which everything began with the abduction of Io and of other Argive women by the Phoenicians (1.1), followed by the abduction of Europe and that of Medea by the Greeks (1.2). The last abduction had been that of Helen by Paris (1.3), and the Greeks’ violent reaction was at the origin of the Persians’ hostility towards the Greeks (1.4). The numerous non-epic elements can be found in chapter 5, anticipated only by the reference to the different Greek version of Io’s story (1.2.1). Unlike the epic poet, who, thanks to the Muse, is an omniscient narrator who knows only one version of a story, Herodotus knows more versions of the same event, and narrates or hints at them (1.5.2, with the Phoenician version of Io’s story; see 1.2.1 with the Greek version), mentioning his sources. Herodotus moreover states that he will not argue in favour of either version, but that he wants to report only facts he personally knew, starting from Croesus, the first who did injustice to the Greeks (1.5.3). The end of the chapter, that concludes the introductory section, has a different tone and advances a criterion that is more than a principle of selection of the historian’s subject matter. The choice of considering both small and large cities,14 because the human eqdailom_g does never stop in the same place (1.5.3 f.) is first of all a cm~lg that can be compared to those that conclude the rheseis in tragedies. Human history is subject to continuous change, involving men, cities and empires. This rule is the only principle to understand reality, and can be compared both to single considerations of tragic poets and to the general sense of many tragic paradigms, found mainly, but 12 Asheri 1988, 261, distinguishes the proem stricto sensu from the proem lato sensu, including 1.1 – 5. 13 Asheri 1988, 263 considers the Persian and Phoenician sources as an invention. 14 The expression %stea !mhq~pym, unattested elsewhere in Herodotus, could allude to Od. 1.3 and to Odysseus, the man who knows the world because of his voyages. I have to underline that in Herodotus the word !mhq~pym is far from necessary, while it is important in Homer. On the difference between %stu and p|kir in Herodotus, see Asheri 1988, 266, with bibliography.

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not only,15 in Euripides’ plays. I shall quote as an example Eur. Hec. 282 – 285: oq to»r jqatoOmtar wqµ jqate?m $ lµ wqe½m oqd’ eqtuwoOmtar ew doje?m pq\neim !e_. j!c½ c±q G pot’ !kk± mOm oqj eUl’ 5ti, t¹m p\mta d’ ekbom Glaq 6m l’ !ve_keto.

Those who are powerful should not use it in an inappropriate way, nor should they think that their fortune will last forever: I was fortunate, and now I am not so any more; one only day took away all my wealth.

In the section introducing Herodotus’ work, therefore, the epic model and the ideology of epic poetry merge with the tragic model and tragic ideology. Herodotus’ work opens with an archaeology that goes back to the remote past: the deeds of the Homeric heroes originated from the will of the gods, the recent conflict between Asia and Europe can be linked to human actions, even if they belong to the distant past. This archaeology is not directly linked with the narrative starting from Croesus (1.6), and the time span from the Trojan war to Croesus remains obscure for the moment. Herodotus in the rest of the work will go back to the past, but not in a systematic way: oral tradition allowed him to cover three generations, while the myths covered the stage of the origins. The long interval in between the two required new methods of inquiry, and, possibly, was not paradigmatic enough.

3. The enlargement of the catalogue: Herodotus Book 7 Herodotus introduces the beginning of the second Persian war in the first part of Book 7, that clearly has the function of a proem. The presence in Herodotus of two models, Iliad Book 2 and Aeschylus’ Persians is being investigated by Pietro Vannicelli and is also related with my research on the relationship between Iliad 2 and the Persians. Here I shall simply discuss some topics linked with the introductory function of Herodotus Book 7. As far as the structure is concerned, Herodotus recognizes the function of Iliad 2 and picks up several of its components: the assembly (7.8), the dream, that appears four times in Herodotus (7.12; 7.14; 7.17; 7.19), the lenghty catalogue of the troops (7.59 – 100). 15 For Sophocles see El. 916 f., quoted by Asheri 1988, 266, with bibliography.

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Xerxes’ expedition is the largest ever attempted (7.20.2: st|kym c±q t_m Ble?r Udlem pokk` dµ l]cistor oxtor 1c]meto, 7.21.1: Axtai aR p÷sai oqd’ 6teqai pq¹r ta}t,si cem|lemai stqatgkas_ai li/r t/sde oqj %niai), an important epic and introductory motif, and is explicitly compared to other famous military campaigns and especially to that of the Atreidae against Troy (7.20.2: l^te jat± t± kec|lema t¹m )tqeid]ym 1r ]kiom… cem|lemom). A signal of intertextuality with the Homeric catalogue is found at 7.9c, m]ar t±r "p\sar, a sort of formula, that recalls Il. 2.493 (m/\r te pqop\sar ; cf. also pk/hor t¹ 1j t/r )s_gr, with pkgh}m of Il. 2.488). Herodotus, like the singer of the catalogue (Il. 2.487 and 493),16 asserts that he mentions only the names of the leaders (7.81 f.). He says that he does not need to mention the local leaders, since they took part in the expedition as slaves (7.96; as in other cases, this motif is already in Aeschylus: Pers. 24). There is no need to mention the other taxiarchs, with the exception of Artemisia (7.99.1). In a similar way, in the proem of the Catalogue, the soldiers’ names are omitted (Il. 2.488 – 490). The Iliad is evoked in the speech of Artabanus in 7.10h.3, through the prophecy that the body of Mardonius will be eaten by dogs and birds (cf. Il. 1.4 f.). In addition, we find in Book 7 the idea of the mutability of human fortunes, which had been amply treated in the introduction to Book 1: 7.10e, with the motif of the god who destroys what is prominent and who does not allow us to realize our ambitious dreams; 7.14: ¢r ja· l]car ja· pokk¹r 1c]meto 1m ak_c\ wq|m\, ovt\ ja· tapeim¹r ap_sy jat± t\wor 5seai, 7.18.2: 9c½ l]m, § basikeO, oXa %mhqypor Qd½m Edg pokk\ te ja· lec\ka pes|mta pq^clata rp¹ Bss|mym). A further connection with the proem is the topic of responsibility, when Xerxes declares his intention to take his revenge on the Athenians who had done injustice to him and his father (7.8b.2 oV ce 1l³ ja· pat]qa t¹m 1l¹m rp/qnam %dija poieOmter); compare this passage with the aQt_gm of the proem and with 1.5.3: t¹m d³ oWda aqt¹r pq_tom rp\qnamta !d_jym 5qcym 1r to»r >kkgmar. Here the situation is at odds with the Iliadic model: in the Trojan war a huge Greek expedition attacked a city defended by its people and by some allies; in the second Persian war a vast empire, with numerous enslaved peoples, attacks Greece, or better, attacks Athens, considered, as in Aeschylus’ Persians, the most dangerous opponent 16 See Kirk 1985, 167 f.

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(Hdt. 7.4.2; 7.8; 7.8b.2; 7.10b.1). This inversion of roles is already found in Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes. Book 7, with its complex introduction to the second Persian war, closely follows the model of Book 2 of the Iliad, with the addition of typically tragic motifs, that are already found in the proem to the whole work. I cannot dwell on the differences between the epic catalogue and the catalogue of Xerxes’ army in Herodotus. I just wish to underline its structure, built on the names of peoples and leaders, but without the names of the cities. Herodotus lingers over the armour and dress of the different contingents, and sometimes on the changes in the names of the peoples (see for example 7.61.2 f. on Persians; 7.62.1 on Medes).

4. Thucydides’ illustrative and methodological archaelogy The archaeological model appears again in the proem of Thucydides, albeit with a completely new function. Thucydides borrows from epic poetry as well; for example, the theme of the more significant war in 1.1.1 (1kp_sar l]cam te ja· !niokoc~tatom t_m pqocecemgl]mym) and 1.23.1 (t_m d³ pq|teqom 5qcym l]cistom 1pq\whg t¹ Lgdij|m, ja· toOto flyr duo?m maulaw_aim ja· pefolaw_aim tawe?am tµm jq_sim 5swem. To}tou d³ toO pok]lou l/jor te l]ca pqo}bg, pah^lat\ te numgm]whg cem]shai 1m aqt` t0 :kk\di oXa oqw 6teqa 1m Us\ wq|m\). Thucydides, however, does not only want to show the superiority of the object of his work: he also wants to show that his work is superior in respect of method and that his writing is exemplary.17 For this purpose he writes a complex illustrative section that goes over human history, with a particular focus on Greece. Unlike the archaeology in the first Book of Herodotus, Thucydides’ archaeology is uninterrupted and does not refer to real or fictional accounts of foreign nations: Thucydides’ archaeology uses as sources for the remote past the Homeric poems and their interpretation.18 His reconstruction is a kind of skeleton, based on the increasing wealth and power of men. In this respect his archaeology can be compared with the writings of the sophists, such as the Peq· t/r 1m !qw0 jatast\seyr by Protagoras, that offered a survey of the 17 See Nicolai 2001. On Thucydides’ sections about ancient history see Tsakmakis 1995. 18 See Nicolai 2003 and 2005.

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progress of mankind. Among past events, Thucydides devotes most space to the Trojan war, an exemplary event narrated in the most exemplary poem. In the Archaeology Thucydides shows that all past wars, especially the Trojan and the Persian wars, cannot be compared with the Peloponnesian war; at the same time, only an accurate reconstruction, possible only with recent or contemporary history, guarantees that the resulting narrative will be exemplary. Past history is an object of interest not to reconstruct an exact sequence of events, an impossible task, but to evaluate facts according to their importance. Thucydides’ Archaeology is based on a diachronic structure, starting from the origins of mankind and ending with the Peloponnesian war. His model will be followed only to a certain extent: other historical works will go over the whole line of human history, but their aims will be different. From illustrative and methodological archaeology historians will move on to sections devoted to ancient history, less detailed than those on recent history, but treated with the same method.

5. The (partial) comeback of the catalogue: the Sicilian Archaeology The Archaeology of Sicily at the beginning of Book 6 (1 – 6) has evidently the function of a proem, as we can see in the introductory lines, where Thucydides underlines that the Athenians were not aware of the size of the island and of the number of its inhabitants, Greeks and barbarians, as well as of the importance of the war they were about to begin (6.1.1): ToO d’ aqtoO weil_mor )hgma?oi 1bo}komto awhir le_fomi paqasjeu0 t0 let± K\wgtor ja· Eqqul]domtor 1p· Sijek_am pke}samter jatastq]xashai, eQ d}maimto, %peiqoi oR pokko· emter toO lec]hour t/r m^sou ja· t_m 1moijo}mtym toO pk^hour ja· :kk^mym ja· baqb\qym, ja· fti oq pokk` tim· rpode]steqom p|kelom !m,qoOmto C t¹m pq¹r Pekopommgs_our.

During the same winter, the Athenians wanted to sail to Sicily again with a larger force than the one under Laches and Eurymedon and subjugate it if possible, most of them unaware of the size of the island and the number of its inhabitants, both Hellenic and barbarian, and that they would be taking on a war just about as great as the one against the Peloponnesians (transl. Lattimore 1998).

The size of Sicily, indicated with days of travel by sea, is an argument to reveal the importance of the war, as the word c±q shows (6.1.2):

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Sijek_a c±q peq_pkou l³m 1stim bkj\di oq pokk` timi 6kassom C ajt½ Bleq_m, ja· tosa}tg owsa 1m eQjosistad_\ l\kista l]tq\ t/r hak\ssgr die_qcetai t¹ lµ Epeiqor eWmai.

For the voyage around Sicily in a merchant ship is not very much under eight days, and yet for all its size it is kept from being mainland by about twenty stades of water (transl. Lattimore 1998).

The island’s size and the importance of the war appear again in Ringkomposition at the end of the Sicilian Archaeology (6.6.1): TosaOta 5hmg :kk^mym ja· baqb\qym Sijek_am åjei, ja· 1p· tos^mde owsam aqtµm oR )hgma?oi stqate}eim ¦qlgmto.

So many Hellenic and barbarian peoples occupy Sicily, and against a place of this size the Athenians were bent on campaigning (transl. Lattimore 1998).

The introduction to the Archaeology itself (6.2.1: áj_shg d³ t¹ !qwa?om), after some sparse geographical information, includes two signals of genre: first, it shows that its topic will be the populations of Sicily (comprising therefore also jt_seir and !poij_ai), secondly, that it is dealing with ancient historical events, that cannot be reconstructed in detail. Thucydides cannot offer information on the Cyclopes and the Laestrygonians: he does not know their c]mor, or their origin, or where they have moved (6.2.1). The only source on this past history of Sicily are the poets: Thucydides refers to them in an indirect way (6.2.1: !qje_ty d³ ¢r poigta?r te eUqgtai ja· ¢r 6jast|r p, cicm~sjei peq· aqt_m), with the aim of highlighting his differences with epic poetry.

The epic poem Thucydides has in mind is evidently the Odyssey, with all the layers of interpretation that already existed at his time. After referring to some legendary populations, Thucydides mentions the Sicani. The verb va_momtai he uses in this context (6.2.2: Sijamo· d³ let’ aqto»r pq_toi va_momtai 1moijis\lemoi, ¢r l³m aqto· vas_m) picks up other occurrences of this verb in the Archaeology of Book 1 (va_metai : 1.2.1, 1.3.1, 1.9.4, 1.13.3, 1.14.1; va_momtai : 1.10.5, 1.11.1); Thucydides uses it to underscore that his source of information are the Sicani themselves, emphasizing that the reconstruction is imperfect and not certain. The Sicani are the first inhabitants of Sicily (6.2.2), just as the Athenians are the first inhabitants of Attica in the Archaeology (1.2.5); the difference is that in the first case the fact is challenged, while in the second it is defended; ¢r d³ B !k^heia erq_sjetai in 6.2.2 picks up 1.1.3 and 1.21.1, also the f^tgsir t/r !kghe_ar in 1.20.3, but in this latter case the result is negative. The two archeologies have also

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in common their interest in the migrations of peoples (6.2.2) and in toponyms (6.2.2; cf. 6.2.4 f. and 1.3.2 f.). The Trojan war is an important turning point in Sicilian history (6.2.3), as it is in the history of Greece (1.3.1; 1.8.4; 1.9 – 12). The flight of the Trojans and the difficult nostoi of the Greeks originate migrations and the foundation of new cities (6.2.3; cf. 1.12). On a structural level, the section on barbarian peoples (6.2) is clearly distinct from that dealing with the Greeks (6.3 – 5), with a series of foundations of cities. The order is reversed in comparison to Book 2 of the Iliad, where the catalogue of the Greeks is placed before that of the Trojans. Again, on the structural level we should note the parallelism between the closure of the Archaeology in Book 1 (1.23.6) and 6.6.1, with the motif of the true cause set against the occasional events that triggered the war (1vi]lemoi l³m t0 !kghest\t, pqov\sei t/r p\sgr %qnai, boghe?m d³ ûla eqpqep_r bouk|lemoi to?r 2aut_m nuccem]si ja· to?r pqocecemgl]moir null\woir). The resemblance of the two periods, even at the level of their syntactical structure based on antithesis, shows Thucydides’ desire to compare the whole war with the Sicilian expedition. Immediately afterwards, as it happens in Book 1, we find the exposition of the occasional causes that promoted the event. The resemblances between the Archaeology of Book 1 and the Sicilian one in Book 6 should not make us forget the deep differences between these two texts: in the first place, in Book 6 we do not find the general view of history and human progress that is characteristic of Book 1; secondly, the attention to method is limited to poetic sources and does not become one of the main topics of the whole section; thirdly, even if the sequence of facts is diachronical, we find a picture of the peoples and cities of Sicily at the time of the Athenian expedition. Finally, Thucydides is exclusively interested in migrations of peoples and in foundations of cities, with a selective perspective that is different from that of the Archaeology of the first Book; moreover, the narrative does not comprise other historical events and does not reach the present time.

6. Models of proems in epic poetry and history Thucydides replaces the Iliadic model with a new model from the first Book of Herodotus and from the archaeologies of the sophists, yet adapting and modifying them completely. The Homeric catalogue of

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the ships is geographical rather than historical (there are few references to earlier events; history is reduced to genealogies). Herodotus had devoted an introductory section to the causes of the conflict between Asia and Europe, stating that he was using non-Greek sources; then he moved on to consider more recent events, from Croesus onwards. Occasionally, when he gave a more detailed account (Athens, Sparta in Book 6) he went back in time. In Book 7 the catalogue of Xerxes’ army and the whole introduction to the second Persian war renewed the epic tradition, introducing multiple structural elements (dreams, for example), reducing toponyms to ethnic names and emphasizing the arms and the dress of the different contingents. In Book 1 Thucydides follows a continuous line from the remote past to contemporary history. The sketchy narrative of the Archaeology will become more detailed in the Pentecontaetia, where he analyzes the origins of the Peloponnesian war. Geography has little importance (6.1.2) in the archaeologies, as in the rest of the work, with the only exception of the description of Thrace at the end of Book 2. We should note, however, that in the Sicilian Archaeology Thucydides introduces ethnographic elements on barbarian peoples and on the Greek settlers (6.2 – 5). The history of archaeologies is only in part paradigmatic because it is not possible to reconstruct and analyze it in detail. However, the archaeologies have also the unavoidable function of proems; they are the new model of proem, fitting to introduce a historical work or the section of a historical work dealing with a recent and significant event. The Sicilian Archaeology, if we compare it with the Archaeology of the first Book, marks in some ways a return to epic poetry: in the first Book Thucydides wanted to show the superiority of the Peloponnesian war with respect to the previous wars, and at the same time he wanted to demonstrate that only recent history could be reliably reconstructed and could therefore have a paradigmatic value. In the sixth Book the epic motif of magnificence prevails (Thucydides had underlined it especially in 1.19 and in 1.23) and the structure of the narrative becomes again, at least in part, that of a catalogue, albeit with profound differences from the models of Homer and Herodotus. Through a complex path, specific models of proem for historiography are defined: on one hand, the proem that goes back to ancient history, with different forms and functions (Herodotus 1, Thucydides 1), that is limited to the earliest stages of history in Herodotus, and that arrives close to recent history in Thucydides; on the other hand, the proem that offers a picture of the peoples involved in a war, or of the area where the war itself takes place (He-

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rodotus 7, Thucydides 6). Herodotus follows the Homeric catalogue, a model he updates with the new aims of a historian. Thucydides mingles in an original synthesis the archaeology with the catalogue. What they have in common is the object of highlighting the importance of the war they are about to narrate. Herodotus provides a survey of the different nations that constituted the army of the aggressor; Thucydides lists the peoples and the cities of the island that was being attacked. The Herodotean catalogue is completely synchronic; the Thucydidean one is diachronic and advances in a sequence of migrations of peoples and foundations of towns. This will be the model, appropriately adapted, of those historians that will open their work with a geographical section.19

19 In the historical work of Ephorus there where two geographical books, 4 and 5. Unfortunately we have lost the work and we do not know in detail the content of each book. Breglia Pulci Doria 2001, p. 163 says that books 1 – 5 were an archaiologia in geographical order. In Sall. bell. Iug. 17 – 19 there is a description of Africa. Caesar begins his De bello Gallico with a brief description of Gallia (1.1).

In the Shadow of Pericles: Athens’ Samian Victory and the Organisation of the Pentekontaetia in Thucydides* Marek We˛cowski “…[F]or he mentioned this [namely the period we call Pentekontaetia, or the Fifty Years] in a cursory manner and inaccurately as far as its chronology is concerned” (1.97.2: bqaw]yr te ja· to?r wq|moir oqj !jqib_r 1pelm^shg). Thucydides is speaking here, but this is not his well-deserved self-criticism. Far from that – what he is doing is bitterly censuring one of his predecessors, Hellanikos of Mytilene, the first historian of Athens. Yet, famously, this is exactly what modern scholars would say of Thucydides himself.1 *

1

I develop here some ideas already briefly touched upon in my paper We˛cowski 2004 [in Polish, with a summary in English], esp. 120 – 121. I would like to express my gratitude to the Organisers of the conference not only for their flattering invitation to this highly stimulting venue and for their extraordinary hospitality, but also for the incentive finally to complete my long-abandoned Samian project. My heartfelt thanks go to Benedetto Bravo, Aleksander Wolicki, and Adam Ziółkowski for commentaing upon earlier drafts of this paper. Of course, I am the sole responsible for the errors that remain. The non-standard abbreviation I am using is BNJ = Brill’s New Jacoby, Editor in Chief: Ian Worthington (University of Missouri). Brill, 2010. Brill Online. BNJ-contributors. 25 March 2010 See, e. g., Gomme, HCT I, 361 (Thucydides was stigmatised for the “inappropriate and cursory” character of the Pentekontaetia already in Antiquity by Dion. Hal. Pomp. (11) 3.9; cf. de Th. (7) 11.3. It is fair to say, however, that Thucydides will also be immune to such criticism if we understand his criticism not as regarding Hellanikos’ minor chronological inaccuracies, but stigmatising his grave chronological (and factual) errors. On the other hand, Thucydides might have written his Pentekontaetia at an earlier stage and with no intention to improve upon Hellanikos’ deficiencies, before adding the passage just quoted on second thought, after the publication of Hellanikos’ work (thus, e. g., Westlake 1969, 42). In this paper, I will leave aside the once much-debated issue of the chronology of Thucydides’ work on the Pentekontaetia; cf. below, p. 155 – 156.

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Let me briefly summarize some of the most important historical problems we encounter when reading and using Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia, i. e. his account of the period between the Persian and the Peloponnesian Wars. On the one hand, scholars have long been variously compiling lists of Thucydides’ factual omissions, of what in principle should have been mentioned when recounting the history of this period but actually is not.2 It must be admitted, however, that every single “omission” pointed out in earlier scholarship can be challenged, so I will not dwell on individual missing events here. But some of those “omissions” look very strange indeed – just think of the historian’s silence about the transfer of the Delian League treasury from Delos to Athens. In addition to that, the absolute and relative chronology of the events Thucydides included in his account seems highly unsatisfactory. As Arnold W. Gomme puts it, “… his events float like sticks in an oblong bowl, preserving their relative order, but none of them with a fixed position in relation to the ends of the bowl and but few of them relatively to each other”.3 From our modern perspective, the practical result of this allegedly highly impressionistic narrative is deplorable, to put it mildly. It is partly responsible for our knowledge about the political history of this period and in particular about the chronology of the Athenian imperialism being so scanty and haphazard. In what follows I will briefly deal with a single but very important problem of Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia, namely the account of the Samian revolt and of the resulting war waged by the Athenians against their most powerful ally in the Delian League in 440 – 439 BCE. Simon Hornblower rightly observes in his commentary that Thucydides’ “account is exceptionally and surprisingly full” here.4 Indeed, the Samian episode is not only relatively long. It is also highly commanding, so to say, in its immediate context. For “it has not only crowded out some events before 441”,5 as Thucydides made a jump in his narrative after the Thirty-Years Peace omitting the foundation of Thourioi and a series of important Athenian alliances in Sicily and southern Italy6 – all of them pregnant with implications for the future 2 3 4 5 6

Most importantly, see Gomme, HCT I, 365 – 389. See also a thorough reassessment of the issue by Rood 1998, 216 – 248. Gomme, HCT I, 362, in his “Notes on the Pentekontaetia”. Hornblower 1991, 187 (comm. on 1.115.2 – 117). Ibid. Cf. Hornblower 1991, ad 1.115.1.

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course of the Peloponnesian War. The towering chapters on the Samian War overshadow what was bound to happen immediately afterwards as well. To quote Hornblower once again, “[i]t is unsatisfactory of Th.[ucydides] to say… that the Corcyra and Potidaia affairs happened ‘not many years after’, oq pokko?r 5tesim vsteqom, the end of the Samian revolt in 439, when these years seem to have been so eventful”.7 It is not only the matter of “omitting”, before the outbreak of the “Epidamnos affair” in 435 BCE, such events as the foundation of Amphipolis, the Athenian alliance with Acarnania (and perhaps the re-foundation of Argos Amphilochikon), the appeal of the citizens of Lesbos to Sparta for help; the first Athenian intimidations of Potidaia, the inclusion of Methone into the Delian League, the Megarian decree and, last but not least, the Pontic expedition of Pericles in 436/5 BCE.8 Note that virtually all these “omitted” facts will objectively be of crucial importance to the war and its immediate preliminaries. It is so too from the subjective point of view pervading Thucydides’ own narrative. In recent scholarship it is almost obligatory to emphasise that what the Pentekontaetia is about is to sketch a memorable picture of Athens’ inexhaustible energy and irresistible resolve. And rightly so. As such, this excursus is undoubtedly intended as illustrating the “truest cause”, or !kghest\tg pq|vasir, of the war, namely Sparta’s fear in the face of the growing power of the Athenians (1.23.6).9 If so, as suggested long ago, in the Pentekontaetia, “much more is needed on the period after the Thirty Years’ Peace, and particularly the early thirties; much less would suffice for the period before the peace”.10 With this last comment by Russel Meiggs, we are back to the issues of the overall arrangement and composition of Thucydides’ “Fifty Years” digression. Scholars have been trying to solve these problems looking at them from all possible angles, but one can perhaps distinguish two main approaches to these issues. One, “analytical”, tries to explain the aforementioned disquieting features of the Pentekontaetia by viewing it as a hasty, imperfect, unfinished and/or badly integrated section of the Peloponnesian War, either as a later addition to the main bulk of the text or, 7 Hornblower 1991, 133. Quotation from Thucydides at 1.118.1. 8 See Gomme, HCT I, 367 – 368 and Hornblower 1991, 188 – 189; cf. Rood 1998, 219 – 222. 9 Recently, cf. e. g. Stadter 1993, esp. 42 – 52; Tsakmakis 1995b, 71 – 100; Rood 1998, esp. 229 – 248. 10 Meiggs 1972, 445. Cf. also, e. g., Westlake 1969, 48.

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alternatively, as an early essay at odds with the overall plan of Thucydides’ book.11 Somewhat related to this approach is the source-oriented, but still analytical, attitude, which maintains that the historian’s conspicuous omissions and inclusions in the Pentekontaetia were generally determined by the sources at his disposal at the moment when he was writing his account. Thus, “[t]he only reason why Thucydides describes the Samian revolt so fully seems to be that, probably alone among the major episodes of the Pentekontaetia, it lay within the limits of his own adult recollection. If this explanation is accepted, it suggests that his brevity in dealing with earlier events was dictated by lack of trustworthy evidence”.12 Entirely different is the other approach that might be dubbed “structural”. In a way, it was already foreshadowed by N.G.L. Hammond’s remarkable formal analysis of the compositional structures in Book One of the Peloponnesian War. 13 From this perspective, no longer awkward or disproportionate in its selection and presentation of events, the Pentekontaetia serves its goal perfectly well. There are diametrically opposite views, however, of what this goal might be. Ernst Badian, for one, ascribes the peculiar, to say the least,14 arrangement and selectivity of the digression to Thucydides’ ultimate aim i. e., in his view, to prove Sparta’s guilt as the party responsible for the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War.15 According to Badian, Thucydides omits the events after the Samian revolt since they would all have shed a very unfavourable light on the Athenians. In his admirable paper on the “Form and Content of Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia”, Philip A. Stadter takes a radically opposite stand.16 He convincingly argues that the excursus is perfectly suited to uncover the “truest reason” of the Peloponnesian War (see above) in its arrangement of material, its inclusions and exclusions of particular events, and in its overall literary economy, so to say.

11 To mention just two of the prominent British Thucydidean scholars, the digression is late for Meiggs 1972, 444 – 446, and early for Gomme, HCT I, 361 – 365. 12 Westlake 1969, 48. 13 Hammond 1952, 127 – 141. Cf. also Walker 1957, 27 – 38. 14 Badian openly charges the historian with consciously misleading his reader and manipulating the evidence at hand. 15 Badian 1993a, 73 – 107 (the main thesis is stated at 73 – 74). 16 Stadter 1993, 35 – 72.

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However, when it comes to the “Samian affair”, the final episode of the Pentekontaetia, Stadter’s interpretation is somewhat less compelling.17 He interestingly detects therein a pattern of consecutive external stimuli and Athenian responses and ascribes the length of the episode to the sheer fact that the Samians just “refused to accept defeat” thus forcing the Athenians to escalate the war.18 This, however, hardly proves satisfactory when one compares the nine-month Athenian siege of Samos with that of Thasos, which lasted for two years, but whose account in Thucydides is shorter by half (1.100.2 – 101.3). Stadter’s general interpretation reads as follows:19 The narrative we possess is rigorously selective. … [I]t concentrates on actions, not debate, on battles, not treaties. Athenian activity expressed its power and was sufficient explanation for Sparta’s fear. The silence on events between the Samian War and the Corcyrean conflict… can be in large part explained under the categories listed here, although other factors may be at work as well. In particular, the Samian War represented the most frightening and determined display of Athenian strength; nothing that followed could overshadow it or reinforce its import. Thucydides apparently preferred to end his excursus with this dramatic act, rather than trail off in a series of events of lesser significance. The war was waiting to happen.

Some other scholars, who still feel uneasy about the dimensions and the concluding role of this episode despite the admittedly forceful literary effect of such a conclusion, briefly consider another type of explanation, as if positing some different logic or factor, never explicitly stated by the narrator, behind Thucydides’ decision to suppress all the events between 439 and 435 BCE, pertaining as they did to the growth of the Athenian power. Thus, according to S. Hornblower, Thucydides “concludes emphatically with Samos, as the last major Athenian violation of autonomy which Sparta would permit”.20 One could also argue that the fear, fully justified at the time, of a new Persian intervention in the Aegean during the Samian revolt might have been responsible for choosing this partic-

17 The same holds true, I think, for the ingenious interpretation given by Rood 1998, 219 – 222 (Rood himself calls the end of the Pentekontaetia “premature”: p. 219). 18 Stadter 1993, 55. 19 Stadter 1993, 68 – 69. 20 Hornblower 1991, 188. Cf. Rood’s remark (Rood 1998, 219) that the Pentekontaetia “ends with a long account of the incident which almost led to war – even though several years elapse before the incidents which did lead to war”.

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ular conclusion of the whole excursus21. Finally, elsewhere in this volume, June W. Allison suggests a particular importance of the memory of the Samian War after the dismantlement of the Athenian walls by the Peloponnesians in 403 BCE (below, p. 257 – 8). In what follows, let me briefly consider yet another possibility. In the opening lines of his Funeral Speech in Thucydides, Pericles introduces an interesting praeteritio (2.36.1 – 4; transl. R. Crawley, slightly adapted): I shall begin with our ancestors (pq|comoi)… They dwelt in the country without break in the succession from generation to generation, and handed it down free to the present time by their valour. [2] And if our more remote ancestors deserve praise, much more do our own fathers (oR pat]qer Bl_m), who added to their inheritance the empire which we now possess, and spared no pains to be able to leave their acquisitions to us of the present generation (… fsgm 5wolem !qwµm oqj !p|myr Bl?m to?r mOm pqosjat]kipom). [3] Lastly, there are few parts of our dominions that have not been augmented by those of us here, who are still more or less in the vigour of life (t± d³ pke_y aqt/r aqto· Ble?r oVde oR mOm 5ti emter l\kista 1m t0 jahestgju_ô Bkij_ô 1pgun^salem); while the mother country has been furnished by us with everything that can enable her to depend on her own resources (aqtaqjest\tgm [sc. paqesjeu\salem tµm p|kim]) whether for war or for peace. [4] That part of our history which tells of the military achievements which gave us our many possessions, or of the ready valour with which either we or our fathers stemmed the tide of Hellenic or foreign aggression, is a theme too familiar to my hearers for me to dilate on, and I shall therefore pass it by (lajqgcoqe?m 1m eQd|sim oq bouk|lemor 1\sy). But what was the spirit owing to which we reached our position (Ekholem 1p’ aqt\), what the form of government under which our greatness grew (lec\ka 1c]meto), what the national habits out of which it sprang etc.

This is of course a very well-known passage and its ideological overtones, including the notion of the self-sufficient city, have been interpreted in recent decades in many revealing ways.22 What is important to me at this occasion is the mention of “growth” or “enhancement” of the Athenian arche¯ (t± d³ pke_y aqt/r aqto· Ble?r… 1pgun^salem) and its concomitant remark about the “toils” (oqj !p|myr… pqosjat]kipom), namely the unrelenting war efforts, incurred to make it possible. 21 See 1.115.4 – 5 and 116.3 ad fin., with the reference to the Phoenician fleet (if authentic). In general, cf. French 1972, esp. 24 – 27; Podlecki 1998, 118 – 131. 22 See esp. Raaflaub 1984a, esp. 67 – 68, cf. also 56 – 59; recently, cf. in general Scanlon 1994, 143 – 176. Cf. also below, n. 34.

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Now, this praeteritio is not an innocent figure of speech. Thucydides’ Pericles can do without all this, not just because everybody in his world must have been relatively well informed about the course of the Persian Wars. More importantly, what he omits is exactly the leitmotif, and indeed the subject of Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia. As I have already mentioned before, the growth of the Athenian power and preparedness as the organising principle of the arrangement of this digression have been well explored in recent scholarship.23 At another occasion, I have also tried to elaborate on this aspect of the arrangement of thought in Thucydides.24 Among other things, I have argued that using this “growth-pattern” in the introductory part of his work as applied to the progress of an imperial power leading to a major war was yet another, and perhaps one of the most important, aspect of Thucydides’ uneasy relationship with his great predecessor Herodotus. In that, both historians elaborate on a somewhat overlooked political idea of “enhancing one’s fatherland” (auneim tµm patq_da / tµm pºkim), the patriotic slogan we encounter quite often in our fourth-century evidence, but explicitly appearing in our sources as early as in Sophocles, Euripides, and Thucydides.25 Pericles’ Athenians from the exordium of the Funeral Speech simply fulfil their patriotic duty working hard on enhancing their empire. The motif of the past “toils”, or p|moi, ascribed by Pericles to the “fathers” of his own generation, had also a very interesting history at the time. In Aristophanes’ Birds, we hear of a mysterious “oracle of Bakis” (Av. 977 – 978): “if, young man, you do what I advise you, you’ll become an eagle in the clouds”. Scholia vetera (978a) on these lines explain that this is “an oracle given to the Athenians and promising that they will increase in power as much as the eagle (tosoOtom aqngh^seshai fsom aQet|r)26 is superior to all other birds in the clouds”. A 23 See above, n. 9. Cf. Th. 1.89.1; cf. 1.23.6; 69.4; 85.5. 24 We˛cowski 2008, 34 – 57, esp. 42 – 46. 25 For the notion of auxein te¯n patrida, see e. g. Th. 7.70.8; X. Lac. pol. 10.4; Mem. 3.6.2; 7.2; Dem. De cor. 322 ad fin.; cf. also Eur. Supp. 507 – 508 and 321 – 325. For auxein te¯n polin, see Soph. Ant. 191; Eur. IA 570 – 572; X. Hier. 11.13; Isoc. Ad Nic. 32; Dem. Chers. 72; cf. also X. Hier. 2.17; Pl. Resp. 4 421c 4 and Lg. 731a 4. Cf. auxein to koinon: e. g. Eur. IA 966 – 967; Th. 6.40.1; X. Hell. 1.4.13; Dem. Olynth. III, 26. 26 It is difficult to say how reliable for the fifth-century tradition, if at all, may be the fact that the scholia explicitly rendered the future of the “eagle” using the verb aqn\my.

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similar allusion appears twice in the Knights staged in 424 BCE (Eq. 1011 – 1013 and 1086 – 1087), where the oracle is explicitly given royal overtones, as the eagle is supposed to rule the whole oikoumene. The oracle in question is quoted in the Scholia vetera on one of these passages (vet Tr. 1013a): “This is the oracle given to the Athenians: ‘O, you blessed city of Athena Ageleia! Having seen much, suffered much and much toiled (pokk± Qd¹m ja· pokk± pah¹m ja· pokk± loc/sam), you will become an eagle in the clouds for all days”. Both Scholia vetera and Scholia Triclinii also maintain (1013b) that the same oracle was mentioned not only in the Knights adduced above, but also in the nonextant Banqueters of 427 BCE. Oracles of this kind, promising to the Athenians the blessed fate “after many toils” are fully understandable in Athens during and after the disastrous plague. I think, however, that this image, and perhaps also this fake oracle, might have been much older and only re-invented in the initial years of the Peloponnesian War. In want of space, I must be extremely brief on this matter here, but I would argue there are good reasons to associate such motifs with an earlier stage of the development of the Athenian arche¯ and in particular with the ideological use made of the mythical Theseus by Kimon.27 Be that as it may, in the epitaphios logos in Thucydides, Pericles openly ascribes these “toils” to the previous generation. In 439 BCE, after the victory over Samos, Pericles gave another memorable funeral oration.28 Ion of Chios (FGrHist. 392 [= BNJ 392] F 16, ap. Plut. Per. 28.7; cf. De glor. Ath. 8 [350 E], who incidentally might have been in Athens at the time, records a strange idea raised by Pericles with reference to the Samian triumph of Athens (transl. B. Perrin): “Ion says that he had the most astonishingly great thoughts of himself for having subjected the Samians; whereas Agamemnon was all of ten years in taking a barbarian city, he had in nine months time reduced the foremost and most powerful people of Ionia (to»r pq~tour ja· dumatyt\tour Y~mym 2k|mtor)”.

Plutarch goes on (28.8): 27 For the time being, I can only refer the reader to my paper We˛cowski 2004 (in Polish), esp. 110 – 116. 28 Plut. Per. 28.4; cf. Plut. Per. 8.9 (= Stesimbrotos of Thasos, FGrHist 107 F 9 [8]).

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“And indeed his estimate of himself was not unjust, nay, the war actually brought with it much uncertainty and great peril (l]cam 5swe j_mdumom b p|kelor), if indeed, as Thucydides says [in 8.76.4], the city of Samos came within very little of stripping from Athens her power on the sea” (t/r hak\ttgr t¹ jq\tor).

As rightly suggested by Felix Jacoby, it is more probable than not that Pericles applied this hubristic image rather to the Athenian polis at large than personally to himself.29 It seems also highly plausible that the idea of comparing the fresh Athenian victory with the greatest mythical feat of the Greeks belonged to the Samian epitaphios logos. 30 Now, when commenting on this remarkable idea, Christian Meier observed that Pericles’ words testify to the contemporary belief in the exceptional status of this particular epoch and as such they excellently express the extraordinary optimism of the Athenians of the time.31 However we imagine the actual contents of the speech given by Pericles in 29 Cf. Jacoby 1956, 13 – 15 and his comm. on FGrHist. 392 F 16 (recent comm. ad loc. in BNJ 394 is silent about this interpretation). Cf. also comm. ad loc. in Stadter 1989, 262 – 263. To me, this conclusion seems assured by the fragment of Stesimbrotos of Thasos, FGrHist 107 F 9 (ap. Plut. Per. 8.9), where Pericles compares the citizens deceased in the Samian war to immortal gods – one more paradoxical and at first hubristic image, analogous to the comparison between the Samian and the Trojan wars. Following a similar logic, both would excellently fit in with the epitaphios logos delivered at this occasion (cf. also next note). If Pericles compared the Athenian feat to the sack of Troy claiming that in their recent siege Athenians bettered the greatest Achaean heroes, this would logically make himself better than Agamemnon. It would not take much, for a writer as hostile to Pericles as Ion famously was (cf. BNJ 392 F 15 [ap. Plut. Per. 5.3] with comm.), to come up with the idea that Pericles actually boasted about himself being superior to Agamemnon. 30 See previous note. There is yet another indirect argument to this effect. Immediately before the quotation from Ion in Plutarch’s Life of Pericles, we read an anecdote of Elpinike sister of Kimon (28.5 – 7), who publicly scorns Pericles when he is about to deliver his Samian funeral speech. Her message is simple: Pericles does not deserve praise he receives from the Athenians for the victory over Samos, for in fact he made many good citizens perish in a war not against Phoenicians or Persians, but subduing an allied and kindred city. I think this is exactly the mirror image of Pericles’ boastful claims adduced by Ion of Chios. Without of course assuming the historicity of the anecdote, the least we can say is that it might be due to a contemporary writer such as Stesimbrotos of Thasos (most likely, cf. FGrHist 107 F 5 [ap. Plut. Kim. 14.3]; thus also Stadter, comm. ad Plut. Per. 28.6) or Ion himself. Plutarch may have quoted both this anecdote and Ion’s passage as stemming from, and pertaining to, the same occasion. 31 Meier 1980, 477 – 478.

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439 BCE, I think we may assume that the sense of relief after the “great peril” and the acute consciousness of the unusual greatness of the recent Athenian deed prominently figured therein. Actually, it so happens that we can make up for what we do not know about this oration with recourse to another piece of contemporary evidence – yet again no longer extant. In his paper on the “images and political identity” of the fifth-century Athens, Tonio Hölscher analyses a series of monuments concerning the Delian League.32 One of them is of particular importance here. From Strabo (14.1.14 [C. 637]), we learn of a triple group of colossal statues by the sculptor Myron (tq_a L}qymor 5qca jokossij\), consisting of Zeus, Athena, and Herakles, erected in the Samian Heraion. They must have formed a well-known iconographic ensemble depicting Herakles’ apotheosis, i. e. his introduction to Olympus by Athena and his final welcome by Zeus. No doubt, putting a scene of Herakles’ ultimate triumph in the sanctuary of his arch-enemy and persecutor Hera must have been an ostentatious if not provocative act, so Ernst Buschor and Ernst Berger have reasonably linked this sculpture with the Athenian victory over Samos followed by the requisition of a part of the sacred land of the goddess now handed over to another divinity – “Athena the ruler of Athens”.33 It is logical to ascribe the commission of the sculpture to the Athenian cleruchs on Samos or, less likely, to some local satellites of Athens. I think we can go a little further when we realise the unmistakable message conveyed by this group erected at this particular historical moment. Herakles is the “hero of toils” par excellence. His labours and sufferings, incidentally inflicted by the patron-goddess of the defeated Samos, now come to a joyful conclusion. His toils are over, crowned by the eternal Olympian stature of the god – a fate not unlike that of the Athenians in the aforementioned oracles concerning the future of the Athenian arche¯ : “O, you blessed city of Athena Ageleia! Having 32 Hölscher 1998, 153 – 183, esp. 169 – 176. 33 For the identification of the group, see esp. Buschor 1953, 51 – 62, esp. 58 – 62; Berger 1969, 66 – 92, esp. 86 – 92. For the “comparative iconography” of the group, see recently LIMC V.1, 124 – 125 (“Herakles VIII.A.3.b”, by J. Boardman); Myron’s group is “Herakles no. 2876” in the catalogue. Cf. Hölscher 1998, 172. Incidentally, the two goddesses will symbolically be reconciled with each other in a peculiar bas-relief representing Hera and Athena clasping their right hands, placed above an Athenian inscription honouring the Samians in 405 BCE (IG II2 1 = Meiggs–Lewis 94 [96]).

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seen much, suffered much and much toiled, you will become an eagle in the clouds for all days”. This plainly imperialistic and very peculiar image should be read, I would argue, along the lines of Pericles’, admittedly hypothetical, triumphalism of his Samian funeral speech. Now, the idea of abandoning “toils” (p|mym paus~leha vel sim. 34) to enjoy the present glory of Athens and to make the most out of her arch is a cornerstone of the Periclean ideology. We already came across this in the exordium to the epitaphios logos in Thucydides where we found the proud motif of “the most self-sufficient city” (p|kir aqtaqjest\tg) and it famously appears in several texts of the period, including the intriguing essay by the so-called Old Oligarch, stressing as they do the fact that because of their thalassocracy and their imperial position, the Athenians now have access to all the goods, riches, and commodities of the entire world.35 Furthermore, this aspect of the Athenian ideology under Pericles is mocked time and again in contemporary comedy, as admirably demonstrated by Paola Ceccarelli in 1996.36 Such claims are subject to a comic reductio ad absurdum through grotesque images of the pays de cocagne, or land of plenty, where no toil or labour is required since rivers (or simply earth) spontaneously bring all sort of delightful food. It is important to note that such images, in obvious connection with the Periclean ideology of the “imperial abundance”, so to say, occur in a well-defined historical period, namely between 435 – 430 and around 415 BCE, so they seem to have appeared in the epoch immediately preceding the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War. At this juncture, let me return to the Funeral Speech in Thucydides. In his sweeping vision of the past of the Athenian arch, Pericles claims that it has been his own generation which contributed most to the “growth” of the empire and who rendered the polis aqtaqjest\tg 34 Boegehold 1982, 147 – 156, studied an anti-war slogan p|mym paus~leha, or “let’s stop the war!”, popular in Athens after the victory on Sphakteria and the defeat at Delion, and answering rhetorical praises of ponoi, i. e. of prosecuting the war at all costs. Boegehold shows that such rhetorical praises of the war effort envisioned as a honourable ponos appeared in the thirties, when “some Athenians – notably Pericles – made ponos an undertaking their compatriots should be proud to assume etc.” (Boegehold 1982, 148). Interestingly, the later “pacifist” dissenters from the twenties drew from an earlier Periclean patriotic commonplace, duly revised by Pericles himself on the eve of the Peloponnesian War. 35 See, e. g., [X.] Ath. Pol. 2.7; 14 (cf. Th. 1.143.5; 2.38.2); X. Vect. 1.6 – 7. Cf. Ceccarelli 1996, esp. 142 – 149. 36 Ceccarelli 1996, 109 – 159.

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(1.36.3), whereas the previous generations, or their “fathers”, had devoted themselves to the “toils” unavoidable at that previous stage (36.2). Both stages, however, do not attract particular attention of the speaker, who duly focuses on the current state of affairs. In the remainder of the Funeral Oration (cf. 36.4), he formally praises the Athenian habits (1pit^deusir) as well as the Athenian form of constitution (pokite_a) and the Athenian character (tq|poi). But actually this amounts to praising the Athenian way of life, which was only made possible by the present greatness of the city achieved thanks to the previous “growth” and “not without toils”. Although, in the current state of our sources, Pericles himself does not explicitly use this term, if we confront this vision with the aforementioned triumphalism of the Samian epitaphios logos as interpreted in a broader historical perspective by Christian Meier (cf. above), and with the serious and derided images of the current happiness of Athens, it becomes clear, I think, that Pericles and his contemporaries tended to perceive the present state of affairs in terms of the “pinnacle” or “peak” of Athenian history thus opposing his current policies and his recent success to the preceding and difficult period of the imperial “growth”. I would be tempted to use here the Greek word !jl^. Considering, on the one hand, the ideological message of Myron’s apotheosis of Herakles, most probably erected in the Heraion of Samos after the Samian war and, on the other, the historical moment when the comic reactions to the Athenian ideology of “imperial abundance” first appear, it seems reasonable to conclude that it was the Samian victory that triggered, and Pericles’ funeral speech over Samos in 439 BCE that most probably first expressed, the ideological motif of the Athenian “imperial akme¯”.37 Now, just as the opening claims of the Funeral Speech partly summarize Thucydides’ account of the Athenian “growth” sketched in the Pentekontaetia, so the ideal vision of Athens pervading the whole oration was prepared by this very account. From the standpoint of the inner “economy” of the preparatory parts of the Peloponnesian War, the Athenian “growth” culminates with the outbreak of the conflict. As Thucy37 As to the slogan p|mym paus~leha (vel sim.), it would be natural to place it origin at the time of the Thirty-Years Peace in 446 BCE, when Pericles and the Athenians realised that they must renounce their claims to the mainland-empire in central Greece. I would argue, however, that the Samian epitaph of Pericles was responsible for the ultimate perfection of the whole ideological complex at issue.

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dides himself puts it, “both sides entered the war at the very height of their power and preparedness” (1.1.1: !jl\fomt]r te ×sam 1r aqt¹m [sc. t¹m p|kelom] !lv|teqoi paqasjeu0 t0 p\s,). The idea of “pinnacle”, or akme¯, of the Athenian power is explicitly stated here (as well as that of the Spartan one). If I am right in my preceding argument, the logic of the seemingly eccentric conclusion of Thucydides’ Pentekontaetia perhaps becomes clear now. In that, Thucydides followed Pericles and his ideology in ascribing the beginning of the “imperial pinnacle” to the results of the Samian war, after the last major “peril” (j_mdumor) and “labour” (p|mor) of the period of the “growth” of the Athenian arch. In the logic of Thucydides’ work, this “peak” lasted till the beginning of the war and beyond, until the great plague of Athens shook the foundations of Pericles’ ideal. His next and last speech in Thucydides clearly shows another perspective, that of a decaying imperial power. The “pinnacle” has already been achieved and crossed; the decline of the arche¯ is bound to follow.38 Thucydides must have deemed it reasonable to take Athens’ Samian victory as marking a watershed in the history of the Athenian imperialism and thus of all Greek history thus far and the literary effect he strives for when closing his excursus this way must have been largely determined by the place of this event, not only in the Periclean ideology, but also in the collective memory of the Greek world.39 All in all, he adopted and conceptualised the motif of the “imperial pinnacle” turning it into a rationally defined historical epoch. As a result, in the eyes of his contemporary reader, this amazing period was framed by two memorable epitaphioi logoi by Pericles. This can of course be understood as the ultimate tribute paid to Pericles’ historical role and his astonishing political insight. But this would not be the whole story, for Thucydides’ Pericles was only able to understand the truth about the Athenian arche¯ after the disaster of the great plague and the renewed “sufferings” of the new war, when in his last speech he predicts the future glory of Athens’ greatness, but concludes that “it is part of the nature of all things to decline” 38 See esp. Th. 2.64.3 (cf. below). After all, from a moral perspective, this was only to be expected that defining one’s position in terms of a “peak” or “pinnacle” of one’s fate is a hubristic act and must lead to a more or less sudden downturn. For this aspect, see We˛cowski 2008, esp. 43 – 44. 39 Witness the relative abundance of the contemporary anecdotal material regarding this war and the epitaphios logos thereafter. See above, p. 160 – 161 with n. 28 – 30.

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(2.64.3: p²mta c±q p´vuje ja· 1kassoOshai). Hence, I think it is worthwhile to compare the function of the Samian episode in the Pentekontaetia with the overall message of the Funeral Speech in Thucydides – as regards both Pericles and the Athenian imperialism. Let me quote Philip Stadter one last time: “Like the Funeral Speech, the Pentekontaetia is both glorious and melancholy, for they both share the tragic vision of human condition that lay at the foundation of Thucydides’ view of empire and war”.40 It is fair to conclude, then, that the role of the Samian episode in the Pentekontaetia is a thrilling example of Thucydides’ literary technique, his historical method and of the manner he worked out his own concept of history.

40 Stadter 1993, 71. In general, cf. Kallet 2010.

Transformation of Landscapes in Thucydides Vassiliki Pothou 1. Introduction By no means were ancient historians indifferent towards issues like landscape and ecological reality. However, Thucydides seems not to be a passionate physiographer, although he is geopolitically sensitive.1 For Thucydides the environmental implications between topography and human interactions were particularly evident in military terms. Man is part of the landscape and landscape is man-made. In many war situations, as described by Thucydides, warriors did not adapt the landscape to their military purposes, but, rather, they were forced to adapt themselves to the landscape. On the other hand, Thucydides is interested in geomorphological processes and their drastic influences on the environment. When he is commenting on the singularity of a special landscape, his intention is generally to explain the transformation of local topography and to underline the instability of the physical environment. By doing so, he recognizes the changeability and the fragility of the ecological reality.

2. Anthropogenic Transformation According to Thucydides’ distinction between anthropocentric and independent landscapes we distinguish between artificiality and self-modification. Man in antiquity proves to have adaptability and imagination and uses environmental conditions for his special aims. The hydrological cycle is not always determined by geomorphological circumstances, but “it can also be influenced by human actions”.2 However, it is a general feature of Herodotus’ narrative that oriental people and not the Greeks performed massive interventions in nature. For example, Cyrus on his 1 2

Cf. Rackham 1996, 38, 41. Yohannes 2008, 33.

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way to Babylon, enraged at the insolence of the river Gyndes, setting his army to dig, some on one side of the river, some on the other. Thus, he broke the strength of the river (Hdt. 1.189.3). The Athenians at least at the beginning of the Peloponnesian war were active on the coast of Egypt, which was historically a part of the Greek world.3 The narration of Thucydides about Megabyzus, the son of Zopyrus, who drove the Greeks out of Memphis in a short distance upstream from the apex of the Nile delta, belongs to the Ionian tradition: Eventually he confined them on the island of Prosopitis4 (in the south-west part of the delta), and blockaded them there for eighteen months. In the end he drained the canal by diverting the water elsewhere, leaving their ships on dry land and most of the island now joined to the mainland: he then crossed over on foot and took the island. This, then, after six years of fighting, was the collapse of the great Athenian and allied expedition in Egypt (1.109).5

In this case the man-made transformation of the landscape associated with human-building is a part of culture, tradition and scientific knowledge.6 The fortification of Delium, the sanctuary of Apollo in the territory of Tanagra, by the Athenians in November7 of 424/3 BCE is a similar example of the human transformation of a landscape through digging using the policy of epiteichismos: The Athenians dug a trench in a circle round the sanctuary and the temple [of Apollo], and piled up the excavated soil to form a wall, which they then secured with wooden stakes driven in on either side: they packed the interior with vine-wood cut from around the sanctuary and stones and bricks stripped from the nearby houses, using every means to raise the height of the fortification (4.90. 2). 3 4

5 6

7

Salmon 1965, 169. “We may conclude that the Prosopite Island corresponded at least approximately to the 4th, the Southern Neith. Therefore, the waterways forming the m/sor will probably have been the Canopic and Phatnitic/Sebennytic Branches of the Nile and some northern waterway corresponding to the boundary of the nome” (Lloyd 1988, 187). Robinson 1999, 132 – 152. Ctesias (29. 34) calls Prosopitis island “B}bkor” (translations are from Hammond 2009). “Canal-digging and dyke-building were regarded by the Egyptians as one of the foundations of their civilization and featured amongst the canonical duties of the Egyptian King. Major flood-protection systems existed in the vicinity of Memphis during the Persian Period and there is evidence of them in the Saite Dynasty”: Lloyd 1988, 12. Cartwright 1997, 188.

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In the case of the fortification of Delium the anthropogenic transformation of the landscape seems to constitute a sacrilege according to the Boeotians: “the Athenians were guilty of breaking the established laws of the Greeks”, because they didn’t respect the sanctuary and the holy water (4.97.2).8 The human modification generated a new ecological approach to the use of water.

3. Stagnant Landscape A dead landscape is a common frame and offers equal opportunities to both enemies, if they need to introduce changes in the organization of their own natural space. Thucydides enjoys describing in detail the double experience by using a landscape as a paradox symbiosis and a controversial phenomenon. In the summer of 414 BCE the center of the activities is a static landscape, a marsh on the south-east side of Epipolae: the Athenians and the Syracusans spent their days building walls and stockades. Finally, the Athenians ordered their ships to sail round from Thapsus into the Great Harbour of Syracuse, and before dawn brought their land forces down from Epipolae to the level area below and crossed the marsh by laying down doors and duckboards where the ground was firmest (pgk_der), if muddy (steqiv~tatom). At dawn they took almost all of the stockade and ditch, and captured the remnant shortly afterwards.9 This stagnant landscape – which is essentially a marginal terrain – appears to be the center of the war activities comparable in its importance to the landscape of great harbours. It is an eloquent example of the multiple exploitation of landscapes that at first sight appear “unproductive” and “undramatic”.

8 9

Cf. Cole 2004, 34: “And those who blocked the water flowing from springs, even of enemies in war-time, deserved utter destruction”, Allison 2011, 13. Di± toO 6kour, H pgk_der Gm ja· steqiv~tatom, h}qar ja· n}ka pkat]a 1pih]mter ja· 1pû aqt_m diabad_samter, aRqoOsim ûla 6\ t| te sta}qyla pkµm ak_cou ja· tµm t\vqom, ja· vsteqom ja· t¹ rpokeivh³m eXkom (6.101.3).

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4. Threatened or Threatening Landscape? The landscape as a stage of war sometimes decides the course of history. The army changes strategically the landscape to exterminate the enemy. In this case the environmental condition might be used as a trap. In the summer of 426 BCE the majority of the Athenians hoplites of Demosthenes in Aetolia missed their way and ended up in a wood with no exit: the Aetolians brought fire and burned the wood down with them. The radical intervention of the enemy on the landscape can be a tool or even a teacher: Demosthenes took his lesson from the disaster in Aetolia: the next summer Demosthenes’ resolve was further strengthened by a fire on the inhabited and largely wooded island of Sphacteria, a natural fortress (area: 3.5 km2, length: 4.6 km, highest point [=Profitis Elias], 152 m). The tree-cover would deny the Athenians a clear view of the Spartan’s capabilities (4.29.3). One of the Athenian soldiers accidentally set fire to a small area of wood: a wind got up, and the result was that before they knew it most of the island’s tree-cover had been consumed by fire (4.30). The historian illuminates the emergency of a new ecological understanding in no domesticated forest regions. The deforestation of the wood had adverse effects on important elements of the environment, such as the protection of the flora and the fauna. Nature is the first victim of violence in wars. Before man destroys other human beings, he showshis violent character towards nature.

5. Redirection of Flowing Water and Reorientation of People If necessary, man modified the hydrology according to his interest. The redirection of the water of a river is a locus classicus in war situations. The river – apparently today’s “Zanovistas”, according to A.W. Gomme, and flowing “from Tegea into the Mantinike”10 – was a constant source of conflict between the Mantineans and Tegeans, as widespread damage was caused in whichever direction the flow was turned. Agis, the king of Sparta, who in the summer of 418 BCE “was under unusual pressure from home to distinguish himself”11 suddenly changed his mind for some unclear reason and quickly withdrew his army before it came to engage10 Gomme HCT II, ad loc. 11 Powell 20012, 181.

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ment, returned to Tegean territory and began diverting the flow of river water into Mantinean land: His plan was to bring the Argives and their allies down from their high ground in response to this diversion of water, once they heard of it, and to fight them on the level. So he spent the rest of his day down there engaged in the waterworks. (4.65.4 – 5) 12

As Gomme remarks, “it was not then a case of stopping a channel flowing from Mantineia into the Tegeatis, … but of diverting the water of the one considerable stream in the plain, the Sarandapotamos, which flows eastwards from Tegea, into the channel of the Zanovistas, which flows north from Tegea into the Mantinike. Hence 1n]tqepem, not !p]tqepem” (ad loc.).13

Sarandapotamos is probably the ancient Alpheios.14 According to Gomme “we must also remember that Agis did not have to dig a trench from the Sarandopotamos to the Zanovistas, which would take a long time…; the trench was already there, it was only the barrier which had to be broken down…)”. In this case the change of the direction of water is combined with the sudden change of the mind of the Spartan commander, King Agis: 1na_vmgr (5.65.3) – 1nepk\cgsam (5.66.1). The management of the watery topography reinforces spectacularly the human creativity or innovation. The type of solid conservative warrior was the heavy-armed land soldier. So in Greek history the inland city of Sparta stands for tradition and stability, while the mariners of Athens are progressive and turbulent. The local topography of Strymon offered to the Spartans an ideal possibility to change: Brasidas sent to Sparta calling for reinforcements: in the meantime he made preparations for the building of triremes on the Strymon. Amphipolis was a valuable source both of timber for shipbuilding and of financial revenue (4.108.1). We should not underestimate the importance of this natural 12 9bo}keto d³ to»r !p¹ toO k|vou boghoOmtar 1p· tµm toO vdator 1jtqop^m, 1peid±m p}hymtai, jatabib\sai [to»r )qce_our ja· to»r null\wour] ja· 1m t` blak` tµm l\wgm poie?shai. Ja· b l³m tµm Bl]qam ta}tgm le_mar aqtoO peq· t¹ vdyq 1n]tqepem (5.65.4 – 5). 13 Gomme HCT II, ad loc. The small, parched river Zanovist(r)as begins in Tripolis, flows through the villages Hagios Vasileios and Pelagos and reaches the end of its journey in the edge of the village Loukas. The whole area beyond the settlement of Pelagos is called “Zanovist(r)a”. I owe this information to the philologist Takis Papadopoulos. 14 About the name of the Sarandapotamos in antiquity see Pritchett 1985, 77 – 91, esp. 85 – 88.

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cause. According to the landscape’s architect Walter Rossow (1910 – 1992) “the landscape must be the law”.15 Geography is usually more than a contributory cause, shaping and assisting historical tendencies and in this case it is impossible to resist the belief that the topography of Strymon would have been able to change Spartans as Peiraeus changed Athenians. There was no incompatibility between the human development and the local hydrological periphery. The human investment in the environmental arena provides the background for the accomplishment and the emancipation of the human race. Besides man made landscape, the man is also the cultural product of the landscape.

6. Self-transformation A crucial element in the topic of transformation is the distinction between the continental landscape and the hydrologic landscape. Usually the dichotomy between land and sea is spatially separated but geopolitically interconnected, because historians seem to enjoy the mixture of maritime and land power. The watery landscape fascinates the historian more than the continental landscape even if there are not always spectacular changes, because it is never stagnant and basically incorporates the land-sea strategical antithesis. The topography of the watery landscape implies a hydrological continuity and fluency. This is the case of the promontory of Cheimerium in Thesprotia, which juts out between the rivers Acheron and Thyamis. The Acherousian lake near the town of Ephyre “discharges into the sea: it takes its name from the river Acheron, which flows through Thesprotia and feeds this lake. The other river is the Thyamis, which forms the border between Thesprotia and Cestrine. It was there that the Corinthians “anchored off the mainland and made their encampment” (1.46. 4). The hydrology of the Mediterranean landscape with its complicated underground water system and its fragile “microecologies”16 excites the imagination of historians. I agree with the remark of Susan Cole that “the underground water system mirrored the one visible on the earth’s surface”, but I would like to stress that Greece has more large natural boundaries below the water as above the water.17 There are many exam15 See Daldrop-Weidman 1991, 54 – 55. 16 I owe this expression to N. Purcell 1996, 198. 17 Cole 2004, 28.

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ples of the underground dilatability. Euripides refers to the underground connection between the Nile and the waters of Cyprus (Bacch. 405 – 8).18 Stymphalos in Arkadia was wrongly believed to be connected with new settlements in Sicily.19 The center of all these transformations was the supply of fresh water and behind the water, the epiphany of God.

7. Dynamical Landscape The ecological reality is strengthened or weakened by the magnitude of physical phenomena as water movements and wind currents.20 For the purpose of explaining the peculiarities of a landscape, historians sometimes expend considerable intellectual effort. Thucydides describes how the Acheloos river through Akarnania empties into the sea silting up the channels, with the result that some of the islands have already become joined to the mainland, the process known as coastal deposition: Acheloos flows into the sea by Oiniadai, creating a marsh round the city of Stratus which in winter is too full of water to allow any military assault. The current of the river is wide, deep, and muddy, and the islands close together, forming between them a frame for the silt which prevents it being washed away: they lie in staggered rows rather than a single line, so give the water no straight channels into the open sea”.21 (2.102. 3 – 4)

According to Andreas Vött “ancient Oiniadai lies on top of the Trikardo hills in the centre of the Acheloos River delta at a distance of 9 km from the present coast”.22 The epilogue of the Thucydidean geographical excurses is mythological and concerns the shelter of an exile according to the legend of Alcmaeon son of Amphiaraus and murderer of his mother Eriphyle, a sort of “second Orest”, as H.-J. Gehrke suggests (2.102. 5 – 6).23 The oracle of Apollo indicated that Alcmaeon would not have release from the terrors until he found and set up home in a place which at the time when he killed his mother had not yet been seen by

18 19 20 21 22 23

Cole 2004, 28, n. 95. Cf. Beagon 1996, 290. Yohannes 2008, 19. Hammond 2009, 129. Vött 2007, 19 – 36. Gehrke 1994 – 1995, 48.

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the sun nor yet existed as land, since all the rest of the earth was polluted by him24.

He finally found the small and uninhabited islands Oeniadai opposite the islands of Echinades (close to the mouths of the Acheloos) which over the long period of his wanderings after killing his mother have formed sufficient deposit to support a man’s life.25 Alcmaeon left the country its name from his son Acarnan. The river Acheloos functions as a metaphor of god expressed in an environmental context.26 The essence of the traditional story of Alcmaeon is the idolization of nature in a cosmogonical context: because of its purity nature is often conceived as an open air temple, where people want to approach God. Quite in contrast with Thucydides, in Herodotus, the background of this story is not mythological. Because he is the comparative naturalist par excellence, he specifies that he could mention other rivers, far inferior to the Nile in magnitude, that have undergone very great changes. Among these not the least is the Acheloos, which, after passing through Akarnania, empties itself into the sea opposite the islands called Echinades, and has already joined one-half of them to the continent (2.10.3). In this case the domesticating landscape of Acheloos not only made history, but has its own history. Thucydides underlines the co-evolution of the ecosystem with humans, although the eutrophic environment of Acheloos is not anthropogenic. Despite the non-anthropogenic character of this landscape, its self-transformation encourages the anthropogenic process of sedentariness. Changeability of the landscape reflects changeability of man.

8. Rationalistic Self-transformation Thucydides, as the classical rationalist historian, explains through causality the supernatural or the “fiction-like” quality of the landscape.27 His interpretation depends on environmental influence and he explains the transformation as a consequence of the uniqueness of the phenomenon. Two of Thucydides’ descriptions are defined by creating a causal relationship to flowing topography. At around the time when the earth24 25 26 27

Hammond 2009, 129. Freitag 1994, 212 ff. Hilpert-Greger 1996, 71 – 74. Lateiner 1989, 27.

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quakes of summer 426 BCE were prevalent, the sea at Orobiai in Euboea retreated from what was then the coastline and returned in a tidal wave which hit one part of the town, and as a result of flooding combined with subsidence what was once land is now sea. Arnold W. Gomme remarks that Orobiai (where it was the unmistakable oracle of Apollon Selinuntios) – a small place in the territory of Histiaia on the coast of the Atalante channel, opposite Atalante island – – has kept to this day its ancient name in the form gQobi]r.28 There was a similar inundation at Atalante, the island off Opuntian Locris, which carried away part of the Athenian fort and smashed one of the two ships laid up there. The historian Demetrios Kallatianos describes down to the last detail another earthquake, tidal wave and the running aground of two ships in the region of Atalante.29 At Peparethus (modern Skopelos) there was also a withdrawal of the sea, but not followed in this case by a surge (Th. 3.89.2 – 4). Diodorus of Sicily combines the superstitious fear with the change or the changeability of the landscape: and so severe in fact were the shocks in many parts of Greece that the sea actually swept away and destroyed some cities lying on the coast, while in Locris the strip of land forming a peninsula was torn through and the island known as Atalante was formed. (12. 59. 2) 30

Thucydides tries to interpret the peculiarities of the landscape through causality. The historian explains that the cause of this phenomenon is that the sea retires at the point where the seismic shock is strongest, and is then suddenly flung back with all the greater violence, creating the inundation” and he does not think “that tidal waves could occur without an earthquake (3.89. 5).

The historian explains the supernatural and rationalizes the irrational. The landscape of tsunamigenic origin could not be associated with any divinity. The story emphasizes the power of nature and reflects 28 Gomme HCT I, ad loc. For a possible analogy between the tsunami in Thucydides and the deluge in Olympian Ode 9 of Pindar, see Giannini 2007, 51 – 55, esp. 54 – 55. 29 K]cousi d³ ja· t/r ûAtak\mtgr t/r pq¹r Eqbo_ai t± l]sa N^clator cemol]mou di\pkoum d]nashai, letan» ja· t_m ped_ym 5mia ja· l]wqi eUjosi stad_ym 1pijkush/mai, ja· tqi^qg tim± 1j t_m meyq_ym 1naiqehe?sam rpeqpese?m toO te_wour (FGrHist 85 F 6). 30 Tgkijo}tour d³ to»r seislo»r sum]bg cem]shai jat± pokk± l]qg t/r :kk\dor, ¦ste ja· p|keir tim±r 1pihakatt_our 1pijk}sasam tµm h\kattam diavhe?qai, ja· jat± tµm Kojq_da weqqom^sou jahest~sgr N/nai l³m t¹m Qshl|m, poi/sai d³ m/som tµm amolafol]mgm )tak\mtgm (12.59.2).

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the antithesis between land and sea. The self-transformation of the watery landscape is again not anthropogenic, it destroys the domestication and the sedentary settlements and imposes the nomadism. The brutality of the natural world reflects the violence of the war. Another example of a “productive” watery landscape is the strait between Rhegium and Messene. The historian explains that there is very little distance between the promontory at the point, where Sicily is nearest the mainland;31 and it is the Charybdis, so called, through which Odysseus is said to have sailed. According to P. Rhodes “the identification with Scylla and Charybdis was regularly accepted by later Greeks, but this is the earliest surviving text to mention it”32. However, the first mention is not in Thucydides, but in Homer (Od. 12, 234 – 262).33 The third mention is in the work Peq· haulas_ym !jousl\tym (De Mirabilibus Auscultationibus) of an unknown paradoxographer (3rd cent. BCE.): 1j c±q toO TuqqgmijoO pek\cour pokk` No_f\ veq|lemom t¹m jk}dyma pqosb\kkeim pq¹r !lv|teqa t± !jqyt^qia, t¹ l³m t/r Sijek_ar, t¹ d³ t/r Ytak_ar, t¹ pqosacoqeu|lemom gQ^ciom. P. Rhodes comments that “at its narrowest point the strait between Italy and Sicily is c. 1 34 miles (2.8 km) across”. On account of its narrowness and because the water falls into it from two great seas, the Tyrrhenian off the west coast of Italy and the Sicilian east of Sicily, and is full of currents, it has naturally been considered dangerous: 1sp_ptousa B h\kassa 1r aqt¹ ja· No~dgr owsa eQj|tyr wakepµ 1mol_shg (4.24. 4). The historian destroys the fable and explains the natural curiosity. But the rationalization of the legendary watery landscape does not alwayshappen. When Thucydides speaks about the Liparaeans, the inhabitants of the Lipara (today Lipari), one small island in the group of the seven “Aeolian Islands”34 between Sicily and Italy, and farmers of the other three islands, Didyme (today Salina), Strongyle (today Stromboli), Hiera (today Vulkano), he makes a commentary about the belief of the people “that Hephaestus has his forge on Hiera, as it can be seen emitting copious fire at night and smoke by day”.35 In this case, the historian has no intention to calumniate the conviction of the peo31 32 33 34 35

Hammond 2009, 544. Ibid. Cf. Vanotti 1997 and 2007. Cf. Poseidonios from Apameia (or from Rhodes), FGrHist 87 F 88. Cf. Poseidonios from Apameia (or from Rhodes), FGrHist 87 F 88 and Pausanias, 10.11.4.

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ple about the “mythistory” of the volcanic uncivilized landscape. He seems to respect the popular imagination, not least because of the efficacy of the image. Not very surprising. For Thucydides the perception of the environmental transformation is not a normality, but a metabole. Thucydides conceptualized the environmental transformation as less anthropocentric and more abstract than Herodotus.

9. Concluding Remarks The self-transformation of a watery landscape is a more “productive” process as the artificial transformation of the continental landscape. The local identity of the continental landscape is more stable and coherent. Even if a continental landscape changes, this happens sometimes because of the water level transformation. In the transformation of the hydrological topography, there is not always place for a utilitarian aspect of landscape. This may have something to do with the cultural perception of the transformation. According to Thucydides’ system of classification, the transformation of the watery landscape creates a ritual space which overthrows all conventional expectations. Sacred landscape had many identities. The historian underlines the purifying force of the water and its metaphoric meaning. Transformation of the watery landscape had become a ritual process of personal purification over time and space. However, it is not only a ritual scenery, but a large-scale interpretation of the man-dominated action, a reaction to the human primitiveness, an environmental protest. Each landscape’s Topos has its authority. The brutal change of the hydrological topography reflects symbolically the notion of metabole in the natural world. The destructive outbreak of the watery topography indicates that the balance between man and natural forces is disturbed or lost. So, to conclude, water and man are following a similar way in the work of Thucydides.36 Every man seems to be like Alcmaeon who tries to find a refuge from the “civilized” space in a wild, uncultivated landscape.

36 “Water is life. This is not modern knowledge, but goes back to old traditions and experiences of mankind”: Lembke 2004, 305.

III. Thucydides and Politics

“Reading” Athens: Foreign Perceptions of the Political Roles of Athenian Leaders in Thucydides* Sarah Brown Ferrario Introduction: Why “Read” Athens? Athenian democracy was a complex system that depended upon the interaction of what Ober has called ‘masses and elites’,1 and Thucydides explores this relationship quite closely.2 Pericles’ speeches suggest that he and the dÞmos share the guidance of the state (e. g. Th. 1.144.2 – 3);3 Nicias tries to avoid being named his people’s agent and fears their anger (6.8.4, 7.14.1 – 4, et al.); Alcibiades implies that the dÞmos simply cannot enjoy success without him (6.16.1 – 18.7, 8.47.2 – 48.1, 8.53.3 – 54.2 et al.). In short, Thucydides’ Athenian leaders are conscious of the essential roles that they play in the operation of the Athenian government, and they manipulate both perceptions and realities for their desired ends. Outsiders, whether allies or enemies, who are in contact with Thucydidean Athens might therefore do well to understand – and exploit – the political positions of these leaders. But is this really what takes place? Do other states in Thucydides appreciate the central position of eminent individuals in Athenian politics? I begin here with two well-known passages from Thucydides’ Book 1 that introduce some important ways in which other states understand *

1 2 3

I remain very grateful to the Municipality of Alimos (Mr. Thanos Orphanos, Mayor); to Professors Antonis Tsakmakis (Chairman of the Symposium) and Melina Tamiolaki, and to the other Members of the Organizing Committee; to the other scholars of the 4th International Symposium for Thucydides; and to all those who collaborated to make the Symposium such an extraordinary experience. I would also like to thank E. Baragwanath for reading this project in draft and providing substantive comments that helped to improve its argumentation, and L. Neville for providing additional stylistic assistance. Ober 1989. See Rood 1998, 142 – 5, 148 – 9, 189 – 91; Gribble 2006, 468 et passim; Tsakmakis 2006. All passages from Thucydides are hereafter cited by number only.

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Athens, and that also highlight the special position of Sparta as a “reader” of its chief adversary. In my second section, I examine some of the methods used by Thucydides’ Spartans (and Syracusans) to acquire and exploit knowledge about internal Athenian politics. I suggest that the Spartans’ interest in this information not only dates back to long before the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, but also helps to explain their eventual acceptance of advice from Alcibiades near the conclusion of Book 6.4 My third and final section notes that Thucydides’ treatment of this kind of interstate political knowledge is very selective when compared with the avenues of information exchange available in the Greek world of the late fifth century, and suggests that this deliberate shaping highlights some intangible but very important combatant “resources” that were already in place at the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War.

1. First “Readings” of Athens in Book 1: The Corinthians and the Spartans Two passages in Book 1 show outsiders engaging very differently with the relationship between individual leaders and the general populace at Athens: the Corinthian sketch of Athenian and Spartan character (especially 1.70.1 – 9), and the Spartan demand that the Athenians drive out the curse of the Alcmeonids by expelling Pericles (1.126.2 – 127.3). The contrast that the Corinthians draw between the Athenians and the Spartans during the Peloponnesian conference5 takes no real account of the role of individual leadership in Athenian public life. “The Athenians” in the Corinthians’ characterization are monolithic, possessed only of a collective temperament and a collective will. Admittedly, Thucydides often tends to make polis groups into verbal protagonists,6 and the Corinthians’ rhetorical goal both in this passage and elsewhere7 is to place “the Athenians” in opposition to their immediate listening 4 5 6 7

Alcibiades arrives in Sparta at 6.88.9. Crane 1992a, 228 – 9 reviews some previous readings of this passage; see also notes 8 and 9, below. E.g. de Romilly 1963, 59; de Romilly 1966, 6 – 8; Cogan 1981, 192 – 6, 197 – 211 passim, 241 – 8; Pope 1988, 277 – 82; Whitehead 1996 esp. 6 – 11; Rood 1998, 231. This passage: 1.70.1 – 9. The first speech of the Corinthians: 1.68.1 – 71.7. The second speech of the Corinthians: 1.120.1 – 124.3.

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audiences. But Thucydides’ organization of the replies to the points that the Corinthians present suggests that they have omitted an essential component of Athenian power. De Romilly and others have shown, using connections in rhetoric, substance, and argument, that the two speeches of the Corinthians at Sparta are actually “answered” several times by Athenians, once directly by the Athenian ambassadors, and then indirectly by Pericles on two different occasions.8 This architecture broadly suggests that both collective and individual voices participate in Athenian politics, and this is implicitly reiterated in the emphases of Pericles’ own two “replies” to the Corinthians: his first speech outlining his war strategy near the conclusion of Book 1 and the Funeral Oration in Book 2. Pericles’ first speech shows him as his city’s chief strategist, confronting the contents of the Corinthians’ second speech. In the Funeral Oration, however, Pericles constructs a broader image of the Athenian spirit, citing many of the same qualities mentioned by the Corinthians in their character-sketch of Athens,9 while also carefully minimizing his own political and social prominence.10 This complex relationship between the Athenian leader and the populace, further treated by Thucydides in the passage containing Pericles’ obituary (2.65.1 – 13),11 receives no account from the Corinthians. Even if, as Luginbill and others have suggested, the Corinthians’ first speech may generally represent Athenian (and Spartan) character

8 De Romilly 1963, 27 – 9, 113 – 18 (Pericles’ “first speech”); 34 – 5, 266 (speech of the Athenian ambassadors). De Romilly (147 n. 1) sees the Funeral Oration as rather more distinct, but many other scholars view it as a partial reply to the Corinthians: see note 9, below. 9 The Funeral Oration lasts from 2.35.1 – 46.2; on its connections with the Corinthian sketch of Athenian character, e. g. Gomme HCT I, 231 – 2 ad 1.70.8; Podlecki 1975, 75; Edmunds 1975, 44, 67 – 8, 87 – 8; Connor 1984, 67; Forde 1989, 18 – 20; Hornblower 1991, 298 ad 2.36.4. 10 Loraux 1986b, 233 – 8, emphasizing how this is accomplished at the opening of the speech. 11 Gribble 1999, 172 – 3 suggests that Thucydides’ preceding narrative has foregrounded Pericles’ role in Athenian politics at the expense of other individuals (cf. also Pouncey 1980, 72 – 3). My aim in this section, however, is to use this more thorough coverage to show that, in Thucydides’ account, the Spartans’ understanding of Pericles’ position is far more nuanced than the Corinthians’ interpretation of it.

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as depicted later in the text,12 it is clearly not a comprehensive view of Athenian internal politics. Immediately following the Corinthians’ second speech, however, the Spartans demonstrate a far subtler appreciation of the role of the individual leader at Athens, when they pursue the removal of Pericles under the guise of the expiation of the curse of the Alcmeonids (1.126.2 – 127.3). In the summary that closes this section, the Spartans interpret Pericles as the controller of Athenian foreign policy, “thinking that, if he were banished, they would find it easier to get from the Athenians the concessions they hoped for” (1.127.1).13 They anticipate, however, a lesser result, perhaps that they will be able to use the curse as a diabolÞ to “discredit him with his fellow-citizens” (1.127.2). The next sentence, noting that Pericles is dumat¾tator ja· %cym tµm pokite¸am, “most powerful and the leader of the state”, and that “he was opposed to the Lacedaimonians in all things” represents a change in focalization: as Badian notes, these thoughts actually belong not to the Spartans, but to the historiographic narrator.14 But the transition is nearly seamless, and the sentiments harmonious from one sentence to the next. As has frequently been pointed out, the alignment of the words or ideas of characters with those of the narrator is an important cue in Thucydides.15 Here, the historian re-articulates the Spartans’ perspective using stronger language that represents Pericles as the Spartans’ 12 Luginbill 1999 esp. 82 – 172 (cf. Rood 2000); e. g. also Wassermann 1964 esp. 296; Edmunds 1975, 89 – 97; Pouncey 1980, 57 – 63; Cogan 1981, 212 – 14; Connor 1984, 39 – 42; Forde 1989, 17 – 40; Rood 1998, 43 – 5, 47, 149, 189, 235 – 7, 317 ad 1.70 et al.; Debnar 2001, 3 – 4 et passim; Morrison 2006a, 275 – 6; cf. also Cartledge and Debnar 2006, 561 – 2. Debnar 2001, esp. 10, views the Spartans as growing more rhetorically “Athenian” in the course of Thucydides’ text, and cites (10 – 11 and n. 44) Edmunds 1975 on the Spartans becoming more like the Athenians in their practical approach to the war. Connor 1984, 171 – 6 and Luginbill 1999, 173 – 88 (cited and discussed by Rood 2000) note the same of the Syracusans. 13 All English translations quoted throughout this chapter are from Smith 1919 – 23, the Loeb edition, unless otherwise indicated. 14 Badian 1993b, 152 – 3. I am grateful to J. Reynolds for discussing this sentence with me. On focalization in Thucydides, e. g. Edmunds 1975, 4, 176 – 204; Rood 1998, 10 – 13, 20 – 1. 15 E.g. Pouncey 1980, 13 – 15; Hornblower 1991, vol. 1, 114 ad 1.70.1, with additional references; Rood 1998, 20, 33 – 4 (citing at 33 n. 25 de Romilly 1956b, 123 – 61), 45; Gribble 1999, 159 – 213 passim, e. g. 176 – 7; Debnar 2001, 19, 22; Morrison 2006a esp. 253 – 4.

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personal, individual enemy.16 (This implication is strengthened when the prominent superlative dumat¾tator recurs as Pericles is introduced to give his first speech, in which he advocates that Athens go to war with Sparta).17 The Spartans’ apparent failure to use the curse to damage Pericles, along with Thucydides’ rhetorical “correction” of their views, suggests that the Spartans partly understand but cannot fully appreciate Pericles’ deep engagement in Athenian political life.18 These two passages, then, introduce a theme that persists in the remainder of Thucydides’ narrative: Sparta’s special interest in the roles of individuals in Athenian politics. I will now therefore explore some Spartan (and Syracusan) “readings” of Themistocles, Pericles, Cleon, and Nicias, and suggest that the Spartan responses to these Athenian leaders, in particular, help to contextualize their reception of Alcibiades after he defects from Athens.

2. Long Interest and Imperfect Knowledge: Spartan and Syracusan “Readings” of Athens As Debnar has pointed out, Alcibiades seems an unlikely candidate for the Spartans’ trust when he appears before their assembly in Book 6, not least because he had double-crossed the Spartan embassy back in Book 5 (5.43.1 – 46.5).19 Debnar’s analysis of Alcibiades’ negotiations at Sparta, and especially of his speech there (6.89.1 – 92.5), suggests that Alcibiades’ rhetorical “Athenianness” is a key factor in his success. She notes that “the more ‘Athenian’ Alcibiades seems… the more easily he can convince the Spartans that he understands the Athenians”.20 There is also, however, another reason why Alcibiades might have 16 Again, AmamtioOto p²mta to?r Kajedailom¸oir, “he was opposed to the Lacedaimonians in all things” (1.127.3). 17 Compare 1.127.3 with 1.139.4. Gomme HCT III, 461 ad 4.21.3 sees this echo as a sign of “resumption of the narrative, on the same occasion”, but the points at which that narrative is suspended and reintroduced, I would suggest, allow the architecture of the text to provide additional meaning. 18 Badian 1993b, 153 suggests that in the real world the Athenians may have connected the curse of the Alcmeonids with the plague, but correctly notes that Thucydides does not acknowledge this possibility at all. 19 Debnar 2001, 204, 217; on Alcibiades’ diplomatic activities, see also Bolmarcich 2003 esp. 300 – 13, 326 – 9. 20 Debnar 2001, 201 – 20, and at 214; see also Cogan 1981, 214.

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seemed especially valuable: the Spartans already had some understanding of his likely importance within the Athenian political system. Debnar is doubtless correct that Spartan experiences during the war have contributed to their desire to exploit Alcibiades,21 but the Spartans’ general interest in powerful individuals dates back, in Thucydides’ account, to well before the war begins. I return briefly now to the Spartans’ attempt to exploit the curse of the Alcmeonids. Between Thucydides’ two uses of the striking superlative dumat¾tator to describe Pericles (1.127.3 with 1.139.4) comes the much-studied “digression” on Pausanias and Themistocles.22 Here, following a recommendation by E. Baragwanath, I would like to suggest that Thucydides also uses this passage as a foundational demonstration of Spartan experience with the influence of individuals in politics, especially the politics of Athens.23 Pausanias shows the Spartans the danger of leaders who exceed the bounds of their proper authority.24 Thucydides’ account emphasizes Pausanias’ self-aggrandizing behaviors, noting that they motivated his removal,25 a fall that led ultimately to his condemnation and death (1.133.1 – 134.3). But Thucydides also says that the Spartans have learned from their prosecution of Pausanias: the information they have gathered has led them to pursue justice from Themistocles, as well (1.135.2). Was this merely a matter of principle? Likely not: as Jordan has shown, Themistocles had already proven himself to be a career trickster, a character trait that the Spartans likely valued while it was turned to their advantage.26 But then the costly ruse of the Themistoclean Wall demonstrated 21 Debnar 2001, 204. 22 On the digression’s historicity: e. g. Podlecki 1975, 32, 72 – 3 et passim; see also the bibliography collected by Hornblower 1991, 212 ad 1.128 (note esp. Rhodes 1970). On its literary content: e. g. Stewart 1966; Konishi 1970, with reviews of earlier scholarship. The episode has been regarded both as essential and as extraneous: e. g. Westlake 1955, 61; Stewart 1966, 145; Patterson 1993, 145; Rood 1998, 138. 23 I am grateful to E. Baragwanath for suggesting this connection, and for exploring the issue with me in conversation. 24 De Romilly 1963, 263 – 4. 25 1.128.3, recalled at 131.1; 128.7; 130.1 – 2, cf. 95.3; 132.2 – 3. On the “despotic template” established in historiography by Herodotus, see Dewald 2003; on Herodotean interactions in the Pausanias-Themistocles section as a whole, see Patterson 1993. 26 Jordan 1988 esp. 556 – 9.

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to the Spartans at first hand the essential role of the eminent individual leader in Athenian political life.27 The very structure of the text suggests that the wall episode should be recalled at the point where Pausanias’ arrest motivates the prosecution of Themistocles. The Pausanias-Themistocles digression occurs shortly after the Pentekontaetia (which lasts from 1.89.1 – 118.3), a discussion that began with a prominent treatment of the activities of these same two men (1.90.1 – 95.7) and was closely preceded by the Athenian ambassadors at Sparta recollecting Themistocles (1.74.1).28 Certain internal details of the story of the Themistoclean Wall (1.90.1 – 92.1) are of particular interest. Themistocles’ involvement is energetic and varied: he is the chief agent of the deception, from his initial recommendations as to how the Athenians should respond to the Spartans, to his elaborate plan for the construction of new fortifications, to his journey to Sparta to manage the duplicity personally (1.90.3 – 4). But when Themistocles reaches Sparta, he pretends to lack both the authority to speak on his own and the knowledge of what is happening in his home city: he says that he is “waiting for his colleagues”, the other ambassadors, and “wonders that they are not already there” (1.90.5). As Thucydides explains (1.91.1), and as Jordan highlights, Themistocles is here exploiting his existing philia with the Spartans, taking advantage of the expectations inherent in this traditional aristocratic association.29 I would argue that he is doing this in part to direct attention away from the authority he actually enjoys within the Athenian democracy. This contrast between appearances and reality is maintained in Thucydides’ narrative of the next stage of the trick: the Spartans hear that the Athenians are constructing a wall, but Themistocles urges them to dispatch an exploratory mission composed of men who are wqgsto¸ and will provide their information pist_r. This vocabulary can also be connected with the trust-bonds of aristocratic friendship;30 here, it 27 Here I agree with Podlecki rather than with Jordan: see note 33, below. 28 Debnar 2001, 50 suggests that in this speech “the Athenians use evidence of their cooperation with other Greeks in the Persian Wars to minimize the threat now posed to their power”. I would add that Thucydides’ own framing narrative suggests that their attempt is unlikely to succeed, given in particular the Spartans’ later experiences with Themistocles. 29 Jordan 1988, 570; on philia in Greek politics in general during the classical period, see Mitchell 1997 esp. 22 – 72. 30 On the word-root pist-, see Herman 1987, 211 s.v. pista, pistis; cf. also the references collected by Kurke 1999, 44 nn. 8 – 9. On the sense of the term chrÞstos

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emphasizes Themistocles’ dependence upon the premises of his philia with Sparta. But this contrasts sharply with his actions: he arranges for the Spartan observers to be held at Athens in order to ensure his own escape (1.91.3). The position of Themistocles in Athenian political life has given him the necessary authority to accomplish this from afar, even as he pretends that his interstate aristocratic connections are sovereign. All is finally revealed, however, when the hubristic speech that he delivers to the assembled Spartans (1.91.4 – 7)31 emphasizes Athenian collectivity, opening with an image of the polis sheltering all of its citizens and characterizing the current situation as the result of group decision-making (e. g. 1.91.6).32 The Spartans’ reaction is not neutral: as Podlecki has argued, they simply do not immediately show their displeasure at Themistocles (1.92.1).33 But I would contend that they have learned in this context a very important lesson about the influence of powerful individuals in the Athenian democratic political system. In Thucydides’ presentation, this formative experience also points the way towards the Peloponnesian War.34 Both Pausanias’ unpopular conduct, further emphasized through

31 32

33

34

during the later fifth century, e. g. Rosenbloom 2004, 55 – 7, 63 – 6, esp. 56 n. 5. Debnar 2001, 43 further argues that to piston in other contexts was “a Spartan catchword”; if so, this additional example would potentially show Themistocles using the Spartans’ own language against them. There is a textual problem in 1.91.5, with a plural verb, ephasan, in what is otherwise presented in indirect discourse as a speech by an individual. Here, I take the entire speech as belonging to Themistocles himself. Rood 1998, 245 – 6 offers a perspective that complements my analysis here when he reads this speech as expressing principles similar to those of the Athenian envoys at Sparta at 1.73.1 – 78.5, and suggests (246) that “these echoes point to the continuity in Athenian daring and spirit: the spirit which caused the first Spartan anger, the first clear breach at Ithome, and the eventual vote for war, was engendered in Athens by their resistance to the Persian invasion”. Jordan 1988, 570 – 1 believes that the Spartans “directed their concealed anger at the Athenians, not at Themistocles personally”, but quotes (n. 91) Podlecki 1975, 32 on the opposite view, that “Thucydides leaves in no doubt that Spartan animosity towards Themistocles dates from this occasion”. Here, I would agree with Podlecki, although Jordan is certainly correct that overt Spartan vengeance is delayed. Hornblower 1991, 212 ad 1.128 notes that “it is also significant that, like some of the prominent individuals on both sides of the Peloponnesian War itself, these two commanding personalities fell foul of their fellow-citizens”. Badian 1993b, 130 sees this episode as being generally formative of the cooling relationship between Athens and Sparta during the Pentekontaetia, as does

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the echoed references to his “despotic” behavior (1.95.3, 1.130.1 – 2), and Themistocles’ leadership in the development of Athenian seapower (e. g. 1.93.7) are linked to the establishment of the Delian League that becomes the problematic Athenian Empire (1.95.7 – 96.2).35 This may be one of the reasons why Thucydides essentially surrounds the Pentekontaetia with portions of the narrative of Pausanias and Themistocles. It also helps to explain why this particular digression is inserted into the midst of a discussion about Pericles, bracketed with that prominent word dumat¾tator. Pericles is another individual whose authority within Athenian politics the Spartans have now come to appreciate, even if their understanding is necessarily incomplete. Thucydides further explores this in the connections he draws between Pericles and Archidamus. Archidamus’ speech at the Peloponnesian conference (1.80.1 – 85.2) famously resonates with Pericles’ first speech to the Athenians at the conclusion of Book 1 (1.140.1 – 144.4).36 By the time a reader reaches Pericles’ outline of his war plans, then, much of it has already been anticipated by the king of Sparta, which perhaps somewhat undermines the “slowness” of character with which the Corinthians have charged the Spartans (especially at 1.70.1 – 9) and that, as Debnar correctly points out, Archidamus is otherwise at pains to refute.37 Could this also show Archidamus having some understanding of the way that Pericles thinks? 38 The xenia between Pericles and Archidamus is acknowledged early in Book 2, when Pericles fears that his xenos may spare his lands when the Spartans invade. Pericles worries that the preservation of his private estates, whether done for friendly or for sinister reasons, may harm his reputation with the Athenians, and so he transfers his property-rights to the polis instead (2.13.1). The possibility that an existing

35 36 37 38

Gomme HCT I, 260 ad 1.92 (sic). Luginbill 1999, 107 reads the entire Pentekontaetia as demonstrating the Spartan “attitude towards Athenian character and growth”. See also Rood 1999b on the foundational role played by the Persian Wars in Thucydides’ thought, and esp. 146 – 7 on Themistocles and the Pentekontaetia; cf. also We˛cowski (this volume, 153 – 166). See Westlake 1955, 60; Rood 1998, 232; Gribble 2006, 444, with additional references. E.g. Gomme HCT I, 247 – 51 passim, 463 – 4; de Romilly 1963, 30 – 2; Edmunds 1975, 91, 94 – 7; Bloedow 1981, 130 – 5; Hornblower 1991, vol. 1, 226 ad 1.140 – 44; cf. also Debnar 2001, 27 – 9, 59 – 69. Debnar 2001, 66 – 7. On connections between the speech of Archidamus and the Funeral Oration, e. g. Debnar 2001, 68 and n. 28, with references.

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relationship with Archidamus might be manipulated to discredit Pericles likely would have occurred to the Spartans, as well, but the concern is placed by Thucydides only in the mind of Pericles, who moves immediately to address it. As witnessed here, then, interstate friendships are a likely means of acquiring political information in the world of Thucydides’ narrative.39 But they are not entirely reliable: neither the xenia between Pericles and Archidamus nor the philia of Themistocles towards the Spartans40 provides comprehensive or infallible knowledge. The situation with Cleon is somewhat different. Thucydides notes that the outbreak of the Peloponnesian War limited interstate contact (2.1.1), which may help to contextualize the less effective Spartan understanding of Athenian internal politics that emerges in the confrontation over Pylos.41 The Spartan messengers who appeal to the Athenian Assembly for peace and the return of the men stranded on Sphacteria are rebuffed by Cleon, and their mission fails (4.17.1 – 22.3). For Cogan, the Spartans use the wrong tone and “the wrong arguments both for the circumstances and for their audience”.42 For Debnar, the Spartan messengers present their actual proposals in Athenian-sounding rhetoric, which suggests that they may have some insight into Athenian character. However, they still appear to have underestimated Cleon, who argues so strongly against their requests that it seems they may otherwise have succeeded.43 In either case, the incident effectively demonstrates Cleon’s rhetorical and political primacy at Athens. Thucydides shows this by creating a direct verbal confrontation between Cleon on the one hand and “the Spartans” on the other. Cleon advocates policies to which the Spartan ambassadors cannot agree

39 On the literary importance of the association between Pericles and Archidamus, cf. Wassermann 1953, 197; on the real-world possibilities for informationgathering (Russell’s title) through elite relationships, e. g. Gerolymatos 1986; Russell 1999, 76 – 83. 40 Cf. Jordan 1988, 570. On Thucydides’ literary connections between Themistocles and Pericles, e. g. de Romilly 1963, 119, 231 – 2; Podlecki 1975, 74 – 5; Pouncey 1980, 70 – 2; Connor 1984, 50; Patterson 1993, 151; Rood 1998, 138. 41 On the acquisition and distribution of information through envoys and heralds, see Russell 1999, 63 – 76. 42 Cogan 1981, 224 – 7; cf. also Luginbill 1999, 115. 43 Debnar 2001, 160, 163 (with references to prior scholarship also at 148 – 9); cf. esp. 4.21.3 – 22.3.

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(4.21.2 – 3), and “attacks them violently”44 when they ask for a private meeting with a subcommittee. The Spartans here learn another harsh lesson about the influence of individuals in Athenian politics – a connection that I suggest is underscored by the well-known resonances between Cleon’s introduction into the Assembly meeting and, again, the description of Pericles in the Alcmeonid curse passage in Book 1. Where Pericles was dumat¾tator… ja· %cym tµm pokite¸am, “most powerful… and the leader of his state” (1.127.3), Cleon here is dglacycºr and t` pk¶hei piham¾tator, “a popular leader… who had [most] influence with the multitude” (4.21.3).45 There is, however, one particular Spartan in Thucydides who displays an especial talent for “reading” both Cleon and the Athenians: Brasidas.46 This is most effectively revealed in Thucydides’ narrative of the final confrontation between Brasidas and Cleon in Thrace. Brasidas’ suspicion that Cleon will attack immediately (5.6.3, cf. 5.7.1) is borne out, although, like the Spartans’ interpretation of the curse of the Alcmeonids, his understanding of his opponent’s motivations is not entirely accurate. Thucydides’ description of the soldiers’ discontent and of Cleon’s pride (he does not want his men to think him inferior to Brasidas, 5.7.1 – 2) 47 initially suggests that Cleon may rush into battle before his support troops arrive. But Thucydides then surprises the reader: Cleon moves his men only to explore his surroundings; he does not actually anticipate fighting (5.7.2 – 5). The initial implication of the passage, then, is that Brasidas somehow senses an uncomfortable relationship between Cleon and his men, and expects impetuous behavior from Cleon as a result. Despite the fact that Brasidas essentially misconstrues Cleon’s 44 Jk]ym d³ 1mtaOha dµ pok»r 1m]jeito (4.22.2). The word-root meij- connotes verbal strife: e. g. Martin 1989, 67 – 76. 45 Translation here slightly altered from Smith’s 1919 – 23 Loeb edition. Due to this and other echoes, Cleon is often construed as a foil to Pericles in Thucydides: e. g. Connor 1971, 120, with references; Cairns 1982, 203. Gomme, HCT III, 461 – 2 ad 4.21.3 recommends care here in interpreting the connotation of the word dglacycºr, which he suggests need not be negative. 46 On specific verbal connections between Brasidas’ activities in the north and Demosthenes’ and Cleon’s activities at Pylos, which could be seen as further strengthening my suggestions here, see Connor 1984, 127 – 9. On the interpretation of motives in Thucydides, cf. Tamiolaki (this volume, 41 – 72). 47 On Brasidas’ “Athenian” (or “un-Spartan”) qualities, e. g. Wassermann 1964, 292 – 5; Westlake 1968, 148 – 9; Edmunds 1975, 90; Connor 1984, 129; Pouncey 1980, 118 – 21; Luginbill 1999, 116; Debnar 2001, 171 – 200 passim, esp. 171 – 5.

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military intentions, the results are the same. Cleon places himself and his troops in danger, and Brasidas strikes, even predicting from the Athenians’ physical motions that they will not be prepared to hold off the Spartans (5.10.5).48 In the case of Nicias, knowledge of his political position at Athens is initially exploited by the Syracusans, rather than the Spartans. The speech of Hermocrates at Syracuse after the dispatch of the Athenian expedition makes a series of prescient points in its conclusion (especially 6.34.4 – 8):49 the Athenians risk becoming trapped in Sicily; their potential for finding local refuge may be limited; they “would be discouraged” (6.34.5) upon a setback.50 Hermocrates is, as the Spartans have been before, right about the ultimate outcome but wrong in an important detail: the Athenians will not be turned back in the manner he proposes, before Tarentum, and straightaway (6.34.4), but rather at Syracuse itself, after a long siege. A similar pattern occurs in his striking reference to Nicias. Although he believes – again wrongly – that the effects will appear before the Athenians have even crossed over from Corcyra, Hermocrates suggests that the Athenians “in dismay at the unexpected turn of events would abandon the expedition, especially as the most experienced of their generals takes command, as I hear, against his will, and would gladly seize on an excuse to abandon it if any considerable opposition on our part were observed” (6.34.6).51 The word that Hermocrates uses of Nicias’ reticence, %jym, is also used by Thucydides of Nicias a few chapters earlier, when Nicias “reluctantly” ventures the number of ships that might be appropriate for the Sicilian ex48 Hunter 1973, 30 – 41 presents a close reading of this episode, suggesting that Thucydides has “work[ed] back from known results to purposes, from facts to probable motives” (40). 49 Beyond these predictions, Bloedow 1996, 142 – 3 points out that Hermocrates further believes himself to be knowledgeable and correct (6.32.3 – 33.1); Hunter 1973, 155 shows that Hermocrates also seems to know the content of the debate that has taken place at Athens over the Sicilian expedition (6.33.2; see also the references collected by Bloedow 1993, 115 n. 2). 50 Hunter 1973, 159 highlights the accuracy of this prediction. 51 Bloedow 1993, 123 suggests that this “piece of knowledge demonstrates how on top of the situation [Hermocrates] was and how impeccable were his sources”. Thucydides nevertheless does not indicate how Hermocrates has acquired this information: note the comment of Gomme, Andrewes, Dover, HCT IV, 300 ad 6.34.6 that “the volume of maritime traffic throughout the eastern Mediterranean must have ensured that gossip of any port was soon known in another”, and see the discussion in the body text at note 66, below.

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pedition (6.25.2). The word is comparatively rare in Thucydides, employed approximately 22 times in all its forms,52 and no other incidences appear between these two. Its prominence here is likely intentional: Hermocrates is aware of Nicias’ problematic relationship with the Athenian dÞmos, and Spartan experience thus far has demonstrated that this could potentially be very useful information.53 The lynchpin that connects Syracusan and Spartan knowledge of Athenian politics is Alcibiades’ visit to the Spartans after he defects. His speech to them (6.89.1 – 92.5), in addition to its other rhetorical strategies,54 recollects in its performance and its content several of the sources that the Spartans have so far employed in order to understand Athenian internal politics. Most notably, Alcibiades appears before the Spartan assembly as if he were a diplomat,55 and he prominently invokes his family’s proxenia with Sparta and his own cultivation of that relationship (6.89.2), but he claims to know Athenian secrets like a deserter (especially 6.92.5).56 And one very important piece of Alcibiades’ knowledge, although he does not mention it explicitly, is precisely what was articulated by Hermocrates at Syracuse: Alcibiades is deeply acquainted with Nicias’ conservativism and his hesitancy before the dÞmos. This was demonstrated, most notably, in the debate at Athens over the Sicilian expedition (6.8.1 – 26.2), where it was essentially acted out in public. Alcibiades now exaggerates to the Spartans what the Athenians might do in Sicily (6.90.1 – 91.1),57 but part of the reason why he knows that a Spartan commander might succeed there is because he understands Nicias. Alcibiades’ self-professed acquaintance with the inner 52 As revealed through a TLG search. 53 The Syracusans in Thucydides are often compared to the Athenians, particularly by virtue of the fact that they are also a democratic city (e. g. Luginbill 1999, 174 – 84). But the kind of knowledge that they possess of the internal politics of Athens, particularly as it is expressed by Hermocrates, is rivaled only by the Spartans. Connor 1984, 171 and citing Avery 1973, 6 suggests that Hermocrates’ speech “in effect… exhorts the Sicilians to transcend their Dorian habits and inheritance and acquire the traits of their opponents”, recommending that they act more like Athens than they do like Sparta. 54 See Debnar 2001, 204 – 16, 231. 55 See Debnar 2001, 226 on Alcibiades’ inflated attitude where he would be expected to display greater humility. 56 Cf. Debnar 2001, 210 – 13, with additional references. 57 Gomme, Andrewes, and Dover HCT IV, 364 ad 6.91.1; Debnar 2001, 208 – 9, 217.

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workings of Athens58 therefore makes more explicit an interest that the Spartans have long sustained, but it does so in a refracted form. Alcibiades as a trickster has sometimes been compared to Themistocles,59 which suggests that Thucydides’ Spartans probably should have been more careful. But the key difference between these two men as sources for true knowledge of Athens is that Themistocles was loyal to his home polis during his time at Sparta; Alcibiades, for the moment, is provably not. He therefore represents a gamble, but it seems to be a gamble worth taking.60 In the end, however, a familiar pattern is repeated: the Spartans’ sense of the motivations at hand is not quite correct.61 They are wrong, of course, to trust Alcibiades (it is, after all, his ability to reconstruct his relationship with the Athenian dÞmos that will finally draw him home again), but they are certainly right to use the strategies that he recommends. At the conclusion of Book 6, then, during the investment of Epipolae, Gylippus arrives in Sicily. Nicias’ failure to see Gylippus and his armament as a threat (6.104.3), particularly given Hermocrates’ and Alcibiades’ knowledge about Nicias and about Athens, strongly suggests that Nicias’ political disposition will continue to be a problem. Indeed, the reticence that Nicias displays during the remainder of the campaign is directly connected by Thucydides to his desire not to anger the Athenian dÞmos: 62 as Tsakmakis puts it, “his fear of public opinion cripples him”.63 In the end, Spartan and Syracusan interest in Athenian internal politics also helps to explain the rather unusual content of Nicias’ death-notice (7.86.2 – 5): the passage emphasizes the consideration of Nicias’ political, military, and socioeconomic position – by the Spartans, the Syracusans, and the Corinthians.

58 See notes 55 and 56, above. 59 E.g. Westlake 1955, 59. 60 See Westlake 1968, 227, citing 6.90.1, 91.1; Gribble 1999, 199; Debnar 2001, 214 – 15. 61 I am grateful to J. Reynolds for conversation that has sharpened my interpretation of the general “competence” of Thucydides’ Spartans. 62 E.g. Tsakmakis 2006, 168 – 9, 171 – 2. On the conservatism that Nicias seems to share with Thucydides’ Spartans, see Edmunds 1975, 109 – 42. 63 Tsakmakis 2006, 169.

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3. Selective “Reading” and Practical Knowledge in Thucydides Thucydides’ Spartans, then, display a particular interest in the roles of individual leaders at Athens and have some likely methods for the acquisition of this information. But when this is balanced against “realworld” ways of learning about the internal politics of other states, it appears that Thucydides’ coverage is quite selective.64 There were many mechanisms by which internal political knowledge could be shared in the late fifth century:65 one thinks, for example, of casual travel and socialization; trade and business relationships;66 encounters at sanctuaries and panhellenic games;67 imperial legislation, interstate political relationships, and diplomacy;68 theatrical performances;69 elite friendships, formalized and otherwise;70 and even the giving and taking of hostages.71 As Low points out, many of the “nomoi which surround interstate activity” do surface in Thucydides’ text.72 But there is a significant 64 E.g. Badian 1993b, 149 – 52; cf. also Luginbill 1999, 203. 65 See e. g. the general studies of Starr 1974 and Russell 1999, both of whom provide examples beyond those selected here. 66 Cf. note 51, above. 67 Although it likely also represented an opportunity for the exchange of information that reaches outside of the scope of Thucydides’ text (and although, as Debnar 2001, 102 – 7 suggests, the location likely had propagandistic value), the conference at Olympia (3.8.1 – 15.1) is represented as a deliberate gathering of members of the Peloponnesian League. Thucydides does acknowledge that the Athenians learn about Chian plans at the Isthmian Games at 8.10.1, which might accord with the observations of Westlake 1989b that Thucydides’ appreciation of diplomacy seems to grow more complex and subtle as his work progresses. 68 See e. g. Bolmarcich 2003, who reviews earlier discussions at 6 – 41; among her selections, of particular note on diplomacy are Mosley 1973 and Adcock and Mosley 1975. 69 Smith 2004, 47 – 65 discusses representations of Sicily on the Athenian stage and notes that Thucydides shares in the same repertory of ideas; de Romilly 1963, 133 – 6 does the same for patriotic expressions in Euripides. Neither, of course, suggests that Thucydides overtly treats drama as a means for political communication. On politics in Old Comedy, e. g. recently Rusten 2006; Van Steen 2007; Sidwell 2009. 70 E.g. Herman 1987; Mitchell 1997, both of which are discussed by Bolmarcich (note 68, above). 71 Cf. the tradition related to the captivity of Philip of Macedon at Thebes: e. g. Heskel 1987, 37 – 8; Hammond 1997. 72 Low 2007, 224.

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difference between the external representation of processes and the treatment of the internal information that derives from them. Even given Westlake’s conviction that Thucydides’ interest in individualdriven diplomacy grows in the course of the war,73 reciprocal knowledge of the positions of individuals in the politics of other states is a factor that the historian explores in less detail.74 Thucydides’ well-known tendencies towards “impersonal” historical writing75 and his deliberate maintenance of his own rhetorical authority are doubtless contributing factors to this situation.76 As historian and as narrator, Thucydides knows more than do any of his other states or human characters, and their limitations, as he depicts them, cast his own knowledge into higher relief. Sparta’s special concern for internal Athenian politics also helps to construct Sparta as a worthy opponent for Athens. This, too, has been diagnosed as an important theme in Thucydides, especially in his treatment of Brasidas.77 It has been argued, in fact, that Sparta becomes an increasingly potent and innovative adversary as Thucydides’ text progresses, outstripping Athens at some of its traditional strengths and becoming in the end more like the Corinthian depiction of Athenian temperament than like the Spartan one.78 I have suggested here, however, that long before the war begins, Thucydides’ Spartans have already begun to apprehend the roles of individuals in Athenian politics and to understand the tactical importance of that knowledge, as demonstrated by the Pausanias-Themistocles digression in Book 1.79 It would seem, therefore, that Thucydides’ Cor73 Westlake 1989b esp. 19; but see also de Bakker (this volume, 23 – 40). 74 Cf. de Romilly 1966, 4 – 5. Rood 1998, 135 – 58 explores the gaps in Thucydides’ coverage of certain features of Athenian politics; see also 216 – 22 on “omissions in the Pentekontaetia”. 75 E.g. the discussion of Gribble 2006, 441, and see also note 6, above. 76 I am grateful to G. Seelentag for calling my attention to this. On Thucydidean authority, see Marincola 1997, 359 s.v. “Thucydides”; Rood 2006. 77 E.g. Westlake 1962; Hornblower 1996, vol. 2, 334 – 5, ad 4.104 – 5. 78 E.g. Wassermann 1964, 290, 292, 296; Debnar 2001, who traces this change through rhetoric, introducing the argument at 2 – 3, 10 – 11; see also note 12, above. Luginbill 1999, 123 – 4 grants some of the strategic innovations but prefers to see Spartan national character as remaining essentially consistent. On learning in general in Thucydides, see Hunter 1973, 171 – 4, 178, 182 – 3. Westlake 1968 has suggested that Thucydides’ treatment of individuals shifts in the course of his narrative as he realizes their general importance in the motion of the war, but cf. Gribble 1999, 159 – 62. 79 See note 23, above.

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inthians back at the Peloponnesian conference were not only limited in their own understanding of Athenian political systems, but also not entirely aware of the potential power immanent in the Spartans’ growing knowledge.80 The Spartans’ appreciation of the political position of the individual leader in Thucydidean Athens, while necessarily imperfect, is second only to that of the Athenians and of Thucydides himself. It proves to be an important factor in the course of the narrative, but it originates in the experiences of the years immediately following the Persian Wars: another case of the events of the Pentekontaetia laying the groundwork for what happened later.81

80 This observation was prompted by the summary at Andrews 2000, 53 – 4. 81 On this function of the Pentekontaetia, e. g. Westlake 1955, 66; Rood 1998, 225, with additional references.

Thucydides and the Masses Suzanne Sad In a seminar on theatrical similes last fall, my attention was drawn to Thucydides’ portrait of the masses by Cleon’s harsh criticism of the Athenian assembly at 3.37.5 – 38.7. He begins with a criticism of the orators eager to outdo one another in a contest of intelligence and wit by giving to the people some paradoxical advice (wqµ ja· Bl÷r poioOmtar lµ deimºtgti ja· num´seyr !c_mi 1paiqol´mour paq± dºnam t` rlet´q\ pk¶hei paqaime?m, 37.5). But he shifts most of the blame onto the masses.

As opposed to the theatrical contests, which gave an opportunity of enjoyment to all the citizens, as said by Pericles in the funeral oration,1 the competitions which take place on the Pnyx are harmful, since “the city in such contests awards prizes to others, but takes the risks upon herself (B d³ pºkir 1j t_m toi_mde !c¾mym t± l³m ühka 2t´qoir d¸dysim, aqtµ d³ to»r jimd¼mour !ma¦´qei, 38.3). And the citizens themselves are responsible for it. First, as ago¯nothetes,2 they badly manage the competition (aUtioi d’ rle?r jaj_r !cymohetoOmter, 38.4). Moreover, instead of reacting as citizens reaching a decision charged with consequences, they behave like a passive theatre audience: they are “spectators of words”, (heata· l³m t_m kºcym), since they only see exchanges of words and “hearers of deeds” (!jqoata· d³ t_m 5qcym, 38.4), since the deeds (battles, murders, suicides etc.) never happen on stage in Greek theatre, but are always reported by a messenger. “Overcome by the pleasure of listening, they look more like spectators of the sophists than men deliberating over the state” ("pk_r te !jo/r Bdom0 Bss¾lemoi ja· so¦ist_m heata?r 1oijºter jahgl´moir l÷kkom C peq· pºkeyr boukeuol´moir, 38.7)”. Finally, the distinction between actors and audience in this perverted theatre is blurred with citizens who want to take the stage and enter the contest 1 2

Th. 2.38.1 Wilson 2000, 272: “the title of agonothetes was quite common in as early as the fifth century for managers of various musical agones…their principal task was the arrangement of agones. They were to ensure that the competitions of the Athenians were ‘as fine as possible’ and ‘worthy of the ambition of the demos’”. Cf. IG II2 682. 53 – 56.

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with the politicians: “each man would like most of all to speak himself or, failing that, to be able to rival those who speak like that by not seeming to fall short of them in judgement (ja· l²kista l³m aqt¹r eQpe?m 6jastor boukºlemor d¼mashai, eQ d³ l¶, !mtacymifºlemoi to?r toiaOta k´cousi lµ vsteqoi !jokouh/sai doje?m t0 cm¾l,). His conclusion is an ironical echo of Gorgias’ praise of the theatre audience, where “the one who is deceived is wiser than the one who is not” (b !patghe·r so¦¾teqor toO lµ !patgh´mtor3): dazzled by the skill of the orators, the Athenian masses are indeed “the best at being deceived by the novelty of an argument” (ja· let± jaimºtgtor l³m kºcou !pat÷shai %qistoi, 38.5). Relying on this unflattering assesssment of the behaviour of the Athenians masses by an orator who was, according to Thucydides, “of all the citizens, the most violent and with the people at that time the most influential” (£m ja· 1r t± %kka biaiºtator t_m pokit_m t` te d¶l\ paq± pok» 1m t` tºte piham¾tator, 3.36.6), most critics, beginning with Hobbes, have pinned an anti-democratic label on Thucydides.4 It is the purpose of this paper here to question such a conclusion and examine the status of the masses as opposed to the elite in Thucydides’ History, a reality put on the map of modern scholarship by J. Ober’s book, Mass and Elite in Democratic Athens in 1989. Instead of focusing on political dissent or internal war, as did J. Ober (1998) and J. Price (2001), investigating the techniques used by the leader to control the masses, as did recently A. Tsakmakis (2006), I will first rely on the vocabulary, reviewing the occurrences of all the words designating the masses, that is not only d/lor, like F. Frazier, E. Lévy and Mauro Moggi,5 or flikor and ewkor, like V. Hunter6 but also pk/hor, oR pokko_, oR pke_our, t¹ pk]om. And second, instead of analyzing Thucydides’ judgement on democracy and oligarchy as did K. Raaflaub (2006), I will try to assess more precisely the part and the place given to the masses in the rare definitions of the regimes which appear in the speeches but also in the narrative of Thucydides.

3 4 5 6

DK 82 B 23. See Pope 1988, 276 Frazier 2003; Lévy 2003 and 2009; Moggi 2005. Hunter 1988.

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1. The vocabulary Thucydides’ use of the vocabulary for mass and its antonym, elite, is usually quite neutral. He mostly uses demos “people” as opposed to “the powerful” (oR dumato_)7 – “the few”(ak_coi)8 or “the landowners” (oR ceylºqoi, 8. 21.1). He also applies this word to the citizen population as a whole and to the sovereign Athenian people, especially in its capacity as ekklesia. 9 Orators put to good use this ambiguity of demos. The Syracusan Athenagoras purposefully conflates the two meanings, presenting the demos, that is the “popular party”, as the whole citizenry as opposed to “rule of the few, who are a mere part” (1c½ d´ ¦gli pq_ta l³m d/lom n¼lpam ¡mol²shai, akicaqw¸am d³ l´qor, 6.9.31). At 6.89.3 – 4, in a speech in front of the Spartan assembly, Alcibiades, in order to overcome the prejudices aroused by his links to the demos = popular party (“if anyone thought the worse of me because I was rather on the side of the people” eU tir, diºti ja· t` d¶l\ pqoseje¸lgm l÷kkom, we¸qy le 1mºlife) also broadens the meaning of demos which becomes the name given to any force that opposes dictatorship (p÷m d³ t¹ 1mamtio¼lemom t` dumaste¼omti d/lor ¡mºlastai). Plethos may also be used exactly like demos for all the citizens and the assembly.10 And “the many” or “the majority” (oR pokko_, oR pke_our, t¹ pk]om) are often opposed to “the few”, that is the members of the elite.11 In oligarchic pamphlets such as the so called Pseudo-Xenophon, Constitution of the Athenians, value words for the mass and the elite are the rule. The “wealthy” and the “men with means”12 are usually called “the good”, “the better”, “the best”, “the most able”, or “the noble”,13 and praised for their “excellence”,14 “their scrupulous care for what is 7 1.24.5, 2.65.2, 3.47.3, 5.4.3, 8.21.1, 73.2; 90.1. 8 3.39.6, 47.2, 74.2, 82.1; 5.81.2; 8.66.5. 9 4.118.11, 14; 5.45.1 – 4; 8.53.1, 54.1 and 3, 66.1, 67.1, 68.1 and Argos 5.27.2, 28.1, 61.1; see Pope 1988, 284 and Moggi 2005, 17 n. 45. 10 1r t¹m d/lom : 6 occurrences / 1r t¹ pk/hor 1. 72.2, 1m t` d^l\ / 1m d^l\: 7 occurrences and 1m pk^hei 4.22.3. 11 4.86.4, 126.2; 6.38.4; 8.66.5, 97.2. 12 Respectively 9 and 1 occurrences. 13 oR wqgsto_: 14 occurrences, oR bekt_our : 1 occurrence, oR %qistoi : 1 occurrence, oR b]ktistoi : 4 occurrences, t¹ b]ktistom : 2 occurrences , oR dumat~tatoi :1 occurrence, oR cemma?oi : 3 occurrences. 14 !qet^: 1 occurrence.

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good”,15 their cleverness and their “wisdom”.16 On the other hand, the masses are branded as “base”, “worse”, or “the worst part”,17 and blamed for their “baseness”, their “ignorance”, their “lack of education”, their “bad government” and their “disorder”.18 In Thucydides, only the speakers belonging to an oligarchy, such as the Thebans,19 or addressing an oligarchic audience, such as Alcibiades at Sparta,20 use such ideologically marked terms. At 8.47.2, b]ktistoi and dumat~tatoi also occur in a message sent by Alcibiades to some Athenian oligarchs and asking these “most powerful men” to present his proposal to the “best”. These words are part of a carefully constructed selfpresentation, where Alcibiades portrays himself as a staunch partisan of oligarchy and associates dglojqat¸a with pomgq¸a. All the other occurrences of pomgq¸a are to be found in parts of the narrative obviously hostile to the informers about the mysteries and the Hermae, or to Hyperbolos.21 Similarly, jak¹r j!cah¹r in a political sense is carefully put into inverted comas at 8.48.6, to¼r te jako»r j!caho»r amolafol´mour, “the so-called gentlemen”, an expression that can only express scepticism about the possession of the qualities implied”.22 Thucydides also uses for the masses two other terms, flikor (17 occurrences) and ewkor (27 occurrences) which are pejorative. First, flikor. This word, which is most often used for military troops,23 crowds of foreigners as opposed to the Athenians24 or mixed crowds,25 occurs twice “in passages where he [Thucydides] comments negatively and with what appears to be contempt on the behaviour of 15 16 17 18

1.5 !jq_beia pke_stg 1r t± wqgst\. Deniyt\tour : 2 occurrences, sov_a : 1 occurrence. Pomgqo_: 8 occurrences, we_qour : 2 occurrences, t¹ j\jistom : 1 occurrence. Pomgq_a : 2 occurrences, !lah_a : 3 occurrences, !paideus_a : 1 occurrence, jajomol_a : 1 occurrence, !tan_a : 1 occurrence. For the use of this vocabulary

in fifth century literature, see Rosenbloom 2004, 59 – 63. 19 At 3.65.2 – 3 the Thebans distinguish among the Plataeans between “the men who are the first both for wealth an nobility” (%mdqer rl_m oR pq_toi ja· wq¶lasi ja· c´mei) and the “better” (to¼r te !le¸mour) and “the worse” (to¼r te rl_m we¸qour). 20 6.92.3: ¦uc²r te c²q eQli t/r t_m 1nekas²mtym pomgq¸ar. 21 6.53.2 (2 occurrences) and 8.73.3 22 Gomme, Andrews, Dover, HCT V, 110. 23 2.100.6; 4.112.3, 124.2, 125.3; 6.24.3; 7.58.4. See Hunter 1988,18 – 19. 24 4.106.1 25 2.34.8, 36.4, 65.4, 4.106.1, 6.30.2. See Hunter 1988, 19.

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the Athenians assembly”.26 It is worth noticing that in Herodotus’ Histories this word is only used in the constitutional debate of Book 3 by Megabyzus who attacks democracy and describes “the mob” as “useless, unintelligent and hybristic”.27 Second, ewkor. True, at 8.92.10 – 11, this word is twice neutrally used for the sheer number of the Athenian population or for a crowd made of hoplites and men of the Peiraeus.28 But the word may have some negative connotations. It is used twice to describe typical negative reactions of a crowd. At 4.28.3 it is the pleasure the Athenians take in opposing their leader, Cleon. At 6.63.1 – 2 it is the abrupt change from fear to excessive confidence of the Syracusans. The contrast with 8.1.4, where demos is used to introduce a positive comment on the typical behaviour of the mass, is striking; after the Sicilian disaster: “now that they were terrified, just as the people is apt to do (fpeq ¦ike? d/lor poie?m) they were ready to behave with discipline”. In the narrative of Book 8, at 8.48.2 – 3, Thucydides also uses ewkor, when he explains the absence of a vigorous reaction of the “mob” against the oligarchic coup by their greed. The occurrences of ewkor in direct criticisms of democratic regime are even more telling. It appears at 6.89.5, in a speech addressed to the Spartans. Speaking like the Old Oligarch,29 Alcibiades opposes the “moderate” Alcmeonids and “the others, who used to lead the mob into evil ways in the past as well as now (%kkoi d’ Gsam ja· 1p· t_m p²kai ja· mOm oT 1p· t± pomgqºteqa 1n/com t¹m ewkom)”. At 7.8.2 it is also ewkor which is used, when the letter sent by Nicias to the Athenians is explained by his fear that messengers might not report the facts as they really were “in order to say something which would please the masses (t` ewk\ pq¹r w²qim ti k´comter)”, an echo of the criticism heaped by Thucydides himself on the successors of Pericles who decided to follow a policy which pleased the people (1tq²pomto jah’ Bdom±r t` d¶l\ ja· t± pq²clata 1mdidºmai, 2.65.10). mwkor appears also twice in Book 8, in passages expressing the viewpoint of the Four Hundred and their contempt for the “mob”.30

26 27 28 29 30

Hunter 1988, 17. Gdt. 3.81: jl¸kou c±q !wqg¸ou oqd´m 1sti !sumet¾teqom oqd³ rbqistºteqom.

1.80.3, 8.92.10. 1.5. 8.72.1 and 8.92.10.

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Let us conclude this analysis with 6.17 where the two words appear together.31 When Alcibiades, to reassure the Athenians, stresses the lack of power of the Sicilian cities despite their huge population, he chooses to use successively these two despicable terms, instead of the more neutral pk/hor.

2. Democracy and the Masses Thucydides’ distrust of ideologically marked terms goes hand in hand with a definite refusal to side with partisan definitions of democracy as well as of oligarchy.32 At 3.82.8 he demystifies as “fine words” (let± amºlator… eqpqepoOr) the democratic and oligarchic propaganda. First, he rejects a definition of democracy assimilating it to “political equality of the people in legislative matters” (pk¶hour te Qsomol¸ar pokitij/r), a formula which was more a slogan than a constitution.33 A comparison with Herodotus’ constitutional debate is enough to demonstrate a contrario the appeal of such a value word. When Otanes, the Persian grandee who wanted to entrust the government to the people, “advised his fellow conjurers to put the affairs in the middle”, he stressed that this regime has the most beautiful name, isonomie (pq_ta l³m oumola p²mtym j²kkistom 5wei, Qsomol¸gm, 3.80). Then Thucydides dismisses a definition of oligarchy assimilating it to “the rule of the best characterized by its wisdom and moderation”34 (!qistojqat¸ar s¾¦qomor). In Book 8, he also demystifies at 53.1 another expression used by the Athenian oligarchs who called their regime “a different kind of democracy” (lµ t¹m aqt¹m tqºpom dglojqatoul´moir) to make it more acceptable to the Athenian assembly – an euphemism destined to a great future 31 See Hunter 1988, 20. 32 Raaflaub 2006, 197 – 8. 33 It connotes a regime “which respects the political norms and regulations by which ruler and ruled are equally bound” (cf. Ostwald 1969, 120) and is opposed to tyranny, which is by definition arbitrary and lawless. The adjective politike added by Thucydides also suggests a contrast with an arbitrary regime as opposed to a politeia (=constitutional). Such a definition agrees not only with the uses of isonomie and isonomos in Herodotus’ Histories where it is opposed to Polycrates’ tyranny (3.142), and the tyranny abolished in theory by Aristagoras at Miletus (5.37), but also with its use by Thucydides who opposes in 4.78.3 isonomia to dunasteia). See Vlastos 1964. 34 North 1968, 111.

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in the fourth century. Later on, at 8.53.3, their leader will use the same kind of circumlocution to urge the opponents to adopt a “wiser and more moderate constitution (eQ lµ pokite¼solem te sy¦qom´steqom), and rather give public offices to the few (ja· 1r ak¸cour l÷kkom t±r !qw±r poi¶solem)” , which is stricto sensu the definition of oligarchy. The same ironical use of “aristocracy” (!qistojqat¸ar), “moderation” (sy¦qos¼mg), “an extreme instance of the oligarchic colouring of this word”,35 and a pretense of orderwhich conceals corruption (rpo¼kou eqmol¸ar)36 is also found when Thucydides reports, at 64.3 – 5, how the Thasians, as well as other cities of the Empire, rejected the oligarchy offered to them by the Athenian oligarchs and moved straight on to complete freedom. In Thucydides’ narrative, there are only few definitions that may be considered as the expression of Thucydides’ own political views. The first one occurs in his obituary of Pericles, at 2.65. 9 – 10: “So Athens, though still in name a democracy, became actually a rule by the first man” (1c¸cmetº te kºc\ l³m dglojqat¸a, 5qc\ d³ rp¹ toO pq¾tou !mdq¹r !qw¶). It reduces “the power of the demos” to a mere appearance, as well understood by Plutarch in his blunt paraphrase of Life of Pericles: “Thucydides suggests that the regime of Pericles was a kind of aristocracy” (Houjud_dgr l³m !qistojqatij^m tima tµm toO Peqijk]our rpocq\vei pokite_am, 9.1). It is immediately followed with a criticism of his successors who “struggled to be the first and let the affairs be conducted according to the whims of the people” (oR d³ vsteqom… aqecºlemoi toO pq_tor 6jastor c¸cmeshai 1tq²pomto jah’ Bdom±r t` d¶l\ ja· t± pq²clata 1mdidºmai, 2.65.10). As noted by K. Dover,37 this criticism of the demagogues is matched, at 8. 89.3, with a condemnation of an oligarchic regime ruined by “the private ambitions” (jat’ Qd¸ar d³ ¦ikotil¸ar) of leaders who were not content with equality, but wanted each to become “by far the 35 Gomme, Andrews, Dover, HCT V, 159. 36 Th. 8.64.3 and 5. See the comment of Connor 1984, 222 n. 22: “the contrast between surface and deeper reality is suggested by the adjective rpo}kou (suppurating) applied to eqmol_ar at the end of chapter 64. This adjective occurs only here in Thucydides; it properly applies to putrefaction setting in under a scar. The implication is that the surgery of eunomia does not work and the wound it causes becomes badly infected”. Cf. Gomme, Andrews, Dover, HCT V, ad loc., for the different readings in the manuscripts. 37 Gomme, Andrews, Dover, HCT V, 301

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first” (p²mter c±q aqhgleq¹m !nioOsim oqw fpyr Usoi, !kk± ja· pok» pq_tor aqt¹r 6jastor eWmai). There is also at 8.97.1, a “rare and therefore potentially valuable authorial judgement”.38 But its interpretation is controversial enough to be given 10 pages in the Historical Commentary of Thucydides and a whole book by G. Donini.39 Referring to “the decisions of handing the power over to the Five Thousands, who were to include all who could provide themselves with a hoplite equipment and forbidding any remuneration for the holding of any office”, Thucydides offers the following comments (8.97.2): “the management of the affairs was the best – for the first time at least in my lifetime – that the Athenians ever had; the mixture between the consideration of the interests of the few (the elite) and the many (the mass) was well balanced”. (ja· oqw Fjista dµ t¹m pq_tom wqºmom 1p¸ ce 1loO )hgma?oi ¦a¸momtai ew pokite¼samter.40 letq¸a c±q F te 1r to»r ak¸cour ja· to»r pokko»r n¼cjqasir 1c´meto ja· 1j pom¶qym t_m pqacl²tym cemol´mym toOto pq_tom !m¶mecje tµm pºkim).

The most important point is the fact that the new regime is not characterized, as suggested by some translations,41 by an equal sharing of power between the elite and the mass. It is even less “an allusion to some of the theorizing about a mixed constitution prominent in later antiquity, but already being developed in Thucydides’ day”.42 It only calls for an equal attention paid to the interests of the elite and those of the mass.43 This regime comes surprisingly close to the definition of Athenian democracy given by Pericles in the Funeral Oration: “as for the name, it is called a democracy for the administration is run with a view to the interests of the many, not of the few (ja· emola l³m di± t¹ lµ 1r ak¸cour !kk’ 1r pke¸omar oQje?m dglojqat¸a j´jkgtai, 2.37.1). This interpretation of democracy as a rule for the many, endorsed among others by M. Ostwald,44 against the former one identifying it with the rule of the many, is now accepted by the majority of scholars. 38 Hornblower 2008, 1033. 39 Gomme, Andrews, Dover, HCT V, 331 – 341 and Donini 1969. 40 Price 2001, 320 n. 84: “the active participle pokite¼samter indicates that the Athenians found the formula themselves”. 41 An interpretation implied by those like Pope 1988, 288 who translates “the blend of the few and the many proved moderate”. 42 Connor 1984, 228. 43 Raaflaub 2006, 189. 44 Ostwald 1986, 183.

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And the equality characteristic of a democratic regime and emphasized elsewhere by such names as isonomia and isegoria is here limited to an equality before the law, as demonstrated by the following sentence: “When it is question of settling private disputes, it is everyone who is equal before the law” (l´testi d³ jat± l³m to»r mºlour pq¹r t± Udia di²¦oqa p÷si t¹ Usom). More surprisingly, the interest of masses is also taken into account by the Athenian tyrants, as demonstrated by Thucydides’ excursus on the end of the tyranny at Athens at 6.54.5: “he did not generally so exercise his authority as to be oppressive to the mass of the people, but maintained it without giving offense” (oqd³ c±q tµm %kkgm !qwµm 1pawhµr Gm 1r to»r pokko¼r, !kk’ !mepi¦hºmyr jatest¶sato). The subject of Gm and the name of the reigning tyrant are not clear: he may be Hipparchos, as suggested by the preceding sentence,45 or Hippias, as said earlier twice.46 But he is anyway a Pisistratid and the main point of the sentence is that his rule was not oppressive for the many. I am tempted to read it as an understatement in order to suggest that like the Periclean democracy and the moderate oligarchy of the Five Thousands, the Pisistratidai, at least at the beginning, ruled according to the interests of the many. This goes very well with the praise of those tyrants who “mostly behave well and cleverly” (ja· 1pet¶deusam 1p· pke?stom dµ t¼qammoi oxtoi !qetµm ja· n¼mesim, 6.54.5). Here also the comparison with Herodotus is illuminating. As opposed to the Thucydidean definition of a good regime, be it a democracy, an oligarchy or a tyranny, as a government for the people, the democratic speaker of the constitutional debate does not hesitate to mention the government of the people at 3.80, using the expression pk/hor d³ %qwom. He is echoed at 3.81 by Megabyzus, who begins his criticism of Otanes’ proposal by saying that he was wrong when he suggested to transfer the power to the people, replacing !qw^ with jq²tor.47 To conclude this review of the definitions of various regimes in Thucydides, let us look at the speech of the Syracusan equivalent of 45 Th. 6.54.4; ja· 1m to¼t\ b GIppaqwor ¢r awhir peiq²sar oqd³m l÷kkom 5peihe t¹m *qlºdiom, b¸aiom l³m oqd³m 1bo¼keto dq÷m, 1m tqºp\ d´ timi !¦ame? ¢r oq di± toOto dµ paqesjeu²feto pqopgkaji_m aqtºm. See Hornblower 2008, 444. 46 Th. 6.54.2, 55.1. See Gomme, HCT IV, 31. 47 Hdt. 3.81: t± d’ 1r t¹ pk/hor %myce ¦´qeim t¹ jq²tor, cm¾lgr t/r !q¸stgr Bl²qtgje (see also Hdt. 5.92a the use of isokratia for “democracy”: fte ce rle?r, § Kajedailºmioi, Qsojqat¸ar jatak¼omter tuqamm¸dar 1r t±r pºkeir jat²ceim paqasjeu²feshe).

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Cleon, Athenagoras, “who was the leader of the popular party and had at that time the greatest influence over the mass”.48 In a reply to the oligarchs’s criticism of democracy which “is neither an intelligent nor a fair system”,49 (according a proportional definition of fairness opposed to the arithmetic definition of equality) and their praise of the rule of the wealthy, “who are the best at ruling best”,50 Athenagoras clearly defines the role “the many” (to»r pokko¼r) are supposed to play in democracy. But instead of the simple opposition mass/elite,51 he introduces a tripartite division among the citizens, each group being given a proper function: “the wealthy are the best overseers of the public finances, the intelligent ones give the best advice, and the masses are the best at judging after hearing”.52 This is both a correction and an echo of Pericles’ Funeral Oration. A correction, because Athenagoras distinguishes three instead of two groups. But also an echo, because Pericles before Athenagoras clearly sets apart at 2.40.2 “those who take care of their private affairs as well as the policy of the State”, that is the politicians who make the proposals, “and others engaged in business of their own who have however a good idea of politics”53 that is the citizens who choose between them, and again “those who decide or plan rightly the policy”.54 Athenagoras also says, as a direct answer to 48 Th. 6.35.2: dr d¶lou te pqost²tgr Gm ja· 1m t` paqºmti piham¾tator to?r pokko?r, and Cleon 3.36.6: t` te d¶l\ paq± pok» 1m t` tºte piham¾tator, and 4.21.3: !mµq dglacyc¹r jat’ 1je?mom t¹m wqºmom £m ja· t` pk¶hei piham¾tator7 cf. Price 2001, 32 and Moggi 2005, 16. 49 Th. 6.39.1: ¦¶sei tir dglojqat¸am oute numet¹m out’ Usom eWmai. See Ps.-Xen. Const Ath.: as opposed to the members of the elite who are clever (to»r deniyt²tour, 1.6.9) and wise (ibid. 1.8 so¦¸a), the masses are characterized in this oligarchic pamphlet by their lack of instruction (1.5 1m d³ t` d¶l\ !lah¸a te pke¸stg… B !paideus¸a ja· B !lah¸a, and 1.7) and unfairness (oq or lµ dija_yr : 1.13.10, 3.13.5,6). 50 Th. 6.39.1: to»r d’ 5womtar t± wq¶lata ja· %qweim %qista bekt¸stour. On the use of b]ktistoi and %qistoi for the members of the elite in Ps.-X. Const. Ath. see supra n. 13. 51 Moggi 2005, 16 rightly presents this description as “una equilibrata miscela di forze sociali e di risorce personali diverse”. 52 6.39.1: 5peita ¦¼kajar l³m !q¸stour eWmai wqgl²tym to»r pkous¸our, boukeOsai d’ #m b´ktista to»r numeto¼r, jq?mai d’ #m !jo¼samtar %qista to»r pokko¼r. 53 2.40.2: 5mi te to?r aqto?r oQje¸ym ûla ja· pokitij_m 1pil´keia, ja· 2t´qoir pq¹r 5qca tetqall´moir t± pokitij± lµ 1mde_r cm_mai. This interpretation is endorsed by Rusten in his commentary and Hornblower 1991, 305 – 6. 54 Th. 2.40.2: ja· aqto· Etoi jq¸mol´m ce C 1mhulo¼leha aqh_r t± pq²clata [with aqto· emphatic “we ourselves” reading of ABEF against oR aqto· “the same

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the critics who denied any fairness to democracy, that in a democracy “these categories taken both apart and all together have equal share”.55 In conclusion, he comes back to oligarchy and criticizes a regime which “gives the many a share of dangers, but when it comes to the profits, it is not content with getting a larger share, but take from them and keep the whole”.56 At the very end of his speech, when he invites the young men and the men of means eager to gain control of the government to learn, change their mind, and increase the common good, he again implicitly contrasts the unfairness of oligarchy with the fairness of democracy, for the good among them will get a share equal to that of the mass or even larger.57 What are we supposed to conclude from this review of Thucydides’ judgements as regards the different regimes? First, a conclusion which qualifies the label “anti-democratic” attached to Thucydides: if Thucydides is never praising the rule of the masses, all the regimes he approves of are supposed to care for their interests. Either a democracy (Athens under Periclean leadership), or a large oligarchy (the Five Thousands who concentrated all the political powers) or even a tyranny (such as the one of Pisistratus and his successor at the beginning) can be good as long as it takes into account the interests of the polis and the citizens. They all become bad as soon as individual ambitions (Udiai vikotil_ai)58 prevail against the common good. A major question remains to be answered. Given that “Thucydides attributes the vast majority of political decisions to the collectivity of the

55 56 57 58

people” reading of CGM]; cf. Rusten’s tranlation. Gomme, HCT II, 122: “1mhulo¼leha must here be used of those who originate proposals, distinct from those who only judge them”. Ober 1998, 88: “The Athenians recognize that not everyone is equally capable of coming up with plans (this will be the job of individual political leader), but the many can participate in making decision (the assemblymen)”. 6.39.1: ja· taOta blo¸yr ja· jat± l´qg ja· n¼lpamta 1m dglojqat¸ô Qsoloiqe?m. 6. 39.2: akicaqw¸a d³ t_m l³m jimd¼mym to?r pokko?r letad¸dysi, t_m d’ ¡¦ek¸lym oq pkeomejte? lºmom, !kk± ja· n¼lpamt’ !¦ekol´mg 5wei. 6.40.1: Etoi lahºmter ce C letacmºmter t¹ t/r pºkeyr n¼lpasi joim¹m aunete, Bcgs²lemoi toOto l³m #m ja· Usom ja· pk´om oR !caho· rl_m [Epeq t¹ t/r pºkeyr pk/hor] letaswe?m. 2.65.7 and 8.89.3. “Power pursued because of ambition and greed” is also presented as “the cause of all evils” in the chapter on faction 3.82.8: p²mtym d’ aqt_m aUtiom !qwµ B di± pkeomen¸am ja· ¦ikotil¸am.

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citizens, rather than to individual leaders”,59 are the masses truly able to decide rightly, as said by Pericles in the Funeral Oration? The question was already addressed by Otanes in Herodotus’ debate on the constitutions. According to him, they are, because of the euthunai that are “the hallmark of democracy which can curb the ruler and impose the good order than monarchy lacks”.60 As opposed to the tyrant who is not subject to scrutiny, the people “exercises its powers according to lot, its authority is subject to scrutiny and it refers every question to the public”.61 This is precisely what is questioned by some Thucydidean orators, most clearly by Diodotus. At 3.43.4 he opposes the foresight and the accountability of the orator to the shortsightedness and unaccountability of the masses who listen to him. He points out first that “we” [that is he and his fellow-politicians] must have more foresight and our plans go further” (wqµ d³ pq¹r t± l´cista ja· 1m t` toi`de !nioOm ti Bl÷r peqait´qy pqomooOmtar k´ceim), whereas “you [that is the many] have only a few moments to examine the various topics” (rl_m t_m di’ ak¸cou sjopo¼mtym). Moreover – and this is the main point – “the orators’ advice is subject to scrutiny, whereas their listeners are not accountable” (%kkyr te ja· rpe¼humom tµm paqa¸mesim 5womtar pq¹r !me¼humom tµm rlet´qam !jqºasim). Actually in Athens, not only the magistrates underwent an examination of their accounts, but more broadly the politicians were held responsible for the advices they gave. Conversely the citizens were not held responsible for the way they listened to the orators and afterwards made their decision. “If the one who persuades and the one who follows his advice both suffered punishment, you would decide more wisely. As it is, there are times when you fail and then you punish the single adviser, according to your feelings at the moment and not your own mistake, for which you were equally responsible”.62 59 Pope 1988, 278 – 281, who relies not only on a vocabulary count of collective ethnics but also on their context, reaches the same conclusion. See also Raaflaub 2006, 198. 60 Pelling 2002, 138. 61 Hdt. 3.80: de¼teqa d³ to¼tym t_m b lo¼maqwor poi´ei oqd´m7 p²k\ l³m c±q !qw±r %qwei, rpe¼humom d³ !qwµm 5wei, bouke¼lata d³ p²mta 1r t¹ joim¹m !ma¦´qei. 62 3.43.5: eQ c±q f te pe¸sar ja· b 1pispºlemor blo¸yr 1bk²ptomto, sy¦qom´steqom #m 1jq¸mete7 mOm d³ pq¹r aqcµm Fmtima t¼wgte 5stim fte s¦ak´mter tµm toO pe¸samtor l¸am cm¾lgm fglioOte ja· oq t±r rlet´qar aqt_m, eQ pokka· owsai numen¶laqtom.

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These criticisms are not isolated. They are echoed in the first as well as in the last speech of Pericles. In the first he reminds the Athenians that they have to give their full support to the decisions they made together even if there is some failure.63 In the last, he emphasizes that they are wrong to be angry at him for a decision in favour of war which they took together with him”.64 To assess their relevance, one has to carefully examine the decisions passed by the Athenian masses in the eight Books of the History of the Peloponnesian War, especially when they involve a clear opposition between mass and elite, a topic already addressed by A.G. Woodhead and J. Ober, and more recently by Kurt Raaflaub and Antonis Tsakmakis.65

3. Mass and Narrative One may distinguish four moments. 1) The alliance with Corcyra. This decision is made by the assembly and illustrates its “volatility”66 as the Athenians changed their mind from the first to the second assembly: “After listening to both sides, the Athenians discussed the matter at two assemblies. At the first, opinion seemed to incline in favor of the Corinthian argument, but at the second they changed their mind, and decided not to enter a total alliance with the Corcyreans… Instead, the alliance was to be on a defensive character”.67

The final decision, framed by “the general belief was that in any case the war with the Peloponnesians was inevitable” (1dºjei c±q b pq¹r Pekopommgs¸our pºkelor ja· ¢r 5seshai aqto?r, 1.441.1) and “with these 63 1.140.1: ja· to»r !mapeihol´mour rl_m dijai_ to?r joim0 dºnasim, Cm %qa ti ja· s¦akk¾leha, boghe?m. 64 2.64.1: l¶te 1l³ di’ aqc/r 5wete, è ja· aqto· numdi´cmyte pokele?m. 65 See the chapters devoted to “Power and People” in Woodhead 1970, 31 – 53 and to “Thucydides” in Ober 1998, 52 – 121; cf. Price 2001, Raaflaub 2006, 198 – 204, and Tsakmakis 2006. 66 See Hunter 1988, 21 and Tsakmakis 2006, 173. 67 1.44.1: )hgma?oi d³ !jo¼samter !l¦ot´qym, cemol´mgr ja· d·r 1jjkgs¸ar, t0 l³m pqot´qô oqw Hssom t_m Joqimh¸ym !ped´namto to»r kºcour, 1m d³ t0 rsteqa¸ô let´cmysam Jeqjuqa¸oir nullaw¸am l³m lµ poi¶sashai… 1pilaw¸am d’ 1poi¶samto t0 !kk¶kym boghe?m.

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considerations in mind, the Athenians received favorably the Corcyreans” (toia¼t, l³m cm¾l, oR )hgma?oi to»r Jeqjuqa¸our pqosed´namto) is motivated by purely rational considerations and it is made without any intervention of an individual Athenian orator.68 2) The decisions made under the leadership of Pericles. When the Athenians decided to declare war against the Peloponnesians and two years later to approve his policy despite the Spartan invasion and the horrors of the plague,69 they did it unanimously. Even when divisions among the Athenians about policy are reported70 after the first invasion of Attica, Pericles, whose speeches are left unopposed in Thucydides’ text,71 was always able to persuade the Athenians: at 1.45.1, “they considered that his advice was the best and voted as he asked them” (oR d³ )hgma?oi mol¸samter %qista s¦¸si paqaime?m aqt¹m 1xg¦¸samto $ 1j´keue) and at 2.65.2 “they publicly accepted his arguments” (oR d³ dglos¸ô l³m to?r kºcoir !mepe¸homto). This uncontested leadership is to be explained, according to Thucydides, by the leader’s qualities: “Owing his power to his personal reputation, his intellectual ability and his evident incorruptibility, he was able to control the populace freely, and he was not so much led by them as he himself led them”.72

Accordingly, the opposition mass/elite does not play any significant political role. It is totally obliterated in the narrative by the contrast between the Athenian masses and their leader. On the one hand a leader characterized by his reason, his consistent judgement73 and his constant reassertion of the priority of the polis over the individual (Qdi~tgr) and of common good (joim|m, joim0, joim_r) over private interests (Qd_ô).74 68 Ober 1998, 78 – 9. 69 See Raaflaub 2006, 198 – 199. 70 E.g 2.21.3: jat± nust²seir te cicmºlemoi 1m pokk0 5qidi Gsam, oR l³m jeke¼omter 1peni´mai, oR d´ timer oqj 1_mter. 71 See Ober 1998, 81, Price 2001, 172, and Tsakmakis 2006, 162. 72 2.65.8: 1je?mor l³m dumat¹r £m t` te !ni¾lati ja· t0 cm¾l, wqgl²tym te dia¦am_r !dyqºtator cemºlemor jate?we t¹ pk/hor 1keuh´qyr, ja· oqj Eceto l÷kkom rp’ aqtoO C aqt¹r Gce. Parry 1989, 143 rightly points out the ambiguity of 1keuh´qyr, which means both “as a freeman should” and “in such a way as to be consistent with the freedom of individuals”. 73 1.140.1: t/r l³m cm¾lgr, § )hgma?oi, aQe· t/r aqt/r 5wolai… 74 2.42.3, 2.43.2, 2.60.2, 2.60.4. See Ober 1998, 89.

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On the other, masses who change their minds,75 react emotionally to the events76 and are tempted to privilege their own interests (t± oQje?a, to?r jat( oWjom, t± Udia).77 There is only one exception, Thucydides’ description of the audience’s reaction to the last speech of Pericles. But according to me it seems rather to prove the rule. At 2.65.2, Thucydides contrasts the reactions of the demos (the mass) with those of the dunatoi (the men of means). “As private individuals they grieved deeply over their misfortunes: the mass because, even though they had started out with fewer resources, they had been deprived of the little they had to start with and the rich because they had lost fine properties in the countryside with rich houses and equipments”.78

But their opposition remains confined in the private sphere (Qd¸ô)79 and has no consequence on the policy of the State. After Pericles’ speech, “the Athenians did not send any more embassies to Sparta and were more eager to carry the war”.80 3) From the death of Pericles to the Sicilian disaster After Pericles “They did the exact opposite” (oR d³ taOt² te p²mta 1r toqmamt¸om 5pqanam, 2.65.7). “Who are ‘they’? We are not told”.81 The text is ambiguous and the ambiguity is put to good use.82 Given the plurals in the preceding paragraphs and in the immediately preceding sentence referring to the Athenians generally, it is tempting, with Classen-Steup, to take it to mean the Athenians. But the emphasis put on the private ambitions which follows immediately (jat± t±r Qd¸ar ¦ikotil¸ar) “seems to indicate that the subsequent leaders are meant”.83 Moreover at 2.65.10 oR d³ vsteqom clearly designates the pol75 76 77 78

79 80 81 82 83

1.44.1, 2.59.1, 2.61.2. 2.14.2, 2.16.2, 2.22.1, 2.49.2 – 3 and 2.65.1, 3. E.g 2.65.3. Qd¸ô d³ to?r pah¶lasim 1kupoOmto, b l³m d/lor fti !p’ 1kassºmym bql¾lemor 1st´qgto ja· to¼tym, oR d³ dumato· jak± jt¶lata jat± tµm w¾qam oQjodol¸air te ja· pokutek´si jatasjeua?r !pokykejºter, t¹ d³ l´cistom, pºkelom !mt’ eQq¶mgr 5womter. Hunter 1988, 22. 2.65.2: ja· oute pq¹r to»r Kajedailom¸our 5ti 5pelpom 5r te t¹m pºkelom l÷kkom ¦qlgmto. See Hornblower 1991, 342. Price 2001, 239. Price 2001, 239.

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iticians who succeeded Pericles. “Because they were more on a level with each other and were struggling to be first himself [as opposed to Pericles who was acknowledged as the first], they were ready to offer the whole conduct of the affairs to the whims of the people”.84 During this period, there is not any more unanimity. Discordant speeches, reported in direct or indirect speech, are given by politicians (Cleon/Diodotos in Book 3, Cleon/Nicias in Book 4, Nicias/Alcibiades in Book 6) in front of a divided audience. Moreover the Athenians display all the flaws already feared by Pericles in Book 185 and denounced by Thucydides in Book 2:86 ignorance, propensity for denying any responsibility and shifting the blame for the mistakes on the orators and versatility. They are mostly driven by emotions and often decide out of self interest. In the first assembly about Mytilene, motivated by anger and persuaded by Cleon, they decide first to punish harshly the defeated rebels.87 Then the majority changed their mind and began to regret a savage and excessive punishment.88 A second assembly was summoned by the authorities, because “the majority of the citizens” (t¹ pk]om t_m pokit_m) was willing to be given a chance of reconsidering the matter”.89 Various opinions were expressed on both sides, but Thucydides only quotes the antithetical speeches of Cleon and Diodotos. As a result “there was nevertheless a struggle between the two opinions; the show of hands was very near, but the motion of Diodotos prevailed” (3.49.1). So at the end rationality still prevailed The episode of Pylos provides an even better illustration of the versatility of the Athenians. When the Spartan hoplites are cut off on Sphacteria and a Spartan embassy comes to Athens to ask for peace, the Athenians, here also urged by Cleon,90 reject their offer, because 84 2.65.10: oR d³ vsteqom Usoi l÷kkom aqto· pq¹r !kk¶kour emter ja· aqecºlemoi toO pq_tor 6jastor c¸cmeshai 1tq²pomto jah’ Bdom±r t` d¶l\ ja· t± pq²clata 1mdidºmai. 85 1.144.1: l÷kkom c±q pe¦ºbglai t±r oQje¸ar Bl_m "laqt¸ar C t±r t_m 1mamt¸ym diamo¸ar. 86 2.65.11: %kka te pokk², ¢r 1m lec²k, pºkei ja· !qwµm 1wo¼s,, Blaqt¶hg ja· b 1r Sijek¸am pkoOr. 87 3.36.2: rp¹ aqc/r 5donem aqto?r… to»r ûpamtar Lutikgma¸our fsoi Bb_si, pa?dar d³ ja· cuma?jar !mdqapod¸sai. 88 3.36.4: ja· t0 rsteqa¸ô let²moi² tir eqh»r Gm aqto?r ja· !makocisl¹r ¡l¹m t¹ bo¼keula ja· l´ca 1cm_shai, and 37. 89 3.36.5. 90 4.21.3: l²kista d³ aqto»r 1m/ce Jk´ym b Jkeaim´tou…

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“they were grasping for more” (toO d³ pk´omor ¡q´comto, 4.21.2), despite the warning of the Spartans in their attempt to persuade them to make peace.91 Then, when they got bad news from the army at Pylos, “they were alarmed by the attitude of the Spartans” (p²mtym te 1¦oboOmto l²kista to»r Kajedailom¸our…), “regretted having rejected the truce” (ja· letel´komto t±r spomd±r oq den²lemoi, 4.27.2). So, they became suspicious against Cleon, who prevented them from reaching an agreement with Sparta92 and were in a state of near uproar against him.93 When Nicias offered to stand down from the command in Pylos and Cleon claimed that he would be able within twenty days to bring the Spartans to Athens, they unanimously took Cleon to his words. But Thucydides clearly distinguishes between the masses, the Athenians, who laughed at him and the “wise” that is the members of the elite94 who calculated the advantages of such a decision (this would be the first instance, before Book 8, of a clear-cut opposition mass/elite). When Cleon against all expectations succeeds,95 again, “they were grasping for more and sent back every Spartan embassy empty-handed” (oR d³ leifºmym te ¡q´comto ja· pokk²jir ¦oit¾mtym aqto»r !pq²jtour !p´pelpom, 4.41.4). They made an armistice for one year only because they were frightened by the successes of the Spartan Brasidas, as the Spartans correctly estimated.96 Finally they began, like the Spartans, to think how to make peace, motivated by loss of hope: “they had suffered a serious blow at Delium and soon afterwards at Amphipolis and no longer had the same confidence in their strength which had induced them to reject previous offers”97 and fear: “they were also apprehensive about the allies, fearing that they might be encouraged by these defeats to re91 4.17.4: rl?m c±q eqtuw¸am tµm paqoOsam 5nesti jak_r h´shai, … ja· lµ pahe?m fpeq oR !¶hyr ti !cah¹m kalb²momter t_m !mhq¾pym7 aQe· c±q toO pk´omor 1kp¸di aq´comtai di± t¹ ja· t± paqºmta !doj¶tyr eqtuw/sai. 92 4.27.3: Jk´ym d³ cmo»r aqt_m tµm 1r art¹m rpox¸am peq· t/r jyk¼lgr t/r nulb²seyr. 93 4.28.1: t_m te )hgma¸ym ti rpohoqubgs²mtym 1r t¹m Jk´yma.

94 Contra Hornblower 1996, 188, “here the word does seem to be used in a favorable sense and without irony (or oligarchic overtones)”. 95 4.40.1. 96 4.117.1: Kajedailºmioi d³ taOta to»r )hgma¸our Bco¼lemoi ûpeq 1d´disam ¦obe?shai. 97 5.14.1: oR l³m )hgma?oi pkgc´mter 1p¸ te t` Dgk¸\ ja· di’ ak¸cou awhir 1m )l¦ipºkei, ja· oqj 5womter tµm 1kp¸da t/r N¾lgr pistµm 5ti, Øpeq oq pqosed´womto pqºteqom t±r spomd²r.

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volt”.98 And their versatility is once more stressed: “they regretted not having seized upon the excellent opportunity of making peace after Pylos”.99 The major Athenian mistake is their decision to launch a major expedition in Sicily in Book 6. It was prefigured in Book 4 by their decision to send ships to Sicily “ostensibly on the ground of kinship, but in reality because they did not wish the Peloponnesians to get corn from Sicily and wanted to see if they could bring Sicily under their control” (3.86.4) and their punishment of the generals who commanded the troops because they had agreed to the Gelan peace accord “on the accusation that they, although it was possible for them to gain the mastery of affairs in Sicily, had left upon accepting bribes” (4.65.3). Such a behavior is pictured as a consequence of unwarranted hope: “such was the effect on the Athenians of their present good fortune that they thought that nothing could oppose them… It was their unpredictable success in most directions which formed a strong basis for their hopes” (aQt¸a d’ Gm B paq± kºcom t_m pkeºmym eqpqac¸a aqto?r rpotihe?sa Qsw»m t/r 1kp¸dor, 4.65.4).

Again in Book 6, as says H.P. Stahl,100 “ignorance (combined with desire for conquest) is the keynote for understanding the following process of decision-making at Athens (chapters 8 – 24)”. Thucydides first “characterizes the general Athenian ignorance about the far away island (%peiqoi oR pokko· emter toO lec´hour t/r m¶sou ja· t_m 1moijo¼mtym toO pk¶hour ja· :kk¶mym ja· baqb²qym, 6.1.1) by inserting an excursus

(6.1 – 6) on the vast geographical size and the huge as well as diverse population”,101 then he stresses their eagerness: “It was against an island of this size that the Athenians were eager to make war” (ja· 1p· tos¶mde owsam aqtµm oR )hgma?oi stqate¼eim ¦qlgmto, 6.6.1), an eagerness increased by the delegation of Egesteans in Athens at this time (l²kista d’ aqto»r 1n¾qlgsam 9cesta¸ym [te] pq´sbeir paqºmter ja· pqohulºteqom 1pijako¼lemoi, 6.6.2), then in the first assembly by “the seductive but untrue statements” (1pacyc± ja· oqj !kgh/, 6.8.2) of the embassy sent to Sicily. Despite the warning of Nicias against a “fatal craving for 98 5.14.2: ja· to»r null²wour ûla 1d´disam s¦_m lµ di± t± s¦²klata 1paiqºlemoi 1p· pk´om !post_si. 99 5.14.2: letel´komtº te fti let± t± 1m P¼k\ jak_r paqasw¹m oq num´bgsam7 on the echo with 4.27.2, see Babut 1994, 660 n. 51. 100 Stahl 2003, 182 101 Stahl 2003, 191

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things beyond reach” (dus´qytar eWmai t_m !pºmtym, 6.13.1) and his reminding that “enterprises led by passion least succeed” (1pihul¸ô l³m 1k²wista jatoqhoOmtai, 6.13.1), the general enthusiasm was again aroused in a second assembly by the speeches of most of the Athenians who came forward and were in favor of the expedition (t_m d³ )hgma¸ym paqiºmter oR l³m pke?stoi stqate¼eim paq-moum, 6.15.1) and most of all by the speech of Alcibades who was the most enthusiastic supporter of the expedition (1m/ce d³ pqohulºtata tµm stqate¸am )kjibi²dgr b Jkeim¸ou, 6.15.2). This theme is again picked up twice after the second speech of Nicias.102 First by 1pihule?m : “their passionate desire for the expedition was not removed by the troublesome extent of the preparations” (oR d³ t¹ l³m 1pihuloOm toO pkoO oqj 1n,q´hgsam rp¹ toO awk¾dour t/r paqasjeu/r, pok» d³ l÷kkom ¦qlgmto, 6.24.2). Second by 5qyr at 24.3: “the passion for sailing seized everyone alike” (ja· 5qyr 1m´pese to?r p÷sim blo¸yr 1jpkeOsai, 6.24.3). But the Athenian unanimity has nothing to do with a common concern for the public good. It is a mere summation of individual and often selfish motivation, a combination of passion, hope and greed: “The older men thought that they would either conquer the places against which they were sailing or, in any case, with such a large force could come no harm. The young had a longing for the sight and experience of distant places and had good hopes that they would return safely” (t/r te !po¼sgr pºh\ exeyr ja· heyq¸ar ja· eq´kpider emter syh¶seshai). “The main body of the troops that they would get pay for the time being and would add to the Empire a country which would be an inexhaustible supply of pay in the future” (b d³ pok»r flikor ja· stqati¾tgr 5m te t` paqºmti !qc¼qiom oUseim ja· pqosjt¶seshai d¼malim fhem !¸diom lisho¦oq±m rp²qneim, 6.24.3).

The passion of the majority (or “the passion for more”) 103 was so excessive (di± tµm %cam t_m pkeºmym 1pihul¸am, 6.24.4) that no one dared to oppose it openly. 4) Book 8104 It is only in Book 8, which concentrates more on domestic policy that the conflict between mass/elite comes to the fore at Athens, far after all the other cities. However there were already some symptoms of the crisis to come first in the Pentekontaetia with an allusion to 102 On this “rhetorical failure”, see Kallet 2001, 42 and Tsakmakis 2006, 171. 103 pke|mym may be masculine or neuter plural. See Hornblower 2008, 363. 104 See Connor 1984, 210 – 230, ‘Book 8’, Rood 1998, 251 – 284 ‘Continuity: Book 8’, Price 2001, 304 – 329: ‘Athens’ stasis’.

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some Athenians who wanted to put an end to the democracy105 and in Book 6, when the Athenians thought that the mutilation of the Herms and later on the profanation of the mysteries were the work of conspirators who wanted to effect a revolution and to overthrow democracy.106 In Book 8, Thucydides not only puts more emphasis on individuals and their motives107 and demonstrates once again the power of a charismatic leader, but also gives more importance to the autonomous actions of the masses. As V. Hunter already said: “Among the many features that are novel, unusual or different from the rest of Thucydides’ work, one however, that no one has noted, is the rather vivid picture drawn there of lower-class political activity”.108 After the Sicilian disaster, the portrait of the Athenian masses changes dramatically. The Athenians begin with reacting as usual, denying any responsibility and shifting the blame for the mistakes on the orators”.109 But soon the emphasis is put on their resilience:110 “Nevertheless they determined so far as the situation allowed, not to give in (flyr d³ ¢r 1j t_m rpaqwºmtym 1dºjei wq/mai lµ 1mdidºmai): they would equip a fleet, acquiring timber from wherever they could, see that their allies remain loyal and make prudent economies” (8.1.3). Moreover “they were ready to put everything into disciplined order in response to the present fearful situation” (8.1.4: p²mta te pq¹r t¹ paqawq/la peqide´r, fpeq ¦ike? d/lor poie?m, 2to?loi Gsam eqtajte?m). This sensible planning111 is followed with immediate realization, as demonstrated by the echo between 8.1.3 and 8.4.1: “they collected timber, fortified the Sounion and cut down unnecessary expenses” (n¼ka nulpoqis²lemoi, ja· So¼miom teiw¸samter… ja· tükka, eU po¼ ti 1dºjei !wqe?om !mak¸sjeshai, nustekkºlemoi 1r eqt´keiam), and, as soon as they heard about the 105 106 107 108 109

1.107.4 and 6. 6.27.3 and 6.60.1. Westlake 1968, Connor 1984, 214 – 215, Gribble 2006. Hunter 1988, 17. 8.1.1: wakepo· l³m Gsam to?r nulpqohulghe?si t_m Ngtºqym t¹m 5jpkoum, ¦speq oqj aqto· xg¦is²lemoi. 110 Connor 1984, 212 – 3: “the idea and the language evokes the statement of the theme of Athenian endurance in 2.65.12. Yet despite their attrition they still held out (!mte?wom) against their former enemies, and against the reinforcements that came from Sicily, and as well again the majority of their allies who revolted and later in addition against Cyrus”. 111 Cf. Ostwald 1986, 338 – 343 and Kallet 2003, 235: “not only resilience, but also calm and rationality”. On syvqom_feim and its usually oligarchic connotations see supra n. 16 and Hornblower 2008, 752 ad loc.

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planned defection of Chios, they immediately began to prepare” (8.10.1: paqesjeu²fomto eqh¼r). The split between the masses and the elite is first initiated by ‘the few’. It begins with Alcibiades’ scheme for his recall (he let ‘the best’ among the Athenians at Samos know that “he was inclined to oligarchy” (1p’ akicaqw¸ô bo¼ketai, 8.47.2), the inclination of the Athenian trierarchs and the men with most means to overthrow the democracy (8.47.2: !p¹ s¦_m aqt_m oR 1m t0 S²l\ tqi¶qaqwo¸ te t_m )hgma¸ym ja· dumat¾tatoi ¦qlgmto 1r t¹ jatakOsai tµm dglojqat¸am, 8.47.2) and their great hopes of getting the government in their own hands, since the greatest burden was imposed on them, and also of overcoming the enemy” (8.48.1: pokk±r 1kp¸dar eWwom aqto¸ h’ 2auto?r oR dumat¾tatoi t_m pokit_m t± pq²clata, oVpeq ja· takaipyqoOmtai l²kista, 1r 2auto»r peqipoi¶seim ja· t_m pokel¸ym 1pijqat¶seim).– At the beginning, the description of the reaction of ‘the many’ (oR pokko_), in contrast with their behavior at the beginning of Book 8, is wholly negative, because of the emphasis put on their greed: When they are told openly that “the king would become their ally and would provide them with money if Alcibiades was recalled and the democracy abolished ()kjibi²dou te jatekhºmtor ja· lµ dglojqatoul´mym), the rabble, even if at first they were vexed with what was going on, nevertheless kept quiet because of the abundance of hope of getting pay from the king” (ja· b l³m ewkor, eQ ja¸ ti paqaut¸ja Ewheto to?r pqassol´moir, di± t¹ eupoqom t/r 1kp¸dor toO paq± basik´yr lishoO Bs¼wafem, 8.48.2).

The same scenario is repeated with interesting variations at Athens, when those who had been sent from Samos speak in the assembly.112 Here the opposition to their proposals comes from three groups motivated by various reasons: first those who are against the abolition of democracy, second the enemies of Alcibiades who are loud in protesting against his return, third the Eumolpides and Keryces who support the claims of religion.113 At the end, they are all convinced by the clever arguments of Peisandros. He first appealed to their patriotism and put forward the national salvation.114 Then he toned down his first proposal: instead of bluntly proposing a definitive abolition of democracy, he said that Athens cannot be saved “unless we adopt a more moderate re112 8.53.1. 113 8.53.2. 114 8.53.2 – 3.

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gime and only give the offices of state to the few” (eQ lµ pokite¼sol]m te sy¦qom´steqom ja· 1r ak¸cour l÷kkom t±r !qw±r poi¶solem, 8.53.3) and added that “we shall be free later to make further changes” (8.53.3). This is the reason why the demos, who at first took hard the idea of an oligarchy (b d³ d/lor t¹ l³m pq_tom !jo¼ym wakep_r 5¦eqe t¹ peq· t/r akicaqw¸ar, 8.54.1), agree: “when Peisandros made it clear to them that there was no other means of salvation, they gave in (1m´dyjem) partly in fear and partly in the hope that it might be changed later” (8.54.1 – 2). After the establishment of the new regime, the murders of some opponents, and a series of measures such as the abolition of payment for all public service with the exception of troops on duty and the restriction of political rights to the five thousand citizens who were most able to come to the city’s aid financially or through military service,115 Thucydides stresses the fear and the passivity of the demos. Although some formal elements on democracy such as the meetings of the ekklesia and the boule still existed, “they took no decision that were not approved by the conjurors” (8.66.1). “No one any longer raised his voice, fearing when they saw their number” (8.66.2) and the people kept quiet (!kk’ Bsuw¸am eWwem b d/lor, 8.66.2). The same passivity is stressed in the description of the transformation of the so-called regime of the Five Thousand into the rule of a body of Four Hundred men.116 Here also the assembly ratified the resolution proposed by Peisandros “without any opposition” (oqdem¹r !mteipºmtor, 8.69.1) before being dissolved. And “the Council withdrew without opposition” (F te boukµ oqd³m !mteipoOsa rpen/khe, 8.70.1). This dispatching carried out manu militari was apparently facilitated by the scrupulous paying off of the councilors117 (may be another indirect allusion to the greed that often characterizes the people in Thucydides). As a consequence “the other citizens did not attempt any revolution, and kept quiet” (ja· oR %kkoi pok?tai oqd³m 1meyt´qifom, !kk’ Bs¼wafom, 6.70.1). However Thucydides clearly suggests that this passivity was not supposed to last long. At 8.68 he announces the demise of the Four Hundred and the condemnation of their leader Antiphon (8.68.2), reminds his readers that “it was hard, about a hundred years after the fall of the tyrants, to destroy the liberties of the Athenians, who were not only a 115 8.65.2 – 66. 116 8.67.1 – 3. 117 8.69.4.

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free people, but during more than half of this time had been used to ruling over others” (6.68.4), and describes how Agis rejected the Four Hundred’s peace-offer, because he thought that “the city would not keep quiet” (b d³ mol¸fym tµm pºkim oqw Bsuw²feim) “and that the people would not so quickly surrender their ancient liberty so quickly” (oqd’ eqh»r ovty t¹m d/lom tµm pakai±m 1keuheq¸am paqad¾seim, 8.71.1).118 The vigorous reaction of the Athenians who immediately sent troops out to defend the city when the Spartan king advanced right up to the walls of Athens at 8.71.2 is also significant. The revolution against the oligarchy began at Samos119 where the oligarchs had immediately sent envoys, since “they were afraid (and not without reason, as the events showed) that the crowd of the navy would not be willing to remain under the oligarchic order” (de¸samter l¶, fpeq 1c´meto, mautij¹r ewkor out’ aqt¹r l´meim 1m t` akicaqwij` jºsl\ 1h´k,, 8.72.2). It was initiated by an intervention of the Samian democrats and by some generals motivated by self interest: “they put up with the oligarchy against their will because they were held in honor by the people” (8.73.4). They enlist other leaders renowned for their opposition to the conjurors as well as ordinary citizens serving in the navy “especially the crew of the Paralos, all free Athenians, who were at any time ready to attack oligarchy even when it was not present”120 (8.73.5). Then the masses at Samos begin to take action. When they hear the report of a staunch democrat exaggerating the horrors of everything going on at Athens (8.74.3: 1p· t¹ le?fom p²mta deim¾sar t± 1j t_m )hgm_m), the audience (that is the soldiery) attempted to hurl missiles at the chief promoters of the oligarchy, but they were prevented from acting by an appeal to their patriotism by those who were neutral.121 Then an oath to live united under a democratic form of government, exacted by the trierarch Thrasyboulos and the hoplite Thrasyllos, was sworn by all the army.122 At this point the Athenians “had come to a state of contentiousness” (1r ¦ikomij¸am te jah´stasam), the army was 118 Raaflaub 2006, 213 rightly connects 8.71.1 and 8.68.4. 119 8.73.1: 9m c±q t0 S²l\ 1meyteq¸feto Edg t± peq· tµm akicaqw¸am. 120 This is not an innocuous joke as said by Hornblower 2008, 973, but an ironical way of reminding the reader of the reaction of the masses at the desecration of the Herms and the profanation of the Mysteries (see supra n.106). 121 8.75.1. This interpretation of rp¹ t_m di± l]sou is proposed by Hornblower 2008, 976. 122 8.75.2.

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trying to force a democracy upon the city, the Four Hundred an oligarchy upon it” (8.76.1). At 8.76.2, the masses clearly take the initiative: they held an assembly, deposed the generals and trierarchs they suspected and elected others. The activity of the soldiers which strongly contrasts with the passivity of the people of Athens is also emphasized by the lack of any individual attribution.123 In this unusual assembly it is the soldiers who stood up. They made speeches of encouragement to each other,124 speeches which are reported in a long indirect speech,125 and strongly argue in favor of the democratic regime of the ancestors,126 and the power of the more numerous (an argument which echoes the speech of Athenagoras in Book 7). Moreover, Thucydides points out the positive consequences of these exchanges “so they encouraged each other and were no less active in preparing for war” (8.77.1: toiaOta 1m !kk¶koir 1jjkgsi²samter ja· paqahaqs¼mamter s¦÷r aqto»r ja· t± toO pok´lou paqesjeu²fomto oqd³m Hssom). But quickly new leaders emerge, first Thasyboulos who succeeded in persuading the masses to recall Alcibiades,127 then Alcibiades who once again rekindled their hopes. They immediately elected him general and put all their affairs into his hands (8.82.2: stqatgcºm te aqt¹m eqh»r eVkomto let± t_m pqot´qym ja· t± pq²clata p²mta !met¸hesam), a formula which significantly echoes 2.65.4: “they [the Athenians] elected Pericles as general and put everything in the hands of Pericles” (stqatgc¹m eVkomto ja· p²mta t± pq²clata 1p´tqexam) and preludes to a Periclean behavior. First at 8.82.2 “he [Alcibiades] absolutely forbade them to sail at once to the Piraeus, leaving the enemy close at hand and resisted the urge of the masses” (b d³ t¹ l³m 1p· t¹m Peiqai÷ pke?m to»r 1ccut´qy pokel¸our rpokipºmtar ja· p²mu diej¾kuse, pokk_m 1peicol´mym).

Then, when the oligarchic emissaries came to Samos and attempted to reassure the army, he again opposed the anger of the masses who wanted 123 124 125 126

Rood 1998, 275. 8.76.3: ja· paqaim´seir %kkar te 1poioOmto 1m s¦¸sim aqto?r !mist²lemoi. 8.76.3 – 7. 8.76.6: to»r l³m Blaqtgj´mai to»r patq¸our mºlour jatak¼samtar : this allusion to the ancestral character of democracy may be an answer to “the opponents of democracy who presented their programs as an attempt to restore the political conditions of a rosier past”. See Ostwald 1986, 343 and his references to recent scholarship on patrios politeia p. 367 n. 119. 127 8.81.1: [ja·] t´kor !p’ 1jjkgs¸ar 5peise t¹ pk/hor t_m stqatiyt_m…

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to kill the subverters of the democracy and proposed again to sail to the Piraeus (!kk’ 1wak´paimom ja· cm¾lar %kkoi %kkar 5kecom, l²kista d³ 1p· t¹m Peiqai÷ pke?m, 8.86.4) and is openly praised by Thucydides: “Then, it seems, Alcibiades benefited the state for the first time and to an outstanding degree: when the Athenians at Samos were eager to sail against their countrymen – in which case Ionia and the Hellespont would most certainly have passed into the possession of the enemy, Alcibiades prevented them (jykutµr cem´shai). At that moment no other man would have been able to check the crowd (ja· 1m t` tºte %kkor l³m oqd’ #m eXr Rjam¹r 1c´meto jataswe?m t¹m ewkom) he stopped them from sailing and diverted them from the anger which they felt against the delegates on personal grounds” (ja· to»r Qd¸ô to?r pq´sbesim aqcifol´mour koidoq_m !p´tqepem, 8.86.4 – 5, transl. Rood 278).

His ability to restrain the crowd, oppose their anger, strike them down and pour out abuse on them, his exhortation to hold fast and make no concessions to the enemy,128 and his opposition to those who give more importance to their personal interests than to the common good have precise echoes in the first speech of Pericles or in his obituary.129 This behavior is also clearly opposed to the behavior of most of the oligarchic leaders ready “to make an agreement with Sparta on any kind of terms which could be regarded as tolerable” and if this was impossible: “They preferred to call in the enemy, give up the fleet and the fortifications and make any sort of terms at all for the future of Athens, provided that they themselves at any rate have their lives guaranteed to them”.130

At Athens, this betrayal was prevented not only by the party of Theramenes who took to action, but also by the rank and file of the hoplites who approved them (again a positive intervention of the masses).131 128 Th. 8.89.1 (summary of the message of Alcibiades) t± paq± toO )kjibi²dou, ¢r jeke¼ei te !mt´weim ja· lgd³m 1mdidºmai to?r pokel¸oir. 129 1.140.1: T/r l³m cm¾lgr, § )hgma?oi, aQe· t/r aqt/r 5wolai, lµ eUjeim Pekopommgs¸oir, 1.141.1: lµ eUnomter, 2.65.8 – 9 [Pericles]: jate?we t¹ pk/hor… di± t¹… pq¹r aqc¶m ti !mteipe?m. bpºte coOm aUshoitº ti aqto»r paq± jaiq¹m vbqei haqsoOmtar, k´cym jat´pkgssem 1p· t¹ ¦obe?shai, 2.65.8 – 9 [Pericles]: jate?we t¹ pk/hor… di± t¹… pq¹r aqc¶m ti !mteipe?m. bpºte coOm aUshoitº ti aqto»r paq± jaiq¹m vbqei haqsoOmtar, k´cym jat´pkgssem 1p· t¹ ¦obe?shai. 130 Th. 8.89.3: jat’ Qd¸ar d³ ¦ikotil¸ar oR pokko· aqt_m t` toio¼t\ pqos´jeimto, 8.90.3: pamt· tqºp\ fstir ja· bpysoOm !mejt¹r numakkac/mai pq¹r to»r Kajedailom¸our, 8.91.3: to»r pokel¸our 1sacacºlemoi %meu teiw_m ja· me_m nulb/mai ja· bpysoOm t± t/r pºkeyr 5weim, eQ to?r ce s¾lasi s¦_m %deia 5stai. 131 8.92.2: blocm¾lomer ×sam 1p· t± pq²clata and 6: t_m bpkit_m t¹ st?¦or taOta 1bo¼keto.

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When an assembly was convened, as soon as they heard that the Spartan ships were sailing from Megara along the coast of Salamis, “they went down to Piraeus in full force, thinking that a conflict with their enemies, more serious than their internal conflict, was not far away”.132 After their defeat on sea and the loss of Euboea, the Athenians manned twenty ships and held an assembly, again demonstrating their ability to act unanimously when the polis was threatened. “They deposed the Four Hundred and voted to hand over the control of the affairs to the Five Thousands, who were to include all who could provide themselves with a hoplite’s equipment and that no one was to receive pay for holding an office, and otherwise they made him liable to a curse. A number of other assemblies were held later, at which legal commissioners were chose and steps were taken for drawing up a constitution… and so the oligarchy and the stasis at Athens came to an end” (8.97.1 – 4).

So the Athenians were able to win a naval victory at Cynossema and reestablish their control on Cyzicus which had revolted.133 To conclude, the portrait of the masses in Book 8, which is altogether rather positive, may be interpreted as an indirect answer to Cleon’s criticisms in Book 3. Indeed the historian still points out their usual defects, denial of responsibility, anger, and greed. But he also acknowledges their resilience, their patriotism, their discipline and their ability to make wise decisions in opposition with most of the leading oligarchs who “were interested only in their own advancement”.134 However the fact remains that once again, he chooses to stress the decisive intervention of a charismatic leader.

132 Th. 8.94.3. 133 Th. 8.104 – 107. 134 Westlake 1973, 214.

Thucydides’ Pericles. Between Historical Reality and Literary Representation* Panos Christodoulou Recent studies have revealed the complexity of Thucydides’ work, especially the author’s ability to incorporate in a single narrative history, a multiplicity of narrative techniques.1 This has shed light on different aspects of Thucydides’ intellectual world2 as philosophical ideas,3 political thoughts, and anthropological observations seem to intertwine in a single narrative which is based on real historical events.4 What is often neglected is that in the classical period, “history” was not considered to be an autonomous and distinct discipline.5 Those to whom we refer as “historians” in the 5th and 4th centuries BCE were not only insightful observers of historical events. They were also thinkers who were positively influenced by contemporary debates on politics and science. Through the narration of the actions and the deeds of their contempo-

*

1 2 3 4

5

I wish to express my gratitude to Antonis Tsakmakis for the careful attention he paid to this article and for his many helpful comments and suggestions. I also want to express my gratitude to Melina Tamiolaki, for her useful comments and corrections. None of them bears responsibility for any blemishes that remain. See Rengakos/Tsakmakis 2006 (part II: The art of Thucydides) and more recently Rusten 2009, 14 – 15. Of course we can no longer place Thucydides in a single intellectual trend. See Bertelli 1993a, 69; Raaflaub 2002b, 186. See also the very useful comments by Thomas 2006a. See especially Gehrke 1993. By contrast, Shanke’s interesting approach (2007) did not produce any original conclusions. In relation to this, see Foster (http:// bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2007/2007 – 07 – 08.html). Studies by Loraux (1980, 1986) are fundamental on this issue. However, we should also take Rood’s reservations into consideration (1998, 18 – 19). In relation to the way Thucydides approaches historical events see Canfora 1981, 212 – 214 as well as Desclos 2003, 43 – 47. Hartog 1999, 18 – 19; Bouvier 1997, 49.

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raries they put forward their own world view, as well as their own political ideas.6 The tendency, however, to underestimate the historical dimension of Thucydides’ thought7 and to promote first and foremost the literary dimension of his work seems to disrespect the limits that the author himself poses in his venture. As he states, his main objective is to narrate the war which shook the Greek world (1.1.1), to look for the causes and the reasons behind this conflict. No matter how often we may disagree with the criteria he adopts and no matter how dissatisfied we may become with the subjectivity with which he approaches many of the events that he narrates, we have to accept the following: Like Herodotus, he writes contemporary history8 and in using a great historical event, for which he gives us important information in any case, he makes an attempt to comprehend the complexity of human nature and society.9 The difficulty lies in distinguishing to what extent – and of course where in his œuvre – Thucydides the thinker upstages the historical observer, an extremely difficult feat which of course cannot be extensively discussed in the present study.10 Nonetheless, I will try to comment on one of the most widely studied as well as problematic chapters of Thucydides’ work: The description of Pericles’ leadership of the athenian demos. 11 The idealised por6 See Farrar 1989, 126 – 131. Nonetheless, as Bouvier observes 1997, 51: “En aucun cas on ne saurait nier que, d’Hérodote à Xénophon, on voit se développer et se dessiner, dans la vie intellectuelle des cités grecques, un courant qui, parallèlement à d’autres entreprises et à d’autres tendances qu’il peut croiser, n’en reste pas moins centré sur une problématique originale qui finira par constituer son propre objet”. 7 See for example Hunter 1973. 8 Raaflaub 2002b, 186. 9 Marincola 1999, 306: “there is plenty of evidence that many… historians saw their task as embracing many things other than wars and political upheavals”. 10 It is this complex relationship of the Greek historian with the city and politics which leads Nenci 1955, 38 to express the rather extreme but still correct view that the historian of the 4th century BCE would have probably called himself ‘il perfetto politico’. 11 I agree with the observation made by Monoson/Loriaux 1998, 285, that writers, often in their effort to understand “how the text works as a whole, have little confidence in the notion that the author’s teaching can be found in some specific episode, such as the Melian Dialogue, or in some isolated firstperson comments, such as those pertaining to Pericles”. We must emphasise the fact that we focus our attention on this issue exclusively, meaning the literary representa-

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trait of the Athenian general12 clearly influenced the way both scholars of classical Athens as well as the Western intelligentsia13 reflected on his personality. It is a fact, however, that we can no longer identify Pericles the historical figure, with Thucydides’ Pericles.14 Following an exhaustive study of the available sources, Vincent Azoulay15 sheds new light on Pericles’ unique ability to successfully absorb the vibrations from the conflict between the elite and the people, always respecting the political views of his fellow citizens. Pericles had the ability to prepare and to bring into effect, both internal16 and external17 policies, which did not contradict the desires of the demos. As the author eloquently stresses at the end of his study: “La vie du stratège témoigne d’un fragile équilibre entre le prestige persistant des élites et la domination grandissante du peuple. Si Périclès s’est distingué encore

12 13 14 15 16

17

tion of the relationship between Pericles and the demos. Issues concerning Pericles’ policy in the Peloponnesian War and his views on Athens’ dominant role in the Hellenic world demand a separate study. The effort to analyse all these issues at once may lead, I believe, to wrong conclusions (for example Rasmussen 1995). It is possible that in touching on these issues directly or indirectly Thucydides wanted to pose some crucial dilemmas before the reader and to shed light on other aspects of Pericles’ personality, which were less than brilliant (see Taylor’s recent study 2010, esp. ch. 2, whose conclusions however do not find me in agreement). The bibliography on Thucydides’ Pericles is daunting. See however Will 1995; Podlecki 1998. Raaflaub 2006, 204. For all this see Azoulay 2010, ch.11. See for example the fine analyses of Pébarthe 2010. Azoulay 2010. For example the payment of jurors. As Schmitt-Pantel 1992, 195 showed, salary payment to the citizens was seen as an obligation of the community to return that which belonged to them, especially since their activity was related to public affairs. Pericles was not the benefactor of the Athenian demos as Cimon was, but rather the one who put into effect a request supported apparently by the majority of Athenians. See also Pébarthe 2007. Euboia (Th. 1.114.1; D.S. 12.22.2; Plut. Per. 23.4. See Moreno 2007, 81 – 126), Samos (Th. 1.117.3; see Meritt 1984), and Aegina (Azoulay 2010, 75 – 76) experienced during Pericles’ leadership the brutality of the Athenians, in the same manner that during Cimon’s dominance of Athenian political life the inhabitants of Thasos and Naxos did. In this context, Mattingly’s conclusion (1996, 178) according to which we must recognise that “all the evidence for a general and developed system of Athenian imperialism relates to the Peloponnesian War”, seems to follow the logic of an idealised version of Pericles’ personality. The latter served rather successfully an imperialist system of power established since the age of Cimon. For a brief discussion on this matter see Bloedow 2000.

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de la majorité des Athéniens tant par sa richesse que par son charisme oratoire, son action refltait galement le souci de se conformer aux aspirations populaires”.18 Here of course, a very important question arises: if the historical figure of Pericles, by contrast to what Thucydides narrates, fulfilled the wishes of the demos and did not significantly diverge from the policies followed by other Athenian politicians, especially his successors,19 why did the author of the Peloponnesian War make him the central character of his narrative? Why did he wish to present the Athenian general’s death as a cause as well as an occasion for a change for the worse of the Athenian political system? 20 I believe the answer to this question is directly related to the theme of the present volume. When he represents Pericles’ personality, Thucydides applies narrative techniques allowing him to oscillate between historical research and observation of the Athenian general’s personality and a theoretical, literary representation of the figure of the eminent statesman. First, the historical observation: Thucydides possibly saw in Pericles a politician who had the special ability to act as a link between a past defined by the values of an aristocratic model of leadership and a present which rapidly appeared to be dominated by the political ideas of a wider part of the citizens.21 Pericles must have realised early on the increasing power that the citizens’ perception of the behaviour of statesmen and the way they were expected to conduct public affairs,22 had in the con18 Azoulay 2010, 258. 19 Connor 1971; Mann 2007. 20 Th. 2.65.10 – 13. Cf. Arist. Ath. 28.1. As Mann 2007 rightly observes, such considerations of Athenian democracy are excessive and bear little relation to reality. See also Musti 1995, 188 – 191. 21 Connor 1983, 119 – 128; Ober 1989, 90 – 91. 22 For the Athenians, the way of life and the behaviour of statesmen were not less important than the way they exercised power within the institutions. This is what a series of studies by Schmitt-Pantel showed (for example, 2006 and most recently 2009, 12: “Alors que l’histoire politique grecque telle qu’on l’écrit aujourd’hui ne retient dans les sources antiques concernant les dirigeants que certains de leurs gestes – les discours à l’assemblée, la conduite de la guerre, les propositions de lois, les conflits avec d’autres leaders pour l’exercice du pouvoir –, je me propose d’étudier leurs mœurs, au sens que le XVIIIe siècle et Voltaire donnent à ce terme, qui est précisément celui du mot grecque epitedeumata: les manières de se comporter, de naître, de grandir, d’habiter, de prier, de se vêtir, de manger, de se marier, de mourir. Je ne souscris pas en effet à la division

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text of democracy.23 His effort to break with aristocratic perceptions of leadership, is perhaps evidence in this regard. It is possible that he believed that these perceptions were becoming less and less acceptable by the majority and were, consequently, less effective. Even though he was well versed in administrative techniques,24 Pericles created a public image which presented him as having put his political art in the service of the interests of the whole community,25 not in the fulfillment of his personal ambitions. Thucydides possibly believed that Pericles played an important role in athenian political life, but he did it in such a manner that he gave the Athenians the impression that he developed and implemented policies respecting first of all their own expectations. The constant re-election of such a personality in one of the most important civic offices secured the stability of the constitution, and that, in the eyes of Thucydides, was especially important. I think it is this observation of the historical reality which inspired Thucydides to represent Pericles’ relationship to the demos in such a particular manner. It also gave him the chance to reflect on an important issue. Thucydides seems to be participating in a political and ideological debate taking place within his contemporary intellectual circles. The issue of the relationship between the leader, the people and the civic institutions, as well as the debate concerning the virtues and the faults of the eminent statesman, become relevant in Greek thought already with Homer, while from the middle of the 5th century significant number of thinkers were concerned with similar matters. I am referring to the tragic poets, the sophists, the comic poets or even political figures,26

23

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posée à priori selon laquelle certaines activités de ces gouvernants relèvent du politique et d’autres non; j’étudie donc leurs mœurs dans la perspective d’une histoire du politique”). At this point Thucydides seems to be inspired by reality and we must credit Plutarch’s description with some truth: “And so it was that Pericles, seeking to avoid the satiety which springs from continual intercourse, made his approaches to the people by intervals, as it were, not speaking on every question, nor addressing the people on every occasion, but offering himself like the Salaminian trireme” (Per. 7.5). As Azoulay 2010, 60, emphasizes, Pericles’ aim was not to give the demos the impression that he possessed power and gifts which would render him dangerous to democracy. See Bertrand 2001 esp. 934 – 935. Tsakmakis 2006, 167 – 168. Like Critias for example, who composed a Pokite_a of the Spartans (DK 88 B 32 – 7), and with which Xenophon (HG 2.3.34) must have been familiar. See Lévy 2001.

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whose intellectual enquiry was, often, focused on the city’s affairs and especially issues of political leadership. It is not necessary to refer to the work of these thinkers.27 It is, however, necessary to point out that since the middle of the 5th century BCE several texts appeared in which the authors attempted to reflect almost exclusively on constitutions. Aristotle (Pol. 1267b29 – 30) presents Hippodamus of Miletus as perhaps the first “man not engaged in politics who attempted to speak on the subject of the best form of constitution”.28 We know that Protagoras authored a work titled Peq· Pokite_ar (Diogenes Laertius, 9.55=Prot. 80 A 1 D-K), while the pamphlet of the so called ‘Old Oligarch’ was entitled “Pokite_a of the Athenians”.29 The existence of such a corpus of texts,30 as well as the rest of the Athenian intellectual production, reflect the great importance that the Greeks placed on understanding the structural differences and similarities between the constitutions, knowing how they worked and comprehending the role that the citizens and theirs leaders were asked to play within the context of the institutions. However, a discussion peq· pokite_ar was not necessarily a book. It could be written in different ways.31 Although the Peloponnesian War is not a treatise Peq· Pokite_ar and even though a systematic debate concerning the general principles of the main constitutions (see for example Herodotus 3.80)32 is absent from Thucydides’ work, nonetheless we cannot but point out the following: the author attempts, among other things, to interpret aspects of the political life of the Greek cities and especially Athens, often focusing on the relationship between leaders and citizens. More specifically, it seems very likely that the peculiar and particular representation of Pericles’ leadership and his relationship with the demos is relevant to the treatises Peq· Pokite_ar, which were being auth27 For example Raaflaub 1989. 28 For the genre of the best constitution (peq· pokite_ar t/r !q_stgr) see Bertelli 1992. 29 We know also about a Politeia forged in the name of Epicharmus (DK 23 B56 – 57). 30 See especially Bertelli 1993a; Schepens – Bollansée 2004 and Menn 2005, esp. 1 – 7; Jacoby 1949, 211 – 215 is still useful, while Bordes’ discussion of the concept pokite_a is original. Also Lévy 1993. 31 Menn 2005, 10 – 11. 32 Raaflaub 2006, 191. Bertelli 1993a, 28 emphasises the fact that Herodotus’ “constitutional debate”, reflects the interest shown by 5th century BCE thinkers in the different genre of politeia even if this was not the main subject of their work.

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ored in the period when Thucydides was working on his own text.33 Taking as his vantage point the action of an important historical figure, he represents in an extremely original manner the role of the outstanding leader in the context of democracy. We can say that Thucydides’ intellectual enquiry on this subject is an astonishing effort to fulfil the ambitious task “to educate his audiences and readers through the presentation and interpretation of history”.34 Knowing the competitive spirit in which Thucydides approached works by other thinkers, it would not be far-fetched to express the view that his aim was also to surpass35 (or engage in dialogue with) other thinkers – both his predecessors and his contemporaries – who attempted to reflect on this issue. It is obvious that when Thucydides describes Pericles’ leadership of the Athenians, he subjects historical observation to the needs of a theoretical, literary approach to the subject. This, of course, cannot have come as a surprise to his contemporaries. It is worth pointing out that the formation of political thought through the systematic study and representation of a model of leadership is not outside the Greeks’ rationale. For example, in the second half of the 5th century BCE, when Athens’ democracy became mass-participatory and the dominance of the majority in the political institutions had been considerably strengthened, paradoxically the figure of the tyrant frequently appeared in literary texts.36 This can be explained to an extent by the Athenians’ will to define and crystallize their own views in relation to the democratic institutions and the way the city was governed, through mainly negative representations of models of leadership.37 The Athenians were very familiar with the theatrical – and literal – representation of the relationship between leader and city,38 and the figure of the 33 Often, scholars focus their attention on the influence of medical writings on Thucydides (Rechenauer 1991 is perhaps the fullest study), the Homeric epics, lyrical poetry, tragedy (for all these see Corcella 2006). Also Hornblower 2009. But I think we need to take seriously into account the impact that this particular genre of literature must have had on the way in which Thucydides understood the function of constitutions. 34 Raaflaub 1997, 628. 35 On the competitive spirit in which Thucydides approached his contemporary thinkers see Rood 1999a. Also Corcella 2006. 36 On the figure of the tyrant in Athens of the Classical period see Lanza 1977. Also Rosivach 1988; Giorgini 1993, 141 – 165; Barceló 1993; Meulder 1994; Seaford 2003. 37 Rosivach 1988, 46; Raaflaub 2003, 70 – 72. 38 Raaflaub 2003, 72.

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tyrant worked as the mirror image of the prudent politician, the one whose behaviour respected the boundaries set by the law. Thucydides’ contemporaries, the readers of his work, knew that Pericles was presented by the comic poets (and not only by them) as a dynamic yet corrupted politician, who governed the city subdued by the desire to satisfy his own personal interests.39 Pericles, the prudent leader of the Peloponnesian War was consequently represented in another very different manner, that of the tyrant. It is, however, important to emphasise that these negative descriptions follow certain predetermined models of thought which show little respect, and do not correspond to the extent that they should, to what reality itself taught the audience about Pericles. The latter was certainly not a tyrant and if he had done even half of what the comic poets describe he probably would have been ostracised. In this context, we find ourselves before another form of literary representation of Pericles’ personality which is also possibly the result of historical observation. Through his public presence, Pericles showed his fellow citizens that he was able to control those attitudes which might have potentially made him dangerous to democratic institutions. The comic poets however, whose aim (like the orators’) was to win the acclaim and approval of the crowd,40 attacked Pericles, trying to persuade their audience that he was actually not very different from his fellow citizens.41 He had passions, weaknesses, flaws and, like most people, was often unable to restrain his personal desires and self-interests in favour of the public interest. Perhaps they were trying to shed light on the “secret” life of Pericles, following of course the rules and practices imposed on them by their art. In this way they represented a negative model of the leader, while at the same time accomplishing a didactic purpose. This served as a warning to the ambitious leaders, about the dangers that come with adopting attitudes which the citizens may associate with efforts of domination and supremacy, something that would certainly be a threat to the citizen body.42 As I have already noted, we must keep in 39 40 41 42

See below. Ober 1998, 123. MacGlew 2006, 171 – 172. The space these performances took place in (Ober 1998, 122 – 123) and the themes they engaged with (the audience recognized that contemporary political issues were being raised and saw in the main characters important political fig-

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mind that in Athenian political life the manners, ethos, habits and behavior of a statesman directly influenced his relationship with the people. In this context, it is obvious that the comic poets’ attacks against their contemporary politicians were, among other things, a somewhat different kind of intervention in the city’s political life. The works of Teleclides, Cratinus, and Hermippus were also political texts43 and they systematically attacked Pericles,44 driven both by the rules of their art as well as by personal, political motives. Cratinus considered Cimon an excellent leader (Cratin., fr. 1 K.-A.), and he openly disapproved of Pericles’ leadership.45 What we are actually faced with is the theoretical representation of a negative model of leader by Pericles’ opponents. In this context, Thucydides’ decision to present Pericles as a model of a prudent leader is not only due to his admiration of him.46 Going back to our earlier question: “what was Thucydides’ aim when he decided to present the Athenian general in this manner?”, we would say that on the one hand, following a particular intellectual trend of his time he tried using the historical observation of Pericles’ personality to participate in a contemporary ideological and political debate through the literary representation of the relationship between leader and demos, leader and civic institutions. On the other hand, he tried to go against a line of thinkers, for example the comic poets, and especially Cratinus, who vigorously attacked the personality of the Athenian general. Thucydides, contrary to what scholars often believe,47 must have perceived some of the texts of the comic poets (especially those by Cratinus) as sources of political thought and as historical material as well. Besides, as Jeffrey Rusten rightly points out, this is how they must have been

43 44 45 46 47

ures), proves that the Athenians recognized in comedy a particular political importance. Rusten 2006, 549. MacGlew 2006, 165: “the comic Pericles… was a powerful political construction that demonstrates comedy’s political role in Athens as well as the significance that the memory of tyranny continued to hold”. As well as other political figures. See Schwarze 1971; Banfi 2003, 3 – 43. Banfi 2003, 19 – 20; Bertelli 2007, 32. This is an example of an erroneous conclusion that many – including Strauss 1964, 213 – reach. Also, Taylor 2010, 41. Romilly 2005, 198: “Thucydide naturellement ne croit pas à ces méchants propos. Mais – ce qui est plus intéressant – il ne s’y intéresse même pas assez pour s’arrêter à les réfuter”.

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perceived by the historians and philosophers of the 4th century BCE., which is supported by the frequent references to Old Comedy.48 Next, I shall focus on the point which in my opinion reveals the influence that the Pericles of the comic poets had on Thucydides, and which I believe positively influenced the figure of the leader that the author of the Peloponnesian War presented to his readers. These two literary representations have a common reference: an extremely important political phenomenon for the Greeks, that of stasis. Oddly, both of them associated it, each in their own way, with Pericles’ personality.

1. Stasis on Stage During his long presence on the Athenian political scene, Pericles was harshly attacked, not only by his rivals but also by contemporary thinkers.49 A common theme in these texts, the number of which began to increase after 443 BCE50 is the representation of an authoritarian personality,51 unable to show respect either for his political opponents or for the institutions. We would, however, add that typical characteristics of a tyrannical soul are attributed to Pericles, characteristics of a man who does not behave and act like a tyrant, but who is a tyrant. For example, Cratinus associates Pericles’ ascendance to power with a successful coup d’tat. 52 This is how tyrants usually act. Using violence or deceit, they impose 48 Rusten 2006, 557 concludes: “Thus Old Comedy owes just as much to Thucydides as he may owe to it”; also Lenfant 2003. However, we must say that Cratinus wrote most of his works between the middle of the 440 s and his death in 422 BCE, and many of those referring to Pericles are dated from before 428 BCE (see Geissler 1925, 10 f.). Thus, Cratinus was probably not influenced and did not “owe” anything to Thucydides who wrote his work much later. 49 For a complete discussion of this issue see Banfi 2003, esp. 3 – 71. 50 Banfi 2003, 15 – 16. 51 The role of Zeus is often attributed to Pericles (For example: Cratin. Nemesis fr.118 K.-A.; Ar. Ach. 530 – 531; Plut. Per. 8.4). See Bertelli 2007, 31 n. 48, and Azoulay 2010, 141 – 142. 52 Cratin. Cheirons, Fr. 240 K.-A.; Banfi 2003, 18 – 19. Ruse is identified with political personalities of questionable morals (Arist. Pol. 1314a). An important detail is the following: Cratinus considered Cimon an eminent politician (see Bertelli 2007, 34 – 35) and did not hesitate to attack Pericles for his behaviour against the aristocrat general who, obviously for the comic poet, was exiled in a suspect and devious manner.

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their personal power and according to Herodotus, this is how Peisistratus acted; he deceived the Athenians and took over power.53 Pericles’ physical resemblance to the Athenian tyrant54 allowed for such parallelisms. It is not accidental that when Cratinus characterizes Zeus/Pericles as a tyrant and reproves him for the way he has come to power, he creates an image according to which one of the parents of the new monarch is st\sir : “Stasis (Discord) and eldest-born Time commingled and begat the greatest tyrant, the one whom the gods call Head-Compeller” (punning on epic ‘Cloud-Compeller’).55 Cratinus did not only aim to represent a figure that ascended the “throne” of the city through mutiny against those lawfully elected.56 He and other intellectuals who formulated negative views about Periclean government describe a statesman who constantly sought the division of the city. Let us be more specific. At the centre of the criticisms laid at his door was the Athenian general’s sexual conduct. In addition to his scandalous liaison with Aspasia,57 he also had a series of other sexual affairs,58 indicative of his inability to restrain his passions. These descriptions fall, of course, within an existing model of thought directly associated with the representations of the figure of the tyrant in the archaic and classical periods.59 The accusation that he shared a bed with the wife of Xanthippus, his first born son, was extremely serious as it was an unacceptable act for the Athenians.60 In this manner, Pericles negated the moral values

53 Hdt. 1.59. For ruse as Peisistratus’ characteristic see Lavelle 2005, 289 n. 127. 54 Plut. Per. 7.1, 16.1. 55 Cratin. Cheirons fr. 258 K.-A.. Let us note that Peisistratus, according to Herodotus, took over power in Athens by taking advantage of the internal problems in the city, problems which led to stasis. (Hdt. 1.59.). See MacGlew 1993, 76 – 77. 56 Scholars often insist on this issue. For all problems relating to the interpretation of this passage, see the profound study by Bertelli 2007, 32 – 34. 57 Cratinus (=Plut. Per. 24. 9) and Eupolis (= Plut. Per. 24.10) attacked Aspasia harshly. See comments by Schmitt-Pantel 2007, 215 – 216. 58 Plut. Per. 13.15. Schwarze 1971, 111 – 112; Azoulay 2010, 120 – 123. 59 Herodotus (3.80.3): “m|lai\ te jim]ei p\tqia ja· bi÷tai cuma?jar jte_mei te !jq_tour”. For the way in which extreme sexual conduct marginalizes the tyrant see Schmitt-Pantel 1979. 60 The event is delivered by Stesimbrotus of Thasos, well known for his hostility towards Pericles (Plut. Per. 13.16; Banfi 2003, 41 – 64). On Stesimbrotus of Thasos see Tsakmakis 1995; Engels 1998.

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of the city and set himself in the margin of civic life.61 The generically evil tyrant characteristically commits sexual outrage, and thus proves unable to control himself. In addition, the leader who has stasis in his own home, who is unable to harmoniously govern his oikos, is probably unable to govern the city.62 In reality, he is transferring stasis from the private to the public sphere. Pericles’ government of the city is also reprehensible. Surrounded by his friends, whom according to Plutarch the comic poets called ‘new Peisistratids’,63 he creates policies to be followed by the city, while often assigning almost all the important offices to his friends, like Metiochos,64 thus abolishing the fundamental principles of an institutionalised form of government.65 In addition, what can be observed is a general corruption; the accusation that Hagnon, a general during the years of Pericles’ dominance in Athenian political life and a man who had been appointed oikistes of Amphipolis in 437 BCE (Th. 4.102.3), was a !d_jyr pkout_m,66 falls within this context: Pericles and his associates are corrupt politicians who are far less interested in the common public good and much more in their own personal prosperity.67

61 As Schmitt-Pantel, 2009, 229 n. 55 points out, the potsherds found at Kerameikos which stigmatised the sexual behaviour of statesmen, show that the Athenians associated the inability to control one’s sexual life with the figure of the tyrant and consequently it would not be absurd for someone to be ostracised for that reason. 62 For Isocrates (Nic. 41.4), oWjor and p|kir, are the two spheres of human activity where there has to be omonoia. Also Areopagiticus 41, with comments by Haskins 2004, 93 – 94. For the political analogy between oWjor and p|kir see Natali 1989. 63 Plut. Per.16.1. (Adespota, fr. 703 K.-A.) 64 Adespota, fr. 741 K.-A. Also Plut. Mor. 811F. For the historical figure Metiochos see Podlecki 1998, 164. 65 According to Plutarch, Metiochos, friend of Percicles, caused the envy of the citizens due to the excessive power he had in his hands (Plut. Mor. 811F). Tyrants like Peisistratus did not overthrow the institutions (see Oliveira-Gomez 2007, 109 – 118), but controlled them through the presence of their friends. For the constitutional character of Peisistratus’ regime: Hdt. 1.59.6; Th. 6.54.5 – 6. 66 Cratin. fr. 171 K.-A. For the difficulties of this passage see Bakola 2010, 226 – 229. The Athenians considered Hagnon’s power a danger to democracy and so without surprise his name figured on four ostraka found in the Agora. See Siewert 2002, 53. 67 As MacGlew 2006, rightly points out.

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However, this information regarding Pericles’ friends is supplemented by another, slightly different one. Anaxagoras of Klazomenae, Hippodamus of Miletus, Cephalus of Syracuse, and of course Aspasia, constituted his intellectual circle. Even though we may doubt the existence of such a powerful circle,68 his rivals’ insistence on constructing this image may be explained in the following manner: Pericles’ friends had no political rights in Athens, in other words they were foreigners. This agreed perfectly with the image of Pericles-tyrant69 since one of the best known characteristics of the tyrant was the trust he showed to foreigners who constituted his personal bodyguard as well as his social circle.70 Thus, the city is divided and the citizens are distanced from public affairs. They become a completely distinct social body from those who govern the city.71 In that context Pericles emerged as the leader whose death marks, according to Cratinus ( fr. 171, K.-A.), the end of tyranny and the return of power to the people.72 Pericles’ domination in public life and the government of the city in a manner reminiscent of monarchy is intentionally and explicitly stressed by Telecleides, in a play of unknown title: “With the cities’ assessments the cities themselves, to bind or release as he pleases, their ramparts of stone to build up if he likes, and then to pull down again straightway, their treaties, their forces, their might, peace, and riches, and all the fair gifts of good fortune”.73 It appears that in the eyes of other intellectuals, besides Thucydides, the Athens of Pericles was a democracy only in name; in reality it was ruled by the first citizen (Th. 2.65.10). Nonetheless, if we closely examine the texts a substantial difference emerges. Some of the comic poets, like Cratinus (fr. 326 K.-A.=Plut. Per. 13.8), persistently highlighted

68 Stadter 1991. 69 As Azoulay 2010, 111 rightly points out. 70 Peistraturs and mercenaries; Hdt. 1.61; Ath. Const. 15.2. The close relationship between tyrants and mercenaries was highlighted by Aristotle (Pol. 1285a26 – 30). 71 Aristotle emphasises the fact that the citizens are unwilling to follow such a leader (Pol. 1285a27 – 28). The city is experiencing a form of permanent and incurable discord, stasis and Plato uses the very same word to characterize stasis and the tyrant: m|sgla meaning sickness for the city (Pl. R. 544c7). See Bertrand 1999. Besides, for Plato as well, tyranny is born out of stasis (Pl. R. 566a6). 72 See Bertelli 2007, 36 – 37. 73 Plut. Per. 16.2.

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Pericles’ inability to move from words to action.74 According to Hermippus (fr. 46 K.-A.=Plut. Per. 23.7), even though Pericles delivered fiery speeches supporting the war with Sparta (k|cour l³m peq· toO pok]lou deimo»r paq]weir), he refused to carry the spear (oqj 1h]keir d|qu bast\feim).75 In sum, he remained a man of words, not of action. This is probably also related to the representation of Pericles as an outstanding orator. According to Plutarch (Per. 8.4), when Archidamus asked Thucydides the son of Melesias, whether he or Pericles was the best wrestler he replied: “Whenever I throw him in wrestling, he disputes the fall, and carries his point, and persuades the very men who saw him fall”. The comic poets also presented Pericles’ rhetorical skills in a distinctive manner, making plain that he got the surname Olympian Zeus because when he addressed his fellow citizens he was “thundering” and “lightening” and because he was “wielding a dread thunderbolt in his tongue”.76 Pericles the gifted orator seduced the audience with his words,77 and thus could prove dangerous to the proper functioning of democratic institutions.78 Cratinus then presented Pericles as “ck_tt\m t] soi d_dysim 1m d^l\ voqe?m jak_m k|cym !e_mym, Ø p\mta jim^seic k]cym”.79 The word ck_tt\m, probably refers to the following excerpt from Solon’s elegies where the legislator, addressing his fellow citizens, points out that they are looking: “to the tongue and words of a crafty man, but not to what he does (1r c±q ck_ssam bq÷te ja· eQr 5pg aRl}kou !mdq|r, eQr 5qcom d’ oqd³m cicm|lemom bk]pete)”.80 Here, it is not only the people who are being criticised for failing to recognise the politician who attempts to deceive them in order to have power consigned to 74 “Since ever so long now In word has Pericles pushed the thing; in fact he does not budge it.” (k|coisi pqo\cei Peqijk]gr, 5qcoisi d’ oqd³ jime? ). 75 Hermipp. fr. 46 K.–A.. According to Plutarch (Per. 33.8), except the choruses’ “songs of scurrilous mockery, railing at his generalship for its cowardice, and its abandonment of everything to the enemy”, Cleon too, was already harassing Pericles for his strategy against the Lacedaemonians. See Ostwald 1986, 208. 76 Plut. Per. 8.4. For the way Pericles’ rhetorical skills were represented by the comic poets see Banfi 2003, 23 – 26. 77 According to Socrates (X. Mem. 2.6.13), Pericles used spells to make the city love him. See Wohl 2006, 133 – 134. 78 For the close connection between tyrant and orator see Meulder 1994. 79 Cratin. fr. 327 K.-A. Cf. Eupolis fr. 102 K.-A. 80 Solon, fr. 11 West. See Oliveira-Gomes 2007, 172 – 173.

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him. In this excerpt the demagogue/tyrant, the man who is able to appropriate the demos through the charm of his words, is also represented.81 In this context, Cratinus’ idea of connecting Pericles/tyrant to the phenomenon of stasis is no accident. In the texts of Alkaios, Solon and Theognis, tyranny, demagogy and stasis are interrelated.82 Also, it is more than obvious that for Cratinus stasis is not only associated with civil conflict or armed conflict between the rich and the demos. Stasis in the city may be caused by the behavior of statesmen and, most of all, by their inability to serve the public interest. Uncontrollable sexual conduct, abolition of the laws and institutions of the state, infinite trust in non-citizens, satisfaction of greed and subjection to reprehensible passions, dangerous rhetorical skills, division of the city, this is more or less the personality/figure of Pericles according to the comic poets. They represent, in this manner, a politician whose way of life threatens the unity of the political body as well as the proper functioning of the institutions. It would be inappropriate to believe that these negative considerations of the personality of the Athenian general were not a concern for Thucydides when he was writing his own text. Next, I will try to show that what directed the thought of the author was his desire to represent a statesman on the antipode of that presented by the comic poets. More than that, it is obvious that he was also trying to fulfill a didactic purpose: to form the image of a city, which under the guidance of a charismatic leader has no experience of the worst evil which can befall it: that of stasis. On this matter I believe that the historian’s thought was ground-breaking.

81 Plutarch (Per. 7.1) describes Pericles’ ability to use language as one of the qualities he shared with Peisistratus: “… and when men well on in years remarked also that his voice was sweet (vymµm Bde?am owsam), and his tongue glib and speedy in discourse (ja· tµm ck_ttam eutqowom 1m t` diak]ceshai ja· tawe?am), they were struck with amazement at the resemblance”. 82 See Oliveira-Gomes 2007, 167 – 189. Noussia 2003, attempted an interesting approach to the language used by Cratinus to characterise the tyrant, thus revealing the influence of lyrical poetry and Solon on his work.

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2. Pericles of the Peloponnesian War Pericles and the Athenians In Thucydides’ work, Pericles addresses his fellow citizens on three occasions. His first speech83 comes at a crucial meeting of the Assembly, which we must assume was attended by the large segment of the people84. Let us, however, note the following interesting point: The historian reminds his reader that before the appearance “of Pericles, son of Xanthippos, a man who was at that time the foremost among the Athenians”, many orators came forward to address the Assembly, some supporting entry into war, and some who did not consider the Megarian decree an obstacle to peace (1.139.4).85 Without doubt there would be many Athenians who would share one view or the other. The result of Pericles’ decisive intervention, however, who up to that point had remained “in the background, especially regarding his leadership of the demos”,86 was spectacular. “The Athenians considered that his advice was best (%qista), voted as he had asked them to vote, and answered the Lacedaemonians as he recommended, both on the separate points and in the general”.87 The successful negotiation of the issue by the “most forceful in speaking and in action” (1.139.4.)88 consequently had as a result that a common policy was adopted and the city responded to the Spartan ambassadors with one voice. Thucydides, deliberately at this point gives no indication to his reader that a significant number of citi83 Regarding Pericles’ first speech see Edmunds 1975, 7 – 36. Also Yunis 1996, 77 – 78. 84 This is what Thucydides himself insinuates (1.139.4). 85 As Pébarthe 2000, very convincingly showed, Pericles’ insistence on defending the law in question was directly linked to the need to protect the city’s financial interests. We could add that the degrading of the law by Thucydides (Wick 1977; Connor 1983, 39 n. 41), was due to this precise reason. Pericles was largely identified with the interests of the Athenian people, who had much to gain from the economic development of the city. See Rhodes 1987, esp. 161 – 163. 86 Yunis 1996, 77. 87 Th. 1.145.1. See Tsakmakis 2006, 163 n. 5, who underlines the fact that the acceptance of his views by the Athenians illustrates the effect of Pericles’ rhetoric. Cf. Ober 1998, 83. 88 At this point Thucydides is probably attempting to inform the reader contrary to the accusations set against him by the comic poets, that Pericles was a man of words and deeds.

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zens were hesitant to adopt Pericles’ policy. So, the decision to reject Sparta’s demands lies across the political body.89 The Athenians did not simply approve the general outline of Pericles’ discourse, but, as the author characteristically mentions, they fully adopted, in every separate point, the proposal of their leader. Thucydides’ observation is intentional and aims at convincing his reader that Pericles had the ability to explain and make clear difficult and complex strategies in such a way that every point would be understood. Thus, the reader realises Thucydides’ intention to represent a leader whose personality was decisively different from the one described by the comic poets or possibly his political opponents.90 His speech is devoid of numerous persuasive devices or rhetorical elements which would prevent the rational part of the soul from dominating the irrational, as he does not make use of his rhetorical art in order to earn the favour of the demos. On the contrary, even though he is a skilful orator his intention is to proceed to an unadorned discussion and definition of the problem. So, his speech which stands out for its clarity “has a remarkably uncomplicated structure”.91 In that context, the reader realises from the very beginning that the way in which Thucydides represents Pericles’ leadership will make him reflect on issues which other thinkers have already raised, in a different and innovative way. Plutarch of course was fully aware of this point and as he prepares the reader for Thucydides’ historical account he expresses the view that “the reason of his success was not his power as a speaker merely, but as Thucydides says, the reputation of his life and the confidence reposed in him as one who was manifestly proven to be utterly disinterested and superior to bribes”.92 It is obvious that for the biographer, the description of Pericles’ personality by Thucydides was directly related to contemporary texts in which the figure of the Athenian general was 89 As Xenophon’s Socrates warned the young Euthydemus, if he wants to be master of the kingly art, that which is possessed by the few and select citizens, he must possess the art of financial administration, the art of generalship, the art of creating alliances with other cities and last but not least, the art of the political discourse which puts down strife and produces harmony (X. Mem. 4.6.12 – 14). 90 Yunis 1996, 74. 91 Yunis 1996, 77. 92 Plut. Per. 15.5. The very favourable assessment of Plutarch of the personality of Pericles, shows important influences from the portrait created for the Athenian general by Thucydides. See Pelling 1992 and Saïd 2002, 15 – 16.

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represented in a negative manner.93 So, his intention not to present Pericles’ exceptional persuasive power as the main reason for his success,94 certainly has a great deal to do with the frequent association of the Athenian general with the demagogue/tyrant. However, it is also relevant to the following: Pericles’ domination of political life was not due to his ability to control the mechanisms of political communication and power, nor to his ability to seduce the crowd with the charm of his words. On the one hand, it was largely due to his intellectual superiority over his opponents and on the other, to his perception of political art as an instrument which helped the eminent statesman to serve the public interest. Thucydides reveals this point with amazing consistency. He is attempting to show that it was these virtues and these alone that the Athenian demos recognized in Pericles’ leadership. Before I further examine these two points, I deem it necessary to consider two excerpts which are crucial for my argument. In his second speech,95 Pericles has the privilege to address—he and he alone in all of Thucydides’ work – an exceptionally diverse audience, an audience unique as to its composition. The very famous Funeral Oration is delivered in the presence of the citizens, the foreigners and the wives of the dead96 (2.34.4: ja· !st_m ja· n]mym, ja· cuma?jer p\qeisim aR pqos^jousai 1p· t¹m t\vom akovuq|lemai). The word flikor which he uses to describe the crowd (2.34.8) is intentional and aims to show that it is not only “heterogeneous, composed of citizens and aliens, men and women, but it is also random, temporary, and anonymous”.97 In addition to that, the fact that the crowd is huge is indirectly emphasized by the information that Pericles stood on a high podium so that he could be heard by as many people as possible (2.34.8: 1p· b/la rxgk¹m pepoigl]mom, fpyr !jo}oito ¢r 1p· pke?stom toO bl_kou). The whole 93 Even though Plutarch expresses how little respect he has for comedy (Plut. Table Talk 7.8, 711 f.), in the Life of Pericles he uses extensive excerpts from these works. This shows that he recognised their significance and most of all that in the case of the Athenian general, they were often used as primary material for his life and work. 94 Yunis 1996, 74: “But Thucydides does not portray Pericles in the mold of what has become, due largely to Gorgias and Plato, the classical stereotype of the orator: the skilful wielder of persuasion who by virtue of this skill alone can rule supreme in a democratic polis”. 95 In the extensive bibliography, see the very interesting text by Bosworth 2000. 96 See Cartledge 1993. 97 Hunter 1988, 19.

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procedure takes place in the most beautiful suburb of the city (1p· toO jakk_stou pqoaste_ou t/r p|keyr),98 the state tomb, where as Nicole Loraux eloquently points out “s’annulent toutes les determinations, individuelles ou familiales, économiques et sociales, qui pourraient jusque dans le tombe diviser les Athéniens”.99 So, on a day when all disagreements, political disputes and conflicts were set aside, on a day when citizens and non – citizens, men, women, foreigners, slaves and metics, in other words every human being who resided in the land of Attica, was in a public space, the Athenians could not have chosen anyone other than the most prudent and wise among the citizens to deliver the funeral oration.100 Thucydides reminds his reader that on such occasions, a man chosen by the city for his intellectual superiority and for his personal reputation delivers the funeral oration (2.34.6). It is no surprise then that Pericles of Xanthippus was chosen. The Athenians could see that only a very distinguished citizen would be in a position, first to conceive and then to adequately express the unity, not only of the citizen political body, but also of the whole Athenian society. At the end of his life, even when his fellow citizens blamed him for having persuaded them to enter the war, Pericles had no opposing speaker. He was again face to face with the whole citizen body. Thucydides emphatically underlines the fact that the two distinct socioeconomic groups within the city, the demos and the dynatoi (2.65.2), had negative feelings toward their general; it was one of the rare cases where they shared a common political opponent.101 This was no accident. Thucydides attempts to reveal the greatness of a leader who absorbs the reverberations of the constant clash between the demos and the dynatoi. The fact that the political desires of the city’s two powerful groups were left unsatisfied was a result of Pericles’ will: he belonged to

98 Hornblower 1991, 294 underlines the fact that the comment on the physical beauty of the site is almost unique in Thucydides. 99 Loraux 1981, 45. 100 For any difficulties in interpreting this excerpt see Rhodes 1996, 533 n. 8. 101 Demos and dynatoi as opposite socioeconomic groups within the city: 1.124.5; 1.115.4 – 5; 2.65.2; 3.27.2 – 3; 3.47.3; 5.4.3; 8.21.1; 8.73.2. For the use of these terms in Thucydides as contradictory see Fouchard 1997, 436 and especially Frazier 2003. See also Said’s insightful analysis in this volume, esp. 200 – 1.

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neither of these groups, and he could act as he thought best for the polis without taking into account the political setbacks for himself.102 Thucydides avoids mentioning even a small group of citizens who defended Pericles’ strategy, as that would mean that his presence on the political scene divided the members of the Assembly. So, with his words Pericles cures the anger of all the citizens (2.65.1 – 3) and even though he has been fined, the Athenians, soon afterwards “with the usual fickleness of the mob”, (2.65.4; cf. 4.28.3; 6.63.2) changed their mind, they re-elected him general and entrusted all their affairs to him (2.65.4: p\mta t± pq\clata 1p]tqexam). An important detail is that the entire city acknowledged his importance (2.65.5: ¨m d³ B n}lpasa p|kir pqosede?to pke_stou %niom mol_fomter eWmai). We cannot but acknowledge, at this point, Thucydides’ effort to reverse the image that Telecleides forged of Pericles. The abandonment of all public affairs to the most competent politician was a token of his intellectual and moral superiority,103 his inspired leadership, his refusal to serve his personal interest. Pericles’ dislike for personal pleasures, presents and money (2.60.5; 2.65.8),104 the consistency of his views (1.140.1; 2.56.1; 2.61.2), his pronoia (2.65.7), his prudence (2.65.5), his intelligence (2.65.8) are what are largely recognized in his leadership by B n}lpasa p|kir. Pericles is after all the model of the leader who manages to exorcise the greatest evil that can befall a city: stasis.

102 This must have reminded the attentive reader of the Peloponnesian War of Solon’s poems. The legislator is proud of the fact that his main concern was saving the city and for this reason he was not defeated by the desire for personal gain, he was not corrupted by excessive power, he did not commit hubris, in other words he did not become a tyrant. Much more than that, he kept equal distance from the warring parties (Solon fr. 37 West), the demos and the dynatoi, thus not allowing for the ailment of stasis to appear in the city (Solon fr. 4.19. West. See Oliveira-Gomes 2007, 117. Also Loraux 1984). It is no accident that a few decades after Thucydides’ work, not only was Pericles not a tyrant, but rather he was closer to political personalities who for the Athenians ruled in an exemplary manner (Aeschin. In Timarchum; 26, Isoc. Antidosis 234; Lys. In Nicomachum 28. See Banfi 2003, 174 – 176). 103 Apart from Pericles Thucydides qualifies as a worthy leader (%nior) only Brasidas (4.81.2). By contrast, Alcibiades defines himself as a worthy man (%nior : Th. 6.16.1). See Tsakmakis 2006, 180 n. 45. 104 All those which are desired by tyrants. See Seaford 2003.

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3. Exorcising stasis Thucydides, perhaps more than any other thinker of his time, analyzed the phenomenon of stasis as a strictly political issue.105 He avoided examining it solely under the prism of the conflict between the aristocratic elite and demos, a conflict which was mainly caused by socioeconomic inequality.106 The stasis could have taken the form of a violent conflict between the demos and oligarchy, it could have appeared in the city in the form of civil war, it could also have appeared as the division of the political body, or in the form of a permanent conflict between minority/majority,107 and continuous opposition within the institutions, of various political views. Thucydides reminds us in his own narrative voice that the Athenian defeat was a result of the gradual prevalence of the perception according to which politics is the art of dominance over political opponents. It is exactly this perception of politics which will cause the greatest suffering to the city. After mentioning the constant effort to serve personal and private interests,108 characteristic of all the Athenians (2.65.7) and of course of Pericles’ successors (2.65.10; 2.65.11), as a symptom of decline, he reminds the reader that even after the defeat in Sicily and the defection of her allies, Athens survived the war until the disputes arising within the city (2.65.12) led the Athenians to defeat. Thucydides remained loyal to such an interpretation109 suggesting that the responsibility for the defeat must be sought not in Pericles’ chosen strategy,110 but rather in the predominance of a dangerous perception of politics in Athens.111

105 See Price 2001. Stasis: Finley 1962, 7 – 9; Gehrke 1985; Bertelli 1989 and 1993. 106 Gehrke 1985. 107 It is this aspect of stasis that is emphasized, perhaps in an exaggerated manner, by Loraux 1997. Also Finley 1983, 44. See also the very useful observations by Bertelli 1993b. 108 Cf. 6.12.2; 8.89.3; 8.91.3. 109 As de Romilly 1995, 133 – 146 shows. Also Tsakmakis 2006, 179 – 180. 110 In the last few years, an effort to promote this idea has been observed. Most of the time, however, it appears to be more a desire of the author rather than of Thucydides himself. Such an example is, in my opinion, the work of Foster 2010. 111 That this was of particular interest to the author can be deduced from the following: from the death of Pericles onwards, the reader receives more and more

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Following the death of Pericles, those at the head of Athenian political life, whether democrats or not, turned the city into a field of conflict, a “battlefield”, where every citizen was forced to choose sides and face his fellow citizens as enemies. In reality, stasis begins to appear first and foremost within the political elite (2.65.11),112 a point of view which we also find in Xenophon, who points to the dangers to the city stemming from the ceaseless battle for power between eminent citizens (X. Mem. 2.6.20: eQ d³ dµ ja· oR !qetµm !sjoOmter stasi\fous_ te peq· toO pqyte}eim 1m ta?r p|kesi ja· vhomoOmter 2auto?r lisoOsim !kk^kour).113 This conflict often gives birth to envy (vh|mor) and Democritus warns us about the relationship between envy and stasis. 114 After Pericles’ death, the new leaders of the demos failed,115 for the most part due to their inability to control the powers threatening the social and political coherence of the city. It is interesting to observe that Pericles never divided the Athenians into groups, never relied on a certain faction of his audience. The division of the political body in political or socioeconomic categories constituted one of the fatal mistakes of Pericles’ successors such as Cleon, Nikias and Alcibiades, and had devastating consequences for the city.116 Plutarch characteristically stresses the point that the conflict between Thucydides the Son of Melesias and Pericles cut a deep gash in the city (Plut. Per. 11.3.4: bahut\tgm tolµm teloOsa t/r p|keyr), with the for-

112 113

114 115

116

information on the worrying shape of Athenian political life, as disputes, intrigues and conflicts become more frequent. Also 6.28.2 and 8.89.4. According to Rood (2004, 359), Xenophon not only analyses in political terms Athens’ defeat in the Peloponnesian War but also, his political analysis is thoughtfully linked with Thucydides’ view that political instability is the main reason for the Athenians’ defeat. Democr. 68 B 245 D.-K.: “vh|mor c±q st\sior !qwµm !peqc\fetai”. Cf. Arist. Pol. 1304a36 – 8. Phtonos and civil war in Corcyra: Woodhead 1970, 21. Price 2001, 239: “Pericles is employed as a kind of model civic virtue against which all subsequent leaders, even the better and more accomplished ones, fail to measure up. Furthermore, the model of civic virtue contains just those qualities which in the stasis model are replaced by distorted, harmful forms or disappear: moderation, civic devotion, political talent and “intelligence” are displaced by extremism, greedy attention to one’s private interests and a kind of obtuseness which cannot see beyond the immediate moment”. Cf. Raaflaub 2006, 208: “Pericles himself, cast as an ideal statesman, turns out to be a rare exception. None of his successors possesses the combination of leadership qualities that secures for him long-lasting predominance”. See Ober 1998 122, and mainly Tsakmakis 2006, 172.

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mer defending the interests of the few and the latter those of the demos.117 But, in Thucydides’ work Pericles does not have such dilemmas to face as he does not have any personal political opponents in the Assembly.118 It has been suggested that the author of The Peloponnesian War “uncharacteristically gives no opposing speaker to Pericles”.119 Given the context established by Thucydides it seems to me that he avoids any reference to similar matters because he knows that the rivalry between Pericles and other statesmen would force the former to adopt strategies which would help him prevail over his opponents. This meant that his language would possibly be divisive as it would be turning against the part of the political body, which probably shared the views of the other orator. In addition, competition at the Assembly harbored other dangers as well. If the Athenians had the choice between an orator who attempted to teach them and one who aimed to flatter them, they would naturally go for the latter. If Pericles had an opponent in the Assembly he would have to take this into consideration. His political discourse would be very different as it would be necessary for him to use rhetorical tricks which would allow him to secure the favor of the crowd120 and beat his opponent. In such a case however, the Athenian general would not constitute a model of a charismatic leader. Therefore, not referring to anything which would recall in the mind of the contemporary reader times of intense discord between politicians and citizens, between Pericles and his opponents, Thucydides aimed at 117 This is what Cratinus also refers to, using the word stasis once again (Drapetides, fr. 54 K.-A.: to»r ¨de l|mom stasi\fomtar ja· boukol]mour tim±r eWmai). The view that politics was the art of enforcing oneself over a political opponent, according to Plutarch also influenced Pericles who in order to gain the favour of the Athenians “gave the reins to the people, and made his policy one of pleasing them” (ja· t|te l\kista t` d^l\ t±r Bm_ar !me·r b Peqijk/r 1pokite}eto pq¹r w\qim). For the way in which Plutarch perceives the concepts of demos and dynatoi in the Life of Pericles see Saïd 2002, 32. 118 In reality the only institution of civil discourse of the city, just like in a monarchy. Connor 1983, 74; Tsakmakis 2006, 163. 119 Strauss 1964, 213. Strauss’s approach, which is one of reading between the lines to discover the author’s real intentions and thoughts (see for example what he writes on Xenophon in Strauss 1939), is quite problematic and leads to misinterpretations of the text and erroneous conclusions. See the criticism by Dorion 2000 and Azoulay 2004, 17 – 19. Taylor 2010, who following Strauss attempts to read between the lines how Thucydides presents Pericles, reaches very doubtful conclusions. 120 Arist. Rh. 1390a25 – 27; 1395b11 – 12.

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presenting the one who was considered to be the child of stasis, the greatest evil which would befall a city, as the only man who would be in a position to banish it from the city.

4. The leader at the service of the city Pericles is a leader devoted to his city, exclusively dedicated to his fellow citizens, whose only passion is to serve the interest of the whole community. When he invites the Athenians to become erastai “lovers” of their city,121 he is asking them to become exclusively and unconditionally devoted to their polis. 122 No other Athenian politician appears so completely dedicated to the common good. In Thucydides, Pericles is never surrounded by friends, relatives, courtesans,123 nor does he lead a political party.124 He thus avoided anything which would distract him from the public sphere, from his constant effort to serve the common good. Even when at the end of his life the demos disapproved of his policy, he defended his decisions all by himself, facing all the Athenians. He does not even so much as insinuate that a small number of citizens were prepared to use every means at their disposal to defend their leader.125 Suffice it to remember Nicias’ fear of Alcibiades’ hetaireia, as well as his effort to prevent the influence that the numerous presence of the young aristocrat’s supporters might have had on the members of the Assembly.126 Thucydides thus gives the reader the impression that the decision on such a crucial matter was influenced, among others, by noninstitutional factors as well,127 which would perhaps explain why the Athenians made such a huge error in this particular case. Moreover, 121 Th. 2.43.1. 122 This difficult passage puzzled many scholars. See however Azoulay 2010, 119. 123 Once again, Thucydides’ Pericles is radically different from the one described and presented on stage by the comic poets. 124 As Queyrel 2007, 79 rightly points out. For the action of hetaireiai in the context of the Athenian society of the 5th century see among others Ober 1989, 11 – 38 and 84 – 86, Talamo 1998, Bearzot 1999, Quarel 2007, 78 – 83 with significant bibliography. 125 Connor 1971, 27. Around the term prostatai tou demou as it is formed over the last two decades of the 5th century BCE see Ostwald 1986, 199 – 229. 126 Th. 6.13.1. 127 See Staveley 1972, 106 – 107.

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one of the aims of these groups was to reverse democracy and establish oligarchy, as was the case in 411.128 The social-political associations (hetaireiai) are also related to ambitious persons who placed their self-interest over the collective interest, thus satisfying their ambitions at the expense of the city. In moments when political passions were at their peak, when the city was on the verge of civil conflict, the warring parties, “were deterred neither by the claims of justice nor by the interests of the state; their one standard was the pleasure of their own party at the particular moment” (3.82.6).129 The most characteristic of cases is Alcibiades. According to Phrynichus,130 in order to return on the scene he was willing to lead the city to the brink of stasis 131 and Thucydides does not hesitate to completely agree with this assessment of events (8.48.4: fpeq ja· Gm).132 If then all these political phenomena are related in one way or another to the phenomenon of stasis, it is easy to understand why Thucydides’ Pericles is never associated with such a perception of politics (Plut. Per. 7,5 – 7). Thucydides puts forward a unique leader model, rising above the various groups which threaten the unity of the city, but in addition he achieves one of his main goals: to reverse the image that the comic poets, among others, created of Pericles133. The historian elaborates in an extremely original manner, the image of a leader who dominates political life without having to rely on his rhetorical art alone, without applying political tactics which would make him vulnerable to criticism and put him in a difficult position. This is at least the conclusion which the readers would be instructed to draw when Thucydides describes the manner in which Pericles handled one ex128 Th. 8.54.4. 129 I would agree with the view expressed by Rhodes 2006, 524 that in this passage the author indirectly reminds the reader of aspects of Athenian civil life (“… the socio-political associations known as hetaireiai (3.82.5 – 6) are more likely to have been found in the large city of Athens… than in the small city of Corcyra”). 130 For the particular historical figure see the short but comprehensive study of Hefner 2005. 131 Th. 8.48.4. See Fouchard 1997, 449 – 450. Ford 1989, 121 – 122 emphasises Alcibiades’ indifference regarding the form of the constitution “because he places himself implicitly beyond any regime”. 132 As Giraud 1998, 386 rightly points out. I agree with Giraud that Thucydides does not view Alcibiades in a positive manner. The issue of course is complicated. See the study by Smith 2009. 133 Banfi 1996, 79.

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tremely difficult issue: the disputes which arose within the city concerning the manner in which the Athenians should have reacted when Attica was being ravaged by the Spartans.

5. The art of avoiding stasis The beautiful moments of the funeral oration were followed by the bitterness and difficulties of war, in particular the plague which befell the city as well as the ravage of the land of Attica by the Lacedaemonians and their allies. Seeing the destruction of their properties, the citizens inside the walls were becoming more and more resentful. The city was divided into two camps, with the younger citizens wishing to confront the enemy on the battlefield (2.21.3). As the author mentions “they gathered in knots and engaged in hot disputes (jat± nust\seir te cicm|lemoi 1m pokk0 5qidi Gsam), some urging that they should go out, others opposing this course”. According to Thucydides’ narrative Archidamus expected that if the Athenians did not come out and fight during the first invasion “the Peloponnesians would in future invasions have all the more confidence in laying waste the plane and advancing right unto the walls of Athens. By that time the Archarnians would have lost their own property and would be much less willing to risk their lives for the property of other people and consequently there would be stasis in their deliberation (st\sim dû 1m]seshai t0 cm~l,)” (2.21.1 – 5). Archidamus however, failed in this plan; his strategy was shown to be ineffective. This was due to the fact that there was in the city a charismatic leader, Pericles, who stood out for his ability to control and restrict the confrontations within the city. Ascertaining that under the circumstances it is impossible for the citizens to think in the best manner (oq t± %qista vqomoOmtar), Pericles avoided to convoke the Assembly or any other gathering fearing that if they got together there would be an outbreak of passion without judgement that would end in some serious mistake (toO lµ aqc0 ti l÷kkom C cm~l, numekh|mtar 1nalaqte?m).134 The fact that Thucydides approved of such a policy is evident from the fact that he uses the word Bsuw_a which he will also use in 2.65.7 when he will praise the policy followed by Pericles at the beginning of the war with Sparta. In addition, once 134 Th. 2.22.1.

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more he sets the Athenian general as rising above the disputes dividing the city, as his main concern was not to confront those who opposed his strategy in an open debate but rather to secure the city in the best possible manner (2.22.1: t^m te p|kim 1v}kasse ; Cf. 2.65.5: fsom te c±q wq|mom pqo}stg t/r p|keyr 1m t0 eQq^m,, letq_yr 1ngce?to ja· !svak_r diev}kanem aqt^m).135 Casting aside the institutional issue that arises by not convening a meeting of the Assembly, I could pose the following question: why did Pericles the skilful orator not attempt, like he had done in the first of his speeches [as well as in the last one as we will see later], to persuade his fellow citizens of the rightness of his own views about not going to battle? Why did he not impose order by using his words, thus dispelling any disputes and divisions threatening the unity of the city? I believe that here, again, Thucydides is being original. He shows his reader that the instructive political rhetoric in the Assembly, the rational and effective use of persuasion has limits which are posed by a rationalist reading of reality. More specifically: Thucydides’ description from 2.13 to 2.22 reveals the complexity of the decision to evacuate the rural areas of Attica, since its inhabitants were both unwilling and psychologically unprepared for such a change in their lives. The description leads the readers to the conclusion that the Athenians’ everyday life was extremely difficult, as was obvious in the makeshift huts prepared to offer hospitality to the homeless rural population strewn all over the city. It may be that Pericles managed to convince them of the necessity of abandoning their homes (2.12), but he must have known how difficult it would be for such a big crowd to cohabitate in the city.136 However, making a bad situation appear better was not characteristic of the gifted politician and orator. His goal was not to invent a reality which would be acceptable to the demos through his words but rather, by putting his intellect at the service of the city, to help his fellow citizens understand reality and deal successfully with the challenges and problems that may arise. In this particular case, no speech had the 135 See Desclos 2003, 137 – 138. 136 In his third and last speech to the Athenians, Pericles makes sure to show the Athenian demos that he is fully aware of the causes for which his fellow citizens are angry with the situation in which the city has found itself (2.60.1: I have been expecting these manifestations of your wrath against me, knowing as I do the causes of your anger).

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power to reverse the feelings of the Athenians, no rhetorical trick could ease the pain of the difficulties they were going through. Thus the enormous difference between the demagogue and the charismatic leader is revealed. In order for the people not to lose confidence in him, the former is willing to use the power of language to create a reality which is acceptable by the demos. So, he is indifferent to the fact that in the long run, this may have disastrous consequences for the city. Consequently, being reserved in words is not unrelated to man’s ability to repress his most base instincts and to obey the rational part of his soul. So, the talkative Pericles of the drama stage, the fine orator who manages to present his defeat as a victory, the one who is unable to restrain his passions, finds in Thucydides’ text his mirror image. Compared to his, the Pericles of the comic poets is nothing more than a weak intellectual conception. In addition, structuring his narration thus, Thucydides showed that the most important thing is having a leader who ensures the unity of the city by controlling the disputes and the conflicts which give rise to passions and allow the crowd, the irrational part of the city, to dominate political life. This is a crucial point: stasis was avoided when the Athenian Demos was deprived of its right to express at the Assembly its opinion regarding the situation that prevailed in the city. Moreover, those politicians who may have desired to support the requests of the demos were not given the opportunity to do so. In essence, the majority of the city remained in the state of a passive recipient of the political discourse and decisions of its charismatic leader. Apparently for Thucydides this was one of the prerequisites for the institutions to function rationally and for the stasis to be exiled from the city. Thucydides’ persistence in describing the phenomenon of stasis in this manner reveals perhaps the aristocratic origins of his thought. Even though we need to say that in spite the fact that the city emphasised in its official documents its unity,137 still it is through the continuous conflict within the institutions of different political views and voices, that policy is made. “Conflict” is a constitutive element of the democratic city and it is true that the vast majority of orations delivered before the Athenian people are far from examples of celebrating the unity of the political body.138 The disputes and the conflicts, characteristics of a living democracy, are a result of the constant effort to crystal137 Bertrand 1985. 138 See the extremely productive observations by Ismard/Azoulay 2007, 283 – 296.

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lise a policy, within the institutions, which would answer to a reasonable extent to the desires and hopes of the majority of the citizens. This was the way to bridge the differences between groups which were socially and economically unequal, to smooth out the differences between individuals nourishing diametrically opposed political views. We can discern the end of this procedure in the first lines of any decree adopted by the Assembly: “it seems to the Athenians…”. For intellectuals such as Thucydides, however, stasis is inevitable when the part of the people (and its leader) which does not possess the technical know-how (the political art) to govern the city is asked to reflect on political issues, to discuss policies in the public space, to make decisions and finally to rule. Not surprisingly, Thucydides observes that the difficulties of the Athenians, the slow but gradual spread of disputes which will bring defeat, begin when the new leaders of the demos hand over power to it (2.65.10: 1tq\pomto jahû Bdom±r t` d^l\ ja· t± pq\clata 1mdid|mai). Let us recall that after the Athenians reelected Pericles general, they entrusted all their affairs to him (2.65.4: p\mta t± pq\clata 1p]tqexam). The similarity of the two phrases is characteristic and probably deliberate, and we are not surprised by the fact that in the Athens of Thucydides’ Pericles, one of the pylons of democracy collapses: Qsgcoq_a,139 which gives the right to those not possessing the political art, to the weak of words and actions, to govern the city. It is no coincidence that Athens’ problems commence when Qsgcoq_a is restored in the city and people like Cleon express, through his rhetorical skill, the ideas and thoughts of the crowd, or when Alcibiades and Nikias give in to the will of the many.140 Thucydides at the end of his work makes the much discussed statement that during the first period of the new regime of the Five Thousand the Athenians appear to have had a better government than ever before, at least in his time (8.97).141 His testimony must be completely honest. The way he has presented Pericles’ “democracy” to the reader does not constitute historical reality. It is rather a theoretical reflection on the politeia, in particular, a literary representation of the ideal relation139 The word does not even appear in Thucydides’ work. Could this be relevant to the fact that Herodotus considered the establishment of Qsgcoq_g in the city as the most wonderful thing and as that which contributed the most to the development of the Athenian state? For Qsgcoq_a see Chêne 1985. 140 See the fine analyses of Ober 1998, 115 – 120. 141 For the regime of the Five Thousand see Donini 1969.

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ship between the charismatic leader, the constitution and the citizens. Plutarch (Per. 15.2) must have had full knowledge of this point as he emphasizes the fact that Pericles governed !qistojqatijµm ja· basikijµm pokite_am. It is remarkable to notice that Thucydides’ ingenious idea to link the phenomenon of stasis to the political discourse of the many and their leaders a few years later was elaborated and developed by those very intellectuals who were very familiar with the Peloponnesian War. Plato, Xenophon, and Isocrates142 remained hostile to the horizontal diffusion of the political discourse and the active participation of the people in the exercise of power. They often describe, albeit using different means, ideal cities where the ideal of homonoia is achieved through forging and forming political discourse by an eminent leader or enlightened elite who aim primarily to serve the interest of the whole community. The harmonious function of the institutions is a result of the vertical spread of political discourse in the city and its passive reception by the majority. The Philosopher King of the Republic, the ideal king in the Statesman, Xenophon’s Cyrus, Isocrates’ Evagoras and Nicocles function within the framework of a city where, as in Pericles’ Athens, Qsgcoq_a is absent.143 They govern of course an !qistojqatijµm ja· basikijµm pokite_am. In reality, the emergence within the polis of excellent citizens in leadership who put their political art at the service of the whole political body, and who like Pericles managed, due to their rational political discourse, to mitigate the differences among the citizens, will become the two main prerequisites for the realisation of the best state. From this perspective it seems that the readers who found the literary representation of Pericles by Thucydides to be beneficial and useful, the readers who were “educated” by Thucydides’ intellectual enquiry into the role of the eminent leader in the context of the polis, were first and foremost the philosophers of the 4th century BCE.

142 Thucydides and Plato: Desclos 2003; Thucydides and Xenophon: Canfora 1970; Thucydides and Isocrates: Nicolai 2004. 143 Plato (and Aristotle) never used the word isegoria. Xenophon uses the term, by associating it with the endless chatter and the collapse of hierarchy (X. Cyr. 1.3.10). Isocrates uses it once in a complex passage, where the young king Archidamos praises his ancestors because they would only allow free citizens to speak (Isoc. Arch. 97).

IV. Aspects of the Narrative

The Balance of Power and Compositional Balance: Thucydides Book 1 June Allison At the outset of the History Thucydides says the war he recounts is between “the Peloponnesians and the Athenians”. In spite of this, subsequent historians, including we ourselves, commonly speak of the war as one between Athens and Sparta.1 In fact much of the History involves conflicts between Athens and various Peloponnesian allies and not directly between Spartans and Athenians. In Book 1 Thucydides begins to shape our perceptions of Athens and Sparta as protagonists even when they are not poised against each other or anticipated by the narrative. At some time he seems to have re-formed or re-constructed the opening years of the Peloponnesian War as a conflict between two great opponents.2 This paper is not per se a discussion of when the book was composed. We are well aware of the extremes in that debate and the many hypotheses in between. With the exception of a reference to Hellanicus (1.97) 3 some think nothing in the book demands a late date for composition; it belongs to the Archidamian war.4 (Still, if the historian took the time to criticize Hellanicus in the center of the Pentecontaetia he must have thought the surrounding passages were basically fine at that 1

2 3 4

The conventional word order is commonly reversed; i. e. we do not say “Sparta and Athens”. The title, Peloponnesian War, like Persian Wars, is traditional from the Athenian/Greek position respectively. The actual phrase is not Thucydidean; it occurs first in the first century B.C. (IG II2 1035.41) and later commonly; see de Ste. Croix 1972, 294 and Hornblower 1995, 60 n. 65. There are some who even translate 1.1: “Athenians and Spartans”. Wars are normally conceived as between two. Even when more than two parties are engaged they are grouped so that the concept of two persists, e. g. the Allied and Axis powers of the Second World War. Hellanicus in his Atthis mentions events of the year 407/6 (schol. Aristophanes Frogs 694); see Jacoby at FGrHist F 25 – 6 and iii B Suppl, p. 5, and Schwartz 1929, 157. See for example, de Romilly 1951, 21 – 37, Adcock 1951, 10 – 12 or Westlake 1955, 67.

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time). Or all of Book 1 was composed or completed after Thucydides’ exile and/or after the war.5 The debate about the compositional integrity of Book 1 is less noisy today in part because questions about historical accuracy and omissions especially in the Pentecontaetia seem to be talked out. In general modern scholars prefer to look for plan and unity in the entire History, and a coherent purpose in the Pentecontaetia, while still admitting layers of composition. I lack the auctoritas to begin,  la Ernst Badian, by saying categorically that Book 1 was composed near the end of the historian’s life, but I hope what I have to say will contribute to the view that it is a unified piece and that Professor Badian’s view is a fair one.6 I consider three sections that evince transparent attempts by Thucydides to create an antithetical balance between Athens and Sparta. This happens particularly in passages that are not absolutely necessary in the narrative of events pertaining to this war. Necessity of course is a relative concept, but one frequently summoned by those sorting out the layers of composition.7 Although we all can appreciate that the Archaeology, the second speech of the Corinthians, and the Pentecontaetia are linked thematically, it has not been generally observed how much Thucydides strives to bring the Spartans into parity with the Athenians in these passages.8 Much is written about the purpose of the Archaeology as if somehow Thucydides had not made its purpose clear enough. Some excellent studies of these initial chapters, however, are convincing that the historian accomplished more than one objective with the Archaeology. 9 I want 5

6 7 8

9

Badian 1993a, 73 – 74, following Schwartz and J. Finley. Hornblower 1991, on 1.13.3 reminds us that any of the so-called “datable ‘late’ passages” could be an insertion (44), and Lewis 1970, 372, talks of “reworking”. This seems to me the prudent assumption. Badian 1993b, 125. But a passage deemed unnecessary for the immediate narrative does not necessitate late composition. The Pentecontaetia is a survey of events that confirm the Corinthian evaluation and fills out “the quantitative analysis of power in the Archaeology”, Connor 1984, 46; French 1971, 4, on the parallels between Archaeology and Pentecontaetia. See for example Täubler 1927, on the political themes and de Romilly 1956b, who appreciates the emphasis on civilization in general (241, 250), and the connection of features of economy and society that further military growth (261 – 62). Bizer’s, 1935, tidy structural analysis has been eclipsed by the minute detail of Ellis’s, 1991.

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to consider it as any Thucydidean reader might: he/she knows the outcome of the war. For that reader the Archaeology provides an historical explanation of successful military power, an explanation that responds to what Schwartz articulated early on, to wit, that Athens seemed equipped in all aspects to win the war, but Sparta did.10 Many are content with what appears to be a narrative of the growth of Athenian power where sea power and revenue dominate;11 maybe, as some have argued, Thucydides himself began it that way. Part of why we are so affected by this Athenocentric view is that the History stops before the final events of the war, where Lysander’s activities and Sparta’s victory would have been recorded. But there are places in the Archaeology where the historian qualifies the necessity of the two components of power so long associated with Athens by insisting on societal development and governmental integrity as equally important. The schematic of the Archaeology below highlights those junctures.12 For example, at Chapter 5 in the center of the Minos panel, Thucydides unexpectedly introduces conventions of dress in order to compare Spartan modernity and moderation with Athenian excesses. And in the center of the whole, Chapter 10, comes the memorable comparison from the vantage of the distant future of the physical appearance of Athens and Sparta with the power each exhibited. The historian warns his imaginary observer from that time – in fact, we his readers – that he would be wrong in his conclusion about the relative power of the two states. How well we recognize now the conceivable mistake Thucydides predicted then. Chapters 18 – 19 are even more pronounced: on the scheme I have listed the clipped phrases of extreme balance that lack the usual Thucydidean variatio and so would seem to look consistently to both sides. The components of power that supported Athenian superiority, revenue and sea power, are reevaluated against governmental stability and strong allies, things Sparta could boast had brought her victory.13 The series of pairings concludes with both sides 10 What Connor 1984, 41, refers to as the “recurring paradox of the first book”. 11 See, e. g. Connor 1984, 33, on 1.15: “the attitude in the Archaeology, as this passage indicates, deemphasizes land power and stresses the significance of dominating the sea”. 12 The scheme is derived from Allison 1989, 16. 13 Luraghi 2000, 238: in the Archaeology Thucydides tries “to confute some of his implied audience’s central notion of the past”. Here the same could be said of their notions of the projected outcome of the war.

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June Allison Themes 1. Peloponnesians and Athenians flourishing (akmazontes) 4. Sea power 5. Political power, greater stability

Structural balance

Minos Growth of civilization Luxury: Athens Moderation: Sparta Growth of cities Minos/piracy

Further stability, sea power; capital 8. Sea power, political might 9-11. Capital, sea power, might/fear 10. Center

12 Further stabilization 13-17 Connection of sea power and capital 18-19 Sea power, political stability

Trojan War Comparison of remains of Athens and Sparta Trojan War Colonization

No unified leagues/tyrannies Athenian tyrants/Spartan governmental stability Athenians at Marathon Spartan leadership ag. Persians Athenians become naval Together they drove out Persians Greeks side with Athenians or Spartans Both are the most powerful Series of treaties and fighting Spartans lead allies without tribute Athenians: naval power and revenue from tribute

19 Athens and Sparta grew (ênthêsan) into power greater than when the treaty was intact.

Figure 1. Introduction and Archaeology

having grown into their fullness of power and the end of this organic process recalling the opening (akmazontes… ÞnthÞsan). Thus, Thucydides begins at 1.1 with Peloponnesians and Athenians; the Archaeology moves from a distant past and a broad field of characters to end, telescopically, at 19 and the Thirty Years’ Peace, with a concise juxtapositioning of a deliberate, I would suggest, variant: Sparta and Athens. He now proceeds through the methodology and comparison with previous wars and closes at 23 with his statement of the causes of this war: the Athenians and the Peloponnesians began it [the war] when they ended the ThirtyYears’ Peace… I wrote up the aitiai and diaphorai for the benefit of men in the future…The truest explanation (prophasis) was another matter altogether, one rarely expressed, namely that the growing power of the Athenians alarmed the Spartans and compelled them into war. (1.23.5 – 6)

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This narrowing of scope with a shift from Peloponnesians to Spartans,14 that mimics both the opening of the History and the end of the Archaeology, we suspect, is not insignificant. And again the Thirty Years’ Peace is the temporal demarcation, the point after which one could see each of them growing in power and influence. What follows is the narrative of the aitiai that presumably backs up the prophasis. Why Thucydides chose the conflicts over Epidamnus and Potidaea, which are much like the earlier conflicts of the forties, as aitiai tou polemou is a matter of debate. These did present greater challenges to Athenian sea power from a Peloponnesian city than previous contacts and they mark the beginning of serious threats to the Thirty Years’ Peace. The role of the Corinthians in enlarging the animosities was something Thucydides recognized acutely. Corinthian activities and speeches in fact dominate Book 1.15 Below I provide an outline that illustrates this dominance. The Corinthians act at key junctures throughout16 that generate the Spartan vote for war at 87 and, once that has occurred, the successful – in their view – vote of the League at Chapter 125. Composition in frames is a consistent feature of Thucydides’ style.17 In each of the structured panels through Chapter 125 the Corinthians are the “instigators”, as Debnar calls them, both of polemic action and polemic dialogue.18 It 14 Walker 1957, 27, notes the difference in wording. 15 Lewis 1970, 371, observes that Thucydides’ “story begins, surprisingly, with party strife in remote Epidamnus… and it is the Corinthians who are the most active characters in Book I, in words (more than a tenth of the book consists of Corinthian speeches) and in deeds”. 16 I have attempted to avoid having this essay depend on when these speeches were composed. Badian 1993b, 125, simply claims a consensus for late composition that dates back to Schwartz. However, the lack of agreement on the date of composition attests to how well Thucydides made the speeches apposite the opening of the war. Schwartz’s, 1929, 157 – 61, discussion of how artfully a focus on Athens/Sparta is distilled into the fates of the individuals, Themistocles and Pausanias, is supported by the structure of these chapters and the book in general. 17 See Allison 1989 (1974 diss.), for numerous examples of framing (88 – 9; 96) and Connor’s, 1984, Appendices 1 – 9 (251 – 61); he refers to the technique as “ring composition”. Unlike ring composition the two sides of the frame or of the multiple embedded frames are often of the same subject, but do not necessarily return to the same position in the narrative as the opening frame. 18 Debnar 2001, 33, 42; see also Cogan 1981, 116 – 7; Bloedow 1973, 19 – 20, points to the Corinthian role “in precipitating the Archidamian war”; Badian 1993b, 160 – 1, on why Sparta was willing to tolerate Athenian expansion in

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24-55

Corcyraean episode 24-27 Maneuvering over Epidamnus 28 Pause. Consideration of arbitration 29-30 First battle over Epidamnus 31 Transition to Athens/reasoning of Corinth and Corcyra 32-36 Corcyraean speech at Athens 37-43 Corinthian speech at Athens 44-51 Narrative of events 44 Transition from Athens/reasoning of Athens 45-52 Second battle near Corcyra 53 Pause Corinthians address Athenians Athenian response 54-55 Conclusion of battle and narrative 56-66 Potidaean episode 67-88 Events in Sparta 68-71 Corinthian speech 73-78 Athenian speech 79 Transition 80-85.2 Archidamus’ speech 85.3-86 Sthenelaidas’ speech 87-88 The voting. 89-117 Pentecontaetia 118-125 Events in Sparta 120-24 Corinthian speech to League members 125 League vote for war 126-28 Reciprocal curses 128-34 Spartan treatment of Pausanias 135-38 Athenian treatment of Themistocles 139 Spartan ultimatum 140-4 Pericles’ Speech

Figure 2. Outline 1.24 – 144

is the Corinthians who push a reluctant Sparta into conflict with Athens. This is a role, we will discover, that they also perform in initiating the stasis at Corcyra in Book 3 and again in Book 6 in facilitating Alcibiades’ appearance before the Spartans in order to renew open hostilities.19 But the 440’s, but not in 432; Adcock 1951, 12, had provided an answer: “Athens had crossed the path of Corinth”; de Ste. Croix 1972, 56: “quite apart from the fact that the Corinthians first broke the Peace, it was the Spartan Assembly which… declared, quite falsely, that the Athenians had…”. 19 Rawlings 1981, 15 is right to remind us that Thucydides really considered the war two ten-year wars. Book 5.25 begins: regarding the treaty between the Spartans and the Athenians, “there were those who accepted it, but the Corinthians and some of the cities of the Peloponnese began to disturb the agreements…” The parallels are clear: the Thirty Years’ Peace is set opposite the Peace of Nicias; Athenians and Spartans are at peace; Corinthians begin the disturbances recorded in Book 5.

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here in Book 1 the Spartans have little to do with the Corcyraean or Potidaean episodes; the Corinthians themselves say the Spartans ignore them (68). The sweep of the narrative in both cases, which progresses from a complaint involving a colony of Corinth to limited action in which the Corinthians and Athenians face off against each other, is marked by some conspicuous repetition, e. g. Corinthian desire for revenge, expression of their fears, and the luring of recruits with money. In both the Spartans are introduced into the debate by the Corinthians who widen the conflict to embrace a more serious charge than the immediate situation warrants, i. e. to one of general aggression (adikia) against the Athenians.20 Thucydides raises the Corinthians to this level of authority in several ways: he shows how they come to dominate the league by seeking the meetings when that was normally Sparta’s prerogative,21 and how they manipulate the settings and the timing of their speeches. And he composes most of the action in both episodes from the Corinthian point of view even when an Athenians vantage might have been expected.22 For example, at 31 he expresses Corinthian exasperation (orgÞi) with their progress against Corcyra and their real reason for making sure they are in Athens when the Corcyraeans speak: “they worry lest the addition of their (the Athenian) navy to that of the Corcyraeans’ hinder their ability to settle the war in the way they wanted” (31.3); or after the battle at Sybota when the Corinthians see the Athenian and Corcyraeans approach with reinforcements – they are concerned:23 “They feared that the Athenians, thinking that the treaty had been broken, because they [both] had joined in battle, would not let them past” (52.3). And later regarding the siege at Potidaea Thucydides says that it was Corinthian fear (67) that prompted them to seek a meeting 20 Crane 1992b, 1 – 2, points out that arguments regarding the validity of the Corcyraean issue as a major cause of the war are moot, since it is the role Thucydides gave it. 21 See, for example, Larsen 1933, 256 – 76, and 1934, 1 – 19, de Ste. Croix 1972, 101 – 24, esp. 115 – 20, 124 – 6, and 339 – 40, and Debnar 2001, 32, on the relationship of the League meetings to the meetings of Spartans alone and who calls them. Even if some procedures cannot be confirmed, the meetings are not held in Corinth, but in Sparta and the allies expect to come there. 22 See the convincing scenario presented by Stroud 1994, in which the deep and wide-spread knowledge of things Corinthian in the History may owe to the historian’s spending a great deal of time in Corinth during his exile. 23 See Salmon 1984, 258 – 61, for a an account of Corinthian and Athenian relations up to 431 and de Ste. Croix, 64 – 88, from 435.

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at Sparta. He even closes the Corcyraean episode (at 55) by drawing this kind of narrator’s inference: “This was the first of the causes of the war with the Athenians as far as the Corinthians were concerned”. Thucydides, as primary narrator, but from an interior perspective or by a “nachgeahmtes Bewusstsein”, as Schneider puts it, presumes to know the motives and fears of his characters, here the Corinthians.24 And by this proximity to word and action Thucydides enhances their role as the third party they were to subsequently become in the war by giving them the authority of narrator for the causes of its outbreak.25 So at 67 Thucydides lets us know that the Corinthians have not only secured the meeting, but have manipulated the agenda: the representatives from numerous cities argued their grievances before the Spartans; the Corinthians came last, “after letting (easantes) the others incite the Lacedaimonians (paroxynai)” (67.5).26 Now with their Spartan audience in an agitated state and already apprised by others of the specific charges (ones we as readers did not need to have recited again), they proceed to raise the stakes by opposing Athenians with Spartans, Spartans who have not been intimately involved in the events, instead of themselves who have, on the eve of this war they have all but orchestrated.27 The speech then, is intended, both by the Corinthians and the historian to aggravate a Spartan-Athenian antithesis that was essentially at rest since 439 and to deepen it by showing the two psychologically disparate at almost every level.28 This famous speech early on in the History all but creates the thorough-going29 dichotomy, Athens/Sparta, that the whole war projected. It functions in Book 1 as an in-depth appraisal of the juxtaposition of the two that was outlined in the Archaeology. 24 Schneider 1974, 46 – 48 on mimesis; 66 – 68, on intentions and inferences. 25 I use the word “enhances” because the Corinthians fell naturally into third place as they are in Herodotus. This is a reasonable result of having their sea power and concomitant economic position eclipsed by Athens. 26 The reader takes pleasure in observing that the verb, paroxynein, in a reflecting passage at 6.88.10 as Alcibiades “stirred up” the Spartans. See Cogan 1981, 116 – 7 on the irony. It is found only three other times in the History (1.84.2, 5.99, and 6.56); Plutarch (Alc. 23) preserves it in a condensed version of the same: “Alcibiades stirred up the Spartans to send Gylippus”. 27 On the famous passage at 8.96.5 where Thucydides agrees with this assessment, see Connor 1984, 41. 28 See Crane 1992a, 228 – 29, 240 – 44, 154 – 55, on how the Corinthian speech serves to demonstrate how unique a state Athens has become; technology and revenue in particular mark her superiority. 29 Adcock 1951, 6, says that the characterization is a Thucydidean “formulation”.

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The Pentecontaetia has the dramatic effect of intensifying the suspense between the vote the Spartans at 88 held among themselves and the subsequent league vote at 119 and framed by the activities of the Corinthians, as Stadter and Rood observe, its significance for the narrative of the aitiai must be intentional.30 Thucydides clearly thought he had adequately explained its appearance both at 88 and 118.31 The chapters, outlined below, are a loose chronological explanation of how Athens’ power grew at the expense of allies, barbarians and Peloponnesians, as Thucydides says. But these groups are simply the objects of Athenian actions in the narrative. To focus on them as most structuralists do in an effort to produce a satisfying annalistic account misses the importance of other thematic features. The Spartans have a distinct place apart from the three groups that we may overlook because they are not the subjects of most of the action. But the historian will seem to have made sure of their presence. Walker, with others, suggested we should treat the Pentecontaetia as complementary narrative with that of the aitiai that accounts for the prophasis tou polemein. 32 The digression does explain Sparta’s reaction to the archÞ and what led to the vote for war, but it is not just a demonstration of Athenian aggression and Spartan fear. In fact Sparta is not described as fearful in most of the incidents.33 If, with Walker and Rood, we acknowledge that some of the episodes whose appearances seemed odd were perhaps included because of Spartan reaction and involvement and, by the same token, some events that historians miss are absent perhaps because Sparta had nothing to do with them, we see that, even while Thucydides records the energy that Athens exerted on many fronts, the northern Aegean, the Peloponnese or even Egypt, always, by ironic inference if not by direct reference, the Spartans lurk in the 30 Stadter 1993, 61; Rood 1998, 216 – 21. 31 Hornblower 1991, 195 on Chapter 118: “The present passage thus represents the latest part of a late insertion, and so represents Thucydides’ final thought on the causes of the war”. 32 Walker 1957, 27 – 30. 33 Badian 1993a, 73 – 74, et al. argue that it is late and meant to explain why Sparta started the war, but is poorly composed. Others who agree it is late have rallied to Thucydides’ rescue to show how well organized the digressions are. See Hornblower 1991, 133 – 34, McNeal 1970, 312 – 18, Stadter 1993, 38 – 42, Walker 1957, 27 – 30, and Wick 1982, 15 – 24, e. g. Westlake 1989, 7 – 10, believes it is very early (Ionicisms e. g.), Adcock 1951, 6 – 10 and Ziegler 1929, that it reflects the situation in 432. On the issue of fear, see Badian 1993b, 125 – 62, and Hornblower’s, 1991, note on 33.3 and p. 65.

266 89 90-93 94-95 96 97 98-103 100-103 103 103.4 104 105.1 105.2 105.3-106 107.1 107.2 107-08 108 108.4 108.5 109-110 111 112 113 114

115 115-17 118

June Allison Leotychides and allies go home; Athenians to Sestos; at home prepare to rebuild city and walls Themistocles, Spartans and the walls. Spartans annoyed Pausanias; ends with Spartan/Athenian agreement Athenians establish archê with hellenotamiai Second intro. Athenians in Aegean, Cimon Athenians at Thasos, Ennea Hodoi, Thasians appeal to Sparta; Thasians forced to take down walls; Ithome; Spartans appeal to the Athenians, dismiss them out of suspicion; first quarrel between the two Athenians build walls for the Megarians: beginning of the intense hatred of the Corinthians Beginning of Egyptian narrative Coast of Peloponnese (Halieis) Aiginetan siege by Athenians Peloponnesians aid Aiginetans; Corinthians in Megara Long Walls started Spartans aid Dorians ag. Phocians Spartans and Athenians win at Tanagra and Oenophyta respectively Tanagrans forced to take down walls. Athenians finish Long Walls Aiginetans capitulate Coast of Peloponnese (Tolmides’ periplous) Athenians defeated in Egypt; Spartans bribed to attack Attica. Slim activities in Thessaly Truce; Athenians in Cyprus. Athenians and Spartans in Sacred War. Athenian failures in Boeotia Revolt of Euboea; Pericles responds; told of Megarian revolt and Peloponnesian intention to invade Attica Megara revolts; Pericles comes over from Euboia Peloponnesians with Pleistoanax invade Attica and return home. Pericles returns to Euboea Thirty Years’ Peace Samian revolt; Pericles’ success; Samians take down walls Summary of both sides

Figure 3. The Pentecontaetia

background reticent, annoyed, sometimes fearful, reactionary, and, at times, even agreeable to letting Athens do what she would.34 Badian and Rood, following Walker, understand this pervasive presence.35 Further, as French observed, each of the major episodes is of a different sort in terms of the direction of Athenian activity and Spartan reaction;

34 McNeal 1970, 312, notices there is nothing about Athens’ internal issues. 35 Rood 1998, 229, visualizes it as a Peloponnesian perspective because of the Corinthian influence; I am here suggesting an even narrower focus. Stadter 1993, 48, expresses a common view: “Sparta appears only in so far as its actions affect or illuminate those of Athens”.

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Thucydides did not need to be comprehensive, only illustrative.36 In fact, in places he seems to go out of his way to set the Spartans off against Athenian ambition. This is particularly noticeable in conjunction with the appearance of another theme of the Pentecontaetia. Spartan withdrawal, peevishness, and then acquiescence are most visible in the account of the walls. The long piece of narrative at 90 – 93, ostensibly featuring Themistocles, is full of detail about the walls themselves. It backs the events leading up to this war right into the immediate aftermath of the Persian Wars, when Athens and Sparta possess a balance of power.37 The wall narrative adds texture even Thucydidean complexity to the relationship of Athens to Sparta. He opens and closes the account with Athenian determination to rebuild their walls and restore the city.38 The walls’ construction and purpose are described at greater length than the reader is prepared for, both those of the city and those at the Piraeus, which Themistocles considered the bulwark of the empire as they would protect the Athenians’ ability to man the ships. Initially expressed as a necessity against the Persians, Themistocles is made to deem them a defense against anyone and everyone (hapantas), a pointed remark that here may be a warning to the Spartans but which we sense also foreshadows the end of the war.39 The semi-anecdotal account of the origins of the walls that sets Athenian determination to have them against Spartan deception then acquiescence in their completion is recalled subsequently where wall construction (or the dismantling of the walls of others), as Hornblower notes, a metaphor for the growth of Athens’ power, punctuates the Pentecontaetia, even at places where they are not pertinent. 36 French 1971, 2. 37 Stadter’s observation, 1993, 47. 38 101.3: Thasians are made to take down walls; 103.4: Athenians build walls for the Megarians; this was the beginning of the intense hatred of the Corinthians towards the Athenians. 39 The lynchpin of Schwartz’s, l929, argument for a thorough revision of the first two books is the inclusion of the Themistocles/Pausanias contrast that is not only paradigmatic of the Athens/Spartan antagonism and, subsequently, draws out attention to the similarities between Themistocles and Alcibiades (158). Themistocles, after all, did not need to appear in this history. In terms of composition we are witness to the author’s deliberate introduction of a topos. Of course historically it appears that Pericles was also interested in seeing himself as heir to Themistocles; that his ward would continue the political simile is very likely.

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For example, Chapter 107 reminds us of the next step in the process of fortifying the city in a paragraph that has nothing obviously to do with the walls but shows evidence of care, as I have framed it in the outline above. The Athenians started the Long Walls, says Thucydides, but he switches immediately, with no further detail, to the Spartan defense of some Dorians against a Phocian attack. The two events are apparently unconnected, but the connection is not articulated. Rather he describes the Spartan dilemma: they could return neither by sea nor land, since Athenians were blocking both avenues. Then it gets vague. The Spartans slip into character: they sit tight, now not because they are blocked off, but because they had information that some Athenians were interested in ending the democracy and stopping construction of the Long Walls.40 Thus he has set up the frame even when the connection between the first and last elements is not predicted by the interior. And the pattern is extended outward (see outline) with activities in Aegina and Boeotia, and then the Peloponnese in successive frames.41 The whole puts Spartans and Athenians in close narrative antithesis. And then at 108, as if merely marking the passage of time, we hear that the Athenians have completed the Long Walls. But the mention of a potential threat to the democracy together with the walls allows the reader to imagine that he has caught a revisionist perspective at work. A similar construction occurs in Chapter 114, again bringing the two face to face in the text, although not yet on the battlefield. Pericles’ activities in Euboea frame his dealing with Megara which is bracketed by the threat, then the invasion of Attica by Pleistoanax. Thucydides infuses the description of the growth of Athenian power with constant reference to Sparta and periodic reminders of the walls42 until the narrative reaches a point at which Athens at its 40 On the democracy and the Long Walls see Hornblower 1991, 170 – 71. 41 105.1=108.5 apobaseis and coast of Peloponnese 105.2=108.4 Aiginetan siege 105.3 – 106=107.2 – 108.3 Pelponesians aid Aiginetas or Dorians/=Megara and Boeotia parallel 107.1 Long walls started (“walls again—and at the very center of the digression!”) Similar outline in MacNeal 1970, 314 – 15. 42 Walls, in fact, seem to have occupied Thucydides’ thoughts in these chapters. In three of their victories the Athenians demand the leveling of the walls of their opponents, symbolizing the loss of autonomy: Tanagrans, Euboeans, Samians, even as they are building theirs. Pritchett 1995, demonstrating Thucydides’ accuracy against critics, gathers the literary evidence for the long walls (123 – 26);

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peak is walled and Sparta content; the two sign the Thirty Years’ Peace. The sequence of events of the Pentecontaetia thus comes to a comfortable intersection with the state of affairs in the aitiai narrative, even if it is not precisely the chronological one that some want. The attentive reader recalls that the Corinthians began their historical proof of Spartan blame for the current problems with the temporal marker that we see now is important for Thucydides – at 69.1 they had chastised the Spartans: “You are to blame; first you allowed them to fortify their city after the Persian Wars, and later to build the Long Walls”. Now with the two powers brought together in treaty Thucydides, perhaps surprisingly, closes the Pentecontaetia with the reduction of Samos by Pericles.43 But in a sense it presages the narrative of the aitiai which will close with Pericles’ response to the Spartan declaration of war. The Athenians act and the Spartans react by remaining at peace to deal with their own problems; hÞsychazein is thus an active decision (118.2). The confluence of the two accounts has a message the historian did not need to articulate at this point for it would have been patent had he finished the History. 44 The two events of 404 that signaled the end of Athens’ control of an empire were first, the dismantling of the walls built by Themistocles and Pericles with Lysander’s sailing into the Piraeus (t\ te lajq± te_wg ja· t¹m Peiqai÷ jahek|mtar [Xenophon, Hellenhe also points out Thucydides’ interest in the walls being built at Megara, Patras and Argos (127 – 28). Thucydides claims that the Athenian skill at siege walling was admired by all (102.2). 43 See the article by M. We˛cowski in this volume and Rood 1998, 213 – 22, for two other explanations for the Samos episode. 44 Pericles appears without patronymic and so does Thucydides et al., who come to Samos with reinforcements to help him reduce Samos. It is tempting to consider that the historian brought the narrative down one more year beyond the treaty in order to include mention of the one exploit where he was with Pericles. If this man was not the historian Thucydides might have included a patronymic to distinguish this Thucydides at Samos from himself. Griffith 1961, 22, has shown the use of the patronymic is not predictable; the historian, for example, uses it of himself only at 4.104.4. As Hornblower notes, however, had he been general in 440/39 he would hardly have had to tell the reader at 5.26.4 that he was “fully mature” in 432. But Fornara 1993, reviews the evidence for a floruit of 432, such as the ancient tradition, especially Apollodorus, can support, which means Thucydides could well have died naturally after 404. Fornara then provides a convincing understanding of the troublesome, aQsham|lem|r te t0 Akij_ô ja· pqos]wym tµm cm~lgm : “being young enough to take it all in”; i. e. not that he was relatively young in 432, but “that Thucydides might be thought to be too old in 404” (79).

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ica 2.2.20 – 3.9]45) and secondly, his siege of Samos, events Xenophon places back to back. With Periclean efficiency, Lysander took over Samos, and sailed off to Sparta with the prows of captured ships and the triremes from the Piraeus.46 When Thucydides’ reader gets to the so-called second introduction at 5.26.1 the shape of the protagonists that was emerging more and more clearly seems as natural as associating the Spartans with the walls: The Spartans and their allies put an end to the archÞ of the Athenians and they took the Long Walls and the Piraeus (t± lajq± te_wg ja· t¹m Peiqai÷ jat]kabom).

45 On the destruction of the walls of the Piraeus and the Long Walls, see Conwell 2002, 321 – 27, and n.5. 46 Lysander’s friendship with Cyrus, his activities in the eastern Aegean but unquestioned devotion to the Spartan cause in these last events suggest comparison with Pausanias. See Hamilton 1970, 296 – 300, 312. Kallet 2001, 282 – 84, observed that the events involving Sestos at the close of Herodotus’ Histories have a similar presaging function as does the Samos narrative here. It is telling that the Pentecontaetia begins with the departure of Leotychides and the Athenians at Sestos.

Blurring the Boundaries of Speech: Thucydides and Indirect Discourse Paula Debnar Thucydides says that he expected the war between Athens and Sparta to be l]cam te ja· !niokoc~tatom (1.1.1) – significant and most worthy of logos, that is, “worthy of an account” or “analysis”. Apparently he thought it deserved a full complement of logos as well. Until fairly recently, however, more attention has been paid to direct than indirect discourse.1 Not just in studies of Thucydides, but also in literary studies in general, indirect speech has been treated, in one scholar’s words, as “the Cinderella of the quoting system, who still earns her bread by performing the chores unfit for the most favoured member”.2 In Thucydides’ History it certainly performs a broad range of chores. Moreover, if we do not restrict ourselves to speech, but include, as I think we should, reports of thoughts, perceptions, feelings, and motives – often presented as if they were utterances – the amount of indirect discourse in Thucydides is indeed striking. Indirect discourse plays different roles in the History depending on context and narrative mode.3 In the opening of the Epidamnus affair (1.24 – 25),4 for example, the Epidamnians’ supplication of the Corcyraeans, their consultation at Delphi, and their request for help from

1

2 3

4

In general, there are more discussions of indirect discourse in Latin literature than in Greek. Some recent exceptions are Bakker 1997a; de Jong 1994; Hornblower 1994b; 1996, 81 – 93, and 2008, 32 – 35; Laird 1999, 143 – 52; Lang 1995; Scardino 2007; Usher 2009; Wakker 1997. Sternberg 1991, 66. Hornblower 2008, 32 – 35, reviews the range of functions for indirect discourse; see also Scardino 2007, 448 – 50. See Bakker 1997a, 16 – 18, on narrative modes in Thucydides (the “discourse of the knower” and the “discourse of the observer”). In 1.24 – 25 the “knowing” historian reports, comments on, and evaluates events, and locates them in time. In this mode, verbs in the imperfect tend to provide background information, whereas aorists present facts and the narrator’s judgments; Bakker 1997a, 33 – 34.

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the Corinthians are all presented in indirect discourse,5 which punctuates important first steps in the path toward war. But it can also provide a transition to direct speech,6 as it does in Book 3 in the short, but powerful, dialogue between an anonymous observer and an Ambraciot herald concerning the massacre of Ambraciot troops (3.113). So, too, as Simon Hornblower has shown, Brasidas’ political speeches in indirect discourse at Scione and Torone are examples of his “periodically adjusted manifesto”, compressing his earlier (direct) speech delivered at Acanthus and modifying it to fit new situations.7 In this paper I examine the role of indirect discourse in the assembly in Book 4 in which the Athenians must decide how to respond to the stalled operations in Pylos. This episode is related in Thucydides’ “observing mode”, that is, from the perspective of one who remembers (or purports to remember) events he has participated in or observed.8 There is no direct speech,9 but depending on the level of syntactic intrusion by the historian, indirect speech sometimes approaches direct speech.10 In addition, there are indirect thoughts (feelings, perceptions), and mere reports of speech acts or mental activity. The Pylos episode has been dis5 Thucydides may also follow the lead of the Homeric poems, where “speeches to people whose entire function is to receive and carry out directives are rarely quoted directly”; they are usually nameless and have no personal relationship with the person who addresses them; Beck 2008, 368. 6 See Usher 2009 on Polybius, who sometimes presents the beginning of a speech in oratio obliqua and then shifts to oratio recta (490). 7 Hornblower 1996, 49 and 86-89. 8 What Bakker 1997a, 18, calls “pretended immediacy”. In the observing mode, verbs in the imperfect tend to express “displaced immediacy” (37), representing a present tense displaced to the past, whereas the aorist may represent something done or completed in relation to the present of the remembered event, mark the intrusion of the knowing narrator, or serve as a label introducing further mimetic description (42 – 47); see also Allan (this volume). 9 Direct speech, too, is not monolithic. In Thucydides it ranges from the short statement of the final Spartan embassy to Athens (1.139) to exhortations to troops and full-blown political orations, the last of which, on the level of style at least, draw attention to, rather than suppress, the narrator’s presence. 10 Wakker 1997, 217 – 226 (esp. 218 – 19), charts various possibilities, from the least syntactic intrusion by the historian (direct speech, finite verbs, same pronouns, tenses, and moods as in the original utterance [even if imagined]), to the greatest (accusative and infinitive, with clauses following the sequence of mood, and with adjustment of pronouns). See also Laird 1999, 138 – 43. Limited syntactic intrusion by a narrator, however, does not mean that a passage is close to direct quotation, only that it appears to be.

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cussed before from the perspective of Thucydides’ biased treatment of Cleon.11 My interest, however, lies less in establishing (or impugning) the historical credibility of Thucydides’ views than in understanding how the short exchanges in indirect discourse contribute to the effect of the passage and how Thucydides moves between different kinds of indirect discourse.12 Studying the assembly from this perspective, as it turns out, can also contribute to our understanding of the boundaries between Thucydides’ research and literary representation. The episode begins at 4.26, where the historian shifts from Sicily to Pylos. Thucydides’ account of the situation in Pylos is vivid and specific, with the Athenians “scrabbling in the shingle”13 to find even brackish water, and the Spartans trying everything they can, including promising Helots their freedom, to get supplies to their men stranded on the island of Sphacteria. At 4.27 the scene shifts to Athens, where “The Athenians, learning of their army, that it was suffering and food was getting to the men [i.e., the Spartans] on the island, did not know what to do and grew fearful that winter would overtake the siege”.14 The news from Pylos is presented in indirect discourse, with the participle pumham|lemoi introducing a fti- clause and finite verbs15 – with no shift in tense, mood, or person. This construction draws it toward direct speech.16 In fact, if the subject “the army” were expressed, the statement could stand independently as a part of a direct report from Pylos: “The army is suffering and food is getting to the men on the island”.

11 E.g., Schneider 1974, 46 – 52. 12 Poets also put transitions between indirect and direct speech to good use. Hornblower 2004, 320, remarks on the surprising shift to direct speech at Pi. I. 8.31 – 5a. See also S. Ant. 694 – 699, where Haemon’s report of the citizens’ judgment of Antigone blurs the line between his own words and theirs. 13 Gomme HCT III, ad 4.26.2. 14 9m d³ ta?r )h^mair pumham|lemoi peq· t/r stqati÷r fti takaipyqe?tai ja· s?tor to?r 1m t0 m^s\ fti 1spke?, Ap|qoum ja· 1dedo_jesam lµ sv_m weil½m tµm vukajµm 1pik\boi (4.27.1). All quotations are from Alberti 1992. Unless otherwise noted, translations are my own; I have tried to follow the Greek word order where it has some bearing on my analysis. 15 See Lang 1984, 13 – 17, on verbs of knowing (e. g., pumh\molai) as narrative bridges in Herodotus used “to effect a transition from one state or action to another” (13), while they also provide temporal and motivational information. 16 Spratt 1912, ad loc., points out that for pumh\molai the accusative and participle (or infinitive) is the more usual construction.

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It is a curious opening. We are not told which Athenians were involved or where they were.17 In an article on the Pylos episode Flower reminds us that news of this sort normally would have been delivered first to the Council, which, in turn, would have called an assembly to report to the people and discuss actions to be taken.18 If the information provided in 4.27.1 was announced in the assembly,19 it is certainly likely to have contained far more details than the bare declaration that the historian offers. Readers, of course, do not need more information, because Thucydides has already provided it. By abbreviating the report the historian can direct his readers’ attention to the Athenians’ reaction as well as to the reasons for their aporia and fear of the approach of winter. A series of intellectual perceptions, introduced by bq_mter, provides their rational assessment of the situation: They saw that it would be impossible to convey supplies [to their own men]… and that they would not be able to maintain the siege, since there were no harbors they could use, but that if they ended the siege, the men on the island would either prevail or, by keeping an eye out for bad weather, sail off in the boats that were bringing in food.20 (4.27.1)

It turns out, in other words, that the Athenians had, in fact, learned what readers learn in 4.26, at least about the role of boats and bad weather, only likely to worsen in winter. In the midst of the first set of gloomy predictions about sustaining the siege, there appears a participial phrase with the nominative emter referring to Athenians themselves: “And at the same time, [with their army] in a deserted place, even in summer they were not able [oqd’ 1m h]qei oXo_ te emter] to convey sufficient supplies”.21 Sensing 17 Hornblower 1996, ad 4.27.1. 18 Flower 1992, 44. 19 Moreover, given the information that Thucydides later adds, that Nicias had been given the command and that there were already some light-armed troops in Athens to help, Flower 1992, 44, surmises that there was, in fact, an earlier assembly. This is certainly possible; however, it does not preclude the possibility that news about the further deterioration of the situation was delivered in the assembly that Thucydides depicts in 4.27 – 28. 20 bq_mter t_m te 1pitgde_ym tµm peq· tµm Pekop|mmgsom jolidµm !d}matom 1sol]mgm… t|m te 5voqlom wyq_ym !kil]mym emtym oqj 1s|lemom, !kk’ C sv_m !m]mtym tµm vukajµm peqicem^seshai to»r %mdqar C to?r pko_oir $ t¹m s?tom aqto?r Gce weil_ma tgq^samtar 1jpke}seshai (4.27.1). On motives see Tamio-

laki (this volume). 21 ûla 1m wyq_\ 1q^l\ ja· oqd’ 1m h]qei oXo_ te emter Rjam± peqip]lpeim… (4.27.1).

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the syntactical shift, commentators treat this as a parenthetical aside.22 But whose aside is it? Is it part of the indirect discourse introduced by bq_mter ? Or is on the same narrative level as bq_mter, that is, part of the historian’s account of the Athenians’ reaction? Perhaps it is both. If the Athenians received a report about Pylos that contained much of the information Thucydides offers his readers, then both he and the Athenians are likely to have held this opinion. Not all of the Athenians’ reactions, however, are so rational: “Most of all they feared the Spartans, because they believed that, thanks to some advantage (ti Qswuq|m),23 they were no longer sending envoys to them,24 and they regretted having rejected the peace offer”.25 From reasonable calculations about the implications of the onset of winter, the account shifts to fear based on a belief that the reader, at least, knows is unfounded:26 the only thing the Spartans have going for them, as far as Thucydides lets on, is more frequent storms. The irony here marks a subtle intrusion of the historian, who draws the reader back out of the thoughts of the Athenians to the circumstances at hand. Up to this point, there has been no indication that the Athenians publicly expressed any of these concerns. But when Cleon appears and speaks, it suddenly becomes clear that we are in an assembly: “Cleon, because he recognized the ill feeling (cmo}r… rpox_am) directed at him for the obstruction of the peace, claimed that the messengers were not telling the truth” (4.27.3).27 Thucydides has taken some heat here for purporting to be able to read Cleon’s mind.28 But there seems 22 E.g., Gomme 1956, Spratt 1912, Graves 1953, ad loc. Steup (Classen-Steup 1900, 279) would delete the clause. Discussion of this passage, however, has focused mostly on the awkwardness of 1m wyq_\ 1q^l\. 23 Graves 1953, ad loc.: “a source or point of strength”. 24 Graves 1953, ad loc.: “1pijgquje}eshai is used especially of making conciliatory overtures, in which sense it is common”. 25 p\mtym te 1voboOmto l\kista to»r Kajedailom_our, fti 5womt\r ti Qswuq¹m aqto»r 1m|lifom oqj]ti sv_sim 1pijgquje}eshai7 ja· letel]komto t±r spomd±r oq den\lemoi (4.27.2).

26 Cf. Bakker 1997a, 50: “Thoughts represented in this way [i.e., introduced by nomzontes] turn out almost always to be miscalculations, and so participial nomzontes clauses are frequently used ironically”. 27 Jk]ym d³ cmo»r aqt_m tµm 1r art¹m rpox_am peq· t/r jyk}lgr t/r nulb\seyr oq t!kgh/ 5vg k]ceim to»r 1nacc]kkomtar (4.27.3). 28 E.g., Hornblower 1996, ad 4.27.3: “But the treatment of Kleon is particularly glaring, with its repeated use of cmo}r, ‘knowing’”. See also Hornblower 1987, 78. His translation of cmo}r as “knowing” rather than “recognizing”, however,

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to be something more complicated going on. First of all, what ill feeling? If we imagine (albeit retrospectively) that the opening of 4.27 is also set in the assembly, then not only the report of the situation on Pylos, but also some, if not all, of what Thucydides presents as reactions and thoughts from the Athenians’ point of view is likely to have been publicly aired – including the regrets about the lost opportunity for peace. Given the way the scene develops, it is certainly plausible to imagine comments (and perhaps gestures)29 directed at Cleon. If I am correct, accustomed as an Athenian must have been to paying close attention to the connection between a speaker’s words and a crowd’s reaction, an observer would not have had to be a mind-reader to realize what triggered Cleon’s response.30 The likelihood that a report had been delivered in this assembly is strengthened by the presence of the very messengers who brought the news from Pylos. They forcefully respond to Cleon’s attack, advising the Athenians to send (infinitive) observers if they don’t believe them (present indicative).31 Cleon is then selected as one of two men to go to Pylos to verify the situation. The bare mention of the choice of Cleon as an observer, that is, compresses what is likely to have been a period of discussion (and perhaps an election), thereby allowing the narrative to move quickly to the second stage of the drama. So why has Thucydides shifted the news from Pylos and opinions that are likely to have been voiced publicly to the thinking and emotional responses of the Athenians? First, I suggest, because readers do not receive news of the situation from messengers, but from Thucydides, they know that the report is true and that Cleon is wrong. Second, in his role of observer (whether or not he was in fact present), the historian can provide more details about Pylos, in particular about the may make the reaction seem more internal than necessary. As Schneider 1974, 46 – 52, observes, Thucydides also does not attribute knowledge to Cleon that he most likely had. 29 Heckling and verbal interruptions by audiences seem to have been common in large meetings of the Athenians; Bers 1985, 2 with n. 5. My interpretation of this scene also supports Bers’ hypothesis (although he refers to law court proceedings) that “facial expressions and gestures must have played a part too” (15 n. 51). 30 I.e., whether or not Thucydides was actually present, he presents the episode as if he had been an observer. On the difficulty of determining Thucydides’ methods concerning motives see Tamiolaki (this volume). 31 Paqaimo}mtym d³ t_m !vicl]mym, eQ lµ sv_si piste}ousi, jatasj|pour tim±r p]lxai… (4.27.3).

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Spartans there, than were likely to have been available even to Athenians in the field at the time. The suppression of indirect speech in 4.27.1 does another thing. It highlights the surprising appearance of Cleon and his blunt attack on the messengers – the first words in this episode clearly marked as spoken. As Connor explains, Thucydides’ account of Pylos “is shaped not so much by animosity [toward Cleon] as by an elaborate strategy of replicating some of the emotions and reactions experienced at the time of the events”.32 I would include “surprise” in this experience, which, as Connor observes, is an important component of the entire Pylos affair.33 The use of indirect thought to highlight (or foreground) indirect speech parallels Homer’s use of indirect and direct speech. As Beck has argued, in Homer these two speech modes tend to express similar kinds of utterances, but indirect sometimes helps to foreground direct speech.34 Thucydides’ use of extended direct speech differs from Homer’s, but he seems to have found a comparable set of backgrounding and foregrounding tools in different kinds of indirect discourse. In the next set of exchanges, the plot thickens. The historian first reports Cleon’s reaction to his selection as observer: When he recognized (cmo}r) that he would be compelled either to agree with the men he had slandered (di]bakkem) or that he would be shown to be a liar (xeud^r) if he disagreed, and since he saw them rather strongly inclined to send a force, he advised the Athenians… (4.27.4)35

The historian again introduces Cleon’s thinking with the participle cmo}r, but here its object is a fti- clause instead of a noun (rpox_am, “ill-feeling”, 4.27.3). Cleon’s thoughts, that is, more closely resemble 32 Connor 1984, 113. 33 Connor 1984, 113. 34 Beck 2008, 369. She points to Hom. Il. 9.219 – 20 and 658 – 9, where indirect discourse backgrounds the exchanges between Achilles and Patroclus (and their relationship), while highlighting the exchanges in direct discourse with members of the embassy. 35 ja· cmo»r fti !macjash^setai C taqt± k]ceim oXr di]bakkem C t!mamt_a eQp½m xeudµr vam^seshai, paq-mei to?r )hgma_oir, bq_m aqto»r ja· ¢qlgl]mour ti t¹ pk]om t0 cm~l, stqate}eim… (4.27.4). The construction shifts from the finite !macjash^setai with the present infinitive k]ceim to a future infinitive vam^seshai, which sits awkwardly with the future indicative !macjash^setai. Graves suggests that the first C is an intrusion and that we should infer cmo}r as the governing participle, while Krüger and Rauchenstein (non vidi) propose vam^setai for vam^seshai.

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internalized speech. Once again it does not take a mind-reader to understand that Cleon knew he had two options: to agree or disagree with the report. Yet there is something odd here. The evaluative terms di]bakkem and xeud^r sound like Thucydides’ judgments, not Cleon’s.36 Without telling his readers directly, that is, the historian confirms that Cleon knew he was wrong. Yet this too may not have been a matter of Thucydidean mind-reading. The choice of Cleon as observer suggests that many of the Athenians also suspected that Cleon himself knew that what he had said was untrue. Cleon’s assessment of the Athenians’ inclination, on the other hand, turns out to be accurate.37 By suppressing whatever may have been said to lead him to this judgment, however, Thucydides maintains the focus on Cleon’s thoughts, which provide a transition to his advice to the Athenians, also reported in indirect speech. First, Cleon told them “that they should not (¢r wq^… l^) send observers, and lose an opportunity by further delay, but, if the news seemed [lit. “seems”] to them (aqto?r) to be true, [they should] sail against the men” (4.27.4).38 Because of the use of ¢r wq^ (with infinitives) and the retention of the present indicative “seems”, the statement requires only the change of a single pronoun – from “them” (aqto?r) to “you” (rl?m) – for it to be indistinguishable from direct speech.39 The shift toward direct speech corresponds to a rise in the dramatic level of the scene and highlights the reopening of symbouleutic debate. The historian then intervenes to indicate a fresh target for Cleon’s words. Here the change in construction corresponds to a change in tone: Cleon pointed at (!pes^laimem) Nicias son of Niceratus, since he was a general, and hostilely rebuked him (1whq¹r £m ja· 1pitil_m)40 [saying] that it 36 Schneider 1974, 47 – 49, focuses on Thucydides’ report of Cleon’s thinking, not on the historian’s use of evaluative terms. 37 As Gomme, HCT III, ad 4.27.4, remarks, “[H]e observed the way the wind was blowing before making his proposal”. 38 ¢r wqµ jatasj|pour l³m lµ p]lpeim lgd³ dial]kkeim jaiq¹m paqi]mtar, eQ d³ doje? aqto?r !kgh/ eWmai t± !ccekk|lema, pke?m 1p· to»r %mdqar (4.27.4). 39 The terms the Athenians propose to the Spartans (4.21.3), said to be Cleon’s advice, are also introduced by ¢r wqµ and approximate direct speech. 40 A verb of speaking can be inferred from 1pitil_m ; as my translation suggests, I have taken 1whq¹r £m as a kind of adverb modifying the verb. Schneider 1974, 47, treats this phrase and stqatgc¹m emta as narrative intrusions providing background information; similarly, Steup (Classen-Steup 1900, ad loc.). Yet,

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was easy with preparations, if the generals were men, to sail against the men on the island and take them, and that [he] himself would do this, if he were in office. (4.27.5)41

The syntax of the criticism marks it as an indirect assertion.42 The taunt in “easy” (Nõdiom, emphasized by its initial position in the Greek) is barbed, as is the implication that, since the current generals did not find the operation easy, they were not real men, in contrast, that is, to the Spartans on the island – and apparently to Cleon himself, given his boast.43 The combination of sarcasm and egotism in Cleon’s words44 supports Sternberg’s contention that indirect speech can mimic as well as paraphrase.45 Verbs introducing indirect speech, as we see here, are also tools with which the observing historian can create auditory as well as visual vivid-

41 42

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45

from Cleon’s subsequent rebuke, a witness would also have inferred that Cleon pointed at Nicias because he was one of the generals. ja· 1r Mij_am t¹m Mijgq\tou stqatgc¹m emta !pes^laimem, 1whq¹r £m ja· 1pitil_m, Nõdiom eWmai paqasjeu0, eQ %mdqer eWem oR stqatgco_, pke}samtar kabe?m to»r 1m t0 m^s\, ja· aqt|r c’ %m, eQ Gqwe, poi/sai toOto (4.27.5). Thucydides uses the accusative-infinitive construction with a present optative in the subordinate clause, most likely representing a present indicative after an implied verb of speaking in a past tense. On the semantics of the construction, see Bakker 1991, 227 (with n. 2): “The infinitival construction, on the other hand, is used when the reported words are presented as an assertion [i.e., as opposed to words qua utterance]”. Cleon advises once (paq-mei ¢r) in this episode; otherwise he asserts (5vg). Mills 1909, ad loc., compares the use of %mdqer at Hdt. 7.210.10, where the failure of Xerxes’ forces showed him “that [in his army] there were many human beings (pokko· l³m %mhqypoi eWem) but few [real] men (ak_coi d³ %mdqer)”. If Thucydides alludes to this passage, it is yet another link between Pylos and Thermopylae. If aqt|r cû represents 1c~ (or perhaps 5cyce) in direct speech, it is relevant that 1c~ (including 5cyce) appears five times in Cleon’s speech in Book 3, a frequency in direct speeches in Thucydides second only to Athenagoras’ speech in Sicily (seven). See Tsakmakis/Kostopoulos 2011, 181. Analogous to Plato’s use of ce more often in conversational than non-conversational passages, Thucydides uses ce more often in speech (direct and indirect) than in narrative passages (116 out of 161 total instances – possibly more if indirect thought is taken into account). Duhoux 1997, however, warns against interpreting the high frequency of particles in speeches or conversations as evidence of proximity to (genuine) spoken Greek. Sternberg 1991, 78.

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ness.46 Régine Utard has argued that the vivid dramatic qualities of oratio obliqua in Tacitus are due in large part to the information he provides about actio, that is, qualities of voice and gesture.47 Although Thucydides is more sparing in this regard, there are a number of examples. In Book 1, for example, the Corcyraeans spoke in an “arrogant manner” (jatû 1p^qeiam, 1.26.3),48 and allies in Sparta loudly voiced their complaints (jateb|ym, 1.67.1). Earlier in Book 4 Cleon reviled Spartan envoys (1m]jeito, 4.22.2).49 In the passage under discussion (4.27), as we have seen, there are indications of both tone and gesture. Nicias gets the point. But as he is about to respond, a third party, the Athenian crowd, enters the fray, also in indirect discourse. Syntactically, that is, a genitive absolute presenting the Athenians’ reaction comes between the subject “Nicias” and the verb of speaking 1j]keuem, perhaps as we are to imagine the outburst of the crowd having interrupted and delayed Nicias’ reply to Cleon – what Hornblower calls “stylistic enactment”.50 Then Nicias – when the Athenians responded with a kind of 51 outcry at Cleon, [asking] why he didn’t [present indicative] sail now against the men, if it seemed [present indicative] easy to him – and at the same time because he saw that Cleon was criticizing him,52 urged him to take what-

46 On enargeia in Greek historians see Walker 1993. On introductions to speeches see Pavlou (this volume). 47 Utard 2004. 48 Used by Thucydides only here; according to a search of the TLG, Thucydides’ History is the earliest work in which it appears. 49 Thucydides normally introduces direct speech with forms of k]cy or eWpom with a demonstrative pronoun such as toi\de. The speech of Alcibiades in Sparta (6.88.10) is the outstanding exception. In addition, there are only three instances of paq-mei (Pericles, 1.139.4; Nicias, 6.8.4; Alcibiades, 6.15.5), and one combination of 5kece and paq-mei (Hermocrates, 6.32.3). The introduction of exhortations to troops is normally a form of paqajeke}y. For a detailed analysis of introductory verbs see Pavlou (this volume), 404 – 9. 50 Hornblower 2008, 36. 51 See Hornblower 1996, ad loc., on the force of the prefix rpo-. 52 Hornblower 1996, ad 4.28.1, thinks the choice of “saw” here as opposed to “know”, used for Cleon, is tendentious and that “the effect is to confer on Nicias an aloofness which Cleon is denied”. Nicias, however, may very well have seen what Cleon was doing in both an intellectual and physical sense because Cleon had gestured toward him.

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ever force he wished, as far as they [the generals] were concerned, and make an attempt. (4.28.1) 53

The unusual verb rpohoqubgs\mtym (a hapax legomenon if the text is sound) marks a sudden rise in the level of noise and disorder in the assembly.54 Three features foreground the crowd’s interruption by drawing it toward direct discourse: the word “now”,55 the present indicative verbs, and the possibility that we are to imagine members of the crowd shouting, “Why doesn’t he sail now, if it seems easy?”56 and not (as Plutarch assumes) “Why don’t you sail now?”57 The crowd even picks up the evaluative term “easy” from Cleon’s own boast. Although there is some evidence for the Athenians’ having chanted pet phrases in the law courts,58 clearly we need not imagine choral shouting in this assembly. Rather, from the general uproar Thucydides extrapolates (or abstracts) a coherent response, and yet he does so without sacrificing vividness and drama. In fact, I suggest, the more closely indirect speech approaches direct speech, the more the reader is tempted (or “teased”) to ‘translate’ it to direct speech – yet another way in which Thucydides encourages his readers to engage fully with the History. 59 Similarly, from what must have been chaotic shouts of the men in the harbor at Syracuse, Thucydides distills “a wail, a roar, winning, losing” (akovuql¹r bo^, mij_mter jqato}lemoi, 7.71.4) – shouts that English translators, at least, tend to render in direct speech.60 But in the Syracuse example, too, Thucydides retains – just barely – the indirect form of speech. 53 b d³ Mij_ar t_m te )hgma_ym ti rpohoqubgs\mtym 1r t¹m Jk]yma, f ti oq ja· mOm pke?, eQ Nõdi|m ce aqt` va_metai, ja· ûla bq_m aqt¹m 1pitil_mta, 1j]keuem Fmtima bo}ketai d}malim kab|mta t¹ 1p· sv÷r eWmai 1piweiqe?m (4.28.1). 54 On the auditory dimension of h|qubor see Pontier 2006, 24 – 25. 55 Bakker 1997a, 40: “In Greek, on the other hand [i.e., as opposed to English], the connection between nn and the ‘external now’ of the narrator (or the now of any speaker) is very strong”. 56 As Gomme HCT III, ad 4.28.1, points out, here fti (Alberti prints f ti) means why (as Plutarch interpreted it) not that. 57 Plutarch, Nic. 7. 58 Bers 1985, 3 with n. 10, mentions “You’re singing!” and “Get down!” 59 Hornblower 1994b, 152, speaks of “rhetorical devices for producing an emotionally and intellectually satisfying interaction between the narrator and narratee” (although in reference to presentation through negation). On readers’ engagement see also Morrison 2006b. 60 E.g., Warner, Crawley, and Lattimore; however, Hobbes retains the indirect form.

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Following the outcry and Nicias’ offer, the contest is more between Cleon and the crowd than between Cleon and Nicias.61 Although Cleon initially expresses his readiness to assume the command, when he realizes that Nicias’ offer is in earnest, he backtracks, telling the assembly that “Not he [aqt|r, i. e., Cleon] but he [1je?mor, i. e., Nicias] is general”62 – according to Thucydides because he was now afraid. Nicias, on the other hand, recedes into the background, his words only implied by reports of speech acts: “He again urged him; he resigned from the command at Pylos, and he made the Athenians his witnesses” (4.28.3) – the last possibly an attempt to elicit yet another response from the crowd.63 Gradually, that is, the historian’s observations replace the words of the actors in the drama. In this way Thucydides succeeds in compressing what was apparently an ongoing exchange without lessening the drama. Similarly compressed is the response of the crowd, which breaks the impasse between Cleon and Nicias: “As a crowd has a habit of doing, the more Cleon tried to get out of the expedition and to retreat from what he had said, the more they [the Athenians] urged Nicias to hand over his command and shouted at him [Cleon] to sail” (4.28.3).64 The introductory verbs are telling: they urged Nicias, but they shouted at Cleon. It is easy to imagine that what they shouted was the imperative “sail”. At last, recognizing that he has little choice, Cleon accepts the command and comes forward (paqekh~m, 4.28.4) to address the assembly – strengthening the impression that previously both he and Nicias were speaking from their seats.65 He told the Athenians (I summarize) that he did not fear the Spartans, but that by taking only additional lightarmed troops within twenty days he would bring the Spartans back 61 Bers 1985, 4, calls it “a sort of duel between the speaker [i.e., Cleon] and crowd”. 62 ja· oqj 5vg aqt¹r !kk’ 1je?mom stqatgce?m (4.28.2). 63 Bers 1985, 9 – 10, points out that speakers would sometimes incite jurors – as well as other members of an audience – to respond by calling on them as witnesses. 64 oR d] , oXom ewkor vike? poie?m, fs\ l÷kkom b Jk]ym rp]veuce t¹m pkoOm ja· 1namew~qei t± eQqgl]ma, t|s\ 1pejeke}omto t` Mij_ô paqadid|mai tµm !qwµm ja· 1je_m\ 1peb|ym pke?m (4.28.3). 65 According to Bers 1997, 155, the inclusion of a physical detail, such the approach to the b/la or rising to speak “is but a cliché in the reporting of formal speeches”; however, he adds, “If Andocides [And. 1. 116] is to be trusted, Cephalus was literally jumping to his feet with indignation” (155).

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alive, or kill them on the spot (4.28.4).66 The reaction of the crowd to this assertion marks the climax of the passage. From their earlier shout, expressed in a complex sentence, to imperatives, the Athenians’ response now descends to mere sound: “There fell upon them an attack of laughter at his fatuous talk”.67 To the crowd, that is, Cleon’s words sounded like a foolish boast, as it did to the s~vqosi, the “sensible” or “moderate” men – or perhaps conservatives friendly to Sparta who wanted to end the war.68 These men were pleased because they anticipated that, at the very least, they would be rid of Cleon.69 Both sides, at least in the short term, will turn out to be wrong. So why doesn’t Thucydides’ use direct speech to present Cleon’s astonishing announcement? First, I suggest, the use of 5vg (twice, if the text is sound) clearly marks his words as assertions70 – much as the audience perceived his promise to be empty, even mad, as Thucydides later remarks (ja_peq lami~dgr owsa B rp|swesir, 4.39.3). Second, the reactions of both elements in the assembly are what is most important here. The formal election of Cleon, despite his having made what seemed to most Athenians to be exaggerated claims, is the surprising outcome of the debate. Finally, unlike the vignette with the Ambraciot herald, this assembly does not offer a dramatic conclusion to the Pylos episode; it only sets the stage for the final act. As I hope to have shown, although the report of mental activity in indirect discourse allows Thucydides to blur the boundaries between his own judgments and the thoughts of the actors, in some cases he could have inferred their thoughts from actions and reactions witnessed (whether by him or by others) in the Pylos assembly. So, too, he 66 oute vobe?shai 5vg Kajedailom_our pke}sesha_ te kab½m 1j l³m t/r p|keyr oqd]ma, Kglm_our d³ ja· Ylbq_our to»r paq|mtar ja· pektast±r oT Gsam 5j te AUmou beboghgj|ter ja· %kkohem ton|tar tetqajos_our·taOta d³ 5wym 5vg pq¹r to?r 1m P}k\ stqati~tair 1mt¹r Bleq_m eUjosim C %neim Kajedailom_our f_mtar C aqtoO !pojteme?m (4.28.4). 67 to?r d³ )hgma_oir 1m]pese l]m ti ja· c]kytor t0 jouvokoc_ô aqtoO (4.28.5).

68 As suggested by D. Tompkins at the Symposium. 69 !sl]moir d’ flyr 1c_cmeto to?r s~vqosi t_m !mhq~pym, kocifol]moir duo?m !caho?m toO 2t]qou te}neshai, C Jk]ymor !pakkac^seshai, d l÷kkom Ekpifom, C svake?si cm~lgr Kajedailom_our sv_si weiq~seshai (4.28.5). 70 Bakker 1991, 227, notes that the verb phanai “does not merely mean ‘say’, ‘utter’; instead, it is used in the sense ‘claim’, ‘contend’, presenting its complement as an assertion rather than utterance”. Thucydides may retain the indicative in the relative clause within Cleon’s indirect speech because it reports a fact (4.28.4).

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seems to have recast public statements as private thoughts. In both cases, characters’ motivations and internal feelings could have been the products of Thucydides’ research. At the same time, the various shades of indirect discourse in this episode help Thucydides to maintain a rapid narrative pace while foregrounding the narrative’s most salient elements. Far from diminishing the vividness or drama of the scene, it heightens it, even creating the illusion that readers of the History are listening to individuals’ voices. This analysis cannot, of course, explain every use of indirect discourse in the History,71 but it can perhaps shed some light on its preponderance in Book 8. As Dewald points out, in the later books, “the narrative flows from place to place, from actor to actor, from one activity to the next, without establishing a series of complete breaks separating one scene cleanly from the next”.72 The narrative structure she identifies is most pronounced in Book 8. Following the Sicilian disaster, as the theater of war expands to the far reaches of the eastern Aegean, disturbances are subtly linked, their repercussions felt throughout. With so much going on at the same time in different parts of the Greek world, it is no wonder that the narrative moves back and forth in time and place. Book 8 also stands out for the number of judgments Thucydides himself expresses and for how much action he covers in a single year.73 Indirect discourse, with its ability to blur boundaries – not just between thought and speech, but also between discourse and narrative, as well as between Thucydides’ judgments and those of historical agents – seems especially well suited to this phase of the war. So too, its ability to sustain a rapid narrative pace as well as to individuate historical figures (if only in broad strokes) makes it a powerful tool for Book 8.74 It is, of course, difficult to judge fairly Thucydides’ use of indirect discourse in the final book, given its incomplete state. In the Pylos assembly, however, it surely contributes to the “experiential or participatory aspect” of the History, one 71 Moreover, as Hornblower 1996, 49 and 89, points out, Thucydides sometimes used indirect discourse in innovative ways, only to abandon his innovations. 72 Dewald 2005, 148. 73 Dewald 2005, 158 n. 7 (on p. 227), remarks on the length of [the narrative of] the later books; year twenty-one, the last covered by Thucydides, is the sixth longest, although only a fragment. On the narrative characteristics of Book 8 see also Rood 1998, 251 – 84. 74 Gribble 2006 associates Thucydides’ different treatment of the individual in the second half of the work with the historian’s interest in the political failure that resulted from “the intrusion of private into public sphere”.

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of the three features that Connor believes contributed most to Thucydides’ persuasiveness.75

75 Connor 1985. On the participatory aspect of the history see also Morrison 2006b.

Making Meaning: Cross-references and their Interpretation in Thucydides’ Sicilian Narrative Anna A. Lamari 1. Introduction* The question regarding the application of narrative theory to a non-fictional narration like that of ancient Greek historiography has long been answered.1 Since Hornblower’s seminal “Narratology and Narrative Techniques in Thucydides”2 which made claims on the narrativity of history3 much more specific, Rood has examined the use of narrative techniques as a means of historical explanation,4 while Rengakos has shed light on the use of cross-references (Fernbeziehungen) in Herodotus and Thucydides as markers of epic influence and implicit interpretation respectively.5 As additionally noticed in the Brill’s volumes on Ancient Narrative,6 Brill’s Companion to Thucydides,7 as well as a recent volume on Narratology and Interpretation,8 historical narrative is now rightly being treated as a complex jigsaw-puzzle, whose internal mechanics provide meaning and nudge the reader to historical interpretation. In this article I will be studying the rebus-like system of cross-references in Thucydides’ Sicilian narrative. Apart from suggesting an effective classification of them,9 my aim is to explore how the historian uses them in * 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

The translations used are by Smith, C. F., Thucydides, vols. 3 – 4, Cambridge MA 1921 – 1923. “Historiographic narratology” is now an established discipline that has been introduced by Cohn 1999. Hornblower 1994b. Booth 1983, 408. Rood 1998. Rengakos 2001 and 1996. de Jong / Nünlist / Bowie 2004; de Jong/Nünlist 2007. Rengakos / Tsakmakis 2006. Grethlein / Rengakos 2009. The cross-references we are going to home in on are the ones that reveal a particular narrative insistence on a specific event or series of events; we are not

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order to engage his readers in a fascinating interpretive game, by stealthily setting the hermeneutic tone. Cross-references, which were initially detected in epic poetry, have been defined by Reichel as the intra-textual associations of passages that reveal the structural relations of the plot.10 Cross-references can either look forward and foreshadow future developments of the plot, or backward and thus work as vague or loose analepses.11 When they are explicit, they foreshadow or recall an event in such an obvious way, that they become apparent to the narratees, even if the latter are not sure how the plot will develop. On the other hand, implicit cross-references allude to events that have already occurred, and created by repetitions of motifs, or patterns, they make the narratees connect current to previous passages.12 Apart from unifying the plot, cross-references in epic have been traditionally thought to provide suspense, create false expectations, or highlight the characterization of the participants in the story. I divide cross-references according to their narrative “layout”, namely the way they are injected in the narrator-text or the speeches and the points of their narrative occurrence. I thereby discuss three major categories of cross-references: (1) those following the progressive narrative evolution of an event, (2) those providing diverse focalization, and (3) those narratively “surrounding” the main description of an event. My aim is to show that in all three cases, cross-references help the reader understand the importance of even ‘minor’ events, detect the relations of causality that bind them together and finally be led to a critical interpretation of history.

going to focus on those cross-references that lie very close to analepses and happen as a result of the synchronic development of some events of the story. The anachronies as “narrative solutions” to the “problem” of synchronicity in Homer, have been well discussed (see Rengakos 1995). Rengakos (2006a, 188 – 190) presents similar narrative techniques in the historians, where (esp. in Thucydides) simultaneous narration consciously generates meaning. See also Gomme 1954, 127 – 132; de Romilly 1956b, 56 ff.; Connor 1984, 219 – 221. Synchronicity is also discussed by Rood (1998, 115 – 121), according to whom Thucydides takes advantage of a practical problem in order to create thematic juxtapositions of analogous meaning. 10 Reichel 1994, 1. 11 An analepsis (flashback) is “the narration of an event which took place earlier than the point in the story where we are” (de Jong / Nünlist / Bowie 2004, xv). 12 Rengakos 2001, 255.

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2. Progressive cross-references In this category, cross-references help the narratees follow the narrative development of an event, the story- and narrative-completion13 of which, comes in stages. When following the real chronological structure of the fabula,14 narration unwraps progressively, exactly as the event itself grew in stages. In this narrative context, cross-references work as a practical reminder, a sort of narrative alarm, evoking the previous stages of the developing story and constantly reminding the readers that an important event is still ongoing. This technique is in agreement with Thucydides’ general approach to chronology. Unlike his predecessors, Thucydides presents the events as they develop, reproducing their real-time, vague or unknown outcome; he has actually been paralleled to the narrators of the “serialized” novels, who publish their narrations in installments. By following the real-life evolution of the event, the historian gives the impression that even he himself is unaware of the finale, reproducing the narratees’ feeling of anticipation about unknown future developments.15 Progressive cross-references are connected to devices raising suspense and capturing the readers’ attention, such as that of retardation. 16

13 By the terms “story completion” and “narrative completion” I mean completion in real life and completion within the narrative respectively. I coin the distinction after the differentiation between the well known concepts of story time and narrative time. See Genette 1980, 86 – 112. 14 By fabula I refer to the content of the narrative, as defined by Bal (1997, 5), who also distinguishes between story (the arrangement of the fabula in the narrative) and narrative text (the verbal demonstration of the fabula). Genette (1980, 25) just distinguishes between story and narrative, while the tripartite distinction of Bal is elsewhere (Lowe 2000, 17 – 20) referred to by the terms story (corresponding to fabula), narrative (corresponding to story) and text. 15 Dunn 2007, 114 – 115. 16 On the narrative technique of retardation raising suspense, see de Romilly 1956b, 56 ff. and Rengakos 2009, 206 – 209, with an analysis of the narrative of Gylippus’ trip to Syracuse and the city’s consequent rescue. See also below, n. 17. Hornblower (1994, 147 n. 43) talks of narrative “delay” or “postponement” of events that are not narrated until they become more relevant.

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The walling of Syracuse A characteristic example of progressive cross-references is found in the narrative of the walling of Syracuse.17 The Athenian attempts to surround Syracuse by a wall start in 6.98, when the Athenians build a round fort, which is going to be the starting point for the wall of circumvallation. They first try to build the wall to the north of the circular fort, towards Trogilus (6.99.1), but their effort fails because the Syracusans build a counter-wall and stop them (6.99.3 – 4). The next day, the Athenians, starting again from the round fort, begin to build a wall towards the Great Harbor (south) (6.101.1). This single wall is completed in 6.101.3 (oR dû [Athenians], 1peidµ t¹ pq¹r t¹m jqglm¹m aqto?r 1ne_qcasto), while a double wall from the circular fort to the Great Harbor is completed in 6.103.2 (!p¹ t_m 9pipok_m ja· toO jqglm~dour !qn\lemoi !pete_wifom l]wqi t/r hak\ssgr te_wei dipk` to»r Suqajos_our). This does not mean that the city is totally encircled, since the area on the north of the circular fort is still open. Besides, as we learn in 7.2.4, a short part of this wall (near the sea) is not completed either. In 6.104.1 however, Gylippus, who was on his way to Sicily, had been given a false report that the city had been completely walled off (aR !ccek_ai 1vo_tym deima· ja· p÷sai 1p· t¹ aqt¹ 1xeusl]mai ¢r Edg pamtek_r !poteteiwisl]mai aR Suq\jousa_ eQsi). While Thucydides informs the readers about the invalidity of the information (p÷sai 1p· t¹ aqt¹ 1xeusl]mai), Gylippus learns the truth only when he reaches Locri (7.1.1 pumham|lemoi [Gylippus and Pythen] sav]steqom Edg fti oq pamtek_r py !poteteiwisl]mai18 aR Suq\jousa_ eQsim),19 and he witnesses the situation himself when he arrives at Epipolae: the double wall to the south of the round fort was almost completed, while the wall run17 On the narrative of the walling of Syracuse, see Connor 1984, 185 – 188; Rood 1998, 171 – 173; Gribble 1999, 180 ff.; Stahl 2003, 210 ff. 18 On the effect of the repetition of words with a teiw- stem in the description of the walling of Syracuse, see Allison 1997, 40 – 44. 19 Despite the fact that the Athenians did not manage to finish the wall, Thucydides undoubtedly stresses the fact that the Athenian project was nearly over and in a comparatively limited period of time (Rood 1998, 172 – 173). Similarly, Plutarch credits Nicias for organizing the construction so quickly and comments on the subsequent terror and incredulity of Sicilians and Athenians respectively (Nic. 17.2, d d³ p\mtym l\kista ja· Sijeki~tar 1n]pkgne ja· to?r >kkgsim !pist_am paq]swem, ak_c\ wq|m\ peqiete_wise Suqajo}sar, p|kim )hgm_m oqj 1k\ttoma, duseqcot]qam d³ wyq_ym !mylak_air ja· hak\ss, ceitmi~s, ja· paqajeil]moir 6kesi te?wor j}jk\ peq· aqtµm tosoOtom !cace?m).

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ning to the north had more or less finished parts (7.2.4 – 5).20 His witnessing of the Athenian wall is additionally cross-referred to and retrospectively validated by the letter of Nicias. In 7.11.3, Nicias explains in his report that they have stopped working on the walling of Syracuse, the more so since the enemy has built a cross-wall which makes complete circumvallation impossible (mOm owm Ble?r l³m paus\lemoi toO peqiteiwisloO di± pk/hor t_m 1mamt_ym Bsuw\folem… oR d³ paq\jodol^jasim Bl?m te?wor "pkoOm, ¦ste lµ eWmai 5ti peqiteiw_sai aqto}r, Cm l^ tir t¹ paqate_wisla toOto pokk0 stqatiø 1pekh½m 6k,). He actually confesses that it is more the Athenians that feel under siege, than the Syracusans (7.11.4, nulb]bgj] te pokioqje?m dojoOmtar Bl÷r %kkour aqto»r l÷kkom, fsa ce jat± c/m, toOto p\sweim). The description of the Athenian stockade around Syracuse thus happens in stages, following its real-life gradual development. The crossreferences of Book 7 look back not just at the previous phases of the narrative, but also at the previous phases of the construction of the wall and they serve as reminders of this real-life narrative rhythm. It is due to this real-life sequence that the cross-references discussed are situated particularly close to each other, just as the events were developing in real life. The readers might know in 6.104.1 that Gylippus was falsely told that the walls are completed, but they certainly are agonizing over what will happen in the elapsing time, until Gylippus finally makes it to Epipolae. Besides raising suspense, the gradual disclosure of information accentuates the feeling of a “race of the walls”,21 while the emphasis on the fact that the Athenian plan was so close to completion22 is to be con-

20 According to Rood (1998, 172 – 173), the news about the incomplete Athenian fortification in Book 7 construct a narrative reversal, whose preparation started in Book 6 through the narrative insistence on the Syracusan despair upon the walling off of the city. The narrative twist – or better narrative pause – regarding the narrative of Gylippus’ voyage to Sicily which started in Book 6 and is completed in Book 7 is also textually highlighted by the changing of the books (de Romilly 1956b, 72 – 74), while this textual transition is also thought to signal the inevitable movement towards the Athenian defeat (Allison 1989, 107). 21 Connor 1984, 186. 22 Note the powerful paq± tosoOtom l³m aR Suq\jousai Gkhom jimd}mou (7.2.4). This expression echoes the epic ‘if not…’ narratives (see de Jong 1987, 68 – 81; de Jong 1993; Lang 1989; Richardson 1990, 187 – 191; Nesselrath 1992; Morrison 1992, 51 – 71; Louden 1993).

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nected with Thucydides’ general interpretation of the Sicilian expedition as a critical turning point of the entire Peloponnesian war.23 The Athenian aid The narrative of the martial aid sent to the Athenians provides another example of progressive cross-references. The impressive fleet that sailed to Sicily after the gathering of the allies in Corcyra (6.43) is soon proved insufficient, since in 6.74 the Athenians send a trireme to Athens asking for money and cavalry until the following spring. This request is looked back at in 6.93.4, where the trireme arrives at Athens and the deme decides to send to Sicily everything demanded. However, in 7.15.1, we learn from Nicias’ letter that additional armies and money are needed. Since the content of the letter is disclosed to the readers only when it arrives at Athens,24 we see the Athenians react right away, and send Eurymedon to Sicily with ten ships and silver, until more substantial aid arrives (7.16.2). Contrary to Eurymedon, who was dispatched immediately, about the time of the winter solstice (ja· t¹m l³m Eqqul]domta eqh»r peq· Bk_ou tqop±r t±r weileqim±r !pop]lpousim 1r tµm Sijek_am), Demosthenes, who in the meantime was occupied with the preparations of the expedition (7.17), while the Athenians were busy with the Lacedaemonians’ invasion of Attica and fortification of Deceleia (7.18 – 19), departs from Athens at the beginning of the spring of 413 (7.19.1). As was also the case with the walling of Syracuse, cross-references are here used to connect the progressively segmented presentation of an event that happens in stages.25 After Demosthenes’ departure (7.19), his trip is narrated in portions (7.26; 7.31; 7.33.3 – 6; 7.35), interrupted by the naval battles happening in Sicily and the Ionian sea (7.21 – 25), the problems arising from the fortification of Deceleia (7.27 – 28), the events of Mycalessos (7.29 – 30), the support of the rest of the Sicilians to the Syracusans (7.32 – 33.2), the naval battle at Naupactus (7.34), as well as two small scale battles at the Great Harbor (7.36 – 41).26 The segmented narrative of his journey corresponds to real life conditions, since his trip involved the collection of allying forces and the meeting with Euryme23 See Connor 1984, 188; Rengakos 2009, 206 n. 272. 24 The narrative of Nicias’ letter is going to be fully discussed below. 25 Cf. also the epic technique of “piecemeal distribution of an event”, on which see de Jong 2001, 591 – 601. 26 See also de Romilly 1956b, 59 ff.

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don, and thereby before passing to Italy, it included necessary stops at Laconia, Zacynthus, Cephallenia, Alyzeia, Anactorium and Corcyra. The forces of Demosthenes and Eurymedon arrive at Syracuse in 7.42 and immediately engage in battle at the area of Epipolae (7.43). The progressive cross-references to Demosthenes’ trip help the readers keep track of his naval route, but also preserve the agonizing atmosphere of another “race”, this time involving the very salvation of the Athenians. In a long narrative chain, the event is first described in 6.74 and references to it recur in 6.93.4, 7.15.1, 7.16.2, 7.17, 7.19.1, 7.26, 7.31, 7.33.3 – 6, 7.35 and finally 7.42. The constant reminders that the Athenian forces were on their way, but not there yet, enhance the scenario of a potential Athenian failure: since the Athenians cannot arrive fast, and since, after arriving, lose the first battle (Epipolae), how is it possible to win the upcoming engagements? This prolonged suspense27 regarding the timely arrival of reinforcements keeps the readers alert and hints at the Athenian hopeless attempts at a military take-over. Nicias’ letter Progressive cross-references play a crucial role in the narrative of Nicias’ letters. Even if the first mention to Nicias’ reports happens in Book 7 (7.8.1, 5pelpe ja· aqt¹r 1r t±r )h^mar !cc]kkym pokk\jir l³m ja· %kkote jah’ 6jasta t_m cicmol]mym), the iterative meaning of pokk\jir reveals that Nicias is not attempting to contact the Athenians for the first time; he had also tried to inform them about the problems of the expedition in various instances in the past. In the following lines (7.8.2), narration becomes more specific and Nicias is presented as composing a written report, a letter, in order to assert that his view will reach the Athenians as accurately as possible.28 Nicias’ letter thus allows for almost 27 Thucydides’ careful building up of false or failing expectations as well as his use of suspense owes much to the Homeric Epics. On suspense in Homer see Duckworth 1933; Hölscher 1939; Schadewaldt 1966; Rengakos 2006b, 31 – 73. 28 By means of actorial motivation, Nicias explains that he prefers the written report because he is afraid “that his messengers might not report the actual facts, either through inability to speak or from lapse of memory, or because they wanted to please the crowd” (7.8.2). Nicias’ care for the integral transmission of the information is reminiscent of the Thucydidean insistence on writing. According to Edmunds 1993, 849, “Nicias’ view of the Athenians, as presented by Thucydides, is exactly the same as the one that can be attributed to Thucydides himself on the basis of his methodological statement”.

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complete truthfulness and precision and minimum focalization by the city clerk who reads it to the Athenian assembly.29 In historical terms, Nicias is supposed to have sent the letter in the summer of 414 BCE (7.8), but its content is revealed in 7.10 – 15, namely during the winter of 414, when Nicias’ messengers arrive at Athens.30 The narrative, again, follows the real-life sequence of the events and moves progressively, as the letter travels from Sicily to Athens, with 7.10 – 1531 working as a cross-reference to the letter’s writing in 7.8.32 The closeness of the cross-references in terms of narrative time corresponds to the lack of any important events (other than the ineffectual expedition against Amphipolis at 7.9) in terms of story time. Contrary to other progressive cross-references, as that regarding the trip of Demosthenes to Sicily for example, which happened in parallel to other important events of the story, the cross-references of 7.8 and 29 Note the neutral narratorial framings of 7.10 (b d³ cqallate»r t/r p|keyr paqekh½m !m]cmy to?r )hgma_oir dgkoOsam toi\de) and 7.16.1 (B l³m toO Mij_ou 1pistokµ tosaOta 1d^kou). The narratorial framing of the letter is common in the earlier stages of epistolary fiction (see for example the narrative structure in Ovid’s Heroides) and progressively fades out as the genre develops, reaching its complete absence in the epistolary novel of the Renaissance. From that period onwards, the “letters are offered to the reader without connecting narrative passages and without a narrator figure, except for the letter writers themselves” (Fludernik 2005). 30 There are multiple examples of this form of delayed disclosure of important information in the Thucydidean narrative. Cf. Hornblower’s discussion of “narrative displacement”, often projecting political meaning (1994, 139 – 148). It seems that the omniscient narrator frequently chooses to reveal his knowledge only when it becomes public. See Rood 1998, 28. 31 The cross-reference to the letter’s writing also generates a complex analepsis: it discusses Nicias’ worries, reiterating information about the defeats of the Athenians already mentioned in Book 6, forming an internal homodiegetic and repeating flashback, but it also includes Nicias’ reference to his own other letters, constructing an internal homodiegetic and completing analepsis. The terms homodiegetic and completing are of Genette and correspond respectively to the anachronies the content of which stays within the basic storyline (i. e. the diegetic narrative level) or enriches it with new information (Genette 1980, 48 – 67; 243 – 252). In contrast to the completing, repeating anachronies reiterate information which is already known (Genette 1980, 48 – 67). On the letter, see also Hornblower 1994b, 148; Rengakos 2009, 188. 32 De Romilly 1956b, 65, has described the aforementioned technique as a type of narrative which provides only an event’s prologue and epilogue (“dans l’histoire de Thucydide, on voit assez souvent un même fait intervenir deux fois, conclusion ici et prélude ailleurs”).

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7.10 are situated close to each other because the events between the end of summer and the winter of 414 were few and of limited importance. With 7.9 summarizing the events that took place in several months, Thucydides shapes narrative time according to martial engagements or other events of importance and not in accordance with physical time.33 When seen in connection to the History’s macrostructure, the letter’s content seems to bring to the fore the dramatic outcome of the expedition, the more so since Nicias’ worst fears will soon become true.34 Thus, his information that Gylippus will attack the Athenians by land and sea simultaneously (7.12.2) is realized in 7.50 – 54, and his concern (7.15.2) that the enemy will soon be prevailing is sonorously dramatized in the final battle at the Great Harbor (7.59 – 7.71), regardless Demosthenes’ reinforcements. Seen from this angle, Nicias’ letter could even be read as a cloaked mise en abyme,35 which parallels the letter’s narrative of the Athenian defeat in Sicily to the History’s narrative of the Athenian defeat in the Peloponnesian war.36 Apart from communicating the story (i. e. the difficulties the Athenians were facing in Sicily), the letter also highlights its narrating 37 (i. e. the moment of the writing), making narratorial representation coexist with narrative experience,38 although here, these two procedures do not happen simultaneously. In opposition to what usually happens in epistolary narrative,39 the external narratees (i. e. any given readers) of Book 7 are informed about the writing of the letter in 7.8, but learn 33 See also the distinction of Barthes 1989, 130, between chronicle and “paper” time. 34 In another view, the content of the letter could be also seen as a Herodotean resonance, since Nicias’ comments about the Athenians echo the Herodotean description of the Ionians in the account of their revolt in Book 5 (Kallet 2001, 93 – 94). 35 “Mise en abyme has become the accepted shorthand for referring to any part of a work that resembles the larger work in which it occurs” (Nelles 2005). For the mise en abyme see Dällenbach 1989, and more recently White 2001. For problems regarding its interpretation see Ron 1987. 36 For the foreshadowing qualities of the mise en abyme, see Jefferson 1983. 37 The terms story and narrating are used in translation of Genette’s French terms histoire and narration respectively. See Genette 1980. 38 This is a common characteristic in all epistolary narratives (see Fludernik 2005), but also when a mise en abyme effect is at work. The same is the case with ekphrasis. 39 The external narratees read the letter when they also read about the instance of its writing.

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its content only when the internal narratees (i. e. the Athenian audience) do, in 7.10. Hence, when a letter narrative is inserted in the basic story as an embedded narrative, an embedded/fictional narrating of this narrative is inevitably introduced as well. It is a question of the writer’s choice to either converge the new narrative with its narrating or – as Thucydides does – to separate them. Needless to say, the latter choice increases suspense, boosting the narratees’ curiosity about the letter’s content and the narrative instance that will be finally appropriate to host it.

3. Cross-References providing diverse focalization40 This category includes cross-references that influence the narratees’ perception of events. By using varied focalization to repeat information that is already known, Thucydides nudges his readers to recall the context of the previous descriptions and thus become acquainted with a wider and certainly more objective image of history.41 Besides, the issue of focalization is inevitably connected to that of the selection of the focalizers, i. e. of those who are “allowed to appear so as to speak or focalize”.42 Thucydides’ selectivity regarding the events that are going to be included in his history parallels his selectivity regarding the individuals that come to “narrative” life in order to present those events.43 Viewed from this vantage point, a single event that is presented by multiple individuals serves a specific interpretive goal.

40 Focalization concerns the relation between the events presented in the story and the ‘visual’ filter though which they are presented. In the words of Bal (1997, 142), “focalization is… the relation between the vision and that which is ‘seen’, perceived”. 41 The “personal” (i. e. of individuals) filters through which Thucydides presents history is a typical characteristic of his work and has been thoroughly discussed. Thucydidean internal narrators often pose as omniscient, while Thucydides himself presents the events as knowing each of his internal narrators’ motivation. On this, see Schneider 1974; Hunter 1973; Westlake 1989a; Lang 1995; Tamiolaki (this volume). 42 Gribble 2006, 448. 43 Gribble 2006, 448 – 449.

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The true causes of the expedition One of the most characteristic examples of this type of cross-reference concerns the true causes that made the Athenians pursue the expedition to Sicily. Apart from its obvious historical importance, the true motives of the Athenians are of great interest to Thucydides who takes pains at giving not just his own, but also the Athenians’ and Syracusans’ perspective on this same matter. In the Sicilian narrative, the true causes of the expedition are first commented on by the narrator himself, and then are re-examined through the focalization of Nicias, Hermocrates, and Alcibiades in Book 6 and of Gylippus in Book 7. Thucydides gives his opinion on the real motives of the Athenians before their fleet departs, even before the final decision-making in Athens is narrated: on the pretext of helping their allies, the Athenians wished to rule the whole of Sicily (6.6.1, 1vi]lemoi [the Athenians] l³m t0 !kghest\t, pqov\sei44 t/r p\sgr [of Sicily] %qnai, boghe?m d³ ûla eqpqep_r bouk|lemoi to?r 2aut_m nuccem]si ja· to?r pqocecemgl]moir null\woir). In a passage of embedded focalization, Thucydides later attributes a similar view to Nicias (6.8.4, ja· b Mij_ar !jo}sior l³m Òqgl]mor %qweim, mol_fym d³ tµm p|kim oqj aqh_r beboukeOshai, !kk± pqov\sei bqawe_ô ja· eqpqepe? t/r Sijek_ar "p\sgr, lec\kou 5qcou, 1v_eshai). By adding an analogous explanation of the expedition,45 offered

by another focalizer just two paragraphs after his remark, Thucydides prompts his readers to think retrospectively and uses the new presentation of the same event to highlight the validity of the previous narratorial comment. While the Athenian fleet was rushing to reach Corcyra and meet with the rest of the allying forces, in Syracuse the assembly was trying to evaluate the influx of information regarding the upcoming Athenian attack and come down with a defense strategy. Thucydides’ narrative evokes the motif of the “true causes of the expedition”, this time expressed by a Syracusan, Hermocrates. Hermocrates reproduces the focal44 Pq|vasir is accompanied by the superlative !kghest\tg only twice: at the beginning of the war (1.23.6) and at the beginning of the Sicilian expedition (6.6.1). Apart from structurally dividing the History in two parts (cf. Rawlings 1981, 65 – 70), such a narratorial choice undoubtedly adds to the perception of the Sicilian expedition as a mise en abyme, a war within the war, which also leads the Athenians into defeat. 45 Note the similar diction: 1vi]lemoi-1v_eshai, t0 !kghest\t, pqov\sei-pqov\sei, p\sgr-t/r Sijek_ar "p\sgr, eqpqep_r-eqpqepe?.

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ization of his informants,46 according to whom the Athenians want to subdue Syracuse and then the rest of Sicily (6.33.2). Cross-referring to his statement here, Hermocrates repeats the Athenians’ true motives in his speech to the Camarinaeans, in 6.76.2. The Camarinaeans are indeed convinced, as is revealed from the embedded focalization of 6.88.1 (to?r l³m )hgma_oir ewmoi Gsam [the Camarinaeans], pkµm jahû fsom tµm Sijek_am åomto aqto»r douk~seshai), regardless of the fact that they decide to stay neutral. The repetition of the true causes this time by a Syracusan does not simply accentuate Thucydides’ initial judgment, but also reveals that what was “concealed” behind the Athenian pretexts was not a “secret” after all. In a war narrative where the role of spies and secret informants is especially crucial,47 the easiness with which the Syracusans learned the real motives of the Athenians is both shocking and telling, perhaps even fore-telling, in connection to the outcome of an expedition that was arrogantly expansionistic and in which strategic information could easily reach the opponents’ camp. Alcibiades also discusses the real motives of the expedition when he is found as an exile in Sparta. His account is highly detailed: although he reproduces the plans of the Athenians and therefore their focalization, he also adds new information that allows us to detect his own point of view. According to Alcibiades, apart from Sicily the Athenians were also intending to subdue Carthage, and then attack Peloponnese with all the forces they would have gathered, and thus expand their influence to all the Greeks (6.90.2 – 3, 1pke}salem 1r Sijek_am pq_tom l]m, eQ duma_leha, Sijeki~tar jatastqex|lemoi, let± dû 1je_mour awhir ja· Ytaki~tar, 5peita ja· t/r Jaqwgdom_ym !qw/r ja· aqt_m !popeiq\somter. eQ d³ pqowyq^seie taOta C p\mta C ja· t± pke_y, Edg t0 Pekopomm^s\ 1l]kkolem 1piweiq^seim, … tqi^qeir te pq¹r ta?r Blet]qair pokk±r maupgcgs\lemoi, 1wo}sgr t/r Ytak_ar n}ka %vhoma, aXr tµm Pekop|mmgsom p]qin pokioqjoOmter… ja· let± taOta ja· toO n}lpamtor :kkgmijoO %qneim). Adding to previous accounts of the same issue, Alcibiades’ cross-reference constructs a climax, in which he enriches the information provided by earlier focalizers.48 The “new” information, presented 46 6.33.1: flyr d³ oq jatavobghe·r 1pisw^sy jimdumeuo}sgr t/r p|keyr, pe_hym ce 1laut¹m sav]steq|m ti 2t]qou eQd½r k]ceim. 47 See below the discussion on the disastrous role of Nicias’ spies. 48 The presentation of the reasons of the expedition with Alcibiades as the focalizer proves that the former narratorial insistence on the terms !kghest\tg

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here in this augmented form for the first time by Alcibiades, is partly employed with respect to his immediate audience, the Spartan assembly that would no doubt have regarded any threat against the Peloponnese as the ultimate motive of Athenian expansionism, and partly reflecting the external narrator’s advance mention of Alcibiades’ aspirations of using Sicily as a base in order to launch an expedition and capture Carthage (6.15.2, ja· l\kista stqatgc/sa_ te 1pihul_m ja· 1kp_fym Sijek_am te diû aqtoO ja· Jaqwgd|ma k^xeshai). Besides, the proximity of Carthage to Sicily has been already commented by Thucydides in 6.2.6 (1k\wistom pkoOm Jaqwgd½m Sijek_ar !p]wei).49 The last to refer to the theme of the true causes of the Sicilian expedition is Gylippus, in the middle of Book 7, who refers to Athenian aspirations of subduing the whole of Sicily and then Peloponnese and Greece as facts, reproducing Alcibiades’ focalization to such an extent that he helps the readers comprehend how influential Alcibiades has been to the Spartan Assembly (7.66.2, )hgma_our c±q 1r tµm w~qam t^m de 1kh|mtar pq_tom l³m 1p· t/r Sijek_ar jatadouk~sei, 5peit’, eQ jatoqh~seiam, ja· t/r Pekopomm^sou ja· t/r %kkgr :kk\dor). By this point of the story, Athenian plans are clear to both the Syracusans and the readers, so Gylippus can reach his own conclusions. At the end of this series of cross-references, the true reasons that made the Athenians sail to Sicily are not presented as hidden motives, but as well-known facts, since history retrospectively becomes the litmus test for validation of personal accounts and points of view. It is not the first time in the History that the pq|vasir of the war is for Thucydides a matter of serious discussion. After the narratorial “firework” of 1.23.6 (tµm l³m c±q !kghest\tgm pq|vasim, !vamest\tgm d³ k|c\ to»r )hgma_our BcoOlai lec\kour cicmol]mour ja· v|bom paq]womtar to?r Kajedailom_oir !macj\sai 1r t¹ pokele?m), the quest for the reasons of the war is continued throughout Book 1, mainly aim-

ing at presenting the historical (in the Archaeology), immediate (in the episodes of Corcyra, Corinth and Potidaea), political (in the persons of the two main leaders, Pericles and Archidamus) and military (in passages pq|vasir was not haphazard (see n. 44). The combination of the two words is consciously used only twice to divide the narrative of the war in two parts and highlight their similarities, while it is gradually abandoned (in the case of Nicias only one of the two terms is used, while in the case of Alcibiades none) as Thucydides’ point is made. 49 See also 1.13.6; 6.34.2; 6.88.6; 6.90.2; 7.50.2.

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about the positioning of the Athenians and the Peloponnesians) causes of the war.50 Cross-references of diverse focalization are used here in order to remind the narratees of a basic Thucydidean concern and expand their interpretive spectrum. In terms of reciprocal validation, cross-references allow the earlier interpretations of events to be endorsed by the following ones, while the later ones to be reflectively confirmed by the earlier ones. By the end of the narrative, the reader has no doubts concerning the meaning of the events that have been presented by a series of different focalizers. In the midst of this narrative patchwork, perhaps the most interesting feature is that Thucydides does not allow his own interpretation to be the most extended one.51 The narratorial comment is just a glimpse of what the participants of the story are going to cover in full. Thus, the narrator stays an outsider and intrudes into the story only discretely.

4. Encirclement cross-references Encirclement cross-references could also be characterized as narratives of anticipation and return. In such a narrative structure, the main description of an event of the story is encircled by shorter and less detailed explicit and implicit cross-references. In the two instances of encirclement cross-references noticed in Book 7, an event of the story is alluded to proleptically before, synchronically during and analeptically after the main narrative. With this in mind, we see how the main narrative of the fortification of Deceleia for example, is surrounded by peripheral implications that initially foreshadow the strategic importance of the fortification, while in retrospect they connect it with the rest of the war. Similarly, the main narrative of Nicias’ secret reporters is encircled by proleptic and analeptic cross-references before and after it occurs.

50 Allison 1997, 114 – 115. In this context, the term prophasis as referring to the causes of the war therein occurs five times (1.23.6, 1.118.1, 1.126.1, 1.141.1, 1.146.1). For “causality” in Thucydides as opposed to that in Herodotus, see Hunter 1982, 326 – 331. 51 Note for example that Alcibiades’ focalization was the longest and most detailed.

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The fortification of Deceleia The main narrative of the fortification of Deceleia is presented in 7.27 – 28.52 The narrator has been describing the events of 413 and the description of the situation at Deceleia in the summer of 413 is placed exactly where it should be, namely after the events of the spring of the same year. As stated in a passage of narratorial motivation,53 in the spring of 413 the Lacedaemonians and their allies invaded Attica and fortified Deceleia, hoping to assume control over one of the most fertile parts of Greek countryside (7.19.1 – 2). In the following summer, the Spartan fortification of Deceleia has started to seriously harm the Athenians both regarding human casualties (7.27.3) and expense (7.28.4): their property was devastated, part of their territory was under foreign rule, and it was difficult and expensive to transport supplies (7.28.1). The psychological condition of the Athenians was not better either, since they were distraught by having to fight simultaneously two wars (7.28.3, l\kista d’ aqto»r 1p_efem fti d}o pok]lour ûla eWwom).54 In a well organ52 The main description of the event and its repercussions is very close to the fortification’s first mention in 7.19.1 – 2. In a typical, according to Rood (2007, 144), Thucydidean technique, the historian “looks at the later effects of the Spartan fort at the moment when the site is first occupied” making this first occurrence “paradigmatic”. 53 de Jong / Nünlist / Bowie (2004, xvii) define narratorial motivation as “the ‘why’ of the development of the story analysed in terms of the aims and intentions of the narrator”. 54 The reference to the Sicilian expedition as a second war for the Athenians is picked up from 7.18.2, where Thucydides presented it as an explanation of the confidence of the Lacedaemonians (l\kista d³ to?r Kajedailom_oir 1cec]mgt| tir N~lg, di|ti to»r )hgma_our 1m|lifom dipkoOm t¹m p|kelom 5womtar, pq|r te sv÷r ja· to»r Sijeki~tar). Both discussions of the double war of the Athenians are of special narratological interest, since they are both preceded and followed by analogous allusions; both cases are preceded by a presentation of the situation at Deceleia and followed by an analeptic excursus discussing the beginning of the war. In particular, the presentation of the Athenians as having a double war in 7.18.2 is preceded by the advice of Alcibiades to the Lacedaemonians regarding the fortification of Deceleia (7.18.1) and followed by a remote analepsis treating the very beginning of the war (7.18.2 – 3). Similarly, the reference to the double war of Athens in 7.28.3 is preceded by the description of the difficulties that the fortification of Deceleia created for the Athenians (7.28.1 – 2) and followed by an analepsis reaching the beginning of the war and the forecasts the Athenians were making regarding the war’s expected duration (7.28.3). The similarities can probably be connected to the fact that Thucydides considered both the fortification of Deceleia and the expedition to Sicily responsible for the final Athenian defeat.

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ized analogy between the time of the story and the time of the narration, the description of the difficulties that the fortification was causing to the Athenians is placed at the point where those difficulties were supposedly occurring;55 it is only through such an ordering that the main narrative can be “encircled” by proleptic and analeptic cross-references that happen before and after the main description respectively. Before its main description and throughout the Sicilian narrative, one comes across frequent allusions to the importance and the destructive consequences of a future fortification of Deceleia. In 6.91.6 – 7, Alcibiades instructs the Lacedaemonians about Deceleia, revealing to them that this was what the Athenians felt mostly insecure about. Alcibiades praises the importance of valid information about the enemies’ fallible points (6.91.6, bebai|tata dû%m tir ovtyr to»r pokel_our bk\ptoi, eQ, $ l\kista dedi|tar aqto»r aQsh\moito, taOta sav_r pumham|lemor 1piv]qoi), reminding us quite vividly of the importance Nicias gives to similar information coming from his Sicilian spies.56 The certainty of Alcibiades57 alludes to his access to inside information and resembles the certainty that usually characterizes the messengers who use witness narration. 58 According to Alcibiades, the fortification of Deceleia will first bring the Athenian supplies to the hands of the Spartans; it will equally allow them to enjoy the revenues from the Laureian silver mines, as it will eliminate the allies’ tributes to Athens (6.91.7). Apart from convincing,59 Alcibiades’ argumentation also proves to be an explicit cross-reference, foreshadowing the hardships that the fortification of Deceleia caused to the Athenians. After the main description of the event (7.27 – 28), the narrator starts evaluating its significance by analeptic cross-references included in the narratives of other, seemingly irrelevant, events. As the prior foresha55 According to the terminology of Genette, such a coincidence between story time and narrative time would be actually called a scene (1980, 95; 109 – 112). 56 The narrative of Nicias’ secret reporters follows similar construction and it is also going to be discussed below. Unlike Nicias’, Alcibiades’ information is going to prove extremely useful to the people it is addressed to. 57 Note bebai|tata. 58 A witness narrator is part of the story he is narrating, in which he has only participated as a witness (Rimmon-Kenan 1983, 96). The most characteristic examples of witness narrators are found in the messenger speeches in drama, where the messengers communicate the offstage happenings in which they were witnesses, but not active participants. 59 The Lacedaemonians turned their attention to Deceleia immediately (see 6.93.2).

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dowing references to Deceleia were alluding to how its fortification will help the Lacedaemonians win the war, the analeptic ones point to how it leads the Athenians into defeat. In this light, following the description of the battle at Epipolae (7.42 – 45), Thucydides analyzes the second thoughts the Athenians had, regarding the postponement of their stay in Sicily (7.46 – 47).60 The difficult situation at Deceleia was part of Demosthenes’ argumentation in support of the Athenian withdrawal from Sicily, since, “it was more profitable to carry on the war against the enemy who were building a hostile fortress in their own territory than against the Syracusans, whom it was no longer easy to conquer” (7.47.4).61 Demosthenes’ cross-reference regarding the importance of the war at Deceleia proves the validity of Alcibiades’ proleptic statements back in Book 6 and creates the feeling of a narrative encirclement of the event. Encirclement cross-references are used as “ring-presentations” of important events. The proleptic references predating the event offer considerable narrative preparation, since they urge the narratees to be alert at the moment of its full presentation, while analeptic allusions are historically instructive, since they invite the narratees to reflect upon and evaluate the event’s importance. In other words, encirclement cross-references do not just constantly remind the narratees of an event, but they mainly connect its significance to the rest of the war, generating historical interpretation.

60 Note especially 7.47.2, t\ te %kka fti !m]kpista aqto?r 1va_meto. 61 Demosthenes’ proposal to withdraw is strikingly opposed to Nicias’ wish to stay (7.48). In an extended passage of actorial motivation (“the ‘why’ of the development of the story analysed in terms of the aims and intentions of a character”, de Jong / Nünlist / Bowie 2004, xv), Thucydides explains the reasons of Nicias’ confidence about winning, namely the information that he was receiving from Syracusan spies (7.48.2) and his fear that the Athenians would not approve a withdrawal without their own vote (7.48.3). With the first reason literally leading to Nicias’ own death (those spies are the ones who will want Nicias dead, worrying that he might turn them in; cf. 7.86.4 and the discussion below), the second is remarkably at odds with his previous claims about supposed lack of any personal interest (cf. for example 2.65.7, 6.9.2, 6.15.2). Such an inconsistency in Nicias’ character has been justified by Plutarch as a counterbalance to Demosthenes’ superfluous plan regarding Epipolae (Plut., Nic. 21.3), while it is seen by modern scholarship as a sign of decline of power of the Athenian leaders, who were at the mercy of the demos (Rood 1998, 188).

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Nicias’ informers The narrative of Nicias’ spies displays a similar structure. In a sequence of scaled narrative preparation, Nicias is presented in Book 6 as having secret informers even before the sailing of the Athenian fleet. Nicias’ contacts with the Syracusan traitors becomes more explicit in Book 7, where the source of Nicias’ information is finally revealed, while it is also looked back at in a highly tragic way towards the end of Book 7, where those informers are finally the ones who decide upon Nicias’ death. The narrative preparation regarding the importance of Nicias’ informers takes place very early in the Sicilian narrative. In March of 415 BCE, Nicias debates against the expedition, trying to deter the Athenians by insisting on the necessity of sending to Sicily a huge force (6.19.2).62 He says that he has found out by report (1c½ !jo0 aQsh\molai)63 that the cities which the Athenians plan on attacking are very large and not in need of any political change (6.20.2). It takes a whole book – in terms of narrative time – and more than two years – in terms of story time – for this vague statement to become clearer. As explained by Thucydides, it was because Nicias knew about the enemy more than the rest (!v’ ¨m 1p· pk]om C oR %kkoi Ñsh\meto aqt_m), that he did not want to admit openly the Athenian weakness after the battle at Epipolae and thus make the enemy believe that the Athenians were planning to retreat (7.48.2).

62 According to Kallet (2001, 42), such a rhetorical strategy influences the structure of Nicias’ speech, which presents “a confusing jumble of information that is as conspicuous for its ultimate vagueness as for its detail”. And she continues, “the speech stands out because of the sheer jumble and quantity of items listed by Nikias, heaped on one after the other and including a number of words that are unusual in the elevated context of deliberative oratory in the History” (43).With respect to rhetorical success, Nicias’ speech has the opposite results since the Athenians are finally convinced to sail. This could also be seen as a sign of Nicias’ inefficient and superfluous knowledge of the demos and Athens’ social dynamics (Tsakmakis 2006a, 168), or from a narratological point of view, as a strong “emphasis to the ‘presentness’ of the narrative, to the sense that the course of events is open – neither determined by prior causes nor fixed in retrospect, but subject to the wills and sometimes whims of human agency” (Dunn 2007, 141). 63 )jo^ is here to be taken as untested knowledge, as opposed to exir or pe_qa (Hunter 1973, 27). The knowledge Nicias acquires by hearing, i. e. from his various spies is truly untested since it will prove destructively misleading.

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Nicias’ emphasis on his own additional information is explained in greater detail (7.48.2, 7.49.1), when Thucydides describes that Nicias’ accurate knowledge of Syracusan affairs (7.49.1, aQsh|lemor t± 1m ta?r Suqajo}sair !jqib_r)64 derived from a Syracusan party65 that wished to come under the control of the Athenians and was therefore sending proposals to Nicias, trying to keep him from withdrawing (7.48.2, ja· Gm c\q ti ja· 1m ta?r Suqajo}sair bouk|lemom to?r )hgma_oir t± pq\clata 1mdoOmai, 1pejgquje}eto ¢r aqt¹m ja· oqj eUa !pam_stashai).66 This information must be regarded as the main description of the event, predated by proleptic cross-references. What is most striking is the consistent use of identical vocabulary to refer both to Nicias’ perception of the situation and to the party’s disclosure. In particular, the verb aQsh\molai is used in all three cases in order to describe Nicias’ knowledge of information, while the verbs 1pijgquje}olai and !pam_stalai67 in order to describe the proposals of the Syracusan spies. Following the basic description of an event, further references to it will be used as back-references leading to a major narrative twist. Although narrative emphasis on Nicias’ additional information could create expectations about their use to the profit of the Athenians, the Syracusan spies turn out to bring disastrous consequences by the end of Book 7. After the final battle at the Great Harbor (7.59 – 71), attention is brought to the Athenian plan of escape. The unanimous decision of the Athenians to retreat by land (7.72.5, ja· oR l³m ¢r jat± c/m !mawyq^somter Edg n}lpamter tµm cm~lgm eWwom)68 was expected by the Syracusans, who were worried that the Athenians might also leave during the night in secret. To prevent that from happening, Hermocrates made 64 Specific knowledge of the enemies’ intentions was undoubtedly a warfare desideratum. For a general presentation of the topic, see Russell 1999. 65 The fact that there were Syracusans taking the side of the Athenians is not surprising, especially since Sicily overall was divided, consisting of a combination of Dorian and Ionian cities (Zahrnt 2006, 653). 66 Treachery was a very frequent war-trick that Thucydides usually connects with the course of the war (Hunt 2006, 410). 67 In the phrases 1pejgquje}eto… ja· oqj eUa !pam_stashai and 1pijgqujeu|lemom pq¹r aqt¹m ¦ste lµ !pam_stashai, in 7.48.2 and 7.49.1 respectively. 68 The decision was not unanimous from the beginning, since Demosthenes – with whom Nicias agreed – had initially proposed to man the remaining ships and force their way out by the sea (7.72.3 – 4). However the sailors refused to get back into the ships and the withdrawal by land was decided. The disobedience of the sailors is very significant regarding the decline of power of the generals (Gribble 2006, 450).

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some of his people pretend that they were Nicias’ spies and spread a false alarm according to which the Syracusans would be guarding the roads all night long, so that it would be advisable to withdraw leisurely at day time (7.73.3).69 Hermocrates’ twisted use of the Syracusan spies resembles the narrative twist in the narrative of Nicias’ informers. Information leaks that used to be harmful to the Syracusans and of assistance to the Athenians become, after Hermocrates’ intervention, beneficial to the Syracusans and catastrophic to the Athenians. Quite analogously, the expectations of the narratees that Nicias’ additional knowledge might lead to an Athenian victory collapse when finally Nicias’ extra information leads the Athenians into disaster. The last part of this narrative encirclement will be performed at the very end of Book 7, with Nicias as its starring figure. Apart from making the Athenians withdraw at the worst moment, Nicias’ spies will also orchestrate his execution. Cross-referred to in 7.86.4, the informers of Nicias are the ones who wish to put him to death, fearing that he might turn them in, if he is subjected to torture (7.86.4, !kk± t_m Suqajos_ym tim]r, ¢r 1k]ceto, oR l³m de_samter, fti pq¹r aqt¹m 1jejoimok|cgmto, lµ basamif|lemor di± t¹ toioOtom taqawµm sv_sim 1m eqpqac_ô poi^s,).70 As seen from the above, encirclement cross-references also work, in the case of Nicias’ informers, as a technique of progressive nar69 Clever tricks and well organized traps set by the generals of any side seem to be of interest to Thucydides quite often. See for example 4.120.2, 5.65.4, 6.64 – 65, 6.102.2, 7.80 (Hunt 2006, 410). 70 It is interesting to see how these last moments of Nicias’ life are described by other historians: Timaeus of Tauromenion (FGrHist 566 F 100), who, according to Plutarch was childishly aspiring to write the history of Sicily better than Thucydides (cf. Plut. Nic. 1.1, 1kp_sar [Timaeus] t¹m l³m Houjud_dgm rpeqbake?shai deim|tgti, … fkyr tir axilahµr ja· leiqaji~dgr vaim|lemor 1m to}toir), gave much more weight to the narration of the deaths of both Nicias and Demosthenes (Jacoby 1955, 581 – 583; Hose 2006, 689). In his work, the two generals are not put to death by the Syracusan spies [as in Thucydides and Philistus (FGrHist 556 F 56)], but instead they kill themselves when they learn (by information sent by Hermocrates) that the Syracusan assembly is about to decide upon their death (Plut. Nic. 28.5). Diodorus of Sicily describes this public assembly in great detail (13.19.4 – 13.33.1), recounting even the speeches for or against the finally decided generals’ execution. Apart from any historical inconsistencies, the main difference separating the aforementioned accounts from that of Thucydides is the tragic pathos the former aspired to create. Such a ‘tragic historiography’ however, ‘apparently did not manage to find an audience that was willing to turn away from Thucydides’ (Hose 2006, 690).

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rative misdirection. Through the importance given to Nicias’ spies, Thucydides temporarily allows the narratees to entertain the thought that the Syracusan informers might bring help or even come up with a good plan of escape for the Athenians. The following narrative twists do not simply surprise the readers, but equally increase the pathos of the final scenes, where former collaborationists put Nicias to death.71

5. Conclusion The analysis of the Thucydidean narrative can demonstrate how the historian is dexterously weaving the fabula narrative threads in order to provide meaning. In this light, three major categories of cross-references occurring frequently in books six and seven of the History (1. progressive, 2. providing diverse focalization, 3. encirclement) work as mechanisms that add emphasis to events of crucial importance, as catalysts that boost the writer’s objectivity, or finally as filters that confirm or annul information. Most importantly though, Thucydidean narrative techniques are meant to educate the narratees, or put differently, to turn random into critical readers, who would be able to connect individual events with the rest of the war and thus satisfy one of Thucydides’ most significant aspirations, expressed in programmatic fashion in the Archaeology (1.22.4) as a statement of a historian’s credo.

71 The narratees’ surprise created from unexpected narrative twists of this kind agrees with the Thucydidean tendency for the creation of a narration that is both formally and ideologically open. As the narration of events remains undetermined (their outcome is not given in advance), their ideological foundations are also open, in the sense that they are not determined by any past authority or destiny (Dunn 2007, 149).

The Dot on the ‘i’: Thucydidean Epilogues Hans-Peter Stahl Thucydides is known for his reluctance to break the chosen mould of the impersonal and detached third person narrator. When almost casually revealing that he himself was exposed to the devastating plague at Athens, he makes clear that he discloses this fact only because it, combined with observing the suffering of others, allows him to provide precise eyewitness documentation: …these symptoms I shall make known, having had the disease myself and having with my own eyes seen others suffering” …taOta dgk~sy aqt|r te mos^sar ja· aqt¹r Qd½m %kkour p\swomtar (2.48.3). When he speaks of his exile from Athens, there is no complaint, no accusation, but only the scholar’s statement that twenty years of banishment benefited his researches because he could at leisure learn about affairs on the Peloponnesian side as well (5.26.5). Even a modern detractor who feels entitled to apply to the ancient historian such harshly disqualifying, even dishonorable predicates as ‘malign achrony’ and ‘suppression’ of evidence,1 almost grudgingly concedes “the dignified delay in telling us the consequences of his failure [‘his failure’?] at Amphipolis until the exile is relevant for his historiographical project.”2 It appears worth taking another look at some of those interpretative comments that Thucydides on occasion attaches to the narrative climax of an event sequence, where he seems to relax some of his usual narrator’s reserve (though not talking about himself there). Since such passages may confirm or reveal overarching aspects he deems essential to his work, they merit to be treated synoptically under the name of epilogues. They usually are augmented or followed, occasionally also preceded, by a summarizing factual statement, which I shall for the purpose of this paper distinguish by the term closure.

1 2

Hornblower 1994b, 142 – 43 (my italics). See the quotations in Stahl 2006, 331 – 33. Hornblower 2008, 45 ad 5.26 (my italics); “his failure” of course is a phrase loaded with ambiguity.

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In rare cases, the second link in the sequence of narrative climax, epilogue, and closure can take up the space of a whole chapter. The death of the Spartan general Brasidas provides an example. When his brilliant strategy and personal valor lead to the complete Athenian defeat at Amphipolis, Thucydides adds to his detailed battle narrative a climactic highlight by reporting that wounded Brasidas was rescued and carried into the city “still breathing”, 5ti 5lpmoum. “And he learned that his side was victorious, but soon after expired” (5.10.11). The historian sets a standard for posterity’s empathy by asking his readers to internalize Brasidas’ ambition and goals to the degree that they can appreciate, even identify with, the dying hero’s personal satisfaction; the news and experience of victory, even if it coincides with the end of one’s life, to Thucydides is worth recording. Self-fulfillment in achievement here contrasts with the inglorious execution in Syracuse of the Athenian general Nicias who, “because of his lifelong endeavor for virtue, least among the Greeks, at least of my own time, deserved to come to this degree of misfortune” (7.86.5). Though not forming the narrative highlight, the ending of Nicias’ well-documented life and career, too, calls out for the reader’s empathy, induced by the historian’s rare expression of sympathy and admission of a personal appeal. The two cases are the more remarkable as the passing of Pericles, the great Athenian statesman, is recorded only as a bare fact (“he lived on for two years and six months”, 2.65.6), incorporated into the wide-ranging analysis of his political skills and foresight.3 The epilogue to Brasidas’ military enterprise is provided in Chapter 5.11. It concerns the political result brought about by the final campaign in his eventful career, i. e., his rapid traversing4 of Thessaly toward 3 4

For reservations Thucydides held toward Pericles’ personality, see Foster 2010, especially Chapter 6. “…he moved without pause in running mode (dq|l\), before some larger force could gather that might hinder him”, 4.78.5; cf. 79.1: “In this way staying ahead, Brasidas ran through Thessaly, before someone could get ready to hinder (scil., him)”. Translations in this paper are my own. It is far-fetched to find in Brasidas’ strategically necessitated speed an allusion to Homer’s swift-footed Achilleus: “At 78 Brasidas runs through Thessaly, where we are told he has his friends, 1pit^deioi, in this, the homeland of Achilles” (Hornblower 1996, 42, following Howie; my italics). Why does H. place emphasis on Brasidas’ “friends”, if Chapter 78 clearly shows their only limited efficiency, which causes Brasidas to hurry? To support once more that Thucydides is here guilty of “historical distortion” because of his alleged desire to turn Brasidas into a second Achilleus? See Hornblower’s circular/roundabout

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Macedonia culminating, after a series of successes, in his taking even of Amphipolis, the strategic and commercial strongpoint in Thrace that was vitally important to Athens. Brasidas had repeatedly presented himself as the bringer of freedom from the Athenian Empire (so at 4.87.6; 108.2), in fulfillment of Sparta’s original promise that she would fight Athens for the freedom of Greece (2.86.4; cf. 4.85.1). Now, the Amphipolitans give his corpse not only a public funeral on the grandest scale with all the allies participating in full armor, but bury it even inside their city. Further, his memory from now on receives hero worship with a temenos, annual sacrifices, and games in his honor. The authorial emphasis is no longer on living Brasidas and his individual and personal achievement: only a dozen years after the founding of Amphipolis as an Athenian colony under the leadership of Hagnon the Athenian, a damnatio memoriae is carried out: Hagnon’s buildings are razed, anything possibly reminding of him is obliterated. Now Brasidas is declared the colony’s founder. For the Amphipolitans see in Brasidas, the bringer of freedom, their savior (syt/qa 11.1). While on the surface honoring Brasidas, the measures implemented above all paint the irrevocable political damage Athens has suffered: they confirm the panicky fear (l]ca d]or 4.108.1) the Athenians initially felt about the loss of this, for their northeastern empire all-important, colony. What is left for the Athenians (this would be the factual closure) is to pick up their more than 600 dead (acknowledging their defeat) and to sail home (11.2 – 3). The political epilogue of 5.11.1 (the term is appropriate for this section) brings to light the full impact of the blow dealt Athens by Brasidas’ sweeping long-distance campaign (the description of which started as early as 4.70.1, 74.1, and 78.1 ff.). The twofold tribute, personal (in the narrative climax) and political (in the epilogue, at 5.11.1), provides the reader with guidance under which aspects to look back and reflect on the event sequence he has been reading about.5 Another example of an extended epilogue is found at the end of the famous chapters about the horrors of civil war (3.81.2 – 83). These chap-

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reasoning on p. 38 (my italics): Thucydides “may… have seen… an opportunity to write a heroic aristeia”. H. wonders whether “the exaggeration which such a handling inevitably implies, has led to historical distortions”. The modern commentator here appears overly infatuated with his own idea that “Thucydides was indeed infatuated, up to a point, by the literary Brasidas he had created” (60). Ten years later, an Athenian attempt to retake the city will be unsuccessful (7.9): the ominous imperial trauma will turn out to be permanent.

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ters themselves are placed at the end of a long development,6 the roots of which reach as far back as the first of two segments in the run-up to the war (1.24 – 55). The first open accusation (cf. aQt_ai, 1.23.6; 55.2) against Athens was raised by Corinth because Athens had given support to Corcyra in the battle of Sybota (435 B.C.), which Corinth and Corcyra fought for control of Epidamnos, an outlying, unrest-plagued colony of Corcyra. The Corinthians carried home 250 Corcyrean prisoners of war and took exquisite care of them (most of them being leading men of the island), hoping they would, upon returning home, bring Corcyra into the Corinthian camp (1.55.1). And so it happened. When Corcyra voted for continuing its alliance with Athens, the returning former prisoners drew Peithias, the leader of the demos and a volunteer proxenos of Athens, into court. When acquitted, Peithias in turn accused five of the richest citizens of a religious offense. Convicted and fined, they resorted to violence, killing Peithias and about 60 other councilors during a council session, then forced a resolution of neutrality, saying that this would save Corcyra from being enslaved by Athens (3.70 – 71). What follows (3.72.2 – 81.5) is an extraordinarily detailed, almost day-to-day report, with subdivisions even indicating daybreak, day, dusk, and night actions, – in this degree of particularization later paralleled by the day-to-day description of the Athenian army’s death march across southeastern Sicily and the massacre in the Assinaros river (7.75 – 85). Before ascribing to Thucydides an undue interest in the macabre, one should not forget that he initially characterizes the Peloponnesian War not only by its length but especially by the suffering (pah^lata) it brought over Greece, illustrated, among other things, by killing (v|mor) in military action and during civil strife, di± t¹ stasi\feim (1.23.2). By siding with those afflicted by violence rather than with the successful perpetrators, this first characterization reveals a sense of compassion and humanity that belies the detachment of the third person narrator. The sorrows of Corcyra, then, should be understood as the lamentable enactment of the early announcement in 1.23. A Corinthian trireme and Spartan envoys having arrived, the Corcyrean oligarchs attack and defeat the demos. Two days later, it is the People’s turn to be victorious (the rage rises: even their women join the fierce fighting, throwing tiles from the roofs), and the hard-pressed 6

For the literary organization of this strand in Thucydides’ History, see Stahl 2006.

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oligarchs set fire to a large part of the city (72.2 – 74). The coming of an Athenian general with twelve ships leads to a shaky truce and the internment on a nearby island of 400 oligarchs, who had taken refuge as suppliants in the temple of Hera (75); but the situation is again reversed when 53 Peloponnesian ships under the Spartan general Alcidas appear on the scene and prove superior to the Athenian and Corcyrean ships combined (76 – 78). Worried about a possible follow-up attack on the city itself, the Corcyrean People bring the 400 interned suppliant oligarchs back from the island and place them again in the temple of Hera, persuading even a number of them to help defend and save the city by serving aboard the ships (79 – 80.1). However, news of an approaching Athenian fleet causes Spartan Alcidas to sail home, and the presence over seven days of sixty Athenian ships under general Eurymedon grants the Corcyrean demos an opportunity for exquisite acts of slaughter in the name of fighting the enemies of democracy, beginning with the murder of those who had agreed to defend the city aboard the ships, followed by the execution of fifty suppliant oligarchs who consented to leaving the temple of Hera for a trial. Those who did not leave the sanctuary, recognizing their situation, killed themselves or each other with any means at hand, and the demos for seven days “kept killing whom they viewed as their enemies” (among them also creditors and personal enemies, even their closest relatives, not only oligarchs), and even on the altars (81.2 – 5). “They kept killing”, 1v|meuom (81.4): this picks up the key word, v|mor, used at 1.23.2 to characterize the suffering also of civil war, di± t¹ stasi\feim. When Thucydides now states that “every form of death took place”, p÷s\ te Qd]a jat]stg ham\tou (81.5), and even beyond what appears imaginable, the section (81.2 – 5) whose horrible detaiIs I have surveyed here reveals itself as the narrative climax, offering an illustration of the sufferings programmatically envisaged in the work’s opening section. And since the author has meanwhile acquainted his readers with the brutality of civil dissent in one city, he consequently next, in writing his epilogue (3.82 f.), takes the occasion to enter the sphere of generalization, moving from past to present, and even to future experience. The ensuing chapters on revolution (3.82 f.), expounding the breakdown of moral and religious ties, are so well known that it suffices for me here to single out a few features. The savagery of the strife on Corcyra caused so deep an impression, because it was the first occurrence: later on, all of Greece was exposed to uproar (82.1, Thucydides likes to

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detail the first occurrence of a phenomenon, a pedagogical feature that renders the reader prepared at the moment of later recurrence).7 “And many harsh afflictions befell the cities in civil strife, occurring and always going to occur in the future, as long as human nature stays the same, though more or less harsh, and differing in its appearances…” (82.2.). The verb “befall”, 1pip_pteim, once more places the emphasis on the victims (here whole cities), in accordance with the sufferings of Greece as they were announced in 1.23. Next to the thesis of ‘War as Teacher of Violence’, b_aior did\sjakor (82.1), the most discouraging message this epilogue contains probably is the prediction, extrapolated from living through years of war, that such afflictions will always be with humanity. This simultaneously amounts to a clarifying comment on the “usefulness” of the insight into the past and an, in accordance with the human condition,8 similar future, which Thucydides programmatically envisages for his work in his agenda at 1.22. The fact that suffering will be inflicted, but that the forms of suffering may be more or less severe (3.82.2), i. e., are not precisely predictable, provides another argument against optimistic readings that wish to turn Thucydides’ work into a “manual for future statesmen”9 or “a sort of ‘political systems users’ manual’”,10 maintaining that at 1.22.4 he sees “the lasting value of his text” (i. e., the usefulness expressed by ¡v]kila) also in the “practical applicability of its analysis.”11 Apart from failing to provide a precise translation of 1.22.4,12 such interpretations also overlook that Thucydides, while providing information on the symptoms of the plague so 7 For such “pedagogical technique of composition”, see Stahl 2003, 111 f., with n. 22; 125, n. 25; 156, n. 64. 8 On the he meaning of t¹ !mhq~pimom (1.22.4), which comprises both human nature and “external circumstances affecting human existence”, see Stahl 2003/ 2009, 28 f. 9 “Manual for future statesmen”: Finley 1947, 50. 10 So Ober still 2006, 132. Without discussing the grammatical difficulty of his own reading, Ober (132, n. 5) insinuates that Gomme, HCT I, ad loc., “tries to avoid the evident meaning in order to keep Thucydides in the fold of disciplinary historians” (my italics). See Stahl 2003, 15, with n. 18, referring to Kapp, Gnomon 1930, 92 ff. Regarding the alleged practical applicability, see Thucydides’ practice of writing history as traced especially in Stahl’s Chapter 10 and the reference to Churchill on p. 189 there. Also, see n. 11 below. 11 Ober 2006, 134. 12 For a translation of 1.22.4 and its meaning, see Stahl 2003, 218.

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one may recognize its recurrence (2.48.3), also states that absolutely no remedy existed that could help (¡veke?m, 2.51.2). The epilogue having been completed, i. e., the lasting insight about civil war drawn from the Corcyra events having been communicated to the reader, the historian can, by way of a closure, briefly summarize the aftermath (3.85): the about 500 surviving oligarchs move over to the continent and from there harass the islanders to the degree of causing a famine. Receiving neither support from either Sparta or Corinth, the oligarchs, at a later time, move back over to the island, burning their ships behind them, and settle on Mount Istone; from there they harm those in the city (3.85; in this compressed summary there is no longer any interest in a day-to-day or hour-to-hour description). So far, the observable organization runs from the initial announcement in 1.23 over the pre-war events to the civil war itself; then, following the literary climax of the killings in 3.81.2 – 5, the epilogue draws out the far-reaching implications for all of Greece and even mankind, to be followed with a terse factual closure. 13 But this is not quite the end yet. Two years later (in 427 B.C.) the visit of another Athenian fleet affords the civil disturbance another climax of cruelty (4.46 ff.). First, a compressed narrative (4.46.1 – 3) reports how the Athenians and the demos combined conquer the oligarchs, and how the Athenian generals detain the prisoners on the nearby island of Ptychia for later transport to Athens. After the victory, there follows the detailed climax. The generals, who are stopping by on their way from Pylos to Sicily, not only acquiesce in the ensuing massacre but quietly encourage it through their complicity in a ruse that voids the guarantee of safe conduct they themselves have extended to the oligarchs at their surrender and that delivers the prisoners from Ptychia into the hands of the demos in the city. The generals are goaded by their jealous desire not to let anyone else earn the honor of delivering the prisoners alive to Athens (4.47.2). One may ask, after the horrors paradigmatically described in 3.81, what justifies another detailed (though remarkably briefer) narrative climax. The answer lies in those aspects that intensify the earlier picture (of 3.81.2 – 5). I mention three facts: first, the treacherous and deadly ruse, and the complicity of the Athenian generals in it. Next: not wishing to face the imprisoned oligarchs in open fight, the Corcyreans break 13 For the fact that this ending is tied in also with the event sequences concerning Plataea and Mytilene, see Stahl 2003, 115.

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down the roof of the prison and attack their defenseless victims from above with roof tiles and arrows, while the prisoners down there themselves try to commit suicide, partly by pushing the spent arrows into their own throats.14 The suffering (the reader again recalls the pah^lata and the v|mor di± t¹ stasi\feim announced in 1.23.1 f.) continues over the day and most of the night: t| pok» t/r mujt|r (1pec]meto c±q m}n t` pah^lati, 4.48.3). The third fact I single out concerns the undignified, degrading treatment of the dead: at daybreak their bodies are thrown crosswise (voqlgd|m, 48.4) on carts and taken outside the city. The gruesome details of the narrative climax are followed by another, terser, closure at 48.5: “In this way the Corcyreans from the mountain were killed by the People, and the civil strife, having become excessive, came to this end (at least as far as this section of the war is concerned); for there was nothing left, at least that is worth mentioning, of one of the two parties” (48.5).15 Purely factual as this succinct closure may on the surface sound, it does include an epilogic feature insofar as its antecedent, logically prioritized and syntactically attached by “for” (c\q), reinforces the earlier finding that human nature stays the same (3.82.2), right up even to the borderline of wholesale physical extinction. Looking back over the long chain of events dealing with Corcyra, the reader has been led to focus on the sufferings inflicted by the dark side of a constant, unchanging, uncompromising, inexorable human nature. Earlier I mentioned that the detailed account of the sorrows that the civil war meant for Corcyra is in some fashion echoed in the day-by-day report on the Athenian army’s death march across southeastern Sicily (7.78 – 85), which culminates in the slaughter (cf. 5svafom, 84.5) in the Assinaros river. The massacre forms the narrative climax of the movement that began with the Athenians’ pitiful evacuation on foot from their last position near Syracuse (7.75; the counterpoint to the proud sailing of their fleet from Athens, 6.32.1 f.,16 referenced as such by prayers and 14 One has found a contradiction between their taking cover and killing themselves. The truth will be that the assailants would hardly aim to kill on the spot but to severely wound, intending a slow death that the victims themselves tried to speed up. 15 For the limiting power of the fti- clause and the “attention-getting” ja_ in this sentence see Classen-Steup ad loc. and ad 1.15.2. 16 Thucydides compares the departures from Athens and Syracuse: Stahl 2003, 192 f. Failure to see that 7.75 is by verbal references tied to 6.30 – 32, but is not the final word on the whole war in Sicily, has led to the misguided assump-

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paeans). So the massacre is the fatal end stage in the unraveling of the aggressor forces. The section’s factual closure, though admitting that many escaped from slavery then or later, concentrates on the quantitative aspect of this very day’s slaughter: “For this turned into the greatest mass killing, second to none in this war”, pke?stor c±q dµ v|mor oxtor ja· oqdem¹r 1k\ssym t_m 1m t` [Sijekij`] pok]l\ to}t\ 1c]meto. The slaughter, then, exemplifies the other source of death, besides civil war, that is mentioned in the preview of 1.23.2: ja· v|mor, b l³m jat’ aqt¹m t¹m p|kelom. Literary climax and closure are here not augmented by an epilogue (except one would take the vastness of the killing itself as an epilogic element). The reason presumably is that the overall action has not come to its end yet. There still follows, after the intervening report on the death of the two generals, another emotionally tinged narrative climax (87.1 – 2), focusing exclusively on the suffering (the key word is jajopah/sai 87.2; cf. 6) of the prisoners in the quarries of Syracuse. Heat and autumn chills under open sky, disease, wounds, starvation rations for as long as eight months, death, living with the stench of piled-up corpses, hunger, thirst, describe their unbearable conditions. It is significant that, in the final climax of his Sicilian narrative, Thucydides concentrates his elaboration neither on the generals’ execution nor on the “many” (pokko_, 85.4) who managed to escape, but on the agony of the prisoners: “There is nothing that did not befall them,” oqd³m fti oqj 1pec]meto aqto?r, are the last words of this climactic section (87.2). 1pec]meto is a synonym to the verb he used when speaking of the many harsh sufferings that “befell” cities during civil strife (1p]pese, 3.82.2). Once more, then, it is suffering that defines and seals the human outcome of a long event sequence, here of a ‘war in the war’ (cf. oq pokk` tim· rpode]steqom p|kelom, 6.1.1). And again the pathetic painting is followed by a closure of more sober, statistical statements (87.3 – 4), which, however, is augmented by elements of an epilogue (87.5 – 6). The closural section registers length tion that 7.87.5 – 6 “is the second closure, a not wholly logical concept” (Hornblower 2008, ad loc.). Dealing with the self-created difficulty, Hornblower 2008, ad 7.75.7 resorts to the hypothesis that possibly “the present passage was the end of a recitation unit”. A detail: l]cistom at 7.75.7 and at 7.87.5 cannot be paralleled: the former refers to the experience of the greatest reversal of fortune (l]cistom t¹ di\voqom), the latter to Athens’ Sicilian enterprise as the greatest military action. See the text above.

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of detention, different treatment of prisoner groups, the historian’s difficulty of providing exact numbers. The epilogic addition comments on the outcome of the Sicilian war in its entirety in wider historical terms: it was the greatest military action of this (i. e., the Peloponnesian) war, in Thucydides’ opinion even of Greek campaigns known from hearsay, “for the victors most glorious and for the vanquished most calamitous. For they were defeated in all facets in every way, and in the proverbial complete destruction they suffered no small loss in any area: both the army and the fleet and everything else perished, and few out of many did make it home”. Unlike the passage on the army’s destruction at the river Assinaros (7.75), this comprehensive epilogue includes also the loss of the navy (m/er, 87.6), which the chief instigator of the campaign, Alcibiades, had invoked as the guarantor of a safe return (6.18.5) and which was considered the mainstay of the Athenian naval empire. Here is an extra sting to the pathetic statement that few out of many returned home. It is again significant that the epilogue section, after mentioning both victors and vanquished, dwells far more extensively on the losing side. It offers another example17 of human inconsiderate optimism ending in disaster and suffering (the verb jajopahe?m is applied to the defeated side as a whole here as it has just before been applied to the prisoners suffering in the quarries). After the comprehensive build-up of equipment as well as of arguments for and against the campaign at the opening of Book 6; after the description of the Athenians’ ignorance of the magnitude of the war-in-the-war they were about to undertake;18 after surveying the sorrowful fate of the Athenian prisoners (Thucydides does not tell us what ultimately happened to them) and the complete destruction of the invading force, the account comes to an end in a lapidary 17 For further examples of self-inflicted suffering resulting from careless projections, see Diodotus’ analysis at 3.45; the Athenians’ analysis of the Melians’ unfounded trust in chance, hope, the gods, and Sparta at 5.103 and 111; Thucydides’ own diagnosis of men’s habit of entrusting their wishes to unthinking hope at 4.108.4 (the devastating consequences he will describe later). I mention these examples to prevent the passage 7.87.5 f. from being viewed in isolation and being hijacked for a thesis of “Thucydides the Athenian partisan”. Recognizing preponderance of political weight does not mean partisanship. See also Stahl 2012. 18 For the larger context see Stahl 2003/2009, especially Chapter 9: “Speeches vs. Course of Events in Books 6 and 7”.

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finale: “These were the events that happened in Sicily” (7.87.6; cf. 3.114.4).19 It is time to look at two highly compressed cases, where the literary climax explodes into a single epilogic sentence that encompasses the gist of the preceding development. The first concerns the vacillating confrontation of Athens and its “allied” city Mytilene on Lesbos (3.2 ff.). At the moment when Mytilene defects from the empire, neither side is prepared for the event as they would like to be, and the ensuing chain of events is rich in unexpected turns.20 After the surrender of Mytilene, the Athenians decide to kill the whole male adult population and to sell women and children into slavery. The decree is dispatched right away to Paches, the commander in charge at Mytilene. On the next day, some spreading regret leads to a new assembly, of which Thucydides reports two speeches that represent the extreme antagonistic positions (Ngheis_m d³ t_m cmyl_m to}tym l\kista !mtip\kym, 3.49.1): violenceprone Kleon pleads for “justice” (i. e., not to rescind the murderous decree), whereas Diodotos sees Athens’ “advantage” in the survival of Mytilene. The assembly by a small margin (!cw¾lakoi, 49.1) decides to spare (most of) the population. The second assembly having taken place while the ship with the killing order was on its way, the hopes for the Mytilenaeans’ survival appeared to fade by the hour. The resulting tension is raised by the details of the climactic description of the second boat’s voyage (special food rations for the crew, the men rowing in alternating shifts, by chance no opposing wind, etc.). The death race is decided by minutes: Paches has just received and read the first order, and is about to proceed with the executions, when the second ship arrives: “By so small a margin did Mytilene escape the danger”, paq± tosoOtom l³m B Lutik^mg Gkhe jimd}mou (3.49.4). The hyperbaton focuses the reader’s contemplation on the core issue of the recent narrative (and this is not a rhetorically dressed-up narrative but the actual course of 19 I find myself unable to view these concluding words as “a false closure” (Hornblower 2008. ad loc.; my italics), presumably because the l]m at 7.87.6 is followed by d] at 8.1.1. The narrative now returns from concluded events in Sicily to events unfolding at Athens (9r d³ t±r )h^mar 1peidµ Acc]khg…). The particles precisely and unambiguously contrast the two theaters of action. Any overarching aspects (allusions to earlier occurrences, ‘thematic evocations’, etc.) will, if pertinent, be identified by other words. Cf. the likewise geographically identified contrast at 6.32.2 – 3: ja· oR l³m 1r tµm J]qjuqam… / 1r d³ t±r Suqajo}sar Acc]kketo… 20 For the overall developments concerning Mytilene, see Stahl 2003, Chapter 6.

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events): the “danger”, which has been mounting over recent weeks, is that of the mass executions taking place. What now follows is the usual aftermath report, ending in a variation of the closing formula used at the end of Book 6: t± l³m jat± K]sbom ovtyr 1c]meto (50.3). Here, too, the epilogue-like, tension-releasing, sentence follows the literary climax and precedes the factual closure. It underlines the haphazard nature of the Mytilenaeans’ rescue, corresponding to the numerous uncontrolled (and uncontrollable) turns of events. That the situation of “barely escaped” is for Thucydides a historically significant phenomenon is revealed by the almost verbal repetition of the epilogue sentence at the end of an interim stretch of events during the siege of Syracuse. Being increasingly blocked by the Athenian circumvallation and losing hope for help from the Peloponnesus, the Syracusans already put out feelers to Nicias, the Athenan general, about surrender, but no decision is made yet (6.103.3 f.). Meanwhile the Spartan general Gylippos, at sea with an advance relief force, receives the false information that Syracuse is already walled off completely. Consequently, he gives up Sicily as lost and intends to secure southern Italy, but is delayed, even thrown back to Tarentum by a devastating storm that necessitates considerable repairs to his ships (104.2). When receiving information that Syracuse is not completely walled off yet, he decides against approaching the city right away but first turns to gathering an army in northern Sicily. Clearly his decision made him too late to save the city. But a single ship of the remaining relief force, setting out last from Corinth but outracing the other boats, delivered a certain Gongylos to the city “shortly before Gylippos”, ak_com d³ pq¹ Cuk_ppou (7.2.1); Gongylos, “encountering them (scil., the Syracusans) at the point of holding an assembly session about ending the war, stopped them and encouraged them” (jatakab½m aqto»r peq· !pakkac/r toO pok]lou l]kkomtar 1jjkgsi\feim diej~kus] te ja· paqeh\qsume) by announcing the imminent arrival of Gylippos and the relief forces. The excitement of the narrative reaches its literary climax when the Syracusans move out and meet the troops of Gylippos, who approaches via the same Upland access route which the Athenians had used when they arrived (but obviously now themselves neglected to guard). This time, the epilogic sentence has been moved to the very end of the episode, and the wrap-up of the factual closure precedes it. Gylippos “happened to arrive at this moment in time”, when the circumvallation was almost completed, with only two or three sections not finished.

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Grammatically, the closure is marked by change from narrative aorist, “historic” present, and durative imperfect forms to static pluperfect statements about the high degree of completion of the unfinished wall sections. Though not part of the military action proper, the condition of the siege walls is an essential factor in the deliverance of the city by hair’s breadth. So the reversed order: narrative climax – factual closure – epilogue does help to drive home the point that results from this changeful event sequence: “To such a degree of danger came Syracuse”, paq± tosoOtom l³m aR Suq\jousai Gkhom jimd}mou (7.2.4). The similarities with the Mytilene episode, especially in the wealth of unplanned and uncontrollable turns, render it understandable that the author chose a closely similar wording for the two epilogue sentences. As far as contents of this almost formulaic repetition are concerned, they, too, are similar to the extent that both view the outcome from the perspective of the threatened cities, not from that of the Athenian aggressors. In this they go together with the Corcyra epilogue and its emphasis on afflictions and sufferings, pah^lata. The aspect of “barely escaped” (or “almost destroyed”) offers itself naturally in the course of a war. In order to save the time and expenses of a prolonged siege, the Peloponnesians, when attacking Plataea, undertake a series of escalating assaults employing various techniques that culminate (and this enterprise also forms the narrative climax) in the attempt to burn down the city. From a mound they throw bundles of wood, covered with brimstone and pitch, in front of and even over the wall, hoping that a strong wind will nourish the fire. It turns into the greatest man-made fire (apart from spontaneous forest fires) seen up to that time (2.77.2 – 4). The epilogue, like the Mytilene and Syracuse epilogues, points to the narrow escape, but, beyond those epilogues, ends by painting what almost happened (but did not happen) in a contrary-to-fact picture: “But this one was big, and by an extremely small margin missed killing the Plataeans after they had escaped the other attempts; for within a large area of the city it was not possible to come near, and if a wind had joined forces with the fire 21 (precisely what the enemy were hoping for), they would not have escaped” (77.5).22 21 aqt0 77.5 refers back to vk|n, 77.4 (recte Classen-Steup ad loc.). 22 The following information, conveying that there also is said to have occurred a thunderstorm and rain that extinguished the fire, is obviously, in Thucydides’

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What follows (78.1 ff.) is the usual factual aftermath report: “since they failed even in this” (1peidµ ja· to}tou di^laqtom), the Peloponnesians proceed to execute a regular siege by circumvallation, for which only part of the gathered army is needed. This, following the epilogue, is the section’s closure, informing also on the number of those shut in (78.1 – 4). To return briefly to the epilogue: it concentrates the reader’s attention not only on the situation of “by so small a margin” and the danger of being burned alive, but also once more focuses back on the preceding escalation of attacks the inhabitants had been exposed to, by verbally recalling “after they had escaped the other assaults” (diavuc|mtar, 77.4 ~ di]vucom, 77.5). It is their viewpoint, from inside the city, that is presented here. This change of viewpoint, from objective narrative to that of the imperiled inhabitants, is indicated also by a change of nomenclature: the “Peloponnesians and their allies”, as they were called at the beginning of their campaign against Plataea (oR Pekopomm^sioi ja· oR n}llawoi, 2.71.1) and as they will be called again in the objective closure (oR d³ Pekopomm^sioi, 78.1), are in the section’s epilogue identified as “their enemies” (“precisely what their enemies were hoping for”, fpeq ja· Ekpifom oR 1mamt_oi, 77.5). Once more then here is an epilogue that sides with the threatened party: Thucydides breaks the mould of the detached narrator, stirring up the reader’s empathy. Only too often the report of a narrow escape can be complemented by another one that describes a tragic “too late”. A case in point is the nocturnal assault by Theban invaders on the city of Plataea still in peace time. The action is historically significant because it produces a trigger effect: from now on the two sides no longer meet without a herald (2.1), and a general mobilization takes place (2.7 – 8). The failed assault ends with the killing of 180 Theban prisoners: the Plataeans renege on a prisoner exchange agreement: after receiving their own people back, they “killed the men right away” (2.5.7). The narrative climax, following the nefarious deed, takes a counterfactual turn and, so, gives weight to the tragic category of “in vain”: Messengers go to and fro between Thebes and Athens, and the Athenians attempt to prevent the Thebans from acting rashly. “But the [last] herald found the men killed”, b d³ j/qun gxqe to»r %mdqar dievhaql]mour (2.6.3). This epilogic sentence is eyes, not creditable. The absence of the hoped-for wind is obviously enough of a cause for the otherwise skeptic Thucydides, 77.6.

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followed by the usual factual closure (women and children evacuated, supplies brought into the city, etc., 6.4). The action sequence ends with the surrender of besieged Plataea to the Spartans and Peloponnesians; it is followed by a sham trial, at the end of which Spartan “judges”, to find favor with the Thebans, condemn the Plataean survivors to death. Uninfluenced by the speeches made at the trial, the judges ask the prisoners the same question as before the trial: whether they have contributed anything good to the Spartan alliance during the war? And upon receiving negative answers, “…they killed them and made not a single exception”, !p]jteimam ja· 1na_qetom 1poi^samto oqd]ma (3.68.1). Here the succinct statement, concluding an unusually long sentence structure,23 strikes the reader with the full force of its brutality: in its epilogic quality, it corresponds (and is supposed to be read as corresponding) to the epilogic sentence about the messenger who came too late to save the prisoners (2.6.3). Violence creates violence, death suffered corresponds to death dealt out. (What follows is the usual factual closure, which here, however, is augmented by a stab at both Sparta’s and Athens’ shameful behavior toward the meritorious city, 68.4 f.). The type of emotional epilogic sentence is the same as in the less grim outcomes about Mytilene (3.49.4) and Syracuse (7.24; see earlier). In preparation of coming to a last type of epilogue, I want to address a specific situation. The final battle in the Great Harbor of Syracuse (7.69.3 – 71.7) is generally acknowledged to be a masterpiece of Thucydides’ narrative art. Following the climax, i. e., the total defeat and dissolution of the Athenian naval and land forces (71.6), the epilogue states, “at present there was a panic second to none of all preceding occasions” (71.7). The epilogue then continues by summing up as follows: “And they had suffered a defeat similar to the one they themselves inflicted upon the Spartans at Pylos”. To put the Athenian defeat in perspective, Thucydides compares the Spartans’ loss of their fleet at Pylos in 424, which meant that their elite men on the island of Sphakteria were cut off, – a situation that soon resulted in a devastating blow to Sparta’s military reputation when those men surrendered (4.38.3). So, for the Athenians’ perspective, rescue by land was now hopeless, except some incalculable event occurred (Cm l^ ti paq± k|com c_cmgtai, 7.71.7). And as up to the Pylos affair Sparta’s was without doubt considered the undefeatable 23 See Stahl 2003, 114.

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fighting army in Greece, so Athens’ power and reputation rested on her unrivalled navy. The epilogue truly “puts the dot on the ‘I’” here; as usually, it views events from the side of the defeated, and, also as usually, it is followed by a closure: the Syracusans drag home the wrecks, pick up their dead and set up a trophy, whereas the demoralized Athenians care neither for their wrecked ships nor ask for their dead (72.1 – 2). The Pylos episode itself is distinguished by a kind of epilogue I have so far not discussed: an anecdotal dialogue, which here follows the closure instead of, as in most of the other examples, preceding it. On Sphakteria (the island next to Pylos), the Athenian general Demosthenes (co-general with Kleon) employs a rather unconventional strategy by holding the Athenian hoplites back while having the advancing Spartan hoplites attacked on the sides by mobile forces of slingers and archers who easily tire out their heavily armed enemy. When in the end the Spartan elite troops are surrounded by a special detachment and attacked also from the rear, Thucydides compares their situation to that of their ancestors in the battle of Thermopylae (4.36.3), where King Leonidas and three hundred Spartiates, likewise surrounded and attacked in the rear, heroically died fighting the Persian invaders.

Not so their descendents on Sphakteria. The narrative climax (4.37.1 – 38.3) sketches the surrender negotiations, with even a piece of oratio recta interspersed, uttered by the last herald from the mainland: “‘The Spartans bid you take counsel yourselves about yourselves, while doing nothing shameful’. But they (Thucydides continues in his own voice), upon taking counsel, surrendered their arms and themselves” (38.3).24 The ensuing closure (38.4 – 39.3) sums up the transport of the prisoners, the time they had stayed on the island, their numbers, the unexpected success of Kleon’s campaign, etc. Then (40.1 – 2) Thucydides attaches his epilogue: of the events in the war, this one came for the Greeks most against expectation, for one expected that Spartans would not under any circumstances surrender, but rather die fighting. So one suspected the courage of the survivors. When an Athenian ally later tauntingly asked a survivor whether their fallen comrades were “brave and noble” (the component of courage here clearly outweighing that of social standing), the survivor replied that it would be an extremely valuable arrow that could distinguish the 24 Later on, upon their release, the survivors will temporarily be dishonored, 5.34.2; at 4.20.2 the Spartan ambassadors at Athens had warned of such an outcome (cf. pq¹ aQswqoO tim|r…).

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brave, – thus pointing out (adds Thucydides) that the killed were randomly hit by the stones and arrows. The reply skillfully deflects from the shameful fact of surrender by recalling the unfair fighting conditions during the battle (it does not annul the unfavorable comparison with the heroes of Thermopylae). Does Thucydides here again stir up a degree of empathy for the losers in an unfair battle, whose plight he has so vividly described in the narrative section (see especially 36.3)? There is one more example of a dialogic epilogue that merits mention in our context. It is preceded by a long series of events that encompasses military campaigns led over wide areas of Greece by both Athens and Sparta (3.94 – 98;25 100 – 102; 105 – 114), but ends in two battles that bring complete devastation especially to a local tribe, the Ambraciots: first to a smaller number (107 – 08), then, unbeknownst to the survivors of the first battle, to their main host.26 At one point, three thousand Ambraciot hoplites occupy the city of Olpai, but fearing to be cut off they call for the full levy of their hometown to relieve them. Yet forced to fight without the reinforcements, they (and their allies) lose the first battle; many Ambaciots are able to save themselves, making their way back into Olpai. On the next day, a number of them flee without a truce agreement from surrounded Olpai toward Agraia, but about 200 of them are killed in the escape attempt.

In the evening of the same day, the Ambraciot main army, on its way to relieve those shut up in Olpai, bivouacs on the lower of two mountain tops called Idomene, not realizing that their enemy meanwhile takes possession of the higher top. At dawn, most are butchered while still in their beds, and those who escape the massacre fall into ravines or into ambushes prepared for them. Some even swim out into the sea, preferring death at the hands of Athenian sailors to falling victim to their hated area enemies. Only “few out of many” (ak_coi !p¹ pokk_m, 112.8), make it home to the safety of Ambracia. The description of the Ambraciot army’s almost complete annihilation (112.3 – 8) forms the detailed narrative climax, to the exclusion of their allies’ and their ene25 This section has its own deadly sub-climax: “Every shape of flight and destruction happened to the army of the Athenians” (98.1 – 3); the epilogue (98.4) emphasizes the large number and the youthful age of the fallen hoplites (a grave loss for Athens), while the closure (98.5) describes the consequences, especially for the defeated general (Demosthenes). 26 For a more detailed interpretation of the complexities and sorrows Thucydides emphasizes in this event sequence, see Stahl 2001, 92 – 95.

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mies’ better fortunes. Only one brief sentence in the end (112.8b, a mini-closure, if one will) reports on the enemy setting up a trophy and despoiling the dead. What follows is a highly elaborate epilogue in dialogue form, taking up almost a whole chapter (113.1 – 6a). On the day following the disaster, a messenger arrives from those who two days earlier escaped from Olpai to Agraia, to ask for the bodies of the two hundred who were slain during that escape on the day after the first battle (vsteqom t/r pq~tgr l\wgr, 113,1; cf. 111.4). Ignorant of the misfortune (oq c±q Õdei t¹ p\hor, 113.2) that meanwhile has befallen his tribe in the second major battle, he wonders at the huge number of arms. When questioned by an enemy about his surprise and about the number of dead on his side (the questioner believes him to be sent by the survivors of the Ambraciot main army), he answers “about two hundred”. Upon being informed that the sets of armor before his eyes are more than one thousand, the messenger concludes, “then they are not of those who fought on our side”. “But they are if you fought at Idomene yesterday”. “But we did not fight with anybody yesterday, but on the day before yesterday, during our escape”. “And we fought with these yesterday when they came to help from the city of the Ambraciots”. So far the dialogue, following which the historian continues in his own voice: “But when the herald heard this and realized that the reinforcement from the city was destroyed, he, breaking into wailing and struck by the enormity of the present calamity, left right away, without having accomplished his mission, and no longer asked for the dead” (113.5). In explaining the messenger’s reaction, Thucydides adds: “For this was the greatest suffering (p\hor) in as many days for a single Greek city during the war” (113.6). He even abstains from writing down the alleged number of the fallen because it would appear unlikely in proportion to the town’s size. He adds, however, that the enemy could easily have taken Ambracia if they had wished to. The epilogue is followed by a chapter (114) that provides the closure, by painting the factual consequences for those involved, including peace agreements, and ending in the formula, “so the events happened concerning Ambracia.” In returning to the epilogue, it can be said that the messenger is being led to comprehension in steps that remind the reader of an anagnorisis in Tragedy.27 The extent of the loss of human life is so inexpressible in 27 Stahl 2003, 134 compares Euripides, Bacchae 1280 – 82.

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numbers or in words that the reader will grasp the truth more commensurably when confronted with the wordless reaction of a single afflicted individual.28 This, however, does not necessarily imply that Thucydides made up the scene himself, as some literary critics might perhaps be inclined to assume. The disconnected events of the two battle days have not allowed information to spread to and fro between the Ambraciot contingents. So the moment of the bitter truth had to come. Considering moreover the minute details provided in Thucydides’ report about the campaign as a whole, one does not see why the encounter of the recognition scene cannot likewise be a historical fact based on solid information. Be that as it may, the epilogue again occasions the reader in retrospect to view the event sequence under the angle of human suffering, expressed here (at 113.2; 6) through p\hor, equivalent to the pah^lata of 1.23.3.29 Should one call the recurrent sequence of narrative climax – epilogue – closure a ‘technique’? One hesitates to do so because the term might be taken to indicate manipulative arrangement of materials for the purpose of creating a literary or rhetorical effect. The term ‘pattern’ appears 28 Stahl 2001, 95, cites the passage as an example of “the sadness of silence” in ancient literature. 29 Of course, not every event sequence ends in tragic loss. At the end of the summer fighting season of 429 B.C., the Peloponnesians, having fought frustratingly unsuccessful campaigns by land and by sea (2.68 – 92; Stahl 2003, 83 – 91), hit upon the idea of a final ersatz enterprise: a night attack on Athens’ unprotected harbor, the Piraeus. But while being on their way, they get the proverbial ‘cold feet’ and “sailed for Piraeus – no more… for fear of the danger” and, instead, landed on the western tip of Salamis (93.4). The narrative climax is reserved for the resulting panic at Athens, where sudden and unparalleled fear spreads from the harbor up to the city itself, as if an actual attack were taking place: “precisely this would easily have happened, if they had not lost heart and hesitated” (94.1): another ‘as if’ or ‘almost’ situation. The epilogue describes the Athenians’ early-morning countermoves and the Peloponnesians’ retreat (94.2 f.), and the closure laconically states that for the future the Athenians took better precautionary measures (94.4). And, on the other hand, not every sorrowful event is given voice in an epilogue crowning an extended event sequence. The p\hor (7.30.3) of the small city of Mykalessos occurs on the sidelines of the war, and nevertheless is marked as the most lamentable disaster afflicting a city of this size, where not only the cattle and all humans were slaughtered, but – the worst nulvoq\ (29.5) – even the boys in the largest area school: they had just happened to enter the building.

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more appropriate. For a pattern can emerge from the historical facts themselves and need not have been imposed from the outside. That loose ends are tied up by means of a closure is, of course, part of a good, logically satisfying exposition. Critics wary of Thucydides’ veracity might find a problem rather with narrative climax and epilogue. But he might claim that the climax only rounds out the preceding event sequence, i. e., evolves from the facts as he has conscientiously ascertained them; and that this obvious factual correctness in turn gives his epilogues the power of being convincing. Hardly any reader, even among critical scholars, has escaped the fascination that results from following an individual development to its culmination point. What may surprise us is that so many strands end on a similar note. My findings include a contrary-to-fact statement, “almost” and “as if” situations, epilogic dialogues, last minute rescues, devastating losses. Only a synchronic synopsis reveals that there is a common denominator. It comes to light in the narrator’s practice of granting greater emphasis to the defeated, afflicted, i. e. to the losing side. Some may assert that this practice undercuts the objectivity claimed by a 3rd person narrator. Others may, on the contrary, accord him the badge of objectivity because his results are deduced from and secured by the factual evidence he presents in his own name. Whichever way one may decide, the synopsis of perspectives offered in the epilogues reinforces the work’s pervasive contemplative component of futility, sadness, and even despair. If that is a side of war that Thucydides finds essential, we hardly have a right to begrudge his judgment. We may be disagreeing optimists, but we are hardly in a position to discount war’s dark face as he found it revealing itself in the pah^lata.

The Narrative Legacy of Thucydides: Polybius, Book I Nikos Miltsios Thucydides’ impact on later historians has been as immediate as it has proved elusive. While at least four historians of the next generation continued his work, their purposes are usually considered to be different from his own.1 Moreover, for the writers of the Hellenistic world, as well as for those who followed them, moral lessons mattered more than the paradigmatic value of history as political science. Polybius, nevertheless, seems to have endorsed Thucydides’ historical vision. Admittedly, he has no good to say for writers of historical monographs, but refrains from criticising or interfering with his predecessor’s account of the Peloponnesian War, which ended up covering a large period of Greek history.2 Indeed, his exclusive focus on war and politics as well as his austere criteria for the proper writing of history make him an ideal heir to the legacy of Thucydides. And although his methodological reflections are usually thought to echo those of Thucydides, a comparative reading of their texts may well reveal that Thucydidean influence was exerted on his narrative in several different ways. Yet any attempt to compare their works is bound to come up against a paradox: however similar the two writers might be in their views of history, they differ just as widely in the methods and techniques they choose to record it with. The main common elements they share are their dealing with contemporary political history and their commitment to the truth. Both of them profess that they have a profound obligation to give an accurate account of events. They believe that their main purpose in writing history is not to provide pleasure and enjoyment but rather to instruct their readers. For this reason, they do not hesitate to purge mythological elements from their narratives, even 1 2

On Thucydides’ later influence, see Hornblower 1995, 47 – 68; Nicolai 1995, 5 – 26; and Canfora 2006, 721 – 53. On the continuators, see Nicolai 2006, 693 – 719, esp. 695 – 710. Cf. 3.32.10, 7.7.6, 29.12 for Polybius’ criticism of historical works on a limited subject.

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though each of them feels that by doing this they are turning away a large section of their readership. Thucydides’ declaration that the lack of a romantic element in his narrative will probably make it less pleasurable (ja· 1r l³m !jq|asim Usyr t¹ lµ luh_der aqt_m !teqp]steqom vame?tai, 1.22.4) is thus echoed in Polybius’ disarming admission that most of his readers will find his work’s exclusive focus on contemporary political and military events boring (t` d³ pke_omi l]qei t_m !jqoat_m !xuwac~cgtom paqesjeu\jalem tµm !m\cmysim, 9.1.5). Their most outstanding differences, on the other hand, seem to lie in the narrative personae they create in order to present their historical material. Thucydides rarely makes his presence felt in order to comment on events, the protagonists or his authorial choices. He gives a brief exposition of the scheme of his work, his methodology and his views of his predecessors. And, above all, he prefers to gloss over the earlier stages of the development of his narrative and to present his readers with the finished product.3 Polybius, in contrast, at the beginning of the first and the end of his thirty-ninth book, gives a lengthy description of the content and aims of his work. He devotes whole pages to presenting the methodology and principles that will underpin his account and he constantly returns to the fore to comment on the action and the characters, to criticise his fellow historians and to clarify anything that might be misunderstood by his readers.4 If one had to express the difference between Thucydides and Polybius in narratological terms, one might say that the Polybian narrator is overt to an extent and in a manner that the more covert Thucydidean one is not and would not wish to be. But this difference cannot serve as an argument against Polybius’ knowledge of Thucydides. It merely reflects the scholarly mode of narration developed in historiography during the Hellenistic era.5 Both the selfdistancing and the tendency to intervene in the narrative can be interpreted as rhetorical gestures that enable Thucydides and Polybius, setting out from different starting-points and travelling by different routes, 3

4 5

Gomme 1954, 119 employed an analogy from architecture and other visual arts to describe Thucydides’ narratorial persona: “Thucydides in particular was… determined to do all the work himself and to present only the finished product to the public, as the artist does. Wren showed St. Paul’s Cathedral to the world, not his plans for it; so does the painter his pictures, so did Pheidias his sculpture”. On Thucydides’ narrative manner, see Gribble 1998, 41 – 67; Marincola 2001, 73 – 6; and Rood 2006, 240 – 9. On Polybius’ narratorial persona, see Ibendorff 1930; Rood 2004a, 149 – 57. Cf. Rood 2004a, 149.

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to reach the same goal: to reinforce the reliability of their descriptions and their own credibility. These differences between the two historians have been exploited and overemphasised in the discussion about their relationship. Bury (1958, 210) believed that Polybius received no direct influences from Thucydides and that the extant parts of his work show that he was not familiar with his work. The fact that Polybius mentions Thucydides only once by name, and in passing, when in 8.11.3 he remarks that Theopompus began his work at the point where Thucydides had left off, has made scholars even more sceptical as to whether he was familiar with his predecessor’s work. This scepticism has also been reinforced by the fact that Polybius, though touching upon issues that had been dealt with by the Athenian historian, disregards the latter completely. More specifically, although in 12.25 he criticises Timaeus for the way in which he presented Hermocrates’ speech at Gela, he does not attempt a comparison with the version of the speech provided by Thucydides in his fourth book (58 – 64), which could further strengthen his arguments. Gomme (1956, 523), prompted by this omission of Polybius, commented on the “nearly complete silence about Thucydides in fragments of authors’ works from before the time of Cicero and Dionysius of Halicarnassus”. And Pédech (1969, xli), who also believed Thucydides was not among the historians Polybius was best acquainted with, noted that, whereas Polybius, in the twelfth book, hastens to defend certain authors that had been unfairly targeted by Timaeus, such as Aristotle, Ephorus, Demochares and Callisthenes, he does not do the same for his Athenian colleague, whose literary skill, we are told in the proem of Plutarch’s Nicias (1.1), Timaeus attempted to emulate. Still, these arguments do not help us reach any decisive conclusions on the question of how familiar Polybius was with the work of Thucydides. That he makes only one fleeting mention of him in the surviving part of his work is not a strong point. To refute it one could invoke the fragmentary nature of his work or even the practice followed by Thucydides himself, who, although he certainly knew of Herodotus, did not mention him by name. The argument that Polybius, as seems plausible, was more familiar with the methodological principles expounded by Thucydides in his first book than with the details of individual episodes in his narrative can, moreover, explain the absence of any reference in his history to the version of Hermocrates’ speech at Gela recorded by

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Thucydides in his fourth book.6 It does not suffice, however, to explain the reason for which Polybius does not mention Thucydides, who had also been targeted for criticism by Timaeus, along with the other authors he defends against the latter’s attacks. One might, however, argue that Polybius’ decision in Book 12 to defend the authors attacked by Timaeus is partly due to the personal tone of those attacks.7 Timaeus’ aspiration to emulate Thucydides does not fall into the same category. And neither are we in a position to know whether this aspiration was expressed in the form of the polemic and harsh criticism that characterises the examples mentioned by Polybius in his twelfth book. Scholars have, for that matter, identified two themes in which Polybius appears to have been influenced by Thucydides and to reflect his work. The first concerns the triple distinction proposed by Polybius between the causes, pretexts and beginnings of war, which has been thought to be an attempt at a refinement of Thucydides’ distinction between aQt_ai (causes or reasons of complaint) and the !kghest\tg pqºvasir (the truest explanation). The second concerns the similarity between 3.31.12 – 13 in Polybius, where the narrator says that history, 6 7

Cf. Hornblower 1994a, 61. This, of course, does not mean that he does not attempt to refute the historical errors detected by Timaeus in the works of his fellow historians (such as when, for example, in 12.5 – 12a he compares the different accounts of the descent of the Epizephyrian Locrians given by Aristotle and Timaeus). But Polybius’ reaction to Timaeus’ aggressive attitude is sparked off by the tenacity with which the latter criticises the authors for their personal failings (e. g. 12.13.1: T_lai|r vgsi Dglow\qgm Btaiqgj]mai l³m to?r %my l]qesi toO s~lator ; 12.8.2 – 4: vgs· c±q aqt|m (sc. )qistot]kgm) eWmai hqas}m, eqweq/, pqopet/… sovistµm axilah/ ja· lisgt¹m rp\qwomta… pq¹r d³ to}toir eQr p÷sam aqkµm ja· sjgmµm 1lpepgdgj|ta, pq¹r d³ castq_laqcom, axaqtut^m, 1p· st|la veq|lemom 1m p÷si) and is intended to make it clear that Timaeus, in waging his polemic, greatly exceeds his role as a historian (1je?mor dû #m oqj eQjºtyr tucw²moi succm¾lgr oqd³ p¸steyr rpû oqdem¹r di± t¹ pqovam_r 1m ta?r koidoq¸air 1jp¸pteim toO jah¶jomtor di± tµm 5lvutom pijq¸am, 12.7.2) and for that reason deserves to

be treated in similar fashion (12.14.7). Compare, however, 12.15.12, where Polybius admits that, for Timaeus’ sake, he has taken pains to restrain his anger with him (Ble?r d³ t¹ l³m 1piletqe?m t/r !pewhe_ar aqtoO w\qim !v^jalem). For, as he observes in 12.14.4, the historian’s duty when exercising criticism is to say not what his enemies deserve to hear but what his self-respect permits him to say (ovtyr ja· peq· t_m koidoqi_m, oq t¸ to?r 1whqo?r !jo¼eim "qlºfei, toOto pq_tom Bcgt´om, !kk± t¸ k´ceim Bl?m pq´pei, toOtû !macjaiºtatom kocist´om). On Polybius’ criticism of Timaeus, see Meister 1975, 3 – 55; Schepens 1990, 39 – 61; Marincola 1997, 230 – 33; Vattuone 2005, 89 – 122.

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if it does not analyse the causes of events, provides merely temporary amusement and no abiding value (t¹ jatakeip|lemom aqt/r !c¾misla l³m l²hgla dû oq c¸metai, ja· paqaut¸ja l³m t´qpei, pq¹r d³ t¹ l´kkom oqd³m ¡veke? t¹ paq²pam), and Thucydides’ famous statement that he has written his work “not as an essay which is to win the applause of the moment, but as a possession for all time”, jt/l\ te 1r aQe· l÷kkom C !c~misla 1r t¹ paqawq/la !jo}eim (1.22.4).8 But even these similarities in arguments and in language are perhaps not of such decisive importance to our subject as at first appears. Since they come from methodological chapters in the two historians’ works, they may not be due to an immediate reception of Thucydides by Polybius.9 At any rate, they do not cease to be indications of Thucydidean influence, even if it was of an indirect kind. An investigation, on the other hand, of the relations and links between the narrative sections of the two works may lead to firmer conclusions. In what follows I shall attempt to point out and analyse the links connecting the two historians’ introductory books. More specifically, I will argue that the two texts display similarities both in the way in which they present their warring protagonists and in the emphasis they lay on the theme of sea power in order to influence readers’ expectations about the final outcome of the conflict. The choice of the introductory books for the purpose of investigating the relations between the two works is mainly dictated by their preparatory nature: they introduce not only the main protagonists but also certain basic ideas that are reiterated and further developed in the main part of each narrative. It is also justified by the presence of certain structural similarities that have been found to exist between them. I will start by discussing how Polybius’ prokataskeue is linked with Thucydides’ first book in both structural and functional arrangement.

8 9

My translations of Thucydides are adapted from the translation of R. Crawley (reprinted in Everyman’s Library and Wordsworth Classics); and those of Polybius from the Loeb edition of W.R. Paton. For Polybius’ knowledge of Thucydidean methodology, see Lehmann 1989 – 90, 73; Canfora 2006, 724 – 26.

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1. Structural similarities and functional connections It has been argued that the structure of Polybius’ prokataskeue reflects the structural organisation of the introductory book of Thucydides’ history. The review of the achievements of the great empires that Polybius provides in his preface (1.2), to begin with, has been likened to Thucydides’ Archaeology. 10 Yet this correlation is somewhat misleading. Polybius’ very brief reference to the limits of Persian, Lacedaemonian and Macedonian rule is intended simply to advertise the importance of his work, which lies, among others, in the superiority of Rome over the preceding empires that occupied the attention of his predecessors. The Archaeology, on the other hand, may partly be intended to highlight the importance of Thucydides’ work but is not confined to this, as it constitutes a fairly lengthy analysis of the conditions and factors that played a part in the development of the powerful city-states and the achievement of stability in Greece.11 Perhaps the most intriguing comparison is between the Pentekontaetia and the prokataskeue. Like the Pentekontaetia, the prokataskeue has an introductory and analeptic character, since it deals with events that took place prior to those presented in the main part of the work, and covers a period of similar length (forty-eight years in the case of Thucydides [479 – 431] and forty-four in the case of Polybius [264 – 220]). The two historians also employ exactly the same arguments to justify the inclusion of these narrative sections in their works. In both cases these have to do with the role the events presented play in assisting the reader to understand the basis of the protagonists’ supremacy, as well as the inadequacy of the historians that had attempted to record these events in the past. Thucydides says that the Pentekontaetia explains how the Athenians managed to create their hegemony (1.97.2) and fills a bibliographical gap, since his predecessors did not deal with this particular period, except Hellanicus, who apart from touching only lightly on these events was inaccurate in his dates (1.97.2). Similarly, Polybius points out that the prokataskeue explains with what means and under what conditions the Romans began their conquest of the world (1.3.7 – 10); he also remarks that one basic reason that prompted him to compile a narrative of these events was that Fabius Pictor and Phili10 Nicolai 2006, 717. 11 Cf. Connor 1984, 26 – 32.

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nus, who had previously recorded them, had distorted the truth as a result of their partisan attitudes (1.14.1 – 3). Indeed, in addition to their structural similarities, the introductory books of the two works can be compared in terms of the narrative functions they serve. Both historians maintain that their introductions are intended to inform their readers and resolve their queries. Thucydides states that he will initially provide an account of the quarrels that led to the conflict between the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians, so that his reader may understand the reasons for which the Greeks became embroiled in such a long war (toO l¶ tima fgt/sa¸ pote 1n ftou tosoOtor pºkelor to?r >kkgsi jat´stg, 1.23.5). Likewise, Polybius observes that from the introduction to his work his reader will learn about the earlier history of the Romans and, as a result, will not have to ask what designs, forces and means enabled them to undertake the operations that led to their becoming masters of almost the whole world (Vma lgde·r 1pist±r 1pû aqtµm tµm t_m pqacl²tym 1n¶cgsim tºte diapoq0 ja· fgt0 po¸oir diabouk¸oir C po¸air dum²lesi ja· woqgc¸air wqgs²lemoi Uyla?oi pq¹r ta¼tar ¦qlgsam t±r 1pibok²r, 1.3.9). His positioning of the Romans’ first armed expedition abroad at the beginning of his narrative is also justified on the grounds that it is essential reading for anyone interested in acquiring a comprehensive view of the Romans’ later supremacy (1.12.7). The introductory sections serve not only the readers’ needs, but also the writers’ aims to promote their narratives. In both cases, the significance of the work is thought to lie in the importance of the historical events it records. In his preface, Thucydides says that the power and preparedness of both states, combined with the large numbers of people affected, convinced him that the impending war was going to be a long one and greater than any previous war, a fact that clearly played a key role in his decision to narrate it (1.1.1). At the end of the Archaeology he mentions the long duration of the war and the numerous misfortunes it caused as factors that distinguish it from previous ones (1.23.1). Even the conflict between the Greeks and the Persians, he says, which was the greatest of all previous conflicts, cannot be compared with the war he is going to describe, since its outcome was decided in just two naval battles and two land battles (1.23.1). Polybius, too, in the preface to his first book, stresses the importance of his work by emphasising the supremacy of the Romans over past empires in terms of the extent of their rule (1.2), as well as the uniqueness of the historical circumstances that enabled the new superpower to conquer almost the entire world within

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a period of less than fifty-three years, d pq|teqom oqw erq_sjetai cecom|r (1.1.5). Celebrating one’s work by stressing the importance of its subject is, to be sure, a commonplace among Greek historians – one that can be traced back to the famous statement with which Herodotus advertised Xerxes’ expedition to Greece, contrasting it with all previous operations (stºkym c±q t_m Ble?r Udlem pokk` dµ l´cistor oxtor 1c´meto, 7.20.2) – and therefore cannot help us draw any decisive conclusions about Polybius’ awareness of his predecessor.12 It is, however, worth noting that both Thucydides and Polybius, among the arguments they employ to downgrade the importance of earlier events and to stress the significance of the deeds they themselves deal with, refer both to the numerousness and the type of ships that were used in the naval operations.13 Thus Thucydides, in a comparison drawn from the Iliad, maintains that even if we take the information provided by Homer literally – which, as a poet, he is certain to have exaggerated – the Trojan expedition was still comparatively smaller (1.10.3). Of the 1200 ships that were used overall, the largest had 120 men and the smallest fifty (1.10.4). The crews were all fighting men as well as rowers, while, apart from the kings and principal officers, it is unlikely that many others travelled on the ships because of their style of construction (1.10.4). Based on the average number of men in the largest and the smallest ships, this panhellenic expedition cannot, therefore, have been particularly large (1.10.5). Polybius promotes the First Punic War in a way that directly echoes the above mentioned Herodotean model (p|kelor ¨m Ble?r Uslem !jo0 lahºmter pokuwqomi¾tator ja· sumew´stator ja· l´cistor, 1.63.4) and with arguments similar to those employed by Thucydides. During this war the first time that the opposing parties engaged in a naval battle they had a total of over 500 quinqueremes, and the second time they did so they had nearly 700 (1.63.5 – 6). As a result of the fighting and shipwrecks, the Romans lost almost 700 quinqueremes and the Carthaginians about 500 (1.63.6 – 7). Anyone, says Polybius, who has admired the sea-battles and fleets of Antigonus, Ptolemy or Demetrius will not fail to be astonished (eQj|tyr #m 1jpepk/whai) by the scale of these operations (1.63.7). If, moreover, one considers the difference between the 12 On the Greek historians’ common practice of magnifying their subject matter (aungsir), see Marincola 1997, 34 – 43. 13 For an outline of the theme of thalassocracy in Greek thought, see Momigliano 1960, 57 – 67.

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quinqueremes and the triremes the Persians used to fight the Greeks and the Athenians to fight the Lacedaemonians, one would realise that never before have such large forces clashed at sea (1.63.8). The way in which Polybius presents the First Punic War, then, recalls the arguments used by Thucydides to emphasise the importance of the war he narrates. One might perhaps argue that the references to the type and number of ships are not necessarily indications that Polybius had direct or indirect knowledge, or made conscious or subconscious use, of Thucydides’ work, insomuch as they are justified by the thematic concerns of the two narratives. But I would still maintain that they are too concrete to be only coincidental. It is evident that in both accounts the reference to the ships not only becomes a vehicle for describing the means that were used in the naval operations, as one might plausibly expect, but also serves as an argument for demonstrating the importance of the events and hence the narrative relating them. Furthermore, it reflects the importance the issue of naval supremacy assumes in the introductory books of both authors for the development of the plot and the final outcome of the conflict. This issue, together with the various ways in which it is bound up with the presentation of the opposing sides in both texts, will be dealt with in the next section.

2. The presentation of the opposing sides So far we have discussed the structural similarities between the first book of Thucydides and Polybius’ prokataskeue, as well as the various connections they display in terms of the functional roles they perform. It remains, then, to examine the third function of the introductory books – the way in which they present the main protagonists of each work – in order to find out whether, and to what extent, points of contact exist between them on this purely narrative level. The issue of naval supremacy The first thing to be noted here is that in both narratives the presentation of the opposing sides is bound up with the theme of naval supremacy. Just as in Thucydides the Lacedaemonians and the Athenians are well known for their fighting capabilities on land and at sea, respectively, so too in the account of the First Punic War emphasis is laid on the contrast between the land-based power of the Romans and the mainly sea-based power of the Carthaginians, who are superior to their oppo-

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nents both in terms of the superb construction of their ships and the experience of their crews, to the extent that they are depicted as having “undisputed command of the sea” (1.20.12 – 13). For Thucydides naval activity implies the acquisition of wealth and, therefore, power. The first joint venture by the Greeks, the Trojan expedition, was carried out when they had acquired sufficient experience at sea (1.3.4). Economic growth in Greece only began to develop as a result of the naval activities of Minos, who faced the problem of piracy and made maritime communications safer (1.8.2 – 3). Minos, who ruled the Aegean and controlled the islands so as to increase the revenues he gained from them, is thought to serve as a prototype of the Athenian hegemony.14 A similar interpretation can be applied to the case of Agamemnon, whose leading position in the Trojan expedition is overtly attributed to the power his naval supremacy gave him and to the fear that this inspired to others (1.9.3 – 4).15 It was he, indeed, who had the greatest number of ships (1.9.4). And if he had had only an army and not a navy, he would only have been able to rule the adjacent islands, which were not numerous (1.9.4). This correlation between naval activity and the power to rule over others is expressed in the most explicit way in Thucydides’ comment closing the presentation of the early naval forces of Greece (1.15.1): “All their insignificance did not prevent their being an element of the greatest power for those who cultivated them, alike in revenue and in dominion”. The contrast between the greatest sea power, Athens, and the greatest land power, Sparta, is first stressed after the reference to the Persian Wars, which showed the Lacedaemonians to be the most powerful force on land and the Athenians the greatest power at sea (Uswuom c±q oR l³m jat± c/m, oR d³ maus_m, 1.18.2). It is further developed, however, in the speeches delivered by different members of the opposing sides as the impending war approached. Archidamus warns the Lacedaemonians that they are preparing to fight men who possess abundant wealth and greater experience than anyone else in sea operations (hak\ssgr 1lpeiq|tato_ eQsi, 1.80.3), whereas they themselves, in terms of their naval strength, are far inferior and will require a great deal of time to organise themselves well enough to mount a challenge (1.80.4). He goes on to 14 Cf. Connor 1984, 24. 15 Cf. Kallet-Marx 1993, 68: “Thucydides’ account of Minos and Agamemnon informs and enriches the reader’s understanding of the nature of Thucydides’ analysis of Athenian power”.

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say that if they do not achieve supremacy at sea or deprive their rivals of the revenues by which they maintain their navy, they will get the worst of it (1.81.4 – 5). For when a continental power fights against a maritime power (Apeiq~tair pq¹r hakass_our, 1.83.2) money plays a much more vital role than weapons (1.83.2). The Corinthians, on the other hand, who also realise the importance of naval supremacy in winning wars, attempt in their speech at Sparta to incite the allies to fight by suggesting ways in which they can offset the Athenians’ advantage. They, too, can save money in order to acquire a navy and can man it with the mercenaries serving on their opponents’ ships (1.121.2 – 3). Indeed, they believe that a single naval victory would suffice to destroy the Athenians (liø te m¸j, maulaw¸ar jat± t¹ eQj¹r "k¸sjomtai, 1.121.4), whose strength is based on money and not on manpower, as theirs is (1.121.3 – 4). But even if the Athenians resist, time will be on their side: they too will gain experience at sea and so will eventually be able to defeat them (1.121.4). What one side seeks to achieve has already been acquired by the other. The interrelation between the Athenians’ naval activity and their ability to secure their basic interests was, according to Thucydides, first recognized by Themistocles, who had turned all his attention to the navy (ta?r c±q maus· l\kista pqos]jeito, 1.93.7) precisely because he believed that the Athenians should seek to become powerful at sea (1.93.3 – 4). His conviction that with its navy the city would be able to resist any invader seems to have been shared by Pericles who depicts their naval power as their main advantage, in order to encourage his compatriots (l]ca c±q t¹ t/r hak\ssgr jq\tor, 1.143.5). His argument that the experience gained by the Athenians from fighting at sea has put them in good stead for fighting on land, while their opponents’ superiority in land combat has not given them a similar amount of experience of naval warfare (1.142.5 – 6), conveys the whole atmosphere of the narrative of the first book and the emphasis it places upon thalassocracy as a precondition of success in the impending war. Pericles’ arguments refute progressively those used by the Corinthians in their speech at Sparta. Their rivals will suffer from a lack of money and will not be able to acquire the same level of experience at sea that they have (1.142.6 – 7); for the acquisition of maritime skill requires dedication (1.142.9). If the Peloponnesians attempt to acquire it, the Athenians will prevent them by blockading them with their large fleet (1.142.8 – 9). And, when faced by danger, the mercenaries will not prefer to fight with those who have less chance of success merely to gain a few days’ higher pay (1.143.2).

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It is worth noting that on both sides the debate on whether to go to war or not is centred on the issue of naval power. The role the Lacedaemonians’ experience of land combat could play, then, is undermined so strikingly that it creates the impression that it is their rivals who will emerge victorious from the conflict. But given the final outcome, the disparity between the emphasis that is given to the importance of naval supremacy in the ensuing war and the retrospective knowledge of what is going to happen cannot escape attention.16 It has the effect of exciting the curiosity of the reader, who knows that Athens will be defeated, despite the fact that it appears more likely to win on account of her naval supremacy and the revenue this brings. It thus increases the reader’s interest in continuing with the narrative and in following the course the events will take until they reach the known result. The idea of thalassocracy recurs with remarkable frequency in the first book of Polybius as well. Indeed, it is explicitly stated that the account of the First Punic War is so extensive, precisely because it deals with the beginnings of Rome’s naval activities (1.20.7 – 8). As in Thucydides, so too in Polybius the opposing sides are distinguished by their experience and abilities on land and at sea respectively: at the outbreak of the war the Romans are seen to have considerable experience in land combat but none in naval warfare (oqdû 1p¸moiam oqd´pote poigs²lemoi t/r hak²ttgr, 1.20.12); the Carthaginians, on the other hand, are undisputed masters of the sea (t/r d³ hak\ttgr !jomit· t_m Jaqwgdom_ym 1pijqato}mtym, 1.20.5). Polybius attributes the supremacy of the Carthaginians to the maritime tradition of their ancestors (1.20.12) and the Romans’ war experience to the several battles in which they had fought. His observation that the wars waged by the Romans in Italy served them as a genuine training in the art of war (!hkgta· cecomºter !kghimo· t_m jat± t¹m pºkelom 5qcym 1j t_m pq¹r to»r Saum¸tar ja· Jekto»r !c¾mym, 1.6.6 – 7) recalls Thucydides’ remark that the conflicts

among the Greek states after the Persian Wars gave the protagonists of his work the best possible battlefield training (ew paqesjeu²samto t± pok´lia ja· 1lpeiqºteqoi 1c´momto let± jimd¼mym t±r lek´tar poio¼lemoi, 1.18.3). These statements are intended to arouse reader interest in the scale of the developments that are soon to bring particularly experienced

16 For a detailed analysis, see Connor 1984, 33 – 36.

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and, for that matter (despite their different abilities), evenly-matched opponents into conflict with each other.17 The space Polybius devotes in his first book to the presentation of the Romans’ naval activity is due to its function as a narrative expedient: it helps to portray certain aspects of the Romans’ temperament that played a decisive role not only in their first ventures at sea but also in the realisation of their ambitious plans as a whole. Indeed, their decision to construct ships in order to challenge their opponents’ naval supremacy at a time when they possessed neither the means nor the experience to embark on such a venture is itself presented as an indication of their bravery and daring (1.20.11, 1.20.12). This idea is further developed in the account of the dangers faced by the Romans at sea because of storms and the greater experience of their foes.18 Despite the overwhelming losses they sustain, they do not deviate from their purpose and continue undeterred with their preparations (1.38.5 – 6, 1.52.4 – 5). The alertness and daring of the Romans are explicitly stressed in 1.37.7 – 10. This passage echoes the description of the Athenians by the Corinthians in the Thucydidean Tetralogy (1.70). Just as Thucydides’ Athenians are resourceful and venturesome, so too are Polybius’ Romans brave and vigorous. Their self-confidence and desire to achieve their aims at all costs recall the Athenians’ boldness in embarking upon ventures that exceed their capabilities (1.70.3) and also the speed with which they execute them, a speed which matches that of the conception of their ideas (1.70.7). In both texts the brief outline that is given of the protagonists’ national characteristics is interwoven with the issue of their naval activity. As far as the Athenians are concerned, the connection, although not made by the narrator or the characters, is obvious:19 naval power facilitates their movements and enables them to vent their energy and satisfy their tendency to be continuously active. This is equally, if not more, evident in the Polybian narrative. Nowhere are the daring and resourcefulness of the Romans so greatly emphasised as in the efforts they make to gain supremacy at sea and neutralise the advantage held by their opponents (cf. 1.20.11 – 21, 17 Cf. Plb. 1.13.12: “The two states were also at this period still uncorrupted in morals, moderate in fortune and equal in strength (p\qisa d³ ta?r dum\lesim)”. 18 Cf., e. g., 1.37; 1.51 – 2. 19 Cf. Momigliano 1960, 61: “It is obvious, although never explicitly stated, that Thucydides recognized a strict connection between the sea-power of Athens and the psychological attitude of the Athenians as described in 1. 70 and in Pericles’ Funeral Speech”.

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1.59.2 – 8). At sea, moreover, much more often than on land, they run risks and sustain losses as a result of their daring and unrestrained impetuosity (1.37.8 – 9). Polybius’ warning that the Romans will continue to be threatened by the sea until they realise that not all seasons are suitable for undertaking naval operations (1.37.10) is reminiscent of the similar, prophetic statements made by Thucydides about situations and types of behaviour that will continue to occur so long as human nature remains the same (1.22.4, 3.82.2). Another feature common to both accounts is the way the theme of the rivals’ naval activity is used to arouse the reader’s interest in the outcome of the impending conflict between them. We have seen how naval power proves to be a decisive factor for survival and victory in the Thucydidean narrative and how the discrepancy between the false impression that Athens might win the war and the reader’s retrospective knowledge of the final outcome increases curiosity about what is to follow. The importance of naval power in relation to the development of the rivals’ antagonism is shown to be just as decisive in Polybius’ account, where the idea that the final act of the First Punic War will be played out at sea is systematically suggested. The Romans, despite their successes, cannot end the war because of their foes’ naval supremacy (t/r d³ hak²ttgr !jomit· t_m Jaqwgdom¸ym 1pijqato¼mtym 1fucostate?tû aqto?r b pºkelor, 1.20.5 – 6), with the result that the war remains unresolved and drags on for a long time (t¹m pºkelom arto?r tqibµm kalb²momta, 20.9). Hence, the Romans’ decision to construct a fleet is motivated by their certainty that only through developing naval power will they be able to bring the war to an end, and in a way that will be advantageous to them at that (1.59.2 – 4, 1.59.11). It is probably no coincidence that the phrase used to describe the intensification of their naval activity (¦qlgsam bkosweq´steqom 1p· t¹ sum¸stashai mautij±r dum²leir ja· t_m jat± h²kattam !mt´weshai pqacl²tym, 1.25.5) is also employed by Thucydides in a similar context (for the Greek states in general [t/r hak\ssgr l÷kkom !mte_womto, 13.1] and the Athenians in particular [t/r c±q dµ hak²ssgr pq_tor 1tºklgsem eQpe?m ¢r !mhejt´a 1st¸, 93.4]). Such verbal echoes, especially when they are not isolated but form part of a more general pattern of similarities in themes and language, suggest a close relationship between the two texts. Thucydides’ account of the naval battle at Sybota (1.47 – 54) provides a good example. The simile stressing the ferocity of the battle – its resemblance to a land battle because of the multitude of ships and infantry (pefolaw¸ô d³ t¹ pk´om

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pqosveqµr owsa, 1.49.2) – is also used by Polybius to describe the appearance assumed by the naval battle at Mylae as a result of the mechanism devised by the Romans (corvus) to grapple the enemy ships (paqapk^siom c±q pefolaw_ar sum]baime t¹m j_mdumom !poteke?shai, 1.23.6).20 Of course, it could be objected that, since the sea battleland battle simile is a topos in Greek historiography, its adoption by Polybius may be accidental and not indicative of a deep-seated Thucydidean influence. Still, considering that this simile primarily occurs in Hellenistic historiography,21 the possibility cannot be excluded that Polybius directly appropriated it from Thucydides. Indeed, there are other features too that connect the narrative of the naval Battle of Sybota with Polybius’ work. The inability of either side to gain an overall view of the situation that is recorded in the conflict between the Corinthians and the Corcyraeans is also echoed in the account of the battle between Philip V and Titus Quinctius at Cynoscephalae (18.19 – 27). Just as the Corinthians are fully unaware that their wing has been beaten (1.50.1), Philip believes, on the basis of his own division’s achievements, that he is winning overall (18.26.6 – 7) and only when he withdraws from battle does he realise what has happened (18.26.7 – 8). So too the rival claims to victory in Thucydides’ text (2j\teqoi tµm m_jgm pqosepoi^samto, 1.54.2) can be compared with the moment in Polybius’ narrative when, after the naval battle at Tyndaris, both the Romans and the Carthaginians gain the impression that they were evenly matched (!lv|teqoi mol_fomter 1v\likkom pepoi/shai t¹m j_mdumom, 1.25.5). The individual points of contact between the two narratives reinforce the impression already created by the detection of their various structural and thematic links. But their most subtle affinity lies not so much in the presence of certain features they have in common, as in the manner these are employed to create certain effects in the reader. The idea that the outcome of the war will be decided at sea enables Polybius to play with his readers’ expectations in a way very similar to that produced by the development of the same theme in Thucydides. Just as Thucydides’ readers wonder how the Lacedaemonians will be able to offset the naval supremacy of the Athenians in order to achieve victory, Polybius’ readers cannot help doing the same when they read about the Romans’ decision to compete against their foes in their natural element, 20 For a reconstruction of the corvus, see Wallinga 1956. For a detailed discussion about the ships and fleets of the period, see Morrison and Coates 1996. 21 For examples, see Pelling 1988, 283.

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while they not only lack any relevant experience, but also a suitable ship on which to model their new fleet (1.20.12 – 14). The more so since the oscillations between the Romans’ initial successes at sea and the blows their fleet later suffers as a result of successive shipwrecks and their rivals’ experience appear to frustrate the expectation that has been so carefully cultivated since the beginning of the narrative that the naval operations will bring an end to the war and decide the victor. The expectation is, however, borne out by the naval Battle of Aegusa, which marks both the end of the Carthaginians’ supremacy at sea and the end of the war. Ironically, the Carthaginians are forced to abandon their troops in Sicily because of the Romans’ naval supremacy (jqato}mtym t/r hak\ttgr t_m rpemamt_ym, 1.62.2) and to sue for peace.22 Naval activity enables the opposing sides to seek not only victory in war but also extension of their power. The Athenian Empire draws its strength from its naval hegemony.23 Thanks to their navy, the Athenians can extend their rule wherever they wish and – as Pericles assures his compatriots in his final speech (2.62.2 – 3) – no one can stop them. Safeguarding their hegemony is thus a matter of vital importance. If maintaining it seems unjust, to abandon it would be dangerous (2.63.2). At the outset of Polybius’ account the Romans have not yet established their naval supremacy, let alone their hegemony. It is, however, characteristic that in this case too maritime activity is shown to be directly associated with the development of expansionist designs (Uyla?oi c±q ûla t/r hak²ttgr Fxamto ja· t_m jat± Saqdºma pqacl²tym eqh´yr !mte¸womto, 1.24.7).

I will conclude my analysis by comparing the way the two historians thematise the expansionism of their protagonists in their introductory books. I will argue that the episode of the Romans’ intervention in Messana bears a close resemblance to Thucydides’ depiction of the Athenians’ role in the dispute between the Corinthians and the Corcyraeans and that the links connecting the two accounts are meant to raise suspicions in the minds of Polybius’ readers as to the motives governing the Roman foreign policy.

22 For an analysis of Rome’s use of naval power at this period, see Thiel 1954. 23 Naval activity, and its relationship to the accumulation of wealth, is central in Thucydides’ understanding of the historical development of power. For Thucydides’ views on money and power, see Kallet-Marx 1993.

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Athenian and Roman foreign policy Thucydides’ Athenians and Polybius’ Romans are very similar to each other not only in the importance they attribute to their naval activity but also in the way in which they exercise their foreign policy. A comparative reading of their interventions in Corcyraean affairs (1.24 – 55) and in the Mamertine crisis (1.7 – 12), respectively, reveals pretty clearly this similarity.24 The Corcyraeans seek alliance with the Athenians when they find out that the Corinthians are preparing to wage a campaign against them by recruiting forces from all over Greece in order to wrest Epidamnus from their control (1.31.1 – 2). In Polybius the Mamertines, Agathocles’ dismissed mercenaries who have seized Messana, appeal to the Romans for help against the Syracusans (1.10.1 – 2). In both accounts the narrative is structured in an analogous way and is divided into three parts. The first part provides a detailed presentation of the conditions that led the protagonists to become involved in the conflict; the second presents the deliberations that took place in Athens and Rome over the Corcyraeans’ and Mamertines’ demands, as well as the arguments that eventually led to a (positive) decision being taken in both cases, and the third part demonstrates the way the Athenian and Roman interventions influenced developments in Corcyra and Messana. Thus, the Corcyra episode begins by presenting the events at Epidamnus after the oligarchs’ removal from the city, the dispute between the Corinthians and the Corcyraeans, and the alliance that the latter propose to the Athenians (1.24 – 31). Next, it records the speeches given by the Corcyraeans and Corinthians at Athens and exposes the logic behind the Athenians’ decision to become involved in the affair (1.32 – 43). The section closes with a description of the sea battle at Sybota and the important role played by the Athenians in shaping the final outcome (1.44 – 55). Similarly, in the Messana episode the account begins with the capture of the city and the problems that this caused in the relations between the Mamertines and the Syracusans (1.8 – 9). It continues with a description of the process that led to the Romans deciding to respond positively to the Mamertines’ appeal for aid (1.10 – 11.3) and closes with the events that unfolded in Sicily after the arrival of the Roman reinforcements (1.11.4 – 12.4). It seems, then, that the Polybian account owes much of its form, quite possibly directly, to the similar situation 24 I am indebted here to Rood’s 2012, 54 – 7 analysis of the intertextual connections between the Corcyra and Mamertine episodes.

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narrated in Thucydides. The most noticeable difference is that Polybius does not include the envoys’ speech but merely makes a brief allusion to its content (1.10.2). But this is a choice evidently connected with the summary form of the prokataskeue. The similarities between the two accounts are more important than the differences. Again, their structural affinities seem to be intended to highlight their thematic links. The Athenians are portrayed as pursuing an acquisitive policy. The prospect of safeguarding their own interests permits them to lay aside their doubts about the repercussions their assistance of the Corcyraeans may have on their relations with the Corinthians and to overcome the initial uncertainty the debate of the subject has caused in the assembly. One does not have to agree that the Corcyraeans’ arguments represent the standpoint of “expediency” to say that the Athenians’ decision to side with them is an act of political self-seeking.25 In emphasising both the rightness of their demands and the benefits from adopting them – or, conversely, the dangers a rejection of them would entail – both states base their claims on a balanced combination of justice and expediency. The Athenians decide to conclude a defensive alliance with the Corcyreans with the aim not of aiding them but of pitching the great naval powers (of which the Corcyraeans are one) against each other so that they will be considerably weakened by the time they have to face them in war (1.44.2). Their policy is thus motivated by pragmatic considerations, not only because it chooses to adopt the self-seeking arguments of one of the two sides involved, but also because of the ulterior expediency this choice serves. The arguments on which the Romans base their decision to send aid to the Mamertines are similarly self-seeking. Their main concern is not to allow the Carthaginians to use Messana as a bridge to Italy. The way in which the motive behind their decision is expressed (mol_fomter !macja?om eWmai sv_si t¹ lµ pqo]shai tµm Less^mgm, 1.10.9) verbally recalls the grounds on which the Athenians agreed to form a defensive alliance with the Corcyraeans: they considered it necessary to prevent such a large naval power from falling into the hands of the Corinthians (ja· tµm J]qjuqam 1bo}komto lµ pqo]shai to?r Joqimh_oir mautij¹m 5wousam tosoOtom, 1.44.2). In this case, too, the debate on the issue initially creates uncertainty in the Roman Senate. For the Romans are afraid it 25 Thus, e. g., Macleod 1983, 55; Cohen 1984, 37 – 39. But Heath 1990, 389 – 390 argues that both sides employ arguments based on interest and justice. Cf. also Price 2001, 82 – 89.

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will be difficult for them to justify the inconsistency between their recent eagerness to hand out exemplary punishment to the Romans who had captured Rhegium and their decision to aid the Mamertines, who are as guilty as their compatriots (1.10.4). However, the prospect of the benefits they hope to reap from the impending war eventually succeeds in quelling their doubts and enticing them to ratify the decision (1.11.2). The fact that the Romans are depicted as being mobilised out of fear of the Carthaginian expansionism has been used as an argument to demonstrate Polybius’ intention to undermine Roman aggressiveness.26 But fear serves as a proclaimed motive in the Athenians’ case too: their efforts to prevent Corcyra from allying itself with Corinth are connected with the Corcyraeans’ warning about the consequences the union of two of the three largest navies in Greece would have for the fate of Athens in the impending war (1.36.3, 44.2). The rich intertextual play with the Thucydidean text may well be viewed as an attempt to guide readers to evaluate the sincerity of the Romans’ motives.27 Be that as it may, the rapidity with which the Romans are seen to redefine their aims after their success at Agrigentum, when they begin to seek ways of expanding their rule over the whole of Sicily (1.20.2), evidently shows that they too engage in this type of expansionist policy of which they accuse their opponents.

26 On Polybius’ downplaying of Roman aggression, cf. Champion 2004, 109: “In this regard we may state that, in keeping with the account of the wars summarized in 1.6, the Romans were defensively minded in their deliberations on the events in Sicily. The Roman decision to assist the Mamertines, at least on the part of the Senate, was motivated by fear of an expanding, offensively minded Carthage… Carthage looms as the imperialistic menace in the Polybian account”. 27 The issue becomes particularly interesting in view of the intertextual relations that exist between Polybius’ record of the Romans’ thought processes and the Thucydidean passage in which Alcibiades addresses the Lacedaemonians, exaggerating the Athenians’ expectations of the Sicilian expedition (6.90.2 – 3). We have no means of knowing whether Polybius drew his model directly from Thucydides or, as some historians suppose (see, e. g., Gelzer 1933, 133 – 42), from an intermediate source like Fabius Pictor. The intertextual links between the two passages arguably suggest to their readers the idea that the Roman appraisals of the situation may be just as excessive as those of Alcibiades, thus further undermining their credibility. For more on this point see Rood 2012, 56 – 7.

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Roman acquisitiveness may, therefore, be emphatically thematised in the account of the Messana crisis, yet it is further illuminated when related with Thucydides’ disclosure of the corresponding inclinations and tendencies in Athenian policy. We cannot possibly know whether Polybius intentionally included the Mamertine episode in order to provide a structural and thematic allusion to the Kerkyraika. However, the creation of intertextual links, as well as the means of using these in the interpretive process, depends not only on the author of a text but also on its readers.28 This is of particular significance in the analysis of the Polybian work, where the authorial messages about Rome may lend themselves to different interpretations, both because of the multiple audiences addressed and because of the difficulties lying in Polybius’ attempt to maintain a balance while recording the gulf between the self-interested and pragmatic policy of the aspiring world ruler and its desire to project an image of itself as a state founded on moral principles and values. On the other hand, it is impossible not to take into account the fundamental role the Corcyra and Mamertine episodes play in the general economy of the two works in introducing their protagonists. The various points of contact between these two sections, together with their symbolic positioning at the beginning of each narrative, make it hard to deny that Polybius was aware of his predecessor’s treatment of the Corcyra episode. I have been arguing in this paper that Thucydides’ introductory book is linked with Polybius’ prokataskeue by similarities in structure and language and that the portrayal of the rival sides in both texts is threaded with the same themes: their naval achievements and the pragmatic priorities of their foreign policy. A sceptic might explain the connections between the two narratives by drawing attention to the similarities in the analogous historical situations. The conflict between rivals renowned for their fighting abilities at sea and on land might have provided the two historians with an opportunity to thematise the importance of naval power in the victors’ success in war and the consequent consolidation and expansion of their power. And the primacy of self-interest over morality is self-evident for any state concerned with extending the limits of its power. But rather than undermining evidence of Polybius’ interaction with Thucydides, the comparable historical situations may instead enhance it, for they may well have led Polybius to 28 Cf. Morgan 2008, 218: “Intertextuality is a property of texts, when actuated by their readers, and not necessarily consciously deployed by their authors”.

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turn to his predecessor’s work in order to consult it. Thucydides’ work forming part of Polybius’ intellectual heritage has been absorbed into his historical vision, even if unconsciously or not fully consciously. The several different ways in which the depiction of the Romans echoes that of the Athenians in their respective works suggest that, in relation to the techniques and themes he employs to present his protagonists, Polybius seems, indeed, to be his heir.

V. The Language of Thucydides

The litotes of Thucydides Pierre Pontier In the history of Greek prose, Thucydides is often compared to the “sophists” because of an obvious chronological proximity and a supposed stylistic connection. Since the time of Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Thucydides’ taste for antithesis has been compared with the style of Gorgias; a parallel is often drawn between his lexical choices and the methods of Prodicos.1 The historian’s complexity of style relies on a quite systematic use of negation, creating figures of speech based on innuendo or implication, such as the euphemism2 and the litotes. It is this last stylistic device which has captured our attention. As an efficient device for presenting facts or even, the historian’s opinions, it would appear, at first sight, to be an important stylistic tool in the Thucydidean construction of history. However, even if the word “litotes” is of Greek origin, the definition of what the word represents in rhetoric has been problematic since antiquity. It was a late arrival. The term kitºtgr, used in a rhetorical sense, seems to have been first witnessed in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, but in a vague way, to characterise the style of Isocrates.3 Not until Porphyrio and Servius, commentators of Horace and Vergil, do we find a clearer mention of this stylistic device. Servius annotates thus an expression from the Georgics: “non tarda”, id est “strenuissima”.4 According to this commentary and the definitions that it gives, the litotes is a stylistic de1 2

3 4

See for example de Romilly 1980, 130 – 131 and de Romilly 1986; Hunter 1986, 421 – 426; Plant 1999. On the euphemism in Thucydides, see Benavente 1990 and Rodríguez Alfageme 1999, who differentiates the litotes and the euphemism by their opposing aims, the litotes being a device of intensification whereas the euphemism is a figure of softening or mitigation (286); they sometimes rely on the same vocabulary, as the analysis of the litotes oqj !dee?r 5ti Glem (3.10.4) in the same study shows, compared to the euphemism !deest´qa B j²hodor (3.114.1). D.H. Peq· lil¶seyr (=Vett. Cens.) B, 6, 5, 2. Servius ad Georg. 1.125: “dicitur kitºtgr figurae genus, qua res magna modestiae causa extenuatur uerbis”. See also Servius ad Aen. 1.77, concerning “haud credo invisus caelestibus”: “litotes figura per contrarium significans, id est credo te esse carissimum superis”. See otherwise Weyman 1886, 19; Hoffmann 1987, 27.

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vice which seeks to highlight an idea, an impression or a judgement. The negation of the contrary idea takes the place of the simple affirmative expression, in order to give it greater weight, hence the superlative, strenuissima. 5 In Antiquity, even if the device seems to be classed with the tropes, it is not mentioned as frequently as the metaphor or other more common figures of speech. Some seem to prefer other terms such as !mtemamt¸ysir (“denial of the contrary”),6 a word which has the advantage of explaining the linguistic phenomena, whereas the term kitºtgr, which often has a moral connotation associated with “simplicity” and “modesty”, only accounts for the final impression. Others associate the litotes with other stylistic devices such as irony (eQqyme¸a) or antiphrasis (!mt¸vqasir) whose exact emphatic intention can only be decrypted by the interpretation of the reader or listener.7 This semantic ambiguity contributes to the acknowledgment that the litotes is, in appearance, merely a form of le¸ysir (“lessening” or “diminishing”).8 Moreover, the modern descendant of the litotes and the different forms that it can take according to the language, cloud our perception of it. Even if we limit ourselves to the definitions given by Servius or Porphyrio, scholars of the modern era have occasionally felt the need to distinguish two types of litotes, excluding from the definition in its strictest sense, all expressions in which the negated words have a positive significance (e. g.: non bene).9 It is true that, taken in its wider sense, li-

5 6

7 8

9

Cerri 1976, 86. Donat, Ter. Hec.775: “haec figura kitºtgr dicitur: minus enim dicit quam significat”. E.g. Dean Anderson Jr. 2000 only mentions the term ad loc. and does without the word litotes; see also Lausberg 1973, 20 – 21. The litotes does not figure either in Martin 1974, and Hoffmann 1987 prefers the expression negatio contrarii to the notion of the litotes, which is too broad in his opinion. Volkmann 1874, 371; Buchner 1941, 347 and 356; Bergson 1971, 420. See Preminger/Brogan (eds.) 1993, 754 whose definition seems to repeat the analysis of Fontanier 1977, 133: “lessening (meiosis), a particular kind of metalepsis, which, instead of positively affirming something, denies totally the opposite thing, with the aim of giving more weight and energy to the positive affirmation which it is disguising”. See a summary of the debates in antiquity in Weyman 1886; Hoffmann 1987, 11 – 42. Porstner-Rosel 1931, 70 – 76. Following her point of view, we would finally exclude the expression “not easy”, Cic. Catil. 3.7.77, example given by Rowe 1997, 128.

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totes can sometimes be confused with euphemism.10 Examples which depend on a negative word seem to be more explicit (“non difficile”, “non stultus”). They have been given greater priority in this study, even though it became apparent that it was difficult to totally exclude other cases. Notwithstanding the fact that the definition of the litotes was late in coming, it is a form of expression that the Greeks embraced very well in the classical era and that authors from Homer on, knew how to exploit, whether or not they were aware of using litotes and whatever their mode of expression.11 Two of these authors stand out; since antiquity, Pindar and Thucydides have been associated as representatives of a strict, even obscure style.12 Their complexity of style is based on certain particularities such as an attempt at conciseness, the use of abstract terms, a word order which primarily reflects thought and the use of negation. This last point can explain why the litotes is so important in Pindar, as established by W.H. Race who noted its effect compared with rhetoric of eulogy.13 In his recent work on Thucydides and Pindar, S. Hornblower mentions, in a footnote concerning two passages, the role which the litotes plays both for the historian and the poet. Thus he concurs with remarks made in passing by those interested in the style of Thucydides.14 There again, a distinction must be made between the more frequent and varied litotes of the narrative, and the litotes of the speeches. In the speeches, particularly, this stylistic device can be part of a binary balance and can be completed by a positive counterpart which both clarifies and explains. In the historical account, though rarer, its presence is rarely anodyne. Ultimately, this study aims to assess the role of the litotes in the style of Thucydides. In the narrative, the most frequent litotes, which could be called “quantitative”, are generally constructed from a comparative, or a su10 See Rodríguez Alfageme 1999, 302, who considers that in a certain passage (5.52.1) the litotes oq jak_r is actually a euphemism, unlike two other appearances of the expression (3.32.2; 3.93.3), and Lopez Eire 1999, 354, who speaks of “euphemistic litotes”, in reference to oq letq¸yr (Dem. 18.18). 11 Pi. O. 9.104 (oq sjaiºteqom), P. 9.58 (out’ !cm_ta); Pl. Euthphr. 2c (oqj !cemm/); X. Mem. 1.1.2 (oqj !vam¶r); 1.2.32 (oq to»r weiq¸stour), etc. 12 See D.H. Comp. 22.10: aqstgq÷r "qlom¸ar. 13 Race 1983, 112 sq. See also Köhnken 1976. 14 Hornblower 2004, 284 n. 42 and 311; see also Kakridis 1961, 12; Rusten 1986, 63 n. 68; Rusten 1989, 27.

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perlative of inferiority, preceded by a negation. This is not of course a stylistic process unique to Thucydides, but rather a relatively common turn of phrase in the Greek language,15 one in which the historian does not overindulge but uses in quite specific situations. Let us take the example of the Sicilian expedition. At the very beginning of Book 6, the use of this type of understatement allows him to distance himself from the illusions of the Athenians. The description of the island is preceded by two litotes which highlight the Athenians’ ignorance of the size of the island and the number of its inhabitants. He says they didn’t know “that they were stirring up a war which was not much less important than the one against the Peloponnese” (fti oq pokk` tim· rpode]steqom p|kelom !m,qoOmto C t¹m pq¹r Pekopommgs_our, 6.1.1). In a symmetrical way, the size of the island is underlined by the same litotes highlighting the length of time needed to sail around the island: “it takes hardly less than eight days to sail around the island” (oq pokk` tim· 5kassom C ajt½ Bleq_m, 6.1.2). In both cases the litotes highlights the error of the Athenians in underestimating the size of the opposing army and the difficulties of the expedition. Having given account of the situation in Sicily and of its inhabitants, and in some sense, re-established historical truth, Thucydides concludes his digression several pages later, by using two expressions, affirmative this time, which in echo underline the size of the territory and the number of its inhabitants (tosaOta/tos¶mde), and are clearly related to the Athenians’ ambition to conquer (6.6.1). The historian chooses to express this same idea in a positive way, rather than repeating the two litotes, because he considers that he has already established historical truth by this point in the narrative. We notice at first sight, that the use of this type of litotes, anodyne as it would appear, allows for an insistence on a point by underlining its possible difference, discrepancy or contrast with a preconceived idea or an opinion considered erroneous.16 15 Weyman 1886, 34; Kühner-Gerth 1966, bd.2 t. 1, § 349b. 5 p. 25; see for example X. HG 6.4.18; Mem. 1.2.32. 16 See Th. 1.15.1, oqj 1kaw¸stgm is accompanied by flyr ; see various pairings of balance e. g. 1.67.2 or 1.67.4; this Thucydidean-type of litotes can probably be compared to all sorts of negative constructions where the intention can be polemic, cf. Hornblower 1994b, 153 – 157 concerning what he calls “presentation through negation” and especially Westlake 1969, 161 – 167 (oq tosoOtom… fsom). About this passage (6.1.1 – 2), see also in this volume Nicolai (147 – 148) and Stahl (303).

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The litotes oqw Hssom (“not less”) and oqw Fjista (“not the least”) are based on the same pattern of a comparative or superlative of inferiority preceded by a negative. It is such a common formula as to be cited as an example in dictionary definitions of the words “less” or “least”.17 Given its widespread use, its employment is more or less meaningful. Quite often, Thucydides employs it at the end of a development in order to accentuate one reason or motive (or even an individual or a group) amongst others, which he considers to be a determining factor in the chain of events.18 In Book 1, where the historian sets out the reasons behind the “weakness” of the Greeks in the past, he underlines this fact by the litotes oqw Fjista : “I find yet another sign of weakness which marked the olden days and it is not the least of them; it is that before the Trojan war, nothing can be seen of which Hellas, up to that point, had achieved in unity” (Dgko? d] loi ja· t|de t_m pakai_m !sh]meiam oqw Fjista7 pq¹ c±q t_m Tqyij_m oqd³m va_metai pq|teqom joim0 1qcasal]mg B :kk\r, 1.3.1). A little further, when Thucydides

lists the series of natural disasters, the earthquakes, eclipses and droughts that by their severity, confirmed the exceptional nature of the Peloponnesian War, he finally evokes the plague epidemic, which for him is “not the least cause of damage, and in part at least, of annihilation” (B oqw Fjista bk\xasa ja· l]qor ti vhe_qasa B koil~dgr m|sor, 1.23.3). In both cases, two salient points are thus emphasized.19 As well as the superlative l²kista ,20 and almost certainly with more insistence, this rhetorical tool allows the historian to classify the facts according to their importance in the narrative.21 Furthermore, when this device is used together with a direct intervention from the historian, the high17 Cf. Liddell-Scott-Jones, s.v.: “oqw Fjista, freq. in litotes, above all, more than all”, and Weyman 1886, 34 n. 2. Furthermore we find the same turn of phrase fifteen times in Herodotus and only three times in Xenophon (HG 2.3.18; 3.5.8; 6.2.39). Thucydides is the historian who uses it the most frequently. 18 Of 51 occurrences of Fjista, 33 are in the form of a litotes (1.3.1. 1.23.3. 1.35.3. 1.60.2. 1.67.2. 1.68.2. 1.68.3. 1.95.1. 1.95.5. 1.103.4. 1.130.2. 1.140.2. 2.27.1. 2.61.3. 2.79.6. 2.89.9. 3.93.3; 4.47.2; 4.80.1; 4.96.3; 6.15.3; 6.20.3; 6.61.5; 6.99.2; 7.4.6;7.21.3; 7.44.6; 7.86.4; 8.65.2; 8.73.5; 8.84.4; 8.86.9; 8.97.2). 19 See also 1.140.2, in a speech of Pericles where the litotes highlights the particularly obvious plots of the Lacedaemonians. 20 See finally Allison 1997, 131 – 160 on the importance of comparison in the style of Thucydides and for a study of l÷kkom and more particularly, l²kista. 21 See 2.27.1, where the Athenians expel the Aeginetans whom they consider “to not be the least responsible for the war”.

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lighted point is all the more striking. When Thucydides underlines Alcibiades’ responsibility in the public debate which precedes the expedition to Sicily, he emphasises the spendthrift nature of the character, indicating that “it was precisely not that which, later, contributed the least to the fall of Athens” (fpeq ja· jahe?kem vsteqom tµm t_m )hgma_ym p|kim oqw Fjista, 6.15.3). Thucydides intervenes directly in the narrative22 in anticipating not only the failure of the Sicilian expedition, but also the tragic end to the war ten years later, which is announced by the litotes oqw Fjista and elucidated (c²q) in the following phrase.23 The most debated example, as well as being the trickiest, is without doubt Thucydides’ favourable judgement on the regime of the Five Thousand which follows the “coup d’état” of the oligarchy of the Four Hundred: “And then what is not the least important is that it was the first time, in my lifetime at least, that the Athenians seem to me to have had a good government” (8.97.2, ja· oqw Fjista dµ t¹m pq_tom wq|mom 1p_ ce 1loO )hgma?oi va_momtai ew pokite}samter).24 The word order and enigmatic aspect of each expression has given rise to quite contradictory discussions on the meaning of this phrase.25 The litotes, particularly strengthened by d¶,26 introduces, as in the presentation of Alcibiades, a personal observation by the historian. In the same way, his use of the litotes is once again linked to the revelation (va¸momtai) of one fact which is then developed in the following phrase,27 but it throws particular light on the words which immediately 22 On this topic, see Pearson 1947, 46, Loraux 1986a and Gribble 1998 (48 n. 13). 23 vobgh]mter c±q aqtoO oR pokko· t¹ l]cehor t/r te jat± t¹ 2autoO s_la paqamol_ar 1r tµm d_aitam ja· t/r diamo_ar ¨m jah’ 4m 6jastom 1m ft\ c_cmoito 5pqassem, ¢r tuqamm_dor 1pihuloOmti pok]lioi jah]stasam, ja· dglos_ô jq\tista diah]mti t± toO pok]lou Qd_ô 6jastoi to?r 1pitgde}lasim aqtoO !whesh]mter, ja· %kkoir 1pitq]xamter, oq di± lajqoO 5svgkam tµm p|kim. 24 I have chosen to translate thus ew pokite}samter : see particularly the commentary of Andrewes, HCT V, 331: “the reference is almost certainly to the political conduct of the Athenians during the period referred to”. Thucydides gives two more reasons which do not restrict his comments to the mere constitutional question: first, the equilibrium of the regime, and second, the vote which determines the return of the exiles. 25 See the long discussion in Gomme, Dover, Andrewes, HCT V, 331 – 339; about this litotes see Kirkwood 1972, after Donini 1969, 5 – 8 and 96 – 97. See also Said (this volume, 205 – 206). 26 This is the only example in Thucydides’ work with the negative (cf. without oq in 7.86.5). 27 This usage differs from those I have gathered in Herodotus or Xenophon for example. For the same sequence, oqw Fjista… c²q, see the following passages:

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follow (t¹m pq_tom wq|mom 1p_ ce 1loO). The exact meaning of these words has been hotly debated; either the expression t¹m pq_tom wq|mom refers to the first period of the government of the Five Thousand,28 or it refers to the first period of good government in the historian’s lifetime. The latter hypothesis gives more importance to the direct intervention of Thucydides. Even if it is difficult to find other examples of the expression t¹m pq_tom wq|mom, we should cite another passage where the litotes oqw Fjista is also followed by an expression of time, when Nikias moors the Athenian fleet in the Plemmyrion: “consequently, for the crew, this was, above all, the start of their difficulties” (¦ste ja· t_m pkgqyl\tym oqw Fjista t|te pq_tom j\jysir 1c]meto, 7.4.6). The position of the litotes in both passages leads us to recognise a deliberate insistence on the precise moment of the action. If, in the case of Book 8, Thucydides uses t¹m pq_tom wq|mom instead of tºte pq_tom, it may be in order to insist on the limited duration of this period followed by the restoration of democracy.29 As for the litotes oqw Fjista, rather than considering that it only focuses on ew pokite}samter, and that it simply replaces a superlative %qista not expressed here, I would be inclined, because of its position and the previously given examples, to bring it to bear chiefly on the time phrase (t¹m pq_tom wq|mom) or even on the verb va¸momtai. The other examples of this li1.3.1; 1.23.3; 1.60.2; 1.140.2; 6.15.3; 7.4.6; 7.44.6. Furthermore, there are numerous cases where a participle plays the same explanatory role as a phrase which contains the word c²q. 28 The translation “pour la première fois” (Collection des Universités de France) does not take sufficient account of the word wq|mom. Andrewes, HCT V, notes that the first interpretation mentioned, used by Classen/Steup 1963, 252, implies a division of several periods (or at least two) of the nine-month regime of the Five Thousand. That is also the conclusion of Kirkwood 1972, 103, which I do not share, finding it too restrictive. However, even if the connection made by Steup between t¹m pq_tom wq|mom and the use of the plural to»r pq¾tour wqºmour (7.87.1) is not entirely satisfactory, he does not go so far as to claim that Thucydides is alluding to such a division of time; it aims to contrast this period with the one that follows, alluding perhaps to the restoring of democracy. A parallel can be drawn with the use by Xenophon of this expression in the dative (t` pq¾t\ wqºm\, HG 2.3.15): in his account of the oligarchic revolution of 404, he clearly contrasts the period when Critias and Theramenes got along reasonably with the dissensions which followed. Finally, see Hornblower 2008, 1033, who mentions this passage, to which can be added Plb. 1.66.7 (the same significance in the accusative); Lys. (1.7, 1m l³m owm t` pq~t\ wq|m\); and especially Arist. Ph. 6.8, 238b23 – 239b4. 29 Donini 1969, 14.

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totes, placed for the most part next to the lexical group that it determines, further uphold our analysis.30 As is often the case, it is necessary to take into account the ironic dimension of the litotes; this is why we should probably interpret it in this passage as a linguistic precaution which adds to two other reservations already present (va¸momtai and ce). In other words, even if Thucydides is clearly making a stand, he remains cautious in his positive evaluation of the political action in Athens at the time; far from affirming that this regime represents the best possible, he settles for underlining the fact that this particular period seems to him to be a period of good government for the Athenians, despite the troubled circumstances in which it came about.31 There are a certain number of litotes which are less common than the examples so far cited, and less directly linked to a process of comparison. Amongst these, the litotes oqj !d}mator is generally used by Thucydides to highlight the strength of an individual or of a group whose force or power is far from being negligible. Such is the case of the pirate chiefs (1.5) or the exiles of Methymna (oqw oR !dumat¾tatoi vuc²der, 8.100.3). In the latter case, the superlative litotes probably has a political bias, designating the aristocrats.32 Unlike the uses which can be found in other authors, the historian, in a remarkable way, links this litotes to a notion very dear to him, that of the power struggle.33 In the two other passages which are closest to the most frequent use of this litotes, the literary device allows a rendering of a recognised quality of an individual, whether Theramenes (8.68.4) or Brasidas (Gm d³ oqd³ !d}mator, ¢r Kajedail|mior, eQpe?m, “even for a Lacedemonian, he did not lack a talent for oratory”, 4.84.2). The litotes in this last example allows a mischievous insistence on the paradox of a non-laconic Lacedemonian34. 30 See especially 1.3.1; 1.103.4; 1.140.2; in addition, in the majority of the examples cited n.18, the litotes allows for an insistence on a group or a person rather than on an action. 31 Contra Andrewes, HCT V, 331, pace Leppin 1999, 182 n. 5. In short, the litotes highlights a historical judgement which, in the course of the narrative, given what has preceded it, may at first sight appear paradoxical. 32 See also 1.25.4 (naval force of the Corcyreans); 7.1.4 (Archonides); 8.44.1 (strength of Rhodes); 8.56.3 (Alcibiades in a power struggle with Tissaphernes). These uses are to be compared with X. An. 4.6.13; Pl. Sph. 245a5, Isoc. Phil. 57, etc. 33 This litotes is widely used, sometimes with a different meaning: see Cic. Att. 1.1.2, mentioned by Hoffmann 1987, 228 n. 26. 34 See Wylie 1992, 81 on this passage and Hornblower 1996, 81 – 84 on Thucydides and Brasidas.

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In a similar way, the litotes oqj !n¼metor allows Thucydides to highlight a quality which he considers particularly important in men, the n¼mesir, that is, a political intelligence which is capable of anticipating and evaluating a given situation.35 What is remarkable is that three of the eight uses of the adjective !n¼metor are litotes.36 The first is indirectly associated with Pericles just before he gives his Funeral Oration; when Thucydides describes the yearly ceremony of public funerals, he specifies that the speech was given by “a man chosen by the state, who gives the impression of being not without intellectual distinction and who enjoys an eminent reputation” (dr #m cm~l, te doj0 lµ !n}metor eWmai ja· !ni~sei pqo^j,, 2.34.6). At that point in the narrative, Pericles begins to speak, and so we can conclude that even if the praise remains indirect, in the historian’s view Pericles possesses the qualities described. More than to Archidamos, whose intelligence and wisdom is positively underscored (1.79.2), Pericles could be compared to Phrynichos.37 Indeed, Thucydides uses the same litotes in relation to the latter in Book 8 : “and from then on, no less than at that time, in both that affair, but also in all others with which he had to deal, it appears that Phrynichos did not lack intelligence” (ja· 5donem oqj 1m t` aqt_ja l÷kkom C vsteqom, oqj 1r toOto l|mom, !kk± ja· 1r fsa %kka Vq}miwor jat]stg, oqj !n}metor eWmai, 8.27.5). In this passage, Thucydides’ cautious judgement comments both on the general’s thinking at that point in the narrative and his subsequent actions.38 The litotes oqj !n}metor has indeed been perceived as an echo between Pericles and Phrynichos; the caution of Phrynichos in this passage has been particularly compared to the advice of Pericles at the end of Book 2.39 But it is especially Phrynichos’ mistrust of Alcibiades and his sense of anticipation in the difference of opinion which sets them apart that subsequently show his intelligence in 35 On the n¼mesir in Thucydides, see Shorey 1893, 76; Huart 1968, 280 – 289; Edmunds 1975, 9 – 10; Bloedow 1992, 139 – 142; Tsakmakis 2006, 173 – 177. 36 This litotes is used by other writers, notably Herodotus (3.81), Eur. IA 394, 691; Ar. Th. 464, Aeschin. 3.148, but without the same frequency of use as in the work of Thucydides. 37 Theseus and Pisistratus apart, Themistocles, Archidamos, Pericles, Brasidas, Hermocrates and Phrynichos are in order of appearance the six figures praised for their xynesis. Cf. also de Bakker (this volume). 38 The sentence, which in its first part appears to express the same idea in two different ways, has been considered proof of the unfinished nature of book 8. See Gomme, Dover, Andrewes, HCT V, 65. 39 See 1.144.1.

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practice.40 Thucydides includes Phrynichos among the ‘intelligent’ key figures who succeeded in overthrowing the democracy (numet_m, 8.68.4), without however praising him specifically for his intelligence in this last passage, but rather for the firmness of his resolve, driven essentially by his conflict with Alcibiades (8.68.3). With hindsight, if the first judgement on Phrynichos, thanks to the litotes oqj !n}metor, underlines his political intelligence, the historian hopes perhaps by its use, to give a hierarchy of individuals, in which Phrynichos does not, in his view, come up to the incomparable level of another leader of the oligarchy, Antiphon.41 The litotes, together with the use of the verb 5donem, allows him to remain relatively cautious. It is possible that the use of this litotes reflects Thucydides’ own questioning about intelligence, a line of thought which is echoed in the well-known passage on stasis in Corcyra. Indeed, we recall these lines where the historian evokes the change in the meaning of words, in particular, the n¼mesir : “intelligence in everything (t¹ pq¹r ûpam numet¹m) was seen as total idleness (1p· p÷m !qc|m)” (3.82.4), whereas it is cunning and trickery that are taken for intelligence (3.82.7). This reflection on n¼mesir, which remains ambiguous in the narrative, becomes clear in the speeches, notably when one refers to the remarks of Hermocrates, where the Syracusan general underlines the errors of an ill-intentioned intelligence. He describes Athens at the time of the Persian Wars not as the saviour of Greece but as an ally who becomes a despot in the place of the King: “For the others, it was a case of taking another master, whose intelligence was not lesser, but more dangerous (oR d’ 1p· desp|tou letabok0 oqj !numetyt]qou, jajonumetyt]qou d] , 6.76.4)”.42 The litotes, which creates a rhetorical effect of suspension 40 Lang 1996. 41 See 8.68.1: !mµq )hgma_ym t_m jah’ 2aut¹m !qet0 te oqdem¹r vsteqor ja· jq\tistor 1mhulgh/mai cem|lemor ja· $ cmo_g eQpe?m. In this judgement, we note the litotes oqdem¹r vsteqor that we can only compare to an indirect speech of Themistocles who praises the cm¾lg of the Ahenians at the time of the Persian Wars (oqdem¹r vsteqoi cm¾l, vam/mai, 1.91.5). See Hornblower 2008, 955, on the comparison between Antiphon and Brasidas, also praised for his virtue and his intelligence. 42 This passage is cited and commented on by Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Thc. 7.48.4: t± pepkecl´ma ja· pºkkar t±r 6kijar 5womta sw¶lata (“the following complicated structure with its many convolutions”). See also the same litotes in Aristotle, EN, 1151a9, in the words of Demodocos concerning the Milesians (Lik^sioi !n}metoi l³m oqj eQs_m, dq_sim d’oX\peq !n}metoi). Horn-

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or anticipation, is used in an antithetic movement, in accordance with numerous uses that we can find in the speeches. The hapax jajonumet¾teqor, possibly formed in order to create a paronomasia,43 is there to clarify the innuendo of the negative form by pointing to the dangers of an evil-minded intelligence. We notice in this example that the precision we observe in the speeches tends to disappear in the historical account, where the author keeps to the implicit; when the litotes allows us to make a judgement of individuals, it is a way of tempering that judgement and remaining detached.44 As we know, Thucydides often underscores the logic in a chain of events by a certain number of terms of the vocabulary of reason or probability such as eQjºr and eQjºtyr.45 But to my knowledge, he is the only author of the classical period to use the litotes oqj !peij|tyr, “not without plausibility”, “not without reason”.46 This litotes, which he uses on four occasions, is found essentially in the heart of the historical account, in order to insist on the logic of the sequence of events, allowing for certain parameters such as the state of mind of the soldiers or their level of organisation. And so, in the passage at the beginning of Book 2, the historian describes the extraordinary fervour that the Athenians and the Peloponnesians show in joining up for war: “Both sides did not nourish the slightest hopes and they entered the war with vigour, not without reason: at the outset of an undertaking we always give ourselves more eagerly; and what is more, at the time, both Athens and the Peloponnese were full of young men whose inexperience made them not reticent to go to war” (ak_com te 1pem|oum oqd³m !lv|teqoi, !kk’ 5qqymto 1r t¹m p|kelom, oqj !peij|tyr7 !qw|lemoi c±q p\mter an}teqom !mtikalb\momtai, t|te d³ ja· me|tgr pokkµ l³m owsa 1m t0 Pekopomm^s\, pokkµ d’ 1m ta?r )h^mair oqj !jous_yr rp¹ !peiq_ar Fpteto

43 44 45

46

blower 2008 qualifies the passage as “Prodikan word-play”: indeed, the distinction between the terms resembles others given by de Romilly 1986, 13 – 14. Classen/Steup 1963, VI 171 ad loc.: “ein um der Paronomasie willen neu gebildetes Kompositum”. Gribble 2006, 441 – 442. The bibliography about these notions in Thucydides is considerable. See particularly Westlake 1969, 55 f, Hornblower 1987, 106 – 107, Plant 1999, Kallet 2006, 363 – 368 and in general in Greek rhetoric, Gagarin 1994. The studies cited in this footnote do not mention the use of the litotes oqj !peij|tyr. I have found no example of this expression from this passage of Thucydides to the time of Plutarch and Lucian. See its definition in the Suda o 854.1: !mt· toO eqk|cyr ja· eqpqos~pyr.

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toO pok]lou, 2.8.1). In this passage where we find three litotes, the expression oqj !peij|tyr plays an essential role, similar to that referred to with the litotes oqw Fjista, in that the insistence on the logical nature of the sequence of events necessitates an explanation (c²q). The first litotes (ak_com oqd]m) belongs to the common form of litotes which we have

called “quantitative”, and the last47 strikingly expresses the young men’s eagerness for war. This enthusiasm may have seemed surprising to a contemporary reader of Thucydides after many years of war and so the litotes serves to explain this apparent paradox. In Book 8, when Antiphon, Phrynichos and Theramenes are introduced, it is used again to the same end: “Equally, Theramenes, son of Hagnon, was one of the foremost in overturning the democracy; he was a man neither unable to express himself nor to judge. Thus, led by many intelligent men, this operation succeeded not without reason, considerable though it was…” (ja· Hgqal]mgr b toO .cmymor 1m to?r nucjatak}ousi t¹m d/lom pq_tor Gm, !mµq oute eQpe?m oute cm_mai !d}mator. ®ste !p’ !mdq_m pokk_m ja· numet_m pqawh³m t¹ 5qcom oqj !peij|tyr ja_peq l]ca cm pqouw~qgsem… 8.68.4). Insofar as the oligarchic revolution of the Four Hundred might appear an astonishing accomplishment, Thucydides provides arguments which explain the success of the undertaking, by underlining the intelligence of the principal leaders. Consequently, the litotes has the same function to resolve an objection or a seemingly paradoxical point.48 It heralds an explanation. The litotes are more frequent and more varied in the speeches for obvious, stylistic reasons.49 So, the litotes oqj !shem¶r used in relation to the familiar theme of the power struggle between different protagonists is found only in the speeches (1.35.5; 1.141.2,50 6.10.3; 6.84.1; 6.85.3; 8.76.4). Pericles’ Funeral Oration, which, from this point of 47 This litotes is of a somewhat rare use. See 3.31.1 (oqdem· !jous¸yr), E. El. 670, and Th. 3.64.3 for another use of this litotes in another form and in a speech (oute %jomter). 48 This litotes also appears in the digression about the Pisistratids (6.55.2). The historian is particularly present in this passage where he explains and comments on an inscription; consequently, he needs to use the vocabulary of probability, first in the positive form eQjºtyr and then with the litotes oqj !peij|tyr. See also the speech of the Athenians at Sparta (1.73.1): the litotes is used with an “apologetic implication” (eQjºtyr being here a substitute for dija¸yr, see MacLeod 1974, 393). 49 Same comment for euphemisms, see Rodríguez Alfageme 1999, 310. 50 See Allison 1983, 16, on the effect of this litotes in Pericles’ speech and the possible echoing of the plague speech.

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view, would merit its own study, also contains a striking number of litotes whose use is limited to this passage (oqj !pºmyr,51 2.36.2; oqj… !pqep/, 2.36.4; lµ 1mde_r, oqj !pq²cloma,52 2.40.2; oq d¶ toi !l²qtuqom, 2.41.4; !toklot´qam lgd³m… di²moiam, 2.43.1).53 In the speeches, the litotes is more generally linked to the negative part of a sentence as opposed to the positive part; hence its meaning is all the more explicit. Sometimes, it also has the dramatic function of emphasising the orator’s point of view in his reaction or response to a precise context. For instance, when Euphemos addresses the Kamarinaians, he takes into account what Hermocrates has just said. By using four litotes in succession (oqd³ !d¸jyr, 6.82.3; oqd³m %kocom, 6.85.1; !piste?m d³ oq wq¶, 6.85.2; oqj %jkgtoi, 6.87.2) he responds to accusations of imperialist meddling made against his city, in order to restore the alliance between Athens and Kamarina. This use of litotes is inseparably linked to the very principle of the antilogy, as we can verify in Cleon’s speech at the debate in Mytilene54 or in the remarks of Alcibiades at the beginning of Book 6. Following the speech of Nikias, Alcibiades has to respond to and defend himself against personal reproaches made against him; this is exactly the sort of situation where the use of a litotes right at the beginning of a sentence, is particularly effective (“this is not a useless folly [ja· oqj %wqgstor55 Fd’ B %moia], when a man, at his own individual cost, benefits not only himself, but also his city; nor is it a crime [oqd] ce %dijom] that he who holds himself in high esteem should refuse to be on equal standing with others, just as he who does not succeed has no-one with whom to share his disgrace”, 6.16.3 – 4). Both these litotes (oqj %wqgstor, oqd] ce %dijom) are relatively common,56 but their combined use is justified by 51 See also D.C. 37.16.1. 52 See also 6.18.7, at the end of Alcibiades’ speech. 53 We should add to these litotes a variant of the litotes oqw Hssom, lµ we¸qosi, in Pericles’ final advice to women: “if you are not less than your nature dictates, it will be a great glory for you”, 2.45.2, a litotes noted by Kakridis 1961, 103 – 104. See variations of this litotes, uniquely in the speeches (2.11.2; 2.62.3; 2.87.9; 3.9.3; 6.89.1; 7.67.4); here there may be a topos of the rhetoric of exhortation. 54 3.39.3, oqj !dijo¼lemoi, 3.39.7, lgd³m pahe?m !m¶jestom, 3.40.5. lµ !makcgtºteqoi… vam/mai. This last litotes is doubtless the strangest, in that it is the only occurrence of the adjective in the entire work (see also S. Tr. 126 – 128, !m\kcgta c±q oqd’ b p\mta jqa_mym basike»r 1p]bake hmato?r Jqom_dar). 55 See Is. De Nicostrato 27; De Apollodoro 37, 41; X. Cyr. 6.2.30. 56 They express in a more refined way arguments whose use might have been recommended, see for example, Rhet. Alex. 1.4, 1421b22 – 27.

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the paradoxical nature of the arguments presented by Alcibiades to defend two characteristics of negative connotation, “madness” and “pride”. As a means of insistence on a concept or an idea, the litotes is woven into a significant framework of echoes throughout the work, between the narrative and the various speeches, in a way that is sometimes more effective than the mere repetition of terms. So, when Alcibiades throws himself into convincing his citizens of the need to leave for Sicily, he insists that the moment is particularly propitious, since the “Peloponnesians have never until now, faced with our army, been more stripped of hope (ja· mOm oute !m]kpisto_ py l÷kkom Pekopomm^sioi 1r Bl÷r 1c]momto …, 6.17.8)”. And yet, several pages later, this same litotes about hope recurs three times (6.33.4; 6.33.6; 6.34.257) very insistently in Hermocrates’ speech when he addresses the Syracusans to warn them of the imminent arrival of the Athenians as well as to ward off a possible sense of discouragement. In spite of the seemingly unequal nature of the coming battle, Hermocrates gives his reasons for hope for victory, going as far as personally embodying that hope. By the repetition of terms, from one assembly to another, Thucydides invites the reader to compare Hermocrates’ and Alcibiades’ words, not only concerning the concept of hope, but also the notion of the usefulness or benefit of the envisaged undertaking. While Alcibiades provocatively emphasises the fact that in certain cases folly is “not useless” (oqj %wqgstor, 6.16.3), Hermocrates, for his part, applies himself to showing that the Athenian expedition in itself is precisely “not without advantages” for the Sicilians (ouh’… !myveke?r, 6.33.4),58 because it could arouse their fear and consequently their desire for unity between themselves. Once again, the purpose of the litotes is 57 The meaning is slightly different in this last passage: Hermocrates underlines that the Karthaginians continually expect a possible attack by the Athenians; the litotes here is annotated by the “fear” of the Karthaginians. This wider sense of the expression, close to the sense of the participle 1kp¸sar (1.1.1) for instance, can be explained by the insistent presence of the same litotes in the preceding paragraph. The repetition seeks to bring together the Syracusans and the Karthaginians in the opposing group to Athens, and it is this bringing together that Hermocrates hopes will be fruitful. In the balance between hope and fear, Thucydides picks up again for the Karthaginians the same reasoning as for the Sicilians, even if it means changing the sense of the litotes a little in the latter case for rhetorical ends. For other examples of this litotes in Thucydides’ time, see Pl. Apo. 36a; Isoc. Archidamos 109; [Andoc.] 4.24. 58 This is the only example of this litotes in Thucydides. See elsewhere Gorg. 11a, 205; Isoc. Areop. 63.

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to introduce and then justify a paradox. In the example of hope, Thucydides’ insistence may appear strange, if we recall the ambiguous quality that this sometimes misleading sentiment59 can take on according to circumstances, for example in the Melian dialogue or the Sicilian expedition. Yet the speech of Hermocrates, one of the military leaders that Thucydides admires the most,60 is not founded on hypothetical expectations or on the presumed aptitudes of the enemy but on a real fact that the Sicilians must face up to. The litotes also allows the author to express changes in attitude or feeling. So, the Mytileneans’ fear is presented as the main motive for their defection in the speech they make to the Lacedemonians. Expressed affirmatively in the final lines of the speech (t¹ Bl´teqom d´or, 3.14.2, cf. also 3.13.1), this sentiment is first presented in the form of a litotes at the beginning of the speech. Originally allied to Athens and “full of zeal” (pqoh¼lyr), they admit to being “not without anxiety” (oqj !dee?r) faced with the increasing domination of the city over its allies (3.10.4).61 The litotes often marks in this way a shift or reorientation in the speech where the speakers explain previous behaviour or react to a given situation. It is undoubtedly in the Melian dialogue that we can best appreciate the dramatic function of the litotes, where the author contrasts two attitudes faced with an uncertain future. On one hand, the Athenians condemn the Melians’ unreasonable hopes based on the power of law and the idea that the Lacedemonians will come to their aid because of their common origins. On the other hand, the Melians respond with a litotes which refutes the affirmative: “our assurance is therefore not quite as irrational as all that” (oq pamt²pasim ovtyr !kºcyr hqasumºleha, 5.104). The argument claimed as reasonable by the Melians is founded on the presumed support of the gods for a just cause and their own kinship with the Lacedemonians. However, this argument is completely crushed by the Athenians’ answer, with two phrases in a negative form, close to litotes: “we do not fear being at a disadvantage” (oq vobo¼leha 1kass¾seshai) and “we do not envy 59 See for example Bosworth 1993, 41 – 42. About hope in the speeches, see also Tamiolaki (this volume, 57 – 59). 60 See 6.72.2. The eulogy given can be explained by the polemic end of Hermocrates’ career, see Hornblower 2008, 484. See also 7.21.3 for a highlighting of the role of Hermocrates with the aid of another litotes. 61 There is an echo of this litotes in the speech of Euphemos, in 6.87.4 with an Athenian viewpoint.

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your folly” (oq fgkoOlem t¹ %vqom, 5.105.3). Finally, they explain that, in matters of foreign policy, the Lacedaemonians are simply considering their own interest as fair, before concluding with these words: “Such a state of mind does not augur well for the irrational salvation that you now count upon” (ja_toi oq pq¹r t/r rlet´qar mOm !kºcou sytgq¸ar B toia¼tg di²moia). In this last sentence, the negative oq is separated from the adjective !kºcou with a tendency to cancel out the emphatic effect of the Melians’ litotes and underscore their madness. As is often the case, the positioning of the words reflects the historian’s thinking and so the passage allows the importance of the litotes to be the focal point in the dialogue’s line of argument. The power struggle which the Athenians impose on the Melians through their words continues in their final response. The Melians have just suggested that if the Lacedemonians do not sail to their aid, they will create a diversion and invade Attica. The Athenians answer in a strange way: “Certainly, one of the things of which you speak may well befall you, but only once you will have learnt by experience and will no longer be ignorant of the fact that never have the Athenians lifted a single siege out of fear of another nation” (to}tym l³m ja· pepeiqal]moir %m ti c]moito ja· rl?m ja· oqj !mepist^losim fti oqd’ !p¹ li÷r p~pote pokioqj_ar )hgma?oi di’ %kkym v|bom !pew~qgsam, 5.111.1). The meaning of this sentence in which we find a litotes (oqj !mepist^losim), has been much debated.62 Contrary to Radt, whom Hornblower partially follows in his translation, it does not seem to me necessarily the case that Thucydides is referring exclusively to a past experience of the 62 Hornblower 2008, 246 – 247 translates as “something of this sort could indeed happen in your case: in the first place you have experience of invasions yourselves and in the second place you know that the Athenians have never retired from a siege through fear of others”. It is visibly inspired by Radt’s translation 1976, 38 – 39, while still denying, for plausible historical reasons (cf. Seaman 1997, 388 – 389, 411 – 413), the hypothesis whereby the participle pepeiqal]moir would refer to an experience corresponding exclusively to an earlier invasion of the island in 426 (3.91.1 – 3). Consequently, the abandoning of Radt’s hypothesis renders strange the translation in the present tense of the terms pepeiqal]moir and oqj !mepist^losim, particularly if we see them in relation to the conditional %m… c]moito. See also the radical choice of Canfora 1991, 39: “abbiamo già fatto esperienza di ciò, siamo preparati a questa eventualità”, who understands that the Athenians are concerned by the first participle pepeiqal]moir. I prefer Jacqueline de Romilly’s version which I have modified somewhat; see on 5.111 Romilly 1947, 246.

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Melians. It would seem more logical to suppose that the Athenians express again in the conditional form the future hypothesis presented by their enemies and thus reiterate the imminence of their threats, effectively underlined by the prominent place of the term pepeiqal]moir and the tense used.63 In addition, the language used by the Athenians in this passage, which insists on the causal link between experience and acquired knowledge, calls up other passages of Thucydides on the same theme (2.87.4; 3.53.4; and especially 3.112.6).64 But above all, when the Athenians appeal to the acquired “experience” of the Melians, this would contrast with numerous other passages in the dialogue where their inexperience or even political naivety is emphasised. Consequently, the litotes oqj !mepist^losim is an ironic allusion to the knowledge finally acquired by the Melians in the imminent Athenian military attack which promises to be rough. It is a sophisticated variation of a much more common and widespread form,65 a further stylistic device intended to underline the current ignorance of the Melians and to be ironic about their tardy awakening, all the while allowing threats about their near future to hang over them.66 By means of the litotes, we have rediscovered in these last examples from the speeches, the main themes of reflection in Thucydides’ work: power, intelligence, knowledge, hope and predictions for the future. As we have seen, litotes based on the vocabulary of comparison are important in the narrative where they serve as a logical hinge. The others, which are rarer, serve above all to describe certain individuals or, more occasionally, groups of individuals. They allow us to judge and assess the facts, actions or behaviour of one person in relation to another. Their presence in the narrative often coincides with the intrusion of the historian’s personal judgement which they help to moderate. Finally, they sometimes underline an event or a sequence of events which could appear paradoxical. The litotes used in the speeches are more clearly inserted into a rhetoric based on antithesis, where they represent one of the two poles, often the first. But even if the interpretation of the litotes is a little easier in the closed world of an individual speech, they 63 The construction of the passage has several antecedents in Thucydides: 2.3.2; 2.60.1; 4.28.5. 64 See also about 5.86.1 (toO did\sjeim jah’ Bsuw_am !kk^kour), Treu 1954, 265 – 267. 65 We can think of other types of litotes on the same theme which are much more attested: oqj !cmoe?m, oqj !lmglome?m (E. IT 361; Isoc. 4.5, 4.144, 11.26…). 66 See Wassermann 1947, 30 – 36.

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can only be fully understood when put in their context which depends concurrently on the orator, the situation and possible echoes present in other speeches or in the narrative. Thucydides seems to have fully appreciated the wholly ironic aspect of the litotes, a literary device whose sense closely depends on the reader’s interpretation. It seems to be the historian’s favourite tool, in keeping with his attitude towards the history of his time, that is, somewhere between unveiling meaning and retaining a distance.

History as Presence. Time, Tense and Narrative Modes in Thucydides Rutger J. Allan 1. The narrative modes1 That narrative is a mixed genre has long been recognized by literary and linguistic scholars alike. Ever since Plato made the distinction between di¶cgsir and l¸lgsir (Rep. 392c-8b), it has become clear that stories also contain a wide variety of ingredients that are in essence non-narrative in character, such as descriptions, character discourse and all kinds of metanarrative elements. These various types of texts have drawn the interest both of narratologists and of linguists. This is not surprising since text types can be seen as an intermediate level of structure between the grammatical form of the sentence, on the one hand, and the larger structure of the story on the other hand.2 An examination of text types and their functions in narrative is, therefore, potentially a rewarding activity: to the narratologist it may offer a new set of linguistic tools helping to understand the way in which the story is constructed; to the linguist, a text type analysis may yield a better understanding of how grammatical categories such as tense, aspect and modality interact in complex narratives. The aim of this contribution is to examine Thucydides’ use of text types in the shaping of his narrative. Instead of the general term “text type”, I will use the term “narrative mode” henceforth (a term which I owe to Bonheim 1982 and Chafe 1994), since I am only concerned with the text types that are specific to narrative texts. I will propose a set of narrative modes with which Thucydides’ work can be analyzed 1 2

I wish to thank Gerard Boter, Irene de Jong, and Niels Koopman for their valuable comments on an earlier version of this paper. Important narratological and linguistic studies of text types in narratives are: Genette 1972, Chatman 1978, 1990, Bonheim 1982, Fleischman 1990, Chafe 1994, Longacre 19962, Fludernik 2000, Roulet/Fillietaz/Grobet 2001, Smith 2003 and Adam 2005.

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and I will identify a number of linguistic and narratological features by which these modes can be distinguished. A central cognitive aspect of narration is the way in which the narrator’s point of view is reflected in the textual presentation of the story. In my approach, the narrative modes hinge on precisely this aspect of narrative. Complex narratives usually display a range of different relationships between the narrator’s point of view and the world which is referred to.3 The narrator may refer to a narrated world from an external, retrospective point of view or from a point of view internal to the narrated world. The narrator may also refer to the world outside the narrated world: the world shared by the narrator and the narratee. Furthermore, the narrator’s point of view is also crucial to the organisation of the narration. More specifically, texts can display progress according to temporal change or according to spatial change. Although I conceive of narrative modes as phenomena of a primarily linguistic nature, they are also associated with particular narratological features regarding speed of narration, focalization and narrator-narratee interaction. A seminal study on modes of narration in Thucydides is Egbert Bakker’s 1997 article “Verbal aspect and mimetic description in Thucydides”. Bakker makes a distinction between two modes of discourse: the diegetic mode associated with the discourse of the “knower”, that is, the historian in the role of annalist or evaluator, and the mimetic mode in which the narrator assumes the role of an observer. The set of narrative modes which I will present here partly draws on the dichotomy as proposed by Bakker. I will increase the number of modes to a total of four. These are the displaced and immediate diegetic modes, the descriptive mode and the discursive mode.4 Each of the narrative modes, as I will argue, is associated with a particular narratorial persona, a role in which the narrator represents himself to the narratee. Thus we get Thucydides the Chronicler, Thucydides the Eye-witness, Thucydides the Painter and Thucydides the Writer-Analyst.5

3 4 5

See e. g. Genette 1972, Bonheim 1982, Fleischman 1990 and Chafe 1994. In Allan 2008, I have argued that Euripides’ messenger speeches can fruitfully be analyzed in terms of narrative modes. In a similar way, Dewald 1987 has identified four ‘postures’ in which Herodotus as a narrator appears in the Histories.

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2. Two diegetic modes: displaced and immediate The diegetic mode is the backbone of any narrative. It involves a sequence of events and states connected by a causal or other consequential relation typically, but not necessarily, in chronological order. The event sequence usually shows a form of plot-advancement, a (repeated) progression from a stable initial state which is disturbed by an (unexpected) complicating event to a form of resolution and closure. The main dimension along which the text progresses, is time. The standard mode of narration is what I call the displaced diegetic mode.6 In this mode of narration, the narrator is displaced with respect to the narrated events. There is a temporal (and usually also a spatial) distance between the Discourse-Now (time of narration) and the StoryNow (time of story). The temporal distance is accompanied by a high degree of narratorial control.7 Because the narrator recounts the events from a point of view external to the story world he has a complete comprehension of the complex of events. This is Thucydides in the narratorial persona of Chronicler. His retrospective knowledge enables him to act as an intermediary in the narration by evaluating the narrated events and actively organizing the presentation of the events. For example, the displaced narrator may distinguish between the story’s foreground, typically marked by the aorist tense, and background (or framework 8), marked by the imperfect. Another consequence of the narrator’s retrospective knowledge is his ability to indicate the exact temporal or causal relation between two events, for example, by means of adverbs or discourse particles with a text-structuring function (e. g. !kk², aw, c²q, l´m… d´, owm). The omniscience of the narrator enables him to tell the events out of their chronological order (anachronies) and from a character’s point of view (embedded focalization). As for the speed of narration, the retro6

7 8

This mode is similar to Bakker’s diegetic mode. The term “displaced” is added, since I also distinguish an immediate diegetic mode. Another divergence from Bakker’s model is my distinction of a separate discursive mode, which also involves a distanced, retrospective narrator (see below). For narratorial control, see Kroon 2002, 191. The term framework I owe to Rijksbaron’s characterization of the imperfect’s function in narrative. A framework is an atelic state of affairs within which other, telic, events may occur (Rijksbaron 20063, 11). The term framework is preferable to background since the latter term incorrectly suggests that the state affairs are somehow less significant to the development of the story-line.

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spective narrator will show a preference for summary narration or ellipsis (rather than scene narration).9 In sum, displaced diegetic narrative has a narrator who reveals himself as an organizing intermediary in the narrative.10 A run-of-the-mill example of the displaced diegetic mode is the following. (1) 9m d³ to}t\, fsoi :qla? Gsam k_himoi 1m t0 p|kei t0 )hgma_ym (eQs· d³ jat± t¹ 1piw~qiom, B tetq\cymor 1qcas_a, pokko· ja· 1m Qd_oir pqoh}qoir ja· 1m Reqo?r), liø mujt· oR pke?stoi peqiej|pgsam t± pq|sypa. ja· to»r dq\samtar Õdei oqde_r, !kk± lec\koir lgm}tqoir dglos_ô oxto_ te 1fgtoOmto ja· pqos]ti 1xgv_samto, ja· eU tir %kko ti oWdem !s]bgla cecemgl]mom, lgm}eim !de_r t¹m bouk|lemom ja· !st_m ja· n]mym ja· do}kym. ja· t¹ pq÷cla leif|myr 1k\lbamom· toO te c±q 5jpkou oQym¹r 1d|jei eWmai ja· 1p· numylos_ô ûla meyt]qym pqacl\tym ja· d^lou jatak}seyr cecem/shai. (6.27)

In the midst of these preparations all the stone Hermae in the city of Athens, that is to say the customary square figures so common in the doorways of private houses and temples, had in one night most of them their faces mutilated. No one knew who had done it, but large public rewards were offered to find those responsible; and it was further voted that any one who knew of any other act of impiety having been committed should come and give information without fear of consequences, whether he were citizen, alien, or slave. The matter was taken up the more seriously, as it was thought to be ominous for the expedition, and part of a conspiracy to bring about a revolution and to upset the democracy.11

The activity of the retrospective and omniscient narrator manifests itself in various kinds of linguistic and narratological elements. The narrator displays a full knowledge of the absolute and relative chronology of the events. He indicates a temporal framework by the use of temporal adverbial expressions (1m d³ to}t\, liø mujt¸)12 and by distinguishing between foreground and background events: aorists (underscored) advance the event sequence, while imperfects or pluperfects (dashed) specify states and activities that accompany the sequence of actions. The narrator has access to the characters’ state of mind (embedded focalization), as shown by the occurrence of mental state verbs such as Õdei and 1d|jei. 9 For the terminology, see Genette 1972, Chatman 1978 and Bal 2009. 10 For the notion of mediated narration, see e. g. Chatman 1978, 32 – 3, 146 – 7, Bonheim 1982, 39 – 41, Allan 2009 and 2011a. 11 The translations are taken from Crawley (in the revised edition of Strassler 1996). 12 Thucydides interrupts the narrative to provide general information about the presence of Herms in Athens (eQs· d³…).This parenthetical intrusion of the narrator does in fact not belong to the diegetic mode since the generic present tense refers to the world of the narrator rather than to the story world. I classify this type of omnitemporal statements as discursive mode (see below).

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Discourse particles are used to mark a contrast (!kk²) or give an explanation (c²q). The narrator uses evaluative vocabulary (pokko¸, lec\koir, leif|myr).13 The story is told at a relatively high speed (i. e., in Bal’s terminology, summary narration). Displacement of the narrator with respect to the story world is the default narrative situation. By employing the historical present tense, however, a narrator may deviate from this standard situation by creating the illusion of immediacy. This is the immediate diegetic mode. The narrator acts as if there is no spatial and temporal distance between experiencing and reporting the events. This is Thucydides in his role of Eyewitness, narrating the events as they unfold with the purpose of plunging the narratee directly into the drama of the narrative. The historical present can thus be seen as a rhetorical device to create 1m\qceia in the narration. The present tense form is crucial here. As has been observed by Weinrich, the communicative effect of the present tense is to signal to the reader to assume an “attitude of tension”/“attentive attitude” (Haltung der Gespanntheit) because the narrator “erzählt, als ob er bespräche” (Weinrich 20016 [1964], 46 – 7, 52 – 3), that is, the narrator narrates as if he is commenting on a world which he is currently experiencing. The past tense, by contrast, is associated with a relaxed, detached attitude (Haltung der Entspanntheit). The consequence of the illusion of simultaneous narration is that the narrator’s role as a controlling intermediary voice in the narration is downplayed. The narrator acts as if he is only neutrally registering the narrated events as they unfold.14 This is reflected in the language that is used. In the immediate mode, the narrator shows a preference for linguistic expressions which register the events in a “raw”, unfiltered manner focusing on those events that directly impinge on his perception. Thus, clauses containing a historical present will tend to express cognitively salient physical actions performed by single human agents. Linguistic devices that betray the narrator’s activity are avoided, such as the use of passive verb forms, negations, subordination, temporal and modal adverbs and discourse particles. Instead, narration in the immediate mode shows a tendency towards active, positive clauses which are paratactically connected. 13 The strongly evaluative term !s]bgla cannot be ascribed to the narrator since it is part of the content of the vote. 14 On a meta-level, of course, the narrator’s pretending to be a neutral event-registering reporter must be viewed as a conscious rhetorical strategy.

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There is a certain predilection for the connective particle ja¸, rather than d´.15 This difference in use of sentence connectives can be explained by the functional difference between the ja¸ and d´. Ja¸ is used to indicate that two syntactic units are thematically closely connected and it is therefore very well suited for scene narration, that is, a text segment describing a continuous action sequence – one “camera shot” – at a relatively low pace in which the narrator does not intervene in a conspicuous manner. The particle d´ is typically used to indicate a slight boundary in the discourse.16 With d´, the narrator divides the text into thematic units which have an internal temporal, causal and referential unity. This means that the the narrator is more prominently present as an “editor” of the text – a role more compatible with a displaced narrator.17 In the same vein, temporal and modal adverbs are avoided in the immediate mode because their occurrence implies a retrospective narrator visibly organizing and evaluating the course of events. The immediate mode typically marks (visually) dramatic scenes or actions at turning points (“peaks”) in the structure of the plot.18 Examples of the immediate diegetic mode in Thucydides are: (2) ja·… kamh\mous_ te to»r v}kajar t_m Suqajos_ym, ja· pqosb\mter t¹ te_wisla d Gm aqt|hi t_m Suqajos_ym aRqoOsi ja· %mdqar t_m vuk\jym !pojte_mousim. oR d³ pke_our diavuc|mter eqh»r pq¹r t± stqat|peda… !cc]kkousi tµm 5vodom (7.43.3 – 4) … unobserved by the enemy’s guards, they went up to the fort which the Syracusans had there, and took it, and put to the sword part of the garrison. The greater number, however, escaped at once and gave the alarm to the camps…

After having failed to take the Syracusan counterwall by a siege engine, Demosthenes succeeds in capturing the fort in a nightly attack. In the following passage, the Athenians pursue three Chian ships in a gale. 15 In Allan 2011a, I give some frequency figures regarding these linguistic features. 16 Ruijgh 1971, 129 – 135, Bakker 1993. 17 A side-effect of a paratactic ja¸-style may have been its association with oral narrative (Trenkner 1960). A ‘pseudo-oral’ style is suited to create the illusion of an engaged eyewitness account (see also Allan 2007). 18 In Allan 2007, 2009, 2011a and 2011b, I argued that a central function of the historical present is to mark the pivotal storyline. It most typically occurs at the Peak of a narrative episode (the highpoint of tension to which the Complication builds up and which is followed by a Resolution) and at the start of an episode.

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(3) 9m to}t\ d³ ja· B t_m )hgma_ym stqati± ta?r maus·m 1j toO Jyq}jou peqipk]ousa jat’ )qc?mom 1pitucw\mei tqis· maus· t_m W_ym lajqa?r, ja· ¢r eWdom, 1d_yjom· ja· weil~m te l]car 1pic_cmetai ja· aR l³m t_m W_ym l|kir jatave}cousim 1r t¹m kil]ma, aR d³ t_m )hgma_ym aR l³m l\kista bql^sasai tqe?r diavhe_qomtai ja· 1jp_ptousi pq¹r tµm p|kim t_m W_ym, ja· %mdqer oR l³m "k_sjomtai, oR d’ !pohm-sjousim, aR d’ %kkai jatave}cousim 1r t¹m rp¹ t` L_lamti kil]ma VoimijoOmta jako}lemom. (8.34) Meanwhile the Athenian armament sailing round Corycus fell in with three Chian men of war off Arginus, and gave immediate chase. A great storm coming on, the Chians with difficulty took refuge in the harbour; the three Athenian vessels most forward in the pursuit being wrecked and thrown up near the city of Chios, and the crews slain or taken prisoners. The rest of the Athenian fleet took refuge in the harbour called Phoenicus, under Mount Mimas.

The historical present invites the narratee to visualize the chain of events.19 The narrator is positioned at a considerable distance and can oversee the totality of the events. The spatial standpoint is not identical with that of an actor. In the terminology of De Jong and Nünlist 2004, we are dealing here with a panoramic, non-actorial, standpoint.

3. Descriptive mode Instead of progression through time, the descriptive mode revolves around a progression through space. A person, object or a scene is scanned by the view of the narrator or a character. The description consists of a series of parts or aspects of the described entity. Of these parts or aspects either a state (often a permanent property) or an ongoing activity is predicated. The typical tense used in descriptions is the imperfect, the tense par excellence to refer to states, ongoing activities, iterated or habitual state of affairs in the past. The movement through space can – but need not – be explicitly indicated in the text by, for example, spatial adverbs or adverbial phrases. The imperfect form indicates that the event is viewed as unbounded: its initial and terminal boundaries remain out of focus. Thus, the event is presented from an internal viewpoint, while it is unfolding. This internal viewpoint may provide a certain visual quality – “a scene is painted”, as Rijksbaron 20063, 12 characterizes this aspect of the imperfect. In many cases, the vivid character of the scene is enhanced by a richness of descriptive detail. Here we have Thucydides 19 For a more elaborate discussion of this passage, see Allan 2007.

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in the role of Painter.20 The visualizing effect of the imperfect also lies at the heart of what Bakker 1997 calls the mimetic mode, which is in some respects similar to my descriptive mode. I will return to the relation between the descriptive mode and the mimetic mode later. Descriptions of scenes can be presented from a narratorial point of view (narrator focalization) but they are particularly susceptible to a narration from a character’s point of view (embedded focalization). An example of a description of a scene from an narratorial point of view is the following: (4) oR d³ Kajedail|mioi %qamter t` te jat± c/m stqat` pqos]bakkom t` teiw_slati ja· ta?r maus·m ûla ousair tessaq\jomta ja· tqis_, ma}aqwor d³ aqt_m 1p]pkei Hqasulgk_dar b Jqatgsijk]our Spaqti\tgr. pqos]bakke d³ Øpeq b Dglosh]mgr pqosed]weto. ja· oR l³m )hgma?oi !lvot]qyhem 5j te c/r ja· 1j hak\ssgr Al}momto· oR d³ jat’ ak_car maOr diek|lemoi, di|ti oqj Gm pk]osi pqosswe?m, ja· !mapa}omter 1m t` l]qei to»r 1p_pkour 1poioOmto (4.11. 2 – 3) The Spartans now put themselves in motion and simultaneously assaulted the fortification with their land forces and with their ships, forty-three in number, under their admiral, Thrasymelidas, son of Cratesicles, a Spartiate, who made his attack just where Demosthenes expected. The Athenians had thus to defend themselves on both sides, from the land and from the sea; the enemy rowing up in small detachments, the one relieving the other—it being impossible for many to bring to at once…

In this short panoramic scene, a number of typical features of the descriptive mode can be observed. To start with, the tense of the main clauses is the imperfect (dashed). The passage describes a number of (mostly iterative) states of affairs that occur simultaneously rather than in chronological sequence. Further, the crucial dimension along which the text progresses is that of space. The view of the narrator (and the narratee) first focuses on the Spartans as a collective (oR d³ Kajedail|mioi… pqos]bakkom) who attack both by sea and by land. Next, the narrator “zooms in” on a particular Spartan, admiral Thrasymelidas, of whom is told that he attacked exactly where Demosthenes expected him to. The “camera” briefly shifts to the other side of the battle scene, to the Athenians, who are defending themselves both at sea and on the land. The narrator “pans” back to the Spartans (a switch-back already announced by oR l]m in the previous clause) of which it is observed that they row up in small detachments, while relieving one another. 20 Or perhaps a more contemporary comparison would be Thucydides as “embedded cameraman”.

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As this example makes clear, I conceive of the descriptive mode as a broader category than the narratological notion of description. While the notion of description usually is associated with the representation purely static properties of characters, objects and places (see e. g. Chatman 1990, 9, Bal 2009, 38), the descriptive mode also includes descriptions of scenes (such as battle scenes) which show a degree of internal dynamism. 21 However, what crucially distinguishes the descriptive mode from the diegetic mode is that the events are presented as not reaching a completion (cf. the imperfect tense), with the effect that the action is not propelled forward. The role of the narrator in this type of description can best be captured by means of a camera metaphor. The narrator has set up the camera, so to speak, to shoot the scene from a panoramic viewpoint or from a viewpoint among the protagonists. Chatman characterizes this basic film situation as a “bare visual record of what happened ‘out there’”, as in [Hemingway’s] “The Killers”. Though it may move, the camera must shoot from some single position. This position need not coincide with the perceptual point of view of any character’ (Chatman 1978, 159).22 This narrative situation crucially differs from the character-bound perspective we so often find in Thucydides. A well-known feature of Thucydides’ style is his capacity to present battle scenes as they are experienced by the warring parties on the battle field. In these passages, Thucydides invites the narratee to perceive the scene through the senses of (one of) the protagonists. The protagonist’s view – or auditory sense – advances through the scene, while we are being informed of the protagonist’s state of mind. This form of vicarious perception can be called ‘represented perception’ or ‘free indirect perception’ – ‘free’ because there is no explicit verb of perception that introduces the representation

21 My descriptive mode thus shows a certain affinity to the rhetorical notion of ekphrasis. 22 This appears to be different from Bakker’s mimetic mode. Bakker speaks in terms of a remote consciousness observing the event. In my conception, narration in the imperfect does not always require a full-blown human consciousness. In some cases there may be only be a depersonalized vantage point, a “camera-eye”, located at some point in space and time. For camera-eye narration, see also Fludernik 1996, 172 – 6 and elsewhere.

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of the perception (‘They saw that…’). In the terminology of De Jong (1987, 118 – 22), this is a form of implicit embedded focalization.23 (5) cemol]mgr d³ t/r bo/r ûla t0 1pidqol0 5jpkgn_r te 1m]pesem !mhq~poir !^hesi toia}tgr l\wgr ja· b jomioqt¹r t/r vkgr meyst· jejaul]mgr 1w~qei pok»r %my, %poq|m te Gm Qde?m t¹ pq¹ artoO rp¹ t_m toneul\tym ja· k_hym !p¹ pokk_m !mhq~pym let± toO jomioqtoO ûla veqol]mym. t| te 5qcom 1mtaOha wakep¹m to?r Kajedailom_oir jah_stato· oute c±q oR p?koi 5stecom t± tone}lata, doq\ti\ te 1mapej]jkasto bakkol]mym, eWw|m te oqd³m sv_sim aqto?r wq^sashai !pojejk,l]moi l³m t0 exei toO pqooq÷m, rp¹ d³ t/r le_fomor bo/r t_m pokel_ym t± 1m aqto?r paqaccekk|lema oqj 1sajo}omter, jimd}mou te pamtaw|hem peqiest_tor ja· oqj 5womter 1kp_da jah’ fti wqµ !lumol]mour syh/mai. (4.34.2 – 3)

The shouting accompanying their onset confounded the Spartans, unaccustomed to this mode of fighting; dust rose from the newly burnt wood, and it was impossible to see in front of one with the arrows and stones flying through clouds of dust from the hands of numerous assailants. The Spartans had now to sustain a difficult conflict; their caps would not keep out the arrows, and darts had broken off in the bodies of the wounded. They themselves were unable to retaliate, being prevented from using their eyes to see what was before them, and unable to hear the words of command for the hubbub raised by the enemy; danger encompassed them on every side, and there was no hope of any means of defence or safety.

The trigger that sets the substitutionary perception in motion is the noun 5jpkgnir. The mentioning of the Spartans’ fear prompts us implicitly to interpret the following description as focalized by the Spartans. The transition to the Spartans’ viewpoint is sudden but seamless. While 5jpkgn_r te 1m]pesem is information provided to us from a narratorial perspective (hence the use of the aorist form: displaced diegetic mode), the coordinated clause ja· b jomioqt¹r… 1w~qei pok»r %my at once plunges us, through the use of the imperfect tense, into an internal viewpoint. The imperfects continue through the following main clauses.24 The narrator positions himself within the scene described. In the terms of De Jong/Nünlist 2004 the narrator adopts a scenic, actorial 25 standpoint. The spatial dimension is more important to the organization of the scene than time. The narrator’s eye and ear move through the 23 Brinton 1980 gives a number of typical linguistic features of represented perception (which also goes under the name of style indirect libre de perception, substitutionary perception and erlebte Wahrnemung/Eindruck). 24 The pluperfect 1mapej]jkasto has a function which is very similar to an imperfect in that it denotes a state simultaneous to the events expressed by the surrounding imperfects. 25 In this case, we are dealing with embedded focalization because the narrator not only assumes the same spatial standpoint as the Spartans but also adopts their mental viewpoint (De Jong / Nünlist 2004, 64).

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scene, zooming in on the dust, on the arrows and stones, on the Spartans caps, on the darts in the bodies and on the noise made by the Athenians. Also the evaluative term pok¼r, saliently placed in hyperbaton, invites us to asses the situation from the Spartans’ point of view. (Compare pokk_m in the next sentence.) In the same way, evaluative terms like %poqom and wakep|m represent the Spartans’ subjective view.26 There are many references in the passage to the Spartans’ (impaired) vision and audition: %poq|m te Gm Qde?m t¹ pq¹ artoO, !pojejk,l]moi l³m t0 exei toO pqooq÷m, rp¹ d³ t/r le_fomor bo/r, t±… oqj 1sajo}omter. A subtle effect creating a form of empathy is achieved by pq¹ artoO “in front of himself”. The use of a reflexive, singular pronoun brings about the effect that we put ourselves in the spatial position of one anonymous individual warrior.27 Further, words like pokel_ym and jimd}mou invoke a partial – Spartan – perspective.28 A conspicuous feature of the passage is the high number of negative expressions: %poqom te Gm Qde?m, oute c±q oR p?koi, eWw|m te oqd]m, oqj 1sajo}omter, oqj 5womter 1kp_da. The negations stress the desperate situation the Spartans find themselves in. This is what Irene De Jong 1987, 61 – 8 calls “presentation through negation”. Negations are used by the narrator to deny explicitly an expectation that might exist on the part of the narratee or a character.29 In this particular passage, however, I would argue that the negations are concerned not with the narratee’s expectations but with those of the Spartans. That means that the negations, too, are perspectivized. The Spartans expected to be able to see in front of them – but couldn’t. They thought their piloi would protect 26 Brinton 1980 mentions the occurrence of the English progressive past (of which the Greek equivalent is the imperfect) and evaluative lexical items as indicators of represented perception. 27 A similar use of the reflexive pronoun in embedded focalization is noted by De Jong 1987, 120. The empathic perspective associated with the use of reflexive pronouns is shown by Kuno 1987. 28 The evaluative/relative terms j¸mdumor and pok´lior are strongly linked to character language (i. e. (in)direct discourse or embedded focalization). For example, in Book 1 j¸mdumor occurs 12 times: 9 times in direct speech, once in indirect discourse, once in implicit embedded focalization (1.18.2) and once in a narratorial comment (1.18.3); pok´lior occurs 14 times in Book 1: 7 times in direct speech, 4 times in indirect discourse/explicit embedded focalization, 2 times in implicit embedded focalization (1.100.3, 1.113.1) and only once in narratortext (1.102.4). For the distribution of evaluative and relative terms in narrator and character language, see De Jong 1997. 29 See also Hornblower 1994b, 152, Rood 1998, 19.

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them against the arrows – but they didn’t. (Here also c\q introduces an actorially focalized motivation ‘for (they thought that) …’ rather than a narratorial intervention. See De Jong 1987, 112, Hornblower 1987, 134.) The function of this kind of perspectivized descriptions within the larger narrative is twofold. First, passages creating a form of vicarious experience engage the narratee to take an empathetic stance, to convey an idea of how it must have been to be a part of the historical events.30 It encourages the reader to “relive the past as though the outcome were still in doubt”, as Morrison 2006b, 11 puts it.31 A second motive to leave the omniscient narratorial point of view and to assume the restricted perspective of a protagonist is to draw attention to the actors’ limited insight in, and control of, the course of the events in which they are involved.32 Such perspective shifts emphasizes the openness of the future for the historical character, an experience that gets lost when the narrator takes a purely retrospective perspective on the events.33 A final issue to address is the relation of the descriptive mode with Egbert Bakker’s mimetic mode (Bakker 1997). There are a number of similarities between the two concepts. They are both linguistically marked by the imperfect verb form. Both modes have a narrator taking on the role of a direct observer of the events, at times yielding the floor to a secondary focalizer. However, an important distinction between 30 Cf. Plut. de glor. Ath. 347a, Connor 1984, 16, 232, 1985, 10 – 11, 15, Walker 1993, 355 – 6, Greenwood 2006, 19 – 41. 31 Grethlein 2010b connects the aspect of narrative which allows the reader to “re-experience the experientiality of the historical agents” with the concept of experientiality, i. e. the communication of human experience mediated through consciousness which constitutes, according to Fludernik 1996, the essence of narrativity. The narrative modes, as I conceive them, play a vital role in experientiality in narrative since they hinge on the representation of experience as filtered through the consciousness of the narrator or protagonist. 32 See on this passage also Rood 1998, 49 – 50, Greenwood 2006, 35. 33 Other examples of actorially focalized descriptions are 7.44, 7.55, 7.59.3 – 60.1, 7.69.3 – 71.7 (for a linguistic discussion of the battle in the Great Harbour of Syracuse, see Bakker 1997), 7.75. Modern novelists like Stendhal and Tolstoy re-invented these techniques in their battle descriptions (Cohn 1999), probably without being aware of their predecessor Thucydides. In a discussion about French literature, Tolstoy once said: “Stendhal taught me to understand war. In The Charterhouse of Parma, you should reread the story about the Battle of Waterloo. Who before him had described war that way, that is, the way it really is? Remember Fabrizio, riding over the battlefield and ‘understanding nothing’?” (cited by Orwin 2010).

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Bakker’s mimetic and my descriptive mode is the fact that I employ yet another mode involving an “observing” narrator, the immediate diegetic mode. One might say therefore that there are, in my approach, two “mimetic” modes. Both modes are devices to enhance the participatory aspect of the narrative. The important difference between the two modes is that the immediate diegetic mode is used to record dynamic sequences of events in a relatively straightforward manner, whereas the descriptive mode portrays scenes of simultaneously occurring states and activities, often abounding with various kinds of sensory details. Another feature in which the descriptive mode appears to differ from Bakker’s mimetic mode is that the former crucially involves the dimension of space – an object or scene scanned through – rather than time.34 The difference between the two modes can be seen in the following example where the narrator switches from the descriptive to the immediate diegetic mode. (6) ¢r d³ t| te pmeOla jat-ei ja· aR m/er 1m ak_c\ Edg owsai rp’ !lvot]qym, toO te !m]lou t_m te pko_ym, ûla pqosjeil]mym 1taq\ssomto, ja· maOr te mg· pqos]pipte ja· to?r jomto?r dieyhoOmto, bo0 te wq~lemoi ja· pq¹r !kk^kour !mtivukaj0 te ja· koidoq_ô oqd³m jat^jouom oute t_m paqaccekkol]mym oute t_m jekeust_m, ja· t±r j~par !d}matoi emter 1m jk}dymi !mav]qeim %mhqypoi %peiqoi to?r jubeqm^tair !peihest]qar t±r maOr paqe?wom, t|te dµ jat± t¹m jaiq¹m toOtom sgla_mei, ja· oR )hgma?oi pqospes|mter pq_tom l³m jatad}ousi t_m stqatgc_dym me_m l_am, … (2.84.3)

When the wind came down, the enemy’s ships were now in a narrow space, and what with the wind and the small craft dashing against them, at once fell into confusion: ship fell foul of ship, while the crews were pushing them off with poles, and by their shouting, swearing and struggling with one another, made captains’ orders and boatswains’ cries alike inaudible, and through being unable for want of practice to clear their oars in the rough water, prevented the vessels from obeying their helmsmen properly. At this moment Phormio gave the signal, and the Athenians attacked. Sinking first one of the commander’s ships, …

The passage starts with a description of the confusion among the Peloponnesian ships. The imperfects build up a scene of a number of events that take place simultaneously or, at least, partially overlap one another. The position of the narrator is among the combatants (scenic standpoint), hearing their shouts and curses, and, like the sailors, unable to understand the captains’ orders. The narrator’s eye and ear advance through the scene. But then, Phormio gives the signal to attack one 34 Another possible difference between my descriptive and Bakker’s mimetic mode is mentioned in note 22.

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of the commanders’ ships.35 The appearance of the historical presents is accompanied by a number of changes. First, the text switches from a relatively stationary situation described in considerable visual and auditory detail, to a matter-of-fact presentation of a dynamic sequence of actions. Second, the narratorial standpoint shifts from a scenic standpoint among the combatants to a panoramic standpoint overseeing the totality of the battlefield. Third, the historical presents indicate that the climactic turning-point of the scene is taking place.

4. Discursive Mode The fourth and final mode is the discursive mode. While the discursive mode is a common ingredient of narratives, it is non-narrative in character. In this mode, the progression of time is not essential. The states of affairs referred to are directly related to the present, the hic et nunc of the speaker/narrator (Discourse-Now). My notion of discursive mode is inspired by Benveniste’s notion of discours. Benveniste describes his notion of discours as follows: (7) ‘Il faut entendre discours dans sa plus large extension: toute énonciation supposant un locuteur et un auditeur, et chez le premier l’intention d’influencer l’autre en quelque manière’ (Benveniste 1966: 241 – 2).

Benveniste contrasts discours with histoire. According to Benveniste, histoire characterizes the narration (rcit) of past events (Benveniste 1966: 238 – 9). Benveniste’s histoire is similar to the diegetic mode. A comparable distinction is made by Weinrich (20016 [1964]) between Besprochene Welt and Erzhlte Welt. In the discursive mode, the speaker and hearer are directly linked to, and concerned with, what is communicated. The discursive mode appears in two narrative situations. First, the narrator may intervene in the narrative and address the narratee, for example, in the form of an evaluation of the narrated events/characters, a methodological statement, a comment on the organization of the narrative or on his status as a writer.36 This is Thucydides in his role as Writer-Analyst. Second, 35 The explicit statement that Phormio decides to attack at the right moment (jat± t¹m jaiq¹m toOtom) may suggest that the preceding description of the enemy’s disturbed formation is focalized by Phormio. 36 Discussions of narratorial interventions can be found in Edmunds 1993, Hornblower 1994, Gribble 1998 and Rood 2004b, 2006.

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the discursive mode is found when a character’s direct discourse is represented.37 Here I shall focus on examples of the former narratorial type since it is more comparable to the other modes which also involve the narrator’s “voice” as a central verbalizing instance (as opposed to a speaking character). The most typical communicative function of the discursive mode is to influence the addressee in some way or another, for example, to convince the addressee that a certain state of affairs is the case, or to persuade the addressee to perform a certain action. Typical ways to influence another person are to appeal to his or her reason, opinions or emotions. The discursive mode has a number of characteristic linguistic features. As for the use of tenses, the actual present tense is most indicative of the discursive mode as it explicitly refers to the moment of speech/ narration.38 For example, in 1.1.3, Thucydides writes 1j d³ tejlgq_ym ¨m 1p· lajq|tatom sjopoOmt_ loi pisteOsai nulba_mei oq lec\ka mol_fy cem]shai. Here, also the reference by the narrator to himself in the first person makes it clear that we are dealing with the discursive mode.39 Other examples of present (perfect) tense forms are the metanarrative %qwetai40 and c´cqaptai (2.1), c´cqave (5.26)41 and expressions like doje? loi (1.3.2, 1.3.3, etc.) and k´cetai (1.24.4, 1.118.3, 37 See Benveniste 1966. It is, of course, also possible (but less usual) that a speaking character tells a story (as a secondary narrator) or describes a person or object. In that case, the direct speech will be in the diegetic or descriptive mode rather than in the discursive mode. For a more elaborate discussion, see Allan 2009. 38 Edmunds 1993 has a discussion of these present (perfect) tense forms. 39 See also Benveniste 1966. For first person references in Thucydides, see Edmunds 1993 and Gribble 1998. 40 The present tense is accompanied by a proximal deictic adverb 1mh´mde “from this point (in the narrative)”. Both expressions refer to the meta-narrative world of narration in which the narrator and narratee are the deictic centre. (Cf. the many instances of fde pokelºr “this war”, i. e. the war that is the present concern of narrator and narratee.) Incidentally, pace Edmunds, I do not think that the position of the verbs %qwetai and c´cqaptai at the beginning of the sentence gives emphasis. A recent study of word order by Matic´ (2003) makes it clear that such clauses have a broad focus, i. e. the focus consists of the verb plus another constituent (1mh´mde and 2n/r, respectively). In broad focus clauses, the verb precedes the rest of the focal material. 41 The perfect present tense, which is a marker of subject-resultativity, is used instead of an aorist (as in 1.1) to emphasize the fact that Thucydides ‘is the writer of, is responsible for writing’ this part of the history, too (see also Rijksbaron 20063, 36).

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etc.). These present tense forms refer to the time of narration, that is to say, each time the narratee reads the text. However, other tenses occur as well. The narrator may refer to a past event which does not form a part of a narrative sequence by means of an aorist form. This usage of the aorist is called constative by Rijksbaron 20063, 28 – 9. The constative aorist is used in direct speech and usually indicates that the event is completed relative to the Discourse-Now, rather than relative to another event in the text – as is the case in a narrative sequence.42 The aorist num]cqaxe in the opening sentence of the work is an example of the constative use, and so is 1c]meto in the second main clause j_mgsir c±q avtg lec_stg dµ to?r >kkgsim 1c]meto…43 These aorist do not refer to events which construct a story world, but to past events which are directly linked to the narrator’s time.44 The imperfect tense does not occur frequently in the discursive mode. The reason is that the imperfect tense typically expresses simultaneity or overlap with one or more other past events, whereas in the discursive mode the default temporal reference point is the present moment of speech/narration. The imperfects that do appear in discursive sections tend to refer to habitual-generic states of affairs; they relate to general patterns adduced by the narrator to support an argument.45 The future tense, finally, may also occur in the discursive mode. The future tense in Ancient Greek rarely functions as a neutral statement of a future fact. Its use in discourse is intimately connected to the expectations and rhetorical goals of the narrator/speaker (e. g. 1.22.4 ja· 1r l³m !jq|asim Usyr t¹ lµ luh_der aqt_m !teqp]steqom vame?tai ; 2.48.3 1c½ d³ oX|m te 1c_cmeto k]ny).46 42 The constative aorist may be compared to the pass compos of Benveniste’s system of discours. In fact, de Romilly (in her Budé edition) translates num]cqaxe with “a raconté”. 43 Another feature of the discursive mode is the presence of the persuasive particles c²q and d¶ (“without a doubt, indeed”, cf. Kühner-Gerth, II, 128: “entschieden, ohne Zweifel”). 44 For the function of the aorist num]cqaxe, see also Bakker 1997a, 30; 2007, 120. Other examples of constative aorists are: 1.97.2, 2.31.2 (1c´meto), 3.116.6, 5.60.3 (num/khem), 6.31.1 (1c´meto), 7.87.5 – 6. 45 Examples of this use of the imperfect form are found in the Archaeology and in 3.82 – 3. 46 Notice also the occurrence of other linguistic features of the discursive mode: the evaluative terms Usyr and !teqp]steqom and the negation. (For these features, see below.) Chapters 1 – 23 of the Histories show the language of the dis-

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The discursive mode shows a more variegated arsenal of speech acts than the diegetic and descriptive modes. Apart from assertions, the narrator has at his disposal various kinds of speech acts to appeal to the narratee, such as directives, exclamations, (rhetorical) questions, counterfactuals and wishes. In the discursive mode, therefore, besides the indicative mood also the imperative, optative and subjunctive are used. By these linguistic means, the narrator presents a contrastive alternative world to the narratee with the purpose of influencing his/her beliefs, opinions and emotional responses. Examples of imperatives are kec]ty l³m owm peq· aqtoO ¢r 6jastor cicm~sjei (2.48.3) and !qje_ty d³ ¢r poigta?r te eUqgtai (6.2.1). Other forms of narrator-narratee interaction are potential optatives (with or without “anonymous interlocutor” tir), e. g. oqj !jqibe? %m tir sgle_\ wq~lemor !pisto_g (1.10.1), and counterfactuals, e. g. ja· aqt_m tim±r oXr 1p]tuwom, eQ lµ Mij|stqator 1j~kuse, di]vheiqam %m (3.75.4) – an example of a narratorial intrusion of the “if not”-type47 – and the remarkable cluster of counterfactuals at 8.96.3 – 5.48 Examples of rhetorical questions – the only two in the Histories – are 1m d³ mujtolaw_ô …, p_r %m tir sav_r ti Õdei ; (7.44.1) and p_r oqj eQj|tyr Ah}loum ; ( 8.96.3). The latter rhetorical question is part of longer stretch of the discursive mode (8.96), an emotionally charged narratorial comment on the intensity of the Athenians’ panic after the loss Euboea. Through a chain of counterfactuals Thucydides argues what kind of disaster could have befallen the Athenians had the Peloponnesians been more enterprising. The many signals of narrator-narratee interaction (particles, negations, rhetorical question, evaluative terms and counterfactuals) and the lack of chronological progression make it clear that we are not dealing with narrative proper but with a narratorial intervention. Since the discursive mode crucially revolves around the interaction between narrator and narratee, discourse particles occur frequently, especially the ones with an argumentative or interactional function (e. g. c²q and d¶ mentioned above). We also find negations more frequently. Negations are a form of narrator-narratee interaction since they are typcursive mode. In Allan 2011b, I discuss the linguistic features indicating that the Archaeology is written in the discursive mode, such as the frequent use of the actual present tense, first person verbal forms and pronouns, discourse particles, negations and a general lack of narrativity. 47 See De Jong 1987, 68 – 81, Hornblower 1987, 158. 48 For its function in the narrative, see Rood 1998, 278 – 80. For counterfactuals in Thucydides, see Flory 1988, Grethlein 2010a, 250 – 1.

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ically used by a speaker to contradict an expectation or presupposition of the addressee.49 On the level of the vocabulary, the discursive mode will show a significant use of affective or evaluative terms (such as comparatives, superlatives) and epistemic expressions (e. g. eQjºr, Usyr, doje? ); in other words, lexical items explicitly conveying the narrator’s view to the narratee (e. g. the superlative in j_mgsir c±q avtg lec_stg d¶).50

5. Conclusion We have seen that the narrative modes are attached to a particular role performed by the narrator: Chronicler, Eye-witness, Painter and Writer-Analyst. These roles are associated with a particular point of view that the narrator takes with respect to the events. Switches between these roles are signalled by various kinds of linguistic and narratological signals. In the following synoptic table the distinctive linguistic and narratological features of the narrative modes are summed up. I should like to stress here that the narrative modes as represented in the table should be thought of as prototypes, that is, ideal types which act as cognitive reference points used to assess and interpret actual instances as they appear in texts. Actual instances resemble the category prototype to varying degrees. As a consequence, there will also be “fuzzy” boundary cases: a given sentence may show characteristics of two or more narrative modes.51 Shifting between narrative modes can be seen as a device strategically employed by Thucydides to construct multiple perspectives within the narrative. Not only does he often invite us to adopt the point of view of a historical actor, he also changes his own spatial, temporal 49 See De Jong 1987, 61 – 8 and Hornblower 1987, 152. 50 Thucydides at times seems to be fond of superlatives, for example in the laudation of Themistocles (1.138.3) we find no less than seven: bebai|tata d¶, 1kaw_stgr, jq\tistor, pke?stom, %qistor, l\kista, jq\tistor d¶. Other examples (often accompanied by the evidential particle d¶) are 2.31.2, 3.17, 3.116.6, 5.60.3, 6.31.1, 7.86.5, 7.87.5 – 6. See also Gribble 1998 on superlatives as indications of narratorial interventions. 51 Indirect discourse, for example, can be seen as a hybrid mixture between discursive and diegetic mode. The voices of the narrator and character are blended. See also Benveniste 1966, 242. The notion of prototype is central to the framework of cognitive linguistics (e. g. Langacker 1987 – 1991) and cognitive narratology (e. g. Fludernik 1996, Herman 2009, 75 – 104).

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Figure 1. Typical linguistic and narratological features of the narrative modes Displaced Diegetic Mode

Immediate Diegetic Mode

Descriptive Mode

Discursive Mode

Narrator’s Point of View

From DiscourseNow

From StoryNow

From DiscourseNow

From DiscourseNow

Reference World

Story-world

Story-world

Story-world

Narrator’s world

Progression of Text

Advancement in narrative time

Advancement in narrative time

Spatial advancement through scene or object

Advancement anchored to Discourse-Now

Speed

Summary, Ellipse, Anachronies

Scene

Pause

Pause

Signs of narratornarratee interaction

Average

Rare

Average

Frequent

Narrator

Narrator or character

Narrator

Imperfect

Present, perfect, future

Focalization Narrator or character Tense and Aspect

Aorist, imperfect, pluperfect

Historical present

Particles

Average frequency, mainly textstructural: !kk², c²q, (l´m) d´, owm

Few, mainly Average, text-structural mainly text(typically ja¸) structural: !kk², c²q, (l´m) d´

Many, textstructural and interactional: !kk², %m, %qa, c²q, ce, d¶, G, l¶m, owm, -peq, pou, toi, to¸mum

Negation

Average

Rare

Average

Frequent

Mood

Indicative

Indicative

Indicative

All moods

Speech Acts Assertions

Assertions

Assertions

(Counterfactual) assertions, directives, exclamations, questions, wishes

and affective position as a narrator with respect to the narrated events, ranging from a detached reticence to an intense emotional involvement, from a retrospective distance to an ‘open’ participatory engagement.

Textual Structure and Modality in Thucydides’ Military Exhortations Antonis Tsakmakis / Charalambos Themistokleous 1. Military exhortations in Thucydides Twelve speeches in Thucydides’ work are military exhortations (Feldherrnreden), that is to say speeches that commanders address to their troops just before some important battle or naval battle with the purpose to encourage them or to instruct them on tactical issues.1 In this count we include the speech by Archidamus in 2.11, the first exhortation in the work, which is not addressed to the whole troop, but only to the commanders of the Peloponnesians, who are participating in the first invasion of Attica. In another case (4.92), it is not yet certain that there will be a battle; the speaker, the Theban Pagondas, is trying to convince all the Boeotian contingents of the advisability of an immediate operation against the Athenian force in Delion.2 Six speeches, i. e. 50 % of the speeches in this group, form three sets of pairs linked together by the fact that each pair was delivered before a single battle by the leaders of each side. However, exhortations cannot be regarded as belonging to an agon, and the speech delivered last is not always by the winner of the battle (as is the case with deliberative speeches which form antilogies, a 57 % of the total in this category). Nevertheless, there is abundant evidence which indicates that the literary character of exhortations is much more important than their historicity.The introductions to half the exhortations (6) include information which not only undermines the assumption of precision, but also makes no attempt at verisimilitude.3 In the first case we learn that Pa1 2 3

For an overview see Luschnat 1942, 107 – 113. Teutiaplus’ speech (3.30) is delivered during a campaign, but, unlike Pagondas’ speech, fails to persuade the audience (Spartan commanders) to fight; hence, it cannot be co-examined with military exhortations. On the historicity of exhortations, see Hansen 1993; id. 1998: “the battle exhortation is essentially a historiographic fiction and not a rhetorical fact”

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gondas addressed consecutively and separately distinct groups of his men, in order to better achieve his target (that is, he ultimately had to make several addresses to various audiences, probably adapting his speech to suit each different audience).4 In three further cases, we are informed that a commander was moving through the orders of his troops while delivering the speech.5 Even when the speaker delivered a single speech, different parts of the audience attended different parts of it. Hence, the form of the speech in Thucydides gives an impression of what the commander did, but fails to render the participation of the addressees in the communicative act, which, in some respect, is more important; two of these speeches are delivered by Nicias and one by Hippocrates; we discuss them in 2.2 below. Finally, two exhortations are attributed not to one but to two or more speakers (2.87: Cnemos, Brasidas, Peloponnesian generals – 7.66 – 68: Peloponnesian generals and Gylippus). This allows us to assume either that more than one people spoke to the troops, or that each commander addressed his own contingent. Four among the speakers (Phormio, Demosthenes, Hippocrates, and Gylippus) are known to the reader from the preceding narrative; they deliver one speech each. Three other leaders also give deliberative speeches: Archidamus, who delivers one exhortation, addressed the Spartan Assembly in Book 1; Brasidas, who addressed a speech to the Acanthians (4.85 – 87) prior to his two exhortations (4.126 and 5.9), but was also one of the commanders (along with Cnemus and other Peloponnesian generals) who had delivered an exhortation in 2.87; Nicias, who had delivered a pair of speeches at the Sicilian Debate, and to whom Thucydides gives three exhortations during the subsequent expedition to Sicily. Only one speaker, the Theban Pagondas, the only commander who is neither Athenian nor Spartan, plays no role in the work either before or after the speech. As a result, it is possible to examine all exhortations but one in relation to deliberative speeches by the

4 5

(46); Pritchett 1994, 27 – 109; Ehrhardt 1995, among others. Exact rendering becomes more problematic as, in the case of speeches before a single battle, the second speaker sometimes answers issues or contradicts points raised by the first one; cf. Hornblower 1991, 368 (on Phormion’s speech). Cf. Gomme, HCT III, 565 (ad 4.94.2); Hansen 1993, 168 – 9. According to Hansen 1998, this happened regularly, an entirely reasonable assumption. Notwithstanding that, we treat those speeches as exceptional, because they diverge from Thucydides’ standard practice of presenting exhortations as complete, formal speeches.

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same speaker or to the speaker’s actions. Exhortations by Nicias and Brasidas (three by each) also can be cross-compared. Almost all military exhortations are shorter than other speeches in Thucydides, while their structure doesn’t always present all the typical features of a rhetorical speech. With the exception of Hippocrates’ exhortation (which is incomplete, because it is interrupted when the opponents attack), only the speech of Sthenelaidas (1.86) is shorter than the military exhortations;6 and only one deliberative speech (Nicias’ second speech in the Sicilian Debate, 6.20 – 23) is shorter than the longest exhortation (Nicias, 7.61 – 64), but this is an exceptional case, since it is the only instance in Thucydides’ History where two speeches by the same person at the same meeting are reported. Military exhortations were first systematically studied by Luschnat,7 who regarded them as an organic component of the whole work, pointing out their connections with other sections of it. Luschnat understood their composition as the result of a technique which enhances the reader’s active participation in the interpretation. R. Leimbach’s monograph on these speeches,8 places emphasis on exhortative topoi, each one of which constitutes a different model of rhetorical art. Put together, they compose a selection of model speeches that cover a representative range of different situations – an idea which dovetails with Thucydides’ selective emphasis on events which he regards representative/paradigmatic of specific historical situations. Leimbach successfully demonstrates the singularity of each speech; however, the concept of model on which he insists remains an arbitrary hypothesis that does not contribute to a better understanding either of the parts (the speeches) or of the whole (the work). We can regard military exhortations as a distinct group of speeches with common traits and ask for a more systematic treatment of the literary means used to achieve their communicative goal. The treatment of exhortations as a separate category of Thucydidean speeches is also suggested by the use of specific introductory verbs. The otherwise frequent and pragmatically unmarked verb k]cy is only used twice, while most common are paqaime?m or paqajeke}eshai. The same verbs are some6 7 8

The speech by Teutiaplus (3.30) which is deliberative is even shorter; however it presents significant affinities to military speeches, since it is addressed to military commanders during a campaign and deals with military questions. Luschnat 1942. Leimbach 1985.

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times used by the speakers themselves, together with the nouns paqaj]keusir and paqa_mesir (and once 1pij]keusir).9 In this paper we attempt, through the discussion of characteristic cases, to trace stylistic, rhetorical and thematic elements which prevail in military exhortations and determine their function. In the first part, we focus on the exhortations of Nicias, exploring the position occupied by them in the macro-structure of the narrative in order to demonstrate that, apart from serving an immediate communicative aim, exhortations can contribute to the development of themes that permeate the work, to the characterization of prominent statesmen and military leaders and to the interpretation of events. In this context we touch upon the features that link Nicias’ exhortations to his other speeches and to speeches by other generals. In the second part, we address an element of language which correlates with the communicative goal of the exhortations, namely modality. The study of modality in this group of speeches is expected to contribute to a better understanding of the principles that rule the construction of exhortations in Thucydides,

2. The position of military exhortation in the work’s macro-structure Nicias’ three exhortations Nicias’ three military speeches (6.68, 7.61 – 64, 7.77) present some peculiarities, which make them a suitable starting point for our investigation; at the same time, they provide us with strong arguments for treating them as a whole. The first speech begins with a praeteritio in the form of a rhetorical question, where the speaker expresses his conviction that it is needless to make a long speech, since military preparations are more than enough to inspire courage to the troops (6.68.1: Pokk0 l³m paqaim]sei, § %mdqer, 9

Paqa_mesir : Brasidas (4.126); paqaj]keusir : Brasidas (4.126), Nicias (6.68); paqaime?m : Brasidas (5.9), Nicias (7.61 – 64); paqajeke}eshai : Mij_ar (6.68, 7.61 – 64); 1pij]keusir : Hippocrates (4.95.1). Occasionally, communicative goals are indicated by terms such as rpolilm^sjy, rp|lmgsir and didaw^ (presentation of a plan of action to be followed by the soldiers), see rp|lmgla : Bqas_dar (4.126); rpolilm_sjeim : Brasidas (4.126), Nicias (6.68); didaw^: Brasidas (4.126, twice); did\sjeim : Brasidas (5.9); didasjak_a : Peloponnesian generals (2.87). The effect the speech had on the audience is foregrounded by pe_hy (Pagondas, 4.91, 93); cf. Currie 2010; Pavlou (this volume).

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t_ de? wq/shai, oT p\qeslem 1p· t¹m aqt¹m !c_ma ; aqtµ c±q B paqasjeuµ Rjamyt]qa loi doje? eWmai h\qsor paqaswe?m C jak_r kewh]mter k|coi let± !shemoOr stqatop]dou). This is a case of tragic irony, since the same speaker will later deliver the longest military exhortation in the work (7.61 – 64). He is also the speaker who delivers the last exhortation (7.77), in which he is obliged to do exactly what he wishes to avoid here: to use vacuous words in front of a weak army with a low morale (!shem³r stqat|pedom). Furthermore, whereas in the first speech Nicias bases his argumentation on something concrete and material, i. e. on military preparations (paqasjeu^, 6.68), in his last two exhortations he has to resort to more abstract means of persuasion such as the appeal to the name and the idea of the city, in an attempt to endorse the soldiers’ self-confidence. At the end of Nicias’ third military speech, he defines the very concept of the city as standing in contrast to that of preparedness (7.77.7: %mdqer c±q p|kir, ja· oq te_wg oqd³ m/er !mdq_m jema_). This claim would only make sense, if the troops had a high morale. Though, precisely this is the desideratum, and the speech reveals Nicias’ and the Athenians’ desperation. Nicias expresses the idea that adequate preparation and precaution can eliminate the influence of fortune on military operations in his second speech in the Sicilian Debate, where he had asked for the greatest possible paqasjeu^, in order to ensure a successful result and not to be obliged to rely on t}wg (6.23.3): fpeq 1c½ vobo}lemor, ja· eQd½r pokk± l³m Bl÷r d]om ew bouke}sashai, 5ti d³ pke_y eqtuw/sai (wakep¹m d³ !mhq~pour emtar), fti 1k\wista t0 t}w, paqado»r 1laut¹m bo}kolai 1jpke?m, paqasjeu0 d³ !p¹ t_m eQj|tym !svakµr 1jpkeOsai. In his last exhortation, however, the Athenian general tries to encourage his men by pinning his hopes on a possible change of their bad luck: 7.77.3 Rjam± c±q to?r te pokel_oir gqt}wgtai, ja· eU t\ he_m 1p_vhomoi 1stqate}salem, !powq~mtyr Edg tetilyq^leha. Preparedness and fortune are key elements in Thucydides’ narrative of the Peloponnesian War. Nicias’ contradictory statements regarding these issues illustrate his loss of control during the Sicilian Expedition. His lack of steadfastness is at variance with the unwavering determination which Pericles, as well as Cleon, claim for themselves in their speeches.10 We can conclude that the three exhortations of Nicias are intended to contribute to his characterization. They can be examined either 10 Pericles: 1.140.1 (his first words in Thucydides), 2.61.2; Cleon: 3.38.1.

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among them, or in conjuntion with Nicias’ other speeches, or be contrasted to the words and deeds of other statesmen. Indeed, Nicias’ inconsistency in the treatment of themes such as preparedness and fortune proved a test case for the viability of this approach. First, it revealed key aspects of Nicias’ character, especially his insufficiency as a military leader. Despite the plausibility of his proposed policy, he is not a good military commander. Second, the analysis hones our understanding of the defeat in Sicily and the interpretation of Athens’ fall. Finally, the way Nicias appears as a speaker imparts a tragic nuance to the narrative. Nicias and Hippocrates Speeches are regularly framed by information which links them to the narrative and outlines the communicative situation, buttressing the readers’ understanding of the speeches’ impact on the original audience.11 In certain cases, this information suggests a parallel, comparative examination of individual speeches. In what follows we discuss one of these cases. As has already been noted, the introduction to three different speeches includes the hint that the speaker is moving among the troop while delivering the speech (two of these speeches belong to Nicias, 6.67.3 and 7.76, and one to Hippocrates, 4.94.2, who has reached the center of the army lines when an attack takes place). Is the inclusion of this detail in the aforementioned speeches dictated by historical facts, or is it merely an indicator for the reader to examine these speeches in unison? We will demonstrate, by thorough examination of the text that the many and peculiar correspondences between the three speeches suggest a literary rather than a historical approach. Hippocrates’ speech comprises five periods, in which remarkable parallels to Nicias’ military exhortations are traceable: 1 (4.95.1): ¯ )hgma?oi, di’ ak_cou l³m B paqa_mesir c_cmetai, t¹ Usom d³ pq|r ce to»r !caho»r %mdqar d}matai ja· rp|lmgsim l÷kkom 5wei C 1pij]keusim. Here are the similar expressions in Nicias’ speeches: - Frequent use of meta-communicative terms (terms that express cognitive or verbal functions relevant to the situation and the speaker’s goals); most are in the first person (rpolilm^sjy, paqaim_): Pokk0 11 Morrison 2006a, 256 – 259; Pavlou (this volume).

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l³m paqaim]sei, § %mdqer, t_ de? wq/shai, oT p\qeslem 1p· t¹m aqt¹m !c_ma ; (6.68.1) – ja· toqmamt_om rpolilm-sjy rl÷r C oR pok]lioi sv_sim aqto?r ew oWd’ fti paqajeke}omtai (6.68.3) – ja· taOta to?r bpk_tair oqw Hssom t_m maut_m paqajeke}olai (7.63.2) – to?r d³ ma}tair paqaim_ ja· 1m t` aqt` t`de ja· d]olai… (7.63.3). No similar expressions are to be found in other exhortations – apart from Brasidas’ exhortations (see note 14).12 The rhetorical topic of the brevity of the exhortation, combined with the contrast rp|lmgsir-paqaj]keusir 13 (6.68.1, 6.68.3). Nicias also uses the formulaic expression !caho· %mdqer (7.77)14 to refer to his audience.

2 (4.95.2): paqast0 d³ lgdem· rl_m ¢r 1m t0 !kkotq_ô oq pqos/jom tos|mde j_mdumom !maqqiptoOlem. - The use of paq_stalai as a cognitive verb (and generally its use in the imperative mood in the exhortations) is only found here and in Nicias (6.68.3): paqast^ty d] timi ja· t|de, pok} te !p¹ t/r Blet]qar aqt_m eWmai ja· pq¹r c0 oqdeliø vik_ô, Fmtima lµ aqto· law|lemoi jt^seshe. - In both speeches there occurs the idea of war in a hostile territory, but Hippocrates’ statement is not entirely justified by the narrative. When the Athenians’ position was last mentioned (4.91), they were still in Attica. Therefore, Hippocrates’ words have understandably puzzled commentators.15 The influence of Nicias’ speech could partly explain the inconsistency. 12 Phormio is the only speaker to use a similar expression (!malilm-sjy in 2.89.11), but this does not refer to the content and goal of the whole speech. 13 For a similar opposition between didaw^/did\sjeim and exhortation cf. Brasidas’ words in 4.126.1: EQ l³m lµ rp~pteuom, %mdqer Pekopomm^sioi, rl÷r t` te lelom_shai ja· fti b\qbaqoi oR 1pi|mter ja· pokko· 5jpkgnim 5weim, oqj #m blo_yr didawµm ûla t0 paqajeke}sei 1poio}lgm· mOm d³ pq¹r l³m tµm !p|keixim t_m Blet]qym ja· t¹ pk/hor t_m 1mamt_ym bqawe? rpolm^lati ja· paqaim]sei t± l]cista peiq\solai pe_heim ; he also uses in his second exhortation the terms did\ny (5.9.1) and paqaim]sai (5.9.10), but they are not juxtaposed. 14 T| te n}lpam cm_te, § %mdqer stqati_tai, !macja?|m te cm rl?m !mdq\sim !caho?r c_cmeshai ¢r lµ emtor wyq_ou 1cc»r fpoi #m lakajish]mter syhe_gte ja_, Cm mOm diav}cgte to»r pokel_our, oV te %kkoi teun|lemoi ¨m 1pihule?t] pou 1pide?m ja· oR )hgma?oi tµm lec\kgm d}malim t/r p|keyr ja_peq peptyju?am 1pamoqh~somter. 15 Hornblower 1996, 91; for a thorough discussion see Allison 2011, 133 – 134.

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3 (ibid.): …1m c±q t0 to}tym rp³q t/r Blet]qar b !c½m 5stai… - Nicias uses similar expressions: oR l³m c±q fti peq· patq_dor 5stai b !c~m (6.68.3) – -mdqer stqati_tai )hgma_ym te ja· t_m %kkym null\wym, b l³m !c½m b l]kkym blo_yr joim¹r ûpasim 5stai peq_ te sytgq_ar ja· patq_dor 2j\stoir oqw Hssom C to?r pokel_oir (7.61.1). 4 (ibid.): …ja· Cm mij^sylem, oq l^ pote rl?m Pekopomm^sioi 1r tµm w~qam %meu t/r t_mde Vppou 1sb\kysim, 1m d³ liø l\w, t^mde te pqosjt÷she ja· 1je_mgm l÷kkom 1keuheqoOte. - A very similar conditional (with an almost identical hypothesis), is also found in Nicias’ oration, 6.68.1: Cm c±q jqat^sylem mOm ta?r maus_m, 5sti t\ tµm rp\qwous\m pou oQje_am p|kim 1pide?m. - In this last phrase, Nicias focuses on each citizen’s relationship with the city, and so does Hippocrates in the last phrase of his speech: 5 (4.95.3): wyq^sate owm !n_yr 1r aqto»r t/r te p|keyr, Dm 6jastor patq_da 5wym pq~tgm 1m to?r >kkgsim !c\kketai, ja· t_m pat]qym, oT to}sde l\w, jqatoOmter let± Luqym_dou 1m OQmov}toir tµm Boiyt_am pot³ 5swom. It is then obvious that almost every utterance by Hippocrates has its parallel in one of Nicias’ exhortations. A genetically oriented interpretation could content itself with the assumption either of a common original, probably a rhetorical manual, or of purposeful use of parallel expressions by the historian (although it remains uncertain whether this could point to an actual relationship between the two men or to an affinity in their rhetorical style). If this is the case, it is more likely that Hippocrates depends on Nicias rather than vice versa, since the common elements which are found in the latter’s speeches are dispersed, not interrelated and, hence, even after they have been noticed, they do not necessarily create a cumulative effect. However, as Hippocrates’ speech comes first (irrespectively of its date of composition, and questions of purposeful imitation aside) the parallels in Nicias’ speeches, once noticed, raise unfavourable expectations regarding the outcome of affairs for Nicias (but also for Hippocrates, in each new reading of the text). Apart from this, affinities in expression and motives, combined with the similarity of the situation, as made explicit by Thucydides, can be significant for an interpretation of these speeches.

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The parallels between the speeches of the two Athenian generals can better be explained if we take into consideration Thucydides’ introductory hints about the speakers’ movement through the lines of their men, together with their references to the conditions of the campaign, namely that both Hippocrates and Nicias were faced with a similar situation: they were fighting abroad. The speakers’ movement reflects anxiety about the success of both the speech and the military operation. The troops appear to be predisposed for panic rather than for disciplined behaviour, and the commanders appear unable to handle this satisfactorily. Their stress may rather have been transmitted to the audience. In addition, their remark that the fight takes place outside their country recalls a familiar motif in the historiographic tradition, namely the transgression of geographical limits, reference to which is usually connected to a disastrous outcome, especially in Herodotus. (The importance of this motif in the tradition of Greek historiography is also evident in Polybius, who opens his account on Roman history with the Romans’ first overseas campaign).16 Both battles under discussion are part of the events which lead to the termination of two phases of the war, the Ten-Year War (Archidamian War) and the Sicilian Expedition respectively. Both exhortations are addressed to Athenians, who, after the death of Pericles, and despite his advice, willingly undertake expeditions abroad – contrary to the Spartans. Ultimately, eagerness and easy moves away from Athens entail dangers which the Athenians underestimate. The impression of disorder and disquiet among the soldiers, also an Athenian trademark in Thucydides, must be linked precisely to the difficulties of military action far from Athens, which can very easily lead to the loss of control. These are conditions that challenge the leaders’ ability to impose themselves on the crowd, if they are to keep control of the situation. The speeches by both Nicias and Hippocrates testify to their helplessness. Hence, the exhortations delivered by Hippocrates and Nicias contribute to the evaluation of these men. They both are commanders of the Athenian forces in parallel situations which will pave the way for the negative outcome not only of single battles, but also of the whole war. As early as in Hippocrates’ campaign in Boeotia, Thucydides assists the reader to pinpoint and evaluate the symptoms which in the future will become more visible and will have more severe consequences. 16 Plb. 1.5.

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They can be fully appreciated only in retrospect, but this is arguably how Thucydides worked.

3. Modality We now turn to those elements which are closely connected to an exhortation’s primary purposes, in order to investigate more systematically the style of exhortations. We have already noted an opposition between the notions rp|lmgsir and paqa_mesir (and other relevant expressions), which spell out the goals of the speech. The two notions give preponderance to cognitive and emotive operations respectively. The balance of the two functions, i. e. reasoning (which exploits experience and long-standing opinions) together with appealing to courage and endurance, is the task of a commander who addresses his men in a given situation. These functions are served by different linguistic means. More specifically, they correspond to choices in the degree of modality in each expression. Modality refers to the linguistic means available to a speaker for expressing his opinion or his attitude towards an utterance as form and as content.17 Modality “is a complex pragmatic-semantic-logical category that realizes a double function: on the one hand, it indicates the attitude or the opinion of the speaker towards the logical content of his utterance and on the other hand the degree of correspondence of the utterance to the exterior reality that it refers to”.18 An utterance, then, can be evaluated on the basis of its degree of veridicality (epistemic modality) or of a possibility that should or could take place (deontic modality). In Greek and in other languages, modality also constitutes a grammatical category and it is mainly expressed through the morphological system of the verb. Modality constitutes a continuum that varies between two poles: the epistemic, which is concerned with “matters of knowledge, belief”19 or “opinion rather than fact”;20 it indicates that the utterance is evaluated on the basis of its truth conditions, i. e. as true or false, and the deontic, which is more binding for the audience is concerned with the ne17 18 19 20

Cf. Bybee 1994. Iakovou 1999, 9. Lyons 1977, 793. Lyons 1977, 681.

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cessity or possibility of acts performed by morally responsible agents.21 It defines the utterance as possible, obligatory, desirable or frequent. Modalities are further classified according to their relative force, that is to say the degree of probability, obligation, willingness, frequency or engagement (in the case of commands).22 The language system allows modality fluctuations, which offer a wide range of choices to the speaker. Mood and modality are highly correlated in Greek. Mood is “formally a morphosyntactic category of the verb like tense and aspect, even though its semantic function relates to the contents of the whole utterance”.23 Modality is not expressed only within the verbal morphology; it may be expressed by other means such as lexical constituents, modal verbs, particles and clitics.24 The indicative mood is typically associated to the declaratives, to express what the speaker considers true or false. Deontic modality, on the other hand, is chiefly expressed through other verb moods (subjunctive, imperative etc). The indicative mood may have deontic functions as well, typically in the case of the conditional indicative and the future indicative tense.25 Deontic modality is often lexicalized in exhortatory verbs such as paqajeke}olai, paqaim_, while epistemic modality is lexicalized in opinion verbs such as eQj\fy, BcoOlai, mol_fy and rpopte}olai and perception verbs such as bq_. The concept of necessity is also conveyed by particular lexical choices, e. g. the verb !ni_. Modal verbs, for example the verbs wq^ and de?, and modal expressions, like d_jai|m 1sti, possibly encode greater force of deontic modality than do other lexicalized expressions of modality. Such verbs and expressions denote mainly the necessity of realization of the utterance’s content. The mood which expresses the greatest degree of deontic engagement is, typically, the imperative; it is often “potrayed as the strongest type of directive, the most confident and direct”;26 Palmer proposes that the imperative 21 22 23 24

Lyons 1977, 823. Cf. Veloudes 2010, 47 – 53; Muyts 2005; Iakovou 1999; Palmer 1979. Palmer 1986, 21. Moods just like modality have other functions as well; the subjunctive for example is used in subordinate sentences (see Palmer 1979, 22 quoting Jespersen 1924, 314), thus the relation between mood and modality is anisomorphic. 25 See Lyons 1977, on the distinction between utterance and sentence; the latter constitutes the logical sentence, while the former is what a speaker actually has produced. 26 Palmer 1986, 29.

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seems much stronger because it is used “by a person in full authority, e. g. a superior in the army, to ensure that the order is obeyed”;27 modal verbs – Palmer comments – such as “must” would not be used in such circumstances. The latter however is not totally confirmed in our data. Epistemic modality also has varying degrees of intensity. In the context of military exhortations, the highest degree of certainty is lexicalized through gnomic expressions, supposedly absolute, irrefutable statements.28 The speaker assumes that the listeners accept a gnome as true. This may be based on real knowledge or certainty on behalf of the speaker, but it may also be part of an oratory strategy aiming to present the speaker’s point of view as a communicative common ground. Gnomai are usually expressed in past or present tense. The future tense, a much debated subject in linguistics, lies at the other end of the continuum. Future tense is distinguished from present and past tenses, which mainly encode epistemic modality: present or past facts can be evaluated as true or false, while the same is not true of an eventuality expressed in the future tense. This is why the future tense may have deontic functions as well.

4. Modality in Thucydides’ military exhortations An analysis of modality can reveal significant aspects of the style of a speech, and this section addresses the issue of modality as a buildingblock of style. Modality can be related to cohesion and structure (4.1), coherence (4.2); it also enables us to evaluate the appropriateness of specific choices according to the communicative goal (4.3). Modality and the structure of a speech Archidamus’ military exhortation (2.11), which is cited here, is structured as a sequence of modality transitions. Significantly, each deontic part is complemented by a statement based on facts and direct evidence. The deontic parts are presented as the logical conclusion of the episte-

27 Ibid. 28 All speeches in Thucydides contain gnomai. Meister 1955, 15, regards their frequent presence in exhortation as “surprising”.

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mic parts and the transitions from premise to conclusion are clearly marked by discourse connectives.29 [1a] -mdqer Pekopomm^sioi ja· n}llawoi, ja· oR pat]qer Bl_m pokk±r stqate_ar ja· 1m aqt0 Pekopomm^s\ ja· 5ny 1poi^samto, ja· Bl_m aqt_m oR pqesb}teqoi oqj %peiqoi pok]lym eQs_m· flyr d³ t/sde oupy le_foma paqasjeuµm 5womter 1n^kholem, !kk± ja· 1p· p|kim dumatyt\tgm mOm 1qw|leha ja· aqto· pke?stoi ja· %qistoi stqate}omter. [1b] d_jaiom owm Bl÷r l^te t_m pat]qym we_qour va_meshai l^te Bl_m aqt_m t/r d|ngr 1mdeest]qour. [1c] B c±q :kk±r p÷sa t0de t0 bql0 1p/qtai ja· pqos]wei tµm cm~lgm, eumoiam 5wousa di± t¹ )hgma_ym 5whor pq÷nai Bl÷r $ 1pimooOlem. [2] oujoum wq^, eU t\ ja· dojoOlem pk^hei 1pi]mai ja· !sv\keia pokkµ eWmai lµ #m 1khe?m to»r 1mamt_our Bl?m di± l\wgr, to}tym 6meja !lek]steq|m ti paqesjeuasl]mour wyqe?m, !kk± ja· p|keyr 2j\stgr Bcel|ma ja· stqati~tgm t¹ jah’ art¹m aQe· pqosd]weshai 1r j_mdum|m tima Fneim. [3] %dgka c±q t± t_m pok]lym, ja· 1n ak_cou t± pokk± ja· di’ aqc/r aR 1piweiq^seir c_cmomtai· pokk\jir te t¹ 5kassom pk/hor dedi¹r %leimom Al}mato to»r pk]omar di± t¹ jatavqomoOmtar !paqasje}our cem]shai. [4] wqµ d³ aQe· 1m t0 pokel_ô t0 l³m cm~l, haqsak]our stqate}eim, t` d’ 5qc\ dedi|tar paqesjeu\shai· ovty c±q pq|r te t¹ 1pi]mai to?r 1mamt_oir eqxuw|tatoi #m eWem pq|r te t¹ 1piweiqe?shai !svak]statoi. [5] Ble?r d³ oqd’ 1p· !d}matom !l}meshai ovty p|kim 1qw|leha, !kk± to?r p÷sim %qista paqesjeuasl]mgm, [6] ¦ste wqµ ja· p\mu 1kp_feim di± l\wgr Q]mai aqto}r, eQ lµ ja· mOm ¦qlgmtai 1m è oupy p\qeslem, !kk’ ftam 1m t0 c0 bq_sim Bl÷r d,oOmt\r te ja· t!je_mym vhe_qomtar. [7] p÷si c±q 1m to?r ellasi ja· 1m t` paqaut_ja bq÷m p\swomt\r ti %gher aqcµ pqosp_ptei· ja· oR kocisl` 1k\wista wq~lemoi hul` pke?sta 1r 5qcom jah_stamtai. [8a] )hgma_our d³ ja· pk]om ti t_m %kkym eQj¹r toOto dq÷sai, oT %qweim te t_m %kkym !nioOsi ja· 1pi|mter tµm t_m p]kar d,oOm l÷kkom C tµm art_m bq÷m. [8b] ¢r owm 1p· tosa}tgm p|kim stqate}omter ja· lec_stgm d|nam oQs|lemoi to?r te pqoc|moir ja· Bl?m aqto?r 1p’ !lv|teqa 1j t_m !pobaim|mtym, 6pesh’ fp, %m tir Bc/tai, j|slom ja· vukajµm peq· pamt¹r poio}lemoi ja· t± paqaccekk|lema an]yr dew|lemoi· [8c] j\kkistom c±q t|de ja· !svak]statom, pokko»r emtar 2m· j|sl\ wqyl]mour va_meshai.

The speech’s overall structure is marked by symmetry. It consists of two parts ([1]-[4] and [5]-[8]) with corresponding sections: 29 As far as other stylistic devices are concerned, the speech lacks adjectives and the use of connectives (with the exception of ja_, c²q and d]) is sparse; topic shifts are not clearly indicated.

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[1], [2], [3], [4],

[5]: [6]: [7]: [8]:

mapping of the situation, expectations based on the preceding statements, general principles applicable to the situation, and directive conclusion.

More specifically, in both parts of the speech, after the initial reasoning that leads from an epistemic section ([1], [5]; for the internal structure of [1] see below) to a deontic utterance introduced by wq^, the implied subject of the infinitival complement being first person plural ([2], [6]), there follow strong generalizing expressions ([3], [7]: These sections comprise two units, a general, gnomic utterance and one with a more narrow reference, which exemplifies or applies the general idea to a specific case;30 as connectors are used te and ja_ – both are used only here); after the gnomic section, a concluding, connative section follows ([4], [8]). Both [4] and [8] are complex in structure. In [4] a strong deontic expression (wq^) comes first, followed by a potential expression logically dependant on the realization of the deontic utterance. In [8] a formally epistemic opening, which however expresses potentiality (i. e. weak veridicality) conveyed by eQj|r (1st_), lead to the speech’s peak, an explicit order by an imperative. A poetically and rhetorically coloured, short afterthought, endorses the order and closes the speech (j\kkistom c±q t|de ja· !svak]statom, pokko»r emtar 2m· j|sl\ wqyl]mour va_meshai): despite its epistemic expression it is logically subordinated to the deontic coda. Thus, we can identify a pattern which is repeated in both parts of the speech: Epistemic ! deontic (wq^) ! epistemic (“gnome”) ! deontic/potential

The first [1] and last [8] sections present a more complex internal structure as they include both epistemic and deontic units (according to the pattern: epistemic-deontic-epistemic); in [1] the framing epistemic units prevail, regarding both their length and their content (the intermediate, deontic unit [1b] does not have great binding force, since it forms part of an argument;31 in addition, it is rather conventional in content, and is 30 Meister 1955, 63 – 74, noticed that the distribution of gnomai in a speech is related to its structure. 31 Archidamus initiates his talk with a premise-conclusion sequence; the epistemic passage [1a] provides data he considers as true and known to his audience while the passage [1b] commits the audience. The premise-conclusion relation of the two passages is overtly marked by the use of the particle owm. The following epistemic statement [1c] justifies not only the previous sentence [1b] but the syllogism as a whole.

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expressed temperately: the verb used is a rather weak deontic verb, d_jai|m [1sti], and the phrase includes litotes);32 on the contrary, in [8] the deontic part is by far the longest period of the speech, and it articulates its principal order (the goal of the speech). Modality and cohesive devices The structural patterns and symmetries in the internal organization of Archidamus’ speech which are brought forward by the analysis of modality proposed in the previous section are further brought into relief if we take into account lexical correspondences as cohesive devices which also increase coherence. In the introductory units of both parts of the speech ([1], [5]) we find first person plural forms of the personal pronoun, together with the verb 1qw|leha, while in the concluding units ([4], [8]) we encounter the combination of c\q – an important cohesive device – and a superlative form of the adjective !svak^r (!svak]statoi, !svak]statom). )sv\keia, through its repetition in key positions of the speech (the noun also appears in [2]), reaches the status of a leitmotiv. Beside that, each concluding sentence of the units under review includes a further superlative type of an adjective, as well as rhetorical figures such as antithesis and parison. Switching between epistemic and deontic modality is signalled by the use of cohesion markers such as owm, oujoum, ¦ste and c\q. 33 They appear eight times in this speech, which in absolute numbers is the largest total number of occurrences for these words in Thucydides’ military speeches. In seven cases, the use of these markers signals the switching between epistemic and deontic modality (once, in [4], it marks the transition from wqµ to potential), from which it follows that the connection between modality and cohesion/coherence is a fundamental element of this speech. Apart from [5] which is introduced by d] , which here clearly is transitional, since it marks the transition to the second part of the speech, only the sections that follow the gnomic part make an exception, as they are introduced by d] . This d] has an appending force, connecting the new utterance to the preceding one as an extension of the same idea, an organic continuation of the gnome, as part of the universally acceptable idea expressed in the “gnomic sections”. Thus, the ideal consent between speaker and hearer claimed for the gnomic utterances is main32 On litotes in Thucydides see Pontier (this volume). 33 Cf. Buijs 2005.

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tained and increases the hearer’s readiness to accept the order conveyed by the deontic expression to follow in the last section of each part of the speech. While, however, there is no switching of modality between [7] and [8], there is between [3] and [4]. We shall return to this passage in the next section.34 Modality and communicative goals In Archidamus’ speech, the single instance of divergence from the otherwise common usage of language, where textual markers signal a switching between epistemic and deontic modality, is a transition from necessity expressed by wq^ ([3]) to possibility expressed by potential optative; the latter sentence is introduced by c\q [4]: wqµ d³ aQe· 1m t0 pokel_ô t0 l³m cm~l, haqsak]our stqate}eim, t` d’ 5qc\ dedi|tar paqesjeu\shai· ovty c±q pq|r te t¹ 1pi]mai to?r 1mamt_oir eqxuw|tatoi #m eWem pq|r te t¹ 1piweiqe?shai !svak]statoi. The deviation from what appears as a regular stylistic pattern in Archidamus’ speech may indicate the importance this speaker attributes to the topic under discussion and it may serve to alert readers as regards its importance. Careful evaluation of the danger and the unpredictability of 34 A brief examination of other exhortations supports the hypothesis of a connection between modality and the use of coherence markers that join cohesively epistemic and deontic. Thus, the next exhortation, the speech of the Peloponnesian generals (2.87), also presents a constant repetition of a specific combination of a coherence device and the switching of modality, i. e. there is consistency in the interplay of modality and textual markers. Textual markers only in two cases out of totally six instances are accompanied by switching of modality: owm is used twice for the transition from epistemic to deontic modality, in sentences which contain the only two verbs in imperative mood in this speech (i. e. expressions of the entirely grammaticized form of deontic commitment). Nicias’ last exhortation (7.77) provides a counter-example. Here the deontic peak (expressed by means of an imperative) is reached in an utterance which is connected to what precedes by ja· and which opens with eQj|r. Undoubtedly, this is a peculiar and rather inappropriate syntax (see Lüdtke 1930, 88: “… so wendet sich Nikias von beruhigender eröreterung zu packender aufforderung in seiner letzten rede VII 77,4 ja· Bl÷r eQj¹r mOm t\ te !p¹ toO heoO 1kp_feim Api~teqa 6neim (oUjtou c±q !p’ aqt_m !ni~teqoi Edg 1sl³m C vh|mou), ja· bq_mter rl÷r aqto»r oXoi bpk?tai ûla ja· fsoi numtetacl]moi wyqe?te lµ jatap]pkgwhe %cam, koc_feshe d³ fti aqto_ te p|kir eqh}r 1ste fpoi #m jah]fgshe ja· %kkg oqdel_a rl÷r t_m 1m Sijek_ô out’ #m 1pi|mtar d]naito Nôd_yr out’ #m Rdquh]mtar pou 1namast^seie”). Nicias is a weak speaker, and this verbal behaviour is typical for his shortcomings as a statesman throughout Thucydides’ History.

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events during a campaign abroad should nor remain unnoticed by the reader. The passage suggests the importance of this topic for the interpretation of events in Thucydides’ History. As we have already noted, the behaviour of soldiers during a campaign in a hostile country (1m t0 pokel_ô), also appears, in speeches by Hippocrates and Nicias. There it seems to be an important key for a full understanding of the narrated events. It seems, therefore, that Archidamus’ linguistic choices serve to pinpoint elements crucial for the interpretation of the text. The specific passage contributes to the positive evaluation of the speaker: Archidamus makes the best of his potential to avoid circumstances similar to those which Hippocrates and Nicias will face in the course of the war. This attitude is also consistent with the foregrounding of the motif of !sv\keia in the speech (3 instances, the highest number in an exhortation; Brasidas – also a Spartan – on one occasion uses the term t¹ !svak]r [twice, 4.126.6]). Bearing all this in mind, one could argue that the use of modality in the military exhortations (and especially deviations from what appears to be stylistic norms), can provide the key for an evaluation of the means employed by speakers to achieve their goals, and, hence advance the interpretation of Thucydides’ text. We can test this principle by applying it to the peculiar or remarkable elements in Hippocrates’ and Nicias’ speeches, which were observed but not thoroughly discussed in previous sections. First, we noted the frequent use of meta-communicative expressions by both speakers, in parallel with the use of the verb paq_stalai as a cognitive verb, in expressions which conveyed exhortation. References to one’s speech which included the terms paqa_mesir, rp|lmgsir, 1pij]keusir, or expressions such as toqmamt_om rpolilm-sjy rl÷r C oR pok]lioi sv_sim aqto?r ew oWd’ fti paqajeke}omtai work against the immediate aim of the speaker, which is to encourage, since they substitute a direct appeal to the troops with epistemic judgements about it. By moving towards epistemic modality, the speaker who addresses a contingent right before a battle fails to fully satisfy the demands of a critical war situation, notably determined and unyielding leadership. In such situations a speaker rather has to encourage, inspire and direct, and this task is ideally accomplished by conative expressions – not by contemplative statements. The objective in such a situation is not information and persuasion, but the management of emotions. To take this observation to its logical conclusion, linguistic choices reflect Nicias’ ethos and suggest doubt as to his ability to perform his duty as a military leader, start-

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ing with his authority and power over his men as a presupposition for successfully communicating with them in this particular situation. Second, the exhortation by means of cognitive verbs in imperative mood can be questioned in a similar manner. A judgement can be accepted or rejected. To increase its acceptability, a speaker can only apply rational reasoning. Trying to communicate it not by rational means aiming at persuasion but with expressions which imply deontic commitment raises doubts about a speaker’s ability to achieve his goal (in this case it is persuasion) through appropriate means. This is exactly the case with Nicias and Hippocrates, who introduce their arguments about fighting abroad with imperative forms of paq_stalai. Epistemic intensity is further restricted when, in Hippocrates’ speech, a deontic expression (oq pqos/jom) depends on a cognitive verb, while in Nicias’ speech a judgement is expressed with future tense (Hippocrates, 4.95.2: paqast0 d³ lgdem· rl_m ¢r 1m t0 !kkotq_ô oq pqos/jom tos|mde j_mdumom !maqqiptoOlem ; Nicias, 6.68.3: paqast^ty d] timi ja· t|de, pok} te !p¹ t/r Blet]qar aqt_m eWmai ja· pq¹r c0 oqdeliø vik_ô, Fmtima lµ aqto· law|lemoi jt^seshe).35 Such features are additional indications that the style of Thucydides’ speeches encodes information about the speakers’ personalities, which can explain their actions and contribute to the interpretation of the narrated events. The above discussion has shown that the analysis of modality as a part of the study of style in the speeches adds to the appreciation of Thucydides’ authorial technique. Focussing on military exhortations, which are suited par excellence to a full exploitation of deontic modality, the investigation (constrained to selected representative examples, given the limitations of space in this paper) has brought to light a new aspect of the relationship between style and content and enhances the interpretation of both the speeches and the work of Thucydides in its entirety.

35 In a similar case, Brasidas introduces a gnome by an opinion verb in imperative mood, i. e. an expression with greater epistemic force than the introductory verb. This, however, can be appriciated as a rhetorically plausible politeness strategy (5.9.9): mol_sate eWmai toO jak_r pokele?m t¹ 1h]keim ja· t¹ aQsw}meshai ja· to?r %qwousi pe_heshai.

Attributive Discourse in the Speeches in Thucydides Maria Pavlou 1. Introduction The speeches in Thucydides’ History have always been the subject of vivid discussion among scholars and constitute, still nowadays, one of the most controversial and vexed questions, especially in terms of the authenticity of their composition, their content, function, and interplay with the overall narrative.1 The logoi, both political and military, will monopolize our study as well, though from a quite different angle. My primary concern will not be to embark upon an examination and analysis of the speeches per se, but rather of the passages which enclose them, that is, their settings. Westlake2 was the first who offered a somewhat systematic discussion of the sections that precede and follow a speech, the “preamble” and “postscript”, as he called them.3 According to Westlake, in these sections Thucydides adopts the role of an annalist, and merely cites the bare minimum required for the comprehension of a speech. As he put it, the settings are “brief, straightforward and factual, in striking contrast to the complexity of the speeches.”4 Whereas the significance of the settings is undeniable, there has been no further attempt for their study since then. Yet, is their function merely informative and factual pace Westlake, or do they play a more complex and intricate role in the interpretation of the speeches? This is the question I would like to think about and tackle with in this paper.

1 2 3 4

See, among others, Hornblower 1987, Chapter 3; Cogan 1981, esp. ix-xvii; Wilson 1982; Rood 1998, 46 – 48; Morrison 2006a, 251 – 277. Westlake 1973, 90 – 108. Westlake 1973, 91 Westlake 1973, 91.

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2. The Settings’ “Anatomy” First of all, let us refer, very briefly, to the kind of information that one comes across in the settings. The “preamble” may provide information regarding three components: a) the conditions of delivery of a speech, b) the speaker, and c) the audience.5 The conditions of delivery may include information about the wider event (whether a public assembly or a larger gathering), the place and time, and other related speeches (ja· Jk]ym b Jkeaim]tou, fspeq ja· tµm pqot]qam 1memij^jei ¦ste !pojte?mai, £m ja· 1r t± %kka biai|tator t_m pokit_m t` te d^l\ paq± pok» 1m t` t|te piham~tator, paqekh½m awhir 5kece toi\de, 3.36.6 – Cleon son of

Cleanetus, the same who had carried the former motion of putting the Mytilenians to death, the most violent man at Athens, and at that time by far the most powerful with The People, came forward again and spoke as follows;6 9m d³ t` aqt` weil_mi )hgma?oi t` patq_\ m|l\ wq~lemoi dglos_ô tav±r 1poi^samto t_m 1m t`de t` pok]l\ pq~tym !poham|mtym… 1p· d’ owm to?r pq~toir to?sde Peqijk/r b Namh_ppou Òq]hg k]ceim. ja· 1peidµ jaiq¹r 1k\lbame, pqoekh½m !p¹ toO s^lator 1p· b/la rxgk¹m pepoigl]mom, fpyr !jo}oito ¢r 1p· pke?stom toO bl_kou, 5kece toi\de, 2.34.1 – 8 – In the same winter the Athenians gave a funeral at the public cost to those who had first fallen in this war… Meanwhile these were the first that had fallen, and Pericles son of Xanthippus was chosen to pronounce their eulogy. When the proper time arrived, he advanced from the sepulcher to an elevated platform in order to be heard by as many of the crowd as possible and spoke as follows). As far as the speaker is concerned, we are normally informed about his name and patronym, perhaps his citizenship and office, while on some occasions there may be mention of his feelings, thoughts, intentions/motives,7 and the overarching aim of his speech: b d³ [Pericles] bq_m aqto»r pq¹r t± paq|mta wakepa_momtar ja· p\mta poioOmtar ûpeq aqt¹r Ekpife, n}kkocom poi^sar (5ti d’ 1stqat^cei) 1bo}keto haqsOma_ te ja· !pacac½m t¹ eqcif|lemom t/r cm~lgr pq¹r t¹ Api~teqom ja· !de]steqom jatast/sai· paqekh½m d³ 5kene toi\de. (2.59.3)

5 6 7

Westlake 1973, 91 – 95; Morrison 2006a, 256. All translations are from the revised edition of R. Crawley’s translation, in: Strassler 1996. On motives in Thucydides see among others, Schneider 1974, Westlake 1989a, and mainly the thoughtful discussion by Tamiolaki, (this volume, 41 – 72), who also cites relevant bibliography.

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When he saw them exasperated at the present turn of affairs and acting exactly as he had anticipated, he called an assembly, being (it must be remembered) still general, with the double object of restoring confidence and of leading them from these angry feelings to a calmer and more hopeful state of mind. He accordingly came forward and spoke as follows.

Characterisation of a speaker occurs only rarely and can range from a brief statement (1.79.2 on Archidamus) 8 to a whole paragraph (6.15.2 – 5 on Alcibiades). Finally, the preamble may include information regarding the audience’s structure, their relationship to, and predisposition towards, the speaker, and their state of mind during the communication event (ja· 1peidµ p÷m t¹ stq\teula numeikecl]mom Gm, )qw_dalor b basike»r t_m Kajedailom_ym, fspeq Bce?to t/r 1n|dou ta}tgr, nucjak]sar to»r stqatgco»r t_m p|keym pas_m ja· to»r l\kista 1m t]kei ja· !niokocyt\tour paq-mei toi\de, 2.10.3 – After the whole army had mustered, the Spartan king, Archidamus, the leader of the expedition, called together the generals of all the states and the principal persons and officers, and exhorted them as follows; paqekh|mter d³ tekeuta?oi Joq_mhioi ja· to»r %kkour 1\samter pq_tom paqonOmai to»r Kajedailom_our 1pe?pom toi\de, 1.67.5 – Last of all the Corinthians came forward, and having let those who preceded them inflame the Spartans, now followed with a speech to this effect; …numej\kesam to»r stqati~tar pq_tom, ja· bq_mter aqt_m to»r pokko»r di± tµm pqot]qam Hssam voboul]mour ja· oq pqoh}lour emtar paqejeke}samto ja· 5kenam toi\de, 2.86.6 – [A]nd noticing that the men were most of them cowed by the previous defeat and out of heart for the business, first called them together and encouraged them as follows). It is notable that paralinguistic information (i. e. body language, gestures, facial expressions, tone and pitch of voice), which could evidently impart vividness and a more dramatic tone to a speech, is normally dismissed. A few such references occur in the preamble of military harangues; no doubt, the most salient example occurs in the preamble to the last speech of Nicias in Book 7, where the Athenian General is presented walking among the ranks of his soldiers raising his voice higher and higher so that he can be heard: jq_m d³ b Mij¸ar t¹ stq²teula !huloOm ja· 1m lec²k, letabok0 em, 1pipaqi½m ¢r 1j t_m rpaqwºmtym 1h²qsum´ te ja· paqeluhe?to, bo0 te wq¾lemor 5ti l÷kkom 2j²stoir jah’ otr c¸cmoito rp¹ pqohul¸ar ja· boukºlemor ¢r 1p· pke?stom cecym¸sjym ¡veke?m ti. (7.76)

8

paqekh½m d³ )qw¸dalor b basike»r aqt_m, !mµq ja· numet¹r doj_m eWmai ja· s¾vqym, 5kene toi²de.

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Nicias seeing the army dejected and greatly altered, passed along the ranks and encouraged and comforted them as far as was possible under the circumstances, raising his voice still higher and higher as he went from one company to another in his earnestness, and in his anxiety that the benefit of his words might reach as many as possible.

As far as the postscript is concerned, in the political speeches attention is concentrated on the outcome and the reception of a speech by the audience.9 The extent of this section can range from a brief reference to the decision taken (e. g. Mytilene Debate – 34 words) 10 to a detailed description of the voting procedure (e. g. speech of Sthenelaidas – 81 words) 11 and the reasons which led to a specific verdict/plan of action (e. g. Sicilian debate – 115 words; antilogia between Corinthians and Corcyreans – 133 words).12 The postscript to military harangues, on the other hand, is normally quite brief and here Thucydides tends to shift his attention exclusively to the action that follows. References to the reaction of the troops occur only three times, the lengthiest being the enthusiastic reception of the speech of Demosthenes by his soldiers: TosaOta toO Dglosh´mour paqajekeusal´mou oR )hgma?oi 1h²qsgs²m te l÷kkom ja· 1pijatab²mter 1t²namto paq’ aqtµm tµm h²kassam, 4.11.1 (Thus encouraged by Demosthenes, the Athenians felt more confident, and went down to meet the enemy, posting themselves along the edge of the sea). This comes as no surprise, considering that such military exhortations did not allow scope for disagreement or contestation on the soldiers’ behalf. Additionally, this could also be seen as Thucydides’ attempt to articulate the speed by which events unfold in the battlefield and to conjure up, more forcefully, what one could call ‘the temporality of war’.13 The speech of the general Hippocrates in Book 4, which is interrupted by the sudden attack of Pagondas and the Boeotians, provides an excellent such example: ToiaOta toO Zppojq²tour paqajekeuol´mou ja· l´wqi l³m l´sou toO stqatop´dou 1pekhºmtor, t¹ d³ pk´om oqj´ti vh²samtor, oR Boiyto¸, paqajekeusal´mou ja· sv¸sim ¢r di± taw´ym ja· 1mtaOha Pac¾mdou, paiam¸samter 1p0sam !p¹ toO kºvou. (4.96.1)

9 10 11 12 13

See also Morrison 2006a, 256 – 257. Th. 3.49. Th.1.87. Th. 6.24; 1.44. Note that in many cases the capping phrase includes the adverb eqh¼r ; see, e. g. Th. 6.69.1; 7.65.1.

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Hippocrates had got half through the army with his exhortation, when the Boeotians, after a few more hasty words from Pagondas, struck up the paean, and came against them from the hill.

How do the settings “move”? Sketchy though it is, the above outline suffices to indicate the crucial role of the settings for the pragmatic approach of the Thucydidean logoi. 14 The speeches were not delivered in vacuo but within a specific context, to a specific audience, by a specific speaker, at a specific time and place. Accordingly, their meaning cannot and does not depend merely on semantics, but also on the conditions of delivery, that is to whom, by whom, when, where and how they were delivered. Seen from this aspect, the information included in the preamble and postscript is not merely subsidiary or secondary but essential for the interpretation of the speeches as communicative acts, in so far as it sheds light upon a speaker’s intended aims, his stylistic registers and his stance towards his audience. At the same time, it enables the evaluation of the factors which rendered a speech persuasive, non-persuasive or pointless.15 In addition to the crucial role they play in the pragmatic approach of the speeches though, the preamble and the postscript seem to serve another significant, yet neglected purpose. From what has been said so far, it can be inferred that, thematically at least, the range of information included in the settings is more or less the same. Whereas this is true, a closer examination reveals that the settings do differ in terms of extension and focalisation. Therefore, while on some occasions an introductory phrase may consist of a single sentence and the bare minimum, at other times it may be lengthier and more elaborate. Likewise, the narrative lens sometimes focuses on the speaker and his motives, and some others on the subject-matter of the speech or the audience’s psychological state or the decision/voting procedure. How are we supposed to comprehend these differences? Are they meaningless and fortuitous? Do they contribute merely to the variatio of the settings? Does the quantity and quality of information provided depend on the amount of information that Thucydides had at his disposal? Is the information he chooses to include essential per se or essential with regards to the 14 On pragmatics see, among others,Yule 1996. 15 On the importance of pragmatics in the stylistic choices of the speakers see esp. Tsakmakis 2006; cf. Allison 2006 and Charalambakis 2006, who also draw attention to this.

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point that he opts each time to stress? For instance, regarding the postscript to Sthenelaidas’ speech at Sparta, why does Thucydides pay so much attention to the voting procedure (“a rather trivial incident”, according to Westlake) 16 leaving the rationale of the Spartans’ decision in abeyance? Is it because the former was more significant or because it suited more his purposes? I would like to put forward the suggestion that, apart from its contribution to the contextualisation of a speech, the information that Thucydides chooses to include in the settings implicitly steers the reader to approach a logos from a specific point of view, and draws his attention to a particular aspect thereof. In the settings the historian does not gather “only such information and comment as he believes to be essential”, so that “the attention of his readers, when studying his reports on debates, to be concentrated upon the speeches themselves”,17 but rather adopts an eclectic stance; he provides those elements which he wanted his reader to focus on and reflect upon each time. Let us consider an example. It is Thucydides’ practice, in the case of an antilogy, to explicate the reasons which led the audience to reach their final decision.18 A conspicuous exception to this rule is the Mytilenean Debate, where no such explanation is provided (3.49.1). This piece of information is not omitted because it was insignificant, but rather because it didn’t suit Thucydides’ purpose, as it could detract the audience’s attention from what he deemed to be the core here: the “struggle” between the demagogues Cleon and Diodotus. As many scholars have observed, the antilogy between Diodotus and Cleon is offered as an eloquent exemplification of Thucydides’ allegation in 2.65.10 – 11 that after the death of Pericles there was a deterioration in the Athenian political arena.19 Furthermore, as Cogan observes, the Mytilenean Debate involved much more than a decision on a particular case, as the decision of the Athe-

16 17 18 19

Westlake 1973, 100. Westlake 1973, 95. Westlake 1973, 102. oR d³ vsteqom Usoi l÷kkom aqto· pq¹r !kk¶kour emter ja· aqecºlemoi toO pq_tor 6jastor c¸cmeshai 1tq²pomto jah’ Bdom±r t` d¶l\ ja· t± pq²clata 1mdidºmai

(With his successors it was different. More on a level with one another, and each grasping at supremacy, they ended by committing even the conduct of state affairs to the whims of the multitude). See Andrewes 1962, 76; Wassermann 1956, 27 – 41.

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nians would affect Athens’ foreign policy in general.20 Accordingly, in this case, it did not really matter why such a decision was reached, but rather that it was actually taken. Every single speech serves a purpose and the settings ensure that the reader will comprehend it. Is it sheer coincidence that none of the speeches cited in direct speech is delivered under identical conditions and that each time the scenario is different in one way or the other? Indeed, there has been an extended discussion vis--vis Thucydides’ principles of selection from the great bulk of speeches that must have been delivered on the eve of, and during the Peloponnesian War. Researchers have often wondered why the historian chooses to cite full-fledged speeches which are not that important and to omit or introduce in oratio obliqua others apparently more significant. The suggestion promoted here seems to provide a possible and plausible answer to this “peculiarity”. At the same time, it enables us to account for another particularity – the “imperfect coordination” that may exist between certain speeches and their settings. As Westlake has pointed out, on some occasions there is a discrepancy between the two, while, on other occasions, the settings unreasonably refer to identifiable passages in the speeches. He ascribed this to the fact that the settings and the speeches were not written at the same time, and that they have escaped the historian’s final editorial touch.21 More recently, Morrison has provided a more nuanced explanation, arguing that in Thucydides the interaction between a speech and its setting (as well as of speech and narrative in general) is always dynamic and purposeful, whether the narrative section anticipates, complements or is at variance with the speech that frames.22 As he puts it, in doing so “Thucydides demonstrates to his reader the possible links of speech and narrative in this local setting”.23 Bearing this in mind, I would move a step forward and add that Thucydides did not want merely to provide his reader with a number of possible links thus “presenting him with a complex task of analysis”, but also to direct him to reflect upon particular issues. 20 Cogan 1981, 52: “Cleon and Diodotus realised that they were arguing much more than an individual case, and were at the least, proposing policy that Athens was to follow in dealing with all its allies”. Note that the future implications of this decision are acknowledged by the speakers themselves (mol¸fy d³ peq· toO l´kkomtor Bl÷r l÷kkom bouke¼eshai C toO paqºmtor, 3.44.3). 21 Westlake 1973, 103 – 108. 22 Morrison 2006a, 258 – 259. 23 Morrison 2006a, 259.

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3. Attributive Discourse The short space of this paper does not allow me to venture upon a full examination of the settings as such. Nevertheless, in order to unpack and shed light upon the multifarious role and careful orchestration of preambles and postscripts, I would like to narrow down the scope of my survey to one particular aspect thereof – the sentences which introduce and cap a direct speech attributing it to a specific speaker (e. g. he said/she replied angrily). As it will become clear, attributive discourse in Thucydides follows a uniform pattern. However, on many occasions, there are certain intentional deviations from the norm (particularly regarding the denomination of the speaker and the verb of speaking), which serve specific purposes, such as qualifying a speech and partly determining its reception by the reader. In narratology these sentences are known as “attributive discourse”, a term coined by Gerald Prince in his 1978 paper “Le discours attributif et le récit”. According to the definition of Prince, attributive discourse is: Les locutions et les phrases qui, dans un récit… accompagnent le discours direct et l’attribuent à tel autre – les “dit-il”, “s’écria-t-elle”, “demanda-t-il en soupirant”, “répondit-elle en regardant la toile” qui régissent partiellement la circulation des voix et contribuent  situer la parole, son origine, son contexte et sa destination… 24 (my emphasis).

These introductory and capping phrases constitute the narrator’s last word before handing over the narrative to the characters of the History and the first after resuming his role qua narrator; hence they occupy a very prominent position in the settings.25 As de Jong points out, in addition to signalling a change on the level of focalization and narration, attributive discourse allows the primary narrator (NF1) to provide information about the speaker, the addressee, and the speech-act thus helping the primary Narratee-Focalizee (NeFe1) 26 to understand and interpret a 24 Prince 1978, 305. 25 As Prince 1978, 309 observes, “Mais étudier le discours attributif dans le récit en général ou dans un récit en particulier, ce n’est pas seulement en décrire les formes, les modes d’apparition, ou les possibilités de combinaison avec d’autres catégories de signes, c’est aussi en déterminer le rendement dans l’économie narrative, la façon dont il fonctionne la manière dont il signifie”. 26 De Jong 1987 uses the term “primary Narrator-Focalizer” (NF1) to refer to the primary narrator who presents the narrative, and the term “primary NarrateeFocalizee” (NeFe1) to refer to the recipient of this narrative.

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speech properly.27 What is more, through attributive discourse the narrator “makes clear how he interprets the words spoken by the heroes and how he wishes the NeFe1 to interpret them”28 (my emphasis). In a nutshell, he implicitly controls the audience’s emotional reaction to a character-text. Thucydides’ unfailing use of attributive discourse in all speeches is noteworthy, considering the genre he ascribes to.29 Whereas in antiquity this kind of signposting was essential in performance-oriented genres, in so far as the change of speaker could be marked only through the use of epithets or descriptive phrases that introduce and cap a speech, it was often omitted in texts intended for reading, since there the distinction between direct and indirect speech could be maintained by the use of punctual signs.30 Thucydidean attributive discourse consists mainly of the speaker, the verb of speaking, the neutral plural of a demonstrative pronoun, which serves as a direct object, and an adverbial (temporal) participle, which refers to the speaker’s coming forward in order to deliver his speech;31 it may also include mention of the audience, the order in which a speech was delivered and other additional information.32 Here I will mainly focus on the first three.33

27 De Jong 1987, 195 ff. esp. 207. 28 De Jong 1987, 208. 29 See Morrison 2006a, 261: “By such signposting, Thucydides very deliberately shows he is shifting from narrative to speech and speech to narrative” (my emphasis). 30 To be sure, attributive discourse is occasionally omitted in performance-oriented poetry as well, and one may encounter a few such examples in Homer, Sappho and Aeschylus; see West (1990) 8 – 9 and n. 6. 31 The verbs used are normally paq]qwolai and 1p]qwolai in the aorist (paqekh~m/1pekh~m). 32 This additional information can be broadly divided into two categories: a) information which reaches and is perceptible by the characters (e. g. gestures, mode of delivery); b) information which reaches merely the reader and which the narrator supplies in order to enable the better understanding of the speech (e. g. hint at or mention of the content of the speech etc.). This useful categorisation is made by de Jong 1987, 204 – 205 in her analysis of attributive discourse in the Iliad. 33 For the statistics that follow have not been considered the “dialogue” between Archidamus and the Plataeans in Book 2 and the dialogue between the Melians and the Athenians in Book 5.

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Speaker Speakers are normally referred to by their proper names, both in the introductory and capping phrase, with the name being placed before the verb of speaking: ja· b Mij¸ar… paqekh½m aqto?r awhir 5kece toi²de (6.19.2) [Introductory Phrase]; j l³m Mij¸ar tosaOta eWpe… (6.24.1) [Capping Phrase]. When a speech is attributed to more than one speaker, denomination consists either of a collective noun or the combination of proper and collective nouns: jatast²sgr d³ 1jjkgs¸ar 1r !mtikoc¸am Gkhom, ja· oR l³m Jeqjuqa?oi 5kenam toi²de, 1.31.4; oR d³ Joq¸mhioi let’ aqto»r toi²de, 1.36.4;34 5peita b Jm/lor ja· b Bqas¸dar ja· oR %kkoi t_m Pekopommgs¸ym stqatgco¸… paqejeke¼samto ja· 5kenam toi²de, 2.86.6; ja· 1peidµ p²mta 2to?la Gm, paqejeke¼samto 1je¸moir oV te stqatgco· ja· C¼kippor ja· 5kenam toi²de, 7.65.3.35 When a speaker appears for the very first time in the History, Thucydides usually provides his patronymic, unless his contribution to the development of the events is not decisive or crucial: jatast²sgr d’ eqh»r 1jjkgs¸ar %kkai te cm_lai !v’ 2j²stym 1k´comto ja· Jk´ym b Jkeaim´tou… 3.36.6; Pac¾mdar b AQok²dou boiytaqw_m 1j Hgb_m let’ )qiamh¸dou toO Kusilaw¸dou ja· Bcelom¸ar ousgr aqtoO… 4.91.36 There are, of course, exceptions to the rule. Pericles, for instance, is referred to by his patronymic in the preamble to his first speech in 1.140, even though this is not his first appearance in the narrative.37 Griffith argues that on many occasions the use of a partronymic indicates that something important is approaching.38 I would add that, as far as the speeches are concerned, the way in which a speaker is referred to may be reflective of the stance he adopts 34 Envoys are named only rarely throughout the History; see, e. g., 1.139.3, where Thucydides provides the names of the three Spartan envoys who delivered the final Spartan ultimatum to the Athenians, and 2.12.1, where the name of the envoy, whom Archidamus sent to Athens, is also specified. 35 One of the things that call for attention in the last attributive discourse relates to the order of names. Whereas one would expect that the proper name would precede the collective noun (as is indeed the case in 2.86 above), here the name of Gylippus comes second. In his commentary on the speech Dover 1965, 444 observes: “The sentiment and standpoint throughout are Syracusan… and we are not to think of Gylippos as the speaker”. The remark is important, as it leaves it to be inferred that most likely the order of the speakers’ names is not circumstantial. 36 On the introduction of persons in Thucydides see Griffith 1961. 37 Pericles appears eight times before and twice is mentioned by his patronymic, in 1.111.2 and 1.127.1 respectively. 38 Griffith 1961, 22.

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in his speech, or it may be focalised through the audience’s point of view.39 For instance, in the introductory phrase to the speech of the Peloponnesian generals in Book 2 the denomination of the speakers reads as follows: 5peita b Jm/lor ja· b Bqas¸dar ja· oR %kkoi t_m Pekopommgs¸ym stqatgco_, boukºlemoi 1m t²wei tµm maulaw¸am poi/sai… paqejeke¼samto ja· 5kenam toi²de, 2.86.6 (At last Cnemus and Brasidas and the rest of the Peloponnesian commanders, being desirous of bringing on a battle as soon as possible… encouraged them as follows). In the capping phrase, contrary to the norm, the generals are referred to by the collective “commanders”: ToiaOta l³m to?r Pekopommgs¸oir oR %qwomter paqejeke¼samto, 2.88.1. Thucydides’ predilection here may be more evaluative than it first seems. Commenting on this military harangue Hornblower notes: “However, the harping on the Peloponnesians’ fears, inexperience, and previous defeat is remarkable in what is supposed to be a speech of encouragement, and although it begins by asserting that the earlier defeat was due to no cowardice, it ends by threatening would-be cowards.”40 I would suggest that Thucydides’ choice of the noun %qwomter is intentional and reflects exactly this: the authoritative and threatening tone with which the generals round off their parakeleusis. 41 39 On this issue see the useful discussion in Prince, especially 310: “…le sujet d’une phrase attributive fonctionne souvent comme indicateur de point de vue”. 40 Hornblower 1991, 367. 41 Illustrative is also the somewhat colloquial “dialogue” between Archidamus and the Plataeans in Book 2. In 2.71 Thucydides informs us that Archidamus indented to commence the siege of Plataea. Here the Spartan king is referred to in a rather solemn way, with both his patronymic and title (Bce?to d³ )qw_dalor b Feunid\lou Kajedailom_ym basike}r). A few lines below, Thucydides cites Archidamus’ response to the Plataeans’ plea not to violate their territory, a very moderate and conciliatory response, indeed. Here the Spartan king is referred to simply by his name ()qw_dalor rpokab½m eWpem). In his second response to the Plataeans, he appears even more moderate [note that, while his first speech ends with the phrase ja· t²de Bl?m !qj´sei (72.1), where the terms of the negotiation are determined exclusively by the Spartans, in the second speech the Plataeans are given the right to decide these terms in unison with the Spartans (l´wqi d³ toOde 6nolem paqajatah¶jgm, 1qcafºlemoi ja· voq±m v´qomter D #m rl?m l´kk, Rjamµ 5seshai, 73.1; on Archidamus stance in this dialogue see Wassermann (1953) 198]. In the introductory phrase, the name is replaced with the demonstrative phrase b d] (b d³ haqs}mym aqto»r pq¹r taOta 5vg…, 2.72.3). The Plataeans’ intransigence, though, to accept the Spartans’ offer fuels Archidamus’ rage against them and in his final response, also cited in oratio recta by Thucydides, he invokes the gods asserting that the

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In addition to the name and the patronymic, attributive discourse may also include brief comments on a speaker’s rhetorical ability, his motives, and scarcily his character and ethos. Characterisation in attributive discourse occurs in relation to king Archidamus, Pericles and Cleon: paqekh½m d³ )qw¸dalor b basike»r aqt_m, !mµq ja· numet¹r doj_m eWmai ja· s¾vqym, 5kene toi²de, 1.79.2; ja· paqekh½m Peqijk/r b Namh¸ppou, !mµq jat’ 1je?mom t¹m wqºmom pq_tor )hgma¸ym, k´ceim te ja· pq²sseim dumat¾tator, paq-mei toi²de, 1.139.4; ja· Jk´ym b Jkeaim´tou, fspeq ja· tµm pqot´qam 1mem¸jgjei ¦ste !pojte?mai, £m ja· 1r t± %kka biaiºtator t_m pokit_m t` te d/l\ paq± pok» 1m t` tºte piham¾tator, paqekh½m awhir 5kece toi²de, 3.36.6. In the case of Hermocrates, Brasidas, Athenagoras, Cleon and Pericles the introductory phrase also contains a remark on their rhetorical ability and influence upon their fellow-citizens: Bqas¸dar… ja· jatast±r 1p· t¹ pk/hor (Gm d³ oqd³ !d¼mator, ¢r Kajedailºmior), eQpe?m, 5kece toi²de, 4.84.2; paqekh½m d’ aqto?r )hgmacºqar, dr d¶lou te pqost²tgr Gm ja· 1m t` paqºmti piham¾tator to?r pokko?r, 5kece toi²de, 6.35.2.42 Verb of speaking The introductory phrase of both political and military speeches typically contains one, and occasionally two, verbs of speaking in the imperfect or aorist indicative (ja· oR l³m Jeqjuqa?oi 5kenam toi²de, 1.31.4; Zppojq²tgr b stqatgc¹r 1pipaqi½m t¹ stqatºpedom t_m )hgma¸ym paqejeke¼etº te ja· 5kece toi²de, 4.94.2).43 In the capping phrase, however, there seems to be a difference between political and military speeches, as far as the mood of the verb of speaking is concerned. Whereas in the former attack on Plataea is just. Here, once again, the initial solemnity returns and Archidamus becomes ‘the king of the Lacedaimonians’ (¢r d³ !pejq_mamto, 1mteOhem dµ pq_tom l³m 1r 1pilaqtuq_am ja· he_m ja· Bq~ym t_m 1cwyq_ym )qw_dalor b basike»r jat]stg…, 2.74.2). As can be inferred from this brief example, the way in which Archidamus is referred to in each particular case is reflective of the stance (authoritative/less authoritative) he adopts in his speech. See also the way in which Pericles is mentioned in the introductory phrase to his last speech and compare it to his denomination in his first speech and the Funeral Speech. 42 Cf. 3.36.6 on Cleon and 1.139.4 on Pericles. For introducing characters in Thucydides, cf. also de Bakker (this volume, 23 – 40). 43 Exceptional are the introductory phrases: a) to Pagondas speech – the verb k]cy is in participle b) to Alcibiades’ speech at Sparta – use of three verbs of speaking.

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the verb is normally in the indicative,44 in the latter it often appears as participle or in the form of genitive absolute (ToiaOta b Pac¾mdar to?r Boiyto?r paqaim´sar…, 4.93.1; TosaOta toO Dglosh´mour paqajekeusal´mou…, 4.11.1). In this way, the act of speaking as such is per force put in the background, and the focus shifts either to the reaction of the audience or to the action initiated by the speech.45 It is not, therefore, surprising or sheer coincidence that participles and genitive absolutes are mostly found in the postscripts to military speeches, especially if we consider that the aim of these harangues was first and above all to exhort the troops to action rather than to inform, scold, persuade or dissuade.46 The verbs of speaking that introduce and close a speech are mainly four: k´cy (and the compound 1pik]cy),47 paqajeke¼olai, paqaim_ 44 There are three exceptions: 1.87 (Sthenelaidas); 2.65 (Pericles); 4.65 (Hermocrates) 45 See Prince 1978, 310 who points out that when a participle is used in lieu of a finite verb “l’acte de parole passe à l’arrière-plan, il n’est plus qu’un complément à la mimique et, par là même, perd de sa force”. 46 See, e. g. 6.69.1: j l³m Mij¸ar toiaOta paqajekeus²lemor 1p/ce t¹ stqatºpedom eqh¼r. 47 This compound verb appears in the introductory phrase to the speech of the Corinthians during the First Congress at Sparta (1.67). Its use is telling as, in

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and pe¸hy. In the military harangues k´cy occurs twelve times, paqajeke¼olai thirteen, and each paqaim_ and pe¸hy three.48 There is also one instance of each of the verbs paqaluhoOlai and haqs¼my.49 In the political speeches, on the other hand, k´cy is by far the most prominent with forty-four instances. There are also four instances of the verb paqaim_50 and one instance of each of the verbs paqon¼my, 1noql_ and pe¸hy.51 Despite all of them being verbs of speaking, if we assume that each logos constitutes an extended “speech act”, each of these verbs draws attention to a different dimension of this speech act. K]cy, for instance, points merely to the locutionary act of the speaker, the act of saying something, without specifying his intention or the speech’s effect upon the audience. Verbs like paqajeke}olai and paqaim_, on the other side, refer not only to the locutionary dimension of the speech act, but also to its illocutionary force, that is, to the speaker’s communicative intention (e. g. advice, exhortation). Finally, verbs like pe_hy and paqon}my seem to refer not so much to the intentions of the speaker but rather to the effects that a speech had upon the audience, that is, to its “perlocutionary” force.52 Accordingly, the verb of speaking employed in each particular case directs the reader to approach the speech from a rather different angle. The verb k]cy is “unmarked”, in the sense that it leaves it to the reader to decide upon the illocutionary force of a speech (note that the same utterance can potentially have quite different illocutionary forces), while the verbs paqaim_ and paqajeke}olai are “marked”, for they somehow “direct” the reader’s attention to a particular illocutionary force.

48 49 50 51

52

conjunction with the fact that the Corinthians spoke last during the meeting (paqekh|mter tekeuta?oi), it indicates that their logos was not merely the last in a series of speeches but rather that it constituted its climax. paqaim_: Archidamus, 2.11; Pagondas, 4.93; Brasidas, 4.127. pe_hy : Teutiaplus, 3.31; Pagondas, 4.91, 93. Both verbs occur in the introductory phrase to the final speech of Nicias in Book 7. paqaim_ occurs in the introductory phrase to the speeches of: Pericles, 1.139.4; Hermocrates, 6.32.3; Nicias, 6.8.4; and Alcibiades, 6.15.5. paqon¼my and 1noql_ occur in the introductory phrase to the speech of Alcibiades at Sparta, 6.88.10: paqekh½m b )kjibi\dgr paq~num] te to»r Kajedailom_our ja· 1n~qlgse k]cym toi\de ; pe_hy is found in the introductory phrase to the speech of Hermocrates at Gela, 4.58; see the discussion below. On the locutionary, illocutionary and perlocutionary dimension of a speech act see, inter alios, Yule 1996, 47 – 58.

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Demonstrative Pronoun/Adverb The verb of speaking is always followed by a direct object, normally denoted by a demonstrative pronoun. The demonstrative pronouns used are specific and limited to four: toi\de, tosaOta, toiaOta, t\de. The most common is toi²de with thirty-two instances, followed by toiaOta with twenty-five instances, tosaOta with ten and t²de with two.53 There is also one instance of the adverb ¨de and one of the demonstrative phrase toio}tour k|cour.54 Prima facie, the allocation of the four personal pronouns might conjure up the impression that their use is meaningful, even though it has been suggested that the pronouns which accompany the verbs of speaking in the attributive discourse are not circumstantial but may imply a different degree of closeness or remoteness from what was actually said.55 The truth is that such an assertion is contentious, in so far as the contexts within which these pronouns occur do 53 t²de occurs in the introductory phrase to the speech of Teutiaplus and Pagondas. 54 The former occurs in the introductory phrase to the speech of Sthenelaidas and the latter in the introductory phrase to the speech of Hermocrates in Book 4. 55 T²de for instance, is thought to be more precise than toiaOta, toi²de and ¨de ; see Jebb 1898, 244 ff. Contrast Hornblower 1991, 130. A similar suggestion has been made for the demonstrative phrase toio}tour k|cour ; see n. 58 below.

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not allow the deduction of harsh conclusions regarding Thucydides’ predilection in each particular case. What could be said with some certainty, though, is that the demonstrative tosaOta seems to associate, in one way or the other, with the length of a speech. This explains why it normally occurs in the discourse framing military exhortations and political speeches delivered by, or to, Spartans.56

4. Examples At this point it would be instructive to go through and scrutinise a few examples in more detail. I have chosen two: the political speech of Hermocrates at Gela in Book 4 and the speech of Teutiaplus in Book 3.

56 There are four instances of tosaOta in relation to political speeches. Two of these concern the speech of a Spartan (Spartan envoys 4.21; Brasidas 4.88) and one the speech of an Athenian to a Spartan audience (Alcibiades 6.93). The fourth instance occurs in the second speech of Nicias to the Athenian Assembly (6.24).

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Speech of Hermocrates in the Sicilian Conference at Gela (4.59 – 65) toO dû aqtoO h]qour 1m Sijek_ô Jalaqima_oir ja· Cek]oir 1jeweiq_a c_cmetai pq_tom pq¹r !kk^kour : eWta ja· oR %kkoi Sijeki_tai numekh|mter 1r C]kam, !p¹ pas_m t_m p|keym pq]sbeir, 1r k|cour jat]stgsam !kk^koir, eU pyr numakkace?em. ja· %kkai te pokka· cm_lai 1k]comto 1pû !lv|teqa, diaveqol]mym ja· !nio}mtym, ¢r 6jasto_ ti 1kassoOshai 1m|lifom, ja· :qlojq\tgr b >qlymor Suqaj|sior, fspeq ja· 5peise l\kista aqto»r 1r t¹ joim¹m, toio}tour dµ k|cour eWpem (4.58).

The same summer, the inhabitants of Camarina and Gela in Sicily first made an armistice with each other, after which embassies from all the other Sicilian cities assembled at Gela to try to bring about a pacification. After many expressions of opinion on one side and the other, according to the griefs and pretensions of the different parties complaining, Hermocrates son of Hermon, a Syracusan, the most influential man among them, addressed the following words to the assembly.

Hermocrates delivered his first speech during the Sicilian conference held at Gela in the summer of 424 BCE. As Thucydides informs us in the preamble to the speech, after Camarina and Gela concluded an armistice, envoys from all over Sicily gathered at Gela in order to settle and negotiate their differences. A number of speeches were delivered during the event; yet, once again, Thucydides eschews using the antilogistic form and chooses instead to cite in oratio recta only the most authoritative speech, that of the Syracusan Hermocrates. The speech is notable for a number of reasons: a) this is the first time that the events of the war are viewed through the eyes of a Sicilian; b) it constitutes an unprecedented effort to unite a country riven by a number of ethnic and inter-city conflicts, thus bringing peace among the belligerents;57 c) it is opinio communis that Hermocrates’ logos holds a prominent position in Book 4 and constitutes a crucial turning point for the events of the war as a whole. To quote Connor: Hermocrates’ speech marks a pivotal moment in Athenian affairs just after the success at Pylos and just before the reverses inflicted by Brasidas. But it has a wider application as well, for by calling attention to Sicily, it invites the reader to anticipate the great invasion of that island and its awesome implications for Athens and for the understanding of power.58

57 Note that the Sicilians’ animosities and hostilities and the fact that they are divided constitute one of Alcibiades’ main points in his speech on the Sicilian expedition (6.17.2 ff.). 58 Connor 1984; see also Cogan 1981, 81; Orwin 1994, 163.

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The introductory phrase to the speech (in italics) exhibits a number of

particularities which merit attention. First of all, this constitutes one of the two instances in the History where, in lieu of the usual demonstrative pronoun, Thucydides chooses to refer to a speech by the demonstrative phrase toio¼tour kºcour. This deviation from the norm is noteworthy and, undoubtedly, should be understood as a deliberate attempt on Thucydides’ behalf to emphasize the importance of Hermocrates’ speech through the phrase’s defamiliarising effect.59 Even more notable is the use of the particle d^, which we do not encounter in any other attributive discourse in this position. The formal way in which Hermocrates is introduced tallies with Thucydides’ practice as this is Hermocrates’ “début” in the History. In this case, however, Hermocrates’ status is enhanced through the way in which Thucydides juxtaposes him to the rest of the Sicilian ambassadors who participated in the conference. His decision to cite only Hermocrates’ speech in oratio recta in conjunction with the fact that he openly acknowledges the existence of other speeches, manifests, in an implicit way, Thucydides’ favour towards Hermocrates; his is the most authoritative speech and worthy of full citation. There is yet another feature which singles this introductory phrase out: the parenthetical subordinate relative clause which highlights Hermocrates’ success in persuading the Sicilians 1r t¹ joim|m.60 There is no consensus on the meaning of this sentence due to the difficulties arising from the prepositional phrase 1r t¹ joim|m. According to the dominant view, this should be taken to refer to the “assembled delagates”; Hermocrates was the one who managed to persuade the Sicilians to convene/gather.61 Consequently, the verb 5peise is taken to have an anaphoric reference. There is, however, another possible reading which seems to align better not only with the meaning of the whole period but also with the speech that follows. The phrase 1r t¹ joim|m 59 See Gomme 1956, 513 and 521, who contends that the phrase toio}tour dµ k|cour is “a clear indication that no close following of actual words is intended” and that it is less precise than the normal toi\de 5kenem. Contrast Fauber 2001, 37 – 51. 60 Even though in the Oxford edition of the text the comma is after aqto¼r, I follow Gomme, Hornblower and others who prefer to punctuate after 1r t¹ joim|m. On this see the discussion in Hornblower 1996, 222. 61 Gomme 1956, 513. According to him the translation should be “who had in fact persuaded them to come to the conference”. A similar translation is provided by Hornblower 1996, 222: “who had been chiefly responsible for bringing them together”.

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could be rendered as “for the interest of all”: Hermocrates was the one who managed to persuade the Sicilians for the common good. In this rendering the relative clause has a cataphoric reference; it does not refer to an action that took place in the past, but rather anticipates the speech’s positive reception by the audience. Even though this interpretation has found no acceptance by students of Thucydides, there are many reasons which seem to support it. I will limit myself to four: a) In the preamble Thucydides does not simply say that there was an antilogy during the conference, as he does in other cases,62 but also underlines that all other speakers were at pains to promote the claims of their own cities. The way in which Hermocrates is introduced leaves it to be inferred that Thucydides wanted to draw a line between him and the preceding speakers and present him as a counter-example. However, the juxtaposition between Hermocrates’ conciliatory approach and the intransigence of the other participants can retain its efficacy only if the relative clause is taken to be cataphoric and to refer to the speech that follows. b) The allegation that “it would be unlike Thucydides to say of a speech yet to be reported that it was effective”63 simply cannot stand. Notwithstanding it is not Thucydides’ practice to reveal the outcome of a speech in advance, the narratological device of prolepsis 64 is actually employed in two more cases: in the speech of Pagondas (where the verb used is also pe_hy) and in the speech of Alcibiades at Sparta.65

62 See e. g. 1.139 (with reference to the first speech of Pericles); 1.67.4 (with reference to the speech of the Corinthians at Sparta). 63 Hornblower 1996, 222. 64 On prolepsis see Genette 1980, 39 – 40. 65 Pac¾mdar b AQok²dou boiytaqw_m 1j Hgb_m let’ )qiamh¸dou toO Kusilaw¸dou ja· Bcelom¸ar ousgr aqtoO boukºlemor tµm l²wgm poi/sai ja· mol¸fym %leimom eWmai jimdumeOsai, pqosjak_m 2j²stour jat± kºwour, fpyr lµ "hqºoi 1jk¸poiem t± fpka, 5peihe to»r Boiyto»r Q´mai 1p· to»r )hgma¸our ja· t¹m !c_ma poie?shai, k´cym toi²de (4.91) – but Pagondas son of Aeolidas, one of the boeotarchs

of Thebes (Arianthides son of Lysimachidas, being the other), and then commander-in-chief, thought it best to fight a battle. He accordingly called the men to him, company after company, to prevent their all leaving their arms at once, and urged them to attack the Athenians and face the hazards of a battle, speaking as follows; b) paqekh½m b )kjibi²dgr paq¾num´ te to»r Kajedailom¸our ja· 1n¾qlgse k´cym toi²de (6.88.10) – Alcibiades now came forward and inflamed and stirred the Spartans by speaking as follows.

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c) the bipolar joimºm – Udiom (common – personal interest) constitutes the central axis around which the speech of Hermocrates is organised; and surely it is not insignificant or coincidental that in addition to Hermocrates’ opening gambit, which is actually an appeal to the ‘common good’, there are four more instances of the noun joimºm and the adverbs joim0 /joim_r in the speech: i. 1r joim¹m d³ tµm dojoOs²m loi bekt¸stgm cm¾lgm eWmai !povaimºlemor t0 Sijek¸ô p²s,; ii. ja· peiq÷shai joim0 s]feim tµm p÷sam Sijek¸am ; iii. !kk± t_m 1m Sijek¸ô !cah_m 1vi´lemoi, $ joim0 jejt¶leha; iv. t¹ joim_r vobeq¹m ûpamtar ew h´shai ; v. ja· nucwyqgsºleh² ce p²kim jah’ Bl÷r aqto»r kºcoir joimo?r wq¾lemoi. d) The particle d^, which follows the relative clause, functions as a

hinge between the relative clause and the speech. As Wakker observes, when it accompanies demonstrative expressions the particle d^ usually takes on a relative meaning and directs the reader’s/hearer’s attention to earlier discourse.66 In our case d^ serves to connect the speech that follows with the relative clause, thus drawing our attention to the way in which Hermocrates persuaded his audience.67 The perlocutionary force of Hermocrates’ speech, which in the introductory phrase is enhanced through the use of the adverb l\kista, is once again emphatically stressed at the capping phrase with the use of the participle peih|lemoi :68 ToiaOta toO :qlojq²tour eQpºmtor peihºlemoi oR Sijeki_tai aqto· l³m jat± sv÷r aqto»r numgm´whgsam cm¾l, ¦ste !pakk²sseshai toO pok´lou 5womter $ 6jastoi 5wousi… (65.1)

Such were the words of Hermocrates. The Sicilians took his advice, and came to an understanding among themselves to end the war, each keeping what they had…

66 On the anaphoric d^ see Wakker 1997, 241 – 242; Denniston 1966, 203 – 262, esp. 204, 207 ff. 67 Contrast Rhodes 1988, 248 who prefers to explain d^ with reference to external evidence: “Here Thucydides does not use one of his normal introductory formulae, but uses an expression including the particle d^, which is sometimes emphatic, sometimes (and particularly with verbs of speaking) ironical… The purpose of d^ here may be to suggest that Hermocrates had an ulterior motive for wanting to rid of the Athenians”. 68 Cf. the speech of Pagondas where the verb pe_hy occurs both in the introductory and capping phrase to the speech. This similarity is significant and one could argue that Thucydides wanted his readers to make the connection.

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The use of the genitive absolute for the verb of speaking, a feature mostly related to the military harangues, is notable and once again “marks” the speech as different. In this way Thucydides probably wanted to stress the great impact that Hermocrates’ speech had upon the Sicilians and the impetus that it engineered. Speech of Teutiaplus (3.30) After their alliance with the Peloponnesian allies, the Mytileneans attempted to put all cities on Lesbus under control. As soon as the Athenians were informed about this, they sent Paches with one thousand hoplites to take command. Paches built a wall around Mytilene, thus blockading the city. On their side, the Spartans sent Salaethus there, who encouraged the Mytileneans declaring the upcoming arrival of a Spartan fleet. The fleet, consisting of forty-two ships under the admiral Alcidas, however, loitered and the Mytileneans, having no provisions and being on the verge of starvation, decided to surrender and come into terms with the Athenians. When the news of the capture reached the Peloponnesian fleet, the generals gathered in order to decide upon a plan of action. It was then that Teutiaplus delivered his speech, suggesting a surprise attack on Mytilene. Teutiaplus’ short speech is by far less important than the speech of Hermocrates discussed above, and it adheres to the category of “ineffective speeches”, in so far as it has no impact at all. Thucydides chose, however, to include it in his narrative for a reason, even though there seems to be no consensus on what this reason might have been. Some argue that the speech constitutes “a paradeigmatic illustration of Spartan bqadut^r”, here exemplified in the image of the Spartan admiral Alcidas,69 others that it is presented as an example of “a lost chance”,70 while others, by contrast, that it manifests Alcidas’ prudence in rejecting Teutiaplus’ hazardous stratagem.71 Introductory phrase: puh|lemoi d³ t¹ sav³r 1bouke}omto 1j t_m paq|mtym, ja· 5kenem aqto?r Teut¸apkor, !mµq Ike?or t²de (Here they learned the truth, and began to consider what they were to do; and Teutiaplus, an Elean, addressed them as follows). Capping Phrase: j l³m tosaOta eQp½m oqj 5peihe t¹m )kj¸dam (These words of Teutiaplus failing to move Alcidas). 69 See e. g. Lateiner 1975; Francis 1991 – 93, 209 ff.; van der Ben 1988. 70 Stahl 2003, 106 ff. 71 Debnar 2001, 123 ff.

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The introductory and capping phrases that frame Teutiaplus’ speech display a number of particularities regarding the presentation of the speaker and the verb of speaking. Even though this is the first (and last) appearance of Teutiaplus in the work, Thucydides’ treatment of him is striking. Teutiaplus’ name comes after the verb, his patronym is omitted, while no reference is made to his office as a general. Thucydides merely says that he was an Elean (!mµq Ike?or). Although the noun !mµq is often employed when Thucydides embarks upon the characterisation of a speaker,72 in Teutiaplus’ case its use conjures up similar expectations only to cancel them out, thus imparting an ironical tone to the introductory phrase; Teutiaplus proves to be nothing more than a man from Elis. Even more noticeable is the capping phrase, where the name of Teutiaplus is replaced by the demonstrative phrase b l´m. It is worthy of note that, with the exception of the speeches of Teutiaplus and Sthenelaidas, whenever the speaker is merely one, his name is always indicated both in the introductory and capping phrase. Thucydides’ handling of Teutiaplus in the attributive discourse of his speech is telling, as it starkly manifests the historian’s indifference towards this general and invites us to do the same: to focus mainly on the incident as such rather than on Teutiaplus as a person and on the content of his speech. Indeed, by marginalising Teutiaplus’ name in the capping phrase Thucydides implicitly draws our attention to the Spartan admiral Alcidas, whose name is emphatically placed at the end of the main sentence. Thucydides’ decision to put Alcidas under the spotlight, keeping silent about any other reaction to Teutiaplus’ plan, is at least striking, especially if we remember that Alcidas was not the only addressee and that the Peloponnesian generals were also explicitly addressed at the opening of his speech.73 Did they express their opinion as well? And if yes, did they agree or disagree? Thucydides says nothting on the matter. In my view, the supression of the rest of the audience serves as a veiled comment on Alcidas’ egocentricity and bossiness, two traits apparent in his overall attidute and behaviour throught the History. 74 In fact, 72 a. )qw¸dalor, b basike»r aqt_m, !mµq ja· numet¹r doj_m eWmai ja· s¾vqym… (1.79.2); b. Peqijk/r b Namh¸ppou, !mµq jat’ 1je?mom t¹m wqºmom pq_tor )hgma¸ym, k´ceim te ja· pq²sseim dumat¾tator… (1.139.4); c. )kjibi²dgr b Jkeim¸ou, !mµq Bkij¸ô l³m 5ti tºte £m m´or… (5.43.2). 73 )kj¸da ja· Pekopommgs¸ym fsoi p²qeslem %qwomter t/r stqati÷r, 3.30.1. 74 See e. g. 3.79 where Alcidas rejects Brasidas’ advice. According to Lateiner 1975, 209, “Alcidas comprises the most apt exemplar of Spartan bqad¼tgr and Bsuw¸a”.

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Thucydides’ decision to provide no immediate reason for Alcidas’ rejection in the capping phrase prompts us to assume an authoritative laconic ‘no’ as an answer.75 Yet, the real reason for his decision comes to the foreground in the exact next line: %kkoi d] timer t_m !p’ Yym¸ar vuc²dym ja· oR K´sbioi nulpk´omter paq-moum [Alcidas], 1peidµ toOtom t¹m j¸mdumom vobe?tai, t_m 1m Yym¸ô pºkeym jatakabe?m tim± C J}lgm tµm AQok_da… (3.31.1)

(some of the Ionian exiles and the Lesbians with the expedition began to urge him, since this seemed too dangerous, to seize one of the Ionian cities of the Aeolic city of Cyme).

where the locution toOtom t¹m j¸mdumom refers exactly to Teutiaplus’ stratagem. Accordingly, it becomes clear that Alcidas declined the possibility of a sudden attack on Mytilene because he was afraid that it was too risky! Thucydides very skillfully provides the reason of the rejection through the Ionians’ focalisation, thus presenting Alcidas’ fear and reservation not merely as his own conjecture or personal judgement, but as a sheer fact.76 This emphasis upon Alcidas (representative of the Spartans) also helps us to explain the detail about Teutiaplus’ citizenship at the introductory phrase – the suggestion for the sudden attack had to be made by a non-Spartan. The attributive discourse clearly shows, therefore, that the focal point in this speech is not the speaker but his Spartan addressee. Apart from the denomination of the speaker, one can trace other deviations from the norm as well: the use of the verbs k]cy and pe_hy, instead of the standard paqaim_ and paqajeke}olai, as well as the demonstrative pronoun t\de. But how do these deviations contribute to the interpretation of the speech? Interestingly, the very same vocabulary is employed in the attributive discourse of another military harangue, the speech of Pagondas to the Boeotians in Book 4. What should be noted is that both these speeches constitute particular cases of military harangues, as they are not delivered before a battle.77 Just like Teutiaplus, Pagondas tries to persuade his army for a sudden attack against the Athenians, who were encamped at Oropus. The similarity ends here, though, as Pagondas’ speech was more than effective. In spite of the fact that all the other Boeotarchs (11 in total) considered 75 See Francis 1991 – 93, 210; Debnar 2001, 123 and n. 66. See also Roisman 1987, 397. 76 See van der Ben 1988, 68 – 69. 77 See Price 2001, 294.

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it pointless to attack, given that the Athenians were not in Boeotian soil at the time, Pagondas manages to persuade his soldiers through an inspiring speech which, unlike Teutiaplus’, it does not rely merely on possibilities and personal judgement,78 but rather on piety and history. What is more, in Pagondas’ case his risky plan is crowned with success mainly because it is implemented with speed. In fact it is put into action so quickly that, while the Boeotians were rushing down the hill shouting the paean, the Athenian general Hippocrates was still in the midst of his exhortation to his troops!79 I would suggest that the links that Thucydides tries to forge between the speech of Teutiaplus and that of Pagondas serve to put the issue of Spartan bqad}tgr (of which Alcidas constitutes an exemplum par excellence) into relief. At the same time, this association brings to the fore another equally significant issue: the crucial and decisive role that charismatic/capable and not charismatic/incapable commanders may play in the successful or unsuccessul course of events.

5. Conclusion Prima facie attributive discourse in Thucydides conjures up the impression that it is standardised, especially regarding the presentation of the speaker, the demonstrative pronoun and the verb of speaking. However, as I have attempted to demonstrate, there are deviations from the norm which belie its ostensible paradeigmatic nature. These variations, whether grammatical or lexical, are significant, carefully mediated and, according to stance theory, evaluative.80 The use of a particular verb of speaking, its tense and modality, the denomination of a speaker, the inclusion or exclusion of an adjective, adverb, or particle, even the syntax of the words, are not insignificant minutiae and embellishments, but shed light upon Thucydides’ “stance towards, viewpoint on, or feelings 78 1lo· doje? pke?m Bl÷r…; jat± c±q t¹ eQj¹r !mdq_m meyst· pºkim 1wºmtym…; eQj¹r d³ ja· t¹ pef¹m aqt_m jat’ oQj¸ar !lek´steqom ¢r jejqatgjºtym diesp²qhai ; 1kp¸fy…). See Debnar 2001, 123. It is, indeed, difficult to say with certainty whether Teutiaplus’ plan would be successful; van der Ben 1998, 66 and Debnar 2001 point out that it would not. Contrast Lateiner 1975, who argues that the speech contains good advice on the efficacy of surprise in war, and Stahl 2003. 79 See above. 80 Thomson and Hunston 2000, 6.

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about”81 the speech he chooses to cite in oratio recta. At the same time they invite the reader to approach and “read” the speeches from a particular perspective.82 These observations do not concern attributive discourse alone but the settings of the speeches in general. Even though Thucydides never openly appraises a speech – a practice which permeates his work as a whole –83 whatever he chooses to include in, or exclude from, the preambles and postscripts, as well as the manner in which he structures and orchestrates his material, always serve specific purposes and, consequently, call for further investigation.

81 Thomson and Hunston 2000, 5. 82 As Thomson and Hunston 2000, 6 remark, evaluation seeks to “construct and maintain relations between the speaker or writer and hearer or reader”. 83 As Westlake 1968, 3 observes, “Thucydides seldom expresses his own views on any subject in explicit terms: he chooses rather to convey them to the reader in various subtle ways”.

Difficult Statements in Thucydides* Jonathan J. Price For more than 2000 years, readers have found Thucydides’ style – his grammar and syntax – to be often difficult, and sometimes impenetrable. Aside from certain famously dense passages in the author’s own voice, like the plague narrative in Book 2 and the stasis model in Book 3, which drove Dionysius of Halicarnassus to liberal rewriting of Thucydides’ Greek, most of the problematic sentences occur in speeches. Dionysius acknowledged that he knew of readers who found Thucydides’ speeches to represent tµm %jqam toO succqav]yr eWmai d}malim,1 but he sharply disagreed, deeming many passages in Thucydidean speeches “enigmatic, obscure and in need of learned commentary” (55),2 and he argued: “that kind of Thucydidean language is best which only moderately deviates from the customary mode of speech and which preserves the first and necessary virtues; but inferior is the kind which makes frequent deviation from words and figures generally used and resorts to such as are foreign, forced and show a lack of proper sequence, which prevents any of the other virtues from producing their peculiar effect … even the mothers and the fathers of persons speaking in this way would be disgusted and would not put up with it, but would ask for interpreters as though they were listening to a foreign tongue” (49).3 On the whole, then, Dionysius judged Thucydides’ speeches to

*

1 2 3

This essay is a lightly edited version of the lecture delivered at the Fourth International Symposium on Thucydides, held in Athens in April 2010. I would like to thank the conference’s organizers for providing a splendid intellectual setting in which to discuss Thucydides, and to the participants of the conference for their comments on this lecture. De Thuc. 34, translated by Pritchett 1975, as “the height of genius”. t±r d³ aQmiclat~deir ja· dusjatalah^tour ja· cqallatij_m 1ngc^seym deol]mar… (trans. Pritchett). t/r Houjud_dou k]neyr jqat_stg l]m 1stim B letq_yr 1jbebgju?a t± sum^hg ja· t±r pq~tar ja· !macja_ar !qet±r vuk\ssousa, we_qym d³ B kalb\mousa pokkµm 1jtqopµm 1j t_m joim_m amol\tym te ja· swgl\tym eQr t± n]ma ja· bebiasl]ma ja· !majoko}hgta, di’ Dm oqd³ t_m %kkym !qet_m oqdel_ai tµm 2aut_m 1pide_jmumtai d}malim. … t_m ovtyr diakecol]mym oqd³ aR lgt]qer #m ja· oR pat]qer

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be unworthy as models of imitation by a student of oratory: this was his chief concern.4 Today we are inclined to read Thucydides not as source for good style or rhetorical models but, according to his stated intention, for deeper insight into the meaning of human history. The speeches in his unfinished literary masterpiece are widely understood today as representing the psychological make-up and ideological outlook of each speaker in his particular circumstances (as Thucydides understood them), not necessarily the best speeches which could have been given by a skilled orator in similar circumstances, much less a useful anthology for proper speech-making. The arguments, rhetorical structures and even the words used by the speakers are the elements of these psychological portraits in direct speech. Many speakers in Thucydides find themselves in difficult, delicate predicaments, such as the Mytileneans at Olympia, who plead for Sparta’s help while explaining away their long adherence to Athens as motivated by fear and necessity (3.9 – 14); Alcibiades at Sparta, trying to justify his betrayal of Athens as consistent behavior and a token of his own trustworthiness (6.89 – 92); the Spartans at Athens, after the initial disaster at Pylos and Sphacteria, pleading for peace and return of their men without anything to offer but lofty sentiment ill-fitting their own previous words and actions (4.17 – 20); and even Diodotos, in the debate about the appropriate punishment of the rebellious Mytileneans, suggesting a highly unusual correspondence – that is, unusual for that time of war and empire – between justice, leniency and expediency (3.37 – 40). It is especially in these speeches, delivered in difficult circumstances, that we find the “difficult statements” in the title of this paper, that is, sentences the grammar and syntax of which are convoluted, confusing, opaque and sometimes impossible – sentences which ancient readers such as Diony!m\swoimto di± tµm !gd_am, !kk’ ¦speq !kkoehmoOr ck~ssgr !jo}omter t_m 2qlgmeus|mtym #m deghe?em. (trans. Pritchett)

4

It was also the main concern of Cicero, who expressed a similar opinion (Orat. 9.30): Thucydides autem res gestas et bella narrat et proelia graviter sane et probe, sed nihil ab eo transferri potest ad forensem usum et publicum. Ipsae illae contiones ita multas habent obscuras abditasque sententias vix ut intellegantur, quod est in oratione civili vitium vel maximum. (“Thucydides narrates history [res gestae], wars and battles in a serious and dignified manner, to be sure, but nothing from him can be applied to the courtroom and public life. Those speeches contain so many obscure and difficult sentences that they can be scarcely understood, which is the greatest fault in a public oration”).

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sius would have found offensive and which have excited the creativity and imagination of modern textual editors who try to bring the Greek text into line with sense and convention. Yet in many of these cases, tortured syntax and odd grammar should challenge not the emender’s ingenuity so much as the reader’s powers of psychological analysis, that is, patterns of thought revealed in linguistic patterns; for in these difficult situations it is the thought itself which is tortured, reflected in troubled language: the speaker is unsure of himself and searching for a proper argument, or he is befuddled by what he knows to be an impossible argument in which he must nonetheless persevere, or he is trying to obscure harmful implications of his argument. Many complicated sentences in Thucydides’ characters’ speeches are part of his portrayal of a speaker struggling to find the right words and reason, or the natural human attempt to deflect or guide the listeners’ thoughts and reactions from harmful implications. Here we shall examine “difficult sentences” in two of these speeches, the Mytileneans’ address at Olympia and the Spartans’ appeal at Athens. 3.12: The Mytilenians at Olympia The revolt of the island of Lesbos in 428 BCE, under the leadership of Mytilene, was from the beginning a confused and uncertain affair, as Thucydides’ description makes clear. The Mytileneans “had wished to revolt even before the war, but the Lacedemonians did not receive them; and they were compelled to start even this revolt earlier than they had intended” (3.2.1). Mytilene’s necessary preparations for the rebellion – fortifying their harbor, building ships, stocking supplies – were betrayed by its own citizens to Athens. The Athenians, battered by the plague and other war commitments, only reluctantly sent a naval force; the Mytileneans received advance word of this but were still unprepared when the Athenian fleet arrived, so that they were easily driven back after the first skirmish in the harbor. The Mytileneans now pursued a double course of diplomatic action: “the Mytileneans sent to Athens one of the informers, who had already regretted (his former action), along with others, to try to persuade (the Athenians) to call back the ships, on the grounds that they were not at all in revolt. At one and the same time they dispatched emissaries to Sparta in a trireme, evading the Athenian fleet, … since they did not believe that there would be a successful outcome from (their negotations with) the Athenians” (3.4.4 – 5). As predicted, the appeal to Athens failed, and Mytilene was blockaded by the Athenian fleet before the expected reinforcements

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from Sparta arrived. More emissaries were dispatched to Sparta, where they were told to proceed to Olympia and address the Spartans there after the festival. When they finally gained audience with the Spartans, the Mytileneans made their case (3.9 – 14).5 It was not an inherently strong one, for although the Mytileneans had a navy to offer the Spartans, their motives and trustworthiness were suspect: why had they not thrown off the Athenian yoke before, but rather enjoyed the special status of an Athenian naval ally for decades, and as such participated in the oppression of other Hellenic states? How could Sparta know, in light of this, that the Mytileneans would not abandon them in a similar moment of weakness or perceived advantage? The Mytileneans’ rhetorical strategy is to address their biggest problem head-on, devoting the bulk of their speech to the definition – or rather, redefinition – of friendship, historical circumstance (their version of the Pentakontaetia), justice and morality (3.9 – 12); only then, as almost an afterthought, do they speak, with relative brevity (c. 13), about expediency and advantage, the topics which could have been expected to be the centerpiece of their appeal. Their peculiar rhetorical program foregrounds their weakness on moral and ethical issues instead of highlighting their real material strength. Moreover, the Mytileneans’ reasoning is so full of contradictions, half-truths and outright lies that they become, as Macleod put it, “entangled in their own arguments”,6 and they seem to undermine their own position by confusion, inconsistency and mendacity. They deny that their long relationship with Athens was based on true friendship, much less parity of power (3.9). They joined the Delian League (they say) to help the Hellenes: “Indeed we became allies, not with the Athenians for the enslavement of the Hellenes, but with the Hellenes for the liberation (of them) from the Mede” (3.10.3).7 Their account of the Delian League, and their role in it, is designed to show that that Hellenic combination was devoid of both justice and honor, that the Mytileneans held themselves to these two values despite their past actions, and that their present action 5 6 7

For two subtle and elegant analyses of this speech, though quite different from one another and from the present analysis, see Macleod 1978; Debnar 2001, 102 – 24 (cf. Debnar / Cartledge 2006). Macleod 1978, 66. n}llawoi l]mtoi 1cem|leha oqj 1p· jatadouk~sei t_m :kk^mym )hgma_oir, !kk’ 1p’ 1keuheq~sei !p¹ toO L^dou to?r >kkgsim.

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demonstrates both. They claim that they were unable, because of the structure and procedure of the synod, to prevent Athens from subjecting the allies and exploiting themselves and the Chians, as special cases, to this end. They knew that Athens was manipulating Lesbos by an “attack of policy” (cm~lgr 1v|d\), systematically enslaving the weakest states first and waiting for the right opportunity to enslave them as well (3.10.2 – 11). Their alliance with the Athenians, the Mytileneans claim, was based not on friendship and trust but on mutual fear, and whoever first saw a clear advantage would be the first to break it. This is the opportunity they now proposed to seize, acting not unjustly but preemptively – and justly. Now comes the climax of the speech (3.12.1 – 2): t_r owm avtg C vik_a 1c_cmeto C 1keuheq_a pist^, 1m Ø paq± cm~lgm !kk^kour rpedew|leha, ja· oR l³m Bl÷r 1m t` pok]l\ dedi|ter 1heq\peuom, Ble?r d³ 1je_mour 1m t0 Bsuw_ô t¹ aqt¹ 1poioOlem7 f te to?r %kkoir l\kista eumoia p_stim bebaio?, Bl?m toOto b v|bor 1wuq¹m paqe?we, d]ei te t¹ pk]om C vik_ô jatew|lemoi n}llawoi Glem7 ja· bpot]qoir h÷ssom paq\swoi !sv\keia h\qsor, oxtoi pq|teqo_ ti ja· paqab^seshai 5lekkom. ¦ste eU t\ dojoOlem !dije?m pqoapost\mter di± tµm 1je_mym l]kkgsim t_m 1r Bl÷r deim_m, aqto· oqj !mtamale_mamter sav_r eQd]mai eU ti aqt_m 5stai, oqj aqh_r sjope?.

Was this then either friendship or a freedom one could trust, in which we received each other against our better judgment, while they cultivated our friendship in times of war because they were afraid of us, and we did the same (cultivated their friendship, for the same reason) in times of peace. Moreover, while in most other cases it is good will which reinforces mutual trust, in this case it was fear which strengthened trust, and we were both held to the alliance by fear rather than friendship; and whoever more quickly felt secure enough to act boldly (lit.: gained secure daring), they would be the first to violate (the friendship and trust). Therefore, it is not right to think that we act unjustly by rebelling first, simply because of their postponement of dreadful steps against us, and our failure to wait, for our part, to see clearly whether any of those steps would be enacted.

Here is the difficult crux of the Mytileneans’ argument: our friendship, they say, was not real friendship, most of these many long years of our alliance; the Athenians were afraid of our strength in war, we were afraid of theirs in peace, thus each was afraid to abandon the alliance; each was seeking a moment of advantage, the Mytileneans’ moment came first just at this (odd!) time. Each of these claims is either patently false or easily refuted. But that is not our purpose here.8 8

On the mendacity of the speech, see Price 2001, 133 – 4.

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The Mytileneans cap this climactic section of their speech with an exquisitely unclear sentence which has offended commentators – Gomme calling it “much vexed”, Hornblower “very difficult”, and other previous critics employing similar language9 – and has exercised the creative talents of textual editors (3.12.3): eQ c±q dumato· Glem 1j toO Usou ja· !mtepiboukeOsai ja· !mtilekk/sai, t_ 5dei Bl÷r 1j toO blo_ou 1pû 1je_moir eWmai ; 1pû1je_moir d³ emtor aQe· toO 1piweiqe?m ja· 1vû Bl?m eWmai de? t¹ pqoal}mashai.

This is the Jones-Powell OCT text, with only one emendation of the manuscripts, viz., preferring !mtilekk/sai from the scholia to !mtepilekk/sai. What does the sentence mean? Literally translated, it can be rendered as follows: If we were able, from a position of equality, to counter-plot and to parry their threat with threat, why should we, in this state of parity/equality, have been in their hands (1pû1je_moir, i. e., at their mercy)? But since the option to attack was always in their hands (1pû1je_moir, i. e. in their possession), it was perforce incumbent upon us (1vû Bl?m) to take pre-emptive defensive measures.

Critics have objected to various components of the sentence. First, the speakers repeat the expression, 1pû 1je_moir, separated by a single word, to mean different things, whereas 1j toO Usou and 1j toO blo_ou, far from identical, apparently mean the same thing. This is an example of the semantic obscurity and the “lack of proper sequence” which Dionysius found perverse in Thucydides’ speeches. A listener is bound to be confused, and editors have tried to clarify this sentence by changing the first 1pû 1je_moir to 1pû 1je_mour and putting a comma after ti (in other words, it is an indefinite rather than an interrogative pronoun), thus rendering the apodosis more prosaic instead of a rhetorical question; Kruger made the crooked even straighter by emending eWmai to Q]mai, which was adopted by Gomme, together with the reading !mtepiboukeOsai, ja· !mtepilekk/sa_ ti, and, retaining 1pû 1je_moir eWmai, which other editors suggested deleting, he translated the emended sentence as follows (comm. ad loc.): “if it were equally in our power to move against 9

Gomme 1956, 266 – 7; Hornblower 1991, 306 – 7; and see Gomme for reference to earlier editors; Hornblower retains the unemended text “with no great confidence”; similarly Rhodes 1994, 186, is “not convinced” the text is right but is “prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt”. Macleod 1978 n. 8, defends the sentence, citing useful parallels for semantic shifts in repeated phrases.

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them in our turn, then, we agree, we ought to have waited before attacking them; but since the initiative is always with them, you must concede to us the right to anticipate an attack by measures of self-defence”. This makes more sense, but transparent sense is not, I think, what the Mytileneans want, and the emended sentence flattens out the deep psychological discomfort reflected in the opaque unemended sentence. Moreover, I would recommend retaining the apparent neologism !mtepilekk/sai of the mss., for it corresponds to !mtepiboukeOsai and the repetition of 1p_ in various guises in the continuation of the sentence, showing a pattern of thought in a speaker groping for words as he struggles through a sentence intending generally to justify pre-emptive attack. More importantly, the unexpected !mtepilekk/sai clouds the sentence further, forcing the listeners to pause and ponder the meaning of the word, thus distracting them from the problematic train of thought. This word, together with !mtepiboukeOsai, represents the departure from “words and figures generally used” which so annoyed Dionysius. Dionysius’ critique is useful: a carefully planned, clearly thought-out and rehearsed speech, with a smoothly polished reconstruction of the past, would not sound like this. But the Mytileneans are not so confident in their own arguments; they seem not to want to emerge from unclarity; they become, to repeat Macleod, “entangled in their own arguments”, and this mental state shows in their choice of words and inelegant, not to say obscure, syntax. It is thus possible to read the unemended sentence as Thucydides’ representation of how someone would actually speak – haltingly, confusingly, with “um’s” and “uh’s” – in such a predicament as the Mytileneans’. Their train of thought can almost be followed in the syntactical twists and turns. After they open with the protasis of a conditional sentence, eQ c±q dumato· Glem, they realize that they were capable of joining an attack and departing from the alliance; they hastily but carelessly try to repair this by adding 1j toO Usou, which raises further alarms since the phrase recalls that the Mytileneans were in fact Qs|xgvoi.10 They are now desperate to shift the blame, and they finally land on the right semantic solution: ja· !mtepiboukeOsai ja· !mtilekk/sai, long unclear words giving the distinct impression that the Athenians, on the other end of the repeated !mtepi-, were really the ones who were conniving, treacherous, never reliable. The Mytileneans have now conveyed that 10 Cf. 3.11.4.

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they were compelled, and they repeat the idea of compulsion in their next semantic fragment, made intentionally unclear by being framed as a rhetorical question: t_ 5dei Bl÷r etc., but they do not want to speak plainly, so that it is difficult to complete this thought, even as a question, thus they delay by restating their inequality and at the same time correcting an error: 1j toO blo_ou, which is what they should have said at first instead of 1j toO Usou : their intention is the same. Yet now they must complete t_ 5dei Bl÷r without incriminating themselves further, and fishing around for vagueness they utter 1pû 1je_moir eWmai, no strong verbs or precise speech, conveying uncertainly that they were in the Athenians’ power. Then again: 1pû1je_moir, as if stuttering, or repeating the phrase because they like its vagueness, but in the repetition they realize that the phrase can have a different meaning which can help them emphasize their own indignation, thus the repetition works in their favor and they continue angrily and more confidently now, since they realize that they will be able to get to the end of the sentence successfully: Bl?m d³ emtor aQe· toO 1piweiqe?m, this is what they had wanted to say, the Athenians could attack them whenever they wanted. Now that they have established what they really wanted to say with 1pû 1je_moir eWmai, they can balance it with ja· 1vû Bl?m eWmai de? t¹ pqoal}mashai, hoping that the listeners would forget the confused beginning of the sentence and learn from this strong ending that the Athenian aggression was balanced by the Mytileneans’ obligation to defend themselves pre-emptively. To review: the Mytileneans chose a rhetorical strategy which was hardly congenial to their position. They try to say that since they were weaker than the Athenians, their friendship was never a friendship, their alliance never an alliance, thus they are justified in abandoning the alliance and seeking another ally with more similar interests at the right opportunity. Furthermore, with this argument they must explain away their history of 50 years of fruitful cooperation with the Athenians and preferential treatment from them, as well as their failure to assert their independence on any number of previous opportunities. The argument, however, is unsustainable, because of impossibilities (factual errors) and improbabilities. Moreover, the Mytileneans wish to explain their rebellion as arising from their long fear of Athens, emphasizing their own weakness, yet they do not want to allow the full consequences of admission of weakness to come out, for fear that the Spartans would not see any reason to accept them. Their implicit acknowledgement of this rhetorical unsustainability and the contradiction in their self-presenta-

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tion is reflected in their confused syntax in the passage just examined, and in fact throughout the speech. Thus the more difficult, unemended sentence conveys the Mytileneans’ simultaneous mental confusion and deliberate obfuscation: they are not fully in control of their argument and their words, yet they also instinctively recognize the danger in letting the full implications of their meaning percolate to the surface. Their troubled syntax reflects their troubled state of mind. 4.18.4 – 5: The Spartans at Athens In the end, the Spartans accepted the Lesbians into alliance in 428 but helped them only by doing what they did best, invading Attica, and notoriously failing to save Lesbos. They found themselves in a comparatively difficult rhetorical quandary three years later, in 425, when after suffering shocking reverses at Pylos and Sphacteria, they sent emissaries to Athens to sue for peace and rescue their men from the island.11 The Spartans must persuade without offending, insulting, condescending, begging or surrendering to the Athenians, who for their part, at least on calculation of short-term advantage, have no reason to make peace. Unwilling to give up anything substantial to Athens, but at the same time desperate to get their men back, the Spartans present the Athenians with nothing more than a disquisition on the vagaries of fortune, an admission of an “error in judgment” (cm~l, svak]mter) and a disingenuous offer of – again – friendship. As Paula Debnar points out, the Spartan’s “flattery takes the form of falsely attributing Spartan virtues to the Athenians”, and she usefully interprets the speech as a series of “reversals”.12 Fascinatingly, she shows that the Spartans are using rhetoric better suited to the Athenians, rhetoric with which they themselves are unfamiliar and uncomfortable. As the Spartans step cautiously through their speech, it becomes clear that their idea of justice, coupled with prudence (syvqos}mg) and intelligence (n}mesir) compels one, at the height of success, to give up one’s advantage and abstain from extending one’s strength even further, in order by this moderate behavior to shame the opponent into reciprocal good will. This is, to say the least, a strange argument to make at the height of a bitter, colossal war, to the Greek world’s naval superpower who has the temporary advantage. 11 Their speech is at 4.17 – 20, on which see Price 2001, 91, and Debnar 2001, 147 – 67. 12 Debnar 2001, 154.

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The plea is also disharmonious with Spartan actions and words on record for the 10 years before this point. The Spartans argue in a way which would not be easily understood by anyone (4.18.4): syvq|mym d³ !mdq_m oVtimer t!cah± 1r !lv_bokom !svak_r 5hemto ja· ta?r nulvoqa?r oR aqto· eqnumet~teqom #m pqosv]qoimto, t|m te p|kelom mol_sysi lµ jahû fsom %m tir aqtoO l]qor bo}kgtai letaweiq_feim, to}t\ nume?mai, !kkû ¢r #m aR t}wai aqt_m Bc^symtai : ja· 1k\wistû #m oR toioOtoi pta_omter di± t¹ lµ t` aqhoul]m\ aqtoO piste}omter 1pa_qeshai 1m t` eqtuwe?m #m l\kista jatak}oimto.

Prudent men make their gains secure against uncertainty (and these same men would deal with adversity more intelligently); they know that it is not possible to conduct war only in that theater (or: to the degree they may want), but wherever their fortunes (of war) lead them. Such men are least likely to come to grief by becoming puffed up through (over-)confidence in their success, and are most ready to make peace in a moment of good fortune.

The translation (like all translations), even if a bit clumsy, flattens out or glosses the rather severe problems. (The text, like that of the previous passage examined, is sound.) The Spartans seem to want to express a rather simple, if not entirely conventional, idea, namely that prudent men, knowing that fortune can change quickly, will make peace when they are enjoying success. But the sentence is anything but simple, and has, like the previous one we examined, excited much discussion and many attempts to straighten out syntax through emendation and explication. To quote Gomme once more (comm. ad loc.), “Thucydides has done his best to make the understanding of a not very complex idea difficult”, and Debnar: “the passage is difficult in both syntax and sense, and the underlying metaphors are obscure”.13 The subject of the sentence, syvq|mym !mdq_m oVtimer, is itself unclear: is syvq|mym !mdq_m a genitive of characteristic or a partitive genitive? Both interpretations are possible. But there are more serious problems. This subject, which can be translated “prudent men”, governs the verbs 5hemto, pqosv]qoimto (they are oR aqto_), mol_sysi (they are oR toioOtoi), pta_omter… piste}omter… jatak}oimto. Not only are the constructions in which the sequence of these verbs appear not parallel, but the moods of the verbs seem to change and become mixed up with13 Debnar 2001, 158; she mentions favorably Spratt’s suggestion of mercantile language.

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out clear reason. The first three verbs, for example, switch from indicative 5hemto to optative pqosv]qoimto to subjunctive mol_sysi. The optative can obviously be explained as a potential optative, as a kind of aside – the OCT and most editors put that phrase in parentheses – but is it really parenthetical? Perhaps it would have been said in a lower voice, the Spartans not wanting to warn too baldly that the Athenians should not be hubristic about their temporary victory. However that may be, there is no apparent reason why the speaker switches to the subjunctive mol_sysi, which as Gomme points out seems to have the same meaning as the indicative, unless we are to take it as a kind of second future, as in Latin – or better, to see it as an expression of hesitancy or uncertainty which the speaker feels about his entire argument here (in much the same way, an English speaker can make an incomplete conditional sentence with the liberal use of “woulds” and “shoulds”). Moreover, the phrase 1r !lv_bokom is a quite unusual and unclear way of expressing what seems intended, i. e. “against uncertainty”, jarringly followed by the adverb !svak_r, which probably modifies the following verb 5hemto but shows the the speaker’s mind trying to combine two uncombinable ideas; the whole sequence of four words has been suspected by some editors as corrupt.14 As to the next part of the sentence, from t|m te p|kelom to nume?mai, one wonders whether a native Greek speaker would be able to follow the syntax on first hearing: the subject of a plural verb turns into a single hypothetical tir, which alternatively has been taken to refer to p|kelor or even l]qor, but this is quite unlikely. The subject of the main verb of the indirect statement, nume?mai, is unclear (it could be p|kelom or impersonal), and the exact meaning and syntactic function of l]qor are so infuriatingly obscure that, again, some editors want simply to excise it,15 but that would leave to}t\ without an antecedent; but if the antecedent is indeed l]qor, that causes its own string of problems, including a “forced and unnatural” use of nume?mai (Gomme, ad loc.). Debnar has adopted Classen’s useful suggestion to take p|kelom absolutely, and assume that the speakers shift to a dative object to}t\ (“this war”) with the verb nume?mai, whose subject is “they” from mol_sysi, assuming again that the antecedent of aqt_m is in the subject of mol_sysi.16 This 14 Note Hude 1r !malv_bokom, Steup !lv_bokom . 15 Dobrée changed to}t\ to ovty. See CR 14, 1900, 223 – 4, and Hornblower 1996, 174. 16 Debnar 2001, 157 n. 34.

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almost works out, but raises the question as to whether even a native speaker would understand all that on first hearing. And these are just the most serious problems. Why is the Spartan speaker having so much trouble getting his words and thoughts in order? We can imagine – and Thucydides is showing us, almost graphically – that just as the speaker reached this most sensitive and improbable point in his very improbable argument – i. e. that the Athenians, having scored an advantage, should now give it up instead of using it for further gains – he sensed that his words could not reach their mark, were almost impossible to say. Even if the main gist of the sentence was understood, the thought being offered here by Spartans contrasts so starkly with sentiments which the Athenians were well known to repeat in public pronouncements, that the Spartan speaker naturally felt insecure and perhaps even embarrassed when he came to utter it, and thus became tangled up in his own syntax. That the speech might have for Thucydides’ readers a distant irony, since by an enormous reversal of fortune the Spartans eventually prevailed in the war, is not helpful for understanding the speakers and listeners in their immediate circumstances. The Athenian listeners would probably have been shaking their heads in confusion or disbelief. The disorderly syntax is a reflection of disorderly or uncomfortable thought. The two examples of difficult sentences in Thucydides discussed here are sufficient to demonstrate that such sentences, not despite of but because of their obscurity and offense to rules of grammar, syntax and good style, should generally be left as they are, for they reflect troubled psychological states, or conflicting rhetorical demands, on the speakers: they represent how confused or uncomfortable speakers may really have sounded.

The Language of Pericles Daniel P. Tompkins Empirical and methodological considerations alike require revision of two guiding conventions of modern Thucydidean studies: a) that the direct speeches he “reports” are stylistically undifferentiated, and b) that the “reports” capture and convey the content or at least the “gist” of speeches that were originally delivered. This paper engages with these topics, then turns to the task to which they are preliminary: of considering how the three direct speeches of Pericles in Thucydides, dramatic, individualized, rich in subtle motivations and rhetoric, articulate and achieve their goals. Like the speeches and dialogue of Greek tragedy, discourse in Thucydides has consequences, though not always the consequences that the speakers intend.

1. Stylistic Differentiation K.J. Dover expressed a scholarly consensus when he remarked that “all the Thucydidean speeches are composed in his own form of literary Attic… There is very little individual characterization of speeches”.1 Against this position, I have argued that the language of Thucydidean characters can be meaningfully distinctive: examples include Nicias’ penchant for self-qualification, Alcibiades’ smooth and beguiling parataxis, and Archidamus’ avoidance of the stylistic advances so popular in the Athens of his day.2 Building on these studies, the present essay presents and interprets the distinctive diction and syntax of the three speeches attributed to Pericles (1.140 – 144, 2.35 – 46, and 2.60 – 64). In a memorable essay on Dante, Leo Spitzer makes three comments that inform what follows. Spitzer first presents several cases of verbal repetition in the Inferno; he then insists that repetition is “never used for its own sake, ‘in order to use the well-known rhetorical device of…’, as philologists like to reason”, but to serve a meaningful purpose; 1 2

Dover 1973, 23. Tompkins 1972; Tompkins 1994.

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and, finally, he emphasizes that repetition and other rhetorical devices are “multivalent”, enabling rather than restricting interpretation. Thus “L’animo mio, … / Ingiusto fece me contra me giusto” of a suicide in Canto XIII suggests “the outrage wrought by one half of the human soul against the other”, while in the Paolo and Francesca episode in Canto V, “Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona” points to “the coercion toward reciprocation that is inherent in real love”. There is no automatic one-to-one relationship between a rhetorical feature and its interpretation. Spitzer’s comments merit mention here for the following reasons. First of all, it needs to be said that the stylistic traits he dealt with were often well-known, and that his contribution was to interpret these more fully and meaningfully than predecessors. The essay that follows, on the other hand, locates and emphasizes features that have not previously received much attention: argument may follow as to whether they are as prominent as I propose. Second, the “meaningful purpose” of these features has to be established, again, by argument, and the argument will very likely vary according to the context or situation in which they occur. I would add that while I believe the stylistic features treated below are important, I also believe they may be part of a larger picture that only continued effort, based to a significant degree on the Spitzerian “technique” of continued re-reading, will bring to light. Diction Despite variations in purpose and tone, Pericles’ three speeches reveal family resemblances in diction and syntax. Here is one exemplary passage: sj´xashe d´7 eQ c±q Glem mgsi_tai, t¸mer #m !kgptºteqoi Gsam. ja· mOm wqµ fti 1cc¼tata to¼tou diamogh´mtar tµm l³m c/m ja· oQj¸ar !ve?mai, … ja· eQ ålgm pe¸seim rl÷r, aqto»r #m 1nekhºmtar 1j´keuom aqt± d,_sai ja· de?nai Pekopommgs¸oir fti to¼tym ce 6meja oqw rpajo¼seshe. pokk± d³ ja· %kka 5wy 1r 1kp¸da toO peqi´seshai, … l÷kkom c±q pevºbglai t±r oQje¸ar Bl_m "laqt¸ar C t±r t_m 1mamt¸ym diamo¸ar… eQd´mai d³ wqµ fti !m²cjg pokele?m, … 5j te t_m lec¸stym jimd¼mym fti ja· pºkei ja· Qdi¾t, l´cistai tila· peqic¸cmomtai. oR coOm pat´qer Bl_m rpost²mter L¶dour ja· oqj !p¹ tos_mde bql¾lemoi, !kk± ja· t± rp²qwomta 1jkipºmter, cm¾l, te pk´omi C t¼w, ja· tºkl, le¸fomi C dum²lei tºm te b²qbaqom !pe¾samto ja· 1r t²de pqo¶cacom aqt².

Ponder this: if we were islanders, who would be harder to seize? As it is, we must approach this as closely as possible in our imagination, putting land and dwellings aside, … If I thought I could persuade you, I would order

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you to leave and destroy these things, and show the Peloponnesians that you will not surrender for their sake. I have many other reasons to anticipate victory, … I fear our own errors more than the designs of our foes… You must understand that we are compelled to fight… and that from the greatest risks, the greatest honors accrue to city and citizen. Resisting the Medes, deserting their possessions rather than setting out from the security we now have, our fathers drove off the barbarian by intellect more than chance, boldness rather than material strength, and brought matters to the current level. (1.143.5 – 144.4, excerpted)

Here as elsewhere, Pericles’ vocabulary is aggressively intellectual (note diamo¸a, diamogh´mtar, cm¾l,, and especially the imperative sj´xashe).3 He links citizen to polity (ja· pºkei ja· Qdi¾t,) and locates the polity in historical time (oR coOm pat´qer Bl_m, tºm te b²qbaqom), while boldly, in one of the two counterfactuals in this passage, imagining geographical displacement (“If we were islanders…”).4 And he deploys a distinctive lexicon, including ambiguous terms that other Greeks often disparage: “daring”, “hope”, “persuasion”, and “risk” – t|kla, 1kp¸r, peih~, j¸mdumor.5 While these certainly occur in other Thucydidean speeches, only Pericles, in each of his three speeches, and the very Periclean Athenians speaking at Sparta (1.73 – 78), use all four. And they use each in a positive sense.6 For Pericles, “daring” is innately Athenian, a legacy from the previous generation (144.1) that enables both a relaxed domestic life (2.39.4, 2.40.3) and conquest of the known world: p÷sam l³m h²kassam ja· c/m 1sbat¹m t0 Blet´qô tºkl, jatamacj²samter cem´shai, pamtawoO d³ lmgle?a jaj_m te j!cah_m !¸dia nucjatoij¸samter.

Forcing every sea and land open to our daring, in every land founding memorials of pain and virtue. (2.41.4. Cf. 2.43.1, 2.62.5)

3 4 5 6

Other Periclean cognitive-imperatives: mol¸s, (1.140.4), diamo¶hgte (1.141.1), cm_te (1.141.2, 2.64.3), Bce?she (2.44.4): only cm_te is found in more than one speech. The other counterfactual is the sentence beginning ja· eQ ålgm below at 1.143.5. There are approximately 48 contrary to fact conditions in Thucydidean speeches. The negative or dangerous sides of these words are evident in many sources. Euripides’ Hecuba, for instance, contains examples of all four words in negative senses: j¸mdumor (line 5), 1kp¸r (1031), t|kla (1123) and peih~ (1205). The single exception: there is no positive use of 1kp¸r in Pericles’ last speech, 2.60 – 64.

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“Hope”, though elsewhere sometimes derided (see, for instance, the Athenian-Melian exchange, see 5.102 – 3, 111, 113), plays a positive role here (compare 2.42.4). Pericles believes he has (rightly) persuaded the Athenians (140.1 bis, 2.44.2, 2.60.7), and indeed wishes he could persuade them to do more (143.5). He does not claim that all persuasion is good (2.63.3), and readers will note that pe¸hy plays a more sober role here than in Gorgias’ analysis of seductive rhetoric in the Helen. Pericles wants the Athenians to fight – to aid the common resolution – in his first speech; to believe and accept his praise of the dead in the second; and to avoid blaming him for their unhappiness in the third (2.61.1). Finally, there is j¸mdumor : “risk” or “danger”. In Diodotus’ brilliant portrayal of deranged decision-making, “dangers” marked the terminus toward which poverty, excess, or other drives propelled rebels and deviants (3.45.4). For Pericles, on the other hand, danger or risk is a stimulus to empire, an obstacle Athenians gladly face to win the greatest honors, l´cistai tila¸. (1.144.3)7 These “greatest honors” are ends to which persuasion, hope, risk and daring are means: they include victory, empire, and honor itself. Each of the “intermediate” steps in Pericles’ formulation fuses intellect and will, establishing a model for Athenian behavior. Only a supple and aggressive intellect succeeds in negotiating the gap between language, will, and conception on the one hand and action and execution on the other. That is why, in two different speeches, Pericles asserts the interdependence – not the opposition – of reason and daring:8 diaveqºmtyr c±q dµ ja· tºde 5wolem ¦ste tokl÷m te oR aqto· l²kista ja· peq· ¨m 1piweiq¶solem 1jkoc¸feshai7 d to?r %kkoir !lah¸a l³m hq²sor, kocisl¹r d³ ejmom v´qei. jq²tistoi d’ #m tµm xuwµm dija¸yr jqihe?em oR t² te deim± ja· Bd´a sav´stata cicm¾sjomter ja· di± taOta lµ !potqepºlemoi 1j t_m jimd¼mym.

We alone stand out in simultaneously daring and reasoning about potential undertakings, whereas for others, ignorance brings boldness and reasoning, 7

8

Compare this fragment from Euripides: )kk’ oqj 5mesti st]vamor, oqd’ eqamdq_a, EQ l^ ti ja· tokl_si jimd}mou l]ta. OT c±q p|moi t_jtousi tµm eqadq_am. Nauck, TGF (1889), fr. 1052, p. 693, ll. 5 – 7. As the LSJ entry for cm~lg notes, the root of cicm¾sjomter (2.40.3, 2.43.1) and cm¾l, (2.62.5) combines “intelligence” and “disposition”. The words thus exemplify the fusion mentioned here.

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hesitation. They might be judged strongest in spirit who understand terrors and benefits most clearly and for this reason do not recoil from dangers. (2.40.3) ja· oVde l³m pqosgjºmtyr t0 pºkei toio¸de 1c´momto7 to»r d³ koipo»r wqµ !svakest´qam l³m euweshai, !toklot´qam d³ lgd³m !nioOm tµm 1r to»r pokel¸our di²moiam 5weim, … ja· ftam rl?m lec²kg dºn, eWmai, 1mhuloul´mour fti tokl_mter ja· cicm¾sjomter t± d´omta ja· 1m to?r 5qcoir aQswumºlemoi %mdqer aqt± 1jt¶samto… oq c±q oR jajopqacoOmter dijaiºteqom !veido?em #m toO b¸ou, oXr 1kp·r oqj 5stim !cahoO, !kk’ oXr B 1mamt¸a letabokµ 1m t` f/m 5ti jimdume¼etai…

Behaving as I described, these men benefited the city. Survivors should both resolve to have an equally bold disposition against foes and pray that it be less destructive… and when the city’s greatness is manifest to you, realizing that men possessed these things while daring, while recognizing what was required, and feeling shame in the event seized power… For failures should not be more stingy with their lives – they have no expectation of happiness – but men who still risk a downturn in life… (2.43.1,5) ja· tµm tºklam !p¹ t/r blo¸ar t¼wgr B n¼mesir 1j toO rp´qvqomor 1wuqyt´qam paq´wetai, 1kp¸di te Hssom piste¼ei, Hr 1m t` !pºq\ B Qsw¼r, cm¾l, d³ !p¹ t_m rpaqwºmtym, Hr bebaiot´qa B pqºmoia.

When fortune is equal, superior intelligence furnishes more secure daring and trusts not in the desperate strength of hope, but in the firmer insurance of understanding based on circumstances.9 (2.62.5)

The fact that Pericles, almost uniquely, relies on a consistent lexical apparatus, that he insists on three different occasions on the power of persuasive words, the need to take risks, and the importance of trusting in the future, testifies to a certain radical consistency in his thinking. I say “radical” partly because of the content of this policy and partly because he avoids certain other concepts including syvqos}mg – a step that surprised some scholars.10 Style and Sentence Structure Relative clauses. Turning from diction to other features, we note that the final two speeches are packed with relative clauses. As an example, consider the “consolation” of parents in the funeral speech: Di’ fpeq ja· to»r t_mde mOm toj´ar, fsoi p²qeste, oqj akov¼qolai l÷kkom C paqaluh¶solai. 1m pokutqºpoir c±q nulvoqa?r 1p¸stamtai tqav´mter7 t¹ d’ eqtuw´r, oT #m t/r eqpqepest²tgr k²wysim, ¦speq oVde l³m mOm, tekeut/r,

9 Here 1kp¸di lacks the positive quality found in Pericles’ first two speeches. 10 North 1966, 105: a position with which K.J. Dover agreed (personal communication, 1973).

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rle?r d³ k¼pgr, ja· oXr 1meudailom/sa¸ te b b¸or blo¸yr ja· 1mtekeut/sai numeletq¶hg. wakep¹m l³m owm oWda pe¸heim em, ¨m ja· pokk²jir 6nete rpolm¶lata 1m %kkym eqtuw¸air, aXr pot³ ja· aqto· Ac²kkeshe7 ja· k¼pg oqw ¨m %m tir lµ peiqas²lemor !cah_m steq¸sjgtai, !kk’ ox #m 1h±r cemºlemor !vaiqeh0. jaqteqe?m d³ wqµ ja· %kkym pa¸dym 1kp¸di, oXr 5ti Bkij¸a t´jmysim poie?shai7 Qd¸ô te c±q t_m oqj emtym k¶hg oR 1picicmºlemo¸ tisim 5somtai, ja· t0 pºkei diwºhem, 5j te toO lµ 1qgloOshai ja· !svake¸ô, numo¸sei7 oq c±q oXºm te Usom ti C d¸jaiom bouke¼eshai oT #m lµ ja· pa?dar 1j toO blo¸ou paqabakkºlemoi jimdume¼ysim.

For which reason I will encourage, not bewail, the parents of these men, however many are present. They are aware that they were raised in treacherous circumstances: good fortune is theirs who gain a distinguished end, like these men now, or distinguished grief like yourselves, and for whom life is measured out to be death and bliss at once. I know that persuasion is hard about men of whom you will often be reminded in the good fortunes of others, in which you yourselves once exulted; and there is grief not for the goods of which a man is deprive without experiencing them, but for that which he loses after familiarity. But you must persist, hoping for new children, whoever is of an age to permit this: for children who come after will enable forgetfulness of the dead and will contribute manpower and security to the city. For fair and just deliberation is impossible for those who risk no offspring on similar terms. (2.44.1 – 3)

In this passage, fifteen lines of the Oxford Classical Text, Pericles uses ten relative pronouns. In this speech as a whole and in Pericles’ last speech, we find a relative clause every four lines, as contrasted to one every ten lines in Pericles’ first speech.11 In only a few other speeches, for instance Nicias’ penultimate exhortation (7.61 – 64) and the Spartan speech at Athens (4.17 – 20), are relative clauses are just as frequent as in Pericles’ two last speeches, but there, the clauses are far less abrupt and challenging, with antecedents that are either stated or more easily understood. In Pericles, we have passages like t¹ d’ eqtuw´r, oT #m t/r eqpqepest²tgr k²wysim, ¦speq oVde l³m mOm, tekeut/r, rle?r d³ k¼pgr, … (2.44.1), and wakep¹m l³m owm oWda pe¸heim em, ¨m ja· pokk²jir 6nete rpolm¶lata (2.44.2), in which change of gender and number, or the need (in the 11 A few other speeches have the same density as the Periclean ones, while the rest rank lower: in Pericles’ first speech, there is only one relative clause every ten lines. Any tabulation of this sort comes with its own problems, of course, owing to human error, the subjectivity of the investigator (does one include oXºm te in 2.44.3 in the count, for instance?), the data’s occasional resistance to categorization (note for instance LSJ on fpyr I.1.b, referencing Thucydides 6.11: “this sense easily passes into a final sense, so that”), and most seriously, the question of significance: phenomena are not automatically “meaningful”; only argument rescues them from randomness.

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second case) to supply additional words, pulls listeners or reader up short, forcing them to guess, what is the antecedent? Similar passages occur at 2.62.4, where we move from the feminine jatavq|mgsir to providing the masculine noun required by the pronoun that follows (dr #m ja· cm~l, piste},), and at 2.40.3b, 2.42.1, 2.42.2, 2.43.4, 2.63.2.12 At 2.64.3, lm^lg falls fourteen words after Hr, of which it is the antecedent noun. Some harsh moments in Pericles’ first speech include 1.140.4, where the pronoun refers not to any single word, but to an activity, and 1.140.5 (oXr eQ nucwyq¶sete), where editors have sought to emend oXr to ¦ste. As Gomme comments, “[I]t is remarkable that the remoter object, which is both unimportant and can easily be understood, should be expressed, and not the direct object, which is the special matter in question”.13 Pericles does not monopolize intractable phrases in Thucydides, but he provides a substantial number of them. The relatives may function as one element of Pericles’ “radical intellectuality”, forcing listeners and readers to furnish the sequence of thought and the links between sentences. Periclean Proportions. In each of his speeches, Pericles makes complex analogies in which the middle term serves a double purpose: $ c±q tµm pºkim vlmgsa, aR t_mde ja· t_m toi_mde !qeta· 1jºslgsam.

(2.42.2)

Unsurprisingly, Simon Hornblower’s version of this sentence is enlightening: I have sung the city’s praises in a mere speech, but what really honours her is the achievements of these men and others like them.

Hornblower’s weighting of the Greek’s implicit antithesis is well-tuned. At the same time, however, his version softens and thus undermines the abstraction, remoteness, perhaps even the resistance of Pericles’ formulation, in which the direct object of 1jºslgsam (“honours”) is not “her,” i. e. tµm pºkim, but the relative pronoun $. I have sung the city’s praises, and the achievements of these men honour what I have sung. 12 The last passage is cited by Classen-Steup at 1.35.4: “… dem Sinne nach… auf den ganzen vorauf gehenden Satz zurückgreifend mit adversativer Wirkung des Pron. rel.”. 13 Gomme, HCT I, ad loc.

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The relationship can be expressed proportionately: Achievements adorn words: words celebrate the city

It could quite reasonably be asked: must we preserve this more abstruse formulation? The answer perhaps depends upon the situation, on what we seek to explain. If the explanandum is Pericles’ manner of expressing himself, the answer has to be affirmative, especially when we realize that Periclean proportions occur elsewhere: eQj|r… cm_mai 1keuheq¸am…, Cm !mtikalbamºlemoi aqt/r dias¾sylem, Nôd¸yr taOta !makgxol´mgm. (2.62.3)

It is reasonable to recognize that if we preserve freedom, freedom will (in turn) easily regain our private possessions. 1md´wetai c±q t±r nulvoq±r t_m pqacl²tym oqw Hssom !lah_r wyq/sai C ja· t±r diamo¸ar toO !mhq¾pou…

For it happens that the contingencies of affairs proceed no less stupidly / unintelligibly than a man’s thoughts. (1.140.1).

Here the center of the proportion is diamo¸ar. “Events proceed like thoughts, and thoughts (like events) proceed stupidly (or unintelligibly)”. My concern here is not with the stunning adverb !lah_r, which from a formal point of view can be taken as active or passive, or possibly as both at once.14 Rather, I want to note again the proportionate scheme, in which the fourth element is here unstated: Events are to thoughts, as thoughts are to X. In each of these cases, Pericles discerns a sequential or causal “billiard-ball” pattern, in which A acts upon B and B then acts in turn. The first example, from 2.42.2, is perhaps the most interesting because, in the original Greek, it extends so far into the realm of imagination: “virtue” adorns words, and the words adorn a city. I am tentatively calling these structures “Periclean proportions”, although they do occur elsewhere. Tentatively, because I am not yet convinced that nothing similar exists in other speeches, though I have not yet found it. Thucydides himself implies a “Periclean proportion” to sum up Pericles’ role in Athens: 14 In other speeches, too, compound modifiers may be ambiguously active, passive or middle: in the Corinthian speech at Sparta, does !pistot]qour (1.68.1) mean “more untrusting” or “more untrustworthy”? When the Corinthians then say 1k]ceshe !svake?r eWmai, do they mean that Sparta tripped up herself, or her allies – or both? A valuable discussion of 1.140.1: Edmunds 1975, 14 – 18.

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1c¸cmetº te kºc\ l³m dglojqat¸a, 5qc\ d³ rp¹ toO pq¾tou !mdq¹r !qw¶.

In a word, it was a democracy: but in reality a dominion under the leader. (2.65.9)

Here, the word !qw¶ is crucial: Pericles was “chief” in Athens, just as Athens was “chief” in the Delian League. Metaphor. Because many words are at some level inherently metaphorical, and because metaphors vary in their force, “cataloguing” is difficult. But in any effort to list metaphors, Pericles’ last two speeches stand out: this is obvious in the Funeral Speech, possibly reflecting the norms of that genre. Obvious examples include: Athens the education of Greece. (2.41.1) Memorials of good and bad that serve as “colonies”. (2.41.1) Pericles’ “song of praise” ornamented with deeds. (2.42.2) The dead as “lovers” of Athens. (2.43.1)

But the metaphorical impulse is strong, too, in Pericles’ last speech, where he mentions the consciousness that is “humbled” – (tapeimµ rl_m B di²moia 1cjaqteqe?m, 2.61.2), a rare metaphor; Athens as a “garden”, jgp¸om ja· 1cjakk¾pisla pko¼tou (62.3), and the humanizing of the empire implicit in calling it a “tyranny” (¢r tuqamm¸da c±q Edg 5wete aqt¶m, 2.63.2). Gnomic sentences. One function of the Greek gnomic tradition was to provide an alternate world of norms and patterns, stable and eternal, that were unaffected by the contingencies and unsureness of daily life. Gnomes are pithy statements syntactically independent of their context, expressing timeless human truths:15 Athletics, praise, philosophy, parenthood, poetic and patriotic activity all yielded a figurative “progeny” in memory that would outlive the individual and provide a sort of “immortality”. Thucydides gives us a glimpse of this kind of stability when he portrays Pericles as conscious of the fragility of things, aware of imminent decline. Fully half of the sentences in his last speech, more by far than in any other Thucydidean speech, are gnomes. v´qeim d³ wqµ t² te dailºmia !macja¸yr t² te !p¹ t_m pokel¸ym !mdqe¸yr7

(2.64.2) 15 See Meister 1955, for a survey of gnomai in Thucydides. Scholars vary in determining which passages are gnomic.

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One must bear what comes from the gods with a spirit of necessity, and what comes from enemies with courage. l?sor l³m c±q oqj 1p· pok» !mt´wei, B d³ paqaut¸ja te kalpqºtgr ja· 1r t¹ 5peita dºna aQe¸lmgstor jatake¸petai.

Hatred lasts a short time only; brilliance and fame remain remembered for all time. (2.64.5) oVtimer pq¹r t±r nulvoq±r cm¾l, l³m Fjista kupoOmtai, 5qc\ d³ l²kista !mt´wousim, oxtoi ja· pºkeym ja· Qdiyt_m jq²tisto¸ eQsim.

Cities and men who are least pained by contingencies, and who hold out longest, are the most powerful. (2.64.6)

Structurally, Thucydides’ gnomes resemble those of early Greek poetry, though the Thuydidean examples often add subordinate clauses. Products of a long tradition of aphoristic, universalizing generalization on the human situation, the gnomes underline the timelessness of Athenian achievement, promoting, again and again, fame and glory as compelling solutions to the boredom and horror of daily life. By his invocation of memory, Pericles ennobles Athens, offering her a reason to continue striving. Although he refuses to change, and tells others not to, his final speech admits (with gnomes!) that human intelligence (di²moia, vqºmgla) can be brought low, and that the Athenians themselves have now been affected. Hence his threefold repetition of the prefix let\-: rle?r d³ letab²kkete, 1peidµ num´bg rl?m peish/mai l³m !jeqa¸oir, letal´keim d³ jajoul´moir, … ja· letabok/r lec²kgr… 1lpeso¼sgr tapeimµ rl_m B di²moia 1cjaqteqe?m $ 5cmyte. douko? c±q vqºmgla t¹ aQvm¸diom ja· !pqosdºjgtom ja· t¹ pke¸st\ paqakºc\ nulba?mom7

But you are changing, since you were persuaded before experiencing pain, and change once you have… When a great reversal comes, your mind is humbled and cannot achieve what you resolved. For an event that is sudden, unexpected, and linked with massive reversal enslaved the spirit. (2.61.2 – 3)

Pericles responds to the fear of mutability not by pretending that the empire will last forever, but by balancing transient imperial achievements against immutable memory in the future. Autochthonous Athens, continually inhabited from the dawn of time, will now win ageless praise, !c¶qym 5paimom (2.43.2). As the Funeral Speech idealized the achievements of the dead and said that they had won immortal praise, Pericles’ last speech applies the same language to the living Athenians – to the audience. “You”, he tells these Athenians, “You will leave the greatest reputation to future generations; the memory of your

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power will last forever. This brilliance and fame will be remembered for all time”. The gnomes are instruments, not ornaments, and (as Spitzer noted of antitheses), interpretation is contextual, not automatic. This is immediately clear on surveying three of the most gnomic speakers in fifthcentury literature, Creon in Sophocles’ Antigone, and Pericles and Diodotus in Thucydides: though all three speakers use this form, their usage and goals vary.

2. Form and Content: l’homme mÞme and the n}lpasa cm~lg Pericles’ diction, syntax, and rhetorical figures demonstrate rather than advocate, providing models of how a Greek speaker could negotiate a world of complexity and change. In the gnomic final speech, the transience of the Athenian empire is endowed with transcendent memory. In Pericles’ case, as in the case of Nicias, Alcibiades, and Archidamus, language is constitutive. This means more than is conventionally intended by saying the “style is the man”: in Thucydides, language is so important that it not only constitutes character, but enables action. Cascading metaphors in Alcibiades’ first speech convince Athenians that only an overseas expedition will fulfill the longstanding values and goals of the city: ja· lµ rl÷r B Mij¸ou t_m kºcym !pqaclos¼mg ja· di²stasir to?r m´oir 1r to»r pqesbut´qour !potq´x,, t` d³ eQyhºti jºsl\, ¦speq ja· oR pat´qer Bl_m ûla m´oi ceqait´qoir bouke¼omter 1r t²de Gqam aqt², ja· mOm t` aqt` tqºp\ peiq÷she pqoacace?m tµm pºkim, ja· mol¸sate meºtgta l³m ja· c/qar %meu !kk¶kym lgd³m d¼mashai, bloO d³ tº te vaOkom ja· t¹ l´som ja· t¹ p²mu !jqib³r #m nucjqah³m l²kist’ #m Qsw¼eim, ja· tµm p|kim, 1±m l³m Bsuw\f,, tq_xeshai aqtµm peq· aqtµm ¦speq ja· %kko ti ja· p²mtym tµm 1pist^lgm 1ccgq\seshai, !cymifol´mgm d³ aQe· pqosk¶xesha¸ te tµm 1lpeiq¸am ja· t¹ !l¼meshai oq kºc\ !kk’ 5qc\ l÷kkom n¼mgher 6neim.

Do not let Nicias’ policy of inaction and intergenerational conflict deter you. Just as our fathers and the youth planning together with elders brought our culture to this height, remain orderly as always and try to lead the city forward and consider that the young and old without each other achieve nothing, while the slight, the strict and the moderate combined may be most potent; and that an inactive polis will exhaust itself (as anything does) and its still in all things will decay, but challenged will always build prowess and turn self-defense from a word into a habit. (6.18.6)

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On the one side stands Nicias, the apostle of “inactivity” (!pqaclos¼mg, Bsuw²f,), who (we are told) violates Athenian social cohesion by turning young against old. On the other side we find the “habitual order” (jºslor) of this democratic city, made strong by the mixture (nucjqah³m) of ages and classes. Inactivity will “wear the city down” and “enfeeble” its “knowledge” (tq¸xeshai… tµm 1pist¶lgm 1ccgq²seshai). Only an agonistic spirit will bring new “ability”, 1lpeiq¸am. Alcibiades skillfully employs the traditional language of fifth century Athenian politics, leading voters to believe that a real Athenian can only vote “yes”. On the other side, Archidamus, declining to use the new linguistic forms of late fifth-century Attic, seems unlikely to adapt to the complexities of naval warfare and heavy financial demands of the period. As in Greek drama, our understanding of Pericles and Archidamus, Nicias and Alcibiades, depends to a great degree on the precise words they use. Turning now, briefly, to the lengthy history of scholarship on Thucydides’ “methodology sentence” (1.22.4), we find that much of that discussion rests on the proposition that Thucydides consulted or copied some sort of version of a speech as originally delivered – possibly even a short summary, “general purport”, “general sense”, “general gist” or “main thesis”, to list only a few of the scores of near synonyms.16 The question that requires an answer is this: what does it mean to say that Thucydides did this? Consider, for example, the situation at Athens in the summer of 430 BCE. Athens has been struck by the plague, and Pericles faces growing anger. He calls an assembly (2.59.3) and gives his third and final speech. The “gist” or “purport” or “main thesis” of this speech is brief: the city is more important than individual citizens; I have been a constant leader; we and our fathers have built a great empire; do not give up. Many scholars writing about this topic do not even bother to show what the “gist” or “purport” of a speech would have looked like. Attempting to create one is a worthwhile exercise, because any result contrasts so strongly with the speeches Thucydides gives us. In 2.60 – 64, for instance, Thucydides left a memorable speech 121 lines long in which the polis figures as a sort of self-aware tragic hero with a four-point standard (2.60.5) of political leadership and a sense of timeless achievement. Looking more closely at a single passage, in chapter 62, we see Pericles’ 16 “Purport”: Gomme, HCT I, 140, Dover 1973, 21; “general sense”: Andrewes 1962, 65; “general gist” or “main thesis”: de Ste. Croix 1972, 9, 11.

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vision and power: using the language of revelation (dgk¾sy, !pova¸my) Pericles shows how labors (pºmoi) and intelligence (n¼mesir, cm¾lg) over two generations have enabled Athens proudly (vqom¶lati, jatavqom¶lati, jatavq|mgsir, rp]qvqomor) and publicly (B d¼malir va¸metai) to control much of the known world, dominating land and sea, (!qw^, c/r ja· hak²ssgr). This revelation shocks the audience (hence the counterfactual in 2.62.1). Athenian power is evident; any losses are so trivial as to be mere “gardens and ornaments”, jgp¸om ja· 1cjakk¾pisla ; Athenian freedom will easily recover them, 1keuheq¸am… Nôd¸yr taOta !makgxol´mgm. Not even the king of Persia can resist us. Comparing the rich detail of the preceding paragraph with the “gist” suggested just before is informative. The “meaning” of the speech we have is the function of the words that are used. The long tradition of Thucydidean scholarship has not, I think, sufficiently considered the implications of this. An original speech may have been delivered, and a summary of some sort may have been delivered to the historian. But it was only by putting this “main thesis” or “skeleton outline” (Hudson-Williams, 1948, 79) into words that Thucydides produced the deeply meaningful document before us today. One weakness of the tradition of scholarship on 1.22 is that it largely neglects the transformations any summary must undergo in the process of conversion into a speech. To ignore the vital role of words in creating meaning is to engage in a form of form-content dualism, a reverse version of the “heresy of paraphrase” that Cleanth Brooks attacked nearly seventy years ago. Brooks emphasized the distance between a poem and the summary of ideas a critic may abstract from it. He spoke of the “essential structure of the poem” as a “pattern of resolved stresses”.17 “Pattern of resolved stresses” is language wholly applicable to a Thucydidean speech. It helps expose the logical impossibility of any claim that Thucydides could change the “style” of a speech reported to him, alter the number of utterances, add words for the sake of clarity, or “cast” it “in terms which might serve his particular purposes” while still claiming that he is merely transmitting rather than composing a speech.18 There is no

17 Brooks 1947, 203. 18 In this sentence I summarize the thoughtful conclusion of Wilson 1982, 103.

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way to change a five-line summary into a 105 line speech without, for all practical purposes, becoming author of the longer version.19 Thucydides’ Methodensatz in 1.22.1 remains in place. For the purposes of this essay, I approach the “problem” from an opposite direction, that is, from the actual rhetorical achievement of the speeches. This angle of approach is hardly novel: some of the finest readings of the speeches have come from scholars who paid very little attention to 1.22.1 or, to put it differently, did not allow it to encroach upon their readings.20 What has not been emphasized is the sheer difficulty of imagining how scholars could imagine that Thucydides moved from the “gist” or “purport” to the full and complex speeches we now have without changing, or creating, their meaning.

3. “Wie billig ist Reden, wirklich?”21 How cheap is speech? Consider these statements: International relations scholarship is nearly unanimous in the view that alliances are driven by expediency rather than principle, that their primary motivation is to enhance state security in the face of some immediate or future external threat, and that ideational and domestic interests are of secondary importance. In this view, states seek alliances primarily to enhance their capabilities through combination with others, which helps to deter a potential aggressor and avoid an unwanted war, to prepare for a successful war in the event that deterrence fails, or more generally to increase one’s influence in a high-threat environment or maintain a balance of power in the system. Resting on a foundation of systemic theorizing, alliances can be a product of either balancing or bandwagoning behavior, but in any form they are the result of expedience and an external threat.22 Most states…have usually generated increasingly complex relationships of reciprocity, consensus, and interdependence. Many states… came to rest very heavily on… ideological structures. In the western tradition, … ideological integration [of empires] has generally been seen, until recently, at least, as a secondary aspect of state formation, a reflection, perhaps, of 19 Thus de Ste Croix 1972, 11: “In no case do we have the right to expect anything closely resembling a speech actually delivered, except in its main thesis. This will be true whether Thucydides heard it himself or not”. 20 Parry 1988; Macleod 1983. 21 See Grobe 2009, continuing a discussion in international relations and economics evidently initiated by Farrell, 1987 22 Barnett 1996, 401.

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the dominance of military institutions and coercion in the political history of the western Eurasian world… [T]his prioritization may be misplaced.23

The field of international relations over the past two decades has witnessed a widespread discursive turn, as many political scientists have noticed situations in which argument shaped basic state policy, in which state identity and ideation had causal functions. Michael Barnett’s 1996 essay, quoted first above, singled out neorealists as opponents of this trend: his book two years later analyzed the role of values in affecting decision-making at important moments in Arab politics.24 Jack Goldstone and John Haldon, in the second quotation, fault the militarist orientation of many historians of empire, a particularly telling criticism given Haldon’s own work in military history. The question “How cheap is speech” or “Wie billig ist Reden, wirklich?” sums up a debate that goes back to Greek antiquity (see Thucydides 1.44.2, for instance): if state decisions are made purely on financial or military grounds, speech, and especially speech about values and norms, may be cheap indeed.25 But sometimes it is not. Thucydides, though sometimes understood as a “realistic” military – oriented historian, benefits from and contributes to this “constructivist” discussion, particularly because the discussion rests so heavily on discourse analysis.26 Here are some examples, drawn from a large pool, of the sort of discourse analysis that has influenced my approach and may be valuable for Thucydidean studies. 1) Janice Bially Mattern’s detailed study of the role of John Foster Dulles in the Suez Crisis indicates how a clever lawyer can affect the behavior of other states.27 Dulles cheats, threatens and cajoles the British, ultimately bringing about their withdrawal, without a shot being fired. Language plays an important role in all this, reminding us of Themistocles’ reliance on language to keep Sparta at bay as Athens rebuilds her walls after the Persian invasion (Thucydides 1.91 – 92) and then while eluding pursuit and gaining safety in Persia (1.136 – 138). Themistocles’

23 24 25 26

Goldstone/Haldon 2009, 12. Barnett 1998. See the summary in Grobe 2009. Lebow 2001, though not primarily concerned with discourse analysis, is a fine constructivist study of Thucydides. 27 Mattern 2005. Howard 2004, 814 mentions several studies including Mattern’s under the heading of “strategic use of language” in “security games”.

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display of verbal skill recalls that of Odysseus as well as other “verbal” heroes in Greek culture.28 2) Stacie Goddard provides assistance at another level. In her portrayal, Bismarck gets control of Schleswig-Holstein both by shaping international perceptions of Prussia and by convincing European powers that their states’ expressed values dictated acceding to the Prussian “version” of events.29 Bismarck’s “legitimation strategies… undermined a potential balancing coalition” against Germany by appealing to “shared rules and norms”. Bismarck signaled constraint and laid “rhetorical traps” that deprived other states of their grounds for resistance while bolstering their sense of ontological security.30 Goddard insists that states respond not only to displays of power but to manipulative language. In Thucydides we see this in international conferences. Corinthian and Athenian speakers at Sparta deploy words skillfully, for instance, to cajole the Spartans, undermining and reshaping Spartan self-understanding. Corinth seeks and wins Spartan cooperation. The Athenians jab constantly at Spartan values: in their speech (1.73 – 78), fear, honor, and profit may indeed be “universals”, as scholars routinely claim, but they are also linchpins of Athens’ framing of Spartan mentalit. On the other hand, non-material factors such as civic unity, daring enthusiasm and a crafty commander have generated victories in the past and will do so again if Sparta chooses war. 3) Finally, Ted Hopf has done exemplary work on the “domestic identity terrain” of the USSR in 1955 as compared with Russia in 1995, especially on the various “discursive formations” (38) that reveal the prevailing “understanding of other states” within a society at a given 28 I have not taken up here Mattern’s full and intriguing theoretical discussion. 29 Goddard 2008 and 2009. 30 Goddard 2008, 140: “Prussia’s legitimation strategies produced consequences that cannot be explained in terms of power or interest. In Austria, Prussia’s rhetoric signaled that it would be bound by norms and persuaded the Austrians to assist its expansion in the duchies. In Britain and France, Prussia’s legitimation strategy set rhetorical traps and raised the costs of opposing Prussia’s rise. Finally, Prussia’s legitimation strategy persuaded Russia that its rise would strengthen European conservatism, and that it was Denmark that posed the real threat to Russia’s ontological security. Legitimation strategies were thus key to preventing a balancing coalition”. Conservative Austria and Russia, fearful of nationalist movements, was persuaded by Bismarck’s professed regard for the Treaty of London, while France saw Prussia as favoring national identity and took her side for that reason.

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moment.31 In Thucydides, the “domestic terrain” is evident both in the narrative and in the speeches. Hopf gives one good model for inquiry into this topic. I’ve argued that different characters in Thucydides not only think differently, but that characters’ discursive choices reflect different styles of thought. Sometimes in Thucydides, these choices seem not to affect an audience (1.44.2, 3.68.1), while at other times they do (2.65.2). Goddard, Mattern and others have developed a number of strategies that should be applicable to future study of Thucydidean decision-making.

4. Conclusion To claim discovery of a “Periclean style” that is always identifiable would be to exaggerate. But certain interesting family resemblances do exist, more may become evident. Certainly, the evidence allows us to speak of significant stylistic differentiation between speeches, and, to echo Spitzer, in arguing that the differentiation is “never used for its own sake”, but serves a “meaningful purpose”: and that this purpose is served by every small or large change or addition Thucydides made in producing the speeches before us today. Whether that finding confirms or counters Thucydides’ insistence that he “held as closely as possible to the general purport of the words actually uttered” (1.22.1), would require a separate study. For the purposes of this essay, the speeches themselves and their significance in Thucydides’ work remain paramount. It is perhaps worth noting that the history of literature yields several cases of prefaces that seem to be contradicted by the text that follows. Peter Dronke spoke of the “seemingly inept statements of the allegorist” in the Letter to Can Grande that is sometimes treated as prefatory to Dante’s Divine Comedy: the Comedy itself violates the allegorical standards laid down in the Letter. A study of Henry James’s famous “Prefaces” concludes that “[T]he Prefaces to the early novels propose the centrality, isolation, and sufficiency of consciousness which the novels contest… The Prefaces and novels remain in contest with each other”.32

31 Hopf 2002. 32 Dronke 1989, 13; Cameron 1991, 41, 71.

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Taking up and slightly expanding Spitzer’s reference to the “multivalence” of literary forms, I think that the observations in this essay could be used to make a case that Pericles is a Sophoclean hero, discerning and articulating the needs of the polity even at the cost of his own isolation.33 But on the other hand, they would not impede the recent efforts of Irwin, Kallet and others to expose a dark side of Periclean planning, policy, and personal behavior.34 In both cases, only careful judgement based on the text will disentangle Pericles from Thucydides’ narrative and persuade scholars that Thucydides is trying to protect or to undermine the Periclean achievement. Both the historical record and the texts that preserve it remain open to multiple interpretations, largely because of their verbal richness.

33 Various scholars have addressed this topic. Knox treats it more carefully and seriously than many: Knox 1957, 1964. 34 Kallet 1993, Irwin 2009.

List of Contributors Rutger J. Allan is Assistant Professor of Ancient Greek Language and Literature at the Free University Amsterdam. He is the author of The Middle Voice in Ancient Greek. A Study in Polysemy (2003) and co-editor of The Language of Literature. Linguistic Approaches to Classical Texts (2007). His research interests include the syntax and semantics of the Greek verb, discourse particles, word order and the linguistic structure of narrative texts. June W. Allison, Professor Emerita, Ohio State University, is interested in historiography and the development of concepts in Greek literature. Her publications include Power and Preparation in Thucydides (1989), Word and Concept in Thucydides (1997), (ed.) Conflict, Antithesis and the Ancient Historian (1990) and articles on Tacitus, Propertius, and recently on Aeschylus and the Presocratics. Panos Christodoulou graduated from the Department of History and Archaeology of the Aristoteleion University in Thessaloniki. He was then accepted in the History Department of the Paris I Panthéon – Sorbonne University (MA, Phd), where his thesis research focused on the texts of the 4th century B.C. referring to the image of the ideal monarch, texts which are widely regarded to foretell the royal ideology of Hellenistic years. His main research concentrates on the study and analysis of political texts of the 5th and 4th centuries B.C. and he has published several articles related to the conception of leadership in Greek political thought of the Classical and Hellenistic years. He is currently employed at the Department of History and Archaeology of the University of Cyprus. Mathieu De Bakker is University Lecturer of Ancient Greek at the University of Amsterdam. His research concentrates on Herodotus, Thucydides and the Greek orators. Paula Debnar, author of Speaking the Same Language: Speech and Audience in Thucydides’ Spartan Debates (2001) is Professor of Classics in the Department of Classics and Italian at Mount Holyoke College in

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South Hadley, Massachusetts. In addition to historiography, her research fields include Greek rhetoric and tragedy. Recent publications include “Rhetoric and Character: Thucydides’ Corcyraean Debate and its Context” in Thucydides–a Violent Teacher? History and its Representation (2011) and “The Sexual Status of Aeschylus’ Cassandra” (2010). Her expanded and revised edition of C. Pharr’s Homeric Greek will appear in 2012. Paul Demont is Professor in Ancient Greek Literature at Paris-Sorbonne University and Head of the Division (école doctorale) “Ancient and Medieval Worlds”. His most recent publications include “De Carl Schmitt à Christian Meier: Les Euménides d’Eschyle et le concept de ’politique’ (‘Das Politische’)”, Philosophie antique, 11 (2011), 151 – 174, “Les nouveaux fragments d’Hypéride”, REG, 124 (2011), 21 – 45, “Enjeux du traité hippocratique Des airs, des eaux et des lieux en 1800: autour de l’édition de Coray”, Anabases 13 (2011), 157 – 171, and a reprint (2009) of his book La cit grecque archaque et classique et l’idal de tranquillit, Paris, Les Belles Lettres (originally published in 1990). Sarah Brown Ferrario is Assistant Professor of Greek and Latin at The Catholic University of America in Washington, DC, and publishes primarily upon Greek history and literature of the fifth and fourth centuries BC. Her recently-completed book manuscript, Historical Agency and the “Great Man” in Classical Greece, was supported by a residential Junior Fellowship at the Center for Hellenic Studies (2009 – 10) and a Summer Stipend from the National Endowment for the Humanities (2008). She has been a Marshall Scholar at Oxford, a Fulbright Scholar in Greece, and a Graduate Prize Fellow of the University Center for Human Values at Princeton. Jonas Grethlein is Professor in Classics at the University of Heidelberg. He studied at Göttingen, Oxford and Freiburg before spending two years as a post-doctoral fellow at Harvard and teaching at the University of California, Santa Barbara. In 2006 he received the prestigious Heinz-Maier-Leibnitz award. In addition to numerous articles he has published Asyl und Athen (Stuttgart 2003), Das Geschichtsbild der Ilias (Göttingen 2006), Littells Orestie (Freiburg 2009), The Greeks and their Past (Cambridge 2010) and edited (with A. Rengakos) Narratology and Interpretation (Berlin/New York 2009).

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Anna Lamari is Lecturer in Greek at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki and the author of Narrative, Intertext, and Space in Euripides’ Phoenissae (2010). She has published on Greek drama, Thucydides, and Theocritus. Nikos Miltsios earned his PhD in Classics at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki in 2010. His chief interests lie in the area of Greek historiography, especially of the Hellenistic period. He is currently revising his thesis, a study of Polybius’ Histories from a narratological perspective, for publication. Roberto Nicolai is Professor of Greek Literature at the University of Rome La Sapienza. He is author of many contributions on Greek and Latin epic and tragic poetry, and rhetorical, historical, and geographical literature, including La storiografia nell’educazione antica (1992) and Studi su Isocrate (2004). He is the editor of Seminari Romani di Cultura Greca. Maria Pavlou is an Adjunct Lecturer at the Open University of Cyprus (2010-present). From January 2010 to August 2011 she also worked as a research assistant on the project STYLE: Language and Style in the Speeches of Thucydides under the supervision of Prof. Antonis Tsakmakis (University of Cyprus). Her research lies mainly on archaic lyric poetry, narratology, and the representation of time and space in literature. She has published on Apollonius Rhodius and especially Pindar. Pierre Pontier published in 2006 a book derived from his PhD: Trouble et ordre chez Platon et Xnophon (Vrin) which won the Prix Zographos of the Association des études grecques. He has also published some articles on Plato, Xenophon, Thucydides and the reception of Greek history in the 19th century. He is now Maître de Conférences at the University of Paris-Sorbonne. Vassiliki Pothou was born in Crete and grew up in Athens. After her studies in Athens, she accomplished her PhD in Paris on Thucydides. She was a fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation and worked at the University of Regensburg in the Institute of Classical Philology. She is researcher and teaches at the University of Kiel (“Human Development in Landscapes”). She has published until now three books and some articles on Thucydides and related issues.

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Jonathan J. Price is Professor of Classics and Ancient History at Tel Aviv University and chair of the Classics Department there. He is author of Internal War in Thucydides (Cambridge 2001) and other works on Thucydides and Greek and Roman historiography, as well as several studies of ancient epigraphy. Kurt a. Raaflaub is Professor of Classics and History emeritus at Brown University in Providence R.I., USA. His research has focused on archaic and classical Greek as well as Roman republican political, social, and intellectual history, war and society, the cultural interaction between the ancient Near East and archaic Greece, and the comparative history of ancient civilizations. His book, The Discovery of Freedom in Ancient Greece (2004) was awarded the American Historical Association’s James Henry Breasted Prize. Tim Rood is Fellow and Tutor in Classics at St Hugh’s College, Oxford. He is the author of Thucydides: Narrative and Explanation (1998), The Sea! The Sea! (2004), and American Anabasis (2010), as well as a number of articles on Greek historiography. Suzanne Sad is emeritus Professor of classics at Paris X and Columbia University. She has published extensively on Greek literature from Homer to Basil the Great and its reception. Her books include La faute tragique (1978), Sophiste et tyran ou le problme du “Promthe encha n” (1985), Histoire de la littrature grecque (with M. Trédé and A. Le Boulluec) (1997), and Homer and the Odyssey (2011). Hans-Peter Stahl is Andrew W. Mellon Professor of Classics at the University of Pittsburgh, U.S.A. Publications include articles on propositional logic in Plato as well as on Greek and Roman literature and historiography. Books: Propertius: ‘Love’ and ‘War’. Individual and State under Augustus (1985), Vergil’s Aeneid: Augustan Epic and Political Context (1998; pb. 2009; contributions from conferences convened in Pittsburgh and Oxford), Thucydides: Man’s Place in History (2003, an enlarged English edition of an earlier work; pb. 2009.) At present Professor Stahl is preparing a major study of Vergil’s Aeneid. Two essential foci of his work are the logic of writers as well as the political anthropology manifested in works of ancient prose and poetry.

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Melina Tamiolaki is Lecturer at the University of Crete (Department of Philology). She received her PhD from the University of Paris IVSorbonne in 2007. Her monograph, Libert et esclavage chez les historiens grecs classiques, Paris, Presses Universitaires Paris-Sorbonne 2010, which derives from her dissertation, won the Prix Zappas of the Association des études grecques. She has published articles on Greek historiography, the political thought of ancient Greece and the reception of antiquity. Charalambos Themistokleous is a visiting lecturer at the University of Cyprus. He holds a BA from the University of Athens, an MA in Applied Linguistics from the University of Athens, an MA in Computational Linguistics from the University of Skövde (Sweden) and a PhD from the University of Athens. He worked as a researcher in various research projects in the following research areas: phonology, lexicography, text linguistics and variational sociolinguistics. His research interests include phonetics, phonology, lexicography, sociolinguistics and computational linguistics. Daniel P. Tompkins is Associate Professor (retired) at Temple University, Philadelphia, PA. Dr. Tompkins has written on Thucydides, Homer, the ancient city, Wallace Stevens, and various topics in higher education. He is currently working on the intellectual development of M.I. Finley and language and politics in the speeches in Thucydides. Publications include: “Archidamus and the Question of Characterization in Thucydides”, in Nomodeiktes: Greek Studies in Honor of Martin Ostwald, ed. Ralph Rosen and Joseph Farrell (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1974), 99 – 111; “Reciprocities between a Text and Two Translations: Thucydides, Venizelos and Kakridis,” Journal of the Hellenic Diaspora 5.1 (1978), 69 – 79; “The Problem of Power in Thucydides,” Arion n.s. 1/2 (1973/4), 410 – 416; and “Stylistic Characterization in Thucydides: Nicias and Alcibiades,” Yale Classical Studies: Studies in Fifth Century Thought and Literature, ed. Adam Parry, 22 (1972), 181 – 214. Antonis Tsakmakis is Associate Professor of Greek at the Department of Classical Studies and Philosophy, University of Cyprus. He is the author of several articles on Greek Historiography, Comedy and Stylistics. His publications include Thukydides ber die Vergangenheit (Tübingen 1995). Ge is co-editor (with A. Rengakos) of Brill’s Companion to Thucydides (Leiden 2006).

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Marek We˛cowski is Assistant Professor of Greek History at the University of Warsaw. He graduated from the University of Warsaw, completed a doctorate at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales in Paris in 2000 and was a Junior Fellow at Harvard’s Center for Hellenic Studies (Washington, DC) in 2006. His research interests include archaic Greek poetry, early Greek historiography (esp. Herodotus and Thucydides, as well as several fragmentary historians for Brill’s New Jacoby), and archaic and classical Greek history (in particular aristocracy of the archaic period and Athenian democracy). His book Symposion. The Rise of the Greek aristocratic banquet was recently published in Polish (Warsaw 2011) and its English version is in preparation.

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Index nominum et rerum Acanthos, Acanthians 56, 57, 272, 392 Acarnania 71, 94, 97, 136, 155, 136, 173, 174 Achelous, river 131 n. 38, 134, 173 – 174 Achilles 27, 142 – 143, 277 n. 34, 310 n. 4 Acropolis 15 n. 42, 121, 128 – 132 adikia 263 Admetus, wife of 136 Aegina, Aeginetans 54 n. 40, 228 n. 17, 266, 268, 357 Aeolian Islands 176 Aetolia, Aetolians 55, 134, 170, Agamemnon 11, 143, 160, 161, 338 Agathocles 345 Agis 36, 170, 171, 221 ago¯n 8, 199 n. 2, 391 Agrae 131 – 132, 325, 326 aitia 260, 261, 265, 269 Alcibiades 8 – 9, 13, 24, 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 20, 33, 34 – 37, 47 n. 23, 51 n. 34, 68 n. 86, 69, 110 n. 47, 137 – 138, 181, 182, 185 – 186, 193 – 194, 201 – 204, 214, 219, 222, 223, 244 n. 103, 246, 248, 249, 253, 262, 267 n. 39, 280 n. 49, 297, 298 – 299, 301 n. 54, 302 – 303, 318, 347 n. 27, 358, 369 n. 32, 361, 362, 365 – 366, 411, 420 n. 43, 422 n. 50 and 51, 424 n. 56, 425 n. 57, 427, 436, 447, 457, 458 – as deceiver 185, 194 – as source of Spartan knowledge of Athens 185 – 186, 193 Alcidas 103 – 104, 107 – 110, 313, 429 – 432

Alcmaeon 131 n. 38, 134, 173 – 174, 177 Alcmeonids 120, 123 – 125, 129, 182, 184, 203 – Alcmeonid curse 51, 185 n. 18, 186, 191 (see also Pericles) Alexander 114 – 116, (Paris) 126 Alpheios, river 171 ambiguity 44, 201, 213, 309 n. 2, 354 Ambracia, Ambraciots 71, 272, 283, 325, 326, 327 Amphipolis 129 n. 31, 155, 171, 215, 236, 294, 309 – 311 anachronism 41, 142 anagnorisis 326, 327 analogy 20, 23, 44 n. 12, 122, 175 n. 28, 236 n. 62, 279 n. 44, 297, 301 n. 54, 302, 330 n. 3, 345, 453 Andocides 29, 282 n. 65 Andromache 34 anthro¯pinon, see human condition/nature anthropogenic transformation 167 – 169, 174, 176 – 177 Antigone 273 n. 12, 457 Antiphon 24, 25 n. 10, 26, 27, 28 nn. 19 and 20, 33, 37, 38, 39, 220, 362, 364 Archaeology 11, 23, 142 – 144, 146, 147 – 149, 150, 258 – 261, 264, 334 – 335 – structure of 261 – 263 arche¯ 8, 158, 160, 162, 163, 165, 265 – 266 Archidamus 9, 25, 26, 27, 32, 33, 63, 65, 189, 190, 238, 250, 254 n. 143, 257, 262, 299, 348, 361, 391, 392, 399, 402, 404 n. 31, 405, 406 – 407, 411, 417 n. 33, 418

506

Index nominum et rerum

n. 34, 419 n. 41, 420, 422 n. 48, 447, 457, 458; see also Pericles and Archidamus Aristagoras of Miletus 37, 204 n. 33 Aristarchus (oligarch) 36 Aristogeiton 37 Aristophanes 130, 137 n. 57, 159 Aristotle 254 n. 143, 331, 332 n. 7 – Athenian Constitution 123 n. 14 – Nicomachean Ethics 362 n. 42 – Poetics 23 – Politics 4, 137, 230, 237 n. 70 Assinaros, river 312, 316, 318 Astyochus 36, 47 n. 23 Athena Lindia 15 n. 42 Athenagoras 25 n. 10, 26, 28 n. 20, 31, 32, 33, 67 – 68, 201, 208, 222, 279 n. 44, 420 Athenian – Assembly 12, 190, 199, 204, 272 – 276, 281 – 284, 294, 424 n. 56 – campaign to Sicily in 424 BCE 31, 35, 58 – character 164, 183 n. 9, 189 n. 34, 190, 341 – Council 120, 130, 274 – dÞmos 62, 129, 138, 181, 183, 188 n. 34, 191, 193, 194, 226, 227 n. 16, 242, 251 n. 136, 252 – ideology 163, 164 – leaders 8, 37, 42, 181, 183, 185, 303 n. 61 – oligarchic revolution (411 BCE) 24, 36, 37 – politics 24, 26 n. 13, 181 – 183, 185, 188 n. 34, 189, 191, 193, 196 Athens, Athenians 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, 18, 20, 24, 26, 29, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 119, 122, 124, 125, 129, 130, 132, 134, 136, 137, 138, 145, 147, 148, 449, 450, 455, 456, 458, 459, 461 – acquisitive policy 346 – and Corcyra 38 n. 34, 192, 211 – 212, 262, 263, 264, 280, 292, 297, 312, 313 – 314, 316, 345 – 347

– as sea power see power athletics 137 – Olympic games 120 – 121, 128 – 129, 131, 137, 138 attributive discourse – demonstrative pronoun/adverb 423 – 424 – general 416 – 417 – speaker 418 – 420 – verb of speaking 420 – 423 Auxesis (growth), Auxein ten patrida / ten polin, Athenian political slogan 158, 159, 163 – 165, 189 n. 34 Barnett, Michael 460 n. 22, 461 „Beinahe-episodes“ 107, 111, 114 birth, good 136 Bismarck 462 Brasidas 9, 23, 25 – 27, 28 n. 19, n. 20, 33, 47 n. 24, 49, 56, 57, 171, 191 – 192, 196, 215, 244 n. 103, 272, 310, 311, 360, 361 n. 37, 362 n. 41, 392, 393, 394 n. 9, 397, 407, 408 n. 35, 419, 420, 422 n. 48, 424 n. 56, 425, 430 n. 74 Brauro 136 Callisthenes 331 Camarina 70, 298, 365, 425 Catalogue of the ships, see Homer causality 73 – 87, 174, 175, 288, 300 n. 50 cause 32, 34, 41, 42, 45, 58, 63, 64, 73 – 87, 149, 150, 155, 172, 175, 209 n. 58, 228, 251 n. 136, 260, 263 n. 20, 264, 297 – 300, 332, 333, 357 see also aitia Chalcidice 73, 85 Chalcis 11 character judgement 24, 25, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 35, 37, 40 – distribution of 24, 25, 30, 37, 40 – explanatory value of 32, 34, 37, 40 – single clause 26 – timing of 30, 31, 32, 33, 40 Cheimerium 172

Index nominum et rerum

China 3 Cleisthenes 11, 120, 129 Cleomenes 120 – 121, 129 – 130 Cleon 8, 9, 12, 24 n. 6, 25, 26, 28 n. 20, 32, 33, 47 nn. 23 – 24, 58, 67, 68, 125 n. 21, 185, 190 – 192, 199, 203, 208, 214, 215, 216, 238 n. 75, 246, 253, 273, 275 – 283, 319, 324, 365, 395, 410, 414, 415 n. 20, 420 climax 54, 283, 298, 309 – 311, 313, 315 – 325, 328, 422, 439 – literary 315, 317, 320 – narrative 310, 311, 313, 315, 316, 317, 319, 321, 322, 324, 325, 327, 328, – of cruelty 315 closure 149, 309 – 311, 315 – 317, 319 – 328, 348, 373 coherence 38, 83, 246, 402, 405, 406 n. 34 cohesion 402, 405, (social) 458 – cohesive devices 405 – 406 compassion, see empathy competition 6, 8, 12, 199, 247 connectives 376, 403 constitution 4, 6, 7 n. 19, 8, 9, 31, 164, 203 – 207, 210, 224, 229, 230, 231 n. 33, 236 n. 65, 249 n. 131, 254, 358 n. 24 – constitutional thought 4 n. 3, 6, 8, 9 – mixed 206 Corcyra, Corcyreans 7, 9, 38, 42 n. 6, 43, 45, 52, 69, 70, 262 – 264, 271, 293, 312, 343, 344, 362 – Corcyra and Athens see Athens Corinth, Corinthians 8, 10, 42, 49, 52, 97, 130 n. 35, 172, 182 – 184, 189, 194, 196, 211, 258, 261 – 266, 269, 272, 299, 312, 315, 320, 339, 341, 343, 343 – 347, 411, 412, 422 n. 47, 427 n. 62, 454 n. 14, 462 312, 454 n. 14, 462 Crane G. 19, 120, 136 Creon 457 Crete 94

507

Croesus 11, 19, 48, 128, 134, 143, 144, 150 cross-references 273 and n. 9, 274, 275, 277, 278, 280 and n. 31, 284, 288, 289, 291, 293 – encirclement 300 – 306, 307 – explicit 288, 300, 302 – progressive 289, 290, 292, 293, 294, 306 – 307 – providing diverse focalization 296 – 300, 307 – implicit 288, 300 Cylon 32, 119 – 138 Cyrus 19, 48, 112, 167, 254, 270 n. 46 Dante 447, 463 Deceleia 292, 300, 301 – 303 Delian League 154, 155, 162, 189, 438, 455 Delium 168, 169, 215 Delphi 121, 132 n. 42, 271 demagogue 12, 26, 67, 205, 239, 242, 252 Demochares 331 democracy 8, 9 n. 22, 12, 13, 14, 36, 181, 187, 200, 203, 204 – 211, 218, 219, 220, 222, 223, 228, 229, 231, 236 n. 66, 237, 249, 252, 253, 268, 313, 359, 362, 364, 374, 455 de¯mos 12, 13, 62, 33, 38, 106, 129, 138, 181, 193, 194, 201, 203, 205, 213, 220, 226 – 230, 233, 239 – 248, 251, 252, 253, 303 n. 61, 304 n. 62, 312, 313, 315 Demosthenes 24, 29, 47 nn. 23 – 24, 48, 55, 71, 170, 191 n. 46, 292 – 295, 303, 305 n. 68, 306 n. 70, 324, 325 n. 25, 37, 378, 392, 412 deontic modality, see modality description 3, 36, 37, 38 n. 34, 46 n. 17, 47, 51 n. 34, 52, 58, 60, 61, 64, 69, 73, 75, 78, 81, 82, 86, 87, 94, 96, 99, 110, 111, 115, 117, 118, 125, 141, 150, 152 n. 19, 174, 191, 208 n. 51, 213, 219, 220, 226, 229 n. 23, 232, 235, 241, 251, 268,

508

Index nominum et rerum

272 n. 8, 288, 290 n. 18, 291, 295, 296, 300, 301, 302, 303, 305, 311, 312, 315, 318, 319, 325, 330, 331, 341, 345, 356, 371, 372, 377, 378 – 379, 380, 382, 383, 384 n. 35, 412, 437 Diasia 121, 130, 131, 133 – 134 Diodotus 9, 57, 58, 67, 68, 69 n. 86, 210, 214, 318 n. 17, 319, 414, 415 n. 20, 436, 450, 457 diplomacy 195 – 196 discourse – connectives 403 – direct 98 – 101, 103, 107, 115, 214, 277 – 278, 280 n. 49, 281, 381 n. 28, 385 n. 37, 386, 415, 416, 417, 436, 447 – indirect 108, 188, 214, 271 – 273, 275, 277, 280, 283, 284, 362 n. 41, 381 n. 28, 388 n. 51, 417 disease see plague dot on the ‘I’ 309, 324 douleia see slavery Dover, K.J. 205, 447 dreams 145, 150 Dronke, Peter 463 droughts/famines 79 – 87 Dulles, John Foster 137 n. 57, 225 n. 3, 245 n. 110, 310 n. 3, 461 dynamis, see power Echinades 174 Eco, Umberto 140 ecological reality 167, 173 Edonians 136 effect, literary/rhetorical 50 n. 33, 157, 165, 327, 362 Egypt 77, 83 – 85, 168, 265, 266 elaboration 19, 20, 86, 134 eleutheria, see liberty empathy 310, 322, 325, 381 – 382 emphasis 7, 10, 11, 37, 51, 52, 53, 56, 59, 71, 96, 110, 128 n. 25, 133 n. 44, 213, 218, 219, 291, 304 n. 62, 305, 307, 310 n. 4, 311, 314, 321, 328, 333, 337, 339, 340, 385 n. 40, 393, 431 empire 6, 8, 10 n. 25, 12, 13

enargeia 94 – 95; 114 – 118, 273, 279 – 280 („stylistic enactment“), 281, 284, 375 Endius 36 Ephorus 86, 331 epic 4, 16, 17, 18, 57 n. 54, 76, 137, 141 – 146, 148 – 150, 231 n. 33, 235, 287, 288, 291 n. 22, 292 n. 25, 293 n. 27 Epidamnus 49, 150, 261, 262, 272, 312, 345 epilogue(s) 309 – 328 – epilogic sentence 319, 320, 322, 323 – dialogic epilogue 325 – as synchronic synopsis 328 Epipolae 23, 169, 194, 290, 291, 293, 303, 304 epistemic modality, see modality epiteichismos 168 equality 13, 204, 205, 207, 208, 440 erga-logoi combinations 31 n. 26, 44 – 46 ero¯s 12 Ethiopia 77, 83 – 86 ethnography/ethnographic 133, 136, 150 eunomia 4, 205 n. 36 Euripides 159, 173, 195 n. 69, 372 n. 4, 449 n. 5, 450 n. 7 – Bacchae 1280 – 1282, 326 n. 27 – Hecuba 282 – 285, 144 Europa 125 Eurymedon 147, 292, 293, 313 Eusebius 128, 129 n. 28 exempla 3, 14, 146, 147, 244 n. 102, 347, 430 n. 74, 448, 462 exile 18, 36, 51, 78, 103, 112, 124, 126, 173, 234 n. 51, 252, 258, 263 n. 22, 298, 309, 358 n. 24, 360, 431 experiential/experientality 92, 93, 94, 98, 99, 101, 103, 110, 114, 117, 118, 284, 382 n. 31 Farrell

J. 460 n. 21

Index nominum et rerum

fear

11, 23, 27, 39, 49, 52, 53, 54 n. 41, 56, 57, 60, 63, 64, 68, 71, 97, 99, 100, 101, 104, 108 n. 44, 109, 113, 138, 155, 157, 175, 181, 189, 194, 203, 3214, 215, 218, 220, 248, 250, 260, 263 – 266, 273 – 275, 282, 295, 303 n. 61, 306, 311, 325, 327, 338, 347, 366, 367, 368, 374, 380, 419, 431, 436, 439, 442, 462 figures of speech – antithesis 149, 268, 353, 369, 405, 453, 457 – asyndeton 127 – irony 133, 275, 354, 395, 446 – litotes 28, 353 – 370, 405 – metaphor 92, 116, 174, 177, 267, 354, 379, 444, 455, 457 – parison 405 Five Thousand 206, 207, 209, 220, 224, 253, 358, 359 form-content dualism 457 – 462 focalization 93, 94, 99, 100, 102, 103, 107 n. 39, 109, 110, 111, 114, 184 – 185, 288, 294, 372, 373, 374, 378, 380, 382, 383, 389, 413, 416, 419, 431 – focalised judgements 25 – 26 – internal 96 – 98, 103 – 104 – diverse 296 – 300 – embedded 373, 374, 378, 380 nn. 25 and 27 Four Hundred 203, 220 – 224, 358, 364 fragmentation – of Hellenic world 35 – of Athens 38 Gela 331, 322 n. 51, 424, 425 gestures 276, 280, 411, 417 n. 32 (rhetorical) 330 gnome 402, 404, 405, 408 n. 35 (gnomic sentences) 455 – 457 Goddard, Stacie 462, 463 Goldstone, Jack 461 Gomme, A.W. 453, 458 n. 16 Gongylos 320 governmental stability 259 – 260 grammar 435 – 437, 446

509

Grethlein, J. 135 growth see auxesis Gylippos 320, 418 n. 35 Haldon, John 461 Harmodius 37 Hector 34 he¯gemonia (hegemony) 8, 334, 338, 344 Helen 126, 127, 143 Hellanicus 29 n. 22, 123 n. 12, 129 n. 31, 132 n. 41, 257 – 258, 334 – Atthis 123 Hermocrates 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 26, 27, 28 n. 19, 30 – 33, 36, 39, 47 n. 23, 64, 67, 68, 69 n. 86, 192, 193, 194, 280 n. 49, 297, 298, 305, 306, 361 n. 37, 362, 365, 366, 367, 420, 421 n. 44, 422 n. 50, 423 n. 54, see also Speeches Herodotus 6, 7, 8 n. 19, 11, 14 – 15, 16 n. 44, 17 – 20, 26 – 29, 30, 39, 42 n. 6, 46, 47 – 57, 71 n. 95, 74, 79, 80, 83, 86, 119 – 120, 122 – 138, 142 – 146, 149 – 151, 159, 167, 174, 177, 186 n. 25, 203, 204, 207, 210, 226, 230, 235, 253 n. 139, 264, 270 n. 46, 272 n. 15, 287, 295 n. 34, 300 n. 50, 331, 336, 357, 358 n. 27, 361 n. 35, 372 n. 5, 399 see also Thucydides Hesiod 74, 80, 81, 131, 134 hÞsychazein 269 historian’s function 6, 13, 15, historical – distortion 310 n. 4 – present 95 – 96, 375, 376 n. 18, 377, 384, 389 historicity 43, 46, 108, 161 n. 30, 186, 391 historicization 69 – 72 historiography – Chinese 3 – Greek 4, 17 n. 47, 18 n. 51, 19, 92 n. 9, 287, 343, 399 history – didactic purpose of 6, 13, 14, 15, 16

510

Index nominum et rerum

– lessons from 4, 7, 14, 21 – metahistory 135, 137 n. 58 – models in 14 – patterns in/patterning 5 – 7, 9, 12, 13, 14, 20, 327, 328 Homer 26, 27, 30, 139 – 142, 143 n. 14, 150, 336 – Catalogue of Ships 139 – 142, 145 – 146, 149 – 151 – Iliad 17, 27, 34, 74, 139, 143 – 150, 336, 417 n. 32 – Shield of Achilles 140 Hopf, Ted 462 – 463 Hornblower, Simon 453 human condition/nature 6, 8, 9, 25 n. 9, 58 n. 57, 67, 75, 77 n. 12, 166, 226, 314, 316, 342 Hyperbolus 24, 25 n. 10, 26, 33, 38, 202 identity 17, 122, 162, 177, 461, 462 ideology 3, 4, 144, 163, 164, 165 Idomene 325, 326 Imperialism 8 n. 19, 13 n. 35, 19, 154, 165, 227 n. 17 individuals 6 n. 12, 8, 17, 19, 23 – 40, 41, 44, 46, 60, 80 n. 19, 127, 134, 181, 183, 184, 185, 190, 195 – 197, 209, 210, 212, 213, 217, 218, 222, 253, 284, 296, 311, 327, 360, 362, 363, 369, 447, 455 – interruption(s) and outburst(s) in assembly 276 n. 29, 281 Io 125 Ionian 103, 104, 108, 109, 168, 292, 305, 431 – Revolt against Persia 37, 295 n. 34 – War 10, 35 n. 31 Irwin, Elizabeth 464 Isagoras 120, 129 – 130 James, Henry Jameson, M.

463 122, 131 – 132, 134

Kallet, Lisa 8, 464 kingship 137

kleos (aphthiton) 18, 19, knowledge, interstate political 181 – 182, 183 – 185, 190, 192 n. 51, 195 – 196 kratos 8 kte¯ma es aiei 6, 19 Kypria 141 Lacedaemonians 18, 49, 51, 52, 53, 56, 59, 61 – 64, 67, 110 n. 47, 126, 238 n. 75, 240, 250, 292, 301, 302, 303, 334, 335, 337, 338, 340, 343, 347 n. 27, 368 landscape 167 – 177 – watery topography 171, 172, 177 – marsh 169, 173 – deforestation 170 leader 8, 9, 11 – 13, 37, 42, 48, 51, 65, 69, 103, 106, 109, 120, 138, 139, 141, 145, 146, 181 – 194, 200, 203, 205, 208, 210, 212, 213, 218, 221 – 224, 228 n. 22, 229 – 234, 236, 237, 239, 241, 243, 244, 246 – 250, 252, 253, 254, 299, 312, 362, 364, 367, 391, 392, 394, 396, 399, 407, 411, 455, 458 leadership 9, 13, 14, 66, 67, 182, 189, 209, 212, 226, 227 n. 17, 228, 229, 230, 231, 233, 240, 241, 242, 244, 246, 254, 260, 311, 407, 437, 458 Leonidas 324 Lesbos, Lesbians 26, 103, 107, 110 n. 47, 155, 319, 429, 431, 437, 439, 443 Lévy, E. 129, 200, 229 n. 26 liberty 8, 9 n. 22, 10 n. 26, 13 n. 35, 221 Libya 77 Lichas 54 n. 41 Lindian Chronicle 15 n. 42 linguistic turn 91, 92 Livy 14, 114 Lydia, Lydians 11, 19 Lysander 259, 269 – 270 Lysias 29 Macedonia

115, 311, 334

Index nominum et rerum

Macleod, Colin 441 137 n. 56, 346 n. 25, 364 n. 48, 438, 440 n. 9, 441, 460 n. 20 Mamertines 345 – 347 Marathon 20 n. 63, 260 marriage 136 mass – activity of 218 – 222 – and People 200 – 222 (d/lor 201, 203, 205, 213, 220, 221; flikor 202 – 203; ewkor 203, 219, 220) – versality of 214, 216 materiality 91 Mattern, Janice Bially 461 – 463 Medea 125 – 126, 143 Megabyzus 168, 203, 207 Megacles 123, 124, 125 n. 21 Megara/Megarians 121, 128, 130, 266, 267 n. 38, (Megarian decree) 127, 155, 240 Melian Dialogue 7, 226 n. 11, 367 Melos 8, 10 memory 16, 17, 19, 138, 142, 158, 165, 233 n. 43, 293 n. 28, 311, 455, 456, 457 Messenians 55, 56 n. 48, Messene and Rhegium 176 metabole¯ 177 miasma 74 – 76, 84 migrations 149 – 151 military exhortations 391 – 402 mimesis 93, 98, 99, 113, 117 – 118 Mindarus 36 Minos 259 – 260, 338 mise en abyme 295, 297 n. 44 modal verbs 401 – 402 modality 371, 400 – 408 – deontic 400, 401 – deontic verbs/expressions 404, 405, 406, 408 – epistemic 400, 401, 402 – in Thucydides’ military extortations 402 – 408 mood 272 n. 10, 273, 389, 397, 401, 420, 444 – imperative 397, 401, 404, 406 n. 34, 408 – indicative 387, 389, 401

511

– subjunctive 401 n. 24 motivation/inferred motivation 41 – 50, 54, 57, 58 n. 57, 61, 63, 64, 65, 67, 69 motives 41 – 72 – double/multiple 47 – 50 – emotional (hidden) 47, 63 – intellectual 47 – motives prediction of 65 Mykalessos 327 n. 29 myth, mythical, ‘mythodic’ 4, 15, 16, 122, 135, 134, 141, 144, 160, 161 Mytilene/Mytileneans 7, 9, 12, 68, 93, 101, 103 – 110, 113, 153, 214, 319, 320, 321, 323, 363, 365, 410, 412, 414 – 415, 429, 431, 436 – 443 narrative 6, 7, 11, 16, 17, 20, 23, 24, 29 – 39, 54, 55 n. 45, 85, 91 – 98, 100 – 118, 119 n. 2, 128 n. 25, 129, 133, 137, 138, 141, 147, 154, 157, 185 n. 17, 187, 205, 211 – 224, 225, 228, 259, 261, 276, 279 n. 44, 283 – 284, 287 – 307, 309 – 328, 330, 334 – 337, 345, 355 – 370, 371 – 389, 396 – 397, 413, 415, 416, 429, 435, 463 – analepsis 98, 288 n. 11, 294 n. 31, 301 n. 54 – and experience 91 – 118 – counterfactuals 114, 322, 387, 389, 449, 459 – disnarrated elements 108 – hindsight 10, 12, 93, 102, 108, 113, 362 – indirect evaluation 101, 109 – 110 – main 44, 45, 46, 57 – 64, 76, 83, 409 – mode(s) 271, 272 – order 4, 7, 12, 14, 74 – 75 – pace 284, 376 – repetitions 54, 55, 56, 62, 66, 448, 456 – retardation 289 – sideshadowing 103, 107 – 109

512

Index nominum et rerum

– story (fabula) 274, 275, 280, 281, 282, 285, 286, 287 n. 53, 288, 289 n. 61, 290, 307 – time 99, 101, 103, 104 – 107, 111, 289 n. 13, 294 – 295, 302, 304, 389 n. 55 – witness narration 302 narrator (Thucydidean) 19, 25, 30, 91, 159, 166 – detached narrator 30, 309, 322, 93, 99 – 101, 111 – intrusion of 101, 110 – 114, 245, 272, 275, 278 n. 40, 382, 384, 387, 388, 435 – third person narrator 309, 312, 328 naucraries 120, 122, 124 Naupactus 55, 56 n. 48, 94, 97 – 98, 101, 104, 106, 292 Naxos, Naxians 227 n. 17 negation 97, 281 n. 59, 353 – 356, 375, 381, 386 n. 46, 387, 389 Nemea 134 Nicias 8, 9, 10, 13, 25, 26 n. 12, 27, 28 n. 20, 29, 32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 39, 42, 47 n. 23, 60, 61, 65, 68 n. 86, 74, 85, 181, 192, 193, 194, 203, 214, 215, 216, 217, 248, 274 n. 19, 278, 280 – 282, 290 n. 19, 291, 292, 297, 300, 302, 303, 310, 320, 392, 393 – 394, 394 – 400, 406 n. 34, 407, 408, 411, 424 n. 56, 422 nn. 49 and 50, 447, 452, 457, 458 – and Athenian dÞmos 181, 192 – 193, 194 – death-notice 194 – Nicias’ informers 304 – 307 – Nicias’ letter 65, 203, 291, 292, 293 – 296 see also Speeches – Nicias Peace of 10, 262 n. 19 Nile river 83, 168, 173, 174 Nymphodorus 136 objectivity 96 n. 19, 307, 328 Oiniadai 173, 174 Ober, J. 200

oligarchy 8, 36, 37, 200, 202, 204, 205, 207, 209, 219, 220, 221, 222, 224, 245, 249, 358, 362 Olpai 325, 326 o¯pheleia 8, oracles 74, 82, 121, 123, 130 – 135, 159 – 160, 162, 173, 175 oratio obliqua see discourse indirect oratio recta, see discourse direct orgÞ 263 Orobiai 175 Paches 103, 104, 106, 109, 319, 429 Pagondas 47 n. 23, 391, 392, 394 n. 9, 412, 413, 420 n. 43, 422 n. 48, 423 n. 53, 427, 428 n. 68, 431, 432 panhellenic, Panhellenism 17, 18, 195, 336 paroxynein 264 Parry, Adam 212 n. 72, 460 n. 20 particularization 312 partisanship 44, 318 n. 17 past and present 4, 14, 21 – presence of the past 114 – 118 pathema, pathemata 309, 312, 313, 314, 316, 317, 318, 321, 326, 327 patronymics 136, 269 n. 44, 418, 419 n. 41, 420 Pausanias (author) 15 n. 42 Pausanias (Spartan general) 9, 32, 119, 120 n. 5, 122, 123 n. 11, 127, 131 n. 37, 136, 186 – 187, 188 – 189, 261 n. 16, 262, 266, 267 n. 39, 270 n. 46 Pedaritus 36 Peiraeus 71, 77, 172, 203, 222, 223, 224, 267, 269 – 270, 327 Peisistratids 25, 26, 27 n. 14, 29, 33, 136, 138, 236, 364 n. 48 Peisistratus 120, 122, 128, 129, 209, 235, 239 n. 81, 361 n. 37 Peithias 312 Peloponnesians 18, 36, 62, 77, 94, 95, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 108, 109, 112, 147, 158, 189, 197, 212, 216, 250, 257, 260, 261,

Index nominum et rerum

265, 266, 309, 313, 321, 322, 323, 339, 363, 366, 383, 387, 391, 392, 394 n. 9, 406 n. 34, 419, 429, 430, 449 – Peloponnesian League 195 n. 67 – Peloponnesian war 17, 25, 29, 40, 81, 91, 102, 103, 112, 114, 117, 118, 121, 130, 134, 135, 137, 147, 150, 154, 155, 156, 163, 164, 168, 182, 188, 190, 214, 227, 228, 230, 232, 234, 240 – 244, 247, 254, 257, 292, 295, 312, 318, 330, 329, 357, 395 (greatness of) 335 Pentecontaetia 150, 187, 188 – 9 n. 34, 189, 196 n. 74, 197, 217, 257 – 258, 262, 334 – problems of composition 153 – 159, 165 – 166 – walls narrative 265 – 270 Peparethus (Skopelos) 175 Perdiccas 49, 136 Pericles 8, 18, 24 n. 6, 25, 26 n. 12, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 39, 47 n. 23, 51, 58, 59, 60, 62, 65, 66, 67, 77 – 78, 85 – 87, 100 n. 27, 122, 125 n. 21, 126, 127, 133 n. 46, 134, 135, 137, 155, 158, 159, 160 – 161, 181, 227, 230 – 234, 268 – 270, 344, 361, 396, 418 – 420, 448 – 454 – and Archidamus 65 – 67, 189 – 190, 299, 361 – Alcmeonids, curse of 184 – 185, 186, 191 – speeches 58 – 59, 62, 77, 181, 183, 211, 223, 344, 410, 422 n. 50, 447 – 451 – Funeral Speech: Athenian 12, 87, 158 – 159, 160, 163 – 165, 199, 206, 208, 210, 241 n. 19, 365, 451, 455, 456, Samian 160 – 161 – leadership 9, 12, 13, 27, 28 n. 20, 51, 73, 77, 78, 85, 87, 112, 184 – 185, 188 – 189, 205, 209, 212 – 213, 226, 227 – 230, 234 – 254 – Periclean proportions 453 – 455 – Periclean strategy 27, 34, 84, 155, 166, 339, 343 – 344

513

– Pericles, death of 34 – 35, 37, 111, 203, 213 – 217, 228, 399, 411 Persia, Persians 7 n. 19, 17, 19, 36, 37, 86, 103, 108, 125, 126, 127, 143, 157, 161 n. 30, 162 n. 6, 204, 334, 337 – Persian Wars 11, 17, 18, 20 n. 63, 28, 142, 147, 154, 159, 187 n. 28, 188 n. 32, 197, 257 n. 1, 260, 267, 269, 324, 335, 338, 340, 362, 461 – Second Persian war 144, 145, 146, 150 Pharnabazus 36 philia 187 – 188, 190 Philip 114, 115, 116, 156, 166, 195 n. 71, 343 Phocis, Phocians 266, 268 Phoenix 27 Phormio 24, 29, 31 n. 26, 47 n. 23, 65 n. 78, 93, 94 – 102, 103, 109, 383, 384 n. 35, 391 n. 3, 392, 397 n. 12 Phrynichus 24 – 27, 28 nn. 19 and 20, 33, 36 – 39, 47 n. 24, 249, 361 Pisander 36, 219, 220 Pittacus 136 Plague 5, 7, 12, 62, 63, 73 – 87, 138 n. 58, 160, 165, 185 n. 18, 212, 250, 309, 314, 317, 357, 364 n. 50, 435, 437, 458 Plataea 51, 52, 101, 136, 202 n. 19, 315 n. 13, 321, 322, 323, 417 n. 33, 419 n. 41 Plato 4, 24, 98, 237 n. 71, 242 n. 94, 254, 279 n. 44, 371 Pleistoanax 266, 268 pleonexia 12 Plutarch 87, 93, 236, 241, 242 n. 93, 306, 363 n. 46 – Lives 85, 114 – 117, 205, 229 n. 23, 236, 238, 239 n. 81, 246, 247 n. 117, 254, 264 n. 26, 281 – 290 n. 19, 303 n. 61, 331 – De gloria Atheniensium 114, 160 – 161 – Plutarch and Moralism 116 – 117 – Plutarch and Thucydides 114 – 118

514

Index nominum et rerum

point of view 38 n. 43, 39, 40, 74, 93, 155, 164, 203, 246, 263, 276, 298, 304 n. 62, 322, 346, 354 n. 9, 365, 367 n. 61, 372, 373, 377, 378, 379, 380, 381, 382, 383, 384, 388, 389, 402, 414, 418 n. 35, 419, 432, 454 Politeia (work title) 229 n. 26, 230 n. 29 politeia 8, 9, 56, 204 n. 33, 222 n. 126, 230 n. 32, 253 polemos see war polis tyrannos see tyrannt city politeia see constitution political – art 229, 242, 253, 254 – thought 4, 16 n. 46, 225, 231, 233 Polybius 6–7 – on Timaeus 331 – 332 – and Thucydides 331ff, 399 – as narrator 272 n. 6, 330 – 331 – on First Punic War 336 – 337, 340ff – prokataskeue 333ff, 346 polypragmosyne¯ 12 Potidaea 49, 53, 87, 155, 251, 261 – 263, 299 power 4, 8, 9 n. 22, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 38, 57, 61, 63, 64, 85, 102, 111, 120, 128, 129, 130, 132, 133, 137, 138, 146, 155, 157, 165, 172, 175, 183, 189, 197, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210, 212, 218, 222, 228, 229 n. 23, 234, 235, 237, 241, 242, 244 n. 102, 246, 252 – 254, 257 – 270, 324, 328, 333, 335, 337 – 339, 342 – 344, 346, 348, 360, 364, 367, 368, 369, 408, 437, 438, 440, 442, 443, 451, 452, 456, 457, 459, 460, 462 – power sea power 259 – 260, 261, 264 n. 25, 333, 341 n. 19, 443; (Athenians) 159, 337 – 340, 342 – 344, (Romans) 340 – 344 (Carthaginians) 340 practical applicability 314 Price, J. 200

34, 35, private interests (Udior, Udia) 36, 37 Procne 136 pronouns 272 n. 10, 278, 280 n. 49, 381, 386 n. 46, 405, 417, 423, 424, 426, 431, 432, 440, 452, 453 propaganda 10 n. 25, 20, 120, 122 – 125, 204 prophasis 260, 261, 265, 300 n. 50, !kghest\tg pq|vasir 297, 299 Protagoras 146, 230 pro¯tos ane¯r see Periclean leadership Prussia 462 Pylos 12, 190, 191 n. 46, 214 – 216, 272 – 277, 279 n. 43, 282 – 284, 315, 323, 324, 425, 436, 443 rationalization 75, 176 reader – capturing the attention of 340, 342 – 344 – expectations 343 – 344 – prior knowledge of 340 recognition scene see anagnorisis redirection of water 170 relative clauses 426 – 428, 451 – 453, 483 n. 70 religion 9, 125, 219 revenue 108, 171, 259, 260, 264 n. 28, 302, 338, 339, 340 Rhegion,Rhegians 347 (see also Messene) Romans 15, 334 – foreign policy 344 – 348 – in Polybius 341 – 342, 399 – naval activity 340 – 344 Rossi, Luigi Enrico 139 Russia 462 Salaithus 103, 104, 106, 113 Salamis 224, 327 n. 29 Samos 12 n. 31, 37, 219, 221 – 223, 227 n. 17, 266, 268 n. 42, 269 – 270 – Samian War 154, 155 – 158, 161, 164, 165 Sarandapotamos river 171

Index nominum et rerum

Schleswig-Holstein 462 Scione 26, 272 Scylla and Charybdis 176 self-transformation 172, 174, 176, 177 Seuthes 136 Sicilian Expedition 21 n. 63, 24, 30, 35, 37, 58, 59, 60, 137, 149, 192, 193, 213, 216 – 218, 284, 287 – 307, 317, 318, 347, 356, 358, 367, 395, 399 – Sicilian Debate 7, 392, 393, 395, 412 Sicily 12, 31, 32, 35, 38, 58, 112, 129 n. 31, 147 – 149, 154, 173, 176, 192, 193, 194, 216, 245, 273, 279 n. 44, 287 – 307, 316, 319, 320, 344, 345, 347, 356, 358, 392, 396, 425 signpost function 34, 35 Sitalces 136 slavery 8, 9 n. 22, 317, 319 Sophocles 74, 159, 457, 464 space 136 – 147, 167 – 177, 377 – 384 Sparta/Spartans 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 n. 30, 18, 20, 26, 27, 36, 37, 47 n. 24, 54 n. 40, 56, 61, 63, 64, 65, 87, 94, 99, 100, 102 – 105, 108, 109, 112, 120 – 122, 125, 126, 127, 130, 134, 135, 150, 155, 157, 165, 170, 171 – 172, 182 – 194, 196 – 197, 201, 202, 203, 212 – 216, 221, 223, 224, 238, 240, 241, 250, 257 – 270, 271, 273, 275, 277, 278 n. 39, 279, 280, 282, 283, 298, 299, 301, 302, 310, 311, 312, 314, 320, 323, 324, 325, 338, 339, 364 n. 48, 378, 380 – 381, 392, 399, 407, 411, 414, 418, 419 n. 41, 422 n. 51, 423, 427, 429, 430, 431, 436, 437, 438, 443 – 446, 449, 452, 454 n. 14, 461, 462 speeches – and narrative 7 n. 16, 20, 44, 45 – 46, 44, 45, 46, 63, 98 – 101, 107, 135, 200, 355, 362;

515

– and individual characterization of 436 – 437, 447 – 464 – as mimetic 98 – 101 – hope in speeches 57 – 59 – litotes in speeches 364 – 369 – mititary Exhortations 391 – 408 – motivation in speeches 57 – 64 – settings of 410 – 415 postscript 410, 412 – 414, preamble 410, 411 – 413 – Alcibiades 185, 201, 203, 365 – 366 – Athenagoras 207 – 209 – Brasidas 272 – Cleon and Diodotus 214, 319, 365 – Corinthians 130 n. 35, 182 n. 7, 183, 258, 262 – 264, 339, 345 – Hermocrates 31, 192, 193 n. 53, 298, 331, 366 – 367, 422 n. 51, 425 – 429 – Hippocrates 396 – 400 – Mytileneans 437 – 443 – Nicias 304 n. 62, 365, 394 – 400 – Pericles see Pericles – Teutiaplus 103, 107 – 108, 110, 429 – 432 – Spartans 63 – 64, 201, 203, 443 – 446 Sphacteria 163, 170, 190, 214, 273, 436. 443 Spitzer, Leo 447, 448, 457, 463, 464 Standpoint see point of view Stasis 7, 8, 9 n. 22, 37, 38, 41 n. 3, 48, 81, 103, 106 n. 37, 217 n. 104, 224, 23 – 240, 244, 245 – 248, 249, 250 – 254, 262, 311 – 317, 362, 435 Sthenelaidas 9, 63 n. 71, 262, 393, 412, 414, 421 n. 44, 423 n. 54, 430 Strabo 83, 84, 129 n. 32, 162 Stratonice 136 structure – organization 315 – parataxis 376 n. 17, 447 – particles 373, 375, 376, 386, 387, 388, 401, 404 n. 31

516

Index nominum et rerum

– ring composition 34 n. 41, 126 n. 23, 148, 261 n. 17 – sentence structure 451 – 453 – syntax 448 – 449, 457 – technique 327 Strymon 171, 172 style 81, 96, 120, 127 – 130, 132, 134, 137, 261, 272 n. 9, 354, 355, 357 n. 20, 379, 408, 435 – 436, 446, 459, 463 – Herodotus 28 – 29 – Pericles 38, 451 – 453, 463 – military exhortations 398, 400 – 408 – Tacitus 39 Stymphalos 173 Suez Crisis 461 – 462 superlative 28, 185, 186, 297, 354, 357, 359, 360, 388, 405 Sybota 263, 312, 342 – 343, 345 Syracusans 26, 31, 32, 36, 42, 169, 182, 184 n. 12, 185, 185 – 194, 203, 207, 299, 303 – 307, 324, 345, 362, 366, 376, 418 n. 35, 425 Syracuse 23, 27, 93, 129 n. 31, 237, 281, 289 n. 16, 297, 298, 310, 316, 317, 320, 321, 323 (walling of) 290 – 296 Tanagra 168, 266, 268 n. 42 Tacitus 21 n. 65, 39, 280 teleology 110 – 114 Temple of Concord 15 n. 42 tense 94 – 96, 102, 272 n. 10, 273, 369, 371, 373 n. 12, 375, 377 – 378, 389, 401, 432 – aorist 95, 115, 271 n. 4, 272 n. 8, 321, 373, 374, 380, 385 n. 41, 386, 389, 417 n. 31, 420 – future 277 n. 35, 386, 389, 401, 402, 408, 445 – imperfect 95 – 96, 115, 127, 271 n. 4, 272 n. 8, 321, 373, 374, 377 – 380, 381 n. 26, 382, 383, 386, 420 – present 272, 368 n. 62, 374 n. 12, 375, 385, 386, 387 n. 46, 402

Teutiaplus 103, 107, 108, 110, 391 n. 2, 393 n. 6, 422 n. 48, 423 n. 53, 429 – 432 textual markers 405 – 406 Thasos 36, 157, 160 n. 28, 161 n. 29, 227 n. 17, 235 n. 60, 266 Theagenes 121, 128 Thebes 11, 195 n. 71, 322, 427 n. 65 Themistocles 9, 25, 27, 28, 29, 32, 33, 39, 119, 127, 130, 135, 185, 186 – 190, 194, 196, 261 n. 16, 262, 266, 267, 269 – 270, 339 – 340, 361 n. 37, 362 n. 41, 388 n. 50, 461 Theramenes 24, 25 n. 10, 26, 27, 28 n. 19, 33, 36, 37, 38, 39, 223, 359 n. 28, 360, 364 Thermopylae 279 n. 43, 324, 325 Thersites 26 Theseus 25, 26, 27 n. 14, 33, 160, 361 n. 37 Thirty Years’ Peace 154, 155, 164 n. 37, 260, 261, 262 n. 19, 266, 269 Thrace 150, 191, 311 – Teres 122 – Tereus 136 Thucydides – and character judgement 23 – 40, 284 – 285 – and characterisation 447 – 464 – on motivation 41 – 72 – as historian 6 – 8, 12, 23 – as narrator and historian 226 – 254 see also Narrator – literary technique 153 – 166, 195 – 197, 287 – 307, 309 – 328, 353 – 370, 371 – 88, 435 – 446 – style and content 391 – 408 see also Narrative – and Plutarch see Plutarch – and Herodotus 14 – 15, 17 – 20, 119 – 138, 143 – 151, 159 Tiberius, Emperor 39 Tissaphernes 36, 360 n. 32 toponyms 149, 150

Index nominum et rerum

tragedy 4, 14, 16 n. 46, 23, 76, 231, 326, 447 Trojan War 11, 125, 141, 144, 145, 147, 149, 161 n. 29, 260, 357 Trojans 17, 34, 141, 149 Troy 11, 126, 127, 139, 145, 161 n. 29 Tsakmakis, A. 120, 135, 200, 211 tsunami 41 n. 3, 79, 175 tyrannicides 122, 123, 138 tyranny 8, 9, 11, 29, 120, 121, 122, 128 – 129, 130 n. 35, 131, 132, 133 n. 43, 138, 204 n. 33, 207, 209, 233 n. 43, 237, 239, 455 tyrant 119, 121, 128, 129, 130, 138, 207, 210, 220, 231, 232, 233 n. 43, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238 n. 78, 239, 242, 244 n. 102, 260 tyrant city 11, 130

517

Vannicelli, Pietro 144 viewpoint, see point of view violence 52, 75, 79, 83, 85, 179, 175, 176, 234, 312, 314, 319, 323 vividness see enargeia war (as teacher of violence, biaios didaskalos) 38, 314 – „war in the war“ 317 xenia 189 – 190 Xenophon 10, 201, 226, 229 n. 26, 241 n. 89, 246, 254, 269 – 270, 357 n. 17, 358 n. 27, 359 n. 28 Xerxes 7 n. 19, 18, 19, 20 n. 63, 136, 145, 146, 150, 279 n. 43, 336 Zanovistas 170, 171 Zeus 80, 81, 121, 130, 134, 162, 234 n. 51, 235, 238

Index locorum Aelius Theon Prog. 2.66 2.83 – 4

19 n. 1 128 n. 27

Aeschines 1.26 3.148

244 n. 102 360 n. 32

Aeschylus Pers. 24

145

Andocides 1. 116 [4].24

282 n. 65 366 n. 57

Anonymus Seguerianus 96 117 Antoninus Liberalis 1.6 132 n. 41 Apollodorus Bibliotheca 3.12

132 n. 41

Aristophanes Ach. 515 – 29 530 – 531 Av. 977 – 978 Eq. 445 – 6 1011 – 1013 1086 – 87 Lys.176 179 263 273 – 82 481 – 2 Ra. 694 Th. 464

127 n. 24 234 n. 51 159 125 n. 21 160 160 130 n. 34 130 n. 34 130 n. 34 130 n. 34 130 n. 34 257 n. 3 360 n. 32

Aristoteles Ath. 15.2 238 n. 70 EN 1151a9 362 n. 42 Poet. 1450a 24 n. 3 1450a-b 23 n. 4 Pol. 1252b19 – 26 137 1285a26 –30 238 n. 70 1285a27 – 28 238 n. 71 1304a36 – 8 246 n. 114 Ph. 6.8, 238b23 – 239b4 359 n. 28 Rh. 1390a25–27 247 n. 120 1395b11 – 12 247 n. 120 Cicero Catil. 3.7.77 Orat. 9.30 Att. 1.1.2

354 n. 9 436 n. 4 360 n. 33

Cratinus fr.1 K.-A. fr. 54 K.-A. fr.118 K.-A. fr. 171 fr. 240 K.-A. fr. 258 K.-A. fr. 327 K.-A.

233 247 n. 117 234 n. 51 237 234 n. 52 235 n. 55 238 n. 79

Ctesias 29. 34

168 n. 5

Demetrius Eloc. 216

117 n. 65

Demetrius Callatianus ( FGrHist 85) F6 175

520

Index locorum

Democritus 68 B 245 DK

246 n. 114

Gorgias 82 B 23 DK B 11a, 205

Demosthenes Cherson. 72 De cor. 322 ad fin. Ol. III, 26 18.18

159 n. 25 159 n. 25 159 n. 25 355 n. 11

Hellanicus (FGrHist 4) F 25a 132 n. 41 F 26b 132 n. 41 F 169 129 n. 31

Dio Cassius 37.16.1

365 n. 51

Diogenes Laertius 9.55 230 Diodorus Siculus 12.45 12.59.2

86 175

Dionysius Halicarnassensis Ep. ad Pomp. 3.9 153 n. 1 Thuc. 5 141 11.3 153 n. 1 34 435 n. 1 Vett. Cens. 2.6.5 353 n. 3 Eupolis fr. 102 K.-A.

238

Euripides Bacch.405 – 408 1280 – 82 El. 670 Hec. 282 – 285 IA 394 570 – 572 691 966 – 967 IT 361 Suppl. 321 – 325 Suppl. 507 – 508

173 326 n. 27 364 n. 47 144 361 n. 36 159 n. 25 361 n. 36 159 n. 25 369 n. 65 159 n. 25 159 n. 25

Galenus De differentiis febrium 7.290K 84 In Hipp. Epid.VI 243CMG 84

Heraclides Pol. 1.4

200 366 n. 58

123 n. 14

Hermippus comicus Fr. 46 K.-A. 238 n. 75 Herodotus Proem. 1.1 – 4 1.1 – 5 1.1 1.2.1 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.5.2 1.5.3 1.5.4 1.5.4 1.6.1 1.6 1.32.8 1.56.2 1.59 ff. 1.73.1 – 2 1.96 – 100 1.158.1 1.172.2 1.189.3

28, 125 125 – 6 142 ff. 143 143 126, 143 143 16 n. 44, 71 143 143, 145 129 n. 32 6 128 144 137 n. 58 11 11, 235 n. 5 48 7 n. 19 132 n. 42 129 n. 32 168

2.10.3 2.24 – 25 2.77 2.179

174 83 86 129 n. 32

3.64.4 3.80

131 n. 35 204, 210 n. 61, 230 7 n. 19

3.80 – 82

521

Index locorum

3.81 3.142

203, 207, 361 204 n. 33

5.66.2 5.70.2 5.71 5.71.1 5.72.2 5.78 5.92e1

129 120 120, 127, 130 120, 129 f. 130 11 132 n. 41

6.98 6.109.3

12 19 n. 53

7.4.2 7.5 – 18 7.8 7.8b2 7.9c 7.10b1 7.10e 7.10h3 7.12 7.14 7.17 7.18.2 7.19 7.20 7.20.2 7.21.1 7.59.2 7.59 – 100 7.61.2 7.62.1 7.81 – 82 7.96 7.99.1 7.139 7.141 – 2 7.162.1 7.171

146 7 n. 19 144 145, 146 145 146 145 145 144 144 144 145 144 18 145, 336 145 129 n. 32 144 146 146 145 145 145 17 n. 50, 71 n. 95 134 12 n. 31 80

8.3 8.11.3 8.31 8.115 – 117

11 317 129 n. 32 86

9.1.5 9.33.2 Hesiodus Op. 240 – 247

316 133 n. 43 80

Hippocrates De flatibus 6 86 De diaeta acutorum 35 86 Homerus Ilias 1.2 – 4 1.8 2.485 – 286 2.487 2.488 2.488 – 490 2.493 2.494 – 510 2.536 – 545 2.557 2.59 – 568 2.631 2.653 6.444 – 445 9.219 – 20 9.443 9. 658 – 9 Odyssea 1.1 – 4 1.3 12.234 – 262

142 143 142 145 145 145 145 141 141 141 141 141 141 34 277 n. 34 27 n. 15 277 n. 34 142 143 n. 14 176

Ion Chius (FGrHist. 392) F 15 161 n. 29 F 16 161 n. 29 Isaeus 4.27 7.37 7.41

365 n. 55 365 n. 55 365 n. 55

Isocrates 2.32 4.5 4.144

159 n. 25 369 n. 65 369 n. 65

522

Index locorum

5.57 6.97 6.109 7.63 11.26 15.234

360 n. 32 254 n. 143 366 n. 57 366 n. 58 369 n. 65 244 n. 102

Johannes Siculus 6.504

119 n. 2

Livius 2.33.5 3.11.5

128 n. 25 128 n. 25

Lysias 1.7 1.22 2.4 30.28

359 n. 28 128 n. 25 129 n. 32 244 n. 102

Pausanias 1.28.1 8.11.10 – 12 10.11.4

122 131 n. 35 176

Lucretius Rer. nat. 6.1097 6. 1119 ff.

85 n. 31 85 n. 31

Pherecydes (FGrHist) 3 F 10 132 n. 41 Pindarus I. 8.31 – 5a O. 9.104 P. 9.58

273 n. 12 355 n. 11 355 n. 11

Plato Apo. 36a Euthphr. 2c Leg.731a4 Rep. 4.421c 4 Sph. 245a5 Symp. 212c3

366 n. 57 355 n. 11 159, n. 25 159, n. 25 360 n. 32 24

Plutarchus Moralia 347A 350E 711 f. 811F Vitae Alc. 23 Alex. 6.5 – 8 Cim. 14.3 Lys. 29.7 – 8 Nicias 1.1 Per. 5.3 7.1 7.5 7.5 – 7 8.4 8.9 9.1 11.3.4 13.8 13.15 15.2 15.5 16.1 16.2 23.4 23.7 28.4 28.5 – 7 28.6 28.7

94 n. 14 160 242 n. 93 236 nn. 64 and 65 264 n. 26 114 – 115 161 n. 30 131 n. 35 331 161 n. 29 235 n. 54, 227 n. 88 229 n. 23 249 234 n. 51, 226 n. 84 161 n. 29 205 246 237 235 n. 58 254 241 n. 92 236 n. 63 237 n. 73 227 238 160 n. 28 161 n. 30 161 n. 30 160

Solon 12.1 – 2

123 n. 14

Polybius 1.1.5 1.1 1.3.7 – 10 1.5 1.6.6 – 7 1.10.1 – 2 1.10.2 1.10.4

336 334, 335 f. 334 399 340 f. 345 346 347

523

Index locorum

1.10.9 1.11.2 1.12.7 1.14.1 – 3 1.20.2 1.20.5 1.20.5 – 6 1.20.7 – 8 1.20.9 1.20.11 1.20.12 1.20.12 – 13 1.20.12 – 14 1.23.6 1.24.7 1.25.5 1.37.7 – 10 1.37.10 1.38.5 – 6 1.52.4 – 5 1.59.2 – 4 1.59.2 – 8 1.59.11 1.62.2 1.63.4 1.63.5 – 6 1.63.6 – 7 1.63.7 1.63.8 1.66.7 3.31.12 – 13 12.7.2 12.8.2 – 4 12.13.1 12.14.4 12.15.12 18.26.6 – 7 18.26.7 – 8 18.26.6 – 7

346 347 335 335 347 340 342 340 342 341 340, 341 338 344 343 344 342, 343 341 342 341 341 342 342 342 344 336 336 336 336 f. 337 359 n. 28 332 332 n. 7 332 n. 7 332 n. 7 332 n. 7 332 n. 7 343 343 f. 329

Poseidonius (FGrHist 87) F 88 176 Protagoras 80 A 1 D-K

230

Pseudo-Aristoteles de Mirabilius Auscultationibus 176 Pseudo-Epicharmus DK 23 B56–57 230 n. 29 Pseudo-Xenophon Rep. Ath. 1.5.1 1.6.9 1.7 1.8 1.13 2.7 Rep. Ath. 2.7 2.14 3.13

208 n. 49 208 n. 49 208 n. 49 208 n. 49 208 n. 49 163 n. 35 163 n. 35 163 n. 35 208 n. 49

Quintilianus I.O. 9.2.41

117 n. 65

Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 1.4, 1421b22 – 27 365 n. 56 Romanus Sophista 3 119 n. 2, 128 n. 25 Sallustius Jug. 17 – 19

151 n. 19

Scholia in Aristophanem Schol. vet. Av. 978a 159 Scho. vet Tr. Eq. 1013a-b 160 Solon fr. 11 West.

238 n. 80

Sophocles Ant. 191 Ant. 694 – 699 El. 916 Tr. 126– 128

159 n. 25 273 n. 12 144 n. 15 365 n. 54

Stesimbrotus Thasius (FGrHist 107) F5 160 n. 28 F 9 [8] 160 n. 28

524

Index locorum

1.22.4

Strabo 14.1.14 (637B) 17.1.7 17.3.10

162 83 83

Suidas s.v. sijek_feim

131 n. 37

Tacitus Ann. 13.3.

39

Thucydides 1.1.1

1.1 – 19 1.1 – 21 1.2 – 19 1.2.1 1.3.1 1.3.1 1.3.2 – 3 1.3.4 1.5.3 – 6.2 1.6.6 1.8.2 – 3 1.8.4 1.9.3 – 4 1.9 – 12 1.9.4 1.10.3 1.10.4 1.10.5 1.10.5 1.11.1 1.13.3 1.15.1 1.18.2 1.18.3 1.19 1.20 1.21.1 1.22 1.22.1 – 4

IX, 7, 10, 18, 146, 165, 226, 271, 335, 336 n. 57 18, 258 – 261 23 122, 137 143, 148, 385 357 148, 149, 357, 360 n. 30 149, 385 338 137 137 338 149 338 149 148, 338 336 336 336 148, 336 41 n. 3, 148 148, 258 n. 5 338 142, 338, 381 n. 28 340 150 29 n. 22 148 459 – 460, 463 44

1.23 1.23.1 1.23.2 – 3 1.23.5 1.23.5 – 6 1.23.6

1.23.6 1.24 – 25 1.24 – 144 1.25.1 1.25.3 1.26.3 1.31 1.31.1 – 2 1.36.2 – 4 1.36.3 1.44.2 1.49.2 1.50.1 1.52.3 1.54.2 1.55 1.56.2 – 1.57.1 1.67 1.67.1 1.68 1.69.1 1.69.1 – 2 1.70 1.70.1 – 9 1.70.3 1.70.7 1.70 – 71 1.72.1 – 2 1.73.1 1.75 – 76 1.79.2 1.80.1 – 85.2 1.80.3 1.80.4 1.81.4

18, 330, 333, 342, 386, 456 150, 260 – 261 146, 316, 335 78 – 85 335 63, 260 149, 155, 159 n. 23, 297 n. 44, 299, 300 n. 50, 312, 343 155, 299 271 n. 4 262 – 263 134 n. 48 49 (n. 31) 280 263 345 164 164, 347 346, 347 343 343 263 343 264 49 (n. 30) 264 280 263 269 10 341 182 – 4 341 341 8 61 (n. 64) 62 (n. 65) 10 25, 27, 33, 361, 411, 420, 430 n. 72 189 – 90 338 339 66

525

Index locorum

1.81.4 – 5 1.83.2 1.84.2 1.84.3 1.84.4 1.86 1.87 1.88 – 118 1.88.1 1.89.1 1.90 – 93 1.90.1 – 92.1 1.93.3 – 4 1.93.4 1.93.7 1.97 1.97.2 1.100.2 – 101.3 1.107 – 108 1.109 1.114 1.115.2 – 117 1.115.4 – 5 1.117.1 1.118 1.118.2 1.118.3 1.120.1 1.121.2 – 3 1.121.4 1.122.3 1.124.3 1.125 1.126.2 1.126.2 – 127.3 1.126.2 – 138 1.126.3 – 12 1.126.3 1.126.4 1.126.11 1.126.12 1.127.1 1.127.2 – 3

339 339 264 n. 26 65 n. 74, 383 – 384 6 n. 11 393 261 265 64 (n. 72) 159, n. 23 267 186 – 9 339 342 339 257 29 n. 22, 153, 334, 386 n. 44 157 268 168 268 154, n. 4 158, n. 21 155, n. 7 265 n. 31 269 134 n. 48, 385 10 339 339 130 n. 35 130 n. 35 261 126 184 – 5 32 121 127, 128 132 136 135, 136 126, 184 51 (n. 34)

1.127.3

1.140.1 1.140.1 – 144.4 1.140.4 – 5 1.142.5 – 6 1.142.6 – 7 1.142.8 – 9 1.142.9 1.143.5 1.143.5 – 144.4 1.144.2

25 n. 10, 28 n. 20, 33, 185 n. 16 and 17, 186, 191 126 126 136 28 n. 18 136 123 n. 11 126 127 28 136 25 n. 10 28, 32, 33, 388 n. 50 272 n. 9, 427 n. 62 127 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 26 n. 12, 27, 28 n. 20, 32, 33, 51, 185 n. 17, 186, 240, 280 n. 49, 420, 422 n. 50, 430 n. 72 395 189 – 90 453 339 339 339 339 163, n. 35, 339 448 – 449 10

2.1 2.3.1 2.5.7 2.6.3 2.7 – 8 2.8 2.8.1 2.8.2

322 52 (n. 35) 322 54, 322 322 10 363 – 364 134 n. 48

1.128.1 1.128.2 1.128.7 1.128 – 135 1.132.1 1.134.4 1.135.1 1.135.2 1.135 – 138 1.136.3 1.138.2 – 3 1.138.3 1.139 1.139.1 1.139.4

526 2.11 2.13.2 2.13.3 2.14.1 2.15 2.15.2 2.15.3 2.15.4 2.15.5 2.15.6 2.17.1 2.21.1 – 5 2.21.2 – 3 2.21.3 2.22.1 – 2 2.24.1 2.29 2.29.1 2.29.3 2.34.4 2.34.6 2.34.8 2.36.1 – 4 2.37.1 2.38.1 2.38.2 2.39.1 2.40.3 2.41.1 2.41.4 2.42.2 2.42.4 2.43.1 2.43.2 2.43.5 – 6 2.44.1 – 3 2.47 – 54 2.48 2.48.3 2.51.3 2.58.3 2.59.1 – 3 2.59.3 2.60.1 – 2.62.1

Index locorum

391, 402 – 408 67 130 n. 33 87 122 25 n. 10, 27 n. 14, 33 130 n. 33 130 n. 33 136 130 n. 33 130 n. 33 250 66 (n. 80) 134 n. 48, 250 66 (n. 81) 130 n. 33 122 136 136 242 243, 361 242 158 206 199 n. 1 163 n. 35 18 n. 51 450 – 1 137 n. 58, 455 19 n. 53, 365, 449 453, 454, 455 59 (n. 59), 450 248 n. 121, 365, 449, 450 n. 8, 455 456 59 (n. 59) 451 – 2 7 n. 17, 73 – 87 5 76, 309 137 n. 58 73, 85 62 (n. 66) 410, 458 63 (n. 67)

2.60.5 2.61.2 2.61.2 – 3 2.62.2 – 3 2.62.3 2.62.4 2.62.5 2.63.2 2.64.1 – 2 2.64.1 2.64.2 2.64.3 2.64.5 2.64.6 2.65 2.65.1 2.65.1 – 3 2.65.2 2.65.2 – 4 2.65.4 2.65.5 2.65.6 2.65.7 2.65.8

2.65.8 – 9 2.65.9 2.65.10 2.65.10 – 13 2.65.11 2.65.12 2.71 2.71.1 2.77.2 – 4 2.80.5 2.83 – 92 2.83.2 – 3 2.84.3 2.86.5 2.86.6

244, 458 395 n. 10, 455 456 344 454 453 451 344, 453 77 – 78 211 n. 64 455 165 n. 38 19, 456 456 XI, 12, 34, 37, 421 n. 44 59 (n. 60) 244 212 – 3, 243 12 222, 244 244, 251 310 213 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 20, 33, 51, 212 n. 72, 223 n. 129, 244 13 455 203, 205, 213, 237, 245, 253 228 n. 20, 111 – 112 37, 214 n. 86, 245, 246 34, 37, 218 n. 110 419 n. 41 322 321 136 94 – 103 96 – 7 94 – 5 113 411, 418

Index locorum

2.87 2.89.10 2.89.11 2.91.3 2.93.4 2.97.3 2.101.5 – 6 2.102 2.102.6 2.179 3.2.1 3.2 ff. 3.4.4 – 5 3.9 – 14 3.10 3.12 3.12.3 3.25 – 35 3.25.2 3.27.1 3.29.1 3.30 3.30.4 3.33.1 3.33.2 3.34.3 3.36.3 3.36 – 50 3.37.5 – 3.38.7 3.37 3.37 – 40 3.38.1 3.38.1 – 3 3.43.4 3.45.4 3.45.5 – 6 3.49.1 3.49.4 3.50.3 3.65.2 3.68.1 3.81.2 – 3

99, 392, 394 n. 9, 406 n. 34 101 397 n. 12 102 71 (n. 97) 136 136 173, 174 131 n. 38, 134 129 n. 32 437 319 437 436, 438 ff. 438 – 9 437 – 440 440 – 443 103 – 110 113 105 105 391 n. 2, 393 n. 6, 429 – 432 110 109 n. 46 104, 109 106 25 n. 10, 106 – 107 7 n. 17 199 12 12, 26, 436 – 437 395 n. 10 68 (n. 83) 210 450 57 (n. 55) 319 107, 319, 323 320 136 323 311 – 315

3.82.2 3.82 – 83 3.82 – 84 3.82.2 3.82.4 3.82.6 3.82.8 3.84 – 85 3.87.1 – 2 3.87 – 89 3.89.2 – 4 3.94.3 3.95.1 3.96.1 3.97.1 3.104.1 3.104.3 3.104.6 3.112.8 3.113 3.113.5 3.114 4.11.2 – 3 4.17.1 – 22.3 4.17 – 20 4.18.2 – 3 4.18.4 – 5 4.21.3

4.22.2 4.24.4 4.26 4.27.2 4.28.1 4.28.3 4.29.3 4.30 4.34.2 – 3

527 6 n. 11, 38, 314, 316, 317, 342 38 n. 34 7 n. 17, 38 6 n. 11 362 249 204 38 n. 34 317 83 175 55 n. 46 55 n. 46 131 n. 37, 134 55 (n. 46) 134 n. 48 129 n. 32 129 n. 32 325 71 n. 96, 272 326 326 378 190 – 1 436, 443 n. 11 65 (n. 75) 443 – 446 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 26, 28 n. 20, 33, 185 n. 17, 190 n. 43, 191 n. 45, 208 n. 48, 214 n. 90, 278 n. 39 191 n. 44, 280 176 273, 274 215, 216 n. 99 280 – 281 203, 244, 282 170 170 380 – 382

528 4.39.3 4.41.3

Index locorum

4.108.7 4.122.6 4.126 4.126.1 4.126.6

283 54 n. 39, 56 (n. 49) 56 (n. 49) 31, 424 – 429 58 (n. 57), 216 48 (n. 28) 33 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 20 26, 244 n. 103 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 19, 33, 56 n. 51, 360, 420 392 168 394 n. 9, 397, 418, 422 n. 48, 427 n. 65 391 422 n. 48 396 394, 396 397, 398, 408 398 412 169 129 n. 31 269 n. 44 136 171, 311 23 58 (n. 56), 318 n. 17 49 (n. 32) 26 392, 394 n. 9 397 n. 13 407

5.6.3 5.9 5.9.1 5.10.11 5.11

191 – 2 392, 394 397 310 310 – 311

4.55.1 4.59 – 64,5 4.65.4 4.66.2 – 3 4.81.1 – 3 4.81.1 4.81.2 4.84.2 4.85 – 87 4.90.2 4.91 4.92 4.93 4.94.2 4.95.1 4.95.2 4.95.3 4.96.1 4.97.2 4.102.2 – 3 4.104.4 4.107.3 4.108.1 4.108.3 4.108.4

5.16 5.16.1 5.16.2 5.17 ff. 5.18.10 5.23.5 5.26 5.26.1 5.26.3 5.26.4 5.26.5 5.32.1 5.43.2 5.47.11 5.65.3 5.65.3 – 4 5.65.4 – 5 5.66.1 5.68.2 5.84 – 116 5.99 5.104 – 105 5.105 5.111.1 6.1 – 6 6.1.1 – 2 6.1.1 6.1.2 6.2 6.2 – 5 6.2.1 6.2.2 6.2.3 6.2.4 6.3.3 6.3 – 5 6.4.3 6.5.2 6.5.3 6.6.1 6.6.2

25 n. 10, 26 n. 13 26 n. 12, 33 60 (n. 63) 10 130 n. 33 130 n. 33 24, 112, 309 n. 2, 385 270 134 n. 48 269 n. 44 18, 309 134 n. 48 24, 138, 430 n. 72 130 n. 33 171 47 n. 20 171 n. 12 171 18 n. 51 7 n. 17 264 n. 26 367 – 368 8 368 147, 216 356 n. 16 147, 216, 317, 356 147, 150, 356 149 150 148, 387 149 149 149 129 n. 31 149 129 n. 31 129 n. 31 129 n. 31 148, 149, 216, 297, 356 136, 216

529

Index locorum

6.8 – 26 6.8.4 6.9 6.9.2 6.9.2 6.12.2 6.15 6.15.2 – 4 6.15.2 6.15.3 6.15.4 6.15.5 6.15 – 16 6.16.1 – 2 6.16.3 – 4 6.16 6.17.1 6.17.2 ff. 6.17.8 6.18.6 6.19.2 6.20 – 23 6.20.2 6.23.3 6.24.2 6.24.3 6.27 6.32.3 6.33 – 34 6.33.4 6.34.4 – 8 6.35.2

6.36.2 6.39.1 6.40.1 6.43 6.53 – 9

7 n. 17 280 n. 49, 297 13 60 35, 60 n. 62, 303 n. 61 24, 68 n. 86, 245 n. 108 34, 51 n. 34 33 217, 297, 308 n. 61 358 27 n. 17, 28 n. 20, 35, 138 280 n. 49 13 138 365 35 24 425 n. 57 366 457 304 393 304 395 58 (n. 58), 217 60 (n. 61) 374 – 375 280 n. 49, 422 n. 50 31 366 192 25 n. 10, 26, 28 n. 20, 33, 68 n. 85, 208 n. 48, 420 68 (n. 84) 208 n. 49, 50 and 52, 209 n. 55 159 n. 25, 209 n. 57 292 138

6.54 – 59 6.54.5

6.89.1 – 92.5 6.89.2 6.89.5 6.89.3 – 4 6.89 – 92 6.90.2 – 3 6.91.6 – 7 6.93.4 6.98 – 6.104.1 6.101.3 6.103.3 f. 6.104.2 6.104.3

37 25 n. 10, 29, 33, 207 27 n. 14 130 n. 33, 136 264 n. 26 136 203 396 394, 395 394, 397, 398 397, 398, 408 31, 412 n. 13, 421 n. 46 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 19, 30, 31, 33, 367 n. 60 31 31, 32 31 292 298 70 n. 94 298, 422 n. 51 264 n. 26, 280 n. 49 193 – 4 138, 293 203 201 436 298, 347 n. 27 302 292 – 3 290 – 2 169 n. 9, 290 320 320 194

7.1.1 7.2.1 7.2.4 7.4.6 7.8 7.8.1 – 2

290 320 290, 321 359 294, 295 293

6.54.6 6.55.1 6.56 6.59.3 6.63.1 – 2 6.67.3 6.68 6.68.1 6.68.3 6.69.1 6.72.2

6.72.2 – 5 6.72.4 6.72.5 6.74 6.76.2 6.88.1 – 2 6.88.1 6.88.10

530 7.9 7.10 – 15 7.11.3 7.12.2 7.14.4 7.15.1 7.15.2 7.16.2 – 7.19.1 7.19.1 – 2 7.21 – 25 7.26 7.27.3 7.27 – 28 7.28.1 7.28.3 7.28.4 7.29 – 30 7.31 7.32 – 33.2 7.33.3 – 6 7.34 7.35 7.36 – 41 7.42 7.42.3 – 4 7.42 – 44 7.42 – 45 7.43 7.43.3 – 4 7.46 – 47 7.47.4 7.48.2 7.49.1 7.50 – 54 7.50.4 7.61 – 64 7.61.1 7.63.2 7.63.3 7.66 – 68 7.66.2 7.68.2 7.69.2 7.69.3 – 71.7 7.70.8 7.71.4 7.72.5

Index locorum

295 294, 295 291 295 65 (n. 76) 292 – 3 295 292 – 3 301 292 292 – 3 301 292, 301, 302 301 301 301 292 292 – 3 292 – 3 292 292 292 – 3 292 293 50 n. 33 23 305 295 376 305 305 303 n. 61, 304, 305 303, 305 295 25 n. 10, 27, 33 393, 394, 395 398 397 397 392 299 39, 200 65 (n. 77) 323 – 324 159 n. 25 281 305

7.73.3 7.73.3 7.76 7.77 7.77.3 7.77.7 7.78 – 85 7.86.2 – 5 7.86.4 7.86.5

7.87.6 8.1.1 8.5 – 6 8.12 8.21 8.27.5 8.34 8.38 – 39 8.48.4 8.48.6 8.50.3 8.50.5 8.64 8.64.3 – 5 8.68 8.68.1

8.68.1 – 2 8.68.3 8.68.4

8.68.3 – 4 8.70.2

306 24, 26, 33, 202 n. 21 396, 411 395, 397, 406 395 395 316 194 306 25 n. 10, 28 n. 20, 29, 33, 42 (n. 4), 310, 358 n. 26, 388 n. 50 319 134 n. 48, 218 n. 109 36 36 136 25, 27 n. 14, 33, 361 377 36 36, 249 202 36 37 37 205 n. 36 38, 220 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 27, 28 n. 19, 33, 39, 362 n. 41 28 n. 20 25, 27, 362 24 n. 6, 25 n. 10, 28 n. 19, 33, 37, 221 n. 118, 360, 362 362 37

531

Index locorum

8.72.1 8.73 8.76.4 8.81 8.83 8.85 8.86.4 8.86.5 8.89.1 8.89.3 8.92 8.92.2 8.96.5 8.97 8.97.1 – 4 8.97.2 8.100.3 Xenophon An. 4.6.13 Cyr. 1.3.10 6.2.30

203 n. 30 36, 38 161, 364 37 36 36 37, 223 13 223 n. 128 209 n. 58 37 37 n. 33, 223 n. 131 264 n. 27 36, 253 224 358 – 360 360 360 n. 32 254 n. 143 365 n. 55

HG 2.2.34 2.2.20 – 3.9 2.3.15 2.3.18 6.2.39 6.4.18 Hier. 2.17 11.13 Lac. Pol.10.4 Mem. 1.1.2 1.2.32 2.6.13 2.6.20 3.6.2 3.7.2 4.6.12 –14 Vect. 1.6 – 7

229 n. 26 269-70 359 n. 28 357 n. 17 357 n. 17 356 n. 15 159 n. 25 159 n. 25 159 n. 25 355 n. 11 355 n. 11, 356 n. 15 238 n. 77 246 159 n. 25 159 n. 25 241 n. 89 163 n. 35

INSCRIPTIONS IG II2 1 IG II2 682.53 – 56

162, n. 33 199 n. 2